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When he felt the tickle of Presence, Methos could run no more. He fell to his knees and waited to die.
"Who is there?" A man's voice, speaking Latin.
Methos sagged forward onto his hands, only now feeling the ragged pain in his feet where they had been torn by rocks and the scratches in his naked skin from the thorny bushes. Now feeling--
Hediyeh. Dead. Her blood was spattered on his face.
"Where are you? You have nothing to fear; this is holy ground, and I am a man of peace." Methos couldn't yet speak--his breath came too hard. He looked up and saw the red spark of a burning twig. "Peace," the man repeated, this time in Arabic.
Methos found the breath to respond, "Peace," in Latin, and the man hurried over.
"Unfortunate man! What has happened here?" The man was tall, of Roman looks, dressed in the robes of a Christian monk. He removed his cloak and draped it over Methos' naked body. "My name is Darius, and I will help you."
"Thank you," Methos gasped, taking the arm Darius offered him.
Methos sipped the water slowly. Healing--all but his heart. Hediyeh.
"An Immortal with mortal accomplices," he said. "They crept into my home and tried to stab me in my bed--but they missed, and they killed Hediyeh instead. They killed my wife, and I could do nothing."
He covered his face. Darius touched his shoulder. "She is with God. No more harm can come to her."
Methos could only weep.
In the morning his skin was unmarked again. Methos sat wrapped in the monk's cloak, staring into the fire, cutting off his long hair lock by lock.
He was in a valley he recognized from centuries past. A blessed spring flowed from a rock nearby; it was only a trickle now, and people had forgotten its sacred nature, but the area was still holy ground. The sand swirled in a circle around the spring; stirred by the wind, it fell in another variation of the spiral.
Methos had been born in this land--far to the west, between the two rivers. His memories were faded, but he knew that at one time he had been a citizen of the vanished city of Ur. He always felt that he should find some kind of home here.
Darius awoke beside him. "Are you well, my friend?" he asked.
But this was not his home. "I am healed." Methos cast the hair into the flames. The sweet oil in his hair burned with quick fury.
"I have food enough for the both of us. I am sorry I have no more clothing to give you." Darius unwrapped hard traveling bread. "I'm going a long way and had to travel light."
"I have survived with less before. Why didn't you kill me, monk? I was helpless as a child."
"We're on holy ground." Darius indicated the spring.
Methos sawed through another handful of hair. "You found me outside the holy ground."
"I don't carry a sword."
Methos laughed without humor. "How old are you?"
"Seven hundred and eighty-two years."
"A Roman?"
"Yes."
"The general Darius?" Methos said, remembering the stories he had heard. "Of course. You were transformed at the gates of Lutetia--and now you wait to die."
"Oh no, friend. I live--and each day is a blessing. But I will not any longer take life."
Methos ran his hands over his rough-cropped head. "Others have tried that. None yet live."
"If a man should strike me down, as I struck down the man at the gates of Paris, then I have faith that goodness will transform him as I was transformed. What is your name?" Darius asked.
"Methos," he answered without thought. But when he reconsidered--he had no other name at this moment. His current life died with Hediyeh. He cared to claim no past names in this place. "Where are you headed, monk?"
"I am learning all the ways that men serve God. I am looking for faith of all kinds. What do you believe, Methos?"
Believe? He believed in nothing but the ground beneath his feet. "Nothing." He shook his head bitterly. "Nothing at all."
He heard a small sound echo through the valley. "Someone is coming," Methos said, jumping to his feet. He glanced into the fire, making sure that his hair was burnt.
"Are you certain?"
"Yes." He looked around for a hiding place. His Quickening would not expose him, not with such a powerful Immortal near; Hamed was not that sensitive. There was a crevice in the rock behind the spring, just large enough for a man not afraid to contort himself. "You're safe; he's not hunting you."
Methos squeezed himself into the crevice as the sound of hooves became clearer. Hamed and his two men galloped around the rockface and down into the valley. "Where is he?" Hamed shouted in Arabic.
"I don't understand you," Darius replied in Latin. They stared at each other in mutual confusion as Hamed's men poked around the small valley.
Hamed shook his head and trotted his horse over to the spring to drink. "Check the tracks!" he called to his men, as his horse sucked up water from the puddle beneath the spring.
When the horse raised its head, Methos blew sand into its nose. It startled and bolted with Hamed on its back. "Methos!" Darius cried. "Remember this is holy ground!"
The two mortal men attacked; Methos struck one with the butt of the dagger. "I remember, monk!" He threw the man into the other.
"Please, do not kill them!" Darius reached out his hands to Methos.
One of the men threw himself at Methos; Methos knocked him back down and snapped his head into the other man's, dazing them both. "The belt of your robe. Tie them," Methos said, wondering if he would regret this.
He probably would. But Darius said "Thank you, my friend," and pulled the rope belt from his waist as Methos felt the shiver of another Immortal once again.
Methos ran up to the mouth of the valley. He could feel where Holy Ground was and was not; the valley was blessed, but the hard earth outside was not. He took the cloak from his shoulders and wrapped it around his left forearm as a shield.
Hamed galloped straight towards him. "Murderer!" he bellowed as he veered off at the last moment.
"Stand and fight me," Methos replied.
"Did you say that to my son?" Hamed unsheathed his sword. "Did you give him a fair fight? A ten-year-old child!"
Methos raised his dagger to a guard position and said nothing. He hadn't meant to kill the boy, but that mattered not at all.
"A child," Hamed said, and Methos could hear the grief in his voice.
The boy's name was Javeed. His ghost had whispered it in Methos' ear every night since he died. Hediyeh for Javeed... blood for precious blood.
Now the quarrel would be settled. Hamed leaped from the horse and ran at Methos, sword raised in the the attack.
Hamed slashed and Methos ducked it; slashed again and Methos struck the flat of the blade away with his padded arm. Methos darted in and sliced his side; first blood. Hamed was blinded with anger and grief, and Methos... Methos was cold as a river-washed stone.
Naked and barely armed, Methos was still the better fighter. He would win.
Hamed swiped at his head, then doubled back as Methos ducked and sliced at his chest. He caught Methos' right arm; second blood. Methos sprang up behind him and slashed his throat before he could turn.
Killing wound, perhaps. Hamed staggered away, sword held in a defensive position.
Were he as strong as Methos, he would heal almost immediately and be only slightly weakened. But Hamed, while strong, was still young--only one hundred and fifty years. The faith he carried into this land had been created in his mortal lifetime.
The monk stood at the mouth of the valley. Methos kept his eyes on Hamed, on his stance--which was weakening. Blood soaked down through his robes. He was not healing fast.
Blood dripped onto the earth and Methos saw Javeed standing between them. The boy said nothing, but stared at Methos, head resting on his shoulder; his broken neck would not hold the weight.
Blood for precious blood. Hediyeh for Javeed; Hamed for Hediyeh. And then who would chase Methos for Hamed? The elder of Hamed's adopted sons, when he became a man?
Methos stood frozen between the monk and the boy for too long. He lost his opportunity; Hamed was steady on his feet again. He raised his sword and bared his teeth at Methos. Methos backed up slowly.
And when he was close enough, he swung up onto the saddle of Hamed's horse. Hamed's eyes widened and he gave chase, but the horse was fleet and wild. "I will not return!" Methos shouted. Hamed screamed and stuck his sword into the earth.
Javeed, shadowless against the rising sun, watched him go.
Methos turned away.
THE END.
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