Chapter Ten

"Will you please keep still?" snapped Methos. He tried once again to apply some antiseptic to the slice across Joe's throat. "God, I forgot what an abysmal patient you are."

"And I forgot what a ham-handed doctor you are, de Sade," growled Joe, wincing. "Have any of your patients survived?"

Methos fought back a grin as he taped some gauze over the wound. "A few."

"Amazing," returned Joe with heavy sarcasm. "I'd have thought the bedside manner alone would be fatal."

"Bedside what?" Methos observed his trembling hands with the detachment typical of the onset of shock, hoping Joe hadn't noticed. "Never heard of it." He tossed the rest of the gauze and tape back into MacLeod's first-aid kit. Odd thing for an Immortal to have around. It must date from Tessa's time here. Just as well that MacLeod hadn't disposed of it.

"He's been up there a long time. You don't think he'd take her head, do you?" asked Joe. He leaned back against the sofa cushions and closed his eyes.

"Of course he would," returned Methos, seating himself cross-legged on the sofa beside his friend. "Whether he could is another question."

Joe's eyes snapped open. "She's better than MacLeod?"

"Joe, Maurice is better than MacLeod right now." Methos rubbed his eyes tiredly.

"She wouldn't try for his head, would she?" asked Joe anxiously.

"No," said Methos with certainty, grateful that there was at least one thing he could be sure of at that moment. "She won't hurt any of us."

"You've known her a long time," pursued Joe.

"Most of my life."

Joe's eyes flew open. "Most of your life?"

"Uh-huh." Methos managed a nonchalant expression.

"There's no file on her! How'd she avoid--" Joe's eyes narrowed. "How long is 'most'?"

"Oh...3,900 years or so. " Methos grinned broadly as Joe's jaw dropped. "Pretty good, huh? Even I didn't manage to remain undocumented that long."

Joe shot him a disgusted look. "I'm not handing out prizes, pal. How the hell has she managed to avoid being documented?"

"She never hunted. She's always avoided the Game. And she's spent long periods of her life-- centuries-- in seclusion. She's also very good at dealing with Watchers." Methos let his grin turn wicked.

"No kidding," grumbled Joe. "I've got the bruises to prove it."

"You're lucky that's all you've got," said Methos sternly, trying to suppress his concern at Joe's pallor. "When I say go, I mean go."

Joe glared at him. "Fine. Next time I'll just let Moe, Larry and Curly have their way with you."

"Petulance does not become you, Joseph," observed Methos gravely, amused.

Joe snorted and fell silent for a few minutes, and Methos leaned back and closed his eyes. God, it had been a close thing. Lucius had worked faster than even Methos' worst fears had led him to anticipate. Methos drew in a deep breath and let it out very slowly. The image of Nathan holding a knife to Joe's throat was now seared into his memory. How could he have allowed that to happen? How could he have underestimated Lucius...again? The fact that Lucius had had no means to trace Methos to Paris was irrelevant. He should not have allowed that fact to have any bearing on his choice of a course of action. Lucius had never done what was expected, and had frequently done what was impossible. Methos had seen the proof of that lying on all too many silver platters.

But how could Lucius have traced him? Even if Lucius now had access to the Watcher database, Adam Pierson's file and photograph were no longer to be found there, and there was no living person who could have told him where Marcus Gaius was to be found. Then why had Lucius come to Paris? His exhausted mind refused to provide an answer.

"What's the vow?"

Methos opened his eyes, startled out of his dark reverie. "Vow?"

"Joanna said she'd made a vow. What is it?" Joe's eyes were closed, but he sounded very much awake.

Methos closed his eyes again. "It's possible to overdo the Watcher observe-and-record bit, Joe."

"I was born observing, pal. Diversionary tactics notwithstanding."

Methos sighed. "She promised not to allow harm to come to Lucius. Or to allow him to harm others."

Joe emitted a bark of startled laughter. "Oh, is that all?"

"She needed a hobby."

"That is a hell of a tall order for one woman."

"She's had help."

"Help? She needs a damn army!"

"She has one. Had one, at any rate. If Joshua is dead--"

"Joshua of Jerusalem."

"Her second-in-command. If he's been killed, there's a distinct possibility that the Order has been destroyed."

"The Order."

"Joanna's army. Thirty Immortals and ... oh, forty-odd mortals, give or take."

"I need a drink. Are you telling me that all these people have been chasing--"

"Guarding."

"Guarding. Shapiro was right? Lucius was locked up?"

"Tight as a Scotsman."

"And they've been guarding him for nine hundred years?"

"Nine hundred and one next Tuesday."

"For the vow."

"For duty and honor," said Methos acidly.

"Bullshit. Nobody does something for nine centuries for duty and honor. Who asked?"

Methos raised his head and opened his eyes in surprise. "Excuse me?"

Joe leaned forward with a curiously intent expression. "Who asked? These Immortals have given up a major chunk of their lives to keep Lucius out of circulation. Who would they do that for? Who are they keeping their word to?"

Methos sighed again and lay his head back against the sofa. "Depends on who you ask."

Joe's gaze sharpened and he nodded, as if he had expected the answer. "Darius."

Methos nodded in return, allowing his eyes to close again. "After word of the first killing reached him, he sent them to search for Lucius. Joanna and the Order tracked him across Europe for six hundred years, always a few months or a few weeks or a few days too late to save the next butchered Watcher."

"Jesus," muttered Joe, his tone an odd mixture of appalled and admiring.

"They finally caught up with him in Constantinople in 1096."

Joe regarded him silently for a few moments. "And so did you and Gabriel."

"To be precise, Lucius caught up with us," said Methos quietly.

***

"They weren't even listening!" Gabriel strode angrily through the crowded streets, his scribe's robes glistening in the torchlight. "The greatest peril the Watchers have ever faced--"

"Lower your voice and mind your words," murmured Methos in his friend's ear, glancing about carefully. No one in their vicinity appeared to pay any attention. Fortunately, or unfortunately, depending upon one's point of view, the people of Constantinople had too many troubles of their own to waste their attention on the odd behavior of a court scribe and a minor courtier. Methos had been in enough cities under siege to be intimately familiar with the sensation; the barbarians outside the walls may not have been, strictly speaking, the enemy, but they certainly passed for such. It was not safe for any citizen of Byzantium to venture outside the walls.

Gabriel brushed his golden hair back from his face and smiled slyly at Methos, his anger evaporating. "As my lord commands."

Methos huffed, feeling the blood rush to his face. "Don't call me that. Not outside the Blachernae."

"The title of Imperial Counselor suits you, Lord Stephanos." Gabriel lowered his voice seductively. "The Emperor did well to bestow it upon you. He would be at a loss to deal with the Franks if not for your guidance."

"Rubbish. You've become too adept at palace flattery, Scribe."

"And he does well to keep you close to him," murmured Gabriel, leaning close. "Does he find you beautiful, Methos?"

"Hush," muttered Methos, trying not to look into Gabriel's lovely, mischievous face.

