Disclaimers in part 0 Duncan moved with all the speed of four hundred years of honed reflexes, but there was nothing he could do. She made no cry as she fell, and Duncan's world froze in nauseating horror. How often in his life had he wanted to turn back time? Just a few seconds - just long enough to make one different choice ... The brush shielded her final resting place from his view, but he heard the horrible thump of her landing body. With an incautious haste propelled by pure will, Duncan barreled down the path, leaped off the cliff at the earliest possible point, and dashed to the cliff bottom. As he approached the group of children, a child's wail rose, echoing up the cliff. That was Sarah's cry, wasn't it? He prayed it was. The knot of children parted to allow him in. He slid to a stop where Cassandra kneeled beside a crumpled form. The girl's eyes were closed, but the cry was hers. She wailed her pain and horror with a healthy pair of lungs. Duncan met Cassandra's horrified gaze for one moment, and then saw her eyes widen at something behind him. He heard the pounding of approaching feet, and watched Cassandra's face become a mask of fury. "Sarah," Methos cried from behind him. Cassandra flew through the children to confront him, a she-wolf protecting her young. "Stay away from her, you bastard!" Duncan couldn't leave the girl. The two ancient immortals would just have to settle this without him. "Sarah, honey, can you tell me where it hurts?" Sarah opened her eyes and looked up at the cliff. She continued wailing, but moved slightly to indicate pain. Duncan had spent years as a battlefield surgeon, and her motions made him suspect her right arm. He inspected her carefully for other obvious injuries. Bruises and scratches covered her, but nothing appeared to have pierced her anywhere. Miraculously, neither her neck nor back seemed to be broken. Either could easily have snapped, killing or paralyzing her. "Sarah!" came another anguished cry from Methos. Duncan spared one glance for the confrontation, hoping swords weren't involved. No such luck. Cassandra had produced a foot-long hunting knife, and held the tip to Methos' throat. Methos tried to look around her, to Sarah. He moved his desperate gaze from Cassandra to Duncan and Sarah and back to Cassandra again. A part of Duncan was amazed that the man stood his ground. That kind of hate and fury from the Witch of Donan Woods would have sent most men running for cover. The children, many already crying, gasped and cried in alarm. Dammit, Duncan realized, the killers had used knives. Genevieve, who had positioned herself near Sarah's head, covered her face with her hands. "Cassandra!" he called. "Put the knife away. The children!" Cassandra acted as if she hadn't heard him. "Get out!" she screamed at Methos. "Get away from here!" She jabbed with the hunting knife, forcing Methos back a step. "Cassandra!" Duncan tried again. "She's all right! It's a broken arm, that's all!" *I think,* he added, mentally. He hadn't had time for a thorough examination. Her ribs were still possible casualties, though her crying seemed to come from intact lungs, at least. Her crying, in fact, became more articulate. "Adam!" she cried. "I want Adam!" Duncan saw Methos' shock and dismay. Even Cassandra seemed to finally hear this call, where Duncan's had not penetrated. "No!" Cassandra insisted, though the point of her knife wavered. "We don't need him. I don't want him anywhere near the children." "Adam!" cried Sarah, holding out her good arm. Methos tried to slide around the knife. "Cassandra," he pleaded. Reassured that Sarah was in no immediate danger, Duncan stood to take charge of this drama. Cassandra sliced at Methos, drawing blood on his neck and chest. He gasped and retreated, one hand to the wound. "I mean it!" she yelled. "He's dangerous!" A collective wail swelled from the children. "Cassandra, stop!" Duncan ordered. "I want Adam!" cried Sarah. "QUIET!" commanded Cassandra. Everyone hushed. Sarah, the other children, Methos. Duncan, too, felt a powerful compulsion to hold his tongue. "Let's get one thing straight," Cassandra said, to everyone. "This man is not your friend. He's a murderer." Duncan couldn't believe she was doing this. He couldn't believe she would say this to this group of traumatized children. He couldn't speak, but he could move, and move he did. He grabbed her by the arm and shook her. Cassandra shook him off with a look so furious, Duncan actually thought of demonic furies plaguing guilty mortals. "He kills children. I've seen him do it," she went on. "He killed my whole family. I do not want him here. I do not want any of you to have anything to do with him." Methos' bloody hand fell from his chest. Eyes wide with shock, he