Highlander 1. Knight

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

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Chapters

1: Knight  
2: MacLeod  
3: Marshall  
4: Marcellus  
5: Theresa  
6: Methos  
7: Alodia  
8: Deogol  
9: Cergitorix  
10: Ortega  
11: Joe's

* * *

Foreword

I first came up with the idea for this novel a few years ago, while watching _Highlander's_ often-maligned sixth and final season. For my part, I found some (though certainly not all) of the other Immortals introduced in that season very interesting and wanted to see more of them.

This story, then, could be viewed as my version of an episode from that season, and that is more or less where it fits into the _Highlander_ timeline. To be more specific, it takes place some time after the events depicted in the episode _Sins of the Father_. Somewhere in there Duncan MacLeod, Joe Dawson, and Methos snuck in a trip back to the States so that the events depicted herein could take place. Artistic license is a wonderful thing.

The story focuses mostly on my own new, original characters within the Highlander universe, with the series regulars playing supporting (but significant) roles. I've done my best to ensure historical accuracy and compliance with _Highlander_ continuity, but there are bound to be discrepancies which I trust will not take away from the story itself. I hope you enjoy it.

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Chapter 1: Knight

Some nightclubs easily lend themselves to intimacy and quiet conversation. The Wasteland wasn't one of them. Built inside a huge, somewhat refurbished warehouse south of downtown, the interior of the Wasteland was cavernous, dark, and thumped relentlessly to a mix of techno or house music, sometimes both, depending on the night of the week and the tastes of the DJ. The success of the club indicated an abundance of people who consider conversation a needless formality before engaging in sex.

On this night, in the midst of the dense crowd, danced a tall, slender woman, seemingly without a partner but not seeming to mind it. She jumped and swayed energetically to the driving beat, arms above her head, legs driving into the concrete floor. Her shoulder-length hair, straight, dyed jet black, and cut in bangs across her forehead, bounced as she danced. She wore a pink tank top, black leather shorts, black leather gloves with the fingers cut off, fishnet stockings with more holes in them than the manufacturer intended, and knee-high black suede boots. The pale skin of her upper body was festooned with tattoos; her eyebrows, nose, lower lip, and ears were all pierced with studs and rings. She seemed lost in a spastic trance as she danced to the thumping music.

Her name was Elizabeth Knight, though she went by Lizzy most of the time. And she was an Immortal.

She had been dancing for at least two hours straight and showed no signs of slowing down. Her body's slenderness belied its strength—closer examination of her tattooed legs, arms, shoulders, and back revealed lithe, cat-like muscles. She was sweating profusely in the heat of the club, her perspiration staining her pink tank top and showing that she wore no bra to support her small breasts. Not that anyone around her knew it, but Lizzy was celebrating a kill. Though she had only become Immortal five years before, she had recently started taking an impressive number of heads.

Suddenly, Lizzy stopped dancing. Her hands fell to her sides and her pale blue eyes widened as they scanned the interior of the dark nightclub. She had sensed the presence of another Immortal nearby. She examined the faces in the crowd as the lights flashed upon them, looking for the one that must also be looking for her. She then sensed rather than saw movement in the crowd behind her. She turned. There he was, standing stock-still and staring at her from about twenty yards away. The crowd had parted as if subconsciously sensing the need to clear a path between these two predators.

He was not tall, just a few inches under six feet, but he carried himself with dignity and a hint of menace. His head was shaved completely bald and he wore a dark Van Dyke beard on his upper lip and chin. His eyes were covered by dark wrap-around sunglasses—not unusual for men at night in The Wasteland, truth to tell. His mouth was a grim slash beneath a straight Roman nose. His clothes were all black: a long, black leather duster worn over a loose-fitting black cotton sweater, tight black jeans, and black boots. Lean, strong muscles coiled beneath his dark clothing. He stared at Lizzy for a moment, sure that he had her attention, and nodded his head once towards the club's rear fire exit. He then turned and walked casually in that direction.

Lizzy smiled. _Cool. Another notch for the sword hilt_, she thought. She retrieved her own battered leather coat, which contained and hid her own sword, from the couch where she'd tossed it two hours ago. Denizens of The Wasteland had learned long ago not to mess with Lizzy Knight or her property. She pulled on the coat and decided to let the guy stew for a few minutes while she took a pee.

Unbeknownst to the two Immortals, another set of eyes had witnessed the silent challenge. A young woman in her late twenties, with short hair dyed black and spiked with gel, abandoned her seat at the bar and left the club by the front exit. She gathered her long black wool coat around her slender body and ran around to the alley at the side of the club. She made her way to the edge of an empty paved lot across from the club's rear exit.

She knew the club's environs better than most of its regulars. She knew in particular that this lot, dimly lit by nearby streetlights and separated from the club by an alley and a high chain link fence that was overgrown with weeds, was perfect for two Immortals to engage in private combat. In fact, Lizzy Knight had used it for that purpose three times in the past. She also knew the best vantage point for witnessing a fight in the lot was from behind a rusting dumpster located next to an abandoned warehouse on the lot's North side. She knew many things, especially about Immortals in general and about Elizabeth Knight in particular. Her name was Theresa MacNeil, and she was a Watcher—one of a secret group of mortals who kept tabs on Immortals, observing and recording the events in their long lives, but never interfering with them.

Theresa moved silently through the shadows to her preferred hiding place. She reached the dumpster and stopped short. Someone else was there. She immediately adopted a defensive Aikido stance. Preparation of a Watcher included extensive martial arts training—following Immortals around often got one into some dicey situations in some rough parts of town.

A man in his early 40s, short and slender with short curly brown hair and a square face, turned to look at her. He raised his arms to indicate he was no threat; the action made his black nylon jacket sleeve fall down his forearm, revealing a tattoo on his wrist—a circle around a bird-like shape. The mark of the Watchers. Theresa sighed in relief, abandoned her defensive stance, and pulled back her own left sleeve to reveal her Watcher tattoo.

"Mick Porter," the man said in an working-class British accent.

"Theresa MacNeil," she responded in her own East-coast American voice. She gave Porter a friendly but professional smile, and took position behind the dumpster with him. The male Immortal was in the middle of the paved lot, waiting; Lizzy, they could see, had just exited the club and was walking across the alley towards him.

"Who's your girl?" Porter asked softly. "Don't think I know her."

"That's Elizabeth Knight," Theresa told him in a low whisper. "She's pretty new—became Immortal five years ago. Been racking up quite a record since," she said, a hint of disgust in her voice.

"You don't like her," Porter observed.

Theresa sighed. "I know we're supposed to be impartial, but..."

Porter laughed softly. "We're only human, luv."

Theresa smiled. She had never met Porter before but knew him by reputation. He'd trained under Joe Dawson initially, and Dawson was a friend of her family's—Theresa's parents were also Watchers, and she had followed them into 'the family business'.

She already liked Porter only seconds after meeting him. Some Watchers could be a little obsessive about their rules. Some had even turned out, despite their careful screening procedures, to be psychotics. Being in the presence of beings who were centuries old sometimes had strange effects on people. Porter seemed refreshingly normal for a Watcher.

"Who's your boy?" Theresa asked him.

"Name's Lucas Marshall," he told her quickly. "He's new too. Cropped up for the first time 'bout a year ago."

"I hope he's good," Theresa said.

"Why? Is she?" Porter asked nonchalantly

"Yes," Theresa answered ruefully, "But even worse, she _cheats_," she concluded with a sneer.

Lizzy had arrived at the empty lot and stood silently, a few yards from her opponent. They had remained that way for a few moments while their two unseen Watchers became acquainted. They hadn't even drawn their swords yet. Finally, Lizzy sighed and rolled her wide blue eyes.

"Are we gonna get on with this?" she asked impatiently. "The ice in my drink is melting."

Her opponent took off his sunglasses slowly and deliberately, folded them, and tucked them away in the right breast pocket of his leather coat. His gray eyes, now revealed, narrowed as he studied her.

"You are Elizabeth Knight," he said, his sonorous voice echoing off the brick walls of the abandoned buildings that surrounded the lot. "You were a student of Reginald Blount's."

"Yeah, so what?" Lizzy said. "You a bud of Reggie's? That what this is about?"

"Reginald Blount was my friend. He was your teacher, and you took his head," the male Immortal declared coldly. As he spoke, he drew two swords from beneath his coat. He carried two Japanese swords: the longer _katana_, and its companion, the slightly-shorter _wakizashi_—the traditional weapons of the Samurai.

"He knew Blount?" Theresa asked Porter as a puzzled frown knit her brows together. Reginald Blount was an Immortal born in England over three-hundred and fifty years ago. Lizzy Knight had taken his head less than six months before.

"So he says," Porter murmured from beside her.

Theresa shook her head and looked back at the combatants. She had started field work as a Watcher when Lizzy Knight was Blount's student, so she'd had quite a bit of exposure to the older British Immortal. But she couldn't recall ever seeing this man, nor hearing his name mentioned, not then, and not since.

"So this _is_ about Reggie," Lizzy said as she drew her weapon from beneath her coat, a classic dueling sword made in Toledo, which she held in her left hand. "I was wondering when one of you was gonna come after me for that. Reggie had a good run—it was just his time, y'know?" she commented with a shrug.

"And now it is _your_ time," Marshall declared, her ambivalence about killing her teacher doing nothing to mollify him. He held the two swords down, pointed at the ground and slightly in front of him in a deceptively casual defensive posture. His knees flexed and he rested his weight on the balls of his feet, waiting for her first move.

When it came, it was a surprise. "I don't think so," she said with a smile as her right hand reached inside her coat. She pulled out a revolver, pointed it at Marshall, and shot him three times in the chest. He collapsed backwards in a heap onto the cracked pavement. His swords, somehow, remained in his hands.

From across the lot, Theresa sharply inhaled through clenched teeth. She placed her right hand over her mouth to keep herself from making any more noise. She had seen Lizzy Knight take down more than a dozen Immortals this way, including her own teacher. It clearly violated the rules of the Game, but the young Immortal didn't seem to care about that.

Across the lot, Lizzy Knight walked slowly towards the motionless body of Lucas Marshall. She kept the gun pointed at him and held her sword at her side. She smiled when she reached him, standing to his right.

"Gotta move with the times, mook," she said. She kept the gun trained on her fallen opponent as she raised her sword with her left hand, preparing to decapitate him.

Suddenly, Marshall's right leg lashed out at Lizzy's right wrist, knocking the gun from her hand and sending it flying several feet away; it landed on the pavement and slid a few feet further. He then kicked at his opponent with his left foot; his boot caught her viciously between her legs. Lizzy groaned loudly and bent over at the sudden explosion of pain in her crotch.

Marshall took the opportunity to draw back his right foot and then drive it into her solar plexus. Lizzy keeled over onto her back, her sword sliding across the pavement away from her. Slowly, grimacing in pain, Marshall climbed to his feet, his left hand—still holding his short sword—massaging his chest.

"All right," he said, staring angrily at Lizzy where she lay writhing and coughing on the cold, dark asphalt, "that was most _definitely_ cheating."

"How...?" Theresa asked quietly as she watched nearby, her mouth dropping open in surprise. Immortals had amazing recuperative powers, but Marshall should not have been able to recover from three fatal gunshot wounds for several minutes at least. Porter, standing beside her, shrugged.

