Circular Logic

By Leah Rosenthal

Duncan MacLeod emerged from the movie theater, observed that both the night and the temperature had fallen during the 3 hour film, and blew on his fingers. He waited as the rest of the crowd departed, reflecting on the story he had just seen.

Eventually, Methos emerged as well and joined him. "That's a long time to ask a man to hold it in," he commented, tucking his hands into the pockets of his overcoat. "Still, it was worth it."

They started to stroll down the brightly-decorated Champs. "So, overall, you approve of the translation of Tolkien to the big screen?" MacLeod asked.

"Nine hours of fairly faithful interpretation. Better fare than usual, these days," said Methos. He noted with approval that they were headed back to the barge. He'd sensed that MacLeod was in one of his holiday cooking moods, and he was hoping to reap the benefit. He was a reaper, first and foremost, after all, he mused.

"Did you ever wonder," MacLeod reflected as they walked, "that Immortals might actually be part elvish?" He tossed a warning glance at his companion. "And no jokes about blue suede shoes, thanks. I mean, if you take Tolkien's universe, you have a race of creatures who live forever and can interbreed with humans. Maybe our ancestors were originally elves of some kind." He smiled.

"I felt closer to the Nazgul, myself," Methos quipped.

"Don't go there," MacLeod growled, as they crossed the bridge over the Seine. The barge was moored quayside below, its lights inviting. "I mean, it's as good an explanation of our origins as any. There have been legends of elves for millennia. It's got to have a basis somewhere."

"No, Mac."

"Where's your imagination?"

"I've got 5,000 years of imagination. I've seen no evidence of hobbits, or ghosts, or trolls, or goblins, or elves, okay?"

"But my theory.."

"Mac, your theory is pure speculation. The only thing Immortals have in common with Tolkien's elves is immortality. Period." He strolled up on to the barge and waited for MacLeod to catch up. "We don't have pointed ears. We don't have the ability to speak inside the minds of others. We don't have rapport with forest animals. We don't have the ability to predict the future. Okay?"

MacLeod opened the door.

Cassandra was waiting inside, a rueful smile on her face and holiday gifts stacked beside the tree. "Happy Solstice and happy birthday, Duncan," she said.

Duncan MacLeod stared. "Well," he murmured. "It was a silly theory, anyway..."

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