(Page 4)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod decided that he did not like dodging. He wondered, as he ducked another broad swing of Silas’ axe, if he was constitutionally incapable of avoiding a fight. Another part of his mind started chiding him about losing his focus during a fight, just as he backed into one of the pillars supporting the catwalk.

Silas grinned as his target stopped moving abruptly. He lifted the axe and brought it down again in a huge chopping motion, the clear intent of which was to cleave his opponent in two, from left shoulder to right hip. And it would have worked, had Duncan not simply collapsed to the floor.

Eschewing fancy ducks, dives and rolls, all of which would have put him within the arc of the axe, Duncan slid down the post to assume a prone position on the floor in front of Silas. As the Horseman followed through on his swing, Duncan raised the long sword into position above his torso. Silas’ inertia, along with the razor sharp edge of the sword, did most of the work, and Duncan was soon splattered with warm blood from the deep slice across Silas’ abdomen.

ooOooOoo

Kronos and Methos circled each other warily, neither willing to commit fully without first assessing his brother’s new skills. Blades touched briefly and slipped away, never lingering too long or too hard. Feints were made and responded to, while eyes and minds noted the position of feet and hands.

Methos noted a new wariness in his usually foolhardy brother. In the past, Kronos had been one to attack with rage and abandon, sure of his own skill and his ability to intimidate his opponent. That quality seemed lacking now.

“What’s the matter Kronos,” he taunted, hoping to distract his opponent. “Afraid I’ve learned some new tricks? Worried I can beat you now?” Methos knew both men remembered how often he ended up on his bum in the sand when they sparred during their reign of terror.

But Methos also knew that he had been just as guilty of relying on things other than his swordsmanship to guarantee victory during that period of his life. Kronos had been one of those things, just another of the tools he employed as a Horseman, like the masks and the make-up.

“No, brother,” Kronos’ voice broke into Methos’ thoughts. “I was simply debating whether to kill you quickly or slowly. Either way, I wouldn’t want you to miss the fun when your friends die, so I’ll make sure you’re up for that.” Kronos’ leer reminded Methos painfully of Caspian’s past pursuits, and he shifted his focus briefly to the fight between two more of his tools, his former brother and his former slave.

Over Kronos’ shoulder, Methos could see them fighting fiercely in the base of Team Methos. Cassandra had the obvious upper hand, and Methos was torn between pride in her accomplishments, and disgust at how sharp an edge his tool held. Placing any self-contempt firmly behind a locked door in his mind, Methos determined to keep Kronos from noticing how badly Caspian was acquitting himself, giving Cassandra a chance to end things, once and for all.

“Come brother,” Methos cried, twirling his sword in imitation of one of MacLeod’s showier moves, “let me show you what I’ve learned.”

ooOooOoo

“Get up!” Cassandra rasped, every nerve in her body quivering with stimulation. Caspian’s slackened grip on the hilt of his sword tightened a little, and she slapped him viciously on the back with the flat of her sword. “I said get up, dog! Fight me on your feet, like the man you pretend to be!” She poked him with the tip of her sword, making small bloody gashes on his body and clothing.

Caspian lurched to one knee, glaring blackly upward with his sword held loosely. He seemed to realize that the killing strike would not come until he was fully upright and on the attack. Cassandra watched his chaotic thoughts of violence and vengeance smoulder behind his eyes.

“You’ve lost something over the centuries, Caspian,” she chuckled, strutting before him, flaunting herself. “You never would have let yourself be taken down by a woman two thousand years ago.”

“I’ll taste you yet, btch,” Caspian growled.

“Big talk from a man who can’t even stand up,” she shouted derisively. She turned her back to him and peered over the low wall as though to retrieve something. Her awareness was heightened by adrenaline, by excitement, by unadulterated joy, and she waited until she sensed he was about six feet away before she risked a look back. He was charging, sword as high over his head as he could manage with the partially healed shoulder and the fresh belly wound.

She collapsed sideways onto the edge of the wall as though cowering; then as he swung his sword with diminished speed and strength, she rolled away, avoiding the cut. Pulling her legs up and balancing on the edge of the wall, she thrust both feet hard into his pelvis, sending him flying backward. Caspian did not fall, but stood doubled over several feet away. Rolling smoothly off the wall, Cassandra ran toward him. He brandished his sword feebly, and one stroke of hers tore it from his hand. She launched a brutal kick at his knee, feeling the kneecap slide far out of place, and brought the hilt of her weapon down on the top of his head as collapsed to the other knee, howling.

ooOooOoo

Duncan rolled quickly out of the path of a collapsing Silas. He had a brief moment’s panic as he bumped the pillar, but his years of martial arts training kept him calm enough to continue his move out of harm’s way.

The abdominal wound he had inflicted on Silas was both deep and long. It bisected the larger man, and he fell to one knee, trying to hold his intestines in with one hand, while he attempted to maintain a grasp on his axe with the other. His pain was evident only in the gasps he let out, gasps that echoed loudly as the music stopped once again.

“You were a worthy opponent,” Duncan said as he moved cautiously around Silas, staying out of range of the axe. His sword licked out, stroking Silas’ arm, and the axe fell to the floor.

ooOooOoo

The floodgates of Cassandra’s rage were now flung wide, and she was beating Caspian with her sword, both with the flat and the edges. She struck at his arms, his back, his legs, each blow feeding her rage. She varied her attack occasionally with shallow pokes with the tip, seeking not to cause death but only pain, infinite pain. It seemed to her the most enjoyable thing she had ever indulged in, and she reveled in the agony she saw in his eyes, and in the hate and fear as well.

Her hacking and stabbing escalated until she heard Methos’ voice stern in her ear. “Cassandra, finish it!”

ooOooOoo

Methos took advantage of Kronos’ obvious desire to prolong their fight until the other Horsemen could defeat his team mates. His brother’s intent to keep Methos alive and able to watch their deaths allowed the wily immortal to appear fully engaged while subtly choreographing the fight to keep Kronos’ back to the confrontation between Cassandra and Caspian.

However, the longer that confrontation went on, the more obvious his ploy was becoming. He knew Cassandra had taken Caspian down; what the devil was keeping that Quickening? Risking a glance, Methos was stunned to see Cassandra strutting and gloating over Caspian, torturing him jubilantly, but avoiding the killing strike.

Irritation swelled within him – didn’t she understand that this was not a game; that all their lives were at stake? But a second glance brought a darker worry. By the look on her face, the torture she was inflicting was inspiring joy in Cassandra, and she was surrendering herself to that joy wholeheartedly. Whatever seething black pit had spawned a man like Caspian, Cassandra now stood at its edge, teetering.

Methos struck at Kronos, allowing him to turn away in the follow-through and hide his face momentarily. “Cassandra,” he said with as much command as he could muster, “finish it!”

There was no time to say more. He hoped she would heed him before it was too late.

ooOooOoo

Pausing, Cassandra turned her head toward where Methos and Kronos were engaged. He met her eyes only briefly as he fought his battle, but the recess from the assault on Caspian was enough to bring home Methos’ point. Her rage, useful – even indispensable – for a time, was beginning to consume her. Fighting fire with fire was one thing; becoming the fire itself was quite another.

Looking down on the beaten and whimpering Caspian, Cassandra realized it was time to extinguish this flame.

She raised the blade over her head and sliced cleanly and quickly through his neck.

ooOooOoo

“Keep thinking you have won, little man.” The words ground out between gasps as Silas swayed on one knee before Duncan. “My brothers will avenge me, if you even manage to kill me.” Duncan looked on, disbelieving, as Silas threw back his head and laughed, then lurched to his feet.

Duncan stepped back, raising his sword protectively in front of him, preparing himself to deliver the killing strike. Then both men felt and heard the difference in the room. This hush had nothing to do with music, and everything to do with the energy they could suddenly taste like ozone before a thunderstorm. As they stilled, the first flash of lightning split the air of the arena.

ooOooOoo

Cassandra threw back her head and allowed the energy to pour into her. The light and the power pooled around her, glowing like a nimbus around a sun. Her hair began to move and crackle as if it had a life of its own, lifting off her scalp and stretching toward the energy that engulfed her form.

Kronos and Methos, standing not thirty feet away from the tempest, were thrown to the floor when the first bolts of lightning started to cascade around the room. Both had to duck as the base, which had begun by hanging ten feet behind Cassandra, went flying past them to crash into the shadows across the room.

Meanwhile, Cassandra’s arms were flung out, as if to embrace the life force flowing out of Caspian, and into her. Although her face was cast in a tight grimace, laughter soared out of her open mouth. Methos shivered to hear echoes of Caspian in that laughter, and wondered if they were a result of the Quickening, or of the cat and mouse game that preceded it?

As the Quickening gained strength, all the speakers in the room began to explode, electronic parts showering outward from their hidden recesses. After the speakers, the lights began to blow out. Thankfully some of them were sodium arc bulbs, and they seemed to avoid the worst of the damage, leaving at least some light to see by.

At the end, one last surge of energy struck the catwalk. Methos, lying on the ground mere feet away from the structure, heard bolts snapping under the strain, and then creaking as the metal moved away from the wall. He rolled desperately to avoid the falling metal while listening to Cassandra’s cries through his earpiece.

Rising quickly, Methos spotted Kronos circling to get behind Cassandra; a Cassandra who was too busy collapsing to the floor to be able to do anything to stop him. Even in the dim lighting, Methos could see the lustful glare that suffused Kronos’ face, teeth flashing in a predatory snarl. Vaulting the remains of the catwalk, Methos sprinted across the base area and stepped between Cassandra and Kronos.

“Not this time, brother,” he hissed, levelling his sword at Kronos. “This time, you fight me.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

The last fading blasts of the Quickening echoed through Laserocity like the wake of a powerboat on a calm lake, each blast lapping against the walls and diminishing in frequency. Duncan stood breathless, sword in hand, as he tried to split his attention between the residual Quickening activity and the foe before him. The darkness enveloped Silas, but Duncan could barely see light glinting in the other man’s eyes.

