PART 3: "People die, Methos. Immortals--die."

Chapter 3

The two men spent that day together. They found their way into a park in Lafayette Cemetery and, overlooking mausoleums and death houses, Nick told Stephen the stories. Alternately staring at the graves, leaning forward with elbows on knees, staring at the ground between his feet, or getting up and pacing around, Nick told Stephen about the lives Nick had shared with the soul he believed Stephen was carrying.

Having already told about Elizabeth, he started with the life of Jacqueline Sloane, also known as Jackie.

Nick told Stephen how he and Jackie met on a cruise ship, about the brief fling that got serious, and how she got caught up in The Game in a most unusual way. Nick told of how she was brutally raped and almost killed because she knew and loved an immortal. Not leaving anything out, Nick spoke of who was behind the attack and why Nick entered her life again, which is how she found out about his immortality. Nick finally spoke about how the immortal that was hunting him finally caught up with them, almost killing Jackie--again--and about that battle on the hill by the tree, the subject of Stephen's first and most frequent dream. Nick was forthright about the five-year love affair he carried on with a mortal woman in her eighties, and got choked up when he spoke of her gentle death.

There was a long silence that Stephen finally interrupted.

"Do you still have the house she gave you?"

"Gods! Was everything in your dreams?"

"Just about. I told you I was having them for two years. That's enough time for more than what I actually dreamed about."

Nick sighed, shaking his head and rubbing a hand across his face and through his hair. "Yes," he answered, sighing again, "I still have the house. Every so often I think about selling it, but I can't. So I keep it."

"Do you go back often?"

Nick didn't answer for a long time. "I haven't been there in over a hundred years."

The reply gave Stephen pause, but he said, nevertheless: "I'd like to see it someday."

"I don't think so," Nick replied tightly.

"Why not?"

"Too many memories," he said shortly.

"You got it from Jacqueline and you took Michael there. You tell me that I am them reincarnated. Why can't I go there?"

"They were--special--to me and had an enormous impact on my life--obviously. I can't just take anyone there."

"But I'm not just anyone," Stephen insisted. "I'm them."

"Nevertheless," Nick said after a moment.

Stephen frowned thoughtfully. "You won't take me because you're not in love with me. You were in love with both Jacqueline and Michael and that's the difference, isn't it?"

Nick didn't say anything. This line of questioning was more painful to him than the questions about the dreams, so after only that moment's hesitation, he started the story of the life of Michael Forrest. Michael, the skinny, irresistible DJ, who was Nick's dynamic, long-time lover and who took up the sword because Nick was a swordsman. He was one of the few mortals to face an immortal in a perverted version of a Game of which he was totally unaware. He survived that night only through luck. Treating himself as ruthlessly as he treated others, Nick told Stephen that just to test Michael, he forced his good friend Duncan MacLeod to fight with Michael. That was not the worst. He set it up in such a way that Duncan went after Michael with full immortal bloodlust while Michael was armed only with a mortal's fear and adrenaline.

"What's wrong with fighting like that?"

Nick, who was staring out over the graves, looked at Stephen, curious at the intensity of the question. "Oh, it's fine when you're talking about a couple of mortals. It's the only way they can do it. But when it's between a mortal and an immortal, the immortal's bloodlust negates fear, and coupled with our stamina and recuperative powers, a mortal would inevitably lose."

Leaning forward to stare at the ground, Nick told about the rest of the battle between Duncan MacLeod and Michael. Stephen was able to visualize everything Nick was saying because of his dreams, Stephen was amazed at the emotion that choked Nick's voice at the telling. It made Stephen ask: "Why did you do it?"

"Had to be done."

Stephen could not respond. He remembered that answer from another dream.

"What about the other man?" Stephen finally asked.

"What other man?"

"The one that Michael was living with, the blond one."

So then Nick told the story of Robert Brown, the young man who was hopelessly in love with Michael Forrest but who only had three years of happiness with him because Michael was in love with Nick.

"We couldn't resist each other," Nick admitted. "Even from the beginning, even though it was years before I found out that he was Jackie."

