Fic - Coming to terms - Prologue
Author's note : I didn't intend to start a Highlander fic, as I have my hands still full with S7, but once Methos took up residence in my head, I just could sit down and try to write down, what was wandering my mind. I know that every second story in Highlander'verse was launched by "Comes a Horseman" and I won't be angry if no one wants to read it. *laughs* Still, here it is.
I owe huge thanks to dragonwrangler who discussed the whole story with me, having patience with my troubles and problems. *hugs* You helped me so much. Thanks also to Cyanida who helped me to understand my reaction to the story a little better.
A major warning ahead: Even as I try not to be detailed or too explicit this story deals with some rather adult themes. Many events in the Horsemen camp will at least be discussed and this from a very varying points of view.
Title: Coming to terms
by: Falconsheart
Prologue
Age: NC 17
Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fiction, based on "Highlander", which is copyright to Davis/Panzer. No copyright infringement was intended. I don't receive any financial recompensation.
Prologue - Coming to terms
For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?
Revelation 6:17
Joe
I’ve seen Duncan rush into more battles than I ever believed I’d record for anyone. Often have I believed or feared he might not survive this one, but never had I seen him more grim, than when he left today. I can’t blame him, for I feel the same. Accepting that our quiet scholar Adam Pierson was the legendary Immortal Methos was something to stomach, and there were days when I still found myself thinking of Adam, and forgetting Methos the same moment. But believing that Methos, our quiet, calm Methos, the man who avoids every possible fight, should be one of the four Horsemen was still beyond me. A Horseman of the Apocalypse, Death himself. Unasked for the words echo in my mind: “And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. “ Could I really believe Methos to be this? But could I doubt Cassandra’s word? No, and somewhere deep down in my heart I knew she was telling the truth. From her point of view. A victims point of view, that is. And if I learned something a long time ago, than that there is not more complicated perspective than that of the victim.
Naturally I couldn’t say this to Mac, he wouldn’t have understood. To him things are clear, even as they are painful. Methos admitting his crimes made it just worse. In a way Methos condemned himself and I have no idea what will happen when he and Mac have to face each other again. But I fear the worst. Duncan will defend Cassandra, perhaps avenge her and perhaps never be able to live with the fact that he killed a man, he once called a friend.
While Mac is gone, intending to stop the horsemen, intending to fight a friend, I am sitting here, behind my desk, Methos journal before me. I know Methos has a myriad of journals, he kept them ever since writing began, or so he says. One third of them is kept in languages not even the watcher’s historians can decipher. What I have here are the three journals that were not in the shelves but on the desk, when I came to his apartment last night. They look similar, worn, dog-eared and simple, but what’s inside is nothing simple, the thoughts and musings of the world’s eldest living inhabitant. Was writing the journals what kept him sane? What helped him to reflect on all the changes of the world? Or were they just a way not to forget too much? I decide to go slowly when I study these three books. What was on Methos mind, before he went to leave with Kronos? What was he thinking about?
Reluctantly I take up the first one. Like many worn books it easily betrays the place where it has been opened at last. The paper feels rough to my fingers, as I open the indicated page. It is filled with the intricate, elegant handwriting of Methos, and luckily is kept in a language I know. He wrote Latin.
October, the 31st Anno Domini 1628, it’s one hour to midnight by now and Cecil is fast asleep. As I can see him there, on the other side of the fire, he looks so thin and worn. How many times did he die of hunger or wounds, during that last year? It was quite an undertaking to smuggle him out of the city, but with some help of Jean and Francis I managed to do so, before dawn. The city surrendered yesterday, tomorrow the brave troops of Louis XIII will march into what’s left of La Rochelle. From the few words I got out of exhausted Cecil, and from what I saw of Jean, most of the population must have died a horrid death. So much pain and suffering, one full year of hell for all involved and a desperate, bitter end. A tragedy like none other I have seen in recent years. Sometime I keep asking myself, how the mortals manage to do this? They inflict more pain and suffering among themselves than my brother and me managed at times. Kronos would be jealous could he see the lingering pain, the horrors inflicted here.
I have no idea what brought Cecil here, but I am grateful I could safe him from whatever fate awaits the surrendering city. Jean did not leave Rochelle with us, he stayed behind with the men he lead into that bitter battle. How will Francis save his brother? Or will he accept, that his brother might be put to death for his role in the defence of the city? I don’t know. I can’t make myself hope for them, that would be denying reality.
While I read I felt myself drawn backwards, into other centuries. The siege of La Rochelle, I had no idea Methos had been anywhere near the doomed city. What made me startle more, was that a few lines below another hand had written some lines into the diary.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is your eyes
where behind dark curtains the spark of life is burning bright
that light is falling into the night until the darkness dies.
Don’t show your fear of darkness when night starts to arise
don’t fear the long dark night ahead and do not turn to flight.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is on your eyes.
A child alone may fear the dark and comes the night it cries
go to this child that’s left in dark and tell it what is right,
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
And when you face the dawn alone, know there the danger lies,
you’ll see the dangers of the dark, the dangers of the night.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is on your eyes.
Conquer your fear, your fear of dark and with a candle rise,
and drive away the wraiths of dark with your burning light,
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
And now look up towards the stars before the darkness flies
they are the light within the night they make the darkness bright.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is in your eyes
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
For Methos, November the 1st, 1628, Cecil
Cecil, the name stirred associations in my mind. There was an Immortal that frequently went by the name of Cecil. I knew him, even as he had no idea who or what I was, and I knew his watcher William Blankfeld even better. There had been indications, that Cecil and Methos knew each other, but I had not expected that they had been that close, that Cecil might have read and commented on some of Methos journals. Had Methos read this whole passage because of the reference to the Horsemen, or because of Cecil’s comment?
Leaving the book open on the desk, I took up the second one and opened it too. It was written on modern lined paper, smooth and white. No yellowed pages here. I started to read immediately.
Night falls and for the first time in a week I have the time to think. It still feels strange to have been found out. Yet, can I claim not to have whished for it? When Joe told me, Adam Pierson, that Duncan McLeod or the clan McLeod would come to protect me from Kalas, I was intrigued and at the same time knew that hiding was at an end. I knew of McLeod, of course I did, I had read his chronicle and I had heard of him. He was top talk among the watchers. Someone special, even among a bunch of Immortals. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the moment he walked into my flat, casually asking: “You Adam Pierson?” He was everything the watchers claimed and more. He already suspected me, and needed only the trace of a last hint to puzzle it all together.
