THE ELIZABETH SERIES
CHAPTER EIGHT
ORIGINS: A TEACHER, HIS WIFE, A BUTCHER IN THE WOODS, A
COMMON THIEF, AND A MAN WHO MOURNED A COW
By JoLayne
EnyaJo@aol.com

RATING: ADULT - If you're too young, hit the back button right this
minute. You've been warned.
SUMMARY: After Elizabeth only found out Methos' name, nothing else
and left him in Sintra, Methos came to New York to talk sense into
Elizabeth. Then, Methos reminisces about his origins.
DISCLAIMER: All disclaimers from Chapter One still apply.

~~~~~

FEBRUARY 13, 2001
NEW YORK CITY
SHERATON MANHATTAN

After leaving his Adam Pierson persona behind, Methos dipped into the
money he'd amassed throughout his life and splurged for the first time in
over 15 years. He went on a spending spree, from the Bizzarrini and
Casa Segura in Portugal, to the hotels he stayed in. He even purchased an
expensive cologne just that morning. He went into a men's store he
happened to walk by to see if he could find something more comfortable to
wear than the suit he wore to meet with Martin and more dressy than jeans
or cords to sweep Elizabeth off her feet. But, he didn't like anything he
saw. He remembered her comments about his looks in that tuxedo at
Amy's wedding, had the fleeting thought of renting another one. In the
end he just bought the cologne because the salesman spent two hours with
him and Methos felt he should toss him a bone. As he walked out of the
store, he decided that if Elizabeth didn't like his clothes, the clothes that he
was comfortable in, that was her problem.

When Elizabeth entered the suite, not as big and garish as the St. Regis,
but a suite none the less, she shed her coat and walked over to the floor to
ceiling window, to look out at the city she loved. Except for being at the
top of the Empire State Building, she'd never seen her city from that angle,
that high up. Methos approached her from behind. Pulling her eyes from
the view, she asked him, "Was this the destination all along?"

He smiled, gluing her to the spot... "We could still go see Joe. If you want.
I can finally meet Caroline properly. If you want."

All choices were hers? She smiled. But there wasn't anywhere she'd rather
be than right there on that spot. "Caroline's nice," she mumbled, not sure
she could peel herself away from the view, or from the man just inches
behind her. She had spent the time away from him trying to forget him and
move on, but it was impossible. 

So many questions burned in her mind. Why did he have to be covert
about his name, life, everything? Where had he been? Just how much
money did he have that he could afford such surroundings? He didn't do
anything steady for a living, how did he support himself? Why was he so
concerned about immortals that secrecy was his only option? Who could
possibly want his head when being in his presence was like a gift? Just
how old was he? What kind of a name was Methos? She'd tried to look it
up on search strings on the net, in libraries, 'Name Your Baby' books, she
never found a clue. She didn't even know what nationality it could be
considered part of.

People could still be seen under the streetlights scampering around Times
Square down on the street below her. The view was magical with the lights
of the city sparkling, seemingly, only for her benefit. She could see
Madison Square Garden way off in the distance. There was a rock concert
that evening and the place was hopping. She had her hands at shoulder
level on the glass of the window like a child would stand in front of an ice
cream counter.

Methos took a wavy tendril of her hair in his hand and rolled it across his
fingers with his thumb, lightly so she couldn't feel it, wouldn't make him
stop. He loved his time in Sintra, but the only thing missing was her.
When he was near her, touching her, he was breathing easier. He knew she
would take on the care of him again if he gave her the chance.

She turned to look at him, smiled, "It's beautiful."

He took the opportunity to put his hands on her shoulders. Then, he moved
his hands down her arms, then around her stomach, laid his cheek against
her head and breathed her in. That was the smell he missed. It was her
perfume; with a hint of jasmine. He felt her hands touch his, directing one
of his hands up and the other down.

She leaned back against his shoulder as he flipped open a button on her
blouse and put his hand in the opening. He  unsnapped the bra's front
hook  and caressed her soft breast, pushed on her nipple like it was a
button, then pulled it. She was lost. When she leaned forward towards the
chill of the window, he leaned with her, trapping her against it.

His other hand he moved down, to her thighs gathering the material of her
skirt in his hand. When he reached the hem, he flipped his hand
underneath the garment and moved her panty to the side. 

The smoothness of his motions was electrifying, he certainly knew what he
was doing. Elizabeth just leaned against the window and submitted. His
other hand popped buttons off her blouse and changed to the other breast,
her shirt completely open, she untucked it from the skirt. He nuzzled her
neck, licked behind her ear, making goose bumps appear on her neck, 
shoulders and arms, while his hand found just the right spot beside her
clit to massage. 

The fact that her chest was exposed to anyone with the inclination to look
at the window didn't disturb her in the least. She banged her hands against
the glass, ready to explode. It seemed like years since he had last touched
her, moved inside her. She cried and moaned at the familiarity of the
feelings; feelings  that she had wanted constantly and thought never to
experience again. 

She wanted to please him as much as she was being taken care of, but
when she moved to turn, he kept her against the cool window, his weight,
heavy and strong against her. As he slipped his fingers inside her, all she
could do was moan. Elizabeth looked out at the city that she loved and
tried to verbalize her pleasure to him, but couldn't make one blessed,
coherent sound. 

She was so wet and could feel his grown member against her ass.
Reaching behind her, she got a fistful of his coat, felt the sharp edge of his
Ivanhoe. Laying her head against the glass, she pushed the coat back, away
from her, searching for the zipper of his jeans. He was crushed against her,
she didn't have the strength or the constitution to move him back because
he might stop what he was doing to her. She followed his arm to his
elbow, then his forearm to his wrist, finally touching the hand, pushing
and pulling his fingers in and out of her. 

"David," she finally uttered.

He leaned his head against hers and said, "What?"

"Don't stop. What ever you do, don't stop."

He smiled and bit at her ear, "Does that feel good?" 

"Oh, Jesus..."

He rubbed himself against her. His bulge was huge, too much for the space
his jeans provided. When her hands again found their way around his coat
and sword, he lifted back from her just enough to allow her to pull the
zipper down. Like a jack in the box, he flew out of the small confines. She
took him in her hand and rubbed her thumb along his shaft. For the first
time, he couldn't utter a word, lost control, grunting in her ear.

Enough was enough for him, he took his hands back to get rid of his jeans.
They undressed themselves as they moved through the moonlit room
toward the bed. He was done first, laid back, waited for her to join him,
stroked himself to keep the heat going until she got to him. He looked up
at her at the side of the bed wondering what was taking her so long. She
was having trouble with the skirt's zipper. "Damn it!" Frustrated as she
yanked at the old zipper in the crappy vintage skirt she thought looked
good in the second hand shop and couldn't live without. 

"Never mind it," he said, pulling her on top of him.  

She pulled the skirt up and her garter belt down, along with the hose. He
grabbed them and tossed them in the air. Then grabbed her, turned her
over on her back and stuck his cock in with a move so smooth, so swift,
she cried out. Searing pain cursed through her lower body  only making 
her want more. He kissed and licked her chest as he ground in and out of
her. 

Methos moved so powerfully he lost his footing on the bed. "Come on,"
Elizabeth quietly, quickly commanded. She flipped them over and sat,
lifted and sat. Methos reached for the inconvenient skirt and ripped it off
her. She put her head back, rubbed his chest with one hand and put the
other arm behind her on the bed, for leverage.  Methos sat up and caressed
her arched back as he munched on her breast, sucked on her nipple, pulled
at it with his teeth. He bit down too hard, that made Elizabeth yell. 

She pulled herself up and wrapped her arms around his head. He lifted his
chin making her arms fall to his shoulders. He watched her as she rose and
fell on his lap. They both shuttered as they began to reach the heights of
climax. 

She pulled at his hips to help get him as high into her as possible. He
turned them back to the bed and stayed on top of her, found his footing
and plunged in and out as deep and fast as he could. Elizabeth gasped with
every thrust. It had been too long since he heard that sound, too long since
he received gratification from her. Too damn long. He still didn't quite
understand how she could have left him in the first place.

Methos felt himself release and flow into her, he stayed put, wiggled his
hips as he kept himself in as far as he could. Elizabeth enjoyed his effort.
A+ for sure, but she didn't want to experience all of him, for fear that she
wouldn't be able to let him go... and she would have to. When he laid his
head on hers, she turned her head to the side, which only made Methos
lick behind her ear again.  His actions only made her wish to lose any and
all doubt she may have about him; thinking she  would do or be anything
he wanted. Slowly, he shrank.

After he slid out of her and laid on his back, he lifted her with him. She
laid her head on his chest, held him tightly as she gained control of her
breathing. Remembered sadly, how it was for them in Sintra, before she
found out the half truth about him. Only then, with his arms around her did
she realize it might have all been her fault. Why did she have to be so
impetuous and take off? But it was like pulling teeth to get anything out of
