PART 3: "People die, Methos. Immortals--die."

Chapter 5

In the remote wildness of the Austrian mountains, Stephen watched Nick turn back into the man he was so familiar with from his dreams. Duncan never left the older immortal's side, sparring with him, debating with him, even fighting with him. Any quiet moments they may have had together were private and out of Stephen's sight.

There were times when Nick pushed Duncan to spar with Stephen. Nick was still very much concerned with the way that Stephen fought, and if they couldn't get Stephen to stop suppressing the bloodlust, Nick wanted to increase Stephen's chances of survival by getting Duncan to practice as much as possible with the young man.

"Too much like a mortal," Nick would mutter. "It's too much like a mortal."

"Come on, Stephen," Duncan would say. "Let it in a little, just for Nick."

"There's no such thing as only a little, you know that, Duncan," the young man would retort. "I can't." Inevitably, he would turn to the pale-faced Nick and add: "I'm sorry, Nick. I can't. Not even for you."

"Gods!" And with a wave, Nick would turn away, not able to watch the match.

On one occasion, Nick was not only watching the bout, he was coaching Stephen, giving him pointers. Duncan said nothing, only the tightness around his mouth attested to the fact that he had heard all this before when Nick was coaching Michael.

Stephen dug in and paid attention. He knew why Nick was being so hard on him, and he took it as the gift it was. Duncan was a great fighter, however. The Highlander had started his mortal life as a warrior and for hundreds of years survived as an immortal by living as a warrior. Stephen, on the other hand, had only been a warrior for several decades. He was no match for the burly Scot.

That became more than apparent when a quick parry of Duncan's katana turned out to be a feint. Stephen fell forward, almost losing his balance.

"Right!" he heard Nick shout. "Twist to the right."

Without thinking, Stephen followed the command, twisting to the right and bringing his sword up to block Duncan's descending blade. Duncan whipped his arm around and slammed the fist wrapped around the sword handle into Stephen's chest.

The sharp, sudden blow cut off Stephen's air and threw him back, arms and legs pinwheeling as he fought in vain for balance. He hit the floor with a gasp, his head thudding back against the hardwood. The world receded around him for a moment, everything going gray as the light coming in the floor-to-ceiling windows was reduced to pinpricks.

The shadowy figure of Duncan moved toward him, and Stephen knew it was over. Had this been a real battle, the immortal facing him would be coming for his head.

Duncan, however, only rested his sword briefly against Stephen's neck. "Match," he said abruptly and turned away to allow Stephen time to recover.

The pounding pain in Stephen's head reached its peak as the gray light brightened around him. He realized that he was twisted on the ground, his sword gone, one arm caught under his body. He closed his eyes, waiting for the pain to ease.

"Oh, gods!"

Nick's strangled exclamation pulled Stephen back into focus, although he couldn't move yet. He heard Duncan crossing the floor.

"Nick? What is it?"

Opening his eyes, Stephen saw that Nick was staring at him, his eyes wide and filled with horror.

"Nick!" Duncan called sharply.

Almost blind, Nick's head swung toward Duncan. "Gods, Duncan, she looked like that! She looked just like that!"

The pain in his head starting to ebb, Stephen got slowly to his feet and approached the two men. Nick looked like he had lost every bone in his body. He was shaking and his head was swinging heavily on his neck as if he didn't have the strength to raise it. He started to collapse, his legs unable to support his slight weight.

Duncan grabbed one of Nick's arms and Stephen the other and they carried him to one of the benches that lined the workout floor.

"Nick!" Duncan gently shook Nick's arm. "Nick, what are you talking about?"

"There was somebody--gods, MacLeod, I'd forgotten! There was someone!"

Stephen looked up at Duncan in time to see understanding dawn on the Highlander's face. "What does he mean?" Stephen asked.

Throwing a towel over Nick's shoulder's, Duncan explained: "Back in New Orleans I asked Nick if there had been anyone over the years, a companion of some kind. He said that there were only strangers, brief encounters that were lost in a drug and alcohol haze, but he seemed to remember that there had been someone, someone important to him, but he couldn't remember who it was. All memory of this person was gone, until now," Duncan finished grimly.

