I Remember You Not Fondly

Exhausted in body and spirit, Methos collapsed onto the bed in his tent. Up till now, he hadn’t allowed himself to think that thought; the one that chilled him through: he might not be able to get back home. But he could no longer deny that very real possibility. Everything he held dear now depended on the mentally fragile woman who lay drugged and unconscious in Kronos’ tent. That realization, when he’d allowed himself to acknowledge it, had been devastating.

He had watched as Kronos had carried her in, as he’d laid her carefully on his bed, running a medical scanner across her prone form before injecting her with the contents of yet another hypospray. It had been so eerily similar to Methos’ own experience with Triona seven years ago that he was no longer able to watch the scene before him, turning away from what seemed like history repeating itself. Forcing back the memories of a time when he thought he’d lost Triona forever in the lab accident that had broken her mind.

Afterwards, Kronos had told him that it was sometimes days before she recovered from one of her breakdowns. And Methos had despaired, taking his leave, escaping to the solitude of his tent.

“Fine, but if it blows up, I expect groveling for the next several centuries!” He heard his wife’s voice from what was only hours before, and a universe away, say laughingly. He knew she’d try and find a way to bring him home. If she was able to -- were she even still alive. That dark thought hissed and whispered at him now that he was alone.

Methos drained the glass, refilling it from the pitcher at his side, the Romulan ale burning a trail through his gut like fire. No, she was still alive, he wouldn’t kill her. Now knowing some of the history between the Methos and Triona in this reality made him even surer of that. He would want her, and he would take her. After making sure she had learned the painful consequences of displeasing him first.

What his other self must have done to her in the intervening hours constricted his heart like a vice. If Methos had believed in fate, in karma, he would have believed this was his due for his past. What better punishment than to have the woman he loved tormented by the man he’d been? And what was she being punished for? For accepting his past and making a life with him? Or just for loving him?

But no, Methos didn’t believe in such things. There was no god, no higher power that meted out punishment for one’s sins. No, he didn’t believe. Such beliefs had long been absent from his life. How else could he have stayed sane?

As he fell asleep, Methos laughed bitterly at this fate that had been laid out for them both.

@_________________________@

Sometimes, Methos dreamed. And other times, he relived. And those relivings could cut to the quick of the soul….

They had been riding all day, on their quest to find Silas. One more step in reuniting the Horsemen, fulfilling Kronos’ dream. There had been a wariness, mixed with the memory of companionship, leaving Methos unsettled. Not that he’d felt at all settled since Kronos’ dagger had plunged into his heart in Seacouver less than a week before. That oh so inevitable moment. That one that Methos had rarely let himself think about since leaving Kronos at the bottom of a well more than two thousand years before. But now, payment was due.

They sat at the campfire, like they had so many thousands of time before. In some ways, it was if no time at all had passed. Then Kronos spoke, and his words froze Methos’ heart.

“Your woman made it safely back to Toronto then,” Kronos said casually, an amused smile tugging at his lips. Before Methos could respond, he added, “I look forward to meeting her. Triona, that’s her name, isn’t it?” Then he looked Methos straight in the eye, with what almost might have been pity. “Private detectives are one of the more useful things about this age.”

Methos’ mind raced, refiguring plans and plots; the mental chess game he played with himself moving at light speed as he absorbed this newest information. Kronos knew about her. It was something he hadn’t anticipated. The first thing he’d done on returning home after Kronos had come back into his life, before going to see MacLeod, had been to send her back home to Toronto, to safety. It was something Methos had counted on, something that had given him some small measure of calm in this maelstrom. But with those few words, Kronos had ripped that calm away like a scab from a wound.

“Yes,” was all he said, keeping his voice level. It was just one more variable in his plan. Or so he tried to convince himself.

“Don’t look so concerned, brother!” Kronos exclaimed, slapping him on the shoulder. “She isn’t spoils; she’s your woman. Though I must admit, I’m surprised.”

“Oh? And why would that be?” Methos fought for a nonchalant tone.

“Why? Because you’ve had an aversion to Immortals sharing your bed since… what was her name? Parva! Yes, Parva, that was it,” he replied, remembering. “Though I suppose this one isn’t inclined to murder you in your sleep for your quickening?” He was practically chortling at Methos’ expression of indignation.

“That was nearly three thousand years ago!” Methos protested. “I misjudged the situation.”

“Yes, ‘misjudged’. That’s one way to put it.” Kronos poured more coffee into their mugs. “Fortunate for you I didn’t misjudge the situation, or we wouldn’t be sitting here tonight, you and I.”

“I believe I thanked you for that at the time,” Methos said somewhat peevishly. “And no, there’s no danger of that, since you were wondering. I’ve become more… discerning.” He stared into the fire, hoping Kronos would drop the subject. But it wasn’t to be.

“Indeed you have,” Kronos agreed with a speculative look. “I recall your tastes being more inclined to pleasure; simple women whose talents were more… carnal. Nothing to tax the mind -- theirs or yours. Now this woman of yours, this one will actually be useful. A talent for moving large sums of money without notice, and something of a scientist. I’m impressed, Methos!”

He didn’t respond, tightening his jaw, fingers clenching the metal mug. Kronos knew far too much. And that was only what he’d revealed so far. Kronos being Kronos, there would be more revelations to come. All to make sure Methos knew who was in charge and that Kronos knew just exactly what he had to lose.

Kronos continued, seemingly oblivious to the stonily silent man at his side, “There’s always room for someone that benefits the group. Well done indeed! ”

“Oh, of course it’s always about you, Kronos,” he finally replied caustically.

Kronos quirked a brow. “I’m glad that we agree, brother.”

Methos stirred in his sleep, grappling with the memories and waiting for a dawn that might never come.

He skimmed his fingertips up and down her left arm, as if remembering something – or someone. Despite herself, she tried to pull away, only to have her wrist pinned down at her side against the mattress. He looked at her with that self-satisfied smirk that she wished she could claw off his face. “Now, now,” he remonstrated, “you’ve been such a good girl. Don’t ruin it now.”

Turning her face away, Triona squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the rage, the bloodlust, which threatened to overwhelm her. She had promised herself that she would do whatever it took to get Methos back, no matter what debasement his mirror self perpetrated, but it took every ounce of self control she’d ever had to bear what had happened, and what was to happen still.

His fingers bit into her chin, forcing her head back. “That’s against the rules,” his voice against her ear like a hiss. “No mental disciplines, no vampire tricks. I want the woman, all of you, here with me now.”

Clenching her fists, she opened her eyes, putting every bit of loathing and hate into her gaze. He smiled down at her and the bile rose in her throat. Once more, his fingers trailed down her arm and back up again, lingering over her breast.

“I’d forgotten what you… what she,” he corrected himself, “was like undamaged.” He fell silent.

Triona had to ask. And besides, if he was talking to her, it bought her time, kept him from her. “Undamaged?” Cautiously, she sat up, pulling the bed sheet up around her as she did so. But he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes taking on a faraway look.

“You know what happens when acid meets human flesh. Imagine what your arm—“ he slid his hand down her shoulder to her wrist “—would look like after that.”

Fighting back a shudder, she inched farther away. “Did you—“

“No!” He seemed angry that she’d think he was responsible. “MacLeod’s witch, Cassandra, did the deed. But Triona blamed me nonetheless. I did what I could afterwards to heal the damage, but it wasn’t enough.” Surprisingly, there was regret in his voice. “She suffered her first death before there was ever the possibility of reconstructive surgery, so she bears the scars even now.”

“Cassandra?” Triona whispered, mostly to herself. What sort of universe was it that this man came from?

“That surprises you?” He pulled her back against him, having finally noticed her slowly moving away.

“Yes.” She forced herself to breathe slowly as he drew her closer, his fingers snaking into her hair, resting his cheek against the top of her head.

“You’re acquainted then?”

Triona did her best to divorce herself from his touch, to concentrate on the conversation. There could be some clue, some weakness to be revealed if only she asked the right questions. At least, that’s what she told herself. Grasping at straws to keep the fear at bay. “We were friends, once upon a time.” And they had been, when she had been Cate and she’d known Cassandra as Sage in the mid twenty-first century.

“And now?”

“Now? We exchange pleasantries at conferences, neither of us quite trusting the other.”

He made a sound that might have been laughter or disgust. “Conferences! What a strange life you do lead on this side of the mirror.”

“It isn’t my reality that’s the strange one,” she bit out. “Your Cassandra is a monster!”

