Part Two: In which a quickening occurs, Death returns and questions are answered.

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"We do what we do because of who we are. If we did otherwise, we would not be ourselves."

The Kindly Ones by Neil Gaiman Part 11, p. 24 panel 4

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Lightning. All he could see was lightning. It surrounded him, it consumed him. It hurt.

It had been two hundred years since he had come into his Immortality but this was his first Quickening. There were still few enough Immortals in the world that it was easy enough to avoid them.

The man, who lay decapitated at his feet, had come riding into the town, seeking him. Methos had heard of "Hunters" but had not expected to be the prey of one. But he was a warrior at heart and had been trained well by his teacher. The victory was an easy one.

When the lightning had stopped, he collapsed to the ground, head bent low and chest heaving as he tried to force air into his lungs. He knelt next to his opponent's body, hands on knees for support, willing the world to stop spinning before his eyes.

He looked up when he heard a woman's laughing voice. "So, here I am looking up an old friend, and how do I find him? Trembling like a minute old kitten next to a decapitated corpse."

The woman who spoke to him, squatted down next to him. Her long black hair fell in waves down her back. She was clothed in a finely made black dress similar to those he had seen the women of the upper nobility wear. Around her neck she wore a gold collar, from which dangled a small golden ankh.

"Have you come to claim me?" he asked her, still panting.

"I told you once, Methos, my friend, I am Death, but I do not come for you," she said trying to reassure him. Then, almost as an afterthought she added, "Not yet anyway."

"So what brings you back to me after two hundred years?" he demanded, a cold hatred in his eyes.

She pulled back from him, surprised by the look on his face. "I came to see you and how you were doing."

"Why?" he spat at her, the coldness in his eyes growing more intense.

"You're my friend. I don't have many of those," she said quietly, trying not to let the hurt she was beginning to feel color her voice, "not even within my own family." He snorted as if not surprised by the statement. Grim determination settled onto Death's face. "Obviously I was mistaken in my assessment of you and our relationship. I'll leave you in peace then." She stood up and turned her back toward him. "If I were you," she called back over her shoulder, "I would not dally around the body of a dead man very long, especially holding the sword that killed him. Goodbye, Methos." She then turned and began to walk away, knowing that if she stayed she would most likely say something she would later regret.

"Wait," he cried out, reaching his trembling hand out towards her.

She stopped, and turned around to face him, crossing her arms in front of her. "What?" she asked, her voice holding a touch of annoyance, her eyes demanding that his answer be a good one.

Methos dropped his hand, exhausted by just the effort of raising it. He looked up at her, exhaustion and helplessness warring with pride in his expression. She could see that he needed help but did not know how to ask for it, and her face softened. She uncrossed her arms and walked back over to him. "Come on," she said, putting a hand under his arm and helping him to his feet. "We had better get you out of here before someone sees you."

Still shaking from the Quickening, Methos found he could not stand on his own. Death placed his arm across her shoulder, encouraging him to lean on her for support, and guided him back to his home.

When they reached the house, Death helped him into a wooden chair at the small table and fetched a cup and a skin of wine. She poured the wine into the cup and handed it to him. He took it with trembling hands and drained it. She calmly refilled it for him and then sat down in the chair opposite him.

He sat there holding the cup, waiting for the shaking to stop. Eventually he looked up at her. "Why now?" he asked.

"Why now what?" she asked as she surveyed the contents of the Immortal's home. It was sparsely furnished and the decorations were minimalistic but it had a cozy feel to it. It was not something that she could see herself spending large amounts of time in, but she could see the charm of the small dwelling.

"Two hundred years it a bit long between visits, isn't it? Even for the likes of us?" he observed, he voice becoming steadier as his body assimilated the power of the Quickening he just took.

She stopped her visual inventory of his home, looked at him and smiled at him. "Well, you were a little busy learning what it meant to be an Immortal. I didn't want to interrupt your training."

He shook his head, not accepting her answer. "How many times have you come into my life without showing yourself? At least twice that I know of. You came for my wives."

"Methos," she said, her voice and features softening. "You know I couldn't let you see me then. You would have begged me not to take them to my realm. I couldn't do that to you, or them. They needed to go, and you needed to stay."

"But my last wife, Sahar, she was so young when you took her," he protested.

"She got what everyone gets," Death explained. "A lifetime. For some, that lifetime is calculated in minutes, others in centuries."

"And how is mine to be calculated?" he asked offhandedly.

She smiled at him. "You know that I cannot tell you that. That would be cheating. Besides, only my brother knows what is in a man's future."

"Ah yes, Destiny," Methos muttered sarcastically. He looked back up at her. "You never answered my question. Why now?"

"I needed a break," she sighed. "I needed to talk to someone who I considered a friend, but was not a member of my family. I've been busy lately. My brother has discovered the art of war and has been having a grand and glorious time with it. This has caused my workload to increase by quite a bit."

"Destiny has discovered war?" Methos asked, his voice colored with disbelief.

"No, not Destiny. Destruction. He wasn't content just causing the occasional earthquake or making a flash flood that would wipe out entire villages. No, he had to go and play with people," she groaned.

Methos smiled. It was times like this that he had trouble seeing the woman before him as Death. She spoke and acted like any human being he had ever encountered. Perhaps a bit more independent and opinionated, but still human.

"How many siblings do you have?" he asked and drained the contents of the cup that he still held. He was curious about the beings known as the Endless, but he had never found much information about them.

