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A Life in Progress by Jennifer Campbell I do not own the characters of Methos, Duncan MacLeod or Joe Dawson and have no affiliation with the show "Highlander: The Series." The characters of Lindsey Allen and Seth LaMar 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. I don't make any money off this, unfortunately. OK, big breath. I have so many people to thank: my mom, Carolyn, and Katie-did for their suggestions on plot; Kady Mae for helping me focus Lindsey's character development; and especially my betas, Farquarson, Dana, Michael and Molly, who caught my mistakes and helped me write a better story. They made my first beta experience an (almost) painless one. This story is the third in a cycle. The previous two are: Life is all about change and The Hitchhiker. But this story stands on its own. Rating: PG-13 for beheadings and mild torture. =============================== part 1 The letter came in a small, plain envelope with no return address, only the name of a town: Montagne, France. It lay atop a pile of colorful advertisements and holiday catalogues that begged for attention, but Joe Dawson learned long ago that life's most important events often come in small, plain packages. He opened the envelope, careful not to rip through the sloppy writing sprawled across its back, and pulled out the letter. It filled only one page, and in place of a signature at the bottom was an initial: "M." Methos. Only the oldest immortal would send such a mysterious note. Joe quickly scanned the letter and returned to the top for a closer look. Joe, Joe reread the letter and shook his head in disbelief. He never would have pegged the careful, secretive immortal as the type to take a student. Methos wrapped himself in his anonymity like a favorite blanket, but Lindsey would force him to enter the Game until she could protect herself. Every time Joe thought he had Methos figured out, the old man displayed another facet of his incredibly complex personality. Wonders never ceased. Joe refolded the letter and tucked it into the envelope, wondering what he should do with the damn thing. He briefly considered burning it, but that would contradict the role Methos had assigned to him, as unofficial Watcher. The label seemed rather funny, especially because Joe no longer belonged to the organization. He unconsciously rubbed one hand over his still-tender wrist, where the tattoo once lay, and pushed thoughts of self-pity to the back of his mind. No sense in feeling sorry for himself. He stuffed the envelope under the bar, reminding himself to move it into the safe when time was more convenient. As he straightened and turned to the more mundane pile of bills and advertisements, the front door opened with a soft click. It was too early for customers, so Joe immediately went on guard. He watched as a tall, heavy-set man entered, not bothering to shut the door behind him. Joe knew him as Roger Darrow, one of the Watcher's top guys -- and he must have more pressing business than paying courtesy calls to ex-members. Joe burned with curiosity but maintained his silence as Roger approached and ungracefully plopped himself onto a stool. Darrow lit a cigarette and nodded. "Joe. How's it going?" The greeting was more chummy than Joe expected, considering what had happened, but he figured he could play along. "This is a surprise, Roger," he said in as friendly a manner as he could manage. "What brings you here?" "Would you believe that I happened to be in town and wanted to drop by for a chat?" Darrow smiled coolly, and shivers crawled up Joe's spine. He abandoned the friendly pretenses. "Come on, Rog, don't give me that crap. I mean, you were the one who got me kicked out." "That, Joseph, is not fair," Darrow replied, raising his eyebrows in mock innocence. He flicked cigarette ashes onto the bartop. "It was a decision of the whole leadership council. My vote made no difference one way or the other." "Yeah, right," Joe muttered as he wiped the mess off the counter and set an ashtray next to Darrow. He couldn't bring himself to meet the man's eyes. Darrow sighed. "We all knew you were hiding him from us, Joe. You knew who Adam Pierson was, and you kept it to yourself. If one of our field agents hadn't stumbled across his fight with Theodore last spring, we might never have known." He paused to puff at his cigarette. "What else could we do?" "You could have at least let me had a say before passing judgment. Adam was my friend, yeah, but he wasn't in the habit of telling his friends that he was immortal. It's not like he walked in one day, said 'Hey, Joe. Guess what, I'm Methos' and then told me I couldn't tell anyone." "This is getting nowhere, Joe," Darrow said. "The reason I'm here is to ask if you've heard from him, from Methos." Joe snorted in disgust. The Watchers must be pretty damn desperate to come to him for help after what they'd pulled. Still, the situation begged Joe to have a some fun. He realized that he could play this little scenario to his advantage and give Darrow a taste of his own bitter medicine. He smiled evilly and leaned across the bar. "Well, now, maybe I have and maybe I haven't. But it doesn't concern you one way or the other because I'm not a Watcher. I have no obligation to tell you anything." "That's right, you don't. But what if you were a Watcher again?" Joe's smile faded as the words sunk in. The Watchers wanted him back. He figured the offer *should* surprise him, but he had expected something like this would happen. The organization had a hard time replacing its veteran members, and, generally, quality of work dropped through the floor. A few weeks ago, he might have even accepted the offer, but no longer. The Watchers' poisonous rejection had done its work too well, and Joe felt mostly revulsion for the organization to which he so recently had devoted his life. Hiding in shadows, holding secret meetings -- it seemed unimportant now. When he thought of the Watchers, the word "they" came easier to the lips than "we." The offer was too little, too late. "Not interested," he answered. "Now, think for a moment before you decide, Joe. I'm talking about letting you back into the organization." Darrow smiled as he smothered his cigarette butt in the ashtray. "I have the authority to do that ... if you tell us where Methos is." "No deal, Rog," Joe said. "Even if I knew where he was, I don't want back in. Not any more." Darrow's eyes narrowed dangerously, but he quickly hid the anger, stood and smoothed his pants. "Well, Joe," he said casually, "if you change your mind, give me a call." "Yeah, whatever," Joe mumbled, and Roger Darrow walked out. As he began pulling chairs off tables in preparation for opening, Joe mused about when the Watchers had lost track of Methos. The old man probably had ditched them right after the accident. Adam would have good reason to disappear, not wanting to put his student in danger. Methos' student. The words sounded strange. Joe tried saying them aloud, but they felt no more believable. Very strange, indeed. The first customer of the day entered, interrupting Joe's thoughts. He set immortal business to the back of his mind as he smiled in greeting. He had plenty of time to worry about Methos later. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't dislodge the damn mess from his head. All day it bounced around in his mind: the letter, Darrow's hair-brained offer, Methos' student. The urge to share with someone grew stronger the more he thought about it until his impatience reached an almost intolerable level. So when MacLeod sauntered into the bar toward closing time, Joe sighed in relief. All he could do was give his friend a quick nod and a beer before hurrying off to wait on other customers. He didn't find a chance to talk to the immortal until after he'd locked the front doors for the night and collapsed into a chair across from Mac, who was sulking over his drink. "Quite a busy night, huh, MacLeod?" he said conversationally. He popped the top off a beer bottle, took a long swig and glanced at Mac, who seemed lost in a trance. "Mac? Hey, earth to Mac?" MacLeod started from his rapt contemplation of his drink and smiled half-heartedly. "Sorry, Joe, what was that?" Joe looked hard at his friend and prepared to play counselor. When something bothered MacLeod, he sure didn't hide it well. "What's up, Mac? You look like you just left a funeral." "I took a Quickening this morning." "Who?" Mac shrugged. "Don't know. It was some kid who didn't need to die." He paused and met Joe's concerned gaze. "He was hunting for Methos, Joe. When I told him to go look somewhere else, he attacked me because he thought I'd make good bait." Joe whistled softly under his breath. He knew this attack wasn't the first. Since Methos' vanishing act, immortals and Watchers alike hadn't a clue where to start hunting, so they came to Seacouver. Hunters knew Joe and Mac were friends of the man calling himself Adam Pierson, so, they thought, the pair must know where the oldest immortal was hiding. And if the Watchers were pushing Joe for information, he knew Mac felt more pressure. The Highlander even had taken back his sword, a necessity with the number of hostile immortals