Chapter Thirteen

Joe leaned back in his seat, ignoring Richie's soft snoring. Christ, that kid could sleep if the whole damn world were about to end--and who knows, it just might be. The empty streets of early morning Paris flew past the cab window in a blur, the driver obviously determined to make the fifty francs he'd been promised for a ten-minute ride to St. Julien's.

Damn Lucius Germanicus to hell. Joe had had it all planned from the moment he'd heard Richie's little ghost story. It would have worked, too. Need to check in with Urquhart, guys, see you later. Oh, you're worried about old Joe? No problem, I'll take the kid with me. He would have gone to St. Julien's and taken care of business without anybody being the wiser--or died trying. But no. No, Lucius just had to get obvious about it. Like two and two didn't make four. Like anything short of thermonuclear warfare would keep Lucius from St. Julien's if he thought Darius were there--dead or alive. Christ on a crooked crutch. That little birthday present had been completely unnecessary as far as Joe was concerned. Overkill in every sense of the word, God have mercy on that poor schmuck Shapiro's soul.

So thanks to Lucius, they were only maybe ten minutes ahead of MacLeod and company, if that. Well, ten minutes should be long enough to kill those two sons of bitches, if they were lucky. And if Lucius thought for one damn minute that Joe would allow himself to be taken alive, or that holy ground would protect him after what he'd done to Methos, then he didn't know Joe Dawson. This was not going down the way Lucius had it planned. Joe patted the pistol he'd stolen from Jochen as it rested comfortingly in his breast pocket, then fingered the hilt of Duncan's katana. No. Definitely not the way Lucius had it planned.

Joe jolted out of his reflections as the cab came to a halt in front of St. Julien's. He shoved all the cash he had in his pockets into the driver's hand as Richie started awake and sprang out of the cab with all the goddamned elasticity of youth. Joe grit his teeth and dragged himself out, gratefully accepting Richie's offered shoulder as the cab sped away.

Richie helped him into the small courtyard, then stopped and looked at him for a moment with an apprehensive expression. "Someone's here. You sure about this, Joe? You really look like hell, man."

"You're no prize yourself, Junior," snapped Joe, moving forward again. "Now you listen to me. This is my show. You are here on lookout duty only, got it?"

"Joe--"

"You're an Immortal, and this is holy ground. We've crossed every other line we've got, but we're not crossing that one."

"I'll do what it takes, Joe," said Richie quietly.

"Don't be a damn idiot!" Joe drew a shaky breath and lowered his voice. "We have no idea what that would do to you. I'll be damned if I'm getting you killed, or worse. Do you read me?"

"So I'm supposed to stand there like a good boy and watch them kill you? Fuck that."

"Oh, God damn it to hell," said Joe wearily. "I knew it. I knew I should have come alone."

"Yeah, like that was going to happen." Richie snorted derisively. "Get real, Joe. Even with me to watch your back, you're probably going to get whacked inside the first two minutes."

Joe cast him a dry look. "Thanks, Sunshine. I'll point out that Nathan isn't likely to be scrupulous about taking you out on holy ground, either."

"To say nothing of Lucius."

Joe was silent for a moment, thinking. "Concentrate on Nathan. We'll have to deal with him first. If you have to run him through, do it. But don't take his head. Not here."

"Joe, we have got to take these guys out." Richie looked as grim as Joe had ever seen him. "It's not just Adam and Mac and you they're targeting--it's everything. The whole balancing act. They've come this close to starting up a war between Watchers and Immortals, man, this close. Do you know how many people would die--"

"You're preaching to the choir." Joe laid his hand on the latch of the church door. "You've got to wonder if there's something wrong with a balancing act so out of whack that one nutcase can bring it all crashing down."

"Maybe. Maybe there's a lot wrong with it. But we can't fix it until we deal with the nutcase. Whatever it takes, man, we've got to take them out."

"I hear you. But leave the taking out to me." Joe handed Richie the katana and pulled out the gun. The altar boy in him cringed at the thought of spilling blood--anyone's blood--here, in this place. If Darius was here, it was twice a desecration--a sentiment that Lucius was no doubt counting on. Joe set his shoulders. "Watch yourself, Rich. They're waiting for us." Richie nodded, raising Duncan's blade, and Joe yanked the door open and stepped inside.

***

"How much longer?" asked Duncan quietly, unable to tear his gaze from the slender man standing in the road, barefoot and coatless, staring in the direction of the recently departed cab.

"Jonathan's almost here." Joanna slipped her cell phone into her pocket. "The rest of the Order will meet us at St. Julien's."

Duncan glanced behind him; the barge was almost out of sight, bound for the Petit Pont, the nearest mooring possible to St. Julien's. Only Joanna and Raphael had remained ashore.

"Is he all right?" whispered Amanda, jerking her head in Methos' direction.

"No," said Raphael quietly.

"No." Duncan cursed himself thoroughly. Why hadn't he put this together five minutes sooner? Joe must have known where Lucius was and what he was going to do about it from the moment he'd heard Richie's story. Damn it, Duncan knew this man better than anyone else here. In the past twenty-four hours alone he'd seen Joe jump on a gun and goad the most dangerous Immortal on the planet to protect his friends; how the hell could he have failed to anticipate this?

"This isn't your fault, Duncan." Duncan turned to find Joanna watching him closely. "Joe knows that neither you nor Methos would violate holy ground. And he knows that neither of you will be safe unless Lucius is dead. There was only one alternative."

"And you agree with him?" Duncan was startled by the harshness in his tone. "What about your word to Darius?"

Joanna flinched visibly. "I can't allow this to happen again." Her voice broke; she turned to lock her gaze on Methos. "I can't allow him to be harmed again. I can't endanger thousands, risk open warfare between Watchers and Immortals, all to preserve the supposed sanctity of my given word." Her voice was bitter now. "All I can do is what I must to protect us all, and pray that Darius will forgive me."

Duncan groaned inwardly at the anguish in her face. "I'm sorry." He laid a hand on her shoulder. "I'm just.... It's Joe and Richie. You must know they don't stand a chance, alone against Lucius and Nathan."

"Perhaps they aren't alone," whispered Joanna. "Have faith."

Duncan found a weak smile somewhere; but felt it wiped away as Methos tossed away the blanket he'd been holding around him and started walking purposefully toward the access road leading to the street on the bank proper. "Methos!" Duncan sprinted to his side. "Where the hell do you think you're going?"

"I am going to find us a car," answered Methos in a voice like steel.

"Where? Where the hell are you--"

"On the goddamn street, MacLeod. I am going to steal a car, all right? Stay here unless you want your morals affronted."

"Methos. You...you don't even have any shoes on."

"What the hell do I need shoes for? Is this some sort of arcane requirement for admission to the Parisian Guild of Car Thieves? Tell them my check's in the mail."

"The car will be here any minute."

"We don't have a minute." Methos started walking even faster. "More to the point, Joe and Richie don't have a minute. If they've reached the church--"

"They haven't, Methos," gasped Amanda, catching up with them. "They only left--"

"Shut up," said Methos coldly. "Just shut up and go away, Amanda. I'll handle this job on my own."

"Methos," snapped Duncan in amazement. "She's only--"

"Methos," said Amanda uncertainly, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "Are you all right?"

Methos turned to look at her; Duncan winced at the cold fury in his expression. "All right?" He paused for a moment. "Yes, I suppose I am as all right as anyone can be who's been kidnapped, sliced open, had his eyes stabbed out and is now standing around like a damn fool while two friends die in a useless attempt to protect him from the results of his own idiocy."

"Methos, I'm--"

"Of course, none of these pleasant diversions could have taken place without your spectacular contributions. Nice job, Amanda."

Shocked, Duncan came to a halt, staring, only subliminally aware of Amanda's recoil, her faltering voice.

