Vengeance

Methos loved harvest festivals. Through the ages they were always bright, always hopeful. Presupposing, of course, that there was enough harvest for a festival. Oh, midwinter festivals could be fun, too, but a good harvest festival never had the undertone of fear, the faint concern about what would happen if the sacrifice wasn't accepted, the sun didn't return. Blood on the snow. Blood didn't bother him, but Methos would still take a good harvest festival, any day.

Watching the boys trying to climb the pole brought back memories of other boys, other harvest days. The children he remembered wore linen kilts and were climbing - much more successfully - a date palm on the edge of the great river. They'd never thought of it with any other name. There was only one river, none could match it. Methos and the pyramids had been young then, and the great Nile and the people it sheltered already old. He missed Egypt, his Egypt; wonderful, stable retreat that it had been. There had never been a civilisation like it. Perhaps he should set up his next identity to go 'decipher' that stele, what had they called it? He'd heard about its acquisition from the French while passing through the British Museum a few years ago. It would be nice to read someone else's heiroglyphics again, even if the Ptolemys weren't really his favourite dynasty.

The presence of another like himself made him draw a sudden breath and glance around, though he tried to hide it in greeting a dancing couple. The other was young, and Methos allowed himself to hope that it was simply a wanderer, someone passing through. He headed for the centre of the festivities; he wasn't armed but even the young weren't foolish enough to face off where there were witnesses. The man he found himself next to looked as concerned as he felt, "Don Aguilera, not enjoying the harvest fiesta?"
"No, must be the heat," answered the other, but the look remained - the one that said a great deal more than his words. A small boy appeared, carrying a watermelon almost larger than himself and for a moment when it exploded Methos couldn't quite process what had happened.

The Don was lucky to be alive; a man his age and the shock of the bolt, but Methos had to hurry. For his own sake as well as Aguilera's. It made perfect sense to urge, "My office is too far - we'll take him into the church." Thank God for the pervasive Catholicism of the Spanish. He wasn't sure such a suggestion would have seemed so obvious in another culture - even the California he had only recently left. He drew the crowd with him - as assistants to carry the prone man and as onlookers until he reached Holy Ground. Only once there, with the back of his neck no longer cringing from the expected blow and his hands no longer clutching for weapons 'Dr Helm' didn't carry, was he able to focus on his patient.

The man's son was full of questions, questions no one but whatever god or gods noticed human lives could answer. Certainly not a country doctor. And certainly not in the midst of a complicated opperation. Methos understood the boy's need to ask, but he could offer no reassurance save "I'm doing my best." He tried to focus on the Don and his wound, but his head throbbed with the sense of the other outside, and the boy's questions were not helping. Five thousand years of self discipline kept his answers calm, but even a thousand years experience as a physician of one sort and another was not likely to help Don Aguilera now. The bolt was broadheaded, made for slicing flesh, made to kill and that was exactly what it was doing. Senorita Alverado brought bandages, and left with the boy, and Methos was grateful.

Methos didn't notice the comings and goings outside. Well, he noticed the departure of the other Immortal, but that was all. Nuns came and went, and others carrying bandages. Someone may have urged him to eat, but he wasn't sure. When the young one came prowling around again in the night, he felt vindicated in his choice to remain in the church. He did find it slightly concerning - more than slightly - that the other was out there and armed, probably still with that crossbow. Surely he - she? - would have been taught better manners than to 'kill' at a distance. Driving someone out of their home by making them seem to have died wasn't against the rules, but it was probably bad form. Methos himself wouldn't have shied from it, to save his own life, but damnit this creature was hunting him.

Don Aguilera's death, late in the night, saddened but did not surprise him. It had been something of a miracle he lasted as long as he did, not that that would be any comfort to the boy currently leading an army of farmhands outside the church door. "What is the meaning of this display?" demanded Montoya outside, just as Methos was reaching the church doors to inform the bereaved young man. "These men are from my hacienda." Methos decided he would wait a moment - hopefully Montoya would frighten the boy into obedience, or at least order him to await some sort of investigation before embarking on a typical Spanish quest for blood. "Send them home!"
"One of your soldiers lies dead in the hotel. Two more lie unconscious," Ramon threatened.
"I am quite capable of doing the arithmatic."
"But not of protecting my father."
"Do not test me, young man, unless you and your men are prepared to suffer the consequences." Montoya was not being as successful as he had hoped, so Methos interrupted, "Ramon..." Even after a thousand years' practise there really was nothing that could be said at a time like this except, "I'm sorry." From capable young man to bereft child in a heartbeat, he pushed past the doctor to reach his father's side crying "Papa?". Methos had seen it too often.

