Warnings: This series contains adult sexual situations, including m/m sex scenes. This is for those over the age of 18 or 21 depending on the laws in your local jurisdiction. If you're not old enough, or the idea of two men having sex bothers you, you should skip this story. (This first story in the series can be read by anyone, but it doesn't really stand alone.)
Disclaimers: This concept of immortality and the characters portrayed in this story aren't mine. I hold absolutely no rights to them. (I can dream though) No copyright infringement is intended and no money is being made.
THE GIFT
By
Kiristeen ke Alaya
Part One
Methos strode toward Joe's, wondering if he'd manage to surprise the watcher. He was certain he'd shaken his watcher, the one he knew for sure about. He knew, however, that he'd managed to pick up at least one other shortly after that. He'd managed to lose her also, but didn't know exactly when she'd spotted him. Whether he would be successful would depend largely on when, exactly, she had, and whether she'd overheard his destination when he'd booked his flight.
He shook his head, not really believing he was back here again. He kept leaving, telling himself he wouldn't return, at least not this century, but here he was. It was complete lunacy; he knew that. He'd known *that* little detail from the very beginning. It went against every survival instinct he'd honed to keep returning to the sphere of one of the most active immortals this century.
Oh, it was true MacLeod didn't seek them out. But when you don't bother changing your name for 400 years, you become like the 'big bad gunslinger' and every would be bad boy, who needed their reputation made, made a beeline for the one immortal most had heard of; the highlander. He should turn around and get right back on that plane. That's what he should do.
He pushed open the door to the bar, both relieved and disappointed when no immortal presence greeted him on his approach. Scanning the room as he crossed to the solid wood bar, he noted the presence of several regulars, as well as several faces he didn't recognize. Well, that was to be expected. He hadn't been here in nearly a year. Joe, however, was nowhere to be seen.
By the time he claimed a barstool, Mike had made his way to him. "Adam, it's been awhile. Still drinking the same?"
"Yep. Joe around?"
"Yeah, he's in back with the books."
Methos stood, accepting the proffered beer as he made his way to the office door. "Thanks, I'll just go on back then." He stopped just short of the door.
"Buddy, you okay?" Mike asked behind him.
Something about the tone of Mike's voice made him turn. He was speaking to a painfully thin, gray haired man. Methos judged him to be somewhere in his mid to late 70s. He was about to turn away when the man looked up and the expression in his eyes froze Methos in place. Pure, unadulterated misery was what he saw, of a kind he hoped he'd never see again.
He didn't look at Mike when he answered, rather he stared straight into Methos' eyes. Something about the man made an itch work its way up his spine. He felt exposed, like the man *knew* everything there was to know about him, just from that single look.
"Do you believe in magic?" He asked.
Mike's laughter rang out softly. The man stiffened, but didn't look away from Methos.
"No, I can't say that I do," Mike answered finally, his tone hinting at an apology for laughing.
"I didn't either."
The door opened behind Methos, wrenching a gasp out of him. "Bloody hell, Joe. Give a guy a heart attack why don't you."
"Adam!" Joe said, attempting not to chuckle. "You'll live. You know, I was wondering how long it would be before you showed up."
Methos rolled his eyes. "So," he asked, as Joe backed up, beckoning him into the office, "which one was it?"
This time Joe did laugh. "You think I'm going to tell you that?"
"Well, I can dream, can't I?"
Joe just shook his head. "You give them the slip all to easily now. If one of them actually manages to stay hidden, *and* keep up with you, I'm not about to give them away."
He should have known. "You know I'll figure it out eventually."
"Of course, but until then..." Joe paused, a mischievous smile curving the edges of his lips up. He leaned forward, as if to confide some great secret. "You know, there's a contest among most of the watchers."
"Really?" Methos asked drily. It wouldn't exactly be the first time. At times the watchers could be very childlike in their antics. At no time during his tenure with them, had they had less than three contests and four or five different betting pools going.
Joe pulled back slowly, feigning indifference. "So I guess that means you're not interested in what *this* one's about?"
Methos' eyes narrowed. Why didn't he like that sound of that? He waited.
Joe just sat there.
"All right," he snapped. "I'll bite. What is *this* contest about?"
Joe grinned broadly. "You."
"What?!" Methos nearly squeaked.
Joe nodded.
"What about me? And what does the winner get?"
"Actually the prize is up to $1000 already."
"What about me?" Methos warily asked again, taking a swig of his beer.
"The first person to watch you for one week straight, without being seen or losing you, wins."
He laughed, the first genuine laugh in what felt like forever. "It'll never happen."
"Never say never, my friend."
"How much you wanna wager on that?"
Joe smiled wickedly. "Oh, I already have. I actually know who's going to do it."
Methos' eyes widened just a fraction. "Really?"
