LONG HAVE I WAITED: Chapter 3

By Nightsky and Parda (1999)

The wilderness will lead you

To your heart

Where I will speak.

Therefore they shall be as the morning dew,

and as the early dew that passeth away,

as the chaff that is driven with the whirlwind out of the floor,

and as the smoke out of the chimney.

Hosea 13:3

The voices - long dead, newly dead, long forgotten, half-remembered - were still speaking, and he tried to answer.

"Come with me, Brother!" Kronos called across the meadow, ready to race to the tree.

The alternative is unthinkable.

"Aren't you a little young, to be so cynical?" Alexa asked, her eyes disappointed.

I am over five thousand years old, and I don't know who I am anymore.

"Who are you now, Methos?" MacLeod asked, angry and hurt.

I'm just a guy.

"You killed them?" Cassandra asked in horror. "All of them?"

I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand!

"Can anyone live for five thousand years and say they did nothing?" a man who called himself Methos asked. "Risked nothing? Merely stayed alive? It'd be pointless."

Survive.

"Thanks for playing with me, Methos." Caspian smiled across the tent.

It's just a game.

"We are the Four Horsemen." Kronos was waiting for him. "Remember that."

I'm not like that anymore!

"What game are you playing?"

Live. Grow stronger. Fight another day.

"And what shall I call you, Methos?" the young boy asked.

Father.

"You lied to me," Alexa said through bruised and bleeding lips. "I'm nothing to you."

You live to serve me.

"We are the same, and we belong together," Kronos declared. "Forever."

Forever can be a very long time.

"Now I'm supposed to forgive you?"

There could be no answer, let it be.

Let it be.

Let it be done, according to thy will.

The voices faded, and Methos rose stiffly to his feet, the head still in his arms. It wasn't warm anymore. He walked slowly to the crumpled body, left where it had fallen. The blood had dried, rusty brown on the black clothes. Methos squatted, then gathered Kronos' body onto his lap. He placed the head on top of Kronos' torso, then stood, staggering under the weight.

The head started to roll, and Methos bent his own head, holding Kronos close against his chest, tucking his chin on top of Kronos' forehead. He had to carry the body and the head together. They shouldn't be separated.

Methos made his way down to the platform where Silas lay, then laid Kronos alongside him. He arranged both bodies, legs straight, arms crossed. He placed the heads neatly where they should have been, looking at each other. He laid Silas' axe on the broad chest and helped Silas hold the handle. The fingers were stiff, but curved.

Then he went to get Kronos' sword. The blade was still marked with MacLeod's blood, and Methos scrubbed it off on his shirt as he walked back. This weapon went at his brother's feet, for Kronos needed another blade. Methos knew where it was, of course, tucked into Kronos' belt. Kronos had kept it all this time, close by his side. Side-by-side, together. For eternity.

Methos wrapped Kronos' hands around the handle of the bronze knife - the knife that Methos had used to stab him in the heart, the knife that Methos had given him almost four thousand years ago. Through all the centuries, nothing had shaken Kronos' faith in the man who had rescued him as a child, who had given him Immortality, who had ridden at his side. Kronos had never believed that Methos would truly betray him.

But Methos had, and Kronos was dead.

His hands were damp. His cheeks were wet. He felt nothing, nothing except the blood on his hands and the ache in his heart, and the loneliness that would never end. His brothers were dead, and he was alone. The air was damp and cold, a fog coming in through the open bays now, the sunshine gone to mist. Methos shivered in the shadows.

A fire. That was what was needed: a fire. Methos went to gather fuel. Furniture, scraps of lumber, oil drums, gasoline, wooden crates - they all went into the pile around the brothers. A flaming torch was easily come by; the braziers were still burning.

Methos circled the pyre, then touched the torch to the wood on one side, then another, and then again. The flames started low, fitful licks of red and yellow. Methos threw the torch into the center of the pile. It landed between the brothers, and the flames grew, reaching high, burning, illuminating, consuming, destroying. The bodies smoked and blackened, then started to burn. The reek of gasoline and burning hair mingled with the richer scent of roasting flesh.

He stood and watched, tears on his face, his hands by his sides. His palms felt sticky, and he rubbed them up and down on his legs, but the stickiness remained. Methos stopped and looked. His clothes were covered in blood, and so was he. He stripped immediately, tearing off the sweatshirt and blue jeans, the shoes, the socks, everything. It all went on the fire.

