Encounter in a Small Town 2: The Stationary Man
by Dannell Lites
Adam Pierson looked up from the carefully preserved copy of Shakespeare's First Folio master of "Coriolanus" when the bell tinkled, admitting a customer; his first of the day for Pierson's Antiquarian Books.
"Well, as I live and breath," he grinned. "If it isn't Lex Luthor himself. To what do I owe this great honor pray thee?"
The billionaire's son flashed an equally false smile back at the chameleon-like Immortal. Methos always blended in. Always. Any place -- any time. It was one of his more useful talents.
*One* of them.
"I just thought I'd come and see what all the excitement was about," Lex quipped, casual in his manner. His smile was still in place but his eyes narrowed. Methos aka Adam Pierson almost laughed.
"Excitement? Is *that* what this is?" He glanced around the quiet bookstore and shrugged.
The budding industrialist pulled a Gallery Edition of Elizabeth Barrett Browning's "Sonnets From The Portuguese" from the shelf and carefully perused its friable pages. His long fingers caressed the vellum quite as if they were something other than simple paper.
"Clark can't say enough about you, lately," Lex remarked, not at all casual now. "It's 'Adam this' and 'Adam that', constantly. I came to see what sort of magic you might have to enthrall him so."
Battle was joined and accepted.
"Adam" lifted an eyebrow ceilingward. "Hoping it might rub off, Lex?"
The bald man replaced the book and withdrew another, studying it carefully. Arrian's "Life of Alexander of Macedonia", Pierson noted, and did not let himself smile this time. Lex Luthor would hardly be the first power-hungry man to admire the incomparable Macedonian. But in this case the thought rankled on a personal level.
A deeply personal level.
**********Methos remembered a rainy day, a 'soft' day they still called them in Ireland, and a walk. He had always loved the rain.
"Colonial Britain? 19th century?" Duncan MacLeod asked. At Methos look of mystery, the Scottish Immortal frowned. "Don't tell me you were part of the Black Hole Of Calcutta!" his fellow walker in the rain inquired. Methos tossed his head in denial.
"I've been in worse balls-ups than that in my time, but, no. Try earlier." Duncan's brow furrowed in concentration for several moments. "Persians?" the Highlander guessed, probing. The Oldest Man In The World shook his head again,already enjoying his coming victory.
"Earlier still," Methos advised.
"Earlier? But ... " Dark eyes widened in wonder and delight. "You mean ..."
Methos laughed, a low, tinkling musical sound that had pleasure at its heart. It wasn't often that his past brought him joy.
"I was there with Alexander," he acknowledged.
To his companion's patented delight, Duncan froze in his footsteps, staring at the ancient man at his side. No, he wasn't joking. His fellow Immortal was certain of that.
"Alexander!" the Scottish warrior almost shouted. "You fought with Alexander?" Methos steered the Scot to a nearby park bench and sat down beside him. He let the rain wash his face for several moments perhaps in the hope that it could wash him clean of the ugliness that lived in his mind just then. MacLeod waited in silence, impatient, but unwilling to break the spell with words. Methos would speak when and if he chose.
"He was sixteen the first time I met him," Methos said dreamily to the air, not looking at his listener. "And it was more than fifteen hundred years before I saw any man as beautiful ..." The Highlander did some quick arithmetic and blushed at the thought of Alexander's still living rival. It was unlikely that the Macedonian had ever heard of Hibernia (aka Scotland); after all one thing he had discovered about the presence of his fellow Immortals: one developed patience in their company.
"He was fresh from conquering the Illyrians; dug those savages out of their mountain fortress and made them submit to Macedonian overlordship. And then he made them love him for it ... They would have followed him to the ends of the Earth ... And did. All the way to Persia. Charming the birds out of the trees doesn't begin to describe it ... He took that victory and laid it at Phillip's feet like the suppliant child he was. 'Here, look what I did for you!' And Phillip ignored him. Phillip always ignored him. Poor Phillip. It can't have been easy for him, such a talented man in his own right, knowing in his bones that the only way he'd be remembered to History was as Alexander's father." Methos smirked. "And he wasn't even certain of that. It would have been just like Olympias to cuckold Phillip in his own Palace."
"Personal experience?" Duncan inquired lightly. And yet ... not really lightly at all. Methos flashed him a look of horror and shivered.
