I had lost interest in Highlander, mainly because it wasn't on TV anymore. But I recently finally saw "End Game", which renewed my interest in Highlander and made me decide to finallyfinish this story. It is nothing like I had first inteded to write, but at least it will have an ending now.
3)
MacLeod immediately knew who this had to be. Michael de Wind. MacLeod wondered how the other immortal had found him. And what the man wanted from him. The fact a possible hostile immortal had found him this easy was quite disturbing.
He eyed the man from top to bottom. He was pretty much what Richie had described him: a well-build Caucasian male who clearly took good care of himself. He seemed in good shape and his physical appearance was neat. Although he was on foreign or even enemy territory, he appeared to be completely comfortable and confident. Not someone to dismiss as unimportant, at least not by appearance.
MacLeod reduced the distance between them and halted halfway the dojo. 'Michael de Wind, I assume?'
'You're well informed.' De Wind left his leaning pose and stood up straight, his legs apart. A pose which would allow him a fast reaction, MacLeod unintentionally noted. 'But I guess that could be expected from someone well acquainted with his Watcher.'
That was it, MacLeod realized, that was how De Wind had found him so easily. He had access to the Watcher database! 'You're well informed as well.'
The other immortal frowned. 'What do you mean?'
MacLeod produced his sword and threw his long coat out of their way. 'You found me pretty fast.'
De Wind hadn't moved an inch yet, apparently unmoved by the sight of the katana. 'You're in the phone book,' was the smooth reply.
'So you were looking for me?' MacLeod asked with a hint of menace in his voice. The man had killed his friend and now came for him, so although he stayed polite he did not have to remain friendly.
'Not at all,' the Dutchman replied. He now got hold of his own sword, but still didn't attempt to use it. For a man who came for him, De Wind was fairly reluctant to fight. 'I heard you were looking for me for something I didn't do.'
MacLeod ignored the last phrase: if he really had nothing to do with her death, he would have disappeared. 'So you decided attack is the best defense?' he replied, closing in on his adversary.
The other man took firm hold of his own weapon in response. 'Exactly.'
'One last thing,' MacLeod said, raising his sword. 'Are you sure you can bring yourself to taking my head?' he spoke, referring to Richie. The remark was meant to piss him off.
But the only reply was a faint smile.
MacLeod launched his first attack: a technique meant to disarm his opponent. The Dutchman blocked it seemingly effortless and dodged the following blow.
Now it was the perfect moment for a counter attack, but the Scotsman found his rival not to take the opportunity. This could make someone to underestimate him, but MacLeod would not let himself be tricked like that. Richie had said he had been good, and you had to be a good fighter to defeat Anne Bridger.
MacLeod delivered a combination which ended with a low strike to the stomach. Again his opponent just moved away from his katana. But MacLeod knew the other man would attack soon, because the Dutchman was still positioned in the corner, which was usually not a very nice position to be in.
Yet still the attack came as a surprise. As came the way how. De Wind put his Ivanhoe against the katana and swiftly pushed forward with much force. MacLeod refused to move away, which caused them to stand less then an inch apart, the swords crossed between them. They locked eyes. MacLeod did not see any anger or hate, just concentration.
Instead of stepping backwards, De Wind kicked hard at his legs. MacLeod could only prevent falling by jumping backwards, which brought him slightly off balance. This was an advantage De Wind used: he launched a fast combination MacLeod could hardly block.
After exchanging several more combinations, they circled around each other like predators around their prey, looking for an opening in the other's defense. MacLeod was now convinced he was dealing with an experienced and skilled swordfighter. The man had not yet made any mistakes. He had failed to take all his chances, but MacLeod had the hunch the man had done that on purpose for whatever reason. Maybe as a proof of his skill, or just to test his opponent.
'Excuse me?'
MacLeod first looked at De Wind, and when he nodded slightly, at the intruder. It was a man in a cheap suit, accompanied by a woman who was dressed only slightly better. MacLeod recognized the type straight away.
Police.
Just wonderful.
