© 1998

2931 AD

Hannah stepped out of the store front in the old section of the city. He was on the move again. She sighed and hurried after him.

"Looks like he's heading to the book store," she said softly. The small chip implanted in her shoulder would record her words and send them to her personal computer.

The book store was soon visible, a block away. It was his favorite shop, an anachronism housing more anachronisms. She'd never read an actual book herself. Technology brought everything to a computer screen. Stores were a novelty, with online ordering available for everything.

Hannah peaked inside the store as she passed the window. His favorite chair was empty. He wasn't there. She kept walking, outwardly calm, but inwardly panicking. Where had he gone?

She turned the next corner, intending to backtrack and find him. Instead, she nearly walked into him. He stood directly in her path, a tall, lean man with dark hair and green-gold eyes. His hands were in the pockets of his long black coat. He regarded her with open amusement. "Miss Dawson, I presume?"

Her mouth dropped open in shock for just a moment before she recovered. "How do you know my name?" she asked warily.

He smiled. "Most of my Watchers for the past thousand years have been Dawsons."

"Watchers?" she hedged instinctively. "I'm afraid I don't know what you mean."

The smiling eyes darkened slightly, and she was reminded of whom she faced. "So you don't follow us around with notepads or tape recorders anymore. You're still a Watcher, and I've had a long time to see how you work."

Hannah drew herself up, pulling in her dignity. "Well, then I suppose I'll leave. I have work to do." She turned to walk away, but he reached out and grabbed her arm.

"Please don't go." There was a slight pleading note to his voice, and she turned back to him. His face had softened again, and he looked almost vulnerable. "I don't even know your first name."

"Hannah."

"Do you know who Joe Dawson was, Hannah?"

She nodded no.

"You have his eyes." His own eyes were soft at the memory. "He lived about a thousand years ago. He was Duncan Macleod's Watcher. You have heard of him, I hope."

Hannah shuffled through her memory. "He died about five years ago."

"Yeah. What a waste," her companion commented bitterly. "Mac found out my secret long ago, and shared it with Joe. Joe was the one who reported a new Immortal named Adam Pierson to the Watchers. I've had his descendants trailing me ever since. Why is that, Hannah?"

Hannah stared at the ground, deliberately avoiding his gaze. "He passed on your secret. He never told the other Watchers, but he told us. I know your real name, Methos." She looked up. The look on his face was nearly enough to break her heart. Involuntarily, she reached out a hand to him.

He took the hand with a sigh. "I'm lonely, Hannah. You are the only person alive who knows my name."

Within a year, Hannah had moved in with Methos. He had been more concerned with the reaction of the other Watchers than she was. There weren't many them left. The Gathering was far advanced, and there simply wasn't the need for the large organization that had once existed. Hannah had met only two other Watchers in her life, and she made all her reports to a large central computer that stored all the records of every Watcher that had ever lived. There was no one to care if she moved in with her assignment. They'd let the rules slip with the coming of the Gathering.

Methos completely refused to use Hannah's Watcher connections. "I've already lost every friend I ever had. I don't care anymore. I don't want to know what's happening. Someone will find me eventually. That's all I need to know."

They moved out to the country not long after that. In the city, they were constantly under surveillance. Everyone lived a public life in the thirtieth century. Methos wanted to train more with his sword, and he wanted to be able to work away from prying eyes. Only a move to the deep country would accomplish that.

The day they left, Hannah received a report that there were only five Immortals left.

Life in the forest was simple, and a source of constant amazement for Hannah. Methos taught her long forgotten skills that made their cabin in the woods more of a home than what they had left behind in the great sterile city. She grew to love the wilderness, and him as well. He did sword work almost everyday, and she marveled at his strength.

They had lived there two years when she learned that the Prize was near. Their conversations became strained. He didn't want to hear what she could tell him, and she wanted nothing more then to give him the terrible knowledge she carried.

It was a beautiful spring day when Methos felt a sensation he had not felt in several years. He reached for the sword that was never far away and turned to Hannah, who was stacking wood for their fireplace.

She saw the sword and immediately knew what was about to happen. "I'll be nearby, watching," she said softly. "I love you."

"I love you," he answered as he turned and walked to the clearing in front of the cabin. An ominous crack of thunder sounded in the distance.

It was another man who waited in the clearing. He was big and burly, with bushy dark hair and beard. His broadsword was held at ready. "I am Tariq," he proclaimed in a rumbling bass. "You are the only one who stands between me and the Prize."

"I know you," Methos said calmly. "You killed the man who should have won."

"You don't want it?" Tariq asked incredulously.

"No, I don't. I've lived too long to want this."

"Who are you?"

"I am Methos. You say we are the last. Let's get on with this."