There is something special about Duncan MacLeod, words fail me to describe it. It’s something that is hard to be put into words. He never even for the tiniest moment thought of using his advantage and take my head, instead he wanted to protect me. He would have taken on Kalas and even perished, just to get Kalas off my trace. And he did it just because it was the right thing to do. Who of us can claim to have retained as much of his humanity within the first hundred years? Hardly any.
The paragraph ended rather abruptly, as if Methos had found no words to go on. Even out of this uncharacteristic flawed entrance I could read some of the emotions that he had when he met Duncan. What caught my attention, was that Cecil’s hand was found below that paragraph again.
Remember Elena? The charming gypsy fortune teller of an Immortal? She told you what would happen to you, when you met the Child of the Winter’s solstice. She told you he would take your heart and soul, twist it inside out and shake your ancient world from all that it had been. Contrary to you, my pale rider, I believe in fate. You were the oldest of us, he is to be the last one standing, you have to be intrigued by him. You were the beginning and he is the end, together you form a full circle.
So Methos had seen Cecil when he had vanished shortly after the Kalas incident. I wasn’t much astonished, what made me jump were the words: my pale rider . Was it possible Cecil knew who Methos was? I turned to my laptop and typed in Cecil’s current name: Cecil Darkmoon. A file sprang up and revealed the photograph of a tall, blonde man standing on a rock by the sea. It was the same Cecil I had met to discuss some translations and inscriptions twice or thrice. The data followed below. Name: Cecil Darkmoon, Date of First Death: unknown, estimated 500 - 300 BC, Number of kills: unknown, 731 confirmed kills, 120 more estimated. Countries of repeated residence: Iceland, Greenland, Ireland, Estonia and Japan. Currently citizen of: Iceland.
I felt some cold sweat running down my neck. There was no obvious connection to the Horsemen, but he had been born well before they disbanded. And he was to be counted among the strong Immortals. With more than 700 kills to his name, he should be even of half of them had been young ones. I read on, to the comments of William: “Never goes hunting himself, but does not hide from anyone. Is an avid swordfighter, who enjoys swordplay and has drilled himself to perfection. Has some beef with Connor MacLeod about a particular attack, about which he sometimes mocks. Designed advanced sonar gear for missile submarines and some other military devices and earned good money from it. Hides usually behind the façade of an artist and painter, which he can shake off at a moments notice.”
I didn’t read on, I knew these things. Why had Methos thought of him, before leaving? Or had he? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the passages had another meaning to him, and had only accidentally been marked by Cecil.
I took the last volume out and opened it. It must be Methos current diary, for the last entry was in the middle of the book. “There is not much time left for me, we will be leaving soon. Dawn rises swiftly, and with the morning we ride. Duncan will hunt us down, I am sure of that. He will come and destroy the Horsemen, avenging Cassandra in the process. There is only one other fighter left in this world, who could face Kronos, and he is bound by a blood-oath never to raise his blade against the Horsemen. Duncan in his righteous rage will be far more effective, of that I am sure. Kronos will make me confront him, I know he will. But I can’t. I can’t fight Duncan. Not him. Never. When it comes to that, I’ll do what is in my power to see him alive through this. I have no hope that he’ll ever understand what he is to me, why I kept silent about who I had been and what I have done. I couldn’t take the inevitable disgust and hatred. Not from him. I don’t care about the rest of them, but him. Right here, at the end of things, nothing remains. Whatever I may wish to say to him, I can’t trust even to these pages. Is this how we look back, when the end is coming? Perhaps. I don’t know. Death does not know what to do in the last hour before dying. I only can try not to commit the final treachery and kill Duncan. I just can try to save him. Of more I can’t think or hope anymore.
“A foreign soldier came to me
And he gave me a gun
And he predicted victory
Before the year was done.
He taught me how to kill a man.
He taught me how to try.
Be he forgot to say to me
How an honest man should die.
He taught me how to kill a man
Who was my enemy
But never how to kill a man
Who'd been a friend to me.
You fought the way a hero fights -
You had no need to fear
My friend, but you are wounded now
And I'm not allowed to leave you here
Alive.” **
Please… leave me save Duncan. I don’t give a damn about anything else.
I had to admit my hands were shaking when I read this. For moments only these brief words had opened Methos mind to me, letting me see the persona underneath the cool demeanour, the snide remarks and intellectual mockery. I had no doubt he would do as he intended, protecting Duncan best as he could. But who would protect Methos?
I know I shouldn’t say this, think of this. He was a horseman of the Apocalypse after all. But then, I should know that we all do things we come to regret eventually. Happy those people who can look back on their lives and say: “I wouldn’t change a thing.” For a Mortal Live a worthy goal, for an Immortal live close to impossible. I wouldn’t make myself judge Methos, I simply couldn’t. It would be hypocrisy.
My mind wandered back to the question what I could do. Even if I flew after them, to Bordeaux, I would not be able to help much. Duncan would perhaps listen, but I could hardly stop his hand, if he was in a rage. I could not face Cassandra, not sword to sword if it came to that. I shuddered at the thought. Would I really wish someone to stand between her and Methos when it came to that? Would I wish someone to fight her, perhaps even kill her, to protect Methos? How could I chose Methos live over hers?
Burying my face in my hands, I had to admit, that Adam, Methos was still too much of friend to loose him lightly. And perhaps it was Cassandra’s moralist double-dealing that unnerved me. She claimed - rightfully so - that Methos had done crimes to her, unimaginable crimes and claimed humanities righteous outrage against it. But if she did so, she would have to accept the full package of that made this. Which meant forgiveness. Am I still that much a Christian, that I can’t exclude this? If there was ever something that characterised it, it was the story of the prodigal son. The whole message of Christianity in one single parable. No matter how badly someone had erred, who returned would be welcome. I sighed, and that what Cassandra did not accept. Her hate and call for revenge marked her as true the child of the bronze age she was. And if she remained so, I couldn’t judge Methos on another basis, than that very same time. And by that standards he had done nothing exceptional.
Slowly I raised my head, when a vague idea jumped to my mind. I could not go, but I knew there was still a friend of Methos who might be able to help. Carefully I examined my actions, I was bound by a vow not to interfere in Immortal fights. But was this an Immortal challenge? Technically Adam was a historian and nothing else. Like in a trance I took up the receiver and dialled an international number. The phone rang once, twice, three times but before I could give up, I heard a scratch in the line and a well known, resonant voice said: “Cecil here,”
I leaned back, I could see him before my inner eye. Sitting on the ground, examining a painting, perhaps putting the brush on a holder. “Cecil, this is Joe Dawson speaking, I’m sorry to call at such a time, but a friend of me is in some trouble.”
