============================================ DEARER YET THE BROTHERHOOD Janeen Kelley Grohsmeyer February 2000 To set the cause above renown, To love the game beyond the prize, To honor, while you strike him down, The foe that comes with fearless eyes. by Sir Henry Newbolt (1862-1938), from "The Island Race" ============================================

 
 
 

Duncan MacLeod was dying.  He knew it.  He ought to know; he had died often enough before.  There was that same roaring in his ears, that same dimming of vision, that same painful and desperate gasping for air.  But this time he wasn't lying down while he died.  Oh, no.  There was no peaceful closing of eyes, no relaxing on the ground for him.  No, this time he was dying on his feet, and this time it was Connor MacLeod, his kinsman and former teacher, who was trying to kill him.

Connor wasn't using a sword to kill him.  That would be too quick, too easy, and Connor wanted the dying to be slow.  Duncan had arrived at Connor's farmhouse in the Highlands just this afternoon.  Duncan had not even taken his bag from the car before Connor had invited Duncan to go running.  But it had not really been an invitation; it had been a challenge.

Duncan had accepted that challenge, and now Connor was running him into the ground.  Duncan breathed deeply of the brisk Highland air, and Duncan kept running.

The first four miles of the run had been pleasant, when John, Connor's twelve-year-old adopted son, had still been with them, before the boy had run to another farmhouse to visit his friend.  Even the second four miles had not been too bad, when Connor had cheerfully suggested they "stretch out a bit."  But this part--this hill, this mountain, this bloody great pile of rock that went up and up and up--this part was going to kill him.  Duncan knew it.

Connor knew it, too; Duncan was sure of that.  On level ground, Duncan could keep up with him.  At sea-level, Duncan could keep up with him.  For the first ten miles, Duncan could keep up with him.  But they were running up a hill in the Highlands, and they had been running for over an hour.  Connor could hear his wheezing gasps, his stumbling footsteps, his scrabbling for handholds on the steeper parts.  Connor knew Duncan was not used to this altitude, was not used to this pace, was not used to running up hills that might just as well be cliffs, was not used to running twelve miles a day.  Oh, yes, Connor knew.  And Connor was still running, and Duncan was still following him.

It was an old, old game between them, and Duncan always lost.  Duncan might be an inch or so taller than his kinsman, a bit stronger, a bit wider through the shoulders, but Connor had been born to run.  Connor loved to run, and he was still running.  Those damnable white running shoes were moving steadily and evenly up the path, sure-footed, finding the secure places on the rocky hillside, while Duncan's feet slid and slithered on the pebbles.  Duncan's ankles were aching, and his knees were buckling, and his side was hurting, and his chest was burning, and Duncan kept running.

He saw only Connor's feet in front of him, and he focused desperately on keeping those feet in sight, even with his head down, and his eyes half-slitted, and the sweat dripping down his face.  Duncan knew that if he ever lost sight of Connor's feet, he would never catch up to Connor.  He knew that if he quit, if he just stopped running and lay down on the ground as he desperately wanted to do, then Connor would think of some other way to make him pay.

For that was what this kind of running was about--payment.  Duncan had killed their friend Sean Burns three months ago.  Killing Sean had been bad enough, but Duncan had owed Connor an explanation or at least an apology, and he had given him neither.  Not a phone call, not an e-mail, not a letter.  Not a word.

Duncan had waited too long to come to his former teacher, and now Connor was making him pay.  Duncan knew Connor didn't want just an apology anymore; a simple "I'm sorry" would not be enough.  Connor wanted Duncan to _be_ sorry, and he was making sure that Duncan _was_ sorry.  He would make Duncan pay, either in sweat or in blood, and only then would he accept an apology.  Duncan had paid in blood before, and he preferred paying in sweat.  At least that was what he had thought when they had started running, some twelve miles ago.  Perhaps paying in blood would have been easier.  It certainly wouldn't have taken this long.

Duncan kept running.

Finally, Connor's feet slowed and mercifully ceased moving, and there was blessed level ground beneath them.  Duncan stopped, his legs numb and trembling.  He leaned over, his hands braced above his knees, and gulped in great gasps of air, trying to do it silently, trying not to let Connor know, trying not to throw up.

An exultant yell split the air, and Duncan closed his eyes and felt the sweat drip off the tip of his nose.  He didn't need to look to know that Connor was standing upright, his fists raised, his head thrown back, that exuberant cry of triumph still ringing from his throat.  Duncan didn't need to look.  He needed to sit down, he needed to rest.

Connor wasn't resting.  He was walking about on the top of the hill, stretching his arms over his head, doing deep knee-bends, flexing his legs.  "I run up here twice a week or so.  It's a great view, isn't it, Duncan?"

Duncan managed to stand upright, and he turned slowly to gaze at the panorama.  Across the narrow peat-dark loch, the peak of Meall Mor stood silent sentinel among its brothers, hill upon hill lit to brilliance and deep shadow in the summer sunshine.  "Yes," Duncan said, breathing carefully, forcing his chest not to heave for air.  "It is."  He wiped his face with his shirt and eased the air in his lungs out, then in, tasting the sweet scent of wildflowers and a hint of salt from the sea, all underlaid with the dryness of stone dust at the back of his throat.  "The Highlands are beautiful."

"It's good to be back here," Connor agreed.

They stood for a few more moments, listening to the wind, watching the sun sparkle on the water far below.  Duncan turned to his kinsman, hoping Connor would listen to him now.  "Connor, I--"

"Enough sightseeing," Connor broke in cheerily.  "Ready to run down?"

"Connor," Duncan started, but Connor was already running.  Again.  Duncan had known Connor would be angry, but he hadn't quite expected this.  Connor hadn't run Duncan this hard since Duncan had been his student.  Not since that one summer, right after Connor had come back from his trip to Aberdeen.  Duncan had paid in both blood and sweat that summer, paid more than once.

Duncan took another deep breath and started after Connor.  At least this part of the run would be downhill.  It wasn't too bad at first, running back down.  He was using different muscles now, and that brief rest on the top of the hill had given his body a chance to heal.  But he was still tired.  He had gotten on the plane in Seacouver nearly twenty-four hours before, and he hadn't slept much during the trip.  He had been thinking of taking a nap when he got to Connor's house.  Connor knew that, too.

Duncan kept running, trying to catch up.

He should have slowed down; he should have seen how steep this part of the trail was.  But he had almost caught up to Connor, and he wasn't really looking at the trail.  His heel skidded on the loose pebbles, and he was too tired to correct his balance.  He landed on his butt and started to slide.  He slammed into Connor, knocking his feet out from under him, knocking the breath out of himself as his kinsman landed heavily on top of him.  Then they both slid down the hill, until Duncan smashed into a rock and came to an abrupt and shuddering halt.

Connor slid a few more feet, then grabbed some bushes and stopped himself.  He crawled back up to where Duncan was lying.  "You all right?"

Duncan supposed he should be grateful Connor hadn't told him to get up and keep running.  The backs of his legs were burning from the abrasions, his hip hurt from landing on it, and he was pretty sure he had cracked a rib or two when he had smashed into the rock.  Or maybe that had happened when Connor had fallen on him.  "I'll live," he answered shortly, feeling the tingling of healing in various places.

Connor grunted in reply and sat down next to him, his elbows propped on his knees.  He stared out at the hills beyond them and waited.

After a few minutes, Duncan sat up and adopted the same position, wondering who was going to break the silence.  Connor could say nothing for a very long time.  Duncan was just about to give in when Connor spoke first.

"Just decided to drop by?" Connor asked without looking at him.

Duncan knew Connor was angry because of Sean Burns, but Duncan didn't want Connor to be in control of this conversation.  "No," Duncan answered and brought up something completely different, "Cassandra suggested I visit."  Connor didn't react to the name, and Duncan continued, "How do you know Cassandra, Connor?"

Connor shrugged.  "Ramirez introduced us."  Then he turned suddenly to look directly at Duncan.  "How do you know her, Duncan?"

"She was the Witch of Donan Woods.  I met her when I was thirteen."

Connor's eyes narrowed at that, but he said merely, "And since then?"

"The next time I saw her was in Seacouver, about ten days ago."  Connor hadn't given him much information; Duncan wasn't going to give Connor much information.  Duncan knew how this game was played, and it was his turn to attack.  "You never told me you know her."

"Neither did you."  Connor wasn't going to retreat.

Duncan wasn't going to retreat, either.  "I thought she was a witch, a legend.  You knew she was an Immortal."

"So?"  Not a retreat, but a block.

"So?" Duncan repeated, letting his frustration and his irritation show.

"So, Cassandra suggested you visit," Connor mimicked.  "And did you do _everything_ she suggested?"  That was another attack, and a specific one this time.

Duncan paused.  Apparently, Connor already had a lot of information.  Duncan said evenly, "You know about the Voice."  Duncan knew more than he wanted to about the Voice, that hypnotic control that made you into a puppet, jerked along by whoever held the strings.  Cassandra knew exactly how to pull those strings.

A quick nonchalant lift of the eyebrows, then Connor looked out at the hills again.

Duncan was tired of this game of not-talking.  "Do you know about Roland?" he demanded.  Roland Kantos, Cassandra's former student, had followed Cassandra to Seacouver, but he hadn't been looking for her.  Roland had been looking for Duncan--the Highland Foundling, the fulfillment of an ancient "prophecy" that told of a foundling child born on the winter solstice, who would go through Darkness into Light.

Connor nodded slowly.  "What was he like?"

So Connor didn't know everything.  Duncan felt a little better.  "A slimy bastard."

Connor grunted.

"Did she tell you about the prophecy?" Duncan asked.  When Cassandra had first spoken of the prophecy, Duncan had dismissed it as absurd, but then Roland had appeared.  Roland knew how to use the Voice, too, but he liked to use it to kill, to be the Voice of Death.  Duncan had taken his head the day after Cassandra had come, silencing Roland forever.

Connor gave him a sidelong glance and a brief nod.

Duncan wondered which question to ask first.  Just how long had Connor known about the prophecy?  Why had he never mentioned it?  When had Cassandra and Connor last seen each other?  How did they really know each other?  Connor had said that Ramirez had introduced them, but he hadn't said what had happened after that.  Duncan didn't know where to start, so he said nothing.  For now.

Connor reached down and picked up a pebble from between his feet, then started tossing it from hand to hand.  "Odd, to think she's been waiting for you since before the fall of Troy."

Duncan stared at Connor in shock.  Cassandra had mentioned waiting for centuries, but Duncan had had no idea it had been that long.  He had had no idea Cassandra was that old.  "She waited for me for over three thousand years?"

"Three thousand, one hundred, ninety-one years."  Connor tossed the pebble away.  It clattered down the hill, then Connor said sardonically, "Isn't it nice to be wanted?"

Duncan stood and took a few steps down the hill.  "This is ridiculous."

Connor reached down and picked up a stone, then rose and joined him.  He threw the stone this time, a long over-handed heave.  "I told her it was stupid."

"You don't believe in this prophecy stuff."  Duncan was relieved to back on solid ground again, to hear the voice of reason after all that talk of a prophecy and dreams.

"No.  But she did."  Connor bent and picked up two stones, then handed one to Duncan.  "And she let it control her life for over three thousand years."

"I still can't believe this," Duncan said.  The stone felt cool in his hand, the edges sharp against his palm.  He and Connor had often thrown stones together, seeing who could throw the farthest, who could throw most accurately.  Duncan hefted the stone in his hand.  It was a good size.

Connor took aim and threw his stone.  It hit the boulder down the hill and bounced off.  A small patch of lighter gray gleamed on the darkness of the boulder where the stone had struck.  Duncan threw his stone, and another patch of light gray appeared, a few inches above the other.

Connor nodded, acknowledging the throw, then squatted down to examine the stones.  "What about the other part of the prophecy, Duncan?  Was that true?"  He picked up two stones and stood, then offered one to Duncan.  His gray eyes were direct yet unaccusing.  "Darkness into Light?"

Duncan had already grasped the stone, but at Connor's question he froze, feeling the warmth of Connor's hand beneath his own, the hardness and the coldness of the rock between them.  Sean's hand had been warm, too. Duncan had gripped it tightly, immobilizing the other man, and cut off Sean's head.  Duncan clenched his fingers around the stone and lifted it from his clansman's outstretched hand.

Duncan turned away and looked down into the valley.  A cloud had moved in front of the sun, and the sparkling water of the loch had gone flat gray.  "It was ... a Dark Quickening."  He closed his eyes and whispered, "I took Sean's head."

Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder.  "It wasn't you," he said softly.

Duncan jerked away from Connor in a flash of rage, then hurled the stone.  Duncan did not look to see where it landed, but listened to the empty echoes of the clatter of the stone.  He felt just as empty, except for that rage, that alien overpowering rage.  He swung around and confronted his former teacher.  "Wasn't it?" he demanded.  "Isn't it?"

Connor merely stood there, watching, waiting.

Duncan took a deep breath and tried to control that rage, tried to find himself again.  He could do it; he had done it before, and he knew he would have to do it again.  After a moment he said, "They're still inside me, Connor.  Still there.  I can hear them."  He turned away again, unable to meet Connor's eyes.  "And sometimes," he admitted softly, "it's not them.  It's me."

Connor did not try to touch him this time, but came and stood beside him, close enough so that Duncan could feel the warmth from his body along his left side.  Connor said nothing, merely waited, and this time Duncan was glad of his silence.

A falcon soared above them, the wingtip feathers showing black and separate against the blue of the sky.  There was no sound but the wind.

Duncan sank down, sitting on his heels, then stared at the rock between his feet.  Solid rock, highland rock, rock he had grown up with, rock that was a part of him, and a part of Connor, too.  He should have come back to Connor sooner.  He should have come home.  "I'm sorry, Connor.  About Sean."

Connor grunted, the only acknowledgment needed between them, then squatted next to Duncan.  He sounded merely curious now.  "How did you get out of it?  The Darkness?"

"A friend."  Duncan didn't want to explain his friend Methos to Connor.  Methos--the oldest immortal, five thousand years old.  Methos--a myth, and yet a man.  Methos, who had become both friend and mentor to Duncan during this last year, not really taking Connor's place, because no one could ever take Connor's place, but still filling a need in Duncan's life.

It was a need Duncan hadn't even realized he had.  He hadn't realized how much he had missed seeing Connor occasionally, calling him every few months or every few years, just knowing that he would always be there.  Connor was still there, of course, but Connor had gotten married almost two years ago, and it wasn't the same.  Connor was living with his family in the Highlands of Scotland, and although he accepted challenges, he didn't go looking for them anymore.

Duncan didn't want to intrude on Connor's time with his family.  Duncan knew how brief and precious this time would be.  And he didn't want to bring the brutal and ugly business of the Game into their lives, and the Game always seemed to follow him.  So he hadn't called Connor very often, and he had only visited once, back in August last year.

Duncan had missed having a friend and a mentor, and Methos had stepped into the place where Connor had been.  No, Duncan didn't want to explain who Methos was.  Duncan added, "My friend helped me come back to myself, took me to an ancient healing spring."

Connor looked at him even more curiously now.  "A good friend."

"Yes."  Duncan tried to explain.  "I'm not sure, but I think he may have gone through something like that.  He seemed to know about it."

Connor grunted again.

Duncan said earnestly, "I couldn't come here, Connor.  Not while your family was here.  Not while I was like that.  And I didn't want to do anything to you."

Connor considered that, rubbing the side of his face, then he nodded.  "Yeah.  Thanks, Duncan."  He stood and took a few steps, then swung around to face Duncan.  "What about after?"

Duncan stood, too, and took a deep breath.  Connor had forgiven him for killing Sean, and for not asking Connor for help, but he was still angry about this.  Duncan had seen Connor angry before, and he knew what it looked like.  And Connor was very angry.  "Connor, I--"

"You didn't even tell me Sean was dead, let alone how it happened."  Connor picked up a stone and threw it against the boulder.  The stone shattered.  "I had to find out from _her._"

Duncan was surprised at the bitterness in that last word.  Connor wasn't angry only with him; he was angry with Cassandra, too.  What, exactly, was between those two?  At least now Duncan knew that Cassandra and Connor had seen each other lately.  Sean had only been dead since March, three months ago.  "No," Duncan thought savagely, "I killed Sean three months ago."

Three months ago, a lifetime ago.  Two lifetimes.  He could remember the person he had been before the Dark Quickening, and he could remember--God! those memories!--what he had done during those terrible weeks of the Darkness.  But even though he had escaped the control of the Dark Quickening, he was not the same.  Even though the prophecy had spoken of going "through darkness into light," he had not gone through the Darkness.  He had taken it inside him, and it would be a part of him forever.

Duncan closed his eyes again and willed himself to calmness, silencing the voices in his mind, leaving them alone in the darkness again.  They were nothing.  He was himself again, the sky shone blue and clear, he was back home in the Highlands, and Connor was waiting.

He walked over to stand beside his kinsman, in just the same way as Connor had stood beside him earlier.  "Connor, I didn't want to face up to everything I'd done.  I didn't want to admit it to myself."  He waited for Connor to look at him again, then Duncan said softly, "And I didn't want to admit it to you."

Connor looked back with ancient, knowing eyes, then dropped his gaze and looked away.  "Yeah," he muttered.

Duncan recognized that particular combination of guilt, embarrassment, and shame.  He saw it every morning when he shaved.  It was almost comforting to know that Connor had done things he didn't want to admit, either.  Duncan had been ... afraid--yes, damn it, afraid!--that Connor wouldn't listen, wouldn't understand, wouldn't forgive him for killing their friend Sean.  Connor did not forgive easily.

Then Connor gave a soft snort, the one that meant he was both amused and exasperated, and glanced back at Duncan.  "I hear I'm not an easy man to admit things to."

Duncan was equally amused, and equally exasperated.  He snorted in return.  "Who told you that?  Alex?"

Connor nodded, the barest hint of a smile on his face.

Duncan grinned openly.  "She's right."

Another snort from Connor, this one of simple amusement.  He bent down and picked up two more rocks, then handed one to Duncan and said casually, "So, what else did you do?"

It was not a casual answer.  "There was a woman."

"Did you rape her?"  Connor did not sound surprised.

"It might have been better if I had."  Connor gave him a sharp glance at that, and Duncan explained, "I seduced her, just to irritate her husband.  If it had been rape, at least she wouldn't have had to explain.  She wouldn't have had to live with the guilt."

"The way you do."

"Yes.  She shot me, to keep me from killing her husband.  Killed me."

Connor shrugged.  "You got what was coming to you."

"I know.  But it doesn't make it better.  Not for me, not for them."  Duncan hefted the latest rock Connor had given him.  It was smaller than the others had been, with sharp edges.  He clenched his fist tightly. "And I tried to take Richie's head."

Connor paused in taking aim at the same boulder, then threw his rock.  It hit just below the mark he had made earlier.  "Have you seen him since then?

"Last week.  We're talking again, at least.  But he doesn't trust me."  Duncan took aim and threw.  The rock landed short and made a small puff of dust in the dirt.  The dust drifted, blown by the cool breeze, finally settling to the ground.  Duncan said bitterly, "Why should he?  I don't trust myself."

Connor laid his hand on Duncan's shoulder again.  "It wasn't you, Duncan."

It was Duncan's turn to snort, this time in denial.  "It was my sword in my hand."  He raised anguished eyes to his teacher.  "And I wanted to kill him."  He had wanted to take Richie's head, to feel his sword swing round and slice through that neck, to watch the body crumple to the ground, to see the blood spilling forth as the lightning came for him.  He had lusted after that Quickening, and sometimes in his dreams he still did.

Connor nodded slowly, acknowledging that hunger for blood.  It was part of being an Immortal.  His hand tightened on Duncan's shoulder.  "But you didn't."

"Because Dawson shot me!"  Duncan turned his face away, but he didn't shrug off Connor's hand this time.  His voice became quiet.  "I would have taken Richie's head if Dawson hadn't been there to stop me.  I would have done it, Connor."  He swallowed hard, the memory still taunting him.  "And I would have enjoyed it.  Like I enjoyed killing Sean."

Connor's hand fell from his shoulder, and when Duncan lifted his head to look at him, he saw a terrible inward stare on Connor's face, a stare of memory and guilt and fearful longing.

"I know," Connor said quietly.  He blinked and shrugged a little.  His eyes were calm once again.  "But it wasn't you, Duncan.  Not really."

Duncan knew that; he knew the Dark Quickening had changed him, taken him.  But Duncan also knew that just as he had been afraid to tell Connor what he had done, Connor had something he was afraid to tell him.  And Connor had never taken a Dark Quickening.  He didn't have that excuse to fall back on.  Duncan said softly, "Connor?"

Connor met his eyes for an instant then turned away.

Duncan reached out to him, laying his hand on his shoulder.  "What?" he said lightly, "Has Alex said I'm not easy to talk to, either?"

Connor's shoulder was rigid under his hand, then it relaxed into a shrug and he turned back to Duncan.  "It was a long time ago, Duncan."

"If you want to talk ...," Duncan offered.

"Me?  Talk?"  His snort was derisive now.  "I hear I'm not much of a talker, either."

"Alex again?" Duncan asked with a grin.  "Sounds like she knows you pretty well."

That did not bring the answering grin Duncan had hoped to see; Connor's face was completely closed.  Too late, Duncan realized that if Connor wouldn't tell him what had happened, he probably hadn't told Alex, either.  Connor had told Alex about immortality, but he still kept other secrets from his wife.

"When you're ready, Connor," he offered again, but Connor had already moved away.  Duncan knew better than to push.  They watched as the falcon circled lazily, then suddenly dropped to earth, talons spread, beak gaped wide in a scream.  It hit the ground and disappeared in the dark-leaved heather.  After a moment the falcon rose, wings flapping hard to lift it slowly skyward, a rabbit hanging limp and bloody below.

Duncan forced himself to watch until the falcon disappeared in the shadows of a distant hill, gone home to feed its fledglings, no doubt.  All life fed on death, Duncan knew.  It was the way of things.  But sometimes death took more than its share.

"I'm glad you came, Duncan," Connor said, breaking into his thoughts, breaking his dark mood.

Duncan turned to Connor with a smile.  "So am I."

Connor slapped him on the arm.  "Ready to finish the run?"  He laughed at Duncan's exaggerated sigh.  "When we get home, we can eat lunch.  Maybe even take a nap."

Duncan grinned.  "I'd like that."

"Good."  Connor grinned back.  "Then let's run."
 
 

As Connor and Duncan approached the farmhouse, John was currying his bay gelding in the paddock, and Alex was leading Ariadne, her gray mare, from the barn.  Connor took the opportunity to appreciate his wife from a distance--the long legs outlined in snug jeans, the even better view when she bent over to pick up a bucket, the generous curve of her breasts under her white T-shirt.  Alex had pulled her long blonde hair up into a simple ponytail, but as Connor got closer he saw her give that shake of her head and quick puff of air she always used to get her bangs out of her eyes.  Connor grinned, for Ariadne had just done the same with her forelock.  Connor's mind wandered off to other things Alex and Ariadne had in common: both good to look at, with lean graceful lines and hidden strength; both high-spirited, both responsive to a firm but gentle hand; both good to ride ...

Connor put on a burst of speed and beat Duncan to the gate, then went into the paddock and kissed his wife, taking his time about it.

"You and Duncan all right now?" she asked, her arms still about his waist.  Alex had been in the kitchen when Duncan had arrived, and she had seen the tension between the two men.  "Business taken care of?"

Connor nodded and gave her a smile.  "All done."  He ruffled his son's curly black hair as he walked to the stable, then Connor brought the new stallion, Dian, outside.  All of the horses needed a good brushing.  Duncan gave John a hand with the gelding, and clouds of fine hair floated around them.  The three horses grazed contentedly.

"Want to go riding, Uncle Dunc?" John asked, while they were putting away the curry-combs in the barn.

"Yeah, John, that would be great," Duncan said.  "But there are only three horses, and there are four of us."

"You can ride the mare, Duncan," Connor said.  "Alex won't be riding."  Connor deliberately avoided looking in Alex's direction, knowing that her dark blue eyes had gone even darker with anger.

But Duncan had not missed her level stare.  "Maybe we should go later," he temporized, looking back and forth between husband and wife.  "I'd like to eat first."

"Me, too!" John said.

Connor laughed.  "You always want to eat first, John.  Why don't you go help Mrs. MacNabb in the kitchen?"

"I guess I'll go help, too," Alex said, seeming calm and cool, then she and John went into the kitchen.

The two men finished putting away the horses' tack in silence, and then headed for the house.  "Looks like the wall is holding up," Duncan observed when they reached the garden.  He bent slightly and peered at the chest-high wall that provided protection for the plants from the harsh winds.

"Yeah," Connor agreed.  "We did good work last summer."  Duncan had helped build the dry-stone wall during his visit in August, when he had been searching for a long-lost grave near Glenfinnan, at the northern end of the loch.  "Alex likes to garden."

"I think she likes to ride, too," Duncan said, but Connor did not respond to that.  "Are you adding onto the house?" Duncan asked, going past the garden and around the corner of the house.  A large rectangle of ground had been excavated along the entire east side.

Connor nodded.  "The original farm-house was just the kitchen and the parlor downstairs, with two bedrooms on the second floor."

"They added a living room and another bedroom about a hundred years ago, didn't they?" Duncan asked, motioning to the wing that changed the shape of a house from a rectangle to an el.

"Yes, but we need more space.  This addition will be two stories.  An office and a guest suite on the ground floor, and a bigger bathroom and a nursery on the second."

"A nursery?" Duncan said, bending to look at the layers of dirt in the excavation.  "A greenhouse?  Does Alex like to garden that much?"

"No," Connor said, keeping his face absolutely expressionless.  "Not for plants."

Duncan straightened and turned slowly.  "Not for plants," he repeated.

Connor shook his head.  Duncan was a smart lad.  It shouldn't take him long.

It didn't.  "Not for plants," Duncan said again, and then an enormous smile slowly lit up his face.  His smile turned into a grin, and he slapped Connor on the arm, then pulled him into a hug and laughed.  "That's great!"

"Yeah," Connor agreed, grinning in turn.  "It is."

"Are you using an adoption agency in Scotland?"

Almost there, Duncan, but not quite.  "No, no adoption agency."

"A private adoption, then."

"No."  At Duncan's confused look, Connor added, "No adoption at all."

Duncan's confusion lasted only a moment longer, then it turned to complete surprise when he finally figured it out.  "Alex is pregnant?  But ... how?  I mean who ... I mean ..."

Connor took pity on him.  "It's called artificial insemination, and we used an anonymous donor."

"Yeah, I know, I've heard of it.  I just didn't ..."  Duncan shook his head, and his grin grew even bigger.  "So, that's why Alex isn't riding."

Connor didn't want to go into that.  He had told Alex not to ride while she was pregnant--every pregnancy book he had read warned against riding horses--but she hadn't been very gracious about agreeing with him.

"When's the baby due?" Duncan asked.

"Middle of January.  Want to be a godfather?"

"Absolutely!"  Duncan shook his head and laughed again.  "This will be something new for you, won't it?"

Connor nodded.  "John was about three--"  He stopped, not wanting to talk about Brenda, not here, not today.  It had been another life, a different time, and it was over.  They had had such a short time together, less than a year of marriage before she had been killed in a car accident, not far from here, nine years ago.  Connor had died, too, but that had not mattered.  When he had revived, he had been alone.

Except for the young boy waiting for him at the adoption agency in Morocco.  Connor had almost called and told them he didn't want the boy.  But Brenda had wanted him.  She had fallen in love with the single picture they had been given, and Connor couldn't abandon the child.  So he had gone to Africa and adopted the boy, stayed there in Marrakesh, made a home for himself and his son.  And now he had a new home with his son, and a new wife, and a baby on the way.  A new life.

For now.

"Does John know he's going to be a big brother?" Duncan asked, his words touching on that bubble of thought and popping it, wiping it away.

"We told him a few weeks ago, when we were sure.  It didn't work the first time we went to the clinic, but she tested positive on Mother's Day."

"That's a good omen."

"I guess.  It was hard to hide; Alex had morning sickness every day.  But I don't think it's real to John yet."  Connor snorted.  "Some days, it doesn't seem real to me."

Duncan grinned yet again.  "Just wait till the middle of the night when the baby cries.  It'll be real enough then."