“So, little man,” the voice boomed out of the shadows, making Duncan start, “I would say Methos’ woman is dead.” The gasps, which had been so prominent moments before, were much less featured now. “And you are going to be next.”

Duncan frantically pushed his earpiece further into his ear, hoping to hear something, anything, that would contradict Silas’ words, but there was nothing, not even static. While the reasoning part of him noted the lack of electronic capability in the building as a whole, post-Quickening, the fearful part of him noted only the silence of his two friends.

“Cassandra is not Methos’ woman.” The words slid from Duncan’s mouth automatically as he backed two cautious steps away from Silas, still craning for any sound from the other end of the hall.

“Ah, so she is yours now,” comprehension sounded loudly in Silas’ tone. “Why did you let her fight and die for you, little man?” The question did not quite cover the sound of Silas retrieving his axe from the floor.

“What makes you so sure she is the one who died?” As he spoke, Duncan tightened his grip on both his sword, and his hope. “I think it’s just as likely that one of your brothers is the headless corpse right now.”

As Silas laughed heartily at that idea, Duncan reluctantly acknowledged his own fear about whose Quickening had just played out. Despite his words, he was well aware that the death could easily have been Cassandra’s… or Methos’. He was hard-pressed at the moment to judge whose loss he would feel more deeply.

Seeing his shadowy opponent beginning to approach, Duncan glanced over each shoulder quickly to discern the best route toward his team’s base. He had to find a way to get there, had to find out…

ooOooOoo

Cassandra huddled on the floor, vaguely aware of the drama being played out above her. Seconds before, Kronos had been about to take her head, and she’d had no strength to prevent it. More disturbing still, she wasn’t sure she was inclined to prevent it, even if she’d had full vigor. Her emotions were in total disarray.

Methos’ intervention settled the matter, for the moment. She stared up at him distantly, unable to determine how she felt, as he came to her defense against Kronos after two thousand long years. Better late than never, she thought, and would have laughed rather hysterically if she’d possessed the strength.

Kronos grinned contemptuously at Methos. The loss of Caspian – and thus of his dream of the resurgence of the Four Horsemen – was clearly an epic disappointment, instantly converted into hatred and a demand for retribution. His first target had logically been Cassandra, but now, she could see, he was happy to direct his rage at his prodigal, troublesome brother.

“So, Methos, you think you can make up for letting her down all those centuries ago by saving her from me now, hmm?” When Methos said nothing, Kronos’ volume increased as he warmed to the subject. “It doesn’t work that way, you know. She’ll never forgive you. Why should she? The poor unlucky wench wouldn’t even be in this predicament if it weren’t for you.”

“It won’t work, Kronos,” Methos said, his voice and his sword equally steady. “It was never about her, not for you; it was always about finding a way to stand on my neck, to keep me in line. Well, I’m out of line now, for good. I’m done being played.”

Cassandra saw the subtle hardening and sharpening in Kronos’ eyes as his smile faded.

“That suits me,” he said as he poised to attack, “because I’m done playing.”

ooOooOoo

Hearing Kronos’ voice but unable to make out the words, Duncan began to back away from Silas quickly but carefully, working his way toward the base.

“Where are you going?” Silas boomed, his belly wound healed or close to it. “You said it yourself, little man: There’s nowhere to run.”

Gritting his teeth, Duncan observed privately that the “little man” epithet was beginning to grate on his nerves. “Who’s running? I’m just taking a constitutional while you get your wind back.”

The breeze from a sudden stroke of the ax stirred some of Duncan’s many loose strands of hair. He hastened his backward progress even though he dared not take his eyes off the large immortal.

His left shoulder struck the side of a barrier, and Silas used the sudden cessation of motion to take another swing. There was no way to escape the ax’s arc. Scraping his back against the edge of the barrier, Duncan stepped back with his right foot to gain leverage and brought the sword upward. Blocking Silas’ swing with tremendous effort, the Scot was taken aback by the sheer power of his opponent even though he had known what to expect. He couldn’t repel the swing entirely, but merely deflected it, barely preventing its edge from striking him.

This was no good. Duncan needed a clear, open fighting area as much as he needed to know whether his friends were safe, and backing up blindly was perilous. There was only one way to get to the base alive.

Duncan MacLeod turned and ran.

ooOooOoo

Kronos’ attack was full-throttle, brutal, passionate – much more in the style Methos remembered, yet subtly different. There was a wariness, a thoughtfulness that hadn’t been present two thousand years ago. The oldest immortal spared a split second to wonder if his influence was responsible for that.

His opponent’s eyes betrayed similar notations of changes in his fighting style as they exchanged formidable lunges, leveled lethal cutting swipes, ducked and dodged, blocked and beat on one another.

“So, you haven’t entirely forgotten how to fight,” Kronos said, breathing hard but radiating excitement and pleasure. “I thought you might have left that knowledge behind, along with the rest of your manhood. There may be hope for you yet, brother.” He was obliged to duck abruptly during this last sentence as Methos’ sword made a vicious lateral cut at his head.

“What I left behind was taking pleasure in the pain and domination of others,” Methos countered after the follow-through. The two began circling in a dance-like motion. “It’s called personal development, Kronos. You should try it sometime.”

“The weak are meant to be plundered by the powerful, Methos. That law of nature hasn’t changed since the world was new. To deny that is to deny yourself.” With those words, Kronos swung his sword upward in a quick disemboweling stroke that Methos barely avoided.

Pressing his momentary advantage, Kronos rained a series of short, sharp blows on Methos’ sword. Methos defended, mentally cursing as he stumbled over the detritus of the battle and subsequent Quickening. He was determined to lead Kronos away from the vulnerable Cassandra, but backward movement and broken terrain left him at a subtle disadvantage when confronted by Kronos’ sure two-handed swings.

Eventually, there was a brief lag between Kronos’ swing and Methos’ block. The broadsword slid inside the steel web Methos had woven around himself, and scored a deep slice across Methos’ left shoulder. Both men heard Cassandra gasp as Methos flinched in pain.

Duncan ran cautiously toward the base, dodging poorly defined obstacles in the shadowy darkness. As he ran, he wondered when he had internalized the old man’s mantra of “Live, grow stronger, fight another day.” He also wondered if he would find the old man with head still attached at the end of this strategic retreat.

The closer he got to the base, the clearer the sounds of voices and clashing steel. Absently noting the destruction of one end of the catwalk, Duncan steered toward the low wall that surrounded the base. No longer sure of the location of the break in the wall, Duncan hurdled it like an Olympian, going for gold. What he saw both brought him relief, and brought him up short.

Cassandra lay in a heap on the floor next to Caspian’s decapitated corpse. She was obviously still recovering from the effects of an ancient Quickening, and was even more obviously enthralled by that which had brought him up short: Kronos and Methos were engaged in a duel of spellbinding and lethal intensity, displaying an array of skills and tricks that Duncan had never before seen the old man use, nor even gotten an inkling of.

All three immortals were locked into a closed circle that did not even deign to notice Duncan’s arrival.

As Duncan watched the fight, he immediately understood both the reason for Methos’ strategy of backward motion and the disadvantage it put him at against the advancing Kronos. But he also noted the instinctive way Methos compensated for the drawbacks. He admired the skill shown in throwing up the defensive web, and admitted to himself that he didn’t even recognize some of the moves Methos was using.

The revelation of these hidden depths of proficiency struck Duncan like a bolt from a particularly focused Quickening. How could he have possibly underestimated his friend’s fighting abilities so severely? How could he have never even guessed at what lay beneath that carefully manufactured and guarded façade?

“Damn,” Duncan breathed out, pole-axed. “You were right, old man.” Although Methos could not hear the words, Duncan felt compelled to say them aloud in a self-imposed gesture of atonement. “I didn’t want to see you, I wanted to see Adam Pierson.”

Just as Duncan had his epiphany, Kronos slipped inside Methos’ guard. Cassandra gasped, everyone froze, and the nearly-forgotten Silas walked through the gap in the low wall surrounding the base.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Duncan roused himself sufficiently to turn around, facing Silas while keeping an eye on the Kronos-Methos confrontation. As he watched with his attention thus divided, Methos backed away from his opponent carefully and watchfully, favoring the injured left shoulder.

Silas’ face betrayed deep disappointment at seeing his brothers at odds in a life-or-death conflict. Kronos launched a brutal new offensive to take advantage of having drawn first blood, and Duncan clearly read anguish in Silas’ expression at seeing his favorite brother in such a perilous position. Then he turned toward the Scot, raising his ax.

“You could help him,” Duncan said suddenly. “You don’t want Methos to die, Silas. Neither do I. We could help him.”

Both men glanced back to the raging battle, noting Methos’ struggle to defend himself mostly one-handed with a heavy two-handed sword. Silas’ gaze returned to Duncan, and there was no ambivalence in it.

“I would rather see him dead than living with his back turned to his destiny,” bellowed the huge man. The ax descended, intent on parting the Highlander’s hair down to his knees.

ooOooOoo

Beginning to feel marginally less lethargic, Cassandra crawled toward the outer wall, trying to stay out of the way of both battles while she continued to recover from Caspian’s Quickening – but trying to keep both fights within her sight. She couldn’t do anything to physically aid her teammates, but perhaps she could assist them by keeping close watch.

She was unsure about whom she should be most concerned. Methos was severely hampered by his currently useless left shoulder and was thus extremely vulnerable to Kronos’ relentless attack. But her former master had five thousand years of survival on his side, and he had sparred with this opponent many times, had fought alongside him for years.

Duncan was, by virtue of his comparative youth, the least experienced of the four combatants, was clearly outmatched in physical strength, and had never even met Silas until a couple of hours ago. Yet he had grown up a warrior, was highly trained and disciplined in his skills, and possessed the limitless zeal of a man armed with honor and loyalty.