I heard a clutter faintly echoing in the line, and assumed that Cecil just leaned back or sat down. “Never mind Joe, tell me what I can do.”
“It is about a fellow historian, Adam Pierson. I believe you met briefly?” I heard a short affirmation of this and went on, spinning the tale that should convey the message. “Well, he got in trouble. It is something from his freshman years, some argument with another student. Melvin Koren. I believe a girl called Cassy was involved too.”
I heard a sharp inhaling on the other end. “Melvin Koren, you say?” he asked. “Yeah, there was some trouble about Cassy. Is she back?” My heart leapt as I realised he understood the message. Even as he might never suspect that I knew of what we spoke truly. “Adam went to Bordeaux and I think Melvin and Cassy are there too. I haven’t heard from him since and Cassies new boyfriend, Duncan, doesn’t reply to my calls either.”
Now the whole message was out. I could see the sharp V Cecil’s brows would form on his forehead while he deciphered my message. “Don’t worry Joe. I’ll get to Bordeaux. Melvin was some trouble in his younger years.” Cecil said before he hung up.
I set down the receiver. I had just send another Immortal into Bordeaux. An apt fighter, a man who had taken more then 700 heads. I had asked him to safe Methos. God help me, what would be the price?
***
Cecil
A little dumbfounded I stared at the cell phone in my hand. What I just heard was above and beyond anything I’d have expected to hear. I had known Joe Dawson for at least ten years now, and believed him to be one of the watchers. And I had kept my mouth shut, as I kept it shut about that nice girl in the neighbourhood that had obviously come to replace William. Not that they ever would realise I knew, you hardly can be around for 3 millennia and not notice being watched. Methos and me had found out Details together back in the twelfth century. But what I heard just now was hardly anything good. Joe had chosen a weak pretence to contact me, and to let me know Methos was in trouble. Trouble that involved Kronos and Duncan McLeod along with Cassandra. Three people that made definitely a nasty mix. Kronos I had known myself more than enough. From the night we fought and he won and took it out on me to the day he made me swear the oath of obedience to the moment he gave me to his favourite brother - Death. My last run - in with Kronos was two hundred years ago and had been in Africa. He had not changed much, I knew he was dangerous, vicious and utterly predictable. He had a strong hold over Methos, but I was sure I could handle him. Cassandra for the other part, was a person I’d have gladly ignored for the rest of our natural lives. Perhaps because I despised her, perhaps because she had gotten Methos in trouble. The first one was a flaw the latter unforgivable. When it came to a confrontation I was sure I could handle her too, but she’d make dangerous mix in the same pot with Kronos. Which brought me to Duncan McLeod. I had never met him, only his cousin Connor McLeod. Connor and me had had a beef about that ‘unstoppable’ attack he had been bragging about back in the 16’ hundreds. No attack was unstoppable and I had said so, no good idea but I wasn’t in exactly a good mood back then. It took me two years to figure out how to block his attack, two good years that allowed me to forget the horrors of La Rochelle siege. Of Duncan McLeod I had only heard, much good was to be heard on the honourable warrior. Contrary to my pale rider I believe in honour, if not the crap the middle ages hampered us with.
So we had the former leader of the four horsemen, a whinny ex-slave and an honourable Highlander who was unlucky enough to be raised inside the Christian creed all in one mix. Along with my Methos. No, I couldn’t claim him to be mine. As much as I loved him, he had never been ‘mine’ in that sense. Rather vice versa. Shaking off those musings I shifted my position slightly and stretched my arm to drag my laptop to me. I was sitting on the ground in the Atelier in Amsterdam, warm midday sun shone through the windows. Around me lay scattered sketches, drafts and calculations, which encircled my laptop and left next to nothing visible of the hardwood floor. Seeing my unsuccessful attempt to get my computer Indra tossed her paintbrush into the water pot and darted towards me. Like me she didn’t wear shoes and effortlessly avoided to walk on any of the papers, which weren’t exactly art but rocket science. She took my laptop and shoved it to me. “Trouble?” she asked, her small face all serious and solemn. Her teacher from school had been here yesterday, pointing out to me, that she was too serious, to grown up for her barely eleven years. Yet I didn’t give a damn for his opinion. He was just frightened because she was different, because she was fluent in Latin and Greek and could do some arithmetic’s he would never understand. My little girl, my little shining star, had soaked up everything I taught her like sand would soak up water. Right now she shoved some stubborn streaks of hair out of her forehead and looked at me. “Clean up?” she added, like so often she read me effortlessly.
“I’d be grateful, Indra. There’s trouble abound.” She nodded, her jaw tightening shortly. By now she had become used to my life, to challenges and dangers. Faced between being separated often and perhaps even forced to lie to her and keeping her around, I hadn’t hesitated. She was with me, wherever I went. I had taught her the routines of what to do, when things really got nasty. She knew when just to sit tight and wait, when to hide and observe and when to run, and what was more, what to do, when on the run. She had seen me fight a good deal of challenges by now and I knew that most Immortals were aware of here, assuming her to be a Pre I had discovered early. Right now she went efficiently about stuffing the plans and sketches back into the respective cardboard rolls, never bothering that I marked my plans usually in ancient Persian writing.
While she went on, I turned my laptop, typing half a dozen commands in before I dialled another number on my cell phone. It rang twice or thrice, before I heard a voice on the other end. “Liam here, what’s up Cecil.” He probably had seen the number on the display. I turned the laptop a little, to see the screen better and began to explain. “A friend of mine is in trouble and I am looking for a place where the source of the trouble might be hiding. Somewhere near Bordeaux.”
Liam laughed humourlessly. “That’s quite an area. What kind of evil guy are we looking for? One of us? If so how old?”
“Positive on Immortal, he is 4000 years old approx. Character is that of a terrorist, blatantly so. Not really bright but vicious.” That was about true. Kronos had never much used his head, except when thinking of cruelties. He had never cared about education, learning and knowledge. My little Indra probably knew more than he’d ever bother to learn. The brains of the team had been Methos, and he had an admirable intellect.
“How many people are on the terrorist team?” Liam asked, if cautiously. He didn’t like the term terrorist and did not trust my use of it either. Liam was Irish and had spend some hundred years as a freedom fighter in Eire. He was a little pecky when someone spoke of terrorists. “Four people on the team, one of them silent, bright, a thinker, one a good natured brute, one a vicious mindless slayer who used to be a cannibal and their leader who’s only redeeming quality would be his cruel instinct.” I gave my description of the horsemen.