him before Amanda said his name, his true name. Then he just sat there
like a stone when she asked him about it. 

Maybe things could go back to the way they were in Sintra. They could
talk. He could tell her about his past. She could trust him again,
understand who he was and why he didn't want to divulge anything.
 she thought.  It took all her willpower and
strength to pull herself out of bed, away from him. 

Methos' fingers slipped through her hair as she got up, he took her arm
and lightly asked, "Where are you going?"

"I have to go to the bathroom."

"Isn't it a powder room?" When she shut the door behind her, he said,
"Don't be too long." He laid on his back, rubbed his stomach, pleased with
himself and the outcome of his journey back to her door. A chill was in the
air, so he grabbed the covers and pulled them over him. 

Elizabeth came out of the bathroom, and instead of returning to Methos'
side, which he fully expected her to do, she slipped on her underwear and
found her hose, with runs, still hooked to the garter belt. Inspected her torn
skirt. Could the zipper be fixed? She couldn't tell in the darkness.

Methos was squinting, trying to figure it out. "What are you doing?"

"I have to get home before the buses stop running."

"No, you don't," he chuckled.

"I have to work tomorrow. Not everyone can afford not to work. Where's
my bra?"

She walked into the front room and looked under furniture, in the corner.
When she turned on a lamp, Methos stood at the doorway. When she
noticed his naked form, she had to catch her breath again, he was too
much, "I sank a lot of money into a house I'm never going to lay eyes on
again, I have to replenish my savings."

"I told you I'd buy the damn house."

"Then pay me back for my half of it."

"No. It's ours, together."

She found her bra draped over the leaves of the potted plant by the
window and put it on. Seeing the condition of her blouse, she glared at
David, then found a couple of buttons on the floor. She put them in her
purse along with the skirt and hose. 

Because they got busy as soon as they walked in the door of the hotel
room and hadn't turned the heat up, Methos got chilled standing there
naked, so he pulled on his jeans and sweater. When he got back out to the
'living room', she was belting her buttoned up coat. Methos smiled, shook
his head. "Enough with the charade, Liz. You're acting like you actually
intend to leave."

"Good night, David."

He stopped her at the door, leaning his body against hers, trapping her
against the wall. "That's enough," he whispered in her ear. "If you aren't
going to ask me, I'll just tell you. I know you're interested because you're
here. I'm Methos."

"Yeah," she was surprised to hear it said again. "That's what I found out."

Because his name didn't seem to register, he incredulously asked, "Don't
you know what that means?"

How was it supposed to mean anything? She couldn't find it in any source
material she looked up and because it was so important to him, she
didn't want to ask anyone, although she had almost asked Joe. But they
would have probably gotten into a long talk, and she wanted to forget
David, not dwell on him and how far away from her he was. "It has more
meaning than your name?"

"What kind of teacher did you have?"

She spun around, taking offense, "I had--."

"Hotohke didn't tell you about Methos?"

"No. Why would he have?"

"You've never heard of Methos? In all your years?" He just couldn't get
over the concept.

"I tended to stay away from immortals. I only knew shit heads." Logan,
Dieterle... "Until I met you, Duncan and Amanda and now Cassandra and
Liam."

He tensed up upon hearing the name of his former slave. Then he
remembered he was going to tell her everything. Well, almost anything.
The Horsemen and Cassandra were off limits. Cassandra didn't blab, did
she? No. Discussing her time with the horsemen would hardly be at  the
top of her small talk list. He then noticed Elizabeth had dropped her hand
from the door and was waiting. He took a deep breath and started, "I was
born... over 5000 years ago." Her eyes popped, glaring at him. 

He stopped her barrage before she could accuse him of lying again. "It's
true. That's why I never told you! Listen to me." He quieted his voice not
knowing how thick the walls were. "I'm 5000 years old. I'm Methos.
Everyone knows who I am. I'm the oldest immortal in existence. I have to
protect my head. I don't go around telling everyone I meet all about me,
it's been ingrained in me... for the last 2500 years I've be on guard
against anyone with a gleam in their eye over the thought of my
quickening."

He really wasn't anything like the man she thought he was. To come up
with this, and seem so convincing, "Over the thought of your quickening?
Is that what you thought I wanted? I guess you don't know me at all." She
sized up the man who was suddenly more foreign to her than ever before.
"I don't know what kind of joke you're trying to pull. You can't... that's
impossible." She looked him up and down. "You're too tall... I've seen
mummies from 3000, 4000 years ago and their ears are attached all the
way down to their chins."

"My history is something I take very seriously, Liz. I do not joke about it. I
was born in what is now called Finland. I don't know the exact date, there
was no calendar at the time." Her hand was on the doorknob again, so  he
quickly said, "I don't want this to all come out in haste just to stop you
from walking out that door. My life deserves better than that."

When he stepped back, she didn't move. She was intrigued by what he was
telling her. 5000 years? As he opened his bag and sifted through it, she
looked at him as if she'd never seen him before. The man was born in or
around 3000 BC? He'd lived longer before the birth of Christ than after?
Some of his habits and certain word phrases he chose were a little off,
less than modern, but she'd never dreamed the reason for it. Here she
thought 800 years, what he had told her before leaving New York together,
was a hell of a long time. Finland? Where did he pick up his accent? Then,
she thought that he had probably lived in many cultures and spoke many
languages, had many accents.

Methos pulled a small pouch out of his bag. One that she'd seen before.
She'd found it in the safe at the house. Wondered what it was, but just put
it back without opening it, thinking he would one day tell her. She was
suddenly shocked; that day had arrived.

Methos motioned for her to take a seat on the couch, "This could take a
while." After she did, he made one last estimation of whether or not this
was the right thing to do, he decided it was and opened the hermetic seal.
Inside the pouch was a loop of pounded metal hung on a long, tied strip of
leather. Methos displayed it to her as if it was the holy grail itself. "This is
the most important material thing I have ever possessed." When he sat
beside her and placed the ring and strap in her hand, she saw that the ring
looked very old, used, had been worn. Was it his mother's? His wife's?
His? 

The leather cord draped through her fingers. The ring was unmistakably
gold and seemed to have been formed by pounding which produced an
interesting dimpled pattern. "Gold was  readily used in 3000 BC?"

"This is from around that time, yes."

"What is it?" 

"It's the only thing I have left of my teacher."

Like her soul catcher. She had told him all about that soul catcher, what it
meant to her, what her teacher meant to her... and he sat there silent, even
though this was in the safe in the other room. Renewed disappointment at
his silence rushed through her, but she suffocated it by rubbing her finger
along the metal ring. It was for a small finger. A very small finger. She
didn't think she could even get it on her pinkie. "My teacher, Hazimil,"
Methos continued, then visibly reacted to the sound of his voice, the first
time in thousands of years that he verbalized his name.

"Hazimil? A woman?"

"A man. A very good man. I called him Haz," Methos' smile grew, happy
to talk about the man again with someone. "This was his last wife's
wedding ring. Her name was Meletta."

Still fumbling with the ring, she said, "She was very delicate."

"She was gorgeous," Methos leaned back, smiling at the remembrance of
his daughter, then friend, then rival for Haz's affections. "She had long
brown, curly hair, really curly. Deep brown eyes, skin as smooth as
porcelain, but the color of caramel. I remember her laugh," Methos
grinned, practically able to hear it. "It was low, almost guttural. It was so
odd, because her voice was light and airy."

"Was she immortal?"

"No, but they were married for a long time. Her brown hair had turned
silver by the time she died of fever. We all traveled in this big wagon," he
said, picturing it in his mind. "Haz and I wandered for years while he
trained me. We happened upon Mesopotamia, discovered writing. We
were instrumental in creating the King's List."

She looked at him with a sense of wonder. "The King's List? Get outta
here," she lightly said, but he seemed to be speaking the truth.

"Haz and I and a few other guys spent years researching, interviewing,
writing."

"You're saying you developed Sumerian history?"

Methos nodded seriously. "I've been many things, Elizabeth. We had all
these kids with us. That was the first time I wondered if I'd ever have the
opportunity to raise one of my own."

"A child? You want a child?"

He shrugged, "I've thought about it. Haven't you? Then the urge goes
away as soon as I actually see one." 

Would wonders ever cease... she didn't know what to think about the man
who sat beside her, convinced he was 5000 years old. 

Methos' finger brushed against Meletta's ring in Liz's hand. He allowed
Duncan MacLeod and Joe to think he didn't remember anything that far
back. At times, he wondered what they thought of him when he'd tell them
he couldn't remember what he was before his first death, didn't remember
his teacher. They must have thought he was crazy. How could you forget
elemental things? It wasn't a memory on a par with what you had for
breakfast on a Tuesday in December in 1082. Sure, most centuries were
hazy, but there were four certain days that he remembered as if they were
yesterday; when he put his mind to thinking about them.

