Subject: Story to submit
Date: Fri, 31 Dec 1999 16:22:09 EST
From: BithoS1592@aol.com


Title:   Master of Opportunity
Name:  BithosVeil
Feedback Address:  BithoS1592@aol.com  or  HilandVeil@aol.com
Rating:  PG-13
Character listing:  Methos, Joe, Duncan, other characters
Summary:  Has Methos been moving through time simply reacting to his current
situation?   Or does he have a plan?  Is he following an agenda or is he
simply a Master of Opportunity?


Disclaimers:  As everyone knows, the characters of Duncan MacLeod, Joe
Dawson, Methos & all other characters and the concept of Immortals are the
property of Davis Panzer Productions and are being used without permission.
I promise to give them back in fairly good condition, but I reserve the
right to borrow them again. No money is being made and no copyright
infringement is intended.  Just having a little fun.

Thanks to Terry O'Donnell and Lois Grubb for beta reading this for us.  Any
errors (in grammar, spelling or canon) are purely the responsibility of the
authors.

This story is the result of a topic thrown out in a HL chat one evening.
The topic?   "Do you think Methos had an agenda?"  Within two days, Denise
and I had the plot decided, the flashbacks set and the outline complete.
Less than four months later, this story was completed, almost as if Methos
finally wanted his story told.  Is this how it really happened or is ROG
pulling one over on us yet again?  After all, he said it himself... "Why
would I tell the truth?"  You must decide for yourself.  That said, all
feedback is welcomed and desired. E-mail Bertha at Bithos1592@aol.com or
Denise at HilandVeil@aol.com

Hope everyone enjoys!

Synopsis: Has Methos been moving through time simply reacting to his current
situation?   Or does he have a plan?  Is he following an agenda or is he
simply a Master of Opportunity?


Master of Opportunity
 by
  Denise Proctor and Bertha Trusdell
(c) 1999

The shrill ringing that seemed to be a part of his dream continued
unceasingly.  His mind, rousing from a deep sleep, recognized it as his
telephone.  Barely waking, he threatened the intrusive instrument, and
whoever was on the other end, with death as he blindly groped toward the
infuriating noise.  Finally getting the phone to his ear, he managed to
encompass all of his feelings into one word.

"What?"  He'd meant to shout but his voice came out more like an incoherent
mumble.

"Adam Pierson?" the unknown voice asked.

Methos was immediately awake, his instinct for self-preservation kicking
into full gear.  He hadn't used the Pierson identity for years, leaving it
and the graduate student image behind him.  This had to be someone from his
past.  Those few people that he chose to call friends didn't know where he
was at the moment so this had to be an enemy.

Every sensory organ in his body was alert, searching his surroundings for an
impending attack.  Sights, smells, sounds, all this information was
processed instantaneously as he now concentrated on the phone, attempting to
identify the impending disaster that it held.

"Yes?"

"Mr. Pierson, I am Dr. Andrew Madison from City Hospital in Chicago.  I'm
sorry to be calling you at this late hour but Mr. Joe Dawson gave me your
number."

Joe?  How did Joe know where he was? 'How do you think, fool?' he thought.
Methos smiled at the thought of the Watcher.  It had been at least five
years since he'd seen the mortal that he sometimes called his best friend.
They had kept in contact by phone and written correspondence but the last
letter they'd shared was...at least a year ago so why was he calling now?
Or, to be more precise, why was he having someone else call for him?

"What's wrong?" Methos asked cautiously as he slowly sat up in his bed.
"Why isn't Joe calling me himself?"

"Joe is my patient, Mr. Pierson. I'm sorry to have to tell you this but Mr.
Dawson is very ill." There was a pause on the line before the doctor
continued.  "To be perfectly honest, he is dying."

Dying!  The weight of his over five thousand years seemed to crush in on him
as he allowed this information to sink in.  He had known Joe would have to
die eventually.  He was mortal, after all.  But Methos always thought that
it would be at some later time, sometime in the future.  Well, apparently
the future was now.

"What can I do?" Methos asked, as he got out of bed, already beginning the
process of uprooting his life to be at Joe's side.  "What does he need?"

"He asked that I contact you and a Mr. Duncan MacLeod.  He wanted to see
both of you before he died."

"How much longer does he have?"  Methos asked, cutting to the heart of the
matter.  He hoped that there would be enough time for him to get to his
friend's side.

"A few days, maybe a week." Dr. Madison responded.  "Mr. Pierson, if you are
truly his friend, I wouldn't waste any time getting here."

As he mentally calculated the travel time required, Methos grabbed for a
paper and pen.

"I can be there in six hours.  Give me your number and location."

Writing down the information, Methos assured the doctor that he'd be there.
He hung up the phone and stood for a moment, letting the grief wash over
him.  He was losing another friend.  He didn't have that many to be able to
lose one so easily and it had been a very long time since he'd had one as
good as Joe.

After a moment's indulgence, he tried to pull himself together.  Rubbing his
hands over his face, then back through his short, dark hair he forced
himself into action. "C'mon, old man.  Get moving!" he said.  He would never
forgive himself if he didn't get there before Joe died.  As he made his way
into the bathroom for his shower, a fleeting question crossed his mind.

'I wonder if MacLeod will get there in time?'

************************

Methos made his way down the hospital corridor with his duffel bag thrown
over his shoulder, heading toward the private rooms.  He'd been able to get
a flight to Chicago immediately upon reaching the airport and, as much as he
disliked long air travel, this flight wasn't too bad.  He spent the entire
trip remembering all his encounters with Joe, from their very first meeting
in the Watcher Archives to their very last meeting in Paris.   The flight
had seemed unbelievably quick.

Taking a taxi directly to the hospital, Methos met Dr. Madison.  He found
the young doctor to be confident and knowledgeable, with a very good bedside
manner.  Methos liked him immediately. After giving Methos all the details
of Joe's condition, Dr. Madison sadly confirmed that there was nothing left
to be done.

"We're giving him medication for his pain, Mr. Pierson, but other than that,
we just sit and wait."

"Does Joe knows that there isn't any hope?" Methos asked

"Mr. Dawson knows everything, Mr. Pierson." Dr Madison chuckled. "He's not
an easy man to hide things from."

Methos nodded, assuring the doctor that he was well aware of that trait.
After being told that Duncan had been contacted, Methos headed off to find
Joe.

Following the room numbers, Methos realized that his destination was the
open door at the end of the hall.  Moving quietly to the doorway, he
surveyed the room.

It was a friendly room, painted in pastel yellows and greens.  The
furnishings were less institutional than he'd expected.  A large window,
opposite the door, allowed the first rays of the morning sun to shower the
room with brightness.  The only thing that detracted for the pleasant
feeling of the room was the withered man sleeping on the bed.

Methos had always thought of Joe as a man of great strength, taking whatever
life threw his way and not only dealing with it but being triumphant over
it.  A man of common sense, he possessed great wisdom and insight that
usually cut through all the trivialities to get to the heart of any matter.
'If anyone should be Immortal, my friend, it should be you,' he thought
sadly.

The face that was always so full and expressive now seemed pale and drawn.
The thick thatch of hair that usually crowned his head had been thinned out
by his illness.

Methos stood silently in the doorway, fighting back the tears, his inner
voice berating him for already mourning his still-alive friend.  Suddenly a
voice broke through his introspection.

"You going to stand there all day or are you coming in?"

Straightening his back and putting a smile on his face, Methos dropped his
bag and walked over to the bed, offering his hand to his friend.

"Hey, Joe.  How you doing?"

"I'm dying.  How are you?"  Joe's smiling face turned sober as he saw the
shocked and painful look that his joking comment had brought to Methos'
eyes.  Taking the Immortal's hand in both of his, he apologized.  "Hey, man,
it's OK. It happens to us all...eventually."

"Sooner than it should for some." Methos replied, finally looking into Joe's
eyes.  He was happy to see the spark of life that he'd been afraid had also
been lost.  The Watcher's body may be failing but his mind seemed as sharp
as ever.  Methos smiled.  His old friend Joe was still here.

"Amen to that, my friend."  Joe laughed as he pulled Methos into a friendly
embrace.  Surprised by the strength that Joe still possessed, Methos began
to laugh, too.

"Excuse me, gentlemen, but it's time for Mr. Dawson's medication."

Methos backed away from the bed as the nurse entered the room and, by her
very presence, took charge.  A large woman with graying blond hair, the only
word that Methos could think of to describe her was Brunhilda.  Wondering
where she kept the horned helmet and spear, Methos smiled as he watched her
stand over Joe, smiling indulgently at him. Satisfied that he'd taken his
pills, she turned to leave the room but not before she shot Methos an icy
glare that warned him about upsetting her patient.

Chuckling as she left, Methos sat on the edge of the bed, studying his
friend's face. "So, Joe, how long has this been going on?"

"About a year, now."

"A year?" Methos was shocked. "Why didn't you call me sooner?"

"I had places to go, things to do, people to see." Joe responded lightly,
before getting serious.  "Besides, you didn't need to be watching this.  I'm
sure that, in your lifetime, you've seen more than enough death."

"But maybe I could have helped or at least made things easier." Methos
wasn't able to keep the hurt from his voice.  "I thought that we were
friends, Joe."

"That's why you're here now, Methos.  It won't be much longer, I know, and I
want my closest friend with me at the end."

Methos nodded as he tried to smile around the tears in his eyes.  "When will
Mac be here?"

"Sometime tomorrow afternoon," Joe answered.  "With connecting flights and
travel time, he can't get here any sooner. "  Slowly, he smiled.  "That will
give us more than enough time."

"Enough time for what?" Methos sat up straighter, suddenly on guard.  'What
is this old fox up to now?'

"Enough time for you to keep your promise.  Remember?" Joe fixed Methos with
a steely glare.  "You promised that, on my deathbed, you'd finally tell me
the truth."

Methos sat, dumbfounded, as he remembered his off-hand comment.

**1996 - Joe's Bar**

Methos was sitting at a table, trying to make his point to MacLeod.  Duncan,
agitated by the situation and his friend's argument, was pacing between the
table and the bar, trying to find an answer to his dilemma.  Joe sat at the
table with Methos, quietly watching the exchange.

"C'mon, Mac." Methos said, "You are not buying into that tawdry,
guilt-induced little melodrama!"

Duncan turned to lean his back against the bar, folding his arms across his
chest.

"Oh, I forgot," the sarcasm heavy in his voice, "We're talking to the only
guilt-free man in the western world."

"No," Methos replied, patiently, "we are talking about Ingrid.  It is the
ultimate in arrogance to think that one person can alter the course of
history."

Duncan stalked over to lean on the table, getting into Methos' face.

"You can't deny that by killing Hitler in '44, thousands of lives would have
been saved!" He glanced at Joe.  "Maybe millions!"

"Yeah," Methos countered.  "And if they'd killed him in '43, like Rommel
wanted, maybe Germany would have won the war."

Duncan stalked over to the bar, keeping his back to Methos as the older
Immortal continued.

"History makes men, MacLeod.  Men don't make history.  I'm talking about the
timing, ok?  The 'Zeitgeist', to quote the Germans.  If it hadn't been the
little painter from Austria, it would have been someone else.  It would have
been, uh, I don't know, a shopkeeper, a garbage man?  My point is, it
doesn't matter!  The times were ripe for a Fuehrer."

"My point is, it was Hitler!" Duncan responded.   Methos shook his head, a
resigned smile on his face.  He was never going to change the stubborn
Scot's mind.  Duncan looked at Joe.  "You're a historian.  What do you
think?"

"Uh, uh" Joe shook his head.  "I'm not getting in the middle of this."

"Coward." Duncan accused

"Ditto." Methos agreed

Joe glanced at the two men, deciding to give them an opinion.

"Alright, you want an answer?" Both Immortals waited.  "Who gives a damn?"

"Hey." Methos said in agreement.  Joe turned to face Methos.

"What matters is that it's Mac's friend."

Methos looked up at Duncan, who glared at the Immortal then walked away.
Methos whispered, "Pretty smart..." glancing at Joe, "...for a kid."

Joe looked back to Duncan.  "What are you gonna do?"

"In her heart, she thinks she's right."  Duncan glared at Methos, who
glanced away, "...and part of me agrees. I don't know how to stop her," he
added softly.

"Don't you?" came the almost whispered question as Methos slowly raised his
eyes, locking in on Duncan's face.  Joe looked over, surprise by what he'd
heard.  Duncan glared back at the oldest Immortal.

"No!" he stated emphatically, "I don't."  Glancing once more at Joe before a
final glare at Methos, Duncan turned and walked out of the bar.

Joe shook his head in disbelief, then looked at Methos.

"You know, you really can be an arrogant pain in the ass sometimes."

Reaching for his coffee cup, Methos sat up in his chair, his answer
betraying his weariness.

"Guilty as charged."

Joe studied the Immortal silently for a few minutes before he spoke.
"What's your plan, Methos?  What are you really up to?"

"What makes you think I'm up to anything?" Methos asked innocently.  The
look on Joe's face told the Immortal that he wasn't buying this act.  A
weary smile crossed the ancient's face as he replied, "It's a really long
story, Joe, and even I don't know how it will end."

"But are you ever gonna let me in on what's really going on?"

Methos chuckled as he drained his coffee cup and, rising, walked to the bar
for a refill.  "One of these days."

"Yeah?" Joe asked, skeptically.  "When?  On my death bed?"

"Yeah, Joe, I promise.  On your deathbed."

Joe laughed as his pointed his finger at the enigma he called his friend.
"I'm gonna hold you to that, old man."

************************

"That wasn't a promise!" Methos declared, as he virtually jumped off the
bed.  He began pacing about the room, trying to determine the proper
manipulation to get him out of this one.

"Sounded like a promise to me."

"But I never meant to keep it!"  Methos was surprised by his sudden bout of
honesty.  "I mean..."

"I know exactly what you mean," Joe laughed at his friend's discomfort.  He
could see Methos planning; he could read it in his eyes.  If he didn't hit
him again quickly, the ancient Immortal would come up with some way to get
out of this and Joe was determined that that wasn't going to happen.

"Methos, you've been following Mac around, protecting his back, every since
the two of you met.  Come to think of it, you were interested in him even
before that."  Joe watched Methos closely, happy to see that he'd obviously
hit the mark.  "From the moment I met you, you've been pumping me for
information on him."  Seeing the Immortal's surprised expression, Joe
continued.   "Oh, you did it very casually, I'll admit.  'What's it like to
be a field guy, Joe?' you'd ask innocently.  'Tell me what it's like to keep
track of a guy like MacLeod,' you'd say, pretending it was research.  I
never realized it then but you were tracking him, weren't you?  And you've
been doing it for a long time. Right?"

Joe waited, watching a myriad of emotions playing across the normally
controlled face as Methos continued to pace the room.  Just as Joe was about
to try another appeal, Methos stopped and raised his face to the sky, in
what appeared to Joe to be a plea to the Gods.  Finally, his shoulders
slumped in defeat, his hands stuffed into his jeans pockets, Methos turned
to face the Watcher.

"You're right, Joe.  I was." The ancient admitted with a sigh.  "I've been
tracking him and protecting him all his life."

"All his life? Why?" Joe asked, surprised that he was getting answers and
not wanting the old man to stop.

Methos laughed.  "The 'why' goes back a long, long time."

"Tell me, Methos.  We've got the time."  Joe implored him.  "Mac won't be
here until tomorrow.  Besides," he added with a smile, his trademark twinkle
in his eyes, "you promised."

Fixing the mortal with his best squinting glare, Methos knew that this
battle was lost.  Joe was his friend, probably the only one who would
understand.  Mac surely wouldn't.  And it would feel good to be able to
share the truth with someone.   He hadn't had a confidant since Darius.
'Besides,' he told himself as he walked over to close the room's door, 'a
promise is a promise.'

He grabbed the chair from against the wall and moved it beside the bed.
Taking his time, he sat down, stretching his long, lean body into a
comfortable position.  Placing his elbow on the chair's arms, he made a
steeple of his fingers and, bringing them to his lips, fixed Joe with an icy
gaze.

"Are you ready for this, Joe?  Are you prepared for the truth, the whole
truth and nothing but the truth?"  Joe nodded.  "OK."  Methos took a deep
breath then began.  "You know enough about the Horsemen to understand my
early days.  Suffice it to say that I was not a very nice person."  Seeing
Joe about to protest, Methos held up his hands.  "Yeah, yeah, I know. The
times were different, I was different, the whole bloody world was different.
Still," he smiled, "I'm sure we can agree that I wasn't one of the good
guys."

"Agreed."

"Good, so we don't have to replay that.  You know the old saying 'What goes
around, comes around.'?" Joe nodded again.  "Well, let's just say that,
finally, my time came around..."

**Approx 800 BC**

He rode for days, stopping only when his horse threatened to give out under
him.  When he encountered a tribe of nomads, he traded the exhausted animal
for necessary food and water then continued on foot, moving south, always
south, heading towards civilization and the opportunity to disappear in the
mass of humanity that resided there.  Humanity!  Could he survive being
surrounded by that which he did not possess?  Would the Gods allow him to
exist after the things that he'd done?

The plundering and pillaging, the very power of what he could do had been
intoxicating, driving him onward and bonding him to his 'brothers' for
centuries.  But slowly he came to the realization that it no longer held the
appeal that it once had.  He became tired, then bored, and then sickened by
his actions and the actions of the others.  He had to get away, but how?
Slowly, he began making preparations, setting into motion the means for his
survival.  Then he waited for his opportunity.

Finally, it presented itself.  Returning to the Horsemen's camp after
scouting out their next slaughter, he and Kronos were riding alone in the
wilderness. At an unsuspecting moment, he'd launched a surprise attack
against his sadistic 'brother' and managed to imprison the man who had, for
so long, held Methos in a prison with no bars.  After burying him alive,
Methos made his escape.  Releasing his white horse, a symbol of his past, he
took Kronos' horse and began to ride, with no specific destination in mind,
his only goal being to get as far away from Kronos, Caspian and Silas as he
could.

Now, as he moved slowly through the streets of this city that was almost as
ancient as he, Methos searched for sanctuary, a place where he would be
safe. Ahead, a temple rose above the surrounding buildings, like a landmark
to guide him.  He moved towards it, staying in the shadows, avoiding the
people that walked by.  He feared these people, feared that his abominations
were readable on his face or in his eyes.  Each face that met his seemed to
accuse him, curse him for the atrocities that he'd committed, damn him for
being alive.  Unable to bear their accusing glares, he ran, finally reaching
the temple and the sanctum inside.

As the coolness of the holy place surrounded him, he made his way,
stumbling, toward the altar and the statue that symbolized the resident God.
Would this God be able to help him?  Would this deity be able to cleanse the
soul of one as abhorrent as he?

Falling to his knees before the idol, Methos raised his head, wanting to
plead for his soul but unable to find the words.  Overcome by the desolation
that had become his existence and believing that his soul was beyond
redemption, Methos collapsed.

"Rise, my son." A gentle voice echoed against the stone walls, seeming to be
around him and inside him at the same time.  Methos slowly raised his head,
searching for the source of this comfort.

"Rise and come to me."  The voice urged him.  Methos watched as the statue
slowly reached out its hand, helping the stunned Immortal to his feet.  He
moved to sit at the foot of the statue, wondering if this was a
hallucination, fearing that he'd finally gone mad.  The soothing voice
continued to caress his mind.

"Calm yourself, sit beside me and tell me what you desire."

"Who are you?" Methos managed to asked, fear present in his whispered voice

"I have been known, in the past, by many names.  I will be known in the
future by many more.  For now, just know that I am your salvation," was the
answer he received.

"Am I worthy?  Can my soul be saved?"

"We are all worthy, my son, if salvation is what we seek.  Do you wish to
save your soul?"

"Yes," Methos sobbed, falling again to his knees, pleading.

"And do you think yourself worthy?"

Methos paused, unsure how to respond.  After all that he had done, all the
evil that he had committed, how could he be worthy?

"I do not know," he mumbled, shaking his head.  The anguish was heavy in his
voice.

"Then confess your sins to me and I will deem your worthiness."

Methos took a deep breath and, gathering himself, told his tale, holding
nothing back, recounting the centuries of devastation that he had created.
Finally, after an endless length of time, Methos ended with his flight
through the city and his arrival at the temple.  Silence followed, causing
him to fear that the God had abandoned him for the abomination that he was.

"I will not abandon you, my son," the God reassured him, as if reading the
Immortal's mind.

"How can you not?" Methos asked.  "What I've done cannot be forgiven!"

"Anything can be forgiven, if one is willing to make redemption."

"But how do I redeem myself?" Methos begged.  "After the horrors that I have
committed, after all that I have done, what could I possibly do to show that
I am deserving of forgiveness?"

"You will go and live among the people.  You will learn the way."

Methos shook his head, unable to accept this sentence.  "No...I can not do
that.  They will find me, they will know me for who and what I am." Methos
argued.  "I will not survive."

"I will give you a symbol of my pleasure, that you may walk among the people
without fear.  You will search for knowledge, seek the wisdom of others so
that, when the time comes, you will be prepared."

"Prepared for what?" Methos asked, confused.  The temple was painfully
silent.

Suddenly, the sky darkened, plummeting the interior of the temple into
blackness.  Flashes of lightening, reminiscent of a Quickening, shattered
the darkness, throwing Methos crashing to the floor, knocking him
unconscious.

Methos woke, sometime later, to silence.  Raising himself up, he looked
around, trying to determine if his experience was real.  Was it a dream?  He
stole a glance at the stone statue, standing frozen and cold above him.  He
moved to stand, crestfallen that his chance at redemption was simply a trick
of his mind when something warm touched his chest.  Reaching inside his
tunic, Methos withdrew a leather cord that hung around his neck, revealing a
medallion of gold.

"Where did this come from?" he spoke in wonderment.  Examining it closely,
he saw it as a circle within a circle, bordered by thirteen diamond-like
jewels, surrounding a symbol that Methos didn't recognize.

'I will give you a symbol of my pleasure, that you may walk among the people
without fear.'  The voice of the God reverberated in his mind.

Methos looked closer at the statue, hoping to find an explanation.  As he
replayed the words of the God in his mind, Methos noticed the symbol on the
chest of the idol.  It was the symbol on his medallion.

Elation washed over him.  It had happened!  It was real!  There was a chance
for redemption.

"But where should I go? What am I supposed to do?"  Methos shouted to the
silence.

Receiving no answer, Methos turned and slowly walked from the temple.  He
would live among the people, like the voice had told him to.  He would
search for knowledge, seek the wisdom, until he was prepared.

But prepared for what, he did not know.

************************

"So what happened to you?" Joe asked.  Methos looked up at him, giving him a
wry smile.

"Well, I headed west, towards Greece.  Within a week, I was attacked by band
of raiders, captured and spent the next hundred years in slavery."  Methos
rose from his chair beside the bed and walked to the window, staring out at
the world, his hands jammed into his jeans pockets.

Joe watched this man who was his friend.  He looked to be in his late
twenties, maybe thirty, but his life had spanned more than five thousand
years.  'The sights he must have seen,' Joe thought, 'the things he must
have experienced.'

"And...?" Joe asked quietly, trying to gently urge the Immortal to continue
his story.

"Some of my masters were gentle and kind but most of them were not.  A
hundred years of servitude."  He chuckled in amazement, shaking his head.
"I thought that it was enough to redeem myself.  So, finally getting free, I
headed back to the temple."

Methos moved to sit back in the chair, facing his friend.  He took a deep
breath before continuing.

"I traveled east, this time, hoping to get back there but, for some reason,
I couldn't remember where the temple was.  For weeks, I roamed through the
Zagros Mountains, not knowing which way to turn.  Then, believe it or not, I
got sick..."

**700 BC**

He staggered through the foothills, tired and hungry.  He couldn't believe
that he was lost!  He needed to find the God who seemed to control his
future but he didn't know, he couldn't remember, where the temple was.  How
would he ever know if he was worthy of salvation if he couldn't find the
temple?

Stumbling over a hidden rock, Methos fell into a thicket, scratching his
face, hands and arms.  Gasping at the sudden, but minor, pain, he rolled out
of the bushes, ending up on his back among the tumble of the hillside.  He
lay there, assessing his situation.  He was hungry; his food had run out two
days ago.  He was thirsty; the last water he'd found was yesterday
afternoon.  Now he was lost and tired, so very tired.

He turned his head to survey his surroundings when he spotted a bush just up
the slope, covered in blue colored berries.  Food!  He scrambled up, with
more energy then he thought he had.  He picked one berry, cautiously biting
into it.  Savoring the flavor, and noting no adverse reactions, he started
grabbing them by the handfuls, stuffing them into his mouth as fast as he
could pick them.

His hunger momentarily satisfied and his thirst abated, he curled up in the
shade of the bush to sleep.  'Everything will be better after I rest,' his
exhausted mind thought

He was awakened sometime later by the violent cramping of his stomach.
Folding himself into the pain, he realized that he was shivering with chills
despite the blazing sun, the result of a fever that he felt raging through
his body.  The berries!  They must have been poisonous after all.

He cramped again as he vomited the contents of his stomach, the spasms
continuing even after he was empty.  Collapsing back to the ground, his
energy drained, he just wished that he would die and get it over with!

"Please,' he moaned to the surrounding emptiness, "please just let me die."

"Death is not the answer to your salvation."

He tried to raise himself to his knees, searching for the source of the
voice.  Looking about wildly, he found no one.  Dropping his head into his
shaking hands, he groaned "God help me."

"I will always help you, my son."

His head snapped up to search the sky, finding only the blinding sunlight.
Not knowing if this was his imagination or not, he lashed out at the
annoying voice.

"If you always help me then why did you drag me out here?"

"I did not bring you out here," the voice spoke calmly.  "You did that
yourself.  What were you seeking?"

"I was searching for you!" Methos shouted

"You need not search for me, my child.  I am with you always."

Methos sat there silently, pondering this.  He hadn't realized!  Why hadn't
the God told him?  He bowed his head in despair.

"Why were you searching for me?" the voice asked him softly.

"I wanted to know if I was yet worthy of redemption."  He raised his head to
look again at the sky.  "Have I earned your forgiveness?"

"Do you think that you are worthy?  Do you feel that you've earned
forgiveness?"

"I DON'T KNOW!" Methos shouted, forcing himself to stand.  "Only you can
tell me that."

A moment of silence followed.  "Your redemption is not complete."

This pronouncement sent a burst of rage throughout his fevered body.  "I
have spent the last century enslaved by men, as I had enslaved others.  What
more do you need?"

"What did you learn from this experience?"

Methos collapsed to the ground, his anger washing away. What had he learned
from his life these past one hundred years?

"I learned that it's not much fun being a slave."  He thought for a minute
then chuckled.  "I learned what a hard day's work really is."  He sobered,
his voice dropping to a whisper.  "I learned that I'd do anything to stay
alive."

"Humility, the dignity of labor, the will to survive, these are all good
lessons.   But there is still more for you to learn."

"What else can I hope to learn?" he asked in perplexity

"Hope." The voice said

The sun chose that moment to blaze bright enough to cause Methos to close
his eyes.  When he opened them again, he found that it was dusk, the sun
beginning to fall behind the hills.  Scanning the area, afraid that his eyes
were deceiving him, he was surprised when he spotted a small stream winding
its way through the rocks.

Making his way to the stream, he drank his fill of the cool, clear water.
Once sated, he began to search for food.  Locating a nest of snakes hidden
in the brush, he used his knife to kill and skin them, roasting them over
the small fire that he built.

His stomach filled for the first time in weeks, he settled down by the fire
to sleep, his one hand clasping the medallion that still hung around his
neck.

'Tomorrow I will start out again,' he thought to himself.  'This time I will
succeed.'

************************

"And did you?"  Joe asked

"Eventually, I guess." Methos smiled.  "I set out again, heading back west
but this time I was more careful.  With the Horsemen, I learned to survive
by brutality and force.  During my years as a slave, I learned to survive
through guile and cunning.  I was not going to get captured this time."

"Where did you go?"

"Everywhere." Methos told him.  "From Phoenicia and Cyprus, through Greece
and Rome, to Carthage and finally Egypt.  And everywhere I went I did what I
could to help. Building dams and homes to help people survive, teaching
languages and trades that they may help themselves.  And when I could not
teach them, I learn what they could teach me."

"How long was it before you spoke with the God again."

"Another hundred years."  Methos sighed.  "The Assyrians had begun attacking
Egypt and I tried to escape by diving into the Red Sea.  Needless to say, I
drowned."  Methos chuckled.  "But I eventually washed up on the far
shore..."

**600 BC**

"Rise, my son." A gentle voice echoed in his mind as Methos drew in a ragged
breath. The effects of his drowning death still wracked his body, preventing
him from answering.

"Rise and come to me."  The voice urged him.  Methos slowly raised his head,
searching for the source of the voice.

"Where are you?" he choked out, his voice not yet under control.

"I am everywhere."

"Oh, great!" Methos grumbled, finally sitting with his head in his hands.
"Riddles!"

"Why were you searching for me?" the voice asked him.  Methos thought that
this sounded familiar.

"I wanted to know if I was yet worthy of redemption."  He raised his head to
look up at the sky.

"Do you think that you are worthy?"

Methos was starting to get frustrated with this.  "I don't know." He said
evenly. "Why don't you tell me."

"Your redemption is not complete."

"Just like that?  No discussion, no nothing, just a pronouncement?"

"How did you spend this past time, my son?"

Methos told the God of all that he had seen, all that he had learned and all
that he had done.

"He who gives assistance to the poor acknowledges the kingdom of God."

"That's all well and good," Methos argued. "But what more do I have to do?
When will I be worthy of redemption?"

"When you are ready, you will know."

"Oh, and when I know, I just have to come and convince you?"  Methos was
having trouble keeping the sarcasm out of his voice.

"A thousand people cannot convince one by words to the extent that one
person can convince a thousand by action."

"For this, I left Egypt?" he grumbled.

Getting no further instructions, Methos rose and, checking to make sure that
he still had his medallion, started walking into the desert, seeking he knew
not what but going to meet his future.

************************

"So?  What happened?" Joe tried to sit forward before Methos restrained him
with a hand on his chest.

"Joe, relax," he admonished his friend.  "If you get too excited, that
escapee from a Wagner opera is going to throw me out of here."

As if on cue the nurse entered the room, impaling Methos with an icy glare
before moving over to Joe's bedside.

"Are you alright, Joe?" she asked as she surveyed the wires that connected
him to the phalanx of machinery.  "Suddenly all your readings seemed to
bounce off the charts."

"No, I'm not alright!" Joe shouted in an uncharacteristic show of temper at
the interruption.  "I'm dying, you twit!"  The last thing he wanted was to
give Methos any reason to stop with his story.

"Now, Joe, you know I'm only here to help," she patiently admonished, as if
talking to a petulant child.

"You would help me more if you would just go away." Joe responded through
clenched teeth.  He glared at the nurse and, after a momentary battle of
wills, she smiled and left the room.

As the door closed, Methos burst into relieved laughter.  "You are most
definitely not a good patient."

"Forget about her," he said, dismissing the episode.  "If I don't yell at
her at least once a day, she sticks a thermometer..." Methos raised his
eyebrows at the slight pause.  "In my mouth, you bastard." Joe finished,
chuckling.  Resettling himself comfortably in the bed, he waited for Methos
to continue.  When the Immortal showed no inclination to begin his story
again, Joe urged him on.

