Dearer Yet the Brotherhood: Part 4

Chapter 12: Confronting

Duncan wasn't going to give Connor a chance to run this time. He followed Connor though the kitchen and caught up to him in the garden near the dry-stone wall. "What the hell was that?" Duncan demanded.

"What?"

"That look. That quiet about you."

Connor shrugged and turned to go, but Duncan wasn't going to let it slide. Not this time. Not again. No more secrets, no more lies.

"I don't need to ask, do I?" Duncan said grimly, moving to stand in front of the gate, blocking Connor's escape. "I've seen it before." Many times before, in taverns and drawing rooms and brothels, in London and New York and Rome. "It's your 'Go ahead and take the woman, Duncan, I'll just sit back and watch' look. It's your 'I wasn't all that interested in her, anyway' look."

Connor shook his head, not even trying to answer. Their breaths came in silent, white puffs in the frosty air.

"Jesus, Connor!" Duncan swore in fury and exasperation. "How can you even think for a second that I would ever do anything to come between you and Alex? She's your wife! She just gave birth to your children!"

"I know that!" Connor said, equally furious and exasperated. "I trust you with my life, Duncan, and I trust both of you."

"Then what the hell was that?" Duncan repeated. "One minute everything's fine, and the next you're ... withdrawn, closed off. Angry. Why? We were just sitting there. I wasn't doing anything."

"You never have to do anything, Duncan," Connor said, finally looking at him, and Duncan blinked in shock at the bitter resignation in his kinsman's eyes. "You just are."

Connor didn't give him a chance to answer, but turned and went back into his house, and Duncan was left to remember. "Ever since I've known you," Connor had said in his teasing way that cut deep, that knife-edged banter that Duncan had known so often and so well, "ever since I've known you, you've had all the fun, and all of the good women."

Words like that cut both ways, and sometimes they cut to the bone.

As Duncan walked through the kitchen, he heard the closing of Connor's bedroom door upstairs, and then Alex's voice hushing a crying baby from the guest suite on the ground floor. Duncan went to the living room and poured himself another drink, wanting that small comfort before he went after Connor again.

"I don't think this visit from us is turning out very well," Cassandra ventured from her chair, and Duncan snorted his agreement and tossed back half of the whisky. "What happened, Duncan?" she asked cautiously. "Is everything all right?"

"No."

"Can I help?" she offered.

"No." The last thing this needed was yet another woman between them. Duncan finished his drink, then suddenly realized Cassandra might be able to provide information Connor never would. "How long was Connor your student?" Duncan asked, going over to sit on the arm of her chair.

"Just a few months," Cassandra said, wrapping her arms around her bent knees. "Ramirez had been dead for fifty years, and Connor hadn't had much of a chance to practice with swords. He and I worked on that a bit. But, I think he also came to Donan Woods so he could say goodbye to the Highlands, to Glenfinnan. Leaving everything he'd known ... it was hard for him."

Hard indeed, to leave a homeland behind, and all that has been known and loved. Duncan knew. It had taken him six months to get up the courage to set sail for France that first time. "Has he changed much, since you knew him then?" Duncan asked her.

"Yes. Of course, he's older now, but he's also harder. More sarcastic, less open. And he seems ... angry."

"He's been like that ever since I've known him," Duncan said, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true. Those first five years of training hadn't been like that, before Connor had gone to Aberdeen, before Connor had killed him.

Before Connor had argued with Cassandra.

Duncan took another look at the woman sitting huddled in the chair, the woman Connor had hated, the woman who had already come between him and Connor. "What kind of 'old-fashioned' training did you want Connor to use on me, Cassandra?" Duncan asked. When she didn't answer, he said it for her. "You wanted him to kill me, didn't you, to teach me a lesson in trust?"

She managed a silent nod, and Duncan pushed himself away from her and started pacing back and forth. It still didn't make sense. "You said he refused to use the 'old-fashioned ways,' refused to kill me."

"Yes," she agreed, uncoiling from her chair and standing quiet behind it.

"Then why did he?" Duncan demanded.

Cassandra blinked once and said in dismay, "Connor killed you, too?"

"Too?" Duncan repeated, wondering how many other students Connor had killed, but then he saw the stricken look on Cassandra's face, and suddenly he knew what Connor had done. Duncan charged up the stairs and shoved open Connor's bedroom door, slamming it against the wall. Downstairs, another baby started to cry.

Connor pivoted slowly from his place in front of the window on the far wall. "That is a door," he said, pointing at the still-quivering slab of wood, and then at Duncan's clenched fist. "That is your hand. Next time, knock."

"You killed her, didn't you?" Duncan accused, walking past the large four-poster bed, advancing on him. "You killed Cassandra." Connor didn't answer, didn't even blink, but Duncan knew he was right. "And you enjoyed it," Duncan said in disgust.

Connor turned back to look out the window, turned his back on Duncan as well.

"You enjoyed killing me, too, didn't you, Connor?" Duncan said, remembering Connor's savage exultation as the sword had slide home, remembering - feeling - the slicing of flesh, the grating of cold steel through his ribs, and the ripping explosion in his heart.

Connor whipped around. "Christ, no!"

Duncan drew a trembling breath as Connor's hot denial eased some of the rage and pain pulsing through him now.

"How can you even think that?" Connor demanded.

"I don't know what to think about you anymore," Duncan said, facing this stranger who wore Connor's face. "I don't even know who you are. There've been lies and secrets between us since the day we met." Lie after lie, secret after secret, starting from the day he'd been born. More hidden secrets, more ground that shifted under his feet and left him staggering and alone. Cassandra, his father, Methos, Connor - every single one of them had lied to him, and he had trusted them all.

"Damn it, Connor!" Duncan swore, when Connor said nothing, did nothing, merely kept the silence again. "What the hell is going on?"

Connor shrugged and headed for the door, but Duncan took him by the arm. Not again, damn it! Connor threw him off with an oath and kept going, and Duncan came at him from behind, laying both hands on Connor's shoulders to stop him. Connor pushed back with an elbow to the ribs and a quick turn, shoving Duncan against the oak foot board of the bed, but Duncan grabbed for him as Connor started to leave.

"Let me go!" Connor snarled, whirling with deadly efficiency and even deadlier intent, striking out at Duncan with practiced hands.

Duncan had been expecting an attack - Connor always fought back, and he was vicious when he felt trapped - but Duncan still didn't manage to block the blows completely. Duncan's own temper snapped, and he got in a vicious blow of his own, a solid - and immensely satisfying - punch to the jaw that sent Connor reeling to smash against the armoire and into the wall.

Duncan faced him, panting, moving to stand between Connor and the door. "I want some answers, and I want the truth."

"Duncan ..."

"NO!" Duncan exploded. "This stops here. Now. We've danced around this for nearly four centuries. Why did you kill me?" Connor still didn't answer, and Duncan knew he'd have to be the one to put it into words. "Was it really for training, to teach me a lesson in trust?"

Connor shook his head, staring at the line where the wall met the floor.

"Then why?"