~~~~~

SUMERIA 2890 BC   

Meletta was sick in the back of the wagon. The fever wasn't breaking.
Hazimil stopped the wagon and he and Methos built a make-shift tent and
comfortable bed for her, with straw and pillows.  Hazimil, the gangly,
young in appearance, 1300 year old man, sat at her bedside for three days.
He couldn't be talked into sleeping, eating or talking. Haz just watched his
wife try to beat off the infection she had picked up and couldn't shake. All
the medicine men and potions from reputed healers didn't work. Prayer
failed her. His immortality, which he would willingly  transfer to her at a
moment's notice, was useless.

Methos walked into the tent and put his hand on Hazimil's shoulder. He
gave him a piece of bread. "You must eat."

"Her fire is going out, Methos," Hazimil shook his head, staring at his
wife. "There is not one thing I can do for her." He wiped at the sweat on
her forehead with a rag. "What am I to do? Where am I to go? Our
children have grown and moved on. Meletta is my life, Methos, and I can't
save her."

Methos had traveled with Hazimil for 153 years. They'd both seen women
come and go, men come and go, they had lived with them, loved them,
then watched them die. In the end, Methos and Hazimil loved only each
other. Until Meletta. That female affected Hazimil more than any other
could. But there'd be another for Haz,  Methos was sure of that. He just
needed time. 

Methos smiled as he remembered the young Meletta. She was a spit fire.
She did know how to take care of her husband. There were times when
Methos had felt intense jealousy  during the 60 years they traveled
together. Every thought Hazimil had during that time consisted of Meletta
and what was best for her. Then, of Meletta and the children she had with
other men. Hazimil wanted everything for her; so when he told her he
couldn't possibly give her children, they looked for men who could. 

Methos remembered when they found Meletta as a baby. They raised her
together, but from the beginning , Hazimil looked at her as if she had been
put on earth only for him. When she turned 10 years old, he married her. 

Methos didn't like the idea that Hazimil thought his life was over because
hers was winding down. "She had a good life," Methos said as he sat by
Hazimil's side. "She's going to do what every mortal eventually does. She
is going to die and you are going to live on. She loves you very much.
That's what you must live for, Haz. Continue to be what she helped
develop in you."

Hazimil looked at his student for the first time since Methos entered the
tent, "Are you trying to be my teacher?"

"I am your best friend."

Meletta stirred and weakly smiled at her husband and their best friend.
When she raised her hand, Hazimil grabbed it and held it tenderly to his
face. Her ring twisted on her finger as her hand wiped at his tears. "Be
strong, my love," she smiled to him. "I want you to do something for me."

"Anything Meletta, you know that."

"I want..." she was stopped by a violent coughing fit. Hazimil could do
nothing but hold her hand and catch the mucus that came out of her mouth
with the rag. When she silenced, he leaned over and kissed her. 

She weakly held his face close to hers and whispered, "Be strong. Live.
Live for me. Survive. You have to fight and survive." 

