*********
      Joe watched Methos leave, still trying to find some 
way to get through to the Old Man. It had been unnerving, 
handing the file to Methos and then seeing him 
just...stop. Methos must have been gone for at least a 
minute. Joe was pretty sure that he hadn't realised what 
had happened. He was beginning to regret that Crixus had 
ever walked into his bar, let alone shown him that damned 
file.

     He'd let Methos take the file with him, having made 
a copy of everything in it for himself. Not that he had 
to tell Methos that. Maybe getting that file back would 
make the Old Man feel better, even if it didn't undo the 
real damage. Hopefully, Methos would be more willing to 
accept help after he'd had some sleep. Then again, maybe 
Paris would be treated to a pig and sheep airshow this 
weekend. 

     After Methos left, MacLeod turned to Joe and said, 
"You didn't believe any of that, did you?"

     Joe sighed. "I don't know what to believe about him 
anymore. He's lying about some of it, that's for sure. 
I'm just not sure which parts. I wish his favourite 
response to pressure wasn't taking off for months on 
end." He levered himself up off the couch with his cane 
and a hand on the armrest. "I'm gonna go check out this 
Atticus flake tomorrow, see what he knows. Maybe we can 
figure things out from there."

     "I'll come with you," MacLeod said, going for his 
coat.

     "No," Joe said irritably. "Not when the guy can 
sense you at a hundred paces. I'll do it myself."

     "Joe," MacLeod warned. "He's Immortal. He just 
killed somebody. He could be dangerous."

     Joe chuckled. "Relax, Mac. I've been watching you 
guys for years. I'll go talk to him at the convention, 
where he can't do anything to me. And if he gets frisky, 
I've got a gun. It'll be fine."
*********
Paris, September 7, 2002
     Joe limped into the convention, keeping off to one 
side of the doorway to avoid being knocked over by 
impatient kids. At least the entrance had had a ramp. He 
shouldn't complain, but he got damned tired of feeling 
grateful to architects who remembered that people without 
the full use of their legs might use their buildings. He 
got a map at the Information Desk, looked up 'Mark 
Gibbon's' desk, and circled it with a pen. The desk was 
near the centre of the hall, prominently displayed on the 
map. Atticus was a popular artist.

     Joe hoped that Atticus wouldn't be too big a jerk. 
For all Joe knew, Atticus could have nothing to do with 
Methos' problems, which were starting to look major and 
long-term. Atticus might be just another victim of 
Crixus' head games. The fight between the two of them 
must have happened in the parking lot. The con building, 
and several other nearby businesses, had suffered a 
blackout for several hours on the night Crixus had died.

     Joe wished he could get Mac more on board with 
helping Methos. It didn't help that Mac had such an 
investment in seeing the Old Man as indestructible. Joe 
wasn't going to make the same mistake. He'd had a buddy 
on the Seacouver Police Force. A fellow Vietnam Vet, Abe 
had finished his tour a year before Joe lost his legs. 
Joe liked hanging out with Abe because he had a good life 
and a good attitude. He was funny and dependable--
divorced, but he had a good relationship with his ex and 
kids. One day, without any warning sign or apparent 
changes in his life, he'd put the barrel of his service 
revolver in his mouth and pulled the trigger. Joe always 
wondered, afterwards, what he'd missed, what had set Abe 
off. He didn't intend to lose Methos in the same way.

     As Joe turned the corner of the line of stalls 
leading to Atticus' table, he saw a pudgy young man with 
dark hair sitting at the table. The kid didn't match the 
photo that Joe had seen in Atticus' file. Was the guy out 
getting lunch or taking a leak? Or had he decided to call 
it a day? It was only one in the afternoon.

     Joe stopped in front of the table, waiting behind a 
short line of kids getting autographs. The poster behind 
the table caught his eye. The figure dominating the 
foreground of the poster looked familiar. In fact, it 
looked just like Methos with long hair and face paint.

     "God," Joe said quietly, gripping his cane hard. It 
wasn't every day you saw your best friend's dark side 
tacked up on a wall for everybody to see, as if he were 
Darth Vader or the Joker. Joe was still wrapping his 
brain around the Spartacus gig. This was a bit much.

     "Pretty impressive, isn't it?" said the kid at the 
table. Joe realised that he had moved to the front of the 
line.

     "Um, yeah," Joe admitted. "Looks a little like a 
friend of mine."

     The kid laughed. "You have a friend who looks like 
that? Now, *that's* impressive."

     "Just a little," Joe said. *Maybe two thousand years 
ago,* he thought uneasily. He'd confirmed at least part 
of Methos' story--Death and Atticus had met, and they'd 
hated each other. "What's it for?"

     "The comic's called 'Barbaros'," the kid said 
indulgently. "It's a four part series about a guy who 
lives forever and how he overthrows various ancient 
empires." That sounded like Methos! "A friend of mine 
drew it. He's stepped out for a minute, but you can talk 
to him if you wait."

     "What empire is that one for?" Joe asked, curious.

     "Rome. 394 BC, when the barbarian Celts came down 
and burned the city. It's the last issue, I'm afraid. The 
first two were the fall of Troy. Issue One was based on 
the Iliad and Issue Two was from the Odyssey. The third 
issue was Babylon. I liked Babylon, though I think Mark's 
favourite is Rome."

    "Huh," Joe said, amused. "From the looks of that 
poster, you'd think he'd been there."

     "Yeah, Mark's funny that way," the kid replied 
cheerfully. "He just has this talent for bringing ancient 
civilizations to life, you know?"

     *Oh, yeah. I know.* Joe leaned forward. "Do you know 
when he'll be back?" he asked. "I'd really like to talk 
to him. I think we've got a mutual friend."
*********
     It was the second day since he'd taken Crixus' head, 
and Atticus had seen no one from Spartacus' camp. The 
waiting was the worst--for an attack that could come from 
any quarter, or might not come at all. The savage had to 
know about his lieutenant, by now. Couldn't he 
acknowledge it in some way? What was Atticus supposed to 
do? Put an ad in the paper saying, "Sorry I broke our 
truce and killed your friend. Can we renegotiate?" Not 
hardly!

     On his way back from lunch, Atticus caught sight of 
a fan at his table, talking to Jerry. At first, he took 
no note of him, until he came close enough to see the 
visitor's body language. The fan, who had white hair and 
seemed to be in his early fifties, carried a cane. He 
leaned forward over the table as he and Jerry laughed at 
something together.

     There was no reason for Atticus to be suspicious of 
the visitor. Many different types of people came to comic 
conventions. Out of habit, though, he approached 
cautiously, so that neither Jerry nor the man noticed him 
in the busy con atmosphere.

     "His name's Adam Pierson," the fan said. "I think 
your friend Mark might know him."

     *Pierson!* Atticus ducked down the aisle behind his 
table. He felt no presence from the man, so he must be a 
Mortal. He had to be with Pierson. This had to be some 
sort of challenge. But to come here and be so brazen 
about it--bastard!

     Could Spartacus be trying for a truce? No. This 
wasn't his style. He'd have come himself. This must be 
one of Crixus' lieutenants, or one of Spartacus' people 
who felt the same way as Crixus. Atticus sucked in a deep 
breath, steadying himself. Maybe it was time to 
disappear, after all. He'd go in smiling, take care of 
this guy, make sure Jerry was safe, and then take off for 
parts unknown. It wouldn't be the first time.

     First, though, he had to take care of Spartacus' 
assassin. Hopefully, he'd have a chance to do it quietly, 
but if the guy had a gun.... Well. He'd burn that bridge 
after he'd crossed it.

     He walked back up the aisle, turned it and ambled 
down towards his table. Jerry and Spartacus' hitman were 
still chatting. He walked right up beside the guy. With 
the noise of the convention, neither man noticed him 
until he stopped at the table. Looking up, Jerry saw him 
first, and grinned.

     "There you are," he said. "Mr. Dawson here says 
you've got a friend here in Paris."

     "Yeah?" Atticus replied casually, shaking 'Mr. 
Dawson's' hand. "No kidding. Small world."

     "His name's Adam Pierson," Dawson said. "He's a 
researcher here in Paris. He and his buddy Chris Mancuso 
were just talking about you a few days ago."

     "Oh, yeah. I remember them." Chris Mancuso--that 
would be Crixus. That clinched it. If Dawson had known 
Crixus, then he wasn't here for any friendly chat. Crixus 
had never kept his hatred of Atticus secret. Did Dawson 
know anything, or had Spartacus and Crixus kept him in 
the dark? "We corresponded about some historical 
background for this comic I've been working on. Pierson's 
been doing something on the Assyrians for the past few 
years." *Try the past fifteen. Spartacus always knew how 
to milk a good thing.* "How are they doing?"

     "Fine, just fine," Dawson smiled. Was that a trace 
of discomfort? "Though I haven't seen Mancuso in a couple 
of days. He said he was going to the convention, but we 
haven't heard from him since. Seemed kinda odd, so I 
thought I'd come over and check it out, see if anybody'd 
seen him." So. This was a fishing expedition. He knew 
something. How much remained to be seen.

     Atticus smiled back, just as insincerely. "Wish I 
could help, but no." He glanced at Jerry. "You seen him, 
Jer?"

     "Uh, no. Don't think so." Jerry looked spooked, but 
was playing along. He must have caught on to something in 
Atticus' tone. That was the problem with having friends. 
They knew you too damned well.

     "Jer, I gotta get something out of the van out 
back," Atticus said. "I'll ask around about this Mancuso 
guy." He glanced at Dawson. "You can come along if you 
want."

     Dawson took the bait as smoothly as a fish. "Yeah, I 
think I will," he said.

     "I'll come help," Jerry said. Atticus cursed 
silently, but kept his smile in place. He'd just have to 
deal with the extra complication. One way or the other, 
Dawson had to go. This way, at least, the man might be 
more trusting.

     "Sounds great," Atticus said brightly, and led the 
way. He took a route out past the restrooms, down an 
empty hallway to the back parking lot, where he kept his 
van. The rental company hadn't been pleased about having 
to replace the van wrecked by Crixus' Quickening. Atticus 
had been forced to pay through the nose for that. He 
waited until Dawson came right out into the parking lot, 
then ducked behind the man, grabbed him, and slammed him 
up against the wall.

     "Hey!" Dawson yelled, struggling. Atticus felt hard 
plastic where the most of the man's legs should have 
been, as he knocked the cane out of Dawson's hand.

     "Mark, what're you doing?" Jerry yelped.

     "Get the door, Jerry," Atticus snapped.

