Author's note: This short story is a sort of Euro-minutes for "Through 
a Glass Darkly". These are the scene's that I would have like to have 
seen,but didn't, and I just had to write it out before going back to the 
biggerstory I'm working on. I welcome all comments, praise, and criticism. 
The title of the story comes from a line in a Mary Chapin Carpenter song 
called "This is Love" on her Stones in the Road album... I highly 
recommmend it! My undying gratitude goes to my best friend and Cosmic 
Twin, Maria Salazar who listened to me complain about the missed 
opportunities in an otherwise excellent episode, and who beta read the 
story. Also, this story loosely relates to the larger story that should 
be coming out in the next few weeks, if I ever manage to finish editing 
it!

Disclaimer: Methos, MacLeod, Richie, Alexa, and Cochrane belong to Rysher
and the other Powers that Be. Ditto for the dialog I lifted from "Through 
a Glass Darkly" and "Something Wicked". The other incidental characters 
and details of Methos' life belong to me and the old guy.(except, I have 
to thank the folks on a.tv.hl, for the ROG's birthplace) No copyright
infringment is intended... I have no intention of making money off this
story. If you would like to share the story, go for it, but please keep 
the disclaimer intact. Let's see... I think that's all the legal 
disclaimer's I can think of... maybe that mean's it's time for me to stop 
writing fan-fic and start studying again! :~)


LOST IN THE REMEMBERING: by Christine L. Talley 
(Copyright: September 1996.)

<><><><><>

Lost in his past, the world's oldest living immortal sat on the cold floor
of a cellar in a small bookstore called Shakespeare & Company. He had
stored many of his journals, private papers, and personal belongings in
this hidden cellar for years, but a flood had recently intruded upon his
private storage space, and now he was having to clean up the mess left
behind. Most of his things were saved, but the now-damp pages of his past
were hanging about the room like laundry. Luckily, only a few things had
been destroyed completely, and once everything was dry he planned to move
much of the collection to a safer, dryer place.

"At this rate," MacLeod had said to him several days earlier, "it'll take
you ten years to put this stuff all away."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Methos had answered, in his usual
flippant way. But the words had been more true than he would have admitted.

He would be happy at this point to spend the next ten years in this cold
cellar, reliving the happier times in his five-thousand years on this
Earth. Problem was, in order to relive the happier times, he was forced to
relive the sadness and loss as well. For every memory of joy and love,
there was a corresponding memory of death and grief. It was similar grief
that compelled him to hide himself away with the past. He couldn't face 
the present, or the future for that matter, without Alexa.

"Alexa," he sighed, as he looked at a picture post-card from 1932. It was
sent to him from a friend who had been visiting Greece. It was the picture
of the lovely cliffs, with tiny white houses overlooking the Mediterranean
that brought him back to thoughts of her. She had loved Greece more than
any other place they had visited in their short time together.

<><><><><>

"Adam," Alexa said breathlessly, "this has got to be the most beautiful
place on Earth."

"If you say so," Methos answered, with a smile. They were sitting on a
pristine beach in Santorini, looking out at the sun setting over the
Mediterranean. It was one of his favorite spots, as well.

Methos leaned back on the wooden lounge-chair and watched Alexa's face 
from where she sat next to him-- squeezed into the same chair. She stared 
out at the water and the colorful sky with the wonder of a child who was 
noticing a sunset for the first time, and he suddenly wondered if he had 
ever looked at anything like that in his life. If he did he couldn't 
remember it-- very few things were new and wondrous to him. But somehow 
watching Alexa this way, made him feel as if he hadn't seen everything 
and been everywhere. He looked at her with the same kind of wonder that 
she directed at the sunset.

"Adam," she said, turning to look at him, "you're staring at me."

"Sorry," he answered, smiling and pulling a section of her hair away from
her face, "but I can't help it... you're so beautiful." He felt her flinch
against him slightly and became confused by her sudden frown.

"You don't have to say things like that," she said, turning back to look
out at the water. "I know I look awful. I warned you it wasn't going to be
pretty, and I know you can't help but notice me withering away in front of
your eyes."