It was clear to her that each battle could go either way, which was why she had dragged her sword with her as she crawled over to the wall. If both her teammates won – or if both of them lost – nothing further would be required of her. She would leave alive with Duncan and Methos in the first case, and suffer then die in the second.

But if one of the Horsemen killed one of her teammates while the other pair still fought, it would fall to her to take the victor’s head while he was still weak from the Quickening, to prevent him from teaming up against her remaining comrade.

Cassandra leaned back against the wall, watching, waiting… and regaining her strength.

ooOooOoo

Methos knew he was at a serious disadvantage in this contest. Struggling backward while trying to keep his footing was bad enough, but the difficulty of defending one-armed against Kronos’ strong two-handed swings was wearing. The itchy tingling he could feel in his shoulder signified that healing was taking place, but it wasn’t happening quickly enough.

Trying to stretch his fingers surreptitiously, he glanced across the area to check on Cassandra, and finally noted the presence of Duncan MacLeod and Silas. Although the head on his shoulders signified that he was holding his own with Silas, MacLeod had the look of a man feeling a bit overwhelmed by his opponent. Methos found his attention drawn once again by a vicious swipe from Kronos’ sword. Resigning MacLeod to his fate, Methos began evaluating his options.

“I see you have finally noticed our audience, brother.” Kronos sounded both smug and slightly breathless as he taunted Methos.

“I don’t think they’re just here to watch,” Methos riposted. He noted that Kronos was tiring a bit, but alas, like the healing of his own shoulder, it was not quick enough. Shifting his gaze around almost frantically, Methos’ eyes lit on the low barrier around the base.

Dropping his defense for a split second, Methos bounded for the low wall. Unknowingly mimicking Duncan’s earlier move, he sprang upward, but instead of clearing the wall, he landed effortlessly atop it like a cat.

Kronos stood still for a moment, shocked. “What is this, brother, your Errol Flynn impersonation?”

“Actually, I think it’s more along the lines of Douglas Fairbanks.” Methos delighted in the inanity of the chatter; it provided more time for his injury to heal. Cautiously finding his footing, he beckoned Kronos forward with his sword. “Care to join me brother?” It was clear that neither the tone nor the invitation could be ignored.

ooOooOoo

Successfully dodging Silas’ latest attempt to cleave him in half, Duncan was desperately aware that he was in need of a new battle plan. He couldn’t win in the long run merely by ducking, diving, and running. It was far more likely he would tire and make a fatal mistake before he ever got a lucky opening.

Jumping with both feet to avoid a sweep of the ax just below his knees, he cursed yet again the enormous reach that the ax afforded his gigantic opponent – and stopped in mid-thought as another part of his mind interrupted impatiently with a suggestion. The idea was so simple and obvious, he wanted to laugh.

Silas’ vast ax-range was only effective if one sought to stay outside of it. Within its circumference, the giant immortal was extremely vulnerable. The trick, of course, was to get inside – no small feat, certainly – but once there…

The Highlander’s shoulders squared up and his eyes glinted as the beginnings of a workable plan began to gel.

ooOooOoo

With a low snarl, Kronos leapt to the wall, only to be met immediately by a crashing swipe from Methos’ sword. Spinning to meet the thrust, Kronos overbalanced precariously, and Methos scored a quick hit to his right thigh.

Pressing forward to make the most of his limited success, Methos swung again, a forehand blow this time. The tip of the blade whistled through the air just short of Kronos’ chest, but Methos was himself almost unbalanced by the follow-through. Catching himself just before plummeting off the wall, he noted that feeling had returned to his left arm.

Raising his left hand to the hilt of his sword, Methos prepared to overwhelm Kronos with a volley of well-placed blows. Raising the sword, he shifted forward to bring the blade down in a heavy, torso splitting stroke. Suddenly, Kronos’ blade appeared to block the stroke. Swinging back powerfully, Kronos laughed at the quick look of confusion that crossed Methos’ face.

“It takes more than a little cut on the leg to stop me, brother. If that’s all you have, then this fight will soon be ended.”

ooOooOoo

Duncan was baiting Silas, tempting him by hovering just within ax-range. The idea was to get him to commit fully to a good, hard swing, avoid being hit, then take advantage of the big man’s momentary down-time during the follow-through to enter the circle the ax’s reach drew around Silas.

In theory, quite simple. In practice, nearly suicidal.

Halting his methodical assault briefly, Silas grinned and rumbled with mirth. “Do you want to be struck down, little man? I am happy for the sport, but the evasion must be tiring. Stand still and let me give you the rest you crave.”

“You compassion is touching,” Duncan tried not to pant, “but I’m just trying to make up for skipping my workout this morning. Just a little while longer, and then I’ll be ready to finish you off.”

His opponent chuckled some more as he reset the grip on his ax, and it struck Duncan that Methos’ obvious affection for Silas was no longer the enigma it had been an hour or two ago. Under other circumstances, Duncan would probably like the man, himself.

He was obliged to drop to the floor as the ax whistled past his ear.

ooOooOoo

“If that’s all you have, then this fight will soon be ended.”

Methos set his shoulders, unconsciously rolling the left one a little as he did. While he was firmly of the opinion that you should never show your opponent all your moves, he was clearly going to have to dig a little deeper to defeat Kronos.

“You know me better than that, Kronos. I’ve only used the level of skill I thought you merited, after all.” Psychological warfare was never far from the top of Methos’ bag of tricks, and he was sure he would be calling on more of those tricks soon.

Setting his feet squarely on the wall, Methos shifted fighting styles rapidly. Gone was the hack and slash method often favoured by combatants with heavy two-handed swords. Instead, he presented Kronos with rapid cuts and darting blows more common to fighting with rapiers, or other lighter weapons.

“What’s this,” Kronos jibed, “you fight me like a woman now?”

“No, I fight you with speed and skill, a combination you might not be familiar with.” As Methos scored the verbal blow, so he scored a slight hit to Kronos’ right arm. This was followed up with another quick cut to left shoulder.

“Owed you that one, brother,” Methos noted with almost clinical detachment. Part of him knew that he couldn’t maintain this style indefinitely with a heavy blade, but it seemed to be working for now. His superior balance, combined with the speed of his thrusts and cuts, was keeping Kronos on the defensive, but for how long?

His question was answered as Kronos’ patience finally snapped. With a roar, the smaller man launched himself at Methos. Both fell from the wall in a tangle of arms and legs and swords. Scrambling apart, both rose to their feet as Silas and Duncan MacLeod stood frozen, not ten feet away.

The four of them stood like actors awaiting their blocking, breathing heavily. Then Methos and Kronos began, almost imperceptibly, to slowly circle each other again, as though unable to tolerate a lack of some kind of motion. Silas and Duncan remained rooted, fascinated, almost hypnotized.

Kronos, obviously smarting from his inability to defeat Methos on his brother’s terms, wore a scowl terrifying in its intensity. “Silas, why is MacLeod still wearing his head?” he barked, startling his brother.

“Wait,” Duncan quipped, “don’t tell me. I know this one…”

Stung by the implied criticism, Silas also put on a scowl and wrapped his resolve to satisfy Kronos around him like a heavy fur coat. Duncan returned his full attention to his own conflict.

Still circling, Kronos snarled at his opponent. “It’s past time I finished with you too, brother, once and for all. Like a well-used slave, your company has become unsatisfying.”

“Well, it’s hard to keep the excitement alive after two thousand years.” The glib reply came automatically, belying the grim thoughts running through Methos’ mind. It was indeed time to finish things here, and he was forced to admit that it was also time to discard the rule about hiding his true skill. Kronos was channeling all his anger, all his disappointment, all his frustration, into this fight. He wouldn’t be beaten, no matter how badly injured, until one of them was dead.

Very well, thought the old immortal. No more holding back, then.

The circle began to spin faster.

Chapter Twenty-Six

With Kronos’ rebuke still ringing in his ears, Silas felt his emotions shifting, slowly and gratingly, like interior tectonic plates. Anger which had merely smoldered quietly now began to flame up, building in heat and intensity and scorching his heart and mind.

The dream was dead. Caspian was gone, but that was of no real consequence; he had been negligible in the large man’s reckoning. But Silas had been certain that Methos would come around in the end; that he would fall to Kronos and revive as their brother once more. Now it was clear that that battle would only end with the loss of a head. No matter the outcome, Silas would never ride with Methos again.

Needing a target for his grief and anger, Silas focused all his concentration on the young immortal he held responsible for the corruption of his favorite brother. The ax had swung purposefully before, but now it was powered by rage.

ooOooOoo

Kronos and Methos circled one another in an ever-quickening spiral. With cat-like stealth, they placed their feet surely on the debris-strewn floor, the tips of their long blades dipping and diving in a complicated pattern of range testing and readiness.

Methos cast his mind back over five thousand years of tactics and strategies. There must be something that would be perfect for this situation. He evaluated and discarded several ideas quickly based on his knowledge of Kronos’ strengths and weaknesses.

Relying once again on speed and skill, Methos went on the attack. Feinting to his left, he quickly turned and struck at Kronos’ left side, but the leather jacket absorbed most of the blow. Carrying his slight advantage forward, he changed his angle of attack and slashed his sword at his opponent’s right thigh.

As Methos continued with his rapid slashing attack, he knew it could only last for so long. While keeping Kronos on the defensive minimized the number of hits he took himself, it was also very tiring, and Kronos was blocking many of the blows now. Soon the strategy would have to change.

ooOooOoo

The brilliant plan to stay within ax-range until he could make his move was really working out – for Silas. Within five minutes of resuming their fight, Duncan was feeling winded from all the avoidance. He saw clearly the change in his opponent’s mood and attitude. Until now, the big man had been almost toying with him. Now, he was determined to get a head. Duncan, on the other hand, had all he could do to concentrate on keeping his.