Nick glanced up at that and their eyes met briefly. He looked away, faint color rising in his sharp-featured face.

Nick continued immediately, telling how Robert was soon out of the picture and Michael and Nick were together. Michael, now aware that Nick was immortal, left his home to follow his immortal lover, going with him wherever Nick's life and The Game demanded. They were together for twenty-five years before the immortals that were hunting Nick finally caught up with them. Once again, Nick was the cause of danger to a mortal lover and once again, it was in the high meadow by the tree.

Starkly, without embellishment, emotions held at bay, Nick told how Michael died. Stephen already knew one side, but now he was getting the full story. Nick told of the mild-mannered man with the quiet voice and scholarly appearance that hid a ferocious killer who almost took Nick's head. He described the madwoman who would have taken Nick's head in the middle of a Quickening had Michael not stopped her. Stephen didn't really need a description of Margaret Pierce. She haunted his dreams as much as any of the supporting cast that peopled Nick's long life.

After telling about Michael's death and setting up the funeral and house arrangements, Nick fell silent. For a long time they sat, Stephen with his head back against the bench, his face to the blue, cloud-flecked sky, and Nick leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands tightly clenched.

Stephen regarded him out of the corner of his eye. Nick appeared to be staring at the ground, but Stephen knew better. Nick was staring into the mists of his past, into the face of pain and torment.

The stories were over. Nick didn't have to tell him, Stephen knew it. There was nothing more to tell, except that Stephen wanted to know more about what happened to Nick. What was Nick's life like after Jackie? During the years when he and Michael were not together? After Michael died? Stephen could guess some from the last few decades--lots of drink, lots of isolation--but it was pretty certain that Nick was not going to talk about himself.

The caw of a crow brought Nick's head up. The two men watched as the crow swooped low over the death houses and disappeared into the long rays of the late afternoon sun. Suddenly, Nick rose quickly to his feet and, without a word or even a glance, walked out of the graveyard. Stephen didn't move. He knew where the older immortal was going.

Stephen remained unmoving on the bench as the day waned and twilight fell softly around him. He watched the raised graves and mausoleums fade from sight in the deepening gloom.

When the darkness was complete, Stephen finally left the bench and walked stiffly through the cemetery. It was time to find Nick.

Stephen went toward the lights of the first bar he saw. New Orleans was littered with dark, dingy places that one could crawl into and hope never to emerge, so Nick didn't have to go far. Stephen felt the thrum of an immortal's Quickening as he approached it. With a sigh, he entered, knowing what he would find.

Nick was at the bar, already drunk, slumped over a glass of bourbon. He didn't even bother to glance up as he felt the immortal "presence" getting closer. He didn't care who was coming, a friend or someone bent on taking his head.

When Stephen sat on the barstool next to him, Nick looked over and groaned.

"Why is it always you?" he rasped. "All the immortals in the world--"

Stephen didn't let him finish. "Come on," he said, getting up and tugging on Nick's arm. "Let's get outta here."

Nick didn't move, so Stephen pulled him to his feet, put an arm around his shoulder and practically carried the older immortal out of the seedy dive. Nick went without protest or resistance. All the fight had drained out of him with the telling of the stories and he was as dead as he was when Stephen had first found him. He was feeling nothing, however, when Stephen had found him. Now he was paralyzed with anguish and suffering, probably in the same condition he was in when he started his downward spiral into alcohol and self-destruction one hundred years ago.

At this point, Stephen knew that Nick didn't care whether he lived or died. In fact, he probably preferred to die, but since he couldn't, he was struggling to numb himself into not caring.

Back in his hotel room, Nick fell onto his bed with an audible groan.

"Come on," Stephen said, struggling to get Nick's shoes off. "Waitaminute, now."

Prone on the bed, eyes closed, Nick said, "You gonna take my clothes off?" The alcohol had so slurred Nick's speech, Stephen could barely understand him.

"Well, I'm going to try," Stephen retorted.

"Are you going to take advantage of me?" Nick baited, already half asleep. "I'm an old man, and very, very drunk."

"Don't worry, Nick," Stephen replied, shaking his head, half-amused. "You're safe with me. I'm not that way."

