An Immortal presence pinged on Adam's radar from the moment he left Cite, guiding him down to the southern bank of the river. Despite the excellent chance it was MacLeod, caution made him unsheathe his sword once he made it to the verge by the water.

Greta and Joe were easily visible, neither of them were moving and the scene under the bridge was one he was quite sure Stefan had set up to be as exact as possible.

There, the woman; one arm across her chest and the other fallen to her side, fingers curled to the sky. There, the man; straighter in repose with both arms crossed over his chest like the stone effigy guarding a knight's tomb.

There, their adopted child, his own student; standing watch over their last moments and, finally, giving mercy when their pain grows too great for them to bear.

Now a boy before him in the street. His father's sword is still awkward in his hand and Carolina's justice, Methos' vengeance, is breaking his world. No tears, but the heavens opened for the sake of pity and Methos had seen this face a hundred times before. He'd killed it a hundred times before.

"You, you did this."

"I did this."

"Why?"

"Why not?"

"Your head is mine."

"You cannot beat me, not in a thousand years."

"One thousand years, we are agreed."

"We are agreed"

He'd laughed.

He'd laughed and the echo of it made bile rise, he couldn't go back to being that man.

Stefan was looking at him almost expectantly, a vicious joy rising unchecked in the boy's eyes. The lapse into memory the tableau had been designed to provoke had not been missed, but he didn't allow the guilt into his gaze and Stefan searched for it in vain. When calculated interest gave way to a hint of disappointment and then the usual cold disdain, Adam judged it safe to speak.

"Stefan."

"Adam." A pause, then a slight smile as eyes returned to search his face almost like the child looking for approval, wanting their efforts to be noticed. "See how I watch over your friends?"

He wasn't going to make a concession and let memory flagellate him anymore than it had already, Stefan should know better than to push for it again, but Adam nodded fractionally to let him know the barb had been recognised, even if it hadn't hit. It hadn't hit. "Yes, I see. And MacLeod?"

Now Stefan relaxed, returning to the impassive expression more fitting his actual age. "MacLeod went after Amanda."

"Who went where?" He knew there was no point in trying to circumvent the word play; it would get him there no faster. Stefan would reach his point in his own time and, unless the boy had changed significantly, he would do it before it was too late. His mind kindly pointed out it had been he himself who had mentioned how much people could change over time.

"Who can say where a woman goes?"

Patience abruptly discovered its limits, despite his best intentions, and he snapped out the words. "That would be you."

Stefan smiled as if claiming 'check'. Possibly he was. "I agreed to help them, not you."

The notion this was some kind of karmic punishment for playing word games of his own for so long occurred to Adam. He dismissed it as too cruel and unusual, even for a universe that had decided he was some kind of cosmic cat toy.

He returned to following the lines he had all but been given in the impromptu pantomime. "Help me and you're helping them."

"How badly do you want to save them?" The sudden intensity in the tone gave him pause, made him question which way Stefan had intended the script to go from here. Some mockery, some power play, that he had expected but Stefan's hand was tighter around his sword now and he took a firmer grip of his own, still inside his coat.

"Stefano, we don't have time for this."

"We have all the time in the world, they have somewhat less."

He couldn't read the expression and that was enough to make him even more wary. Now he had no road map at all, he had to guess, really guess, the intentions and that was the most dangerous game of all.

The blade was still low but it was closer to Joe and Greta than he would have liked. "Them for your family, is that it? A little old to play tit-for-tat, aren't we?"

Stefan smiled, but the blade didn't move. "I am not a monster, Adam. I do not make the innocent suffer."

"Then don't do this." The Ivanhoe's hilt was in his hand and he barely realised he was raising it until the tip was weaving before him. Stefan moved fractionally into a ready stance, away from the mortals but still close enough to pose a threat.

"I asked you a simple question. How badly do you want to save them? Enough to kill? Take my head and there'll be no one to look after them."

Then he saw. It was almost a mirror of the tactics he'd used on MacLeod to manoeuvre him into refusing to take his head when Kalas came looking. Stefan was trying to force him to show his hand, doubtless MacLeod or Amanda had told the boy how very much Adam had changed, and now he wanted to see it for himself.

