As Methos approached the familiar building of Shakespeare and Company, he slipped into the well-worn guise of Adam Pierson, consciously masking the tell-tale signs of immortality that watchers always seemed to notice -- especially in the eyes. Old immortals' eyes tend to betray more experience than any mortal could accumulate in one lifetime.

He heard a quiet conversation coming from the back of the bookstore as he entered and immediately recognized the two voices involved. He walked toward the men with a slight smile and an unhurried gait.

Adam found them seated comfortably among the tall stacks of books in the back corner of the store. "Joe Dawson," he said. "What brings you to our little corner of Paris?"

"Nothing important, really. Just stopped by to talk with Don," Joe responded, nodding toward the other man. "We were wondering when you'd get here."

"Actually, I'd rather be in bed. The trip to India was rather exhausting, and, unfortunately, a complete dead end."

"No Methos, huh?" Joe asked.

"Once I translated the script, it turned out to be about some long- dead priest of Kali who beheaded his human sacrifices." He turned to Don. "Really, whoever your informant was, don't use him again."

Don shrugged and stood. "It was a lead, and we had to check it out. Now, if you'll excuse me, at least one of us still has a bookstore to run."

As he left, Adam stared after him with surprise. "What did I say?"

"Oh, you know Don. He's embarrassed that he sent you on a wild goose chase. Maybe you should lighten up on him a little. He wants your approval more than you realize."

Adam sighed and sat in the now-empty chair, kicking his feet up on a bookshelf. "He'll get over it," he said with more calm than he felt. "So, what were you and he talking about?"

Joe hesitated a moment before answering. "We were just discussing my assignment."

"Duncan MacLeod?" Adam asked, suddenly interested in the conversation. Joe always avoided discussing his work, and this might be the opening Adam needed to find out more about the rather famous immortal.

"Hey. How did you know who I was watching? We've never talked about it."

Dangerous ground, Adam thought. Joe would not be happy to find me poking around in his affairs. Answer carefully, old man.

"Well, word gets around," he said, gauging from Joe's expression that more was needed. "Look, I may be a researcher, but that doesn't mean I ignore the rest of the organization. People talk." Adam put on his most innocent, injured expression and inwardly smiled as Joe relaxed. That was too bloody close, he thought. What would make Joe so edgy that he'd get defensive? Or that he'd cross town and talk to Don about MacLeod? A new challenge, perhaps? Curiosity took control over caution as Adam decided to press further.

"Besides, it's hard to ignore someone who takes so many heads," he said casually.

"He's been out of the Game since he met Tessa Noelle, but sometimes a fight is unavoidable," Joe almost whispered.

Good guess. "So, he's been challenged?"

Joe looked at him suspiciously again, and he was careful to maintain his wide-eyed innocent expression. Adam thought maybe he had overplayed his hand as the moment stretched on, but then Joe broke eye contact and leaned back in his chair. The battle of wills was over, and Adam had won -- as usual.

"Yeah, he's been challenged. A guy by the name of Nicholas Riverdell." He paused. "He's good. Good enough to defeat MacLeod, maybe."

"They meet soon, then?"

"Tomorrow morning, in the park below the Eifel Tower," Joe said, meeting Adam's eyes again. "I've been watching MacLeod for 15 years. He's faced tough challenges before, but nothing like Riverdell. It may be that I'll write my close up tomorrow night."

The subject of beheadings made Adam's own neck itch uncomfortably. He hadn't taken a head himself in almost 200 years, but the avoidance did not stem from fear. After building thousands of memories involving death and destruction, he'd simply lost his taste for the Game, and even for quickenings.

He briefly wondered what he would do if Riverdell were after his head. He certainly wouldn't appear for an early morning challenge -- one should never make a habit of getting out of bed until noon, if possible. He'd probably catch a plane to some sunny destination populated by beautiful women eager to learn more about their foreign visitor --

"Adam? Hey, earth to Adam."

He snapped back to reality. "Sorry, Joe. Just thinking."

"Must be pretty important for you to zone out like that," Joe said.

"Actually, I was wondering what MacLeod did to Riverdell. Must have been bad."

