by Maxine Mayer, 12/20/97

"Feeling any better, Methos?"

"Do me a favor, Quen. Stop asking me that." The old Immortal looked up at his Immortal friend and added, "Please."

"Sorry, old sod. Didn't mean anything by it." Quentin of York walked to the door of Methos' suite of rooms in the huge chateau Quentin shared with his lover, Lamartin of Bordeaux. "Just came by to let you know dinner is now being served in the main dining room, as they say. We'd be happy for your company, Methos. You must eat something, sometime."

"I will, Quen. Sometime. Just - not yet." Methos sighed. "Look, I know you're doing everything humanly possible to get me through this. I appreciate it. I wouldn't have come to anyone else. But a bit of mourning is in order, don't you agree? Or is the passing of one of the greatest poets the world's ever known - and my former friend - to go unnoticed by everyone?"

"It's been noticed, Methos. The papers are full of nothing else. Byron's death, his body discovered beheaded. The drugs and alcohol found in his blood. The fruitless search for his killer -"

"That's not quite the same thing as mourning, is it now, Quen?" Methos asked. "Oh, I'm sure there's a lady or two here or there who'll miss his music. Just as there were women who missed his poetry, when he died earlier on. But this time - oh, Quentin," the old Immortal shook his head. "This time he's not coming back, is he? Ever."

"You hadn't seen or spoken to him in close to two hundred years, Methos -"

"It's different. Always, before, I knew he was out there somewhere. I knew I'd run into him again, some day. I could read his poetry and remember his beauty. I could listen to his music and rejoice in his new-found fame and fortune. I could open a magazine and see his face plastered all over the pages -"

"You could do that now! The papers are full of Byron!"

"Leave me, Quentin, if you intend to misunderstand every word I say!" Methos stood and went to the French windows. "He's gone for good. I miss him."

"Very well, friend. When you've done mourning and are ready to eat, ring for the servants and they'll prepare something for you."

Quentin left the suite and looked for his lover Lamartin. He found him in the dining room.

"How is he, Quentin?" Lamartin asked. The Latino Immortal was concerned.

"He's sogging. It'll pass." Quentin looked at his plate. "What, fish again? Lamartin, would you please ask the cook to vary the menu a bit! This is insupportable." He tossed his napkin onto the table and grabbed the wine.

"I will speak to him today, my beloved -"

"Oh, damn the food! I'm sorry I lost my temper. It's not the food, Marty, you know that! It's Methos! I've never seen him like this! I can't believe it's because of Byron's demise. That's not possible. It must be the other one -"

"What other one?" Lamartin asked, bewildered.

"The killer. The maniacal fanatic who took Byron's head. The bastard who took the head of Methos' beloved poet."

Lamartin frowned. "You mean, Duncan MacLeod? But Methos said they agreed that Byron must die -"

"Of course they agreed! What choice do you think MacLeod left him? It's the same thing all over again, as with the Horsemen! Either let MacLeod take Byron's head or fight the man himself!"

"Fight Byron? Methos? That would have been impossible!"

"Not Byron! Fight MacLeod! Now that would have been impossible!"

"But why, Quentin? Surely, Methos is not afraid of this Highland barbarian -"

"Of course he's not afraid of him! He's in love with him!"

Lamartin didn't speak for minutes. At last he said, "I cannot believe it. It is not possible. Our Methos, in love with a Green Boy? And such a one! No - not Methos! Not a man who has known you and me, who has loved and been loved by the greatest Immortals our Kind has ever produced! Do not say such things about our friend, Quentin. You wrong him greatly."

"You think so? Lamartin, you are a very sweet child, but you don't know Methos. Ask him yourself."

"I will. I will ask him if he allowed this - upstart - to destroy the poet because he could not bring himself to fight!" Lamartin got up from the table and tossed his own napkin down. "I never loved Byron, but he was beautiful in his soul. He deserved to live. To be granted the time to learn his lessons. He had much to offer, still. To us, and to the world. More than the Highlander, though they were of an age. I will ask Methos if he chose MacLeod over Byron! If he has lost all reason, all sense of justice."

Quentin of York watched his fellow Immortal go from the room. "Yes, ask him, beloved. Ask him. Then, you will believe."


"What, now you, Lamartin? I'll eat when I'm hungry, I promise. Let it be."

"I have come to ask you a question, Methos."

Methos squinted at the Old Immortal. "What sort of question?"