A tiny misjudgment in maneuvering resulted in the ax striking Duncan’s left bicep and his chest. His quick reflexes caused him to pull back enough to prevent lethal or disabling damage, but the pain wrung a yell from him and made him hunch over protectively. The chest wound was superficial, but the cut on the arm was down to the bone.

Grinning, Silas swung the ax laterally, trying to catch Duncan in the midsection. The Highlander blocked it with the sword, which was caught on the head of the ax and went sailing a few feet away. Silas twisted as the momentum of his follow-through carried him and the ax around in an arc. Vulnerable, bleeding, Duncan was dismayed to realize that his opportunity to enter the ax’s circumference was finally here… and he was weaponless.

ooOooOoo

Just as quickly as Methos’ attack had started, it stopped. Kronos eyed his brother warily, waiting for the next trick. Taking a good look at his opponent, however, reassured him. The heaving chest and flushed face were those of a man who hadn’t been forced to truly fight for his life in some time.

“What’s wrong, brother?” he taunted. “Not only have you lost your taste for fighting, you’ve lost your ability. I’m disappointed in you, Methos. Somehow I expected more.”

Moving with deceptive grace, Kronos swung his huge sword in a descending arc, trying to disable his opponent. Surprisingly, Methos blocked the blow squarely with his sword, catching Kronos’ blade in the guard and letting momentum draw the two men close together.

“Never fear, Kronos,” Methos returned the jibe, “I’ve got plenty more.” Before Kronos could respond, Methos used his leverage to drive the pommel of his sword into Kronos’ face. Feeling the blood drip from his shattered nose, Kronos tightened his grip on his sword and started swinging.

ooOooOoo

Heart racing, Duncan suddenly realized he was not weaponless. Remembering the hatchet Methos had given him, the Scot reached back to where he had secreted it, hit the floor rolling under the ax-line, and swept his right leg around to take Silas’ feet out from under him. The huge immortal came down with a crash.

Duncan threw himself upon Silas, but the ax was still in the bigger man’s hands. The head of it was useless at this range, but he employed the handle to block Duncan’s approach, keeping him far enough away that the hatchet was nearly useless too, able to make only small nicks.

Hand-to-hand combat with a half-severed left arm put Duncan at a serious disadvantage, and soon Silas had turned the tables, putting Duncan on the bottom with the ax handle crushing his throat. His vision beginning to fade with the lack of air intake, Duncan still had time to note the joy, the glee Silas displayed as he sensed the kill was at hand. Gone was the jovial giant he had begun to see and even to like. This man was a brutish thug who enjoyed killing, who lived for mayhem, who took pleasure in causing extreme suffering.

He didn’t see Cassandra until she had wrapped her arms around Silas’ neck to pull him off. For a brief moment, the Horseman took one hand off the ax handle long enough to backhand her savagely in the face with his huge fist.

ooOooOoo

As Methos scrambled to avoid another blow from Kronos’ sword, he wondered if he had miscalculated. Angering Kronos could be counted on to produce a strong offensive, but Methos had hoped it would tire Kronos more quickly. Silently rethinking his estimate of Kronos’ physical reserves, Methos shifted tactics yet again.

Biding his time, dodging blows instead of blocking them, Methos waited for the small openings Kronos left in his defenses. Each time an opening appeared, he lunged forward and thrust his sword into the target. Though none of the blows were fatal, he hoped their cumulative effect would wear his opponent down.

“What now, brother, are you trying to turn me into a pin cushion?” Kronos asked. Redoubling his efforts, he wove a tighter defensive web around himself, leaving Methos fewer openings. With another slight shift, Kronos put his back to the wall of the base.

Sensing that the opportunity to defeat Kronos was passing him by, Methos concentrated his efforts on scoring a deep hit to a vital area. If he could just skewer Kronos, the fight would be over. Seeing his chance, he lunged forward, putting all his considerable strength into the thrust.

Methos saw the trap as Kronos easily sidestepped his thrust, but it was too late. His blade plunged into the remains of the speaker box, making contact with the electrical wiring that Caspian’s Quickening had exposed. Live current flowed up the sword, and through Methos’ hands that were pressed against the guard, sending his nerve endings dancing.

A final surge of power threw Methos away from the sword as the box short-circuited. The sword itself seemed fused with the wall, but Methos didn’t notice as he staggered back a few steps. Kronos, now feeling assured of his victory, followed.

ooOooOoo

Anger seethed inside Duncan as Silas viciously struck Cassandra, bringing with it a burst of energy and the realization that Silas was now close enough to be hurt by the hatchet. Closing his right hand in a fist around its handle, Duncan brought the hatchet up as hard as he could, catching Silas in the neck.

Roaring, Silas released the Scot as he tumbled backward to avoid another hit. Coughing and wheezing through a throat that was no longer flattened, Duncan sought frantically to stay within the ax-circumference as Silas continued to roll and shuffle away. Diving toward him, Duncan flung another wild hatchet-slice, this time cutting into Silas’ side deeply. With another roar, Silas gave him an affronted look, as though he had no right to be making headway in this fight.

Silas’ look of outrage and the sense of entitlement it implied lit the fuse on the small bomb of fury that had been slowly assembling itself within Duncan. He suddenly realized he was tired. Tired of being handicapped by his own rules and sense of honor. Tired of fighting with people for whom honor was a joke and rules applied only to others. Tired of struggling to make sense of a world without order, to be righteous when what was right was never clear enough, to define justice when everybody lived by the motto, “Nobody said life was fair.”

Silas was trying to back up so that he could use the ax, but Duncan kept close. Another swing of the hatchet slashed into the arm flung up defensively. The next sliced open the gut, spilling a large amount of blood at their feet. Duncan swung again and again until he was simply pounding on Silas with the hatchet’s blade, putting into each stroke all the angst and frustration he’d felt this past week dealing with the revelations about Methos and the Horsemen, making Silas pay for his pain.

In his haste to put distance between them, Silas slipped on his own blood and fell. He tried to crawl away, but Duncan dropped to his knees beside him, still chopping. Blood spattered his face, soaked his clothes, made his grip on the hatchet handle slippery, but still he kept pounding.

ooOooOoo

Methos dropped to one knee, still shaking from the burst of electricity that had coursed through him… and swordless. Kronos loomed over him, ready to deliver the killing blow, but hesitating.

“It pains me to do this Methos,” he said slowly. “I had hoped for something different.”

“Wait,” Methos shot back, stealthily reaching for the dagger in his boot, “let me guess, this is gonna hurt you more than it hurts me, right?”

“Ah, brother,” Kronos shook his head sadly, “it is not just your skill, but also your wit that has deserted you. Perhaps this is for the best.”

Kronos began to raise his sword for the final swing. Finally securing his grip on the dagger, Methos launched himself upward, bringing the dagger around in an arc across Kronos’ forearms. The keen blade bit deep, slicing the right arm to the bone, and inflicting a deep gash to the left. With a scream of rage and pain, Kronos dropped his sword.

Reversing his grip on the dagger, Methos swung low to sever Kronos’ femoral artery. Gushing blood from his various wounds, Kronos dropped to his knees. Methos bent slowly and retrieved Kronos’ enormous sword. Standing again, Methos gripped the weapon, readying himself to end this chapter of his long existence.

“You were right about one thing, Kronos. This is for the best.” So saying, Methos brought the blade around and severed his brother’s head. He straightened and prepared to receive the blessing and the bane of Kronos’ Quickening.

ooOooOoo

Only when he saw that Silas was no longer defending himself, no longer moving or breathing, did he think about taking the head. Duncan never even glanced at the sword. The use of the hatchet felt so satisfying, he simply started hacking with it at Silas’ neck.

Three, four chops were all it took given the force he was using. As Silas’ head fell away, Duncan looked up in time to see Methos behead Kronos. In the brief moment of calm after the heads were severed, Duncan panted and began to actually think about what he had just done and, more importantly, how he had done it. A small whimper caught his attention, and he saw in Cassandra’s face a kind of horror, as though she had just seen him grow a new and unpleasing face. He began to react to it, but the Quickening was now beginning, and it occurred to him abruptly that two ancient Quickenings occurring simultaneously might actually be dangerous.

He leaped to his feet in a panic, but realizing there was no escape from the consequences, he simply stretched his arms out, as though in penitence, and waited. On the other side of the base, Methos did the same.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The Quickenings began, as most Quickenings do, with a quiet hush and a gathering of light and energy. Methos, veteran of thousands of years of Quickenings, tried to relax his tense, tired muscles, while Duncan MacLeod braced himself for the onslaught of anticipated pain and horror.

The five players in the scene, three living and two dead, seemed locked in a frozen tableau as faint crackles began to sound throughout the room. Cassandra moaned a little as she watched the light begin to coalesce around Kronos and Silas’ forms, but neither Duncan nor Methos paid her any attention.

Suddenly, the Quickening energy began to leap from the prone bodies. Bolts shot out randomly, striking the remaining lights in the room. Sodium bulbs began popping with a cascade effect, and glass sprayed out in rapid bursts. Sparks arced out of exposed wiring on the walls.

Then, seeming almost sentient, the energy began to form into seeking tendrils. Gone was the random search for an available outlet to ground itself. The two clouds of white, glowing haze drew themselves in briefly, then shot out violently, Kronos’ energy striking Methos squarely in the chest.

ooOooOoo

As the fireworks raged, Methos calmly accepted the invasive inner effects of the Quickening. The knowledge that he was taking inside himself the essence of a man who represented the depths to which he himself could sink was not pleasing, but he had long ago made peace with the personal sacrifice that must sometimes be made to emerge victorious after a challenge. So your defeated enemy wasn’t a nice guy. Get over it. You’re alive.

