![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
Highlander fic. Ignore.
Duncan MacLeod waved Methos on into the barge with his katana in one hand and the cordless phone in the other.
"Mac, there's trouble," Methos said.
Duncan put his hand over the mouthpiece. "There's beer in the fridge, I'll be off in a second." Then he added, to the phone, "How do you *accidently* steal a priceless diamond necklace? Well, can't you just give it back then?"
"Cassandra's in Paris. I ran into her on the way here," Methos added conversationally.
"How did it end up at the bottom of Lake Michigan? What do you mean, you're not sure? You stole it, didn't you?"
"She said she's taking my head this time. She only let me go for now because she didn't want you coming after her after. I thought you might like to know, since you were so upset when I didn't tell you last time."
Mac looked up. "Cassandra again? Can't you just stay out of her way? It worked for two thousand years," and then to the phone, "A wolf? What's a wolf doing in Chicago? Right, a half-wolf, that makes a lot more sense."
"Oh, great strategy, Mac. I could never have thought of that myself. And I'd love to know who appointed you my mother, too, especially since you seem to care so much about my welfare."
"Fine, Amanda, I'll post bail. *This* time. But you'd better--" They were interrupted by the feel of anpther Immortal walking up to the barge. "Would you take care of that, Methos, I'll be off the phone in a minute."
"Fine. Don't listen to me, take me for granted, too, why don't you." He stomped back up to the door and slammed it open with his sword in his left hand.
"Methos," Cassandra said sweetly, her own sword hand in her coat. "What a pleasant surprise. Is Mac in? I have something I'd like to tell him."
"Yes," Methos replied. "But he's on the phone with his girlfriend, I'm not sure he'll--"
"He'll talk to me," she said, with infuriating confidence, and swept by him into the boat.
Mac had apparently finished dealing with whatever crisis Amanda was in at the moment. He had his katana out, having sensed the new Immortal presence, but when he saw Cassandra he dropped his guard and smiled in welcome. "Cassandra! A pleasant surprise."
Cassandra nodded stiffly. "I see you are still associating with him."
"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?" he added softly.
"Not at all," she replied. "I'm not your keeper anymore. However, you seem to be his." She shrugged gracefully. "You told me not to kill him at Bordeaux, and I didn't, out of respect for you. But it's not enough, MacLeod. I've come to challenge. I want your word that you won't interfere."
"To Challenge," Duncan said, standing very still. "By the rules of the Game."
"I'll just be over here," Methos said, drifting to the couch and draping his coat across the back. "When you've finished deciding my future for me."
"Yes," she said. "I knew if I simply came for him, your misguided loyalty would lead you out on some ridiculous quest for justice. I wanted to make sure you understood ahead of time. By the rules."
"By the rules."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said. "By the rules. You can't interfere."
"No," Duncan said, softly.
"I'm not going let you fight me, Cassandra," Methos said.
"You have to. It's the Game," she answered.
"I don't give a flying fuck about the Game. Or the Rules."
"No," she said. "But Mac does."
"Mac--" Methos said. "She'll listen to you."
Mac closed his eyes and sighed wearily. "Cassandra, he doesn't want to fight you. There's no need for this, and you're both too valuable to lose. You lived with it for two thousand years--"
"Don't you dare compare him to me!" she spat. "I could live with it when I thought he was dead. He's been alive, all this time, living well. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? Can you?"
"No," MacLeod said. "I can't. I don't think I want to be able to. I know it still hurts, the memory. But you have to let go of it, Cassandra. At least a little. What if he promised to stay away from you? Never come near you again? So you wouldn't have to be reminded--"
"That's not good enough, MacLeod. It's not just a memory. It's part of who I am. The same way your Glenfinnan is a part of you. This is my right, MacLeod. According to the Game, and according to justice. Do you deny it?"
"No," Mac said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "No. There is no other way?"
"He accepts the challenge, or I find some other way to take his head."
"All right."
"Mac!" Methos said. "What are you--"
"He accepts the challenge. When and where?"
"Dawn tomorrow. The empty Rainbow Shipping warehouse. You know it?"
"Yes. He'll be there."
"It's settled then."
"No it is *not*!" Methos said hotly. "Don't I get any say in this?"
"No," said Cassandra. "Hasta manana, Death," she spat, and left.
"Mac, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Methos yelled as soon as her Presence had faded. "You were supposed to talk her out of it!"
"She challenged according to the Rules, Methos," Mac said, arms crossed stubbornly. "She's within her rights."
"And do you really think she'll fight fair?"
"I think she's as likely to fight fair as you are. Which makes it an even match in my book."
"Fine," Methos said, stalking away to pick up his coat. "Sure. Whatever. I guess I have no choice then."
"Methos?" Mac moved in front of the door. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving."