Connor rubbed the side of his face where Duncan had hit him, then slumped down along the wall to sit on the floor, his knees up, his head bowed. Duncan sat down too, leaning his back against the bed, and waited some more.

"I lost my temper," Connor finally admitted.

Duncan quoted Connor's teacher, and his own. "Never fight when you're angry."

Connor snorted, the edges of a grin flickering around his mouth. "I know."

"What were you angry about?" Duncan asked, and when he got no answer, started to give Connor another lead to follow. "Did I do - ?"

"No," Connor broke in, meeting his eyes with a steady, honest gaze.

Duncan exhaled slowly in mingled relief and confusion. "But you were angry with me."

"I shouldn't have been," Connor said.

That was good to hear, but it still didn't explain anything. Duncan tried another approach. "You weren't in a good mood when you got back from Aberdeen."

"No," Connor agreed.

Duncan resisted the urge to reach over and beat Connor's head against the wall to get him to talk more, and instead asked only, "Is that when you killed Cassandra?"

Connor's mouth quirked in a mirthless grin. "No. I wanted to, but Roland took care of her for me that time."

And four days ago in the exercise room, Duncan had seen how guilty Connor still felt about that. "So, when did you kill her?"

"In 1592," Connor replied, finally producing some information, "about six weeks after she killed me."

"She killed you?" Duncan repeated in shock, then nodded slowly. "Of course, she did. For training. The old-fashioned kind." To teach Connor a lesson in "trust."

"Yeah," Connor muttered. "And she was ... thorough about it."

Methos had been thorough about it, too, and Cassandra had apparently learned that lesson very well. Duncan shook his head, sickened, wondering what she had done to Connor, and what Methos had done to her. But Duncan couldn't ask Connor for details, not now; this was already difficult enough.

"I left that day," Connor was saying. "About a month later, I came back to ask her why, and she said that Immortals lead hard lives, and require hard lessons. I could see that, so I stayed."

Duncan had stayed, too, but he hadn't killed his own teacher to get even. Though he had thought about it a few times.

"But she knew I was still angry with her, and she wanted to get that over with," Connor said, forcing out the last few words. "She deliberately pushed me, until I lost my temper and killed her."

Finally, it made sense. An everyday sparring practice, Cassandra taunting Connor the same way Connor had taunted him, angry words, a flare of temper, a quick slash with a sword ... it happened easily enough. Just read the paper any day. Connor wasn't the only one to lose his temper during a fight. "And you enjoyed it," Duncan said, relieved it was that simple.

"Every second of it," Connor said, looking off into nothing. His hands were clenching and unclenching, his eyes had gone flat and gray, the eyes of a man who can kill, who has killed, and who knows he will kill again. And who enjoys it.

Duncan knew those eyes, that look. He saw it in the mirror everyday.

Connor added slowly, "I hadn't known ... I could like killing that much, especially killing a woman that way. I hadn't known I could - " He closed his eyes and sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, his hands stilled now as he wrapped his arms about his folded legs, the fingers tightly interlaced so that the knuckles showed white. The words came heavily, dull weights of guilt and shame. "I broke her neck with my bare hands."

Duncan's mouth fell open in shock. Connor would never - It wasn't possible. No. Not Connor, not his teacher, not him. Duncan had never killed a woman, except in an immortal battle. He had never wrapped his hands around a woman's throat to twist and squeeze, not even in the Darkness. Kronos had done that, and Caspian and Silas, and maybe even Methos had done it, long ago, but Duncan couldn't believe that Connor could ever do such a thing, or could take pleasure in it.

Duncan shook his head, trying to make sense of it, to excuse it, as he had tried to make sense of Methos's gleeful claims. "I killed," Methos had said, letting the word linger on his tongue, "but I didn't just kill fifty. I didn't kill a hundred." He had smiled engagingly, charmingly. "I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand!"

But that had been Methos the Horseman, a stranger from two thousand years ago, a man who didn't exist anymore, and this was Connor, his teacher and clansman and friend, a man Duncan had known and respected - and admired - all his life. "Did she use the Voice on you?" Duncan ventured, desperately hoping it was true. "Did she - ?"

"No," Connor interrupted flatly, opening his eyes, staring at him, another painful and honest admission. "I wanted to kill her, Duncan, and I did. And I enjoyed it."

Duncan blinked hard, trapped in a nightmare of echoes. "I killed because - I liked it." Maybe Connor had just lost himself in momentary battle-madness, dropped his sword in the fight and started to use his hands, maybe -

But Connor wasn't finished. "After she revived, I wanted to kill her all over again."

"I killed TEN thousand!" Duncan pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the other side of the bed, then leaned one hand on the top of the dresser and the other hand against the wall, laid his head on his arm, bracing himself against the flood of memories:

- Methos, with a laugh of frenetic desperation, leaning forward to share an ugly confidence: "I was Death, Death on a horse."

- Connor, his lips drawn back in a cold snarling smile of hate, ramming his sword through Duncan's ribs and into his heart.

- Richie this summer, his sword in his hand, angry and suspicious and ready to fight: "Did you come here for me? I'm ready."

- and his own face in the mirror, when he was still in the Darkness, his own eyes sated with blood and with power and with other people's pain. "You're wrong," he had told Richie, about taking Koltec's head. "I loved it." And he had. He had loved the conquest and the lightning and the sheer fucking power of it all, loved it with Koltec and then with Sean Burns, loved it again with Caspian and with Kronos, and Duncan knew that he lusted after it still.

He drew a trembling breath, let it out slowly. He was not going to let that hunger control him. He was not going to be like that anymore. He had come through the Darkness into the Light, and he had silenced the Voice of Death. He was not nothing. It was over, and the Horseman Death was vanquished, too. Methos had changed, and Connor had changed, and no matter what they had done in the past - no matter what he himself had done in the past - it didn't define who they were now, or who they wanted to be.

Duncan lifted his head. In the mirror above the dresser, he could see Connor, still sitting on the floor, his head resting on his knees, miserable and alone. Duncan joined him, sat down next to him on the floor and laid his hand on Connor's shoulder, a gesture of acceptance, of understanding, of love. "You didn't kill her again," Duncan stated, sure of that, sure of Connor, too. "Not then, not later in Aberdeen. You stopped yourself." So had Methos - eventually.

Connor lifted his head to stare at nothing once more. "Barely."

"But you did stop," Duncan insisted. "You're not like that, Connor."

Connor nodded slowly then straightened his back and stretched out his legs, the tension and the loneliness easing away, and Duncan dropped his hand. Connor leaned his head against the wall and added thoughtfully, "You know, if I hadn't already known what it was like to kill her, I probably would have killed her in Aberdeen, and taken her head."

"Why?" Duncan asked, grabbing the opening, but Connor didn't answer. "I'm not a dentist, Connor," Duncan said in exasperation. "I don't like pulling teeth."

Connor rubbed his jaw slowly where Duncan had hit him. "They do feel kind of loose."

"Talk," Duncan demanded, ignoring the ploy. "What happened in Aberdeen to make you so angry?" Angry with Cassandra, and angry with Duncan, too.

