Methos slung the Ivanhoe across his shoulder and walked to the centre of the clearing with an air of nonchalance that he knew would irritate his opponent. When there was only a sword's length between them, he stopped.

"Long time, no see." He said flippantly, in a language that had been dead for over four thousand years.

The dark, flint hard, eyes were the same as ever. The gaze was as cold and mocking as he remembered it. The mouth was a thin, cruel line, that quirked up unnaturally at one corner where a white scar ran across his cheekbone and down over his jugular.

"Methos," It was a statement not a greeting. "I truly thought you'd be dead by now."

"I hoped you were." Methos tone hardened as he let a little of his true feelings seep through.

"Starting to believe your own publicity were you?" The tone was mocking. "Methos, the mythical oldest Immortal? What would your precious Watchers think if they knew the truth?"

"I think I can live with being the second oldest Immortal, for now." Methos shrugged, but there was dark promise underneath his words.

"Ha," The sound was short and harsh. "You think you can take me? You don't have the stomach for it."

Methos' glance flicked reflexively to the scar, as in his minds eye he saw the other, lying helpless at his feet, his life draining away with the bright blood that gushed from his jugular. His neck, pale and exposed, as Methos raised his sword to make the killing stroke.

Except, he had not.

He still remembered the look of scorn that had come with the realisation that he would not. And ever since, this man had despised him for his weakness, for his faith in something so intangible. His own scream of anger and frustration as he threw down his sword, had mocked him down the millennia. Many times since, Methos had wondered if he had made the right, the only choice, as he had once believed. And now, he would soon discover if he had been a fool all this time.

"Oh, and you were just passing, I suppose?" he taunted, gesturing at the barren landscape.

The dark eyes flashed, as the barb hit home. The only reason he would be out here was if he was hunting Macleod. And there was only reason this man would be remotely interested in the five hundred year old Immortal, to alter the outcome of the prophecy, in his favour.

"Out of the mouths of babes and mad men," He acknowledged, as his lips quirked in a cruel smirk. "Who am I to deny my destiny?"

Reflexively, Methos felt his hand tighten around his sword hilt, as all the pain and anger and loss, welled up. His last memory of the kind, gentle, man that had been his first teacher, battered and broken, like a rag doll. "He wasn't mad until you tortured him beyond all reason."

"You still hold a grudge?" He was amused and Methos cursed himself for allowing his emotions to get the better of him. "Poor bookish Methos, who knew only his library and his texts, he died to protect you, you know. And how did you repay him? In your grief and anger, you became the very thing he abhorred."

"I was Death," Methos inclined his head slightly, accepting the slur. Then he raised his eyes in challenge. "And, I was good at it. If you want Macleod, you'll have to go through me."

It was almost a smile. "That can be arranged."

…

Duncan's heart leapt, as the sudden wash of a returning Immortal was swiftly followed by a pair of bright, blue eyes, snapping open to full alertness, instantly darting right and left, wary and suspicious.

"Easy, Tough Guy," Duncan soothed quickly. "Its just us, here."

"I died?" Richie coughed, as he drew fresh air into stale lungs.

"'Fraid so."

"Oh man," Richie blinked. Well, at least he could see again. Almost unconsciously, he flexed his fingers, then his wrists, working his way around his body, a ritual of reassurance after every resurrection that it had worked and he was whole again. "No, matter how many times I go through this, it always sucks."

"Yeah, well," Duncan reached out to support him, as Richie struggled to sit upright. "As someone once told me, it sure as hell beats the alternative."

"I did say that, didn't I?" Richie managed a weak grin. He looked around the small tent. "Where's Methos?"

"You need to re-hydrate," Duncan handed him a cup of water. Recognising the evasive tactic, Richie rolled his eyes. But he was thirsty. Quickly draining the cup he turned expectant eyes on the Scot.

"Well?"

"Eat this first." Duncan passed him a bowl of stew, thick with meal and vegetables.

"Mac," Richie protested, even as his stomach growled loudly in response to the rich aroma.

"Richie, you've been out of it for the last week, dead for the last five hours. Your body needs fuel fluids and rest before you are capable of functioning on anything like normal levels. Now eat."

Richie obediently swallowed two mouthfuls of the stew, before he could bear it no longer.

"He's been challenged, hasn't he?"

Duncan sent him a glare that had caused lesser men to loose control of their bladders. Richie just raised a brow, although he did take another mouthful of stew. Slightly, mollified, Duncan hurrumphed his disapproval, pointedly refilling the bowl to the brim, before he answered.

