Date: Fri, 3 Nov 1995 13:33:38 EST Reply-To: Russ McMillan Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Russ McMillan Subject: Adam, Part 6 Adam, Part 6 by Russet McMillan mcmillan@astro.psu.edu "Adam." Duncan nudged the heap of blankets on his couch. "Adam, wake up." "Mmmnnng," said the heap. Duncan bent closer. "I have some coffee," he trilled invitingly. "It's ho-ot." One eye peered out. "Nonsense. There is no such thing as hot. It's just a myth. Everything is cold." "The shower is hot," Duncan reasoned. "And if you wake up you can have one." Adam sat up reluctantly, keeping as many blankets as possible wrapped about him. He took the steaming mug from Duncan and curled his hands around it, although it was hot enough to scald. "Aaaaah," he breathed. "Heat." He took a sip. "Tame fire -- unquestionably the greatest discovery of the past six millennia." Duncan frowned uncertainly as he picked up his own cup. "What?" Adam said, catching the frown. "Who are you?" Duncan asked. Adam sighed. "Haven't we been through that already?" "We didn't have a chance to finish. Come on, Adam. Guise is gone. We have all the time in the world. Tell me the whole story." Adam sighed and took another gulp of coffee. "All right, then. I guess I should start about two hundred years ago." Duncan raised his brows. "Well, you said it was a long story." He settled down on the other end of the couch and adjusted the position of one of his chess pieces. "Go on, then." ======================== Methos tossed aside the stone he had dug free and let the pony's hoof drop back to the ground. He looked up and down the road consideringly. There had been no sign of Grayson's presence for over three days, and he was fairly sure he was safe. But Grayson, with his sandy hair and regular, amiable features, could travel much more easily and inconspicuously through England than Methos could, since his face was clearly foreign. If Methos wanted to disappear again, he would have to get back to the Continent, and soon. He had considered the wisdom of standing and fighting Grayson. He was actually in better fighting shape now than he had been for several centuries. But he hadn't lived for five thousand years without learning that some fights should be avoided. Experience told him that this was one of them. So he grasped the pony's cheekstrap and started along the road once more, the pots and pans in his wagon clanking as it lurched over the uneven ruts. What could be more innocent and unremarkable than a tinker traveling through the English countryside? But a moment later, Methos knew that someone had found him, as the first feathery hint of a buzz tickled his thoughts. He pulled the pony to a stop and stepped back to the wagon, where his sword was concealed. His eyes darted about the hills as he searched for the source of the threat. A hunting party was approaching, and for a moment Methos feared that Grayson might have gotten himself invited to some rich acquaintance's country estate. But the young sprig of nobility that stopped his horse before Methos was no one he had ever met before. He sat his leggy mount with insolent ease, and used his high-bridged nose to good advantage as he stared down at Methos. "I am Fasil," Methos said, giving the name he had used for the last few centuries. His hand was on the hilt of his sword, under one of the cloths in the wagon bed, but he didn't dare draw it out while others were watching. Anger won out over the confusion in the youth's eyes. "What the devil are you staring at?" he demanded. "Insolent lout. Why, the very sight of him makes me ill!" he cried out to his companions, who tittered uncertainly. Methos realized that he was dealing with a new Immortal, who didn't guess the significance of the queasy sensation in his gut. There was no point in trying to talk to him now. Methos dropped his gaze and lifted a hand to his hat, stepping away from the youth's path. "Donald, haven't those hounds gotten a scent yet?" the young man demanded querulously, kneeing his mount aside. "We should find something in the next field, my lord," replied a nervous huntsman, trying to keep the hounds in order. "Then get to it, man!" The Immortal cried, riding away with his retinue of noble friends. "Servants and deliveries to the back entrance," the footman said imperiously. "We don't take beggars here." He started to pull the massive door closed. "I have a message for his lordship," Methos said steadily, looking up at the footman. He wasn't really sure why he had come here; he had more important things to do than teach a foolish youngster the facts of Immortality. The next Immortal to come along could tell the boy just as well, and would be more likely to be believed. Or the next one to come along might simply take the boy's head. Somehow, Methos couldn't help feeling protective of the young ones. Despite his short stature and foreign features, he could always outstare servants with the proper air of calm certainty. The footman wavered before his gaze and said, "Very well, I shall convey the message to his lordship." "I am to give it only to him," Methos replied. He advanced upon the footman and pushed him out of the way by force of personality. The butler appeared in the hall, outraged. "You are certainly mistaken if you think his lordship will condescend to speak to a roving Gypsy savage --" "He will see me," Methos returned, looking up the stairs. Adam Pierson, the fifth Earl of Henley, was standing halfway down the stairs, looking down the length of his aristocratic nose. He glared at Methos for several seconds, then began to look uncomfortable. "Very well, Frankwell," he snapped. "I shall speak to this -- person -- in the library." Methos followed the younger Immortal into a dark room that smelled of tobacco smoke. He ignored the comfortable chairs and stood with his back to the fire. "What the devil is this all about?" the youth demanded. "Why do you look at me as if you know me?" "I don't know you," Methos said softly, "but I do know about you. I know some things about you that you don't yet know about yourself. For instance, I know that some time in the recent past, you suffered an accident