'I am sorry to break up your exercise,' the man apologized. That was the advantage of a dojo, a swordfight wasn't seen as out of the ordinary. 'Is one of you Duncan MacLeod?'
'I am,' MacLeod answered with false indifference. He was not happy with the interruption, and also a bit worried. What would they want from him?
'We are detectives O'Brien and Martens. Could we talk to you for a minute?' the woman asked. She turned to De Wind. 'In private,' she added icy.
The Dutchman shrugged. He retrieved his coat from the bench he had placed it on, and walked to the door, clearly intending to leave.
'We will meet again,' MacLeod said coldly after him.
De Wind stopped and turned around to face him. 'Maybe,' he spoke. 'Goodbye.'
MacLeod inwardly groaned as he faced the cops. What would it be this time?'
'Joe, cops!' Richie cried out.
Joe had already caught sight of the two. He and Richie had been watching MacLeod's place from a safe distance, knowing the highlander would not appreciate what they were doing. Joe had originally wanted to go alone, as a Watcher, but Richie had insisted in accompanying him because he wanted to help. They had decided not to disturb MacLeod yet, because they didn't know what he was doing and whether he was alone or not. All they knew was that he was here, because his car was parked at its usual spot.
'Now what?'
Richie shrugged. The young man didn't even bother to speculate.
'Joe…'
Someone left the dojo. It wasn't one of the cops, but a man Joe had not expected to be here. Michael de Wind. Had he come here to challenge MacLeod? 'At least there was no quickening,' Joe mused. He only realized he had said it out loud when Richie looked at him.
'He didn't kill me, so why would he kill Mac?'
A question Joe was not able and willing to answer. Couldn't because he didn't know, and didn't want to because he could think of a few options Richie wouldn't like.
Michael de Wind crossed the street. Joe could only hope he wouldn't come their way, because the Dutchman would inevitably spot them and Joe had no idea how he would react. Joe didn't really want to find out.
De Wind suddenly froze and began scanning the area. Joe recognized the behavior from the many moments he had spent with MacLeod; he felt the presence of another immortal. Richie!
'Is he aware of you?' Joe asked rushed, because a positive answer meant they had to do something.
'No,' Richie replied to his astonishment. 'I can't sense him yet.'
The mystery was sold as soon as it had appeared. 'Methos,' Joe murmured when he noticed the old man approaching Michael de Wind from the other side. He might have been doing the same as they were: watching MacLeod. In that case Methos and Richie had only just failed to sense each other.
Joe wondered what Methos was up to. His presence was remarkable, because Methos usually shied away from contact with any immortal. Unless it was a friend of his.
'Found what you were looking for?' Methos asked his old friend.
'Not really,' Menes answered coldly. 'But it was a good fight.'
Oh, damn! Now not only MacLeod wanted Menes' head, it was now a mutual thing. This was not good, because Methos wasn't ready to suffer the loss of another friend. Not again. His three fellow horsemen, together with Alexa, were enough loss for at least a decade.
'Do me a favor,' Methos requested. 'Don't go looking for him again.'
'Is that why you sent those cops?'
Menes had looked through it. Not surprisingly, given they knew each other for so long. 'What makes you think I have anything to do with them?'
The denial was a mere formality, they both knew better. Methos could fool MacLeod, sometimes, but Menes was another story. Menes, or Michael as his name was now, apparently decided this was where their conversation should end, because he unlocked his car. Methos grabbed the other man's arm. 'Please stay away from him.'
'Or what?' Menes said while freeing his arm. 'Are you going to stop me?'
'Maybe.' This answer was meant to show his friend he was serious about this, that MacLeod was important to him. Looking at his face, the message came across.
Before any of them could continue, they sensed the presence of another immortal. Methos turned to see if it was MacLeod coming out his dojo, but he was looking at Richie Ryan instead. MacLeod's student was in the company of Joe Dawson. Methos faced Menes, who didn't look too pleased with the situation.
Apparently they had decided to split up, because Richie entered the dojo while Joe came their way. Methos thought Menes might want to leave, but seemingly he had decided to wait for what would come out of this, because he wasn't getting ready to get in his car.