Methos was stunned by her words. He knew what she was referring to-- she
had lost a lot of weight in the past few weeks, her face had taken on an
ashen color, and she had dark circles under her eyes-- but he'd been doing
a fairly good job of ignoring the signs. He kept trying to convince himself
that she wasn't dying. The past few months together had been wonderful--
traveling across America, then going to Venice and Cairo, and now Greece.

He hadn't truly noticed the decline until he left her in Greece for a few
days to go help MacLeod through his Dark Quickening. When he returned, he
had been shocked by the difference a few days made in her weight and energy
level. It was then that he realized she had been declining for a while, but
being with her everyday made it difficult to see. Now he couldn't deny the
truth-- the end was coming. She slept more during the day than she was
awake, and she got winded very easily walking around. It all terrified him.

"Alexa," he said, grabbing her chin in his hand and turning her to look at
him. "You <are> beautiful. I know you are getting weaker... I'd be blind
not to notice that. But I was sitting here thinking about how wonderful it
is seeing the world through your eyes." He kissed her on her forehead and
pulled her back against his chest in an embrace. "You know, I've been to
this beach many times in my life and it's <never> looked this beautiful to
me. That's because of you. I love you, Alexa," he whispered.

"I love you too. But sometimes I just get scared," she said, pulling 
closer to him as she shivered.

"You'd be a fool not to. I'm terrified about half the time of losing you,
but the other half of the time I'm just ecstatic to be with you. We'll get
through all this together-- until the end. Do you know why?" he asked.

"Because," Alexa said looking up at him, "the alternative is unthinkable."
Methos laughed and kissed her, his heart filling with joy despite the knot
that had formed in his gut at the thought of losing her. He sat back on 
the chair, holding Alexa tightly against him, trying to hold on to this 
precise moment as the sun slipped past the water's horizon.

<><><><><>

Methos wished he could have told her what Greece was once like-- before
there were lounge-chairs and umbrellas crowding the white beaches. He
remembered Greece the way it was in ancient times, when it was ruled by
city-states, and great men like Aristotle and Plato walked along those
beaches.

"You would have charmed the toga off of Plato," he laughed, putting the
post-card aside in a small box. He reached for another box of papers, but
stopped as he felt the presence of an Immortal above him.

"MacLeod?" he called out, hoping it was his friend. He had been careless
leaving the store open, and the last thing he needed was for a stray
Immortal to wander into the store and get an idea to come after his head.
He admonished himself for being so stupid.

"Yeah, Methos," the deep voice that still held a light Scottish brogue
answered, "it's me." He looked up to see Duncan coming down the stone
steps. "You're still going through this stuff?"

"There's a lot here, and I've got nothing better to do when I'm not using
my Watcher connections to help you save the world," he quipped
sarcastically. MacLeod had recently talked him into giving him information
on his old friend Warren Cochrane, and Methos had complained but then 
given him what he wanted. He wondered what it was about this man that 
made it impossible for him to say no.

"Very funny, Methos," he said, sitting down on a crate. "It's really cold
down here."

"It's not that bad once you get used to it. I've been in much colder
places."

"I'm sure you have, but that doesn't mean you should sit down in this
cellar for weeks when you could be in a warm room somewhere."

Methos just shrugged and went back to sorting through a box of
correspondence from the 19th century. He could feel the Highlander's eyes
on him, watching him silently, but he was determined to continue with his
task. He decided to organize all the letters according to writer, date, 
and location. The box was far too unorganized for his tastes.

"Methos," Duncan finally said softly.

"What do you need this time?" he sighed, still not looking up.

"I don't need anything. I was worried about you."

"Why? Because I'm sitting in a cold basement? I promise you, I won't die 
of pneumonia," he smirked up at Duncan.

"No, because you have been sitting in this basement for three weeks. Ever
since you buried Alexa."

Methos flinched at her name. It was still too painful, too raw. He couldn't
for the life of him figure out why he was hit so hard by the death of a
girl he had known less than a year. Compared to the grand scale of his
life, a year was nothing. So why did this year have so much importance?

"I have to get this done," he said non-chalantly, standing up to move a 
box over onto a pile in the corner.

"You're hiding down here," Duncan pressed. "Why don't you come over to the
barge and I'll make dinner? I have plenty of beer on hand." Methos looked
up to see Duncan smirking at those last words. The younger immortal loved
to tease him about his penchant for beer, but at the moment he was in no
mood to take the bait.