"I find you beautiful." Gabriel's warm breath caressed Methos' ear.

"The opinion of one so easily distracted is of dubious value," retorted Methos, knowing his face betrayed his confusion, his infatuation. He found himself no more able to control his expression than he could his passion. "Not a minute ago your thoughts were all of Lucius Germanicus and the Watchers. Now they are all of my beauty. A minute from now they will be--"

"All of you again," whispered Gabriel in his ear, "of how you are lord within the Blachernae and willing slave in my bed, of how you beg to please me and submit to me when I take you, of how you cry out in pleasure when I fill you and then plead for more."

Methos managed, with a supreme effort of will, to maintain what remained of his composure. Grabbing his young friend's arm, he hustled him through the jostling populace in the direction of Gabriel's modest home. "Silence," he rasped. "Not one more word on that subject, Scribe."

"I love you," murmured Gabriel, licking Methos' ear tantalizingly.

Methos hastily stifled a groan of mingled exasperation and lust. "Have you lost all sense of discretion whatsoever?" he hissed.

"Tell me that you are mine." Gabriel was almost panting; he put an arm about Methos in a manner that might possibly pass for simple friendship if a passer-by did not look too closely. "Tell me that you will give me your body again tonight."

"I will give you a sound boxing about the ears if you do not stop this nonsense at once," said Methos sternly, thankful for the flowing ceremonial court robes he was wearing.

Gabriel took Methos by the arms and whirled him playfully toward the little house in which he had taken rooms, pushing him against the stone wall to one side of the door, pressing his body against Methos' provocatively. "Tell me you want me. Tell me you will submit to me." Gabriel swallowed hard. "Tell me you love me, Methos."

"I want you," said Methos helplessly. God, the child was irresistible. "I love you, Gabriel."

Gabriel leaned even closer, pinioning Methos against the wall tightly, as if he imagined that Methos wanted to escape. He was smiling. "That is well. But you forgot submission."

Methos laughed delightedly; this was their favorite game. "I haven't forgotten."

Gabriel kissed him, there in the open street of the capital of the world, there where princes and barbarians and the elite of the Watcher corps could see them, and Methos returned the kiss passionately, not giving a damn at that moment who saw them or what the consequences might be. It had been centuries since he had felt this way. This young Watcher had shattered every defense he had attempted to erect against him; he felt helpless, giddy.

Young.

Gabriel released his mouth. "My room," he said urgently.

Methos turned and moved through the door and up the rough stairs that led to Gabriel's room; he could feel Gabriel behind him, hear his labored breathing. He fumbled feverishly with the latch and stepped into the dark room; the door had no sooner closed behind them than Gabriel pushed Methos flat on his back on the rough bed, yanked Methos' robes open, covered Methos' body with his own, and kissed him again.

Methos managed to draw a shaky breath when Gabriel finally lifted his head. He could just make out the young man's face in the faint, reddish glow of the torchlight from the street below; he was smiling exultantly. Odd that he felt no sense of wounded pride in that, no sense of outrage in being the prize, the conquered. But he didn't. "Well? Has your attention wavered yet again?"

Gabriel chuckled and shrugged out of his robes, kicking off his slippers. "No. Not in the slightest." He ground his generously proportioned manhood against Methos to accentuate his point, and Methos gasped at the sensation. "You have my full attention. I enjoy looking at you." Gabriel's hands divested Methos of the last of his clothing. "I enjoy watching you being taken as much as I enjoy taking you. I've thought of nothing but you today, Methos. Even when I was arguing before the Council, all I could think of was you, here, giving yourself to me."

"I humbly suggest to my master that his concentration is better employed in more weighty matters than the attentions of his bed-slave," murmured Methos playfully.

"The attentions of my bed-slave are of vital interest to me," said Gabriel hoarsely, pushing Methos' legs apart.

"My master's interests are mine," breathed Methos, managing not to cry out as Gabriel's hot, boyish hands abruptly seized his manhood. There would be no prolonged lovemaking tonight; Gabriel was ready to claim his prize. Methos took a deep breath and forced his muscles to relax as his young lover slid one hand toward his opening.

"Always so willing, so wanton." Gabriel was breathing harshly.

"Only for you," whispered Methos, and it was true.

Gabriel pulled Methos toward him roughly, settling his legs over his shoulders. "I would kill any man who touched you like this." One slender finger slipped into Methos' anus, and Methos groaned in pleasure.

"No one...no one but you," he gasped. He heard Gabriel groping for the small pot of oil on the table beside the bed.

"I want to kill all the men who had you before me," growled Gabriel.

Methos couldn't help but laugh breathlessly. "You...you would be too busy killing men to enjoy me, Gabriel."

Gabriel growled again and slipped more fingers inside him; Methos cried out and lay gasping at the ceiling as Gabriel pressed against the walls of his passage, stretching him with something more than gentleness but less than brutality.

"I want to kill them all. I want to be the first man to take you. I want to see your first pain and your first pleasure. I want you to give up your virginity to me."

"You are," breathed Methos wildly. "I will. God, oh God, Gabriel, take me, take me now."

"So beautiful," breathed Gabriel, withdrawing his fingers and pulling Methos' legs upward. "You were made for me, Methos. You're mine."

"I'm yours," rasped Methos, feeling Gabriel's oil-coated manhood probing his opening, bracing himself for the inevitable discomfort before the pleasure. Gabriel thrust deeply, violently, and Methos was unable to restrain a cry of surprise and pain that was almost a scream. Gabriel was usually gentler; his need must be great. The youngster had experienced frustration in every aspect of his life lately--every aspect but this.

"Shhhh, shhhh," breathed Gabriel, his right hand circling Methos' manhood, stroking it possessively. "Softly, now." He continued to thrust into Methos, hard and hot, and Methos managed, with difficulty, to temper his cries. "Yes, yes," crooned Gabriel, his body jerking with the force of his thrusts. "Just like that."

"Yours...." Methos barely recognized his own voice.

"Yes. Mine. God, you're as tight as the first time I took you." Gabriel's voice was equally unrecognizable, thick and coarse with passion. He shifted his angle slightly, accentuating both the discomfort and the pleasure. Methos groaned and clutched feebly at his lover's arms. "I want to ride you all night. I want to make you come all night, again and again."

"You may... ride your... mare to death, stallion," gasped Methos.

"Never. Although... to kill you with pleasure ... and watch you reawaken for more...would excite me."

"Everything...excites you, lecher. Oh, God...." Methos arched upward as Gabriel's organ brushed something inside him that made his mind turn inside out with delight. Few of the men who had taken him had bothered to find that spot, but Gabriel had never failed yet to stroke it until Methos was babbling and senseless.

"There," murmured Gabriel triumphantly, pushing Methos to the bed and pinioning his arms there tightly. "Now we will see what you remember about submission." He began hammering himself into that sweet spot again and again, laughing breathlessly.

