The Letter, a highlander fanfic

Disclaimer: I do not own Highlander, its characters or its concepts. No money was made from writing this.

Rating: PG

Notes: My first Highlander fic so any feedback will be appreciated.

The Letter

By NorthernStar

She had known he wasn't dead. Had known since that bitter Christmas night when her mother had gasped her last, and told her the truth. There was life, there was death. And some people possessed both.

Ellen May Goldstein pushed the letter she was writing away and stared for a long moment at the dark inky stain on her weathered fingers. She had never owned a fountain pen that didn't leak. There were nice modern biros these days, of course, but she preferred the flow and neatness of liquid ink.

The memory flickered through her mind again, as it had every hour, almost like clockwork, since she'd decided to find her father. She felt the ghost warmth of old Mr Clayton's hand holding hers again, heard the sharp clink of metal on metal, and saw as she had so many years ago the distant dark shadows of two men locked in battle. Moonlight cast them into silhouette's… Her own childish cry pierced the night as she recognised the leaner and taller of the two. "Daddy!" Her father flinched at the sound of his child's cry, and the distraction meant he was unprepared for the force of his opponent's parry. The blow sent him reeling, rolling over and over, but mercifully out of the other's reach. "Get her out of here!" He screamed at Clayton as he sprang to his feet. It was the last act his lungs performed before they were sliced open by a blade from behind, twisting brutally on its way out. She heard her own scream as Clayton snatched her up, burying her face in his sweater so she wouldn't see the blood anymore. She heard gunshots, people yelling but saw nothing but the grey wool pressed against her face and the constantly looping image of her father's strong chest spurting an endless river of red…

The old woman pushed the memories away. Old wounds these; a long time healed. Just as she now knew those terrible, terrible life stealing wounds had healed, and the coffin they'd buried had been empty of flesh, only dirt. She'd spent every Saturday afternoon since she was ten years old pouring out her heart and her love to a box full of earth. There was something so utterly ironic and macabrely funny about it that she'd continued to do so long after she'd learnt the truth. After all, her actions were as much of a lie as her father's life, it was only a fitting memorial.

She shook off her melancholy, if only for another hour or so. She would have to hurry if she were to catch the last post.

13 months Later…

Joe ran his hand over his eyes and wished the ache behind them would ease enough for him to function. He was the latest in a long line of people who had suffered through this frustration headache. And all because of the honest human sympathy a few simple words and a worn photograph invoked

But he was the only one who recognised the blurred and grainy image. And the only one who knew the shit load of trouble it could bring.

Joe picked up the envelope again, and emptied the contents out onto the bar. A polite letter that began 'Dear sir or madam,' a single, much loved, much battered photograph and a small sealed envelope. The photo was like any from the turn of the century, professionally posed in clothes that dated it as the 1920's. The envelope had only a simple smudged message on its front, 'Only to be opened by Dr. Peter Goldstein. Or," it added underneath, 'his relatives/next-of-kin.' An odd assumption, that a man in his mid-twenties in the 1920's was still living, but easily dismissed in the light of the letter that had accompanied it, written by an elderly lady driven almost delusional by her age, her quest and her deep, deep sorrow.

Joe idly stroked the edge of the sir/madam letter, knowing its contents off by heart by now, yet feeling some compunction to read it again.

"Dear sir or madam,

I am seeking information on the whereabouts of my father, Doctor Peter Goldstein or any of his relatives. I believe he studied at the University of Maryland and that he was registered with you in 1923.

I have enclosed my only picture of him, should it be any help in finding him. I am the little girl in his arms.

I am, I'm afraid, of very poor health, and do not know if my father can be found before the Lord returns me to His embrace. In such an event, I have enclosed a small letter, which I request be delivered to him, and not be opened by any other than he or his kin.

May the Lord bless you and keep you,

Ellen May Goldstein."

