Immortal Files - Gesith 2 - Sword Thane
Send feedback to: - manbeast@talk21.com
Rating - PG-13 (some violence plus profanity)
Sequel to Gesith
Keywords:(X-Over XFiles)
Character listing: - Tommo Warren (OIC), Katherine Choi (OIC), Mulder, Scully, the MacLeods, Joe Dawson, Richie Ryan, Amanda, Methos plus assorted Immies and Watchers

An upsurge in Renegade Watcher activity leaves Duncan and Mulder with
matching blood stains, Scully with a new fragrance (not strawberry), Joe
feeling nervous and Richie with a girl friend. 

Right lets get rid of the legal bit first. 

Copyright and Legal Information
Highlander © 1986 Highlander Productions Ltd. All rights reserved.
Highlander Television Series © 1993 Gaumont Television. All rights reserved.

"Highlander" and its associated names and characters are the trademarks
and property of Davis/Panzer Productions, Inc. All rights reserved. 

All the X-files stuff belong to Chris Carter et al and no infringement on
their intellectual Copyright , etc is intended. 

Anything else is copyright D. K. Wilkinson and is available for personal
appearances, opening supermarkets, shopping malls and church fetes, bar
mitzas etc so long as they are returned reasonably intact. 

Many thanks to Daniel Butter for writing the excellent Immortal Files
series which inspired me to fire this off.  This is what you get for half
finishing a story and putting the most hated expression in any language,
"To Be Continued" at the end of it.  Those of us with withdrawal symptoms
go off and write our own. 

Because I still don't quite know what the US ratings for movies actually
mean I'll rate this using the UK system as 12, suitable for those over
that age (moderate violence and strong language). 

Feedback gracefully appreciated but keep it civil, I can't guarantee I'll
be the only person to read it. 

Immortal Files - Gesith 2 - Sword Thane 2/3


North York Moors, North Yorkshire, England. 

It was, Tommo reflected one of his favourite places. When he was a kid and
he'd needed to get away to think about something, or more likely to avoid
trouble he'd always had a number of places close to home where he'd hole
up. When he'd got older and passe d his driving test he had gone farther
afield until one day whilst courting a girl whose face he could barely
remember he'd found this place just off the Castleton to Hutton le Hole
road across the moors. It was a short stretch of tarmac concealed from th
e main road by a rise in the land. During the shooting season the nobs
who'd forked out thousands to shoot the grouse would park their Rolls
Royces, Jaguars, Range Rovers, BMW's etc. here whilst they tramped the
short distance to the shooting butts. At th is time of year however it was
deserted except for the usual black faced sheep and their lambs, turned
loose by farmers despite the unfenced roads to graze all over the moors. A
number of them lacking any road sense would be killed each year yet the
pract ice continued. A number of ewes along with their lambs used to
tourists generosity had hung about hopefully in the expectation of being
fed but eventually the man's total disinterest in them encouraged them to
go back to nibbling on the grass verge and su nbathing on the tarmac. 

Sitting there on the bonnet of his rental car Tommo gazed across the
moors, purple with heather in full bloom. He had his overcoat pulled
tightly around him, fortunately for him it was a dark colour which
concealed to the eyes of the casual passer by the blood stains across its
front. His shirt, the one he'd borrowed from his father was not so lucky
been white and thus ruined. The chest wound had been hideously painful
although to Tommo the worst part about it had been the blood he'd found
himself spittin g out. 

He'd come here to think in the peace of the moors. After throwing the girl
he'd found behind the gravestones into the trunk of the car he'd driven
around for almost an hour. At first he'd driven aimlessly but eventually
he'd found himself taking the moor road finally turning off here. At times
like this he wished he smoked, it had always seemed in the movies he'd
watched as a kid that the hero when uncertain about a course of action
always lit a fag to help himself sort out the problem. 

Now with his temper almost gone he could think clearly. The girl in the
trunk obviously knew about this whole business, she'd even shouted his
name, the one by which most of his friends called him. How much else did
she know?  She was a Yank, her accent
 betrayed that, along with the one he'd questioned in the graveyard. 

The one who he'd murdered. 

He sighed at the thought. The man had been dying, that had been plain from
the wounds he'd taken. From the way the other had been unable to move his
legs Tommo guessed that one of the shotgun pellets had severed his spinal
column whilst the other, judging
 by the bloody froth on his lips had penetrated the lungs. 

Yet he was unable to convince himself that his killing of the man had been
an act of mercy, like shooting a horse with a broken leg say.  No, in the
end he'd killed the bastard for what him and his mates had done to mam's
grave, for what they'd done in t hat graveyard where his ancestors for six
generations were buried. And finally for reminding him what he'd always
tried to forget. That Anne Warren hadn't been his real mother, that the
graves there weren't those of his blood relatives, that when all was said
and done, that in reality and in the eyes of god and man he was the
bastard. 

In his last moments the gunman had tried to taunt him with his
illegitimacy, only to find it was old news. "I should have let you live,"
Tommo whispered to himself, "knowing that you'd failed to get me, failed
to hurt me with yer news. I suffered that hur t a long time ago." 

Another thing was worrying him, the fact that he felt nothing about the
actual killings. When he'd first started in this immortal insanity killing
someone, mortal or immortal, would cause him to feel nauseous and barely
capable of controlling his stomach. 
 And now, now he felt nothing aside from some vague regret. 

Reaching inside his coat he pulled out the mobile phone he'd taken from
his prisoner. He looked at the re-dial button. "Who were you ringing that
were more important than legging it," he spoke to himself again, sometime
he found the clarity of his thought
 improved if he spoke it out loud. Must be her boss, he decided, who else
would you ring if an assassination went wrong. 

'Right enough of that,' he thought to himself, sliding off the bonnet and
pulling the shotgun out from under his coat, 'time to get to work. Time to
question the bitch in the boot before yer go soft hearted on her. Think
about the ruined gravestones, the ruined shirt, the family get together
yer can't attend thanks to the bitch and her mates, think about them, keep
thinking about them so you don't go soft on her.'

He broke open the shotgun breech and removed the two expended cartridges.
'Idiot,' he thought to himself, 'you should have reloaded.' He reached
into his pocket for fresh cartridges, then paused and withdrew his hand
from the pocket without any. 'I've kil led enough for one day, Christ I've
killed enough for a bloody life time.'


By the time Louise had gotten over the shock of been rudely bundled into
the boot the car had been in motion. Following an old Watcher maxim, when
in doubt observe, she'd tried to guess from what she could feel and hear
in the darkness of the boot where i t was Tommo was driving to. From the
speeds he was driving she guessed that he was sticking to motorways and
rural roads, avoiding built-up areas and lower speed limits. Suddenly at
one point the entire car vibrated as if the vehicle was been driven acros
s a grid.  A short time later the car suddenly slowed and then turned onto
a rough stretch of road that felt more like a farm track than any thing
else. 

The car door opened and closed, she braced herself in expectation of been
hauled out of the car boot and then being interrogated or else killed. She
clamped down firmly on her fear. 

'This is Tommo, Thomas Warren holding you prisoner,' she said to herself,
'perhaps he's capable of killing when angry or under attack, but he isn't
capable of killing helpless people.'

'At least,' another more pessimistic broke in at this point, 'not while
we've been watching him.'

The car lurched slightly causing her some confusion until she realised
that Tommo must now be seated on the car bonnet. 

Time passed slowly in the car boot and despite her uncomfortable position
Louise had almost dozed off when she felt the car lurch again as Tommo
slid off the bonnet. Even as she was adjusting to this the car suddenly
reverberated as something hard thumped
 the lid of the boot above her head. As her ears were still ringing from
the concussion the lid lifted suddenly, the sunlight flooding into the
boot. Above her Tommo loomed, his coat unbuttoned to reveal a bloody
shirt, the short, deadly sawn off shotgun held in his left hand and
pointed menacingly at her. His face was pale but composed and he had
removed the make-up that added twenty years to him. 

"You, out, now!" the voice was harsh and there was a great anger present
in it. 

The Watcher emerged nervously from the car boot, her eyes fixed on the
shotgun pointed at her. 

'Careful,' she thought to herself, 'you may think you know him, you may
think you know which way he'll jump on any specific issue, but be honest
with yourself you've never seen him under this kind of pressure before.'

She stood by the open car boot under the angry gaze of the immortal. Some
of her hair had escaped from the pins which had held it up under the now
discarded wig. As she pushed a few strands away from her face she found
herself painfully aware of how she m ust look to the immortal in front of
her.  'Wait a minute, why should I care what he thinks of my appearance,'
the thought came to her, 'I just watch him.'

Before she could follow this line of thought any further Tommo broke the
silence. 

"Yer hair suits yer better that colour." 

"Thank you," the compliment was totally unexpected. During her time in the
boot she'd come up with any number of opening gambits for the immortal to
try during his forthcoming interrogation of her. This was one she hadn't
expected.

"Who are you." 

Examining the question she could see no harm in telling him that. 

"Louise Alison." 

"A Yank." 

"I'm from Cincinnati." 

"Like WKRP?" 

"Yes, sort of." 

"How long have you been following me," he asked. Louise remained quiet.
His eyes narrowed thoughtfully, "I remember you from the bloody plane, you
were sat a few rows back. When we hit that turbulence I almost ended up in
yer lap." A sudden wry grin appea red on the immortal's face, "I almost
wish I had."

The grin disappeared almost as quickly as it arrived, "I wants to know how
long you buggers have been following me," the tone of his voice hardening. 

"I'm sorry I can't tell you that."  She found herself staring at the man's
face rather than the shotgun, trying desperately to put her training in
reading expressions and body language to some use. Besides which there was
a certain fascination in her gaz e, she'd never been or expected to get
this close to an immortal before. 

The shotgun came up, "it's rude to stare." 

"Oh, I'm sorry," she apologised finding herself adding before she could
stop herself, "it's just that we're not supposed to get this close to one
of you." 

"Before you killed us," the words were spat out, the shotgun waving as in
emphasis. 

"No! We don't interfere in the Game, we only watch and record." 

"Ha!" Tommo shoved the shotgun under her nose, forcing her to back into
the car boot and causing her to rear up on her toes when she could retreat
no further. "You watch and record, until yer ready to terminate us, that's
the right word isn't it, very CIA . I'll expect you have some links with
them, don't yer!" 

"No!" Louise found herself pushing the shotgun barrels away from her and
thrusting her face towards her captor, "I don't care what you've been
told, we...do...not...interfere." 

Tommo plucked at his ruined shirt, "so what the fucking hells this then,
scotch bloody mist!" 

"I don't know," Louise almost sobbed the words out, "I honestly don't
know." She sensed instinctively that if she revealed there had been
earlier renegades things could only get much worst. 

"All right, if yer not going to talk I'll tell yer what I worked out on me
own. Yer part of a secret society, yer not got any formal links with
governments, I can tell that from the tattoos, no government body could be
so melodramatic. Yer must be a fairl y ancient group because that kind of
shit usually goes with age and yer fairly wealthy cos us Immortals we
travel around a lot. Yer probably bin watching me since I met Liam,
although yer must have lost me when I hid in the Rockies. You found me
again whe n I killed Paddy Gallacher. How am I doing so far?" 

Louise was silent, so far Tommo had delivered a pretty accurate summary of
the work of the Watchers. 

He continued, "you probably watch us for a few years to see if we link up
with immortals yer don't know about before yer target us for
termination..." 

"No! We only observe and chronicle, that's all we do, that's all we're
supposed to do." 

"Bullshit, yer nowt but a bloody liar," Tommo stated angrily.  "What about
this morning, what about the graveyard full of dead Yanks with Tommy guns
n' funny tattoos on their wrists, what about that then." 

"I don't know," Louise stated, "they're Watchers like me but we're not
supposed to get involved." 

"It's probably the graveyard, yer must kill us on holy ground cos that's
where we're most safe. Or is it a religious thing?"

Louise had to grit her teeth to stop herself grinding them in frustration.
All her observations of Tommo, all her readings of his file had convinced
her he was a reasonable man, that if she insisted on the truth long enough
he would eventually come round. 
 But not only was he refusing to accept her version of the truth, he
seemed to arriving at his own flawed version, a version which was very
plausible indeed. She tried again desperately. 

"Tommo, we're not your enemies, if we'd wanted to kill you we could have
done it years ago. Those men were renegades, we're not supposed to get
involved with either you or the Game. You have to believe me." 

"Believe you," Tommo snorted angrily grabbing her roughly by the shoulder,
"tell that to me mother's grave you bitch!" With that he dropped the gun,
grabbed one leg and heaved her straight back into the car boot. The lid
slammed down heavily causing the e ntire car to rock violently. 


For a long moment he stood there breathing heavily. 

"You almost lost it there, Tommo lad," he muttered to himself. 

"That yer did." 

The voice came from the direction of the main road. Despite his surprise
he didn't turn to face it, he knew that voice, knew it well. 

"Hello Mags, how long have yer bin listening." 

"Long enough. Are yer allus this rough with yer girl friends." 

"Oh aye," Tommo turned to face his younger sister, "regular Marguis de
Sade me." 

By now she'd descended the bank that cut the lay-by off from the main road
and was close enough to see the ruins of his shirt. 

"Jesus Christ Tommo, what have yer bin up to." 

"None of yer business Mags."  He buttoned up his coat to hide the bloody
mess. 

"It is my business, we're family, remember! And even if we weren't some
bastard's just shot the shit out of our mam's gravestone and I wants to
know the reason why!" 

For a long moment brother and sister stared at each other. Margaret Wears
nee Warren was shocked at the state of her brother. The blood stained
shirt he was wearing was one of Dad's yet he showed no sign of the effects
of what must have been a serious inj ury. In fact his hair had lost its
grey flecks and his face was the clear unlined face of a man in his
twenties.  From a distance she'd thought he was wearing make up but now,
up close she was beginning to realise that he wasn't. 

"What the hell is going on!" 

Tommo signed, "look Sis, I've got involved in some dangerous stuff whilst
I were away. It weren't deliberate but that makes no difference to some
people." 

"Like the girl in the trunk?" 

"Yeah, she's a part of it." 

"Yer not gonna kill her are yer?" There was real worry in Mag's voice. She
could cope with many things but not her big brother been a cold blooded
killer. 

"Nah, I'm not a murderer, yer should know me better than that, Mags." 

"I thought I knew yer, now I got me doubts. How many have yer killed?" 

Tommo was silent for a moment then he spoke, "those three bastards in the
graveyard knocked me into double figures. I don't want to kill Mags, but I
will to protect meself." 

"Why Tommy, why should anyone want to kill yer." Mags genuinely wanted to
know, whilst her brother had hardly been an angel growing up he'd always
had enough sense not to get himself over his head. "Is it this gang or
whatever yer involved with?" 

"What gang?" For a moment Mags was almost sure she saw some confusion on
her brother's face. 

"These Immortals or whatever yer call them, I heard yer mention them n'
the girl in the trunk said she were a Watcher." 

For a moment there was a silence then Tommo gave a wry chuckle, "yeah
Mags, I suppose gangs is a good way of describing us. Only the gang I'm in
initiated me the day I were born." 

Mags looked at her brother in confusion, "what....." 

Tommo cut in, this had gone on long enough, "now if yer'll excuse me I
must be motoring." He headed towards the driver's door of his rental car. 

"Tommy wait," Mags words drew her brother's attention. In one hand she
held out a sheet of paper. "It's a list of our birthdays and addresses,
this time you will remember to write brother, or, God help me, I'll track
yer down meself." 

