2002-08-31 at 2:55 p.m.

Highlander: Thy Will Be Done

Part 8: The End Of Darkness

"You are *such* a waste of my time."

The soft voice was the last thing the guard ever heard. Pity he hadn't heard Methos's catlike approach.

Methos allowed the weight of the corpse to pull itself free of his swordblade. This had *not* been a good day. Methos had just (and he meant *just*: the bottle had the second before clinked back down into the ice bucket) poured himself a glass of one of his rarer wines when the phone rang. He threw a look at the crystal goblet and its inviting red cordial, then answered.

"Hey Methos, guess what!" said the gravelly voice on the other end.

"Joe, I *hate* guessing games."

"You're no fun. Would you have guessed that MacLeod's been kidnapped?"

"Oh, dear," Methos said gravely. "Should we rescue the idiots or just mop up the bits?"

"It's easier to kidnap him than you'd think, especially while he's dead."

Methos's middle finger had been idly circling the rim of the glass. Now he froze. "Mostly dead or really dead?"

"He still had his head, Methos, and we're lucky that I learned that much by accident. We've got to get him out -- the rogue watchers are trying to use him to start the Sanctuary again."

Methos swore in Greek. "It is a testament of my friendship for him, what I do now." And with that he drained the wine in two gulps.

"What was that?"

"Two hundred forty years and four thousand dollars for each ripe, heady sip. Tell me where you want me."

Make some noise, Joe'd said. Draw them all out to the front and distract while I go in from behind and get Duncan out. And for God's sake, don't lose your head.

Oh, Methos was good at that. He bent over the dead man and lifted his blood-stained, furiously squawking walkie-talkie and pressed the button.

"The god of death is back in town," he purred into the microphone. "Don't run; you'll only die tired."

He dropped the plastic box and sauntered on down the hall, his dripping sword resting jauntily over his shoulder. The fingers of his other hand undid the buttons of his ruined shirt, stripped it away and dropped it on the floor.

There was always something about a half-naked, blood-spattered savage to stir up the prey instincts in mortals. He laughed in the darkness of the tunnel as Death himself walked ever deeper into the earth.

**********

Darkness, blessed and cool. It was nice to just rest here in the predawn air, after so much fuss and bother before.

So Duncan MacLeod continued to muse, until the sword was smoothly jerked out of his chest.

"Aaaah!" he came up screaming, blinking up into a deeper shadow silhouetted by the newborn sunrise.

"You've better things to do this day than lie there collecting flies," said the shadow.

Duncan touched the wound on his ribcage. Slightly tender, yes, but whole -- and his fingers when he drew them away were clean and dry.

"Are you an angel?" he croaked.

"I've been called that, and worse." He bent to extend his hand to his fallen kinsman, and here, between the plumed hat and delicately embroidered jacket, was a rugged face Duncan would soon find almost as familiar and comfortable as his own.

"I'm Connor MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, cousin... and like you, I've had a hard time dying."

**********

Darkness, dank and earthy, suddenly shattered by a blast of light. He groaned, eyelids fluttering, and came to sense with the realization that he was immobilized, bound like a fly in a spider's web.

All around him, hooded monks tightened the restraints, hooked up the IV's.

Somedays it's just not worth coming back from the dead, he thought.

"The rules have been broken," said the man by the door. He rested his curly head against the stone wall of the cellar, his arms folded across his chest. The sleeve of his expensive suit was tugged by the position, and on the narrow strip of flesh so revealed at his wrist Duncan could see the intricate tattoo of a man who was a Watcher.

"Not by me," MacLeod answered.

"I don't *care*." The man paced forward, brown eyes snapping, clearly agitated but at what Duncan couldn't tell. "To keep the wolves at bay requires the blood of a lamb; whether or not it is spilled on the sills of the doorway. Sanctuary doesn't keep the world out. It also keeps it safe -- from monsters who would dream of power over men's minds."

