Chapter Text
A librarian wearing dark glasses asked him: 'What are you looking for?' Hladik answered: 'I am looking for God.' The librarian said to him: 'God is in one of the letters on one of the pages of one of the four hundred thousand volumes of the Clementine. My fathers and the fathers of my fathers have searched for this letter; I have gone blind seeking it.'
The Secret Miracle, Jorge Luis Borges
+
Prologue — Nor Pale Fear Dwells
"Damn it, Joe! I won't let them do this!" Duncan MacLeod closed his eyes against the tension in his head and listened stoically to the protestations of his Watcher, sure that nothing Joe Dawson could say at this point would sway him from his intended course.
"Joe, I'm on my way whether you like it or not. I'll be there in fifteen minutes. Then you're going to tell me where he is; you're going to tell me exactly what's going on."
With a suffocating sense of his old detachment, Duncan waited as Joe repeated his argument, restated his reasoning: Adam Pierson has been relocated by order of the highest levels of the Watcher Council. His whereabouts are unknown and unknowable. It's better this way, Mac. I warned you that nothing good would come of your obsession with him. Duncan listened without interrupting as Joe warmed to the notion that his words were finally sinking in. It was only as Joe again stated his absurd conclusion–He's gone, and there's nothing you can do about it–that Duncan reacted.
"No! He– You don't have the right to just–" Duncan stopped, took a deep breath, realized that other people in the cafe had stopped talking and were looking at him oddly. He made a conscious effort to calm himself, to slow his racing heart. "I appreciate everything you've done for me, Joe. Everything. But I won't stand idly by while the Watchers make him do something I know he doesn't want to do. Not this time. I can't." Duncan shook his head. "It's one or the other, Joe," he stated with finality. "The decision is yours. You're either part of the solution or you're part of the problem."
Duncan flipped his cell phone closed, effectively ending the discussion. He got up, dropped some money on the table and exited the cafe, heading toward the waterfront at a clip, in the direction of Joe's bar.
His gait was long and purposeful as he walked down Washburn Avenue in the fish market section of Seacouver. The air was crisp, chilly, the sky overcast and heavy, weighed down by cumulous clouds colored a dirty white and gray. It's going to snow, Duncan realized with disgust as he crossed a busy street against the light.
Exhaling sharply, he veered to avoid a small woman with a baby carriage. His argument with Joe had upset him more than he wanted to admit; Duncan prefered not to draw a line in the sand with a man who had saved his life, a man he had come to consider a friend, but his desire to confront his Watcher about the disappearance of Robert de Valincourt and . . . other things . . . was a tangible force nipping at his heels. Duncan was through being diplomatic. He was finished with platitudes, with accepting indignities heaped upon him like a truckload of cow crap by the Watcher Organization; with being told who he could associate with, and when, and where. With having his life threatened–and his sanity–by so-called 'rogue' Watchers who never seemed to be sanctioned by the Watcher Organization but who always managed to have every organizational resource at hand to perpetrate their madness.
This last year of his life had been one long tragedy. He had been kidnapped, tortured, hunted, treated like an animal in a zoo–all at the behest of the Watcher Organization or members of that organization. Distinctions between the various classes of Watchers were mere semantics at this point. Despite Joe's rationalizations, it no longer mattered to Duncan that there were 'good' Watchers and 'bad' Watchers; that, supposedly, the 'rogue' Watchers had been brought to justice. The assurances the Watcher Organization had offered that they had completely excised the Column and punished the Hunters, and that such an infiltration into their ranks would never happen again was worth about as much to him as a tin penny.
Never interfere. Bullshit!
Duncan wanted answers–about everything. Along with those answers, he wanted some sort of guarantee that the Watchers would respect his right to live his life without their interference. He wanted some privacy–and the freedom to be friends with Joe or with . . . Adam, even. Most of all, he wanted the freedom to explore the enigma that was the Watcher Adam Pierson.
Adam.
Though many times in the last year he had felt as if he were standing on the edge of a precipice, Duncan knew he wasn't crazy. He wasn't. He just wanted to get to know Adam better, after all the man had done for him.
Who the hell did the Watchers think they were–to say that the two of them couldn't be friends?
