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 on with the story!
About the canon -- I will be following "Highlander: the Series" as closely as I can remember, in part. Plus, whatever parts of mythology/literature I see fit to use or change. Finally, as a friend of mine once said, "anything and everything else I have in store for the characters is, well, my prerogative; it's my fanfic—MINE"—and is the fault of my annoying little muse that made me appease him (glares at Methos).
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Chapter 4 -- Lost and Alone
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Nadya snickered to herself at the memory of the look on the old man's face. It had been classic! Imagine mingled surprise, shock, confusion, and anger. She didn't flatter herself that there had been any fear. No. Concern, maybe. But fear? No, not out of this ancient. Still, it had made her feel much better.
Finally, she dropped her pen. Pulling her shoes and jacket, she ventured down her back steps and wandered over to the breakwater. Climbing the rocks she had known from childhood, she stood, listening to the waves and looking at the sky. The moon was beginning set as the starts winked at her brightly and admired themselves in the ocean's mirror surface. Nadya liked being here, away from the major bustle of the city, where she could hear water breaking on rock and see the stars at night.
As she looked down over the rocks of the breakwater, her eyes caught a glimpse of something. Something white. It fluttered slightly against the rocks.
"What's that?"
Nadya bent down on her knees, planting her hands on two out-jutting rocks and leaning forward for a better look. It was a nightgown! But, beneath it, two milky feet showed!
Wasting no time, the young woman scurried over the rocks that she had climbed all her life. The rocks closer to the water were wet and slick, cold to the touch and Nadya's hands were soon numb, her feet sometimes slipping, but her balance was sure and she soon came to rest near a form cradled in a cleft of the rock.
It was a child! A little girl. She seemed asleep, her breathing steady. Nadya touched her and the child's eyes fluttered, barely. Then her whole body began to shiver, her lips were blue and her skin like ice.
"P-p-p-p-pa…." She tried to speak but the hypothermia wouldn't let her.
"It's ok, dearest. It's ok. You're going to be fine." Nadya crooned softly as she took off her jacket and wrapped it about the girl.
The ocean air hit her hard and the icy spray soaked her clear through. But her mind was set on getting this little one to safety. Bundling the shivering girl in her arms, Nadya scaled up the rocks again and made her way home as quickly as possible.
She was a beautiful thing. The rocking chair squeaked homily as Nadya watched over the sleeping girl.
There was no way she could be older then 8 years old. Her hair fell in curly waves over her shoulders, long unkempt. The nightgown was old, dirty, torn, and soiled. The poor child was unshod and in need of a bath. But despite this, she was beautiful.
Tucked into the well-covered bed with warm 'woobies' on either side of her, the blue had gone down in her lips and a smallish pink was slowly returning.
Nadya brushed her hair back quietly. "What's a darling like you doing all alone?" No answer. Not now.
Shortly after sunrise, the rustle of bedclothes awakened Nadya. When she straightened in the rocking chair, she found the girl was sitting up in bed studying her intently.
Nadya was right; she was a beautiful child. But her eyes caught the young woman totally off-guard, for they were a bright violet, fading into gray specks near the pupils. It was almost like life fading away into darkness. In those eyes, Nadya could see on forever; it seemed to her that there were centuries behind those eyes. But that was impossible for one so small…wasn't it?
Moving slowly, she slid from the chair to kneel on the floor by the bed. "Hello, little one. Are you all right?"
The child didn't speak, only nodded.
A smile pulled at Nadya's mouth, a quiet one. She found herself so curious about her ward but she instinctively knew that questions were hopeless at this point. Perhaps at any point.
"I'm Nadya. What's your name?"
No answer. Only a sorrowful look.
'She doesn't have one.' The realization hit Nadya hard.
As the child looked ready to burst into tears, she quickly proposed getting cleaned up. The girl seemed to perk a little at this and allowed Nadya to gather her up and bundle her into the bathroom.
Soon, a sprightly child sat in Nadya's favorite chair, squeaky clean, her hair washed and brushed, and in one of her caretaker's comfy t-shirts. She simply sat there, staring out of the window at the sea.
'What am I going to do with her? Turn her over to social services so that she can bounce from foster home to foster home, or maybe even a mental facility? Not bloody likely!'
"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go see someone."
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"I'm serious, MacLeod! You need to get rid of the opera or I am going to have to do some spring cleaning for you!"
"What? 24-hour access to my fridge and my beer not enough for you?" the Scot questioned dryly.
"Frankly, no."
Duncan aimed a dirty look in the old man's direction.
'Shot fired. Target missed.' Methos smirked. 'When is the Boy Scout going to learn?'