wandering Seacouver these days. Methos surely couldn't have foreseen this side effect, but, then again, maybe he had and just didn't care enough to act. No, that couldn't be true. Adam had abandoned his friends to protect them from the coming storm, not to draw them into the hurricane's fury. Joe sipped from his beer and stared at the table. He felt as though the relative calm of his life was about to get blown to shreds. "Joe," Mac said, "I need to find him." Joe shook his head. "Not a good idea, Mac." "He's put my life in danger; he's put *your* life in danger. He has no right to do that." "And if you find him, you blow his cover. Then you put his head on the line." "You know me better than that, Joe. I can lose anyone who might trail me." He sipped his drink and leaned back in his chair. "Besides, maybe it's time for Methos to start playing by the rules, just like the rest of us." Mac's casual answer didn't satisfy Joe. He knew the immortal had a more important reason for finding Methos than to force the old man back into the Game, which wasn't really a reason at all. Mac had passed up plenty of opportunities to do just that during the past few years. There was more to this newest obsession than petty revenge. "Why do you want to find him?" Joe asked. MacLeod absently ran one finger around the rim of his glass. "The kid that attacked me this morning ... I had no problem with him. But what happens when the good fighters start coming? What happens when another Kronos comes for my head because he can't find Methos?" "You beat Kronos." Mac closed his eyes in irritation. "I know that. I was there, remember?" He paused. "All right, then. What if some immortal comes after you, Joe, thinking you'd be good bait? Can you honestly say that Methos would want you to die so he can stay in hiding?" Joe's retort halted on his lips. He briefly wondered what he did mean to Methos. The oldest immortal had watched hundreds of friends die, and one more probably wouldn't make a difference. Methos would simply push aside his grief and file Joe away with the others. To save his head, would Methos sacrifice those he cared about? Maybe. Joe couldn't immediately dismiss the idea because Methos had survived by doing just that: using those he called friends. But Methos also was capable of great altruism, despite his carefully molded mask of indifference. Mac had once described how Methos had offered his head so MacLeod could beat Kalas. The old man had shocked Joe when he had revealed his immortality to Christine Salzer, trying to stop her from disclosing the Watchers' secrets. And only a few months ago, after the fateful night when the had Watchers discovered his true identity, Methos had left Seacouver because he knew his presence put his friends in danger. Now, Methos had displayed his humanity once again because he hadn't vanished to save himself. Lindsey was the one who needed protection, and anonymity was her best chance to survive her first vulnerable weeks as an immortal. Mac would blow her cover as well if he found Methos. The Highlander was alone on this one. Joe took a big gulp of beer to steady his resolve. "I think Adam has good reason for hiding, and he'll come out when he's ready." MacLeod muttered under his breath, and all Joe could make out was "stubborn" and "martyr." Then he spoke aloud. "So you don't know where he is?" "Nope." MacLeod glared at Joe for several seconds, but Joe concentrated on his beer. He wished that Mac, for once, would accept "no" as an answer and let it go. The moment finally ended as MacLeod finished his drink and stood. "See you around, Joe," he said blandly. "See ya, Mac," Joe replied, not turning to watch the Highlander leave. It hurt to lie to his friend, but it would hurt more to betray Methos, who had trusted him enough to set his precious secret in Joe's hands. The old man sure had a talent for screwing with a guy's ethical obligations. "Bastard," Joe muttered as he took another drink. =============================== Four hundred years had taught Duncan MacLeod how to control his anger - - not that he ever had suffered from a quick temper. Throughout his young life, sadness was a more familiar emotion. When he killed his cousin, when Debra slipped through his fingers and off the cliff, when his father rejected him -- those memories were colored by remorse and helplessness, not anger. Joe Dawson, too, possessed some strange talent for making MacLeod feel helpless, but in Joe's case, the emotion tended to transform into irrational anger. Mac was angry that Joe was aging, and he was angry that after a few decades, the mortal would die. More often, though, his temper appeared for logical reasons, such as when Joe took their friendship for granted and held out on him. Joe knew where Methos was, and he'd chosen to lie rather than reveal the location. He believed MacLeod would hurt Methos with his presence, and that thought alone pushed Mac's temper to the forefront. He had to somehow convince Joe that finding Methos was for the best. Mac pulled his Thunderbird in behind the old church he'd only recently finished renovating into a livable cabin. The job had proven difficult without Theodore's expert knowledge of architecture, but his friend had been foolish enough to challenge Methos, leaving MacLeod no choice but to press on alone. At least he'd completed the project, creating a residence on holy ground that was more accessible than the island. Mac admired his handiwork as he stepped out into the moonless night, but then an immortal presence hit him like a bulldozer. He drew his sword. The strength of the signature ruled out almost everyone Mac thought might drop by -- except Methos. But this presence felt ... evil, not at all like the old man's distinctive buzz. The front door stood slightly ajar, revealing nothing of the darkened interior. He slowly pushed the door open with his foot and winced as it creaked softly. He stepped forward. The faint sound of someone shifting his weight behind Mac warned the Highlander, and he swung his sword around behind his neck. Blades clashed, and MacLeod backed away, turning to face his shadowy opponent. "Not very sporting, to kill a man from behind," he growled. "And on holy ground." "Holy ground?" asked a deep voice, identifying Mac's attacker as a man. "Yeah," MacLeod said. "Did you happen to miss the fact that you're standing in a church?" "It's a little dark in here. That makes it difficult to notice much of anything," the man replied, with a hint of amusement coloring his voice. The lights flashed on, momentarily blinding Mac. He blinked a couple of times and got a better look at his opponent, who already had sheathed his sword. The immortal's attitude radiated arrogance -- an ego too big to fit comfortably in his wiry body. His cool smile failed to disguise the malicious glint in his eyes. "You're not Methos," the man said. Mac inwardly groaned. Another damned Methos hunter. These guys really put a crimp in one's lifestyle. "I'm Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod, and this is my house." He pointed his blade at the man. "You are?" "Seth LaMar." The man extended his hand for a shake, which Mac pointedly ignored. "I, uh, had heard that Methos often stayed with you when he came to town. I thought I might get lucky." "Well, today's not your lucky day," Mac answered. "What do you want with Methos?" LaMar laughed. "Why, to kill him, of course. You can't tell me the thought never crossed your mind. All that power ... it's too much to resist." He slowly crossed the room, his eyes never leaving MacLeod's sword, and stretched out comfortably on Methos' favorite couch. Mac suppressed a violent surge of anger. "I've been hunting Methos for 250 years. At first, it was like chasing a myth, like moonlight that slips through your fingers. But now, well, the myth has solidified. And he's mine." "He's not here, and I don't know where he is. Now get out of my house." "Tut, tut, MacLeod. Such discourtesy." Mac advanced on LaMar, and the immortal jumped to his feet, his hands raised in warning. "Holy ground, MacLeod. "We can take it outside," Mac growled softly, dangerously. Fear flickered across LaMar's eyes as he realized he'd pushed MacLeod too far. Then the cool smile returned, not so calm as before. He smoothed his coat and strode quickly toward the door. "No need for that, MacLeod. I'll leave." He stopped at the door and looked back. "Nice cabin. If you ever put it up for sale, give me a call." "Get out." LaMar's presence faded, and Mac finally set down his sword and flexed his cramped hands. Despite this guy's back-stabbing style, he was strong; strong meant dangerous. Mac had no doubt that he could kill LaMar, but that wasn't the point. He'd had his fill of protecting Methos. Mac remembered the day they had met, when Methos had said MacLeod could not fight his battles for him. But now MacLeod was fighting all of them. Enough! Joe would tell him where Methos was hiding, or MacLeod would squeeze it out of him -- in the morning. The hour was too late to do anything tonight. MacLeod lay in bed for a while, but he only stared at the ceiling. The encounter with LaMar had fueled his anxiety, and he felt as though another attack might come at any moment. In an