     "But--"

     "Goddamnit, Jerry! Do it!" Dawson was groping for 
something in his coat. Atticus grabbed his hand and 
smacked it against the wall. Dawson grunted in pain. A 
gun dropped to the pavement. Atticus grinned in triumph 
and crouched down to pick it up. Looking terrorised, 
Jerry closed the door.

     Atticus pocketed the gun, then dragged Dawson around 
to face him, nearly knocking the man down. Dawson was 
breathing heavily. He glared down at Atticus.

     "What the Hell do you think you're doing, man?" he 
blustered, as Atticus patted him down. No more guns, but 
Atticus did find a cell phone.

     Atticus grabbed Dawson's left hand and shoved up his 
jacket sleeve, exposing a tattoo identical to the one 
Crixus had worn. "What's this?" he hissed. "Your friend 
Crixus had one just like it, and so does your other 
friend Pierson. Are you here to kill me, too?"

     "No!" Dawson looked upset.

     "Bullshit," Atticus drawled. "Spartacus sent you, 
didn't he? Or was it Crixus?"

     Dawson shook his head vehemently. "No. I'm not here 
to hurt anybody. I'm just trying to figure out what's 
going on. Pierson was saying all this wild stuff about 
you hunting him, but he said you'd come to some kind of 
agreement. He said he didn't want you hurt!"

     "Uh huh," Atticus said skeptically.

     "Mark, what is going on?" Jerry said, sounding 
bewildered. He tugged at Atticus' shoulder.

     Atticus shrugged him off. "It's okay, Jerry. I'll 
explain in a minute."

     Dawson put up his hands. "Atticus, Crixus was acting 
on his own. Nobody is trying to kill you, I swear!" 
Watching him, Atticus saw fear in Dawson, but it didn't 
seem to be for himself. It must be for Spartacus. Atticus 
felt nothing.

     "Doesn't matter," he said. "This has gone too far 
and too long. It's time to finish it, one way or the 
other." He held up Dawson's cell phone in front of his 
face. "Call him, Dawson."

     Shaking, Dawson took the cell phone and tapped in a 
number. He held the phone to his ear for several seconds.

     "Spartacus?" he said. Atticus sucker-punched him in 
the face. Dawson's head smacked against the wall. As the 
phone dropped from Dawson's hand, Atticus grabbed it. 
Shoving the dazed man against the wall to keep him 
upright, Atticus put the phone to his own ear.

     "Joe? Joe, where are you? What's going on?" The 
anxious voice had a Scottish accent. Spartacus had used a 
different accent in '87, something English. It wasn't 
him. Atticus turned off the phone.

     Dawson groaned, rubbing the back of his head. 
Atticus watched him with near sympathy. The man did have 
guts. Spartacus still knew how to pick them. When Atticus 
thought the man could hold it again, he handed the phone 
back to Dawson.

     "I think we both know that wasn't him, *Joe*," he 
said amiably. "Whatever you're calling him these days, 
it's not 'Spartacus', now is it? Get it right this time."

     His jaw tight, Dawson took back the phone and 
punched in another number.
*********
     I hear ringing--repeated, insistent. Leave me alone, 
dammit. I'm sleeping.

     "This is Adam Pierson. Leave a message after the 
beep." Click.

     Must have been a wrong number. The phone rings 
again, goes through the answering machine, hangs up. The 
phone rings again--

     "Oh, fuck *this*." Yanking back the covers, 
startling the cat, I jump out of bed and sprint to the 
phone. I pick it up on the third ring.

     "This had better be a fucking emergency," I snarl 
into the phone.

     "Spartacus," says a voice, not-quite-familiar. "Your 
language hasn't improved at all."

     I swear in a language I don't otherwise remember. 
This is an emergency.

     "Atticus," I say. "Don't tell me you're still pissed 
off about that patrician slut I was rogering when we 
first met. Trust me, she wasn't worth it. What happened 
to our agreement?"

     "It went south when you started sending your minions 
after me," he retorts. Minions? I'm not the only one 
whose language has not improved. 

     "Hey, Crixus challenged you on his own lookout. You 
won. End of story."

     "That's not who I mean."

     I grip the phone harder. "What the Hell are you 
talking about?"

     "Does the name 'Joe Dawson' ring a bell?"

     I sit down on the floor. Hard. The jarring clears my 
head.

     "What's the matter, zi-mezena Methos?" he taunts. 
"Have I got something that you care about?"

     "If you kill him," I promise with utmost sincerity, 
"I will cut you apart, limb from limb, before I take your 
head."

     "That's up to you, Spartacus. Win or lose, he's 
safe--but only if you show up."

     I don't waste time on any more threats. "Where?" I 
say.

     He names a construction site not far from the comic 
convention. Six o'clock. Another anonymous, industrial 
wasteland in which we fight our ongoing, useless, 
genocidal war of attrition. Lemmings. That's what we are. 
Lemmings jumping off a cliff.

    "Sounds perfect," I say, with not enough sarcasm. 
"Put him on the phone. I want to talk to him."
*********
     Joe rubbed the back of his head, where Atticus had 
smacked him against the wall, and wished, for the fifth 
time in as many minutes, that he'd brought Mac with him. 
This Atticus guy was like an old grenade, buried in a 
backyard somewhere for years--and Crixus had dug him up 
and pulled out the pin. Joe should never have just walked 
into Atticus' firing line, especially since Atticus must 
have spotted Crixus' tattoo. After Crixus' challenge, 
there was no way that Atticus could see anybody with that 
mark as a friend. Methos had been right.

     *Old Man, if we both get out of this alive, I swear 
that I will never ignore your advice again.*

     Atticus finished giving directions to Methos, 
listened for a few seconds, then handed the phone over to 
Joe, his expression bland. "He wants to talk to you," he 
said. He looked neither satisfied nor dissatisfied with 
the acceptance of his challenge. Joe took the phone and 
held it up to his ear.

     "Adam," he began. "I think we have a prob--"

    "You miserable git!" Methos cut Joe off as though the 
Mortal Watcher hadn't even spoken. "What the Hell are you 
trying to do, get yourself killed? Idiot, selfish, lying-
-Why didn't you just listen to me? I should  have known 
you'd pull a stunt like this!"

     "I'm sorry," Joe said sincerely. "Look, Adam, don't 
come. Don't risk--"

     Methos' laughter rang out of the speaker as if it 
came from the infernal depths. "You just don't get it, do 
you? You want to die? Fine! I am coming over there right 
now. I am *finally* going to take that goddamned 
centurion's head, and then, you stupid son of a bitch, I 
swear by every god I don't believe in that I WILL KILL 
YOU MYSELF!" The click when Methos slammed down the phone 
on his end sounded anticlimactic in the wake of the Old 
Man's frantic rage.

     Atticus' face was unreadable as he plucked the phone 
out of Joe's hand. "Well," he said calmly. "It sounds 
like he's coming." He hauled Joe off the wall and pushed 
him towards a dark brown van. "Let's not keep him 
waiting."
*********
     The empty beer bottle smashing against the kitchen 
wall makes a most satisfying sound. Who cares if it'll 
make a stain? Dishes crash into the sink, glass and 
pottery shattering. I stomp into the bedroom and grab the 
sword out from under the pillow, yanking the blade out so 
hard the scabbard thumps into a wall, knocking down a map 
of Tibet.

     Idon'tcareIdon'tcareIdon'tcare. Let the stupid, 
Mortal son of a bitch *rot*.

     Silas' yowls of terror, muffled from under the bed, 
wake me for a moment from nightmare. I drop the naked 
sword on the bed to go retrieve the cat from underneath 
it. Silas fights me, covering us both with dustbunnies 
before I can drag him out. I sit in the middle of the 
floor, and hold him tightly until he stops struggling. He 
clings to me, digging his claws into my shirt and panting 
in fear. His rapid heartbeat echoes my own. I rock, 
stroking his fur to soothe him.

     "Shh, shhh, Little Brother. It's all right. Big 
Brother's upset, that's all. He's not mad at you. 
Shhh...."

     But it's not all right--not at all. And I do care--
too much to walk away. That's the Hell of it.
*********
     MacLeod pulled up in his Citroen, in time to see 
Methos leaving his apartment building and heading out to 
his SUV. MacLeod called out to him. No response. What had 
got into the Old Man *now*? Frustrated, MacLeod pulled up 
behind Methos' Jimmy, blocking him from leaving. This 
definitely got Methos' attention, for he stopped dead 
next to the driver's side door, his back to MacLeod. His 
shoulders slumped, and he bowed his head. MacLeod wasn't 
sure if this was a good sign or not. When Methos turned 
around, his face was neutral, almost friendly. MacLeod 
wasn't fooled, not after the Old Man's attack on him at 
the barge. He pulled up his parking brake and waited as 
Methos approached the car. The Old Man was still wearing 
the clothes he'd put on yesterday at the barge, under a 
dark-blue, calf-length jacket with fraying cuffs. Methos 
repeatedly shook his keys on their chain.

     "Hey," MacLeod said, ignoring Methos' agitation. 
"Going somewhere?"

     Methos leaned into the open window, resting his 
forearms on the door. He smelled as though he hadn't had 
a shower since yesterday, either, and his hair was greasy 
and unkempt. Disgusted, MacLeod had to lean away to avoid 
him. Methos' normally light green eyes seemed almost 
black. Mac glimpsed the Ivanhoe in its scabbard inside 
Methos' jacket. Its gilded hilt gleamed ominously. The 
Old Man wasn't going to make this easy. What a surprise.

     "Gonna go buy some beer," Methos said, smiling 
blandly. "I'm kind of in a hurry, here, MacLeod. You mind 
moving your car?"

     "You're in a hurry to go buy beer?" MacLeod asked, 
incredulous that Methos wasn't even trying for a 
convincing lie.

     "Yeah, the store closes in 10 minutes. Mac, my 
refrigerator is completely empty. I'm a little anxious to 
get down there, okay?" Jangle, jangle went the keys.

     "Uh huh. The store wouldn't be run by a guy looking 
for somebody named Spartacus, would it?"

     Methos' hands closed tight over his keys. "Excuse 
me?" His tone stopped just short of challenge.

     "Spartacus," MacLeod repeated. "I just got a very 
strange call from a man looking for somebody named 
'Spartacus'. When I asked what he was talking about, he 
hung up, but the caller ID said it was Joe's cell phone. 
When I tried calling him back, though, the line was busy-
-for several minutes."

     Methos shrugged. "Haven't seen Joe all day. Maybe 
one of his waitresses called in sick. Some of them can 
come up with some pretty long excuses."

     "What's going on, Old Man?" MacLeod said quietly, 
dropping all pretense. "Are you really Spartacus?"