Connor shook his head with a sigh, then rattled off his reasons, ripping out that festering tooth as quickly as he could. "You were the Highland Foundling, the fulfillment of the prophecy. Cassandra had been waiting for you for three thousand years. She got Ramirez to go to the Highlands with her, she made sure your parents took you in, she got rid of the midwife. She took me as a student to finish my training, she convinced me to be your teacher, she arranged meetings between her and me for seven years, she told me when you became an Immortal. And then in 1630 she asked me to meet her in Aberdeen."

Duncan thought of Connor's bitterness from a few days before: "I found out she'd been lying to me, about a lot of things, and in a lot of ways." Lying to Connor every day and every night, lying to him even as she was lying with him, lying to him with smiles and caresses and with pretended words of love, lying to him and using him for nearly forty years. God, what a calculating, cold-hearted bitch!

Connor's conclusion was calmly stated, devoid of emotion, and sharp enough to cut to the bone. "That was the day I realized that everything she'd done, she'd done because of you."

And now Duncan remembered his own angry words from that fight long ago, words born of his pain and confused rage, words that told Connor exactly what he couldn't bear to hear: "She didn't want you."First Cassandra and then Janet, then the barmaids and the dancers and the girls in every town, down through the centuries, woman after woman, time after time, and then finally Alex, Connor's wife in Connor's own house ...

"Oh, Jesus, Connor," Duncan whispered, reaching out to his kinsman, but Connor was already leaving, slamming his way out the door and down the stairs. Duncan closed his eyes as he put his head in his hands. He didn't want to see Connor this way, stripped bare in shamed agony, hurt and defensive and humiliated, and he knew Connor didn't want to be seen. But Duncan could not help but see Connor's steadfast love and his unbidden, unwanted hate; his fond pride and his bitter resentment; and the aching, bleeding, vulnerable uncertainty buried deep beneath it all.

"Oh, Connor."

Connor grabbed his coat on his way out the front door, heading out into the cold of the late afternoon twilight, fleeing from Duncan's kind, understanding, pitying eyes.

God! Connor didn't need pity, didn't want any of this, didn't want Duncan to know - had never wanted Duncan to know - just how fucking stupid he had been all those years ago, and how goddamned stupid he felt right now. And Alex would ask, and Cassandra would wonder, and then Duncan would start to explain ... oh, just absolutely fucking wonderful.

"Merry Christmas, MacLeod," Connor muttered to himself, and he kept on walking - because there wasn't any use in running anymore, and there was nowhere left to run - walking away from the warm yellow lights that shone in the windows of his home, out into the icy whiteness of snow-covered fields.

Chapter 13: Accounting

Duncan sat in Alex and Connor's bedroom for a few moments, then he hauled himself to his feet and went hunting for Cassandra. He knocked on the door to the guest bedroom, but he didn't bother to wait for an answer before he opened it. Alex and Cassandra were both sitting on the floor, and Alex had one of the babies on her lap - Sara probably, judging from the pink hat. A blue-hatted baby lay sleeping in a bassinet near the bed.

"Cassandra," Duncan said grimly, "I want to talk to you."

Cassandra rose slowly, but Alex commanded, "Then you can talk right here."

"Alex ..." Duncan didn't want to drag all this ugly business out in front of Connor's wife.

"I already know everything that happened between Cassandra and Connor," she said bluntly. "I know they were lovers. I know she killed him, and I know why - and how - he killed her. And I know what happened after that."

What happened after?Duncan repeated silently. God in Heaven, there was more? But Alex was still talking, and he turned his attention back to her.

"I have a right to know what's going on now," Alex said.

Duncan nodded. There had been enough secrets, on all sides, and Cassandra had been behind them all. She was waiting for him, standing with her back against the wall, her hands at her sides, staring at the floor. Duncan took a deep breath for control. "I've known Connor nearly all my life," he told her, forcing himself to stay calm. "I've known that he would kill for me, that he would die for me. I've known that he loved me."

And Duncan loved Connor, would die for him, would kill for him, would do whatever it took to protect him, or to avenge him. Connor had - in some way - loved Cassandra, and Cassandra had sliced him into shreds. Duncan started pacing between the bed and the door. "I've known that, almost from the beginning, he was ... envious of me, but I never understood why, until today."

Duncan stopped to give her a chance to answer, but Cassandra didn't move, didn't look up, didn't respond to him at all, like he wasn't even there. Like she didn't even care.

"I lied to you exactly once," Duncan continued, walking again, forcing calmness again, "lied to you by mistake, and you damn near took my head off for it. You said I made you feel worthless, like you were nothing, and I felt guilty about that. I actually felt sorry for you."

God, how gullible could he be? This woman had been scheming and lying for centuries, for millennia. She had used him and used Connor, and probably used Ramirez, too. Duncan took two quick steps over to her, frustration and fury burning away any show of calm, his voice rising in rage. "But you lied to Connor for forty years! Day in, day out, over and over again." He flung her own words into her face. "You lied every time you listened to him, every time you pretended that you cared, every time you took him to your bed!" Duncan felt his hands clenching into fists, and he wanted to take her by the neck and squeeze. No wonder Connor had killed her, had wanted to kill her again.

"You bitch," Duncan swore, soft and vicious, and she finally flinched at that word. "How could you do that to him?" Duncan demanded, commanding his hands to stay at his sides. "How could you use him that way?"

"It wasn't like that," she said, finally having something to say for herself. "And Connor knows it. We talked about it this summer."

"Three and a half centuries later!"

"I couldn't go to him earlier!" she protested. "He would have killed me."

"I'm not surprised," Duncan snapped. "You ripped his heart out, Cassandra."

"I know," she whispered, almost soundless, her lips tightening. Then she lifted her head and declared, "What's between me and Connor is none of your business, Duncan."

Duncan ground his teeth together but agreed. "No. It isn't." Connor had said it was a misunderstanding, and Connor had - for some unfathomable reason - accepted Cassandra as his friend. Duncan had to honor that. But Cassandra still owed him. "You've been playing games with my life since before I was born, and now I find out you've been between me and Connor, too." For years. For centuries. "Do you have any idea what that did to him, to think that he was just some ... fucking toy for you to play with, until you finally got to me?"

Cassandra opened her mouth to reply, but Duncan didn't give a damn about what she had to say anymore. "Do you have any idea what that did between us?" he demanded. "All the jealousy, the insecurity, the competition ... all his jokes that weren't really funny, all the little games he's played, all the contests to prove who was 'better,' all those goddamned lies between us ..." Lie after lie after goddamned fucking lie, and every single one of them could be traced straight back to her. Duncan slammed his hand against the wall, right next to her beautiful, lying head.

She didn't move at all.

Duncan stepped back, breathing slowly and carefully, trying to relax his fingers and open his fists. He glanced over at Alex, who was still watching and listening, evaluating the confrontation. Duncan breathed a silent prayer of relief that somehow both babies had managed to stay asleep. He hadn't meant to lose his temper this way.

