Origins
by MacGeorge

Chapter Three

C’edane sought out his one-time caresh mate, for whom he had developed an unusual and slightly unseemly affection.  He was normally far more comfortable with the neutral acceptance of beings he had known so long that every habit, every facial expression, every opinion had been seen and expressed so many times that either like or dislike had long ago evolved into mere tolerance, or benign acceptance.  But D’hethalia had always had a liquid beauty and self-possession, a way of moving and expressing herself that, even though he knew her so very well, still occasionally caught him off-guard.  It was a precious commodity and he frequently found himself seeking her out just for that momentary pleasure of seeing the cock of her head, the lift of an eyebrow, an expression filled with longing for something indefinable.  He had felt that longing himself, more and more of late so her presence was a gentle balm on an old, old festering wound of separation from sun, from sky and green growing things.

The experience had left them all stunned, drained of energy for many fan, and wondering what they had all wrought.  But C’edane knew that the impetus for their outpouring of energy had all come from Thalia, from her vision of a new world, of a whole new way of living that would bring life back to the Sidhe.  They, the undying race, had been dying for so long they didn’t even recognize it anymore, didn’t even acknowledge other possibilities even existed and considered any change a threat, rather than an opportunity.

~~~~

Thalia bent to examine the tiny shoots of budding plants, each genetically manipulated to provide the maximum nutrition with the minimum amount of light, water and minerals.  She went from row to row, touching a small growth here and there, giving it a tiny boost with her own energies, not because they needed it but because it gave her a surge of satisfaction that stemmed not just from the additional flavor those plants would lend to dishes that were otherwise persistently bland and boring, but that they would grow taller, fuller, the greens greener, the fruits larger and more colorful.  That pleased her eye as well as her palate and gave her a sense of achievement. Dane would sneer at her, but then he always derided what he felt were her sentimental responses.

Even so, Thalia knew that Dane harbored his own unvoiced longings for new horizons, both emotional and physical.  It had been hundreds of lectines since he had even hinted at such thoughts, but they had all known each too well not to be privy to even the most secret desires of their most uncommunicative members.  She touched a small palatia plant, releasing a burst of energy.  It tingled the tip of her finger as the tiny blue arc of light leapt across the distance.  Instantly, the thin tendril of growth darkened to an emerald green, thickened and lengthened, and Thalia smiled.

Joe stared at the computer screen in annoyance.  Five Immortals headed to Seacouver for no apparent reason?  He began to compose a terse e-mail to the jerk from Regional who seemed to have his skivvies in a bunch about what had to be some kind of data entry error.  He briefly thought about letting Methos and MacLeod know, but shrugged off the impulse.  It was probably a false alarm, and whatever his admittedly mixed loyalties might be between Watchers and Immortals, there was no sense in revealing just how erroneous Watcher reports could be these days.  Ever since the whole Tribunal had been gunned down and the entire administrative structure of the organization revised in the wake of that near-war with Immortals, there had been alarming inaccuracies in reports from the field.  However much Joe might have despised the previous rigid, authoritarian regime, they had maintained strict field discipline.

Nowadays it was difficult to completely trust the reports he got, especially knowing that he was responsible for some of the errors – deliberate untruths, actually.  For instance, he had kept Methos’ true identity to himself, despite the fact that finding the oldest Immortal was the Watchers’ Holy Grail.  Joe had reported that Adam Pierson was an Immortal who had infiltrated the Watchers, true enough, but failed to mention that he knew any history about him beyond some early acquaintance with Lord Byron.  That omission had promoted speculation that the man was probably only one or two centuries old and hung around Duncan MacLeod for the benefits afforded by a more experienced and highly protective Immortal to watch his back.  Joe snickered to himself at that thought.  Between those two, Joe wasn’t sure who was protecting whom.

He frowned at the report again, shifting uneasily in his chair.  Five hunting Immortals.  It couldn’t be true.  At least, he sure as hell hoped it wasn’t true.  Maybe a real conversation would work better than an email, he decided, and reached for the phone.