Hazimil lightly laid his head on hers and closed his eyes, concentrated. It
was his last ditch effort to transfer a spark of energy into her. She closed
her eyes and said, "Thank you for my life. For my wonderful life."

Methos sat back and watched as Meletta's feverish panting stopped.
Silence filled the air,  Hazimil opened his eyes and moaned, held her hand
tightly as he realized she was dead. 

Methos lowered his head to honor her and let the sadness wash over him.
Hazimil's soft gasps turned into full wails; he would have nothing to do
with Methos' comfort. Pushed him away. Hazimil pulled the pounded ring
off her finger and kissed her hand that was already growing cold. "You
will always be in my heart," he promised her as he stood. 

Methos watched him walk out of the tent and then looked at the woman
who he had seen grow up, live, grow old, die. That giggling baby Methos
vividly remembered and they had raised was now an old woman laying on
that mound of straw and pillows. It was so odd for Methos. Meletta was in
essence, his and Haz's child. They raised her, loved her, equally. But his
paternal instincts for the girl ceased when she and Hazimil forged a life
together. From that point on, she was Methos' teacher's wife and nothing
more. Taking the place at her side that Hazimil had just vacated, Methos
touched her hand for the last time. He kissed her cheek for the last time.
He looked at her gloriously wrinkled face for the last time and was happy
for her life. Her wonderful life as she herself had put it. She earned every
wrinkle from the years of laughter and the years of hardship.

Methos wished he believed in a God at that moment, any higher power
that looked over all and took care of all when we leave the earth. He
wanted Meletta to rest in peace for eternity. He wanted to believe, at that
moment when he  was looking at her corpse, that she was young, pain free,
happy. Was it a possibility? Was there a happy after-life? Then he stopped.
Whenever he thought of such things, especially verbalized them to others,
they thought he was crazy. Methos never felt like he fit in with anyone
except Hazimil; he was grateful to Meletta for making Haz's life over the
last 60 years perfect. Meletta had also been a part of Methos' life for more
than half of his immortal life. He covered her face with the cloth and wept
for her passing.

When Methos emerged from the tent, Hazimil was fumbling with
something from the back of the wagon. When Methos got closer, he saw
Hazimil slip a leather cord through her ring and tie the necklace around his
neck. As Methos approached him, Hazimil slipped it under his clothes and
held it to his heart. Without a word, he wrapped a piece of cloth around the
end of a stick and lit it with the flames from the campfire Methos had
earlier prepared. He looked at Methos and said, "Join me, my dearest
friend."

They walked back to the tent and Hazimil said some words, a Sumerian
prayer, and touch the torch to it. The tent went up in flames in no time.
They had to stand back as the fire consumed the tent, Hazimil's life. When
Methos put his arm around his teacher's shoulder, Hazimil crumbled. The
heat of the fire and the loss of his wife made him cover his stinging eyes
and drop to the ground and weep.

~~~~~

NEW YORK CITY 2001  

Elizabeth and Methos were sitting on the sofa while  he told the story of
the ring. "I've had this for..." he figured the math. "About 4,900 years."

"Did Meletta know... of course, she knew what Haz was. How old was
he?"

"He looked young, sparkling, scrawny, but strong. Very strong. Fast.
Before Meletta's death, he was so damn optimistic. That could really get
irritating. He was over 1200 years old when he found me. I had only been
immortal a short-while, just a couple of months, maybe weeks," Methos
shrugged. "Maybe years. I can only remember specifics, certain days, not
how they all flowed together. My mortal years weren't important, even to
me. Haz could climb the highest tree, drink anyone under the table, fight
and beat anyone he came across without even breaking a sweat. I wanted
to be him."

"You sound like you were in love with him."

"I was."

"You slept with your teacher?"

He nodded. "We had a special relationship."

"Teacher-pupil is a special relationship."

"Were you close to your teacher?"

"I didn't sleep with him. Hotohke was like a captured spirit in human
form. It would have been almost sacrilegious." She still fingered the ring.
"How did Hazimil die?"

"It was soon after we lost Meletta. He was taken by a woman. I challenged
her as soon as the quickening ended."

"That must have taken strength. To wait until after the quickening."

He angrily shook his head, with a tight smile, "I wanted her... it was... I
remember like it was yesterday waiting for Haz's quickening to end. I even
swung my sword during it. Got a shock that knocked me on my arse. It
was a long wait, a long quickening. Haz had a lot of strength and
knowledge... goodness."

"Then how could he have been taken so easily?"

"It wasn't easy. They fought most of the day. There were both exhausted
by the time he bought it. I think he just gave up, Meletta was gone. Their
children were grown, a few of them had died."

"How did he have children?"

"Hazimil did anything to make Meletta happy. They found men to plant
their seed. When we were sure she was with child, we'd move on, raise the
children as our own."

That was something that hit her like a ton of bricks and she ruminated over
it. Methos on the other hand could only focus on the memory of the day
Haz was challenged, and then the next day when he was taken.

~~~~~

INDIA 2880 BC         

Methos and Haz emerged from the temple. After Meletta was lost to
them,  Methos made sure Hazimil spent a lot of time on holy ground to get
his head back where it should be, on being an immortal and on the game.
Haz had taught Methos that an immortal's thoughts should be on the look
out for anyone who would want to relieve him of his head and he seemed
to be shirking that wisdom himself. During that wandering decade,
Hazimil felt his time on earth was over, he had nothing more to live for.
Methos tried to find things, take him places, mostly on holy ground, that
would help him put the wind back in his sails all the while avoiding
challenges.

Methos flipped a fruit vendor a coin for a pomegranate and took a big bite.
When he offered some to Hazimil, his teacher just shook him off. They
heard a female hollering "Hazimil! Stop!"

They felt a buzz and turned to see a woman run toward them. Methos put
his hand on his dagger. Hazimil appreciated how Methos protected him
lately, but he was supposed to be the teacher, the boss. Haz stopped him.
"Let's just see what the dame has to say."

She stopped in front of the men and looked Hazimil in the eye, "It is you.
Do you remember me, Hazimil?"

Hazimil looked her over, tried to decide, then shook his head, slowly, no.
She licked her lips, dry from the hot air and looked at Methos. "You
should remember too, young one!" Bohdana stared at Hazimil and
spouted, "You killed my husband."

"I did no such thing," Hazimil said, wounded. "I've never killed another
soul."

"Your husband?" Methos said, stepping between them.

"He was a noble man, a spirit that should still live, but you killed him! I
saw it! You cut off his head!"

Methos laughed, "Well, losers weepers..."

"Methos," Hazimil stopped him, "Give the woman respect." Turning to
the woman, "I'm sorry you're still sad. It is what we do. He challenged me
and I accepted. I won."

"He never would have challenged anyone!"

"If I fought another immortal," Hazimil said in a low voice to both calm
her down and prevent anyone else hearing, "It was because I was
challenged."

Bohdana vehemently exclaimed, "I challenge you!"       
    
