Fire and Millstones

                                                                                                     by
                                                                                               Jeanne Rose
 

It was nearly 10:00 pm and turning quite chilly outside when Duncan pulled open the door of Le Blues Bar.  He felt a stab of guilt at
avoiding the place - well, to be honest, at avoiding Joe.  He knew his watcher had been near by for the past few weeks, but invisibly, doing his
job with a patience almost reminiscent of immortals with centuries on their hands.  Waiting, he now realized, for Duncan to come to him.

He wasn't entirely certain why he'd come tonight.  Just looking for a place to sit in the companionable darkness, alone but not alone,
surrounded by strangers drawn together by the notes floating, dancing almost tangibly through the air.  He glanced at the musicians - Joe
wasn't playing tonight, nor was he behind the bar.

Duncan took off his coat and sat down at an empty table.  When the waitress approached he ordered a scotch more by old habit than
conscious thought, and when the drink arrived he stared at it for a minute before taking a sip.  It had been over a year since he'd drunk
anything stronger than wine.  He still wasn't sure which of the changes he'd made in that year in Malaysia he wanted to keep.

The battle with Ahriman was over, but the loss remained.  He still treaded lightly around those memories, wondering if he would live long
enough for the wounds to truly heal.  No doubt Joe understood.

He drank half the scotch and stopped, already feeling its effects. He would metabolize it more quickly than the mortals around him, but he
hadn't come here to get drunk, even for a short time.  Then he felt someone's eyes on him, and turned to see Joe watching him from across the
room.

He had an odd expression in his eyes that Duncan could not interpret.  Duncan held his watcher's gaze long enough to make it an
invitation.  Joe made his way between the tables and pulled out a chair across from him.  "Good to see you," he said, and sat down.

Duncan felt his mouth quirk a bit at that, knowing Joe had seen plenty of him lately, but taking it for what Joe really meant. "Good music
tonight," he replied.  "Did I miss your playing?"

Joe shook his head.  "I don't play publicly very often, these days. I'd rather just listen, unless I'm alone."  Duncan nodded understanding.

The silence was easy between them as the young French musician wound down to the conclusion of a song.  Duncan risked another sip.
Odd that he could remember clearly when he'd practically lived on ale.  Was he still the same person who'd roamed the world so innocently,
drowning the pain of immortality in the joy of each sunrise?

Duncan realized that Joe was staring at the table as if having a last minute debate about whether to say something.  "Joe, what is it?"

Joe looked up, relieved of the burden of decision but uncertain what the consequences would be.  "There's someone in town," he said
finally.

Duncan's jaw clenched slightly.  "An immortal."

Joe shook his head helplessly.  "If there was anyone else I could tell, anyone else who could stop him -"

Duncan felt a cold knot in the pit of his stomach. "Who?"

"You wouldn't know him - for once." Joe smiled mirthlessly, no doubt at his own surprise that Duncan hadn't had some kind of run-in with
every immortal on the planet.  "His name is Kynan.  He, ah- he hunts the new ones.  He takes them on as students, gains their trust, and takes
their heads."

Duncan couldn't meet his eyes, couldn't bare to hear the pain in Joe's voice.  "He must be about a hundred and twenty, a hundred and
thirty years old.  We found him in Africa, but I don't think that's where he's from.  He's killed over a hundred new immortals."

Duncan's head snapped up in shock at the number.  "I don't know how he finds them," Joe continued doggedly.  "Finding the new
immortals is one of the most difficult assignments in the watchers.  I don't know if he has a student here yet.  But I thought you should know."

Joe pushed himself up and walked away before Duncan could say anything more.  Richie's face, concerned, puzzled, the way he'd looked
the last time Duncan had seen him, flashed unbearably through his mind.  He drank the rest of the scotch in a rush. Perhaps he did want to get
drunk.

But he knew it would hardly begin to dull the ache of reopened wounds, and after a minute he paid for the drink and stepped out into the
cold night.

He wasn't sure how long he sat with the katana laying across his knees.  It was a part of him, had been with him longer than anything else,
his only friend when everything else betrayed him or died.  It was like a symbol of his immortality; he lived as long as he could protect himself.

