Part Six: In which old friends find each other again.

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"He heard long ago, in a dream, that one day in every century Death takes on mortal flesh, better to comprehend what the lives she takes must feel like, to taste the bitter tang of mortality: that is the price she must pay for being the divider of the living from all that has gone before, all that must come after."

-Season of Mists by Neil Gaiman. Episode 0, p.11 panel 1.

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London. He hated London. Granted it wasn't nearly as bad as Paris- not even the French liked Paris. But he wasn't in France. He was in London and it was so damn...English.

He found it hard to fathom that the current largest empire in the world had its capital in a city like London. An imperial capital was supposed to be a grand example of human achievement, to inspire its citizens to greatness. Cairo, Rome, Athens, the Forbidden City, Macchu Picchu... those were cities that shone, cities meant to lead empires. But London?

Everywhere he looked he saw smoke and soot and dirt. It was no wonder the English were so stuffy. How could they not be when their home was clothed in shades of gray and muted browns.

Methos looked up at the sky as he pulled his coat tighter around him. Its azure hues gave promise of a nice day, though the wind was trying to beg otherwise. At least it wasn't raining, which for mid-April was a small miracle. The wind gripped at his coat again. He cursed it silently as he fought to keep the garment closed, all the while wishing he hadn't told his coachman that his services wouldn't be needed until that evening. It was days like this that he longed for the sun-bleached sands of the desert with a good strong horse beneath him.

As he trudged away from the King's Theatre he sighed. He had tried to see if he could get his money back for the opera tickets in his pocket. He wasn't overly fond of the opera, especially Gounod, but Sarah had expressed such a desire to see "Faust", so, with the hopes of winning the affections of the pretty redhead, he had purchased tickets for that evening's performance.

What young Sarah Kirkland had failed to mention to him was the existence of a large bull of a fiancé by the name of Joseph Drake. Drake darkened his door earlier that morning with very strict instructions to stay away from his betrothed. Methos, always one to avoid the potential for death, regardless of how temporary, readily agreed. However, that left him with two tickets for a production that he had had no real desire to see in the first place.

The man at the theater had been extremely polite when he told Methos that all ticket sales were final. His politeness only irritated the Immortal more. Damn English.

He continued on his journey, paying little attention to his surroundings. The peddlers, street urchins, and the flower girls had all been there for the two years he had been in London and he didn't doubt that they would be there long after the year 1888 was done and gone. He stepped to the right to make room on the pavement for an approaching pedestrian. In his attempt to be polite, he failed to notice the woman who was crouched down to examine a flower girl's wares and promptly tripped over her.

He landed, face first, into a large basket of roses. He groaned as he tried to extract himself from the flora. Damned English didn't even have the decency to remove the thorns before they sold the flowers. *That's it,* he thought to himself, *I'm moving to Corsica!*

"Oh dear, are you all right, sir," he heard a soft, melodic voice ask. He pushed himself up and out of the flowers only to lose his balance again and land so that he sat, no sprawled, on the cobblestones of the avenue.

His eyes fell onto the diaphanous skirts of a woman's gown. The fabric was either of a really dark navy or black taffeta. He allowed his eyes to trail upwards, absorbing the fullness of the woman's hips, to the tiny corseted waist, up to the fullness of her fabric covered bosom, to the pale white complexion of her delicate neck, up to the sensually full red lips and finally up to the deep blue eyes.

Death smiled down at him as he registered whom it was that stood before him.

Methos looked up at her and returned the smile. Carefully he got back to his feet. "Depends, my dear. Have you come for me?" he asked as he brushed the dirt from his clothing.

She shook her head. "Definitely not today, my friend."

"Then, I find myself suffering from nothing more than a bad case of clumsiness and a slightly wounded ego," he responded, taking her hand in his and bending over to kiss it gently. For the first time in millennia he noticed that her hands were warm and that her skin had a faint rosy tint to it. Dismissing the observations, he stood back up and looked at her. "It is good to see you again. As always, you are the most beautiful woman around."

Death blushed under his flattery.

Before he could continue with the verbal flirting, the young flower girl spoke up. "'Ere! Look out! Watch where you're goin'!" She bent down to pick the flowers out of the gutter. "An 'ole bloody day's profit in the gutter. May as well not bloody well go to work some days!"

Methos reached into his pocket and scattered a handful of gold coins into her basket. The flower girl picked up the coins, counting the amount as she did.

''Ere!' she said accusingly as she looked up at him. "That's five sovereigns, that is! Wot you tryin' to pull?"

