REBORN

The MacLeod Farm, Highlands of Scotland: 1 January 2030

"Happy birthday, Dad," Sara said one more time and kissed him on the cheek. His skin was cold against her lips, chilled by the winter wind that swept down from the hills to Loch Shiel below. "And happy new year."

"Thanks, sweetheart," he said and kissed her forehead, gently. "I'm glad you came." Then he turned to Daniel, who was swinging the last of the luggage into the car boot. "You got everything?"

"I think that's it," Daniel said. "Three suitcases full of clothes, two full of boots and hats and gloves, one full of Christmas presents…" He shook his head in mock dismay, squinting against the winter sunshine. "There may not be enough room for us on the airplane."

Alea reached up and tugged at her dad's coat, her dark blue eyes full of worry, her black hair hidden beneath a red cap. A purple pig was clutched firmly under her arm. "There'll be enough room for Wiglet, won't there, Daddy?"

"Yes, Alea," Daniel said, scooping her—with Wiglet—up into his arms. "We'll make sure there's room for Wiglet, even if we have to leave some of your presents behind."

"Daddy!" she squealed. "We can't leave my presents."

"No?"

"No! They're Christmas presents. You have to keep them. That's the rule."

"Well, if that's the rule…"

"It is," Alea proclaimed, with all the totalitarian assurance of a three-year-old.

"Ok. We'll keep all your presents, and Wiglet, too." He winked at Sara then tossed Alea over his shoulder, making her squeal again, this time in delight. "Last look?"

"Last look," Sara agreed, a tradition they'd started on their honeymoon, when he'd left his shoes at a hotel and the next day she'd left her hairbrush on a train. Sara called after him, "Make sure Alea—"

"—uses the bathroom, I know," he finished for her, and carried Alea through the garden and into the gray two-story farmhouse, bouncing her on his shoulders all the way.

Sara could remember Dad doing the exact same thing to her.

"You cold?" Dad asked, when she shivered. "We can wait in the cottage."

It wasn't far, just a little ways down the graveled drive, but Sara said, "I'm fine." She turned to look at the hills far across the loch, breathing deeply. "I like the smell of the air. I miss it."

Dad nodded and turned with her, laying his arm across her shoulders. The bitter wind ruffled his thick, gray hair.

In September, when he'd visited her in Prague, he'd shown her a picture of himself with short, brown hair and a beard. "Duncan and I camped out a lot," he'd explained. "Dye jobs are no fun in a mountain stream." He'd rubbed his knuckles along his jaw. "Stopped shaving, too."

"Like old times," Sara had put in. Very old times.

He'd nodded then hidden the picture away. "Daniel and Alea shouldn't see me like this. It would be… awkward."

"Yeah," she'd agreed lightly, yet awkward herself. He'd had gray hair since she was a teenager, and without it, and without his unnecessary bifocals, he didn't quite look like Dad.

But now, with gray hair again and with his glasses on, he did. Sara reached up and laid her hand atop his, and he tightened his grip into a quick hug. "I'm glad you came," he said again.

"Me, too. I had to, didn't I?" She met his eyes straight on. "It's the last family Christmas." Just as Duncan couldn't be her Uncle Duncan in public anymore, soon her dad soon couldn't be "Dad."

"Yeah," he said softly. "It is," and at those words, her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Sara, I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," she answered right away, because she knew that he had never asked to be Immortal, and he didn't want it to be this way, either, and life wasn't ever going to be fair. The secret of immortality had to be kept. She'd known that since she was nine. Mom and Dad and Cassandra had explained it to her and Colin then, and Aunt Rachel had talked about it, too. They had all kept the secret, all these years, and Sara had to keep it, too. "It's just… how it is." She wiped at her eyes and made herself smile. "I love you, Dad," she promised then added a pledge from her schoolgirl days. "Forever and for always."

"I love you, too, princess," Dad said, holding her close. He hadn't called her that in a while.

Sara closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of him—the bitterness of coffee, the sweaty tang of horses, the hint of lemon aftershave. Then a door slammed in the distance, and Alea and Daniel came down the drive, followed by John and Gina and their two kids, Colin and Oona and their baby, Graham, and three dogs, and Duncan and Rachel, all coming to bid Sara and her family farewell. Sara kissed her dad on the cheek again and blinked back yet more tears. "Goodbye, Daddy."

That afternoon, Connor joined Duncan at the living room window in the cottage, and handed him a glass of whisky. They stood in silence, drinking, looking past the rain-flattened pasture to the gray waters of the loch far below. Gray clouds shifted slowly with the wind above. Finally, Connor asked, "Want to go for a walk?"

