Disclaimer in part 0 --------------------------- Duncan returned to the camp to find the children divided into two groups. Cassandra sat with Sarah at the fire ring, with a tight cluster of girls. The boys, except for Jean, held sticks, and were some distance away, pounding the sticks on rocks and whipping them against low bushes. Jean sat across the fire from the girls, apart from everyone, his arms tightly wrapped around his chest, staring into the fire. Cassandra glanced up at Duncan as he approached, but she kept most of her attention on the discussion with the girls. Two of the girls had tears on their faces, and the tension in all of their bodies told Duncan that he didn't want to interrupt that gathering. He joined Jean at the fire, and was pleased to see that there were two trout left, already cooked. He picked them up and gestured with them at Jean. "Did you get enough breakfast?" he asked. Jean scowled. "I don't like it," he said. Duncan eyed the boy, but was too hungry to work harder at convincing him to claim the last of the fish. He filleted the two small fish with his fingers and flicked the skeletons expertly into the smoldering fire. He downed the two trout in a few seconds. "Jean, you'll be going home soon." "Don't want to go home." Andre, seeing that Duncan had returned, left off whacking angrily at rocks and trees and came over. The other boys also paused and watched. "Did you get them?" Andre asked. Duncan stood and the other boys drifted closer. "We got them," Duncan said. "Now Jean and I are going to get help." Jean looked sidelong at Duncan. "What did you do to them?" one of the other boys asked, with greedy enthusiasm. Andre frowned. "Why him?" he asked, looking at Jean. "I won't have Adam to help. I'll need Jean's help." "He's a faggot," Andre said. Duncan's anger rekindled, but he held it off. Anger, even righteous anger, was dangerous now. And he had promised not to stay long with the kids. "It's Jean's help I need. Come on, Jean." The boy appeared to consider for a long moment, then got slowly to his feet and stood beside Duncan, a tiny but determined sidekick. Cassandra separated herself from the cluster of girls. Duncan started toward her, then reconsidered and turned back. "Andre," he said. The boy looked at him. "You've got enough real enemies. Don't make enemies of your friends." He turned back to Cassandra, who had watched the exchange with knowing eyes. The rain had plastered her clothes to her voluptuous form, and much of the cloth had dried there. Duncan noted with curiosity both that she was supremely alluring and that he was no longer attracted to her. "I'm taking Jean and going for help. How's Sarah?" "She needs her mother, a bed, and a doctor. She'll be fine if help comes soon." "Where's Adam?" called Sarah. "I left him on guard," Duncan replied. "Is he all right?" Sarah asked. Cassandra put a hand on his arm, looking alarmed. "He's guarding the men? Duncan, what have you done? If he joins them…" Annoyed, Duncan broke her grip and went to Sarah. "Sarah, Adam is fine. He's making sure the bad men don't get away." "He caught them?" she asked, her eyes shining. Er, not exactly. "He has them tied up out in the forest where they can't hurt anyone." "Is he still sorry?" "What?" "He said God made him sorry." Duncan blinked, remembering Sarah's question about punishment. He struggled to keep his expression steady. "I don't think he's sorry those men are caught." He stood and turned back to Cassandra. "It will be all right," he assured her. "Just keep the kids safe and I'll be back soon." He looked at her a moment longer, searching for the weak-kneed response she had evoked in him yesterday. He gazed into her beautiful sea-green eyes, now stormy with anger and suspicion, but he felt no desire. Not for her, at any rate. His body was still inflamed with desire for … he wasn't sure what. Nodding to Jean to join him, he set out, feeling Cassandra's distrustful gaze burning into his shoulderblades. He reflected for a moment on how much had changed in his life. He missed being trusted by his friends. Duncan had to travel slowly to accommodate Jean, and he let the boy choose the route back over the pass, which resulted in more than one double-back, but the distance was not very far to the road and it gratified Duncan to see how seriously Jean took his responsibility. When they reached the switchbacks, they had a clear view of the valley and the road below. The road was lined with police and emergency vehicles. Duncan smiled with relief. Before much longer, Duncan was explaining his story to the police, glad of the support from