Mac returned from his morning run to feel the presence of another Immortal in his barge. He got out his katana and stepped inside carefully, then saw Methos sprawled on his sofa with one of the beers he had only just stocked up on again after his last visit.

“Methos. Has it ever occurred to you to wait until you’re invited.”

“Well since I’m here to do you a favour I didn’t think you would mind.”

“Is this about Tisiphone?”

“You might say so. I have tickets to Iceland and reservations at a little hotel there. It seemed to me now was the perfect time to take a little holiday.”

“You mean to run and hide.”

“It’s always worked for me.” Methos shrugged.

“Well it isn’t my style. If she wants to fight me, she just has to pick a time and place. I’ve had enough of her stupid taunts. I am not about to run away from her. And to Iceland? Why there of all places?”

“It’s just somewhere neither of us are in the habit of going. She might not think to look for us there for a while. Why risk your head over this? You see a little more of the world, we stay low until she gets over it.”

“I can almost understand you trying to get me away from here. But why worry about yourself? Just because she’s seen you, you think she’ll come after you?”

“In a way she already has. She was at my place last night, kept babbling about you being the child of dark and how you being arrogant and fighting everything alone makes you of the dark. Sounded very mystical from one who claims not to believe in all that about demons. But she was very serious.”

“She was at your apartment? And you think she would figure out where we were if we went to any of our usual places. You don’t think she would just give up and move on to the next Immortal on her list?”

“She knows a lot about us. Erin’s very thorough, and she doesn’t give up. It isn’t about Immortals, it’s her ideas of right and wrong and making sure people get what they deserve.”

“I’m surprised she let you walk away then, if she knows anything about you. Hang on, Erin?”

>>Bother. Me, making a slip like that. >> “Her other name. For days she isn’t hunting madmen.”

“So now you are calling me a madman.”

“I’m just saying that all that about Ahriman and Demons can look very bad. It’s not that I don’t believe you..”

“Oh isn’t it? You never believed me in the first place. You said I needed help. Well right now, I could do without your kind of help. Get out.”

“MacLeod...”

“Get out! I can handle this, I can handle her, I do not need your help and I am not about to run away. So you can just leave and let me get on with my morning in peace.”

Methos sighed, got up to leave. He should have known better really. The stubborn Scot would never be pushed into anything. Maybe if he’d tried a little reverse psychology... but telling him to fight her was just what Mac wanted to do anyway, and changing his mind was not something Mac was good at. “I really hope you’re right, about being able to handle her. But if you do need any help...”

“I won’t.” MacLeod said, pointing to the door.

Methos gave up for now and left. Maybe he should have just killed Mac and shipped the body out there... waiting for him to figure out how to get back from Iceland with no money or passport should at least have given him time... maybe he would try that, if he couldn’t talk Erin round...

>>Damn. Now he knows I was here. Well, better give him a reason, or he just might have the brains to get paranoid. >>

“MacLeod!” she called out as soon as she saw him. He walked over and stopped a few paces away, his hand in his coat, but she wasn’t going to challenge him on the street and he was not about to go down any more alleys with her.

“What do you want, Erin?”

“So the old man told you about me. Pity. Really thought he and I could be partners on this one.”

“Adam told me you talked to him. Something about me being the child of dark. I don’t see what my birthday has to do with anything.”

Erin smiled calmly. “Do you know, I didn’t even make that connection. Been too long since the stars were my calendar I suppose. No, I just meant that you are the kind of bastard who could brighten up the world just by leaving it.”

“Which you think you can make sure I do. Well, leave the crossbow somewhere else and you are welcome to try.”

“I’ll do better than try, MacLeod. A man like you cannot be left loose in the world.” Erin said, her voice going icy calm.

“A man like me? A man that will fight to stop Immortals as twisted as you from gaining the prize?”

“A man who has the arrogance to believe that he alone is the chosen one and all he does is justified by that. A man who can kill his son and then just wander off and get on with his life like nothing happened.”

"What was I supposed to do - give up my sword? Let another Kalas or Kronos take my head, and leave Ahriman free, unstoppable? You’ve said it is a sign of darkness to face the final fight alone. But isn’t that what we do? All of us? Even so, it takes friends to get us that far, to get us to that conflict with enough of our souls intact we care about the outcome. Adam and Joe were those friends to me, Erin. Believe me, there was nothing more that I wanted than for Adam to take my head and end that pain! But he wouldn't. When I ran away to Malaysia, I wanted nothing more than to hide out there for the rest of my miserable life, but Adam & Joe made me come back. How could I condemn them, and the rest of the human race to a millennium of hell under Ahriman, because of my own self-pity and loathing. Ahriman was MY responsibility. You want to talk about souls? Fine. If I hid away and left him to ravage the earth, the curses, the damage done to my soul, my karma or whatever, would be a hundred, a thousand times worse than the damage done by Richie's death. If that had happened, you would have every right to take my head, and I wouldn't even be standing here arguing with you; but I have to get on with my life - the last thing Richie would want is for his death to bring me down with him."