Of course, he could also be hoping Adam would assume that and … the double think began to hurt his mind. Abruptly, it ceased to matter as Joe gave a weak cough that somehow sounded worse than any other for its quietness.

The answer remained the same, in any case. "Badly enough not to." He crouched slowly and put the sword at his feet, then stood with his hands slightly raised. Stefan's eyes tracked from his to the now uncovered bone talisman on Adam's wrist, then back.

"You think I won't take your head?"

'No you won't, Stefan, because you're inexplicably still exercising honour. Do you have any Scots in your ancestry?' No, perhaps not. He decided to take a more diplomatic tack.

"I think you're a good … man and, I think, you know that you can't kill Doyle."

"But you can? Your MacLeod can?"

"He's not my …" Stefan's eyebrow rose at his slightly heated response and he paused in mid-denial to answer the question. "Maybe, but he doesn't have the right tools."

"And you do."

There was just enough hope in the flat disbelief to give fuel to his sincerity as he replied. "Yes."

"Le Blues, midnight a week from now."

"Assuming I'm not unavoidably deceased."

"Your oath."

"This is familiar."

"Give it."

"You wouldn't like me when I give my oath. I'll be there, Stefan."

The boy's eyes tracked back to the bone bracelet and the question rose in his eyes again. After weighing it for a moment, he spoke. "Why are you wearing the relic?"

Hardly daring to believe that he might possibly have been given a break, Adam looked down at the bracelet, then over to Stefan. "This? I found it hidden in Sainte Chapelle."

"The Xerxesi have one too."

"What does theirs do?" He hardly wanted to ask, knowing there was no way he could look unconcerned. If Stefan wanted power, this was the way he could truly take it.

And for a long moment he thought the boy intended to hold it over him. Then, at last, looked down at the mortals he had been given charge of. "It protects them from Michael." Then he looked back, eyes black sockets and skin too white from the tricks of the shadows of the bridge. "What does yours do, Mattio?"

The image of death cleared with a blink. "That … is very much the question."

There was a slow nod and then in a fluid movement, Stefan returned to kneeling beside Joe and Greta, the sword placed carefully at his side. "Saint-Michel, Seine side."

Without comment Adam stooped to pick up his own sword, but only closed his coat around it when he had climbed the verge to the top of the bridge once more.

His footsteps were echoed sharply by the sides of the buildings, there being no traffic – human or mechanical – to smother the sound. North of the river, he was sure, it would not be so empty. There were the hospitals and services, expensive shops to loot perhaps, if the rioting went out of control. Here there was precious little but culture and that was little to no comfort in the midst of a plague.

Still, there were some signs of life: windows flickered, televisions perhaps. People were behind the brick walls in a self-imposed isolation. Soon they'd venture out, when their food was gone and imminent starvation made it worth the risk. Then the streets would spring to life once more and, somehow, life would go on amidst hazmat suits and quarantine tape and death.

Life always went on. It had to, it was its function. There was no way he would be able to explain that to MacLeod, though, and he didn't want to have to.

Stefan's presence had barely stopped ringing in his mind before he walked straight into another that grew with every step. Turning the corner into Saint-Michel, he was unsurprised to see MacLeod standing a foot away from the wall of a building. He was slightly more puzzled by the way he was craning his head to look up at the ornate façade.

As he drew closer he could feel another surge of Immortality, and then another. It was an almost dizzying sensation as his body attempted to compensate by running even more adrenaline through him. It was helping mask the sickness' progression through him, but he'd pay more when it was done.

MacLeod didn't turn from his upwards study of the building. "Did you find anything?"

"Yes." He nodded and found he didn't want to put his theory into words, not least because, out loud, it would be made of mist and webs and ephemera that was barely credible a thousand years ago. Instead he chose another topic close to the Scotsman's heart. "Amanda?"

"In there, I think. With Doyle, maybe."

"And yet I don't hear screaming."