"I'm not hiding MacLeod, and I'm not hungry at the moment. Thanks for the
offer."

"All right," Duncan sighed and stood up, "but consider it a standing offer.
I'll see you later."

"Yeah, later," Methos said, engrossed again in some old letters. He didn't
look up until Duncan had gone up the stairs and out of the bookstore.

"Boy scout," he grumbled, repeating what he had called MacLeod two weeks
earlier when MacLeod was pushing him to inquire about Cochrane. He knew
MacLeod had an in-born desire to help everyone he crossed paths with, but
the Highlander couldn't help Methos right now. He just needed time to be
alone and grieve. In his long life, he had elevated brooding to an art 
form and he didn't intend to change that habit now.

<><><><>

Duncan pulled his coat up around his neck as he walked down the snowy
streets of Paris. His visit with Methos had been completely unsuccessful
and he was at a loss for what he should do next. He wanted to help his
friend. He knew how it felt to lose someone he loved-- it hadn't been that
long ago that he had been lost in his grief over Tessa. He couldn't even
begin to imagine what it must be like for Methos-- to live five-thousand
years and experience that much loss. He had mourned enough in his own
four-hundred, and the thought of the immensity of loss Methos must have
experienced made him shiver and pull his coat tighter around him.

He had gone to the bookstore hoping he could help Methos-- to cheer him up.
He knew now that it was a foolish thought, but he wanted to help. He owed
the ancient immortal so much-- his very life. Methos had left Alexa's side
to help him when he had been under the influence of the dark quickening,
and he had risked his life to stay with him despite the fact that Duncan
had threatened to kill him more than once. He had hoped to repay his 
friend by easing his pain now.

But if Duncan was really honest with himself, he had gone to see Methos
because he needed to ease his own pain. He thought he had moved beyond the
horrible things he had done under the influence of the dark quickening, 
but Warren Cochrane had brought that nightmare back, and he hadn't been 
able to stop the dreams haunting him for the past two weeks. Cochrane's 
words when he finally remembered what he had done rang in Duncan's ears.

"You killed your own student," Duncan had said.

"I know, I know, I know what you're thinking.... that only a monster could
do such a thing... that Cochrane, me, is such a monster. Well if I'm a
monster than slay me," Warren had cried.

Duncan had been disgusted by what Cochrane did, but he was even more
horrified by his words. It wasn't until a few days later, when he woke up
in a sweat from a nightmare that he realized why he had been so completely
horrified. Because he, Duncan MacLeod, was such a monster. True, he hadn't
killed Richie, but he had tired. That was horrible enough and the guilt 
was eating him up inside. If Dawson hadn't interfered--he would have
succeeded-- Richie would be dead.

Since then, Duncan had been awakened night-after-night from the same
nightmare. The dream always started the same-- him in the dojo, going 
after Richie, intent on taking the boy's head.

"Just tell me why?" Richie pleaded, while Duncan slowly walked around him,
his sword on Richie's neck. "The teacher kills the pupil... is that what
this is all about? Is it because there can be only one? Is that it?"

Duncan saw himself in the dream laughing. "It's as good a reason as any,"
he taunted and then raised his sword for the final blow.

At this point, the dream changed, alternating between the way it had
actually happened-- bullets ripping through his chest before he could 
bring the sword down. But just as often, the dream took a horrifying 
turn-- Joe didn't show up, and Duncan brought the sword down, ending 
Richie's short life. The dream would slow as he saw Richie's head fall 
and roll across the floor, his ice-blue eyes staring up at Duncan. Then 
the quickening would rip through him-- the worst agony he had ever felt 
in his life-- and then he would wake up screaming, in a cold sweat.

The past few nights, Duncan had been afraid to go to sleep, not wanting to
re-live the dream again. He wondered how Richie was doing, and he
desperately wanted to reach out to the boy, but he was paralyzed by his 
own fear. He wasn't ready to face what he had done, and he didn't think 
Richie would want to see or speak to him. He thought that he had begun 
to put the pain of what he had gone through behind him, but facing what 
Cochrane had done brought it back in horrifying detail.