Garnering himself another beer, he then proceeded to stretch himself out in a perfect sprawl that was the envy of any cat within peering range. He sunk down on Mac's couch until his head rested in the middle of the back cushions, his right leg bent at the knee and the left one resting extended on the antique coffee table. It was a magnificent double panel of late 18th-century Chinese black and gold lacquer, depicting peacocks and cranes perched on rocks and flowering branches, with pavilions in the background, mounted on a modern black painted Cobham leg base as a low table. Very beautiful, and just the perfect height for his foot. Methos' back bent at an angle that would make a contortionist yowl and yet only made him sigh with satisfaction as various joints popped and settled.
Then he counted.
'3-2-1…'
"Methos! Get your feet off the coffee table!!! That's an antique!!!" MacLeod bellowed, the old man mimicking in perfect sync.
"And you have millions worth more." The ancient foot didn't move.
Duncan growled something in Gaelic and strode to the kitchen, while Methos just gave that annoyingly charming smile.
Just then, the familiar whir of the elevator was heard but that's not what got their attention. It was a presence! It seemed to seep inside them, screeching, aching! It hurt!
Suddenly, a primal scream echoed through the elevator shaft! When the car arrived, Duncan ran to the grate and peered through. Inside, Nadya knelt on the floor cradling a trembling form in her arms.
"Mac, help me!"
The Scot rattled the grate open and Nadya got to her feet, holding a child close. "It's ok, sweetie. He's a friend. He's not going to hurt you."
"What's this?" Mac questioned. They soon all were seated on the couch, the child still clinging tightly to Nadya, tiny fingers digging into her shirt.
"I found her, last night. On the rocks."
"Alive?"
Nodding, Nadya began to relate the previous night's events. The whole time, the child clung to her, violet eyes trained on the floor. She never made a sound.
"Is she all right?" Mac asked.
"Yes, I think. The elevator must have scared her." Nadya stroked the child's hair quietly, rocking her a little.
"No, we did." The old man's voice sounded for the first time.
Nadya looked confused. "What?"
"She sensed us. She's Immortal, Nadya." Duncan sighed.
"What? No way! She is all of eight years old! How can she be Immortal?"
"Immortality is no respecter of persons. The question is: how long has she been Immortal?" Duncan folded his hands, his forearms resting on his knees.
Methos had fallen silent again. Images passed behind his eyes, memories cut with dreams. This child…
"Pan."
It was a whisper, so faint he nearly missed it.
"What?" The sharpness in Methos' voice cut Mac and Nadya's conversation short.
"Pan!"
There it was again!
Finally, the child turned and looked straight at Methos. "Pan!"
His blood turned to ice in his veins. She was the same one! Same voice, same hopelessness, same ethereality. And she had a face!
The Ivanhoe suddenly appeared in his hand! Methos was on his feet!
"Methos, what are you doing?!" MacLeod was incredulous.
"Put it away!" Nadya cried. The child began to shriek again, more ear-piercing than before!
'End her! Stop the dream!' This was no time to be hearing voices in his head!
"Methos!" Nadya screamed at him, clinging to the hysterical little girl. "She's just a child!"
'If you don't, you will never have peace.'
"Put it down, Methos! Have you lost your mind?" MacLeod stood in front of the outstretched Ivanhoe, between Methos and the girls.
'Have I?'
The next thing Methos knew, he was on Mac's roof, trying to make the world make sense. His muscles hurt from gripping his sword so hard but his hand had not yet slackened on the pommel of the blade.
She'd called him 'Pan'. Why? What was in his past that he was missing? Or denying?
When he finally came back downstairs, Methos saw Nadya sitting on the couch with the child, reading to her. The girl spotted him first but made no sound. Instead, she quietly took the book from Nadya, slid from the couch, and padded over to the weary old man, holding out the book.
His mind still blurred, spinning, Methos reached out slowly, mechanically, taking the hardback in hand. It was open to an illustration of a boy-child clad in clothes made of flaxen, barefoot, a sword at his side and a panpipe in his hand. He had a look of triumph, mischief. Peter Pan, the boy who would ever be a boy, the same…forever.
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You owe me a life.
Methos awoke to find her—Ertia as Nadya called her—sitting at the foot of his bed.
Was she real?
Real or not, she spoke, "You owe me a life, Pan."
"Who are you?"
The child held him with an unwavering gaze. "I am the product of your lies."
"What?"
"Don't you remember? In Arcadia, long ago…?"
Methos hid his head. "There's much I don't…don't want to remember."
She still sat cross-legged on his sheets. "Remember, Arcadia…"
"Leave me alone!" His voice echoed to every corner of the apartment.
When he looked up, she was gone!
It started in his stomach, twisting and knotting. It then swelled into his chest and throat, choking him. The shadowed room blurred, his eyes stung with salt and water.
Finally, everything broke inside. He drew up his knees and the old man sobbed.
He was in the dark, alone.