that was nearly fatal -- in fact, for a time, it seemed that it _was_ fatal." "How did you know about that?" Methos took a deep breath and launched into his explanations. The library was sparse of books, but it held a fine collection of old weapons. After he had told his tale and offered his proof, Methos studied the display cases and hanging swords. Behind him, the young earl drew his penknife repeatedly across his own arm and watched in fascination as each wound disappeared in minutes, without a trace. His reaction disturbed Methos, who had broken this news to more youngsters than he could recall, and who knew only too well that the shock could drive some men mad. "So if I take another Immortal's head, I will know all that he knows?" the earl demanded. "It is not so simple as knowing. You gain your opponent's power, but most Immortals cannot use that power in any practical way. The last one left will have the power of all the Immortals who ever lived, and presumably that one will know how to use the power, somehow." "The power to rule the world, you say?" "The power to do anything you wish," Methos returned casually. "But you must remember, Immortality demands a price of us, as well." "What price?" "Loneliness. Everyone, everything that you love will fade and die. The world will grow older around you while you remain outwardly young. The only people you will not outlive are those that may someday be your enemies." Methos paused. The last part of this explanation would be the hardest for the earl to accept. "And you cannot have a family." "What do you mean by that?" Methos sighed. "Was this your father?" he asked, gesturing to a painting above the mantel. It showed a man with blond, curling hair and an open face. "That's right. The fourth earl." "Were you his only child?" "Yes, my mother lost four babies before I came along." "I see. And who is heir to the title and estates after you?" "My uncle Thomas. Father always hated him, and swore that he would never inherit. I am to marry within the year, to be sure that the line carries on." The young Immortal's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean, I cannot have a family? As you see, I've got one already." "They are not truly yours," Methos said harshly. "All Immortals are orphans. You must have been substituted for a babe that died." "_What?_" "Furthermore, all Immortals are sterile. We can never have children. There will be no heir from your marriage." "You must be mistaken. My family line carries back to the Battle of Hastings!" Methos was unimpressed. "Not _your_ family. You have no family. No parents. No children, ever. Only other Immortals like myself -- we are your family." "But you said other Immortals will be after me to take my head!" Methos shrugged. "It's not a very friendly family." "I need a drink," the earl said after another hour of discussion, crossing to an alcove of the library. "Er -- would you like some brandy?" he said, as if it had just occurred to him that his guest might have needs as well. Methos nodded, sinking wearily into a chair. It seemed the boy was beginning to accept the news, but it was still too early to be sure. He wondered again if he had made the right decision in coming to tell the youth of his Immortality. He had no time to stay and train the boy properly -- he should have been out of this county already. He took the glass of brandy with a polite smile, swirled it around, and drank it in a few quick gulps. Not a very good brandy, he reflected. The earl took a seat opposite him and sipped from his own glass, watching Methos with a slight smile. "So," he began, "how old are you -- Fasil, did you say the name was?" Methos gave him a level stare. "Older than I look." The youth conceded the point with a lift of his brow. "You seem very wise," he said with another sip of brandy. "You must be very powerful." "Powerful enough to take care of myself," Methos returned. He rubbed at his eyes. The long days of travel were beginning to wear on him. "Oh, I don't doubt it -- in a fair fight. But do Immortals never cheat?" Methos sighed. "There are some rules we never break. It is always one on one. We never fight on holy ground. Those who break the lesser rules tend to . . . tend to attract unwanted ashenton -- attention." Methos shook his head, trying to focus on the leaping flames of the fire. His eyelids kept drooping. "I see." The earl stood up and paced casually around the perimeter of the room. "So I will be attracting attention. But something tells me it will be worth the price." Methos tried to follow the youth with his eyes, but turning his head made him dizzy. Something was wrong. He tried to get his feet under him, reaching behind his back for his sword. "Drugs," he mumbled. "You drugged me." "How right you are," said the earl from behind him. "Just a few drops of laudanum in the brandy -- quite effective, really." "It won't work." Methos got his sword out at the expense of his balance, stumbling to his knees on the plush carpet. "I've beaten better men than you." He frowned fiercely, trying to focus both vision and thought. "But have you ever done it under such a disadvantage?" Methos heard the whistle and realized the boy had taken a sword from the wall. He brought his own blade around just in time to stop the blow that swept toward the back of his neck. He twisted around and tried to climb to his feet. The youth brought his sword overhead and swung down, an awkward beginner's move. Methos saw the opening but could not move his muscles soon enough to take advantage of it. Instead of dodging the blow or knocking it aside, he ended up taking the full force of it in parry. It jarred his wrists and threw him back to his knees. He released one hand from the hilt of his sword to grab at a chair for support. The blade seemed almost too heavy to lift with his other hand. He saw the earl's sword coming around, incredibly slowly as it seemed, but his arm refused to move any faster. The boy's strike burst through his weak block and continued on toward his neck. One brief moment of agony, and he felt nothing more . . . =========================================================================