"It's how you killed Blount, isn't it?" Marshall was saying. "It's the only way you could have killed him. He was your better—in so many ways. I suspected you'd try something like that with me when I finally tracked you down. Don't you just love modern technology?" he said, patting his Kevlar vest with his left sword hand.

A few yards away, hidden behind the dumpster, Porter laughed softly. "Jammy bastard!" he said.

"A bullet-proof vest?" Theresa whispered. "Isn't that against the rules?"

"Eh, I 'spect that's a gray area, luv," Porter murmured back. "A few centuries back, they were all wearin' chain mail. 'Sides, she cheated first, so I 'spect the rules committee will let it go," he concluded with a smile.

Lizzy had pushed herself up onto her elbows. She was gasping for breath. She glanced at her gun; it lay several feet away, and Marshall had deftly moved himself between her and the weapon. She glanced at her sword, which lay on the ground a few short feet from her.

"Pick it up," Marshall ordered her. "Let's finish this properly."

Lizzy turned around and grabbed her sword, scraping the metal blade across the pavement. She pushed herself awkwardly to her feet. She held the sword in front of her with both hands, pointing it at her opponent.

"Nice sword," Marshall commented nonchalantly. "Late 18th century, no? Part of Reginald's collection, as I recall. Did he give it to you, or did you _steal_ it?"

Lizzy sneered at him, growled, and swung the sword at his right side. Marshall took a step back and parried the blow with his long _katana_; he allowed the energy of the young woman's swing to carry her past him. Lizzy's body followed her swing and she stumbled past Marshall, but spun to face him before he could take advantage of her failed attack.

Theresa's could not help silently cheering for the male Immortal as she watched. She'd had high hopes for Lizzy at first, especially when the honorable Reginald Blount had taken her in as his student. Blount had been raised by a pair of childless British aristocrats in the early 1700's; he had always lived by the ideals of fair play and honor that his class often espoused but rarely achieved. Theresa had hoped he would instill those ideals in Lizzy, had hoped that Blount's values would overcome Lizzy's childhood, which had been spent bouncing around from one foster home to another. For a while, it seemed to take. Then Lizzy had fallen in love with a mortal who was also, unfortunately, a heroin addict. He'd been killed two years ago while trying to rob a pharmacy.

Lizzy had been on a downward spiral ever since, but it wasn't until she'd killed her teacher six months ago that Theresa came to consider her irredeemable. Theresa was sick of watching Lizzy break the rules, killing older Immortals with more experience and honor. She was sick of hanging out in sweaty, loud nightclubs that reeked of stale beer and cigarette smoke, something she'd outgrown eight years earlier. She was sick of hiding her beautiful auburn hair beneath dye and gel and wearing ugly, tacky clothes so she would fit into the lowlife dives her charge favored. Most of all, she was just plain sick of Elizabeth Knight. She longed for a different assignment that left her feeling less _unclean_ at the end of each day.

In the lot, the fight continued. The sound of metal striking metal rang and echoed around the empty lot as Marshall parried his opponent's aggressive swings and stabs. Lizzy exhibited the same fluid movement she had exhibited on the dance floor mere minutes before. Marshall, however, was no slouch. He had taken on the appearance of a dancer as well, his footwork sure and deft, his movements graceful and natural. The muffled rhythm from the nightclub seemed to provide a back-beat to the opponents' formidable parries and thrusts.

"Are you sure he's only been around for a year?" Theresa asked her colleague. "He doesn't fight like a newbie!"

"The gun," Porter said suddenly, ignoring Theresa's observation.

"What?" Theresa, mesmerized by the fight, responded. "What about it?"

"He's letting her move towards it," Porter commented.

Theresa looked and could see that the two combatants were indeed moving closer to the discarded revolver. Lizzy's eyes kept looking towards the abandoned weapon whenever she had a chance. She knew she was evenly matched. It took all the skill Blount had instilled in her to keep her opponent at bay. Sweat ran down her face. She was in for a long, hard fight, with no guarantee she would win. Marshall seemed to be tempting her with the firearm; if she could reach it, she could end the fight easily and victoriously.

Porter glanced at a thick clump of tall weeds growing against the chain link fence that bordered the lot. The area was closer to where the gun lay, and was about thirty feet from their hiding spot behind the dumpster. "We'll have a better view from over there," he said, pointing.

"It's kind of exposed..." Theresa said as she looked dubiously at the spot he'd proposed.

"Nah, it's dark there," Porter assured her. "They won't see us if we keep low. Come on, luv!"

Porter suddenly sprang from behind their hiding place and ran, crouching low, through the darkness towards the new vantage point he'd chosen. Theresa stayed put, trying to decide what to do, when she saw Porter's silhouette beckoning to her. Feeling like a younger child giving into the peer pressure of an older one, she bolted from behind the dumpster, ran silently, and came to kneel beside Porter behind the thin clump of weeds. He was right; it offered a much better view, even if it risked their being spotted.

The two combatants stood about twenty yards away. Lizzy deftly swung her sword first at Marshall's right side, then his left. The black-clad Immortal parried each blow with his two Japanese blades. The female Immortal made a third strike straight down at his head. Marshall caught her sword tip between the crossed edges of his two blades. The two panting, sweating opponents paused, glaring at one another over their blades. Less than five yards away lay the gun. Lizzy's eyes glanced towards it. Marshall followed her eyes and smiled.

"What are you waiting for?" he asked in a low, taunting voice.

Lizzy knew her enemy's taunt meant he had a response to her desperate gambit. But the temptation of the gun was too much; she had come to rely on it too heavily. It offered a sure victory, whereas continuing the sword fight did not. She coiled her aching leg muscles and readied herself.

Lizzy Knight pulled her sword back over her head and swung it down at her opponent, yelling angrily; he easily parried and stepped aside from the blow. Lizzy dropped the sword and dove towards the gun. She landed short and rolled onto her back; she reached the gun with her left hand and fumbled with it, attempting to get a grip. Her fingers wrapped around the handle, her index finger found the trigger, and she lifted the gun from the pavement.

As she did so, Marshall took a brief run and jumped, his right foot catching her left wrist and pressing the hand that held the gun against the pavement. The gun wound up pointing at the two unseen Watchers, both of whom hit the ground when they saw the muzzle directed at them. Lizzy yelled and squeezed off a useless, errant shot when her gun hand hit the ground. Marshall pressed his boot, and most of his weight, painfully onto her left wrist.

Still Lizzy held on to the gun. Before she could strike at her opponent to get him off of her, Marshall's long Japanese sword arced through the air and sliced through her left wrist. Lizzy's shrill scream of agony pierced the night. Marshall stepped off of the woman's arm and kicked the detached, bloody hand that still gripped the revolver aside. Lizzy, screaming in pain, turned over onto her stomach and gripped the bleeding stump of her left forearm with her right hand. Tears streamed from her wide, disbelieving eyes as her body trembled in shock.

Marshall, still panting from exertion, but smiling cruelly in victory, slowly stepped around his fallen opponent until he stood directly in front of her. He crossed his two swords into an X, their cutting edges outward, and placed them under Lizzy's chin. Feeling the cold metal at her neck, the female Immortal, shaking and drawing ragged breaths, stared up at him, wide-eyed, as he used his swords to tilt her head upwards.

"You see?" he said to her, smiling condescendingly, "when you cheat...you only cheat yourself."

Marshall then quickly pulled the swords apart in opposite directions, severing Lizzy Knight's head from her neck as the two blades crossed over one another and cut through her flesh. Her head and her body fell to the pavement with quiet thuds. Marshall turned from her headless corpse and walked slowly to the middle of the dark, empty lot, his swords held loosely at his sides, as he awaited the Quickening.

A rumble like distant thunder echoed off the facades of the abandoned buildings surrounding the lot. A quick flash of lighting danced from a metal chimney-top on one building to an empty water-tower on another. Another bolt of lighting arced from a drainpipe to a weed-covered railway line at one side of the lot. A wind picked up and blew dust and debris around the lot.

Suddenly, with a snarling roar, a huge bolt of mystic lightning jumped from Lizzy Knight's body to that of Lucas Marshall. The Immortal yelled as the bolt hit him. He spread his arms wide, still holding his swords. Another bolt from Lizzy's body jumped towards Marshall, slamming into him and bringing the Immortal to his knees; a branch of the bolt leapt towards a nearby power line. The transformer atop a nearby pole exploded, sending a shower of sparks to the pavement. The electricity for several nearby blocks went out; the sound of several hundred people expressing disappointment escaped from the nearby nightclub as the lights and the music died.

Then the Quickening faded. A few small bolts danced around Marshall as he knelt, recovering, on the pavement. A few moments later, when the lot was quiet, he shakily pushed himself to his feet and hid his swords beneath his long coat. Without even a glance back at the corpse of his opponent, he walked out of the lot and into the night.

"Ding-dong, the witch is dead," Theresa sang quietly with no small amount of satisfaction once he'd gone. She pushed herself to her hands and knees, glancing without remorse at the headless body of Elizabeth Knight. "You were right, Mick, the view from here was spectacular. Well worth the risk." When her companion didn't answer, she turned towards him.

"Mick?" she said, looking at the older Watcher, where he lay face down on the ground beside her. He didn't move. Theresa felt her stomach clench. She grabbed his shoulder and rolled him over. His brown eyes were open, staring up into space. A trickle of blood ran from his mouth and across his cheek.

"Mick!" Theresa exclaimed. Her heart began to hammer in her chest, but her training took over. She automatically pressed her right forefinger and middle finger against his jugular. She felt no pulse. She pulled her fingers back and in the dim light saw something dark and viscous on them. She reached down to Porter's neck and pulled aside the collar of his shirt. There—just inside his collar bone—an entry wound, surrounded by blood. The stray shot at the end of the fight. It must have penetrated all the way into his chest cavity where he had lain vertical on the ground, directly in the bullet's path.

Theresa clamped her left hand over her mouth and clenched her eyes shut. She had seen over two dozen Quickenings in her time as a Watcher, but she had never seen a mortal—let alone a colleague—killed, and certainly not like this. She took deep breaths, struggling to calm herself. Once again, her training kicked in. She knew what she had to do. She certainly wasn't about to call 911, not with a body only a few feet away from another one that was minus a head; too many questions. She pulled a cell phone from her coat and pressed the speed-dial for a number she had never had to use before.

"This is MacNeil, Theresa, assigned to Knight, Elizabeth" she said when a Watcher at the other end answered. "I need a clean-up crew, ASAP."

* * *


	2. MacLeod

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 2: MacLeod**

"It's all in my report," Theresa was saying at four o'clock the next afternoon. She was seated at the bar in Joe's, an establishment owned by another Watcher, Joe Dawson. Dawson sat behind the bar. Normally he served drinks from there, but in mid-afternoon the bar was empty. The crowd would start to shuffle in when the workday ended in about an hour. For now, Dawson simply sat, occasionally stroking his salt-and-pepper beard, and listened to the young Watcher as she described the previous night's events.

Also at the bar, seated beside her, was Walter Simons, in charge of the Watchers' North American division. He'd flown in from New York the night before; normally he wouldn't have bothered, but he had a special relationship with Theresa. Only a few years before, Simons had been Theresa's mentor when she began field work for the Watchers. Simons had been Reginald Blount's Watcher then, and when Blount took on a student, it was the perfect opportunity for Simons to do the same. When Lizzy Knight had left Blount's stewardship, Theresa MacNeil had followed.