"I'm sorry," Amanda said in a strangled voice. "You're right. You're right, it's my fault. I just.... I didn't know. I'm sorry." She turned away, tripping over the cobble stones, obviously unable to see as Methos lunged at her so suddenly that Duncan gasped out an involuntary cry of warning, certain that he was about to strike her. The cry died in his throat as Methos pulled her into his arms, cradling her against him. The helpless, repentant exhaustion in Methos' face nearly undid him.

"No," Methos breathed in a desperate tone. "No. I didn't mean that. It's not your fault. It's mine. It's all mine."

Amanda buried her face against his chest, sobbing quietly.

"Oh, damn," said Methos wearily, leaning his head against hers. "Amanda. Don't cry. You know I can't take that."

"Shit. Shit. Methos, what they did to you--"

"Had nothing to do with you." Methos lowered his head to speak fiercely in her ear. "Do you hear me? They would have found us anyway. It would have happened no matter what you did or didn't do. Don't go all MacLeod on me now, you know I have limited sackcloth tolerance."

Duncan snorted and blinked hard, unable to speak.

Amanda struck Methos' shoulder lightly with one fist, her face still hidden against his chest. "I led them right to you. I didn't even stop to think--"

"You didn't stop to think because I didn't tell you what you needed to know." Amanda raised her head with an amazed expression; Methos cupped her face in his hands and looked down at her with a crooked little smile that twisted Duncan's insides to look at. "Old habits die hard. My fault, Amanda. Mine. And I'm sorry."

"It is not your fault," snapped Amanda, wiping her face. "And you're right. This is stupid, standing here like this. I will get you a car. I'll be back in three minutes."

"Two. And make sure the tank's full."

"I do not hear this," said Duncan grimly.

Amanda ignored him. "Fine. But if you aren't here when I get back, I'm going to cut your damn head off." She strode off determinedly, muttering audibly about men, cars and which should be sold for parts.

Methos watched her go with a bemused expression, then turned to Duncan, not quite making eye contact. "You know," he said finally, studying his bare feet. "I really am a right bastard, MacLeod."

Duncan couldn't resist any longer; he yanked him close and held him tightly. Methos' head dropped to his shoulder.

"And I've got no shoes on." His voice shook.

"We'll stop them."

"I can't lose any of you."

"They'll be all right. We're going to stop them."

"Damn Dawson," said Methos brokenly. "Damn him. What the hell is he thinking, Mac?"

"He's thinking you're worth it," whispered Duncan. "And he's right. Just--"

The sound of screeching tires brought Duncan's head up in time to see a black sedan take the corner from the street onto the access road at a dangerously high rate of speed and come roaring toward them. Duncan sprang out of the way, dragging Methos with him, then stood holding him, staring in amazement as the car came to a rocking halt a few feet away. Before Duncan could react, Joanna and Raphael were standing in front of them, guns drawn.

"I take it this isn't Jonathan," said Methos drily, making no effort to extricate himself from Duncan's embrace.

"Take him back to the dock, MacLeod," snapped Raphael. "Move!"

The driver side door burst open, and a tall, fair-haired man leapt out, holding a sword. "My life is going to hell in a bloody hand basket, Pierson, and you are responsible!"

"Ah," said Methos lightly, eyes wide. "One can but try."

"Friend of yours?" asked Duncan warily, somehow doubting it. The man's manner screamed "Watcher!" to everyone who knew such a thing existed.

"Winston Urquhart, Duncan MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod, Winston Urquhart. Mr. Urquhart was, at last report, Regional Coordinator of the Watchers in Western Europe, although events may have moved along since my last briefing." Methos' manner radiated a casual contempt, but Duncan could feel the tension in his friend's body.

Urquhart glared balefully. "I always knew there was something peculiar about you."

Methos snorted. "You have no idea."

"Get back in the car and leave now, Urquhart," said Joanna grimly.

"Gladly. And you are all coming with me. My field people just called to tell me that Ryan and Dawson have gone into St. Julien's armed to the teeth, and we all know why."

"Then tell them to get them the hell out of there!" snapped Duncan. "And don't quote me the Watcher's Oath. God only knows what might happen if an Immortal takes a head on holy ground."

"Do I look like a complete moron to you?"

"Actually--"

"They tried to get in. The doors won't open."

"What the hell are you talking about? There are no locks on--"

"Faith, Duncan," said Joanna softly, casting him a quick look over her shoulder.

Duncan took a sharp breath in sudden, if muted, understanding.

"I have reason to believe that whoever blocked those doors will open them for you. And you are going to stop this insanity before it blows up in our faces." Urquhart tossed the sword past Raphael to land with a rattle at Methos' feet. "I believe this belongs to you, Pierson."

Duncan glanced at the sword lying on the cobblestones in confusion. It was of considerable vintage; late Roman, fourth or fifth century AD. It was completely unremarkable--except for the reactions it produced in Joanna and Methos. Joanna muttered what sounded to Duncan's ears like a curse in Latin; Methos' entire body stiffened.

"Adam doesn't own a sword," snapped Duncan, releasing Methos enough to edge in front of him. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"Pick it up and get in the car, Methos," growled Urquhart. "We're going to St. Julien's. Unless you want Joe Dawson delivered on silver platters."

***

Joe had no sooner stepped over the threshold of St. Julien's than Richie shoved him hard, sending him reeling onto the floor as the clash of steel rang against the stone walls of the church. His gun skittered several feet across the stone floor, and Joe twisted around, gasping, to see Richie and Nathan facing one another, swords crossed. The church door slammed shut as if the altar were blowing a gale force wind, but neither combatant so much as blinked at the sound.

"And you'd be Nathan," snapped Richie.

"Nathan, son of David." The man's voice was even, cold. The tides of misfortune seemed to have left him untouched; he was as menacing an opponent here as he had been in the alley behind Joe's apartment building and the little room in the wine cellar--he possessed the same cool, collected air; not one hair was out of place.

"Richard, son of Duncan," returned Richie in a grim tone, "And you are dead meat, pal."

"Holy ground," rasped Joe, struggling to rise. God, this wasn't going to happen. "Damn it, Nathan, holy ground!"

Nathan's lip curled as he swung his blade back over his shoulder. "The Rules of the Game? A puerile exercise in the absurd. They are meaningless. The Game is meaningless. My master acknowledges no such trivialities."

"That works for me," said Richie grimly, bringing back his sword for a blow.

"It's not a triviality!" Joe cut in, dragging himself slowly up the aisle toward his gun. "We have no idea what would happen if an Immortal violated sanctuary. The only record--"

"My master has read your records concerning the destruction of Pompeii. So be it. Let this accursed place be destroyed! Let the city sink into the Seine. It deserves no less."

"Is that your master's opinion or yours? Wouldn't have anything to do with the fact that the men who butchered your people were Franks, does it?"

Nathan's eyes narrowed. "My master commands here."

"Then where is he?"

"Lucius Germanicus does not appear at your bidding, Joseph Dawson."

"He couldn't appear at my bidding if he wanted to. Could he?"

Richie shot Joe a sharp, inquiring look that Joe couldn't afford to return. Joe groped behind him for the gun, his gaze locked with Nathan's.

"Your words have no meaning," said Nathan hollowly, turning toward Joe.

"Oh, they have meaning, all right. I have ears, pal. I was listening when you and Lucius left the wine cellar last night. But I only heard one set of footsteps. One."

"What the hell?" whispered Richie. "Joe?"

Nathan uttered something like a hiss and lunged at Joe, sword raised. Richie leapt after Nathan, and with a maneuver only the very young and very determined could have pulled off, blocked the downward arc of Nathan's sword. Joe grabbed the gun, brought it around in a two-handed grip, and tried desperately to get a clear shot. The two were so close, and moving so quickly, that it was impossible. The point became moot when Nathan, with apparent and frightening ease, swung one leg out as he turned, kicking the gun out of Joe's hand to rattle to the floor, hidden among the neat rows of chairs set out for the faithful.

