Lessons in Mercy

Part 4 of the New Beginning cycle

by Jennifer Campbell

I do not own the characters of Methos, Kronos, Silas, Caspian and Joe Dawson and have no affiliation with the show "Highlander: The Series." The characters of Lindsey Allen, Alice, Elizabeth and Father Mark are my own; if you want to use them (although I can't figure out why you'd want to...) please ask for permission. This story is all in good fun with no harm intended. So please don't sue me; I'm broke anyway.

Thanks go out to the Highlander Readers and Writers Club, which offered many good points and opinions. A really big thanks goes to my betas, Carin, Farquarson, Molly and Robert. All my encouragement comes from Linda, Dee, Mom and Katie-did -- couldn't do it without you! And last, but definitely not least, thank you Farquarson, who offered so many wonderful ideas that I have to say about half the basic plot isn't my own brainchild -- it's Farquarson's. Hey, I gotta give credit where it's due.

This story is the fourth in a cycle. The previous three are: Life is all about change, The Hitchhiker and A Life in Progress. But this story stands on its own. Rating: PG-13 for mild violence.

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"But then," thought Alice, "shall I never get any older than I am now? That'll be a comfort, one way -- never to be an old woman -- but then -- always to have lessons to learn! Oh, I shouldn't like that!"
-- Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"

part 1

The sun shone gloriously on a warm May afternoon, but inside the trash bin, it was cold.

Cold and dark, with an aching, gnawing pain.

Sometimes, the pain faded into merciful oblivion, but it always came back.

Those were the only sensations the infant knew, although she did not know their names. She stared at the thin, hypnotic line of light where the metal lid fitted unevenly against the trash bin.

Cold, dark, pain. Then a new, strange feeling came, one that would have made her cry and squirm had she possessed the energy to cry or move.

The crack of light widened, and the infant blinked at a pair of wide eyes. Suddenly she was flying, and she settled into another dark place, this one warm and safe. Instinctively, her mouth felt along the soft cloth against her cheek, searching in vain for the nipple that might promise food. She whimpered softly.

She heard crooning sounds. Comforting sounds.

They accompanied her back into oblivion.

===============================

The immortal Methos, better known to the world as Adam Reynolds, university instructor and Ph.D. candidate, was not happy with his place in the world. A five-thousand-year-old man, he decided, should not be sentenced to an entire night of grading his undergraduate students' essays when he could relax at a local bar. So what if final grades were due in the morning? What could the department chairman do to him if he just ... forgot?

"Well, fire me for starters," he muttered.

It didn't help to know that his immortal student, roommate and friend, Lindsey Allen, probably would dance the night away at some club or another. The lucky girl had completed her exams two days ago. At least with her gone, he would have a silent environment in which to do his grading.

In one hand, he juggled a six-pack of beer with the stack of essays, precariously pinned together by a few strategically placed paper clips. He fumbled for his apartment keys with the other hand and cursed as the papers slipped from his fingers and scattered across the welcome mat, some of them floating lazily down the stairwell to the first floor.

He set down the beer, unlocked the front door and collected the papers, managing to get the whole mess inside and onto the kitchen counter without another mishap. As he flipped the top off a beer bottle and took a long drink, he noticed an open can of formula sitting next to the papers on the counter. Next to that was a mint-condition paperback entitled "The Baby Book."

Before he could further examine the unusual additions to the apartment, he heard a plaintive wail from one of the bedrooms. Lindsey emerged a moment later with the most interesting addition of all -- a screaming baby propped against her shoulder.

An immortal baby. The signature presence was faint, but it was there.

Perfect, Methos thought. Just perfect. This is a disaster waiting to happen.

"Uh, hi, Adam," Lindsey yelled over the baby's cries. She shifted her burden to her other shoulder, and the child tangled its chubby fingers in her long brown hair. "How was your day?"

Determined not to show his annoyance, Methos assumed an expressionless stare and casually leaned against the counter with beer in hand. "Apparently a lot less interesting than yours," he replied calmly.

Lindsey grimaced, whether at Methos' words or the baby's screams, Methos did not know.

"I was walking through campus when I felt this faint presence, but no one was around," she said. "I don't know what made me look in the trash bin, but I did, and there she was." She paused and started gently bouncing the baby, who mercifully stopped crying and even began to giggle. "I couldn't just leave her there."

"So you decided to bring it home."

"You're not mad, are you?" she asked, licking her lips nervously. "Who knows how many times she died in that trash bin. I tried to keep her warm under my jacket, but she died again while I was carrying her home. I didn't know what else to do with her."

Methos set his beer on the counter and held out his arms. "Give it to me, and I'll show you another option."

Lindsey didn't move. "What's that?"

"I'm going to take it onto the roof and cut off its head."

She snorted. "Bad joke, Adam."

Methos smiled slightly and slowly walked toward Lindsey, who stood her ground with a wary expression. "No joke. Believe me, it's better if it dies."

Her eyes narrowed, and she clutched the infant more tightly. "First of all, Elizabeth is a 'she,' not an 'it' --"

"Oh, gods, you've already named it?"

"And secondly," she continued firmly, "you will not cut her head off. Look at her, Adam. She's just a baby."

"Yeah," Methos said, nodding. "It'll need feeding every two hours for the rest of its existence, and the only thanks you will get is screams and dirty diapers. It will never even call you 'mother.'"

"What's wrong with you?" she demanded. "What could ever make you want to kill a baby?"

Methos shook his head and sighed. You do not want to know, he thought.

===============================

Bronze Age

Dust choked the air as the Four Horsemen rode into camp, their blood-spattered clothes a testament to the success of their raid. The camp came alive as slaves ran forward with water, food and cloths to wipe away the blood of the Horsemen's latest victims. Methos surveyed the scene as he pulled up his pale horse, slipped off and removed his skull mask. He ran a hand through his sweaty hair.

He watched as the Horsemen's leader also dismounted and lifted his bronze mask. Kronos looked around the camp at the bustling slaves, and he ran his fingers absently across his eyelid and down the length of a long, old scar.

"Does it still pain you, Kronos?" Methos asked.

Kronos shrugged. "Let's divide the bounty, shall we, brother?"

Methos nodded and gestured to the other two riders, Caspian and Silas, who joined them in the center of camp. They unloaded their loot, which created a massive jumble of bowls and cups, lengths of cloth, food and an occasional weapon or piece of jewelry. A smile played at the corner of Methos' mouth as he admired the pile. It had been a profitable raid.

Next to him, brother Silas gently untied a final bundle from the back of his horse and laid it carefully in the dirt. He unwrapped it and lifted his prize -- a dead baby. The male child was covered in blood, probably from its own death, Methos thought, and its fine, dark curls clung to its tiny forehead.

Caspian wrinkled his nose. "Why ever would you keep that?"

Silas' smiled broadly. "Wait and see," he answered softly, but his deep voice carried across the camp.

Methos watched the child intently, suspicious and a little fearful of what Silas had discovered. A few moments later, he felt the flare of an immortal presence, and the infant began to squirm and whimper. Silas lifted the baby in both hands and held it at arm's length like an offering.

"He's like us," he stated proudly.

"Kill it," Kronos said.

Silas stubbornly set his wide jaw and shook his head. "No."

"Then take it out there somewhere," Kronos said, waving at the desert surrounding the camp, "and leave it."

"No," Silas repeated. "I want to keep him."

Kronos' eyes glinted dangerously. Without warning, he drew a dagger from his belt and, before Silas could pull back, plunged the blade into the baby, which died instantly. Silas dropped the child in surprise and growled wordlessly as he reached for his ax.

"Do you see that, Silas?" Kronos demanded. "Do you see how helpless it is? That abomination will be a liability. It will lie useless all day and drink our water. It will scream at night and lead our enemies straight to our camp."

"I will keep him quiet," Silas retorted. "I will feed him from my food and water."

Kronos and Silas stared angrily at each other, engaged in a battle of wills. Caspian merely laughed delightedly and kicked at the still, bloody bundle laying in the dirt. Neither immortal seemed to notice.

Methos tensed as the situation built, and he watched his brothers with increasing trepidation. He knew he had to intervene quickly. Kronos reacted badly to challenges to his authority, and Silas did not realize he was pushing their leader too far.

He stepped between his brothers, careful not to turn his back to either. "There's no real harm in this, Kronos," he said carefully. "The slaves will care for it, and Silas will probably tire of it in a few weeks. Let him keep his new pet if it will make him happy."

Methos held his breath as Kronos turned his angry stare on him, but he met the gaze as an equal. After a few moments, Kronos looked down. He nodded once, pulled his dagger from the baby and stalked away, leaving the bounty forgotten behind him.

Caspian laughed once more, grabbed the arm of a passing slave girl and tugged her toward his tent, oblivious to her screams of protest. Silas picked up the baby and beamed.

"Thank you, brother," he said. "I think I will enjoy this."

Methos nodded. "Take care that you do not provoke Kronos further. I will not champion that child again."

As Methos turned from Silas' eager nods, he hoped his brother would meet his predictions and grow weary of the child after a few weeks. Those weeks, though, passed quickly and became a few months, which became a few years, and still Silas cared for the baby with a single-mindedness that sometimes unnerved his fellow Horsemen.

True to his word, Silas nourished the child, which he named Baba, with his own food and water rations. Whenever Baba began crying in the night, a sound loud enough to carry for miles across the desert, Silas killed him.

On a scorching afternoon, fifty years later, Methos lifted the flaps of Silas' tent and entered into the relatively cool interior. His brother sat on an ornate rug in the center of the tent, rocking his child and crooning tunelessly. He looked up and smiled as Methos entered.

"Welcome," he said. "Do you want to hold him?"

Methos sat across from the pair, and Silas set Baba in his arms before he could refuse. He looked down into a pair of wide brown eyes that held little intelligent expression -- but something else was there. Something that touched him, the man many called Death, an immortal who had not felt true compassion in centuries.

Awareness.

Methos sat silent, mesmerized by the baby's eyes. How torturous, he thought, to spend eternity helpless, with the constant needs and extreme emotions of an infant. How awful to possess awareness, to understand just enough to know that escape from this mental prison is impossible. In all our raids and exploits, never have we done anything so cruel as the fate given to this immortal.

He tore his gaze from Baba and glanced warily at his brother.

"Did you know that this child is aware?" he asked.

Silas nodded eagerly. "Amazing, isn't it," he replied. "Who would have thought that the mind would grow when the body could not."

"Yes," Methos answered absently. "Amazing."

Tragic.

"I talk to him all the time," Silas said. "Sometimes, I think he even knows what I'm saying."

Methos brushed a lock of dark hair from the baby's cheek. "Have you ever thought about killing him, brother?" he asked. "Such an existence would be a burden, I would think."

In his arms, the baby smiled and gurgled happily, and Methos imagined that perhaps Silas was correct and the child understood his words. Silas, however, firmly shook his head.

"No," he stated. "I will not give him up. Baba is happy with me."

"Of course," Methos answered softly. "Sorry to suggest it." He stood and delivered the baby back into Silas' arms. "I must go. Excuse me, brother."

Without waiting for an answer, he turned and left, hurrying to the refuge of his own tent. The child needed to die, and if Silas refused to acknowledge that fact, Methos would have to do something himself. But how would he ever get Baba away from Silas long enough to kill him? And how could he ever betray his brother in that way?

===============================

Present Day

"Adam? Adam? ... Methos?"

Methos snapped back to reality and smiled apologetically at Lindsey, who stood before him with concern in her eyes.

"Where were you?" she asked softly.

Methos shook his head, retrieved his beer and the stack of essays from the counter and settled at the small kitchen table, hoping his actions would distract his all-too-curious student from her question. She knew vaguely about his bloody past, but one reference to the Horsemen would lead to more questions and explanations, and he knew Lindsey would not handle the answers well. She had enough trouble reconciling herself to her only kill, the immortal hunter Seth LaMar, who now had laid in his grave for several months.

No, tales of a thousand-year-blood bath would only upset them both and remained better unsaid.

"Adam, what were you thinking about?" she persisted, sitting beside him at the table, the baby sleeping in her arms. "If you know something about immortal children, please tell me."

Methos shook his head and tapped his pen against the stack of essays. "Why do you want to keep this child?" he asked.

"I don't know," Lindsey answered, shrugging. "I guess, it's because Grandmother taught me to always help those who cannot help themselves." She shifted the baby to her other shoulder and dropped her voice to a whisper. "And, maybe, it's because of LaMar. It's crossed my mind more than once that caring for this child might be my penance for his death."

