© 1999

Prologue
2045 CE
Paris, France

The gallery was small, but Matthew Thomas was just starting out, and small was better then nothing at all. The paintings on the walls were good, showing the promise of young, little known artists. His mission today was to convince the owner that his work belonged there too.

"Mr. Thomas," the owner greeted him with forced warmth. Laura Asselin was an older woman, impeccably dressed in the top fashions of the day. She looked down at him over the wire rims of her glasses, and though she was almost a foot shorter than him, Matthew actually felt intimidated. "You have the prints, no?" she asked.

"I do," he answered in American-accented French. He handed over his portfolio, and sat down as she perused the pictures.

She looked carefully at each of the five prints he had brought along. Finally, settling on one, she handed it to him. "What do you call this?" she asked.

Matthew looked down at the painting. It was of a street, with many people walking there. A closer inspection revealed the people to be dressed in costumes from a wide variety of historical periods. "It's called Eimazde," he said softly.

"I like this," she said. "The costumes are quite interesting. What do they mean?"

Matthew looked up from the print in his lap. "They are me," he said.

Laura shivered. The look Matthew had given her as he uttered those words was ancient. Though she didn't know it, she had seen someone else in his eyes. For just a moment, Methos, the oldest living Immortal, had shown his true face.

Ian Graham was laid to rest in a small, quiet graveyard in the Californian town where he had lived for ten years. There were trees all around, and a faint hint of the ocean wafted in on the breeze. Most of the mourners had left, but Katharine, the woman most knew as his daughter, still stood near the casket. She placed the roses she had held throughout the service on the smooth wood and stepped back. "Ian, I'll never forget you," she whispered before she turned away. "I will always love you."

At the end of the row, a dark-haired man waited for her. She approached his car slowly, savoring the silence of the cemetery. "Katie, are you ready to go?" he asked when she was in earshot.

She looked up at him sharply. "Call me Sarah. Katie stays with Ian."

Duncan Macleod nodded and held open the car door for Sarah O'Neill.

"I'll miss him," she said as they pulled out onto the road.

Mac smiled at his younger friend. "He was a good man."

"He was," she agreed softly. They rode in a comfortable silence for a little longer. "Thanks for coming," Sarah said. "I really appreciate you being here."

Mac gave her another sad smile. "It's no problem. I've lost a few special people in my time. I couldn't let you go through this alone."

"Two years we've known he was dying, but it still seems like he'll be back at the house when I get there," she said wistfully.

"I know," Duncan agreed quietly before changing the subject. "How much longer until you're done packing up?"

"I'll probably be here another week or so," she answered.

"Where are you heading?"

"I'm going home," she said. "I still have my house in Paris, and I need to go back there. I need to figure who I am again."

Zara Pierson came to Paris in the spring. An attractive young woman in her twenties, she charmed her way through customs so that they didn't even notice the antique sword she carried in a wooden case. Once outside the airport, she quickly flagged down a taxi and gave the driver an address in one of the quieter sections of the city.

The cab driver was an older man who obviously loved to talk, especially to such a pretty young woman. "Is this your first trip to Paris?" he asked in passable English.

"No," Zara answered. "I was here once before, when I was a lot younger."

"You're here as a tourist then?"

"No, my aunt left me her house. I thought it would be wonderful to live in Paris."

They pulled up outside her destination, and Zara quickly hopped out and paid the driver. She stared at the building for a moment before actually going in. The key didn't immediately fit into the lock, but she had expected that. With a shove, the door opened, and she stepped into the living room.

The door closed behind her, and Zara Pierson dissolved into Sarah O'Neill. She looked around the living room of the home where she had grown up. The furniture was rearranged, the consequence of having a moving company retrieve her things from storage, but the room was still familiar.

"I'm home," she said softly, testing the word. "Home." She smiled. Here, she had learned languages with her father. Here, she had mourned his death and forged ahead with her life. Here, she had lived her life as a Watcher. She had left this place to begin a new life as an Immortal. It only seemed fitting that she should return now. Ian was gone, and she needed to start life anew.

Methos dropped the last box onto his new living room floor and sprawled on his couch with a sigh of relief. He'd always hated moving. It probably had something to do with the fact that he had done it many times in his long life, and not always under the best of circumstances.

Madame Asselin had agreed to show his paintings, and he'd taken it as a good excuse to return to Paris. He'd always liked the city, and fifty years had done a lot to erase the traumas of his last stay there.

Hunger gradually worked its way into the front of his mind, and with another sigh, he got up to wonder the streets. The map in his mind was more than fifty years old, and he knew he'd have to search to find some decent food.