"So I hear," Connor agreed, looking forward to that day--and even to those nights.  "Want to eat?  I bet lunch is ready now."

~~~~~

Mr. and Mrs. MacNabb had left for the day, and John was drying the dinner dishes when Connor said to Duncan, "How about a drink?"

"Sure," Duncan agreed, sweeping up the last of the dirt from the slate floor of the kitchen.  "In fact, I brought something."  He put the broom away and ran up the stairs to get it from his room.

"I'm going to go check my e-mail, Connor," Alex said, setting the last of the leftovers in the refrigerator.  "John, don't forget you have to leave for karate in half an hour.  You wanted to show Duncan the dojo, didn't you, Connor?"

"All three of us will go," Connor agreed.  He gave her a kiss before she left the kitchen, then wiped down the long, wooden table that stood in front of the enormous fireplace.  John finished the last plate then set the towel down and went to get dressed.

Duncan came back into the kitchen and handed a bottle of whisky to Connor. "I know you usually drink Glenmorangie, Connor, but this is a new brand, and I've come to like it."

Connor examined the label.  "A twelve-year-old.  Fionnmore, from Speyside."  He lifted one eyebrow.  "A new brand, you said?"

Duncan nodded.  "I first saw it in the stores in the States about a year ago.  I think you'll like it, too."

"Only one way to find out."  Connor got two glasses out of the cabinet next to the sink, then headed for the door to the garden.  "Outside?"

The two men stood silently, close by the dry-stone wall, and Connor poured a small amount into each glass.  Duncan waited for Connor to speak first.  "Grassy, like new-mown hay," Connor said, holding the glass close to his face, swirling the golden liquid and breathing in the aroma.  "But sharper, I think."  He bent his head for another sniff.  "Thyme?"

Duncan inhaled deeply. "Thyme, yes.  And sweet, too."  He looked at his kinsman.  "Shall we?"

"MacLeoid!" announced Connor, saying their name in the old way, reminding them of the bond between them, the bond that went beyond blood.  There was a hint of a smile on his face, and he held his glass high.

"MacLeoid!" agreed Duncan, smiling, lifting his glass.  It was always their first toast after a separation.

Both men closed their eyes as they took the first sip, allowing the whisky to warm on their tongues, feeling the tingling there and on their lips.  A slow inhalation through the nose, allowing the flavors to penetrate.  Smooth and flowery, with a clean crispness.  Then the first swallow, the warmth of it down the throat, the glow in the belly.  Eyes still closed, another slow breath through the nose, tasting the ghost of it still, a faint lingering essence of peat smoke and honey, and the scent of wild flowers on the wind.

Connor opened his eyes and regarded the golden liquid left in his glass.  "You were right, Duncan.  I like it.  At least to sip."  He tossed back the rest of it and held the whisky in his mouth a moment, then swallowed and let out his breath in a short explosive gasp.  "It's good that way, too."  He looked at Duncan, waiting.

Duncan accepted the challenge with a slight grin and tossed back the rest of his drink, then breathed deeply.  "Glad you like it."

Connor poured them each another drink, a larger amount this time, then picked up his glass.

It was Duncan's turn to propose a toast.  "To three things that a man needs in the world: a good whisky, a good friend, and a good woman."

Connor gave a short, dry laugh at that, and they each took a sip, but Duncan didn't smile.  His gaze was direct and serious as he looked at his kinsman, his teacher, his friend.  "I'm glad you've found a good woman, Connor.  I can see that Alex makes you happy."

"Yes," Connor answered after a moment, looking out across the valley.  "She does."  His eyes narrowed slightly with good humor as he regarded his kinsman, the late afternoon sunshine glinting on Duncan's dark hair and accentuating the shadows in the weave of his sweater.  "But that means you don't get all of the fun ..."

"... and all of the good women," Duncan finished for him, and laughed.  "But I've got a good whisky," he said, as he lifted his glass, "and I've got a good friend."

Connor nodded at the warmth in Duncan's brown eyes.  "And so have I."  He smiled then, a real smile, the smile he gave to very few people.  "I'm glad you came, Donnchadh.  It's good to have you here."

"It's good to be here, Conchobhar," he said simply, using the Gaelic pronunciation of Connor's name in return.  Then he lifted his glass again.  "To Alex!"

Connor clinked his glass to Duncan's.  "To Alex!"

Duncan laid his hand on Connor's arm, stopping him before he could drink.  "And to your children."

Connor paused with the glass near his lips, then nodded.  His voice was soft and low.  "And to our children."  He downed the rest of the drink and stood for a moment, the glass held loosely in his hands.

Duncan tossed back his drink, then leaned his elbows on the top of the wall and stared at the loch below.  Connor poured them both another drink then stood next to Duncan, comfortably silent, sipping the whisky.  "You're a lucky man, Connor," Duncan said, after a moment.

Connor knew that.  He also knew it wouldn't last.

"I envy you," Duncan said quietly.

Connor hadn't known that.  He turned to Duncan in surprise, his eyebrows raised.

His kinsman shrugged.  "Well, you've adopted two children and been married three times.  And now you're about to have a baby.  I've never--"

Connor hesitated, then went ahead and said it.  "There was Kahani, and Little Deer."  He hesitated again.  "And Tessa."

Duncan nodded and shrugged and sighed all at the same time.  "And Debra, and Teresa, and Linda, and--"  He stopped abruptly then said softly, "And Anne."

"Anne?"

"I met her about a year after Tessa.  We were together a couple of months, and then Anne saw me die.  So I left.  I called her later, and she came to see me in Paris.  She was pregnant."

Connor merely nodded.

"We talked about raising the baby together, but then she saw me take someone's head."

"Oh.  Different than hearing about it."

"Yeah.  Has Alex ...?"

"No.  Did Tessa?"

"Yes, but we had been together for twelve years by then.  Anne couldn't handle it.  She left."  Duncan shook his head and looked over the top of the wall at the water below.  "I wanted to be a father, Connor.  To be there, see the baby grow, but ..."

"Someday," Connor said, but Duncan was still staring at the loch.  "After all," Connor added with a smile, "you're only four hundred and four.  I was about twenty years older than you when I found Rachel.  You're young yet."

That brought the answering smile he had hoped to see.  "Right," Duncan agreed.  "I'm young yet.  Unlike you."

"Another drink?" Connor offered, and Duncan agreed, and they were silent once again.

Alex came outside a few minutes later, and Connor went to greet her with a kiss.  Her gaze fell on the bottle of whisky, and she said, "I see you two have finished talking and started drinking?"

Duncan lifted his glass to her and to the summer-scented evening.  "It's not often I get to drink in the Highlands on a day such as this."

Alex looked more closely at the bottle, then turned to Connor, sliding her arm around his waist.  "Have you been telling Duncan about your distillery?"

"His distillery?" asked Duncan, his voice deceptively even.

"Yes," said Alex.  "Connor started the Fionnmore distillery twenty years ago.  Didn't they start bottling a few years back, Connor?"

Connor nodded, his expression bland, his arm about her shoulders.

Alex continued, "Now that we live in Scotland, we've bought some more.  Fionnmore is the only one in Speyside.  All the rest are in the Highlands."

"All the rest?"  Duncan's voice was more challenging now.  "And how many is that?"

"Seven," Alex answered.  "And we're looking into one on Islay."

Connor gave a deprecating shrug.  "We don't own the others.  More of a partnership."

Duncan's jaw tightened in an obvious mixture of irritation and amusement.  "And would you say that distilleries are a good investment?"

"Long-term investment, yes."  Connor grinned at Duncan, a very rare grin.  "Most of my investments are long-term."  He picked up his glass again and inhaled the fragrance of the whisky.  "And not all of the returns are monetary."  He lifted his glass to Duncan in a silent toast and drank, then smiled at his former student.  "You were right, Duncan.  I do like this brand."
 
 
 

The next morning, John's voice called to Connor from the hall.  "Dad!  Dad!  Phone!"  Connor put down his book and left the living room for the kitchen, where Alex was warning John he was going to be late for the game, and John's muffled voice was yelling, "I'm getting my shoes!"  Connor arrived in time to catch a hurried, "Bye, Uncle Dunc!" as John jumped over Duncan's outstretched legs, then an equally hurried, "Bye, Dad!" and the slamming of the door.

Connor smiled at the cheerful chaos of the day, nodded to Duncan and Alex sitting at the table, then picked up the phone.  "Connor MacLeod."

"Connor?  Cassandra," came the reply.

Connor's smile disappeared.  He went into the hallway to sit on the stairs.  "Yes?"

"I can fly into Edinburgh this weekend."

Connor grimaced, reminding himself that he'd asked her to call him.  He'd asked her to teach him to resist the Voice.

"Or Monday, if you would prefer," she offered.

He didn't want to see her at all.  Ever.

Cassandra must have managed to figure that out, because she sounded hesitant now.  "If you want to do to the training."

He didn't want to.  He needed to.  He rubbed at his neck, remembering Cassandra standing over him, smiling, holding his own sword to his throat.  No one was going to have that kind of power over him, ever again.  Especially her.  "Late Sunday would work," Connor said.  Duncan was leaving in four days.  "I'll get you a hotel room and pick you up at the airport," Connor told her.  She had said the training could take as long as two months, and no way in hell would he let the lying bitch stay in his house.  "What name are you using?"

"Catherine Grant."

"And the flight?"

She gave him the details and added, "I'll see you on the twenty-third, then."

"The twenty-third," he agreed and hung up on her, then dangled the telephone in his hand, wondering how in the name of God he was going to explain this to his wife.  At least he didn't have to explain it to Duncan.

~~~~~

After a delicate--and truthful, if somewhat incomplete--explanation to Alex, the rest of the day went well, and the rest of the visit went well, too.  For once, the Game did not intrude on their lives. No other Immortals came looking for their heads.  No one threatened or kidnapped someone they loved.  Even the Watchers were invisible.  Duncan asked which of the local villagers was Connor's Watcher.  Connor didn't care.

"They can all go to hell," had been his reaction when Duncan had first told him of the Watchers three years ago, and it was still his reaction.

The four MacLeods spent the days working in the garden and taking care of the horses.  In the long summer evenings, they played baseball or cards.  Connor and Duncan sparred everyday, and they even found time to talk once in a while.  The day before Duncan left, Connor drove the two of them north past the town of Marybank, to go hiking in what was left of Strathconan Forest.

"The hermit's cave was close to Orrin Falls, wasn't it?" Connor asked as they made their way between the great trees.

"Yes," Duncan answered readily enough, "we're almost there."  But when they reached the side of the hill, he stood silent, staring at the jumbled pile of stones that marked where the cave's entrance had been.

Connor stood silent, too, remembering that night long ago, that night Duncan had taken his first head, that night Connor and Duncan had met as Immortals.

Early Spring, 1625
Strathconan Forest, near Marybank
_______________________________________________

Easter was near, but winter still gripped the land.  Connor pulled his furs closer about him against the sleeting rain, then tucked his hands under his plaid and adjusted the reins of his gray mare as they made their way through the forest, the great trees bare and stark against the darkening sky.

"Should we stop to make camp?" asked Alistair MacDougal, his gangly, young companion.  Alistair's three-year-old gelding, another gangly youth, snorted impatiently as Alistair pushed thick blond hair back from his forehead and wiped the water from his face.

Connor shook his head, though the thought of a fire or shelter was tempting.  He had almost forgotten how cold a winter in the Highlands could be.  He had been gone for over thirty years, living in Edinburgh and London, sailing to far-off lands.  When he had made port in Formosa a year and a half ago, he had found a letter from Cassandra, telling him that young Duncan MacLeod had become an Immortal and needed a teacher.  It had taken him ten months to get back to Scotland, and Connor had been searching the Highlands for the lad since last summer.  "It's not that far to the next village," Connor said.  "I'd rather not spend another night in the forest."

"I fancy a bed myself," Alistair replied.  "And they say the whisky in these parts is uncommon good," he added with a learned air.

Connor grinned.  No doubt Alistair was absolutely correct; the fellow knew his whisky.  Connor had first seen Alistair in a tavern four months ago, engaged in a spirited discussion with some Frasiers about the various breeding habits of sheep--and MacDougals.  After Connor had joined the conversation, the Frasiers had conceded the argument, and Alistair had treated Connor to a fine meal and an even finer "wee bit to drink."  Halfway through the jug of whisky, Alistair had announced he would help Connor find his "long-lost kinsman, who's nay been seen these last long years."  The two had been tramping the Highlands ever since.

"I believe we may soon be finding young Duncan," Alistair said with determined good cheer.  "The goodwife in the village of Marybank did say that your kinsman was heading this way."

"We are getting closer," Connor agreed. The wind was rising, and the rain trailed icy fingers down his face and his neck.  Connor clicked to his horse to go faster, her hooves stirring last year's dead leaves.  The path was rougher than they had expected, growing slick with a thin coating of ice.  Night fell while they were still a mile from the village.

"Not long now!" Alistair said as they reached the top of a rise.  "Ah, for a blazing fire to warm my backside, a drink of whisky to warm my inside, and a willing lass to take care of the rest."

That sounded good.  Connor wanted to find Cassandra, too, after he tracked down Duncan.  Connor hadn't seen her for twenty-five years, and he'd missed talking with her--and not talking with her.  On their last visit together, they'd spent most of their time in bed.  Cassandra was a very old Immortal, maybe as much as two thousand years, and she had taught him things he'd never even imagined, both about her body and about his own.  This time, Connor was looking forward to teaching Cassandra a few things; he'd learned a lot during his travels to the Orient.  He let his mind drift to pleasant memories of things past, and even more pleasant imaginings of things to come.

"That's odd," Alistair commented, pointing to the right.  "There shouldn't be lightning with this kind of rain."

Connor took one look at the ghost-white flickers and turned his horse.  "This way," Connor commanded and headed back down the hill, away from the warm fires and the whisky and the lasses.

"But--," Alistair called out in protest, staring after him.

Connor didn't slow down, and finally Alistair followed, grumbling.  The ghost-white flickers in the distance died away, replaced by a more common red glow.  Wood smoke came on the wind.

"That's a big fire," Alistair said, for they were still a quarter of a mile away.

Connor kicked the mare into a trot.

He sensed the Immortal when he reached the base of the hill.  If the woman in the village had been right, and Duncan was in the area ...  Connor dismounted and ordered Alistair to stay where he was.  Connor started up the hill in a stealthy prowl, his katana in his hand.  Duncan might not have been his student yet, but he was a kinsman, and Connor would avenge him.

He did not need to.  The man at the top of the hill, dressed in furs and a plaid, clutching a claymore, kneeling on the ground in the aftermath of a Quickening, wild-eyed with fright and confusion, could be only one man--Duncan MacLeod

Connor sheathed his katana but came no closer.  "Duncan MacLeod," he called, and Duncan's head jerked at the name.

Duncan struggled to his feet, and the whites of his eyes gleamed in the red light from the dead pine tree that burned like a torch nearby.  "How do you know who I am?" he demanded, lifting the claymore.

Connor took a cautious step towards him, his hands open and empty, aware that Alistair had ignored his order and was watching from behind the trunk of an oak.  "I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he said, invoking the bonds of clan and kin.  Duncan's sword wavered, and some of the wildness left his eyes.  Connor added, "I've come to teach you."

Duncan stared at him, wary and stubborn as a cornered pig.  "Teach me what?"

Connor had a sudden suspicion he'd be teaching this one for a long time.  Still, he'd promised Cassandra he'd look after the boy, and Duncan was his kinsman.  "Teach you what you need to know.  Teach you what you are."  Duncan slowly lowered his sword, and Connor took another step.  "We are the same, Duncan MacLeod."

Hope and relief flared in Duncan's eyes, and Connor took a few more steps, until he was close enough to grasp the other man by the arm.  Then he said to Duncan what his own teacher Ramirez had said to him, long ago.  "We are brothers."

~~~~~

The three men rode through the driving rain to reach the nearby village.  Duncan sat behind Connor on the mare.  None of them wanted to sleep anywhere near the cave of the mad hermit.

"The hermit made me cut off his head," Duncan said, the words coming horrified and stumbling.  "He started to fight me, then he pulled my sword across his own neck."

Alistair crossed himself hurriedly, and Connor felt the urge to do the same, though he had gotten out of the practice while he had lived among the Protestant English.  An Immortal committing suicide during a fight?  Then again, how else could you do it?  "Hush now," Connor said to Duncan, not wanting Alistair to hear.  "We'll speak of this later."

"But then there was lightn--"

"Later," Connor commanded, and they rode on.

~~~~~

Duncan fell into a heavy sleep soon after they had eaten bowls of mutton stew at a crofters' hut.  The next morning Alistair went to the village to procure supplies for their trip back to Connor's old home in Glen Coe.

"Let's walk a bit," Connor suggested to Duncan, eager to be out in the fresh air, away from the close smells of wet sheep and unwashed people.  He and Duncan left the small hut, and the curious ears of the crofters.

"You are immortal, Duncan," Connor told Duncan once they had reached the far pasture, repeating the lessons he had learned from Ramirez.  "You cannot die."

"You're as daft as the hermit," Duncan scoffed, walking away in disgust.  Connor just waited, and soon enough Duncan was back.  "Are you truly the Connor MacLeod from the legend?" Duncan asked.

"And what is this legend, there in the village of Glenfinnan?"

"Back in my grandfather's day, it was," Duncan started, his dark hair tangled over dark eyes.  "A warrior named Connor MacLeod fell in battle against the Frasiers, but he did not die.  He left the clan and walked out into the hills, and was never seen again."

"Left the clan," Connor repeated softly, remembering the thrown rocks and the shouted curses, feeling again the weight of that bloody great yoke chained across his back and shoulders.  "Is that how they tell it now?"  He jabbed at the ground with a stick, then shrugged the bitterness away.  They were all long dead.  "It's true enough, in its own way.  My name is Connor MacLeod, and I fell in battle against the Frasiers in 1536."

Duncan stared.  "But that's ... that's near a hundred years ago!"

Connor lifted one eyebrow.  "I told you we were immortal."

Duncan started shaking his head slowly, stubborn and wary still.  "This cannot be."

A very long time indeed, to teach this one.  Connor took off his pack and got out the jug of whisky that Alistair had bought last night.  Connor took a welcome swallow, then sat down comfortably on a large rock.

"The hermit said he'd been in the cave six hundred years," Duncan said, sitting on another rock nearby, still trying to make sense of the thing.  "I thought he was just mad."

"He may have been mad," Connor agreed, "but he was also an Immortal.  You felt him, did you not, before you even saw him?  A tightening in the gut?  Or an ache in the head?"

"Aye, I did," Duncan said eagerly, lifting his head, his eyes lighting up at finally getting some answers.  "Do you feel it, too?"

"Every time we get close to another of our kind, we feel that," Connor told him.  "It is how we recognize each other, how we are warned."

"Warned?" Duncan repeated, catching the intensity behind that word.  "Why warned?"

Connor handed him the jug, knowing Duncan was going to need it.  "There is a Game," Connor began, "and a Prize."

Duncan was still shaking his head when Connor finished.  "But why did the hermit make me take his ... his Quickening?" Duncan said.

"I do not know," Connor admitted.  "Most of us like to keep our heads."

"How many of us are there?" Duncan said.  "How many have you met?"

Connor thought back, remembering.  "Seven or eight, but I have heard of at least twenty others."

Duncan's eyes darkened from brown to almost black.  "How many heads have you taken?"

"There are two questions you never ask other Immortals, Duncan," Connor said.  "Never ask how old they are, and never ask how many heads they've taken."  He slid off the rock, then turned back to give Duncan his first lesson.  "Some might consider it a challenge."

Duncan caught up to him as he reached the cow byre.  "How did you know to find me?" Duncan asked.

Cassandra had told Connor, but Cassandra had also told him never to mention her name. "There is an Immortal named Roland, an enemy of mine," she had said, on that icy winter morn, the day after Duncan's birth.  "If he learns that you have been my student, that you even know me, then he will hunt you down."  Her eyes had been wide and serious, deep green beneath the shadow of her hood.  "Don't tell anyone that you know me, that you have ever heard of me," she had said earnestly, laying her hand on his arm.  "Not even Duncan, when the time comes for you to teach him."

Connor had agreed, had promised to keep his time with her a secret.  But he would not lie to his student; he wanted there to be trust between them.  "The same way my teacher Ramirez knew to find me," Connor said, and it was true enough.  Ramirez and Cassandra had been lovers, and he had come to visit her while she was the Witch of Donan Woods.  She had told Ramirez the rumors from the nearby village of Glenfinnan, of the man who had come back from the dead and been banished from his clan.  Ramirez had come looking for Connor, just as Connor had come looking for Duncan.

Duncan nodded, obviously still confused, but seeming to accept this as just one more strangeness in his new life as an Immortal.

Connor searched Duncan's face, seeing in those fine, dark eyes the stubbornness and courage that made him a warrior, and the honesty and compassion that made him a man.  "We're clansmen, Duncan MacLeod, and kin," Connor said, proud to claim him as such.  "Shall we be teacher and student as well?"

Duncan stared back for a moment, searching too, then nodded and smiled.

Connor caught his breath at the warmth and the trust there.  He would have to teach Duncan not to trust so easily; that must be the second lesson, but for now Connor treasured that look.  "My hand on it," Connor said, sealing the promise.

"Teagasgair," Duncan said, naming him as teacher, while he took the offered hand in a solid grip.

"For now," Connor agreed.  "And we'll always be kin."  And, he hoped, friends and brothers as well.

"Seems like a long time ago that we met, doesn't it, Connor?" Duncan asked, still looking at the remains of the cave.  "Three hundred and seventy years."

Connor nodded but said nothing.  He had actually met Duncan over four hundred years ago, at Cassandra's cottage on the day of Duncan's birth in 1592, but Connor would never tell Duncan that.  Roland was dead now, and the original reason for that secret was gone, but the silence about it had grown to include other secrets as well.  "Want to spar, here in the forest?" Connor suggested.  "Like the old days?"

"Not like the old days," Duncan answered with an eager grin, drawing his katana.  "I'm going to beat you."

Connor laughed and drew his own weapon, the leaves slippery beneath his feet, the dappled sunshine warm on his back, Duncan facing him across naked blades, just like the old days.  "You can try."

~~~~~

Duncan tried and succeeded, at least about half the time, and he grinned triumphantly at Connor, enjoying himself.  He and Connor were evenly matched now.  Duncan had spent seven years as a student before he had even come close to winning a match with Connor.  "Take a breather?" Duncan asked when the score stood at three to three, and the two men lay down on the rocks near the river, the stone sun-warmed beneath them.

"What happened to Alistair?" Connor asked, leaning back on his elbows.  "After I left Scotland?"

"He went with me as far as Edinburgh," Duncan said, adopting the same pose and tilting his head to watch the leaves shimmer on the trees.  "I took a boat to France, and he stayed.  He said something about buying a tavern."

Connor snorted.  "Sounds like him."

"All the whisky he wanted," Duncan agreed.  "And plenty of people to listen to his tales."  He glanced at the smile on Connor's face and decided not to tell him that Alistair had actually been a Watcher.  The chronicles about the training of Duncan MacLeod were complete to an embarrassing degree, and there were stories in the Chronicles about Connor as well.  Connor wouldn't take kindly to that betrayal of his trust, even now.

"Do you remember the story he used to tell about the nun, the priest, and the donkey?" Connor asked, starting to laugh.

"Oh, yes," Duncan answered, grinning.  "I remember."  There had been many such stories, and the three of them had spent many long nights around the fire.  But sometimes, Connor and Duncan had wandered off together, to tell stories of their own.

_______________________________________________

Summer, 1625
Glen Coe
_______________________________________________

Duncan lay on his back on the still-warm stone, watching the stars twinkle into existence.  His teacher lay nearby, also silent.  Alistair was singing a love song as he picketed the horses for the night, not far down the glen, and snatches of his clear tenor carried through the summer air.  "As I walked out ... all in the month ... a flowery garden ..."

"You said the legend about you was mostly true, Connor," Duncan said.  "What part wasn't?"

Connor didn't answer, and Duncan turned to look at him.  His teacher was staring up at the sky, his hands behind his head.  "Connor?" Duncan prompted.

"I didn't just 'leave the clan' and walk off into the hills," Connor said finally.  "They drove me out, with shouts of witchcraft and deviltry, and threats of burning.  The priest sprinkled holy water on my footsteps as I walked away."  He shrugged.  "They knew no better; they were just protecting themselves."

"But--does it not bother you, then?" Duncan burst out, remembering those very same shouts, the red-tongued mouths screaming "Devil!" and "Demon!" while eyes glared hate, and hands threw rocks and sticks and dung.  "To be banished from the clan?"

"It does, aye," Connor said.  "Or it did.  But even if I had not left then, I could not have stayed.  Not for long."  His teacher turned to look at him.  "They banished you, did they not, Duncan?  Chased you out with rocks and curses?"

"Aye," he admitted, the word coming hard, "but it was not just--"  He stood abruptly and went to the tumbled pile of black stones.

Connor came to stand behind him, and Duncan spoke without turning, letting the words go out into the gathering dusk of the valley below.  "It was in the fall, right after the Michaelmas fair.  The Campbells stole our cattle, forty head of our best, so we gave chase.  I was wounded, a sword thrust to the belly.  When the wound healed, when I ... came back from the dead, my father said 'twas the work of the demon-master.  Then he ... he said that I was not his son."

There was a sharp intake of breath from behind him, and Connor said softly, "He denied you?"

Duncan nodded, blinking fiercely, ignoring the prickling heat of his eyes.  "He stood by and did nothing, while the others drove me away.  A few days later, I asked him ..."

<"You're no bairn of mine!">

Duncan took a deep breath.  "He said I was a changeling, brought by a peasant woman to replace a boy-child who had died."

<"You're not my son, and you never were!">

"He said the midwife had tried to warn him, told him I was a demon, told him to cast me out for the dogs."  Duncan managed a short, bitter laugh. "There've been times I wished he had."

A sudden warm hand squeezed his shoulder, and then Connor was right there, holding him, his arms solid and strong.

"To be without clan," Duncan said, his voice muffled against Connor's shoulder, "to be banished ..."  He let the tears fall freely now, knowing that Connor would understand.  "But to be without family, too, to never know where we come from ..."

"Aye," Connor said, his own voice hoarse.  "None of us know."

"How can that be?" Duncan demanded, pulling back to look into Connor's eyes.  "How can none of us know where we come from?"

Connor only shook his head.

"_Where?_" Duncan demanded again, moving farther back, his hands clenching into fists.  "Where do we come from?  Who gives us birth?"

Connor opened his mouth to speak, then shook his head again, slowly.  He laughed then, and it was just as bitter a sound as Duncan's laughter had been.  "We have life immortal, Duncan, with death after death after death.  Mayhap God does not think we need a birth."  He looked up at the stars.  "Mayhap God does not know we exist."

Duncan sucked in his breath at such blasphemy.  "You do not think that!"

"No?" Connor challenged him.  "Can our souls go to heaven, Duncan, when they are imprisoned by the one who takes our heads?  How can we have life everlasting with God, when we are condemned to life everlasting on earth?"

Duncan sat down heavily on one of the stones, and the warm summer night seemed very cold, the stars very far away.  "Are we not even human, then?  Are we, in truth, demons?"

"Ah, Duncan," Connor said, shaking his head and sitting down next to him.  "I should not have spoken so.  Dark thoughts on a dark night are best left unsaid."  They were both silent, listening the hard chatter of the water over the stones far below, until Connor finally spoke again.  "I believe we are human, Duncan, for 'tis certain sure, I'm not powerful enough to be a good demon, and I like being good at what I do."

Duncan had to grin at that.  "Aye, I've noticed."

"Have you now?" Connor said, with an answering grin.  "I've noticed the same about you."

Duncan sat up a little straighter at those words.  Connor rarely gave praise, but when he did, Duncan knew it was deserved.

"We may not have a clan or a family," Connor said, then gave another quick glance to the sky.  "We may not even have God, but we do have each other."

"Aye," Duncan agreed, sure of that one thing.  "We do."
 
 

Duncan left on Sunday morning, and Connor drove to Edinburgh to meet Cassandra.  Connor hated letting Cassandra control him with the Voice while he struggled to resist her, but he forced himself to tolerate Cassandra's presence.  He even agreed to help her practice swordfighting so she could go after an enemy of hers, an ancient Immortal named Kronos.  Connor didn't mind the fencing lessons so much; watching her pathetic struggles to defend herself with a sword was a welcome change from sitting helpless while she ordered him around.

John went off to Iceland to go pony-trekking, and Alex came to Edinburgh to take a class on Celtic archeology at the university.  Cassandra and Alex became friends, much to Connor's surprise--and concern.  "She's a good archeological resource, and we both like history and books and gardening," Alex told him when he questioned her about it.  "Besides, what other woman can I talk to about immortality?"

Connor didn't like it, but he couldn't forbid it, not without arousing Alex's curiosity.  Then in August, the long-simmering anger between Cassandra and him erupted into violence--on both sides.  Alex demanded an explanation, and in the quiet darkness of a summer night, Connor finally told Alex everything, ripped out the walls he'd built so long ago, and shared with her all the secrets of his soul.

Alex didn't leave him, even after she knew what he had done.  He spent the next afternoon talking to Cassandra, and she told him secrets of her own.  Connor and Cassandra came to an understanding and, finally, to forgiveness.  The next day, Cassandra set out to hunt down Kronos.  A week later, John returned from his trip, and the MacLeods went home to their farm in the Highlands in time for the beginning of the fall school term.

For Duncan, the summer had been busy with challenges in Seacouver, both immortal and mortal.  The dojo needed a new floor, and the plumbing in his loft needed fixing.  He spent as much time as he could with Richie, trying--not to repair, it was beyond that--but to rebuild a relationship with his student.  In September, some more Immortals came to town: Methos and Culbraith.  A few days later, on the day Richie should have turned twenty-two, Richie took Culbraith's head.

Duncan wasn't sure if it was Richie's birthday, taking Culbraith's head, the presence of Methos, or some combination of the three, but Richie left town the next day, heading "somewhere south."  Methos got an apartment in Seacouver and seemed prepared to stay indefinitely.  Duncan didn't mind.  At least now he got to drink Methos's beer sometimes, instead of it always being the other way around.

On Halloween, Cassandra showed up in Seacouver chasing Kronos.  She told Duncan that Kronos had been one of the Four Horsemen, a group of raiders who had murdered her tribe over three thousand years ago.  Duncan didn't quite know what to make of that, but he did know that the man she called Kronos was the same vicious bastard Duncan had known as Koren a century ago.  Duncan was more than happy to help her find him.

He was going to ask Methos for help, too, until Cassandra saw Methos the next morning in the dojo and started to take his head.  Duncan stopped her and let Methos get away, then tried to reason with her.  "Cassandra, he's my friend!"

Cassandra whirled around and glared at him.  "Your 'friend' rode with Kronos, killed and raped alongside him."  Every word seethed with hatred.  "He was one of the Horsemen."  She turned on her heel and left.

Duncan caught up to her at the top of the stairs and took her by the arm.  "Cassandra, this is a mistake!"

She yanked her arm away from him.  "Why?" she demanded.  "Because you want it to be?"

He paused, uncertain how to answer that, but he knew that Methos could not have done those things.

Cassandra calmed herself with a visible effort, breathing slowly, speaking evenly.  "Duncan, I know I seem ... irrational right now."

That was one way to describe it.  Other words had also come to mind: out of control, postal, hysterical.  Duncan gave her a rueful smile of acknowledgement.

Cassandra smiled back and admitted, "I'm upset, yes.  I'm angry.  But I'm not wrong.  That man was--and is--Methos.  He _is_ one of the Four Horsemen."

Duncan knew she believed it.  He also knew she was wrong.

She took a deep breath and tried another tack.  "Duncan, we really don't know each other very well, and this is a hard thing to believe.  Why don't you ask Connor what he thinks?" she suggested.

"Connor?" he repeated in surprise.  Connor had not even wanted to say her name.

"Yes," she said.  "Ask him about the Four Horsemen.  Ask him about me."  She glanced at her watch.  "It's not even nine o'clock in Scotland now; he should still be awake.  Call him."

Duncan looked at her carefully.  There was no trace of that hysterical fury now, and he was very curious to hear what Connor had to say about this woman.  "All right.  I will.  Come on."  He led the way back to the dojo and went into his office while Cassandra wandered about, looking at the exercise equipment and the weapons on the walls.

Duncan took a deep breath before he punched in the code for Connor's number.

~~~~~

John had just gone to bed when Alex came into the newly-finished study and handed Connor the phone.  "It's Duncan."

Connor smiled in thanks and watched her leave, treasuring the pregnancy that had transformed the beauty of her body from slim gracefulness to lush curves.  Very lush curves--Alex was expecting twins, and the doctor said they might come at any time: only two more months to go.  Connor smiled again as he lifted the phone, then greeted his kinsman.  "Duncan."

"Connor."

When Duncan didn't say anything more, Connor said, "Did you want to talk about something, or were you just wasting your dime?"

"More than a dime now."

"Yes," Connor agreed dryly.  "It is."

Duncan got the message and got to the point.  "Cassandra's here."

Connor wasn't surprised.  She had e-mailed him two days ago and said she was going to Seacouver, and that, of course, meant going to Duncan as well.

"She's been hunting an Immortal, and we met while we were both looking for him," Duncan told him.

Connor leaned back in his chair.  So, Cassandra hadn't gone straight to Duncan.  She had gone after her enemy Kronos on her own.

Duncan continued, "I know him as Koren, but she says his name is Kronos.  She says he burned her village and killed her people over three thousand years ago."

"Yes."

It took Duncan a moment to respond.  "You know about this."

"Yes."

Another pause.  "She says he's one of the Four Horsemen, like from the Bible.  Do you know about that, too?"  Duncan sounded a little exasperated.

"Yes."

Duncan's voice was frankly challenging now.  "Do you believe it?"

"Yes."  Connor finally relented.  "Ramirez's first teacher was Tjanefer. You met him later when he was using the name Graham Ashe."

"I remember."

"Ramirez told me that Tjanefer had encountered two Immortals who called each other 'Brother.'  They match the descriptions that Cassandra gave me."  She had told Connor about Kronos and his three "brothers" this summer, when she asked Connor to help her practice with swords.  She hadn't practiced enough; she needed at least another decade or two, but she hadn't been willing to wait that long.  Nothing Connor had said had convinced her to wait, and he had given up trying.  Cassandra could be stubborn to the point of stupidity.  Kind of like Duncan, sometimes.

