Disclaimers:  In part 1.
Rated: NC-17 for explicit violence and explicit sex, slash and het both.

Sirocco, pt. 9
 

Near Techado Mesa -- noon, 4/20

"Yeah, well, my grandfather didn't raise any idiot Watchers," Dave Goldberg stated flatly.  Hazel eyes glared furiously at him, but he met that show of temper without flinching.  "What's going on, Dawson?"

"I'm not gonna--"

Dave leaned in and cut over him.  "If you think any grandson of Sol Goldberg's would turn  you in for talking to a man as decent as Duncan MacLeod, then you really don't know shit about my family.  I never said I was going to report this any farther'n the rest of my family... but I want to know what the fuck is going on, Joe.  The truth, not that snow job you buried the rest of 'em under."

A furious, fragile silence fell between the two of them.  Joe worked his jaw as if to say something, but instead his mouth tightened into a stubborn set.  Dave snapped, "God damn it, Mr. Dawson, who told you you had to do this by yourself?  You think you're the only Watcher who talks to his immortal?  How many times does my family have to have Russell Nash over for dinner before you figure out we're on the same side?"

Joe's shoulders tightened as he turned away, cane swinging out to one side with each angry step.  He turned back after a minute and threw Dave a bottle of water.  "What do you want to know, Dave?"

The large, solidly built man caught it easily and twisted the top off in an idle motion as he spoke.  "I figure we've got about ten minutes before Roger reports in again.  Now he's only seen one immortal coming down, but we've seen six quickenings so far and that last one was fucking huge.  Last time I saw anything like that was when Connor killed Fasil back in '85.  Now, you want to tell me what you know about this?  Like why in hell the Gathering hasn't started?  I mean, I'm not hearing that we got every other immortal in the world pouring' down on top of our head.  But I am hearing that it's you and me Watching the line of Ramirez--"  He paused when that jolted Joe's careful composure, and nodded cynically.

"Oh, yeah, Grandfather mentioned that little phrase.  Me, I figure we're talking something close to a genealogy here.  Now, Duncan ain't gonna kill either of us, and Connor ain't gonna let anyone else kill one of Grandfather's grandsons.  What I wanna know is why some of those people are up there.  Line of Ramirez, huh?  So who are some of these people, Joe?"

Joe growled, "Why don't you ask them?"

Dave wiped the sweat off his face and poured half the bottle of water down his throat before he looked up and smiled.  "You know what?  I think I will."

Joe rolled his eyes ruefully, then chuckled.  "Let me know when you're gonna do that, huh?  I just might want to come watch the fireworks."

"I'll do that."  Dave pulled another bottle of water out and passed it to Joe.  "Now, drink this, and let's talk about how we're gonna convince the Watchers that no, we couldn't find a line of sight for this, and no, we don't know who fought who."

"Well," Joe started, "we've got Roger's photos for the proof on the sight lines, and we've got a policy of no video cameras, either."

"And no talking to our immortals," Dave chuckled.  "Let's make good and damn sure that we mention that once or twice.  'Too bad, so sad, so sorry we can't actually ask the people who were there.'"

"They're gonna want to recruit Stormy."  Joe poured some of the water over his head and then ran his hands through his hair, rumpling it farther.  Even standing in the shade of the tarp they'd rigged for shelter, it was getting pretty damn warm.

Dave flashed him a quick and surprisingly dangerous smile that reminded Joe of Connor's wicked sense of humor.  "I wouldn't worry about that, Mr. Dawson."

"Cut that shit out, Dave.  Unless you're still pissed off at me, go back to Joe, wouldya?"

"Well, now that we've got that settled, Joe....  A little bird tells me that Stormy's not going to be a likely candidate for Watcher school."

"Really."  Joe glanced sideways at him.  "And why not?"

He took a swig of his remaining water, and ended up spitting it back out when Dave chuckled and told him, "'Cause Mandisa and Damien hit a jewelry store in Seacouver.  Wonder who's gonna be best man at the wedding?"

"Not Luke Davis," Joe told him, and chuckled himself at the idea of Damien's Watcher, one of the most vocal advocates of 'no contact with your subject,' standing up at Damien's wedding.  "And I hope like hell you're right."  He took a deep breath, and then said, "Right.  Let's go back to work on this damn report."  But the grin kept breaking free at odd moments.

<><><><><><><><><>

Near Alamo, New Mexico -- early afternoon, 4/20

Farrell finished checking the knots on his rope by touch despite the fact that he had already used his flashlight to examine them visually.  Once he was satisfied, the New Zealander moved carefully up the long-abandoned mineshaft, double-checking each successive knot on the other three ropes as he went.  Brown eyes regarded the half-rotted timbers holding up the roof and walls dubiously.  "Phoebe's right," he whispered, voice hushed by worry.  "This place is going to go soon anyway."

Each step was chosen with deliberate care as he moved.  Paranoia was a wonderful motivator to grace and precision, Farrell had noticed more than once -- usually when a challenge was over.  He emerged into the bright afternoon light and saw Damien pacing and everyone else avoiding the obviously irate redhead.  "They're ready."

"You idiot!" Damien exploded, whirling to face him.  "What in hell were you doing?"

"Making sure this would work," the New Zealander answered patiently.  "Someone had to tie the ropes off, Damien, and I've had recent mining experience.  And I wanted to lay the bodies out properly," he admitted with a half-defiant shrug.

Var finished tying off the ropes on Adam's truck and asked, "Damien, would you please yell at him another time?  I'd rather you did it somewhere else, as well.  This mine is not as stable as I'd like."

"He's right."  Farrell wiped sweat from his forehead, and not all of it was the result of his work in moving dead weights and finding the stress points on the support beams.  "It's damned shaky down there.  That entrance should have been demolished a decade ago just to keep children and horses out."

Aidan tugged one last time on the rope attached to the trailer hitch.  "It wasn't in the best of shape twenty years ago, either.  The state owns it, though, so I've no remorse in closing it for them.  There, that should hold, and the one on the jeep is fine, too."  She turned worried grey eyes on Farrell, then asked softly, "Are you all right, Farrell?"

"Remember when I asked you the same thing in '42?"

Aidan smiled faintly.  "I remember.  You shocked me.  I knew who you were, after all."

"Yeah," Farrell agreed in a flat tone.  His hands yanked at the knots fastened to the Bronco he was driving, and he nodded as if to agree that they'd hold.  "I had no idea who you were for a while, you know."

"I noticed."  Some thought drew a smile to that triangular face, then Aidan added, "I was certain of that when you asked me if I'd get drunk with you."  She studied the ropes leading from the vehicles into the mineshaft, then nodded.  "Everyone ready?"

Xan shrugged.  "The bodies are well down the shaft, Edana, and Farrell's right -- that damn thing looks so unstable, no one will have trouble believing it collapsed naturally."  He walked over to Farrell.  "She's right, too, though," the blond Greek said softly.  "Are you going to be all right?"

"I will be," Farrell told him shortly.  "Let's do this, Xan."  He saw the way the other man's expression closed down at his curt response and remorse drove Farrell to say, "I'm sorry.  Neither of us wanted... this.  But I need some time to work through all of it, Xan."

"All right," Xan agreed slowly, and reached for his wallet.  Farrell watched, puzzled, until the Greek pulled out two business cards.  "This is how you get in touch with Alex or me.  Don't tear yourself up over this, Farrell.  You're too damn good a man for that."

"Flatterer," Farrell replied automatically, tucking the card into a pocket as an excuse to look away from that intent gaze.

"No, it's not flattery," Xan emphasized, leaning into Farrell's personal space to make his point.  "You did what you thought you had to do, despite what it's costing you.  There aren't many people who could have done that."

Damien had walked over in time to hear that exchange and agreed fiercely, "He's right, Farrell.  Don't tell me you're feeling guilty over this mess?"

Farrell turned on him.  "Leave it alone, Damien.  When I know how I feel, maybe then I can talk to someone else about it.  Until then--"

"Until then," Damien growled, taking the two necessary strides to clasp Farrell's shoulder in a hard, friendly grip, "we're going to get you drunk and in trouble, thanks.  I'm calling Ish."  The redheaded Swiss immortal ignored the flinching reactions from his family, more intent on the flicker of interest he'd seen in Farrell's eyes and the slight smile that quirked his mouth and vanished again.  "Feeling responsible for Connor's hand or something equally crazy?"

