He was still following him. Five blocks and god-knows how many fake turns and meandering trails later, and he was still following him.

It was starting to piss him off.

Eyes darkening, Liam entered the Flat Planet Café. Giving a cheerful wave to the bartender and a few of the flatliners, no need to let on that anything was wrong, he ducked through the silver door that signified the end of the bar and the beginning of his territory.

He had first noticed him at about two in the afternoon, just as he had headed out for a much-needed and rather late lunch. Low-blood sugar and sudden unconsciousness, a downside of having an excessively fast part-Kimera metabolism, pending, he hadn't paid the man much attention, but now, eight hours later, the fact that he was following him had become very apparent.

Liam had had followers before, both male and female, who seemed to memorize his day-to-day schedule and instigate 'accidental' meetings until he signed something, smiled just at them, or told them in his 'Companion-Protector' voice to 'bugger off,' or something to the same intent, (he had, after the first few experiences of the type, complained to Augur, asking, quite honestly clueless, why they seemed to be so fascinated with him, but had dropped the subject with burning cheeks after Augur had handed him a mirror and told him to figure it out,) but somehow, this guy didn't seem to be that sort of follower.

He was big - tall and wide - with almost squashed features, muddy-coloured brown hair and a thick mustache. Dressed all in black leather with silver studs, he glowered at Liam's back as the two of them wove through the Washington streets, not bothering to hide that fact that he was trailing the Companion Protector.

Staring out his window, Liam face hardened as he saw him standing in the street below, staring up at him. A cold, dagger-like smile was etched into his heavy face, and he bowed his head slightly. Opening his leather trench coat, (Liam was irrationally and somewhat pettily pleased to realize that his was of a higher quality,) the man drew something out slightly, flashing it in the street-light then slipping it back under his coat, somehow losing it in the folds of the fabric.

Liam blinked, his mind taking a moment to register the sight offered to him, as he realized that the strange, heavy-set stranger had flashed the hilt and upper blade of a rather old looking broadsword.

Now more confused and disturbed than his previous irritability had allowed, Liam watched as the man turned sharply, obviously seeming to think that he had delivered a comprehensible message, and strolled off into the night-life of D.C.

Liam watched until he had disappeared, and then, after another moment of reflective contemplation at the entertainment on the streets, a sight which, technically, if going by the hybrid's chronological age, he would not be legally permitted to view, Liam turned away from his window and sat down with a tired sigh on his couch.

He really should be worried about this, he knew, but he just couldn't make himself get worked up about it. Just another death-threat, eh, Liam he asked himself. Just another thing to add to his list of things to deal with.

He was exhausted. He should probably go to bed. And he would. Soon.

Yawning, he brought a hand up to his mouth and rolled his neck. He needed to go to bed. And he would. Later. Really.

Frowning, Liam stared absently at a wall. Something was wrong. He felt . . . dead inside.

Empty.

He was angry, annoyed, exited, intrigued, tired, all the usual feelings, but they felt fake. They felt diminished, like they were trapped deep in his stomach, and he was only getting the occasional echo of what was contained somewhere deep inside.

It had been happening for awhile; his feelings had lessened and abated, lowering in intensity. There had been the occasional flash of passion: when Sandoval had been in the hospital, when Hayley and the other Resistance leaders had been shot down under amnesty, when Hayley had died . . . but truly, he felt indifferent to it all. Even when Lili had come back. He had been elated of course, but, not overly so.

Renee had almost shown more emotion that he had.

Liam's brow lowered slightly, his expression darkening. That really was a problem. One he hadn't allowed himself to face. Shoving it behind his work and his duty, he had convinced himself that it wasn't important, that it would go away, that he was just having a bad couple of days. Weeks. Months.

But he wasn't, and now he realized that.

It wasn't just the sword wielding biker that made him realized this. That was just the tip of the iceberg.

He had almost died today, again. But, this one seemed closer than it had been in a while. The energy bolt had been an inch away from his heart before the personal energy forcefield he had been wearing as a shield had activated.

Less than a tenth of a second later, a hundredth of a second later, and he would have been dead.

And he didn't care.

He'd have had regrets, of course, leaving the Resistance to its own chaos, leaving Da'an unprotected, not helping Humanity and the Taelons to realize that they needed each other, and were equals, that everything was equal to everything, that Sandoval, who had been standing ten feet away, didn't know he was his son. All of these had flooded through him, as they always did when he had a brush with death, but, really, he didn't care.

He just didn't care.

With a sudden burst of spontaneous action, Liam stood up and whipped out his Global. Sending a quick message to those who needed it, he reported that he would be taking a sick day the next day, and to please cover the proper security arrangements.

Then still on his feet, the Global closed and already asking himself why he had just done that, and what he expected to do with his day off, Liam ran a hand through his hair and ordered his tired feet to plod to bed.

Not that he particularly wanted to sleep. Not at all, really.

Feeling his body slowing, and the pending collapse in the convenient, nearby chair, Liam shook his head. Uh - uh, wonder boy. Bed.

Sighing, he left the chair to itself and pushed through his door, not so much stopping to open it, as making it all one continuous movement, a movement that rewarded him with a sharp thawk and a sore nose as he found that his feet moved faster than his hand.

Augur would have laughed at him. Would of laughed, and pointed out with many joking comments how stupid he had been, and that no matter how you dressed him, he always let it slip that he had only been born yesterday.

Augur.

Augur was gone.

It hurt; he missed him . . . but . . . not really. It was strange, not having the cyber wizard around, but, did he really miss him?

No.

I need help, Liam decided. This is bad.

That was the last coherent thought he had before stripping off his shirt and pants, and dropping boxer-clad onto his bed.

Quickly, the young hybrid fell into a restless sleep, strange dreams of pounding drums, blue lightning, flashing swords and a beautiful, pulsing light swirling through his mind.

Kall mie salral, ditre'ai. Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i. . .

Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i . . . There can be only one . . .

"No, it wasn't," insisted a deep, accented voice, with a faint hint of exasperation.

"Yes, it was," replied another, higher, differently accented voice, one with more than a hint of patient irritation. "I was there, Mac, I think I would know."

"Methos," said the original voice, "the Mona Lisa was not painted in 1494. Mona Lisa didn't marry Francesco del Giocondo until 1495. If it had been painted in 1494, it wouldn't have been called the "Mona Lisa," the "La Gioconda.""

"Well, I never said it was called "La Gioconda" originally, did I, Duncan?"

"What? You mean to say that Leonardo da Vinci painted the portrait of some woman on the street, than decided, more than five years later, to call the thing the "Mona Lisa," just because? That's ridiculous. You're ridiculous; I don't know why I'm even bothering to listen to you."

"Mac, Mac, Mac," Methos sighed, shaking his brown head at the stockier Scot. "Just because Mona didn't marry Francesco until 1495 doesn't mean that Leonardo didn't know her before that."

"Right, and since they were such good friends, he decided to paint her picture?"

"Portrait, Mac, portrait. Only the bourgeoisie call them 'pictures.'"

"Da Vinci wasn't French!"

"He was very cultured."

"I don't believe this -"

" - and, as I was saying, before I was so rudely interrupted, don't snort, he didn't paint her portrait because they were friends; he painted it because they were lovers."

There was the briefest of pauses. "I don't believe this."

"You said that already. Better be careful; forgetting things and repeating yourself is the first sign of old age."

Ignoring the older Immortal's remark, Duncan continued on with the topic. "You're telling me that Leonardo da Vinci, one of the Renaissance's greatest minds and talents, did not, as hundreds of scholars say, paint the Mona Lisa in the early 1500s, he painted it in the early 1490s, before the subject of his painting even became "La Gioconda" because he was sleeping with her. Then, after she married another man, and after, I'm hoping, they stopped seeing each other, he went and gave her the portrait . . . just because?"

"Just about; he gave it to her because he didn't like the smile."

"The smile."

"That's what I said."

"Da Vinci didn't like the Mona Lisa's smile?"

"Nope."

Mac shook his head, the long locks, long since grown back from when he had cut them off in grief, blowing in the light Seacover breeze. "And you know this because . . ."

"I was sleeping with her, too."

"You were sleeping with Mona Lisa?"

"Yeah," the ancient Immortal said, staring off into space with a dreamy look on his face. "Great girl. Really friendly. She'd do this little thing where - "

"Can we change the subject? Please."

"What? We can about your love life, and whatever breathy, swooning female you've conquered this week, but we can't talk about mine?"

"I'm never coming with you to an Art Festival again."

"Are you going to answer my question?"

Before the 400 year old could reply, both the men stopped, a familiar feeling washing over them. Searching the lazy crowd at the late-spring outdoors Seacouver Art Festival for the source of the strange, well-known feeling of another Immortal, their eyes landed simultaneously on the source of their query.

Studying the large, heavy-set immortal for a moment, Mac's eyes widened slightly as he recognized him.

"Tubar," the Highlander whispered.

"You know him?" Methos asked.

"Yes, sort of. Not very well, we've met a couple times."

"I take it you two didn't get along very well?"

"Not exceptionally. What is he doing here?"

"Well, why don't you ask him yourself, since he's coming over."

Methos was right, and a moment later, Duncan was nodding his head at the black leather clothed man. "Tubar."

"Highlander," the Immortal said. "It has been a long time."

"Yes, it has. Why are you here, Dacatha?"

"Do not worry, MacLeod. It is not your head I am here for. Nor that of your friend."

Tubar glared at Methos, his deep-set eyes bleary and belligerent. "Tubar Dacatha," he introduced himself, his gravely voice carrying a challenge.

"Adam Pierson," Methos replied mildly, not rising to the other Immortal's challenge.

"Why are you here?" Duncan repeated his question.

"I can't just come to an Art Festival to enjoy the art, MacLeod?"

"No," Mac replied flatly.

"Fair enough, Highlander. I have my reasons. It is my fight, though. Stay out of it."

"Everyone who isn't your friend is your enemy, MacLeod."

"Is that a threat, Tubar?"

"Take it however you want, MacLeod. I'm here on my business; you're here on yours. Let's leave it at that." With that departing comment, the large Immortal turned away from the other two, and pushed his way back into the crowd, leaving Mac and Methos looking after him, the former with darkening eyes, and the latter with a raised eyebrow and faintly sardonic expression.

"What?" Mac demanded, seeing the somewhat exasperated look his friend was giving him.

Methos just shook his head. "You just attract them all, don't you, MacLeod?"

"It's not my fault!"

"Yes it is. You're just too damned noble and self-righteous. If you would stop being such a Boy Scout, and leave the world to its own, you'd have much less trouble with scum and other such lowlifes."

Duncan just shook his head, accepting the older man's farce of indifference for what it was. "What I want to know is who he's here for."

"Especially since it seems like, for once, the other guy's not holding a grudge against you."

Mac shot Methos a look, but the older man just shrugged. "The ignoramus had a point, Mac. People are either your friend or your enemy. You protect them, or you protect against them. Doesn't make much allowance for mere 'acquaintances.'"

"And which are you hoping to stay?" Mac asked, his voice lowered in a mock growl.

"Ah," Methos waved a hand in an off-hand manner. "You couldn't take me."

Duncan opened his mouth, but before he could continue to banter with his friend, said friend pointed a long finger, and said, "Since I don't expect you to take your charming associate's advice, and stay out of it, I suppose you're going to want to follow him when he leaves?"

Duncan turned to look to where Methos was pointing, and saw a tall, lean man with light, sandy brown hair, who was dressed casually in a leather jacket and jeans, strolling away from the exhibits. His hands were in his pockets, and he was walking with a slow, unthreatening pace, but both Mac and Methos got the impression that, if need be, he could be very dangerous.

"Who's that?" Duncan asked.

"I have no idea," Methos answered with a shrug, "but since 'Tuber,' or whatever his name was, has been following him for the entire time he's been here, I'm going to hazard a guess and say that he's the one the moron's here for."

"That would make sense," Mac remarked, his tone lightly sarcastic, as he coolly moved to follow both Tubar and the new man.

"So I thought," Methos agreed, his tone dryer than any man's had the right to be.

The two men fell easily into a companionable silence as they quietly followed Tubar, who was following the other man.

Methos stared at the leather jacket of MacLeod's 'acquaintance,' but didn't see it. His mind was turned inward, sifting through his many thoughts and observations. He and MacLeod were walking a fair bit behind Tubar, at such a distance that other Immortal would not be able to feel their presence. Methos, though, could easily feel Dacatha; his older, more powerful, more sensitive Quickening reacting to the other's even at such a distance.

What was bothering him was that he couldn't feel a Quickening from the man Dacatha was following.

He could definitely feel . . . something coming from the unknown man. The 5000-year-old wasn't sure what it was, exactly, and though it felt very similar to what other Immortals felt like, it was subtly different. The weakness of the stranger's aura had caused Methos to believe, at first, that he was a pre-Immortal, a mortal destined to find continuation in the realms of eternity after his life was first taken from him, but as he probed more at the unfamiliar sensation the mortal was causing to his Quickening, he realized that whatever this man was, it was something very different than he. The feeling he was getting was unlike the impression he received from other Immortals, it was not quiet as strong, or as violent, or as . . . blue.

The colour that Methos sensed wasn't the same electrical hue that he perceived in the presence of his own. The reference to colours was not a completely accurate one, but even after 5000 plus years, it was the best one Methos could make, the closest thing he could find to compare to the varying but similar feelings sparked in him by others of his kind. Although the "shades" changed from immortal to immortal, (Mac, for instance felt like a very deep blue, with a strong underlying current of surging electricity, while Amanda was more like a wispy, sky-blue, accompanied by sudden sparks and flashes of light,) they all retained the basis of 'blue'.

The stranger felt more . . . green, with a lethargic mixture of gray, and a healthy alien dose of lavender and silver and gold. The energy flowing with it didn't feel so much like electricity as eletion. A type of bubble in the chest, swelling almost to point of pain, that could burst forth as a scream, a song, a cry, a laugh or a simple exclamation of emotion. A more complicated, intricate mix then Methos could ever remember feeling from anyone before.

The oldest Immortal was shaken from his reverie by a yank on his arm, and the sudden need to walk very fast.

"What are you doing?" he demanded to MacLeod, who had him by his coat sleeve and was pulling him sharply to the side.

"They went into that alley," Duncan answered, eyes beginning to glower as he raced along the almost empty Seacover streets.

Methos didn't say anything, only pushed forward a little faster. Joining the Highlander in the attempt to hurry to the site without drawing the attention of the few mortals present, the 'Really Old Guy' felt an odd, protective urge building up in him. It was strange, for hundreds of years, he had separated himself from the Game and from others; Mac, Amanda, Joe, Richie, there were only a few people he had allowed to get close to him. Yet, he was feeling a very protective instinct for a man whom he had never met, and had no idea about his character.

A protective feeling that only increased when he and the Highlander reached the mouth of the alleyway.

Dacatha had a thick, bastard broadsword, and was swinging it like a metal crowbar. He sliced a garbage can, tearing a jagged line through the thinner metal.

The man was in a bad position, halfway between lying down and sitting, his entire front was open to the medieval weapon. Even though, Methos could see that he wasn't completely helpless. One of the stranger's long legs swung out and toppled Dacatha, unbalanced from his swing, to the ground. In the second that Tubar hit the ground, the man had leapt to his feet, and was crouching into a defensive position, one hand reaching absently for where he usually carried a weapon.

Noticing the unconscious movements of the man's hands, one reaching back to where a holster would hang, and the other, although clenched into a fist, seeming to spasm irregularly as though the fingers were trying to spread, Methos drew the conclusion that he was used to fighting, and was perhaps some sort of law or military personnel.

Body tensing, Methos waited with Mac at the alley entrance, his entire body screaming at him to go and help the kid, but his common sense prevailing. He couldn't just waltz into another man's fight. Especially when he had no idea what the fight was about, or what the man could possibly have done.

The stranger remained still until Dacatha lumbered to his feet, then, just as the immortal was at his most unsteady, he pivoted and lashed out with a long leg in a swift, graceful movement, and Methos winced as Dacatha let loose a guttural oath and his wrist snapped with a sick crack; his broadsword went spinning down the alley.

"Who the hell are you!" The stranger demanded, his body moving like liquid lightning as Tubar attempted a series of swinging punches at him, cradling his already healing wrist to his chest.

It seemed the man had no idea what he had done, either.

Then, somehow, Methos wasn't sure how, exactly, but the stranger moved like lethal force incarnate, Tubar was being shoved against one of the brick walls of the buildings on either side of the alley, one of the man's arms suspending him a few inches above the ground, and the other in a strange, hand-splayed position over his heart.

"What do you want!"

Tubar stared into the livid green eyes of his former prey, an unearthly glimmer in their depths chilling him. He struggled as he began to lose air. He had at least 60 pounds on the other man, 200 hundred years of battle experience, and was only an inch or so shorter. He should have been able to break the hold, even with his wrist broken, although it was very nearly healed.

He could feel the man's, Kincaid's, Quickening slamming into his, the close proximity of the two hammering into his mind. He had first thought that Kincaid was a immortal, then a pre-Immortal, which was closer to what his weak presence had felt like than a full immortal, but now, Tubar could tell it was something else. It felt different, and was wavering, surging outwards and drawing back in, varying in strength and presence.

Eyes growing blurry from the lack of air, Tubar twisted his previously broken wrist and slipped it under his jacket, reaching into the folds of fabric.

"Well?" Kincaid demanded, the fury in his eyes increasing.

"Next time, Kincaid," Dacatha gasped, then slashed down wildly with the dagger he held tightly in his hand.

Kincaid let go off him with a gasp, stumbling backwards, and falling as Tubar helped along him with a steel-toed boot to the stomach. Dacatha ran down the alley, lightheaded and staggering slightly from the rush of air he breathed into his previously denied lungs.

He didn't know what Kincaid was, but he'd be sure to ask the next time they met. Right before he killed him.

"Jesus!" the heavy immortal heard the Highlander's friend swear as he vanished around the corner. Well, if he knew Kincaid, he would be pretty busy looking after his mortal friend. Tubar had felt his dagger hit bone as he had slashed it down Kincaid's leg.

"Jesus!" Methos swore again as he ran up to the man, the one Dacatha had called Kincaid. A thick pool of blood was forming around the mortal as he sat, pale faced and swaying, on the alley ground.

A deep slash in his left leg went from about two inches below his ilium for more than half a foot to the inside of his thigh. Deep in the red, Methos saw a glint of white bone.

"Mac, help me!" the old Immortal demanded, supporting the young man's head, as his eyes, an aged gray-green mix of innocence, rage, confusion, and something else that Methos had not seen even in his own, rolled back in his head, and he slumped into unconsciousness.

MacLeod tore off most of his shirt and gently wrapped it around the young mortal's leg, doing his best to slow the flow of blood. "We can't take him to the hospital, Methos. How would we explain what happened. And, we can't go in for police questioning; not with the new advances of Taelon technology. It would cause to many questions."

"I know, Mac. I have learned something in 5000 years."

"Just remembering what you said about forgetfulness. We can take him back to the dojo; it's not far." The Highlander gently eased the young man's lithe form into his arms, glancing down at the strangely boyish face, still lined with pain in his unconsciousness. "Do you have any idea who he is?"

"Ah . . ." Methos looked down to where a leather wallet had fallen from the mortal's pocket. Flipping it open, the old immortal felt a sudden passing of dread and a premonition that the future was likely to be very . . . interesting. "Liam Kincaid. Major Liam Kincaid."

The Highlander summed it up. "Shit."

A gentle hand was playing with his hair. Weaving it around the fingers, and tugging on it slightly. The hand was sliding up and down his head in such an absent, light manner, that Liam doubted that whoever was doing it even knew they were.

He was lying on a bed, but it didn't feel familiar. His throat was dry, and he felt hot. His left leg burned, and slowly he remembered why.

Someone . . . the man who had been following him, even to the Art Festival at Seacouver, had attacked him. Liam had hoped, in vain, when he had realized that the man was behind him in the 'modern art section,' that he would leave, or confront him, but when he had seen that he would not, Liam had left.

The man had followed him down the Seacover streets, and had drawn his sword at the mouth of the alley. Liam had backed in, and the man had attacked him. The actual details of the fight were fuzzy. The hybrid could remember an intense rage, and a cruel satisfaction as his foot had connected with the stranger's wrist. A cold pleasure that now repulsed him.

He had been so angry. Emotion, stronger than anything he could remember, had flooded him, pounding in his skull and cheering him on when he had had the heavier man by the throat. His hands had been burning, and the shaking agony in their centers had nearly driven him insane with the need to release. To spend the pain, the anger, every feeling he had accumulated over the past months. To let it all loose in a flash of . . something.