~~~~~~~

Dane strode purposefully to the banresh where he could sense the others waiting, in impatience, no doubt.  He took a moment to look around at the dozen or more individuals sitting on ledges or leaning up against pillars that water and sediment had started but that carefully directed Sidhe energies had subsequently carved into intricately decorated columns that were lit from above and below by soft, iridescent ferns that moved with every gentle waft of air.  It was a large gathering of many of the eldest.  Even C’almeth, who rarely left her quarters, was there, huddled on a bench, her long arms hugged around her knees.  It had been dozens of fan since she had left her quarters, leaving no doubt as to the power and surprise generated by the recent contact.  Dane took a long breath as he felt all eyes turn towards him.

He found a ledge and sat, feeling the warmth of geesta cushion his body as he leaned back in a deliberately relaxed, languid pose.  “You were its First V’tah, C’almeth.  As primary bearer, if this child is rebellious, you should look to your own contributions if you wish to assign blame.”  The female bristled visibly, her golden eyes narrowing in irritation, but Dane waved her anger away.  “But that is irrelevant, now.  Our influence over the latest Gatekeeper grows daily, does it not Thalia?” he asked towards the rear of the room, where he could feel her presence radiate like a warming ray from their unseen sun.

Thalia stepped away from the shadows where she had been watching and moved liquidly down the path towards the center of the vaulted banresh.  “I have had some brief contacts,” she reported, “and have sparked his interest.  He has been tested even more than we expected, and searches for peace of mind and heart, which can work to our advantage.  He seeks us almost daily now, and that has generated what we all expected.  But he has gained far more strength than we anticipated in such a short amount of time, and there is a...,” she paused to find the right gesture or word, finally curving her hand in a sign of strength of will, “about him that demands answers to his questions.  He might not be willing to take the answers I offer on faith and will have to be handled carefully.  He is not as pliable as we might wish.”