Lifting himself onto an elbow with great difficulty, Nick peered at Stephen through red-rimmed eyes. "What do you mean, you're not that way?"

"It means I'm not into men," Stephen shrugged, puzzled. "I just prefer women."

"But you're immortal," Nick protested, as puzzled as Stephen. "What difference does it make?"

"Well, being immortal doesn't change that--does it?"

Nick waved a hand and fell wearily back onto the pillows. "Eventually, of course. Time passes, you get older, eventually you'll meet a man who'll turn you on enough so you'll go for it. It's inevitable."

"I don't think so."

Nick struggled onto his elbow again to peer at the young immortal. "How old are you, anyway?"

"A little over a hundred."

"Including your mortal life?"

"Yeah."

"Oh." Nick fell back again. "Well, that explains it." Nick's words got sluggish as sleep started to overtake him. "You're young yet. Gods, MacLeod was almost--five hundred before he was first--with a man, so I guess--you've got--time."

"I guess," Stephen answered cautiously, watching as Nick slowly, softly, fell into a deep sleep.

Back in his own room, Stephen logged onto the WorldNet on the computer set into the bedside desk. Quickly switching from the hotel ID to his own, Stephen was able to access a broader range of search parameters. Within an hour, he had traced Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to a chateau in Austria in the mountains near the Czech boarder. He was now called Colin O'Connor. He was not married, at least not at this point, although he had had several women living with him over the years--and one man, Stephen noticed with a raised eyebrow, remembering what Nick had just said. It seemed he had not formed any permanent attachments. The name MacLeod was quite active, however. It was still connected to several pieces of property in Scotland, Paris and the United States.

Stephen debated whether or not to call Colin O'Connor, a k a Duncan MacLeod. It was the wee hours of the morning in Austria, so perhaps he should wait a few hours, think about it some more, perhaps ask Nick about it.

That last thought made Stephen pause and think about the older immortal sleeping in his room nearby. He recalled the depth of Nick's sorrow and pain, then thought about how Nick would feel adding Duncan MacLeod to that.

Shaking his head abruptly, Stephen stopped thinking and punched in the keys to contact Colin O'Connor in his chateau.

The deep, husky voice that answered, groggy with sleep, amazed Stephen with its familiarity. He knew that voice. It was, indeed, Duncan MacLeod.

"Who is this?"

"Mr. O'Connor, you don't know me. My name is Stephen Drake, and I think I've found a friend of yours."

"What are you talking about?"

"I just found an old friend of yours."

"Who?" The voice started sounding like it was waking up.

"Nick--Nick--. My God, he never told me his last name."

"Doesn't matter. I don't know any Nicks, at least none that are alive."

"Well, his name wasn't always Nick. Once it was Jesse and another time it was Adam."

"Adam--? Who are you?"

"Well--." Stephen hesitated. He didn't know how secure the hotel kept its 'Net lines. "Well, I'm part of the Game, too. Like you, like Nick, or Adam, Jesse."

"Adam hasn't been around in a very, very long time," MacLeod said cautiously.

"I know, and I know just how long it was. I wasn't around then, like you were, but I've been around longer than most people realize."

"I see." There was a long moment of silence on the other end. "How do you know Adam--Nick?"

"It's a very long story, and not very pretty. I don't thing I should tell it to you over the 'Net."

"No, you're probably right. Is he all right? Where is he?"

"I don't know if I should tell you that."

"What?!!?"

"Well, he's in pretty bad shape and he doesn't know that I've found you."

"Is he with you?"

Stephen screwed his eyes shut, suddenly remembering how easy it was to trace 'Net calls. "Listen, Mr. O'Connor. I only got in touch with you to find out if you would like to see him again."

"Of course I would!" MacLeod roared, a thick brogue taking over his voice with his frustration. "Why'd you call me if you weren't going to tell me where he is? I haven't heard anything from him for over--over--" He stopped abruptly. "It's been a very long time," he finished quietly.

"I know, I know. But I had to be sure that you didn't want him to stay out of your life."