"How long ago did Tjanefer meet these 'brothers'?" Duncan asked.

Connor thought about it for a moment.  "After the fall of Troy, but before Rome was founded.  About three thousand years."

Another pause, another question.  "How did he describe the Immortals?"

"One was a big fellow, with a deep voice.  He used an axe.  The other was smaller, lightly-built, brownish hair."

"That could be anybody."  Duncan sounded almost relieved.

"It could," Connor agreed.  "Why does it matter what those two looked like, Duncan?  You said you already knew Kronos."

"Yes."  Duncan drew a short breath.  "Cassandra said she recognized another one of the Horsemen this morning."

"Really?"  Cassandra had said the other Horsemen were dead, but then she had thought Kronos was dead, too.  Connor didn't think it was a coincidence that there were two Horsemen in the same city, after three thousand years.  "Where did she see him?"

Yet another pause.  "In my dojo."

Now that was definitely interesting--Cassandra and Duncan and this other Horseman, all in the dojo directly beneath Duncan's loft.

Duncan said in a rush, "She said Methos was one of the Horsemen!"

"Methos?"  Connor didn't remember Duncan mentioning him before, but he knew that name.  His teachers Ramirez and Nakano had both told him the legends.  Cassandra, however, had not.  "You mean, _the_ Methos?" Connor asked.  "The oldest Immortal?"

Duncan wasn't in a hurry to answer this time.  "Yeah," he finally admitted.  "The Methos."

"You two just met?" Connor inquired blandly.

There was only silence, until Duncan said, "About eighteen months ago."

And Duncan hadn't said a word.  The Dark Quickening, the oldest Immortal--Duncan never used to keep secrets from him.

"Methos is the one who helped me through the Dark Quickening," Duncan added.

Connor set his chair down with a thump and went back to the problem at hand.  "And Cassandra says he's one of the Horsemen."

"Connor, she's got to be wrong.  Or lying."

"Why?"  Cassandra might be wrong, but she wouldn't lie, not anymore.  Connor knew that, and he trusted her.

"Methos is my friend!"

"And Cassandra is my friend."  Connor waited to let that register.  "You said you've known Methos for a year and a half; I've known Cassandra since before you were born.  Ramirez knew her for over two thousand years, and he married her."  He let Duncan think about that for a moment, too, then asked, "How well do you know Methos?"

"He's saved my life."

"So has she.  Remember Roland?"  Cassandra had protected Duncan from Roland when Duncan had been a boy of thirteen, and she had helped him again five months ago in June, when Roland had come to take Duncan's head.

Duncan said more quietly, "Connor, Methos has risked his life to save me."

Connor had an answer to that one, too.  "Duncan, Cassandra has died to save you.  Several times."

"What are you talking about?" Duncan demanded.

"Roland found her, after you became an Immortal, and he asked her where you were.  She knew you weren't ready to face him, so she didn't tell him."  Connor added deliberately, "He asked her questions for three days and three nights."

There was no answer, but Connor knew exactly how Duncan felt.  Roland had asked her about Connor, too.  Time to get back to Methos.  "Why did Methos help you?" Connor asked.

"What?"

"Why did he save your life?  What did he get out of it?"  Duncan didn't answer, and Connor said more gently, "Duncan, I don't know Methos.  Maybe Cassandra is wrong about Methos being one of them.  She gets emotional sometimes.  But the Horsemen were real; she's not lying about that."

"I just can't believe that Methos could have done those things."

"And I couldn't believe you had killed Sean Burns."

Duncan caught his breath with a sudden sharp hiss.  "Damn it, Connor!"

"We all have things we hide, Duncan."  Connor knew that very well.  "Maybe he's been hiding this.  Why don't you ask him?"

Duncan's voice was grim. "I will."

"Duncan," Connor said suddenly, "be careful."

"Always," Duncan agreed.

"And Duncan?" Connor said again.  "Cassandra's had a tough time.  Be gentle with her."  There was complete silence from the other end of the phone, and Connor smiled grimly to himself as he heard all the unasked questions Duncan had about that.

Duncan settled for, "I thought you were angry with her."

"I was," Connor admitted.  "It was a misunderstanding."

Another pause.  Duncan was doing a lot of thinking today.  "All right," he said finally.  "Thanks, Connor."

"Duncan," Connor acknowledged, then they both hung up their phones.  Connor turned on his computer to check his e-mail.  Cassandra had written to him about an hour ago.  Her message, as always, was brief.
 
 

----------------------------- > >Still in Seacouver.  Saw Kronos yesterday >from a distance.  Duncan was hunting him, >too, so now we're working together to find him. > >C. -----------------------------

So, she had met Duncan yesterday, and they had been "working together" ever since.  She must have written this e-mail right before she met Methos in Duncan's dojo.

Connor turned off his computer and went to stand before the large window in the living room.  Who the hell was this Methos, anyway?  Was he really the world's oldest Immortal, or just pretending?  Although, if Cassandra had recognized him, he had to be at least 3500 years old.  And where was Kronos now?  Connor hadn't thought much of Cassandra's chances before, but there was no way she could go up against two of the Horsemen and survive, even with Duncan's help.  And if all four of the Horsemen were still alive, Connor didn't give much for Duncan's chances, either.

Connor stared at the darkness for a long time.

~~~~~

The next week passed slowly.  Connor checked his e-mail everyday.  "Still searching," the first three messages said, then on Tuesday, Cassandra wrote, "Horseman Caspian alive.  Duncan and I are going to Bucharest to find him."  He didn't hear from her again until Thursday evening.  That message was a little longer.
 
 

---------------------------- >We're in France, in Bordeaux, looking for Methos, >Kronos, and Caspian, and maybe Silas, too. > >Connor, I need to ask you to do something for >me.  If I do take one of their heads, it may >be a "Dark Quickening" for me.  With the Voice, >I could be like Roland.  If that happens, I want >you to take my head.  You know how to resist the >Voice, you know how to kill me, and I don't want >to live like that. > >I asked you to take my head once before, and you >said no, but I ask you now to promise me you will >take my head if I go insane. > >Please. >C. ---------------------------

 

Connor didn't need to think about it.  He hit reply and typed in one word: Yes.  On Friday afternoon there was another note.
 
 

--------------------------- >Still hunting in Bordeaux. > >Connor, thank you.  For everything.  I wish >things had been different between us. >Give my love to Alex and John. > >Your friend. ---------------------------

Connor wrote a longer reply to that, but there was no answer.  There was nothing on Saturday, either.  By Sunday, Connor had to stop himself from checking his e-mail every hour.  It had been easier before computers and telephones, when letters came only after a six-month delay, and nothing was known about challenges until they were over, either one way or the other.

He hated waiting like this.

~~~~~

On Tuesday morning, Connor sat and watched Alex and John as they ate breakfast.  It was John's birthday; he was thirteen today.  Alex was pregnant with twins, and the babies could be born anytime.  They were his family, and they needed him.  They would need him for years to come.

Duncan was his family, too, and Cassandra was his friend, but if they were dead, they didn't need him, not right away.  If they were still alive, he'd go find them, starting tomorrow morning.  If they were dead, revenge could wait, and so could he.

They were eating John's birthday cake that evening when the phone rang.  "I'll get it!" John yelled and raced to the phone, though neither Alex nor Connor had moved.  "MacLeod residence," John said, then exclaimed happily, "Uncle Dunc!"

Connor let out a silent gust of air and closed his eyes.  Duncan was alive.  Alive.  When he looked across the kitchen table, Alex was watching him, her dark blue eyes knowing and concerned.  He managed a smile for her, and she smiled back, then reached over and took his hand in hers.  He held onto it tightly.

He hadn't told her about the Horsemen, and he knew Cassandra hadn't told her, either, but keeping things hidden from Alex was not easy.  She had known he had been worried about Duncan.  Connor didn't think she realized that he had been--and still was--worried about Cassandra, too.  He didn't want her to know.  He gave Alex's hand a squeeze, then went over to John and held out his hand for the phone.

"Yeah, they're great!  I really like that group," John said into the phone, then glanced at him and said, "Dad wants to talk to you now.  Thanks for calling, and thanks for the CDs, Uncle Dunc!"  John handed him the phone and went back to his cake.

Connor took the phone into the hall and sat down on the stairs.  "Duncan," he said, trying to hide most of his relief and all of his impatience.

"Connor," Duncan replied, then got right to the point.  "Have you heard from Cassandra?"

So she was alive, too.  Connor closed his eyes again, then answered evenly, "Not since Friday.  You don't know where she is?"

"No.  She left Bordeaux on Sunday, and I haven't seen her since.  She hasn't come back for her things, but I thought she might have called you."

"She hasn't," Connor replied, wondering why Cassandra had left Duncan so abruptly.  But that wasn't the most important question.  "What about Kronos?"

"He's dead."  Duncan sounded grimly satisfied.

Connor knew Cassandra felt the same way.  Or maybe she was grimly relieved.  "And the other Horsemen?"

There was a slight pause, then Duncan said, "The Horsemen are finished."

And what, exactly, did that mean?  Had the fourth Horseman shown up?  Was Caspian dead?  What about Methos?  Had he really been a Horseman?  Connor waited, but Duncan said only, "I'll talk to you later, Connor."

"Duncan," Connor responded, recognizing his own evasive style.  He didn't want to insist on more information.  Cassandra would e-mail him soon enough.

She didn't.  It was three weeks before Connor heard anything more.

"Cassandra called while you were out riding," Alex said, when he came in from the stable to get a cup of tea that afternoon.  Connor set down his spoon and waited.  Alex joined him at the kitchen table, sitting sideways on the bench to accommodate her growing size, brushing her bangs from her eyes with her usual quick gesture.  "She wanted to tell me happy birthday and ask about the babies."

"Where is she?" Connor asked, keeping his tone casual.

"I don't know," Alex said.  "I didn't even think to ask.  We just chatted for a bit."

Connor grunted and sipped at his tea.  "A bit" probably meant an hour.  At least Cassandra was still alive and had remembered Alex's birthday.  Where the hell had Cassandra been?  And what had she been doing?

"She asked about you," Alex said, and Connor grunted again.  Alex waited until he looked at her, then said, "I invited Cassandra for Christmas.  She'll be here on the twentieth."

Connor leaned back in his chair and nodded slowly.  "Good."  She and Alex would enjoy each other's company, and he was looking forward to seeing Cassandra again, too.  He also wanted to get some answers.  Connor cocked one eyebrow at Alex.  "Want to come with me to Strathpeffer tomorrow?"

"Near Inverness?  Why?"

"Christmas shopping."  He had something special in mind for Cassandra.

Alex smiled at him and reached for his hand.  "I'd love to.  Christmas is only three weeks away."
 
 
 
 

Christmas was a week away, and Duncan was tired of being alone in his barge in Paris.  He'd been in Paris since mid-November, but neither Methos nor Cassandra had called.  Richie had called last week; he was spending Christmas with a girlfriend, skiing near Lake Tahoe in California.  Joe had e-mailed and said he wouldn't be back in Paris until late February.  Amanda had sent a Christmas card with a picture of herself dressed in a red ribbon (and only the ribbon), lying under a Christmas tree.

But Duncan was still alone.  Well, he didn't have to be.  Connor had always said he could visit anytime, and Connor wasn't that far away.  Alex was expecting her twins to be born "any day now," and it would be good to spend Christmas with his family.  Duncan finished his Christmas shopping and set off for Scotland.

The large farmhouse kitchen was filled with the warm scent of baking Christmas cookies, as was to be expected--and appreciated.  Duncan complimented John on his increasing height, laid a careful and wondering hand on the enormous bulge of the twins Alex was carrying, then grabbed one of the cookies John had sprinkled with red sugar.  "Isn't Connor helping?" Duncan asked, for the immortal presence was clear.  "He usually frosts them."

Alex looked up from her decorating.  "Oh, he's--"

"Duncan!" Connor called as he came in the kitchen, then gave Duncan a hug.  "It's good to see you!"

"Thanks, Connor," Duncan said.  "I know I didn't call, but you said visit anytime."

"Anytime," Connor agreed, slapping him on the shoulder.

"Uncle Dunc, will you go riding with us?" John asked.

"Sure, John," Duncan answered.  "Later though, OK?  I'm hungry, and I need to talk to your dad."

"You two go on and discuss your 'business', and get that over with," Alex said, shooing them out of the kitchen and away from John's curious ears.  "Duncan, I'll fix you some lunch while you're talking."

Duncan took another cookie as Connor said, "Come on, Duncan.  There's whisky and a fire in the living room."  Connor led the way down the wood-paneled hall, then stood aside to let Duncan go through the doorway first.

Duncan took one step and stopped.  "Cassandra!"

"Duncan."  She stood with one hand resting on the grand piano, her supple curves outlined by a clinging velvet gown the color of bay leaves.  The deep green matched her mocking eyes.  "You're always so surprised to see me."

And why not?  He hadn't seen her for nearly four hundred years, and then the Witch of Donan Woods had shown up in his loft one night, waiting for him.  Five months later she had come back to Seacouver and nearly sliced his head off, and now she was standing in Connor's living room, waiting for him again.  No wonder the sense of an Immortal had been so strong.  "At least this time you're not trying to take my head," Duncan said, going into the room, giving Connor a sour look.  Connor hadn't given him any warning about her at all.

"Alex invited Cassandra to come for Christmas.  She just got here," Connor said as he walked past Duncan and the bookshelves to the liquor cabinet.  "Want a drink?" Connor said cheerfully.

Duncan did.  He poured himself a shot of whisky, and watched in some bemusement as Cassandra poured a shot not just for herself, but for Connor, too--his favorite brand.  They even smiled at each other when she gave it to him.  Cassandra and Connor had definitely been more than teacher and student, and probably much more than friends.

Duncan looked at Connor and got back only a steady stare that revealed nothing--typical Connor.  Cassandra met his eyes next, another steady stare, but this one hinted at secret knowledge and hidden power.  She might not be the Witch of Donan Woods now, but she could still make him uncomfortable.  Duncan let his breath out slowly, then waited, his glass in his hand.

"Deoch-Slainte!" Connor said finally, raising his glass in a toast, and Duncan echoed the words and took a welcome sip of the smoke-filled whisky.

Connor sat down in the leather wingback chair near the fire, and Cassandra settled herself in the center of the couch, arranging her skirt about her, leaving no room for anyone else.  Duncan sat in the remaining chair, suddenly having nothing much to say.  No one seemed to have much to say.  Duncan took another sip and listened to the crackle of the fire.

"So," Connor said at last, cheerful still, "how have you been, Duncan?"

"Oh, fine," Duncan answered.

"Been traveling?"

"Not really."  He'd been waiting in Paris so Methos and Cassandra could find him.  Neither of them had even bothered to try.  Duncan reached for his drink again.

Connor turned to his guest.  "Traveled much lately, Cassandra?"

"Some," came the cool reply.

Connor leaned back in his chair, apparently giving up on the social chit-chat, much to Duncan's relief.  It wasn't Connor's style.

After another moment, Cassandra spoke next, slicing into the thick silence with sharp words.  "Have you seen him?"

Duncan knew who she was talking to, and he knew who she meant.  He cleared his throat and answered evenly, "Not since Bordeaux.  He left two days after ..."  After Methos had killed his brother Silas, after Cassandra had almost taken Methos's head.  Duncan still wasn't sure why Cassandra had walked away.

"So your 'friend' hasn't called you?" she asked, pretending to be surprised, mocking him again.

"No more than you," he retorted, getting tired of this game.  "At least Methos said good-bye before he left."

"I sent you a letter, Duncan," she said calmly.

It hadn't been a letter; it had been payment for the sword he had loaned to her, the sword she had wanted to use to kill the Horsemen, the sword she had never used at all.  Payment plus interest due.  He had a feeling he was collecting the penalties on that interest now.

"There was nothing more to say," Cassandra continued.  "You wanted Methos to live, and I permitted him to live."

Connor sat up straighter at that, but Duncan ignored him.

"Or did you want something more from me?" she demanded.  "That wasn't enough?"

Duncan leaned back in his chair and stared at the fire.  He knew there was no good answer to that, at least none that she would accept.  She had been obsessed with killing the Horsemen, all of them, and she hadn't killed even one.  Duncan sighed and ran his hand through his hair, then turned to her and said gently, "I know it wasn't easy for you."

Cassandra shot to her feet and paced between the piano and the couch, then stopped and glared at him, her eyes gone icy-green.  "You have no idea," she snapped.

Duncan set down his glass as he stood.  He did have an idea.  "Cassandra, Methos told me what he did to you, about your time in the camp, and--"

"He told you?" she broke in, her face white, her anger suddenly gone into stricken disbelief.

Duncan paused, uncertain, then turned to Connor for help.  His kinsman merely stared at him, looking just as confused.  Duncan turned back to her.  "Yes," he admitted.

"He told you," she repeated, nodding slowly, looking somehow lost, even fragile.

Duncan reached out to her, but even as he called, "Cassandra!" she whirled away and was gone.  He went after her, but Connor stopped him at the door.

"Let her be," Connor said.  "She needs some time alone."  The two of them went back to their chairs and their drinks, then Connor asked abruptly, "What happened in Bordeaux?"

Here we go, thought Duncan in tired resignation, oral examination time.  "We followed the Four Horsemen there.  They had set a bomb filled with a virus in a fountain, enough to poison half the city.  Methos told me about the bomb, so I went to disarm it."

"So, Methos wasn't a Horseman?"

"He used to be.  He isn't anymore."

"Sure about that?"

"Yes," Duncan said evenly, then justified his answer.  "Methos killed Silas."

It wasn't enough for Connor.  "Who killed Kronos?"

"I did."

"Caspian?"

"I killed him, too."

Connor didn't seem at all impressed.  "Where was Cassandra during all this?"

Duncan reached for his whisky, hiding his annoyance at the grilling.  Killing evil Immortals bent on destroying the world--ten points apiece.  This final question is worth eighty percent of your total score.  Be prepared to defend your answer, and yourself.  Duncan finished off the last of his drink and faced his former teacher.  "They kidnapped her from the hotel room while I was busy disarming the bomb."

"So, Methos told you about the bomb, got you away from her, and then they grabbed her?"

Trust Connor to see all the possibilities and focus on the worst.  Well, Duncan had had the same thoughts himself while it had been happening, even said as much to Methos: "You set me up."  But it hadn't really happened that way; Methos hadn't wanted to betray him.

"You trust this guy?" Connor demanded.

Duncan stood and walked over to the liquor cabinet and poured himself another drink.  He'd thought about that a lot these last two months, ever since Methos had admitting to being a Horseman, to killing thousands of people just because he liked it.  Methos wasn't like that anymore.  Duncan took a quick swallow, then turned to answer Connor.  "Yes, I trust him."

Connor snorted in disgusted disbelief.

Duncan sat down again, then leaned forward earnestly, knowing this was a pass/fail exam with no partial credit given, either for Methos and for himself.  "Connor, Methos told me about the bomb.  He saved Cassandra's life.  Kronos told Silas to kill her, but Methos fought Silas and stopped him."

"But Cassandra was still going to kill him?"

"I don't think she even realized that he had saved her.  She wasn't exactly rational right then.  You know how 'emotional' she can be."  Connor nodded at that, so Duncan continued, "Methos had just taken Silas's head, and he was on his knees from the quickening.  Cassandra picked up Silas's axe to take his head, and I told her I wanted Methos to live."

"And she stopped?  Just like that?"

"Well, no," Duncan admitted, remembering his hoarse shout across the frigid water and Cassandra's furious glare.  "I had to repeat myself."

"Stubborn, is she?" Connor said with a slight grin.

"Yeah, you could say that," Duncan agreed, grinning back, glad to have passed this ordeal.  Connor nodded once more, then finished his drink and stood to leave.  "Where are you going?" Duncan called after him.

"Cassandra."

~~~~~

Duncan ate his lunch in the kitchen, chatting with Alex and John.  He had just finished when Connor came in from the stable and suggested they go riding.  John eagerly agreed and ran to get his boots.

"Where's Cass?" Alex said, asking before Duncan had the chance.

"In the exercise room above the stable," Connor said.  "She said she wanted to be alone for a while."

Duncan decided not to ask anything more.

The three of them went riding for an hour or so, until it started to get dark.  Night fell early in the Highlands at this time of year.  While John and Duncan unsaddled the horses and rubbed them down, Connor went up to the exercise room again to talk to Cassandra.  She had been up there the entire time.

"What's she been doing?" Duncan asked quietly, when Connor came down the stairs.

A look of distaste--maybe even revulsion--flickered on Connor's face, but he merely shook his head.

"Is she all right?" Duncan asked, starting to worry.

Connor's answer didn't help.  "No."

"Should I--?"

"No."  Duncan stiffened at the abrupt rejection, and Connor added pointedly, "She needs to talk to a woman."

Duncan glanced away, remembering when Tessa had gone to visit her friend Michelle who had just been raped.  "It's best if you don't come, Duncan," Tessa had said, pulling on her coat.  "Michelle said she didn't want any men in her house."  Tessa had laid her cool hand on his cheek, a gentle caress.  "You understand, don't you, Duncan?"

He did.

Connor sighed and rubbed a hand through his short-cropped hair.  "Let's take John to karate class, so Alex can talk to her.  Maybe that will help."

~~~~~

It seemed to.  When they got back from the karate dojo, Cassandra had changed into more comfortable clothes--an over-sized blue sweater and black jeans--and she was more relaxed, too.  She and Alex were in the kitchen, making dinner, talking away, and Cassandra even managed to smile a little when she greeted him.  Cassandra didn't say much during dinner, but she laughed at his stories, and responded easily to questions.  Duncan knew he still needed to talk to her about Methos, but that could wait until tomorrow.

After dinner, they gathered in the living room--Alex and Connor on the couch holding hands, John lying on the rug in front of the fire, Cassandra and Duncan facing each other in the chairs.

"I wish you'd let us know you were coming, Duncan," Alex said.  "Tomorrow is your birthday, and we've already mailed your presents to Paris."

"Then I'll have something to open when I get home," Duncan answered.  "I can celebrate it twice."

"We're going to make him a cake, aren't we, Alex?" John asked, rolling over on his back and putting his hands behind his head.

"Sounds like you want us to make _you_ a cake," Alex answered with a smile.

"Better get your piece in a hurry, Duncan," Connor warned.  "John will eat the whole cake if you let him."

"I was hungry," John explained self-righteously, "and spice cake is my favorite."

"Mine, too," Connor said, then he caught Cassandra's eye and gave her one of his subtle smiles--a slight narrowing of his eyes, a tilt of his head, the right corner of his mouth tugging up.

Duncan had seen that smile in many guises, for Connor could make it a smile of cold and deadly intent or a smile of warm approval, just by the look in his eyes.  Cassandra was getting warm approval--a lot of it--and from the apprehensive expression on her face, she needed it.  Yet Alex didn't seem to mind her husband smiling at another woman; she was smiling, too. How the hell had Connor managed to keep both his wife and his ex-lover happy at the same time, and in the same house?  Or did Alex even know about Connor and Cassandra's past?

"What's your favorite kind of cake, Uncle Dunc?" asked John, pulling Duncan's attention away.

"Oh, I'm not particular, John," Duncan answered.  "I like all kinds of cake."

"We'll make chocolate," John decided.

"Good!" Duncan agreed, then turned to Cassandra, wanting to include her in the conversation, hoping to figure out just what was going on.  "You'd said you'd been doing some traveling this last month, Cassandra.  Any place special?"

She took her time about answering, picking up her coffee cup, leaning back in her chair.  "No."

Duncan paused, a bit put off by her sudden coldness.  Maybe this was something else she didn't want him to know about.  "I have your laptop computer," Duncan offered, trying to be helpful, "and the clothes you left in Bordeaux.  They're in Paris, but I can mail them to you later, if you'd like."

"Yes."

Duncan caught another glimpse of Connor smiling, but this time Connor was amused, and at Duncan's expense.  Enough of this already!  Connor wasn't usually so snide.  "So, Connor," Duncan began, pulling Connor into the little "discussion" that was more of a three-sided fencing match, "Cassandra told me that she was your teacher."

Connor flicked a glance at Cassandra, not so approving now, but answered simply, "Yes."

Duncan wanted more.  "Here in the Highlands?"

"Yes."

Duncan looked back and forth between the pair of them, then commented, "You never mentioned that before."

"Lots of things don't get mentioned, Duncan," Cassandra said, placing her cup precisely on the small table next to her chair.  "Some of them are important; some of them aren't."

"I just think it's a little odd, that's all."

"Why?" she demanded.  "Are you the only one allowed any privacy?"

"No, but--"

"Then don't expect to be the only one to have secrets, and don't expect to be the only one to lie," Cassandra snapped, and with that she left the room.

Duncan and Alex sat in silence, but Connor was already up and off the couch, following Cassandra yet again.  Duncan let out a gusty sigh and slumped back in his chair.  It looked like he shouldn't have waited to talk to her about Methos after all.

"I think she's mad at you, Uncle Dunc," John observed.