Cassandra was standing quietly against the wall, eyes wide and watchful, face calm and composed. Only her hands betrayed her fear, slight tremors in her fingertips beating a silent tattoo against the sides of her legs. Methos had broken those fingers, broken them over and over again. Duncan didn't much care. "And it was all because of you," Duncan said with complete disgust.

"You're right," she admitted softly, not even trying for an excuse. "I'm sorry, Duncan. I never meant to come between you and Connor like that."

"Just like you never meant for my father to banish the midwife?" he demanded. "Just like you never meant to hurt Connor?"

"Just like that," she agreed, submissive still.

"Seems like there've been a lot of things you 'never meant' to happen," Duncan observed.

Her placid mask was ripped away by sudden rage. "At least I try to fix them!" she spat, her eyes narrowing, her fingers curling into claws. "At least I didn't make Connor think I cared about him, only to hand him over to somebody else to be raped and beaten and killed, while I stood by and watched!"

Duncan wasn't going to let her get away with that. "Methos has nothing to do with what you did to Connor."

"No," she agreed, not trying to defend herself there, "that fault is mine. Mine alone." Cassandra took a step towards him, coming in for the attack. "But Methos has a lot to do with you," she pointed out. "You asked me if I knew what it feels like to be used as a 'fucking toy.' Oh, yes, Duncan," she agreed again, her cold eyes matching her cold smile, "I know. Your friend Methos taught me. He told you about that, didn't he?"

Methos hadn't told him much, and Duncan didn't really want to know.

Cassandra wasn't finished yet. "You seem willing to accept and forgive what Methos did to me, and to countless others, but here you are, furious at me because I lied and hid things from Connor, and from you. I was trying to protect both of you from Roland, and I did the best I could."

Duncan wasn't going to let her get away with that, either. "Your best wasn't very good." Cassandra's fingers were twitching, though Duncan didn't think it was with fear anymore. She probably wanted to slap him again.

"I know that," she said, grinding out each word. "Methos isn't the only one to have regrets. But at least my regrets don't include the rape and torture and murder of thousands of people."

A flash of movement caught Duncan's eye, and he turned to see Alex shifting position, her narrowed eyes and open mouth revealing her confusion, and her sudden keen interest. So, Alex hadn't known everything after all. Damn.

Duncan stepped back from Cassandra and took yet another calming breath, realizing she was demanding he give her the same consideration he had shown Methos. Connor had already forgiven and accepted Cassandra, and she had just admitted her wrongdoing and apologized to Duncan. She had lied to Connor and used him, true, even killed him a few times, but she hadn't slaughtered Connor's family in front of his eyes. She hadn't enslaved him, raped him, or broken his fingers over and over again to tame him to her will, and then handed him over to someone else to be brutally beaten and raped. And she hadn't murdered thousands of people just because she liked it.

Methos had.

And if Duncan could accept Methos, with all of his gory past, and if Duncan was going to ask Cassandra to accept the new Methos and forget about the old one, then Duncan had damn well better live up to his own words and accept the new Cassandra, too. He opened his mouth to tell her that, but she was heading for the door. Duncan took her by the arm. "Where are you going?"

She shook him off and turned to Alex. "I need to go to Connor," Cassandra said.

"Go," Alex ordered. "And make things work this time."

Cassandra hurried from the room, and from the hallway came the banging of the front door. Duncan sighed as he slumped down to sit on the floor, the anger draining away, leaving him empty and tired. Anger with what? he suddenly wondered. With Cassandra for using him and for hurting Connor? Or with Connor for lying to him all these years? Anger with Methos for using him, anger with himself, anger with Cassandra just for bringing him bad news and for coming between him and Methos, too?

Oh, Christ. Duncan ran his fingers through his hair then rested his head in his hands, wondering just what the hell he'd done, if he'd simply taken all of his recent pent-up rage out on her. He looked up to meet Alex's considering stare. "Do you think I was too hard on her?" he asked.

"No."

Duncan snorted with surprise at the quickness and at the reply. For all the friendship between the two women, Alex was angry with Cassandra, too. "When did Connor tell you what happened?"

"This summer, when Cassandra was visiting, after their ... disagreement."

"You mean after Cassandra tried to take his head?" Duncan asked.

"And after Connor tried to kill her," Alex added.

Duncan blinked. "This summer? Again?"

"She does seem to bring out the worst in him," Alex said wryly. "But I think it was just left over from a long time ago. They'd never dealt with what happened between them."

Neither had he and Connor. But it seemed Connor wasn't keeping secrets from his wife anymore. "Alex, are you all right with Connor and Cassandra being ...?"

Alex sighed in annoyance, blowing air upward to push her bangs from her eyes. "Right now, I wish I'd never met her. And I wish to God Connor had never met her, either."

Duncan wished to God he'd never met Cassandra, either.

Alex shrugged. "But he did, and they both need to deal with this. I just want them to get it over with, and I want them to do it where I can see what's happening."

"I'm sure they won't - "

"No," she said, another quick reply, this time with a smile. "Connor's faithful, Cassandra's sexually frigid, and there's a foot of snow on the ground."

"There is that," Duncan agreed, smiling in return, though snow by itself wouldn't stop Connor; at least it hadn't in the past.

"Are you and Connor done yet?" she asked. "Or should I expect another fight tomorrow?"

Duncan rubbed his hand along his jaw, over the rough stubble starting there, remembering the punch Connor had landed. "I think we're done," he said cautiously. "I sure hope we are."

"Good," Alex said briskly. "I'm tired of it."

"So am I." Duncan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, debating if he should go take a nap.

Alex's voice forced him awake again. "So, Duncan, who is Methos?"

Duncan sighed, feeling a little like Connor had upstairs. But Alex had put up with a lot over the last few days, and she had a right to know what was going on. Some of it, anyway. "Right now, he's my friend. A few thousand years ago, he was Cassandra's master."

"Not a kind master," Alex observed.

"No." Duncan changed the subject. "Alex, what happened after Connor killed Cassandra?"

Alex hesitated then shook her head. "That's not for me to say."

"Damn it, Alex," Duncan swore. "I'm sick of - "

"Ask Cassandra, if you really think you need to know," Alex broke in. "Connor won't talk about it. And don't ever ask him," she added, a clear warning in her words. "He's been through enough."

Duncan got the message, loud and clear, and Alex had been through enough, too. On to a more cheerful topic. "You seem really comfortable being around babies, Alex," he commented.

"I babysat a lot when I was in high school," she said, responding quickly and with obvious relief. "I always liked the little ones."

"And they're eating OK?"

"They seem to be. My milk hasn't come in yet, maybe in a day or two, the nurse said." Alex smiled down at her daughter. "So far, it's going pretty good." She looked up and added dryly, "The babies, I mean." Then she laughed at herself. "Of course, we've only been home for about six hours."

Duncan nodded. Things would change soon enough. They always did.

Banging noises came from the kitchen, and Alex said, "Sounds like John decided to come inside and eat."

"You hungry?" Duncan offered.