     Methos bared his teeth, refusing to be baited. "I 
don't know what you're talking about, MacLeod. I really 
have to go. Why don't you just move your bloody--" He 
stopped, closing his eyes, took a deep breath, held it, 
and let it out very slowly. MacLeod could almost hear him 
counting to ten in some dead language. When he opened his 
eyes, he said, "Get out of the way, Mac. It is none of 
your business."

     "It is if Joe is in danger," MacLeod challenged. 
Methos must be out of his mind if he thought MacLeod was 
just going to stand by and let this farce descend into 
tragedy.

     "Joe will be perfectly safe," Methos retorted. "As 
long as I show up on time. That is not something that you 
are helping me do. Now, move that big heap of classic 
rust you call a car, or I will show you the power and 
beauty that is four-wheel manual drive, okay?"

     "I'll come with you," MacLeod said.

     "No. You will *not* come with me." Methos' tone was 
level, but uncompromising. "This is my bloody challenge, 
not yours, and I've had quite enough of you interfering 
in my battles, lately. Bugger off back to the barge and 
do some waiting of your own, for once. Joe will be along 
presently. Hopefully, so will I." With that, he turned 
back to his truck.

     MacLeod watched Methos get into the SUV and rev it 
up. Methos was serious! He was really going to do this! 
As the truck backed toward his car, MacLeod pulled ahead, 
clearing Methos' path before Methos could hit him. The 
Old Man drove off without glancing back. After a few 
seconds, MacLeod pulled out and followed Methos' truck at 
what he hoped was a safe distance. He didn't give a damn 
what Methos wanted; he wasn't going to let the Old Man 
get himself and Joe killed over some 2000 year old feud.
*********
Brundisium, 71 BC
     "Spartacus!" Atticus screamed into the face of the 
battle. "Show yourself!" He tried to cut his way faster 
through the press of sweating, cursing, raging men, 
slipping on the blood-soaked ground, while the sun blazed 
overhead. No Immortal presence touched him. Yet, he knew 
Spartacus was here. He had to be.

     The Romans were fighting hard and well, almost as 
well as the slaves. Of course they were. Crassus watched 
them from his horse. They dared not lose in his sight and 
survive. The battle was going back and forth, with 
legionaries and slaves in looted armour all mixed up. 
After Crassus had decimated his disobedient legions on 
the borders of Picenum, the Romans dared do nothing else 
but win. 50 cohorts of men had each been forced to choose 
one of their own by lots, and then the other nine had 
beaten the unlucky tenth man to death with clubs. All 
because a rich, patrician snob like Crassus wanted glory. 
No army of Rome had ever suffered the ancient 
humiliation. Atticus hoped that no Roman army would ever 
suffer it again.

     A slave smacked Atticus in the face with his shield, 
spinning the Roman around. He grappled with the slave, to 
keep his footing. If he went down in this, he'd never get 
back up. Stabbing the slave with his sword, he shoved the 
man away from him into the crowd. He looked up to see 
Crassus watching the battle from the hillside. The 
general looked confident of the victory his troops would 
buy for him.

     The slaves were losing, but victory seemed 
uncertain. The slaves fought well because they had no 
choice. Far better to die with a sword in your hand than 
nailed to a cross. And Spartacus still led them. This 
victory would be hard. Crassus would downplay his losses 
to the Senate, afterwards, just as he had at the Isthmus 
of Bruttium.

     Atticus blocked a thrust from one of his own men, 
who'd been blinded by blood. He  ducked under the swing 
of a slave's sword and smashed his shield into the face 
of another slave, breaking forward a few precious paces 
more. He didn't care anymore who won the battle, or even 
if he survived, if only he could get to Spartacus first. 
Rome was a highborn whore, rutting with every barbarian 
and slave she could find, then crying rape when she was 
caught out. She had had virtue once, but not since that 
barbarian bastard had left her to burn three centuries 
ago.

     *I'll kill you for that. My Rome was beautiful, 
then. Look what you've done to her, Spartacus. See how 
easy it is to become a barbarian.*

     The Buzz hit him. He sucked in his breath--and 
nearly lost his head in the moment of distraction. An 
enormous Gaul, tall as a tree, knocked him right off his 
feet. He brought up his shield, blocking one wild cut, 
then another, before the slave was swept away by the 
battle. Atticus scrambled to his feet, leaning on his 
shield, and staggered forward. It was then he saw 
Spartacus.

     From four lengths away, zi-mezena Methos looked the 
same--the same blue slave's tunic, the same leather 
armour, the same bloody face mark--but the short hair was 
still a shock. Spartacus was fighting his way on foot 
past Atticus towards Crassus, where the Roman general 
surveyed the battle from horseback. The barbarian general 
led a wedge of men, who dwindled as they advanced. 
Atticus envied those men. Their leader might be a 
laughing savage. They might be scum. But at least they 
followed a real man, and not a titled moneybags. Atticus 
might wish Spartacus would get to Crassus, if Atticus 
hadn't intended to kill the barbarian first.

     The men around Spartacus went down, one by one. The 
last one to die was the little Sicilian who had tortured 
Atticus in the slave camp. Atticus laughed. As the 
Sicilian fell, two centurions attacked Spartacus in 
tandem. Spartacus sidestepped and gutted one, then turned 
and slashed the other one's throat. That was his last bit 
of luck. He only advanced a few feet before a spear 
struck him in the thigh. He yanked it out and limped on. 
An auxiliary attacked him from behind, knocking him 
forward. His face twisted in pain, the barbarian general 
swung around, almost decapitating the man with a wild cut 
of his sword. More men came at him in the crush. 
Spartacus fought them off, but not before being slashed 
in the arm. Brought to bay on top of a hillock, the 
barbarian sank to one knee behind his shield. His face 
showed such sadness that Atticus almost pitied him. He 
must know he was lost. As a group of centurions closed 
around him, he forced himself to his feet using his 
shield, slashing at his enemies with his gladius. He got 
one, a young centurion who had come too close and dropped 
his guard, but five more replaced the unwary recruit. 
Atticus caught a glimpse of Spartacus, his head thrown 
back, sword flung away in his agony, before they dragged 
him down. The barbarian fell forward onto his own shield. 
The battle rolled over him, covering him like the waves 
of a bloody sea.

     "NO!" Atticus screamed, but the others could not 
hear him. "Take his head! His head! Cut off his head!" 
Even as he fought to close the distance, a slave attacked 
him from the side, stabbing him in a hole in his armour 
under his arm. Atticus staggered back, to be slashed from 
behind by another slave. As he himself sank under the 
weight of his enemy, he still tried to see Spartacus, or 
at least the start of a Quickening--some proof that the 
barbarian was dead. But as his eyes dimmed, he saw 
nothing. Rome was lost. Spartacus lived. Only Atticus 
knew yet what that meant, and he was dead.
*********
Turn this thing around. I will not go quietly.
I will not lie down. I will not go quietly.
I will not lie down. No, I will not lie down!

Paris, September 7, 2002
     "Kid, you gotta help me out here," Joe said, trying 
to reason with Atticus' friend Jerry. They were in the 
back of Atticus' van, headed toward the rendezvous with 
Methos. Joe didn't want to know why Atticus kept 
handcuffs in his van (it looked like it had been news to 
Jerry), but they chafed. With his hands bound and his 
cane gone, Joe was pretty much helpless, which really 
pissed him off.

     *You should have listened to the Old Man,* his 
little voice of reason, which he'd been ignoring all day, 
told him. *Oh, shut up,* he told it wearily. He looked 
over at Jerry and tried again.

     "Jerry, they're gonna try to kill each other. I'm 
sure you don't want Mark to die anymore than I want Adam 
to die, right? Maybe we can work together on this."

     Jerry gave him a terrorised look. Poor kid. He'd 
really gone through the Looking Glass, today. His best 
friend was a guy who lived forever--except now, he and 
another immortal guy were going to try to kill each 
other, with swords. And, by the way, kid, black was 
white, up was down, and boy, did Joe know that feeling.

     "We gotta do something, Jerry," he said reasonably.

     Jerry just shook his head. "Man, I don't even know 
what universe I'm in today, and you're asking me to help 
you? I don't even know you!"

     "That's the way it goes, sometimes, kid. Look, 
you've got to trust me here, or these guys are gonna kill 
each other."

     "Mark said that they fight until one cuts off the 
other's head," Jerry said. "So that means that the one 
that wins lives, right?"

     "Yes," Joe conceded reluctantly.

     "Is your guy any good?" Jerry asked.

     "Yeah, kid, he's pretty damned good." Joe shifted 
his hands inside the cuffs, wishing the floor of the van 
weren't so hard. His butt was falling asleep. "He's also 
a little out there right now. He didn't want this any 
more than Mark did, but this friend of his--"
     "Chris Mancuso," Jerry said, showing that he'd been 
paying attention all along.

     "Mancuso, yeah," Joe said. "This guy was messing 
with my friend's head, and Mark's, trying to get them to 
fight. They never would have done it otherwise, I don't 
think. My friend...he's been going through a bad time, 
lately. Nothing to do with this, but Mancuso came in and 
made it worse, just to get him to go after A--Mark. He 
still wasn't gonna do it, but now...."

     "Now, he will?" Jerry asked plaintively. "Now he 
wants to kill Mark?" Joe nodded. "But why?"

     "Because we're friends," Joe said. "Even though Adam 
talks a real good game about looking out for number one 
and bugging out when the going gets tough, I've only seen 
him do it once." The image of Richie's headless body came 
to mind, unasked. "And that once messed him up pretty 
bad. He won't do it again. He'll come in like the Wrath 
of God and unless we can get your friend Mark to stand 
down, one of them is going to die. It's as simple as 
that."

     The van slowed, then turned to the right, seconds 
before it stopped. Gravel crunched as Atticus came round 
the back. Joe's heart sank.

     "Jerry..." he said desperately, holding out his 
bound hands.

     "I can't, man. I can't help you." Jerry shook his 
head, looking torn. "Don't you understand? He's my 
*friend*."

     Joe slumped. He did understand. That was the 
problem.
*********
     Joe watched in apprehension as Atticus paced slowly 
back and forth, sword drawn, in front of an empty 
doorway. Construction workers had built up the wood frame 
of  a house on top of the concrete foundation, but little 
else. There were puddles and litter everywhere. The 
evening summer sun bathed the construction site in a red 
glow as it set over the site's office trailer. Enough 
light for dying.

     "Maybe he won't come," Jerry said, obviously having 
forgotten that his friend would kill Joe if Methos didn't 
show up.

     "He'll show," Atticus said, coming back to Jerry and 
Joe. "Jerry," he said. "When Pierson gets here, I want 
you to get yourself and Dawson to a safe distance. And 
stay away from the fence, or anything else metal."