"Apparently, the man I fought, wasn't Sforza."

"He followed you, here?" Richie guessed, between mouthfuls.

"Aye." Duncan agreed. "Methos knew him, from before."

Richie's eyes widened, as he paused with the spoon halfway to his mouth. "You mean, as in 'I was death' before?"

"Think so." Duncan made a face.

"How long has he been gone?"

Duncan looked away. "You need to finish the stew first, Rich."

He wasn't just being a mother hen, Richie realised. He needed him fit and ready to fight if necessary. He swallowed the rest of the stew so quickly he burnt the roof of his mouth, but only when the bowl was empty did he ask again.

"How long, Mac?"

"It's been three days."

…

"I don't know how I let you talk me into this." Duncan groused as they picked their way across the refugee camp.

"Because it's the right thing to do." Richie fought to keep his breathing smooth and even and knew he had failed when Mac grasped him tightly by the forearm and all but pulled him along.

"You should be in bed," Truth was he blamed himself. The lad had just died, after a particularly debilitating illness and he had no business dragging him across the desert into almost certain danger.

Except, Richie had refused to be left behind.

Alright so Duncan was proud of him for that. And as Richie had so adroitly pointed out, better to have him close at hand, where he could see how foolhardy he was being, rather than forbid it and have him follow anyway under his own steam.

"I've been in bed," Richie reminded him. "It sucked. What I need now is fresh air and exercise."

"What you need is your head examined."

"You know, you've been spending too much time with Methos."

"God forbid," Duncan paused and scanned the surrounding area. There wasn't much cover around here. They couldn't have fought in the open. "This way," he decided.

For the next few minutes, Richie ducked his head and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other. Much as he hated to admit it, he wasn't feeling 100 just yet and the heat and the dust were taking it out of him. Alongside, Mac slowed his pace to accommodate him.

"Thanks," Richie shot him a grateful look. "I'm not helping much. Sorry."

"Don't be," Duncan replied, absently, his attention caught by something up above. "There's no-one else I'd rather have by my side."

Richie nodded straightening slightly so he could see what Mac was looking at. "You think that's them?"

"Maybe."

They started forward again, Richie forcing muscles stiff from disuse to bend and flex and move. "It's been three days." He murmured. He couldn't say it, but he wondered if they could both still be alive. Mac squeezed his arm comfortingly.

"I've had fights that have lasted longer. Connor too. You know that."

"Yeah, but this is Methos," Richie pressed his lips together. "He's better than the two of you combined. He outta be able to despatch all comers with a quick slice and dice."

Duncan sighed. He well remembered the day last Summer, when Connor's innate respect for the oldest living Immortal had worn thin in the face of Methos implacable refusal to fight if the challenge could be avoided. In a mood to make some kind of point, Methos had challenged both Highlanders to take him on at once and in a devastating display of swordplay had effectively left them for dead. As he had often re-iterated, just because he didn't choose to fight, didn't mean he couldn't. If this mystery Immortal could keep him at bay for three days, he was good. And if this man could take Methos, then he could take him also. And that would leave Richie.

God, he really hoped Methos won.

…

Methos spat yet another mouthful of sand out of his mouth and hauled him-self up on one elbow to look at his opponent. Until now he had taken comfort in the fact that the other was as tired as he was. But he was starting to reach his limit and he needed to finish this soon.

The buzz of an approaching Immortal gave him his chance. Bless your interfering soul, Macleod, Methos thought, as the other's dark eyes flicked towards the horizon in a moment of distraction. It was only a moment, but it was enough. With a blood curdling, yell, Methos threw his sword like a spear and saw with some satisfaction how it imbedded itself deep in the chest cavity, the handle vibrating with the force of the impact, as the man was felled like a tree.

Awash with relief Methos flopped back onto the sand and closed his eyes. Maybe if he tried really hard he could imagine he was lying on a nice beach in St Tropez. Still, right now, just being alive felt pretty good.

"Methos?" Duncan's voice asked, from a few feet away.

"Mine's a beer thanks."

"Here," A hand raised his head as another pressed a canteen to his lips. It was water. Nasty, warm, chemically reclaimed tasting water at that. But Methos drank it gratefully. Making a superhuman effort he turned his head slightly to look at the Immortal kneeling beside him.

"Thanks."

Richie sat back on his heels and looked at the remains of his former teacher in concern. "You look like hell."