Simons, in the meantime, had abandoned field work and had moved up through the ranks of the Watchers quickly. Recent events—all traceable back to that renegade lunatic, Horton—had shaken the Watchers and reduced their numbers considerably. Which meant a proven, experienced resource like Simons had risen quickly and was putting his stamp on a badly-shaken organization.

"There was nothing you could have done, Terry," Dawson said, shaking his head sadly. "Believe me, I know—sometimes our lives are as dangerous as the ones Immortals lead. Porter knew that too."

"Joe's right," Simons chimed in. He was in his fifties now. He was balding, his black hair streaked with gray and combed back from his temples. He wore silver-rimmed glasses which sat atop his aquiline nose. He'd gained a few pounds since he'd left the field, but his tailored, conservative blue suit did a decent job of hiding that. "In fact, you did everything by the book, exactly as you were trained. Your presence of mind avoided another debacle for the Watchers."

"Thanks, Walt. Joe. Both of you," Theresa said, smiling wanly and shaking her head.

She had washed the black dye and gel out of her hair, returning it to its natural auburn color, though it was still much shorter than she preferred. She didn't know where she'd found the energy to do that; she was exhausted. Between helping the clean-up crew, writing full reports on both the battle and the field death of another Watcher, and now her debriefing by two senior Watchers, Theresa had managed to get three hours of sleep at most. Her normally-attractive face looked pale and wan; she had bags under her blood-shot eyes. When she finished with Simons and Dawson, she was going home and straight to bed. She planned on sleeping for at least seven or eight...days.

"I just...can't stop going over it," Theresa said sadly, staring at spot on the bar. "Wondering if I could have done something different."

"Hey, kid, don't torture yourself. It ain't worth it," Dawson told her. "Porter and I go back a bit. He started off with me, watching MacLeod. He knew what could happen out there in the field; that's why he never married. Lizzy Knight is the one who's responsible for his death, not you, and not even Marshall. She's the one who should be _tortured_ about this."

Theresa smiled at Dawson and gripped his hand in thanks. She'd known the senior Watcher since she was a little girl; he'd been a friend of her parents, who had met and befriended him when he started working for the Watchers years before. He always knew what to say, what to do, to make her feel better. She didn't care if he was a maverick, didn't care if he'd broken several of the rules the Watchers lived by, especially about contacting your principal. She'd stopped calling him 'Uncle Joe' several years before, but he retained that title in her heart.

"Are you as torn up about losing Lizzy Knight?," Simons asked, one eyebrow cocked. Theresa glanced at her mentor.

"I wish I could say yes, but I can't," Theresa answered. "She deserved it," she said, looking Simons straight in the eye.

Dawson's eyebrows raised slightly, and he glanced from Theresa to Simons, waiting for the senior Watcher's reaction. Simons looked steadily at his former student for a moment, then nodded.

"It's hard to be impartial when you're confronted with someone like her," he agreed, his voice low. "I'm sorry she turned out that way. I know we both had high hopes for her. And I'm especially sorry your first Immortal went renegade. It's bad enough when they go evil, but when they start breaking the rules of the Game..." Simons didn't finish his sentence; he merely shook his head sadly.

"Well, if that's all, guys, I've got a pillow at home with my name on it..." Theresa said tiredly, pushing her stool back from the bar.

Simons and Dawson looked at each other. "Actually, Terry, there's one more thing..." Dawson said. Theresa sat back in her stool and looked from one man to the other expectantly.

"Yes, as you know, we're a little short-handed these days," Simons explained. "Especially when it comes to proven field agents. So now we have an Immortal without a Watcher: Lucas Marshall." Simons extracted a slender file folder from his briefcase and handed it to Theresa. "That's his file. Porter was his Watcher since we first became aware of him about a year ago. I know it's awkward to take over for someone because of an unfortunate incident like this, but Marshall has been a busy boy since he first appeared." Theresa cocked an eyebrow in grim amusement; she knew Simons meant Marshall had been taking heads. "We need someone on him."

Theresa nodded as she took the file. There wasn't much in it. Some reports from Porter, a couple of computer disks with digital versions of those reports, a handful of blurry photos of the Immortal. Theresa frowned, expecting more information.

"This is it?" she asked Simons. "I mean, I know he's new, but..."

"It's sparse," Simons admitted. "Porter tried to collect what he could on Marshall regarding his pre-Immortal life, but he couldn't find much, and his research kept getting interrupted when he had to follow his principal to another city."

"So why not assign a researcher to it?" Theresa asked, though she knew the answer to the question.

"Because as I said, Terry," Simons said with a sigh, "we're short of resources these days. Have you talked to your mother lately? She's swamped."

"Yeah, I know, Walt," Theresa said, pulling her lips back into a flat, resigned line and nodding. "It's just that...there was something about this guy. You didn't see him fight—it was like he'd been doing it for years. And when I say years, I mean _years_. And he said he knew Reginald Blount. No, wait, he said he was Reginald Blount's _ friend_. You were Blount's Watcher for ten years, Walt. Do you remember seeing this guy or hearing his name before?" Simons shook his head. "Neither do I."

Theresa tossed the file folder on the bar. She crossed her arms and leaned back on her bar stool with a tired, exasperated sigh.

"What are you thinking, Terry?" Dawson asked her, reading her thoughtful expression.

"Something doesn't add up," she said.

"You think he could be a corker?" Dawson asked. 'Corker' was Watcher slang for an Immortal who disappeared for a number of years from the organization's radar, only to reappear again years, even decades later, their names and appearance often changed. Sometimes Watchers assumed the corker was a new Immortal until something—an extraordinary display of skill, an acquaintance with a much older Immortal, a passing remark—made them realize the Immortal was much older, and that they had popped back up to the surface like a cork in water. A corker.

Theresa nodded. "Now that you mention it, Joe, that's _exactly_ what I think."

Simons raised his eyebrows and grimaced. "That's what Porter thought too, but..."

"But what?" Theresa asked.

"We have roughly one hundred and twenty-seven MIA Immortals on file," Simons said, using the official name for the Corkers. "Porter looked into it, but couldn't match this Marshall against any of them."

"So he hit a dead end," Theresa concluded. "Great."

Simons spread his hands. "Porter's conclusion was that this fellow simply must have had extensive martial arts training before he became Immortal. That would explain the display of skill you saw."

"And the friendship with Blount?" Theresa asked. Simons only shrugged.

"Listen, Terry," Dawson said, his voice concerned. "This guy Marshall, he's...well, he's dangerous. I know, I know," he said, holding up his hands when Theresa started to object, "they're _all_ dangerous. But some more than others, you know? Like Walt said, he's been head-hunting since he first showed up. So...be careful, all right? Besides, anything happens to you, your folks will kill me."

Theresa smiled reassuringly. "I'll be fine. I know the drill, okay? I've been trained by the best," she said, patting Simons' hand and smiling, "and I'm field-tested. In five years, Knight never even had a clue I was there, because I always kept a safe distance between us. So don't worry so much!" The two older men looked at each other and nodded. "Great, so it's settled," Theresa said. "How do I find this guy?"

"Go home. Get some sleep," Dawson told her. "Come here tomorrow night. I think you'll be able to pick him up then."

Theresa looked at Dawson and frowned. "He'll be here?" Dawson nodded. Theresa narrowed her eyes and gave her 'Uncle Joe' a sideways glance. "Joe...do you know this guy?" she asked.

"No," Dawson said, shaking his head. "But apparently MacLeod does."

* * *

The next night, at about eight o'clock, Theresa was sitting comfortably once again at the bar in Joe's. She'd combed her auburn hair into a pageboy; not her favorite look, but it would have to do until her hair grew back in. She wore a loose, burgundy long-sleeve blouse, black jeans, and dark brown Hush Puppies. Not excessively stylish, but a definite step up from what she'd been wearing to follow Lizzy Knight around, and more importantly, she didn't stand out in a crowd...at least not too much.

When she'd been training as a Watcher, Theresa had been warned, more than once, that her good looks—while normally an asset—would be a hindrance to functioning effectively in the field. It made a Watcher's job easier if they could blend in with the crowd, and the best way to do that was to be average-looking. While Theresa didn't have the harsh, striking good looks of a runway model, she possessed a simple, natural beauty that she found necessary to underplay in her role as Watcher.

So she wore loose-fitting clothing to hide her feminine curves. When her wavy auburn locks grew out, she would pull them back into a demure ponytail or bun. She applied as little makeup as she felt she could get away with to her oval-shaped face and its olive complexion; no mascara or shadow for her hazel eyes, no lipstick or gloss on her lips, just some foundation and a hint of rouge. She had often worn fake glasses—unnecessary, she had twenty-twenty vision—early in her career, but abandoned them when she began following Lizzy Knight into nightclubs where eyeglasses would have been decidedly out of place.

Theresa was doing her best to look anonymous and disinterested while nursing a drink at the bar when the front door to Joe's opened. Two men in long, dark coats walked in. They seemed to be in an extremely good mood, like two old friends who hadn't seen each other in a very long time.

"You struck out, MacLeod," one of them, sporting a clean-shaven head and a neatly-trimmed Van Dyke beard on his face, said as they entered.

"I did _not_ strike out. I wasn't even up to bat!" the other one, his wavy dark hair cut to medium length, said back.

"You asked her if she was busy later," the first one said, his arms spread wide. "She said some other time. Swing and a miss! Duncan MacLeod strikes out!" he concluded, and broke into pleased laughter.

MacLeod rolled his dark eyes. "I'm sorry I even _told_ you..."

"Well, I could have told you not to bother with Alexis Raven," Marshall replied, still chuckling as he pulled out a chair and sat down at a table a few feet from the bar. "She's extremely choosy when it comes to her men. And no offense, but you're not her type."

Sitting at the bar, several feet away, Theresa could just make out the two Immortals' conversation. She caught the reference Marshall made to Raven, a female Immortal. She frowned slightly. For the second time, she'd heard Marshall indicate a familiarity with a much older Immortal. No, third—he was obviously an old friend of MacLeod's as well. She was going to have to look at the Corker file herself; Porter must have been mistaken.

She stole a brief glance at the two men when MacLeod sat down. Duncan MacLeod was definitely the more handsome of the two, she thought. At six feet, he was a few inches taller than his companion. He had a full head of dark brown hair, smoldering brown eyes, and chiseled features. He'd cut off his ponytail recently, but it didn't take away from his looks.

Marshall paled a little in comparison, but was no slouch in the looks department. A little under six feet tall, gray eyes, olive complexion. Clean-shaven head and a dark Van Dyke. She could see his nose was long and straight, and he had thick, sensuous lips. Both men had broad, strong shoulders and muscular frames. That wasn't surprising—an Immortal had to stay in shape to stay alive.

"What is her type?" MacLeod asked, one thick brow raised as he settled onto his own chair.

"She prefers her men to be a little more..._devoted_, shall we say," Marshall answered, doing little to hide the teasing criticism in his voice.

MacLeod was visibly offended. "I'm devoted!" he objected, "I can be _very_ devoted!"

"For more than one night?" Marshall responded wryly, earning an angry glare from the Highlander. He stood up; "Oh, don't be so offended! Tell you what: as an apology, I'll get the drinks." Marshall, smiling, walked over to the bar, leaving an annoyed MacLeod to glare at his back. Marshall approached the bar and stood right next to Theresa. "Two pale ales," he ordered.