He had hoped Methos would be able to give him advice on how to get past
this and how to make amends with Richie, but the ancient Immortal was
dealing with his own ghosts at the moment and it was time for Duncan to 
try to help him. He would have to deal with his own ghosts later.

<><><><>

Three hours later, Methos had packed away his letters and many of his
papers, but there was one box left to sort through. He sat on the floor
staring down at an elaborately carved wooden box. It was about three-feet
by two-feet, and it was worn with age. He considered just putting back 
into it's hiding place behind some of the bricks in the cellar wall, but 
he knew that it held memories that he needed to face before he could put 
his grieving behind him.

Taking a deep breath, he unlocked the small brass lock and pulled the lid
back, revealing the various small velvet bags and smaller boxes. This was 
a personal collection that represented many of the people he had loved
through out his life-- all of those he had lost. Very early in his life, 
he had begun a practice of keeping a small trinket that would remind him 
of people he cared about after they were gone. This box held his most 
precious of those trinkets. It was here that he kept past wedding rings-- 
both his and his wives-- as well as other pieces of jewelry.

He dug through the box, lovingly touching each piece. He pulled out a
silver and ivory hair comb that had belonged to Katerina, an exquisite
young woman he'd known in Vienna in the Seventeenth century. They had been
planning to marry when she died of influenza in an epidemic that swept the
city.

Next he found a silver Centurion clip that had belonged to Antonius, the
Roman Senator who he had loved for thirty years. They had met when Methos
served under his command in a campaign in Gaul, and he had watched Antonius
move up the ranks and then become a Senator. They'd lived happily in Rome
until Antonius had died in his arms, an old man. He had been one of the 
few who had come to know Methos' secret, but it had been painful to watch 
the strong, healthy soldier he had known, grow old and feeble.

There was a cameo ring that had belonged to Georgette, the young widow he
had married in Victorian England. She had been a lovely singer, and they
had spent many hours sitting in their solarium as she played the piano
forte and sang. She had been killed by a spooked horse, but Methos had
stayed and raised her son, Martin until he was old enough to join the
British Army. Only a few months after Martin left for India, Methos had
received word that he had been killed.

All the death and pain that the things in this box represented pressed in
on Methos, and he finally let go of the pain he had been holding in. A 
damn broke somewhere inside of him, and tears began to stream down his 
face. There had been so many of them-- the ones he had loved and lost. 
Alexa was only the latest. Five-thousand years was an excruciatingly long 
time to live, and sometimes it became too much to bear. He sat in the 
cold cellar and cried in anguish for all that he had lost over the years-- 
and especially for Alexa.

<><>Part two<><>

Methos stood in the glass doorway, watching the nurses move silently 
around the room going through their nightly routine. Alexa had been in 
the ICU for a week now and he had become used to the daily rhythm of 
activity. At eight o-clock the nurses would come in and change Alexa's IV 
bags, check her vital signs, and give her a sponge bath. He usually took 
the opportunity to get some dinner and go for a walk to clear his head 
and stretch his muscles.

Not wanting to be away from her for too long, he had come back a bit
earlier than usual tonight. Ever since he had returned from his mission of
folly in Paris, he had been reticent to leave Alexa's side. He felt guilty
for being away from her for a few days while he foolishly tried to track
down the Methuselah Stone. He was too old, and too smart to have believed
that a rock could save Alexa, and he was angry at himself for being so
desperate.

"You should get some sleep, Mr. Pierson," said Jeannie, the older of the
two nurses. She had been very kind to him since Alexa had been in the ICU,
and he appreciated how attentive she was with Alexa.

"I'm fine, Jeannie. I got some strong coffee," he smiled, holding up his
styrofoam cup and smiling at her. "How's she doing?"

"About the same. She's in and out," she said, looking at the small figure
laying asleep in the bed. She squeezed Methos' arm and then followed the
other nurse out of the room, leaving him for his nightly vigil.

Methos sat with Alexa every night, sleeping in a chair by her bed when she
was asleep, and keeping her company when she was alert. She was hooked up
to a respirator and unable to talk, but there were times that she was 
alert and aware of his presence in the room. When she was, he would talk 
to her or they would sit and watch tv silently while he combed her hair, 
or massaged her legs and arms.