The heat was fierce; his bare skin shrank from it, pulled tight across his cheekbones, but it wasn't enough. He stepped closer, and held his hands into the flames. The skin reddened, then started to blacken and char, and Methos could bear it no more. He snatched his hands back and fell to his knees, nauseated with the pain, but his hands were already healing, and the blood was gone.

The tears were gone, too, and Methos wanted to weep. Grant me tears, O Lord, to blot out my sins; may I not cease from them, O God, until I have been purified. Grant me the gift of tears, a well of tears, fierce floods of tears.

There were none. There was only the burning in his eyes and the aching desiccation in his soul, with the gentle lap of black water all around. Even the voices were silent now.

The fire burned, and he watched on his knees, watched the dying embers of the funeral pyre, an altar-place heaped high. The coals glowed red. The pyre held charred, blackened husks that would crumble at a touch, and the ashes of his hopes and his dreams, the ashes of himself. Methos had risen from the ashes many times before, a phoenix in the flames, created and recreated over and over again. He had been many things.

What was he now?

He was old, he was tired, and he was alone.

Methos went back to the room he had slept in and found some clothes. He dressed slowly and mechanically, then he climbed the stairs that led out of the bunker.

He walked in silence into the night.

To: Yvette Berens (Y_Berens(at)field . weu . watchers . org); Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

CC: (Tribunal(at)tribdiv . HQ . watchers . org)

From: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)

Transmitted: 11/10/96 15:38:49

SUBJECT: Keeping up with what's left of the Horsemen

To: Melanie and Yvette

Remember, all of this is still confidential. Don't tell anyone else about Pierson being Methos.

Melanie just checked in from the airport in Athens. Cassandra took the rental car she and MacLeod had been using, then went straight to the airport from the submarine base. She's on her way to the Isle of Lesbos. Melanie will continue to follow her.

Yvette reports that MacLeod left the submarine base this morning and returned to the Hotel de Seze. He hasn't come out yet; he's probably asleep. (Thanks for the Death Reports on Kronos and Silas, Yvette. I'm really interested in seeing a description of the double Quickening you mentioned, and so are a lot of other people here at HQ. You're looking at a bonus if you can get the report in by 5 tonight!)

I've dispatched some special field agents to watch the base. I hope that Methos is still there when they arrive, and we can get a Watcher on him. Yvette, it's possible that Methos might try to contact MacLeod, so that might be our best lead.

Looks like we lucked out on this one, folks, at least as far as Kronos, Silas and Caspian go.

BUT ... Methos is still alive, and he knows all about the Watchers.

Amy

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

Your goodness is as a morning cloud,

and as the early dew it goeth away.

Hosea 6:4

Methos walked for a long time, wandering. The fields were empty now, the harvest done. He spent the night in small grove of trees, sheltered from the wind, and when the sun rose, he started to wander again. It didn't matter where he went. Nothing mattered anymore.

His brothers were dead.

"Do you trust me, Kronos?"

"With my life."

And Kronos had.

Methos went on alone, as the shadows lengthened and the day went on. He stopped and stared at nothing.

Nothing.

"Je m'appelle Andre Nevarsel."

Methos scrambled to his feet. The unpleasant sensation of a nearby Immortal was almost overwhelming. How had he let him get so close? Methos blinked, trying to force his mind to this new threat - male, French, about his own height, more than his weight, short dark hair, dark eyes, probably less than a few centuries old. And only three meters away.

Methos glanced about quickly, evaluating the terrain. They were standing in an abandoned field, and Nevarsel's car was parked alongside the country road. The field was a decent place for a fight - level, unobstructed, a hedgerow not far away. There were no rocks to trip on, no tree branches to snag a blade.

No place to run. No place to hide.

"Are you a new one, then?" Nevarsel asked, switching to English, puzzled by Methos' lack of response. "It is customary to introduce yourself when challenged."

"I have no quarrel with you." The words came automatically to Methos' lips, and he wondered why he had said them. Deep inside, a fury was growing, threatening the numbness he had felt ever since he had left the submarine base.

"Quarrel?" Nevarsel asked, a faint sneer curling his upper lip. "What is this quarrel?" He drew his sword, a nineteenth-century saber. "We should start before the rain comes, no?"

