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Authors note: Do you know this situation? You are working on a nice chapter, let's say S7, and then this guy walks into your room, grabs a beer from the fridge, settles on the couch and wants you to tell his story? Yeah, that's what is called plot bunny or intruder. Just to exorcise Methos a little bit, I scribbled down the beginning of the story. As the title says, it's a crossover. And here things get tricky. For the book series this crossover is with, exists only in german. It's the Lovecraft based cycle "Der Hexer von Salem" (Witch-master of Salem). So I was faced with a difficult desicion, either I try to tell you what the cycle is about beforehand, or I try to put everything you know, into the story. I decided for the latter. Why? Because the book cycle about Robert Craven and his heritage is set in the late 19th century, so it is long past the time my story is set in. Richard is a descendant of him, and my own creation. The second reason is, that poor Methos has no idea into what he got himself, and will learn gradually. So why spoil the fun? Just know that the story of the Andara family, is not mine, but borrowed by Hohlbein. The monsters are either by Hohlbein too, or by Lovecraft (Cthuluh myth) when it come to the big old ones. Like Hohlbein too, H.P. Lovecraft was and is the mentor of the Andara family, coninuing to watch over them through some generations. If anyone wants me to go into more detail what the whole story by Hohlbein is about, just drop me a line.
Chapter 1. I'm a man on the run.
Crossover: Highlander/Hexer von Salem (Witch-master of Salem)
Characters: Methos
Age: Pg-13
Disclaimer: this is a non-commercial work of fiction based on the "Highlander" series and movies, and on the "Hexer von Salem" cycle. All rights are with their respective owners. I do not receive any financial compenasation for this.
I’m a man on the run
I’m a man on the run,
and a man on the run,
is a dangerous one…
(Listen Mr. Oxford don)
The road was heading north, Methos did not need a sign by the wayside to know this. Five thousand years of constand wandering had left him with a strong sense for direction. It wasn’t a sense per se, he was aware of this, it was rather that his subconscious took in all the detail, angle of the sunlight, time of the day, Moon or stars, if visible, and projected the directions out of this. It still felt like a sense, especially at night, when the world outside his Landrover was reduced to a dark road ahead, signs and lights flashing by and a indistinct shadowy landscape left and right.
To distract himself from his musings, Methos checked the watch. 11:30 PM, half an hour to midnight, which meant he had a headstart of nearly eight hours by now. Eight hours of constant fast driving. Not that he expected pursuit, not really, not anymore. Not even Mac would be idealistic enough to follow him. Not anymore. Methos bit his lip and shoved the thought to the dark back of his mind. Duncan had needed three full years to figure out, that he couldn’t have live with Methos past. Not that he knew himself, he surely did not, but Methos knew. He had seen it in Duncan’s eyes, he had heard in the way he spoke, and most of all he had seen it in Duncan’s reaction when Methos came to the funeral.
Shaking his head Methos slowed the car down, as another village came in sight. It was pretty unlikely that someone would be out and around at this time of the night, but the last he needed was an accident that tipped someone of where he had went. Even as the direction was a deception. He had no intention to spend some time on the Outer Hebrides and did not intend to make use of Leverburgh airport on Isle of Lewis either. He would turn soon, and drive southwest. Or so he intended, but he would have to gas up the car before that. The village passed by and Methos sped up the car again. For all that he had left behind his mind was exceptionally calm. There were few things to do, first was to shake anyone off his track, second finding a new identity and a place to hide, third forgetting about the past five years, that was all on his to – do list right now, nothing he had not done a thousand times before. He denied that it was more painful this time.
The lights of gas station rose out of the darkness. Methos frowned. Who built a gas station in this middle of nowhere called ‘the Highlands’? Celts, for all their bravery and stubbornness their brains were a little off the wire. Chuckling Methos brought his Landrover off the road and stopped at the gas station. It wasn’t much, the gas station itself, a shop and an nearly empty parking lot. He had already gassed up the car and went into the shop, when he became aware of him. He came close to make Methos jump, rarely did anyone, mortal or immortal manage to sneak up to him thus. He entered the shop right behind Methos, coming seemingly out nowhere. Astonished Methos studied him, as he walked along the shop’s assortments of foodstuffs. He looked no older than seventeen, even as it was a tall, well muscled seventeen, Methos had to admit. Walking completely noiselessly he moved about the shop like a ghost, catlike graces added to the unusual appearance, as did the silky black hair, falling long around his shoulders. A single white streak stood out a little, falling down close to the left temple. For all this strange appearance, Methos might have noticed nothing more, than perhaps the face, that would have appealed to the artist in him. But there was something else, something he could discern all too clearly. – He was on the run. It was nothing in particular that he did or said to the sleepy shopkeeper, that made him get to that conclusion, but the look of those green eyes. It was only a glance they exchanged, and Methos was sure, that young one was on the run. And the young one, knew he was too. That thought was less then comfortable. The young man had reached the counter, having decided on a bottle of water and some cookies. With a smooth movement he sat down his backpack and his sword. Methos thoughts came to a full stop. How could he have overlooked that?! A sword, a scimitar to be more precise, was leaning on the counter, beside the black backpack. A rather detached part of Methos mind observed that the weapon was probably of Spanish making, Toledo or Sevilla he guessed and approximately three hundred years old. Which did not answer his question, why he had overlooked the blade when he first saw the young man. Without moving from his place Methos eyes scanned the young one again. He wore unsuspicious clothing, dark jeans, a white turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket. No coat to hide his sword, Methos ought to have seen it at once. Strange that. But for the sword he might have believed the boy a runaway, now he had to regard him as something entirely different. Yet he did not feel a quickening from him, just something weird, like an echo, too faint to make it out except when concentrating on it.