He sat down in his chair and stretched his long legs out across the room
and took the lid off his coffee. Wrapping his hands around the warm cup 
and sipping the liquid slowly, he sat and watched Alexa sleep, her tiny 
body now nothing but a skeleton, and her chest rising and falling in 
perfect time with the sound from the respirator. After about fifteen 
minutes, she opened her eyes looking around in disorientation until he 
grasped her hand and spoke softly to her.

"Hello, beautiful. Did you sleep well?" he asked. Her face grew calmer as
she became oriented in time and place, and she nodded.

"Good," he said, pulling his chair closer. "Would you like me to tell you
another story?"

Alexa nodded again and tried to smile despite the tube that was attached 
to her mouth. He smiled back at her and tried to think of what to tell 
her. In the past few nights, he had begun telling her stories that he 
called fairy-tales, but which were really tales of his own past. She 
seemed to enjoy them, and it gave him comfort to tell her about himself, 
even if he couldn't tell her the whole truth.

"Let's see," he said, smoothing her hair back, "Once upon a time, there 
was a man named Methos. He was born in ancient Sumer, in the fertile 
valley between the Tigres and Euphrates rivers. His childhood was like 
most of the children in that day and age-- though he would later remember 
very little of it. When he grew up, he became a soldier, helping to 
protect his land and his people, but one day he was killed by a band of 
warriors from a neighboring tribe. The strange thing was-- he didn't stay 
dead. A few hours later, he was re-born an Immortal. He was confused and 
lost, knowing that he could not return to his village, he walked out into 
the desert and wandered for many years looking for someone who could 
explain to him what had happened."

Alexa's eyes grew wider as she listened to his tale. He went on to tell
her, in a "Reader's Digest" version, the story of his early life. He knew
that his voice was a comfort to her, and it didn't really matter what he
told her as long as he kept talking until she could fall asleep again. As
he talked, he watched her face for signs of pain or distress. After about
an hour, he could see the tight lines return to her face as her pain
killers began to wear off.

He continued to talk, but he also began to softly stroke her arm, trying 
to give her something to concentrate on besides the pain. This usually 
worked long enough to keep her calm until it was time for her next dose, 
but tonight it didn't seem to be working. Her face grew tighter, and her 
hand gripped his. He could see her growing paler and tears forming in her 
eyes as she tried to fight the pain in her ravaged body.

"Alexa?" he asked, concerned. "Are you okay? Do you want me to get the
nurse?" She nodded sharply, but resisted letting go of his hand. He leaned
over and kissed her forehead, then pulled his hand free. "I'll be right
back," he assured her and then hurried out of the room.

He came back a minute later with Jeannie, who calmed him down and told him
that everything was fine, she just needed a stronger dose. At this point 
in Alexa's illness, there was no concern for limiting her pain killers-- 
when she was in pain, they were simply given to her. The only concern was 
to make her as comfortable as possible. Jeannie adjusted her IV drip to
increase a larger dose, and then smiled at Methos and left the room again.

It didn't take long for the drug to kick in and Alexa drifted off to sleep.
She never woke up again. Methos sat with her for the next three hours 
until dawn, when her heart finally stopped. After the doctor had 
pronounced her dead and they had removed the tubes and needles, Methos 
sat at her bedside and held her hand, saying good-bye.

<><><><><>

The silence in the bookstore cellar was deafening as Methos' sobs subsided.
He had cried himself out-- released his pain and grief. It was time to say
good-bye to Alexa, and to put away his other memories. He wiped his face
off and took several deep breaths to slow his breathing. He smiled,
thinking about Alexa's smile and her lyrical laugh. He had gotten past the
pain, and would now be able to keep the happy memories close to his heart.
He thought of the Navajo saying that MacLeod had told him in the cemetery.

*The spirit will live as long as there is someone alive to remember it,*
MacLeod had said.

"Well, Alexa," he said in the quiet, "you're in luck. I intend to live a
<very> long time."

Methos pulled a handkerchief out of his jeans pocket and carefully 
unfolded it. He pulled out a delicate gold chain with tiny gold cross on 
it.

It had been Alexa's, and he had kept it with him since she died. He stared
at it for a few moments, remembering how it looked against her neck the
night they had first made love. He smiled at the memory and carefully re-
wrapped the necklace, then placed it in the box among the other memories.
He closed and re-locked the box, then carefully put it back in it's hiding
place behind the bricks.