"Go, Joe, go!" gasped Richie. "Find him! I can hold this asshole." Nathan uttered an inarticulate growl and lunged again, but Richie parried the blow and stepped aside. He drew his own blade and tossed it onto the floor beside Joe.

Swearing under his breath, Joe snatched up the sword, grabbed the chair beside him and hauled himself to his feet. If he could find Lucius and take him out, there would be one less reason for Nathan to keep fighting. At the very least, Joe was certain his search would serve as a distraction. Nathan's reaction, however, was anything but distracted. With one smooth move, Nathan pivoted and coolly drove his sword through Richie's body.

Richie screamed in pain and, judging from his expression, disbelief, and slowly slipped off the end of his opponent's sword to lie motionless on the stone floor. Smiling triumphantly, Nathan lifted his sword over his opponent's head.

Before Joe realized he'd moved, he found himself diving forward onto his belly, his head and shoulders sliding over Richie's, shielding Richie's upper body; he wrapped his arms around the bloody young man determinedly. "No," he gasped. "I brought him here. You want to chop someone, you sick bastard, chop me." He pinched his eyes shut, certain Nathan would take him up on his offer, but he was surprised once again.

"Bring him here." The voice, soft as it was, resonated through the ancient room. That voice had been made for stone walls and soaring arches, Joe realized dimly. Lucius had never been meant to see Joe's world.

Nathan seized Joe by the arms and tore him away from Richie, yanking him roughly to his feet. "And Ryan?"

"Leave him. Our other guests have not yet arrived, and I have no intention of bestowing that particular honor upon him once they do."

Joe set his teeth as Nathan forced him forward, toward the altar. Bait. He was bait. What the hell had he been thinking? "They won't come," he snapped, with as much defiance as exhaustion could muster.

"They will come." The voice was quiet, confident. "They love you."

"They won't. They won't fight on holy ground. They're honorable men."

"They will come despite honor. It matters not whether or not they fight. They will die just the same."

Joe peered ahead in the dim light; the voice seemed to be coming from behind the altar. "Still hiding, Lucius? What are you afraid of?"

"I do not hide. But there is one here who does. Where is he, Dawson?"

"Oh, so that's who you're hiding from." Joe allowed himself a contemptuous chuckle.

Nathan gave Joe a rough shove up the steps to the side of the altar. "My master hides from no one."

"I sense his presence," said Lucius softly. "But Nathan has searched this place in vain. Where is he?"

"Maybe he'll find you," returned Joe grimly. "And maybe you'll wish he hadn't."

"I do not fear him. He will die as well. Bring him closer, Nathan."

Nathan shoved Joe behind the altar, and Joe nodded grimly at what he saw there.

"You are not surprised." Lucius stared up at him with hard eyes.

"No," said Joe quietly. "I'm not surprised."

"And you do not pity me."

"Pity you?" Joe barked a harsh laugh. "You son of a bitch. You've murdered thousands of innocent people and tortured my closest friend, why the hell would I pity you?"

Lucius actually smiled. "That pleases me." He nodded to Nathan.

"Yeah? You need to get out more." Joe gasped in surprise as Nathan wrapped his arms around him, holding him against his body. "What the hell?"

"Have you ever witnessed a quickening, Joseph Dawson?"

Nathan forced his sword into Joe's unwilling hands, then folded his own around them tightly.

"A few," said Joe unevenly.

"Have you ever seen the remains of a mortal caught in a quickening?"

Nathan raised Joe's hand, and the sword with it. Joe closed his eyes in sickened comprehension.

"I have seen such a thing. In Constantinople. One of the mortal warriors led by Darius' whore strayed too close to his Immortal companion as he was beheaded. It was an agonizingly slow death."

"They won't come," breathed Joe, praying to God everything he knew about Methos and Duncan MacLeod was wrong.

"He was burned alive, burned slowly, burned to the bone."

"And even if they do they won't let anything stop them from dragging your sorry ass off holy ground and hacking your damn head off."

"Darius, his church, thousands of Watchers, the Order, and this entire accursed city will be destroyed. And the last thing Marcus Gaius will ever see is your blackened corpse."

***

"I don't suppose you're the first Immortal to infiltrate us, but you're the first we've ever discovered. I trust you're aware of the policy regarding such an infiltration."

Methos looked up from the manuscript in his lap, mildly amused to see Urquhart squirm away from the point of Raphael's sword as it was thrust over the back of the car's front seat and to within an inch of Urquhart's throat.

"I believe the policy is to behead the offending Immortal," snarled Raphael. "I do not advise such an attempt."

"Nor I," said Joanna, glancing into the rear view mirror with a deadly expression. She took a turn with her customary caution; a hub cab went flying onto the sidewalk as they passed.

"The policy is being revised," squeaked Urquhart, leaning as far back in his seat as he could. "Given the current circumstances."

"Good idea," said Duncan in a lethal tone. He carefully picked up the drawing of Methos that lay in Methos' lap as Raphael withdrew his blade. "My God. He certainly captured you."

"In more ways than one," murmured Methos dazedly, struggling to come to terms with the events of the past few minutes. The long charade was over; he'd been outed to the Watchers. Outed by the last person in the world he'd ever expected to do so. "There's more of this? I couldn't find Sebastian's journal after he died. I thought it had been destroyed." Methos ran one finger over the edge of the perfectly preserved papyrus reverently. There was no doubt of its authenticity, or its author. He knew Sebastian's hand all too well; even the Sumerian glyphs were unmistakable.

"Much more. These are only the most recent of the documents, those that deal with his life in Rome and his friendship with Marcus Gaius, among other things. Do I surmise correctly that this Sebastian is the Immortal Darius killed at the gates of Paris?"

"Yes," said Methos quietly. He paused for a moment, allowing himself to feel the comfort of Duncan's hand resting on his arm. "Where did you find these?"

"Sitting on my desk at home."

Methos stared at Urquhart as well as he could as he was thrown against Duncan, the sound of squealing tires drowning out all conversation for several seconds. "Your desk. Are you telling me they appeared out of nowhere?"

"Exactly so. They were accompanied by this." Urquhart pulled a note from the breast pocket of his jacket and handed it to Methos.

"Suitably cryptic," observed Methos. "I don't suppose we have any clue who might have sent this?"

"Darius kept Sebastian's chronicle concealed somewhere within the rectory of St. Julien's." Joanna caught Methos' eye in the rear view mirror. Methos returned the look sharply.

Duncan shot her a slightly scandalized glance. "Are you suggesting that the pastor of St. Julien's moonlights as a cat burglar?"

"Heaven forbid," returned Joanna, with entirely too much innocence.

"You didn't see anyone in Headquarters that didn't belong there?" persisted Methos, fixing Urquhart with a piercing look.

"I'm afraid I was a tad distracted at the time," snapped Urquhart. "Jack Shapiro had been delivered a few minutes earlier. Most of him, at any rate."

"We have the only missing piece," said Joanna coolly. "Unless Lucius has taken to gnawing on the gristly bits again."

"Lovely," muttered Urquhart.

"Do you usually take the advice of the anonymous and the uninvited?" asked Raphael suspiciously.

"I do when they hand me Methos on a silver platter."

"Not just yet, thank you," returned Methos crisply, shutting the portfolio and holding it against him with gentle reverence.

"Sorry," said Urquhart hastily, glancing around at the glares being leveled in his direction. He cleared his throat. "Poor choice of words."

"I want your people well away from St. Julien's, Urquhart." Methos decided to ignore the priceless treasure nestled against his chest, and everything else that had, in the past forty-eight hours, turned his life upside down. All that mattered now was hauling Joe Dawson and Richie Ryan's respective asses out of that church before they got themselves killed. "I'm not running a damned gauntlet of gawking Watchers."