He reached another busy intersection that was artfully framed by the leafless skeletons of trees. Duncan stopped at the curb. He was only five blocks away from Joe's bar, but he couldn't get there quickly enough. Not bothering to wait, he timed his advance upon the street and proceeded against the light.
Duncan was midway across the street when he froze. A car stopped short, barely missing him. Horns blared loudly as he stood in the midst of traffic, unable to convince his legs to move. Confusion blanketed him like a wall of white noise as Duncan felt that prickling, tingling sensation at the back of his neck–the inimical announcement that another Immortal was in the area.
And worse–it was happening to him . . . again! Bile like bitter beer pooled in the back of his throat. He experienced an instant of all-consuming panic. Choking, Duncan had to force himself to move, to finish crossing the street. Standing on a sidewalk that was suddenly, eerily deserted, looking around cautiously, it took all of his willpower not to simply turn and start running.
Reflexively, he started to move in the most likely direction of escape before he could control himself. He forced his legs to stand still, wiped the back of his hand across a brow that had become damp despite the coolness of the winter air. This couldn't be happening to him now!
What was this thing within him that made him consider doing something he would never have done before–before the Watchers had gotten their hands on him?
This rush of heat.
This inability to think.
This pressing panic.
He examined the feeling closely and named it fear.
He had been afraid to fight before. A few times over the years he had even run away from a challenge, to his shame. But he had never felt so completely paralyzed, unable to move, unable to think. He had never felt like this!
But there was no more time for introspection because his adversary–adversaries, Duncan noted with alarm–were approaching.
There were three of them. Three.
Duncan knew he had to find himself. Had to. He would not live his life like this–even if it killed him, even if he were to die today. He forced himself to stop and announce himself..
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he proclaimed loudly–too loudly.
The tallest of the three–Eastern European by the look of him–stepped forward. His gaze was hard and piercing, and Duncan had to force himself not to look away. Duncan's implacable façade was like the first thin, treacherous, layer of winter ice on a lake and Duncan could tell that his adversary could see right through him. "Skip the pleasantries," the Immortal snarled in Russian. "We can do this here, or we can take this over to the alley–your choice. You decide how many of these sheep you want to take with you."
Duncan looked around quickly; saw a woman with a baby carriage waiting at the light and a senior citizen standing at the bus stop, staring at them with undisguised curiosity. Duncan knew it would be a disaster to accept a challenge in broad daylight, in the middle of a pedestrian throughway. He had no choice but to take this to the alley.
"The alley," he said shortly, and turned his back, using all of his willpower to seem unconcerned and not to break into a run. He consoled himself with the thought that, once away from innocent bystanders, he could use the change in location to somehow escape the situation.
They reached the alley. Duncan pulled his sword from its sheath in the lining of his coat…and turned.
Three Immortal challengers advanced on him, swords drawn, with the dark-haired Russian in the lead. Duncan knew he should move, that he should determine the most defensible position and relocate, but he was frozen in place, like a deer in headlights, and his right arm felt weak. Never had his own sword felt so strange in his hand. Not since he was a boy had he felt so unsure of himself: the light sheen of sweat that beaded his brow; the terrible weakness at the back of each knee that made him feel as if at any moment his legs could give out from under him; the awful, awful feeling of unease that lay coiled like a snake in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't move. He was immobilized by terror that had somehow crystallized, sitting in his bloodstream like sediment. The tip of his sword hit the ground with an ominous thud, the impact reverberating up his arm, and it was that reverberation that shook him from his malaise. He scrambled backwards, practically tripping over his own feet in his haste to put space between himself and his advancing nightmare.
"Fight you cock-sucking son of a whore!" the Russian snarled, clearly disgusted by Duncan's strange behavior. His two cohorts hung back, saying nothing, but watching for the opportunity to intervene. "What of your glorious reputation? I came to fight a lion and find a sniveling woman instead!"
Maybe if there had been only one of them, Duncan could have mastered the fear by sheer strength of will. Had there been only the Russian snarling at him, maybe he could have found some luck somewhere in the depths of his soul.
But instead, luck found him.
"What have we here?" a disembodied voice asked from the mouth of the alley. "Three against one? Tsk. Tsk. Tsk. That hardly seems fair. And it's against the rules."
Duncan blinked. He knew that voice. "Connor!"
