How long have you known?
Since the day we met.
Which is why you told me what you were.
Yeah. And because I trusted you with my life.
But you didn't bother to share it with me.
It wasn't my place.
But it was your place to shoot me?
Immortality is triggered by violent death.  The poison Peyton gave you was slow acting, and it would kill you, forever.
Only you couldn't just let that happen.
No.
But it was my life.
Now it's your life – forever. I’ve given you a gift.
You call this a gift?
Yeah.
Hundreds, maybe thousands of years of life, and all I have to do is go around decapitating people to survive, like you.  That's a gift?
But you'll see things you never imagined.  You'll become things you never dreamed of. Forever. It's something most people just dream about.
My friends, my family. Everyone I've ever known or loved. Standing by, watching them die?!
Not everyone.
It's not a dream – it's a nightmare.

 . . . Once, everything was clear – good guys, bad guys, life, death.  And then you meet someone, someone you want to love, and it all changes.  Death brings life; life brings death.  What room is there for love, when there can be only one. . . .

Nick Wolfe had been walking the darkened, narrow streets of old Paris for what felt like days.  Logically, it could only have been a matter of hours –  provided the rest of the universe still obeyed the laws of physics.  If death itself was no longer certain, how could he be sure?

Every time he rounded a corner he had to fight the urge to explain it all away somehow.  If only he was dreaming, if only he would wake up and find that this was all just a wandering speculation being played out by his subconscious.  But as often as the thought occurred, he knew he wasn't dreaming.

Perhaps what had happened in the warehouse was a hallucination brought on by the poison.  But if so, it was a surprisingly quiet, rational hallucination, terrifying only in the one inescapable truth that burst anew through his mind at every step, like surf pounding against a cliff.

He was . . . immortal.

He didn't feel immortal.  In fact, he didn't feel any different than he had two days ago, when this whole nightmare began.  But the memory of his own death hovered at his shoulder as unavoidably as guilt or grief –  the poison sapping his strength with waves of pain like acid spilling through his guts, and then the bullet tearing through his weakened body, and his life draining away suddenly into the cold, cold dark.

It had returned like a river of lightning, jump-starting his heart and drawing breath like fire into his lungs.  But the pain began to melt away in a matter of seconds, and instinctively he knew the truth before he heard Amanda speak the words.  Even so, they felt like a death sentence, cutting him off from himself, his life, his humanity.

"You're not going to die.  You're going to live.  You're immortal."

He had only recently begun to accept the existence of immortals.  The absurdity of a bunch of people that nobody knew about who didn't die and had lives that spanned the history books had been beaten into submission by the repeated witness of his own eyes.  And knowing Amanda – loving Amanda – meant accepting that she was over a thousand years old, and periodically engaged in sword-fighting duels with other immortals in which they both attempted to cut each other's heads off.  Oh yes, he had seen. He had no choice but to believe.  But he had never imagined – she had never given the tiniest hint or implication – that he might become one of them.

But now it had happened.  He was immortal.

And there could be only one.  This thing that had happened to him, what he had become, cut him off from her as well.  How could he possibly love her if some day he would have to kill her, or she would have to kill him?  In all the unguarded moments when he let his imagination run softly over her cheekbones, her lips, her lithe figure, her eyes snapping or softening with her mercurial temper, in all the imagined conversations in which he'd considered how he might tell her that he loved her, he had never imagined facing her over drawn swords.  The pain in her eyes when he had turned from her in the warehouse haunted and angered him.  Yes, she would be there, while friends and family died around him.  But now she could never be his.

He was immortal.

The worst was that it hadn't been inevitable.  The killing shot that triggered his immortality had come by her hand.  If only she'd allowed Peyton's slow-acting poison to kill him instead, he would now be safely dead, rather than facing this monstrous future.  "I've given you a gift," she said.  Anger quickened his steps, a shield against fear and pain.  After 1200 years, how could she be so blind?  What right had she to decide his fate?

His steps faltered and anger deserted him as his senses were suddenly assaulted by the oddest sensation he had ever felt.  He clutched at his head and felt his stomach lurch, and then it passed, leaving only a sort of ringing in his ears.

Another immortal.

Nick drew a deep breath.  It was pointless to run.  A tendril of icy terror warred with a sense of relieved fatalism.  Perhaps he was destined to die tonight after all.

He couldn't see anyone at first.  Then light gleamed for a moment off of a long, metal object, and finally his eyes picked out the dark outline of a man in a long coat leaning against the railing of a stairway, a sword in one hand.