“And with the other one working against us,” C’almeth inserted with a growl, gesturing disdainfully towards Dane, “your carefully constructed plan, the plan we all agreed to and have relied on for our very survival, will come to naught.”

~~~~~~~

Joe braced one hand against the wall to steady himself as the old elevator lurched upward, stopping finally at the third floor.  The door creaked opened and he trod down the uncarpeted hall to number 306, but before he could knock, the door opened.

"Good thing you're not an Immortal, Joe.  I would be able to hear you coming long before I could even feel you were close," Methos admonished, stepping back to let Joe into the room.

"Good thing I'm not an Immortal, period," Joe replied with a twisted smile.  "I could never put up with all the paperwork you guys must have to deal with just to keep your bank records straight."

Joe moved into the living room and looked around, automatically noting the details of an eclectic array of furniture and artwork, most of it quite modern and a little forbidding.  A functional computer desk was set against one wall in what was probably originally intended as the dining room, and a couch that looked awkward, but was surprisingly comfortable once he carefully lowered himself into it.  It was paired with a high-backed chair that only someone of Methos' loose-limbed constitution could possibly sit in for more than a few minutes at a time.  It occurred to Joe that it might be a deliberate choice to discourage visitors.

A small kitchen area could be seen just past the dining room, and while studiously messy, it was basically clean, as was the rest of the space, almost as though its occupant periodically picked up all the clutter of books and papers and the occasional dropped sock or tee-shirt and cleaned underneath, then scattered the clutter around again.  The picture that brought to Joe's mind made him smile as Methos brought him a cup of coffee.

The only real anomaly in the room was a space cleared near the living room window.  There was a small meditation mat set on the floor, with a single candle sitting nearby.  "Meditation suddenly seems to be all the rage," Joe nodded towards the space with a questioning look.

"You know me, Joe."  Methos draped himself in the throne-like chair, managing to treat it like a chaise lounge.  "Always on the cutting edge of new trends.  Now, to what do I owe the honor of a personal visit to my humble abode?"

Joe stared into his cup for a moment then sipped at it, trying to organize his thoughts.  "It's like this," he began.  "It seems that, all of a sudden, a whole passel of Immortals are headed this direction."  He watched as Methos swung his leg off the arm of his chair, rose, and went to the window to stare out, his hands tucked into the pack pockets of his jeans.  "I don't know whether they're after you, or Mac."

Joe studied the lean man for a moment.  "You already knew."

Methos gave a one-shoulder shrug and turned back to look out the window.  "Not really, but I'm not surprised."

"Why?"

"Maybe because when MacLeod took Connor, then Kell, he became even more of a Quickening lodestone than he already was," Methos commented casually.

"Maybe?  Don't you know?  Can't another Immortal, especially you, sense that kind of thing?"  But Methos just did that annoying one-shoulder-shrug thing again.  "Come on, Methos, what do you know that you're not saying?"

Methos turned and looked at him with a supercilious smile, "Ah, Joseph, you know that's a loaded question."

"Stop it," Joe groused, putting down his coffee so hard it sloshed over the lip.  "Is this a real Gathering we're talking about?  This is serious stuff, here!"  The light outside the window flashed once, then twice, and distant thunder could be heard, even though the skies were clear.  Joe pushed himself to his feet to look, but Methos just crossed his arms and turned away, his face utterly expressionless.  Joe's mouth went dry and he pulled his cell phone out, dialing quickly.  When he was done, he closed the phone and slipped it back into his pocket.  "It was a woman by the name of Atira Mngombe.  She was only about 150 years old and had no business trying to fight MacLeod," he sighed and shook his head.  "I probably ought to go check on him.  Coming?"

Methos shook his head.  "I, uh, have some things I need to do."

“Things you need to do?” Joe repeated in disbelief, then waited in vain for Methos to explain himself.  “You self-serving bastard!” he growled.  “You’re about to split, aren’t you?  Leave MacLeod in the lurch to deal with this all by himself.”  But Methos just looked at him with that hard, inscrutable expression he wore infrequently, but it was a look that left no doubt that the man was exactly who he claimed to be - the oldest living being on the planet.  Joe grabbed his cane and pushed himself to his feet, pulling his coat off the rack on the way out.

Methos wordlessly opened the door for him, and when Joe glared at him, just stared expressionlessly back.  Finally, Joe huffed in disgust and left, hearing the door gently close behind him.  He mentally called the irritating old Immortal every name he could think of as the elevator rattled downward three floors, but by the time he got to his car, his initial ire had faded and he stopped, the car door partway open.

Of course, MacLeod was fine, Joe chastised himself as he drove.  He was Immortal, after all. “I don’t know why I worry,” Joe muttered.  “You’d think he was my kid out with the car for the first time.”  Nonetheless, he drove considerably over the speed limit towards the darkened, empty stadium at the edge of town where the Mngombe woman and Mac had done battle.  The stadium authority might wonder about the blown lights, but it was spacious and private and any blood that soaked into the turf was unlikely to be noticed.  It had also evidently afforded quite a view for Mngombe’s Watcher, who reported that Mac had taken the woman down three times, each time offering to let her go, but she had been relentless and utterly determined to kill or be killed.

A cold chill crept up Joe’s spine and the worry that he had tried to dismiss came back in a gut-wrenching rush.  A Gathering.  Here.  Now.

He was a Watcher, though.  There wasn’t anything he could do about it.  Non-interference, right?  He would just have to sit by and watch as people he cared about were killed by the dozens, maybe hundreds.  His mouth twisted, and he sped a little faster, pulling into the stadium parking lot and driving around until he found an opening in the fence, left by either MacLeod or Mngome’s Watcher.  At last he spotted Mac’s black T-Bird parked in a shadowed archway leading to the stadium field.

Mac was leaning against the wall of the stairwell, staring at the ground, and barely acknowledged Joe’s approach.

“You okay?” Joe asked, and got an answering nod, then Mac wearily pushed away from the wall and moved slowly towards his car.  He looked none the worse for the battle, but his shoulders were slumped and his face was set in a grim mask.

“You need some help taking care of... of dealing with things?” Joe asked.

“No, thanks, Joe,” Mac replied as he got in and shut the door.  “I’ve got it down to a science by now.”  He started the car, then just sat there for a moment.  “This is no way to live,” he finally stated flatly, staring sightlessly ahead.

“It’s better than the alternative,” Joe insisted, but Mac just pressed his lips together, put the car in gear and drove away.

~~~~~~~

“Not another one!” Mac muttered to himself, but then belatedly realized this particular sensation wasn’t quite as grating as most.  With a sigh, he closed his eyes, leaning his head back.  He really didn’t want to listen to Methos’ particular brand of ironic critique of his lifestyle at the moment.  He just wanted a little peace and quiet.  And what the hell was Methos doing lurking around his doorway at 3 in the morning anyway?  Steeling himself for another ordeal in what seemed like a night that would never end, he blew out a resigned sigh, got out of the car and headed around the front of the building.

