Into the Light
Methos wasn't keen on emotional outbursts. He preferred the wry smile and the witty comeback, the elegant shrug and the exasperated sigh.
Still, it was hard to keep from letting out a whoop when Karla opened the box and revealed that the Tribunal was voting four to one to let him live. Duncan, who'd been well nigh to quivering with much-appreciated rescue-itis, stood down from alert, sagging back in his chair and closing his eyes in relief before grinning in triumph. Cassandra offered Methos a wry smile and a solemn nod. Serena— or rather, Kate, because she wasn't like the Serena that Methos wanted to remember—sat silently, lips tight and eyes down, apparently irked that he wasn't about to be killed.
The other tribunes were polite but not effusive. "Sorry about this whole mess," Reagan said from close behind him as she loosened his bonds.
"As am I," Urushan said, and the two young ones murmured something along those lines. Tunji got up and bowed then took a stungun from his pocket and handed it to Cassandra. It seemed her weapon had been confiscated for the duration.
Methos stood, rubbing his wrists, and accepted their apologies with grace and charm, for hadn't he just made a lovely speech about accepting people's mistakes? Though he did want to know who had voted for him to die. He might have to take a head soon. Kate's too. But probably not today.
"Can I have my things now?" Methos asked. He wanted his clothes and his shoes and his wallet and his phone and everything else they'd taken from him. He wanted the last eighteen months of his life back, too, but that time was gone forever. Methos added, "Including my sword."
"They are in storage," Urushan said. Methos waited, gaze steady and unyielding upon the other man, until Urushan added, "I will go get them."
Reagan looked from Duncan to Cassandra to Kate to Methos then kissed Duncan farewell. She leaned forward to whisper in Duncan's ear, and Methos heard her say: "I think you have your hands full now. I'll see you later."
Methos wasn't surprised to have encountered yet one more of Duncan's lovers. Or perhaps two or three more, for young Sofie may well have sought comfort in those brawny arms, and Cassandra had said that Duncan and Karla were friends. If so, that was five out of the five women in the room, a perfect score.
Tunji nodded to Methos and said goodbye to his fellows; then Reagan and Tunji went down the tunnel, back the way they had come.
"Dine with me and Cassandra this evening at Haven?" Karla invited Methos and Duncan. After they glanced at each other then nodded to her, she left with Chonglin and Sofie.
Then only four of them remained in the room: himself, Duncan, Cassandra, and Kate. Both women were watching him, and so he faced two pairs of gorgeous green eyes. But while Cassandra's gaze was merely watchful, Kate's was like that of a cornered cat lashing its tail.
"Orlath," Cassandra said, reaching out a hand to Kate. "Come with me. Please." Kate turned to Cassandra, and wariness slowly melted into relief, and Kate took Cassandra's hand.
"Cassandra," Methos called, because he definitely had a few things he wanted to say to Kate. And to Cassandra.
"Yes," Cassandra replied without turning around. "Later today." The two women left arm in arm, with nary a backward glance for him.
Then Duncan and he were alone in the room at last. "MacLeod—," Methos began, and then Duncan hugged him, tight enough to take the air out, hard enough to feel good. Methos closed his eyes, luxuriating in the very rare sensation of feeling safe and warm and at home, and hugged him back just as hard.
"I thought you were dead," Duncan said, his voice muffled against hair.
"So did I," Methos confessed. A shudder ripped through him, but he stayed where he was, letting Duncan know of that fear, letting Duncan reassure him with manly pats on the shoulders and on the back. Eventually, they pulled back to look at each other, but held on to each others' arms. "How did you find me?" Methos asked.
Duncan grinned again. "Witchcraft."
"Ah." He should have known, with Cassandra being involved.
"Using…," Duncan leaned over and picked up a key from the pile of stuff Reagan had taken from the jacket pockets, "…the key to your house."
Methos didn't even have that house anymore. He hadn't known Duncan still carried the key.
"Would you like it back?" Duncan asked.
"How about you keep it?" Methos forced a smile. "In case you need it again."
"God forbid," Duncan said, trying to laugh, his eyes bright.
"Yeah," Methos agreed. He shrugged off the jacket and handed it back to Duncan. "Have a pocket."
"Thanks," Duncan said, but he set the jacket on the table. Then he took up his katana, still sheathed, and offered it formally to Methos.
Methos had never seen Duncan voluntarily offer his sword to anyone, except the night Richie had died, and it had been bloody then. Methos shook his head. "Urushan should be here soon with mine. I can wait."
Duncan stepped forward, the long curve of the weapon lying flat on open palms. "I think we've waited long enough."
Methos looked up from the sword into eyes dark and fine. "MacLeod…"
"I want you to have this, Methos. To keep."
Well … damn. Methos didn't touch it, didn't move, caught as he was in Duncan's shining gaze. Methos swallowed, suddenly aware of his heartbeat, of hot blood leaping in his veins. "Only," he said, trying for a bantering tone, to keep it light, to keep it safe, just in case one of them backed away, "if you agree to keep mine."
Duncan nodded, a smile dancing across his face. "Absolutely. I've always admired your blade."
Methos looked again at the katana, that superb weapon, and he lifted it reverently from Duncan's hands. When Urushan returned, Methos presented Duncan with the Ivanhoe.
"Shall we spar?" Duncan suggested, his eyes alight with challenge and fun.
Methos himself felt as excited as an eight-year-old with a new toy. He hadn't sparred with a worthy partner in years, and to have it be Duncan, and with their newly swapped swords… It was like Christmas with bells on. "We shall," Methos replied as he swept a grandiloquent bow. He dressed in his own clothes, and they went into the cavern, leaving Urushan to putter about and neaten things in the tribunal room.
Methos drew the katana, and Duncan drew the sword. They went through a kata, side by side, getting used to the length and the balance of their new blades. Methos couldn't remember a blade that had suited him so well. Nearby, Duncan was trying out an intricate twirl of the Ivanhoe from hand to hand. "How's it feel?" Methos asked.
Duncan straightened and saluted him with the blade. "Perfect."
Methos was feeling practically perfect, too. "Ready?" Methos asked, and they saluted each other this time. There, in that hollow space inside the earth, they circled each other then came together again and again, mirroring each other's moves with force and finesse, weaving a dance of strength and steel.
"Well?" Methos asked when they paused for breath. "What do you think?"
"I think," Duncan said, looking down the play of light along the length of the blade, and then looking up with a grin, "that this is going to be a lot of fun."
Methos couldn't have agreed more. He would have liked to go another round, but he had been underground long enough and it was time to go.
Urushan led them up the stairs to the Haven school. During the long climb up, he offered them rooms for the night. "The school is on holy ground, an old monastery," he reassured them. "And recently renovated."
Methos was definitely in favor of a chance to sleep soundly in a real bed. And having bathing facilities that did not include a camera eye.
"We're keeping our swords with us," Duncan announced.
"Swords are not permitted at Haven," Urushan stated.
"Then we're not staying there," Duncan replied. "You are not taking a sword from either of us, ever again."
