What the Thunder Said
by Jennifer Campbell

Part 3, continued

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As the days passed, Methos became increasingly aware of how little time he had left. He wanted to make each afternoon count for another hundred years, live his life for all it was worth in case the approaching immortal took his Quickening. With every second, his opponent drew closer, crossing oceans and deserts in a relentless quest to win the elusive Prize.

As the presence grew stronger and more defined, a suspicion that had pricked at the back of his mind became a certainty. He recognized this sensation, as unique as a signature and familiar as his own face. The immortal was Duncan MacLeod -- but which MacLeod he couldn't tell. He would not know until Mac stood before him whether he faced a friend or an enemy.

So he prepared to fight for his life. He shadow-sparred in the glaring furnace of midafternoon until he collapsed from heat stroke, but he could practice a little longer each afternoon, his endurance strengthening. He only hoped that he could outlast MacLeod in this scorching climate.

Despite his exhaustion every night as he fell asleep, the nightmares returned, horrifying visions of losing his head. Those dreams snapped him awake countless times and made him fearful to return to sleep. So he watched many sunrises from the ruins of his old dwelling, huddled in a blanket among the crumbling stones.

As a last preparation for MacLeod's arrival, he scoured the region for the perfect locale to receive his guest, some place difficult to reach that would exhaust his opponent in simply getting there. Finally, as MacLeod's presence grew so strong that Methos feared to see the Scot around each corner, he found his battleground. At the top of a cliff, he discovered a wide plateau with no shelter. The cracked sandstone top allowed for little vegetation. Its roughly circular shape dropped off on all sides to a gorge 50 feet below.

Yes, here he would fight MacLeod. It gave him a childish pleasure to visualize the end of the Game in such a hostile place. In one last precaution, he bought a small tent in town and erected it atop the plateau, giving him at least a small refuge should he have to wait for his opponent.

Then, after Methos had scraped twenty-two lines into the cave wall, came the last morning of his old life. The day dawned windy, with thick, dark clouds building on the horizon for a late spring storm. His loose clothing whipped about his lean body as he stepped outside, and he knew with absolute certainty: Today it would end.

He strapped his sword across his back, slung a brimming water pouch over his shoulder and set out for the plateau. By midmorning he reached the top and settled in the shade of his tent, billowing in the wind. He didn't have to wait long. The sun hung directly overhead, almost overtaken by storm clouds rumbling with thunder, as he saw a large hand reach over the edge. MacLeod pulled himself onto the plateau and rolled onto his back, his broad chest heaving.

At first sight of the Scot, as the presence flooded Methos' senses with almost unbearable power, the Pull returned with vengeance. Rage pushed at his mind and thirsted to stain this pure place with MacLeod's blood. He struggled to hold it back with the same will that had defeated the Horseman inside himself so many centuries before. Still, his balance tipped precariously close to surrender.

Methos approached with sword bared. As MacLeod saw him, he struggled to his feet. The Scot's eyes gleamed maliciously despite his heavy breathing, and he grinned as he twisted his katana in his hand. Methos' heart sank as he saw a foe, not friend, before him. Had MacLeod been like this since their parting a month ago? Perhaps Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod was dead, after all.

"You picked one hell of a hiding place," MacLeod said, his tone somehow both cheerful and intense. "Couldn't you have gone to Bermuda?"

"I like it here," Methos replied. He raised his sword protectively before him. "So what happens now?"

"Now," MacLeod said, taking a step toward him, "I kill you."

Methos backed away. "Easier said than done."

He took another step back, never taking his eyes off the predatory MacLeod, and his heel sunk into a wide crack in the bedrock. The change in balance surprised him. He fell, his bottom landing hard on the rock.

MacLeod laughed and swiped at him, but Methos dropped and rolled out of the sword's range. He came to his feet a few yards away.

"Careful," MacLeod mocked. "Don't want to lose your footing."

"Mac, this is insane." Methos glanced behind himself this time before backing away.

"Oh, is this the part where you try to talk me out of it?" MacLeod asked. "'Don't do it, MacLeod. We can still walk away and be friends, MacLeod.' Is that it?" He grinned maniacally and continued his slow advance. "Well I have some news for you, old man. Your friend is gone."

"So I see," Methos answered carefully.

"And now you're wondering what will happen to me after I take your head, right? You're wondering whether I'll go back to being the old MacLeod and torture myself for the next few thousand years about how I shouldn't have killed you."

"The thought never crossed my mind," Methos calmly lied. "But you've wondered, haven't you, MacLeod? Do you think you can live with the pain? Or will all the lives you've taken in anger haunt you for eternity?"

MacLeod chuckled. "Do you think you can live with it?"

"Yes," Methos answered simply. "I already do, every day."

"But wasn't it so much easier before you grew a conscience? When you could kill and destroy and feel no guilt?" MacLeod grinned. "I didn't realize before how beautiful it is to live without regret."