"Yeah, well," Methos struggled to sit up, as abused muscles spasmed and protested. "You should see the other guy." He looked over at the lifeless body, where the pommel of his sword stood tall and proud and totally bloody useless. "Lend me your sword, will you?"

"You going to whack him before he wakes up?" Richie wasn't at all sure how he felt about that.

"In between the lessons on honour and chivalry and how to weave a nice bit of tartan, didn't Macleod, teach you anything about self preservation?" Methos asked testily.

"You were my teacher at least as long as Mac." Richie pointed out.

"Richard," Methos' use of his given name was so rare, Richie almost flinched. "If you ever take three days to kill someone, it's a very good idea to let them stay dead. Is that clear?"

"Crystal." Richie nodded hard.

"Good, now give me your sword. I hurt like hell and the sooner I kill myself the sooner I'll heal."

"Um," Richie hedged. "I left it in my other coat."

"What?" Methos eyes were as dark and angry as Richie had ever seen then. "What the bloody hell were you thinking coming all the way out here without ..," His eyes widened slightly as he felt the stiletto dagger slip easily between his ribs.

"Dying is never easy," Richie informed his corpse with some satisfaction. "But its always better if you don't see it coming."

…

The rush of a returning Immortal, a quick gasp of air and Methos eyes snapped open, instantly alert. "Where is he?"

"Shh," Duncan looked up from where he was stirring a pot over a makeshift fire. "He's asleep and I'll thank you to leave him be."

"Not Richie," Methos sat up and rubbed his eyes. "Ares."

"He's still dead," Duncan looked up sharply. "Ares? As in former Greek God of War, Ares?"

"I thought you spent your youth stuffing haggis and making love to sheep." Methos groused. "Not acquiring a classical education." He really hadn't meant to let that particular piece of information slip just yet. That was the trouble with dying. No matter how many times you did it, it was still bloody disorientating.

He raised his head to see Macleod had gone quite pale.

"What's wrong?"

Roughly ladling a few spoonfuls of bean mush into a bowl, Duncan came over and sat on a rock opposite him. As the Scot passed over the bowl, Methos dug in eagerly with his fingers. The first handful was halfway to his mouth when Duncan replied.

"Did Darius ever say anything to you about Richie?"

Methos sighed and dropped his food back into the bowl. Resigning himself to the inevitable, he gave the Scot his full attention.

"Go on."

"I got a call from a colleague in Paris. He had bought a job lot of books at an auction to raise money for a new roof at St Julian's Church. Hidden in the pages of one of the books was an unopened envelope. Since, it was addressed to a Duncan Macleod, he thought I might be interested in paying an exorbitant sum of money for the family heirloom."

"I take it you didn't go all the way to Paris to retrieve an old love letter?"

"It was from Darius," Duncan still felt that loss, even after all these years. God, how he wished he was here now. "He wrote it on the day he was killed. It was almost as if he knew his death was going to happen."

"He suspected it might," Methos amended. "He didn't know. Very few things in this Universe are that certain."

"So, why didn't he just tell me?" Duncan demanded. "He saw me that morning!"

Maybe, because he didn't think you were ready to hear it, Methos thought. But he wisely kept that opinion to himself.

"What did the note say?"

In answer, Duncan reached into his coat and pulled out the small, leather bound volume that he had travelled day and night to retrieve, struggling across desert and rainforest to reach the small, isolated monastery, as per Darius' instructions. As he turned it over in his hands he saw an odd look settle on Methos face. "Ah, that," His expression went carefully blank. "Have you read it yet?"

"Some of it," Duncan looked pained. "I'm not familiar with all the languages and some of the pages seem to be missing."

"But?" Methos prompted.

"Is it true?" Duncan asked gently. "What happened to you?"

Methos had to look away. That was not what he had expected at all. Macleod had every right to be angry that he had known about the existence of the journal and kept its contents to himself. His sympathy touched him in places that were still raw.

"I survived." He tried for nonchalance.

"I'm sorry." Duncan's voice was a balm to old wounds.

The Scot wanted to say more. That no-body should have to suffer like that. That it explained a lot. But he doubted that the Ancient Immortal would welcome his understanding. Not when he continued to berate himself for the evil he had wrought during his lifetime.

"And the rest?" Duncan looked darkly at Ares' corpse, which lay just outside the warmth of the firelight. His expression softening as his gaze moved to linger on Richie, who slept soundly, his face still touched with lines of exhaustion. Amid the thousand questions that bubbled to the surface, only one really mattered right now.

"Is it possible? Could Richie be my biological son?"