Chapter Text
Another incredibly long day. I miss Adam terribly, I want to go home...and this case is breaking my heart. Two weeks tracking this guy, we’re no closer to finding him now than we were then, and I’m a mess. Seven children, between the ages of six and eleven...dear God, one more body may be more than I can take. At least for once Mulder and I are here because of our conventional skills not because of an X-file connection. He’s assisting the profilers and I’m spending most of my time in forensic work. The progress is slow, and the whole team is tired and frustrated. We know that each day that goes by increases the chance of another victim. And where is my emotional detachment, anyway? I’m supposed to be a professional, but I am having the worst time trying to separate myself and not internalize everything about these children and their families.
Have I mentioned how much I miss Adam? We talk every day, and I live for the sound of his voice on the phone, but it’s not enough. I want his arms around me, I want to feel his mouth on my skin, and I want to wake up next to him. Part of me is scared to death at how much I need him, how much I’ve come to rely on him in only four months. The rest of me doesn’t care, I just want to be with him...
~~~~~~~
Amsterdam, the Netherlands
The woman revived with a sharp intake of breath. The first thing she felt was a wave of Immortal presence, and she sobbed. Please God, no more, no more...how many times had she died today? Her head snapped toward the door as it opened, and she tried not to cry out at the sight of her tormentor.
The tall, handsome man grinned at her. "Feeling better, dear Elisabeth?" He put the knife he was holding down on the table and walked towards her. He checked her bonds, ensuring that her hands were still firmly tied to the rope dangling from the ceiling beam. He traced his hand over her long blonde hair and around her face gently, almost affectionately, but his voice was cold and merciless. "Come now, my dear. If you tell me, I will end this and you can join your lover."
Her eyes were bright with pain as she remembered Stephen’s brutal death at the hands of this monster. Unlike her, he could only die once, but it had been slow, painful, and right in front of her. She had loved him so much. They had been together for eight years; a blink of an eye in an Immortal lifetime, but for her, the happiest years in a long time. In all her three hundred years, she had never been more heartbroken than at the sight of his torment. She would have been sorely tempted to do what her torturer asked, if she thought it would save Stephen. But she knew that she could not, that it was over when she failed to protect him, when they awoke as prisoners in this place.
Elisabeth’s natural spirit kicked in, if only briefly. "Go to hell, Coverdell," she spat. His face hardened, and he reached for the dagger, plunging it into her thigh in one swift and brutal movement. She cried out at the pain, willing it away, willing herself to stay conscious, but all the blood she had lost had not yet been replaced, and soon the edges of her vision blurred. Coverdell frowned as she once again went slack in her bonds.
Bloody hell, he thought. She really would endure this over and over to protect the man he sought. It had been six days of repeated cycles of torture and healing, and that was after he had slowly killed her lover before her eyes. Still, she would not break. Well, he wasn’t about to give up, not now, not when he was this close to his goal. A different approach was required, that was all. He wondered how difficult it would be to obtain sodium pentathol in Amsterdam.
~~~~~~~
Washington, D.C.
The man known to the world as Adam Pierson looked up from the exam paper he was grading and glanced out the window. A fine spring day that he should be enjoying, but he wasn’t. His lover was hundreds of miles away, chasing a serial kidnapper and murderer, for heaven’s sake, and he missed her terribly. And worried about her, despite her assurances that she was spending most of her time in the lab and at crime scenes rather than chasing the bastard. He was buried deep under Greek and Coptic essays, and the mere thought of reading the term papers from his grad seminar was completely unbearable at the moment. He had once told Dana that he taught for free, but took his salary in exchange for grading papers and, especially, final exams. He hadn’t been kidding.
C’mon, old man, he chided himself. Life is good, you have a job you enjoy and a beautiful woman whom you adore in your life. Stop brooding because every little minute doesn’t go your way. Deciding that the balmy sunshine of the mid-Atlantic spring might help pull him out of his funk, he snatched a clipboard off the shelf, attached a pile of Greek essays to it, and headed for the door. He could just as easily grade the damned things on the other side of the window.
~~~~~~~
Amsterdam
She was slack in her bonds, her entire world a fuzzy pink haze. The pain had gone away, replaced by a pleasant, almost blissful feeling on the surface, belied by a raging war in her soul, trying, trying so hard to resist...
Coverdell smiled. He had found the right dosage; she was coherent yet thoroughly under. He approached her, again stroking the long blonde hair that had once been soft and thick, and was now oily with perspiration and dirt.