Theresa did her best to ignore him. She sipped her drink and stared straight ahead. In almost a decade as a Watcher, she had never been anywhere near this close to an Immortal before. Then, with her peripheral vision, she noticed Marshall had turned and was staring intently at her. It reminded her once again that being young, female, and good-looking was a definite disadvantage in her profession. Theresa knew she couldn't simply sit there and pretend he didn't exist; he was being provocative. _Okay, pal,_ she thought, _time for a healthy slice of Big Apple attitude_.

"Can I help you?" Theresa asked sharply as she turned to glare directly at Marshall.

The Immortal blinked and one of the corners of his mouth tugged upwards in a smile. "Only in my dreams, I suspect," he replied.

"You got that right," Theresa said contemptuously as she turned away from him to look straight ahead again.

She repressed a smile; as comebacks went, his was pretty good. And he was easy on the eyes; his looks improved on closer examination. Those gray eyes had seemed so cold during the battle last night, but now they glowed like embers in a fire. His smile was charming and not too salacious. If he weren't an Immortal and she weren't a Watcher, she might have had some fun letting the conversation play out. But she didn't have that luxury.

"Are you waiting for someone?" he asked nonchalantly.

"None of your business," she said without even glancing at him.

Dawson set the two mugs of beer on the counter in front of Marshall, and the Immortal paid for them. With her peripheral vision, she saw Marshall glance at her, then at Dawson, and raise his eyebrows in chagrined amusement. She saw Dawson shrug. Marshall turned to go and Theresa reached for her drink. Suddenly she noticed Marshall had paused and was still staring at her. She let out an annoyed sigh and turned towards him.

"What?" she snapped, feigning a little more annoyance than she felt. Marshall's eyes, opened wider in apparent surprise, seemed fixed upon her hand. When she turned towards him, he tore his eyes away.

"Nothing," he said, turning to leave. "Sorry to have bothered you."

Theresa turned away from him as he left and glanced at her left hand, which held her glass, and where Marshall seemed to have been staring. She noticed that the sleeve of her blouse had risen on her arm, exposing the top half of her Watcher tattoo. Her stomach clenched. Had she been made? Had he recognized the mark? Did he know what it meant? She couldn't turn around and risk revealing too avid an interest in him. She had heard him return to the table he shared with MacLeod; the two Immortals were engaged in a muted conversation she couldn't hear.

"Joe," she asked Dawson a few minutes later, feigning a request to refill her drink, "does Marshall know about the Watchers?"

Dawson's eyes widened slightly in surprise. "Not that I know of," he said as he poured Theresa another club soda. "Why?"

"I think he spotted my tattoo, and it seemed to spook him," she answered in a low voice. "Do you think MacLeod told him?"

Dawson shook his head gently as he wiped down the bar counter. "I don't think so. I've asked MacLeod to be discreet about us. He wouldn't be spilling secrets to a new Immortal."

"I hope you're right," Theresa replied, and returned to quietly sipping her drink.

At their table, MacLeod and Marshall carried on their conversation in lowered voices.

"So," Macleod said, "what brought you to town, anyway?"

Marshall looked mildly offended. "Why, the pleasure of your company, Duncan! Your scintillating conversation, your droll observations on modern life...." MacLeod glared at him. Marshall sighed. "You're right, that was pushing things beyond the bounds of believability. I came here to settle a couple of old scores."

"Anyone I know?" MacLeod asked, lifting his beer glass.

Marshall nodded as he licked some foam from his lips. "You remember Reginald Blount," he said, a hint of sadness creeping into his voice.

MacLeod set his glass down angrily. "Elizabeth Knight is in town? In _my_ town?"

"Was, Duncan, was," Marshall assured him. He gestured for MacLeod to keep his voice down. "I took care of the little tramp last night." He could see MacLeod getting worked up, his jaw flexing as his teeth ground together.

"I would have taken her head myself if I'd known she was around," MacLeod declared sullenly.

Marshall's dark, arched eyebrows raised at that. "That's not very _chivalrous_ of you, Duncan," he remarked.

"I got an earful from Methos about chivalry a while back, thanks," MacLeod answered. He leaned forward over the table, still seething.

Reginald Blount had been good friend. He and MacLeod had served together about two hundred years before under Arthur Wellesley—better known later as the Duke of Wellington—during the Peninsular Campaign in Portugal and Spain. Blount had gone out of his way, and paid out of his own pocket, on several occasions to ensure the protection and well-being of the Iberian peasants. Blount had always said that they were the people they were truly fighting for.

"Lizzy Knight robbed the world of a good man," MacLeod declared.

"A far better man than I," Marshall agreed.

"Or I," MacLeod said. The two Immortals glanced at one another and raised their glasses, then drank, in a silent toast to their lost friend. A moment passed. "Who else?"

"Hmm?" Marshall responded, stirred from a silent reverie by MacLeod's question.

"You said 'scores', plural," MacLeod reminded him.

"Yes" Marshall said, "I did, didn't I?" He said nothing more, but looked at MacLeod expectantly.

The Highlander straightened a little and frowned. "Ortega?" he asked quietly. Marshall nodded slowly. MacLeod exhaled. "Finally. You want some help?"

"Duncan!" Marshall said, slightly amused, "that would be against the rules."

"For him, it would be worth it," MacLeod replied.

Marshall smiled wistfully. "Thank you, my friend, but no. This is something I have to do on my own. I'm sure you understand."

"You'll come and tell me how it went, afterwards?" MacLeod asked.

"Perhaps, perhaps not," Marshall said evasively. "But I'm sure you'll hear about it," he said, glancing at Dawson briefly.

MacLeod followed his friend's eyes and frowned. There was a tone of finality in Marshall's voice that he didn't like, as though he didn't expect to come back from this fight.

"I'd rather hear about it from you," MacLeod said, "when it's all over. We could meet here. I'll buy."

Marshall's eyebrows raised, and he smiled. "Well, that is a generous offer, especially for a Scotsman. We'll see," he said, then glanced at his watch. "I have to go." Marshall drained the remaining beer from his glass and rose from his chair.

"You're gonna miss Joe's set," MacLeod told him.

Marshall shrugged. "Another time. Good seeing you again, MacLeod," Marshall said, then raised his hand. "_Ave_ and farewell, my friend," he said, then walked towards the door, watched by his fellow Immortal.

Theresa waited a beat, then rose from her seat at the bar. MacLeod would probably notice her and put two and two together, but it couldn't be helped. Marshall moved around a lot and she didn't want to lose him, and MacLeod knew about Watchers anyway. She followed Marshall out the door, avoiding MacLeod's eyes and giving him a wide berth.

MacLeod, well-known for his eye for feminine beauty, watched the attractive young woman with the short auburn hair stand up walk towards the bar's exit. He smiled to himself, reflecting on her good looks. Then the timing of her departure, so soon after Marshall's, struck him as odd. He turned around just in time to see Theresa walk out the front door. MacLeod looked at Dawson, who was also watching the young woman leave. Dawson then glanced at MacLeod and, chagrined that his Immortal friend was watching him watch a Watcher, made a point of studiously drying a glass.

MacLeod smiled, took his beer stein, and went back to the bar. He sat on a stool directly in front of Dawson.

"How come he rates such a good-looking Watcher and I'm stuck with _you_?" he asked in a voice of mock annoyance, an amused smile on his face as he studied the grizzled visage of his own decidedly unfeminine Watcher.

Dawson looked at him and shot an amused glower his way. "Bad enough you and I wound up friends, MacLeod. Can you imagine what would have happened if they'd assigned a _woman_ to you? Given _your_ track record?" MacLeod only smiled and shrugged. "Hey, listen, MacLeod," Dawson said quietly, growing more serious. "This guy, Marshall," he nodded his head towards the door, "...did you tell him about us? About the Watchers?" MacLeod looked at his friend silently for a moment, then shook his head.

"No, Joe. I didn't tell him about you. Can I get another?" he said smoothly, sliding his empty glass across the counter. Dawson studied his friend's expression for a moment, nodded, then walked over to the beer taps.

"You gonna hang around for my set?" Dawson asked.

"Wouldn't miss it for the world," MacLeod replied.

Inwardly, he relaxed a little. He didn't like lying to Dawson. _It wasn't a lie_, he told himself. _I answered the question honestly. I just didn't tell him the whole truth._ He'd known Dawson nearly five years, and they'd been through a lot together. But five years, no matter how eventful, is not a very long time to an Immortal. The friendships and debts that date back centuries inevitably take precedence.

* * *


	3. Marshall

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 3: Marshall**

Theresa MacNeil followed Marshall's black sedan in her battered old Toyota Celica, careful to keep a couple of cars in between them to avoid being spotted. She'd barely had time to climb into her car before the Immortal had pulled out of Joe's parking lot, but she'd managed to catch up with him. Marshall appeared to be heading towards a seedy part of town—just the area Theresa had hoped to avoid when she'd left Lizzy Knight behind. She gave a resigned sigh as she followed her principal into a decrepit area of the warehouse district. Immortals just seemed attracted to these run-down areas—possibly because they offered a greater measure of anonymity. As a Watcher, she could certainly understand that; staying anonymous was part of her job description too.

Marshall parked his car on a quiet side street. Theresa drove past him and parked out of sight around the next corner. She left her car and reacquired her principal on foot; she peeked around the corner of a building just in time to see him heading through the doors of a dark warehouse, carrying a briefcase. In the dark, her eyes scanned the warehouse, looking for a different entry point. She spotted a side door and made her way towards it.

Theresa entered the warehouse through the side door and waited a few seconds, allowing her eyes to adjust to the dark interior of the building. She spotted a stack of wooden crates a few feet away and walked towards them, intending to use them as her hiding place. Peeking around the crates, she could see Marshall's dark silhouette standing in the middle of an empty part of the warehouse floor.

_What the hell is he waiting here for? Another Immortal?_ she wondered.

Suddenly, a clanging metallic sound from the other end of the warehouse drew her attention. A huge loading bay door lifted upwards, and a sleek black limousine purred into the warehouse. The headlights of the limo illuminated Marshall, who had donned his dark wrap-around sunglasses—presciently, it turned out, as they shielded his eyes from the glare.

The limousine drew within a few feet of the Immortal and stopped; the motor turned off, but the headlights stayed on. The doors on both sides of the limousine opened and four burly men in dark suits got out. Two of them approached Marshall, who placed his briefcase on the concrete floor and raised his arms nonchalantly. The duo stepped forward to frisk the Immortal while a third man held a gun on him. When done, the two friskers nodded back to another man who had remained standing beside the door he had just opened. The man—apparently the one in charge—stepped forward into the headlights' glare.

"You'll have to forgive the intrusion of your person," the man said, though his men kept their guns trained on Marshall. Theresa could now see him a little better. He wore a dark blue suit over a stocky frame. He was the same height as Marshall, but appeared older—in his late 40s. He was balding, his reddish-brown hair cut severely short.

Marshall shrugged. "Can't be too careful these days. A lot of nasty people around."

The man laughed softly at the joke. "You Marshall?" he asked

"Lucas Marshall," he answered with a nod. "You're _not_ Mr. Lewis," he observed flatly, and slowly removed his sunglasses.

The other man opened his hands, palms up, and shrugged slightly. "Were you really expecting him? We don't know you from Adam," he said.