"There's some reason I shouldn't?"  Farrell frowned at him, pleasure gone as if it had never existed.  He made no attempt to get out from under Damien's hand, however.  "I was going to fight for someone who did that."

"You didn't fight for him," Damien pointed out, his free hand jamming into his jeans pocket as the excess energy from the Quickening surged through him with his rising temper.  "And he tried to kill you for it, too.  Screw it, you're determined to take some of the blame?  No redemption without sweat and blood? Fine.  How would you like a way to work some of that guilt off?"

"I thought that was why you made me help your lady with her gear?" Farrell countered, not backing down from Damien's angry posturing.  More warmly, though, he added, "Congratulations, by the way.  You finally developed taste."

"Ah heard that," Stormy drawled from her seat on the cooler.  "Thank you, Farrell.  Damien, do you mean I finally get to meet your brother Ish?"

"Well, there's a team of hit men who know too much about immortals to make me happy," the redhead said bluntly.  "I was going to call in Ish to help hunt them, maybe Duathor if she's free.  Kate already said she'd help find them.  You want to help make up for some of this shit, Farrell?  That job's on the list."

"Gentlemen," Aidan said quietly, "can we continue this in a minute?  I need four drivers with two hands apiece -- sorry, brother -- to pull these beams down, and I want us out of here in the next ten minutes.  Farrell, when we finish this... I have a favor to ask of  you."

"You want a favor from me?" he asked her, incredulously.  "You already let me live, Phoebe."

"You renounced Owain's line," Aidan replied as she pushed sable hair back off her face.  "And I never wanted to kill you, Farrell.  None of us who knew you did, acushla.  You owe me nothing for that.  However, the favor isn't for me in any case."

That drew startled looks from several people, but Adam glanced from Farrell to Duncan and then at Aidan.  "Marc?" he asked calmly as he accepted a bottle of water from Stormy.

"Yes," Aidan told him.  She had never turned away from Farrell, and her hands were conspicuously empty at her sides as she made her request.  "Will you please come to Seacouver soon and talk to Marc?  He's wanted to meet you."

"And he needs to know his old line wasn't completely treacherous?" Farrell commented cynically, forcing down the spark of interest at her invitation.  "Are you sure I'm a good example?"

"Do you mean to betray Marc?" Aidan probed.  "All you'd have to do would be ignore him."

Farrell flinched at that, lips tightening on a frown.  "That was a low blow, Phoebe."

"He's been hurt enough," she replied grimly as the line of Ramirez began to surround Farrell.  Aidan wasn't sure that was a good idea, but the ones closest to him were his friends, so perhaps it wasn't a bad one, either.  "And so have you, Farrell.  There were at least two honorable members of the line of Rhys-Tewdor, and I would very much like for the two of you to get a chance to meet.  Chris made sure that Marc never had a chance to talk to you, apparently."

"Christopher kept him from...?"  Farrell paused then said more quietly, "That would explain a few things.  This was the first I'd heard of him, too, Phoebe.  I didn't know Chris had taken a student, but if they were going to use the man as a stalking horse, I'm not surprised they didn't tell me about him."

Farrell stared at the ground under his feet, seeing the grass and rocks, the tire and boot tracks, without really registering them.  A firm hand rubbed circles on his back, not quite a backrub but not hard enough or sharp enough to scratch either.  Friction, strength, maybe a reminder of the solidity of life, he supposed, knowing it was probably Alex or Xan.  Damien was tactile in different ways, and the Swiss immortal's imposing presence had moved aside a few moments ago.

And I never knew what kind of touches Jirina or Will gave to those they liked and trusted, he admitted to himself.  I'll grieve later, when I figure out who I'm hurting for.  This isn't the time or the place.  "Life goes on, I suppose," Farrell finally told her, looking up again to meet those grey eyes levelly.  He glanced to his right and saw to his surprise that it was the older MacLeod who'd been rubbing his back.  The same way Kastagir would have, Farrell realized, smiling at Connor despite the morning's events.  He was oddly pleased when he recognized the faint, sardonic quirk of the Highlander's lips as an answering smile. There may yet be some good things out of this.  Let it settle, then, and I'll see.

"Let's bury them, Phoebe," Farrell surrendered.  "I have to go back to Albuquerque to clean things up, but--"

"We're not going to let you just vanish on us, Farrell," Damien said grimly, watching him intently.  "And I'm willing to take a few minutes more to make sure that doesn't happen.  You're, what?  A century and some small change?"

"Yeah," Farrell agreed.  This much solicitude from a group that he'd thought would try to kill him was beginning to rouse a perverse sense of humor in him.  "Why?"

"Then there's no way in hell you can take responsibility for an immortal who was older than I was," the burly redhead argued as he hunched his shoulders in an irritable attempt to excavate the words that would persuade Farrell.

Connor interrupted bluntly, "Jameson, you're a good enough man that half of the people at this war didn't want to fight you before you renounced Rhys-Tewdor.  We'd already agreed that whoever fought you would try to get you to go to first blood."  He waited until Farrell met his eyes, surprised brown meeting cynical, compassionate hazel.  "And you studied with an old friend of mine.  I wouldn't mind spending a few nights and a few bottles of whiskey comparing stories sometime.  You have to go back to Albuquerque, and set your stage there -- fine.  We'll meet you there tomorrow after we get a few things cleaned up ourselves.  But Damien's right, man.  It's not your fault."  Connor held up his right wrist for emphasis as he said forcefully, "None of it."

Farrell had no doubt there was an emotional bill pending for what he'd done this morning.  Payment was going to come due, and it was going to be a bitch.  For now, though, he was willing to live in the moment, to enjoy some of what he'd already bought because of his own allegiances and the dictates of his own nature.  So he conceded, "We'll argue that another time, MacLeod, say, when I take you up on the drinks and the talk.  And yes, I'll meet all of you for lunch tomorrow."

"Good enough," the Scot told him, hazel eyes finally releasing him from that implacable gaze.  "And it's Connor to any student of that old pirate."

Farrell reached out with his left hand.  "Yeah, well, it's Farrell to anyone with enough taste to call Kastagir a pirate."

"That's an improvement over most of the names we could call him," Connor told him, shaking his hand and grinning.

Adam interrupted them in a cutting voice.  "Now that we have this latest crisis under control, can we collapse this mineshaft before anyone shows up?"

For some reason that Farrell didn't understand, that caused amused glances to be traded among the MacLeods, Phoebe, and Adam.  Phoebe murmured something that sounded like, "Oh, dear.  He is going to yell, isn't he?"

"It's good for him," Duncan said bluntly, but he waved Farrell to his vehicle.  "Move, everyone.  I want a shower, and I want to get the hell out of this state tomorrow."

Mandisa chuckled and held out a long, thin hand for the taller MacLeod's keys.  "Yes, and as one of the few who hasn't taken a quickening?  I'm driving."

Duncan started to argue then saw the glare he was getting from Adam.  "Fine."

"When you get snappish, Duncan MacLeod," Stormy drawled sweetly, "then I know all the stories I've heard about quickenings must be true."

Mandisa flashed the little blonde a wicked smile.  "Something like."  As she walked past to the parked vehicles, the tall black woman murmured, "Come see me tomorrow if you need a good rubdown."

"Thanks," Stormy told her equally softly, her smile simultaneously anticipatory and mildly nervous, "but I thought I'd make him do it."

<><><><><><><><><>

Duncan's cabin -- twilight, 4/20

It wasn't that Marc heard anything.  It was, rather, the sudden absence of sounds that brought his head up.  He stood immediately, grateful that he'd been checking the shingles on the cabin and thus had a perfect look-out perch.  At the edge of the trail to the lake, a bird launched itself towards the sky, wings beating madly for altitude; closer to the cabin, a deer bolted through the woods in a sudden drumming of hooves.

"Rich," he called, grim and worried.  "We have company."  The tall, slim black man knelt then, swiftly dropping hammer and nails back into the tool box before scooping up the bastard sword that had been lying next to them.  After his time with Chris, he had so many bad habits with a katana that Aidan had started him on bastard sword, and had him mostly using it with his left hand instead of his right.  The frightening thing was that she was correct; it was easier to learn those good habits than to unlearn the bad.  They both had hopes he'd master katana correctly in a few more years, but for right now, Marc was much more interested in survival.

From the porch, he heard Rich answer, "Can you see anyone yet?"

"No."  Marc moved up the roof toward the peak, studying what he could see of the trail.  "But it's too late for Joe to be coming here.  It's almost dark on the lake; he shouldn't be out in that."