Methos was incoherent and sobbing in seconds. God, there was nothing in the world like this, nothing. He would kill for Gabriel, die for Gabriel, a hundred times, a thousand. He was truly addicted, enslaved and enthralled by this beautiful boy. Methos came so violently that he couldn't see. He clutched Gabriel's arms, groaning and shuddering as hot semen splashed his abdomen and chest, but before he could so much as control his ragged breathing or recover his vision, Gabriel pulled out of him.

"No," Methos moaned softly; that glory never lasted long enough. "Gabriel--"

Gabriel flipped Methos onto his stomach and spread his legs wide. "Hush," he muttered thickly, his hands spreading Methos' buttocks. "Your master...isn't finished with you."

Methos drew breath to reply, but was deprived of the capacity for coherent speech as Gabriel buried himself inside him in one strong thrust, then began a punishing, pounding rhythm, forcing his large organ into Methos at creative and occasionally painful angles, pressing the limits of Methos' passage, sliding across Methos' sweet spot just barely enough to make the discomfort endurable. Methos knew that Gabriel would never take a mortal lover like this. He was freed with Methos, freed from concern of injuring his lover, freed to satisfy his need. All Methos could do, all he wanted to do, was submit, whimpering or groaning with pain or pleasure at each adventurous thrust.

"I love you," panted Gabriel, pushing Methos' head down to the bed, pressing his chest to Methos' back, grinding his manhood into Methos as he slowly rotated his hips. "Tell me you love me."

"Love...you--" Methos choked on the last word as a spike of pleasure shot from his anus to his spine.

"I will ride you all night," rasped Gabriel, and Methos heartily believed it; he moaned softly, unable to speak. Incredibly, he was hard again. "I will tame you, ancient one."

All Methos could manage in response was a broken groan.

"I shall be famous." Gabriel's tone, ragged as it was with passion, was mischievous. "Gabriel, mightiest of lovers, whom...even the great Methos cannot resist. The eldest of the Immortal race lives solely...to pleasure him. I shall be revered...as a...god."

"You are a god," choked Methos. "Gabriel, please...please...."

"You beg so beautifully." Gabriel's harsh breath was hot against his ear. "Beg me, Methos. Beg me to come."

"Come...please...."

"Beg me." Gabriel showed no signs of fatigue; if anything, his thrusts became more powerful.

"Please!" Methos' groan became a sob. "I beg of you, come, please come, please...."

Gabriel turned onto his side, bringing Methos with him, one arm holding Methos to him about the waist while the other slipped down to stroke Methos' engorged manhood. "Insatiable," he whispered. "Beautiful."

"Come inside me," gasped Methos, arching back against his lover. "Please, Master, please...."

"And obedient." Gabriel was actually laughing, laughing even as Methos sensed that his lover was about to climax. "But you will come first."

Methos groaned and leaned his head back to rest on Gabriel's shoulder. "Please...."

"Come, Methos." Gabriel hand slid vigorously, mercilessly, up and down his organ as he drove his own manhood deep inside Methos. "You are so beautiful when you come. Show me you belong to me."

Methos exploded into orgasm for the second time, crying out wildly, concealing nothing of emotion or physical sensation, knowing that Gabriel wanted to see it all, needed to see it all. Gabriel joined him in his cries, shouting as he came inside him, and Methos rode the wave of the pulsing sensation of Gabriel's organ spilling his seed inside him. It seemed to last for a long time, and when it finally ended, both lovers lay limply in their embrace, panting.

"God Almighty," whispered Gabriel faintly. He kissed Methos' shoulder and very gently eased himself out of his lover's body. Methos clenched his teeth against the pain. Even an Immortal would take a few minutes to recover from the gloriously rough ride Gabriel had just given him. "Methos. Are you hurt?"

"No, I am exhausted," temporized Methos teasingly. "My master has made good use of his slave's limited resources."

"Enough," breathed Gabriel. He turned Methos in his arms, cradling him tenderly. "We both know who is truly master here."

Methos smiled and reached up to stroke the golden hair. "Yes. You are. I am content."

"Methos--"

"It is a rare master who can make a man cherish his slavery."

Gabriel's eyes filled. "Tell me you cherish me, Methos, and I will be content also."

Methos draped one arm around the young man's neck and drew him down. "I cherish you, Gabriel," he whispered. He pressed his mouth and body against Gabriel's hungrily. He wanted nothing else but to stay here, in this bed, with this man. Every other desire, ambition and earthly consideration was eclipsed in that moment, and nothing could distract him from it...except the signature of an Immortal. Methos gasped and pulled his mouth away from Gabriel.

"Methos?" Gabriel tensed, holding Methos tightly. "What is it?"

Methos broke away from his lover's arms and dove off the bed, snatching his sword from his discarded robes. He had barely laid his hand on the hilt when the door to Gabriel's room burst open; the harsh light of torches danced madly on every surface. One tall figure stood framed in the doorway, but to his surprise, Methos could see others behind it. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Gabriel pluck his dagger from his discarded clothing and advance on the intruder. "Gabriel," he said sharply. "Don't interfere."

"You are Marcus Gaius." The Immortal's voice was deep; he spoke Latin with a vaguely Teutonic accent.

"And you are?" Methos' mind raced frantically. Marcus Gaius?

The stranger lifted his sword. "I am Nathan of Mainz."

A complete stranger. Marcus Gaius had led the life of an intellectual dilettante for the majority of his brief existence; he hadn't faced anyone using that name. The only Immortals who had known him as Marcus Gaius were.... Methos felt his stomach turn over. This wasn't a challenge. "Gabriel, get behind me."

Gabriel shot Methos an incredulous look, but stepped back until he was standing at Methos' shoulder.

"You will both come with us," said Nathan softly. "My master has business with you."

"Good God," breathed Gabriel, horrified comprehension flooding his expression.

Methos shoved Gabriel behind him and raised his sword, knowing it was hopeless and not caring. "We have other plans this evening. Tell Lucius Germanicus to take his war elsewhere."

"My master wages war where and with whom he sees fit." Nathan stepped forward, sword poised. "You have betrayed my master's trust and must face justice."

"Justice? Your master is a coward and a butcher," spat Gabriel. "I have known paid assassins with more honor."

Nathan's eyes flashed dangerously. "A sheep bound for slaughter may bleat as it will."

Methos' mouth went dry. Gabriel. Gabriel, his beautiful boy, torn apart, slowly, and delivered to the Council on the exquisite silver dishes that had once graced the table of Darius of Rome...no. "I'll come with you," he heard himself saying. "If you leave Gabriel here." Methos heard Gabriel's sharp intake of breath, felt him trying to pass; he flung an arm across his friend's chest to stop him.

"My master does not bargain, Marcus Gaius." Nathan lunged without warning, driving his sword deep into Methos' chest; Methos choked and sank to his knees as the men waiting in the corridor stormed inside, knocking him onto his back and dragging Gabriel from his side.

"Gabriel!" The howl was borne by the last bloody breath left in his lungs; he heard Gabriel struggling with the mortals outside of his range of vision, screaming his name.