"Where?"
"I don't see that that's any of your business, Mac. Or maybe Cassandra is right, and you are my keeper?"
"I-- of course not." he said, and grudgingly let Methos by. "Just-- you're not going to leave town, are you."
"Of course not," Methos replied glibly. "I just want to spend my last night on Earth somewhere pleasant," he added as he left.
"Methos! You're not going to die!" Duncan called after him futilely, then whispered, "Damn."
This early in the evening, Le Blues Bar was mostly quiet. Joe Dawson, bartender and Watcher, looked up to see his old friend Adam Pierson, aka Methos, the World's Oldest Immortal, sitting at his bar, his coat draped heavily over a stool, and looking in dire need of a good talking-to. He leaned over and pressed his fingers to his temples, concentrating hard. "Let me guess. You want . . . Coke! No, wait, wait, that's not right, orange juice. Still wrong? Let me think, then. Could it possibly be . . . beer?"
"Very droll, Joe," Methos said dryly, accepting a bottle just the same. "I've only dropped by to say goodbye."
"Leaving town? Why? I thought you were planning to stay with Mac for a few days. Unless-- Cassandra?"
"How did you-- never mind. Watcher."
"Yeah. I managed to convince her Watcher that you think she's after you to find Methos, but Adam, you'll have to be careful. *She's* not going to be worried about giving you away."
"Moot point, Joe. I'm going to be out of Paris by this time tomorrow. And possibly Bora Bora shortly thereafter."
"And what about the challenge tomorrow morning?"
"Where did you hear that?" Methos asked, getting up.
"My astounding psychic powers?" Joe said gently. "Or maybe the rather worried phone call I got from Mac while you were on your way over here."
"Oh yes," he said, sitting back down and nursing his beer. "Mac the incredibly concerned. I can see how he would be worried about me. Did he mention that he set this challenge up himself? Without, actually, asking my opinion first? Of course. He has every reason to be worried."
"He is," Joe said. "He's afraid you're not thinking straight. That you're going into this challenge ready to lose, that you'll let your guilt over Cassandra outweigh your wish to survive."
Methos snorted derisively. "If Mac thinks that, he clearly doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does."
"Does he," said Joe softly.
"Anyway, he has no reason to worry. Because I'm not going to fight Cassandra. I'm exercising the better part of valor on this one. You can call him back and tell him that after I leave."
"Why not?" Joe asked.
"What?"
"Why aren't you going to fight Cassandra? I mean, you talk a good game, but you've stuck around for much more dangerous fights than this one. I've seen her fight, and I've read her Chronicle. You could beat her with one hand tied behind your back, *and* only your spare dagger against her sword. She's crap at fighting unless she can use her Voice, and Mac'll be there to referee and make sure she doesn't. So why don't you just take her, and get it over with? I mean, if you *don't* feel any guilt or anything, there's no reason to--"
"Because I don't see the need to, okay, Joe? It's totally unnecessary, I don't want to stir up the past again this way, and I don't see why it's Mac's business anyway."
"Because he cares about you?" Joe asked. "Because he wants this to be settled and over with? Have you thought about what he'll be feeling tomorrow when you don't show up, and he won't even know if Cassandra took your head while you were wandering around in a snit tonight, or if you've just taken off again for who-knows-where? And then Mac will be left to deal with Cassandra, who will be angry, and probably won't believe he doesn't know where you are-- unless she manages to talk him into helping her find you again, which given their history is entirely likely--"
"Fine!"' Methos said, snatching up his coat and heading out. "Fine. I'll go back and talk to Mac. Is that what you want? I'll tell him I'm leaving, and why, but that's all. That had better be good enough for you."
"Good enough," Joe murmured, hobbling to the door after him and watching him out of sight. As the old watcher headed back into the bar, he gazed contemplatively up into the sky, seeing the deep, heavy thunderheads which had moved in. "There's a storm blowing up," he added with concern. "I hope he makes it back to the barge all right."
Methos, in fact, was not quite halfway there when the storm broke over him. Sudden pouring rain and lashing winds left him disoriented, the constant flashing and crashing of lightning reminding him unpleasantly of a Quickening. He dashed desperately for a doorway and had almost made it to shelter when a sudden, almost-familiar tingling all over his body made him instinctively look up, and as all the hair on his body stood up, he had just enough time to say "Oh shiii-" before the lightning struck.
He came back to himself, some indefinite time later, feeling as strung out as if he'd recently taken a head while dying, with the buzz of Presence in his mind and a cold blade against his throat. "Are you a good Immortal or a bad Immortal?" someone asked.
