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 college student). Any other characters belong to amin (I). So bravo to Davis & Panzer and J. M. Barrie on with the story!

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Chapter 3 -- Stuff of Nightmares

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For a moment. Only for a moment, she flew! The air iced her cheeks and the wind seemed to lift her...

But then she fell. Crashing through time and space. Color blurring to white, then grey, then black. The voice quieted, ceased its torment as light became dark.

Silence.

Peace.

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"What in the name of....?" An old woman held up her bifocals to the window. Something white. It had just fluttered past and vanished. No, it couldn't be.

She returned to knitting.

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Methos woke, panting. Chilled with sweat.

The same dream, only different. Now two people fell: the child and Nadya. And, again, he could do nothing.

'What? What do you want with me?'

As he looked around the darkened room. Methos thought he heard, "Pan!"

The voice was pinched, ethereal, and hopeless.

The window was open and the curtains fluttered in the night air. But something else flowed amongst them.

A nightgown?

Pan!

Scrambling from the bed, the ancient searched the curtains but all his hands found were the soft, unoffending lengths of cloth.

"Am I losing my mind?" he barely breathed to himself, for fear it might be true.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - "Pan?" Joe scratched the side of his face thoughtfully. It was way too early in the morning for this. But Methos was a friend.

"No, never heard of any Immortal by that name."

"Are you sure? Nothing in Rome? Or in Greece...Pan was quite a popular deity there. Perhaps someone took a liking to the popularity." Methos sounded desperate, clinging to his coffee mug as if for dear life.

"Are you sure you didn't?" The question came out quite sharper than Joe had intended it to be.

Methos said nothing, just staring into the black depths of his cup. It was true, he couldn't even discount himself; he just couldn't think, couldn't remember.

Joe shrugged. "Sorry, man. Maybe I shouldn't have said that." After all, the ancient wasn't the kind to go around looking for recognition.

Methos sighed and hung his head; he hadn't slept in days and he was beginning to look like it. An Immortal system didn't reciprocate for lack of sleep. Everything was beginning to blur.

"Go home, Methos. Get some rest."

"Easier said than done." With that, the old man rose from Joe's couch and made his way out the door.

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Find Pan!

It slashed across her conscious like a whip lashing at her brain.

Find Pan!

She had woken in a dark alley. The voice had returned! She has hoped this time would be permanent.

'Leave me be! I beg you!'

Find Pan!

Rising to her feet, she continued on.

Driven. Haunted.

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Nadya sat on the floor by her coffee table, absent-mindedly working at an ink sketch. It was a scant tree on a hill, a few leaves clinging to its claw like branches, some fluttering away on a breeze. A sunset cast its rays over the tree, throwing its shadow to the east.

The little artist sat quite comfortably on the floor, one leg bent at the knee, the other lying on its side and curving beneath the bent leg. She wore her favorite jeans, comfy, slightly baggy, and broken in. Just like the black tank she wore.

The night was beginning to wane but, as a good friend often said, "There's plenty of time to sleep when you're dead." So she continued the sketch.

She was of a much better mind now. She'd gotten the anger out of her system and had gotten her job back. The powers that be saw that the publishing house was worse off without her and had asked her back, even sans Methos' missing book.

So, for now, all was right with the world. Well, Methos might disagree. She had chased him about for a good ten minutes, just enough to worry him.

Finally, MacLeod had put a stop to the whole thing. Methos was none too pleased and anxious to get the gladius away from Nadya again. Even with the scant training with a sword that Mac had given her, it was enough to make Methos nervous. He had been against the whole idea from the start, teaching Nadya swordplay.

'Bloody hornets' nest, that's what it was.'

Six months earlier

"This is utter madness! You cannot be serious!"

Methos stood in utter shock at Duncan's suggestion. It was, in his mind, ludicrous—especially coming from the Highlander.

"You're seriously wanting to teach Nadya to fight?" Methos planted his hands on non-existent hips, his whole stance incredulous.

Duncan was always intrigued by how slim Methos appeared and was, even when swallowed by a too-big black sweater; yet there was strength in the old man's stance. The Highlander shrugged. "Well, yeah."

"Don't you think that's going to raise a few questions as to 'why'?"

"I've thought of that!" Duncan sat down at his desk in the dojo office. "She's been admiring my katana lately so I figured I'd use that as an excuse to teach her to fight. That way, should worst come to worst, she won't be unprepared."

Methos leaned forward, his hands planted on the desk, and shook his head. "I just don't like it, MacLeod. It contradicts everything you have been jamming down my throat about Nadya's immortality. Something bad is bound to come of it."

Methos: the everlasting pessimist.

Duncan sighed. Only Methos could always find holes in the best-laid plans, and it annoyed him. "Look, Methos, I'm just trying to be cautious, that's all it is."

Methos gave him that look. "Bull! And you know it, MacLeod! You're trying to make up for the mistakes you made with Richie, concentrating him on defending himself rather than how to live life while he had it."

Duncan winced, for the old Immortal had hit a sore spot, a very sore spot. Methos knew he was stepping close to the line but he wanted to be sure—and for Mac to be sure—of his motives for teaching Nadya sword-handling.

Silence reigned in the room for a while and then Duncan nodded vaguely. "Perhaps I am trying to make up for what went wrong with Richie. But I honestly don't want to leave her defenseless. You and I won't always be around to watch over her; I want to be sure that she can take care of herself."

With that, Duncan rose from the desk and reached for an elegant sword case on the shelf.

It was beautiful purple heartwood, stained with a glorious, deep varnish. Snapping it open, Methos saw, nestled in black velvet, an elegant, newly-made sword, much in likeness to that belonging to a Crusader. The pommel and hilt were of smooth silver with a silk-wrapped handle. Small enough for a woman's use but the double-edged blade was quite slender and made of Damascus steel; Methos recognized the grain in the blade. It was the strongest steel money could buy these days, and this weapon was simply beautiful. The most beautiful Methos had seen in a long while.

"When did you buy this, MacLeod?" the old man asked, peering at the sword.

"I had it made by a friend in Paris shortly after Nadya first came back," MacLeod watched Methos run his fingertips over the flat of the sword. "Wasn't sure exactly why then."

"And you're sure now?"

Duncan didn't reply. It had been a year since Malfoy had lost his head when he had come after Nadya. A quiet year, thank goodness. The fellows had adjusted to having Nadya around and were glad to have her as part of the "family". She gave that feminine touch that Amanda wasn't around long enough to give. Mac appreciated the comfort of finding half-drunk bottles of V8 Splash in his fridge; Methos "enjoyed" almost daily scoldings about his excessive drinking of beer; and Joe often saw Nadya when she dropped by the bar to question about his health, his work, and if he needed any help running the place.

Finally, Methos shrugged, looking down at the sword again. "I don't understand, MacLeod. Why now?"

Duncan sighed. "I don't know, Methos, but I feel I need to." With that, he shut the case.

The old man could tell that the stubborn Boy Scout was intent and so conceded the fight. But he was still pessimistic. "It's going to raise questions, MacLeod, and you know who's going to get stuck with them? Me!"

That said, he sauntered out for a drink. He'd take his daily scolding later, on a full tank.

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