Nathan bent over him, raising his sword for another blow. "Do not be concerned, Marcus Gaius. You will see him again. You will see much of him. You will watch him die." He drove his sword into Methos' abdomen and through his body, pinning him to the floor like an insect to a card; Methos was vaguely aware that he was screaming when he died.

***

"He made you watch." Joe's voice was no more than a whisper.

"Yes." Methos kept his eyes shut, unable to endure the horror he knew he'd see in Joe's face. "And when he was done, he had Gabriel taken away and laid me down in his blood, and started doing the same things to me. The same things exactly, in the same order. So that I'd know what was coming. He'd become a master in those six hundred years."

Methos felt Joe's hand rest on his forearm and took a deep breath. "But Joanna had finally tracked him down. She led an assault on the house Lucius was using. It was a hell of a battle; the Order and Lucius' soldiers were pretty evenly matched in numbers. A fire got started somehow, and the smoke made it almost impossible to tell friend from enemy. Some of the Order were killed by their own."

Joe's grip tightened around Methos' arm. "So it took them a while to get to you."

"Yeah," said Methos unsteadily. "A servant came to tell Nathan and Lucius that the house was under attack. Nathan killed him for interrupting, and...continued."

"Jesus." Joe's voice shook.

"You have to understand," continued Methos, feeling weirdly detached, "Lucius had overcome every attacker and eluded every adversary for six centuries. He couldn't conceive that he'd become overconfident and gone too far this time, that his soldiers would fail him. But they did. The battle eventually reached the cellars, where I was being held."

"What happened?"

"I'm not precisely certain. It sounded as if there were at least twenty swordsmen around me."

"Sounded." There was dread in Joe's voice. "Were you blindfolded?"

Methos hesitated for a fraction of a second. "Yeah," he lied. There were some things that were better left untold, especially to a listener with a heart as big as Joe Dawson's. "Couldn't see a thing. But I heard Nathan fighting off half a dozen of the Order to protect Lucius. He killed one, too--an Immortal. The quickening nearly fried us all. I found out later that it was Gregory of Venice. I think you have an open file on him."

"Consider it closed," said Joe huskily, and Methos wondered if his friend had put two and two together after all. Joe cleared his throat. "The Watchers outside assumed it was Lucius' quickening, damn them to hell. Sloppy fieldwork and one hell of a assumption."

"Not given the circumstances. By the time they arrived, Joanna's people were already inside. They had no way of knowing that there were other Immortals present, and the house burned to the ground, leaving no evidence to the contrary. The killings stopped immediately afterward."

"Because Lucius was captured."

"It took six members of the Order to drag Lucius and Nathan out of that burning house, all the while kicking and screaming bloody vengeance on everyone responsible. Joanna and Joshua carried me out, and nearly got crushed under burning wreckage doing it."

"But you were found alone."

"Nathan broke free and managed to get his hands on a knife."

"Shit. That is one dangerous man."

"Joanna and Joshua had to set me down to help deal with him. By the time they came back, the Watchers had found me and taken me to a nearby safe house--presumably to die. Joanna found me a few hours later. I wrote my resignation and report on Gabriel. And then 'Stephanos' disappeared."

"Jesus," muttered Joe, his fingers still curled tightly around Methos' forearm, as if 'Adam' might disappear too. "Jesus." He lapsed into silence.

Methos listened carefully for any sound on deck, but heard nothing but the hum of the engines and the soft splash of water against the hull. He had no doubt that Joanna would deal with MacLeod with entirely too little bloodshed and send him back here. Or that Richie would give him some sort of Reader's Digest condensed version of recent and ancient events, which may or may not contain all or indeed any salient points. Which, of course, would provoke MacLeod into a rousing, magnificent and completely stupid display of the righteous indignation that was the idiot Scot's raison d'etre. An explosion of furiously raised voices from somewhere on deck shattered the peaceful silence.

Methos sighed loudly. Being right all the time took so much of the enjoyable suspense out of life.

Joe echoed the sigh. "Guess Richie told him."

"Really? What makes you say that?"

"I hope the kid can handle him. Mac's never wanted to hear a bad word about Darius. And he's not exactly at his most stable at the moment."

"You astonish me, Joseph."

"What do you think he'll do?"

"Cut my head off, probably," said Methos wearily. "Not a bad solution, actually. Takes care of his nightmares and my bar tab in one fell swoop."

"Very funny."

"And then he and Lucius could go shopping for silver platters."

"Jesus, Adam, will you knock that shit off?"

The fear in Joe's voice cut through Methos' exhaustion, and he swore silently. He patted Joe's hand, which was till clutching his arm tightly. "Just kidding," he said softly, not entirely certain of the truth of that statement.

"Not funny!"

"I know."

"You're getting through this alive whether you like it or not," growled Joe. "Do you hear me?"

Methos smiled faintly. "Yeah, Dad," he said gently. "I hear you."

The angry voices from on deck erupted again, and the door burst open. Methos instinctively reached for his sword, remembering only as he did so that Duncan had taken it. He swung to his feet and pulled his gun from his coat, taking aim as Duncan charged through the door and down the steps. As he caught sight of Methos, the younger Immortal froze in surprise with Methos' sword in one hand and what appeared to be a candy bar in the other.

"Adam, don't!" gasped Joe in alarm.

Methos didn't lower the weapon. He stared at Duncan down the barrel of his gun, trying to summon the will to resist shooting the idiot. It had been so enjoyable the last time. MacLeod should probably be shot on a regular basis.

Richie appeared at the top of the steps carrying Joe's suitcases and guitar. He took one look at the tableau before him and paused on the landing, then favored Duncan with his most impertinent grin. "Come on, Mac. If he wants the candy that bad, just give it to him."

Methos heard Joe groan and mutter something entirely unintelligible and almost certainly obscene. Methos managed, with difficulty, to keep a straight face. The absurdity of the situation appealed to him in a masochistic sort of way, and Junior made a great Greek chorus.

Duncan cast Richie a dirty look over his shoulder, then turned back to Methos. "What is this garbage you've been telling Richie about Darius? And who the hell is that lunatic in my pilot house?"

"Mac, for once just sit down and listen," said Joe angrily.

"She's a friend," sighed Methos, ignoring the first question. He reluctantly lowered his weapon.

"A friend," repeated Duncan skeptically.

Richie rolled his eyes briefly and came down the steps. "Yeah, you know, Mac. Friend. Like, someone who occasionally cuts you a break?"

"That would be a lot easier if I knew what the hell was going on," said Duncan grimly.

Richie deposited the luggage next to the sofa and regarded Duncan soberly. "Maybe it's not supposed to be easy all the time," he said softly.

Methos shot him a startled look as he put away his gun, but Richie dropped into a chair with his usual graceless air, any hint of something other than the smart-ass kid vanishing as quickly as it had come. Methos scowled. He was going to have to ascertain exactly how much time the kid had spent at St. Julien's. He turned his head to see Duncan's color rise slightly as he stepped forward to offer Methos his sword.

"Sorry," Duncan muttered.