Duncan sighed again and reached for his coffee.  "Yeah, John, I think you're right." And he had a pretty good idea why.

~~~~~

When Duncan took his empty coffee cup into the kitchen, Connor was waiting for him.  Cassandra was nowhere in sight.  "I want you and Cassandra to work this out tonight," Connor said.  "Alex doesn't need any stress right now."

"Good idea," Duncan agreed as he set the cup in the sink.  "Is Cassandra in her room?"

"Yes," Connor answered, "but you two should discuss this away from the house.  The exercise room above the stable will do.  I'll tell her."

Duncan put on his coat and walked across the gravel drive to the stable then jogged up the stairs and started doing pull-ups to kill time.  He was up to twenty-three when Connor and Cassandra walked in.  She ignored him and hung her coat on the hook near the door, then went straight to the small window in the east wall and stared at her reflection in the glass.

"Cassandra asked me to referee," Connor said as Duncan dropped from the bar.

Duncan shook his head in exasperation.  "I don't think we need--"  He stopped as Connor went past the weightlifting equipment and removed the two swords that hung on the wall.

Connor tucked the swords under his arm then corrected him.  "Yes, you do."

"Connor--," Duncan protested, but his kinsman only walked over to him and held out one hand.

"Give me your sword, Duncan."

"Give you my sword?" he repeated incredulously.

Connor took a step closer, and his voice was very quiet.  "Unless you want to give it to Cassandra later?  When she uses the Voice and orders you to?  And then starts to take your head?"

Duncan snorted.  "She wouldn't--"

"She would," Connor contradicted, then met his eyes.  "And she has."

Duncan shook his head slowly, then looked over at Cassandra waiting by the window, her arms crossed in front of her, her back straight and stiff, every line of her body screaming anger.  Duncan looked back at his former teacher, wondering.  Connor nodded, and Duncan let out his breath in a silent hiss.  Cassandra had been angry enough at Connor to use the Voice on him and then try to take his head?  Jesus Christ.  What the hell had gone on between these two?

"She gave me her sword already," Connor said then repeated, "Give me yours."

Duncan slowly took out his katana and handed it to his kinsman, just about the only Immortal in the world he would trust this way.  No, he realized, the only Immortal.  He wouldn't give his sword to Methos, and he wouldn't give it to Richie, not any more.

"If she starts to use the Voice, Duncan, I'll come in.  Otherwise, you're on your own."

Duncan suddenly wondered what the hell was going on between Cassandra and himself.  He'd forgotten about the Voice, but he remembered it now--those strings jerking you around, leaving you helpless.  Cassandra was already angry with him, and he'd seen her get "emotional" before.  At least Connor was here to help, to be the one to yell, "I want him to live."  Christ.

"I'll be just outside," Connor said to Cassandra, then went to stand in the hall.

Cassandra wasn't waiting anymore.  "Why did you lie to me?" she asked, advancing on him.

"What do you mean?" Duncan said, confused, wondering why she hadn't brought up Methos.

"In the hotel room.  In Bordeaux.  About the credit card."  Her sweet-voiced reminders were venomous.  "Remember?"

Ah.  That.  "I didn't want you following me when I went to see Methos."

She nodded, seeming to accept that, but her clear-cut words were still sharp.  "You told me you would 'be right back,' when you _knew_ you were going to meet him.  You knew you were going to be gone for at least an hour."

Well, yeah.  He had.  It had seemed like the thing to say at the time.

"You left me alone," Cassandra continued, "waiting for you, expecting you."

"You've been alone before," Duncan pointed out.  She was over three thousand years old; it wasn't like she needed a bodyguard.

"I've _always_ been alone," Cassandra said fiercely.  "This time, I thought I was with someone I could depend on.  Someone I could trust."  She looked him up and down, a quick flick of dismissal.  "I should have known better."

Duncan winced at that, remembering what she had said to him after one of her nightmares, while he had held her in his arms to comfort her.  "I don't usually trust people, Duncan, but with you ... it's different.  I feel I can trust you."

"You can," he had told her, and he had meant it.  She had believed him.  She had trusted him.

"I admit I was foolish," she was saying now, resigned, even reasonable.  "When I felt an Immortal coming, I opened the door, because I thought it was you.  I was expecting you to be right back."  She shook her head, confused, almost plaintive.  "But you lied to me."

"Cassandra, I'm sorry," Duncan said, trying to make it up to her.  "It was a stupid thing for me to say."  He cast about for a reason, some explanation, remembering that cryptic phone call from Methos, that sense of frantic urgency.  "I was in a hurry."

"They weren't."  She looked away, blinking a little, trying not to cry, then met his eyes squarely.  "They took their time about it.  Every single time.  In the hotel room.  In the submarine bunker.  That night.  The next day."

Oh, Christ, Duncan thought in dismay.  Not again.  She shouldn't have had to go through that again.  He'd suspected as much with Kronos, but he hadn't thought about Silas and Caspian, too.  And maybe ...  Duncan swallowed hard, but he had to ask. "Methos didn't ...?"

"No."

No.  Methos wouldn't have.  Methos had changed.  He wasn't like that anymore.  Duncan let out his breath slowly in relief.

Cassandra added, her voice flat, "He watched."

Shit.

"Still, what does that matter?" she said, cheerfully brittle, then repeated his own earlier words and tone.  "I've been raped before."

Duncan closed his eyes briefly, then reached out to her, tried to comfort her.

She slapped his hand away, then took a deep breath before speaking.  "Duncan, I know that even if I hadn't been expecting you to come back, I wouldn't have been able to fight off all three of them.  They would have taken me anyway.  I don't blame you for that; I know it's not your fault."

Little comfort there, even though they both knew she was right.

Cassandra went on.  "And I know that I was irrational then.  I understand that you didn't trust me to do the smart thing, the cautious thing, and so you lied to me about meeting Methos. I know why you lied, and if I had been in your place, I would probably have come up with some lie, too."

Duncan didn't take much comfort from that, either.

"But I do have a question for you," Cassandra said, her voice tight.

Another oral examination, a single essay question--all or nothing.  Pass or Fail.  And Duncan suddenly remembered that Connor was still standing in the hallway, listening to it all.  Shit.

"Do you always trust Richie to do the smart thing?" Cassandra asked.  "To be cautious?  To do what you tell him and not get into trouble?

Duncan almost smiled at that.  Richie was nearly always not listening.  "No."

"And you know that about him, and you make allowances for it, don't you?  When you lie to him to protect him, you do it carefully, don't you?"

"Yes," Duncan agreed.  Richie was--had been--his student, and it was Duncan's job to take care of him.

"Would you give Richie misleading information that could cost him his head?"

"Not deliberately, no."  He hadn't deliberately given Cassandra misleading information, either.  It had just ... come out.  "I didn't--"

"Or Methos?" she cut in.

"No, but--"

"Or Connor?"

Duncan simply shook his head, deciding to let her have her say now.  He'd learned that lesson during their week together.

"Tell me, Duncan," Cassandra said, clear and precise, "when you were a soldier standing guard-duty in the face of superior enemy forces, did you ever leave your post after lying to your comrades about when you'd be back?"

"No," Duncan admitted gruffly, remembering the time he'd reamed out a private for doing just that.  The damn fool had gotten another soldier to stand guard "for just a minute" then he'd hidden himself and taken a nap.  Half the platoon had gone almost all the way to the enemy lines looking for him, thinking he'd been captured or killed.  The enemy hadn't killed him, but his own side almost had when they'd found him safe and warm, sound asleep beneath a tree.

"And if you're talking to a stranger on the street," she demanded, "and you sense an Immortal approaching, do you take the time to at least try to get the stranger to safety?  Or to warn them somehow?"

Duncan had no choice but to nod.  He always tried to protect others, if possible.  It had been possible with Cassandra; he could have taken a minute more and come up with a better excuse.  He could have told her he was going to meet Joe and she couldn't come; he could have ditched her some other way.  God knows he'd had enough practice in lying over the years.

"No doubt you'd take precautions for a dog, too," she observed.  "But not me.  You'd take the time to warn a stranger, and you wouldn't lie like that to Methos, or to Richie, or to Connor, or to a comrade-in-arms, but me?"  She shrugged in resigned bitterness.  "I should have expected it.  Methos is your friend.  I'm just a woman, and there are plenty of those."

"Cassandra, it's not like that!" Duncan protested, stung into responding.  "I just didn't think."

"That's exactly it, Duncan," she contradicted.  "To you, I'm nothing.  I'm not even worth the effort of thinking up a decent lie."

Oh, now, this was ridiculous.  Duncan shook his head.  "Cassandra--"

"Even Kronos and Roland lied to me better than that," she interrupted.  "Methos certainly lied to me better than that."

"You're not being--"

"Not being _what_?" she demanded, cutting him off yet again. "I was certainly stupid enough to trust Methos three thousand years ago, and I was stupid enough to trust you in Bordeaux."  Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but Cassandra was still on a roll.  "But not again," she said in cold determination.  "Not you, not any man."  She turned on her heel and stormed off, snatching her coat up on the way, leaving Duncan alone in the middle of the room.

So much for "working it out" now.  Duncan knew there was no reasoning with her when she was angry.  He'd catch up to her later, after she'd calmed down.

Connor came in and went straight past him to hang the two swords on the wall.  Duncan's katana was still on the floor in the hall.  As Connor walked by again, Duncan started to explain, "Connor, I--"

Connor stopped and gave him one flat, cold look--a look of disappointment, disapproval, and disgust, all in one.  Duncan dropped his gaze, and Connor walked away.

Final grade--F.
 
 

Duncan followed Connor down the stairs, then watched from the doorway of the stable as Connor caught up to Cassandra outside.  The pair of them walked for a few minutes, then Connor took off running and Cassandra followed, down the thin strip of road that gleamed in the bright moonlight.

This made the fourth time Connor had gone after Cassandra in the last eight hours.  Duncan had never seen Connor this patient with another Immortal before, and he had never seen him this protective, except with his wife and his son.  And now Cassandra.

Why?

Duncan went back inside the barn and started cleaning out a stall.  He was going to stay here until they got back.  It was his turn to talk to Cassandra--alone.  And then he was going to talk to Connor, and he was going to get some answers.

Nearly an hour later, his stomach tightened with the approach of an Immortal, or in this case, two Immortals.  Duncan went outside in time to see the end of a race, as Connor put on a final burst of speed and beat Cassandra to the fence.  The two of them started jogging side-by-side, and Duncan waited for them by the barn.

"Cassandra and I are going to talk," Duncan told Connor.  "Alone."

Connor didn't bother to answer him, but turned instead to Cassandra.  She said, "It'll be all right, Connor.  I can do this now."  Then she whispered, "Thank you."

Connor nodded and gave her another subtle Connor-smile of approval.  No approval was left for Duncan.  "Don't do anything that will scare the horses," he warned, then he headed for the house.

Duncan counted to ten, then counted to ten again while he waited for Connor to go into the house and for his own temper to subside.  "It's cold out," Duncan said to Cassandra.  "Should we go back upstairs to the exercise room?"

"No."

"Then let's walk," he suggested, and they walked together alongside the fence.  Frozen grass crunched underfoot.  "Cassandra," Duncan began, feeling his way, trying to explain again, "in Bordeaux, there was so much going on, I just didn't ..."

"... think," she finished for him.

That was about it.  Duncan nodded reluctantly.

"I wasn't thinking much then, either," she said, sounding embarrassed herself.

"I didn't mean to betray your trust that way," he told her.

"I know," she said, her voice soft, looking up at him.  Then she shoved her hands in her pockets and started to walk faster.  After a few moments, she said, "I'm sorry, Duncan."

Duncan relaxed.  At least she wasn't furious at him anymore.  She'd just needed some time to calm down.

"I shouldn't have taken it out on you like that," Cassandra admitted.  "I know how easy it is to say things you regret later."

"Or do things," Duncan added.

"Or not do things," she retorted, angry and vicious once again.

Duncan stopped.  He should have known it wouldn't be that simple.  "Cassandra ..."

She stopped, too.  "You lied to me!"

"Yes," Duncan agreed.  "And I've told you why."

"Not just then," she spat at him.  "Not just with words.  In bed when--"

In _bed_?  What the hell was she talking about?

She seemed about to cry again, but her words came fast and furious.  "You lied every time you listened to me, every time you held me when I cried, every time you pretended that you cared."

Duncan just shook his head, trying to figure out what she meant by all that.  "I wasn't pretending."

"You pretended all that time," Cassandra contradicted him flatly, "and then you walked away.  You walked away and left me, and then Kronos--"

Her words stopped, but he knew by the haunted look on her face that she was remembering.  She shuddered and turned away, and Duncan reached out to her, laying his hand on her shoulder.

She spun around and knocked his hand from her, even as her other hand came up to slap him hard in the face.

Duncan hadn't been expecting _that_.  But maybe he should have been.

"You lied to me!" she cried out, anguish and hate in every word, and she started to hit him again.

He stopped her this time, an easy block.  "Are you talking about me, Cassandra?" he asked, keeping his voice calm, yet still ready to defend himself.  "Or are you talking about Methos?"  He waited until some of the rage left her eyes, then he added slowly, trying to get through to her, "Cassandra, I am not Methos."

She blinked and looked at him, really looked at him, and Duncan continued, soft and soothing, "I lied to you once, yes, but I never betrayed you, never abandoned you." Methos had done those things to her, those things and many more.

Cassandra closed her eyes as she lowered her arm, and now the anguish of fury had become the anguish of shame.  "Oh, Duncan," she whispered.  "I'm sorry.  I didn't ..."  She pulled her arm from him, and then she walked away.

Duncan rubbed his cheek thoughtfully where Cassandra had hit him, though the pain was already gone.  No wonder Connor had taken the swords out of the room.  Cassandra wasn't just emotional; she was blind with rage.  Most of it was anger at Methos, but some of it was still anger at him, and Duncan finally knew why.

She had huddled on the ground next to the fence, and Duncan joined her there.  "I wasn't pretending when I told you that I cared, Cassandra," he said softly.  "And I wasn't pretending on that night we spent together--that night we made love."

She shook her head.  "How many nights of passion have you had, Duncan?  How many women?"  She wiped at her cheek with her hand then asked, "Can you even remember their names?"

"Cassandra, I remembered you for almost four hundred years."

"Because I told you to!" she burst out, standing up and taking two step away, then whirling to face him again.  "I used the Voice on you when you were thirteen, to make sure you would remember the Witch of Donan Woods, because I knew I would need to use you to kill Roland for me."

He had wondered if she had used the Voice on him then, had suspected as much.  It was not a pleasant feeling.  Neither was being used, no matter who did it--Methos or Cassandra.

"I'm sorry, Duncan," she began, "but ... I didn't have a choice.  The prophecy said--"

"Yeah," he broke in, not wanting to hear it again.

"But that's done with, and Donan Woods is gone now," Cassandra said.  "The Witch you remembered all those years was a dream, a fantasy.  She wasn't a person, Duncan.  She wasn't real."

"She looked real enough to me," Duncan said, smiling, remembering very well what Cassandra had looked like, bathing naked in the pool.

She stopped at that, then smiled a little herself.  "And you looked."

"Just making sure," he said, his smile becoming a grin, then added more seriously, "Have I been a real person to you, Cassandra?  Or am I just 'the Highland Foundling'?  The fulfillment of the Prophecy?"

"At first," she admitted reluctantly.  "I wanted to get to know you better, but Roland came so soon, and then that night ..."

That night they had made love, that night she thought meant nothing to him.  "We're Immortal," Duncan said, hoping to convince her she was wrong, "but sometimes a night is all the time we have.  That doesn't make it any less real, or any less meaningful.  It doesn't mean we don't care."

"I know," she said softly.  "And that night, it was enough.  But during the week we spent together hunting the Horsemen, I thought we had become real people to each other, become more than the Witch and the Foundling.  I thought we were friends."

"We are," he said in surprise.

"Are we?" she challenged him, not angry now, just cool and disbelieving.  "Methos is your friend.  I'm only a convenient companion."

Duncan almost laughed at that.  "You have _never_ been convenient."

"No," she agreed, actually smiling a little.  "I suppose not."  Her smile faded, and she started walking again.  Duncan kept walking next to her, giving her the chance to talk.  It took her a few moments before the next words came, flat and cold and unfeeling, hiding all the feeling beneath.  "But that's all I was to him, you know, a convenience."

The bitterness still came through easily enough, and Duncan couldn't really blame her.  She had been a convenience, a thing, a slave, to be used and shared and discarded, with no more thought than a day-old newspaper.  Methos said he had regrets now, and maybe he had even had regrets three thousand years ago, but he had still handed Cassandra over to Kronos.  Cassandra believed she had meant nothing to Methos, that he hadn't even cared, that everything between them had been a lie.

And in Bordeaux, Duncan had lied to her and walked away from her, and Kronos had come once more, repeating that nightmare.

Cassandra added still flat, still resigned, "He and Kronos were friends, and I was nothing."

"It was a long time ago, Cassandra," Duncan tried to console her.

"That's not the only time it's happened, Duncan!  It happens over and over again--Kronos and Methos, my second husband and his friends, Ramirez and his students, Connor and you, Methos and you.  Every single time, the men are brothers or friends, and every single time, I get thrown away."

"Connor and me?" Duncan repeated in surprise.  "Are you saying Connor chose me over you?"  Cassandra darted a glance at him then stared at the ground.  "How?" Duncan demanded and added more harshly, "When?"

"When you were his student," she finally admitted, her voice low.

But Connor and he had been together almost all of the time during those nine years in the Highlands, except ... except for Connor's visit to Aberdeen in the spring of 1630.  Duncan nodded slowly, finally starting to understand.  "Did you want Connor to leave me?"

"No!" she protested immediately, and then again more quietly, "No.  We disagreed on training methods.  I wanted Connor to use the old-fashioned methods, the kind I was used to, and he didn't and ..."

"And?" Duncan prompted.

"And we argued about that, and he left me to go back to be with you, and then--"

And then _what_? Duncan wondered, but Cassandra had gone resigned and flat again.

"You're right, Duncan.  It was a long time ago.  I just ... I've given up asking men to care, or expecting them to care."

"I care," he told her firmly.

"I wish I could believe that, Duncan," she said sadly.  "I wish I could believe you."

Duncan winced, but he couldn't blame her now, either.  Trust shattered easily, and always the cracks remained.

"I haven't trusted anyone for centuries," she said.  "But with you, I thought, 'Finally, here's a man who cares about me.  Here's a man I can trust.'  And then you lied to me, and you went to be with _him._"

Duncan closed his eyes in dismay, seeing now how deeply his unplanned lie had hurt her, how fragile her self-esteem was.

"But I know why you left," she said hopelessly.  "I'm nothing.  I mean nothing.  I'm worth nothing.  Not even to you."  She was crying now, but she didn't even seem to realize it.

"Cassandra," he said earnestly, taking her hand in his own, "that's not true.  You aren't nothing.  I do care."

"Really?" she asked, raising her tear-stained face to his, like a child looking for love.

"Really," he told her.  "I wasn't choosing Methos over you.  Both of you are my friends, and I wanted both of you to live.  It wasn't easy, you know."

"No," she agreed immediately.  "It wasn't."

Duncan wiped her tears away with his thumb.  "I'm sorry, Cassandra."

"I'm sorry, too," she whispered, and Duncan took her in his arms.
 
 
 

Connor stamped his feet and tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, trying to stay warm.  At least the wind wasn't too bad in the shelter of the garden wall.  Duncan and Cassandra didn't seem cold, over there near the pasture fence, even though they had been talking for almost fifteen minutes now.  Of course, slapping somebody across the face--and getting slapped across the face--did tend to keep the blood moving.  Connor remembered.

She'd hit Duncan only once, though, before she'd walked away, and now she was actually letting Duncan touch her, even hugging him.  Connor turned and headed for the kitchen.  He had stayed only to make sure she didn't try to kill Duncan; he didn't need to watch this.

Alex was reading at the kitchen table when Connor came inside.  "Are Cassandra and Duncan still outside?" she asked as she took off her glasses.  "Have they finished 'working things out'?"

"Oh, yeah," Connor murmured as he hung up his coat, then he turned to his wife.  "They'll be fine."

"That was quick," she commented.

Connor shrugged.  Duncan had always been quick with the ladies.  "They don't have the same kind of history she and I did," Connor said as he sat next to Alex at the table.

"I should hope not," Alex said, then she closed her book and looked at him.

Connor recognized that stare.  It was the wifely equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition.  "What?" he demanded.

"I'm wondering if you and Cassandra have finished working things out."

"We're fine," he said levelly, and they were.  He was sure of that.  God knows they'd spent enough time at it.  Alex nodded slowly, which of course was the wifely equivalent of "If you say so, but I don't believe it."  Connor debated arguing with her and decided now was not the best time.  It was late, they were tired, and she was eight months pregnant with twins.  Besides, he had a few things to discuss with his former student tomorrow, and Connor wanted to save his energy.  "Ready for bed?" he asked Alex.

"Not quite," she said.  "I was going to say goodnight to Cassandra and Duncan, make sure they got settled for the night."

"They've both been here before," Connor told her.  He was sure they wouldn't need any help getting settled.  The two of them would manage just fine.  It was for the best, really.  Cassandra needed someone to hold her, someone to help her heal.  Duncan was just the man to do it.  "Come to bed," Connor urged, taking Alex's hand.

"In a few minutes," Alex said, as voices sounded outside the door.  "They'll be coming in now."

Connor nodded and went upstairs.  He didn't need to watch this, either.

~~~~~

The next morning, Connor finished helping John with the horses, then went upstairs with a basket of clean laundry.  Alex was waiting for him in their bedroom.  "What is going on, Connor?" she asked.  When he shrugged and simply continued to put his socks in his dresser, she persisted.  "Cassandra was angry with Duncan yesterday, and now you're angry with him.  You didn't stay to see him last night, and you got up and left when he and Cassandra came into the kitchen this morning."

Cassandra and Duncan had entered the kitchen arm-in-arm, smiling, obviously refreshed from their night together.

Connor didn't mind that.  It was for the best, and Cassandra deserved some happiness, some pleasure.  Connor knew she hadn't gotten much of either when she'd been with him, after all.  But if Duncan thought everything was just wonderful, if Duncan thought he was going to get away with that crap he'd pulled in Bordeaux, if Duncan thought Connor didn't have something to say about this asshole Methos that Duncan called "friend," then Duncan was seriously mistaken.  Cassandra might be susceptible enough to Duncan's charm to forgive him after some sweet talk and a hug, but Connor sure as hell wasn't.

"What did Duncan do?" Alex asked.

Connor sighed and opened the drawer for his pants.  "It's complicated."

"Today's his birthday, Connor," Alex pointed out.

Happy goddamned birthday.

"Duncan asked me if I thought he should leave," Alex added.

Cassandra had asked Connor the same thing last night.  Maybe he should just tell everybody to get the hell out of his house and get it over with.  Connor slammed the drawer shut.

"Connor ..."

"I'll talk to him, OK?"

Alex nodded, seeming satisfied, if not exactly relieved.  "You need to."

~~~~~

He needed to, but he didn't want to.  Connor put it off for another hour, then went to the exercise room above the stable.  Duncan was there, shirtless even in the chill winter air, his skin gleaming with sweat as he fought an imaginary opponent in a sword kata.  Duncan looked good.  Duncan always looked good.

Connor watched for a moment more then commented, "That's a new one."

Duncan executed a sweeping counter, blade held high, then said, "An old one, actually."  He pivoted, feinted, and slashed.  "Methos taught it to me."

Of course he had.

"I'll teach it to you," Duncan offered.

"I don't think so."  Connor watched as Duncan whirled and kicked high, then landed lightly and spun again, back to his original direction, his sword at the ready.  Connor went to the corner and took his jump-rope off its peg on the wall.  Tommy Malone had taught him to box and how to jump rope about 150 years ago, and he could still hear the wiry Irishman's voice.  "Pick your damn feet up, you sodden Scot. Pretend you're stepping over sheep shit."

Connor picked his feet up.  After a minute or so, he had his rhythm down, and he started crossing hands.  After another minute, Duncan stopped doing his kata and came over to watch.  Connor kept jumping rope.

Duncan went back to do another kata.

Connor jumped rope.

When Duncan was halfway through his third kata, Connor set down the rope and went over to the weight machine.  Bench presses would be good.  He was into his second set of reps when Duncan finally put his sword away, pulled on a shirt, and joined him.  The two men lifted weights in silence for about ten minutes, then Connor suggested, "Want to go running?"

Duncan stopped with the barbell at chest height, looking at him like he'd lost his mind.  "No."

Of course not.  Duncan knew damn well what that "running" would be like right now.  Connor sat on the bench to do some bicep curls.

Duncan set down the barbell with a decided clang, then suggested pointedly, "Want to spar?"

Connor froze for an instant, then shook his head.  He knew damn well he'd better not spar with Duncan, not now.  Duncan knew it, too.  None better.  He curled the weight slowly and smoothly to his shoulder, then back down.

Duncan sat on a stool and watched him.  When Connor was on his eighth rep, Duncan said casually, "Guess we'd better talk."

That was probably a good idea.  That was why he was here, after all.  Alex had suggested it; Duncan had suggested it ... yeah, it was a good idea.  Connor did a few more bicep curls.

Duncan shot to his feet and started to pace between the punching bag and exercise bike.  "Just say it, Connor!"

Connor set down the weight and looked at him.  He wanted Duncan to say it.

Duncan obliged.  "It was stupid.  It was careless.  It was--"

"It was inexcusable," Connor cut in.

"Cassandra excused it," Duncan said, facing him now, offering his own excuse.

"She shouldn't have," Connor told him, then watched the small repeated flexing in Duncan's jaw.  Duncan really shouldn't grind his teeth that way.

"That's none of your business, Connor," Duncan said with icy control.

"I'm making it my business."

"Why?" Duncan demanded.  "What is she to you?"

Connor didn't have an easy answer for that question.  Cassandra had been many things to him--teacher, killer, lover, user.  He had hated her for centuries, but now she was his friend.

Duncan said calmly, "She and I have worked it out between us; it's over."

"I don't think so."

"You're not my teacher anymore, Connor."

Connor snorted in disgust.  "Yeah.  Looks like you gave that job to Methos."

"He's not my teacher, either."

"No?"  Connor's snort was one of disbelief now.  "You must be learning this kind of crap from him, because you sure as hell never learned it from me."  He stood and stepped closer.  Duncan didn't retreat.  "What else is he going to teach you, Duncan?" Connor demanded.  "How to stand by and _watch_?"

"Connor, he--"

"Do you have any idea what he did to her?" Connor interrupted.

"He told me," Duncan answered, still grinding his teeth.

"Did he?" Connor said softly.  "All of it?  Did he tell you that he used to break her fingers?  One after the other, giving each finger time to heal before he broke the next one?  First one hand, then the other, then back again?"

Duncan swallowed hard, looking sick.  Connor felt the same way.  Yesterday, while he and Duncan had been out riding, Cassandra had been breaking her own fingers, slamming them into a wall.  First one hand, then the other, over and over again, for nearly two hours.  Jesus!

"Did he tell you _that_? Connor asked, still soft-voiced.

"No."

"No."  That wasn't a surprise.  This Methos fellow seemed to know just how to string Duncan along.  Duncan had trusted too easily centuries ago, and he still trusted too easily.  Connor was going to take care of that right now.  "After he broke her fingers," Connor told him, "Methos would order her to touch him, to ..."  Connor couldn't even say it.  He turned and slammed his own fist into the wall.

"He's not like that anymore," Duncan stated, but he didn't sound so sure now.

"Oh, yeah," Connor agreed viciously.  "Now he likes to watch other people do it."

Duncan's jaw tightened again, but he still came to the defense of his friend.  "You weren't there, Connor.  You don't know--"

"I didn't need to be there!" Connor yelled.  "I still know he's a murdering, selfish bastard!"  Duncan just stood there, shaking his head slightly, obstinate and pig-headed as always.  Connor took a deep breath, knowing he needed to convince Duncan of the danger.  "How can you be so blind, Duncan?  All the Horsemen were over three thousand years old, and you eliminated two of them for him.  He's using you to wipe out his competition."

"The same way Cassandra used me to wipe out Roland?"

Duncan's bitter words brought Connor up short, but then he came to the defense of his friend.  "She didn't think she had a choice, Duncan," he said quietly, then he went to look out the window.  The horses were standing in the far pasture, and Alex and Cassandra were walking beside the fence, chattering away, as usual.

Connor turned back to Duncan.  "I think she was wrong, Duncan, and I don't approve of what she did, but she had her reasons."

"And maybe Methos had his reasons," Duncan said.

"Like the Prize?"  That brought Duncan up short, and Connor let him think about that for a minute, hoping Duncan would come to his senses.

He didn't.  Duncan shook his head.  "It wasn't about that."

"It's always about that!" Connor contradicted.  "There can be Only One.  You may have forgotten that, but you can bet Methos hasn't."

"Has Cassandra?" Duncan retorted.  "How do you know she's not just using me--using both of us--to get it?  You tell me I shouldn't trust Methos," Duncan said then demanded, "so why do you trust Cassandra?"

Connor didn't have an easy answer for that question, either, and he didn't want to give Duncan the hard one.  "I know her."

"Fine," Duncan bit out.  "And I know Methos.  Let's just leave it at that, OK?"  Duncan turned to go.

They weren't finished yet.  Connor reached out and grabbed him by the arm.

Duncan turned and shook him off with an oath.  "_What_?"

"Cassandra."

Duncan let his breath out in a slow sigh.  "What about her?"

"She trusted you, and she doesn't trust easily, not after what Methos did to her, not after--"  Connor stopped abruptly.  Best not to go there.  Duncan didn't need to know.  "She believed in you," Connor continued, "and you walked out on her."

"You have no idea what it was like!" Duncan exclaimed.  "You weren't even there!"

"God damn it, I know I wasn't there!" Connor exploded.  "You don't have to keep telling me that!"  Duncan stepped back a bit, looking him over carefully, and Connor stopped, suddenly aware of just how close to the edge he was.  Duncan knew it, too.  Shit.  This was not going well.

"You said Roland found her and asked her questions about me," Duncan said, his tone deceptively even.  "When was that, Connor?"

Connor turned to look out the window again.  The horses were still near the fence, but the women must have gone inside the house.

"Damn it, Connor!"  Duncan took him by the shoulder and pulled him around.  "When?"

Connor shook off Duncan's hand then reluctantly replied.  "In 1630."

Duncan was nodding slowly.  "The same year the two of you argued about me."

"She told you?"

Duncan lifted one eyebrow.  "Is there some reason she shouldn't have?"

Yeah.  A hell of a lot of reasons.

Duncan explained, "She told me you argued about training methods, and then you left her to go back to me."

Connor snorted to himself.  The truth, as only Cassandra could tell it.  They had argued all right, but it hadn't been only about training methods, and he hadn't just "left."  That had been the day he had realized that she had been using him for decades, lying to him since the beginning.

"Roland found her then, didn't he?" Duncan said, figuring out the answers on his own.  "Right after you left?"

"Yeah," Connor muttered.  Roland had found her that night and tortured her, trying to get information about the Highland Foundling, and information about her lover.  Cassandra had told Roland nothing; she had protected Duncan and Connor with her body and with her life for three days and three nights, over and over again.

"The same way Kronos found her, right after I left her," Duncan said, nodding again, then he ran his hand through his hair and looked back at Connor.  "This isn't even about me abandoning her, or about Methos handing her over, is it, Connor?  It's about you."

And it was.  Connor saw that now, but so did Duncan.

"You didn't protect her, either," Duncan accused.

"I didn't even know!" Connor burst out.  "I wasn't there!"  And even if he had been there, he wouldn't have done anything to stop it.  He had barely stopped himself from killing Cassandra that day; he wouldn't have minded at all that Roland was raping her and torturing her to death.  Hell, he might even have watched.

Oh, Jesus fucking Christ!  Connor shoved his way past Duncan and out of the room.  It wasn't about Methos or Duncan betraying her trust, or about Roland or Methos being sadistic, torturing bastards.  It was about _him_ betraying her trust, about _him_ ordering her to--

Oh, _God!_

Connor started running before he was out the stable door, and then he just kept going.
 
 
 
 

Duncan slammed his fist into the punching bag after Connor took off down the stairs.  It helped, but not enough, so he kept hitting it.  His happy Christmas with the family wasn't turning out so well.

Fighting with Connor was never pleasant, though also not unexpected.  But this ... Duncan felt as if he were trapped in Tornado Alley, with twisters touching down every few hours and leaving only blasted wreckage behind.  First Cassandra walked out on him, then Connor grilled him, then Cassandra again, and now Connor had really lost control.

Duncan started hitting the bag with both fists at the same time.

John came upstairs and watched for a moment.  "Where's my dad?"

Duncan held onto the bag, breathing hard.  "He went running."

"Again?" John said in surprise.  "We already went running this morning, before you and Cassandra got out of bed."

Duncan hadn't gotten "out of bed" with Cassandra.  When he had put his arms around her last night, she had stiffened and pulled away.  "I can't," she had whispered, almost pleading.  "I don't want anyone to touch me, not that way, not any way."

Duncan could well imagine why.  She had spent nearly a day and a half in the submarine base, and Kronos had probably indulged himself at every opportunity, not to mention the three of the Horsemen taking turns in the hotel room.  And even before that, she hadn't wanted Duncan to touch her.  He'd held her sometimes, after her nightmares, but the passionate woman he remembered from that one night last summer was gone.  Duncan didn't want to get into that topic with John, so he shrugged and changed the subject.  "Want me to teach you a kata?"

"Yeah!" John agreed, moving to the center of the room.  Duncan joined him there, and the two went through the karate form several times.

"Dad's mad at you, isn't he?" John asked when they stopped to get a drink of water.

"Seems like it," Duncan admitted.

"He's kind of scary when he's mad."

Duncan nodded, noting that John had inherited his father's gift for understatement.

"Why do you and Dad fight so much?" John asked.  "Every time you come here, it seems like you two get mad at each other about something."

Duncan really didn't want to get into that, either.  "Arguing is one of our hobbies, and your father is a man of strong convictions."

"You mean he thinks he's always right."

Duncan laughed aloud.  John was growing up in a lot of ways.  "Yeah," Duncan agreed, "but usually he is right, and he will admit it when he's wrong."

"I've never heard him do that," John protested.

"You're young yet," Duncan said.  "It only happens every decade or so."  He slapped his hands on his knees and stood.  "So, have you learned any new katas?"

"Yeah!" John said, getting to his feet.  "Sensei's been teaching us some hatsukuru katas, the white crane style."

"Show me," Duncan said, and they went back to the center of the room.

~~~~~

"That's enough for now, John," Duncan said about an hour later, when he felt the approach of an Immortal.

"I'm ready for lunch," John said, heading for the stairs.  "You coming?"

"I'll be there later," Duncan told him, then he put on his coat and went to meet Connor outside near the wood pile.  Connor was carefully adjusting the wedge in a log, then he delivered a blow that split the wood almost completely in two.

"Run far?" Duncan asked.

"Not far enough," Connor replied and hammered the wedge again.  It fell ringing to the ground as the wood split open with a ripping sound.  Connor set up another log.  "You were right, Duncan," Connor admitted, not looking at Duncan as he tapped the wedge into place.  "What's between you and Cassandra--that's your business."

Duncan almost wished he hadn't sent John away.  It might be another ten years before Connor admitted he was wrong again.

Connor took three blows to split this log, then he set the sledge down and leaned on the handle, gazing at the hills.  "But you should know that Cassandra's been through a lot," Connor said, "and not just with the Horsemen.  She's fragile right now."

Duncan nodded, for he had seen some of that fragility--that brittleness--last night.

"She needs taking care of," Connor said, finally looking at Duncan, asking him, without actually saying the words, to care for Cassandra in a way that Connor could not, not when he had a family--a wife--of his own.

"I will," Duncan said, accepting this responsibility, as he had accepted the responsibility for the pre-Immortal Richie, over four years ago.  But Richie had been a stranger to them both, while Cassandra had been Connor's teacher and his lover.  Now she was Connor's friend, and he was placing her in Duncan's hands.

"I'll take care of her," Duncan pledged.  He and Cassandra were friends, too, and when she was ready, they could be lovers again.  But Duncan needed to know more about Connor and Cassandra.  "So, have the two of you talked about what happened?  With Roland?"

"This summer."  Connor leaned the sledge against the chopping block, then sat on an old wooden bench. "She said it wasn't my fault."

"Same thing she told me about Bordeaux," Duncan said, sitting next to Connor.  "She's right, you know."

"I know."

Duncan picked up a wood chip and tossed it toward the pile.  "Doesn't help, does it?"

Connor picked up another chip and tossed it from hand to hand.  "Not enough," he said finally.

"If you're ready to talk, I'm ready to listen," Duncan offered, as he had offered six months before.  Connor said nothing, but he didn't walk away, either, so Duncan prompted, "You were really angry with her, weren't you?"

"Yeah," Connor admitted, his voice rough.

"And not just about training me," Duncan stated.  Anger over that wouldn't have lasted nearly four hundred years.  It wouldn't have made Connor lose control and then go running for an hour.

Connor stared out at the hills again.  "I found out she'd been lying to me.  About a lot of things, and in a lot of ways."

The wood chip snapped between Connor's fingers, and Duncan thought of the many different ways a lover could betray, of how deep those wounds could go.

"I told her I'd kill her if she ever came near me again.  And then I told her I'd take her head."  Connor broke each piece of wood in half.  "That was the last time I saw her, until this spring when she came to tell me about the Dark Quickening, and about the Prophecy."  Connor tossed the wood pieces toward the pile then added, "And about you."

"So, this summer when she was with you in Edinburgh, and you two talked ...?" Duncan prompted again, wondering when--and why--Cassandra had tried to take Connor's head.