Methos was huddled in the doorway, shoulders hunched against the cold.  He pushed away from the wall as Mac approached.  “Where the hell have you been?” Methos asked.

“Out,” Mac replied tersely as he unlocked the door and strode across the empty dojo towards the elevator. “What are you doing here?” he returned as he reached the elevator.  He unlocked it and waited for a moment while Methos joined him. 

“I was just in the neighborhood and thought I’d drop by,” was the flippant response, which generated a much-deserved snarl of irritation, but Mac refused to be baited into an argument.

They both waited in silence as the elevator ascended, watching the floors go by, first the second floor locker room area, then Mac’s storage space, full of ominous looking shadows and shapes. Finally the elevator ground to a shuddering halt at the loft.  Mac raised the gate, yanked off his coat and hung it on the coat rack, removing his katana as he did.  It needed cleaning, and the sooner done, the better.

Methos tossed his own coat across the couch, made himself a drink and was now seated, relaxing as though this were his own home, watching Mac as though waiting for something, but Mac hadn’t a clue what it was.  Mac grimly pressed his lips together as he carefully rubbed and oiled the gleaming length of the katana.  He had long since memorized every minute detail of the gentle undulating patterns of the folded steel and the familiar routine calmed him a little, reminding him of what he really wanted to do, which was to go downstairs, sit in the comforting dark of the dojo and settle into a true meditative state, escaping - even if only for a few minutes - the sense of oppressive doom that had been weighing him down lately.  But he was damned if he was going to give Methos the satisfaction of asking again what the hell he was doing here.

He wiped the blade one last time and laid it carefully on a ledge near the door.  Ignoring Methos’ silent stares, he changed into loose sweats, picked up the katana and headed back towards the elevator.

“Don’t,” Methos finally spoke.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t meditate tonight.”

“Did it occur to you that I might just be going to get some exercise?” Mac lied evenly, even as he felt his gut tense in resentment at being told what he should or should not do.  “You know how it is after a Quickening.”

Methos carefully put his drink down and rose to his feet.  For a change, there was nothing relaxed or teasing or taunting in his posture, and his face was unusually serious.  “Yes,” Methos answered.  “I know.  And I know that you’ve been exercising to exhaust yourself lately, but it’s after 3 in the morning, you’re already exhausted, and right now, all you want is to escape.”

Mac felt his teeth clench and he had to force himself not to curse at the irritating man.  “What I want is none of your business, Methos.  Go home.”  He stepped into the elevator, but before he could lower it, Methos was there, blocking the way.  “What is your problem?” Mac demanded. “Whether or not I exercise or meditate, or masturbate or read a book or dance on the head of pin is my business, not yours!”

“Wrong, MacLeod,” Methos said softly, stepping close.  “When you reach... when you meditate like you have been lately, what you are doing is broadcasting your own presence.  It’s like leaving a faint scent that other Immortals don’t even realize they are following until they find themselves on your doorstep.  You are calling them to you, Mac.”

“That’s bullshit!” Mac replied.  “I’m just meditating, for God’s sake.  I’ve been doing it for centuries and so have you.  So does virtually every Immortal I know.  It relaxes me.  These days it’s the only thing that really does relax me.”

“Damn it, Mac, you told me yourself it had caused strange dreams, and the meditation made you feel weak afterwards.  Don’t you get it?  You’ve triggered a Gathering!  What do you think that woman was after tonight?  I bet she was in a frenzy, that she wouldn’t back down no matter what you did.”

Mac pushed closer to Methos, until they were practically nose-to-nose, but the man refused to back off.  “You and Joe and the Watchers just love to run my life, don’t you?” Mac sneered, furious with Methos’ presumption that he could tell people to jump and assume they would just ask, ‘how high?’  “Yeah, she was just like all the other idiots who think a Quickening is worth someone’s life.  It’s happened before, to you, to me, to all of us.  It doesn’t mean a damned thing.  Now go away and leave me alone!”  He reached up to the gate, but Methos caught it and held it open.

“Listen to yourself!” Methos whispered, leaning close.  “You aren’t dealing with this rationally at all.  Something is pushing you to do this, MacLeod.”

“The only one who is pushing me is you!” Mac shoved Methos back a few steps, then slammed the elevator door down.

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