It had originally been sent to a small practice in Baltimore, the start of a journey from place to place, by hands both willing to help, and those that simply wished to pass the buck, until it had ended up in the in tray of Professor Michael Steed. Steed had served with Joe in 'Nam, back before either could legally drink in bars across the greater part of America. They'd remained friends over the years, swapping letters and phone calls and e-mails, on both private and profession levels. And while Steed remained in the dark about Watcher's and Immortals, he knew Dawson was part of something bigger than either of them. Steed had been touched, as other's before him, by the request of a lonely old woman, and haunted by the sweet image of the child she used to be, held so tenderly in her father's arms. He had searched in his own time, and sometimes at his own expense for the records of the man who, he discovered, he never truly existed. Alarmed by this, and frustrated that the trail had gone cold, he'd sent everything to Joe.

Who had taken one look at the photograph and recognised Methos.

29th October 1997 AD. Paris

Methos jolted awake, his hand closing around the hilt of his Ivanhoe even before he was awake enough to recognise that it was the phone ringing that had woken him, and not the buzz of another Immortal. He relaxed and reached over to the handset by his bedside. "Yes," he muttered testily.

"Adam, its Joe." The voice on the other end of the line replied, somewhat unnecessarily. Methos would have recognised the tones anywhere.

"What is it?" He demanded sitting up, annoyed at the flash of concern he felt.

"I've got a letter for you-" Joe began.

Letter? "Joe, it's the middle of the night!"

"Not here it isn't." A smile laced the words.

"I'm not there." He sank back on the bed, "just put it in the post, you've got my address."

"It's from your daughter."

The air solidified in his lungs, and he was silent a long time. "I don't have any children," he breathed, "you know that."

"Not biological, no." Joe conceded, "but plenty of you guys raised other peoples kids. Are you telling me you never-"

"It's been a long time."

"Her name's Ellen. Ellen May –"

"Goldstein." Methos completed. There was another long silence.

"She wants to see you again." Joe said, knowing the words were unwelcome, but saying them anyway. Methos gave no reply.

"She's dying, Adam."

"You all are." His voice was a little more bitter than he would have liked.

"She just wants to see you again. Make peace with you, I guess. Whatever."

"No." He said quietly, "her father's dead. I don't want to see her. I don't want her letter. Good night, Joe." And he put the phone down before he could hear Joe bring his parenthood into question.

15th June 1923 AD, New York

The kite soared into the clean blue sky, a bright splash of orange that swooped and danced above him. And below, a bright and happy girl jumped and bounced at his side.

"Higher, Daddy, higher!" She cried.

The Phoenix shaped kite rose, obeying the breathless command. They'd made it from painted rice paper and bamboo just that morning, a talent he'd learned a century ago whilst travelling through Viet Nam.

"My turn!" The girl pleaded arms up ready to take hold of the line. Methos knelt at her side and helped her balance the pull and lift of the kite. She learned quickly and her giggles grew louder as he allowed her to take more and more control of the phoenix until at last she was flying solo. He watched her carefully, ready to catch her if the wind pulled her to hard.

The buzz of an Immortal shattered the moment. He stood up and scanned the distance. The park was almost deserted, populated only a woman pushing a pram, a couple of boys playing tag, a couple strolling… And a tall, well built man by the trees, his long coat flapping in the wind. The man met his eyes, staring back, issuing no challenge, but not backing form one either.

Ellen yelped as she was pulled off her feet by a strong gust. The line snapped and the phoenix was yanked away, rolling over and over in the sky. Methos scooped her up. She held her bloody knees and howled, "my kite!" more worried about its lose than her fall.

"We'll make another one." He promised.

She sobbed something incoherently and Methos settled her in his arms for the walk home. When he looked again, the Immortal was gone.

The house was dark, dawn still hours away. Methos sat up, reaching for the sword he kept concealed in the drapes of the four poster bed. His wife, Genevere, hated having it so close to where they slept and made love, but at least she understood its necessity. He was glad she was at her sister's house across town this night.

Methos slipped from the bed and hurried to Ellen's room. The girl slept soundly and he closed the door again. He didn't have time to take her to safety and staying here to guard here would indicate to the other Immortal that he had something worth guarding. No, it was best to lead them away from the house all together and hope the child did not awaken.

Methos quietly ran down the stairs, moving in the light, a reckless manoeuvre but one he had to take to ensure he could get the Immortal as far away from the house as possible. He saw a shadow outside, tall, well built. He wondered if it was the one from the park.