“A cannibal you say?” Liam asked, his voice betrayed that half- absent stat of mind, when he was rifling through all kinds of data at his computer. He was good at ferreting things like this out. For a moment I wondered whether he was still with the Irish freedom fighters, or if he had ditched IRA for good. I knew he had been back after bloody Sunday, but never asked for details. “ Cen imressan ,” I replied, changing to his mother tongue. Without argument.
“I think I have a trace for you. A boy was attacked and got bitten half of his arm off, by an unknown white male, last night. It had happened in a wood near Bordeaux coast. Not far from an ancient sub marine base.”
“Bingo.” I was sure Liam had accessed the police network and found the report there. “I thank you my friend.”
“Your dlúth chara must be in a huge pile of trouble, by the way you sound.” Liam observed. He never had even tried to quench his irish accent and the lilt in his voice was strong as ever. I knew he was offering me assitance. He would not say it directly, but it needed only one word, and he’ll be with me on this journey. Only I could not drag him into this. This wasn’t about a fight, this was about cunning, about waiting for the right moment. Everything else might expose Methos. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I told him. Knowing he’d not really believe me.
***
Indra sat on the huge table that dominated our kitchen, carefully aranging provisions in her bagpack. Other things were still resting on the table, ready to be packed up as well. At the far end of the table rested my swords. Up till now I had silently worked on my own bagpack. Years of practice enabled me to travel light and pack only those things really needed. It’s curious how the mind works, remembering these little details without conscious thinking, I could trust to my reflexes when it came to packing. What made me hesitate again was Indra. To this day we had never been separated. When I took responisibility for her ten years ago I changed parts my lifestyle to make this possible. She had seen me fight challenges, hidden away from dangerous hunters and was deeply rooted in the Immortal world, that I often marveled how she balanced it with her other life. She knew much about me, my life and my past. I never believed that children should grow up with lies or things hidden away and I knew children could keep secrets, sometimes better than adults. Somehow it had always been easy to talk to her about things, to explain her what my life had been. But could I bring her anywhere near the horsemen? I was quite sure, that Kronos would not kill me as long as I kept the oath. He might not give me back to Methos at once, not before having his way with me for the little ruckus back in Africa, but inevitably he’d hand me back to Methos again. Which was all right with me. But what would become of a child at his hands? I harboured no illusions. For all Methos strength of character, he could not go against Kronos, his sworn brother. He would not, no matter what.
“He’ll find me anyway, no matter what you do,” Indra’s words shook me from my thoughts, mad crystal clear that she knew me inside out. “If he knows I exist, he’ll find me. You can as well take me along.”
I knew she was right. Should I end up where I began my journey a long time ago, they would find Indra too, leaving me no room to maneuver. Silently I nodded. I had just to figure out a way to avoid this.
***
Indra and me attrackted some stares as we arrived in Amsterdam/Shipol. Not that a man and his daughter were something unusual here, but we gave a sight to behold, like mostly. First thing most people notice is the difference between us. Well, they have to be dumbfounded. From what my passport and every other document says, Indra is my daughter. How can they be expected to know about the rape that eventually make Yasmine take her own life? So they just stare at us, myself tall, blonde, looking scandinavian enough that no one wonders to see that I am from Iceland, and her, wiry and fragile, with hair black as midnight, tanned skin and a vague oriental slant in her sparkling eyes. Second thing most people see is our rather simliar clothing. I prefer jeans or slacks of dark clours, sweaters and t-shirts that allow me move freely and fast. Some odd hundred years of constant practicing some exotic martial arts bring this about. And I had raised Indra the same way. She had already attained the soft, floating walk that’s the result of that. We were often comapred with cats. And at last everyone was staring down on us, realsing we wore no shoes. I never wear any footwear, I detest slippers and I hate shoes in general. Of all tortures the four horsemen could invent in over a millenia, nothing comes close to shoes. They are painful, imptactical and generally a torture. Whenever I can I don’t wear them. I grew up without them, I crossed half the world without ever feeling the need for them and I will probably die without them. Only in the coldest winters I will make some constent. My Immortal nature might protect me from much, but frozen toes aren’t fun. Indra had copied that habit from me, and only wore shoes in cold and icy wheather. As a result her feet are used to deal with nearly every ground short of glass splinters. The day she makes the transformation she will have to learn to handle them too.
The ground of the airport is something enjoyable, cold, polished like marble and very clean. It feels good, nearly erotic beneath the feet. Security checks and luggage provide the next set of stares. Rarely do passangers have swords in their luggage and my laptop needs extra screening before I can stuff it back into my backpack. It is one of the things I never leave behind, information can be vital to any undertaking. Strange - here I was, born in at a time where bronze was the great invention of the century, raised illiterate and completely focused on a warrior’s life, - completely absorbed into the modern world. I couldn’t even say it felt unnatural. Somehow these things had become part of life, as had steel before and printing. What remained of my barbarious heritage was my habit to walk without shoes, my ability to handle nearly every sword, axe or other simple weapon with deadly force and an abundance of now dead languages I was still fluent in. And of course the fact that I still thought of myself as belonging to someone else. Not that kind of belonging that comes with marriage or life-partnerships, but that kind of ancient barbaric belonging that is indicated by the two intricate tatoos at my shoulderblades.
The plane wasn’t exactly full. After all it was a simple afternoon flight to Bordeaux, it was autumn, the summer holidays long over. Indra sat on the window- seat studying the clouds as they passed by. My mind wasn’t really here, my mind was already in Bordeaux, thinking about Methos, about Kronos, about the unknown quantity named Duncan McLeod. I tried to project possible ways of action, possible scenarios and possible reactions on all parts, which led me to few usefull conclusions and some annoying - too few information - loops. I sighed inwardly, I had learned stragey from one of the greatest masters there is, yet I was unable to predict said master when I needed to most. I hardly felt it when the plane landed in Bordeaux.
***
In my opinion one has to be a Moron or an Idiot to approach an old sub base landside. But that was where Kronos had placed his lookout, as far as he had any. I had decided for the water approach from the very outset. A small vessel to bring us close to the base, and to be gone fast. Kronos had possibly not thought of a ship and would be hard pressed to pursuit a flight on the open sea. That was my plan as we approached the base at nightfall. A cold wind had risen in the west, driving the waves hard against the coastline. The submarine base looked like predatory animal waiting in the dark for it’s prey. I had no idea what was awaiting us there, when I steered our vessel into the dreaded harbour.
