Chapter X

It was mid morning. The sun shone brightly from a pale blue sky and it was comfortably warm. Duncan was in the front yard of the "A" frame house that he and Caitlin had shared. Dressed only in a hakama, his upper body glistened in the sun as worked his muscles to the max in a fierce Kata.

In most cases a Kata is so smooth and fluid and almost resembles a graceful ballet. This one, however, did not. Each move was sharp and precise and Duncan vocalized each move. His facial expression during one of his regular workout Katas was either relaxed or void of expression. But this time his face was almost contorte4d with a mixture of pain, hatred and anger. Duncan MacLeod was doing battle. Battle with some unseen enemy. Battling his demons.

It had been six months since he had returned to Seacouver, (three of those months had been spent in a drunken stupor). He had chased away almost all of his friends seeking solace so he could bury himself in a bottle of Scotch. Finally, after three months of oblivion, one of the only two friends he had left (who refused to be chased off) had gotten through to him and he began the long process of sobering up and preparing to deal with reality. That friend had been Methos and it had been one particular point out of countless points made in one of his six hour lectures/sermons that had found its way through Duncan's alcohol fogged mind.

"Unlike mortals," Methos had said, "we can't indulge ourselves with depression. A mortal can hide from reality either by chemical means or mentally shutting down. Even if they manage to spend the rest of their lives in whatever form of escape they've chosen, it will eventually end for them when their life ends."

Methos had already been in MacLeod's house for four hours trying desperately to get through to his friend. He had just about used all of his best stuff and still Mac sat on the couch staring at (but probably unable to see) the wedding portrait of he and Caitlin and holding on to a half empty bottle of Scotch.

Methos had started pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace as he talked, glancing intermittently at MacLeod.

"We, however, being immortal, don't have that luxury," he continued. "And since we can't die of sclerosis of the liver...well I'm sure you get my point." He really wasn't even sure MacLeod was even listening until Mac spoke up.

"Unless someone takes our head," Duncan said in a soft monotone voice, his words slurring badly and his Scottish accent quite prominent. Without looking away from the photograph, he added, "So why don't you be a friend and do that?"

Methos stopped pacing and stared at his friend. He was not unfamiliar with the kind of pain Duncan was going through. In 5000 years a person experiences many a broken heart. And, in some cases, he had handled it as badly, even worse, than Mac was now. A few times he even had to go through it, work through it, alone (something he wouldn't wish on his worst enemy). But this was actually the first time he had ever watched someone he cared about, someone he loved like a brother, go through it and it had taken him three months of feeling helpless to come here and fight to get through to his friend. Now he was determined not to leave until he had either become successful or Duncan took his head to shut him up (which is what Joe had predicted was going to be the outcome and even wagered $20 on it.).

As he stared down at MacLeod, the part of Methos that still haunted a small corner of his soul from the old days whispered, "Do it. Put him out of his and your misery. Stop his pathetic sniveling once and for all." Instead he had stepped around the over sized coffee table, reached down, grabbed the bottle of Scotch out of Duncan's hand and tossed it into the fireplace, then instantly turned back around and with one quick movement, backhanded Duncan across his face.

Because Mac was so thoroughly anesthetized from the endless days and nights of constant drinking and very little eating, he was taken completely by surprise and the blow, although not delivered with maximum force, sent him sprawling across the couch.

It had not been Methos intention to resort to violence with his friend and as soon as he did it he regretted it. He sat down on the coffee table in front of Duncan and the look on his face that had only seconds before been distorted by the instantaneous rage was one of deep sadness. And it was seeing that, even through his blurred vision and hearing the words the normally smarmy 5000 year old Immortal spoke that reached through Duncan's drunken fog and touched his soul.

"Damn-it, MacLeod! I miss her, too," Methos said and the sadness in his voice was clear. "We all do."

"She was my wife, though," Duncan slurred.

"And some of us lived vicariously through you," Methos added softly, almost embarrassed at his admission.

