Disclaimer-- Duncan MacLeod, Methos, Joe Dawson, Peter Pan, and all such wonderful characters certainly do NOT belong to me. They merely show up in my life now and again and whisper stories in my ear. Especially Methos, he loves to get me into situations of obsession that I then have to "write my way out of". I think it amuses him. But, so as to avoid any legal banter, these characters belong to people with LOTS more money and LOTS more lawyers than me (seeing as I am a poor grad student). Any other characters belong to amin (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and J. M. Barrie, and on with the story!

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Chapter 1 -- In Every Legend There is a Seed of Truth

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Though many an unsung elegy

Sleeps in the reeds our rivers hold,

O goat-foot God of Arcady!

Ah, what remains to us of thee?

Ah, leave the hills of Arcady,

Thy satyrs and their wanton play,

This modern world hath need of thee.

Excerpt from Pan by Oscar Wilde

"Hey, Nadya! Could you be a dear and take this order over to table 10?"

"Sure thing, Anna." Nadya grasped the tray and hurried over to a table in a secluded alcove of the club. Anna was Joe Dawson's new head-waitress and Nadya liked her a great deal, especially when she came to help out at the bar. Ever since Joe had moved back to Seacouver and re-opened the bar, business had been very, very good. Many faithful patrons had missed good old Joe.

Over the past year, Nadya Jamesson had found work at one of the publishing companies in town, and things were working quite well for her. Some of her writing was even in process of being published.

As she neared the table, Nadya could see that the occupant was none other than Methos! She immediately considered returning the bottle of Heineken for a bottle of water but thought better of it. Planting a hand on her hip, she held the tray aloft before the old Immortal.

He didn't seem to notice her at first, too busy writing in the book before him. His journal, no doubt. Nadya could often find him writing in it nowadays. Secretly, she wondered if there were any entries about her.

"Yes, you're in here, too."

So he had noticed her.

"And, no, you can't exchange my beer for something 'less potent'," he continued dryly, still writing.

Nadya shook her head in slight annoyance that he had come to know her so well in only a year. There was little getting around the 5,000-year-old Immortal anymore. Setting the bottle down, she tucked the empty tray under her arm and lingered at the table.

Methos never dropped a letter, seeming to ignore her completely. Finally, he spoke again. "Would you like to see?"

Sitting, Nadya smiled. "Sure!"

Smirking, Methos turned the red leather book so that its pages were right side up before her. It was all there, written beautifully...in perfect Russian!

Nadya shoved the journal back at him. "Provoking creature!" He just laughed annoyingly.

Leaping up, she went to return the tray to Anna. Methos was still chuckling.

"Why do you tease her so, Methos?" Joe sat down next to him.

"One always plays with the baby, Joe," the ancient replied flippantly.

Joe nodded. "True, but Nadya's not a baby."

"Perhaps not to you."

She was right; he could be a perfectly provoking creature when he chose. And he chose to be so. He enjoyed teasing Nadya; she was his easiest target sometimes. Well, on with the writing.

Joe just shook his head at Methos, knowing that he was incorrigible, plain and simple. Glancing up, Joe watched Nadya move to and fro through the club, pausing at the table of friends to sing some old blues that they liked. She was a talented one, that girl. She had become like a daughter to Joe, the daughter he'd never gotten a chance to know.

It was while before the Watcher broke his thought-process. He'd gotten caught up, too many years in the field. Old habits die hard. When he glanced up, he saw that Methos' pen was still and quiet upon the journal's pages. He, too, was watching Nadya, the look in his eyes somewhat softer.

Joe said nothing, he barely even moved. He—not the Watcher in him but he, Joe Dawson—wanted to observe this moment, this side of Methos. This look was similar to the one that Joe had seen light the old man's eyes when he'd first met Alexa and it was, at the same time, a different look altogether.

Utterly lost in his own world, Methos finally dropped his gaze. Then he pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and picked up his pen to write again.

'Looks like the old man might yet have a heart to give,' Joe thought as he rose stiffly from the table and thumped over to the bar.

Methos never looked up.

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Find Pan!

It drilled her mind like a merciless war drum. It had for so very long.

Find Pan!

Water. Cold. Cement. Rough. Clammy.

Where was she?

Find Pan!

'Leave me alone! I don't have a mind for you to plague anymore!'

Find Pan!

Wind. Rushing. Loud.

'All I want is peace.'

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"Come fly with me."

She held out her hand. He was skeptical at best.

"You can't fly."

"Sure I can. And so can you."

Her hand still waited and, finally, Methos slipped his into it and climbed onto the window sill. The moon was full, chill, its light smooth and silver. Stars winked and watched.

A perfect swan-dive, lighter than air. Nothing could hold her down.

But...she fell! And her scream was all he heard. He could do nothing.

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Cold! Wake up!

Where am I?

Methos sat bolt upright in bed, a sweat sheeting his skin. He turned towards the large bay window, expecting to find it open. But, no, it was closed. Locked fast.

It has been a dream. No, a nightmare!

The old man hunched over, his face in his hands. It was the fourth dream in as many nights and it was starting to get to him. This time it was Nadya but, before, it had been another girl. A child, "no more than a bairn" as MacLeod might have said. In the dream, the child called to him. But it wasn't his name. It was something else; something lost on the wind.

She had no face. He always saw swirling black hair, tiny bare hands and feet, but never a face. It was that absence of a face that haunted him...and her voice.

Methos threw the bedclothes back. He needed a drink, a stiff one. Instead of beer, he reached for the vodka bottle and a shot glass. Several shots later, he climbed back into the king-sized bed.

But he didn't sleep. He just sat there, in the dark, alone.