Something glinted in the darkness as he slipped outside.

Methos awoke in the parlour, surrounded by soft fine silks, hard wood and the strong scent of pine and incense. He struggled to sit, disgusted at the thought of lying in a coffin; his chest still ached from the sword wound, limbs heavy with returning blood flow.

Then terror struck him. "Ellen!"

"She's safe."

He jumped at the soft voice. "Gen!"

His wife smiled sadly. She was sitting at the hearth, dressed in mourning black. And while her tears might not be for a dead husband, she wept for the end of their life together just as surely as if he truly had been killed.

He stumbled out of the coffin. Gen watched him, her body held rigid against her grief. "I almost…"

Methos pulled her into an embrace, and felt her press her face into his neck. "I almost wished what you told me about…living forever… was just a delusion." She admitted, and pulled away just enough to touch his cheek. "It would be easier to know you were dead, than to know you're alive and we can't be together."

He covered her mouth with his own, pressing not just his lips, but his whole body close to hers. "We could leave here," he whispered, "go far. I know places-"

"No." She pulled away. "You nearly died, Peter. That man…" Her voice broke, "that man could have harmed Ellen. What happens when the next one comes for you and our baby gets in his way?"

He looked down.

"You can't promise that won't happen, can you?"

"No."

Tears streamed down her cheeks, "go." She whispered. "Go now, before…before you're seen."

"Ellen…"

Genivere shook her head, "you can't. I'm sorry. Go, please."

31st October 1997 AD, Seacouver, USA

Joe unlocked the bar, guessing it was Mac or Richie knocking. The man on whom he opened the door bore a strong resemblance to his friend of over a decade, Adam Peirson, but the grad student stroke 5000-year-old Immortal had never looked this worn and tired.

"Adam."

"Where is it?" The man demanded, pushing his way into the empty bar.

Joe frowned. "What?"

"The letter, Joe. The one you woke me up several nights ago to tell me about rather than just forward it like any sane person would do."

The Watcher sighed and moved behind the bar. "I called because I didn't want to just drop it on you. I thought it was the right thing to do. And I thought you might wanna come get it yourself."

"I was in Paris!"

"Still I thought-"

"What? That since I was gonna come here anyway to see her you'd save on the postage."

"No," Joe said, trying to keep a reign on his anger, "because I figured it was too important to trust in the post. And maybe, if you wanted to see her, time wasn't something you could waste." And he slammed a bottle of beer down in front of him.

Methos sighed and sprawled on the barstool. "Thanks." He conceded, although Joe wasn't sure if it was for the explanation, or the beer.

Joe helped himself to a bottle too and came around the bar to sit beside Adam. He settled down and the pair drank in silence for a long moment.

"Daughter, huh?" Joe said finally.

Methos took a large mouthful and nodded.

"Pretty girl too."

Methos looked up.

"There's a photo. That's how I knew it was you. I'd know that nose anywhere."

The Immortal might have chuckled at that if Joe hadn't reached into his pocket, pulled something out and dropped it on the bar in front of Methos. A small, dog-eared photo of a woman, fine featured and narrow boned, and a man, tall and lean and so obviously Methos, with a small child in his arms.

Methos stared at it a moment, expressionless. Then indifference filled his face and he sipped his beer. "First wedding anniversary." He explained as if it were no more important to him than the weather.

Joe frowned, knowing that Methos could be a heartless bastard when he wanted to be. Adam, bizarrely, was a different matter.

Which of them is real? He wondered for the hundredth time and pulled yet more from his pocket. He dropped the small sealed envelope on top of the photo. Methos' eyes fixated on it for a long moment, then he drained his bottle, got to his feet, fingers scooping up the envelope and photo as he stood.

"Thanks for the beer," he said and left.

He considered dropping by the dojo to share a few beers with MacLeod, but he knew that was just avoiding the issue, putting off the inevitable.

He had recognised the writing on the letter, tall and curving, so much like her mother's hand. But why should he open it? Her father, Peter Goldstein, really was dead. He was Adam Peirson and had been for the last… how many years? Probably more than was safe, but he liked this person. A man who had travelled, and studied, and loved. A man who was not quick to hate or fight. Dr Peter Goldstein had been a fine upstanding member of the community, a respected physician and family man. He had been killed in a vicious attack and almost the whole town had turned out for the memorial service. He wasn't Adam Peirson. Methos had left him behind a long time ago.