"Yep. And nope, you're not going to worm it out of me either."
Methos gazed at Joe speculatively. Just what would it take?
"So, what brings you back here?"
Methos shrugged, recognizing the change of subject for the tactic it was, but letting it go for now. "This and that."
"Uh huh."
"What's *that* supposed to mean?"
"Nothing, old man, absolutely nothing."
Methos glared, but didn't rise to the bait again. Instead he turned and looked toward the door.
"Someone here?"
Methos snapped his head around at Joe's quiet words. "What?"
Joe frowned. "I asked you if 'someone' was here."
"Oh. No." He turned back toward the door. "Joe, when I came in there was a man at the bar. Do you know who he is?"
"You'll have to be just a little more specific than that, Adam. There have been a lot of men sitting at the bar."
Methos shrugged a little sheepishly, then described the odd man whose stare had been so disconcerting.
"No, can't say that I do. He doesn't sound familiar at all." Joe stood and headed for the door.
Methos jumped to his feet.
Joe gasped and rounded on Methos in startlement. "What on Earth has got you so jumpy, Methos?"
"Nothing," he snapped a bit defensively.
Joe's eyes narrowed, but he didn't push. "If you say so."
"Where are you headed?"
"If he's still there, I might recognize him."
"Oh," Methos said, sinking back into his chair. What was the matter with him? One strange mortal staring at him, and he was acting as though...Well, he didn't quite know how he was acting, but he didn't like it. He didn't like it one bit. With one glaring exception, he hadn't been this...off balance in centuries. It wasn't as if the man were an immortal after his head. What could one mortal man, nearing the end of his life, really do to him?
Nothing, that's what, Methos thought firmly.
'So why can't you relax?' Asked a little snide voice in his head.
He sneered at the voice.
"He's not there anymore."
Methos jumped.
"Damn, Methos, you are a nervous wreck!" Joe exclaimed.
At Methos' look, he hurriedly continued. "I know. Nothing's wrong." He was silent a moment, looking thoughtful. "You know, I'll figure it out eventually. I usually do. So, keeping whatever *isn't* bothering you to yourself, isn't helping you and will just create more work for me. Why don't you just spit it out? You never know; I might be able to help."
"I told you," Methos snapped, jumping to his feet, "nothing's wrong." He sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "I'm sorry, Joe. I'll see you later." Three quick strides and he was at the door. Mike's sudden appearance on the other side, startled him, yet again. He was getting really tired of this. He stepped aside, taking a deep breath, barely managing not to snap at the young man.
"You need me for something, Mike?"
"Actually, I've got something for Adam."
Two frowns met his statement. "Who left it?" Joe asked, beating Methos to it by a mere fraction of a breath.
"That's the odd part. I've been having this off again on again conversation with the strangest old man, for the last hour or so. When Adam walked in, the guy just kept staring at him. He left this," Mike reached out, holding an envelop toward Methos, "on the bar."
Methos reached out hesitantly, not at all sure he wanted anything to do with whatever was inside it. As Mike handed the old, slightly crumpled, envelope to him, something inside slithered from on end to the other, thunking softly as it stopped. Methos almost dropped it.
He stared at it, barely noticing when Mike left, closing the door behind him. His name, Adam, was scripted across the front in flowing handwriting, reminiscent of Elizabethan elegance. He ran his fingers over it. There was definitely no indication that an elderly hand had written it. It was written with a bold and strong flourish, in near calligraphy, actually.
"Well, are you going to open it?" Joe asked over his shoulder.
"Of course I'm going to open it," Methos snapped. "Why wouldn't I open it?"
"Oh, I don't know. Just from where I'm standing, it looked like you were trying to psychically divine what was inside."
"Don't be ridiculous," Methos replied, his customary sarcasm back in place. "I was simply building the suspense."
"Right," Joe replied softly.
Methos rolled his eyes. Ignoring both Joe and his own unexplainable trepidation, he slipped a finger inside the edge and ripped the top open. Something made him careful not to disturb the address, however. He wanted to keep that intact.
Ignoring, for now, the flash of chain he saw, he pulled out the small slip of paper.
Adam,
Dreams really do come true. Just be careful what you wish for. It may not be exactly what you expect.
Ex-dreamer
He tried to laugh it off. This was obviously someone's idea of a joke, but he was too unsettled. The pain in the man's eyes, flashed once again in front of him and he wondered just what had put that pain there.
"Well," Joe asked impatiently, "what is it?"
Without turning, he handed the note to Joe, then upended the envelop over his palm. He gasped as the cold, time worn, necklace hit his hand. He hadn't seen craftsmanship like this, outside of museums, in over a millennia. The age of the piece alone made it worth a fortune. Add to that the metals used, assuming he was correct about them, the quality of the work, and how well it had withstood the passage of time, and what he held in his palm could finance a small country for a couple of years.