"No, not really," Marshall responded. "In fact, I would have been disappointed if he had shown up tonight."

The other man nodded as if recognizing the wisdom of another professional in his business—whatever his business was. Theresa, observing silently from her hiding place, frowned as she tried to understand what Marshall was doing here with these men, none of whom appeared to be Immortals.

"My name is Mr. Duke," the stocky man in charge said. "I'm one of Mr. Lewis' associates."

"A _senior_ associate, I hope?" Marshall asked.

"As senior as they get," Duke asserted. His deep-set eyes glanced at the briefcase at Marshall's feet. "I take it the sample's in there?"

"Indeed. Be my guest," Marshall said, waving at the briefcase.

"No," Duke answered. "You pick it up, put it on the hood of the car, and open it. No sudden moves. Remember the boys have their guns on you."

"That fact is foremost in my mind," Marshall said as he grabbed the briefcase by its handle and slowly moved towards the car. He placed the briefcase on the front hood and gently eased its latches and then its lid open, stepping back from it as he did so.

Duke eyed one of his men, a dark-haired, olive-complexioned young man in his twenties, and nodded at the briefcase. The man stepped up to the briefcase and shoved his pistol into his hidden shoulder holster beneath his suit jacket. He drew a pocket knife from his pants pocket and cut at the contents of the briefcase. Theresa could just make out a puff of white powder that rose from the briefcase as he did so. The man poked his finger into the briefcase and pulled it back, covered in the same white powder. He placed his finger in his mouth, rolled his tongue around it, and nodded.

"It's the real deal," he said. "Pure, and high quality. The lab can tell us more..."

Duke held up his hand. "That's all I need to know, Roberto." He turned to Marshall. "You mind telling me how the hell you got that here? The feds and the locals have got things tighter than a virgin's pussy right now."

Marshall smiled. "Do you remember your Aesop's fables?" he asked, making the burly man frown in confusion. "The goose and the golden egg? I'm your goose, Mr. Duke, but I have no intention of giving you an excuse to cut me open. Mr. Lewis, if I've heard correctly, is having trouble bringing in product for his processing facility. I have a pipeline, but no such facility or distribution system. I thought we could do business."

Duke nodded sagely. "It's possible, if you can supply quality merchandise like this to us. It has to meet with Mr. Lewis' approval, of course."

"Of course."

Theresa's eyes widened in shock as she slowly realized what she was witnessing. She let out an exasperated sigh. She'd hoped she would be trading up from the amoral Lizzy Knight, but her new Immortal had turned out to be a common drug-runner. She couldn't help but feel let down. She also wondered how noble Immortals such as Reginald Blount and Duncan MacLeod could have had anything to do with this guy. She realized he must be a deceitful liar on top of everything else. And he was a ruthless head-hunter to boot, if Porter's file was any indication. This assignment was turning out to be a nightmare before the first day was even done. She couldn't imagine it getting any worse. She was wrong.

"Don't move," a male voice said from a few feet behind her. Theresa distinctly heard the clicking of a gun's safety being turned off. She froze. She quickly gauged the distance to the man based on his voice and realized, with no small amount of dread, that he was too far away for her to attack him. "Stand up and raise your hands slowly," the voice ordered, and Theresa obeyed. "Walk towards the car. Take your time. Try anything funny and I'll put a hole in your chest."

Theresa began to walk towards the limousine and the group of men gathered around its front end. She kept her hands raised and tried desperately to think of a way out of this. The man with the gun trained on her remained a safe distance behind her, and she didn't have a weapon herself. Her heart began to pound in her chest as she realized she may not live to see tomorrow's sunrise. As she neared the car, the men there stopped talking and looked towards her.

"Look what I found snooping around," the man behind her said when she stopped at the edge of the pool of light thrown by the limo's headlights.

Duke frowned at her, looking as if he'd just bitten off something sour. "Friend of yours?" he asked Marshall.

The Immortal, who stood barely two yards away, looked at her and frowned. Theresa swallowed. Marshall walked towards her until he stood right in front of her, his gray eyes narrowed and looking her over. His eyes glanced at her raised left wrist. Theresa followed his gaze and saw that her jacket's sleeve had fallen down her forearm, revealing the top half of her Watcher tattoo to his eyes once again. She looked back into the Immortal's cold gray eyes but couldn't read them. Did he know she was a Watcher? And if he did know, was that a good thing or not?

"I was at a bar before I came here," Marshall said suspiciously as he turned back towards Duke. "She was there."

"You think she followed you?" Duke asked sharply.

"I think that's highly probable," Marshall said, nodding slightly.

"That's not good," Duke told him.

"I very much agree," Marshall remarked, looking back at Theresa. She saw no concern, no sympathy in those cold, gray eyes. Theresa remembered the man who'd stood over Lizzy Knight, relishing her pain and torment. She could expect no assistance from him; quite the opposite. The young Watcher could feel sweat running down her back. She swallowed hard. Her throat felt dry.

"Frisk her," Duke ordered, waving one of his henchmen towards her.

The thug, a tall, solidly-built man with long, sandy hair, gave her a leering smile as he walked towards her. Theresa held still as he ran his hands over her body. She wrinkled her nose in disgust when he spent a little too much time frisking her breasts and between her legs. He gave her behind a little too much attention for her liking as well, before he pulled her wallet from her hip pocket. The man walked away from her and handed the wallet to Duke, who quickly glanced through it.

"She's clean," the man said. "No guns, no wires."

"Theresa MacNeil," Duke read from her New York State drivers' license. He grunted angrily when he found no other identification beyond a couple of credit cards. "Who are you workin' for?" he asked, stepping up to her and glowering at her. He grabbed her chin with his big, meaty hand, making her gasp. "You ain't local. You DEA? You with the Columbians? _Answer me_!" he shouted.

Theresa said nothing. What answer could she give that would satisfy this criminal? She couldn't think of an explanation that would save her anyway. Her rising panic didn't help her thought processes.

Suddenly, Duke released her chin. He pulled his arm back, then viciously backhanded her. Her head spun, her cheek stinging from the blow; it was all she could do to remain on her feet. Duke grabbed her chin with his hand again while she took shallow, strained breaths. He smiled menacingly at her.

"You're pretty," he growled through his smile. "By tomorrow, you won't be. And you'll tell me everything." Theresa watched him warily. She fought off an overwhelming urge to drop to her knees and beg for mercy. Instead, she stood her ground, though her insides were quaking.

"Yes, well, this is all very diverting," Marshall declared, "but business before pleasure, eh?" Duke turned to glare at him. "I think it would be best if we concluded our dealings and left as soon as possible, don't you?" he said calmly.

Duke stared at Marshall for a moment, then nodded. "Fine. But if I find out you're working with her..."

"I assure I'm not," Marshall said. "Now, I have a different product to show you, one I think Mr. Lewis would find most interesting, not to mention profitable. May I?" he said, pointing to the briefcase.

Duke nodded. "Make it quick," he said, looking around warily. "Snoops travel in packs."

"Won't take but a moment," Marshall said as he withdrew a small, round container, about the size, color, and shape of a hockey puck, from inside the briefcase. He held it in his fingers and showed it to Duke with a proud smile on his face.

"What the hell is that?" Duke said with a slight sneer.

"The product is highly perishable, and has to be kept in a stasis container like this. But it's very potent, I assure you. You open it by pressing this button on the side," Marshall explained, and pressed his thumb against the container with an audible click. He looked at Duke and suddenly tossed the container into the air towards him. "Here, catch," he said as the small container flew through the air and every pair of eyes in the vicinity followed it. Every pair but his; Marshall had turned away and had covered his eyes with his left forearm as soon as he'd thrown the container towards Duke.

The flash grenade exploded with a muffled bang and lit up the interior of the dark warehouse with a brightness equivalent to twice that of the sun on a clear summer day. The criminals gathered around the limo screamed and covered their eyes in response, but reacted too late; the flash grenade ensured they would not be able to see anything for several minutes.

Theresa had watched the grenade as well and found herself similarly blinded. She covered her eyes with her hands, then felt someone unceremoniously scoop her up, toss her over his shoulder, and begin to run with her. She couldn't see anything, couldn't see who had grabbed her or where he was taking her, she could only feel his muscular shoulder thumping uncomfortably into her stomach as he ran. She began to wriggle, trying to escape his grip, but he held her firm. She could hear men yelling nearby. A shot was fired, followed by more yelling.

Suddenly she felt cooler night air on her skin and deduced that she was out of the warehouse. She heard a car door open and grunted when the man carrying her shoved her roughly into the passenger seat. She heard the car door slam, heard the man's body rolling over the top of the hood, and then the driver's side door opened and he climbed in. The engine started and she felt the car backing up, spinning around, and heard the tires squeal as they sped away.

Theresa still couldn't see anything. She groped at the passenger side door and found the handle, then started to open the door, intending to throw herself out. Suddenly a strong male hand swatted her hands away from the door.

"Don't be stupid!" Marshall snarled from the driver's seat.

Theresa gasped when she recognized his voice. She froze in her seat, uncertain as to what she should do next. The Watcher's handbook didn't really cover what to do if your assigned Immortal rescues you from certain torture and death at the hands of drug dealers.

"Where are you taking me?" she asked, trying to blink away the spots in front of her eyes.

"Somewhere safe," he answered ambiguously as the car careened around a corner, throwing Theresa against his shoulder. "Put your seatbelt on, will you?" he growled at her. Theresa fumbled over her right shoulder, found the nylon strap, and pulled it across her body. "Jupiter! Do you people have to follow me _everywhere_?" he exclaimed as she fastened the buckle.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Theresa answered automatically.

That earned her a derisive snort from Marshall. She felt him grab her left wrist, pull back her coat sleeve, and hold her Watcher tattoo in front of her face. She still couldn't see it, but she knew what he was indicating.

"Let's stop playing games, shall we?" Marshall said. "You're a Watcher, evidently my Watcher. Whose bright idea was it to assign a woman to me anyway?"

"Hey!" Theresa objected, "I can handle myself just fine, you sexist jerk!" she said, dropping all pretense of secrecy since there seemed little point to it.

"Oh yes, you were handling yourself very well back there," Marshall agreed sarcastically as he changed gears. "You were about to be raped, tortured, mutilated, and killed. Nice work!"

"Well if I'd known I was following a drug dealer around, I would have treated the situation a little differently," she snapped.

Marshall grunted angrily. "I'm _not_ a drug dealer," he told her.

"Oh, sorry, drug _supplier_," Theresa said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "_World_ of difference, I'm sure."

Marshall surprised and annoyed her by suddenly bursting into amused laughter. "You've got spirit," he said as she scowled, still blinded, at the windshield in front of her. "No sense of self-preservation, but spirit to spare."

"All right, whatever, " Theresa snapped. "Just take me home, okay?"

"No," Marshall told her. "First, I don't know where your home is, and before you try to tell me, second, they have your wallet, remember? They'll figure out where you live and come looking for you."

Theresa groaned and let her head fall into her hands_. I don't believe this_, she thought. _This is an unmitigated disaster. At least for Joe, it was several years before MacLeod found him. I didn't last twenty-four hours with Marshall! And now I have a gang of drug dealers who want to kill me! I'm going to set a record for how fast I'm going to get thrown out of the Watchers..._

"Where are you taking me?" she asked again with a resigned sigh. She lifted her head and noticed that she could see a little better. Dark spots still swam in and out of her vision, but she could sort of make out the lights of cars on the street.

