Disclaimers: Standard - don't own, don't make money, hope y'all enjoy.
"I have seen something else under the sun: The race is not to the swift or the battle to the strong, nor does food come to the wise or wealth to the brilliant or favor to the learned; but time and chance happen to them all" Ecclesiastes 9:11
Tired and sick at heart, Richie parked his cycle on the quai, next to MacLeod's T-Bird. He hoped his mentor was still up. He hoped his mentor still had his head. When he had last spoken to the Highlander, MacLeod had been scouring Paris for Kalas. And Richie was a little concerned that MacLeod's grief over Fitz's death might make him incautious.
Faint light glowed from the barge's porthole, and the unmistakable sense of an immortal presence resonated. Maybe the Highlander had actually waited up for him?
He entered the barge without his customary cheery greeting. MacLeod was sitting in the dark, wearing his bathrobe and reading a book by the light of the fire.
"Bad for your eyes." Some foster parent had said that. Probably not for immortal eyes, though. Richie flipped on a light.
"Hi Rich," the older man said. "Late night at the track?" MacLeod barely looked up. He swirled a brandy in his hand.
"Yeah," Richie answered. He hung his helmet on a coat peg and headed for the small kitchen to make a sandwich. MacLeod said nothing more, so the events of the evening tumbled out of Richie. "That guy Philippe? I told you about him? He killed himself tonight, Mac."
MacLeod looked up at that, concern replacing something else which had been on his face.
"What? The man you replaced on the team?"
"He did it right in front of me. Right in front of all of us." Richie brought his sandwich into the main living area, seeking comfort from the warmth of the fire and the warmth of MacLeod.
MacLeod set down the brandy and leaned forward. "Why, Richie?"
"I don't know. He must have been crazy. Basil said he had something to prove, but I swear it was suicide, Mac. He started tearing around the track at racing speeds, in the dark! No one can react that fast. He must've thought... he didn't have anything to live for, without racing. Like he was washed up, or something." And I'm the one who made him feel like that .
"Rich, I'm sorry," MacLeod commented in a flat tone, failing to soothe Richie's anguish.
"Why would he do it? I want to live. Why would someone want to die? He wasn't so old. He was only old for racing. He had lots of good years to come. I just don't understand it."
MacLeod stood to look out the porthole.
"Let me ask you something, Rich. How long do you expect to live?"
Uh oh. This sounded rather like the there's-a-lecture-coming tone. Richie's stomach tightened. He was half-angry and half-afraid. Mac had no business lecturing him about his sword skills. Not any more.
"What do you mean?"
"Can you picture yourself living to be a hundred? Or my age, four hundred?" MacLeod turned to face him, his expression grave.
"Well, I ..." Richie stammered. "I'm maybe not the greatest swordsman in the world, but I expect I'll get better. I haven't given up practicing, you know." He was becoming more and more confused.
MacLeod shook his head and frowned down at the book in his hand. "Is that really all it would take to live an immensely long life? Better sword skills?"
Richie relaxed a little; it sounded like the Highlander's point had nothing to do with him. But what did it have to do with? He stole a look at the book's title. On Being and Nothingness. Wow.
"Well what have I been learning for the past year if better sword skills won't keep me alive?"
MacLeod gave him a small smile which didn't touch his eyes. "I hope I've taught you a little more than that. What about Darius? He lived for two thousand years, and not because he was a superior swordsman."
"But he lived on holy ground." Richie was surprised to hear Mac mention Darius. Usually the taciturn Highlander avoided the subject of dead loved ones. Like Tessa. Maybe fresh grief made the older ones hurt less. Richie's own experience with grief was too new to know.
He had liked Fitzcairn. They had shared a fondness for pretty women. And the stories the Englishman would tell, unlike his Highland partner-in-crime, who would always try to shut him up before Fitz could embarrass him! Gone,gone. Fucking Game.
"Mac ..." Richie paused. "Just what are we discussing here?"
"Maybe if you want to picture yourself living for thousands of years, you need some other tactic than staying in the Game. I've opted out of it myself, at times. Did I ever tell you about Methos?"
"The oldest immortal? Yeah, you told me. Five thousand years old, right? But no one could really live that long. The guy'd have to be such a fantastic dueler that the rest of us might as well just give up the Game."
"Joe says he's real. And he's still alive."
"What? Really?"
MacLeod nodded.