"Don't even *think* it, MacLeod!" The Ancient advised. "I'm fond of all my body parts exactly where they are, thank you very much. Always have been. There are *some* things not even Death of The Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse is brave enough to do. And bedding Olympias was definitely one of them. Why, I'd rather have coupled with a pit viper any day. Much rather. It would have been safer, believe me. And infinitely less repulsive. That woman was the single most ruthless and monumentally *evil* human being it has ever been my misfortune to meet. And in five thousand years, that's saying quite a lot." Duncan nodded. He could well imagine that last part to be true.
He had, after all, met some of Methos' ... old friends ...
He thought of Kronos, the self-styled "End Of Time" and the mad poet George Gordon Noel, the sixth Lord Byron and had to suppress a shiver.
"So I've heard," he finally said. "Was she really as - peculiar - as they say?" Methos lost no time in thought before he answered.
"Absolutely!" he assured the Scottish Immortal. "She was a Priestess of the Elysian Mysteries, loved snakes. Even took them to bed with her, so they said. Phillip only married her because he couldn't have her any other way. So he made her Queen of Macedonia, bedded her, and got Alexander. Of course, *she* told Alexander that Zeus was his father. Ha! Not even Zeus with his eternally wondering eye would have had her. My ears sometimes still ring to the shouts and screams of her wrath. Not that Phillip was an ideal husband by any means... bloody bastard had one or two new mistresses after every Campaign. Trophy wives. You could count on it like the rising of the sun."
Duncan MacLeod, ever a faithful lover, winced in sympathy.
"Poor Alexander grew up listening to his mother's constant, unending rants against his father," Methos continued. "That and Phillip's jealous ignorance of his existence. Phillip, you see, thought that Alexander was Olympias' creature, loyal only to her. Fool could never bring himself to see how badly Alexander wanted to please him. It was amazing how well they got on when they were away from Olympias. When they were fighting together it was like the right and the left hand of a single body. Phillip was a spearman. He knew infantry. He and his Chief General Parmenion are the ones who actually gave birth to the idea of the famous Macedonian Phalanx. But they couldn't have done it without Alexander. Alexander was a Cavalryman, loved speed and the ferocity of a horse-borne assault." Methos at last turned to face his rapt companion. "But, Olympias couldn't stand that idea - the two of them together. So she had Phillip killed. Never trust a lover, MacLeod. When they turn on you they turn all the way."
Duncan absorbed the advice with a skeptical ear, but frowned.
"*Olympias* had Phillip killed?" he asked. "History usually lays that deed at Alexander's feet," the Scot pointed out. Methos was swift in his defense of the time-lost Macedonian.
"Oh no! Never. Not in a thousand years. Not Alexander." The Oldest Immortal shook his rain soaked head in rigorous denial, sending rain drops flying in all direction with the force of his conviction. MacLeod wondered for a moment just how he could be so certain, but for only a moment before the truth burst upon him. He grinned like a shark.
"And what makes you so sure of that? How do you know Alexander was innocent?" he pressed just for the pleasure of seeing The Eldest Immortal fidget uneasily in his seat on the wet stone bench. But Methos surprised him. Seemingly without concern, he laughed.
"How do you *think* I know?" he said. Losing not a beat MacLeod answered thoughtfully.
"Pausanius was the perfect tool, I'll grant you that ... A spurned, offended ex-lover usually is, I hear. Phillip must have had a lot of those lying around, given his proclivities."
The smug look that blossomed on the angular face of the worlds' oldest man was a wonder to behold. He held up a finger in emphasis. "Ah, but not all of them were Strategos of The Royal Bodyguard. *That* was the really perfect part. Who better for such a thing than the head of Phillip's security?" Duncan had to agree.
"Who's idea was it to kill Phillip at his marriage celebration to Eurydike? Yours? Or Olympias'?"
"Oh, that was Olympias' idea, I assure you." Methos wiped his face. "Vengeful as she was, she wanted Phillip to understand *exactly* why he was dying. The fact that it was being done to him at his marriage feast by Pausanius, an unhappy ex-lover who'd been thrown out of Phillip's bed in favor of a younger man was rather the pièce de resistance, I thought. I timed it. It took the great bollicking bitch less than two hours after she saw Phillip's dead body to strangle poor, silly little Eurydike with her own Bridal Chord. I really was sorry about that part."
"And who's idea was it for Pausanius to be 'accidentally' killed by an over-enthusiastic Guardsman while attempting to escape?" Duncan asked. Methos blinked, almost disappointed that the other man had to ask.
"Now, *that* was my idea. Do I look stupid to you? Pausanius knew bloody good and well who had bided him, fed him wine and regicide for months before he nerved himself to do it. The Macedonian had some very entertaining punishments for treason that took a couple of days to work. I had no desire to experience them first hand, trust me." Duncan's only answer was a curt nod of his disapproving head.