Jean's testimony, for the police were edgy and hostile, and a good bit suspicious of the well-built foreigner who had appeared out of the forest. Duncan couldn't blame them, since he knew what they had found at the lodge, and Jean's unharmed and earnest presence bought Duncan the grace he needed to convince them of his story. The bodies had been found and reported, Duncan learned, by the other camp counselors upon their return from the rafting trip. He was both sorry that he couldn't have spared them and the children with them the grisly find, and relieved that the fascist killers had followed him over the ridge and so weren't waiting at the lodge to claim more victims as the others returned. Eventually the authorities decided that Duncan would return to Cassandra and the prisoners with a small detachment of gendarmes and medical personnel who would vector in police and hospital helicopters. Jean would get a ride to the hospital in one of the waiting ambulances. Before he left, Jean tugged at Duncan's arm. "I'm sorry," he said somberly, when he had Duncan's attention. "Sorry for what?" The boy looked so mournful, Duncan thought he might cry. "I'm sorry Sarah got hurt because of me." "It had nothing to do with you," Duncan exclaimed. "Adam was all wet because I was too scared to jump across." He looked at Duncan with large dark eyes, begging him to contradict him. Duncan knelt down before him. "Jean, it was very scary. I was scared. And Adam was wet because of the rain. It wasn't your fault. If anyone told you that, they were trying to hurt you. You're a very brave lad. Remember that." Jean bit his lip and allowed a uniformed man to lift him into an ambulance. Duncan sighed, wishing he were in better shape himself before having to deal with so many wounded kids. *And adults,* he thought. Wearily, Duncan climbed the steep crag again, leading the others. Watching rescue personnel swarm competently around their camp, Duncan could hardly believe there had ever been anything supernatural about the visibility of their location. He shared relieved smiles with Cassandra. "I'm going with them to the hospital," Cassandra told him. Duncan nodded. "You didn't get much time to... think about things," he said sympathetically. "Oh, I thought a lot," she replied, rubbing one long-fingered hand over an eye. Her auburn hair, rather than hanging in damp strings, swept in graceful, full waves over her slim shoulders. Duncan wondered for a moment if she used illusions to make herself look like she'd just come from the salon. But one look at her tired eyes told him the reality of what he was seeing. "Will I see you again?" "Well," she gave a sharp laugh, "there's always the Gathering." Dismayed, Duncan glanced around to see if anyone was within earshot. The police, who must be impatient to reach the killers, nonetheless kept a gracious, continental distance while he spoke privately to the beautiful woman. Before he could say anything, Cassandra cut him off. "Pay no mind to me, Duncan," she apologized. She touched his arm. "I wanted to ask you... have you ever heard of a double quickening?" "What? No." Duncan's gaze moved to the man aiming a flare gun at the cloudy sky. At the loud explosion, a few of the children cried out, then ooh'd at the quantity of red smoke which ballooned out and up from the muzzle. Radios crackled importantly. He looked back at her, to see that she had not looked away from his face. "The legend is that if two beheadings occur at the same time, close together, the victors sometimes share the energy." "What are you saying?" "Duncan, I saw the quickenings. In the sub base. And that's what it looked like to me." A policeman was approaching. "What does the legend say it means?" She shrugged. "One story is a love story. The two immortals are joined together in 'eternal passion.'" She arched an eyebrow, and glanced at the approaching man. "More likely is the story that the divided energy wants to be whole again, and the two are compelled to fight." Duncan stifled an oath as they both separated enough to turn and include the policeman in their gathering. "Monsieur," he said to Duncan, but with a polite nod at Cassandra, "your prisoners should not wait." Duncan started to go with him, but stopped when he heard the sound of an approaching helicopter. "Will you be here?" he asked Cassandra. "I don't know," she replied. "Duncan," she reached into a pocket and held out a key ring with a small globe of the Earth and two keys on it. She pulled one key free of the ring. "I was going to my cabin. It's above my car, across the vale from the children's camp. You're