Dr. Korsikov's couch was a good deal more comfortable than MacLeod's -- a fact Richie failed to notice, focused as he was on the Mariachi his nerves had been doing since arriving at the psychiatrist's office. Duncan and Joe, sitting in chairs adjacent to the couch, were disgustingly calm -- at least to his eyes. "Would you like a cup of tea? It might help relax you," Vanya suggested as she gathered up a few necessary items. "I'm not much of a tea person," Richie admitted, catching the fleeting amused smile that crossed Duncan's face, knowing the Scot was thinking of his own habit of trying to foist herbal remedies off on a younger, pre-Immortal version of the redhead. "A Coke would be good." Vanya stopped what she was doing long enough to throw him a long-suffering look over one shoulder. "And have you bouncing off the walls? I think not. The idea is to calm you down, not see if you can run the one-minute mile." "If you really want to calm me down, we could forget all this and go out for drinks." That earned him stares from all three of his elders, but it was Korsikov who spoke. "Is that what you want to do?" It was on the tip of his tongue to say yes, but Mac and Joe were watching him expectantly and he knew he couldn't...he wouldn't disappoint them; he'd disappointed enough people in his life. "No. No, that's not what I want." There was a nearly audible sigh of relief from the onlookers. "Let's do it," Richie said determinedly, physically bracing himself, hands clenched atop his stomach. Vanya smiled at the picture he presented, lying there like some sacrificial virgin on the altar of a vengeful god. "Richie, relax. I promise you won't feel a thing." He made a concerted effort to do as she asked, taking several deep, cleansing breaths and rubbing his icy hands together, trying to summon up some body heat. Vanya pulled her chair up beside the couch, and sat facing him. "Ready?" she asked, placing a few seemingly innocuous items in her lap. "Ready," he replied, looking anything but. "Good. Now, this is all very simple. I want you to stay calm and focus on the sound of my voice. Tune everything else out - the room, your stalwart friends here, the rain outside - everything but my voice. You hear only my voice," she droned in a soothing monotone. Richie's breathing slowed, his eyes focused on her face. Vanya picked up one of the items in her lap, a thin white candle about six inches long. She struck a match and lit it, holding it up before her. "Look at the flame, Richie. Silver-white, hot, pure light. Let it become your world. Nothing exists outside the flame except my voice." Several minutes passed, three figures focused on one lying prone on a couch, while Richie focused entirely on a flame. Finally, Vanya raised the final object - an amulet. "Concentrate, Richie. The light and my voice." She raised the amulet in her free hand, holding it above the candle then, started it swaying gently to and fro, lowering it fractionally with each pass until it crossed in front of the flame. Back and forth, back and forth, never modulating in speed or trajectory: an even, steady arc. "See the light, Richie," Korsikov's voice ordered. "There is only the light and my voice. Can you see it?" Richie's pupils were near pin-points, the shallow rise and fall of his chest nearly imperceptible. "Yes," he uttered, voice low and almost frighteningly detached. "Good. You're calm, aren't you?" Her voice itself was hypnotic. "Yes...calm." "You feel safe in the light, don't you?" "Safe." Drawing his gaze away from the scene before him with an effort, Duncan cast a quick look at the man at his side; Joe was watching the proceedings with a childlike fascination that he, himself, didn't share. Finding his gaze relentlessly drawn back to his protege, he studied the face he knew so well. There was an absence of spirit in the expression the young Immortal wore that was disconcerting to the Scot--as if the Richie he knew had retreated to some dark corner of his mind, leaving only an empty shell behind. Vanya had lowered the candle to her knee, the amulet resting in her lap once more, when she spoke again. "I want you to close your eyes now and feel the warmth of the light surrounding you." She waited until the redhead's eyes had drifted shut before continuing. "What's your full name?" "Richard Ryan." "What do your friends call you?" "Richie." "How old are you, Richie?" "Twenty-one." "And how long have you been an Immortal?" "All my life." Vanya smiled, and rephrased. "How long have you been living as an Immortal?" "Two years." "That's right, two years. That's very good. Richie, can you tell me why you've had trouble sleeping lately?" A hesitation, then, "make it right," he mumbled. "Make it right? What does that mean, 'make it right'?" "I'm responsible, I...have to make it right." Vanya cast a confused glance at the two silent observers. Duncan returned the look and shook his head, as much at a loss as to Richie's meaning as she was. They both turned to Joe then, and the Watcher shrugged one shoulder, his look one of preoccupation as he mentally sought out some clue to the young Immortal's words. Vanya tried again. "Richie, what does 'make it right' mean? Can you tell me?" "I'm responsible," the redhead repeated, his gaze no longer one of serenity, hands once