attempt to calm his nerves, he prepared a glass of hot milk and grabbed a book off the shelf. But he turned the pages without seeing the words, and his milk slowly cooled on the table beside him, untouched. He had more success with a long session of yoga, letting his mind drain of thought. Finally, sore, sweaty and tired, he crawled back into bed and fell into a fitful sleep. =============================== As MacLeod pulled up behind Joe's Bar early the next morning, nothing seemed out of place, but Mac couldn't shake his disquiet. Following his instincts and some sixth sense, he drew his sword and ran toward the back door. The lock was broken. "Joe," Mac yelled as he pushed passed the door and ran inside. His eyes adjusted slowly to the darkness, and all he could distinguish was a motionless lump on the barroom floor. He almost thought he'd jumped back in time to Paris, to Shakespeare & Co., to find Don Salzer bleeding his life out among his books. Mac ran forward and dropped beside the lump. "Jesus! Joe!" He laid one hand on Joe's shoulder. The mortal stirred, and MacLeod heard a muffled groan. He quickly assessed the scene: His friend bled from dozens of small, razor-sharp cuts, he was gagged and tied, and his legs had been tossed carelessly across the room and lay just below the stage. Mac dropped his sword and quickly untied the gag. Joe gasped in pain. "MacLeod," he murmured. "I'm here, Joe," he answered as he started on the knots pinning Joe's arms behind him. "What happened?" "An immortal was here, Seth LaMar. He broke in a couple hours after you left. He was looking for Methos." Mac slid the ropes off Joe's raw, red wrists, and Joe yelled as blood returned to his numb fingers. "You have to help him, Mac," he said weakly. Damn LaMar, and damn himself, too, for letting the bastard go. "Joe, what are you talking about? Help who?" "LaMar wanted to know where Methos was, but I wouldn't tell him, so he tied me up and started ... cutting me. I passed out, and when I came to, he was reading the letter." While Joe talked, MacLeod searched under the bar for clean towels. He looked up at Joe's last comment. "Letter?" "The letter from Methos. LaMar's probably already on his way there. The town is called Montagne, and it's somewhere in eastern France. You have to get there before LaMar and warn Methos. You have to go now." Joe struggled to sit, but MacLeod gently, firmly pushed him back down. He snorted as he grabbed a towel and began dabbing the blood. "Methos can take care of himself. Right now I'm more worried about you." "Mac," Joe whispered hoarsely, "call an ambulance, and I'll be fine. LaMar will kill Methos ... and Methos' student." "Methos has a student?" How much stupidity could the old man show? First he was sloppy enough to let a Watcher record his fight with Theodore, and then he took a student when he knew he had hunters on his trail. Mac absently pressed too hard against Joe's mangled skin, and Joe cried out softly, snapping MacLeod back to the present. "Yeah," Joe replied. "And he says he thinks of her as a daughter. I think if LaMar went after her like he came after me, Methos would give his head to save her." Goosebumps chilled MacLeod's arms as he thought about the prospect. He had never been tortured, but he'd heard stories. The pain faded much slower than the actual wounds, and it could go on for weeks without respite, without even the escape of death. Mac shuddered, and he worried for Methos ... and for his student. But Joe needed him more. He shook his head. "I can't leave you, Joe. Not like this." "Mac, please." The plaintive tone of Joe's voice struck a chord. "You have to help them. I'll be here when you get back. I promise." Joe's gaze remained steady and serious, despite his pain, and MacLeod felt humbled by his friend's selfless determination. He finished wiping away the blood and set the towel on the floor. "All right," he answered quietly. Mac located a telephone behind the bar and dialed 911, reporting a break-in to the operator. He collected Joe's legs from the stage and set them beside his friend. A couple minutes later, he heard sirens. The police would delay him with questions, but he couldn't bring himself to leave Joe's side. Joe stirred, laying his hand over Mac's. "Get out of here, Mac. I'll be fine." MacLeod met Joe's determined gaze, nodded and squeezed his friend's
hand once. He snuck out the back door, and, in all the commotion, no one
noticed him drive away. He allowed himself a detour to his cabin, where he
quickly packed a bag, and then drove to the airport. He would warn Methos,
save his student, whatever was necessary. But mostly, he just wanted
LaMar's head on a plate -- for Joe and for himself.
End of part 1 =============================== part 2 Why did the damn sword have to weigh so much? Lindsey wanted to reach up and wipe the sweat from her forehead before it dripped into her eyes, but she knew if she let go of the hilt with one hand, her other hand would betray her and she would drop the weapon. Adam had assured her that her blade was relatively light, and she had believed him once she tried to fight with his Ivanhoe, but swordmakers surely could find some way to make the weapons manageable for normal people. As Lindsey blinked furiously to clear her eyes, Adam advanced without warning. Several weeks of training were all that saved her from the indignity of once again finding herself disarmed. Her sword met Adam's with a dull clank, and he smoothly shifted into his attack, forcing Lindsey to fight desperately on the defensive. He fainted and ducked under her guard, slashing across her shoulder. The wound stung as large drops of sweat slid down her neck and collarbone, but she ground her teeth and ignored the pain. She now was able to delay the moment when he drew first blood, sometimes for several minutes, but the moment inevitably came. He would throw an unfamiliar sequence of moves at her, and she would fumble through an ineffective defense. She muttered a couple of choice curses; she wanted to wipe the confident smile off his face. Adam pulled back with his sword still raised, his intense, dark eyes never wavering. Part of Lindsey realized that he was inviting her into a trap, daring her to attack. But if she could slide under his guard for just one second ... She took a deep breath and advanced, and he neatly disarmed her with one flick of his wrists. Lindsey watched helplessly as her sword dropped to the ground. Adam pressed the tip of his blade lightly against her neck. "Damn it," she muttered as he pressed harder, forcing her to back away. She bumped into a tree, and Adam pinned her there, sliding the edge of his blade slowly across her throat, moving closer until she could feel his breath on her face. "OK," she said, "you've made your point." "Have I?" he asked quietly. His breath came heavily, and his wide eyes glowed dangerously. "I don't think so because you keep making the same mistake." The blade was so close ... so close to pressing too hard. "What?" she asked. "You let your anger control your actions. If you had been thinking clearly, you would not have pressed into such a sloppy attack." She trembled and gulped, knowing her teacher was correct. The anger came unbidden, though. Lindsey expected to excel in anything she tried because she always had, but swordfighting baffled her. Adam fought more skillfully than she, but Lindsey got so frustrated when she couldn't even touch him. After two months, she should sometimes get the better of him. She realized ruefully that patience also was not one of her stronger virtues. Adam lifted the blade, and she let loose an explosive sigh. He bent to retrieve a towel from the ground, wiped her blood off his sword and threw the towel unceremoniously at Lindsey. She caught it and rubbed an unsoiled section across her forehead. It came away damp. This was the part of the lesson when Adam would point out her mistakes and demonstrate the moves he'd used to defeat her, but Lindsey already knew where she'd gone wrong. Her impatient desire for perfection would get her killed if she weren't more careful. She was frustrated by her frustration -- a laughable situation -- and the last thing she needed was Adam pointing out all her other fallacies. Lindsey dropped the towel, grabbed the T-shirt she had discarded earlier in favor of just her sports bra, and walked toward the cabin without a word. She ached for a hot shower to clean the blood away. But there wasn't a shower powerful enough to wash away her failures. So very frustrating. The smell of frying onions greeted her senses when she emerged from the bathroom half an hour later, more calm and less sweaty. She watched Adam poke around the kitchen as he prepared dinner, his sweater sleeves pushed up to his elbows. He moved with an unconscious grace that Lindsey dispaired of ever developing. When he fought, he moved through a dance, and she stepped on his toes. But it was a dance of death that he taught her. Lindsey shivered as she remembered the darkness in his eyes as he had held the sword to her neck. That man was not Adam but an immortal who brushed the edge of insanity. He radiated power, rage and indifference to life. The Other Man scared her, not because she feared he might