Shoving the change, four pounds something worth in coins, into a small leather pouch the young one suddenly looked at Methos. “You are very observant,” there was no aggression in his voice, he just stated a fact.
Methos nearly jumped. How had the lad known that Methos had recognised the blade? Had observed him? Had not just been waiting for his turn to pay for gas and coffee? Tossing the money at the half asleep shopkeeper, he eyed the lad as he stuffed the bottle and the cookies into his backpack. No he did not stuff it, he carefully put them inside, the backpack was well organised obviously. “Need a ride?” Methos asked spontaneously.
Usually a hitchhiker would have asked the place where he was headed or something the like. The lad just nodded. “Of course, if it’s no inconvenience that is.” He had an educated way of speaking, trying to mask it by an accent that did not really work.
Methos smiled and filed the observance away to the other results. The lad would prove some amusing object of study, this he was sure of. Together they walked back to Methos Landrover. “By the way, did you bring any music along? I’ve got only one tape that I am tired of hearing.” Methos said quite untruthfully. He had gotten tired of that tape with Scottish traditionals that was still in the player, but he had plenty more in his bag. It was rather another part of observing, studying his travel companion.
The young one flipped his backpack off one shoulder, opening one of the outer compartments. Three tapes were easily retrieved. “You might not like them,” he said while handing them to Methos. Both of them put the bagpacks into the font. Their hands nearly clashed when they both put their swords behind their respective seats. The hilt of Methos sword leaning against that of the younger scimitar. For a moment a smile lit on the serious features of his younger companions. “I think, they’ll get along well enough.”
Methos nodded. “I am Adam,” he introduced himself, as they returned to the road. The lights of the gas station rapidly falling back behind them.
“Raven,” the young one replied.
“What?” Methos was startled for a moment.
The young one just nodded as he cast him a side-glance. “Raven, like the bird, better than Rabanus anyway.” He settled a little deeper into the seat, arms clasped to his chest, like to keep warm.
Methos did not answer, just tipped one of the tapes into the player. Solemn piano music began to fill the empty space around them, a clear male voice began to accompany it. “Fremd bin ich eingezogen, fremd zieh ich wieder aus…” Methos understood without any problems. „A stranger I came, and as a stranger I depart....“ Schubert. While he drove on into the night, he let himself drop deeper and deeper into the songs filled with loneliness and cold. “Was sollt ich länger bleiben, als man mich trieb hinaus, lass ihre Hunde heulen vor ihres Herren Haus.“ Why should I stay on longer, when they cast me out? Oh let their dogs just bark and howl before their masters door...“
For hours they drove into the darkness. Empty were the roads, no one was journeying on Sunday night. Methos did hardly ever look at the signs indicating their way, he knew where they were going. West and South, the roadsigns began to indicate Edinburgh at the pre-dawn hour. Methos silently studied Raven again. He had sat unmoving since their journey began, eyes transfixed on the windscreen, looking ahead, for something, anything, nothing. Whatever he was seeing it was certainly not the road. “Wunderlicher Alter soll ich mit dir gehn? Willst du meinen Liedern deine Leier drehn?“ Strange old man, shall I go with you? Shall I sing my songs to your mournful tune? The tape was ejected from the player suddenly as they hit another gas station. The sudden silence jerked Raven from his trance like state. “Where are we?” he asked, adding apologetically: “I’m sorry I must have dosed off.”
Methos knew that Raven had not slept, but been far away in his mind. And whatever place he had visited it had not been a pleasant one, to judge by his pale face and tight jaw. “Somewhere east of Edinburgh, I’ll not go there, but am headed for Hull. Where are you going?”
Raven ran his hand trough his long hair, pushing some streaks back behind his ears. “South,” he said. “Hull is just fine with me.”
There it was again, that feeling. The lad was on the run, if anything. He did not really care where he was headed as long as he kept moving. Methos understood this all too well, yet it seemed to be wrong for someone so young. “I wonder if I picked up a runaway,” he said casually. “and the police is getting at me next city.”
The sparkle rising in these green eyes told him that this deception was not one of best. But then, he was rarely at his best shortly before 4 AM. Instead of answering directly Raven reached for his bagpack, retrieving an item that he tossed at Methos as they stopped. Methos grabbed and examined it. It was a driver’s licence. Name: Richard Raven Andara, born December the 31st, 1987 in Belfast. The photograph on the licence matched Raven exactly, he had not changed since this was taken. Methos handed it back. “Sorry, you don’t look it.”
Raven nodded. “I know, I’m hearing that all the time.” All of sudden his head flew back and his eyes became narrow. “I’ll better stay with the car, something’s wrong.” He said.
Methos felt it too, two quickenings nearby. Not too near, but close enough. Had Raven felt them too? He checked the gas level, not enough to get far. “I’ll hurry.” He said while jumping out of the car.
Methos felt them outside the time he left the store. Two Immortals, one of them rather strong. He sighed inwardly, there were slim chances of avoiding a fight. Perhaps he could exploit the fact that he was travelling with a mortal, delaying the inevitable challenge and be vanished before they understood how it had happened. When he strode into the parking lot again, he saw two men, dressed in their usual wide coats standing by the car, chatting with Raven. Raven himself leaned against the car, seemingly relaxed, holding eyecontact with the large of the two. As Methos had nearly reached them, he saw how the face muscular fellow went blank. He turned to his comrade, who was marked by the same expression. “Dreadful place,” he murmured as they turned and walked off.
