He moved through the battlefield and the realization came to him that death still smelled the same. Blood. Sweat. Smoke. Vomit. Urine. Fear. The centuries had not changed the smell of fear, but only increased the bite of it with the acrid smell of the spent gunpowder that lingered over the land.

The cries of the wounded and the dying were still the same. That hadn't changed at all -- only the language was different. Men still called out to their God, pleading to Him, cursing Him, and they cried out for loved ones in a distant land they would never see again. They screamed in agony and whimpered in pain. The men, the horses. It burdened his soul that he had once been a participant in the very act of it, delivering it to those who opposed him. Death.

He knelt and gave brief comfort to one such dying man, and then moved on. It was the presence of another like him that gave him pause. He did not scan the faces of the men, for such an act would reveal him to the Other. He did not fear death, but he did not wish for it when there was so much for him to do. He could only continue to move, picking his way through the dead and dying.

A brief moment of contact and the truth was revealed.

A sword partially drawn.

The challenge made.

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

We meet at last. Only your kind would carry a wounded comrade. "I'm Darius," the holy man said quickly, softly, dismissing the sword with a glance. "You won't need that."