hurt her but because he was someone Adam had chosen not to share with her. Where the darkness came from, she did not know. She stood frozen at the bathroom door, almost dreading the moment when Adam -- or the Other Man? -- would notice her. He pulled some vegetables from the refrigerator and slowly turned, meeting her eyes. Then he granted her an open, gentle smile. She relaxed and walked to the kitchen. "I, uh, made you some coffee," he said, handing her a large mug. "Thought you might need it." "Thanks," she answered. Lindsey took the mug, sat at the small kitchen table and began to replay their afternoon fight in her mind. If Adam were the standard to which she had to measure her survival, well, she was in trouble. She wondered if immortals went to heaven, or if they had their own place in eternity. Or even if there was something after death. Maybe, after her energy -- her soul -- sunk into her opponent, her awareness would become trapped in an enemy's body for all time. Gods, what a horrendous thought. A soft touch on her shoulder brought her back to reality. Adam sat at the other side of the table with a beer in hand. "You will get better," he said. "It just takes time and practice." "Time is something I don't have," she murmured. Adam chuckled. "Lindsey, time is the one thing you have in abundance. There are other things in life besides fighting to the death, and if you live in fear, you will miss them all." Lindsey's mind began to wander again, but Adam leaned across the table and commanded her attention. "On the night we met, you showed so much passion for life. It's one of the reasons I agreed to become your teacher. I still see that passion hiding somewhere inside you, but you have to let it out. Immortality is a great gift. Accept it; embrace it. Don't fear it." Life is more than merely surviving. That had been one of Grandmother's favorite sayings, and one that Lindsey had not thought of since before her first death. Only a few weeks ago, life had meant going to classes and soaking up history like a sponge; life had been driven by dreams of archaeological digs in exotic lands, where she saw herself revelling in the sweet scent of ancient greatness that swirled with the wind. The dream was not gone but buried, forgotten, set aside for the more practical occupation of staying alive. Perhaps Adam was right. The sword could protect her life, but it was not, in itself, her life. Her skill would improve ... with time. But in the interim, Lindsey could do so much more. She smiled at Adam, who had leaned back and was watching her closely. "Thank you," she said. He nodded, stood and returned to the stove to finish dinner. Lindsey sipped her coffee and winced when the lukewarm liquid hit her stomach. She dumped the remains into the kitchen sink and returned to the bathroom to dry her hair, Adam's words still echoing through her mind. A life in progress: That's where she was at and where she would stay until the day she died. =============================== Methos sensed rather than watched his student approach the kitchen, dump her coffee and return to the bathroom. He marveled that he could present his back to her without fear; such an immortal was a rare discovery. Whether his surety in Lindsey stemmed from her inexperience or her innocence to treachery he didn't know -- but whichever quality inspired his trust, it would prove her downfall if she weren't careful. Fear, however, was not a problem. As far as he knew, Lindsey felt no fear -- only determination and anger at herself. He'd tried to give her a taste of facing a true enemy during their fights, when he dropped all pretenses as Adam Pierson and became, in her eyes, Death. The transition confused her, but she thankfully did not let it disarm her. The only person who could disarm Lindsey Allen was Lindsey Allen, when her anger caused her to think with her emotions and not her head. If Methos could help her forget her self-consciousness and frustration, she had the instincts to become an awesome fighter. She had to break through her block soon, though, because every day they remained in his cabin outside of Montagne created another opportunity for his enemies to find him. Already, the townspeople whispered among themselves of the foreigners living in the haunted forest, where strange clashing sounds echoed in the late afternoon. They called it thunder without a storm or restless ghosts howling for release from their chains, but immortals and Watchers would filter the truth from the tales. Problem was, it wasn't concern for his own head that kept him awake at night, listening to Lindsey snore in the next room. At various times in his checkered past, Methos had found himself falling helplessly into a parental role, but never before had he felt fatherly toward an immortal. When he'd met Lindsey on that fateful night not so long ago, Methos knew he already had sunk into such a deep depression that he had left himself vulnerable; he hadn't bothered to lock the doors to his soul, and sweet, innocent Lindsey had sauntered right in. She made him feel needed. She made him feel human. He didn't want to give that up. Lindsey brought out his sentimental side, though, which acted against his instinct to stay alive. It was the human Methos who had written Joe the letter, complete with a plea that MacLeod never read the words. When he'd mailed the letter, he had felt ... relief. Perhaps Lindsey's laments that she had not spent enough time with her grandmother reminded Methos of his own friend's mortality. The survivor in him, however, laughed at the need for Joe's forgiveness. He'd yet to make amends for hundreds of crimes against humanity, so why should this pathetic concern trouble him at all? Of course Joe would share the letter with the Highlander, and only Armageddon might stop MacLeod from tracking Methos to this tiny mountain town. And with MacLeod came the world. Methos might as well paint a huge target on the cabin roof and scream out: "Here I am! Come and get me!" He could not change the past, though, so he had better deal with the consequences. That meant vanishing as soon as possible, but Lindsey wasn't ready. "Bloody hell. What a mess," he muttered. "What was that?" A pair of wide brown eyes met his startled expression. Lindsey had moved so silently that he hadn't noticed her approach until she almost stood on top of him. She sniffed and wrinkled her nose. "You burned dinner again, didn't you?" she asked. He looked to the burner and found his intended culinary masterpiece smoking and shriveling into unrecognizable lumps of black goo. Oh, bloody hell, he thought. He pulled the pan off the burner and glanced guiltily at Lindsey. She granted him a quirky half-smile and shrugged. "It's OK," she said. "I wasn't really hungry anyway." She pivoted and walked to the back of the cabin and her bedroom. Methos sighed. It was too easy to feel parental toward that girl. Too bloody easy. =============================== Methos took comfort in the weekly routine of shopping for supplies, a constant ritual in an inconstant world. He visited the butcher, the small farmers' market and the general store. As his last stop, he pulled his truck up beside the tavern, where the bartender would share the town gossip and Methos would buy enough beer to last the next week. After securing his purchases in the truck, Methos yanked open the door to the mostly empty tavern, and it creaked on rusty hinges. He crossed to the bar and sat, waiting for Jacque to finish with a customer and come over to greet him. In many ways, Jacque reminded Methos of another bartender, half a world away. Joe and Jacque looked nothing alike -- while Joe was rugged and heavily built, Jacque reminded Methos somewhat of a scarecrow. Their congenial manners were similar, though, and the immortal felt at ease with the Frenchman. "Bonjour, Monsieur Reynolds!" the bartender said as he approached. "Ca va?" "Bien," Methos answered. "Et tu?" "Bien, merci." Jacque wiped the counter and filled a large mug with a beautifully colored beer. "On the house, mon ami." "Merci." Methos sipped from the mug and closed his eyes, savoring the rich flavor. Nothing in all the world was so grand as a well-brewed beer. "There was a guy in here looking for you earlier today, Adam." Methos' mouth went dry. "Who?" Jacque shrugged. "Je ne sais pas. Really tall guy with lots of muscles and long hair. He said he was your friend, and he described you perfectly." Methos' eyes narrowed, and one hand clenched involuntarily into a fist. The Highlander had arrived sooner than expected; he would call an end to Methos' time-out, pull him back into the Game without asking for permission -- as usual. Methos' mind sorted all his options, but the list was pathetically short. He'd just have to vanish again, more effectively this time. "Adam?" Jacque asked, leaning across the bar. "I said I knew nothing. Was I right?" Methos nodded. "You are a good man, Jacque." "Who was that guy?" "Someone I would rather avoid." A small smile flickered across the bartender's lips. "Thought so. You seem like the kind of man who's on the run. This guy ... he's what you're running from?" "He's part of it." Jacque's questions were beginning to probe too deep. "If I were you, Adam, I'd take