"So you had him killed to prevent him from talking." The look of disappointment in MacLeod's dark eyes cut deep.
"Yes," agreed Methos and left it at that.
For a long time there was only the fall of the rain. Like the both of them, the rain was eternal and cleansing. Not for the first time Methos discovered that it was virtually impossible to tell if someone was crying in the rain
"Who were you?" Duncan asked at last, in what passed quite well for a normal voice.
Methos considered. How to answer? Should he answer at all? After all, he didn't owe Duncan MacLeod a thing, least of all some finite glimpse of *Methos* as opposed to the image with which he usually chose to shield himself. The other man was an ingenuous combination of child and chivalrous knight, yes, but would he understand? Methos could not be sure and if the ages had taught him any one thing it was caution. Still ... he suspected that Duncan would understand. He thought of the young Immortal Richie Ryan.
Indeed, Duncan would understand.
"I - " the ancient man swallowed hard at the chance he was taking but it was too late to stop now. "My name was Hephaestion ..."
He saw Duncan's hands tighten on the stone bench, white-knuckled, and he wondered just how strong that stone was. He expected to see it crumble under the Scot's abuse. Warily he watched the birth of a thousand questions in those dark, deep eyes and wondered with analytical amusement which would be the first one out of Duncan's mouth. He wasn't kept in suspense for long.
"Did you love him?" the Highlander wanted to know. Methos blinked as if he couldn't quite understand the simple question.
"Love Alexander?" The Immortal shook his head in sad denial. "It wasn't possible to love Alexander. He wouldn't allow it. You don't love a fire that consumes everything in its path and leaves smoldering ashes in its wake. You don't love a force of nature that conquers everything in its path. Not if you're smart. And I've forever been cursed with too much intelligence; Kronos always said so."
**********Methos let the memories of Duncan MacLeod and Alexander of Macedonia fade from his mind. When he looked up once more it was to lock eyes with Lex Luthor.
The youthful billionaire held up a copy of Caesar's "De Bella Gallico",smiling. "You have some interesting books here," he commented.
Methos smiled back. "You have a consuming passion for history?" he questioned."First Alexander, now Caesar."
"No," Lex informed him, "I just have an interest in people who conquered the world before they were thirty."
Methos laughed. "Well, Lex," he advised, "you've only got nine years left, now don't you? You'd better get cracking, boy."
"I'm not a *boy*," Lex grimaced.
Methos measured him with a critical eye. "No," he amended, "you were never a boy. *You* are something else entirely."
"You know nothing about me," Lex returned coolly, composed in the face of an enemy. "You have no idea what I'm capable of."
"You're wrong there, Lex," Pierson was adamant. "I know *exactly* what you're capable of. Do *you*?"
"Oh, yes."
The young Luthor reached into the pocket of his jacket and pulled out an unlabeled computer disc. "*This* is what I'm capable of, *Adam*."
Methos grew very still. "Where did you get that?" he hissed.
Lex replaced the disc in his inner pocket, smiling. "It's absolutely amazing what you can find in a close-out sale at an antiquarian bookstore, isn't it?"he said. "Paris? Shakespeare and Company? On the Rue de Belloq? Is any of this ringing any bells for you?"
"Dan Saltzer," the Immortal thought. "Watcher HQ for France. Damn! I thought that thing was destroyed. MacLeod killed Kalas to stop its publication. That Watcher Database was supposed to be a useful tool for observing Immortals. It's been nothing but a bloody pain in my arse since Dan and I created it."
Lex patted the jacket pocket affectionately. "Fascinating stuff, actually. Imagine. People living forever and a centuries old secret society devoted to watching them do it."
Pierson's return smile was decidedly predatory. "What do you want?"
"I *want* you to leave Smallville," said Lex coldly. "A simple thing. Just that and nothing more. You pack up and move. NOW. Or you're all on CNN by week's end."
Methos eyes were hooded, guarded. "It seems you know a lot about that disc. D'you know, then, what happened to the last man who made that malediction?"
"Is that a threat?" Luthor said, his eyes narrowing.
Methos threw up his hands and widened his green-gold eyes in innocence. "Who *me*? Threaten the mighty Lex Luthor?" he gasped. "Why, never! Not in ... five thousand years ... No, not a threat. Merely an observation."
Lex chuckled. "You can cut the innocent pose. You're about as innocent as a cobra ... "
" ... if that ... " agreed Methos affably enough.