Methos saw that Raven relaxed, leaning against the car at little more, like tired. “What did they want?” he inquired as calmly as possible.
Raven rolled his eyes. “They were looking for a guy called Methos. I told them we passed a hotel were a greek group was staying one hour ago. Perhaps that’s the place they are looking for.” His voice was hushed, or perhaps he was just tired too.
Methos wasn’t so sure what to think. Either Raven was a very good liar or something very strange had just taken place, for the two other Immortals manned their car and drove off north. Methos suppressed a half smile, if Raven could repeat this little trick now and then, it might be worth travelling together for some time. Whatever the lad was running from, it would certainly less dangerous.
***
Dawn rose, the sky became grey, then the first rusty colours touched the clouds. The hillsides cast long shadows, between which the first light of the sun shone like fire rising from the bottom of the sea. Usually Methos would have enjoyed this glorious sunrise, but he couldn’t. A strange feeling was creeping up to him the more he saw the morning fogs rise from the valley grounds. The fog wasn’t thick or heavy, just thin veils of mist like silk fluttering in the wind, yet it felt cold. Colder than any fog he had seen before. Like something was creeping up at them, watching for them, lurking in the hills. Methos shook his head. Now he started thinking like a damn Celt, having his head full of Myths and Legends from the otherworld. He chided himself. It was fog, cold autumn fog, like it often rose from the bottom of valleys, nothing strange about that. Yet the chilly feeling remained, hovering over them like a cloud. The sunrise touched the mist, colouring the thing layers of fog red and golden. Like fire, or blood.
“Please stop,” Raven’s voice was pressed as he said this. “let me get out.” He reached behind his seat for his scimitar.
Methos did as he was asked. “Is there something…?” he asked, not exactly offering help not denying it either. Something was going on, he could see the tension in Raven’s face. There was fear too, controlled by force of will.
“No,” Raven said. “Just go on as fast as you can. And – if you will – bring my bagpack to Mrs. Winden. Nr. 1, Ashton place, London. But get ouf here – fast!” He left the car, closing the door and gesturing Methos to drive on, while he himself swiftly began to ascend the hill to their left.
Methos halted the car after a few hundred paces, taking a deep breath. He had been offered a clean way out, and he was good in running. Raven had certainly not expected him to care what was chasing after him and even left the delivery of the bagpack completely voluntarily. Methos could drop it or not. He just needed to drive on. To leave and never to look back, like he usually did. But then… he had seen the fear in Raven’s eyes when he left the car, he had felt that tension built for the last hour and… “I may have sunk low, but never that low,” he said gruffly, rising from the driver’s seat he took his sword and headed uphill, where Raven had vanished.
***
Methos had seen many things in his long live, more than anyone on the planet could imagine. He hardly had expected anything unusual when he heard the voices from the other side of the hilltop. A cold voice speaking with the sure contempt of a victor. “You really believed you could take me? Even your father couldn’t and he was thrice as strong as you will ever become.”
“And you ever can dream of becoming,” Raven’s voice was hoarse, reflecting pain and bitter defiance.
“That’s rich, coming from you pup. But I shall show you mercy – I’ll let you share the fate of your dear mother. Let’s see how much of her nature you inherited…” An icy gust of wind rose from the other hillside, followed by a muffled scream and moments later the ground shook violently. Methos fell, rolling some paces, before the was on stable ground again. A painful crackling was the next sound from the other hillside. Methos raised uphill reaching the top within moments. What he saw was unexpected enough to freeze him into his place. The first he saw a lighting, not unlike a quickening, emerging from Raven, who knelt on the ground, shaking from pain. The crackling flash of energy hit another man, who stood some steps afar, Raven’s scimitar in his hand. His hand was still raised as if he had send Raven to his knees with that gesture alone. But when the silver blue lightning hit him cold, he screamed. It wasn’t a scream of a human voice, but a pitched ripping sound that made Methos ears burn in fresh pain. He did not really feel it, for below, the transformation started. Raven’s attacker suddenly lost his human form, becoming more shadowy, black extensions – where they wings or tentacles? – grew from his back, his shoulders and arms. “You forced me out!!” the voice was colder now, cruel and still painful. The face had changed, gone dark, slippery and transformed slowly into a mockery of human features.
Raven had stumbled to his feet, his face a mask of pain and concentration. “We’re not done yet,” he whispered, raising both his hands.
The words that emerged from that distorted mouth were not understood by Methos. He could not understand or translate them, but he felt their cold echo, running like an icy fire through his body. His mind denied even hearing those maddening sounds. Had not five thousand years of discipline kept him up, he’d have run at once, or broken down, or gone mad entirely. Instead he saw, that Raven would not hold out long. Whatever he was doing, it affected the creature, but not enough. Whatever invisible power he focused against his attacker, it would hack him to pieces. Except – it never reached him. Methos had jumped exactly in it’s path. The first thrust of his heavy blade hacked through one of the tentacles – he decided in his mind they were tentacles. Black slime sprayed out of the wound, burning like acid on Methos skin. He evaded a blow by another tentacle with a half turn and delivered a snap-kick against the creatures broad chest, followed by a good hard double slash down at it. The tentacles snapped up, one slashing along Methos arm, the other caught by his blade, the fight had just begun.