Something that Liam was glad he hadn't let out.

Carefully, the hybrid flexed his fingers where they lay under the blanket that was draped across him. They seemed to be doing fine. Liam did a quick physical assessment; his back felt a little stiff, his head was pounding, he felt very nauseous, and a little dizzy, but the most prominent pain was the burning slash down his leg.

The man had gotten him with a knife.

That must be what hurt so much.

Now, the more pressing concerns. Where was he, and who was with him?

The room, and the person, didn't feel familiar. The bed wasn't one he had been in before; it was comfortable and the sheets didn't itch, the room didn't have a disinfected, sterile smell, or smell kind of like almonds, and the lights were out. Not to mention that there was no one stabbing him with needles, listening to his heart or lungs, or peeling back his eyelids and shining a light in his eyes, all the while telling him to "Just pretend I'm not here, dearie. Go back to sleep." That ruled out hospital.

He wasn't at a friend’s house, not that he really had many friends. He wasn't at the Embassy or on the Mothership; there wasn't that strange, thrumming sound/feeling of the bioslurry.

The person at his side was unknown as well. His presence was different then anyone he had felt before, and he, Liam was sure it was a he, was causing an almost faint . . . buzzing in the back of the hybrid's mind. Whoever he was, he seemed to care for him; the hand was still brushing the hair back from his face in the absent manner, but it didn't feel at all sexual or intimate. Just . . . caring. There was a faint smell of cologne, not overpowering, but rather light and subtle, a strange, early morning, almost smoke-like, smell, that Liam supposed was the man's own scent, the faint remains of Chinese food, and beer.

He was beginning to drift off to sleep, and not wanting that, Liam did the only thing he could. He opened his eyes.

Duncan watched the oldest immortal from the bedroom door. Methos was absently running a long finger of the same hand that held the empty beer bottle over the rim. A book was lying facedown on his lap, and, Duncan smiled slightly, his other hand was running through the slightly curly hair of their guest. The action was completely subconscious on the old immortal's behalf, and Duncan laughed to himself. He's got you, Methos. Wormed his way into your heart, and you don't even know it. You've never even met the man, yet you were frantic, under that indifferent mask of yours, when we found out that the dagger had been poisoned. Do you have any idea what this will do to your reputation?

Not that the Highlander was completely unaffected, either. Something about Major Kincaid was causing him great concern. He had never met him, nor did pay an exceptional amount of attention the Companions or their personnel, yet he, too, was worried for the man with the strangely innocent features.

However, the strange sensation that the unconscious mortal was causing to his Quickening was . . . unnerving. Especially since Methos didn't seem to know what it was, either. It didn't feel wrong, just . . . alien.

Duncan shifted as he saw Methos jump up.

"What is it?" the Scott asked, coming over to stand by Methos at the edge of the guest bed in which the Major had been lying for the past day and a half.

Duncan's question was answered, though, when he looked down, and saw the peculiar, striking green eyes of their guest fluttering open.

The young Protector blinked a few times, and looked up, confused. His eyes fixed on Methos, and focused.

He swallowed a few times, then said in a hoarse and somehow very young voice, "Hello."

The younger seeming of the two men, the one he was looking at more then the other, gave a faint smile, and said in a slightly British accented voice, "Hey, kid. About time you woke up."

"What do you mean?" Liam asked, his voice rasping, and he stopping and swallowing dryly.

The other man, stockier and darker than the one he was speaking to, moved away, and Liam heard the sound of water pouring into a glass a moment later. When he returned, Liam gratefully took the glass from him and smiled slightly in thanks. He took a long drink, then repeated his question.

"What do you mean?"

"Major Kincaid," the man who had gotten him the water said gently, "you've been unconscious for the past 30 hours."

Kincaid blinked, and processed that for a moment. "Shit!" he yelped, and swung his legs out of the bed. He made it about halfway out of the bed before he collapsed, and Methos lunged and grabbed him. Duncan took the glass from his shaking hand, then helped Methos ease him back into the bed.

The young man closed his eyes and breathed heavily for a moment, his face beyond the pale that it had been before and all the way to white. A cold sweat beaded on his forehead, and Methos grabbed the damp facecloth he had been using to cool the young man with before, and gently wiped his brow with it. The old immortal’s other hand was in the Protector’s, and Methos didn't say anything when his felt his fingers come very close to breaking as Liam clenched them.

"Whoa, whoa. Take it easy," Methos said. "You're not quite ready to go running around, yet. Being poisoned can do that to you."

Liam moaned in agony as a wrack of shivering incased his lean frame. Duncan recognized the movements of his jaw and neck muscles, and got the nearby bucket to him just in time.

The heaves shook Kincaid's body, and Methos' eyes darkened with worry.

When all the stomach acid had been expelled, and all that was left were dry heaves, Liam clamped his mouth shut, and leaned back, collapsing into the bed.

Duncan took the bucket and rinsed it out in the bathroom sink, leaving Methos to whisper assurances to Major Kincaid as his body, burning with fever, shook.

“S-sorry,” Liam gasped out, his teeth chattering. His eyes were already closed, but he squeezed them tighter as another wave of pain swept over him. Distantly, his mind registered something hot and wet and thick sliding down his leg.

“It’s alright, kid, don’t worry about it.”

Not knowing why, Liam focused on the voice, hearing something in it that made him trust the man. He fixed on it, the tone, more then the words, as it continued to murmur reassurances.

“Mac,” Duncan looked up from rinsing out the sink at Methos’ voice. “His leg’s bleeding again.”

"Coming,” Duncan called back, and turned the bucket over to let the water drip out. He grabbed a handful of the prepared bandages, and grabbed the bucket again on the way out. They might need it.

When the Highlander reached the bed, his already frowning face darkened more with worry. Methos’ face echoed the same. “I don’t know what it is, Mac.” The older immortal said. “The symptoms were definitely originated by the poison on the dagger, but something else is hurting him, too. I don’t know what it could be. He didn’t hit his head, so it isn’t a concussion, and, I haven’t given him anything he could be allergic to. I don’t know. The poison should be almost out of his system by now; another 12 hours or so and it’ll be gone, but, I have no idea about whatever the rest of this could be."

Liam tensed suddenly, and he bared his teeth as he clenched his jaw. He moaned, and Duncan felt another wave of protectiveness sweep through him. He sounded so innocent, so young.

The young man started to shake, and clutched his arms around himself. He attempted to bring his legs up into a more fetal position, but he hissed in pain as he moved his left one. Duncan saw then that the wound, which he and Methos, both applying their collective millennia worth of medical knowledge, had disinfected and bandaged, had started to bleed freely again. Red blood had soaked through the bandages and was running down in dark lines that stood out avidly against the pale skin of the mortal’s leg.

“C-cold,” Liam said, his teeth chattering.

“You’ve got a bad fever,” Methos said, his hand holding Liam's.

“Sick,” the Protector murmured, beginning to lose the battle against unconsciousness.

“You were poisoned,” Methos told him.

“How?”

“Do you remember the dagger that you were cut with?”

"Yeah,” Liam stopped, trying to remember. “. . . broke his wrist . . . how could he . . ?”

“It was coated in a poison. Non-lethal, but very unpleasant, and not easily recognizable. You should be fine in a couple of hours. Do you know why the man who cut you attacked you?”

“No.” Liam shook his head, and threw it back as his body screamed. His muscles tensed, flexing out and straining. “ . . . kept following me. Waving that stupid sword. . . .” he moaned again.

Methos pressed a hand against his cheek. “Don’t worry, kid, you’ll be alright. It’ll all be fine.”

Liam bit back another moan, trying to force his spinning brain to function enough to ask another question. “Who . . . who’re you?”

“Methos, kid. My name’s Methos. Don’t worry, Liam. You’ll be alright.”

Liam whimpered, and opened his eyes very suddenly as Mac slowly took one of the bandages off his leg.

“Sorry, this will probably hurt,” Duncan said gently, feeling like he was talking more to a child than a full-grown man.

“’S’okay,” Liam gasped.

He clenched suddenly, and moaned again. His entire body froze, then slumped back into the bed with a shuddering breath, a strange wave of silver/white light washing over his skin.

A soft breath escaped his lips, and he thankfully slipped into blackness.

Over his still body, Methos and Duncan met worried, confused eyes.

Shocked, the Highlander said softly, “Just what, exactly, do we have here?”

Methos regarded the pale, peaceful features for a quiet moment, then said softly and firmly, “A young man who needs help. And we are going to help him.”

Seeing in his friend’s face the presence of the man who had been witness to 5000 years of history, Duncan nodded his head, conceding to the older man’s authority, and peeled off the second layer of bandages.

Methos spit the coffee out into the sink. "Yetch." The oldest man alive stuck his tongue out at the thin brown liquid as it dribbled down the drain.

Duncan turned his attention from oiling the blade of his Dragon's Head katana to raise an eyebrow at his friend. "Not to your liking?" he asked mildly.

"It's cold."

"Ah."

Methos watched the Highlander rub the cloth up and down the sword's blade for a moment, his lower eyelids twitching. Duncan brought out his stone, and slid it once down the blade, causing Methos' head to jerk to the side, slightly. A few more strokes and a few more jerks later, Methos slammed the mug of cold coffee down on the counter.

"Could you please go downstairs to do that?" he asked with suppressed irritation that sounded just about ready to burst out full force.

Duncan stared at his usually calm, mild friend for a surprised moment, then nodded and began to pack his equipment up. "How about I just do it later?"

"Great idea, MacLeod."

Duncan pushed his bag of blade supplies under the cushioned chair he was sitting in, and picked up his book from the side table. Flipping it open, he shuffled through the pages, trying to find where he had left off. Finding the page, he gave a happy grunt, and settled down to read.

About five pages later, Methos, who had just poured a bottle of beer down the sink because it was flat, was about ready to snap.

"Mac!" he cried, "Do you think that you could possibly turn the pages a little more quietly! And, maybe you could refrain from grunting at every second word!"

Surprised, Duncan looked up from the pages, ready to defend himself in that he most definitely did not grunt, but stopped when he saw the almost hysterical look in Methos' eyes.

"How about I just do nothing," the Highlander said, put the book down, and stared thoughtfully at the wall.

"Good idea," Methos muttered, settling back into his brood when a sudden beeping sound shattered the tense silence of the loft.

"Jesus!" Methos cried, then set off on a tangent of oaths and swearing, most of which were in harsh guttural languages that Duncan didn't know.

The oldest man alive went tearing through the loft, finally finding the source of the noise in the guest room, clipped to the belt that had been taken from Major Kincaid's destroyed jeans.

Snapping the Global open, he yelled "WHAT!" to the surprised Asian man on the other end.

The man lowered his eyebrows slightly, and said, "I wish to speak to Major Kincaid."

"Well, you can't. Who the hell are you!"

"My name is Agent Ronald Sandoval, I oversee the Companion Protector Programme and I am the head of security for the Taelon legation on Earth. Major Kincaid is under my command, and I believe that it would be in your best interest to hand his Global over to him, and allow me to speak to my subordinate."

Duncan had arrived at about that time, and frantically grabbed the global from Methos' hands, as the older immortal looked like he was about to tell Agent Sandoval what he would much rather do with the Global. "Excuse, me, Agent Sandoval?" he said to the irritated man. "I apologize for my friend's behavior," he shot Methos a poisonous look over the Global, "but Major Kincaid is a friend of ours. He has fallen ill, and will be unable to speak or report to duty for a while."

Agent Sandoval's eyes darkened. "I see. Is Major Kincaid able to reinforce this?"

"I'm afraid that the Major is asleep at the moment. When he wakes up, we'll have him call you."

"Thank you," Agent Sandoval said, making the words sound very much the opposite of thanks, and ended the call abruptly.

Closing Kincaid's Global, Duncan glared at Methos. "What the hell were you doing?" he demanded. He immediately regretted his tone as Methos raised tired eyes to his.

"I don't know, I'm sorry, Mac. I'm just tired, and worried, and . . . I'm sorry. I'm acting like hell now, I know. I haven't acted this irrational since . . ." he shook his head, "a long time ago."

Duncan sighed. "It's alright, Methos. I'm worried, too. And tired," he added with a rueful grin.

Methos raised a bottle of beer to his lips, and took a sip, staring at the pale body of Liam Kincaid.

It had not been a peaceful night.

The nightmares had started at a little after midnight, causing the young hybrid to thrash in the bed, tearing his wound further. He had been shaking, and sobbing, crying out in languages that neither had recognized, and that had sounded as alien to Duncan as Euonia. Sometimes he had almost seamed to wake up, staring wide eyed at something that neither of them could see, screaming and begging in strange tongues, desperate for help that neither of them could give. Sometimes he would let one of them touch him, lay a comforting hand on his cheek or forehead, and it would calm him down, other times . . . Duncan still ached, even with his incredible healing abilities. They had been sent flying across the room, Kincaid moving in ways that neither could comprehend, sending them crashing against the wall. Another time, Duncan had grabbed his arm as the young mortal had started clawing at his chest, desperate to remove something, and removing his skin in the process. Distractedly, Duncan remembered the meaning of nightmare, demon on your chest, and found it frighteningly appropriate. The young man had done something, and Duncan had found himself on the floor, body burning beneath the skin, and Liam glowing a brilliant bluish white, that had quickly died off and had left the man whimpering in his sleep.

Now the Protector slept, while not peacefully, but free of the awful dreams that had plagued him in the night. Still, both immortals were worried, of a relapse of the terror, and of what Liam could unknowingly do in his delirium.

Duncan placed a gentle hand on Methos' shoulder, and guided him out the door. "Come on," the Scott said, "He'll be fine. Let's just let him sleep."

He was dancing.

Leaping into the air, and clapping and spinning. It was not a civilized dance, like the ballroom waltzes and the public relation ceremonies he had been to, it was wild and primitive and erotic and burning. His blood felt like fire beneath his skin, and he eagerly threw himself into the movements, eyes flashing and body twisting like a pillar of liquid grace.

People were dancing with him, their bodies moving together in a far-from-controlled pandemonium, creating a weaving tapestry of lust and feral sensuality. The drums pounded, their rhythm never changing on the lower, bass levels, and a constant wave of chaos on the higher, upper levels.

He threw back his head and shouted the words with his brethren, elating at the sound of the pack joining their voices as one for the celibration.

Ki'ya th'ee son. K'yi kia cohn kall. G'han kree la son. Ki'ya th'ee ditre'ai. Th'i, th'i, th'i. Kall yon see kan. Ki'ya th'ee son.

He threw back his head and screamed with his kin as a log in the roaring fire burst and sent sparks up into the dark sky, lit with a triangle of three full moons and alien stars.

He was fighting.

Ducking, weaving, kicking. The sword in his hand flashed in the dark, clanging against the sword of his opponent. Battle rage filled him, pounding in his head like the drums of the dance.

Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i . . . Kall mie salral, ditre'ai. . . Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i

Blue lightning flashed along his opponent's blade, crackling against the silver/lavender light that sparked along his.

Shadows flickered across their echoing battlefield, hiding the face of his opponent. Lightning crashed somewhere, booming thunder preceding and following its arrival.

Somewhere, drums were beating.

Voices shouted and whispered, creating a confusing medley of noise.

Ki'ya th'ee son. K'yi kia cohn kall. G'han kree la son. Ki'ya th'ee ditre'ai. Th'i, th'i, th'i. Kall yon see kan. Ki'ya th'ee son.

He was dancing.

The bodies around him were lit with a burning light, colours blooming forth and retreating in, as if everyone had miniature supernovas instead of skin.

Lightning crackled between him and his fellow dancers, the higher they jumped, the louder they screamed, the brighter, more powerful it became.

Lightning danced beneath his skin, running in rippling, white and gold patterns, shot through with lavender.

The drums boomed in the night, their call reaching to the brilliant spread of stars, pulsing with the rhythm of the pack's dance.

The rhythm changed, becoming a simple beat, a beat his heart echoed, as did the hearts of his kin, pounding in sync.

Boom. Boom. Boom. Boom.

He fought.

The sword blades slid along each other, slicing at the air and at one and other.

His blade found skin, and hot blood spurted into the night, filling his senses with its nauseating, coppery, heady scent. Driving him on, making him bare his teeth and snarl and laugh.

He danced.

The river of light that was his skin pulsed with the beat, the universal beat of all peoples and all things.

He fought.

Their swords clashed to the same beat.

He danced.

Thunder boomed in the clear sky.

He fought.

Lightning flashed outside the echoing, spinning room in which he battled.

He danced.

He threw back his head, and as one, the clann screamed their cry.

He fought.

The lightning flashed across his opponent, giving him a sudden view of their face, and the jagged red scar that ran down it.

He danced.

He and his heart and his world pulsed to the rhythm of the drums in the night.

He fought.

Eyes seeing nothing but the burning river of light that his self and world had become.

He danced.

He fought.

He danced.

He fought.

He danced.

He fought.

He howled.

He screamed.

Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i . . . There can be only one . . .

Liam woke with a start.

There was the faint sound of bare feet padding towards him, and Methos looked up. Duncan followed his movements, and together they stared, uncertain of what to say, at their guest.

Major Kincaid eyed them warily. He swallowed, then said in cautious, guarded voice, "Hello. I don't believe we've actually met. My name's Liam."

Methos smiled, faintly. "Hey, kid. I already told you, but I wouldn't be surprised if you don't remember. My name's Methos, and this is Duncan."

Tubar stumbled in the dark, falling to the hard, stone ground with a muttered oath.

"Tubar," called the voice of his mistress, honey sweet and impossibly, insanely innocent. "Why do you return? He is still alive; I can feel him."

"I know, Mistress," Tubar cried out, "I apologize. I failed; I did not kill him. I was stopped by others."

"Who are these others, Tubar?" his mistress asked, saying his name with the delicious, malicious glee of having power over him with the simple syllables.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clann MacLeod, Mistress, and Adam Pierson."

"Duncan MacLeod and Adam Pierson," the voice said, trailing her tongue and power along the new names. "These two stopped you from killing the child for me?"

"Yes, Mistress," Tubar answered, swallowing dryly. He had failed his Mistress. He had not killed Kincaid, the child, as she called him. People did not fail the Mistress.

"I shall give you another chance, Tubar Dacatha," the voice said.

Tubar sagged in relief. "You will kill the child for me, and you will bring his heart to me. Then, you will kill these Duncan MacLeod and Adam Pierson who dared to defy me. Go." The voice began to change, the sweet, childlike timber deepening and mutating to a scratchy, insane shriek. "Go!"

Tubar ran.

"Sit," Methos ordered, gesturing to a chair. Gratefully, Liam obeyed, slipping into the thick, cushioned seat. He was still very pale, limping, and trembling slightly, weakened from the poison, the knife wound, and whatever else it was that was happening to him.

"I hope you don't mind . . ." Liam said, gesturing to the housecoat that he had taken from the room and had pulled over his boxer-clad body. "I couldn't find my clothes . . ." he trailed off with a slight, absent, hand gesture.

"It's no problem," Duncan reassured him. "Your shirt's in the dryer, and your jeans were destroyed."

"Yeah," Liam rubbed a light hand over the generous collection of bandages that swathed most of his left leg above the knee. "Um, thanks for bandaging this up," he began, wincing slightly as he pressed too hard, and a faint stain of red appeared on the white cloth.

"You were hurt," the Scott said. "And it looks like we'll have to change them again. It's a bad cut. You'll need stitches."

"Yeah," Liam replied, distractedly, his attention was fixed mainly on the other of the two men. His green/gray eyes implored deeply into Methos', wondering at the strange feeling of recognition and trust he was feeling for and from both the men. "Ah . . . not to sound rude, but, I would kind of like to know . . . Who are you, where am I, how did I get here, and why am I here?"

Methos quirked an eyebrow and his mouth. Inquisitive one, wasn't he? "I told you our names, but, for more than that, we are, if you will let us be, friends. You are at a dojo in Seacouver, Duncan owns it, and lives above it. We brought you here because you were hurt and needed to be looked after."

Liam nodded, "Well, thank you, and I am grateful, but I have to wonder why you didn't just call 911 and have me taken to a hospital."

Methos shared a quick look with Duncan, "Well, kid, a couple of reasons. The circumstances surrounding your injury - "

" - you were there," Liam stated, distractedly. "I know. I . . . saw you."

"Yes," Methos agreed, brow lowering somewhat at the hesitation. "We didn't think that you, or we, would like to explain it to the hospital staff, or to the police, or to the Companion Personnel. Yes, we know who you are; we found your ID. The blade that you were cut with was poisoned, although we didn't realize that until we had gotten you here, and I don't think that the hospital would have recognized it; it's a little archaic."