"Yes," she said, and Duncan took a sleeping Sara from her and helped Alex stand. "Would you take the babies upstairs to the nursery, Duncan?" she asked. "They should sleep for another hour or two."

"They sleep a lot," Duncan said, settling Sara comfortably in the crook of one arm and picking up the handle of Colin's bassinet with his other hand.

"They're only two days old," Alex said ruefully. "They'll be more awake and aware in another day or so. Just wait."

"Why do you think I offered to take John skiing?" Duncan asked with a grin before he went upstairs to put the twins to bed.

Chapter 14: Forgiving

Duncan and Alex had just finished eating when the presence of Immortals slid down his spine. "They're back," he told Alex, and she went to the hall to wait. John had already left to sort out his Christmas presents, and Duncan stayed in the kitchen by himself. Connor didn't need an audience right now. But when Cassandra came into the kitchen, Duncan stood. "Got a minute?" he asked her.

"I'm going to have some tea," she answered, setting the kettle on the stove. "It's cold outside."

It was cold inside, too, now that Cassandra had shown up. Duncan sat back down and waited, watching her trio of reflections in the three windows of the far wall as she moved about the room. Three Cassandras, each from a different angle, each showing a different side: far-seeing knowledge, unbalanced rage, shattered vulnerability. Witch and fury and slave. One woman.

She took her time about her task, her boot heels clicking on the gray slate floor, but finally, she sat down at the head of the long trestle table and neatly arranged her tea cup, saucer, and spoon. "Well?" Duncan asked, leaning toward her.

"I told him what he needed to hear," Cassandra said, relaxing in her chair. She crossed her long legs at the ankles and examined her black leather boots, turning her feet this way and that.

"And that was?" he prodded.

The boots stilled, and Cassandra turned her gaze on him, a predatory evaluation. "The truth."

"It's about time."

"Yes. It is." One corner of her mouth moved, the faintest tracery of a smile. "Do you want the truth, too, Duncan? Do you really want to know?"

"Yes." He was sick to death of these games.

She nodded once and let him have it. "I told him that I'd never wanted you as a lover, then or now. I told Connor that I had wanted him, and that he was magnificent, both in and out of bed. I told him that he was the best lover I've ever had. Better than Ramirez." She picked up her cup and sipped at the steaming liquid, her green eyes watching him from over the rim, detached and curious, amused and cold. "And better than you."

Duncan forcibly relaxed the sudden tightness in his jaw, the cold knot in his gut. He'd asked for it, and she had been all-too-pleased to comply. Payback for calling her a bitch, no doubt, and payback for a lot of other things, too. But she was right, it was exactly what Connor had needed to hear. Duncan didn't mind hearing it, not really, although maybe not in quite those words.

"Oh, not that you weren't magnificent, too, Duncan," she said, setting down her cup, all wide-eyed sweetness. "And the night we spent together was marvelously memorable, and exquisitely enjoyable."

How exquisitely gracious of her.

"But Connor ..." Her eyes lost their focussed vindictiveness, went soft, even vulnerable. She blinked and met Duncan's eyes, no pretense or anger left, only the truth. "That night with you was truly special to me, Duncan, in many ways. I do mean that." She managed a tentative smile. "You made me feel wonderful. You made me feel alive again."

Duncan nodded, accepting these words just as they came, accepting her unspoken apology, too.

"But Connor made me feel loved, and that has been ... so very rare in my life." She picked up her tea cup again, but this time she bowed her head to drink from it, and Duncan could not see her face.

He settled back on the bench, reminded of what she'd been through lately, of what she'd been through three thousand years ago, and he wondered what had happened to her in between. Some good, at least - she had said she'd put her time with the Horsemen behind her, and she had told him she'd been married four times - but enough bad so that love was a rarity. Connor had given Cassandra love, and no matter how messed up she had been in showing it, she had loved him, too. She still did. Duncan could see it all over her. And he knew that Connor had accepted her apology and accepted her as a friend for the same reason he himself had accepted Methos. Not everything between them had been a lie.

"I'm sorry, Cassandra," Duncan said quietly. "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

She shrugged, her head down. "You were right, and I deserved it. I hadn't realized ... what I had done to him." She blinked rapidly. "I never wanted to hurt him."

"Not even when you killed him?" Duncan asked, being gentle about it, but intent on getting the truth - all of it.

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears. "That was immortal training, Duncan. I didn't want to do it; I hated it. And I hated myself for doing it."

"Connor said you were 'thorough' about it."

Cassandra nodded, once more seeming cool and unconcerned. "That lesson needs to be learned thoroughly." They stared at each other across the table until she asked, "What kind of lessons have you given Richie?"

Duncan looked away, but still the images came. Richie, only two weeks an Immortal, beaten and groaning on the exercise mat, while Duncan ordered him to get up and fight. Richie, on his knees and bleeding, with Duncan's sword slicing ever-so-sweetly into his throat, pleading for a reason: "Just tell me why?" Richie, hard-eyed and angry, his sword in his hand, spitting out the words: "Thanks, Teach. I got it now." And Duncan, trying to explain, hating himself and despising himself, and wondering just how he'd done it all so wrong.

Duncan nodded back to Cassandra, understanding now. "Thorough ones."

Cassandra's mouth twisted as she blinked back those tears. "I hate teaching Immortals," she said. "You have to become so cruel." She bent her head to her tea, her long hair veiling her face.

Duncan rose to get a glass of water, to give them both time to regroup. As he watched the liquid flow into the glass, he tried to decide what to do. Should he ask now or later? Or should he ask at all? Maybe Cassandra wouldn't tell him, maybe it wouldn't be that bad, maybe he didn't really want to know. But then again ...

Oh, what the hell. Duncan sat down and faced Cassandra. "What happened after Connor killed you?"

Cassandra's mask appeared again, a polite one this time, eyes wide yet empty, lips curved in a slight and meaningless smile. She reached for her spoon, stirred the already dissolved sugar in what was left of her tea. Then she set down the spoon and looked at him.

Duncan returned her stare unblinking, telling himself she just another immortal, ignoring his earliest memories that whispered "Witch!" and his more recent memories that screamed against her Voice coiling through his mind.

"You're angrier at Connor for lying to you, than because of what he's done," she stated. "It's his lack of trust that disturbs you the most."

Duncan nodded, half in surprise and half in recognition. He had been angry with Methos for the same thing, and angry with Cassandra, too. And after the Dark Quickening, Connor had been angry with him in just the same way.

"I'm going to tell you what happened," Cassandra said, "so that you will understand why Connor never told you - why he never wanted you to know - and so that you will never feel the need to bring this up again. Connor won't want to talk about it with you," she said, with the same warning tone that Alex had used. Cassandra pushed her tea away from her and laid both palms flat against the wood of the table, sat staring at her hands. "Did he tell you how he killed me?"

"Yes," Duncan said grimly.

"Did he tell you where?"

"Where?" Duncan repeated, confused. "Why should - ?"

"I was naked beneath him in bed," Cassandra interrupted bluntly, looking at him now.