"Rain?" The air was fresh and sharp, a cool slap to the face, and Methos glanced to the west. The setting sun was a bloody ball of fire, wreathed in the billowing smoke of black storm clouds. The sky was dark, and the storm would come soon. He could smell it.

Nevarsel approached, flattening the withered meadow grasses beneath his boots. His stride was confident, his smile arrogant. "There can be only one."

Fury flooded through Methos, drowned him. All the feelings of the last two weeks - all the terror; all the love, all the regret, the panic, and the grief - were swept away. In their place was only an unmitigated anger, a need to destroy everything in sight. Lips drew back to bare teeth, and he hissed deep in his throat. He dodged Nevarsel's first unhurried blow, then drew his broadsword and faced his opponent.

Nevarsel stopped, then took a step backward. His eyes flickered uncertainly from Methos' sword to Methos' face, and the Frenchman swallowed hard.

Now it was Methos' turn to smile. He knew what he looked like - death, immediate and inglorious. He knew the rage and the madness that showed in his eyes. He could feel the fury inside him, and he decided to let it out.

First came a few blows, fast and furious, to terrify and confuse his opponent. Then with a calculated slice, Methos scored first blood, cutting deeply into Nevarsel's right arm, severing the tendons and the muscles.

The sword fell from Nevarsel's dead fingers, and he clutched his arm close against him.

From his most ancient memories, Methos knew that one way to avoid feeling pain was to inflict it on others. He circled his enemy casually, once, and then he began to cut - slowly, maliciously, waiting in between each stroke for Nevarsel to begin to heal, but never waiting quite long enough. Shoulder, thigh, hand, ribs, the tendons behind the knee - Methos avoided any stroke that would bring death, postponing that final moment. He wanted his victim alert and alive until the end.

Nevarsel was on his knees now, gasping with pain, crying out with agony at each new assault. Methos watched and listened and cut him some more. Cold satisfaction burned white-hot as Methos reveled in - wallowed in - the gasps and the cries, the smell of blood, and the fear in his victim's eyes.

Finally, he was satiated. Nevarsel was merely whimpering now, a huddled mass of quivering, bleeding flesh. Finally, the other man's pain almost matched his own. Methos lifted his sword for the final cut, then paused, his sword held high. He wanted this last satisfaction. "Look at me," he commanded.

The other Immortal did not move, and Methos grabbed Nevarsel's hair and yanked his head back.

Silent desperation and fear shone through the dullness of pain in Frenchman's eyes. "Who are you?" Nevarsel managed to ask again, his lips bitten through and bloody.

For the first time in over two thousand years the name fell easily and confidently from his lips, and the words carried in the still air. "I am Methos." That was indeed who he was. He was a survivor, and he was a killer. He had beaten this other Immortal into the ground, and now he was going to take his head. But it wouldn't be for vengeance. It wouldn't be for the Prize.

It was because he liked it.

And he was good at it.

Methos stared into the other man's eyes as he swung his sword cleanly and smoothly. The blade slowed only slightly as Methos severed the head from the body, and he was satisfied. Almost.

He rested the tip of the sword in the earth and leaned on the handle, breathing deeply of the chill night air. Another phrase came easily to his lips, a phrase he had said many times before, over many centuries, over many bodies.

"I am Death."

Then the lightning came, and he was all of that, and more.

The power was glorious; it was wonderful. It fed a hunger deep inside his soul. Too long had he gone without this. Too long had he hidden and denied this side of himself. It was who he was, and it was what he wanted. It was an offering to the gods, and he was a god himself, with the power of life in his hands, and the power of death.

The rain came with the lightning, a slow, steady, autumn rain, relentless, ceaseless, and cold. It felt good. It all felt good, the fire screaming through his veins, the coldness washing over his skin. Methos let go of his sword and opened his arms to the power, spread them wide, then he flung back his head for a taste of the rain.

The lightning of the Quickening flickered and slowed and died away. Methos stood there, trembling, breathing deeply, his mouth still open. Slowly, he let his arms fall to his side. Now, he was satisfied.

He stretched and looked about him, then bent and retrieved both his sword and Nevarsel's. Shields, swords, scalps, entire heads - ever since warriors had learned to count, they had taken trophies from battlefields. Methos had to step over the body to walk to where the head lay, a surprisingly small object on the muddy ground. The rain had already washed most of the blood into the earth.