** Tony Harris: “Out of the East
I owe huge thanks to dragonwrangler who discussed the whole story with me, having patience with my troubles and problems. *hugs* You helped me so much. Thanks also to Cyanida who helped me to understand my reaction to the story a little better.
A major warning ahead: Even as I try not to be detailed or too explicit this story deals with some rather adult themes. Many events in the Horsemen camp will at least be discussed and this from a very varying points of view.
Title: Coming to terms
by: Falconsheart
Prologue
Age: NC 17
Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fiction, based on "Highlander", which is copyright to Davis/Panzer. No copyright infringement was intended. I don't receive any financial recompensation.
Prologue - Coming to terms
For the great day of his wrath is come; and who shall be able to stand?
Revelation 6:17
Joe
I’ve seen Duncan rush into more battles than I ever believed I’d record for anyone. Often have I believed or feared he might not survive this one, but never had I seen him more grim, than when he left today. I can’t blame him, for I feel the same. Accepting that our quiet scholar Adam Pierson was the legendary Immortal Methos was something to stomach, and there were days when I still found myself thinking of Adam, and forgetting Methos the same moment. But believing that Methos, our quiet, calm Methos, the man who avoids every possible fight, should be one of the four Horsemen was still beyond me. A Horseman of the Apocalypse, Death himself. Unasked for the words echo in my mind: “And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see. And I looked, and behold a pale horse: and his name that sat on him was Death, and Hell followed with him. And power was given unto them over the fourth part of the earth, to kill with sword, and with hunger, and with death, and with the beasts of the earth. “ Could I really believe Methos to be this? But could I doubt Cassandra’s word? No, and somewhere deep down in my heart I knew she was telling the truth. From her point of view. A victims point of view, that is. And if I learned something a long time ago, than that there is not more complicated perspective than that of the victim.
Naturally I couldn’t say this to Mac, he wouldn’t have understood. To him things are clear, even as they are painful. Methos admitting his crimes made it just worse. In a way Methos condemned himself and I have no idea what will happen when he and Mac have to face each other again. But I fear the worst. Duncan will defend Cassandra, perhaps avenge her and perhaps never be able to live with the fact that he killed a man, he once called a friend.
While Mac is gone, intending to stop the horsemen, intending to fight a friend, I am sitting here, behind my desk, Methos journal before me. I know Methos has a myriad of journals, he kept them ever since writing began, or so he says. One third of them is kept in languages not even the watcher’s historians can decipher. What I have here are the three journals that were not in the shelves but on the desk, when I came to his apartment last night. They look similar, worn, dog-eared and simple, but what’s inside is nothing simple, the thoughts and musings of the world’s eldest living inhabitant. Was writing the journals what kept him sane? What helped him to reflect on all the changes of the world? Or were they just a way not to forget too much? I decide to go slowly when I study these three books. What was on Methos mind, before he went to leave with Kronos? What was he thinking about?
Reluctantly I take up the first one. Like many worn books it easily betrays the place where it has been opened at last. The paper feels rough to my fingers, as I open the indicated page. It is filled with the intricate, elegant handwriting of Methos, and luckily is kept in a language I know. He wrote Latin.
October, the 31st Anno Domini 1628, it’s one hour to midnight by now and Cecil is fast asleep. As I can see him there, on the other side of the fire, he looks so thin and worn. How many times did he die of hunger or wounds, during that last year? It was quite an undertaking to smuggle him out of the city, but with some help of Jean and Francis I managed to do so, before dawn. The city surrendered yesterday, tomorrow the brave troops of Louis XIII will march into what’s left of La Rochelle. From the few words I got out of exhausted Cecil, and from what I saw of Jean, most of the population must have died a horrid death. So much pain and suffering, one full year of hell for all involved and a desperate, bitter end. A tragedy like none other I have seen in recent years. Sometime I keep asking myself, how the mortals manage to do this? They inflict more pain and suffering among themselves than my brother and me managed at times. Kronos would be jealous could he see the lingering pain, the horrors inflicted here.
I have no idea what brought Cecil here, but I am grateful I could safe him from whatever fate awaits the surrendering city. Jean did not leave Rochelle with us, he stayed behind with the men he lead into that bitter battle. How will Francis save his brother? Or will he accept, that his brother might be put to death for his role in the defence of the city? I don’t know. I can’t make myself hope for them, that would be denying reality.
While I read I felt myself drawn backwards, into other centuries. The siege of La Rochelle, I had no idea Methos had been anywhere near the doomed city. What made me startle more, was that a few lines below another hand had written some lines into the diary.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is your eyes
where behind dark curtains the spark of life is burning bright
that light is falling into the night until the darkness dies.
Don’t show your fear of darkness when night starts to arise
don’t fear the long dark night ahead and do not turn to flight.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is on your eyes.
A child alone may fear the dark and comes the night it cries
go to this child that’s left in dark and tell it what is right,
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
And when you face the dawn alone, know there the danger lies,
you’ll see the dangers of the dark, the dangers of the night.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is on your eyes.
Conquer your fear, your fear of dark and with a candle rise,
and drive away the wraiths of dark with your burning light,
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
And now look up towards the stars before the darkness flies
they are the light within the night they make the darkness bright.
Hope must remain forever strong while light is in your eyes
that light is falling to the night until the darkness dies.
For Methos, November the 1st, 1628, Cecil
Cecil, the name stirred associations in my mind. There was an Immortal that frequently went by the name of Cecil. I knew him, even as he had no idea who or what I was, and I knew his watcher William Blankfeld even better. There had been indications, that Cecil and Methos knew each other, but I had not expected that they had been that close, that Cecil might have read and commented on some of Methos journals. Had Methos read this whole passage because of the reference to the Horsemen, or because of Cecil’s comment?
Leaving the book open on the desk, I took up the second one and opened it too. It was written on modern lined paper, smooth and white. No yellowed pages here. I started to read immediately.
Night falls and for the first time in a week I have the time to think. It still feels strange to have been found out. Yet, can I claim not to have whished for it? When Joe told me, Adam Pierson, that Duncan McLeod or the clan McLeod would come to protect me from Kalas, I was intrigued and at the same time knew that hiding was at an end. I knew of McLeod, of course I did, I had read his chronicle and I had heard of him. He was top talk among the watchers. Someone special, even among a bunch of Immortals. Yet nothing could have prepared me for the moment he walked into my flat, casually asking: “You Adam Pierson?” He was everything the watchers claimed and more. He already suspected me, and needed only the trace of a last hint to puzzle it all together.