"He wanted me out of his life," the thick brogue muttered. "He just cut everyone out of his life and went on his merry little way."

"It's not that simple, Mr. O'Connor, or that merry."

"Okay, so what is it?"

"Look, I should go now. I'll tell Nick that I found you and that you want to see him. I'll get back in touch as soon as I've done that and tell you where to find him."

"Make it soon, Stephen Drake." The brogue held a definite warning tone. "I thought he was dead. For years I thought he was dead."

"Yeah, I know." It was Stephen's turn to mutter, as he thought about Nick hitching his jacket back, inviting the first immortal that came along to end it all for him. "He's not dead, but that's more by accident than design."

"Shit! Come on, Drake! Tell me where he is!"

"I'm sorry, Mr. O'Connor. I'll be in touch soon, and don't worry. I'm watching out for him." Stephen broke the connection.

Burying his head in his hands, Stephen let out a huge sigh. He hoped that he had gotten off before MacLeod could trace the call. Because he wasn't sure, Stephen knew that he had to tell Nick about Duncan as soon as possible.

Would it make him feel worse, Stephen wondered, or better? There was only one way to find out.

Stephen spent the rest of the night in Nick's room. The memory of that vulnerable white neck and Nick's restless wish for an immortal who would take his head made Stephen unwilling to risk anything. He also felt like his responsibility had doubled. He had to make sure Nick stayed alive so that Duncan could see him again.

He kept vigil in the chaise lounge as Nick slept. He watched Nick breathe in, then out. It had been so long since he had held a vigil like this. He thought about Duncan's reaction to hearing that Nick was still alive. Stephen was sure that Duncan wanted to see Nick again. He also felt that Nick wanted to see Duncan again. At the same time, Stephen had no idea how it was all going to work out.

Nick showed no surprise on awakening to find that Stephen was in his room. He showered and dressed and the two men went to breakfast together.

It was a beautiful New Orleans day so without a discussion, the men went for a long walk through the Old City.

"I'm sorry, Nick," Stephen said. It was the first thing that was said since they left the hotel.

"Sorry? About what? About bringing all this crap up in my life and putting me through hell again?"

"Well, that, too, but that's not what I meant."

"Than what? Hunting me down because of the dreams? Humph. I guess you couldn't help having the dreams. They're not your experiences, but you have been saddled with them."

"I'm not talking about the dreams."

Nick glanced at him briefly. "What then?"

"You really loved them, Elizabeth, Jackie, Michael. I'm sorry that one of them wasn't immortal, then you would still be with them. You could have been with them forever, loved them forever."

Nick gave a dry chuckle that was devoid of any mirth. He shoved his hands into his pockets and stared at the ground as he paced along. "Doesn't matter, Stephen. Nothing lasts forever, even when it looks like it does. Everything comes to an end, someway, somehow." He paused and when Stephen didn't answer, Nick added: "Besides, if they were not mortal, you would not be here. Would you want that?"

Stephen shrugged. "I might still be here, but my soul would be different, and I wouldn't have those god-forsaken dreams."

Nick regarded Stephen for a long moment. "You without them?" he murmured. He shook his head. "I can't imagine."

Stephen quietly mulled that over, thinking about the stories, the experiences. "Neither can I," he admitted, surprising himself with the sudden revelation.

Stephen decided to bring up the subject of Duncan MacLeod as they walked down a very old street in the French Quarter. The ancient brick townhouses were well maintained, set back from the street and protected from prying eyes and invading people with lovely iron-railed fences covered with Spanish moss and ivy. Overhead, the second floor of the attached townhouses all boasted iron-railed balconies that matched the fences, also dripping with Spanish moss and ivy. The feeling in the area was something out of another century, another world, and it was quiet, hushed, with no one in sight. The air felt aged and it pressed on Stephen, putting him in a very somber mood. He looked over at Nick and saw the expressionless mask most people would call a face. It was time.

"I know where Duncan MacLeod is."

"What!" Nick stopped abruptly, his head swiveling toward Stephen, surprise raising his eyebrows and widening his eyes.

How bright his eyes look when he's alive, Stephen thought briefly before answering. "I know where Duncan MacLeod is," he said again.