Methos smiled at her. "To cover the cost of the damaged roses."

The flower girl took that in while holding the coins in her clenched fist. She looked from her hand, up to Methos and then to Death. She shook her head as she leaned towards Death and whispered loud enough for Methos to hear, "You oughta watch yourself with 'im, gel. 'E's off 'is 'ead, 'e is!"

Death smiled. "I'll be careful."

The flower girl shook her head again and mumbled something about the upper class and madness. With that, she picked her basket up and hurried around the corner, as if fearful that Methos' madness was catching.

As Methos started to stand, he saw an undamaged rose that the flower girl had missed. He picked it up, turned towards Death and presented her with the flower.

She smiled, obviously touched by his continued gallantry. She reached up and accepted the flower from him.

"Ouch!" she cried as she let go of the flower and allowed it to drop to the ground. Methos was startled by her reaction. Never in their long acquaintance had he ever heard her cry out in pain.

"What's wrong?" he asked, concern coloring his voice as he stepped towards her to examine her injury.

"It's nothing," she said dismissively. "I just pricked my finger on a thorn."

"Let me see," he said reaching for her hand.

She pulled away from his reach, "I said it was nothing."

"Which one of us is the doctor here? Just let me see your finger," he scolded lightly. Death sighed and offered her hand for him to inspect. On the tip of her index fingers was a small drop of blood.

Methos automatically reached into his pocket and extracted his handkerchief. With the gentle touch found only in those whose calling was that of healing, he applied pressure to the small wound. It was only after he had pulled back the cloth that his mind fully registered what had just occurred. He looked from the spot of red on the white linen in his hands up to her, his expression one of confusion.

"How can this be?" he asked her.

Taking his arm, Death guided Methos along the walkway. "Walk with me, old friend," she said jovially. "It has been a long time since I last walked the streets of London with a handsome man."

They walked in silence for several blocks. Methos' mind swam as he tried to rationalize what had happened. The Endless don't bleed. But she did. *That does it,* Methos thought, *I need answers.* Tightening his grip on her arm, he led her to a nearby bench and guided her to sit down. He stared at her, trying to form the questions into actual words.

"What's going on here?"

"What do you mean?" she asked innocently.

"What I mean is, first off you were bleeding. And don't try to tell me it was my imagination. I know blood when I see it. Second, your hands are warmer than I remember them ever being and your skin actually has a rosy glow to it. This isn't making any sense," he babbled. Death opened her mouth to speak, but he interrupted her. "And don't tell me it's nothing."

Death sat for a moment, lost in thought, before she answered his question with a question. "Methos…"

He interrupted her; "I haven't used that name in a while. I'm Dr. Benjamin Adams now."

She nodded and continued, "Benjamin, how long have we known each other?"

Methos blinked, confused by the turn in the conversation. "Um…as long as I can remember, which is about 5,000 years."

Death nodded. "Actually longer than that, but why argue little details? So we've known each other for a very long time." Methos nodded. "And you're saying that in all that time I have never told you about what I must do once every hundred years?"

"My dear, you may indeed be my oldest and best friend, but in all the time I have known you, you have told me very little about yourself," Methos pointed out. "You know everything there is to know about me. But the knowledge I have about you could fill a teacup with room to spare."

"Touché," Death said.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on?"

She sighed in resignation. Slowly she looked up and met his eyes. Blue to green. Not once blinking as she told him, "Once every hundred years, I am required by the Powers That Be to take on mortal form."

"Why?"

Death smiled. "The better to understand what it is that I take. That is the price I must pay for being the one who divides the living from the dead," she said with an almost bored tone of voice, as if reciting something learned by rote.

"How long does this mortality last?" Methos asked, intrigued by the notion that his unchanging friend was now like him…flesh and blood.

"Twenty-four hours."

"And you've been doing this your whole existence?" His mind was a whirl of thoughts.

She nodded. "I have been many things - plant, animal, person. I've experienced almost all of it."

"Almost?" he asked incredulously.

"Only doing this once every century makes it difficult to have lived as every living thing on this planet. Do you have any idea how many species of plants there are in the jungles of South America alone? Then there are all the forms of insects. So, yes my friend, there are a few things I haven't tried… yet." The teasing in her voice made Methos chuckle.

"In that case," he said standing up and offering her his hand, "would you allow me the honor of being your escort for the day?"

"I could ask for no better guide," she said taking his hand.