Methos could not tell how long it had lasted. Only that it had been a nightmare of tentacles, claws and an ever shifting creature. He was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his sword’s edge dulled by the creatur’s acid blood and all his body ached from the horrendous presence alone. His greatest success was depriving the creature of Raven’s scimitar. Some time he had taken up that blade and changed to an exhausting, brutal and fast two – handed fighting style using the advantage that two blades were offering him against the tentacles. Somehow the scimitar seemed to hurt the creature deeply. Yet it ended as fast as it had begun, a green light enveloped the creature, that screamed like mad inside. Methos felt his ears bleeding from the torment, but he couldn’t lift his eyes from the green fire that slowly ate away the creature. It burned brighter then faded and left nothing behind. For moments something touched Methos, something cold, not quite like a quickening, but something similar, similar and foreign in the same moment. Silence settled like a blanket on the valley. Only now did Methos realise that the sun had risen.
Ragged breathing mixed with a pained sob behind him. “Never, never like my mother,” Raven’s voice was hoarse, strained, barely recognisable. Methos turned and saw he had collapsed to his knees again, the hands clawed into the heather, shaking. Methos managed to walk the few steps back to him, letting himself fall onto the ground beside the young man. Raven force himself up, even as every movement was marked by utter exhaustion. “I told you to run for it,” he said, his voice still shaky.
“I never was good in following orders,” Methos replied, not the least taken aback. The boy had tried to protect him, ironic as this might be.
He felt Raven’s eyes carefully scanning him. “I thank you and I… I apologise. You shouldn’t have come into any danger.”
Methos felt that many of his smaller wounds were already healing, rising again he offered a hand to Raven. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, helping Raven up.
The younger man shook his head. “No, I’ll just get my bag. And go another way.” His voice got steadier again, even as it still was hoarse. “You take yourself out of this. You should never have fought him.”
Methos kept silent, supporting him until they reached the car. The he suddenly let go, not surprised to see Raven nearly collapse at once, making another fall onto the rocky grounds. The strained movement with which he curled up, lying unmoving for some moments, told Methos plenty about Raven’s condition. He bent down beside him. “You barely can walk, and you can hardly can stand on your own, and you still think of sending me off? You should re-evaluate your plans.” He pointed out.
The ragged breath betrayed how desperately Raven fought to get his body back under control. “I’ll rest here for another hour before hiking on. I don’t want to endanger you more than I already did.” He sat up, raising his knees up, resting his arms atop.
It was easy for Methos to read that gesture. Raven tried to built up a cold, unapproachable pose to make him go. He was not bad at it, but far from an expert. Methos hesitated. Here was his clue, he just needed to take the pretence for real, toss the backpack out of the car and head off. It was exactly what Raven asked and he clearly had some impressive enemies. For what it was worth, Methos would be wise to avoid another run in with shapeshifting creatures that had forgotten that octopi were supposed to live in the deep seas. Still the scholar in him could hardly suppress the curiosity what strange creature this had been, or where it came from. After living for so long he rarely found something he had never heard of before. And there was the matter of the two Immortals who had been somehow brought off the scent by Raven. It might prove a good place of hiding, from them at least. Having come to a decision, he reached out and gently placed a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “The first thing a good warrior needs to learn is when to accept help,” he said.
Raven’s eyes flew open as he looked at Methos again. Astonishment, panic and fear warred inside them, shifting them to a dangerous dark greyish-green. “And what makes you think, that you’ll last through another confrontation?” he asked sharply. “No matter how good you are, you couldn’t have lasted another ten minutes in that fight, and you would have had a hard time in slaying it.”
The move did not come unanticipated. Inwardly Methos sighed, the blasted age of Chivalry had spoiled generations of fighters, he just saw another victim right in front of him. Too exhausted to go on, in more trouble than he could possibly handle, yet stubbornly insisting on protecting others who could very well take care of themselves. “I’m hard to kill,” Methos replied with exactly the right measure of confidence to make it ring true, “and even as what you did was impressive – it really was – you’ll need someone to take care of the monster until you light the fire, next time.”
There it was, the offer was made, as open as Methos could or would given the circumstances. He had been prepared for many reactions, anger, grudging acceptance even as relieved laugh, but not for the watery shine in that green eyes, that lost all their anger. “Please… don’t.” Raven spoke in a hush now. “I can’t take it, not anymore. What you did up there was brave and noble but…”
“Noble? No one accused me of that in a very long time,” Methos interrupted him. The lad’s whole reaction screamed of a history of failures, lost friends and general loneliness. “Look, I have no idea what this… thing was, or where it came from, but I am sure that it wasn’t friendly. There are enemies you can’t face alone.”
Raven rose, staggering and painful, but somewhere inside him he found the strength to stand upright again. “No,” he said. “I can’t accept it, not because of you, but because of me. I’m a coward, I know, and selfish. But whenever one of my family made friends with anyone, there was a price to paid. Not by us, but by them. I don’t want you to die, just because you were brave enough to offer support, or to come to my aid when I was in trouble. I couldn’t just take it to bury another friend.”
He wasn’t even twenty-five, but the way he spoke of fallen friends, belonged to a much older man. Suddenly Methos understood what had intrigued him about Raven from the start – he radiated a level of experience that was rare among mortals. “As I told you – I am hard to kill,” he pointed out. “Like it or not, I won’t leave you here. So you have only two alternatives: you can stand here and argue, or we can go on to London. Nr. 1 Ashton place, wasn’t it?”
