© 1997

I wrote this story after Archangel, but before the sixth season, so Mac's still kicking around Paris in this universe.

Manx

Sarah O'Neill measured the important events of her life with languages. Age five was Manx. That was the year her father, a respected linguist specializing in extinct languages, let his bright little daughter join in the fun of deciphering the strange symbols in old manuscripts. Sarah mastered Manx even before she could read the English her parents spoke at home, or the French she heard on the streets of Paris, where they lived.

Age six was Irish, and she had learned the very similar Scottish Gaelic by the time she was seven. That was the year her mother died in a car accident. Her father was never quite the same after that day. He threw himself into his work, and Sarah worked right alongside him, as it was now one of the few ways to gain his attention. By the time she was eight, she had mastered translating Ogham marks into the dialect of the Cumbrians. When she was nine, she learned the Breton that shared so much with the Celtic languages and French that she already knew. That was the year she learned she was adopted, though her father assured her that he loved her no matter what.

By the time Sarah had turned ten, she moved to studying on her own, to discovering the languages that were interesting to her. Aramaic stood for thirteen, when her father stopped teaching her at home by himself, and let her attend a real school with other children. Sanskrit was the language of her first boyfriend when she was fifteen. Hungarian stood for their breakup the next year, which was devastating in the way that only a first love can be. It was Basque that she was studying when she was eighteen, when her father died of a massive heart attack.

With that blow, Sarah found herself relatively alone, an American teenager in Paris. Her parents had no other family, so a few old friends of her parents kept occasional tabs on her, but she suddenly faced a life of her own choosing. She entered University and quickly impressed already the established linguists by the depth of her knowledge. By the time she graduated, her grasp of ancient languages and the fact she was William O'Neill's daughter had gained her a small following of people in need of scholarly translations. As she entered graduate school, she was able to support herself with a small, but lucrative business, based on those translations. She became known for her competence and discretion.

Sumerian Cuneiform was the language of the year that Sarah turned twenty-four. As it turned out, it was probably the most important language she would ever learn.

Joe Dawson’s trip to Headquarters was quite accidental. His computer was down, and he needed to check up on a few of the recent Immortal arrivals in town. On the way out, he ran into an old friend of his who worked in research. Owen had a problem. He’d found a book that he was positive was one of Methos' journals. Unfortunately, the book, which was apparently written in Manx, was just different enough to be untranslatable.

"We lost our Celtic language specialist last year," Owen said, clearly frustrated by his inability to find a way to the knowledge contained in the book. "No one can figure out what it says in here. We have just enough to know we want more."

Joe took the book and flipped carefully through a few pages. "Well, looks like a bunch of gibberish to me," he said with a grin that faded as an idea took shape in his mind. "I may be able to find someone to translate it," he said thoughtfully. "I remember an ancient language scholar who did some work for us a few years ago. He had a thing for Celtic languages. Mind if I take it?"

"Go ahead," Owen said, his voice filled with disgust. "I certainly can't do anything else with it."

Joe left Headquarters with the book. His next stop was Duncan Macleod's barge.

Macleod was sharpening his sword when Joe arrived and showed him the mysterious book.

"What are you going to do with it?" Macleod asked.

"I'm going to find someone to translate it," Joe answered with a shrug. "Owen admitted he wasn't sure if it is part of Methos' journals. It would be nice to figure it out."

"If it is the old man's journal, he'll be a little irked if he finds out you've been reading it," Mac commented with a faint smile.

"Yeah, well, tough. He can deal, and that's if he finds out at all," Joe replied with a bit of asperity. "And anyway, aren't you at all curious about the parts of his life that he's edited out from us? I shudder to think what Adam erased from his records while he was on the Methos Chronicles. This book could help explain him a bit. He owes us.” There was an evil light in his eyes.

"As if anything could explain Methos," Duncan snorted derisively. "Where are you going to find a translator outside of the Watchers who will translate it and ask no questions?"

Joe shrugged nonchalantly. "There was a man who ran a long-standing business in translations of texts in old languages. He did some work for us before Adam joined. He died a few years back, but his daughter still has the business. She has excellent references from the University. Anyway, I'll tell her it's some crack pot religious text that someone wants for research. It'll be fine."

Macleod shook his head. "Well, good luck to you," he said finally. "I think you'll need it."

"Thanks," Joe said drily as he left.

The next day, Joe found himself outside a small shop front not far from the bookstore Adam Pierson had inherited from his friend Don Salzar. A young woman was the only person in the cluttered office. She turned toward the door as he entered, her arms full of books.