Methos sighed. He should have known that redemption was what she sought. Since LaMar's death, so many months ago, Methos had seen the haunted, tormented look in Lindsey's eyes, and the pain had failed to dissipate as time had passed. She refused to set aside her guilt, and Methos knew that acceptance of killing was a lesson he could not teach -- Lindsey had to learn this in her own way.

Perhaps saving this child could help her move beyond her guilt, Methos thought. The matter would take some consideration. But not tonight.

He looked pointedly at the infant. "You need to put that to bed, and I have twenty-five research papers to grade."

She frowned, nodded once and walked toward her bedroom. "Good night," she said over her shoulder.

"Sleep well," he answered absently.

He rolled his red pen between his fingers and turned to the first essay with a groan. Concentration, however, flitted away frequently and left him thinking of Lindsey and her guilt, Silas and his child, the night when he had ended the infant's torment and earned the wrath of his favorite brother. He had broken the strongest bond among them and with that act had unwittingly pushed the Horsemen closer to their end.

So much the better, he thought. For all of us.

===============================

Bronze Age

Methos held the small, still bundle close against his chest as he heaved himself onto his horse, trusting the cover of darkness to hide his thievery. He'd killed the baby to keep it quiet as he snuck from camp, and it still had not revived. Soon, though. Soon it would wake and wail, rousing his brothers and ruining Methos' plan. He had to act now or lose his one chance at offering peace to this tortured child.

No, not a child, he corrected himself. An immortal, fifty years old and unable to even feed itself or speak or control its passionate rages. Yet it understood that its life would never change -- forever helpless in a harsh world.

With the tiny immortal occupying his hands, he had to guide his horse with only his legs, and they silently navigated through the camp, toward the desert, keeping their distance from the tents of the other Horsemen.

Even his caution failed, however, when Methos felt the pull of a presence. Kronos stepped in front of them and reached out to stop the horse. He grinned, his eyes bright with madness, and Methos shivered.

"Good evening, brother," Kronos said. "Where are you going so late at night?"

When Methos refused to answer, Kronos circled the horse and pushed back the cloth of Methos' bundle, revealing the face of the dead baby. He chuckled.

"You were the one who asked me to spare this abomination," he said, "and now you are the one to kill it. Fitting, don't you think?"

"Let me pass," Methos answered.

"Silas will not be happy when he wakes to find his precious pet gone."

"I will deal with Silas."

"I'm sure you will, Methos," Kronos said with a mischievous grin. "You are very good at getting your way."

Kronos stepped away and gestured grandly that Methos should continue, which Methos did quickly with a silent thanks to the gods. He did not relax until Kronos' presence faded and he found himself alone in the desert, several miles from the camp, far enough away that the Quickening should go unnoticed.

The wind brushed softly across the barren landscape, kicking a fine cloud of dust into the air, as Methos dismounted, lay the baby on the ground and unwrapped him carefully. Baba chose that moment to revive, his presence bursting to life as he opened his eyes and blinked at the lean, pale form looming over him. Methos drew his sword.

"Forgive me," he whispered, "for not doing this a long time ago."

A smile lit up Baba's face as Methos chopped downward, and the faint presence vanished like a snuffed candle, a tiny light extinguished by the briefest puff of wind. The Quickening was mercifully short and painless, leaving Methos plenty of energy to build a small cairn over the child's corpse. He returned to camp just as the eastern sky began to lighten with the promise of a new day.

===============================

Present Day

Methos irritably dropped his pen onto the table and frowned. He hadn't thought of Baba in years. He still believed that killing the baby had been the right thing to do, but it had broken his friendship with Silas.

He could still see his brother's violent reaction to Methos' admission that he had murdered the baby: Silas raging and screaming through the camp; Silas charging Methos with his ax raised as Kronos and Caspian stood by, simply watching; Silas hacking a slave girl into a bloody mess after he gave up the futile chase for Methos' head.

After that destructive morning, Silas had refused to speak or even look at Methos for several cycles of the moon. The tension that had built between them had proven the first step toward the breakup of the Horsemen. Still, Methos could not apologize for what he had done. He only regretted that he hadn't killed the infant sooner.

The eyes of Silas' child had haunted his dreams for centuries, and now Lindsey, his own student, wanted to bring the horror of infant immortality upon both of them. She would not allow the child to die, but perhaps she would be satisfied with seeing it cared for in safety, in a place where she could visit often and purge her guilty conscience. Then she would not carry the burden of caring for the child, and Methos would not have to see it. Yes, that might prove the best compromise.

Satisfied with his solution, Methos quickly finished with the stack of essays. He wrote a short note to Lindsey, which he left on the kitchen table with the papers, and packed a bag. As he quietly opened the front door, he heard a hungry cry from one of the bedrooms, and he left the apartment before Lindsey could wake and stop his exit. This mission to find a home for the infant would go much more smoothly without the distractions of a curious student and screaming baby.

Besides, he would return in a few days, a week at the most. Surely Lindsey could keep herself out of trouble for a few days.

He smiled grimly as he realized such thoughts might be construed as famous last words.

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"Come, there's no use in crying like that!" said Alice to herself, rather sharply. "I advise you to leave off this minute!" She generally gave herself very good advice (though she very seldom followed it), and sometimes she scolded herself so severely as to bring tears to her eyes ...
-- Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"

part 2

Lindsey gently settled Elizabeth onto her own bed, stomach down atop the blankets, and the baby barely stirred. With a sleepy smile, she curled up next to Elizabeth, content to keep her silent vigil over this new, but not unwelcome, addition to her life.

Lindsey tucked one hand under her pillow, and the other she clutched tightly around the cross that hung from a gold chain around her neck. As she watched the peaceful expression on Elizabeth's face, her mind began to drift. How had she ended up in this unlikely situation? And what would she do with this child? Despite Adam's cold-hearted suggestion, murder was not an option. Neither was abandonment. That left her two choices: Keep the baby or find her a decent home.

The cross dug almost painfully into her palm, yet Lindsey refused to let go. She closed her eyes as a lone tear slowly trailed down her cheek and onto her pillow. What would you do, Grandmother? she asked silently. I wish you were still alive; I wish you could guide me. I need you so much.

"Ah, what a sweet picture. The golden student nobly saves a child from its tortured existence."

Lindsey snapped open her eyes as the sarcastic voice whispered hoarsely in her ear, only to catch a glimpse of a figure looming in the corner, hidden by shadows.

"And what will you do with the child now, little one?" the voice continued. "Kill her? Or perhaps abandon her at an orphanage doorstep like was done with you?"

"Never," Lindsey growled. "I will not leave her to my fate."

"No? Then you will earn the disapproval of your teacher. Perhaps he will leave you in disgust. Just as your birth family left you. Just as your adopted mother left you -- the one you call Grandmother, the one who will not answer your prayers."

She trembled and gripped so hard at her cross that she felt it puncture her skin. "No! I don't believe you! Who are you? How do you know so much about me?"

"I know your every thought, little one. I am part of you."

The figure stepped into the light, his once handsome face contorted by hatred, his blonde hair matted against his forehead in blood. Lindsey began trembling uncontrollably, and she huddled against the bed's headboard as though she could sink into it and disappear.

"Seth LaMar," she said, her voice rising in panic. "You're dead. You don't exist. I killed you!"

He smiled bitterly. "Oh yes, you killed me, but I am the one person on this planet who will never leave you alone."

Lindsey bolted up in bed, fumbled with her lamp with shaking fingers until she managed to turn it on, and frantically looked around her bedroom. Elizabeth lay beside her, whimpering in her sleep. The only other sound was her own breath, fast and loud. They were alone.

I was dreaming, she thought as she controlled her pounding heart. It was just a dream. He's dead. LaMar is in hell, where he can't hurt anyone.

And, heaven help me, I sent him there.

Beside her, Elizabeth began to squirm. Lindsey gritted her teeth, hoping she hadn't disturbed the baby with her panicked awakening. Then, Elizabeth's eyes slowly opened, she blinked a couple of times, and with a deep breath, she let loose an ear-piercing wail.

"Oh, poor baby," Lindsey crooned as she lifted the screaming bundle to her shoulder. "Did I wake you up? I'm sorry. Poor little baby."

She continued her soft words as she touched Elizabeth's bottom and quickly pulled away her hand. Geez, this baby went through a lot of diapers. At this rate, she'd have to buy more in only a couple of days.

Now, where did I leave the stuff for the cleanup crew? she thought as she scanned her bedroom. Oh, yeah. In the kitchen.

She set down Elizabeth long enough to shrug into a robe, and out they went, headed for diaper central. Lindsey even prepared her apology to Adam, who probably wouldn't appreciate being interrupted, but he wasn't sitting at the table. Come to think of it, Lindsey couldn't feel him at all.

She hesitantly approached the table and the neatly piled stack of essays, complete with a folded note on top. In his sprawling, sloppy handwriting, Adam had written one word: "Lindsey."

"Then you will earn the disapproval of your teacher," the dream LaMar had said. "Perhaps he will leave you in disgust."

Lindsey shook her head. "No. He wouldn't leave without saying good- bye. Would he?" She met the wide, tearful eyes of Elizabeth and felt like crying herself.

She carefully unfolded the note with one hand while bouncing Elizabeth with the other.

Lindsey,

Gone on personal business. Please do me the favor of returning the essays and list of final grades to my department chairman.

A.

A tear splashed onto the note, smearing the ink, before Lindsey even realized she was breaking down. Gone on personal business. For a day? A week? Ten years? The note didn't say. All she knew was that they had argued, and Adam had left with no explanation.

Lindsey bounced the baby and crooned, telling Elizabeth everything would be all right, everything would turn out OK, nothing to get upset about. The comforting words soon were lost between her sobs. So for a while, they simply sat at the table -- the Children of Abandonment as Lindsey thought of them -- and they cried.

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It was late, but because Seacouver was on Pacific time, the night-owl establishments would just be closing. At one particular bar belonging to Joe Dawson, Watcher and blues man extraordinare, the staff would be stacking chairs on tables, wiping down the bar one last time and turning out the lights. Joe himself would be tired and eager to retire to his bed after a long night.

This hour was, Methos knew, the ideal time to squeeze information out of his old friend without much of an argument.

While sitting in his car in an empty parking lot, Methos snapped open his cell phone, began dialing the number and hesitated for a moment. He remembered what had happened last time he'd contacted his mortal friend. Joe probably would have died from the torture inflicted by LaMar had Duncan MacLeod not found him broken and beaten on the barroom floor. The letter he'd sent to Joe had ended up in LaMar's hands, which had directed the immortal to Methos' doorstep. LaMar had come close to taking his head. Too close.

The incident had reminded Methos why he'd broken ties with his friends after the Watchers had outed him as the oldest immortal: Staying close put Joe and MacLeod in danger, not to mention jeopardizing his own head.

However, Methos needed information only the Watcher network could provide. Because he knew he topped the Most Wanted list of several immortals -- and because he retained his anonymity mostly because the Watchers couldn't find him -- he could only go to someone who wouldn't betray his whereabouts. That man was Joe.

He finished dialing and waited impatiently as the phone rang once, twice, three times. Then came the soft click as someone answered the call.

"Joe's Bar," said the familiar voice. "Joe speaking."

Methos took a deep breath and willed himself to remain calm. "Joe," he said. "It's me."

The silence on the other end became almost tangible.

"Joe?" Methos asked. "Are you there?"

"Methos?" Joe asked finally.

Methos relaxed. "Yeah. Listen, I don't have long. I need you to access something for me in the Watcher database."

"Sorry to tell you this, but I quit the Watchers about a year ago," Joe said. "I'm surprised MacLeod didn't say anything when he tracked you down in France."

What's this? Methos thought. Joe quit the Watchers? What else can go wrong tonight?

"Look, this is important. Is there any way you could make some calls?"

"Well, first I'd need to know why I'm jumping back into the fire," Joe responded, his voice irritated. "Especially when I haven't talked to you in months, and finally when you do call, it's because you need help."

"Thin ice, Joe," Methos said angrily. "You know I left to save your life, not mine, so take care what you accuse me of."

Joe sighed. "Sorry. It's just that the Watchers pretty much threw me out because I was your friend. Not that I want anything to do with the bastards now, anyway."

"Then I'm sorry to pull you into this," Methos said, "but you're the only person I trust enough to ask for help."

Methos proceeded to tell Joe about the immortal baby and Lindsey's refusal to give it up. He talked about his own fears of infant immortality but avoided mentioning the Horsemen. Joe listened silently to every word.

"So," Methos concluded, "what I'm looking for is a place to leave this child, where it will be cared for and where Lindsey can visit when she wants to."

"An immortal day-care center," Joe mused. "Interesting."