that cute petite femme you call sister and get out of town." Ah, the perfect opening for an exit. He stood and smoothed his coat. "You know, Jacque, that is the best advice I've heard in a long time. I think I'll take you up on it." "Good luck, mon ami." Jacque offered his hand for a shake, American style, and Methos had to smile. He gripped the hand firmly and, without another word, left the tavern. He walked straight for the truck and began twisting the key in the door lock when an immortal presence hit him. A few townspeople walked the streets -- Methos need not fear an attack in such a place -- so he turned without reaching for his sword, his eyes darting in all directions. A tall, dark, familiar figure registered on the edge of his vision. He leaned casually against the truck door, letting MacLeod come to him. A scarcastic comment halted on his lips as the Highlander came closer. MacLeod's eyes were bloodshot, and strands of long brown hair slipped from their usually perfect ponytail. He carried a large backpack over his shoulders, indicating that he hadn't even bothered to stop at an inn. Goosebumps shivered down Methos' arms and back, but he kept his expression carefully blank. "Adam," MacLeod said, "thank God you're OK." "What are you doing here, MacLeod?" Methos asked. "And why would I not be OK?" "This is not the place to discuss it. Can we go somewhere private?" Well, MacLeod was here now, and taking him back to the cabin couldn't cause any additional damage. "Hop in," Methos said as he opened his own door and settled into the driver's seat. They didn't speak during the entire drive to the cabin. Methos seethed silently at himself, for sending the damn letter, and at MacLeod, for promptly tracking him down. But in some small way, he had to admit he'd missed MacLeod, judgmental attitude, over-protectiveness and all. As they entered the cabin, Methos noted the lack of Lindsey's presence. He tossed his coat across the back of the couch and watched as MacLeod looked around in what Methos knew was a habit of familiarizing himself with new territory. Mac ran his fingertips over the top of an antique coffee table and glanced up at Methos. "Where's your student?" Methos deliberately turned away and carried his recently bought food into the kitchen. "Joe's got a big mouth," he said. "It's important, Methos. Where is she?" "How should I know where she is?" he replied casually as he unloaded a package of beef into the freezer. "She's probably out hiking. What's it to you?" MacLeod joined him in the kitchen, started pulling out food and handed it to Methos, who packed it into the refrigerator. "Have you ever heard of Seth LaMar?" Mac asked. Oh, gods, MacLeod. If you led LaMar here I will never forgive you. "Yeah, I've heard of him. He's rather famous in Watcher circles. He's not a great fighter, so he wins by cheating ... striking from behind, torturing friends of his target, that sort of thing." "Well, he's heard of you, too." Methos dropped a bundle of carrots onto the counter and glared at Mac. "So you thought you'd warn me, and in the process, lead LaMar straight to my doorstep. Thank you very much, MacLeod." MacLeod's eyes blazed. "I didn't lead him here; I followed him." Methos leaned against the counter and stared expectantly at MacLeod, waiting for the other immortal to calm down and explain. Mac paced away from the kitchen and, after a few seconds, turned to face Methos. "He tortured Joe and stole your letter," Mac said. "I found Joe tied up on the barroom floor, half dead, and he told me to find you before LaMar did." Methos hands tightened their grip on the counter. Joe, tortured, just like Don. He knew Joe would die all too soon, but he never dreamed it would happen because of him. He'd left his friends to prevent this. "Joe?" he asked, his voice involuntarily wavering. "He'll live. Last time I talked to him, he was in the hospital," Mac said, "and recovering." Methos breathed deep and nodded, not bothering to hide his relief. "Good," he said, putting the worry behind him. He finished unpacking the groceries, and a thought flittered across his mind that he and Lindsey probably wouldn't stay here long enough to eat any of it. Where was the girl, anyway? She should be back by now. "Joe got lucky," Mac said while walking back into the kitchen. "Your student might not get away so easily." "I can't do anything for her right now." "For starters, we can go look for her ... and get rid of LaMar in the process. And then, assuming she's still in one piece, I take her back to the states, and you go on your way, dropping enough bread crumbs along your trail that you keep your hunters away from Seacouver." So, MacLeod thought he'd charge in on his white horse, save the damsel in distress and ride away in a blaze of glory, leaving the dirty work to Methos. Always the hero, always the boy scout -- but not this time. MacLeod never did understand that Methos didn't want or need the Highlander's help. "Well, you have it all figured out, don't you," he said, letting his annoyance come through. "Did it ever occur to you that Lindsey and I might not want to follow your master plan?" "It's for the best." "Absolutely not," Methos said. "Have you even told her who you are? Does she have the slightest idea how old you are or what you've done?" Methos leaned back against the refrigerator and closed his eyes. "*I* don't even understand myself, MacLeod. How do you expect me to explain my life to someone else?" "You can't ask Lindsey to stay with you unless she knows what she's facing. It's not fair ... to either of you." He couldn't meet MacLeod's demanding gaze, so he crossed to the living room and sat heavily on the couch. Mac sat in a chair across from him, and Methos suddenly became interested in the pattern of wood grains in the coffee table. "Why did you take a student, Methos?" MacLeod asked after a long, tense silence. "You knew you were in danger, with your cover blown, so why do it?" "You wouldn't understand, MacLeod." "Try me." Methos met the determined expression he knew too well. The stubborn Scot would not drop the subject until he got an answer. Methos sighed, organized his thoughts and plotted the easiest way to explain. "You took Richie as a student right after Tessa's death," he said quietly. "Why?" The Highlander's eyes grew distant. "Richie was a friend, and he needed a teacher." "But why you, MacLeod? You could have passed him off to any number of immortals, but you chose to take the responsibility yourself." Mac looked down at his hands without answering, so Methos continued. "When Tessa died, you felt empty, like someone had ripped out of part of you. You needed something to fill the vacancy, and you hoped Richie could do it for you." A smile touched MacLeod's lips. "So you're telling me you took a student because you were lonely?" "I'm five thousand years old, but I'm still human. I still *feel*." "Well, if you care about this girl, why are you here talking to me? Shouldn't you be out looking for her?" A quick glance at the clock told Methos that Lindsey really should have returned by now. It was well past their usual sparring time, and she never missed that. If LaMar had her, he would pay dearly. Methos grabbed his coat and headed toward the door. "Wait here, MacLeod, in case she comes back. I won't be long." "Methos ..." He looked back at the solitary figure in his living room, so solid and real -- like a rock. "Good luck." Methos smiled slightly and left.
End of part 2 =============================== part 3 Lindsey was tired of waiting. I'm going to town, Adam had said. Wait here until I get back. First he told her start living her life with passion, and then he turned into the overprotective teacher. What was she to wait for, anyway? For the next fighting lesson ... the moment when Adam would let her out of her cage for an hour of supervised recreation ... another immortal to take her head ... Orders or no orders, she wasn't going to wait anymore. She would go to town, try to converse with the natives in her broken French and enjoy the beautiful afternoon. She even had the perfect excuse: She'd conveniently forgotten to tell Adam they were out of toilet paper. Well, maybe it was a lame excuse -- going to town to tell Adam to buy toiletries -- but it was better than nothing. Adam had taken the truck, so she jogged the three miles from the cabin to town, her sword banging into her side from its sheath under her coat. The blade was uncomfortable at best, but Adam told her to carry it with her everywhere, and she wasn't fool enough to ignore that directive. On colder days, she was sure it gave her frostbite, but the damage healed before she found the chance to look. Immortality could be so weird at times. She wandered the streets of Montagne, half looking for Adam but mostly enjoying the feel of people around her. Lindsey was a social creature at heart, and staying cooped up in the cabin sometimes got depressing. She even smiled and greeted several passers-by, but she didn't try to strike up a conversation. Most of the townspeople were suspicious of foreigners, and she would betray herself the moment she said more than "bonjour." When Adam didn't turn up after a couple hours, she went to the general store and bought