"Sure," Duncan answered. "Where?"

"Mount Everest."

Duncan's glass stopped halfway to his lips. "You're kidding."

Connor shrugged. "You got something better to do?"

Duncan glanced behind them at the cottage: the shelves of neatly arranged books, the forlorn Christmas tree in the corner, the unwashed lunch dishes in the sink, the sofa bed still unmade. Connor had been living here for nearly three years; Duncan had been visiting for nearly two weeks, and for both of them, it was time to go. "No."

And so they went. First to the peak of Mount Everest, then from Death Valley to Mount Whitney, the lowest point to the highest point in the state of South California. When they reached the top of Mount Whitney, they turned around and hiked back to Death Valley. Then they headed north. The glaciers of the Canadian Rockies beckoned, and Connor and Duncan had nothing better to do. They paid the appropriate bribes to the guards on both sides of the border near Lake Tahoe, then filed their paperwork and paid more bribes at the Canadian border. After the glaciers, they continued north as far as they could go. Duncan suggested the Amazon rainforest next, and then Connor decided on Mount Kilimanjaro. Fujiyama followed. After that Connor said he was tired of walking, so they got a boat.

On the final leg of their sail around the world, Connor suggested they try the Sahara desert. Duncan leaned his back against the Tamarind's cabin wall. "I'd rather die of cold than dehydration. How about the North Pole?"

Connor grinned, his teeth very white in his sun-darkened and wind-roughened face, and he hung onto the rail with one hand. "We did that already."

"Oh, yeah," Duncan agreed. "I forgot. Two years ago, wasn't it?"

"Three," Connor corrected.

"Ok. How about the South Pole? Penguins instead of polar bears."

Now Connor laughed. "I never knew you could run so fast."

Duncan grinned in return. "But I still had a hard time catching up with you." He propped his feet on a coil of rope and squinted up at the blazing sun high overhead. "Cassandra walked across a desert, you know, to get away from the Horsemen. But that was probably the Arabian desert, not the Sahara."

Connor nodded and stared out to sea, the breeze ruffling the sun-bleached strands of his hair.

"You've been thinking about her, haven't you?" Duncan observed, for he knew his kinsman well. The silences had grown deeper again, but now the unfocused stares were those of a man looking more to the future than to the past. Cassandra had been thinking about them; care packages had awaited them in nearly every port—boxes filled with books and magazine clips (including two reports of people being both shot and beheaded, one in Siberia and one in India), musical recordings by Duncan's friend Claudia Jardine, Highland whisky and food delicacies, puzzles and games, pictures of their grown children and growing grandchildren, and crayoned drawings and finger-paintings galore.

Connor shrugged. "Sailors always think about women." He turned and observed wickedly, "Most of us anyway. You've been thinking about Methos."

Duncan didn't bother to deny it, but he did add, "And Amanda. And Claudia, and Robert and Gina, and other friends. My granddaughter will be fourteen in September; I'd like to see her again."

"And Sara's new baby is five weeks old. I'd like to see him, too." Connor looked out to sea. "And Rachel."

Duncan counted back the years and realized with a jolt that Rachel was going to be ninety-four in two months' time. Connor needed to go to her, and soon. Duncan stretched as he stood then joined Connor at the rail. "We've been away long enough, Connor. I'm ready to go back."

Connor nodded slowly then quoted: "And so we'll go no more a roving / So late into the night."

Duncan knew that poem, both by heart and by a head. The immortal words of Byron lived on. Connor was waiting expectantly, for quoting poetry back and forth was a game he and Duncan often played. Duncan finished the stanza: "Though the heart be still as loving / And the moon be still as bright." Connor didn't come back with the next line, and Duncan gladly gave up the game.

But that night, as Duncan lay in his bunk and stared at the thin ribbons of moonlight streaming across his hands, the words came to him unbidden, unwanted and reborn.

/ For the sword outwears its sheath,

/ And the soul wears out the breast.

Duncan turned his back on the moonlight and curled on his side, the pillow cool beneath his head. Through the porthole, he could see Connor at the rail, keeping watch. Duncan whispered the final couplet of that verse to himself, above the wash of the waves.

"And the heart must pause to breathe / And Love itself have rest."

It was time to stop wandering. It was time to live. Duncan rolled over and slept soundly, rocked by the waves.

Sara and Daniel's apartment, Prague: Friday 17 July 2034

It was Daniel who first spotted the notice of their deaths. "Sara!" he called, and at the note of fear and distress in his voice, she dropped her book on the couch and left Alea playing on the floor and Will asleep in the bassinet to join Daniel in their bedroom, where he sat in front of a display screen, a news item highlighted in blue.