He felt the first tentative tendrils of Kronos’ being entering him, and he relaxed, opening himself in full acceptance of the inevitable. There was a sensation of familiarity as some of the more pleasant moments of his days with Kronos were suggested and played in his memory, moments of camaraderie and laughter. He smiled slightly, unconsciously groaning; he had once felt something close to affection for his brother.

Then this congenial sensation was elbowed brusquely aside and the full depth of Kronos’ domineering and brutal nature forced its way into Methos, taking his breath away momentarily. He gasped spasmodically, taking a step or two backward as his mind was assaulted by the anger, the viciousness, the violence that had made Kronos the man that he had been. It was as though the essence of the leader of the Horsemen sought not to enrich and empower his host, but to control and enslave him as he had done to thousands in life.

ooOooOoo

Duncan was breathing raggedly even before he felt the first insidious touch of Silas’ essence seeking entry. The Highlander had never regarded the Quickening as a pleasant experience; to him, it had always felt more like a violation than a blessing. But never before had he felt so much resistance to accepting the spoils of a challenge, because he had never before won a challenge in the way in which he had just defeated Silas.

Acutely aware that there was enough blood on his clothes to account for killing several people, Duncan was powerless to stop the tears that formed in his eyes and traveled in irregular paths down his cheeks. In a million years, he would never have believed himself capable of the kind of savagery he had just displayed. He had been driven to rage before, certainly; had even lost control of himself on occasion and done things of which he was not proud and which he tried not to think about.

But never – never – had he been driven to butchery in combat.

He knew that this time, he’d ventured into obscene violence; knew it because he’d seen it in Cassandra’s horrified eyes when it was over. Knew it because he couldn’t remember a time when he’d continued hacking on an opponent after he was clearly dead, taking the head almost as an afterthought. Such a victory was not deserving of the reward that the Quickening represented. No one should gain power and knowledge by descending to such hideous depths.

So when he felt Silas’ being come knocking to claim its place in his soul, Duncan, in his shame, tried to bar the door.

ooOooOoo

Silas’ energy slid sinuously toward Duncan. It paused for a moment, then broke like a wave over the Highlander. The tendrils of the Quickening enclosed him like a fist. There was none of the easy acceptance that Methos allowed Kronos’ Quickening.

Feeling resistance, bolts of lightning jumped from Duncan’s body, touching down on every available surface. Methos’ sword, still anchored in the wall, served as a convenient lightning rod for the excess energy. Waves of it rode the sword, and sparked the wiring, starting fires within the wall.

A high whistling noise, which could almost be described as a keening, echoed through the arena. Cassandra, now huddled against the low wall around the base, thought for a moment that she heard the mournful tone of a flute. But in another breath, the illusion was gone.

Chancing a quick look up, Cassandra saw Duncan MacLeod, hair blown around his head with the tremendous energy surrounding him. Lightning seemed to shoot from his outstretched hands, and his whole body screamed of pain and horror. One of the bolts touched the wire that suspended the base target, and as it crashed to the floor, Cassandra ducked her head once again.

Light and energy poured into Methos. As quickly as one new tendril formed, it was drawn into the well of five thousand years of life and experience. While Methos contorted in the throes of the Quickening, stray bolts hit the fallen catwalk behind him, superheating its structure. The building material used in Laserocity, while up to code for most recreational situations, could not withstand the energy poured out by a Quickening.

Flames, already kindled in the walls, began to lick up around the collapsed catwalk. One of the discarded laser rifles exploded with a loud bang, but none of the occupants of the room even noticed. As the tongues of fire reached greedily for more fuel, smoke began to fill the room.

ooOooOoo

Methos didn’t feel his body jerking and contorting with shock and resistance; all his consciousness was engaged in keeping his own spirit in command. There would be no Dark Quickening here today, he resolved grimly. He had not risked everything he held dear to free himself of the Horsemen forever only to become Kronos’ puppet.

His mind was filling with visions of mayhem, of the Horsemen slashing and raping their way through the ancient world. Angrily, he held fast to his solid rejection of that life, that attitude. He would not be turned by such images. They held no attraction for him anymore.

Suddenly, the visions changed, and he was watching himself only, terrorizing screaming villagers, murdering innocent people of all ages – often while they were running away – and “conditioning” newly acquired slaves. His breathing became harsher as he watched himself raping and torturing Cassandra, saw the look of cold purpose on a face he could barely recognize as his own. He was not aware of his head whipping from side to side in a desperate gesture of rejection, nor of his guttural screaming as he fought against the vivid memories.

ooOooOoo

Cassandra risked another look up as she felt the heat beginning to gather in the room. For the first time since the Quickenings had started, she glanced over at Methos. What she saw there froze her blood, and her gasp, when it came, was soundless.

The Quickening arced around Methos like a power line downed by a storm. Energy lashed his body mercilessly, and he swayed and arched with it. Flames leapt behind him and silhouetted his powerful body and most of his face. His eyes, however, glowed with a light that was both mad and anguished. He was, at that moment, more fearsome than Cassandra had ever seen him, and she tore her eyes away.

Gazing back toward Duncan, Cassandra noted he was still trying to deny the power of Silas’ Quickening. His body was wracked with shudders, and the excess energy that had sought outlet in other surfaces throughout the arena was gathering itself as if to assault its unwilling host.

Cassandra’s ears popped as all the air in the room seemed to rush toward the writhing cloud around Duncan. Even the flames died down as their source of fuel disappeared. The energy massed itself, and struck at Duncan like a fist. The flames roared once more, and Cassandra’s renewed moaning was again ignored.

ooOooOoo

Silas’ Quickening seemed perplexed, as though finding a completely unwilling receptacle was a thing never anticipated. It would not, however, be denied. Like a SWAT team entering a criminal’s hideout, the essence of his slain opponent kicked open the door to Duncan’s soul, splinters flying and timbers groaning in protest, and stomped on in – uninvited, unwelcome, and undaunted.

Falling to his knees, the Scot sought refuge in physical diminishment. His arms came over his head as though trying to protect it from falling debris, and he curled himself into a tight ball, the top of his head nearly touching the floor, roaring his resistance all the while.

The first images he received were completely unexpected, snapshots from the life of a simple, pastoral boy who spent more time with animals than with people. It was obvious that Silas’ greatest pleasure had come from communing with the creatures of the wild, and equally obvious that this preference and his mental simplicity had made him a target for cruelty in his young life.

With the images of Silas’ life with the Horsemen, the emotions shifted and a love of violence emerged. This, then, was the way Silas chose to cope with the ancient memories of teasing and torment – by repaying it a thousandfold to all who ventured into his path.

Suddenly reinvigorated, Duncan uncurled himself and bent backward, arms wide, fists tightened, and bellowed toward the ceiling. He would not give in, he would not accept this Quickening. Silas’ essence became compressed and was pushed back toward the door, a bit at a time.

ooOooOoo

As Duncan renewed his fight with Silas’ Quickening, the fires in Laserocity continued to spread. The smoke that filled the room obscured visibility, and the crackling of the flames could be heard over the roar of Duncan’s displeasure. Cords of energy whipped back and forth over his tortured body, sending surges into the walls and ceiling. Tiles began to fall from overhead, and the remaining portion of the catwalk creaked ominously as its pillars burned.

Methos, meanwhile, stood wrapped in a nimbus of light and energy. His tormented expression revealed almost as much pain as Duncan’s wracked body did. Sparks and burning embers tried to land on his outstretched arms, but the energy cloud seemed to repel all trespassers on its preserve.

Coiled possessively around its intended target, Kronos’ Quickening massed; Methos seized with the increase of energy pouring into his slender form. Behind him, the last sodium bulb in the arena burst, but it was a small sound, easily lost in the cacophony of destruction.

There was tremendous pain in this remembering of Methos’ past life, vast, unending depths of it, and in this moment he felt he would do anything, anything at all, to escape it. With that thought came a fading of the images and a sense of consolation, of comfort being offered for a price.

He was nearly persuaded to pay when he perceived something unexpected in the unkempt assortment of memories and emotions: pain, great pain, but pain which did not originate within Methos. He tried to look closer at it, to determine its source, but a surge of violent anger shoved him away and covered up the pain, hiding it from view. More pictures of his own misdeeds were thrown up on the viewscreen of his mind, as though he were being told to pay no attention to the man behind the curtain…

ooOooOoo

Though Duncan’s resistance was partially successful in repelling Silas’ Quickening, some things still leaked through. He saw snippets of interaction between the Horsemen, and particularly between Silas and Methos, moments of extreme poignancy in which Methos showed the big man great patience, kindness, and friendship. It was difficult to reconcile that such a relationship could exist within the framework of a band of killers so ruthless and sadistic that they had intimidated the entire known world.

The contradiction occupied enough of Duncan’s mind that some of his concentration was siphoned away from his battle to drive out Silas, and more of the dead man’s knowledge and power became fused with his own as he fought to fortify his resistance again.

ooOOoOoo

Whatever it was that Kronos had kept buried in his heart and soul all his long life, he sought still to deny in death, and Methos realized with a shock that this revelation was his own salvation. Forcing himself to look squarely and without recoil at the memories of his life as a monster, he felt the shame, the pain, and the regret, but no longer rejected or denied them. He knew that acceptance, not denial, was the key not just to survival, but to growth, to progress. To a healthy life, not just a continued life.

Smiling slightly again, Methos embraced all that he was, all that he had been, and all that he would yet be… and this allowed him to embrace Kronos’ essence as well, and not be dominated by it.

ooOooOoo

Cassandra spared a moment to fear for their physical safety, noting that a ring of fire was quickly engulfing the former base area, and parts of the walls and ceiling were falling constantly. More important though, was the rapidly changing dynamic of the Quickenings before her.

Silas’ Quickening was being driven partially away from Duncan’s body. Kronos’ Quickening, although being accepted, almost embraced, by Methos, was reacting to the reformed mass of energy just feet away. Now, although both Quickenings still battered at their new hosts, tendrils of energy were beginning to swirl together in the center of the room.