Methos accepted the weapon and slipped it back into his coat, restraining his urge to make some cutting remark about the mouths of babes. He suspected that this night would be long enough without setting MacLeod off any more than necessary. He sat beside Joe again. "Forget it." He eyed the chocolate that Duncan still held in his hand. "Do you want that?"

"You were saying something about grasping priorities?" said Joe drily, as Duncan tossed Methos the candy with the air of a man at the end of his rope.

"Hey, hey! Save some for us, geezer," protested Richie, as Methos deliberately shoved half the bar into his mouth.

"Age before...whatever," Methos said around the rapidly melting wad of chocolate, enjoying the seething frustration in Duncan's face, then glanced at Richie. "What did you tell him?"

"He told me some sick fantasy about Darius torturing--"

"I asked Richie!" snapped Methos in irritation.

"Mac," said Joe evenly, "Sit down and shut up. Now."

"Everything you've told us, give or take a nightmare," answered Richie soberly, his gaze following Duncan as he crossed the room and flung himself into a chair. "Taking it well, isn't he?"

"About as well as I expected him to. Listen, MacLeod. Your personal deification of Darius does not alter the fact that he was one of the most successful butchers Europe has ever seen--"

"You accuse Darius of butchery?" snapped Duncan, clutching the arms of his chair. "You?"

"Why not?" returned Methos coldly. "I can think of no one living or dead better qualified than myself to make such an appraisal. Let me assure you, MacLeod, as a consummate butcher myself--"

"Adam," grated Joe.

"--and having seen your precious god's work first-hand, that his was the superior talent. No one drank the blood of innocents with as much style as Darius of Rome."

"God," muttered Richie, blanching.

"You're a liar," rasped Duncan, poised to jump out of his chair. "Darius was a soldier. When he killed, it was in war."

Methos laughed mirthlessly. "War? God, MacLeod, what would you know of war? Do you imagine that the little exercises in state-sponsored vandalism you've taken part in constitute warfare? They're nothing. They're laughable. Pretty little affairs with rules of conduct and justification by moral imperative, all over before they really begin. Do you think that that is the sort of war Darius waged, MacLeod?"

"Mac," Joe cut in quickly. "Listen to me. We're talking about fifth century Europe. Rome had fallen. Everything had gone to hell, complete chaos. There was virtually no civilian authority. Darius' army had no sanction from any government for their actions. This wasn't war in the way you think of it."

Duncan cast Joe a genuinely horrified, helpless look. "God, Joe, you knew what Darius was. He was the best of us."

"Yes, he was. When you knew him."

"You believe this?"

"I don't have to believe it," said Joe in a sharper tone. "I've read Darius' chronicles. I know it's true. You want details? I've got 'em, Mac. You want to hear about the rapes, the torching of villages, the tens of thousands killed? You want to hear about Darius drinking the blood of children while their parents were forced to watch?"

"No," faltered Duncan, visibly shaken.

Methos flinched involuntarily at the pain in the man's face. Darius' fall from grace had been inevitable, of course, but the timing couldn't possibly have been worse. What would this do to MacLeod in his present state? Methos found himself wishing, despite all the annoyance that this blind worship of Darius had caused him, that Duncan could have his god back again.

Methos knew he could never be an apologist, for Darius or even for himself, but perspective was another matter. "MacLeod, Darius was born in a time when war was the only accepted way of life. Wars lasted for centuries. Wars lasted so long that generations of mortals were born and died knowing nothing else. So long that some Immortals knew nothing else."

Duncan turned to stare at him, eyes bright with tears and sudden comprehension, and Methos felt his guts twist at the sight. It required all of his shredded control to maintain his composure in the face of such devastation. Without a word, Duncan rose and bolted from the hold, leaving the door to the deck open behind him.

"Oh, God," muttered Richie. "God, this'll kill him."

Methos hugged his knees to his chest and rested his forehead there, for once ignoring the offered comfort of Joe's hand on his shoulder. "You could be right."

***

Duncan stumbled onto the deck and stood there for a few moments, gulping in the night air and wiping the tears from his face.

God Almighty. Darius. And Methos. Had known nothing else.

It was impossible. Neither of those men was capable of the horrors attributed to them. Yet both of them had committed them. How? Who were they? What were they? How could he have been so wrong about both of them? Had he been wrong? He didn't know. He couldn't tell. The whole damn world was wrong now.

Could a man be both inhuman monster and loving friend? How? How could such diametrically opposed forces find a conduit in one man? Men had natures, predispositions that could not be altered. A murderer might forbear to kill for a day ... but he was still a murderer.

Wasn't he?

What constituted a murderer in the Bronze Age? Or in the Dark Ages? Darius had been accorded the respect and titles due a great general--for drinking the blood of children. His contemporaries hadn't found that incongruous. They had expected nothing else from a warrior-prince. Had Ian MacLeod done such a thing in battle a thousand years later, he would have been denounced and exiled. Because the world in which Ian MacLeod had raised his son had drawn a line between legitimate warfare and murder--a line that had not existed in Darius' time.

Or in Methos'.

Duncan leaned back against the side of the pilothouse, staring unseeing at the right bank of the Seine as it slid slowly by. His reaction to Methos' past had been unjust--as unjust as his knee-jerk reaction to Darius' past had just been. He'd judged their actions without benefit of the context of their time. He'd judged his friends as if they'd grown up alongside him in Glenfinnan. They hadn't. He wished they had. But they hadn't. They'd grown up in a world more brutal and soul-killing than anything Duncan MacLeod had ever experienced; and yet somehow, through strength, or conviction, or miraculous epiphany, had managed to become men he loved and was proud to call friend.

Duncan knew that he had understood all this once. How had he lost that understanding? Three centuries ago, when Hideo had asked him for his assistance to commit seppuku, he had respected his friend's wishes and honored that request, even though it challenged his personal beliefs. How many times since then had friends or acquaintances who had transgressed Duncan's moral code been met with, if not his forgiveness, then at least his acceptance? And yet he had not forgiven Methos.

Even now, Duncan could feel his anger rising at the thought of what Methos had done millennia ago. Why? He could accept Darius' transgressions. It hurt him, but he understood it now. Why could he not find it within himself to forgive Methos? Why had the revelation of Methos' past wounded him so deeply, infuriated him to the extent that he was prepared to end a friendship that meant so much to him? Why?

Duncan blinked, realizing that the barge was slowing, and peered ahead into the darkness to catch sight of several barges moored side by side. He watched, impressed despite himself, as his new pilot brought his barge alongside the others and cut the engines. He hastily snatched up a rope and moored the aft end to the neighboring barge, then glanced up to see that Joanna was doing the same at the bow. A soft trilling interrupted her; cursing softly, she fished her cell phone out of her jacket pocket and started speaking, to Duncan's bewilderment, in Latin.

"Tasha? Yes, and you and Jochen? Thank God. There was no time to contact you. It was Methos. Yes, I know. I'll explain later. We're on MacLeod's barge on the Left Bank near the Petit Pont. Gather as many of us as you can and get here quickly." She hung up and shoved the phone back into her pocket.