The eyes were still open, and Methos shoved the head with his foot so he could look once more into those eyes. He wanted to see the fear again, to relive the pleasure of power. But the eyes were empty now, glazed over with death, sightless, staring eyes. Methos stared back, then dropped both swords and fell to his knees.

"Oh, gods!" His stomach heaved, and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth and his nose. He did not have to look behind him to see the hacked-up body. He remembered exactly what it looked like, exactly what he had done.

"O my God."

Methos stayed on his knees for a long time, while the cold rain fell.

This was what he had been when he had ridden with Kronos. This was what he had done. But not for millennia, not for over two thousand years. How had he let himself go back?

Now the coldness did not come from the rain; it came from inside. Where else was there to go?

Kronos was dead; nothing Methos had done had mattered. Nothing. All the learning, all the discussions of theology and philosophy and love were only empty words. All the buildings he had ever helped build were destroyed. All the treaties he had devised and the codes of law he had worked on were forgotten. All the books he had ever written and the things he had created were lost. All the women he had loved and the children he had raised were dead. Everything was gone.

All of his work, all of his time, all of his love - obliterated. And for what? Why had he bothered? Why had he cared? It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. He had tried to live a good life so that Kronos could see there was more to life than killing. He had tried to "set a good example" for his son.

What a bloody, worthless waste of time. Byron knew: The world was void, seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless - a lump of death - a chaos of hard clay.

Darkness has no need of aid. She is the Universe.

Had he ever even believed in anything he had done? Had it all been an act? A lie, even to himself? Kronos had known. His words were true: "You pretended to change. Maybe you even convinced yourself you had, but inside you're still there, Methos. You're like me." Had the last two thousand aching empty years been nothing more than part of the interminable power-struggle between himself and Kronos?

He had lost either way. Kronos was dead, and he had nothing left.

Nothing.

The rain fell cold and steady on his back as he lay face down in the dirt, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed. The earth beneath him was mud now, the mud peculiar to battlefields. This was mud made from blood and water and dirt, churned by wagon wheels and boot heels, by the tramp of horses' hooves and the agonized flail of human arms and legs. He had seen this mud before - walked in it, fought in it, fallen in it, lain in it, tasted it, been buried in it.

The mud was slippery, yielding, endlessly malleable. Treacherous. He needed something solid, a touchstone for his soul.

He needed MacLeod.

- - - - - Original Message- - - - -

To: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)

From: Gabriel Lamote G_Lamote(at)field . weu . watchers . org)

Transmitted: 11/11/96 11:11:11

SUBJECT: Death Report

Dear Dr. Zoll:

As you are head of the Methos Project, I thought you should see this copy of the Death Report I sent to the Chronicles Division.

Deceased Immortal: Andre Nevarsel

Victor: Methos

Date: 11 November 1996, 1730

Place: 10 kilometers outside of Bordeaux, France

A description of the fight and the Quickening is attached. I heard his words clearly at the end - the Immortal definitely claimed to be Methos.

G. Lamote

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

I will ransom them from the power of the grave;

I will redeem them from death.

Hosea 13:14

The rain stopped just before dawn. Methos climbed the worn, stone steps of Elysium Church and sat in front of the massive, wooden doors, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for MacLeod. The night-clerk at the Hotel de Seze had promised to deliver his message. Methos didn't know when - or if - MacLeod would come, but he was going to wait right here.

He was terrified to leave Holy Ground. He couldn't take the chance that he might be challenged again, might have another excuse to fight. To kill. Methos huddled on the steps, his coat pulled around him. Not that it helped. His coat was soaked through, and so was he. At least the rain had washed away the mud. And the blood.

The sun rose, or at least it seemed to. The solid mass of gray clouds in the east grew slightly less gray, and a patch of brightness moved slowly above the horizon. He stood and went into the graveyard, moving briskly and slapping his hands against himself, trying to get warm. Color gradually returned to the world, though it was hard to tell in this place - gray stone church, black iron fence, white marble tombstones. Pots of bronze chrysanthemums lined the outside wall of the church and stood around the base of a tall, Celtic cross. The flowers' crisp scent floated on the air. Offerings to the dead. As if the dead cared.

He went back to the steps and waited. The priest finally arrived for early morning mass, and Methos followed him in. He sat at the back of the church during the service, letting the words flow over him and around him, not so much listening as absorbing. He did not take Communion. He did not say the prayers.