regarded Cassandra, looking, Duncan thought, oddly young and vulnerable for a mass murderer. Methos looked at the children, who listened, many of them open-mouthed. He looked toward Sarah, and then at Duncan. "Go now," Cassandra finished. A child hiccuped, breaking the spell, but there was no taking any of it back. "You'd better go," Duncan said. Wordless, Methos left. Around him, most of the children began to cry, many of them collapsing to the ground. Dismayed, Duncan looked at them, realizing that they were just too young for any more traveling. They were soaked, exhausted, shocked, and now they had lost a protector, and seen Sarah's fall. Resisting his impulse to comfort them, he went to Cassandra, who had gone straight to Sarah. "I don't want to hear it, Duncan," she said without looking at him. "Don't use the Voice on me, again," he said. "We'll stay here the night," she said as she worked at gently removing Sarah's cardigan. Duncan fought down his irritation. The deed was done, and any further row over Methos would only injure the children. "I mean it, Cassandra. Don't use it on me again." Cassandra looked at him, her expression unreadable. The rain lessened noticeably, then stopped. Thank God. "I want Adam!" Sarah cried. Cassandra scowled briefly, whether at Sarah or at Duncan, he couldn't tell. "It's fairly dry in there." She nodded at a four-foot wide cleft in the cliff face, which went back about ten feet before hitting granite. "She may go into shock." "Adam!" Sarah called. "Come back!" Duncan pulled out a blanket, not completely dry, but, being wool, good insulation nonetheless. Cassandra looked at him like he'd just grown wings. "You have blankets?!" Duncan smiled tightly. "Be prepared." "Do you have food?" "Not that prepared." "Adam, Adam," Sarah whimpered, as Cassandra ran skillful hands over her small body, searching for injury. Genevieve stood. "Will she be all right?" Her eyes were wide and worried, but to Duncan she looked strong and capable, poised on the brink of adult judgments and responsibilities. "She'll be fine, Genevieve," Duncan said. "It was good you got them all away from the camp so quickly. We'll all be fine. Come help me with the children." Duncan and Genevieve worked at comforting the children and moving them into the crevice, where body heat helped warm the air. Duncan pushed away his own exhaustion to summon patience with Jean, who stood apart from the others, unresponsive, his face slack. When no amount of cajoling or persuading would move the boy, Duncan lifted him and carried him to the others. His skin felt cold. Duncan nestled him into the cleft, wrapped him in one of the blankets, and positioned him with his feet elevated along the groundslope, his head pointing downhill. The boy squirmed and objected, which reassured Duncan somewhat. Cassandra worked with the crying Sarah, finally enlisting Duncan to carry one end of a blanket as a stretcher, to move her into shelter. Somewhere Cassandra had found some cloth to use as a sling, and she had also bound Sarah's torso tightly. "I can't tell if there are any internal injuries," Cassandra told him. "She needs a doctor, but I don't want to move her." "Those men could still be out there." "I agree, Duncan," she said in an odd voice. "Something should be done about those men." Duncan looked at her, knowing what she wanted. Knowing he could do it, too. "If they hunt us, this place won't be hard to find," he commented. "I'll make it hard to find," she replied. That brought Duncan up short. "Can you ..." he almost couldn't believe he was asking this, "make us invisible?" Cassandra snorted. "If I could do that, do you think I would have sat in that cage Kronos put me in?" "They kept you in a cage?" "And your friend came to torment me. He knows how to kill hope. He told me you were dead." More questions churned through Duncan's mind. And he hated to think of her, a prisoner, with no hope of rescue. "Cassandra, I came as fast as I could," he told her, his heart aching. "I know, my Champion," she said, briefly tender. She gave him a curious look. "That quickening, Duncan ... did it seem strange to you in any way?" "What do you mean?" She shrugged. "It's nothing." He saw her push away those memories, and look to the children. "They shouldn't sleep wet. We can build a fire here. I'll hide that, too." "How?" "So long as I call this place in the forest 'home,' no one will find it except by my invitation. I can't explain more. Trust me, Duncan; we can sleep here unseen. And I don't want to move Sarah again." Duncan shook his head in amazement. "Well, I hope you have some magic to make a fire with wet wood." She smiled wearily. "Gather the wood, *a bhalaich*, and leave it to me." The children made few protests about