“Now, now! Would it make you feel better to know that she paid for the suffering she inflicted on your other self?” He settled himself more comfortably against the pillows. “Oh, she paid dearly indeed.”

“What happened?” she asked, dreading the answer, but needing to know.

“You happened. So much hate and rage in such a tiny container.” Methos was obviously enjoying himself, his voice awash with gleeful anticipation. “You see, Triona and I develop weapons. We’re very good at it, artists some might even say. And Immortals make excellent test subjects, especially for some of the nastier biotoxins.”

She began to get a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach over where this story was leading, swallowing hard to keep that sickness at bay.

He continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress. “Cassandra had the misfortune of falling into our hands. Now Kronos would have been perfectly willing to cut a deal with her, but Triona wanted blood. So he made Cassandra a gift to his lover, and it was a gift Triona delighted in for nearly a year, before she took the witch’s head. I’m sure, that for Cassandra, death was a blessing. Triona had been very… creative in the year she’d been our ‘guest’.”

A hiss of horror escaped her lips. Not just for what had happened, but that somehow, ‘she’ could be capable of such cruelty. “My god…” she began, but couldn’t find the words. And then the words ‘his lover’ finally registered. Kronos? It was just one more emotional shock on top of all the others.

Laughing with a soft chill, he said, “You don’t think you’re capable of doing what Triona did, do you?” He looked down at her with glittering eyes, and she shrank back into the headboard, making an instinctive, though useless, move to escape. “You don’t think that ten years of depravity and suffering that ended in a shower of acid would drive you to take your revenge when your tormentor fell into your hands?”

She just shook her head wordlessly. His hand wrapped around her throat, pushing her back down onto the bed, the grip not quite enough to restrict her breathing, but close. “You don’t think you have that in you?” he whispered at her ear, the sound of his voice seeping into her senses like a miasma. “You and I both know that’s a lie, little one, don’t we? We both know that the darkness is your constant companion, one that you are never free to acknowledge, not to yourself, especially not to him.”

“That’s not true,” she protested weakly, but in her heart, she knew she lied. And so did he. Memories she had tried so hard to forget over the passing centuries railed at her, demanding acknowledgment. This time, she couldn’t stop the tears as his lips and hands roamed across her body.

“There, you see? I told you to save your tears for yourself, didn’t I, Triona?”

Triona paced the length of the lounge and back again. There was something, at the edge of her thoughts, which she knew would be the answer to sending him away and getting Methos back. If only she had that spark, that something that took one past normal intelligence to genius. If she had been a Leah Brahms or a Zephram Cochrane, she would have figured out the answer by now. But she wasn’t, and each revelation, each leap, was accomplished with pure stubbornness and sheer will that was matched only by desperation.

He wasn’t there; leaving her locked in the lounge while he saw to other things. Whatever those things were, she was just thankful he wasn’t here with her now. His presence left her feeling sick and tainted, forestalling any chance she might have of what had passed between them, of her violation, to be pushed into a dark corner of her mind.

Somehow, he seemed to tap into her darkest fears and insecurities. She wished she could blame it all on Methos’ journals, but she knew that wasn’t all of it. No matter what she tried to tell herself, it had been almost impossible to totally ignore his insights into her soul. Even though she knew he was manipulating her, that it was something he was expert at, despite it all, he was breaking her down. Was the mentally broken Triona he knew so different from her? After all, hadn’t she herself nearly lost her sanity seven years ago? Was madness inevitable?

Methos had brought her back from that darkness then. But he wasn’t here now. She was alone. Truly alone for the first time in so many centuries that part of her didn’t know if she could cope. The thing she couldn’t acknowledge, the fear that whispered its poison, was that Methos was dead, or unable to ever return. But she couldn’t let herself fall prey to that hopelessness. If she had no hope, there would never be any escape.

Dropping into the chair at the computer station, she buried her face in her hands. No, that was him talking. He wanted her to doubt herself, to doubt those that loved her. She could do this. She had to – there was no one else.

Quantum equations and formulas battled with haphazard thoughts of her captor, creating a hellish mental picture. Fighting back despair, Triona forced herself to remember joys of the past. In her mind’s eye, she conjured up that first glimpse of Methos, standing at the front door, looking like an encyclopedia salesman. Then the night that had followed, his warmth melting her frozen soul. Making her believe there was a future that wasn’t doomed to darkness. He had been a light shining into the night. He was her hope and her love, and she couldn’t fail him.

And a much more recent memory, the first time she’d held her daughter in her arms. Something she had never thought possible. For Lucia, she would do anything, fight any battle, move heaven and earth to protect her. The life of her mortal daughter was racing past so quickly and Triona had sworn to do whatever it took to make that life a happy one.

Then, out of grief and memory, that spark finally came. Her head snapped up, eyes shining with sudden knowledge as she furiously entered data into the computer. The seconds it took to reveal a result were like an eternity. But then, there it was -- the answer. Methos could come home, and her nightmare would end; their nightmare would end.

@_____________________________@

Time had passed nearly unnoticed as she lost herself in fine tuning the calculations, so she was actually startled at the sound of the lounge door opening. That surprise was quickly replaced by a jolt of fear and uncertainty as the twisted double of Methos entered the room. She held absolutely still as he ran a hand through her hair.

“You are single-minded,” he observed softly, glancing at the monitor in front of her. “You probably didn’t even miss me.” She clenched her jaw, but made no other reaction to his taunting. The hand that had been stroking her hair now pulled her head back. “And that just won’t do,” he whispered as he took her lips with his, raising her out of the chair to pull her across the small room.

Then as abruptly as he’d taken her, he released her, pushing Triona back onto the couch before dropping into a chair across from her. His gaze upon her was like an oily caress. There was no real inkling to what he was thinking, and his silence unnerved her.

She took a steadying breath, trying to ignore the look in his eyes. “I know how to send you back,” she finally said into the quiet. “There’s still time, before the sun rises, if we leave now.” She couldn’t quite suppress the note of relief in her voice.

“Is that so?” There was still nothing to indicate what he might be feeling.

“Yes.”

“Well done!” He sprawled in the chair as if he had been poured into it, his long legs extended out in front of him. “I knew you’d figure it out eventually. She, your double, probably has as well.”

“There’s nothing to stop you from going back home, not now.” Please, God, let it be over.

“I’m devastated that you’re so eager to be rid of me, dearest! I thought we had something special, you and I.” His mocking tone was accompanied by a cruelly amused grin.

Choking back a hiss of rage, she twisted at the folds of the scarlet silk dress she was once again wearing. “Is your life so empty that you have nothing better to do than to torment me?” she shouted, her fury demanding outlet. “You have galaxies to conquer and suffering to inflict! I’d have thought you’d be chomping at the bit to go back to your twisted, freakish reality!”

Methos pushed himself out of the chair; the careless posture of before replaced with a predatory grace as he crossed the small space between them. “I think you forget yourself, little one.” He leaned over her, his eyes like cold jade. “I decide when this ends. You would do well to remember that.”

Laughter grated out like sandpaper. “As if I could forget!”

Sinking down onto the cushioned seat, he pressed into her. “Oh, but I think you have forgotten. If you want me gone, and him back at your side, you need to convince me.”

Triona couldn’t stop herself from shivering as his hand ran up her thigh. It was like a nightmare she couldn’t wake up from. Soon, she told herself. Soon, he would be gone. Just a little longer, just a little more humiliation, and it would all be over. It had to be over. She didn’t know how much more she could take before she snapped, dooming Methos to an eternity in the hell of the mirror universe he was trapped in.

His lips slid along the line of her jaw, his breath hot against her face. “Convince me, Triona,” he commanded, his voice not much more than a whisper as it wafted past her ear. “Please me, and you can have it all back; your heart’s desire. You said you’d do anything to get him back. Now, you get to prove it.”

Methos sat on a ridge overlooking the alien device that had brought him to this hell. Would he ever make it back home? Doubt had begun to seep into every corner of his mind. He was used to being in control of whatever situation he found himself in, but this was different; here, he had absolutely none. Rarely in his life had he felt so powerless.

The first glimmers of sunrise had crept like fingers across the plain below. Soon, it would be light and the beginning of another day here in this false reality. He’d woken hours ago, unable to calm the tormented thoughts that plagued him. He’d tried meditation, but even that had proved useless. Finally, he had abandoned his tent for the sharp icy air of predawn and had walked with very little idea of where he was going. Then he had reached this place; a place that overlooked the very thing that had brought so much despair.

Picking up a rock, Methos hurled it away in angry frustration. Every new day on this side of the mirror increased the chances that he would never get home. And if he did get home? No, when he got home. When he got home there would be no more researching mysterious dead alien cultures and their artifacts. That he swore. Curiosity killed the cat indeed!