Hazimil slowly nodded, agreement. "At sunrise, by the great gold tree to
the north."

Methos said, "Come. Let us go," ready to steer Hazimil far away from the
crazy woman.

Hazimil pulled his arm back, "I have a date with destiny."

"You do not. That woman is a raving lunatic."

"I killed her husband. She has cause to challenge me."

"She can challenge all she wants," Methos didn't like the way Hazimil
took the challenge and seemed to be reliving his life, as if it wouldn't last
much longer. "It doesn't mean you have to be at the other end of her
sword. She's immortal, she knows the game."

"The game I taught you. This is part of it, Methos. I have to fight her
challenge." When Methos took his arm to direct him to his horse, Hazimil
stood his ground. "What kind of man am I if I do not let the oppressed
seek their revenge?"

"A man who lives. You're a good man, Haz. You know that."

"You think I will lose this fight?"

It pained Methos to admit, "Yes." Hazimil was the greatest fighter he'd
ever seen and he would never think of getting in the way of him collecting
another quickening, but he was carrying a heavy load that he didn't seem
to want to bear any longer.

"Against a woman?" Hazimil lightly smiled.

"In your present condition... state of mind......yes... I do. You will lose."

The teacher searched in the eyes of his student for some glint of remorse
for saying such words to him, some hint that he was lying to cover his own
fear. What he found was absolute knowledge, as if his student could see
into the future. "What will be will be. I will not be alone on the other
side."

Methos studied the man who had taught him everything he knew and was
angry at his teacher's self-destructive bent. "Sure," Methos lightly said. "If
you do happen to find Meletta again, she may not want to talk to you with
all the other women and men who came before her!"

Hazimil back-handed Methos hard against the side of his head, knocking
him to the ground. As Methos was rubbing his cheek, Haz leaned over him
and snarled, "If I had met Meletta first, she would have been the only one,
Methos. That means you, too. Don't you ever forget that!"

"I'm sorry, Haz," Methos said, but wasn't heard. Hazimil strode with
purpose to his horse and rode north.

~~~~~

NEXT MORNING    

When the sun rose over the horizon to the east, Hazimil and Bohdana were
off their horses, facing each other, swords drawn. Methos stepped between
them, holding each one's blade. "Fight me instead."

Bohdana and Hazimil simultaneously said no and released their swords
from his hands. Methos grabbed Hazimil's blade again and whispered,
"You can not fight, teacher. You know going in you are going to lose."

"Yes, he will," Bohdana smiled. "He deserves death."

"No, he does not!" Methos screamed, drew his own sword and thrust it at
her. Bohdana stepped out of its path. 

Hazimil took the hilt from Methos' hand and threw the sword. "Do not
disrespect me, Methos, I taught you better than that. The fight is one on
one. After its over, you chose your own path. You can not choose mine for
me."

Methos knew that the man he loved would lose, but took a deep breath
and stepped back. Arguing was useless. Methos watched the fight, all day
long. He hollered at Hazimil, everything from 'take her!' to 'stop!' when
she would get her sword into his body. There were times it looked as if
Hazimil would pull it off, but then Bohdana would maneuver out of his
control. 

The fight had taken so long that Methos thought they'd play themselves
out and call it a tie. Let sleeping dogs, or a dead husband lie. He sat on the
ground, ate a piece of fruit he took from a nearby tree. Just then, Bohdana
was able to outmaneuver a swing from Hazimil and embedded her sword
into Hazimil's chest, making him lose all muscle control. Methos' teacher
and best friend in the world dropped to his knees and let out a tortured
moan. His sword dropped out of his grip. Methos shot off the ground and
rushed to them, to stop the inevitable, but was too late. The death swing
had been swung.

The force of Hazimil's quickening made Methos fly backward, land
roughly on his backside as the wind kicked up the earth around them.
Methos cried in pain louder than Bohdana cried while receiving the full
brunt of Hazimil's life force. When it was finished, the woman was laying
on her stomach, winded from it and the fight. She calmed herself then felt
a sword at the back of her neck. She looked up to see the young pup who
had the audacity to confront her after the fair fight. She shoved the sword
away and rolled out of the way. "Go away," she mumbled.

"Now you have a go with me," Methos said, tears of loss still staining his
face.

"The challenge was one on one," Bohdana said. She was still on her knees,
panting from the fight and quickening, but she was strong, had a steely
eyed stare. "I do not have a quarrel with you, young one."

"You do now." He slashed at her. She jerked back just in time to miss a
swing from Methos' sword, the swish of the sword frightened her along
with his determined face. She had to figure out where her sword was.
Methos stood back and let her get her hand on the hilt, even waited until
she got both feet under her. It took her a while as she tried to even out her
breath for a fresh fight. 

Only when she was ready, did Methos lung at her, the woman couldn't
keep up with the angry man who slashed, lunged and whipped his sword at
her seemingly from every direction. She ran back away from him. "I am
out of breath!"

"You are out of breath forever!" He delivered the death swing with such
force, her head landed yards from her body. Methos couldn't wait to get
that quickening! He hated the thought that someone else would get all that
Hazimil was. With him, Hazimil would be safe and live forever, of that
Methos was certain. At that moment, he truly felt on top of the world,
knew that he would be the one to defeat them all. 

The muted swirl of light escaped from Bohdana's neck and floated up into
the air. Methos stood back and positioned himself under it. Lifted his head
to watch it linger above him. He threw his arms out and commanded,
"Come to me!"

The light gathered it's strength and power above him and with bolts of
pure energy, catapulted onto him. Methos felt the hair on the back of his
head singe and his skin boil. A great cry of pain and rage gurgled out of
his mouth as he shook.  Each pounding, from the essence of the 1900 year
old woman who held his teacher, overwhelmed Methos' not yet 200 year
old body. 

There were visions of the people in the woman's life. She had practiced
witchcraft. Black pots and straw people seemed to be the furnishings of
her home. Stick people. Potions in hollowed out gourds. Was she a witch?
The men... all the men that kissed her. Methos couldn't figure out which
was her husband, the reason for the loss of his teacher. The quickening
burned him physically, and mentally. Methos sifted through the laughter,
tears, and anger of Bohdana's  quickening to find something of his teacher. 

Chants filled Methos' head. Not the soothing sounds of choirs, but the
jittery, grounding sounds of devil worshipers. Fire. Spells. Curses. All the
men. He wanted to scream out, "Where is Hazimil!?" but couldn't. All he
could do was sift through the rubble that was his opponent's life. 

Just as he got a flash of what he believed to be his own face, a brief
training session with Hazimil, and then Meletta on her deathbed, the
quickening ended. Methos fell to the ground, trying to breathe, spitting up
blood. His whole body felt like it was on fire and the pressure of the
ground on his body was intense. The pounding in his head was
devastating, making him grab hold of it for fear it would explode. He cried
out for relief, tried to get up so less skin would be in contact with the
ground. The pressure of basic gravity was torture.

Methos could do nothing but roll around, holding his head, for the rest of
the night and into the next day, not knowing where he was or who he was.
His entire mind, body and spirit was being consumed by Bohdana's
essence and every fiber of his being cried out for mercy. Bohdana was so
much older, so much more evil than Methos had ever experienced in his,
at that time, young life.

When the sun was high, Methos' agony finally came to an end; he couldn't
identify anything around him. Nothing looked familiar. He didn't have the
strength to stand, so he just lay, trying to decipher everything the woman
had put into his head. Things he saw, food he ate, places he loved, men he
kissed. It was all so real, as if it was happening to him personally. He
could taste the men's tongues in his mouth, the touch of their hands on his
body. Men he'd never met, just saw through Bohdana. He felt himself
hate so intensely... but didn't know what made him so damned angry;
performing hexes on people he had never met. He could distinctly see
himself doing things he never even imagined. Painting symbols he didn't
understand on bodies with their own blood. 

Suddenly, Methos saw a bright light, a man silhouetted against it,
Hazimil? No. It was a blond man. A pale man. He heard himself talking to
him, his salvation. His name was Palin and he was talking to the man with
a high voice, a woman's voice. So happy the waxen man entered his life.
But who was he? Methos heard Bohdana cry out at the sight of him, in his
mind. What was happening? Quickenings had never been this vivid, it
seemed to be  taking over every fiber of Methos' being. 

Then the pale man was in a fight to the death with Hazimil. Methos cried
out as Hazimil took Palin's head, but didn't know if it was for the lose of
the blond man or because he knew it was the downfall of Hazimil. When
the visions slowed, with the bright sun of another day, Methos finally got
himself to his feet. He saw the head of his teacher laying in the grass.
Methos shook and tried to clear his mind, "Hazimil!" he shouted at the top
of his lungs. For the first time in his immortality, he was alone. For the
first time in his entire life, Methos was afraid. Not even when he turned
immortal and was wandering, before Hazimil found him, looking for
answers to why he was still alive, was he as afraid as he was at that
moment. And so angry. But the anger was confusing. Was is because he
had lost Haz? Or because Bohdana was angry at losing her head? Or losing
her husband? Methos couldn't tell the difference. He seemed to had two
heads, with two thought processes; and the older immortal had taken over.

Methos found Hazimil's body and Meletta's ring on the cord lay inches
from it. Methos picked it up and cursed the woman who killed his teacher,
then flopped to the ground. Bohdana was offended by the remark, and for
losing her head to such a young pup. So much so that the screams in
Methos' head took complete control of his body. He cried out for her to
stop. Only when he whispered that he was sorry was the pain
extinguished. Only his appeasing her allowed him to gain control of his
body again.

When he pulled himself off the ground, he wobbled. Looked down again
at the cord in his hand, slipped it around his neck and stared at the body
of his friend. His teacher. His life line.  Every thought that was Methos', 
had Hazimil in it. All the people they met, the people Methos loved, all the
things Methos did and wanted, Hazimil was always nearby and gave his
blessing to him before Methos would act on anything. That morning, there
was a foreign, female voice in his head that wouldn't be silenced.

Methos put Hazimil's head and body in a cloth that he wrapped tightly and
set aflame. He sat down in front of it and watched. Then, he couldn't stand
it. Couldn't stand being anywhere near it. The voice in his head took over
and made him walk away.