The iron face mask clanged down over his eyes, as Duncan heard the Watcher say "Don't worry, you won't feel a thing..."

Killing. Dying. Brief flashes, blurred life. Was this all there was?

**********

Darkness, grey and foggy. Suddenly the light struck Duncan's unprotected eyes.

"Dawson?" he groaned.

Joe Dawson smiled up into his friend's bleary gaze. "Boy, you look like shit."

"How... long?"

"A few hours; less than a day, even. We can't talk here -- someone might still be alive out there." A startled shout, immediately collapsing into a muffled groan, punctuated his words. Quickly Joe undid the straps, freeing Duncan's arms and legs. "We gotta go. Now. Can you walk?"

"Think so," Duncan muttered. Two steps on the concrete floor and he was flowing out of Joe's solicitous grip in a near faint.

"Shit," Joe said softly, and a body appeared in the doorway.

"Lads and ladies, it's time to rock," said the bare-chested, blood-stained Methos. His hair was slicked up and standing nearly on end, his body crackling with the manic energy dancing in his eyes.

He handed two swords to Joe (his own, soiled, and Duncan's familiar katana) and swung the massive Highlander easily up into his arms.

"Never knew you felt like this, Methos," Duncan murmured, dizzy as the room whirled around him. Methos crossed the threshold and started down the hall at a good pace, Joe limping and cursing quietly behind.

"Well, I can't take you home to Mum until I get you sober, dear," Methos answered dashingly, and MacLeod giggled.

The car was nearby, thankfully. Duncan felt his strength returning as Methos arranged him in the front seat of the black sedan before throwing himself into the back. Joe took the wheel and soon they were crusing down the wet NYC streets.

"What happened to the bodies?" MacLeod asked suddenly.

Joe met Methos's eyes in the mirror.

"Come on," Duncan prompted.

"They're dead." Joe turned his head aside. "All dead. Total massacre."

"I need to see them."

"Don't go there, MacLeod," Methos cautioned.

"No, *let's* go there!" Joe erupted. "Let's show him exactly what a monster we're dealing with." He swung into a deserted alleyway, stamped on the brake, and threw the car into park.

"Jesus," Methos muttered, but followed the other two around to the trunk.

Joe opened the lid and brought out his laptop case. Methos grabbed a towel and a new shirt before closing the trunk again.

"Ever wonder how many kills you've had, Duncan?" Joe asked, his voice carefully even as he set up his machine.

"A lot. I don't know exactly. I don't keep score."

"We *do*." The speedy little computer booted up, and Joe entered his password, then MacLeod's name. A map of the world appeared, spattered with green dots.

"One hundred twenty-four confirmed kills," a dulcet female voice announced. Methos toweled himself down.

"As for Connor?" Joe asked, and the computer answered. More dots appeared, yellow.

"Two hundred fifty-seven confirmed kills."

"Now here's Kell."

The world was suddenly devoured by red dots. So many, all over. So many immortal lives.

"Six hundred and seventeen confirmed kills," the voice intoned, unaware of the horror she spoke.

"He kills for the pleasure of it, Duncan," Joe said gently. "You can't stop someone like that."

But Duncan stepped forward and grimly entered a name of his own. Methos, pulling the white t-shirt over his head and down to cover his chest and abs, gasped.

Red dots again; not quite as many but still a pox on the screen.

"Four hundred eighty-two confirmed kills."

The name was Meggan Ivyblade.

"What does *she* kill for, Joe?" Duncan asked, and folded his arms. The silence stretched long.

"Let's take him there, Joe," Methos sighed at last. "He won't understand until he sees it all himself."

**********

Meggan stirred in her sleep, her arms tightening and relaxing around Connor's drowsing body. The dawn was struggling through the heavy clouds in the east and the storm above them growled and grumbled. Gently it poured itself over the house and the wasted, famished land.

"Oh, love," she murmured sleepily. "It's raining."

