What the Thunder Said
by Jennifer Campbell

Part 2, continued.

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Methos pauses the narrative to compose himself. Even now, several weeks later, echoes of that night still haunt him. Cassandra's emotions had been unusually strong, and her Quickening had coursed restlessly through his body for hours as he'd tried to reconcile his unconfrontational nature with her aggressiveness.

That night had been hell. What came next was worse.

As Methos gathers the will to continue, Joe whistles softly through his teeth and shakes his head. "Cassandra's Watcher had been keeping an eye on two immortals and had lost her in Paris. Must have been just before she latched onto you." He pauses. "I'm sorry, Methos."

Methos furrows his eyebrows in confusion. "For what?"

"For calling that night. If I'd known what would happen, I would have kept the information to myself."

With a shrug, Methos says, "It's not your fault. There's no way you could have guessed at what was going on."

"But I was Mac's Watcher," Joe protests. "It was my job to know."

"Not even I knew, Joe. If I had known, I wouldn't have gone back to the motel room the next morning."

Joe rests his forearms on the table as he leans forward intently. "What happened?"

After a deep breath, Methos continues the tale.

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The next morning, the city changed. With the return of daylight came businessmen in smooth gray suits carrying briefcases in one hand and phones in the other. The street vendors emerged, and so did the kids laughing on their way to school. Horns honked. Engines revved from one stoplight to the next. Gone was the dark anticipation of the night, transformed into a bustling urban center with the sunrise.

More than one person, when spotting Methos in his slow stroll through the crowded streets, watched him warily and decided it best to detour around him. Their reactions were no surprise. Methos knew he didn't look like the normal morning fare: dirty, wrinkled clothes, unkempt hair and bloodshot eyes. He'd probably avoid himself, too, if he could.

He'd slept badly while huddled against the crumbling brick wall that night. Every time he'd dozed off, the nightmares had come. He'd killed Cassandra a million times in as many different ways, and every time he'd jerked awake and found himself still in a cold alley, only to begin the cycle again.

By sunrise the nightmares had faded, and he knew what he had to do. Disappear. Walk away from MacLeod and the Game and hide himself. Only then would he find safety and be able to live in peace as he waited for the end to find him.

Yes, to leave was the best course of action. But not quite yet. Not until he had assured himself that MacLeod was all right.

As Methos approached the motel, he half-feared and half-hoped that MacLeod might have checked out. Part of him wanted to know that his friend had retained his sanity, yet he dreaded that the Scot had surrendered to the rage. In more than one version of his nightmare, after taking Cassandra's head, MacLeod had then taken his.

So it was with anticipation and dread that he crossed the parking lot and felt the presence, almost as familiar to his ancient senses as his own. Before sliding his key into the door lock, he unsheathed the Ivanhoe and held it tightly against the back of his arm. If attacked, he was ready. But ready for what? To take MacLeod's head? It wouldn't have been the first time he'd killed a friend, but MacLeod was different. Methos had known since their first meeting that the Highlander should win the Game.

And that's why you're here, old man, he reminded himself. You're here to drag MacLeod back from the edge of the abyss and keep him sane, so he doesn't lose his head to some nobody with a grudge against humanity or a hunger for revenge. Walk in there and save your friend, and probably all of civilization, too, while you're at it.

Methos almost tripped over the pile of sheets and bed covers lying crumpled inside the door. With a grimace, he stepped over the mess and into the dark room. MacLeod was relaxing on one of the mattresses, stripped bare except for the pile of pillows on which he had propped up his head. The gleaming katana lay beside his hand.

"Took you long enough." MacLeod's hand wrapped around the sword hilt, and he pointed the blade at Methos. "I've been waiting all night for your skinny ass to show up."

With one smooth motion, Methos twisted his hand so he held his sword before him, and MacLeod laughed -- a cold sound that in no way resembled the Scot's usual chuckle. That alone revealed a truth Methos didn't want to believe: MacLeod had not survived the night unscathed.