They regarded the still quiet building with identically thoughtful expressions. It was unreal, they'd spent days running around over this to end up here, in a moment of unhurried contemplation of Amanda's probable activities.

Finally MacLeod spoke into the silence, still carefully level toned. "Maybe she's being subtle."

"I'm not convinced she's ever met the word. Why do you think Doyle's in there?"

Something skittered across the street and Adam realised why MacLeod was placed as he was at last. It was a red target light emanating, presumably, from a rifle on the upper floor of the building. Experimentally, he moved further away from MacLeod and the safety of the wall and saw it immediately begin to follow. Quickly, he returned out of its range.

A sniper then, but only one. A fairly poor show tactically speaking, but perhaps they no longer had the manpower to cover both sides of the street. That was a blessing in disguise. Heavy disguise.

Now MacLeod looked at him and spoke conversationally. "Stefan thinks Doyle is in charge of the Xerxesi."

The mild tone had no apparent interest in what it was saying, MacLeod's attention returned to the building.

Adam replied as he waited for MacLeod to decide how they would proceed. "That would explain them trying to kill us. I suppose we can but hope."

"Hope?"

"Call it a demonstration of situational irony. If he's not in there or at the bottom of the river, we don't know where he is."

"Good point."

"And well made." They spoke the words together in rote and almost managed a smile.

"Where's Richie?"

"Helping LeBrun keep Sainte Chapelle in one piece."

"You gave him a distraction." There was actually some appreciation there and, given what they were walking into, he understood why MacLeod wouldn't want his student there. Still, he didn't want to do Ryan a complete disservice. Well, didn't want to as long as there was a chance it could back to bite him later anyway.

"Amusingly, no. He's playing the hero very convincingly, you'd be proud." There was activity on the lower floor now; they sidled along the side of the wall to take up position either side of the solid double doors that were the entrance. "I'll try and find where Doyle is, you get Amanda out."

"After all the objecting, you want him now? You do know what an oath is, right?"

"Ha. Ha."

The door opened an inch and as one they moved in to take the mile. MacLeod swung around in a back kick to the lock set into the solid wood and Adam could hear something crunching in an unpleasant fashion on the other side. He'd attributed it to the wood, but the shrill scream suggested bone.

He pushed through; forgoing the Ivanhoe for the comforting weight of the 9mm he just happened to carry for just such emergencies. The fact that leaving the apartment constituted an emergency more often than not was irrelevant.

The second man further inside hesitated over who to shoot just long enough for him to be taken out by an uppercut that MacLeod barely slowed down to deliver.

No one tried to stop them as they sprinted across a small inner courtyard and into the main building. The buzz of Immortals was so strong and close they ceased to have any sense of separation. It didn't matter; they could hear the echoing clash of swords meeting.

"I'll take care of him; you get Amanda out of here." MacLeod spoke in the tone of command Adam usually obeyed as the path of least resistance, but not this time.

"No, if it's Doyle she's fighting I want him."

"You hate Challenges." MacLeod glared with the sort of full righteous indignation that never failed to make him strangely endearing, in an obnoxiously repetitive sort of way. It was like nostalgia for an irritating dog that never stopped barking, really.

Possibly the fever was taking more of a hold than he'd realised. Still, Adam tried to explain his position. "This isn't a Challenge, it's just …" MacLeod looked over at him expectantly and he used the only word that came to mind. "… right." The word tasted unfamiliar, he wanted to cringe at all the heroic connotations it contained.

Thankfully, MacLeod provided a cynical insulin. "For you or him?"

"Flip a coin."

"You're not telling me something. Again."

"Your powers of deduction are as astute as ever."

The sound of the fight got louder as they hunted through the marble-floored halls of the unfamiliar building. There was a slightly monastic style to the decorations, simple and minimal, despite the fact it wasn't Holy ground. The Xerxesi foot soldiers may have been drawn from the services but he was willing to bet those that commanded them were Ordained.

Even unseen, there were certain clues to be gathered from the rhythm of the swords meeting – or lack there of. Exchanges were short and sporadic and, when metal met metal, it did it in a fashion that scraped rather than struck.