     "But it's just a sword fight," Jerry protested. 
"What's the problem? He wouldn't attack us, too, would 
he?"

     "No!" Joe said angrily. "He wouldn't!"

     Atticus smirked. "Pierson's state of mind is going 
to be the least of your worries, Jerry. Just keep well 
out of the way. I don't have time to explain."

     "Mark--" Jerry began. He stopped as Atticus raised 
his head, with a look that was all too familiar to Joe. 
Atticus turned towards the chainlink fence that 
surrounded the construction site and raised his sword.

     "Spartace!" Atticus shouted. "Hic es?"

     "Sum." The flat, affirmative response announced 
Methos' presence. Joe's heart sank.

     Methos strolled through the gate. Even at a distance 
from Atticus, he towered over the Roman. No wonder the 
Romans had feared the Celts. Methos pulled out his sword, 
shrugging off his long coat. His graduate student 
camouflage of jeans, henley shirt, and hiking boots 
looked as wrong as pink flowers painted on a rocket 
launcher.

     As Joe watched, Methos raised his sword and pulled 
it across his left  hand. Blood welled up. With no change 
in his blank expression, Methos raised his hand to his 
forehead, and drew the palm down across one eye. It left 
a broad, bloody stripe down the right side of his face. 
He held out his hand, showing the wound as it evaporated 
in blue sparks. Barbaros the Horseman, was here.

     If Atticus was impressed, he didn't show it. Jerry 
looked ready to throw up. Joe would have laughed--if he'd 
thought the Old Man was joking.

     "Spartacus sum," Methos intoned, still advancing. 
"Methos Eques sum. Mors sum." He cocked his head to his 
right, as if listening to his dead brothers, Silas, 
Caspian, Kronos, as if his blood-painted eye saw them in 
the spirit world. "Romane, tuam mortem ueni uidere." He 
leapt straight at Atticus.
*********
Gimme a ticket for an aeroplane
Ain't got time to take a fast train.
Lonely days are gone. I'm a-goin' home.
My baby just wrote me a letter.

     He's very good, is Atticus. I nearly lose my head in 
the first rush. He sidesteps and swings high at me as I 
throw myself at him. I miss him completely. He almost 
gets me but I trip over a paint bucket and fall through 
an empty doorway, just ahead of his sword.

     "You're tall; be small," someone once told me (in 
translation). He was Sicilian, I think. A short man can 
gut you, should you never learn how to crouch.

     Wakeupwakeupwakeup, Old Man! Atticus will gut me if 
he can. He pursues me into the skeleton of the house. I 
scramble away, blocking him twice before I find my feet 
again. He feints high and strikes low, trying to get 
under my guard. I dodge behind a post. Damn the Ivanhoe. 
Too long for one-hand, not enough handle for two, too 
bloody heavy and it handles like a pig. Very distracting. 
Against Atticus' hand-and-a-half Bastard sword, it'll get 
me killed.

     Isn't that the point? Don't I want to die? Make up 
your mind, Old Man!

     I grab the Ivanhoe's pommel and swing, high to low. 
Atticus leaps back, out of reach. The Ivanhoe's momentum 
overbalances me. He nearly gets me, then, with a two-
handed return swing inside my guard. *He* has enough 
handle, damn his eyes, and more than enough balance to 
kill me. I roll under the cut, out of the way, coming up 
behind a doorframe.

     Alexa, love, you've been dead so long. Why do you 
feel so near? You loved me once, I know it. How can you 
love me still? The dead feel nothing....

Well, she wrote me a letter, said she couldn't live 
without me no more.
Listen, mister. Can't you see? I gotta get back to my 
baby once more, anyway, yeah....

     She loved that song. I am falling in love with the 
Bastard. I'll almost not mind when it cuts off my head. 
Atticus and I exchange cuts and blocks, up and down a 
future hallway, kicking up sawdust, neither one getting 
an advantage. Atticus swings at me. I deflect his blade 
low, then come back up with a beheading cut. He jumps 
back, backpedals. I pursue him with a wild, horizontal 
swing. Thunk! Right into a post. A mercury switch falls 
onto the concrete and shatters. The house is a-rockin', 
don't bother knockin'....

      It's stuck! I can't believe it! I laugh. Atticus is 
coming back fast. Do something now, Old Man, or lose your 
head! I yank the hilt down, putting my whole body into 
it. Snap! The sword is free and so am I. I back up. As 
Atticus' cut goes wide, I return my own, just missing. 
I'd have cut his throat with the snapped-off extra length 
left in the post. Good news, though. The Ivanhoe is 
better balanced than me, now.

     We square off a few feet away from each other. I see 
Joe, outside the house, being held back by a friend of 
Atticus. He will miss me when I die. But I so want to 
sleep.

Got to get back to my baby once more....

     I raise my sword. Not a word throughout the fight. 
I'm too winded from lying in bed drooling on myself for 
weeks at a time. Atticus, maybe, has been giving up too 
much swordplay time to his art. He's breathing hard, as 
well. Oh, we are a pair! Finish it, Old Man, one way or 
the other. I charge, yelling.

     Atticus crouches, his sword blocking my path. I 
cannot stop myself; he will gut me. I cut across at 
shoulder level. If he crouches any lower, I'll be too 
high. Does it matter? No. I trip over something, almost 
colliding with him. The Ivanhoe connects, hard, right 
before the Bastard carves high into my belly, cutting off 
my battle cry. I grunt in agony when Atticus' sword turns 
my path. As I slide off it, Atticus' head and my body hit 
the ground simultaneously. I curl around myself. Can't 
breathe, let alone think. I see white fog--my Quickening 
or his?

     Where are you going, Old Man? To Hell, if I don't 
mend my ways.

     The fog flows over me, smothering me. Nonononono. I 
don't want this. Don't want it; make it stop, please. 
Gods, it hurts. My guts are hanging out. Can't get loose 
from Atticus' body. Well, this is a fine kettle of fish. 
He is still trying to drag me down, down to Hell. His 
face is turned away. My enemy is dead. Why am I so sad?

     The first bolt of lightning throws me off Atticus. I 
see Crixus, smiling. A grey-haired legionary, sun-dark 
and scarred by hard years of fighting. Darius, riding 
straight-backed and arrogant, in a Roman general's 
armour, walking through a silent, rain-soaked churchyard 
in monk's robes. The guy guarding Joe, reluctantly being 
coaxed onstage to take an award. Flashes of a life that 
will blow away on the wind as soon as the lightning ends.

     The Quickening lifts me to my knees, making me throw 
back my head and scream, even while it heals me. Nonono. 
Thunder and fire and pain, inside and out. Choking on the 
smell of sulfur. Devil, get out! I cannot escape it. Let 
me out. Make it stop!

     The Quickening recedes. I fall on my face. All gone. 
All gone.

     The concrete tastes foul, and grates against my 
cheek. Am I still alive? Seriously? What is wrong with 
me? I can't even get myself killed. Am I really that 
stupid or is Kronos right about that heavenly host? How 
many angels can dance on the head of a pin? You'll need 
that many to keep me alive, Brother. Never did believe in 
angels....

     I try to raise my head. No luck. I roll onto my 
back, instead. I feel a Buzz. Blinking, I look up to see 
MacLeod standing over me. Above and around us, the 
framework house has caught fire from the Quickening, 
smoke turning the Highlander into a shadow. Good. Let it 
burn. Let it all burn. I should have died at Brundisium. 
MacLeod coughs, then crouches by my head and grabs my 
shoulders. As he lifts me up, I see what saved my life--
my feet are still tangled in electrical wiring stretched 
across the concrete. I tripped over a goddamned bundle of 
wires. Talk about the luck of fools and tired old men. 
Crassus never found my head, either....

     "Come on, Methos," MacLeod says. "Let's go before 
this place falls down on top of us." He untangles my 
feet--such a dutiful lad--and starts to drag me towards 
the doorway. Oh, look. There's Atticus. I shove MacLeod 
away. Fire. Roman funeral rites. The least I owe Atticus 
is a proper funeral.

     "Methos, come *on*." MacLeod grabs me again. I can't 
fight him for long--too weak and tired. I shrug him off 
and crawl over to the body. 

     "Help me!" I say. I turn Atticus' body over. It 
takes most of my remaining strength.

     "Methos, leave him!" MacLeod shouts at me.

     "No! Get his head." I arrange Atticus' arms, folded 
across his chest. All gone. All gone. We were the last 
ones. Why have they all left me behind? Don't I deserve 
to die? His sword--I pick up the Bastard, regretting its 
loss already. Then, I spot the Ivanhoe, a few feet away, 
barely visible through the smoke. Yes. That's better. Let 
him have my sword. Broken, useless, a headless sword for 
a headless man. Atticus would appreciate the gesture. I 
giggle.

     "Where do you want this?" MacLeod appears at my 
shoulder, with Atticus' head. I don't look at it. He 
grabs my shoulder and shoves the head in front of my 
face. "Methos, tell me where!"

     "Put it back on his shoulders," I say. I watch, on 
my hands and knees, as he tries, but the head doesn't 
quite fit. It keeps rolling to one side. I giggle again, 
breaking into a coughing fit. Mac swears loudly. Panting, 
he puts the head back in place and jams it onto the neck, 
using a rock to prop it up. All the king's horses and all 
the king's men couldn't put Humpty together again.... If 
I burn, will I fall to pieces or will I come back? Or is 
it a moot point because MacLeod will rescue from myself, 
whether I like it or not? I turn away from the body and 
crawl towards the Ivanhoe, startling MacLeod.

     "What the Hell are you doing?" he yells, coughing. I 
don't answer. I want that Bastard, and I can't have it 
unless I give the Ivanhoe a proper send-off. The house is 
burning merrily now. We're not trapped the way we would 
be in a real house, but MacLeod still needs to get out of 
here. So hot, and it's hard to breathe. A post falls down 
further in, making the ceiling beams sag.

     I get the sword. MacLeod grabs me from behind, his 
breathing in my ear rapid with panic, and drags me back 
to the body. He still cares, even if I don't. Atticus 
looks almost asleep--almost. I do know the difference. I 
place the Ivanhoe at Atticus' side, under one arm. 
Kneeling there, I try to think of some old Latin prayer. 
That's when MacLeod slaps me, knocking me over. I stare 
up at him, confused, as he looms over me in the smoky 
gloom.

     "For Christ's sake, Methos!" he shouts. "*Joe* is 
out there!" I nod slowly. Mac is right. I don't want Joe 
to see me burn. Grabbing the Bastard, I let MacLeod pull 
me up. I lean on him the whole way out of the house, 
using the Bastard as a crutch and choking on smoke.

     Joe and Atticus' friend are waiting for us. Joe 
pulls me into a hug before I can stop him. He's crying--
very unnerving. I won, didn't I?