more curled into fists. "Responsible for what?" she persisted, her tone infinitely patient. "What are you responsible for, Richie?" "I'm sorry," was the unenlightening reply. The redhead was becoming more agitated by the minute, legs thrashing uselessly against the couch cushions, mouth drawn into a tight frown. "Tessa...I'm sorry." Intrigued by this new development, Korsikov turned to Duncan, finding the Scot's face a study in confusion--and something else...surprise? pain? fear? Her attention returned to Richie abruptly as the young Immortal threw out one arm in his increasingly distraught state, his flailing hand connecting with a Lalique bowl and sweeping both it and its contents to the floor. "Richie, you're safe in the light," she reminded him, kneeling to matter-of-factly set the remaining objets d'art atop the coffee table out of harm's way. Her words didn't have the calming effect she expected; rather the young man drew in his legs, as if he were trying to pull himself into a fetal position. Incomprehensible sounds issued from his lips. "What's going on? What's wrong?" Duncan demanded, breaking his silence. He came out of his chair and moved to the couch, resisting the impulse to reach out and touch the figure curled up there, afraid that the physical contact might send Richie deeper into his trance-induced misery. "I don't know," Vanya admitted, maintaining her calm demeanor as she, too, stood. "He's pulling away from me. I'll have to bring him out," she concluded with regret. "Richie, listen to the sound of my voice," she urged, sitting on the edge of the couch beside him. "I'm going to count to five and I want you to come out of the light. You will follow the sound of my voice...and leave the light. Do you understand?" His response was a nonverbal twitching of his head that she interpreted as a yes. "Good. One...you hear only the sound of my voice. Two...it's time to leave the light, Richie. Three...you're out of the light now. Four...you will open your eyes and remember everything that has happened here. Five." For one tense moment, Duncan thought Richie was still lost to them, then the young Immortal went through a physical metamorphosis, limbs relaxing, life coming back to his features even as blue eyes opened. His expression was blank for several seconds, then memory returned, and with it, fear. A veteran of emotional crises, Vanya had anticipated his reaction and was there to grab his hand when he sat bolt upright. "I'm sorry," he moaned, his voice a plaintive wail for something even he couldn't fathom. "None of that," Vanya scolded, hand still gripping his. "You did very well. We weren't looking for ground-shaking revelations here, Richie. The subconscious mind isn't a wise man's playground--there are booby-traps around every corner." Richie nodded shakily, only mildly reassured by her words and the tremulous smiles of his friends. Duncan gave in to his impulse to touch the young man then, and lay a hand on Richie's left shoulder, fingers cupping the back of the Immortal's neck in a familiar gesture. "You had me worried there for a minute, Toughguy." "I'm sorry," Richie said again, letting the warmth of his teacher's regard wash over him. "Don't, Rich," the Scot uttered gruffly, giving Richie's shoulder a squeeze. "Don't apologize. You didn't ask for any of this." "I know, but I thought it would be over, and now--" "Now, we keep going," Duncan told him firmly. "For as long as it takes. We're all in this for the long haul, Richie." He looked to Joe for confirmation. "You bet," the Watcher chimed in, tapping his cane on the carpet for emphasis. "Never let it be said that Joe Dawson ran from a fight. Face it, you're stuck with us, kid." He grinned shamelessly at the group of Immortals. "Thanks, Joe, but I can handle this by myself," Richie said with a confidence he didn't feel. "No," Duncan contradicted him with an air of finality. "What do you mean, 'no'?" Richie retorted, bristling visibly. "No, you're not going to handle this by yourself," the Highlander elaborated, with a commanding tone he saved for teacher-to- student speeches. "Joe and I aren't going to walk away and let you go through this alone. You might as well accept the fact that you need help here." "This from the lone boyscout," Richie quipped sarcastically, drawing a snort of agreement from a certain bar owner. Duncan threw them both a self-deprecating smile. "I may not be the ideal role-model on that one," he admitted. "Why don't we call this one of those 'do as I say, not as I do' scenarios?" "Another one, huh?" The redhead gave a long-suffering sigh, followed by a short bark of laughter. "I guess that means I'm stuck with you guys." "I guess it does," Vanya piped in, smiling warmly at the threesome. She turned her attention to the young Immortal beside her. "How do you feel, Richie?" "Tired, but okay. You want to talk some more, huh?" "I'd like to, if you feel up to it." "Yeah, sure," he said with a lack of enthusiasm. "Would it be all right if I got washed up first?" "Of course," Vanya replied, understanding the young man's need for a minute or two to himself after their rather intense session. "Just go down the hall to the end, last door on the left." "Thanks," Richie said gratefully, circumnavigating a hovering Scot and striding out the door.