"But you did?"

"Yes." Liam waited, but the other man did not expand any further on his statement.

Methos seemed to be sizing him up, scrutinizing him with his old eyes. Peeling off every layer of his protection, slicing down to his center like the dagger had sliced through his skin and muscle to the bone.

Liam shifted in the awkward silence, fiercely mindful of the steady gazes that both Duncan and Methos were giving him. The tense stillness made him very aware of the odd feeling in the back of his mind. A buzzing, he decided, that was a constant, and somewhat bizarre, but not incredibly disagreeable. It rung back where he wasn't really conscious of it, just knowing. He had noticed it almost as soon as he had woken up, and although he had first dismissed it as a symptom of the dizziness that had had him collapsing on the bed on more than a few occasions as he had attempted to find something to wear, it had remained even as the lightheadedness had dispersed, and had grown stronger as he had approached the main room of the loft, and the two strangers in it.

He had felt it before, Liam realized, this buzzing, though he had barely registered it at the time. It had been there the entire time that the man who had attacked him had been following him, and had been much more . . . loud, noticeable, when he had fought him in the alley.

What on Earth was it?

"Who are you?" he asked again, sounding lost and confused, eyes shielded but betraying a growing wariness and confusion.

The wistfulness in the young man's tone tugged on the heartstrings of both his immortal keepers, reminding them of the conclusion that they had drawn the night before; that, whoever, whatever, he was, Major Liam Kincaid was young, younger than he seemed, scared, and in need of friendship.

"That," Duncan said, looking at Methos, "could take a bit of explaining."

"And," the oldest man alive said, his tone devoid of any intimidation, "in return for our story, you will tell us yours."

"Mine?" Liam asked, a trace of suspicious alarm creeping into his voice. "What do you mean, mine?"

Methos sighed. "We, too, have some questions, Liam. And, our main one, as blunt as it is, for I don't believe that there is a subtle way to ask this, is what are you?"

Liam froze, his eyes widening as an expression of terror crossed his attractive features. How could they have learned that there was something different about him? He hadn't been taken to a hospital; no blood tests had been done . . .

"You were poisoned, Liam," the one called Methos reminded him gently, "you were delirious. You said things, did things . . . no normal human could have done them. We wish to know what you are, then, since you are very apparently not human."

Liam knew his first impulse should be to run, to hide, to find a way to assure that these two men would keep quiet about their suspicions, and to disappear. But, it wasn't. Somehow, he felt a connection to this strange young man with the impossibly old eyes. Some sort of gut recognition, an understanding, a connection to brethren of secrets and illusions; something that he could not explain, but instinctively trusted.

"Alright," he said, his voice soft. "You tell me your story, and I will tell you mine."

He raised his alien eyes, defined and coloured with such an unnoticeable difference, that Methos, as he could see the haunted, exotic mien of both their presence and that of their bearer, was captivated by them, and said, "I am going to hazard a guess and say that whatever your story is, it will have something to do with that man who attacked me, the sword that is under Duncan's chair, the sword that is hidden in the coat hanging by the door, and this . . . buzzing that is in my head. Am I correct?"

Methos and Duncan blinked; apparently, Major Kincaid was more observant than they had realized. Methos, lips quirking and voice deceptively mild, nodded. "Yes, Liam you are. My name, as I told you, is Methos, and I am over 5000 years old . . ."

" . . . and that's about it; basically, two thirds Human, one third Kimera. I don't really know why 'Tubar,' as you called him, was following me, or why I can feel you both, and him, and vice versa, as you said what you feel from me is like the feeling that other Immortals generate in each other at close proximity, especially since I am not an Immortal." "Or why your story sounds so familiar . . ." Liam added in his mind, watching his two keepers with a careful, guarded expression.

They had exchanged stories, not taking a break between the conclusion of theirs and the beginning of his, with both parties retaining, through and after the telling, expressions of shock, disbelief, sorrow, understanding, awe and respect. Liam was just waiting for one more expression, one more acknowledgement; one that he had granted Methos and Duncan, after a stunned moment of wonder.

And it was granted.

Acceptance.

Methos drew a deep breath, his mind spinning. Liam's story had been one of the most incredible he had heard. Nevertheless, it did explain some things, and answer some of his questions. Liam had said that his alien heritage was disappearing, but, remembering some of the incidents of the night before, Methos found that hard to believe. It seemed to him that the kid was deceiving himself, that the alien traits were dormant, whether by subconscious suppression or natural subjection, and were reemerging, or at least they were when Liam had no manual control over his body and actions.

His heart ached for everything that the young hybrid had been put through, and the blatant disregard he had unknowingly expressed over his own very apparent unhappiness. A trembling of rage that Methos had not felt in quite a while stirred in his chest at the thought of how Liam and his mother had been treated, and at the betrayal that the child had been dealt by the people he had trusted the most.

He and MacLeod had been partially right in their assessment of him last night; he was young, and he was scared, but as well as friendship, true friendship, he needed mentors, older people to whom he could turn and ask advice from and spend time with. People who would not turn on him or use him merely for their own gain. People who would tell him the truth, the whole truth, and accept him for who and what he was. It was going to be a complicated position, but Methos found himself receiving it with eager and open arms.

And, it seemed that Duncan echoed his statements.

"Well," the Highlander said, reaching over to place a friendly hand on Liam's shoulder, "Then that's something we'll help you figure out. I've been wondering the same thing, myself."

"Yes," Methos agreed, then looked into Liam's eyes, a calm, thoughtful expression on his face. "We're here, Liam," the oldest man alive said, "when you need us and when you don't. Know that."

Something seemed very close to breaking in Liam's eyes. His face was blank, as unreadable as a stone statue's. But in his eyes . . . in his eyes curbed a torment of emotion so powerful and confusing that Methos had to repress a shudder. Fear for the child racing through his body. Duncan saw it too, and the Highlander drew up slightly, his body going into 'defensive, protect-the-innocent' mode, never mind that the one he sought to protect was the one who was the danger.

The raging passion disappeared suddenly, and the frozen, tormented stranger that had appeared so abruptly had been replaced by a shyly smiling Liam. "Thank you," the young hybrid said softly, his smooth baritone sounding at once old and young.

Methos gave a dismissive wave of his hand, stating with the gesture 'don't mention it.' "Now then," the man said, "we're going to have to get that leg of yours stitched up. All traces of the poison should be gone, now, so if it's cleaned out carefully, the stitches should pose no danger of locking some in. I suppose you're going to want to go to your own doctor?"

Liam nodded. He had told them about the Resistance doctor who had delivered him, and knew that if he didn't tell Dr. Park about the dagger wound and let her stitch it, and if she found out that he hadn't, which she would, she would skin him herself.

"Can you call her?" Duncan asked. "Ask her to come over? I don't think that you should be walking very much for a while."

Liam looked at him, a potential argument building up, ready to say that he could walk just fine, thank you very much, but then remembered the pain it had caused him to get from the bedroom to the main room, and saw the no nonsense look that the younger of the two immortals wore, and nodded, feeling suddenly very much like a potentially disobedient child.

"Yeah," Methos called over from where he had wandered to the kitchen. He retrieved a beer from the fridge, then, in a rare display of "manners," offered one to Mac and Liam. (The Highlander accepted, but Liam shook his head. 'I haven't eaten anything in two days.' 'So?') "Then you should call your boss, and anyone from the Resistance that you need to, and let them know that you'll be out of action for a while. I'd wait, myself, though, until you get an 'official' medical order; your father may be just a tad upset with you." The identity of Liam's human parents, especially his father, had come as surprise for the two immortals, but they accepted it with everything else.

"Yeah," Duncan snorted, catching the beer Methos threw at him, and popping off the lid. "Especially since the last time he called you, Methos yelled at him."

"What!" Liam yelped, sitting up sharply, then frantically grabbing at the beer bottle that came flying out of nowhere at him. "You yelled at Sandoval?!"

"Yeah," Methos shrugged. "Call it a brief stint of temporary insanity. Felt damn good, though," the 5000-year-old added, taking a deep drink.

"You don't just yell at Sandoval!" Liam gasped, the bottle clutched, forgotten, in his hands.

"Methos does," Duncan muttered, taking a sip from his own beer with an amused smile.

Liam gaped at them. "He's gonna kill me!"

The Highlander grinned full out now, laughter in his voice. "Probably. Especially since Methos' exact words were, in order, What!" "Well, you can't!" and "Who the hell are you!""

Liam's face froze. Unbidden, a giggle rose from the young hybrid's throat. "Oh my . . . the look on his face must have been priceless."

"Uh- huh," Methos nodded. "Looked rather like yours does at the moment."

Without thinking, Liam grabbed a pillow from the cushioned chair he sat on, and threw it across the loft at the old immortal.

It hit a surprised Methos square in the face, and Duncan keeled over with high-pitched laughter.

Methos grabbed the pillow as it fell to the floor, and glared in turn at a snickering Liam, who showed no remorse or restraint and quickly stuck his tongue out at the older man, and at Duncan, who was bent over and laughing insanely.

Methos stalked over, the pillow clenched firmly in both hands, and Liam, giggling, cowered back into his chair, raising his hands in a pitiful attempt at defense. Methos bopped the hybrid sharply across the grinning face, then turned and brought the pillow down with all his might on the back of the laughing Highlander's head, knocking MacLeod to the floor.

Duncan just laughed harder from his new position, then reached out with a hand and snagged a pillow from the couch. He retaliated to Methos' attack with vigor, and soon the two ancient legends were tussling on the floor like hyperactive schoolboys.

Liam laughed at the pair, and shifted, wincing as the movement reminded him of the split down his thigh. Carefully, he got to his feet, and hobbled over to the guestroom, where he had seen his Global upon awakening.

Grabbing it from the bedside table, he limped back to the main room, placing a call to Dr. Park, who, upon answering her own, got a view of his face for a spit second before a pillow, apparently out of nowhere, creamed the side of his head, and he had to ask her to hold on while he hurled it back.

Closing the Global, ears ringing slightly from Dr. Park's exasperated and worried spiel, Liam looked over to where Duncan and Methos, who had called a truce, were lying, gasping, on the floor, tears streaming down their bright red faces.

Liam snorted when he saw them, and muttered something about thinking that with age came maturity. Unfortunately, it seemed that the truce the other two had reached did not extend to him, and soon he was swinging wildly with a pillow as Duncan and Methos double-teamed him, taking precautions with his injured leg, and determined to 'teach the alien upstart to respect his elders.'

Liam's comments about there being a difference between elders and dust was met with a sudden attack on his ribs, and blatant ignoring of his shrieked comments about child abuse.

"This might just work . . ." Methos thought happily as discovered a sensitive spot on Liam's stomach that reduced the hybrid to peals of sidesplitting laughter. At least he's laughing . . .

Deep below the ground, in the ancient, intricate cave system, she slept. Her slender, white form was still, and only the slight fluttering of the raven black hair that lay over her face betrayed that she lived.

Her eyes were still beneath the closed, long-lashed lids, but she dreamed.

Cold hands.

Cold hands and a soft, melodious voice, holding her and talking to her carefully, as though she were something new and puzzling that must be handled gently, so as not to shatter her infant bones.

A strange garment was pressed against her naked skin, chilly, but warmer than the Irish mist.

She cried.

The arms that held her twitched, their owner surprised at her noise.

She was risen up, and suddenly stared into deep, unearthly blue eyes. She stopped crying.

A slight smile graced the lips of the pale, hairless face that stared at her. The stranger spoke, a flowing, almost hissing, tongue.

A tongue she knew, and replied in, as the one who had saved her now gently reprimanded her for her carelessness in the laboratory.

Ashamed, she hung her head, murmuring her apologies in Euonia and throwing in a word or two in Gaelic along the way.

He smiled at her, forgiving her, and she threw herself forward, wrapping him in her young arms. He smiled down at her, slightly uncomfortable at the physical contact that was not a method of communication for his kind, but he allowed it, and awkwardly embraced her back.

He understood, from the people of the village, that families often engaged in such embraces to express their love for each other, and while he had had no part in her conception, Rah'li was as much his family as his own child was, more so, even, as there was no Communality to help raise her, only the people of the village, and although they had been a help, especially in her infant days, as he had had no experience with Human children, they were uncomfortable with her, for both her foundling and hybrid status. He was even more a parent to her than merely a fosterer was, too, as, to save her from death when he had first found her as an abandoned baby, he had infused her with his own energy.

He lay a hand against her small, ten-year old back, and reassured her, freeing her from her duties as an aide to his work, and allowing her to go play in the hills and the forest.

Gleefully, she skipped off, and he turned back to his almost completed work; the humans of the area had become fatally dependent on a native compound, destroying themselves as they fed, obsessively, on it. He had worked dutifully for the past 200 years to find a cure for their addiction, and was nearing the completion of his task.

The finished component which Rah'li now helped distribute to those addicted to the plant.

At the age of 16, and possessing of a delicate beauty that compelled some of the men in the village to overcome their caution of her and engage her in conversation, she was tall and slender, but strong enough to survive; a life in the Irish wilderness and of hard work had assured that. She carried herself with a delicate grace, hands moving in the same flowing motions that her foster parent's did; she had learned much about how to act and speak from the Taelon.

The simple robes she wore were white and clean, accenting the porcelain that was her skin tone.

Robes that were worn in morning as the village sealed the tomb of her parent. She did not cry. Taelon's did not cry, but, her Human side begged for release.

Robes that were stained with blood and mud as she desperately fought to defend herself against the ravaging hoard. Their greater numbers and larger muscles and many weapons over powered her, pinning her down and leaving her defenseless against whatever they chose to do.

Her body and mind screamed at the violation, the tears she had never before cried streamed down her face with fiery furry, only making the filthy, reeking man who straddled her laugh and renew his attack with increased brutality and vigor.

"Bet you liked that, bitch," he hissed as he pulled out and pushed her backwards, his friends laughing and moving forward for their turn.

Anger filled up in her stomach, burning and twisting, churning like an acid. She breathed heavily, the tears drying cold on her face. Her jaw twitched, and her hands clenched into fists.

The man leaned down, and grabbed her roughly by the arm, pulling her to her feet. She splayed her hand and screamed, as surprised as he when her body burned with blue and white electricity and a flash of blue light exited her palm to strike him in the heart.

He gasped and stood still, eyes glazing over as he fell to the ground.

She stared at him in shock, not registering the other men as they turned their surprised, fearful eyes from him to her. "Sies Seth . . . I killed him . . ."

A sudden sharp pain in her stomach made her draw a choked breath and look down at the hilt that protruded from her belly.

She raised stunned eyes to the glaring face of the man who had stabbed her with his sword, and registered the "Burn in hell, witch," before she slipped away, and fell, lifeless, to the ground beside her victim.

The men were gone when she drew a sharp, painful breath, the sudden feeling of her dead heart pumping cold blood through her already contracting veins was painful and foreign. Her re-starting brain brought forth images of what had happened, and tentatively, breathing gasping air into her previously stilled lungs, she pulled back the torn cloth of her bloody robes to where the sword had entered.

There was no wound.

The woman awoke, eyes snapping open, the memories fresh in her tormented, insane mind. She rose to her feet. Her tall, lean body was dressed in clean white robes, like those she had worn as a child. Unconsciously, her hand brushed across where the sword had entered, long ago.

She roved her eyes around the cave, barely breathing.

She could feel him, could feel the child.

He could not be permitted to live.

A deranged gleam shone in her wide, Taelon blue eyes.

The child would die.

Dr. Park walked through the dojo with a slightly raised eyebrow, an almost unbelieving look reflected in her amused eyes. She had to admit, she was intrigued. As angry, worried, she corrected herself, as worried as she was for Liam, and a little exasperated at him, did the child have no sense of self-preservation? the dojo was not where she would have expected to find him.

Entering the office with a soft knock, she introduced herself to the man sitting behind the desk. "Hello, I'm Dr. Park. I was asked to come here by a patient of mine . . ."

He stood, and smiled charmingly, the dark red silk shirt and black pants he was wearing not so much accenting his strong build as doing nothing to hide it. "Yes," he said with a trace of a Scottish accent. "It's nice to meet you. I'm Duncan MacLeod. Liam's upstairs."

He led her to the lift, holding the door open for her. "I have to say," Melissa said as they rode the lift up, "this is a bit unusual."

Duncan looked at her, saying nothing but imploring her to go on with his eyes. "I mean," she continued, finding him easy to talk to and almost rambling, "Liam's always getting hurt one way or another, but I never . . . I wasn't aware that he spent any time here."

Duncan nodded, feeling the protectiveness that built up in the doctor as she said the last bit. "Yes," he nodded, doing her best to put her at ease. "Liam . . ." he paused, unsure of how to continue. He wasn't very well going to tell her that they had only really meet the young hybrid an hour or so ago, and already were aware of his secrets, and vice versa. "Liam doesn't like to advertise the time he spends with us - a friend of ours and I. He likes to keep it separate from both his other . . . duties."

Melissa looked sharply at him, trying to see what he meant, but he met her with a charming, if impassive, smile, and held the lift open for her again. "This way."

Inside the loft, Dr. Park gave the place an appraising glance. Not bad; tastefully, if a little eclectically decorated, and apparently well looked after; especially for what she suspected to be a "bachelor pad."

Another man was behind the counter in the kitchen, flipping through a cookbook, and he raised his head as they stepped into the main room. He came out from the kitchen and over to them.

"Adam," Duncan introduced them, "Dr. Park; Dr. Park, Adam Pierson."

"Nice to meet you," Melissa said, shifting her medical bag to her left hand to shake his.

"The pleasure's all mine," he said with his own charming smile and a British accent, "I'm sure."

Well, as little as she could say about Liam's regards to his own safety, she could definitely say a lot about his choice in friends. Especially appearance wise, she thought with an inner, appreciative smile. Down, girl. You're too old for them . . .

"Where's -" Duncan started to ask, but Methos just nodded his head to a door.

"In there. I don't believe he's doing quite as well as he thought he was. I mentioned starting lunch, and he came over. Took one look at the pictures in the cook book and went green."

Duncan winced. "Poor kid. Maybe you shouldn't have given him that beer."

Methos sighed, "Yes, yes, blame the old guy . . . it's not as if he drank it."

"That's because he has more sense than you do."

Dr. Park watched the exchange with confused amusement, but focused her attention on the door as it opened. Out walked Liam, dressed in a loose tee shirt, which was Methos', and very loose black pants, which he had also borrowed from the old immortal, Duncan's being too short. Her eyes darkened as she noticed the pronounced limp and the very pale face of her charge.

"Melissa," he said, slightly surprised when he saw her. He smiled a little, the little-boy grin making her even more upset as it renewed her anger at everything that he, really only a baby, was put, and put himself, through. "How long have you been here?"

"Just arrived," she answered, moving over to him, and pointing him in the direction of the loft's couch. "Move, Liam. You're shaking," she added, as she felt the tremors incasing his lean frame when she took his muscled arm. "Help me," she ordered Duncan and Methos, who were already on their way to do so.

Blushing, Liam protested that he was fine and could walk on his own, but was half-helped, half-carried by over-protective guardians to the couch anyway.

Sitting on the couch with a patient sigh, he looked up into the exasperated and somewhat impatient gaze of Dr. Park. "What?"

Melissa shook her head. "I need to see the cut, Liam."

"Oh," Liam said, still rather uncertain about what she meant. Then it hit him. "Oh!" And he went bright red.

Dr. Park grinned at his embarrassment, and raised her eyebrows. "I don't have all day, Liam," she reminded him.

Liam nodded, still quite red, and stood up. He undid the drawstring at his hips, and, face burning even more, dropped the pants to about his knee level and sat down quickly, very glad that boxers he had been forced to borrow from Methos were long.

Dr. Park's grin faded as she saw how much of the young hybrid's leg was wrapped in bandages. She bent down, and gently pulled some of the cloth away, growing more upset as she saw the red blood begin to seep through to the bandages at the contact, spreading quickly.

She brought her concerned gaze up to Liam's face, seeing the increased ashen colour and the suppressed pain.

As gently as she could, she drew off the last layer of bandages and gave a slight gasp.

Angrily, she snapped at Duncan and Methos, "You never told me it was this bad! How old is this again?"

Methos sighed, "Approximately 50 hours."

"And why wasn't I informed about this! Why wasn't anyone told!"

"Melissa," Liam began, but she whipped angry eyes to him, making him cower back.