"No one knows about you but me," returned Urquhart. "And what about your people?"

Methos looked at him in surprise. "My people?"

"There are a dozen armed people in the courtyard already, and they're not moving. Don't tell me they're not yours."

"They're mine, actually," put in Joanna archly. "And they'll stay there until I deem it advisable to order them away. There will be more of them. Deal."

Urquhart stared at the back of her head for a moment, then sighed with a distinctly morose expression. "I had a well-ordered life once."

Methos snorted in unexpected sympathy as Joanna slammed on the brakes, bringing the car to a jolting halt in front of St. Julien's. "I feel your pain." Glancing out the window, he was taken aback at the sight of two large groups of people eyeing each other suspiciously from different sides of the courtyard outside the church door; two men, presumably Watchers, were alternately pounding on and shoving themselves against the door. "Exactly how many of your field operatives did you call in?"

Duncan shoved the car door open and stood beside it as Methos jumped out, clutching his old sword. It did not rest comfortably in his hand.

"Exactly how many do you think are necessary to stop an insane Watcher and a rogue Immortal from destroying the city of Paris?" Urquhart's voice crackled with irritation.

"Joe's not insane," snapped Methos over his shoulder, heading for the church door with Duncan, Raphael and Joanna on his heels. "He's a nanny."

"He's a what?" Urquhart scrambled after them.

"A nanny. Don't tell me you didn't have a nanny growing up, Urquhart." Methos noted with embarrassment that several of the Immortal, and even mortal, members of the Order were bowing slightly as he passed. Shit. Raphael's persistence was bad enough; MacLeod was never going to let him forget this. Provided they survived, of course.

Methos dismissed the thought immediately. No. Duncan was going to survive. Because Duncan was staying out here. Out here, away from Lucius and Nathan and whatever ugliness lay inside Darius' sanctuary. Methos didn't care if those two split him open throat to crotch on Darius' altar; Duncan was not going anywhere near those two again.

Methos wished to every god he'd ever heard of that he could avoid entering this place. He'd hated every stone of it for centuries, hated the man who built it, hated the knowledge that Darius lived on in comfort and safety while Sebastian's soul was lost forever. The only time he'd ever set foot inside St. Julien's during the entire span of its existence had been to drag Duncan out of it; Darius' presence had sung to him so loudly then that it had been all he could do to focus on his purpose.

"All right, stand aside," ordered Urquhart to the two men struggling with the door.

"Aba," murmured Joanna. "Just a moment, before you go in."

"It won't budge," growled one of the men, giving the door a final kick before retiring.

"I don't have a moment, bati," said Methos quietly, bending to kiss her forehead quickly. "Tell me later."

"It's about Lucius." Joanna laid her hands on his chest and looked up at him imploringly. "He isn't what--"

"Methos."

Methos swung away toward the door, which Duncan was already throwing his weight against, to no avail. "Later, Jo."

"This is impossible," murmured Duncan to Methos, still leaning against the door. "It isn't locked. As far as I can tell, it isn't blocked with anything. It just won't open."

Methos sighed and laid his hand on the ancient wood; to his astonishment, the door swung open soundlessly. A murmur rippled through both the Watchers and the Order, but before Methos could react, Duncan sprang through the open door into the church. "Mac," Methos gasped, bolting after him. Idiot! Boy scout! What the hell did he think he was doing?

Methos blundered into the relative darkness of the church, only to trip over something lying just inside the door. The door slammed shut behind him with a bang that echoed through the nave as he went down on the stone floor on his hands and knees. His stomach turned as he realized that he'd tripped over a body, and he blinked furiously, trying to adjust his eyes to the dim light. He heard the pounding of many hands on the door behind him. "Mac? Who is it? Damn it, who--"

"It's Richie. He'll be fine." Duncan's breath was in his ear, his hand on his shoulder.

Methos blinked a few more times until he could see what lay under his hands. Richie lay on his side on the floor, obviously dead; but his head was where it ought to be. Methos let out a shaky sigh of relief, then raised his eyes to the altar and froze. He felt Duncan's hand clench his shoulder as Nathan smiled at them, his arms tightening visibly around Joe's, his hands tightening around Joe's, the sword in their clenched hands lifting slightly.

Joe's gaze locked with his. "Adam, get out." His voice was barely above a whisper, but it carried down the nave like a scream. "Mac, get him out."

"Come here, Marcus Gaius. My master would speak with you before we die." Nathan nodded at Methos in summons.

"Leave," said Methos tonelessly, rising to his feet. So this was Lucius' last move. He should have known. Simple, yet effective, and deeply sadistic.

"Like hell," whispered Duncan, still clutching Methos' shoulder. Methos knew without looking, from his voice, his touch, that he understood the situation. And still he engaged the inevitable in mortal combat, charging the looming windmill in his path at full tilt. Methos could easily have either wrung his neck or kissed him full on the mouth at that moment.

"Leave now. Take Richie and get the others as far away from here as possible." Methos yanked free of Duncan's grasp, stepped over Richie and strode down the aisle.

***

Amanda plowed through the traffic light at sixty miles an hour, ignoring the braying horns behind her, and prayed that the world didn't end before she found Methos. Five minutes was all it would take to make hamburger of his dangly bits and chop off his undeniably pretty head. He'd done it to her again. Again. As in twice. Twice in one day. Face it, the joke hadn't been that funny the first time, and it was even more obnoxious the second. They'd taken off without her, leaving her standing beside her stolen Rolls, staring at the empty street and looking like a damn fool, despite explicit instructions to the contrary. And she'd warned Mr. Ten Thousand Years Older Than Sand. Oh, yes, she had warned him; and if he'd thought she'd been joking, then he didn't know her very damn well. And he did. Know her very damn well, that is. So on his head be it, and she wasn't being goddamn metaphorical.

Obviously Freddie had finally showed up with the Mystery Machine, and they were all on their frantically heroic way to head off Shaggy and Scooby from certain doom at the supposedly haunted church. Which was pretty much a waste of effort, in her opinion. Now Richie might be a little flaky sometimes, but there was no way in hell he was going to chop off another Immortal's head on holy ground. That was number one in the Immortal Handbook's List of Things Not to Do, most likely because it would make something very, very bad happen. Amanda remembered the story Duncan had told her about Pompeii. She wasn't sure she bought the lava and ash scenario, but anything that had the potential to separate an Immortal's head from his shoulders was something to be devoutly avoided, and Richie most definitely liked his head where it was.

Besides, Joe was in charge of that little expedition, and Amanda had a pretty good idea of what he had in mind. Richie would be well off holy ground when Lucius and Nathan got iced and diced, and no harm done. In fact, those two winding up a foot shorter would be cause for one hell of a party, in her opinion. Provided everything went according to Joe's plan, of course. Although the way their luck had been running lately.... Well, okay. Maybe there was a little bit of a reason to worry. Maybe.

Amanda took the last turn in front of St. Julien's and slammed on her brakes enough to avoid completely totaling the black Mercedes sedan parked in front of her; as it was, she only crushed the rear bumper and mangled the trunk door. Getting out, she strode into the courtyard, drawing her sword, and came to a sudden halt, staring. The courtyard was filled with people, most of whom were glowering at each other while a determined minority-- including, to her amazement, Urquhart--were trying to force open the door. She spotted Joanna in a huddle with some of the Order and shoved her way through the crowd, ignoring the startled looks cast her way. "What the hell's going on?"

"Methos and Duncan just went inside," said Joanna quietly, turning from Raphael and Jochen to speak over her shoulder. "And the doors won't open."

Amanda glanced incredulously at the men trying to force the door. "You do know there's another door."

"I should," returned Joanna in a dry tone. "I built it."

"Well, did you try it?"

"Some of the Watchers did." Joanna eyed the Watchers throwing themselves against the door with amusement. "I don't believe it went very well."