They climbed eight more steps before Urushan changed his tune. "Please keep them out of sight of the students."
"Of course," Duncan agreed cheerfully then told Methos, "Cassandra and Karla and Kate are all staying at Haven, too. And we'd be coming back up the hill for dinner anyway."
Convenience and relative safety, and one less hill to climb… "Certainly," Methos agreed, wondering how many more stairs were still ahead of them. His legs were starting to ache.
When at last they came out of the tunnel and into the old monastery, Methos headed straight for a door to the outside. He stood in the sunshine, breathing fresh air and listening to the wind and the birds, looking out at the sky above and the valley below on this fine autumn day. It was marvelous to be alive.
When he finally turned around, Cassandra was standing with Duncan, waiting. Methos walked briskly across the courtyard to meet them. "I'm not fond of being underground," he explained then added under his breath, "Especially for eighteen months."
"Were you hungry or thirsty?" Cassandra asked. "Or cold?"
"No." He'd been quite comfortable mostly.
"Were you staked out and left for days at a time? Raped?"
This was getting uncomfortable fast. "Cassandra—"
"Tell me, Methos," she interrupted, "did they break your hands?"
Obviously, their touching rapprochement from earlier this afternoon had not been a disarmament treaty. At least she hadn't said anything like that during the evaluation. "No," he told her. "Just kidnapped, killed, imprisoned, drugged, tied down, interrogated by persons unknown, and hit with a nerve induction wave." In response to Duncan's surprised and angry oath, Methos explained, "They edited that out of the testimony."
Duncan swore again, but Cassandra shrugged. "They did warn you not to lie, and Kate said you were stunned only once." She looked him over from head to toe. "Apparently, you learned your lesson well."
Methos gave up the bad-prison contest; Cassandra held a lot more cards, and he'd been the one to deal them to her. So he changed the subject by asking, "How is Kate?"
Cassandra accepted his capitulation without comment and answered, "She's waiting to talk to you in the sacristy. She's not angry with you, but she is disappointed in you."
This time Duncan snorted instead of swearing, and Methos grinned at his best friend before saying, "Those feelings are mutual."
"She says you have no loyalty," Cassandra reported.
In the past, he'd been far too loyal for far too long.
"She told me not to trust you." Cassandra smiled with disturbing cheerfulness. "I told her I never trust anyone."
Neither did he. Or rather, he knew that everyone was capable of anything, and so he was never shocked by what anyone did. Surprised at times, more often disappointed, and on rare occasions, delighted beyond words. But not shocked.
"She also told me I'd regret not killing you," Cassandra added.
"And do you?" Methos asked.
Cassandra stepped forward, all traces of malicious amusement gone, and looked into his eyes. "Not anymore," she said softly then named him Brother in a language forgotten by everyone except themselves.
He knew it wasn't a total endorsement; he'd both loved and hated his brothers, and they'd bickered and fought almost as much as they'd worked and played. Eventually, his brothers had died at his hands.
But the bond between him and Cassandra was deeper than blood and stronger than love, older than anything else left in his life, and he wanted her to live. He also wanted to touch her, to smooth the hair back from her face, to take her hand in his. But he couldn't, not ever again.
"Ki-e-nida," he called her, a name he had imagined for her ages ago, but never once called her before today. Ki-e-nida, the place of dancing. A place of joy. "I am honored," he told her in that ancient tongue, as he had told her earlier that day when she had spoken on his behalf.
She smiled as she kissed him, butterfly light upon the cheek, then she nodded to Duncan and was gone.
Methos stood in the sunshine, delighted beyond words, the touch of her lips still warm upon his skin. Perhaps he'd been wrong. Perhaps he could, someday.
He turned to meet Duncan's slightly amused and very interested gaze, though all Duncan said was, "That's nice."
"Mmm," Methos murmured in assent. But Cassandra wasn't the only woman in his life right now. "I'm off to talk with Kate. See you soon?"
Duncan clapped him on the shoulder, his fingers tightening upon muscle and sinew and bone. "Soon," he agreed, and it was a promise and a joy.
Methos stretched up on his toes and took another deep breath of free air before going back inside. From what he'd seen of the place, they'd renovated the old monastery into a school. The chapel had been redone as an exercise room, and the sacristy had been turned into a library. Kate was reading a book, and she glanced up but didn't speak when he came in.
He sat down in the chair facing her, but she kept reading. "Not much of a greeting," he observed.
"How should I greet thee?" she asked, turning another page, still staring at the words there. "With silence and tears?"
Quoting poetry wasn't her usual style, but he could play that game, and he knew this poem. Byron had written it right before he'd killed himself in 1816. "As I recall," Methos said, "that's not how we two parted. There was a kiss and an au revoir." She didn't reply, so he asked, "Are you grieving in silence?"
"Grieving. That thy heart could forget." She closed both halves of the book together, holding the volume upright between her palms. At last she looked at him, saying: "Thy spirit deceive."
"I never deceived you, Kate," he said gently, because he liked her. He'd rather not have to kill her. "And I never forgot you, either." That was mostly true. "So what have I done to you?"
"Nothing," she answered, as she had answered earlier that day. She'd also said everything had changed when she'd learned about his past.
"Kate, I know that finding out I'd been a raider was a shock, and—"
"I've known about that for forty years," she broke in.
"Really." More than a decade before she'd invited him on that delightful vacation in space. "How?"
"I read Adam Pierson's doctoral thesis on Sumerian dialects. Fascinating work, by the way."
"Thank you."
"I wanted to talk to Pierson, but when I did a websearch, I got his obituary … and a picture of you. So I kept looking, and found that Adam Pierson had worked for a very interesting company. I visited their headquarters a few months before it was bombed. I also accessed their computer system."
Damn all sloppy Watchers and that incompetent Tribune of the Guard.
"I found that Adam Pierson had had a long and varied career," she told him. "And yes, it was a surprise. But the man I knew as Marcus wasn't a raider. Neither was Philippe Jarbeau or Dr. Kyle Winston. So I didn't worry about it."
"Then why put the information in a safety deposit box? And why leave me dead in a cell for a year and a half just so you could hand it over to the Tribunal? Why the hell did you—" He bit that off and reminded himself to let go of the anger. It wasn't useful. "I thought we were friends."
"I don't think you have friends, Methos." It was the first time she'd used his real name. "Just people who are useful, or amusing. For a little while, and then you move on." She sounded more sorrowful than angry.
Methos didn't want to play guessing games anymore, and Kate obviously had someone particular in mind. "Who do you think I was disloyal to, Kate?"
"Byron."
That explained the poetry, but not why she would care. "I didn't know you knew him."
Her eyes narrowed. "We were lovers."
Ah. That explained a lot. Their combined enthusiasm had probably scorched the walls. And the ceiling and the floor. "Kate, I'm sorry," Methos said, making the apology as sincere as he could. "But I didn't kill him."