"What do you say? Will you look into this for me?"

"Yeah," Joe said, sighing. "I'll make some calls and see what I come up with."

"Great," Methos answered, smiling in relief. "Keep the search limited to the Midwestern states, Illinois, Missouri, that area. At least to start with."

"You got it. You're gonna owe me big time for this, buddy."

"I know. Thanks, Joe."

Methos snapped shut his phone, leaned back comfortably in his driver's seat and closed his eyes. Now all he could do was wait.

===============================

At the corner of Ninth and Main streets stood a small, intimate coffee shop called Lakota's. Lindsey never figured out what the name meant, but she did know Lakota's served the best French vanilla coffee in town. And on that particular morning, Lindsey Allen was in desperate need of a caffeine fix.

After a long, sleepless night in which every minute seemed like an hour, she had given up on her bed and had cleaned and fed Elizabeth as well as she could. She'd called Adam's cell phone a few times, but he either had it turned off or refused to answer, and Lindsey gave up.

Tired of staying at the apartment, she finally went in search of the classics department chairman. It had turned out that the chairman really was a chairwoman, Professor "call-me-Linda" Lindstrand, who took her vanished grad student's essays and insisted that Lindsey stay for a chat.

Lindsey, however, thought that if she sat down in one of Linda's comfortable chairs, she'd probably fall asleep. Thus it was that she politely excused herself and, with Elizabeth and her diaper bag seeming to gain weight with every step, went in search of her refuge and a jumbo cup of French vanilla coffee.

She took her favorite seat next to the window, where she could watch the people walk by, and laid Elizabeth on the table. The child promptly fell asleep, giving Lindsey a blessed half-hour to simply sit in peace, drink her coffee and thumb through the local newspaper. She glanced over the lead story, about a 3-year-old who had drowned in the river and whose body had vanished from the hospital morgue.

Just as she began to feel slightly human again, her peace was broken by the presence of another immortal. Elizabeth awoke and began to whimper; Lindsey cursed as she realized, in her early morning exhaustion, she had forgotten her sword. Lakota's did have another exit, back by the restrooms, and she might get out in time if she hurried.

She picked up Elizabeth, but before she could stand, the immortal walked through the coffee-shop door. The woman wore a loose, blue uniform with a name tag clipped to one pocket. The clothing contrasted with her striking red hair, pulled back in a neat pony tail, and pale green eyes, which she turned immediately on the pair by the window. A small smile tugged at her mouth. She did not look hostile, but Lindsey had learned not to trust appearances.

"May I join you?" the woman asked as she approached the table. "Don't worry, I am not here to challenge you."

"Why should I believe you?" Lindsey bounced Elizabeth to calm her crying.

"I am not carrying a sword," she answered calmly. "I cannot hide a weapon in these clothes."

"Then why wear them?"

"I'm a nurse at the university hospital. I just got off my shift." She gestured to an empty chair. "May I?"

After a momentary hesitation, Lindsey nodded, and the woman slowly, smoothly slipped into the seat across from Lindsey. She pushed back a stray lock of hair and smiled politely.

"My name is Alice Young," she said. "And you are?"

"Lindsey. The baby is Elizabeth."

"If I am not mistaken, she is one of us." Lindsey nodded and Alice held out her hands, like a child on Christmas, waiting for her present. "May I hold her? Children of our kind fascinate me."

Lindsey frowned. "I'd rather keep her with me."

Alice nodded and brushed her fingers against Elizabeth's arm. In response, the baby squirmed and wrapped her chubby fingers around Lindsey's gold cross with a happy gurgle. Lindsey started at Elizabeth's light tug at the chain around her neck. Was this a sign? Just maybe? Perhaps Grandmother had answered her prayers for guidance and had sent this immortal to help.

"You must learn trust, Lindsey," Alice said quietly, "and learn how to recognize those who would be your friends."

But trust is dangerous, Lindsey thought. Trust in the wrong people might cost me my head. LaMar, you taught me that too well.

Though, perhaps it is time to let LaMar go and move on with life.

With a shrug, Lindsey shifted Elizabeth away from her shoulder and into the outstretched hands of Nurse Alice, who crooned soft noises as she cradled the baby in one arm. Her other hand gently examined Elizabeth's stomach, her arms and legs, head and bottom. She glanced up at Lindsey.

"You have this diaper on too tight," she said. "The poor child is probably uncomfortable. May I?"

Lindsey nodded and then watched intently as Alice set Elizabeth on the table and quickly fixed the problem. A couple tugs there, a couple presses there, and Alice lifted Elizabeth, complete with her new-and-improved diaper, back into Lindsey's arms.

"I really don't know anything about babies," Lindsey reluctantly admitted.

"Well," Alice responded carefully, "I don't work in pediatrics, but I have cared for my fair share of children. I would be willing to teach you, if you would like."

Lindsey frowned. "Why would you help me? You don't know anything about me."

"You are right. But I have never had the opportunity to work so closely with one of our kind who is so young. That is what interests me." She held out her hand. "Deal?"

The explanation sounded believable enough to Lindsey, and with Adam gone, she really did need some instruction. Still, something about Alice bugged her. The immortal had conveniently walked in just as Lindsey had needed help, timing which seemed too perfect for coincidence. Then there was her stiff exterior, her formal speech -- it all seemed rather contrived, as though the seemingly good nurse were hiding behind masks.

Lindsey shook herself with a half-smile. Here I go again, she thought. Thinking the worst about everyone. I've been with Adam for too long.

With a conscious effort to move beyond her suspicions, Lindsey took Alice's hand in a strong grip. "Deal," she said.

As Lindsey reclaimed her hand and half-smiled at her new ally in babysitting, she felt a sensation tickle at the back of her brain and intensify into the familiar buzz of an immortal. She groaned, pulled the strap of the diaper bag onto her shoulder and stood.

"What is this today?" she asked. "Grand Central Station?"

Alice also stood. "Is there another way out?"

Lindsey nodded. "Yeah, in the back, by the restrooms."

"I suggest we leave, then."

Alice strode quickly toward the back hallway with Lindsey close behind, Elizabeth on her shoulder. Alice halted uncertainly as they approached the restrooms, and Lindsey took the lead, pushing passed the taller woman and opening an unmarked door.

They found themselves at the back of a narrow alley, old brick buildings rising up all around them and one exit a few hundred feet ahead, leading into another alley. Trash cans, surrounded by buzzing insects, lined the walls. Lindsey wrinkled her nose and tried unsuccessfully to ignore the stench of rotting garbage. This certainly wasn't the ideal escape, but the alley was safer than facing the unknown immortal.

Alice coughed. "This is disgusting. I almost prefer to go back out the front and fight whomever is there."

"Can't do it," Lindsey answered. "The door locked behind us. Do you have a car nearby?"

"Outside the front of Lakota's."

Lindsey shook her head. "I don't think we can chance going that way. We'll just have to make a run for it."

Alice nodded curtly, and the trio began walking quickly. But Lindsey froze as she felt the unwelcome immortal buzz return. An old, blue Chevy, paint chipped off the doors, drove into view and stopped, effectively blocking the alley's only exit.

Lindsey bit her lip nervously. The driver's side door opened, revealing a large man with a bushy beard, ripped jeans and plaid shirt. He reached into the back seat and stepped out of the Chevy with a broadsword held in both hands. The absurdity of the situation dawned on Lindsey -- two unarmed woman and a baby accosted by what seemed a redneck immortal -- and she hardly stopped herself from laughing.

Still, she knew she must step lightly; she did not intend to die today.

Their bearded assailant slammed shut his car door and grinned. "What have we here? A couple of immortals with no swords, unless you're hiding one in that diaper bag. Easy pickings, if you ask me."

"No one asked you," Lindsey answered firmly. "Who are you?"

He gave a short bow. "Johnny Sumter, at your service."

"We have no quarrel with you, Johnny Sumter," she said, "especially in the middle of downtown in broad daylight. Let us pass."

"No can do, little sister." Johnny shook his head. "I can't let a sweet opportunity like this pass by. And, I might add, you do look very sweet."

As he licked his lips, a momentary panic seized Lindsey. The situation no longer seemed funny. He was armed; she and Alice were not. He also looked much bigger and stronger than either of them, making the possibility of torture or rape a real danger.

She trembled but refused to let her voice betray her fear. "I don't want to fight you."

He laughed, a rich, deep sound that carried loudly across the alley. "Too bad." He started walking toward them slowly, as if he wanted to make the moment last.

Lindsey laid Elizabeth in Alice's waiting arms and dropped the diaper bag onto the filthy asphalt. "Start pounding on that back door," Lindsey said urgently. "See if you can get someone to let us in. I don't like these odds."

Alice nodded and turned to her task; Lindsey faced her challenger, coming closer now and twirling his broadsword in his hands. Lindsey frantically looked about the alley for a weapon, even something as simple as a metal pipe, but she saw nothing. Johnny's sword seemed similar in size and weight to Adam's, which she had sparred against enough to know its strengths and weaknesses. However, without her own sword, he held the advantage.

No one responded to Alice's pounding; Johnny moved within spitting distance and showed no signs of stopping. What could she do? What to do?

Lindsey glanced around again, and her eyes fell on the diaper bag at her feet. She recalled a piece of advice Adam had once given her: Surprise is a powerful weapon. A crazy idea began to form.

Lindsey fell to her knees, unzipped the bag and fished inside with both hands, all the while keeping her eyes on her advancing attacker. Her hand closed around a cyclical, plastic container; she pushed the top open with her thumb. Just a little closer, she thought. Come on, just a little closer.

Johnny moved with five feet of her and raised his sword above his head. Lindsey pulled out the can of baby powder and threw it hard at the immortal. It smacked him dead on target, straight in the nose, and exploded in a white cloud. He stopped and sneezed, lowering his sword in his distraction.

It was the moment Lindsey had been waiting for. She ran forward, swung hard with the diaper bag and sent Johnny's sword flying from his grip. Dropping the bag, she ran around him to collect the weapon and had it against his neck in seconds.

It worked! she thought, giddy with relief. Thank you, Adam, for your wonderful advice!

Johnny fell to his knees and squinted up at her. The powder had coated his beard, and his eyes were red and irritated. His right hand slowly inched inside his jacket.

Lindsey, noticing the movement, pressed the heavy sword harder against his neck. "Freeze." He obeyed, and Lindsey nodded. "Good. Now pull it out. Very slowly."

Again, he did as Lindsey instructed, much to her relief. Hanging loosely off two of his fingers was a small automatic pistol, which Lindsey quickly grabbed.

She shook her head in disgust. "I beat you fairly, and you were going to shoot me? Scum like you don't deserve to live."

"Please don't," he pleaded. "Please. I don't want to die."

He winced as she caressed his neck with the sword. Then, to Lindsey, his face seemed to change for just a moment -- brown eyes turned blue; dark hair became golden ... and dripped with blood. Seth LaMar seemed to stare at her accusingly and then vanish, leaving only a sick churning in Lindsey's stomach.

Oh, God, she thought. I can't do it. I can't kill again.

"If I spare your life," she said firmly, "we all walk away from here with our heads. Understand?"

He nodded carefully. Satisfied, Lindsey lifted the sword and turned to rejoin Alice and Elizabeth, who waited silently by the coffee-shop door. Someone would take his head eventually, Lindsey thought, and she wouldn't grieve in the least.

Alice's eyes suddenly widened. "Lindsey! Look out!"

Without thinking, Lindsey dropped the sword and dove for the asphalt, but not quick enough. She simultaneously heard several loud cracks, felt a sharp pain in her left leg. She landed hard and struggled to rise, but her leg refused to hold her weight. The bastard had packed a second gun!

When Lindsey looked up, Alice had laid Elizabeth by the door, had retrieved the sword from where Lindsey had dropped it and was running passed her. Lindsey couldn't even turn to watch what was happening. She dimly registered Elizabeth's crying as she heard another shot; she expected to die the next second, but it didn't happen. Sounds of a struggle erupted. Then she heard a dull thump as something hit the ground. All was silent.

The pain lessened in Lindsey's leg, and she found she was able to twist around. Alice stood in the center of the alley with a bloody sword in both hands and Johnny's corpse at her feet. Their eyes met for a moment before the Quickening hit, and then the alley seemed to explode. Garbage burst from its cans, splattering against the walls and hitting the three immortals. Alice screamed as lightning shot through her. Elizabeth wailed from where Alice had laid her on the ground.

Lindsey stood as the Quickening lessened, her leg weak but no longer painful, and limped over to catch Alice before she collapsed. They were both breathing heavily from the exertion of the past few minutes.