"Well?" he asked.  "What happened next?  Where did you go?  What did you
do?"

"OK," Methos laughed, "let me see."  He strolled around the room, seeming to
search his memory.  At an imploring glare from Joe, he laughed again.  "I'm
trying to remember!  This didn't happen yesterday, you know."

"Like this is something that you'd forget." Joe scoffed.

Nodding, Methos picked up the tale.  "I headed east this time, through
India, then north through the mountains to Mongolia and China and even into
Japan.  I learned about medicines and became a healer.  I was, for a time, a
special envoy for the Emperor.  I did whatever I could to promote peace,
sometimes at the risk of my own life."

"Did you come across many other Immortals along the way?"

"A few," Methos smiled.  "It was during this time that I perfected my 'run
and hide' techniques.  Unfortunately, I didn't always succeed."  He came to
sit back down on the chair by the bed, facing Joe.  "Sometimes, in the quest
for peace, the messenger is sacrificed.  I died quite a few times throughout
those years.  But I also found a certain peace in my own soul.  I thought
that I had begun to understand what the Gods were trying to tell me so,
after another hundred years, I headed back to the temple."

"You remembered where it was?"

"Surprisingly, yes.  And, you know, after 300 years, it hadn't changed a
bit..."

**500 BC**

Methos entered the temple slowly, in awe of what he found.  Everything
appeared to be the same as it had been the last time that he'd been here.
Moving to kneel before the statue, he looked up at the image that he had,
for so long, carried in his mind.  Reaching inside his tunic, he withdrew
the medallion that, like him, had survived the past three hundred years of
tests and trials.  Holding it securely between his palms as if in prayer, he
took a deep, calming breath and, raising his head, spoke to the God.

"I have returned," he said calmly as his eyes searched the temple.

"Welcome, my son."  The soothing voice echoed throughout the temple and
inside his mind. "What has brought you here?"

"I came to see if I was yet worthy of redemption."  He raised his head to
look up at the statue.

"Do you think that you are worthy?"

Methos thought for a moment before he answered.  "I have traveled very far,
suffering much but helping many.  I have learned the differences of people
only to find that they are mostly the same.  I have learned that, for others
to believe in you, you must believe in yourself.  So, yes, I think I am
worthy."  He held his breath, waiting for the God's response.

"Your redemption is complete."

Methos released his breath in amazement.  "That's it?" he questioned, as he
stood.  "A few simple words make you think that I am worthy?"

"I have always thought that you were worthy, my son.  It was you who were in
doubt."

"But...but..." Methos stammered, unable to believe how easy it had been.

"I told you when you first came to me that we are all worthy if salvation is
what we seek. But, until you accepted it within yourself, your redemption
would not be complete."

"So, that's it?"  He shook his head in amazement. "I suffer, on and off, for
three hundred years and it erases all the evil that I've done?"

"No, my son." The voice told him.  "Your suffering has succeeded in changing
you from the evil that you were.  There is still the need for retribution to
erase the Evil that you've done."

His head snapped up at the mention of retribution.  What could possibly be
asked of him that would erase the horrors that he had committed?  His death?
'No,' he thought. 'that would be too quick, too easy.'  His life?  To live
his never-ending existence with what he'd done, the memories always present
in his mind, would be a cruel and, therefore, just punishment.  But there
had to be more.

"Yes, there is more." The voice reassured him.  "You have spent centuries
destroying all that was good in the world, simply because you could.  Your
retribution will be to save that which you once sought to destroy.  The time
will come when an Evil will exist in this world that makes your actions pale
in comparison.  You must fight this Evil, banishing it from the world, to
save mankind.  This will be your retribution."

Methos thought about the task that had been laid before him.  "Fight a
battle?" he asked. "As simple as that?"  Methos had had many teachers over
the centuries and was very, very good with a sword.  He drew himself up,
standing tall and proud.  "There is no enemy that I cannot defeat."

"You cannot imagine the Power of this Evil!" the voice boomed, causing the
very walls of the Temple to reverberate, forcing Methos back down to his
knees. "And this enemy will use your own pride to defeat you!"

Methos trembled at the wrath in the God's voice.  "Forgive me," he pleaded.

Again, there was a momentary pause.  "I forgive you, my son," the voice
assured him.  "But, without this retribution, will the world be able to
forgive you?  Will you be able to forgive yourself?"

Methos shook his head, unable to speak around the tears in his eyes and fear
in his chest.

"When will I face this evil?" Methos finally asked

"In the future.  But you must face the Evil with a pure heart, a peaceful
soul.  You will need the time to prepare.  But when the time is upon you,
you will know."

"But how will I recognize the evil? How will I know that I'm ready?" Methos
pleaded for answers, staring up at the statue.

"You will know."  The voice echoed off the walls of the temple then slowly
died away.

Methos knelt in silence for a very long time, unmoving.  Finally, he grasped
the medallion between his hands and made a solemn vow to whatever God had
given him this chance.

"I will continue to search for the knowledge.  I will continue to seek the
wisdom.  Then, when the time is right, I will defeat this Evil to protect
mankind.  This I swear on my life."

With those words, he rose and walked from the temple, at peace with himself
for the first time in two millennia. He had a goal, a task to perform. But,
in his innocence, he did not fully understand what that task might cost.

************************

Joe sat in stony silence, mouth agape.  Methos smiled as he reached over
and, using one finger under Joe's chin, gently closed his mouth.  The
movement broke through Joe's trance-like state.

"You...you..." Joe sputtered.  Taking a moment to collect himself, Joe took
a deep breath and tried again.  "You were the Champion?"

"A Champion, yes." Methos smiled slowly behind his steepled fingers,
allowing Joe to work through his disbelief.

"You're trying to tell me that some ancient God entrusted you with the
future of mankind?" Joe scoffed.  In his surprise, he didn't realize how
that sounded until he watched a quick look of hurt pass over Methos' face,
to be replaced by one of resigned sadness.

"Who would trust me with anything that important, right?" Methos responded
sarcastically, waving his hand as if to brush the thought away. Joe reached
out and grabbed the hand, holding it tightly, getting his friends attention.

"Methos, I'm sorry.  I didn't mean it like that.  It's just that..." Joe
looked for the right words to say. Searching his friend's face, he realized
that there weren't any.  "You're serious, aren't you? You're not pulling my
leg?"

Methos answered slowly.  "The truth, the whole truth..."

"...and nothing but the truth." Joe finished.  Shaking his head as the words
set in, Joe's only response was a softly spoken "Wow!"

"Unbelievable, isn't it?" Methos asked, the hint of a smile on his face.  He
could understand Joe's disbelief.  After all, hadn't Methos made a habit of
teasing his friends with unbelievable stories and outrageous explanations?

Suddenly, Joe put a voice to the barrage of questions that were spinning
around in his head. "Did you win?  Well, obviously you did.  When did it
happen?  Where did you battle?  How did you know what to do?"

"Well," Methos sighed. "Yes, I did win.  'When' was around 4 BC.  'Where'
was on Holy Ground.  And I had no idea what to do."  He finally laughed at
the absurdity of his explanation.

"The battle took place on Holy Ground?"  Joe probed.  He didn't know how
much longer the old man would continue to answer his questions, so he wasn't
going to stop.

Methos nodded.  "In an ancient temple site on the plains of southern
Britain.  All the battles against evil take place on Holy Ground."

"Really?" Joe was surprised by this revelation

"For Evil to be the victor, Joe, he must seduce a good soul, bringing it,
willingly, to him.  Doing so on Holy Ground would make Evil's triumph even
more complete.  That's why immortals aren't allowed to fight on Holy
Ground."

"You mean that really is a rule?" Joe saw a look of surprise cross Methos'
face.  "I mean, I thought that maybe it was just something that someone made
up to give you guys a place to rest, you know, something with no deep
purpose.  I didn't know there was a 'real' reason."

"A lot of people think that, Joe.  Unfortunately, it is true.  Any evil done
on Holy Ground makes him even stronger.  To take the Champion there would
make his victory complete for all time."

"Wasn't there anyone to help you, to tell you what had to be done?"

"Part of the battle for the Champion, Joe, is to figure it out for himself.
But, usually, the previous Champion helps to prepare and guide the next one,
the teacher for the Ultimate Battle, you might say. But, in my case, there
wasn't anyone to help me, other than the God telling me that when it was
time, I'd know."

"Why not?  And what does all this have to do with MacLeod?"

"In the aftermath of the battle, I was almost lost.  A man found me, a man
who managed to save my soul.  Out of love and friendship for him, I made
another promise."  Methos looked Joe in the eyes.  "I seem to make a habit
of that with people I care about, don't I?"

**4 BC - Britannia**

They surrounded him, taunting him with their vacant, dead eyes, beating at
him with sticks, shovels and pitchforks.  He hacked at them with his sword,
running them through, severing arms and legs, but still they came.  The
thousands of people that he had killed had finally risen up against him.

They rushed him, knocking him to the ground. They were on him, pummeling
him, stabbing him.  He lay there, hunched into a ball, trying to protect his
head and, more important, his neck but they grabbed at him and, taking his
arms and legs, spread him out on his back. He had no defense. He was going
to die. Looking up into the blinding sun, they appeared as dark shadows
towering over him. And among the indistinct faces above him, there was one
he made out, clearly.  The face of his tormentor, the demon, Ahriman.

Fighting against the hands that held him, in anger, in fear, in frustration,
he screamed...

...as the faces above him dissolved into one.  An old face, a wise face,
backlit by the sun, surrounded by the standing stones of this Holy place.
Was this the face of his God?  Yes! The Gods had come to save him.

"Rest easy, my son," the vision said, "You are safe.  I will protect you."

With the reassurance of the vision, he relaxed, drifting as if on a cloud,
into a peaceful oblivion.  He felt himself being lifted and gently moved but
he didn't care.  He was finally safe.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Methos awoke to the sounds of the spring forest; birds twittering in joy,
leaves rustling in the breeze. He lay, surrounded by the comfort of soft
furs, on a pallet of fresh, clean straw.

Opening his eyes, he found himself in a hut, brightened by the many windows
yet cooled by the surrounding foliage.  He had no idea where he was, but he
knew that he felt safe.

Climbing out from under the sleeping furs, he slowly rose to his feet, weak
and unsteady.  As he took a moment to gain his balance, he noticed that his
clothes had been mended and cleaned.  His recent ordeal had debilitated him
almost beyond his Immortal powers of healing.  It took him a few minutes to
gather himself but, eventually, inching his way to the doorway, using the
table and the walls as support, he stepped outside.

The tranquility of the forest was like a balm to his soul.  He drew in a
deep, cleansing breath, allowing the feeling of harmony to wash over his
body, through his being, raising his spirits.  After so long, after so much
misery, he was at peace.

He turned to survey his surroundings, taking in the spectacular vista.  At
the edge of the clearing, opposite the hut, was a stream.  He was surprised
to find himself thirsty.  Moving slowly to the edge of the stream, he knelt
down, sipping the cool, clear water.  It tasted like nectar to his parched
throat.  He drank his fill before he was suddenly overcome with weariness.
The simple exertion of walking to the stream had sapped his limited
strength.  He stood, attempting to make his way back to the hut, when he was
assaulted by an Immortal presence.

There, standing by the hut, was a man, dressed in a robe of some indistinct
color, reflecting the hues of the forest.  His hair, snowy white, hung past
his shoulders, merging with the beard of the same color that hung below his
waist.  His face was creased with a smile, soothing and inviting.  But
Methos was captured by the man's eyes.  Blue, the color of the spring sky,
engulfed him, seeming to drag him into their depths.  But, instead of
bringing fear, the impression was one of comfort, of serenity, of peace.
Overcome by a wave of dizziness, Methos gave in to the sensation, collapsing
to the ground.

He woke to the light of a roaring fire, bright against the outside darkness.
The smell of food sent his stomach to rumbling.  He opened his eyes, hoping
to locate some of the aromatic fare.

Crouched down before him, a calming smile on his face, was the old man.
Seeing the surprised reaction, the man spoke.

"Rest easy, my friend.  You are safe."  Reaching out, he slowly touched his
fingers to Methos' head.  Methos momentarily drew back, but allowed the
contact.

"Good," the old man said, he smile growing.  "Your fever has broken.  Do you
think that you could eat something?"

Reacting to the slight nod of Methos' head, the old man moved over to the
fire, returning with a bowl of stew.  Methos sat up as he was handed the
bowl.

"Eat slowly, my friend," he admonished.  "Your body will reject it if you
eat too quickly."

Methos nodded again, as he tasted the stew, savoring the flavor of the thick
broth, with its vegetables and meat.  'This must be heaven,' he thought.

The old man watched as Methos ate and, satisfied that he was going to retain
his meal, retrieved his own bowl and sat down beside the pallet.

"My name is Ambrosius.  This," waving his hand to indicate the hut, "is my
home.  You are welcome here."

Methos tried to speak only to find that his voice wouldn't cooperate.
Clearing his throat, he tried again.

"I am Methos," he said softly, surprising himself with his honesty.  The
very presence of the man seated before him seemed to negate his ability to
lie.  "How did I come to be here?"

"I brought you here."  Reacting to the questioning look on the young
Immortal's face, he continued.  "The Old Ones told me that someone needed my
help.  I found you on the plain, amidst the standing stones, weak and
burning with fever, screaming at the images in your mind."

"How long have I been here?"

Ambrosius thought for a moment.  "The moon was full on the night that I
found you.  Tonight it will not appear in the sky."

Methos listened to the old man's description.  He had been unconscious for
approximately fourteen days!  He looked around, trying to recall something,
anything, but he had no memory of the time.  He remembered his battle with
the demon, just barely defeating the Evil.  But the aftermath had left him
shaken to the core, vulnerable and weak.  He remembered being among the
standing stones.  He remembered what must have been a dream.  But there was
nothing after that. He looked back at the old man.

"Ambrosius," he said, testing the sound of the name.  A Latin name that
meant 'immortal', a Roman name.  "You are Immortal?" Methos asked, suddenly
not trusting his senses.

"Yes," Ambrosius smiled.  "I am Immortal.  I am the oldest of us that still
exists."

Methos absorbed this information, a little in awe of the man that sat next
to him. "Are you Roman?"

"I have been many things in my life but, no, I am not Roman."

Methos continued to eat as he watched the old man.  He should feel cautious,
he should be on guard but the aura of peace that emanated from this man set
him completely at ease.  He knew, inexplicably, that he was in no danger
here.

Overcome with the sudden need for sleep, his eyes began to droop.  Ambrosius
took the bowl from his hands, placing it on the floor as he moved to cover
Methos with the sleeping furs.

"Rest, my son," he said, his voice a soothing comfort.  "We will talk more
in the morning."

Nodding as he snuggled down under the covers, Methos fell asleep feeling
safe.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

The two men did talk the next day and the day after, as Methos continued to
grow stronger.  Over the subsequent days and weeks they fell into a daily
routine: hunting small game for food, picking herbs for cooking and
medicines and tending the small vegetable garden.  Ambrosius answered all
his questions, teaching him of many things.  Methos came to believe that
there was nothing that this old man did not know.  He relished the
opportunity to talk with someone older than he; someone who understood the
things that time could do to a man.

He found himself telling Ambrosius of all that he'd done, of his part in the
evil that was The Horsemen, his plea to the Gods, and his battle with
Ahriman.  He was heartened that, after baring his soul, the only reaction
that he got was one of acceptance.  So, for the very first time in his
memory, he felt at home, at peace.

One day, after being with Ambrosius for about three years, the old man came
to him.   Methos was kneeling beside the outdoor fire, cooking the fish that
he had caught earlier in the day.  Ambrosius knelt next to him, placing a
hand on his shoulder.  Methos looked up at the contact, smiling at his
friend.  His smile faded as he saw the look on the old man's face.

"What is wrong, my friend?" Methos asked with concern, taking the food from
the fire.  "Did the Old Ones bring you bad news?"

Ambrosius nodded.  "Sad news, I'm afraid." He sighed.  "I visited the
standing stones today and the Old Ones told me that the time has come for
you to leave."

"Leave?" Methos was shocked, not wanting to believe what he was hearing.
"But why must I leave?  This is my home."

"This will always be your home, Methos." The Holy Man assured him.  "But the
Old Ones have told me that there are still things that you must do."

Methos was bewildered.  "I don't understand," he said weakly, fear wrapping
itself around his heart.

"You're task in not yet finished, my friend," the old man told him.

"But I've defeated the Evil that would have overtaken the world." Methos
protested, standing and pacing around the fire.  "What more is there left to
do?"

"It is now up to you to find and prepare the next Champion."

He stopped and turned to face the man, his hands on his hips in defiance.

"Next Champion? What next Champion?" Methos couldn't believe what he was
hearing.  "I won the battle, the Evil is conquered.  It is over!"

"You won this battle, yes.  But just barely."  Ambrosius shook his head
sadly.  "The Evil will return.  As the only living Champion, it is up to you
to teach the next."

"Why was there no one to teach me?" Methos asked, still defiant.

"Because, my friend, you were not supposed to be the Chosen One of this
time."  Seeing the confusion on the young Immortal's face, Ambrosius
explained.  "The previous Champion had found his successor and had begun his
training.  But then, in a battle not of their choosing, they were both taken
by death.  So the Gods waited."

The defiance seeped from his body as he slowly sank back to the ground. "The
Gods waited for me?"

"For you." The old man smiled, taking pity on this Immortal who had fought
his best battle only to find that he was not finished.  Placing his hand
gently on Methos' shoulder, he tried to reassure his friend.  "You came
along in a moment of need and the Gods gave you a choice."

"There was no choice," Methos protested, shaking his head.  Why did he have
to do this?  Why couldn't his part in this be over?

"There is always a choice, my friend.  Thankfully, you made the right one."

"What other choice could I have made?" he asked sadly

"You could have chosen to continue your life as it was.  You could have
chosen to walk away from the Gods.  But you didn't.  Now you must decide
again." Ambrosius gave him a gently smile.

Methos looked about, confused and deeply saddened.  He didn't want to leave
this place, this sanctuary.  He didn't want to leave Ambrosius.  But if what
the old man said was true, there would be another Champion and another
battle with Ahriman.  Could he abandon the next Champion?  Could he leave
the man to fight this battle with no preparation, as he had?  He didn't know
what to do.

Ambrosius stood to face him, engulfing him in those bottomless blue eyes.
"You are a good man, Methos, a strong man.  You will make the right choice."

"But how do I know what the right choice is?" Methos lamented

Ambrosius place a finger on Methos' forehead.  "All of your answers are in
here and..." moving to place his hand over Methos' heart, "...in here.
Think about what must be done then choose."

Methos nodded at the old man, his shoulders sagging with the weight of his
decision.  He walked away from the clearing, heading into the forest.  He
needed some time to think.

Ambrosius watch his young friend walk into the trees.  He, too, was saddened
by the weight of his friend's decision.  But he was also confident.

"You already know what must be done.  You will find the truth."

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Methos wandered aimlessly among the trees, searching for the answers. Coming
upon a clearing not far from the hut, he sat down, with his back against a
tree and closed his eyes.  Cherishing the tranquility, he allowed his mind
to go over the things that the Gods had told him.

'You must fight this Evil, banishing it from the world, to save mankind,'
the God had said to him.  He had accepted that charge, learning all that he
could, managing to survive the battle.  It had not been an easy task.  There
were many times that Methos wanted to give up, to walk away, but he
couldn't.  Could he walk away now?

'But why did the Gods have to chose me?' Another part of his mind
complained.  Methos didn't know why he had been chosen.

'You were not supposed to be the Chosen One of this time' Ambrosius had told
him.

The fate of the Champions came to his mind.  'But, in a battle not of their
choosing, they were both taken by death.' Methos wondered what could have
happened to them, that they both died prematurely.

Suddenly, as if hearing the words for the first time, he whispered them
again.

"In a battle not of their choosing, they were both taken by death.  Taken by
Death!"  Was that the answer?  Was that why the Gods had chosen him?  Had he
killed the Champion and his student?

Jumping up, he ran back to the hut, to Ambrosius.  He needed to know the
answer.  Somehow, Ambrosius would know.

Breaking into the clearing, he skidded to a stop as he found Ambrosius
tending to the cooking food.  The old man stood to face him, his eyes
revealing to Methos all that he needed to know.

"I murdered them, didn't I?"  Methos asked, his breaths coming in gasps from
his frantic run.  "That's why the Gods have chosen me?"

Ambrosius nodded silently, confirming what Methos had guessed. He watched as
the young Immortal walked over to the fire, contemplating the flame.

"I always thought that this retribution was a punishment from the Gods."
Methos spoke softly, almost to himself.  "But it wasn't."  He turned to face
his friend.  "This has all been a consequence of my own actions.  And you
knew."

Ambrosius walk over to stand in front of Methos.  "Yes, my friend, I knew."

"Yet you didn't judge me?"

"You have judged yourself more harshly than anyone else could. Besides, who
am I to judge the actions of others?"

"You are a man of honor, a man of goodness.  You are a Holy Man."

"No, my son, I am none of those.  I am just a man."

Methos placed his hands on the old man's shoulders, staring deep into his
eyes.

"Then I make this promise to you, 'just a man', to you and to the Gods.  I
swear that I will find the next Champion and assure that he is prepared for
the battle.  And if that isn't enough, then I will train the next one and
the next one.  I will not allow my single action to cause the destruction of
all that is good.  I swear!"

Ambrosius wrapped his arms around the young man's shoulders, drawing him
into an embrace.  Releasing him, he looked Methos in the eyes.

"You have chosen the right path, my friend, as I knew you would."  Methos
lowered his head, a hint of blush visible on his face.  Ambrosius gently
raised his chin, forcing Methos to look again into those deep, blue eyes.

"Just remember, no matter where you go, no matter what happens, this is
always your home."

Methos embraced the old man again as tears slid down his face.

************************

"He believed in you." Joe said, as he watched the ancient Immortal.

"Yes, he did." Methos responded quietly.  "And I believed in him. He made me
feel that I was worth something at a time when I just wasn't sure. He made
me feel safe. He made me feel loved." Methos turned to face his mortal
friend, a smile on his face and a tear in his eye.

"There had never been anyone, in my entire life, who knew all about me, who
knew all my truths, and didn't judge me.  Ambrosius gave me everything that
I needed and asked nothing in return."

Joe was glad that, at least for a while, Methos had had a friend like that,
someone who didn't judge him.  'How many people have you had like that in
your 5000 thousand years?' Joe wondered.  'Not many, I'll bet.'  That
thought made Joe feel sad.

"Did you see him again?" he asked.

"Yes," Methos smiled as he came back to sit in the chair.  "I visited him
frequently, at first, never wanting to wander too far.  Whenever I needed
some peace, I would go 'home'.  Back to that hut in the forest.  And he was
always there.  But," The ancient Immortals face turned sad, his voice
serious, "as my search for the next Champion took me further and further
away, our visits became less frequent.  The last time I saw Ambrosius was
around 350 AD.  My search was going to take me further than I'd ever gone.
I wanted to see him, to get his advice."  A hint of a smile touched his
lips.  "I wanted him to tell me that I was doing the right thing."  Methos
stood and began pacing again.  Joe watched, intrigued by the various
emotions that he was seeing in this normally stoic man.

"We had a wonderful visit before he sent me on my way.  He assured me that I
would succeed in my quest and that he would speak to me again. I left him
feeling postive, feeling that all things were possible.  I didn't realize
that I would never see him again."

Joe could hear the sadness and pain in his friend's voice.  Methos stood
with his hands in his back pockets, face turned to the sky, his eyes closed.
Joe could see all of the emotions playing through the tall, lean body as the
memories played across his mind.  All the joy and the sadness, all the
comfort and the pain.  Joe needed to know what had happened to this anchor,
this mainstay in Methos' life.

"Tell me, my friend," the Watcher whispered, not wanting to intrude but
knowing that Methos need to tell him as much as Joe wanted to hear.

"I'd headed east, through Asia, all the way to China, but I found no sign of
my Champion.  I turned back to Europe, thinking that maybe I had missed
something, maybe I'd find it on my return.  At least, I thought, I'd get to
see Ambrosius again.  But, as I got closer to home, I began to hear stories.
They spoke of a great general, a brutal, evil man who led a vast army across
the continent, raping, killing and destroying everything in his path.  At
first I'd thought that it was Kronos but I soon realized that it wasn't.
The stories then told how this general had a great conversion.  He'd killed
a Holy Man and, suddenly, left the army, left the killing, and became a man
of God.  This sounded so much like what Ambrosius had done for me that I
became intrigued.  I sought out more stories of this general and the Holy
Man but, as I heard more, a fear began to grow inside me.  This Holy Man
sounded so much like Ambrosius that I began to panic.  Then, after a frantic
search, my worst fears were realized.  This general, this killer, this
Immortal had murdered my only friend."

Methos went silent, the pain written on his face.  Joe had a sudden desire
to take this young looking man into his arms and comfort him, like a father
would do for a son.  It surprised him, and made him smile, to realize that
he sometimes thought of Methos that way.  Without warning, Methos began
talking again.

"A rage overtook me when I learned of my friend's death.  My only thoughts
turned to revenge.  Suddenly nothing else mattered; not the search for the
Champion, not my promise to the Gods, nothing but finding this murdering
bastard and making him pay..."

**752 AD - France**

Methos trudged along through the lightly falling snow, not really looking
where he was going.  He was too focused on his goal to worry about
trivialities.  A desire for revenge had sustained him the final 500 miles of
his trek.  He did not consider that what he was doing may cause all that he
had accomplished since his Horseman days to be for naught.  He had only one
thing on his mind; to avenge the death of Ambrosius.

It had been close to 400 years since he had last seen the Holy Man and once
again, Methos regretted that he had not made more of an effort to seek him
out.  There would be no seeking him out now.  The great Immortal was dead
and the one who was about to pay a heavy price for that folly was the former
general, Darius.

Methos snarled silently to himself as he cursed the name of Darius.  He had
heard about the great general before this point, about how cruel and
ruthless he was.  Sneering slightly, Methos thought to himself that Darius
sounded like a would be Horseman.  The old Immortal shuddered.  Even after
all this time, the thought of the Horsemen was not something he wanted to
dwell on.

A signpost loomed up before him and Methos gave a nod of satisfaction. He
was nearly there.  Even though he had not been in this region in so long
that most did not even recall the ancient name that he pulled from his
memory, Methos knew exactly where he was going.  He was going to kill a man
and avenge the death of a friend.

As he approached the Abbey, he reviewed in his mind his intentions.  He knew
he was facing a worthy opponent who would require all of his skill and
cunning to defeat.  But everything that he had heard about Darius said that
the priest would not fight.  That suited Methos fine.  He had never let an
opponent's refusal to fight stop him before and he had no intention of
allowing it now.  The one thought that had burned into his soul for the past
few hundred years was that this man, this Darius, had killed Ambrosius.

Dropping his bundle of belongings near the doorway, Methos put his hand on
his sword and gently pushed open the door, slipping silently inside.  He
stood a moment, basking in the relative warmth and allowed the snow to melt
off of him before continuing.  He was not familiar with this place so he
allowed all of his skill and cunning to come to his aid in tracking down his
prey.

Methos moved cautiously but surely through the building, looking in each
room but knowing before he looked, that the man he sought was not there.  By
his calculations, he was heading towards the main chapel.  He gave a snort
to himself.  Where else would a priest be?  He had only taken a few steps
when it hit him, the sensation of an Immortal.  A feral smile crossed his
features.  At last, retribution would be his.

Methos stole into the Chapel and looked around.  It was a rustic but clean
chapel, much like many he had seen in the past.  There was a rugged crucifix
at the head of the room with a table, holding two candles and an open book;
a Bible, he presumed.  Kneeling in front of this unfinished altar was a man,
dressed in a simple brown robe.  He did not look up or move although he had
to be aware of the Immortal at the back of the room.  Methos moved steadily
forward, drew his sword with a deadly hiss and stopped, waiting for the man
to speak.  Silent seconds stretched into minutes and the priest still did
not make any move whatsoever.

"Are you Darius?" Methos finally demanded impatiently, his voice loud in the
silence and peace of the chapel

The priest merely held up a finger, indicating he wanted Methos to wait.
Methos frowned.  He was here to kill this man, surely he knew that and yet
he was expected to wait until the priest was done?  He scowled and took an
angry breath, ready once again to speak.

Before he could, the priest turned around and looked right at him, a
peaceful smile on his face and love shining from his eyes. "Be at ease, my
son.  I will be with you in a moment."  The priest glanced at the sword held
in Methos' hand.  "You may put that away.  I will not fight in any event and
this is, after all, Holy Ground."  He turned his attention back to whatever
task he was involved in and ignored Methos.

Methos felt his face flush.  He had been so angry, he had not thought about
this being Holy Ground.  He sheathed his sword, trying to do it quietly but
failing.  He gave a silent thanks to the Gods that he had not fought on Holy
Ground.  While he knew of no specific incidents of Immortals fighting on
Holy Ground, there were rumors plenty about what would happen to those who
broke that Rule.  And Methos was probably the only man alive who knew the
truth of these rumors.

Lacking something to do while the priest was occupied, Methos sat down.
Although he was ready and willing to kill the man, Methos did not feel right
in interrupting him further.  He smiled to himself.  This was the last time
that Darius would be able to commune with his God, may as well let him
continue.

After what seemed like entirely too long a period of time to be conversing
with a God, Darius crossed himself and stood up.  He folded his hands inside
the sleeves of his robe and came towards his visitor.  Methos got to his
feet but Darius waved him to sit back down.  Doing so reluctantly, Methos
found himself intrigued by this man.  He knew he would not be so calm if a
strange Immortal had come towards him with a bared blade.

Darius settled himself on the bench near Methos and openly studied him for a
moment.  He smiled gently at the look on his face and gave a slight shake of
his head.

"Are you Darius?" Methos demanded once more, his voice like cold granite

"I am Darius." The priest said simply.

Methos felt his eyes narrow and his breathing quickened.  Here, at long
last, was the man who had taken his friend.  He put a hand on the hilt of
his blade.  "Then I am here to kill you. Step outside with me?"

Darius could not help himself, he actually laughed.  Methos did not find
anything amusing and his face reflected this.  Darius got hold of himself
and composed his face into a more serious expression although his mouth
still twitched occasionally.

"Why?" Darius asked curiously. "Before you answer, perhaps I should clarify
the question.  To be precise, I am asking several questions, first of which
is why would you want to kill me?  I am sure we have not met before and
while I do realize the Game allows you to challenge any other Immortal, you
do not strike me as one who does so with no reason.  Second, why would I
want to step outside so that you could try to kill me? I have no quarrel
with you and therefore, will not raise a blade to you.  I do not even own a
sword."

It was Methos' turn to laugh but it was a far from pleasant sound.  He got
to his feet and began to pace as he spoke. "You, of all people, expect me to
believe that?  You are Darius, the great general.  Your name is feared and
even respected throughout the world.  You are the man most feared, mothers
tell their children horrors that you have committed in an attempt to correct
disobedience.  You want me to believe that you have no sword?  I don't think
that one such as yourself could give up a life like the one you led so
easily.  As for why do I want to kill you, as you said, I really don't have
to have a reason, do I?"  Methos moved closer and stared down at the priest,
who did not look in the least bit concerned.