Connor shrugged.  "She explained why she had lied, and she apologized.  I didn't like it, but at least I finally knew why."

Duncan waited, but Connor was done talking.  He stood and split another log, then handed the sledge to Duncan and went to stack the wood.  "About Methos," Connor began, and Duncan sighed as he hefted the sledge.

"Yeah?" Duncan asked then swung a mighty blow.  The wood split wide.

"I hope you're right about him," Connor said quietly.  "About him having changed."  He looked up from the woodpile.  "I don't want to have to write 'He's not like that anymore' on your tombstone."

"You won't," Duncan said and hit the wedge again, but the head of the sledge stuck fast in the cracks in the log, and Duncan had to wrestle it free.  He paused, balancing the sledge in his hands, wanting--hoping--for Methos and Connor to be friends, someday.  "After what happened with his brothers ... well, Cassandra's not the only one who's feeling 'fragile' right now."

Connor nodded, then came over and laid a hand on Duncan's shoulder.  "Hey, Duncan, be careful, OK?  You're the only one left from 'the old neighborhood.'  I don't want to lose you."

"I'm always careful," Duncan told him, reaching out to grasp Connor's arm.  "It's one of the first things you taught me.  Remember, Teagasgair?" Duncan said, naming him as teacher once again.

"I remember, Brathair," Connor answered, calling him brother--and equal--and pulling him into an embrace.  "Happy birthday, Duncan."

~~~~~

After lunch, Duncan went to the sitting room of the guest suite, and Cassandra set down her book and stood to greet him as she asked, "Did you and Connor ...?"

Duncan nodded, but said only, "We worked it out."  What was between him and Connor was their business, not hers.  He lounged on the arm of the chair near the door and leaned his back against the wall.  Duncan waited until Cassandra started to sit down again before he demanded, "Why did you try to take Connor's head?"

Cassandra settled herself comfortably in the chair without any indication she had heard him at all, then she tossed her hair back from her face with a quick tilt of her head before she answered.  "Which time?"

"Which time?" Duncan repeated incredulously.

Cassandra sighed in exasperation, suddenly reminding Duncan of Richie from a few years ago--a teenager who's been annoyed beyond belief by an irritating parent.  "I went to talk to him in June," Cassandra explained, "but he wouldn't listen to me.  So, I used the Voice and took his sword from him, and I held it to his neck.  He paid attention after that."

No doubt.  Duncan would have, too.

She continued, "Then, when we were practicing swordfighting this summer, he said a few things, and I got angry."

"And you tried to take his head?" Duncan asked, still unbelieving.

She shrugged dismissively.  "I got very angry."  Duncan slid into the chair and leaned toward her, fixing her with a steady gaze until she rolled her eyes and heaved another sigh, then tossed off an explanation for him.  "Last night, I was angry with Methos, and I took it out on you.  This summer, I was angry with Roland, and I took it out on Connor."

"You seem to get angry a lot," Duncan observed dryly.

Cassandra's answer was glacial.  "You have no idea."

"Were you really going to take his head?" Duncan asked again.  Maybe she had only been trying to scare Connor, maybe ...

Her flippancy disappeared, gone into dark memory.  "The second time?  Yes."

Duncan sat back in his chair, shaking his head, wondering how Connor could bring himself to trust this woman at all.

Cassandra leaned toward him now, her eyes earnest, her words pleading.  "I didn't even know it _was_ Connor, Duncan.  At first I did, but then ... I was standing there, with my sword in my hand, and all I saw were his eyes."  Her words slowed as she continued, "Cold eyes, angry eyes, gray eyes just like Roland's eyes ... and he was helpless, kneeling at my feet, and all I had to do was to pull back my arm ..."  She pulled back her arm now, her fingers clenched.  "Just one, simple cut, and I could slice his head off, watch him die the way I'd dreamed of watching him die, dreamed over and over again ..."

Her fist was clenching and unclenching in a steady pulse, while the tip of her tongue traced her lower lip and then her upper, a slow savoring of revenge.  Duncan shuddered at the blood-hunger in her eyes, at the image of Connor on his knees while Cassandra's sword came for his throat, at the memory of Methos on the floor while Cassandra lifted an axe above his head.

Cassandra blinked several times and dropped her hand, then interlaced her fingers on her lap and tucked her feet slightly under the chair, taking the pose of an attentive schoolgirl, an obedient nun.  "Then Connor told me to put the sword down, so I did."

"Just like that?" Duncan asked, disbelieving again.

"As I recall, he had to repeat it a few times," she said, cool and flippant once more.  "I wasn't exactly in the mood to listen."

Duncan wondered if she was ever in the mood to listen.  Cassandra had to be just about the most stubborn, exasperating, annoying woman he had ever met, and that included Amanda.  And not even Amanda had ever forced Connor to his knees, not when swords were involved anyway.  "Why were you so angry with Connor in the first place?" Duncan asked Cassandra.  "What did he say to you?"

Cassandra looked demurely at the floor, her long lashes dark above high cheekbones, her hands still folded quietly in her lap.  "We worked it out," she said simply.

Duncan recognized that line.  He nodded as he stood to leave, and Cassandra nodded in return.  Before he reached the door, Cassandra had already picked up her book and begun reading again.

~~~~~

John and Cassandra made a chocolate birthday cake that afternoon, and after dinner Duncan blew out the candles: four red (for the centuries) and four green (for the years).  John starting cutting the pieces.  "I still wish we had a present here for you to open, Duncan," Alex said, from her place at the foot of the long, oak table in the dining room.

"Just being here is enough, Alex," Duncan said, with a smile for John as he accepted an enormous piece of cake.  "I haven't spent a birthday or a Christmas in the Highlands in a long time."

"I remember your first birthday in the Highlands, Duncan," Cassandra said suddenly.

"You were here in the Highlands, then, weren't you, Cassandra?" asked Alex.

"Yes," Cassandra said, staring across the table at Duncan.  "And I remember seeing Duncan on the day of his birth."

Duncan stopped chewing, the cake gone dry and tasteless.  He swallowed and leaned forward in his chair.  "What?"

"The wind blew fierce on that first day of winter," Cassandra began, her voice dipping into a storyteller's cadence, and Connor stood and turned off the electric lights, leaving only flickers from the fireplace and the pair of white candles on the table.

"I was asleep in my cabin when there came a knock on the door," Cassandra said, speaking softly as they all leaned in to listen. "Young Aileen MacLeod stood there, wrapped in furs and plaids against the cold, for she'd walked for miles through the forest to tell me that Mary MacLeod lay in childbed, with a babe that would not come.  So I gathered my things and I went to the village, but when I came, I knew I came too late, for Mary's baby had died."

And Duncan heard, down through the years, the voice of his father from long ago, <"On the night my lady wife gave birth to our only son stillborn.">  His father's only son, and it had not been him.

"Then Connor came," Cassandra said, and Duncan jerked his head around.  Connor had been there?  Connor?  His kinsman said nothing and would not look his way, so Duncan listened again to the tale.

"In his arms he held a newborn babe, a child of dark hair and dark eyes, a foundling child who needed a home.  And Connor said he'd found the boy in the shed near my cabin, wrapped in a scrap of tartan against the cold."

Duncan's hand clenched into fists, hidden under the table, for Connor had said nothing, all through the years.

"I took the child to Mary MacLeod," Cassandra said, "and she claimed him for her own."

Duncan blinked back fierce tears as his mother's words came back to him now.  <"You are my son.  I nursed you at my breasts, carried you against my heart, held your hand when you started to walk, watched you as you grew.  You are my son.">  Demon, changeling, foundling--she had called him none of these, for he was her son, and he always would be.

"Her husband Ian named him Donnchadh MacLeoid na clannad MacLeoid," Cassandra continued, "a dark warrior of the sons of Leoid, and so the foundling had a home."

A home, but only for a time.  <"You're not my son,"> Ian MacLeod had declared, and banished Duncan from the clan.  And Ian MacLeod had had no answer for Duncan's plea.  <"Where do I come from?  Where?">  There had been only silence, until now.

"You were the peasant woman who brought the boy child," Duncan said slowly, remembering what else his father had said.

"Yes," Cassandra said.

Duncan didn't really care about that.  "Where did the child come from?" Duncan demanded of Connor, then he leaned forward and glared.  "Where did _I_ come from?"

Connor cleared his throat in a rare nervous gesture, then said quietly, "I don't know where you came from, not really.  I found you in the shed next to Cassandra's cottage when I came back from going to greet the sun at the solstice stones."  He shrugged.  "I thought some village girl had come to the shed and given birth, then abandoned the baby."

That made sense, in a way, but ... Duncan turned on Cassandra.  "Where were you when he was at the solstice stones?"

"In the cottage."

"And you didn't notice anyone about?"

"No," Cassandra said.  "I slept late that morning.  Connor had left while it was still dark, and he didn't get back until close to two, so there were at least five or six hours when the woman could have come and given birth, then left."

So he _still_ couldn't get an answer.  Duncan glared at Connor again. "You found me," he repeated.

"Yes.  I picked you up from where you lay on the straw, wrapped in a bit of cloth."  Connor gave a knowing grin.  "And the first thing you did was piss on me."

John let out a whoop of laughter, and Duncan had to laugh, too.  "Good," Duncan said, when he could finally breathe again.  "I'm glad our relationship got off to a fine start."

"A fine start," Connor agreed, still grinning.  "I bundled you up and carried you to Cassandra.  You cried half the way to the village and bothered the horse."

"At least I don't do that anymore," Duncan said.

"I hope you don't do the other, either," Connor said fervently, and they both laughed again.

"Dad, tomorrow's the solstice, right?" John said eagerly.  "You said I could go with you to the standing stones to see the sunrise after I turned thirteen.  We're going, aren't we?"

"Yes," Connor said, smiling at his son.  "We are.  You coming, Duncan?"

"Absolutely," Duncan said.  "I don't think you and I have climbed that hill on the winter solstice since the 1600s, right?"

"Right."

"Well, I'm not going," Alex announced, patting her stomach.  "Not this year."

"I'll stay here with Alex," Cassandra said, and they finished their cake with talk of the hike to come.  In the wood-paneled hall, Cassandra paused at the foot of the stairs to wish him happy birthday and give him a kiss on the cheek, and Duncan bade her sleep well, hoping she would have no dreams.  They shared a smile, and he watched her as she went to her room in the guest suite.  Her head was held high, her back straight, but her walk seemed almost hesitant, and she put out one hand on the wall to steady herself as she turned the corner.  Duncan shook his head, hoping she would find her way out of that blind, destructive rage that had consumed her these last few months.  And he _still_ needed to talk to her about Methos.  Tomorrow would be good for that.

Duncan went to the living room and found Connor there, adjusting the logs on the fire.

"Drink?" Connor suggested, and they sat in the two comfortable chairs.

"John's growing up," commented Duncan after a few moments.  "He'll be tall."

"Maybe taller than you," Connor noted.  "He's strong too; he's been lifting weights.  And he just got his brown belt in karate."

"Good," said Duncan.  "Do you teach at the dojo?"

"Lately, yes.  Hideyo asked me to help, since Yuki's been busy with their baby.  Keiko's only two months old.  When John's a black-belt, I'll start teaching him at home, show him some other styles."  Connor sipped at his whisky and smiled contentedly.

Duncan's answering smile did not reach his eyes, and his sip of whisky was more of gulp.

"How are things with Richie?" Connor asked.

Duncan took another drink before he answered, aware of Connor's intent gaze.  "Better," he said finally.  "But different."  He shrugged.  "He's growing up, too."

"Why don't you ask him to come here?" Connor said suddenly.  "Spend Christmas with the rest of the family."

"Thanks, Connor," Duncan said, touched to hear Richie included so completely.  "But he's with a girl right now, skiing in the Sierra Nevadas."

"Ah," Connor said, nodding.  "Priorities.  Well, New Year's then."  He grinned wolfishly.  "Let's see if Richie's learned how to drink since my bachelor party.  Ask him to come celebrate Hogmanay with us."

"I will," Duncan said, grinning as he remembered Richie slowly sliding under a table, his bones as liquid as the whisky he'd been tossing back all night.  Connor had shaken his head sadly, then poured himself another drink.  Duncan took another sip of his own drink now, then he asked Connor, "When did you find out you were adopted?"

"My parents told me when I was sixteen.  Cassandra said that I had been found by the woman who was the witch of Donan Woods before her, and the old witch took me to my parents.  I don't think anybody else in the village knew, or I would have heard about it when they threw me out."

"So, you were found by a witch, and I was found by you."

"Found in a manger, wrapped in swaddling clothes," Connor answered, with a quick lift of his glass in Duncan's direction.  "But don't get any ideas."

"Even though my mother's name was Mary?"

"Yeah," Connor warned.  "You're not about to save the world."

"Don't I know it!" Duncan said, laughing, but then the laughter disappeared.  "Why didn't you ever tell me?" he asked.  "About the day I was born?"

Connor shrugged.  "It doesn't answer what you really want to know, does it?  Where you came from?"

"No.  But ..."

"Cassandra asked me not to.  I couldn't have told you that story with telling you about Cassandra, and she didn't want you to know about her."

"Why?"

"Roland," Connor said simply, but at Duncan's raised eyebrows he added, "She was afraid you might say something to someone, or even go looking for her, and then Roland would hunt you down."

Duncan leaned back in his chair and studied his former teacher.  In Seacouver, back in June, Cassandra had said, "You weren't the only one to go wandering in the forest," but Connor hadn't been wandering.  Connor had known exactly where to go in Donan Woods, just like Connor had known when and where to come looking for him.

"She told you," Duncan stated.  "Cassandra told you when I became an Immortal, just like she told Ramirez about you."

At Connor's nod, Duncan said softly, "She was waiting for me even then."  He shook his head in disbelief.  "And she used the Voice on my parents, didn't she?  To get them to accept me?"  Connor nodded again, and Duncan wondered just how much of his parents' love for him had been real, how much coerced.

"What about the midwife?" Duncan asked suddenly, remembering his father's whispered prayer to be forgiven.  The midwife had called the boy-child a changeling, brought by the forest demons, and she had told Ian to cast it out for the dogs.  But Ian had refused and banished the midwife instead.

"Ould Margaret," Connor said and took a swallow of his drink.  "I took her down to the Lowlands, got her settled in a village."

"So that worked out," Duncan said in relief, but Connor shook his head.

"She froze to death in her hut a month or so later, an empty jug of whisky by her side."

Duncan stood abruptly and went to stand by the fire, taking his drink with him.  "Why did my father even banish her?" Duncan asked, for it made no sense.  Banishment had been reserved for crimes like murder and betrayal, and of course, for demons like himself or Connor.  "She did nothing but tell him I was a foundling, that he shouldn't accept me.  He must have known she would probably die, as old as she was, in the middle of winter."

"The Voice, Duncan," Connor said, setting down his whisky and joining him.  "Cassandra had used the Voice on your father.  She told him that you were his son, and that he was to allow no one to tell him any different.  So, when the midwife told him different ..."

"He banished her," Duncan said dully, feeling the weight of that blood-guilt on his birth, even now.

Connor said quietly, "When you revived that first time, Duncan, and your father saw that the midwife had been right and you were a 'changeling,' I think he banished you out of guilt, as well as fear."

Duncan nodded, remembering his father's anguish, but then he slammed his fist against the wall. "I feel like ... like a fly trapped in a spider's web.  Everywhere I look in my life, Cassandra's been waiting, using the Voice, manipulating people.  I don't even know what's real anymore.  Did my father ever love me, or was that just a 'magic spell' that wore off?"  Connor didn't answer, and Duncan turned on him.  "What about you?" he asked harshly.  "Did she order you to take me as a student?"

"She 'encouraged' me," Connor said wryly.

"How do you know?" Duncan demanded.  "How do you know that everything between us isn't just some ... plot?  Some game that we don't even know is being played?"  Like the game Methos had played, using him to defeat the other Horsemen, maybe even from the beginning.  Had Methos planned it all?  Looked up a likely Immortal in the Watcher database, then set out to seduce him with lies of friendship, ensnare him in a web of deceit?  Was Duncan just the last in a possible list of candidates, just one of the latest of Methos's fools?

Duncan hurled his glass into the fireplace, and the flames flared high as the glass shattered against the stone.  "I don't even know what's real anymore," he repeated, staring at the ashes, his anger burned down to despair.

Connor laid a firm hand on his shoulder.  "I found you, before Cassandra even knew you had been born.  I held you in my arms and looked into your eyes, and I wished you were my son."

Duncan looked up at Connor, looked into his kinsman's eyes, and saw there only a steady, confident love.  There had been no ancient prophecy to come between them, no games to be played.  Connor was his kinsman, of the clan of MacLeod, and nothing could ever change that.

"And you are," Connor said simply.  "Son, student, brother, friend."  His grip tightened.  "That's real, Duncan."  Connor pulled him closer into an embrace, a solid bond between them.  "This is real."

And Duncan knew it to be true.
 
 
 
 

In the dark of the next morning, Connor met John and Duncan in the kitchen.  "I'll drive," Connor told Duncan, picking up the keys for the Range Rover.

"Not going to make us walk all the way to Glenfinnan, Connor?" Duncan asked as they walked across the silent, frosted lawn to the garage.  His dark hair was hidden under a furred cap, and the collar of his sheepskin coat was turned up against the chill wind.

"We could start running now, if you want," Connor suggested immediately, but Duncan only shook his head with a laugh and opened the car door.  John climbed into the back, and Connor put the car in gear.  About ten kilometers to the north, they left the car by the side of the road and started to climb.

Nearly two hours later, they reached the top of the hill.  A thin keening wind whipped around them, and on the next hilltop over, upright gray stones showed black against the shimmering pink and gray of the eastern sky.  "When's the sun coming up, Dad?" John asked, pulling his red wool hat down over his ears and huddling into his parka.

"Ten more minutes or so," Connor told him, and John wandered over to a grove of stunted pine trees a little way down the hill.  "Been a while since we were here, hasn't it?" Connor said to Duncan.  "Was it 1629?  Or '30?"

"It was 1630," Duncan answered quickly.  "The first winter you and I spent near Loch Shiel, after we'd gone to Inverness."

Connor nodded and kept staring at the coming dawn.  He knew why Duncan remembered that year.  "Connor," Duncan began, reaching out to him, but Connor turned away, wishing they could both forget.

Late Spring, 1630
The Highlands of Scotland
____________________________________________________

"Get up, Duncan."  Connor nudged his student with the toe of his boot, none too gently.  Duncan had been out late last night, visiting with Janet in the village.  Connor had slept on his sheepskin on the ground at their camp in the woods.  At least it was not cold this time of year, and the rain had not lasted too long.  He did not mind; he had just returned from his trip to Aberdeen two days ago, and he was used to sleeping in the rough.  But apparently the student had gotten into lazy habits while the teacher had been away.  Connor nudged Duncan again, harder this time.  "Get up."

"Mmmph," came the response from under the plaid.  Duncan had unwrapped his breacan and used it as a blanket, and the long piece of cloth covered him completely.

Connor leaned over and yanked the plaid off, revealing the relaxed form of Duncan, all long limbs and lazy grace, clad only in his sark.  Connor could smell the tang of whisky still on him, and fainter whiffs of sweat and sex.  Connor smelled of sweat and whisky, too; he hadn't washed recently, and he had had a drink or two this morning, but he didn't smell of sex.

Duncan rolled over and blinked slowly several times, then pushed his tangled dark hair from his face and smiled at Connor.  "Good day to you," he said, cheery enough now that he was awake.

Connor leaned over again and yanked the sheepskin out from underneath Duncan, dumping him onto the ground.  The ground was not cold, but it was hard, and last year's leaves were wet with the night's rain.

This time there was a muffled, "Oomph," from his student.

Connor dropped the sheepskin and the plaid over Duncan's head.  "Get up."  Connor walked away from Duncan and squatted by the fire, then picked up a bowl and scooped out some porridge from the cooking crock inside the pot of hot water.

Duncan joined him a few minutes later, still twisting his plaid into the proper shape to drape.  He fastened his breacan at his shoulder with an enameled brooch, then leaned over to look in the pot above the fire.  He glanced cautiously at Connor, then said, "There looks to be enough water for both of us to shave."

Connor did not answer.

Duncan asked hesitantly, "Do you want to shave first, Connor?"

Connor had not shaved for nigh on a week.  Since Duncan had started spending time with Janet, Duncan had shaved every day.  And washed.  Waste of water, waste of time.  Connor grunted his refusal.

Duncan nodded, then started about his morning toilette.

Connor decided he might as well get comfortable while he ate his porridge.  He lay down on his own sheepskin and set his bowl beside him, then leaned back on both elbows to watch Duncan.

Duncan's initial wariness had disappeared, and his usual sunny nature was reasserting itself.  He hummed to himself as he softened his whiskers with the hot water.  He scraped them off carefully with the edge of his knife, then set about combing and braiding his hair.

Connor took another bite of porridge and wondered if Duncan would buy hair ribbons at the next fair-day.  Duncan was still humming, obviously remembering his time with Janet last night.  The slightly atonal noise made Connor's teeth ache.

The MacLeods had met Janet four months ago, when they had first arrived in the village and gone looking to buy some whisky.  She and her two half-grown sons ran the bothy her late husband had built.  She was dark-haired and merry, and both Connor and Duncan enjoyed her company, but it had been obvious she preferred Duncan.  Connor had not minded.

But he did mind the amount of time Duncan was spending with her.  Duncan needed to be concentrating on his training, not drinking the widow's whisky and warming her bed.  And warming her.  Connor decided Duncan was overdue for a serious lesson.  Duncan needed to learn to be more cautious as well, especially when he woke up.  It was too late to teach him that today, but Connor would remember to do so tomorrow.  And the next day.  And maybe the next.

Duncan had finished braiding his hair, and he stood and adjusted the pleats in his plaid.  He examined the edges of it where the cloth had started to fray.  "Perhaps I should get a new plaid," he commented, then looked up at Connor.  "Did you not say you would purchase new clothes, on your trip to Aberdeen?" Duncan asked.

Connor did not bother to look at his own much-used and dirty gray plaid.  He raised one eyebrow in inquiry.  "Why?  To impress the sheep?"

Duncan opened his mouth to speak, but then shut it again abruptly.  He got himself a bowl of porridge and sat down on his sheepskin.  After several bites, he said, "It's been good to have you back, Connor."

Connor regarded him evenly.  He suspected Duncan had spent the entire six weeks of his absence in Janet's bed.  Still, Connor liked hearing that Duncan had missed him.  He nodded briefly and gave his student a small smile.  "It's good to be back," he said.  It was indeed good to be back; the Highlands were where he belonged.  It was good to see Duncan again, too.

Duncan gave him a cheerful smile in return and said, "Janet wondered if you might not like to share supper some evening."  When Connor did not respond, he added, "She's a bonny cook."

No doubt Duncan knew all about her cooking.  Connor merely grunted.

Duncan said, "Her lads Jamie and Dhugal are fine boys.  Eager and brave, and canny as well."  He sounded almost wistful.

Connor looked at his student sharply.  A bit of dalliance was one thing, but there was no room in an Immortal's life for a family.  He had told Duncan so when they had first met five years before.  "Don't be courting the young women, Duncan.  You cannot offer a woman the kind of life she expects.  You have no clan, and you can never give her children."

Duncan had looked away at that, and Connor had added, "I hope I need not tell you to stay away from the married ones as well."

"No," Duncan had said sourly.  "You need not tell me that.  But what's left then?"

"Widows," Connor had answered shortly, while thinking to himself, "and whores."

Connor scooped up the last of his porridge and examined his student.  The early morning light that filtered through the leaves of the trees accented Duncan's dark coloring, his dusky skin and black hair and brown eyes.  He was handsome in a way that left women staring, then turning to catch another glimpse.  Women liked Duncan; he had an easy, open air about him, and a warm smile.

But Duncan had not had any experience with whores; there were none in the small villages of the Highlands, and Duncan had never been anywhere else, save for a short trip to Aberdeen five years before.  Connor realized he would have to teach his student more than just sword-fighting and how to speak English and French.  Duncan needed to see a bit more of the world--Inverness, or perhaps Edinburgh, or maybe even France.  Duncan also needed to leave Janet, widow or no.  Connor stood.  "Get up," he ordered.

Duncan stopped with the spoon still in his hand.  "But I've not finished," he protested.

Connor reached over and took the spoon away.  "Next time eat faster.  Or sleep less.  Get up.  We're going to practice."

Duncan again opened his mouth to speak, but one look at Connor's face silenced him.  He picked up his sword and stood, then followed Connor to the small clearing near their camp.

Connor did not bother with formalities--no bowing, no polite words, no wasted time.  He rushed at Duncan, and did not hold back his blows until Duncan was on the ground.  "You're sloppy, Duncan," Connor said in disgust.

"I'm tired," Duncan said, as he got to his feet.

"Tired?" Connor repeated.  He deliberately allowed his voice to become brutally sarcastic.  It did not take much effort.  "Tired, is it now?  Is that what you're going to say, when an Immortal comes for your head?  'I'm tired'?"

"Connor--," Duncan started, but he got no further.

Connor attacked again, even more aggressively.  Duncan defended himself much better this time, but he had not yet learned to counter all of Connor's moves, and Connor did not give him any quarter.  Connor slashed him on the thigh, then laid open his forearm, a slice that cut Duncan to the bone.  "Still feeling tired?" he asked, as he allowed Duncan to back away.

Duncan shook his head grimly, his eyes alert and wary now, and dark with pain.

Connor started circling Duncan and decided to bait his student while he waited for Duncan to heal.  Duncan needed to learn, and it was Connor's job to teach him, no matter how harsh the lessons became.  "Too much drinking last night, Duncan?  Can't hold your whisky?"

Duncan ground his teeth together in irritation, but kept his guard up as Connor feinted and then attacked again.

Connor was still circling, still continuing to taunt him, both with his sword and with his words.  "Or was it too much fucking?"  He slashed at Duncan's legs, then made a lunge directly for his crotch.  Duncan barely blocked it.  "Hmm?  Is that tired, too?  Did Janet have to hold your sword for you last night?"

Duncan paled.  This was a line they had never crossed.  They never spoke of women in this way.  "Damn it, Connor!"

"What?"  Connor smiled at him, a very cold smile.  Duncan had to learn, and better now than in a real battle.  Words were part of the fight.  "You're not man enough to fight me this morning; weren't you man enough for her last night?"

Now Duncan was angry--very angry.  His voice was low and harsh.  "I was.  And I'm man enough for you, too."  This time it was Duncan who attacked, and Duncan who drew blood.  This time it was Duncan who smiled, and it was not a pleasant smile.

Connor backed away, ignoring the pain and the blood dripping down his left arm.  It would heal soon enough.  He was pleased--in a way--to see the coldness of the smile on his student's face.  Duncan needed to learn how to intimidate his opponents, and he was still much too friendly.  The lesson wasn't over yet.  Connor shook his head and said, "I don't think so, Duncan."

Connor attacked again, in the middle of saying Duncan's name, a quick rushing feint to one side, then a savage elbow in the ribs.  He moved back again and laughed softly, ignoring the faint twinge of regret he felt as he saw the anger and even the hatred in his student's eyes.  Duncan needed to learn to survive, and Connor knew just how brutal the battles could be.  Connor did not have a choice; he had to teach him this way.  Connor said mockingly, "I don't think you're man enough at all.  For me, or for her."

The smile had disappeared from Duncan's face, and his voice was quiet and intense.  "I was man enough for her to want me."  His gaze flickered over Connor, and some of the anger on his face was replaced by contempt.  "She didn't want you."

Connor had not needed to hear that final statement.  That, he already knew.  Cassandra had made it excruciatingly clear three weeks ago.  The anger and hatred in Duncan's eyes were well-matched in his own.  Connor gave himself to that anger, allowed it to flood through him, welcomed that cold killing rage.  He pressed the attack, and this time Duncan fought back well.

Connor felt nothing but the fierce joy of combat, the urge to dominate, to win, no matter the cost.  He heard the singing in his veins as his katana beat back and outmaneuvered his opponent's sword.  He felt the fierce exultation of a warrior as he saw his foe's weakness, his fatal mistake.  Connor smiled and drove his sword straight into his enemy's heart.

Duncan sagged on the blade, pain and disbelief etched on his face.  His sword fell from his hand and landed with a muffled thud on the thick carpet of dead leaves.  He looked confused now, the dark brows drawn together, a puzzled look in his eyes as he slid backwards off the blade, to land sitting on the ground.  His hands went to his chest, groping there aimlessly like fluttering baby birds, coming away stained dark red with blood.

"Oh, sweet Christ," Connor whispered, as he dropped his sword on the ground.  He rushed to his kinsman's side and managed to catch him before he fell over.

"Connor?" Duncan gasped, the word coming thickly through the blood in his mouth, terror plain in his eyes.

"I'm here, Duncan," Connor said, holding him close.  He knew Duncan had only died that one time before, and he could see that his student was still trying desperately to hold onto life.  "I'm here."  Duncan started gasping, a strangled choking sound.

"Oh, Christ," Connor whispered again in horrified realization and self-disgust.  He had done what Cassandra had wanted him to do.  She had wanted Connor to kill Duncan as part of his training, just as she had killed Connor.  She had wanted him to teach Duncan to trust no one, and Connor had refused.  He had not wanted to be like her.

He knew what Cassandra would say if she could see him now, with Duncan dying in his arms and Duncan's blood on his hands.  Oh, yes, Connor knew.  He could still hear her words.  He would always be able to hear those words.

<"Connor, you are such a fool.">

Connor closed his eyes and gently rocked his dying student on his lap.  That vicious, conniving bitch had won.  She had succeeded.  He had killed his own student, and he had become an Immortal just like her.  She would look at him and laugh, as she had laughed at him before, when he had lain bleeding to death in front of her cottage, while he had lain naked with her in her bed.

For decades she had been laughing at him and lying to him, playing him for a fool--a worthless, stupid, useless fool.  All these years he had imagined himself a fine lover, imagined that he was satisfying her, making her happy.  He had believed her whispered moans and soft cries of passion while he had held her in his arms.  He had believed her words of love.  And all these years she had merely been enduring his inept caresses until she could get to the man she really wanted--Duncan MacLeod.

It wasn't Duncan's fault.  Connor knew that.  Duncan didn't even know Cassandra was alive.  But Cassandra knew about Duncan, and Cassandra had been waiting for him for over a century, waiting for the man who could give her something Connor hadn't, something Connor would never be able to give, not to any woman, no matter how hard he tried.  Because he had done his best with Cassandra, and it hadn't been nearly good enough.

<She didn't want you.>

Connor forced himself to breathe, ignoring the aching tightness in his chest, but he gagged on the sweet scent of Duncan's blood, sharp over the mustier smell of fallen leaves.  Duncan had done nothing to deserve this, nothing at all.  Connor hated himself for what he had done, but he hated Cassandra more.

He opened his eyes and looked down at Duncan's frightened face.  "Let it go, Duncan."  His own voice was thick, too, though not with blood.  He swallowed hard.  "I'll be here when you wake up.  Let it go, Donnchadh.  Let it go."