Methos' smile grew. Together they set out on a guided tour of the London he knew. He took her to Westminster Abby to see the magnificent architecture and artworks there. He took her to the Tower of London, and described to her the historical significance of the building. While standing outside Traitor's Gate he told her of how he had witnessed the execution of Lady Jane Grey, who had resided for a time inside the Tower.

As they walked, they talked. They talked about life, and what it was like to be alive. For the first time in a very long time, Methos was able to look at the world, not through the eyes of an ancient being, soul-wary and sad, but through the eyes of someone uncorrupted by life. Through Death, he was able to see things with wonder and excitement. He was experiencing life as if it were not something he had done every day for fifty centuries. It was a wonderfully refreshing change.

As they talked, Methos realized that Death was more than just a friend. He cared for her, deeply. For as long as he could remember, a small part of him had compared the women in his life to her. He had always known that anything other than friendship was something that could never be. She was Endless. While he was Immortal, there is a distinct difference. So he had taken the feelings he had for her and transmuted them into something he could deal with.

But now, things were different. Even if they were only for twenty-four hours. They were different. She was human. She was the woman he had longed for. But he had less than a day to be with her. He wanted to cry out in rage. To demand to know why the Powers That Be tormented him with a taste of what he longed for but not let him have his fill. It wasn't fair.

But who ever said life was fair? He had lived long enough to know better.

He reached into his coat pocket for his watch and discovered his long forgotten opera tickets. He looked at them and then to the woman walking next to him.

"Is that the only dress you have?" he asked casually.

Death looked at him, caution warring with curiosity in her eyes. "Yes," she admitted reluctantly. "Why?"

"Because that means that we need to go shopping before we dine," he answered as he moved to flag a hansom for hire. Within moments they had been whisked towards the shopping district of London.

Methos felt like a child again as he watched the shop girls fawn over his friend. The excitement of her trying on gowns was infectious. He only wished that he had the time to have one made just for her. But beggars couldn't be choosers.

Eventually a new dress was selected. Death tried to protest that the expense was not necessary, that there was no point in wasting good money on something that she would only wear once. But Methos would not hear of it.

"What's the point of having money if you cannot use it to spoil a beautiful woman? Allow me to spoil you," he told her as he paid the shopkeeper.

He carried the new dress for her and together they headed back out to the bustling streets of London. "Now where?" she asked.

"Now you allow me to take you back to my lodgings so that we can get properly attired for dinner and a night at the opera," he said smiling. Her face took on the expression of giddy anticipation. She looked like a child on Christmas morn. Her excitement was infectious. And for the first time since he bought the tickets, Methos found himself looking forward to the opera.

It only took a few moments to flag a cab and be whisked off to his city residence. His housekeeper, Mrs. Roberts, gave him one of her famous disapproving frowns when he arrived with a strange woman in tow and asked her to help his friend get dressed. Mrs. Roberts was always frowning at him and reminding him of the "proper way" to do things. He would normally just smile and thank her for her patience with him. He didn't have the heart to tell her that after 5,000 years, he was rather set in his ways.

Methos dressed as quickly as he could. He couldn't believe how nervous he was. His palms were sweating and the trembling in his hands was making difficult to tie his necktie.

"Will you look at yourself," he scolded to the reflection in the mirror. "Trembling and nervous like a young boy about to meet his bride for the first time. Imagine, getting this anxious over a woman." Methos chuckled as he walked out of his bedroom and down the stairs. "As you once said Old Man - she's not just some woman."

He walked into the parlor and straight towards the carafe of brandy he kept on the sideboard. He carefully poured himself a generous mouthful of the amber liquid and downed it in one gulp. He sighed as he felt the warmth from the alcohol glide down his throat and radiate throughout his body.

Deciding that it would be best to wait for his companion in the hall, he set his glass down and left the room. No sooner had he crossed into the hallway and look up the stairs, than Death came into view. Methos felt his heart skip a beat and jump into his throat. Even though he had seen her in the dress, it was different this time. Mrs. Roberts had helped her with her hair and even managed to find some cosmetics. To say that she was breathtaking would have been an understatement.

And she didn't just descend the staircase, she floated down it. Based on her expression, he was able to guess that his amazement was clearly written on his face. When she reached the base of the stairs, he took her extended hand and brought it to his lips.

"My dear, to say you are positively divine would be an insult. Words cannot express just how lovely you are," he said. She blushed. It was a good look on her. He clasped both of his hands around hers. "Would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to dinner and then to the opera?" She nodded and he motioned for the butler to bring her wrap. Methos carefully wound it around her delicate shoulders before accepting his own coat and gloves. After slipping on his gloves, he offered her his arm. She took it and together they headed out of the door and to his waiting coach.