"Why?" Lindsey whispered.

Alice smiled thinly. "Because it is not your time to die yet." She leaned heavily on Johnny's sword. "We must leave now."

Lindsey nodded. "I'll get Elizabeth. Can you walk?"

In response, Alice straightened, swaying slightly but standing unassisted. She wiped any lingering fingerprints off the sword hilt and threw the weapon in a trash can as Lindsey retrieved Elizabeth and the diaper bag. They snuck from the alley and onto the street, slipping out of downtown moments before police arrived to check on the unexpected electrical explosion behind the coffee shop.

Lindsey led them toward her apartment, the closest, safest place she could think of in her exhausted state. She ignored the wary glances of passersby and how they sped up just a little as they passed the ragged trio.

As they walked, Alice leaned closer to whisper in her ear. "Do you trust me now?"

The question startled Lindsey. This woman had saved her life ... and yet something still rang untrue. It is not your time to die yet, Alice had said. An odd reason to rescue a stranger, especially an immortal stranger. Very odd.

Lindsey smiled thinly, letting Alice take the response however she wished, the words still cycling through her mind.

Because it is not your time to die.

Yet.

===============================

The cell phone trilled, rousing Methos from sleep. He blearily looked at his watch, set exactly at noon. He hadn't meant to fall asleep in the car; it always gave him a stiff neck. He'd spent hours grading essays the night before, though, and hadn't realized his exhaustion until after talking with Joe. He'd leaned back in his seat and had been asleep in seconds.

With a groan, Methos fumbled for his phone, which had slipped under the driver's seat sometime during the night. The caller ID displayed a West Coast number, not Lindsey again, so he thumbed the receive button.

"Hello?" he mumbled.

"Adam? It's Joe."

"Joe," he said, waking up a bit more. "Have you found anything?"

"Yeah, I had to call in a couple of favors, but I got a short list of day cares and orphanages run by immortals. The Watchers don't know if any of these places would take an infant immortal, but it's worth a shot to check them out."

Methos scribbled down the names and addresses of five possibilities, ranging from a day care near downtown Chicago to a church-run children's home just north of St. Louis.

"That's all I could track down," Joe said, almost apologetically. "I'll call if I find out anything else."

"Thanks, Joe. This is a good start."

Methos hung up and started the car engine. Time to get on the road.

===============================

As Lindsey slowly climbed the stairs to the apartment, she hoped with every step that she'd feel her teacher in the next moment. As she handed Elizabeth to Alice and stuck her key in the lock, she thought maybe Adam was in the back bedroom, where she wouldn't sense him until she walked in the door. As she went into the kitchen, she prayed the answering machine light would be blinking. She really needed to talk to him about all that had happened.

Then she remembered what Adam had once told her after she'd failed a particularly difficult test in Ancient Greek class: Life is full of disappointment.

"So this is where you live?" Alice asked blandly.

Lindsey nodded. She dialed Adam's cell phone number and let it ring until the voice-mail system picked up. With a sigh, she hung up. She wetted down two dish towels, handing one to Alice and wiping the alley's grit off her arms with the other.

"You live here with your teacher?" Alice accepted the towel and sat at the kitchen table. Lindsey took Elizabeth and gently wiped her off as she slept.

"Yeah. Adam's my roommate."

"Roommate?" Alice lifted her eyebrows. "Or is he something more than that?"

Lindsey stifled a giggle and shook her head. "No, we're friends. Really, that's all."

Alice nodded. "It is good to have friends you can trust."

Lindsey looked up, her expression slightly wary. "Yes, it is. I would never have survived without him."

"How did you meet?"

She shrugged. "On the night of my first death, I was on my way to North Carolina to visit my grandmother, who was in the hospital. He was hitchhiking on the highway. I picked him up, and we got in a wreck. When I woke up, I was in a hospital morgue, but Adam was there. He got us out by knocking out a couple of doctors and dressing us in their uniforms. Later that night, he agreed to teach me what I needed to know."

"And your grandmother?" Alice asked. "What happened to her?"

Lindsey subconsciously clutched at her cross as the memories returned. Grandmother's drawn face. The smell of the hospital, the scent of death. It all seemed so clear. She could still see Adam's expression when she'd suggested they find her grandmother ... and his response ...

===============================

Fifteen months ago

"Absolutely not. No way. End of discussion."

"But, Adam --"

"No! It is too risky."

Lindsey sat heavily on the side of her squeaky motel bed and folded her arms across her chest, her expression twisted in frustration. This was so unfair! This Adam Pierson, whom she'd met only hours ago, did not have the right to order her around.

Still after all that had happened that evening, Lindsey didn't feel like arguing: dying in a car wreck, waking up in the morgue, learning that she was immortal. She felt like crawling into bed and hiding under the covers for a week.

Then she thought of Grandmother in her hospital bed, hooked up to dozens of machines that pumped fluids into her body and measured her heartbeat. She saw the heart monitor go flat-line. Grandmother might die alone. Lindsey trembled at the thought.

"Listen very carefully to me." Adam sat next to her on the bed. "I suppose it is possible, beyond all bounds of coincidence, that your grandmother is in the same hospital where we were taken after the wreck --"

"She's in there," Lindsey insisted, pointing at the name tag that had come with the pale green doctor's uniform hanging loosely on her slight frame. "I remember the name, Carolinas Medical Center."

"That may be," Adam continued, "but think for a moment. We are two crash victims, dead on arrival, who simply vanished. To make matters worse, at the same time our bodies disappeared, two doctors were knocked out, stripped of their clothing and left on the morgue floor. There will be police in that building, all of them looking for us and the people who stole our bodies. Do you really want to walk into that lion's den?"

Lindsey refused to answer, and a single tear trailed down her cheek. What about Grandmother? she thought. I cannot let her die alone.

Adam grabbed her shoulder tightly. "Promise me that you will not return to the hospital."

With a small sob, Lindsey nodded.

"Good," Adam said, releasing her from his intense gaze. "Now I think we both need to get some sleep. It's been a long day."

While Lindsey watched miserably, he shifted over to his own bed, laid down and was sleeping in moments. She quietly stood and more closely examined him: The tension in his face had softened, and his breathing was even and deep. Satisfied that he wouldn't hear her leave, Lindsey pulled on the overly large shoes she'd pilfered from an unconscious doctor, slowly opened the door to their room and shut it softly behind her.

With any luck, Adam would still be asleep when she returned, and he would never know she had left.

End of part 2

===============================

"Oh, you foolish, Alice!" she answered herself. "How can you learn lessons in here? Why there's hardly any room for you and no room at all for any lesson-books!"
-- Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"

part 3

Present day

Methos never put much faith in Fate, for she proved a fickle mistress. Sometimes Fate chose you as the winner of an immortal encounter; sometimes Fate chose you as the loser. Methos had lost count how of many times he'd heard the justification: "Perhaps it was his time to go." So long ago, Methos learned to put his faith in his own wits and sword. He chose to survive, not leaving that decision to a force as random as Fate.

Perhaps, he thought, that explained the inexplicable connection he felt to Father Mark. Even though he had dedicated his immortal life to God, the good father seemed the type to determine his own course. He reminded Methos of another immortal priest in so many ways: independent and decisive, yet compassionate. Yes, Methos thought, Father Mark and Darius were cut from the same material.

"Come in, Adam," Father Mark said as he opened the door to his study. The hinges creaked, and the priest winced. "It started doing that sometime in the 1920s. Someday, I suppose I'll have to get it fixed."

Methos sauntered in, both hands stuck deep in his coat pockets, and looked about the small, dimly lit room. Shelves, packed with beautifully bound books, lined every wall to the ceiling, and in the far corner stood an worn oak desk, piled high with papers. Methos took a deep breath, savoring the familiar, musty scent, and he felt a sudden yearning to return Shakespeare & Co. Those days were gone, though, he knew. No use dwelling on the past.

"You admire my books," Father Mark said, following Methos into the study and shutting the door behind him. "You're looking at one of the most extensive collections of first editions by 19th century American authors anywhere in the world."

"Very impressive," Methos responded with admiration.

"Perhaps you'd like to take a closer look?"

Methos smiled wistfully. "Some other time. Today, Father, I come on business."

Father Mark nodded thoughtfully and sat behind his desk, his face barely visible over the massive jumble of papers. He gestured to another chair, but Methos remained standing. "What can I help you with, then?"

"I'll come straight to the point," Methos said. "I am looking for a home for an immortal baby. She's no more than a few months old."

Father Mark leaned back in his chair and watched Methos carefully. "An interesting choice you made, not to kill the child outright."

Not my choice, Methos thought. Careful to keep his expression passive, he asked, "Will you take the baby?"

Father Mark stood, smoothed his pants and headed for the door. "Come with me, Adam. There is something I want you to see."

He lead Methos down several deserted hallways until finally they came to a brightly lit room with several large, open windows. Someone had painted the walls with jewel-colored balloons, all pointed in the same direction, creating the illusion they were flying in endless circles. Half a dozen children, none older than a few months, lay in cribs against the walls. It seemed a normal nursery to Methos, with one exception: One of the children was immortal.

Father Mark led Methos to the far corner and stopped at the crib of perhaps the oldest-seeming child in the room. The baby looked about six months old with a head of curly, thick brown hair. He smiled as he saw Father Mark and waved his chubby arms in welcome.

"This is Joseph. He's been with us for more than twenty years." The priest lifted the baby to his shoulder. "Joseph, this is Adam Reynolds."

The baby twisted around, and Methos caught his breath as he met Joseph's wide eyes. He barely suppressed a shudder. Not for thousands of years, not since Baba, had he come face to face with the awareness he found in this child's expression.

"Unnerving, isn't it, the first time you see it?" Father Mark sounded almost sympathetic. "This is not a child I hold."

"Yes, quite unnerving," Methos murmured. "Does he understand what we're saying?"

Father Mark shrugged. "Who knows? In all the time I have cared for immortal babies, I have never discovered that answer."

"So, Joseph is not the first."

"Oh, no. There have been others."

Methos licked his dry lips. "What happened to them?"

"They gave up hope," he answered quietly. "As they realized they were trapped forever in their little prisons, they began to despair. Soon after, they stopped eating and drinking."

Methos looked sharply at Father Mark. "You mean they committed suicide."

"Just so," the priest responded, nodding. "But, of course, they came back from the dead, only to kill themselves again. When that happens, I call a friend of mine, who takes them off holy ground and kills them. Sometimes it takes a few months, sometimes a few decades, but, in the end, they all yearn for death."

Methos nodded sadly and silently watched Father Mark return Joseph to his bed. So Baba had not been a fluke, he thought. Silas' pet had followed the normal course for an immortal baby, if infant immortality was normal at all.

He deliberately turned from the crib, unwilling to look any longer on its occupant. His eyes were drawn to the walls. Hundreds of balloons, all flying in neat little circles but going nowhere. Just like these children.

"The baby you found will follow the same course as the others," Father Mark said matter-of-factly. "However, if you can live with that, bring her here. We'll keep her for a few days, and if she adjusts well to the nursery, we'll keep her permanently, or at least until she chooses to die."

Methos nodded and forced a smile, pulling his eyes from the rather hypnotic balloons. The offer was exactly what he had hoped for, but now came the difficult part: Convincing his stubborn student that this arrangement would prove the best solution. Though one way or another, with or without Lindsey's approval, he would bring the baby here.

"Thank you, Father," Methos said. "I'll bring her tomorrow."

===============================

A day passed, and then another, and another. An entire week had slipped by, but still Adam had not called or written or even answered his cell phone. For a few hours Wednesday afternoon, his phone had been out of contact range, but he'd returned by sunset.

On Thursday, Lindsey only called him twice. By Friday night, she had resigned herself to the fact that Adam would return when he was ready and not a moment before. She also prepared herself for the possibility that he might not return at all. The thought saddened her, but Adam had taught her to consider all possible outcomes, which, he said, would give her an extra edge in the Game.

It also was Adam's teachings that caused Lindsey to distrust her new friend. Although Alice dispensed child-care advice without restraint, she maintained her contrived, overly polite manner. Every time Lindsey began to visibly mistrust her, the woman would throw Johnny Sumter in her face: "How can you be so suspicious. I saved your life, after all."

Lindsey also had discovered that Alice suffered from a mild tick in her left eye, which seemed to come and go randomly, much like her congenial attitude. One moment, Alice acted like a close friend, and the next moment she became the Ice Queen. Taken as a whole, Alice set Lindsey on her guard. Although the redheaded enigma had never hinted that she might try for anyone's head, Lindsey kept her sword nearby at all times.

