Disclaimer: the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Richie Ryan, Methos, Tessa, Amanda, and Joe Dawson all belong the Rysher/Panzer/Davis. I have no claim on them whatsoever, have only borrowed them for this little fanfiction jaunt. Rated PG

In the Dark of the Night

by kyrdwynCDC

Wind whipped through his newly shortened hair as he stood on the bridge. He stared down at the water, the moonlight playing silver off it, and wished that he could throw all his sorrows into the deep stillness there. Wished that the pain would be carried away as easily as something cast over the side into the slow moving current below. But this pain would never go away, he knew that. It would sit in his soul, eating away at him for the rest of his life, and he wasn’t sure he could live with that.

But suicide just wasn’t in the gameplan. Anything he did to himself would only heal, not ending the pain, only bringing more of it in. Although, at this point, physical pain might help to block the mental. He almost wished he hadn’t left his sword behind; there had to be some way one could behead oneself. He had joked about that with Richie, but in the end, Richie’s head had been taken by Duncan’s hand, not his own.

He could still see the blood, feel the Quickening jolting through his system. He couldn’t wash his hands enough times to get the blood off of them, didn’t think he ever would be able to. He had a sudden vision in his head of Lady MacBeth crying “Out, damn spot! Out!” and he knew that his hands would never feel clean again--his soul would never feel clean again. He had done an unforgivable thing. He had murdered the boy who had been as a son to him.

He had tried to atone, had offered his sword up to Methos, wanting the older Immortal to take his head , to end this misery that now threatened to send him tumbling into an abyss of darkness. But Methos had refused, and whether it was because he held Duncan blameless, or because he was in too much shock, Duncan would never know.

He leaned out over the edge of the bridge. It would be so easy, to let himself fall, to feel the icy shock of the water as it closed over his head. To let his lungs fill, to drown, to kill the pain. But it wouldn’t end it. At some point, he would either wash ashore or be fished out, and then, with a single breath it would all come rushing back; life, pain, the dark yearning to end it.

But maybe this was to be his penance. After all, if he died now, his pain would end. But would that be enough? For Richie? No. If he lived to be as old as Methos, it would not be long enough to atone, not be long enough to wash his sins away. To live for the dead, to remember, these would be the only things that would expiate the evil he had wrought.

He had wondered, at one time, how Methos could choose to live with all the guilt from his years as a Horseman. But he knew now. Self-inflicted punishment in the only way that meant anything to an Immortal. Death was a release, a parole. There could be no parole for this crime.

He pushed away from the railing, turning to stumble carelessly across the bridge, ignoring the blare of a horn as a car came speeding through. He wandered aimlessly for a while, not knowing, not caring, until he finally stopped outside a gate and looked around him, pulling his coat tighter around him as the wind picked up.

The cemetery. By choice or design, he wasn’t sure. He pushed the gate open, his long slow strides taking him through the rows of headstones, past the vaults and crypts, until he came to the one that his subconscious had brought him here for. He dropped to his knees, curling in on himself, his fists clenched against his stomach as he rested his forehead on the cold marble of the engraved headstone.

“Ah, Tessa, if only you knew what I have done.”

He lifted his head up, tears streaking his face, falling unheeded, blurring his vision.

“If only you knew!” he cried, his voice ringing through the cemetery, echoing off the crypt walls. “I killed him, Tessa. He loved me, he trusted me, and I killed him!”

He gripped the edges of the headstone, feeling the marble bite into his palms. He looked down at it, then, traced her name with the tip of a finger. “Would you still love me, Tessa? If you were alive, knowing what I had done, would you still love me?” He rocked back on his heels, burying his face in his hands.

“Would I let you love me?” he whispered, knowing the answer, knowing that there had been nothing he could do that would ever kill her love for him. “But, then, you’re dead because of me, too, aren’t you , Tessa? Because I’m an Immortal. If I had stayed out of your life, you would still be alive.” He got to his feet, staring hard through the shadows around the cemetery, as though he could see ghosts, accusing him, condemning him.

“How many?” he asked, his voice pleading. “How many are dead because of me and what I am? How much blood do I really have on my hands? Yours, Richie’s, Debra’s. And how many more will be added to that one day? Joe’s, Amanda’s, Methos’, even Connor’s?” He stared at his hands, seeing the blood, watching as it dripped scarlet down his wrists, staining his shirt sleeves, falling in gentle splats to the ground. He shook his head violently, the vision clearing, his hands clean again. No, he thought, not clean, never clean again. He gazed sadly at the headstone.

“I’m not the man you fell in love with, Tessa, not anymore. That Duncan is dead, as dead as you, as dead as Richie. All that’s left is the murderer standing before you.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets, inhaling deeply. “I don’t know why I’m here, my love. To ask for your forgiveness, maybe. To ask you to look out for him, to tell him that I loved him, that I didn’t mean for it to happen. To let you know that it will be a long time before you and I can be together again, before I can forgive myself.” He closed his eyes, seeing her before him, one last aching memory in his heart.

His eyes snapped open as he felt the buzz from another Immortal, his scalp tightening and his stomach clenching.

“I thought I might find you here.”

He turned, already knowing who it was. He would have recognized the voice if he hadn’t already recognized the distinctive signature to the buzz that had alerted his presence.

“Methos.”

The oldest Immortal was leaning against the wall of a crypt, a half smile on his lips.

“Duncan.”

Duncan stood there silent for a moment, unable to speak, then finally finding some words. “How’s Joe?”

Methos pushed himself away from the crypt, striding over to stand directly in front of Duncan. “Joe will be okay, eventually. He was very fond of Richie.”