"What can I do for you today?" she asked, her voice all business. She was a fairly ordinary girl, tall and thin, with dark blond hair and deep brown eyes. She was dressed conservatively in a long, gray wool skirt and white sweater.

"I'm looking for Sarah O'Neill," Joe answered.

"That would be me," the girl said as she placed the load of books on the table. She smiled and stuck her hand out.

Joe was a bit surprised. He had expected someone a bit older, but if his sources thought her adequate, she certainly must be. "You look a bit young to be an ancient language expert," he said with a small smile.

"I know," Sarah commented with a rueful grin. "I started learning when I was very young. It was like a game, and young children can absorb languages much better than adults, so it was a very valuable game."

"Must have been," Joe commented.

"So what can I help you with today?" Sarah asked.

Joe brought out the battered leather-covered book and handed it to her. "Your father had done some translations for us a few years back, so I thought I'd keep this in the family. One of our researchers found this. It appears to be written in Manx, but the dialect isn't one that any of us recognize," he stated.

"I'll see what I can do. The handwriting's a bit strange. It might take me a good couple of weeks to decipher it. If I take it home tonight and have a look at it, I can call you with a more accurate time estimate tomorrow," she said after a silent moment of appraisal. "Do you have any idea what's in here? It might help me understand it better if I have some context."

Joe nodded. "My group researches ancient cultures, and that may be some old mythology." He paused a moment and went on. "We don't want it leaking out to other groups. It could potentially bring some intense debate." :Okay, most people probably wouldn't give a damn over the contents, but you really never know,: he added silently in his head. "I need to know you won't divulge this to anyone else."

"I never share my translations," she said briskly.

"Great," Joe said. "Please get back to me for the time and the price as soon as you can."

"I will," Sarah promised, and he gave her his card and left.

Business was slow that day, so Sarah took out the mysterious mythology and prepared to translate. It had been ages since she had had something interesting to work on. Ancient records of the activities of governments might pay the bills, but they were dreadfully boring. Sarah always enjoyed the odd mythologies or pieces of literature that came her way. This book was no different. The dialect turned out to be an obscure one she had once studied, and she was quickly able to decipher enough to get the main gist of the words. Within moments, she was hooked.

When Sarah finally looked up from her notes from the text, she was surprised to see that the sun had gone down, and it was quite late. Her stomach was loudly complaining from a lack of supper. She didn't remember turning on the lights. She'd been so caught up in the journal of the Immortal Methos that she had worked on it until 10:00. It was possibly the best book of legends she had ever come across. There was a human quality that she had never seen before in any myths. This man seemed real to her, even though his existence was impossible. There were some parts that puzzled her. The journal began abruptly with the death of Methos' wife, and she needed to read what had happened before that to understand some of the context. There was also a strange mixing in of words from a wide variety of languages, as if the author had traveled widely. What was strange was that the languages used were separated by time enough that no one could have learned them all, even through a lifetime of travel. Well, the guy was supposed to be immortal, she reminded herself with a laugh. She carefully put the book, and a few other manuscripts she was working on, into her bag and closed up the shop to go home.

Sarah lived only two blocks from the shop, and she usually walked there and back. Tonight, she walked quickly, as it was now quite dark. The sound of clashing metal in an alley a block from her flat brought her thoughts from the journal she had been reading back to reality. She had walked past the alley, so she reluctantly turned back to see what was going on. What she saw there stopped her in her tracks.

Two men were fighting, with swords. She flinched as one man was sliced across the chest, and watched with disbelief as he ignored the wound as if it were only a minor irritation. "Holy shit," she said, not even aware the words had left her mouth. She then gasped as Joe Dawson stepped out of the shadows.

"Come here," he whispered fiercely, practically pulling her back to his former position.

"What are you doing here?" she asked him.

"I'll explain everything when this is over, but I have to watch this now," Joe answered quickly before he turned back to the fight.

Sarah smothered a yelp with one hand as one of the men beat the other down to his knees. "Finish it, Highlander," the loser said. The Highlander raised his sword, and with a swift blow, cut off the man's head. Sarah was too shocked to feel anything, so what happened next was like a surreal dream. The body of the dead man was surrounded by mist, and the mist seemed to reach for the Highlander. He was suddenly hit with an intense lightning storm. Agony and ecstacy fought for control on his face. After a moment, the lightning dispersed, and the man slumped to the ground, exhausted. He drew in a few deep, shuddering breaths before he stood up and staggered out of the alley.