The Smallville exile patted his jacket pocket once more. "Oh, I know all about you, *Methos*."
The Immortal quashed his initial displeasure. Give no fuel to the enemy. An eyebrow reached for the sky. "Do you? Do you indeed?"
"Oh, yes," Lex assured him with confidence. "I know a great many interesting things about you. So far as I can tell you're the only one of these 'Immortals' not listed on this disc of mine. I wonder why?"
Methos leapt upon his prey. "Because *I* made the disc, boy." Startled, Luthor blinked and Methos grinned in sunny triumphant. "I see you didn't know *that*," he observed. "Evidently you don't know as much as you thought. Perhaps you should rethink your position, my friend."
"I'm not your friend. And I still know all I need to know about you," charged Lex.
"I'll just bet you do," Methos laughed. "Fascinating fellow that I am. Well, then, since you have me so neatly pegged, then you should know that I don't give a bloody damn if you publish that disc or not. Go right ahead. Knock yourself out. I can take care of myself. I'm an expert at disappearing, believe me. I hear Bora-Bora is lovely this time of year."
"Ah, but what about your friends?" Lex said softly. "That's always the trouble with you conscience-stricken heroic types. You always have hostages to fortune, don't you? Useful things, hostages to fortune."
Methos clutched himself around the belly and laughed so hard he shed tears. "Gods! 'Conscience-stricken'? 'Heroic type'?" He straightened himself, wiping his streaming eyes. Give no fuel to the enemy.
"You're quite wrong, Lex. There's no one on that disc that I give a bleeding pig's fart for. Darius and Byron are both dead. So is Richie Ryan. Duncan MacLeod is .... hidden. Even I can't find him. And, trust me, if *I* can't find him, he's not findable."
"What about Joe Dawson?" Lex pressed.
"What about him?" Methos dead-panned. "These days Joe is Watcher Head of Security for North America. And The Watchers take care of their own. Trust me on that, too. I know. Besides, for a cripple, Joe is amazingly agile when it comes to covering his own ass. Good luck there."
"I'll find someone," Lex smiled. "Someone you care about."
"I think not, Lex," Methos grinned. "You see there simply *isn't* anyone like that. The only one I care about is me. Ask anyone. We're a lot alike there."
"Oh, never fear," Luthor said. "I'll find someone."
The Eldest Living Immortal stroked his chin in consideration. "You just might, at that." Idly his nimble fingers twirled a jewelled Parthian dagger speculatively, juggling it from one hand to the other.
"You can put that down, now," Lex looked bored. "That and the Ivanhoe broadsword stashed in your overcoat. Nice weapon, by the way."
"Thank you," Methos acknowledged with a flourish. "Unlike your fencing foil, it's not a toy." The Immortal smiled. "And I *do* know how to use it. Just because I don't like to fight doesn't mean that I *can't*. But now that we've established my excellent taste in cutlery, where do we go from here?"
"Anywhere but Smallville," Lex responded smoothly. "And I thought we'd already established *exactly* what you are ... "
"Why, yes, we have, haven't we?" Methos returned, his tone quite merry. His green-gold eyes glittered like hard stone. "What we haven't established quite yet is just what *you* are, Lex."
He stepped lithely out from behind the illusionary safety of his desk out onto the floor of the bookstore. Slowly, he backed the younger man up against a wall beneath a matted print of "Pandemonium, Capitol City of Hell".
"It all boils down to Clark, in the end, doesn't it, Lex?" he whispered. "Lovely, innocent Clark ... " He pressed his body even closer and whispered in Luthor's ear. "Perhaps he's not as innocent as you imagine. You see, your sort always equates 'innocence' with foolishness or lack of drive. And that doesn't describe Clark at all. No, it doesn't. But you wouldn't know that, would you?" Lex moved to escape and Methos pinned him against the wall with a forearm. With his other hand, he ghosted his fingers lightly along the other man's bald scalp and felt him shiver in response.
"Oh, I know *exactly* what you want from Clark, Lex. And you aren't going to get it. My word on that. I'll kill you first. You'd best believe me when I tell you that. Because I will. In a heartbeat. I'd be doing the world a favor, according to Cassandra."
Luthor kicked out and Methos lithely dodged. "You're *disgusting*!" the youthful billionaire spat.
Methos had to laugh. "You can lie to yourself, boy, but not to *me*." He leaned in and sniffed delicately at the sweat on Luthor's upper lip. "I can smell it on you, Lex. Lust has a peculiar tart odor all its own. You can't mistake it. Not once you've inhaled it." His grin was carcahrodontic. "It's a lot like the smell of fear that way."
