Disclaimer: I do not own the world and characters of Highlander, I'm just borrowing them.
Author's Note: Please tell me what you think of this story. There will be at least one more chapter, but if interest is expressed, I may devote more time to it.
Methos was enjoying a beer at Joe's, only half listening to Joe's discussion with one of his watcher buddies. They were discussing something about the number of immortals in Paris at the moment, a number which Methos thought meant he should probably think of getting out of town, especially since any number of them were likely to have some sort of nasty history with MacLeod he wanted to avoid getting dragged into. Mac had a talent for that sort of thing.
Methos was yanked suddenly from his ruminations on the Highlander as a trouble magnet by a pair of familiar names.
"That's them," Joe's friend confirmed. "Apparently Petra has been on Tristan's tail for 3 years now, never more than a city behind him. Longest any of the ones hunting him have been able to follow him. And get this, Tristan's watcher says he doesn't even carry a sword anymore!"
Methos tuned out again as the watcher elaborated on Petra and Tristan's past for Joe's benefit. Both of them in town was not a good thing, especially considering how obsessive and impulsive Petra was. He hadn't seen her in 1500 years, but if she was still chasing Tristan, she probably hadn't changed much. Tristan he hadn't seen in over 3000 years, but he'd kept track of him through the watchers, knew what he'd been up to since.
As millennia old memories threatened to overwhelm the world's oldest man, he forced his attention back to Joe's conversation just in time to hear some valuable information.
"We're going to have to find someone to fill in for Steven for a few days though, he sprained his ankle pretty badly following the last chase. Speaking of which, I'd better get going, got to talk to HQ about who should do that. See ya Joe."
"Later Jack," Joe answered. He looked over at Methos and noticed that the old man's beer wasn't empty yet. "Something wrong Adam?" he asked. "Do you know Tristan and Petra? They're not much younger than you."
"No," Methos agreed distractedly, already flicking mentally through what churches Tristan was likely to be in. "I gotta go Joe, catch you later."
Methos walked slowly through the streets of Paris, his mind on events that had happened more than three millennia ago. Times he usually tried very hard not to think about, but now Hades was in town. During his time with the watchers, Methos had kept an eye out for any mention of the man who had changed his life; he called himself Tristan now, a name he had chosen for its meaning, melancholy. Methos understood, better than most ever could.
The oldest man's thoughts were pulled back to the present as he arrived at his destination. It was a small church, and Tristan would be inside.
Methos stopped inside the doorway, allowing his eyes to adjust to the dim light. Tristan turned as the immortal buzz alerted him to another's presence and Methos heard his sharp intake of breath.
"Methos," the man in near the altar breathed.
"Hello Tristan," he answered neutrally. "Holy ground," he added.
"Always," the other immortal answered quietly. Methos saw the profound grief in his eyes and finally moved further into the church.
"Of course. Too many immortals still alive who remember what you did to them."
Tristan turned to face the crucifix at the front of the small sanctuary. "Yes. Sometimes I think I should just find one and let them take my head. But who deserves it more? Petra, Ivan, Calliope, Jason, Bree? Letting any of them kill me would rob the others. And then I don't want to die any more." Tristan laughed bitterly. "Of course, when I do think about who deserves to kill me most, I often come down to you. But I didn't know til now whether you were even still alive."
"I survive," Methos replied, "it's what I do." He sat down on the bench a few feet from Tristan and watched the 4000 year old man quietly for a moment. He looked early twenties though he had only been about 17 when he'd died, but people had aged differently so long ago. His head was bowed and Methos detected the traces of tears on his cheeks.
Tristan's broken voice finally ended the silence. "I am sorry Methos. I know that is inadequate for what I did to you, to your family." He looked up and Methos looked into a pair of haunted gray eyes. "If you want my head, it is yours. There is an alley not far from here. I will not fight you."