"I think I have the right to ask. We were together a very long time. We are friends -"

"I grant you our provenance, Lamartin. What do you want to know?"

Lamartin stared at his old friend for a long time without speaking. Finally, he turned away, toward the door.

"Lamartin, wind out of your sails? What is it? Why don't you ask your question?"

"I cannot. I made a mistake. I do not wish to know the answer."

"That must be some question!" Methos went over to Lamartin, put an arm around his shoulder and drew him back into the room. "You're my oldest living friend, Marty. You're the oldest Immortal extant. If you don't have the right to ask me a question, I don't know who has."

"No one has the right to invade your privacy, Methos. I was angry. Because of Byron." Lamartin took a deep breath. "But you are your own man, your choices are yours to make. And not mine to inquire about. Forgive me, old friend."

"Lamartin, what is it? Talk to me." When the Latino remained silent Methos added, "I won't be able to sleep a wink if you don't tell me what's on your mind, Marty." He grinned. "Come on, you've got my curiosity going now. What's the trouble?"

Lamartin took a deep breath. "Quentin tells me you permitted Duncan MacLeod to challenge Byron - knowing Byron could not win - because you are in love with the Highlander. That is not true, is it, Methos?"

Methos sat down heavily. "That's what Quen says, is it?"


"Well, I suppose it's true, when you put it that way."

"Methos!" Lamartin was shocked.

"What? Is it so hard to believe? Or is it too hard to accept, Lamartin?"

"The love? No. That is easy to believe. You were always a fool when it came to love, Methos. You left me, after all."

"True enough."

"But - Byron!"

"What about Byron?"

"Methos, Byron was one of our greatest lights. He was so young, a mere child. He had much to learn, true. But to let him die -"

"You're asking whether I allowed my feelings for MacLeod to keep me from protecting Byron?"

"You did not, did you? It was not that way. You could not prevent the challenge, the death. Tell me that, Methos, please."

Methos was silent for a long time. Then he stood and said quietly, "I can't tell you that, old man. It was either Byron or Mac. Mac wouldn't let it alone. Byron wouldn't run away. I washed my hands of it."


"That's how it was, Marty. I couldn't stop MacLeod from taking Byron down unless I raised my blade against him. I love Duncan MacLeod. I couldn't do it. I didn't do it."

"So - your grieving is a lie. You are guilty of Byron's death. You do not mourn. You are ashamed."

Methos tilted his head. "Suppose that's one way of looking at it."

"It is the only way. I feel shame that I have loved you, Methos Valerius. To betray our Kind in such a way - I am ashamed of you. I am sorry for you. One day you will regret this choice."

"I regret it already, Lamartin, if it's lost me your friendship."

"Then regret it, Methos. Because it has."


Quentin of York knocked lightly on the door of Lamartin's suite. "Lamartin? Beloved? Are you awake?"

"Leave me alone, Quentin. I do not wish to speak to you."

"Really? Why not?" Quentin said, coming into the room and turning on a lamp.

"Because you knew this, and still you permitted Methos to come here, to stay with us. He has dishonored himself. Stood aside and allowed the strong to destroy the weak. That is not right. Yet you welcomed him into our home."

"You are angry with me? Me?"

"I am. Because you did not tell me this. You kept it from me. You knew how I would feel, so you lied to me. It was not right."

"So many things 'not right,' Lamartin," Quentin said with a smile, sitting next to his lover on a long couch and taking his hand. "So many. MacLeod killing Byron. Methos doing nothing to stop it. Me lying to you. You angry with Methos and me. So many things 'not right.' It is a terrible day, is it not, my dearest one?"

Lamartin began to cry. "It is a terrible terrible day, Quentin. It is a terrible terrible century. I am ready for it to be over! Soon! Soon! I hope it will be over very soon!"

"The century, or your life, Lamartin?" Quentin asked, his voice harsh in the silent room.

"Everything, Quentin, everything! There is nothing left! Nobody left! They are all dead! And now, our Methos has become -"

"What? What has Methos become?"

"A traitor. First, to the Horsemen. All of them dead. For what, Quen? So much - they were - so great! So noble! Caspian, a king! Silas, a heart like a great lion! Kronos, for thousands of years, a leader whom everyone respected, loved, feared! All gone, Quentin! Inside a few moments! Grayson, Darius, within moments of each other - gone - forever lost - their courage, their wisdom, their love! I cannot endure it! I cannot! I want it to be over now." He raised his tearstained face to his lover. "You must help me, beloved. Take my head, please, Quentin! I want it to be over -"

"You would have me destroy an Old One?"