"I do have a reason," Methos almost whispered. "And that reason was the
biggest mistake you ever made and the last one you will make in your life.
You, friend, " Methos stressed the word 'friend' sarcastically, "killed the
greatest man I have ever met. You killed Ambrosius and for that, you must
die."

A look of profound sadness and regret came across Darius' face and he nodded
slightly.  "A true and loyal friend you must be, to feel so strongly.  I,
also, think he was the greatest man I ever met.  I learned too late though
and I was not able to save him.  Had I known then what I know now he would
be alive.  I would not be who I am but he, at least, would be alive.  Would
you like some tea and we can chat for a few moments before you have your
fill and try to kill me?"

Methos looked in disbelief.  Was this man insane? He was offering Methos
some tea like he was a guest, not the person who wanted to kill him.  He
sighed heavily in defeat and nodded.  Darius got up and Methos followed him,
wondering what in the world this man was up to.

Darius lead Methos into a small room where a cozy fire was lit.  He
indicated a chair near the fire and bustled about, getting things ready.  He
handed Methos a clay cup of tea and sat down in a nearby chair.  The two
sipped in silence and Methos felt himself grow impatient once more.

"Thank you for the tea, now would you please step outside with me?"  Methos
stood up and indicated the door.

"No," Darius said thoughtfully.  "I don't believe I will step outside yet.
I think we should talk some more, you and I, get to know one another better.
You have me at a disadvantage.  You know my name but I do not know yours."

Methos grimaced and threw his hands up in disgust.  "You do realize that I
want to take your head?  That I am not here on a social call?"

Darius nodded, sipping his tea.  "Yes, I do believe you have made that quite
clear."

"Then why do we have to sip tea, exchange stories and names?  Can we not
just go outside and get this over with?"

Sighing, Darius set down his cup on the crude table.  "The impatience of
youth" he muttered, just loud enough for Methos to hear.

Methos almost choked when he heard the comment.  Thinking that Darius was
trying to keep him off balance, he did not rise to the bait.  He glared at
Darius who simply sat, waiting expectantly for his name. Giving in, Methos
responded.

"My name is Marcus." He finally said, not wanting to give his actual name.

Darius closed his eyes briefly in thought and opened them once more.
"Marcus?  Hmm, perhaps you would be so kind as to share your actual
name...you are clearly not Roman."

"My name is Marcus" Methos said firmly. He stood near the door, foot
tapping.  Darius sipped some more tea before he spoke once more.

"So, Marcus.  What are your plans after you take my head?"

Grinding his teeth, Methos realized that although this man was a priest, he
also had the brilliant mind of a general.  There was no way that he was
going to be rushed and Methos had no choice but to go along.

"I plan to go on with what I was doing before I discovered that you killed
Ambrosius. Nothing that would interest you, I am sure."  He wandered around
the room, picking up objects and looking at them.  There was nothing in this
room to suggest that anyone other than a priest resided here.

"Have you found him yet?" Darius asked in a casual voice, not looking over
at Methos.

"What?" Methos said sharply, looking more closely at Darius.  "What did you
say?"

Darius smiled again and there was a hint of something...what Methos could
not say...in that smile that made him uneasy.  "I asked if you had him, if
you've found the Champion yet?" he repeated calmly.

Methos sat down weakly, staring at the priest.  What did this man know of
the Champion and Methos' search for him?  There was only one way he could
know... from the Quickening of Ambrosius.

"Methos," Darius began, ignoring the start Methos gave at hearing his actual
name. "I know all about you, what you have been, what you are now and what
you are doing.  I also know of the promise that you gave to Ambrosius.  I
intend to hold you to it."  Darius smiled again but there was a hint of an
iron will in his eyes.  It gave Methos a sense of uneasiness.

"How do you know this?" Methos demanded, his voice a bit unsteady.  He had
thought that he would be free of that promise, now that Ambrosius was gone.
He felt a bit guilty that he had felt relief at that thought.  He looked at
Darius, eyes narrowed as the priest thought about how to answer.

"Rather than answer that directly, let me get something for you. "  Darius
stood and went to his desk, withdrew a piece of parchment and handed it to
Methos.

Methos accepted it gingerly and turned it over, examining it from all
angles. It was a simple piece of parchment, rolled and tied with a piece of
sting. His name, Methos, was written boldly across it.  He untied the string
and unrolled it.

        Methos, my old friend,

        As you are very aware at this point, I am no longer alive.  Please
do not  grieve overly much for me.  My time was at an end and I was ready to
depart this life.  The man who brought me relief, this Darius, is not at
fault.  I sought him out; he did not seek me out.  He is a man of honor,
one of strength and a good man.  Do not hold him accountable for my death.
As you were guided to me, so was Darius guided to me.

        I am writing this to tell you that Darius knows the promise that you
made    to me.  He knows of you and he knows what you are doing.  He will
help you        when and where he can in your quest.  Once you get over your
initial         anger, you will find him to be a source of comfort and help
to you.  Make   use of his knowledge, Methos.  Not only does he posses his
own, he now     posses mine as well.

        I wish you much luck in your quest, which I know you will be able to
accomplish. Then you will be free to do what you would like to with your
life.  Remember your life is only what you make of it.

        Be at peace, my friend

        Ambrosius

Methos read the parchment twice and examined it closely.  It was clearly
written in Ambrosius hand yet it read as if it had been written after his
death.  He held up the parchment and looked over at Darius, who had been
watching him silently. "Where did you get this?"

"I wrote it." Darius stated simply and then held his hand up quickly. "No,
no, wait a moment.  I was the instrument that held the quill but Ambrosius
wrote it.  He knew that you would return and I would give this to you."

Methos cocked his head to one side and spoke slowly, not really sure that he
understood correctly. "You are saying that you...as Ambrosius...wrote this
letter to me?"

Darius considered and then nodded.  "Yes, I believe that is an accurate
assessment."

Methos gave a quick shake of his head in negation. "That is not possible, he
was dead!  There is no way you could write as him."

"Who is to say what we do or do not get from a Quickening?  I think that
Ambrosius felt strongly enough about this that the desire to do it,
followed. I had no memory of writing this or of anyone giving it to me. It
is a fact that it was sitting on my desk one day and it is a fact that I had
ink stains on my hands as if I had written it." Darius shrugged.  "What do
you propose to do now?  I believe we are at an impasse here. "

Methos threw the scroll down in disgust.  "You think I can kill you now, now
that I have read this?  He knew what I would do and he wanted to make sure I
did not.  I am tired of doing the bidding of others!  I am tired of being
manipulated!  I am my own man and I will do what I want!"

Darius opened his mouth to speak and Methos jabbed a finger at him angrily.
"Not a word out of your mouth, priest!  I don't want to hear a bloody word,
do you hear me. Listen to me and listen well.  I do not know you; I don't
want to know you.  I don't care what this says.  You will always be the
monster who killed Ambrosius and I want nothing to do with you.  Nothing!"
Methos, in a rage, swept everything off the table then stalked to the door.
Crockery landed with a satisfying crash and Methos did not turn to look
back.

Darius watched the enraged Immortal leave and sipped his tea once more, a
curious smile on his face.  He looked upwards and gave a nod.  "You were
right, Ambrosius, but he will be back.  He cannot help himself, he will be
back."

************************

"Obviously, you got over your anger and went back to Darius," Joe observed
with a slight smile.

"Yes, damn his eyes.  Ambrosius was right and after I had calmed down, I saw
the wisdom of his words.  Darius was right as well.  I had all the
impatience of youth despite my age.  I did need his guiding and calming
influence.  He became my anchor.  He became that for Duncan as well.  I
think that was why Ambrosius chose him to be his successor."  Methos said
thoughtfully.

Joe closed his eyes and sighed deeply, looking at the clock.  Methos saw
that glance and knew that the pain medication was wearing off.  He stood up
to get a nurse for his friend.

"Rest Joe, I can wait until your meds kick in and then we'll continue the
story."  Methos smoothed a quick hand over Joe's hair as he passed by to go
out the door.

Methos searched the hallway, looking for the Wagnerian nurse.  He found her
at the nurse's station, located at the convergence of the hallways.

Seeing the young man's approach, she steeled herself for a confrontation.
Although he was definitely handsome, she had taken an instant dislike to him
when she had entered Joe's room.  He struck her as a spoiled yuppie,
expecting everything to go his way and usually getting what he wanted.  With
that smile of his, she could see how that would happen.  But she was
determined that, this time, he was going to be disappointed.

"Is there something that you need, Mr...?" she started, her voice one of
icy, commanding control.

"Pierson.  Adam Pierson," he offered, putting on his best, heart-winning
smile.  He was determined to have this woman eating out of his hand.

"Yes.  Pierson."  She looked at him blankly, saying nothing.  'He does have
a nice smile,' she admitted to herself.  'And those eyes...'

"Mr. Dawson seems to be in some pain." Methos began, flashing his smile.  "I
was wondering if it would be possible to get him some additional
medication?"

He watched as she silently pulled Joe's chart from the rack on the wall and,
flipping it open, studied it for a moment.  Looking up at Methos, a sardonic
smile on her face, she answered him crisply.

"No."

"No?" He blinked in disbelief, the smile leaving his face.  "And why not?"

"Dr. Madison has him on a strict schedule for medication."  Her air of
superiority was getting to Methos.  "He's not due for any more for another
couple of hours."

"But he is in pain now!"  Methos tried to control the anger that he felt
building.

Snapping the file shut, she put it back in the rack.  "Until Dr. Madison
says otherwise, I cannot dispense additional medications."  She looked at
him defiantly, wanting him to argue.  She would chew this little twit up and
spit him out!

Methos placed his arms on the counter, never taking his eyes off of her face
as he leaned closer.  She froze as she watched all the joy, the humor, all
the humanity drain from his eyes, leaving behind nothing but the steely
cold, hard look of Death.  He wanted to make sure she heard every one of his
whispered words.

"Then you get Dr. Madison here, right now, or I will get the medications
myself."  His feral smile sent a shiver up her spine.

"Yes...yes, sir," she stammered, shaking in fear and wondering when she'd
lost control of this conversation.  'Who is this man?' she wondered, as she
picked up the phone to page the doctor.

Within five minutes, Dr. Madison arrived and, listening to the situation as
he reviewed Joe's chart, pulled the nurse aside.

"If Mr. Dawson's pain has returned this quickly then, obviously, the meds
aren't strong enough.  He is dying, Nurse Baldwin.  He deserves to live his
last days free of pain!"  Making a note on the chart, he shoved it back at
her.  "I will medicate him now.  After that, you will give him whatever pain
medication he needs, when he needs it.  Is that understood?"

She nodded slowly and walked back to the nurse's station but not before
assailing Methos with a glare that was an almost comical mixture of anger
and fear.  Methos didn't care if she feared him or hated him.  The only
thing that mattered now was Joe.

Dr. Madison waved Methos to follow as he headed to Joe's room.  As Methos
fell into step beside the physician, Dr. Madison explained.

"I'm going to give him an injection that will ease his pain.  It will also
knock him out for a little while."  Methos nodded in understanding.  "I know
that he's been wanting to talk to you, Mr. Pierson but his stamina is not
what it used to be.  He will tire very easily."

"Don't worry, Doctor." Methos assured him.  "I'll make sure he gets his
rest."

As the two men entered Joe's room, they both saw the spasm of pain cross his
face.  Dr. Madison walked over to the IV tube and inserted the needle in the
proper juncture.  "This should help a bit, Joe," he smiled.

"What is that?" Joe asked, sounding a bit nervously.  He would welcome the
relief from the pain but he didn't want it to put him to sleep.  He didn't
want to give Methos the chance to slip away.

"Just relax, Joe," Methos told him, placing a calming hand on Joe's arm.
"Just go with the flow, my friend."

Before Joe could respond, his eyes began to droop and, within a moment, he
was asleep.

"Thank you, Doctor," Methos said, offering his hand.

"Think nothing of it, Mr. Pierson."  The doctor smiled, as they shook hands.
"Joe is lucky to have such a good friend."

"No, Dr Madison, you're wrong." Methos said as he looked down at the
sleeping Watcher.  "I'm the lucky one."

************************

Some time later Joe woke to find Methos staring out the window.  The
Immortal had been trying to decide how much more to tell his friend.  He
realized that, now that he'd begun the story, he had to finish it.  Joe
deserved nothing less.  But Methos wasn't sure how much of the details he
needed to disclose.  The next part of his tale would be covering what Methos
had always considered to be his greatest failure.  Even after all this time,
he still felt the guilt and the pain.  Did he really want to reveal that
part of himself to Joe?  Could he?

Methos turned as he heard Joe stirring and caught the look in Joe's eyes.
Those eyes showed Methos many things: curiosity, worry, pain, caring, and
trust.  Joe did care about him, Methos knew that.  And, when everyone else
seemed to turn aside, Joe always seemed to trust him.  How could Methos not
show this mortal the same consideration?  How could he not trust Joe with
the truth?  In that moment Methos decided that he would give Joe all the
detail that he desired.  He would trust Joe.

"How you doing?" Methos asked lightly as he came back to the bed.

"Better." Joe responded, reaching for his water.  "I must've nodded off for
a minute."

"No problem, Joe," Methos smiled as he helped hold the water glass to Joe's
lips.  "It gave me a chance to try to remember all the detail that I KNOW
you're going to want."

"And you better not leave anything out, if you know what's good for you."
Joe threatened.

"Oh, yeah?" the Immortal laughed.  "And what are you going to do to me?"

"I may just come back to haunt you for the NEXT five thousand years!"

Methos laughed even louder as he reclaimed his seat in the chair.  "Oh, no!
Anything but that!"  Getting comfortable, he tried to recap.  "OK, where
were we?"

"You had realized that Darius was your anchor."  Joe helped.

"Yeah, right.  He was also my confidant, as Ambrosius had been.  And,
believe me Joe, I needed it.  I needed someone to whom I could talk out my
doubts with, someone who could assure me that I was on the right track,
someone that I could vent my frustrations to.  And, believe me, I was
definitely frustrated."

"The search wasn't going well?" Joe ventured

"That's an understatement." Methos shook his head.  "I had traveled most of
the known world searching for the next Champion and I was having no success.
My greatest fear was that I wouldn't find him and that I'd be forced to face
the demon.  I didn't think that I could do that again."

"But you did find the Champion, didn't you?"  Joe sat a little straighter in
anticipation.

"Oh, yes, I found him. It may have been better for him if I hadn't." Methos
sighed, remembering that event.  "I had just about given up hope of ever
finding the Champion when, sometime around 994 AD, I began hearing stories
about a titled land owner near Bremen, in Saxony.  He had money, power, a
loving family, everything that he could possible want.  But then he started
making claims that Satan was on his way, that Satan was going to destroy the
world and only he could stop him.  Of course, everyone thought he was crazy
and, soon, everything he had was lost.  His family abandoned him; his
friends turned him away until, finally, he was alone.  But he still kept
trying to make everyone understand that Satan was coming.

Now, there have always been crazies that saw the new millennium as the end
of the world, but this one sounded a little too close to what I was looking
for, so I decided to track him down and check him out.  After all, I wasn't
having any luck anywhere else.  My other concern was that the time would
soon be upon us for the battle.  I was desperate to find the Champion.  So I
headed to Saxony only to find that the man, Lord Timothy of Gilliam, had
gone.

I tracked him through Europe, into Asia, as he headed to what is now Iraq.
I was getting frantic.  The battle was almost upon us and I was chasing this
man, who may or may not be the Champion, half way around the world.

Finally, I had success.  I found him in a crypt located under an ancient
temple and, I could tell, he was definitely the Champion.  But, to my
horror, he was already locked into his battle with the demon."

Methos rose from the chair and, raising his arms over his head, stretched
his entire body.  Moving around, trying to get the kinks out of his muscles,
he stood at the foot of Joe's bed and continued.

"Now, you have to remember, Joe, my task had been to find him and train him,
prepared him for this confrontation, to teach him what he needed to know.  I
had spent a thousand years searching for him and came upon him too late. I
had failed to train him and I thought that he was unprepared for this
battle, so I did the only thing that I could think of.  I tried to help him
fight."

"But I thought it was supposed to be a one-on-one battle?" Joe questioned.

"Yeah, well," Methos hung his head, embarrassed, sadness in his voice.  "I
disregarded that part and it may have cost Timothy his sanity."

"What?"

"I tried to join the battle, but Timothy kept trying to push me away.  I can
still hear him screaming in my mind "only one...only one". But I wouldn't
listen.  I was determined to help him whether he wanted me to or not.  In
the end he wound up fighting the demon and me."  Methos shook his head
sadly.  "I thought I knew better then he did but I only made things worse.
It turned into a long, drawn out battle.  But he succeeded in defeating the
demon.  After it was over, I went to him to help him.  He just stared at me
with this wild look in his eyes and he kept repeating it over and over
again...'only one, only one.'"

"There can be only one?"  Joe asked.  "Was he quoting rules?"

"I don't know, Joe." Methos sighed.  "I don't know if he meant in this
battle or if he was talking Immortal battles in general, but for days that
was all he would say.  I stayed with him for a while, waiting for him to get
a hold of himself, to regain control of his mind.  He never did."  Methos
sat in the chair again, looking very tired.

"I can't help thinking, Joe, that he lost his sanity because I interfered.
In my arrogance, I decided that I had all the answers and, because of that,
Timothy lost his mind."

"You don't know if that's true, Methos," Joe told him

"I don't know that it's not, Joe."  Methos smiled at his friend,
appreciating the man's attempt at comfort.

"So, this Timothy survived his battle."  Methos nodded.  "Was he supposed to
train the next Champion?"

"Yes."  Methos replied.  "That's how it was supposed to work, I think.  But,
in his mental state, he wouldn't be able to do it.  He wouldn't be able to
track him down."

"So you took on the task?"

"I had to, Joe."  Methos was beginning to sound exasperated.  "Timothy ended
up this way because of me.  I know..." He cut off Joe's attempt to reassure
him.  "We don't know that for sure, but I felt that way, then and now.  I
decided that I had to find the next Champion but first I had to do something
with Timothy.  I had to find somewhere safe; somewhere that he could stay
until I could bring the Champion to him.  You see, I was afraid that if he
wasn't involved in the next Champion's training then, somehow, it wouldn't
work right.  I don't know."  Methos shrugged.   "At this point, I was so
afraid of doing something wrong again, that I was trying to cover all my
bases."

"So, what did you do?"

"I had to convince him that I was his friend, that I would protect him and
that he still had a job to do."  A faint smile crossed the ancient's face.
"It took me quite a while, but I finally succeeded."

**1203 AD - Scottish Highlands**

The lone horse trudged through the deepening drifts on this frigid, winter
day.  The two men were both wrapped up against the cold to the point that
they were nothing more than fur wrapped shapes in the snow. The tall, thin
man, leading the horse, leaned closer to the rider.

"Come along Timothy, it is not much further and you will be able to rest."
Timothy, the man on the horse, did not respond at first but after a few
moments, he seemed to realize that he had been spoken to.

"That will be good."  His voice, rusty from disuse, barely made it to the
ears of the other, trudging through the snow.  Timothy sank back into his
furs and did not speak again.

A heavy sigh escaped the lips of Methos.  This journey was the end of a bad
century as far as he was concerned.  His life had not been the same since
the Gods had charged him to find this man, the Champion, and help him.  Gods
were funny beings; they expected miracles to happen and gave little useful
information to aid a person in their task. "No disrespect intended," he
hastily added with a glance upwards.  Methos had seen the work of a
displeased God firsthand and he did not want to see it again.

Methos glanced at the still figure on the horse. It was hard to think of him
as the Champion yet Timothy had not only faced Ahriman, he had prevailed.
There had been a cost for that victory; his family, his fortune and his
sanity.  How many people would have stood by an individual who made wild
claims of a demon appearing that only he could see?  Methos knew, from
personal experience, how painful it was to have those you love view you as
evil.

Methos had spent hundreds of years tracking Timothy.  Armed only with a
vague sense of what he was trying to find, Methos had set forth.  He knew he
had a limited time to find this Champion before it was too late to help him.
Methos gave a bitter laugh at that thought.  He had arrived in time but it
had still been too late to help.  Timothy had struggled and won his battle
but Methos could not shake the feeling that his very presence, as a former
Champion, had caused something to go wrong, horribly wrong.  Timothy, still
reeling from the loss of his family and having to deal with Ahriman, had
lost his fragile hold on sanity.  Was Methos to blame for that?  He did not
think Timothy blamed him, if Timothy was even capable of making that
determination.

Following that battle, Methos had tried to convince Timothy to come with
him.  Methos wanted to get him established someplace remote and safe, so
that Timothy would be able to share his knowledge with the next Champion.
Methos sighed once again.  How many times would he have to do this, he
wondered.  How many more times would Ahriman face down a Champion?  Would
this continue until the Evil won?  Methos sincerely hoped that was not the
case.

Through the lightly swirling snow, Methos spied the landmark he had been
looking for.  The two pines that were intertwined led to a hidden cave among
the rocks.  Methos had found this spot several years ago and decided it was
a perfect place for Timothy to await the arrival of the Champion who was to
succeed him.

The old Immortal looked back again at Timothy. He had not moved and was
still staring straight ahead, oblivious to all around him.  Shaking his head
slightly, Methos also felt a sense of relief.  It had taken him nearly two
hundred years to convince Timothy that this was the right thing to do.  He
did not want to spend the next who knows how many years babysitting this man
while waiting.

Stepping more quickly, Methos urged the horse forward and spoke up.  "Look
Timothy, this is where we were heading!  This is the place I have been
telling you about."

Timothy did not respond but did turn his head slightly to survey the
surrounding area.  A faint smile ghosted across his face and he gave a faint
nod.

"This looks like a good place. I think I will like it here." Timothy looked
at Methos, his eyes clear and all of his intelligence showing forth. "You
will send him to me when he is ready?"

This was not the first time that Timothy was rational and sane but as
before, the sheer change that came over him was startling.  Methos could
only, once again, thank whatever Gods where responsible, that he had not
suffered the same fate that Timothy had.

The two men went into the cave and Timothy dismounted, shedding some of his
furs in the warm air of the cavern. Lighting a torch, he moved about,
exploring his new home.  Methos left him to it and concerned himself with
getting the equipment and supplies off of the horse.  Several hours passed
in silence as the two men went about their separate tasks, making the cave
habitable.  Timothy, after glancing at the fire that had been started, set
out with his snares.  Methos saw him leave but did not comment on it,
knowing that he had to let go at some point.  Timothy returned shortly with
two hares that he expertly prepared.

Following the meal, Methos prepared to leave, taking the horse with him and
leaving Timothy on his own.  Even though he knew it had to be done, he could
not help but feel apprehensive.  Timothy and his knowledge had to be
preserved for the one who followed him.  It was highly unlikely that another
Immortal would track him here but it could happen.  "Get hold of yourself,
man," Methos thought to himself.  "There is only so much you can do.
Besides, if Timothy is lost, you will still be around."

The young looking man stood awkwardly by his horse, not sure what to say or
how to take his leave.  He shifted for a moment and looked everywhere but at
the Immortal sitting by the fire, watching him expectantly.

"I will be fine here, Marcus" Timothy said. "I have everything I need and no
one to bother me.  I can rest here until he comes to me.  You will send him
to me?"

Methos nodded in the affirmative. "Yes, Timothy.  I don't know how long it
will be but I will find him and I will send him to you. "  He stared
intently at the reins in his hand.  "I will come and visit when I am in the
area, to see how you are.  Are you sure you will be alright?"

With a wave of his hand, Timothy laughed, for the first time since Methos
had found him. "Marcus, this is all I want.  A place to be alone and wait.
Do not worry, I will wait until he arrives."

The two men gave each other a short nod and Methos took his leave, not
looking back but forward, to the future, and the next task he had.

************************

"You just left him alone in the cave?"

"I had to, Joe."  Methos tried to explain.  "I couldn't keep him with me.  I
had to go find the next Champion and, as before, I didn't have the slightest
clue where to begin."  Methos sighed and shook his head.  "I decided that if
I put him someplace completely out of the way that he would be safe.  He was
able to take care of himself, despite his tenuous grasp on reality.  I did
go back to visit him from time to time but even that became harder and
harder to do."

**1487 - Timothy's Cave**

"Timothy, my friend, it is good to see you are doing well." Methos spoke
quietly, so as not to startle the man.  Each time that Methos had returned
to check on him, Timothy had retreated further and further from the world of
men.  Sometimes he wondered if the only thing that kept Timothy from
forgetting he was a man were these visits and the job Timothy still had to
do.

Timothy barely took notice of the Immortal standing in his cave.  His gray
eyes quickly scanned the face of Methos and he cocked his head to one side
as he thought.

"You are Marcus." Timothy finally said.  Methos smiled again and stepped
forward.  Once he had been identified, he no longer worried that Timothy
might attack.

"Yes, my friend, I am.  It has been a long time since I have seen you.  How
are you doing?"

"I am tired, Marcus.  Have you come to tell me that he has been found?"  A
hopeful expression crossed Timothy's face as he waited for an answer.

Methos felt his guts clench, he so hated to tell Timothy that he was still
searching but the time seemed near at hand.  His expression told Timothy
what he needed to know and the hermit sighed heavily.

"How much longer must I wait, Marcus?  How long have I been waiting already?
I have lost all track of time living here."

Methos paced near the fire.  "Not much longer, Timothy, not much longer.  I
think the next time I return I will be able to tell you that your journey is
almost complete.  You will be able to teach him what you know and then you
are free of you obligation."

"That is good then.  Tell me again what I must do when he gets here?"

Methos made himself comfortable and began his tale once more, his listener
drinking in every word.

************************

"Poor guy," Joe said, shaking his head.  Methos looked over at him, his
eyebrows arched in question.  "Well, it's obvious that you didn't find the
Champion by your next visit."

"No, I'm afraid not.  And it was getting more difficult to face Timothy,
having to tell him that I'd failed.  But how did you know that?"

"Well, Mac was the next Champion and you didn't meet him
until...what...1995?  And didn't he come across Timothy on his own?    So,
you never got to tell Timothy that the Champion had been found."

Methos gave the Watcher a wry smile.  "Yes and no.  Mac did run across
Timothy on his own but I was able to tell him that I'd found the Champion.
You see," Methos lowered his eyes, a guilty look on his face.  "I actually
met Mac a little before 1995."  Seeing Joe's frown, Methos laughed.  "I was
getting desperate.  It had been almost six hundred years since the last
battle and, once again, time was running out.  But, as I left Timothy one
winter day..."

**1592 - Scottish Highlands**

Methos rode his horse slowly though the hills, wrapped in a woolen cloak and
hunched down against the biting cold.  His latest visit to Timothy had been
painful and frightening.  Painful because he had, once again, been unable to
tell the man that the new Champion had been found.  Frightening because, as
time went on, the hermit's grasp on reality seemed to be slipping,
irrevocably, away.  If Methos didn't find the next Champion soon, he feared
that Timothy would be unable to teach him what he needed to know.

After leaving Timothy's cave, Methos had traveled from village to town,
gathering and spreading whatever news he could.  He found that things in the
Highlands changed very little in the passing years.  Border skirmishes,
cattle rustling, Clan gatherings; these things had gone on for hundreds of
years past and, Methos was sure, would continue for hundreds of years into
the future.  The latest news that had stuck in his mind was the ongoing Clan
battle between the Campbells and the MacLeods.

As he rode along the border of these two Clans, Methos recalled that they
had, for years, vacillated between being friends and enemies, agreeing to
alliances only to have them shattered by perceived grievances. This latest
clash, Methos had heard, had started by the theft of a cow!  Methos laughed
at the absurdity of the idea.  A cow, for goodness sake!

To add to his amusement of this situation was the fact that a temporary
truce had been called so that the chief of the Clan MacLeod could await the
birth of his first child.  Methos had no doubt that, once this child was
born, the petty battles would resume.  He finally concluded that these
Clans, like children, fought simply to have something to do.

He was heading now to a village that he'd visited before, small enough that
Methos couldn't even remember its name but large enough, he knew, to have an
inn.  The thoughts of a warm fire, a good meal and a soft bed indoors
enticed him, drawing him onward.

He guided his horse off the main track, following a little known trail that
would bring him to the village even faster.  As he moved on through the
trees, he began to notice signs of a battle.  Whether it was a clash of
Clans or an attack of some other kind, he could not tell, but, as evidence
of debris turned into occasional bodies, he knew that these people had been
overwhelmed, with little chance for escape.

Moving past the obviously dead bodies, he made his way slowly along the
trail.  He decided not to stop, knowing there was nothing that he could do.
He would tell the people of the village, allowing them to care for their
own.

He continued to ride on, leaving the gruesome scene behind him when,
suddenly, he became aware of Immortal presence, so faint as to be almost
negligible.  'This has to be a pre-Immortal,' Methos decided, 'and a very
young one, at that.'  Dismounting, he began to walk slowly along the trail,
scanning the growth by the sides of the path, trying to locate what he
assumed to be a child.  A small sound drew his attention to the brambles
surrounding the base of a tree.  Kneeling down, he pushed them aside to
reveal a dark-haired girl, possibly eight years old, laying face down,
obviously dead. This could not possibly be the source of the presence that
he still felt, tickling at the edge of his mind.

Drawing a compassionate hand over the child's hair, he said a small prayer
for her soul and started to move on when, once again, he heard a sound.
Reverently moving the little girl's body aside, he was assaulted by the
cries of an apparent newborn child.  Was this babe destined to be Immortal?

A boy, he had been saved from freezing to death by the warmth of the dying
little girl.  Now, exposed to the elements, he let out a lusty scream,
determined to alert the entire forest to his displeasure.  Methos removed
his cloak, wrapping the dark-haired child in it.  Holding the bundle to his
chest, he soothed the baby as he tried to think of what to do.  He decided
to continue on to the inn, hoping that, by then, he would have thought of a
solution.

Pulling his spare cloak from his pack, he wrapped it around his shoulders.
Methos mounted his horse and, settling the child inside his cloak, headed
toward the warmth of the inn.

An hour later, Methos entered his room.  He had hidden the baby from the
innkeeper, deciding that it was better if no one could trace this child to
him.  Now, he placed the sleeping child, still wrapped in his cloak, on the
bed and went to build up the peat fire.  He didn't want either of them
freezing to death before he could decided what to do.

"Well, young man, what am I going to do with you?" Methos asked as he came
back to stand over the bed, looking down at the child.  At that moment, the
baby squirmed, stretched and opened his eyes.  Sitting down on the bed,
Methos unwrapped the child, picking him up. He had known many children in
his five thousand years; he'd even raised a few himself.  He could tell that
this baby wasn't yet one day old.

"You've had an eventful life so far, haven't you, little one?" he smiled as
he cradled the child in his arms.  A sudden stream of warmth splashed
against the Immortal's cheek.  "Hey!  Don't piss on me!" he yelled, wiping
his sleeve across his face.  "This isn't my fault, you know."  Startled by
the loud comment, the baby began to whimper.   "Shhh," Methos whispered,
lowering his voice, as he tried to soothe the babe. When the whimper
threatened to turn into a full-blown wail, Methos placed his finger at the
child's lips, surprised at how strongly he reacted to something to suck on.
"Hungry, aren't you.  Well, as soon as the innkeeper brings my dinner, we'll
see what there is that you can eat."  Maybe some broth or bread dipped in
gravy, he thought.  Methos just knew that he had to give the poor baby
something.