"Tell him that and you'll eat a cane," Rich warned him, but he didn't sound happy.  "All right, this is Holy Ground.  We stay on it, if we have to."

The tall black man snorted.  "If Owain sent them, Rich, it's a hit team and we're out of here.  Are the backpacks ready?"

Marc could almost see the quick flash of grin that crossed Rich's face; it was implicit in his voice when the redhead quipped, "Unless you moved 'em, or they had enough sense to run like hell.  Think we should?"

Marc could see figures on the path now, and he squinted, trying to make sense of the shapes.  "Two of them," he muttered, "but...."  The stride on one of them was familiar, an ambling walk that still ate up the distance.  What identified them, though, was the courtesy of the hand extended back toward the smaller figure at what Marc knew was a muddy turn of the trail.

"Oh, man!  It's cool, Rich."  Marc laughed in sheer relief before he cupped his hands in front of his mouth and bellowed, "Terrence!  Carolyn!"

From the path, he could see his brother jerk in surprise, then wave a long, tan-clad arm at him in greeting.  Carolyn's raucous, Jersey-accented voice yelled back, "You better be hungry.  We brought dinner!"

Rich chuckled suddenly, every bit as relieved as Marc was.  "I hope they bought it."

Marc walked down the roof, grabbing the tools as he went, and grinning as he remembered Duncan's description of Terrence's cooking.  "Me, too, Rich."  He lowered the tool box down on a rope, then went down the ladder with his blade in one hand.  Sword finally sheathed in his coat, he and Rich went to meet their visitors, desperate for news and at the same time dreading it.

Terrence looked torn between moving ahead of Carolyn's slower pace and keeping his wife company.  Marc studied his line brother, wryly amused that even in chamois shirt, jeans, and hiking boots, Terrence couldn't look anything but casually elegant.  He'd been as annoyingly composed and suave when Marc had first met him just over a month ago.

Terrence's wife, Carolyn, was carrying the smaller of the two baskets.  From the look of her jeans, getting out of the canoe had not agreed with her.  She had a prominent nose, brown hair that tended to look less than neat, especially next to Terrence's calm composure, and had extended a surprisingly warm greeting to her new 'brother-in-law' when she and Terrence had come over from Tacoma to spend the day visiting Aidan and Marc.

Rich took the basket from her.  "Hey, Carolyn.  Come on, we've got a fire going.  Canoe dump you?"

She gave him a suspicious look, then decided that was the voice of experience talking rather than a slam, and flashed him a quick smile.  "You too?"

"Oh, yeah.  Plenty of times," the redhead groaned.  "Mac says it's proof the lake likes me."

Marc smiled and reached for the basket Terrence was carrying, waving them towards the cabin.  "Come on in," he offered.  "We've got some soup going, and all I have to do is put the coffee pot over the burner."

Terrence quietly informed them, "Marc, Rich -- everyone's alive."

"What?" Rich choked out, stumbling as he tried to walk and stop at the same time.

Marc, however, did stop, eyes closing as his shoulders slumped.  "Everyone... on one side, bro."  He inhaled slowly and looked up.  "All right.  Tell us the rest of it after dinner, okay?  But... thanks for coming."

"Hey!"  Carolyn frowned.  "We sure as hell weren't gonna leave you out here wondering who was alive or dead, okay?"  She looked at him, then in one of the quick, awkward, always unexpected gestures Marc was coming to associate with her, she hugged him, hard.  "You gonna be all right?"

He didn't look at her, although his free arm did tighten around her waist.  "I'll be fine, Carolyn, thanks.  Come on, let's get you dried off and dinner set out, then we can talk."

Carolyn Marsh, née Carol Ann Marshak, exchanged a concerned look with her husband, then changed the subject.  "How do you two stand all this wilderness?  I mean, no phones, no cars--" she paused, searching for just the activity she'd miss and settled on, "--no shopping?"

Marc shrugged and absently pushed dark curls back off his forehead.  "It's all right."

Rich commented in disgust, "Oh, sure.  We haven't gone stir-crazy, but that's probably because Aidan sent a ton of homework with us."  He shrugged as they walked up the steps to the porch, and swung the door open for their visitors.  As the good news began to sink in, Rich went on more cheerfully, "Nah, between books and repairs to the cabin, we're doing okay."

Marc let Terrence and Carolyn sort their gear out themselves.  Instead he moved directly to the wood-burning stove and set the coffee pot over the heat.  His voice still sounded subdued as he said, "Carolyn, there's hot water if you want to get a bath.  Did you two bring extra clothes?"

"We're here for the night, yeah," she told him, stripping off her wet tennis shoes and putting them in front of the fireplace to dry.  Carolyn dropped down onto the thick rugs gratefully and propped her feet in front of the fire with a complete lack of regard for her dignity.  It might be April, but the lake water was still cold.  Without moving from the heat, she added, "Terrence said you could probably spare a bed."

Rich glanced at Marc, then replied, "Yeah, no problem at all.  I'll change the sheets on the bed in the loft after dinner."

Terrence took firm control of the situation.  "Dear, go get a quick shower and pull on some warm clothes.  Rich and I will heat up dinner while Marc keeps an eye on his coffee."

Carolyn favored him with a wry look.  "Immortal shop talk?  Time to chase the sword-challenged person out?"

"Nah," Marc said and he flashed a quick smile. "A lack of cold medicine that isn't past its shelf life.  That lake still feels half-frozen this time of year, Carolyn.  Go on, go get warm.  Take your time, okay?  As soon as the coffee's ready, we'll get some to you."

~~~~~

Terrence stood up and held the chair for Carolyn, then sat back down at the heavy oak table.  Rich passed her a stoneware plate loaded with rotisserie chicken and fresh salad, and Marc slid the wicker basket of bread to her.  "How much did I miss?" she asked bluntly.

"Nothing," Marc said quietly.  "We waited."

"There's not much to tell," Terrence warned his brother, disturbed by the young immortal's uncharacteristically somber mood.  "Aidan wasn't on a secure line, apparently, so I'll give you her message word for word as Kyra passed it to me.  'We're fine.  Farrell defected.  Lim took first blood.' "

"Madonna."  Marc pushed his chair back from the table, stalking toward the night-blackened window as if he couldn't sit even a moment longer.

Terrence started to reach for him as he stood, but Rich caught his arm and shook his head.  Carolyn, however, ignored the redhead's nonverbal advice.  "Marc?  I thought this was good news?"

"I knew--"  He broke off and spun back to face them.  "I knew both sides, okay, Carolyn?  Jesus Christ.  I didn't like most of them, but fuck, you're telling me that people I knew and talked to, are dead.  That Lim Mahn managed to...."  Marc twisted around and climbed onto the cushioned window seat.  "Just... give me a second, okay?"

Rich stood up from his chair.  He managed a reassuring smile for Carolyn before he walked over to where Marc was wrapped around himself.  He didn't try to come up with words, just put one hand lightly on the thin immortal's shoulder.  He's shaking, Rich realized with concern, and looked up to see their reflections in the window.  Marc's eyes were closed and as Rich watched he put his head down on his knees, his arms curling tightly around his legs so that he formed a self-contained bundle of flesh on the seat-cushion.

The young redhead perched on the edge of the window seat and slid his arm around Marc's waist.  Rich dropped his own head onto his friend's shoulder, determined to sit there and hold him for as long as it took.  That was what Mac had done for him more than once when the Game had just been too much.  He could do at least as much for Marc.  Besides, Rich had sat that way himself some nights, too lonely to do anything but curl up on himself, and feeling too deserted to seek support from so much as a wall.  He knew exactly how that felt, and remembered how badly he'd wanted someone to hold him.

Terrence brought over two open bottles of beer and set them within reach, then moved back to the table.  Seating himself with his back to the two younger men, he determinedly drew Carolyn into conversation about her upcoming book tour.  His wife stared at him for a few seconds as if he'd lost his mind, then abruptly nodded and set to work filling the crackling tension with something purely mundane.

Under his arm, Rich could feel Marc's breathing ease, becoming less ragged, until finally he was inhaling and exhaling in one of the meditation patterns that Aidan had taught both of them.  The young redhead found himself matching it automatically.  His own circling thoughts and worries began to slow until he could sit up, arm still around Marc's waist, and reach for one of the bottles.  "Here you go," Rich offered.  "Drink this."

Marc opened amber eyes and looked at the beer, then took it.  "Thanks."  He drained a third of it in a long swallow, then wiped his mouth on the cuff of his denim shirt.

Rich reached for the other bottle and took a smaller drink.  "You okay?"

Thin shoulders moved in a shrug and Marc said, "Yeah, I will be.  Sorry to put a damper on things."

All Rich could do was shrug, one eyebrow going up in cynical acceptance of the way reality was going lately, as he answered quietly, "Hey, it's not like this has been easy for you.  You sure you're gonna be all right?"

Marc nodded and sat up.  "Yeah, I'll be fine.  Thanks, bro."

The young redhead flashed him a quick grin and finally let go.  "One hug and I'm 'bro.'  Damn, you'd better get back to the table and eat something or they'll think we're carrying on some torrid affair."

That got a chuckle from Marc before he pointed out, "Are you kidding?  Teach and the guys make much better gossip than we do."