Duncan's eyes fluttered and closed, and he died in Connor's arms.

~~~~~

A bird sang from a branch nearby, and a gentle wind briefly rustled the leaves of the trees.  Connor sat on the damp ground with his eyes closed.  He could hear the bird, and the steady beat of his own heart.  He could feel the breeze touching his skin.  But Duncan could not.  Duncan was dead.

Connor was almost glad Duncan was still dead.  He did not want to face Duncan, to explain what he had done.  It would be easier to leave, to just walk away.  But he had promised Duncan he would be there when he woke up, and it would be cowardly to leave.  Connor MacLeod always kept his word, and he was not a coward.

He wanted a drink.  But Duncan was on his lap, and Connor was not going to move him.  Connor was not going to leave Duncan alone.  He was going to be there when Duncan woke up.  It shouldn't be long now.

It wasn't.  A few moments later, Duncan's body arched convulsively.  His eyes snapped open, and he took a deep shuddering gasp.  His hands flailed about as he looked wildly from side to side.

Connor tightened his arms around him and said soothingly, "Be at ease, Donnchadh."

Duncan blinked and looked up, then his body relaxed and he smiled.  It was a look of relief and total trust and love.

Connor held him tightly, knowing full well he would never see that look on Duncan's face again.  The smile on Duncan's face disappeared as he blinked again and stiffened.  The trust and love in his eyes were instantly replaced by wariness and fear, and by hate.  Connor let go of him immediately, then sat in silence as the only kinsman he had in the world shoved him away and rolled off his lap.

Duncan crawled backwards quickly, scuttling like a crab, never once taking his eyes from Connor.  When Duncan was a good four paces away he stopped, then crouched on the ground, ready to spring up at any moment.  His eyes looked almost black now, and very cold.  The blood was dark on his chest.  He said nothing, merely crouched there, and waited.

Connor knew he had to say something, do something, or Duncan would leave.  He could not bear to have Duncan leave him this way.  Connor cleared his throat.  "Want a drink?"

Duncan shook his head, still carefully watching Connor.

Connor nodded, then stood, his legs awkward.  He could feel those eyes boring into his back as he went to get the whisky jug from their stores.  He didn't bother with a cup.  Those eyes were still watching him when he crouched down in the leaves two paces from his student.  He took a desperate gulp of whisky, then another.  Then he took a third.  He set the jug down between his feet and darted a quick glance at Duncan.

Those eyes weren't quite so cold now.

Connor hoped Duncan might listen to him now.  "Duncan," Connor began, at the same time as Duncan said, "Connor ..."

They stopped as they had started, together, and they even managed small snorts of amusement.  Connor offered the jug to Duncan, hoping to share a drink with his kinsman, but Duncan's eyes were still watchful and still very wary.  He did not reach for the jug.  Connor swallowed the thickness in his throat, and tried to wash it away with another drink of whisky.  He cleared his throat again and said, "My teacher once told me that it's a hard life, Duncan."  It had been Cassandra who had said that, though Connor knew Duncan thought the teacher was Ramirez.  Connor had never mentioned Cassandra to Duncan, and now he never would.  He never wanted to think of her again.

Duncan was still watching, still waiting.

Connor finally looked directly at Duncan.  "It requires hard lessons."

His student stared at him a moment more, then stood and walked a few paces away, looking out into the trees.

Connor stood, too, and waited.

Duncan swung around and demanded, "Are you telling me, that this was a lesson then?"

It had started that way, then it had turned into a fight, and Connor had totally lost control.  He had not even recognized Duncan; his student had become his enemy--his rival.  "Never lose your temper in a fight," Ramirez had once told him, but Connor had forgotten.  Oh, yes, this had been a lesson, and a hard one, hard for both of them.  Connor merely nodded, unwilling to admit to Duncan what he had done, or why he had done it.

Duncan's jaw tightened, then he asked, quiet yet fierce, "Does it need to be taught again?"

Holy Mother of God, no!  But Connor didn't want to admit that to Duncan, either.  "Have you learned it?"

"Yes," Duncan said grimly. "I have."

No, you haven't, thought Connor, not really, and I hope you never do learn that lesson, not from me.  Please, God, not from me!  Not like that, not again.  But he said nothing, simply nodded again, then took a few steps toward Duncan and held out the jug of whisky.  For a brief, heartsick moment, he waited as his student studied him, then Duncan came to him and took the jug from his hand.  Connor closed his eyes briefly as Duncan took a drink; his relief and the whisky had made him dizzy.

But the lesson was not quite finished.  Connor waited until Duncan had taken another swallow, then he reminded Duncan, "My teacher also told me, 'There can be only one.'"  Both of his teachers had told him that, and that might prove to be the hardest lesson of all.

Duncan looked at him again, a hard, bleak stare of suspicion that slowly softened into uncertainty, then firmed again into friendliness.  Then Duncan shook his head, took one more drink, and handed the jug back to Connor with a smile.

Connor smiled back as he took the jug, but he saw the shadows in Duncan's eyes.  The days of simple friendship and complete trust were gone forever, and Connor knew why.

The whisky was almost gone.  Connor drained the jug, then threw it as hard as he could towards a tree.  It smashed against the tree trunk, and the shards of pottery lay atop the fallen leaves.

Connor tightened his coat around him and ignored Duncan's waiting gaze.  He and Duncan had gone swimming that day in the Highlands, then lazed about in the warm sunshine.  Later that week, Connor had bought the both of them new plaids, and had gone with Duncan to Janet's for supper.  He had even shaved.  He and Duncan had stayed at the village for another month, then left for Inverness.  They had never spoken of that day again.

Connor didn't want to speak of it now.  This summer, Cassandra had explained why she had lied to him, why she had killed him, and why she had chosen Duncan as her champion.  And when she had told Connor what Roland and the Horsemen and other men had done to her, Connor had realized it wasn't just him; Cassandra hadn't liked sex for centuries.  Connor had forgiven her, and she had forgiven him for what he had done to her, both four centuries ago and four months ago.  It was over.  Duncan didn't need to know--about any of it.

"The sun's about to come up," Connor told Duncan.  "I'm going to get John."  He brought his son back to stand by his right side.  Duncan stood by his left.  Together in silence they watched the rising of the sun, while the wind blew cold and keening between them.
 
 
 

Duncan didn't want to spoil John's first trip to the Solstice Stones with his father, so he said nothing more about that long-ago summer day as they walked down the hill or while they ate lunch at a pub.  Duncan said nothing about it on the drive back to Connor's house, even though John dozed off in the warmth off the car.  The conversation would probably be long, and it needed to be completely private.  This afternoon would be good; maybe he and Connor could go riding.

But when they reached the farmhouse, Alex and Cassandra were waiting for them in the kitchen, and two suitcases were on the floor.  "Duncan, would you get the suitcases?" Alex asked, moving toward the door.  She paused to hug John.  "See you soon, sport.  You can come visit us later."

Connor came in from the coatroom, holding his gloves.  "Alex?"

"It's time, Connor," she said.  "We should go."

"Go," he said slowly, then repeated it again, this time with a grin.  "Go."  Cassandra quietly handed a suitcase to Duncan and then handed the other one to John.  "Did you call the hospital?" Connor asked.

"Yes," Alex said patiently.

"What about the doctor?" Connor demanded.

"She knows.  She's on her way."

Connor turned to his son.  "The MacNabbs went to spend Christmas with their son--so remember to feed the horses tonight."

"I know, Dad."

"And don't forget the blankets. It's cold out."

John rolled his eyes as he shifted the suitcase to his other hand.  "I know, Dad."

Duncan gave his nephew a quiet smile of encouragement and followed Alex and Connor out the door.  Connor had more advice to give as they walked to the garage.  "Duncan, the water heater sometimes goes out.  Just relight the pilot flame."

"Sure thing," Duncan answered, placing Alex's suitcase into the back of the Rover, trying not to smile.  John put his father's suitcase in, then went around to open the car door for Alex.

Connor was still talking.  "Oh, and the--"

"Connor," Duncan broke in, "we'll be fine.  You go be with Alex."

Connor whirled.  "Where is she?"

"I'm in the car," Alex answered, clicking her seat belt as John shut her door.

"Do we have a camera?" Connor demanded, his keys in his hand.

Cassandra spoke up as she opened the driver's door.  "It's in your bag. I checked."

"What about fi--?"

"And you have film," Cassandra interrupted.  "Go, Connor," she told him.  "Be with Alex at the birth of your children."

"Yeah," Connor agreed, grinning again, then he finally got in the car.  He started the engine and put the car in gear, then unrolled the window and stuck his head out.  "And you have to--"

"Connor," Duncan growled, "leave!" and Connor finally moved the car.  Duncan shook his head as he watched the Rover disappear down the dirt road.  "I'm not so sure Connor is going to survive labor."

"Alex will probably kill him before it's over," Cassandra observed.  "Either that, or the nurses will."

"So, when will they be back?" John asked.  "When will the babies be born?"

"It can take a long time, John," Duncan told him.  "Hours."

"What's Dad going to do all that time?"

Duncan glanced at Cassandra, and they both grinned as they answered together, "Give orders."

~~~~~

The three of them kept busy while they waited for Connor's telephone call, but the afternoon and the evening passed with no word.  After John went to bed, Duncan finally got a chance to talk to Cassandra about Methos.

"Do you have any idea where Methos is?" she asked him, as they sat in front of the fire in the living room, a bottle of whisky between them.

"He said he was going to Holy Ground for a bit," Duncan answered, "but I don't know where or for how long.  We had a long talk at a church, two days after you left.  He said he was on the edge, that he didn't know which way he would fall."

"Here there be dragons," Cassandra said softly.

"I think it was more on the lines of 'Yea, though I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear my own evil,'" Duncan said, remembering the haunted look in Methos's eyes, the despair in his voice, the utter loneliness of the man.  "He was ... scared, I think, scared of himself, of what he had been, of what he might be again."

"Kronos tempted him, reminded him of the pleasure of power."  She raised her glass of whisky and swirled the red-gold liquid slowly.  "Well, we've all tasted that bloody darkness, haven't we?"

Duncan leaned forward.  "Have we?" he asked, wondering what skeletons lurked in Cassandra's past.  Maybe Methos wasn't the only one to have changed.

"Oh, yes," she said then took a quick swallow. "Every Immortal does, eventually.  We just don't do it as quickly and as thoroughly as you did, perhaps."

Duncan forced himself to relax his sudden death grip on his glass, to ignore those gleeful whispers of evil in his mind.  The Dark Quickening was over.  He was not nothing.  He was Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and he was in control.

Cassandra hadn't seemed to notice his silent struggle.  She swirled the whisky again and added, "Some of us never leave the darkness for the light."

"Methos did," Duncan said, thanking God for his own return to the light.  And thanking Methos as well.

"After a thousand years," Cassandra drawled.  "Apparently, he's a slow learner."

"But he did leave the darkness," Duncan said firmly.  "He changed."

"Yes," Cassandra actually admitted, "he did."  Duncan let out a silent sigh of relief, but then Cassandra leaned forward, her eyes determined and intense.  "I want a promise from you, Duncan.  If he goes back to being a Horseman--"

"He won't," Duncan broke in, hoping to stop this right here.  Cassandra just looked at him, and it took Duncan a moment to realize where he had see that particular mixture of remote amusement and exasperation before.  Methos had often looked at him in the same way, usually right before he said something that Duncan had no answer to.

Cassandra did the same.  "Forever is a long time."  She was right; it was.  Duncan nodded slowly, having a pretty good idea what was coming next, and Cassandra didn't disappoint him.  "If he goes back to being a Horseman," she said, "I want your word that you will take his head."

"Cassandra--"

"I want your word on this," Cassandra repeated.  "I saved your life with Roland, and you saved my life with the Horsemen, so we're even on that, but you owe me this, Duncan.  You owe me the head of the last Horseman."

"The Horsemen are finished," he stated.

"Then you don't owe me anything."  Her slight smile of triumph was Methos's smile.  "Do you trust him or not?" she demanded when Duncan said nothing.

"I trust him," Duncan answered immediately, having thought this through at least once or twice before.  Methos had changed.  Duncan had to believe that.  Therefore, this promise would be an easy one to make, because it was one he would never have to fulfill.  "And I give you my word.  If--if!--Methos ever becomes a Horseman again, I'll take his head."

Cassandra relaxed in her chair.  "Thank you."

"Do you want the head on a silver platter?" Duncan asked, sick to death of the whole business, wishing he'd never heard of the Horsemen, wishing Cassandra had stayed out of his life completely, wishing for a thousand things that could never be.

"Do you want me to dance naked before you to get it?" she snapped back at him.

Well, now that she mentioned it ...

"I don't want his head at all, Duncan," Cassandra said, calm and reasonable again.  "I want to be sure I made the right choice in letting him live, the way you wanted him to."  She leaned forward, her words clear and slow, "I want to make sure he never hurts anyone else again."

For once, she had said something about Methos that actually made sense.  Duncan breathed another sigh of relief.  Maybe it could be over.  Maybe, someday, those two might even speak to each other again.  Maybe now his life could get back to normal.

~~~~~

Connor's telephone call came the next morning, right after breakfast.  Duncan took John with him to the hospital; Cassandra had decided to do her visiting that afternoon.  "It's a time for the MacLeods, all six of you now," she had said, and Duncan thought about that on the drive there.  Six MacLeods now, a family, a clan.

It didn't seem real until Connor ceremoniously handed him a baby.  "Here's your godson," Connor said with a proud and exuberant smile, his unshaven face and red-rimmed eyes only adding to his air of glee.  Alex was lying in the bed with Sara Heather on her lap, and John went over to them, reached out to let his baby sister take hold of his finger.  "Meet Colin Duncan MacLeod," Connor announced.

Duncan repeated the name, staring down at the tiny person in his arms.  Dark hair stood up in a tuft, and delicate eyebrows arched over closed eyes.  "He's so small," Duncan said, amazed at the almost weightless warmth of the bundle.

"Six pounds, two ounces," Connor said.  "Ever held one less than a day old before?"

Duncan nodded, remembering Anne's daughter, Mary, just a year ago.  "Have you?"

"Only once," Connor said, smiling again, the corners of his eyes crinkled in amusement.  "You."
 
 
 
 

A burst of feminine laughter came from the dining room, and Duncan looked up from shredding cheese for tacos.  "What do you suppose Alex and Cassandra are talking about in there?" he said to Connor, who was standing at the kitchen stove.  Connor had brought Alex and the twins home from the hospital that morning, just in time for Christmas, and the two women had gone to the dining room to talk while Alex nursed Sara.

Connor shrugged and added seasonings to the browned hamburger.  "Me."

"Are you sure?" Duncan asked, wondering how Connor could be so calm about his ex-lover and his wife exchanging confidences.

More peals of laughter sounded, even louder this time, and Connor tilted his head to listen to the sound.  "I think you're right, Duncan," he admitted.  "They're probably talking about you."

Duncan went back to shredding cheese.

After lunch, a flurry of presents exploded in the living room.  Connor presented Duncan with assorted whiskies, one from each of his eight distilleries, and an additional four bottles of Fionnmore.  "Because you like it so much," Connor told him.  Duncan gave Connor a collection of seventeen different varieties of Glenmorangie, from the most recent ten-year-old and eighteen-year-olds to the limited vintage bottlings of the 1970s.  "Because it's your favorite," Duncan replied.

John went through his pile of gifts with expert thoroughness, accumulating sports equipment and music CDs and books about geology and bugs, saving a plain white envelope from Duncan for last.  "Ski tickets?" he asked, with an incredulous grin.  "In the Alps?"

"You and I are leaving on the twenty-seventh," Duncan told him.  "Richie's going to meet us there, and then we'll all come back here in time for New Years Eve."

Connor nodded in appreciation to Duncan, for this was a present to the new parents as well, to give the Alex and himself some time alone with the twins.  Cassandra was clearing out, too, going to a bed-and-breakfast near Oban.  She'd be back on New Years Day for the christening ceremony.  Rachel and Alex's mother were coming, too, and the entire family would be together.

"This is great!" John exclaimed.  "I get to try out the skis I got for my birthday last month!  Thanks, Uncle Dunc!"

"We'll have fun," Duncan promised, then took Sara from Alex and started to rub the baby's back to get her to burp as the gift-giving continued.

Connor waited until all the presents had been opened before he brought Cassandra's present down from upstairs.  "Close your eyes," he ordered from the doorway, and then he set the small Celtic harp in front of her and stood back.  "You can open them now."

Cassandra didn't move at first, only stared at the instrument.  Then she stood slowly and reached down with a cautious hand to touch the dark wood of the pillar, to ripple the brass strings with one finger.  Connor remembered that sound from long, firelit hours in her cottage in Donan Woods, and he knew what music meant to her.  He also knew she hadn't played or sung in over three and half centuries.

"Roland asked me to sing to him in Aberdeen," she had told Connor this summer, on the day they had forgiven each other.  "But I kept remembering you, and what it had been between us.  I wanted to keep something of you separate, and I wouldn't ... I couldn't sing.  He broke the harp, and then he--"  Her hands had trembled, and she had clutched tight to the fabric of her skirt, unable to speak.  Methos and Kronos had been Roland's teachers, and they had taught him well.

"I thought I wanted that memory of you," Cassandra had continued, her head down, "but it just made it worse.  I haven't sung, not since that day."

Connor wanted her to sing again.

"I think she likes it," Duncan said, as Cassandra picked up the harp and touched the strings more confidently, bringing forth echoes and whispers with the cascades of sound.

"I think you're right," Connor agreed, and Cassandra looked up, startled, and actually smiled at him, a smile with no trace of sarcasm or pain, a smile that transformed her face with joy, a smile that made him forget to breathe.  Connor hadn't seen her look like that since Aberdeen.  He had forgotten how beautiful she could be.

"It's ...," she started.  "I didn't really ..."  She went back to caressing the wood.  "It's beautiful.  I--"

Connor didn't need words.  On Christmas Eve, Cassandra had given him a portrait she had painted of Heather, and he had said nothing for half an hour, just sat and looked.

"Play it!" John urged.  "Dad's been tuning it every day for the last three weeks, but I've never heard it make any music."

"I'd love to hear the harp, Cass," Alex encouraged.  Duncan nodded, but Connor waited, wondering if Cassandra could break free of that tomb of silence she had buried herself in for so long.  It took her a moment, but finally she sat down on the chair near the fire, set the harp on her lap, and began to play.

Connor went to sit beside his wife on the couch, putting his arm around Alex as she nursed their son, reaching down with his other hand to touch John's shoulder as he sat on the floor.  Duncan sat in the other chair, holding Sara in his arms, his eyes half-closed as he listened to the music.  Connor kept his eyes open, watching his family.

Cassandra didn't play long, a few simple melodies, first with one hand, and then--slowly--with two.  "I'm out of practice," she said, with a quick apologetic smile, stopping in the middle of Greensleeves.

"It's still lovely," Alex said, and Connor nodded agreement, while John added a quick "Yeah!"

"I didn't know you played," Duncan said to Cassandra.

Her mouth tightened as she shot him a glance, but then she nodded and said only, "I haven't played lately."  She bent her head to the harp and plucked a quick arpeggio, running up the scale, then added quietly, "I haven't been myself lately."  She tossed her hair back from her face and faced Duncan again, not challenging or confrontational, just a simple statement of fact.  "You don't know me at all."

Duncan nodded but answered with an easy smile, "I know you put Sara to sleep.  And it looks like you've made Alex sleepy, too."

Connor turned to his wife in time to see her hide a yawn.  "I need a nap," Alex said.  "I've been awake for eight hours now."  Connor took Colin from her and handed him to John, then helped Alex to stand.  He kept his arm about her as they moved slowly to the hall.  "I don't think stairs are a good idea just yet," Alex said, eyeing the staircase with distaste, and she headed for the bedroom in the guest suite.  Cassandra had been sleeping there for five days, but there was no visible trace of her presence save a book on top of the dresser.

"Would you bring the babies here?" Alex asked him as she maneuvered herself into the double bed.

"Shouldn't you just sleep?" Connor said.

"Colin isn't finished eating, and I want them both here," she insisted, so Connor brought her Sara and asked John to follow with Colin and then bring the bassinets.  Alex tucked Colin in bed beside her to nurse while Connor laid his daughter down in her bassinet and put a blanket over her.  Then he arranged a blanket around his wife and sat down on the edge of the bed, watching as she caressed Colin's head with the same wondering, tentative touch that Cassandra had used on the harp.  Alex smiled at their son, and then up at him, and again Connor forgot to breathe.

He lay down on the side of the bed, their son safe between them, sweet with all the living promise of passion fulfilled.  "I love you," he told Alex, then put his left arm over both her and the baby as he kissed her.

"I love you, too," she answered and kissed him again, taking his right hand in her own.  They watched Colin's eager nursing for a moment, one of his tiny hands on the curve of her breast, both eyes closed in contentment, his ear wiggling with each suck.

"Looks like fun," Connor observed.

"You can have a turn," she suggested, with that quiet smile of hers that promised so much more.

"I'll take you up on that later," he said, returning the smile and the promise.

She nodded then commented with apparent casualness, "Cassandra seems to like the harp you got her."

Connor wasn't fooled.  He tightened his arm around Alex and kissed her again, thoroughly this time.  "Cassandra is a friend," he said firmly.  "Nothing more."

"Nothing?" she challenged knowingly.

Connor acknowledged Alex's objection with a nod.  "She's been a lot of things to me," he admitted, "and I still care about her, but that was a long time ago.  Now, she's more like a sister than anything else.  Besides," he added, "she's with Duncan now."

"And you're with me," Alex said, tightening her grip on his hand.

"Yes," Connor said immediately, looking across the pillow into her eyes.  "I'm with you.  You're my wife, and you're the mother of our children, and I love you."

"Good," she said simply, content and reassured, but then she asked, "Do you think Cassandra loves Duncan?"

Connor sighed, suddenly wishing he'd gotten Cassandra an ugly sweater or a set of bongos.  "I don't know, Alex."

"Duncan doesn't love her," Alex stated.

Connor shrugged.  Not seriously, no, but enough.  "He makes her happy," Connor said.

"Does he?" Alex questioned.  "Do you--"

"It's not our business, Alex," Connor interrupted.

"No?" she challenged, but she backed off when he gave her a stare that was the husbandly equivalent of a wolf guarding its kill.  "Merry Christmas, Connor," she said and added a smile and a kiss, and then she closed her eyes.

"Merry Christmas, Alex," Connor answered, and he waited until both she and Colin fell asleep.  Connor eased off the bed and stretched, then left the room.  Cassandra was alone in the living room, sitting on the sofa with her harp.  Connor leaned against the doorway and listened to her play a lullaby.  His mother had sung that song.  "Sounds good," he commented when she finished.

She looked up, startled again.  "I didn't know you were there," she said as she stood then laid the harp down carefully on the sofa.

"Maybe you should play only on Holy Ground," he suggested, not really joking.

"Maybe I should," she agreed, coming toward him, but stopping a few feet away, as she always did.  Connor knew she didn't feel safe being too close to a man.  She laid one hand on the grand piano and held the other out to him palm up, in an offering of gratitude.  "Connor, thank you.  It's ... I haven't ..."

"I know," he told her, amused and gratified to see her speechless again.

"Yes," she said with another smile that made her beautiful.  "You do."

Connor knew her very well.  And Cassandra knew him.

Cassandra dropped her hand and turned to straighten the sheets of music lying on the piano, saying casually, "Is Alex asleep?"

Connor nodded and adopted the same nonchalant tone.  "Duncan and John in the stable?"

"Yes," Cassandra said.  "John wanted to brush his horse again.  He's besotted.  You pick presents well, Connor."

Connor shrugged off the compliment, but he smiled even so.  "I think I'll go help him," Connor said and with a nod to Cassandra he went outside.  "Who wants to go riding?" he asked, and, of course, John immediately said yes.  Duncan saddled the mare, Connor the stallion, John his new horse, and the three of them headed across the snow-covered fields.  A white disc of sun glowed behind a veil of gray clouds, and Connor smelled more snow in the air.  Later this afternoon, probably.

Connor leaned forward and urged his horse into a gallop.  Dian snorted and responded eagerly, his hooves kicking up plumes of snow.  Duncan and John followed close behind, all three of them laughing at the wind and cold on this glorious Christmas day.

~~~~~

They came back to the stable an hour or so later.  Connor mucked out a stall, humming to himself, listening to John and Duncan talk as they rubbed down the horses.  The conversation shifted from horses to sports to cars, and then John asked Duncan, "Do you like being an Immortal?"

Connor stopped humming to snort.  Over the last decade, John's questions had progressed from the constant "why" and "how" and "what" of a toddler, but they hadn't stopped coming, and they hadn't gotten easier to answer.

Duncan didn't seem to find it easy to answer, either.  "It's like being tall, John," he said finally.  "Sometimes I like it, sometimes I don't, and there's not much I can do about it, either way.  I've just learned to live with it."

And to kill with it, Connor thought, spreading the straw on the floor.  But John didn't know about the Game yet, not all of it.  Connor hadn't quite found the words to tell him.  Alex knew; he had told her everything, right from the beginning, but she still had questions two years later, and her questions weren't easy to answer, either.

This summer in Edinburgh, Alex had gone to Cassandra for some answers, and Connor had listened in on them, too.

August, 1996
Edinburgh, Scotland
_______________________________________________

The clatter of dishes and the murmur of Alex and Cassandra's voices from the kitchen roused Connor from his light doze.  Connor stayed where he was, comfortable in his chair in the library, out of their line of sight.  He yawned and stretched, then reached for the whisky glass on the table, wondering how long he'd been asleep.

The noise of dishes stopped and the voices continued, Alex's words carrying clearly in the warm summer air.  "What's the hardest thing about being immortal, Cass?"

Cassandra didn't answer right away.  "For me," she said slowly, "one of the hardest things is knowing that someday, a person who used to be your student, or your friend, may try to kill you.  Or you may try to kill them."

Connor stared at the light gold of whisky in his glass.  At least she hadn't mentioned killing old lovers.

"Well, Connor and Duncan will never fight," Alex said, sounding very certain.

Cassandra did not choose to respond to that, and Connor did not want to, either.  He hoped to God Alex was right.

Alex asked, "You said it was one of the hardest things about Immortality, Cass.  What else?"

"Moving all the time, watching things change, seeing people die.  But ... have you ever had a day where you just didn't want to get out of bed?  Where you just wanted to lie there?"

"Sometimes."

Connor took another drink of whisky.  He had had days like that.  He had had decades like that.

"I think, over the years, that's the hardest," Cassandra said.  "Just to keep going, day after day after day.  Year after year after year."

Connor wondered if Cassandra had had centuries like that.  Probably.

"It's as if you were in a pit," Cassandra said, her voice slow and distant.  "And it's too much trouble even to try to climb out, because you just don't care anymore."

Connor knew that pit.  He knew these steep and slippery walls, the blackness at the bottom where the sun never reached.  He knew the thick, oozing mud of despair in the depths of that pit.  It was a mud that covered you, surrounded you, buried you.  It filled your eyes and your ears, your nostrils and your mouth, so that you saw nothing, heard nothing, smelled nothing, tasted nothing.  In that pit there was nothing but darkness and mud, and an endless waiting wondering despair.

Connor closed his eyes and took a small sip of whisky, then held it in his mouth, breathing in through his nose, tasting the smoothness, the faint hint of flowers and smoke and heather.  His lips and tongue tingled, and he could hear bird song in the garden.  It was good to be alive.

"But you do climb out," Alex said.

"Yes."  Cassandra's answer was abrupt, then there was pause and a rustle of cloth.  She was probably staring out the window, her arms wrapped around herself, holding tight to her pain.  Connor had seen her in that pose before, many times.  Her voice was still slow, still distant.  "Sometimes you climb out by yourself, sometimes with help."

Connor kept his eyes closed, remembering the times Duncan had hauled him, the both of them swearing and gasping, into the light of day, away from the drink and the darkness and despair.  The nights when Duncan had sat next to him, sometimes holding him, sometimes just listening, sometimes swearing back in anger and frustration.  Connor had not wanted Duncan's help.

Not then, not while Connor was grieving for Heather, or Sara, or Brenda, or all the others who died and left him alone, time after time after time.  Not while he was slogging through the liquid sucking mud of daily existence, barely eating, sometimes washing, sometimes sleeping, but always drinking.

In the dark times, Connor wanted to be left alone.  He would tell Duncan that, but Duncan wouldn't listen.  Duncan never listened.  And that was a good thing, because after Duncan had cajoled him or berated him or simply forcibly dragged him from whatever sinkhole Connor had been wallowing in, Connor was glad--after a while--to be alive again.

Cassandra's voice came more clearly, as if she had turned to face Alex again.  "I think that the only thing that helps us get out of the pit is knowing that if we die, we'll leave another Immortal behind.  There were probably times when the only thing that kept Connor going, or Duncan, was knowing that if he died, the other would be left alone."

Connor remembered those times, too, the times when Duncan did not come, when he had been too far away.  Then Connor had to drag himself out.  And he always did, eventually, because he didn't want to leave Duncan alone, and he knew that someday Duncan would need his help.

"A few Immortals," Cassandra said, "a few lucky ones, like Connor and Duncan, keep going out of love."

Love.  Yes, that was what it was.  He and Duncan never actually said the word, of course, but when the dark days came for Duncan, when Duncan remembered Little Deer or Tessa or the aftermath of Culloden, then Connor pulled Duncan from the pit, just as Duncan did for him.

"And you?" Alex asked her.

"Me?" Cassandra said lightly.  "Oh, I've never thought of myself as lucky."

Connor knew why.  Cassandra--like many Immortals--kept going out of hate, unwilling to leave an enemy behind.

"Time for me to go," Cassandra said, with complete and lying cheerfulness.  "I'll see you tomorrow."  Connor listened to the scrape of a chair on the floor, the opening and the shutting of the kitchen door.  He watched through the window as Cassandra strode through his garden to the alley behind his house.  She ignored all the flowers about her, didn't even look up at the sky, intent on her hate and on her revenge.

=====  The Highlands, Christmas Day 1996  =====

Connor poured water into the horse trough, watching the gentle splashes.  Cassandra hadn't gotten the revenge she had wanted, but Roland and Kronos were dead, and she seemed to be moving past the hate.  Her luck wasn't all bad.  Connor hung up the bucket and joined Duncan and John in putting the horses back in their stalls.

"I'm going in," Connor announced when they were finished, and Duncan joined him, but John stayed in the barn, unwilling to leave his still-nameless horse.  Alex had finished her nap, and she and Cassandra were in the living room talking.  The twins were nowhere in sight; Alex had probably left them sleeping in the guest bedroom downstairs.  Connor leaned over to kiss her.

"Where's John?" Alex asked, her face turned up to his.

"Still in the stable admiring his Christmas present," Connor said, and he and Alex shared a smile.  They had spent a long time picking out the right horse for John.  "He's trying to come up with a name."

Duncan was standing in front of the liquor cabinet.  "Drink, Connor?" he asked.  "Cassandra?  More water, Alex?"

Connor took a glass of whisky from Duncan and sat next to Alex on the couch with a contented sigh, stretching his legs out to the warmth of the fire.  Horse rides over snow-covered fields, whisky in front of a crackling fire, Christmas in the Highlands with his family about him--it sounded like a television movie or a really annoying greeting card, but it wasn't a bad way to spend the holiday.  Connor leaned back, relaxed and at peace, listening and occasionally contributing to the conversation flowing about him.