Again, the air seemed to be sucked out of the room, and channeled into the new energy mass that twisted between Duncan and Methos. Slowly, a pillar formed, a seething mass of energy that pulsed and turned in a mindless quest for somewhere to vent its rage and pain. With lightning quickness, the pillar changed. Two lances shot out, one to Methos and the other to Duncan, piercing both men through the chest.

This time, Cassandra didn’t moan. She screamed.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The smooth flow of Kronos’ fully-accepted Quickening hit a hiccup-like snag, and Methos at first thought it was coming to an end – until he felt himself being painfully drilled anew with a fresh and furious bolt of energy. Before he could speculate on this unexpected occurrence, Methos became aware that the essence entering him had changed, somehow… become marginally less hateful, more friendly to him…

Silas? his mind asked, sensing the familiar presence somehow fused with Kronos’. But how…? He couldn’t formulate a theory in his current state, but he did manage the realization that his friend MacLeod was probably receiving a fusion containing part of Kronos, as well.

Methos had time to feel profound regret.

ooOooOoo

So much of Duncan’s strength had been consumed fighting off the initial surge of Quickening that when the reconfigured energy mass launched a fresh onslaught, he was hopelessly vulnerable. Images and emotions flooded his being, seeming to stretch his very skin to the point of tearing.

To his horror, this was a new essence being downloaded, one far more grounded in hatred and brutality. Images and the general presence he was feeling told him that, inexplicably, he was receiving part of Kronos’ Quickening as well as Silas’. . As Duncan realized that his earlier resistance may have caused this, a childlike knee-jerk desire to take back his earlier resistance coursed through his panicked mind. Duncan wanted no part of this new evil.

Opening eyes he hadn’t realized were squeezed tightly shut, the Scot looked to Methos, as though for help.

ooOooOoo

Methos began to wonder how much more his mind and body could absorb before simply disintegrating under the pressure of so much energy. If he was feeling overwhelmed, what must it be like now for the much younger MacLeod? Gasping and groaning, the eyes of the world’s oldest man sought out his friend, seeking to offer what support he could under the circumstances.

He found the Highlander already meeting his gaze, looking agonized and terrified. As they established an emotional connection through eye contact, the bizarre mass of light hovering between them seemed to shrink slightly, then abruptly swelled in size and brilliance. A renewed burst of energy was thrust through the bolts that tethered them to the mass, and Methos thought that he just might explode. Instead, the excess seemed to spew through his eyes toward MacLeod, and a connection of a different kind was created…

ooOooOoo

Cassandra’s scream cut off as abruptly as it began. She watched in horror as the combined Quickenings of Kronos and Silas impaled Methos and Duncan. Never, in her long life, had she seen anything as inherently violent as the spectacle before her. And she could see her own horror reflected on the faces of the two men before her.

Seeking shelter against the wall around the base once more, Cassandra was surprised to feel warmth emanating from it. A quick glance around the room confirmed her fears, the fires, though lessened by the oxygen sucking force of the double Quickening, were still burning uncontrolled. They had obviously spread to the interior walls now.

Just as Cassandra reassured herself that the danger from the fire was not imminent, something new happened with the Quickenings. Feeling the change both on her skin and in her soul, she looked up to see a massive flux in the energy pouring into Duncan and Methos.

As the Quickenings cycled through their hapless hosts, spearing them through hearts and eyes, energy began to arc around the room again. Bolts of lightning grounded on any available surface, and Methos’ sword finally fell from the wall, a blackened husk. The remains of the catwalk were hit several times, and crashed to the floor. Where it had been bolted to the wall, flames shot out. Realizing that the whole building could collapse at any moment, Cassandra silently prayed for the Quickenings to end.

ooOooOoo

The new beam that ran between the immortals seemed to pull Duncan forward even as the lance through his heart pushed him back, and he feared he would be torn in two before this misbegotten Quickening was finished with him. For a while, he was so focused on the hideousness being poured into him via the Kronos-Silas synthesis that he didn’t notice a third essence in the mix.

The substance of what he was being forced to absorb together with his acute desire to reject it brought Duncan once again to his knees. He had reached his limit on shame and horror; there was no relief possible now but death. Could a Quickening actually kill an immortal? All he could do was hope so.

No! a voice cried sternly from somewhere within him, a fervent and unambiguous denunciation of death as an escape route. There is little that cannot or should not be endured if the outcome is survival, Duncan thought, knowing that the thought was not his own. At the same time, he was surprised by a sudden feeling of detachment, the sense of what he could only think of as “space” inside himself – room in which to distance himself from his emotions, to turn away from the noise and clutter and think with clarity.

His burden was great, there was no doubt of that. But would dying make up for anything he’d done? Surely it was only by continuing to live that Duncan could possibly hope to redeem himself. Thinking of Cassandra, he realized that if he were to die right now, her last memory of him would be of a hate-crazed maniac hacking a man to pieces. He did not want anyone to remember him that way.

This new objectivity gave him the strength that clear-eyed evaluation often brings to one who is overwrought. Duncan stood slowly, rising first to one knee, then fully upright. This detachment had possibly saved his life, and certainly his sanity. But where had it come from?

He looked across the base at Methos.

ooOooOoo

The new bolt of energy had taken the Quickening to a whole new level, one which Methos had never before experienced. Suddenly he was downloading two files simultaneously.

There were some compatibility issues with this latest file.

Methos was shocked to find himself overwhelmed by a sense of personal responsibility, of… could it be… guilt? He’d done a lot he wasn’t proud of in the past week, had much to regret, but none of it had been done without carefully weighing the options and choosing the course most likely to allow him to survive. Business as usual for him. He’d outgrown second-guessing and hand wringing in his extremely long life. Regrets, yes. Self-flagellation, no.

So why was he now feeling so desperately guilt-ridden, so convinced that he’d done the unforgivable…?

He looked sharply over at MacLeod. Oh, bloody hell…

Seeing his own actions through the lens of the Duncan MacLeod Code of Honor and Decency, the old man was inundated by feelings of shame, remorse, and self-loathing. Despair descended on him like a thick black but all-too-substantial cloud that rested on his shoulders and pushed him downward, until he finally collapsed to hands and knees under the pressure of it.

So this is what it’s like to be the Boy Scout, thought a part of Methos that had managed to remain detached. Good god, how did MacLeod even manage to function under the sheer knee-buckling weight of this ridiculous psychic burden? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the feeling of despair still held its stranglehold on most of him. Laughter was not a selection on the drop-down menu.

Lethargically, as though moving through molasses, Methos felt around inside this borrowed mindset, looking for anything that could serve as a handhold for climbing out of this pit. There had to be something around here, something that made it possible for MacLeod to keep going. If there isn’t, he thought, then when this is over, I’ll take his head. I’d be doing the poor bastard a favor.

When he found it, Methos at first didn’t recognize it for the salvation it represented. It was just too simple. It was passion. Passion for honor, passion for loyalty, passion for friendship and responsibility to others… passion for life. Trying it on as though it were a coat loaned to him by a friend, Methos felt a kind of low-key eagerness, a sense of subdued excitement that he remembered well but had not experienced on his own in quite some time. It was the feeling of looking forward to seeing what comes next.

He tried to deny how good it felt, but the damned honor code interfered. The truth was, he had deliberately weaned himself from this feeling. It tended to lower the odds of survival, the only thing he really believed in, the only god he still worshiped and to which he paid meticulous tribute every minute of his life. Joy was a risk, because one tended to get caught up in it, and that could cost one one’s head.

And yet, in the past two hours, he had done several things to dishonor the god of survival. The prudent course would have been to give up and join Kronos when it was clear he’d been consummately outmaneuvered. Instead, he’d put himself on the line to save MacLeod and Cassandra even though he could have spent that energy finding a way out for himself.

Scowling, he admitted that it was even possible he’d done all this to save more than just the three of them. Maybe freeing the world from the threat of the Horsemen had played a part…

Okay, so maybe I believe in something besides survival, he snarled internally. No need to get maudlin. Let’s get this done with, can’t we?

Surprisingly, the psychic weight seemed to be lifting, enough for him to sit upright, on his knees, but not in despair, and not in supplication. Lifting his arms and face skyward, Methos raised his voice – not in anguish, but in laughter.

ooOooOoo

The sound of laughter rang through the arena. It carried over the roar of the growing fires; it floated across the crackling energy of the Quickening sparking in the base. Cassandra jerked her head around as she heard it, unable to believe its source.

That Methos could produce this sound confounded her greatly. She waited in trepidation, anticipating the mocking edge that underscored his laughter so often. Instead, all she heard was joy, and a reckless merriment befitting a much more sanguine individual.

As Cassandra watched, the connection between the two men was broken. The Quickenings spent the last of their fury in one final burst of energy and dissipated grudgingly. Both Methos and Duncan fell to their hands and knees, panting with exhaustion, as the fires moved to encircle the base.

Getting shakily to her feet, Cassandra moved toward the two men. She seemed torn about which to offer aid to first. Thankfully, the decision was taken from her as both staggered up of their own volition.

“Come on!” she cried over the rising roar of the flames. “We need to get out of here before the roof collapses.” Taking each of the men by an arm, she herded them toward the exit.

“But isn’t the door still locked?” Duncan roused himself from his post-Quickening daze to ask.

“I do believe I have the key.” Methos hefted Kronos’ broadsword in his hand. A loud crash followed his words, and all three immortals turned to see one of the interior walls disappear in a crumbling sheet of flame. “Although we might not need it. Hurry!”

Duncan, Methos and Cassandra rushed through the arena as fast as their aching bodies, and the treacherous terrain, would allow. Burning embers alighted on their clothes and hair, trying to claim them for the raging fire that burned all around them. Seeing the exit wall already burning, they crashed through the door, pulling it from its weakened supports.