"Oh, Christ, no," Duncan whispered in disgusted horror, recoiling at that mingling of violence and sex. "Connor wouldn't - "

"But he did," she contradicted, and Connor's own words had said it was true.

Duncan shook his head, wishing now he hadn't asked, but knowing he couldn't stop yet. "What the hell did you say to him, to get him to kill you like that?"

"Exactly what he couldn't stand to hear," Cassandra replied.

"Why?" Duncan demanded. "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking much at all," she said with a flicker of an ironic, bitter smile. "Then after I revived, I offered him my body. And he took it."

Duncan shoved the bench back and walked away. "You don't know me at all," Cassandra had told him only a few hours before, and he had smiled, thinking he knew her pretty well. But this ... He didn't *want* to know her.

But he needed to understand. He went back to the table, standing at the far end, not too close. "Do you ... do you enjoy that kind of thing?" Bondage, submission, sado-masochism - a lot of people got off on receiving or inflicting pain, and for Immortals, the limits to pain didn't apply.

"No," she said immediately, a hoarse whisper, and her hands, still flat on the table, trembled. "But sometimes, I deserve it." She folded her hands on her lap and met his eyes. "It wasn't rape, Duncan, and it wasn't murder. I wanted him to. Needed him to, maybe."

Wanted Connor to kill her, to hurt her, to use her body in revenge; needed him to punish her for what she had done to him. Duncan walked away from the table again, paced around the room, then circled back to her, as everything seemed to go back to her. "And after that?"

She was staring at the table, once more fragile and unsure. "Connor yelled at me, for making him into something he never wanted to be. And he was right. I was drowning in hatred, my hatred of myself, and I dragged him down with me. And then later, I almost destroyed him, just like ..." She bit her lip and looked away. "One more thing to add to the thousands I've done wrong."

One of a thousand regrets. Duncan pulled out the chair next to hers, sat down and took her hand. "You're still drowning, Cassandra." And not just in hatred of herself. "You need professional help."

"Alex and Connor both told me that, too," she said, with cheerful brittleness. "I guess this confirms it. I'm crazy."

"You've been through a lot," Duncan corrected gently. "It's OK to ask for help."

After a moment she nodded and pulled her hand away. "That's my New Year's resolution then: finding a therapist." Cassandra tossed her hair from her face and shifted again, becoming once more the witch, cool and knowing. "No matter what happened between Connor and me, Duncan, Connor's a good, decent man."

"I know that," Duncan said shortly.

"But Connor was afraid you wouldn't think that, if you ever knew. And sometimes, he wasn't so sure himself."

Duncan closed his eyes and nodded, for he often felt exactly the same way. He hadn't gone to Connor after killing Sean Burns; he hadn't gone to Richie after trying to take his head. He hadn't wanted to face them, to see the disappointment and disillusionment in their eyes, to know there was yet one more thing he'd done wrong. He didn't want to face himself.

This time Cassandra was the one to take his hand in hers. "No one's perfect, Duncan. Not even you." He opened his eyes to see her gentle smile. "We still accept you for who you are," she told him, then added in Gaelic, in the same words he had said to her long ago, when he had been a boy who was certain of the goodness in the world, "Did you not know that?"

Duncan laughed and patted her hand. "Maybe we all just needed to hear it from each other." He would tell Connor that today, and later tell Richie and Methos, too. They didn't need to hide anymore.

Connor lay with his face buried against Alex's hair, his arms close around her, listening to their intermingled rhythms of breath and heart. They lay there together, not saying anything, not doing anything, just holding each other in the warmth of their bed. When he had come back from his walk with Cassandra, Alex had been waiting for him in the hall. She had taken him upstairs, taken him to bed, and held him in her arms. "I love you," she had told him, and then she had said nothing, asked nothing, just waited for him to speak.

Finally, he was ready. "I love you," he told her. It was a good way to start.

"I know," she answered, and he could feel her smile. He picked his head up so he could see it, and see her. She was watching him beneath a heavy silken fringe of pale-gold hair. The crystal edges of her beauty were softened now, tired from the last few days. Her face was rounded by motherhood, by weight gain and water retention and hormones, but her eyes were the same, dark blue as flawless sapphires, reflecting and creating light - and love.

Connor let himself drown in those eyes, savoring her warmth, her strength and patience. God knew she'd needed a lot of that this last year - the pregnancy, the worry that Roland might come to their house in his search for the Highland Foundling, the argument with Duncan back in June, and then Cassandra storming into their lives, a hurricane of rage. And then this Christmas ...

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" she asked. "For being immortal? Or for being human?" Her arms hugged him closer. "I knew you weren't perfect when I married you. At least now you admit it, too."

Connor laughed aloud but protested, "I never said I was perfect."

"No. But you acted like you had to be. Never admitting when you were lonely or scared. Never asking for help." She added softly, "Never letting me in."

He hadn't let anyone in for centuries, not even Brenda, not all the way. They simply hadn't had time. Heather, of course, he had told Heather everything. They had lived together for fifty years. But Heather hadn't been an Immortal; there had been some things she just couldn't understand, and they had both been so innocent then, so young. Cassandra had probably understood him best of all, and after what she had done to him ...

Connor shrugged. "Got out of practice."

"Old habits die hard," Alex said with a nod. "Kind of like Immortals."

He chuckled as he reached up to run his fingers through her hair, each strand soft gold. "Yeah," he agreed. "Like Immortals."

"If Cassandra hadn't come," Alex began, "well, I understand you a lot better now, and I think Duncan does, too." Connor grimaced at that, but Alex said swiftly, "He loves you, Connor, the same way you love him. He'll accept you no matter what you do, once he understands. He wasn't angry at you for killing Cassandra, was he, once he knew why?"

"Angry? No," Connor admitted. "Shocked, yes." More like horrified. But then Duncan had gotten a lot of practice lately in accepting horrifying things. Maybe Methos was good for something after all.

"Duncan was angry at Cassandra for hurting you."

Connor's hand went still in Alex's hair. "He was?"

"Of course, he was," Alex said with some impatience. "The same way I was, when I found out this summer. Duncan came in and yelled at her, called her a bitch."

Connor snorted in amusement, wishing he'd been there to see that little confrontation. "What did she do?"

"Stood there and took it, then said she was wrong and apologized. Then she went to look for you." Connor nodded but said nothing, and Alex propped her head up on one hand, looking at him with bright and curious eyes. "So?" she prodded.

"So?" Connor echoed, pretending complete innocence.

Alex's mouth twisted in amusement and impatience before she clarified, "So, what did you two talk about?" When he didn't answer right away, Alex ordered, "Practice, Connor. No more secrets."

"No more secrets," he agreed. Not with Duncan, not with Cassandra, and not with Alex. She was his wife, and she deserved to know. That still didn't make it easy. Connor blew air out slowly, wondering how to begin. "This summer, you asked me if Cassandra had been frigid four hundred years ago."

Alex nodded. "You didn't answer."

"I didn't know the answer. She's a good actress, and an even better liar. While I was with her, I thought it was good between us, but after I left her in Aberdeen, I thought she'd just been putting up with it, to convince me to help her."