Amanda barely managed to contain her exasperation. "And so you're just going to stand here and wait?"

"Not at all. I'm going to take a stroll in the garden. Join me?" Joanna whirled away in the direction of the garden path. "Raph, stay here and keep an eye on things, will you?"

"Certainly," said Raphael blandly, something like an evil gleam in his eye.

Amanda sprinted after Joanna, catching up with her as they rounded the curve in the path and entered Darius' garden. "We had better be headed for that door."

Joanna shot her a grimace. "Surely you didn't imagine I was going to prune the hedges."

"Can we break it down?"

"I hope that won't be necessary. These doors were built to withstand far greater force than we could bring to bear without a battering ram."

"What the hell is going on? Why won't they open?"

Joanna shrugged marginally. "I should think it would be fairly obvious by now that someone other than ourselves decides who is needed in St. Julien's."

Amanda glared at her. "It is not obvious. Nothing about this mess is obvious except that Lucius is going to chop off Methos' head if we don't get in there." She spotted the rectory door and quickened her pace.

Joanna's expression became very grave. "Lucius can't do that, Amanda."

"That's exactly what he's going to do if we don't stop him," Amanda snapped, leaping up the stone steps and grabbing the antique latch of the rectory door.

"No. You don't understand. He's not--"

"Sh." Amanda tugged on the latch with no success, then laid her ear to the door. She could barely hear the sound of voices, obviously from the nave, but there was no sound emanating from the rectory. Joanna watched her with an amused expression. "Where the hell is the priest? Out visiting another sick friend?"

"Perhaps. Or perhaps he knew that he was not needed in St. Julien's today."

Amanda turned to regard her with narrowed eyes, crossing her arms across her chest and leaning back against the door. "Do any of you clowns know how to answer a question without sounding like Kwai Chang Caine?"

Joanna considered the question, her smile broadening. "No."

"Merde," snapped Amanda. "Learn!" The words had no sooner left her mouth than the door behind her swung open as if it had been kicked, sending her sprawling onto her backside on the rectory floor.

Joanna's smile became a grin as she followed her through the door, which instantly slammed shut again. "Are you all right?"

Amanda scrambled to her feet, brushing off her posterior and seething. "Of course I'm all right! What the hell was that?"

Joanna drew her sword and strode forward into the rectory. "It would seem," she replied, in an overly serene tone that tap danced on Amanda's last nerve in six-inch stiletto heels, "that you are needed in St. Julien's today."

Amanda very nearly shouted the foulest obscenity in her impressive repertoire before she remembered where she was. Muttering it under her breath, she pulled the pistol from her coat and followed Joanna as quietly as she could.

***

"This is pointless." Methos stopped at the foot of the altar steps. He could sense Duncan behind him, shadowing his footsteps. Damn the man. He couldn't spare any more thought for him now. "Why die, Lucius? You don't need to destroy an entire city to have your revenge on me. I'll go with you now, and you know it."

"Goddamn it," raged Joe, trying desperately to yank his hands free with no success. "MacLeod, don't just stand there! Get his ass out of here now!"

"Joe," said Duncan in a strained tone. "Easy."

"I know it." The satisfaction in that voice made Methos flinch. "You would. You would let me finish what I have twice begun."

"Yes. Release him, and I'll go with you now." Methos wondered if he sounded as desperate as he felt.

"Release me and I'll fucking run you through," snarled Joe to the man behind the altar. Behind the altar. Why was Lucius behind the altar? Was he even now trying to inspire terror by remaining unseen? It was effective; Methos had to concentrate to keep his hands steady.

"Revenge upon you is not enough," returned Lucius coolly, as if Joe hadn't spoken.

"What more do you want?" Methos edged closer to Nathan and Joe, watching closely for any opening. Surely Lucius would show himself. Surely he would wish to see the look on Methos' face when Nathan struck the blow.

"I want Darius of Rome." The words echoed obscenely behind the altar, thick and venomous. "And I shall have him."

Methos drew a steadying breath, relaxing his arms, lightening his grip on the sword in his hand. "He's dead, Lucius. He was killed by rogue Watchers three years ago."

"It is a lie. He lives. He is here. But he hides from me, Marcus, like the coward I always suspected him to be. Hides in some crypt, some priest-hole--"

"Behind an altar?" suggested Methos with sudden acid, his every instinct now attuned to the inexplicable. Lucius Germanicus was hiding.

"Darius is dead, Lucius," cut in Duncan, coming to Methos' side with his katana in his hand. "I found his body here myself."

"He has been seen here," said Nathan evenly.

"Yes," said Duncan softly. Methos shot him an astonished look. "But it would be a mistake to assume that the body is all that can be seen. Or felt." Duncan paused for a moment, but Lucius said nothing. "He's dead, Lucius."

"It cannot be." Lucius' voice was hard.

Methos forced a contemptuous laugh from his constricted chest, slowly making his way around to the side of the altar, trying to catch a glimpse of the man behind it. "It can and it is. He is beyond your vengeance, Lucius."

"I sense him. We both sensed him the moment we entered this place. Can you not sense him, Marcus?"

"I sense him," growled Methos. "And he's dead."

"You cannot deceive me."

"He's not trying to deceive you! Darius is dead." Duncan's voice rose passionately. "You can't exact vengeance from the dead, Lucius."

"You are mistaken." The loathing in Lucius' tone made Methos flinch; it was too much like his own had once been. "Alive or dead, I shall have him."

"You won't have him," said Methos slowly, struggling to understand his own feelings as he spoke. "The man you want to kill ceased to exist fifteen centuries ago."

"Damn you, Marcus Gaius, do you now ally yourself with Darius of Rome?" Lucius voice rose stridently.

"No." Methos took a quick breath. Duncan had seen Death in Methos and nothing else, as Methos had seen the butcher in Darius--and nothing else. He'd given no more credence to Darius' reformation than Duncan had to Methos', no matter what evidence had been laid before his eyes. Would MacLeod be the man he was, the man Methos loved, if his mentor had truly been Darius the Butcher? No. The senselessness of Methos' ancient hatred of this place and its occupant overwhelmed him for a moment; Methos' keen awareness of the presence within St. Julien's became a painfully sharp reminder that, despite all his talk of salvation, there was someone he himself had not yet forgiven.

"I ally myself with Darius of St. Julien's," said Methos in a low, steady voice. "MacLeod was right, Lucius. He changed. He was a good man. There is no way to determine how many lives he saved, how much suffering he averted, in the years between Lutetia and his death. I ally myself with that man, whatever he called himself."

"God's death," hissed Lucius.

"Listen to him," cut in Duncan urgently. "Stop this. God only knows what will happen if a quickening is taken on holy ground. Thousands of innocent people could die. People who have never done you harm. If you truly believe yourself to be an instrument of God's justice, you can't do this."

"I know what I am!" It was a snarl.

"Face me, then," said Duncan grimly. "Outside. Away from holy ground."

"Mac," breathed Joe, casting him a desperate look.

"If your cause is just, you'll defeat me," persisted Duncan.

"Trial by combat." Lucius made an odd, wheezing sound that made the hair on the back of Methos' neck rise; he edged in front of Duncan again. "Do you hear, Nathan? Once again he evokes God as judge; once again he challenges me."

"I hear," said Nathan with a curl of the lip.

"Come then, knight errant. Come look upon your opponent. Challenge me to my face."

Nathan stepped away from the altar, pulling Joe with him; his heart seizing, Methos flung his arm across Duncan's chest and stopped him in his tracks. "Stay where you are, MacLeod."

"He's not accepting your challenge, you idiot!" Joe was shouting now. "He can't accept your challenge! He's--"

Duncan shoved Methos so hard that he fell onto his backside on the stone floor, then bounded up the steps to stand between Joe and the altar and froze there, staring at the floor behind the altar with a shocked expression. That look pinned Methos to the floor for one fleeting second, but then Nathan started to move, and Methos surged to his feet and up the steps. He was too late by half a second. Nathan lunged, shoving Joe forward, and thrust his sword into Duncan's back and through his body. Duncan drew a ragged breath and stared forward, eyes wide.

