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Other Choices, Other Lives, part 2
Methos was playing with fire… and he knew it. Glancing at the sleeping Jillian O'Hara lying next to him, he let out a deep breath and rose. This had been a mistake. She was intriguing… yes… and willing. But he didn't love her. Rising, he quietly and stealthily pulled on his clothes and was at the front door of her flat when he heard her behind him.
He turned. "I didn't want to wake you."
"So you decided to just leave? That's rude Adam!"
Methos shrugged. "I'm sorry. I just thought it best to go. You were wonderful." He kissed her cheek.
"Hmmph!" she snorted folding her arms across her.
"You've your assignments. You're usually on the go. I lead a very reclusive and sedentary life. I prefer it that way."
"So this was nothing?" she accused him.
He blushed. "No… I wouldn't call it nothing. It was delightful. I just really need to go. I have work to do. I'll call you."
Maybe I won't answer," she retorted.
He smiled. "Then call me. Maybe I will answer." Kissing her cheek again, he left, slipping out the door and down the stairs to exit onto the dark and deserted Paris street.
He shoved his hands into his pockets and slouched along the street, watching for taxis, scarce at three a.m. in this part of Paris. Turning his collar up against the chill wind, the world's oldest living immortal considered his choice to leave an admittedly warm bed and a willing companion. But he didn't want entanglements… at least not the romantic kind. He worked with Jillian and feared that becoming too involved with her would mean that she would learn his secret… and then his true identity. It was better to play it safe.
His footsteps echoed in the darkness… a solitary sound for a solitary man. It had not always been thus. There had been a time when he'd have actively pursued a relationship with a woman. And one of them had been a Watcher… his Watcher… though she'd never known his name… or all the regrets of his long life.
Florence 1457Methos took a deep breath as the quickening roared about him, finally piercing his very being like a lance, charged with power. From his chest it raced along his arms, torso, legs, and seemed to explode about his head. The visions of Vincenzo Ponti's life roared through his mind… the memories becoming his memories… the life his life. It found its place in the large volume of his existence… and finally settled quietly. Memories that he could visit again some time. A life he could draw knowledge from. And Methos wanted knowledge. It was the primary reason for the game in his thoughts. A game he wanted desperately to survive. He hated being caught unawares by the young ones. Cursing he replaced his sword in its sheath.
He saw her then, trying to remain in the shadows, cloaked by darkness. Purposely he strode to her… pulling her into the moonlight. He gripped both of her hands.
She was pretty, but then he found many women pretty… and dressed as one of the new middle-class… perhaps a servant or in trades. "Who are you and what did you see?" he demanded.
"Please signore, you are hurting me," she'd pleaded.
He'd relaxed his grip slightly. "Scusi!" he mumbled.
She'd attempted to leave. He'd restrained her and then noticed the small medallion about her neck. Holding it up with the fingers of one hand, he'd spat. "Guardiano!"
She gasped. "How do you know of us?"
"I know many things," he'd replied leaning his face close to hers and searching it for lies and duplicity. He saw none… only wonder.
"Tell me," she'd replied breathlessly. Her dark eyes had sparkled in the moonlight… her cupid's bow of a mouth had glistened invitingly. A lock of red hair had fallen across her brow.
"To know me is to court Il Morte," he warned her.
"Then I will die willingly," she'd said breathlessly.
He'd kissed her then, both of their hands running across the other's body, seeking the feel of skin beneath the voluminous garments of the day. He'd pulled back. "Are you certain?"
"Long have I watched immortals… and never knew one. Ponti was an asino! I'm glad you killed him."
He'd cupped a hand about her jaw. "Why shouldn't I kill you?"
She'd gazed at him defiantly, then said with a win, "Then to whom would you tell your story?"
Her bravery and wit had enchanted him. They were rare gifts in the women of that day. He'd laughed and pulled her closer to him. "Come with me then… and I will answer all your questions."
He hadn't though. He'd given Gabriella a much shorter and far more heroic version of his life… a pretence born of his need to banish Methos and the man he'd once been to the furthest reaches of knowledge. She'd reported to her superiors that Ponti had died at the hands of an unknown immortal… and had remained with him… helped him stay hidden from both Watchers and other immortals alike. She'd become his wife and lover until the day of her death. She'd written his tales into a diary that he still had in his collection. She'd never betrayed what he was… but then… he'd never given her reason.
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"Life was simpler then," the immortal muttered. There'd been fewer immortals; no photography, no sound recordings, and the Watchers had been only a minor irritant in his life. Now, all that had changed. If the Watchers ever discovered that he was immortal, worse who he truly was somehow, he'd not have a moment's peace after that. He'd be hounded and hunted for the rest of his life by both Watchers and immortals.
It was better to be a myth. Not that he hadn't enjoyed the evening's activities… he had. But he didn't want to pursue a relationship… not now… and not with a fellow Watcher. He was in Watcher's for two reasons. One was that he wanted to keep tabs on his former brothers, enemies, and acquaintances; the other was to hide in plain sight. Watchers would never think to look for an immortal within their own ranks.
Finally reaching the flat he currently called home, he stepped in and turned on the lights. Checking his computer, he noted the search program that he'd set into motion before leaving earlier had turned up several possibilities. Eagerly, and now fully awake, he settled before the screen to study and explore them.
Paris, 551 C.E.
Pulling his horse to a standstill, Methos stared around at the peasants. He could sense someone here. He smiled when he saw the tall, lanky form of Darius.
Methos patted his horse as the old general approached. "Steady there boy. Hello old friend. Still here?"
