A TIME OF REFLECTION By: Brian Ward He thought of his friends often. After four hundred years the Highlander had accumulated many. He had also buried many. Duncan Macleod was no stranger to lose, but he had come to terms with much of it. However, he did believe in remembering, and remembering brought their ghosts to haunt him. He heard the wind and the waves slapping against the barge. A storm was brewing over Paris this night. The weather outside matched his mood so he walked out onto the deck. He felt the need to challenge something so he made his challenge to the elements. As the wind whipped through his hair he could almost feel the spirits of his old friends caressing him. Caressing him like Gabriel caressed all those women. He had such a talent with beauty. Inwardly Macleod was always jealous of Gabriel. In his long life he had perfected the art of women. It was certainly an art Macleod did not have. Gabriel knew how to please a woman in any way imaginable. Macleod hated having to kill Gabriel. He stood by his decision, but he still missed him. Missed him like he missed Brian Cullen. He was once Macleod's dearest friend. He saw Cullen do things with a sword he had never thought possible. Over the years he watched the best swordsman in all of Europe turn into a man consumed with fear. Not the fear of dying, but the fear of living. Cullen turned to drugs to cope with what he was. First it was opium and later cocaine. It helped him forget what he was. The endless killing proved to be too much for Cullen. In the end the drugs destroyed him. They made him paranoid. He didn't trust anyone. Through the haze of his mind he even saw Macleod as an enemy. Since the time Macleod had killed Cullen in self-defense, he knew if it had not been for the drugs, he could have never beaten Cullen. And in a way, that saddened him. Then there were those that he didn't have to kill. People like Lucas Desiree, who had been his friend since the Civil War. Or Old Carl who taught him how to track and live of the land. Or Paul who ran a monastery for immortals tired of the Game. Or Hamza who taught Macleod the fighting styles of the Middle East. Or Charlie, who helped Macleod run the dojo back in the states. Dying in Macleod's arms he asked to "borrow" some of Macleod's immortality. No was one of the hardest answers he was ever forced to give someone. Then there was Graham Ashe who taught the Highlander as much about life as he about the sword. Watching Ashe beg for his life and ultimately dying was devastating to Macleod. Darius. As his memories of Darius swept over him the storm picked up intensity. Just a few short years ago he had stood where he stood now, and poured the ashes of the two thousand year old monk into the Seine. He remembered Waterloo where he first met Darius. He remembered the cloister in which he found Darius' body. He found that he missed Darius the most at times like this. Darius always had a way of making him feel better. Just like Fitz. Hugh Fitzcarin and his English arse could always make Macleod laugh. Besides Connor, Fitz was Macleod's oldest friend. He had always challenged Macleod to better himself. Learn to read. Be a better swordsman. Charm this woman. Pan for gold in the Yukon. No matter how practical or ridiculous the chore, he always convinced Macleod to do and do it well. What he wouldn't give to smell the smoke of Fitz's pipe in the wind. As the weather deteriorated more his memory wandered to his greatest pride and greatest mistake. Richie. Young Richard Ryan was his friend, his student, and in many ways his son. Macleod had killed friends before, but never like this. This was an accident. Richie wasn't supposed to die. He was so young and full of life. Even after all their problems, their friendship endured until… The rain washed down his face, but he knew tears were mixed in as well. After a while the storm let up. As the clouds parted there she was. Tessa. His beautiful Tessa. In four hundred years he had never met a woman like her, and if he lived another four hundred he didn't believe he'd ever meet another to fill her shoes. For twelve years she had been his life. Then she was senselessly ripped from his world. Five years later and he knew he wasn't over the loss of her. He in part hoped he never would. A strange calm lay over the Seine. Macleod stared into the darkness of the night. In his mind's eye he could see Cullen the way he was before the drugs. And there was Charlie jokingly mocking Macleod. And there was Fitz taking a pull off his pipe, and Richie laughing. And Hideo Koto bowing in acknowledgment. And Darius waving; wishing Macleod, "Peace be with you." And in the center of all these apparitions was Tessa smiling softly telling him that she loved him. The buzzing in his mind drew him back to reality and the ghosts returned to their world. Macleod turned to see Methos and Joe Dawson making their way onto the barge. As Joe approached Macleod and shook his hand he noticed Macleod was soaking wet. "Jesus, Macleod. What were you doing out here?" Macleod smiled solemnly at Joe and placed his look at Methos. "Saying goodbye to some old friends." Methos knew what he meant. Certainly any immortal with a heart would know what it's like to stand in rain and watch everyone they ever cared about dance around in the wind.