There was no music, just the words of the liturgy, and then the mass was over. The priest gave the final benediction. "Allez-en paix." Go in peace.

Methos stayed where he was, on his knees on the cold stone floor.

The people filed out, and the priest left soon after, with a murmured blessing in his direction. Methos bowed his head, but did not respond.

The church was silent. The candle in the red glass cup burned near the altar, an eternal presence, a ceaseless flame. Methos had not been a monk for centuries, but he started to recite the psalms. The Latin phrases had calmed his soul in the past; they were a form of meditation, the Catholic version of Om.

But the words were no longer there. It had been too long, and he had gone too far. He rose stiffly from his knees, then sat on the hard wooden chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head down. He closed his eyes and tried to remember a psalter he had once owned. It was almost there; he could almost see it - the glorious illuminations on the vellum page; the thin, angular Celtic script; the slight roughness of the leather covers in the palms of his hands.

Then Kronos was there, smiling, as he always smiled - a knowing, mocking smile, full of evil joy. Kronos took the book from his hands and tossed it onto a fire. The edges of the book curled and smoldered, and blackness spread over the page. The glorious pictures burned away, and the book was gone.

His eyes snapped open and he bolted from the chair. Methos stopped after a few steps and looked around. He was alone. Chairs stood in uneven rows; four massive pillars rose at the corners of the nave and reached to the vaulted ceiling. The sky had cleared a little, maybe, for the stained-glass window high above the doorway glowed with red and blue light, and the church was not so dim.

He was tired, that was all. He needed sleep. Methos pushed some chairs together to make a bench, then he lay down and slept at the base of one of the pillars.

When he woke, he stretched and yawned, then slumped in one of the chairs. It was almost noon, and MacLeod still hadn't come. MacLeod had said he would wait, and it had only been two days. Hadn't it? Methos cast back in his mind, trying to remember. Yes. Today was Tuesday. Yesterday had been Armistice Day, a day to commemorate peace.

Methos didn't want to try to remember anything else from his past. He picked up the missal from underneath the chair and leafed through the pages.

After a while, his muscles tightened and his stomach churned. Methos did not look up. It was MacLeod coming in the doorway; he recognized the footsteps.

MacLeod sat down one chair away from him and said nothing, for a while. MacLeod always had something to say, eventually. "Interesting reading?" he asked.

"Second Samuel, chapter nineteen," Methos answered, still not looking up, trying for the familiar - and safe - banter. "Whoever wrote this probably got all the details wrong, but they sure got the emotions right." His voice broke on the last few words.

MacLeod leaned toward him. "You all right?"

Methos shook his head, then slammed the book shut and dropped it on the chair between them. There was nothing for him there. He stood and walked up the nave, stopping in front of the altar. The flame of the presence still burned. The cross hung stark against the pale stone. Holy Ground, for an unholy race, for an unholy man. There was nothing for him here.

"It was too close, MacLeod," he said, his voice still rough. "Too close. I don't know how I'm going to get through this, what I'm going to do." Nothing mattered. Nothing. He shook his head and whispered, "I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're a survivor," MacLeod said harshly, standing now. "You'll survive."

Would he? Why? Methos turned and finally looked at MacLeod. "You shouldn't have stopped her."

MacLeod blinked in surprise. "Cassandra was wrong about you."

Methos closed his eyes, remembering Andre Nevarsel's terror the night before, remembering his own pleasure. "No, MacLeod. No, she wasn't."

"Yes, she was." MacLeod sounded very sure of himself, very sure of Methos. MacLeod came to him, earnest, sincere - solid rock. "She saw only part of you, Methos. She saw you only as she remembered you. She didn't see you as you are now."

Methos had to clear his throat before he could speak. "You think so?"

MacLeod didn't hesitate at all. "Yes." He reached out to touch Methos, ignoring the way Methos stiffened under his grip, certain even now. "The person Cassandra knew wouldn't have helped me through the dark Quickening. He wouldn't have risked everything to help Alexa. He wouldn't have put his life on the line to help Joe."

Methos shrugged. "Maybe." Methos pulled his arm away and turned back to the altar. "I'm on the edge, MacLeod, and I don't know which way I'll fall." He shot a glance at MacLeod, then stared at the floor as he admitted, "But I know I need you. I need you to keep me focused, to remind me ..." To be the rock on which I can build my self.