Muzzily, he opened his eyes. He was kneeling on the ground, on sparse pale grass spattered with blood. Leaning over him was a beautiful, strong-featured Immortal woman, her dark hair bound around her head. She wore a loose leather tunic, with skirts that were torn and stained and kilted up above her knees, and on a thong around her neck a large shard of crystal. She stood with a fighter's stance and held the other end of the sword which rested against his neck. "Are you a good Immortal or a bad Immortal?" she asked again.
"Generally I just try to mind my own business and stay out of trouble, actually," he said, doing his best 'harmless' impression while he carefully leaned away from the threat and scrabbled with his right hand for his own weapon. A certain tension left him when his fingers closed around the familiar hilt.
The strange woman had meanwhile backed off and resheathed her own blade, giving him a considering look, then nodding to herself. "Well, either way, you killed the little bitch, and I guess that's good enough for me. Pleased to meetcha. Amanda the Entirely Unethical, at your service."
He took the offered hand and stood, prepared to reciprocate, but as he opened his mouth he felt all names suddenly drain away from him. All except for one, which had stayed with him a very long time. "Methos," he offered her in return, not quite sure what he was giving. "I killed someone?"
"Well, I assumed you had. I got a call from Joe's-- the Watcher-- saying a new Immortal was in town and he'd taken out Kristin, finally. And you were here, and she was here, and her head's way over there-- I thought the picture was fairly obvious. Unless you know something different?"
"I don't-- I don't remember," he said. "I-- I might have." He did seem to have vague memories of fighting the woman, but not here, on this blasted-looking steppe. A beach, he thought, and another Immortal watching with sorrow, not this one, although she also seemed somehow familiar. "I don't remember," he repeated. "Something's wrong."
Amanda nodded sagely and patted him on the shoulder, maternal. "Sometimes it takes people like that at first, the Quickening. It'll settle with time."
"Maybe," he said, then they both turned at the familiar sound of hoofbeats on packed earth. Cross-country, a woman riding a pale horse as if she'd been born in the saddle, garbed in flowing white, dark hair streaming behind, and as she rapidly neared, they felt the wavering Immortal signature.
"Damn!" muttered Amanda, stepping in front of him. "It's the other one! Let me take care of this, kid."
"The other one?"
"Yeah. Listen, I don't have time to explain. But that woman whose head you took-- she was one of the two most powerful Immortals in the world. She took out the Champion. The woman coming for us is her sister by blood-oath. And she's several times worse."
The woman, reaching them, reined her horse and stared down at them imperiously. "You killed my sister?" she said, giving Methos a look of deepest contempt. "A brand-new kid?"
"Um, it was an accident?" Methos offered, backing up several steps. "I didn't mean to offend, honestly--"
"He has no quarrel with you, Cassandra," Amanda said, her sword held at the ready between them.
"No? Did he have one with Kristin?" She found her answer in their silences. "I certainly would not be averse to offering him a taste of-- *justice*" she spat, "But I truly only came for my sworn-sister's sword."
All three gazes went as one to the blade laying by the dead woman's hand. Methos shook his head. "That's not Kristin's sword," he said with utter certainty.
"No, it's not," Amanda answered. "And it's not Cassandra's, either. You won the challenge, Methos. Take the sword. It's yours by right."
He looked between the two women, hesitantly, then bent to pick up the sword. It was a Japanese blade, elegantly curved and finely forged, with an ivory hilt carved in a dragon's head, and when he held it, it felt as if it were a part of him. Not familiar, like his old British shortsword, but simply right. Belonging. He smiled, and carried it into an intricate routine just for the sheer joy of watching the sunlight spin along the blade.
Cassandra stared down at him, at the grin on his face, and pressed her lips into a thin line. "Don't think this is over, Amanda. I will get that sword. And your little protege, too."
"I hope you enjoy trying," Amanda replied with a small smile, one hand toying with her necklance.
The witch glowered, then jerked her horse around and galloped back over the horizon.
"Did that go well?" Methos asked after a moment, unbuckling the katana's sheath so he could place it around his own hips, opposite his old sword.
"I'm not sure," Amanda said, with humor in her smile, as she sheathed her own blade. "You've made an enemy, that's certain. But neither of us is dead or enchanted, so it could have gone worse."
"Enchanted?"
"Yes," Amanda said. "That was the Witch of Donan Wood. She controls most of the east, through the power of the Voice, which she uses to bind people to her own will. But she has no dominion in these parts, no more than I do-- this was Kristin's territory."
"I took her head. Does that mean--"
"Do you want it?"
He thought about that for a moment, his hands resting on the ivory hilt of the dragon sword. "No."
"Well, what *do* you want, Methos?" she asked, with an indulgent smile.
"I want to go home," he said. "No, wait. First I want to figure out where home is. Then I want to go home."
Amanda shook her head. "You don't remember where you came from?"