"I know. Duncan told me what happened when Bryon went to 'the good doctor' to find a way out of the darkness." She finally let go of the book and put it face down on the table. "You were Byron's teacher and his friend, and he thought you would help him."
"I did try."
"How hard?"
Not very. He'd talked to Byron and he'd talked to MacLeod, and after that guitarist had died of a drug overdose he'd warned Byron that MacLeod was coming for his head. But he hadn't shot Byron in the back and dragged him off to Tahiti or Tibet for some R&R. He hadn't said to MacLeod (as MacLeod had said to him the week before): "If you kill him, you face me." He'd just pleaded and argued and then gone to a bar to drink while Byron had died at MacLeod's hand.
Methos sighed and rubbed his hand through his hair. "Kate, I doubt anyone could have helped him. I think Byron wanted to die."
"Don't we all? At times?"
He never had.
"I don't blame you for Byron's death," Kate said. "He was far gone, I know. But he spoke so very highly of 'his friend the doctor' that I hoped…"
Methos had no response for that. Byron had always had an amazing imagination.
"They say that hope is happiness," Kate said, quoting Byron again, but then shook her head. "They're wrong."
"I'm sorry," he said again.
"Well, that's the Game, isn't it?" She shrugged then faced him to say: "I don't think you're evil now because you were a raider ages ago. I'm not angry with you, and I don't hate you. In fact, I find you quite charming."
She was charming, too, and earnest and lovely, yet she'd tried to convince a roomful of people that he ought to be killed, and he hadn't yet been able to convince her that he wasn't that bad. Pity.
"And I suspect that right now," she said, a ghost of a smile in her eyes, "you're deciding quite calmly that I need to die."
He didn't deny it.
Her ghost of a smile disappeared. "That's why I think you're dangerous. It's the same reason that Duncan thought Byron was dangerous. You don't care. Not about people, not about honor, not about anything. You do whatever it takes and then you move on. Your heart doesn't forget, because your heart has never learned."
She was so very logical about everything, and so very wrong. Methos took her hand and held it close against his chest, so that she could feel his heart beat beneath her palm. "I promise you, Kate, my heart has learned. It has bled, and it has broken."
Sometimes in his dreams, Kronos asked: "Does it hurt, Brother?" and then twisted the knife deeper in. Sometimes in his dreams, Alexa was there. When he awoke, she was always gone.
"I've lost everything, Kate, more times than I can count," Methos told her, dropping the mask he usually wore over the pain."So I've had to learn to let go. I know it can seem cold and uncaring, but it's just … pragmatic." He gave her a crooked smile that he hoped was charming, and she actually smiled in return, and her fingers moved slightly against his chest. That was promising. "If I didn't let go, my heart could never heal to love again."
Kate looked at him searchingly for a long moment. "So Cassandra is right about you?"
"I hope so." He did the charming grin again. "She should know, and I don't want to disappoint her." He got serious before saying, "Or you."
It took a few moments, but finally Kate nodded. "I only did what I thought was right."
As an apology, it was less than stellar. As an explanation, it would do. "I know."
"I'm sorry about you missing the launch," she said next. "And interfering with your plans."
She was getting there. "Thanks," Methos replied.
"I didn't mean to worry Duncan. But he hasn't seemed very interested in you, so I didn't think you two were in touch. But obviously," she admitted with a more than a touch of curiosity, "I was wrong about that."
That remained to be seen.
"Could you and I still be friends?" she asked, tentative in the face of his silence.
"Of course," he reassured her, because friends were less likely to kill you than enemies were, and he didn't need any more people after his head. They would be coming, he knew. Too many people knew who "the oldest immortal" was these days, and it was impractical to kill them all. Besides, he liked some of them.
Kate stood, and Methos got to his feet, too. He even managed a smile for her. She kissed him before saying goodbye.
Methos stood and stretched then went outside again, watching until the sun set behind the mountains and the stars began to appear, one by one. A beautiful evening at the end of a beautiful day.
The air was cold and the eastern sky was black before he went to his room. It wasn't much, just a square space with a small window and a bed, a dresser, a desk and a chair, but it didn't have cameras and the door locked from the inside. The bathroom was down the hall. He showered and shaved (oh, the luxury of a razor!) then wrapped the towel around his waist to go back to his room.
In the hallway, Duncan's door opened, and Duncan's head appeared. "Hey," he said then seemed to lose track of what he'd been going to say. He came all the way into the hall. "Um…"
"Yes?" Methos inquired, standing damp and barefoot in front of Duncan and not cold at all.
"I've an extra sweater," Duncan offered. "If you'd like."
"Thanks." These mountains in autumn were much chillier than the subcontinent in spring, and his clothes weren't all that warm. "That's very kind." But Duncan made no move to go fetch it, so Methos suggested, "Shall I stop by your room before we go down to dinner?"
Duncan blinked and focused. "Yes. All right."
"Give me ten minutes," Methos said then went down the hall. He glanced back before he shut his door, and saw Duncan still standing there. Watching.
Methos smiled to himself as he shut the door. Definitely all right.
"Those colors suit you well," Cassandra commented when she met Methos and Duncan in the hall outside Karla's room.
"Thank you," Methos said. The sweater contained woodland shades of brown and green and gray, and had been hand-knitted with silk noil and cotton yarn in an elaborate cable pattern. It was loose across the shoulders and a bit shorter than he liked in the arms, and it still held Duncan's scent. Methos tugged the bottom of the sweater down, enjoying the softness of the yarn.
"I'm loaning it to Methos," Duncan announced. "Since he wasn't given a chance to pack."
Cassandra's smile shifted minutely, going from polite to real, and Methos thought he detected a flicker of relief and then amusement in her eyes. "Very thoughtful," Cassandra told Duncan warmly then nodded and smiled at Methos when he held the door open for her.
Instead of following her in, Methos looked at Duncan.
"Cassandra made the sweater for me," Duncan explained. "Birthday present."
People could be possessive about clothes that they had made, even after they had given them away. People could be possessive about a lot of things. "She gave me a sweater about ten years ago," Methos said. It had fit him perfectly. "Shall we?" Methos asked, opening the door again, and he and Duncan went in.
Karla greeted them then said, "Dinner will be ready soon. Wine?"
They gathered near the fireplace. Cassandra chose an upright chair in the corner; Duncan and Methos shared the sofa, leaving an empty space between them. Karla sprawled back in her armchair, a glass of wine in her hand. "So, Methos," she began, "why put me in charge of the Tribunal?"
"I didn't want them feeling in control." Though they had been, more than he liked. "I wanted to see how they would react to change." And see how Karla would react, too. "And you were the only disinterested person in the room." He wondered how she would react to that as well.
All she did was nod. Then she moved on, saying, "All three of you know Kate. What can you tell me of her?"
She was really good in bed. But that was hardly pertinent information. "As I said in the cave," Methos replied, "she's an engineer. She likes to fix things, even when they're not broken."
Cassandra nodded. "She does likes to learn, and she's bright and determined."
"And very enthusiastic," Duncan said then added, "About pretty much everything."
