FIVE -
Somewhere lost to memory. Circa 3000 BC.
Under the scorching heat, Methos the errant glanced sideways with what little energy he had left. His eyes ached, and his utmost exertion he needed merely to remain stood. He leant on his camel, which had suffered as much as him the days in the desert. Maybe it had endured more. The animal carried some vessels and pottery Methos had stumbled on. He hoped to trade it for food at the market he was now standing at.
He almost fell on his knees when he sensed it. The feeling. That sensation in the back of his head, announcing that one of his kind was around. Now that he was exhausted and unarmed, for his sword had been sold to buy the camel that now stood by him. He envisioned his soon-to-occur death as he felt that immortal approaching from somewhere.
A bowl of water appeared before him, clung to a dark hand, which continued in an arm, and in the body of a bearded man whose head was covered by a turban. He eyed at him blankly before taking the water, which he drunk eagerly, but not so much. He remembered his means of transport, and held the bowl for the camel. The animal licked the water gratefully.
The stranger motioned at him to follow to a peculiar, quaint, small residence not far from there. Methos did so and tied his camel at a post before walking in. Another bowl of water awaited him. He rushed to it and drank greedily, as his host moved outside to give some water to Methos' animal.
"Thank you." He uttered when the stranger returned. Then he realised he was talking to an immortal. "I don't have a sword..."
"I can lend you one if you want to fight... or we can talk. Would you like something to eat?"
Before Methos could reply, the stranger produced a pot with bird meat. Methos stared at it as if it were a deity, but restrained his instincts to jump over his meal, fuelled by the guilt of having been unfriendly to his host.
"I'm Methos."
"I'm Samir Al-Kashaba." The other replied calmly. "Won't you eat?"
Methos grasped the food and bit it. It tasted deliciously, though he wondered if he would have thought the same had it been camel waste. He felt his energies returning and with it, a disturbing suspicion. Was this immortal luring him in order to behead him when he was distracted? The answer came a second later: if that was the case, why feeding him? He was weak enough to be beheaded without problems.
"Thank you."
"May I ask you a question?" Samir queried. "I don't have the chance to talk much with others of our kind."
"What do you want to know?" Methos spoke with his mouth staffed with meat.
"What do you know about immortality? Are you familiar with what it entails?"
Methos swallowed and started chanting. "We cannot grow old. We cannot die until our heads are severed. We must fight until only one remains. In the end, there can be only one. But there are rules: only one immortal can challenge another. No heads can be taken on holy ground..."
He was interrupted by something that puzzled him.
"And what if you break the rules?"
Methos felt disturbed. His mentor, Anji, had lectured him endlessly about the rules, but never had he even hinted something like that.
"I don't know..." he gasped.
"I do."
Methos stared with disbelief at this immortal calmly confessing that he had committed such outrageousness. The rules had to be obeyed, or... or what? The answer was unknown, and still, no one was known to have ever broken them... until now.
Samir continued. "Did you see the old beggar at the market?" Methos hadn't, but nodded anyway. "She's the last of thirty generations, the first of which I saw born. And I was some millennia old already."
"Why you did it?"
"When you grow as old as I do, life starts to lose its essence. You stop feeling. I wanted to experience something new... so I took a head on holy ground."
"And..." Methos was not certain he wanted the answer.
"Nothing. If my limbs had burnt to ashes, I would have accepted it. If I had been dragged into the darkness for an eternity of pain, I would have accepted it, but... nothing happened."
"So I can take a head on holy ground and..."
"I meant that nothing beyond our understanding, something as mysterious as our origins, happened. But something will happen. Not today, perhaps not tomorrow, but some day, from a faraway land, two outlanders, two of us, will come for my head."
Methos felt the meat was stuck in his throat. He couldn't swallow. He was stunned at seeing how this man talked so simply of his coming death.
"I'm sorry." he finally said, meaning it.
"I'm not. Your presence here has a purpose. Let me train you, Methos. I implore you. Allow me to bequeath you what I've learnt."
Methos felt overwhelmed by the emotion this man he had just met spoke with. The idea of being trained by a very seasoned immortal was tempting.
"I accept."
-----
London. Present day.
The doorbell interrupted the tale. Methos rose from his seat and went to the door. Clarice heard a cordial, if cut-off, greeting to someone. She glanced at a man with grey beard and hair, slowly walking towards them aided by a stick. He patted Marc's shoulder and offered his hand to her.
"Joe Dawson."
"Clarice Minon." she shook it.
"I know." Joe answered as he sat down. "Everybody's favourite immortal."
"Any news?" Marc asked.
"Our buddy Logozz is on a beheading spree, looking for her. He's taken mostly newbies, but some experienced ones have fallen too. Clarice, you stand no chance against him." Joe smirked. "He's older than..." he halted, remembering that there was a secret to be kept.
"Him." Marc pointed at Methos. Joe seemed to relax, now knowing that there were no secrets within the group - none that he knew of at least.
"Do you have any immortal friend that might help you?" Joe queried.
"Only one... Colin MacLeod... but I haven't seen him in five years."
"Clan stuff. Duncan's the same. He's been missing for some time now."
"We're alone." Methos voiced the implied conclusion.
"We can't stay here. He'll come eventually."
"New York." Marc suggested. "Crowded as hell."
"I don't think so. New York is also crammed with immortals. Plus, remember there were some episodes involving beheadings in the last twenty years, so the cops might be alert.. And let's not..."
"Bla bla bla." Methos joked." We get the point, Joe. What about Buenos Aires?"
"There are few of your kind there, and they're mostly tourists. How's your Spanish?" Joe replied.
"Good."
"Then you book the tickets, and you pay."
Methos grinned in mock contempt and moved to the phone. Marc and Joe started chatting about their personal businesses. Clarice eased away towards the window for a breath of fresh air, gripped by a feeling akin to despair yet closely similar to fear. Al-Kashaba's words - as narrated by Methos - echoed in her mind...
"...two outlanders, two of us, will come for my head."