"Mac!" Joe screamed the name with an anguished expression, jerking back against Nathan as his hands, arms, and chest were spattered with Duncan's blood. Methos howled in inarticulate empathy as Duncan spasmed on Nathan's blade for an agonizingly long moment, then slumped forward to slip off the end and collapse to the floor. Methos charged toward Nathan with his sword raised, but Nathan whirled to parry the blow; Methos stared, panting with rage, over Joe's shoulder and into Nathan's dark eyes, steel sliding against steel.

"You bastard," said Joe brokenly, his gaze fixed on Duncan's unmoving form. "You sick bastard."

"The mighty warriors," sneered Methos into Nathan's face. "Sheltering behind a mortal. MacLeod was right. You're a coward. You're both cowards."

"Silence," snapped Lucius.

Methos ignored him and leaned closer, his cheek almost grazing Joe's. "Your father would spit in your face, Nathan, son of David."

Nathan's eyes flared dangerously, and Methos knew he was in trouble the moment he felt the man's stance shift. Nathan whipped one leg behind Methos and swiped at his calves hard enough to knock him off balance, then immediately brought his hands and Joe's about into a powerful blow to the chest that sent Methos reeling onto his back on the floor. "Do not dare to evoke my father in this place, Marcus Gaius." He drove the point of his sword through Methos' upper chest, just beneath his shoulder. Methos choked back a strangled yell as Nathan yanked his sword out again and laid it against his neck.

Joe groaned, his hands still imprisoned around the hilt of Nathan's sword. "Don't. Please, God, don't."

Methos clenched his teeth as Nathan slid the blade across his throat, drawing blood.

"Now watch," hissed Lucius behind him. "Watch me destroy Darius of Rome, you and everyone you love, Marcus Gaius." With one last little jab to Methos' neck, Nathan stepped closer and lifted his sword.

"No," gasped Methos as he struggled to rise, vaguely surprised that Joe's gaze seemed to be locked on something on the other side of the altar.

In the next instant, Joe sagged in Nathan's arms, held marginally upright only by Nathan's grip on his hands, and a gunshot that seemed louder than most explosions tore through the air. Lucius started screaming Nathan's name then, screaming it again and again as Nathan was propelled backward to lie dazed and bleeding from a wound in his chest.

Joe staggered but remained upright, barely, swaying from side to side like a drunken man, Nathan's sword still clutched in his bloody hands. Methos whirled to see who had fired the shot, but something else, something small and loud and in constant motion, diverted his dazed attention.

"Nathan," it shrieked again from a horrifically scarred face amid a mane of unkempt blond hair. Its four short, useless stumps gesticulated wildly, disturbing the blanket in which it had been wrapped. Methos froze, staring and numb, until those familiar blue eyes locked with his own, until he saw the wraith of the man he had known. He lowered his head to the floor, unable to move or speak.

"Master," whispered Nathan, struggling to his feet.

"I would advise you to stay where you are, Nathan," said a woman grimly, a woman that Methos struggled to identify. He knew the voice. He was certain he knew the voice, but did it really matter now?

"No," said Joe in an eerie monotone. "You may not have this."

Methos jerked his head up at the sound to see Nathan attempting to reclaim his sword as Joe stared down at Lucius, unblinking, and held tightly to the blade. "Don't touch him!" he gasped, shock exploding into fear and anger.

"Are you deaf?" snapped another voice. Another shot echoed through the nave, but Nathan dropped to the floor, taking cover behind the altar, and snatched Methos' sword from his weakened grip.

"He is not deaf," returned the first voice, still grim. "He is stupid."

"Joanna," breathed Methos. He drew a deep breath. "Amanda. Get the hell out of here!"

"Drop it!" Amanda's voice was closer now. "Get away from them!"

"Strike, Nathan," howled Lucius, thrashing frantically. "Kill Marcus Gaius now!"

Without hesitation, Nathan raised himself to his knees, lifted Methos' sword and arced it downward toward Methos' neck. Methos pinched his eyes shut and reached out to clutch Duncan's arm, determined to touch the man one last time, cursing himself for every error in judgment that had brought them to this ridiculous end.

A surprising clash of steel near his ear made his gasp and flinch away; his eyes snapped open to see Richie standing at his side, glowering into Nathan's stunned face, his sword holding Nathan's at bay. "Okay. Let's recap. You sliced one of my friends, carved up another one and now you've shish kabobed my teacher." Richie hauled back his free hand and punched Nathan in the face hard enough to send the man reeling backward down the steps to land on his back some ten feet from the altar. "I'd say that makes you a major asshole." Richie followed him, sword raised. "So let's do this again. Richard, son of Duncan."

Nathan sprang to his feet and swung wildly at Richie, who parried the uncontrolled swipe with ease. Nathan started making his way back up the aisle toward the altar again, fending Richie off with obvious difficulty as the younger man pressed him with a fairly impressive flurry of lunges and parries.

Methos staggered to his feet and tried to take Nathan's sword from Joe, who remained where he was, watching the combat with an impassive expression. Joe turned toward him and spoke softly, pulling the sword out of Methos' reach. "You will not need this."

"Nathan, stand where you are." Joanna strode around Amanda to plant herself between the combatants and the altar, sword raised. "It's over. Put up your sword."

Nathan's only response was a wild swipe at Richie's neck, which Richie parried effectively, if clumsily. Tearing his gaze from Joe's face, Methos flinched; he knew that the boy was good, but he was no match for an opponent of Nathan's experience. There could be only one outcome to this.

Amanda darted in front of the altar and aimed her weapon at Nathan. "She said stand where you are, and that's what she meant," she snarled. "Take one more step in this direction, and I'll put one through your heart."

"Nathan!" howled Lucius. "You will not allow Darius' whore to lay hands upon me! I will not be taken again."

"You will not be taken," hissed Nathan, lunging at Richie again.

Amanda swore loudly and fired. Nathan whirled toward her with a shocked expression as a crimson stain soaked the front of his shirt as well as the back; he fell to his knees, then onto his face, and lay still. Richie lowered his sword, nodding at Amanda. Everyone stood still for a moment; all Methos could hear were the rasping breaths of the living.

Amanda glanced at Joanna. "Are you sure he wasn't deaf?" she demanded acerbically, breaking the silence.

"Nathan," hissed Lucius. "Nathan!"

"He cannot answer you." Joanna mounted the steps to the altar to stand at Methos' side; Richie and Amanda followed her.

Methos stared down at Lucius, at the twitching remains of once hearty limbs, at the twisted, puckered remains of the handsome face, at the blazing madness in the blue eyes, then turned to Joanna. She met the gaze squarely, ignoring Amanda's ragged intake of breath as she peered behind the altar.

"Why. Didn't. You. Tell. Me." Methos barely recognized his own voice.

"Oh, my God," muttered Richie, turning away.

"Was your burden not great enough?" whispered Joanna.

"My burden?" Methos stared down at Lucius again.

"Enjoy your triumph," hissed Lucius, eyes fixed on Methos' face.

Methos let himself sink to his knees, too exhausted to remain standing, and started to laugh bitterly, lowering his head. "My triumph." He started violently as the door to the rectory opened with a bang, and nearly retched.

"It will be fleeting."

"Joanna. Take Nathan into the garden. Amanda and Richie will help you." Joe's voice was soft, steady, and strange, but Methos could not drag his gaze from the ravaged man before him.

Methos heard Joanna gasp softly, then stride swiftly down the altar steps. "Richie. Amanda. Come."

"I thought I had reached you in time," murmured Methos, lost.

Lucius already twisted face twisted even further as he sneered. "I am not defeated."