MacLeod was watching, and waiting, his eyes dark in the dimness of the church.

Methos forced himself to face MacLeod, to stand up and look him in the eye. "I'm ... going to Holy Ground for a bit. When I come back, maybe you could put up with seeing me occasionally?"

MacLeod said nothing.

"I'll buy the beer," Methos offered, desperation cracking through his banter once again.

MacLeod finally responded, a quick nod, a small smile, and Methos closed his eyes in relief. The two men walked together to the door.

"Tell me about Kronos," MacLeod asked as they stepped outside. "What was he to you?"

Now that was a hell of a question. Methos didn't want to alienate MacLeod, not anymore, not now. But he realized with shock that he couldn't lie, either.

"He wasn't always like that, MacLeod. I found him when he was a boy. After he became Immortal, we worked together, fought together, lived together with his family. Then one day, there was a raid. The older slaves were killed, the children and wives taken. Kronos wanted revenge, so we took it. And then, we just kept taking."

The white tombstones were streaked with gray and green lichen; black smears of rain-washed pollution etched tear-streaks down their sides. Methos kept walking. "When I decided to leave the Horsemen, Kronos didn't want me to go. We fought. I won, but ... I couldn't do it. I couldn't take his head. So I left."

He stopped and stared through the iron fence to the empty field across the road. "I was hiding from him before Julius Caesar invaded Britain. Over the centuries, I used the Watchers to get news of him, hoping I would find that Kronos had changed, that the anger had run its course ..." He shook his head and started walking again. The anger had never ended. The madness had never ceased.

MacLeod caught up to him. "But you had to know Kronos would come for you one day."

"I tried not to think about it." He had waited so long.

"You could have killed him," MacLeod said. "Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to." Methos stopped yet again, remembering the hate. "I would have slept easier if he had been dead. But what he was, I had a hand in creating. We were brothers - in arms, in blood, in everything except birth." Now he remembered the love.

Families were never simple. Methos wanted MacLeod to understand. "If I judged him worthy to die, then I judged myself the same way."

MacLeod was nodding a little.

Methos wasn't surprised at MacLeod's easy acknowledgement. MacLeod knew about judgment - too much sometimes. Methos said firmly, "And I wanted to live." He paused and added softly, surprised and relieved, "I still do." He started walking again.

MacLeod's voice called after him. "You set the whole thing up, didn't you?"

Had he? Could he even remember? "What do you mean?"

"You knew he'd come after Cassandra, and you let him, because you knew I'd come after her."

That wasn't quite the way it had happened, certainly not the way he had planned it, but Methos said nothing.

MacLeod continued, right beside him now, "You couldn't kill him, but you hoped I could."

Methos glanced at MacLeod. "Maybe," he said, and kept walking.

"Maybe," MacLeod repeated, a skeptical echo, and they left the cemetery and walked out into the field. They walked in silence for some time, past wooded copses; past far-off barns and small houses; past leafless vineyards, tortured fences of twisted grapevine. MacLeod had one final question. "Methos, what about Cassandra?"

What about her, indeed? How would MacLeod like to hear that she was just one of countless people whom he had enslaved and abused over the centuries? Cassandra had been nothing. Now ... now she was the only one left from those times, the only one who remembered. She reminded him of what he had been - what he could all too easily be again.

Her voice whispered to him, as he had heard so many other voices lately: "Into madness, unto death, and beyond." He had come as close to madness as he ever wanted to in these last few days, and he had tasted the power of death again. Now it was time for beyond.

"One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod." His own voice haunted him this time: ten thousand. He shook his head and said again, "One of a thousand regrets."

Methos left MacLeod there on the hill and headed into the valley below.

To: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)

From: Yvette Berens (Y_Berens(at)field . weu . watchers . org)

Transmitted: 11/12/96 15:14:53

SUBJECT: Methos and Duncan MacLeod

Dr. Zoll,

MacLeod and Methos met again at Elysium Church. They spoke for nearly an hour, then walked away from the church and parted.

As we discussed, until Joseph Dawson is released from the Methos inquiry, Special Field Agent Pierre Bervee will be MacLeod's Watcher. Today I have started surveillance of my new assignment.

Yvette Berens, Special Field Agent

Assignment - Methos

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

You shall sleep

secure with peace;

faithfulness will be your joy.