There is something special about Duncan MacLeod, words fail me to describe it. It’s something that is hard to be put into words. He never even for the tiniest moment thought of using his advantage and take my head, instead he wanted to protect me. He would have taken on Kalas and even perished, just to get Kalas off my trace. And he did it just because it was the right thing to do. Who of us can claim to have retained as much of his humanity within the first hundred years? Hardly any.
The paragraph ended rather abruptly, as if Methos had found no words to go on. Even out of this uncharacteristic flawed entrance I could read some of the emotions that he had when he met Duncan. What caught my attention, was that Cecil’s hand was found below that paragraph again.
Remember Elena? The charming gypsy fortune teller of an Immortal? She told you what would happen to you, when you met the Child of the Winter’s solstice. She told you he would take your heart and soul, twist it inside out and shake your ancient world from all that it had been. Contrary to you, my pale rider, I believe in fate. You were the oldest of us, he is to be the last one standing, you have to be intrigued by him. You were the beginning and he is the end, together you form a full circle.
So Methos had seen Cecil when he had vanished shortly after the Kalas incident. I wasn’t much astonished, what made me jump were the words: my pale rider . Was it possible Cecil knew who Methos was? I turned to my laptop and typed in Cecil’s current name: Cecil Darkmoon. A file sprang up and revealed the photograph of a tall, blonde man standing on a rock by the sea. It was the same Cecil I had met to discuss some translations and inscriptions twice or thrice. The data followed below. Name: Cecil Darkmoon, Date of First Death: unknown, estimated 500 - 300 BC, Number of kills: unknown, 731 confirmed kills, 120 more estimated. Countries of repeated residence: Iceland, Greenland, Ireland, Estonia and Japan. Currently citizen of: Iceland.
I felt some cold sweat running down my neck. There was no obvious connection to the Horsemen, but he had been born well before they disbanded. And he was to be counted among the strong Immortals. With more than 700 kills to his name, he should be even of half of them had been young ones. I read on, to the comments of William: “Never goes hunting himself, but does not hide from anyone. Is an avid swordfighter, who enjoys swordplay and has drilled himself to perfection. Has some beef with Connor MacLeod about a particular attack, about which he sometimes mocks. Designed advanced sonar gear for missile submarines and some other military devices and earned good money from it. Hides usually behind the façade of an artist and painter, which he can shake off at a moments notice.”
I didn’t read on, I knew these things. Why had Methos thought of him, before leaving? Or had he? Perhaps I was wrong. Perhaps the passages had another meaning to him, and had only accidentally been marked by Cecil.
I took the last volume out and opened it. It must be Methos current diary, for the last entry was in the middle of the book. “There is not much time left for me, we will be leaving soon. Dawn rises swiftly, and with the morning we ride. Duncan will hunt us down, I am sure of that. He will come and destroy the Horsemen, avenging Cassandra in the process. There is only one other fighter left in this world, who could face Kronos, and he is bound by a blood-oath never to raise his blade against the Horsemen. Duncan in his righteous rage will be far more effective, of that I am sure. Kronos will make me confront him, I know he will. But I can’t. I can’t fight Duncan. Not him. Never. When it comes to that, I’ll do what is in my power to see him alive through this. I have no hope that he’ll ever understand what he is to me, why I kept silent about who I had been and what I have done. I couldn’t take the inevitable disgust and hatred. Not from him. I don’t care about the rest of them, but him. Right here, at the end of things, nothing remains. Whatever I may wish to say to him, I can’t trust even to these pages. Is this how we look back, when the end is coming? Perhaps. I don’t know. Death does not know what to do in the last hour before dying. I only can try not to commit the final treachery and kill Duncan. I just can try to save him. Of more I can’t think or hope anymore.
“A foreign soldier came to me
And he gave me a gun
And he predicted victory
Before the year was done.
He taught me how to kill a man.
He taught me how to try.
Be he forgot to say to me
How an honest man should die.
He taught me how to kill a man
Who was my enemy
But never how to kill a man
Who'd been a friend to me.
You fought the way a hero fights -
You had no need to fear
My friend, but you are wounded now
And I'm not allowed to leave you here
Alive.” **
Please… leave me save Duncan. I don’t give a damn about anything else.
I had to admit my hands were shaking when I read this. For moments only these brief words had opened Methos mind to me, letting me see the persona underneath the cool demeanour, the snide remarks and intellectual mockery. I had no doubt he would do as he intended, protecting Duncan best as he could. But who would protect Methos?
I know I shouldn’t say this, think of this. He was a horseman of the Apocalypse after all. But then, I should know that we all do things we come to regret eventually. Happy those people who can look back on their lives and say: “I wouldn’t change a thing.” For a Mortal Live a worthy goal, for an Immortal live close to impossible. I wouldn’t make myself judge Methos, I simply couldn’t. It would be hypocrisy.
My mind wandered back to the question what I could do. Even if I flew after them, to Bordeaux, I would not be able to help much. Duncan would perhaps listen, but I could hardly stop his hand, if he was in a rage. I could not face Cassandra, not sword to sword if it came to that. I shuddered at the thought. Would I really wish someone to stand between her and Methos when it came to that? Would I wish someone to fight her, perhaps even kill her, to protect Methos? How could I chose Methos live over hers?
Burying my face in my hands, I had to admit, that Adam, Methos was still too much of friend to loose him lightly. And perhaps it was Cassandra’s moralist double-dealing that unnerved me. She claimed - rightfully so - that Methos had done crimes to her, unimaginable crimes and claimed humanities righteous outrage against it. But if she did so, she would have to accept the full package of that made this. Which meant forgiveness. Am I still that much a Christian, that I can’t exclude this? If there was ever something that characterised it, it was the story of the prodigal son. The whole message of Christianity in one single parable. No matter how badly someone had erred, who returned would be welcome. I sighed, and that what Cassandra did not accept. Her hate and call for revenge marked her as true the child of the bronze age she was. And if she remained so, I couldn’t judge Methos on another basis, than that very same time. And by that standards he had done nothing exceptional.
Slowly I raised my head, when a vague idea jumped to my mind. I could not go, but I knew there was still a friend of Methos who might be able to help. Carefully I examined my actions, I was bound by a vow not to interfere in Immortal fights. But was this an Immortal challenge? Technically Adam was a historian and nothing else. Like in a trance I took up the receiver and dialled an international number. The phone rang once, twice, three times but before I could give up, I heard a scratch in the line and a well known, resonant voice said: “Cecil here,”
I leaned back, I could see him before my inner eye. Sitting on the ground, examining a painting, perhaps putting the brush on a holder. “Cecil, this is Joe Dawson speaking, I’m sorry to call at such a time, but a friend of me is in some trouble.”