Methos stood abruptly and began pacing restlessly but slowly along the walls. He didn't answer the man's offer right away, taking time to gather his thoughts. He knew he would not take Tristan's head, he could not judge the immortal who had called himself Hades anymore than he had been able to judge Kronos.
He paused by a small, ornate table and picked up one of the songbooks it held. He flipped uninterestedly through it before replacing it and turning back to Tristan. "Do you know what I did after I finally escaped from you?"
Tristan nodded, "You rode with the horseman."
"I didn't just become a horseman," Methos said, shaking his head. "I became Death." He paused for a moment before finishing softly, "I became you."
Tristan nodded again. "That is why you, more than any other, deserve to take my head. None of the others were driven to the point where they became me."
Methos shook his head, lips pressed into a thin line as he forced back the memories of burning villages and screaming innocents. "No, that is why I, more than any other, cannot kill you. I have been you, and I have changed." He paused, meeting the gaze of an immortal only a thousand years younger than himself. "I have changed," he repeated softly, "as you have changed."
"No," Tristan argued, an urgency in his voice. "I have not changed, monsters don't change. I killed because I wanted to, nothing drove me to it but my own darkness. You have not changed either, you have simply returned to what you were before I changed you. You had reason for what you did!"
"Reason?" Methos shook his head. "No, I had no reason to become a horseman, to become Death. I had an excuse. They are not the same thing."
"Perhaps," Tristan allowed, "but you would never have become Death if not for the horrors I visited upon you."
"You don't think so?" Methos paused to consider this, although he had done so many times already in the three thousand years since Cassandra's escape had led to him leaving the horsemen. "You are likely right, you were the trigger. But the potential was there already, you did not create that. One could argue that you yourself weer triggered by the guilt of surviving the disaster that destroyed your home and made you immortal."
"I didn't feel guilty," Tristan answered. "I was fascinated. I wanted to understand death and what I was and I didn't care who I hurt to find out."
"So which is worse?" Methos asked, without really expecting an answer. "To kill and torture for curiosity or to kill for the pleasure of it?"
"I enjoyed the learning," Tristan said hollowly, "I committed both sins." Then Tristan looked at him, "Did you really enjoy it, Methos? Were you really feeling anything?" He was clearly determined to make a monster out of himself and a victim out of Methos. Well, he was half right about Methos, he had been victim before he was a monster.
Methos sank down onto a bench. "Yes and no. I had blocked all other feelings so the joy I took in the killing filled in the void, but the joy was not new. Yes, I enjoyed being Death at the time. It wasn't until something else wormed its way into my heart that I began to lose that."
"Cassandra," Tristan murmured.
Methos looked sharply at the man a few feet away. "What do you know about Cassandra?" he demanded.
"I know she became immortal when you destroyed her village, I know you kept her."
"How did you learn that?" Methos forced his voice not to tremble, he had been hoping to avoid this topic and cursed himself for hinting at it.
"I have tried to learn what I can about all those I hurt. You have been difficult to find, but the others were easier since they were often looking for me as well.. Most of them seem to have an obsession with finding and killing me."
"It's been over 3000 years," Methos observed and laughed without humour, "You'd think the oldest among us would realize that people can change over such a long period of time."
"Do we?" Tristan asked again.
Methos met his gaze squarely, "Yes."
"Take my head Methos, take it and let it be done. The others will thank you."
"You really think your death will bring them peace?" Methos demanded. He shook his head derisively. "It won't."
"They could know that the loved ones I killed were avenged," Tristan pressed.
"You're 4000 years old Tristan, and all of them are at least 3000, at least some of you should have learned by now that vengeance solves nothing! For goodness sakes, even MacLeod is learning that!" Methos stood and strode towards the door. He paused when he reached it and turned. Tristan was facing the front again with his head bowed. "Petra is in town as well Tristan," Methos warned. When Tristan didn't answer he continued, "Don't do anything stupid." Without waiting for an answer he left the church and went to Joe's.