"Yes, Liam," her tone had an ominously foreboding ring to it.

Swallowing, Liam answered, "It was poisoned, and we had to wait for 48 hours for all traces of the poison to clear."

"You still should have told me, Liam! Poison is even worse!"

"I would of, but . . . I've kinda been unconscious for about that long, and Mac and . . . Adam didn't know who to call or anything, so . . . sorry?"

Dr. Park sighed. Damn that man and his nonexistent survival instincts and his bloody little boy smile and eyes and damn his inability to stop caring for a time long enough to heal from his last good deed!

Gently, she probed a finger beside the angry, but uninfected, slash, and felt Liam flinch. "I'll stitch it up," she sighed, rummaging through her bag for a pair of gloves, a powerful anesthetic, which she would have to inject liberal amounts of, owing to the size of the wound and Liam's ability to overcome most drugs and agents, some sterile needles, tweezers, scissors, and stitching wire.

She smiled at him, still not hiding her worried exasperation, and he grimaced. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

Injecting the anesthetic into his leg, she twisted the capped top off of it, placed it in her carry-along sharps container, and narrowed her eyes at him. "I will . . ." she threaded the needle and held it up so he could see it.

He glared at it then sighed, "You do realize that the only reason I'm not saying anything is because you've got a really good memory and because there's a good chance that sooner or later you're gonna be around me with your full bag of tricks while I'm unconscious, right?"

"One can only hope. . ." she stabbed the needle through the tender flesh edging the deep slash. He winced and his leg twitched slightly. "Guess the anesthetic hasn't fully taken affect yet."

"Not saying nothing, although, 'malpractice' does spring to mind - Ow!"

"Smart boy."

"Melissa! No!"

"Liam! Yes!"

"But I can't!"

"Yes, you can. And, you will! I'm making the arrangements myself; there is no way you are going to get out of this."

"A month!"

"Yes, Liam! A month, at least! We'll see how well you're doing then, and I'll decide if you need to take anymore time off."

"Melissa, it's not that bad!"

"It's not only the cut I'm worried about, Liam! You've lost a lot of blood, there are still any aftereffects of the poison to be concerned about, and you need a vacation anyway! You put your body through a lot, Liam. Give it time to heal!"

"But - "

"No buts. You are taking the time off. I want you to rest and relax. You will distance yourself from your duties, all of your duties, no ifs, no ands, no maybes, or buts."

"But - "

"What did I just say?"

"They need me!"

"That may be, but they need you relaxed, calm and healthy. None of which you will be if you continue to push yourself the way you do. Sit down, for goodness sake! You're shaking, Liam. I can see it. Sit down before you pass out!" Dr. Park turned to the two men who were watching the exchange with amusement. "Since you offered, I'm placing the complete responsibility of his health in your hands. If anything happens - "

" - Doctor - "

"- Sit down!" She turned back to two slightly dazed immortals, "Anything. Is that clear? Good. You'll have to be forceful; he's as stubborn as an Ass and has about as much sense as one, too."

"Oh, thank you . . ."

"It's for your own good, Liam."

"Whatever."

"Go to bed; you're getting surly."

"If I'm surly it's only because you decided to do needlepoint on my leg and are completely disregarding any and all commitments I need to fulfill!"

"See what I mean?"

"If either of you dare answer - "

"Goodbye, Liam. I'll see you in a week to check up on those stitches. Call me if there is any problems."

Liam sighed, "Yes, Doctor." It wasn't until she, followed by Duncan, was standing at the lift that he gave in and said, "Thank you. Bye."

She smiled, having won, as much as anyone ever won with Liam when he made up his mind or was dead-set against something, and waved goodbye. She had a feeling that Liam would follow her orders; he seemed to realize that he needed a break, too. And, if he didn't, she was pretty sure that his keepers would.

Speaking of which . . . "You will take care of him?" she asked Mr. MacLeod.

"Yes," he smiled. "We won't let anything happen to him."

"Thank you. He's lucky to have friends like you two."

Duncan was quiet for a moment. "I think we're pretty lucky to have him, too."

"Well, he is one of a kind, isn't he?"

"I'd say. Goodbye Doctor. It was nice to meet you. We'll take care of Liam."

"I know you will. I suppose I'll see you in about a week, then."

"In a week," he closed the door behind her, and she walked down the street to where the portal station was, pulling out her Global to make a few calls on the way. First, Da'an, and then Sandoval, and then Renee, and she would make sure that they all knew there would be no exceptions to the absence; Liam needed a break.

Tubar peered down the dark alley. He took a few cautious steps in; there was always the chance that it could be an ambush. With the new, Taelon technology devised weapons available on the streets these days, Immortals were not quite as impervious as they used to be. If one was disintegrated, one was disintegrated. End of story.

A figure detached itself from the shadows behind a Dumpster, and moved slightly forward.

"Creeping like the rat he is," Tubar thought with a disgusted, fear-born grimace.

"Mr. Dacatha?" the boney man asked, leering in the shadows, the taut, sickly face hanging like a ghastly skull in the darkness.

"You Skull?" Tubar growled back.

"Mr. Skull, if you please," the man said, moving forward and into the thin, watery light cast by the barely there sliver of a waning moon. He looked even more like a ghoul that way, tall and thin, with tight, strained skin that was so pale it barely seemed to be there at all. He was so brittle looking that one would think that a gust of wind would lift him up and shatter him upon landing. The assumption of fragility was one that many made, and one that many learned the danger of as the cold, boney hands closed around their throat, leaving their last vision on earth the leering face of the Boneman.

Tubar shifted, uneasy of the strange, skeletal mortal. "You got it?" he demanded.

Mr. Skull held up a dufflebag, "Yes. And do you have the payment?"

Tubar held up the briefcase. "Right here." He took a few more steps into the alley, meeting the bony man under his pale beam of light. A thin, brittle hand was extended, and Tubar slipped the handles of the case over the long fingers.

The Boneman hefted it experimentally. "I do not need to tell you what will happen if it is discovered that you have cheated me?"

"No," Tubar said, growing steadily more uncomfortable as he remained in Mr. Skull's presence.

"Very well," the dufflebag was extended, and Tubar grabbed it, then took a few shuffled steps back.

He nodded. "Well . . . nice doing business with you," he muttered, growing tense as the other man continued to stare at him.

Mr. Skull smiled, and Tubar shivered. The mad grin looked more like the demented leer of a demon than an expression of human joy. "Wouldn't be surprised if he isn't human, bloody spook . . ."

"Enjoy your purchase, Mr. Dacatha." A deranged light flashed in the deep, dead eyes, and the man took a step backwards, disappearing into the shadows, and leaving a sudden, sickeningly empty feeling in his wake.

Tubar waited for a brief moment, searching with all his senses. There was no trace of the insane mortal. He swallowed dryly, and took a step backwards. With the step, Tubar's nerve broke, and he turned and fled, running full out; the exit of the alley seemed much farther then it had been when it was the entrance.

He broke into the streetlight lit area of the downtown street, coming to a sudden halt, a sweat coating his skin with greasy perspiration. Breathing heavily, Tubar clutched the dufflebag almost possessively with both hands. He had obtained what he required.

The heavy Immortal smirked. "It's coming, Kincaid. Just wait. You're dead."

"Liam? Liam? Lee-um?" Methos bent down and stuck his head under the bed, sneezing suddenly as the dust bunnies attacked his nose. "Why the hell is there dust under here? Mac doesn't usually stand for lax housekeeping . . . oh yeah," Methos stood up, and brushed the dust off his face. The guestroom was his responsibility. Maybe he wouldn't be mentioning the breeding colony, then.

The ancient Immortal had moved in with the Highlander two years before; almost simultaneously losing his apartment to a fire, and all official standings with the Watchers as the Watcher of an Immortal he had been forced to fight had taken a clear picture of himself absorbing the other's Quickening. As far as the Watchers were concerned, Adam Pierson was a Watcher who had, by fatal accident, discovered himself to be Immortal.

His ties were removed and he was formally placed in the Game, as far as they knew, that is.

As of now, that did not matter. What did matter was that, for the time being, the loft had another resident; one who had effectively disappeared.

"This is twice in as many days," the man thought with a patiently exasperated sigh. "You wouldn't think a two and a half year old would still be able to do that when he's that big . . . and yet . . ." Methos closed the closet door with another sigh. Not in there, either.

"Why do I feel like I'm playing hide-and-seek?"

Liam had been, in the three days that he had been a conscious resident at the loft, an . . . interesting surprise. He had been rather upset with Dr. Park's orders and extended medical leave, to put it mildly. After the initial fury and rants, he had mellowed, and had become endearingly annoying with his desperate need to help. Duncan had finally grown angry from worry and had snapped at him, ordering him to bed, when he had staggered under the wait of the boxes he had helped carry out of the guest room, which had become his room, and had become stark white, trembling and gasping as his leg, and more significantly the seven inch long slash down it, had protested to the strain placed upon it.

As Liam's room was being cleared of the over time acquired junk, both the Immortals had fallen into the habit of storing their unused things there, the hybrid had been sent to Methos' room, where he had, almost as soon as his body had lain on the bed, fallen into a deep sleep. Leaving him to his rest, the Immortals had let him be for the remainder of the day, taking advantage of his borderline coma to discuss what they were going to do with him. Not firm decision had been reached, but the two were in agreement in that they needed to protect him, and that there were many issues that were bothering him, and that they needed to be dealt with. The two would do what they could to help him with those issues and any other problems he came across. Whatever it was that separated him, but linked him so, to their kind would need to be explored as well, but not yet. They needed to help him stabilize, first.

Liam had slept soundly for about eight hours, waking them, Duncan in his bed and Methos dozing on the couch to an old movie, at midnight with a nightmare.

Methos frowned. Liam's nightmares were another problem. He had had them every night that he had been there, and a multitude of variations, to boot. They were averaging three a night, but Methos believed that he was having more, and simply had awakened before they had caused him to wake them.

Last night, Methos had held him as he, unknowingly, Liam would surely be mortified to know of his loss of control, had shaken uncontrollably, tears streaming down his face as he had brought to light some of his inner demons.

Methos had rapidly gained a powerful hatred for one Companion Agent Ronald P. Sandoval.

The pain he had caused his son was unbelievable. Some of his actions Methos could not condemn, as he, too, had been the perpetuator of many unspeakable atrocities, but some . . . It was more the pain that he caused his son, Methos found unforgivable, then his actions. Although, some of those, too, did test his boundaries. Must be Duncan's influence upon his scruples; he'd not had such problems with over-responsive ethics before meeting the Highlander.

Liam loved his father.

That was the problem. The man had done unspeakable things, both with and without the influence of his Motivational Imperative, but, as Liam knew who he had been before the Taelons had irreversibly warped his options and conscience, he could not hate him. He was given no choice but to love him.

The man was Liam's father, biologically, if in no other way, and Liam, driven by the unconditional love of a child for their parent, was forced to remain caring even in the face of each new atrocity.

He had even gone so far as to attempt to have his own son killed. Albeit, Sandoval did not know that Liam was his son, but Liam knew that Sandoval was his father, and therefor was forced to bear the pain and guilt for both of them.

Methos gave an irritated snort as he realized something else. As much as he hated Sandoval, he wanted him to love Liam. He actually wanted that monster to have a relationship with his son, to know his child and to care for him. Liam's mother and spiritual father were dead; all the child had left was Sandoval. Nothing could fill the gap in the hybrid's heart, but Methos and Duncan were determined to give it their best.

Of course, to do that, they would have to know where he was . . .

Yesterday, after a few hours of an honest attempt at remaining relaxed, the hybrid had finally given into the incessant boredom and had, for a while at least, vanished from Methos' supervision. The 5000-year-old had eventually found him in the dojo below, watching the mat techniques. Methos had joined him, secretly admiring himself the way Duncan, without overly exerting his superior abilities, was able to defeat all his challengers, and at the same time teach them a little about what they needed to improve on.

Duncan had spotted them eventually, and probably would have allowed them to stay observing from the shadows, had a few other dojo patrons not noticed them, and more importantly, Liam's lean, muscular frame, not masked by the loose, casual clothes he wore. The, as far as Methos was concerned, testosterone-overdosed male throwbacks had challenged Liam, who had, in all good sense, declined.

It had not gone over well.

Eventually, Liam and Methos had attempted to leave. They had made it about a meter from where they had been seated, before the lead thug, ignoring Liam's very pronounced limp, had attack them from behind. He had ended up on his back with a bone-jarring thump, with his arms pinned and an angry Human/Kimeran hybrid on his chest. One of Liam's arms had been holding the two, much larger arms of the bigger man to the floor, and the other had been balled into a fist at his windpipe.

The man had gulped and nodded as Liam had literally growled at him and told him to learn to take no as an answer. Liam had gotten to his feet, and had stalked out of the dojo, an irked and somewhat stunned Methos at his heels. He had made it around the corner and out of view from the inside patrons before collapsing against the wall, and sliding, moaning to the ground.

As much as he dreaded a repeat of yesterday's performance, Methos resided himself to check downstairs, again. He had made it to lift before the next thought struck him. He had checked here, and down, but he hadn't checked up.

And that's where he found him.

Methos approached the young hybrid carefully. Liam was leaning against the lift's protrusion and access cote, staring across the Seacouver streets, but with a distant glaze to his light, jade green eyes that suggested he wasn't seeing them at all.

Methos moved up beside him, eyes straying over the tall, imposing form of the Companion Protector and Resistance Leader; he still found himself astonished by the fact that housed in the slender, lithe body was a child.

The ancient Immortal was silent as he joined Liam, the two looking over the city in a companionable silence. "Enjoying the view?" he asked finally.

Liam was silent for a moment, and then responded, "Nice."

Methos nodded, "Yeah, it is. Nice day, too."

Liam nodded, the warm, late-spring sun catching on his hair and highlighting the streaks of gold and red. "Warm."

"Don't even need a coat."

"Nope," the hybrid was dressed in a comfortable pair of old, worn jeans and a loose blue tee shirt from the collection of suitable clothes that Dr. Park had sent over from his apartment.

Methos sighed, and tilted his head back, letting the sun shine down on his face and filter through his eyelids, giving him a view of a warm, hazy, red-gold light. Liam was silent beside him, but the Immortal opened his eyes and looked over with sincere concern as he heard him draw a deep breath that shuddered at the end.

The other man had his eyes closed, lines of pain forming around his eyes and mouth. Methos straitened, and slid over, laying a gentle hand on the other man's shoulder. When Liam didn't shake it off, and even titled his neck slightly towards it, Methos took things a step further, and pulled the young hybrid towards him, shifting them so that his arms wrapped around the child's back to embrace his front, holding him against him.

Liam leaned back, offering no resistance to the embrace, and Methos slid down the cote until he was seated against the wall, Liam sat as well, his one injured leg stretched out before him, and the other held to his chest with his arms. The part Kimeran lay his head against Methos' shoulder, abandoning himself to the quiet support and resolute affectionate guardianship that the ancient man offered by the strong embrace and the gentle hand brushing through his hair.

Allan Sinclair chewed absently on his gum, which had long since lost its flavor and had become merely a subconscious method of boredom control. He diverted his gaze from the two men on the roof, and looked down at his global, the image of the two was on the screen. Quickly, he sent the pictures he had taken to his computer at home and to the Watcher databanks.

Curiouser and curiouser. He was now almost certain that the other man was Major Liam Kincaid. He would still run an image search against the Companion data banks, but, even so, what was a Companion Protector doing, and to all appearances, living with two Immortals?

When he had first realized that there was someone else taking up residence in the loft, he had been slightly surprised, more so by the fact that he had missed the initial arrival. He had been more surprised when he realized that this other person was a man and was not Immortal. He had run it by Carl Shankes, MacLeod's Watcher since Dawson had been retired from active field duty, but the other Watcher had not been able to shed light on the subject. MacLeod had been seeing a mortal woman for a while, but the Watcher had no insight into a mortal man becoming closer to either of the two Immortals.

They had received an answer as to why the man had originally come to the loft from another Watcher, a woman by the name of Elise Adams who Watched an Immortal named Tubar Dacatha. Apparently, Dacatha had attacked the man in an alley, and MacLeod and Pierson had come across the two. Dacatha had fled, and the two men had taken the third, who had been unconscious, to the loft with them.

Why the man was still at the loft, none of them were certain.

Originally, Allan had entertained the idea that Pierson was sleeping with him, drawing the conclusion from the comfortable touches he had seen them give each other the day before, after the mortal, who he strongly suspected to be Major Kincaid, had stormed out of the dojo, then collapsed in the alley space beside it. Pierson had been at his side immediately, laying a hand against his forehead, and gripping his shoulder as the other man's leg jerked. (According to Elise, Dacatha had slashed him badly with a dagger, which would explain the limp Allan had noticed and the pressure the mortal was applying to a section on his left thigh.) After a moment, Pierson had given the other man a laconic snort, then said in a mild voice, "Impressive display."

"He pissed me off."

"Really? I never would have gathered that from you throwing him to the ground and pressing your fist against his windpipe."

"Shut up, Adam."

"You okay, kid?"

"Fine."

"And while I'm sure of that, I meant honestly."

The man had paused and sighed, "My leg hurts, my head hurts, my palms are aching, and I'm tired. Wanna know anything else?"

"No, that sounds honest enough."

"I don't wanna go back in."

"Alright, kid," Pierson pulled the man to his feet, supporting him and keeping a hand on the small of his back even after he had regained his balance. "What would you like to do?"

"I don't know . . . could we just drive somewhere, or something?"

"Sure. We'll take Mac's car."

"Why not?" with a shrug, the man had let Pierson lead him to MacLeod's car, and had slid into the passenger seat, moving it back so that he could stretch out.

The had driven away, leaving Allan unprepared and in the dust, with the last comments of, "If he asks, I'm telling him it was your idea."

"Thanks."

"Don't mention it . . ."

However, the young Watcher had abandoned that idea not long after, deciding that the touches he had seen, while being obviously affectionate, had not been intimate. Today's actions had enforced that decision, the obvious care that the Immortal felt for the mortal seemed to be almost custodial as opposed to sexual.

Allan spared one last glance at the two men, who were still in the same position, before starting his engine and driving away.

The darkness was immeasurable; it stretched as far as the senses could perceive, yet it scarcely seemed greater than that created by the shut eyes of a frightened child.

In the black, a brief light flashed, sparking suddenly, and fading away. A moment later it burst to life again, lasting longer before fading into nothingness. The third time it flared, it dwindled but stayed, remaining as a steady glow.

The light was smoke-like, hazy and misty, almost ethereal. It glowed, more than burned, and the colours were soft and gentle; blues and purples and white, merging together.

The colours pulsed in perfect cadence, expanding and retreating in perfect sync. The light began to increase, swelling and withdrawing, but steadily growing larger. Soon the single light split, breaking down the middle and forming two individual but co-dependant flames.

They swirled, now, blossoming forth to spear the back surroundings. More flames joined together in a weaving dance of light and colour. Expanding and contracting in complete harmony, the flames appeared to be alive, rising upwards and descending to the pulse of an unheard beat.

The twisting blaze almost seemed to be producing a sound; gentle whispers that lapped at the edges of awareness, sending half-formed thoughts and messages to jolt the watcher. The flames burst outwards suddenly, and enveloped the darkness, creating a blazing inferno of cold fire, before vanishing abruptly to become once again the steady, dancing wreath of strangely coloured light.

"Li'am," a deep, smooth voice said from behind him, and Liam turned his back to the flames, which now spun in the darkness in front of him, and faced the speaker.

Bowing his head to the tall, blue robed man, old with out being aged, he placed his left fist just below his breastbone and splayed his right hand, palm upwards, in a salute of submissive respect. A gesture to which the Taelon salute was a mocking parody. Shaqarava aimed harmlessly to the sky, and fist to his prime energy garret, he portrayed his deference to the long white haired speaker and his own challenge of rank.

"Kra'lye," he addressed the man, voice soft and aimed to the floor.

The man made his own gesture, placing a splayed hand forward, shaqarava also skyward, and raised the grand broadsword he held to eye height and bowed his head.

"Val'try," he addressed Liam, esteemed child, "do you enjoy the flames?"

"They confuse me, Van'li," respected master the hybrid admitted. "What are they?"

"Do you not know, Li'am?"

"I . . . don't believe I do."

The man tilted his head slightly, a peculiar smile spreading across his pale, softly glowing face. "I believe you do," he said, and stepped forward to stand beside Liam. The flames followed him, burning before the two men. Around them, too, Liam realized, as he followed the flickering patterns with his eyes.