"Who are Tasha and Jochen?"

Joanna glanced up, then rose and approached him slowly. "Friends. We'll need their help. You weren't down there very long."

"No," said Duncan in a strained tone. He cleared his throat. "Nice job." He indicated the mooring. "Good camouflage."

Joanna nodded, then studied him for a moment. "You should have given Methos a chance to tell his story, Duncan. It's one you need to hear."

"I've heard enough," said Duncan raggedly.

"Darius would want you to hear this story and understand it."

"Right now I don't give a damn what Darius would want." Duncan heard his voice rise and break; he turned away to stare at the far riverbank.

"Ah." Joanna fell silent for a moment. "Darius wanted to tell you, Duncan."

"What...what the hell would you know about what he wanted?" Duncan turned to challenge her, grateful for the opportunity to vent his grief-induced rage. "What the hell do you know about Darius, or me, or anyone I give a damn about? Except Methos, of course. You're Methos' friend, and that isn't much of a recommendation. Every friend of Methos I've met has been a murdering bastard."

"Yourself included," returned Joanna in a strangely mild tone. "Yes? Did Rosemont commit suicide, or Sean Burns leap willingly into your blade?"

Duncan recoiled, the image of Sean's horrified expression the moment before he died rising once again to haunt him. "I was...." He struggled for an adjective. "Insane," he said finally. "Insane."

Joanna shrugged. "Define sane."

"I wasn't myself!"

"Define self. We're Immortals, Duncan. We live many lives. We are many selves."

"I have one self," retorted Duncan with certainty. "I'm Duncan MacLeod--"

"Of the Clan MacLeod," finished Joanna. "God knows you say so often enough. Who are you trying to convince?"

"That's who I am!"

"You're young, Duncan. You've not lived one-tenth as many lives as I. And yet even you carry other selves with you. The man who killed a guiltless Rosemont and the man who killed his friend Sean still walk with you inside your skin."

Duncan felt his certainty crumble and the short hairs rise on the back of his neck, and he peered through the pre-dawn darkness at the woman beside him. He was certain he had never met her before, and yet something of the familiar seared his nerves. "I don't understand," he faltered.

Joanna tore her gaze from the right bank and glanced up at him with another shrug. "Sure you do. To deny what you were is to deny what you are."

Duncan tried to respond and couldn't; the often-felt and achingly powerful sense of Darius' presence stilled his tongue for several heartbeats. The phrase was Darius'; it was one of many such that Duncan had committed to memory, pondered, incorporated into who he thought he was. He'd thought he'd understood those words--until now. "You knew Darius?"

Joanna smiled wryly. "That's a more complicated question than you realize. Yes, I believe I knew him."

"Long?"

"A hundred years as enemy. Fifteen hundred as friend."

"I don't understand," repeated Duncan wearily.

"Do you want to?"

Duncan regarded her silently. Odd how anyone who'd spent any time with Darius started sounding like him. He'd even seen it in Richie at times. Darius' power had lain in his ability to touch the core of essential human compassion, to encourage and nurture it within those around him. This had bound him--did bind him--to his friends and students more closely than blood ties, oaths or simple friendship ever could, and left the unmistakable mark of his great spirit on those he had left behind.

"Yes," he said softly. "I do."

***

"Maybe I should go up and make sure he's okay." Richie's voice broke the strained silence.

"Give him a few, Rich." Joe's grip tightened on Methos' shoulder. "He'll be all right. God knows he's been through worse and pulled through."

"Yeah," said Methos bleakly, sitting up to rub his eyes. He looked up sharply at the sound of the door opening; Duncan and Joanna were talking softly as they entered. Methos froze as Duncan met and held his gaze for a couple heartbeats; and his heart twisted unexpectedly at the crooked little smile that touched Duncan's face.

"I'll make some coffee," murmured Duncan. "I'd offer you guys a beer, but it, uh...seems to be missing."

Methos peered at his friend uncertainly. He hadn't heard that gentle, wry humor in a long time.

"Coffee would be good," answered Joe, with raised eyebrows. "Thanks, Mac."

"It'll just be a minute," continued Duncan, disappearing into the kitchen.

"Have a seat," said Richie, hastily rising from the sofa. "I'll give Mac a hand with the coffee."

Methos extended his hand toward Joanna, and the woman smiled as she crossed the room to take it as she sat beside him. Richie disappeared into the kitchen.

"I just spoke to Tasha," said Joanna softly. "Help will be here soon."

"Tell me what happened," said Methos, as gently as exhaustion would permit. "We've had a strange conversation with a Watcher named Shapiro tonight."

"Ah." Joanna looked away for a moment, then forced a laugh. "What did he say?"

"Among other things, that Joshua is dead." Methos felt blind rage rise in him again as Joanna nodded mutely, eyes bright. "Was it Shapiro?"

"That's what one of his men told us."

"His men?" Joe's eyes widened. "What men?"

"Tell us what happened from the beginning, bati." Methos put an arm around her shoulder; something in her face made her look like the child she hadn't been in centuries.

"Joshua went into Istanbul for supplies five days ago," Joanna began unsteadily. "He didn't come back to the estate. By the next morning, half the Order was in the streets of Istanbul searching for him. But he was nowhere to be found. I was certain he'd been challenged. Challenged and taken. But it was worse." Her voice gave out and she cleared her throat. "Two nights later, the safe house was attacked."

"By whom?"

Joanna shrugged. "Drug thugs from the streets of Istanbul. They were poorly trained, but they were armed with automatic weapons as well as swords. And they outnumbered us significantly. We were not prepared for such an assault. I was not prepared."

"There was no way you could have anticipated this, Jo."

"I lost half my people, mortals and Immortals alike," Joanna said sharply. "Another dozen are maimed for life. Lucius and Nathan were taken. I have failed in every conceivable way."

"Jo--"

"They left Joshua's head on a spike at the gate." Joanna drew in a shaky breath. "They left my husband's head on a spike!" Methos heard an anguished curse break from Joe. "God only knows what this monster did to him to make him speak, aba. You knew Joshua."

"Yes," said Methos quietly. "Don't think about that now, Jo."

"We managed to capture one of them alive. He said that a man called Shapiro had hired him. He described the Watcher tattoo on his wrist precisely."

"Jesus." Joe's tone was despairing.

"Don't you start, either," snarled Methos, turning enough to look at his friend. "You are not responsible for that lunatic's actions!"

"I'm sorry," grated Joe, leaning over enough to look at Joanna. "I'm sorry one of us took him from you. I know that doesn't mean much right now. If there's anything I can do to make it mean something, I'll do it."

"Dammit, Joe, this wasn't your fault!"

"Tell that to Joshua," muttered Joe.

"Methos is right," said Joanna quietly. "This man is not sane. The Watchers are no more responsible for his actions than they are for the actions of Lucius."

"Listen to her," growled Methos. "So help me God, Joe, at the first sign of heroics I will break your guitar over your head."