"Wow! Joe knows this guy?"
"No. He says he's extremely elusive. The Watchers have only had rumors of him for a long time. He hides. Not on holy ground, I think, but somewhere." The Highlander fidgeted with the book.
"What would it take to live so long?" MacLeod mused. "Would there come a time that you couldn't look forward to another tomorrow?"
Richie indicated the book Mac held. "What's that, Mac, a recipe for opting out?" he asked worriedly. "I thought we were talking about strategy for a long life," or just my particular lack of it "not the last cut."
MacLeod dismissed the book with a scowl, tossing it on a bookshelf. "I'm thinking about what life would be like, after so long. Maybe, after you've seen it all again and again and nothing changes except the people, you become so mired in grief that you see no hope."
Richie did not like the sound of this. "Could you do it, Mac? Could you just end it all?" Richie didn't want to believe that his mentor was drifting toward this dangerous option. With the death of Fitz and Kalas' hunting ruining the lives of so many of Mac's friends, the Highlander appeared to be reeling from overwhelming losses. But how can an immortal commit suicide? You'd have to get someone else to do it for you. "Or," Richie wanted to explore this possibility, "could you kill another immortal who just wanted to die?"
"I don't know, Rich, I suppose it would depend on their reasons," Mac replied thoughtfully. "You know, when you are in the middle of a fight you usually don't have a chance to ask why."
"But, if you're challenged, you're going to fight to win." Richie fidgeted, trying on these new thoughts. "This Methos guy would have to be a coward to avoid a challenge."
"Richie, you're not listening. He stays alive by not fighting. By staying out of sight. Low profile. Not like a movie star, or ..." MacLeod frowned at him. "a motorcycle racer."
"So is that what we're talking about here, Mac?" Anger colored Richie's words.
"Rich, racing is too public. If you get even a little famous, people start prying into your life, into your past. And it won't hold up to that kind of scrutiny."
"Mine will, Mac. I still have a history, remember? I'm as legitimate as an immortal can be. This is my shot at something really big, Mac. It just kills me that you won't understand that."
"Like it killed Philippe?"
Richie jumped to his feet. "Oh come on, Mac. That wasn't my fault!" I hope. "And Darius isn't the only one to live for thousands of years. What about Grayson? He was at least as old, and he stayed in the Game!"
"And now he's dead."
"Yeah, well, so is Darius." Ow. Oh. Oh no. Richie sat heavily. Shouldn't have said that. Dumb, dumb.
But the Highlander seemed to take it fairly well. His expression returned to the distracted look he had had earlier. He turned haunted eyes on Richie.
"Fitz died because he was my friend, Richie. Kalas is hunting anyone close to me. Just like he did in Seacouver. That means you're next. Rich, I want you to stay far away from me. And I don't want you to race. I'll put you up in a hotel. Will you do that?"
No way. "Mac, he's after you. I'm not leaving you."
MacLeod turned his back on Richie and gazed out the porthole, toward Notre Dame.
"Richie, he doesn't want me," MacLeod sighed. "He wants to hurt me by killing the people I love."
Richie's heart was pounding and his head hurt.
"He may not know about you. I want to keep it that way."
Why can't you see that I can take care of myself? Richie tried to swallow the lump in his throat.
MacLeod faced him again. "And something else, Richie. I tracked Kalas to a bookstore and found a dying man, murdered. Joe says this man was a Watcher researching Methos. This guy knew as much about the real Methos as anyone. And when I asked him who had done this to him, he wrote in his own blood. He wrote M E."
"ME ...? Methos? But ... are you thinking ..."
"That Kalas could really be Methos? I don't know." MacLeod gave Richie a hard look. "And Kalas is very, very good."
Richie shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Though it doesn't really add up," MacLeod mused. "Kalas is not that elusive. He doesn't hide. Joe thinks Kalas may now be hunting Methos."
Richie didn't know what to say. The roller coaster his feelings were on hadn't stopped. But he knew he couldn't leave Mac. Not when his mentor seemed so .... distracted. Resolve gripped Richie. He stood and put a hand on his teacher's shoulder, determined to be the comforter. "Don't worry about me, Mac. I may not be five thousand years old, but I do know a little about hiding. I'll stay in a hotel, but I've got qualifying runs tomorrow. After all, the best place to hide is in plain sight."