Joe laughed behind him. "Obviously someone is having a joke at your expense," he said, waving the note.
"That may be a joke, Joe," Methos whispered hoarsely. "But this isn't." He held up the delicately interwoven strands of silver, gold, and platinum, letting them dangle from the chain hung over his fingers.
"It's *beautiful*, Adam. But why..."
"I don't know, Joe. All I do know is, that if this is authentic, it's over 1700 years old."
"What?" Joe moved closer, reaching up to touch it, then pulling his hand back. "That's impossible. Isn't it?"
Methos just looked him, eyebrow quirked upward.
"That kind of metal smithing just wasn't available back then..." Joe said, letting his voice trail off in an almost question.
"You're right. At least, mostly right. There were a few, here and there, who knew how to create the parts to this."
Joe opened his mouth to protest, then snapped it shut. It was obvious, he wasn't sure whether to believe Methos or not.
"You'd be surprised, the knowledge that has been lost and then 'discovered' again, due to any number of reasons. War, natural disasters, plagues."
Joe nodded, conceding the point.
"The burning of the library at Alexandria," and here, Methos winced, "is a prime example. Ages of wisdom, literature, people's thoughts, dreams and ideas were lost when that travesty took place."
"Point made, Methos."
Part Two
Methos wandered, with no specific destination in mind. He should book himself a room, and sort out this strange mood there, but for some reason he just didn't want to isolate himself quite that much. Instead, he shoved his hands in his pockets and pulled the coat more snugly about him.
His fingers curled around the necklace he'd put there before leaving Joe's. He half pulled it out, but shoved it back in instead and snatched his hand out, crossing his arms across his chest. He didn't like the beautiful thing. It reminded him of the past. He didn't like thinking about his past; at least not most of it.
What he hadn't told Joe, was the fact that he hadn't just seen this type of jewelry before, he'd this specific piece of jewelry. Mehal Valcona, that was the man's name. He'd run across Mehal quite by accident in...
***Methos drew his horse to an abrupt halt as he felt the sensation of another immortal wash over him. He quickly scanned the land around him, but could find no trace of the immortal he could feel.
Obviously, whoever it was wanted to remain hidden and that suited him just fine. He'd taken enough heads in his lifetime that the thrill had long since left the activity. He shuddered briefly as scenes of the Horseman's camp flashed through his mind. He ruthlessly blocked them out. That was the past. That wasn't him anymore.
Now, he'd just as soon be left to his own devices. With a mental shrug and remaining wariness he urged his horse to move again. It didn't take long to discover that the presence he'd felt was ahead of him. He stopped again, well outside the arbitrary outlines of the camp.
He waited.
The man didn't move.
He frowned. Was the man an idiot? Or was it that he simply didn't care if he lost his head? Did he not know what he was? No, that wasn't possible. The strength of the quickening he sensed said he was either quite old, or had taken an inordinate number of heads. A hundred questions ran through his mind like quicksilver, none of them getting answered by just sitting here.
Just as he was about to dismount, a more insidious thought worked its way into his thoughts. Perhaps he was simply that confident. Now *that* didn't sit well, and he found himself caught in a moment of indecision.
Then he was treated to a pair of anguished brown eyes looking up at him. The look tore at a place in his heart he'd thought sealed up and buried centuries ago. He remembered *feeling* that look.
Without thought, he suddenly found himself on the ground and striding purposely towards the forlorn man and the warming fire. It was an odd sensation striding up to an obviously experienced (strange) immortal and watch as he didn't move from his cross-legged position on the ground. Only his eyes moved, and they tracked him thoughtfully, never once breaking eye contact.
"What are you about?" Methos demanded suddenly, as he came to a halt across the fire from him. The unblinking stare he was being treated to was unsettling to say the least. The other immortal hadn't even made so much as a twitch toward his sword.
"I don't owe you any answers, stranger. If you're going to do it, then do it."
An earlier Methos would have lunged, driving his sword into the man's belly. Then waited until he revived. When *that* Methos asked a question, it got answered. *That* Methos almost struggled loose. He didn't like being off balance and this immortal's strange behavior was doing just that, putting him off balance.
He waited, waging a silent war on two fronts.
Finally he heard a deep and heartfelt sigh. "It used to be so simple. You ran across another immortal. You fought. One of you died and one of you walked away."
Methos waited, but got nothing further.
Then; "What do you want from me?"
Methos' eyes narrowed. "Why do you want to die? Truly die?" It was incomprehensible to him. Yes, there had been times where the thought had briefly crossed his mind, too many times. Occasion after occasion had resulted in heart rending, gut searing pain so deep that he felt death was the only way to expunge it from his system. But he'd *always* brushed that aside, hard won experience having taught him that no pain lasts forever.