Methos hid a smile behind his glass. Good in bed.
"Kate's practical," Duncan went on.
"Yet idealistic even so," Cassandra added. "It seems that hasn't changed in the last sixteen hundred years."
"In other words," Karla said with a sigh, "not nearly cynical enough to maintain this Tribunal she's designed."
Methos looked upon Karla with approval. He'd been thinking the exact same thing.
"Nor is Urushan," Karla said next. "Certainly not Sofie or Chonglin. What about Reagan?"
Duncan shook his head. "She's a loner, and she likes action."
"How about Tunji? Or the other twenty-two tribunes out there? We heard of three. Katya, wasn't it? And Carl Robinson."
"And Halao Mahelona," Cassandra added. "She's a decent person, but not, I think, administratively minded."
"Same for Katya and Carl," Duncan said. "I don't know Tunji at all, but he struck me as capable."
"Maybe too capable," Karla observed.
A woman of cynicism and caution. Even better. "Maybe this is why they wanted to recruit the three of you," Methos commented brightly. "Will you join, Karla?"
"I may have to," she said sourly. "Either to close it down or to fix it, because the idea does have some merit."
"Indeed it does," Methos agreed. Eliminate some nasty people, give Duncan a rest, enforce the code as well as the rules—lots of merit. However… "As you noticed, it also has some problems."
"Nothing's perfect," Cassandra noted. "Or permanent. Things change."
"Like the Watchers becoming the Hunters?" Duncan said. "Or the Church starting the Inquisition?" He put his wine glass down on the small table next to the sofa. "I don't like this idea. People haven't agreed to it, people don't even know about it."
"None of us knew about or agreed to the Game, either," Karla pointed out.
As Sofie had rather emphatically reminded them. Methos watched the blood-red wine swirling in the bottom of his glass, round and round and round.
"Word spreads," Cassandra said simply.
Indeed it did. Methos looked up to reassure Duncan. "The tribunal won't last, MacLeod. A police force requires a civilization, with quick travel and communication. That's already shredding at the edges here, and those who go into space will be beyond the tribunal's reach." He could disappear by going to a new planet, as he had disappeared by going to the New World fifteen hundred years ago. And if he staged his death before he left, the name Methos would again become a myth as the centuries went by.
Methos turned to Cassandra. "But in the meantime…"
"I'll sponsor you for membership in the Tribunal as soon as I can," Cassandra told him.
"Good. Thank you."
"That Tribunal almost killed you," Duncan reminded him.
"Precisely." Methos finished off his wine. "Better to be on the bench than in front of it."
"Agreed," Karla said then stood. "Ready for dinner?"
Methos certainly was. He'd never gotten lunch today. He ate heartily of the warm bread and thick beef stew, focusing on the food and letting the others talk. During the main course, the chatter was innocuous, but when they started on dessert (stewed apples with dumplings), Karla had more questions.
"Tell me about these Watchers," she said. "And the Hunters they turned into."
Duncan began the tale. "The Watchers were around for millennia, keeping track of us to see who might win the Prize."
"Observe, record, and never interfere," Methos put in. "That's the Watcher motto." Ostensibly, anyway.
"About sixty years ago," Duncan continued, "a small group of them went rogue. These 'Hunters' decided to hurry things along by killing immortals themselves. When the regular Watchers found out, they stopped them. But at least one immortal had decided all Watchers were dangerous, and in 2014 he bombed their headquarters and destroyed most—but obviously not all—of their records. After that, their schools were closed down and their organization was dismantled."
True in essence, if not in every detail. Methos didn't bother to offer corrections.
"And are all the Watchers gone?" Karla persisted.
"No," Cassandra said. "Some of that group are still alive, though quite old. But other mortals know what we are." Then she told the tale of a woman named Amshula, who knew far too much and was far too resourceful.
Methos closed his eyes and sighed in exasperation. "Amshula will start the Watchers all over again, if she hasn't already."
Cassandra didn't disagree. Karla seemed resigned, saying merely, "Looks like we have more work to do."
Methos didn't want to talk about it now. He set down his spoon then stood, telling his dinner companions, "Sorry, everyone. It's been a busy day for me."
"I'm tired, too," Cassandra said, and they thanked Karla, said goodnight to Duncan, then left together.
In the long hallway, Methos asked Cassandra, "How do you think the tribunes would have voted if you hadn't controlled them with the Voice?"
"I used it to influence, not control," she corrected.
"You had Chonglin dancing to your tune."
"Only for simple actions—let us talk, untie me—not for decisions. And five people at once are too many to control. I think they released you because of the testimony, yours and Duncan's and mine."
"Thanks again for that," he said, because gratitude was always a good idea. As were manners; he held a door open for her, and she smiled at him as she passed him by. They started up the narrow stairs, he following her, and he took the chance to appreciate her shapely backside. In the corridor, they walked side by side again, and he asked, "So which tribune do you think thought I should die?"
"Planning on killing him?" Cassandra asked. "Or her?"
"That depends," Methos replied, and noticed with approval that she seemed neither surprised nor bothered.
"Not Urushan," she stated. "He thanked Duncan and me for providing balance to the testimony. He's very committed to justice, and I think he's been dissatisfied with the tribunal's procedures lately."
"Urushan and MacLeod have a lot to talk about," Methos observed.
"They've started already," she said dryly then went on naming names: "Not Chonglin. Nor, I think, Tunji, since he wants your head for himself."
"Yes," Methos murmured. He'd noticed the speculative gleam in that warrior's eye. "That leaves Reagan and Sofie."
"Sofie, perhaps, because of her teacher? Or perhaps not, for the same reason," Cassandra mused. "I'll find out and let you know."
"Thank you."
As they reached a parting of the ways, Cassandra said, "About Kate."
Methos had suspected this was coming. "Yes?"
Cassandra turned to face him. "I want her to live."
Ah yes. He'd heard that lovely phrase a time or two before, most memorably from Duncan when Cassandra has been holding an axe over Methos's neck. And Cassandra had said it about him earlier today. He supposed he owed her, but that wouldn't stop him from eliminating threats, if need be. "I'll take that under consideration," Methos replied.
"I would appreciate that," she said then added abruptly, "I'm glad you're not dead."
Methos had to smile. "So am I."
Cassandra smiled back, bade him goodnight, and went to her room while Methos went to his. Time for bed.
Duncan and Karla talked for only a few moments after Cassandra and Methos left. As they walked down the hallway, Karla said, "I'm glad you found your friend." She added grimly, "In time."
"Me, too," Duncan agreed fervently.
She shook her head. "I had no idea Urushan was doing that."
"We all have secrets," Duncan observed, for that was just the way of the world. He commented, "You and Cassandra seem to be getting along well."
"Yes," Karla agreed cheerfully. "We seem to have much in common." She stopped walking at the base of the stairs, for her room was on the floor below. "Good night, Duncan."