Then a faint whimpering cry came from the guest suite.  Connor jumped up and headed down the hall, stopping at the doorway of the bedroom.  The twins were asleep in bassinets on the floor.  Colin lay peacefully, only his closed eyes and his snub nose visible under blanket and hat, but Sara was sucking on her fist, still whimpering.  Connor tiptoed over, wondering if he should pick her up.  Maybe she was cold or needed changing.  And how long had it been since she had eaten?  Connor wasn't sure; Alex hadn't told him when he had come back from riding.  He'd tell Alex to start writing it down, so he could make sure both twins ate often enough.  That was critical, especially for babies born early.  All the books said so.  They'd better keep track of diaper changes, too. The nurse at the hospital had mentioned that.  Connor decided he'd get graph paper and some colored pencils to make a chart.  That would help.

Sara gave a tiny little sigh as her fist slipped out of her mouth, and Connor held his breath, watching, waiting--praying.  Yes.  Asleep.  Connor waited a moment more, then knelt beside the bassinet.  "I love you," he whispered as he tucked the blanket around his daughter.  He turned to his son and told him the same thing, then rose carefully and went silently from the room.

Back in the living room, Duncan had taken his place on the couch, and Duncan and Alex were looking at a loose-leaf folder.  Connor recognized it as the latest print-out of the book Alex was writing, a scholarly work about the archeological significance of place-names.  Cassandra was playing her harp again, oblivious to the world.  Connor poured himself a new drink then sat down in the empty chair near the fire.  "Still asleep," he told Alex, and she looked up with a quick nod and a smile, then went back to showing Duncan her book, the pale gold of her hair shining against Duncan's darkness.

"What language is this?" Duncan asked Alex, leaning over to point, touching her lightly on the arm, a gentle knowing hand, all-unconcerned with its intimate power.

"Angle," Alex said, turning to him.  "About seventh century.  That name means 'village of the huge, lame pig.'"

The two of them started to laugh, Alex's eyes delighted, Duncan's head thrown back in good humor.  Connor tried to remember if he had ever seen Alex look so happy, so alive.  But then Duncan always had that effect on women.  It was nothing new.  And it meant nothing now.  Connor was certain of that, and certain of them.  Completely.

But he couldn't bring himself to join in the laughter, and he couldn't summon more than an ironic smile and a half-lifted glass when Duncan, still laughing, looked at him from across the room.  Duncan's smile disappeared, then Alex's laughter faded into bewildered silence, and even Cassandra looked up from her harp, her last note a lingering echo in the air.  Duncan's eyes looked almost black now, even cold, though he said nothing, merely sat there and waited.  Alex and Cassandra were waiting, too.

Connor set his glass down as he stood to leave the room, heading through the kitchen for the garden, swearing viciously to himself, desperate to escape those all-too-seeing eyes.
 
 
 
 

Duncan wasn't going to give Connor a chance to run this time.  He followed Connor though the kitchen and caught up to him in the garden near the dry-stone wall.  "What the hell was that?" Duncan demanded.

"What?"

"That look.  That quiet about you."

Connor shrugged and turned to go, but Duncan wasn't going to let it slide.  Not this time.  Not again.  No more secrets, no more lies.

"I don't need to ask, do I?" Duncan said grimly, moving to stand in front of the gate, blocking Connor's escape.  "I've seen it before."  Many times before, in taverns and drawing rooms and brothels, in London and New York and Rome.  "It's your 'Go ahead and take the woman, Duncan, I'll just sit back and watch' look.  It's your 'I wasn't all that interested in her, anyway' look."

Connor shook his head, not even trying to answer.  Their breaths came in silent, white puffs in the frosty air.

"Jesus, Connor!" Duncan swore in fury and exasperation.  "How can you even think for a second that I would ever do _anything_ to come between you and Alex?  She's your wife!  She just gave birth to your children!"

"I know that!" Connor said, equally furious and exasperated.  "I trust you with my life, Duncan, and I trust both of you."

"Then what the hell was that?" Duncan repeated.  "One minute everything's fine, and the next you're ... withdrawn, closed off.  Angry.  Why?  We were just sitting there.  I wasn't doing anything."

"You never have to _do_ anything, Duncan," Connor said, finally looking at him, and Duncan blinked in shock at the bitter resignation in his kinsman's eyes.  "You just _are_."

Connor didn't give him a chance to answer, but turned and went back into his house, and Duncan was left to remember.  "Ever since I've known you," Connor had said in his teasing way that cut deep, that knife-edged banter that Duncan had known so often and so well, "ever since I've known you, you've had all the fun, and all of the good women."

Words like that cut both ways, and sometimes they cut to the bone.

As Duncan walked through the kitchen, he heard the closing of Connor's bedroom door upstairs, and then Alex's voice hushing a crying baby from the guest suite on the ground floor.  Duncan went to the living room and poured himself another drink, wanting that small comfort before he went after Connor again.

"I don't think this visit from us is turning out very well," Cassandra ventured from her chair, and Duncan snorted his agreement and tossed back half of the whisky.  "What happened, Duncan?" she asked cautiously. "Is everything all right?"

"No."

"Can I help?" she offered.

"No."  The last thing this needed was yet another woman between them.  Duncan finished his drink, then suddenly realized Cassandra might be able to provide information Connor never would.  "How long was Connor your student?" Duncan asked, going over to sit on the arm of her chair.

"Just a few months," Cassandra said, wrapping her arms around her bent knees.  "Ramirez had been dead for fifty years, and Connor hadn't had much of a chance to practice with swords.  He and I worked on that a bit.  But, I think he also came to Donan Woods so he could say goodbye to the Highlands, to Glenfinnan.  Leaving everything he'd known ... it was hard for him."

Hard indeed, to leave a homeland behind, and all that has been known and loved.  Duncan knew.  It had taken him six months to get up the courage to set sail for France that first time.  "Has he changed much, since you knew him then?" Duncan asked her.

"Yes.  Of course, he's older now, but he's also harder.  More sarcastic, less open.  And he seems ... angry."

"He's been like that ever since I've known him," Duncan said, but even as he said it, he knew it wasn't true.  Those first five years of training hadn't been like that, before Connor had gone to Aberdeen, before Connor had killed him.

Before Connor had argued with Cassandra.

Duncan took another look at the woman sitting huddled in the chair, the woman Connor had hated, the woman who had already come between him and Connor.  "What kind of 'old-fashioned' training did you want Connor to use on me, Cassandra?" Duncan asked.  When she didn't answer, he said it for her.  "You wanted him to kill me, didn't you, to teach me a lesson in trust?"

She managed a silent nod, and Duncan pushed himself away from her and started pacing back and forth.  It still didn't make sense.  "You said he refused to use the 'old-fashioned ways,' refused to kill me."

"Yes," she agreed, uncoiling from her chair and standing quiet behind it.

"Then why did he?" Duncan demanded.

Cassandra blinked once and said in dismay, "Connor killed you, too?"

"Too?" Duncan repeated, wondering how many other students Connor had killed, but then he saw the stricken look on Cassandra's face, and suddenly he knew what Connor had done.  Duncan charged up the stairs and shoved open Connor's bedroom door, slamming it against the wall.  Downstairs, another baby started to cry.

Connor pivoted slowly from his place in front of the window on the far wall.  "That is a door," he said, pointing at the still-quivering slab of wood, and then at Duncan's clenched fist.  "That is your hand.  Next time, knock."

"You killed her, didn't you?" Duncan accused, walking past the large four-poster bed, advancing on him.  "You killed Cassandra."  Connor didn't answer, didn't even blink, but Duncan knew he was right.  "And you _enjoyed_ it," Duncan said in disgust.

Connor turned back to look out the window, turned his back on Duncan as well.

"You enjoyed killing me, too, didn't you, Connor?" Duncan said, remembering Connor's savage exultation as the sword had slide home, remembering--feeling--the slicing of flesh, the grating of cold steel through his ribs, and the ripping explosion in his heart.

Connor whipped around.  "Christ, no!"

Duncan drew a trembling breath as Connor's hot denial eased some of the rage and pain pulsing through him now.

"How can you even think that?" Connor demanded.

"I don't know what to think about you anymore," Duncan said, facing this stranger who wore Connor's face.  "I don't even know who you are.  There've been lies and secrets between us since the day we met."  Lie after lie, secret after secret, starting from the day he'd been born.  More hidden secrets, more ground that shifted under his feet and left him staggering and alone.  Cassandra, his father, Methos, Connor--every single one of them had lied to him, and he had trusted them all.

"Damn it, Connor!" Duncan swore, when Connor said nothing, did nothing, merely kept the silence again.  "What the hell is going on?"

Connor shrugged and headed for the door, but Duncan took him by the arm.  Not again, damn it!  Connor threw him off with an oath and kept going, and Duncan came at him from behind, laying both hands on Connor's shoulders to stop him.  Connor pushed back with an elbow to the ribs and a quick turn, shoving Duncan against the oak foot board of the bed, but Duncan grabbed for him as Connor started to leave.

"Let me go!" Connor snarled, whirling with deadly efficiency and even deadlier intent, striking out at Duncan with practiced hands.

Duncan had been expecting an attack--Connor always fought back, and he was vicious when he felt trapped--but Duncan still didn't manage to block the blows completely.  Duncan's own temper snapped, and he got in a vicious blow of his own, a solid--and immensely satisfying--punch to the jaw that sent Connor reeling to smash against the armoire and into the wall.

Duncan faced him, panting, moving to stand between Connor and the door.  "I want some answers, and I want the truth."

"Duncan ..."

"NO!" Duncan exploded.  "This stops here.  Now.  We've danced around this for nearly four centuries.  Why did you kill me?"  Connor still didn't answer, and Duncan knew he'd have to be the one to put it into words. "Was it really for training, to teach me a lesson in trust?"

Connor shook his head, staring at the line where the wall met the floor.

"Then why?"

Connor rubbed the side of his face where Duncan had hit him, then slumped down along the wall to sit on the floor, his knees up, his head bowed.  Duncan sat down too, leaning his back against the bed, and waited some more.

"I lost my temper," Connor finally admitted.

Duncan quoted Connor's teacher, and his own.  "Never fight when you're angry."

Connor snorted, the edges of a grin flickering around his mouth.  "I know."

"What were you angry about?" Duncan asked, and when he got no answer, started to give Connor another lead to follow.  "Did I do--?"

"No," Connor broke in, meeting his eyes with a steady, honest gaze.

Duncan exhaled slowly in mingled relief and confusion.  "But you were angry with me."

"I shouldn't have been," Connor said.

That was good to hear, but it still didn't explain anything.  Duncan tried another approach.  "You weren't in a good mood when you got back from Aberdeen."

"No," Connor agreed.

Duncan resisted the urge to reach over and beat Connor's head against the wall to get him to talk more, and instead asked only, "Is that when you killed Cassandra?"

Connor's mouth quirked in a mirthless grin.  "No.  I wanted to, but Roland took care of her for me that time."

And four days ago in the exercise room, Duncan had seen how guilty Connor still felt about that.  "So, when did you kill her?"

"In 1592," Connor replied, finally producing some information, "about six weeks after she killed me."

"She killed you?" Duncan repeated in shock, then nodded slowly.  "Of course, she did.  For training.  The old-fashioned kind."  To teach Connor a lesson in "trust."

"Yeah," Connor muttered.  "And she was ... thorough about it."

Methos had been thorough about it, too, and Cassandra had apparently learned that lesson very well.  Duncan shook his head, sickened, wondering what she had done to Connor, and what Methos had done to her.  But Duncan couldn't ask Connor for details, not now; this was already difficult enough.

"I left that day," Connor was saying.  "About a month later, I came back to ask her why, and she said that Immortals lead hard lives, and require hard lessons.  I could see that, so I stayed."

Duncan had stayed, too, but he hadn't killed his own teacher to get even.  Though he had thought about it a few times.

"But she knew I was still angry with her, and she wanted to get that over with," Connor said, forcing out the last few words.  "She deliberately _pushed_ me, until I lost my temper and killed her."

Finally, it made sense.  An everyday sparring practice, Cassandra taunting Connor the same way Connor had taunted him, angry words, a flare of temper, a quick slash with a sword ... it happened easily enough. Just read the paper any day.  Connor wasn't the only one to lose his temper during a fight.  "And you enjoyed it," Duncan said, relieved it was that simple.

"Every second of it," Connor said, looking off into nothing.  His hands were clenching and unclenching, his eyes had gone flat and gray, the eyes of a man who can kill, who has killed, and who knows he will kill again.  And who enjoys it.

Duncan knew those eyes, that look.  He saw it in the mirror everyday.

Connor added slowly, "I hadn't known ... I could like killing that much, especially killing a woman that way.  I hadn't known I could--"  He closed his eyes and sighed, leaned his head back against the wall, his hands stilled now as he wrapped his arms about his folded legs, the fingers tightly interlaced so that the knuckles showed white.  The words came heavily, dull weights of guilt and shame.  "I broke her neck with my bare hands."

Duncan's mouth fell open in shock.  Connor would never--  It wasn't possible.  No.  Not Connor, not his teacher, not him.  Duncan had never killed a woman, except in an immortal battle.  He had never wrapped his hands around a woman's throat to twist and squeeze, not even in the Darkness.  Kronos had done that, and Caspian and Silas, and maybe even Methos had done it, long ago, but Duncan couldn't believe that Connor could ever do such a thing, or could take pleasure in it.

Duncan shook his head, trying to make sense of it, to excuse it, as he had tried to make sense of Methos's gleeful claims.  "I killed," Methos had said, letting the word linger on his tongue, "but I didn't just kill fifty.  I didn't kill a hundred."  He had smiled engagingly, charmingly.  "I killed a thousand.  I killed TEN thousand!"

But that had been Methos the Horseman, a stranger from two thousand years ago, a man who didn't exist anymore, and this was Connor, his teacher and clansman and friend, a man Duncan had known and respected--and admired--all his life.  "Did she use the Voice on you?" Duncan ventured, desperately hoping it was true.  "Did she--?"

"No," Connor interrupted flatly, opening his eyes, staring at him, another painful and honest admission.  "I wanted to kill her, Duncan, and I did.  And I enjoyed it."

Duncan blinked hard, trapped in a nightmare of echoes.  <"I killed because--I liked it.">  Maybe Connor had just lost himself in momentary battle-madness, dropped his sword in the fight and started to use his hands, maybe--

But Connor wasn't finished.  "After she revived, I wanted to kill her all over again."

<"I killed TEN thousand!">  Duncan pushed himself to his feet and made his way to the other side of the bed, then leaned one hand on the top of the dresser and the other hand against the wall, laid his head on his arm, bracing himself against the flood of memories:

--Methos, with a laugh of frenetic desperation, leaning forward to share an ugly confidence: "I was Death, Death on a horse."

--Connor, his lips drawn back in a cold snarling smile of hate, ramming his sword through Duncan's ribs and into his heart.

--Richie this summer, his sword in his hand, angry and suspicious and ready to fight: "Did you come here for me?  I'm ready."

--and his own face in the mirror, when he was still in the Darkness, his own eyes sated with blood and with power and with other people's pain.  "You're wrong," he had told Richie, about taking Koltec's head.  "I loved it."  And he had.  He had loved the conquest and the lightning and the sheer fucking power of it all, loved it with Koltec and then with Sean Burns, loved it again with Caspian and with Kronos, and Duncan knew that he lusted after it still.

He drew a trembling breath, let it out slowly.  He was _not_ going to let that hunger control him.  He was _not_ going to be like that anymore.  He had come through the Darkness into the Light, and he had silenced the Voice of Death.  He was not nothing.  It was over, and the Horseman Death was vanquished, too.  Methos had changed, and Connor had changed, and no matter what they had done in the past--no matter what he himself had done in the past--it didn't define who they were now, or who they wanted to be.

Duncan lifted his head.  In the mirror above the dresser, he could see Connor, still sitting on the floor, his head resting on his knees, miserable and alone.  Duncan joined him, sat down next to him on the floor and laid his hand on Connor's shoulder, a gesture of acceptance, of understanding, of love.  "You didn't kill her again," Duncan stated, sure of that, sure of Connor, too.  "Not then, not later in Aberdeen.  You stopped yourself."  So had Methos--eventually.

Connor lifted his head to stare at nothing once more.  "Barely."

"But you did stop," Duncan insisted.  "You're not like that, Connor."

Connor nodded slowly then straightened his back and stretched out his legs, the tension and the loneliness easing away, and Duncan dropped his hand.  Connor leaned his head against the wall and added thoughtfully, "You know, if I hadn't already known what it was like to kill her, I probably would have killed her in Aberdeen, and taken her head."

"Why?" Duncan asked, grabbing the opening, but Connor didn't answer.  "I'm not a dentist, Connor," Duncan said in exasperation.  "I don't like pulling teeth."

Connor rubbed his jaw slowly where Duncan had hit him.  "They do feel kind of loose."

"Talk," Duncan demanded, ignoring the ploy.  "What happened in Aberdeen to make you so angry?"  Angry with Cassandra, and angry with Duncan, too.

Connor shook his head with a sigh, then rattled off his reasons, ripping out that festering tooth as quickly as he could.  "You were the Highland Foundling, the fulfillment of the prophecy.  Cassandra had been waiting for you for three thousand years.  She got Ramirez to go to the Highlands with her, she made sure your parents took you in, she got rid of the midwife.  She took me as a student to finish my training, she convinced me to be your teacher, she arranged meetings between us for seven years, she told me when you became an Immortal.  And then in 1630 she asked me to meet her in Aberdeen."

Duncan thought of Connor's bitterness from a few days before: "I found out she'd been lying to me, about a lot of things, and in a lot of ways."  Lying to Connor every day and every night, lying to him even as she was lying _with_ him, lying to him with smiles and caresses and with pretended words of love, lying to him and using him for nearly forty years.  God, what a calculating, cold-hearted bitch!

Connor's conclusion was calmly stated, devoid of emotion, and sharp enough to cut to the bone.  "That was the day I realized that everything she'd done, she'd done because of you."

And now Duncan remembered his own angry words from that fight long ago, words born of his pain and confused rage, words that told Connor exactly what he couldn't bear to hear: "She didn't want _you._"  First Cassandra and then Janet, then the barmaids and the dancers and the girls in every town, down through the centuries, woman after woman, time after time, and then finally Alex, Connor's wife in Connor's own house ...

"Oh, Jesus, Connor," Duncan whispered, reaching out to his kinsman, but Connor was already leaving, slamming his way out the door and down the stairs.  Duncan closed his eyes as he put his head in his hands.  He didn't want to see Connor this way, stripped bare in shamed agony, hurt and defensive and humiliated, and he knew Connor didn't want to be seen.  But Duncan could not help but see Connor's steadfast love and his unbidden, unwanted hate; his fond pride and his bitter resentment; and the aching, bleeding, vulnerable uncertainty buried deep beneath it all.

"Oh, Connor."

~~~~~

Connor grabbed his coat on his way out the front door, heading out into the cold of the late afternoon twilight, fleeing from Duncan's kind, understanding, _pitying_ eyes.

_God!_  Connor didn't need pity, didn't want any of this, didn't want Duncan to know--had _never_ wanted Duncan to know--just how fucking stupid he had been all those years ago, and how goddamned stupid he felt right now.  And Alex would ask, and Cassandra would wonder, and then Duncan would start to explain ... oh, just absolutely fucking wonderful.

"Merry Christmas, MacLeod," Connor muttered to himself, and he kept on walking--because there wasn't any use in running anymore, and there was nowhere left to run--walking away from the warm yellow lights that shone in the windows of his home, out into the icy whiteness of snow-covered fields.
 
 
 

Duncan sat in Alex and Connor's bedroom for a few moments, then he hauled himself to his feet and went hunting for Cassandra.  He knocked on the door to the guest bedroom, but he didn't bother to wait for an answer before he opened it.  Alex and Cassandra were both sitting on the floor, and Alex had one of the babies on her lap--Sara probably, judging from the pink hat.  A blue-hatted baby lay sleeping in a bassinet near the bed.

"Cassandra," Duncan said grimly, "I want to talk to you."

Cassandra rose slowly, but Alex commanded, "Then you can talk right here."

"Alex ..."  Duncan didn't want to drag all this ugly business out in front of Connor's wife.

"I already know everything that happened between Cassandra and Connor," she said bluntly.  "I know they were lovers.  I know she killed him, and I know why--and how--he killed her.  And I know what happened after that."

What happened _after_? Duncan repeated silently.  God in Heaven, there was more?  But Alex was still talking, and he turned his attention back to her.

"I have a right to know what's going on now," Alex said.

Duncan nodded.  There had been enough secrets, on all sides, and Cassandra had been behind them all.  She was waiting for him, standing with her back against the wall, her hands at her sides, staring at the floor.  Duncan took a deep breath for control.  "I've known Connor nearly all my life," he told her, forcing himself to stay calm.  "I've known that he would kill for me, that he would die for me.  I've known that he loved me."

And Duncan loved Connor, would die for him, would kill for him, would do whatever it took to protect him, or to avenge him.  Connor had--in some way--loved Cassandra, and Cassandra had sliced him into shreds.  Duncan started pacing between the bed and the door.  "I've known that, almost from the beginning, he was ... envious of me, but I never understood why, until today."

Duncan stopped to give her a chance to answer, but Cassandra didn't move, didn't look up, didn't respond to him at all, like he wasn't even there.  Like she didn't even care.

"I lied to you exactly once," Duncan continued, walking again, forcing calmness again, "lied to you by mistake, and you damn near took my head off for it.  You said I made you feel worthless, like you were nothing, and I felt guilty about that.  I actually felt sorry for you."

God, how gullible could he be?  This woman had been scheming and lying for centuries, for millennia.  She had used him and used Connor, and probably used Ramirez, too.  Duncan took two quick steps over to her, frustration and fury burning away any show of calm, his voice rising in rage.  "But you lied to Connor for forty years!  Day in, day out, over and over again."  He flung her own words into her face.  "You lied every time you listened to him, every time you pretended that you cared, every time you took him to your bed!"  Duncan felt his hands clenching into fists, and he wanted to take her by the neck and squeeze.  No wonder Connor had killed her, had wanted to kill her again.

"You _bitch_," Duncan swore, soft and vicious, and she finally flinched at that word.  "How could you do that to him?" Duncan demanded, commanding his hands to stay at his sides.  "How could you use him that way?"

"It wasn't like that," she said, finally having something to say for herself.  "And Connor knows it.  We talked about it this summer."

"Three and a half centuries later!"

"I couldn't go to him earlier!" she protested.  "He would have killed me."

"I'm not surprised," Duncan snapped.  "You ripped his heart out, Cassandra."

"I know," she whispered, almost soundless, her lips tightening.  Then she lifted her head and declared, "What's between me and Connor is none of your business, Duncan."

Duncan ground his teeth together but agreed.  "No.  It isn't."  Connor had said it was a misunderstanding, and Connor had--for some unfathomable reason--accepted Cassandra as his friend.  Duncan had to honor that.  But Cassandra still owed *him.*  "You've been playing games with my life since before I was born, and now I find out you've been between me and Connor, too."  For years.  For centuries.  "Do you have any idea what that did to him, to think that he was just some ... _fucking_ toy for you to play with, until you finally got to me?"

Cassandra opened her mouth to reply, but Duncan didn't give a damn about what she had to say anymore.  "Do you have any idea what that did between us?" he demanded.  "All the jealousy, the insecurity, the competition ... all his jokes that weren't really funny, all the little games he's played, all the contests to prove who was 'better,' all those goddamned _lies_ between us ..."  Lie after lie after goddamned fucking lie, and every single one of them could be traced straight back to her.  Duncan slammed his hand against the wall, right next to her beautiful, lying head.

She didn't move at all.

Duncan stepped back, breathing slowly and carefully, trying to relax his fingers and open his fists.  He glanced over at Alex, who was still watching and listening, evaluating the confrontation.  Duncan breathed a silent prayer of relief that somehow both babies had managed to stay asleep.  He hadn't meant to lose his temper this way.

Cassandra was standing quietly against the wall, eyes wide and watchful, face calm and composed.  Only her hands betrayed her fear, slight tremors in her fingertips beating a silent tattoo against the sides of her legs.  Methos had broken those fingers, broken them over and over again.  Duncan didn't much care.  "And it was all because of _you_," Duncan said with complete disgust.

"You're right," she admitted softly, not even trying for an excuse.  "I'm sorry, Duncan.  I never meant to come between you and Connor like that."

"Just like you never meant for my father to banish the midwife?" he demanded.  "Just like you never meant to hurt Connor?"

"Just like that," she agreed, submissive still.

"Seems like there've been a lot of things you 'never meant' to happen," Duncan observed.

Her placid mask was ripped away by sudden rage.  "At least I try to fix them!" she spat, her eyes narrowing, her fingers curling into claws.  "At least I didn't make Connor think I cared about him, only to hand him over to somebody else to be raped and beaten and killed, while I stood by and _watched_!"

Duncan wasn't going to let her get away with that.  "Methos has nothing to do with what you did to Connor."

"No," she agreed, not trying to defend herself there, "that fault is mine.  Mine alone."  Cassandra took a step towards him, coming in for the attack.  "But Methos has a lot to do with you," she pointed out.  "You asked me if I knew what it feels like to be used as a 'fucking toy.'  Oh, yes, Duncan," she agreed again, her cold eyes matching her cold smile, "I know.  Your friend Methos taught me.  He told you about that, didn't he?"

Methos hadn't told him much, and Duncan didn't really want to know.

Cassandra wasn't finished yet.  "You seem willing to accept and forgive what Methos did to me, and to countless others, but here you are, furious at me because I lied and hid things from Connor, and from you.  I was trying to protect both of you from Roland, and I did the best I could."

Duncan wasn't going to let her get away with that, either.  "Your best wasn't very good."  Cassandra's fingers were twitching, though Duncan didn't think it was with fear anymore.  She probably wanted to slap him again.

"I know that," she said, grinding out each word.  "Methos isn't the only one to have regrets.  But at least my regrets don't include the rape and torture and murder of thousands of people."

A flash of movement caught Duncan's eye, and he turned to see Alex shifting position, her narrowed eyes and open mouth revealing her confusion, and her sudden keen interest.  So, Alex hadn't known everything after all.  Damn.

Duncan stepped back from Cassandra and took yet another calming breath, realizing she was demanding he give her the same consideration he had shown Methos.  Connor had already forgiven and accepted Cassandra, and she had just admitted her wrongdoing and apologized to Duncan.  She had lied to Connor and used him, true, even killed him a few times, but she hadn't slaughtered Connor's family in front of his eyes.  She hadn't enslaved him, raped him, or broken his fingers over and over again to tame him to her will, and then handed him over to someone else to be brutally beaten and raped.  And she hadn't murdered thousands of people just because she liked it.

Methos had.

And if Duncan could accept Methos, with all of his gory past, and if Duncan was going to ask Cassandra to accept the new Methos and forget about the old one, then Duncan had damn well better live up to his own words and accept the new Cassandra, too.  He opened his mouth to tell her that, but she was heading for the door.  Duncan took her by the arm.  "Where are you going?"

She shook him off and turned to Alex.  "I need to go to Connor," Cassandra said.

"Go," Alex ordered.  "And make things work this time."

Cassandra hurried from the room, and from the hallway came the banging of the front door.  Duncan sighed as he slumped down to sit on the floor, the anger draining away, leaving him empty and tired.  Anger with what? he suddenly wondered.  With Cassandra for using him and for hurting Connor?  Or with Connor for lying to him all these years?  Anger with Methos for using him, anger with himself, anger with Cassandra just for bringing him bad news and for coming between him and Methos, too?

Oh, Christ.  Duncan ran his fingers through his hair then rested his head in his hands, wondering just what the hell he'd done, if he'd simply taken all of his recent pent-up rage out on her.  He looked up to meet Alex's considering stare.  "Do you think I was too hard on her?" he asked.

"No."

Duncan snorted with surprise at the quickness and at the reply.  For all the friendship between the two women, Alex was angry with Cassandra, too.  "When did Connor tell you what happened?"

"This summer, when Cassandra was visiting, after their ... disagreement."

"You mean after Cassandra tried to take his head?" Duncan asked.

"And after Connor tried to kill her," Alex added.

Duncan blinked.  "This summer?  Again?"

"She does seem to bring out the worst in him," Alex said wryly.  "But I think it was just left over from a long time ago. They'd never dealt with what happened between them."

Neither had he and Connor.  But it seemed Connor wasn't keeping secrets from his wife anymore.  "Alex, are you all right with Connor and Cassandra being ...?"

Alex sighed in annoyance, blowing air upward to push her bangs from her eyes.  "Right now, I wish I'd never met her.  And I wish to God Connor had never met her, either."

Duncan wished to God he'd never met Cassandra, either.

Alex shrugged.  "But he did, and they both need to deal with this.  I just want them to get it over with, and I want them to do it where I can see what's happening."

"I'm sure they won't--"

"No," she said, another quick reply, this time with a smile.  "Connor's faithful, Cassandra's sexually frigid, and there's a foot of snow on the ground."

"There is that," Duncan agreed, smiling in return, though snow by itself wouldn't stop Connor; at least it hadn't in the past.

"Are you and Connor done yet?" she asked.  "Or should I expect another fight tomorrow?"

Duncan rubbed his hand along his jaw, over the rough stubble starting there, remembering the punch Connor had landed.  "I think we're done," he said cautiously.  "I sure hope we are."

"Good," Alex said briskly.  "I'm tired of it."

"So am I."  Duncan leaned his head back and closed his eyes, debating if he should go take a nap.

Alex's voice forced him awake again.  "So, Duncan, who is Methos?"

Duncan sighed, feeling a little like Connor had upstairs.  But Alex had put up with a lot over the last few days, and she had a right to know what was going on.  Some of it, anyway.  "Right now, he's my friend.  A few thousand years ago, he was Cassandra's master."

"Not a kind master," Alex observed.

"No."  Duncan changed the subject.  "Alex, what happened after Connor killed Cassandra?"

Alex hesitated then shook her head.  "That's not for me to say."

"Damn it, Alex," Duncan swore.  "I'm sick of--"

"Ask Cassandra, if you really think you need to know," Alex broke in.  "Connor won't talk about it.  And don't ever ask him," she added, a clear warning in her words.  "He's been through enough."

Duncan got the message, loud and clear, and Alex had been through enough, too.  On to a more cheerful topic.  "You seem really comfortable being around babies, Alex," he commented.

"I babysat a lot when I was in high school," she said, responding quickly and with obvious relief.  "I always liked the little ones."

"And they're eating OK?"

"They seem to be.  My milk hasn't come in yet, maybe in a day or two, the nurse said."  Alex smiled down at her daughter.  "So far, it's going pretty good."  She looked up and added dryly, "The babies, I mean."  Then she laughed at herself.  "Of course, we've only been home for about six hours."

Duncan nodded.  Things would change soon enough.  They always did.

Banging noises came from the kitchen, and Alex said, "Sounds like John decided to come inside and eat."

"You hungry?" Duncan offered.

"Yes," she said, and Duncan took a sleeping Sara from her and helped Alex stand.  "Would you take the babies upstairs to the nursery, Duncan?" she asked.  "They should sleep for another hour or two."

"They sleep a lot," Duncan said, settling Sara comfortably in the crook of one arm and picking up the handle of Colin's bassinet with his other hand.

"They're only two days old," Alex said ruefully.  "They'll be more awake and aware in another day or so.  Just wait."

"Why do you think I offered to take John skiing?" Duncan asked with a grin before he went upstairs to put the twins to bed.
 
 
 
 
 

Duncan and Alex had just finished eating when the presence of Immortals slid down his spine.  "They're back," he told Alex, and she went to the hall to wait.  John had already left to sort out his Christmas presents, and Duncan stayed in the kitchen by himself.  Connor didn't need an audience right now.  But when Cassandra came into the kitchen, Duncan stood.  "Got a minute?" he asked her.

"I'm going to have some tea," she answered, setting the kettle on the stove.  "It's cold outside."

It was cold inside, too, now that Cassandra had shown up.  Duncan sat back down and waited, watching her trio of reflections in the three windows of the far wall as she moved about the room.  Three Cassandras, each from a different angle, each showing a different side: far-seeing knowledge, unbalanced rage, shattered vulnerability.  Witch and fury and slave.  One woman.

She took her time about her task, her boot heels clicking on the gray slate floor, but finally, she sat down at the head of the long trestle table and neatly arranged her tea cup, saucer, and spoon.  "Well?" Duncan asked, leaning toward her.

"I told him what he needed to hear," Cassandra said, relaxing in her chair.  She crossed her long legs at the ankles and examined her black leather boots, turning her feet this way and that.

"And that was?" he prodded.

The boots stilled, and Cassandra turned her gaze on him, a predatory evaluation.  "The truth."

"It's about time."

"Yes.  It is."  One corner of her mouth moved, the faintest tracery of a smile.  "Do you want the truth, too, Duncan?  Do you really want to know?"

"Yes."  He was sick to death of these games.

She nodded once and let him have it.  "I told him that I'd never wanted you as a lover, then or now.  I told Connor that I had wanted him, and that he was magnificent, both in and out of bed.  I told him that he was the best lover I've ever had.  Better than Ramirez."  She picked up her cup and sipped at the steaming liquid, her green eyes watching him from over the rim, detached and curious, amused and cold.  "And better than you."

Duncan forcibly relaxed the sudden tightness in his jaw, the cold knot in his gut.  He'd asked for it, and she had been all-too-pleased to comply.  Payback for calling her a bitch, no doubt, and payback for a lot of other things, too.  But she was right, it was exactly what Connor had needed to hear.  Duncan didn't mind hearing it, not really, although maybe not in quite those words.

"Oh, not that you weren't magnificent, too, Duncan," she said, setting down her cup, all wide-eyed sweetness.  "And the night we spent together was marvelously memorable, and exquisitely enjoyable."

How exquisitely gracious of her.

"But Connor ..."  Her eyes lost their focussed vindictiveness, went soft, even vulnerable.  She blinked and met Duncan's eyes, no pretense or anger left, only the truth.  "That night with you was truly special to me, Duncan, in many ways.  I do mean that."  She managed a tentative smile.  "You made me feel wonderful.  You made me feel alive again."

Duncan nodded, accepting these words just as they came, accepting her unspoken apology, too.

"But Connor made me feel loved, and that has been ... so very rare in my life."  She picked up her tea cup again, but this time she bowed her head to drink from it, and Duncan could not see her face.

He settled back on the bench, reminded of what she'd been through lately, of what she'd been through three thousand years ago, and he wondered what had happened to her in between.  Some good, at least--she had said she'd put her time with the Horsemen behind her, and she had told him she'd been married four times--but enough bad so that love was a rarity.  Connor had given Cassandra love, and no matter how messed up she had been in showing it, she had loved him, too.  She still did.  Duncan could see it all over her.  And he knew that Connor had accepted her apology and accepted her as a friend for the same reason he himself had accepted Methos.  Not everything between them had been a lie.

"I'm sorry, Cassandra," Duncan said quietly.  "I shouldn't have yelled at you like that."

She shrugged, her head down.  "You were right, and I deserved it.  I hadn't realized ... what I had done to him."  She blinked rapidly.  "I never wanted to hurt him."

"Not even when you killed him?" Duncan asked, being gentle about it, but intent on getting the truth--all of it.

She looked up, her eyes bright with unshed tears.  "That was immortal training, Duncan.  I didn't want to do it; I hated it.  And I hated myself for doing it."

"Connor said you were 'thorough' about it."

Cassandra nodded, once more seeming cool and unconcerned.  "That lesson needs to be learned thoroughly."  They stared at each other across the table until she asked, "What kind of lessons have you given Richie?"

Duncan looked away, but still the images came.  Richie, only two weeks an Immortal, beaten and groaning on the exercise mat, while Duncan ordered him to get up and fight.  Richie, on his knees and bleeding, with Duncan's sword slicing ever-so-sweetly into his throat, pleading for a reason: "Just tell me why?"  Richie, hard-eyed and angry, his sword in his hand, spitting out the words: "Thanks, Teach.  I got it now."  And Duncan, trying to explain, hating himself and despising himself, and wondering just how he'd done it all so wrong.

Duncan nodded back to Cassandra, understanding now.  "Thorough ones."

Cassandra's mouth twisted as she blinked back those tears.  "I hate teaching Immortals," she said.  "You have to become so cruel."  She bent her head to her tea, her long hair veiling her face.

Duncan rose to get a glass of water, to give them both time to regroup.  As he watched the liquid flow into the glass, he tried to decide what to do.  Should he ask now or later?  Or should he ask at all?  Maybe Cassandra wouldn't tell him, maybe it wouldn't be that bad, maybe he didn't really want to know.  But then again ...

Oh, what the hell.  Duncan sat down and faced Cassandra.  "What happened after Connor killed you?"

Cassandra's mask appeared again, a polite one this time, eyes wide yet empty, lips curved in a slight and meaningless smile.  She reached for her spoon, stirred the already dissolved sugar in what was left of her tea.  Then she set down the spoon and looked at him.

Duncan returned her stare unblinking, telling himself she just another immortal, ignoring his earliest memories that whispered "Witch!" and his more recent memories that screamed against her Voice coiling through his mind.

"You're angrier at Connor for lying to you, than because of what he's done," she stated.  "It's his lack of trust that disturbs you the most."

Duncan nodded, half in surprise and half in recognition.  He had been angry with Methos for the same thing, and angry with Cassandra, too.  And after the Dark Quickening, Connor had been angry with him in just the same way.

"I'm going to tell you what happened," Cassandra said, "so that you will understand why Connor never told you--why he never wanted you to know--and so that you will never feel the need to bring this up again.  Connor won't want to talk about it with you," she said, with the same warning tone that Alex had used.  Cassandra pushed her tea away from her and laid both palms flat against the wood of the table, sat staring at her hands.  "Did he tell you how he killed me?"

"Yes," Duncan said grimly.

"Did he tell you where?"

"Where?" Duncan repeated, confused.  "Why should--?"

"I was naked beneath him in bed," Cassandra interrupted bluntly, looking at him now.

"Oh, Christ, no," Duncan whispered in disgusted horror, recoiling at that mingling of violence and sex.  "Connor wouldn't--"

"But he did," she contradicted, and Connor's own words had said it was true.

Duncan shook his head, wishing now he hadn't asked, but knowing he couldn't stop yet.  "What the hell did you say to him, to get him to kill you like that?"

"Exactly what he couldn't stand to hear," Cassandra replied.

"_Why?_" Duncan demanded.  "What in God's name were you thinking?"

"I wasn't thinking much at all," she said with a flicker of an ironic, bitter smile.  "Then after I revived, I offered him my body.  And he took it."

Duncan shoved the bench back and walked away.  "You don't know me at all," Cassandra had told him only a few hours before, and he had smiled, thinking he knew her pretty well.  But this ... He didn't *want* to know her.

But he needed to understand.  He went back to the table, standing at the far end, not too close.  "Do you ... do you enjoy that kind of thing?"  Bondage, submission, sado-masochism--a lot of people got off on receiving or inflicting pain, and for Immortals, the limits to pain didn't apply.

"No," she said immediately, a hoarse whisper, and her hands, still flat on the table, trembled.  "But sometimes, I deserve it."  She folded her hands on her lap and met his eyes.  "It wasn't rape, Duncan, and it wasn't murder.  I wanted him to.  Needed him to, maybe."

Wanted Connor to kill her, to hurt her, to use her body in revenge; needed him to punish her for what she had done to him.  Duncan walked away from the table again, paced around the room, then circled back to her, as everything seemed to go back to her.  "And after _that_?"

She was staring at the table, once more fragile and unsure.  "Connor yelled at me, for making him into something he never wanted to be.  And he was right.  I was drowning in hatred, my hatred of myself, and I dragged him down with me.  And then later, I almost destroyed him, just like ..."  She bit her lip and looked away.  "One more thing to add to the thousands I've done wrong."

One of a thousand regrets.  Duncan pulled out the chair next to hers, sat down and took her hand.  "You're still drowning, Cassandra."  And not just in hatred of herself.  "You need professional help."

"Alex and Connor both told me that, too," she said, with cheerful brittleness.  "I guess this confirms it.  I'm crazy."

"You've been through a lot," Duncan corrected gently.  "It's OK to ask for help."

After a moment she nodded and pulled her hand away.  "That's my New Year's resolution then: finding a therapist."  Cassandra tossed her hair from her face and shifted again, becoming once more the witch, cool and knowing.  "No matter what happened between Connor and me, Duncan, Connor's a good, decent man."

"I know that," Duncan said shortly.

"But Connor was afraid you wouldn't think that, if you ever knew.  And sometimes, he wasn't so sure himself."

Duncan closed his eyes and nodded, for he often felt exactly the same way.  He hadn't gone to Connor after killing Sean Burns; he hadn't gone to Richie after trying to take his head.  He hadn't wanted to face them, to see the disappointment and disillusionment in their eyes, to know there was yet one more thing he'd done wrong.  He didn't want to face himself.

This time Cassandra was the one to take his hand in hers.  "No one's perfect, Duncan.  Not even you."  He opened his eyes to see her gentle smile.  "We still accept you for who you are," she told him, then added in Gaelic, in the same words he had said to her long ago, when he had been a boy who was certain of the goodness in the world, "Did you not know that?"

Duncan laughed and patted her hand.  "Maybe we all just needed to hear it from each other."  He would tell Connor that today, and later tell Richie and Methos, too.  They didn't need to hide anymore.