"Oh, yeah," Methos said sarcastically. "It's a real thrill."

"It's so much easier to surrender to the Pull. Why are you trying to fight it, old man? Just let it go."

The oily coaxing of MacLeod's voice reverberated in his mind. The temptation. The end of a weary, weekslong struggle to stay in control of his own mind. At times it was so difficult, so tiring, that it hardly seemed worth it. Maybe, just maybe, MacLeod had the right of it.

But Methos gritted his teeth and planted his feet firmly against the solid rock.

"No!" he yelled, and the rage inside him vanished on the wind. He almost sobbed for the release.

MacLeod shrugged. "It was worth a try. I guess I'll have to kill you as you are."

With that, MacLeod attacked. He aimed his first powerful blow for Methos' neck, which the older immortal dodged and returned in force. Mac swatted his sword away, and then the duel began in earnest. They circled as they fought, carefully picking their way over boulders and deep fissures in the rock. The approaching thunder answered the clash of their swords.

Methos led them toward the plateau's ledge and then slowly circled so MacLeod's back faced the dropoff, but the Scot didn't seem to notice. MacLeod attacked with such focused ferocity that he saw nothing except the opponent before him. He fluidly swung at Methos' sword arm, which Methos barely parried. Then he abruptly changed the direction of his arc to slash at Methos' abdomen. Methos jumped back, but the katana ripped through his shirt and across his stomach, leaving a shallow cut that trickled warm blood down his skin.

MacLeod laughed harshly. "I'll take you apart one piece at a time if I have to."

"Then come and get me."

Again, the blades clashed. MacLeod quickly pulled the same trick, this time directing a serpentine cut across Methos' hip. The older immortal hissed, but a quick glance at the wound showed it hadn't cut deep. He ignored the pain and continued to fight.

Now Methos could see the heat affecting his opponent. MacLeod breathed raggedly, and sweat dripped down his forehead into his eyes. As MacLeod blinked to clear his vision, Methos pressed into an attack, swiftly pushing him closer to the cliff. MacLeod's back foot slipped over the edge, and his eyes widened as he sensed his danger. With an inhuman effort, he pushed his weight onto his front foot and managed to step away. Then his foot slid into the side of a large rock and he overbalanced. With a purely instinctual response, MacLeod sought to stop a face-first fall with the only thing available: his sword. The blade caught upright in a fissure, and MacLeod's chest smashed heavily against the hilt. With a grunt of pain he rolled off.

Methos watched the sequence of blunders with something akin to amazement, but as soon as MacLeod landed flat on his back, the hesitation ended. With an unreadable expression, he buried his sword in the immortal's stomach. Then he pulled the bloody Ivanhoe free and lifted it above his head, ready for the final stroke.

"Methos, stop!"

The exclamation startled him into stillness. His eyes raked his defeated opponent, slid from the red stain on his stomach to his face. What he saw there almost made him drop his sword. The rage seemed to drain from MacLeod's eyes as he watched, and the Scot raised one weak hand in supplication.

"Mac?" he asked cautiously. "Is that you?"

MacLeod's raised hand fell to his bloody stomach. "Methos, I'm so sorry," he whispered. "I can't control it. I'm so very sorry."

Despite his screaming instincts, Methos lowered his sword and knelt by MacLeod. The pain of the wound must have brought his friend back, just as it had on the barge so many ages ago.

"I'm sorry, too," Methos breathed.

MacLeod smiled wryly. "For what? Defending yourself against a madman?" Then the smile vanished, and he screwed shut his eyes. His voice grew strained. "It's coming back. The darkness. Methos, please help me. I can't ..."

Without warning, MacLeod hands lashed out and closed around Methos' throat. The older immortal struggled to breathe. His vision began to darken around the edges as he brought up his sword and slammed it deep into MacLeod's side. Mac cried out, and Methos gasped as the hands fell away.

After Methos pulled his sword free for the second time, they sat in silence, with only the thunder between them. Shadows crossed the plateau as heavy clouds obscured the sun.

Finally, MacLeod twisted to regard him with tortured eyes. "Methos, if you're my friend, you will kill me now," he whispered.

Methos blinked. "You want to die?"

"I can't live like this." A single tear trailed down MacLeod's cheek. "Please, Methos. Do this for me. Do it now, before the darkness comes back. If you don't, you know I'll hunt you until one of us is dead."

Methos squeezed his friend's hand and nodded curtly. MacLeod had spoken the truth. It had to end now.

As Methos stood, MacLeod struggled to his knees and bowed his proud head. A powerful wind whipped around them, swaying the nearby katana like a metronome. Methos lifted his sword.

"Do it," MacLeod said hoarsely. "And live a good, long life, my friend."

"Goodbye, Duncan MacLeod."