I heard a clutter faintly echoing in the line, and assumed that Cecil just leaned back or sat down. “Never mind Joe, tell me what I can do.”
“It is about a fellow historian, Adam Pierson. I believe you met briefly?” I heard a short affirmation of this and went on, spinning the tale that should convey the message. “Well, he got in trouble. It is something from his freshman years, some argument with another student. Melvin Koren. I believe a girl called Cassy was involved too.”
I heard a sharp inhaling on the other end. “Melvin Koren, you say?” he asked. “Yeah, there was some trouble about Cassy. Is she back?” My heart leapt as I realised he understood the message. Even as he might never suspect that I knew of what we spoke truly. “Adam went to Bordeaux and I think Melvin and Cassy are there too. I haven’t heard from him since and Cassies new boyfriend, Duncan, doesn’t reply to my calls either.”
Now the whole message was out. I could see the sharp V Cecil’s brows would form on his forehead while he deciphered my message. “Don’t worry Joe. I’ll get to Bordeaux. Melvin was some trouble in his younger years.” Cecil said before he hung up.
I set down the receiver. I had just send another Immortal into Bordeaux. An apt fighter, a man who had taken more then 700 heads. I had asked him to safe Methos. God help me, what would be the price?
***
Cecil
A little dumbfounded I stared at the cell phone in my hand. What I just heard was above and beyond anything I’d have expected to hear. I had known Joe Dawson for at least ten years now, and believed him to be one of the watchers. And I had kept my mouth shut, as I kept it shut about that nice girl in the neighbourhood that had obviously come to replace William. Not that they ever would realise I knew, you hardly can be around for 3 millennia and not notice being watched. Methos and me had found out Details together back in the twelfth century. But what I heard just now was hardly anything good. Joe had chosen a weak pretence to contact me, and to let me know Methos was in trouble. Trouble that involved Kronos and Duncan McLeod along with Cassandra. Three people that made definitely a nasty mix. Kronos I had known myself more than enough. From the night we fought and he won and took it out on me to the day he made me swear the oath of obedience to the moment he gave me to his favourite brother - Death. My last run - in with Kronos was two hundred years ago and had been in Africa. He had not changed much, I knew he was dangerous, vicious and utterly predictable. He had a strong hold over Methos, but I was sure I could handle him. Cassandra for the other part, was a person I’d have gladly ignored for the rest of our natural lives. Perhaps because I despised her, perhaps because she had gotten Methos in trouble. The first one was a flaw the latter unforgivable. When it came to a confrontation I was sure I could handle her too, but she’d make dangerous mix in the same pot with Kronos. Which brought me to Duncan McLeod. I had never met him, only his cousin Connor McLeod. Connor and me had had a beef about that ‘unstoppable’ attack he had been bragging about back in the 16’ hundreds. No attack was unstoppable and I had said so, no good idea but I wasn’t in exactly a good mood back then. It took me two years to figure out how to block his attack, two good years that allowed me to forget the horrors of La Rochelle siege. Of Duncan McLeod I had only heard, much good was to be heard on the honourable warrior. Contrary to my pale rider I believe in honour, if not the crap the middle ages hampered us with.
So we had the former leader of the four horsemen, a whinny ex-slave and an honourable Highlander who was unlucky enough to be raised inside the Christian creed all in one mix. Along with my Methos. No, I couldn’t claim him to be mine. As much as I loved him, he had never been ‘mine’ in that sense. Rather vice versa. Shaking off those musings I shifted my position slightly and stretched my arm to drag my laptop to me. I was sitting on the ground in the Atelier in Amsterdam, warm midday sun shone through the windows. Around me lay scattered sketches, drafts and calculations, which encircled my laptop and left next to nothing visible of the hardwood floor. Seeing my unsuccessful attempt to get my computer Indra tossed her paintbrush into the water pot and darted towards me. Like me she didn’t wear shoes and effortlessly avoided to walk on any of the papers, which weren’t exactly art but rocket science. She took my laptop and shoved it to me. “Trouble?” she asked, her small face all serious and solemn. Her teacher from school had been here yesterday, pointing out to me, that she was too serious, to grown up for her barely eleven years. Yet I didn’t give a damn for his opinion. He was just frightened because she was different, because she was fluent in Latin and Greek and could do some arithmetic’s he would never understand. My little girl, my little shining star, had soaked up everything I taught her like sand would soak up water. Right now she shoved some stubborn streaks of hair out of her forehead and looked at me. “Clean up?” she added, like so often she read me effortlessly.
“I’d be grateful, Indra. There’s trouble abound.” She nodded, her jaw tightening shortly. By now she had become used to my life, to challenges and dangers. Faced between being separated often and perhaps even forced to lie to her and keeping her around, I hadn’t hesitated. She was with me, wherever I went. I had taught her the routines of what to do, when things really got nasty. She knew when just to sit tight and wait, when to hide and observe and when to run, and what was more, what to do, when on the run. She had seen me fight a good deal of challenges by now and I knew that most Immortals were aware of here, assuming her to be a Pre I had discovered early. Right now she went efficiently about stuffing the plans and sketches back into the respective cardboard rolls, never bothering that I marked my plans usually in ancient Persian writing.
While she went on, I turned my laptop, typing half a dozen commands in before I dialled another number on my cell phone. It rang twice or thrice, before I heard a voice on the other end. “Liam here, what’s up Cecil.” He probably had seen the number on the display. I turned the laptop a little, to see the screen better and began to explain. “A friend of mine is in trouble and I am looking for a place where the source of the trouble might be hiding. Somewhere near Bordeaux.”
Liam laughed humourlessly. “That’s quite an area. What kind of evil guy are we looking for? One of us? If so how old?”
“Positive on Immortal, he is 4000 years old approx. Character is that of a terrorist, blatantly so. Not really bright but vicious.” That was about true. Kronos had never much used his head, except when thinking of cruelties. He had never cared about education, learning and knowledge. My little Indra probably knew more than he’d ever bother to learn. The brains of the team had been Methos, and he had an admirable intellect.
“How many people are on the terrorist team?” Liam asked, if cautiously. He didn’t like the term terrorist and did not trust my use of it either. Liam was Irish and had spend some hundred years as a freedom fighter in Eire. He was a little pecky when someone spoke of terrorists. “Four people on the team, one of them silent, bright, a thinker, one a good natured brute, one a vicious mindless slayer who used to be a cannibal and their leader who’s only redeeming quality would be his cruel instinct.” I gave my description of the horsemen.