One practised but not natural swordsman – or woman, he suspected – and one just about competent enough to defend, or one who was playing before they struck.

Finally they came on the Challenge at the other end of the long hall they burst into. He was almost swung fully around as MacLeod's sudden halt and hold on his arm abruptly stopped their headlong run. "What did Darius hold over you, what's going to happen if you break the oath?"

He looked down at the fingers gripping his coat. Blunt nails, one of them looked bitten. He wasn't sure why that surprised him. Time must have passed because MacLeod was asking again, quietly. That was nice. He ran a hand over his face and tried to regain a little focus. It would just be embarrassing to keel over now. "You know what they say, 'don't open old wounds … don't open fourth seals …'"

"I don't understand."

"Good."

MacLeod's short, low, laugh surprised him - as much for response as for the fact there was actual amusement under the bitterness. "You know what? I give up. Just tell me whatever it was isn't there any more and, if you can manage it, try not to lie."

"I don't think it matters now. I'm not sure it ever mattered, frankly. He probably thought he was very wise, knowing I wouldn't break the oath until I was …"

He didn't realise he'd stopped with his mouth still half open until MacLeod prompted him. "Until you were …?"

Then he snapped his mouth shut and grimaced. Darius had played him. Completely. Utterly. Like the London Symphony tackling the 1812 Overture.

"Until I was the sort of person who wouldn't need it to bind them." Bastard. "... well I'm going to kill him."

"I think you're a little late."

"I was talking about Michael. Mostly."

MacLeod looked as if he were having second thoughts now; he was as able to interpret the sound of the fight as anyone else. Amanda would probably win. "The Challenge has started, we can't interfere. You don't have to do this."

"That's a courtesy, MacLeod, not a rule. He's not hers to take and, anyway, she's not protected." He held up his arm and jangled the bone bracelet, then shook off the restraining hand and walked further into the high-windowed hall.

There was Amanda, he took no time to study her condition because there was Michael.

Black jeans, black t-shirt, Doyle's attire was inconsequential. The man himself was utterly unchanged, even down to the dark shoulder length hair and an almost cherubic full face that wouldn't have been out of place on one of Raphael's angels. Unfortunately, he was the Old Testament kind of angel; the sort that killed the first born and destroyed cities.

As the gun was already in his hand, Adam felt it would be a shame not to use it.

Two bullets impacted into Michael's chest. The man dropped immediately, not even having the chance to see who'd killed him. Amanda stepped back; finally registering there was an audience.

Her mouth opened, then closed, Adam waited patiently for her to work out whether she wanted to be outraged or pleased. MacLeod had no such problems and made a snatch for the gun. "You shot him."

"Twice." He agreed and hung on to it, twisting away victorious after a brief and undignified scuffle.

Amanda stalked forward. She didn't look her best, damp all over, mussed and grimy. A faint smell of Seine completed the picture. "I wanted his head!"

"Well, you can't have it." He fended off another attempt on the gun and then put another bullet into Michael's chest as the rush of Revival arrived. It promptly left again. "We all have these little trials. Go play with his minions."

She crossed her arms and scowled as if the Xerxesi had been created purely to ruin her day. Given the state of her, he had to admit it was a possibility. "They're the good guys. Besides, they're sick." One no longer perfectly manicured hand waved upwards to the second floor and, presumably, the living quarters.

Adam tried and failed to find any spare compassion and discovered his well entirely dry which was, at least, better than poisoned. "Suffering is good for their souls. Besides, I question their competency if they failed to notice their new boss was the man they were supposed to be keeping contained."

MacLeod's tone was bland. "You mean like the Watchers not noticing the man researching Methos was actually Methos?"

Temporarily without a comeback, Adam fired at Michael again.

"Will you stop shooting him!" MacLeod's ire was diverted as a man came into the hall at a run. He was carrying what looked like an AK-47 but he was slow and clearly in pain, one arm held tight around his midsection.

Their attacker didn't even have time to fire a single burst before the submachine gun was plucked from his hands by a Scotsman who was smiling with no detectable trace of humour whatsoever. "Henri! How're the ribs?"