"Come now, dear Elisabeth...let’s try this again. What color are the walls in this room?"
Resist, her soul screamed. Resist with all that you are, do not betray him...tell him that the walls are green. The walls are green, green, green... "Wh...white." she answered, the words slightly slurred. The scream inside her quieted, acknowledging defeat at long last.
He smiled again. "Very good, dear Elisabeth. I am so pleased." She smiled dreamily in response. "Now...let’s talk about Matthew."
"Matthew..." Matthew, I love you so much...
"Yes, Matthew. When was the last time you saw him?"
Matthew...I’m so sorry... "About...ten years ago."
"And where did you see him?"
"Paris. Lovely Paris."
Coverdell smiled, certain that she was telling the truth. "What name was he using in Paris?" She paused, and frowned. He tightened angrily, refusing to let her consider resistance. He forced himself to soften his voice. "Just tell me his name, Elisabeth, and this will all be over..."
Over...she so wanted this to be over. Matthew, please forgive me, my love, my dearest friend. "Adam..." her voice was dreamy, slurred. "His name was Adam Pierson..."
Coverdell smiled triumphantly. His prey had eluded him for three hundred years, but now he knew the name he was using just a decade ago. He could, he would, find him now. Matthew would pay, as Elisabeth had, perhaps even more painfully. First, he would keep his promise to this wretched bitch and end her misery. He went to get his sword.
Her vision was blurred and she could no longer see clearly, whether it was the drugs or her own tears she did not know. Elisabeth knew at a subconscious level that her life was over, that her words had signed her own death warrant. She sobbed, struggling in her bonds when she heard him reenter the room. Matthew... She died moments later, hating herself for her betrayal; her last thought the bitter regret that she would be responsible for his death, too.
~~~~~~~
Washington, D.C.
One week later
Methos was sprawled across his sofa, slogging through term papers, when he felt the tingle of Immortal presence. He wasn’t expecting anyone. He stood, and walked toward the door, stopping to pick up his sword. A firm knock was quickly followed by a familiar, muffled voice. "Adam, it’s me." He opened the door to admit the Highlander, who smiled and dropped his duffel bag and sword case in the entryway.
"MacLeod...it’s nice to see you, but what the hell are you doing here?" he asked, relaxing his sword arm and examining his visitor with a practiced gaze.
MacLeod shrugged noncommittally. "Paris in June, who needs it. Got a bit restless, just thought I’d come see a friend." He looked around. "Is Dana here?"
Methos looked at him suspiciously, one eyebrow raised. "No, she’s not, and you’d think in four hundred years you would have learned to lie a bit more convincingly, MacLeod. What’s going on?"
Duncan dropped the pretense that he had flown in from Paris for a casual visit. "How about a drink, and I’ll tell you."
Methos regained his manners, realizing that MacLeod had just flown three thousand miles to see him, and that he was probably tired and jet-lagged. He laid down his broadsword and went into the kitchen. "Sorry, Mac...make yourself at home, and I’ll see if there’s any Scotch left from your last visit."
MacLeod shrugged out of his lightweight spring duster, and settled on the couch. "So, Dana busy tonight?" He called to Methos through the partition in the kitchen counter.
"No, she’s out of town...Atlanta, now, I think, working a case. She’s been away almost three weeks, though she was back overnight once."
"What kind of case?"
"A serial kidnapper and child murderer, Mac. The whole thing’s dreadful...seven kids in four states. It’s wearing on her and I miss her dreadfully." He carried a plate of French bread and cheese along with a glass of scotch for MacLeod and a beer for himself into the living room. He set the food down on the coffee table, handed the glass to MacLeod and sprawled over a wing chair, gazing across the table at his visitor.
Duncan smiled his thanks as he took the glass, his voice sympathetic. "That does sound awful. What a tough job."
Methos nodded. "She has more mental toughness than most thousand year old Immortals I’ve met, Mac." He paused and looked over at his friend. "So, what’s going on." It was more of a statement than a question.
MacLeod looked up at him. "Someone named Paul Coverdell has been asking questions about you in Paris."
Methos didn’t answer him verbally, and MacLeod was unprepared for the violent emotional response the name caused. Although his friend’s face remained placid, MacLeod felt Methos’ reaction through the empathic connection they had shared since the twinned Quickenings of Kronos and Silas. MacLeod had only experienced Methos’ emotions this way once before, and it hadn’t been nearly as intense. And the emotion he was perceiving from Methos surprised him...was it fear? It was...a level of fear approaching terror, and it felt like he had been punched in the chest. "Jesus, Methos...who is this guy?"
