Adam, Marcus, Virgil, Elias, Pierce, John
He drags you out of the pit, pulling harshly on your arms as you cough and cough and cough up dirt, hooking his hands around your armpits when the convulsions make your limbs jerk too wildly. He ignores your weak attempts to reorient yourself and drags you further, over sand and stone that scratches open your back as fast as blue lightning seals it shut again.
Jonas, Eric, David, Luke, Paul, Bruce
He releases your arms once you're clear of the pit but he never stops towing you around, from place to place as you hungrily memorize the rules of your new life. Who are you? You ask him. He looks at you levelly and repeats whatever name he's going by at the time. It's always changing. No, you tell him. Who are you really? You have fought enough Challenges to know it is customary to introduce yourself with your true name, but he has never done so. You must have a name, you say.
Henri, Kaleb, Christopher, Timothy, William, Keith
He never answers.
Connor, Iain, Yuri, Peter, Vincent, Neil
Eventually you part ways, letting the flow of time draw you away to your own adventures, your own trials and friends and mortals to love and lose. But time that draws you apart also casts you together; You meet in a hundred odd places, brush past each others' lives by the strangest of circumstances. He quirks his lips in a wry smile. Six degrees of separation, he says when you meet. Imagine that. He always calls you by the name of that lifetime when you meet – never your own, true name, no matter how many times you ask for that one reminder of home.
Robert, Gary, Scott, Wilhelm, Lawrence, Xavier
You wheedle and beg and hint and demand and trick, but he will never tell you his name. Fine, you say with a huff, thinking of Rumplestiltskin and old tales of name magic. You wonder what would happen if you knew his true name, what power it would hold. I guess I'll just call you Old Man. He smiles sardonically. The most truthful name I've ever had, he says.
Craig, Randall, Clyde, Rafael, Gabriel, Michael
You run into him sharing company with a third Immortal. It's not unusual but it is rare. The Old Man bids his friend goodbye, who in turn nods solemnly and says, Catch you around, Methos. You bite your tongue until the Immortal has passed out of Buzz range. Methos? You ask him. Is that it? He glances sideways at you, face inscrutable. It's a name, he says, striding away with long steps. You quickly hurry after him. For now.
Tyler, Franklin, Ronald, Kurt, Sergio, Methos