"I don't even know who I *am*."
"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. But you can't stay here, that's for sure." She thought for a second. "Do you have a horse?"
"No--"
"Well, then, you'll have to walk."
"Walk where?"
"To the Blues Place. Joe's. To see the wise and wonderful Watcher himself. He knows everything there is to know about every Immortal who has ever lived. If anyone else can tell you where you really belong, it's him."
"O-kay," Methos said, for lack of a better idea. "How to I get there?"
"It's always best to start at the beginning," Amanda said. She pointed south. "Just follow the Path of Least Resistance."
Methos looked. He could see, now that he was looking, a path that led, mostly straight, along the plain. It was old and crumbling, dark gray like abandoned asphalt. "The Path of Least Resistance. Right." He turned back to Amanda, but she was gone. "Well, that was abrupt," he muttered, shrugged, and started walking.
The country seemed terribly familiar. A rolling steppe covered with tall, dry grasses stretched as far as the eye could see, broken by small stands of persecuted-looking trees. Sometimes animals, horses or deer, were visible against the horizon for a few minutes until they moved on. The road was lined with rounded green mounds, the same as the ones visible in the distance, which probably covered old ruins or great tombs. He felt very young, suddenly; perhaps this was where he had grown up, and that wondering felt familiar, too. Every so often, the desolation was broken by a glimpse of cultivated fields or the low domes of turf huts. Tiny villages sent up thin plumes of smoke from the protection of crumbling henges. He spent the first night in one of the villages; when they saw the swords he was carrying, they welcomed him as a god-hero, as the immortal conqueror of Kristin, and feasted him.
He refused most of their honors (and, with a pang of regret, the young maiden who was offered to warm his bed.) Indeed, it seemed that they were quite accustomed to their immortal gods visiting among them, and only laughed when he said he'd be satisfied with a roof over his head and all the beer he could drink. The beer was true beer, home-brewed with hops; so, he thought, this is after that innovation -- and could not figure out how he had thought that.
He told them that he was going to visit Joe. "The witch Amanda said that he could help me find out where I've come from, and what I'm meant to do."
The village headman nodded sagely. "Amanda's a good 'un. You can can count on her, s'long as you don't try to tie her down. She treats her people right. And the Great and Powerful Joe will set you straight, sure enough. There ain't nothin' *he* can't do. An' you ought to get you name in his Book, either way. "
"Is Joe an Immortal - a god - like Amanda?" Methos asked, curiously.
"No, not - 'zactly." The headman thought for a few seconds, slowly. He'd had more beer than Methos, and didn't have the aid of an Immortal constitution. "But he's special. He came in a flash of light like the fire of the gods, and he remembers the ways of the Old Times, when all men were heroes. His voice is as thunder, and he sees all. He fought Cassandra once, and threw her out of the Blue Place forever. He's the Watcher."
Wolves howled all night beyond the rath.
The next morning he rose early and shared mush at the communal hearth. The villagers estimated that it would be a few days' journey, yet, if he made good time, and didn't fall afoul of misfortune. Nobody volunteered to walk with him. "Only gods and war parties are safe on the high road. There's demons out there, and worse. But you'll be fine; the gods, after all, can only fall in battle, and you are a mighty warrior." Somehow, Methos wasn't reassured. Especially since he still couldn't remember any of his fabled past. For all he knew, he'd had his first death only yesterday and and killed Kristin by mistake.
On the other hand, he couldn't simply stay here. The villagers, friendly as they were, had made it clear that they were not in the market for another local God-king. And he wanted to know where he was, and what was going on, too. This Joe seemed like the best bet for finding out. Curiosity had always been his besetting weakness. Besides, if he didn't find a way home soon, Mac would start worrying like the mother hen he was.
Mac? Methos asked himself, but no face came to his mind: only he found himself clutching the dragon sword, and a sourceless grief washed over him.
The sun sulked all day beneath an overcast, as it had the day before. The road today was much the same, only he seemed to be heading into a more wooded, more settled area. Forests became frequent enough to block the horizon, and the villages were much closer to the old road. Now and then, toward noon, other paths began crossing and intersecting with his, and cows and cultivation were visible more often than not. But for a long time, none of the crossroads were anything near the size or straighness of the Path of Least Resistance.
It was late afternoon when he came to a fork in the road. Both pathways looked the same, each as clear and and well-travelled as the other, and they travelled into a low woodland that was dense enough that he culd not see ahead. There was no signpost of any kind, unless the corpse tied to the tree was meant to tell him something other than the fact that the locals had been very annoyed at someone. He plopped down, considering, and pulled out a water bottle and some of the goat jerky he had been given. He needed the rest anyway; it was centuries since he'd done this sort of serious walking.
... centuries?
"Mac, there's trouble," Methos said.