"Quentin - I cannot ask Methos - I do not want him to have my spirit, when I am gone! I want you to have it, to have me! But I cannot go on." Lamartin stood and wiped his eyes. "Here," he said, going to his armoire and taking out a great sword, "use this. We will go out onto the grounds. You will take my head. Then I will not need to look on Methos' face again. I will never have to see his traitor's smile again."

"Lamartin, you will be leaving the world to the barbarians, if you die!"

"Then so be it. They will destroy us all, in the End, Quentin. Duncan MacLeod and others like him will come riding over the mountains and destroy us as the barbarians took Rome. I do not want to see it. I want to be gone before it is done. Let them have it - MacLeod and his young friends. The world. I wish Methos joy in watching it. It will not be long before they take him too."

"Quite right, Lamartin. Death is inevitable. For all of us. Immortals, Mortals. Nobody lives forever."

"Then, you agree?" Lamartin asked anxiously.

"That nobody lives forever? Of course I agree. But I do not agree to take your head. Why rush it?"

"This is not a joke, Quentin. You are like him, like Methos. I never understood how it could be, but you are like him. You believe we should survive at any price. You do not believe in love or justice. Or in anything that makes life worth living. Only life itself. Survival itself. You are like Methos. I wish you joy of him."

"Where are you going, Lamartin?" Quentin called after his friend when Lamartin pushed past him and out the door. He followed the Latino down the steps and out to the courtyard. "Lamartin? Where are you going?"

"I am going to someone who will take my head willingly. Who will not think twice, or ask me questions, or show me mercy and kindness. To someone who does not care who I am or what I am. I am going to Duncan MacLeod! He will take my head! Of that, I am certain!"


"Mac? It's me."

"Methos? Where the hell are you?"

"I'm in Switzerland, at the airport, in Quentin and Lamartin's limo."

"I was worried about you -"

"Cut the crap, MacLeod. We've got a problem. We need your help."

"What's wrong?"

"Lamartin's on his way to Paris. To you. You've gotta keep him there until Quen and I get to you. We missed the fucking flight out!"

"Keep him here? He's coming to the barge? Why?"

"He'll tell you. Just - hang onto him. Don't give him an answer. Stall." When Methos didn't hear anything in response he said, "Mac?"

"I'm here. I just don't understand. What's he gonna ask me? At least tell me that much."

"He's gonna ask you to take his head. Or he'll challenge you. Just - stall him, Mac. Run him through and keep running him through, until we get there. Just - don't take his head. We'll be in Paris in a couple hours."

"Methos?" The phone had gone dead. "Methos?" Duncan MacLeod put down his phone and sat heavily in a chair. "Methos," he said with a sigh, "you and your friends are gonna be the death of me."


The unmistakable buzz of an ancient Immortal alerted Duncan MacLeod to Lamartin's approach. He turned to his companion and said, "Showtime!"

Joe Dawson shook his head. "Mac, I've known crazy in my time, but you and Methos take the cake!"

"This isn't the first favor you've done us, Joe, and it won't be the last. Just - help me out here."

"Okay, your party, your rules. Here he comes."

"Duncan MacLeod?"

"That's right. You must be Lamartin of Bordeaux, Methos' friend. Good to meet you. Methos told me a lot about you. Not everything, I'm sure. But enough." Duncan went up the steps to the entranceway of the barge and took Lamartin's arm, guiding him down into the main living area.

"You are - you are different -" Lamartin stammered.

"Like you to meet a friend of mine, Joe Dawson."

Joe took his cue. "Glad to meet you. Heard a lot about you, Lamartin. Pardon me for not getting up - I try to keep the wasted motion down to a minimum - sorta like kata," Joe said with a grin.

"What's your pleasure, Lamartin?" MacLeod asked. "Do you like scotch?"


"Yeah, would you like a drink? What'll you have?" MacLeod repeated.

"Scotch will be fine," Lamartin replied, pulling himself together. He took a drink from MacLeod and sipped it. He started to say again, "You are different -" but Duncan interrupted him.

"I was telling my friend Dawson here, that you're an old friend of Methos. Oh, by the way, I don't know if you've heard of the Society Joe belongs to - the Watchers?"

Lamartin nodded automatically that he had.