Joe shrugged. "Killed his wife about 200 hundred years ago, or so. She challenged him, they fought, he won."

"And Riverdell didn't come for him then?"

"He did, and he was beating Mac, but then this peasant woman appeared out of nowhere, saw them fighting and screamed. She distracted Riverdell just long enough for MacLeod to get away. I suspect that if the same thing happened tomorrow, Mac wouldn't run. He'd take the bastard's head."

Hmm. Easily distracted. "Well, I hope for your sake, that's what happens, but a peasant woman might be difficult to come by these days."

He stood, preparing to leave and then noticed the saddness in Joe's eyes. The guy was feeling so damn sorry for himself, and Adam simply couldn't leave him in this state. He ran a hand through his short, brown hair, preparing to switch into his storytelling mode.

"There was once this great warrior during the Trojan War named Hector. He received a challenge from the greatest Greek warrior, Achilles, that he couldn't refuse, even though he knew Achilles was a better fighter. They met outside the Trojan walls and fought for hours; it was one of the most magnificent battles of the whole war. And do you know what happened, Joe?"

"Yeah. Hector died."

Adam stopped short at the bitterness in Joe's voice. He looked around for a moment, realized where he was and who he was and almost hit himself for being so stupid. Of course Joe would think Hector died; that's the story Homer made famous. He couldn't possibly know that Hector had been immortal, that after a nasty death and several days of being dragged behind Achilles' chariot, Hector had awakened. He had later dressed as a common Trojan soldier and shot his rival in the heel with a poison arrow.

There was no way he could finish this story without revealing more about himself than he was prepared to deal with. He couldn't even get to the moral: Great warriors have a tendency to beat the odds. Gods, I must really be exhausted to slip up that badly.

"Um, right. But he went on to become one of history's most famous heroes," he said rather lamely. "Good luck with your assignment, Joe. I'll see you around."

He turned and left the bookstore without another word, Joe staring after him with confusion written unmistakably across his face. Adam wondered what he would say next time they met.

From Methos' journal:

Joe was obliging enough to provide the time and place of his "assignment's" challenge, to quote Joe's rather odd wording. It's amazing how the man can get so attached to MacLeod and yet still refer to him as an "assignment." It seems my friend is trying to detach from a painful situation.

Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod. I've heard and read a lot about this particular immortal. He has potential to become a useful ally or a deadly enemy, and since I'd prefer not to end up on the wrong side of his sword, I think perhaps I should begin watching him a bit more closely...from a distance of course. I doubt the Scot would appreciate an immortal presence that vanishes without an introduction.

Duncan MacLeod's dreams that night were of the nastier variety. He kept fighting and taking heads, and somehow he was powerless to stop the killing. There were many faces, some he recognized and some he didn't, but one kept repeating with ruthless insistence -- it was Marie Riverdell who wouldn't leave him alone. They were about 10 miles outside London, in a forest; she wore men's clothing. She swung her sword expertly, and Duncan could hardly keep up with her lightening speed. She slashed at his chest and arms, leaving him covered with bloody marks.

Then, a scream echoed through the forest, sounding hollow and strange in the dream world. Marie's eyes flickered toward the noise for a second, and she slipped on a tree root and fell hard. MacLeod firmly set his foot on her sword, pinning it to the ground, and he raised his sword to strike. Inwardly, he wanted to stop, to give her another chance, but he couldn't control his arms and watched helplessly as he slashed downward.

At the last minute, though, he realized it wasn't Marie Riverdell beneath his blade -- it was Tessa. He screamed.

"Duncan! Duncan, wake up! It's OK, it's only a dream."

He dragged himself from the nightmare and lay his head against Tessa's shoulder, still breathing hard in irrational panic. She smoothed his hair and wrapped her arms around him, soothing him with her gentle care.

"I was dreaming," he said haltingly.

"I know," she answered. "What was it about?"

"I was fighting Marie Riverdell, and as I was about to take her head, she disappeared and you were there," he paused for a moment, finally losing the fear of the dream. "I know how Nicholas feels, Tess. If someone hurt you, I wouldn't stop until he was dead. I can't blame him for hating me."

