Chapter 9

Scotland

Derrick focused on the computer game. He'd fired the old fuel oil generator up this afternoon long enough to charge the batteries to operate the old laptop. Now, by the light of the oil lamp, the boy sat shifting pages of cryptic writings… photographs of artifacts… trying desperately to have them make sense. His inner memories were strangely silent these days. As if the need for him to grow up was far stronger than the need to remember what it was that was still hidden from him.

Shoving the laptop away from him with a snarl, the boy kicked back and glared at it. Methos seldom had an interest in it any more. It was as if by being on this farm… whatever mysteries the outside world held, were banished for the ancient. He seemed satisfied to remain in this place… and in this time that sometimes seemed to have no time. The game had become merely something Derrick liked to play. It had ceased to be something Methos needed to discover.

Derrick had long ago realized that Methos had turned most of the information and research over to MacLeod and had washed his hands of it. All except this copy of the game… the game that still fascinated Derrick. But the game went no where. Indeed, Derrick was beginning to think it was all some twisted joke.

A hum sounded.

At first Derrick thought he'd damaged the laptop. If he had… he'd likely not get another. And then he'd not even have the game. But the computer was fine. He shut it off. The hum continued.

Crossing to his bed, Derrick knelt and lifted the covers to peer beneath. The hum was louder. Slowly he pulled the now dusty velvet bag out from beneath his bed and, settling with his back against the bed, withdrew the crystal.

A soft glow emanated from the stone. Derrick stared at it… but nothing was clear. Yet he felt something had changed. Something somewhere was different. The stone, however, was not the source of the hum. Thoughtfully he replaced it into the bag and drew the cord. Then he peered beneath the bed and pulled out the sword case.

Swallowing dryly, he opened it. The hum was louder. Derrick pulled the old sword out of the case and held it on his lap. He seldom gave this thing a second thought. He knew it was there. He knew it was his. He knew it had once been the other's sword. But other than that? A sword is just a sword. Derrick could clearly hear the voice he knew was Darius in his mind. He nodded. He knew that.

Rising to his feet Derrick swung it awkwardly about a few times. It was big. It was heavy… and it was long… but not nearly so long as it had once seemed. He was nearly fifteen now. He was growing into the size needed to wield this sword… as he understood he needed to.

There was a knock on the door.

"Come!" the boy said with a touch more force than he'd intended.

"I was driving into the village tomorrow and…" Methos' voice trailed away. He paused staring at the sight of Derrick flexing the great sword in his hands. "I didn't think you had any interest in that thing." Derrick could near a bit of nervousness in his friend's voice.

Derrick lowered the sword with a shrug. "I don't… not really… but it is mine… and… Well… you once offered to show me how to use it… remember?"

Methos nodded. "That was mainly because Eleanor and I live by the sword… we just wanted you…"

"Not to be afraid around them… I understand. But… Adam… I think maybe I'd like to learn."

Methos nodded. "Perhaps it is time." He glanced behind him as if checking as to where Eleanor was and what she was doing. Then he turned to the boy with a wry smile. "Let's not tell Eleanor about this though… She worries… After all she doesn't want you thinking you'd ever have to really use one."

"Right… cause I'm not immortal." Derrick said it plainly… but there was a long pause… as if he waited for the unspoken to be spoken.

"Right." Methos ran one hand through his dark hair and glanced at the floor. "As I was saying when I came in… I have to go into the village tomorrow for supplies and thought you'd like to come. Eleanor's staying here. We could make a day of it… just us guys… and I can give you some lessons. Just how to hold it and care for it… After all, it's still a little big for you. In fact… we could work with some sticks for a while."

"Sticks?"

Methos scratched his jaw. "I'll explain tomorrow. Why don't you put that thing away for now." He motioned toward the sword.

Derrick nodded and replaced the sword in its case and shoved the case under the bed. "Yeah… it is pretty big… but I keep thinking it would be neat to really know how to use it."

"Derrick," Methos put his arms on the boy's shoulders. "Listen to me carefully. If you are thinking that you could learn to use it somehow to protect Eleanor or me with it… fight off another immortal if they happened upon us here… you can't. Promise me you will not even try."

The boy met the immortal's gaze evenly and nodded. "I promise," he offered softly. "But…" and then he smiled, "What about learning some hand-to-hand fighting? Maybe that would be better!" He grinned.

Methos chuckled, "Now that I think we can arrange. And Derrick… I will teach you how to use that sword… but let's not rush anything… Okay?"

"Okay," Derrick nodded.

"Good lad! We'll leave after breakfast. Goodnight." Methos squeezed Derrick's arm with a small smile and turned to go.

"Adam?"

The immortal turned back to the boy.

"Thanks."

Methos nodded and left, softly closing the door behind him.

Derrick extinguished the lamp and stretched out on his bed. From the main room he could hear laughter and low voices. Methos and Eleanor were happy… That was the important thing. Derrick took a deep breath and focused on the hum.

For a moment he could visualize himself wielding the sword in battle. Swinging it to and fro with a stabbing and hacking motion… oblivious of the carnage around him. The past was calling to him once more. Derrick shook his head. It wasn't the past he wanted… it truly wasn't… it was the future… an unformed and still unclear future that waited for him once he was grown. As the misty whiteness that had momentarily shone in the crystal… Derrick knew the future lay before him like clay in a potter's hands… or metal waiting for the blacksmith to forge it. For a moment he could hear the clang of hammer on steel and the hiss of water as hot steel was plunged into it. He could feel the heat of the fire as he pumped the bellows, and he could see the metal glow red in the fire. His eyes snapped open accompanied by a startled gasp, and he shivered.

Derrick noticed the hum had stopped. Something had happened in the outer world… and he feared he might have to grow up a little faster than he had planned.

Berlin

Kenny huddled in the darkness and watched the drunken immortal wander through the streets. What a fool this one was. The boy had been watching Claus Schmidt for nearly a week. Evidently the man as yet had no idea he was an immortal. The drunkard had evidently revived after a particularly severe beating two weeks ago… and had simply gone home and then continued his poor excuse for a life as if nothing had changed. The fact that he'd healed miraculously… not cuts, no bruises, no broken bones, was evidently lost on the man in his nightly stupor.

From what little intelligence Kenny had gathered about Schmidt, he was recently divorced, about forty, and had lost his job. Rather than focus on rebuilding a life and finding a new job… Schmidt was still reeling from his losses and drinking heavily.

"The better for me," Kenny grimaced, "Though you won't have much." The boy followed the green immortal down an alley and stood watching the man stumble into a load of refuse and fall into a drunken stupor. Even from here, Kenny could hear the man's snoring.

"Guess this might put you out of your misery."

Kenny drew his short sword and crept up on the man. Schmidt sat up and looked groggily around. "Damned headache! Comes and goes!"

"I know," said Kenny and rushed him, swinging away at Schmidt's head. The quickening, blessedly short and of minor degree… was barely enough to satisfy him… but it was one more immortal he'd never have to face again. Unlike most of the child immortals… Kenny had long years behind him and a skill in the game that, despite his lack of size and strength, he'd learned to compensate for. But even after over eight hundred years, he still wished he'd been a little bit older when he'd died… say fifteen instead of ten… or even fourteen… Surely at fourteen, he might have been old enough to be able to love a woman. Maybe even at thirteen… or twelve… could he at twelve have managed it? The boy sighed. It did no good to think these thoughts. They were usually more pronounced after a quickening… when the memories of the men he took sometimes conjured up the women they had once loved.

Kenny wiped his sword clean, hid it within his coat and headed back to the main street. Behind him, hidden in the shadows, he did not notice the woman who watched and waited.