Methos didn’t answer. He could tell from Mac’s wide eyes that his friend was picking up his emotions, but at the moment he didn’t care. "Tell me everything," he demanded.
MacLeod took a deep breath, focusing himself in an attempt to block the emotions his friend was projecting. "Joe called yesterday. He said that someone had been asking questions about you around Paris, and had found some of your Watcher acquaintances. They called Joe because they knew you were good friends with him. He found out his name was Coverdell..." Mac paused again as another wave of emotion hit him at the mention of the man’s name. "...because the Watcher of an Immortal who’s head he’d taken a few days ago reported in..."
Methos nearly leapt across the coffee table at him. "WHO?!"
"Methos, what the hell is wrong with you? Who is he?"
"MacLeod, tell me whose head he took! Now!"
"She was living in Amsterdam under the name Lisa de Sie, but according to Joe her real name was Elisabeth van der Merwe..."
Methos sank back on the couch beside MacLeod, and turned away, burying his face in his hands. MacLeod felt a new wave of emotion, but this time it was sorrow, sadness so painful that he felt his heart would break in sympathy. He had never seen Methos react so emotionally to anything, not even Alexa’s death. Suddenly, he realized that Methos’ fear wasn’t for himself, but for the woman he now knew was dead. MacLeod knew this wasn’t the moment for questions; whoever she was, she had been important to his friend. He reached toward his friend’s hunched back, gripping one shoulder tightly, trying to provide support and comfort. The older man shuddered violently, but didn’t make a sound. To MacLeod, the silence was eerie, almost unreal.
Long minutes later, MacLeod stood and went to the kitchen to fetch a glass of Scotch for the older man. He brought the bottle back into the living room with him, and handed Methos a Kleenex from a box on the desk. Methos looked up at him gratefully, accepting both. He wiped his reddened eyes and tossed back the Scotch, pouring another. MacLeod could still feel every emotion flowing through his friend, intense grief deepened by a nearly murderous anger.
MacLeod sat back down on the sofa. "Who was she, Methos?" he asked softly.
Methos looked at him, his eyes red. "She was a good friend, Duncan, a very good friend. She was also my last living student," since you killed Byron, "and my lover for almost thirty years."
"I know it doesn’t help, but I’m truly sorry."
Methos tossed back another glass of scotch. "So am I." He paused. "Coverdell’s going to be truly sorry, once I find him."
MacLeod let that pass for the moment. "I take it the three of you had a history?"
Methos wasn’t really ready to take this stroll down memory lane, but perhaps remembering her would temper the grief. He nodded slowly. "I met Elisabeth in Cape Town, around the end of the seventeenth century..."
~~~~~~~
Cape Town, Africa
1695
Methos smiled and tipped his hat at an attractive pair of ladies as he sauntered through the streets of Cape Town. He had only been here for three months, yet he had already decided that he liked it enough to stay for awhile. Esthetically, it was one of the prettiest spots he had seen in a long while. Majestic Table Mountain dominated the landscape, looming high above the seaside village. The town itself was small, but it seemed to be growing every day. Founded just forty years earlier as a port for the East India Company, Cape Town was quickly becoming a major way station on the nautical trade route between Europe and China.
Methos had established himself here as "Dr. Matthew Benjamin." Despite the wariness of the Dutch settlers toward outsiders, he had quickly found himself embraced by the community, which was in desperate need of another doctor. He had located quarters for himself in the central part of town, working in the two front rooms and living in the large kitchen and small bedroom located at the rear of the building. As often as not, he would be away from the office, riding into the surrounding countryside on house visits, doing everything from delivering babies to treating those too ill or injured to come into town. The community had also absorbed him into their social life, especially once they learned he spoke fluent Dutch, and he usually enjoyed dinner as the guest of one household or another several times a week. He sometimes found himself turning down invitations just to reserve some time to himself.
He walked back toward the office, enjoying the warm January sunshine. He wasn’t sure he’d ever be used to the reversed seasons, but he wasn’t about to question the good weather. Methos approached his building, the presence of a wagon in front with the horses still hitched indicating that someone was waiting inside for him. As he hurried up the steps, he stopped dead in his tracks, feeling the faint signature of a pre-Immortal. He pushed open the door to find two people in his waiting room.