A sad smile crossed Tommo's face as he walked the few yards to accept the
sheet of paper, "I'll write this time Sis, I promise." 

"Yer'd better our kid," Mags said, tears running down her face as she
pulled her brother into a fierce embrace. "You take care of yerself Tommy,
and come home soon." 

"I will Mags, yer have me word on that." 

Releasing his sister from his embrace, and disengaging himself from her
arms he walked without looking back to his vehicle. Starting the engine he
guided it back to the main road and drove off in the direction of
Castleton. On the far side of that Moors t own he took another road, which
was almost a cart track and pulled over to the side. Getting out he walked
round to the boot and opened it. 

"Shift over, " he said in a tone of voice that brooked no disagreement and
as the Watcher moved over he grabbed the bag she'd been sharing the boot
with, lifted it out and then slammed the lid back down. 

Back in the car he changed into his only other good shirt, throwing the
bloody one out onto the grass verge. Let the police find it if they could,
it was after all his father's with only the blood stains to link him to
it. No for better or for worst Thoma s Warren was dead now. It was an
identity he could no longer use. Another black mark against Louise Alison
and her Watchers. 

He looked at the phone, this must link the Watchers with their bosses,
now's the time to use it! 



Seacouver

Joe Dawson was now on his fourth cup of coffee. Since receiving the
details of the bloody fight in Upleatham graveyard in a transatlantic
phonecall from John Harrison he'd been busy following up the names. Now he
was a seriously worried man. 

Phillip Solomons and Henry Dalton were both ex-Watchers. They'd been
dismissed after the Horton Incident, although they were suspected of
involvement nothing could be proved against them. The council had taken
the decision to be merciful and merely dismis s them from the
organisation. That Joe was coming to believe was a mistake. 

Paul Mancini was a different kettle of fish. Not only was he still an
active member of the organisation, he was also the man largely responsible
for the last upgrade of the Watcher database. Although Joe used computers
and databases he would never have th e nerve to claim to be an expert.
However he had heard that sometimes gifted and unscrupulous computer
programmers could leave themselves back doors into the systems they'd been
working on 'just in case.' This, he suspected, was how the renegades had
been
 able to keep a careful track on the movements of Tommo Warren. 

Besides him the phone went. Picking up the handset with his attention
still fixed on the screen in front of him he said, "Joe Dawson, can I help
you." 

"No Joe Dawson," the voice with the English accent at the other end of the
line spat the words out, "I think you've done enough for one day. I'm just
ringing you to let you know that yer boys are dead.  They failed Dawson,
better luck next time." 

"Mr Warren? Mr Warren I'm glad you rang me, we need to talk." Joe spoke
quickly into the phone, Tommo Warren's file said that he was a reasonable
man, if he could just persuade him...…

"No talking Dawson, yer boys shot the shit out of me mam's headstone, no
talking." 

"Wait, what about Louise, Louise Alison your Watcher, let me speak to
her." 

An evil chuckle came down the phone, "sorry Dawson, she's indisposed." 

"What do you....." 

"Me Dad allus said if yer want to kill a snake yer should stamp on its
head. I'm coming for yer Dawson, make your will, yer don't have long." 

With that the line went dead. 

Joe swore violently and hit the redial button, he had to talk to Tommo, he
had to try and talk him out of this. He got an engaged tone. He continued
trying for nearly twenty minutes before giving up on it. 


North York Moors, North Yorkshire, England

The ewe with her half grown lamb stiffened as she heard the funny noise.
She was an old animal and despite been semi-domesticated had learnt over
the years to be wary of funny noises. The lamb however was curious and
soon its questing nose found the black
 plastic box lying behind a clump of heather. The sounds it knew were
those made by humans. 

"On the third stroke the time will be eight, forty three and thirty
seconds precisely." 

The dumb animal had no way of knowing it was listening to the time in
Boston, thousands of miles away. 


Joe's Bar, Seacouver

When Joe Dawson had been recruited into the Watchers it had been accepted
that the nature of his disability would limited to a certain degree the
activities he could undertake.  The Immortals he'd 'watched' had always
been those of a more sedentary nature .  Although all of them like MacLeod
had been in good physical shape they had been to a greater or lesser
extent creatures of habit, homebodies with a set routine easy for a man
whose legs were decomposing thousands of miles away to keep up with. 

As he'd got older his proven ability had moved Joe into the paths of an
administrator and supervisor.  He spent less time in the field and more as
a researcher, whereas once he'd followed the Game using eyesight and
binoculars, now instead he used the fac ilities of his state of the art
Personal Computer.

After making a quick phone call he returned to work on the computer. 
Working quickly he accessed the relevant files again.  He was staring at
them when a thumping on the outside door indicated he that his earlier
phone call had bore fruit.  Pushing himse lf to his feet Joe grabbed his
stick and moving to the door let Methos in. 

"What's so dammed important you have to drag me out of bed at this
unearthly hour," the eldest living Immortal grumbled as he came into the
room.  His eyes were bleary and his clothes looked like they'd been slept
in, not surprising considering the state he'd been in when Joe had
persuaded him to go home last night. 

"Sorry Methos, it's an emergency." 

"It usually is at this time of the night," the other complained, "why
can't you have emergencies at a civilised hour for once." 

Realising he was going to get no sense out of Methos unless he did
something drastic Joe did just that.  He played the tapes of his most
recent telephone calls. 

After they finished playing Methos stayed silent, staring at the wall. 
Eventually he spoke. 

"Looks like you need to do some house cleaning again Joe." 

"Tell me about it," Joe admitted. 

"So what are you doing?" 

"This," Joe indicated the computer with a wave of his hand.  "I'm
accessing everything we have on Thomas Warren so as to get some idea of
his next move." 

Methos stratched his chin.  He remembered hearing Duncan talking last
night about the Immortal in question.  He said "I hate to say this Joe but
I think he's coming for you." 

Joe received the news with a sinking heart, "I was rather hoping this was
just bluster." 

"It isn't, this lad's one of Liam O'Shae's apprentices and from what I
remember of him he didn't encourage those he trained to run away from a
fight." 

"He spent nearly twenty years in the Rockies trying to avoid that tag team
that were after him."  Joe stated the fact hopefully. 

"Yeah," Methos agreed, "but in the end he did hunt them down."  Getting up
to his feet the Immortal paced the carpet, "what we have to do is to try
to guess what is he going to do next, will he come straight for you on the
next flight or will he instead t ake his time hoping you'll drop your
guard."  Methos suddenly stopped pacing, "if I believed there was a
conspiracy to hunt down and kill immortals the first thing I'd do would be
to warn all my friends about it." 

"After disposing of your Watcher first," Joe said quietly. 

Methos turned to look at Joe, "you think he's killed this Watcher of his?" 

"I don't know, I honestly don't know," Joe replied, "from what I've read
in his file I'd say no, yet...."  he hesitated for a moment. 

"I know," Methos replied.  He'd just sat here and listened to the phone
calls made both by the immortal and by the girl who watched him.  One
fact, confirmed by the phone call from Joe's English contacts was obvious,
Warren had killed an injured man, poss ibly after interrogating him. 
Methos wasn't squeamish about that kind of thing; if a stranger had tried
to kill him he'd have done exactly the same in order to find out why. 
However this did hint at a certain ruthlessness which would appear to
surface
 under certain stimuli and importantly to his mind, was in direct
contradiction of what Joe said was in the files. 

"So the question is what are you going to do about these little problems
you've got, I am referring of course to both your internal discipline
problem and your maniac with a sword after you problem." 

"The first is already been dealt with," Joe stated grimly, "I've passed
everything on to other Tribunal members who even now are checking the
records of the dead men to try and ascertain if they are part of a larger
conspiracy.  It's been agreed that I sh ould concentrate on the Tommo
Warren problem.  I'm going to notify all the Watchers currently out on
assignment to watch out for him and report as soon as they see him.  I'm
going to place all the people I can spare to watch airports both here and
on the east coast." 

"You'll be sending some of them to their deaths," Methos stated bluntly. 
"Warren knows you'll be watching for him, knows he's likely to be under
surveillance from the minute he sets foot in this country.  Anyone who
takes too close an interest in him is likely to end up dead!  Besides
which we both know you haven't got the manpower to cover all the likely
airports.  I mean what if he comes in from Canada or Mexico?  The way I'd
slip into the country would be to catch a plane to the Canadian mid-west,
ren t a car and slip in over the border from there.  You can't cover all
the border crossings up there and he'll know that." 

Joe sighed, "so what do you suggest then?" 

Methos rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth, "have you got some
beers in Joe?" 

Without a word Joe limped to his kitchen where he pulled two bottles from
the fridge.  Returning to the front room he offered one to Methos who
accepted it silently and then proceeded to down half the contents. 

"Firstly you're going to need some heavy duty muscle to protect you.  I
think that'd better be MacLeod, the boy scout is the best fighter I know
and god only knows he's had enough experience in the bodyguard business. 
Ryan and me can fill in for him if n eeds be." 

"Secondly you're going to have to find some volunteers to cover the
airport.  You'd better find some experienced Watchers for this, girls just
out of training will not do.  Tell them their only job is to watch for
Warren, they're not to follow him anywher e.  They've only got to ring you
to let you know he's in the city, nothing else.  We'll take it from
there." 

"Thirdly you're going to have to get someone to watch his apartment in
Boston.  Your missing Watcher mentions that he didn't appear to take his
sword with him when he crossed the ocean so my bet is that he'll attempt
to retrieve it if he thinks the risk i s worth it.  Give them the same
instructions as the airport watchers above.  They're going to have to be
very careful because he's going to expect someone to be watching his
apartment." 

Joe shuddered at the thought of the danger the luckless watcher who had to
watch the apartment would be in.  "Shouldn't we watch the airport there as
well?" he asked to divert his mind from that line of thought. 

"No point, there are any number of ways our boy could go to Boston, by air
to Boston, New York, Washington, Montreal, and points north and south, he
might also come in by ship to anyone of a dozen or more harbours." 

Joe nodded, whilst a lot of Methos said were options he'd already
considered it helped him to have the other lay them down in order.  That
way he could check to see if he'd missed anything.  Besides which if you
ask someone for help it's only polite to li sten to them. 

"Fourthly we're going to have to talk to this house guest of MacLeod's,
she's the only person I know who's spent any time with this Tommo, perhaps
we can get a handle on how his minds works." 

"She won't be very co-operative," Joe warned, "Warren is her mentor after
all." 

"I know," Methos admitted, "we'll just have to be at our charming best and
keep our fingers crossed." 

"I'll call his old Watcher as well, Louise hasn't been covering him for
long whereas John Harrison watched both him and Liam for years." 

"You do that," Methos agreed, "and whilst you're at it you can ask him why
he never recorded that Tommo carried a piece." 

"I'll do that," Joe agreed. 

"And finally," Methos concluded, "we'll start the damage limitation.  We
need to make a list of all the other immortals Tommo might feel he has to
warn about the secret society that hunts them." 

Silently Joe handed him a sheet of paper. 

"That few?"  Methos asked. 

Joe nodded. 

"Hmm, both the MacLeods, well that's easily sorted, we're just about to
ring Duncan and Connor is supposed to be in the far east and will most
likely ring Duncan to warn him before doing anything rash.  This Mulder
and Scully, are these two those ex-feds
 who live in Chicago?"  Joe threw him a puzzled look, "Connor mentioned it
to Duncan who mentioned it to me some years back.  Immortals gossip worse
than Watchers sometimes." 

"They could be the solution to our Boston headache," Joe replied, "they're
both trained investigators with considerable stakeout experience, they
already know about the Watchers and most importantly they're friends of
Tommo so he'll probably give them a c hance to talk to him." 


Outside Berwick, Northumberland, England

The reporter was crouched down hugging a red brick wall.  Behind him was
an expanse of dirty brown water with houses vaguely visible through the
smoky air. 

"This is about as close as we can get to the fighting, at least as close
as we can get and still be reasonably safe," the reporter almost shouted
the word so as to be heard over the noise of fighting coming from the far
bank of the river.  "Behind me is t he south bank of the river Tweed where
Scottish militia men are currently exchanging fire with English volunteers
who are defending the approaches to the disputed town of Berwick. 
Scottish commanders are confident that within the next few hours they will
 have isolated the town from the south where considerable English forces
are expected to be massing." 

"Bob," the network anchor, a blonde and attractive young woman back in the
studio raised her voice so as to impress on the viewers the gravity of the
position of the reporter and his camera crew.  "Bob, have you yet found
out who started the shooting?" 

"The Scots around me all claim that the English started the shooting
first, indeed the first recorded fatalities have been claimed to be
Scottish." 

"We're hearing here Bob, English claims that one of their patrols
investigating a possible border incursion across the Tweed were fired upon
by a group of men on their side of the river.  They say that their patrol
returned fire only to cover its withdraw al to their own positions." 

"Things are so confused around here that I get the feeling that we'll
never find out just who fired the first shots." 


De Salvos Gym, Seacouver

"Oh yes we will," Duncan muttered grimly to himself, staring bleakly at
the television set, "it's just that it'll vary depending on which side
you're supporting in this stupidity." 

A pair of slender hands placed themselves on Mac's shoulders.  "So it's
started then," there was a deep note of sadness in Amanda's voice.  War
was so stupid, especially when it was between two peoples who'd managed to
live peacefully together for so long . 

Mac, unable to trust himself to speak, nodded. 

Amanda's hands slipped down and began to knead his tense shoulder muscles. 
Massages had always been a part of their foreplay, she knew from long
experience the sensual pleasure of it was guaranteed to smooth his
tensions away.  Normally her intention whe n she massaged him were erotic,
now for once the massage served to dull his grief at the stupidity
happening thousands of miles away. 

Across the room the phone rang.  Between the news on the television and
the massage Amanda was giving him Duncan didn't notice it until the third
ring. 

"Phone love," he said trying to disengage her hands. 

"I know," Amanda murmured, although her initial intention had been to
soove away Duncan's tensions the feel of his firm muscled shoulders
beneath her hands had turned her thoughts to other things. 

"It might be important." 

"It had better be ringing at this time of the morning," Amanda grumbled
releasing her grip on Duncan. 

Heaving himself out of his seat Duncan was barely on his feet when the
answer machine cut in, "hi this is Duncan MacLeod, leave a message after
the tone." 

"I wish you'd make up your mind," Amanda grumbled as, pretending to
misinterpret the answer phone she grabbed for his legs. 

"Now, now, lassie," Duncan laughed as he evaded her grab. 

Behind him the answer phone finished its tone. 

"MacLeod, this is Tommo Warren.  Three men tried to kill me this morning,
Said they were part of some cult which watches us then targets us for
elimination.  You're probably been watched as well so be careful." 

Duncan stared incredulous at the phone, then made a grab for the handset. 

"Give my love to Katherine, got to go." 

"No, wait," Duncan almost shouted down the handset.  Too late, all he got
for his trouble was a dialing tone.  "Damn!" he swore violently. 

"Renegades again," Amanda almost spat the words out. 

"Looks that way." 

Besides him the phone suddenly rang.  <It must be Tommo, please let it be
Tommo,> Duncan thought as he grabbed the handset. 

"Tommo, don't hang up," he said desperately into the phone. 

At the other end there was a silent then someone said with feeling,
"shit!" 

Duncan recognised the voice, "Methos?  What are you doing ringing me this
time of the morning." 