"I told you, someplace where you'll be safe," Marshall responded. He paused. "Where the hell is Porter?" he asked. Though still blinded, Theresa's eyes went wide. How could he know that Mick Porter had been his Watcher?

"Mick Porter is dead," she said flatly.

"What!?" Marshall snapped. "How?"

"Lizzy Knight. A stray shot," Theresa answered. She heard Marshall exhale loudly beside her.

"Damn," he whispered. Theresa frowned at that. She was surprised he cared about Porter at all. Then she realized he had just saved her life; why on earth did he give a rat's ass about her either? Not that she minded, given the circumstances.

Her vision had, for the most part, returned to her now. She noticed that they were several blocks away from the location of the meeting they'd fled, but still in the warehouse district. Suddenly Marshall cut his lights and turned down an alley. Theresa gasped as her still-afflicted vision prevented her from seeing anything but darkness. Marshall turned his car again and steered it through the rear garage door of yet another anonymous, abandoned warehouse. He pushed the button on a remote garage door opener clipped to the drivers' side sun visor, and Theresa heard a large metal door rattle down behind them.

The car went down a ramp inside the warehouse that led to a basement level. Marshall parked the car, got out, and signaled for Theresa to do the same. She opened her door, stepped out, and looked around, blinking and squinting, at the small, dingy parking area. It was lit by a single florescent light, amber with age and dirt, that flickered and buzzed in the ceiling. The smell of dank concrete filled her nostrils. She looked over at Marshall as he opened the trunk and pulled out his two swords, and her eyebrows raised dubiously.

"This is a safe place?" she asked.

"None safer," Marshall assured her as he walked towards a heavy metal door a few feet away. He put a key into a large, formidable padlock, opened it, then gave the door a heavy shove, using his full body weight to roll it aside. Once opened, he beckoned a hesitant Theresa towards the doorway.

The young Watcher stepped into the dim entryway. Marshall reached past her, brushing her shoulder and making her flinch. He found a light switch and flicked it on. Theresa's eyes widened in surprise at what the lights revealed.

She found herself in the entrance of what looked like a modern loft, but with no windows. She walked forward into a large living room, roughly twenty feet square. The concrete walls and ceiling were covered with a terra cotta plaster, and the gray concrete floors were clean and covered, for the most part, by large Persian carpets and runners. A three-seat couch and a chaise lounge with clean, modern lines, covered with off-white natural canvas fabric, sat on two sides of a glass-topped coffee table. The couch sat a few feet in front of two large black velvet curtains that hung from the top of the ten-foot high ceiling to the floor, covering a third of that wall.

Behind the chaise was a small, square dining table with four chairs, and beyond it was a raised counter that separated the living and dining area from the kitchen. The kitchen itself appeared small but functional, and contained stainless-steel appliances and plain modern cabinets painted dark red. To the right the hallway continued, and Theresa could make out three doorways; the one straight ahead, at the end of the hall, was a bathroom; the other two, she assumed, led to bedrooms.

"Pretty nice for this part of town," she commented. She turned to look at Marshall as he closed the heavy metal door and secured it with the padlock. She felt a nervous twinge in her stomach. "Locking me in?" she asked as nonchalantly as she could manage.

"Just so you don't do anything stupid like running off and getting killed," Marshall told her. He walked down the hall and disappeared for a moment into one of the bedrooms, then reemerged without his swords. "Relax," he said, "I have no intention of harming you. I just want to keep you safe and eventually get you out of my hair. Sooner rather than later, I'm hoping. "

"Yeah, I guess you don't want me interfering in your drug running any more," she said sharply, crossing her arms.

Marshall's thick brows rose. "I told you, I'm not..."

"Save it," Theresa said, cutting him off and waving her hands at him dismissively. "I really don't care," she said. She walked into the living room and flopped down onto the couch with a sigh, crossing her arms again angrily.

Marshall followed her into the living room and tossed off his long leather coat, letting it fall onto the couch beside Theresa. She looked at it in disgust and slid down the couch a little further from it. Marshall frowned at her reaction and walked into the kitchen.

"Can I get you anything to drink?" he asked as he opened the fridge.

"I don't want anything from you," Theresa said sullenly.

Marshall slammed the door of the fridge closed and turned around to glare at her. "Well, I am so sorry to be such a disappointment to you, little Miss Watcher!" he said angrily. She glared right back at him. "Might I remind you that I saved your miserable life tonight? You'd think you could be a little gracious!"

"_Saved_ my life?" Theresa shouted back at him, rising to her feet. "You've _ruined_ my life! I think I set a new Watcher record for getting spotted! And now I have a bunch of thugs who are going to ransack my apartment, and they'll probably find my Chronicles!"

Marshall shrugged. "If they read them at all, they'll probably just think you're a lunatic," he said.

"Oh, thank you!" Theresa exclaimed sarcastically. "That makes me feel so much better! A gang of drug dealers thinks I'm a crazy narc!" she cried, throwing her hands in the air. "What a hoot! I'll be run out of the Watchers as a laughing stock!"

Again, Marshall shrugged. "Doesn't seem to me like you're cut out for it," he remarked with one eyebrow raised.

Theresa's eyes went wide with fury and she stormed towards him. "_Go to hell, you goddamn bastard_!" she yelled, but Marshall stood his ground, staring back at her. "You...you..._freak of nature_!" she spat out, shaking an accusing finger at him.

At that, the Immortal smiled and nodded. "Ah, yes. Your true feelings at last. No wonder Horton was able to recruit so many of you to his cause," he said with a sneer.

His remarks felt like a slap in the face to her. Never mind the shock that this man knew so much about the Watchers. Theresa despised Horton and his ideas; he had betrayed everything the Watchers stood for. To be lumped in with him...

"No," she said, raising a hand to object and shaking her head, "I didn't mean..."

"Oh, I think you _did_ mean it," Marshall said, cutting her off. Theresa turned around, her fury dissipating. She walked back to the couch and collapsed onto it.

"No, I didn't," she insisted. She rubbed her open hands over her face, then dropped them to her lap. "I was lashing out. Look, I'm frightened. And I'm angry. And, yeah, I'm disappointed," she said, looking over her shoulder at him. She shook her head and sighed. "You know who I was watching before you? Lizzy Knight. I saw you take her worthless head, and I was glad when I saw it roll across the pavement. But you know what? You're no better than her! Maybe you play by the rules with other Immortals, but with us, you play by your own! And they're dirty as hell! Jesus Christ, you're dealing drugs! Do you even care about the misery and death you're causing?"

Marshall did not respond, said nothing to defend himself. He only watched her silently, his gray eyes unreadable.

"And now I've messed up this assignment _so_ bad, I'm sure to get thrown out of the Watchers." She laughed bitterly. "Assuming you or your drug-dealing friends don't kill me!" She turned and looked at him as if she were looking at the contents of a sewer. "But you know what? I'm looking forward to leaving the Watchers now. I don't want to watch you people anymore. You make me sick. I regret that I became a Watcher at all, because I wish I had never known scum like you existed."

The two of them sat for several moments in silence, saying nothing once Theresa had said her piece. Eventually Marshall stood up.

"The first door on your right down the hall is a spare bedroom," he told her. "You can use it tonight. Tomorrow I'll take you to MacLeod's Watcher...Dawson. He'll know what to do."

With that, the Immortal walked down the hall to his own bedroom, leaving Theresa in the desolate silence of the living room. A few minutes later, she went to the spare bedroom and shut the door. It had a lock. She secured it.

* * *


	4. Marcellus

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 4: Marcellus**

A couple of hours later, Theresa still had not managed to fall sleep. She'd lain down on the bed fully dressed at first, but she never could sleep in regular clothes. So, despite her proximity to a mysterious and dangerous Immortal, she'd changed into a long, white cotton t-shirt she'd found in the spare bedroom's closet. It hadn't helped.

She was still too upset, overwrought by what had happened that night, by the drastic changes the events of a few hours had brought to bear on her life. That life had also never been so obviously in danger before, despite all the unsavory places she'd found herself while following Lizzy Knight. Theresa sighed as she thought about performing her duties as Watcher, first for Lizzy, now for Marshall. For twelve years, she had devoted her life to first becoming a Watcher, then being one. Now, that dream had died, killed by the night's events.

Even worse was the enigma called Lucas Marshall, sleeping on the other side of a concrete wall from her. She felt nervous, lying there, trying to sleep, this close to an Immortal. On top of that, the man was a ruthless killer and a drug-dealer. He'd been taking the heads of other Immortals pretty much non-stop since he appeared on the scene a year ago. And from what Theresa had seen, he derived a sadistic enjoyment from taunting his opponents before the kill.

And yet he counted honorable men like Duncan MacLeod and Reginald Blount among his friends. He'd avenged Blount's death and had seemed genuinely distraught over Mick Porter's. And he'd saved her life. Not only that, he was hiding her from those other drug-dealers. He hadn't tried to attack her, rape her, or even make a move on her. He hadn't harmed her, and didn't seem to want to. Her bedroom even had a lock on the door, which she'd used, regardless of his promises and the behavior that backed them up. She couldn't figure him out at all, but trying to do so was driving her crazy and keeping her awake.

And she was thirsty.

Theresa pushed herself up in frustration from where she'd been tossing and turning on the bed. As she stood up, the t-shirt dropped to her knees from where it had bunched around her otherwise naked waist. She unlocked and opened her door, poked her head out and glanced around to ensure the hallway was empty, then padded out of the bedroom in her bare feet. She walked past the living and dining room, stopped to turn on the light, and went into the kitchen. She poured herself a tall glass of cold water and gulped it down greedily. Then she poured herself another and began to sip it more casually.

Her eyes wandered around the sparsely decorated room and settled on the long, black velvet curtains that hung from the ceiling in the middle of the living room's far wall. Curiosity got the better of her. She looked back into the hallway and saw no light nor heard any sound from Marshall's room. She turned and walked to the curtains and pulled them back.

Hanging before her, in a shallow alcove hidden by the curtains, was a large oil painting. Theresa recognized the work as that of Thomas Gainsborough, one of the foremost English painters of that period. Its subject was one of the most beautiful women Theresa had ever seen—a full-length, life-size portrait of a young woman, perhaps in her early twenties, in the dress of a mid-eighteenth century English noblewoman. The woman's long red hair was curled and piled high on her head, but also tumbled decorously down her neck and onto her bare white shoulders. She wore a pale blue dress that had a plunging neckline surrounded by brocade, the fabric opening to a point just above a well-endowed bosom. A gold sash surrounded a slender waist before the dress broadened slightly around shapely hips.

Theresa's eyes wandered back up to the face in the portrait. Bright green eyes sparkled from within a slender, oval-shaped face and above high cheekbones. The woman had a delicate nose that turned up very slightly at the end. Her lips were full and lush, and the painting portrayed a hint of a smile at the corners of those lips. Theresa expected the woman to suddenly break out into a broad grin and a gentle, cultured laugh at any moment.

Theresa took a step forward and looked at a small plaque bolted to the painting's bottom frame. She saw, engraved in the brass plaque, the inscription: _Lady Alodia, by T. Gainsborough, 1781_. Theresa's eyes widened. Her head sprang up to look at the woman again. _ Alodia?_ she thought. _No...it can't be..._

"I remember the day that was painted," a male voice said from a few feet behind her.

