Dead, not off wandering somewhere, not in hiding, not forging a new identity, not scheming…dead, Macleod tried to process that information. He had known Methos for a short time chronologically but the things they had survived together…how could he be dead? Not a mark on him. Head and neck intact but dead. Dead. Methos was dead.

Macleod started to cry.

Joe thought about calling Amy, telling her it was over…no one would find Methos and complete his Chronicle now. He thought about calling her and telling her everything he knew… he thought about calling her and telling her he loved her.

A tear landed on the back of his hand.

Richie Ryan stood on a balcony in a large house in a dusty town. Desert sun beat down on the worn motorcycle leathers he wore. At his hip hung his sword, naked and obvious, he shifted his weight and leaned against the steel railing surrounding the balcony and gazed across the desert expanse. He had received Mac's message hours before. He didn't know how to feel, Methos had been an acquaintance, a near enemy, and something like a friend. Too complicated, too dangerous, too unpredictable to trust. Richie found it was the nature of the other immortal's death that preoccupied and unsettled him. Someone so powerful, so clever and ruthless killed without losing his head?

Richie shivered.

Amanda Darieux looked at the silk sheets and the gorgeous man tangled in them and rose from the bed. She scooped up a robe and slung it on easily then padded over to a bay window and curled up on the window seat. Duncan had called her and told her. A world without Methos wasn't changed in any fundamental way, she knew that, but it still seemed emptier. She looked at her lover and at the gray sky beyond the window.

Amanda sighed.

Jack O'Neill studied the report in front of him and the blank box leering at him demanding he sign it. He hadn't written it, he hadn't been able to. Carter had written it with supplementary reports from Daniel, Teal'c and Max. He didn't really understand why Methos had died. He understood that it was his decision to die, that he had not given them any choice in the matter but the actual mechanism of his death was baffling. Carter's supplement suggested some kind of one way energy exchange but even she didn't really know. He had known somehow when Methos arrived on that elevator, just as Carter had, that what the immortal was doing was fatal and irrevocable but he didn't know what it was.

He signed the report.

Carter didn't know why she was crying. She had barely known Methos but still she cried. Stress, she thought, just stress being relieved. Maybe some part frustration, to have struggled so long and endured so much just to fail. No, she thought wiping at her cheeks it wasn't that. Methos hadn't failed, none of them had. Maybe she cried for Max, or Jarod, or her friends. Maybe she cried at the magnitude of his sacrifice, maybe she cried because it was a waste. So much life and knowledge snuffed out.

She washed her face.

Daniel worked trying not to think about the report he had sent to Jack, about his own losses, about Max's silence, Jarod's apparent vegetative state, Emily Prentiss' shattered world, all the losses and pain the SGC had endured only to enjoy this latest…He picked up a sheaf of papers and skimmed through them, caught the edge of a photograph and tugged it free. An aerial image of the alien temple, captured after the electrical storm or whatever it had been finally failed. He set the photograph down and laid another image next to it, the image of the temple on Carthis.

He began to compare and take notes.

Frasier sighed at the test results and filed them away. Everything indicated the results were normal and correct to a young adult male in good health. Whatever had killed Methos and nulled his Quickening hadn't left any traces in his tissue or fluids. Every scan and image of his body was the same. Inert dead flesh. The faint scent of decay even emanated from him. All she could be certain of was that Methos' biological body was absolutely dead. She felt a headache blossom at the base of her skull, felt the weight of a day without sleep, felt the lurking despair of a doctor that was too late.

She took an aspirin.

Teal'c stared at the candle flame set before him. His huge shoulders rose and fell evenly as he breathed slowly seeking Kel'no'reem. It didn't come. He closed his eyes and saw the dangerous immortal, flashes of memory faded by time, enhanced by tragedy. He respected the immortal and felt a sense of loss at not knowing him better. He thought of Max, adrift without her most familiar rock at hand.

He snuffed the candle.

General Hammond couldn't focus on the paperwork in front of him. Harriman had quietly slipped away some time before. An astute man he knew when his general did not need him. Hammond had lost personnel, more than he cared to think of. Faces and names that dogged his sleep. Somehow losing this man was hitting harder than most of the other losses. Maybe it was his reluctance to get involved, SG-1's determination to recover him, his dedication to protecting Earth…maybe Hammond recognized some part of himself in Methos, the part that could bring Max to heel with cold…sometimes cruel truths. The part that could tally the numbers and make the pragmatic choice in spite of the screaming of his heart…

He pushed the paperwork aside.

Max floated in a chemical fog, born by heavy sedatives and muscle relaxants to a jellied state of neutrality. She had woken twice since Methos' death and been knocked on her ass moments later. The primitive lizard brain of her wanted Jarod's head on a pike. Her rational mind knew full well he was innocent in Methos' death, that it had been her mentor's sole decision and no one, not Emily, not Macleod, and certainly not Max could have talked him out of it. But lizard brains don't listen to logic.

Max opened her eyes.