But he'd left it lying by Richie's body after Methos had refused to take his head.  He'd lived a year without it on holy ground, grieving,
atoning, gaining strength to face the demon, doing the only thing he knew that could give meaning to Richie's death.  Now Ahriman had been
defeated, and he knew that the encounter had changed him in ways he was only beginning to explore.

When Joe had held the katana out to him, he hadn't wanted it back. He'd told Joe he'd find another way.  Finally he'd accepted it, but he
couldn't bring himself to carry it.  He'd taken it to the American Consulate to meet Willie, but he'd known that he would win, and that he
wouldn't kill.

He ran his fingers over the smooth old ivory of the hilt, ran a thumb along the edge of the blade.  It was so sharp he could hardly feel the
cut, and in a moment it tingled and healed.  He wiped the blood on the floor beside him.

He wasn't the champion any longer.  There was no need for one, with the demon gone.  But whatever else the experience had made him,
he was still immortal.  Always would be, until the day someone took his head.  He could not escape the game, or the moral responsibility
regarding others of his kind that immortality brought with it.

Kynan was not a threat to him.  But could he ignore that kind of evil and still call himself Duncan MacLeod?

Could he kill a man for taking his students' heads, knowing what he himself had done, however unwitting?

It took him all night to find the answers, but as the sun rose and filled the sky with cold, bleak light, he knew what he had to do.

He went back to the bar.  It was locked, but Joe opened at his knock.  The watcher looked as if he hadn't slept much that night either.  He
stared for a moment at Duncan's face and saw his decision written there.

Wordlessly Joe handed him a slip of paper with directions.

Duncan drove to the outskirts of Paris and an hour into the surrounding countryside.  He didn't bother to watch for another car following
him.  He found the abandoned farmhouse near an old railway station and got out of the car, katana in hand.  Around behind the tracks he heard
blades clashing.

He couldn't tell at first which was Kynan.  Both immortals were young, sweating, attacking and parrying with vigor.  But after a few volleys
he saw that one handled his blade much more clumsily than the other.

He hadn't come close enough yet to alert them to his presence.  He watched for a few moments more, trying to determine if the battle was
in earnest.  Suddenly Kynan's sword sliced along the other boy's rib cage, releasing a dark line of blood.

"See, you left yourself unprotected."  The boy sagged in pain. Kynan subtly shifted his grip on his sword.  "In an unguarded moment you
could find yourself without a head."  He lifted his blade.

"Kynan!" Duncan called out in his deadliest tone, and started toward them.

Kynan hesitated, now sensing his presence, and the boy tried feebly to scramble out of the way, his eyes wide with fear and disbelief.

"You cannot interfere," Kynan said angrily, and stabbed the boy through the heart.  He crumpled to the ground.  Kynan lifted his sword
again, but found himself suddenly facing Duncan's blade.

"Maybe not," Duncan said, forcing Kynan's sword to one side.  "But I've come for you, and if you take his head first, you won't have
much of a chance."

Kynan stepped back, his features suffused with rage. "Who are you?"

"Duncan MacLeod, of the clan MacLeod."

"Then get ready to lose your head, Duncan MacLeod."

Kynan didn't have Duncan's experience, but he'd been taught well and adapted quickly.  The rhythm of steel on steel echoed in the
morning stillness.  Neither immortal gave much ground, and the long grass underfoot became trampled as they jockeyed for position.

Finally Duncan sent Kynan's sword flying, but he hesitated before making the final stroke.  Kynan rolled away and snatched up his sword
as it lay in the grass.  He grinned, guessing Duncan's weakness if not its cause.  "Why come for me if you can't kill me, "he taunted.

Duncan shook his head grimly and pressed his attack again.  Soon he saw that Kynan was tiring.  He wasn't used to fighting immortals
with more stamina than himself.  Duncan pushed him until he was panting and his strokes began to go wide.  He saw fear dawn in Kynan's eyes.

He wanted to tell him that this was how all his victims had felt, wanted to see it change him so that he could leave him alive, give him a
warning and another chance.  But instead he saw that the fear would disappear the instant Kynan's vulnerability did.  If Duncan left him now,
having failed to defeat him even though he was older and stronger, it would only drive him further into the darkness.

As his blade bit through skin and flesh and bone, Duncan realized suddenly that at least Richie had never had time to fear him.  Had never
seen his own death reflected in Duncan's blade in the fraction of a second it had taken to turn and swing.