He could see that the trick worked at once. Tell a man what alternatives remain to him and he won’t bother checking if there are more and decide on the input you give him. Raven sighed, let got of much of his anger, his shoulders slumped slightly, he caught himself at once, and inhaled deeply. “To London it is, then. And Adam… Thank you.”
Methos smile hid everything he was thinking and still was somewhat genuine. “That’s the spirit. After all – we won the day.” Together they got back into the car and moved on again. Hundred questions were still on Methos mind, but he knew they would find answers, as soon as they reached London. Raven’s exhaustion caught up with him within the hour and he fell asleep. Methos would have loved to do the same, but he would rely on his Immortal stamina to bring them safely to London first.
Chapter 1. I'm a man on the run.
Crossover: Highlander/Hexer von Salem (Witch-master of Salem)
Characters: Methos
Age: Pg-13
Disclaimer: this is a non-commercial work of fiction based on the "Highlander" series and movies, and on the "Hexer von Salem" cycle. All rights are with their respective owners. I do not receive any financial compenasation for this.
I’m a man on the run
I’m a man on the run,
and a man on the run,
is a dangerous one…
(Listen Mr. Oxford don)
The road was heading north, Methos did not need a sign by the wayside to know this. Five thousand years of constand wandering had left him with a strong sense for direction. It wasn’t a sense per se, he was aware of this, it was rather that his subconscious took in all the detail, angle of the sunlight, time of the day, Moon or stars, if visible, and projected the directions out of this. It still felt like a sense, especially at night, when the world outside his Landrover was reduced to a dark road ahead, signs and lights flashing by and a indistinct shadowy landscape left and right.
To distract himself from his musings, Methos checked the watch. 11:30 PM, half an hour to midnight, which meant he had a headstart of nearly eight hours by now. Eight hours of constant fast driving. Not that he expected pursuit, not really, not anymore. Not even Mac would be idealistic enough to follow him. Not anymore. Methos bit his lip and shoved the thought to the dark back of his mind. Duncan had needed three full years to figure out, that he couldn’t have live with Methos past. Not that he knew himself, he surely did not, but Methos knew. He had seen it in Duncan’s eyes, he had heard in the way he spoke, and most of all he had seen it in Duncan’s reaction when Methos came to the funeral.
Shaking his head Methos slowed the car down, as another village came in sight. It was pretty unlikely that someone would be out and around at this time of the night, but the last he needed was an accident that tipped someone of where he had went. Even as the direction was a deception. He had no intention to spend some time on the Outer Hebrides and did not intend to make use of Leverburgh airport on Isle of Lewis either. He would turn soon, and drive southwest. Or so he intended, but he would have to gas up the car before that. The village passed by and Methos sped up the car again. For all that he had left behind his mind was exceptionally calm. There were few things to do, first was to shake anyone off his track, second finding a new identity and a place to hide, third forgetting about the past five years, that was all on his to – do list right now, nothing he had not done a thousand times before. He denied that it was more painful this time.
The lights of gas station rose out of the darkness. Methos frowned. Who built a gas station in this middle of nowhere called ‘the Highlands’? Celts, for all their bravery and stubbornness their brains were a little off the wire. Chuckling Methos brought his Landrover off the road and stopped at the gas station. It wasn’t much, the gas station itself, a shop and an nearly empty parking lot. He had already gassed up the car and went into the shop, when he became aware of him. He came close to make Methos jump, rarely did anyone, mortal or immortal manage to sneak up to him thus. He entered the shop right behind Methos, coming seemingly out nowhere. Astonished Methos studied him, as he walked along the shop’s assortments of foodstuffs. He looked no older than seventeen, even as it was a tall, well muscled seventeen, Methos had to admit. Walking completely noiselessly he moved about the shop like a ghost, catlike graces added to the unusual appearance, as did the silky black hair, falling long around his shoulders. A single white streak stood out a little, falling down close to the left temple. For all this strange appearance, Methos might have noticed nothing more, than perhaps the face, that would have appealed to the artist in him. But there was something else, something he could discern all too clearly. – He was on the run. It was nothing in particular that he did or said to the sleepy shopkeeper, that made him get to that conclusion, but the look of those green eyes. It was only a glance they exchanged, and Methos was sure, that young one was on the run. And the young one, knew he was too. That thought was less then comfortable. The young man had reached the counter, having decided on a bottle of water and some cookies. With a smooth movement he sat down his backpack and his sword. Methos thoughts came to a full stop. How could he have overlooked that?! A sword, a scimitar to be more precise, was leaning on the counter, beside the black backpack. A rather detached part of Methos mind observed that the weapon was probably of Spanish making, Toledo or Sevilla he guessed and approximately three hundred years old. Which did not answer his question, why he had overlooked the blade when he first saw the young man. Without moving from his place Methos eyes scanned the young one again. He wore unsuspicious clothing, dark jeans, a white turtleneck sweater, a black leather jacket. No coat to hide his sword, Methos ought to have seen it at once. Strange that. But for the sword he might have believed the boy a runaway, now he had to regard him as something entirely different. Yet he did not feel a quickening from him, just something weird, like an echo, too faint to make it out except when concentrating on it.
Shoving the change, four pounds something worth in coins, into a small leather pouch the young one suddenly looked at Methos. “You are very observant,” there was no aggression in his voice, he just stated a fact.
Methos nearly jumped. How had the lad known that Methos had recognised the blade? Had observed him? Had not just been waiting for his turn to pay for gas and coffee? Tossing the money at the half asleep shopkeeper, he eyed the lad as he stuffed the bottle and the cookies into his backpack. No he did not stuff it, he carefully put them inside, the backpack was well organised obviously. “Need a ride?” Methos asked spontaneously.