welcome there." "Thank you," Duncan said, moved. "Tell Sarah good-bye for me." She nodded, and turned to join the excited children without a backward glance. The stream-side makeshift camp where the prisoners were bound was only a ten minute distance, and Duncan felt an immortal's presence as he approached. When he reached the place, the men were there but Methos did not show himself. Taking his cue from that, Duncan briefly explained how he had trapped the men, leaving Methos out of his story, and, of course, his own death. If his story differed from the killers' eventual testimony, he hoped it would be obvious that they had been mistaken about thinking they had killed him. He did admit to briefly tying them in the trees until, reconsidering, he had taken them down again. The leader of the police detachment took his statement impassively, but his colleagues didn't hide either their impressed looks or their passing skepticism. Replacing Duncan's canvas-strip bonds on the prisoners' wrists with handcuffs, the police hauled them uphill, looking for a helicopter pick-up area separate from the one the medical helicopter was using. Their leader, who had Duncan's Paris address and contact information, advised Duncan not to leave the country for a while. Relieved that he wouldn't be required to accompany them, Duncan was nonetheless startled by the order. He was currently living in Seacouver, and had not expected to move back to Paris so soon. This was an unanticipated inconvenience. After an irritated glance around for any sign of the immortal he could feel but not see, he returned to the children to see the rescue helicopter with its lowered litter, hovering above the trees, raising the last of the children, Genevieve. She looked down and waved bravely. Duncan waved back and gave her a thumbs-up, thankful that Jean had not had to depart that way. Cassandra, too, was gone. The helicopter sound grew louder as the pilot gave the machine power to lift well clear of the forest. It rose, slanted, and flew away with its human cargo. Duncan had a slight difficulty convincing the two remaining medical rescuers that he would not return to the road with them, and had no intention of seeking medical help for himself. Apparently leaving him behind would break some rule of theirs, but eventually they gathered their ropes and kits, tossed him some power bars from their pockets, and left him, heading over the pass. Duncan was, rather suddenly, he thought, alone. More or less. He could hear the distant sound of the police chopper collecting its charges. And there was one immortal not accounted for. The sun behind the clouds was well past its zenith, inching toward late afternoon. Duncan downed the power bars without thought, and poked absently at the remains of the children's fire, ostensibly checking for any remaining embers. He longed to search for Methos, but now he distrusted the longing. How much credence should he give Cassandra's legend? He tested himself by imagining himself leaving the forest, following the rescuers down to the road, and riding with them back to civilization, all without Methos. To his dismay, the visualization evoked great reluctance in him. He truly didn't want to leave Methos. But was that so unusual? Would it be normal for him to leave a -- what? Friend? -- in the wilderness after they'd just been through these last few days together? He remembered with chagrin how unwilling he'd been just last night to have Methos separated from the kids -- from him. And he had insisted to Cassandra that Methos be allowed to come along. Surely that only made sense? They needed his help, right? And he'd obviously left Methos after the fight in Bordeaux. *But then Methos followed me.* Shit. Of course it would be two-way. Which meant Methos wouldn't be far. He wouldn't have set off to find his steak and warm bed without Duncan. *And the good fuck.* Slowly Duncan headed for the swollen stream camp. Again, to his relief, he sensed an immortal as he approached. He stood under the trees he had used to suspend the killers. "Adam!" he called. "They're all gone." Methos remained hidden. Duncan felt oddly exposed, unseen eyes studying him. He could still sense the other immortal. What was the point of hide-and-seek? Duncan listened, but heard nothing besides the rustling leaves and occasional birds. The small fire he had lit earlier to lure the killers smoked and smoldered, which was strange, because Duncan had been careful to put it out before he'd left. Someone had kept it going, fed it just enough so it could be fanned into a real flame at need. "Adam!" he called. The last