"No one told me, Lucius."

"Imprison me where you will, I shall escape."

"I'm sorry," whispered Methos. God, Sebastian had been right. He had been right all along. He had seen this, known this, anticipated the centuries of misery that Methos' interference would cause. "I should have let you go." He heard the door to the rectory close and realized, dimly, that the others had left.

"I shall wreak vengeance upon every generation of Watchers, and upon all you hold dear, until the end of time, Marcus Gaius."

Methos lowered his head again, overcome.

"No. You will not do this," said Joe.

Duncan groaned Methos' name softly and stirred; Methos reached over to lay a weary hand on his shoulder. "Mac. I'm here."

"I will," snarled Lucius. "I will find servants worthy of my cause."

"No. You will not. You will never leave this place." Joe's voice was quiet. Sad. And he was speaking Latin.

Latin.

Methos' head jerked up in shock. "Joe?"

"Forgive me," murmured Joe, lifting Nathan's sword. "For what has been done. For what must be done."

Lucius' eyes widened. "Yes," he hissed. "Now the coward shows himself, when all danger has passed. Now the monster appears to finish what it began!"

"I will finish it," whispered Joe, tears in his eyes, but Methos surged off the stone to grab Joe's hands in his own, holding the sword over Joe's right shoulder.

"Joe," gasped Methos wildly. A staggeringly powerful swell of disorientation began its slow roll over him the moment he laid hands on his friend; he staggered against him, struggling to maintain his balance. "What is it? What--?"

"You are blind, Marcus Gaius!" Lucius screamed the words so loudly that Methos was certain they could be heard outside the nave. "Look at his eyes, his eyes!"

Methos stared into the eyes he'd come to know so well in the past decade, past the familiar blue to a new light, one that shone back in a different hue, as if from a great distance, or through a stained glass. Methos felt that light flood over him, and through him now; its warmth had an essence all its own, one he would have recognized no matter how long it had been denied him.

"No," whispered Methos. The rest of his balance and strength deserted him; he leaned forward, resting his forehead against Joe's and closing his eyes.

"Methos."

This didn't happen. Consciousness wasn't transferred by a quickening.

"Forgive me, son."

But it had happened.

"I am yours, child. Close your eyes and see me with your heart."

The man he'd hated and shunned for centuries was ... Sebastian.

"I see you," choked Methos, eyes pinched tightly shut.

He'd lost the soul dearest to him in all his long life because he could not bring himself to forgive.

"Forgive me, child."

Fifteen centuries. Sebastian had waited for him in this place for fifteen centuries, and he had never come.

"Always. Forgive me." Methos' voice cracked and broke into a sob.

He'd turned his back on Sebastian; he'd cast him out.

"Always."

And there was nothing he could do to make this right.

"Methos?" Duncan's alarmed voice sliced through Methos' tender consciousness.

No. He wouldn't allow this communion to end. He wouldn't allow death to reclaim the source of the only salvation he'd ever known.

"Death has no dominion; I bear a gift for the sons of my first life and my second. My two beautiful sons."

Father.

"Child. Do you trust me?"

"Yes," Methos whispered brokenly. "Yes."

"Though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love I am nothing."

Methos smiled, but he knew his face was wet. "Yes. I love you, Sebastian. Go with God."

Sebastian's loving chuckle caressed his ear. "Which one?"

Methos laughed raggedly, opening his eyes only when he felt the warm forehead touching his own move away.

"You won't need that," murmured Joe, casting Duncan a loving look.

Duncan drew a sharp breath and dropped his katana as if it burned him, mouthing Darius' name in silent shock; he stared up at Joe with wide eyes and an aghast expression.

"No," howled Lucius, his gaze darting from one man to the next in agitated comprehension. "No!"

"Forgive me," muttered Methos, holding Lucius' gaze for one moment, then closing his eyes. "Forgive me."

"Libera me de sanguinibus Deus, Deus salutis meae: et exultabit lingua mea iustitiam tuam,"ˇ whispered Joe.

"No, wait! We can't, not here!" Duncan leaped to his feet and seized Joe's wrist, but it was too late.

The sudden power of Joe's downward slice caught Methos off guard; his arms were nearly wrenched from their sockets as Nathan's blade whistled through the air, met the all too familiar resistance of flesh and bone, then whistled free again as the small body behind the altar went still. Duncan's harsh breathing was all Methos could hear for a moment.

"God Almighty," Duncan faltered; for the first time since Methos had known him, he sounded truly frightened. Methos forced his eyes open to meet Duncan's horrified gaze. "We've...my God. We've killed...." Methos felt a slight vibration under his feet.

"Requiem aeternam dona ei, Domine, et lux perpetua luceat ei. Requiescat in pace,"ˇ murmured Joe, his hands going limp around the hilt of the sword. Methos let go of Joe's hands, and the stained sword fell to the ancient stones.

"On holy ground," finished Methos quietly, unable to look at the silent, unmoving flesh at his feet, or the muted cloud of light that rose from within it. The vibration grew more pronounced, causing the candlesticks and the cross on the altar to tremble ominously; a strangely warm breeze swept down the nave. Joe sagged against Methos, obviously unable to stand. No more able to stay on his feet than Joe, Methos lowered his friend to the floor, every muscle trembling in exhaustion, and took Joe's head and shoulders into his arms.

Duncan sighed shakily and knelt behind them, wrapping his arms around Methos; he stared down at the man lying in Methos' arms. "What have we done?" Chairs began to topple in the nave; the candlesticks fell from the altar to strike the floor. A thin veil of dust began to descend from the arches above them, whipped by the growing wind, lit by the pulsing light vapor that by now had expanded, diffused, permeated the structure around them, following the mortar crevices of the stones to form a glowing latticework. "What will happen?"

"Peace," murmured Joe, his eyes drifting shut as if he were falling asleep. "Sanctus Deus, Sanctus Fortis, Sanctus Immortalis, miserere nobis et totius mundi".ˇ

Methos had to lean down to hear the words over the growing rumble beneath them, the groan of ancient timbers and stone, the whistle of the wind around the stone pillars. Joe sighed and went limp in Methos' arms. "Peace, Sebastian." Methos lifted his head and buried his face against Duncan's chest, breathing hard, hugging Joe to him tightly and bracing himself for the inevitable pain and violence of a quickening--and whatever else might come afterward. He could feel rather than see the light increasing inside the church, a more intense light than these old stones had seen in fifteen centuries; it was only a matter of seconds before it struck.

"It's beautiful," said Duncan in a stunned voice.

Methos lifted his head to see the wonder in Duncan's face and the light in his eyes; he felt his fear evaporate at the sight, he fell in love all over again. "You are beautiful," he murmured in Gaelic, leaning upward, desperate for one last tender touch from this courageous man before the unknown came to exact its price. Duncan glanced down at him, startled, then smiled and leaned down to take Methos' mouth with his own and caress it lovingly as the light burst its bonds of stone, crackled through the air and coiled about them.

Methos cried out into Duncan's kiss, anticipating the familiar, soul-shredding pain, and was astonished when it didn't come. Pulling reluctantly away from Duncan, he watched in fascination as the coil of light broadened, flattened, and curled to encircle them, shimmering as it soared swiftly from floor to the vaulted ceiling. Methos caught his breath in recognition as the glistening fountain arched over them.

"Methos," whispered Duncan. "What is it?"

Methos pointed upward wordlessly; Duncan's gaze followed his. They watched the glimmering light churn over their heads for several seconds, then gasped in unison as the entire liquid structure suddenly collapsed inward upon itself, tumbling toward them with the echoing roar of many waters. Duncan clutched Methos to him, wrapping himself around him protectively as Methos curled himself over Joe, shutting his eyes as the scalding wave washed over them. And still he felt no pain, only warmth; a light so bright Methos could see it with his eyes closed burned a word into his mind as deeply as if a giant or a god were screaming it in his ear.