~~~~~

Rich woke up to the certainty that something was wrong.  From the loft he heard Terrence's soft, purring murmur that wasn't quite a snore, a noise that had amused him earlier when he was dropping off.  That wasn't it.  So what is?  I don't think it was anything outside....  Wait, where's Marc?  He sat up, trying not to make too much noise and wake the others, and saw the figure silhouetted by the fireplace.  Flame danced along the logs, rode a sullen red line above the backlogs, and painted highlights across the still, dark amber profile.

The young redhead sighed, gave up on a peaceful night's sleep, and stumbled out of bed.  He wrapped the comforter around himself as he walked over, then extended the edge of it over Marc's shoulder when he sat down.

"Go back to sleep, Rich," Marc whispered.

"Yeah, right."  Rich yawned until he thought his jaw would unhinge, then settled himself more comfortably onto the rug.  "You gonna sit here all night?"

"Maybe."

Rich sighed again, shrugged, and inquired tiredly, "Do you have to think about whatever it is in front of the fire?"

"I suppose not," came the very quiet answer.  "And I can't seem to meditate."

"Yeah, well, come back to bed and we'll talk about it," Rich told him then.  "You sleep better when I'm there.  After the last couple nights, we both know that."

"You are gonna get us one hell of a reputation in the family," Marc chuckled softly, eyes lighting up as his mood lightened.  In the firelight, the irises were a golden-amber around night-widened pupils.

"Like you said, compared to the rest of them, we're not even gossip.  Come on, come back to bed, okay?" Rich whispered.  "We'll talk until you can go back to sleep."

Marc stood up silently and Rich was faintly surprised by just how much grace he'd gained in two months of training with Aidan and Duncan.  "Come on, Rich; let's get you back in bed, bro."

Setting the sheets and blankets back to rights without waking Caroline and Terrence took a few moments and Rich was thoroughly chilled by the time he slid back under the flannel sheets.  He held the covers up anyway, glaring at Marc in the dim light until the slender black man climbed in.

 They lay on their own sides of the bed, rigidly motionless.  Marc, at least, was determined to be silent; Rich had other plans.  "Been awake long?" he asked softly.  "Or did you ever go to sleep?"

"Couldn't sleep," Marc admitted.

"You can't keep this up," Rich sighed as he turned onto his side to face Marc.  "You know that."

"It's one sleepless night--"

"Bullshit."  He hissed it, barely remembering to keep his voice down.  "Come on, Marc, how many nightmares did I wake you up from last night, and the night before?  You can't keep doing this, damn it.  Wear yourself out and you're easy prey."

"Done it yourself once or twice?" Marc snapped.

Rich bit back his temper with an effort.  He reached over and grabbed Marc's shoulder and whispered harshly, "Yeah, Marc, I've been that stupid.  The only thing that saved my head was the fact that Martin Hyde wanted Mac, not me."  He released Marc and rolled to his back.

"Merda."  Marc sighed and draped his arm over his eyes.  "Sorry, bro."

Rich shrugged, temper fading almost as fast as it had roused.  "No big deal," he acquiesced.  "Look, do you want to talk about them?"

"I don't know," the young black man murmured.  "I didn't like Owain, Rich.  But in two years, he was the only person I saw other than Chris.  Now both of them are dead.  That's a chunk of my life gone, you know?"

"Are you--"  Rich stopped.  "You're serious.  What did Henslowe do about supplies, Marc?"  Rich could feel him shudder, and the violence of that reaction worried him.

"Went and got them," Marc said tonelessly, clearly unwilling to discuss how Henslowe had brought the supplies in or why he hadn't been able to escape back to civilization at those times... or any other.

A warm weight settled onto the mattress next to them, still smelling faintly of cologne.  Terrence pulled his blanket more firmly around his shoulders as he curled his legs under himself. Only then did he ask softly, "Can't sleep?"

"No," Marc muttered.  "Sorry, Terrence, didn't mean to wake anyone up."

"It's all right."  The former bard scooted back, propping himself against the headboard with his hip against Marc's shoulder.  "Do you mind some terribly clichéd advice, brother?"

"Am I going to get it anyway?"

Terrence chuckled at that.  "I'm afraid so.  Are you fretting over Owain and the rest of them?"

"You don't sound angry," Marc murmured, surprised and relieved.

"Why in the world would I be?"  Terrence reached down and lightly patted the pile of blankets that made up his youngest brother's torso.  "You spent two years with them, Marc, which is certainly longer than you've known the rest of us.  This has to have been rough for you.  Are you angry that I didn't come out here sooner?"

"Rich's good company."  Marc shrugged and scooted over to give Terrence more room.

"You're dodging the subject," Rich said grimly.  "Hell, no, he's not okay,Terrence.  He doesn't sleep, or when he does, he has nightmares half the night.  Come on, Marc, you've been snapping at people since I hit Seacouver again.  For all I know you've been like this since Connor vanished."

"Vaffanculo, Rich!"

Terrence hastily said, "Hush, hush, you two.  We don't really want Caroline coming down here.  She's testy when she doesn't get enough sleep."

"That's got to make life fun when she's writing," Marc growled, fighting down a desperate longing for life to be normal again, or as normal as it ever got.  Right now, he'd settle for being back in Seacouver with Aidan rubbing her eyes and protesting that she almost had the section finished and he should stop being an Italian mother hen. I got two months of relative peace and quiet after two years with Chris, though; I ought to be grateful for that much.  So he told both Rich and Terrence, "I'm fine."

"Which is why you're awake," Rich snorted.  "You wouldn't take an answer like that from me, buddy.  You think we're going to take it from you?"

"They were the only life I had, Rich, and they're dead.  I don't know how in hell I feel about that!  Part of me hopes they died slow, after what they did to Connor--"

Terrence interrupted, "Marc, how much did you see?"

Marc shivered again wordlessly and after a second Rich moved to curl against his side, lending his own warmth and solidity to Terrence's offered comfort.  "Hey, ah, hell, Marc, I didn't know you....  God, is that what you've been dreaming about?"

"Scoot over, hmm?"  Terrence sighed as he stretched out on the bed, lying on top of the covers facing Marc.  "Time I taught you this, I can tell, brother."

A laugh broke free of Marc despite his best efforts, although he muffled it under his arm.  When he could control himself, he said gravely, "I think I know how to snuggle people, Terrence."

The English bard just waited out his black humor patiently.  "Would you like some help with these nightmares or not?"

"Oh."  Marc sobered abruptly.  "Oh, God, yes, please."

"A few questions, then," Terrence replied, surprisingly stern and very unlike his usual pleasant manner.  "First.  If you had to, could you take Owain's head?"

"I'd never--"

"Not could you win the fight," Terrence explained patiently.  "Could you take his head if you had the opportunity?  If you won and he was on the ground, dying, could you cut off his head?"

Marc shivered.  "Does it have to be Owain?"

"I'm sorry, brother, but yes, I think it had better be."  Terrence's voice managed to be simultaneously sympathetic and unyielding.  "Could you take his head in cold blood?"

"I--"  Marc flipped over onto his stomach.  "I don't know," he growled into the pillow.

Terrence glared Rich into silence, and the shock of seeing that usually laid-back immortal looking so fierce quickly shut the redhead up.

Marc turned back over and glared at the ceiling.  "Maledizione, Terrence.  Yeah.  I could take his head.  Even knowing him.  After what he did to Connor, yeah, I could kill him."

"You've got to learn to do it, you know," Terrence told him with that same implacable gentleness.  "Because it's that, brother, or Holy Ground.  And you aren't suited to that."