Nick pitched his voice to just carry across the alley.  "If you're going to kill me, get it over with.  I don't have a sword."

The immortal pondered this unusual salutation for a moment before answering.  "How careless of you," he said mildly.  "Got a death wish, wandering the streets unarmed?"  The accent sounded British.

"Maybe."

"Why?"

Nick sighed.  "It's complicated."

"It often seems that way.  But when you get down to the bottom of it, it's usually quite simple."

Nick stared at the man for a moment.  "Who are you?"

"Just an old ghost, haunting the streets like yourself." A swift movement, and the sword disappeared.  "Care for a drink?"

Nick shrugged.  "Why not?"

Nick didn't think there would be any bars still open, but the man led him unerringly to a place about the size of a cheap flat, tucked behind a winding stairwell.  Two beers appeared with scarcely a word spoken.  Nick eased himself into one of half a dozen wicker-seated chairs, feeling the wooden joints give somewhat alarmingly beneath his weight.  After a few swallows – what was it the Europeans had against ice cubes? – he stared curiously in the yellow light at the immortal seated across from him.

"Nick Wolfe," he said, hoping to elicit an answering introduction.

"Adam Pierson," the other immortal responded smoothly.  So why was it he felt a niggle from the instinct that used to warn him when a suspect was using an alias?

"How long have you been immortal?" It was probably bad manners among immortals, but the warm beer on top of his troubles wasn't making Nick feel like tiptoeing through the conversation.

"Long enough to have lost count."  So much for blunt questions.  "You?"

Nick considered. Even if the man didn't seem disposed to take off his head at the first opportunity, it didn't seem prudent . . . what the hell.  He looked at his watch.  "About four hours."

Adam gave him a reevaluating glance. "So you're not an old ghost.  That explains why you don't have a sword.  But someone else has been rather careless as well, it seems.  You sound as if you've known about immortals a lot longer than four hours."

Nick ducked his head as the memory of coming upon Amanda dead and Claudia dying, and then seeing Amanda slip away while he held Claudia in his arms flashed through his brain.  "Yeah.  I knew."

"But becoming one yourself is a bit of a shock."

"You could say that."  He heard the bitterness in his voice as if he were someone else, listening dispassionately.  Why hadn't she told him?  Why had she taken it upon herself to introduce him to her world but keep him in the dark about his place in it?  And why had she let him stagger around in the grip of that hideous pain, dying by inches, if she'd planned to kill him all along?  Why on earth had he let himself fall in love with her?

Adam's voice interrupted his internal tirade.  "How did it happen?" he asked, sipping at his beer as if enquiring about a football score.

"I was poisoned."

"Not a pleasant way to die."

"Are there any?"

"Oh, hanging's pretty quick, if it's done right.  Bullet through the heart isn't bad either.  And I'm guessing poison didn't make that hole in your shirt."

"No.  She did that.  She took the choice away."

"What choice?"

"My choice.  To become an immortal, or die – as a human being."

"No one gets a choice, Nick.  We are what we are."

"She said that the poison would have killed me forever.  That only a violent death can trigger immortality."

"First I've heard of it."  Adam looked thoughtful.  "Though I suppose first deaths generally are violent ones . . . ."

Nick blinked.  He had never thought to question Amanda's explanation.  Could she have misled him?  No.  There were some things even Amanda wouldn't lie about.  But could she have been mistaken?  What if the poison would have made him immortal without her interference?

Adam glanced up at him and, seeing his face, abruptly curtailed his private speculation.   "Never mind.  Supposing she's right – we are talking about Amanda, yes?" Nick nodded in spite of himself.  "Supposing she had come to you, in the grip of this deadly poison, and told you that there was a way to cheat death, to continue living, but the price would be to become like her.  Would you have chosen to die anyway?"

Nick tried to think back.  There at the end, when she'd taken Peyton's head and all hope of an antidote was gone, he had felt death approach – and found himself unafraid.  How much of his bitterness stemmed from the loss of that acceptance?  Had her decision been as thoughtless as he had supposed?  If he'd had to wrestle under the burden of it, what in all the worlds would he have done?  Neither choice seemed acceptable.  "I don't know."

"I see."  The other immortal drew his sword and laid it on the table.  "Immortality isn't inescapable, Nick.  If you would rather die than be immortal, here's your chance."

Nick locked eyes with him over the sword, trying to determine if the other man was in earnest.  Surely he was bluffing?  Would Adam really take this sword and slice through his neck in cold blood if he asked?