At first light, MacLeod left for the home of Adam Pierson. His need to wait and warn Richie had overridden his initial impulse to protect the researcher. Joe had assured him that he would warn Pierson, but this did little to allay MacLeod's fears. Arriving at Pierson's home, he approached with caution, praying that he wasn't too late.
This early the street was not at all busy. That could be good or bad. If Kalas was watching the place he was well hidden. MacLeod reached the door, and caught his breath at the unwelcome sensation of another immortal. No! Kalas, could be torturing Pierson for information on Methos, or he could have already killed him.
Sword drawn, MacLeod entered the disturbingly unlocked door. The other immortal could surely sense him as well, so there was little to be gained by secrecy.
"Adam? Adam Pierson?"
No response. Not a good sign.
A remote part of MacLeod's mind took curious note of the collection of sculpture which adorned the suite. Whichever Paris university Pierson was with, the pay must be good.
A faint tinny noise like a distant radio drew MacLeod down the stairs. He edged around a corner to see....
Not what he expected. An unguarded man sat on the floor beside a bed, reading a book. His back was mostly to the Highlander, and the tinny music came from his headphones. He was not Kalas. Was this the immortal? Or was Kalas still hiding here somewhere?
"You Adam Pierson?"
The man faced MacLeod, still seated, and pulled the headphones from his ears. He didn't seem at all concerned, or surprised.
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the man said. He gazed at the Highlander with a wide-eyed expression of wonder similar to the one Joe had worn when he met Amanda. As if he were meeting a legend. He grasped a beer from those remaining of a six-pack by his side and tossed it to MacLeod. "Have a beer. Mi casa es su casa," he added in a flawless accent.
Pierson was a Watcher. This had to be Pierson. But ..... The best place to hide is in plain sight.
"Methos?" What was he saying? It couldn't be, could it?
The man bowed his head. He looked pleased.
Though the bottom of the bridge near the barge had very good acoustics, MacLeod sensed the immortal before he heard his approach. Automatically, he took stock of the setting. Isolated quai, foggy evening light, very little to be damaged by a quickening - the location was good. But maybe it was Richie. On foot? He mocked his own hopes. Methos appeared, sword in hand, looking like a drowned cat. He approached MacLeod, exhaustion evident in every step. Distant warnings sounded in MacLeod's mind at the sight of a another immortal with his sword drawn, but he ignored them.
"Methos ...?" The man came closer.
"Kalas found you?" The man came closer. "Is he dead?" I hope not. I want him myself.
The man paused, four feet from the Highlander. "No," Methos said, and swung.
Methos telegraphed the cut so obviously that MacLeod had plenty of time to drop Sartre and leap back, despite his surprise. He could almost have drawn in time to block, had he chosen to try it. Instead a side-step brought him alongside the other man's arm, and he was able to deflect Methos's sweeping blows from close in. It was too easy. The man was clumsy with exhaustion. But he kept coming.
MacLeod stepped back and drew his own sword. "Why?" he demanded.
The oldest known immortal spoke the oldest known words of their kind. "Because there can be only one." It was no battle cry the way he said it. He looked, not fierce, but desperate.
MacLeod parried the next few attacks easily, though the other immortal's technique made a sudden improvement. He may be rusty, but He's still here. Rusty Methos certainly was, but beneath the rust were sword techniques older than the hills. Who might his teachers have been? MacLeod didn't want to defeat this man; he wanted to spar with him. He wanted to learn what he knew.
A not-too-subtle feint, but Methos took the bait, and then MacLeod had his sword frozen at the other man's throat. Methos held his head tipped back to avoid the razor sharp edge pressed at his Adam's apple. Or perhaps to afford better access. They both panted.
"What are you waiting for, MacLeod?" Methos gasped. His eyes were closed.
MacLeod hesitated. He didn't want to do this. But halting an immortal duel short of completion took considerable self-control - akin to interrupting a bodily function. Fortunately, MacLeod had considerable self-control. He drew back for what must have appeared to be a beheading blow, but instead, brutally disarmed the man with a downward cut. "No!"
Methos bowed his head forward. "I'd have killed you," he spat.
"No, you made a mistake to let me take your head!"
"You think I want to die? You think it's easy after thousands of years?"
"Then why?!" Don't try to pretend this wasn't suicide. Methos moved minutely back, slumping from warrior to weary scholar. "Because if you don't kill me, Kalas will."