"Still here… else I must be a figment of your imagination."
Methos chuckled and dismounted. The two men walked. "I wondered that you were here."
"Where else should I be," Darius had replied with a chuckle.
Methos had given him an odd look. "Out conquering the world?"
"I gave that up!" chuckled the other immortal.
"Ah," he'd replied without commitment. For a moment, he'd seemed to recall once killing the Ancient Immortal himself… something to do with a sacrifice. He shook his head, the odd feeling vanishing.
"I thought I'd continue his work…" Darius was saying. "There is another way… another path to the end."
Methos had looked at him curiously, wondering what he was thinking. "The end of the game?"
Darius shrugged. "The end of the road perhaps." He smiled benignly at the elder man. "I learned who you are."
Methos stumbled slightly in surprise. "What?"
"Your name… and you once lectured me on my barbarism!" he laughed.
Methos said nothing… merely looked where they were going. He'd learned over the centuries to say as little as possible. There was less chance of betraying something.
"Methos? Have you nothing to say?"
Methos closed his eyes and shook his head. "Who told you?" he finally asked wearily.
Darius had shrugged. "The Ancient One knew. Odd thing is… in him were some of your memories."
"How do you know they were mine?"
Darius had slapped him companionably on the back. "I knew. Some of them were memories you had of me."
They'd shared a simple meal and Methos had remained the night before moving on… ever the restless and solitary loner.
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By dawn, he'd explored and rejected each of the possibilities. "You're out there old friend," he said to the computer screen. "Somewhere… somehow. We're connected you and I… we once both killed and were killed by the same man and everything was different because of the choices the three of us made in the aftermaths of those challenges." Had the game reset again? Who'd won this time? Odd that he'd had no sense of it this time… as if whoever had done so was a stranger. But if so… where was Darius?
Finally he shut down the computer and crawled into his bed for sleep.
The phone rang moments later. At first he let it ring. But it would stop before the machine picked up the message… and then begin again… and again… and again.
"All right!" he snapped reaching for it. Someone knew he was here and wanted to talk. "Pierson," he spit forcefully. "And this had better be good! I'm trying to sleep."
"It's eight o'clock in the morning Severnus. You should be up and about. Late night?"
"Marcus," Methos replied and sat leaning against the headboard while running a hand through his dark hair. "What do want?"
"Lunch… my treat."
"I've told you before… I don't like congregating."
"St. Julien's… one o'clock," the historian said. "We need to talk about our mutual friend."
Methos felt as someone had punched him in the stomach. "You've heard something?"
"Meet me and we'll discuss it," the Roman replied. "One o'clock Severnus." There was an audible click as the connection was broken.
Methos slammed the receiver into its cradle and reached for the alarm… setting it for noon. He threw himself down in the bed once more. Four hours was better than none.
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Arriving at the church grounds, Methos caught site of Marcus Constantine sitting on one of the benches, reading a newspaper and occasionally sipping from a Styrofoam cup. He sauntered to the bench and sat on the far end, opening a sack and tossing breadcrumbs to the pigeons.
"What do you want?" he asked quietly, without responding to the other man.
"A friend of mine in the shipping business sent me some pictures of the artifacts being loaded in Cairo. The ship had some other stops to make in Africa before sailing north again."
"If this is about my helping you with Nefertiri… I haven't decided."
"No?" Marcus said and folded the newspaper. "Check under the seat after I'm gone." He rose, tossed the cup in the trash receptacle and sauntered off the grounds; his newspaper tucked neatly under one arm. Methos gave it several moments and then reached under the seat. He felt an envelope taped to the underneath, Ripping it free he casually lifted it and stuffed it into his pocket. He'd look at it later. He finished distributing the bread crumbs… rose, balled the bag, and tossed it into the receptacle… as if making a free throw. He liked American basketball… it was a thinking man's game… a game of tactics and pace… a game for the one who could manage to stay in it for the long haul… the long-distance runner. "Yes!" he said pumping his fist and pulling it toward him when the bag went in.
Once home again he pulled the envelope out. In it were three photographs of the crates from Cairo being loaded onto a ship. He flipped through them with bored detachment… and then scanned them more closely… or rather the faces of the men working to load those crates. One face in all three photos caught his eye and he smiled.
"I knew you were out there," he said triumphantly, "and now Marcus knows it as well." Grabbing a lighter he set fire to the photos. Like most immortals, he had a healthy fear of photos falling into the wrong hands. He had all he needed. He'd meet the ship when it docked in Marseilles as Marcus wished. He'd take custody of the sarcophagus and its precious cargo… and he'd ask questions of the sailors. He'd buy them drinks… speak of research for a book he was writing… and discover more about the bearded man in the photo. He had no doubt that his friend had moved on… but at least now he had a clue as to how he'd left Europe… and the general direction he'd gone.
"Are you back in the game? Or was you just avoiding Horton's people?" he mused as he opened a bottle of beer, downing half of it in a single gulp. "And if you changed your mind and left… how did you know? Who warned you?" There was a new player in the game… one that had the ability to win. Methos was determined to find him… and discover if he were a help or a hindrance… a friend… or a foe.
Meanwhile… he'd help Marcus with Nefertiri. It was the least he could do. Besides… Marcus was right. Methos feared that re-awakening an immortal from such a long sleep would not be healthy for the Roman… or for his lovely wife. "And what about me?" He wondered how she'd react to seeing him again? They had not parted on the best of terms either… long before Marcus Constantine was ever born.
For some reason… Methos feared he might be playing with fire… again.
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