"I know.  I like people too much to stay in cloisters, bro."  Marc shivered then said more softly, "Christ have mercy.  Yeah, I could have killed Owain."

"I think He might understand," Terrence commented.  "Do try to remember He whipped the moneychangers out of the Temple, hmm?  Very well.  Next question.  How much did you see of what Owain's people did to Connor?"

"I saw--" Marc stumbled, looking for words, then went on grimly, "I was there when Teach and Adam brought him upstairs.  He was this... mummy of superglue and bandages, and sweet Mother Mary, what they'd done to his eyes."  Lost in his memories, he never noticed that Rich shivered against his side as he spoke.  "They crucified him, Terrence.  The holes were still there in his arms, and God, I don't know everything they did....  Some of it's none of my business to discuss."

"But you're dreaming about it, brother?"

"Yeah."  Under the blankets, Marc's hands tightened into fists.  "It was kinda memorable."  He held the sarcasm to a faint tinge of the acidic burn that coated his memory and burned in the back of his throat late at night when he tried to sleep.  "And I still don't know -- Terrence, should I have been able to look at it?"

Terrence considered that question for a while, his arm thrown over Marc's torso and his hand resting comfortably on young Ryan's ribs.  He could feel them, both so tense that they were almost vibrating with each word or sound.  This had been a very difficult time for both of them.  I keep forgetting how young they both are.  "Sooner or later, Marc, you're going to have to be able to deal with such events.  If Edana hadn't been there, or Adam, you'd have had to help Connor, you know.  Do you think you could have?"

Marc answered hesitantly, "I'd have tried, bro, but I don't know some of what they did.  Setting bones?  Got no clue how to do it."

"I'm more concerned with whether you could have thrown up somewhere other than on Connor and then gone back to work," Terrence told him bluntly.  "Could you?"

The young black man managed a hollow-sounding chuckle.  "I was the oldest of five in an Italian family.  I had plenty of practice in patching folks up and keeping 'em calm until we could get them to a doctor.  Yeah, I think so."

"Was it your job to deal with Connor's wounds?" Terrence pressed.  He was rubbing Rich's ribs idly, soothing the other immortal as best he could while most of his attention was focused on the young Italian.

"Then?"  Marc shook his head finally.  "Nah, I don't think so.  Not when Adam and Aidan are better medics than I am.  I'm better at keeping people's heads straightened out."

"And what would you be telling one of your brothers who'd seen this?"  Terrence asked levelly.  He smiled in the darkness when he felt Marc relax suddenly.

"I'd be trying to get Jay to talk to me," Marc told him in relief.  "You're right."

"All right, then.  You looked at more of it than you liked, but as much as you had to.  Yes?"

Marc nodded slowly, gradually becoming aware that Rich was as tense as he'd been.  He reached out and pulled the young redhead more firmly against him, giving back some of the comfort he'd been offered as he answered, "Yeah."

"Could you do that again?" Terrence went on.  "Even knowing that you'd pay for it later in nightmares and loss of appetite?"

Marc gave Terrence a sardonic look.  "Taken up mind-reading, bro?"

"Simply observant."  Terrence shrugged, carefully monitoring their tension levels where his arm rested against Marc's chest and Rich's ribs.  "I won't lie to the two of you.  This sort of thing still happens.  The States are more civilized than, say, Russia under the czars, or Italy under the Medicis, but it could happen again, easily."

Rich growled quietly, "Yeah, and it still does.  We know that, too.  Okay.  So we need to get used to this?"

"You need to be able to cope with it," Terrence agreed easily, pleased and relieved that they were beginning to treat Connor's disappearance and their own stress as problems to be solved rather than wounds to be endured.  "Very well.  I want your word, each of you, before I teach you this."

"What do we have to promise?" Rich asked suspiciously.  He made no attempt to move away from Marc's warmth, however, or to shrug off Terrence's hand.  "And what are you going to teach us?"

Marc swatted him lightly on the arm.  "Hey, be paranoid somewhere else, bro.  He knows neither of us would promise without knowing what we're promising."

"It's something very simple," Terrence said quietly, "and that's what makes it so difficult.  I want to teach you how to... lessen the shock, make it less immediate, but no less vivid."

"And in exchange?" his dark brother asked, clearly interested.

"The trick is that once you've done that, Marc, you still have the memories, but they're... softer.  More like the memory of a particularly absorbing movie than like something that happened to you.  Which means that you have to promise to look at the events, and deal with your reactions to them, before you soften the edges."

"Wait."  Marc propped up on one elbow, until Rich yanked it out from under him, complaining that he couldn't see.

"Shh!" both Marc and Terrence hissed, and all three of them listened to see if they'd woken Carolyn up.  After a few minutes in which the only sounds were wood popping softly in the fireplace and the wistful cries of an owl, all three of them exhaled softly.

"Terrence, I don't get it.  Isn't the point to make stuff like this easier?"

"Yes and no, Marc.  You have to learn from experience, brother, or you'll end up dead... or worse.  I think we all agree that there is such a thing as 'worse?'"  He watched them in the firelight and nodded once.  "We do.  Good.  If something is simply so bad that you can't examine it by yourself, well, that may be why you have so many line kin.  Any of us would likely help you, it's just a question of who you get along well with.

"Damien tends to find Ish and they go drinking until he can cope.  Mandisa shows up on Var's doorstep and he waits her out until she talks.  Duathor spars with someone until she's so exhausted that all she can do is spill out whatever is bothering her."  Terrence shrugged at that.  "You'll find ways to look at it, to survive until you can look at whatever it may be.  But there's no sense in having nightmares for night upon night, until sleep is something you fear more than taking a challenge.  Once you've taken a good look at whatever it was, and how you reacted -- and more importantly, how you plan to react if something similar happens again -- why, then you can blur the edges a bit."

Marc looked at him thoughtfully, amber eyes black with expanded pupils.  "Does Teach know you do this?"

"Yes, of course.  Why?"

"'Cause, bro, I think someone had better pin her down and make her talk."

A frown crossed Terrence's face and settled there.  "Sore spots, I take it?  This latest problem, or something older?"

"Both, I think," was Marc's grim reply.

"Well."  Terrence nodded once, a curt decisive motion.  "I'll see to it, brother, but it may take a month or two before I can find someone who can handle it.  I seem to recall hearing that some of the people I would normally call to cope with her are dead.  We'll manage, though.  Tomorrow, after you've had some decent sleep," he emphasized with a shake of Marc's shoulder, "you can tell me what you've seen."

"So how do we do this?" Rich asked.

"You, sir, do not.  You didn't see Connor, and don't need to blur that."  The bard studied him for a long moment, then reached out to ruffle his hair and let his hand slide down briefly to clasp Rich's shoulder.  "I'm always available if you need to talk, Richard.  Always.  It's not that long a motorcycle ride to Tacoma, you know."

Rich grinned briefly at that, a return of the cocky expression that reminded Terrence of himself at that age.  "Yeah, well, if I need to talk--"

"If you're asking about this," Terrence pointed out with that same watchful gentleness, "then most likely you do.  You're Duncan's student, not Aidan's, but that doesn't mean that you aren't family, you know.  If you need to talk, well, Carolyn and I can stay for a few days.  She would enjoy working on the porch, and there's a great deal of island to walk."

The young redhead's nod accepted the information and the offer, but was not an assent; that much was clear in the stubborn hazel eyes.  Terrence smiled at him briefly, then returned his attention to Marc.  The Italian man inclined his head so slightly that even Terrence barely saw it, but the bard smiled inwardly.  So.  One of us will be available if Richard needs help.  Fair enough.

"Ready, Marc?"  At the young man's nod, Terrence deliberately pitched his voice into what he still thought of as his 'performance tones,' the rich, precisely enunciated, rolling cadences he had learned years ago while singing and telling tales for room and board.  "Then we begin with one of the most basic meditations, which, hopefully, Aidan has already taught you...."

Upstairs in her own bed, Carolyn heard her husband begin his explanation, and smiled and turned over.  She plumped the pillow under her cheek and settled the blankets more firmly around herself to make up for the loss of his warmth.  I wonder how I'm gonna get Terrence into Seacouver more often?  I mean, he's gonna need to check on those two, from the sound of that.  Hmm... Aidan's a writer.  I could tell Terrence that I want to try and talk her out of some stories.   She'd be a great source for juicy gossip about some of the other female immortals.  I bet I could sell a new series to my publisher -- a line of strong, unconventional heroines, set 'em in traditional settings....