No. It didn't have to happen that way. MacLeod was almost disappointed that a man of so many years didn't have the wisdom to see another option. Not that his own solution was Solomonic.
MacLeod sighed, "Not if I get him first."
"And if you don't?"
Unthinkable. MacLeod wanted Kalas's head so badly he could barely conceive of any other outcome to their contest. If only he could find the bastard!
"I cannot beat Kalas. I have tried. He will take my head, and then he will have the strength to take yours."
MacLeod returned from thoughts of Kalas's rolling head to hear how young and vulnerable the other man sounded. Dismayed, MacLeod turned away. "So, after five thousand years, your only solution is that I kill you?"
"He can beat me. He might beat you. He can't beat both of us." Methos's voice rang in the night. Was he actually trying to convince MacLeod to kill him? Crazy!
"In that case, why don't you take my head?" Surely the man had to see how absurd this all was; or was it?
Unfazed, and more earnest than ever, Methos insisted "Because it's not just about who's the better fighter. It is about passion and hate. I don't have the fire. You do. You want Kalas."
True. So true. MacLeod regarded his opponent. They were still two immortals at odds, in a perfect setting for a quickening, one armed, the other not. Methos' immortal presence hammered at MacLeod's senses. Against all reason, the other man moved closer, to well within MacLeod's reach. The Highlander watched him, wary. Methos grasped MacLeod's sword arm at the wrist, and raised the katana to his own throat, flinching at the sharp sensation where the ancient blade first grazed him. He fixed MacLeod with his earnest gaze and said what he clearly intended to be his final words on the subject. On any subject, ever.
"Live, Highlander. Grow stronger. Fight another day."
MacLeod held the sword in place after Methos released it. His desire for revenge burned along his nerves together with the siren song of the older immortal's quickening. Revenge for Paul, for the loss of his life in Seacouver, Anne, and above all, Fitz. The need to protect Richie, and the other people who might come into Kalas's path, like Don Salzer. All this he weighed against the life of the enigma before him who wanted him to take his head to defeat Kalas.
Methos waited. In that frozen moment of time MacLeod dismissed all of the issues and options and made the only possible choice.
"MacLeod."
Richie breathed a sigh of relief at the sound of the Highlander's voice. He leaned back on the hotel bed. "Hi Mac, it's Rich."
"Richie." Was that fatigue in MacLeod's voice or disappointment?
"Yeah, just checking in. I'm still alive."
"Rich, don't joke."
"Okay, sorry." Ask me how the qualifying runs went. C'mon, Mac.
"Is the hotel okay?" Damn.
"It's great, Mac. Aren't you going to ask me how the qualifying runs went?"
"Sure Richie, how were the qualifying runs?" MacLeod parroted without enthusiasm.
"They went great. I was second on the team, just a fraction behind Basil. And Basil gave me some great advice for the race. Of course, it's not what Saracen wants, but, like Basil says, Saracen's not a racer."
Silence.
"Mac?"
"That's great Richie. Glad to hear it. When will the race tomorrow be over?"
Geez. "I'll be done by 1:00. Why?"
"I'll need your help. I'm putting some stuff in storage."
"What stuff?"
"It .... belongs to a Watcher. Adam Pierson. He has a lot of fragile artwork and he asked me to take care of it. It's the least I can do."
"What? Mac, what are you talking about? Has something happened? You didn't find Kalas, did you?"
"No, I didn't, but he found Pierson. I don't think he'd be watching Pierson's place, but be careful if you get there before me."
"Who's this Pierson?"
"He's another expert on Methos. Like the guy who died in my arms yesterday. Will you give me a hand?"
Richie sighed. Mac really had been having a rough time. It was probably asking a bit much that he offer to come watch Richie race. "Sure, Mac. What's the address?"
What MacLeod hadn't counted on was Inspector LeBrun. The police delayed him to question him further about Salzer's murder and the glove he had found. His phone calls to Richie had reached an empty hotel room.
So it was a frustrated MacLeod that raced to Pierson's place a second time. Richie's cycle was parked nearby. The door was ajar, a chair lay on its back, Richie's helmet was on the floor, and there was no immortal in the vicinity. Panic squeezed MacLeod's chest. He raced to the window to view the area around the complex. Where would immortals go to duel? To his dismay, he spotted a perfect location. The land beyond the buildings sloped steeply to the river. The area was undeveloped, and the riverbank below was dotted with warehouses and docks.