Usually a hitchhiker would have asked the place where he was headed or something the like. The lad just nodded. “Of course, if it’s no inconvenience that is.” He had an educated way of speaking, trying to mask it by an accent that did not really work.
Methos smiled and filed the observance away to the other results. The lad would prove some amusing object of study, this he was sure of. Together they walked back to Methos Landrover. “By the way, did you bring any music along? I’ve got only one tape that I am tired of hearing.” Methos said quite untruthfully. He had gotten tired of that tape with Scottish traditionals that was still in the player, but he had plenty more in his bag. It was rather another part of observing, studying his travel companion.
The young one flipped his backpack off one shoulder, opening one of the outer compartments. Three tapes were easily retrieved. “You might not like them,” he said while handing them to Methos. Both of them put the bagpacks into the font. Their hands nearly clashed when they both put their swords behind their respective seats. The hilt of Methos sword leaning against that of the younger scimitar. For a moment a smile lit on the serious features of his younger companions. “I think, they’ll get along well enough.”
Methos nodded. “I am Adam,” he introduced himself, as they returned to the road. The lights of the gas station rapidly falling back behind them.
“Raven,” the young one replied.
“What?” Methos was startled for a moment.
The young one just nodded as he cast him a side-glance. “Raven, like the bird, better than Rabanus anyway.” He settled a little deeper into the seat, arms clasped to his chest, like to keep warm.
Methos did not answer, just tipped one of the tapes into the player. Solemn piano music began to fill the empty space around them, a clear male voice began to accompany it. “Fremd bin ich eingezogen, fremd zieh ich wieder aus…” Methos understood without any problems. „A stranger I came, and as a stranger I depart....“ Schubert. While he drove on into the night, he let himself drop deeper and deeper into the songs filled with loneliness and cold. “Was sollt ich länger bleiben, als man mich trieb hinaus, lass ihre Hunde heulen vor ihres Herren Haus.“ Why should I stay on longer, when they cast me out? Oh let their dogs just bark and howl before their masters door...“
For hours they drove into the darkness. Empty were the roads, no one was journeying on Sunday night. Methos did hardly ever look at the signs indicating their way, he knew where they were going. West and South, the roadsigns began to indicate Edinburgh at the pre-dawn hour. Methos silently studied Raven again. He had sat unmoving since their journey began, eyes transfixed on the windscreen, looking ahead, for something, anything, nothing. Whatever he was seeing it was certainly not the road. “Wunderlicher Alter soll ich mit dir gehn? Willst du meinen Liedern deine Leier drehn?“ Strange old man, shall I go with you? Shall I sing my songs to your mournful tune? The tape was ejected from the player suddenly as they hit another gas station. The sudden silence jerked Raven from his trance like state. “Where are we?” he asked, adding apologetically: “I’m sorry I must have dosed off.”
Methos knew that Raven had not slept, but been far away in his mind. And whatever place he had visited it had not been a pleasant one, to judge by his pale face and tight jaw. “Somewhere east of Edinburgh, I’ll not go there, but am headed for Hull. Where are you going?”
Raven ran his hand trough his long hair, pushing some streaks back behind his ears. “South,” he said. “Hull is just fine with me.”
There it was again, that feeling. The lad was on the run, if anything. He did not really care where he was headed as long as he kept moving. Methos understood this all too well, yet it seemed to be wrong for someone so young. “I wonder if I picked up a runaway,” he said casually. “and the police is getting at me next city.”
The sparkle rising in these green eyes told him that this deception was not one of best. But then, he was rarely at his best shortly before 4 AM. Instead of answering directly Raven reached for his bagpack, retrieving an item that he tossed at Methos as they stopped. Methos grabbed and examined it. It was a driver’s licence. Name: Richard Raven Andara, born December the 31st, 1987 in Belfast. The photograph on the licence matched Raven exactly, he had not changed since this was taken. Methos handed it back. “Sorry, you don’t look it.”
Raven nodded. “I know, I’m hearing that all the time.” All of sudden his head flew back and his eyes became narrow. “I’ll better stay with the car, something’s wrong.” He said.
Methos felt it too, two quickenings nearby. Not too near, but close enough. Had Raven felt them too? He checked the gas level, not enough to get far. “I’ll hurry.” He said while jumping out of the car.
Methos felt them outside the time he left the store. Two Immortals, one of them rather strong. He sighed inwardly, there were slim chances of avoiding a fight. Perhaps he could exploit the fact that he was travelling with a mortal, delaying the inevitable challenge and be vanished before they understood how it had happened. When he strode into the parking lot again, he saw two men, dressed in their usual wide coats standing by the car, chatting with Raven. Raven himself leaned against the car, seemingly relaxed, holding eyecontact with the large of the two. As Methos had nearly reached them, he saw how the face muscular fellow went blank. He turned to his comrade, who was marked by the same expression. “Dreadful place,” he murmured as they turned and walked off.
Methos saw that Raven relaxed, leaning against the car at little more, like tired. “What did they want?” he inquired as calmly as possible.
Raven rolled his eyes. “They were looking for a guy called Methos. I told them we passed a hotel were a greek group was staying one hour ago. Perhaps that’s the place they are looking for.” His voice was hushed, or perhaps he was just tired too.