"I thought that's what you said. How do you know where he is?"

"I did a search for him on the 'Net."

"Why?"

"I thought you might like to know. So you can tell him where you are, see him again, maybe."

Shoving his hands in his pockets, Nick started walking again. "He doesn't know who I am now. Leave it be."

"He'll want to know where you are."

"You don't know that. You don't know him." Nick's deep voice was filled with bitterness. "He might never want to see me again. He's probably glad I'm out of his life."

"He does want to see you again."

"Now how would you know that?"

"I got in touch with him."

"What!" Nick came to a halt again in the middle of the sidewalk. "Why the bloody hell did you do that?"

"I wanted to know if he wanted to see you again."

Nick backed up against the nearest iron fence, suddenly hyperventilating. He looked like a deer caught in the headlights of onrushing doom. "What--what--gods--what--." His voice trailed off as he ran a hand across his face. "Does he know where I am?"

"No, I didn't tell him."

Nick closed his eyes, his head going back as he breathed a sigh of relief.

"He might be able to find out, though," Stephen warned.

"What d'you mean?"

"He might've been able to trace the call. I was on for a bit."

"He could be coming here now?" Now Nick looked like a caged animal, desperate to get out.

"Calm down, Nick. He might be able to trace the call to the country, maybe the city, but he'll have no idea where we actually are."

Nick ran a hand through his hair. "What'll I do? He can't see me like this."

"He's your friend, Nick, he'll understand."

Nick shook his head. "It's been a hundred years. What is the year?" When Stephen told him, he shook his head again. "It's been over a hundred years. I haven't spoken to anyone in over a hundred years. I haven't lifted a sword in over a hundred years. I can't--I can't just go back."

"Go back where?"

"To the world. I can't just go back--."

Biting his lip, Stephen watched Nick run a hand through his hair. "So, we'll talk." Stephen suddenly urged. "We'll spar, we'll get you back, then we'll get in touch with Duncan and you can see him again. You'll see. We'll get you back to the world."

"I don't know, Stephen, I just don't know."

Stephen didn't give Nick much time to protest. As soon as they got back to the hotel, Stephen found a gym where they could rent some private workout space with nobody around. Later that same afternoon, Nick and Stephen were facing off, each armed with a sword.

Nick's sword was old, an Ivanhoe broadsword that had obviously seen many, many battles. Stephen preferred a French rapier with a lovely filigreed handle that doubled as a strong hand and wrist guard.

Nick looked nervous and shaky before they began, but as soon as they started sparring, the nerves fell off like old, dead skin and he got into the match with precision, the reawakened bloodlust simmering just below the surface. His fierce attacks and deft parries belied the century he had been away from battle.

Long before the match could be decided, however, Nick backed off, sword point dipping toward the floor.

"What are you doing?" he asked Stephen.

"What are you talking about?" Stephen panted.

"Why are you fighting like that?"

"Like how?"

"You're not fighting like an immortal. You're fighting like, I don't know, I can't describe it. It's familiar somehow, but it's not the way immortals fight."

Stephen nodded, finally understanding. "I'm not fighting with the bloodlust, is that what you mean?"

"Yes! That's it! You're fighting without the bloodlust. Why?"

"I don't like fighting with it."

"How can you fight without it? Where does it go?"

"I suppress it."

"How?"

"I don't know. I just do."

"But why?" Nick was honestly very confused.

"Like I said: I don't like it. I don't like using it."

"Bloodlust has nothing to do with like or dislike, it just is. It's part of our life, part of our truth."

"Not for me."

"So how do you fight?"

"Well, let's fight and you'll see."

Nick frowned, puzzled, as they faced off again.

Methos went after Stephen, starting the match again. He watched the younger immortal as they fought, wondering why the way Stephen was fighting was so damn familiar. Then he noticed fear in Stephen's face and how his pupils were reduced to pinpoints, a sure sign of adrenaline pumping through the body. Stephen was fighting with fear and adrenaline--just like Michael!