the toilet paper herself. Then she went to the tavern, always Adam's last stop before he left town, to wait for her teacher. It was a good place to sit anyway because she liked the bartender. Jacque never scorned her poor language skills. "Jacque, bonjour," she said, sitting at the bar. "Ah, madmoiselle! Qu'est-ce que je fait pour vous?" What did he say? Something about helping her? "Je suis, um, voir pour Adam. Est-ce qu'il est ici?" "Oui, il etais ici, mais il a laisse," Jacque said, pointing toward the door, and Lindsey understood. Adam had come and gone. Ah, well. She'd catch him later at the cabin. "Est-ce que j'ai une biere, si vous plait?" "Oui, madmoiselle," Jacque said as he grabbed a mug and filled it with the amber liquid she'd learned to enjoy since living with Adam. Lindsey handed Jacque a couple of coins and took her beer to a tiny corner table, hidden in the shadows. Young lovers appreciated this little nook because they could touch and kiss without attracting the notice of other customers. Lindsey found it convenient when she wanted to sit alone. She'd barely taken a sip when she felt an immortal presence. Expecting Adam, she looked to the door, but the man standing there definitely was not her teacher. He was short, blond and carried himself with arrogance. He met her questioning gaze and approached her table. "Bonjour, madmoiselle," he said. "Je m'appelle Seth LaMar." His smile never reached his eyes, and Lindsey felt cold. Although she couldn't pinpoint it, something about Seth LaMar set her teeth on edge. "Je m'appelle Lindsey," she said, carefully. Surely nothing could come of telling this immortal her name. "Ah, an American," LaMar said as he sat down without waiting for an invitation. "You're a long way from home, aren't you, girl?" "Actually, I'm just passing through," she answered, avoiding his penetrating eyes. Did all immortals seem to look right into a person's soul? "Hmmm, really. Then why are you buying toilet paper?" His toe poked at the package on the floor, and he smiled smugly. "I'm looking for someone, and you might be just the person to tell me where he is." "I don't think so," Lindsey muttered. "I haven't lived here very long." "Tall, thin guy," LaMar continued, "only a couple inches taller than you, in fact. Dark brown hair, sharp facial features, big nose. Sound familiar?" "Nope." She sipped her beer and wondered how she could gracefully excuse herself from LaMar. She wasn't good at lying, and she feared LaMar would see straight through her. He looked hard at her for a moment, and she grew more uncomfortable. "I think you do know him," LaMar said. "In fact, I think he's your teacher." Geez, this guy was good, almost as though he'd read her mind. She looked at her beer and kept her mouth shut, afraid she would betray herself again if she spoke. LaMar chuckled. "Yes, I'm right. He's your teacher, and I bet you don't even know who he is." Just say nothing, Lindsey thought. Nothing is safe. "Well, I'm going to tell you something about *Adam Pierson*. His name is Methos. Ever heard of him? He's the oldest immortal -- five thousand years old, to be exact. He's spilt enough blood to fill the Mississippi River, he's lived more lives than you can even conceive of, and you are nothing more than a speck in his eye." LaMar grabbed her mug and look a long gulp, swishing the liquid in his mouth before swallowing. "Hmmm, good beer." Lindsey hardly noticed when LaMar stole her drink. His words could not possibly be true. She had guessed that Adam had lived a long time -- maybe one or even two thousand years. No one could survive the Game for five millennia and keep his sanity. And this was Adam he spoke of; Adam, the most normal person Lindsey knew ... well, with the exception that he couldn't die. But the Other Man, the one who always lurked below Adam's cheerful countenance, forced Lindsey to consider LaMar's claim. Only a truly ancient man, who had watched whole civilizations crumble to dust, could develop those hard, inhuman eyes. "Why are you telling me this?" she asked quietly. LaMar leaned across the table, so close that Lindsey smelled the beer on his breath. "I want you to trust me, little one. I don't want to hurt you. I just want to find Methos, and I'm showing you my honest intentions." Lindsey trembled as she reached for her beer mug, and she quickly set both hands in her lap. That she believed this man bothered her, especially because she didn't like him, but his words answered a question she'd asked herself dozens of times: Who was Adam Pierson? Now that she possessed part of the answer, she wasn't sure she wanted to know the rest. "I don't know where he is," she said, eyes downcast. LaMar sighed. "I'm sorry to hear you say that because now you're going to force me to hurt you." She felt the cold, sharp edge of a blade press lightly against her legs. He could do serious damage before she could so much as cry out. She realized too late that this man would not play by the rules. "I'll scream," she choked out. "I'll run." His free hand lashed out and grabbed one of her wrists under the table. She struggled to break his hold, but the pressure increased and she cried out softly. She looked frantically around the tavern, but neither Jacque nor the customers even glanced curiously in her direction. "Make one sound, and I'll kill you before you can breathe," LaMar said in a dead calm voice. "Have you ever come back to life with dozens of people huddled around your corpse? It's not pleasant. I hear that the townspeople here still believe in witches. Europeans use to burn witches at the stake, you know. That's a little archaic for this era, I suppose, but I'm sure these good people wouldn't be above a lynching." She shook her head. "You're bluffing." "Oh, really?" LaMar's eyes opened wide; he licked his lips and smiled, and Lindsey panicked when she realized he really was crazy enough to kill her. She closed her free hand over his forearm to pull away the dagger, but LaMar snapped her trapped wrist with one yank, grabbed her other wrist and squeezed. Lindsey bit her lip to keep from screaming. Oh, God, it hurt! The self- inflicted pain helped. She tasted blood in her mouth, tried to ignore the throbbing in her limp, useless right hand. "Wrong choice, Lindsey," LaMar growled. "But if you tell me where I can find Methos, I'll stop." No. Don't you understand? I can't betray him. I can't. She couldn't find the words. She shook her head and squeezed her eyes shut, steeling herself for whatever came next. The dagger broke through her knee cap. She bit down hard, and blood flooded her mouth; she felt blood trickle down her leg and soak into her pants. Her body jerked and trembled. Pain! Burning! Oh God! Please make it stop! Make it stop stop stop stop! Through her daze, a tingling sensation rang through her head. She felt dizzy. The sensation grew stronger. The dagger withdrew with such force that it brought tears. She couldn't find the strength to move, waiting for the cartilage and muscle knit themselves back together. But the ringing didn't fade -- not a side effect of her pain but an immortal presence. She slowly opened her eyes and looked at the man who'd just walked in: Adam. Except it wasn't Adam. When his eyes located her and LaMar, saw the blood staining her chin, the death mask slid into place, and his youthful appearance melted away in favor of a weighty presence that filled the room. The two or three other customers turned to look at him, as if they had never seen him before. Here was the Other Man; here was Methos. LaMar twisted in his chair to see the newcomer. He smiled as Methos approached. "Speak of the devil," he said cheerfully. "Seth LaMar," Methos said quietly, dangerously. "You've heard of me. I'm flattered." "Lindsey, come with me," he said, looking to his student. "We're leaving." Lindsey unsteadily got to her feet and found her legs would barely hold her. Methos set an arm gently around her shoulders, and she leaned on him for support, but she didn't dare look at him. That anger, that commanding presence might shatter her into a thousand pieces, but more, she feared to see disapproval in his eyes. After this incident, he might decide that she was more trouble than she was worth and leave. The idea brought tears to her eyes, and she hoped Methos would mistake her trembling for pain. They walked slowly from the table, and LaMar called after them. "You can't walk away from a challenge." Methos stopped at the door and looked over his shoulder, turning the full force of his threatening gaze on the immortal. "Watch me," he said calmly and walked out. =============================== Methos wanted to hug her, tell her she was safe ... for now. He wanted to yell at her, release his worry in a tirade about ignoring his order to stay at the cabin. But he had no time for either. LaMar would attempt to follow them, and the sooner they were gone, the better. He helped her into the truck, and she sat silent as he started the engine. She must hate him for putting her in such a situation, and she probably was wondering how best to tell him she was leaving. Well, maybe that was for the best. He couldn't hurt her from a thousand miles away. For the first time since meeting Lindsey, he felt completely