Just for a moment, the deep current of all his years pulled at him. A half recalled fragment of him looking up at the stars from a time so long ago that any memories were more like insubstantial dreams. How had he gone from that place to this? Surely that youth he’d been could have never imagined the possibilities, the sorrows and regrets, and yes, the joys, that the future would bring. And if he had? Would he have had the courage to face what was to come to get to the man he was now? To experience the life and the loves that had made him what he was?

Methos rarely dwelt on all the long ages he had lived. He’d said once that he was just a guy; and that was true. It had to be true or he would have surely gone mad. But there were moments, like this, when the reality of those years was undeniable. And the weight of them threatened to overwhelm his sense of place in this time and space.

Further introspection was interrupted by the warning sensation of another Immortal, soon followed by the booming echo of Silas’ voice on the morning breeze. “Methos! There you are!” Coming up to him, Silas slapped him on the back before dropping down to sit next to him.

Despite everything, Methos couldn’t stop a smile. The presence of the large Immortal had been the one bright spot during this whole experience. “Silas.” He nodded a greeting.

“I thought I might find you here,” Silas said. “He likes this spot.” He noticed the clench of Methos’ jaw at that observation. “You are very different from our Methos,” he added.

“That’s something, I suppose,” Methos murmured in reply. He looked up at Silas, an idea suddenly forming. “You’re fond of Triona.”

Silas beamed. “She’s my little sister. I look out for her and she teaches me things. I make her laugh.”

Methos nodded. “How would you like to do something for her no one else can?”

“What can I do?” Silas asked, perplexed.

“Her hand,” he explained. “You could help her make it stronger. I can teach you exercises that you could in turn show her.”

Silas looked thoughtful. “It upsets her. The scars always remind her.”

“Yes. But if she had more control of her hand, her grip, perhaps the memories would trouble her less.”

Nodding, Silas agreed. “I could do that. I would like to help.”

Several hours passed as Methos taught Silas the exercises that would help Triona. He felt a sense of satisfaction; at least he’d accomplished something of worth here. “You’re a good student, Silas!” he said, patting his arm.

“That’s what she says.”

“She’s right.”

The men fell into a companionable silence; each lost in their own thoughts. Then, Methos could feel the other man’s gaze upon him. Finally, Silas said into the silence, “She’s your woman where you’re from.”

“Yes, she is. Triona is my wife.”

“And you care for her?”

“Yes, very much.” Methos wondered where Silas was going with this.

“That’s good.” Then he said, “Kronos cares for her.”

“I know he does.”

“Methos never understood,” Silas said quietly. “Never understood why she turned to Kronos.”

Methos looked over at Silas, needing to know why, but afraid of breaking the spell should he ask. Finally, Silas met his eyes, and Methos was surprised at the sadness he saw there.

Silas seemed to be trying to decide if he should continue. Then he sighed, the sound like a bellows. “When he looks at Triona, Kronos never sees the scars. And Methos… the scars are all that he ever sees.”

Methos had no answer for that.

@_____________________________@

Methos and Silas made their way back to the encampment; both men wrapped up in their own memories. It was only the approach of another Immortal that drew them from wherever their thoughts had wandered.

“I thought I’d have to send out a search party,” Kronos chided.

Methos looked up at the sun, suddenly realizing how long he’d been gone. “Sorry. I lost track of the time.” Isn’t that the truth in more ways than one?

“Yes, well no matter! I only thought you’d like to know that Triona is well, and thinks she has figured out how to send you home.” Kronos smirked. “Assuming of course that’s what you still want?”

“I do!” Methos was unable to contain his joy at Kronos’ news. “While this has been fun, it’s time for me to take my leave,” he said wryly.

“I thought as much.” Kronos gripped Methos’ upper arm companionably. “This has been one of the more unique experiences in my life, I’ll admit.”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“Who knows? We may meet again one day, perhaps in the reality that you’re so fond of.”

“Perhaps. One never knows what the future holds,” Methos replied quietly.

“Who indeed, old friend. Who indeed?”

“Come! Triona has a few more details to work out, so we have time for a parting toast, yes?”

“Yes!” Methos couldn’t help but laugh. Beyond all hope, he was going home!

Triona pressed up against the bulkhead at the very edge of the bed, while the man who wore her husband’s face poured dark amber liquid into a glass. She was surprised when he reached across the bed to hand the glass to her.

As if enjoying some private joke, he explained, “You look like you could use a drink.”

Not arguing, she took a gulp of the contents. Saurian Brandy. The fiery liquid scorched her insides like molten glass. She’d never liked the stuff, but even the temporary effects of the potent alcohol were better than nothing. Taking another swallow, she closed her eyes, feeling the heat crawl up her belly into her throat. Bringing the glass back to her lips, she realized with some surprise that it was already empty.

As she looked down at the empty glass in her hand, he sat on the edge of the bed, bottle in hand. “More?” Not waiting for a response, he refilled the glass.

This time, she sipped. He trailed a finger down across her cheek before getting up and walking to the small table across from the bed, setting down the bottle. But instead of coming back, he sat down on the chair across from her.

Triona was absurdly thankful for the robe he’d given her to wear, even though she knew it was all part of the process of breaking her down. Make her grateful for the smallest kindnesses, while instilling fear of pain and punishment for any transgressions. Keeping her constantly on the edge of fear and uncertainty. She took another drink. Stockholm Syndrome a little voice whispered in warning. No, it was too soon for that. Wasn’t it? Taking a deep breath, she tried to calm her thoughts. It was just exhaustion and trauma. That was all it was. The thought of feeling dependent on him made her ill. She just needed to keep it together a little longer.

His voice, surprisingly gentle, interrupted her uneasy thoughts. “Tell me what it’s like.”

Shaking her head, she looked over at him in confusion. “What?”

“Feeding on the blood of another human. What is it like?” He looked at her intently.

“It’s…” Triona blinked several times, trying to understand what he was asking; why he was asking. But rational thought seemed to elude her.

“Is it like a quickening?” he asked, his voice still soft but full of curiosity.

She tried again. “It’s better; so much better. You drown in feeling, in emotion, in life.” Triona sighed softly, remembering. "There is nothing that equals it."

“But for you, there has to be a quickening to trigger the vampire that dwells in you.”

Old anger and bitterness welled up at his words, clearing her head for a moment. “Yes! I’m a mistake -- a freak of nature! Is that what you wanted to hear?” She took another gulp of the brandy, absently wondering why on earth she had revealed something so intensely personal to a man she hated.

“Freak?” Now he was sitting next to her, stroking her hair. “On the contrary, Triona. Is that what he’s made you think of yourself? Nothing,” he leaned in to kiss her, “could be further from the truth.”

“That’s not true,” she whispered, closing her eyes, trying to stop the spinning in her head. Alcohol on an empty stomach. Yes, that's what it was.

“Isn’t it?” His voice drew her away from the uncertainty and doubt. “Have you ever given him anything but pleasure when you’ve fed from him? Haven’t you always shared your very essence with him?”

“Yes…” Then she shook her head. "No... It’s not that simple,” she protested.

“Ah, little one.” His voice was heavy with regret. “If only you could see the possibilities your nature offers outside the constraints he’s placed upon you. If you could only experience the freedom!”

Triona remembered what it felt like; Methos’ blood singing in her veins, in her soul. The pure pleasure that both of them had shared in those very rare instances. It was during those moments she felt whole, at one with herself and with him. But for too many years, she'd carried so much guilt and regret about her nature that it was hard to remember it wasn't always an evil.

“The power of death itself,” he said softly, as if sharing a secret. “How could he not want to embrace that?”

This was wrong. Triona struggled against the hypnotic voice at her ear, trying to grasp the frayed edges of her self. Then her eyes fell on the glass she still held in her hand, and a cold trickle of fear ran down her spine. Drugged. “No,” she panted, dropping it. The remains of the brandy spilled, splashing across the bed, the scent of it choking her. “No!” There was a part of her that tried to fight, to pull away, but whatever he’d given her had sapped her will, and all that was left was the knowledge that she was totally helpless.

He grasped her chin, tilting her head up to search her eyes. “Yes, I think that’s done it,” he said to himself. “Don’t want to give you too much. You’re no good to me unconscious, after all.” He pushed her hair back from her face. “Don’t fret, Triona. Think of it as a compliment. You’re far too dangerous for me not to take… precautions.”