Methos wasn’t so sure what to think. Either Raven was a very good liar or something very strange had just taken place, for the two other Immortals manned their car and drove off north. Methos suppressed a half smile, if Raven could repeat this little trick now and then, it might be worth travelling together for some time. Whatever the lad was running from, it would certainly less dangerous.
***
Dawn rose, the sky became grey, then the first rusty colours touched the clouds. The hillsides cast long shadows, between which the first light of the sun shone like fire rising from the bottom of the sea. Usually Methos would have enjoyed this glorious sunrise, but he couldn’t. A strange feeling was creeping up to him the more he saw the morning fogs rise from the valley grounds. The fog wasn’t thick or heavy, just thin veils of mist like silk fluttering in the wind, yet it felt cold. Colder than any fog he had seen before. Like something was creeping up at them, watching for them, lurking in the hills. Methos shook his head. Now he started thinking like a damn Celt, having his head full of Myths and Legends from the otherworld. He chided himself. It was fog, cold autumn fog, like it often rose from the bottom of valleys, nothing strange about that. Yet the chilly feeling remained, hovering over them like a cloud. The sunrise touched the mist, colouring the thing layers of fog red and golden. Like fire, or blood.
“Please stop,” Raven’s voice was pressed as he said this. “let me get out.” He reached behind his seat for his scimitar.
Methos did as he was asked. “Is there something…?” he asked, not exactly offering help not denying it either. Something was going on, he could see the tension in Raven’s face. There was fear too, controlled by force of will.
“No,” Raven said. “Just go on as fast as you can. And – if you will – bring my bagpack to Mrs. Winden. Nr. 1, Ashton place, London. But get ouf here – fast!” He left the car, closing the door and gesturing Methos to drive on, while he himself swiftly began to ascend the hill to their left.
Methos halted the car after a few hundred paces, taking a deep breath. He had been offered a clean way out, and he was good in running. Raven had certainly not expected him to care what was chasing after him and even left the delivery of the bagpack completely voluntarily. Methos could drop it or not. He just needed to drive on. To leave and never to look back, like he usually did. But then… he had seen the fear in Raven’s eyes when he left the car, he had felt that tension built for the last hour and… “I may have sunk low, but never that low,” he said gruffly, rising from the driver’s seat he took his sword and headed uphill, where Raven had vanished.
***
Methos had seen many things in his long live, more than anyone on the planet could imagine. He hardly had expected anything unusual when he heard the voices from the other side of the hilltop. A cold voice speaking with the sure contempt of a victor. “You really believed you could take me? Even your father couldn’t and he was thrice as strong as you will ever become.”
“And you ever can dream of becoming,” Raven’s voice was hoarse, reflecting pain and bitter defiance.
“That’s rich, coming from you pup. But I shall show you mercy – I’ll let you share the fate of your dear mother. Let’s see how much of her nature you inherited…” An icy gust of wind rose from the other hillside, followed by a muffled scream and moments later the ground shook violently. Methos fell, rolling some paces, before the was on stable ground again. A painful crackling was the next sound from the other hillside. Methos raised uphill reaching the top within moments. What he saw was unexpected enough to freeze him into his place. The first he saw a lighting, not unlike a quickening, emerging from Raven, who knelt on the ground, shaking from pain. The crackling flash of energy hit another man, who stood some steps afar, Raven’s scimitar in his hand. His hand was still raised as if he had send Raven to his knees with that gesture alone. But when the silver blue lightning hit him cold, he screamed. It wasn’t a scream of a human voice, but a pitched ripping sound that made Methos ears burn in fresh pain. He did not really feel it, for below, the transformation started. Raven’s attacker suddenly lost his human form, becoming more shadowy, black extensions – where they wings or tentacles? – grew from his back, his shoulders and arms. “You forced me out!!” the voice was colder now, cruel and still painful. The face had changed, gone dark, slippery and transformed slowly into a mockery of human features.
Raven had stumbled to his feet, his face a mask of pain and concentration. “We’re not done yet,” he whispered, raising both his hands.
The words that emerged from that distorted mouth were not understood by Methos. He could not understand or translate them, but he felt their cold echo, running like an icy fire through his body. His mind denied even hearing those maddening sounds. Had not five thousand years of discipline kept him up, he’d have run at once, or broken down, or gone mad entirely. Instead he saw, that Raven would not hold out long. Whatever he was doing, it affected the creature, but not enough. Whatever invisible power he focused against his attacker, it would hack him to pieces. Except – it never reached him. Methos had jumped exactly in it’s path. The first thrust of his heavy blade hacked through one of the tentacles – he decided in his mind they were tentacles. Black slime sprayed out of the wound, burning like acid on Methos skin. He evaded a blow by another tentacle with a half turn and delivered a snap-kick against the creatures broad chest, followed by a good hard double slash down at it. The tentacles snapped up, one slashing along Methos arm, the other caught by his blade, the fight had just begun.
Methos could not tell how long it had lasted. Only that it had been a nightmare of tentacles, claws and an ever shifting creature. He was bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his sword’s edge dulled by the creatur’s acid blood and all his body ached from the horrendous presence alone. His greatest success was depriving the creature of Raven’s scimitar. Some time he had taken up that blade and changed to an exhausting, brutal and fast two – handed fighting style using the advantage that two blades were offering him against the tentacles. Somehow the scimitar seemed to hurt the creature deeply. Yet it ended as fast as it had begun, a green light enveloped the creature, that screamed like mad inside. Methos felt his ears bleeding from the torment, but he couldn’t lift his eyes from the green fire that slowly ate away the creature. It burned brighter then faded and left nothing behind. For moments something touched Methos, something cold, not quite like a quickening, but something similar, similar and foreign in the same moment. Silence settled like a blanket on the valley. Only now did Methos realise that the sun had risen.
