NINE- Fate.

New York City.

Days later.

The door was kicked down. Logozz walked in, neatly dressed in Armani, and wielding his golden sword. He eyed around carefully. Methos could be around. If he could conceal his special gift – Charon's blessing – then he might also conceal the buzzing as well. But the Heretic didn't seem to be around, or he would have felt her.

He traipsed heavily, looking for them. Above the large comfortable structure modernity called sofa, Logozz found a sheet of paper, on which there was an array of drawings. Logozz grinned cynically. Only one person could have the knowledge of such an old language. He took it and examined it for a second before squeezing it into a ball as he stormed out of the place...

-----

In 2001, terrorists hijacked two airplanes and made them crash against the Twin Towers. The remnants were demolished and plans for new towers were set. There is a clean spot where the towers once were.

At the World Trade Center, Logozz read the memorial erected there and wished he had been around to see such a terrible destruction unleash. He looked around, his mind having received the faintest trace of the presence of an immortal. A particularly special immortal.

He moved into the clean spot where the towers had been. A shape he made out, calmly standing, watching in his direction. Logozz plopped in the soil towards it. A grin posed on his face when he realised it was Methos. Had he regained composure?

"Where's the Heretic?" he demanded as he stopped, a few steps far from him.

Methos seemed to be feeling the breeze on his face, for he took a while to reply. He looked innocently at Logozz, and from out of the blue, a scowl ruled in his eyes.

"Faraway... so close... does it make a difference?" he said nonchalantly.

"It might make a difference for you."

Methos took off his coat and wielded his trusty broadsword. Logozz smirked as he made his sword spin in his hand.

"I don't know where she is. But as I said..." Methos bent his knees as he held his weapon with both hands, the blade of which rising towards the dark sky. "... it doesn't make a difference. Let's settle this once and for all. You've wanted it for a long time..."

Logozz shrieked as he lashed towards Methos. He delivered a fierce whip on Methos' blade which was contained nicely. Deafening clashes followed as both immortals exchanged blows.

Methos feinted left, yet struck right. Logozz opposed his blade and their swords hooked in a struggle that seemed eternal. Their eyes sparked with rage and anger. One for the betrayal and the loss of the love; the other for much simpler reasons: he would need them.

Logozz unravelled left and kicked Methos' side. The other staggered away as he stormed forward to finish him. Logozz shrieked as his arm arched up magnificently above his head and began its downturn towards Methos' head. A whine was heard and blood fell. Then he felt a punch in his stomach, fiercely sending him away. He stood his ground and stared at his opponent.

A deep slice bleed from the right side of Methos' hairline. Logozz bore a grin which seemed to grow broader as the blood trickled abundantly down Methos' face, colouring his closed eyes, nose and mouth. Methos wasn't looking at him, he merely stood with his arms and weapon down; silently, inertly, hardly breathing.

"Have you decided to let yourself die?" Logozz grunted. Methos didn't seem to hear. "Have you accepted your inevitable fate, Methos?"

Methos opened his eyes. Logozz ceased laughter and stared in surprise. He saw a face he had not seen in a long time, a face which made his fingers quiver with no apparent reason.

"Yes, Logozz. I have."

The words came out cavernously, charged with darkness and rage. The Death passed his hand over the wound and then stared at it. He eyed at his opponent and licked his fingers. He grinned and a minute drop of blood slipped down his lower lip. He put up the sword. Logozz breathed deeply.

Then Methos struck. He moved forward with an astounding speed. Logozz stepped forward, hoping to stab Methos straight in the chest. But the tip of his blade landed in the cold air. He felt the air being cut from his left and turned to block. The blunt part of Methos' blade hit him in the face and went away.

Logozz found himself apparently alone and unattacked. He put his hand over his mouth, and blood and a teeth he observed. He felt an appalling sensation that he had not felt in millennia: fear.

"Is this what you wanted, Logozz?"

Methos sounded almost in a whisper, yet deafeningly loud. Logozz turned and found him with his sword up, ready to strike again. The Hunter raised his blade and treaded forward, at first slowly, and gradually increased his speed to end up colliding against Methos.

Methos parried the blow and started to push Logozz' blade towards his left. When his rival's sword was past his shoulder, he stopped struggling as he ducked, making a full twist, and jabbed fiercely Logozz' stomach.

Logozz fell on his knees, uttering a deadly gasp of defeat, and had to use his arms not to fall hardly against the floor. He tried to cradle away, but his pathetic attempt was overcame by the pain.

"Will you let Clarice alone, Logozz?" Methos asked. Logozz tried to eye at him, but he only found his own reflection in the blade that stood by him, held by his vanquisher. He recognised his golden friend and smirked.

"I won't! Not ever!"

Those were his last words. Methos raised the golden sword to the heavens and in the same moment that thunder announced the coming rain, he let it plummet itself against Logozz' neck.

Methos closed his eyes. It was done. Logozz had been beheaded. He felt the scent of dread and a new surge of darkness surrounding him. As the quickening began to unleash, he thought of Clarice and if she had done as told.

----

New York City. A day ago.

"A sword won't make a difference, Methos." Clarice suggested.

"This sword will." Methos said simply as he motioned her to leave the room with him.

"I don't see how. Logozz defeated me very easily. I stand no chance against him, neither wielding this sword, nor mine, not even the freaking Excalibur!"

"It's not to protect yourself from Logozz." Methos suddenly sounded mournful, as if he were grieving someone. "It's to protect yourself from me."

"You?"

"Logozz will never stop, and only a handful of us might have a shot against him. For that reason, I must fight him."

"I don't understand." Clarice was beginning to worry.

"You know why governments have separation of powers?" At Clarice's negative, he continued. "To prevent corruption. The same happens with Logozz and I: if one of us had the power of the other, then the power might end up corrupting him."

"So you're saying that you..." Clarice's voice cracked.

"I have no choice. Take this sword with you and leave now." He put a hand in his inner pocket and drew out a pack of highly-denominated euros. "Fetch a plane. Anywhere. Just don't let me know. If you ever see me again, run, run like you've never run before."

"What if I don't?"

"Then you'll die."

-----

Alma-Ata. Kazakhstan.

Strolling through flocks of working people, Clarice Minon didn't halt when she sensed the quickening unleash elsewhere. She carried on walking casually.

It had been done. Methos had embraced his fate as the Death of the Heretics to save her. And she would never be able to thank him. For facing him would mean her end. She turned into a less-crowded street and stopped at the traffic lights.

She thought of Marc. Would he know how things had evolved? Where would he be know? The lights turned green and she started moving again, unaware that her watcher was barely a few steps behind him, following her in disguise as he had done for several years.

Clarice Minon kept on walking down the street. She was the Heretic, bearer of a curse she had received inadvertently, forever damned to escape the Death and the Executioner, or face him in a battle in which consequences won't mean a thing. And it would never be over... until her head fell.

C'EST FINIT!