It was an extraordinary fight. Hannah had seen video of hundreds of others, and none had been like this. These were the last two Immortals, and they fought with centuries of experience. She had seen Methos practice, but it was another thing to see him in an actual fight. She knew now how he had survived so long. Sword work was a part of it, but most of it was thought. He anticipated Tariq's moves, and countered them instinctively.

The fight was incredibly long. She was beginning to think it would last forever when the sun flashed off an arcing sword and a head went flying.

Tariq's body toppled over as a huge bolt of lightning flashed across the sky.

Methos stared at the body of his fallen opponent with amazement. He was truly the last. Thick tendrils of mist crawled out from the body, reaching for him. It was the calm before the storm.

Lightning hit him, and he screamed with agony. Bolt upon bolt rained down on him, and they lifted him into the air with their power. Waves of energy crawled across his skin. The pain was incredible. A huge wind came up, buffeting him as he hung in the center of the clearing. It howled in his ears, until he thought he would go deaf. When he could take no more, there was suddenly silence.

He opened his eyes cautiously. The forest and the cabin were gone. He hung suspended in a void, a vast expanse of nothing.

"You have won, Matos. What do you want for your Prize?" The voice flowed out of the void, coming at him from all directions.

"Who are you?" he cast out into the nothingness.

"I am," was the calm answer.

Methos laughed in spite of himself. "Where's the burning bush?"

"I am not God, Matos. We are all gods. I was once like you, and you will one day be like me."

"What are you talking about?"

"What do you want for your prize?" the voice repeated, ignoring his question. "You may have anything."

Methos considered that for a moment. Visions of all the people he had lost ran through his mind. His wives, mortal friends and loves, and those Immortals that he had been close to in his long life. Kronos, Silas, Caspian, Cassandra, Darius, Macleod . . . the list was endless.

"I can have anything?"

"Anything," the voice affirmed.

Methos took a very deep breath. "I want to know why."

The voice was silent for a long time. "That is your request?"

"Yes, damn it! I want to know why I have been alive for six thousand years while everyone I have ever loved has died. Why?"

"No one ever dies, Matos."

"That's not my name," he snapped.

"It is, you've just forgotten. No one dies, Matos. Every soul is reborn until it learns the lessons of this world and moves on, as I have done. You and the other Immortals were made to see what would happen if a soul inhabited a body for more than the usual time."

"So we're a test?" he asked bitterly. "All my existence has been a test?"

"No, you were a learning experience. You have gained so much in your life time. You have a continuity that the others will never have. You have learned so much."

"I have learned nothing," he declared sorrowfully.

"No, you have done well, and your part is over, if you choose."

"You mean I can leave this existence? I can move on?"

"Yes, you do not need to return to flesh, if you wish it."

Methos looked down at the sword that was still miraculously clasped in his hands. To not be a slave to life- it was everything he had ever dreamed of. But something wasn't right.

"You say no one ever truly dies?" he cast out.

"This is true."

"Then everyone I love is still here in some form."

"A few have moved on, but most are still here."

He stared at his sword a moment before rushing on. "Could I stay, and find them again?"

The presence laughed. "I knew you would choose this. You have lived long, but you love life. You may stay if you wish."

"Would I die now, or could I grow old?"

"It's your choice. Are you sure you want to grow old? It's not always a pleasant experience."

"But it's an experience I have never had. I want to grow old and die."

"Then you shall, Matos."

Methos woke up to find Hannah crouched down beside him, holding his hand and stroking his face. She smiled with relief when she saw his eyes open. "Methos, are you all right?"

He sat up slowly. "I'm fine," he said with a sense of growing joy.

She smiled at him, not sharing his knowledge, but happy nonetheless. "What happened?" she asked.

"I understand now."

"You have the Prize?" Her eyes went wide, and in that movement he saw something. The lift of her eyebrows, that was purely his beloved Alexa. The quirk of her lips, that was Anya. Two women born thousands of years apart, in the body of yet another.

"We are all old souls," he said in awe, only half aloud.

"What?"

"I can't explain this yet, Hannah, but I will."

Once again, she gave him Anya's sunny smile before her face turned serious again. "We have to bury him," she said, motioning to Tariq's body.

Methos nodded, and stood to help her. Together, they dug a grave in the far side of the clearing. When they had laid his body there, Methos went back for his sword, to bury it with him.

As he laid the sword with Tariq, Methos caught the edge of the blade with his hand. He dropped it with a cry. It was a small wound, but it hurt. Hannah pulled the hand to her.

"It's not healing. What's wrong?" she asked frantically.

"Nothing's wrong, Hannah. This is my Prize. I get to grow old with you."

"Your prize is to die?" She was clearly puzzled.

Methos took both her hands in his and stared deep into her eyes. "We never die, Hannah. We are all Immortal."

This story was almost entirely written during one of the incredible thunderstorms that Florida manages to produce in the summer. It was also August, and I was going through complete computer withdrawal, so apologies for my overly philosophical ramblings.