They dined at one of the finest hotels in London. Methos found himself smiling more than he had in years. If someone had later asked him what he had had to eat, he would not have been able to answer. But, he could have said what she had had and what she thought of it all. Just like their tour of the city that afternoon, everything they did gave him the opportunity to experience life as if for the first time.

The joy of the night continued as they took in the London Opera's performance of "Faust." Methos found it funny… being an immortal, unageing being watching the tale of a man willing to give up his soul to be young again; to be immortal. The irony was hilarious. He even caught Death giggling every now and then.

During intermission he turned to her. "I know why I find this story funny, but I have to ask, what brought giggles to your lips?" he asked her.

"Their idea of the Devil," she explained. "I've known Lucifer Morningstar for his entire existence and he is nothing like this Méphistophélès character. Lucifer is far too refined. And what need does he have of going and buying souls? Those that should come to him, go to him. And cheating death? I'm not that much of a pushover." A small pout came to her lips. Methos had to resist the overwhelming urge to lean over and kiss the pout away.

The orchestra started playing the opening music of the second act, preventing him from giving into the desire. He turned his attention back to the stage, silently chastising himself for even thinking he could be so bold as to kiss her. He glanced over at her. If she had noticed his desire, she gave no indication. He let out the breath he hadn't realized he had been holding, while willing the beating of his heart to slow down.

At several points during the rest of the production, Methos and Death had to stifle their giggles and snickers at the story. The looks they received from the other patrons told them that it was not supposed to be a comedy. Methos got the distinct impression that the other patrons did not believe their platitudes and apologies. He just shrugged it off. He didn't care. He was with a dear friend, having the time of his life.

As they exited the theater he turned to her. "Now what? If I were any kind of true gentleman I would take you home. But we both know me better than that."

She smiled at him. "Very true. I have so very little time left that I could not dream of spending it without you."

"Then what would you like to do?"

She stood there a moment, thinking. "I know it's a bit chilly, but how about a walk through one of the parks?" she offered.

Methos bowed deeply. "My lady, your wish is my command." He offered her his hand to assist her in climbing into the carriage. Just before climbing in himself, he ordered the driver to take them to Hyde Park. The driver nodded and waited for his employer to become comfortable before directing the horses away from the busy theater and into the relative peace and quiet of the park.

Upon arriving at the well-tended gardens of the park, Methos dismissed the driver. The driver tried to protest but Methos would not hear it. He wanted to be alone with her. Having an overprotective chaperone was not his idea of alone time. Eventually the driver conceded and drove away. Once again offering her his arm, they walked along the paths of the park.

For hours they talked. And in between talking they just enjoyed the comfortable silence that comes with a long friendship and familiarity. Methos could not believe how content he was just to walk through the wee hours of the night with her on his arm. It felt so right and natural. She was the one. The woman he had waited his whole life to find.

Steeling himself, he stopped their wanderings. She released his arm. "Methos, what's wrong?"

He turned so that he stood directly in front of her. "Nothing," he said, hoping to reassure her. He raised both his hands to cup her face. He ran his thumbs along her cheekbones and down her jaw line. He even reached up and played with an errant curl of hair. "Nothing's wrong. In fact, everything feels so right," he whispered.

Then before he lost the courage, he leaned down and kissed her. At first she stiffened but as he continued to gently kiss her, she relaxed and eventually molded her body against his. He wrapped his arm around her waist and deepened the kiss.

She was warm and tender against his lips. She tasted of sweet honey and she smelled of fine spring roses. He reveled in the sensation and delighted in finally having her in his arms. They were two halves of the same whole. It was perfection.

She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him. Silently begging him to never stop. But like all good things, it came to an end and he pulled away. She shuddered and her body went limp in his arms as they broke apart. He looked down at her. Her blue eyes were open wide, yet unseeing. Her face had grown slack. She was gone.

He looked up to see the first rays of the morning sun cresting over the London skyline. A new day had dawned.

He had never told her how he really felt. And he never would. An opportunity lost forever. But he was content with it.

He heard a rustle that sounded like the beating of birds' wings.

"Thank you," he said to the presence he felt next to him. He couldn't look at his companion. It would ruin the moment. He cradled the lifeless body against his chest.

"For what?" she asked.

"For giving me a lifetime."

TO BE CONTINUED