The man raised a hand, the blade he had been carrying vanishing, and a segment of the flames darted away from the rest, settling as a bubble above his outstretched palm. Liam watched the orb for a moment; the thin layer encasing the burning sparks inside had taken on a reddish hue. Carefully, he extended a hand, and when Kra'lye did not oppose, touched the fragile seeming sphere with a cautious finger.

He drew it back with a hiss, eyes wide and form rigid as the sudden flashes of images burst in his mind.

Armies upon armies marching forward in a pounding, unbroken rhythm, the thick grass upon which they marched trampled into mud beneath their pounding feet.

A young girl, laughing as she waved a large hoop in the air. Jumping up to swipe her hand through the immense bubble she had created, and squealing as the drops of soap water rained down upon her.

Horses charged forward, their armored riders forcing them on. Swords clashed against each other, garbled shouts merged together, creating nothing more than a multitude of undistinguishable noise. Sweat coated his face, his arm was numb, and he breathed heavily. Blood pooled down his face, his helmet lost in the mêlée, and beside him a man fell to the ground. Somewhere a horn blared.

A girl, a young woman, re-capturing her innocence, stood in the still winter night. She blew gently into the bubble wand, grinning with an almost pained and regretful delight as the glittering bubble she created froze in the air. It landed in her hand and she held it up, watching the icy sphere glimmer in the moonlight.

Gunfire and shouting. The sickening sensation of bullets thudding into his stomach. The sudden closeness of the street as he fell forward.

Laughing children, running down the sandbar, salty waves crashing over their bare feet. Sand pipers and seagulls scattered and were chased by enthusiastic, barking dogs.

A dagger plummeted into his breast.

A brief taste of cold peach pie.

A burst of light.

A gentle kiss.

A harsh voice.

The loose clasp of his lover's hand in his, and the warm smile on her lips.

The cold snarl of the man who stood over him, voice sneering and triumphant.

"I love you . . ."

"There can be only one . . ."

Liam, breathing heavily, raised his astonished gaze to the older man.

"They're memories," he gasped.

"They are history," his master replied.

The flames burst forth with a sudden blinding light.

Kra'lye took a hard step towards him, the long, glowing sword raised, and swung. The cool blade contacted with Liam's neck as the blue flames flared silver and exploded like fireworks.

Liam sat up with a start, hand going to his throat, and gasping.

He blinked for a moment, eyes registering the darkened living room of the loft, illuminated by the light of the television and the setting sun outside the window.

He wiped a hand across his forehead, grimacing at the sweat he felt coating his face and body, and shook his head.

"Evening," said a dry voice, and Liam looked over. Blushing, he moved to the other end of the couch.

"Sorry," he muttered, scanning Methos' lap for any hint that the probable sideways angle of his sleeping head had resulted in drool on the Immortal's legs, which it seemed he had commandeered for a pillow.

Methos waved a hand. "Just warn me next time you decide to pass out in the middle of "To Russia With Love," and I'll remember to make more popcorn."

Liam rubbed his eyes, grabbing the now warm and flat beer that was his from the coffee table to help his dry throat, and glanced at the screen. A different actor than he remembered was delivering the famous, "Bond, James Bond," to a scantly clad woman. "How long did I sleep for?"

"For the rest of "To Russia," through "Golden Eye," "Doctor No," and the beginning of "Tomorrow Never Dies." Basically, for the entire afternoon." Duncan said, coming up behind the couch with a full bowl of popcorn that he handed to Methos with an air of superiority. "Your cuisine, Monsieur," he said with a snotty, overly French accent.

"Thank you, kind sir," Methos returned, taking the bowl from his friend with precise movements. "Did the chef remember the twist of salt this time, or did he merely 'sprinkle,' again."

"He twisted," Duncan answered, grabbing a handful of Methos' dark hair, "and he'll twist a few other things if the consumer persists with his critique."

Methos, unfazed by the Scott's threat, picked a single kernel of the popcorn from the full bowl, and raised it to his mouth. He chewed it with little movements for much longer than needed, then brought a rather scrunched napkin up to dab his lips. "Very well," he said. "It will suffice." This declaration was followed a moment later by a yelp as Mac viscously twisted the handful of hair.

Liam made a lunge for the suddenly airborne bowl, and grabbed it, only a few kernels flying into the air and around the couch.

He grimaced as his leg twinged, but sat back down, grabbing a blanket from Methos' pile, and settled down to watch the two immortals wrestle.

Face red, Methos gasped from MacLeod's headlock. "Careful, Mac, you don't want to muss up your clothing too badly; don't want your date to draw the wrong conclusions."

Liam focused closer on the Highlander's clothes, realizing that the dark Scott was dressed in comfortable but formal attire. He gave the air a small sniff, recognizing the scent of the Immortal's 'dinner' cologne.

He glanced down at his watch, having a brief bit of fun with the Indiglo button, before speaking up to say, "You're gonna be late."

"Yeah," Methos said, having managed to twist the arms holding him into crossed position over his chest. "How long does that place hold reservations?"

Duncan twisted one of Methos' arms to look at the oldest Immortal's watch, then sighed and released his friend.

He straightened his clothes, and nodded to Methos and Liam. "I shall see you two in the morning; don't drink all the beer."

"We'll stay up for you," Methos offered as the Highlander walked to the lift. "Don't be too long though, and be careful. Don't talk to strangers, look both ways before you cross the street, slow down for yellow lights, and remember that red means "stop." And be sure that you don't fall prey to her feminine wiles; I hear those kindergarten teachers can be quite the seductresses."

Duncan rolled his eyes, and climbed into the lift. "Just because you have no social life . . ."

"Have fun," Liam called, and was acknowledged by a waving hand as the lift disappeared from sight.

"Pleasant nap?" Methos asked the hybrid after the two heard Duncan's car pull away.

Liam shrugged, his face regaining its previous red shade. "Sorry 'bout that. I didn't . . . shout, or anything, did I?"

"Nah. You did mutter a bit, and you drooled, but . . ." Methos shrugged.

Blushing, Liam looked at the floor. "Sorry," he said again. "You could have woken me up, you know," he added.

"Oh, but you looked so cute!" Methos chirped and reached over, grabbing Liam's cheek between his tight fingers. "Who's the cute little alien hybrid? Who is? Who is? You are, aren't you? Yes you are!" the ancient immortal's voice was laughably high, and Liam pulled away.

Rubbing feeling back into his cheek, he glared at his friend. "How much have you had to drink?"

Methos laughed, and settle back into the couch, turning up the volume on the TV. "Pass the popcorn," was his answer.

Liam snorted, and threw a handful at him. Most of it landed in his hair, but some littered the area around his face and his chest, and Methos picked a piece off his shirt. He examined it for a moment, then popped it in his mouth.

Liam sighed.

"Did you dream?" the 5000-year-old asked, his voice so casual Liam almost believed he was.

"Just a little . . . nothing bad."

The older man nodded, unconvinced, and held a hand out, waggling the impatient fingers.

Liam handed the bowl over to him, then wiggled down into the couch, ready to get lost in the all night Bond-Fest.

"I once was offered the role of James Bond," Methos remarked.

"Shut up and watch the movie."

"Grumpy - Ow!"

"Shh. Muttering counts as talking."

"See if I let you sleep on my lap next time!"

"Believe me, Methos, your lap is the last place I want my head to be."

The ancient man sighed. "Once, I was redeemed throughout the world, and now . . . the company I keep. Pitiful."

"You're just jealous because Mac has a date and you don't."

"And do I see you rushing off to any pressing social arrangements?"

"I'm three."

"Sure, sure, I think it's only because you couldn't find anyone willing to go to the Playcare Spring Dance with you. Whaddya think they're talking about?"

"Who?"

"MacLeod and Ms. Addison, who did you think?"

"Well, probably not the movie, since I doubt they can hear it either."

"Cut the sassy remarks and take a wild guess."

"Why?"

"Because."

"Fine - Camelot."

"Camelot? What the hell kind of guess is that? Who would wanna talk about Camelot?"

"You said take a wild guess."

"Right. Camelot. Yeesh; children these days."

"I can't hear the movie."

"Fine."

"Camelot?"

"Yes, Duncan," the light brown haired woman laughed, brushing a strand of her long, curly hair from her face. Her blue eyes sparkled at her date's confused look.

"You want to introduce your class to a model of Camelot?"

"Yes, it will be wonderful! Jessica, Mary-Jane and I have already covered some of the King Arthur stories with our classes, and since the kids are so interested, I want to get them really *involved!*" Unknowingly, the young, late twenties woman's hands danced through the air, waving and pointing to illustrate her words. "They are absolutely enthralled by some of the stories we've covered. Merlin, Arthur, Excalibur, Avalon - all of it! We want to get them into an interactive situation!"

"Yes, but an actual model of the town?"

"Oh, it won't be that big; just a few closed off areas. The square, a blacksmith's shop, maybe, a stable, the castle - " She broke off suddenly, clasping a hand to her mouth as the other hand, gallantly sketching her ideas in the air, collided with the vase center-piece of their table. Duncan snapped out his own hand and grabbed it before any of the contents could spill on the table, and, slightly red, she continued in a quieter voice and with less elaborate gestures. "And, in the castle, a courtyard, and maybe Merlin's tower. Maybe, even a battlefield, and we can reenact the last battle. Ending with Arthur being carried off to Avalon, leaving a nation without its King but a legend that will live on . . ." she sighed dreamily, gazed at the space beside Duncan's ear with a far away, enchanted gaze.

Duncan smiled, captivated once again by her exuberance and passion. "Sounds like a big product . . ." he ventured.

"Oh, I know . . . but, it would be wonderful to do! Jess told me that Brian would help, and he owns a lumber company, and MJ said she would ask Eric, and Eric never says "No" to anything she asks - "

" - Sounds familiar," Duncan muttered, and winced as his shin was good-naturedly kicked.

" - and MJ has all her brothers, four, I think, and together we can get it done. It would take a while, but the day after tomorrow is Saturday, and we can use the field my father owns, and, oh, Duncan please!"

Duncan laughed softly and shook his head. "I never could say no. All right, Jamie; it's crazy, but . . . I'll do it. In fact . . . I have some friends that have just 'volunteered' to help, as well."

Jamie wrinkled her brow slightly, thinking. "You're roommate? Adam? I thought you said he never did any work if he could help it."

"He can't help it this time."

She smiled. "Who else?"

"Liam; I told you about him on the phone a few days ago."

"Oh, right; the reason you canceled our movie date."

Duncan held up his hands in surrender. "I'm sorry, oh great teacher, have mercy!" he joked.

Jamie swatted his arms playfully. "You big lug. Isn't he injured?"

"Yes, but, it's getting better, and I think getting out of the house will do him some good. And us; he doesn't like being cooped up, and since we're responsible for him . . . he's like a bored child - the amount of times he's managed to disappear . . ."

Jamie giggled. "I think I'll like him; is he cute?"

Duncan looked hurt. "But you have me," the Scot said, turning his 'puppy-eyes' on her.

"Hey," she laughed. "A girl just wants to know."

"Well, he'll be there on Saturday, so find out for yourself."

"Spoil sport."

Duncan just smiled and pulled out a pen. "Where is this place?"

Jamie told him, and he scribbled the instructions down. The waiter returned with their orders, and the two began to eat, sampling from one another's plates and sipping from the wineglasses.

Tubar smirked as he maneuvered away from the restaurant, the earpiece to the bug he had placed under the Highlander's table and the directions that the other man's mortal toy had given him clutched firmly in his hands.

"Perfect . . ."

"Utterly perfect."

The redhead dropped down on her chair, staring dejectedly at the computer screen that mockingly flashed at her. This was turning out to be a lot harder than she'd anticipated. When she had first been approached by Renee to hack into the Mothership's files and find any information about something called "Prize," she had expected it to be easy enough. Renee had sated as much; it was something she had thought she had glimpsed on the datastream of a DroneVolunteer on the Mothership. Unfortunately, it was turning into something much harder.

So far, she'd been stonewalled from every direction, which assured nothing more than that "Prize" did exist, and that whatever it was, it was under lock and key so tight she'd be pulling a series of all-nighters to find anything, even when using some of her more 'unconventional' methods.

A knocking on the door brought her to her feet again; it was too late at night for even some of her more eccentric acquaintances to be calling, and unless there was real trouble, Liam and Renee usually Globaled her to let her know they were coming. Cautiously, she walked over to her door.

"Who is it?"

"I hear you little spirit, in the bushes,
Laughing where the heather blossoms low," came the deep voice.

She let out a happy scream and flung the door open, flinging herself into the arms of the big black man that stood at the trailer's bottom step.

"Where the tiny fieldmouse softly pushes,
Nose inquisitive and eyes aglow."

"Carl!" she cried happily, burying her pierced nose in the folds of his jacket as he wrapped his thick arms around her.

The man laughed, his large frame rumbling. "Juliette."

Street looked up, mock glaring at him. "J or Street."

"Oh?"

"I am not 'Juliette.'"

"No," he agreed, swooping her up so that she was suddenly flying in the air then lying, laughing, in his arms. "You're my little Puck."

She lay her head against his shoulder. "I missed you," she said.

"'Little sprite of laughter and derision,
Tender-hearted spirit of good-luck,
Pranking through the dream days of Elysian,
Teach me laughter, Puck.'

"And I you, darling."

"Why are you here?" Street asked, slipping out of her old mentor's arms to land lightly on the asphalt.

Carl sighed. "I wish it were a social call," he admitted, "but . . ."

" . . . What do the Watchers want now?" J sighed.

Carl echoed her sigh. "It's a long story; I'll tell you it in a minute."

Street grabbed the man's hand, "Come in. I'll get you a drink and we can have 'Story Time,' just like we used to, and you can tell me all about the adventures of the 'Swordsmen.'"

"Thank you," Carl said, smiling fondly at the memories of his earlier years with the girl. He followed the teenager into the trailer. "I'm sorry that it was work that brought me to you."

"Don't worry about it," Street said. "You're a busy man; field-worker, head of the Western States Watcher's Division . . . sure you're not gonna have time for your old amigos." The young hacker smiled at him to take away the sting of her comment, and passed him a drink.

He looked at the off-colour liquid for a moment, eyebrows raised in amused disbelief. Tentatively, he took a sip, eyes widening in surprise at the pleasant flavor.

J nodded, then pointed to a cushioned chair. "Now, sit and tell."

Carl sat, holding the drink with one hand, and rubbed the other great palm over his face. "A potential . . . situation has developed. I came to you, because I think you might be able to help, or at least give us some information, regarding part of this . . . situation. Puck," he paused, then plunged into what he knew would undoubtedly turn into a nightlong discussion. "What can you tell me about Major Liam Kincaid?"

"Li'am," said the voice.

Liam turned, the misty green landscape blurring in his eyes. The cool air swelled in his lungs, filling him with a sparkling energy and an almost tangible rush.

"Kra'lye," he greeted the old man, the breeze rippling his curls, chestnut and auburn gold in the mountain sun.

The man spread his arms and splayed his hands, palms upward, and nodded his head; he carried no weapon. Placing his right fist over his heart, spreading his other hand, shaqarava skyward, the man showed his respect for the child and his dominance.

Liam echoed the gesture, bowing his head as well, to show his respect for the man and his submissiveness.

"Lovely here, is it not?" Kra'lye asked, twisting his neck, the pure white hair that hung to his shoulders gleaming, with a slow, feline grace.

Liam smiled sadly and looked around, the smell of the wildflowers and cool, pure air filling him. "Yes," he agreed, eyes roving over the expanse of the foothills and low mountain range. The sky was a vivid blue, the greenery more vibrant than he could remember in anywhere else, and the purple and yellow wildflowers that dotted the grassy slopes were clearly discernible on the rolling hills. The sun was warm and felt like liquid gold upon his mistily glowing, white clothed body.

He looked to his master, deep, silver burnished green eyes questioning. "What is that, Van'li?"

The dignified man held out his arm, hand loosely holding the top loop of a silver birdcage. Inside, seated on the single, swinging perch, was a dove.

Liam looked at the bird. "Why is the dove caged, Master?"

"To keep it safe, Val'try."

"Is it safe, Van'li?"

"Tell me, child."

Liam, was silent, watching the pure white bird as it cooed softly and shifted restlessly. Slowly, the hybrid sank to the grass, knees clasped to his chest, arms wrapped around them and his chin upon them. He extended a lean, muscled arm, fingers delicately brushing a cluster of buttercups.

"What would happen if you let him out?" he asked, looking up at the tall, blue robed man.

"It would fly away," Kra'lye said sadly.

"I thought it was supposed to."

The older man smiled and pulled open the cage door. The dove took off in a flutter of white feathers, disappearing into the clear sky.

"How will you protect it, Li'am?"

"I don't know," Liam replied sadly, watching the sky.

"You have to, child."

"I know."

"What will you do, young one?"

"I do not know, Master. I am scared that it will lose itself."

"Then you must find it."

"It shall not know the right way to go."

"Then you must guide it."

"It shall fly through the storm."

"Yes; what will you do?"

"Follow it."

The breeze picked up, and Liam closed his eyes, tilting his head back and letting it caress his face. It filled his head with images of sunlight and heather and a circle of stones. Someone smiled at him, long gold hair whirling around her face and spring leaves green eyes, warm and laughing and loving, then vanished, consumed by a burst of sliver light. Liam felt a sudden clenching in his heart and an actual, physical aching for his mother, fathers, race, possibility and the dove.

A pleasantly warm hand was brushed down his cheek, and a light kiss placed on his brow. "You do well, child," Kra'lye said, his voice laden with grief and love.

When Liam opened his eyes, he wasn't even surprised to see the burning sword as it was swung towards his neck.

Liam's eyes flew open, their glowing depths still holding the image of the long blade and the reflection of the dove that he had seen dancing along the length.

Distantly, he heard the sound of drums.

"Singing la la, la la la la, Singing la la, la la la la, I'm a fisherman's son, Got fisherman's ways - "

"You do realize that I'm going to kill you for this?"

Startled from his mental reverie of the simple folksong, Liam looked over at Methos. The oldest man alive was scowling darkly at Duncan, who looked to be having about as much luck as Liam was holding his grin back.

"Come on, Methos," the Scot said, "it's not like you have anything better to do."

"I'll have you know that I have plenty better to do."

Mac gave a short bark of laughter. "Like what?"

Methos shrugged, "You wouldn't understand. The concept is much too difficult for your primitive mind to grasp."

"Loafing?" the Highlander asked.

"Like I said . . . much to evolved for the ignorant."

"You sound like Zo'or," Liam remarked quietly, stretched out in the back of the black Thunderbird. The hybrid was leaning back, his head nearly touching the trunk and his wild curls being buffeted by the wind that was created by the car's steady progress down the old back road. His eyes were closed behind the dark glasses he wore, and he had a pale, warm glow to his features, cast by the pallid, early morning sun.

"You can just stay quiet," Methos said, wasting a glare on the unconcerned child. "You're no better than Mac is, all bright and cheerful. May I remind you that it is five in the morning?"

"Eight," Mac corrected, glancing at Liam in the rearview mirror with a fond smile. "And it's not his fault you're not a morning person."

Methos glowered at both the younger men through the corners of his twinkling eyes. "You two had just better make sure to check your coffee tomorrow morning. I have more experience with making deaths look accidental than the both of you combined and times ten."

Liam laughed. "At least he's starting to accept his age."

"I can make it painful, too," Methos warned the hybrid.

"Mm-hmm," Liam said, suppressing a yawn. "We leave with the sunrise, We wake with the dawn, Singing the fisherman's song. Singing la la, la la la la. La la, la la la la . . ."

"Are you listening to me?"

"I'm a fisherman's son, Got fisherman's blood, Just hauling the lobster, And skinning the cod. And if you don't like me, then leave me alone, And I'll go on singing my fisherman's song . . ." "Yup."

Snort. "Sure."

"This has got to be one of the worst things about this job . . ." Elise Adams thought as she savagely fought with a particularly determined tree branch. "Maybe I should just get my hair cut." The female Watcher stared morosely at the tangled knot of her long, straight pride and joy that she had left snarled around the branch.

She rubbed the side of her head, massaging the sore skin. "It would definitely be easier."

Still, plenty of other Watchers that she knew, both male and female, had long hair, some even longer than her own hip length locks, and they seemed to function fine. "Mind you, I doubt that very many of them go traipsing through undergrowth at eight o'clock in the morning." The young Watcher sighed, and sped up, keeping her footsteps light, as she chased after her assignment.