A shudder that ran from his tail bone to his neck gave him the answer.  Something in Adam's gaze made him afraid to think how many heads this man had taken, what horrors he had seen or done in all those years he'd lost count of.

Nick dropped his gaze to the deadly piece of steel between them.  Slowly he reached out a finger and touched the edge, flinching at the ease with which the blade bit into his skin.  Blood trickled down the side of his finger and through the hairs on the back of his hand as he held up his violently stinging fingertip to the light. The cut sealed itself before his eyes and the pain disappeared, sending a shiver through his insides.

"I'm not human anymore."

"You never were." After letting Nick swallow that bitter pill, Adam continued.  "Biologically speaking, anyway.  But I've seen hundreds of men who were biologically human, but had no human soul left inside them."  For an instant Adam's eyes looked haunted, but just as quickly he pulled himself back from whatever distant memory had surfaced. "You are still as human as you choose to be," he said.

"Other immortals will be coming for my head.  I'll have to kill them.  How human is that?"

"Is Amanda less human for it?"

Nick didn't answer.  For the first time he saw the truth of the matter – he had accepted the necessity of what she did, but not the rightness of it.  But then, he himself had beheaded an immortal – the one who'd killed Lauren.   Maybe he'd become one of them in his heart already.

"You'll get used to it."

"That's what I'm afraid of."

Adam drained his beer and was wordlessly handed another.  Nick wrapped both hands around his glass and tried to keep his hands from shaking.  "She said it was a gift."

"Why isn't it?  Do you have any idea how much human energy has been spent trying to cheat death?  The Egyptians would have sold their souls to become immortal."  Adam leaned closer.  "Not long ago I nearly gave my life for the chance to do for someone I loved what Amanda did for you."

"But then you'd both have been immortal.  You know what that means." Nick stared into his beer.

"There can be only one."  Adam's eyes narrowed.  "That's what's really eating you, isn't it? It's not that she made you immortal, or didn't tell you about it before hand.  You're afraid that someday you'll have to kill her."

The accusation stung.  Nick found he couldn't meet the other immortal's eyes.  He wasn't sure if it was the whole truth, but it came close enough to make him feel naked in Adam's penetrating gaze.

"You love her, don't you."

Adam's cavalier tone was infuriating. "Of course I love her.  Do you think I'd be so pissed if I didn't love her?"

"Anger is a natural part of grief.  And you have a right to grieve.  But time is a river, and it will carry you past the anger and pain unless you swim against the current.  And perhaps you haven't lost as much as you think."

"What's that supposed to mean?"  The cryptic words reminded him uncannily of the way Amanda had of talking around an issue.  Were all immortals this annoyingly illusive?

"So far I haven't seen anything that tells me that in the end immortals will be forced to kill each other against their will.  There's no immortal handbook or Bible where the meaning and purpose of it all is written.  All we have are myths and superstitions and suppositions passed down from one immortal to the next. Who knows but what we've got it all wrong?  Besides, do you really think that of all immortals you and she would be the last two?"

Nick sat quietly digesting this bit of immortal blasphemy for a long moment.  Once again he realized he had only Amanda's word, Amanda's perspective from which to view the immortal world.  Sure, she had been around a thousand years –  but maybe she still didn't know everything.

Adam broke into his thoughts at last.  "But I was right, you know.  It's really quite simple when you get to the bottom of it.  Amanda didn't take the choice away.  It's still yours to make.  You can accept what you are, and live.  Or you can die."

Adam stood, and picked up his sword.  "So, what's it going to be?"

Amanda fought her way out of the tangled satin bedclothes and sprawled on top of them with a dramatic sigh.  She had tossed and turned her way through three nights, now, and the thought of facing another day of fending off worries and regrets with more shopping and cleaning and paperwork was insupportable.  She sent up a fleeting wish that Lucy would appear to roust her out of bed with a tray of tea and crumpets, and stoicly put up with her bitching until she felt better.  Why was the woman always in the Bahamas whenever she was needed most?

The sun shining far too brightly through sheer curtains finally forced her into action.  She splashed her face with cold water, put on whatever clothes came first to hand, and picked up the phone.

The line connected.  "Joe Dawson."

"Joe, it's me. Amanda."

Any doubts that the Watchers had been privy to what happened between her and Nick in the warehouse were quickly dispersed.  "I'm sorry, Amanda."

Her heart suddenly contracted.  "Is Nick –  "

"No, no, he's alive, last I heard."  She sighed with relief.  Then what was he sorry for?  That Nick was immortal?  That he had left her?  Never mind.

"Where is he?"

"Amanda . . ."