Sometimes he came out of it on his own. Sometimes it took the approach of another immortal, but, in the end, his sense of self preservation always reared its head when any death wish he may have came even close to being a reality. He could truly imagine no pain that wouldn't eventually end, no thing worth having that was worth dying for, at least not permanently.
The man's eyes dropped and he stared at hands that seemed unable to remain still. Methos watched curiously as he, obviously, tried to sort out how to explain.
He looked up suddenly, his eyes taking on an intense, piercing fire. "Have you ever gotten *exactly* what you wished for?"
Methos opened his mouth to answer but the other, waved him back to silence.
"I have. It was *the* single most exhilarating experience of my long life."
Methos' jaw dropped open. All *this* was over some broken **LOVE**? He snorted. "If it was that exhilarating, why are you in the...depths of despair now?" He asked scornfully. *Love*, as far as he was concerned was vastly overrated. A new concept, relatively, and he had yet to see it as anything more than temporary lust of the body and the mind's captivation by something new.
"Of course not."
That was better.
"This," he said with a negligent wave of his hand to indicate himself, and their current situation, "is because it ended, precisely because of what I wished for." He buried his face in his hands, apparently forgetting that Methos was even there. "All I wished, was that she loved me as much as I loved her. I...I didn't realize when I wished that, that I loved her enough to die for her."
He looked up beseechingly at Methos. "I only wanted a love that would last my immortal lifetime. Was that really too much to want?"
Methos snorted again. "Yes," he answered frankly. "Love is a myth." He saw fire rise in the man's eyes, but it died quickly.
"Obviously, you've never been in love."
"Of course not, how can one experience a myth? Oh there have been people that I've lusted after, would have given an awful lot to spend a couple of decades getting to know. But that isn't love, because love isn't real."
"I pity you."
"What?" Methos yelled, nearly reaching for his sword right then and there. "*You*, the one whose sitting there, begging for death," (Methos privately thought that rather ironic.) "says he pities *me*?"
"Yes, for all that I want to die now, it was glorious while it lasted."
Methos rolled his eyes. "Well then, live for it to happen again." Gods, he hated maudlin. He really didn't want this suicidal idiot's quickening rolling around inside him. He had enough of his own grief and confusion to deal with, thank you very much. He started to turn away, giving up on spending the night at the comfort of a fire.
"You'll never understand," he whispered forlornly, then dove toward his sword.
Rolling as he hit the ground, he was up on his feet and in a ready position before Methos could do more than draw his own sword from its sheath. Shit, that man was quick!
"What, in the nine planes of hell, do you think you're doing?"
"I'm not giving you a choice. If you don't kill me, I'll kill you."
Methos dodged the first tentative swing, not even bothering to block it with his sword. "Oh, I believe that. If you kill me, you'll still be alive."
"I'll just find someone else," he answered and began to fight in earnest.
**
Methos was sweating profusely now, his previous amused irritation, quickly turning to anger. His opponent certainly wasn't fighting like a man who wanted to lose. In fact, Methos was beginning to worry, just a little, that *he* was the one who wouldn't walk away from this encounter.
That'll teach me to get involved; he berated himself silently as their swords clashed time and time again, each inflicting bloody wounds on the other, when one or the other didn't block swiftly enough. One more lunge and the two grappled together, swords locked together. They pushed apart, both ending up off balance and landing on their asses.
"Who are you?" Methos gasped out, as he crawled to his feet, just as slowly as his opponent.
"Mehal Valcona," he replied, equally breathlessly. The sword point came up again. "You?"
"Methos," he answered, astonishing himself. He hadn't admitted to that name in almost three centuries.
Mehal's eyes widened a fraction. "Well, it seems I chose well then."***
To this day, he didn't know what had prompted him to give Mehal his real name. His fingers clenched around the necklace in his pocket. 'Now when had he put his hand back in there?'
He pulled it out, staring at it as his feet continued on without his guidance. Mehal had thrown the necklace on the ground at Methos' feet, just before his head was separated from his body. His last words, once again rang in Methos' ears. "Be careful what you wish for."
He'd sold the blasted thing, of course. He didn't have any use for so called wishes. (Even if he had believed that the necklace would grant them, which he hadn't.) He still didn't. Why then, did he still have this niggling sense of...unease or perhaps maybe it was fearful anticipation. He shook his head, dropping the necklace back into his pocket.
He blinked in surprise when it registered exactly where he was. The Dojo stood squarely in front of him, his hand already on the door handle. He snatched it back as if it burned him. He shook his head. What in bloody hell was wrong with him? He reached out, and opening the door, strode across the darkened room. It would be good to see MacLeod again.
The end
Continue to sequel
Return to highlander Index
Return to Main Index