Tubar Dacatha had proven to be quite an Immortal to Watch. The man was uncouth, vulgar, sexist, a bigot, and a general pig. He moved around constantly, costing the Watcher's a small fortune with the many ID trips Elise took after him, especially recently. The man had jumped back and forth between Ireland and the United States so often that Elise was beginning to wonder if she could arrange some type of frequent travels deal with the Portal company.

"And God-knows what he does there . . ." the Immortal managed to lose her every time he went. Leading her, unknowingly, into the ferine countryside, then vanishing.

Elise slowed down as the sounds of her assignment reached her. The man was carrying a dufflebag and was making slower progress than she.

"Oh hell." Elise sighed and gave a tug on the ruins of her elaborate braid. "As soon as we get out of here, I'm cutting it off. All of it." Another tug freed her hair, and she set about picking the pine needles out of the plait. "No one ever told me that field work would require trips like this. What are we even doing out here?" Leaving the thought, the Watcher hurried after Tubar again.

"Oh my," the woman said, a pleased smile curling her lips. "Very nice. Very, very nice."

"Down girl," her friend laughed. "You're married."

"Yeah," Jess sighed, then smiled wider as the object of her appraising gaze stretched. The muscles down his arms and back, not hidden by the tee shirt and short leather jacket he wore, rippled, flexing and relaxing, with the movement. "But that doesn't mean I can't look."

"Uh-huh," MJ agreed, smiling herself as the other passenger of the car sauntered over to the one her friend was so transfixed with. He muttered something to his companion, then smacked him on the back of the head as the younger man replied, a joking smile tugging at his lips.

"Where do you find these guys, Jamie," Jess asked as their friend as she came over to them.

Jamie waved to Duncan, who waved back, shoving his darker haired friend in the back to get him moving. "Just lucky, I guess."

"What?" Brian came over to the women. "They're here? Great."

"Duncan!" Jamie cried, throwing herself into the strong arms that swung her up. "It's about time you got here!"

"Sorry," Duncan laughed. "We had a bit of trouble with the old man."

Before Jamie could ask whom he meant, Adam grumbled, "Just because you have some sort of inane fascination with daybreak does not mean I have to."

"I should have know," Jamie pulled away from Mac's embrace and smiled at Methos. "Thank you for coming, Adam. I hope it wasn't too much trouble."

"Not at all," Methos replied charmingly. "Anything for a beautiful lady."

Jamie jerked her thumb at Duncan. "I'm taken, remember?"

"I could fix that," Methos assured her.

Jamie laughed. "I'm sure you could." Blue eyes sparkling, she turned to the last new arrival. "You must be Liam." She held out a hand, "I'm Jamie Addison."

"Nice to meet you," Liam said, giving her a heart stopping smile and taking her hand. Behind her, one of her friends sighed rather audibly, and Liam fought the blush he felt approaching.

"Same," Jamie returned, finding herself wondering what colour the man's eyes were under his dark shades, then turned to point to the assembled crowd behind her. "These are the other poor shmucks you'll be working with."

Methos grimaced. "An adept description."

"Jessica Kingston," the redhead waved, keeping her eyes firmly on Liam. "Brian Kingston, her husband," the large man scowled. "Mary-Jane Brady and her fiancé Eric Sullivan," the slight, pixie cut blond waved and the sturdy, wholesome looking man beside her nodded. "And these are MJ's brothers; Ryan, Chris, Jim and Devon," each of the men nodded.

Turning to the two Immortals and the one mortal, Jamie in turn introduced them. "My boyfriend, who some of you know, Duncan MacLeod. His roommate, Adam Pierson, and his . . . other roommate, I guess, Liam . . . ah . . ."

"Kincaid," Liam offered.

One of the brothers, Ryan, Liam thought, startled at this, but none of the others seemed to have connected his name to anything.

"Well, then," Jamie said happily, "now that we all know each other, let's get to work! Brian?"

Brian Kingston moved forward, his large body betraying a life of relatively hard labor. "You heard the lady," he said. "We're going to set up an area to be the town's square and surround it with five smaller 'buildings;' a baker's shop, a blacksmith's shop, a clothing stand, an Inn, and a herb shop. Then we're having a castle gateway; inside will be a courtyard, a stable, an armory, the Throne room, and 'Merlin's room' - nothing too elaborate, but nothing sloppy either. The shops should each be about nine feet by seven; we're only building three walls, the back and the sides. The roofs we'll deal with later, and a front will be placed before each building when we're done. We'll be using a combination of Taelon technology, bricks, ground stones and old fashion lumber. I've got some friends working on a covering to make it look authentic. All we've to worry about is getting the base-work finished. I want all the shops and the gateway done today. There are twelve of us, I'll split you into six groups of two and assign you to a marked area. I'll explain to you what to do once you're there."

"I think Brian should be the teacher," MJ whispered to Jess. "He's certanly got the authority down."

Jess just shrugged and smiled with a fond indulgence. "He's just showing off. He knows he's the one in charge, and he's flexing his muscle. I think I'll talk to him, though."

"MacLeod, you're with Jamie at the bakery. MJ, go with Chris to the blacksmith's. Pierson, you're with Jim at the Inn. Devon, you're with Eric, you'll be handling the clothing store. Kincaid, go with Ryan at the herb shop. Jess, you're with me. We'll be doing the castle gateway."

Liam was reminded rather strongly of sheep as they all plodded around, finding their appointed areas.

Finding the herb shop, he stood beside the average sized blond man. "Ryan?" he asked.

Ryan nodded, studying him with light, gray/blue eyes. "Major?"

Liam gave a half grimace. "Sometimes. Not when I'm on leave. Do you have a problem with that?" Inside, the hybrid wished furiously that the other man wouldn't. He really didn't want to deal with any adverse reactions right now . . .

"Nah." The man grinned mischievously, and stuck out his hand. "Call me Ryan."

Gratefully, Liam took it. "Liam."

"Sure." Releasing his hand, Ryan cocked his head to Brian, who was explaining to Jamie and Mac what they would be doing. "So, whaddya think about our friendly, neighborhood dictator?"

"Is he always like this?"

"I don't know him that well, but I think the power has just gone to his head. Hopefully, he'll lighten up. Here he comes, look attentive!" The blond man drew himself up, and Liam, smirking slightly, copied the action as the burly man came over to their area.

"Kincaid, Brady; are you ready?"

"Yeah."

"Uh-huh."

"Listen up," Brian pulled out a Global and displayed the screen to them. "I want you to follow the same parameters as the others. Set the base of each wall with the ground stones, sink each one about a foot into the ground, and build it up to two feet; follow the guidelines on the ground. When you've done that, call me over, and we'll move to next step of integrating the Taelon supplies with the bricks. Got that?"

Liam, quirking an eyebrow, fell back on one of Augur's favorite replies for when either Doors or Renee was in a particularly totalitarian mood. In a passable Russian accent, he barked, "Yes, Comrade!"

Brian blinked for a second, and it was long enough for Ryan to pick up where Liam had stopped. In a horrible accent, the other man said, "We will hurry. Our spies have reported that the model being built in," he paused to spit, "America is progressing more rapidly than ours. We must reach Camelot first!"

"And not only that," Liam added, keeping his face straight, although the rest of the 'poor shmucks,' who were listening in weren't managing, "our spies say that the project is being headed by . . ." the hybrid paused dramatically, looking at Ryan.

The blond man smirked, and together they turned their aghast faces to Brian, "Moose and Squirrel!"

Devon burst out laughing, and dropped the heavy ground stone that he had been struggling with about an inch from Eric's foot. Eric jumped back, and collided with Jamie. Jamie squeaked and waved her arms wildly, fighting to maintain her balance. The can of black paint she had been carrying went flying. Mac lunged for it, but only managed to tip it with his fingers. Mary-Jane yelped, and dove for cover. Methos, surprised, looked up, and caught the can in the face.

Spitting the vile tasting liquid out of his mouth and wiping it out of an eye, the ancient man glowered at Mac, who was snorting and going teary eyed in his attempt to restrain his laughter, then turned his gaze to Liam, who was bright red and squeaking behind the hands that were clasped firmly over his mouth.

Everything, save a few repressed snickers, was silent. In a dead-serious tone, Methos warned, "You two had better remember what I said about your coffee."

Liam burst out laughing and, as if it were a cue, so did everyone else.

A few moments later, Brian glared at the two men in charge of building the herb shop. In the distance, Methos wiped the paint off his face with the handful of wet wipes that Mary-Jane had handed him. MJ was quite eager to help.

"I hope you two realize the trouble such shenanigans can cause," the bury man said. "I don't want to see anymore such behavior."

Nodding seriously, Liam and Ryan drew themselves up, clicking their heels. "Yes, Fearless Leader!"

"What is that?" Elise wondered.

On her Global screen, Tubar sat in the same position he had been in for the past four and a half hours. A hand placed protectively on the duffel bag beside him, the Immortal was dozing in the warming sun. He had not opened the bag once, and, free of any other distractions, Elise's curiosity had fastened upon it.

Tubar and Elise had reached their destination, a small, rundown shack out in the middle of rural nowhere, and had stopped. Tubar, apparently satisfied, had hunkered down and fallen asleep, leaving Elise to amuse herself. It was past noon, almost one p.m., and she had long since finished the sandwich, apple and crackers that she had shoved into her backpack that morning.

She had Globaled Allan to let him know where she was, and the two had been surprised to realize that they weren't more then twenty minutes apart from each other. Unfortunately, it was enough of a twenty minutes that all they could do was talk quietly over their screens and focus most of their attention on their assignments. With Carl in D.C., Allan was left Watching MacLeod for him, and Major Kincaid as well. The Watchers still weren't entirely sure how the Companion Protector had formed a friendship with the two Immortals, and although Carl's contact had stated that it was simply something he would do, and that he shouldn't be a problem, or report anything to the Taelons, Allan had still been warned to keep an eye on him.

Elise started as Tubar's watch began to let out a persistent beeping. Tubar snorted awake, then looked at the watch, slapping it a few times until he found the right button to make the annoying sound stop. A leer spread across his heavy, pocketed face and he lumbered to his feet, grabbing the bag as he did so.

Elise stood up, knees cracking ominously, and distractedly wiped the tree bark off her pants. She maneuvered around the edges of the trees. The shack that Tubar was entering was, while close to the trees, in a field, and there was no way that she could enter it without drawing the Immortal's attention. She was relying on her Global, focusing it on her assignment, and watching the vidscreen.

Tubar was in the shack, which, other than an old, single chair, appeared to be empty. Setting the duffel bag on the floor by the chair, Tubar bent down and opened it. He pulled out a grungy blanket and lay it down. Then, carefully, he pulled out the main item.

Elise blinked, mind taking a minute to process what she was seeing. "What the - why on Earth would he have one of those . . . Oh my God! Allen!"

Frantically, Elise dialed Allen's number.

As soon as his round face appeared on the screen, she sent the images from her screen to his. His face paled.

"Allen, you have to get out. Now!"

A rolling plain of white, thick and soft, the cloud bank stretched across the clear blue sky, contrasting to the deep cerulean with a natural brilliance and beauty. The sun filtered through the young hybrid's eyelids to give a warm red glow to the darkness of his closed eyes, and scattered splatters of gold and shadow across the tangled expanse of tawny country grass and wildflowers.

"Did you ever meet King Arthur?" Liam asked drowsily, his head in the lap of the man to whom he asked the question.

"King Arthur's a legend, Liam," Methos reminded the child, voice distracted but a hand resting, unknowingly, on the hybrid's head in an absent gesture of affection.

"So?" Liam's fingers played with the grass, pulling at a flower. The tiny, beaded-like petals broke off in his fingers, releasing their scent into the air and transferring it to his hand. Liam let the globular, oval petals roll in his palm and trickle between his fingers, building an image of the plant in his mind.

A smallish flower; thin and wiry stem, leaves snaking up it like a vine. Pleasant aroma, deep and strong, faintly bitter, but not too sweet. The many beads ran up the plant in cone shape, bulging out, thick and plentiful at the bottom, and thinning near the top to a single round petal.

Concentrating, Liam focused on the flower, the stem wrapped around his fingers, the scent of it on and around him, the single petal bead that rested in the center of his palm.

It was purple.

"So, legends aren't real."

Liam released the last petal, letting it fall to the ground with the others, his fingers vibrating slightly from the faint remains of the bioenergy transferred to them from the gentle probing.

"You are."

Methos was quiet, staring at the sky, slender, muscled form still and a distant glaze to his aged eyes. A type of silence settled over the two friends, the sounds of the Brady brothers dueling with Twizzlers, the discussion of Brian, Eric, Jess, and Mary-Jane, and the sounds of Jamie and Duncan laughing and talking as they put away the remains of the picnic the group had enjoyed for lunch blurred in the distance; a content calm separated the two men from the others.

Methos spoke, focusing on a cloud. "Does that one look like a two headed parakeet to you?"

Liam opened his eyes, squinting up at the too bright sun. "Nah; it looks kinda like Zo'or, actually. Are you going to answer my question?"

"No."

Liam tilted his head, gaining an awkward, upside-down view of the ancient man. Gauging the chances of his friend expanding on the subject, the part Kimeran decided against pushing him, and nodded, "Okay."

Arching his back, Liam clenched his stomach muscles, pushing himself into a sitting position. "Cheer up, sleepy Jean, Oh what can it mean, To a daydream believer, And a homecoming queen. You once thought of me, As a white knight on a steed, Now you know how happy I can be. Oh, and our good times started then, With a dollar one to spend, But how much, baby, do we really need . . ." He shook his head.

Methos grinned at Liam as the hybrid scrunched his face in a yawn and released a small squeak.

"Tired?" the Immortal asked mildly.

"Hamhmeh," Liam answered, still yawning, and shook his head, sending his already unruly hair into disarray and the grass that had been in it flying.

"Ah," Methos responded, raising an eyebrow as Liam rose to his feet, rolling his neck and stretching his arms.

Liam was about to speak, when a sudden shiver passed over him. He blinked and, as he again opened his mouth, shook once more. Methos was at his side immediately.

"You okay, kid?" the 5000-year-old asked, already feeling a well of protective worry in his stomach.

Liam nodded, but moaned a second later as he shuddered, eyes closing and staggering into Methos' ready arms.

Liam groaned softly, pinching the bridge of his nose tightly. He clenched his jaw and bit back the moan that tried to escape. A pounding in his head echoed the sudden thumping of his heart and the demanding rhythm booming in his mind. He sank to his knees, placing his other hand against the ground to steady himself, and quickly removed it as he felt the same beat thrumming in the earth beneath his palm. The rhythm even pulsed in Methos, swelling under the Immortal's muscle and skin as Liam clung to him.

As the sounds faded, and the headache lessened, Liam opened his eyes, running one hand through his hair but keeping the other firmly attached to Methos.

"Liam?" the ancient man asked, softly.

"I'm okay," Liam reassured him, but his weak voice took away any reassurance his words may have offered. "Just . . . got up to fast." The hybrid pushed himself to his feet carefully, wincing slightly as his leg burned, and smiled, albeit somewhat shakily, at Methos.

The sharp, acrid tang coating the inside of his mouth and burning in his nose faded slightly, and the warm, familiar smell of grasses, sunlight, the flower and the distinct scents of every person around him resurfaced.

Methos' worry darkened gaze didn't change, and Liam looked down briefly, then smiled sheepishly and somehow mischievously enough to make the corners of Methos' mouth twitch.

Liam sighed, rubbing his forehead with the heel of his hand. Despite his words to the oldest man, he wasn't feeling well; a general feeling of almost acidic queasiness was running through him, and settled in his stomach was a heavy, sick lump of dread. "Something's wrong . . ."

"Can we . . . take a walk, or something?" he asked finally, needing to get away, but reluctant to admit it.

"Sure, kid. Let's go." Methos stepped behind Liam as they traveled, noticing the limp that had been improved that morning was worsening again, and moved closer, placing a hand on the small of the other man's back.

Nodding to Duncan as they passed, Methos cocked his head, communicating to the other Immortal with the gestures. Duncan nodded in understanding, apologetically excusing himself from Jamie, and joined Methos on Liam's other side.

"Going anywhere in particular?" he asked, slight worry intensifying his Highland accent.

Liam shrugged, comforted by the Scot's presence, "Wander on yonder."

"Nowhere it is, then."

Allen pressed down on the accelerator, assured that he was now far enough away from the mortals and immortals to rev the engine without their noticing, and turned on the radio.

"How can you tell me that you're lonely, And say for you that the sun don't shine, Let me take you by the hand -" Click.

"Let freedom ring, Let the white dove sing, Let the whole world know that today is a day of reckoning -" Click.

" There's a journey we all take, Burdened down with small mistakes, And each one takes us to a higher ground, And the time to make a choice -" Click.

"Won't you save me, This is your time, Won't you save me -" Click.

"Na na na na, Na na na na, Hey hey hey, Goodbye. Na na n -" Click.

Frustrated, Allen slammed his hand into the radio, shutting it off abruptly. Those were not what he wanted to listen to. He glanced over his shoulder, past the long expanse of road behind him to the fields bordering it and to the dark smudge of forest on the horizon.

Angry, he whipped his head back around, focusing on the road in front of him. He would not do that again. "I shall Watch. I shall not interfere. I am a Watcher. It is my duty to observe and record all events that transgress without influencing any persons or possible outcomes. I will not interfere. I am a Watcher. I shall not interfere in the Game. I am a Watcher. I shall have no contact with Immortals, or mortals that are drawn into aspects of the Game by Immortals. No matter what the situation," he slammed his foot down on the gas pedal, shooting forward. "I shall not interfere."

His Global beeped suddenly, startling him into swerving across the centerline and into the wrong lane. Easing the car back over, and removing some of the force he was placing on the gas pedal, Allen reached out a hand to grab his Global.

Opening it, he saw Elise, the landscape behind her rushing past as she, too, drove from the site. "Yeah?" he demanded.

Elise frowned, slightly concerned by his harsh greeting. "Are you alright, Allen?"

"Fine. You?"

"I'm alright . . . I'll meet you at 'Buzz' in an hour, okay?"

"Sure."

She nodded, still wary. "We'll have to check the news the extent of the damage."

The tires screeched as Allen pressed too hard on one side of the steering wheel and subsequently veered in that direction. "See how many of them die?"

"Yes. Allen, are you sure you're alright?"

"I'm fine, Elise. I'm a Watcher."

Understanding dawned in Elise's brown eyes. "Oh, Allen. I know; I want to warn the mortal's, too, but, we can't."

"I know - we can't let anyone see us - especially since the Taelons are going to end up investigating this - the death of a Companion Protector, not to mention the damn thing itself. How the hell did Dacatha get that?"

"I don't know. It's one of the things we'll have to figure out. I'll global Carl, alright?"

"Alright. See you in an hour - at 'Buzz.'"

"See ya," she cut the connection, and Allen closed his Global, throwing it onto the passenger seat.

He glanced over his shoulder, then turned back and sped up again, hand straying to the radio. "I shall not interfere."

"If you don't like what you see, Why don't you fight it? If you know there's something wrong, Why don't you right it? Raise a little hel -" Click.

"Mac, stop."

Duncan paused in mid-step, turning a questioning gaze to Liam.

The young hybrid had stopped a few steps back and was now staring, face pale and with a glaze to his defined eyes, at the rundown shack.

"Don't go in there."

Methos stood between his friends, glancing from one to the other.

"Why not?" Duncan asked.

There was a sudden small explosion by his foot, and Mac dove to the side, falling to the ground then rolling into a crouch. Liam and Methos both dropped, knees bending, pivoting to face the direction from whence the shot had come. They waited in tense silence for a moment, but no more energy blasts were shot at them.

The three men stood, looking around, and at each other, confused.

Methos was the first to sense it; Duncan followed soon after, and finally, Liam.

The men tensed again, focusing their attention in the direction the 'buzz' was coming from. Another Immortal was in the area, and was approaching.

The dark shape moved into view, emerging from the trees. Duncan drew his katana, and Methos, imperceivable to any one who did not know him as well as Mac and Liam were coming to, shifted fully into a complete ready stance. His body may have seemed to be in the same relaxed position it settled into when safe, but his balance was adjusted and his reflexes and senses straining; Death was ready.

Liam grimaced, doing his best to block the new Immortal from his mind. It wasn't the strange buzzing sensation the man was causing that was so disturbing; it was the presence that ringed the energy connection. The vile taint to the Quickening repulsed the hybrid, turning his stomach as it contrasted against Methos' and Duncan's. Knowing . . . almost . . . what it had been when it had been granted to the man, Liam curled a lip slightly, baring a canine and the two teeth on either side. Tubar Dacatha had a lot to answer for.