"Please, Joe.  I need to see him."

A long sigh.  "He left the Paris two days ago.  Word has it he's gone back to the states." Joe let out a breath in wry amusement.  "You know, Nick wasn't the only one surprised as hell when you shot him and he came back immortal.  I had no idea you had such a talent for keeping your mouth shut."

"I've been around a long time."  She let her weariness, her loneliness leak into the words.

His voice gentled. "Give him some time, Amanda.  He'll come around."

She sighed.  Time.  After so many centuries, what was a little more?  Unfortunately, patience was not one of her hidden talents.

"Thanks, Joe."

"Any time."

She hung up the phone and grabbed the car keys that were sitting next to it.  A nice long drive, preferably at high speeds, with the wind running invisible fingers through her hair –  that's what she needed to clear her mind.

And she hadn't driven long before suddenly she knew exactly where she wanted the drive to take her.

Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod was hanging dripping blankets over a clothesline strung across one end of the barge when Amanda stopped and stood at the edge of the quay.  She watched silently as he fastened the last clothes pin and turned to survey his work before catching sight of her.

"Amanda!  I didn't know you were back in France." He wiped his hands on his coat and hurried down to greet her with a kiss on the cheek, then tipped his head and stared at her more closely. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing, nothing at all," she said brightly.  "Where have you been hiding, anyway?  The barge hasn't been here for months."

His brown eyes gazed at her kindly.  "It's not me who's been hiding, Amanda."

Damn, but he got more perceptive with every passing century.  "I just . . . I thought maybe you needed  . . . I didn't want . . . "

Why had she left Paris anyway?   He'd told her he loved her.  What had she been afraid of?  Just looking at him in his long coat made her want to snuggle inside it against his warm, firm body and never come out.

When no other answer seemed to be forthcoming, he lead her down the steps and into the interior of the barge.

"Something tells me you didn't just drop by for a social visit," he said, ever the persistent scout on the trail of someone else's pain.  She sat next to him on the couch, and he slipped a hand behind her neck and gently kneeded the muscles.  She lost herself for a moment in the sensation, and three hundred years of knowing him slipped quietly back into place.  Suddenly Nick seemed a thousand miles away.

"Amanda. You know my door's always open for you.  Whatever you need, I'll try to help."

She did know.  Her instincts had led her here, but the burden she had come with was suddenly the last thing she wanted to share with him.   How she have been so stupid?

She stood abruptly.  "I shouldn't have come." He kept hold of her hand, letting her know she wouldn't escape so easily.  "I don't want to hurt you," she offered in spite of herself.

"It'll be all right.  Just – tell me."

She sighed and pursed her lips. "OK." She sat down again and faced him. "His name is Nick Wolfe."  Duncan didn't flinch.  She continued. "He was a cop.  His partner died trying to save my life, but she failed.  I died anyway.  He was there."

"So he knows."

"Yes."

"And you love him."

She braced herself and looked up into his warm, brown eyes, searching for some sign of jealousy or disappointment – but found only a curious mixture of love and concern and understanding.  It was all rather baffling.  If he loved her, how could he not be jealous that she loved someone else?

And then suddenly the knowledge was born inside her that Duncan was capable of loving her – without owning her.  It gave her courage to say, "I do. Love him. It's like . . . well, it's different than anything I've felt before."

"It's always different, Amanda."  His eyes grew even softer, and suddenly she knew he was thinking of Tessa.  She felt a moment's gall that she had ever failed to understand, or tried to come between them.  She studied her hands and let the silence stretch as she tried to figure out what she really wanted to say.

"Nick – he loves me too.  At least he did.  I know I drive him crazy sometimes, but I suppose he loves me in spite of it."  She felt rather than saw his grin fill the air.  She pinched him.  "Don't laugh."

"I'm not.  I just . . . I understand the feeling, that's all.  So, what's he like?"

"Well . . . he's annoying, and self-righteous, and never minds his own business –  "

"Reminds me of me."

"Yeah.  He does, sometimes." She tried for a moment's humor.  "Why do I keep hooking up with boy scouts?"

He let it go. "So what happened?"

She shifted on the couch.  "He became immortal.  Three nights ago."

A moment's silence.  "I see.  You didn't tell him?"

"No, of course not."  She hesitated.  "But I killed him."

"What? Amanda!"

"I had no choice!  He was already dying, of a slow acting poison.  If I hadn't shot him, he would have died forever."

Duncan looked thoughtful.  "Are you sure?"

"What do you mean?"

"I know most immortals died violently.  But have you ever known someone who could have become immortal but didn't because they died of a plague, or a poison, or something like that?"