On a lazy Sunday morning, ten days after Adam's midnight departure, Lindsey woke late and fed Elizabeth before putting the baby in her crib in the bedroom. She was listening to the radio and reading the morning paper when she felt an immortal buzz. Grabbing her sword, she looked through the peephole, only to see a familiar face staring back. She opened the door, and Alice raised her eyebrows as she noticed the weapon in Lindsey's hand.

"I didn't expect you this morning," Lindsey muttered, "and you can't be too cautious."

"Adam taught you well." Alice swept into the apartment and headed for Lindsey's bedroom. She emerged moments later with Elizabeth sleeping in her arms. "Did you realize that sound carries from your apartment to the back alley very clearly? I could hear the radio playing as though it were in my own car."

"That's strange," Lindsey said absently.

"Although I don't especially like your choice of music."

"Hey. There's nothing wrong with Madonna." Lindsey went into the kitchen to pour herself another cup of coffee. "What some?" she offered. Alice shook her head, and they both settled at the kitchen table. Lindsey propped her sword against her chair, within easy reach.

"I was wondering," Alice said, "if you would let me borrow Elizabeth for a while this afternoon. For research, of course. I want to take her to the hospital and run some tests."

Lindsey shook her head. "I have errands to run, and I want to keep her with me."

"As you wish."

Lindsey thought she saw Alice's eyes flicker dangerously, but the spark vanished, leaving her to wonder if she'd imagined it. She looked at the newspaper's lead story and back at Alice. A disturbing thought began to form.

"Did you see the newspaper this morning?" Lindsey turned the front page toward her guest. "The police found the body of that 3-year-old girl who disappeared from the hospital morgue last week. She was near the river, where she drowned. But the police, um, couldn't find her head. After finding Johnny, the authorities are wondering if they have a serial killer on the loose."

Alice looked up sharply from her contemplation of Elizabeth. "Do you think the girl was one of us?"

"Perhaps." Lindsey laid the newspaper on the table. "What I can't figure out is what sort of immortal would steal a helpless child, take her to the river and kill her."

Alice shrugged, and her left eye began to jump. "Obviously, the killer is a sick person." She gingerly checked Elizabeth's diaper and grimaced. "Changing time."

Lindsey blinked. She hadn't seriously considered that Alice might have something to do with the headless toddler, but the woman had been quick to change the subject. Too quick. And what did Lindsey really know about her?

As Lindsey sat deep in thought, the silence between them grew almost tangible. Alice watched her expectantly. Elizabeth whimpered in her sleep. The kitchen suddenly felt too stuffy, too confining. Lindsey was having trouble breathing. She had to get out ...

"I'll take Elizabeth," she quickly offered. She settled the baby against her shoulder, grabbed her sword and almost ran to her bedroom. Attempting to collect herself, she laid Elizabeth in her crib, gave the child her favorite pacifier and ran a hand over her own eyes. Why had she even brought up that dead girl? Alice would never do such a horrible thing.

Or would she? Alice worked in the hospital, giving her easy access to the morgue. And something about her just didn't seem right, although Lindsey couldn't quite pinpoint the problem. Maybe it'd just be best to break with Alice -- safer that way. But what if she took offense and attacked? Or worse, what if she kidnapped Elizabeth?

Lindsey shook herself. This whole paranoia thing was silly. Alice probably had nothing to do with the dead girl. As Lindsey changed Elizabeth's diaper, she repeatedly told herself to act less suspicious, that not everyone was out for her head.

She didn't believe the thought for a second.

===============================

As Methos mounted the second flight of stairs to the apartment, the familiar presence of his student washed over him, but he felt something more. He stopped, closed his eyes in concentration and began cursing under his breath. Three signatures. Three immortals in the apartment. So much for believing Lindsey could keep out of trouble for a few days.

He drew his sword as he raced up the last few steps, various scenarios racing through his mind: Lindsey in the midst of a sword fight in the living room; Lindsey and Elizabeth held hostage against his own return. He didn't expect what he found upon bursting into the apartment, every muscle tensed for action: a redheaded woman sitting at the table, calmly reading the newspaper, and his student nowhere in sight.

The woman glanced up at him with icy green eyes and returned to reading the newspaper. "You must be Adam," she said blandly.

What the hell, Methos thought. Who was this immortal sitting at his kitchen table? What had she done with Lindsey? Methos felt his temper flare, felt cold-hearted Death pushing against the walls of his mind. If anything had happened to his student ...

Within seconds, he had his blade pressed against the woman's neck. She tensed, her hand moving slowly behind her chair, under her coat.

"Don't even try," he growled. "Where is she?"

The woman narrowed her eyes and opened her mouth, but before she could speak, they were interrupted by a squeal of delight originating from one of the bedrooms. "Adam!"

Methos watched wide-eyed as Lindsey ran into the living room, her long, brown hair flying behind her. She stopped abruptly and her smile dropped as she saw the two immortals in the kitchen. "Adam, no. Don't hurt her."

As Lindsey's eyes silently pleaded with him, he wondered what this immortal meant to her. For a moment, he considered taking the woman's head simply to stop Lindsey from continuing any blossoming friendship, but he quickly rejected the thought. No one was dead, after all, so no point in prolonging the confrontation.

After an appropriately dramatic pause, he withdrew his blade, and the woman visibly relaxed. Death slunk back into some dark corner of his consciousness -- but refused to vanish completely. "Get out of here," he ordered the unwelcome visitor.

"Listen, Adam --" Lindsey began.

"No!" He glared at his student, who frowned but pursed her lips shut.

The redhead gathered her coat into her arms. "It is all right, Lindsey. I will go. You and Adam have some catching up to do, I'm sure." With a small smile for Lindsey and a dirty look for Methos, she swept out of the apartment, slamming the door behind her.

"What the hell was that about?" Lindsey asked angrily. She stomped around the couch to approach her teacher. "Don't you trust anyone?"

"I don't even trust myself." Methos glared at her. "How do you expect me to trust that woman?"

"Alice," Lindsey muttered.

"What?"

"Alice," she repeated. "Her name is Alice Young."

Methos shook his head and leaned against the kitchen counter. "I don't care if she calls herself Cleopatra. I ... don't ... trust ... her," he said, slowly enunciating every word. "Do you?"

"Well, no. Not exactly."

He snorted. "Then stop complaining."

Lindsey sat dejectedly on the couch and frowned. "She was helping me take care of Elizabeth. You had left for who knows how long, and I needed help, Adam. I didn't know where you were. I didn't know if you were coming back. And now you've run her off without even giving her a chance ..."

The last traces of anger drained from Methos. She looked so disappointed, so upset -- and so very innocent. Still, after all she'd been through in the past year, she clung to her ideals of searching for the good in everyone.

Methos joined her on the couch and pulled her into his arms, this naive girl, his student, whom he'd come dangerously close to regarding as his daughter. Who am I kidding, he thought. She's wormed her way farther into my heart than anyone in centuries. She's reminded me that I have a heart.

"I didn't trust her, Adam," Lindsey mumbled against his shoulder. "But I was willing to give her a chance to prove herself. I was so sure you were gone for good. I thought I might never see you again ..."

She hung her arms around his neck, and Methos tightened his embrace. "I'm not going to abandon you. I promise."

===============================

Fifteen months ago

Methos awoke slowly, as if pushing through a dense fog to the surface of his consciousness. He sensed that somehow, some way, something was wrong. With a massive yawn, he lazily rolled over to face Lindsey's bed, his own motel mattress squeaking in protest. The bed was empty, its sheets and covers neatly tucked in. Lindsey was gone.

Bloody hell, Methos thought. Why did I agree to teach this ... this teen-ager? If she's not going to listen to a word I say, she can damn well fend for herself.

He rolled over again, hoping that if he fell asleep quickly, he might return to his beautiful dream about Alexa. They had been walking barefoot along the beach at sunset, hands clasped, sand between their toes ...

Then a unwelcome thought intruded, forcing Methos to jerk awake and begin searching for his shoes under the bed. If Lindsey were caught, she'd be recognized as a corpse vanished from the morgue, and she might lead the police to the motel. Then there'd be hell to pay. Methos knew he had to find her first.

He left the motel with dark thoughts. If they both survived this night, he was leaving. No way was he going to saddle himself with new immortal who refused to hear reason. What had he been thinking when he'd agreed to teach her, anyway? Had he learned nothing from watching MacLeod or that idiot Scot who had killed his student and suppressed his memory? Warren Cochran. That was his name. Had he not learned from Mac and Cochran that students only lead to trouble?

But under all his chaotic, angry questions, one thought kept returning, despite his best attempts to distance himself from the situation: I hope she's OK.

He flashed his name tag -- stolen from an unconscious doctor earlier that evening -- to a security guard at the hospital entrance and hurried past, keeping his face down. The guard waved him in without looking up from his sports magazine, and Methos slipped into the building with no problems. Now, where to start looking for the wayward immortal? Assuming she wasn't recognized, Lindsey would end up in her grandmother's room.

Methos walked randomly through mostly deserted, whitewashed halls, occasionally standing aside for doctors and nurses pushing patients in wheelchairs or on beds. He carefully kept his face down when he passed under security cameras, and he twice had to duck into a supply closet or bathroom when he spotted a guard coming in his direction.

After the second narrow escape from detection, he finally found what he had been hunting for: an unattended computer. Licking his lips nervously, Methos slipped behind the counter and punched the "return" key, which erased the screen saver and pulled up a long menu. He muttered his thanks to a higher power that some sloppy employee had neglected to log out.

Quickly scanning the list, he found the patient registry and clicked on it. The computer asked him for a name; Methos cursed silently. Lindsey had called the old woman "grandmother," which certainly wouldn't get him far in the database. He selected the box that said "female" and typed in Lindsey's last name, Allen. Three entries popped up.

Methos clicked on the first name. Annabel Allen, 16 years old, recovering from a drug overdose. Next. Barbara Allen, 35 years old, had just given birth to a healthy boy. Next. Elizabeth Allen, 64 years old, admitted for advanced cancer. Bingo.

Room 303. Methos committed the number to memory, clicked back to the main menu and disappeared around the corner just before a security guard walked by on his rounds.

Finding room 303 proved difficult, however. The hallways wound and twisted like a maze, and just when Methos thought he was getting close, he found himself in a completely new section of the hospital. He even passed rooms 301 and 302, walked through an intersection and found himself at room 314.

As he was backtracking to room 302, wondering whether room 303 even existed, he sensed another immortal. He slowly peered around a corner, only to find Lindsey half-collapsed against the wall, clutching her head in pain. Methos touched her shoulder lightly, and she jumped.

"Geez! Adam you scared me." She visibly attempted to catch her breath. "What are you doing here? I suddenly got this awful headache ..."

Methos shifted his hand to her arm, lifting her to her feet. "I'll explain later. Right now, we have to leave."

"No, I'm not going anywhere." Lindsey jerked back and folded her arms across her chest.

"Yes, you are." Methos tugged on her arm, almost pulling her off balance.

She stumbled a few feet after him and roughly pulled back. She pointed behind her. "Grandmother's room is right there, and I'm going in."

Methos took a deep breath. Gods, save me from stubborn children, he thought. "I am older than you; I am wiser than you; I am bigger than you. And I say we go. Now."

Without waiting for Lindsey to raise more objections, Methos grabbed her arm and began tugging her down the hall. She resisted every step; he refused to let go. They neared the corner leading to room 302 when Methos froze and cocked his head to one side. Someone was coming down the adjoining hall in squeaky shoes.

Lindsey hesitantly moved closer. "What--"

"Quiet," Methos hissed.

There it was again. Louder this time. The person definitely was walking toward them.

Methos turned and, with Lindsey in tow, hurried in the opposite direction. The hall bended around a 90 degree turn, and he stopped to peer around the corner. A security guard, whistling softly and typing at a hospital computer, stood only feet away. Methos smirked as he recognized the guard's whistling tune: Beethoven's Ninth Symphony. This guy and MacLeod would get along famously.

The tune died off in a long, fading note. The guard looked up from the computer, and Methos jerked back around the corner. Dammit! If the guard had seen him ...

Lindsey smiled at her new teacher in satisfaction as the distinct sound of footsteps headed toward them. The squeaky man at the other exit sounded as though he were very close. They were trapped.

"Fine," Methos snapped. "You win."

With a little joyous hop, Lindsey quietly opened the door to room 303, and Methos forced them both inside, shutting the door behind them. The guard walked by, and the squeaky shoes slowly died into silence.