"You had no choice, Duncan. If you hadn't killed her, you'd be dead now."

"I know, I know. But part of me feels that maybe he's right for wanting my head. I've killed men for less than what I inflicted on him, and I believed I was right."

She half sat up and looked into his eyes with a serious expression he'd come to know well. When Tessa got that look, it was pointless to argue with her.

"Tomorrow morning you will meet Nicholas Riverdell, you will fight the best you can, and then you will come home to me. Because if you don't, you'll leave me more alone than you left Riverdell. Do you understand? Just come home, OK?"

Duncan smiled at her determination and ran his hand through her golden hair. She was so beautiful when she was angry. He knew that what happened outside London was ancient history, and he couldn't lose this special lady over a 200-year-old grudge.

"OK," he said quietly and pulled her head gently toward his chest. Duncan didn't dream anymore that night.

Methos parked some distance from the Eifel Tower and set out for the appointed place on foot, careful to watch for this morning's two contestants. Avoiding detection was the key to this whole excursion. It wouldn't be easy, but Methos was ready for the challenge. In fact, he enjoyed the rare risk of deliberately seeking out two talented fighters; it set his adrenaline pumping as it hadn't for several decades.

As he entered the park, he noticed a figure in the distance -- tall, powerfully built with dark hair. From photos he'd seen, he assumed this must be MacLeod, but the immortal looked bigger than Methos expected. The older immortal ducked behind a large bush and watched as MacLeod came closer and stopped a few dozen yards from Methos' hiding place, almost close enough to sense him. Yes, definitely taller than expected, he thought.

Methos examined his surroundings, searching for Riverdell, and caught his breath when he saw Joe only a few yards away, behind another bush. The watcher's attention was focused completely on MacLeod, so Methos could only assume Joe hadn't noticed him yet. He slid quietly around the bush so it hid him from MacLeod and Dawson. Now all I need is for Riverdell to come up behind me, he thought sarcastically.

As luck would have it, Riverdell made his appearance a few minutes later, approaching from behind MacLeod, and Methos allowed himself to relax a little. All present and accounted for. Now, let the party begin.

MacLeod felt Riverdell and turned around, sword already in hand. The other immortal walked toward him slowly, smiling with anticipation. Mac firmly pushed images from his mind of a fight two centuries ago, when this man had completely outmatched him. This was a new era, and Mac was a more experienced fighter. This time, he didn't intend to lose.

"Glad you could make it, Riverdell. Although you are a bit late," Mac said.

"I saw no reason to hurry. Either way, you will lose your head today," Riverdell said as he drew his sword from beneath his trench coat.

"That's not so easy. You'll find me a better opponent than last time."

Riverdell and MacLeod slipped out of their coats simultaneously and moved into fighting position. "Enough talk, MacLeod," Riverdell said.

With a quick smirk, Riverdell came at MacLeod with all his strength. The fight was on.

Methos watched the ritualistic conversation with fascination. He remembered the last time he had been a participant in the short exchange before the battle and realized with some surprise that he missed it. He missed the feel of sword on sword and the intense focus needed to keep his head. As he watched the two immortals exchange blows, he almost envied MacLeod ... but not enough to put his own head at risk.

Riverdell moved like a well-oiled machine, smoothly flowing from one form into the next, but MacLeod fought with passion and spirit. His style was not as clean as Riverdell's, but Methos could tell he wanted the victory, and that alone might be the difference between life and death. Despite himself, Methos found that he liked this young immortal who fought with the same fire in his eyes as Methos did three thousand years ago.

The fight moved closer to the bushes, and Methos realized that in a couple more steps, both men would know they weren't the only immortals here. He quietly slipped back around the bush, checked to make sure Joe wouldn't see him, and moved to another bush a few yards farther back. He hoped the battle came no closer because there were no other bushes for him to run to.

Then, MacLeod faltered. He let Riverdell catch him with his sword an inch too high, and Riverdell slashed him across the stomach. Methos heard MacLeod's low grunt as he stumbled and fell back. In a few more seconds, the fight would be over, and MacLeod would be dead. Unless ...