"I thought so. Well, Joe's a Watcher. So he knows a lot about us. About me, in particular. He's my Watcher. But he's studied pretty much everybody I know, all my friends, and their friends. It's kinda like an obsession with Joe -"

"Hey, Mac, one man's obsession is another man's art!" Dawson interrupted.

"Right. Like I was saying, when I got friendly with Methos, Joe found out about it and started to trace Methos' lines. Led him to you and your buddy, Quentin. By the way, where is your buddy?"

"My buddy?"

"Quentin of York. Your friend."

"Quentin." Lamartin took a deep breath. "Quentin is at home. In Switzerland. With your friend, Methos."

"Oh. Well, that's a shame. Would have liked to meet him." Duncan sat on the sofa and gestured Lamartin to a chair. He turned to Dawson. "You ever meet Quentin of York, Joe?"

"Not yet. But I'm looking forward to it. What's he like, Lamartin? Is he as young-looking as they say?"

"Quentin? I - I do not know -" Lamartin stammered, bewildered. "MacLeod, you are different -"

"What brings you to Paris?" MacLeod asked.

"I have come to ask you for a favor."

"Sure. What do you need?"

"I cannot - I cannot speak before Mr. Dawson."

"Pity. But I can't ask him to leave. We're expecting guests. It's kinda like a party. Maybe you can tell me later," MacLeod replied.

Lamartin stood. "You are expecting guests. I will come back later. Tomorrow -"

"No, stay, please!" MacLeod said. "You'll like my friends. Maybe you know some of them. Well, I'm sure you don't know Richie Ryan, but maybe you've met the Immortal Amanda?"

"Yes. Yes, I know Amanda."

"Well, she's coming. And there are others. Should be a good party. Want another drink?" MacLeod asked, standing and going to his bar. "They should be here soon. Dawson, what time did you tell them to come?"

"Around eight. It's almost that time now."

"Good. Lamartin, another scotch?"

"All right," the Latino said, sitting again. Then he put his drink down on the floor and buried his head in his hands.

"Feeling sick, Lamartin?" MacLeod asked. "I'll get a wet cloth. It's the change of air, when you travel. It'll pass."

"Do not disturb yourself. It is not the travel." Lamartin stood again. "It is you. You are not what I thought. How I thought -"

"Don't tell me Methos didn't say nice things about me," Duncan joked. "I was sure he liked me."

"Yes, he likes you. He likes you -" Lamartin was silent, his glance darting to the Watcher.

"Well, then, how am I so different?" MacLeod asked. Then he and the older Immortal stiffened. "It's the others! Party time! We'll talk some more later, Lamartin. I'd really like to get to know you better," he added, going up to the door and opening it wide. "Amanda, just in time! And you brought Richie with you! Great!"

"Who is this lovely fella, Duncan? You didn't say you were gonna invite strangers." Amanda went down the steps and took off her coat. She threw it over a chair and sauntered over to Lamartin. "Oh, it's you, Marty, what a pleasure! Haven't seen you in decades! How are you, sweetie?" She put her arms around Lamartin and kissed him on both cheeks. "Hmm? How've you been? You look beautiful! How's Quentin? Still own that barn in Switzerland? Girl could get lost in all those bedrooms!"

"Amanda." Lamartin took her arms away from around his neck and kissed her hand.

"Well - how 'bout a drink, Duncan?" she said with a smile, joining MacLeod by the bar and giving him a kiss.

"Certainly. Scotch?"

"Sure. Whatever. Joe. How've you been?"

"I've been great. You're looking fabulous, as usual, Amanda. How come I haven't seen you in the club lately? You either, Richie."

"Oh, I've been in London," Amanda told the Watcher. "And Richard's been on the Riviera, haven't you, Richard? Tell Dawson all about your little adventure."

"Nothing to tell. Just another bead on what I hope will be a long string of learning experiences. A fast car, a little wine, a little woman, gambling, skirting death - the usual. Get Mac to tell you about it," Richie said with a grin.

"I'll be sure to ask him for all the details, Rich. What's in the cards for you next?" Dawson asked.

"Next? Well, a beer would be good," Richie said with a grin. "How about it, Mac?"

"Sure." Duncan poured a beer and handed it to his student.

"Really, Richie, what are your plans? You gonna stick around here in Paris?" Dawson asked.

"I kinda thought I'd go back to Seacouver. Settle in for a while. Maybe get a job."

"You? A job?" Dawson grinned. "You're gonna waste your first century as an Immortal doing the nine to five thing?"