Boat Found Adrift; Piracy Feared

The Southeast Asian Times

Kulang, 15 July: The 17m ketch Tamarind was found abandoned and adrift in the Timor Sea on Wednesday, say Indonesian port authorities. The boat, of Bahamian registry, was owned by Connor MacLeod of Scotland, who was reported to have been sailing around the world with a friend, Mark Johnson of New Zealand. No bodies were discovered, but bloodstains on deck and in the cabin lead officials to suspect foul play. The life boat was not deployed, and the last log entry was made on 3 July—

"No," Sara said, the letters on the screen blurring into a smear of white and blue. "That's impossible."

"Sara, I'm so sorry," Daniel said, standing to gather her into his arms.

"No," she said again, standing stiff against him. "You don't understand. They can't be dead."

"Sara, love… It's been almost two weeks. With no boat? The sharks—"

"No," she said flatly and pulled away. "I'm calling Colin."

But Colin hadn't heard anything. Neither had Rachel or John. Sara had to break the news to each of them. Sara called Cassandra next. "Are they dead?" she demanded.

"What?" Cassandra replied, sounding sleepy and confused. "Who?"

"The Tamarind was abandoned and set adrift two weeks ago," Sara explained for the fourth time. "Daniel just saw the report on the web. Haven't you read it yet?" She knew Cassandra's newscanner was set to flag any mention of Connor MacLeod, as was theirs.

"No, not today. I just got back from the Hague. I'm sorry, Sara, I don't—"

"Are they dead?" Sara repeated, her frustration and panic growing.

Cassandra said nothing for several seconds, while Sara felt each beat of her heart inside her chest. "It's possible," Cassandra said finally. "Otherwise, they would have contacted—"

"I know," Sara interrupted. Only they hadn't, not for two weeks, not anyone. Which meant…

"I don't think they're dead," Cassandra said calmly. "I don't sense it. I haven't dreamed it. Have you?"

Sara bit into her lower lip. "No." She hadn't had any special dreams since she'd gotten pregnant with Will. There'd been none during her other pregnancies, either. The dreams would probably start again soon.

"Good," Cassandra was saying, then concluded briskly, "So we wait. And Sara…"

"What?"

"This needed to happen, you know."

Sara knew. She'd known it for years. Every generation or so, Immortals needed to disappear, to cut all ties, so they could take a new name and start a new life. But it didn't have to happen like this.

Five days later, Cassandra called her Sara to her office. "They're alive," Cassandra said, and Sara sagged back against the door, once again aware of the beating of her heart. "They're in Darwin, Australia."

"Why'd he call you?"

"He didn't want Daniel to have any chance of intercepting the message."

"Daniel," Sara murmured. He'd been so sweet, so supportive, so certain they were dead, while Sara had been refusing to cry. "He's been trying to convince me to have a memorial service."

Cassandra nodded. "That's still not a bad idea."

"But, I can't— Now that I know…" Sara smacked the heavy wooden door with her fist in frustration. "I'm not that good a liar."

Cassandra just nodded again. "If Daniel thinks you've accepted the deaths as real, he'll probably let the service go. He only suggested it for your sake."

"I know." Daniel was just trying to help, to help her come to terms with her father's disappearance. And although Connor MacLeod wasn't dead, her father was certainly gone.

Sara didn't truly understand that, though, not deep down, not really. Not until four days later when her house computer chimed to tell her someone was at the door. The monitor showed a young man with hair just long enough to curl, bleached blond by the sun, and a darker, short-trimmed beard. His skin was tanned to a deep brown. A college student, perhaps, judging from the knapsack in one hand and the brightly colored clothes, plus the earring in his left ear and the two gold chains around his neck. "Yes?" she said into the speaker.

"Sara," he said, and then she knew.

"Sweet goddess above," she breathed and ran to the living room to yank open her door. "Come in!" she said. "Oh, come in," and then she was in his arms, safe and at home. He didn't smell of horses now, and his aftershave wasn't lemony, but this was the man she had loved her entire life, and she would know him anywhere.

Then she hit him in the shoulder, hard, and then she thumped him again. "Where were you?" she demanded. "What took you so long?"

"I'm sorry." The apology was quick but sincere. "Our lifeboat was blown off course."

She shook her head, confused. "The lifeboat was still on the Tamarind."

He dropped his knapsack on the living room floor. "We had two."

"Oh. The blood?"