     "It's okay, Joe," I wheeze, but he doesn't let go. I 
was angry at him. Can't remember why, now. I watch 
Atticus' friend over Joe's shoulder. The kid looks as 
dangerous as a stuffed toy. But then, the road to Hell is 
paved with unwanted teddy bears. He stares at the burning 
house, shivering.

     "Jesus," he says, over and over. Guess it was his 
first Quickening. Don't think he'll be a threat for the 
moment.

     Joe finally lets me go. He pulls back to look at me. 
I just stare back, too tired to fake it anymore. You want 
to lock me up, Joe? Go right ahead. I think I could use 
the rest.

    "I thought he was gonna kill you," he says. Oh. Now I 
remember why I was angry.

     "I thought he was gonna kill you, too, Joe," I say. 
"Next time, listen to me. Okay?"

     He nods. "Deal," he says. Yeah, right. That'll 
happen.

     "We have to get out of here," MacLeod says, 
practical for once.  "That fire will attract attention, 
even if the Quickening didn't." He looks over at Atticus' 
friend. "Look, um, Jerry, you can come with us or you can 
stay here. It's your choice." 'Jerry' (is that really his 
name? Poor kid.) stares into the fire. I don't think he 
heard you, MacLeod.

     "I'll take care of it," Joe offers, while MacLeod 
hands me my jacket. MacLeod's nose wrinkles as I put it 
on. I suppose I should take a shower at some point. 
"We'll have to get M--Adam's truck out of here before the 
cops arrive, anyway, and I'll need Jerry to drive it," 
Joe is saying. "I think it's safe to leave Mark's van. 
Nothing too forensically interesting in there." He turns 
to me. "Adam, you got your keys?"

     I stare at him blankly. Keys. "In your jacket?" Joe 
suggests gently. Oh, yeah. Keys. In my jacket pocket. I 
put them there so they wouldn't melt in the Quickening. I 
pat myself down until I find a bulge, then pull out a set 
of keys. Magic. Joe takes them out of my hand.

     "You'd better get Adam back to your car," he tells 
MacLeod. "I think he's running on fumes."

     "I'm fine," I say, because it is expected of me.

     "Whatever," Joe says, shaking his head. "Just go 
with Mac, Adam. Please?"

     "Are you sure we should leave you alone with this 
kid?" MacLeod says, looking uneasy. "What if he tries 
something?"

     Joe chuckles. "Mac, Jerry's not having a very good 
day. As long as I stick to words of one syllable, it 
oughtta be fine. It's not as though I can make any sudden 
moves. Just get the Old Man out of here, okay?"

     While MacLeod hesitates over how to do the Right 
Thing, I wander off towards the gate. "Mac, where's your 
car?" I call over my shoulder. Like a genie, MacLeod 
appears at my shoulder, grabs my elbow, and steers me off 
to the right. Magic. I yank my arm free, tired of being 
Machandled. Imitating an offended puppy, he takes the 
lead. He's trying to help, I know. I should thank him. 
Really.

     Fortunately, MacLeod has parked nearby. I stand, 
hands shoved in my pockets,  watching him unlock the car 
without setting off the security system. Interesting 
process. I never bother with such things. If thieves want 
my truck, they can bloody well have it. I can always go 
back to riding horses.

    "I had a horse, once," I say suddenly.

     "What?" MacLeod says, looking puzzled. Am I making 
sense? Maybe not.

    "A horse," I explain. "I had a horse."

     "I'm sure you've had lots of horses, Methos," he 
says, turning back to car. Of course. Why would I be 
saying anything important?

    "He was a nice horse," I continue anyway. "I took him 
from the Romans." This makes MacLeod look up. "I don't 
think they treated him very well. I swore I'd never give 
him back. At Brundisium, I took him out in front of my 
troops and killed him in front of them. I told them that 
it meant that I wouldn't abandon them, that I would 
either find a new horse or we would lose, and I wouldn't 
need a horse anymore. But really, I just didn't want the 
Romans to have him. It didn't seem fair." I stare, eyes 
unfocused, at the car. "Maybe I was wrong. Maybe he would 
have survived. Atticus could have had him. Atticus would 
have treated him well."

     MacLeod comes around the car, unlocks the passenger 
side, and approaches me. He stops a few feet away, not 
trying to touch me. "Methos," he says. "Why don't you get 
in the back seat? You could get some sleep on the way 
back."

      "What?" I blink at him, focusing on him with 
difficulty. "Oh. Sure." I go to the car and crawl in.

     "Ow!" I slice my hand open on the Bastard as I lay 
it on the floor next to the back seat. I'm more tired 
than I thought. I stare at the sword. It is smeared with 
blood, most of the way down its length--my blood. Does it 
matter? There is blood all over me--my hands, my face--
and most of it is mine. And I won. Why is that? Never 
mind. I am far too tired to care. I lie down on the seat. 
Oh, to be horizontal forever.

     "Methos?" MacLeod says anxiously. "What's wrong?"

     What's wrong. Good question. Furo ergo Methos sum. 
"Scabbard," I mutter into the seat. "Need the scabbard."

     "You're not keeping that--never mind. It's probably 
in his van. Stay here; I'll go get it."

     "Okay." That is an excellent plan. I should help by 
pulling my feet in and closing the door, but I can't be 
bothered.

     I fall asleep before MacLeod gets back.
*********
     All gone. All gone. Smoke and ash.

     The camp has changed since I last saw it. Aircraft 
contrails litter the blue sky overhead. Instead of 
buckets, the slaves now carry large, red plastic jugs on 
their heads. In the distance, I see a vast shanty city at 
the edge of the desert.

     Silas comes out of his tent, arms spread wide in 
welcome. "Brother! You've come back! Welcome! Welcome!" 
He grabs me up in a great bear hug.

     "Silas," I say, confused. "What are you doing here?" 
Something is wrong, but I can't remember what it is.

     "I've been waiting for you, Brother! Look! I kept 
your tent just the way you like it. Come in!"

     "But--Silas. We don't live like this anymore." 
Something is wrong. Silas shouldn't be here. He opens the 
tent flap. I peer in. As I do, he shoves me inside. 
Inside, it is dark as a tomb. Hot and close. No. I don't 
want to be in here at all.

    I turn in a circle, like an animal in a cage. I can 
see nothing. Where is the tent flap? Where is the exit?

     "Silas, let me out," I say.

     "It's where you belong," Silas calls from outside. 
"You know that, Brother."

     The tent closes in around me, animal skin folding in 
on my face. I sit on the unseen ground and clasp my 
knees, trying to get more space, but there is no space. I 
shiver. It is too hot. I'm thirsty.

     "Silas, Brother, please," I beg. "Let me out. I 
won't kill you again, I promise." He does not respond.

    The air is burning hot. I smell smoke. I cannot see 
the flames but I can hear them--crackling, coming closer. 
Brother, please, don't let me burn---
*********
Paris, September 8, 2002
     MacLeod leaned over the bed and shook Methos' 
shoulder. The Old Man's skin was hot and dry.

     "Lemme out," Methos told the pillow.

     "Methos," MacLeod said. "Methos, wake up." He shook 
harder.

     Methos woke with a gasp. "Silas?"

     "Your cat is in the kitchen, ignoring me," MacLeod 
informed him. "I fed him, in case you were wondering."

     "What?" Methos stared at him.

    "Silas," MacLeod explained. "Your cat. I fed him. 
That's what you meant, right?"

     "My cat," Methos said blankly. "Oh. Right. My cat. 
Fed him, did you?"

     "Yes," MacLeod replied, hoping that Methos now 
remembered what planet he was occupying. MacLeod hadn't 
believed Joe, at first, but after the cat had answered to 
the name, he'd had to accept that Methos had really named 
a cat after one of his brother Horsemen. According to 
Joe, there had also once been a Kronos and a Caspian. 
MacLeod silently added this bit of information to his 
list of Things Never to Tell Cassandra About Methos.

     Methos giggled. "Silas knows a sucker when he sees 
one." He propped himself up on one elbow. "Oh," he 
groaned. "I feel like the day after my last Aerosmith 
concert."

     "You like Aerosmith?" MacLeod blurted out. Didn't 
Methos have any musical taste at all?

     "Not since that concert, no," Methos admitted. "The 
ribs feel okay, now." He felt his side. "No more 
headache." He rubbed his head, looking relieved. "Guess 
that was just a concussion, not a skull fracture. And, 
um...." he gazed at a spot past MacLeod's shoulder for 
several seconds. "I think I've finally stopped bouncing 
off the walls from whatever was in those little blue dots 
the guy two seats down gave me."

     MacLeod took Methos by the shoulders and looked him 
in the eye. "Methos, you were not at an Aerosmith concert 
last night, you were in a challenge. You took a 
Quickening, remember?" He shook Methos a little. "Do you 
remember?"

     "What the Hell are you talking about, MacLeod?" 
Methos said irritably, pushing MacLeod away. "I haven't 
been to a rock concert in over fifteen years." He paused, 
holding his head. "Must have been Atticus."

     MacLeod felt sick. "Do you remember anything else 
that you got from Atticus?" he asked. *Aside from his 
sword, which you've clung to since you took it off his 
body.*

     Methos shrugged. "No," he said. MacLeod didn't 
believe him. Instead of saying so, he handed Methos the 
glass of juice he'd brought from the kitchen.

     "Are you planning on turning into a reasonable human 
being any time soon?" he  asked, as he pulled up a chair 
next to the bed.

     "Hey, you woke me up, remember?" Methos retorted, 
between sips of juice. "You want me to be 'reasonable', 
let me get up on my own." He grimaced at the juice. "What 
is this stuff, anyway? And why is it so hot in here?"

     "It's Lucozade," MacLeod replied. "And it's not hot; 
you're still dehydrated from the fight."

     "So you gave me a sports drink?" Methos looked 
bemused. "Are you saying you think the Game is some kind 
of sporting event?"

     "It'll replace your electrolytes," MacLeod said, 
trying to ignore Methos' complete lack of gratitude. 
Maybe it was part of the depression.

     "I don't want to replace my electrolytes." Methos 
set the glass on the floor and lay back down, pulling the 
covers over his head. "I have survived 23 fights in the 
arena, countless battles and Heaven knows how many 
challenges without Lucozade or anybody nursemaiding me. I 
think I can take it from here."

     MacLeod sighed. Joe had warned him this would be 
difficult. "You've been in those clothes for three days, 
now," he said, standing up. "Why don't you take a shower? 
You'll feel better. I'll go make you some soup...or 
something--"

     "Will you stop hovering over me!" Methos threw the 
covers back and sat up. Alarmed, MacLeod backed up when 
Methos pulled Atticus' sword out from under his pillow 
and came after MacLeod.