Chuckling to himself, he watched this newborn, still suckling on his finger.
He'd forgotten how 'unpredictable' little boys could be.  Concentrating, he
could definitely feel the pre-Immortal presence.  But there was something
else, too, something that Methos couldn't identify.  At that moment a knock
at his door announced the arrival of his meal.  Placing the babe on the bed,
he covered him with the cloak, hoping to muffle any discovering sounds.
Wiping his face again, he opened the door, just wide enough to accept the
tray of food then, handing the innkeeper a few coins, double the amount
agreed upon, Methos closed the door.

He settled back onto the bed, placing the food beside him.  Retrieving the
child from his cocoon of clothes, Methos again cradled him in his arms.

"Well, little one, let us see what there is here that you like."  Methos
broke off a crust of bread and, dipping it into the gravy, gently put it
against the baby's lips.  Immediately, the hungry child started suckling at
the offered nourishment.

"Like that, do you?" Methos smiled as he sat back to feed himself and the
child.  Now he just had to figure out what to do with this future Immortal.
He couldn't keep him, for many reasons.  His current search for the Champion
was taking all of his time.  Besides, this child deserved to be raised by a
family, surrounded by loving guidance.

"Your future will be difficult enough, little one.  You will need strong
roots on which to grow."

The baby, satisfied and content, seemed to smile at Methos.  As the ancient
Immortal looked into the newborn's blue eyes, a sense of recognition
surrounded him, passing over him, flowing through him, taking his breath
away.  He had experienced this feeling only once before in his life, when
his had first met Timothy.

He held the child out before him, studying him, trying to decide if this
feeling was real or just a product of his imagination.  Looking deep into
the blue eyes, he concentrated on the sensation.  The presence of
Immortality was unmistakable and so, to Methos' surprise, was the other,
more important impression: the sign of the Champion.

"By the Gods," Methos moaned as he clasped the baby to his chest.  "I've
finally found you."

He looked down at the child again, as if to assure himself that he wasn't
crazy.  The baby, unimpressed with his importance, snuggled down into the
comforting arms, preparing to go to sleep.  Methos held him gently, knowing
that it was even more important now that he find the right family with which
to place this child.

A family with a strong bond of loyalty, that was important.  'Placing him
within any clan would almost guarantee that,' he thought. But who would take
in a foundling and raise him as his own, with a sense of belonging, a sense
of purpose, a sense of duty?  Who would raise him as the warrior that he
would need to be?

"MacLeod." Methos uttered the name that suddenly came to mind.  He had met
the chieftain on a few occasions and knew the man to be harsh but fair,
strong and kind.  And with another child due at any moment, this one would
have a companion with which to grow.  Yes, Methos decided, this man could
successfully raise the next Champion.

"Do you want to be a MacLeod, little one?" he whispered at the sleeping
child.  Now that his decision was made, he had to determine how to get the
child to the MacLeods.  If he was to secretly guide this child throughout
his life then there could be no connection between them.  But Methos knew of
a peasant woman who lived in the forest who would be able to help him.  He
would give her the child and she would take him to the MacLeods.  She would
convince them to take the child in.

Knowing that he had to move quickly, Methos packed his belongings and the
baby and headed out to find the peasant woman and start this newest MacLeod
on his road to the future.

************************

Joe shook his head in amazement.  "It must have been fate, Methos, for you
to find him like that."

"Fate, destiny, whatever...I was just glad that I found him."  Methos sat
forward to investigate the food tray that had just been delivered.  "This
looks interesting." He said, smiling at Joe.  The old Watcher gave him a
look of disgust.

"Oh, yeah...cold, lumpy, tasteless...interesting isn't a word that I'd use."

"But you will eat it." Methos leveled a glare at his friend, challenging him
to argue.

"What will you do if I don't?  Kill me?"

"Nope," Methos answered lightly, sitting back in his chair.  "I just won't
finish the story."  He folded his arms across his chest, waiting for Joe's
response.

Joe stared at him for a moment, trying to return the glare.

"You'd think they'd take some pity on a dying man," he grumbled as he picked
up his fork.  Methos smiled at him.  "Well, don't just sit there smiling,"
Joe protested around a mouthful of food.  "What happened next?"

"Well, I found the old woman and got her to take the baby to the MacLeods.
I found out later that their own child, a son, had been stillborn and they
had put this baby in it's place.  He would be raised as the Chieftain's son,
as heir to the Clan MacLeod."

As Methos sat quietly, reliving the fond memory, Joe noted the look of pride
on his face.  'Old softy,' he thought, smiling to himself.

Bringing his mind back to the present, Methos continued.  "My task now was
to find someone to watch over him, to protect him as he grew.  I didn't want
to influence him, not during his formable years, so it had to be someone
else.  But I knew exactly who that would be."

"Cassandra?"

"Yep," Methos nodded.

"But how would you get in touch with her?  How did you even know where she
was?  And why did you think she would even consider doing this for you?"

"Whoa, take it easy Joe." Methos laughed, holding up his hand to ward off
the onslaught of questions.  "One question at a time!" Joe squirmed in
anticipation.  Methos had to laugh to himself.  Joe reminded him of a child
listening to a fairy tale, desperate to know the ending. He leaned forward
to pick at the food still on Joe's tray, popping a cooked carrot into his
mouth.  'This is disgusting' he thought to himself.  'No wonder Joe doesn't
want to eat.'

"I knew where she was because I made a habit of keeping track of people who
wanted to kill me." Joe nodded at that practicality.  "As far as getting her
to do this, she would never know that the request was coming from me."

Methos got out of the chair and walked around the room, needing to stretch
his legs.

"There was an old friend, a woman named Gwendolyn, who lived in the wilds of
Wales.  She had been a friend of Ambrosius.  She had also been one of
Cassandra's teachers and Cassandra trusted her completely.  I went to her
and told her a story about the child and a prophecy.  Cassandra had a
weakness for prophecies and such.  I knew that would draw her interest.  I
told Gwen that the child had to be watched, be protected and that Cassandra
would be perfect for the job.  She said that she would see to it that
Cassandra took up the task.  I returned to the Highlands and waited for
Cassandra to get into place.  It wasn't long before I started hearing tales
about the Witch of Donan Woods."

"So," Joe summarized, "you'd found the next Champion, placed him with a good
family and set someone up to watch and protect him.  What did you do next?
Tell Timothy?"

"No,' Methos shook his head.  "As much as I wanted to tell him that his task
was nearing it's end, I knew, or at least hoped, that it would still be many
years before Timothy and Mac would meet.  I decided to wait until Mac's
first death to alert Timothy. So," Methos raised his arms over his head,
stretching his entire body.  "for the time being, there was nothing left for
me to do. The next step would be to find him a teacher and I already knew
who that would be."

"Connor." Joe stated as Methos agreed

"His teacher, Ramirez, had been a student and friend of mine.  After Ramirez
was killed, I befriended Connor, thinking that he might be useful in the
future."  Methos chuckled.  "And I was right."

"So what did you do?"

"Joe, for the first time in I don't know how long, I wasn't needed anywhere.
I had nothing to do.  So I decided to take a relaxing vacation, a trip
around the world.  I headed east to Asia, meeting old friends, renewing old
acquaintances and generally relaxing.  From Asia, I headed across the
Pacific to South America then up through Mexico and across North America.  I
ran into an old friend, an Indian shaman..."

"Kol T'ek?"

Methos nodded.  "...and continued heading east.  From there I came back to
Europe.  I had just returned to Paris, to the court of Louis XIII, when I
received the news that Duncan had been killed in another ridiculous Clan
Battle and, when he'd revived, had been banished from the clan.  I headed
back to Scotland, to tell Timothy and to set out to find Connor."

**1623 - Timothy's Cave**

"Timothy?  TIMOTHY!"  Methos shouted, fear blinding him to all around him.
Where is he?  Why can't I find him? After all this time, was it possible
that Timothy had finally been killed?  The old immortal cursed and pounded
his fist against a tree.  Why now?  The Champion had finally been found! He
had recently suffered his first death and was now ready to learn of his
destiny.  Methos had to find him a teacher, one that would give him a firm
foundation that Methos could build upon.  He planned to let Timothy know
this before he set out in search of Connor MacLeod, a kinsman of the
Champion.

Methos spun around, sword in hand before he was aware that he was moving.
He blinked and was not really surprised to see Timothy standing there,
blending in with the trees so well that he was almost invisible.  So
relieved was Methos to see the hermit that, for a moment, he did not speak.

"It is me, Timothy.  It is Marcus.  He is coming to you Timothy!  Do you
hear me?  The Champion is getting ready and he will be coming to find you.
His name is Duncan MacLeod.  I must go find his kinsman, Connor, who will
come to teach him.  Timothy, do you hear me?  You are almost done!"

The hermit stared at Methos and tugged at the long beard he now wore.  He
looked around slowly and focused back on Methos.

"You are sure?  He is coming?"  The rusty voice finally said.

Methos threw his head back and laughed out loud.  "Yes, yes!  He will be
here soon.  I am going to find him a teacher.  Do you remember what to do?"

Timothy gave a slow nod of his head.  "I am to teach him what I know, teach
him what he needs to learn."

"Very good.  Be well, my old friend, your journey is almost at an end.  I
must go but I will return."

Timothy watched Methos ride off.  A strange smile crossed his face.  He
would teach, the Champion would learn and his journey would end, but not in
the way that was expected.

************************

"Wait a minute."  Joe's face wrinkled in concentration.  "Mac's first death
was in, what, October?"

"Yep," Methos nodded.  "October, 1622.  By the time I got to Timothy, it was
not long after the Winter Solstice, sometime in January, 1623."

"Then why didn't Connor get to Mac until 1625?"

Methos was fascinated by Joe's ability to, even now, remember the most
insignificant fact of Duncan's life.  He shook his head in amazement while
he started to chuckle, remembering the trek he'd been forced to make in his
attempt to find Connor.

"Because Connor MacLeod was an idiot who was having too much fun playing a
game on his friend."  Methos sat heavily in the chair as he continued on
with the saga...

**1624 - Lisbon**

Methos stopped his horse in front of the tavern and dismounted.  His
frustration and anger radiated off of him in waves, warning anyone who came
near that it was best to give this man a wide berth.  Passing the animal,
along with a few coins, off to a nervous stable boy, he grabbed his
saddlebags and stalked toward the entrance that would bring him face to face
with a potential dead man.

That detestable wretch of a Scot!  That Godforsaken debased Highlander!

Connor MacLeod!!!

For almost two years Methos had been traveling much of the world, searching
for this low-life, good-for-nothing son of a sheepherder.  Across Europe
into Asia, down through India, back west towards Africa.  Every time that he
thought that he'd located this nefarious dolt, he'd find that he'd missed
him by a week, or by a few days.  His last near miss had been in Verona.
He'd entered the city only to find that he'd missed Connor by a day!  One
day!

>From there, Methos discovered that the longhaired, foul-smelling reprobate
had taken a ship to Lisbon.  Methos had finally arrived in the coastal city,
riding across the continent as fast as he could, determined that he wasn't
going to miss him this time.

He stopped at the door, taking a deep breath.  He had to get his anger under
control.  After all, he admitted to himself, it really wasn't Connor's fault
that Methos couldn't catch up with him.  Connor wasn't even aware that
Methos, or Mathias, as the Scot knew him, was looking for him.

Methos had begun his search not long after Duncan had met his first death.
He had always tried to keep track of Connor, knowing that he'd planned to
have him become Duncan's primary teacher.  He never imagined that finding
this Scot would prove so difficult.

The fact that Duncan was without his teacher was a bit of concern for the
ancient Immortal.  Oh, he knew that Cassandra was still in the Highlands and
would continue to watch over the youngster.  He hoped that Duncan, drawn by
the essence of the other Champion, had found Timothy. 'Stop worrying, old
man,' he admonished himself.  'It's not like he is wandering the Highlands
aimlessly, not knowing what he is.'

Methos had chosen Connor as Duncan's teacher for a few reasons.  Their
common background, their relatively close age but, most of all, because
Connor had been taught by Juan Sanchez Villa-Lobos Ramirez, the master
swordsman.

Ramirez had been Methos' student, for a time, and they had developed a long
friendship.  Ramirez had introduced the ancient one to his newest student
and Methos, ever vigilant, had filed that acquaintance away for future use.
When The Kurgan had taken Ramirez, Methos sought to strengthen the
relationship even further...

**1545 - Scotland**

Methos scanned the crowd that surged in and around the stalls and tents of
this village market day.  He was looking for the mortal woman, Heather,
lover of Connor MacLeod.  He'd come to visit Connor but wanted to do it
alone, unobserved by anyone else.  Once he was sure that she was here,
making her weekly trades and purchases, he would make his way to the croft
that the two young people called their home.

He had been drawn here by the news of the death of Ramirez.  Saddened by the
discovery that his former student and friend had lost his battle with The
Kurgan, Methos wished to check on Connor's progress.  At their previous
meeting, Methos discovered that he liked the brash, young Immortal.  Strong
and fearless, the bullheaded Scot could be a test on ones patience, though.
Methos had laughed at the predicament that Ramirez had gotten himself into.

'There she is,' he said to himself as he spotted the young, blond haired
woman just entering the marketplace.  Grabbing the reins of his horse,
Methos headed nonchalantly the other way, not wanting to encounter the
woman.  Once away from the square, Methos mounted the animal for the short
gallop to find the Highlander.

A few minutes later he pulled his horse up short as he felt an immortal
presence.  Dismounting, he walked the remaining distance down the trail,
giving the Highlander time to become aware of him.  Cresting the small hill,
he spied the Scot, sword drawn, ready for battle.

"Greetings, Highlander," Methos shouted, waving.  He waited until he saw the
other's sword lower a bit before he continued down the path.

"Mathias?" Connor questioned, momentarily unsure of the identity of the
approaching Immortal.  Finally recognizing his teacher's friend, Connor
lowered his blade.  "Mathias," he nodded, offering this friend his hand,
relief apparent in his voice

Methos clasped the offered hand, searching the Scot's eyes.  Despite the
outward show of calm, Methos could see the raging emotions that he barely
held in check.

"How goes it with you, Connor?" he asked, placing a hand on the young man's
shoulder.

"He is gone, Mathias." Connor answered softly. "Ramirez is dead."

Seeing the tears that threatened to escape his eyes, Methos pulled the
Immortal child into an embrace.  'By the Gods, he's still a baby,' he
thought as Connor gave in to emotions.  'He's suffered so much and he's not
even thirty years of age.'

Connor broke the embrace and turned away, embarrassed by his unmanly display
of tears.  Methos, sitting on a nearby boulder, waited for the Scot to face
him again before he spoke.

"Tell me what happened."

Connor recited what he knew of the encounter, his anger building with every
word.  By the time he came to the end of his tale, he was stomping the
ground, waving his arms, unable to find a sufficient vent for his rage.

"I'm going to track that murdering bastard down and I'm going to take his
head!"  Connor screamed

"No, you will not!"  Methos' words, spoken quietly, held an undeniable force
that stopped the young Immortal cold.  Turning to face the older Immortal,
Conner found the other's eyes boring into his, frightening him.

"Why?" he asked weakly, his anger washing away in the face of those
flashing, hypnotic eyes.

Methos rose and walked over to the Scot, the movement breaking the
Highlander's trance.  Connor blinked, seeing, once again, only the face of
his friend.

"Because you are in no condition to face anyone, let along the Kurgan. Your
anger will serve no good purpose.  It will only get you killed."

"Then what do you suggest that I do?" Connor's stubborn pride would not
allow him to simply walk away.

"Live, Highlander. Grow stronger.  Fight another day."

They talked for a few hours, sharing stories of their friend.  When Heather
became visible at the top of the hill, Methos took his leave, assured that
their conversation had brought some measure of comfort to the Scot.  What it
had brought for Methos was a promise for the future.

**1624 - Lisbon**

Taking another deep breath, Methos grew calmer, taking on the air of
nonchalance.  He could feel the presence of the Scot even through the door.
By now, Connor should also be aware of him.  Methos smiled.  He would
approach Connor, remind him of his promise and send him back to the
Highlands.  Then he planned to take the next couple of years and simply
relax!

Pushing through the door, Methos scanned the room searching for the one face
that should also be searching for his.  But, other that the innkeeper, no
one paid him any mind.  At the sound of a barmaid's giggle, Methos turned to
look at the table situated in the far corner of the room.

The barmaid was seated precariously on a patron's lap, her head thrown back
in laughter, as the patron seemed to be burying his face in her breasts.  As
Methos was about to turn away he heard the patron's raspy laughter and,
stepping forward, took a closer look.

Connor?

Methos was shocked to see the object of his search so thoroughly enjoying
himself, oblivious to his surroundings. The fool didn't even have enough
sense to acknowledge the presence of another Immortal!

As Methos' mind searched for other suitable epitaphs to lavish upon the
Scot, Connor turned to face him, a broad smile creasing his face.

"Mathias, my friend."  Connor waved a tankard of ale at Methos.  "You've
finally arrived.  What took you so long?"

'...finally arrived?  ...took you so long?' Methos stood, his mouth agape,
unable to believe what he was hearing.  Finally, a recognizable sound
escaped his lips.

"Huh?"

The Scot gave a booming, Highland laugh at the bewildered expression on the
older Immortal's face.  Taking pity on his friend, Connor moved the little
lady from his lap and, standing, crossed over to Methos.

"Mathias, please forgive me, but I was having such a wonderful time."
Connor continued laughing as he placed his hand on the ancient's shoulder.
"You must admit that this merry chase has been a delight."

'...merry chase?' Methos thought.  "Merry Chase?" he said aloud, his voice
tinged with amazement.

"I apologize, my friend but, when I realized that you were searching for me,
about 8 months ago, I thought it would be fun to see how far you would go."
Connor laughed again as the color began to rise in Methos' face.  "But I
finally took pity on you and decided to wait for you here."

As the Highlander continued to laugh, his words wrapped themselves around
Methos' mind.

'This loathsome rogue has known, all along, that I was searching for him!
The perverted buffoon had been playing a game all this time!' A cold rage
began to build in his soul as the realization settled in.  'All this time
I've been chasing him and now he stands before me, laughing!  The depraved
scoundrel!   The abhorrent miscreant!'

At a momentary loss of suitable descriptions, Methos reacted the only way
that he could.  As Connor turned from the barmaid back to Methos, the oldest
Immortal punched him in the face, dropping the Highlander immediately to the
floor.

"Damn, that felt good!" Methos shouted, as he broke into laughter.

The screaming barmaid, who had run to Connor's aid as he hit the floor,
moved aside when Methos bent down to pick up the unconscious Scot, throwing
him over his shoulder.  The innkeeper, hoping to forestall any further
disruption, moved closer.

"Does he have a room here?" Methos asked the nervous old man as he held the
Highland idiot's legs, not wanting him to fall on his head.  'On second
thought...' he mused, chuckling.

"Top of the stairs, milord.  First door on the right."  The innkeeper
indicated the staircase at the other end of the room.  Methos nodded and
made his way upstairs.

Entering the room, Methos looked around for someplace to put his Highland
parcel.  After a moments thought, he simply dropped him to the floor.  Going
over to the only chair in the room, a solid, sturdy piece made of a heavy
wood, Methos dragged it to the middle of the room.  He picked Connor up and
not too gently placed him in the chair.  Taking a length of rope from the
saddlebag that he'd carried with him, he proceeded to tie the Highlander to
the chair, barely giving him enough space to breath.  Confident that the
Scot was secure, Methos took an apple from his bag and sat down on the bed
to wait.

A short time later, Connor began to stir. Realizing that he was bound, he
began to struggle until he looked up and saw Methos, still sitting on the
bed, smiling at him.

"Comfortable?" Methos asked

"Mathias, this isn't funny.  Let me go!"

"Well, I would, my friend," Methos responded as he rose slowly from the bed
to walk over to his prisoner.  "But, after all the trouble that I went to
just to find you, I simple can not take the risk that you'll get away."

"Mathias, let me go!" the Scot shouted, getting angry.  Methos laughed at
him. His temper taking over, Connor renewed his struggle against his bonds,
to no avail.  Tiring, he gave up.

"What do you want, Mathias?" he asked wearily

Towering over the compliant Scot, hands on his hips, Methos fixed him with
an icy stare.   "I want you to know that I have spent the last two years
chasing after you and I do not appreciate it."

Connor cowered a little under the frightening gaze. He had been introduced
to Mathias by Ramirez and always thought of the Immortal as friendly enough
but he never seemed to have much to say, content to sit back and watch.
Connor thought that maybe he was a little slow.  He had never seen this side
of Mathias, with this cold, calm look of death. He began to grow worried.

"I'd take you head right here, you imbecile, if I didn't need you.   But,
alas, I do.  So, you are going to listen to me and listen closely."
Suddenly, from out of no where, a dagger appeared in his hand, its point
pressing lightly at the base of Connor's throat.  "Do I have your full
attention?" Methos asked softly.

Connor gave a slight nod, afraid to move too much lest he impale himself on
the blade.  Methos saw the fear in his eyes and smiled to himself.  'This is
fun,' he thought

"Fine. Now, a few years ago I told you that, in the future, I might need a
favor.  If I remember correctly, your response was something along the line
of 'your wish is my command'.  Do you remember that?"  Connor nodded again.
"Good.  Now, there is a young man, a Highland Scot, that I have been
watching for a long time.  Two years ago, he became Immortal.  So, for my
wish.  Are you listening?" He pressed slightly on the dagger, the point
piercing the skin. Again, Connor responded with a slight nod.  "My wish is
that you become his teacher.  I want you to teach him as Ramirez taught you.
Do you think that you can do that?"

"Yes." Connor managed to whisper, willing, at this moment, to promise
anything.

Methos removed the dagger, which disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
Connor decided that there was a lot about this man that he didn't know, some
of which he was sure that he didn't want to know.  It might just be wise, he
decided, to keep this man a friend because Connor was sure he didn't want
him as an enemy.

"Mathias, I'm sorry," he began.  "I didn't realize that you had a purpose
for seeking me out.  If I had known, I wouldn't have played this silly game
on you."  Connor saw a sparkle in the other man's eyes.  'Good,' he thought,
'I think this is going to work.'

"As for this young Immortal of yours," Connor continued, "it would be my
honor to teach him.  Can you tell me more about him?"

Methos watched the Scot as he spoke, seeing the perspiration on his brow.
'I wonder what else I can get him to promise?'  Methos chuckled at this
thought.  'Concentrate on the task at hand, old man.' His inner voice told
him.  Sprawling across the bed, getting as comfortable as he could while
still trying to appear a bit menacing, Methos filled Connor in.

"Actually, he's somewhat of a kinsman of yours, my friend.  His name is
Duncan MacLeod.  He was raised as the son of the Clan Chieftain.  He
possesses a very deep sense of duty and honor, so he may be a bit bull
headed but, I'm sure you can handle that." Methos smiled.

"A Chieftain's son, you say?" Connor considered this information.  "Is he a
warrior?  Is he strong?  Can he already handle a sword?"

"He's a Chieftain's son, you moron!" Methos allowed a bit of anger to flash
in his eyes. "What do you think?"  He was enjoying the little game of fear
that he was playing with this child.

"Oh, well, yes.  Of course, you're right." Connor stammered, trying to
regain the good will that he thought he'd been building.  He realized that
he'd made a grievous error.  He'd been a fool to play with this man.

"So, if you would just untie me and tell me where to find your young friend,
I'll be off."

Methos studied the Highlander before him, taking in his words and demeanor.
'No,' he thought.  'As soon as I let him go, he's going to run.'  Groaning
to himself, Methos realized that he was going to be forced to deliver this
nuisance himself, if he wanted to make sure that he arrived.  Methos sighed.
'Months on a horse, in the company of this dunderhead!'  Turning his eyes to
the heavens, he pleaded.  'By the Gods, do I really deserve this?'

Rising slowly from the bed, he went over to the Scot, reaching out to test
the ropes.  "I think it would be best if I left you right where you are.
We'll both leave in the morning, after I've had a good night's sleep."  He
smiled at the young man, seeing anger beginning in his eyes.  "Relax,
Connor.  Get comfortable.  It's going to be a long night."

The next morning found them on the road, Methos riding and leading Connor's
horse; the Highlander bound, hands to feet, across the saddle. Spending the
night tied to the chair had not improved the young Immortal's mood.  As soon
as Methos had released him, he started to fight, trying to escape.  Methos
was once again forced to render the Scot unconscious.  Methos now smiled at
the memory.

They had been riding for hours, Methos grumbling at the inconvenience of it
all.  As much as he thought he liked the Scot, he had no desire to be in his
company at the moment.  He had no desire to be returning to Scotland,
especially with winter not too far away.  He wanted to be someplace warm,
someplace where beautiful young ladies would have nothing better to do than
to respond to his every wish.

His soothing fantasy was disrupted by the shouts of the disgruntled Scot.

"Mathias, let me go!"

When he received no response from Methos, Connor began to thrash about which
only set to spooking his horse.  The animal began to buck, slamming the tied
Highlander into its sides thereby causing the Scot to scream louder.  As
much as Connor's pain was bringing Methos pleasure, the noise was getting on
his nerves.  Pulling up, he dismounted and tried to calm the frightened
animal and, quite by accident, managed to smack Connor in the back of the
head.  A few times.

"Mathias, let me down.  Ouch! Hey! Stop!"

"Oh, I'm sorry Connor," Methos said, he voice apologetic, happy that the
Scot couldn't see the broad smile on his face.  "But if you would just be
still, I'd be able to calm the horse."

"And if you'd just let me loose, the animal wouldn't be tossing me around
like a toy!"

"Well, if you insist," Methos responded as he reached under the horse and,
tugging on the rope, untied Connor's hands.  A well-placed elbow into the
horse's flank resulted in Connor being thrown, quite soundly, to the ground.

"Are you all right?" Methos asked, his voice just dripping with concern.

"No, I'm not all right!" Connor shouted.  "I think I broke my nose."

"Oh, let me see," Methos said as he knelt down beside the moaning Scot.
"You are such a child!"  Running his fingers along Connor's nose, he gave it
a tweak then stood, laughing as the young Immortal yelled.  "Don't worry,
Connor.  You'll heal."

Connor got to his feet, torn between taking his revenge on this man and
running.  Methos fixed him with an icy glare as he made the decision for
him.  "Don't even consider running.  You don't want to make me chase you."

Connor sagged into the ground in defeat.  He was tired of fighting with this
man, he was tired of being tied up and he was tired of riding with his face
pressed against the side of a horse.  As he sat on the ground, watching
Methos set up camp, he tried, unsuccessfully, to remember why he was
fighting at all.

'Mathias has always treated me as a friend,' Connor thought.  'I did make
him a promise, after Ramirez died.  Now he's come to collect and I'm
honor-bound to comply.'  He thought about the situation a bit longer.  'It
is my fault that he's angry,' Connor admitted to himself.  'I suppose that I
should make amends.'

"Mathias," Connor ventured, "if this youngster is so important, why don't
you teach him yourself?"

Methos walked over and handed Connor some dried fruit then sat on the ground
beside him.  Taking a pull from the wineskin, he passed that over, too.

"Because I have no patience with children, as you can see."  Connor managed
to look a bit embarrassed, which brought a smile to the ancient's face.
"Besides, I don't know how to talk to him.  We have nothing in common.  He
would not learn from me."

"Well, you do have the look about you of a scribe, not at all like a
warrior."  When Methos glanced up at the Scott, Connor hurried to add,
"which I know is an assumption that would be fatal to make."  Methos smiled.
"But, tell me Mathias, why is he so important."

Methos thought about this for a few minutes, trying to decide how to
explain.  Finally, he gave up.  "I can not explain it, Connor.  You'll just
have to wait until you meet him.  Then you will see."

"Do you think that he could be the one?"

"The one?"

"The only one.  The winner of the prize?"

"That's very possibly, Connor.  That's very possible."

They continued eating and talking and finally came to an agreement.  Connor
would go to Scotland to teach this young Immortal and Methos would refrain
from hitting him and punching him and tying him up.

The remainder of the trip was basically uneventful, building a deeper
friendship between the two men.  The crossing of the Channel proved a
delight for Connor and a misery for Methos.  While Connor reveled in the
turbulent voyage, with the ocean's spray and the salty breeze through his
hair, Methos, whose love of the sea died centuries ago, spent the trip below
decks, maintaining a lovely shade of green.  The moment that brought the
greatest laughter to Connor's heart was when they docked at Southampton and
Methos, stumbling down the gangplank, fell to his knees and kissed the
ground.  After spending a few days in the port, Connor finding all the
taverns and Methos finding his stomach, they took their horses and headed
north to Scotland.

A few weeks later found them almost at their destination. They rode along
the trail, nearing Timothy's cave, talking and laughing together as the sun
began to set behind the hills.  Without any warning they were assailed by
the sounds of nature exploding, the feel of the rumbling earth and the sight
of unnatural lightening.  A Quickening!

Methos and Connor looked at each other in shock and mute agreement then
suddenly took off down the trail, Methos in the lead, as fast as their
horses could go.

Stopping at the crest of the hill just outside the cave, the two Immortals
watched as a young man, dressed in various rags and furs, came stumbling
from the tumble of rocks that had once been the hermit's cave.  Duncan!
Methos watched as he fell to his knees, stunned.

Methos made a move to go to assist the future Champion when, from the corner
of his eye, he saw Connor spur his horse forward.  Methos waited and
watched.

Connor halted in front of the kneeling figure and dismounted, crouching down
in front of the trembling innocent.  Duncan looked up at this stranger,
tears streaming down his face.

"Father was right!  I am a demon!" he cried.  Seeing the clansman before
him, Duncan pleaded  "What have I done?  What am I?"

"You are not a demon, my friend." Connor said softly, trying to soothe the
quaking body.  "You are Immortal."

"Who are you?  What are you?" Duncan asked, feeling the jumble of energy
along the edge of his mind.

"I, too, am Immortal." Connor smiled.  "I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod and I have come to show you our way."

Connor raised his stunned kinsman to his feet and, after some urging,
managed to get him up onto the horse.  As he began to lead the horse away,
he turned to look back at Methos, still sitting at the crest of the hill.
His look told Methos everything that the ancient needed to know.  Duncan
would be fine.  Connor would see to it.

When the two immortals, new teacher and new student, were finally out of
sight, Methos made his way to what used to be the entrance of the hermit's
cave.  He had to get inside.  He had to find out what had happened.  He had
to find Timothy.

He began to move the fallen rocks, throwing them aside, until, finally, he
was inside the cave.  He found the fire, still burning; a rabbit still on
the spit.  Then he saw Timothy's body, his head not far away.  Kneeling
down, he reached out to touch the now dead form, tears spring to his eyes.

"Oh, my friend, what have you done?" His voice, so sad, so weary, still
echoed through the cavern.  "What happened here, Timothy?  What went wrong?"

He rose and began to search the cave, hoping to find answers to his
questions.  He came upon a wooden chest, one that he knew that Timothy used
for keeping his important items.  Kneeling down beside it, he lifted the
solid, wooden lid, scanning the contents inside.  A few dried herbs, some
small sticks, some bones and, moving those things aside, a scroll, tied up
with blades of grass.  Methos was stunned to see his name, METHOS, written
in Timothy's hand, on the outside.