alone. But he always returned to the loneliness in the end, like a frightened child crawls back to a cruel master. The Game had pitted him against the world for ages, so why should anything change now? There can be only one -- the ultimate isolation, not a Prize but a punishment that lasts for all eternity. Love, though, presented more danger than loneliness ever could. To love meant to set someone else's well-being above your own, maybe even to the extreme of sacrificing a five-thousand-year living streak. Passing Lindsey's training over to MacLeod would break his heart, but MacLeod offered her a chance at life. Methos only offered death, which was all he ever truly had possessed, tamed and broken to his will, called his own. Lindsey deserved more than that. Methos took the long way home, driving in circles down little-known dirt roads, to delay LaMar as long as possible. He planned to have Lindsey and MacLeod far from the cabin when the enemy arrived. He wanted no distractions during what should have been his fight from the beginning. He also kept an eye on his student, sitting silent at his side. The blood staining Lindsey's pants had dried and stiffened into the fabric, and she deliberately twisted her leg and wrist as much as she could in the confined space. Her right hand reached under coat to test her grip on her sword. As he parked the truck behind the cabin, MacLeod's presence filled Methos' mind, and he saw the Highlander striding quickly toward them, sword in hand. Lindsey begin to unsheath her blade. Methos grabbed her arm. "Duncan MacLeod is a friend," he said soothingly. "Then why is his sword drawn?" She reclaimed her hand and ran it over her knee. "He thought we were LaMar, I suspect. But believe me, MacLeod will not kill unless you give him a reason." She glared at Methos. "You knew LaMar was here? You told *him*, but you didn't tell me?" "Let's go inside ... all of us ... and I'll explain." "Promise?" "Yes." She nodded. "Good. Because I have a lot of questions." She stepped out, slammed the truck door and walked straight by MacLeod and into the cabin without even glancing at the immortal. Methos shrugged as he met MacLeod's eyes, stuck his hands deep in his pockets and sauntered after Lindsey. "She has quite a temper, doesn't she?" MacLeod muttered. Not usually, but she's had a bit of a scare," Methos replied. "LaMar." Methos nodded somberly and walked through the door, which Lindsey had left wide open. She sat on the couch, armed folded across her chest. Methos preferred to stand, and MacLeod took a post behind him, near the door. "How long have you known LaMar was here?" Lindsey demanded. "About half an hour longer than you." "He said you were five thousand years old and that your real name is Methos." He hestitated a moment before answering. "He ... told the truth, at least in that respect." "He also said I was just a speck in your eye," she whispered, her eyes suddenly wet with unshed tears. Methos crossed to the couch and sat next to her. He wiped his fingers under her eye when one errant tear escaped and trickled down her cheek. "That is not true. I care very much about you, which is why I have to ask you to leave." "You want me to leave?" "LaMar will be here soon. I need you to go with MacLeod. If LaMar gets his hands on either of you, he will have the upper hand. Do you understand?" Lindsey paled and nodded. "Good. Then go pack, and be quick." "What about you?" she asked, panic creeping into her voice. "I'll catch up later." She looked doubtful, but she retreated to her bedroom, leaving Methos alone with MacLeod. The Highlander moved closer, watching Methos carefully. Methos only saw Lindsey as she moved back and forth across the bedroom door. "Take her someplace safe, MacLeod -- a church, a public area, Seacouver, I don't care." He looked up at his friend. "But win or lose, I won't catch up." "I understand." "She won't." "She will ... in time." Lindsey rejoined them with duffel bag in hand. She'd also changed her pants. Methos smiled inwardly at the sight: All her worldly possessions fit into one small bag, making an emergency exit that much easier. He hoped she would remember that particular lesson because it had saved his life more than once. Methos gave the truck keys to MacLeod and briefly closed his hand over the other immortal's. MacLeod smiled, nodded and squeezed. "Good luck, my friend," Mac said. "I'll see you around, Highlander." MacLeod grabbed his bag and went out to the truck, leaving Methos to say goodbye to his student. Lindsey's eyes were bloodshot, her hair was tangled and wild, and she slouched as though she carried an impossibly heavy weight. This time, Methos did not hold back from hugging her, pulling her into his strong embrace and smoothing her hair. Her arms wrapped around him tightly. "I'll be fine," he murmured. "Fighting is what we do. It's part of who we are. Sometimes we lose those we love, but we go on." He pulled back to look into her red-rimmed eyes. "But I haven't lost yet, and I don't intend to start now." She half-heartedly returned his grin. "Be well, Methos," she said. She swept by him and out the door, and he could only watch, speechless. He listened to the sound of gravel crunching under the truck's tires as it slowly faded into the distance. Goodbye truck, goodbye MacLeod, goodbye Lindsey. He was alone. Again. Well, time to set a trap. Methos turned off all the lights, left the front door open and hid just beyond the edge of the clearing that surrounded the cabin. With any luck, LaMar would expect to find his target hiding in the building, and Methos could catch the immortal by surprise. LaMar would arrive soon now. He was coming up the road, following the tire tracks. Yes, not long now ... =============================== A small light on the truck's dashboard blinked bright red, and MacLeod glanced down at it from the winding dirt road. The light depicted a small gas pump. He looked at the gas gauge and swore quietly; they were literally running on fumes. "What's wrong?" Lindsey asked. Mac looked sidelong at his sullen passenger, surprised she had spoken at all. In the short time he'd known Lindsey Allen, she'd almost completely ignored his presence and probably would have continued indefinitely had Methos not ordered her to go with him. She'd demonstrated her blind loyalty to her teacher when she agreed to leave with a stranger. MacLeod feared she might reconsider that decision if he stopped the car, but he didn't have a choice. "We have to stop for fuel," he said. She nodded and retreated back into her stillness, reminding MacLeod of Methos when the old man sunk deep into thought, or when he was hatching a plan. He became so still, almost like a statue. The similarity was too much of a coincidence. He pulled into Montagne's only gas station, grabbed the keys and got out. Lindsey did not move. He filled the tank, and she only blinked. MacLeod went into the small cashier station to pay, but when he came out, Lindsey stood by the hood, frowning at him. Whoops, Mac thought. Here comes the storm. "Get in. We have to go." "No." He stood across the hood from her and unlocked the truck door. "Lindsey, we don't have time for this." "Adam isn't coming," she said. "Am I right? You're supposed to take me back to where ever you came from, and he disappears. Right?" Hmmm. Perceptive girl. "It's not that simple." She set both hands against the truck and leaned toward him across the hood. "It *is* that simple. I don't know how you convinced him to go along with this scheme, but I won't cooperate. This is my life, too, you know. I'm going back." "Lindsey, please listen to me. It's too dangerous." "If I don't go back now, I'll lose him forever." Her voice trembled. "Don't you understand? He was there when I needed him. He took me as a student, even though he was trying to lose himself and run away from everything. You didn't see him, Duncan, how lonely and sad he was. He was looking for something to help him live again, and he found me, and I have tried my best to meet his expectations. But what kind of friend would I be if I abandoned him now? If I left him alone again? I can't do that ... I just can't." Her voice trailed off, and MacLeod realized that she believed every word of her passionate speech. Her eyes pleaded for his permission to go back. Well, Mac couldn't force her to go with him. He could jump her, knock her out, but ... no, he wouldn't do that to this girl. However misguided Lindsey might be, she was doing what she thought was right. Going back probably was a mistake, but it was her mistake to make. MacLeod hoped he was doing the right thing. He reached into his coat pocket for the keys and tossed them at her. She caught them in both hands and stared at them as though he'd thrown her a gold nugget. The smile she granted him could have lit up a stadium, and MacLeod finally saw a little of what he supposed Methos had seen all along. "Go on," he said. She nodded and walked around to him. "Thank you," she said. MacLeod stepped away from the truck, and Lindsey settled in her seat.
He watched as she drove away, smiling and waving at him. He hoped, for
Methos' sake and for herself, that she would put her determination to good
use and keep herself in one piece.