Luthor squirmed and tried to free himself to no avail. Methos pinned the other man's arms to the wall at the billionaire's back. Lex growled, looking pale and sweaty.
"Well, I hope you pine for it, Lex," Methos whispered in the exile's ear. "I hope you dream about it and lust for it; I want it to invade your slumber and keep you awake at night." Methos released the industrialist's struggling hand and lowered his own, stroking the sides of Lex's long neck. "Because you can't have it. Remember what I said, boy. You touch him or hurt him and you die. I'll filet you like a mackerel."
Concealed in his sleeve, a very small, very sharp dirk popped into the Immortal's waiting hand. Like tame dogs to the heels of their master, the weapons of death and war came to him. He lay the cold, naked steel against Luthor's cheek, smiling.
"We're finished!" Lex hissed, pushing him away.
... finished ...
... finished ...
The memory was inappropriate in the extreme. They almost always were. Now was *not* the time for it. But that did not, of course, keep it from coming.
He remembered Duncan MacLeod again. So many, many things began and ended with The Highlander, didn't they?
**********Harsh words and a cold, cold Autumn night that chilled the bones.
A hastily packed RV and the familiar unresisted urge to flee, to slink off into the night. Anything except having to explain. How to explain the world of three thousand years ago and Death of The Four Horsemen of The Apocalypse? Not merely Biblical rhetoric1, but Bronze Age Immortals. Raiders who killed and enslaved because they could. Because it was what powerful men did in those times. Over a thousand years of rape and slaughter, burning and destruction. The memories sometimes still woke him in the fastness of the night.
And not all the dreams were nightmares.
THAT was the problem.
"Things were different, then, MacLeod. *I* was different. The whole bloody word was different. ..."
"Did you DO it? *Did* you? DID you, Methos?"
Did you ...
Did you ...
Did you ...
Losing his temper at the self-righteous Scot. Pounding him up against the side of the RV with a strength that astonished even him.
"I killed - but I didn't just kill fifty, I didn't kill a hundred, I killed a thousand. I killed *ten* thousand. And I was good at it. And it wasn't for vengeance, it wasn't for greed, it was because ... I liked it. The people were nothing. Whole villages were nothing. Do you know who I was? I was Death. Death on a horse. When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them,that monster was *me*. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Is that what you want to hear? The answer is yes. Oh, yes."
The lost look of anger and betrayal that claimed Duncan MacLeod's dark features would stay with Methos for a very, very long time. That and the sound of the pain in his musically accented voice.
"We're finished, Methos."
**********Taking advantage of his distraction, Lex Luthor wriggled free and turned toffee. Reaching out, Death on a horse, grabbed the escaping youth by his jacket collar.
"Oh no, Lex. We're not done yet, boy."
The Luthor scion struck out at the Immortal with a clenched fist and gritted teeth. Not a very physical person, he did not connect. Methos, once again, avoided the intended blow. With his open hand Methos slapped the scion of wealth and power in the temples and the fencer fell back, stunned. Methos hauled him to his feet once more, bracing him against the wall. He pressed his groin to the industrialist's. He blew hot breath into the other man's ear and watched him struggle unsuccessfully to free himself.
"Cassandra told me about her vision of your future. Didn't tell you, though, did she? She told me what you'll do to Clark ... what you'll do to the whole world if you're not stopped."
Again, the unbidden memories came.
**********"Give me your hand," Cassandra Carver requested and held out her own. Methos hesitated. He believed in her gift, he really did. That, in fact, was the problem. Did he really want to know his future?
The answer was ... yes, oh yes.
Gently he took the elderly seer's arthritic hand in his and held his breath, waiting. He could feel Cassandra's fingers stroking his palm, probing, feeling their way. Suddenly they froze.
"You have a life line the size of the Amazon!" cried Cassandra. "Who *are* you?"
And then the world exploded in a great blinding flash of cascading vari-colored light to be replaced by the ring of bladed steel, the song of battle. The sword in Methos' hand lashed out to be met with the solid feel of another, different blade. Against his will Methos green-gold eyes widened at the sight of the ancient carved ivory dragon's head gracing the katana wielded by his yet unseen opponent. Forged by the legendary sword smith Muramassa in 1640, the ancient weapon glittered in the dying light of a waning sun. He stumbled back, filled with recognition. He knew that sword.
Methos' hand tightened around Cassandra's aged, frail one, but the sightless woman did not cry out.