Theresa gasped and turned around. There stood Marshall, clad in black silk pajama bottoms and a matching short black robe. The robe was tied with a silk cord around his waist; it was open beneath his throat and over his sternum, revealing a muscular, hairy chest.

"I apologize," he said smoothly, "I didn't mean to frighten you. You couldn't sleep either?"

Theresa shook her head nervously. Her hazel eyes remained wide, and she regarded Marshall warily as he came to stand beside her, ignoring her obvious agitation. His gaze remained on the portrait.

"I was watching Gainsborough paint it, which he disliked, but I was paying him enough to put up with it. Alodia kept making faces at me to make me laugh, and old Tom kept telling her to stop it. That's why you see that impish smile there. He threatened to give it up and return my money at least three times, and each time, she stopped him and coaxed him back. She could charm anyone into anything if she set her mind to it."

"Lady Alodia..." Theresa whispered, still unwilling to believe what the presence of the portrait, and Marshall's words, must mean.

"...yes, daughter of the Saxon Thane Aldred. Born 857 AD—by your modern calendar—became Immortal 878 AD. Killed...," his voice became tight and quiet, "...in 1915." He paused and drew a long, heavy breath as his gray eyes wandered over the painting. "It's a magnificent portrait," he declared softly, "but it doesn't do her justice."

"You...knew her?" Theresa asked dubiously.

"_Knew_ her?" Marshall responded, looking at her as though she were insane. "I should say so! We were married for over a thousand years!"

Theresa's mouth dropped open and the blood drained from her face. She lost her grip on her glass. It fell but was caught by Marshall, exercising speed and reflexes that had been honed and battle-tested for hundreds of years. Theresa backed away from him gradually, her hazel eyes wide, her head shaking slowly from side to side. It made sense—the portrait, his masterful skill at swordplay, his knowledge of and friendship with so many other Immortals—but she couldn't accept it.

"No...," she breathed, "...this isn't possible! You can't be..."

"I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome," he said, straightening slightly and raising his chin. "I was born two thousand, five hundred and thirty-nine years ago."

"But...but..." Theresa stammered, "you're supposed to be _dead_!"

The Immortal blinked, then the corners of his lips curled into a smile. "Ah. That."

* * *

_Paris, 1985_

In the small rectory of _L'Eglise de St. Julien le Pauvre_, three men sat down at a simple wooden table. One wore the unadorned habit of a priest; the other two were much more modern and stylish in their dress. One was tall and had dark hair pulled back into a medium-length pony-tail which hung down his back. The other, not quite as tall as the other two, had short, curly blond hair. They each had a mug of steaming tea in front of them and took turns reaching for the sugar cookies piled on a plate in the middle of the table.

"Well, MacLeod!" Hugh Fitzcairn declared. "An evening spent in the tee-totaling presence of a two-thousand year-old priest! You do know how to paint the town red!"

Darius and Duncan MacLeod laughed. Though Fitzcairn would deny it and declare with his dying breath his preference to spend the evening visiting every bar on the Champs Elysées, he had been looking forward to this visit with Darius for months. As had MacLeod. He would be leaving Paris soon, and had no idea when, or if, he would be returning. He wanted to bid farewell to his friend and to his teacher.

"It's good to see you as well, Hugh," Darius said graciously. He poured fresh tea for his guests. "It's been too long."

"Yes," Fitzcairn replied as he lit his pipe, "I suppose. It's just that every time I see you, I feel like I should go with you to the confessional. And since it's been at least a century since I last did that, we'd be stuck in there all night!" Again the three men laughed, especially because what Fitzcairn had said was probably true, given his eye for the fairer sex.

"So tell me, Duncan," Darius said, "how soon are you leaving Paris?"

"Leaving Paris?" Fitzcairn said in surprise. "Whatever for? Did Tessa catch you cheating?"

"Bite your tongue," MacLeod replied, laughing softly and pointing a warning finger at Fitzcairn. "We're heading to the States together."

"You still haven't answered my question," Fitzcairn insisted. "Whatever for?"

"I just told Tessa that I'm an Immortal recently," MacLeod explained patiently. "She had a hard enough time believing it, and now she's trying to get used to the idea. I don't want to dump everything else about it on her as well. And if I stay here, I might be forced to do that. So...I'm out of the Game. I'm withdrawing." He sipped his tea and waited for his two friends to react.

"You can't just pull out of the game, old man," Fitzcairn warned him.

"Watch me," MacLeod answered. "Darius has."

"Darius is a priest who lives on holy ground!" Fitzcairn exclaimed. "I doubt you'll find a brotherhood of monks willing to let you bring your woman into the monastery with you. I know they're very forward-thinking in America, but that might be pushing it."

"Duncan," Darius said gently, "believe me, I understand the desire to withdraw from the Game. I did it for love of God and my fellow man. You are doing it for love as well—the love of a woman. In your case, however, I feel I must warn you—you cannot completely escape who you are, and what you are."

"I know that, Darius," MacLeod responded calmly. "I'm just...tired of it, of the violence, the killing. I'm truly happy for the first time since...since I don't remember when, and coming from me, that's saying a lot! Maybe I can't avoid it completely, but I want to go some place where I'm less likely to run into our kind. Seems like Paris has a never-ending Immortal convention..."

"Well, I can't wait to hear what Marcellus has to say about this," Fitzcairn muttered, sucking on his long pipe. "Where is the old Roman anyway? I thought he'd be here by now."

Lucius Gaius Marcellus, one of the last of the ancient Immortals and a friend to all three men, had just returned to Paris after several decades abroad. He hadn't been the same since the death of his wife, and they hadn't seen much of him since that unhappy event, though several decades had passed. MacLeod had suggested inviting him tonight, hoping that Darius would have some words of solace for the Roman.

"I think I hear him," Darius said, and the three men suddenly heard heavy footfalls approaching the rectory from the church. They also felt the distinctive tingling in their heads and necks that indicated the nearby presence of another Immortal.

"Speak of the devil," Fitzcairn said.

A moment later, the door to the rectory burst open and Lucius Gaius Marcellus stood in the doorway. To say he looked agitated would be an understatement. His short black hair, combed into a widow's peak above his forehead, was mussed as though he'd been pulling at it. He was breathing heavily like an enraged bull. His gray eyes glowered angrily at all three of them before focusing on MacLeod. When he saw the Highlander, his upper lip curled into an angry sneer.

Marcellus strode into the room, walked up to MacLeod and, to the astonishment of all three men at the table, backhanded the Highlander across the face. MacLeod was a strong man and taller than Marcellus, but the blow knocked him out of his chair to the stone floor.

"Judas!" Marcellus shouted at MacLeod. "Brutus! I'll have your head, you Scottish swine!" He launched himself at MacLeod, but Fitzcairn caught him and pulled him back.

"Stop it!" Fitzcairn shouted. "Back off now, Marcellus!"

"Lucius!" Darius shouted, shocked and angered as he hadn't been in centuries, "what is the meaning of this?"

"What the hell was that for?" MacLeod asked as he wiped blood from his mouth and rose from the floor.

"You know what it's for, you bastard!" Marcellus shouted as Fitzcairn struggled to restrain him. Darius stepped around the table to stand between the two struggling Immortals and MacLeod.

"Lucius Gaius Marcellus!" he shouted. "This is a house of God. It is also my home! I will not have you behaving this way in here! Now calm yourself, and explain yourself, or all three of us will throw you out!"

Marcellus, breathing heavily, pushed himself out of Fitzcairn's grip. He took a step back from the other three Immortals and held up his hands. Still, he glared angrily at MacLeod. The other three men watched him warily, waiting.

"Fine, Darius. I'll calm down," he said, his voice low and rough. "But _he's_ the one who needs to explain himself!" he shouted, pointing to MacLeod.

"Lucius...I don't know what you're talking about!" MacLeod insisted, his head shaking, his arms spread wide.

"Liar!" Marcellus snarled.

He reached into his long, heavy leather coat. The other three men tensed, worried that he might pull out a weapon. Instead, he retrieved a bundle of aged papers, bound with a decaying pale blue ribbon, from his inside coat pocket. He threw them onto Darius' table beside MacLeod.

"I went back to our home here," Marcellus said, his voice trembling with rage. "Haven't been there in years. I went through some of her things. I found a secret compartment in one of her old trunks. And what do you think I found there? Eh? Those! What do you have to say now, MacLeod?"

"Marcellus," Darius said, bewildered and gesturing towards the bundle of old papers, "what are those?"

"Letters," Marcellus spat out. "Love letters. From him," he said, pointing at MacLeod again. "To _my wife_!"

Darius and Fitzcairn's mouths both dropped open in shock. As one, they turned to look at MacLeod. The Highlander's lips had pressed into a grim line, and his dark brown eyes had become downcast. His ashamed expression told the other Immortals everything they needed to know.

MacLeod looked up to catch Fitzcairn's eyes. Though his friend didn't say a thing, MacLeod could read his thoughts in his expression: _Bloody hell, my son, you are sodding in it now_. Marcellus had been with Alodia for just over a thousand years. The only other thing he'd loved that much, and for that long, was Rome. And he'd fought and killed for Rome for a millennium.

"You see?" Marcellus said, drawing the attention of the other two shocked Immortals back to him. "You see his guilt? It's written all over his face. I brought you into my house, MacLeod. I trusted you like a son, like a brother. You barely knew how to wipe your own arse when I met you. And this is how you repaid me? _By_ _seducing my wife_?!"

Marcellus' voice had gradually escalated in volume and agitation as he spoke. Fitzcairn moved to restrain the ancient Immortal if he tried to attack MacLeod again.

"Now, hang on, Lucius," MacLeod declared defensively, "nothing ever happened! Yes, I wrote the damn letters, and I'm sorry! She was beautiful, she was charming, she was like nothing I'd ever seen before! It was...the infatuation of an adolescent! Nothing more!"

"You were fifty when you started writing the damn things and sixty-five when they stopped!" Marcellus angrily declared. "That's a damn long adolescence!"

"Maybe, Lucius!" MacLeod shouted back. "But I'm telling you, nothing happened! She loved _you_," he said, gesturing toward the Roman, "not me. She didn't want to have anything to do with me!"

"Then why," Marcellus growled through clenched teeth, "did she keep the damn things? Eh? Answer me that!"

MacLeod glanced uncertainly at the bundle of letters, then turned back to Lucius, spreading his arms to protest his innocence. "I don't know, Lucius. I didn't know they still existed until you walked in here with them!"

"You're pathetic!" Marcellus spat out. "You expect me to believe that Duncan MacLeod, who never met a female that he didn't want to rut like a love-sick dog, wrote love-letters to a woman for fifteen years without getting _any_ encouragement whatsoever? Do you think I'm a _fool_?"

MacLeod glared back at his former teacher and friend. He crossed his arms defiantly. "Maybe you are, Lucius, if you believe one of the finest women to ever walk this earth, who loved you more than her own life, would have even _thought_ of cheating on you."

"Don't try to make this about her!" Marcellus shouted and took a step forward. "This is about _you_, you cuckolding bastard!"

"Lucius, please...!" Darius said, spreading his arms.

"All right lads, I think that's enough," Fitzcairn said, glancing at both men and gesturing to them to calm down. "We can go 'round in circles on this one all night. What say we go home and let our tempers cool, eh?"