"Gotta learn the ropes, Joe. Find out what life's all about, while I'm still young and flexible. Besides, somebody needs to run the dojo. What do you think, Mac?"

"I think you've got a job for life! Or at least until your youth starts showing."

"No problem there. Your clientele's pretty transient. Such as it is." Richie grinned. "You'll teach me some more of that kata stuff, Mac, won't you? I'm beginning to get an appreciation for the finer things in life."

"You mean, you're getting tired of having your butt kicked," MacLeod replied with a chuckle. "Sure. Any time. I should be back there this summer. We'll work out."

"Excuse me," Lamartin said. "Excuse me."

"Yeah?" Richie asked. "What?"

"How old are you?"

"Me? Why?"

"You and the Highlander - you are friends, are you not?"

"Yeah, I guess you'd call us friends. What's it to ya, old timer?"

"I do not know. Perhaps, only that I wish to know who will take over the world, when I and my - contemporaries - are gone."

"What are you talking about? Take over the world? What's he talking about, Mac? Him and his contemporaries? Who's he talking about?"

Joe answered for MacLeod. "He's talking about Quentin and Methos, I guess. About Kronos and Caspian and Silas. Grayson and Darius. His idea of 'contemporary' is kinda flexible, Richie. When you get to be as old as Lamartin of Bordeaux, the years start to blend together, like the ingredients in good whiskey."

"So why's he gotta know how old I am?" Richie asked.

Turning back to Lamartin, Joe told the old Immortal, "Richie and Duncan are probably contemporaries, in your book. Richie's twenty-three years old. Duncan's a bit over four hundred."

"I see," Lamartin replied with a bow to Dawson. "Thank you."

"They're not in your league. Just kids. But you're right - they're gonna take over the world, the kids. Hope I don't live to see it, myself. Unless it's these particular kids. They're pretty special, Lamartin. They honor the fathers, so to speak."

"Dawson, don't! Methos told me not to give him answers! This is not what we're supposed to be doing!" MacLeod interrupted.

"Maybe it is."

"Your - kids - honor nothing and no one. They only know to take the Old Ones' heads!" Lamartin told Dawson in a deadly tone. "They use their youth and passion to destroy what they cannot understand!"

"Maybe. Maybe so. That's a judgment call I can't make. But I call 'em the way I see 'em. Duncan MacLeod and Richie Ryan are fine men. They do what they can, within the rules of your Game, to help things along. They try to play fair. They try to be just. They try to do no harm." Dawson gestured. "I don't know what else you can ask of a man, no matter how young or old he is. Nobody can do more than his best."

"To kill George Gordon, Lord Byron - that is doing the best a man can do, in your eyes, Mr. Dawson?"

"Killing at all - that stinks, Lamartin. But yeah, I think Byron deserved to die. Methos couldn't do it, so Mac did. What's your beef?"

"Who says it? Who dares to say that Byron was worthy of death? That a strong one like the Highlander had the right to take Byron's head because Byron was too weak to defend against MacLeod?" Lamartin asked, furious.

"Well, if you really wanna know, I say it," Dawson replied. "Byron was killing my kind. Oh, not with a gun or a sword. With his genius. He was twisting the love young people - my kind - felt for him, their admiration for his music, into something dangerous. Then he used their love against them. So, yeah, I say it. I say Byron deserved to die. He was the strong one killing the weak. If he'd been Mortal, I'd have killed him myself. He wasn't. He was one of yours. So Mac did the honors."

"And your friend Methos let him," Lamartin declared to the Watcher.

"Let him? I guess you could say that." Joe nodded. "You could put it that way."

"It is the truth," Lamartin insisted.

"No, it's not," Duncan interrupted. "Not really."

"So - what is the truth, Highlander?"

"The truth is, Methos did what he could to save Byron. But he couldn't save him. The man was too far gone. And he couldn't take his head. The man was Methos' friend. So - I did."

"What did you do, Mac?" Methos asked, coming into the barge with Quentin.

"I killed Byron."

"I thought I told you to stall, MacLeod," Methos remarked, walking down the steps into the living area. "Why won't you listen?"

"I stalled as long as I could, Methos. I threw a party for your friend."

"So I see." Methos squinted at Lamartin, then turned to Duncan. "Is there any beer, MacLeod?"


"Well, get me one. And one for Quentin, too."

"Coming up."

"At least, you didn't need to kill him."

"No. Not yet. I think that was the next thing, though, Methos," Duncan said with a smile, handing out beers. "You're right on time."