Amanda moved closer as MacLeod hauled the startled man up by the collar. He gasped once and then began to murmur a fast and desperate chant. Adam recognised the beginning - "Crux sancta sit mihi lux" – but the Highlander shook him again and the prayer ended.

"Meet Michael Doyle, your own personal plague bringer." Bodily Henri was turned to look at the man on the floor. Methos shot Michael again on principle.

"… no …" The choked word was horrified, but not shocked and MacLeod dropped Henri back to his feet.

"You knew he wasn't under the bridge!" Amanda stepped forward and the Xerxesi stepped back accordingly in the face of her anger.

"Suspicion only, I swear to you. When the city began to sicken, I thought our rites had been wrong."

"Why did you take us? Joe could have died."

"Our commander", Henri's gaze slid to Michael, "he said you and the man had tainted the rites and ordered a cleansing."

"Your commander is probably the man you threw off the bridge. Did it occur to you that there were better kinds of identification than holy relics?"

"He came from Rome, he had papers, and he was expected. It was he who told us where Michael could be found…"

"Why all this stupidity at all? Science …"

Henri began to regain his composure and drew himself up to spit out the word. "Science? What place does science have here? Five hundred years our rites have been practised with faith and faith has sufficed to cleanse those the devil claims."

Amanda's voice came from a distance, as if she were trying to separate herself from her words. "Your rites are cleansing rites. You put them in water and then … a good Christian burial."

Henri's eyes widened as if affronted at the thought they would do anything else. "Of course, we are not monsters."

They didn't know Michael Doyle was an Immortal. The thought clamoured in Adam's head. It could happen so easily. Say a couple of hundred years and, somehow, Michael was released from the river. By then the Xerxesi had forgotten they had to keep him down there, everyone that had first hand knowledge would be dead and fact would be superstition in an instance. They throw the body over, tie it down, wait a decent time, then bring it back up and bury it. Maybe the cleansing even worked for a while, but then it wore out and …

How many generations had they been letting Michael go? His mind fled the thought.

He spoke from his crouch at Michael's side. "The bracelets are the same."

When all eyes had turned to him, he held up his wrist with the bracelet recovered at Sainte Chapelle, then Michael's wrist. On it was an almost identical bracelet.

MacLeod frowned, Amanda spoke, neither of them looked as if they'd been enlightened. "They're the same?"

He pulled down his cuff to cover his bracelet but kept Michael's in view. "Not quite … these bones are human - I suspect from an infant who was interred in the wall of the Chapelle. The inscriptions match on both, 'Death may be the greatest of all human blessings'."

However long he squinted at them, the runes refused to reform and give a hint to their purpose. A numbered diagram was probably too much to hope for as well. As an afterthought, he shot Michael again.

It was Amanda who slowly spoke, Amanda with both feet firmly planted in the now, but one urchin finger still keeping its hold on a past of superstitions and hearth rituals. "All right … so relics, talismans … they're to keep you safe. Protected."

MacLeod nodded. "The human bones one is meant to keep the Xerxesi well. Guess it doesn't work when it's Michael wearing it." He shot a hard look at Henri. "But that doesn't make any sense, they're just old bones."

Adam smiled slightly. "And the spring was just water, Mac. Maybe it's time for a little faith. Maybe if that kept people safe from him, this will …" What? There was no real way to know what its purpose was. He trailed away, fingering the animal-bone talisman on his wrist. It was smooth and slightly warm, but there was a decided lack of holy aura and he failed to be filled with a sense of divine protection.

Maybe it was just slow in the mornings. He raised his sword above his head, lining up with Michael's neck.

MacLeod jumped forward again. "You can't just cut his head off."

"Sorry, you're quite right. Everyone else will want to leave the room."

"That's not what I meant."

"He's killed tens of thousands and you want me to give him a fair fight?"

"Maybe we need to keep him alive for people to get well again … anyway, no one deserves to end it like that."

"… you have to be joking."

"Then give me the bracelet and I'll fight him."

