Disclaimer: I don't own Highlander or any characters contained within.
I recently finished the Highlander series, the fan-girl part of me is proud to say all 6 seasons in as many weeks, and got a few fic ideas. Hope you enjoy!
It's a funny thing about being the oldest living immortal, everyone seems young and appearances stop being much of any representation of age or wisdom. Still he had been surprised on occasion by young MacLeod's insights and the stupidity which far older immortals displayed. Perhaps it was something in his character that made Joe seem wise beyond his few years and made him able to so well take on the role of helpful and caring uncle to immortals so many decades or centuries his elder. Methos had begun to suspect that in the nature of immortality there was the tendency to retain in their manner much of their apparent age.
But now all this observation seemed quite turned on its head by tragedy. As MacLeod fled in sobs, babbling unintelligibly with grief, Joe and Methos were left with Richie's headless body. Joe lasted only a moment longer before shielding his face from the scene and crying into Methos' chest. Wrapping his arms around the quaking man, Methos gazed mournfully down at the slaughtered babe. Richie had been just that, a mere babe, too young, too trusting, too innocent for such an end. Blind loyalty was one of youth's more dangerous follies, one best disposed of early but also a quite endearing one. Richie was a good kid, he didn't deserve to die in such a terrible manner, the teacher in a fit of hallucination killing the student.
There had been a time that Methos would have seen the death of a new immortal, whatever the manner, as nothing more than another move in the larger game. It was a time when he'd had no personal attachments, living safely and entirely unknown as the watcher Adam Pearson, when he'd favored MacLeod from a distance through his files. Now he wished he could return to that uncaring distance, where only his own survival mattered.
He had gone soft he'd started to care again. Care about his friends, care what Cassandra thought of him, care that a young boy now lay needlessly dead in front of him. But there was one thing that didn't change whether you were just a kid or as old as the world itself, caring hurt.
"I don't think he's coming back." Joe's comment snapped Methos out of his reverie.
He turned his head to look down the hall through which MacLEod had disappeared before returning to Richie's splayed body. "Would you?"
"No, old timer, I wouldn't."
"Well then kid, I guess it's left up to us to take care of the little one."
"Yeah, what a shame."
"Yeah."