"Yes, it is," he answered, and shifted to embrace her.

Lightly he touched her face, watching her press her cheek into his palm like a cat. She stretched, tensed and relaxed. The sheet slipped away from her curves. Connor traced her nose, her full lips, her throat; felt her purr. He ran the back of his knuckles over her chest and down to her breasts.

She felt his skin graze her nipples and sighed. He smiled and did it again.

"What are you up ta?" she asked. Her brogue came through especially when she was half-asleep. It was darling.

"I want to touch you," he answered, and pressed himself closer to her. Now the fingers of his left hand tenderly pinched and teased her nipple as he cradled her in his other arm. His growing erection pressed against her thigh, a hard hot bar.

Connor trailed light teasing kisses up and down her throat, kneading her breast, flicking the swollen areola with his thumb.

"Connor," she breathed, face flushed, writhing in his iron grip. He chuckled and moved his tormenting, caressing hand down to the moist slit between her thighs. His thumb covered her clitoris; his fingers sought and found her tight cavern still slick from his juice and her own.

Now she trembled in earnest, her hips bucking. Her arm was around his shoulders, her hand buried in his hair. The other hand found his cock and caressed the soft velvety tip with her fingers, teasing the weeping eye, the mushroom cap ridge, before slipping down to wrap him in a firm grip and jack him with a steady rhythmic pace. Outside the rain fell on, a soft sussuration.

Her hand kept on with its maddening friction even when she leaned her head against his shoulder and moaned her climax. Slowly he disengaged his hand and ran his dripping fingertips over her lips, feeling something tighten in his abdomen when she sucked them clean.

Now he spread her out on the sheets -- golden hair flowing over the pillow, eyes arousal-clouded -- and moved to cover her. Meggan sighed as he ran his tip back and forth in her dewy lips, then sank it gently into her.

She could feel every ridge, every pulsing vein as he slipped all the way in to a point deep inside where flesh lost meaning and there was no identity, only "us".

"I feel it too," he answered her thought, rocking back and forth inside her. "I can't tell where I end and you begin."

She laced her fingers with his and strove against him, thrusting in counterpoint, matching him in pell blows. "Then it doesn't matter anymore..."

He could feel it, that necessary friction, the ultimate partnership, the concerto in which he opposed him to make their pleasure greater. He could feel her, the delicious folds that tugged on him as he tugged on her. He was piercing and pierced. He was neither male nor female and he didn't care: he was warmth, movement, and a vital mind/body link, a part of something made greater by union.

He sighed, rested on his elbows and wrapped his arms around her, still moving. Her body was soft and yielding, sleepy arouzed flesh melding against him.

"Oh, Meggan," he breathed suddenly, his face against her throat.

"Come home, Connor," she responded, hands stroking his shoulders, his back, the curve of his buttocks. "Come inside me..." The last word caught, and her body tightened.

Don't stop. Never stop. I have always needed you. Always yes and never no. Never be alone, be cold again, for here is warmth. Here is desire.

You, the crux of my desire...

He gasped. His back arched, his toes curled. His rhythm grew quicker; the dance of need. He could feel it... it was there, just beyond the threshold, building like a wave, desiring the destruction, climbing only to fall.

Her body caught his fire and was suddenly alight. She was pulling it out of him, coaxing and milking.

Then it came, all of it hers.

"Oh God, Meggan," he groaned in agony and ecstasy, in release, and then could speak no more. They rode the waves together, ever matching, drowing in sweet tides of delight. They pulsed like a heartbeat, emptied and filled, and fell into darkness together.

They curled up in each other's arms, still attached, blined as infants. "I never dreamed," she murmured against his cheek. "Can anything real be as good as this?"

Slowly he withdrew from her, sighing a little bit in loss, then wrapped her in his arms and covered them both with the blankets. "It's a kind of magic," he whispered.

The rain contined and he watched it over her drowsing head, but didn't really see its silver sheen, its shimmering drops. Yes, a fragile magic, indeed; one that might shatter because of what they had to do, who they fought -- who they *were*.