     Not *again*. "Methos! What the Hell are you doing?!" 
MacLeod yelped.
 
    "Making a point," Methos growled back. Methos pressed 
the sword, still smeared with dried blood, against 
MacLeod's throat. MacLeod backed up further. Methos 
followed him.

     "What--why are you doing this?" MacLeod didn't think 
even Joe had considered this problem.

    "Because the indirect approach is not working," 
Methos snarled. "Because I am apparently incapable of 
getting it through your thick, Highland skull that I do 
not need you to hover over me, nursemaid me, feed either 
me or my cat, fight my battles for me or otherwise treat 
me like a senile old goat! I do not care what guilt debt, 
karmic imbalance or martyr complex you are trying to work 
off. You are not doing it on me! If I choose to go on a 
month-long drunk, sleep with half of the prostitutes in 
Paris and top it off by driving off a cliff a la Thelma 
and Louise, I will!" MacLeod found himself with his back 
to Methos' open front door. "Get out, MacLeod. I'll call 
you when I am feeling 'reasonable'." A final prod from 
the sword forced MacLeod to back into the hallway. The 
door slammed in his face. Hoping the Old Man might wake 
up a bit more and change his mind, MacLeod knocked on the 
door and called Methos' name for several minutes. Methos 
never responded.
*********
     Joe laughed so hard he nearly fell off his stool. 
Even MacLeod's stony look couldn't sober him for several 
minutes. Finally, as MacLeod grew more and more dour, Joe 
put up his hands.

    "Okay," he admitted. "I can see why you wouldn't find 
it very funny, but--I mean, come on, Mac. You actually 
sat and watched him sleep for *seventeen* hours? And when 
he finally woke up, you gave him Lucozade?" Joe laughed 
again. "What were you thinking?"

     "I was worried about him, Joe," MacLeod said, with 
what Methos liked to call 'the wounded deer look'. "He 
was dead to the world by the time I got him back to his 
apartment. Anybody could have taken his head when he was 
in that state." He stared morosely into his scotch. "I 
suppose I shouldn't have woken him up."

     "You woke him up?" Joe choked. "I'm surprised he 
didn't take your head. Mac, he's ten times as old as you. 
He's one of the toughest human beings on the planet. 
You're humiliating him, here, don't you understand?"

    "I know that, Joe," MacLeod ran his hand through his 
hair. "It's just--I'm worried about him. He acted as 
though he *wanted* to lose against Atticus."

    "I know. He's a mess right now," Joe said quietly. 
He'd finally gotten through to MacLeod. Hallelujah. "Does 
that mean we're on the same page with this?"

    MacLeod nodded. "I wish Sean Burns were still alive," 
he said. Oh, Lord. Better not skip down that memory lane. 
MacLeod getting drunk and maudlin over killing Sean 
during one of his own breakdowns was not going to help 
Methos.

     "That's a thought," Joe said, anxious to deflect 
MacLeod back to the present concern. "Sean's staff kept 
the hospital going after he died. They still treat 
Immortals there. Maybe I can give them a call, see if 
they have any advice about how to deal with him."

     MacLeod perked up at that. "That's a good idea. Sean 
always kept good staff around him." Great. Another guilt 
trip averted.

     "Meanwhile," Joe continued. "I'll check on Methos 
tonight, see if I can get through to him."

    MacLeod scowled. "Good luck doing that."

     Joe snickered. "Luck won't have anything to do with 
it. I'll just bring him beer."
*********
Paris, September 15, 2002
     "Methos!" Joe banged on the door. "Methos! Hey, open 
the door!" Silence. He banged some more. He could stay 
here all day, if he had to. He rapped on the door with 
his cane.

     He heard the thump of bare feet, then the door 
unlocking and opening. Methos stood in the doorway, 
wearing boxer shorts and a grimy white t-shirt. His 
greasy hair stuck up one side, his face was pasty and the 
bags under his eyes seemed larger than usual. This was 
getting to be a worrying pattern. He'd looked like crap 
every night this week. If he'd taken a shower or shaved 
since his fight with Atticus, Joe couldn't tell.

    Joe snorted. "You look like shit," he said. "What've 
you been doing all day while the rest of us worked for a 
living? Do you like just lying in bed, getting drunk and 
jerking off, or something?" He knew the words were a 
little harsh, but tea and sympathy got a guy booted out 
the door when it came to Methos. MacLeod had found that 
out the hard way.

     Methos sniffed and turned his back on Joe, moving 
back into the studio apartment. Cautiously, Joe limped 
after him. He noticed that Methos wasn't carrying his--
Atticus'--sword anymore. Maybe he had just been lying in 
bed and getting drunk, then. Joe wasn't sure that was a 
good sign. Methos' obsessive, violent practice with his 
new toy/spoil of combat had at least been a sign of 
interest in something.

     "I got a call from Atticus' lawyer yesterday," Joe 
said, watching Methos head to the fridge. The Old Man 
showed no reaction to the news as he pulled out two 
beers. "Atticus left you all the rights to his works, if 
you survived him. The will goes back to 1987. I also got 
a call from his agent, who said you had to make a 
decision pretty soon on whether to go ahead with 
publishing the last issue of 'Barbaros' or the contract 
would be cancelled. He faxed me a release form for you to 
sign in case you were ready to give the green light on 
it."

     Methos handed him a beer, popped his own open and 
sucked down a large swallow. It was obviously not his 
first of the day.

     "Show me," he grunted. Joe fished the paper, and a 
pen, out of his pocket and handed it over to Methos. He 
was glad he'd looked the contract over carefully before 
bringing it; Methos signed the paper without reading it. 
The Old Man's hand shook as he wrote, so that the 
signature was more illegible than usual.

     "Thanks," Joe said.

     Methos shrugged. "Least I could do, considering that 
I did kill him. Is that it?"

     "Methos...." Joe groped for a way to tell the Old 
Man without hurting him further. "Atticus left you 
*everything*. I don't mean his material assets. His buddy 
Jerry got the house and car and most of the money. The 
rest went to friends and various charities. What I mean 
is...he left you his, um, his stuff. His art. He had 
things he'd made going back at least two thousand years--
comics, drawings, paintings, illuminations, Byzantine 
icons, even mosaics. The lawyer's got a list. The guy was 
good--really, really good--at what he did. He seems to 
have been most active since the 13th century, and a lot 
of the stuff is on more or less permanent loan to museums 
all over the place, but...I mean, this stuff is 
priceless. It's like your journals, or something. It's an 
irreplaceable part of history. I know he was your enemy, 
but I'd like to know what you plan to do with it."

     "Do with it?" Methos regarded Joe, his expression 
flat. "Nothing. Sounds as though it is all fine where it 
is."

    "You're not gonna throw it all into a pile and burn 
it?" Joe asked.

     "I already lit Atticus' funeral pyre," Methos said. 
"Anyway, that was Crixus' style. I don't have any problem 
with Atticus leaving something for posterity. Bully for 
him." He wandered over to his bed. After some hesitation, 
Joe followed him. Joe was surprised to see a journal 
volume lying on the blanket.

     "Been writing it all up?" Joe asked.

     "Something like that." Methos sat on the bed, 
pulling up his knees and wrapping his arms around them. 
His attitude was strange. Clearly, he didn't want to 
talk, but Joe was pretty sure Methos wanted him to stay. 
Joe decided to take a risk. Carefully, he positioned 
himself next to the bed, and sat down, hard, next to 
Methos, who sat playing with his own toes. Joe hoped the 
Old Man would be with it enough to help him get back up, 
because he didn't know if he'd be able to do it on his 
own.

     "Methos, what's going on?" Joe asked gently. "This 
guy Atticus, he hated your guts. And I know Crixus was 
your friend, but he was a real piece of work, too, you 
know? Why are you missing them so much? What's really 
wrong?"

     "Nothing," Methos muttered into his knees. 
"Everything. I dunno...." He rubbed the back of his neck. 
"Maybe I should go on vacation again."

     "I'd say that was a great idea," Joe said, "if I 
thought you were in any shape for it." Methos didn't 
respond. Joe decided to take another risk. "Why did 
Crixus bring that file here, Old Man? What happened out 
there in Seacouver?"

     "Nothing," Methos mumbled. "It's not important 
anymore."

     "Methos, I'm your friend," Joe protested. "Just tell 
me. I ain't going anywhere."

    "Until I light your funeral pyre," Methos replied 
morosely.

    "Until then, yeah." Joe shook his head to dispel the 
image of a skeletal house burning down around a dead 
Immortal. "I'm not Immortal, Old Man. I can't promise you 
any more than the years I've got left." He waited. It 
didn't take long.

     "I saw Richie's sword glow," Methos explained 
quietly. "At the racetrack. Right after MacLeod left, 
when you were crying on my shoulder. I looked down at the 
Kid's body and I just...saw it. I couldn't believe it! It 
glowed! I thought I was losing my mind."

     "Ahriman has that effect," Joe admitted. "He's a 
clever bastard." The memory of his own temptation by 
Ahriman hurt. He had wanted his legs back so much. He 
still wanted his legs back.

     "Clever, my ass!" Methos rocked back and forth, 
looking agitated. "Joe, I am old enough to know when I am 
losing the plot. Swords do not glow! Dead friends do not 
drop by for quick chats! There is no way it could have 
been real. No way! And yet--I saw it! Do you have any 
idea how I am when I'm out of my head? You think MacLeod 
with his Dark Quickening was dangerous? You have no 
idea."

     *Dead friends? Better let that go for now.* "You 
should have told me," Joe said. "We could have helped 
each other."

     "I could not afford to be anywhere near you, Joe. I 
was not about to put you in harm's way." Joe watched 
Methos, feeling sad, but not very surprised. The Old Man 
had not survived five thousand years by being a trusting 
soul.

     "What about the train tracks?" Joe asked, because he 
had to know. "Were you serious about checking out that 
night?"

     Methos looked him the eye. "Very."

     "Why?" Joe was bewildered. "You were free and clear. 
You could have gone anywhere. It's not as though you've 
never taken the next plane out of Dodge before." He 
regretted saying it immediately, but he couldn't take it 
back.

     "You would think that, Joe," Methos replied sourly. 
"MacLeod is your big hero. Me, I'm just the fall-back 
plan whenever MacLeod's not available, right?"

     "That's not what I meant, Methos," Joe floundered. 
"It's just...you're smarter than that."

     "Smarter?" Methos giggled, a sound that made the 
hair rise on the back of Joe's neck. "I was drunk, out of 
my head and homeless. No friends, my life smashed to 
pieces, and it was all my own damned fault. Putting my 
neck on that rail seemed like a great idea, at the time." 
He rocked harder, shivering, the journal lying forgotten 
next to him.