Lying sprawled on the pavement, the three survivors gasped for breath. Heaving themselves to their feet wordlessly, they turned as one to Methos’ Jimmy.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Methos, Cassandra and Duncan staggered away from the burning building. Although their wounds had healed, they looked a mess. Soot smudged their hands and faces, their clothes were tattered and burned in places, and Duncan looked as though he had just escaped a slaughterhouse, which wasn’t that far from the truth. Cassandra’s upraised hand halted the disorderly procession across the parking lot.

“What?” questioned Methos tiredly. “What else could possibly go wrong today?” In response, Cassandra pointed silently to a pale hand and arm lying on the pavement at the rear of the Horsemen’s Hummer.

When the three compatriots rounded the vehicle, they found the body of Smith, Kronos’ mortal associate, his throat slit. “Well,” sighed Methos, “guess this explains where Kronos disappeared to.” At Cassandra’s questioning look, he continued. “When we all entered Laserocity, Kronos ducked out, then came right back. I thought he might be up to something. This,” he gestured to the corpse, “must have been that something.”

“He was following you.” Cassandra’s voice was low as she spoke the words.

“What?” Methos and Duncan chorused together.

“He was following you,” Cassandra repeated, gesturing to Methos with her hand. “I recognized him when we entered Laserocity. I realized he was Kronos’ ace-in-the-hole.”

Methos clearly was putting two and two together and had no need to ask how she had come to know he was being followed.

“And you neglected to tell me this because …?” Although Methos’ words were said calmly, the look in his eyes belied that calm. Cassandra fell back a step at the ferocity of his glare.

“Methos!” Duncan stepped between the others. “It was too late then, and it’s too late now. Let it go.”

Dragging breath into his lungs, Methos mentally chanted a mantra. One part of him observed that those mantras had been lost to him in his quest to defeat Kronos. That same part rejoiced silently at the returning calm they represented. “You’re right, of course. We have other things to worry about now.”

Methos moved to grab the corpse under the arms. “Come on, MacLeod, gimme a hand here,” he called out. “We don’t have much time before the fire department shows up. Grab his legs so we can put him in the building.”

“Damn it, Methos! You can’t just throw the guy in there to burn. And shouldn’t we do something about stopping the fire?” Duncan’s sense of outrage and responsibility sounded in his voice, but were tinged with confusion.

“What would you like to do, MacLeod? Wait here for the authorities and try to explain four corpses, three of them beheaded, and yourself covered in blood? ‘No, really officer, I had nothing to do with it.’” Methos’ tone redefined droll. “And as for the fire, I’m sure they have insurance.”

Fists clenching, Duncan ground his teeth together to still his impulse to yell at Methos. “Of course they have insurance. That’s not the point. The point is –“

“Duncan, this is for the best,” Cassandra interjected gently, “and you know that.”

Shaking his head at his own objections, Duncan grabbed the other end of the body and helped Methos quickly place it in the rapidly burning building. Having been party to many a disposal after a Quickening, Duncan marvelled at his concerns. Perhaps they were the result of the feelings his savagery had raised.

Rejoining Cassandra, Methos once again took charge. “Right, we have to get this thing out of here.” He gestured toward the Hummer. “Don’t want to leave any clues. I’m sure Caspian’s prints are on record somewhere.” As most of his conversation seemed directed toward himself, neither Cassandra nor Duncan bothered to interrupt. “Now if I know Kronos, he probably left the keys … here they are.” Holding the keys aloft triumphantly, Methos turned and tossed them to his companions.

“MacLeod,” he directed, “you and Cassandra take the Hummer. Dispose of it somewhere then go back to the loft.”

“Wait,” Duncan said urgently. “Why don’t you and I take the Jimmy and Cassandra can take the Hummer? I—”

“There’s no way you’re getting into my truck looking like that.” Methos’ tone spoke volumes, as his eyes travelled Duncan’s blood encrusted form. It also covered the fact that he was doing his best to avoid any deep, meaningful discussions about the double Quickening and the other events of the day.

“Okay, she’ll take the Jimmy.” Duncan lowered his voice as much as he could and still be heard over the fire. “I’d really like a chance to talk.”

“Sure, MacLeod, later. But let’s clean up after ourselves first.” Methos turned away and hurried toward the Jimmy, ignoring Duncan’s attempt to maintain eye contact.

Cassandra laid a hand on Duncan’s arm to forestall his outburst. “We really don’t have time for this. Duncan, let’s go.” The sound of sirens in the distance reinforced her point.

Duncan nodded silently, watching his … friend? … moved across the parking lot.

“I’ll be in touch,” Methos called as he sprinted the last few yards to the Jimmy, leaping in as if the Hounds of Hell were at his heels.

Duncan and Cassandra climbed into the Hummer, pulling out mere moments before the first fire trucks arrived on the scene. They headed toward the docks where Duncan hoped to leave the Hummer to be stripped for parts. Neither seemed anxious to break the silence that filled the space between them.

Duncan shifted in the driver’s seat, clearly uncomfortable in his clothes. Cassandra saw him touch his shirt as though to scratch himself, only to yank his hand away upon feeling the heavily caked blood. His expression revealed his residual feelings of guilt.

She was glad to see this, for two reasons: one, it meant that he was still Duncan enough to be ashamed of his descent into butchery with Silas; and two, she saw no trace of an overload of guilt in the expression. Whatever had happened to him between the killing of Silas and the end of the Quickening, Duncan had somehow emerged able to cope with his shame.

And somehow, she had emerged able to cope with the memory of watching his frenzied hatchet job. The bond of shared trauma could truly work miracles in some cases.

They passed a few more blocks in silence, while Cassandra tried to formulate what she wanted to tell him. “When this began,” she finally began, startling Duncan slightly, “all I could think of as a satisfactory ending was to see Methos lying crumpled, bloody, and headless. No matter what else happened, that and nothing else would gratify me.”

Silence filled the Hummer again, until Duncan took the bait. “And now?”

She paused again, trying to put into words the rather confusing feeling of peace she now had. “Now… my needs seem to have changed. Along with my perceptions.”

Duncan’s hands tensed on the wheel at that, and she realized that he was not sure whether she meant her perceptions of Methos or of him.

“None of us is as simple or as complex as we’d like to believe, Duncan.”

He gave her a look laced with distracted irony. “Are you writing fortune cookie messages now?”

Ignoring that, she pressed on. “When we try to understand why we’ve done a violent thing, the simplest explanation is usually correct, even if it’s unpleasant. It’s tempting to try to build an elaborate chain of logic to explain it, but most of us act violently on instinct or in the heat of strong emotions, nothing more. We like to think we’re above that, but no one is. Everyone loses control sometime.”

He said nothing, not looking away from the road.

“None of us escaped this contest without surrendering something.”

Despite his continuing tension, his face betrayed surprise. “Surrendering?” He seemed to think she’d misspoken, but she only nodded.

“We surrendered our own perceptions. Of each other, of our relationships to one another… of ourselves, our own boundaries. I was forced to look some things in the face today. I didn’t like everything I saw, but… I also can’t say I’m sorry it happened.”

Cassandra surprised even herself by saying that. Until that moment, she hadn’t noticed that she no longer felt resentment toward Methos for propelling them all into the maelstrom that the contest had become. She was, in fact, rather amazed to note a distinct sense of closure. A sense, almost, of having been… healed.

Suddenly, she no longer felt like talking. Duncan continued to glance at her periodically, clearly expecting more pearls of wisdom – or at least an explanation of her last statement – but Cassandra simply stared out her window, exploring her inner landscape as the exterior landscape passed silently, unseen.

Chapter Thirty

Methos approached the dojo slowly, remembering the night just over a week before when he had fled here from Kronos. Shaking his head ruefully, he recalled just how much had changed during that time. All his brothers were gone now; Duncan was fully aware of who and what Methos had been; and Cassandra … well, perhaps they had found some closure.

Straightening his shoulders, and unconsciously mimicking his actions of the week before, Methos strode toward the door of the dojo. Unlike the last time, there was no immediate sense of another immortal. Knowing that the Thunderbird was still parked outside, Methos assumed Duncan was in the loft and headed for the elevator.

Halfway to the loft, Methos felt the shiver of another immortal. But instead of feeling the expected wariness that usually accompanied such presence, Methos was encompassed by a sense of familiarity. He knew that it was MacLeod awaiting him in the loft.

Methos stepped out of the elevator to see Duncan leaning against the kitchen island, katana nowhere in sight. “MacLeod, nice to see I’m still welcome.”

“Would you leave if I told you that you weren’t welcome any longer?” Duncan asked neutrally.

Methos opened his mouth to deliver a pithy rejoinder, but was halted by a strange feeling, almost a compulsion to tell the truth. “As a matter of fact,” he replied slowly, “I believe I would.”

“You know, Old Man,” Duncan almost sighed, “I believe you would too.” Turning slowly, Duncan retrieved two beers from the fridge, handing one to Methos as he moved to sit on the couch. “So …”

“So,” agreed Methos. “By the way, what happened to your house guest?”

“Cassandra left shortly after we ditched the Hummer. Now, we really need to talk about what happened, Methos.” Duncan refocused the conversation as if Methos had never tried to interrupt him. “And this latest development,” Duncan gestured to encompass everything since Methos’ heralded entrance, “just makes it even more important.”

“MacLeod,” Methos managed to drag Duncan’s name to multisyllabic heights, “couldn’t we just accept that something happened and move on? Do we have to dissect everything into little pieces? Didn’t you learn anything from the last week?”

“I learned many things in the last week.” Duncan was determined to have his say, regardless of Methos’ efforts to sway him. “And one of the things I learned was that there is more to you than meets the eye.”

“Speaking of eyes,” Methos drawled as he settled into his customary sprawl on the couch, “did I ever tell you that I helped Galileo develop his telescope? We originally intended it for seeing more of the ladies.”