~~~~~

Connor lay with his face buried against Alex's hair, his arms close around her, listening to their intermingled rhythms of breath and heart.  They lay there together, not saying anything, not doing anything, just holding each other in the warmth of their bed.  When he had come back from his walk with Cassandra, Alex had been waiting for him in the hall.  She had taken him upstairs, taken him to bed, and held him in her arms.  "I love you," she had told him, and then she had said nothing, asked nothing, just waited for him to speak.

Finally, he was ready.  "I love you," he told her.  It was a good way to start.

"I know," she answered, and he could feel her smile.  He picked his head up so he could see it, and see her.  She was watching him beneath a heavy silken fringe of pale-gold hair.  The crystal edges of her beauty were softened now, tired from the last few days.  Her face was rounded by motherhood, by weight gain and water retention and hormones, but her eyes were the same, dark blue as flawless sapphires, reflecting and creating light--and love.

Connor let himself drown in those eyes, savoring her warmth, her strength and patience.  God knew she'd needed a lot of that this last year--the pregnancy, the worry that Roland might come to their house in his search for the Highland Foundling, the argument with Duncan back in June, and then Cassandra storming into their lives, a hurricane of rage.  And then this Christmas ...

"I'm sorry," he said.

"For what?" she asked.  "For being immortal?  Or for being human?"  Her arms hugged him closer.  "I knew you weren't perfect when I married you.  At least now you admit it, too."

Connor laughed aloud but protested, "I never said I was perfect."

"No.  But you acted like you had to be.  Never admitting when you were lonely or scared.  Never asking for help."  She added softly, "Never letting me in."

He hadn't let anyone in for centuries, not even Brenda, not all the way.  They simply hadn't had time.  Heather, of course, he had told Heather everything.  They had lived together for fifty years.  But Heather hadn't been an Immortal; there had been some things she just couldn't understand, and they had both been so innocent then, so young.  Cassandra had probably understood him best of all, and after what she had done to him ...

Connor shrugged.  "Got out of practice."

"Old habits die hard," Alex said with a nod.  "Kind of like Immortals."

He chuckled as he reached up to run his fingers through her hair, each strand soft gold.  "Yeah," he agreed.  "Like Immortals."

"If Cassandra hadn't come," Alex began, "well, I understand you a lot better now, and I think Duncan does, too."  Connor grimaced at that, but Alex said swiftly, "He loves you, Connor, the same way you love him.  He'll accept you no matter what you do, once he understands.  He wasn't angry at you for killing Cassandra, was he, once he knew why?"

"Angry?  No," Connor admitted.  "Shocked, yes."  More like horrified.  But then Duncan had gotten a lot of practice lately in accepting horrifying things.  Maybe Methos was good for something after all.

"Duncan was angry at Cassandra for hurting you."

Connor's hand went still in Alex's hair.  "He was?"

"Of course, he was," Alex said with some impatience.  "The same way I was, when I found out this summer.  Duncan came in and yelled at her, called her a bitch."

Connor snorted in amusement, wishing he'd been there to see that little confrontation.  "What did she do?"

"Stood there and took it, then said she was wrong and apologized.  Then she went to look for you."  Connor nodded but said nothing, and Alex propped her head up on one hand, looking at him with bright and curious eyes.  "So?" she prodded.

"So?" Connor echoed, pretending complete innocence.

Alex's mouth twisted in amusement and impatience before she clarified, "So, what did you two talk about?"  When he didn't answer right away, Alex ordered, "Practice, Connor.  No more secrets."

"No more secrets," he agreed.  Not with Duncan, not with Cassandra, and not with Alex.  She was his wife, and she deserved to know.  That still didn't make it easy.  Connor blew air out slowly, wondering how to begin.  "This summer, you asked me if Cassandra had been frigid four hundred years ago."

Alex nodded.  "You didn't answer."

"I didn't know the answer.  She's a good actress, and an even better liar.  While I was with her, I thought it was good between us, but after I left her in Aberdeen, I thought she'd just been putting up with it, to convince me to help her."

"You mean putting up with you," Alex said gently, stripping bare another layer of pain, stripping away another lie.

Connor froze, his throat and his chest suddenly aching with the simple effort to breathe.  Even after all these years, it still hurt.  To think that Cassandra had gritted her teeth and forced herself to endure his clumsy caresses, to think that his very touch had made her skin crawl, to know that she had been imagining someone else in bed with her and had never even wanted him at all.

Connor nodded slowly to Alex, easing the air out, easing away the pain.  It hadn't been like that.  It wasn't true.  Alex was still waiting, and Connor forced himself to go on.  "Then this summer, when Cassandra told me what she'd been through, what the Horsemen and Roland had done to her, all the other rapes and the other men over the years, I figured she just didn't like sex with anybody."

"Except Duncan," Alex said, that barb going straight into the heart of it all, lodging and twisting in his guts, as it had all these years.  Because, of course, it hadn't been just "someone else" that Cassandra had wanted.  It had been Duncan, always and forever Duncan, before Duncan had even been born.

Connor shut his eyes, blessing and cursing his wife at the same time.  She was smart, she was beautiful, and she didn't let him get away with any crap.  Like any good archeologist, Alex was painstakingly observant and patient to the point of stubbornness, and she also wasn't shy about getting what she wanted.  It made for a formidable combination, and a formidable woman--and sometimes for uncomfortable conversations.  She knew too much.  She knew him too well, and it scared him.

And it freed him, let him emerge from behind those walls he'd built centuries ago, as Cassandra's words had freed him earlier tonight.  He had been wrong about that, too.  "I didn't want Duncan as a lover four hundred years ago," Cassandra had told Connor an hour or so earlier, as they stood outside in the wind and snow, "and I don't want him as a lover now."  Connor hadn't believed her at first--he had seen the two of them together, after all--but when Cassandra had suggested he ask Duncan, Connor had known that it was true.

"Well," Connor said lightly, as he opened his eyes, "Duncan's got a way with women."

"Did Cassandra tell you that?" Alex asked, digging again.

"Yeah," Connor admitted, but it wasn't that hard to say, not anymore.  "She said Duncan reminded her of Ramirez--a real ladies' man."  Connor smiled a little to himself, remembering the rest of Cassandra's words.

"You gave me more than Duncan or Ramirez ever did, Connor," Cassandra had told him.  "So much more.  You _make_ love.  You create it, with your hands, your voice, just the way you look at a woman, the way you hold her in your arms.  Even the way you reach out to touch her hair.  You give a woman everything you have, everything you are."

Connor let the smile show and said the easiest words of all, "But then she said she liked my way better.  Said she liked it best of all."  The best in over three thousand years.  And Connor felt better than he had in over three hundred years.  Actually, he felt pretty damn good.  All the lies and misunderstandings, all the bitter envy and corrosive uncertainty--all gone.  It would be like it used to be, long ago.

Or would it?  How much had he changed since then?  And how much could he change now?  Connor wasn't sure, but he wasn't too worried.  Alex would help, and Duncan would, too.  They would start over, with no more of those games.  No need, Connor thought, his self-satisfaction tinged with triumph as he tightened his arms about his wife and remembered Cassandra's final words: "Duncan was often in my thoughts, Connor, but you were always in my heart.  You still are."

"I'm not surprised she said she liked your way best," Alex was saying with supreme confidence, bringing his attention back to her.

"No?" he challenged her, smiling again.

"No.  Because I like your way best, too," Alex said, and she kissed him, fiercely sweet with love.

Connor banished all thought of Cassandra from his mind, and he kissed Alex with everything he had, and everything he was.  The kiss tasted sweet with the promise of spring, flowering slowly into summer's liquid heat, until Connor pulled away.  "I want to make love to you," he said to Alex, and it was an aching need within him, less of the body than of the soul.

"I'd like that, too," she said, tracing his lips with a gentle finger, "but the doctor said six weeks.  Maybe more."

"I know," he said, accepting that.  "I just wanted to tell you how I feel."

"Oh, Connor," she said, her eyes bright with sudden tears, and she pulled him close against her heart.  "Later," she promised, whisper soft in his ear.  "We have time."

But not enough, Connor thought, holding her tightly.  Never enough.  One year, ten years, fifty years--it could never be enough time.  But it could be enough love, and it was.

"And anyway, I think Sara's awake," Alex said, lifting her head.  Babies' whimpers came from the room next door.  "And there goes Colin, too."

"I'll get them," Connor said, and he went to the nursery.  He changed Sara's diaper first and took her to Alex, then he changed Colin and brought him to bed, too.  The babies took turns nursing, then the four of them fell asleep together, in the quiet twilight of a winter afternoon.  And there was more than enough love.

~~~~~

Later that day, Connor joined Cassandra and Duncan and John outside to build snowmen.  They were finished with the fourth snowman before the first snowball flew through the air.  Connor was surprised it had taken so long to get the fight going, but he wasn't surprised by who had started it--John was grinning at him, already packing another handful of snow.

Connor didn't waste time brushing the snow from his shoulder; he scooped up a handful as he moved behind the snowman for cover.  The snow was nearly perfect, not too dry, not too cold.  His weapon completed, Connor peered over the snowman and took aim at John's chest.  Bingo.  The snowball exploded on target, spraying snow up onto John's face.

"Uncle Dunc, help!" John called, following his father's example and taking cover as he prepared his next missile.  Duncan turned around and grinned when he saw the conflict, then he grabbed his own pile of snow.

Not quick enough, Duncan, thought Connor, and he let loose with a fast ball to Duncan's shoulder, enjoying the satisfyingly solid thwack of impact.  Connor was still grinning in triumph when a snowball hit him squarely between the shoulder blades, hard.  He whirled to see Cassandra smiling at him from about twelve feet away.  She had been waiting for him, and another snowball was already flying from her hand.  This time she caught him right in the chest.  Then Duncan hit him in the back, and John got him in the head.  Time to change positions; this one was too exposed.  Connor took off after Cassandra, packing a snowball as he ran.

She turned and fled, weaving and dodging, but his snowball still managed to catch her on the shoulder as she rounded the corner of the house.  Out of sight of Duncan and John, Cassandra turned, her eyes bright and laughing, her hair spangled with snow.  "Wait!" she exclaimed, as Connor drew back his arm.  "John and Duncan are ganging up on you; you and I can gang up on them."

"Truce?" he said, not lowering his weapon.

"Truce," she agreed, and he nodded and let fly.  Bingo.

"Now we're even," he told her as she wiped the snow from her face and her coat.  "And now we can be on the same team."

"Bastard," she called him with complete equanimity.

"Bitch," he returned, and she stuck out her tongue.  Connor laughed and gave her a challenging grin.  "Ready to get them?"

"Ready!" she answered, and they gathered their weapons and charged.

~~~~~

After dinner, John and Duncan and Connor went back outside.  Another snowball fight ensued, but after Duncan and John tackled Connor and dragged him down in the snow, it degenerated into a free-for-all of simply throwing handfuls of the white stuff at each other, and trying to shove snow down somebody else's back.

"Had enough?" Duncan asked when John flopped in the snow and didn't move.

"I'm going to make a snow angel," John said, and he went off to find an undisturbed patch of snow.

"How about you?" Duncan said to Connor, who was lying flat on his back, looking up at the night sky.

"Yeah," Connor admitted.  "I've had enough."

They all had.  Duncan nodded and stretched out, not too far away.  He'd been waiting to talk to Connor all afternoon, but now he didn't know how to start.  Duncan put his hands behind his head and stared at the full moon, then said quietly, "I understand why you didn't want to tell me."

Connor grunted softly.  "Shouldn't have let it go so long.  You deserved better."

"So did you," Duncan told him, and was answered by another soft grunt.  Duncan waited a moment, then asked the question that had been bothering him for days.  Weeks.  "Do you think Cassandra's going to be OK?  Sometimes she's seem fine, and then you just look at her wrong, and she nearly takes your head off."

The two men exchanged glances and twisted smiles at the double meaning of that particular statement, then Connor observed wryly, "Must be that time of the millennium," and Duncan snorted in amusement.

"She's lasted this long," Connor said, stretching his arms.  "I think she'll be all right eventually, maybe in a decade or two."

Duncan had another nagging question to ask.  "Do Alex and Cassandra really get along?"

"They have a lot in common: history, gardening, motherhood.  Shopping," Connor added with a roll of his eyes.

"And they both love you," Duncan ventured, expecting either Connor's standard sarcastic remark or an off-handed dismissal, or maybe a shrug and a quiet smile of disbelief.

But Connor only laughed and agreed easily, "Yeah, they do."

Duncan stretched his toes in his boots and his arms over his head, wondering what else might change.  This was a different Connor, a new Connor.  Or maybe it was the old Connor, the one Duncan had first met long ago, outside a hermit's cave.  It was good to see him again.  Duncan looked for Orion, then followed the pointer stars in the Big Dipper to the North Star, and watched the universe turn.

John came back, bright-eyed and red-cheeked with the cold.  "Let's go running!"

Connor looked at Duncan, questioning, and Duncan nodded, knowing this had changed as well.  "Let's go!"
 
 
 

"Are Richie and John back from picking Rachel and your mother up at the train station already?" Duncan asked Alex as he came into the kitchen, his sword in his hand.

"I didn't hear a car," she said, not even lifting her head as she huddled into the chair, her hands clutching her morning cup of coffee.  She hadn't combed her hair yet, and a forgotten burp cloth lay draped over the left shoulder of her bathrobe.

Duncan hadn't been expecting much of a response. Alex had said the twins would wake up more, and she had been right.  Her euphoria of the first few days had disappeared into exhaustion and inexplicable bursts of tears, and even more inexplicable fits of anger.  When Duncan and John had returned from the ski trip yesterday, Connor had taken them aside and warned them to be careful around her.  But there wasn't much Duncan could do about this.

Alex finally woke up enough to focus on the weapon in Duncan's hand, and she went pale and stood.  "Maybe Cassandra's back?" she suggested.

Duncan shook his head.  "She just called and said she'd be here at lunch, in time for the twins' christening ceremony this afternoon."

Connor came running into the room, his own sword unsheathed and ready.  "I saw him from the bedroom window," he said.  "Nobody I know--tall, blond, cavalry saber.  Friend of yours?"

"Don't think so," Duncan answered, mentally running through a list of names and faces and swords.  Connor nodded and reached for his shoes, but Duncan laid a hand on his arm.  "I'll take care of it, Connor.  You stay here."

"It's my house, Duncan.  It's my fight."

"You're in no condition to fight," Duncan told him bluntly.  Connor looked like hell--unshaven, shirtless, mismatching socks, and even more bleary-eyed than Alex.  He and Duncan and Richie had stayed up late last night celebrating the New Year, and then, after midnight, they had started to celebrate Connor's birthday.  Richie and Duncan had gone off to bed around three, but it didn't look like Connor had gotten any sleep at all.  "Rough night?" Duncan asked.

Connor snorted in disdain, but Alex spoke up.  "Sara was up and crying from about three to four, then Colin woke up about four-thirty.  We got to sleep around five, didn't we, Connor?"

"Until Sara woke up at six," Connor said impatiently.

Duncan glanced at the clock above the stove--eight-fifteen.  Connor might have dozed off for an hour or so this morning, until the approach of an Immortal had woken him.

"Damn it, Duncan, you can't fight my battles for me," Connor said, his impatience turning to anger.

"Not all of them," Duncan replied pleasantly, putting on his coat.  "Think of this as a special occasion."  He winked at Alex, but didn't get a smile in return.

"You are not going out there," Connor declared then turned to speak to Alex.

Duncan seized the opportunity.  He took one quick step forward and hit Connor with a left cross, knocking him out cold.

"Duncan!" Alex protested, hurrying over to her husband, who had crumpled to the floor.

"He was arguing," Duncan explained, shaking his hand to get the feeling back.  "Tell him it's a birthday present from me."

"The punch?" she countered.  "Or the fight?"

Duncan grinned.  "Both."  He buttoned his coat and pulled on the thin leather gloves that wouldn't interfere with control of his sword.

Alex left Connor lying on the kitchen floor and gave Duncan a hug.  "Thank you."

"No problem," he said, and it hadn't been, not at all.  Not in the slightest.

Neither was the fight.  When Duncan got back to the house half an hour later, Connor was waiting for him in the kitchen, sipping coffee and reading the newspaper.  "Have fun?" Connor asked, shaking the newspaper to straighten the pages.

"A little," Duncan replied, taking off his coat and gloves.  He poured himself a cup of coffee and sat down across from his kinsman.

"Good," Connor said with a chuckle.  "Nice to know you left some for me."

"Of course," Duncan said.  "I don't want to have all the fun, or all the good women."

Connor grinned.  "You don't," he said smugly and handed Duncan the sports section.  "Happy new year, Duncan."

"Happy new year, Connor," Duncan replied cheerfully, feeling an absurd urge to whistle and giving in to it gracefully.  Yes, it was going to be a really good year.
 
 
 

To write to the author: [email protected]
To read more stories by the author: http://users.erols.com/darkpanther/
______

Fionnmore does not exist.  However, the whisky that Connor and Duncan drink does exist; it is from the Cragganmore distillery.  If you wish to read more about single malt Scotch whisky, look at <www.whiskynet.com>.
_____

"Dearer Yet the Brotherhood" and "Hope Remembered 4: Kindred" are companion stories, so if you're curious about some of the things that happen "off-stage" in this story, you can find them in the other one.
_____

DISCLAIMERS:
Not my characters, not my universe.  No money is being made.  Cassandra, Methos, and all the MacLeods belong to TPTB.  Alistair MacDougal is mentioned on the second Watcher CD.
 

GRATEFUL ACKNOWLEDGMENTS TO:

Bridget Mintz Testa, who has waited for nearly two years to see this story finished, and who stuck with me for that final re-re-re-written scene.  Couldn't have done this without you, B, many, many thanks, as always!

Vi Moreau, who got me back on track when I wandered.

Sandra McDonald, who told me to _look_ at the story.

Listen-r, who helped me weave the tartan and eat cookies and cake.

Rowan Reid, who researched fauna and flora and tackled POV.

Genevieve Clemens, who wanted to know what Connor thought about Methos.

Robin Tennenbaum, who found dull and deadly spots (out, out damned spot!) and told me to give Connor his due.

Marianna Nystrom, my harp teacher.  Her CD "Celtic Dreams" is available through www.handstoharps.com.
 

MORE STORIES IN THIS STORY-UNIVERSE
==============
DUNCAN STORIES
"The Highland Foundling" (Dec 1592) Duncan is adopted.

"All the Birds of the Forest" (Fall 1618) Duncan's first and second loves.

"They Bitterly Weep" (Fall 1622) Duncan is banished.

"Faery Child" (Oct 1823) Duncan meets a 16-month-old Immortal.

"Changed Utterly" (Sep-Dec 1999) Duncan mourns Richie.
==============
CONNOR STORIES
"Solstice Sun" (1592) Connor remembers his time with Heather then finds the infant Duncan MacLeod.

"Covers" (1863-1993) Connor and his friend Evann share a blanket or two.

"Wild Mountain Thyme" (March 1994) Connor meets Alex Johnson.
==============
HORSEMEN STORIES
"The Voice of Death" (1300 BCE-June 1996) Roland's side of the story.

"Just a Game" (April 1996) The Horsemen and the origins of the Game.

"Long Have I Waited" (Nov 1996) Methos and Kronos, from beginning to end. (These last two stories were co-written with Genevieve Clemens.)
==============
CASSANDRA STORIES
"Heart, Faith, and Steel" (500 BCE-1542) Cassandra and Ramirez, a love story.

"Hope Forgotten 1-Priestess" (1200 BCE) The origin of the prophecy.

"Hope Forgotten 2-Witch" (1501-1592) Cassandra and Connor as teacher and student. ADULT: explicit sex, violence

"Hope Forgotten 3-Guardian" (1592-1623) Cassandra watches over pre-Immortal Duncan while he watches her go skinny-dipping.

"Hope Forgotten 4-Exile" (May 1630) Connor gets irked at Cassandra, but manages not to kill her.  ADULT: explicit sex, profanity

"Hope Forgotten 5-Penitent" (June 1996) Cassandra holds Connor's sword to his neck.

"Hope Forgotten 6-Sentinel" (June 1996) The Highland Foundling challenges the Voice of Death.

"Hope Remembered 1-Friend" (June-Aug 1996) Connor and Cassandra lose their tempers and their self-control.  ADULT themes.

"Hope Remembered 2-Fury" (Nov 1996) Cassandra goes after the Horsemen. ADULT: rape, violence, language

"Hope Remembered 3-Confidante" (Nov-Dec 1996) Cassandra chats with Elena Duran (co-written with Vi Moreau).  ADULT themes

"Hope Remembered 4-Kindred" (Dec 1996) After the Horsemen, Cassandra and Duncan reconcile; Connor's children are born.  Companion story to "Dearer Yet the Brotherhood."

"Hope Remembered 5-Priestess" (Jan 1997) Cassandra meets Richie.

"Hope Triumphant 1-Healer" (1997-1999) Cassandra goes drinking with Methos and dancing with Richie, then Duncan faces an ancient evil while Connor waits and worries.

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<the following stories were still being written, as of August 2000

"Hope Triumphant 2-Sister" (2000-2030) Connor and Alex, Cassandra and Sara.
"Hope Triumphant 3-Anamchara" (2030-2060) Cassandra and Connor together again.
"Hope Triumphant 4-Mother" (2700-2800) Methos and Cassandra start over.

"Hope Reborn" a final solution
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