"Duncan." Connor had his sword out and was carefully maneuvering around the Russian's two cronies. He nodded his head towards his kinsman.
Duncan realized that Connor was not alone. Another Immortal, a short, swarthy man Duncan had never met before, took up a position to the right of his adversaries, and suddenly, the situation in the alley was at an impasse. Connor reached his side.
"How did you...?"
"Later, Duncan," he said.
"I have issued a challenge!" the Russian bellowed, in English this time.
Connor stepped towards the Russian, pointed his sword at his neck. "You," he declared. "You will give my kinsman a minute. A fair challenge you may have, but this," he gestured to the two Immortals who had accompanied the Russian, "looks like an ambush."
"No ambush!" the Russian objected.
"Fine. Then you won't mind backing the fuck up and giving us a minute," Connor snarled. The Russian lowered his sword.
Connor walked over to Duncan, pulled him a little to the side, whispering, "Are you okay?"
"Yeah, thanks, Connor." Duncan placed his sword back in its sheath and wiped his palms on his jeans. "I…what are you doing here? Wait, it doesn’t matter. I need to get out of here. I didn't think…the three of them…"
Connor interrupted, looking at Duncan strangely. "Don't worry about it, Duncan. Give me your coat. Take that one's head," Connor pointed at the Russian, "and don't worry about his friends. I'm pretty sure they won't be issuing any challenges once their 'leader's' head is rolling around on the ground."
"Isn't that right boys?" he called out, smirking. Connor pointed the tip of his sword in their direction. "If you interfere I'll take both your heads."
"Let's get this over with," Connor announced. "Duncan," he turned towards his kinsman, "your coat."
"Yeah."
Slowly, Duncan removed his sword and shrugged out of his coat and took up a stance. With an earsplitting howl, the Russian ran towards him. The breath hitched in Duncan's throat, he raised his sword to defend his face instinctively and retreated. The way he moved, awkward and stilted, the way he flinched as the sword swung in the direction of his face–he did not recognize himself. He had never–never–felt like this before.
"STOP!" Connor yelled from the sideline. The Russian snarled and refused to halt. Duncan, tripping over his own feet, stumbled to one knee. Convinced that the end had finally come, he closed his eyes, waiting for the feel of steel on his neck. Instead of feeling steel, he heard the sound of steel meeting steel and opened his eyes to see Connor standing over him with his sword blocking the Russian's killing stroke.
"You can not interfere!" the Russian yelled.
"Wait, I need five minutes with my kinsman. Just five minutes!"
"No! You not interfere!" the Russian was virtually foaming at the mouth and his English had deteriorated markedly.
"A deal," Connor snarled. "Five minutes. Give me five minutes with Duncan, then you can continue. If you give me five minutes with him and can still take his head, I will give you my head–without a fight."
"No!" Duncan yelled, jumping up and grabbing Connor's arm.
Connor shook him off. "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and I have four hundred and seventy-seven years and one hundred and twenty three heads. I place myself in the balance for five minutes."
The Russian had calmed. "How I know you keep your word? What about him?" He pointed his sword at Connor's mystery companion, who, along with the Russian's two cohorts, watched the proceedings poised for action, as if on the edge of a precipice.
"He will not interfere." Connor nodded to his friend. "He will abide my decision. You have my word."
The Russian smirked. "You sell your life cheaply, for this petookh who fights like a woman. You have five minutes."
Quickly, Connor grabbed his kinsman by the arm and dragged him to the side.
"Duncan, what's wrong with you?" Connor whispered fiercely.
"I don't know! I just . . . It's just– I froze, Connor! My mind just went blank. I don't know what's wrong with me."
"Do you need me to get you out of this?"
"No!"
"Okay. Okay. Wait." Connor paused. "Duncan, do you trust me?"
Duncan nodded.
"Okay, your problem is what was done to you by the Watchers–"
"How do you–?"
"Not now Duncan!"
"It makes sense that this is simply a mental problem, one that you can work through given enough time. But we don't have time." Connor breathed out explosively, as if he were about to take a great leap of faith, then he shrugged out of his coat, threw it to the side and started unbuttoning his shirt. He pulled it off and ripped the shirt down a seam. "He better be right about this," he mumbled.