the lack of dinner. A few of them cried for their mothers and whimpered that they wanted to go home, but, Duncan guessed, their shock and trauma may have deadened their appetites. He, on the other hand, felt famished, and he wondered when he had last eaten. Cassandra did start a fire, and Duncan was uneasy, despite her assurances. He paced the edges of the clear area at the base of the cliff, listening to the forest as the daylight faded. Awaiting attack from the dark woods awakened some primal instincts in Duncan, and his own exhaustion faded before an alert focus that came over him. Cassandra, too, scowled into the darkening forest as she dried the children's shoes and shirts, but Duncan thought she feared a different foe. He could still sense Methos' presence, which meant she could as well. Some of the children fell asleep by the firelight, curled in the sheltered cleft, but others stayed awake, taut and shivering. When Cassandra was content that their clothes were dry enough, she herded all the children into the cliff, wrapped herself and them in the blankets, and sang a low lullaby. Every child fell instantly asleep, and Duncan couldn't help but marvel at a skill for which countless parents through the ages would have sold their farms. Duncan banked the fire down to warm coals, and positioned himself at the opening of the crevice like a guard sleeping in front of the door. Cassandra, as he had demanded, left him out of the lullaby's spell, and he was almost sorry. He lay awake, overtired. The biting cold stung his face and nose when he brought them out from under the blanket. Duncan hated to think what the night must be like away from the fire, the shelter of the cliff face, the warmth of other bodies, and the blankets. Methos. The man was still nearby; Duncan had never stopped sensing him. He must be freezing. Duncan shifted, restless, but tried not to disturb those children packed against his right side. His left side was more unprotected, and the insidious cold gnawed at his arm and leg. Finally, deep into the night, Duncan could no longer bear it. There would be no sleep for him until he found Methos. Moving carefully, he removed himself from the pack of sleepers, and found that the others didn't need his blanket once he himself left the group. He wrapped it around his shoulders against the vicious cold and stepped out into the forest. Ancient woodcraft returned to him like a forgotten language, and he sought, without conscious thought, the hollows in the hills which might block the wind and collect insulating leaves and needles. Methos, he felt confident, would do the same. The man couldn't be far. "Methos," he whispered with the whispering pine trees. How ancient was that alien name, he wondered. "Methos," he called again, tasting the name on his tongue. A sudden rustling in the gloom to his right attracted his attention. Duncan's night-adjusted vision saw the glint of metal. "It's me," he reported, hoping that meant peace. The glint vanished. "MacLeod?" came a low baritone from the darkest pool ahead of him. Satisfaction filled Duncan. His goal achieved, the oppressive cold again demanded his notice. He shifted the blanket and wished to be back at the fire-ring. "What do you want?" complained the ownerless voice, broken with what Duncan recognized as chattering teeth. "I've come to find you." Duncan moved, almost blind, into the darkness. "Come back to the fire." Methos said nothing. Duncan halted, concerned that he might literally walk into the other immortal. He stood ankle deep in damp leaves, the same bed he would have sought in Methos' place. Methos remained silent. "It's freezing out here. Come back to the fire. Cassandra can kick you out again in the morning, but you can't stay out here like this." Duncan now made out the huddled form of a man against the largest tree trunk. The form unfolded, resolving into a standing man. "What fire?" Methos asked, breathlessly, as if speaking were painful. "Follow me." Pleased that apparently even Methos had been unaware of their fire, Duncan turned and led a silent course back to the clearing by the cliffs. At least, since Methos had never left sensing range, there would be no new alarm at his approach to waken Cassandra. Reaching the small camp, he elected not to risk waking the others by joining the huddle. He wrapped the blanket around himself and stretched out by the glowing embers, opposite the group in the cleft cliff. The starlight showed Methos, shivering, oblivious to the remains of the fire. Nor did he look at the sleeping children. Duncan turned over, seeking a comfortable configuration of his limbs and the ground. Suddenly his blanket was ripped away, and a cold, damp body pressed up to his back, replacing the blanket