Methos sighed, "I'm ringing you for the same reason Mr Warren rang you. 
Joe would like to see you now, if that's convenient for you, and bring
Ryan and Katherine with you." 

"It's only just getting light," Duncan complained "and besides which
Richie and Katherine aren't here." 

"Looks like I'll have to ring him at home then, you do have Richie's
number don't you Joe?"  Joe's muffled voice at the other end of the line
agreed.  "If Amanda won't let you go just slap her hard on the butt a few
times, you know she likes it, then get dressed and come down to Joe's
place." 

"I heard that Methos!" Amanda had been eavesdropping on the telephone
call. 

"Whoops!" the eldest Immortal said insincerely, "just get your pants on
MacLeod and get your ass down here."  He then rang off. 

Duncan glared angrily at the silent phone in his hand, "I was going to
come down there anyway, " he said to no one in particular.  Replacing the
handset he turned to find that Amanda was making a beeline for the
bedroom.  "Where are you going?" 

"To get dressed, you don't think you're going on your own Highlander? 
Well do you?" 


Richie Ryans Apartment, Seacouver

The first rays of the sun coming through the open blinds awoke Richie
earlier than usual that morning.  <Good job we didn't bother with the
lights last night>, he thought, as a memory of the events of the previous
night brought a smile to his face.  Lying
 there he soon became aware that he was on his own.  Pushing himself up on
his elbows he could see where the sheets had been thrown back.  He was
about to go and investigate when he heard the toilet flushing.  Satisfied
he flopped back on the bed and re-r an the events of the previous night. 

Although strongly attracted to MacLeod's temporary student he had not
really intended to take her to bed that night.  At a later date perhaps
but not that night.  He possessed a strong, if carefully concealed sense
of chivalry that, despite certain elemen ts of his upbringing, meant that
he would never 'try it on' on a first date.  He'd also learnt early on in
life that if you expected to bed every girl you dated you were cruising
for an emotional bruising. 

There was though something odd about those sheets thrown back in haste
which drew his eyes.  Belatedly he realised that the splash of colour on
his white cotton sheets was red, blood red.  He looked up from the sheets
to see Katherine stood at the door wa tching him.  She was naked, her skin
turned a shadowy red in the rays of the rising sun.  Her long hair hung
down over her shoulders, she'd obviously taken time to comb out her sleep
tangles whilst completing her toilet. 

For a long moment their eyes met, then Katherine entered the room and
jumped into bed turning her face towards Richie. 

For a long moment in time the two stared at each other.  Although Richie
wanted to ask about the blood stain; he knew he couldn't pretend not to
have seen it; instinct told him that it was better to wait and let the
girl explain it in her own time. 

Finally she spoke, "the reason for the bloody sheets is quite simple," she
said, "when I died for the first time I was a virgin, my hymen was still
intact.  Every time after I've been with a man it reforms," although her
voice was clinical the look on her
 face was anything but. 

"Does it hurt, I mean, you know...."  Richie's voice trailed off. 

Bending forward Katherine gave him a long, slow kiss full on the mouth. 
Pulling back slightly she admitted, "sometimes, if I'm not....warmed up." 
She smiled at him, "last night you got me so ...warmed up I barely noticed
it." 

"I'm sorry." 

"Richie, if it was that painful to me you wouldn't have got past first
base." 

Smiling at the girl, as much out of relief both at finding out what the
cause was and that he hadn't hurt her, as anything else, Richie was busily
formulating a witty comment about trying for another home run when the
mobile on the bedside table rang.  I gnoring it he reached for Katherine. 

"Phone Richie," she murmured, eyes half closed as he commenced an
exploration of uncharted (for at least six hours) territory. 

"No chance," he growled, "let him find his own woman!" 

Katherine giggled.  Richie continued his explorations.  The phone
continued ringing. 


Methos was about to hang up when Richie finally answered the phone. 

"Busy," he asked sarcastically.  Having a shrewd idea what had delayed
Richie from answering the telephone he fully expected to get an earful of
abuse. 

"No, not really," came a slightly breathless reply down the phone, "I just
sleep very deeply having a clear conscience." 

"Oh, really, well Mr Clear Conscience we're having a bit of an emergency
here and we need you here along with Ms Choi." 

"Why what's," there was a sudden hesitation as if Richie had suddenly lost
his breath for some reason, "up Me..Adam." 

Methos bit down on his tongue to prevent himself asking bluntly what was
going on.  Rather he said, "just get your trousers on and get on down to
Joe's.  He'll answer all your questions."  And with that he hung up. 

"A bit abrupt weren't you?" 

Joe had been sat quietly listening to Methos's phone calls to Duncan
MacLeod and his former student. 

Methos shrugged, "one thing the boy scout and his impetuous sidekick have
in common is a streak of curiosity a mile wide.  It'll get them killed one
day no doubt but until then it can be useful to us." 

"Fine," Joe said, "in which case you can answer the door this time." 



Apartment of Victor Robbins and Dana Coury, Chicago

Somehow no matter how quickly she got to the phone, no matter how quietly
she sent the ring for, Mulder always knew when she'd received an emergency
call in the night. 

Looking up from slipping her shoes on Scully found him standing in the
doorway yawning. 

Before he could say anything Scully spoke, "that was the hospital, Mrs
Veazey has gone into labour early and she's asking for me." 

"Complications?" Mulder asked, smothering a yawn. 

"I don't think so, it's been a textbook pregnancy so far and she's about
due anyway.  I'm really only needed for moral support.  Go back to bed
Mulder, I probably won't be back until after breakfast." 

"OK Scully," he said as she went towards the door, "drive safely." 

As she went through the door Scully turned and gave him one of her rare
smiles, "don't worry Mulder, I'll be fine."  The door closed behind her. 

"But I will worry Scully," he said to the empty room as he felt the sense
of her Quickening disappear down the corridor, "I like worrying about you. 
It's what I do best."  Moving to the couch he switched on the TV.  Tuning
into CNN he took in the latest news from the Anglo-Scottish border, or
rather war.  Feeling slightly sick in his stomach he watched it for twenty
minutes before unable to take any more he switched it off. 

Getting to his feet Mulder disappeared back into his bedroom where he
quickly located his jogging gear.  He knew he wouldn't be able to get back
to sleep before Scully returned so instead he was going to put the time to
good use. 

A mere half hour after his red headed ex-partner had left Mulder followed
suit.  <A full five miles>, he thought to himself, <that should keep me
busy until breakfast>.  Half jogging, half walking down the corridor he
was too far away to hear the phone ri nging back in the apartment. 


On returning home after the successful delivery of a healthly baby boy
Dana Scully was not too surprised to see the familiar shape of her former
partner jogging through the rain two blocks short of the building where
their apartment was located.  Parking in her usual spot she sheltered in
the porch to their building whilst she waited for Mulder to negotiate the
early morning traffic on the last leg of his run. 

"Good morning Victor, " she greeted him, "couldn't you get back to sleep?" 

Mulder smiled at her, as usual he took some pleasure in gently reminding
her that whilst he could use her given name in public, she was forced to
use his assumed name. 

"Good morning Dana, it's such a beautiful morning I decided to go for a
run." 

"Really?" she said raising her right eyebrow in the Scully manner that
said: 'you're not fooling me for a minute.'

It was so reminiscent of their days in the x-files that Mulder suddenly
felt quite nostalgic. 

"Yes, really," Mulder took a deep breath, "I can just feel my arteries
singing with oxygen." 

"And carbon monoxide and lead and all the other junk thrown out by car
exhausts!" 

"That's right Sc...Dana," Mulder corrected himself, "take all the fun out
of it."  He didn't fail to notice the quick there and gone expression of
amusement that crossed Scully's face at his almost slip. 

Inside the apartment Mulder noticed in passing the flashing light on the
answer phone as he headed to the shower.  Scully on the other hand had
hung her coat up and dumped her bag before she belatedly perceived that
there had been a call whilst they were out. 

In the bathroom Mulder luxuriated in the warmth of the shower.  There was,
he reflected, only one good part to getting thoroughly soaked and that was
the hot shower afterwards. 

Suddenly through the soap in his ears he heard Scully shout, "Mulder! Get
out here." 

Grabbing a towel and not even bothering to dry himself he quickly padded
into the living room.  "What gives?" 

"Listen to this."  Scully's face was pale and grim, as if she'd received a
shock.  Pressing the playback button on the answer phone Mulder heard a
voice he recognised. 

"Mulder, Scully, this is Tommo Warren.  This morning I was attacked in a
graveyard by three men claiming to be part of a cult which hunts down and
kills immortals."  At this point some pips sounded, "Shit, bloody BT.  I
think they must have been watching
 me for years, so they're probably watching you too.  Take care." 

Mulder suddenly looked the FBI agent again, despite dripping water and
with his hair sticking out in all directions.  "Play it back again." 

Scully played it back.  "Whose BT?" 

"British Telecom, Tommo must be back in the old country using a pay
phone," Mulder replied distractedly.  Early on in his dealings with Tommo
Warren Mulder had made the critical mistake of telling him that he didn't
like been called Foxy.  Since then when ever Tommo rang or wrote to them
he seemed to take pleasure in teasing Mulder by calling him Foxy.  The
fact that he'd used Mulder's preferred form of address was a further
indication of the seriousness of things. 

The door bell went suddenly, causing them both to jump.  Going to the door
Scully used the spy hole. 

"Well, well, guess who's at the door Mulder." 

"A certain gray haired gentleman?" 

"Congratulations Superman, your x-ray vision is as keen as ever." 

"If you'll let him in I'll get out of this towel," Mulder said as he
headed for the bathroom. 

Scully smiled to herself at the vision of Mulder in full retreat to the
bathroom.  <Go on, drop the towel,> a mischievous voice in her head
muttered almost causing her to laugh out loud. 


"Well Bob", Scully said, "I think you have some explaining to do." 
Sensing it would save some time she played back Tommo's message. 

"We had nothing to do with that," Bob Wise looked very uncomfortable. 

"Really." That one word dripped sarcasm. 

"They could have been renegades," Wise said hating himself for doing it. 
Joe Dawson's instructions had been specific, 'I don't care how you do it,
just get them on the plane to Seacouver.' "Look Dana," he said, "I'm only
a messenger boy." 

Mulder exited the bathroom dressed in a long robe, his hair towel dried
but uncombed.  "Once upon a time it was traditional to kill bearers of bad
news," he said. 

"I'm not a bearer of bad news Mulder, I'm the bearer of an invite, my
regional supervisor in Seacouver would like to see you both urgently." 

"After what we've just heard?"  Wise was subjected to the full force of a
Scully raised eyebrow. 

The grey haired man began to sweat, "my supervisor, Joe Dawson, said I was
to make whatever promises are necessary, only I have to get you two there
pronto." 

His two former superiors regarded him closely.  "If you could wait outside
Bob, we need to talk."  Although phrased politely Mulder's suggestion
carried the force of an order. 

Once the door was safely shut Scully said, "well?" 

"How well do we trust Bob?" 


"Bob I trust, this Joe Dawson character is another thing entirely." 

"Do you believe in this conspiracy thing Tommo was talking about?" 

A long silence followed, Scully's forehead was creased in concentration. 
Eventually she said, "no.  Do you?" 

"Well normally I love a good conspiracy but in this instance I'm with
you."  <For ever Scully.>

"Why?" 

"Bob's been watching us for years now, yet they've made no moves against
us.  They could be hoping we'd lead them to other Immortals, except for
the fact that, not being head hunters, we don't travel." 

"So it would make more sense for them to have picked us off years ago?" 
Scully said. 

"Straight after we'd left the Bureau would have been the optimum time,
when we first went into hiding." 

"So what's got Tommo so worked up?" 

"Search me.  The best chance we've got of finding out what's going on is
this Joe Dawson," Mulder said looking thoughtful.  Suddenly he grinned
wryly, "it looks like we're going on a journey." 

Scully sighed, "you'd better call Bob back in." 

Bob Wise re-entered the apartment nervously.  A long time ago he heard of
the ancient Chinese curse, 'may you live in interesting times.' He now
knew exactly what the Chinese had meant by it.  He managed to meet the
stare of the two Immortals.  They were
 silent for a moment, letting him squirm, then Mulder spoke. 

"OK Bob, we'll come to Seacouver and talk to your boss." 

"Only it had better be good," Scully finished for her ex-partner. 

Bob sighed with relief, "there are tickets waiting for us at the airport,
Mr Dawson said he was booking them even as we were talking.  The flight
goes in ninety minutes." 

"I'd better change then," Mulder headed towards his bedroom. 

"Pack for overnight as well," Scully called en-route for her room.  "We'll
call work on our way to the airport." 

Left alone in the front room Wise couldn't stop a slight smile forming. 
<Still separate rooms after all this time, dear God when are those two
going to wise up.>



Joe's Bar, Seacouver

First to arrive at Joe's was Mac, with Amanda in tow.  Methos had his
doubt about involving her in this business, she was after all far from
been the most reliable of people.  However when he let Mac in Amanda
slipped in through the door so neatly that he
 couldn't stop her.  He half considered throwing her out but decided
against it.  He knew full well she'd either find a place to eavesdrop or
else wheedle it out of MacLeod later. 

Richie and Katherine arrived about half an hour later.  Both their faces
were flushed as if they'd been exercising.  Methos wisely kept his
opinions on that to himself. 

Once he'd got everybody seated Methos walked over to the window, his hands
behind his back like a school master he'd once seen.  Drawing in a deep
breath he began. 

"Miss Choi," the very formality warned her that Adam was preparing to tell
her something earth shattering.  "Joe has something to tell you." 

Joe flashed his currently ex-associate a dirty look, "Thanks buddy, I
thought we'd agreed that you were going to tell her." 

"It'll sound better coming from you, after all you are the local head
honcho so to speak.  And your boys did start this particular ball
rolling." 

Joe glared angrily at Methos.  This meeting went against every rule that
had been pounded into his head during his training and further reinforced
over the long years he'd spent in the Watchers.  The fact that the other
was right in both respects only mad e it worse.  Solomons had been after
all one of his section of the organisation and he was responsible for his
actions.  Taking a deep breath Joe began. 

"I am part of an organization called the Watchers," Joe explained. "We
have been watching and chronicling the deeds of the immortals for
centuries. No one is sure where we started."  Joe had certain private
suspicions about the origins of the organization
 he worked for involving a certain enigmatic elder Immortal, but this was
not the time to mention them.  "We observe and we record and we do not
interfere," he said. 

Amanda muttered, "in theory." 

Glaring at Amanda Joe continued, "we only watch and, hopefully, remain
inconspicuous.  All Watchers carry this tattoo, as I have for thirty
years, to allow other Watchers to identify one another." 

For a long moment Katherine stared at the two men in front of her, a frown
starting to form on her face. 

"Duncan," she said turning to face MacLeod, "do you know about these
people?" 

Macleod didn't answer, he simply nodded instead. 

"And you Amanda, Richie?" 

Richie said, "we all found out by accident Kate." 

Amanda's eyes were fixed suspiciously on Joe, "Which beggars the question
why are you been so open about this Joe?  Mac only found out by accident
as did Richie and me."

As Joe braced himself to speak Methos, feeling that perhaps he'd made Joe
sweat enough for one day, spoke.  "A few hours ago a trio of renegade
Watchers tried, and failed," he added quickly seeing the look on the young
woman's face, "to kill your mentor, Thomas Warren in a graveyard in
England.  Before he died we believe one of them gave Tommo a distorted
account of what the Watchers are about." 