“Precautions?” she repeated,

“Until now, you’ve had reason to behave. But our relationship has reached a point where that’s no longer true. I need to make sure you remain compliant.”

“I don’t understand.” A fog had once more settled over her thoughts. She tried to focus, to fight the effect of the drug he’d given her.

“Don’t bother, little one. You can’t overcome it. In fact, the effects will only get stronger as it works through your bloodstream.”

“But why?” Her voice sounded very far away to her own ears.

“Why? Haven’t you figured it out yet? But no, of course you wouldn’t have – not quite yourself, are you?” Chuckling at his own wit, he stood, looming over her like a specter. The words from his lips fell like a sword of doom. “You see, I won’t be going back, and you’re going to tell me everything I need to know to slip into your universe; into his life.”

Though sheer terror washed over her, it had no outlet. It was as trapped in her mind as she was. Triona could feel the inexorable march of the drug as each moment passed. “No, I won’t.” She was barely even able to form the words of her defiance, but somehow, she got them out.

“Now, Triona, haven’t you learned the consequences of disobedience yet? I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if you persist in being uncooperative.”

“No!” she hissed. Triona knew without a doubt that if this mirror version of Methos were to get close to her family and friends, death would follow.

"You are the stubborn one." He sighed with mock sadness. “The drug I gave you is just a primer, you might say; a base to build upon.” Walking back to the table where he’d left the brandy, he reached into a bag, pulling out a hypospray. Turning back to her, he continued. “This is my masterpiece, if I can be so immodest. The first drug can be disseminated in the water supply, or in food rations. It's very useful in subduing slaves, or quelling rebellious inclinations in conquered territories. But this,” he waved the hypospray, “this is what makes it special.”

Leaning over, he grabbed her, pulling her to him before injecting the drug into her arm. “It attaches itself to the first drug, modifying it. Then, it affects the neural receptors. It enhances both pleasure and pain.”

He watched with clinical detachment as she fell back onto the bed, overcome by the drug's assault on her central nervous system. "But you and I both know that it's pain we're interested in today, don't we?"

"I won't help you," she choked out.

"You will." His voice was cold as stone. "It may take some time, but everyone can be broken; even you. You can be courageous and defy me, but in the end, it will be for nothing, because you will suffer, and then, you will submit."

He pulled a knife from his boot. "One last chance, little one." She didn't answer, just turned her head away. "In that case, shall we begin?"

Curled on the bed like an abandoned cat, Triona struggled to maintain her sense of self. It was a fight made all the more difficult by the fact that the last thing she wanted to do was remember what had happened here. When what she really wanted was to flee to some safe corner of her mind where there was no more pain, no more terror. She knew she must have told him everything he wanted to know -- in the end. Just like he’d said she would. Just as he’d promised she would. But Triona had no real memory of the details of her weakness, of her failure. The only thing she really remembered was the never-ending pain. And her screams; she remembered those all too well.

After it was done, he had left her, so certain of his drug, and her submission, that he hadn’t even bothered to restrain her. The second drug had burned its way out of her body, leaving only the first, the one that kept her mentally shackled, unable to physically rebel. A burst of rage shimmered before her; if she had been a true vampire, she would have ripped out his throat, and his blood would have bathed her wrath.

The door swooshed open, and he was back. Sick fear once again skittered across every nerve. Lying down next to her, he stroked her naked body. “See how much easier it is when you don’t resist, little one? Perhaps I’ll reward you with another dose, and we can explore pleasure instead of pain. Would you like that?”

Triona choked back a sob, curling into an even tighter ball.

“Shhhh…” His hands stilled. “One day, you’ll be eager for my attentions. After you’ve been alone here on this planet for a few years, I know you’ll come to appreciate my company; look forward to it, in fact.”

Her gasp of surprise seemed to amuse him, and he chuckled, his hands once more stroking her like a pet. “Did you think I was going to kill you? That would be a waste. No, I’ve found a lovely spot on an island several thousand miles from here that will suit you nicely till I return. I don’t think it would be wise to leave you within meddling distance of the artifact,” he said wryly.

Kissing her cheek, he sat up, drawing her with him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Now you need to eat something. I know you must be hungry.” She just looked at him with empty eyes.

Getting up, he walked over to the cabin’s replicator. Triona looked around the room that was her prison, a jolt of unexpected hope stabbing into her when she saw his knife lying abandoned on the table across from her; the knife that had inflicted so much agony. Was it another trap? No, it was overconfidence. Or at least, that was what she had to believe to have the courage to act. But the drug he’d given her still kept her docile. Could she overcome it, even for a moment? Quickly, she dropped her eyes as he turned back to her, a plate of food in his hand.

Handing it to her, he ordered her to eat. Obeying, she picked up a piece of bread, taking a small bite. It was like choking down sand. Head bowed, her eyes kept sight of the knife from beneath her lashes, mentally gathering herself to make one last attempt to free herself.

Then he was talking again, leaning nonchalantly against the very table that held her hope. “Your daughter is very beautiful. So young -- so mortal.”

Triona’s heart froze as she gripped the plate in her hands.

“She’ll be devastated by your death, I’m sure. But I promise you that I’ll do my best to comfort her.” This was said with a wolfish reassurance. Now he was smiling a smile that was all teeth. “Perhaps I’ll bring Lucia here to be with you.” His voice dropped to a chilled whisper. “Just what would you be willing to do to please me then, I wonder?

As he spoke, the shimmer of rage from before became a searing flame. He had to die. Even though that meant sentencing Methos to an eternity in the mirror universe. She had to protect her daughter, the very best thing that existed from Triona’s four centuries. For Lucia, she would suffer anything; she would not let this creature from the other side of the mirror touch her!

His voice droned on, but Triona was no longer listening. Every ounce of her will was focussed on breaking the hold the drug held over her. Shifting the plate in her grip, she flung it at his head like a discus. Not waiting to see if it hit its target, she launched herself at the knife, hearing the sound of impact, and his grunt of pain as her fingers grasped the knife hilt. Hitting the floor with the knife in hand, she rolled away. On her back, knees bent, she slammed her feet into his ribs as he launched himself at her. There was blood on his temple where the plate had caught him. As her feet made impact, she was rewarded with the sound of snapping bone.

The other Methos howled in outrage as he fell back in pain, and Triona felt a surge of triumph. He came at her again, this time, her elbow smashing into his sternum and then carrying through with the knife to slash at his throat. Her victory was short lived though. Weakened by drugs and torture, it wasn’t long before her assailant gained the upper hand. His fist caught her across the jaw, throwing her back, his booted foot slamming down onto the wrist that held the knife.

His knee planted on her chest, he held the knife to her throat. “You are a fool!” he panted. “I have given you every chance, every consideration, and still you defy me!” He was enraged, like he had been when he’d thrown her into the sun.

She screamed as he plunged the knife into her heart. As she died, she heard him say, “We’ll see how brave you are after the sun rises.”

@_____________________________@

Kronos handed Methos a glass of red wine. “From our own vineyards,” he said.

Methos took a sip of the wine, the flavour and the scent dragging him back to his own reality like nothing else had. This was their wine. Wine from the vines he and Triona had planted on Imladris when the colony was new. He felt a pang of homesickness but pushed it away. Soon, he would taste this wine again – on his own side of the mirror.

Kronos raised his glass. “To home.”

“To home,” Methos and Silas repeated.

They were silent for a time while they drank.

Then Methos looked at Kronos. “When he comes back, stop him. Don’t let him constantly undermine her.”

Kronos looked down into the depths of his glass. “Perhaps things can change,” he admitted.

He stepped closer, gripping Kronos’ arm. “Choose her first, for once.” From centuries in the past he heard Triona’s voice, “Just this once, choose me first.” He hadn’t, and they had both paid; in grief and in blood, they had paid.

Kronos only nodded. Then he set his glass down and opened a small chest nearby. He removed a velvet wrapped object. “Here,” he said, handing it to Methos.

Setting his own glass down, Methos unrolled the velvet to find a delicately wrought boot knife. Its blade was like a wave of iridescent silver ending in a viscously sharp point. He looked up at Kronos, a question in his eyes.

“For her, your wife,” he explained. “I had it made for Triona, but now…. I’d like your woman to have it.”

Nodding, Methos wrapped the wicked blade back it its velvet shroud. “Thank you.” He placed it in the inner pocket of his jacket.

The approaching presence of another Immortal interrupted them; a presence that was soon revealed in the tent entrance. “It’s time,” Triona told Kronos, very carefully avoiding looking at Methos.

“Shall we?” Kronos asked.