remaining Horseman of the Apocalypse stepped out from behind some trees, the Ivanhoe in his hand in what could only be an on-guard position. "Here I am, MacLeod." "Methos. I was looking for you." To Duncan's dismay, his own katana was in his hand, his instincts reacting to the approach of an armed immortal without consulting the intentions of his conscious mind. "And you've found me." Methos' face was tight and inscrutable. He stopped just beyond dueling range, his body in the relaxed tension of a fighter preparing to fight. Duncan wanted to put his sword away. Really, he did. He placed his other hand on the hilt of his katana, settling into his own ready position. "Would you put down your sword?" "You first." "You drew on me." "You came hunting me." Shit! Methos really was armed against him. And after they'd been working together so well. If Duncan didn't defuse this, it could have a very bad outcome. "I'm *looking for* you. It's not the same thing." "Oh? Why didn't you go with the others? You stayed behind to 'look for me' in a nice, remote, empty forest." Methos rotated the hilt of the Ivanhoe in his palm. Duncan recognized the motion as a method of adjusting for a sweat-slicked grip. Or Methos wanted him to think his grip was slick. Many duelers dealt in mind games before the actual fight, though Duncan had never known Methos, in sparring, to try that tactic. He was suddenly struck by the thought that he might have never sparred with the real Methos. He really needed to put his own sword away. Be completely vulnerable, as an act of trust. In a nice, remote, empty forest. *Right.* "Do you really think I asked Cassandra to spare you so I could take your head?" Duncan asked, still holding his katana. "It's a possibility." "Well, I didn't. We're friends, Methos." "No, we're through, remember?" The hurt he heard behind Methos' voice, could just be part of the mind games. An attempt to manipulate him into disarming himself using his own guilt against him. Or not. He knew what Connor would say. *Don't take stupid risks. If it comes to a fight, fight him. Live or die according to your own skill. No complaints and no apologies.* Duncan heard his teacher's words as if Connor were whispering to him from behind. He knew what Methos himself would say. *Don't be a fool, Highlander.* None of that mattered. Duncan dropped his guard and tossed the katana aside, into some bushes, where its razor edge sheared some branches as it whirled. "That was foolish," Methos said. Duncan smiled. "We have to talk, Methos." Duncan felt inexplicably light-hearted, having made his choice. Methos regarded him for a long moment, then lowered his sword. "Don't you hate it when women say that?" "I'm not your woman," Duncan responded automatically, but he knew a sudden odd uncertainty, like the way his world had shifted when Methos had pointed out that he was torturing his prisoners. A sudden erotic fantasy -- solid flesh, slippery blood, cold hard floor -- flashed across his mind and was gone, leaving Duncan a little short of breath. Methos cast him an odd look, and tucked away his Ivanhoe. "You'd better pick up your sword, MacLeod; it'll rust." Relieved, Duncan retrieved his katana. Methos stepped back into the brush and brought out four small trout. He moved to the fire and began to blow on the embers. "So talk," he said, between breaths. Duncan rolled a nearby rock into position and handed the other man a handful of leaves and lichen for kindling. Methos accepted the offering and nursed the fire into health. Duncan watched the firelight glow on Methos' enigmatic, chiseled features. "Why are you still here?" he began, cautious. Methos frowned and started to answer. He stopped, gave Duncan a quick glance, and then fed larger sticks into the fire. "That's my business." Duncan took a deep breath. "I thought you wanted a steak and... other things." The other things Methos had listed loomed in Duncan's mind, making his blood race. He saw and felt again that vivid fantasy where he fucked a faceless body -- in fact, from the rear, so he only saw a broad shouldered, muscular back, blood oozing down from some wound. Methos shrugged. "Fish are all right." He produced a pointed stick and skewered one of the fish. He suspended the stick across the little fire, resting the far end on an opposite rock, to make a spit. He did not offer one to Duncan. The afternoon shadows which come early in the mountains reached their little camp. Duncan swallowed, still breathing deeply. "Sarah missed you," he said. He watched the subtle play of emotions across Methos' face settle into a somewhat less guarded