"Noble words, MacLeod," Erin snapped. "But all your rationalisation and good deeds can't change the fact that you committed murder. You've cut down old friends for less than that, haven't you?"

Duncan paled and looked down, fiddling with the sleeve of his coat. "Every word is true." He raised his head and fixed his piercing gaze on her. "And Adam knows that anytime he wants it, my head is his. He, Amanda and Connor are the ONLY ones I will give it up to. I may hate my self, but I'm not so far gone that I'll give my head to any Immortal who waltzes in here, playing avenging angel."

"I’m no angel. Don’t believe in them. And the only demons in this world are those in the human heart, like the ones that you try and keep in the back of your twisted little mind. Only sometimes they come out and play, don’t they MacLeod? Your very own demon. Of course you are the only one that can beat it. And if I wanted your head, I would have it by now. Remember? You disgust me. I wouldn’t want your Quickening. I wouldn’t want you near me, let alone in me. That’s probably why Methos and Amanda are letting you live. As for Connor, he wouldn’t kill a student, even a mad one. He is a MacLeod with honour. You... you bring more shame to the name than I ever thought possible.”

Erin turned on her heel and stalked off.

>>A voice from the grave is definitely in order. >>

He found one of the bags was a little torn, and ripped it in half before throwing it in the bin. Then he noticed how he was acting.

>>That is why. Keep acting like that and she may yet have your head. >> He chided himself.

He got himself a snack and a glass of water, then went to sit and calm down. What he really wanted right now was scotch, but if he was angry and drunk she wouldn’t even have to work at it, so water it was.

By the evening, he had drunk several glasses. For some reason he just seemed to get more thirsty.

He had tried to calm down, think about something else entirely. He put on some opera, but that brought back that night and when he and Richie were walking back from the opera. He changed it for something classical and soothing, but now the memories were welling up and everything reminded Mac of his young friend.

Duncan rubbed both hands across his tired face, scrubbing wearily at his eyes. Leaving. If only he could. Instead he stood alone in the middle of his rapidly crumbling life, reflected in the Spartan atmosphere of the barge. >>How did I get here? How did my life go so wrong? >> No, running away was not an option - whatever Methos thought. Running away for a year had not brought Richie back, nor would it help now. But what if Tisiphone is right? He shook his head, trying to make sense of his confused thoughts as he crossed to the tiny corner kitchenette and filled the tea kettle with fresh water from the tap. >>Order. Clarity. >> The gentle strains of a minuet behind him did nothing to calm his turbulent emotions. Setting the water to boiling, Duncan reached automatically for the top cabinet to the left, then realised he had packed away the ceremonial gold and ivory inlaid tea set along with the other remnants of his former life. So instead he went two shelves lower and pulled out the slightly chipped, but still serviceable bone-white ceramic set.

Mac stared into the empty floor of the barge; he hadn't a low table, or the familiar reed-woven mats that normally accompanied the ancient Zen ritual. As steam began to rise from the black kettle, MacLeod reluctantly dragged a short oak chest from its place along wall to the centre of the floor and arranged the teapot, cups, and a single candle, his hands caressing the wood. The chest contained the few items of value he had allowed himself to keep; his katana was one of them, the other a picture of Richie, Tessa and Mac at Christmas. >>More deaths on my head. >>

The kettle shrieked from the stove, breaking into his reverie. Scattering loose tea into the clay teapot, Duncan rose to his feet and crossed back to the stove, turning off the flame and cutting the kettle off in mid-scream. >>Focus. >> Duncan knelt at the foot of the makeshift table and poured the water into the pot, inhaling the soothing herbs that complemented the sandalwood scented candle. He forced his mind back into forgotten patterns, seeking a centre of consciousness. But the inexplicably nagging thirst from before tugged impatiently at his thoughts, and his hands shook as moved the candle, spilling wax over the sides. An unnatural sense of haste disrupted the calming rite. Muttering in Japanese under his breath, Duncan sipped at the hot tea, scalding his tongue. Setting the cup down in the proscribed manner, he swallowed awkwardly; the tea's usual mellow flavour was tainted by the tiniest hint of bitterness, and the warm golden colour was touched by a hint of cloudiness.

Duncan finished the ceremony without success after attempting to lose himself in the light meditation practice. The tips of his fingers trembled where they rested on the cool wood. Beneath the surface of the genteel setting, a vicious weapon lay. A sword that had killed a friend. Duncan imagined it still stained with his student's blood. Richie, his brain whispered. Swearing suddenly in Gaelic, Duncan leapt to his feet, angrily sweeping everything to the floor. His abrupt rage disappearing, MacLeod stared, shaking at the wreckage at his feet.

>>What's happening to me? >>