MacLeod stood with his hand out and it was tempting …

The orchards were blooming in reds and pinks with the promise of fruit in the months to come, the green vines were slowly deepening in colour as their harvests of grapes and olives grew upon them.

In the winter he buried her there, under the clouds and amidst the barren trees.

… for less than a heartbeat.

Adam put the Ivanhoe carelessly over his shoulder and stepped back. "He'll need a sword."

As Michael began to stir, he narrowly avoided the reflex to just shoot him again. Instead he handed the gun to MacLeod with exaggerated politeness, then turned back to the man rising to his feet.

"Michael."

"Mattio."

The gaze meeting his wasn't knowing, it wasn't even wary, nor amused. It waited with something close to animal curiosity.

He wondered how much the man would be willing to divulge about the nature of the bracelets. You couldn't threaten him; he didn't truly believe he could die. You couldn't bargain if you didn't know what he wanted. Did he even want anything?

Was Michael even aware of what the bracelets on their wrists were? He hadn't been fully hinged in the first place and it didn't look like centuries of being corralled and thrown in rivers had helped his mental state a great deal.

It had to be worth a try. "Xerxes wanted to help you."

Michael tilted his head to the right, mindless cunning looking for an angle or escape, eyes bright and watchful like a cat's. "For my blood. The body and the blood."

"I'm fairly sure you're not the Messiah. Henri? No?" He looked to the mortal, who shook his head numbly, then back to Doyle. "No. Sorry."

His mouth was running on auto, his brain was circling a single point – this could end now.

"Spare me and I will cure those you love."

"They wouldn't pay that price."

"Spare me and …"

He didn't wait to hear the rest, cutting across. "Where is your Master?"

Michael stepped back, head canted to the left now, half unsure and half recognising a final exchange when he heard one. The man's sword rose to a ready defence. "With regret, I have no Master."

He smiled and knew the smile made Michael a liar.

Their blades met, not the crisp ring of one-handed swords but the bruising solidity of bastard swords. The hilt jumped in his hand and sent a shock wave to his shoulders. Already his breathing quickened, rasping but even, waking up muscles to obey the command of instinct.

Everything beyond his reach ceased to have meaning, there was only the sword and the man before him and it was sweet to feel the blood ready to be spilled.

He sent his blade down to the hilt of Michael's Dagesse, sliding on a metallic whine that would become a scream with just a little more pressure, then spun as the man instinctively flinched away and slammed the pommel hard into the now unguarded back.

His head felt light, detached. Clinically he knew it was the fever taking a hold but it didn't matter. This was what he was built for, long before the Gathering's children made their rules and practised their drills this had been his art and no one could understand that, not Michael, not Darius, not Greta or Joe or Amanda or MacLeod. Not even Kronos.

How could they? They weren't Death.

His knife was in his hand and waiting. It had always been there. It always been waiting. Main gauche style, it took and deflected the clumsy back hand slash from Michael and he disdained the easy opening provided to dance back with a low laugh.

Michael steadied himself into a wide-footed balance, sword weaving low before it flicked up, trying to snake under a deceptively weak guard. Adam waited until a gleam of triumph lit up the man's eyes before crossing dagger and sword to trap the blade.

He kicked a foot out to land hard in Michael's gut and disarmed him with a wrench.

Seconds had past, he knew, and it wasn't enough. He wanted to give the man back his sword and entreat him to fight harder, to prove his worthiness to live.

The words came out of history as Michael begged and warned in the same breath.

"Kill me and become me."

Methos bought the Ivanhoe up high before him to let its shadow form a sinner's cross, then reversed his grip and the blade was singing as he swung it in an arc. The resistance of Michael's neck was barely felt in the momentum.

"I will never be you."

The sound of the body dropping to his side was heard but his gaze sought out MacLeod. The man's eyes were wide as he backed away from the range of the blue fire that was already coursing over the floor and walls.

From the safety of the doorway, MacLeod watched Methos fall to his knees under the onslaught of the Quickening. He could feel the pure quintessence of life thrumming around him and even that minor echo of it made his skin itch.