"We received these phone calls, " Joe joined in placing the tape deck on
the counter, "the first one is from Warren's Watcher, a young woman called
Louise Allison." 

As the last of the phone calls died away Katherine Choi stared
thoughtfully at the tape machine.  "That was Tommo all right," she agreed
slowly.  Then looking Joe in the eye she said, "you're in deep shit Mr
Dawson, I've never heard Tommo so mad, so angry
 before.  Your renegades have really made him pissed." 

"So he's really going to be coming for me," Joe asked quietly. 

Katherine met the gaze of the elderly Watcher.  Although Joe was used to
judging Immortals by their real age rather by their apparent one he had
the sense that there was a deep and profound wisdom held deep in the eyes
of this young woman.  Although he kn ew she was actually over thirty years
younger than he was yet he still felt as he had when he'd first Methos,
long before he'd actually known he was an Immortal.  <Just how old are you
Katherine Choi,> he found himself thinking. 

He was so caught up by this unexpected insight that he almost didn't catch
her answer to his question. 

"Yes, Mr Dawson, I think he is." 


Seacouver Airport, Seacouver

Seacouver airport was, Mulder reflected, a typical soulless monstrosity of
the kind that can be found the world over.  Only the sign on the terminal
wall 'Welcome to Seacouver' indicated that they'd arrived at the right
place.  The flight had been fairly tense, Bob Wise had obviously felt
awkward in their presence, after all he was supposed to watch, not
accompany them. 

The best part of the flight for him was the fact that Dawson had only been
able to get them seats in tourist class which meant that at certain times
in the flight he'd had the pleasant (and frustrating) experience of Dana
Scully's leg brushing his as she tried to get comfortable. 

As they waited to collect the case carrying their swords from the luggage
carousel (being taken to Seacouver for valuation for insurance purposes)
Wise noticed his two companions suddenly stiffen and start to stare around
themselves.  <Another Immortal!>

After they collected their case the trio moved off towards the exit.  As
they approached it a tall, well built man, his dark hair tied back in a
pony tail detached himself from a wall he'd been leaning on. 

"Mr Robbins, Dr Courey, Joe Dawson sent me to meet you, I'm Duncan
MacLeod." 

"Good morning Mr MacLeod, this is Mr Wise, a friend," Scully polite as
ever performed the introduction with a slight emphasis on 'friend'. 

Mulder looked curiously at the tall man, "are you related to Connor by any
chance?" 

Duncan smiled slightly, "same clan, different vintage."  It had been
agreed that he should meet the two former federal agents at the airport,
the reasoning been that since, Connor had probably told Mulder and Scully
about his kinsman that the presence of
 someone who was known and trusted by a friend they trusted would put them
at ease. 

If that was the case there was little sign of it in the ride from the
airport to Joe's.  Apart from a brief enquiry after Connor the two former
federal agents maintained a tense silence throughout the journey.  For his
part Bob Wise was growing more and m ore nervous.  Duncan MacLeod was a
name he'd heard before, his relationship with Joe Dawson had been a minor
scandal for years now.  For Dawson to bring MacLeod into it meant that
things could be looking pretty nasty. 


If Mulder and Scully had any preconceptions about the mysterious Joe
Dawson neither of them were quite prepared for the distinguished looking
grey haired man who limped across a comfortably but not expensively
furnished room to greet them.  Nor were they expecting to meet any more
Immortals yet here they were four more of what Mulder sometimes called
their kindred. 

The tall, slim man was introduced as Adam Pierson, the tall, well built
red head was Richard ("call me Richie" )Ryan, the Asian girl was Katherine
Choi whilst the slender woman with the short cropped dark hair was simply
introduced as Amanda. 

"Well, its nice meeting you all," Scully began to say only for Mulder to
interrupt. 

"We don't usually meet our peers without there been some commotion." 

"But," Scully continued, giving Mulder a warning glare, "what exactly is
all your involvement's in this and how come Mr. Dawson, have you summoned
myself and Mulder so urgently." 

"My involvement is very simple, Mac is my mentor and I was visiting him
when this blew up," Richie said.  "Katherine here is our friend Tommo's
pupil who is staying with Mac whilst he is in Europe," he concluded. 

Mulder looked at 'Adam', "well what's your reason?" 

Methos shrugged, although assured by Joe that the newcomers were not head
hunters the cautious eldest immortal had insisted on been introduced using
his cover identity of mild mannered English researcher Adam Pierson. 
After all it was how he'd been intro duced to Katherine. 

"Joe's a friend of mine," he said cautiously, "and I always help my
friends." 

There was a short uncomfortable silence that Joe eventually broke.  "Now
the reason I have called you here is that we, and I don't mean just the
watchers, have a major problem.  Last night I received a number of
interesting phone calls."  With a flick of his fingers Joe set the tape in
motion. 

All the assembled immortals listened with varying degrees of visible
interest to the taped phone calls.  After they'd finished Joe continued. 

"The men involved in the attack were either watcher or ex-watchers, they
are or were renegades, men who'd forgotten their sacred oaths and acted
outside of, and in direct opposition to our organisation and its beliefs. 
Unfortunately they managed to conv ince Thomas Warren that they were
instead representative of our organisation and its aims and beliefs.  And
now he's out to kill me, probably along with any other watchers he can
find." 

Scully regarded Dawson carefully.  The man sounded pretty sincere to her,
and he was probably telling the truth.  However. 

"Of what concern is that to us," she asked, "I'm sorry for your
predicament and I can understand you're worried.  But what is it to Mulder
and me?" 

Joe spoke quietly, "if Warren manages to kill me it will send shock waves
through our organisation.  It will breed more men like those who died in
that churchyard, more immortals will be killed needlessly.  Our work of
centuries, the sacrifices of countle ss watchers over the generations will
be for nothing." 

"Also," Methos said, "if Warren spreads the news to as many immortals as
he can find there will be chaos.  You know how paranoid many of us are. 
Anyone who happens to be in the wrong place at the wrong time will be
killed regardless of wherever or not t hey are a watcher.  Hundreds of
innocents could be killed.  That's why we have to find him quickly, that's
why we sent for you." 

"Couldn't you get Dawson's men to cover all the airports?" Mulder asked. 
"Tommo has to come back from Europe some way, couldn't your professional
snoops pick him up there?" 

Dawson shook his end, "the only way I could cover all the airports, ports,
cross border roads etc. is to pull off their existing assignments every
watcher we have.  And even then there would be some pretty big holes in
the net.  No, what we're going to do
 is watch the local airport and docks just in case he comes in that way." 

"Which ain't very likely," Richie muttered to himself. 

"If we're going to have to do a manhunt," Scully stated staring
thoughtfully into space, "Then we're going to need to know everything that
you know about him Mr Dawson." 

"Not only that," Mulder agreed, "we also need to know everything that you
know, Miss Choi." 

Katherine looked up from her thoughts to find the former FBI agent and
indeed the rest of the room staring at her. 

She looked down swiftly. 

"I'm sorry," she said, "but Tommo is my mentor, I can't side against him." 

Walking forward Richie grasped her hands and looked at her until his very
nearness forced her to look into his eyes.

"Katherine, I promise you that none of us are after his head.  Mulder and
Scully are his friends.  Mac doesn't want to harm him because he is a
friend of Connor MacLeod, Duncan's mentor and kinsman.  Joe is only
interested in talking to him in order to
 mend the damage done by a bunch of renegades and both Amanda and Adam
have never been head hunters. 

"And you Richie?" 

"Me?  I would never do anything to harm either you or those you love."  He
raised her hands to his lips, "promise." 

The two remained standing silently together, their eyes locked.  Then
Katherine asked, "what do you need to know?" 

Methos cleared his throat, "you can start by telling us what your mentor
has taught you about the Game." 


A week ago

Tommo's Apartment, Boston

"There are a number of rules which we live by.  They are important to us,
even those who break them acknowledge them by their very act of cheating. 
Name them." 

In accordance to the ritual which Tommo had established early on in their
sparring Katherine began to recite. 

"We can not fight on holy ground ever.  Fights must be one on one, no team
combats are allowed.  Including mortals to aid us during combat is
forbidden, what passes between immortals is not for their eyes.  Finally
in the end, there can be only one, meani ng we must fight until one
Immortal is the last remaining." 

Tommo nodded, the point of his heavy bastard sword resting lightly on the
floor between his feet.  "The only rules you can place confidence in are
the first and the last.  My mentor was killed by a team which used mortal
auxiliaries to weaken their oppone nts.  Remember although most immortals
are honorable in their fashion there are those who will use every dirty
trick in the book to weaken an opponent.  Friends, family, property,
nothing is sacred to them, they will even strike at children if it would
gi ve them an edge, remember that." 

"Now lets see how much you've forgotten from last time," Tommo said
assuming an en-garde position and moving purposely towards Katherine.  The
room although the largest in the apartment and stripped of furniture was
still very cramped.  Most of Katherine' s training was taking place at the
weekend when Tommo would pack a tent and drive to a deserted spot he knew
up in the Appalachians.  They would camp out overnight and spent Saturday
and Sunday sparring together.  In the apartment they would restrict them
selves usually to simple exercises, unless Tommo decided a spot of
sparring in restricted quarters was required.  Like now. 

Katherine sometimes wondered what the neighbours made of the bumps and
crashes they caused! 

They came together slowly, the points of their swords moving in slow
circles.  Katherine attacked first aiming toward the head with a heavy
slash which Tommo caught on his sword blade.  Moving suddenly the more
experienced Immortal stepped forward and gra bbing the girl by her
waistband shoved her roughly against the wall.  "Remember," he stated
calmly, "because we can only be killed by decapitation many Immortals tend
to be edge fighters, using mainly cuts and slashes.  On the other hand the
Roman legiona iries were taught that two inches of steel in the right
place can be lethal.  Never forget, most swords have a point as well as an
edge and although a stab wound won't kill your opponent, it will usually
slow him down."  He stepped back, "and again!" 

"Tommo," Katherine asked after their bout using a towel to remove the
worst of the sweat from her face, "can I ask you a question?" 

"Of course you can, that's the whole purpose of us been mentor and
student.  For you to ask questions and me to answer them." 

"It's a very important question," she said, "if you don't want to answer
it then you don't have to." 

"Thanks for the get out clause," he said grinning.  "Go ahead, shoot." 

Placing her towel on the bench the serious faced oriental looked her
occidental mentor in the face. 

"What is the Quickening?" 

"Pardon," Tommo asked genuinely surprised, the question had come out of
nowhere. 

"What is the Quickening?  What is its purpose?  What does it do?" 

Tommo scratched his chin thoughtfully.  "Nobody rightly knows what it is
exactly or what's its purpose is.  What is does however is give us our
excessive vitality, and some other things as well.  Each of us is affected
differently by our Quickening.  Do y ou remember when I killed Balck and
took his head, do you remember the sparks and the pyrotechnics when our
blades clashed?" 

The girl nodded her head. 

"That was our Quickenings manifesting themselves in opposition to one
other.  In combat every immortal uses his or her Quickening to increase
the power in their blows, it's instinctive.  Best example is in what my
mentor always called the final act, the b eheading.  Beheading another
human being is not an easy task especially when you're using a blade that
has been dulled by strenuous combat.  When they used to behead criminals
in the old days sometimes it could take even an experienced executioner
using a
 razor sharp blade on a stationary target several attempts to completely
sever the head.  Yet when an Immortal takes a head it always falls on the
first blow, always.  It's not that our necks are weaker than average, more
that our Quickening gives greater
 power to our blows." 

"In addition to that some of us can use our Quickening to improve our
dexterity, others to move faster or to jump higher.  One I know of can
heal the nearly fatal wounds of mortals, another I've heard of is reputed
to be able to fortell the future, anothe r can sense things which happen
continents away." 

"And you, what can you do?" 

"That I'm not really sure of yet."  He paused thoughtfully, "I do know
that I can pick up another Immortal's Quickening at over a third farther
off than normal." 

Katherine regarded the other.  Her mentor was staring out of the window,
his face distant and far away. 

"But what does taking another immortal's Quickening give you," she
pressed. 

With a sigh Tommo turned back towards her.  "I suppose it gives you," he
began, "everything that its original owner was, his knowledge, his skills,
his experience." 

"Everything?" she asked almost in wonder. 

"Everything," the other agreed, "but bear in mind it's not like a download
from one computer to the next.  Computers don't have weird dreams or
nightmares for the best part of a week after a download for one thing. 
For another computers usually have a di rectory they can access telling
them what they've got in storage." 

"And we haven't?" 

Tommo looked carefully at the girl, "I've never learnt to speak French,
before my first Quickening I could barely count to ten in it.  That was
the limit of my knowledge.  After that Quickening I found myself dreaming
in French for almost a fortnight.  No wadays I can go to a French movie
and follow the plot without subtitles.  I even laugh at the jokes and I
now understand how a Frenchman from Nice views a Parisian or a Norman. 
And all because the head I took was that of a hundred year old Frenchman
ori ginally from Nice." 

"So you're telling me that because you gained the Quickening of a
Frenchman you can speak French?" 

"No, what I'm telling you is that I understand French.  If I were ever to
want to speak French, other than very badly, I would have to either take a
few, a very few lessons or else move to France for a couple of weeks.  The
Quickening gives you the knowle dge, the theory as it were, if you want
the skills you still have to practice them." 

The girl was quiet, her face thoughtful. 

Tommo continued, "how do you think it is that I, not long trained myself,
know enough to train you in the use of the sword 'n all that.  It's
because when I killed and took the head of the man who killed my mentor
not only did I gain his Quickening, I als o gained the Quickening he'd
took from my mentor.  He was a man who was not only over fifteen hundred
years old, and not only an experienced warrior for much of that time, but
also one who'd trained the best part of over thirty other immortals.  I
can't c onsciously access this knowledge, its just that when I'm planing
our training sessions I know instinctively what will work and what
weren't.  Things that the Tommo Warren who lived rough for twenty years in
the Rockies couldn't possibly know."  A wry smil e came to his face,
"Since then I can also understand Gaelic, Latin and Anglo-Saxon English as
well as a few languages I can't put a name to, including many words I
can't even pronounce!" 

"Is that why some of us head hunt?" the question came almost fearfully. 

"Sometimes, especially if the other is an old and experienced Immortal
like Liam, or Methos if he exists." 

"Methos?" 

"The eldest of all of us, reputed to be five thousand years old, if he
ever existed or still has his head."  Tommo looked thoughtful all of a
sudden, "one day I'm going to take the time to hunt him down and ask if
all this, 'there can only be one' crap is
 his doing." 

"And if it is you'll take his head?" 

"No, if it is I'll beat the crap out of him for all the shit I've endured
because of it.  Then I'll take his head.  Others hunt because of all this
'there can only be one' crap, or because they've become bored of eternal
life, or because the best defense is a good offense or because they've
become addicted to it, to the Quickening." 

"Is it easy to become addicted?" 

"Too easy.  Your average Quickening is like all of a lifetimes orgasms
combined into one.  It's all too easy to become addicted to that kind of
shit."  He paused for a second as if reluctant to continue, "my mentor
also told me that the Quickenings of you ng or untainted Immortals is
supposed to be very sweet.  There are some who hunt newbies not just
because they're an easy mark but also for the 'taste' of their
Quickenings." 

"That's disgusting!" 

"Yes, it is." 


Joe's Bar, Seacouver

"Every time we sparred Tommo would make me recite the rules, every time he
would add his own sermon about the dirty tricks that could be used against
us." 