Agapé.

"What?" gasped Methos into the sudden, stunning silence. "What?" Methos felt a warm hand caress his cheek and tilt his face upward; he forced his eyes open to see Duncan searching his face anxiously. Methos allowed himself a breath and a glance about him. The church looked as if a tornado had blown through it, but it was still standing, and it certainly didn't resemble any afterlife he'd ever heard of. Not a glimmer of light nor a puff of wind disturbed the dim, silent room. "We're alive," he said dazedly. "We're not...supposed to be alive, are we?"

"You're asking me?" Duncan looked and sounded as if he'd run a marathon; Methos could feel him shaking.

Methos looked down at Joe, stupefied, struggling to understand, then hastily laid a hand against his friend's carotid artery. A pulse beat there, slow and strong, and Methos began to breathe normally again. "He's all right." He glanced up and down Joe's body, looking for any sign of what he knew could happen to a mortal body caught in a quickening, and found none. "How could he be all right?"

Duncan let out a deep breath of what sounded like profound relief. "Methos. Right now all I care about is that he is. That you are." Duncan lifted Methos' hand to his lips and kissed his palm.

"Mac, this is...we just...this is impossible." Methos floundered for a rational explanation and came up empty.

Duncan started laughing quietly. "Weren't you the man who asked for logical proof of the existence of faith?"

Methos started violently and stared into Duncan's brown eyes, searching. "Yes," he whispered, a glimmering of understanding lighting his dark confusion. "I did. Eleven centuries before you were born, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Duncan's eyes widened as he took a sharp little intake of breath. "Oh," he said softly.

"Oh," murmured Methos, pulling Duncan toward him. He rested his forehead against Duncan's and closed his eyes, numb. Duncan shifted, touching his lips to Methos' lightly. Methos leaned into the comfort of the touch, but was startled away from it by a long-suffering sigh from the vicinity of his lap. He hastily glanced down at the source of the sound, cringing inwardly. "Oh. Hey, Joe." Well, they may have survived a quickening on holy ground, but it was entirely possible they might not survive this.

Duncan cleared his throat and stared rather pointedly off into the distance.

"Great. Just great." Joe glared up at the two of them with weary, if irritated, resignation. "Why do I get the feeling that my life just got a whole hell of a lot more complicated?" He glanced about the storm-swept nave in obvious confusion. "Did I miss something?"

"Not much." Methos bent over him, stroking back the silver hair. "Just the end of the world."

"Figures."

Duncan laid a hand on Joe's shoulder, smiling. "Are you all right?"

Joe snorted and tried to sit up; it took all three of them to manage it. "Do I look all right, MacLeod?"

Duncan's smile became a grin. "Joe, you look beautiful."

"Shut up. Where's Lucius?"

Methos' euphoria imploded; he felt his smile drain away as he pointed wordlessly to the still form behind the altar.

"Holy shit," whispered Joe. "Holy shit." He looked at Methos anxiously. "Are you--?"

A shriek from the direction of the rectory cut him off and sent Methos bounding to his feet. Snatching up his sword, he shouldered his way through the rectory door and through Darius' study to find Richie wrestling with Nathan just inside the door to the garden; Methos could see Joanna and Amanda scrambling to their feet outside, both looking a little worse for wear. "Richie, back off!" Methos leveled his sword at Nathan. "Outside. Now."

Richie backed away to stand at Methos' side, breathing hard. "Son of a bitch just wigged out on us."

"Where is my master?" snarled Nathan.

"Your master is dead," replied Methos evenly. "I took his head."

Nathan's face twisted in anger and horror. "You could not have taken his head here and lived!"

Methos laughed mirthlessly. "Fine. I'm dead. Outside."

"I will not leave my master! I will not allow you to imprison him again!"

"He isn't imprisoned any longer," said Methos quietly. "He's free."

"No." Nathan's body tensed as if for a spring. "You are lying. You are--" He broke off and stared with a horrified expression at something over Methos' left shoulder. Methos' peripheral vision caught an image of blood and blond hair; it was all he could do not to flinch away.

"Jesus. Mac," said Richie weakly.

"Satisfied?" demanded Duncan in a harsh tone. "The rest of him is still behind the altar."

Methos saw Joanna blanch and close her eyes.

Nathan's eyes narrowed in hatred. "Damn you. Damn you all."

"Outside," ordered Methos sharply. "Richie, give him your sword."

"What?"

"Do it!"

"I've already challenged him, Methos," said Duncan quickly. "He's mine."

"I told you the day we met you couldn't fight my battles for me, MacLeod." Methos couldn't spare the man a glance, but he didn't need to see him to feel the intensity of his gaze.

"Methos."

"Mac. Do this for me."

Silence reigned for a moment.

"Give him your sword, Richie," said Duncan quietly. "Please."

"Shit," muttered Richie. He threw his sword at Nathan's feet. "Take it, you bastard. Let's see how good you are with a blade when the other guy isn't tied down."

Nathan snatched up the sword and backed slowly down the steps and into the garden. "You have killed him."

Methos followed him, nodding wordlessly.

"You have caused me to fail him!" screamed Nathan, swinging at him wildly.

Methos parried the uncontrolled swipe easily. "You didn't fail him," he said in a strained voice. "I did."

Nathan whirled and began to hammer Methos with a storm of ill-aimed, frantic blows, which Methos deflected, grimacing. "Damn you! Damn you to hell! Fifteen centuries of agony, only to have justice denied him! You know nothing of his suffering, nothing! Traitor! Coward!"

"None of his victims knew anything of his suffering either," retorted Methos, managing with difficulty to suppress the image of Gabriel screaming out his last breath. "They were innocent. And you knew it. Their blood is on your hands, Nathan."

Nathan stood panting for a moment, wild-eyed. "And how much blood stains your hands, Marcus Gaius?"

"Too much to have any desire for yours," said Methos quietly.

Nathan's eyes narrowed.

Methos shrugged, vaguely aware that the people around him seemed to be holding their collective breath. "You can try to kill me if you like. But I'm telling you right now that I'm better than you. I will take your head, and you will have lived for nothing."

Nathan remained silent, studying Methos' face.

"Or you can swear to me by your father's grave that you will leave me and mine in peace, and leave." Methos heard Richie mutter rebelliously behind him, saw Amanda's jaw drop, saw Joanna bow her head.

Nathan's expression went blank. "Leave?"

"Yes, leave. And live. For something other than vengeance."

Nathan's gaze locked with Methos'. "There is nothing else left for me."

"You're wrong," retorted Methos passionately. "Your master is dead. Your oath to him is broken. You're free. You can choose another way."

"There is no other way for me now."

"There is! Are you really so fond of the hell you've been living for the past nine centuries that you can't bear to leave it?" snarled Methos.

"Fond?" Nathan stared at Methos bleakly. "I understand hell, Marcus Gaius."

Methos drew a shaking breath, not entirely certain that his knees wouldn't buckle. "Having reached that understanding, move on."

Nathan glanced down at the sword in his hand for perhaps two heartbeats, then threw it aside. It rattled against the flagstones as Nathan turned away.

"Nathan," said Methos harshly. "Your oath."

Nathan glanced over his shoulder. "I swear by the grave of David son of Samuel of Mainz that I will leave you and your...."

"My family," murmured Methos as Nathan paused, feeling Duncan's hand rest on his shoulder.

"...your family in peace."

"Violate that oath, and I will hunt you down and introduce you to some knives of my own," said Methos with soft menace. "It's been a while since I've used them, but I was trained by a master."

Nathan looked startled for a moment, then nodded silently, and strode across the lawn, away from the main entrance. Methos watched him walk away, ignoring the raging scream that threatened to burst from his gut and give itself voice, then let his own sword fall and turned to bury his head against Duncan's chest.

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