"Duncan," he said quickly, "you're going to have to trust me. I'm going to blindfold you–"
Duncan took a step backwards. "What!?"
"I'm going to blindfold you." Connor grabbed his arm and turned him, using a swath of shirt to cover his eyes, tying the makeshift blindfold behind his head. "Your Quickening is so much more than you know, Duncan. Trust your power; trust your instincts. Everything that is real will call to you, all of nature, all of life. You do not need to see it to know."
"Wait! I can't do this! Why are you doing this?"
"I know you can do this, Duncan." Connor closed his fist around his sword and maneuvered Duncan forward, into position. "I know you can do this," he said again, more quietly, fervently, and Duncan, too shocked to do anything but follow his kinsman's lead wondered Connor believed what he was saying, or whether he was just trying to convince himself.
"Clear your mind. Just use your Quickening, Duncan–it's like a sixth sense. Your instincts will not fail you."
"What is this?" the Russian taunted. "You expect this woman, this petookh, to fight blindfolded? Now you make mockery. I will make short work. I will take both you heads. I fuck Clan MacLeod like the whore she is!"
Duncan met the first stoke through a sort of muscle memory, a reliance on centuries of experience that told him were to expect the first strike to fall, like an expectation of one of a finite number of opening moves in a game of chess. Faltering in the dark haven of the blindfold, he stumbled back. It had all come down to this: he was about to be butchered in an alley, his head lopped off like a chicken, a descent that would utterly ruin his kinsman in its wake. It was an unacceptable reality. He would not have it. He was Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and he would at least meet his end like a man; he would not let what was done to him by the Watchers be the final expression of his four centuries and more of existence. He would not let his fear cost his kinsman his life. He would try, and in his resolution to try, he let go of reasoned thought. Leaping into the abyss of his own Quickening, he found a kind of equilibrium that broke his fall, and in the process entered an entirely different realm–a realm where one did not have to see to be able to act.
The Russian's Quickening hit him, when it hit him, like the soft touch of a feather down his spine rather than as a both of energy, so deeply was he swimming in his own power.
When Duncan came back to himself, he was standing in the alley with Connor and a headless body, alone, the three immortal spectators having taking themselves off to where Duncan knew not.
"Connor," Duncan said tiredly, passing his kinsman his sword in exchange for his coat. "Not that I don't appreciate the help but what are you doing here?"
Connor was grinning like a proud parent, and after all Duncan had been through, he found it all rather annoying. "Your Watcher friend called," Connor explained. "He said you were in trouble. That there were three hunters after you who liked to play dirty."
"Joe called you?" Duncan asked in surprise.
"Joe? I don't know anyone named Joe. The guy's name was Adam. Adam Pierson."
Duncan froze in the process of putting an arm into a coat sleeve. "Adam Pierson called you?"
"On my cell phone, no less," Connor said dryly. "I have to admit it took a little convincing for me to believe that there's a whole organization dedicated to 'watching' us but Pierson was pretty convincing. These Watchers are way too knowledgeable for comfort." He knelt down and wiped Duncan's sword on the coat of the headless Immortal. "Think we'll have to do something about that," he mumbled.
"So, Duncan," Connor said, straightening up, "who is this Watcher and why is he so concerned about you?"
"He was concerned?"
"Yeah, and good thing, too. This was a mess and a little too close for comfort." He stopped, cocked his head, looking at Duncan speculatively. "You're a mess." He declared, with a certain finality that made Duncan sigh. They started moving towards the mouth of the alley, towards the street, towards ordinary mortal civility.
"What did he say?" Duncan asked quietly as they walked.
"Who?"
"Adam."
"Oh. You want it verbatim? Is he your girlfriend or something, Duncan?" Connor smirked. Duncan scowled.
"He said the Watchers had captured you, held you prisoner for months. He said they tortured you, ran some rather gruesome tests to determine the limits of immortality and to test certain theories." Connor paused. "Basically, he told me you needed my help; that there were hunters after you and he was quite sure that your time with the Watchers had affected your ability to protect yourself." Duncan looked away, embarrassed. "In fact, he gave me very specific instructions about what to do when I got here, something about telling you to, 'Trust the force, Luke,' but I decided on my own to leave all references to Star Wars out of it and to reference my own experience instead," Connor said dryly. "I needed you to trust me, not think me crazy."