@_____________________________@

A few minutes later, the group found themselves at the ancient artifact.

“How does it work?” Methos asked.

Triona considered his question a moment before replying waspishly, “Does it really matter? You wouldn’t understand it anyway.”

Despite everything, Methos started to laugh, followed by Kronos and Silas. Triona just gave them a look, tapping her foot impatiently, waiting for them to stop. “If you’ve gotten it out of your systems?” she said pointedly, though Methos was sure he caught a ghost of a smile on her lips.

Kronos took her face between his hands, kissing her. “My favourite rocket scientist.”

This time, the smile was fully formed. “I’d better be,” she replied softly. Taking his hand, she squeezed it, before turning her attention back to Methos. “Go to the artifact, and touch it just like you did before. If your doppelganger is on the other side, within the set parameters of the quantum transfer algorithms, then you’ll be home.”

“And if he’s not?” Methos asked, not sure that he wanted to hear the answer.

Triona shook her head, her silence speaking volumes.

@_____________________________@

Hours later, Triona regained consciousness in the dark cabin. Her tormenter was asleep on the bed, and she was where he’d left her, on the floor, bound hand and foot, in a corner of the cabin. She had recovered from the stab wound through her heart to a still enraged Methos. He had then pumped several hypospray’s worth of his drugs into her, threatening her with the sun at the dawn.

“Do you think your mind will survive the burning this time, little one?” The cool heat of the hypospray hissed against her skin. “Maybe if you beg nicely, I won’t toss you out of the hatch after all.”

And she’d despaired. She would beg. She would do anything not to burn in the sun again. That had been her last thought as the drugs pulled her down into blessed darkness. But now, she was conscious, wishing to God she weren’t; lying in a congealed pool of her own blood, the smell of it sickening her. For the first time, she believed that there would be no escape -- none at all. From the beginning, through every violation and humiliation, through the pain and degradation, she’d held out hope. But that hope was now gone. She had failed Methos, failed Lucia, her family, and her friends. Tears of loss and grief etched a path down her blood-spattered cheeks. How long did she have before he awoke to begin it all over again?

Exhaustion, pain, and terror lulled her into a fitful sleep. But that sleep was interrupted by a presence. At first, she thought she was dreaming. Only her desperate need creating hallucinations for her to cling to. Triona forced herself to calm, reaching out with her mind. Oh, God, it was him! Choking back a sob, she waited. Then she heard his voice in her mind… Be strong just a little longer, ma petite précieuse.”

There was a shift in pressure, and then he was there. She couldn’t see with her eyes, but such things weren’t necessary for them. Triona felt his rage, his bloodlust. As he drained her tormenter, LaCroix shared all with her. What she was unable to do herself, she was able to vicariously experience through her Master. Then came the sound of bone snapping and the thud of a body dropping.

She was free.

Lucien LaCroix gently undid her bonds, the ancient Roman vampire handling her like she was the most delicate porcelain. All the while, he murmured endearments in French and Latin until she was finally free. As he gathered her in his arms, she began to sob, her body heaving.

“So much blood,” he whispered.

Taking a shuddering breath, Triona willed herself to calm. She was safe now, and soon, Methos would be home. Everything would go back to as it was.

Managing a whisper, she warned, “Careful. Drugs. Don’t know what they’d do to you.”

“I know, child,” he replied softly. He then tapped at a communication device pinned to his tunic. Soon after, the whine of a transporter filled the air, followed by the presence of those Immortal.

The ancient Roman vampire lifted his child into strong safe arms. “All will be well now.” His voice, along with his mental reassurance, attempted to comfort her.

The door whooshed open, revealing the familiar form of Duncan MacLeod. The man took in the scene before him, only the tightening of his mouth revealing any sign of his anger. “Triona, sweetheart, it’ll be okay now, I promise you,” he told her gently.

Struggling against LaCroix’s hold, he relented, placing her on her feet, but still holding her close. Duncan snagged a blanket from the bed, covering her with it. “He has to live,” she told them. “It’s the only way for Methos to come home.” When neither man immediately replied, she insisted, “Promise me!”

The two men looked at each other, nodding. “It will be as you say,“ LaCroix finally replied. “And now, we need to get you cleaned up and medical attention.”

She shook her head. “No,” she said faintly. “No time. I need to set up the transfer.”

“All will be done,” her Master assured her. “T’Rayla is here, already going over your calculations.”

Triona pulled the blanket tighter around herself, drawing away from LaCroix. “Good.” T’Rayla, daughter of Spock, had been Triona’s ward as a child, but now the young Vulcan was a woman grown, a brilliant scientist in her own right. “He,” she jutted her chin at the still dead Methos, “needs to be restrained and in the brig. He’s very dangerous. You have to believe me!” Her voice rose in a near note of hysteria.

“Of course we believe you, Trie,” Duncan replied comfortingly. “I’ll take care of it, trust me. Just let Lucien take you out of this place. Please,” the last was said with a note of pleading.

Nodding sharply, she blinked. “Yes, all right.”

“Then it is settled. “ LaCroix took her elbow in a gentle hold. “Duncan will take care of matters here while you are seen to. Agreed?”

Suddenly, she sagged against him. “Yes…. Please take me away from him.” As she fainted, LaCroix scooped her up before she hit the ground.

@_____________________________@

A short while later, Triona stared at herself in the mirror of their cabin. This place was untainted by her tormentor. He hadn’t wanted to risk any weapons that she or Methos might have secreted throughout the room. He would have been right, she thought with no humour as she reached behind the headboard, her hand coming to rest on the wicked knife that was placed there. Pulling it out, she slipped it into her boot.

“He’ll revive soon,” she said into the dim confines of the room.

“And there is no reason for you to be there when he does,” LaCroix said from the chair he sat in across the room from her.

She turned to face him. Having bathed, with fresh clothes, her hair bound tightly on the top of her head, she presented a picture of absolute control and calm. But it was an image that was only surface deep. Sharply, she shook her head. “No! I need to see this through. If I don’t, then he wins.”

“That is not true,” he objected. “But we will do this your way – for now.”

Nodding, her eyes spoke her thanks. But what she said was, “I need to go to the lab. Find the drugs he used. Without a lever, he won’t cooperate when it comes down to it.”

LaCroix’s eyes spoke to exactly what he would do to make the other Methos cooperate, but he didn’t voice that promise. But, “Very well, my love,” was all he said as he followed her from the cabin.

@_____________________________@

In the small but well equipped lab of the Alqualondë, Triona found what she had been looking for -- the remainder of the drugs that the mirror universe Methos had used to such devastating effect. With these in his system, he would have no choice but to cooperate.

As she stared at the vials, she said, “I didn’t think Jacob would understand the message I’d given to Stephanie,” she admitted. “I’d given up.”

“It is understandable,” LaCroix told her quietly.

“Is it?” she clenched her fists. “I broke. In the end. I was weak.” The last was said with enough despair to wrench at her Master’s heart.

You know that is not so, mon amour,” LaCroix remonstrated. “You are immortal, not inhuman.”

Her laughter held a harsh edge. “Is that what you believe? I don’t think I remember what it’s like to be human.”

His hands came to rest on her shoulders. “You hold what is best of our humanity in your heart, le plus cher. As you have always done. Never doubt that.” He leaned down brushing her cheek with cool lips. “I do not.”

Triona turned, leaning into him. “You always are so certain, Lucien. Of me, of us; you have been certain from that first moment we met.”

“It was merely inevitable, my love.”

“Was it?”

“I believe it was so.”

“And Methos? Will he accept that inevitability? What happened here may be more than he will be able to accept.”

“Do you trust him so little?” LaCroix asked with just a hint of censure.

She looked up at him, startled. “No, of course not, but—“

“But? No, my love; if you love Methos, then there are no buts. You owe him your trust as well, no?”

Being LaCroix, she knew he wouldn’t let her not answer his question. And that expectation oddly comforted her. He accepted everything she was, and always had, and he demanded the same from her -- for herself and for Methos. “Yes,” was all she said, but that one word was full of certainty.

Nodding, he kissed her forehead. “All will be well, child, I promise you.”

@_____________________________@

The long night was nearly over. T’Rayla had set up a forceshield over the alien device, and all that remained was the appearance of the other Methos to initiate the transfer.

He had revived an hour before and had quickly been injected with the drugs he’d used on Triona, and had been unable to fight the effects any more than she had. But it was a bitter victory for her as she watched from a security monitor in her cabin. Neither LaCroix nor Duncan would permit her to be anywhere near her former captor, and with those same drugs still in her system, she hadn’t put up much of a fight at their decision. How much of her acquiescence was the drugs, and how much was her, she wasn’t sure.