"Good night." He ran up the stairs two at a time and had taken only three steps down the corridor when he felt the presence of another immortal. Methos's room was just ahead. Duncan walked up to the door and knocked, calling out, "It's me," because he didn't want the katana at his throat. He knew how cautious Methos was, and how sharp that blade was.
But when Methos pulled the door open, he was holding only a hairbrush, and he greeted Duncan with a smile. Methos waved his empty hand at himself, still fully clothed except for missing shoes. "Sorry, I just got started getting ready for bed. I'll have the sweater back to you in a moment."
"I'm not here for the sweater," Duncan said.
Methos cocked his head to one side. "Here to offer me a set of pajamas?"
"I could," Duncan said slowly, as if he were considering. "Of course, then I'd be sleeping naked." Duncan watched with great satisfaction when Methos blinked then tried to refocus his eyes. It was only fair, considering Methos's towel-clad saunter earlier that day. Methos did manage to say, "Ah."
Duncan waited, but Methos didn't invite him in. It truly had been a long day. "Look," Duncan began, "I know you're tired—
"No," Methos broke in."Not that tired. Come on in." He stood back from the door and gracefully waved the brush-holding hand. "Mi casa es su casa, right?"
"Right," Duncan agreed and finally stepped inside Methos's room. Methos had moved farther in, turning his back on Duncan in a rare show of trust, and Duncan pushed the door shut behind him.
When the latch clicked closed, Methos turned around but still said nothing.
They'd been doing this dance long enough, and they both knew all the steps. Duncan had already decided it was his turn to take the lead. "I've missed you," Duncan told him.
Methos blinked again. "I missed you, too. And thanks, MacLeod, for coming to find me. If you hadn't…"
They both knew what might very well have happened then. "Why didn't you give them my name as a witness months ago?" Duncan asked.
"What, and deliver my best friend into the clutches of the inquisition?" Methos asked, the lightness of his tone at odds with the seriousness of his eyes. "Never."
"Thanks," Duncan said, both for the protection and for the friendship, and then added, "You are, you know. My best friend."
"Not Connor?" Methos asked, but sounding curious, not jealous.
"Connor's my kinsman," Duncan said immediately. "My clansman." The bond of the clan wasn't only about blood. "He was my teacher and my best man, and he's my brother." Each of those relationships was unique and irreplaceable, and Connor was all of them to him. "But Connor's my older brother," Duncan clarified. "He'll always be the elder, and that means we're not … at the same level, as friends are."
"I'm a lot older than Connor," Methos pointed out, starting to brush his tousled hair.
Duncan grinned. "But you don't act it. Well," he amended, "not all the time."
Methos tossed the hairbrush aside to make a face and stick his tongue out, and Duncan replied in kind. That got them both to laughing, and then Duncan made his move. He stepped forward and took Methos in his arms, just as he had done in that room in the cave, and after a second of surprised resistance, Methos put his arms around Duncan, too. They stood there, hugging each other, just listening to each other breathe.
"I missed you," Duncan told Methos again, and Methos relaxed even more and sighed, his breath tickling the hair near Duncan's ear. Duncan let go as he moved back, looking into those golden-green eyes. For once they were serious, not mocking or guarded. So Duncan slowly placed his thumb under Methos's chin, the freshly shaven skin tight against the bone, and Duncan kept watching as he leaned forward, giving Methos plenty of time and space to move away.
But Methos didn't move, so Duncan kissed him, full upon the mouth. Methos tasted of wine and toothpaste, and he was smiling; Duncan could feel the curve of the lips that were pressing firmly against his own. Methos's hand found Duncan's, and their fingers intertwined. By the end of the kiss, Duncan was smiling too.
Methos was the one to break the kiss, but he didn't move away. He reached up to trace Duncan's jaw with a wondering hand. "You surprised me just now, Duncan," Methos said. His smile was lingering still. "And delighted me."
"Not yet," Duncan promised. He had a few things in mind.
Methos laughed aloud, then his fingers went back to gentle exploring, as he said softly in return, "Not yet."
Duncan quivered under that knowing touch. Methos obviously knew where he was going. Duncan felt as if they were entering uncharted territory. "You've never called me Duncan before," Duncan noted. "Only MacLeod."
For answer, Methos kissed him, slowly and with great care, then called him "Duncan" again.
With or without a map, Duncan was ready to explore. "Time for bed?"
"Definitely."
Later, in the darkness, in the far reaches of that new land, where scent and touch and taste removed the need for sight and where heat and passion flared, Methos spoke his name again. Duncan answered that call, as Methos answered his.
Much later, when soft gray light began to herald the arrival of dawn, Methos looked across the pillow at his sleeping friend.
His lover.
"Duncan," Methos said softly, not trying to wake him, just saying the name, tasting it again, savoring the sweetness and the strength. Then he watched as the growing light slowly revealed the magnificent beauty of the man. The face first, a study in contrasts: shadows and highlights created by the curve of cheek and chin, dark hair and eyelashes against pale skin. The hand, calloused and strong, yet deliciously gentle, the fingers warm against his own.
Methos studied the intricate layering of muscles of Duncan's forearm, the indentations in the skin from the biceps and triceps, the breadth of an impressive shoulder. The rest of Duncan was (sadly) hidden beneath the covers, but Methos could wait. They would have time together now.
From the beginning, he and Duncan had enjoyed friendship and camaraderie, and over the years they'd developed loyalty and trust. Last night's passion had opened the door to comfort and gentleness.
To love.
Methos moved closer to Duncan, kissed his hand, then went back to sleep.
The Keepers
The morning after the trial, Cassandra and Karla went running at dawn. Cassandra had been the one to suggest it, but she had envisioned running in the valley, in the woods alongside the river. Karla liked to run hills.
"I'm done!" Cassandra called when they reached the summit of yet another steep slope. Her leg muscles were quivering and her knees and ankles ached. She bent over at the waist, resting her hands on her thighs, gulping air so cold it burned.
Karla looked back over her shoulder and grinned then circled back at a brisk trot. She pulled off her knit cap and ran both hands through her dark hair, scratching her scalp vigorously, then let the icy wind ruffle the short locks. "I lived at the top of a tower once," Karla said. "I used to run the stairs, up and down, four or five times a day." She grinned again. "Two hundred and twelve steps."
Cassandra nodded, took another deep breath, and straightened. "A good workout," she managed to say then turned to admire the magnificent view of the sun rising above the distant mountains. When she was breathing normally again, she suggested, "Get out of the wind?"
Karla nodded. "Let's start back." They went down the hill and into the shelter offered by the high-branched pines. "It's good to see snow on the peaks again," Karla said as they walked. "But it's going to be another cold winter, and summer ended too soon."
"How was the harvest here?" Cassandra asked.
"It should be adequate, if we're careful. Urushan encouraged the people to switch to winter-variety crops that first year after the volcano blew, and they've always been farmers, so at least they know which side of a potato goes up."
They scrambled over a fallen tree, its bark rough even through gloves, then jumped an icy rivulet. "Are you leaving soon?" Karla asked.