Mulder regarded the Chinese girl carefully.  "That only confirms something
I saw in him the first time we met," he said.  "Tommo is subject to a
degree of paranoia, it was bad whilst the tag team was hunting him, now
it's going to get much worse." 

Scully agreed, her red locks bobbing in agreement, "there are very few
people in the world that he trusts, off hand besides Katherine I can only
think of three, Mulder, myself and Condor." 

"There is a fourth," Joe mused quietly staring deeply into his glass.  He
looked up to see the immortals staring at him.  Reluctantly he said, "his
previous watcher mentioned an English immortal, Athelstan I think the name
is." 

Methos looked up from his bottle, "Athelstan Edwardsson?" he asked.  "Is
he still alive then?" 

Joe smiled, "like the legendary Methos he is unusually competent at
avoiding our attempts to locate him.  It wasn't until the resolution of
the tag team affair that we actually could confirm he wasn't a legend." 

"Wasn't he that friend of Connor's who came across with him to find
Tommo?" Scully asked.  "Was he really a king of the English?" 

Joe flicked a quick glance at Methos who seemed disinclined to speak.  Joe
finally spoke, "according to our records he was Alfred the Great's
grandson, ruled southern England for fifteen to twenty years as King,
overlord of the rest of Britain off and on for the same period." 

"In the end," Methos surprised them by speaking, "the Celts and the Viking
settlers in Britain and Ireland made common cause and fought a battle with
him at a place called Brunanburgh.  They lost but he suffered such wounds
in the battle that he had to e nsure the succession of his sixteen year
old half brother before slipping away into the shadows." 

Scully looked at the slim 'researcher', "you talk like you've actually met
the man, Adam." 

Methos shrugged his shoulders, "all the British immortals or those who
live in the islands long enough hear the legend sooner or later. 
Sometimes we even meet the source of it." 

"Have you met him Duncan?" Mulder asked. 

"That I have," Mac agreed shifting slightly in his seat. 

"It sounds there is a story here MacLeod," Methos stated, staring intently
at Mac's face.  Richie too was staring, all the years he'd known MacLeod
had given him some experience in spotting when the Highlander was hiding
something. 

"Come on Mac," he said, "it can't be that bad surely?" 

"Oh yes it can Richie, you'd better believe that." 

By now everybody's eyes were fixed on the squirming highlander.  With a
sign he decided to come clean. 

"I met him just after Culloden, in the highlands," he began only for
Richie to interrupt him. 

"Wasn't that when you were pursuing your vendetta with the English for the
massacres after the battle?" 


September 1747

Fort William, Scotland


It was a bright sunny day, at this time of year it promised to be one of
the last before winter.  Most of the previous week had been dank and
miserable with rain and hill fog but this day was turning out to be warn
and sunny. 

After days cooped up in the dismal surroundings of the garrison of Fort
William the young English captain and his wife had jumped at the
opportunity to escape their cold damp billet and ride forth into the
countryside.  Three miles from the fort they'd co me to a point on the
highway built by General Wade some thirty years earlier that linked Fort
William to other army garrisons further south that gave them a magnificent
view of the land to the south.  The thing that had brought the Captain and
his wife to gether had been their common passion for sketching and so it
was only natural for them to pause here and sketch. 

Watching from behind a bush astride a low ridge Duncan MacLeod pulled his
broadsword from its scabbard.  The redcoat although armed with a sword
didn't look to be carrying any pistols, making him easy meat for a man
with a couple of centuries under his be lt.  It was a pity that his wife
would have to watch her husband been cut down like the English dog he was,
but then she was after all only an Englishman's whore.  He was about to
move out from behind the gorse bush that had concealed him from the
travell ers on the road when he noticed another redcoated rider
approaching from the south. 

For a second he was tempted, two of the English bastards instead of one. 
Instead however caution prevailed and he dropped back behind the bush, he
could wait, if there was one thing an immortal should have it's an
abundance of time. 

Closer and closer the rider came, soon MacLeod could hear the sound of his
horse's hooves on the hard surface of the road.  Soon however he found
himself feeling something as well, the Quickening was rising within him. 
An immortal was riding towards him. 


Remaining still and silent behind the bushes MacLeod tracked the approach
of the horseman along the road by use of his ears alone. 

"Good morning to you, sir, madam," came the greeting from the horseman to
the Captain and his lady, "I am Major Stanley Edison, currently serving in
his Majesty's Royal Artillery." 

"Good morning to you sir," came the courteous reply, "I am Captain William
Dawson of the Royal Artillery and this is my wife Isabella." 

"Good morning to you Major Edison, what brings you out on such a fine
day," Isabella Dawson responded. 

"I might ask the same of you Madam, the Jacobites may be beaten in the
field but there are still vagabonds and murderous rebels hiding up in
these mountains and glens.  You have no right Captain Dawson to expose
yourself, let alone such a gracious lady to
 the tender mercies of these creatures." 

"Sir, I assure you that if there was any danger I would not have exposed
my dear wife to it.  Most of the rebels are hiding out in the highlands
and islands further west.  There have been no rebels in this locality for
months." 

Edison uttered a grim laugh, "that sir, is a false assumption, isn't it
Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod."

Mac heard the words, and recognising the challenge rose up from behind his
bush. 

"Aye, that it is, Sassenach." 

The Captain and his lady stared open mouthed at the apparition on the
hillside above them.  Mac had been living rough in the hills and it showed
in the condition of his kilt and the filth on his shirt.  The only thing
clean was his broadsword which glinte d dully in the sunlight. 

Edison spoke first, "take your lady Captain Dawson and get back to the
Fort.  Send out a troop of horse immediately, I'll hold this rebel scum
here." 

Mac laughed contemptuously, "ye mean ye'll try." 

"I'll do better than that, now go Dawson and quickly!" 

Helping his wife to mount quickly, Captain Dawson flung himself into the
saddle.  "Sir," he almost seemed to plead, "I can help you take him." 

"Follow my orders Captain Dawson, there may be others about and you need
to get your lady to safety."  The tone in Edison's voice brooked no
disobedience.  Dawson turned his horse and set off at a gallop, his wife
riding besides him, towards the distant f ortress. 

During this MacLeod had descended to the road, his broadsword held towards
the English Major.  As the horses of Captain and Mrs Dawson disappeared
towards the Fort Edison turned to face him. 

"I should introduce myself properly MacLeod, I am Athelstan, son of
Edward, son of Alfred, son of Ethelwulf, son of Egbert.  I am of the
Cerdingas." 

"The King of the English himself," an evil grin came to Mac's face, "well,
well, well." 

"You've been killing too many of my countrymen," Athelstan stated,
"revenge on those responsible for killing your kindred I can understand. 
But that daft sod," he went pointing toward the fleeing Captain, "wasn't
even in Britain last year, yet alone at C ulloden." 

"Yer all the Butcher's dogs," Mac growled advancing on the waiting
Englishman, "all of ye have bloody hands thanks to Butcher Cumberland." 

"I'd hoped to talk you out of this stupidity," Athelstan muttered, his
sword leaving its scabbard. 

"What," MacLeod sneered, "give up when I've got a chance to kill the King
of the English?"

With that he lunged suddenly at the Englishman directing a vicious slash
at the other's leg.  Athelstan parried the attack neatly moving back a
couple of paces and then countering with a swing at the others head.  Mac
was barely able to parry the other's
 blade in time. 

Soon the hillsides were ringing to the sound of shouts and the clash of
steel on steel.  It didn't take Mac long to realise that he was fighting a
superb swordsman, very possibly one who was his equal if not better.  Back
and forth along the road the figh t raged, first one then the other of the
combatants gaining an edge.  How long the fight would have gone on until
one had won neither could have said when the interruption came. 

To the clash of steel ringing from the hillside there was added a new
noise, that of steel shod hooves coming at speed towards the two
immortals.  For only a moment Mac was distracted, glancing towards the
oncoming redcoats.  For Athelstan it was long eno ugh. 

The Englishman's sword slid in beneath Mac's broadsword penetrating deep
into his stomach.  With a savage twist Athelstan ripped his blade clear of
Mac's body.  As the Highlander staggered back desperately bringing his
sword up to prevent a decapitation s trike he barely had time to feel
chagrin as the King of the English's sword sunk deep into his chest
instead, neatly skewering his heart. 


Dark, it was very dark, and it was heavy and it tasted of earth, dear god,
they'd buried him.  Mac tried desperately to move his arms and legs, his
arms seemed to be immobile but his legs, or rather his left leg seemed to
have some movement.  As he felt h is lungs starting to burn through lack
of air he tried desperately to shake the leg in an effort to free himself. 
Just when he seemed to be getting nowhere he felt someone grab his leg and
haul him bodily out and into the blessed air. 

Mac gasped down great lung fulls of air, the pure sweet air of the
highlands complete with the smell of heather and the hillsides.  Suddenly
he froze, at his throat gleaming dully in the moonlight was his own
broadsword.  Looking up along its length he me t the eyes, mere shadows in
the night, of Major Edison, also known as Athelstan King of the English. 

"Your head is mine, Highlander." 

"Then take it, yer Sassenach bastard," Mac replied spitting out the last
of the dirt.  Now that his eyes had adjusted to the dim light he could see
that he'd been buried by the roadside. 

Sensing the Highlander's unspoken question Athelstan answered it, "the
patrol from the fort wanted to take you back for Christian burial but I
wouldn't let them.  Might not have been such a bad idea, six feet of good
Scottish earth would keep you out of t rouble for a few years." 

Mac spat angrily, "it'll take more than six foot of soil to keep me from
ma vengeance." 

"You bloody fool," Athelstan snarled, "your head is mine, yet all you can
think of is vengeance." 

"Vengeance, aye!  Vengeance for all the bonny lads and lasses killed by
yer Butcher Cumberland n' his dogs.  I'll drown them all in a sea of blood
I will." 

"Listen to you, you sound worse than Cumberland himself.  How many
Englishmen have you killed in the past few months." 

"Na enough!" 

"How many MacLeod?"  When Mac didn't answer Athelstan went on, "I'll wager
that since Culloden you've killed more men than any ten of the Butcher's
Dogs did there or after.  And when are you going to start on Scotsmen? 
There were as many of them there at Culloden under Cumberland as there
were Sassenachs, when will you start on them, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan
MacLeod!" 

Mac stiffened, he'd never heard such contempt placed before into the
recitation of his proud name. 

"Ye want my heid, take it," he roared, "if ye want to stop me killing
Sassenachs, take it!" 

The blade went back, involuntarily Mac closed his eyes and prepared for
the end.  It did not come. 

A creak of leather caused him to open his eyes.  In front of him Athelstan
was mounting his horse. 

Looking down at the kneeling highlander he spoke quietly, "I give you your
head back, as a loan.  You owe me Highlander, and you know what the price
of that is.  If you go back to hunting Sassenachs I will hunt you down
again and I will reclaim what is mi ne, do you understand me MacLeod." 

"No," Mac roared staggering to his feet as Athelstan turned his horse
towards the south, "I refuse to be in debt to a stinking Sassenach, ye
come back here and take ma heid." 

Athelstan kicked his horse into a trot heading away from the Highlander. 
He then threw Mac's broadsword down the hill towards a stream gleaming in
the moonlight. 

"Come back here ye stinking Sassenach, come back and take ma heid!" 


Seacouver


"I take it he didn't then," Methos said dryly. 

"No, he didn't," Mac said quietly staring into the bottom of his empty
whisky glass.  "I chased him the length of the highlands pleading with him
to take my head.  In the end near Carlisle I ran into his companions, his
gesith, who beat the crap out of me
 and threw me in a river to cool off.  That's when I met Liam O'Shae,
Tommo's mentor and Captain of Athelstan's gesith." 

"The following day," MacLeod continued, "Liam found me drowning my sorrows
in a tavern and told me that Athelstan had told him to tell me that if I
persisted in following him he'd get his gesith to cut my hands off and
bury them on holy ground." 

"Nasty," Joe commented. 

Methos shrugged, "back in Athelstan's day they were more fond of
mutilation than killing as a punishment, they believed it was a better
deterrent."  He took a deep swig of his beer, "there're times when I think
they had a point."

"Adam!" Joe responded in mock shock, drawing a wry laugh from the eldest
immortal. 

Richie was staring at Duncan, "you told me it was Ceirdwyn that talked you
out of killing Englishmen!" 

The Highlander squirmed, "she were partly responsible," he admitted
lamely.  "I did meet her shortly after that." 

"This is all very interesting Ryan," Methos cut in dryly, "but I'm more
interested with what happened next." 

MacLeod avoided looking at Richie and continued, "anyway after he'd
delivered his message Liam stayed on with me and we got drunk together." 

"And then spent a week in the local cells," Methos interrupted. 

"You obviously knew Liam," Mac said with a wistful smile. 

"Oh aye, that I did," Methos grinned.  "Did you ever meet Athelstan
again?" he went on to ask. 

"I've still got my hands haven't I?" 

"Silly question." 

Mulder rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "if we could contact him, he's about
the only one who could get our friend to call off his crusade.  Mac and
him obviously don't get on so I think we'd better have Adam do it.  Do you
think you could find him Adam?" 

Methos shrugged his shoulders again, "that was twenty or so years ago
Mulder, I could make a try at it I suppose." 

"Don't worry my friend," Joe said, "I'll pay your expenses." 

"Why thank you Joe," Methos grinned suddenly, "it's amazing how an
emergency can unlock your purse strings." 

"Make the most of it amigo," Duncan grinned. 

"Don't worry I will." 

"So what do you want Scully and me to do?"  Mulder asked.  He could see
that keeping Joe Dawson alive was in all their best interests. 

Joe regarded them carefully, "we'd like you to watch Warren's apartment in
Boston.  We know he's traveling without his sword so there is a good
chance he'll try to retrieve it." 


North York Moors, North Yorkshire, England

To the girl locked in the boot of the car the hours that passed seemed
like days.  Her confinement was not helped by a faint but pervasive smell
of petrol coming from the nearby petrol tank. 

After been flung unceremoniously back into the darkness of the boot she'd
heard a brief conversation between Tommo and someone else who could have
been the woman she'd seen in the other graveyard last night. 

After a short conversation, only parts of which she could hear clearly,
the car set off again and drove for about half an hour.  Judging by the
winding and in parts bumpy nature of the road she determined that he was
still up on the moors.  After about tw enty minutes he parked for a few
minutes during which he left the vehicle.  Setting off again he continued
to drive for over an hour until eventually he parked again.  It seemed
from the lack of traffic noises that they'd ended up again in some remote
pa rt of the moors. 

The hours dragged on for the girl confined in the boot.  There was no
indication that he'd left the car, no lurch to indicate he'd got out.  No
sound of the radio or hi-fi to show that he was seated in the front.  Just
a frightening, unnerving silence.  F or long hours it dragged on.  A
rational part of her mind told her that he must be waiting for something:
an un-rational part developed a bucket full of worst case scenarios. 

He must be waiting until it's dark, she guessed. 

<Then he'll shoot me like the man in the graveyard,> she fretted. 

<Of course he won't,> the rational side of her argued, <this is Tommo,
you've watched him for four months and John Harrison for twenty years off
and on.  He's not that kind of guy.>

<How do you know that, there are gaps in his history, how do you know he
won't rape you!>

At the thought of it she began to feel a certain warmth in her nether
regions. 