"You mean putting up with you," Alex said gently, stripping bare another layer of pain, stripping away another lie.

Connor froze, his throat and his chest suddenly aching with the simple effort to breathe. Even after all these years, it still hurt. To think that Cassandra had gritted her teeth and forced herself to endure his clumsy caresses, to think that his very touch had made her skin crawl, to know that she had been imagining someone else in bed with her and had never even wanted him at all.

Connor nodded slowly to Alex, easing the air out, easing away the pain. It hadn't been like that. It wasn't true. Alex was still waiting, and Connor forced himself to go on. "Then this summer, when Cassandra told me what she'd been through, what the Horsemen and Roland had done to her, all the other rapes and the other men over the years, I figured she just didn't like sex with anybody."

"Except Duncan," Alex said, that barb going straight into the heart of it all, lodging and twisting in his guts, as it had all these years. Because, of course, it hadn't been just "someone else" that Cassandra had wanted. It had been Duncan, always and forever Duncan, before Duncan had even been born.

Connor shut his eyes, blessing and cursing his wife at the same time. She was smart, she was beautiful, and she didn't let him get away with any crap. Like any good archeologist, Alex was painstakingly observant and patient to the point of stubbornness, and she also wasn't shy about getting what she wanted. It made for a formidable combination, and a formidable woman - and sometimes for uncomfortable conversations. She knew too much. She knew him too well, and it scared him.

And it freed him, let him emerge from behind those walls he'd built centuries ago, as Cassandra's words had freed him earlier tonight. He had been wrong about that, too. "I didn't want Duncan as a lover four hundred years ago," Cassandra had told Connor an hour or so earlier, as they stood outside in the wind and snow, "and I don't want him as a lover now." Connor hadn't believed her at first - he had seen the two of them together, after all - but when Cassandra had suggested he ask Duncan, Connor had known that it was true.

"Well," Connor said lightly, as he opened his eyes, "Duncan's got a way with women."

"Did Cassandra tell you that?" Alex asked, digging again.

"Yeah," Connor admitted, but it wasn't that hard to say, not anymore. "She said Duncan reminded her of Ramirez - a real ladies' man." Connor smiled a little to himself, remembering the rest of Cassandra's words.

"You gave me more than Duncan or Ramirez ever did, Connor," Cassandra had told him. "So much more. You make love. You create it, with your hands, your voice, just the way you look at a woman, the way you hold her in your arms. Even the way you reach out to touch her hair. You give a woman everything you have, everything you are."

Connor let the smile show and said the easiest words of all, "But then she said she liked my way better. Said she liked it best of all." The best in over three thousand years. And Connor felt better than he had in over three hundred years. Actually, he felt pretty damn good. All the lies and misunderstandings, all the bitter envy and corrosive uncertainty - all gone. It would be like it used to be, long ago.

Or would it? How much had he changed since then? And how much could he change now? Connor wasn't sure, but he wasn't too worried. Alex would help, and Duncan would, too. They would start over, with no more of those games. No need, Connor thought, his self-satisfaction tinged with triumph as he tightened his arms about his wife and remembered Cassandra's final words: "Duncan was often in my thoughts, Connor, but you were always in my heart. You still are."

"I'm not surprised she said she liked your way best," Alex was saying with supreme confidence, bringing his attention back to her.

"No?" he challenged her, smiling again.

"No. Because I like your way best, too," Alex said, and she kissed him, fiercely sweet with love.

Connor banished all thought of Cassandra from his mind, and he kissed Alex with everything he had, and everything he was. The kiss tasted sweet with the promise of spring, flowering slowly into summer's liquid heat, until Connor pulled away. "I want to make love to you," he said to Alex, and it was an aching need within him, less of the body than of the soul.

"I'd like that, too," she said, tracing his lips with a gentle finger, "but the doctor said six weeks. Maybe more."

"I know," he said, accepting that. "I just wanted to tell you how I feel."

"Oh, Connor," she said, her eyes bright with sudden tears, and she pulled him close against her heart. "Later," she promised, whisper soft in his ear. "We have time."

But not enough, Connor thought, holding her tightly. Never enough. One year, ten years, fifty years - it could never be enough time. But it could be enough love, and it was.

"And anyway, I think Sara's awake," Alex said, lifting her head. Babies' whimpers came from the room next door. "And there goes Colin, too."

"I'll get them," Connor said, and he went to the nursery. He changed Sara's diaper first and took her to Alex, then he changed Colin and brought him to bed, too. The babies took turns nursing, then the four of them fell asleep together, in the quiet twilight of a winter afternoon. And there was more than enough love.

Later that day, Connor joined Cassandra and Duncan and John outside to build snowmen. They were finished with the fourth snowman before the first snowball flew through the air. Connor was surprised it had taken so long to get the fight going, but he wasn't surprised by who had started it - John was grinning at him, already packing another handful of snow.

Connor didn't waste time brushing the snow from his shoulder; he scooped up a handful as he moved behind the snowman for cover. The snow was nearly perfect, not too dry, not too cold. His weapon completed, Connor peered over the snowman and took aim at John's chest. Bingo. The snowball exploded on target, spraying snow up onto John's face.

"Uncle Dunc, help!" John called, following his father's example and taking cover as he prepared his next missile. Duncan turned around and grinned when he saw the conflict, then he grabbed his own pile of snow.

Not quick enough, Duncan, thought Connor, and he let loose with a fast ball to Duncan's shoulder, enjoying the satisfyingly solid thwack of impact. Connor was still grinning in triumph when a snowball hit him squarely between the shoulder blades, hard. He whirled to see Cassandra smiling at him from about twelve feet away. She had been waiting for him, and another snowball was already flying from her hand. This time she caught him right in the chest. Then Duncan hit him in the back, and John got him in the head. Time to change positions; this one was too exposed. Connor took off after Cassandra, packing a snowball as he ran.

She turned and fled, weaving and dodging, but his snowball still managed to catch her on the shoulder as she rounded the corner of the house. Out of sight of Duncan and John, Cassandra turned, her eyes bright and laughing, her hair spangled with snow. "Wait!" she exclaimed, as Connor drew back his arm. "John and Duncan are ganging up on you; you and I can gang up on them."

"Truce?" he said, not lowering his weapon.

"Truce," she agreed, and he nodded and let fly. Bingo.

"Now we're even," he told her as she wiped the snow from her face and her coat. "And now we can be on the same team."

"Bastard," she called him with complete equanimity.

"Bitch," he returned, and she stuck out her tongue. Connor laughed and gave her a challenging grin. "Ready to get them?"

"Ready!" she answered, and they gathered their weapons and charged.

After dinner, John and Duncan and Connor went back outside. Another snowball fight ensued, but after Duncan and John tackled Connor and dragged him down in the snow, it degenerated into a free-for-all of simply throwing handfuls of the white stuff at each other, and trying to shove snow down somebody else's back.

"Had enough?" Duncan asked when John flopped in the snow and didn't move.