He gently removed the scroll from the chest and, sliding off the grass ties,
opened it and began to read:

        Do not worry, my friend.  The Old Ones told me of your true name so
that I  may understand fully.

        You were right, he is coming.  I can feel his presence growing
closer  every day.  And when he finally arrives, I will keep my promise,
made all        those years ago.

        I will tell him of his future, of the things that he needs to know.
But     it will not be enough, my friend.  He will not believe.  He will not
understand.  So I will do what is necessary.  I will force him to take my
head.

        The knowledge that I posses will become a part of him, buried in his
memory until it is needed.  Fear not, old one, he will have it when the
time comes.  But I have known, almost from the beginning, that I would not
be able to make him understand.

        Do not grieve, teacher.  I am looking forward to the moment.  I am
so      tired, so very tired.  I have fought my battle and won and I will
pass the        information on.  My destiny will be fulfilled, because of
you.

        Thank you, my friend and rest easy.  Your biggest battle still lies
ahead.

Methos wiped at the tears that were streaming down his face.  How long ago
was this written?  Was he lucid at the end?  Methos checked the scroll
again, hoping to find a date.  Down in the right hand corner of the scroll,
Methos saw something that tore at his heart.

Timothy had written this note only this morning!  He hadn't met Duncan until
today!

His mind was reeling as Duncan's words came back to him. 'I am a demon.'
Duncan had shouted.  'What am I?' he had cried.  Methos stood, disbelief
washing across his soul.  That which he had feared had come to pass.  Duncan
had spent these past three years wandering the Highlands, not knowing what
he was, cut off from everything that he'd known.

"Damn. Damn! DAMN!"  Methos shouted, kicking at the fire, at the chest, at
anything that he could take his frustrations out on.  If he had gotten here
faster, maybe he could have stopped Timothy.  If he had found Connor sooner,
Duncan wouldn't have been made to suffer.

Methos felt his anger at Connor once again rising to the surface.  'No,' he
told himself, 'that will accomplish nothing.'  Methos took a deep breath,
calming his mind.  'Connor has him now.  Everything will be all right.'  He
scanned the cave again, his eyes once more coming to rest on Timothy's body.

Without another word, without another thought, Methos began to move
everything about the cave, positioning the body, and its head, in a place of
reverence by the fire, surrounding it with the belonging that held
importance to Timothy.  Taking the scroll and holding it to the flame, he
watched the only evidence to his identity turn to ash.  That done, he backed
slowly out of the cave, resealing the entrance, he hoped, for eternity.

"Farewell, good friend.  Your task is done.  Rest easy now with your Gods."

Methos mounted his horse and slowly rode away, towards his and Duncan's
future.

************************

"So you and Connor remained friends?"

Methos stood, looking out the window as he answered. "Yes.  When he was
younger, I thought he was a fool but, after Duncan, he became more serious,
almost as if he sensed Mac's importance.  But he always had a way of
frustrating the hell out of me."  Turning back to face his friend, he
continued.  "You know how easy it is for me to get under Mac's skin, to push
his buttons?  Well, with Connor, it was just the opposite.  I could never
get at him and, whenever I tried, he would simply laugh.  He was so
frustrating."

"So he got the best of you."

"At times," Methos admitted, with a smile.  "Although, I'd never admit that
to him."

"Does Mac know that you know Connor?"

"Joe, there's a lot about me that Mac doesn't know and I think it's best of
we keep it that way."

"Why," Joe asked, suddenly turning serious.  "Don't you think he should know
about the sacrifices that you've made for him?  Don't you think he deserves
to know the truth?"

"Frankly, Joe, I'm not sure that he'd understand and I really don't want to
risk it."  Methos sat down in the chair, suddenly looking very old.
"There's always been a part of me that he didn't trust, as if he felt there
was something I was hiding."  Seeing Joe's eyebrows raised in a 'well, you
were' expression, Methos chuckled.  "Yeah, well, alright.  But that
uncertainty seemed to lead him to believe the worst of me."

"Like with Kronos?"

"Yeah, but even before that, he wasn't sure."

"What do you mean?"

Methos sat silently for a moment, unsure as to whether he wanted to share
this part of himself, this hurt, with his friend.  'Well, you've told him so
much already, what's a little more,' he thought.

"That incident with the crystal.  He asked me if I sent killers after
Amanda.  A part of him actually believed that I did."

"No, he didn't," Joe tried to reassure him.  "Both of you were his friends
and he was worried."

"If he trusted me, Joe, he wouldn't even have had to ask." The pain and
disappointment in his voice almost broke Joe's heart.  "If he ever found out
the rest, he'd probably hate me for manipulating him his entire life.  No, I
don't think I'll share this information with him."

Methos looked at Joe and, for a moment, thought he saw a smile on the old
man's face.

After a few moments of reflective silence, Joe spoke again.  "So, Mac spent
those three years alone, like you were worried that he would.  It seems that
he came through it unscathed."

"Unscathed?" Methos starred at Joe, stunned.  "I don't think so.  Those
three years effected him more than any other experience in his entire life."

"Do you really think so?" Joe asked

Methos nodded.  "I didn't realize it until we met, until I actually got to
know him, but yes, I believe that it did."

"How?"

"Well, think about it, Joe." Methos explained.  "He grew up as the only
child of a doting mother and a proud father, surrounded by a clan that loved
and protected him, who looked to him for their future.  Then, one day, like
that..." Methos snapped his fingers  "...it was all taken away.  He was
abandoned by his father, banished by his clan; he lost his family, his Clan,
his very identity and he was suddenly alone."

"But he was still the same man."

"Was he?"  Methos stood, making his way back to the window.  "Did you ever
watch him when he declares himself, Joe?  'Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod'!  He says it with such pride, such strength.  Says it with such
defiance, as if daring anyone to tell him different, because there's a part
of him, deep down inside, a part that he is unwilling to acknowledge, that
knows that it's not true.  So he tries, with every breath that he takes,
during every waking moment, to make it so.  He surrounds himself with
friends, people that he loves, people he can protect.  He tries to rebuild
his Clan, to replace what he had lost."  Methos shook his head in sadness,
his voice falling to a whisper.  "And when he loses someone, when somebody
that he loves dies, he experiences that tremendous lose all over again."
Methos turned to face his friend.  "So, yeah, Joe.  I think that experience,
more than any other in his life, made him the man that we know today."

The men sat in silence for a short time, each lost in their own thoughts.
Joe's mind was replaying everything that he'd heard, trying to reconcile it
with the truths that he'd known all his adult life.  He didn't doubt what
Methos was telling him.  One look at the Immortal confirmed to Joe that this
telling was costing the man dearly.  Methos was exposing his vulnerability
and that, Joe knew, went against five thousand years of survival instinct.
So, while Joe believed that Methos was, for once, being completely truthful,
this was still hard to accept.

Meanwhile Methos sat, his head in his hands, not believing that he was
giving Joe all this information.  He hadn't opened himself up to anyone like
this since Darius and that was ...what...1500 years ago?  He would never
admit this to Joe but he was suddenly feeling very vulnerable.  His life had
always been about caution, about never reveling too much, always holding
something back.  Knowledge was power and Methos never gave that kind of
power to anyone. He trusted Joe with his life and had done so on many
occasions but this was different.  Methos hadn't survived five thousand
years by exposing his weaknesses and this, this was exposing his deepest
secrets, his greatest weaknesses, and he didn't like the feeling at all

A soft chuckle caused Methos to raise his head and look over at the mortal
sitting in the bed.  Joe was shaking his head, smiling.

"What?" Methos asked.  No matter how uncomfortable he was, he owed it to Joe
to finish this.  So, pushing away his feelings of discomfort, he rose from
the chair and walked over to the bed.

"Is there anyone in Duncan's life who's meeting you didn't orchestrate?" Joe
asked in amazement

Methos laughed at the question.  "Oh, yeah.  There were a few people that he
met strictly on his own.  I had nothing to do with them."

"Like...?"

"Fitzcairn, for one." Methos shook his head, remembering.  "I thought of
taking his head a number of times, trying to prevent that friendship."

"You didn't like Fitzcairn?"

"Oh, I liked him well enough.  He was a good man and he was a great friend
to Mac, but, I'll tell you Joe, there were times when he was so reckless, I
thought he was going to get MacLeod killed!"  Methos tried to explain.
"It's like being a parent meeting your teenager's friends.  They seem nice
enough but, God, they scare you!"

"Well, with some of the things I've read in Fitz's Chronicles, I'd tend to
agree with you." Joe laughed  "Anyone else?"

"Yes," Methos smiled.  "There is a certain female thief that he met all on
his own."

"Amanda?"  Methos nodded.  "You didn't know her?"

"I knew OF her.  I had arranged for Rebecca to run into Duncan, hopefully to
teach him a few things.  I didn't realize that her student would come with
the deal."

"So you did know Rebecca." Joe pushed a little harder

Methos shrugged his shoulders.  "We were, uh...friends.  Close friends."

"How close?" Joe asked, already knowing the answer.  When Methos simply
looked at the Watcher and smiled, Joe knew that was all the answer that he
was going to get.

"There were others, along the way." The Immortal offered.  "Brian Cullen,
Kamir, Kiem Sun.  I simply couldn't be everywhere, watching him all the
time, although, I'll tell you, I tried."

"Kept you busy, did he?" Joe chuckled

Methos shook his head as he laughed.  "In the beginning, he nearly drove me
nuts.  I tried to watch him constantly, controlling everyone he met,
protecting him from everything.  But I soon realized that, if he was going
to be the man that he had to be, I had to let him fight his own battles.  I
couldn't fight them for him.  The only thing that I could do was to make
sure he was as prepared as possible for any challenge that he met.  So I
kept throwing different teachers in his path.  It was all that I could do.
But, I'll admit that sometimes I made mistakes.  One person that I thought
would be his best teacher turned out to be the person that almost destroyed
him."

"Who was that?"

"Graham Ashe." Methos replied.  "What he did shattered Mac's self-confidence
and made him doubt his judgement of others.  For the first time in Mac's
life, I felt that I had to step in."

**1658 - Central Europe**

The early spring storm had been raging for days, dumping torrents of water
on the region.  Methos rode slowly, trying to keep a safe distance from the
infuriating Scot that he was following. Couldn't this child have traveled
south, into the warmer, sunnier climes?  The south of France, perhaps.  The
South Pacific would have been better.  Anywhere that didn't have this
godforsaken rain!

Methos pulled his oiled cloak closer around him, trying to ward off the
chill.  He hated the rain and the cold but he had no choice.  He had to keep
an eye on MacLeod.  After that fiasco with Graham Ashe, he didn't dare leave
the Highlander on his own, not until Methos was sure that he was safe.

As Marcus Antillicus, a centurion, Methos had befriended Ashe during the
time that was the glory of Rome.  His prowess with the sword, and with the
women, made Ashe a zestful companion.  The man was a lover and a
philosopher, and, although he never went looking for a fight, there was no
one that could best him.  So, given what he knew, Methos was unprepared for
the man's action during his recent challenge.

Methos had arranged for Ashe, as a special favor, to take on Duncan MacLeod
as a student.  As the man who had taught Duncan's teacher's teacher, Ashe
relished the irony of situation.  He also enjoyed the opportunity to pass
on, and show off, his not inconsiderable skills.

But, in a challenge with the Moor, Haresh Clay, Graham Ashe's skills had not
been enough.  The battle, witnessed by MacLeod, was a brief one but one that
would remain with the Highlander for a very long time.  Because, in what the
young Scot saw as a moment of complete shame, Ashe had begun to beg.  With
Clay's sword resting lightly at his throat, Ashe had pleaded for his life in
a show of total cowardice.  Then, after taking Ashe's head, Clay had stalked
Duncan, taunting him and humiliating him.  It was only the advent of Holy
Ground and Clay's honor that saved the Highlander's life.

Duncan's faith and confidence had been shattered by the experience.   In the
nine months since the encounter, Duncan had wandered, almost aimlessly,
throughout Europe, seeking friendship and comfort but finding only more
fighting and killing.

Methos had picked up his trail about six months ago and was shocked by the
young Immortal's frame of mind.  When Duncan had finally made plans to meet
a friend, Peter Hale, at the Monastary of St. Christopher, Methos was
relieved.  Duncan would surely find the solace that he needed there. And so,
to insure that the Scot arrived at the monastery unchallenged, Methos
followed, close enough to sense his young charge but far enough away that
the Highlander's unskilled senses could not pick up his presence.

But this was getting ridiculous.  Duncan had managed, in this pouring rain,
to get lost!  Unbeknownst to the Highlander, he had been circling the
monastery for two days, missing the trail at least six times.  As the rain
began dripping off of his prominent nose, Methos decided to take action.
Spurring his horse forward, Methos cut through the forest, heading for a
place on the road that Duncan would eventually cross.

Finding a spot in the cover of the trees, not far from the trail to the
monastery, Methos set about his task.  Retrieving the dry kindling that he
always kept from his pack, a practice that went back as far as the Horsemen,
Methos managed to start a small fire, no easy task in the pouring rain.
With the cover of the trees above him and the small fire to warm him, Methos
prepared to sit and wait.

A short time later Methos felt the increasing closeness of the immortal
presence that he'd come to know as Duncan MacLeod.  He pulled his cloak
closer around his body and, at the last moment, wrapped his scarf around the
lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes visible.

'The time isn't right for us to meet,' he told himself as he saw the man
slowly approaching through the rain.  Keeping his voice low, he called the
cautious man closer to the fire.

"Fear not, fellow traveler," he said, his voice disguised further by the
scarf, "come, take comfort of my fire."

Seeing the Highlander's hesitation, Methos waved his hands around the small
cove in the trees.  "I have no weapon, as you can see and I mean you no
harm. Come, warm yourself."

Duncan eased his way past Methos' horse and sat down by the fire, relishing
the warmth.  Methos took the opportunity to examine the Scot further, taking
note of his tense body and the almost dazed look in his eyes.  'Yes,' Methos
thought, 'some time at the monastery will do him good.'

"I fear I have nothing to offer you but the warmth of the fire," Methos said
quietly.  "I am but a poor scribe, forced to travel in this deluge from
heaven.'

"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."  There was no challenge, only
introduction, in his words but Methos had to smile at the way Duncan
straightened with pride at the pronouncement.

"I am called Matthew." Methos offered.  "What forces you to travel this road
in such weather?"

"I am meeting a friend at the Monastery of St. Christopher."  Duncan looked
at the trail and the surrounding trees.  "But I seemed to have lost my way."

"Not true, my friend," Methos told him.  "You are less than an hour's time
away from your destination.  The trail," he leaned forward and pointed to
indicate the location, "turns off but fifty paces down this road."

Brightened at the prospect of being so close to his destination, Duncan rose
from the fire to continue his journey.  Remembering his host, Duncan turned
toward the man who had offered him comfort.

"Thank you, sir, for guiding me and for the warmth of your fire."  Duncan
looked deeply at the eyes that watched him over the covered face.  "But, if
I may, I have a question."

"If I possess the answer, sir, it is yours."

"Why did you not challenged me?"  Methos was touched by the wonder in
Duncan's voice.

"Not all of us seek the deaths of others of our kind," Methos said softly.
"Some of us would rather go on living.  You will find, my friend, that there
is a time to fight and a time to simply live.  This is one of those times."

Duncan saw a smile in those mysterious hazel eyes.  He nodded and left the
shelter of the trees, heading towards the trail for the monastery.  He would
remember this Matthew and the wisdom of his words.  He would also remember
those eyes.

Methos watched as Duncan turned off the road onto the trail to the
monastery.  Once he was out of sight, Methos gathered his belongings and put
out the fire.  He would continue to follow Duncan, at a safe distance, until
he was sure he'd found the sanctuary.  Then, once he was certain that Duncan
was safe, he was off to a warmer climate.

'Or, at least, a dryer one!' he thought

************************

Methos sat in the chair, shaking his head, as he remembered the near
disaster of that encounter.

"You thought he would be safe at the monastery." Joe commented.  "How were
you supposed to know about Kalas?"

"I know," Methos admitted.  "After leaving him there, I'd headed to Egypt
and a quiet, relaxing vacation in the sun.  When I finally made it back to
Europe, I heard what had happened.  I'll tell you, Joe, I panicked.  As much
as I wanted to leave him to his own devices and even though I knew that he
could take care of himself, I still felt the need to protect him."  He gave
his friend a guilty smile.  "I guess I still do."

"Yeah," Joe smiled back at him.  "you do.  I suppose even Immortals develop
paternal instincts."

They shared a laugh and, after a few moments, Joe pushed on.

"What did you do after that?"  Joe was starting to get tired but he didn't
want Methos to know it.  After all these years of holding back, Methos was
finally opening up and Joe had no intentions of giving the Old Man an excuse
to stop. He knew what this was costing Methos, sharing himself in this way
but Joe needed to hear it.  And, he was sure, deep down inside, Methos
really needed to tell it.

"Well, basically, Joe, I just sat back and watched.  By the time I'd
returned, he had already met, and left, Kristen.  He wandered around Europe
for a time then returned to England.  After enough time had passed, when he
was sure he wouldn't be recognized, he went north to Scotland.  Then, for
reasons that I wasn't sure of, he packed up and headed to China.  He ran
into Keim Sun, spent some time then headed back.  I think he was just
stretching his wings, learning what Immortality had to offer.  I kept an eye
on him as best I could but I did manage to let him live his own life.  It
also gave me the opportunity to live mine."

"You sound like you almost fell into a routine."

Methos chuckled.  "I guess I did.  While I continued to track him, I spent
my time setting other things into motion, finding teachers for him to
stumble upon, setting up learning situations.  Things seemed to go smoothly
for a few decades until, eventually, he wound up back in Scotland and
involved with Bonnie Prince Charlie."  Methos shook his head as he
remembered.  "His darkest days happened after Culloden, after the defeat of
everything he held dear.  He set out on a killing spree that, although I
could understand, worried me.  But, before things got too out of hand, he
took off again.  Eventually, he ran into one of his most important
teachers."  Methos smiled.  "It was one of my most elaborate connections and
one that I work the hardest at."  Methos sighed.  "The things I went through
for that man..."

**1778 - Japan**

Hideo Koto looked at the sleeping gai jin, this foreigner, and wondered what
was so special about him.  To his eyes, he was large, loud and had a foul
stench.  Yet, in the short time the Samurai had known this barbarian, he
found that he also was a man of honor.  The older man left the sleeping
chamber and with heavy steps, went to the room that was reserved for him and
him alone.

After making sure that no servant or family member would disturb him, Koto
went over to his secret hiding place and removed a scroll.  How many times
in the past few years had he read this and pondered what it meant to him and
to his family?  Now, that meaning was clear and there was only one thing
that could be done.  Even though he had read the scroll often enough he
could recite it in his sleep, he read it one final time.

        Honorable Enseki(1),

        Although we have not met, the ties that bind us are as strong as
blood.          As you are the descendant of Masamune, I am also of that
lineage through         his daughter, Shakiko.  I ask a favor of you, one
that your giri, your    honor, will allow you to accept or to decline, and
this is your choice.

        You are renowned for your honor, your wisdom and your ability with
the     sword.  I have a kinsman who would benefit from this and I humbly
ask that        you teach him what you can.  He is gai jin, ignorant of the
ways of us, he  will be a difficult student.  Although his standards are
different than  yours, you will find him a kindred spirit and willing to
learn.  His name        is Duncan MacLeod.

        I am unsure when or how that this man will come to you but he will
come.   I ask that you think upon this as I know what I am asking of you.
There   will be no shame if you should chose not to accept.  Please think
upon    this.  Three days after you receive this message, the same courier
will    return for an answer.

        Whatever your answer is, know this, there is no familial obligation
left    between us.  Consider the debt paid and no longer something to be
concerned with.

                Masamune Kazuo

Hideo reached once more into the secreted compartment and pulled out a
carved piece of jade, one that had the traditional seal of the Masamune
family carved into it.  Only two had been made, over 1000 years ago.  He
already possessed one before the scroll arrived, and now, with this one, he
had both of them.  It could only have come from a member of the Masamune
family.

Buddha had been smiling down upon him on the beach that day, that his hand
had been stayed from killing the barbarian.  He had his katana, drawn and
ready for the killing blow, when he heard the strange words, Duncan MacLeod.
It had taken a moment to register that those sounds corresponded to the name
in the letter.  He sheathed his blade, his life now forfeited twice, once
when he agreed to the favor and again when one of the Shogun's men had been
allowed to live and report that a gai jin was on his estates.

Koto knew that he was living on borrowed time and wanted to impart as much
of his knowledge as he could to Duncan in the short amount of time that was
left.  His hand would be forced soon and he would have only one option left
to him.  Honor would demand nothing less.

The Samurai looked at the scroll a final time and then held it directly over
the flame of a candle.  He hoped that his actions would bring honor to his
family.  If this scroll were to be discovered his honorable death would be
for nothing.  He watched the scroll as it was consumed in flames and Hideo
was at peace with himself.

************************

"How in the hell did you feign a connection to a Japanese family in the 18th
century?  Isn't that a stretch even for you?" Joe asked, looking at Methos
in disbelief.

"How do you know I am not?" Methos retorted lightly.  "Think of it similar
to an Immortal Good Ole Boy system, Joe.  I once had a student by the name
of Juan Sanchez etc...sound familiar?  It was easy enough to arrange,
through the Church system, for a message to go to the family still in Japan.
I wanted Duncan to get the benefit of the eastern philosophy."

Joe nodded thoughtfully.  "That makes sense.  How did you plan to get him
there?  I think arranging a shipwreck is a bit too much, even for you."

Methos had the grace to look somewhat abashed.  "I didn't have a clear idea
of how I was going to get Duncan to Koto.  He signed on that ship before I
had a chance to do anything.  I had planned to follow, which I did, and
arrange for Duncan to be kidnapped and delivered to Koto.  His being
shipwrecked on Hideo's estate was pure chance...or perhaps divine
intervention."  The oldest immortal gave a smirk tempered with respect for
the unknown.

Joe looked at the ancient Immortal in only what could be termed grudging
respect. "You really have had your finger in just about every pie haven't
you?  Let me ask you this?  How in the hell did you penetrate the Watchers
in the first place?  I know how the background check is and there is no way
that you could have slid by it."

"Oh ye of little faith" murmured Methos, hiding a smile behind his hand.
"Joseph, did you pay attention to what I said when I told how I met the God
to begin with?"

Joe narrowed his eyes in thought and then they sprang wide open in
amazement.

"The symbol!  It is the Watcher symbol isn't it?  You sneaky bastard, you
did start the Watchers didn't you?  But how and why?"

"Very observant," Methos laughed softly. The ancient Immortal settled back
into the chair and laced his hands behind his head.

"You have to remember that this was a long, long time ago.  I had just been
charged with an awesome responsibility and I was slightly overwhelmed by it
all.  I had to track down a single Immortal and prepare him.  Obviously, I
could not post up notices so I decided I needed some help."

"So you recruited people, told them about Immortals and had them searching
for you?  Doesn't that seem a bit like...cheating?"  Joe hazarded a guess.

Methos looked at Joe and shook his head, rather sadly.

"Cheating?  Cheating???  I was a single man trying to find a single man, how
in the hell did anyone expect me to do it alone?"  Methos realized he was
beginning to be a little too loud and quickly lowered his voice before a
nurse came to ask him to leave.

"No, Joe, I do not think I "cheated" in getting some help.  Not only that, I
did not exactly start the Watchers as you know them today."

"Well, then, what did you do?"

"I gathered a few people that I knew and asked them to travel and listen.  I
knew that word travels quickly and anything that sounded unusual or perhaps
Immortal related would eventually find its way to one of my men.  I assumed
that I would be able to use these men until I found the next Champion and
then it would be over."

Methos gave a quiet laugh to himself, thinking back.  "What I did not count
on was one of the men discovering the truth about Immortals.  He actually
witnessed a Quickening.  It wasn't too long before more of the same were
witnessed and Watchers, as you would know them, were born."

Methos ran a hand through his hair and scrubbed his face with his hands.
Telling Joe all of this was taking more out of him than he had bargained on.
He was tired and he was hungry but, he decided, he had to continue

"The men are the ones who started the Watchers more than you did.  You just
went along with them?"

"No, I made sure that they had the information correct.  In the guise of one
of the operatives, I sent back collaborating information.  I also gave the
report that I had actually talked to an Immortal and gotten the information
contained there.  It gave these men the basic rules of Immortality and also
reinforced the idea of watch and do not interfere."

Joe sat up in bed, his face outraged.  "You son of a bitch!  You gave false
information to set this up?  The entire Watcher organization was based on
information that you, an Immortal, gave? How much other crap over the years
did you plant to further your own cause?"

Methos glared back at Joe. "What in the hell did you expect me to do, Joe?
The man had found out about Immortals!  Should I have just ignored it and
hope that he would do the same?  No, I did what I thought was the right
thing to do; I gave just enough information to keep them alive.  Furthering
my own cause, my cause?  It was not my cause, it was mankind's cause, I was
just the schmuck who was tapped to do it. "

Methos dropped his voice to a whisper, his eyes narrowed, face set.  "My
cause, your cause, the cause of everyone.  If not for me and my cause, do
you think you would be sitting here today?  What do you think your life or
life as we know it would be like if I had not won my battle, not found
Timothy or MacLeod?  Before you lecture me about my ethics in placing things
into Chronicles, you think on that, Mr. Dawson!"

Joe sat in his bed, face set and did not say a word.  A moment later, Methos
had the grace to look abashed.  "I am sorry Joe, I know you were not really
accusing me but it is hard to not take things like that personally.  I did
put information into Chronicles, I did further my own ambitions but it was
to do what I thought was the right thing to do.  I had to find my successor,
that was my primary goal and I would have done anything to achieve it."

Joe nodded thoughtfully and gave a small shrug of one shoulder.  "I am sorry
too, I should not judge what you have done.  It is a damn hard thing to have
been asked to do and you did it.  The Watchers have been my life for too
many years and there are some things that are too dear to let go.  To hear
that the principals that the Watchers were founded on, were planted
by...well, it is a bit much to take in at once."

Sighing heavily, Methos agreed.  "It was not easy for me either Joe, it
really wasn't."

"How did you maintain contact with the Watchers over the years?  Someone
must have noticed that you were not aging."

"Actually, that was easy enough to take care of.  I would come and go every
so often, staying 10 years or so.  During that time, I would go over the
information, looking for clues I needed to find the next Champion."

"How did you penetrate them though?  If they were anything at all like we
are today, it would have been almost impossible to find them or to get them
to accept you." Joe took a sip of water and looked at the clock, trying to
not grimace in pain.

Methos saw the glance and knew that his time was running out.  Joe would get
his pain medication soon and the drop off to sleep for a little while.

"Apprenticeship, Joe.  Anytime I would show up, I would always have a letter
from my mentor, usually whatever alias I had been using before.  It worked
well enough that even the last time I penetrated the Watchers, I used it.
Do you recall our first meeting at Watcher HQ?  I was just starting one of
my periodic stays."

The two men looked at one another, both thinking back to that time, so long
ago.

**1984 - Watcher's Headquarters in Europe**

Joe made his way down the stairs carefully, muttering to himself that the
Watchers could certainly afford to install some elevators.  As he made his
way down the winding staircase, he felt nostalgic.  He had started out in a
similar position within the Watchers. How could 16 years have passed by so
quickly? He made an exasperated sound at himself that was something he
always heard from older people and one that he vowed never to say, or think,
again.

Stepping more quickly, now that he had reached the bottom of the stairs, Joe
looked with interest around the research section.  There were small areas of
tables, chairs, computer terminals and books throughout the entire space.
All manner of people were working at some important task and no one gave him
a second glance as he passed by them.  Joe smiled to himself.  Why would
they look at him?  Security here was the best that could be had, anyone down
on this level had a reason to be here.

Don Saltzer had sent him down here to find out some information on Duncan
MacLeod, the Immortal whom he Watched.  Don could not stop raving and
singing the praises of his newest research assistant, the whiz kid known as
Adam Pierson.  According to Don, this kid had a computer terminal for a
brain and could recall where he read the most trivial bit of information.
Joe had access to all of Duncan MacLeod's chronicles but could not find the
information he was seeking.  He wished that the Watcher organization would
catch up with the rest of the world and put all the information on
microfiche.

Joe stopped by a desk where a young brunette was busy trying to decipher a
text that looked, at least to Joe, like chicken scratch.  "Excuse me,
perhaps you can help me?" Joe asked quietly, trying to not disturb others
nearby.

"Yes?" The woman smiled helpfully.  Her smile grew a little friendlier as
she took in Joe's appearance and the humorous twinkle in his hazel eyes.

"I am Joe, Joe Dawson, field agent.  Don Saltzer sent me down here.  I am
looking for Adam Pierson.  Can you point me in the right direction?"

"Joe Dawson?" The woman said in a voice that was just a little too loud for
Joe's liking.  A few heads turned in curiosity and quickly went back to
work.  "You are Joe Dawson?  I am sorry, I was just expecting someone
more...I don't know."  She smiled weakly and peered closer at him.

"Do we know one another?" Joe was a bit confused.  How in the world would
this woman know who he was?  He shifted his cane from one hand to the other.

The woman laughed, and held out her hand. "I am Ayse Benson, research
assistant for the British Isles.  I am quite familiar with Duncan MacLeod as
he is one of the more notable Immortals to come from there.  Of course I
would know who his Watcher is.  I am so pleased to meet you."  Joe listened
with a bemused expression on his face and graciously shook her hand.  "Maybe
we could get together for a drink later and chat?" She offered hopefully.

"That would be nice. I will stop by on my way out and we can set something
up."  He smiled again and inclined his head towards the room.  "Adam
Pierson?"

"Oh yes, " Ayse gave a small, self conscious laugh. "He is down at the end,
follow the music."  She made a sour face that let Joe know she did not think
much of Pierson's taste in music.

"Thank you Ayse and I will see you on my way out."  Joe made his way in the
direction she had indicated, never noticing the speculative gleam in Ayse's
eyes.

After passing by a few more comfortable, yet functional work areas, Dawson
heard the music.  He felt inclined to agree with Ayse, it was nothing he
would have chosen.  It was entirely too zippy for this early in the morning
and the person wailing about waking up was just too happy about it.  Joe
winced as the singer continued to implore the listener to "wake me up before
you go, go" and did his best to tune out the racket.

Joe stuck his head around the partition and opened his mouth to speak but
was struck dumb by the sight before his eyes.  A tall, thin man with a
rather prominent nose and shoulder length dark hair was dancing around the
room with a book in one hand.  He swung hips in time to the music and was
singing into a pencil.

"I'm not planning on goin' solo" sang Pierson, or at least Joe assumed it
was Pierson.  As he turned around during a musical interlude, he spied Joe
in the doorway and flushed.  He realized what he must look like and quickly
lowered the pencil, set the book down and turned the music off.

The research assistant ran a hand through his blonde streaked hair and
smiled at Joe. Joe had to wonder, with all that hairspray, how he was able
to do that.  Joe extended a hand in greeting.

"Joe Dawson and you must be Adam Pierson?"