Carolyn drifted off again to the sound of her husband's voice still speaking quietly.  It mingled smoothly with her own musings on whether the whole desert heroine genre was done to death or still sellable.

<><><><><><><><><>

Albuquerque -- late evening, 4/20

"Dawson," Joe growled, yanking his attention away from his laptop on the dinky motel desk.  He was tired, sun-fried, and worried; whoever this was, it had better be good.

"Joe, you sound as rough as we did.  Are you doing all right?"

The pleasant shock of hearing Methos' voice over the phone rendered Joe literally speechless for a few moments.

"Joe?  Come on, Joe, talk to me."

The worried tone of voice was gratifying, and Joe seriously contemplated leaving him hanging, but he wasn't willing to do that.  Quite.  "Yeah, I'm here.  Hadn't expected to hear from you, you want the truth."

Methos snorted, and Joe could imagine the exasperated twist of his friend's knowing smile.  "You knew perfectly well one of us would check in with you.  Any listeners on your end?"

"Nah, it's fine, buddy.  I got a room to myself at the end of the corridor, and Dave Goldberg's in the next room.  By the way, you tell Stormy and Mandisa for me that if I catch up with either of them, I'm gonna tan their backsides for that stunt this afternoon!"

"Hey, Joe, if you want to keep this confidential, you might want to lower your voice," Methos commented, but he was chuckling.  "Besides, Roger needed the shake-up.  He'd gotten too used to anticipating FitzAlan.  Having those two rob him blind will make him rethink some of his strategies."

"Yeah, but come on, Adam, frisking him?"  Joe was starting to grin himself, now, however reluctantly.  He could imagine how it must have chapped one of the best trackers in the Watchers to find himself held at gunpoint by a tiny woman in camos with a very large rifle while a tall black woman searched him and took away all his careful notes, and every bit of film or audio tape on his person, in his equipment, or in his bag.

"Stormy didn't have much sympathy for him," Methos agreed, chuckling himself.  "Seriously, though, how are you?"

"Hey, I'm not the one who lit up the top of that butte," Joe countered.

"No, but we do heal quickly when we heal.  Answer the question, would you, before Aidan and Duncan finish running the hot water out and come ask you themselves."

"Ah, some sunburn, my stumps hurt like hell, and this batch of Watchers is enough to give anyone a headache.  It was easier when I actually had some authority, y'know?"  Joe relaxed back into his wheelchair, headache already beginning to ease with the certainty that Methos would have told him by now if something was wrong.  He wasn't even worried that he'd tacitly admitted to being in New Mexico himself; Methos, at least, had been expecting it, the Watcher was sure.  "Nothing some sleep won't fix."

"They should have reinstated you as head of Northwest Region," Methos growled.  "You did a better job of it than that last incompetent imbecile."

"Truth be told, Adam, they offered it back to me right before this shit hit the fan.  I'm thinking about taking it, too."  Joe shrugged and went on, "Enough, buddy.  Talk.  Is everybody okay?"

"Everyone is fine, Joe.  It got a little complicated for a while, but our side came out of it intact."

Joe paused, stunned.  "You didn't lose anyone?"

"We stacked the deck," Methos told him with a smug chuckle.  "Owain never expected Xan or Alex."

"Or you," Joe guessed, mind whirling as he tried to process those details and their attendant implications.  "Only six quickenings though, pal.  So who walked?"

"On the record or off?" Methos inquired calmly.

"You think I can put this on the record?"  Joe had to laugh at that.  "Although you should see the sarcastic comments in Dave's report.  Makes it damn clear that it's a pity policy says we can't just ask some of the friendly immortals up on that mesa what really happened.  The man has a vicious pen."

"Well, off the record -- ah, the shower just went off.  I'll let you talk to the other two in a minute.  Quick and dirty, though, Joe?  Lim Mahn fought Alex and they agreed to let it go to first blood.  And Farrell Jameson is as much a Boy Scout as Duncan, apparently.  He found out what Owain had done to Connor and renounced his teacher.  Refused to fight for him."

"Son of a bitch," Joe breathed.  "Travels from Switzerland to New Mexico, and then tells the man to go fuck himself?  Did he live through it?"

"Stormy made sure of it," Methos purred.  "That couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it.  Demoralized Owain nicely."

"Which part?" Joe asked bluntly.  "Jameson bailing out on him or Stormy taking a shot at him?  Roger heard the rifle, but wasn't sure where it was.  Not 'til Stormy pulled it on him," the Watcher added caustically.

"Both, actually.  And Roger shouldn't have been so sure no one would be looking for him after all those quickenings."

"Uh-huh."  Joe restrained two or three caustic comments; he'd try to pry some of this out of them later.  Over beers, maybe, when he had a better chance of getting all the information.  "All right, buddy, explain somethin' else to me.  My math tells me there should still have been seven quickenings, not six."

"Yes, well, Owain and Johannes lost their heads at the same time."

"Another double quickening?" Joe growled.  "You and Mac okay?"

"We didn't take it, Joe," Methos told him, amused.  "And Aidan wants to talk to you."  He handed off the phone before the Watcher could do more than sputter.

"Joe?  How are you?"

"Fine, woman, just wanting one of your backrubs," Joe said, frowning at the way Methos had dodged that bullet.  "So who took Owain and Johannes?"

"Fought them or took their heads?" she asked, sounding amused.  "Half a moment, Joe."  He barely heard some muffled comment in the background, then Aidan came back on.  "Ah.  He's being evasive again?"

"His normal pain in the ass self, yeah.  Come on, woman, tell me somethin' before curiosity kills the musician."  She laughed at that and Joe added, "Now that's nice to hear again.  Come on, Aidan, spill.  Are those really two different answers?"

"Yes, actually they are.  Since you insist, Joe," and he could almost see her smile in her voice,  "I fought and took Johannes.  The beak-nosed reprobate here fought Owain, but Connor took his head."

"Son of a....  You can do that in a line war?" the Watcher asked, professional curiosity piqued.

"It wasn't two on one," and the dismissive tone of her voice let him see the lazy one-shoulder shrug Aidan used when she was feeling particularly relaxed.  "No rule against it, and we want Connor's hand to grow back as swiftly as possible.  Owain's quickening seemed poetic justice when Magister offered."

"How is Connor doing?"

"He's a stubborn man, and he's healing well," Aidan promised.  "The wrist is coming along well, and Xan and Alex are seeing to any other injuries."

"Thank God.  Tell me he's gonna call Sol, 'cause I don't know how much longer I can put this off," Joe admitted.

"I'll make sure of it, but I suspect he'll call Sol and Rachel both tomorrow.  Aught else, Joe?  Duncan is waiting to talk to you as well."  She sounded slightly impatient, and Joe repressed a smile.  The Watchers had always made jokes about lightning-charged libidos and he had to wonder what, exactly, was making Aidan so restless.

"Nah, I'll catch you later about that double-quickening with Connor," Joe drawled, hoping for a reaction.  She didn't say anything for a long moment, and he scored a mental point for himself.  Not really fair catching Aidan when she's this tired, but I'll take all the advantages I can get.  That woman's caught too many of us on sucker bets.  Turnabout's only fair, as she keeps saying.  He grinned at that.  "Oh, and Aidan?"

"Yes, Joseph?"

"In the doghouse again, huh?  Well, I'll have some company, darlin'.  Don't suppose you know why the Watchers on the line of Ramirez keep getting arrested for stalking or turning up unconscious and missing their equipment?"

"Do they?" and Aidan sounded highly amused again.  "Well, Joe, it might have something to do with following some very paranoid people who were warned that Owain was using private investigators as spies.  Here's Duncan."

"Damn it, Aidan!"

"Sorry, Joe, she handed me the phone already," and Duncan was chuckling.  "I take it you want to say a few more words to her?"

"I'll say a lot of words next time I see her," the Watcher growled.  "Tell her from me I expect some backrubs and dinners out of this."

"I'll tell her," Duncan promised.

"Good enough.  You okay, Mac?"

"I'm fine, Joe.  We all are."

Joe listened to his immortal's voice carefully, slowly growing concerned.  "You sure, buddy?  You sound pretty damn tired."

"It's been a long couple of weeks," Duncan pointed out quietly.  "We're heading back towards Seacouver tomorrow, though."