'Adam,' Joe said, careful not to mention his real name in public. 'Michael,' he continued. 'I wasn't aware of the fact you two knew each other.'
Joe was playing dumb, because Joe had mentioned the possibility himself and Methos hadn't done much to hide it. What Joe couldn't know was how well they knew each other. Well, maybe this was the time to give some hints to let Joe know this wasn't just anybody. 'We go back a long time.'
Methos watched Menes, who had suddenly decided the traffic in Seacouver was very interesting. The message was clear: you'll deal with him, I'll listen if something interesting comes up.
'Mister De Wind,' Joe began formally to attract Michael's attention. 'Previously, I would have welcomed any friend of Adam, but since a month or so I'm not so sure anymore.'
Damn him! Why did he have to bring that up? Well, Methos had to admit it was something that could affect their relation permanently. But still, it was not very nice of him.
Menes looked at him now, he wanted an explanation for Joe's remark. One word would do, since Menes knew everything about them. 'Kronos.'
Or, looking at Menes' dark frown, maybe one word was not enough after all. 'They're all dead now, thanks to MacLeod.'
Menes nodded thoughtfully, not unpleased by this news because Kronos wasn't exactly a close friend of his. 'Good.'
Methos was aware Joe had carefully observed their exchange, probably to get an idea of what "Michael" was really like. Maybe he would see the fact Menes didn't like Kronos as a positive thing.
'Well, "Adam",' Menes began. The sarcasm was not to be missed. 'I'll leave you alone now.'
'Where are you going, "Michael"?' Methos wanted to know. He hoped Menes would give clarity on the request he had done.
'My hotel.'
Just great! Methos watched him drive away. He hadn't even bothered to hide his whereabouts. Menes was just like MacLeod, waiting for the trouble instead of avoiding it. They were a perfect match, also in moral standards. Why hadn't they met under different circumstances?
'I am sorry, but I have no idea who you're talking about.'
Richie found MacLeod in a heated discussion with the cops, trying to convince them of something. The fact Mac wasn't very calm didn't seem to help him now, or they just didn't listen.
'Richie,' Mac said as soon as he "noticed" him (of course they had already sensed each other). 'He often helps me out,' MacLeod explained to the officers. 'Maybe he knows your guy.'
The woman showed him a picture of a complete stranger. Richie was sure he had never seen the man before, he would know because he had a clearly visible scar on his face. 'Should I know him?'
'According to a witness, he comes here sometimes,' the male detective told him.
'I would know if I ever saw that man,' Richie said. 'His face is easy to recognize.'
'Alright.' The cops seemed to be convinced now, or at least they gave up. 'Thank you for your cooperation.'
MacLeod already ignored them before they were gone. 'They had an awful timing,' MacLeod said softly so the leaving cops wouldn't hear him.
'I know,' Richie interrupted him. 'He was still outside…..with Methos.'
'What!' Richie followed the highlander outside. MacLeod was going at war, and Methos' face showed clearly recognition of MacLeod's state of mind. The other immortal was gone though, which was good for that man and Mac, but probably not for Methos.
'MacLeod!' Joe almost yelled to get his attention. He also tried to hold him back, something thedisabled man of course couldn't handle. Richie decided to help, before MacLeod would say or do anything he shouldn't in public.
Methos did something unexpected: he grabbed MacLeod's shoulders, forcing him to look at him. 'MacLeod, he is a friend. And I don't want to choose between friends.'
The old man let go off MacLeod, who stared at him now. The pain was clearly visible in Methos' eyes. 'I won't choose.'
'Joe.'
Joe's head shot up when he recognized the voice. Methos. Joe hadn't expected to see him in his bar so soon again. He had thought the old man had gone to see his friend or would have left town. 'Missed me already?'
There came no reply.
'What do you want?' Joe asked, realizing the old man wouldn't come here for nothing.
'Beer.'
Joe provided this, waiting for what would come. Methos took his time though, he slowly drank his beer in silence.
'MacLeod is after him now?'
'Yes,' Joe answered reluctantly. There was just no point in hiding it. They were silent again for a while. Joe wondered again why Methos had shown up. Maybe he wanted to talk.