"An unexpected development, doctor," Montoya offered, not quite a question. Methos didn't think it was unexpected at all but explained anyway,
"There was so much bleeding, there was nothing I could do." It was clear to him that Montoya was also saddened, in his own way, at the loss.
"Ah well, one more for the angels." The passing bell began, and Dr Helm made for his office.

It spoke to the state of Methos' nerves that, knowing the other Immortal was not in his office, he still jumped when he saw his late-night visitor. Just now he did not need to deal with the Queen. "Don Aguilera," she began, acknowledging the bell.
"It's been a long day," he cautioned, and when she began to offer platitudes he refused them, "Your sympathy is wasted on me." It was clear she was chastened, but equally clear she was not going to leave, "I'm looking for someone, thought maybe you could help. Recognise him?"

The picture. The plans. Another life. He hadn't wanted to kill that boy. He had already been tired of killing, but he couldn't take the risk. What would this slip of a girl know about that kind of regret? "Where did you get that?"

He hoped, knowing it was impossible, that it had nothing to do with the events of the day. His breath was short, and he hated himself for it. Methos had thought to find a little peace here. Was that too much to ask? "The assassin wasn't after Don Aguilera, was he? He was trying to kill you." As if that was all it was - if it was only a mortal assassin, Dr Helm was a disposable alias now. "You get out!" he ordered, but she was in no mood to listen.

"Now that the Don is dead, Ramon will stop at nothing to avenge his father."
He didn't want that, of course, but, "I am not responsible for what Ramon does." She tried to make him feel guilt, but that could work two ways, "The man you took that from?"
"He got away." He might, just might, have been prepared to admit this least of all his faults if she had managed to get rid of the one who was coming for him - even temporarily. "So he's still alive? Well, let Ramon believe what he believes. Safer that way."
"You can't be serious?" But he was, deadly serious,
"This is my business. You stay the hell out."
"Looks like I'm not the only one who hides behind a mask." It was meant to be cutting, but he had been at this far too long to be disconcerted.

If only there was some way of knowing who it was who hunted him. Dr Helm had stayed clear of Immortals, in the main. Certainly there had been no serious entanglements, and he didn't recall running from any Challenges. Of course, there were others around but he didn't think any of them had any reason to recognise him, let alone to track him down like this. The crossbow was an interesting choice of weapon, and he would certainly remember it in future, but there was nothing more than that to work with, and no way to convince the rather-too-devious Montoya he wasn't involved. At least the prowler on the edge of his awareness was unlikely to shoot him in front of the main official of the town. All the same, he didn't sleep well - even with his sword and loaded pistol in hand.

The following morning's clinic was a trial. What he really wanted was something like the plague of the previous weeks to hold his attention, not a bunch of old women with vague ailments, let alone Señorita Alvorado who only ever seemed to turn up in order to gossip. She needed to make friends with the little blonde Doña. Who could possibly understand the Spanish? Perhaps he should have headed for Australia when he left Switzerland. The Señorita seemed to think facing death for the sake of family honour 'thrilling' and 'romantic' - not how he considered the thing at all, but he was much older than she.

She did understand the Spanish soul, and he had seen them at the fiesta, so he accepted she knew Ramon better than he. Methos supposed the young man was now the new Don Aguilera, with responsibility through the hacienda for perhaps dozens of people, families. The English traitor would have been tried and executed anyway. Methos did not want another young man to die if he could avoid it - he was trying to be a healer.