"What do you mean?" Duncan struggled to sit back up.

"Never mind," Methos answered knowing MacLeod would never understand in his current state of mind. "I'll explain it to you someday," Then he added more to himself than to Duncan, "maybe."

Duncan's road out of oblivion wasn't an easy one. The alcohol had become a part of him and even though he was an Immortal and his physical wounds could heal quickly he was just as susceptible to addiction as mortals.

The first couple of weeks were the hardest as he fought both the physical and emotional withdrawals with Methos and Joe's help. There were times when he thought he might not get through it, and there were times that he thought he didn't want to, that it wasn't worth it. But through it all, through the physical pain (which at times was excruciating), through the D.T.s and the insatiable cravings, through the darkness that seemed endless, Methos would be there with a rope to pull him out of his pit of despair. During the times he thought he was going to drown in the sea of darkness, it was Joe that would toss him a life preserver and pull him ashore. And when the rope or the life preserver seemed too far away to reach, it was the voice of his beloved Caitlin that became the tide that carried him forward to where he could grab on to the rope or life preserver.

Once the alcohol was out of his system and its demons had been battled and conquered, Duncan's fight was still not over, for then he had to learn how to do what had driven him into the bottle in the first place. He had to face the real world and learn to deal with real life, a life without Caitlin. That battle was still ongoing.

"Are you sure?" Joe asked Methos as he refilled the two shot glasses on the bar in front of them.

"No. I'm not sure, Joe," Methos answered. "It was just something in her voice." He shook his head and downed the shot of whiskey. "I don't know. Maybe I just wanted there to be something," he added softly, more to himself. "But if Caitlin had had a sister...this girl could be it." He thought back to his encounter with the rider of the Paint at the fairgrounds.

When Kelly had pulled her horse to a stop in front of Methos he had spoken first. "I'm here just to watch," he said and smiled. "That was an impressive run."

Kelly looked him directly in the eye, her gaze steady. "Then buy a ticket. The rodeo's tomorrow," she said.

"You can count on it," Methos sated. "That's a beautiful Paint."

"Thank you," she said but her voice was as cold as her stare.

"Believe me, I'm not here to cause any trouble," Methos tried to assure her.

As she settled into the saddle preparing to ride away a smirk came across her face. "Just know...whatever you start, I will finish," she said with a familiar cockiness. A familiarity that twisted Methos stomach.

"Duly noted," he smiled.

Kelly turned Patches toward the gate, but after a few steps, brought him to a stop and turned in the saddle and looked back at Methos, a look of confused curiosity on her face.

"Do I know you?" She asked. "Have we met before?" There was none of the cold bravado of earlier.

Methos was taken by surprise at the question and unsure how to respond. So he simply smiled and shrugged. "All things are possible," he answered and then surprised himself with what he said next. "One can only hope."

His response did nothing to alleviate her curiosity or the strange feeling that she should recognize him. And his last comment, although seemingly an innocent attempt at profoundness on the surface, sent off some strange inner alarm telling her there was a deeper meaning which she just couldn't grasp. She rode away confused.

Methos had watched her until she disappeared beyond the gate then left. He had returned to Joe's in need of a drink and Joe's ear.

"But she might have recognized you?" Joe asked as he refilled Methos' glass.

Methos shrugged. "Maybe...on some level. But that assuming it's her, and how could that be? How could she be Caitlin and not know me...and look different enough to make me unsure if it was her?"

Joe shook his head. "I don't know. But who knows what whoever abducted Caitlin might have done to her. What worries me is, if it is our girl and they did somehow manage to obliterate her memory and change her appearance...why? Why would they do that?"

Methos looked up at Joe just as the shot glass Joe had just refilled touched his lips and froze for a second as Joe's words sunk in. Then he downed the shot, set the glass on the table and, still looking at Joe said, "whatever it is...it can't be good." A look of fear clouded his eyes.

Joe nodded, his expression mirroring Methos' and mixed with extreme concern. "Yeah."

TO BE CONTINUED