The briefness of the fight had left him stunned. Michael had not been a good swordsman, even Richie would have had little problem. But it was the efficiency that had unnerved him. Methos had effected an execution as sure as if he'd taken the head while Michael was dead, as he'd wanted.

And it had been Methos fighting, that he was sure of. Not Adam, not 'The Old Man', who was just another version of Adam in a way.

It had been a five thousand year old Immortal who had long since stopped handling a sword as an extension of himself and become an extension of the sword instead. Then again, the fight had been brief. Too brief to be sure of anything.

There was a crackling pop as the last of the lightening earthed, Henri's ragged breathing and that was all.

At last Amanda cleared her throat and spoke tentatively. "Are you feeling … plaguey?"

Adam raised his head to look sardonically at her. "If you mean 'do I feel like the walking incarnation of Pestilence', I wouldn't know. If you mean 'have I succumbed to Dark Quickening', not to my knowledge. If, on the other hand, you mean 'do I still have symptoms' … yes. He didn't take it with him."

MacLeod held out a hand, Adam took and hauled himself back to his feet.

The Highlander looked as if he were trying very hard not to be devastated. "So that's it? People are just going to die, and that's it? What was the point?"

"Plague happens. People die." Despite the callousness of his words, Adam softened his tone.

"No, I refuse to accept that." MacLeod looked around the hall as if the answer might suddenly appear before him. "Darius must have known something. What about the exorcism rite on the bracelet?"

Adam tried to regain some of his equilibrium; he was in no fit state to deal with playing Devil's Advocate for an unhappy ending. "What about it? Darius didn'thave the answer for everything, he wasn't infallible. He was just a man who did his best."

"He managed to orchestrate all of this, didn't he? He knew, Methos, you can't tell me he didn't know." MacLeod whirled back towards him and Adam backed up a step at the sheer determination, the fire he envied so much it burned him. "Darius had dreams, didn't he? Prophecy. He knew the Xerxesi would fail, he knew a seer would find the bracelet and …."

"Really? You'd think he'd have written something down." He stepped forward, fighting down the urge to start a shoving match. The Quickening still trying to settle was giving him energy he didn't have and anger he couldn't remember how to handle. "We can't do anything."

They were standing shouting at each other and somewhere along the way, Adam realised, he'd become just as devastated as MacLeod.

"The talismans." Amanda spoke shakily into the sudden silence, Adam turned to look at her. Her eyes were slightly wide, her stance a finely tuned fight or flight.

MacLeod spoke quietly. "What about it?"

"It protected the Xerxesi. And the other one, it protected Adam, didn't it?"

Adam considered the frustration-born fury that was currently urging him to violence. "Allegedly."

After a moment MacLeod continued the train of thought. "And there's the bangle that Greta found. Maybe that's Darius's note."

They looked at each other for a moment before Amanda shrugged slightly and looked away and Adam thoughtfully looked down at Michael's body. "So you're saying …"

MacLeod nodded shortly. "We wrap his body up, put it under the bridge with the bracelets then perform an exorcism."

"You realise this is ridiculous?"

The man looked up bleakly. "Do we have anything, anything at all, to lose?"

"Fine. Here." Adam took the bone talisman from his wrist, then pulled the other from Michael's arm and handed both other. That done, he began to roll the corpse in the rug it had fallen on. MacLeod took the other end and they lifted the bundle between them.

At least the walk to the bridge was short and the streets were clear. The procession was funereally quiet; Adam tried to think the least respectful thoughts possible to compensate for even that slight dignity the corpse was being afforded.

They reached the spot where Stefan still stood guard over Greta and Joe in short order; he wondered whether MacLeod was going to use Michael's blood on them. It looked as if MacLeod were considering that too. Finally the man simply checked on their condition and then returned to the side of the river and spoke quietly. "What are the words?"

"What words?" Nonplussed, Adam let his honest confusion show, not overly wanting to be accused of being difficult.

MacLeod crouched and began unwrapping the body. "To the exorcism."

"Do I look like a priest?" Adam turned to look at Amanda, who was doing a remarkable job of hovering busily while not actually having to deal with the corpse. "Get Henri."