Joe snorted and leaned back; the struggle to regain his composure was plainly visible. "Do you see a white hat on me, pal?"

"Constantly," snapped Methos irritably. "Between you and MacLeod it's a damned wild west show."

Joanna's soft, rueful laughter surprised him; he turned to glare at her. "You love him," she said in ancient Greek.

"He's a pestilence," growled Methos in the same language.

"And the man with the lovely brown eyes," pursued Joanna with a sharpening gaze, "who looks at you as if you've broken his heart? Is he a pestilence?"

Disconcerted, Methos turned to see Duncan appear, carrying a tray full of coffee mugs. Broken Duncan's heart? Was that what he'd done? Methos tore his gaze from Duncan, confused. Richie was at Duncan's heels, carrying a small box of what appeared to be cookies. Both were grim-faced; they'd obviously overheard the first part of the conversation.

"He is ten thousand years of pestilence," replied Methos in his most acidic tone, refusing to meet Joanna's all-too-observant eyes. "And your delicacy forbids any description of the deeply revolting nature of that child."

Joanna started laughing again, despite the tears in her eyes. "You old fraud," she said in English, patting his cheek affectionately.

Methos sighed resignedly.

"You two want to share with the class?" Richie glared as he ripped open the box of cookies and wedged several into his hand, then slapped Duncan on the arm and headed toward the door. "I'll be up on deck, Mac."

"Thanks, Rich. Shout if you see anything." Duncan set the tray down and handed a mug to Joe. "It'll have to be black, I'm afraid."

"Thanks, Mac." Joe lifted the mug to his lips with a grateful expression and a jerk of the head toward Methos and Joanna. "I think we've been insulted."

"Count on it," returned Duncan, but he was smiling.

Methos hastily leaned over to pick up a mug. He froze as Duncan suddenly reached out and twitched open Methos' coat.

"That was bad," said Duncan quietly. "Are you healed?"

"Yes. No problem," replied Methos quickly, cursing inwardly as he stammered in surprise. Damn the man! Now what?

"Get that off. I'll get you a clean shirt."

"Yeah, sure," muttered Methos, standing to remove his coat and the tattered, bloody t-shirt. He saw Duncan's eyes narrow in an anger that wasn't directed at him, saw Joe close his eyes and look away, and glanced down at the dried blood and barely-healed wounds that covered his chest and stomach.

Duncan wordlessly turned toward the dresser, and pulled a clean sweatshirt out of an open drawer. When he turned back again, his eyes were very bright. He handed Methos the shirt. "Who did that?"

"Nathan of Mainz. And the rest of Lucius' assassins," answered Joanna in a quiet voice, as Methos struggled into the sweatshirt, grateful for the opportunity to hide his face for a few seconds.

"Nathan?"

Methos yanked his head through the collar of the sweatshirt at the sound of naked shock in Duncan's voice to find Duncan staring at him, white-faced.

"Lucius' right-hand man. You've heard of him?" Joe looked surprised.

"Yes," said Duncan hollowly, his gaze locked with Methos'. Methos found himself unable to look away; he became slowly aware that he was holding his breath, and released the air in his lungs slowly. Damn. Duncan's dream. Exactly how much had he seen? "Does he by any chance call Lucius 'Master'?"

"Always," said Joanna, her voice sharp.

Duncan nodded, his eyes hardening. "Then I know everything I need to know about both of them. Except where they are."

"What the hell are you talking about?" stammered Methos, more confused by the look in Duncan's eyes than by any danger he had faced in the last twenty-four hours. "MacLeod, if you're thinking--"

"I'm thinking that Lucius is overdue for a challenge."

Methos laughed; he couldn't help himself. "Mac. God. Have you understood anything we've told you?"

Duncan flushed slightly. "What is there to understand? They're Immortals."

"They're not," said Joanna quietly. "Not as you understand the word."

"Excuse me?" Duncan's expression was blank.

"Mac, Lucius doesn't play the Game. He's never played it. He's never taken a head in his life," said Methos, unaccountably moved to gentleness.

"Never?" Duncan's astonishment was palpable.

"He plays his own game," muttered Joe darkly.

"He's not alone. There are a growing number of Immortals who don't play the Game, for one reason or another." Joanna eyed Duncan soberly. "Lucius' perversion aside, it's a positive development. Darius always hoped that the cult of the One would lose its appeal in time."

Methos started in recognition at the phrase.

"Cult?" Duncan progressed from astonishment to shock.

"Are you so fond of the Game, then?"

"Fond of it? No. It's senseless. But I certainly never thought of it as a cult."

"And yet Darius could remember a time when that's all it was."

"Darius remembered no such thing," snarled Methos, stung. "Those memories were never his."

"Very well." Joanna's voice was gentle. "Sebastian could remember such a time. He was horrified by the growth of the Game. He called it genocide by attrition."

"At any rate, the only quickening Nathan's ever taken was an accident." Methos abruptly changed the subject, unable to endure any more, and shrugged back into his coat. Feeling weak in the knees, he sank toward the sofa, surprised when Duncan caught him by the arm and eased him into the cushions, even more surprised when Duncan sat on the floor at Methos' feet.

"Lucius was insane by the time of his first death," Joanna continued in a subdued tone, following Methos' lead, her keen gaze searching his face again. "And Nathan swore allegiance to Lucius before he knew what an Immortal was. Neither have any experience with other Immortals."

"It's past time they did. They have to be stop--" Duncan stopped mid-word and looked up at Methos with a dismayed expression.

Methos felt his breath catch in his throat. What was this? Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, doubting his judgment? Methos nearly laughed aloud at the irony of the role reversal, and his own hypocrisy. He'd labored under the unshakable conviction that Lucius and Nathan must die for almost a thousand years, who the hell had he been to condemn Duncan for judging others? And how had he managed to forget all this? Methos briefly considered the possibility that he was going senile.

"They must be recaptured." Joanna was firm.

"Jo, if I have to choose between anyone on this boat and Lucius Germanicus, you know who's going to die," snapped Methos. "Mac is right. They have to be stopped, and I'm not in the mood to be fastidious about my methods."

"Neither am I," said Joe grimly. "Apart from the fact that I'd like to whack the guy for personal reasons, there's this to consider. If he isn't put out of his misery, a lot more Watchers will die, and Shapiro will have his precious war after all. Because the Watchers won't take being hunted again. They'll fight back, and they won't worry about collateral damage. I guarantee you it will spiral out of control."

"I should have killed him," said Duncan bleakly.

"I should have let you," muttered Joe.

"Killing isn't the answer. I will not break my word to Darius, aba." Joanna's voice was tempered steel. "I will not break the trust."

"And I will not lose anyone else I care about." Methos kept his voice even with difficulty. "Including you. Trust be damned."

"Darius couldn't possibly have anticipated this," cut in Joe urgently. "Think about it, Joanna. You saw what Lucius did to Methos in Constantinople. If you hadn't arrived when you did, he'd have wound up on platters like the rest of them. Are you ready to risk that bastard doing it again?"