"No.  But Rebecca said it was so."

"Hmmmm.  Well, maybe she's right.  One way or another, he's immortal now.  Did you want me to help you train him?"

She laughed a little, sadly.   "I wish it were that easy.  I don't know where he is."

Duncan looked a bit alarmed.  "He's alone?  Without a teacher? Does he have a sword?"

"No.  And he was pretty upset when he left." She shook her head.  "I just don't get it.  He was dying.  Now he could live forever.  Why is he so angry?"

Duncan sat back, sighing.  "We've both been immortal for a long time.  It's not an easy thing to accept, at first.  Try to put yourself in his shoes."

She tried, but having lived with the knowledge of his latent immortality from the moment she first saw him, she found it difficult.  She thought back to his words in the warehouse.  "He was angry that I never told him.  But – I couldn't."

Duncan nodded.  "He'll see it in time.  No child truly forgives his parents until he becomes one himself."  He paused, thinking.  "Both of us learned about immortality by dying.  If Nick knows you, if he's seen how you live, if he knows about the Game, then he already knows that immortality comes with a high price."

"He'll live to see all his friends and family die.  He'll have to learn to fight, and cut off people's heads.  He said it was a nightmare.  I tried to tell him that he'll see things, do things . . ."

"That doesn't make it easier now."

"I suppose not."

He paused, thinking.  "Did you tell him why you shot him?" She nodded.  "Then he believes he had a choice – that he might not have become immortal if you hadn't interfered.  That will influence the way he thinks about what he is for the rest of his life."

She knew he was right.  He made it sound like a frightful responsibility.  Her instinct was to deny it, to shy away from it as she had shied away from responsibility for most of her life, but between them Duncan and Nick had apparently ruined her knack for pretending that she wasn't responsible for how her actions affected others.  She sighed a little and snuggled up against his chest, as if feeling his heartbeat could warm her, give her courage.

"Duncan, did I do the right thing?" He held her more tightly against the ache in her voice, but didn't answer.  "It was so hard to watch him suffer with that poison eating him away inside.  I wanted to just get it over with, but I couldn't do it.  I couldn't kill him.  Not till the end."

"And maybe you figured the closer he got to death, the easier it would be to accept the alternative."

"I suppose so."

"Whether it was right or wrong, it's done. It's up to him, now.  There's really only one thing that you can do."

"What's that?"

"Wait."

"I'm not good at waiting. You know that."  Her voice sounded petulant in her ears.  She was certain he heard the fear behind it.  "What if he can't accept it?  He's running around without a sword, without a teacher.  What if he gets himself killed on purpose?"

Duncan took a long breath, his eyes staring into the distance.  "Darius once said –  life always chooses life.  But it's his choice, Amanda.  You gave him the gift of immortality, but only he can choose to accept it."

In the silence that followed, Amanda could hear the wind whistling outside the barge, and feel it rocking slightly in the rough water.

"Duncan, what was it like –  for Richie?  You didn't tell him before it happened.  Was he angry?"

"Maybe a little." She listened carefully to the undercurrent of sadness in his voice, and heard only the trace of pain that would probably be there for the rest of his life.  "But Richie was young.  He was still searching for who he was.  Becoming immortal gave him a way to grow up.  Nick has already faced life.  It's a little shocking to think you're almost middle-aged and suddenly come to find out you're really just a child."

"Yeah, I guess it would be."  Richie's youthful grin flashed through her mind.  Amanda thought about the few times they had met, and how she had used him, toyed with him, believing that he would have hundreds of years to grow into man.  Well, he hadn't.  And Nick might have hundreds of years as an immortal – or he might not.   She savored a few more moments in Duncan's arms, and sat up.

"Duncan, I have to go.  I have to find him."

"Are you sure?  Think about this."

"I'm sure."  How to explain it to him?  "If Richie had run away after he became immortal, would you have let him go?"

"No.  But this is different."

"Not really."  She smiled, and ran the back of her hand fondly across the side of Duncan's face.  "He may not accept my help, but I have to offer it."

He smiled and nodded, looking wistful but satisfied with her reasoning.  His approval warmed her even more than his affection.  Knowing that she was doing the right thing, hard though it might be, gave her an subtle but invigorating sense of inner strength, and peace.  So this is what the boy scouts went in for.

"Thank you, Duncan."

He hugged her tightly, and then released her.  "I love you."

"I know." And perhaps, the next time they met, she would feel worthy to return his love.  Amanda hurried from the barge to catch a plane.