Duncan put his hand over the mouthpiece. "There's beer in the fridge, I'll be off in a second." Then he added, to the phone, "How do you *accidently* steal a priceless diamond necklace? Well, can't you just give it back then?"
"Cassandra's in Paris. I ran into her on the way here," Methos added conversationally.
"How did it end up at the bottom of Lake Michigan? What do you mean, you're not sure? You stole it, didn't you?"
"She said she's taking my head this time. She only let me go for now because she didn't want you coming after her after. I thought you might like to know, since you were so upset when I didn't tell you last time."
Mac looked up. "Cassandra again? Can't you just stay out of her way? It worked for two thousand years," and then to the phone, "A wolf? What's a wolf doing in Chicago? Right, a half-wolf, that makes a lot more sense."
"Oh, great strategy, Mac. I could never have thought of that myself. And I'd love to know who appointed you my mother, too, especially since you seem to care so much about my welfare."
"Fine, Amanda, I'll post bail. *This* time. But you'd better--" They were interrupted by the feel of anpther Immortal walking up to the barge. "Would you take care of that, Methos, I'll be off the phone in a minute."
"Fine. Don't listen to me, take me for granted, too, why don't you." He stomped back up to the door and slammed it open with his sword in his left hand.
"Methos," Cassandra said sweetly, her own sword hand in her coat. "What a pleasant surprise. Is Mac in? I have something I'd like to tell him."
"Yes," Methos replied. "But he's on the phone with his girlfriend, I'm not sure he'll--"
"He'll talk to me," she said, with infuriating confidence, and swept by him into the boat.
Mac had apparently finished dealing with whatever crisis Amanda was in at the moment. He had his katana out, having sensed the new Immortal presence, but when he saw Cassandra he dropped his guard and smiled in welcome. "Cassandra! A pleasant surprise."
Cassandra nodded stiffly. "I see you are still associating with him."
"Yes. Do you have a problem with that?" he added softly.
"Not at all," she replied. "I'm not your keeper anymore. However, you seem to be his." She shrugged gracefully. "You told me not to kill him at Bordeaux, and I didn't, out of respect for you. But it's not enough, MacLeod. I've come to challenge. I want your word that you won't interfere."
"To Challenge," Duncan said, standing very still. "By the rules of the Game."
"I'll just be over here," Methos said, drifting to the couch and draping his coat across the back. "When you've finished deciding my future for me."
"Yes," she said. "I knew if I simply came for him, your misguided loyalty would lead you out on some ridiculous quest for justice. I wanted to make sure you understood ahead of time. By the rules."
"By the rules."
"I wouldn't have it any other way," she said. "By the rules. You can't interfere."
"No," Duncan said, softly.
"I'm not going let you fight me, Cassandra," Methos said.
"You have to. It's the Game," she answered.
"I don't give a flying fuck about the Game. Or the Rules."
"No," she said. "But Mac does."
"Mac--" Methos said. "She'll listen to you."
Mac closed his eyes and sighed wearily. "Cassandra, he doesn't want to fight you. There's no need for this, and you're both too valuable to lose. You lived with it for two thousand years--"
"Don't you dare compare him to me!" she spat. "I could live with it when I thought he was dead. He's been alive, all this time, living well. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? Can you?"
"No," MacLeod said. "I can't. I don't think I want to be able to. I know it still hurts, the memory. But you have to let go of it, Cassandra. At least a little. What if he promised to stay away from you? Never come near you again? So you wouldn't have to be reminded--"
"That's not good enough, MacLeod. It's not just a memory. It's part of who I am. The same way your Glenfinnan is a part of you. This is my right, MacLeod. According to the Game, and according to justice. Do you deny it?"
"No," Mac said, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. "No. There is no other way?"
"He accepts the challenge, or I find some other way to take his head."
"All right."
"Mac!" Methos said. "What are you--"
"He accepts the challenge. When and where?"
"Dawn tomorrow. The empty Rainbow Shipping warehouse. You know it?"
"Yes. He'll be there."
"It's settled then."
"No it is *not*!" Methos said hotly. "Don't I get any say in this?"
"No," said Cassandra. "Hasta manana, Death," she spat, and left.
"Mac, what the hell did you think you were doing?" Methos yelled as soon as her Presence had faded. "You were supposed to talk her out of it!"
"She challenged according to the Rules, Methos," Mac said, arms crossed stubbornly. "She's within her rights."
"And do you really think she'll fight fair?"
"I think she's as likely to fight fair as you are. Which makes it an even match in my book."
"Fine," Methos said, stalking away to pick up his coat. "Sure. Whatever. I guess I have no choice then."
"Methos?" Mac moved in front of the door. "What are you doing?"
"Leaving."
"Where?"