Methos probably allowed just a bit more of himself to show than he wanted to - arranging to meet on Holy Ground. It probably meant nothing to the warring parties, but perhaps it did, somewhere deep in their psyches. "Got your message. I'm here," said Ramon.
"Thank you for coming," Methos began. The boy had much to do, and the impatience of youth. "I promise you this is important." The arrival of Don Fuentes precipitated a scuffle, and Methos threw himself between the two men. If either had been thinking, they would have been surprised at the strength of the man they thought of only as a doctor. "Still alive you bastard!" cried Ramon, and Methos turned on him,
"I intend to keep it that way." Unfortunately the older man was just as hot-headed,
"You have one minute to explain yourself, doctor!"
"It was me."
"You're not making sense."
"I was the target, not Aguilera."

The admission at least stopped them fighting, and they appeared to be able to agree on one thing, at least, "You're crazy!"
"It's the truth. The bolt that killed your father was meant for me. I'm so sorry, Ramon. Your father was killed in the crossfire - if I could change places with him now..." Methos realised 'Dr Helm' probably would have, too. Time for a change.
"Why would anybody want to kill you?"

"Many reasons!" In his attempts to keep his alias under control, too much of Methos was getting out, "But they will go to the grave with me!"
"Why should I believe you?"
"Look at me!" he shouted - for reasons Methos didn't completely understand, he needed this boy to believe him, and he let the darkness out, just a little, "Look into my eyes. That is not life you see. That is Death. And Death leaves a trail."

Methos had promised himself that as soon as another Immortal found him - friendly or not - he would leave Santa Helena. As he rode through the hills he was surprised by how difficult that was. At least he need not fear the desert, though having plenty of water was much to be prefered than dying of thirst over and over again. When he first heard the approaching horse, he really didn't know if it was the other Immortal or not - too far for his sense to pick up, and better prepared than not. Finding it was not the assassin, he still wanted to know who had any business following him.

Unfortunately he misjudged the fall, and lost the advantage. "With those kind of moves, no wonder you're still single," Why did it have to be the Queen of Swords? "Either slit my throat and get it over with, or take your knee off my..." she didn't let him finish, revealing a delicacy he hadn't suspected.
"Alright, alright. What the hell are you doing leaping off rocks?"
"What the hell are you doing following me?"
"Tell me why you're leaving town?" He almost smiled at the game they seemed to play whenever they met,
"Tell me who's under the mask?"
"I asked first."

Frustrated again he returned to his attempt to leave Dr Helm and his pursuer - both his pursuers now - behind. One at least was not going to be ignored, "I'm talking to you."
"This is all your fault." First driving him out of town, and now no horse, no water - and no sword.
"Are you looking for something?" the innocent tone she invested in the question seemed calculated to drive him mad,
"My horse," he bit down on his temper, but it couldn't last in the face of,
"Horse?""
"Horse. Equus. Four legs, big head, long tail?" but she wasn't going to bite, and then she had the nerve to accuse him of running.

Methos acknowledged that he probably seemed to run away - to many people, irritating Spanish girls in lace masks not least. But he didn't. Not in his mind, anyway. "I am not running away. I am walking." Walking away - to preserve something of himself, to keep the fragile mortals around him safe, abandoning the life he had built up for himself to die alone in the desert yet one more time.

But she wouldn't let him go, let him leave. He tried to explain what it meant, "The only way to stop him is to kill him."
"And you refuse to take a life, even to save your own?"
"I swore an oath. I'm a doctor now." If only it were that simple. She could not understand. Five thousand years of living - hell, one thousand years - surely was enough to learn to do something more difficult, more useful, than killing. "That man in the sketch, the one with the beard. Who is he?"
"That man is dead." Methos had laid Dr Helm to rest once already, and he had a new identity prepared well. If he had to become 'Nathan' a few years early, so be it.

He had intended to send her off in a flurry of dust, rather than send himself tumbling down the ravine. "Doctor? Are you all right?"
"Go!" Left with no choice, and with Montoya closing in, she fled along the top of the ravine without him. Methos told himself he was pleased. Better than having her a witness to the lightening - or worse.

"Quickly or slowly? How do you want to die?" Why did people never listen? He did not want to die. Particularly not like this.
"Who are you?"
"Vengeance." Surely he had a right to know which particular sin this man aimed to punish; clearly this young immortal didn't know enough of who he was dealing with, "I don't understand."
"Ian Latham was my brother." That did give Methos pause but only for a moment, and not for the reasons Latham seemed to expect - this one was very young if he still thought of the traitor as his brother. Methos hadn't even felt his presence, at the time. "That's it. Now you remember. The man you murdered."
"That wasn't murder, that was war!"