Shaking his head, Nick leaned forward, burying his head in his hands. "No, I won't remember. I can't--"

Duncan pulled his hands away. "You do remember, Nick, you have to. Who is it? Tell us, Nick. Who is it?"

Sitting up, Nick leaned back against the wall. He drew a deep, shuddering breath and ran a hand through his hair. "I know I have to remember," he whispered. "I can't help it, anyway. It's all here now. It's all come back."

After a long moment of silence, Nick started speaking hurriedly, his voice faint with remembered anguish. "It was a woman. I can barely remember what she looked like. She and I were--together, if you could call it that. We drank together, we took drugs together, we slept together, and the few times we didn't pass out, we made love together." He squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head abruptly. "What was her name?!!? Something K, I think. Kathy, Kathleen, Karen, Katryn! That's what it was! Her name was Katryn. Gods--" He ran a hand over his face and pulled briefly at his hair.

"We were spending a lot of time together," he continued, "so we started sharing a room. It was convenient, and cheap. We were doing the same thing, living the same kind of life, it seemed--logical--" He stopped speaking as the absurdity of the "logic" hit him.

"Come on, Nick," Duncan urged, "get it out."

Nick continued after a moment, his voice low and harsh. "We were taking this new drug. I forget the name, methyl pyroxene something, I don't know. The name isn't important. It doesn't even exist anymore. The point is at the time, it was very expensive, very pure and very--good." He faltered. "Very deadly." This time he ran both hands through his hair as if he could physically pull the painful memory out of his head. When he started speaking again, he was talking through the hands covering his face.

"We had scored quite a bit of the stuff. Katryn had had a--a--good couple of nights on, you know, the street." Nick took another shuddering breath. "I had money from the pawnbroker--"

"What did you pawn?" Duncan wanted to know.

Nick looked up at the interruption. "What?" His face, anguished and bleak, almost made Duncan hold his tongue, but the Highlander pushed on.

"What did you pawn?"

Nick paled visibly, his mouth tightening. "I didn't pawn anything," he bit out. "I didn't have anything to pawn. I broke into the pawnshop, okay? Is that what you need to hear? I stole the money. We bought drugs with money that we got by hooking, by stealing, okay?"

He got abruptly to his feet, but Duncan put a gentle hand on his arm. "Come on, Nick, don't leave. I just want to know everything."

Nick fell back into his seat. He leaned forward again, elbows on knees, hands clasped tightly in front of him, staring at the ground between his feet. The pose was familiar to Steven. It was the posture Nick took to tell him about the dreams. As hard as it was for Nick to talk about those dreams, Steven knew that this story was going to be worse.

"I thought I had hit bottom already," Nick said with a sigh, "but I didn't know how low I could go. Before the methyl pyrox, I was still sort of myself, just drunk or high, or both. In some way I still wanted to keep living so I was constantly on the move to assure my continued worthless existence." Sarcastic venom twisted his voice. "I had yet to hit bottom."

He paused but didn't look up. Duncan and Steven waited silently.

"We were in Amsterdam by then. We had been sharing rooms for some months by that point, I think, and Katryn kept moving with me. Amsterdam was great for us. Katryn was able to hook pretty regularly and there were a lot of places for me to lift stuff from." Another sigh. "Anyway, we scored a pile of the methyl pyrox." Nick's voice grew colder and harsher. "We took it back to the room and started to down it. We got so high so fast." Nick's eyes closed and his head drooped. "I was up to the ceiling."

Steven closed his eyes, the scene playing itself out on the back of his eyelids as Nick spoke. The old immortal's deep, hypnotic voice was the backdrop as a grim, dingy room grew into focus from his words. In his mind's eye, Steven could see Nick on a bed with a woman looking older than she was and was thinner than she should be.