over them both. "Hey," he hissed, though he stayed still. "What are you doing?" "Getting warm," Methos muttered through clenched jaws. The violence of his trembling shocked Duncan, and he wondered if it was faked. But the frigid damp of Methos' body, sucking precious warmth from Duncan's broad back, could not be feigned, he realized. "You're an iceberg!" Duncan complained. "I didn't say you could sleep with me." "MacLeod," Methos lectured, though his teeth chattered throughout, "you asked me to come to the fire. There is no fire, and no other blanket. Where did you hide the children? Or do you not trust me to tell me? Now, warm me up, or I'll go back to my bed of leaves. They were wet, but at least they cut the wind." Methos couldn't see the children! Nor the fire ring, apparently. Amazed, Duncan didn't respond. Methos wrapped his arms around Duncan and shuddered against him. "Don't worry," Methos whispered. "I'm far too cold to molest you." At that, Duncan threw Methos off in a burst of motion, got to his knees, and whirled on the other man, violence in his heart. Methos threw his forearms crossed over his face. "It was a joke, MacLeod," he complained, still whispering, "It was a joke!" Duncan viewed the man's defensive posture in some shock and his sudden fury evaporated. "I know," he said. He wondered at his own reaction. Too cold to stay for long outside the blanket, Duncan plopped himself on top of Methos and snuggled the blanket around them both. "What are you doing?" gasped Methos in alarm, tensing beneath him. "Warming you up. Now, stay still." Methos stilled, but for involuntary twitches as his shivering lessened. Apparently accepting that Duncan meant to be his bedwarmer, Methos shifted beneath him to warm as much of himself as he could manage. He twined even his ankles with Duncan's to warm his feet. He made little gasps of relief as the excruciating cold reluctantly released him. Duncan found that he treasured those tiny sounds, knowing the ecstasy that came from pain ending. For many minutes they lay pressed together that way. Duncan knew an immense, primal satisfaction at having retrieved this particular wayward member of the group and at keeping him pinned and safe. But he was exhausted, and he couldn't sleep this way. He was sure he was crushing the other man, too, though Methos didn't complain. Which was odd, when he thought of it. He must be that desperate for the warmth. Duncan rolled off Methos, to lie beside him. "Duncan," Methos asked after a long while, sounding less agonized and more like his old self, "why did you bring me in from the cold?" Why? If Methos wanted to hear some statement of disloyalty to Cassandra from Duncan, Duncan intended to disappoint him. "We're going to need you in the morning. You won't be much help frozen and exhausted." Duncan took care to sound dispassionate and calculating. That's all it was. "I see." Methos' neutral tone betrayed bitter disappointment, exactly what Duncan had intended. Methos turned on his side, his back to Duncan. "Well, thanks for the warm bed, MacLeod." Duncan stared in weary shock at the dark form of the other man's back. Methos *had* thought Duncan intended to defy Cassandra's hate. Or he had hoped it. Duncan found he had forgotten this man could be hurt. He reached a hand toward Methos' shoulder, but stopped before touching him. This man, this immortal, this murderer, rapist, and torturer -- what did his pain matter? What comfort does the slayer of children deserve? Cold rage at all the evil Duncan had known in his long lifetime filled his breast. He pulled his hand back, but still stared at the lean body huddled at the farthest edge of the blanket, as far from Duncan as comfortably possible. What slayer of children, Duncan wondered, would care what I thought? The breeze shivered through the pine and birch boughs and the chilly stars watched from their lofty height. Duncan couldn't think; he could only feel that he stood at some abyss -- some momentous crossroads where his every step held irreversible choices. He couldn't be kind to Cassandra's captor; he couldn't betray justice that way. Why then did his cold words echo in his head, making him feel churlish? He stretched out his hand again, paused, as his conflicting feelings tumbled through him, then, with the pain of acting against his very nature pressing on his chest, he crossed the gulf between them and laid his hand on Methos' shoulder. "Methos," he whispered, frightened by his choice. Methos shrugged away from the hand. "Leave me alone, MacLeod," he said. _________________________________________________________________ Express yourself instantly with MSN Messenger! Download today - it's FREE! http://messenger.msn.click-url.com/go/onm00200471ave/direct/01/