Sarah let out the breath she had not realized she was holding, and turned to Joe. "What the hell was that?" she asked, finally shaking off the shock of what she had seen.

"That was the Quickening," Joe answered calmly.

"Quickening?" A few things from the journal clicked into place in her mind. "That's what that word is. The lightning killed his wife. Methos felt guilty because he indirectly killed his wife by not telling her to stay away from the Quickening. He's real, isn't he? And that man is an Immortal, like Methos."

Joe's face paled, and he nodded an affirmative. "I have to take care of the body," he said. "Come by my bar tomorrow morning, I'll answer all your questions. Is that okay?"

Sarah nodded and left as Joe disappeared down the alley.

It was a long time before she fell asleep that night.

Early the next morning, Sarah found her way to Dawson's bar. What a supposed researcher of ancient culture was doing running a blues bar mystified her.

The bar was closed, but Dawson quickly responded to her knock. He wasn’t alone. A tall man with dark hair and eyes sat at the bar.

"Miss O'Neill, you're here early," he said as she sat down at the bar. "I take it the translation's going well? You seemed to have a good grip on what happened last night."

"I worked on it until about ten minutes before we met last night," Sarah admitted. "It's fascinating. It's written like a journal of a man who's supposed to be immortal.” She paused at her mistake. “Well, I suppose he is Immortal. It was the most real legend I'd ever read, and I guess last night told me why. But why the sword fight? What does there can be only one mean?"

The dark man, who had been watching Sarah intently, turned to Dawson, a troubled expression on his face. She looked at him more closely. She had thought him familiar when she first saw him, but she couldn't quite place him. Now, as she looked straight at him, she recognized him. "You!" she exclaimed. "You were in the alley last night. I saw you . . . "

"I am Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod," the man said with soft intensity. "I was born in Scotland, about four hundred years ago. I'm Immortal."

Sarah's mouth dropped open, but she made no sound.

Joe spoke next. "What you saw last night was a Quickening," he explained.

"We are not completely immortal," Macleod interjected. "There is one way we can die. We can be decapitated. When that happens, the winner receives the Quickening of the loser. We have to fight until there is only one of us left. That one will win the Prize. That's what there can be only one means."

Sarah's eyebrows had gradually crept up toward her hairline. "What's the Prize?"

"We don't know," Mac admitted.

"Interesting. So how do you fit into this, Mr. Dawson?"

"I'm a Watcher. We record the lives of the Immortals. I'm actually Mac's Watcher." He paused a moment and then went on. "We could use your help, Sarah," he said softly. "We need researchers who can understand the ancient languages, and you didn't run away last night. I think you'd do well with us."

The idea immediately caught hold in Sarah’s mind. "I could do research on the Immortals?" she asked. "I could learn more about Methos? I could meet Methos?" That idea definitely appealed to her.

"Yes and no," Joe replied. "We're not supposed to actually be known to the Immortals we Watch. Mac and I are a rather odd case. And meeting Methos is a bit of a trick. He's very elusive. His last Watcher was on his case for about fifteen years and never saw him." Never mind that Methos' last Watcher was the Old Man himself, and he had done a damn good job of keeping people off his trail.

"Then maybe I'll be the one to find him," Sarah said confidently.

"Maybe you will," Joe agreed with a smile.

And with that, Sarah was inducted into the world of the Watchers. Dawson arranged an appointment at headquarters for her, and agreed to drop by her flat the next day to answer the rest of her questions. Sarah left the bar with a slightly stunned but happy look on her face. Her world had just become infinitely more exciting in the course of a day.

Macleod watched her departure, his face still troubled. "Thanks for your help," Joe said. "I'm glad she took that so calmly."

"Yeah, sure," Macleod replied absently, seemingly lost in thought.

"What's wrong?" Joe asked. "Something about Sarah?"

"Nothing's wrong," Macleod said, forcing a smile onto his face. "I think Miss O'Neill will make a fine researcher. You should introduce her to Adam. I think they'd get along quite well. They appear to have quite a lot in common."

"That's a good idea," Joe said, completely missing the odd tone in Mac's voice. "That's provided Adam ever decides to come back to town." Joe rambled on, discussing Methos.

Macleod didn’t hear him. He would need to check his suspicions with another of his kind, but he had the feeling that Sarah O'Neill would make a very interesting Watcher indeed.