Behind him and beside him, he felt Mac's and Methos' Quickenings' adjust, drawing on dark, primitive, violent instincts and memories. The changes would scare him, but they were not brought forth to harm, but to protect, and it was he who they sought to guard.

"Because it's dangerous in there," Tubar called, answering Duncan's question with a smirk. The heavy Immortal raised his arm, gesturing with the energy weapon he held. He fired a shot beside Liam, and Methos and Duncan, eyes flashing, shifted closer to the hybrid.

"Ah, ah," Tubar warned, drawing closer so that he stood in front of Liam. Liam tensed further, ignoring the twinge in his leg, as Tubar pointed the gun at him. "Move again without instruction, and the Major here gets a hole in his chest."

Liam glared at the Immortal, slamming his 'Quickening' - he and his two Immortal guardians had decided to call it that, although it did not truly describe what it was - against Tubar's.

Tubar blinked rapidly, staggering slightly, then, breathing heavily, narrowing his eyes to glare at Liam. "Stop. Do it again, and I shoot you."

Liam smirked, withdrawing his attack, but left its presence lightly licking at the corners of Tubar's. Only enough to disturb the man.

"Move," Tubar gestured towards the shack with his chin, eyes glowering a dark reckoning at Liam as he inclined his head and turned to limp, as minutely as possible, to the building. "You two, too," Mac and Methos turned as well. "Put that away." Mac's katana disappeared.

Arriving at the door, Liam repressed a shudder as the feeling of dread that lay in him intensified. The cool muzzle of the weapon was placed against his temple. "Go in," Tubar snarled in his ear.

The stocky man ran the hand that didn't hold the gun down Liam's cheek. Thumb cradling his jaw, Tubar's fingers trailed over Liam's defined cheekbone and slid down the smooth plane beneath it; the immortal's stubby fingers were feather light, then ramming viscously, creating four angry red scratches down the pale skin. "You're mine now, Kincaid," he hissed in Liam's ear. "I can do whatever I want with you, and then I will kill you. Whatever you are."

He pushed him roughly in the back. "Go on; the door's open."

Liam turned blazing eyes to the Immortal, the green almost lost in the swirling expanse of silver-gray. "Don't touch me."

The hybrid was ready to test the man's reflexes and attempt to get into a position where he was not in danger of being immediately shot and therefore was not stopping Duncan and Methos from attacking Tubar, when Methos met his eyes, ordering him to stop with a look. Understanding warmth shone briefly in the ancient man's eyes before being replaced with a dark, chilling gleam.

Liam opened the door and stepped inside. The hut was only one room, and light shone in through two wide and bulletproof windows. Heavy, rusted shackles hung in pairs along the walls at odd intervals. Dust motes hung in the air, the sun that shone upon them uncaring of the plight on the Earth below.

The room was empty save a single chair that sat in the middle of the floor, something large placed upon it and covered by an old, dirty blanket.

"What's that?" Duncan asked.

Tubar smiled, "Wait and find out." Two energy blasts fired, and Methos and Duncan collapsed.

Tubar, keeping a hand around Liam's neck and a thumb over his windpipe, fired at the bodies a few more times. He slammed his large form roughly against Liam's leg, sending the hybrid stumbling backwards, hissing at the pain and the sudden flow of red that spread out across his jeans.

Tubar grabbed his hands and slammed them against the wall, locking the heavy iron shackles around them.

Liam shouted, and pushed forward, but the bands didn't give, although his leg did, and he fell, breathing angrily and glaring at Tubar as the Immortal laughed at him.

Tubar turned and shot both Mac and Methos once more, then dragged the bodies to another wall and attached shackles around their wrists.

He slapped Duncan across the face, leaving a blazing read mark on his cooling cheek, then spit on the floor in front of the Highlander, snarling something in his native tongue.

Leaving the Immortals, Tubar stalked back to Liam, retrieving a bottle from inside his leather trench coat, and tilting his head back as he took a long drink. Leering, Dacatha leaned in so that his forehead pressed against Liam's. Liam wrinkled his nose at the scent of the sour alcohol, and glared at the other man. Feeling a hand trailing up the inside of his left knee, Liam blinked, then pulled on his shackles again. The rusted chains rattled, and the bands cut into his wrists, but nothing gave.

"You aren't going to escape," Tubar chuckled. "Those chains are very thick, and very strong." His hand investigated farther up, hovering over the spread of blood on his captive's upper thigh. "I told you, Kincaid; you're mine."

He lunged suddenly, and Liam flinched, shoulder blades pressing back, and his leg jerked as a loud rip sounded. Tubar tore the section of his jeans down, leaving the flap hanging beneath the red-soaked bandages.

"Well," he said, "whatever you are, you're certainly not one of us."

"Go to hell."

Tubar's fist slammed into Liam's face, snapping the his head back against the wall, and making the child bite his tongue.

Dizzy, Liam righted his head, drawing himself up as straight as he could. He stared cold challenge into Tubar's dark eyes.

Tubar broke the gaze first, smirking, and bent down to examine the wound on the other man's leg. "Nasty," the immortal observed, pulling away the bandages to reveille the popped stitches. "Bet it hurts."

Liam gasped as Tubar's fingers were rammed into the healing cut, his blood bubbling up around them.

Tubar laughed, and dug the fingers in, pulling on the sides. "To bad I don't have any salt."

He removed his fingers and stood, displaying his bloody hand to Liam who felt the same blood run down his leg. Trailing the wet digits down his captive's young face, Tubar smirked. His other hand grabbed Liam's shirt and gave a tug; a few seams popped.

Liam glared, somewhat lightheaded, as Tubar removed the bloody hand from his face, and grasped his shirt in it as well.

The man before him stiffened abruptly, body going ridged and eyes rolling back. The underside whites that were displayed flushed blue.

"Tubar," the voice of his Mistress said. "Do you have the child, Tubar?"

"Yes, Mistress. I have him, and Adam Pierson, and Duncan MacLeod."

"Very good, Tubar. What will you do with them?"

"I will kill them, Mistress."

"How?"

Tubar showed her his purchase, insides writhing as her insane giggling filled his mind.

"Very good, Tubar. Return to me."

"Yes, Mistress."

Tubar relaxed, his body coming back under his own control.

"Forget to take your pills this morning?" Kincaid asked, drawling voice filled with contempt.

Tubar snarled and punched him in the face.

Turning angrily, the heavy Immortal stomped out of the shack, pausing only to swipe the blanket off the bulge on the chair.

He slammed the door behind him, causing the whole shack to shake, and left a dead Duncan and Methos hanging limply from the walls, and an aghast, shackled Liam staring in horror at the glowing Proton bomb.

"You have ten minutes, Kincaid," he called, and the fuse base of the bomb sparked to life. "Enjoy them."

"No."

The word forced its way through the numb, shocked brain; the thought taking a moment to form in the hybrid's stunned mind.

"No. No. No. No."

The timer on the fuse base flashed mockingly; the seconds ticking down as he forced his mind to re-start.

9:37

"This is not happening. This can not be happening."

9:32

"No!"

Liam lunged forward, straining against the chains that snapped and rattled and brought him to an abrupt halt. Pressing forward, he scrabbled against the iron links, eyes glaring wide with desperation and a sheen of sweat coating his reddening face as he pushed past the pain of both the reopened slice down his leg and the natural boundaries of his shoulder joints.

"I won't let this happen!"

Reaching out with his mind, barely aware he was doing it, the hybrid sought to feel the bomb as he felt Immortals; to fix on and link to the presence of the powerful energy.

It was wild, destructive, compressed, and was straining against the walls of the virtual-glass container - as was the flood inside Liam straining, churning with raw power; pure, unchecked emotion urging the rage on - but the bomb felt frighteningly artificial, designed but not created. A force that although existing was refused the spark that gave it an energy-defined entity to meld and merge with other consciousness'. A destructive force with no purpose or capacity other than to obliterate and destroy.

8:25

Liam's foot came down on a puddle of blood, the same blood that was spilling out across the shack's floor, drenching his jeans and making him alarmingly lightheaded. He slipped, crashing to the floor with a hoarse shout, and gasped as his left knee connected with the hard ground.

His body fell back, muscles numb and unresponsive from the pain-induced shock. Wild green eyes took on a distant glaze, the lids growing heavy, and his breath escaped in a soft sigh as he fell into darkness, slumping against the wall.

The sounds and shapes of seabirds, wheeling in the light blue sky, seemed harshly real for a moment, before they faded back into the insubstantial feeling of the long stretch of deserted beach.

The waves lapped softly on the shore, reaching in and slipping away, spreading thin foam to mark their sand-wetted path.

The dry, sifting grains whispered beneath his feet, shifting around them like talcum silk.

He stepped forward onto the wet grains, finding them firmer beneath him. Even his weight breaking the smooth, perfect expanse seemed somehow more tangible than the slipping indents that had formed where he had stood in the sand's drier brethren.

The waves washed forward again, encasing his feet in cool, salty water. The foam swirled around his legs, twining grains of sand and shells and scraps and strands of seaweed about his ankles.

He drew a long slow breath, pressing and rubbing his tongue against the roof of his mouth as the salt laden, briny flavor assaulted his eager senses. He swallowed the scent, making it one with his body and being.

"Li'am."

Liam turned slowly, nodding his head and saluting the bowing man. "Kra'lye."

The elder raised his head, white hair glinting in the warm sun. The surf rushed up again, wetting the cuffs of Liam's loose white pants and twisting them around his calves.

"You enjoy the waves, child?" Kra'lye asked, stepping down the gentle, grassy incline that led to the beach.

"Yes, Van'li," Liam nodded then raised his gaze to meet the man's vivid blue eyes with his own deep, almost pulsating, green ones. "I do."

"They are not always as calm as you now find them, Val'try," Kra'lye reminded. "At times, they pound and crash, and their gentle molding becomes an abrupt, absolute force; reshaping earth and stone to fit a mindless drive. The currents beneath them are demanding, and many and much is lost to both their force and the hidden dangers beneath their swell. Unawares, their sudden change will force you to move with them, whether you are pulled under or pushed along."

"Yes." Liam tilted his head, sinking into a crouch. He slipped both his hands, long fingers digging into the loose sand on the ocean's bed, into the cool water, the full-length sleeves of his long white shirt wetted and swirled around his wrists. "It is a beautiful thing."

"Ever changing," Kra'lye agreed, "yet so constantly the same."

The man and child were silent for the moments in which the elder took steady steps across the loose sands to stand before Liam. Liam rose to his feet, the slight downcast of his eyes and downward tilt of his head to meet the shorter height of his teacher respectful, and he took a step to the side, clearing the way for the man.

Kra'lye's long robes swirled in the water, twisted by the currents as he strode forward to stand at the depth Liam did.

Looking down, the ancient closed his eyes in a gesture of memory, the turned his piercing gaze to Liam. "What do you see, Li'am?"

Liam looked down, past the changing surface of the water, through the clear liquid, and to the smooth pond beneath it. Reflected back at him was his own face, pale and trusting; the green and silver eyes were large and distinct. The plains and angles, the defined cheekbones and full, bowed lips stood as clear evidence of his Kimeran parent - an Irish fae, a daoine sidhe in Human form - but also as a tempered homage to his Human parents. The curls were windblown, wild, and in a flyaway state that suggested youth and constant disarray. The downy blond locks on top were pale and pliant like pure, white gold, and the darker strands beneath flashed copper and auburn, even darker at a chestnut bronze, showing the influence and the lineage of all his parents. A knowing light flashed in his eyes, and hints of mischief and play merged with the absolute love and acceptance that shone through, tugging the corners of the smooth lips in a slight grin. Nevertheless, even the show of childhood did not conceal the maturity and responsibility that settled around his bearing and within the faint, silvery nimbus that surrounded his placid form.

"I see myself."

The smooth pond surged, ripples spreading out from the center, distorting the image into splotches of colour.

As the water calmed, his face stared back up at him, but it was different, and more recognizably so.

The shape was the same, but the sharp angles were softened somewhat, and although the skin was pale, it was the white of illness. Sweat coated the chalky skin, and his hair, although tousled and coloured the same, was tangled, sweaty and damp against his scalp. His eyes were closed; his full lips relaxed open, but lines of pain marring the smooth young skin, deepening around the eyes and mouth. Fading red lines ran down one cheek, and across his face, angling downward from his right temple, were five bloody streaks.

Liam's brow wrinkled as he fought to remember. "I . . . fell. I slipped, in my blood." Distractedly, the child rubbed his palms; his eyes darkening as the scene played out in his mind. "I was trying to . . . reach - stop - I . . . I don't know. I needed to get to the bomb. It was gong to explode - going to kill . . . Methos! It was going to kill Methos and Mac, because they're dead - Tubar shot them - and if I don't stop it, they'll die, for real!" He whirled around, meeting Kra'lye's impassive face with his own desperate one. "I have to stop it!"

"Why, Li'am?"

"Because I can't lose them!"

"Why not?"

"Because I have lost everybody that I care about. I will not let them die!"

The flood inside him that had emerged in his struggle inside the hut churned, reforming in his gut.

He had lost everyone who had ever truly cared for him, or he had truly cared for, whether to death, deceit, manipulation, or to opportunity and escape from the web of betrayal that they so lived. Mother, Lili, Ha'gel, Sandoval, Augur . . . even Doors, who had hated him and feared him, but who had been a constant fixture in his life was gone, as was the familiar, trusting relationship he had once had with Da'an.

The two men had taken him in, accepted him, cared for and about him, and he would not let them die.

"But you are chained," Kra'lye reminded. "What will you do?"

Liam clenched his fists, a white light pooling in the palms. "Everything I can."

"Yes." Kra'lye stepped forward, standing in front of Liam.

"I will not lose them!"

The ancient teacher looked away, gaze searching the long expanse of sand and water.

Liam, insides trembling with an undeniable force, followed his master's gaze, finding the fading multitude of footprints, the many tracks almost wiped away by the constant waves.

"Will you not?"

Liam looked to his own footprints where they lay, strangely untouched by the water that washed over them. They seemed infinite next the gentle indents that were all that remained of Kra'lye's.

The drums started again, pounding in his mind. He focused on the sound, drawing it into himself and forming his rage, desperation and determination around it. "I will not lose them too."

"No."

He did not flinch as the sword was swung towards his neck.

Liam opened his eyes to see the mocking 2:38 that flashed before them. He forced himself to his feet, head swimming, and, breathing heavily, focused on the swirling blue bomb.

Inside him, the anger still burned, forming a hard, hot lump. His clenched fists spasmed, and a white glow started to seep around his skin, not the fire of his shaqarava but an angry radiance that encased his hands. The glow surged upwards, enclosing his arms.

He would not lose them.

Latching onto the churning presence of the bomb's energy signature, Liam built up the emotions inside him; everything that had happened since the moment of his birth. He forced the flood of feelings and each painful memory to the surface, for once drawing upon and encouraging the hurt that accompanied each.

Every moment; every tear; every laugh; every scream that had been denied him.

The drums called, their rhythm simple and continuous. Steady beats, broken by periods of silence as long as their sound.

His Quickening's sensitivity heightened, Liam felt the beginning stirrings of Methos'; the Immortal's body was repairing itself and his energy had now mended before his physical form. He would awaken shortly.

As opposed to reassuring him, this further enraged the hybrid.

Methos would not revive simply to face another death; a true death, to which, his atoms scattered, would his Quickening be released.

"I will not lose him."

1:17

The chains around the hybrid's glowing arms started to glow themselves, the child's energy seeping into them, melting the links into something soft and malleable, turning them into glowing mounds of iron that fell to the ground. The shackles burned brightly, slowly following suit to the chains. Liam raised his arms, the glow creeping up them to wrap around his entire body, with his hands facing the bomb.

The center of each his palms hurt terribly for a brief instant, a feeling akin to a spear stabbing them clean through flared, then faded, and a white light formed in their center, blossoming outwards as the glowing form of his shaqarava.

0:34

"I will not lose him."

The drums grew louder, pounding so that Liam's burning silver green eyes flinched slightly with each beat, and his pupils contracted and dilated in perfect cadence to the primitive call.

Methos groaned, raising his bleary eyes to survey the room. His chest ached, the various burns were healed but still announced their previous presence.

The hazel eyes widened abruptly, focusing best they could on the glowing form of their ward.

0:03

0:02

0:01

The world turned to fire.

The shaqarava flared, creating a shield against the demolition. As the blue inferno spread forward in the nanosecond that it took Liam's shaqarava to ignite, and the pressure of the force contained behind the alien organs was almost overpowering.

Liam could feel the rage he had built inside of him rushing through his palms, as well as tremendous amounts of stored energy and strength. He had created a shield like this before - to protect his father, Lili and himself from an explosion - but the small force he had held then paled to transparency in comparison to the blast that would obliterate miles of radius.

Methos felt the power of the explosion, the white-hot, writhing lazuli fire racing towards him, but he saw the glowing shield that sprang upwards throughout almost half the shack, protecting him and the stirring body of MacLeod, and he saw, also, with awe and reverence that bordered on fear, the brilliant white glow emerging from Liam's palms, who was swathed in a gleaming silver/white shine of his own, as his hands were held facing the force.

The child was stark against the blurred landscape of the shack, and though the radiation of the bomb made his squint and turn his gaze away, Methos saw, in the moment it took the energy shield to contain the explosion and force it back, the hybrid in acute detail. Ever sharp plane and angle was defined; strange shadows and rivulets of light accenting the very alien side of his lineage and stature. His body, although as distinct as a white line down a black sky, seemed almost hazy, misty, coalescing and flowing within and into itself. The lean, lithe form radiated power and prestige, but at the same time seemed infinitely young and innocent.

There was more to Liam than he had thought, Methos realized, mind still in an almost dreamlike state from his awakening, more than he had dared to imagine. A sudden understanding of the future of this man, and the possibilities and roles he was meant to fulfil overtook the Immortal, and though the child before him seemed great, the protectiveness he felt towards him increased. Methos knew he would do anything to save him; to guide him and to love him.

The power of the explosion was pushed away from the shack, obliterating the far wall and a fair chuck of the field and forest behind it, and pressed down by the shaqarava's energy and converted into bioenergy and freed into the ground.

The force of the explosion propelled Liam backwards, and, exhausted, the child slumped against the wall, slender form falling limp, the glow surrounding him and the burning in his palms subsiding, and he slipped, confusing images flashing before his eyes and the fading tempo ringing in his ears, into welcome darkness.

He awoke to rain; heavy drops falling from the thick, blanketing clouds that spread gray across the sky, filling the world with dampness and chill. The window by his bed was cracked open, and greeting him with the pale glow of the cloud-covered sun was the cool smell of rain and wet soil, the patter of raindrops and the traces of birdsong.

Drawing a deep, slow breath, smiling sleepily at the scent of morning, he shivered and snuggled deeper into the warm cocoon of blankets enclosing his lanky form. He was sore, and tired, and his leg twinged, pulling at the movement, but, overall, he felt surprisingly well.

A gust of wind forced splatters of rain through the minute opening at the base of the window, and the child shivered again, pressing his head into the warmth of the dream-deepened pillow.

As the wind lessened, and the few birds, undaunted by the chill and the breeze, continued their chirping melody from the safe retreats beneath the clinic's eaves, a voice, soft and murmuring, sounded.

Turning his head, Liam regarded the form of Methos; the old man sat, his eyes closed and his head titled back, in a hard hospital chair beside the hybrid's bed. Quietly, long fingers trailing the spine of a thin, worn book, the Immortal quoted,

"Morning arises stormy and pale,
No sun but a wannish glare.
In fold upon fold of hueless cloud,
And the budded peaks of the wood are bow'd,
Caught and cuff'd by the gale:
I had fancied it would be fair. "

Sensing the peaceful gaze, Methos opened his eyes, straightening to find the serene cast of Liam studying him thoughtfully.

Smiling gently, inwardly releasing a sigh of relief, the ancient man said lightly, "Good morning."

Liam smiled in response, blinking tiredly. "Morning."

The lights of the room were off, and the only illumination was that provided by the pale sun, high above and small behind the folds of cloud.

"Glad to see you've finally decided to come back to us," Methos said, shifting into a more comfortable position.

The Immortal had stood guard over the frightening still form of the hybrid child for almost the entire three days for which he had slept, only taking time off when Duncan, who had spent almost as much time as he by Liam's side, teamed with the feisty and irrefutable doctoring duo of Melissa Park and Julianne Belman, had forced him to.