With a sigh of relief, Methos turned to face the room, already knowing exactly what he would see. His student sat by the bed, gently holding the hand of an elderly woman who lay sleeping. Machines lined the back of the bed, most of them unfamiliar to Methos and all of them sporting tubes and wires that attached to Lindsey's grandmother. It amazed Methos how quickly technology had made his own medical knowledge obsolete.

He turned his attention to Elizabeth Allen and noted she wasn't so old, after all. Her hair, a soft fuzz around her head that reminded Methos of an infant, was still mostly black. And her face lacked the lines etched by old age. She was frail, though, beyond her years, and her face seemed pale in the lamplight.

Then the woman stirred and opened her eyelids. She smiled softly and lifted a trembling hand to Lindsey's cheek. Neither spoke. Methos knew, at that moment, he was forgotten; no one else existed for these two woman besides each other.

Lindsey sniffled as she met Grandmother's tired eyes, and she couldn't hold back the tears. The old woman looked so pale, so weak.

"Don't cry, child," Grandmother said, her voice reduced to a harsh whisper. "I'm not worth your tears." She smiled. "I'm glad you came."

Lindsey softly squeezed Grandmother's hand. "How could I not?"

"I will miss you when I'm gone."

"Don't talk like that," Lindsey sniffled. "You're going to be fine, and you're going to live for another thirty years."

Grandmother's raspy laugh shook her whole body, but the amused sound abruptly became a violent coughing fit. Lindsey sat helpless, unsure what to do. She pulled a tissue from the bedside Kleenex box and handed it to Grandmother, who held it against her mouth until the spasms passed. She passed the tissue back to Lindsey; it was covered in blood.

"You see," Grandmother whispered. "I know my time is drawing near, and I welcome it. I weary of this life: Living in the hospital, wracked by coughing fits and losing more strength every day. For me, child, death is not a punishment. It is an escape from the pain. Death is a mercy. Remember that."

Lindsey could not speak; if she opened her mouth she'd start sobbing again, she knew. She simply watched Grandmother, attempting to let all her love and concern show through her brave smile.

"On the night stand," Grandmother murmured, "is my cross. Give it to me."

The small gold pendant hung on a short chain, dangling from the lamp. Lindsey lifted it reverently. Never had she seen Grandmother without it, from the time Lindsey had been adopted at age 3 until the day she had left for college. The cross was Grandmother's most prized possession, a symbol of the God to whom she had devoted her life.

Lindsey placed the pendant in the woman's trembling hands. Grandmother held it to her chest for a moment, closing her eyes in what Lindsey supposed was a prayer. Then she reached for Lindsey's hand and placed the cross firmly in her palm.

"It's yours now," Grandmother said quietly. "Think of me when you look at it, and remember that I'm watching over you. Always."

Lindsey nodded and closed her fingers tightly over the gift. "I will."

Grandmother smiled, her eyes crinkling at their corners. "Good. Then I know I will never truly die."

The old woman closed her eyes. Lindsey simply held her hand and let the tears flow unheeded down her cheeks. Grandmother's breathing became regular as she fell asleep, the only sound in the room, but each gasp for air gurgled in the back of her throat. Then, the breaths ceased. Grandmother's hand stopped trembling and went limp in Lindsey's grasp.

Lindsey shook her head and sobbed.

She felt a hand close firmly over her shoulder. Adam. She had forgotten all about him, and she didn't want him here now. She wanted time to grieve, time to cry over the empty body that had been her grandmother, friend and savior. She wanted to stay here, at least for a few more minutes.

"We must go," Adam said quietly.

"I ... can't leave. ... Not yet," Lindsey managed to say between sobs.

Adam grabbed her shoulders and twisted her around to face him, yet his eyes remained gentle and understanding. "I'm sorry to tell you this, but she is dead. You can do nothing more for her, and it would be foolish to stay. We must leave before the doctors arrive."

We must leave, Lindsey thought dimly. Yes. Adam must be right. I can't believe she's dead.

"I can't believe she's left me alone," Lindsey murmured to herself.

"You're not alone," Adam replied. Lindsey looked up at him, and he smiled comfortingly. "You're not alone."

Lindsey nodded, breathed deep and wiped the tears from her cheeks. She drew strength from Adam's words. It might be enough to get her through the night.

She reached out to fold Grandmother's hands across her still chest, but Adam quickly grabbed her wrist. "Don't touch the body. No one must know we were here."

Lindsey nodded sadly and stood. "Let's go."

Adam peered out the door, walked into the hall and waved for Lindsey to follow. For the second time that night, they carefully wound their way through the catacomb of Carolinas Medical Center and back into the city. As they climbed the stairs to their motel room, the sun slowly rose over the trees into a cloudless sky, promising a beautiful day. But Lindsey didn't care. She collapsed onto her bed and, with one hand clutched tightly around Grandmother's cross, fell into a fitful sleep.

===============================

Present day

A hungry cry from Lindsey's bedroom roused both immortals from their thoughts. Lindsey sighed and smiled apologetically. "I should probably go find out what's wrong with her."

Methos nodded, but as she stood from the couch, he reached for her hand. She turned to face him.

"I found a place for the child," he said.

Lindsey's eyes widened as she sat back down. "Where?"

"It's a children's home about three hours from here. The man who runs it, Father Mark, has handled immortal babies before, so he knows what he's doing. And it's on holy ground."

"That's what you've been doing all this time," Lindsey said, amazed as she realized the truth. "You've been looking for a place that would take Elizabeth. Why didn't you tell me? Why the secrecy?"

Methos looked down at his hands. "Right now, I couldn't explain it if I tried. At the time, it seemed a wise choice to go alone."

An amused smile twitched at her lips. "Well, it's past now. I suppose I can just chalk it up to your mysterious, closed-off personality."

Methos half-smiled. He knew she was baiting him, but he owed it to her to play along. "You think I'm mysterious? You don't know the half of it."

She sighed. "And I never will, I know. You trust me, but not that much." Lindsey glanced up at him. "Did you trust MacLeod enough to tell him about your past? Or Joe?"

He snorted. "Joe was a Watcher. I wouldn't tell him anything I didn't want him to write down for future generations."

Lindsey's eyes narrowed. "That's not what I'm asking, and you know it. Adam, why won't you open up to me? It's like your reaction when you first saw Elizabeth. You must have had a reason for wanting her dead, but you wouldn't tell me why. What are you hiding?"

Methos said not a word. Instead, he watched her carefully, his eyes almost glowing with intensity yet impossible to decipher. It was an argument they'd had many times before, yet he refused to open up to her. He simply stared at her with those expressionless eyes until she looked away.

This time was no different, Lindsey realized, as she suddenly became interested in the carpet. "You're impossible to talk to," she muttered.

An awkward silence descended between them as Methos looked away, an almost regretful gesture, Lindsey thought. She finally licked her lips nervously and cleared her throat. "So, um, when are we going to take Elizabeth to meet Father Mark?"

"Tomorrow morning," Methos said softly. "Assuming you haven't made plans with Alice."

"No plans. You've probably run her off for good anyway."

"So much the better."

Lindsey shook her head sadly. "Alice never did anything to make me think she might be one of the bad guys. It was only my own paranoia that made me distrust her. I don't understand why you always assume the worst about everyone."

"Safer that way. How do you think I've lived this long?"

When Lindsey couldn't think of a response, she left Methos sitting on the couch and went to her bedroom to deal with Elizabeth, who was still crying. She slipped the pacifier in the baby's mouth and held her, bouncing her softly until Elizabeth went back to sleep. Just wait until tomorrow, sweetie, Lindsey thought. Tomorrow, we'll take you to a better place. You'll be happier there. I promise.

In the alley below, a redheaded immortal leaned against her car and thought about what she'd overheard between Lindsey and her meddlesome teacher. Their conversation had drifted through an open window and into the alley, and with each word, Alice clenched her fists a little tighter.

That idiotic excuse for an immortal who'd attacked them several days ago had been a happy mistake, seamlessly playing into her quest to gain Lindsey's trust. She had gotten so close. Then Adam Reynolds had returned. If he'd stayed away for a few more days, Alice might have taken the heads of both the baby and Lindsey with little hassle.

Still, all her effort might not be a complete loss. She would follow the immortal trio tomorrow on their trip to meet this Father Mark, who might even have other immortal children in his care. They were such easy targets, every tiny head another pinch of power that might make the difference between life and death in the Gathering.

Yes, tomorrow she would follow them. With a little luck, she might send them all to a better place.

End of part 3

===============================

"You're thinking about something, my dear, and that makes you forget to talk. I can't tell you just now what the moral of that is, but I shall remember it in a bit."

"Perhaps it hasn't one," Alice ventured to remark.

"Tut, tut, child!" said the Duchess. "Everything's got a moral, if only you can find it."
-- Lewis Carroll, "Alice's Adventures in Wonderland"

part 4

The three-hour drive to Father Mark's sanctuary seemed like an eternity to Methos, who alternately watched the highway and his quiet, dispirited student. Lindsey had not spoken the entire trip, content instead to stare out the window and rock the child in her arms. Methos did not condemn her silence; the past 10 days had brought enough chaos and confusion to push anyone deep into their thoughts.

So he gave her time to think without interruption. Unfortunately, however, the melancholy seemed contagious. The engine's quiet hum, the rhythmic bumps in the road, lulled Methos into his own reverie. He thought about Silas and Baba and the Horsemen; he wondered how long he could keep his past from Lindsey before the distrust those secrets had spawned would drive them apart. After a year with his student, Methos realized he didn't want to lose her, this girl who had breathed life into his stale existence.

A quick glance at his student confirmed she still was quietly rocking Elizabeth, who slept soundly in the absurd, fuzzy pink pajamas Lindsey had bought a few days before. Not for the first time, he wished Lindsey had never found that child. Elizabeth had unwittingly had forced Methos to remember a past he'd rather forget and had created this tension between student and teacher. If not for little Elizabeth, none of the past couple of weeks would have happened.

"What are you thinking about?" Lindsey asked, her voice startling Methos from his thoughts.

He shrugged. "Nothing in particular. You've been more quiet than I these past few hours."

"I know," she said softly. "It's this landscape. These fields are so flat and dry and colorless. And they go on forever. How can anyone have happy thoughts in this wasteland?"

Methos looked at her, amused at her melodrama. "It's not a wasteland. It's Illinois. Besides, it's nothing compared to some places I've lived. The Middle East was mostly weeds and dust, and parts of Egypt were never- ending sand."

She smiled wistfully. "Egypt. Now that's a place I would love to see. It's an archaeologist's dream. Do you think we can go there for awhile, just leave this place behind and start over again?"

"I hate to spoil your daydream, but I think you're forgetting something. University. Classes. The reason we moved here. Remember?"

Lindsey licked her lips and looked out the side window. "I, um -- I don't think we can stay here."

Methos looked sharply at her. "What did you do?"

"I didn't do anything," Lindsey answered quickly. "It was Alice, and we didn't have a choice. She killed an immortal in downtown in the middle of the afternoon. He challenged us, and I beat him. I couldn't bring myself to kill him, though, so Alice did it instead. She saved my life." She paused. "We got away before the cops arrived, but any number of people might have seen us sneak out of the alley. It's only a matter of time before the police come looking for me."

"Any evidence tying you to the scene?"

"Well, besides the witnesses, we left baby powder all over the alley." She grimaced. "Not many women covered with back-alley garbage and coated in baby powder were wandering around downtown that morning."

"Baby powder?"

"It's a long story," Lindsey explained. "The main point is that I don't want to be accused of murder, especially when I didn't do it."

Methos sighed, amazed at the depth of trouble Lindsey seemed to have sunk herself into after only a few days without him. He couldn't disagree that it might be best for them to disappear. Of course, he had his own reasons, as well. If Alice had a decent Watcher, the organization would know of Methos' location by now and might have someone assigned to him in a matter of hours. The last thing he wanted was a nosy mortal following his every move.

Something else Lindsey had said nagged at him, though, a comment that demanded his immediate attention.

"This immortal challenged you, you won, but you didn't take his head. Why?" he asked, his voice deceptively casual.

Lindsey became still. She glanced down at Elizabeth's sleeping face. "I just -- I don't know," she finally answered, her voice quiet and sad. "I can't get LaMar out of my head, Adam. He was a living creature, no more deserving of death than me. Yet I killed him. I stole his chance for any kind of future. I don't regret that he's dead, but I do regret that I was the one to kill him." She paused. "Killing is wrong."

Methos looked sidelong at her. "It sounds to me like you're trying to convince yourself of that." She didn't answer or even look up from Elizabeth, so Methos continued. "If there's one thing I've learned in my five-thousand years, it's this: Right and wrong matter very little in the Game. If you want to survive, you do what you have to, not what you believe is right."