"I don't see that that's any of your business, Mac. Or maybe Cassandra is right, and you are my keeper?"
"I-- of course not." he said, and grudgingly let Methos by. "Just-- you're not going to leave town, are you."
"Of course not," Methos replied glibly. "I just want to spend my last night on Earth somewhere pleasant," he added as he left.
"Methos! You're not going to die!" Duncan called after him futilely, then whispered, "Damn."
This early in the evening, Le Blues Bar was mostly quiet. Joe Dawson, bartender and Watcher, looked up to see his old friend Adam Pierson, aka Methos, the World's Oldest Immortal, sitting at his bar, his coat draped heavily over a stool, and looking in dire need of a good talking-to. He leaned over and pressed his fingers to his temples, concentrating hard. "Let me guess. You want . . . Coke! No, wait, wait, that's not right, orange juice. Still wrong? Let me think, then. Could it possibly be . . . beer?"
"Very droll, Joe," Methos said dryly, accepting a bottle just the same. "I've only dropped by to say goodbye."
"Leaving town? Why? I thought you were planning to stay with Mac for a few days. Unless-- Cassandra?"
"How did you-- never mind. Watcher."
"Yeah. I managed to convince her Watcher that you think she's after you to find Methos, but Adam, you'll have to be careful. *She's* not going to be worried about giving you away."
"Moot point, Joe. I'm going to be out of Paris by this time tomorrow. And possibly Bora Bora shortly thereafter."
"And what about the challenge tomorrow morning?"
"Where did you hear that?" Methos asked, getting up.
"My astounding psychic powers?" Joe said gently. "Or maybe the rather worried phone call I got from Mac while you were on your way over here."
"Oh yes," he said, sitting back down and nursing his beer. "Mac the incredibly concerned. I can see how he would be worried about me. Did he mention that he set this challenge up himself? Without, actually, asking my opinion first? Of course. He has every reason to be worried."
"He is," Joe said. "He's afraid you're not thinking straight. That you're going into this challenge ready to lose, that you'll let your guilt over Cassandra outweigh your wish to survive."
Methos snorted derisively. "If Mac thinks that, he clearly doesn't know me as well as he thinks he does."
"Does he," said Joe softly.
"Anyway, he has no reason to worry. Because I'm not going to fight Cassandra. I'm exercising the better part of valor on this one. You can call him back and tell him that after I leave."
"Why not?" Joe asked.
"What?"
"Why aren't you going to fight Cassandra? I mean, you talk a good game, but you've stuck around for much more dangerous fights than this one. I've seen her fight, and I've read her Chronicle. You could beat her with one hand tied behind your back, *and* only your spare dagger against her sword. She's crap at fighting unless she can use her Voice, and Mac'll be there to referee and make sure she doesn't. So why don't you just take her, and get it over with? I mean, if you *don't* feel any guilt or anything, there's no reason to--"
"Because I don't see the need to, okay, Joe? It's totally unnecessary, I don't want to stir up the past again this way, and I don't see why it's Mac's business anyway."
"Because he cares about you?" Joe asked. "Because he wants this to be settled and over with? Have you thought about what he'll be feeling tomorrow when you don't show up, and he won't even know if Cassandra took your head while you were wandering around in a snit tonight, or if you've just taken off again for who-knows-where? And then Mac will be left to deal with Cassandra, who will be angry, and probably won't believe he doesn't know where you are-- unless she manages to talk him into helping her find you again, which given their history is entirely likely--"
"Fine!"' Methos said, snatching up his coat and heading out. "Fine. I'll go back and talk to Mac. Is that what you want? I'll tell him I'm leaving, and why, but that's all. That had better be good enough for you."
"Good enough," Joe murmured, hobbling to the door after him and watching him out of sight. As the old watcher headed back into the bar, he gazed contemplatively up into the sky, seeing the deep, heavy thunderheads which had moved in. "There's a storm blowing up," he added with concern. "I hope he makes it back to the barge all right."
Methos, in fact, was not quite halfway there when the storm broke over him. Sudden pouring rain and lashing winds left him disoriented, the constant flashing and crashing of lightning reminding him unpleasantly of a Quickening. He dashed desperately for a doorway and had almost made it to shelter when a sudden, almost-familiar tingling all over his body made him instinctively look up, and as all the hair on his body stood up, he had just enough time to say "Oh shiii-" before the lightning struck.
He came back to himself, some indefinite time later, feeling as strung out as if he'd recently taken a head while dying, with the buzz of Presence in his mind and a cold blade against his throat. "Are you a good Immortal or a bad Immortal?" someone asked.