“Forget it Methos, it won’t work.” At Duncan’s businesslike tone, Methos abandoned the sprawl and leaned forward a bit, hands clutching his beer bottle between his knees. “You won’t distract me that easily.”

“It would have worked on Joe,” Methos exclaimed in a tone that bordered on petulance.

“Perhaps,” conceded Duncan, “but I think he would have been humouring you. And I’m in no mood to humour you right now.” Squaring his shoulders, Duncan turned to face his friend and launched into all the things he had longed to say since they had escaped the burnt out wreck of Laserocity.

“Methos, during the Quickening, I, well, I sensed you. I sensed your detachment, your aloofness, your ability to survive; it was what pulled me through. It seemed that I got a part of your Quickening.” Methos began to squirm as Duncan continued. “And then, today, when you were coming up in the elevator, I knew it was you. I didn’t even think about it, I just knew it was you. How is this possible? Has this ever happened before? What does it mean?”

Duncan would have thrown more questions out, but Methos’ upraised hand stopped him. Visibly biting his lip, he settled back in his chair and waited for the eldest to enlighten him.

“I could spin you a tale of joint Quickenings, and increased power, and magic beyond your ken, MacLeod.” The petulance was gone from Methos’ voice, and in its place was fatigue. “But it would have no more truth than the image of Adam Pierson that you had stuck in your thick Scottish skull before this last week.” A tilt of Methos’ head and a subtle lift of one eyebrow stopped Duncan’s outraged gasp before it gained full voice.

“Don’t you see, MacLeod, you’re doing it again.” Some passion returned to Methos’ voice as he rose from the couch to stride about the loft. “Even knowing who I was, and who I am now, you still want me to have all the answers. You still want me to be the wise, old immortal. The one who can make it all have meaning for you.”

“That’s not true!” Duncan surged to his feet in his haste to express his stifled outrage. “I just want you to … I want … I mean, you should …”

“Yes, MacLeod, what is it you want?”

“Oh, hell!” Duncan slumped back into his chair. “I wish you weren’t right Old Man, but I guess, this time, you are. I want you to make it all make sense for me.”

“I can’t do that for you, MacLeod.” Methos’ voice changed once again, this time betraying gentleness and understanding it did not often show. “I cannot change who I was, I will not change who I am, and I do not know any more about what happened during that double Quickening than you do.” Putting down his empty beer bottle, he moved toward the elevator.

“But I will tell you this,” Methos said as he slipped on his coat. “If you did receive part of my Quickening, and with it my survival instinct, then I’m glad. It should give you the time you need to figure this out for yourself.” Stepping in to the elevator, he couldn’t resist getting in one last parting shot. “And maybe I won’t have to save your sorry arse so often.”

Pushing the button, Methos felt the elevator start to lower him to the main floor of the dojo. Just as his head began to sink below floor level of the loft, he heard Duncan’s voice call out to him, “You’re welcome!” Chuckling, Methos reflected that while things weren’t perfect between the two of them, they would be all right.

ooOooOoo

One evening, a few days later, Methos sat alone in his apartment, reading a “description” of ancient Celts by Strabo, an Asiatic Greek “historian” who had spent most of his life in the library at Alexandria. He couldn’t help chuckling over the “observations” stated by the author as fact which were, it was known to modern readers, in fact either hearsay or outright invention. What had once passed for research he found positively comical these days.

He was roused from his amusement by the sense of an approaching immortal, and Methos instantly reverted to cautious alertness. Setting down the text carefully, he reached for the sword that had been thoughtfully placed just by the arm of the chair and stood up, smoothly, in a single motion. It never occurred to him that a week ago, he might have assumed it was MacLeod coming to visit. Now, of course, he could tell that it wasn’t.

Now standing against the door, he placed his eye to the peephole… just in time to be startled by a firming knocking. “It’s Cassandra,” said a muffled voice.

Sighing as his heart rate began to calm again, he opened the door. “It’s a little early for a sparring session, isn’t it?” he asked with a sardonic smirk. “Wouldn’t you rather come back after I’ve been asleep for a few hours?” When she didn’t take the bait, he leaned against the door jamb and dropped the sarcasm. “I thought you’d left town.”

“I did,” she replied quietly. “But I realized I’d left something unfinished.”

For a brief instant, Methos was absurdly certain that she was about to draw her sword and slay him while he stood with his own sword dangling uselessly in his hand. But her air of serenity never wavered, nor did she make any movements, aggressive or otherwise. He felt like laughing at his crazy assumption, but managed to control that impulse.

“I owe you my thanks,” she said. “You saw that I was torturing Caspian for the sheer pleasure of it, and you made me realize that before I went too far. You brought me back from a very dark place.”

“Simple self-interest. If you’d developed a taste for barbarism, I might’ve had to fight you after Kronos, and I was already tired.”

She stared into his eyes, and Methos shifted uncomfortably. She had certainly developed the capacity to unnerve him in the millennia since they’d first met.

“I understand that accepting thanks makes you feel vulnerable, so I won’t press. But know that I do thank you.” Seeing his expression turn scornful and his mouth opening to let fly a sarcastic response, she again did the unexpected. She laughed. Not the hard, bitter laugh of the past week, but a light-hearted, girlish sound that, once again, disarmed him.

Shaking her head in an almost patronizing manner, Cassandra turned, still smiling, and began to walk away. Relieved that the encounter was ending, Methos straightened in preparation for going back inside. He called out to her one last time, intending to say, “If you’re ever in town again, call and warn me.”

What he actually said was, “I should have stopped him.”

Cassandra halted and turned slowly. They stared at one another with identical expressions of stunned confusion, she because she wasn’t sure what he’d meant, he because he was.

Bugger all! he thought, mentally kicking himself repeatedly and ferociously. I was mere centimeters from a clean getaway.

She had taken a step or two closer, still staring, still awaiting an explanation. Everything that was him screamed to toss off a flippant remark and retreat to the safe haven of his apartment. But there was a tiny marginal element in Methos now that was not him, and somehow, it was running the show at the moment. Damn you, MacLeod!

“When Kronos came to take you from my tent, I should have stopped him. I wanted to, but I didn’t.”

He watched her face, hardly daring to breathe, disgusted with himself for making the revelation. He fervently hoped the Highlander would be rigorously and regularly tormented by the part of him the Quickening had bestowed.

When she spoke, her expression was impassive, eminently rational. He found that, like nearly everything else about her, unnerving.

“If you had stopped him, he would have killed you.”

“Possibly.” He had enough male ego to be mildly affronted at the automatic assumption that Kronos would have been the victor – although he knew it was true.

Cassandra looked at the wall and shifted her weight in what, for her, amounted to fidgeting. Methos felt some gratification at the small sign of vulnerability. The scales should never be tipped too far in one direction; it was unnatural and upsetting.

Not looking at him, she said slowly, “We all make choices. Sometimes we regret them, but usually, they reflect who we are and what is foremost in our hearts. For you, your own survival was more important that any feelings you had for me. I couldn’t accept that for a very long time, but now, I do.”

He frowned slightly. “Why?” He couldn’t see how the events of the contest had brought about this acceptance, as cathartic as it may have been.

“Because,” she answered, coming closer, “I have seen that you have not been able to accept it.”

Raising a sardonic eyebrow, Methos said, “So, knowing that I’ve been tortured by my choice all these centuries eased your mind.” It was out before he realized he’d made another revelation he didn’t intend.

“No. At first, it gave me some satisfaction to know you had suffered. I saw it as your punishment for betraying me. Now, I see it as proof that I did mean something to you, and that part of you, at least, wanted to come to my defense. Somehow, that makes you a better man than I’d given you credit for.”

“So I’m no longer a monster in your eyes.”

Cassandra’s expression darkened as she looked downward. “My definition of ‘monster’ is up in the air at the moment.”

Methos sighed, thinking a moment before he spoke. “You know, it’s a common misconception in Western culture that good can and should triumph over evil by strictly ethical and noble means. That is hogwash, pure and simple. The unvarnished truth is that sometimes, to defeat a monster, one has to become a monster, or at least adopt monstrous methods. It’s not pretty, and it doesn’t make for an uplifting or noble story, but it’s the truth.

“So, you lost yourself in the moment and started to enjoy Caspian’s anguish. It’s not attractive, and it revealed something about what you’re capable of that makes you uncomfortable. Fine. But wherever you went for that moment, whatever it took to bring you back, you did come back. That’s the important thing to take away from the experience.”

He fell silent, a little shocked at making such a speech, but continued leaning casually in the doorway with his arms folded. The sword he’d long since tucked inside the doorway.

She looked up at him, serenity back in place. “You’re right. I hope that Duncan understands that as well.”

“I suspect he does,” Methos said dryly. “If not, he will in time.”

In the silence that followed, it struck him as ridiculous to have had this entire conversation standing outside his apartment. “Would you care to come in for a drink?”

In her eyes he saw the acceptance, then the hesitation, and he realized that for her, the apartment was both his turf and the site of her struggle for empowerment. For him, of course, it was sanctuary.

“Better still,” he said, “why don’t we go somewhere else? Two equals, sharing a drink and becoming reacquainted.” He deliberately avoided the word “friends.” Presumption was dangerous.

She nodded, and he ducked inside to grab his coat, and they proceeded to walk away from the apartment. “By ‘sharing a drink,’” she said, “I assume you mean I get one of my own.”

The joke surprised him, but he kept his balance. “If you insist.” He made a show of sighing heavily. “Can I at least tell you what you have to order?”

“No,” she said, shaking her head emphatically. “I will order whatever I want.”

“Lot of bloody adjustments you’re asking me to make,” he said, scowling comically.

“I may even want to tell you what to order.”

“Oh, no. I am the undisputed master of my own drinking.”

They continued in this manner, talking, occasionally laughing, moving forward along on the path to wherever they were headed.