Liam tilted his head, eyes half-lidded, catching the simple songs of the birds and the gentle melody of the rain in his young face and faint smile. "Was I gone for long?" His eyes sparkled.

"Three days and three nights, about." Methos rose from the chair, placing the thin volume on Liam's bedside table, then rolled his neck and stood over his ward, who turned onto his back to look up at him. "Dead to the world and as peaceful as a baby; one would almost believe that you were innocent. Harmless, even. Unfortunately, I know better." The ancient man leaned down, flicking Liam's head lightly then resting the hand against it. "Little demon."

Liam chuckled, nuzzling the hand as the thumb stroked his cheek. "You got me." His throat was dry and he swallowed.

Handing the younger man a glass, Methos studied him a moment as Liam, draining the water in a single swallow, placed the glass on the bedside table and titled his head to watch the warbling lark that had landed on a branch outside the window.

His face was peaceful, the full lips and jade-green eyes graced with a tranquil smile, free of the lines of pain that the Immortal had grown accustomed to seeing around them. The wild curls were bed-rumpled, falling in Liam's eyes and ringing his head like a curious halo.

Methos brushed a hand over the boy's forehead, pulling the soft locks away from Liam's eyes, which closed at the touch, and pushed them with the rest, back from his forehead.

"Go back to sleep, Liam," Methos said, talking gently to the child he could plainly see though the adult façade.

Liam turned large, questioning eyes to him, and Methos was filled with a protective, paternal love that he had rarely before felt, but had now grown almost dependant upon. "It'll be okay."

"All right," Liam agreed, nodding slightly, his smooth, deep voice filled with absolute trust.

He breathed out, turning to curl on his side, his fists up by his chin and his knees by his elbows; eyes slipping shut, the hybrid welcomed the silent darkness.

However, Methos had barely sat back down in the hard, plastic chair when Liam glanced over at him.

"I said sleep, acushla."

"Sorry," Liam whispered, abashed. "I had to make sure you were there."

Methos stared into the plaintive face of the hybrid for a moment, then sighed with mock irritation, rising to his feet. "The things I do for you, kid."

Pulling back the many thin, clinic blankets, Methos climbed over Liam's still form, curving his body around the Protector's. He pulled the blankets over both of them, wrapping his arms around Liam.

The muscled form that he held relaxed, breathing out and melting against him.

The lark on the branch was joined by a thrush, and the two avian musicians sang a natural harmony.

Liam's lips curled, his smooth baritone soft. "…Where does the dew first fall…"

The wind outside increased, blowing a cool gust by the window. Liam shivered, snuggling into the warm embrace of the ancient Immortal.

Methos leaned over, placing dry lips against Liam's temple in a brief, chaste kiss.

Liam turned in his arms, meeting the other man's aged eyes with frightening innocent ones. He leaned in and pressed his lips against Methos'.

"Thank you," he whispered, then drew back and turned away, eyes the same colour as the stormy sky closing, he nestled into the caring embrace.

Methos held Liam tighter, one hand brushing through the short hair and the other trailing up and down his side, watching as his charge drifted to sleep.

The birds at the window still sang, and Methos lay his dark head next to Liam's lighter one, murmuring.

"Now half to the setting moon are gone,
And half to rising day;
Low on the sand and loud on the stone,
The last wheel echoes away."

He would keep watch a while longer.

Allen sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "I mean nothing, Carl," he said. "Nothing."

The black man on the Global screen frowned, "Are you sure."

"Yes," Allen snapped. "There is absolutely nothing here - no evidence of a photon blast what-so-ever. Here," rubbing a sleeve across the vidscreen, the wet cloth only succeeding in smearing the raindrops, the young man panned the device across the site.

Turning the Global so he faced the screen again, Allen shrugged helplessly. "See what I mean?"

Carl's frown deepened. "There's nothing."

"That's what I've been saying."

The wind gusted suddenly and Allen shivered, pulling his rain slicker closer to him, and switching his grip on the Global to an alternating one-handed one as he blew desperately on the frozen digits of the other. The young Watcher was huddled inside the small shack that had been the intended resting place of Adam Pierson, Duncan MacLeod and Liam Kincaid three days earlier.

The far wall was partly obliterated, a fair sized chunk of wood vaporized from the center, giving the impression that someone had driven a pickup full throttle through it, and the edges around the gap were slightly singed, crumbling in Allen's hand as he examined them. The grass immediately surrounding the far wall of the shack was dead, brown and crunchy, almost brittle, but the grass spreading out from about half a foot from the building, all the way to the wood which the wall faced, was thick, lush and green. Healthier, even, than that which surrounded the hut on the three other sides. The small wildflowers, clover bunches and buttercups, were larger and more vibrant than any Allen had seen. And, although all the blooming shrubbery was shorter than the rest of the knee-high country tangle, it was itself a fair length - as tall as three weeks of growth.

The wood in the immediate vicinity of the gap in the wall was gone - burned down to only a few charred stumps, but there was already healthy growth at the base of the stumps and throughout the burned area; almost as if the wood had burned down in a fire a decade or two before.

There was nothing to support the photon detonation that the Watchers knew must have happened.

"Nothing," Carl said, defeated.

"No," Allen agreed, wiping a numb hand across his nose and sniffing. "I better not be getting a cold . . ."

"All right," the elder Watcher sighed, "You'd better come back. Grab some samples and transport them to the American Headquarters. Meet us at 'Buzz' in an hour?"

"Sure thing," Allen nodded, taking off his glasses and wiping the lenses on his jacket. He put them back on and squinted; it hadn't helped. "Elise find anything?"

Carl shook his head, a resigned expression on his face. "No. We'll compare our depressing lack of information at the café." The older man narrowed his eyes, staring at Allen for a moment. "Maybe you better pick up some dry clothes first." He added, before nodding goodbye and ending the transmission.

Allen looked gloomily out at the field, wincing as the wind gusted again, mindful of the protection that was offered by the shack. Setting himself, he bowed his head and stepped out into the wild wind, cheeks immediately numbed by the lashing ice drops.

Still, he had to admit, as confounding as the absence of destruction at the site was, he was grateful for it. The problems it caused were nothing in comparison to those that could have been caused had the expected results come about.

Whether by chance or means, the Watchers didn't want the Taelons learning anything about Immortals.

"Arg!" Street slammed the heel of her hand down on the desk.

No Results Found

"Damn it!" the redhead hissed, plopping into a chair and pushing away from the desk with her foot, fuming silently until the wheels stopped spinning and she bumped against the opposite wall.

Scowling darkly at the flashing message on the screen, Street crossed her arms. This was becoming quite an ordeal. Nothing, nothing had turned up in any of the searches she had done, on all of the Taelon Databases.

Whatever this 'Prize' was, and there was now no doubt in the teen's mind that there was a Prize, it was big. And the Taelon's definitely didn't want anyone learning about it.

Getting up from the chair, she walked over to the counsel. Calling up the search, she changed a few of the parameters, and set it to go again. Turning to HoloLiam, who was stretched out in a beach chair, sun glasses on and chest bare, she spared only the slightest of moments running an appreciative gaze down the toned muscles, then snapped, "I wanna know as soon as those results come in."

"You got it, babe," HoloLiam said, snapping and pointing a finger at her. He peered at her over the top of his shades. "Anything else?"

"No." She grabbed a jacket. "I'm going out." "I'm pissed, and in the mood for a fight."

"Gotcha. Oh," the hologram added just as she was about to slip through the Lair's door. "You might wanna take an umbrella; it's raining."

"Whatever." The doors sealed shut behind her, and she rode the lift up, glaring at the silver walls. "I wish Liam were here . . ."

"Poor Tubar," crooned the voice in his head. "Poor, poor Tubar."

The Immortal shuddered at the feeling of a hand stroking over his mind, the parts that were touched feeling numb and slimy.

"Poor, poor Tubar."

A wave of agony erupted in the Immortal's large belly, the white-hot wave of disrupted energy radiating in all directions, filling his body with thin fissures of pain.

"Aggh!" the heavyset man cried, his head snapping back as his eyes rolled in his skull. "Forgive me, Mistress! I am sorry! Please, forgive me!"

The pain stopped, and his Mistress' voice sounded in his mind, young and innocent and honey-sweet. "Why should I forgive you, Tubar Dacatha?"

Tubar shivered as she spoke his name. He felt his Quickening tense as the control she held over him with the simple words tightened. Her Quickening, her mind, her presence, was firmly lodged within his own, at times controlling his actions, forcing his submission, tearing through his thoughts and memories, and governing him completely.

"You failed, Tubar. I gave you many opportunities to do my biding, and you failed. The child still lives." Her voice was bewildered, but the dark snarl with which she spoke the last words had Tubar moaning again. The raw rage and insanity pillaged his mind, threatening to rip away his own sanity with its mad, brute force.

"I am sorry, Mistress! I cannot kill him! He is . . . different, Mistress! What is he?"

"He is the child, Tubar."

A ball of fire exploded behind the Immortal's eyes, making him sag at the knees, the chains and shackles that held him to the cave wall, very much like those which had held Liam, Methos and Mac in the shack, pulled on his arms, keeping him from collapsing fully. The blast engulfed his head, sending his thoughts reeling and starting a high pitched ringing in his ears. Filled with a sudden nausea, Tubar retched, but dispelled nothing.

The unconsciousness he felt himself slipping towards was disrupted by the cold, deadly voice of his Mistress.

"You claimed him, Tubar."

Blearily, Tubar blinked, forcing his eyes to focus on the white clad figure in front of him. The electric blue eyes were hard, as was the disdainful twist to the full lips. A graceful hand was extended, and a pale, porcelain-white finger trailed down his jaw. His Mistress knelt, her tall, slender form making the movement continuous and fluid.

"He is mine Tubar, and you claimed him." The finger paused over his chapped, bleeding lips. "Do you understand that, Tubar Dacatha? The child it mine."

She rose suddenly, one moment fixing him into an almost paralysis with her alien blue eyes, and the next staring down at him, the same eyes almost glowing and filled with contempt.

"As are you, Tubar Dacatha." A sword was pressed against his neck, the foreign metal cool and faintly illuminated. Faint pressure was applied, and the inconceivably sharp blade bit into the skin. Red blood pooled on the steady shaft, spreading out across it.

Tubar raised fearful eyes to the delicately carved hilt, the body hidden by the white hand that clasped it, but the interwoven figureheads leered at him; the once beautiful shapes an affront in their perverted mutation.

The blade was pulled away, and Tubar relaxed, feeling the blood run down his neck.

He gasped silently, eyes widening with shock, as the sword was plunged into his belly, twisted fiercely and ripping through his insides.

"He is mine, Tubar."

Rah'li sneered as the younger Immortal slumped to the ground, his arms held up by the chains.

Her head swiveled at the stirrings of another mind. The child had awoken.

"You are mine, Li'am." Her grip on the hilt of her blade tightened and breathing increasing. Her eyes flashed in the darkness, the brilliant blue sparking like lightning as she drew a harsh breath, clenching her teeth together.

"You are mine."

His foot sank deep into the snow, the hard, icy layer atop the wetter, heavier, bottom one crunching around his bare ankles and pants-enclosed caves.

It wasn't quite cold; his breath rose in plumes about his head, and the hairs along his arms and legs, beneath the simple white shirt and pants he wore, stood on end. Yet, he felt rather distanced from the terrain around him, as though either he or it was insubstantial, but he couldn't quite tell which of them it was.

The evergreens filled his senses with their rich, almost overpowering, scent, forming within him a warm glow and the memories of his mother's home. The cries of birds, chickadee deedee, chickadee deedee, chickadee deedee . . . gave the still air a rousing quality, as did the sounds of the rustling bushes and the low tree limbs, disturbed by the darting forms of the numerous creatures that made their way through the forest, arching, along with the ground, up the crest of the hill.

A black squirrel skittered out in front of Liam, leaping from a branch to the ground and then racing up the nearest tree, sailing from limb to limb with a series of impossible aerobics. Weaving between the twisting trunks, a small red fox, ears almost comically large and long muzzle very narrow, raced alongside the hybrid before vanishing into a thicker layer of covering.

Merging with his own footprints were the tracks of various other animals, both pawed and hoofed, and watching him solemnly from a clearing with large, liquid brown eyes, was a herd of deer. Velvety nose quivering at the child's scent, a buck lowered it's head, small bumps apparent where the antlers had been and would be, observing the lithe stature of the hybrid for any signs of danger. It turned away, dismissing Liam's presence at the absence of a threat. A fawn, with gangly legs and spots that were not quite entirely vanished from its patchy winter coat, edged closer to the man, large eyes like pools of trust.

Slowly, so as not to startle the timid yearling, Liam sank into a crouch, extending a large hand, palm up, towards the animal. The deer lowered it's head, nestling the wet, satin surface of it's nose into the hybrid's palm, pressing it in and sniffing. It drew back, startled, as the inspection of the shaqarava rewarded it with a faint surge of Liam's energy shooting across it's nose.

Sensing another presence, Liam drew his head back to meet the eyes of the doe as she came forward. Bowing his head in recognition of the mother, Liam withdrew his hand and slowly stood, his face blank but his eyes sparkling at the antics of the fawn, who, deciding that the shock of energy hadn't been so bad, was persistently butting the back of Liam's hand with it's head.

The doe steadily met Liam's calm gaze, then broke into a run, followed first by the fawn and then by the rest of the herd. Liam stood completely still as the multitude of wild bodies raced past his own, brushing by him, filling him with the desire to run after them, become one of them, learn of their lives and their world, and the almost tangible swell of the many energies.

Turning away from the fleeing forms, Liam followed the well-beaten path up the snow-covered hill, a white hare leaping from it's camouflaged hideaway as he walked by it, and reached the summit shortly.

Waiting for him at the top was the familiar blue robed figure of his master, regally seated upon a large rock. Liam approached quietly, slowing his steps as he drew nearer.

"Li'am," the man greeted.

"Kra'lye," he replied, as was the custom.

"You have changed, Val'try," noted the older man.

"Have I, Van'li?" Liam asked, sinking into a crouch at his master's feet.

Kra'lye stood, walking so that he stood at the edge of the hill's peak, staring out across the broad expanse of the hills, and the mountains they gave way to. The setting sun was vanishing behind them, creating a majestic portrait of pink and orange upon the prevalent blues and grays of the stone. Reflecting off the sheets of never melting snow and ice, the sun blazed its farewell, turning the expanse of the range and the vista surrounding it into an incarnation of grandeur.

The ancient one turned, the mask of humanity thrown aside as the blazing blue orbs that were his eyes pierced Liam's. "What do you feel, child?"

Liam closed his eyes, curling up on the ground, bowing his head so that it was nestled against the knees that his arms drew to his chest.

Inside him throbbed the inexorable rhythm; the relentless pulse that so formed him, controlling the beat of his heart, the pattern of his thoughts, the drive behind his actions, needs and wants. Under his skin it flared, the gentle cadence giving way to a roaring that filled his head, leaving little of his mind intact in its wake.

His body burned, the power inside screaming to be released, slamming against the prison that contained it.

A cool sensation on his face made him and curl up tighter, even as he sought the cool touch again. The touch remained, and slowly his body uncurled, the muscles relaxing until he raised his head, eyes slightly glazed, to look at Kra'lye.

The side of his mouth curling in pride and love, the old man ran his hand from where it rested against Liam's cheek, chasing away the madness, down his neck to pause over the hybrid's still pounding heart. "What do you feel, child?" the elder asked again, softly, forcefully.

Liam raised his gaze from his teacher's face to the darkening sky above him, the stars whirling pools of white light in the azure expanse. "Disturb us, Lord, To dare more boldly, To venture on wider seas . . ." "I feel . . . more. More of myself, and . . . more of others. More of what is and of what . . . was."

The older man nodded, expectation in his alien blue eyes.

"I - I can tell that there's something, but I can't tell what. It's strong; powerful . . . what is it, Val'try?"

Taking his hand, Kra'lye pulled the child to his feet, an enigmatic sparkle in his ancient eyes. "You."

" . . . Where storms will show your mastery. Where losing sight of land, We shall find the stars."

Stepping away from the hybrid, the white haired man held out a sword. Different than the broadsword Liam had grown accustomed to seeing in his master's hands, the sword was shorter, thinner, and slightly curved; a katana.

The hilt was made something that Liam didn't recognize, as was the blade, radiant with a smooth, glossy sheen, burning with an inner light, extending from the merged forms of the wolf and the dragon, facing away from each other and to either side of the wrist of the arm that gripped them.

Cocking his head, eyebrows lowering, Liam turned his questioning gaze to Kra'lye.

Nodding his head, the ancient master extended his arms to Liam.

Cautiously, Liam reached out an arm, his hand grasping the strong hilt.

He looked up as the broadsword swung towards him.

He opened his eyes to a blue sky, thick nimbus clouds strewn across the cerulean scope. The air was warm, the smell of rain still fresh upon it, as was the smell of the blooming lilacs and roses. A breeze, warmer and gentler than the wild gusts that had buffeted throughout the downpour, brought the sweet scent to him. A few lilacs, freed from the hanging boughs of the prodigious bush that swayed back and forth above his head, showered down upon him, settling in his hair and about his muscled form.

Liam stretched, arching his back against the hard surface of the hand-wrought and iron-framed bench he was splayed across. A yawn escaped his scrunched face, and he rubbed a weary hand over his bleary eyes, slowly twisting into an upright, seated position.

Allowing his gaze to grow distant, he leaned back against the sun-warmed metal, eyelids drooping ever so slightly as he focused on the energy surrounding him. His body buzzed as his psyche brushed past the grass and flowers, swirling around the shapes of the bluebirds in the nest that was built in the crook of an old, massive oak, dry limbs arching out across the garden. A birch, young and supple, grew on the opposite side of Liam, a wild rose bush blooming at its base, the flowers ranging from the palest pink to a vibrant hue. Their sweet smell permeated the air around them, mixing with the lilacs, irises, and heavy white peonies.

His head filling with a different buzz, Liam glanced over as Methos and Duncan exited the private, Colorado, clinic that Dr.'s Belman and Park had treated him at, keeping him there for the past three days, both threatening to increase his sick leave by another two weeks.

Seeing him, both the Immortals offered small waves and large smiles, and Liam repressed a cringe as he saw the teasing light in Methos' grin. Dr. Belman followed the two men out, calling to Liam. "You're free to go, young man, but any more problems . . ." she trailed off, leaving the threat unsaid.

Liam smiled at her, the little boy grin having its usual affect, and the doctor found herself smiling in return. "I mean it, Liam."

"Yes, ma'am."

"Oh, get out of here," Julianne shooed him off. "Go straight to Duncan's, and be careful. I don't want you back here again."

Liam hopped to his feet, ignoring Methos, who had his two hands placed against each other, one palm facing the other, and was pressing both against his titled head, mocking the hybrid's earlier nap under the oak tree and lilac bush.

"Yes, ma'am," he agreed happily, then turned and smacked the back of Methos' head.

"Children," Duncan warned, stepping between Liam and Methos, as he recognized where the two were headed; knowing very well the likelihood of it lasting until they arrived at the Portal station, and possibly even the dojo in Seacouver.

"Yes, Dad," Methos and Liam chorused, earning simultaneous shoves from behind from the Highlander.

It was as warm in Seacouver as it had been in Washington, and Liam drew a deep breath of the salty air, listening with half an ear as Methos and Duncan bickered lightheartedly about dinner.

A sudden phase of dizziness had him stumbling and bracing himself against a lamppost; eyes glazing at the sudden headache.

Kall mie salral, ditre'ai. Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'I . . .

Duncan placed a concerned hand on the younger man's shoulder, and Liam straightened, hastily reassuring the Scot that he was fine.

Doing his best to shake off the lights that danced in front of his eyes and the high pitched ringing in his ears, Liam ignored Methos as the ancient Immortal adopted a sashaying walk and a high pitched voice, asking Duncan with trepidation if they should be worried that Liam was two and still hadn't learned how to walk.

Drawing a deep breath, the hybrid jumped forward, landing in a puddle beside the older man and leaving him gasping as the cold, dirty water dripped down his face.

Laughing, Liam darted forward, narrowly escaping Methos' arm as it snapped out to grab him.

Lar'ta dra ness reol'lan th'i . . .

"You can run, Kincaid," Methos yelled, jogging after the hybrid, "but you can't hide!"

"Can too," Liam called back, racing up the dojo's steps, intent on locking the door before Methos got there, and maybe escaping through the back way. "Watch."

The door clicked shut behind him and, laughing, he leaned against it, the faint ringing in his ears turning into the pounding of drums.

There can be only one . . .

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