"I'm going to make a snow angel," John said, and he went off to find an undisturbed patch of snow.

"How about you?" Duncan said to Connor, who was lying flat on his back, looking up at the night sky.

"Yeah," Connor admitted. "I've had enough."

They all had. Duncan nodded and stretched out, not too far away. He'd been waiting to talk to Connor all afternoon, but now he didn't know how to start. Duncan put his hands behind his head and stared at the full moon, then said quietly, "I understand why you didn't want to tell me."

Connor grunted softly. "Shouldn't have let it go so long. You deserved better."

"So did you," Duncan told him, and was answered by another soft grunt. Duncan waited a moment, then asked the question that had been bothering him for days. Weeks. "Do you think Cassandra's going to be OK? Sometimes she's seem fine, and then you just look at her wrong, and she nearly takes your head off."

The two men exchanged glances and twisted smiles at the double meaning of that particular statement, then Connor observed wryly, "Must be that time of the millennium," and Duncan snorted in amusement.

"She's lasted this long," Connor said, stretching his arms. "I think she'll be all right eventually, maybe in a decade or two."

Duncan had another nagging question to ask. "Do Alex and Cassandra really get along?"

"They have a lot in common: history, gardening, motherhood. Shopping," Connor added with a roll of his eyes.

"And they both love you," Duncan ventured, expecting either Connor's standard sarcastic remark or an off-handed dismissal, or maybe a shrug and a quiet smile of disbelief.

But Connor only laughed and agreed easily, "Yeah, they do."

Duncan stretched his toes in his boots and his arms over his head, wondering what else might change. This was a different Connor, a new Connor. Or maybe it was the old Connor, the one Duncan had first met long ago, outside a hermit's cave. It was good to see him again. Duncan looked for Orion, then followed the pointer stars in the Big Dipper to the North Star, and watched the universe turn.

John came back, bright-eyed and red-cheeked with the cold. "Let's go running!"

Connor looked at Duncan, questioning, and Duncan nodded, knowing this had changed as well. "Let's go!"

=== EPILOGUE ===

"Are Richie and John back from picking Rachel and your mother up at the train station already?" Duncan asked Alex as he came into the kitchen, his sword in his hand.

"I didn't hear a car," she said, not even lifting her head as she huddled into the chair, her hands clutching her morning cup of coffee. She hadn't combed her hair yet, and a forgotten burp cloth lay draped over the left shoulder of her bathrobe.

Duncan hadn't been expecting much of a response. Alex had said the twins would wake up more, and she had been right. Her euphoria of the first few days had disappeared into exhaustion and inexplicable bursts of tears, and even more inexplicable fits of anger. When Duncan and John had returned from the ski trip yesterday, Connor had taken them aside and warned them to be careful around her. But there wasn't much Duncan could do about this.

Alex finally woke up enough to focus on the weapon in Duncan's hand, and she went pale and stood. "Maybe Cassandra's back?" she suggested.

Duncan shook his head. "She just called and said she'd be here at lunch, in time for the twins' christening ceremony this afternoon."

Connor came running into the room, his own sword unsheathed and ready. "I saw him from the bedroom window," he said. "Nobody I know - tall, blond, cavalry saber. Friend of yours?"

"Don't think so," Duncan answered, mentally running through a list of names and faces and swords. Connor nodded and reached for his shoes, but Duncan laid a hand on his arm. "I'll take care of it, Connor. You stay here."

"It's my house, Duncan. It's my fight."

"You're in no condition to fight," Duncan told him bluntly. Connor looked like hell - unshaven, shirtless, mismatching socks, and even more bleary-eyed than Alex. He and Duncan and Richie had stayed up late last night celebrating the New Year, and then, after midnight, they had started to celebrate Connor's birthday. Richie and Duncan had gone off to bed around three, but it didn't look like Connor had gotten any sleep at all. "Rough night?" Duncan asked.

Connor snorted in disdain, but Alex spoke up. "Sara was up and crying from about three to four, then Colin woke up about four-thirty. We got to sleep around five, didn't we, Connor?"

"Until Sara woke up at six," Connor said impatiently.

Duncan glanced at the clock above the stove - eight-fifteen. Connor might have dozed off for an hour or so this morning, until the approach of an Immortal had woken him.

"Damn it, Duncan, you can't fight my battles for me," Connor said, his impatience turning to anger.

"Not all of them," Duncan replied pleasantly, putting on his coat. "Think of this as a special occasion." He winked at Alex, but didn't get a smile in return.

"You are not going out there," Connor declared then turned to speak to Alex.

Duncan seized the opportunity. He took one quick step forward and hit Connor with a left cross, knocking him out cold.

"Duncan!" Alex protested, hurrying over to her husband, who had crumpled to the floor.

"He was arguing," Duncan explained, shaking his hand to get the feeling back. "Tell him it's a birthday present from me."

"The punch?" she countered. "Or the fight?"

Duncan grinned. "Both." He buttoned his coat and pulled on the thin leather gloves that wouldn't interfere with control of his sword.

Alex left Connor lying on the kitchen floor and gave Duncan a hug. "Thank you."

"No problem," he said, and it hadn't been, not at all. Not in the slightest.

Neither was the fight. When Duncan got back to the house half an hour later, Connor was waiting for him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper. "Have fun?" Connor asked, shaking the newspaper to straighten the pages.

"A little," Duncan replied, taking off his coat and gloves. He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from his kinsman.

"Good," Connor said with a chuckle. "Nice to know you left some for me."

"Of course," Duncan said. "I don't want to have all the fun, or all the good women."

Connor grinned. "You don't," he said smugly and handed Duncan the sports section. "Happy new year, Duncan."

"Happy new year, Connor," Duncan replied cheerfully, feeling an absurd urge to whistle and giving in to it gracefully. Yes, it was going to be a really good year.

To count the life of battle good,

And dear the land that gave you birth,

And dearer yet the brotherhood

That binds the brave of all the earth.

by Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938), from "The Island Race"

Author's Notes

Fionnmore does not exist. However, the whisky that Connor and Duncan drink does exist; it is from the Cragganmore distillery.

"Dearer Yet the Brotherhood" and "Hope Remembered 4: Kindred" are companion stories, so if you're curious about some of the things that happen "off-stage" in this story, you can find them in the other one.

DISCLAIMERS:

Not my characters, not my universe. No money is being made. Cassandra, Methos, and all the MacLeods belong to TPTB. Alistair MacDougal is mentioned on the second Watcher CD.

GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO:

Bridget, who has waited for nearly two years to see this story finished, and who stuck with me for that final re-re-re-written scene. Couldn't have done this without you, B, many, many thanks, as always!

Vi Moreau, who got me back on track when I wandered.

Sandra McDonald, who told me to look at the story.

Listen-r, who helped me weave the tartan and eat cookies and cake.

Rowan Reid, who researched fauna and flora and tackled POV.

Genevieve, who wanted to know what Connor thought about Methos.

Robin, who found dull and deadly spots (out, out damned spot!) and told me to give Connor his due.

My harp teacher