expression. "How is she?" "She'll be all right. They all will." Methos nodded, his eyes unreadable. He removed his cooked fish from the stick, deftly prying the body open in the process. He extracted the skeleton and organs and flicked them on the fire with his thumb. It had been so long since Duncan had seen anyone peel and eat a fish with the familiarity of someone eating a banana, that it gave him a strange thrill of connection. He too, had eaten so many fresh-caught fish in his four centuries of life that he needed no tools, and dealt with the process as casually as spreading butter on bread. It occurred to him that he hadn't noticed how Cassandra ate her fish; he'd been too busy. "Cassandra will never forgive you," Duncan said. Methos bit into the fish and chewed thoughtfully. "She probably shouldn't," he said. "For her own sake, she should." "Easy to say, Duncan. Not so easy to do." "You sound pretty understanding." Duncan let his tone betray his suspicion. Methos shrugged. "I was there. I know what she... saw." He faltered over the words. "I don't get you," he said. "You talk like you were just some observer." "I'm over it, Duncan." Anger flared in Duncan. Arrogant sod. "Oh yeah? How did God punish you?" "What?" Methos gave him a shocked look. "How did God punish you?" "Fuck you." *Fuck you.* The words rang oddly in Duncan's head, restoring Duncan's dark, erotic fantasy. In this fantasy the hard flesh and slick blood belonged to a man -- a man on his hands and knees on cold concrete, his jeans pulled down to his knees. Duncan imagined himself ramming his cock into someone's bleeding ass. Duncan blinked, and tried to pick up the thread of the conversation. Would this ever settle down? He needed to get himself home and find a date. The long afternoon shadows deepened into dusk. "You talked to Sarah," Methos said, accusing, as if Duncan had cheated in some game. Sarah? Oh, yeah. Duncan struggled to stay focused. "How can you say you're over it?" "Because I am, Highlander. I had to tell her *something.*" "So you're saying you lied about being sorry." "Lied?" Methos' eyes glittered in the firelight. "Believe it or not, MacLeod, I usually tell as much of the truth as I can. I told her what she could understand. I didn't mean it for your ears." Either Methos' face had grown flushed or the fire glowed strangely on his face. To Duncan's lust-clouded mind, Methos looked very appealing. *Shit!* He had to do something about this. It was getting worse. He could storm off into the forest and at least jerk off, he considered. Would a dip in the cold stream take care of it? This time he wasn't so sure. Right then he didn't think it would take much for him to come in his pants. He gritted his teeth and pressed on. "Methos, do you know why you followed me?" Methos scowled. "Of course." "Why?" Exasperated, Methos sighed. "So I could keep an eye on you, MacLeod. Make sure you didn't hurt anyone. Is that what you wanted to hear?" "Is that all?" Methos squinted at him. Duncan guessed he had expected him to be baited. "Get to the point, Mac." Methos rarely called him Mac. Duncan shivered and shifted on his rock, his pants growing ever tighter. "Have you ever heard of a double quickening?" His pulse was pounding. Methos stared at him, his eyes slowly growing wide in shock. Duncan said nothing; he struggled to get his body under control, and he wondered how much of the struggle Methos could see. "Are you sure?" Methos finally breathed. "Cassandra saw it." Damn, that fantasy or vision or whatever it was, was back, full force. This time he felt rage -- fury, betrayal, hate. The man on his knees was sobbing as Duncan *raped* him, battered him. The man was Methos... and his sobs echoed off the cavernous walls of... *the submarine base?!* Duncan, stood and staggered, still partly blinded by the vision. No, *memory.* He found a tree and leaned against it, his groin begging for his touch. Methos' shocked expression shifted into concern as he regarded Duncan. "MacLeod? What?" "I... I..." He couldn't say this. How could he say it aloud? His breathing was harsh with horror, with lust, with remembered anger. Methos rose to his feet, a graceful fluid motion which opened his whole long-limbed, unyielding body to Duncan's view. Methos' concerned expression was shuttered away, and Duncan feared that it was true, that Methos knew, that he knew that he knew... Duncan had to know. "I raped you," he said. _________________________________________________________________ FREE pop-up blocking with the new MSN Toolbar – get it now! http://toolbar.msn.click-url.com/go/onm00200415ave/direct/01/