Why do I do these things? he asked himself. He took a deep breath and ran for his original bush, still managing to avoid Joe's attention. The spot was just close enough for Riverdell to sense him. Easily distracted. I hope Joe was right.

MacLeod grabbed at his stomach and gasped in surprise and pain. Riverdell was just too damn fast. He'd gotten away with that tiny mistake with countless other immortals, but this man left no room for errors, and now MacLeod knew he was in deep trouble. He stumbled back a couple steps and forced himself to raise his sword, warding off Riverdell's renewed attack. Riverdell slashed across MacLeod's shoulder, and Mac's hand opened involuntarily, his sword clattering to the ground. He fell to his knees in a desperate attempt to grab the sword with his left hand, but Riverdell already had one foot set firmly on the blade.

Mac looked up in fear and saw the triumph on his opponent's face. Mac's wounds already were almost healed, but it made little difference now. He was about to die, and he suddenly wished he could see Tessa one last time.

Riverdell laughed as he raised his sword for the final blow, but his expression changed suddenly into one of surprise. MacLeod felt it at the same time, the presence of another immortal, but he didn't hesitate. He pulled on the sword under Riverdell's foot and felt it come free as the other immortal lost his balance and fell. MacLeod was standing in a moment with his sword at Riverdell's throat. Without a word, he severed the head.

Just before the quickening hit him and sent all rational thought out of his head, MacLeod noticed that the immortal presence, along with his benefactor, was gone.

From Methos' journal; dated April 6, 1992:

Today, I risked my identity and my life to help an immortal I don't know. Strange. I still don't understand why I helped MacLeod, but if I could repeat the scene, I'd do it again. MacLeod reminds me of my youth, although I understand he's a bit more constrained by his morals than I was. Maybe I see in him someone I could eventually trust enough to reveal my true identity. But I can wait. In the meantime, I intend to keep a close watch on this immortal.

Methos looked up from an old text on ancient Greek customs as he heard the front door to Shakespeare and Co. click open. He set the book down gently and went to greet the customer, but the slow, steady steps that approached sent a slight shiver down his spine. Some instinct told him that although this wasn't an immortal, it was someone he had to step lightly around.

Time to turn on Adam Pierson, he thought. Like a light switch. Turn on, turn off. I wonder if Methos the Immortal is buried somewhere under all these masks.

As Adam rounded the corner, he saw Joe Dawson standing by the front counter with a giant smile on his face.

Adam smiled back. "So, I take it from your expression that this morning's fight went well."

"It was the most amazing thing, Adam. This guy had MacLeod beat and on his knees when he suddenly stopped. Mac grabbed his sword and took Riverdell's head without a second thought."

"Hmm. Interesting."

"It was more than interesting. It was incredible. I just wish I knew why Riverdell hesitated like that."

"Maybe he saw a peasant woman."

Joe scowled. "I'm being serious, Adam. Something scared Riverdell pretty badly."

Adam made a show of reorganizing some books on a nearby shelf, avoiding Joe's strong gaze. "MacLeod's alive, Riverdell's dead. So it really doesn't matter, does it."

"Maybe you're right. Well, I just wanted to let you know what happened. Pass it onto Don, will you?"

"No problem."

"Great. I'll see around," Joe said as he walked out the door. Adam sighed and leaned his head against the cool comfort of a bookshelf. He hated deceiving his friend, but he couldn't risk telling him the truth. Not yet, maybe not ever.

From Methos' journal:

I don't deny that the Game sometimes makes me feel sick to my stomach. All these immortals presuming to decide who will live and who will die -- playing judge, jury and executioner every day of their lives. But I sometimes wonder if I'm not playing my own Game, one perhaps greater than that of my fellow immortals. I rarely fight, but I too choose who wins and loses. Sometimes fights cannot be left to Fate because She makes mistakes. But who am I to decide who's good enough to win the Prize? I suppose I'm as bad as the rest of them ... worse. My game doesn't determine my own future as much as the future of the world.

Maybe this MacLeod is the one I've been waiting for, the one who can go all the way. If that is true, then I have to keep him alive as long as I can. If I'm wrong, well, it won't be the first time. Only time will tell.

The end

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