Methos brought down the blade in one clean cut, and MacLeod dropped. With a strangled breath, Methos once again knelt by his friend. A pressing weight settled on his chest, and he found it difficult to breathe between his dry sobs. He'd killed his best friend. He'd won the Game.

Methos stood and closed his eyes as the first mists heralded the Quickening, and he simply rode the waves of instantaneous pain and healing that followed. He hardly noticed when the thick pillar beneath him began to shake violently and the rumble of tumbling rocks grew louder. None of it mattered. He had killed his friend.

And then it was over. Half the plateau had vanished, slid into the gorge, and a few cliffs in the distance still shook from the shock wave of the power released.

Yet the phenomenon barely registered as Methos paid tribute to the fallen hero. He pulled the katana from the rock and stumbled away, leaving the body to nature and the thunder, mourning softly in the distance.

#

Joe breathes out explosively. "Wow."

"That's it?" Despite himself, a faint smile curls at Methos' mouth. "Just 'wow'? I expected something a bit more profound."

"Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know. How about, 'Get the hell out of my bar, you murdering bastard.'"

Joe sighs, and he says solemnly, "You killed the best man I've ever known, but I can't blame you for what happened. I probably would have done the same thing in your place. I almost did once."

Methos nods. "The dark Quickening."

"Yeah," Joe says, quirking an eyebrow. "The good old days, huh?"

"I'm glad to hear you say that, Joe. After you almost took my head off earlier ..." Methos lifts his beer in salute. "I have to say that you handled it quite well."

"Thanks." Joe forces a smile and lifts his drink. "A toast. To Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. The most heroic man to ever walk the planet. And the best friend anyone could ask for."

They clink glasses, and as Methos drinks, he lifts a thought to his friend. I hope you're in a better place than this, MacLeod. You deserve it.

"So what now?" Methos kicks his feet up on the table, and Joe promptly pushes them off.

"Now, I get this mess cleaned up and hit the sack," Joe says as he stands. "If you don't mind my saying, it's been a long night. I'll worry about making sense of all you've said tomorrow."

"No, I mean what do you do now that it's over?" Methos grabs his empty beers as Joe goes to the bar for a cleaning cloth. "There's no reason for the Watchers to exist anymore."

Joe hesitates as he considers the question, the rag forgotten in his hand. Finally, he shakes his head and shrugs. "I'll file my final report tomorrow. Then I guess I'll ... play music, run the bar and spend a lot of time getting to know my daughter."

"Yeah, you should spend time with Amy," Methos says as he dumps the bottles in a recycling bin. "Family is important."

"If I get bored, maybe I'll assign myself as your Watcher."

Joe manages a weak smile at his own joke, but Methos can't bring himself to smile in return. As much as Joe tries to hide his grief at MacLeod's death, Methos can see that the pain weighs heavily on his friend's heart. Methos regrets causing that grief almost as much as he regrets killing MacLeod.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

Joe tightens his lips and nods. "I know."

"If I could have saved him ..." Methos leaves the thought unfinished as he looks away. He slips into his coat and smooths the collar.

"I know," Joe answers in a strained voice.

Methos nods curtly. The words are as close to forgiveness as Joe will give him, and maybe it's enough. He knows it's time to leave, time to disappear for a while and reorganize the shambles of his life, but one task yet remains. Methos reaches under his coat and pulls out his last memento of Duncan MacLeod. He lays it reverently on the bartop.

Joe stares at him in surprise before hesitantly reaching out. He glides his fingertips over the white dragon hilt and down the length of gleaming metal. "Mac's sword," he says, amazed.

"I think he would want you to have it."

When Joe looks up at him, Methos can see unshed tears bluring his eyes. "Thank you."

"Take care of it," Methos says. "And take care of yourself, too."

He turns away and walks slowly toward the exit. Daylight sneaks past the edge of the door frame.

"Hey, Methos ..."

He stops and looks back at Joe.

"What are you going to do?"

A smile tugs at the corner of Methos' mouth. "I'm going to live."

"You won't disappear on me, will you?"

Methos shakes his head. "I'll see you around, Joe. I promise."

He walks outside, into the parking lot, and a raindrop splatters against his coat. Above him, the lightning cracks and the thunder speaks. For once, as he walks to his car, Methos can almost understand what it is trying to say.

What have we given?
My friend, blood shaking my heart
The awful daring of a moment's surrender
Which an age of prudence can never retract
By this, and this only, we have existed
Which is not to be found in our obituaries
Or in memories draped by the beneficent spider
Or under seals broken by the lean solicitor
In our empty rooms

Shantih Shantih Shantih

The end

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Thank you for reading. I hope it was worth your time.

I would like to hear your thoughts on this story. Great? Horrible? If you have a couple of minutes to write a review, I'd appreciate it. Thanks!