Chapter Twenty-eight
The smooth flow of Kronos' fully-accepted Quickening hit a hiccup-like snag, and Methos at first thought it was coming to an end – until he felt himself being painfully drilled anew with a fresh and furious bolt of energy. Before he could speculate on this unexpected occurrence, Methos became aware that the essence entering him had changed, somehow… become marginally less hateful, more friendly to him…
Silas? his mind asked, sensing the familiar presence somehow fused with Kronos'. But how…? He couldn't formulate a theory in his current state, but he did manage the realization that his friend MacLeod was probably receiving a fusion containing part of Kronos, as well.
Methos had time to feel profound regret.
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So much of Duncan's strength had been consumed fighting off the initial surge of Quickening that when the reconfigured energy mass launched a fresh onslaught, he was hopelessly vulnerable. Images and emotions flooded his being, seeming to stretch his very skin to the point of tearing.
To his horror, this was a new essence being downloaded, one far more grounded in hatred and brutality. Images and the general presence he was feeling told him that, inexplicably, he was receiving part of Kronos' Quickening as well as Silas'. . As Duncan realized that his earlier resistance may have caused this, a childlike knee-jerk desire to take back his earlier resistance coursed through his panicked mind. Duncan wanted no part of this new evil.
Opening eyes he hadn't realized were squeezed tightly shut, the Scot looked to Methos, as though for help.
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Methos began to wonder how much more his mind and body could absorb before simply disintegrating under the pressure of so much energy. If he was feeling overwhelmed, what must it be like now for the much younger MacLeod? Gasping and groaning, the eyes of the world's oldest man sought out his friend, seeking to offer what support he could under the circumstances.
He found the Highlander already meeting his gaze, looking agonized and terrified. As they established an emotional connection through eye contact, the bizarre mass of light hovering between them seemed to shrink slightly, then abruptly swelled in size and brilliance. A renewed burst of energy was thrust through the bolts that tethered them to the mass, and Methos thought that he just might explode. Instead, the excess seemed to spew through his eyes toward MacLeod, and a connection of a different kind was created…
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Cassandra's scream cut off as abruptly as it began. She watched in horror as the combined Quickenings of Kronos and Silas impaled Methos and Duncan. Never, in her long life, had she seen anything as inherently violent as the spectacle before her. And she could see her own horror reflected on the faces of the two men before her.
Seeking shelter against the wall around the base once more, Cassandra was surprised to feel warmth emanating from it. A quick glance around the room confirmed her fears, the fires, though lessened by the oxygen sucking force of the double Quickening, were still burning uncontrolled. They had obviously spread to the interior walls now.
Just as Cassandra reassured herself that the danger from the fire was not imminent, something new happened with the Quickenings. Feeling the change both on her skin and in her soul, she looked up to see a massive flux in the energy pouring into Duncan and Methos.
As the Quickenings cycled through their hapless hosts, spearing them through hearts and eyes, energy began to arc around the room again. Bolts of lightning grounded on any available surface, and Methos' sword finally fell from the wall, a blackened husk. The remains of the catwalk were hit several times, and crashed to the floor. Where it had been bolted to the wall, flames shot out. Realizing that the whole building could collapse at any moment, Cassandra silently prayed for the Quickenings to end.
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The new beam that ran between the immortals seemed to pull Duncan forward even as the lance through his heart pushed him back, and he feared he would be torn in two before this misbegotten Quickening was finished with him. For a while, he was so focused on the hideousness being poured into him via the Kronos-Silas synthesis that he didn't notice a third essence in the mix.
The substance of what he was being forced to absorb together with his acute desire to reject it brought Duncan once again to his knees. He had reached his limit on shame and horror; there was no relief possible now but death. Could a Quickening actually kill an immortal? All he could do was hope so.
No! a voice cried sternly from somewhere within him, a fervent and unambiguous denunciation of death as an escape route. There is little that cannot or should not be endured if the outcome is survival, Duncan thought, knowing that the thought was not his own. At the same time, he was surprised by a sudden feeling of detachment, the sense of what he could only think of as "space" inside himself – room in which to distance himself from his emotions, to turn away from the noise and clutter and think with clarity.
His burden was great, there was no doubt of that. But would dying make up for anything he'd done? Surely it was only by continuing to live that Duncan could possibly hope to redeem himself. Thinking of Cassandra, he realized that if he were to die right now, her last memory of him would be of a hate-crazed maniac hacking a man to pieces. He did not want anyone to remember him that way.
This new objectivity gave him the strength that clear-eyed evaluation often brings to one who is overwrought. Duncan stood slowly, rising first to one knee, then fully upright. This detachment had possibly saved his life, and certainly his sanity. But where had it come from?
He looked across the base at Methos.