Muzzily, he opened his eyes. He was kneeling on the ground, on sparse pale grass spattered with blood. Leaning over him was a beautiful, strong-featured Immortal woman, her dark hair bound around her head. She wore a loose leather tunic, with skirts that were torn and stained and kilted up above her knees, and on a thong around her neck a large shard of crystal. She stood with a fighter's stance and held the other end of the sword which rested against his neck. "Are you a good Immortal or a bad Immortal?" she asked again.
"Generally I just try to mind my own business and stay out of trouble, actually," he said, doing his best 'harmless' impression while he carefully leaned away from the threat and scrabbled with his right hand for his own weapon. A certain tension left him when his fingers closed around the familiar hilt.
The strange woman had meanwhile backed off and resheathed her own blade, giving him a considering look, then nodding to herself. "Well, either way, you killed the little bitch, and I guess that's good enough for me. Pleased to meetcha. Amanda the Entirely Unethical, at your service."
He took the offered hand and stood, prepared to reciprocate, but as he opened his mouth he felt all names suddenly drain away from him. All except for one, which had stayed with him a very long time. "Methos," he offered her in return, not quite sure what he was giving. "I killed someone?"
"Well, I assumed you had. I got a call from Joe's-- the Watcher-- saying a new Immortal was in town and he'd taken out Kristin, finally. And you were here, and she was here, and her head's way over there-- I thought the picture was fairly obvious. Unless you know something different?"
"I don't-- I don't remember," he said. "I-- I might have." He did seem to have vague memories of fighting the woman, but not here, on this blasted-looking steppe. A beach, he thought, and another Immortal watching with sorrow, not this one, although she also seemed somehow familiar. "I don't remember," he repeated. "Something's wrong."
Amanda nodded sagely and patted him on the shoulder, maternal. "Sometimes it takes people like that at first, the Quickening. It'll settle with time."
"Maybe," he said, then they both turned at the familiar sound of hoofbeats on packed earth. Cross-country, a woman riding a pale horse as if she'd been born in the saddle, garbed in flowing white, dark hair streaming behind, and as she rapidly neared, they felt the wavering Immortal signature.
"Damn!" muttered Amanda, stepping in front of him. "It's the other one! Let me take care of this, kid."
"The other one?"
"Yeah. Listen, I don't have time to explain. But that woman whose head you took-- she was one of the two most powerful Immortals in the world. She took out the Champion. The woman coming for us is her sister by blood-oath. And she's several times worse."
The woman, reaching them, reined her horse and stared down at them imperiously. "You killed my sister?" she said, giving Methos a look of deepest contempt. "A brand-new kid?"
"Um, it was an accident?" Methos offered, backing up several steps. "I didn't mean to offend, honestly--"
"He has no quarrel with you, Cassandra," Amanda said, her sword held at the ready between them.
"No? Did he have one with Kristin?" She found her answer in their silences. "I certainly would not be averse to offering him a taste of-- *justice*" she spat, "But I truly only came for my sworn-sister's sword."
All three gazes went as one to the blade laying by the dead woman's hand. Methos shook his head. "That's not Kristin's sword," he said with utter certainty.
"No, it's not," Amanda answered. "And it's not Cassandra's, either. You won the challenge, Methos. Take the sword. It's yours by right."
He looked between the two women, hesitantly, then bent to pick up the sword. It was a Japanese blade, elegantly curved and finely forged, with an ivory hilt carved in a dragon's head, and when he held it, it felt as if it were a part of him. Not familiar, like his old British shortsword, but simply right. Belonging. He smiled, and carried it into an intricate routine just for the sheer joy of watching the sunlight spin along the blade.
Cassandra stared down at him, at the grin on his face, and pressed her lips into a thin line. "Don't think this is over, Amanda. I will get that sword. And your little protege, too."
"I hope you enjoy trying," Amanda replied with a small smile, one hand toying with her necklance.
The witch glowered, then jerked her horse around and galloped back over the horizon.
"Did that go well?" Methos asked after a moment, unbuckling the katana's sheath so he could place it around his own hips, opposite his old sword.
"I'm not sure," Amanda said, with humor in her smile, as she sheathed her own blade. "You've made an enemy, that's certain. But neither of us is dead or enchanted, so it could have gone worse."
"Enchanted?"
"Yes," Amanda said. "That was the Witch of Donan Wood. She controls most of the east, through the power of the Voice, which she uses to bind people to her own will. But she has no dominion in these parts, no more than I do-- this was Kristin's territory."
"I took her head. Does that mean--"
"Do you want it?"
He thought about that for a moment, his hands resting on the ivory hilt of the dragon sword. "No."
"Well, what *do* you want, Methos?" she asked, with an indulgent smile.
"I want to go home," he said. "No, wait. First I want to figure out where home is. Then I want to go home."
Amanda shook her head. "You don't remember where you came from?"
"I don't even know who I *am*."
