She was staring blankly against the window when she sensed an immortal around. She put her hand on the grip of her sword and sighed out. Immortality was taking its toll on her. She had grown accustomed to the senseless fights and the bloodletting, but ever since Victor's death, all was going downhill. Every head taken meant days of angst and sadness.
But she was still taking them. Whenever an immortal crossed path with her, it meant battle, and her victory. She felt she owed that to her beheaded master. Victor had roamed the world for more than 2000 years taking heads, until someone he could have called friend decapitated him. Now she wandered around like he did, in some sort of humble tribute that she didn't intend to pay. She was making an impression among others of her kind, who grew apprehensive of meeting her. She somewhat liked it, and it fed some sort of inner hunger for heads she abhorred but could not but please. She had even been nicknamed: The Sister of Death.
She stood up and headed to the back of the train, where the bags were. In her way she bumped into a young child. Six years old, running around as his mother ordered him to return to his seat. He smiled at her, and she beamed in reply as the mother apologised. She allowed herself to think of the homeless girl.
She had beheaded the naive Joan out of mere sympathy. Having become immortal at 20, she knew teenagers found it difficult to adapt to the reality immortality brings to your doorstep, especially in a world where immortals were growing more and more belligerent against each other. The girl never knew what hit her. She had killed her with kindness. Joan had felt no pain.
The little punk was a different thing. In the past, Darla had fallen in Kenny's trap just like Joan did. The kid had taken her to an abandoned store and stabbed her in the back. Victor saved her before Kenny could take her head and her pitiful Quickening. The kid had never played by the Rules. Given his height and strength, his attitude made sense, but was not excusable. There had to be a battle of one immortal against another. If he could not do that, then he was better off dead. She entered the last wagon. No one was there, and after a while, no one came.
-----
She returned to her seat and on the way there felt the premonition again. Approaching her place, she realised there was someone sitting next to her seat. A tall slim man with black hair that fell to the shoulders noticed her and grinned. There was a scar in his face, running from below the left eye to his cheek. She sat down and for a second stayed quiet.
"What are you doing here?" she spat up.
"Taking the train."
"This can't be a coincidence, Methos. The Watchers must have hinted you on my whereabouts."
"Actually, it is a coincidence. You look well, Darla."
"And you look scarred. Victor did it to you before you whacked his head?"
Methos sighed at the comment.
"I did what I had to, Darla." He lowered his voice. " It's what we do. We are immortals. We take heads."
"Spare me the lecture." She said distantly. "Why Paris and not... Budapest?"
"I have an acquaintance to meet. You?"
"A friend... a future immortal."
"Good. May I get to know him?"
"Be grateful we're not alone. Otherwise, your head would fall.""
Methos laughed soberly. "Won't you ever forgive me?"
"For what? For taking the head of the person I cared most in the world?" She let the angry words out in a rush, without thinking. She looked down. Emotion was threatening to overcome her. Her eyes went moist.
"Memories fade, Darla. They are designed that way."
"They do. But the scars still linger."
"So you've taken more than a hundred heads in the last year to overcome the pain? I wonder what he'd say about it."
"He'd be pleased."
"Of what? Of your becoming a killing machine like him? Of being 'The Sister of Death'? You were not like that, Darla."
"You made me that by taking Victor's head. Now all I have of him is his relic and his sword. I don't even know where his body rests." Anger ran through her.
"Boston. Close to your mother's grave."
"What a gesture!" she said bitterly before leaning against the window, trying to catch some sleep.
"You will never let it go, right?" Methos queried.
"You know I won't." She replied before frowning.
"Well." Methos opened a cheap paperback. "I guess we'll always have Paris."