<Face it, you've been in love with him since the day you first saw
pitching ball in the park.>

  Alone and frightened she faced up to it, she was in love with her
captor, not out of some bondage inspired S and M shit, she was in love
with the romance of his situation, the lone warrior forced into a
lifestyle he neither desired nor wanted.  Over the
 months she'd come to appreciate his humour, his intellect, his interests. 
She'd come to fantasise about casually meeting him in a bar, of seducing
him of ....... 

The abrupt wrenching open of the car boot and the resultant shudder that
ran through the car jerked her back from a deep, troubled sleep.  As she
lay there, limbs too stiff to move quickly she became aware of a hot,
stickiness between her thighs.  Confuse d, hot flashes of a vivid dream
still fresh in her mind, she stared upwards, blinking stupidly in the
harsh glare of a flashlight, a blazing sun in the darkness of the night
around it. 

"You! Out! Now!" Tommo's voice barked angrily as bending over he caught
hold of her hand and hauled her bodily out of the car. 

Dumped onto the grass she felt obscurely pleased when she was able to
avoid going down on her hands and knees. 

For a long moment the Immortal stood there facing her, the flashlight
shining brightly in her eyes causing them to fill with tears.  She was
relieved to notice that his other hand was empty, there was no sign of the
shotgun. 

For a long moment he kept her blinking in the light before he spoke. 

"If I were you I'd stick to these roads, yer not dressed for tramping the
moors especially when there's bottomless bogs out there." 

Sudden the flashlight was switched off leaving her blind in the darkness. 
From his direction she heard his feet crunching on loose gravel as he
moved towards the car. 

"You...you're....you're letting me go?" 

He laughed humourlessly as she heard the sound of him opening the door,
"just stick to the road no matter how tempting the short cut is.  I
wouldn't want your boys hanging your disappearance around my neck as
well."  The door shut with a final sounding cl unk. 

"No, Tommo, wait!" she shouted as the car engine started up.  Hobbling
towards the engine noise, her legs still stiff from her confinement she
shouted, "wait!" 

Heedlessly the car began to move away from, slowly at first but picking up
speed after twenty yards when the headlights came on. 

"Wait Tommo, wait!"  Limping after the car and in the pitch darkness
conveyed to her by eyes which had adapted to the glare of the flashlight
she put her foot into a pothole and fell, managing only just in time to
use her hands in order to break her fall .  From her hands and knees she
was able to watch the vehicle's tail lights disappear into a dip in the
road. 

"Damn you Tommo Warren, damn you, damn you, damn you," she cried as it
disappeared, tears rolling down her face. 


Northallerton, North Yorkshire, England

The insistent ringing of the bedside phone dragged John Harrison out of a
deep, if troubled sleep.  Reaching out to silence the damned thing he
noticed the time on the clock-radio at his bedside. 

"Whose bright idea was it to put this blasted thing in the bedroom," he
grumbled to himself. 

"Yours!"  His wife's unsympathetic retort came from deep under the quilt. 

For a second Harrison sleepily considered the tempting idea of just
lifting up the phone so far then putting it straight back down again so as
to silence it. 

Thrusting temptation aside he answered the phone, "Middlehampton 34523." 

"JJJohn, this Louise, Louise Alison." 

With a sudden lurch Harrison thrust his legs out of bed and sat bolt
upright holding the phone.  "Louise, thank God. How are you?" 

"I'm OK John," the voice on the other end of the phone sounded tired and
emotional, "he let me go in the middle of the Moors, the North Yorkshire
Moors, about three hours ago.  It's taken me this long to find a public
phone box." 

"Where are you?" 

"In a village called Hutton le Hole, I think." 

"I know where you mean, give me an hour and I'll pick you up." 

"Thanks John.  Could you hurry, its cold out here." 

"I'll hurry.  I'm relieved to hear you're all right.  We've all been very
worried about you." 

"I've been very worried about me too."  Harrison could imagine a tired
smile on the girl's face.  "See you in about an hour," she finished. 

"Yeah, see you later," Harrison said as the phone went dead. 

Climbing out of bed he reached for his trousers.  On the other side of the
room his wife was reaching for her dressing gown. 

"That was your lost lamb I take it?" she said calmly.  Lottie Harrison
before her marriage had been a top notch Watcher, since then she'd
provided the organisational expertise her somewhat disorganised husband
had required. 

"She's turned up at Hutton le Hole," Harrison explained. 

"I'll bet it's bloody cold out there at this time of year," Lottie said. 
"I'll put the kettle on and make you a flask of hot coffee," she added,
"it'll be ready by the time you've got the car out." 

"Thanks love," Harrison said, "could you ring Joe Dawson after I've gone. 
Tell him his lost sheep has turned up." 


Day 5


Boston, United States

It felt pretty much like old times, Dana Scully mused to herself as she
focused the telescope onto the front entrance into the block where Tommo
Warren and Katherine Choi had shared an apartment. 

The apartment they were in had belonged to Louise Alison the missing
Watcher and it showed all the signs of being owned by someone who didn't
spend much time in it.  The furniture was cheap if comfortable and to
Scully's experienced eyes obviously second hand.  Virtually no attempt had
been made to personalise it with ornaments or photographs.  There was very
little in kitchen leading her to comment to Mulder, "now let me see whose
kitchen does this remind me of?" 

"Be nice Scully." 

Mulder was out of the apartment now getting in some basic supplies from a
kwiki mart down the street.  She hoped he'd bring back something more
appetising than sunflower seeds in the shopping. 

 The method they'd followed to get hold of the keys had been very cloak
and dagger.  They'd met a nondescript individual on a street corner whilst
carrying a copy of USA Today who'd passed them the key.  <Jesus Christ!>
she thought to herself, <as if anyo ne would have trouble missing a petite
red head and a tall, handsome, sexy! hunk like Mulder.>

<Watch it Dana Katherine, white water ahead!>

Since when had she started thinking of Mulder like that? 

<Since day one in the basement feather brain, only you buried it so deep
it's taken a while to surface.>

Living in close proximity to him instead of diminishing any attraction
through familiarity had instead merely added a new, sharper edge to it. 
Although Mulder had any number of aggravating male habits, including
forgetting to put the toilet seat down and
 not always clearing all of his hair out of the wash basin after shaving,
she'd found over the past few months that her attraction to him was
increasing, if that was at all possible. 

The question was what to do about it.  She was ninety five percent certain
that he felt the same way about her, they were after all reputed to have
an almost telepathic understanding of each other after all.  But not one
hundred percent certain.  And that
 was what stopped her making the first approach. 

Although she felt certain that he would respond positively there was
always the nagging doubt that he might not.  And the possibility of
embarrassing herself in such a manner was one she couldn't bear thinking
about.  It would mean the end of their partne rship of that she was
certain.  Of course at first they'd carry on as normal but eventually
they'd both find some excuse to go off on their own and that would be it. 
There was also the possibility that although she might find her feelings
reciprocated th e relationship might burn out relatively quickly and the
initial physical <oh my> excitement replaced by routine sex leading to
eventually to an acrimonious split. 

<Face it Dana, you like all this mopping around and wallowing in
unrelieved sexual tension,> a sensible voice in her head accused her,
<you'd rather fantasising about him than take a risk and find out if the
reality measures up to your fantasy!>

There was also of course the fact that Mulder was the only person she felt
she could confide the problems and worries of life as immortal.  Growing
up she'd had a variety of people she could talk her problems through with:
her parents, Melissa, sometimes even her old boss Assistant Director
Skinner.  And of course Mulder.  In those days who she went to depended on
the nature of the problem, ethical; her father, emotional; either Melissa
or her mother depending on the circumstances, professional: either Mu lder
or Skinner again depending on circumstances

Now she just had Mulder.  Sometimes just being with someone who could
understand and emphasise with her predicament was enough.  Although of
course she couldn't take this particular problem to him! 


Down the street Fox Mulder dressed in a casual windcheater and jeans left
the Kwiki Mart mentally checking the list Scully had given him.  He'd got
the milk, the bread and everything else she'd suggested when he'd told her
he was popping out to get some g roceries.  "Remember we can't all survive
on sunflower seeds and iced tea," she'd reminded him, rather tartly he
thought. 

Of course there was rather prominently at the top of the bag the
aforementioned sunflower seeds. 

Heading in the direction of Louise Allison's apartment Mulder looked over
the area that Tommo Warren had chosen to live in.  Not too affluent, not
too seedy, what you call a middle income area.  Not so smart that Tommo,
or Mulder for that matter, would fe el out of place there but on the other
hand not so seedy that you'd have to worry excessively about street crime
or break-ins. 

Entering the building he nodded a greeting to a couple of residents on
their way out.  Although friendly enough they seemed inclined to mind
their own business, which was something both he, and he suspected Tommo,
could live with.  Climbing the stairs he sighed mentally when on cue he
felt Scully's familiar buzz coming from the apartment. 

Coming to the door he sensed that she was close behind it.  When she
showed no sign of opening the door he debated for a second thumping loudly
on it but then realising it would attract too much attention he sighed
audibly.  Tucking the bag under one arm he fumbled with the keys until he
had the right one and was about to insert it in the lock when it opened
from the other side. 

"Thanks," he mumbled as he stepped past Scully into the spartan hall that
led to the single bedroom, living room, kitchen and bathroom. 

"You're welcome," Scully said with just enough of a hint of a smile to
confirm his suspicion she'd been watching him struggle looking for the key
through the peephole. 

"Have you got everything?" She asked following him towards the kitchen. 

"Just the essentials," he replied tossing the sunflower seeds towards her. 

Scully caught the bag and looked inside even though she knew full well
what was in there.  "Essential for Mulders and parrots perhaps but not
human beings." 

"Huh," Mulder pouted, "I've been compared to many things but a parrot?" 

By now they were in the kitchen and by dint of a sudden grab Scully had
managed to get the shopping bag out of Mulder's hands.  "OK," she said
unloading it, "bread, milk, fruit and candy for me, sunflower seeds for
the parrot." 

"Man can not live on sunflower seeds alone," Mulder protested, his stomach
rumbling at the thought, it had after all been a long day. 

"Get used to it , G-man," Scully said poking him in the stomach, "you look
like you're carrying a few extra pounds there." 

"I am not," protested Mulder, "anyway shouldn't you be watching the front
of Tommo's building?" 

"I've being watching that building for over two hours," she replied,
"which is far longer than you need for a simple shopping trip?" 

"Ah but I wasn't just shopping," he replied with one of those smiles which
could turn Scully's knees to water, "I've also being scouting out the
neighbourhood, including the back of Tommo's building." 

"And?" 

"It definitely has a back," he grinned imprudently at her.  Scully did not
reply, she merely treated him to a Scully glare tm.  "There's a back door
along with a fire escape," he continued, "I've had a quick look at the
door, it can't be easily opened fro m the outside as it doesn't seem to
have a lock.  Fire escape looks secure as well, not at all easy for our
friend to get in that way." 

"Well that confirms what Katherine told us," Scully agreed heading back
into the front room, "if he wants to retrieve anything from there he'll
have to use the front entrance." 

"That is if he has left anything he wants to collect." 

"I can think of one item off hand," Mulder replied, "his sword.  He's
going to be wary of the usual sources because many of them could be known
to the Watchers as well." 

"That's running one hell of a risk," Scully objected. 

"If there's one thing he doesn't lack it's nerve," Mulder replied, "during
that tag team incident he deliberately led them across the ocean and away
from Adam's friend Athelstan." 

Scully nodded in agreement as Mulder settled himself down behind the
telescope, "from what I know of him I'll have to agree with you.  Even so
though, it seems too risky even for him." 

Mulder looked thoughtful for a second, then reaching into his pocket he
said, "there is one other possibility, he could have stored the sword
somewhere else." 

"So?" 

"So tonight I think we should pay his apartment a visit," Mulder grinned
as he allowed the keys he'd pulled from his pocket slip down into view. 

Scully returned his grin, "I was wondering when you'd pull them out." 

"Huh?" 

"Great minds n' all that.  I asked Katherine for her house keys too, only
to find you'd beaten me to it." 


Although at first glance it might have seemed reckless for them to search
Tommo's apartment at half past six in the evening whilst it was still
light, in reality nearly twenty years of experience gained at the Bureau
told them both it was the best time fo r them to do so.  Most of his
neighbours having just got in from work would be busy either eating or
preparing their evening meals and thus unlikely to be roaming the communal
halls.  If any were out in the halls and entrances the two smartly dressed
indi viduals would be mistaken for either new tenants or else guests
arriving for dinner. 

It would also allow them to use the natural daylight to conduct their
search, later on they would either have to use the lights in the apartment
or else use flashlights.  This would require them to go through the bother
of closing the curtains, a necessar y prerequisite for an after dark
search. 

Nobody was in the passage when after locating the door Mulder unlocked it
using the keys Katherine had given him.  Once the door was open he stepped
quickly inside and headed for the closet by the door where, holding his
breath he keyed in the required co de to deactivate the alarm. 
 
Once the code was accepted he breathed a sign of relief, there had always
been a chance that the girl had given them the wrong one.  Looking around
the closet he noted a long, narrow, grubby canvas bag stuffed casually
into one corner.  Opening the strin g at the top he noted the elongated
hilt of what Tommo called the Marshal Sword.  Given to him by his mentor,
Liam O'Shae Tommo had told him that it had been originally the battle
blade of the legendary William Marshal.  Counsellor to three English kings
and regent to a fourth; he was reputed to be the finest knight ever to
live, the only man who'd ever frightened Richard the Lionheart. 

Leaving the heavy weapon where it was he went back out into the hall of
the apartment.  Whilst he had deactivated the alarm Scully had headed for
the bedrooms.  Even as he went toward the sitting room she stuck her head
around the bedroom door, "357 magnu m in the bedside table," she reported,
"pump action shotgun in the closet, all where Katherine said they would
be." 

"His sword's in the closet by the door," Mulder said neglecting to mention
that he, unlike her had forgotten to ask Tommo's flatmate where he kept
his weapons. 

"Right," Scully agreed, "I'll finish up checking the bedrooms whilst you
check the living room and kitchen." 

"Ooo Scully, I love it when you're been masterful." 

"So you keep telling me." 

A check of the front room and kitchen proved very little.  The
refrigerator was empty, Tommo had obviously cleared it out before catching
his flight. 

They met up again in the hall, "any other weapons?" Mulder asked. 

"None that I could find." 

"Well we've done all we can here, lets split this joint." 

"Lets split this joint?" 

"Well we are house breaking, and the language does seem appropriate." 

Scully sighed, "that's just what I need, a partner high on adrenaline!" 

Mulder flashed her one of his boyish grins, "come on Scully admit it,
breaking into other people's apartments gives you a rush." 

"Nope, afraid it don't." 

After setting the alarm they exited the apartment.  As he locked the door
Mulder noticed something.  Bending down he picked up three broken matches. 

"What are those?" Scully asked curiously. 

"It looks like our friend is a John Le Carre fan," Mulder replied. 

"Pardon?" 

"In his spy books George Smileley pushes pieces of wood in between the
door and the frame so that they'll fall to the ground if anyone opens his
front door whilst he's out."

"So you think Tommo did this?" 

"Well he don't smoke," Mulder replied as he replaced the matches in the
door frame, "I only hope I'm putting them back approximately right."  Once
he'd completed replacing them he turned and headed down the hall, Scully
in step besides him. 

"Right," he said with a slight smile as they exited the building, "how do
we occupy the rest of this wonderful spring evening?" 

"Well, I don't know about you Mulder, but I feel like a quiet night in." 