Emaciated and paler than pale, Nick had a dissipated, removed look on his face. Already taken by the drug, his eyes were half closed and his head was back, his jaw slack. Mewling like a cat, Katryn was clinging to Nick, her eyes fluttering open and close. She was taking whatever he fed to her, sometimes grasping for it, other times accepting it hesitantly. There was fear on her face, and exhilaration, as she climbed higher and higher.

Suddenly she jerked in Nick's arms, the fragile slip she was wearing twisting itself around her legs. "Wait, wait," she said, her voice high and whiney from the drug. "I'm going too high, I'm going too high!"

Nick put an arm around the terrified woman. "Shhhh, Katie, You're fine, you're gonna be fine. It's just really good stuff."

"I wanna come down, Immie. You've got to get me down!"

"Shhhh," Nick whispered again. "Just hang on and you'll be fine. Immie'll take care of you."

Steven's eyes popped open. "Immie?" It was the first word he ventured.

Nick favored Steven with a brief glance. His eyes were hard, lifeless, like they used to be. "It was a name she had for me. It was short for Immortal."

"What!" Duncan and Steven cried in unison.

Nick's gaze returned to the ground between his feet. "She asked me once how I could wake up sober and without a hangover every day, no matter what we took the night before. I told her that it was because I was immortal, that I could get drunk and high, but I wouldn't stay that way and it could never kill me. So her nickname for me was Immortal, Immie for short."

"Did she believe you?" Steven wanted to know.

"Of course not." Nick's answer was gentle. "She knew I was a bullshit artist. She'd seen me in action. She just thought I was bullshitting her and laughed it off." Nick's face grew as gentle as his voice at the memory. His face quickly hardened as he resumed his story. It spun itself out for Stephen.

As Katryn whimpered and clung close to Nick on the bed, the immortal fed the drug to his skinny companion. When she tried to refuse it, he urged it on her. She stopped struggling and just took whatever he gave her. He kept taking it as well, going higher and higher. Every so often he shook his head abruptly, obviously in awe of the scope of the drug. Even after Katryn passed out, he kept taking it.

Nick hung onto Katryn, whispering to her, so out of it he didn't realize that she was unconscious.

"Come on, baby, come on. It's great, isn't it? It's great. I'm so high, I want you here. You gotta feel this, come on, baby, hang on. You can trust me, you're gonna be okay. You're gonna be okay. Let's go baby, up, up and away--"

His own voice faded as he slipped into unconsciousness.

The day dawned, drab and dull in the grimy room. Full daylight was not much brighter, but Nick finally stirred on the bed. He tried to move but was pinned to the bed by Katryn's cold grip. He squeezed his eyes shut for a moment, his heart skipping a beat. Gathering his courage, he looked down at the woman in his arms. Her ruined face was twisted, her mouth slack and her eyes were open, staring lifelessly at nothing.

There was knowledge all over Nick's face. Knowledge that he had pushed more of the drug onto her than she could handle. Knowledge that although she had begged for help, all he did was hasten her death. Knowledge that he hadn't listened because it was not what he needed. Knowledge that he was responsible for another mortal death. Finally, knowledge that he, too, would have been dead if he were not immortal. That last was what filled him with bitter regret.

Stephen winced as the cruel, cutting tone that Nick assaulted himself with pulled him out of the story.

"So what did you do?"

Nick looked at Duncan, brought back to the present by a mundane question asked in a deep, caring voice. "The cowardly thing, of course." He looked away and continued ruthlessly, not sparing himself. "I was confused and scared, so I grabbed what I could and got the hell out of there. I didn't touch any of her stuff. I left--I left her there on the bed just as she had died, all twisted up, fighting for her last breath, probably calling to me for help as I slept, oblivious, her hands like claws where they had clung to me."

"That was bottom for me," he said after a long, drawn-out silence. "After that I didn't care if I lived or died. I kept moving, but I've never been back to Amsterdam. Even after a lot of time passed, even when I knew she'd be dead anyway, I couldn't go back there. I even stayed in the New World so I wouldn't end up there accidentally in a drunken stupor. I stuck to alcohol after that and I kept to myself. I was never with anyone for more than a night or two. No matter what. No matter how "logical" it was to stay together or how--lonely I got. I'd remember Katryn on that bed with no one to take care of her or mourn her. I remembered that even when I forgot her." His voice faltered into silence.