~~~~~

NEW YORK 2001     

Methos finally fell silent in his talk with Elizabeth of the memory of his
first substantial quickening. It felt good when she rubbed the back of his
neck and shoulders. He didn't realize how tight his muscles had gotten,
just from rehashing it. Before he could think about what he was doing, he
fell over onto Elizabeth's shoulder and cried over the loss of his teacher,
his youth, his naivete and the memory of that dark quickening, and the
anger it provoked that wasn't often revisited in his mind. 

Elizabeth cradled his head and said, "Hazimil is still with you." Methos
had said it was almost 3000 BC when that happened, and he still carried it
with him. Was it possible to be that old? To remember so vividly what
happened so long ago? To let it pain you still? She knew the pain of
Hotohke's untimely and unfair death was still alive inside of her and knew
what Methos must be going through, to watch it happen and not be able to
stop the inevitable. 

Methos rolled the ring in his hand and quieted, seemingly embarrassed for
his outburst. He shouldn't be. She told him, "That's the one thing that
made me happy about getting rid of Logan... well, there's two things, but
the most important is, I have Hotohke back. I felt him enter me during
Logan's quickening."

Methos smiled and took her hand, "You should have talked to me about
it."

"I was too upset."

He nodded, "What's the other?"

"I have a clean slate. No enemies. I've been breathing easier. I don't have
to look over my shoulder. It's like I was given a new life."

"That must feel really good," Methos honestly said. "I haven't felt freedom
in thousands of years."

"Why? Do you make a habit of collecting enemies?"

"It comes with being the oldest immortal. They want my head."

"Have you been challenged for it? Just because you're Methos?"

"Yes," he whispered, straightening up, collecting his cool demeanor once
again. "At times, I didn't even feel them coming."

"You must be a damn good fighter then."

"I haven't fought them all. I disappear."

"That's a good solution."

He looked at her, that was how she really felt about it. She meant it. He
didn't have to be a protector, take care of them, just live. When she asked
him, "Why don't you have a watcher?" 

Methos was surprised. He didn't? The watchers knew he was Methos, he
would certainly have a watcher on him. How did Elizabeth know? "Excuse
me," he finally asked.

"Wentworth didn't even know you were an immortal when she drove me
into Lisbon that night. That was my stupidity again. She didn't know until
I told you to watch your head. I'm sorry."

"Does she know who I am?"

"I don't know. She called you David Sommers. You know... she was my
watcher... how stupid can the watchers be?"

With that, Methos chuckled. "Why?"

"She watched me from Thanksgiving until Christmas and she didn't know
you were immortal? She told me she hadn't seen anyone else in the area,
until Logan's current watcher showed up. I bawled her out for not warning
us. Watchers..." she muttered, reacting  like she had eaten bile.

"We gotta live with them." 

"But you're 'Methos'... is he really that famous?"

"Infamous."

"Doesn't anyone know what you look like?"

"He doesn't stop long enough to get his picture taken," Methos smiled.

"Except by you, I guess. I found your Christmas presents to me. Thanks."

"You're welcome." She felt awful for the lost time they could have been
together, now that he was letting her into his life. "If I'd stayed in Sintra,
would you have finally told me all this?"

"I don't know," he distractedly replied, honestly.  His mind was on the fact
that he was still stealth-like on the radar screen of the watcher system, or
Diane Wentworth was slow. "They know Methos is Adam Pierson, or vice
versa." Then he realized if Diane didn't know what he looked like, if she
didn't have access to the database like Matthew Blair did, maybe Joe was
right and he was safe after all. Nah, you can't be too safe.

"How did you manage that? To not have a watcher?"