The hazel eyes twinkled; amused at the picture that had greeted Joe.
Pierson extended a graceful hand and shook Joe's firmly.

"Yes, I am Adam Pierson.  Don't you just want to dance anytime you hear
Wham?"

"Excuse me?"

Adam nodded towards the tape player, which was now mercifully silent.
"Wham, George Michael, the song?  Not familiar with them, are you?  Pity,
they are quite good.  I think we will see them stick around for a bit."

Privately, Joe certainly hoped that was not the case but did not express
that opinion.  "No, I am afraid I don't follow pop music much these days.
I'm a blues man myself."

Adam shrugged and straddled a chair backward while nodding for Joe to take a
seat.  Joe sat in a chair, leaning his cane nearby.

"What can I do for you, Joe Dawson, Watcher of the Infamous Duncan MacLeod?"

"How does everyone down here know my name?" Joe demanded.

"Ah, a "Cheers" fan, are you?" At Joe's blank look, Adam continued. "Joe,
may I call you Joe?" At the affirmative nod, he continued. "I know who you
are because Don called to let me know you were on your way down here.  I saw
you stop by Ayse on your way in; congratulations by the way, she doesn't
stop to talk to many, feel lucky."

"We are going out for drinks later." Joe felt a smug smile threaten to break
through and he held it back.

Adam looked impressed and a bit envious.  "Lucky you, you must be something.
Anyway, she would know who you are since she has a bit of a ...shall we
say...thing for your MacLeod.  All that aside, anytime someone comes down
the stairs, we have an announcement that lets us know who is on the way and
what clearance they have." Adam pointed up at a speaker and Joe then noticed
there were speakers placed at regular intervals through the whole area. "We
sometimes work on sensitive materials down here and not everyone is cleared
to see them.  We would not want an unfortunate incident to take place, do
we?"

"At the risk of sounding like an old man, in my day..." He broke off as Adam
gave a chuckle and motioned for Joe to continue.  "As I was saying, in my
day, we did not have speakers or clearances."

"The world has changed quite a bit, Joe.  We have to keep up with the
times."  Once again Adam gave a chuckle and Joe wondered if Don ever had
this kid tested for drugs. "We move faster, can get information more quickly
than we ever have before.  As a result, we have better, more accurate
information on the known Immortals and we seem to find almost as many as are
reported no longer active.  Enough of all this though, what can I do for
you?"

"I am looking for a piece of information that I know I have read.  I thought
it was in MacLeod's Chronicle but I cannot find it there.  The only thing I
can think of is that I read it in another Chronicle at some point but am not
sure which one it was."  Joe reached into the pocket of his jacket and
pulled out a sheet of paper with the information he was seeking written
down.

Adam looked over the sheet, jiggling his knee and running a hand through his
hair again.  He was quiet for a few moments and Joe took the opportunity to
look around the room.  It was a typical research area: stacks of books,
piles of papers, a board that was covered with handwritten notes tacked all
over it.  The computer at the desk had a troll doll standing on the monitor
and there was a large sign nearby proclaiming that Adam's work area had been
declared a natural disaster.  Glancing at the books nearest him, Joe could
see that they were an eclectic bunch of Chronicles that did not seem to
belong together.  Don swore by this Pierson guy so Joe was content to let
him do the research for him.  He did not relish the idea of trying to track
down that little piece of information.

"Right," Pierson said suddenly, bringing Joe's attention back to him.  "I
also remember reading this at some point and you are correct, it is not in
MacLeod's Chronicle.  It is going to take me a bit of time to look this up
for you.  Would you care to wait or shall I send word when I have it? It
could take me 5 minutes or it could take me 5 hours, I am not sure."

"Just send word when you have it.  Here is my number where I am staying."
Joe scribbled his number on a piece of paper that Pierson handed him.  Adam
folded it up and stuck it in the pocket of his pants. "If I may ask, what
are you researching with all this?"  Joe's wave of the hand encompassed the
work area.

Adam smiled long enough for a hint of a dimple to show. "I research just
about anything I am asked to do.  My personal choice is the old ones, the
really old Immortals.  I guess you could call it my passion.  What is it
about them that have allowed them to survive this long?  Why them?  You
have, for example, Darius, the priest.  He was a warrior, not a very nice
guy who suddenly, about 1500 years ago, gives up all of it and becomes a
priest.  Why did he do that, how could he have lived as long as he did and
then retreat to Holy Ground?  Then there is the whole man or myth of Methos.
I find that fascinating."

Joe groaned involuntarily.  "Oh jeez, they still have people researching
him?  I think he is simply a myth thought up to keep new research assistants
busy and out of the way."

"No, Methos is real...or he was at some point.  The records are not even
clear if he is still alive or not but he did exist.  I have been searching
through older Chronicles looking for any mentions of him.  That is what you
see here.  Let me get started on this for you and I will call you when I
have something."

Joe stood up carefully and the two men shook hands.  Adam suddenly clapped
him on the back and winked.

"Good luck with Ayse later."  He gave a chuckle and went to his computer
terminal.  As Joe was leaving, the radio was back on, sound turned up once
more as a singer wailed about something.

Joe was unsure what to make of Pierson.  He was like quicksilver, moving
from one subject to the next but he did appear to know what he was doing.
He was an interesting fellow and Joe looked forward to getting to know him
better.

Joe did not see the smug look and sly smile that crossed Adam's face as the
Watcher walked off.  Pierson quickly typed in a few words and brought up a
sub-screen that no one else would have been able to find.  He typed a quick
entry...

        Finally met Dawson, think the foundation has been set and will
proceed         further with caution

Adam exited the program just as quickly and erased all traces of his having
been there.  That enigmatic smile was back in place as he began to call up
files in an attempt to locate the missing information for Joe.  He hummed in
time with the radio and soon lost himself in the research.

************************

Joe laughed, forgetting his pain briefly.  "It is so disgusting that you
don't look a day older than you did then.  Are you still a Wham fan?"

Methos threw up his hands in mock horror.  "Oh please, don't remind me of
that!  I cannot believe how into the Eighties I was then.  Thank goodness
there are no pictures of it!"

Joe looked at the Immortal slyly and smiled.  "I would be willing to bet
that there is a photo somewhere.  All Watcher employees had to have them for
the ID badge."  He gave a dry chuckle.  "I wonder how much MacLeod would pay
to see a picture of you with long, blonde-streaked hair?"

Methos looked faintly alarmed and leaned forward.  "I will deny everything!"

Both men gave a shared chuckle as the night nurse walked in.  She gave a
pointed look to Methos and then to the clock.  As she turned to make a note
on Joe's chart, he rolled his eyes at Methos, who stood up to leave.  Joe
opened his mouth to protest and Methos held up a hand to stall him.

"I will be back in a bit, Joe.  You need to rest and I need to eat.  I will
pick this up when I get back." Methos smiled cheerfully.

Joe looked like he wanted to protest but he lacked the strength to do it.
He was tired and did not like to admit that to his friend.  Both men knew
this and were aware that Methos was giving Joe a graceful way out.

As Methos exited the room, he looked back at Joe, already nodding.  "Sleep
well friend" he murmured.

The nurse came over to him as he stepped outside the door, her eyes narrowed
and looking ready to do battle.

"Mr. Pierson, I must insist that you allow Mr. Dawson to get some rest.  You
are not helping him by making him tired."

Methos bit his cheek, not wanting to take his anger and frustration out on
this woman.  "He is dying!  My being here is making it so that he is not
dying alone.  I think if you would ask him, he would want me here.  I am
going to eat, I will be back in a few hours.  May I suggest that you ask
either Mr. Dawson or his doctor about this because I will stay here with him
and I don't give a damn what you think about it."

Methos turned on his heel and stalked off, not looking back at the nurse,
who stood dumbfounded.

************************

When Methos returned a few hours later, he found Joe sleeping soundly.
"Rest easy, Joseph," he whispered, not wanting to disturb his friend.
"We'll pick this up in the morning."  Methos quietly moved a second chair
next to the bed, placing it opposite the one he was using.  Grabbing a book
from his duffel, Methos settled down in his chair facing Joe, putting his
feet up on the other one, and tried to get comfortable.  It was going to be
a long night and Methos was determined that his friend wasn't going to spend
it alone.

************************

Emily Baldwin started her shift just before dawn.  She checked the night
sheet to see if her patients had sleep through, problem free.  After
concluding that no crisis had occurred while she was away, she started on
her morning ritual of checking all the rooms.  It was her habit to walk the
halls, checking in to make sure all her patients were comfortable before she
started her required duties.  As she headed down the hallway, glancing into
each room as she passed, she thought of the events of yesterday.

That young man that visited Joe Dawson yesterday...what was his name?
Pierson, that was it...Adam Pierson.  Emily had taken an instant dislike to
the boy but she didn't know why.  He was very handsome, she admitted to
herself, with his dark hair and ivory skin. You could tell that there wasn't
an ounce of fat on that slender, muscular body.   And he had a fabulous
smile, the kind that could take your breath away.  Emily smiled as she
recalled the image he presented as he had walked towards her yesterday.

Then there were those eyes.  She could imagine the women who lost themselves
in those pools of ever changing color, colors that flickered and danced with
playfulness, mischievous barely contained within them.  But they were also
very frightening eyes.  She had watched as they had turned to deep,
terrifying pits of blackness when he had gotten angry.  Is that why she
didn't trust him?  No, she finally admitted to herself.  She didn't trust
him because of Joe.

She had known Joe Dawson for many years, had seen him come in for check-ups
after returning from Vietnam. He had always teased and taunted her, but the
verbal barrage had always been accompanied by a friendly smile.  Their
sparring had become the routine and they both seemed to enjoy it.  She
wanted the relationship to become more personal and had just worked up the
nerve to ask him out when, suddenly, he'd left town, moving, she'd heard, to
the West Coast.    She cursed the missed opportunity then went on with her
life.

Then, about a year ago, he'd come back.  She was saddened as she watched him
fight the terminal illness that continued to take away his strength and
energy, forcing him to, finally, be confined to the hospital.  She hated the
illness that brought him here but at least she was able to take care of him,
make him comfortable and protect him.  And that's what she was doing now,
protecting him.

In the two months that he'd been in this hospital and under her care, Emily
Baldwin had watched as Joe had received no visitors.  A multitude of phone
calls, yes.  And she had become familiar with everyone of the callers, some
from halfway around the world.  But still, no visitors.  Until yesterday.
Then suddenly, this Adam Pierson walked in and decided to take over, as if
he knew what was better for Joe than she did.

What did he want from Joe?  Was he after his money? His property?  Emily
didn't know.  But, if this young man was really a friend, why hadn't he come
to visit before?  Why had he left Joe to fight this battle alone?  'Oh,
well,' she thought, 'that was yesterday.  The Pierson fellow is gone and
things will be back to normal today.'

These thoughts ran through her mind as Head Nurse Emily Baldwin continued
her rounds.  As she stopped at the door of Joe Dawson's room she was
surprised by what she saw.

Joe was sleeping soundly, the monitors telling Emily that everything was
normal.  What surprised her was the other sleeping figure.

Adam Pierson had placed two chairs next to Joe's bed and somehow managed to
drape his body between them.  Covered by a small blanket, his one hand
abandoned the warmth to rest lightly on Joe's arm as if to assure the man
that, even in sleep, he was still there.

As she watched, Pierson stirred and, slowly opening his eyes, saw her
standing in the doorway. He gently unfolded himself from his makeshift bed
and, satisfying himself that Joe was still sleeping soundly, went over to
the nurse.

He was exhausted.  Thirty-six hours ago he had been hauled out of a sound
sleep by the phone call from Dr. Madison.  Six hours of air travel across at
least five time zones had helped to expend his energy.  Then, there was the
tale.  He had spent the whole day, with only brief pauses for Joe's
medications, giving the Watcher the intimate details of his life.  The
absolute highs, the deepest lows and every emotion in between had been
explored as he chronicled the reasons and events that brought him into the
life of Duncan MacLeod.  By the end of the day he was emotionally, as well
as physically, drained.  But still he couldn't relax.  He had caught maybe
an hour or two of sleep as he sat at Joe's bedside during the night.  Now he
awoke to find the nurse from hell staring at him.  He needed a shower and he
needed some sleep.  What he didn't need right now was another argument.

He stepped past her into the hallway, forcing her to turn after him.  If she
wanted to fight, he was determined that she wasn't going to disturb Joe.
Rubbing his hands over his face, trying to wipe away the sleep, he sighed as
he looked her in the eye.

"Good morning, Nurse Baldwin."  He smiled, trying to be cheerful.  Maybe, if
he were pleasant, she would be, too.

"You slept here all night?" she asked, keeping her voice low.   Her question
came out as a mild accusation.

He nodded, too tired to waste words stating the obvious.  She looked him
over from head to toe, as if reassessing him.

"What are you doing here, Mr. Pierson?"

"What?"  Methos was momentarily confused by her question.

"What do you hope to gain by being here?  What do you want from Joe?"

Suddenly he realized where her questions were coming from.  She was trying
to protect Joe and she saw him as a threat.  Sighing, he shook his head.

"Joe has already given me the most precious gift there is."  Seeing her
questioning look, he explained.  "His friendship. What more could I possibly
want?"

"If you're such a good friend, you and this MacLeod person, why haven't you
been here for him?  Why has he been dying alone."

As exhaustion got the better of him, he hung his head.  He didn't have the
energy for this.  He took a deep breath, hoping to regain some strength,
then looked her in the eyes.

"Joe hid his illness from me, just as I'm sure he hid it from MacLeod.  He
didn't want us to have to go through watching this illness slowly eat away
at him.  Hell, I didn't even know he was sick until yesterday!"  Realizing
that he was getting loud, Methos lowered his voice.  "We haven't been here
for him because that is what he wanted."

That sounded like something Joe would do, she admitted to herself.  Maybe
she had judged this young man poorly.  It was obvious to her now that he
cared about Joe.  And she could see that he was exhausted.  As her mothering
instincts kicked into gear, she decided that he probably hadn't eaten
yesterday, either.  Well she could take care of that.

She placed a hand gently on his arm.  "Down the hall is the nurse's lounge.
There's a shower in there, if you want to use it."

Bewildered by her sudden changes of attitude, he wasn't sure how to answer.
He nodded.

"Good."  She smiled.  "And while you're getting cleaned up, I'll see about
getting you two some breakfast."

"Oh...uh.." he stammered.  "I...uh...really appreciate that, Nurse Baldwin,
but, well...I've tasted the hospital food, you see, and...well..."

Her smile broadened.  "I understand, Mr. Pierson.   But there's a café down
the street that makes great pancakes and sausage.  They also have the best
coffee around."   She leaned closer, dropping her voice to a whisper.  "I
can have them deliver it for the both of you.  I'm sure Joe would like
something different."

The thought of a hot shower and some good food filled him with joy.  Taking
her face in his hands, he placed a kiss on the nurse's forehead.

"Nurse Baldwin, you are an angel sent from heaven!"

Emily Baldwin blushed.  This young man really was very nice.  And very
handsome, too.  Getting control of herself, she switched back into Head
Nurse mode.

"That's enough of that, young man," she said, trying to appear gruff.  "You
just get in there and take that shower!  And don't dawdle!" she ordered.
"It wouldn't due for Joe to wake up and you not be there."  With that, she
turned and walked away but not before Methos saw the smile on her face.

************************

Ignoring Nurse Baldwin's words, Methos had dawdled.  The hot water pulsing
over his aching body had felt like heaven, easing his tired muscles with its
soothing warmth.  After what, he realized, was an extraordinarily long time,
Methos emerged for the shower and dressed quickly.  He wanted to be there
when Joe woke up.  Running his hand through his short, spiked hair, he
grabbed his bag and head back to his friend's room.

Coming quietly through the doorway, he found Joe sitting up, wide awake.  It
appeared that he, too, had been bathed and his hair combed.  Dropping his
bag, Methos walked over to Joe.

"Good morning," he said with a smile as he sat on the edge of the bed.  "You
look rested and refreshed."

"So do you," Joe smile in return.  "Where'd you go?  Back to your hotel?"

"Actually, there is no hotel." Methos admitted, a bit embarrassed.  "I came
here directly from the airport yesterday.    I didn't take time to get a
room."

"So where did you get cleaned up?"

"The nurse's lounge down the hall has a shower in it.  Nurse Baldwin let me
use it."

"Nurse Emily Baldwin?!" Joe asked, in total shock.  "The same Emily Baldwin
that keeps wanting to throw you out of here?"  When Methos nodded, Joe
laughed.  "What did you do...threaten her?"

"No," the Immortal assured his friend.  "I think we've finally reached an
understanding.  I think she realized that I'm not here to steal your vast
wealth or harm you in any other way.  She's very protective of you, you
know."

"Hmm," Joe shook his head.  "Maybe that explains the personal sponge bath."
Methos raised his eyebrows in question and Joe laughed.  "And they call me a
dirty old man!  Let's just get back to the story, ok?"

"Not just yet, Joe." Methos said as he saw a deliveryman step into the room.
"I think breakfast has arrived."

The aroma of freshly cooked pancakes and sausage wafted across the room,
setting Joe's mouth to watering.  "What did you do?" he whispered, savoring
the smell of the food.

Methos paid the man then brought the bag of food over to Joe's table.  "Not
me, Joe.  Nurse Baldwin.  She thought we'd both like some 'good' food for a
change."  He began pulling out styrofoam containers, opening them to reveal
the warm treasures inside.  Placing one container in front of Joe, he took
the lid off the large cup of coffee and handed it to his friend.  Joe sipped
the steaming brown liquid as Methos settled himself down on the bed.

"Ahhh" Joe sighed, savoring the flavor.  "That tastes great."  He looked
down at the steaming food before him.  "And this looks fantastic.  Whatever
you did to Nurse Baldwin, keep it up."

Methos laughed as he squirmed into a more comfortable position, preparing to
dig into his food.  "You just eat it before it gets cold.  I don't want all
my efforts to go to waste."

At that, both men began to devour the breakfast. But, by the time Methos was
finished, Joe was only halfway through his meal.

"Everything all right, Joe?" he asked, trying not to sound worried.

"Great," Joe answered around a mouthful of pancakes.  "I just want to enjoy
every morsel."  He caught the Immortal's eyes.  "Why don't you continue with
your story...and stop worrying!"

"Ok...ok," Methos surrendered, grabbing his cup of coffee.  He got more
comfortable, leaning against the foot of the bed.  "So where was I in my
long and often boring tale?" he inquired.

"Long, yes...boring, I don't think so." Joe silently offered Methos some of
his food and was secretly glad he declined.  "You had just finished telling
me how you penetrated the Watchers."

"Ah yes, getting back in with the Watchers, for what I did not know, would
be my last time."  Methos sighed, somewhat regretfully.  It was difficult
not to feel regret; the Watchers had been a large part of his life for so
long.

"I knew the time was getting near at hand for Duncan to face his challenge.
I had to meet him personally to help prepare him for the last few steps of
his journey.  I had made sure that he was well prepared by others but the
only way to insure that was to test him myself and shore up where he was
weak."

"So you made sure that I knew Adam, hoping I would introduce you?"  Joe
cocked his head slightly.

"No, I had not planned to let Duncan know of the Adam Pierson persona right
off. I did not want to involve you in it...remember the motto "observe and
record but never interfere?"  Methos gave a mock stern look to Joe.  "I had
no idea how you decided to ignore it to suit your own purposes."

Joe almost choked on a bite of his breakfast and Methos held up a hand to
stay the tide of angry words.

"Joe, I am not judging you here, believe me.  It is fact that you ignored or
at least bent the hell out of the rules when it suited you.  But I was
planning to meet MacLeod through Sean Burns. From there, I would cultivate a
friendship and we would go from that point.  I had no idea our meeting would
come about because of Kalas."

Joe nodded thoughtfully and then a thought occurred to him.  He frowned,
trying to think of the detail that was nagging him.  He chewed and narrowed
his eyes at Methos.

"The Chronicle!"  Joe exclaimed.

"The Chronicle?" Methos echoed, innocently.

"If you had planned all along to meet with MacLeod, how did he get the
Chronicle?  The one that led him to me?  I know what the Chronicle was, how
did he get it?"

Methos gave a small smile.  "The Chronicle, ah yes.  I had removed it from
the Watchers Library many years prior, just so that I had access to it if I
ever needed it. Yes, I had planned to meet with MacLeod all along but there
was just a small snag in my plans that was ...shall we say, unexpected?"

**1993 - Paris **

Darius sat at his desk, his head in his hands, contemplating his dilemma.
Xavier St. Cloud had committed murder last night then confessed the crime to
Darius, knowing full well that the priest could not report the crime to the
police.  Six innocent people were dead and there was nothing that he could
do.  Or was there?

Should he break the seal of the confessional, a primary vow as a Christian
priest, to stop this killer?  'No,' Darius thought, 'a vow once taken is a
vow for life.'  Should he leave his sanctuary of Holy Ground and challenge
Xavier, taking a head for the first time in 1500 years?  It was a
possibility.

He had been a warrior, a general, leader of an army that had swept across
the continent, conquering everything in its path.  He knew how to kill.  Or,
at least, he used to.  His only battles recently had been in the abstract.
He enjoyed the games that he played with Duncan; the strategies of chess,
the tactics of the battle reenactments.  But toy soldiers and game pieces
were no replacements for the challenge of an actual battle.

So he sat here, agonizing over his inactivity, searching for a solution.
Suddenly, the presence of another Immortal washed over him, demanding his
attention.  Could it be Xavier, returning to taunt him again?  Darius shook
his head as he pushed himself away from his desk.  'Stop being paranoid, old
fool,' he laughed to himself.  'Its probably Duncan, here for his game of
chess.'  Darius walked over to the door, preparing to greet his friend.
Pulling the door open, Darius was surprised to find no one there.

With the presence still humming in his head, Darius knew that the Immortal
was still inside the church.  Leaving his room, he made his way to the
altar, searching the interior of the church but seeing no one.  'Is it
possible that we passed each other?' Darius wondered, returning to his room.
The door stood open, just as he'd left it.  As he entered the room, the
presence grew stronger.  Feeling a little nervous, even in this sanctuary,
Darius called out softly.

"Duncan?"

Darius caught a small movement in the darkened corner opposite where he
stood.  Separating itself from the shadows, a shape emerged and stepped into
the light, revealing the form of a young man who, in reality, was the oldest
man alive.

"Methos!"  Darius relaxed as he closed the door behind him.  "You startled
me."

"Forgive me, my friend, but I had to be cautious." Methos said as he sat
wearily in the nearby chair.  "I cannot be seen here."

Walking over to his cabinet, Darius retrieved a bottle of scotch, usually
reserved for Duncan, and poured an ample amount into a glass for his worried
friend.  Coming back to the desk, he handed the drink to Methos, who eyed
the amber liquid with a smile.

"Drink up, my friend," Darius smiled.  "Duncan will never miss it."

As Darius sat back down at the desk, he watched Methos empty the glass in
one swallow.  He waited for the ancient to meet his gaze before he asked his
question.

"Tell me what is wrong, Methos."

"I have to leave," he answered.  "Immediately."

"Who is after you, my brother?"  Seeing Methos flinch at the endearment told
Darius all that he needed to know.  "Kronos?"

"Yes," came the quiet response

"He has found you?" the priest asked.

"No, but he is getting too close."

Darius sighed at his friend's situation.  "Will you leave your Pierson
identity behind?"

"No.  I just think it is time that Adam Pierson did some out-of-town
research.  Way out-of-town."

Methos rose from his chair and started pacing the room like a caged animal,
his frustration breaking through his normally calm exterior.

"Of all the times for him to show himself, why did he have to pick now.
We're so close to the end and there's still so much to do."  He stopped at
the far wall, pounding his fist on it, in an effort to relieve his growing
tension. Placing his forehead against the cool stone, he sighed, "Duncan
still has so much to learn."

Darius crossed over to stand by his friend, placing a calming hand on his
back.  "And I have no doubt that you will be here to teach him."

Methos looked at the priest, searching his face.  "But I have to prepare,
just in case that I'm not.  That's why I'm here."

Darius nodded as he guided the man back to sit, once again, at the desk.

"I will do whatever I can, but I'm afraid that isn't much.  I can guide him,
Methos, and I can counsel him but I'm afraid, I can no longer protect him.
His honor will not allow others to fight his battles nor will it allow him
to run, you know that."

"Yes, I know." Methos shook his head.  "Somehow, in the past six months, he
has become an Immortal magnet.  Every lunatic on the planet seems to be
looking for him."  He clenched his fist in frustration.  "I could just kill
Connor for dragging him back into the Game."

"It wasn't Connor's fault.  He didn't lead Slan to Duncan."  Darius tried
reasoning with the other Immortal.  "As a matter of fact, he chased Slan,
trying to prevent him from getting to Duncan.  And when that failed, he did
everything in his power to prevent Duncan from taking the challenge."

"Connor should have taken Slan's head before he every got close to Duncan."
Methos shouted.  Hearing how ridicules he sounded, Methos gave up, folding
his arms onto the desktop and gently lying his head down.

"Connor did what he could, Methos."  Darius gripped the older man's arm.

"I know, I know," the muffled voice responded.  Methos lifted his head to
face the priest.

"But tell me, my troubled friend." Darius grinned at Methos.  "What can I
do?"

Methos reached down to his duffel, searching through the contents.  Finally
finding what he was looking for, Methos straightened, handing Darius a book.
The priest gingerly accepted the apparently ancient, leather bound journal,
gently leafing through the exquisitely lettered, handwritten pages.

"What is this?" Darius asked, reverently examining the tome before him.

"It's a Watcher's Chronicle." Methos told him.  Darius looked up at the
mention of the mortals that tracked their every move.

"Whose Chronicle is it?" Darius asked.  "Surely not yours."

"No," Methos smiled.  "It is Timothy's Chronicle, covering the years 957
through 999 AD, leading up to the period when Timothy faced Ahriman.  His
Watcher tracked his training and his other preparations for the
confrontation.  Of course, his Watcher thought that he was mad.  I made some
notes inside, so that Duncan may know what to do."

"But what do you want me to do with it?" Darius asked

"Read it, expand on it, add whatever you think that Duncan may need to know.
Then, when the time comes, if I haven't returned, give it too him."  Methos
ran his hands through his hair, hoping that he was covering all the bases.

"I don't know what else to do, Darius.  I just know that if I stay around
here, Kronos will track me down. I've done what I can to throw him off the
scent, but I can't be sure.  He still may find me. Or worse, he may find
Duncan, and that's a confrontation that I can not allow to happen!"

"Duncan's an excellent fighter, Methos.  He could probably take Kronos, if
he had too."

"But I can't risk it, Darius, not yet." Methos grabbed the priest's hand
trying to convince him.  "I can't risk him before the millennium.  He's too
important to lose."  Methos rose, grabbing his duffel, making ready to
leave.  Darius got up from the desk, and, coming around to face his friend,
placed his hand on Methos' shoulder.

"Rest easy, my old friend.  Leave town, protect yourself and I will do what
I can to protect Duncan."  Darius assured Methos.  "And, I promise, Duncan
will receive this Chronicle, no matter what happens."

The tone of the priest's voice caused Methos to look him in the face,
seeing, for the first time, the worry in his friend's eyes.

"What is troubling you, Darius?"

"Besides the fact that my oldest friend is leaving town?" Darius smiled at
Methos, trying to ease his concern.  "Nothing that you have to worry about,
I promise."

Methos continued to search the priest's face, knowing, unfortunately, that
Darius wasn't going to tell him anything else.

"All right," Methos said, as he headed for the door.  "I'll be out of
contact for a few months, at least, but I'll contact you as soon as I can."
Methos turned to face his friend again.  "Take care of yourself, Darius and
take care of Duncan. Just be here when I return."

Methos pulled the priest into a quick embrace then quickly walked away.
Darius watched the ancient Immortal disappear down the darkened hallway, his
presence fading with his exit.

"I truly hope so, my ancient friend.  I truly hope so."

************************

"But he wasn't there when you got back, was he?" Joe asked quietly

Methos shook his head, fighting back the tears that threatened to escape his
eyes.  "No.  By the time that I returned to Paris, Darius was dead and
Duncan had returned to the States.  But he did have the Chronicle."  Methos
shook his head.  "That damn Chronicle.  I gave it to Darius and those
bastards killed him for it."

"Those 'bastards' would have killed him anyway, Methos.' Joe assured his
friend.  "Horton would have killed you all, if Duncan hadn't stopped him."

"I should have stopped Horton."  Methos challenged.  "I was a Watcher! I
should have seen what was happening!"

"You did what you could, my friend." Joe smiled.  "Besides, that Chronicle
led Duncan to me and I, in turn, led him to you."

"Not a part of the plan, Joe," Methos shook his head. "And we both lost a
good friend in the process...."

**1995 - Paris**

Methos turned off his computer.  Taking the backup disks, he placed them
into the safe that was hidden in the wall and, locking it, slid home the
secret panel.  He turned back to the desk and rested his head on his folded
arms, weary beyond belief.

Don Saltzer was dead.  His friend and mentor on everything Watcher related
had been brutally murdered and Methos didn't know why.  He had entered
Shakespeare and Company and found Don's body, the letters "M" and "E"
written in blood beside him.  Who Don was trying to leave a message for or
what that message had meant, Methos wasn't sure but he knew that there was
nothing more that he could do for his friend.

Reining in his grief, Methos had set about the task of wiping Don's computer
clean, copying then deleting all the files pertaining to their current
project: an interactive Watcher database, all the records in one handy, easy
to access file. It was going to make retrieval so much simpler.

That done, Methos did the same with all of Don's other Watcher related
files, secreting the discs on his person before calling the police.  With
the Watcher's information safe, Methos knew that he could come up with a
workable story, and alibi, for the investigators.

His discussion with the police completed, Methos had returned to his
apartment to download Don's files.  He would let the Watchers know that he
had them, safe from outside scrutiny.  But for now, he needed some peace.

The shrill ringing of the phone disturbed him.  He decided to let the
machine pick it up.  He wasn't in any mood, at the moment, to speak with
anyone.

"Adam Pierson here." He heard the machine say.  'You can leave a message
after the beep."

"Adam, this is Joe Dawson.  When you get..."

Methos lunged for the phone, cutting off the machine.

"Joe, I'm here." Methos was afraid to ask why Dawson was calling him.  Had
something happened to MacLeod?  'That's all I needed now,' he mentally
groaned.

"Adam...good." Joe recovered, momentarily startled by the interrupted
message.  "Adam, I heard about Don.  I'm sorry."

The condolences hung in the silence as Methos allowed this information to
sink in.  Joe knew about Don!  How did he find out? And so fast?  Methos
began to feel as if things were spinning out of control.

"How did you find out, Joe?" he asked, hoping that his voice didn't betray
his disorientation.  "Did Headquarters call you?"

"No," Joe responded.  "Duncan MacLeod did."

Joe proceeded to tell him everything that had been happening with Duncan
(and Kalas) for the past few months: Kalas beheading Brother Paul, his
obsession with destroying MacLeod, his beheading of Fitzcairn and, finally,
his murder of Don Saltzer.

"But why would Kalas kill Don?" Methos asked, in amazement.  "What could he
possibly have that Kalas wanted? And how did MacLeod find out?"