So instead, she sat; watching him, needing the reassurance of seeing him locked up and neutralized to feel safe. Then he looked straight up at the camera in his cell, with a smile so self-satisfied it was all Triona could do not to smash her fist into the screen. “Don’t pine for me, little one. We’ll meet again, you and I, I promise you.” Then he laughed, and the sound made every hair on her body stand on end. “And you know I always keep my promises.” The screen went dark.

A few minutes later, Duncan arrived, to find her sitting frozen, staring at the dark screen. “Don’t, Trie, don’t!” He wrapped his arms around her. “He’s toying with you. He can’t come back, you know that.”

“Do I?” she whispered, her eyes still fixed on the black square in front of her.

He sighed, turning her chair around to face him. “Thinking that is what he wants, sweetheart. He wants, he needs, to have a lasting power over you. You can’t let him. In a little while, Methos will be back, and he’ll be gone.”

“And what if Methos doesn’t come back?” she asked in a choked sob. “We don’t know he will, or if he’s even still alive!” All her fear and grief welled up in an undeniable wave, and Duncan drew his sobbing friend into his arms, rocking her like she was a child.

“It’s going to be okay,” he repeated over and over.

Against his chest, Triona shook her head, whispering, “I don’t think it’s ever going to be okay again.”

@_____________________________@

It was time. Triona stood with LaCroix and Duncan outside the ring of the forceshield as Imladrin security forces placed their prisoner before the alien artifact. The team withdrew, and T’Rayla initiated the forcefield. The false Methos didn’t even seem to care at this point. He looked up at Triona with a lazy smile and then placed his hands in the same place Methos had mere days before.

It happened so fast, Triona wasn’t even sure the transfer had taken place, but then the familiar mental warmth of her husband suffused her consciousness. The overwhelming emotions nearly drove her to her knees, only Duncan and LaCroix holding her arms keeping her from falling to the ground.

Then he was running across the short expanse that separated them, lifting her into his arms and spinning her around until she was breathless. Methos sat her back onto her feet, looking into her eyes with a warmth and love that infused her with hope and joy. “I love you,” he whispered.

“I love you more,” she replied with a tremulous smile. Then she was kissing him, and for a moment there was no fear, no pain, no doubt. Methos was home.

The group had transported up to the Scotia just before the dawn; Triona not wanting to set foot in the Alqualondë again. In the brightly-lit transporter room, Methos was finally able to get a good look at his wife, and what he saw shocked him. Even though he'd tried to prepare himself for what he would find when he made it back home, the reality of it hit him hard. It was as if she were collapsing in on herself, her posture huddled and defeated. There was an unhealthy pallor to her skin, and with her hair pulled back so tightly, her dark eyes dominated her face, flat and exhausted, the pupils dilated.

Without thinking, he reached for her. Frightened by the sudden movement, Triona fell back against LaCroix. But when she realized what she'd done, she started to cry. "I'm sorry," she said over and over. Then she was leaning into his chest, sobbing as if she would never stop.

"It's okay," Methos whispered, putting his arms around her. "It's going to be okay." He could feel her distress through their blood bond, and that, added to her physical reaction, twisted at his heart.

"I didn't mean to--"

"Shhhh.... It doesn't matter." He stroked her back soothingly.

"I don't... I can't..." She took a shuddering breath. "The drugs..." Her voice faded away and she pressed closer to Methos.

Methos looked at LaCroix and Duncan, the question obvious in his eyes. The vampire explained in cool and measured tones. But anyone who knew him would know that beneath the coolness was extreme concern and tightly controlled rage.

This time, Methos placed gentle hands at either side of Triona's face, giving her time to take in his touch, before lifting her face to look into her eyes. "Have you been seen by a doctor yet?"

"No." She shook her head. "I just wanted you home. It's not like the drugs won't wear off eventually."

"While that's true," he caressed her cheeks with his thumbs, "it would make me feel better if a doctor took a look at you. Give you something to clear the drugs from your system. Okay?"

"Okay,” she agreed with barely any emotion. “But can’t you do it?"

"Are you sure--" he began, sounding uncertain.

"Yes, please." She reached up, pressing her lips against his, before pulling away and dropping her eyes. "Please, Methos. I don't... I don't want strangers touching me."

Wrapping an arm around her shoulders, all he said was, "Right, then let's get you to sickbay."

@________________________________@

Methos examined the results displayed on the monitor above the medical scanning bed Triona lay on. The drug that lingered in her bloodstream was insidious, not to mention breathtaking in all its malevolent brilliance. Definitely something that would bear further study in the future. Then he turned his attention to the second set of results that were scrolling up onto the adjacent monitor. Very carefully keeping his expression neutral, he allowed no sign of the sick despair he felt to show. The only visible sign of his distress was an almost imperceptible tightening of his eyes.

Medical science of the twenty-fourth century could scan a patient down to the micro-cellular level, and at that level, the injuries of an immortal could be traced via the residual remnants of the energy released when they healed for months after the injury occurred. Triona's scan results were a brutal and heartbreaking map of what she had suffered during her captivity.

Jotting down instructions on a datapad, he handed it to the nurse standing next to him who had a similarly neutral expression on her face. He took a breath, then said in a light tone, "You're very dehydrated, love, so Daria here is going to see that you get some fluids, plus something to help clear the drugs out of your system. It should speed up the process by several hours."

"Uh huh," she replied, managing a tired smile. Reaching for his hand, she squeezed it. "Don't worry about me, everything's going to be okay now."

He returned the smile. "Of course it is." Kissing her cheek, he said, "I'm going to go fill Lucien in. Will you be all right by yourself for a bit?"

"I'll be fine," she assured him.

"I'll be back soon," he promised.

@________________________________@

Methos entered the waiting room where LaCroix, Duncan, and Jacob Tanimura waited. As the door closed, he whirled, slamming his fist into the bulkhead with an inarticulate growl of rage. Squeezing his eyes shut, he could visualize all too well the web of injures on the scan into reality. LaCroix’s cool hand came to rest on his shoulder, saying nothing, sharing Methos’ grief.

Duncan now stood at his side, gripping Methos’ upper arm. “She’s going to be fine, Methos. Triona’s strong and she’s surrounded by love.”

Shaking his head, shoulders slumped, tears slid down Methos’ face. Duncan put his arm around Methos’ shoulders, drawing him closer, his own eyes becoming bright with tears. “We’ll get her through this,” he whispered. “We’ll get both of you through this, Methos.”

The oppressive blanket of emotion that lay over the room was suffocating.

“I can’t go back in there yet,” Methos finally admitted.

“I’ll go sit with her for awhile,” Jacob offered.

“Thank you,” LaCroix said with gratitude.

Taking one last look at the tableau before him, Jacob squared his shoulders, leaving the three men to their grief.

@________________________________@

Jacob Tanimura had been a United States Marine serving in Afghanistan when he’d met his first death in 2008. A piece of shrapnel from an IED had pierced the back of his head, killing him instantly. But when he’d revived, Jacob had had no idea he’d died; he thought he’d only been knocked out, and had made his way back to his unit. Several weeks later, he’d met Connor MacLeod, who had been working for an NGO, on a Kabul street. That was when Jacob had found out what he was, and in the process had gained a teacher and a friend. A few years later, he’d met Triona for the first time, and the two had shared an instant rapport. They were of a similar age, and background, both grappling with what it meant to be immortal. Over the centuries, they’d become close friends and eventually, family.

He took the hand she extended, sitting on the stool next to her bed. “I thought I’d keep you company for a while,” he said with a smile.

“Methos—“ she began.

“He’ll back soon,” he reassured her. Jacob knew that Methos needed time to deal with what had happened to Triona. He could imagine all to well what he’d be feeling if it had been his own wife who had suffered what his friend had. This was bad enough. If it had been Arianna… Jacob shook that thought off.

She nodded, squeezing his hand. “Thank you, Jacob. Thank you for understanding my message and coming for me.”

Jacob currently served as Triona’s military attaché in her position as Imladrin Defense Minister. When Stephanie had given him Triona’s message about moving her meeting with the Romulan legate, alarm bells had gone off. “I knew you’d seen Trayvan only a few weeks ago and had nothing formally scheduled.”

“You understanding was my one and only hope,” she whispered. Then she said, quite unexpectedly, “I’m sorry, Jacob. This was all my fault.”

He looked at her sharply. “What do you mean?”