He winced, rubbing his left shoulder. "Duncan got me a good one." He grinned suddenly, the earring and the tan giving him a pirate's wolfish glee. "And then I got him."

She almost grinned back, but then remembered what he had done. "Why didn't you warn us?" she asked, and was embarrassed when it came out more of a whine than a plea.

All traces of his grin disappeared. "I did, Sara. Years ago."

He had, yes, but—

"You got married, Sara. Colin did, too. You can't have Daniel and Oona asking about me, year after year, and wondering why I never visit anymore, or why they can't see me."

John's wife wouldn't ask; John had told Gina about Immortals years ago. Sara still remembered how upset—furious, really—their dad had been. And that, of course, was why she and Colin had kept quiet.

"This will be easier, in the long run," he continued.

Ok, maybe… but it hadn't been easy up to now. But who ever said life was going to be easy? Or fair? Sara took a deep breath and welcomed him again. "Come on in," she said, leading the way to the kitchen. "Would you like some tea?"

"Sure, but first I'd like to see my grandson."

Sara took him into the bedroom, where Will lay sleeping on his back on the futon. He'd outgrown the bassinet only a few days ago.

"So this is the miracle baby," he said, bending down to peer at the tiny form.

"Yes, he is," Sara agreed, marveling again at the perfection of her son. Both of Will's fists were up, raised in a victorious boxer's stance, and just barely reaching to his ears. Straight black hair spiked in all directions from his head. "He's worth it all."

"Is the treatment that bad?"

Sara grimaced, remembering. "Oh, I was so sick. The treatment suppresses the immune system, so it won't attack the baby, but then it doesn't attack other things, either. That went on for months, until I finally got pregnant, and then I was in the isolation ward for nine months, and I missed Alea and Daniel so much, and I still got sick, even in there, and of course I'm not—" Not that young anymore, she would have said to anyone else, but not to him. Thirty-seven wasn't old, she knew. But it wasn't young.

He'd left the baby and come to stand by her side. "How are you now?"

"Fine." Except for being tired all the time, but all new mothers were, and that cough that came and went wasn't much of a bother. And there'd been that fever a few weeks ago, but that happened sometimes. "I'm fine."

"And Daniel?"

"Fine." Her gaze went back to her son. "He's really happy we have Will." Though Daniel hadn't always been happy along the way. As the years of the treatment wore on, his early support had turned into doubt, then worry, then frustration and fear. He hadn't liked using Sara's money to pay for the procedures, either. But Sara had persevered, in spite of his misgivings, in spite of her illnesses, and now they had a beautiful baby boy. "Alea loves him, too. She's a wonderful big sister."

"And you're a wonderful mother," he said. "I'm proud of you, Sara."

A day ago, an hour ago, she would have straightened up and beamed at him for saying those words, and she would have answered, "Thanks, Dad." But now she just said, "Thanks," with a smile. "Tea?"

They went back to the kitchen, where he sat at the table, watching, while Sara pulled out two mugs from the corner cabinet. "Daniel just took Alea to school," she said, measuring the water from their weekly drinking ration.

"I know."

"You know?" she repeated, turning around to look at him. But of course he knew. He'd been outside, watching, waiting until Daniel and Alea left, waiting for Sara to be alone. She set the kettle on the stove and turned the gas on high.

"I'll be in town for about a week," he said, offering her a few days, a scrap of his time, when he'd been traveling with Duncan for four years. "I'll come over when Daniel goes to work, or we can meet at my hotel or in a park."

Like a secret lover. Like a dirty little affair. Sara saw the future clearly enough now; she didn't need to see it in her dreams. Her father would never come to a family birthday party, never visit for Christmas or a weekend, never call her at home, never send pictures, never again be a regular, normal part of her life. Her father was gone. She understood that now.

"Daniel might recognize me; I shouldn't see him," he went on. "But I can see Alea. And Will."

Sara nodded, setting sugar and milk on the table. "What should they call you?" Obviously not Grandpa. Alea and Will would never have a grandfather.

"How about Cousin Mike?"

She nodded again as she reached for the spoons. "Is that your name now?"

"Michael Connor Audren."

Sara kept nodding as she sat down, staring at the stranger who had her father's eyes.

"Sara," he said, reaching across the table for her hand. "You've always known that immortality requires keeping secrets."

And keeping secrets required telling lies. Sara had always known that, too. "It's ok." She smiled again, another lie. "It'll be fine."

When Methos read of the demise of Mark Johnson, he smiled and drank a toast to Duncan MacLeod. It was time to find his old friend.

Continued in "Methuselah's Gift," wherein Methos makes a suggestion or two