Living in the past, regretting the past got you killed. It was as simple as that.

He was Adam Peirson, dammit.

But three days later he couldn't pack his bag to return to France. And at the same moment the plane he'd booked on took off without him, Methos tore open the faded envelope.

He felt cold. Probably the window he'd opened that morning and forgotten to close. The long fingers holding the folded paper he had liberated from the envelope had long since turned to ice.

Ellen was one of hundreds of children he come to love and grieve over in his 5000 years and he thought of all of them now. But she was also one of the few who came to call him Daddy, and had never felt he was anything but that.

Methos unfolded the paper and began to read…

'I hardly know how to begin. Dear Father seems far too formal for all you have meant to me, yet Dearest Daddy feels like a liberty I am no longer allowed to take. So I shall just begin, with no greeting although one is surely meant, and it is of the warmest and most sincerest kind.

You are, perhaps, wondering why I felt I should contact you, being that we have not seen each other for many, many years and our parting was, shall we say for the sake of prying eyes, somewhat final. My mother, who you may like to know, married again, although not until much later in life, died in the summer of 1962 and felt I deserved the truth before the Lord took her. I was, as you can guess, very shocked by her news, but I did nothing at that time but grieve for my mother.

I am now not long for this world, and I find myself thinking of you more and more. Time may have ravished my body, but my mind remains young and I remember those days with you and mother as clearly as if they had been yesterday. You were a good man and a good father (you don't know how long I have waited to tell you that, Daddy.) And as countless people have told me throughout my life, you were a good doctor and a good friend. I loved you, and mother, more than I have ever loved anyone else, and I love you still. Oh, but I can laugh at myself as I write this, the old can be terrible sentimental. And I wonder, dear Daddy, if the same can be said of you?

Do you remember our Saturday's? When mother attended the choir and we would walk together, in the park, by the river, wherever our feet would take us! They were our days, and I loved no other day of the week as much.

I want you to know I do not blame you for leaving, and while I was at first angry for being denied the truth, I understand now that I was too young. And I have also come to understand that I do not feel any hardship towards you for the lie, and that I believe was something you taught me. The past is the past; it cannot be altered, only accepted.

Perhaps that is why I have not sought you before, but now I must be selfish. I have only one wish, my father, and one regret. (One among many, I should add, being that I never married and I never got to see the world you told me was mine if I wished to take it) but this one at least has a chance to be reconciled. I regret that I have not seen you in all my adult life, that I have not had the chance to tell you how much my life was enriched the moment you took mother as a wife and myself as your child. And this is my wish, and know that it is made with love and hope, but also understanding. I am the past. I will not hold you reluctance to indulge a feckless old lady against you. Should you wish to put this letter aside and continue with your life (and I have long wished you great happiness) then do so. That you have read these words is enough.

May the Lord bless you and keep you,

Your Loving Daughter,

Forever,

Ellen, xx'

His tears smudged the words, and his numb fingers moved swiftly to protect the address at the top of the page.

He got drunk that night.

Mac walked him home, probably fearing he'd do something stupid like lose his head. As if in 5000 years of periodic depression he'd just been lucky to muddle through without the Highlander to baby-sit him.

A loud rapping on the door woke him at an ungodly hour the next morning. He pulled a jumper over his head and answered the door in just that and a pair of boxers.

Joe took one look and held out a bottle of beer, probably as an apology for the wake up call. Methos' annoyance faded somewhat as he grabbed the bottle and turned, leaving the door open. Joe entered and followed the Immortal. He settled on the sofa, surprised to see the letter and photo were laying on the seat too. Methos noted with amusement that Joe immediately averted his eyes the moment he knew he was being watched,

Methos took off the bottle top and took a mouthful. "Mi casa es su casa." He told him, and waved the beer in the direction of the letter.

" Su mail too?"

"It's just a letter."

"From a lonely old woman," the Watcher reminded him, "Your little girl! And your treating it like it's a phone bill."