“You wanted me to take a security detail, and I refused.” Turning her head away, she whispered, “I just wanted to spend some time alone with Methos, just be two normal people.” Her voice was full of self-recrimination. “I never thought… How could I have been so stupid?”

“I won’t let you blame yourself for this. It is not your fault!”

“Isn’t it?”

“No, it’s not! If anyone’s to blame, it’s me. I failed you. I should have gone over your head, gone to Methos or LaCroix, but I let sentiment get in the way of my duty!”

Triona shook her head. “It isn’t your job to protect me from my own stupidity!”

Whatever he might have said in response was interrupted by a new arrival. “Even being in sickbay doesn’t stop the two of you from arguing,” a smoky female voice said wryly. Arianna Arnisen put a gentle hand on her husband’s shoulder. “I would have been here sooner,” she explained, “but I got held up on the bridge.”

“An admiral’s work is never done,” Triona observed with a genuine smile for her kinswoman.

“How true.” Jacob smiled at his wife fondly.

She dropped a kiss on the top of his head before turning her attention to Triona. “Lucien will be here soon,” Arianna assured her. “Jacob and I will stay with you till he gets here.”

Arianna Arnisen, besides being Fleet Admiral for the Imladrin Planetary Union, was a member of Triona’s family -- a ‘great-granddaughter’ of Lucien LaCroix. She and Jacob had married not long after the founding of the Imladrin colony in 2163, one of a number of Vampire/Immortal pairings that had formed during and after WWIII.

“Thank you. I feel… anxious without them here. I don’t want to be alone yet,” she admitted.

“We’ll stay as long as you need us,” Jacob promised her.

“We will,” Arianna agreed. Leaning into her husband, she stroked his cheek with one hand, while covering Triona’s hand with the other. “How are you feeling, Trie?” she asked with concern.

She sighed, the sound a mixture of grief and relief, before saying, “Grateful; so very grateful for all of you. The love of my family has been a light that he could never extinguish.”

Duncan entered the darkened medical cubicle, only the soft sounds of whirring machinery and the nearly subliminal hum of the ship’s engines to be heard. Triona had always told him that each ship had its own sound, as distinctive as a fingerprint. But he’d never been able to discern that difference. Recalling that now made him close his eyes for a moment, remembering happier times.

Once upon a time, Triona had been the mystery woman that Methos had brought to Seacouver in the latter years of the twentieth century. As the decades passed, she’d become Duncan’s friend, his student, Methos' wife, and the mother of his beloved godchild, Lucia. Like Amanda, Joe, and Methos, she had become part of the tapestry of his life. They'd shared times of both joy and sorrow; the end of civilization, and its rebirth. What had happened on the planet below had left him numb with shock; shock that had been swiftly followed by the fire of rage. As he’d looked down at that other Methos, dead on the floor after Triona’s rescue, Duncan had wanted to do nothing more than to take his head. But he lived because it had been the only way to bring their Methos back. Still, it was hard to accept the injustice of it all. That he could commit such evil and not have to pay a price; it rankled at him.

He moved closer. LaCroix’s profile was stark in the dim light, leaning over the bed as if on guard. Then the ancient Roman vampire turned, acknowledging the Highlander with a nod. “She sleeps,” he said softly. “Finally.” The sadness in his voice was palpable. The mental and physical bonds of the vampire's family were strong ones, but those ties brought shared pain as well as comfort.

“Has Methos been back?” Duncan asked. “I thought he’d be here.” He was concerned about Methos. The oldest Immortal had said he needed some time alone, so Duncan had left him in the observation lounge, looking out at the stars. But there had been an icy sharpness to Methos’ mood that had disquieted him. Even after nearly four centuries of friendship, Methos could be an enigma to Duncan, and he honestly didn’t know how his friend was going to deal with what had happened.

LaCroix shook his head. “As did I. She sleeps now, but Methos should be here when she wakes.”

“Computer, locate Benjamin Adams.”

The ubiquitous female computer voice replied to Duncan’s query. “Dr. Benjamin Adams is in conference room 10A.”

“That’s just down the corridor. I’ll go get him,” Duncan said.

@________________________________@

What Duncan found, he hadn’t expected, and that discovery filled him with grief for his friend, along with a determination that this needed to be stopped now. He knew Methos wanted to punish himself, but this was something that Duncan couldn't allow to happen.

A voice that was familiar, yet that of a stranger, filled the room, What? No pleas for mercy? No begging me to spare you from a fate worse than death? I truly thought you'd be more entertaining. How very disappointing. Methos’ eyes were fixed on the monitor, the look on his face one that chilled Duncan to the bone.

“Stop it!” Duncan demanded, slamming his hand down on the control pad, shutting off the recording. “You can’t think she’d want you to see that!”

Methos exploded out of the chair, furious. “It's none of your business!” he shouted.

“Isn’t it? I disagree." The two men stood nearly nose to nose. "Damnit, I love both of you! And I’ll do whatever's needed to protect you from yourself, Methos! I owe it to the both of you to do what I know Triona would want!”

“Leave!” he hissed.

Duncan took an involuntary step back at the look in Methos’ eyes. It was fey, and bled of hope. Backing off, he let Methos start the recording again before tapping the communicator on his chest. “I need you here now,” he said urgently but quietly.

Within moments, LaCroix arrived, instantly taking in the situation. “What in Hades are you about, Methos?” he roared.

“You of all people should understand!” Methos snarled in reply.

“No, I do not!” LaCroix pinned Methos with his gaze, the sheer weight of seven-thousand plus years between the two of them in a battle of wills. There were few beings Methos would yield to, the Roman vampire being one such.

‘Are you telling me you didn’t watch this?” he demanded. Methos wasn't backing down. If anything, he seemed more determined than ever.

Sighing, he shook his head, placing a hand on Methos' arm. “Only enough to gauge the situation before transporting to the planet to free her. But the knowledge was in his blood, as it will be in hers. Is that not enough?” LaCroix sounded tired and resigned.

Methos looked at him sharply. “You don’t think I deserve to witness what she suffered? That I should just remain blissfully ignorant?” His voice was raw with grief and rage. "Shouldn't I have to pay some price for what happened?"

In the background, the recorded voice continued “Which brings us back to you. Tell me, just what are you willing to do to get him back, my lovely Triona?”

“This is not about you, Methos!” LaCroix’s voice was pitched low, but taut with emotion. “You and I both know you are not ignorant of what transpired. You need no recording to impart that knowledge.”

“Anything.”

“Computer, stop playback,” LaCroix commanded. He leaned over Methos. “This is not about you,” he repeated. “This is about her. How do you think Triona will feel seeing the knowledge of this--” he made a sharp motion at the monitor, “--in your eyes?”

Methos shook his head, shoulders slumping.

LaCroix pressed his advantage. “If you watch this, you allow him to violate her yet one more time. You know that she would not want you to witness what happened.”

“Think, Methos,” Duncan told his friend softly. “He overrode all the security protocols on the ship, but left the security recorders running. What does that say to you?”

“What? Think like myself?” Methos asked acidly.

“Yes,” Duncan replied harshly.

Taking a shuddering breath, Methos buried his face in his hands. “He knew I’d be compelled to watch, so that his memory would always be between us,” he finally admitted, voice cracking. "He wanted to always be a part of what we are."

LaCroix and Duncan shared a relieved look.

“Do not give him that victory,” LaCroix implored. “For Triona’s sake, if not for yourself.”

“I don’t know how to make it right,” Methos whispered dully. He laid his head down on crossed arms.

Resting a cool hand on his neck, LaCroix replied, “We will both make it right, I promise you.”

“You aren’t alone,” Duncan reminded Methos, gathering his friend close as grief finally overtook him, shoulders shaking as he wept. “Never alone.”

Triona looked at herself in the mirror of the cabin that was permanently set aside for her here on the Scotia, the flagship of the Imladrin Planetary Union. ‘Like death warmed over’ was the most charitable thing she could say for herself.

She’d released herself from sickbay, the doctor on duty no match for Triona in full ‘haughty defense minister ‘ mode. It was nonsense, trying to keep her there when it was obvious the bulk of the drugs in her system were gone. For god’s sake, she’d survived a brutal vampire attack when she’d still been mortal. What was this in comparison? Fussing. She hated fussing.

Picking up the dress on the chair next to her, Triona pulled the silky black material over her head. The heavy folds fell down to her ankles as she straightened the pronounced batwing collar across her shoulders. Staring into space, she smoothed the fabric over her ribs and down her thighs; not allowing herself to dwell on the fact that Methos hadn’t come near her since he’d first left her in sickbay hours before. It was what you knew would happen, her little voice hissed.