     Gently, Joe put an arm around Methos' shoulder. 
"It's okay, man. Just take it easy."

     "I'm so tired," Methos whispered, as if Joe were not 
there. "Shouldn't be so tired. Shouldn't be so *old*. 
Should know better than that." His head dropped onto his 
knees.

     "It's okay, Methos," Joe said, feeling like a 
complete bastard as Methos began to cry. "It's gonna be 
okay."
*********
Paris, September 30, 2002
     The bar was crowded for a Monday. One of Joe's 
barstaff hadn't bothered to show up--for the third time. 
Three strikes, and she was out, in Joe's opinion. If 
Claudette cared more about her new boyfriend than her 
job, that was fine with him. Meanwhile, Joe was stuck on 
the bar until Marie showed up at four. 

     He wasn't thrilled. Methos had asked him last night 
if he was free for the afternoon. Joe had said 'yes,' of 
course. He'd made a point of visiting Methos every night 
since Atticus' death, to make sure the Old Man was okay. 
For a couple of weeks, Methos had been in bad shape. He'd 
even given Joe a key, since he couldn't be bothered to 
come to the door. Every time Joe let himself into the 
apartment, Methos would be lying on his bed, staring at 
the ceiling. The only thing he ever bothered to do was 
feed his cat. Joe would fix him some dinner, get him to 
wash up, maybe watch a video. Methos showed no interest 
in any of these activities, but he did cheer up visibly 
in Joe's presence. Joe figured he'd better not look a 
gift horse in the mouth. He'd just assume that Methos 
liked having him around.

     This week, though, something had caught the Old 
Man's interest. Methos wouldn't tell Joe what it was, but 
he seemed very pleased with himself about it. When Joe 
asked him what was going on, he laughed and wouldn't say. 
Last night, though, he'd been excited, almost manic. Like 
a kid in a candy shop. God, he'd even cleaned out the 
catbox and put out the garbage for the first time in 
three weeks. Joe had no intention of disappointing him, 
just because some dipshit barmaid hadn't bothered to show 
up for her shift. 

     When he had a minute, Joe called Amy on his mobile. 
"Hi, honey," he said, as soon as Amy answered. "Are you 
free at all this afternoon?"

     "Uh, not really, Joe. Why? Is this company 
business?" Great, an opening!

     "Yeah. It is, as it turns out," Joe said. "Do you 
know how to tend bar?"

     "I've done it once or twice." Amy sounded 
suspicious. Paranoia ran in the Dawson genes. "This 
business...it doesn't involve our friend, the good 
doctor, does it?"

     Joe sighed. "He wants to show me something, Amy. 
He's really excited about it. You know how he's been the 
past few weeks. I don't want to disappoint him."

     "I see," Amy said. Joe had no doubt that she did. 
Joe had told her much of the story--the Spartacus bit, 
anyway. He'd fudged on the part about the train tracks. 
Better for Amy to see Methos as a wounded hero than as a 
fruitcake. She'd wanted to visit Methos, but Joe had 
talked her out of it. It would have humiliated the Old 
Man.

     "I'd really appreciate it if you could help out, 
honey," Joe said. "I think it's important."

     "All right," Amy conceded. "I'll try to be over 
there within the hour."

     "That would be great, Amy. Thanks." It was noon, 
now. Methos had said he'd come by at three. That gave Joe 
maybe an hour or two to teach Amy the ropes. No problem. 
He'd taught guys how to handle guns in less time.

     Half an hour later, Jerry Merrick walked into the 
bar. *Oh, shit,* thought Joe. He'd forgotten all about 
his open invitation to Jerry to "come in anytime". Joe 
had wanted to ease Jerry into the Watchers, without the 
kid realising that his only other option was a bullet in 
the back of the head. Jerry had been friends with one of 
the few ancient Immortals left, and he'd seen a 
Quickening. Even if Joe had ever felt comfortable about 
making uncooperative witnesses 'disappear', the Watchers 
wanted Jerry alive and working for them. 

     How Joe was going to keep Jerry from blowing Adam 
Pierson's cover with the Watchers, when both the Atticus 
and the Old Man had used the name 'Methos' in front of 
the kid, was a whole other can of worms. Hopefully, in 
all the excitement over the Spartacus story, Methos would 
be temporarily forgotten. Maybe the legend of the great 
and ancient freedom fighter would even soothe the shock 
that such an old Immortal had infiltrated ('joined', Joe 
reminded himself firmly) the Watchers.

     At least the stunning amount of money that Atticus 
had left Jerry had made the kid happier about moving to 
Paris than he might have been. Previously, Jerry had been 
living in a trailer park with his dog, just outside of 
Savannah, Georgia. He'd taken to the idea of the Watchers 
better than Joe had hoped. Then again, Savannah, Georgia 
was the kind of place that made Immortals and the Game 
look mundane. Savannah was like New Orleans, or St 
Andrews in Scotland, or Paris, or maybe even Seacouver: 
it had its own thing going, its own vibe. It was full of 
odd forms of life, and weird pockets of alternate 
reality. It straddled the crossroads between the high 
road and the low road, the border between real life and 
fairyland.

     "Uh, hi, Jerry," Joe said, as Jerry found a stool 
across from him. "How's your dog settling in?"

     "Oh, he's still pretty freaked out," Jerry said, his 
hands in his pockets. He glanced around the bar in 
nervous twitches, as if he expected Joe to throw him out 
for staring at the tables. "I guess I'm lucky I didn't 
decide to move to Britain. I hear they stick your animals 
in quarantine for six months--and they make you pay for 
it."

    "Yeah, they do," Joe said. "Have you been thinking 
about my offer?"

     "Sort of." Jerry was trying to be cagey. Man, was he 
lousy at it. "You really have a complete file of Mark's 
life? All two thousand years of it?"

     "More or less," Joe said. Admitting this to Jerry 
had been a calculated risk. "You could add a lot. I'm 
sure he told you stories. He would just have pretended 
that they weren't real, or happened to some historical 
figure. So. Are you in or out?"

     "Oh...I guess I'm in," Jerry said. Joe let out a 
quiet sigh of relief. "Now, what?"

     "Now?" As Joe groped for a bone to throw the kid, 
Amy walked in. "Now," he said  brightly. "You learn how 
to tend bar." Amy approached them. Joe turned to her. 
"Amy, honey, this is Jerry. I told you about him, 
remember?"

     Amy nodded warily. She watched Jerry, who was 
staring, slack-jawed, at her. Joe got the feeling that 
Amy was way out of Jerry's usual league.

     "Jerry has decided to join us, Amy. He's going to 
help you tend bar. I thought you might teach him the 
ropes." Amy smirked. She understood perfectly well that 
Joe didn't mean bartending.

     "Good," she said, putting an arm around Jerry's 
shoulders. Jerry looked as though he'd just won the 
Lottery. "Jerry, let's talk." She steered Jerry towards 
the backroom. 

     As they went, Joe heard her say, "Here is the deal, 
Jerry--may I call you Jerry? We are Watchers. We observe 
Immortals, and we record what they do." Joe noticed that 
she did not mention the Non-Interference Rule. "Immortals 
are people, just like us, except that they don't age, 
they can't have children, and the only way you can kill 
them is by cutting off their heads--as I hear you've 
found out. Most of them live quiet lives, for the most 
part. Unfortunately, it is a central part of their lives 
that they engage in something called the Game, which you 
have also witnessed. They engage in single combat to the 
death, and they all believe that they will do so until 
there is only one left. This makes their lives, overall, 
violent and uncertain. Since we watch them at fairly 
close quarters, this can make our lives, overall, violent 
and uncertain." Amy knew this first-hand. "Any questions 
so far?" As they disappeared into the backroom, Jerry 
looked sick. Joe didn't hear him ask any questions.

     Joe chuckled and turned back to the bar. Jerry was 
in good hands.
*********
So, kiss me and smile for me.
Tell me that you'll wait for me.
Hold me like you'll never let me go.
I'm leaving on a jetplane.
I don't know when I'll be back again.
Oh, babe, I hate to go.

     I have an Alexa soundtrack in my head from our time 
on the road. I remember all of her favourite songs--I 
wrote them down once, and the circumstances surrounding 
them. This one was on when our plane took off from the 
US. I turn up the radio and dance around the kitchen 
slowly, the Bastard in my hand. I've been playing with it 
on and off since I killed Atticus. It doesn't matter that 
I am procrastinating. I've been procrastinating for three 
weeks. A few more minutes won't matter.

     The song ends. I lay the Bastard on the counter. 
Quit stalling, Old Man. You did tell MacLeod that you'd 
call him when you were 'reasonable'. So, are you 
reasonable, today, or not?

     I pick up the phone and dial the number. MacLeod 
answers it on the second ring. "Hello?"

     "Mac. Hi," I say. Wow. That was original.

     "Adam! How are you fee--doing?" Why does he have to 
sound like such an eager puppy dog?

     "Oh, fine. Mac, um, I was wondering if you could 
come by Joe's around three? There's something I wanted to 
show him. I thought you might like to come along."

     "Sure!" Perfect. Now, I feel even more like a heel. 
"We're meeting at the Bar, right?"

     "Yeah." Get on with it, Old Man. You owe him this 
much. Pay the debt and get it over with. "Um, Mac. I do 
appreciate what you tried to do a few weeks ago--"

     "Don't worry about it," he says hurriedly. "You've 
done the same thing for me--many times."

     "--but I don't want you to do it, again," I finish.

     "I see," he says, in that voice that means he is not 
getting it. I do not want to get into a pissing contest 
with him today, but I definitely do not want to have this 
conversation in front of Joe. Nor do I want to have it in 
person, certainly not off Holy Ground.

     "Let me ask you a question, MacLeod," I say. "Would 
you have challenged Atticus if he had won?"

     "What?" He sounds shaken.

     "It is a simple question, MacLeod. Would you have 
done it? Knowing that I wouldn't want you to do it?" I 
know the answer. I just have to get him to admit it out 
loud.

     "I...Methos, he was hunting you." If somebody is 
bugging this conversation, they are getting an earful.

     "Not anymore," I insist. "Not for a long time. What 
if he was? Cassandra was, too. What made her right and 
him wrong?" Getting into dangerous waters, now. Here be 
dragons. Encouraged by his silence, and the fact that he 
hasn't hung up, I forge on. "You see Spartacus as a great 
freedom fighter. Atticus thought Spartacus was one of the 
most dangerous enemies Rome ever had. He had a point, you 
know. And he is hardly the greatest enemy from my past. 
You think Kell was bad--or Kalas? There are worse 
Immortals out there, MacLeod. Far worse." Worse than 
Kronos? I don't know. My worst enemies used to be 
friends. I'm my own worst enemy.