"Borrring." 


East End, London, England

Moving carefully through the dark back streets Methos eventually found the
door he was looking for.  Taking a deep breath he hammered loudly at it. 

After a short pause he became aware of the presence of an immortal
approaching it from the other side.  A number of bolts were removed and at
least two separate locks disengaged before the door opened silently on
well oiled locks. 

Stepping into the large kitchen Methos paused whilst his eyes grew
accustomed to the dull light.  On the far side of the room he could make
out the shadowy figure of another immortal. 

"Hail and well met Ancient Methos," the other intoned. 

"That's a bit archaic isn't it Fixer," Methos commented winching mentally
at the use of the term 'Ancient'. 

"How do then you old fart," the Fixer replied in an exagerated Yorkshire
accent.  He then reverted to his normal accent to ask, "is that more to
your taste?" 

"Not particularly." 

With the flick of a switch the Fixer switched on the kitchen lights, "just
bolt the door will you Methos, then we'll go into the parlour." 

The eldest of all immortals did as he was told then followed the other
into the room next door to the kitchen.  It was a small room furnished
with old but comfortable furniture and warmed by an open coal fire.  In
one corner a television set, its sound tu rned down played to itself, in
another a top of the range personal computer was displaying a Simpson's
screen saver. 

Indicating a chair the Fixer sat down in the one that was in front of the
fire. 

"What can I do for you Methos?" 

Making himself comfortable Methos considered his next words.  "I need," he
eventually said, "to talk with the King." 

"I'm sorry to have tell you this but Elvis is dead," the Fixer said, a
queer gleam in his eyes, "they found his body in Gracelands decades ago,
officially.  Unofficially Katja Stekla took his head last week in
Grimsby." 

Methos commented dryly, "so that's where he went to." 

"Aye," the Fixer agreed, "he'll be missed, good fish fryers aren't ten a
penny you know." 

The two immortals stared at each other.  The Fixer although far from as
old as his compatriot was still no newly fledged immortal ready to buckle
under the force of Methos's steady glare.  Then again Methos was no
newcomer to the old 'I'll stare at you un til you give in game' either. 

Eventually realising he was unlikely to get rid of him any other way the
Fixer spoke first. 

"What about?" 

"I think he'll know." 

"I can contact him, wherever he'll see you is another matter." 

"Oh he'll see me all right, if there is one thing you can rely on it's his
curiosity." 

The Fixer grunted something and disappeared into the hall.  Methos
followed close behind.  On a stand facing the front door was a telephone
with an old fashion circular dial.  As the other picked up the receiver
and began dialling Methos became aware of a
 steady thumping. 

"What's that?" he asked curiously. 

"A crack addict down the cellar," the other replied shielding the dial
with his hands so Methos couldn't see the number dialled.  "He broke in
last night and made the mistake of using the stairs.  I caught him in one
of the front rooms.  He'll stay down t here until he's finished his cold
turkey then I'll turn him loose." 

"That's good of you." 

"I know.  Straight after I boot him out the front door I'll make a phone
call, to a certain Yardy gang I know, him been a nig....Afro Cabbribean n'
all." 

"I take it back about you been good." 

The Fixer shrugged, "I could have called them last night when he was out
of his head.  This way he at least has a fighting chance." 

"Yeah, sure," Methos said.  He was well aware that when, not if, the
Yardies, West Indian gangsters, caught up with the luckless addict the
local river police would the following morning be fishing a new body out
of the Thames. 

"It's me," the Fixer suddenly said as someone answered the phone.  "I've
an old friend of yours who wants a word.......Methos.......yeah, I know
the place n' I'm sure he can find it........Ok." 

Replacing the handset the Fixer turned towards the other.  "He said he'll
see you.  Be at the seaward side of Saint Germain's graveyard,
Marske-by-Sea, North Yorkshire at noon tomorrow.  He says it'd better be
good." 

"It will be.  Thanks Fixer I owe you one." 

The Fixer laughed humourlessly, "I'll add it to the list then."  Suddenly
his face turned serious, "is this about that Watcher business then?" 

Methos fixed him with a glare, "what do you know about that?" 

"Only what Tommo Warren told me." 

"Have you seen him?" 

"He rang me the other night." 

Methos rubbed his chin thoughtfully, "was it news to you?" he asked. 

"No, and before you ask it weren't to the King either." 

"Which one, Athelstan or Elvis?" 

"Both." 

Boston United States

Although Fox Mulder found that being on stakeout with Scully was bringing
back some pleasant memories of certain incidents in their careers at the
bureau, he was also remembering just how boring and tedious they could be. 
He knew that Scully agreed with him, she'd admitted as much two days
earlier when they'd ran out of objects to 'I Spy' with.  Still there were
compensations, due to the apartment being a one bedroom affair they were
at night taking it in turns to sleep in a sleeping bag on the couch, on e
that was considerably more comfortable than the one he'd used to sleep on
back in the old FBI days. 

It was comforting, Mulder was finding, having your ex-partner, your
closest friend, the one person in the world you trust implicitly snoring a
mere couple of feet away.  Of course Scully would never admit to snoring
but snoring she most definitely was.  He was toying with the idea of
recording her snore as a potential ace in the hole for the next time she
complained about his when he dropped off on the couch back home.  He would
of course double the volume, just to be certain of getting his point
across of course. 

It was dark now, almost two in the morning, and by Mulder's estimate forty
seven minutes and thirty two seconds since a pedestrian had passed on the
footpath below the window.  If it got to a full hour before another passed
he'd have an extra sunflower se ed, if it didn't he would have to wait. 
It was a trick he'd learnt in his time in the Bureau, one of the games you
have to play on long stakeouts to keep alert. 

Yawning he stretched in his seat, another ten or so minutes of this and
then Scully could take her turn.  They'd split the night into four hour
blocks, and this evening it was his turn to take the ten until two
stretch.  He wasn't sure which he preferred,
 stopping up late or getting up early, although with his history of
irregular sleeping habits he knew he should be able to handle it better
than he was. 

Since Scully had moved in he'd found he was better able to get a full
eight hours sleep.  Just knowing she was close seemed to help him drop off
to sleep.

Just like now! 

Mulder came awake suddenly.  Something had awoken him, of that he was sure
as he attempted to push aside the heavy folds of sleep which seemed to dog
his brain.  There!  He felt it again, the far off tingle of an Immortal's
Quickening.  Not Scully's, no, he always knew that particular sweet,
comforting sensation but the sense of another Immortal.  It was fading
even as he came out of his chair sending it over. 

By the time he was half way to the door it had gone, that sense of another
Immortal.  Standing there in the hall he attempted to reacquire it but
could not. 

"Mulder?"  Scully was stood in the door to the bed room, her trenchcoat
pulled over the t-shirt and shorts she was wearing in bed, her feet bare. 
"What was that noise?" 

"The chair going over as I got up," he replied, "I felt someone, for just
a moment I felt another one of us." 

"Tommo?" Scully asked not questioning Mulder's statement.  Early on they'd
found that Mulder was able to sense the Quickening of another Immortal at
a range much greater than Scully could.  Conversely Scully had found that
she could accurately gauge the m ood of another of their kind through
their Quickening , something Mulder couldn't attempt with any kind of
accuracy. 

"I don't know," Mulder admitted, "I only felt it for a moment and it was
pretty far off." 

"How many other Immortals are there in Boston?" 

"Three, according to Joe Dawson," Mulder said, "that Irishman who's
teaching at the University, his wife who's apparently quite a talented
artist and the guy who has that junk shop down near the harbour." 

"And none of them live near here or are the kind to be sneaking about at
this time of night."  Scully's face was thoughtful.  After a short silence
she said, "I'll get dressed and take over so you can get back to sleep." 

"Sleep!  I wasn't sleeping," Mulder protested. 

"You don't usually fall out of chairs when you're awake," Scully replied
pulling a pair of jeans over her night attire, "and besides which it's
twenty to three.  I should have taken over forty minutes ago." 

"I was going to wake you," Mulder protested, "but you looked so peaceful
lying there.  Trying to catch flies with your mouth," he couldn't stop
himself adding. 

Scully reached for a heavy object.  "Bed Mulder," she said firmly. 

"Oh yes please Scully," Mulder replied as he entered the front room, "I
love it when you're so domineering." 

As he climbed into the sleeping bag Scully found herself thinking, <one of
these days Mulder, one of these days I'm going to take you up on your
innuendoes, just to see if you're serious.>

<You mean you have any doubts,> the comment came from the deeper recesses
of her mind from where certain thoughts were finding it easier all the
time to escape. 

<Shut up!> she said to it.  And it did.  For now. 


Day 6

Saint Germain's graveyard, Marske-by-Sea, North Yorkshire, England

The drive north had been uneventful.  There was the occasional military or
semi-military convoy heading north towards the fighting but otherwise the
roads were quiet. 

Methos had spent the previous night in a pub watching the war on
television with other regulars.  The last time he'd been in that
particular building had been during the London Blitz and in his opinion it
had been a lot more cheerful.  The Scottish attack
 on Berwick seemed to have stalled outside the Elizabethan defences. 
Since neither side had access to anything heavier than mortars probably
stolen from Territorial Army stores the Scots were unable to breach the
defences whilst they were been stubbornly
 defended by men of the Northumbrian militias. 

To Methos's eyes which had seen far too many wars over five millennia the
rest of the border seemed too quiet.  For weeks before the opening of
hostilities there had been numerous news reports and pictures of English
Militias moving north; now that the fi ghting had started they seemed to
be virtually invisible.  A state of affairs helped by the fact that whilst
the Scots in a attempt to drum up international sympathy were allowing
mainly American news reporters up as far as the front line; on the other
si de of the fighting not even CNN was able to slip a news team across the
River Tyne, over a hundred miles to the rear. 

"They're up to something," he'd muttered to himself last night as he
drained his pint glass. 

Soon with the help of a road map he found his way to Marske-by-Sea.  The
grave yard was easy enough to find, the first person he asked gave him
clear directions. 

The view from the seaward edge of the graveyard was impressive. 
Visibility was good and from where he was standing he could see ships
lining up to enter the river Tees.  On the far bank of the estuary he
could even almost make out the larger buildings. 

He sensed the presence of the other immortal as soon as he entered the
graveyard.  Knowing that turning to face him would display his nervousness
and trusting in the protection of holy ground he remained leaning on the
sandstone wall. 

The other joined him leaning on the wall besides him. 

"I wouldn't go over there if I was you, they hang monkeys over there." 

Methos turned to face the other, "what?" 

Athelstan, King of the English rested his elbows on the wall, "back in the
Napoleonic wars, or so the story goes a French man o war was wrecked on
the rocks at Hartlepool.  The only survivor were the ship's mascot, a
monkey dressed in a little blue unifor m that washed ashore on some
wreckage.  The locals never having seen a Frenchman reckoned it were a
French spy.  So they grabbed it, held a trial all proper and legal like,
and hung it." 

"Nice story," Methos observed, "do you believe it?" 

"No, Hartlepool was a bit more sophisticated than that in them days.  The
story persists because their neighbours find it too good a story to let
drop.  Shouting 'who hung the monkey' will start a riot in any Hartlepool
pub.....or church for that matter.  " 

"I can imagine," Methos said wryly wondering to himself just how many
fights that particular story had caused over the years.  "As interesting
as all this local folklore is, Athelstan, I've more urgent business to
transact." 

"You mean Tommo Warren and the Watchers?" 

"How long have you known, about the Watchers I mean?" 

"Since about the sixteen hundreds, Ranulf, you remember him don't you,
caught one of them snooping around and beat the truth out of him." 

"One of nature's diplomats Ranulf," Methos observed dryly. 

Athelstan shrugged, "he didn't kill him which was what Liam and Ceolric
suggested." 

"But not you?" 

"It were the time of the Civil War, ours not the American one, although,
"Athelstan continued thoughtfully, "in a sense us all been one country at
the time I suppose you could make a case for it been theirs as well. 
However," with an effort he pulled hi mself back to the subject in hand,
"I decided that there had been enough killing and that he could go free." 

Methos kept a neutral expression on his face.  Jeremy Clark, the Watcher
in question, the last one to watch the King of the English had lied in his
final report.  He had claimed to have lost Athelstan and his gesith in the
confusion of the Battle of Newbu ry in 1644.  There was no mention of been
caught by Athelstan's half Norman gesith, or household warrior.  And no
mention of a supposedly savage beating.  Methos had known Ranulf, an easy
going man most of the time but absolutely ruthless in the protecti on of
the man he'd sworn an oath to protect. 

Athelstan continued, "since then I've gone out of my way to avoid
Watchers.  I've left a few of them with sore heads when I've had to but I
haven't killed any." 

"Unlike Tommo," Methos commented softly watching the other's face
intently. 

The King snorted angrily, "he had no choice, they attacked him on holy
ground."  The shorter man stared intently at Methos's face, "just what's
your game Methos, why are you so interested in this and what's your
connection to the snoopers?" 

Knowing this question was going to come Methos had devoted some time to
devising an answer.  "I know the man in their organisation who Tommo
Warren has threatened.  He's a good man and in no way responsible for the
attack on your gesith." 

"Not responsible for the attack on Tommo," Athelstan grimly repeated
Methos's words, "not responsible either, I'll bet for Darius's murder." 

Methos spoke hastily, "he had nothing to do with that, indeed he even shot
the man responsible!"  There was, he felt, no need to mention that when
shot the other had been wearing a hidden bullet proof vest or that James
Horton had been Joe's brother in la w.  He knew instinctively that
Athelstan would never trust a man who killed his own relative. 

Athelstan glared at Methos, "why don't I trust you?" he asked. 

"Because you've never trusted me Athelstan," Methos replied. 

"Not since Brunanburgh," the other growled, "just be grateful that my
given word to a dead man still binds me!" 


Spring 1234

Paris

As it always did the peace of Darius's church transferred its tranquillity
to him.  As he knelt before the altar showing the God who favoured this
holy ground the respect due to him he felt a familiar presence moving
towards him. 

Turning he greeted Darius, "a good morning to you Brother, we have a fine
day ahead of us I think." 

Darius smiled at him, "welcome Methos, it is indeed a good day when I can
greet a friend again." 

The two men embraced.  As Darius had said they were indeed old friends,
Methos had known him in the bad old days before the Quickening that had
caused him to renounce the ways of violence and retreat to this holy spot. 
And he wasn't the only one living o n church property either.  Briefly he
found himself wondering what the Church made of these immortals hiding out
on their property.  <I wonder if anyone has told the Pope yet,> the
thought caused him some amusement. 

"Would you care to share the joke old friend?" Darius asked, a slight
smile lifting the edge of his mouth. 

Realising that he must have smiled at his last thought Methos admitted, "I
was just wondering if anyone had told the Pope yet?  About you and Brother
Paul and the others." 

"I understand certain high ranking members of the Curia brief the Pope
about us shortly after his election," the other grinned, "it must be one
of the harder parts of filling Saint Peter's shoes, finding out about us
and the Game."  His face turned sober as he continued to look at Methos,
"now," he continued, "to what do I owe the unexpected pleasure of this
visit." 

"Would you believe I just want a few games of chess?" 

Darius smiled and shook his head. 

Sighing Methos admitted, "all right then what I want to ask a favour, I
want you to mediate in a dispute between myself and one of your occasional
parishioners." 

"Athelstan."  It wasn't a question but rather a statement, the feud
between the oldest living Immortal and the King of the English was well
known, even if its cause was not. 