The moments before the quickening began stretched in the sudden silence.  Duncan stared at Kynan's body as a white cloud of energy
rose from the headless form.  He clung to the katana with both hands, as if it alone held him to the reality of what he had done.

A shudder ran through him even before the lightning struck.  Then it wrapped around him like a giant claw, piercing his eyes, his heart,
carrying with it everything Kynan had known, had done, had felt.  It came with all the quickenings of the young immortals Kynan had
slaughtered, ruthlessly invading his mind and soul. Their ghosts formed a circle around him, their eyes full of betrayal that pierced him like
shards of glass.  All but one, who looked shockingly familiar, and had only compassion in his eyes.

Then the old barn behind him burst into flame, and the heat of it seared him from the outside as the quickening was doing to him inside.  At
any moment the pain would grow greater than he could bare, and he would be left a burnt cinder.  Distantly he heard himself screaming, and
concentrated mindlessly on the sound until the lightning faded, and was gone.

He sank to his knees, sobbing helplessly, his soul torn open and naked.  The young immortals were gone, all but the one, released for a
moment from wherever quickenings lived inside him.  Richie, I'm sorry.  He couldn't say it aloud, didn't need to.  From somewhere came an
answer.  I know.

Joe came to the barge that evening.  Duncan was sitting on the deck wrapped in his coat, watching the traffic go by across the Seine and
drinking Japanese tea.  The astringent flavor seemed somehow appropriate.

Joe grimaced when he saw the choice of beverages, but accepted a small bowl and sipped at it.  He looked at Duncan carefully.

"Are you all right?"

"I will be."

"You did what you had to do."

"Yeah."  Duncan took a deep breath and released it, almost a sigh. He looked at Notre Dame, bathed in yellow light, and thought briefly
of Darius.  "I wish there was another way."

"I know."  Joe hesitated, then said, "Maybe there is.  Maybe if you look long enough, you'll find it.  But at least no more young immortals
will die by his hand, without even a chance to learn to defend themselves."

Duncan looked down, and could scarcely make his voice audible. "So many - they were just children.  They were all there, during the
quickening.  It felt like the weight of them was crushing me."

He felt Joe's eyes trying to see into him, to know how to help. "Do you still have his memories?  Do you know why he did what he did?"

Duncan shifted in his chair.  "Usually they fade in just a few minutes."  But this time they hadn't, not yet.  Duncan listened until he could
hear the water slapping gently against the sides of the barge.

Richie's memories, even though they spanned such few years, had stayed with him for weeks, as real as if they'd been his own.  It had
been a strange, merciless gift, to have so clear a window into the soul of the friend whose life he had ended as his traveling companion on the
long, secret journey to Malaysia.

Duncan pulled himself back to Joe's question.  "It started because he wanted a son.  He found a pre-immortal and raised him as his own,
but in the end the boy nearly took his head, and Kynan had to kill him.  He never recovered."

Joe shook his head and said nothing for a moment, reluctant to come any closer to the loss they shared.  It reminded Duncan of the pair of
gloves now tucked away with his kilt and other belongings - too precious to lose, too painful to have close by.

"What about the boy, the one you saved?" Joe asked in the silence.

Duncan looked at him finally.  "You were there.  He was gone when I went to look for him."

"I just thought maybe you'd have some idea who he was."

Duncan shook his head, and Joe nodded, resigned. "I wish we could at least keep an eye on him."

Duncan nodded.  He wanted to tell Joe about Richie, and what he thought had happened at the end of the quickening.  But the words didn't
come.  Perhaps it wasn't a thing that could be shared. Richie was dead - Duncan carried inside him only an echo of what he'd been.  It wasn't as
if Richie could really forgive him.  But hope that the wound of that terrible night might someday heal took root quietly in his heart.

Joe was shivering.  The tea was cold.  Duncan shook himself out of his reflection with the realization that Joe was mortal, and getting
older.  "You want to go inside?"

Joe tried to stop shivering and shook his head.  "I should go home."

"Come on, I have something better than this to warm your blood. "Duncan drained his tea bowl and stood, feeling the familiar rigidity of
the katana at his side again.

Joe followed him into the warmth of home.