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The new bolt of energy had taken the Quickening to a whole new level, one which Methos had never before experienced. Suddenly he was downloading two files simultaneously.
There were some compatibility issues with this latest file.
Methos was shocked to find himself overwhelmed by a sense of personal responsibility, of… could it be… guilt? He'd done a lot he wasn't proud of in the past week, had much to regret, but none of it had been done without carefully weighing the options and choosing the course most likely to allow him to survive. Business as usual for him. He'd outgrown second-guessing and hand wringing in his extremely long life. Regrets, yes. Self-flagellation, no.
So why was he now feeling so desperately guilt-ridden, so convinced that he'd done the unforgivable…?
He looked sharply over at MacLeod. Oh, bloody hell…
Seeing his own actions through the lens of the Duncan MacLeod Code of Honor and Decency, the old man was inundated by feelings of shame, remorse, and self-loathing. Despair descended on him like a thick black but all-too-substantial cloud that rested on his shoulders and pushed him downward, until he finally collapsed to hands and knees under the pressure of it.
So this is what it's like to be the Boy Scout, thought a part of Methos that had managed to remain detached. Good god, how did MacLeod even manage to function under the sheer knee-buckling weight of this ridiculous psychic burden? He wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all, but the feeling of despair still held its stranglehold on most of him. Laughter was not a selection on the drop-down menu.
Lethargically, as though moving through molasses, Methos felt around inside this borrowed mindset, looking for anything that could serve as a handhold for climbing out of this pit. There had to be something around here, something that made it possible for MacLeod to keep going. If there isn't, he thought, then when this is over, I'll take his head. I'd be doing the poor bastard a favor.
When he found it, Methos at first didn't recognize it for the salvation it represented. It was just too simple. It was passion. Passion for honor, passion for loyalty, passion for friendship and responsibility to others… passion for life. Trying it on as though it were a coat loaned to him by a friend, Methos felt a kind of low-key eagerness, a sense of subdued excitement that he remembered well but had not experienced on his own in quite some time. It was the feeling of looking forward to seeing what comes next.
He tried to deny how good it felt, but the damned honor code interfered. The truth was, he had deliberately weaned himself from this feeling. It tended to lower the odds of survival, the only thing he really believed in, the only god he still worshiped and to which he paid meticulous tribute every minute of his life. Joy was a risk, because one tended to get caught up in it, and that could cost one one's head.
And yet, in the past two hours, he had done several things to dishonor the god of survival. The prudent course would have been to give up and join Kronos when it was clear he'd been consummately outmaneuvered. Instead, he'd put himself on the line to save MacLeod and Cassandra even though he could have spent that energy finding a way out for himself.
Scowling, he admitted that it was even possible he'd done all this to save more than just the three of them. Maybe freeing the world from the threat of the Horsemen had played a part…
Okay, so maybe I believe in something besides survival, he snarled internally. No need to get maudlin. Let's get this done with, can't we?
Surprisingly, the psychic weight seemed to be lifting, enough for him to sit upright, on his knees, but not in despair, and not in supplication. Lifting his arms and face skyward, Methos raised his voice – not in anguish, but in laughter.
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The sound of laughter rang through the arena. It carried over the roar of the growing fires; it floated across the crackling energy of the Quickening sparking in the base. Cassandra jerked her head around as she heard it, unable to believe its source.
That Methos could produce this sound confounded her greatly. She waited in trepidation, anticipating the mocking edge that underscored his laughter so often. Instead, all she heard was joy, and a reckless merriment befitting a much more sanguine individual.
As Cassandra watched, the connection between the two men was broken. The Quickenings spent the last of their fury in one final burst of energy and dissipated grudgingly. Both Methos and Duncan fell to their hands and knees, panting with exhaustion, as the fires moved to encircle the base.
Getting shakily to her feet, Cassandra moved toward the two men. She seemed torn about which to offer aid to first. Thankfully, the decision was taken from her as both staggered up of their own volition.
"Come on!" she cried over the rising roar of the flames. "We need to get out of here before the roof collapses." Taking each of the men by an arm, she herded them toward the exit.
"But isn't the door still locked?" Duncan roused himself from his post-Quickening daze to ask.
"I do believe I have the key." Methos hefted Kronos' broadsword in his hand. A loud crash followed his words, and all three immortals turned to see one of the interior walls disappear in a crumbling sheet of flame. "Although we might not need it. Hurry!"
Duncan, Methos and Cassandra rushed through the arena as fast as their aching bodies, and the treacherous terrain, would allow. Burning embers alighted on their clothes and hair, trying to claim them for the raging fire that burned all around them. Seeing the exit wall already burning, they crashed through the door, pulling it from its weakened supports.
Lying sprawled on the pavement, the three survivors gasped for breath. Heaving themselves to their feet wordlessly, they turned as one to Methos' Jimmy.