"Lamartin, come with me. Up on deck. You guys, enjoy yourselves. Quentin, stay here."

"Methos -"

"Stay here! His quarrel's with me. If it comes to swords, I'm the one he'll fight, not you, Quen. You can take me on after. I promise not to run away."


"Stay out of it, Duncan. The two of you can fight over our carcasses when we're through."


Up on deck, Methos leaned against the railing and looked at Lamartin. "So, now you've met the Highlander, Duncan MacLeod. Do you like him, Lamartin?"

"He is different from what I expected, Methos. And the young one - his friend, Richard - is also different."

"What'd you mean?"

"They are very - sincere." Lamartin shook his head. "The old one, the Watcher, loves them a great deal."

"Yes. Joe loves his kids. Wonder what he'll make of you and Quen."

"He defends the Highlander with all his heart. As a man would defend his own son."

Methos shrugged. "Watchers get attached. It's an occupational hazard."

Lamartin contradicted, "No, it is not. Nobody was attached to Caspian or Silas or Grayson."

"Quen told me you're troubled by their deaths."

"Troubled. Yes. More than that, Methos. I am frightened. The world is changing now, so quickly. The old life is gone. It is different now. The changes - they come too quickly. I am afraid." Lamartin looked at Methos with tears in his eyes. "I am afraid. For myself. For Quentin. We cannot defend in the face of these changes. A boy like the Highlander could destroy us in moments. All of us."

"Yes, he could, if he was so inclined," Methos replied.

"But he is not?"

"No, he's not. He loves us, Lamartin. More than you could dream. He's made mistakes - taken down some good Old Ones. But for the most part, he's done us all a service, by killing men we should have destroyed before he was born, centuries ago."

"Men like Kronos and Caspian and Grayson."

"And men like Byron, who'd only have got worse as time went by, Lamartin."

"Men like you and me and Quentin," Lamartin added quietly.

"Perhaps. We've got our pasts. I don't know if mine's forgivable. But I've accepted you and Quen. And you've accepted me. We've learned to forgive one another. Maybe Duncan will too, in time. Maybe we've really changed and he'll recognize that. We'll see."

"I do not want to see, Methos. I do not want to live long enough to know what judgment a child makes on us, what judgment a twenty-three year old or a four hundred year old man makes on my loved ones."

"You sure you don't want to survive long enough to find out?" Methos frowned. "Well, perhaps you're right, Lamartin. Their judgment might not be what we want to hear."

"Methos -" Lamartin said, with tears in his eyes. "Methos, they love you, they will forgive you. I am sure of it."

"Are you sure? Not me."

"Be sure."

Methos shrugged. "Anyway, Lamartin, if they come down against you - Richie or Duncan - they'll tell you to your face and fight you fair and square. Give you a fighting chance, which is more than you'd get from me, more than the Horsemen ever gave anyone."

"You accept their right to judge us, Methos? To judge you?"

"History is written by the winners, old friend. Of course they've got the right - if they can win." Methos' mouth twisted in a small smile. "But you and me and Quentin - we've been around a long time. I've got a feeling we'll be here long after most of the young ones are gone. So we'll be the judges, not they."

Lamartin smiled. "You are very wicked, Methos Valerius. The Highlander's a fool to trust you."

"He's pretty much a fool, period, Lamartin. But he's my fool. I love him."

"Yes, I understand."

"My fool. Don't interfere. And for cripe's sake, don't get in the way of his sword! Man's dangerous, Lamartin! Keep out of his way!"

"I will."

"Good. So - you up for a party?" Methos asked, moving away from the railing.


"Let's go back in, then. Quentin must be very worried by now."

"No, he is not worried."

"Oh, I think he is, Lamartin."

"Not at all. Quentin does not worry. When he cannot handle the fire, he puts your hands into the flames. What worries can he have, when you work for him?"

"You said it. And when I can't handle the fire, I put Duncan's hands into the flames. Leaves me worry-free. Perfect arrangement."

Methos started towards the barge door but Lamartin called him back.

"Methos, I am sorry about Byron. He was beautiful. Very beautiful."

"A greater poet than Byron once said, parting is such sweet sorrow. I loved Gordon. I'll remember him. But I can't regret his death. It was his time. He was ready to die. I'm damned grateful to Duncan MacLeod for putting his hands into the flames."

Email me
arrow.gif - 1051 Bytes Back to Main Page