Almost unconsciously, he wandered into the section of the city where he had last lived. Time had been kind, and the buildings were relatively unchanged. He relaxed, enjoying the sense of familiarity.

He froze when he suddenly felt the presence of an Immortal. His range was probably the greatest of any of his kind, so he felt her before she felt him. He ducked into an alley and watched as she entered a familiar building.

He recognized the building first, and that allowed him to recognize her. She'd cut her hair, and done something to take the curl out. Her clothes were different too, more form-fitting and fashionable than what she had worn in her days as a student, when he had seen her last.

He could have followed her, but he didn't. Sarah'd walked out of his life years ago, and he didn't know if she wanted to see him again. He'd never tried to find her, telling himself that it was better for him to leave her behind. He'd lost those he cared about before. Still, he missed her.

As soon as she was inside, Methos left the alley and headed home. He found he wasn't feeling hungry anymore.

Sarah began to look for a job a week after she arrived in Paris. She'd been teaching for the past fifty years, and decided it was time for something different. She happened upon the job at the University library by accident. She went there after a fruitless day of searching to relax with some books, and discovered that there was an opening in the back office. It was nothing glamorous, just processing and fixing books, and shelving them on occasion, but it was something to do, and she happily accepted the job when it was offered to her two days later.

It only took her a few days to find the language section, and she decided to scope it out one day during her lunch hour. It was near the back of the library, on an upper floor, and there were very few people there. She found an old Breton grammar she had never seen before, and sat down at a table to have a look. There was an old man sitting at the other side of the table, looking at an old manuscript. He gave her a friendly smile as she sat down.

"Good afternoon," she said.

"Weighty reading you have there," he replied in a voice creaky with age.

Sarah dismissed that idea with a wave of her hand. "It's nothing, really. I used to study this language, a while ago."

"You look too young to have studied it a while ago," he said with a twinkle in his eye.

"They say time's relative," she answered with a grin.

"What's your name, young lady?"

"Zara Pierson," she answered, repressing a grin at being called a young lady. She was probably the same age as he was.

He gave her a knowing smile. "Pierson. That was the man you were living with before you left Paris. Isn't that right, Zara? Or should I call you Sarah? Any linguist worth her salt would know that they're the same name."

Her eyes abruptly narrowed. "Who are you?" she asked, the slight English accent she had effected for her new identity dropping away.

He turned his left hand over so that the top of a blue tattoo peaked out of his sleeve. "I'm Giles. Do you remember me?"

A poker game at Joe's bar flashed through Sarah's mind. Giles had been in her class at the Watcher Academy. "Giles? How is Marguerite? And your children? You must be a grandfather by now!"

"A great-grandfather," he supplied proudly.

"So what brings you here?" she asked. "The non-interference oath was still in effect last I knew."

"When I heard you were back in Paris I had to come see for myself," he replied. "It was quite a shock when you turned up twenty years ago as an Immortal. Though I admit, your reasons for leaving are now more apparent."

Sarah sighed. "I took my first head and I got scared. Leaving was hard." There were many reasons for that, but she didn't elaborate.

"So you really are the age you claim? There are those who thought you joined to hunt other Immortals," Giles commented.

"No, nothing like that. I just wanted to learn about history through their eyes. And now I am."

"It makes me feel old to see you so young," he said.

"You're younger than me, Giles. Think how I feel."

He gave her a sympathetic smile. "Don't lose your head, Sarah O'Neill. Stay alive and remember me." He stood and walked slowly, but steadily, away.

Sarah closed her book and spent the rest of her lunch hour wondering if she would ever lose her ghosts in Paris.

Methos was buying art supplies when he was startled by an Immortal buzz. Another man grinned at him through the storefront window. Methos gathered up his purchases and stepped outside.

The newcomer looked him up and down before introducing himself. "Sergei Petrov."

"Pleased to meet you," Methos replied with a less than enthusiastic tone.

"We must meet privately," Petrov said with a leering grin. "Luxembourg Gardens, tonight."

Methos was about to protest when a third Immortal presence registered on his senses. Petrov looked around the street, and Methos took the opportunity to slip away. He was almost gone when he spotted the new arrival. It was Sarah.

She immediately crossed the street when she realized where the other Immortal she had sensed was. He was angry, which puzzled her.

"Where did he go?" he grumbled as he looked up and down the street.

"Who?" Sarah said.

"No matter. I am Sergei Petrov."

"Sarah O'Neill."

"Luxembourg Gardens, 6:00."

"I'm not looking for a fight," Sarah immediately protested.

"I am. Be there."

"Fine," she acquiesced, and they parted.