But before she could dwell on that realization, there was that almost imperceptible shift in the air, and when she next looked into the mirror, LaCroix stood behind her, capturing her eyes in their reflections. He ran one finger down her throat, and she closed her eyes, shivering at the touch.

Then, whirling to face him, she tilted her chin defiantly. “I looked at my scans. I’m fine!” she declared, preempting whatever he might have said.

“Indeed?” Just that one word, but fraught with layers of meaning.

“I hate sickbay! And if Methos couldn’t be bothered to check in on me, then I can’t see any reason why I should stay!” Even to her own ears, Triona sounded like a petulant five-year-old. But she didn’t care. And anyway, if LaCroix could put up with centuries of Nick pouting, he could deal with her this once.

Something of her thought must have reached him, because he smiled down at her indulgently. “Whatever pleases you, child,” he said softly, stroking the back of her neck with a comforting hand.

Leaning into the touch, she fought back a wave of despair. Despite her words, Methos not being there had cut deep. It only confirmed her darkest fears, that what had happened at the hands of his mirror self would leave him unable to look at her without thinking of him.

“Methos fears for you.” LaCroix’s voice floated around her, once again reading her thoughts. “Give him a little time, ma petite. A little time to deal with everything that has happened; that he blames himself for.”

Nodding silently, she reached up, skimming his face with cool fingertips. “I’m… I’ll try,” she finally said; her voice so quiet it could barely be heard.

LaCroix gently grasped her wrist, pressing her knuckles against his lips, and she trembled at the feel of his fangs against her flesh. Turning her hand, he drew her arm up, the razor points of his canines leaving a thin trail of blood along the delicate flesh of her inner wrist.

Triona fell against him with a shuddering breath as the ancient vampire licked away the droplets of blood as delicately as a hummingbird sipping nectar. It would be so easy to let him drink deeper, to throw her head back, the vulnerable line of her throat welcoming him to take her life’s blood. But she wasn’t ready for that intimacy yet. She couldn’t bear for him to witness her shame, to see in her blood the degradation and pain; not yet, it was too soon.

His lips kissed away her tears, drawing her down to the sofa. “It is enough for now,” he assured her softly.

“Soon, it will all go back to as it was,” she told him. “We’ll go home and everything will be all right.” Triona looked up at him, her eyes begging him to agree.

LaCroix sighed, placing a hand against her cheek. “I wish I could tell you that would be so, my love. Haven’t I always told you that part of being immortal means knowing when to move on? To leave one life behind and make a new one over the horizon. That time has come, finally, for you.” He stopped her protest. “You know it is true, Triona. What has transpired here has only hastened that day. It has been approaching for some time, well you know.”

Dropping her eyes, she shook her head in denial. “There’s so much to do.”

“And it will be done – but not by you,” he replied firmly. “If you go back now, to this current life, it will almost certainly destroy what you hold most dear. I know you and Methos so well, ma petite précieuse. I know that you will use your duties and what is expected of you, as a barrier, and he’ll let you out of guilt and concern. If you love Methos, if you love what you have together, you will walk away. Go with him and start a new life. Do this for me, child, if not for yourself.”

Choking back tears, Triona buried her face in her hands. In her heart, she knew LaCroix was right. What had their trip to the artifact’s planet been but an attempt to reconnect with Methos? Something that had meant so much to her that she had ignored every shred of common sense she’d ever had; that had led to everything that followed.

@________________________________@

Methos sat in the observation lounge, staring at the dark expanse of space before him. Once MacLeod had been assured that he wouldn’t do anything stupid, he’d left Methos alone here to gather his thoughts before facing his wife once more. He didn’t even have a clear idea of how long he’d been here, lost in memories and regret. Absently he noted the sound of a door opening and closing, but paid it little mind. Then, someone was sitting next to him on the sofa. He would have ignored even that, but a small though strong hand gripped his arm.

“How is grandmother?” the level voice asked. To anyone but her family, T’Rayla’s question would seem as emotionless as any Vulcan’s would, but Methos could hear the concern.

“You still call her that,” he observed, a slight smile quirking at his lips.

“There is a Vulcan term for our relationship, but I prefer ‘grandmother’. So does she,” the young Vulcan pointed out coolly.

He squeezed her hand. “I know.” Then he answered. “Triona will be fine. The drugs will be out of her system soon.” Methos knew that wasn’t what she’d wanted to know, but he really didn’t have an answer to her real question.

T’Rayla looked up at him with eyes older than her years. “My father once told me that humans can be extremely illogical when it comes to trying to protect those they love.”

“Did he now?”

“Indeed. He said that in attempting to avoid emotionally damaging a loved one, that they inadvertently do exactly that.”

“Your father told you that?” Methos asked wryly.

“Vulcan’s do no lie… grandfather,” she replied tartly.

Methos snorted. “Your grandmother has been a very bad influence on you.”

“I like to think so.”

This time, Methos laughed outright.

T’Rayla tucked one leg up underneath her, looking like the little girl Methos remembered. “When I was a child, I observed that grandmother would smile for no reason. I asked her what she was smiling at, and she told me that she was remembering something that made her happy. When I was older, I asked her what she was remembering.”

“And what did she tell you?”

“Grandmother did not tell me, she showed me. She shared some of her memories with me through a mind meld,” she answered softly. “That was when I knew I was a woman grown, and no longer a child in her eyes.” T’Rayla placed two fingers across Methos’ wrist. “I would share that memory with you, if you would allow it.”

Her dark eyes seemed to capture his, and Methos nodded. He had only ever shared his thoughts, his essence, through his blood with Triona and LaCroix, but something about T’Rayla’s mood seemed to ensnare him. “All right,” he found himself agreeing.

Placing her fingertips against his temples, she looked deep into his eyes. “My mind to your mind,” she whispered in Vulcan….

She was in his arms, laughing so hard she could barely breath. “Don’t you dare dump me in the fountain, Methos! I’ll catch my death!”

“I promise I’ll warm you up,” he said with wicked amusement in his voice. He let his arms drop, and she clutched at his shoulders, screeching. Then he was swinging her around, putting her on her feet. “You didn’t really think I’d drop you in the water, did you?” he asked, looking down at her.

In a corner of his mind, Methos realized he was seeing through Triona’s eyes -- seeing himself through her eyes. It was the first week they’d known each other, just after he’d convinced LaCroix to let him stay on. The week he’d realized he might actually love her.

”You’re a dreadful man!” she exclaimed, breathless, looking up at him with shining eyes.

“I am, I really am,” he agreed, lips twitching.

“And proud of it,” she observed archly.

“Absolutely!” he agreed, all innocence.

“I think I’m going to regret this,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Never in a million years,” he protested.

“Never, huh?”

He shook his head. “Cross my heart.”

“I think I believe you,” she said softly before reaching up and kissing him.

T’Rayla broke the meld. “She still believes that.”

Methos nodded, eyes bright with unshed tears. “Thank you, granddaughter.”

@________________________________@

Strands of her beautiful hair lay all around her, and Methos’ heart broke at the look of despair in her eyes as he entered their cabin. “Triona…” He couldn’t finish. He should have come sooner. T’Rayla had been right.

She held the knife in her hand, halfway through cutting off another hank of her hair as he entered.

“What are you doing, love?” he asked, anguished.

“I don’t want it touching me!” she said, her voice cracking. “Don’t want him touching me,” she whispered. She turned her head away, refusing to look at him. “I know what you see when you look at me.”

“No! No, you don’t.” He sat next to her, gently removing the knife from her hand. “Do you remember what I told you long ago? That you wouldn’t regret me in a million years?”

She looked up at him, startled at the memory. “Yes.”

“Believe that, love, because it’s still true.” Carefully, gently, he cut away what remained of her hair, as tears poured unchecked down her face and his. When it was done, Methos gathered her in his arms, holding her close. “He doesn’t have the power to come between us, not if we don’t allow it.”

Nodding against his chest, she whispered, “Will you take me home?”

“Of course—“

“Home to Earth,” she clarified.

“Earth?”

‘It’s time. Time to start over, Methos; like we did when everything seemed new and full of promise so long ago.” Finally, she looked into his eyes. “Will you go with me?”

He drew his thumb across her lips. “I will go anywhere you want to, my love. To Earth, or the ends of the universe.”

“And you’ll still love me?”

Methos drew her onto his lap, holding her tight. “For a million years, love, for a million years.”

End

Coming soon, the sequel, All We Ever Find (well, soon relatively speaking!)

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