MacLeod studied the water as they waited on Amanda's return. "We're going to have to tie him down there."

"I am not going swimming again."

"Yes, you are. We'll need to get whoever's been stuck in there as well, they shouldn't just be left."

Their conversation was interrupted as Stefan approached. The boy stopped a few feet away, looked at the rug dispassionately, then back to Adam. "I felt the lightening. I'm pleased you're not dead."

Well, wasn't that sweet. "I couldn't miss our appointment." He grimaced then looked over towards the mortals under the bridge. "How are they?"

"Greta is convinced the river flows with the dead. She exaggerates, there has only been two bodies. Joe is not conscious and there is blood in his sweat. I can ensure he doesn't suffer, if you wish. It is a service I have granted before, after all."

"No."

The boy smiled politely as MacLeod's refusal. "Of course."

"Amanda's bringing a man to perform an exorcism; I'd appreciate it if you can help him." There was something understandably unfriendly in the Highlander's gaze as he gave Stefan his marching orders, but the boy remained unfailingly courteous as he gave a small bow and followed the route Amanda had taken.

MacLeod was first into the water and Adam briefly considered leaving him to it but then realised the chances were good of dying in there. That would give him a perfectly valid reason for not having to witness the aftermath of the failure this was undoubtedly going to be.

He slid into the green-black water, took a breath and submerged himself. Unfortunately, it was somewhat easier to bring the body up than he'd imagined it would be. MacLeod was able to unhook the tarp from its base before Adam had even swum over and between the two of them they were able to tow the wrapped body to the side.

When they were finally on the verge and he'd managed to hack up enough red distained water from his lungs to speak, he looked over to MacLeod. "Do you know who it is?"

The man shook his head and covered the face of the body with the tarp again. It was incredible. People were falling over all around him and MacLeod was genuinely sad over the death of a complete stranger.

He would have tried to work out if he was amused or intrigued but already he was being pushed back towards the water and he decided he was just cold.

The rug-wrapped Michael was easy enough to set in position to anchor to the bottom but Adam found his fingers simply wouldn't obey his efforts to tie the knots on the rope. He was concentrating so hard the cold claimed him before he noticed.

One moment he was mentally cursing the entire universe, particularly the part that invented ropes, and the next he was on land. Recent events caught up in his mind almost immediately, details justifying in the reason for a nagging sense of despondency on waking.

He was cold and the familiar pins and needles of Revival stabbed as he moved, but death had at least cured him of the virus and that felt wonderful. Squinting up he could see Henri, Stefan and Amanda on the bridge above, the grey cloud swept sky framed them.

Words in a familiar cadence fell down to him, a Latin prayer to drive out the demons. Glittering particles were falling slowly down to the water, reminding him of those that had escaped the sewer and danced in the streetlight. For a second he had the unlikely thought that they were the same, but then realised Henri was throwing, almost sowing, salt into the water.

Henri at last made the sign of the cross in a fluidly sweeping motion and bowed his head. Adam mouthed the 'Amen', then turned his head to look under the bridge. Joe and Greta were still there, MacLeod was crouched at their side.

Carefully he bought himself to his feet and walked towards them without speed. He sat beside MacLeod and watched the mortals' laboured breathing; the man gave no acknowledgment of his presence.

He didn't know what say, wasn't sure if words were even appropriate. "I'm … sorry." That seemed safe enough but it was still a nerve wracking moment until MacLeod responded.

"We have to get them to a hospital."

"I'll go find a car." It was a strange relief to have something constructive to do, Adam scrambled to his feet only to be bought up sharply by Greta moving suddenly.

She sneezed twice, blinking rapidly, then coughed into her hand. It wasn't the wet sound he remembered and gently he took her hand, opening it palm up. No blood.

Equally carefully, he touched his fingertips to Joe's damp forehead. Fever hot, but not the burning he knew meant death was imminent. There was no trace of blood.

The Highlander was looking at him, so clearly trying to fight down hope and equally clearly losing that he didn't have the heart to keep him waiting. He grinned.

"Mac … try and resist the urge to say 'I told you so'".