"No problem.  Well, other than finding a way to explain where I got the news," Joe added with a chuckle of his own.  "Look, I'm gonna let you guys off the line -- not off the hook, though.  But you sound like you need to get some sleep.  Tell Connor to call home, would you?  And call me tomorrow if you get a chance.  Take care of yourself, buddy."

"We will," Duncan promised.  "Thank you, Joe."

"Look, sometime soon we'll have some drinks and shoot the breeze on this when I'm off the job, okay?  See you back home, Mac."  The Watcher hung up before his immortal could worry about any parting words, but he sat there for a long few minutes staring at the cell phone.  "Wonder how long it's gonna take to put everything and everybody back to rights?" he muttered and gave up on the report he'd been trying to write.  He saved it instead and pulled out his guitar.  The blues had been helping him sort out problems since Vietnam -- a line war was no reason to stop now.

<><><><><><><><><>

Farrell Jameson's diary -- 4/20

I know this'll get easier in a few years, but oh, Christ, I feel like Judas right now.

There's not enough whiskey in the world to get me drunk, not tonight.  Which means there's no point in trying.

God, Sunda, I wish I could call you and ask you what else I could have done.

I had to choose the way I did.  Some of the older immortals would probably disagree with me, but some things you can't condone and remain yourself.  That Owain would take an immortal's sword hand and leave him alive, prey for the first headhunter to come along -- no, that's not something I could overlook.

They  Fuck that.  I'm going to name names.

Owain Rhys-Tewdor, my first teacher; Johannes Engeles, Bianca de Grazia, and Enrique Alba, my line-sibs; and Damita Santos, Bianca's student.  All of them, singly or together, I don't know (and I do not want to know) raped Connor MacLeod, and yeah, some of 'em were female, but I doubt that stopped Damita or Bianca.  No, I'll finish the list.  The group of them raped, tortured, and blinded Connor MacLeod, cut off his sword hand and God knows what else.  I wouldn't put it past that assortment of human scum to crucify or castrate him.  They admitted all of this.  Enrique never meant for him to be raped... but he didn't deny any of the rest of it.  Then Owain confirmed it.

God, Sunda, one of your best friends, and I was going to fight for people who did shit like this to him?  And it's so strange, because he doesn't seem to blame me for it.  I thought at first it was because you taught me, but the idea that the whole group, even the ones who don't really know me, were trying to keep me alive--

Even knowing they wanted to keep me intact, that I'd probably be here to write this no matter which way I handled that with Owain, I still feel like a traitor.  Lim probably thinks I am.

Lim took first blood against Alex and walked.  He still has his own head, and he'll be coming for mine some year.  And all things considered?  Maybe I'll just shoot the son of a bitch.  He brought a gun to this.  Would he have used it?  I don't know.  If Stormy hadn't been there, then yeah, possibly.  But he's not stupid.  It would be a hell of a thing to come up against several pissed-off members of the line of Ramirez for something like that.  Did he bring the gun as protection against Owain?  Maybe.  Maybe.  Will he come for me in a few years, will I be worth it to him?  I just don't know.

He's the only one still alive, though.  He and I are the last immortals that Owain trained.  God that feels weird.  But I'm not going to call Owain my teacher.  He trained me in certain things, yeah, but he didn't teach me.

This afternoon when I got in and cleaned up, and finished dealing with the rooms -- no, I'll come back to that later -- I took the laptop to one of the bookstores that lets you sit and read.  Those poor people at Barnes & Noble had to throw me out to shut down, at the end, but I couldn't stand to be in the hotel room a minute more, and I didn't want to hit a bar.  I suppose I could have looked for a coffee shop rather than come back to the hotel, but I've been up almost twenty-four hours now.  I think I'll be able to sleep soon.  Please, God.  Worst comes to worst, I suppose there's always the old reliable method of getting to sleep:  calisthenics, a hot shower, and a session with my right hand.  But somehow pleasure, even that kind, seems inappropriate right now.

I know that's ridiculous, that Owain brought this down on his own head, but it's still wrong somehow.  They're dead, after all, and Phoebe's people didn't want to make it easy for them.  I can't really blame the line of Ramirez, or Semnut, or whoever they are.  In their place, with what was done to MacLeod, I wouldn't have wanted to make it quick either.  Enrique and Bianca had it coming, Lord knows.  So why does even that thought feel like a betrayal?

The loneliness is the worst part, I think.  Sunda's gone, and Darius.  And now most of Owain's line.  I mean, Erik's still out there, I think, and Rafferty.  But I don't know who else is still alive.  Not many, I don't think.  There were never many of us.  What Owain thought he was doing coming up against that line I don't know.  And they didn't just defeat him with swords.  They won because what Phoebe or Aidan or Cynthia has isn't a collection of dangerous people.  She has a family.  It wasn't the tangibles that tipped the scales to her, it was the intangibles.

Train (once you get past the dozen-plus noun definitions): 15-to develop or form the habits, thoughts, or behavior of (a child or other person) by discipline and instruction; 16-to make proficient by instruction and practice, as in some art, profession, or work; 17-to make (a person) fit by proper exercise, diet, practice, etc., as for some athletic feat or contest; 18-to discipline and instruct (an animal); 19-to treat or manipulate so as to bring into some desired form, position, direction, etc.; to bring to bear on some object; point aim, or direct, as in a firearm.

Teach:  1-to impart knowledge of or skill in; give instruction in; 2-to impart knowledge or skill to; give instruction to.

Impart:  1-to make known; tell; relate; 2-to give; bestow; transmit; 3-to grant a part or share of.

It's... frightening how different those words are.  I'll never use them interchangeably again.  Training doesn't require you to think, and hell, doesn't sound like it encourages it.  You want them to think your way.  Teaching requires showing a student why you do something, not just how, and it implies a gift.  Kastagir taught me.  Owain trained me.

The bad thing is, in a way, Owain was right.  There's no time for thinking in a fight, not if you want to win.  Sensei Nakamura used to be able to tell just from watching the first few seconds of a sparring match whether a student had been slacking off on their katas.  Constant practice means that when an opponent throws a punch, your arm is blocking before your brain knows their hand is moving.  That's great if you're both boxing, but it'll get your arm broken if you're boxing and he's swinging a mace.

Owain assumed everyone boxes.  Kastagir, though, told me that there's more to life than the Game and if there isn't I won't last long in the Game.  He was right.  Xan dances for fun and to seduce Alex, but it paid off in the ring, too.  Damien takes hacking techniques of evasion and persistence and battering one vulnerable point and applies them to fighting... and takes the stubborn strength he puts into fighting and uses it to stay alive and keep moving and learning.  Everything affects everything else.  Owain never saw that.

I still miss Sunda, but Owain's death just feels like moving to a new city.  I'm going to keep expecting him to be there, like a bar that I think should be on a familiar-looking street... but I don't think I'm going to actively miss him.  For years now there've been things I wish I could tell Sunda or ask him about.  Even when he was still alive though, I never had a burning desire to call Owain and ask him about any of the nasty 'why' questions that prowl through my mind at three in the morning.

That's the worst of this.  I can't even make myself--  I don't seem to--  Damn it, I know there are words for this.  I feel guilty for being involved in his death, even if only by refusing to fight for him.  But I'm not sorry he's dead.  And I can't bring myself to be hypocrite enough to say the world's a poorer place for his loss.

But who in hell am I to say that?  No one came down from Heaven or Mount Sinai and appointed me to sit in judgment.  I feel like a child wailing, "It's not my fault!" when the vase turns up broken.  This is my fault, part of it at least, and I can't deny that.  I won't.  Owain thought he had nine people to fight.  Because of what I did, he had eight instead, and the change came at the last moment.  He never did improvise well.   So did I do this?  Was my defection the last edge Phoebe needed to win so... thoroughly?

And yet... I would do it again.  That's what hurts, what scares me.  If I had known that was what made Owain lose, that my defection would be the camel's straw that broke the line of Rhys-Tewdor, I would do it again anyway.  So did I kill them?  Or did Owain?  Or did they do it to themselves by coming to this?

Where does duty end and morality begin?  Do we ever know, or does some oversized male figure with a white beard straight out of a Hollywood religious spectacular tell us when it's all over, probably with Charlton Heston's voice?  I don't know.  I keep turning it around in my head until I'm ready to go mad trying to see even one more side of it... and all I'm left with is the certainty that, even knowing what I know now, I'd still do... exactly what I did.  Tell Owain to go to hell, renounce him and everything he stands for.  I refuse to associate with him, any more than I would have associated with the Nazis in the '40s.  So I guess my head knows I did the right thing.  My heart and gut, on the other hand, are pretty sure I fucked up.  They'll find a middle ground eventually, and God I hope it's soon.