Duncan reached out and pulled Nick into his arms, holding him against the pain of a tragic memory. Quiet and unmoving as the silence of the room enveloped them, the three of them sat. Stephen stared out of floor-to-ceiling windows, averting his eyes from the sight of Duncan squeezing his friend in a comforting embrace, murmuring into his ear, trying to chase the demons away.

There were a few setbacks like this along the way. The three men would be going along in their very simple life in the mountains, when something from Nick's lost 100 years would explode, and they would have to deal with it.

As time went on, the incidents got fewer and further apart. Duncan seemed to think that Nick was his old self again, and hearing that, Stephen began to wonder if it wasn't time for him to move on.

"Why should you?" Nick wanted to know. "Why not stay here with us?"

"Well, you won't be here forever, and I have to find my own way."

"Safety in numbers," Nick urged.

Stephen promised to think about it. There were things that were pushing him away. Stephen's association with Nick and Duncan had changed him. He was seeing things with new eyes and he wanted to explore the world with those eyes, to see thing he had never seen and to see things he had in a new way. Then there was the fact of his dreams.

The dreams had started fading soon after Nick had told him the stories of his life. There were fewer each night, and then a night came when there was no dream, none at all! Stephen didn't quite know what to do. He guessed that finally meeting the man who drove the dreams took the power of the dreams away. Stephen was sure that one day, they would be completely gone. The thought made him relieved--and sorry.

He shook off the contradictory feelings. The dreams were fading, which meant that finding Nick had been the right thing to do. The dreams had been haunting him, but as they started to recede, it was like watching an old friend fade into oblivion. He wondered vaguely if the dreams would come back if he left Nick's "presence."

That was not the reason to go, of course. He wanted to, had to, see the world with all this new knowledge, armed with a stronger, more powerful sword-fighting technique. There was also the matter of his two new friends.

Nick and Duncan had their own ways to go. They may stay together in the chateau or they may go their separate ways, but whichever, it was their destiny. Instinctively, however, Stephen knew that his presence was holding them in limbo. He was holding them both from whatever path they wished to walk.

On very cold, blustery day, this was confirmed for him.

Stephen was coming up from the stables. He had just been horseback riding along the mountainous ridges and terraces. After helping the stable hand curry down the horse and put the tack away, Stephen headed back for the castle. He didn't take the direct route. The day was overcast and dark, heavy clouds were scudding across the sky, urged along by a high wind. It raised odd feelings in the young immortal, making his heart pound and yearn for a time and a distance that no longer existed in this world. He was restless and didn't want to go in just yet.

He had just resolved to walk completely around the chateau when voices came to him, tossed and faint on the wind.

Following them, he heard Nick and Duncan talking. They were in a workout room, the one with floor-to-ceiling windows that let the light in almost twelve hours a day. The top parts of the windows could be opened to let air in to cool the room and its occupants. It also let their words out.

"For years I wondered where you were."

"When did you stop?"

The mildly sarcastic question was met with silence. Finally Stephen heard Duncan say: "I never did, really. I was trying to reconcile myself with the thought of your death."

Nick's silence went deeper than Duncan's. "I don't know how I survived so long," he murmured.

"I don't like to think about it."

"My death was inevitable. Stephen Drake saved my life."

"I know." Duncan paused. "I must thank him for that."

"Careful," Nick said. "He may get the idea that you're glad that I'm alive." Stephen heard the smile as well as the question in Nick's voice.

"I am glad, Methos. I am very glad and very grateful."

Nick almost gasped aloud at what he heard Duncan say. There was a rustle of fabric as the two men embraced. Stephen drew back from the windows as much for himself as to give them privacy.

Methos? Did he hear correctly? Was Nick really the world's oldest living immortal? Stephen was sure Duncan said Methos. As young as he was, even Stephen had heard about the shadowy legend nobody had ever met. Stephen had assumed that there was no such person, but here he was--Nick. If Nick really was Methos, how much of a contribution did Stephen make to the world for saving that life? Or did it really matter? Nick didn't seem to think so, but Duncan did, in a big way.

