Disclaimer: Nothing Highlander is mine. They belong to the corporate entities Davis/Panzer and Rysher. I make no money from this story.
Warnings: This story accepts all episodes of Highlander the series as canon, and it takes place shortly after the end of the series.
The Blues
By
Kiristeen ke Alaya
********************
I can't quite figure out why I keep returning here. Sure, Joe's place is great. *Joe* is a good friend. Not many Watchers would have kept my secret -- not with the fame finding *Methos the myth* would have brought along with it. I suppose I could say I keep coming back to see him, to make sure he knows he is and will be remembered -- which he most definitely will.
He doesn't have centuries left. He'll be lucky to have a few more decades, but I'd be fooling myself. I can see him cast me glances every now and then -- knowing glances. He knows me far too well. I suppose I should be worried about that, but somehow I can't find it in myself to object. Too much has happened over the last five years to be concerned about such petty things as one amazing mortal.
He'll be gone in far too short a time anyway. As I toy with the label on my half-finished beer I know exactly how callous that would sound, if I were to actually give to voice it. But, unfortunately, from my perspective it's also true. Even mortals have learned that the older you get, the faster time goes by.
When you're young, a week, or a month even, may seem like an eternity. Then, as time goes on its uncaring way, months begin to blend together, forget about piddling weeks or days. For the older Immortals it's the decades, years, and eventually, centuries that blend together. You wake up one morning and suddenly wonder where the last hundred years went. What did you do that made the last century or more memorable? What did you do that would make it stand out from all the other countless centuries swimming in your mind? A century from now, are you going to be able to remember any of the faces or names of the people you know now?
Well, one thing I can say with definitive awareness; in this decade, of this century, I've done things and met people that will remain within my memories for as long as this head is attached to this neck. I've lived more in the last, (What has it been?) five years, than in the last 200 hundred combined.
Now, however, it's all gone -- all but Joe. Joe's still here. Sometimes, in my more fanciful whimsies, it seems as if he'll always be here. Joe is simply Joe, more solid than Mohammed's mountain. Of course, practicalities intrude and every time I visit I see more gray in his hair, more lines on his face. He walks more slowly now, too.
Richie's dead. There, I thought it. I've avoided thinking about that as much as possible, and now I have to swallow hard against a painful lump in my throat -- such potential wasted. Duncan's gone; the Watchers can't even find him. I guess the stubborn Highland child finally did take a page from my book. I almost manage a smile at that thought. I wonder if he changed his name.
I look up and find Joe's eyes watching me again. I see understanding there and it is nearly my undoing. Downing the last of my beer in one long swallow, I return his steady gaze, dismayed to feel myself tear up. Damn it! I hate it when that happens.
'Good-bye,' I mouth across the crowded bar. As I turn away I see his shoulders slump and I know he knows I mean permanently. That I won't be back; there are too many painful memories here. He nods once, without ever losing the complete understanding reflected behind the sadness, his eyes shining with his own unshed tears.
I turn to leave, and dash away the tears that stubbornly refuse to go away, and as I stride through the door, I hear Joe's voice, steady with the first refrain of another song.
"Like a bridge over troubled waters, I will lay me down..."
The door closes and Adam Pierson ceases to exist. In his place is me. Who am I? I don't know, but hopefully I will eventually enjoy finding out. Maybe one day, the pain of loss will fade and I will once again begin to live.
The End
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