Could he stand losing love again, especially when he'd let it so deep within -- deeper than ever before? Could he survive it?

No, he thought, and watched her sleeping face, held her warm mind and body. No. I can't.

But he couldn't walk away.

He felt a moment of agonized dismay. Whichever way he turned, he could only lose. He could no more walk away from her than he could his own head... and he'd die if she was taken from him. She was now his worst weak spot, and his greatest strength.

Could he protect his fragile love? Was he enough to defend the new life he now saw for himself, with its new happiness?

There was only one way to know and be safe.

He waited until he was certain she slept deeply, then slowly eased out of her embrace although it tore at his heart. As silently as he could he slipped into the new clothing she'd conjured for him: white dress shirt, blue jeans, socks and shoes, long brown trenchcoat. Connor started for the door, then hesitated. He couldn't kiss her -- she might wake. "My love," he whispered instead, his face pained. "My love."

Then he left and quietly shut the door behind him.

You can't outsneak a sneak, she thought, eyes still closed... and Connor, I'll be damned before I let you face the ravisher of your soul alone.

**********

"It was a Christian burial," Joe remarked as he slowed towards the huge wrought iron gates. "They said all the right words."

"That's peachy, Joe. Pull over."

Together the three walked up the hill, through the abandoned and crumbling headstones to the pitiful line of twelve raw earth hillocks, crowned with twelve white wooden crosses.

"What do you think you're going to find here, Mac?" Joe demanded, agitated by the surroundings, by the reminder of what his twisted brothers had done. "They're all down *there* -- *he's* there -- and I'm not digging!"

"No," MacLeod said softly. "He's here. I feel him."

Joe made a rude noise. Methos waved a hand, his face a picture of confusion and distress. "I feel him too."

For the ten thousandth time, Joe silently wondered what it was like. He'd read all the descriptions and he was still no closer to knowing the truth. Perhaps Methos had said it best one afternoon, when he'd asked: "It's as if you develop a migraine and the stomach flu, at the very instant the prom queen asks you to dance. Sickness, ache, and anticipation."

The fog swirled around the base of the trees and kissed the still damp ground. It curled up around the approaching figure, then released him into the dawn's new light. Duncan cracked a grin of sheer joy and suddenly they'd both crossed the distance and flung themselves into their traditional bear hug.

"Don't ever do it again," Duncan pleaded, his voice muffled in Connor's coat. "Don't ever vanish like that again, cousin..."

Connor's throat closed with the tears that filled his eyes and spilled onto his face. "I promise, little cousin," he managed. "I'll never desert you again."

"I understand... I understand that you lost her and that it hurt and that it was all too much. Just don't run. We'll be here. We'll keep you together."

Over the younger man's shoulder, Methos met his eyes and gave his trademark Anglo-Saxon smirk and a little wave. The other man, his hair shot with grey and white, ceased staring at him to peer curiously down at his shoes.

"Who's he?" Connor asked, and Duncan turned. Joe leaned against the nearby birch tree, casually removed his leg and shook it upside down vigorously.

"That's our Joe Dawson, head of the Highlander Catch and Release Program lately..."

"What's he doing?" Connor's tone was nonplussed, and tinged with revulsion.

"Sand in the shoe'd be my guess."

The roar of well-tuned motorbikes split the serene quiet of the countryside. "Don't look now, but the party's just started," Connor said, releasing Duncan and crushing down his terror with an iron will.

Six or seven thugs on bikes. Connor dismissed them. Methos, whistling the theme to "Night on Bald Mountain" nonchalantly drew his sword. Joe fumbled his leg back into place.

Faith, looking like a special edition Immortal Mercenary Barbie. Duncan felt his heart sink.

And there, full in front and larger than life...