"Mac went to the bookstore looking for Kalas." Joe said.  "He found Don, who
tried to tell him what Kalas wanted.  He managed to write out the letters
"M" and "E" before he died."  There was a moment of silence on the
transatlantic line before Joe continued. "Adam, I think Kalas is searching
for Methos."

"That's crazy, Joe." Methos stated in disbelief, refusing to accept this
idea.  "There is nothing in the records to even suggest that Kalas and
Methos ever crossed paths.  What would Kalas want from him?"

"What do you think he wants?" Joe's voice began to rise in frustration.
'These researchers just don't understand' he thought as he tried to bring
himself under control.  Taking a deep breath, he ventured to explain to the
university grad student.

"Do you know how powerful Kalas would become if he took a Quickening as old
as Methos'?" Joe asked evenly.  "No one would be able to defeat him, not
even MacLeod!"

Methos was silent, his mind racing with this information.  Kalas was hunting
for him and Don had died because of it!  He wanted to crawl in the nearest
hole and hide for a few centuries, at least.  But he couldn't do that, not
now, because now Duncan was involved.  He had to think of something.

"Is MacLeod looking for Kalas?" Methos needed to find out where Duncan was.
'I can't protect what I can't find.' he raged at himself.

"No, actually he figured that it would be better if he found Kalas' target
first."  Joe stated.  "He's looking for Methos."

With those words, the world that had been so recently spinning out of
control, came to a sudden stop.  Duncan was looking for him! His mind began
to race.  He could leave Paris, save himself, but then who would watch over
MacLeod?  He could let Duncan find him, maybe it was the right time.  Or, he
could...

"Adam.  ADAM!" Joe shouted into the phone.

"Oh, I'm sorry, Joe, I was thinking about Don." Methos said, trying to cover
his distraction. "What were you saying?"

"I told MacLeod that if anyone could find Methos, it would be you."  Joe
took the silence on the other end as fear, so he tried to reassure the young
Watcher.  So many of the non-field guys reacted that way to the possibility
of meeting Immortals.

"Adam, trust me.  Duncan MacLeod is an honorable man.  He won't do anything
to you and he'll be very discrete.  Please, as a favor to me, help him?"

Methos almost laughed aloud at the mortal's plea.  'Help him,' he thought.
'Like I haven't been doing just that for the last four hundred years!'   But
this was different, this was to stop Kalas.  This was for his friend Don.

"OK, Joe, if you say so."  Adam Pierson agreed.  "Send him over and I'll do
what I can."

"Glad you said that, my friend," Joe laughed.  "Because he's on his way."

"Pretty sure of yourself, aren't you, Joe?" He found himself smiling for the
first time in days.

"No. I was sure of you." Joe replied "He should be there any time.  Let me
know what happens."

"OK, Joe, I will." Methos promised as he hung up the phone.  Running his
hands through his hair, he tried to come up with a plan.  For four hundred
plus years he's been staying out of MacLeod's way, always following but
never too close.  Their only meeting had been that rainy day on the road to
the monastery, but Duncan would never remember that.  Now Methos was going
to come face to face with his charge.   What was he going to do?

MacLeod would know him as Immortal; there was no way around that.  Should he
be up front and honest and tell the Highlander that he was Methos or should
he wrap himself up in his Adam Pierson persona and not breath a word?

"I think I'll just play it by ear." Methos said as he got up from his desk,
preparing to set the stage for this fateful meeting.  Grabbing his journal
from the desk and a couple beers from the refrigerator, Methos sat on the
floor next to the bed.  Pulling his Walkman from the nearby table, he pushed
the earphones into his ears, allowing Adam Pierson to take control.

A short time later, his mind was assaulted by an Immortal presence, one he
recognized as Duncan MacLeod.  He slid his hand under the bed, feeling for
his sword.  'Just in case,' he told himself as he took a deep, calming
breath.  'Well, this will either work out well or it will destroy
everything.  No big deal.'

He felt the Highlander getting closer, his presence actually bringing a
feeling of comfort.  He saw him now, out of the corner of his eye, moving
cautiously at the bottom of the steps.  He heard him call Adam's name.

Adam Pierson turned to look at the man who stood there, starting at him.
Turning off the Walkman and pulling the plugs from his ears, Methos greeted
him.

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.  Have a beer."  He tossed a can at
Duncan, pleased to see how easily the Scot caught it.  But the look on the
Highlander's face worried him.  Was it bewilderment? Confusion? Recognition?
For reasons that he would never understand, even if he lived to be ten
thousand, Methos added to the greeting.

"Me casa et su casa."

The look on Duncan's face turned to one of stunned realization.

"Methos?"

Now it was his turn to be surprised, as he smiled at the man before him.
'Bright boy' he thought.

************************

"But how did he recognized you?" Joe asked, his voice sounding tired.

"I don't know, Joe," he answered, shaking his head.  "I just don't know.  It
could have been the Latin. It could have been anything.  Maybe it was one
Champion meeting another.  I don't know.  But I knew that I couldn't deny
it.  I couldn't lie to him."

Methos looked over to the man in the bed, realizing that Joe was struggling
to stay awake.

"Why don't you get some sleep, Joe," he said, reaching out to place his hand
gently on the other man's arm.

"But I want to hear the rest of this." Joe protested, unable to fight off
the drowsiness.

"I'll tell you the rest when you wake up," Methos promised

"You'll be here?" Joe asked, as if he believed that Methos would disappear
as soon as his eyes were closed.

"I promise, Joe." Methos assured him.  "There's no place else I'd rather
be."

He smiled at Joe as the old Watcher closed his eyes, his even breaths
telling Methos that he was already asleep.  He reached out to touch the hair
on Joe's head, smoothing the gray mane that had been thinned by the illness.

"I think my running days are over, my friend."

************************

A short time later Joe awoke to find Methos still sitting by the bed,
watching him.

"Feeling better now?"  Methos asked as he moved the water glass closer to
Joe, placing the straw to his lips.

Leaning forward slightly, Joe sipped the cool liquid then sat back,
refreshed.

"Yeah," he answered, breathing deeply.  "I'm surprised that you're still
here."

"Think I'd run out on you?" the Immortal smiled, placing the glass on the
bedside table

"Given the choice of finishing the story and running, I figured that you'd
run."

"To tell you the truth, Joe, it feels good to have somebody to tell."
Methos sat back in his chair, getting comfortable.  "I haven't been able to
talk to anyone since Darius."

Joe nodded as he looked at the Immortal, really seeing him for maybe the
first time.  All that he had heard these past two days had astounded him.
That Methos had had an agenda all along was not really a surprise.  The
depth and span of that agenda was.  He had always felt that being 5000 years
old could be very lonely, but to carry the weight that Methos had carried
for the past 2500 years must have been devastating.  Yet Methos survived.
This man that he called friend was, indeed, an extraordinary person.

"So, where were we?" Joe asked, wanting to get back on track

"Where were we."  Methos took a minute to think.  "Oh, yes.  The meeting."

Joe eased himself down in the bed, getting comfortable.  He watched Methos
as his eyes darkened, lost in the memory.

"We left the apartment to take a walk, down by the canal.  MacLeod seemed to
be a bit in awe of 'Methos, the oldest Immortal'."  Methos shook his head
and smiled.  "I was definitely in awe of him.  Remember that this was my
first, real face-to-face meeting, the first opportunity to see, up close,
the man that he'd become. And do you know what amazed me most of all?" Joe
shook his head. "He hadn't known me for thirty minutes, didn't know me from
the garbage man, but he was ready and willing to protect me.  I was touched.
I was also terrified."

"Terrified?" Joe seemed surprised.  "Why?"

"I spent 400 years doing everything I could to insure that he stayed alive
and he's willing to risk it all for someone he doesn't even know.   That was
one habit I was going to have to break."

"You never did succeed, you know."

Yeah, I know." Methos smiled.  "Anyway, I left him there at the canal and
walked back to my apartment, trying to decide what to do.  But I already
knew.  I had to find Kalas and take him.  I couldn't let Duncan fight this
battle.  He was too important to lose.  I had to find Kalas first."  He
snorted with the irony of the situation.  "Just my luck, he was waiting for
me outside my flat.  The aftermath of that encounter was one of the lowest
points of my life."

**1995 - Paris**

He dragged himself slowly from the water, collapsing on the bank.  He lay
there, in the darkness, feeling totally despondent.  He had failed!  He had
gone up against Kalas and the man had beaten him.  If it weren't for that
fall into the water, he would have lost his head.

He was good with a sword. 'Damn it, I am very good with a sword!' he
silently ranted. But Kalas was better. Methos couldn't beat him and now
Kalas would go after MacLeod.  He wouldn't be able to beat Kalas either.

Methos was tired, drained to his very soul.  All these years of work, all
the sacrifices that he'd made and now, when the end was in sight, he was
going to lose everything.

For 3000 years he had been running, from himself, from Kronos, from
everything that mattered except MacLeod.  He had barely managed to defeat
the demon.  Timothy had won, but because of Methos, he had lost his mind.
Methos swore that this time, with Duncan MacLeod, he would do everything
right.  This time he would succeed: the demon would be defeated, Duncan
would survive and Methos would finally have made his retribution.

But now, with the end only a few years away, Kalas comes along, out of
nowhere with plans to destroy it all.  Methos couldn't defeat him.  MacLeod
wouldn't be able to defeat him.  There was nothing left to do.

Or maybe there was.  Kalas could defeat MacLeod.  He would defeat Methos.
But could Kalas beat them both?  Was that the answer?  Would the joining of
his and MacLeod's Quickenings be the only way to win?  And how could he
convince Duncan to take his head?

Part of Methos was surprised that he so lightly contemplated his own death.
But another part of him knew the truth.  He couldn't do this anymore.  He
couldn't go on, after 2500 years.  He no longer had the strength, no longer
had the desire.  He was just so tired!

He forced himself to his feet, rising slowly from the ground.   His decision
was made.  He would find MacLeod, challenge him then let him take his head.
With their combined Quickenings and Duncan's passion, Kalas would be
defeated.

Methos brightened with a sudden thought.   When Duncan took his Quickening,
he'd also gain all the knowledge of the Battle yet to come.  He'd learn all
that he needed to know about being Champion!  This must have been what
Timothy had in mind.  This was the perfect solution!   That his death was a
by-product of this solution was, surprisingly, a comfort.

His decision reinforced, Methos headed off into the night, searching for the
Highlander

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

He felt the Immortal presence and knew that he has found MacLeod.  Exhausted
by his fight with Kalas and by 5000 years of life, Methos forced himself
through the arch that led under the bridge, coming upon MacLeod.

He saw the concern on the Highlander's face.  'He's worried about me.'
Methos noted.  'He should be worried about himself.  Doesn't he realize
what's about to happen?'

MacLeod spoke to him and he responded, not really hearing the question or
the answer.  His mind, numb with fatigue, was concentrating only on the
actions necessary to achieve his goal.  He would fight, he would lose and
the Highlander would take his head.  With only that thought in mind, he
attacked.

MacLeod was startled by his action, parrying his attacks with his hands and
arms before grabbing Methos and throwing him into the wall.  Backing away,
he reluctantly drew his weapon, asking 'Why?'.

The part of Methos' brain that was controlling his speech gave some mundane
answer as he attacked again.  MacLeod, realizing that this was a battle in
earnest, avoided, then began an attack of his own.

'Yes!' Methos shouted in his mind.  'He's finally on the attack.  Now I just
have to lose.'

Putting up only the minimum of defense, Methos allowed MacLeod to bring the
katana to his throat.  But why was the Highlander stopping?  Why wouldn't he
finish this? Didn't he understand?

"What are you waiting for, MacLeod?" Methos asked, extending his neck even
further, providing a large target.  The Highlander stared at him, deciding.

'Why is this so difficult, Highlander?' Methos questioned in his mind.  'I
mean nothing to you!  Take my head!'

As if in response to the ancient's thoughts, MacLeod responded.

"NO!" he shouted as he knocked the sword from Methos' hand.

Methos sagged in defeat.  Why wouldn't this child take his head?  'Maybe if
I make him mad...'

"I'd have killed you," he stated, hoping to inspire anger.

"No, you would have made a mistake and let me take your head!"  Methos was
surprised that MacLeod could read him so easily.  'This Scot is smart,' he
thought.

"Do you think I want to die?" Methos asked.  Maybe he could reason with this
child.  "Do you think it's easier after thousands of years?"

"Then why?" he heard MacLeod ask

"Because, if you don't kill me, Kalas will."

"Not unless I get him first."  MacLeod responded with bravado.

'If I can break through his Scottish pride, I might be able to make him
understand.' The oldest Immortal thought

"And if you don't?" Methos challenged.  "I cannot beat him, I've tried.  He
will take my head and then he will have the strength to take yours."

Duncan began to pace.  'Good, that's got him thinking.'

Suddenly, MacLeod turned around, exasperated.  "So, after 5000 years, your
only solution is that I kill you?"

"He can beat me." Methos said as he turned to face him. "He might beat you.
He can't beat both of us!"

"If it's that simple," the Highlander challenged, "why don't you take my
head?"

'Please, MacLeod,' his mind pleaded 'I just want this to end.  Don't you
realize that I can't do this any longer?  How can I make you understand?'

"Because it's not just a matter of who is the best fighter." Methos voiced
as he moved closer.  "It is about passion and hate.  I don't have the fire.
You do.  You want Kalas."

Methos reached down, gently taking the blade of the Highlander's sword and
placing it to his throat.  'Take it, Highlander!' he begged in his mind as
he offered the Scot his head.

"Live, Highlander, grow stronger.  Fight another day."

MacLeod stared at Methos, his sword still poised at the old man's neck.
'Good, he's thinking about.' Methos reasoned.  'Take it, take it, take
it...' became a mantra in his mind

"No!" Duncan shouted as he moved his katana, throwing it to the ground
behind him.  Standing in front of him, he grabbed Methos by the upper arms,
as if trying to shake some sense into this man.

"I will not challenge you, Methos, and I will not take your head.  Don't you
realize how important you are?"

"You don't know me, Highlander."

"I know you enough to know that this is not the answer." His voice was
raising in anger.  "How could you think that I would do this?  Don't you
realize that you are my friend?"

As Methos heard these words, something inside him shattered.  His body went
limp.  Duncan tightened his grip, preventing Methos from crumbling to the
ground.  Turning him around, Duncan lowered him gently to sit against the
wall.

Methos' mind was racing, as if freed from a very long sleep.  'He doesn't
know me five minutes and he offers to protect me.  I attack him, unprovoked,
and he still calls me friend.'  He tried to make sense of the events, but
his mind wouldn't allow him to think.  He looked up at the Highlander,
seeing the concern on his face.  Realization began to dawn on his slowly
settling mind.

'This is a man of honor,' he thought.  'This is a man of good.  How dare I
contemplate ending my life and leave this man to the events yet to come.  He
is the Champion, at this moment and for the future.  I must make sure he
survives.  This is my reason to live!"

Methos smiled at the Highlander, then slowly shook his head.  "You are such
a pain in the ass."

"Yeah, well, it's part of my charm." MacLeod responded, chuckling as he sat
down next to the oldest Immortal.

They sat together, in silence, each lost in his own thoughts.

"So, what do we do, now, Highlander?" Methos asked lightly

"I go find Kalas." Duncan stated emphatically, waiting for an argument.
Getting no response, he got to his feet.  Offering his hand to Methos, he
asked,  "What are you going to do?"

Standing to face the Highlander, Methos smiled.  "Oh, I'll think of
something."

Picking up his sword, Methos turned and walked away, his hands stuffed deep
into his pockets, a new spring in his step.

'Oh, yes, I'll think of something,' he thought.  'I'll do whatever I must to
protect you, MacLeod.  You will survive to fight your battle with Ahriman.
And I fully intend to be there to see it!'

************************

"So you arranged for the police to pick up Kalas?"

Methos nodded.  "I had originally told them that I wasn't there when Don had
been killed, which was the truth.  After Mac left me under the bridge, I
went back and told them that I had lied, that I had been frightened but that
I had actually caught a glimpse of the man who killed Don.  When they wanted
to know why I was coming back to them now, I told them that I had spied the
man, just outside my apartment.  So, they took me back to my place and we
ran into Kalas on the way."

"And you identified him and had him arrested."  Joe chuckled.  "Mac was
pissed, you know."

"Yeah, I know," Methos smiled.  "But I couldn't risk it, Joe.  I wasn't sure
that he could win and I couldn't take the chance.  I figured that Kalas
would be in prison until at least after the Champion's challenge.  But I
hadn't counted on Amanda."

"Yeah, she sure did throw a wrench into things, didn't she?"  Joe sat back
into the pillows and relaxed.  "I thought Mac was going to kill her when he
found out what she'd done."

"And if he didn't, I swore that I was going to.  She doesn't know how close
she came to losing her pretty little head."

"Would you really have killed her?" Joe asked

Methos looked up at him, aghast.  "After six hundred years of searching for
him and four hundred years of preparing him, are you kidding?  If Kalas had
beaten Mac, Amanda's head was the first thing I intended to take!"  Methos
took a moment to stretch the kinks out of his muscles.  "But, fortunately,
everything worked out in the end."

"Yeah.  Mac eventually returned to the States, back to Richie and the dojo.
Then you showed up at the loft when Kristen came to town.  Why didn't you
just call him?  You had to know the danger you were putting yourself in when
you showed up on his doorstep."

"Didn't matter, Joe." Methos replied.  "I knew that he'd be vulnerably to
Kristen, because of their past and his ridiculous moral code.  She would
have taken him, eventually, if I hadn't acted.  Besides," he smiled,  "if I
hadn't paid that visit to Mac, I would have never met Alexa."

Joe smiled at the memory of his former waitress, the young girl he had taken
under his wing.  Methos had fallen hard for her, acting like a giddy
teenager when he asked her out on a date.  Joe was sure that she was the
best thing to happen to Methos in a very long time.

"You made those last months of her life worth living, you know."

Methos hung his head.  "I did the best I could, Joe."  After all this time
he still missed her elfin face, with her bright smile. He'd had many mortal
women and many mortal wives but none of them had effected him the way Alexa
had.  "I never thought her death would effect me like it did."

"You loved her, man." Joe told him.  "After all, you're only human."

That observation made Methos laugh.  "There were times in my life when that
was in doubt, my friend."

"Never by me, Methos."

Methos looked at Joe's withered face, at his bright, caring eyes.  "No, Joe,
never by you."  Methos smiled at the Watcher.  "You've been annoyed with me,
frustrated by me and, at time, genuinely pissed off at me, but you never
doubted my humanity.  Even in the worst of times."  Methos looked around the
room, fighting back the tears that threatened to fall.  Getting his emotions
back under control, he looked back at Joe, smiling.  "You've been a good
friend, Joseph.  The best."

Joe nodded, unable to put his thoughts into words for fear that his emotions
would take control.  Methos seemed to understand this as he sat back in his
chair.  The two men sat quietly for a short time, lost in their own
thoughts.  Finally, Joe decided to get the Immortal to answer some final
questions.

"So," Joe ventured, studying his friend, "tell me what happened when Kronos
came to town."

Methos, sitting with his elbows on his knees, dropped his head into his
hands.  "I screwed up big time on that one, Joe."  Methos sat, shaking his
head silently for a few moments, remembering the near-disaster.  Suddenly
rubbing his hands over his face as if wiping away the past, Methos looked at
his mortal friend.

"As Kronos said, I got sloppy.  I had come back into town and got myself
wrapped up in Mac's problems.  First there was the 'other' Methos and that
fiasco with Richie then Ingrid came to town, with all her baggage, dropping
it at Mac's feet.  I should have realized that I wasn't in control when I
made you this little promise."  Methos smiled.  "I had no idea that Kronos
had found me until he showed up outside my place."

"You didn't know that Cassandra was hunting for you?"

"Cassandra wasn't hunting me, Joe.  She was just a tool that Kronos used to
get to me.  That was until he found a better one."

"MacLeod?"

"MacLeod," Methos agreed.  "Kronos' plan was simple, as the best plans
usually are.   He wanted to bring me back to him but first he needed a tool.
So, knowing that Cassandra would hunt him to the ends of the earth, he
allowed her to find him then he led her straight to me.  Knowing that I
couldn't kill her, he figured that he would, putting me into his debt.
Kronos had a way of collecting on his debts."

"So Kronos came to town, knowing that Cassandra was following him.  Do you
think he knew that she would go to Mac for help?"

Methos nodded.  "He planned on it.  She would go to Mac, which would lead
her to me. He was counting on the fact that, with my instinct to survive, I
would turn to him."

"But you didn't, not really."

"Not until I had no other choice."  Methos looked down to study his hands,
as if seeing on them the blood of the thousands that he had killed. Even
now, when it was over with and in the past, the memory terrified him.  He
took a deep breath and continued.

"I wasn't surprised to wake up after taking that dagger in my chest.  Even
if Kronos planned to kill me, I knew he'd want to taunt me first.  So I said
what I had to say and did what I had to do just to survive long enough to
get away from him.  When I did, I headed straight to Mac. That was my big
mistake."  Methos rose from the chair and began pacing, needing the movement
to settle his soul.

"You see, at that point I didn't know about Cassandra or Kronos' little
plan.  I intended to tell Mac a version of the truth: An old enemy had come
to town and I was bugging out.  I knew that, if I ran, Kronos would hunt me
down.  I intended to draw him as far away from MacLeod as possible."

"Didn't you think Mac could take him?"

"I wasn't sure, Joe, and I couldn't take the chance.  But then Cassandra
showed up and told Mac about my part in the Horsemen.  I denied everything,
of course, and with Mac's help, I got away.  But now I knew the depth of
Kronos' plan.  He was aware of Mac and, because I ran right to him, Kronos
would know how important Mac was to me.  If I ran now, Kronos would still
hunt me down, but I knew that he would kill MacLeod first.  My only chance
to save Mac was to get him as far away from me as possible."

"Which is why you staged that little scene outside your apartment."

Methos nodded.  "I had to make him hate me, so I told him the most brutal of
truths.  I had to make sure that he never wanted anything else to do with
me. Keep him away from me and keep him away from Kronos, that was my plan."

"A plan that didn't work."

"Nope." Methos shook his head.  "My plan to deal with Kronos was what it had
always been: do whatever I could to make him happy until I could get away.
But Mac, with his 'white knight' attitude, decided to help Cassandra track
Kronos down.  So I shifted my plan to do whatever I could to help him
succeed."

"Even if it cost you your head?"

"The world could survive without me, Joe.  It couldn't survive without
MacLeod."   Methos stood silently by the window, staring at the world
outside.  "I still didn't like the idea of MacLeod facing Kronos, but I
couldn't think of any way to stop it.  So I was biding my time, hoping that
I'd come up with something."

"And hoping that, whatever it was, Mac would back you up."

Methos turned to Joe, a sad smile on his face.  "There was a part of him
that wanted to trust me, that still wanted to believe in me.  I was hoping
that part would win out and it did, in the end.  But, for a long time, I
wasn't sure.  Then, when I found out that Kronos has sent both Caspian and
Silas after Mac, I gave up.  I figured that there was no way that he could
survive both of them.  I underestimated him, once again."

Methos sat down in the chair again, drained by this telling.  "I had no hope
left, Joe, not for my redemption, not for the world.  Without MacLeod,
everything was lost.  The only thing that mattered now was survival.  I
tried to convince Cassandra that, if we stuck it out, made Kronos happy and
stuck together, we could both survive.  But she wasn't having any of it.  If
it meant working with me, she'd rather die."

"Would you have let her?"

"Joe, in my mind, everything that mattered was destroyed.  I'd lost a
special friend, the world had lost it's Champion, and everything I'd done
for 2500 years had been for nothing.  So, yes, I would have let her.  If she
wasn't willing to try, then I wasn't going to die helping her."

The two men sat quietly for a few minutes, each lost in his own thoughts.
Finally, Joe broke the silence.

"But you went back to save her in the end."

Methos looked at Joe, shaking his head.  "Saving her was a by-product of my
actions.  I was still trying to protect MacLeod."  Seeing Joe's questioning
look, Methos continued.  "When I realized that Mac was alive, and that he
had taken Caspian, I knew there was a chance.  With Caspian's Quickening, he
now had enough power to take Kronos, as long as it was a fair fight.  That
meant that I had to do something with Silas.  I didn't want to kill him,
Joe.  He was my friend.  But, when it came down to a choice between him and
the Highlander, well...there really wasn't any choice."

"So you took his head."  Joe concluded.

"I took his head," Methos agreed.  "I protected MacLeod and, together, we
destroyed the Horsemen and saved the world."  Methos chuckled.  "And Mac
stopped Cassandra from taking my head.  It was a fair trade, I guess."

"But the relationship that you two shared was never the same after that."

"No, Joe, it wasn't.  And it couldn't ever be again.  Duncan felt that I had
lied to him and, instinctively, he knew that there were other secrets that I
was keeping.  Unless I was willing to tell him everything, he was always
going to have that doubt, no matter how much we tried to rebuild."

"So why didn't you tell him the truth?"

"After that whole episode, I couldn't, not right away.  There's no way he
would have believed anything that I said.  Then Keane came along, which was
a whole other problem, then Byron and the aftermath of that.  By the time I
decided to tell him the truth, it was too late."

"It seems as if the Gods were testing you." Joe said, with a smile

Methos laughed a real laugh, the first one that Joe had heard in many hours.
"It does seem that way, doesn't it.  What's that Murphy's Law?  'Everything
that can go wrong will'? "  Methos let out a sigh, shaking his head.  "The
important thing is that everything worked out in the end."

"Yeah, I guess it did." Joe replied.  After a moment he asked, "What was the
problem with Steven Keane?"

"What?" Methos was momentarily confused

"You said that Keane was a whole other problem.  Why?"

Methos leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.  "Steven Keane, Steven
Keane, Steven Keane," he sighed.   "He was definitely a test from the
Gods..."

**1997 - Paris**

Methos could hardly believe his ears, listening to Amanda.  Steven Keane was
after Duncan?  He cursed silently, yet fluently, under his breath, not
letting it show on his face.  The one think he had dreaded for centuries was
unfolding before his eyes.

After Amanda left, he found himself unable to go back to sleep.  Steven
Keane, after all of these years, was finally coming back to haunt him.
Methos gave himself a mental slap; he should have killed Keane when he had
the chance but there was always the possibility that Keane would be needed.

"You had to be so smart, didn't you?" the old Immortal muttered to himself,
throwing off the bed covers and getting up to pace. "Never before did you
have this happen and you took it as a sign that it may be needed.  A bitter,
ironic chuckle escaped his lips before he continued.  "Now, look where it
has got you!  Not only is it possible that you are about to lose Duncan, you
may have to kill Keane in the bargain."  Methos stopped his pacing and
collapsed into a chair.

"Why me?  I know I needed retribution but did it have to be so damn hard?"
He questioned the ceiling, rhetorically, hoping that the God would not
actually answer. "I think I have done well with what I was given...is this
some type of further test?"  Running a hand through his hair, Methos stared
at the wall, his mind drifting backwards.

**1658 - England**

"Bernard!  My old friend, how are you?"  The tall, red haired man gave a
wide smile of pleasure and grasped Methos' hand.

Methos smiled broadly in return and warmly returned the greeting.  "Sean, it
is good to see you!  It has been too long since we last spoke.  How is that
student of yours you were telling be about last time we met?"

Sean shook his head in mock sadness.  "The mind is the first thing to go.
Bernard, that was over 100 years ago. Steven is no longer my student.  He
has been out on his own for quite some time.  Curious that you should
mention him, though.  He happens to be visiting me at the moment.  Let me
introduce you to him."

Methos gave a theatrical moan of anguish.  "Please, I have been riding for
what seems like weeks.  Let me bathe and eat first."  He began to follow
Sean bent over, acting like an ancient old man.

Sean laughed and picked up Methos' bag while signaling a stable boy to come
take his horse.  The two immortals made their way to the manor house,
sharing news with one another and catching up on events.

The door closed behind Sean as he left and Methos was alone at last.  He
gave a grateful sigh and opened his coat, pulling out the wads of stuffing
that put on at least 50 pounds to his appearance.  He looked in the crude
mirror and grinned rakishly at the image there.  He was sporting a full
mustache and beard.  Once again, Methos gave thanks to whatever fashion
dictated that wigs were in.  He wore the most powdered and outrageous wig he
could.  A hand went to his nose and he gave a slight grimace.  There was
nothing he could really do to disguise it but an actor had shown him ways to
minimize its presence.  An eyepiece and an annoying nasal voice completed
the ensemble.  Bernard Adams, the gentleman fop was complete.

Methos stretched like a cat and dropped wearily to the bed.  He had not come
to visit Sean so much as to see Keane.  He had been hearing things about
Keane that had him a bit worried and Methos knew he would have no choice but
to come and see the man for himself.

He had been fortunate enough to discover that Keane was visiting Sean.
Wasting no time, Methos had resurrected Bernard Adams and made all haste to
Sean, hoping fervently that Keane would still be there when he arrived.
Methos made a grimace of disgust.  After the debacle of chasing Connor all
over the world, he had not looked forward to doing the same to Keane.

Glancing out the small window, Methos judged enough time had passed and he
regretfully donned his padding once more.  It may add weight but it was also
damn hot!

Methos descended the stairs and followed the sound of laughter to the study.
He paused outside the door to check his appearance one last time, took a
deep breath and minced into the room.

Sean looked up and smiled as Methos made his way into the room.  The other
man looked in distaste at the ...creature coming towards him but innate
politeness kept him from laughing.  Sean, who was used to seeing Bernard,
thought nothing of it.

Methos saw the look of disgust on Keane's face and gave a chuckle to
himself.  "It works yet again" he thought in triumph.

Methos had long made it a practice to study people so that when he needed a
persona to use, he had one available to him.  Bernard Adams was based on a
gentleman who was a supporter of Louis XIV of France.  He dressed in the
loudest colors that he could and made no secret of the fact that his taste
for bed partners did not extend to women.  He was also deadly with a sword
and no one crossed him without a good cause.

Methos practically danced his way over to Keane and grabbed one of his
hands, carrying it to his lips for a lingering kiss.  "Sean, you must tell
me who this delicious man is?  Surely, this is not the Steven Keane that you
have told me so much about?"

Sean shook his head, sure that Steven was going to hit Bernard.  Keane
merely disengaged his hand and bowed slightly.

"Steven Keane, at your service sir.  And you would be...?"  He waited
expectantly for the reply.

Methos waved a hand, complete with lace handkerchief, airily.  "Bernard
Adams, late of France and many other places.  We certainly did not have, "
he hesitated briefly and added emphasis to the word, "men like you there.  I
would remember if we did."  Methos gave a titter into his lace and was
pleased to note the further disgust in Keane's eyes.

The three men chatted briefly and Methos took the opportunity to study Keane
carefully.  Since he had established his interest, despite no encouragement
from Keane himself, neither of the other two men saw anything unusual with
his scrutiny.

The more Methos saw of Keane, the more his blood ran cold.  Keane had all
the earmarks of a Champion yet how could that be?  Less than 25 years
before, Duncan had fully realized his potential as an Immortal and gained
the knowledge of Timothy.  Why, if Duncan was the Champion, did Keane also
display the same characteristics? Was there a reason for this?  His blood
ran cold with a thought.  What if that meant that something had happened to
Duncan?  He took a deep breath and calmed himself, surely Connor, for all
that he was an idiot, would have let him know. Could this be a further test
for him, for Methos?  Was he supposed to chose between the two men?