"I'm treating it like it is, past history."

"Then how come your bar tab went into four figures last night?"

"I felt like celebrating. It was Guy Fawkes Night," he shook his head, "I tried to warn Guido not to trust Jeremy."

"That's tomorrow night." He said, refusing to take that piece of historical bait. He stared at the Immortal, until he was forced to say something. "She's not my daughter. She never was. Immortals are barren."

"That doesn't matter to her. You were still her papa."

No expression showed, "Daddy, actually." And he dumped the beer on top of the sound system and went to shower.

"Adam!"

He turned in the bathroom doorway.

"I can see you're still-"

"Spare me the inspirational speech. I've been on the receiving end of hours of mindless rhetoric, which I might add I have never listened too and I'd rather you didn't add to it or have me waste your time."

"Look, I don't know much about what happened with this kid, or who she was, but I do know you gonna regret it if you don't see her, phone her, whatever it is she wants from you."

"As an inspirational speech that - what's the expression? - sucked?"

"It happens to be the truth."

"I don't do regret." Methos argued.

"What about her?"

"Yes, what about her?"

Joe pushed himself to his feet, frustrated anger tensing the muscles of his face and shoulders. "You wanna know why I think you should care? Because she's old, she's lonely, she's dying. And because she's your daughter!"

"All good reason's for why I don't want to get involved."

He walked to the door and pulled it open roughly, stopping only to impart one more thing.

"You know, you really are a jerk!"

And he slammed the door in Methos' face.

6th November 1997 AD, New York

The retirement home was set well back in a woody copse, a tiny patch of rural life in an otherwise concrete domain. A small, buxom woman in her mid-thirties, who offered him a wide smile and a thick hand, met Methos at the door.

"I'm here to see Miss Goldstein," Methos said, "I'm her cousin's son."

"Ah, yes, Mr Peirson, we talked on the phone. It's so nice to meet you in person. Please come this way." She began leading him through the warm and comfortable, but sadly run-down house. "Ellen's not too well today, but she's sitting up in bed and eating well, so we're not too concerned just yet."

"Did you tell her I was coming?"

The woman paused, "no, not as yet. Sometimes…" She sighed, "sometimes family are a little busier than they'd originally thought and put off their visit…"

One way of saying they don't bother to turn up, Methos thought.

"And so we don't generally tell our guests until the visitors are actually here. We don't like to see them upset." She stopped outside a door with a brass number '18' on it. "Here we are. I'll leave you to it."

He barely heard her goodbye, didn't know if he gave his own. The doorknob felt cold under his fingers, and the wood grazed his knuckles when he tapped.

"Come in." A strong voice, deepened with age, but lacking the fragility he'd feared.

He pushed the door open and stepped in. The room was very warm and cosily decorated in blue floral. The old woman in the bed gave a gasp; her eyes going so wide in her heavily lined face, glittering with unshed tears. Methos saw that her once rich auburn hair had turned completely white, thin and brittle, and her skin was like parchment paper. Mortal ageing in all its gruesome glory and it sickened him. They deserved better.

The woman held out thin, shrivelled, stick like arms and suddenly her image in his mind's eye melded with that of his sweet, sweet baby who would ask to be cuddled just this way.

He crushed her in his arms, stroking her hair and back as he had a thousand times in the long past as she sobbed one word over and over. "Daddy…"

21st December 1997 AD, Paris

Cold wind bit at Joe's skin, numbing the ever-present pain he felt from using the prosthesis. The man he sought stood alone, before a grave Joe knew almost as well as he knew that of his parents.

Methos looked up at his approach and Joe nodded in greeting and bent to lay the small posy of flowers he brought by the headstone. He had loved Alexa too.

Another gravestone stood beside hers, more recent, but with just as simple an epitaph.

Ellen May Goldstein

Daughter

No dates, they were nothing to a man whose life spanned millennia.

"She wanted to see Paris." Methos murmured, by way of explanation.

"She got her wish." Joe said, "both of them."

"World's oldest Immortal, tour guide to the dying."

"I'm sorry."

Methos walked away, "merry bloody Christmas…"

~~END~~