“A cannibal you say?” Liam asked, his voice betrayed that half- absent stat of mind, when he was rifling through all kinds of data at his computer. He was good at ferreting things like this out. For a moment I wondered whether he was still with the Irish freedom fighters, or if he had ditched IRA for good. I knew he had been back after bloody Sunday, but never asked for details. “ Cen imressan ,” I replied, changing to his mother tongue. Without argument.
“I think I have a trace for you. A boy was attacked and got bitten half of his arm off, by an unknown white male, last night. It had happened in a wood near Bordeaux coast. Not far from an ancient sub marine base.”
“Bingo.” I was sure Liam had accessed the police network and found the report there. “I thank you my friend.”
“Your dlúth chara must be in a huge pile of trouble, by the way you sound.” Liam observed. He never had even tried to quench his irish accent and the lilt in his voice was strong as ever. I knew he was offering me assitance. He would not say it directly, but it needed only one word, and he’ll be with me on this journey. Only I could not drag him into this. This wasn’t about a fight, this was about cunning, about waiting for the right moment. Everything else might expose Methos. “It’s nothing I can’t handle.” I told him. Knowing he’d not really believe me.
***
Indra sat on the huge table that dominated our kitchen, carefully aranging provisions in her bagpack. Other things were still resting on the table, ready to be packed up as well. At the far end of the table rested my swords. Up till now I had silently worked on my own bagpack. Years of practice enabled me to travel light and pack only those things really needed. It’s curious how the mind works, remembering these little details without conscious thinking, I could trust to my reflexes when it came to packing. What made me hesitate again was Indra. To this day we had never been separated. When I took responisibility for her ten years ago I changed parts my lifestyle to make this possible. She had seen me fight challenges, hidden away from dangerous hunters and was deeply rooted in the Immortal world, that I often marveled how she balanced it with her other life. She knew much about me, my life and my past. I never believed that children should grow up with lies or things hidden away and I knew children could keep secrets, sometimes better than adults. Somehow it had always been easy to talk to her about things, to explain her what my life had been. But could I bring her anywhere near the horsemen? I was quite sure, that Kronos would not kill me as long as I kept the oath. He might not give me back to Methos at once, not before having his way with me for the little ruckus back in Africa, but inevitably he’d hand me back to Methos again. Which was all right with me. But what would become of a child at his hands? I harboured no illusions. For all Methos strength of character, he could not go against Kronos, his sworn brother. He would not, no matter what.
“He’ll find me anyway, no matter what you do,” Indra’s words shook me from my thoughts, mad crystal clear that she knew me inside out. “If he knows I exist, he’ll find me. You can as well take me along.”
I knew she was right. Should I end up where I began my journey a long time ago, they would find Indra too, leaving me no room to maneuver. Silently I nodded. I had just to figure out a way to avoid this.
***
Indra and me attrackted some stares as we arrived in Amsterdam/Shipol. Not that a man and his daughter were something unusual here, but we gave a sight to behold, like mostly. First thing most people notice is the difference between us. Well, they have to be dumbfounded. From what my passport and every other document says, Indra is my daughter. How can they be expected to know about the rape that eventually make Yasmine take her own life? So they just stare at us, myself tall, blonde, looking scandinavian enough that no one wonders to see that I am from Iceland, and her, wiry and fragile, with hair black as midnight, tanned skin and a vague oriental slant in her sparkling eyes. Second thing most people see is our rather simliar clothing. I prefer jeans or slacks of dark clours, sweaters and t-shirts that allow me move freely and fast. Some odd hundred years of constant practicing some exotic martial arts bring this about. And I had raised Indra the same way. She had already attained the soft, floating walk that’s the result of that. We were often comapred with cats. And at last everyone was staring down on us, realsing we wore no shoes. I never wear any footwear, I detest slippers and I hate shoes in general. Of all tortures the four horsemen could invent in over a millenia, nothing comes close to shoes. They are painful, imptactical and generally a torture. Whenever I can I don’t wear them. I grew up without them, I crossed half the world without ever feeling the need for them and I will probably die without them. Only in the coldest winters I will make some constent. My Immortal nature might protect me from much, but frozen toes aren’t fun. Indra had copied that habit from me, and only wore shoes in cold and icy wheather. As a result her feet are used to deal with nearly every ground short of glass splinters. The day she makes the transformation she will have to learn to handle them too.
The ground of the airport is something enjoyable, cold, polished like marble and very clean. It feels good, nearly erotic beneath the feet. Security checks and luggage provide the next set of stares. Rarely do passangers have swords in their luggage and my laptop needs extra screening before I can stuff it back into my backpack. It is one of the things I never leave behind, information can be vital to any undertaking. Strange - here I was, born in at a time where bronze was the great invention of the century, raised illiterate and completely focused on a warrior’s life, - completely absorbed into the modern world. I couldn’t even say it felt unnatural. Somehow these things had become part of life, as had steel before and printing. What remained of my barbarious heritage was my habit to walk without shoes, my ability to handle nearly every sword, axe or other simple weapon with deadly force and an abundance of now dead languages I was still fluent in. And of course the fact that I still thought of myself as belonging to someone else. Not that kind of belonging that comes with marriage or life-partnerships, but that kind of ancient barbaric belonging that is indicated by the two intricate tatoos at my shoulderblades.
The plane wasn’t exactly full. After all it was a simple afternoon flight to Bordeaux, it was autumn, the summer holidays long over. Indra sat on the window- seat studying the clouds as they passed by. My mind wasn’t really here, my mind was already in Bordeaux, thinking about Methos, about Kronos, about the unknown quantity named Duncan McLeod. I tried to project possible ways of action, possible scenarios and possible reactions on all parts, which led me to few usefull conclusions and some annoying - too few information - loops. I sighed inwardly, I had learned stragey from one of the greatest masters there is, yet I was unable to predict said master when I needed to most. I hardly felt it when the plane landed in Bordeaux.
***
In my opinion one has to be a Moron or an Idiot to approach an old sub base landside. But that was where Kronos had placed his lookout, as far as he had any. I had decided for the water approach from the very outset. A small vessel to bring us close to the base, and to be gone fast. Kronos had possibly not thought of a ship and would be hard pressed to pursuit a flight on the open sea. That was my plan as we approached the base at nightfall. A cold wind had risen in the west, driving the waves hard against the coastline. The submarine base looked like predatory animal waiting in the dark for it’s prey. I had no idea what was awaiting us there, when I steered our vessel into the dreaded harbour.
** Tony Harris: “Out of the East