“And you?”

Methos shrugged. “Richie was a nice kid, Duncan, but I’ve been around far too long to let his death consume me. Unlike others that I know.”

Duncan winced inwardly. “Did you come here to pour salt in the wound, Methos, or to let Joe know I’m still alive?”

“Neither, actually.” Methos reached inside his coat and pulled out Duncan’s katana, the moonlight flashing off the blade. “I came here to give you what you wanted the other night.”

Duncan was stunned. He had offered Methos his head, and Methos had refused to take it. And now it seemed he had changed his mind.

“Why the change of heart?” He looked at the katana dangling from Methos’ hand, his fingers itching to wrap around the familiar hilt, but not to kill, not even to defend himself, just to hold it one last time.

Methos’ gaze was cold. “Because you are a danger, MacLeod. To everyone you care about, to everyone who cares about you.”

Duncan nodded agreement, his dark eyes filled with regret. To hear his own thoughts spoken aloud to him only drove home the conviction. But death, death, would not bring the atonement he was after.

“I’ve changed my mind, Methos.”

“So now you expect me to change mine back again?”

Duncan shook his head. “I can’t make you do anything. All I know, is that if I die, Richie’s death goes unpunished.”

Methos’ lips quirked into a cold smile. “There are some who would argue that, that if you live his death goes unpunished.”

Duncan just stood there, frozen at his friend’s words. Methos pressed the katana into his hand, wrapping Duncan’s fingers around the hilt. Then he drew his own sword.

“Come now, MacLeod,” he said, gesturing toward the gate with a sharp toss of his head. “It’s time to finish this.”

“And if I take your head?”

Methos gave a short laugh. “Then you get to live and go on being punished.”

“And if I refuse to fight you, refuse to leave?”

Methos shrugged. “Then I do it here, on holy ground. But I’d prefer not to. Have you ever seen what happens when an Immortal takes another’s head on holy ground? Believe me, it’s not pleasant, but I’ll do it if I have to.”

Duncan sighed tiredly, one part of him feeling that Richie’s ghost was being cheated, the other part elated at the thought of an end to this torment he felt inside. He tightened his grip on his katana, gave one more longing glance in the direction of Tessa’s grave, then followed Methos out past the gates, out of the cemetery, off of holy ground.

Methos turned to face him then, duster coiling around his legs, sword at the ready. Duncan dropped into stance, bringing the katana forward, nodding coolly to Methos, to let it begin.

Steel whined against steel as their swords met, echoing through the night around them, a song familiar to Duncan’s ear. He met each of Methos blows efficiently, but the desire to win just wasn’t there, the passion of the warrior now overrun with the despair of the fallen. It didn’t take long for Methos to disarm him, the katana flipping end over end to embed itself in the ground, dragon’s head ivory hilt quivering. He dropped to his knees, his senses aware only that it would finally be over, that the pain would be gone, the misery severed as completely as his head.

“I’m sorry, Duncan.”

There was true regret in Methos’ eyes, but Duncan knew that it had to come to this, knew it had to be done. He gave Methos a brief nod and closed his eyes. He heard the whistle as the sword cut the air, felt the sharp pain as the blade cut into his neck....

“Noooo!”

Duncan bolted upright in the bed, shaking, his hair hanging across his face in long sweaty tangles. His hand flew to his neck, rubbing, where he could still feel the bite of the sword as it took off his head.

But his head was still attached, very attached, and he was here, in his bed, in the loft, not in Paris, not outside the cemetery where Tessa was buried. He pushed the blankets aside, swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, feeling cold steel under his bare feet as they came to rest on the katana, on the floor beside the bed, always within easy reach. The buzz of another Immortal played softly in his head. Not one approaching, but one who was already in the room, his presence already registered and relegated to the back of his mind. He stood, glancing over toward the kitchen where the soft pale light of dawn played across the counter, across the motorcycle helmet sitting on the end of the counter.

Motorcycle helmet?

His gaze swung to the couch, where a blanket covered body lay, one sock covered foot sticking out at one end, curly strawberry blonde hair sticking out at the other. He was beside the couch in an instant, falling to his knees on the floor, pulling the blanket back to reveal the youthful face, head still attached, breathing quietly.

“Richie?”

The boy stirred, nose wrinkling, yawning widely, before opening his eyes to see Duncan hovering over him, tears running down his face, brown eyes wide and disbelieving.

“What’s wrong, Mac? You look like you’ve seen a ghost, or something.” He struggled up to sitting, blanket still wrapped around him, yawning again.

“Richie, is that you?”

Richie gave him a wide stare, one that clearly said he thought Duncan had lost it. “Of course it’s me. What the hell is wrong, Mac?”

Duncan glanced back toward the bed, then looked at Richie again, he brain shouting, He’s not dead! I didn’t kill him!

“I had a...nightmare, I guess.”

“Bad, huh?”

Duncan nodded, unable to look away. “Yeah.”

“Wanna tell me about it?”

Duncan closed his eyes, saw Richie’s dead body, the blood running down his hands. “No, no I don’t. It’s nothing you need to worry about.”

“Then why are you staring at me like that?” Richie asked, frowning. “You’re weirding me out, Mac.”

“I’m just glad to see you, Richie, that’s all.” Duncan leaned forward and clasped him in a hug, which Richie tolerated for about two seconds before shrugging away with a wry smile.

“That’s it, Mac, no more beer for you after midnight, got it?”

Duncan smiled. “Whatever you say, Rich, whatever you say.”

the end

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