NoNoNoNoNoNoNoNoNo
His Ivanhoe flashed in his hands and his shadowed opponent cried out, struck in the upper arm. Deftly, the other Immortal tossed his katana into his left hand and continued. Methos smiled.
"Yes! That's the way. Come on. You can do it. You can!"
Steel sang against steel. Sparks flew. Methos watched one of them land on the back of his hand and ignored the brief sting of its dying. His opponent pressed and Methos fell back. His blood sang along with the steel, now. He ducked under a long-bladed sweep meant to send him to the earth in a tangle of arms and legs.
"Come on!" he shouted. "You can do better than this. I know you can! Fight me,curse you! Fight!"
The larger man twirled the ancient blade in his hand, stepping back. Methos read it in the other man's eyes, then. Those dark, deep pools that shielded nothing, hiding not even the most basic of his feelings. They softened and the light of battle went out of them like a flickering candle extinguished by a brisk wind. The sword wavered in the skilled hands.
And then the katana lifted itself, primed for a great cutting strike aimed at Methos neck. For the first time those eyes were hidden, now. Unreadable. Unknowable.
Methos willed himself to stand still. To accept the descending blade. But his body betrayed him. Quite against his will, the Oldest Living Immortal, Death of the Four Horsemen, and so many, many other things, made two swift strokes at his open and now defenseless opponent with the great broadsword clutched in his white-knuckled hand.
The other man smiled, waiting, accepting the coming blow.
The first cut was directly to his foe's unguarded heart, followed by a slashing blow to the neck that neatly decapitated his foe. Methos' lips formed words and his voice croaked when he whispered them.
"There can be only One ... "
And Duncan MacLeod, the Highlander, fell lifeless to the wet ground.
Still smiling.
Lightning stirred in the clouds covering the bright, full moon. Like a woman who'd lost her lover, the sky began to gently weep, pouring forth its moist grief upon the earth below.
Sobbing, Methos sank to his knees. "Damn you, MacLeod! Damn you to Hell! Why? Why didn't you fight? WHY?"
The Quickening came this time upon soft little cat's paws, taking him like a gentle and tender caress from a brother's hand. A warm mist, it sank within him and settled to rest lightly, no burden at all. Darius was there, shining forth peace and tranquility as a star radiates light. And Byron ... all fire and passion ... the beauty and Romance of his poetry too much a part of him to be separated from his madness.
And now a part of Methos.
But clearest of all there was Duncan MacLeod. The Highlander.
"You know why, Methos. You know. You've always known."
Horrified, he tossed Cassandra's hand away, standing so suddenly that he upset the chair in which he sat, sending it flying back into a wall with such force,that it shattered into pieces with a sound very much like splintering bone. Huge-eyed, Methos backed away from the sibyl, shaking his head in terror.
"You *saw*!" Cassandra cried. "You saw, didn't you?"
Tripping and stumbling, he fled to the small bathroom. It wasn't until Clark Kent heard the sounds of retching creeping their way between the cracks of the solidly closed door that he cautiously approached, peeking through the wood with his x-ray vision. What he glimpsed appalled him.
Methos was on his knees hugging the cold porcelain of the toilet and vomiting into the bowl until only dry heaves were left. The superpowered teenager snatched the door open, careful not to rip it from its hinges. His uncertain feet stepped into the small room.
"A-Adam?"
Methos' head snapped up and he stared at the boy. Involuntarily Clark took a step backwards, stricken in the presence of such pain and self loathing.
"Don't call me that!" the five thousand year old man shouted. "Adam Pierson is a lie. Like Benjamin Adams and Lucien of Samothrace, Dr. Polidori and Amun-Nefer the Scribe, Dudley Soames and a thousand, thousand others just like them. A lie! He never existed. Do you hear me? Never! Do you want to know who I really am? I'm Deeeaaaath. Death of The Four Horsemen. He's real! *He* lives!"
"Methos," Clark pleaded. "Methos, let me help - " He lay a hand on the shaking shoulder.
"DON'T TOUCH ME!"
Unheeding, Clark moistened a cloth and wiped the tear stained face. He took the Immortal into the circle of his strong arms and held him. "Listen to me, Methos. What Cassandra sees isn't written in stone. The future never is. We can change it. We can. She told me that someone close to me was going to die ...and they didn't. No one died."
Yet ...
The Immortal pushed the youth away from him, hard. "Get away from me!" he hissed. "Get as far away from me as you can. Do you understand me? Get away! It's your only chance."