Methos gave an inarticulate groan.  He had entirely too much time and effort
put into Duncan to even consider choosing Keane over him.  On the other
hand, what if Keane was the better man?

"Bernard, are you feeling well?"  Sean's concerned voice broke through his
musings and Methos quickly mustered a smile.

"Quite well, just tired.  I was thinking how lovely it would be...in bed, "
He paused again for effect before adding, "sleeping soundly."

Keane clenched his jaw hard to avoid saying anything that would offend Sean
or his guest.  He was relieved when Adams made his good nights and left.  He
turned on Sean and exploded.

"Sean, where did you ever meet that...that thing?  He is positively
disgusting!  And those clothes!"  Keane was sputtering with righteous
indignation.

Sean collapsed into a chair and bent over with peals of laughter.  Steven
looked on in disapproval until Sean calmed himself.  He pulled a
handkerchief out and wiped the tears from his eyes.

"Steven, Steven.  How many times have I told you that appearances can be
deceiving?  Bernard is more than he seems to be and you would be wise to not
let his foolishness make you think otherwise.  You could learn a great deal
from him if you would but be receptive to him."

Keane flinched slightly.  "Receptive to him?" He repeated, somewhat alarmed.
"Surely you don't mean...?"

Sean snorted and shook his head.  "No, I am not suggesting that at all,
don't be absurd.  I am merely saying listen to what he has to say and by all
means, see if you can get him to spar with you, he is superb with a blade."

Keane looked relived and then thoughtful.  He sat in an overstuffed chair
and picked up a glass of brandy that Sean had poured.  He sniffed it in
appreciation and sipped it slowly.

"How did you meet him anyway?"

"A mutual friend, Darius, introduced us.  Darius is a priest and one of us
as well.  He and Bernard are good friends. " Sean prudently did not mention
that he actually knew Bernard by another name and a vastly different
appearance.  He must have a reason for the subterfuge so Sean sipped his
brandy as well and the two men changed the topic of conversation.

Over the next several days, Methos made every effort to spend as much time
with Keane as possible, trying to get an insight into the man.  Keane was an
honorable man and he was a little too unforgiving for Methos' taste.  It did
seem to be a fault of the young, Methos thought cynically.  Time would cure
that or he would not survive to have it cured.

Upon discovering that Keane was an avid chess player, Methos initiated a
game.  It was as Methos suspected, Keane was a brilliant technical player
but lacked vision.

Keane looked in disbelief at Methos, who sat back smugly after saying,
"Checkmate"

"You sneaky bastard!  That is so...unethical!"  Keane exclaimed.  Methos
merely smiled and shook his head.

"You silly kitten, what makes you think it is unethical?  It was a legal
move, just one you had not thought of.  Don't let it worry you so much."
The older Immortal leaned over to pat Keane fondly on the cheek.

Being in the company of Methos, as Adams, for the past few days had
desensitized Keane to his constant patting and touching of his arm, cheek
and shoulder.  He no longer flinched and tried to subtly move away when
Methos reached for him.  To make sure there were not any doubts about
Keane's habits, Steven made it a point to relay story after story about
women he had loved and those who had loved him.

Methos found it all greatly amusing although maintaining himself as Adams
did get wearing at times.  To make sure that he was not accidentally
discovered, it meant that he had to sleep in all of his padding.  Luckily,
the sense of an approaching Immortal always gave him enough time to make
sure he was presentable.

"So you are a master chess player and Sean tells me you are good with a
blade as well." Steven mentioned, a little too casually.

Methos examined the nails on his left hand carefully before answering.  He
held his hand out for inspection.  "Do you think a pinky ring with an
emerald or a sapphire would look better on this hand?  I want something to
bring out the color of my eyes."

Keane sighed heavily; he had learned that until he answered such
trivialities, Adams would act like he had not heard him.  He looked at the
hand in question and tried to get a good look at the eyes.  As always, the
eyes were half lidded, as if Adams was on the verge of sleep.

"I would try a garnet, it is different and not as many wear them."  Keane
spoke quickly, trying to master his impatience.

Methos pursed his lips and twirled one finger into his brandy.  He made a
show out of licking the brandy off while keeping his eyes on Keane.  Steven,
wise to this game, ignored him completely and busied himself setting up the
chessboard again.

"Sean is correct, I am wonderful with my sword." Methos gave a simpering
giggle.  "Although just how that dear man would know that, I am not sure."

Keane rolled his eyes upwards and did not comment.

"Naturally I am good with a blade, precious.  I am an Immortal.  If I were
not somewhat skilled, I would not last long.  I am very fond of living, so
much to do...so many people to enjoy."

Steven looked at Methos in sudden curiosity.  "Just how old are you Bernard?
You know my age but you never mention your own."

Methos waggled a finger in admonition at Keane.  "A lady never reveals her
age you know."

Keane gave a sudden grin, making his normally sober face look quite boyish.
"You, sir, are no lady."

Methos placed a fluttering hand over his heart and gave a slight moan.  "You
wound me to the quick, dear one.  I demand satisfaction..." He paused,
amused at the look of apprehension that came over Keane's face.

"Not that way, kitten, although if you are interested...perhaps later."
Methos gave a slight laugh.  "I am willing to practice with you.  Sean has a
lovely clearing that we can use without fear of harming anyone.  If one of
us should be so careless to actually kill the other, well, then no one will
be the wiser."

Keane was more than mildly apprehensive after hearing that speech.  Had Sean
been mistaken in calling this man friend, was he waiting for the chance to
kill Keane?  Steven pushed the thought from his head and the two men went to
get their swords.

In the clearing, Keane carefully folded his jacket and placed it on the
ground, giving a few practice swings with his blade.  He waited impatiently
for Adams, who soon came sauntering his way towards him.

The two immortals bowed to one another and held their swords aloft.  Because
he wanted to see what kind of fighter Keane was, Methos took the defensive
stance.

The clear air was soon filled with the sounds of steel clashing with steel
as the men began the ancient ritual.  Methos gave Keane many opportunities
to blood him, but the only way Keane could have done it was by employing an
unorthodox method.  Methos remained blood free.

Keane smiled to himself, Sean had been wrong.  There was nothing
extraordinary about this man's ability with a blade.  He was better than
average but nothing that was impressive.  He radically changed his opinion
when Methos executed a spinning turn that ended with his blade against
Keane's throat.  Steven swallowed gingerly, very aware of the sharp
instrument at his neck and the knowledge of just how vulnerable he was.

Methos was aware of it as well and an internal battle, one that did not
reflect on his face, was being waged.

"Kill him!  Kill him now!  The can be only one and that can apply to the
Champion as well." Methos certainly agreed with this assessment.

"Wait and see, you may need him in the event anything happens to Duncan.
Why tip your hand and ruin the friendship with Sean?  Duncan will need
friends like Sean in the future.  Hold, wait and see." The more practical
side of Methos urged.

Methos looked into Keane's eyes, reading the trust there.  'Foolish boy,
trusting one whom you don't know.' Methos thought.

Keane was beginning to get a little worried at how Adams was just standing
there, looking at him, with his sword at his throat.  He felt the pressure
on the blade increase just a fraction and Steven closed his eyes briefly.
When he opened them again, Adams gave a rueful smile, pulled his blade back
and offered a hand.

"Would you like to see how I managed that?  Sweetness, if you want to get
ahead, you are going to have to learn to communicate your moves less.  Shall
we try that again?"

************************

"Duncan was ready to die, thinking he deserved it after meeting Keane.  I
could not allow that to happen. " Methos said simply.

Joe opened his mouth to speak and then closed it again.  He took a breath to
speak and then let it out slowly.

Methos laughed.  "I know what you are thinking Joe.  If Duncan died, at
least I had Keane to rely on as a back up."  Joe nodded in affirmation.

Methos sighed and looked back at Joe.  "Duncan was the Champion, no doubt,
by that point.  He had Timothy's memories and he had hundreds of years of
preparation.  Would you have wanted to see how Keane would have handled
Ahriman with such a short time to prepare?  I always go with the winner,
Joe."

Joe responded with a yawn, followed by a grimace of pain.  Methos walked
over to the bed and pushed the button to call the nurse.

"I think its time for your medication and possibly a short nap."

"I'm not tired." Joe protested but, even as he voiced the words, he knew
that Methos didn't believe him.  Seeing the stark look on the Immortal's
face, Joe gave in.  "OK, I'll take a nap.  What are you going to do?"

Methos stood a little straighter, shoving his hands into his pockets.  The
mischievous glint in his eyes belied the innocence of his words.  "I'm going
to see about lunch," he said with a smile as he headed to the door.  Joe
returned the smile as he relaxed into the pillows behind his head.

Out in the hallway, Methos intercepted Nurse Baldwin, who was responding to
the call.

"I think his pain is getting worse." He confided in her.  "The medication
doesn't seem to be lasting as long as it did before."

Nurse Baldwin nodded.  "I'll increase the dosage a bit, but you realize that
it should make him sleep a little longer."

"I know," Methos replied.  "That doesn't matter.  The only thing that's
important is that Joe not be in pain."  The nurse smiled her understanding.
"I'm going to get some lunch," he told her.  "I'll be back in about an
hour."

"I will be off duty by then but I'll bring the afternoon nurse up to date.
She won't give you any trouble." she assured him.  "You go and enjoy your
lunch and I'll take care of Joe."

He thanked the nurse then turned and headed down the hall.

************************

Methos returned a short time later and poked his head cautiously into the
room, ready to leave again if Joe was still sleeping.  As soon as the top of
his head was visible, Joe called out.

"Quit lurking at the door, I am not dead or asleep.  Get in here"

Methos walked in, grinning.  If Joe was irritable, he was feeling better.
Glancing behind him as he reached into his coat, Methos pulled out a brown
bag.  Taking out a beer, he set the bag on the table in front of Joe.

Joe smiled and glanced towards the door.  Methos shook his head slightly.

"She is nowhere near, I checked."  Methos lowered his voice dramatically.

Joe reached eagerly towards the bag and stopped.

"Is this what I think it is?  You wouldn't torment a dying man, would you?"
Joe asked in a suspicious tone.

Methos managed to look wounded despite the fact that he was smiling.
"Pastrami on rye, hot mustard, extra pickles and some extra hot chips.
Would I improvise on that?"

Joe dove into the bag, pulling out a thick sandwich wrapped in waxed paper.
He took a deep, appreciative breath before taking a bite.  He closed his
eyes and chewed slowly, bliss etched across his face.

Methos gave a chuckle that caused Joe to open his eyes and grin back
sheepishly.  He swallowed and took a handful of chips, using a beer to wash
it down.

"Much better than the slop they feed me in here, let me tell you." Joe
stated firmly.  The ancient Immortal shook his head and resumed his position
in the chair, legs thrown casually over an arm.

After taking a moment to appreciate the food, Joe started in again.  'There
is still something that I don't understand." Joe said, watching Methos
closely.  After listening to Methos explain his tale, there was one point
that Joe couldn't comprehend.  And the more that Methos said, the less sense
it made.  He needed the answer.

"What's that, Joe?" Methos asked softly, smiling at his friend.  After
everything that he'd just told Joe, he couldn't imagine holding back
anything now.

"When the business finally began with Mac and Ahriman, you lied to us all.
You told Richie and I that you'd never heard of this demon.  You told Mac
that you thought he was crazy.  If this is what you'd been preparing for for
400 years, why did you lie?"

Methos looked at Joe for a moment then slowly rose from his chair.  He
walked over to the window, staring out but seeing nothing.  His mind went
back to those fateful days, back to that time when he'd almost lost it all.
Back to his greatest miscalculation.

"Methos?" Joe prodded

"I thought I still had time, Joe." His voice was barely a whisper.  "I
thought I could save you all.  I underestimated Ahriman and it cost Richie
his life."

Methos rubbed his hands across his face, trying to prevent this depression
from overtaking him.  'It worked itself out in the end,' he argued with
himself. 'Yes, but at what cost?'

Methos came back to collapse in the chair preparing to tell, what was for
him, the hardest part of this tale.

"When I saw Mac on the Quay that night, searching for Kronos, I suspected
that Ahriman had arrived.  Then, when Richie came to us and told us about
Landry and Horton, I was sure.  But I thought there was still time.  I knew
that Ahriman wouldn't kill Mac because that's not how the battle works.  But
I knew that, if he could, he'd try to use you or Richie against Mac.  So, I
came up with a plan.   I would convince you and Richie that Mac was going
crazy.  I would get both of you to leave, telling you that I would take care
of him, like I had during the Dark Quickening.  I was going to convince you
that it would be safer for everyone that way.  Then, once you two were
safely out of the way, I was going to tell Mac the truth and prepare him for
the battle."  Methos shook his head, his voice sounding worse then Joe felt.
"But I underestimated Richie, I underestimated you and, more importantly, I
underestimated Ahriman."

"How did you underestimate Richie and I?"

"I underestimated your relationship with Mac, especially Richie's devotion."
Methos sighed.  "It didn't take a whole lot to convince you that Mac had
lost it.  After his little scene with Horton's coffin at the airport, I
think you half believed it already."

Joe nodded, remembering that unbelievable day.  He hadn't told Mac about
moving Horton's body because he had been afraid how the Highlander would
react.  When Mac did find out, he had accused Joe of lying to him, that
Horton was still alive.  Joe remembered thinking that Mac had gone mad.

"But Richie was a whole other story.  No matter what I said, he wouldn't
believe that Mac was crazy.  You even tried to convince him."

Joe nodded.  "He was determined to stand by MacLeod, no matter what it
cost."

"But he didn't know it would cost him his life, Joe.  He had no idea what
lengths Ahriman would go to, but I did.  I should have protected him better,
but I still thought that I had time.  I didn't think that Ahriman would act
so quickly against Duncan.  I realized later that just as I recognized
Richie's devotion, so did Ahriman and he used it to weaken MacLeod."

"By killing him?"

"By having Duncan kill him.  You see, Ahriman wanted you and Richie out of
the way, too.  He wanted to isolated MacLeod, to weaken him, to destroy his
inner strength and outer support system.  And, boy, did he find the way to
do that.  When we walked into that race track that night and found Mac
kneeling over Richie's body, I realized how fatal my error had been."
Methos was silent for a few minutes.  Joe could see the pain on the
Immortal's face, could hear it in his voice.

"The kid didn't deserve to die, Joe," Methos whispered.  "Not like that, not
by Mac's hand.  And Mac didn't need to have to carry that with him for the
rest of his life.  When he walked out of the racetrack that night, I thought
that Ahriman had won.  I thought that everything had been lost because of my
miscalculation.  I didn't know what to do."

"But what did you do?"

"I followed him."  He saw Joe's face frown in confusion.  "Not right away, I
had others do that.  What do you think the Watchers were for?  No, I stayed
around for you for a time but, as soon as I could, I was out of there.  I
followed him at a distant, making sure that no one challenged him or that
he, in a desperate need to die, didn't challenge someone else.  Then, with a
little underhanded, anonymous coaxing, I got him to the monastery.  Once he
was there, I knew he'd stay for a while and I could go off to find what I
could to help him."

"Why didn't you tell him the truth?"

"Do you honestly think that he would have believed anything I told him?
And, if he did, how do you think he would have reacted, knowing that Richie
could have been saved if he'd only known?  No, it was safer for both of us
if I stayed away.  So I had the monks keep me informed.  And, when Mac
finally left and headed back to Paris, I was right behind him."

"But we never saw you."  Joe told him, still a bit confused

"No, you didn't," Methos agreed.  "I'd come to realize how strong you were,
Joe.  I'd hoped that, when Mac returned, you would be there to help him.  I
couldn't, not directly.  I'd done that with Timothy and his madness was a
result.  I wouldn't risk that with MacLeod."

"So you left again?"

"Yes.  I headed back to the East, looking for anything I could to help him.
I knew that he had Landry's journal and I knew that he had Timothy's
memories.  I just hoped that I could find something that would help him to
put all that information into perspective.  And I did."

"The Tibetan singing bowl."  Joe whispered in amazement.

Methos nodded wearily.  "That seemed to trigger what he needed to know.
After that, the battle was his to fight.  You couldn't help him and neither
could I.  No one could.  So, I retired to the Monastery and waited.  When I
received reports that the battle had obviously been won, I stayed at the
Monastery for a while."  Methos looked up at Joe, who was surprised to see
tears in the ancient Immortal's eyes.  "You see, Joe, I had my own guilt
about Richie's death that I had to deal with."

"And did you?" Joe asked quietly, his compassion for his friend almost
overwhelming him.

"Eventually.  I learned a lot of things during that time of seclusion."

"Like what?"

"Like I needed Duncan's friendship."  Methos flashed Joe an embarrassed
smile.  "I had spent 400 years of my life guiding and pushing and
manipulating him.  When I finally met the man that I had made I found, to my
surprise, that I liked him.  He was a good man, Joe, and not because of what
I'd done but, probably, in spite of it.  He had been my reason for living
but then, after getting to know him, I had found a reason to live.  I wanted
to get that friendship back."

************************

Duncan paid the cab driver and raced into the hospital.  He made his way to
the information desk and waited impatiently for his turn.

"Joe Dawson?  He is a patient here?" Duncan asked with some trepidation,
afraid that he had been too late despite the efforts he made to get here as
soon as the phone call had come.

The woman behind the desk smiled pleasantly and handed him a map of the
hospital, visiting hours marked and Joe's room circled.  Duncan thanked her
and hurried off.

The shift nurse looked up as a tall, dark man walked in, a duffel bag over
one shoulder and the wearied, anxious expression that she so often saw on
family members who came at the eleventh hour.

"Joe Dawson?" the man had a deep baritone voice and brown eyes that seemed
to implore her to say that Joe was still here.

"Mr. Dawson is resting for the evening." She said in a low tone. "Visiting
hours ended an hour ago, I am afraid you will have to come back tomorrow."

MacLeod gaped at her foolishly for a moment and felt his anger begin. "I
know visiting hours are over, I got here as soon as I could.  Dr. Madison
told me it was urgent that I get here as quickly as possible and that I
would be admitted to see Joe as soon as I arrived.  Can you please check his
chart to see if there is a note there?"

The nurse's smile slipped a notch and she gave a mental sigh.  This was a
new one.  She had heard just about every ploy possible from people trying to
slip past after visiting hours.

"There is not any need for me to check.  It is against policy to allow
visitors after hours.  Unless, of course, you are an immediate family
member? Are you an immediate family member, Mr...?"

"MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod, and, no, I am not an immediate family member.
Would you please check his chart?  Please."  Duncan said, leaning forward
and tried keeping his hands still.  His nerves were strung to the breaking
point after the trip he had just made and the constant fear that he would
arrive too late.

The nurse refused to look and the conversation grew louder despite both
participants trying to lower their voices.  The nurse was about to call
security and Duncan was contemplating knocking her unconscious when Emily
Baldwin came through the door.  The nurse looked up in relief at the
appearance of the Head Day Nurse and motioned her over.

"This is Duncan MacLeod and I have been trying to explain to him that he
can't...."  She never got to finish what she was saying as Emily immediately
grabbed Duncan by the arm.

"Duncan MacLeod?  We have been expecting you.  Joe has been waiting all
evening."  She began to lead him down the hall to where Joe was.  She looked
back over her shoulder at the dumbfounded nurse.  "I will deal with you
later.  It says right on Joe's chart that MacLeod was to be admitted no
matter the hour."

Duncan was too relived to feel smug and followed Nurse Baldwin down the hall
and around a corner.  As they approached the door, it swung open and Methos
sauntered out, stopping at the sight of MacLeod and the nurse.

"Of course, you already know Mr. Pierson." Emily said.  Methos came forward,
a smile on his face and was not prepared for the cold look on MacLeod's
face.

"Yes, I do know Mr. Pierson." Duncan said, his voice hard and cold  "Is
there someplace private Mr. Pierson and I can chat for a moment?  I would
not want to disturb Joe."

Emily indicated the nearby lounge, a little confused at the undercurrents
she could almost see between the two men.  She watched them go into the room
and close the door.  She smiled to herself. At least Joe would be happy that
both of his friends were here.  Once again, she pondered what tie these
three had that seemed to bind them so close to one another.

"Alright Methos," Duncan demanded as soon as the door was closed.  "What in
the hell is going on and why wasn't I called sooner?  How is he?"  Methos,
ready to greet the Highlander warmly, stopped dead.

Methos had been through a grueling 48 hours, both mentally and emotionally.
He was exhausted and his nerves were rubbed raw.  Part of the fatigue was
from sharing his tale and part of it was from having to come to terms with
the fact that one of his closest friends was about to die and there was not
a damn thing he could do about it.  To have MacLeod practically accuse him
of keeping him deliberately in the dark was the final straw.

"How typical of you MacLeod, to judge before you know the facts.  Listen,
you bloody Highlander, I just found out myself that Joe was ill.  I got here
as soon as I could and I have been here almost nonstop for the past few
days.  I've had to watch a man that I love and admire get a step closer to
death with each passing moment.  Just who do you think you are to be
demanding anything of me?  I don't owe you and I damn sure don't have to
explain myself to you!"  Methos spoke softly but forcefully, his eyes
blazing and his fists clenched beside him.  His entire body shook with
contained emotion and his pain and anguish at the situation showed in every
breath.

Duncan took a deep breath to retort and let it out with a gusty sigh.  "You
are right, I'm sorry, Methos.  I should have known you would let me know.  I
would be willing to bet Joe didn't tell anyone."  At the confirmation nod
from Methos, Duncan continued. "I have been on planes and trains for the
past 30 hours and I suppose I wasn't thinking clearly."  Duncan smiled
apologetically at the other Immortal.  "How have you been, my friend?"

Methos let out the breath he was holding and tried, then failed to make a
sarcastic remark.  Instead, the two Immortals gripped each other by the
forearm, the touch more than words saying everything that needed to be said.

"I am holding up but I wish I could say the same for Joe.  He is going fast,
Mac; I can see a difference in just the short time I have been here. He's on
pain meds almost constantly now and he drops off to sleep often.  I don't
think he has much longer."  Methos spoke through a thick throat, emotions
still at a high. Afraid that they would overwhelm him, Methos took several
deep breaths and kept his face averted.

Duncan was not really sure how he should react so he did nothing. He studied
the poster on the wall quietly, waiting for Methos to regain control.

"I think the only thing that has kept Joe going was waiting for you to
arrive.  He won't admit it MacLeod, but he views you almost like a son."
Both men gave a chuckle at the thought given the age differences.

"It is damn hard to lose someone, isn't it?  It must be hell for him too.
He is laying there dying and there I sit, in all my glory.  Over 5000 years
old and looking the same as I did when I was in my early 30's while he is an
old man. "

Duncan shrugged, helplessly.  "It never gets any easier, does it?  Loving
and then...inevitably losing mortals.  All I can think is how rich my life
has been for having known them."

Both men stood looking at each other, one thinking of a petite brunette who
died a lingering death and the other man thinking of a striking blonde who
died in a moment of senseless violence.

"Let's go see Joe." Methos suggested, opening the door.

Emily looked up from her task, interested in seeing what was going on.  She
had heard raised voices from the lounge but no crashing furniture so she had
not investigated.  To make it look like she was not paying attention, she
lowered her head to her task.  From the corner of her eye, she saw the two
men open Joe's door and heard Joe's voice, clear and joyful.

"MacLeod!  Damn, it is good to see you, man!"

**Epilogue**

The two Immortals stood silently, side by side, looking down at the newly
covered grave.  Joe had finally succumbed with his dearest friends by his
side.  Methos had seen many mortals die in his five thousand plus years, but
this one hit him the hardest. There hadn't been many people in his life that
knew the whole truth about Methos.  Ambrosius had been one of them, Darius
had been another; Joe had been the third.  Immortals and Mortal, Holy man,
warrior/priest and musician/bartender, three men who shared a common trait:
The ability to know and accept the truth about a man once known as Death.

Duncan had paid for Joe to be buried here, in his beloved Chicago, the place
of his birth.  Their relationship had been tumultuous at times but sprang,
thought Methos, from their tendency to care too much.  Mac had also taken
the mortal's death hard.

Methos let out a heavy sigh and turned to find MacLeod watching him, a
slight smile on his face.

"It was the eyes."  Duncan said softly

"What?"  Methos didn't have a clue what the crazy Scot was talking about.

"When we met in your apartment in Paris.  I knew you because of your eyes."
Duncan took Methos by the arm and led the stunned Immortal over to a nearby
bench.  "They're very expressive, you know." he said, smiling slightly.
Sitting both of them down, facing each other, Duncan continued.

"I came to your apartment in search of Methos, he was the only thing on my
mind.  And when I saw you, when I looked into you eyes, I just knew.  It's
as if they were saying, 'I am Methos', as if you really wanted me to know. I
also felt some sort of unexplainable connection.  I didn't realize what it
was then, but there was definitely a connection. I felt it and it frightened
me, always kept me off balance."  Duncan sighed.  "I always felt that there
was something that you weren't telling me, some deep, dark secret.  Then
Kronos and Cassandra showed up and I thought that was it.  After all, who
would want to admit to being Death?" Duncan smiled.  "But, somehow, that
didn't quite fit."

Shaking his head, Duncan looked away, remembering.  "When I left Paris,
after taking O'Rourke, I had a lot of time to think.  I tried to figure out
how and why we were connected.  I thought about all of our times together.
I tried to understand why a man who survived by avoiding a fight would put
himself in danger for me.  Then it dawned on me that, from the moment that
we met, you were protecting me.  But I still couldn't figure out why, so I
did a little checking.  Do you know what I found out?"

Methos shook his head, unable to speak, stunned by what he was hearing.
Duncan smiled at his friend's predicament.

"I traced you to almost everyone of importance who ever crossed my path."
Duncan held up his hand to stop the protests he saw Methos beginning to
voice. "There was always someone with a different name but I'm sure it was
you.  Then I remembered Matthew the Scribe." Duncan looked at Methos and
smiled, waiting for the older immortal to recognize the name.  "On the road
to St. Christopher's Monastery, at one of the lowest points in my life, he
offered me warmth, gave me directions and an important piece of advice.  Do
you remember what that advice was?  He told me '...there is a time to fight
and a time to simply live." I never got a look at his face and his voice was
muffled beyond recognition but I knew I'd never forget those eyes."  Duncan
smiled as Methos appeared to relax.  "A real Master of Opportunity, weren't
you?  But, still, I didn't know why!" Reaching into the inside pocket of his
overcoat, Duncan pulled out two videocassettes.  "Then I saw this."

Methos' eyes widened in horror, afraid that he knew what was coming.
"What's that?" he squeaked, barely able to get his voice working again

"After Joe died, Dr. Madison gave these to me, saying that Joe had wanted me
to have them."  Duncan watched as what little color he had drained from
Methos' face. "After the doctor contacted the two of us, Joe asked them to
set up a video camera in the room."  Duncan held up one cassette in each
hand, an immense smile lighting up his face.  "Two entire days of Methos
telling the truth."

Methos slowly reached out to take one of the offered tapes.  Duncan saw the
color return to his face, pale to pink to bright red, before the oldest
immortal exploded.

"That low-life, sneaky, manipulating bastard!"  Methos jumped up, pacing in
front of the bench, as if the movement would help him find the words to put
with his feelings.

"He held me to a promise that I never meant to make, he plied me with
question that he knew, he KNEW, I would answer, then he tapes the whole
damned thing!  He planed to give this to you from the start!" Methos turned
to Duncan to find the Scot barely controlling his glee at the older
Immortal's indignation.  Methos was stunned into silence.

After a moment of glaring, his features softened as his face slowly broke
into a smile.  As the anger drained from his body, he began to chuckle,
admiration apparent in his voice.  "And he called me a calculating son of a
bitch."  Shaking his head, he sat down again next to Duncan as the Scot,
finally losing control, dissolved into uncontrollable laughter.

As Duncan finally got himself under control, Methos sobered.  What would
this mean for their often-fragile friendship?  Would Duncan react with anger
at what he had to see as life long manipulation?  'He doesn't seem angry'
Methos noted.  'Maybe he didn't watch the tape.'

Duncan watched the shadow pass over his friend's face.  "What's wrong,
Methos?"

"Did you watch this?" Methos asked, holding the tape out to Duncan

The Highlander gently took the tape as he nodded, his eyes not leaving the
older man's face. "Yes, I did.  A few times."

"And...?" Methos asked, afraid to hear the answer

"I think that you were given a task that would have broken a lesser man.
Against all imaginable odds, you succeeded and for that I thank you."
Duncan smiled as Methos looked at him in a mixture of disbelief and
confusion.  "Everything that you have done, all that you have suffered, made
me who I am. I'm the man I am today because of you, my friend."

They sat there looking at each other for a few minutes as Methos, whose
world had been turned upside down by the events of the past week, and
Duncan, who lost a good friend but finally, FINALLY, gained the truth,
seemed to let everything settle into place.  Methos broke the silence.

"So where does this leave us, Highlander?"

"I'm not sure."  Duncan let his eyes roam over the cemetery, taking in the
tranquility of the grass, the trees and the open space.  "Will there be
another Champion?"

"Yes." Methos answered quietly, nodding his head.  Duncan looked back at him
as he continued.  "At first I thought that it would end with me.  Then,
after my failure with Timothy, I thought you would be the last.  But now, I
know the truth."  Methos sighed, the weight of the past and the future
settling on his shoulders.

"It is all about balance, Duncan.  For Good to endure, Evil must exist."
Methos shook his head in resignation.  "For a very long time, I was that
Evil.  Now, I must do everything that I can to assure that the forces of
Good are prepared for the ongoing battle."

"A battle that is fought within the soul of one man, every thousand years."
Methos nodded.  Duncan smiled, clapping his hand on his friend's back.
"Well, this time your task will be easier," he assured him.

"Really?" Methos asked him, "And why is that?"

"Because, from now on, my friend, we will do it together."

Methos stood and turned to face this man, searching Duncan's face.  Seeing
the honesty and trust that it held, Methos knew that this was his reward.
The Gods had given him a partner in this task, someone to lighten the load.

"Together." He agreed, nodding.  His heart was lightened by the knowledge
that he could now add Duncan's name to that list with the other three.

Duncan rose and the two men embraced, warriors in a common battle, two men
with a single goal.

"I do have a favor to ask," Duncan said, laughter sparkling in his eyes.

"And what is that?" Methos asked, smiling in return

"Please, whatever you do, please don't call me 'little one'!" Duncan begged,
laughing.

"Well, you're not so little anymore, are you?" Methos playfully punched
Duncan in the arm as the Scot shook his head, a smile still on his face.
"Then I promise I won't call you that."  Methos slapped MacLeod on the back,
pushing him along the path.  "So, Mac, have you ever been to the Salisbury
plain?  I have a little place there that I'd like you to see."

As they continued to walk the path that would lead them back to the car,
Methos lifted his eyes to the heavens, offering an unvoiced  'Thank you' to
the gods.  And there was one other thing of which Methos was absolutely
certain.

Whatever gods Joe believed in, Methos was sure that he now occupied his
rightful place beside them.


*****The End (but the battle continues)*****

1 Enseki : Japanese word meaning 'relative separated by distance'