A young, blonde woman, emanating the signature he’d felt moments earlier, stood as he entered. "Oh, doctor, I’m so glad your back...my father..."
Methos walked towards the m`an who was sprawled on a waiting bench, obviously in pain. His foot was wrapped in rags, bleeding and injured. "Help me get him inside," he said to the girl.
Together, they brought the older man into the examining room, and settled him on the table. Methos dropped onto a low stool and unwrapped the foot, examining it. He looked at his visitors and smiled reassuringly. "I’m Dr. Benjamin, by the way."
"Oh, I’m sorry," the girl said. "I didn’t mean to be rude, I was just worried..."
"I understand." He smiled at her before returning his attention to his patient. Elisabeth, from his cursory assessment, was perhaps nineteen or twenty years old, and extremely beautiful. A slim, delicate build, beautiful blue eyes set off by pale skin, and long, blonde hair that flowed to her waist, restrained by a ribbon. "What’s your name?"
"Oh, I’m sorry," she said again, blushing. "I’m Elisabeth van der Merwe, and this is my father, Pieter." She was holding the old man’s hand.
After cleaning the blood away, Methos probed the foot gently. "Can you tell me what happened, Mr. van der Merwe?" he asked. He wanted to gauge the effects of the blood loss on his patient as much as he wanted to hear the story.
"Ach," said the man. "I fell off a ladder, cut my foot on an axe left under it." Like many of the Dutch farmers, Mr. van der Merwe appeared to be a man of few words.
Methos continued his gentle examination. "It doesn’t seem to be broken...please tell me if this hurts." The farmer shook his head. Methos nodded and looked at Elisabeth. "I’m going to bind it up, it’s a sprain, but it’s very important that he stay off it for a few days."
She nodded. "I’ll try..."
He looked at his patient, effecting a stern expression. "Mr. van der Merwe, it’s very important that you mind what I’m telling you, or it will become worse and you’ll be kept off it for more than a few days. Understand?"
"Yes, Doctor."
Methos looked at Elisabeth. "Can you and your mother manage with him in bed for a few days?"
She dropped her eyes. "It’s only me and my father, doctor, but yes, I’ll manage."
He finished binding the wound, regretting that he had raised an obviously difficult topic. "Well, I’ll look in on you, all right? Do you have someone who can help you get him in the house when you get home?"
She nodded, and went to her father’s side to help him stand. Methos helped them outside to their wagon, settling the farmer in the back. She sat in the driver’s seat, and smiled at him. "Thank you for your help, doctor."
"My pleasure, Miss van der Merwe. I’ll check in on you tomorrow." He asked for and received directions to their farm, and watched as she pulled away, ably directing the horses.
~~~~~~~
"Even though I knew what she was, what she would be, I can’t deny that I was attracted to her from that first day. She was so beautiful, open, and high-spirited." He paused, gazing into his glass. The phone rang, shaking him out of his reverie. MacLeod was closer, and he looked at Methos questioningly. He nodded, and MacLeod reached over to answer.
"Hello?" He paused to listen, looking over at his friend as he recognized the caller. "Hi, Dana, it’s Duncan MacLeod." Methos looked up. "No, he wasn’t expecting me either...I’m well, and you? I hear you’re busy..." He listened a moment. "Adam’s dying to talk to you. One second." He handed the phone to his friend.
"Hello, sweet lady...yes, it’s lovely to have friends who just drop in from Paris, isn’t it? Where are you?" He paused, listening, and dropped his eyes. "I’m so sorry, love...Jacksonville? Okay, one second..." He looked around for a pen and something to write on. "Go ahead...got it." He dropped the paper and pen on the table. "I know, I miss you terribly...no, I’m all right. Duncan brought some bad news about an old friend, is all." He paused again. "Yes, a very old friend. Nothing for you to worry about...just focus on your case, solve it and come home...okay. I’ll call you tomorrow, then. Be careful...love you."
Methos pushed the "off" button and handed the phone back to MacLeod. "There was another murder. Florida." He sighed. "Damn, I miss her."
"She’s doing important work, Methos."
"I know it, Mac. But it doesn’t make the separation any easier."
MacLeod nodded in agreement, recalling how much missed Tessa every time they were separated for even a few days. He stared into his glass, letting the loss engulf him for a moment before turning his attention back to his friend. "So, what happened after you met Elisabeth?"
Methos leaned back into the sofa, his eyes far away as he remembered.