"There are seven of us all told. In order," she said counting out the Endless on her fingers, "there is Destiny, yours truly, Dream, Destruction, the twins Desire and Despair and, lastly, youngest sister Delirium. She used to be known as Delight, but she couldn't understand or handle change in any fashion and she went mad from it."

"I can understand that, change is hard for many to accept," Methos remarked reaching for the wineskin to refill his cup. "Tell me, is it true that you were here before the world was formed?" He held up the skin towards her to offer her a drink.

She held up her hand to politely decline the beverage. "Yes," she said casually and looked out of the small window at the purples and reds that were filling the evening sky. "And we will be here after the world ends. That is why we are called the Endless. Though, like calling your kind Immortals, it's a misnomer. We can end." Methos thought he saw a sadness fall into her eyes. But before he could double check, she stood and walked over to the window, leaned against the sill and looked out into the night. "If one of us dies," she continued but refusing to look at him, "something or someone else takes our place. Assuming the responsibilities, memories, appearances and actions of the one who is gone. We have only had to deal with replacing a sibling once, a long time ago." She turned back around to look at him. "So you see, I understand about the pain that comes when you loose a loved one. That's why I couldn't reveal myself to you when I came to take your wives. I couldn't face the pain. This friendship thing is new to me and I didn't realize just how much it would effect me. It was bad enough seeing you without you seeing me."

He nodded and met her gaze, understanding written in their golden depths. Death blinked her eyes and all traces of melancholy vanished from her face. "So, enough about me, tell me about you," she said, her voice, once again light and full of laughter. She sat back down at the table across from him and leaned in with a conspiratorial smile on her face. "What's it like being an Immortal?"

Methos laughed. He knew a change of subject when he saw one and played along with the game. He leaned in as well, as if what he was about to say was a huge secret that even she shouldn't be told. "It's been interesting. I mean, I can't die. But of course, you knew that." She nodded, smiling. "I also don't get sick, which proved a little problematic when a village I was living in got hit by the pox and I was the only one not to catch it. I had never been called a demon before."

Death leaned farther in and beckoned him closer with her index finger. When he came closer she whispered, "I have a feeling it won't be the last time you're called one."

He laughed. "Of that I have no doubt. Another fringe benefit to Immortality is that I also heal quickly. Watch!" Methos drew his hunting knife from his belt, set the blade against the palm of his other hand and dragged it across the flesh, leaving a wide and bleeding wound. Death sat there, eyes wide with delight, fascinated by what she saw. As soon as Methos removed the blade from his palm, the cut began glowing with little blue sparks. Using his sleeve, he wiped away the blood and Death could see that the cut had healed, not even leaving a scar as proof that the injury had even existed.

"Oh wow. That must make for a great conversation at parties."

"It's not exactly something I go around showing off," as he wiped away the last traces of blood from his palm. "I'm trying to keep the whole 'demon' idea to a minimum."

Death nodded in acceptance and leaned back in the chair. "So what's the deal with the lightning and stuff that I saw earlier? I see it every time I come to guide one of your kind to the other side, but when I ask," she said, a small, but playful pout danced on her lips, "none of your fellow Immortals want to talk to me when the finally get to see me."

"And do you blame them?" Methos teased. "You're not exactly someone that people what to see on a good day. But to an Immortal who just lost a challenge, you're about the last person they'd what to have a heart-to-heart with." Death grinned and stuck her tongue out at him. He returned the expression before he continued. "The lightning you saw is called a 'Quickening'. When one Immortal comes across another one, they fight to the death. And the only way to kill us is by cutting our heads off. The victor of the battle received his opponent's Quickening, his life force, and his power. It is said that one day, all the Immortals will be drawn to a single location to fight it out for the prize. This is called the Gathering. We fight because we know that in the end, there can be only one."

"And what's the prize?" she asked, leaning forward on the table again, engrossed in his story.

Methos shrugged. "No one knows. Some say it's control over the world. Some say it's mortality. Some say it's the ultimate Immortality, that even taking our heads won't kill us."

"So if you can't die even by beheading does the winner of this 'prize' grow a new head or do they just walk around headless?" Death asked, her eyes dancing with amusement at the thought of a headless Immortal wandering the streets.

Methos shrugged. "I have no idea. Like I said, it's a theory."

"And which one do you think it is?" she asked, raising one of her highly manicured eyebrows at him.

Again he shrugged. "No idea. But I'm intrigued enough to want to stick around and find out."

Death laughed. "Curiosity killed the cat, you know."

"But I've already had nine lives come and go. Thus proving I'm not a cat." He sat up straight, and pointed to his puffed out chest, "I'm an Immortal. And who says that I can't be the one?"

"Only Destiny can answer that question, my friend. And I won't ask it of him, not even for you," she said pointing at him

Methos smiled at her. "I understand. No man should know his own destiny. I'm content to just go along for the ride and see where things take me."

"That's a good attitude to have." She reached across the table, took his hand in hers and squeezed it. She then let go of him and stood up with a sigh. "Well, my friend, I really must be going, duty calls. I have enjoyed our chat."

He stood up as well, the smile on his face betrayed by the disappointment in his eyes. She could see that he didn't want her to leave. "So have I. I look forward to our next visit. Can we try to make it sooner than two hundred years?"

She smiled. "I'll try." She walked over to him, raised herself up on tiptoes and kissed his cheek. As she pulled away, she disappeared. Methos reached up and touched his cheek. He laughed to himself. "Who would ever believe that one of my closest friends is Death?"

TO BE CONTINUED…