     "Methos," he says. "You can't continue to win 
challenges if you go in expecting to lose. It's gonna get 
you killed." Oooh. Well, I did start off this 
conversation with too much honesty.

     "So, your solution is to lock me up and throw away 
the key?" Keep it up, MacLeod, and I am out of here, 
lock, stock and cat. Bora Bora is starting to look very 
nice.

     "I just don't want you to get hurt, Methos." He 
sounds stung. Good. He might start listening, for once.

     "You know, Crixus wanted to protect me," I say, 
keeping my tone light. "Kronos wanted to protect me, too, 
in the beginning. Kronos was a good friend, in a feral 
sort of way, before he tried to become my keeper. Are you 
planning to become my new keeper, Duncan MacLeod of the 
Clan MacLeod?"

     I can hear him breathing. I guess he hasn't hung up. 
"What about Joe?" he asks finally.

     "Joe is...Joe," I say. "Don't ask me to explain it."

     "It's because he's Mortal, isn't it? He's less of a 
threat to you."

     "Maybe." But probably not. Horton was Mortal, and 
was he ever a threat. More likely, Joe just understands. 
The VA tried to stick him in a hospital when he got back 
from Vietnam. Watcher medics have been trying to get him 
off those prostheses and into a wheelchair for years, 
ever since he was at the Academy. He had to fight to get 
his first field assignment--and his second. Yeah. Joe 
understands all about padded walls and fur-lined cages.

     MacLeod sighs. "Methos...I don't think I can just 
stand by and watch you do this. It's like watching you do 
a high-wire act over a sea of knives."

     Welcome to my world. "I don't expect you to watch me 
do anything, Mac," I say. "I am just telling you the way 
things are. How you deal with it is up to you."

     "You're not going to change your mind, are you?" he 
says mournfully.

     "Not on this. No."

     I think of a man who once pretended to be me. "Can 
anyone live for five thousand years and say they did 
nothing? Risked nothing? Merely stayed alive? It'd be 
pointless," he'd said during our only meeting, smug in 
his little garden. Out of the mouths of babes and fools. 
Did he even realise whom he'd been addressing? I doubt 
it. The only thing remarkable about me is my age--and 
that is a fluke. What is there for anyone to notice? I 
only ever wanted to live one more day. 

     "All right," MacLeod sighs, admitting defeat. "What 
is this big secret that you want to spring on me and 
Joe?"

     I grin. "Oh, no. You want to find out what I am up 
to today? You show up at Joe's, three o'clock sharp. See 
you then." Laughing, I set the receiver back in its 
cradle. He'll come. Mac never could resist bait.
*********
     Just to be a pain in the ass (since it is expected 
of me), I show up ten minutes late. Let 'em sweat. I 
drive up and park behind Joe's truck, just outside the 
bar. As I get out, I feel a Buzz and see MacLeod hurrying 
out to meet me.

     "Don't come in," he says.

     "I beg your pardon?" I stare back at him, bemused.

     "That friend of Atticus is here," MacLeod explains. 
"Joe doesn't think he's really up to meeting you, right 
now."

     "Okay, that's understandable," I admit, since I 
don't want to meet him, either. Not when I've got his 
dead best friend's sword in my jacket.

     "I'll go get Joe," MacLeod says. "He's been waiting 
for you." He glares at me accusingly. "You're late, you 
know."

     I smile back. "I know." Wouldn't want to act 'out of 
character', not for MacLeod. Makes him too nervous.

     A few minutes later, Joe comes out. He limps over to 
my car.

     "Okay, Methos. Mac and I are both here. What is it?" 
he says, getting to the point, as always.

     "We're going on a little outing," I say. "Don't 
worry. It's nearby."

     "What, you hid this 'something' of yours in the 
neighbourhood?" Joe snipes.

     "Not exactly." I could explain, and get them both 
into the car within seconds, but where is the fun in 
that? "Don't you trust me?"

     "No," Joe and Mac say in unison. You've got to love 
solidarity in your friends.

    "Fine," I say, opening the driver's side door. "I'll 
just go my merry way, then, since I'm not allowed in the 
bar for the moment."

    "Wait!" Joe breaks first, of course, but MacLeod is 
right behind him. MacLeod puts his arm across the car 
door, blocking my entry. Joe lurches up and grabs my arm. 
I feel a stab of contrition. I was only having a little 
fun with them. I didn't mean to give them such a scare. I 
must have crashed harder than I thought, after Atticus.

     "We'll go, Methos," Joe says. "No questions asked."

     "Okay," I say. I unlock and open the back door for 
Joe, then push MacLeod's arm aside and get in.

     "You're not driving, are you?" Mac exclaims, 
obviously horrified.

     "Yep." I lean over and unlock the front passenger's 
side door. "You coming, or not?" He hesitates, glancing 
at Joe, who's already going for the backseat. "I can get 
Joe," I say. Reluctantly, Mac goes around the front to 
the passenger's side door. Once he's safely out of the 
way, I get out to help Joe.

     "I can do it!" Joe grumps at me and lets himself 
fall sideways onto the seat. I help him get his legs 
inside, anyway, then gently shut the door.

     As I slide back in the car, MacLeod gripes, "I still 
think you shouldn't drive."

     "Too bad," I chirp. "'Life is full of 
disappointment.' Isn't that what you told Walker, Joe?" 
Joe mutters something under his breath and stares out the 
window. MacLeod folds his arms and stares out his own 
window, temporarily subdued. Blackmail is a beautiful 
thing. It means you don't have to compromise all the 
time.
*********
     "'BIBLIOPOLA'," Joe reads the stencilling on the 
door out loud, slowly. "Doesn't that mean, 'The Book 
Seller' in Latin?"

     "Yep," I say, heading towards the small kitchenette 
in the back, out by the garden door. I've put a 
refrigerator under the sink. It wasn't an exact fit, but 
it will do for now. "You guys want a beer?"

    "Um, sure," Joe says.

     "You have beer?" MacLeod snorts. "Why am I not 
surprised?"

     "Do you want one or not?" He can be snarky on his 
own time.

     "Yeah. Okay." I bring out the beers and open them in 
front of Mac and Joe. It's a Cameroonian custom, to avoid 
the suspicion of poison. I liked it; I kept it.

     "So, this is gonna be a bookstore?" Joe says, taking 
his beer. I nod. "When did you buy this place?"

     "I first contacted the realtor in August," I say. 
"But I didn't finalise the sale until this week. As you 
know, I've been a little distracted, lately, and the 
money from selling my house back in London only just came 
through. I didn't want to tell you guys until I was sure 
I had it."

    "It's very small," Mac says, ever the optimist. He is 
right. It's smaller than my entire apartment, little more 
than a hole in the wall.

    "Property isn't cheap over here, Mac," I retort. "The 
property taxes, alone, are stunning. I don't know if 
it'll be an advantage over renting long-term. We'll  see. 
Besides, I had certain requirements, so I compromised on 
size."

     "What kind of requirements?" Joe says suspiciously. 
"And what the Hell happened to your going back to 
Shakespeare & Company?"

     "I liked the back garden," I say. "And the cellar is 
pretty dry, considering how close to the water we are. 
Good for storage. I made sure that the floor was nice and 
solid, so that it could take the weight of all the books. 
Shakespeare & Company...didn't work out." I lasted three 
days before I quit. I kept imagining Kalas ripping Don's 
tongue out in the back room. "It had all changed; nobody 
left from the old days. So, I decided to start fresh. 
I've had a mind to start my own little bookstore for some 
years, now. I just couldn't do it while I was still in 
the Watchers."

    I glance around at the half-finished shelves and 
boxes of books scattered around the room. "I know it's 
not much to look at right now," I admit, "but I should be 
able to keep it going for five or six years. People like 
to hang out in these kinds of places, even if they'd 
rather buy at Barnes & Noble Bookbarn. Who knows? I might 
even make some money off of it now and then."

     "It's nice," Joe says, swigging his beer. "Your kind 
of place."

    "Thanks, Joe," I reply. "That means a lot. You guys 
want to see the back garden?"

     I take them out back and show them the sundial, the 
bird feeder, the little bench under the wall. The garden 
looks good when the sun is out. The weather is warm, a 
last bit of summer before the cold sets in. Joe and Mac 
make appropriately approving noises. Joe even settles on 
the bench for a few minutes. I can see they're warming to 
this place. They probably feel that it is good for me. I 
am way ahead of them on that one.

    "Well, I think this calls for a toast," Joe says, 
after I've shooed him and MacLeod back inside. "I think 
we'll need some more beer."

     "No problem," I say. While they head back toward the 
front, I get the beers out. A flash of movement out in 
the garden catches my eyes. I peer out through the 
window. Oh! It's that little old man, M. Laborde, from 
down the street. I've seen him both times that I've come 
here. We talk about World War II--*the* War to him. He 
used to fight with the Maquis down in the Hautes-Alpes. 
He sneaks in through the back gate, somehow. I think he 
likes me.  When he sees me, he waves. As I wave back, I 
see somebody fade in through the gate behind him. Fade. I 
nearly drop the beers. So cold. I shiver. It is Kronos.

     "Methos?" Joe sounds very far away. Kronos waves to 
me. As I watch, he and M. Laborde disappear. Kronos 
merely fades all at once. M. Laborde fades in...pieces. I 
swallow, my mouth is so dry. Can't drop the beers. Joe 
and Mac would notice.

     "Methos? Is everything okay?" MacLeod asks from a 
few feet behind me.

    I blow my breath out, lower my head and shake it a 
little. Not real. None of it is real. I force myself to 
smile. I am five thousand years old. I can do this. I 
turn around smiling.

     "Just looking at the garden," I say. "Alexa would 
have loved it." It's a low blow, but it works. MacLeod 
and Joe both wince in sympathy, and the matter is 
dropped. No questions asked. I hand them their beers. I'm 
still nursing mine, since I am driving them home.

    "Well, here's to your new business venture," MacLeod 
says, as we raise our bottles. "May it prosper and never 
fail."

     "Not until I sell it to some gullible entrepreneur 
for an outrageously inflated price, anyway," I add. Joe 
laughs.

    "Cheers," Mac says.

    "Sante," Joe adds.

     "Iechyd Da," I say, because saying it in Welsh is 
good for confusing people, and because the Welsh are good 
at winning when they ought to lose. We clink our bottles 
together. This is a good omen. I am starting this new 
venture with the blessings of two good friends.

     It's good to be alive.

END

For now, but Methos and Joe will return in "Both Sides of 
the Story".