"Methos is a myth." Until recently... Why hadn't they put a watcher on
him? Or, maybe there was, and he was very good, so good that even
another watcher wouldn't notice him. Or her. "Myths don't generally need
watchers. That's why I've change my identity. I, myself, am not Methos to
the mass community of the world."

"Should you change your name again?"

"I'm not sure yet." He focused on the vase on the table while he thought it
out. 

Elizabeth said, "I'm not used to the covert lifestyle, I mean anything more 
than just keeping mum on immortality." She and Methos locked eyes, "But
I'll get used to it, if you want me to." That was another big balloon out
there, would he grab it?

Methos rubbed the ring in his fingers, "This is the only thing I have of
Hazimil." He sat up and looked at her. She rubbed the last of the tears off
his cheeks. "It's yours," he said.

She pulled her hand back, gasped, "I can't take this from you. It was your
teacher's. As much as I may love you, I'd never in a million years give you
anything of Hotohke's."

He put the cord around her neck. "You hold onto it for me. This is how
much I trust you. This is big. I want you in my life."

She fingered the ring and smiled, it was a wonderful gesture on his part,
but she didn't know if she wanted the responsibility of it. The tale of his
teacher, someone he said he didn't remember when she asked in Sintra,
was an overpowering thing. "You keep it with your soul catcher," he
stated, looking at it around her neck.

"I'll guard it with my life. How long did it last?"

"What?"

"Remnants of Bohdana's quickening."

"Years."

"Years? How many?"

"Many."

"I've never believed in dark quickenings before. I thought they were... an
excuse for bad immortal behavior."

She might have hit the nail on the head with that comment. Methos
commented, "You're lucky you haven't had one." He remembered how he
acted during the next years. How he used people. Didn't connect with
anyone, until one day he met someone who took Methos completely by
surprise, quite by accident.

~~~~~

EASTERN EUROPE 1785 BC      

Methos had finished his wandering for the time being and secured himself
a position as a guard for the ruling family. Methos, as well as his mate
Gregor, were cleaning the riff raff out of the woods. There were rumblings
of a coup to be attempted and the king wanted all traces of the rebellion to
be taken out before they could accomplish their goal. 

Gregor heard a commotion off in the trees and veered his horse toward it.
Methos said, "The rebels are said to be gathered at the mill." Gregor had
already disappeared into the dense woods off the trail. "Gregor! Come
back!"

When there was no response, Methos debated whether to wait for him, or
go on without him, or go after him. Yep, those were the options and none
seem to be very exciting. Maybe it was time to move on. When he heard
screaming, a man's high pitched screaming, he kicked his steed to get it
moving towards the woods in which Gregor had been swallowed.
Gregor's horse came running back toward Methos.

In a little clearing, he saw a man hunched over the leather mail of Gregor.
The screaming had stopped and his body was lifeless as he laid on the
ground. The man rose and wiped the blood off the blade of his dagger.
Methos brought the horse to a stop and quieted his snorting. Methos pulled
out his dagger and waited, watching him. He heard clanking from little
pieces of metal in the man's  hands. The man leaned over Gregor again
and pulled the clothes off his body and held them up to himself to check
the fit. 

Methos' horse stepped forward a few paces. Only then did each immortal
feel the presence of the other. The man lifted his head and scanned the
area.  Only when the man turned in Methos' direction did Methos fling the
dagger at his chest, then pull out his sword, lift his leg over the horse's
head and slip elegantly to the ground, sword still at the ready for any attack
from the animalistic immortal or any of his friends, if he had any. The
immortal had fallen to his knees, hands clamped onto the dagger, eyes
flared in absolute anger. Methos only laughed.

"You son...," the immortal moaned, then fell back, died.

Only after the immortal was dead and his buzz faded to nothing, did
Methos scan the area. There were piles of bloodied, dismembered bodies
stacked by a large sycamore tree. The stench was almost enough to make
him gag when he realized what he'd stepped into. Piles of loot were
situated, in no apparent order, all over the area. This was the man's lair,
workshop, lab. There was blood on the trees, grass, a large flat boulder that
looked like it was used for some sort of eating table or operating table,
Methos couldn't distinguish which. Arms and legs and heads, hands and
fingers hung on  ropes attached to the tree branches. Some recent as they
were still pink, some purple, most petrified. Methos was intrigued, rather
than appalled. It was a sight he hadn't yet seen. It fascinated him; how
savage some people could be. It sort of reminded him of Bohdana's
visions, of the stick people and rituals she went through with her 'clients'
who came to her for healing or to see into their futures.

The immortal hadn't revived. The dagger was still imbedded in the man's
chest, square in the heart, if he had one. His face was lying off to the side.
Methos reached down and grabbed the immortal's long hair and noticed
the tattoo on the shaved side of his head. Then he looked at the face. Even
in death, that face carried the traces of hatred, insanity, raw brutal force.
Interesting.

Methos grabbed the knife and pulled it out. Dropped the man's head and
he fell back to the ground. Methos examined his weapon. It went straight
into the man, past bone, the blade wasn't roughed up. It sliced clean
through. "Maybe you don't have a heart after all," Methos mused. Methos
wiped the blood off on the immortal's pants and stowed it back in his
waistband. He debated on whether he should stick around for the immortal
to revive. Thinking it was best he didn't, no telling what kind of mood
he'd be in, Methos walked back to his horse, stopping only to pick up a
pile of coins to put in his pouch with his own stash. As he emerged from
the woods onto the main path, he heard a great, loud holler. Laughing, he
rode on to the mill.

~~~~~

ACHAIA 1720 BC

Methos rode into the village on a horse he 'borrowed' on his quest for
what he would do next. People held no interest for him since leaving the
ruler's employment. Loneliness hadn't affected him, not that he perceived
at the time. At one of the vending stands, there was a tussle over a bowl.
The bartering wasn't going well. Methos looked the buyer and seller over
as he sauntered toward them. 

The bartering man sensed the buzz and turned around to see Methos
approach. They stopped their bickering to size the intruder up and down.
Methos had learned how to make his presence known in the years since he
lost his teacher and was making his own way through life. He took the
bowl that was so important to the both of them and smashed it on the
ground, then, with a smile, tossed some coins on the table. The vendor
immediately snapped them up as Methos sauntered back to his horse.

The immortal ran to catch up and matched his stride as Methos lead his
horse through the city streets, "I was going to purchase that bowl."

"No, you weren't," Methos said as he walked, not looking at him.

"And what makes you all knowing?"

Methos smiled at him and said, "I saw your eyes. You were looking over
all his possessions, not just the bowl. I saw your hand rub against your
sword hilt. You were going to rob him, right there in the middle of the day,
in the middle of all those witnesses. And it was just you, with no plan of
getting out." Methos pointed at the scar that split his forehead and cheek
and had roughly healed. "Is that how you became branded, Immortal?
Your stupidity?"