Methos felt Duncan's arm stiffen against his knee and looked down to find Duncan staring up at him with a horrified expression.

"There's no knowing what Darius did or didn't anticipate," said Joanna quietly. "But any risk to Methos is unacceptable. If I had had my way, he would be hundreds of miles from here by now."

"You stopped to warn me," said Duncan in a stunned voice. "This maniac is looking for you, and you stopped to warn me? My God, Methos, are you out of your mind?"

"Probably," said Methos quietly. Succumbing to exhaustion, he leaned his elbows on his knees and lowered his head to cradle it in his hands. "But it's not just me he's looking for, Mac. Everyone in my life is a target now. Joe. Rich. Amanda. You. You were right. I've endangered every one of you. I should have blown town the minute I heard Lucius' name. He would have followed me. He would have spent the rest of his life, or mine, following me, and he'd have forgotten all about all of you. But I didn't. You were right."

"Jesus. Adam," muttered Joe.

"No." Methos felt warm hands curl around his face and lift his head; he stared into Duncan's pale face in surprise. "I wasn't right. I was drunk, and half-crazy, and a damned ungrateful bastard," said Duncan unevenly. "Everything I said was a lie."

Methos realized after the first few seconds of staring into those lovely brown eyes that he had been holding his breath; he let it go slowly, wondering why his heart was hammering against his ribcage as if it wanted to escape the confines of his chest. "Not everything," he croaked. "I do have a very healthy interest in saving my own skin."

"Not at that price. I know that." Duncan withdrew his hands gently. "I'm sorry, Methos."

Methos closed his eyes against the earnestness in Duncan's face. "So am I. I said things I shouldn't have."

Duncan let loose with a small sigh of what seemed to be relief. "Don't worry about it. Let's just con--"

Several metallic clangs accompanied by the signature of an Immortal shattered the quiet of the moment; Methos suddenly found himself on his feet.

"Mac!" Richie's voice rose in alarm.

"What the hell?" Joe started out of his brood and struggled to stand, yanking his gun from his jacket.

"Give me that," said Duncan grimly. "Methos, stay with Joe." He snatched the gun from Joe's hand and disappeared through the door to the deck before Methos could draw breath to protest; Joanna disappeared after him, sword drawn.

"Great. Now you've got MacLeod doing it," snapped Methos to Joe, drawing his gun.

Joe snorted and gave him a wry look. "You're kidding, right? He's been doing that for four hundred years, pal. That guy could out-nanny all of us put together."

"Just stay put," growled Methos over his shoulder, vaulting up the steps to the door. He had no sooner stuck his head outside the door than Joanna dragged him down to the deck, just barely in time to avoid being struck by a hurtling projectile of some sort. It hit the bulkhead with a reverberating clank to be followed by others in rapid succession. He could hear Richie at the bow, swearing as several more impacted in his vicinity.

"What the hell?" Methos strained to see the deck of the neighboring barge, but the darkness defeated his attempt.

Duncan, huddled a few feet away, glared at him furiously. "I told you to stay below!"

"Get knotted," retorted Methos, thoroughly irritated. "Who are they, Jo?"

"Damned if I know." Joanna picked up the offending object and examined it for a moment. "Ah," she said mildly. "Have either of you annoyed any of the local grocers recently?" She tossed it over to Methos, who peered at it in confusion for a moment. It was a can of soup.

"Chicken noodle," observed Duncan. "Good for what ails you."

"Amanda!" hissed Methos in infuriated relief, tossing the can aside and leaping to his feet. Another can whizzed past his head, but he held his ground. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Not so funny now, is it?" Amanda's shrill voice could be heard half a mile away. "What's the matter, did I break up your little party?"

Methos strode to the side of the barge and leaned over as far as he could without falling overboard; Duncan quickly joined him. "Lower your voice and get over here before you get us all killed!"

"Time to move again," said Joanna grimly, rising. "Shut her up and get her on board. I'll unmoor us." She moved quickly in the direction of the bow.

"How. Dare. You." Amanda appeared out of the dark to lean over the side, as furious as Methos had ever seen her. "I shopped for an hour."

"Amanda--"

"I was trying to do a good thing here, Methos. And what do you do? You pull some pathetic prepubescent practical joke--"

"Will you shut up?" Methos heard someone laughing behind him. Glancing over his shoulder, he spotted Joe, leaning against the bulkhead, cackling. "Get back inside!"

"Or what?" Joe was laughing so hard he could barely speak. "Amanda will bludgeon me with Chef Boyardee?"

"Enough." Duncan reached over far enough to take Amanda by the arm. "Get aboard, Amanda. We're in trouble and we don't have time for this."

"What kind of trouble?" snapped Amanda.

Methos caught his breath as another Immortal signature assailed him. "God. Mac."

"Now," commanded Duncan. He lifted Amanda bodily over the side of the barge. "Get below."

"Who is it?" asked Amanda quickly, looking around.

Methos heard the whistle of the knife being thrown a full half-second before he realized whom the target was; without thinking, he lunged in front of Duncan to take the blade in his own chest. Gasping in shock and pain, he fell back into Duncan's arms.

"Christ Jesus," whispered Duncan, cradling Methos as he lowered him to the deck. "Methos--"

"Get them away," rasped Methos, coughing as blood rushed into his lungs. "Get Joe away now." His mouth filled with blood and his vision blurred.

Amanda drew her sword, whirling toward the neighboring barge. "Oh, my God. They followed me. They followed--"

"Amanda, stay with Methos." Duncan squeezed Methos' shoulder. "Hang on. I'll be right back."

"Go now," wheezed Methos desperately. Duncan nodded and disappeared. Amanda crouched beside him, clutching her sword tightly.

"Mac! They're coming," shouted Richie from the bow.

Methos struggled for breath as the vibrations of dozens of small impacts rose from the deck beneath him. "Amanda." He offered her the gun, unable to stop the coughing that wracked him. "Help him." Shouting, gunfire and the sound of blades erupted around them; he could hear Duncan shouting to Richie to go over the side.

"Keep still," whispered Amanda, taking the weapon. "I'll--"

A blur of motion in the periphery of Methos' fading vision made him turn his head; Amanda leaped to her feet, aiming the gun. A well-aimed swipe of a long leg knocked it out of her hand, and Amanda sprang back, swinging her sword toward her attacker. The two blades clashed inches over Methos' nose. Craning his neck, Methos managed to catch sight of her opponent; a tall, slender man with long dark hair and black eyes glowered down at him from his perch on the side of the barge. "Nathan," he wheezed.

Nathan's lip curled. "I return the favor of my blade, Marcus Gaius. Rest assured it will be returned many times in the days to come."

"You," spat Amanda contemptuously. "Finally decided to stop stalking and fight?"

"Amanda, go," whispered Methos faintly, his vision finally going dark. He wanted to tell her that she didn't stand a chance against Nathan of Mainz, that there was nothing she could do for him now, that she should run like hell. He died before he found the strength.

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