"Kate and I will be leaving after breakfast. I don't know how long Duncan and Methos plan to stay, and also, they're—"
"Wrapped up in each other?" Karla suggested.
Cassandra had been trying not to picture that. While she didn't begrudge Duncan and Methos their happiness at being together, she didn't care to witness it. "No doubt. They probably won't emerge until noon."
"I told housekeeping about the happy couple," Karla said. "But from what Kate said, if you decided to stay I don't think Methos would mind being a triple."
"I would mind," Cassandra retorted. "I don't care to be shared by men." Especially by him. "Besides, I need to get back to the temple in Limoges. The Ceremony of the Naming of the Dead is only two weeks away."
"Speaking of the dead," Karla began, "if you can remake your talisman, we shall have three of the nine. Would you need the blade?" Karla offered.
"No, nothing made by human hand." She would need stone and water, wind and darkness, and a length of straight unblemished bone. And solitude for a year and a day, starting at the dark of the year. It would not be easy or pleasant, but it could be done.
"I can make it," Cassandra replied. "But not this year." She was not prepared.
"This Methos," Karla said next, pushing aside a low branch, "is he the key?"
Cassandra stopped walking. To her left, a young oak was forcing its way between ancient boulders, its roots ever so slowly splintering rock. To her right, pale fungus sprouted from the spongy wood of a long-dead tree. In front of her, where Karla waited, the path led steeply down.
Odd. Cassandra had never once considered that Methos would have that part to play. Of course, she'd thought he was dead, ages ago, and the Keepers but a long-lost dream. "I don't know," she told Karla as they started to walk again. "He might be. We'll have to wait and see." At least she didn't loathe him anymore. It might not be too bad.
"Let's run," Cassandra said, and they took off down the hill.
Limoges, France, 21 October 2053
When Cassandra returned to the temple at Limoges, a summons from Mother Annemarie was waiting for her, along with hand-written letters from both Amanda and Chelle.
"Lately, Mother Annemarie's been asking about you every day," Sister Tandagi confided as Cassandra stripped off her travel clothes. "We all thought you were going to be gone a few weeks, not four months."
"Personal business," Cassandra replied then ignored Tandagi's chattering while scooping up some clothes and the two letters. Cassandra picked up her toiletry bag and walked to the lavatory door. "Excuse me, Tandagi, I need to get ready to see Mother Annemarie."
"Oh, but—"
Cassandra went inside the lavatory and shut the door, relishing the silence. Then she stood at the window to read.
"Sweetie," Amanda's letter began, "Duncan tells me you've been in India, helping to track down M. An adventure for the three of you? I'm jealous. When you get back, if you're not too busy, maybe you and I can have an adventure too. Duncan says you're good at finding things, and I'd like to find a crystal that Rebecca gave me long ago. There are actually quite a few of them, so if we find them, you could have one as a finder's fee. And did I mention we start in Paris?
Love always, A
PS. I'm dying to hear all about your trip.
Cassandra hoped she would soon be able to tell Karla that another talisman had been found. It seemed Rebecca may well have been the Keeper of the Orb. Then Cassandra opened the letter from Chelle.
I went to the Highlands. He wouldn't see me. Guess he's all yours now.
-Chelle
PS. I delivered your letter
Cassandra winced at the starkness of the message, both content and form. Amanda's flowing script was ornamented with exuberantly graceful curlicues, but Chelle printed her words in block letters, straight up and down, no compromise.
And Connor was not doing well.
Cassandra showered and dressed, but didn't bother to unpack. She sent notes to Chelle and Amanda then went to Mother Annemarie's office and requested to be put on indefinite leave.
The other woman opened and closed her mouth twice. "But you just got back!"
"A friend needs my help," Cassandra explained. "Urgently."
Mother Annemarie tapped her fingers on her desk, clearly not pleased. "I have held your position on my staff open since June, Sister Elise, in the expectation of your imminent return. At, I might add, no little inconvenience to myself or to your other sisters."
"I am truly sorry, Mother," Cassandra said earnestly. "I did not expect to be gone so long. Or to need to leave again." Cassandra sat silent under her supervisor's sternly disapproving gaze, accepting the unspoken - and deserved - reprimand.
"I am releasing you from my staff," Mother Annemarie announced. She opened a book and didn't look up as she said, "You may go."
"Thank you, Mother Annemarie." Cassandra stood, bowed politely, and then headed for the door.
But Mother Annemarie had more to say. "Perhaps the sisterhood is not the right path for you, Sister Elise." She still wasn't looking up. "You should reflect upon your commitment to your vows."
Cassandra did take her vows seriously. But she had made vows to other people, too. "Yes, Mother," Cassandra agreed then left the room and quietly shut the door. She found Tandagi and Ninian at the dining hall and said farewell. They parted with hugs and promises to stay in touch.
Then Cassandra headed for the Highlands of Scotland, seeking Connor MacLeod.
The Highlands, Autumn
Connor saw her coming. Cassandra was trudging up the hill, slipping here and there on half frozen mud, head down against the wind. He went inside the hut and shut the door behind him. The only window in the place didn't have shutters to bar, but it was too small to crawl through and six feet off the ground, up near the eave. The window was meant to let it light and let out smoke, but it let in cold, too. The dead ashes in the central hearth swirled under the frigid touch of the draft, then drifted down like dirty snow. Connor sat on the floor and waited.
More cold air crept in, sliding along the floor, and he groped behind him until his fingers met rough wool. He pulled the faded blanket over his shoulders. When Cassandra was near, he stood and went to the door, holding it shut with one hand. When he heard footsteps, he leaned his forehead against the rough wood and spoke through the thin gap between the boards. "Go away, Cassandra."
"I brought bread," she told him.
Bread and oranges: their traditional peace offering to each other. The tradition had started in Donan Woods, where she had taught him how to be a killer. Connor had never forgotten those lessons, much as he wanted to. "Go away," he repeated.
Outside, there were rustling sounds, and then her voice sounded lower down. "No."
Connor stood there for a time, but eventually he slid down and sat on the floor again, leaning against the door, right next to where Cassandra was sitting.
Unlike Chelle, Cassandra didn't threaten or plead or swear. Nor did she use the Voice. Connor wasn't sure he could resist it right now, but he could—and would—exact payment if she tried it on him, and she damn well knew that.
They sat there in silence, while the spots of sunshine from all the holes marched slowly across the walls and the floor. They glowed orange briefly, an autumn sunset, and then they faded away. Dusk gathered, like thickening cobwebs all around, and the wind whined fiercely between the stones of the wall.
"Let me in, Connor," Cassandra said.
He hadn't let Chelle in, even though he would have liked to have seen her. But he couldn't bear to have Chelle see him, to see the shock and pity in her eyes when she saw that he had but one eye of his own, to see her admiration dissolve into disgust when she found out what he had done.
And he didn't trust himself not to kill her.