"Stupidity?" The immortal rubbed his hand along the hilt of his sword
with his head cocked to the side, deciding whether a full frontal assault
would be best, or to wait til the ass turned away and just take his head.

Methos saw the reaction in the man's eyes and offered, "Impulsiveness?"

When Methos shrugged and turned away, the immortal was shocked,
reached out and grabbed his arm, "Who are you?"

"I am Methos. You... are going about it all wrong." 

The immortal smiled and said, "I am Kronos. And you have a better idea?"

Methos nodded, smiled, said, "If this city was not fortified, I'd say go for
it, but can you count? There are at least 15 men with weapons and the
authority to use them just in the immediate vicinity."

Kronos spun his head looking around the square and darn if it wasn't
exactly as Methos pointed out. Methos whispered, "Tonight. When the sun
is down. When the people are asleep... You have to think things through,
Kronos. You can't just act on impulse. It will only get you killed."

The immortal smiled, slapped his shoulder, "Methos, I think we're going
to be good friends... brothers even."

"What do I need you for?"

"We could be a robbing machine," Kronos smiled, at the thought of it. "I
sniff out the loot, you figure out the way to get it."

"We can be so much more than that," said Methos who had always kept
the memory of the butcher in the woods in the back of his mind. "I think
it's time to look up an old friend."

"Another brother?"

"Possibly," Methos said as he walked on. He wondered if that butcher in
the woods would still be in those same woods 65 years later. Probably. He
didn't seem the vagabond type. The three of them, it could be interesting.
Quite a combination.

~~~~~

TWENTY YEARS LATER 1700 BC 

The butcher in the woods, who they learned  went by the name of Caspian,
turned out to be ready, willing and able to join up with them after Kronos
explained just what it was they could accomplish together. Three brains,
backs and weapons working as one. Their rallying cry of, "Nothing of
value would be left in our path" soon became, "Nothing would be left in
our path" and they rode and worked together without constraint for
decades. 

After raiding yet another village in the woods, the three brothers stopped
by a creek to water the horses, count the loot and wash off the blood. In the
distance they heard the sounds of mourning. Deep, heavy wails of loss.
Leaving the horses, they walked back into the village they'd just left for
dead. A buzz made the three stop and keep behind the trees, until they
zeroed in on the source. On a tree stump sat a large man bent over with his
head in his hands. This was the source of the low decibel mourning. 

The three wondered how they'd missed an immortal in the village and
silently blamed each other. The crying man lifted his head, sniffled, then
stood. He looked off in all directions for the buzz. Kronos stepped
forward, revealing himself from his hiding place. Methos cringed at the
impulsive act. Both he and Caspian tightened their grip on their swords as
Kronos moved forward, revealing himself to the immortal even more.

The man finally saw him and wiped his tears on his sleeve. He was so
large, his mannerisms were that of a giant. His face was red and swollen
from the crying. "You?" Silas demanded of Kronos, "Did you do this?"

Before he could answer, Methos stopped him with a hand on his arm. He
knew that Kronos was ready to attack or deny, whichever the moment
called for.  But Methos wanted him to pay attention. The large man was
pointing down to the ground behind him. When Silas moved aside, they
saw the carcass of a dead cow. "She was my best friend," Silas said. "She
always gave me nice, sweet milk." His forlorn cries started to fade with the
arrival of company out of nowhere. He never liked people, but he felt an
immediate kinship with these men.

Methos moved forward, just a little, still en guard for any sudden
movements from the forlorn immortal. "It looks like she was a good cow."

"I was only away for half a day, hunting in the woods," Silas began to
explain but started to mist up again. "Someone killed my cow. Why?"

The fact that the rest of the village was also dead didn't seem to bother the
man, just the animal. Silas looked the dead over and said, "They could
defend themselves, but... she couldn't. I should bury her. Will you help
me?" 

"That'll be the day," Caspian muttered, ready to walk back to the horses.

"Caspian...," Kronos warned, a little louder than he needed. "Stop." He
walked to the man and asked, "Do you have family?" 

Silas once again looked at the cow. 

"What's your name?" Methos inquired.

"Silas."

"I'm Methos," he said, putting his fist out in offering to the immortal. 
"Brother."

After seeing how Silas could wield his axe to chop a tree down to make a
head stake for the cow's grave, all three knew his precision and force
would indeed be useful. Silas could be another to watch their backs when
the men of villages fruitlessly tried to protect their families and
possessions. When the men offered him a position with them, Silas was
happy to finally have found a family.

~~~~~

NEW YORK 2001

Elizabeth waited while Methos silently went through his memory. He
didn't clue her into what he was reliving, so she was quiet so as not to
disturb him. When he closed his eyes and exhaled, shook off the vision,
she wanted to relax him. He was so tense. And quiet. What could he be
thinking? She massaged his shoulders and remembered the textbook he
was writing in Sintra and was now finished. His writing was so personal.
She wondered if he had changed it. She asked, "So, you were in Egypt...
while the pyramids were being built?"

He nodded, said, "Some of them," thankful he didn't keep right on talking
about his past. Kronos was off limits, an area he wouldn't divulge. He
smiled thinking of  the petty thievery he and  Kronos practiced  for
decades  before finally finding Caspian. When that immortal joined the
fold, the bloodlust was intoxicating, contagious. Only then did they strike
in the daytime, take out all people in the area, wipe out villages, come to
love the blood, screams, and the folklore of their legend after a raid. 

"Were you a 'worker'?" Elizabeth asked again. Methos forgot what she
was talking about. She helped him, "In Egypt? Building the pyramids?"

"Yes. I was one of the foremen. I cringe every single time the stories of
'slaves' being beaten into submission are repeated. It never happened."

"So, you're trying to say there weren't slaves in Egypt?"

"Oh, there were slaves. Farmers, palace staff. However, the pyramids and
the building of cities in the Pharaoh's honor was too important to leave to
anyone but the finest craftsmen. The stone had to be perfect. The sand had
to be expertly mixed with water. Those pyramids are still standing, there's
your answer. And it was expensive, but the Pharaoh ended up with a place
to be envied. The slaves worked on some of the failures. That's why they
weren't used on the successes."

Elizabeth was glad he snapped out of his revery as it clearly pained him.
"You didn't have to hide that from me. You don't have to hide anything
from me, David. Don't you trust me? Do you still think I want your head?"

"It's Methos... in private, anyway. And... I don't trust people easily..." He
fingered Meletta's ring hanging  from the strap around Elizabeth's neck
and smiled, "But I trust you."

The sun was up and she really wanted to stay, but she also had
responsibilities. "I have to go to work in a couple of hours."

"You're really leaving?"

"Just for a while, I can come back if you want."

She didn't need to work, he was more than happy to take care of them. To
go back to Sintra and start again. Methos was about to tell her so, but he
knew that she needed her independence, to take care of herself. "You
know where I'll be."

TO BE CONTINUED in Chapter Nine - The Horseman Cometh

    Source: geocities.com/enyajo/elizabeth

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