Chapter Text
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."