Hurtling out the door, MacLeod ran smack into Inspector LeBrun and two duty policemen.
"So, Monsieur MacLeod, I find you at the home of Adam Pierson. Why is that, I wonder?"
"LeBrun, I ....." MacLeod's exit down the stairs was blocked by the three men. They would not take it well, he reasoned, if he were to leap the rail to avoid them. "Are you following me?"
"I was going to ask you the same question, Monsieur. I am here to question the business partner of Don Salzer. Why, I ask you, are you here?"
"LeBrun," MacLeod made a fast decision. "Come with me. I'll take you to the man who owns the glove I gave you. The man I told you about."
LeBrun narrowed his eyes. "You can take me to this Kalas, right now?"
"Yes." MacLeod pushed through the men. "We can take your car. But we have to go now, or we'll lose him."
"MacLeod, I am warning you ..."
"I'll be in your custody if you decide I've put something over on you. LeBrun, NOW."
LeBrun wasted little time, once he made up his mind. The four men piled into the police car and sped toward the docks at MacLeod's direction. LeBrun even radioed for backup. Considering how little actual information MacLeod had given him, the Highlander was surprised.
Their car and two others sped down the warehouse access alleys, rounded a corner onto the dockside quai, and halted before the man who stood alone, incongruous and defiant. MacLeod, who was watching for it, saw the second figure which separated from the first with a glint of light and scampered into a shadow. The bands of fear constricting his chest loosened.
LeBrun alighted from the car and strode toward the immortal. "Monsieur Kalas? You are under arrest for the murder of Donald Salzer." The other squad cars stopped in positions around them which would block escape.
"You have no proof," Kalas rasped.
"Wrong," MacLeod accused, venom in his tone, as he exited the police car and stood to face Kalas. "That's the man, Inspector."
He returned Kalas's glare with one of his own. Just you wait. he silently promised the other immortal. Kalas was undoubtedly thinking the same thing. The policemen handcuffed the unresisting Kalas and placed him in a prisoner wagon. LeBrun returned to MacLeod.
"You'd better be right," he warned.
"I am. The prints on the glove will match his. He's your murderer, Inspector."
LeBrun harrumphed and turned away. MacLeod moved toward the shadows of bridge and crates and found Richie there, still panting with exertion.
"Mac, why?"
"Did you really think you could win?"
"I wasn't going to run, Mac. You taught me that."
Damn, I should be teaching you to survive!
Richie had just about had all that he could stomach of Mac's brooding and the beers that he had rescued from Pierson's refrigerator did little to dispel his irritation. They had spent the remainder of the afternoon crating and boxing Pierson's belonging while MacLeod lectured on and on about surviving and choices. As they were packing up the final boxes, Mac had to leave to keep an appointment with the police inspector. Richie heaved a thankful sigh of relief to finally be left alone as he finished with the last bit of packing.
Richie stood in the empty flat, looking around. Only the phone and MacLeod's book remained. Just that afternoon he had nearly met his death in this room. As the last load had gone into storage, Richie moved to disconnect the phone and was startled when it rang. Mac was at the police station, still; maybe it was him.
"Hello?"
"Pierson? Is Adam there?"
Richie struggled for a moment as two worlds collided. He knew this voice. "Joe? Izzat you?"
"Richie?" Joe sounded equally surprised. "What are you doing there? Let me talk to Adam."
"I can't, Joe. He's not here."
"Well, where is he? I've been trying to reach him."
"I don't know, Joe. Mac and I just got done putting all his stuff in storage.
"What? Why?"
"He didn't really say. He just said he owed it to the guy, or something."
"Has he left town? Is Kalas still after him?"
"No, Kalas is in jail. Mac's down giving the police another statement about him. They arrested him for the murder of Don Salzer."
Joe was silent for a moment. "Even if it sticks, it won't last."
"Yeah." But I guess it's better than the alternative.
"So, what happened to Pierson?" Joe repeated his earlier question.
"I don't know, Joe. You'll have to ask MacLeod."
"Well, ask Mac to call me, okay?"
"Okay."
Richie unplugged the phone and picked up MacLeod's forgotten book. On Being and Nothingness. Richie grimaced. We've had quite enough of that.
As he left the apartment he chucked the book in a dustbin.
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