"Well, I'm afraid I can't help you there. But you can't stay here, that's for sure." She thought for a second. "Do you have a horse?"
"No--"
"Well, then, you'll have to walk."
"Walk where?"
"To the Blues Place. Joe's. To see the wise and wonderful Watcher himself. He knows everything there is to know about every Immortal who has ever lived. If anyone else can tell you where you really belong, it's him."
"O-kay," Methos said, for lack of a better idea. "How to I get there?"
"It's always best to start at the beginning," Amanda said. She pointed south. "Just follow the Path of Least Resistance."
Methos looked. He could see, now that he was looking, a path that led, mostly straight, along the plain. It was old and crumbling, dark gray like abandoned asphalt. "The Path of Least Resistance. Right." He turned back to Amanda, but she was gone. "Well, that was abrupt," he muttered, shrugged, and started walking.
The country seemed terribly familiar. A rolling steppe covered with tall, dry grasses stretched as far as the eye could see, broken by small stands of persecuted-looking trees. Sometimes animals, horses or deer, were visible against the horizon for a few minutes until they moved on. The road was lined with rounded green mounds, the same as the ones visible in the distance, which probably covered old ruins or great tombs. He felt very young, suddenly; perhaps this was where he had grown up, and that wondering felt familiar, too. Every so often, the desolation was broken by a glimpse of cultivated fields or the low domes of turf huts. Tiny villages sent up thin plumes of smoke from the protection of crumbling henges. He spent the first night in one of the villages; when they saw the swords he was carrying, they welcomed him as a god-hero, as the immortal conqueror of Kristin, and feasted him.
He refused most of their honors (and, with a pang of regret, the young maiden who was offered to warm his bed.) Indeed, it seemed that they were quite accustomed to their immortal gods visiting among them, and only laughed when he said he'd be satisfied with a roof over his head and all the beer he could drink. The beer was true beer, home-brewed with hops; so, he thought, this is after that innovation -- and could not figure out how he had thought that.
He told them that he was going to visit Joe. "The witch Amanda said that he could help me find out where I've come from, and what I'm meant to do."
The village headman nodded sagely. "Amanda's a good 'un. You can can count on her, s'long as you don't try to tie her down. She treats her people right. And the Great and Powerful Joe will set you straight, sure enough. There ain't nothin' *he* can't do. An' you ought to get you name in his Book, either way. "
"Is Joe an Immortal - a god - like Amanda?" Methos asked, curiously.
"No, not - 'zactly." The headman thought for a few seconds, slowly. He'd had more beer than Methos, and didn't have the aid of an Immortal constitution. "But he's special. He came in a flash of light like the fire of the gods, and he remembers the ways of the Old Times, when all men were heroes. His voice is as thunder, and he sees all. He fought Cassandra once, and threw her out of the Blue Place forever. He's the Watcher."
Wolves howled all night beyond the rath.
The next morning he rose early and shared mush at the communal hearth. The villagers estimated that it would be a few days' journey, yet, if he made good time, and didn't fall afoul of misfortune. Nobody volunteered to walk with him. "Only gods and war parties are safe on the high road. There's demons out there, and worse. But you'll be fine; the gods, after all, can only fall in battle, and you are a mighty warrior." Somehow, Methos wasn't reassured. Especially since he still couldn't remember any of his fabled past. For all he knew, he'd had his first death only yesterday and and killed Kristin by mistake.
On the other hand, he couldn't simply stay here. The villagers, friendly as they were, had made it clear that they were not in the market for another local God-king. And he wanted to know where he was, and what was going on, too. This Joe seemed like the best bet for finding out. Curiosity had always been his besetting weakness. Besides, if he didn't find a way home soon, Mac would start worrying like the mother hen he was.
Mac? Methos asked himself, but no face came to his mind: only he found himself clutching the dragon sword, and a sourceless grief washed over him.
The sun sulked all day beneath an overcast, as it had the day before. The road today was much the same, only he seemed to be heading into a more wooded, more settled area. Forests became frequent enough to block the horizon, and the villages were much closer to the old road. Now and then, toward noon, other paths began crossing and intersecting with his, and cows and cultivation were visible more often than not. But for a long time, none of the crossroads were anything near the size or straighness of the Path of Least Resistance.
It was late afternoon when he came to a fork in the road. Both pathways looked the same, each as clear and and well-travelled as the other, and they travelled into a low woodland that was dense enough that he culd not see ahead. There was no signpost of any kind, unless the corpse tied to the tree was meant to tell him something other than the fact that the locals had been very annoyed at someone. He plopped down, considering, and pulled out a water bottle and some of the goat jerky he had been given. He needed the rest anyway; it was centuries since he'd done this sort of serious walking.
... centuries?