Long have I waited

for your coming home to me

and living deeply our new life.

AUTHORS' NOTES

OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER STUFF: Not our characters, not our universe, not for profit, just for fun (and angst). Some of the dialog is directly from Highlander: The Series. Some of the correspondence is directly from the Watcher CD.

RATING: PG-13. No explicit sex, although sexual activities (including rape and homosexuality) occur offscreen.

WARNING: Do not try to use the e-mail addresses in the story. They don't go anywhere. (We tried.)

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

our husbands and children, who were most understanding (usually) when we sat down at the computer to write.

all the people who discussed history, myths, and characterization with us: Cathy Butterfield, Candyce Byrnes, Shelley Wolfe, and especially Selena.

and all those who read this in advance, sending us comments and corrections: Becki, Pat Bentley, Melissa Hall, Gillian Leeds, Lorie, Sharon Marais, Vi Moreau, Laura Nauta, Robin Tennenbaum, and Anne Thurman-Tate.

ABOUT THE TITLE:

The title of this story and the quotes at the beginnings of the chapters come from the song "Long Have I Waited." It is a hymn inspired by the book of Hosea, where Yahweh entreats the people of Israel to come back to him after worshipping foreign gods and goddesses. The entreaty is written as a husband asking his wife to leave her lovers and return to their home.

The quotes at the beginning of the scenes are all from the Book of Hosea in the Christian Bible. (King James Version.)

ABOUT THE WATCHERS:

The Watcher characters of Amy Zoll, Melanie Hind, and Julia Harami are all mentioned in the Watcher CD. Yvette Berens and Professor LeFarge are our original characters.

The e-mail from Melanie Hind to Dr. Amy Zoll (dated November 1st which begins "Sorry I didn't send condolences on Constantine earlier ...") is directly from the Watcher CD (except for the post scripts). Joe's response to Amy Zoll ("C'mon, Amy, take a few deep breaths and think about it ...") is also from the Watcher CD. All other correspondence is from our imagination.

The abbreviation (weg) stands for "wicked, evil grin."

ABOUT BABYLONIA:

Nippur was one of Sumeria's biggest cities and a major religious center forty centuries ago. Around 1800 BCE, at a time when Sumerian civilization was quickly being replaced by the Akkadians, a project to write many of the ancient tales was begun in the temple in Nippur. Many of the Sumerian writings, including the tale of Gilgamesh, came from archaeological digs at Nippur. Dubsar is the Sumerian word for scribe.

The full text of Hammurabi's Edict 129: If a man's wife be surprised (in flagrante delicto) with another man, both shall be tied and thrown into the water, but the husband may pardon his wife and the king his slaves. (Special thanks to Cathy Butterfield, and her excellent story "Risk" [available at .].)

ABOUT ANCIENT GREECE:

In the Greek flashback, Kronos is being bored by quotes from Plato's "Protagoras."

The Aeropagus was reputed to be the most ancient homicide court in Greece. Foreigners and even gods are said to have resorted to it. From early times, it tried all cases of homicide, in addition to general criminal jurisdiction. After the differentiation of voluntary, involuntary, and justifiable homicide, four additional courts were instituted. Voluntary homicide, wounding with intent, poisoning, and arson came within the jurisdiction of the Aeropagus. The King Archon, unlike the magistrates who presided over the sittings of the heliastic courts, both presided over and actively participated in trials at the Aeropagus.

ABOUT THE QUOTES:

"You should read more history, Number One" is a quote from Star Trek: the New Generation. Captain Jean-Luc Picard frequently says it to his second-in-command.

Julius Caesar said, "Alea iacta est," (The die is cast) when he defied the Roman Senate's decree and crossed the Rubicon River with his army.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" is from Shakespeare's MacBeth.

In the scene by the fountain, Methos remembers Byron's poem "Darkness" which was written in summer of 1816, during a vacation with Dr. Polidori (who was replaced in the TV episode with Dr. Adams). Various phrases and sentences also appear throughout the rest of the story. (The full text of this poem is available at .

In the submarine base, Methos remembers (or misremembers) several quotes:

"Remember, man, that you are dust, and unto dust you shall return," is used in the Roman Catholic service on Ash Wednesday, when the priest traces the sign of the cross on the forehead with ashes.

"O Death, where is thy victory? O Death, where is thy sting?" is a misquote of "O grave, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?" It is in the Bible, and was also used by Alexander Pope.