Sudden anguish, quickly followed by fury, overtook him and Methos went for Stephen, battering the younger man back until he had him up against the wall, swords crossed in front of Stephen's neck. Methos stared into Stephen's fear-filled eyes, knowing that his own eyes showed only cold bloodlust.

"Goddammit," Methos muttered, stepping back and away from Stephen. "You're fighting with fear and adrenaline."

Panting, dripping with sweat, Stephen nodded. "You're pretty damn good for not having fought in a hundred years."

"Of course I'm good," Methos retorted. "I'm fighting with bloodlust. You're fighting with fear and adrenaline--just like Michael," he bit out.

"What?"

"Michael! Michael Forrest! The dreams, Drake, the dreams!

Stephen looked at Methos with a frown. "Michael from the dreams fought like I do?"

"No, you're fighting like he did, and you can't fight that way!"

"Why not?"

"You can't fight with fear, Stephen. You have to fight with bloodlust."

"Why?"

"Look, mortals need fear and adrenaline, the fight or flight thing." Methos spoke slowly, carefully, as if explaining the facts of life to a child. "It's part of their truth, their evolution. But we cannot fight like that. Immortals need the bloodlust."

"Well, I can't. I can't fight that way. I can't let the bloodlust in. When I let it in, it takes over. It takes control of me, and my battle, and I don't get control back until I've taken the Quickening."

"I know. That's how it works," Methos replied patiently. He swung his blade in the air between them, urging Stephen to understand. "Stephen, you have to let the bloodlust in. If you fight with fear, you won't survive, you know that."

"I have to use fear. It's the only way I can face the challenge. Besides, with fear, you get adrenaline."

"But if you let the bloodlust in, there'll be no need for fear. You'll just be cold, the cold you need for the fight--and the kill. It's the only way."

"It's the only way for you, Nick, and that's fine. But I can't let it in. I won't let it in. I can't face what the bloodlust does to me, what it turns me into. The fear is enough. It keeps me focused and alert. It allows me to fight, and even win, in a way that I can live with. What's the good of winning, of gaining the Quickening, if I can't live with myself after? I've been down that road, Nick, the disgust, the self-loathing, the guilt. I won't go there again. I can't."

In silence, Methos looked at Stephen. The lovely man, his thick, wavy hair damp with sweat and curling even more, looked nothing like Elizabeth, Jacqueline, or Michael, but here they stood.

Stephen had the dreams of Jacqueline's experiences; he was the same kind of swordsman as Michael; and he had the gentle determination of Elizabeth to do whatever was necessary to save a life--or a soul. In fact, they all shared that determination. Did it start with her? Was this determination to do whatever was necessary Elizabeth's legacy? It was something they all shared, and here it stood, once again, in Stephen Drake's quiet determination.

Without warning, a huge wave of sadness washed over Methos, flooding his heart and mind with the sudden knowledge of loss and grief. He shook his head abruptly. It was a familiar feeling, a well-known place, and it threatened to drag him back into the pit where Stephen had found him. This time, however, it was the fact of Stephen that saved him, rather than his presence.

Methos thanked whatever gods were listening that Stephen was not interested in intimate relations with men, at least not right now. It meant that nothing deeper could happen between them.

It was cold comfort.

With a deep breath, Methos faced the fact that if Stephen held to his principles and met each challenge without the bloodlust, he would die. It was inevitable. Unbidden, Methos's own words from hundreds of years ago came back to haunt him:

"People die, MacLeod. Immortals--die."

The grief crested within him and he turned away, his sword hanging useless in his hand. It was too late. Stephen had already seen the anguish in his face.

"Hey, hey, Nick," Stephen said gently, placing a comforting had on Methos's shoulder. "It's going to be fine, you'll see." He bent to peer intently into Methos's face. "Believe me, Nick, I'm going to be just fine."

Methos hitched his shoulder to rid it of Stephen's hand. He silently cursed the younger man's sensitivity and perception. "Well, I guess we'll have to see about that, won't we?" he retorted.

As he headed for the shower, Methos immediately regretted the harsh words, but didn't have the fortitude at the moment to do anything about it. Later, he said to himself. I'll make it up to him later.