End of part 3 =============================== part 4 The sun set over the treetops, illuminating the world in the half-light of early evening, but Lindsey did not flip on the headlights. She pulled the truck to the roadside about half a mile from the cabin and got out. With LaMar en route, driving all the way to the cabin -- announcing her presence -- would be akin to suicide. First she walked, then jogged and then ran. She thought that Adam might not have intended to face LaMar at all and would be gone before the other immortal even arrived at the cabin. In which case, Lindsey had to move fast, before Adam ... Methos ... had time to vanish from her life forever. =============================== Methos watched as LaMar walked into the clearing. The immortal drew his sword and circled the building, looking for the opponent he sensed was nearby. Methos ducked a little lower into his cover and smiled as LaMar carefully moved into the cabin. With only one door, the cabin made an excellent trap, and LaMar had wandered in just like a good little victim. Methos stepped soundlessly from his hiding place and smoothly stalked toward the door. The dark interior would give LaMar a chance to spring his favorite trap, as recorded in the immortal's chronicle. He would hide behind the door, wait for Methos to enter and stab him in the back. At least, he could try ... Methos reached one hand inside and flipped on the lights to momentarily blind his opponent. He quickly slid through the door and turned around with sword raised, planning to block the coming blow and quickly take LaMar's head. But LaMar wasn't there. Oh, shit. Pain suddenly exploded in the small of Methos' back and shot down every nerve. He felt his arms go numb; the Ivanhoe fell from his useless hands as he dropped to his knees. He heard a chuckle from the kitchen. "Looks like I've outsmarted you, Mr. Adam Pierson, ex-Watcher." A dagger. The bastard had the gall to throw a dagger at his back. He groaned and collapsed face first onto the floor. "Really, I'm disappointed, Methos," he heard LaMar say from somewhere far away. "I thought you'd put up a better fight." =============================== Lindsey stopped at the edge of the clearing to catch her breath. She spotted LaMar, who circled once ... twice around the cabin and walked inside. Then Adam emerged from the trees and stalked toward his prey with a grace that reminded Lindsey of a big cat. Maybe a lion. He disappeared into the house, and a second later, someone groaned painfully. Adam. Oh, God, no! Without thinking, Lindsey drew her sword and ran. She stumbled in the cabin door, shocked at what she saw. Adam lay motionless on the floor, and LaMar was leaning over him, yanking a dagger from his victim's back -- probably the same dagger that he had sliced her open with earlier in the day. LaMar straightened, but before he really noticed the third immortal, Lindsey lashed out with a vicious kick and sent the dagger flying. LaMar turned his full attention on her and smiled chillingly. "Well, if it isn't the student. How's your knee, Lindsey?" She pointed her sword at him. "You kill Adam, and I kill you." "Did I hear right? Are you challenging me, little one? I'd be more than happy to oblige, but as you can see, I'm already in the midst of a fight. You can't interfere." "This isn't a fight," she spat. "This is an execution." LaMar sighed dramatically. "I suppose I have time to dispatch you before *he* wakes up. But this is an inconvenience, I hope you know." LaMar gestured outside with his sword, and Lindsey gulped hard. What had she just gotten herself into? OK, time to focus. She pulled on all the lessons she could remember, but somehow facing Adam wasn't the same as facing a real opponent, knowing one of them would die. Her heart beat faster as she backed away from LaMar, but her eyes locked on his and didn't waver. He immediately pressed into an attack, which she met easily. Lindsey recognized his style as a typical test to feel out her skill, but instead of moving beyond the simplistic moves, he began to repeat them. Either he didn't fight nearly as well as Adam, or he was trying to trick her into a false sense of confidence. He'd fooled her once before, and Lindsey wasn't about to give him a second chance. She switched into the offensive and threw some test moves at him, which he countered with trouble. He seemed to have a blind side on his right. With a deep breath, Lindsey shifted into a more complicated sequence designed to expliot the weakness. She feinted under his guard and slashed across his right shoulder. LaMar grunted but otherwise ignored the injury; still, she knew from personal experience that it would slow him down. The wound would heal in only a few precious seconds. She had to take him now. Her blade, almost of its own volition, flowed into a long series of moves leading into a well-laid trap -- one of Adam's favorite sequences. She caught LaMar with his sword too wide, outside her own. With one quick push, she grounded the tip of his blade into the dirt, where it stuck. Lindsey raised her weapon and slashed across his neck with all her strength. The body collapsed, and the head rolled away grotesquely. Oh my God I killed him. I can't believe it. I killed him. A white mist rose from the body and slowly sank into her own; it felt slimy and unnatural. She dropped her sword and tried to wave the mist away, as though it were a normal puff of smoke, but then the lightning came. The first electric spear hit a nearby tree, and the second one shot straight into her stomach. The strikes began to hit indiscriminately around the clearing; however, most were directed at her. But after the first strike, Lindsey didn't consciously register any of the others. She was fighting another battle, in her mind. She felt the mist moving through her body, permeating every muscle and setting every nerve tingling. It slowly reached into her brain, and the memories came -- the awareness. She saw herself leaning over Methos' body, over a hundred immortals' bodies, all of whom she'd killed from behind. Who needed to use a sword when her victims offered their backs so conveniently? She felt the silkiness of blood flowing over her hands as she tortured one immortal's adopted daughter, as the man watched and screamed for her to take his head instead. She obliged and then watched the life drain from his darling daughter. Oh, the screams were sweet. The terror in their eyes was so perfectly satisfying. And more would come. Much more. Oh, yes. Even death could not stop Seth LaMar. She would kill again. Kill everyone. Oh, yes ... No! No no no no nononono! I am ... I am Lindsey! I ... I am Lindsey Allen! Lindsey Allen! The memories shattered as though Lindsey had smashed her fist into a mirror, scattering and destroying the reflection that was not her own. The voices and memories slowly faded, but they didn't vanish completely, settling into a soft buzz in the back of her mind. As she came back to reality, she felt grains of dirt against her cheek. She moved slightly against the warm dirt and smiled lazily. It felt so good. She wanted to lie here forever. Just lie here, and not move, and let the world go on without her. So beautiful ... to sleep here on the earth. She passed out next to LaMar's headless corpse and never felt the strong hands that picked her up and carried her inside, laid her on the bed, washed the dried blood from her limp body. She never knew how carefully Methos stood guard over her as she slowly assimilated the Quickening. LaMar had been too powerful for someone as green as Lindsey. Methos wasn't sure whose eyes he would meet when she awoke: his student's, or Seth LaMar's. And if it were LaMar, if Lindsey had taken a Dark Quickening, what would he do then? She wasn't strong enough to withstand the Healing Spring -- MacLeod had barely survived that -- and Methos had only one other option. Could he bring himself to take her head? It would be the greatest mercy for she who had saved his life. She stirred and moaned. It sounded as though she were calling for someone, but the name came only half-formed on her lips. Methos sat next to her on the bed and pulled her head into his lap, smoothing her hair. She quieted and opened her eyes. "Adam?" Her voice was weak, but it was Lindsey. Methos breathed out heavily and relaxed his tense muscles. "I'm here, Lindsey," he murmured. "He's inside me, Adam. He won't go away." "It will take several hours for you to absorb the Quickening completely." She gulped and closed her eyes. "Methos." "Yes." "Don't leave me. Please. I don't care where you go or who follows you. Please, just let me come with you ..." She passed out again. Methos swallowed hard and blinked back tears. She trusted so completely. She now knew everything LaMar had known about the oldest immortal, the myth Methos had become, and yet she still wanted to go with him. He didn't deserve this. He'd done nothing so good in all his life that he deserved this gift. "I won't leave you, Lindsey Allen. I promise." =============================== Joe pressed shut his laptop as MacLeod entered the bar. The Highlander looked no worse for wear since the ... incident ... almost three weeks ago. He certainly looked better than Joe, who still sported scabbed cuts, some of which would scar into fine pink lines across his arms and back. But Joe didn't regret what he had done, and, judging by MacLeod's calm expression, events had turned out all right in the end. Joe poured drinks for himself and Mac as his friend sat down. "So, how was the trip?" he asked. "It went better than expected. Lindsey challenged and killed LaMar to save Methos' life." Joe whistled appreciatively. "She's really got guts." "Yeah," Mac answered, smiling softly. "I think she was even ready to challenge me had I not let her go back after Methos. He tried to let her go, but Lindsey refused." "So, where are they now?" "They left for Russia about a week ago. Methos said he'd make more noise this time." Mac reached into his coat pocket, produced a small envelope and tossed it onto the bar. "This is for you, from Methos. And he said to tell you thank you." Another letter, Joe thought wryly. He ripped open the top and looked sidelong at MacLeod. "Thank you for what?" "Just read it." Joe unfolded the paper. Joe, As Joe refolded the letter and placed it back in the envelope, MacLeod pulled another envelope from his pocket, this one wrinkled and stained in blood. Joe recognized it as the original letter, the one that began the whole adventure. "We found this on LaMar's body," MacLeod said. "I thought you might want it back." "Thanks," Joe said. He set the two letters in the cash register and locked it. "Methos sounds happy." "He is happy. He's found someone who knows who he is and knows some of the things he's done but doesn't judge him." "But is he good for Lindsey?" Mac shook his head and sipped his drink. "I don't think so. If he keeps his word and doesn't disappear again, immortals will be coming out of the woodwork for a while to challenge him. Lindsey will be caught in the cross fire." He paused. "But for now, it doesn't matter to either of them." They sat in silence for a few moments, thinking about the strange turn of events in their friend's life. But worrying about Methos was all Joe had done during his time in the hospital. Well, that and flirt with the beautiful nurse who had taken his blood pressure twice a day. Joe decided he'd done enough brooding during the past three weeks to last him a lifetime. It was time to change the subject. "Enough about Methos," Joe said. "How is your life, Mac?" Mac smiled. "It's good. All my friends are happy. They're doing what they want to without fear of the future. That makes me happy." He took another sip. "And what about you, Joe. How are you?" Joe smiled back. "My life is ... in progress," he said. Mac lifted his glass in salute. "To life." "To life," Joe murmured. Their glasses clinked together, and Joe felt as though the moment were something more than a casual toast. He felt like celebrating. Life sometimes threw nasty curve balls, but everyone who mattered to him had managed to hit every ball out of the park. To life. To Methos and Lindsey. To a new beginning. Cheers.
The end Continue to Lessons in Mercy |