The new knowledge careened around Stephen's brain as he stared at the surrounding mountains. Nick, the man who had haunted his dreams for years, that bourbon-soaked, surly degenerate, was Methos, and Stephen was the one who had saved the life of the oldest of their kind. For the first time, Stephen understood that phrase: "My work here is done."

Still stunned by the revelation, Stephen heard Nick say:

"Now, what about Stephen?"

That made Stephen's ears prick up.

"What about him?" Duncan asked.

"I think he wants to leave."

"Why does that bother you?"

"I don't want him to leave."

"Why not? You knew he was going to leave someday."

"I know, I know. I'm just afraid that if he's not here he might--he might--" the voice trailed off.

"What? He might die? You can't fight his battles for him, Methos, you know that."

"I know." It was a whisper. "But I worry about him."

"Yeah, I know. I worry about him, too. But what do you think he'll tell you if he knew you were so worried?"

"He'd say that there was no need, that he'll be fine."

"So?"

"He could still die."

"People die, Methos. Immortals--die."

"Oh, shut up, MacLeod," Nick/Methos gritted out. "I hate it when you throw my words back at me."

"Then stop making such sense."

"If I remember correctly, Highlander, you didn't listen to me, even when I did make so much sense. Why should I listen to you?"

"Because it's the truth," MacLeod murmured. "Now I've got to get out of these sweaty clothes. Are we done here?"

The words faded away and Stephen was left with much to think about. Nick was back in the world of the living and back with his friend. It was time for Stephen to move on, to make his own way, find his own friends, and his own destiny. He was done with the destinies of others, especially the destinies of larger-than-life legends like Methos and warriors like Duncan MacLeod. Stephen walked a long time before the dark and cold finally drove him into the warmth of the chateau.

Nick and Duncan both protested mightily when Stephen finally broke the news to them that he was leaving, but Duncan was only protesting on behalf of Nick, and everyone knew it. Nick was very worried about the way Stephen fought, but the Highlander thought the young immortal should find his own way in the world. Stephen had made the decision and was determined to stick to it. The consequences were his to face. Nobody understood sticking by one's principles better than Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Nick, however, was glowering and unhappy.

"Come on, Nick," Stephen urged. "I'll be fine. You and Duncan have taught me so much. Look how far I've come as a swordsman. And look how far you've come! I haven't see a glass of bourbon in your hand since New Orleans."

"Just beer, now," Duncan put in. The two older immortals shared a grin.

"Beer is good. Beer is better, don't you think, Nick?'

Nick summoned a slight smile. It was obvious that he knew how much Stephen had done for him. Solely on the strength of a dream, he had searched him out and brought him back from the depths of hell. He had given life, and the love of life, back to him, and then, a greater gift, he had given him his best friend again. Amazingly, it seemed that Mac was as gratified that they had found each other again.

Being sad was a poor thank you.

"I'm sorry, Stephen," he said, finally. "It's just that I saw them all die, and here's a chance for them to live forever, in you. I'd just like to know that their soul--your soul--survives."

Stephen smiled, his soft brown eyes crinkling at their corners. "I will survive, Nick. Don't worry so much. Michael was right. You worry too much."

Stephen left without letting on to either man that he knew Nick's true identity. He held it close to himself, a treasure he kept secret, taking it out to stare at in wonder only when there was nobody else around.

He never saw Nick or Duncan again.

Methos was dreaming.

Snug in the low-beamed bedroom of his Montauk house, Methos dreamed he was walking toward the Montauk Lighthouse. He was striding up the long sloping hill from the highway to the light that was perched majestically on the bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean.

In the contradiction so common in dreams, although it was a very dark night, Methos could see clearly all around. The black sky was clear, studded densely with stars as bright as diamonds. The wind was blowing fresh and cold, numbing the ears and nose of his dream self.