Methos wished Latham would get rid of the crossbow. Latham hadn't drawn his sword, and with the projectile weapon out of the mix Methos had a better chance. "Doctor," Latham sneered, "Killer is more like it."
"Not anymore."
"You think death is something you can wear one day and not the next?" Latham was on very dangerous ground here indeed, if he had but known it, "Tell me you don't dream of it still. All that blood? And the death? Tell me!" Maybe, just maybe, the young one got a hint of the darkness that lay hidden behind Robert Helm when the man he had challeneged answered with just the beginning of the ages of destruction he had seen, "I can't."

"My brother was no spy," Latham insisted. As if it mattered. But if it mattered so much to him, perhaps it was worth explaining the unexplainable,
"He was seen talking with the French, he had the documents on him..." Latham was crazed, unwilling to accept the evidence that would have made his brother's trial a formality before the execution, "Ian was innocent!"
"I had no choice. I had my orders."
"The thing about vengeance: it gets sweeter with age. Goodbye, doctor."

Methos had never been so happy to see a bandit in his life. "Care to try for two out of three?" She offered Latham. Normally, he'd be more than happy for her to fight his battles, but mortals couldn't get involved in the Game - he knew where that would lead, "Not her!" It was clear the Queen understood more was going on than she knew, but at least she curbed her tongue. "It's me you want," he continued, "Come on, you bastard!" At least he read the mysterious Queen well enough that he didn't end up unarmed.

Latham wasn't a bad swordsman, and his opening attack could have been successful. Methos parried and jumped away, taking advantage of the terrain. He was also not above using his elbow, or any other advantage. When he managed to take the advantage and lay his sword to Latham's neck the other taunted, "Still got the taste for blood, doctor?"
"Let it go," Methos asked, but he knew the other wouldn't, and when he again held the upper hand he paused, reining in the creature he had once been.
"What are you waiting for?" taunted Latham, "You're a killer." And the noise of battle filled Methos' ears, the screams of the wounded and the dying and he wanted oh so much he wanted to take the fool's head and feel the power of the Quickening.

It wasn't the audience that stopped him or the oath he had taken, but something of Doctor Helm that had taken root in the old man's soul. That and the notion of payback. The Queen had given him the means to save his life, possibly he should ensure she didn't loose hers as a result. "Drop the crossbow, Colonel."
"Dr Helm, have you completely lost your mind?"
"You bargained for my life," Methos had been auctioned off at the slave block, as well as a war lord with captives for sale and he much preferred to be the one doing the bargaining. "I am sure there has been some misunderstanding."
"No, Colonel, you and I understand each other perfectly: drop the crossbow."
"I am sure we can work something out. If you would just be so kind as to run your sword through the young lady behind me..."
"Which young lady is that?" Montoya looked, but of course the Queen was long gone,
"Damn her! Damn her to be so close! To smell the scent of her blood!"

Suddenly, Latham leaped and Methos was caught off guard. He jumped back in the vain hope of escape. Montoya, however, was not off guard. The bolt that lodged itself in Latham's torso surprised Methos as much as it did Latham himself. He could say nothing more than, "You're a complicated man, you know that?"
"Not really. Killers and assassins are... how you say?... a dime a dozen. Where would I find another doctor?" Methos wondered if Montoya knew that he had before him all three - killer, assassin and doctor - and concluded he probably suspected more than was good for 'Dr Helm'.

Much later, when he had relocated his horse and all his equipment, Methos found he was not alone in Dr Helm's office. "Either you're a messy housekeeper or..." He smiled at her tone, "I'm staying."

zZz

Author's Note: I recognise that Methos claims not to have faced anyone for 200 years, and that that statement was made sometime in the 1990s. I figure that, for someone who counts his age in millenia, 170 years might as well be 200 years. Also he's not the sort of person who's going to be completely honest about that kind of thing - or anything really ("Why would I tell the truth?").