'May I ask you something?' Joe finally asked when he had gathered his courage. Methos looked up frowning, and then nodded slowly.
'Who is this guy?'
Methos handed him his glass, needing more alcohol before he continued. It seemed to be hard for him, talking about his past, because several deep sighs left his mouth. ' His name is Menes.'
Somewhere in Eurasia, about 500 BC
Nights on the steppe were cold, very cold. Methos pulled his cloak tightly around his body and studied the stars to determine his direction. If it was up to him, he would travel until he had reached the Black Sea. He did not know what people ruled there now, but there would be civilization. And after having spend almost a millennium with Kronos, Caspian and Silas, not really the most cultivated people he had ever met, he was ready to abandon nomad live and settle somewhere nice.
And somewhere where he could forget. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw them. The men he killed were not haunting him. It were the women and children that had wounded his soul. Their fear-filled eyes and the cries from the women when they got raped or witnessed their children die still hurt. It had just become too much. On an early morning he had taken a horse and left before Kronos would wake up and stop him. Because Methos knew one thing: Kronos would never let him leave. Never.
Methos knew he needed to stop soon, because his horse was exhausted. The animal needed rest and, most of all, water. So when he was on top of a hill and saw a small stream, he knew that was where he should camp. Everybody would, and Methos knew this all too well. He and his fellow horsemen had always used this knowledge to find "prey".
Halfway down he noticed he was not the only one intending to camp here: there was a fire. Methos decided he should greet the other traveler(s). It was a new experience, not attacking strangers but approaching them. Of course he had in old times, but those days were lying far in the past.
He had his sword in his hands before he consciously knew why: he sensed an immortal. He slowly continued his way, prepared for an attack. The adrenalin rushed through his body, ready to kill. He was painfully aware of the fact he was alone instead of with his fellow horsemen.
He reached the fire. A man sat there, his sword loosely balancing on his lap and a bow with arrows next to him. He wasn't the average guy you would meet here. He was tall, white and had blue eyes; definitely someone from Western or Northern Europe. But his half long hair, clothing, and overall appearance told Methos the man was just like him: a nomadic warrior. Maybe a Scythian.
Only now the other man looked up. 'Isn't it a wonderful night?' was his strange opening sentence.
Methos got off his horse so his animal could go to drink from the stream. 'To die you mean?'
The unknown immortal laughed. 'Well, that wasn't exactly the first thing on my mind.'
'One of us has to die,' Methos continued. They both knew how The Game worked.
The other man got to his feet and stood in front of Methos, watching. 'You're sure you want to fight? Because you don't look too good.'
Who the hell did he think he was, talking to him like that? In a flash of anger, Methos raised his sword, up to the man's throat. 'Why wouldn't I be sure?'
'You're tired,' he answered, almost whispering. 'Tired of the fighting and killing.'
That was so true.
'So you can try to kill me now, or decide you better go to sleep now.'
Sleeping in the company of an unknown immortal? Methos didn't think so. The other man must have seen it on his face, because he jumped back before Methos could push the sword through his throat. Immediately their swords made contact, both fighters tried to get an advantage before the other would realize what was happening.
They both failed.
It was a fight between two skilled warriors. Methos couldn't remember the last time his skills had been challenged like this. His adversary was skilled, fast, strong and had endurance. He was a worthy opponent.
Methos was getting tired; the fact he had traveled weeks nonstop now worked against him. The realization hit him hard. He might die tonight.
Suddenly Methos couldn't move anymore. He lost control of the muscles of his fingers, which resulted in the loss of his sword. His legs became numb and he fell to his knees. He felt the warm blood all over his body. Methos looked down, and saw the sword stuck in his chest. Now he had seen what was wrong, he also began to feel the pain.
So this was it then.
He looked up at the immortal that had defeated him, ready to look death in the face. Although it hurt now, Methos knew the worst would come when the man would pull his sword out.
It felt like all his organs were removed, and not very smoothly. Blood now also gushed through his mouth and nose. Not really a nice death, was Methos' last thought before everything turned black.