"I don't agree with that." Lindsey shook her head. "Without my principles, I lose much of myself. I've always given people the benefit of the doubt. I've never played judge, jury and executioner because I've known it's wrong. How can I condemn an immortal to die without condemning myself to the same judgment?"

For a moment, Lindsey's question transported Methos to an earlier time, when he had explained to MacLeod why he couldn't kill Kronos. Because if I judge him worthy to die, then I judge myself the same way, Methos had said. Now his own student had thrown the same argument back at him. But this was different, Methos told himself. He and Kronos had been brothers. Lindsey killing LaMar was simply part of the Game.

Lindsey shifted uncomfortably in her seat when Methos did not respond. "What is the answer?" she demanded. "How do I live with this guilt?"

"One day at a time, Lindsey Allen. One day at a time."

She frowned. "That's almost impossible," she said. "I don't want to be immortal if it means I have to kill."

"That is a very dangerous attitude to take," Methos answered darkly. "Do you want to live?"

She nodded mutely.

"Then you must learn to kill when necessary, and you must learn to live with your guilt. You do not have a choice."

She slipped back into silence, refusing to look up from Elizabeth's face.

Methos sighed. "You cannot continue to survive as an immortal if you think like a mortal. We live by a different set of rules, a different set of morals." He paused. "There can be only one."

"And if we were the last two," Lindsey retorted, "would you take my head?"

Methos sighed, wondering how many times he'd asked himself that same question. "I'd fight my best fight, and I'd expect you to do the same." She stared at him in wide-eyed surprise, and he grimaced. "It's not worth worrying about."

She swallowed hard. "How can there be happiness when there can be only one?"

Methos gave her a sympathetic look but did not answer. Nothing he could say would satisfy her, he knew. They drove in silence for the last few miles, and Lindsey seemed not to notice as Methos stopped the car in front of the children's home. She sat rigidly and stared out the window as if in a trance. Methos touched her arm, and she started.

"We're here," he said.

She nodded but did not move.

Sensing her unease, Methos smoothed her hair gently and squeezed her shoulder. "We'll talk more about this later. Right now, we have to take care of Elizabeth."

"It's so unfair, Adam." Her sad eyes met his gaze. "I don't know if I could go on with the guilt of stealing all those lives, but there is no escape until someone takes my head. Maybe Grandmother was right. Maybe death would be a mercy."

"Lindsey ..."

"I don't want to talk about this anymore," she said firmly. "Just ... don't talk to me."

Leaving Methos fishing for a response, Lindsey opened her door and stepped out, Elizabeth cradled carefully in her arms. Methos grabbed the diaper bag and followed her as she marched up the sidewalk toward the baby's new home.

He felt another immortal, and the front door opened, revealing a beaming Father Mark. The priest raised his hands in welcome and laughed delightedly. "I was hoping to see you today."

Methos walked passed Lindsey, who had abruptly halted when she'd felt the presence, to greet their host. He smiled as they shook hands. "Father Mark, I want you to meet --"

"I'm Lindsey Allen, Father. Adam's student."

Methos glanced at her, surprised at the interruption and the false cheer in her voice, but she ignored him, her attention focused completely on Father Mark. The priest looked curiously at him; Methos shrugged.

"Pleased to meet you, Lindsey," Father Mark said. He looked down at her necklace, and his expression became one of admiration. "That cross pendant. It's a beautiful piece."

Lindsey nodded. "Thank you. It belonged to my grandmother. She gave it to me on her death bed."

Father Mark reached out hesitantly. "May I?" At Lindsey nod, he took the cross in his hands, examining it almost reverently. "Simple, yet elegant."

"Just like my grandmother," Lindsey whispered.

With an understanding smile, Father Mark dropped the cross and turned his attention to the small bundle in Lindsey's arms, which she lifted for him to see. "This is Elizabeth."

The baby, who had awakened sometime since leaving the car, turned her wide, blue eyes on the priest. Father Mark caressed his fingers along her chubby cheek. "A pretty child."

"Yes," Lindsey said, "and also a hungry child. We've been on the road all morning. She needs a diaper change, too."

"Oh, of course." Father Mark shook himself. "I'm being an awful host to keep you all outside the door. Please come in. I'll show you to the nursery. You can take care of Elizabeth there."

Methos followed behind his student as Father Mark led them through the now-familiar halls and into the bright, airy nursery. Several of the large windows were open, allowing a cool, welcome breeze to blow softly through the room. They stopped before an empty crib, one Methos couldn't remember seeing before.

"This will be Elizabeth's place," Father Mark said, "right by a window and next to Joseph, another of our immortal guests. The changing table is over there." He pointed. "Now, if you will excuse us, I have some paperwork Adam must help me with."

"Thank you, Father," Lindsey said politely. "This is very nice. I think Elizabeth will be happy here."

Father Mark smiled. "I truly hope so, child. Now, if you will excuse us?"

With one last concerned look at his student, Methos left the diaper bag near the door and followed Father Mark out of the nursery. She hadn't so much as looked at him since they'd left the car. She was merely upset at their conversation, he told himself. His answers weren't what she had wanted to hear, but soon she'd realize her sulking wouldn't change the truth of anything he'd said.

After entering the study, Methos took a chair opposite the oak desk as the priest began sorting through his piles of papers.

"I know I left the forms up here somewhere," Father Mark muttered. "Ah- HA. Here they are." He cleared some desk space before Methos and set down the small stack of papers. "I've already filled out most of it. You're down as Elizabeth's previous guardian, but I do need your address and signature at the bottom."

Methos looked up curiously. "Why..."

Father Mark shrugged. "Release forms, statements of health, that sort of thing. They're required by the government. You know, just a little more bureaucracy to make life difficult. I wouldn't even bother except all our paperwork must be in order to receive federal grants."

With a nod, Methos turned to the task of filling out the forms. He used their current address, for authenticity's sake; they wouldn't be staying there much longer, anyway. He signed the bottom and moved on to the next form.

"She's a strong-headed child, isn't she?" Father Mark asked quietly.

"Elizabeth?" Methos asked, shrugging. "I haven't known her enough to make that sort of judgment."

"No, Lindsey." Father Mark leaned forward over the desk. "She is very independent."

Methos looked up from the papers. "Yes, she is, which makes her bloody difficult to teach."

"But it's more than that. You care for her very much, don't you?" He waved his hand absently. "No, no, you don't have to answer that. I couldn't help but notice, though, that there's a tension between you and her. It's just my observation, Adam, and I might be wrong, but I think your student is about to leave home."

Methos nodded sadly. "I've seen it, as well. There was a time when she trusted me implicitly, believed everything I told her without question. Now, there are too many secrets between us. She asks too many questions I don't want to answer."

"We all have done things we regret."

Nothing compares to my past, Methos thought. Without answering, he returned his attention to the paperwork. He signed the bottom with a flourish. Adam Reynolds. Ph.D. candidate, university instructor, immortal teacher. None of that would matter without Lindsey, though. Adam Reynolds had come into existence because of her, and she defined this incarnation of the oldest immortal. Without her, Adam Reynolds would cease to have meaning.

A new life would emerge without her, though, as it always did. Methos would transform himself once again, taking on another facade like the chameleon he was. Life would go on without Lindsey, just it had continued without MacLeod and Joe. He would survive; he always did.

He handed the papers to Father Mark, who placed them in a manila folder and set them on his desk. "Your student has faith in you, Adam. Otherwise, she would not have brought Elizabeth here today, on your word. Believe in that faith, and tell her the truth."

Methos stood and smiled thinly. "Did you ever know an immortal named Darius?"

With a laugh, Father Mark answered, "He was my first teacher."

"Somehow, I'm not surprised," Methos said, amused. "Darius was the only immortal I've ever known who could read people so easily and know exactly what they had to hear."

Father Mark nodded. "He was a good man."

"He was the best of us."

"Yes. The best." Father Mark circled the desk and laid a hand on Methos' shoulder. "Come. Lindsey and Elizabeth are waiting for us."

With a nod, Methos followed the priest back toward the nursery. Perhaps, as Father Mark suggested, Lindsey would understand and forgive. Then again, she might walk away, and he'd never see her again.

For Methos, the decision weighed heavily. One wrong word, and he might regret the mistake for the next five-thousand years.

===============================

After depositing Elizabeth in her new crib, Lindsey discovered a small room adjacent to the nursery with a microwave and a refrigerator full of formula-filled baby bottles. Thankful for small blessings, she heated a bottle, tested the formula's temperature on her arm -- just as Alice had taught her -- and brought the bottle to the hungry baby.

She hoped the simple tasks off caring for Elizabeth would take her mind off her conversation with Adam. No, she corrected herself, that hadn't been Adam who'd upset her so much. Adam was cheerful and comforting. The immortal who had said survival mattered more than doing what's right, that had been Methos.

And Methos' words had sliced into her soul like a razor blade. She couldn't accept his philosophy: Better to live with guilt than die without sin. Such a life could offer little except hardship. Every day, living with unbearable regret -- it would be like living in a mental prison. Trapped. Forever.

Shaking herself from her dark thoughts, Lindsey concentrated on feeding Elizabeth. Even though the baby hadn't eaten since early morning, she began spitting out the bottle after only a few minutes, and Lindsey gave up. Perhaps the new surroundings were upsetting her, Lindsey thought distractedly. Or maybe she felt the other immortal children.

Intent to dispel some of Elizabeth's nervousness -- and some of her own, as well -- Lindsey lifted the baby to her shoulder and carried her to the nearest crib, belonging to one of the other immortals. Now what had Father Mark called him? Oh, yeah.

"Elizabeth," she said formally, "this is Joseph. He's your new neighbor. Do you want to say hello to Joseph? Hmm?" She looked to the other baby, laying calmly in his crib. "Joseph, this is ..."

Her voice trailed off as she met Joseph's eyes. He returned her gaze intently, hanging on her every word, his chubby face still and serious. But the eyes.

The eyes.

Oh, Lord, Lindsey thought. Those baby-blues ... they hold too much frustration, too much pain. This is no baby.

Lindsey stood frozen, mesmerized as she realized the horror that lay before her. This child would never mature, always remain trapped in a tiny, helpless physical prison. He'd never express his thoughts and emotions and always depend on others for survival. Did Joseph understand his fate, that he'd spend forever in his unchangeable hell?

How could anyone live like this? Surely these children must yearn for an end to their existence. This is tragic.

She swallowed hard. "Um, Joseph," she continued softly, uncertain how to proceed. "This is Elizabeth. She's ... she's just like you."

Her voice dropped to a whisper as she looked between them. Someday, Elizabeth would become like Joseph. If only I'd known before, she thought. If only I'd listened to Adam when he'd said she needed to die ...

Adam. He knew.

The revelation amazed her, and, for a moment, she forgot about the child in the crib below her and the child in her arms. "He knew," she whispered to herself, "and he didn't tell me. Why?"

"Because you wouldn't have believed me."

Lindsey spun around in alarm, only to see Adam leaning against the door frame, his arms folded across his chest.

She blushed embarrassedly. "I didn't feel you."

"You were distracted. Very dangerous." He straightened and walked toward her, his face expressionless. Lindsey knew his carefully hidden emotions bordered on anger or disappointment with her carelessness.

"Where's Father Mark?"

"I asked him to wait for us outside."

She nodded, and then the words began to rush out, almost unbidden. "Adam, I'm sorry I got distracted, I just -- I looked at Joseph, and I think I saw what you've known all along." She bit her lip. "How did you know?"

He eyes became cold and distant. "I've seen it before."

"When?"

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "A very long time ago." He paused, as thought uncertain what to say. "Lindsey, I know I hide my past from you; it's because I've done things you will never forgive. But if you ask the questions, I'll answer."

She caught her breath, eyes wide. She didn't know how to respond to this unexpected offer; Adam licked his lips nervously.

"I'll tell you the truth, if that's what you want," he continued. "You won't like the answers, and hearing about the man I was might make you leave. But if you promise to let me finish before saying a word, I'll tell you."

Lindsey nodded. "I promise, and I forgive you."

This time, Adam stared at her in disbelief. She smiled softly. "Adam, I don't know who you were, but it doesn't matter. I know who you are. You're my teacher and my best friend. I'll forgive you anything."

He caught his breath and nodded slowly. "Thank you," he whispered. "It's a long story, so I'll tell you on our way home. Say good-bye to the child, and we'll go."

She turned away to return Elizabeth to her crib, thankful for the opportunity to hide the relieved tears that hovered in her eyes. After months of questions with no answers, Adam finally was going to open up to her, trust her enough to share his past. She had been waiting for this gift since the day they had met.