Still.  It's odd watching Phoebe and her folks.  They're... affectionate.  Constantly touching, even before the quickenings started searing their nerves, always near each other, or watching for each other.  The way Alex was running his hands over Xan after his fight with Damita, or the way Mandisa kept smoothing Navar's hair back from his face to make sure he was still there after he killed Bianca... I'm not used to seeing that among us.  Not among teachers and students.  And I don't know what happened when Phoebe and Connor took Owain and Johannes' heads.  I've never seen a quickening like that, never heard of it.  They have, I think, or Semnut wouldn't have tried to stop them.

It was important, I know that much.  Connor wanted it that way, very badly, and Phoebe did too, I think.  Oh, part of her did it because he wanted it -- and I don't know if that means they're lovers, or best friends, or the brother and sister they call each other.  But whatever that screwy, unified, united quickening did to them, she wanted it, too.

Watching them, the whole group of them, made me feel jealous, though, like a kid staring into a warm bakery on a night when he's cold and hungry.  I don't know what Jirina was like with her lovers.  I don't think I ever saw Johannes reach a hand out to pull Will to his feet after a sparring session.  And Owain -- Owain used touch as a tool.  A clap on the back or a sudden hug as a way to make you think you had his affectionate attention.  But always with that measuring light in the back of his eyes.  I think the only ones of us he really liked were Gwydion and Johannes, and Gwydion died almost a century ago.  I don't think Johannes would have turned his back on Owain if the Gathering started.

I wonder.  All the things I saw in Owain's people, all the things I see in Phoebe's:  is this what I wanted all those years, sufficient reason to leave?  Was it a reason?  Or an excuse?  Did I know what love wasn't and want to find what it should be?  Lovely.  The line of Rhys-Tewdor, the ultimate dysfunctional family.  Bloody wonderful.  Sodding hell.

At least I got rid of those... lunatics for a while.  I betrayed my own and they're trying to console me?  Or are they?  Well, Damien is, yes.  Maybe even Connor, odd as that would be.  But Damien's right; I'll feel better if I do some of the work of putting things back to rights.  As much as possible anyway.

I wonder.  Does that mean I need to visit Phoebe's young student?  I don't know.  I'm so tangled up in self-loathing and shame and some of that dull pleasure of doing something difficult right -- I can't see where I'd do him a damn bit of good.  I still wonder though.  As sure as she is, as easily as the others took her orders -- was it because the challenge was to her, or because she's usually right?  She was certainly correct about the hiding place for those swords, and a decent place to inter the bodies.  So I suppose that meeting Marc is something to sleep on and decide tomorrow.

Maybe I can sleep now.  Maybe.  Looking over this, disjointed though it is, well, I'm sure of one thing.  I did... maybe not the right thing.  But I did a right thing.  Maybe there was a better way to handle that, another option that would have still left me able to face the mirror in the morning.  But renouncing Owain was what I could come up with at the time, and it was something I probably should have done decades ago.  And if I didn't help anyone get away from whatever Owain may have done to bring them there, well, I didn't help him twist any arms either.  And I wouldn't lay bets that everyone there was coerced.  That's an awfully cold comfort at two in the morning, though.

Darius always did say that crises of conscience had the most abominable timing.  Nice to know I got something right today, I suppose.

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Magdalena -- early morning, 4/21

Mandisa yawned long and extravagantly, an outrageous baring of white teeth and pink tongue against jet-dark skin.  She glanced at the sky again and then settled her hip against the Range Rover's bumper and waited.  The sun had been up for half an hour now; she'd been half-expecting company ever since the first peach and beige light had tinged the sky.

Aidan stepped out from the hallway exit, saw the tall black woman, and managed a brief smile.  "Is everything all right?"

Mandisa stretched luxuriously.  "You're late.  I had almost begun to hope you were being sensible and staying in bed."

A one-shouldered shrug was Aidan's first reply, then she said, "I woke up and couldn't seem to go back to sleep.  Care to walk?"

"Gladly."  They strode out of the parking lot to the sidewalk and within a few seconds their bodies had remembered the old compromise:  Mandisa shortened her stride just a bit and Aidan picked up her own pace to make up the difference.

"How was Albuquerque?" Aidan asked with a careful nonchalance.

Disa glanced down at her, then started laughing.  "Do you know, that sounds remarkably close to the way Var spoke yesterday when he asked if I thought Adam could cope with you and Duncan both."

Aidan looked up to meet her eyes and had to smile at that.  "Is he all right, then?"

"He called last night to ask if I would be so kind as to load his bags this morning, and to promise that he would see us at lunch.  I believe he went home with someone from a bar."  Mandisa shrugged to indicate her lack of concern.  "I suspected he would do something of the sort when he offered to deal with Owain's rental car."

"Is he all right, though?" the Irish woman asked again.  "Are you?"

"What, that neither of us currently has a lover?"  Mandisa chuckled at that.  "Things are well enough, Shahar.  At least, I am fine, and he had enough sense to go find someone with whom to burn off that quickening."  They paced along in silence, enjoying the morning's breeze and listening to the sounds of a small town slowly waking.

"Why did you tell Kyra to call Terrence?" Mandisa asked at last.  "I had thought that Jarunsuk was the fallback for Marc and Richard."

"He was," Aidan agreed, "but Terrence was the closest member of the family geographically.  I wanted--"

"You wanted someone to take the news to young Marc in person.  That is perfectly understandable."  Disa nodded at that.  "And you are dodging the subject, teacher.  How are you doing?  Now that this is over, and your old enemy is gone, and you have this new bond with this newest brother of yours?"

"I always forget the way you ask questions," Aidan sighed.  "I should have stayed in bed."

"Since you didn't," Mandisa contended dryly, "I think perhaps you wanted to talk to me."

The two women continued walking, the silence between them oddly companionable given the questions and answers it was concealing.  A mile went past as they strode down the main street which was also a state highway.  Aidan shook her head at the empty lot that had once housed the Arrowhead Café, but didn't comment.

When she did speak twenty minutes later, she simply took the conversation up where it had stopped and it took Mandisa a moment to remember what she was answering.  "I don't know, Disa.  Owain's been something to keep an eye on for so long now, much like checking the sky to see what the weather will do.  And he's hurt so many of us, even in death.  Farrell is injured by what he did, and Connor.  Duncan has been torn between wanting to savage them, and needing to avenge his teacher cleanly...."

"Damien will deal with Farrell," Mandisa answered when her teacher trailed off.  "And Xan and Alex have every intention of seeing Connor fully healed, Shahar.  A blind woman could see that they are good for him.  As for Duncan, he is more accepting of his own darkness than either of you gives him credit for.  And you may worry about the entire lot of them when we get back, my teacher, but not at this moment.  Right now what I wish to know is, how are you doing?  Not your students, or your brothers, or your lover who trained Ramirez, but you."

Aidan could only shake her head.  "I don't know, Disa.  I simply don't know."

Mandisa sighed and wrapped an arm around her teacher's shoulders, amused as always to be a head taller than this complicated woman who had taught her to survive the Game.  "Then perhaps you should be thinking about it?  Alexandrias said they had a house in Thessaloniki.  Have you considered taking them up on that?  Greece is lovely in April and May."

"I'd have to make sure Marc has a valid passport, and close up the house, and take my manuscript notes...."  Aidan paused, then tilted her head as if listening to something.  "You're right, Disa.  A change of scenery would probably be a good idea."

"You're bound to Connor now," Disa said gently.  "Perhaps it would be best, while both of you are so off-balance, if you were not so close to each other.  Give him time to heal; there will be time enough after that to explore this new connection of yours.  Go to Thessaloniki, Shahar.  Take Marc to Italy after that and let him see where the Scipios campaigned.  Go to Copenhagen for a week or four and let him meet Duathor if you like, but go away until you are recovered, as well.  You have thrown yourself into this war and over our backs until there is too little of you left.  Find your center again, teacher, and your energy, and take young Marc to new places to give him new memories instead of the same griefs and worries that are tearing at Farrell."

"When did you get so wise?" Aidan commented finally.  A smile was easing onto her face, though, and Mandisa laughed softly when she saw that.

The tall black woman hugged Aidan fiercely, then tugged her around to go back to the motel.  "I had a good teacher.  And as she used to tell me, it will all look better after breakfast."

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