So he'd kept Chelle out of the smithy, and then he'd left her behind. But he'd already killed Cassandra a couple of times, and she'd looked at him with disgust and pity before. And if she could tolerate that bastard Methos, who'd raped and burned and murdered for centuries, she could sure as hell put up with him. Connor shifted over so that his back was against the wall instead of the door. "It's not locked," he told her.
A moment later the door creaked open, and Cassandra came in with her bags. She glanced around then set them on the floor in the corner, for there was no furniture in the place, just that one thin blanket and a jar for water. She lit a glo-globe, set it to dim, and placed it in the middle of the floor. After a moment, Connor realized she'd turned its heat on, too. Rivulets of warmth were moving through the room. He didn't move closer to the globe, just leaned his head back against the wall with his eyelids closed, listening to the half-forgotten sounds of a woman as she moved about preparing food, making up a bed, tidying things...
Heather had made those same sounds, year after year, making a home for him. So had Rachel and Brenda and Alex. Other women had welcomed him into their homes from time to time. Including Cassandra.
And now she had come to his home. Such as it was. He'd gotten out of the habit of housekeeping. He'd gotten out of the habit of regular meals, too. He'd eaten a rabbit yesterday, and he hadn't felt like hunting today. But now he could smell food – meat and hot bread—and his mouth was watering, almost painfully.
She set his dinner on the floor next to him then went to sit near to the warm globe, her back to him. Connor reached down and found a cup of tea and a pasty, traditional miner's fare. The tea was too strong, but still hot. The pasty held potatoes and onions, of course, with mutton and peas and bits of apples. It lacked the traditional metallic dusty tang that came from being heated atop the blade of a mining shovel, but it was warm and filling. He ate it all then drained the cup of tea.
When he set the empty cup down, she came to take it away. She still hadn't spoken to him, hadn't even looked at him. She hadn't asked him about his missing eye or why he was here or what he had done with his sword.
The silence was restful, and Connor leaned his head against the wall again while she cleaned and put things away. Then she took out her knitting, and they sat without speaking for quite a while, while her needles clicked away.
"I'm to bed," she told him eventually, and there was more rustling as she prepared for bed. After it grew quiet, Connor looked to see what sleeping arrangements she'd made. She'd brought her own bedroll, thin and shiny, and she'd laid it next to the globe, now turned down to nearly dark, but still warm. An identical bedroll lay on the other side of the globe, along with the blanket. Her bags and a few other items had been strategically placed to block the worst of the drafts along the floor. Her eyes were already closed.
Connor hauled himself to his feet, went outside to piss, then came back in, washed his face and hands with cold water, brushed his teeth, then took off his shoes. He kept his clothes on as usual, though the bedroll heated up as soon as he got inside.
He lay on his back, warm for the first time in weeks but sleepless. His fake and useless eyeball itched under the lid as he watched slivers of moonlight creep across the walls and floor.
The next morning for breakfast, Cassandra brought him tea and a piece of bread slathered with orange marmalade. He ate it slowly, his eyelids shut, still tucked inside his warm bedroll.
"I'm off to the village for supplies," she announced then disappeared. Connor rolled over and went back to sleep. When he woke, sunshine glinted off his bedroll and shivered on the walls with his every breath. The hut was cold.
Connor went outside, collected dried grass, mixed up some mud, then started to fill in the chinks in the wall. Cassandra returned as he was starting on the west wall, and together they finished the job. She took out a flat square of transparent plastic from her bag. He stood on a rock and wedged the square into the window then caulked the edges with mud. Cassandra covered the gap in the door with a long slat of wood.
As the sun set, she lit a small candle and placed it on the ground outside, then knelt before it as if in prayer. Connor looked at the sky, thinking back to the stars and the placement of the sun and the moon, and realized it was All Hallows' Eve.
The next day, Connor went hunting at dawn, and she prepared rabbit stew for their evening meal, cooking over the glo-globe instead of a fire. Her knitting had produced a long tube, and she stuffed it with grass and wedged it in front of the door. With the glo-globe on and the heat from their bodies, the hut wasn't frigid anymore. They ate the stew with the last of the bread and the marmalade, and Cassandra made tea.
But that night she made no move to fetch her knitting or turn on the glo-globe's light after the evening meal. Instead, she lit the candle again and set it in the window near the eave.
His mother and grandmother had done that each autumn, for this was the time of the turning of the year, when the veil between the worlds was thin and the souls of the dead went wandering, trying to find their way home. The Days of the Dead were days of holy obligation and remembrance, days of repentance and confession.
Connor watched the candle flicker and remembered the names of the dead, down through the centuries. His parents, his wife Heather, his teacher Ramirez. Connor silently named friends and lovers, fellow sailors and comrades-in-arms. Then immortals he'd known: Darius, Bouchet, Nakano, Rebecca, Kastigir, young Richie Ryan, and dozens more. His remembered his other wives, Brenda and Alex, and he called up and treasured images of his children: Rachel, Sara, Colin, and John.
Then he forced himself to think of the people he'd killed. Most were immortals, heads taken in the Game. He'd killed mortals, too: soldiers whose names he'd never known, pirates in the South China Sea, and a young lad who'd tried to rob him in Shanghai. He didn't remember them all. There'd been some minions of immortals, a trio of farm boys during the American Civil War, and an innocent passer-by in a smuggling operation gone wrong. And others who didn't deserve to die.
An infant immortal.
Tomas, just seven years old.
A young man named John.
Connor looked away from the candle, into the dimness on the other side of the room. The wind muttered sullenly outside. In time, the candle sputtered and went out. Connor and Cassandra sat in the silent darkness, near each other but not touching, looking straight ahead. Like a priest and a penitent in a confessional box.
Connor could still remember his boyhood lessons from the priests and the nuns. After repentance came the confession of sins, acknowledging what you had done wrong. And the more you hated confessing the better that was, because confession was part of your punishment. Only through repentance, confession, and penance could absolution come.
He'd repented every day and every night for more than a year. He'd punished himself, too. He'd gone hungry and thirsty, been cold and alone. He'd lost his home, his family, his eye, and his name. And more. "I lost Ramirez's sword," he admitted to Ramirez's widow, forcing himself to say the words.
"You treasured that sword," Cassandra said, but she wasn't pitying or accusing, just commenting.
That sword had been a part of him for centuries, the one constant in his life. "Ramirez treasured it, too," Connor reminded her, and so the ache of the loss was even more bitter. The ache of his missing eye was merely dull.
"Yes, he did," Cassandra agreed.
He'd failed his teacher. Betrayed his memory and his trust. Connor had avoided challenges ever since—seeking out Holy Ground, running from an immortal in Oban, and finally hiding here.
But she went on to say, "Ramirez would be pleased, I think, that it was his sword you used to kill the Kurgan. And many other evil immortals."
That was true. Over the years he had put the sword to good use, just as Ramirez had taught him. But Connor hadn't followed all of Ramirez's teachings. "I lost my temper in a fight," he told her. "I lost control."
"Is that when you lost your eye?"
"No." He hated to remember that day, but he couldn't forget. "That happened later that night. After I—" He couldn't bring himself to say it.