"So you blindfolded me? What made you think it would work?"
"Ask Pierson. It was his idea. He seems pretty smart. I was skeptical at first but then he reminded me of something my teacher Ramirez used to say. I have to give it to him, he was right on the mark."
"What if he had been wrong?"
"Well, you were going to get your fool head cut off anyway. I wasn't sure how many rules you would let me break to take out those three piles of walking sheep's dung myself. Seemed like as good a plan as any." Connor shrugged. "Your Watcher friend seems to know you very well."
"He's not my friend."
"Really? Strange for him to go through so much trouble on your behalf, then." He looked at Duncan speculatively as they stopped at a light. "So what's his agenda?"
"I don't know," Duncan said slowly. "But I intend to find out."
"Don't worry." Connor said sarcastically. "I'll lend a hand. I'll be here for the duration anyway."
"What?" Duncan was pleasantly surprised. Connor was staying?
"We need to practice, Duncan. I'll not have you losing your head." The light turned green. "Let's go."
+
"Duncan, are you listening to me?" Connor said sharply from his chair at the other side of Joe Dawson's office.
Duncan looked up from the magazine that he was flipping through absently. "Of course," he answered.
Connor had been talking nonstop. He seemed not the least bit deterred that Duncan was less than responsive. He said, "Duncan, we'll start training in the morning," and Duncan responded with a noncommittal, "Hmmm," that seemed to satisfy his kinsman; Connor said, "You have to get past whatever is bothering you, Duncan," and Duncan said, "Hrmph," while nodding his head as if in agreement. It wasn't that he completely ignored Connor; on some level he heard everything that was said; on some level he even processed the information, stored it for consideration at a later date, but the bulk of his active consciousness was consumed with other, more pressing matters. Things more important to him, crucial even. Everything that Connor was saying, while very important in its way, did not mesh with the fact that Duncan had no intention of being around the dojo tomorrow to practice. This problem, this fear of fighting–whatever it was–Duncan was sure he could master it in time. The matter was not even uppermost in his mind.
He needed to see Adam.
"Hey Connor, can I get you a beer?" Joe asked, standing in the office doorway.
"Yeah, a beer would be great," Connor answered.
"How 'bout you, Mac?"
"Sure."
Duncan stood up when Joe excused himself to go gather the drinks and attend to his business in the main area of the bar. Quickly, Duncan made his way over to Joe's computer and logged on.
"Duncan, what are you doing?"
"Nothing," Duncan said casually as he powered the machine down and turned towards Connor with a slight grin, with the calm euphoria of having done something irrevocable. "Just needed to check something on the Internet."
Connor gazed at him for a long moment, assessing. "Duncan," he said slowly, "I'm worried about you. I've been hearing strange stories about you for a while now, and what do I find when I investigate? I find that the truth is stranger than the story; that the Duncan MacLeod sitting in front of me bares little resemblance to my kinsman. I want to know exactly what has happened to you Duncan. Is this really all related to what happened with the Watchers? Does this have something to do with Tessa's death?"
"Tessa." Duncan sighed. "No, not really."
"Then, what?"
"It's a long story, Connor. A long, unbelievable story."
"Well, I seem to be the only one out of the loop. Why don't you start from the beginning?"
The beginning. Duncan wasn't sure he could pinpoint that exact moment in time. It had all started with the Watchers, surely, and with the Watcher, Adam Pierson, in particular. Everything seemed to start with Pierson, much in the same way that the day can only start with the rising of the sun. But that was unfair, Duncan knew. His problems began long before Pierson entered his life with his sly smile and cynical ways. In fact, if he were to be truthful with himself, he was responsible for his own downfall. He could probably trace its genesis back to the feelings of depression, guilt and remorse he had been wallowing in after Tessa's death; traced all of his difficulties back to those dark days, those self-absorbed, self-indulgent days when his ability to reason seemed somehow stunted. How else to explain his inability to recognize a situation rife with potential danger? Especially since he had been trained to handle such situations. How else to explain why he did not beware the Watcher Organization and take appropriate countermeasures from the very beginning? Did he think they would just go away? After what they did to Darius?
Darius.
Maybe . . . maybe it had really all started with Darius, and his closely guarded knowledge of the legend that was Methos.