"What are you doing?" Methos asked softly. "Are you going to challenge me? This is not you. You are Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

With another harsh laugh, MacLeod slid from the bed. "Oh, I know who I am. I also know who you are, Methos. Five thousand years of power just begging to be taken."

Oh, this is not good, Methos thought, and he darted toward the door. With a malicious grin, MacLeod fluidly blocked the exit. He locked the bolt under Methos' unreadable gaze.

"You can't leave." The raw anger in MacLeod's voice brought goosebumps to Methos' arms. "The party just getting started, and you wouldn't want to miss all the fun."

MacLeod slashed his katana in a wide, sweeping arc, forcing Methos to jump back farther into the room. Judging by the insane pleasure on his face, the Scot enjoyed this cat and mouse game. Maybe he didn't realize that in a way, it played to Methos' advantage. The longer MacLeod delayed, the more time Methos had to think his way out of this. He had to make Mac see reason.

"I know that what you're feeling is easier than fighting the Pull," Methos said soothingly. "But it's not who you are. Remember the Dark Quickening? You beat that, and you can beat this, too. Because what you're feeling right now is nothing more than another Dark Quickening."

If Methos had hoped his words would be enough, MacLeod's widening grin proved him wrong. He had to say more. Just keep talking.

"Remember all those who believe in you," Methos said urgently. "Darius and Connor and Tessa. Good people who would have rather died than see you like this."

The growl that emerged from MacLeod's throat barely sounded human. "They already are dead," he spat, his voice growing louder with every word. "Their goodness brought them nothing but pain!"

"Then what about Sean Burns?" Methos felt a surge of hope as MacLeod froze. "He selflessly gave up his life to save you. Would you throw that sacrifice away? And how would you feel tomorrow morning if you woke up and realized you'd killed another friend?"

For a moment, as MacLeod absorbed Methos' desperate pleas, sanity returned to the deep brown eyes. His sword drooped in his hand. The hilt slowly slid across his palm and toward the floor as he looked around in confusion. Then the moment passed, and instead of dropping the katana, he tightened his grip and lunged at Methos with a spiteful yell.

Methos fell back a step under the onslaught but quickly recovered and held his ground against his enraged opponent. He had little time to think beyond deflecting the powerful blows. Parry, parry, thrust. He retreated another step, his back foot now almost brushing a wall. With deadly grace, MacLeod's sword darted passed his defenses and slashed across his left arm. Methos gasped, and he felt blood wet his shirt sleeve. The burning pain set him off balance for only a moment, but it was enough. One leg banged into a bed corner and sent him sprawling backward into a mass of blankets and sheets. MacLeod quickly disarmed him, and Methos' sword thudded to the floor.

MacLeod towered over him with an evil smile, and he raised his blade in preparation for the final blow. "After five thousand years, you're going to die. How does that make you feel, hmm?"

"Who said anything about dying?" Methos growled.

He desperately lunged for the only thing within reach -- a half-empty beer bottle on the bedstand -- and he hurled it at MacLeod. As the bottle shattered across the bridge of his nose, MacLeod screamed, dropped his sword and clutched at his face. Alcohol and blood streamed together through his fingers and down his cheeks.

Methos watched his opponent's agony with a blank expression and retrieved his sword. Almost of its own volition, the blade ran through MacLeod's chest to the hilt, and Mac's howls died instantly. He fell back onto the bare mattress as Methos withdrew the blade.

He automatically knelt and used a crumpled sheet to wipe the blood from his weapon. Then, without a word or one glance toward his fallen friend, he sheathed his sword, took MacLeod's keys from their resting place by the clock radio and walked out to the car.

He drove for hours, stone-faced and silent, heading for God knows where. It wasn't until nightfall, when he parked at a truck stop and stretched across the back seat, that he released the suppressed emotions. MacLeod, the best man he'd seen in all his 5,000 years, was gone. Not dead, but he might as well be, as hollow as his burned-out barge. All his efforts to keep Mac alive, and what had it come to? A battle in a dirty motel room and the loss of a friendship like brotherhood. All for a pathetic Game.

End of part 2

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To be continued ...