He found himself moving impossibly fast toward the light, although he was walking normally. He was just--there--where he wanted to be.

At the top of the hill, Methos looked at the light, watching as bright white beams lanced through the dark, defining the coast for watchful marine vessels. The sea was a black void beyond the bluff, visible only when the light swept across it.

Methos's head came up as he heard a whispering voice call his name. Puzzled, he looked around. The entire area was deserted; the hill, the park, even the highway.

"Methos--." The voice spoke again, this time slightly louder.

Methos turned and looked back toward the hills and valley of Montauk. The hills were dark outlines against the night sky, visible only because they blotted out the stars. The valleys were black pools between them, not even lit by the odd house.

"Methos--." The voice sounded like it was riding the wind, blowing away from the land toward the sea, getting louder as it got closer. It also sounded very familiar.

"Methos!" The voice cried to him. Methos jumped. Frantic now, he looked all around but saw nothing and no one. There was no one, just a voice crying out to him on the wind.

"Methos!" The voice dipped into the valley that was the old Montauk Highway and started up the hill toward the lighthouse, and suddenly, Methos knew that it was Stephen Drake. The voice sounded exactly like Stephen as he called to Methos as the old immortal ran from a desolate park in the worst part of New York City. Only at that time Stephen was calling "Nick!" and although Methos had never told Stephen his real name, the voice was the same.

"Methos!" the voice cried again. Methos looked up. The voice thundered in his ears as it blew over his head toward the bluff.

"Methos." It was softer as it sailed out over the ocean.

"Methos--." It finally grew fainter and faded out over the waves of the Atlantic.

Impossibly, Methos found himself eye to eye with the great lenses at the heart of the light. He barely got his eyes closed as the light whipped around, shining full in his face, sending its beams stabbing through his eyes to the back of his skull.

The penetrating pain woke him up and Methos opened his eyes to darkness, still blinded by the light, still shaken by the voice on the wind.

Stephen Drake was dead. Methos had no idea how he knew, but he was sure about it. His voice had cried out to him as it left this world and disappeared into eternity.

Closing his eyes against the darkness and turning against his pillows with a sigh, Methos took note of the date and time. He only needed to wait for confirmation.

Confirmation came from Duncan MacLeod less than two days later. The day was waning to late afternoon when the call came. It was surreal to Methos. He had been coming back to Montauk regularly since Steven Drake and Duncan Macleod brought him back from the dead less than three years before. It seemed fitting that he should be in Montauk to hear this news.

"Methos?" Duncan's voice was soft and comforting. Methos knew what was coming. "Methos, Stephen Drake is dead."

"I know." It came out as a sigh.

"You know? How?"

"Never mind that right now. How do you know?"

"His Watcher told my Watcher. My Watcher told me."

"Gods, MacLeod, do you still make friends of your Watchers?"

"Old habits die hard."

"Tell me about it." Methos's voice was dry and embittered. After a long pause, he asked, "How?"

"The usual way. An immortal who was better and faster."

"Old habits die hard," Methos muttered bitterly.

"Methos, you did everything you could."

"I know."

"This was not your fault." The worry in MacLeod's voice was palpable.

"I know that. Don't worry, Highlander, I'm not going to disappear again. I'm fine. Or at least I will be. I knew this was going to happen, I was just hoping, well, I was hoping it wouldn't be so soon. I wanted him to have more time."

"How much time is enough time, Methos?"

"Would you please stop sounding like me?"

"Sure, just answer one question."

"What?"

"How did you know Stephen was dead when I called?"

After a long silence, Methos said, "I had a dream, about two days ago. I heard him calling my name out over the bluff near the lighthouse. He was calling "Methos! Methos! Methos!" I knew it was Stephen's voice, but he never knew me as Methos, so I figured he was dead."

After a pause, Duncan said: "Well, I guess it's a quick way of finding out."

"But he never knew my name, MacLeod. How could he call out for me if he never knew my name?"

"Maybe he does now, Methos. Maybe he knows it now."

There was another long silence. When Methos finally spoke, Duncan could barely hear him.

"Maybe."

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