"Jakob Kell," croaked Connor. Time seemed to slow as he drew his sword. Kell came so close, brazenly, intimately close, near enough to kiss... or kill. But the flashes of memory overwhelmed.

Kell's lips curved. "Miss me, baby?"

"Don't, Connor!" Duncan barked. "It's holy ground!"

"I can't thank you enough," Kell purred as if not hearing. "The pain -- so exquisite -- and an eternity to savor it. The joy of obliterating life, the delicate flavor of it; a joy I never would have known, had you not murdered me!" HIs smile grew wider, painfully wide, but his insane eyes filled with unshed tears.

"No, I can't thank you enough... but I'll certainly try!" His slim hand went to his throat, ripped at it, and came away glittering. Duncan could see from where he stood, sword wavering in indecision, the silver crucifx and its broken chain.

"My God, Kell..." Connor groaned.

"Your God no longer, my brother, for you've damned us both. I've waited for you, Connor -- *my* Connor -- waited to drink you into me, to swallow you whole!"

The slender figure swayed closer and

Connor reeled, nauseated, rousing beyond his control as Kell held his arms helpless in his slim hands, pressed his cheek against Connor's.

"What's the matter, my Connor?" he hissed. Connor panted for air, face a portrait of agony. "Don't you want to *be inside* me?"

"Jakob Kell!" the voice rang out, a sterling clarion call. He whirled, and Connor was freed from his paralysis.

Faith gasped.

She was crowned in glory. Her glamour lit the grey morning and the cold little clearing. All eyes were on her as she crossed the ground, her bare feet barely touching the moss. She was dressed simply enough, but the light of her presence shown through it all, bright as an angel.

"I would say don't you know you're not supposed to play with little boys," she purred, "but you *are* a priest..."

"Meggan!" Methos called, a tone in his voice Duncan had never heard before.

"Hello, love," she replied firmly -- but her eyes were locked with Connor's.

Kell looked from one to the other and grinned. "So *that's* the way it is..." He leaned in to Connor again. "I'm going to treasure your memories of fucking her..."

The blow came so fast that it blurred in the eye, but Kell's blade was quicker and he danced away, avoiding the fatal edge. "What's wrong, Connor?" he taunted, fending off each vicious thrust, countering with his own. "You used to be so much better than this! Faster!" Clang. "Smoother!" Clang. "*Stronger!*" Clang. "What's stopping you? Guilt? Fear? Or have the years stolen your Quickening?"

Meggan slowly drew the shimmering Ivyblade and met Methos's gaze. Just the breath of a voice, the lightest hint of a thought -- he's not well yet...

With a dainty little leap, Kell cleared the low wall of the cemetery and beckoned MacLeod on -- but his raised sword was met by Meggan's blade.

"My turn to dance, Kell," she answered.

He stood for a moment and stared at her. Long blond hair -- he'd strangle her with it as he took her. Lithe body wrapped in simple jeans and white blouse. Her sword was held lightly, perfectly, as if it weighed no more than air.

"You beautiful little morsel," he breathed.

"I'll leave a bitter taste in your mouth," she answered, and parried his blow.

Around they went, feet and steel flashing. Meggan could see out of the corner of her eyes that Connor crouched exhausted on the ground, weary and out of breath, with Duncan hovering over him.

Suddenly Kell had the upper hand, his strikes piercing deeper and deeper into her defense. Methos groaned, watching the damage snowball, knowing full well what was coming but was still desperately unprepared when it arrived.

With a cry of joy, Kell brushed her last parry aside and sank his sword into her chest. Meggan crumpled to the ground. The silence rose up so dark and heavy that all assembled could hear the scrape of steel on bone as he withdrew his weapon. He took a handful of her mane and twisted her head aside.

"I would have loved to ravish you," he said, the razor edge at her throat. A thin trickle of blood raced from the corner of her lip, but her eyes were still bright.

"Dear Kell," she croaked. "It's only rape if I can feel it."

With a scream of rage, he severed her head.

On to Part 9.