She brushed her palm against the baby's cheek, let Elizabeth grab one of her fingers in a tight grip. "Bye, Elizabeth. I'll be back to visit you in a couple of days. Be a good girl for Father Mark, OK?"

The baby gurgled and smiled, waving Lindsey's finger back and forth in her fist. Lindsey regretfully reclaimed her hand, smoothed Elizabeth's hair and left the child behind, joining Adam at the nursery door. They left the building in silence, each lost in their own thoughts.

Father Mark met them at the car and shook Lindsey's hand before she opened the passenger-side door and settled inside. He was saying good-bye to Adam when Lindsey noticed a small, plastic object on the car floor.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "Elizabeth's pacifier." She grabbed it and stepped out of the car. "Adam, I have to give this to her. It's her favorite one. I'll be back in a second."

===============================

Methos and Father Mark watched as Lindsey, her brown hair flying behind her like a banner, ran to the front door.

"Did you tell her?" asked the priest as she disappeared inside.

Methos shook his head. "No, but I will." He sighed. "I've married widows before, who had children, sometimes very young children. I watched those kids grow to adulthood, knowing that I should not allow myself to love them because someday they would grow old and die, yet I would go on. But I can't help falling into the trap of feeling parental."

"It is an easy thing to do. If you've taught them all you can about survival, though, you've done your job well," Father Mark said. "Then it's time to let the children become adults and build their own lives."

Methos met the priest's sympathetic eyes. "It's very difficult to let go. It never gets any easier."

"It never will."

A loud noise made Methos look back up at the building in alarm. Lindsey had slammed open the door and was running toward the car, screaming. It took Methos a moment to make out her words.

"She's gone!" Lindsey yelled. "Elizabeth's gone, and so is Joseph!" She reached the other two immortals, out of breath. "All I found in Elizabeth's crib was this."

She held out her fingers and dropped a long strand of hair into Methos' outstretched palm. He held it up and let the sunlight glint off its unmistakable red hue.

"Alice," he muttered. "She must waited until we were out of sensory range and then come in through one of the open windows."

Lindsey's eyes narrowed. "I can't believe that bitch betrayed me like this."

Methos dropped the hair and looked to Father Mark. "Where would she take the children if she wanted to kill them? Some place close, secluded and off holy ground."

"There's an old barn east of here, just over that ridge," Father Mark said, pointing. "And there's a river about a quarter-mile north, back where the trees are."

Lindsey gasped. "The river. Adam, she's killed immortal children by rivers before. There was a little girl in town. I read about it in the newspaper."

"All right, then," Methos said. "Lindsey, you go north to the river. I'll take the barn. Father, you to stay on holy ground. Yell if you see anyone."

Without waiting to see whether the two immortals obeyed his orders, Methos took off at a sprint toward the barn. Alice would waste no time in killing the children, especially if she thought Methos or Lindsey might find the empty cribs and pursue her. He still believed Elizabeth probably was better off dead, but the baby's death would break Lindsey's heart. Methos wanted to prevent her pain at any cost.

He topped the ridge and saw the barn, not 200 yards away, nestled at the low point between two hills and surrounded by tall, dry grasses, rustling in the breeze. The barn itself looked as though it had been abandoned for decades -- the roof lacked about half its shingles, and gray paint peeled off its rotting wooden walls. Methos questioned whether the structure would survive the destructive power of a Quickening.

He didn't expect get an answer so soon. As he ran down the hill, lightning began to play around the roof, and the entire barn shook violently. Methos stopped abruptly and shielded his eyes from the blinding light. Please let that not be Elizabeth, he thought.

The Quickening ended quickly, just as Methos expected from the death of one so young. As he ran down the hill, he expected the second Quickening to begin. It didn't come, and Methos wrenched open the barn door and walked inside.

As he felt an immortal presence, he reached under his black duster and drew his broadsword, holding it carefully in both hands as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the dim, stuffy interior.

He scanned the barn, cluttered with old farm equipment blanketed in dust. Toward the center of the room, lying on a stout wooden table, was a small, squirming form. Methos breathed a relieved sigh as he recognized the baby's pink pajamas. Lindsey's cherished Elizabeth was still alive.

"Adam Reynolds," said a bland, female voice. "You are developing a nasty habit of getting in my way."

As Methos' eyes finished adjusting, he finally saw her. Alice, dressed all in black, her fiery hair flying around her head from the Quickening's electric charge, stood behind the table with a sword in hand. She stooped slightly and was breathing hard, but she showed no other signs of exhaustion from Joseph's death.

Methos snorted. "You seem to have developed some nasty habits of your own. Infanticide is a very unattractive trait."

Alice smiled thinly. "Do you know what is in store for these children? I do. They will spend their pointless little lives in completely helpless bodies. It would be like you or I trying to survive without our arms and legs. When I kill them, I do them a favor."

"All you see is an easy kill," Methos retorted. "But not this time. Give me the child."

"Not likely." Alice positioned it over Elizabeth's neck. "I let you have her, and I lose my only guarantee that I will keep my own head."

Methos smiled darkly, an expression empty of amusement. "Kill her," he said quietly, "and I will kill you."

"I do not fear you."

"Then you are a fool."

Alice shook her head. "I am no fool. Now, I am leaving, and I am taking Elizabeth with me. If you try to attack me or follow me, she will die. Do you understand?"

"You'll kill her anyway."

"Do you want to take that chance?"

Methos glanced at Elizabeth, who began to whimper beneath Alice's blade. Before he could reply, they both were distracted by another presence, and Methos heard footsteps crunch through the grass as the immortal approached. Then, the footsteps stopped. He didn't dare turn his eyes from Alice to see who had joined them.

"Kill her, Alice, and I swear I will kill you." Lindsey sounded outraged ... and close to tears.

Alice smiled. "I have already heard that threat once this afternoon. What neither of you seem to realize is that I hold the upper hand. Now, drop your weapons or the baby dies."

Without even blinking, his face devoid of emotion, Methos shrugged. "Kill her then. She means nothing to me."

Behind him, Lindsey let loose an angry, wordless yell. Alice's eyebrows knitted in confusion, and she glanced down at the baby. As her eyes turned from him, Methos calmly, quickly reached inside his coat, drew his gun and shot once, hitting Alice in her forehead. Without a sound, she dropped to the floor, and Elizabeth fell from her limp arm and landed hard.

"Oh, my God," Lindsey said, looking at Methos in shock.

Methos tucked the gun back in his coat and kicked Alice's sword out of reach. "Take Elizabeth and get out of here."

Lindsey silently complied, taking the unmoving baby into her arms and leaving the barn. As his student's presence faded, Methos saw the tiny electrical charges dance around Alice's fatal wound. The woman awoke a few minutes later, gasping for air.

"Welcome back," Methos said.

Alice glanced at him suspiciously as she pulled herself up to her knees. "Why did you not kill me while I was dead? Some overgrown sense of honor?"

Methos set his sword against her neck. "I want you to enjoy your last moments, just as your infant victims did. I want you to know you are about to die and not be able to do anything to prevent your fate." He barely suppressed his rage and his instinct to take her head now. "You disgust me," he spat. "You don't give these children the choice to live or die."

"So what now?" Alice asked. "You kill me in cold blood after you shoot me? That is not a fair fight."

Methos shrugged. "Who said I play fair?"

With one strong stroke, he severed her head.

He lowered his sword as Alice's body dropped. Then, in the moment of silence before the Quickening, as the world seemed to wait in anticipation for the transfer of power, an earsplitting cry came from the fields outside the barn -- a tortured, primal sound of absolute loss. Before Methos could wonder what had produced such a cry, though, the Quickening hit, driving him to his knees.

The electricity shot through him, bringing with it memories of a short life, lived in terror of death. He saw through Alice's eyes, working as a nurse through two world wars, caring for soldiers -- sometimes immortal -- who had lost limbs and suffered horrible wounds. They begged her to take their lives, and she did. He saw her after the war, working in civilian hospitals, trying to explain to elderly people or young children that they had died but had come back and now had to fight or die forever. He saw Alice, after a while, killing immortals without explaining their new existence to them, to save herself the pain of watching them cry.

The memories faded, settling into his subconsciousness, and Methos found himself kneeling on the barn floor while displaced roof shingles fell all around him. The barn creaked on its foundation, and he pulled himself to his feet, using his sword as a crutch as he struggled to leave the unsteady structure.

The memories had been more potent than usual. He understood how Alice had become a murderer of the helpless. It had started as mercy killings at the tearful requests of immortals, but soon she had crossed the line into taking heads without asking first. Alice Young had lived a misguided life.

As Methos blinked at the sunlight and caught his breath, he heard sobbing not far away, hidden somewhere in the tall grass. He stumbled forward, toward the sad sound, and felt an immortal signature only moments before he saw Lindsey sitting cross-legged in the grass. She had buried her face in her hands, and before lay her bloody sword and a small, headless bundle.

Methos dropped beside her, his eyes wide and mouth moving but producing no sound. He couldn't take his eyes off the fuzzy pink pajamas, splattered with red.

Lindsey sniffled and looked up at him with red eyes. "I had to," she whispered. "Sometimes death is a mercy."

"What?" he managed to choke out.

"That's what Grandmother ... said before she died," Lindsey said hoarsely between her sobs. "Sometimes death is a mercy. I saw what had happened to Joseph, the pain of his immortality, and I couldn't condemn Elizabeth to the same torture. I couldn't do it. I had ... I had to give her peace."

Lindsey leaned back her head and screamed from her pain and loss, a sound so primal that Methos realized what he'd heard right before his own Quickening had hit. He had heard Lindsey's sorrow at taking Elizabeth's head.

He sat silent, unsure what to say or do. He wrapped his arms around her, and Lindsey buried her wet face in his shoulder. She trembled violently against him.

"The Quickening was so small, Adam," she sobbed. "Oh, God, what sort of monster am I becoming?"

"We are all monsters in our own way," Methos said quietly. "But you are different. You have more compassion than anyone I have ever known, and you killed from compassion." Then, remembering Alice, he added, "But remember there is a thin line between mercy and murder. Take care you do not cross it."

Lindsey did not answer, instead crying against Methos' shoulder. He looked down at the headless corpse of the baby, and tears began to run down his own cheeks. These children never would find their happy endings.

After several minutes, Lindsey's body ceased its trembling and she lifted her head from his shoulder, revealing her pale face and red-rimmed eyes. She looked at Elizabeth and gingerly placed her palm on the still stomach.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to the child.

Methos squeezed her shoulder. "Let's go get Father Mark, bury both the children and go home. Then we can leave here, go anywhere you want. Greece, Egypt, you name the place and we'll go."

Lindsey slumped forward, and she looked forward at nothing. Methos grieved that her usually bright brown eyes had dulled into an emotionless expression.

"I can't do that, Methos." She shook her head sadly. "I can't go with you."

Methos frowned. "Why not?"

"I ... I'm no use to anyone like this, uncertain whether to kill or whether to die. I'd be a liability to you." She looked up at him, more unshed tears hovering in her eyes. "I have to find my own way to live with this guilt, and I don't think I can find what I'm looking for if I stay with you."

He caught his breath and held back the pain that suddenly threatened to overwhelm him. "Then where will you go?" he asked hoarsely.

She wiped at her eyes. "I'll stay here, for a while at least, and help Father Mark with his children's home. Maybe he can help me. The absolution of guilt is his specialty, right?"

Methos nodded as a tear escaped from his eye. "Father Mark is a good man."

"Yes, he is." Lindsey reached up with her fingertips and brushed Methos' wet cheek. "I'm sorry I couldn't be stronger," she whispered. "I'm sorry I wasn't the student you wanted me to be."

Methos took her hand in his and kissed it softly. "Your strength is your heart, and it's brought light into my life. You're all I ever hoped for in a student."

She stood unsteadily, wiping away the last of her tears against her sleeve. "Thank you," she said, her voice cracking. "Visit me?"

Methos nodded. "Yeah," he said softly.

Hand in hand, Methos and Lindsey slowly, silently walked back toward the car, where Father Mark waited for them. To Methos, it felt like an ending to a short but bright part of his life. He felt turmoil in his tired soul, and he hoped more of their story had yet to be written.

===============================

Light surrounded her. Although she knew not the name of this heavenly glow, she distinguished it from the darkness of her previous existence. No pain here. No cold or hunger, the aching pain that had defined much of her short life.

She gurgled happily as she basked in the love around her; it seemed to permeate her very being and bring her peace. Here was security. Here was comfort.

The child known as Elizabeth had finally come home.

the end

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