Clark picked himself up and walked on his knees back to Methos' side. He reached for the ancient man's hand. "No." he said. "I won't leave you."
"The you're a fool, farm boy!"
The young man set his full, ripe lips in a stubborn line. "Maybe," he admitted. "But I'd rather be a fool than a coward."
It was many minutes later before a more composed Methos faced Cassandra Carver again, slumped into the uncomfortable confines of one of her straight-backed bedroom chairs. The blind soothsayer looked right through him it seemed, and Methos closed his eyes. Her papery parchment-thin voice spoke volumes when it echoed in the halls of her room once more.
"You're The One," she said, simply.
Methos sat bolt upright as if he'd been electrified. "No! I can't be! I don't*want* to be! You're wrong! You have to be. It's MacLeod! MacLeod, do you hear? I'm going to see to it."
The old woman looked sad, the ancient lines of her face pulled tight. "You'll try," was her prediction. "You'll try so very hard. But that's not his destiny. To be The One. It's *yours*."
Wild-eyed, Methos ran away then. The thing he'd always thought he was best at. Ran away to the nearest tavern and the cold, empty solace of too much dark German beer. Lager and the smooth and smoky, peat-flavored taste of vintage Glen Morangie Scotch. He did not let himself remember where and in whose company he'd acquired a taste for it.
He didn't recall much until he woke up the next afternoon in the cozy safety of the loft in the Kent family barn. Clark's Fortress of Solitude.
The next day, he slipped away into the early dawn silence, disappearing. No one in Smallville laid eyes on him for more than two weeks until he returned to find Clark Kent sitting patiently behind the sales desk of Pierson's Antiquarian Books. The boy's blue eyes shone at the sight of him. The Immortal tossed his duffel bag casually in a corner and watched the teenager smile like the rising sun.
"I knew you'd be back," Clark explained softly. At the sight of Methos' quizzically raised eyebrow he stammered. "The books .... I knew you couldn't leave all that history, all that knowledge behind ... "
Methos turned away, hiding his face.
"Something like that."
**********Methos blinked, returning to the present. The Immortal looked up to see a fleeing Lex Luthor. This time Methos let the other go. Walking carefully, he made his way back behind his desk and sat heavily down. Steepling his fingers, The Eldest Immortal took stock. Well this was another fine bloody mess he'd gotten himself into now, wasn't it? Blast and damn! And all for ... All for a naïve, vulnerable fifteen year old child ... All for a pair of big blue eyes, for kissable lips to kill for ... All for a body who's many burgeoning delights he was never going to sample ...for a lonely, confused orphan child cast to the mercy of the merciless stars.
... All for the hope of the world.
He rubbed his burning eyes. "So what are you going to do , *Adam*?" he interrogated himself in harsh tones. "And I'm talking to Adam Pierson, not Methos. I *know* what Methos would do. But what about Adam Pierson, Watcher, scholar, lover of history and dusty old tomes that no one else cares for? What about him? Any suggestions?"
He thought about it, then smiling, he reached for the telephone.
"I need an overseas operator, sil vous plait," he said, his grin broadening. "A Paris exchange. Yes, that would be: tolon- 8138. Merci."
He hoped she was at home. Tracking her down would be entirely too time consuming and, quite frankly, time was something he was a bit short on just now.
**********He was waiting for Clark when the young man climbed the stairs to the barn loft and his "Fortress of Solitude" a week later.
The boy brightened at the sight of him. "Meth - Adam!"
The Oldest Man in the World smiled. He looked up from the lens of Clark's telescope, beaming. "Hadn't seen you in the shop in a day or so, so I thought I'd investigate." The Immortal wiggled an eyebrow. "Besides," he said, "it gives me a chance to flirt with your mother."
Clark's eyes widened and then he rolled his eyes. "I never know when you're joking," he grumbled.
Methos suppressed laughter. "Neither do I," he replied solemnly. Methos peered into the telescope once again, studying the stars. "Have you seen Lex Luthor, lately?" he asked casually. "What's he been up to?"
"Well, I don't know," Clark frowned. "I haven't seen him for a while. But Lex is really pissed about something, I know that much. He won't say what. He just keeps muttering about thieves and thievery."
Methos shrugged, smoothly changing the subject.
"Clark? Have I introduced you yet to my friend Amanda Darrieux? Amanda is ...an expert in the appraisal and ... ah ... recovery ... of beautiful, valuable things."2
The fifteen year old small town teenager's blue eyes widened at the vision of feminine pulchritude gliding on high-heeled feet his way.