Ragged breathing mixed with a pained sob behind him. “Never, never like my mother,” Raven’s voice was hoarse, strained, barely recognisable. Methos turned and saw he had collapsed to his knees again, the hands clawed into the heather, shaking. Methos managed to walk the few steps back to him, letting himself fall onto the ground beside the young man. Raven force himself up, even as every movement was marked by utter exhaustion. “I told you to run for it,” he said, his voice still shaky.
“I never was good in following orders,” Methos replied, not the least taken aback. The boy had tried to protect him, ironic as this might be.
He felt Raven’s eyes carefully scanning him. “I thank you and I… I apologise. You shouldn’t have come into any danger.”
Methos felt that many of his smaller wounds were already healing, rising again he offered a hand to Raven. “Let’s get out of here,” he said, helping Raven up.
The younger man shook his head. “No, I’ll just get my bag. And go another way.” His voice got steadier again, even as it still was hoarse. “You take yourself out of this. You should never have fought him.”
Methos kept silent, supporting him until they reached the car. The he suddenly let go, not surprised to see Raven nearly collapse at once, making another fall onto the rocky grounds. The strained movement with which he curled up, lying unmoving for some moments, told Methos plenty about Raven’s condition. He bent down beside him. “You barely can walk, and you can hardly can stand on your own, and you still think of sending me off? You should re-evaluate your plans.” He pointed out.
The ragged breath betrayed how desperately Raven fought to get his body back under control. “I’ll rest here for another hour before hiking on. I don’t want to endanger you more than I already did.” He sat up, raising his knees up, resting his arms atop.
It was easy for Methos to read that gesture. Raven tried to built up a cold, unapproachable pose to make him go. He was not bad at it, but far from an expert. Methos hesitated. Here was his clue, he just needed to take the pretence for real, toss the backpack out of the car and head off. It was exactly what Raven asked and he clearly had some impressive enemies. For what it was worth, Methos would be wise to avoid another run in with shapeshifting creatures that had forgotten that octopi were supposed to live in the deep seas. Still the scholar in him could hardly suppress the curiosity what strange creature this had been, or where it came from. After living for so long he rarely found something he had never heard of before. And there was the matter of the two Immortals who had been somehow brought off the scent by Raven. It might prove a good place of hiding, from them at least. Having come to a decision, he reached out and gently placed a hand on Raven’s shoulder. “The first thing a good warrior needs to learn is when to accept help,” he said.
Raven’s eyes flew open as he looked at Methos again. Astonishment, panic and fear warred inside them, shifting them to a dangerous dark greyish-green. “And what makes you think, that you’ll last through another confrontation?” he asked sharply. “No matter how good you are, you couldn’t have lasted another ten minutes in that fight, and you would have had a hard time in slaying it.”
The move did not come unanticipated. Inwardly Methos sighed, the blasted age of Chivalry had spoiled generations of fighters, he just saw another victim right in front of him. Too exhausted to go on, in more trouble than he could possibly handle, yet stubbornly insisting on protecting others who could very well take care of themselves. “I’m hard to kill,” Methos replied with exactly the right measure of confidence to make it ring true, “and even as what you did was impressive – it really was – you’ll need someone to take care of the monster until you light the fire, next time.”
There it was, the offer was made, as open as Methos could or would given the circumstances. He had been prepared for many reactions, anger, grudging acceptance even as relieved laugh, but not for the watery shine in that green eyes, that lost all their anger. “Please… don’t.” Raven spoke in a hush now. “I can’t take it, not anymore. What you did up there was brave and noble but…”
“Noble? No one accused me of that in a very long time,” Methos interrupted him. The lad’s whole reaction screamed of a history of failures, lost friends and general loneliness. “Look, I have no idea what this… thing was, or where it came from, but I am sure that it wasn’t friendly. There are enemies you can’t face alone.”
Raven rose, staggering and painful, but somewhere inside him he found the strength to stand upright again. “No,” he said. “I can’t accept it, not because of you, but because of me. I’m a coward, I know, and selfish. But whenever one of my family made friends with anyone, there was a price to paid. Not by us, but by them. I don’t want you to die, just because you were brave enough to offer support, or to come to my aid when I was in trouble. I couldn’t just take it to bury another friend.”
He wasn’t even twenty-five, but the way he spoke of fallen friends, belonged to a much older man. Suddenly Methos understood what had intrigued him about Raven from the start – he radiated a level of experience that was rare among mortals. “As I told you – I am hard to kill,” he pointed out. “Like it or not, I won’t leave you here. So you have only two alternatives: you can stand here and argue, or we can go on to London. Nr. 1 Ashton place, wasn’t it?”
He could see that the trick worked at once. Tell a man what alternatives remain to him and he won’t bother checking if there are more and decide on the input you give him. Raven sighed, let got of much of his anger, his shoulders slumped slightly, he caught himself at once, and inhaled deeply. “To London it is, then. And Adam… Thank you.”
Methos smile hid everything he was thinking and still was somewhat genuine. “That’s the spirit. After all – we won the day.” Together they got back into the car and moved on again. Hundred questions were still on Methos mind, but he knew they would find answers, as soon as they reached London. Raven’s exhaustion caught up with him within the hour and he fell asleep. Methos would have loved to do the same, but he would rely on his Immortal stamina to bring them safely to London first.