<><><><><>

"What now?" Methos grumbled, as he put the last few bricks in place. He
felt an immortal enter the store above him, and was somehow not surprised
that MacLeod had returned.

"You're back," he said, looking up at MacLeod, who was standing on the
stairs with two bags in his hands. "What's in the bags?"

"Dinner," MacLeod said, lifting the bag in his right hand, "and something
stronger," he said lifting the other bag with a smile.

"MacLeod, I don't need a baby-sitter," Methos snapped.

"Well, maybe I do," Duncan mumbled, then sighing said, "Look, if you 
really don't want me here, I'll leave." He turned and started back up 
the stairs.

"What's for dinner?" Methos said suspiciously. He was, in fact, hungry and
he couldn't help but appreciate the man's overtures of friendship. Duncan
smiled and came back into the room, as Methos cleared off a crate to 
create a makeshift table.

"Fish and chips. I found the only place in Paris that makes 'em right." He
pulled out the food and then pulled a bottle of Scotch and two cups out of
the other bag.

"What? No beer?" Methos asked, with a crooked smile.

"I didn't feel like beer," Duncan said and poured out two full glasses.
Methos raised his eyebrows, but took the cup.

The two men tapped their glasses together and then both took large gulps 
of the alcohol. They ate in silence for several minutes, but Methos 
watched his young friend carefully as he ate. It was obvious that something 
was on the man's mind. His dark brow was furrowed in concentration and 
there was a shadow in his eyes.

"All right MacLeod," Methos finally said, "out with it. What's going on
with you?"

"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, pouring more Scotch into their glasses.

"I mean, why did you come back tonight? Something's obviously bothering
you."

"Nothing's bothering me. I was worried about you. I know you've been 
having a hard time since Alexa died, and I figured you hadn't been eating." 
Duncan took another large gulp of Scotch, and avoided looking straight at 
Methos. It was obvious he wasn't ready to talk about whatever was on his 
mind.

"MacLeod," Methos sighed, "I appreciate the concern, but I'm going to be
fine. In five-thousand years I've learned how to deal with loss. This is
what I usually do-- lock myself away somewhere and brood about my life for
a few weeks. I call it 'the remembering'. I just sit around and relive the
pain in my life until I can let go of it. It may not be the healthiest
method of grieving, but it works for me."

"Amazing," MacLeod said, shaking his head. He felt like an idiot, sitting
around worrying about the ancient immortal. Methos was a survivor-- of
course, he would survive this too.

"What?" Methos asked.

"You. I can't figure you out most of the time. You walk around talking 
like a cynic and a grouch, pretending not to care about anything. You 
ruined that image when you swept Alexa off her feet and took her off on a 
world tour. Now, you sit here, perfectly calm and centered. You are a 
walking enigma."

"As I said MacLeod, it's all a part of my charm," Methos smiled and was
relived when Duncan laughed.

The two men proceeded to polish off the bottle of Scotch in quick fashion,
as they sat and told stories about their past. It was the first time 
Duncan ever got a glimpse into Methos' past. He didn't give away a lot, 
but he told stories of wars he had been in and women he had known. It was 
the kind of talk typical of two friends sitting around getting drunk 
together-- one of those timeless rituals of male bonding. They laughed, 
and exaggerated as much as they could.

"When the girl's brother's found out what young Peter had done, they came
after us. I had to knock the boy out to keep him from trying to take all
three of them on at one time. We barely made it out of town in one piece,"
Methos said, as he told a story of a young knight he had known during the
Crusades.

"It sounds like trouble followed the boy around," Duncan laughed, enjoying
the stories and the Scotch that had set in while they were talking.

"Oh, he was a handful. Actually, your young friend Richie reminds me a lot
of Peter. He used to..." Methos stopped when he saw MacLeod flinch at the
name. Duncan had stopped laughing, and stood up to pace the room.

It suddenly hit Methos what had been bothering Duncan the last few days. 
It was Cochrane. He had stirred up Duncan's guilt over attacking Richie. 
He sat and watched Duncan pace for a minute, wondering just how deep these
scars ran.

"Have you talked to him?" Methos finally asked.