"Oh my," cooed Amanda, running one long red lacquered nail down the smooth muscled, flannel covered chest. "Methos, you *do* know the most interesting people .. " She smiled and Clark was in severe danger of melting into a puddle of goo. But the smile on his face said that it might be worth it, at that. Amanda, the Immortal thief, smiled.
"Whip me! Beat me! Make me write bad checks!" Clark breathed and Methos covered his eyes with his hand. Gods have mercy, what had he done?
"Trust me, Clark," Amanda whispered. "It isn't your money that I want .. "
"Good!" the superpowered youth announced, "Because I haven't got any!"
Amanda pressed closer, molding her lithe body to his. "Oh, I think you've got quite a bit, Clark," she chuckled. It was plain that it wasn't money that asunder discussion here, now.
Methos lay a cautionary hand on the Immortal vixen's bare shoulder. "Amanda ..." he warned.
She left off nibbling an invulnerable ear lobe, Clark's breathing quick and shallow.
"What?" she demanded, all wide eyed innocence. "Did I do something wrong?"
Methos sighed. "Only if you call the Legal Code of the State of Kansas, wrong. It's called statutory rape, Amanda. He's fifteen."
The 1,200 year old woman pushed out her lower lip in a fetching pout. "You never let me have any fun!" she accused. "Since when did *you* get to be such an old fuddy-duddy, anyway?"
"Yeah," groused Clark, "what happened to the carousing, huh?"
The Eldest Immortal turned to first Amanda and then Clark. "Since the last time I was crucified for 'perversion'. 319 BC, I think it was." Clark winced. "As for the carousing," he informed the boy, "it's on hold until you're legal. Contributing to the delinquency of a minor is likewise a crime."
Amanda sighed deeply. "Such a pity ... But don't forget to call me when you're eighteen. I'll be here with bells (and *nothing* else!) on."
Clark raised a hopeful finger. "The age of consent in Kansas is sixteen," he husked. "I checked."
Amanda brightened. "And how long until you're sixteen?" she wondered.
"One month, six days, nine hours, ten minutes and - " Clark consulted his watch, "... forty five seconds!" he said instantly.
Amanda kissed his cheek. "It's a date!" she promised.
Taking Amanda's hand Methos lead her firmly away, down the steps, out of the barn loft and Clark's "Fortress of Solitude".
"Clark aside," he asked, helping her into her car, "Did you get what you came for?"
She lifted a sculptured eyebrow. "Have a little faith," she said. "Of course I did! Casa del Luthor is a sieve. I was in and out before anyone even had time to blink. The safe was a bitch, though. I haven't seen a vault that tough since I rode with Butch and Sundance." From her bodice she pulled a computer disc, handing it to Methos. "And no back-ups this time, either. I checked. But just to be on the safe side I wiped the hard drive on Lexy's computer anyway.'
"Good girl!" smiled Methos, bussing her cheek.
"No, I'm not," she chuckled. "I'm a very *bad* girl. And you love me for it."
Methos cleared his throat, experimentally. "Amanda ... about Clark ... " He gathered himself and set his face. "If you hurt him, I'll kill you. It's that simple."
Amanda's eyes darkened in wrath. "You bastard!" she hissed. "I think you really would."
He grabbed her hand and held it fast. "Sticks and stones, Amanda; sticks and stones ... Yes, I would. Believe me. One day this boy is going to be very important to the whole world. VERY important."
"Saving him for yourself?" she snarled.
He tossed her hand away in anger and she rubbed it, watching the bruises disappear. "No, I'm not," Methos said. "I thought you knew me better than that."
"And I thought you knew *me* better than that!" she cried. But then she softened, abruptly. "Methos, I'd never hurt him. He's adorable. And sexy as hell. I can be careful and nurturing. I can. Can't he and I just curl up and play house for eighty or ninety years?" She looked away. "Methos ... I - I - I miss MacLeod. And this boy is sooo damned much like him, it frightens me."
Methos closed his eyes. "I know ... " He bit his lip. "All right, Amanda. Just be very careful, okay? He's quite ... vulnerable ... right now." He didn't consider the irony of his words too deeply or closely . He ran his fingers through his dark hair. "I suppose I can't shield him forever, can I? Especially from something he wants so badly."
Amanda smiled. "No, you can't. He has a right to this experience, Methos." She patted his hand. "And would I make such a terrible native guide?"
He laughed shaking his rueful head. "No." was all he said before she started the sports car's powerful engine and zoomed off with a final, "Toodle-oo!" and a wiggle of her talented dexterous fingers.
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