"Yes." 

"First Methos you'd better tell me how it started." 

Methos had been hoping he wouldn't have to but he knew Darius well enough
to know that the other wouldn't get involved without knowing all the
facts. 

"Back in the 930's," he began, "I was living in Scotland, the western part
amongst those Irish settlers who eventually gave their name to the
country.  I was part of the household of Duncan, son of the Scottish king
Constantine.  We became good friends." 

"In 937 Constantine in alliance with other kings of the north and the
Vikings of Dublin attacked Athelstan who was King of the southern English
or the South Angles as we called them.  After a rampage into Mercia doing
the usual rape and pillage we camped at a place called Brunanburgh. 
Athelstan caught us by surprise there using the usual English tactic of
force marching through part of the night to attack us at dawn.  As we were
fighting I sensed that somewhere close to Athelstan's standard there was
ano ther immortal.  Things were going badly for us so I tried to find him
in the hope that if I beheaded him the shock of the Quickening might just
buy us some time.  As I got closer I realised that there was another
present, a pre-immortal the other one must
 be protecting." 

"Then it happened, the tide of battle brought me face to face with a well
armed warrior who I believed must have been Athelstan.  We fought and I
killed him and was about to behead him when another warrior barely sixteen
years of age plunged a spear into my back.  That was Athelstan's first
death." 

Methos fell silent staring up at the crucified Christ looking down on the
altar. 

"There's more isn't there." 

Methos nodded.  "The boy who killed me was Athelstan's half brother the
Atheling Edmund.  After the battle Athelstan tried to carry on as before
but rumours were beginning to circulate and he was forced to fake his own
death and hand over the throne to Ed mund."  For the first time since he
had begun the story Methos met Darius's eyes, "I hated the pair of them. 
Whilst I'd been hunting for the other immortal the Saxons had overwhelmed
our shield wall and killed Duncan son of Constantine.  If I'd been ther e
I could have saved him." 

"For five years I hunted Athelstan.  I took the Saxon name Leofa and
started at his brother's court.  Unfortunately I was taken for a thief and
banished.  I looked the length and breath of the land trying to find him. 
Eventually in desperation I returned
 to the court of Edmund since I knew Athelstan was close to both Edmund
and Eadred his sickly brother.  Unfortunately Edmund recognised me as I
attempted to sneak into his hall at Pucklechurch and grabbed me.  I tried
to get away from him and ended up sta bbing him.  It was an accident, I
never knew it was him until after he was dead.  His household killed me in
reprisal and slung my body into a midden." 

"Since then Athelstan's been hunting me.  Eadred came after me as well, he
led an army into the Viking Kingdom of York after me before they were able
to bribe him to go home.  Eadred is long dead now but Athelstan...." 

"Still hunts you," Darius finished for him. 

"The only good thing about it is that he's told his gesith, his household
warriors, to stay out of it.  And they will unless I kill him in which
case I know at least one of them who'll come after me." 

"Liam." 

"You know him?" 

"Everybody knows Liam."  Darius smiled at him, "age does indeed bring
wisdom if you are afraid of him." 

"Of course I'm afraid of him, I've known him for over six hundred years." 

"So what do you want me to do?" 

Methos was about to answer when they both felt it, the buzz of an
approaching Immortal. 

Darius gave Methos a sudden look.  Methos shrugged, "It's Athelstan I sent
a note telling him I'd meet him here, I just gave directions, I didn't
tell him it was holy ground." 

"He knew that already."  Darius commented turning to face the fair haired
man who was standing in the aisle.  "Greetings Athelstan son of Edward,
son of Alfred." 

"Hail and well met Father Darius, I see you already know Leofa."  There
was a grim smile on Athelstan's face, "I thought I recognised this church
from the directions on his note." 

Methos sighed and turned to face the flaxen haired man, "I don't want to
fight you Athelstan, and I'm sick of having to avoid you." 

"If you'll just leave this church and knell in the street I'm sure we can
solve that." 

"You know I'm not going to do that." 

"My friends," Darius's voice cut through the squabbling, "how long has
this feud gone on?" 

Athelstan glared at Methos, "I'm sure Leofa has told you the whole sorry
tale." 

"Three, four hundred years, am I right?" the priest asked.  Both the
others remained silent, "Methos, you killed Edmund, Athelstan's brother,
correct?" 

"It was an accident!"  Methos's reply brought an angry snort from
Athelstan. 

"And Athelstan," Darius continued, "you killed Duncan, son of Constantine
at Brunanburgh, correct." 

"Not directly no." 

"But it was men of your household wasn't it?" 

"We were at war, they attacked us!" 

"Hah," Methos broke in, "what about your attacks on the Scots and other
northern peoples?" 

"What about Constantine's attacks on the Norse settlers, the northern
English and the men of Strathcylde," Athelstan shot back his pale cheeks
red with anger.  "That all part of Kingship, you raid your enemies to
reward your men or else they'll find a rep lacement.  Or else let them
grow fat and lazy at home until they're too weak to beat off an invader!" 

"Enough!" Darius thundered in a voice that threatened to break the newly
placed stained glass windows of the church.  For a brief moment Methos saw
an echo of the general who centuries earlier had led an all conquering
army to the gates of Paris. 

When sure he had their attention Darius spoke quietly but forcibly to the
two men.  "This feud is based on one part the death of a prince in a
battle that was unavoidable, on the other for the accidental death of a
King in his own hall.  Neither of you or iginally set out to harm the
other, " he said glossing over Methos's admission that he'd deliberately
set out to kill the King of the English both during and after the battle. 

"If it was fated for you to conclude this feud in the time honoured
fashion of our kind," he continued, "you would have done it already. 
You've already had enough time and both of you have inflicted considerable
loss on each other, it is now time to decl are a end to this stupidity and
go about your lives." 

"Never," Athelstan growled. 

"Athelstan, I stand before you as your confessor, if you do not let this
feud end then you can find a new confessor to unburden your soul to." 

"Darius, you would not!"  Athelstan was genuinely shocked.  Despite his
experiences of the past few hundred years he was still a devout Christian
and the prospect of been severed from the only man who could give him
absolution terrified him. 

"I would, chose now Athelstan, King of the English and chose well." 

Athelstan glared angrily at both his enemy and his confessor, then his
eyes flickered to the crucified Jesus nailed to the cross on the wall. 
For what seemed an age his eyes were fixed to the statue then suddenly he
nodded to it and turned to face them. 

"It seems I have no choice in this," he said.  "Like a gesith I must obey
the direct order of my lord.  This feud is ended, I give you Darius and
God the father my word." 

Turning he walked back down the aisle, pausing only at the end to turn and
go down onto one knee whilst he made the sign of the Cross.  And then he
was gone. 

"What did he mean, 'the direct order of my lord'," Methos wondered as he
stared up at the crucified Christ, "and just what did he see up there?" 

Darius laughed and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder, "haven't you ever
wondered why we don't fight on holy ground brother?" 



St Germains Graveyard, Marske-by-Sea, North Yorkshire, England

Methos glanced carefully at Athelstan.  "Have you found yourself a new
confessor?"  He desperately wanted to ask Athelstan what he'd seen in that
Paris church those long centuries ago.  Now as usual he chickened out of
asking. 

"Two weeks after I heard of his death a letter came to me from him.  It
was found apparently in a safe deposit box in a Parisian bank.  He seemed
to have had some premonition about his end for he gave me the name of a
Father Manuel, one of us who was cons ecrated a priest before he died for
the first time." 

"So you go to him do you?" 

"Yes, he's very good, hasn't taken a head since his first death and like
Darius never leaves holy ground."  He sighed suddenly, "but it's not the
same."  The King suddenly locked eyes with Methos.  "So what do you want
me to do about Tommo," he asked retu rning to the main topic in hand,
"join him or stop him?" 

"Stop him of course," Methos said sharply, "if he succeeds in killing
Dawson he could provoke a war between Watchers and Immortals.  And if he
spreads the word amongst our brethren, well you know how paranoid some of
them are.  They'll end up killing anyo ne who looks at them the wrong way
or whom they think are following them.  In fact most of those killed will
be innocents, most Watchers are far too good at concealing themselves to
be easily spotted." 

Athelstan turned his head and looked back out to sea to where the great
ships waited patiently to enter the river Tees.  Still gazing out to sea
he spoke quietly, "even if I could forgive them for butchering Darius I
still couldn't leave this country.  We 're at war, as you'd know if you
read the papers, and I can't abandon my people now.  Not those this side
of the border nor those on the other."  He continued sadly, "the Scots are
an unholy mixture of Scotti Irish emigrants, Picts, Strathclyde Welsh, Nor
se settlers and Northumbrian English left behind when Malcolm the Second
pushed his border down to the Tweed in 1015.  Most Scotsmen have some
English blood in their veins." 

Methos laughed sourly, "that's something they try to forget." 

Athelstan suddenly laughed as well, "did you see Braveheart?  I were at
Falkirk myself, do you know that the bulk of the infantry on both sides
spoke the same language.  Hells bells the accents were so close that many
of Longshanks knights had trouble tel ling one from the other.  They even
wore similar styles of clothing, I saw damn few kilts there." 

The laugh died on his lips, "I've lived there a few times over the
centuries when it's been quiet," he said reflectively.  "And I know the
difference between a good single malt and the muck you find on supermarket
shelves.  I may have started one of the f irst of these north-south brawls
but what's going on now gives me little pleasure." 

Turning he looked at Methos, "I'm sorry Methos but I can't leave, not at
the moment.  And if I did my mixed feelings would get in the way.  Perhaps
it's time for a winnowing out of their ranks anyway.  There have been too
many slip up lately, I think they
 need reminding of their purpose." 

"If Warren gets to Dawson it could mean the end of the Watchers, or at
least the end of them as we know them." 

Athelstan turned away from the sea.  "I can see all of that Methos,
believe me, but I have no way of contacting him.  We arrange meetings
through personal ads in the Times or else he contacts the Fixer.  I don't
think he'll be reading many newspapers or m aking many phone calls until
this thing is over.  I could put an ad in the Times but I can't guarantee
he'll see it." 

"If that's the case then there's no point in me staying."  Turning Methos
began the walk back to where he'd left his hired car.  Athelstan followed
him to the road.  As Methos turned his key in the car door Athelstan's
hand covered his own. 

"Methos, tell your friends that Tommo is still my gesith, my sword thane,"
the King said his face deadly serious.  "If he's killed I'm duty bound to
avenge him, people today often forget that the oath of fealty a lord and
his retainer exchange cuts both w ays." 



Boston, United States

Despite the previous night's events Mulder was getting bored, or was it
boreder?  <Is boreder a proper word>, he found himself wondering.  He'd
never really had the patience for a long stake out, something that was
probably painfully evident to his long s uffering ex-partner, mainly
because she was the one who usually had to bail him out of the trouble he
got himself into. 

Mid way through day four however something happened to shake Mulder out of
his boredom.  Just as he was crossing the hall to take a coffee to his
ex-partner he heard it.

A key turning in the lock. 

Standing there with a mug of scalding hot coffee in each hand he wondered
if he should put them down and grab for his gun.  Indeed he was on the
point of dropping them both and pulling out his gun when he remembered it
was in the front room. 

Along with his sword. 

The moment for action passed as a brunette of medium height with long
straight hair stepped into the hall.  Just inside the door she stood
there, her mouth slightly open in shock, one hand still holding the door
slightly open as if she was unsure as to wh ether she should run or stay. 

Mulder gave her his best reassuring smile.  Fortunately he recognised her
from the images held on her personal file on Dawson's database.  "Hi
there, you must be Louise, I'm Victor Robbins, we've been keeping an eye
on your assignments place of residence.  " 

"Who assigned you?"  The girl asked, her attitude wary but her posture
more relaxed as she realised they must be Watchers. 

"Joe Dawson in Seacouver," Mulder explained using a name he knew she'd be
familiar with. 

Hearing voices Scully stuck her head around the door.  Mulder knew full
well that concealed behind it she probably held a nine millimetre
automatic.  "Dana," he said, "this is Louise Allison, owner of this
splendid abode, Louise this is my long suffering partner Dana Courey." 

"Pleased to meet you," Scully smiled retreating into the front room. 
Although Louise followed quickly by the time she'd entered the room Scully
had both the swords and the automatics concealed. 

"We heard he'd released you," Scully said seating herself back at the
telescope. 

"It came as a great relief to all of us," Mulder joined in handing Scully
her coffee, "would you like a cup?" 

"Yes, thank you," Louise replied trying not to be too obvious as she
examined the state of her living room.  It was not in too bad a shape
actually as Scully had managed to control Mulder's worst excesses with
firmness, and where necessary threats. 

Returning with a cup of steaming coffee Mulder was just in time to see
Louise studying the front of Tommo's building through the telescope. 

"Where did he release you?" he asked out of genuine interest. 

"The North York Moors," she replied, "miles from anywhere." 

"Cold was it?" he asked sympathetically. 

She shrugged, "not as cold as it could have been." 

A silence followed as the two former FBI agents conversed silently in a
way that was almost telepathic and Louise sipped her coffee and monitored
the front of Tommo's building through the telescope. 

Eventually Scully spoke, "do you think we should check the apartment
again?"  She already knew that Mulder would want to have another look in
the building.  Earlier he'd worried that Tommo might have been back
already; Scully had taken it to be another ma nifestation of his
impatience.  Now she was not so sure. 

"Yeah," Mulder agreed, "might not be a bad idea Dana."  Suddenly he gave
her an impudent grin, "if I didn't know any better I'd say you were
getting addicted to all this house breaking adrenaline." 

"Well you're the one who got me into it." 


Again they were lucky enough to reach the door to Tommo's apartment
without meeting any of his neighbours. 

As Scully went to place the key in the lock Mulder stopped her.  Feeling
up around the edges of the door he extracted the spent match heads he'd
placed there earlier. 

"Neat trick," Louise said grasping the reason for their emplacement.. 

Mulder shrugged, "I used to read a lot of spy fiction." 

Turning the key in the lock Scully pushed the door open.  By now she was
convinced that Tommo was nowhere near the appartment.  Although she
couldn't sense other Immortals as far off as Mulder she knew that if the
errant Englishman was either in his appa rtment or in one of the
neighbouring ones she'd have sensed him by now. 

Once inside whilst Scully headed towards the hall closet Mulder made a
beeline towards the bedroom door.  Staying with Scully Louise was able to
peer around her to see that the closet now held only coats.  Scully
cursed, "he's been back, the sword is gone ." 

Mulder stuck his head around the bedroom door, "sword?" he asked. 

"Gone, pistol?" 

"Gone as well, along with the shells and holster.  The only thing he left
was the shotgun." 

"I wonder why he did that?" 

"I think I can guess," Mulder replied.  "Lets check the windows." 

Watched by a fascinated Louise Alison the two former FBI Special Agents
checked the windows of both the living area and the bedroom. 

"Found it," Mulder grunted loud enough to bring both his fellow
housebreakers to him.  "This window," he demonstrated to them, "has been
isolated from the alarm.  Not only that but someone has deliberately
weakened the catch to allow themselves an easier entrance."  Pointing out
the window the two women could see the close by drain pipe. 

Louise furrowed her brow thoughtfully, "it looks almost like he left
himself a backdoor into the apartment just in case," she said quietly. 

"Is there anything in his chronicle to indicate any talent for second
storey work," Mudler asked. 

Louise shook her head worriedly, "not that I've seen."