"What?" Duncan asked, turning to look at him.

"Richie. Have you talked to him since you left Seacouver?"

"No," Duncan rasped. "I'm too big a coward," he said in disgust.

"You'll have to face him eventually," Methos said simply.

"How?" Duncan yelled, "I mean, how do I face him, knowing I almost killed
him? How can I apologize for that? I can't possibly expect him to forgive
me."

"Don't over-react MacLeod. Yes, you almost killed your student, but he's
still alive and he'll understand that you weren't yourself."

"It's more complicated than that, Methos. Richie grew up on the streets. 
He never had anyone who really cared about him. Tessa and I took him in 
and gave him a home and a family, he learned to trust me."

"He's like a son," Methos said, verbalizing what Duncan was trying to say.

Duncan just nodded, and continued to pace the room like a caged animal as
the thoughts raced in his head. "How do you deal with the fact that your
father tried to kill you? I betrayed his trust. He probably hates me."

"Well, it probably didn't help that you haven't tried to contact him since
it happened."

Duncan looked up at Methos sharply, surprised at his directness. He should
have expected that, but somehow he had hoped the older immortal would be
more understanding. He had hoped for absolution, but he knew that could
only come from Richie himself. The nightmares wouldn't go away until he
faced what he had done.

"I know," Duncan said, sinking down onto the floor and hugging himself. "I
just can't. I know I'm a coward... but I'm just not ready to look in his
eyes and know that he'd be dead now if it weren't for Joe. God, if Joe had
come in two seconds later, it would have been over. I would have murdered
Richie," he broke down on the last words, sobbing.

Methos sat and watched him for a minute, knowing he needed to get it out,
to acknowledge his fear. The sight of the usually stoic, and strong
Highlander, sobbing in anguish, broke Methos' heart. Downing the last of
his Scotch, he moved down onto the floor next to Duncan and took him in 
his arms. He sat and rocked him like a child as the younger immortal cried 
out his pain at all he had been through in the past several months.

"You can't go on blaming yourself for everything you did under the Dark
Quickening. That wasn't you, MacLeod," Methos said, as he smoothed 
Duncan's hair.

"It was part of me. I can't deny what I did," Duncan sobbed against 
Methos' chest.

"You came face to face with your darker side. But MacLeod," Methos said,
making Duncan look at him, "you beat it. Very few people could have been
strong enough to fight that kind of evil."

Duncan sniffed and wiped his face, trying to regain control of himself.
Realizing he was still in Methos' arms, he pulled away embarrassed. Methos
sighed, and stood up. He sat back down on the crate and watched MacLeod
pull himself together.

"He'll forgive you. When you're ready... go to him. But you're going to
have to find a way to forgive yourself before you can do anything else."
Methos poured out the remnants of the Scotch and handed it to Duncan.

"I know," Duncan said, drinking it. After a few moments of silence, he 
said softly, "Methos?"

"What?"

"Thank you. Not just for tonight, but for helping before. You risked your
life to save me. I don't know how to thank you for that."

"You just did, MacLeod," he said, then stood up ending the conversation.
"Come on, lets go get a beer to wash down that horrid Scotch."

Duncan laughed, and then let Methos pull him up off the floor. He cleaned
up their dinner as Methos stacked several boxes, and pulled the last few
papers down off of the laundry-wire they'd been drying on.

"MacLeod," Methos said, as he was moving a crate, "thanks for coming back
here tonight with dinner."

"Well," Duncan said, with an evil smile, "a boy scout has to earn his 
merit badges somehow."

"So," Methos said laughing, "you <did> hear me the other day?"

Duncan just nodded and they both laughed, the tension of the earlier
conversation lifting. Once the last of his things were put away, the two
men walked out of the cellar, turning off the light, and leaving their
memories behind-- for now.


<><><><><>The End.<><><><><>

"And if you ever think of me, let it be around twilight/ When the world is
settled down and the last round of sunlight/ Is waning in the sky, as you
sit and watch the night descending/ A car will pass out front with lovers
at the wheel/ A dog will bark out back and children's voices peal/ Over 
and under the air, you've been there lost in the remembering. 
-- Mary Chapin Carpenter

******************** CGolytlee@aol.com ********************