Materialising from out of the transporter beam, Methos thought that Talos IV made for a suitably grim and atmospheric place to host this final Gathering, with its desolate, rocky surface and craggy mountains below an overcast sky. Centuries back, this planet had been the home of a race of telepaths, the power of their illusions so dangerous that the V'draysh - or rather the Federation, Methos reminded himself - had declared it totally off limits. But times changed; the Talosians disappeared long ago, leaving the planet unclaimed in the heavens, shunned like a house of ghosts.
He tensed and a sword, created via the technological magic of programmable matter, appeared in his hand as he felt the proximity of another Immortal. "I'm here. Face me," he called out, his voice echoing across the bleak wastes. A moment passed, then a figure stepped into view from behind a rocky outcropping. Methos recognised the silver-haired man in front of him. "Akharin."
"Hello, Methos," the other Immortal said. "I see you couldn't resist the pull either." They looked at one another, two of the most ancient of their kind to still live, their memories rushing back through the millennia. About thirty-five hundred years ago now, it must be. Methos had been in Britain when he crossed paths with another Immortal who had made his name known in the land, that name at the time being Myrdynn, his current occupation being political advisor and so-called 'sorcerer' to some big shot warlord, a Roman-Briton named Ambrosius Aurelius whose military victories against the Saxons, Picts and Scots had won him considerable acclaim. Methos had been in the service of a lesser warlord who was one day summoned to Aurelius' court to pay homage to the self-styled 'King of the Britons', and while his employer humbled himself before Aurelius, he and the silver-haired mage at Aurelius' side had eyed one another, each feeling the energy radiating from them both. Later, during a feast in Aurelius' hall, Methos had been standing alone, nursing a cup of wine when Myrdynn had silently approached him, and standing close, said in a low voice "How goes the Game, fellow Immortal?"
Keeping his own voice low, Methos replied "I'm trying to avoid taking any heads for the time being. What about you, may I ask?"
"Likewise," said Myrdynn, and he looked behind him at Aurelius and his warriors making merry at the round table. "I have enough to occupy myself with these days," he murmured. "It was I who forged Aurelius into the ruler he is now upon the deaths of his parents. I dare say he is almost like my own son, and like any son, he does vex me at times. One day I shall have to disappear, as we all must, but for now...I loyally serve him, as others have served me centuries ago. Yes, I too have ruled nations...but never again."
"Considering the strong influence you have over the king," Methos remarked, "it could be said that you are a ruler...from behind the throne."
Myrdynn pondered these words for a brief moment, then one half of his mouth curved up in a half-smile and he murmured "An interesting view, my friend." In due course, Akharin had moved on. As for Ambrosius Aurelius, he had prospered for a while before meeting his death in battle, becoming immortal in legend as King Arthur, with Akharin as Merlin. Back then, neither he nor Methos had imagined they would travel so unbelievably far, yet here they were now beneath an alien sky. Slowly, Akharin unsheathed his sword...and promptly cast it down onto the cold ground. "I can't do it, Methos," he said. "I can't fight. I am not here to win the Prize...I am here to bring my existence to an end. Go on, I implore you...take my head." Methos stared, frozen to the spot as the other man sank to his knees in the dust and closed his eyes. Then, from not far away, came the sound of steel clashing against steel in combat...