She said nothing, but she reached out for him. For the first time since the day Sara had died, they held hands.
He had to say it. In the darkness, Connor confessed, "I killed a man for no reason." The ache was in his heart now, a crushing band, and Connor whispered, "I didn't even know his name."
"And you enjoyed it."
Connor didn't hear any surprise in her voice, but then, there wouldn't be. She'd predicted he'd kill. Prophesied it. But he didn't hear disgust or fear, either, not like that day she'd walked away from him at Sara's grave, and she was still holding his hand.
Cassandra said next, "That's why you're here."
"Yes." He wasn't running from other immortals; he was running from himself. But he couldn't hide from himself. Not anymore. "The bloodlust—" No. He owned it; he had to own up to it. "My bloodlust frightens me," Connor amended. He knew damn well it frightened her. "The day when it doesn't…" He took a deep breath. "That frightens me more."
Her fingers tightened on his, reassuring and warm.
"I don't want to kill like that again," Connor stated.
"That's the first step," she said. "But I can tell you; it's a long journey."
The longest journey of all, Connor knew. A lifetime. "If I lose…"
"I will be there for you," she promised, turning toward him and holding both his hands now, as they always did when they made vows to each other. "As you have been there for me."
"Soul friend," he named her, gripping tighter.
Cassandra leaned forward, and in the darkness, she kissed his brow, his eye and his empty eye socket, and then she kissed him on the mouth. Not with passion, but with acceptance and understanding. With love.
"Anamchara."
EPILOG
"To Be"
Spaceship R. P. Feynman, Launchpad C3, February 2062
"Ready to leave Earth, Duncan?" Methos asked as they lay flat on their backs, strapped down to the acceleration couches. The purr of the engines shifted to a growl.
"Ready," Duncan said firmly, and he was grinning, ear to ear.
Methos was grinning, too. He was finally setting forth on a glorious adventure to an unknown world under a different star, and Duncan was at his side.
And everything would be new.
MacLeod Farm in the Highlands, Summer 2081
Connor watched as the woman made her way up the hillside through the scattering of golden flowers that fluttered under the cold wind amid the patches of snow. As the doctor had suggested, he closed first one eye and then the other, checking for any differences between his original eye and his cloned one, but everything looked the same: the loch far below, the snow on the mountains, and the wind-flattened grass on the hills. The scenery was familiar and achingly beautiful, but empty now. The MacLeod farmhouse and barn were gone, and no horses ran in the fields.
The woman stopped near the graves, leaning on her black walking stick, regarding him with pale blue eyes. They hadn't changed, and neither had her red curls, but she was obviously pregnant and she'd gone from little-girl cute to stunningly beautiful. Orla was thirty-two years old.
"Welcome back," Orla said then added, with a grin made lopsided by a missing tooth, "Connor MacLeod."
He grinned back. "You found my name."
"On the underside of the table," she said with a nod. "Next to the initials of Colin Duncan and Sara Heather." Connor and Orla both turned to look at the weathered gravestones that bore those names. "Your children," Orla said softly.
"Yes," Connor agreed, touching Sara's stone.
"And John. And Rachel?"
"Yes." They walked to Rachel's stone, and he traced the rough coldness with a careful hand. There were more stones to touch, more family buried here, including Graham MacLeod, as well as dozens with names Connor didn't know.
"It turned into more than a family plot," Orla said. "People liked the flowers. But not many daffodils come up anymore. The winters are too hard."
Not many people were left, either. He'd been traveling past empty houses and abandoned villages for days. "When did you leave the farm?" Connor asked.
"The farmhouse burned when I was fourteen, and we moved to the village. But that emptied out eight years ago, and everyone went south."
Connor was saddened, but not surprised. The equatorial migration was happening all around the globe. Cultures and even entire countries were disappearing. Someday, no one would even remember their names. Not so long ago, he would have tried to stop such changes, fought against them, raged about them. After all, "Hold Fast" was the motto of Clan MacLeod.
But change continued, relentless and ceaseless as the tides, and there was no arguing with the sea. Connor was learning to let go.
"I've been coming back every year," Orla said.
"Waiting to see me?"
"To light a candle." She took one from her pocket and held it up for his inspection. "And this year, I knew you'd be here."
"You said you'd be old when we met again," Connor noted.
Orla grinned at him again. "To a three-year-old, anyone over twenty is old."
They came to a halt in front of the stone engraved "Alexandra MacLeod (1962-2027) Beloved Wife and Mother". Snowdrops still outlined the grave, though they were past blooming now. Orla knelt and set the candle in the ground, and Connor knelt on the other side and lit it. The flame, pale in the sunshine, wavered in the wind.
"My mother said her grandmother Alex planted the flowers," Orla said as they stood up. "When did she start?"
"In 1995," Connor told her. Alex had planted flowers every fall, until the end.
Orla shook her head in wonder. "She was near to my age. And almost a century ago."
It didn't seem that long.
Orla patted the stone with the familiarity of old friends. Then she turned to him to say: "You've come back to say goodbye."
"Yes." He wasn't surprised she knew. "I'm going off planet." He wasn't the only one. Duncan and Methos had left twenty years ago, and Amanda and Chelle had shipped out, too. Cassandra was staying; she said Earth was her mother and her home. But it was time for him to go.
"So those stories are true." Orla looked up at the sky. "We see the ships fly over now and again, and some say they're going to other worlds, but that always seemed daft to me." She shrugged then asked, "How old are you?"
"Old as dirt—"
"—and young as mud," she finished with him then smiled again. But she also asked again, "How old are you?"
Connor grinned. Stubbornness was a dominant trait in this family, generation after generation. He'd answered this question a time or two before. "I was born in 1518."
"Almost six hundred years ago." Orla looked out across the hills. "So much has changed."
"The mountains haven't," Connor said. "The loch is still here."
"And have you danced with the Fairy Queen?" she asked. "Is that why you're still young? Is that why your death shadow stays dark instead of growing pale?"
"I don't know," he answered. "It's just how I am."
Orla looked at him a long moment before she nodded. "When you light your candles in the years to come, light one for me."
"I will," he promised, as he had promised others before.
Orla kissed him on the cheek. "Someday," she promised, "the flowers will grow here again."
Earthsun School, Kenya, January 2082
Cassandra stopped walking to watch the spaceship trace its white line across the sky then disappear into the blue.
"A friend of yours is on that ship," announced little Yiqi. "And you're sad."
Cassandra wasn't surprised that Yiqi knew. She was one of the many children of Will MacLeod; his donations to sperm banks had been managed with care. Her maternal line had been known for their clairvoyance for three centuries. Many of the children at this school had similar backgrounds. The talents were beginning to breed true.
"Not too sad," Cassandra said, taking the little girl by the hand as they walked among the garden mounds, lush and green under the sunshine. "I know he'll come back to me."
Someday.
Thus concludes the story Anamchara.
The Hope Saga will continue in Hope Triumphant IV: Keeper.
Many thanks for reading all the (very long) way to the end!