The lines "Cast a cold eye on life, on death. Horseman, pass by!" are from the poem "Under Ben Bulben" by W. B. Yeats.

Virgil (C. Pitts Translation) "The pale Tisiphone; a robe she wore, with all the pomp of horror, dyed in gore."

Shakespeare, the play Hamlet - Hamlet, holding a skull and speaking to his friend Horatio. "Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio. A man of infinite jest and wisdom"

"Grant me tears, O Lord, to blot out my sins; may I not cease from them, O God, until I have been purified. Grant me the gift of tears, a well of tears, fierce floods of tears," is from an Irish prayer, dated to the twelfth century.

In the final scene at the Elysium Church, Methos is reading from the missal when Mac comes: "And the victory that day was turned into mourning unto all the people: for the people heard say that day how the king was grieved for his son. But the king covered his face, and the king cried with a loud voice, 'O my son Absalom, O Absalom, my son, my son!'" (Samuel II, Chapter 19:2,4)

ABOUT THE TRAITORS:

The names Methos remembers are Quisling, Judas, Kronos, and Set.

VIDKUN QUISLING (1887-1945) was a Norwegian politician and diplomat before WWII, as well as serving in the "intelligence service." He actively collaborated in the German conquest of Norway in 1940, and was then proclaimed sole political head of that country, as head of a State Council of 13 Nazi-dominated commissioners. His name became synonymous with traitor and collaborator. He was shot in 1945.

JUDAS is remembered in the Christian Bible as the betrayer of his teacher Jesus.

KRONOS (one of the Titans in Greek mythology, sometimes called Saturn or Chronus) was the youngest child of Uranus the Sky-God and Gaea the Earth-Goddess. Uranus feared his children and imprisoned them in the deep chasm of Tartarus. Gaea freed Kronos, handed him a scythe, and bade him vanquish his father. He did so, but Uranus cursed him, saying that one day Kronos would be deposed by his own son. He was. (His youngest son was named Zeus, or Jupiter.)

SET was the Egyptian god of night, brother to Osiris, god of the day. The story of Set varied over the years. At first, he was seen as a complement to his brother Osiris, a Yin/Yang type of partnership. However, the Hyskos tribe conquered Egypt in 1500 BCE and adopted Set as their patron. After the Hyskos were driven out, Set fell into disfavor. His temples were defaced, and a new legend sprang up. In this tale, Set became jealous of Osiris. He betrayed him, killed him, then dismembered the body, scattering the pieces. The goddess Isis, wife of Osiris, reassembled the body, conceived a child from it, then gave birth to Horus. Horus defeated Set in an epic battle which lasted eighty years, during which many gruesome things happened (more dismemberment). Horus eventually won, then either banished, castrated, or killed Set (depending on which version of the story you read). Horus then took his late father's place as ruler of the gods and goddesses.

"Set represents the aspiration of the genetic drive for survival, the animal response, the raw instinct, the drive to ride the natural cycle of the hunter and the hunted. His tools include trickery, subtlety, the refined arts of guerrilla warfare and the silver tongue. His cunning is unmatched, as is his mastery of the nefarious disciplines of sabotage and deceit. He is an utterly amoral being, using whatever means will achieve his ends. In this light (or in the absence thereof), his evil is not that of a blind, raging monster, but rather that of the absence of emotion and conscience, the total domination of will and cold intellect over the other faculties."

OTHER STORIES IN THIS FANFICTION UNIVERSE ARE:

"Hope Remembered 2 - Fury" - The companion story to "Long Have I Waited," this is Cassandra's version of what happened after Kronos showed up in Seacouver.

"The Voice of Death" - the story of Roland and his time with the Horsemen, and how Kronos and Methos learned to resist the Voice.

"Just a Game" - An early tale of the Horsemen, and their contribution to the Game.

And other stories about Cassandra:

"Hope Forgotten" - the story of Cassandra and the Prophecy

"Hope Remembered 3 - Confidante" - where Cassandra went after she left Methos on the floor.

"Hope Remembered 4 - Kindred" - Cassandra confronts Duncan after the Horsemen.

"Dearer Yet the Brotherhood" - Connor finds out that Duncan's new friend is Cassandra's old enemy.

"Hope Triumphant - Healer" - Cassandra and Methos finally get a chance to talk.