"That sounds fine," Marcellus said contemptuously. "MacLeod and I can take this up later, when he's not quivering like a coward on holy ground." Fitzcairn rolled his eyes in exasperation. The Roman, he knew, could be like a dog with a bone once he got a notion in his head.

"Is that the way you want this to go, Lucius?" MacLeod asked, his eyes wide and dark brows raised in surprise, but his jaw set in determination. "You want this to go to swords?"

"Oh, I don't know," Marcellus said, a nasty smile suddenly coming to his lips. "Maybe we can just settle it by evening the score."

"What the hell does that mean?" MacLeod growled dangerously, glaring at the sneering Roman.

"Now, lads," Fitzcairn cautioned them. He could sense where this was going and knew it could not end well.

"I was just thinking how that little French tart you've hooked up with might enjoy a _real_ man for a change," Marcellus snarled.

MacLeod launched himself angrily at Marcellus. Darius grabbed and held him, while Fitzcairn pushed Marcellus back.

"Both of you, stop this!" Darius shouted. "This is holy ground!"

"Father's right," Marcellus said in a condescending voice, as if he were talking to a child. "If we want to play rough, we should go outside."

"Fine by me," MacLeod growled back. He grabbed his coat from the back of his chair where he'd placed it, feeling the weight of his sword inside it. He gently pushed Darius out of the way and started to follow Marcellus out of the rectory. Fitzcairn and Darius looked at one another in horror. They turned and followed their two friends out the door.

"Marcellus! MacLeod!" Darius called after them. "Stop! This is madness! You're both friends!"

"Not anymore!" Marcellus shouted back as he walked down the aisle of the church. He reached the great Gothic wooden doors and threw them open. He walked out into the night, out of the churchyard, away from holy ground. MacLeod was right on his heels.

"Hugh, go after them!" Darius said, his head shaking and his arms thrown up in exasperation. "Try to talk some sense into them!"

"You don't have to tell me twice!" Fitzcairn shouted back as he ran down the steps of the church. He'd lost a great many friends in his eight hundred years on earth. He didn't want to lose another one tonight.

* * *

A few minutes earlier, across the street from _L'Eglise de St. Julien le Pauvre_, the side door to an unassuming black van slid open. A man stepped into the van carrying a bag of French pastries and a tray of take-out coffee, and was greeted enthusiastically by his colleagues.

"Evenin', Lads!" Mick Porter said. "Thought we could all use some nosh!"

"Mick, you beautiful cockney bastard," Tom Owens declared with a smile in his flat, mid-west accent. "You are a life saver!" Owens, Darius' Watcher, eagerly reached for the bag of pastries. It didn't take much effort to watch an Immortal who never left the same patch of holy ground, and Owens was proof of that. He'd learned French, converted to Catholicism, and had put on more than a few pounds in the fifteen rather easy years he'd been watching the Immortal-turned-priest.

"Marcellus just get here?" Joe Dawson asked. He'd been MacLeod's Watcher for about five years. The other Watchers marveled at how Dawson, lacking the use of both legs after stepping on a land mine in Vietnam, managed to keep up with an active Immortal like MacLeod. Dawson had never seen Marcellus before, but had assumed the man who had just entered the church was the ancient Roman Immortal. He didn't get a very good look at the man in the dark, but he seemed to fit Marcellus' description.

"Yeah," Porter answered as slid the door closed and settled into a seat. "He drove like a bat outta hell over here. Had a devil of a time keepin' up. Guess he didn't want to miss out on the fun." Porter had worked with Dawson when he'd first joined the Watchers. Dawson had a team of other Watchers, most of them learning the ropes under him, who kept up with MacLeod when he couldn't. Porter had performed that function for a time, learning how to keep an eye on the Immortals whose lives they recorded without ever being spotted, before drawing his own assignment just over three years before: Lucius Gaius Marcellus, the widowed ancient Roman.

"Now what sort of fun could four Immortal lads get up to in a church of all places?" Patrick Sullivan asked his older companions. He'd just started watching Fitzcairn a year ago, and as far as the young Irish Watcher was concerned, he'd drawn his dream assignment on his first time out. Fitzcairn seemed to know every bar and pub in every town in Europe, and Sullivan loved following him into them. And the women! The tall, handsome young Irishman, with his dark features and intense brown eyes, had almost as much success with the ladies as Fitzcairn. He often told other Watchers that when it came to drink and women, he was simply trying to catch up to his eight-hundred year-old charge.

"You'd be surprised," Dawson said with a smile. "I was a choir-boy. I could tell you some stories..."

"You? A choir-boy?" Owen said, disbelievingly. "No wonder the Catholic Church has fallen on such hard times."

The other occupants of the van laughed with the easy camaraderie of men in the same profession who were forced to spend what appeared to be a long, uneventful night together.

"Say, Joe," Porter said, "how come you're not lettin' one o' your lads take the shift tonight?"

"Ah, sometimes you gotta put in the hours yourself, Mick," Dawson replied. "Hell, I taught you that. And besides, they're gonna be sitting in a church for a few hours! It's not like they're gonna make me run any marathons tonight."

"Mr. Dawson," Sullivan said, "I've been led to believe that your lad has found true love, is that so?"

"Seems that way," Dawson said with a nod, then sipped his coffee.

"Ah, now that's a sad, sad thing, it is," Sullivan declared, shaking his head. "Another one bites the dust. If Fitzcairn ever catches the dreaded bug, I want a reassignment."

Dawson and the others laughed. "You might think you're lucky with the ladies, Pat, but MacLeod's got a record to rival yours and your principal's. But this woman...I've seen her. If MacLeod doesn't do everything in his power to stick with her, he's a fool."

"Is she Immortal, Joe?" Owen asked, not really interested, but making conversation to pass the time. He took a bite of a crueler.

"I'm pretty sure she's not," Dawson replied, a little sadly. "Can't imagine what that's like for them. Having to watch someone you love grow old and die while you stay the same."

Porter shrugged. "I dunno. On the other hand, there's my lad. Prob'ly thought his bird 'd be around forever."

The van was silent for a moment. "All right, lads," Sullivan said, "if you're all going to get maudlin, I'll be finding meself another van to sit in."

Suddenly, the doors to the church opened. The four Watchers looked on as two dark figures emerged from the church and stormed down the steps, one after the other. In the dim light cast by a streetlight, Porter and Dawson each recognized the Immortal they'd been assigned. Even in the gloom, the Watchers could see the two men were bristling and glaring at one another like pit bulls as they hit the street and turned, walking away from the church to an unknown location.

The Watchers then saw two figures appear at the top of the church steps. They could make out the silhouette of a priest's habit on the taller one, which meant he had to be Darius and the shorter man had to be Fitzcairn, which was confirmed when the latter ran down the steps and passed under the streetlight, then set off in pursuit of his two friends.

"Oh my God..." Dawson muttered.

"Bloody hell!" Porter exclaimed.

"Patrick, Darius just went back in the church," Owen said calmly to the Watcher behind the wheel of the van. "I'll get out and stay here with him. Start the engine and go down the road after them. Leave your lights off. "

Sullivan did as he was told by the older Watcher once he'd left the van. The three Watchers surreptitiously followed their three Immortal charges down a quiet Paris street to a quiet nineteenth century factory. From several yards away, they watched as Marcellus appeared to pick the padlock on a large garage door. He and MacLeod lifted the door, pushing it up on its rollers from opposite sides as they continued to glare angrily at one another.

Fitzcairn ran up to the door just as the two Immortals stepped inside. Marcellus drew his Toledo rapier on Fitzcairn, apparently ordering him to stay outside, then he and MacLeod allowed the large, heavy door to drop, shutting a visibly frustrated Fitzcairn outside. They watched him try to lift the door, but apparently the other two had locked it from the inside. Fitzcairn began to bang on the door before giving up and running around to the far side of the building, apparently looking for another entrance.

Sullivan opened the door to the van and sprang out, running after his principal who had just vanished from sight. He pressed himself against the side of the building, peeked around the edge, then disappeared as well.

"Shit!" Dawson cursed. "I don't believe this! Those two have been friends for over three hundred years, what the hell are they fighting over?"

"A woman, I 'spect," Porter said morosely. "It's always about a woman."

"Mick, get over there," Dawson ordered. "There's a fire escape on this side of the building, see it down the alley? Climb up it and see if you can watch the fight through one of those windows."

Porter opened the side door to the van and ran across the street and down the alley. Dawson could just make him out in the dark, clambering up the fire escape. He could also see lights come on inside the old factory, through the high windows at the top of the building. So it had begun. The remaining Watcher cursed himself for not having one of his more able-bodied assistants with him. And he felt certain that MacLeod, whom he had come to admire from a distance, would not survive this fight. He didn't know much about Marcellus, but knew the ancient Immortal had over two thousand more years of experience than MacLeod. He cursed again. He felt useless, sitting there in the van while others did his job. Then he frowned.

"Wait a minute..." he muttered as he reached back behind his chair and rummaged through some of their surveillance equipment. He found what he was looking for: a sensitive, long-distance sound-collecting microphone. It looked like a child's clear plastic umbrella with a handle at the top. He transferred himself to the front seat, rolled down the window, and pointed the microphone towards the factory, keeping most of it inside the van to hide it. He placed the microphone's headset over his ears and turned it on.

He could just make out the sound of metal striking metal—a sword-fight. He then heard a couple of male voices shouting, but couldn't make out what they said; the factory walls muffled the sound too much. Then more metal-on-metal. The sound persisted for several minutes. Then nothing for a few seconds. There was a loud squeal and Dawson grimaced and pulled the headphones off. He looked at the factory and saw flashing lights and explosions like a pyrotechnic display inside the old building—a Quickening. That went on for a minute or so, then nothing.

A moment later, Dawson saw Fitzcairn reappear from around the same side of the building where he'd vanished moments before, walking slowly, almost reluctantly, back towards the door the two combatants had entered. Dawson put the headphones back on. After a couple of minutes, Dawson saw the door open a foot; Fitzcairn caught it, lifted the door higher, and Duncan MacLeod stumbled out. Dawson breathed a sigh of relief and trained the collector mike on the two Immortals.

"My God, Duncan," he heard Fitzcairn say in his British accent, "Marcellus?"

MacLeod didn't say anything at first. He just shook his head. The mike picked up his heavy breathing; he was still exhausted from the fight and the Quickening. "He wouldn't...wouldn't let it go, Fitz," MacLeod eventually said. "I wounded him, told him that was it, that I didn't want to kill him. He just kept coming. Said things...things about Tessa to make me angry. It worked. Oh, Christ..." MacLeod's body slumped to the pavement and he sat there, his shoulders heaving.

Dawson lowered the microphone as MacLeod broke down and Fitzcairn laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. At moments like this, Dawson felt a little ashamed of his job. But he chided himself; he'd signed on to the Watchers for life, and he had a duty to fulfill, even if it made him sick to his stomach sometimes. He trained the microphone back on the two Immortals again.

"...same since Alodia was killed," he heard Fitzcairn saying. "He never got over that. Maybe he got tired of chasing Ortega and decided to take out his anger on you."

"I don't know," MacLeod responded. He looked up at Fitzcairn. "I don't care. You see why I want to get out of the Game? I don't want to do this anymore. I don't want to kill my friends," he place his hand on Fitzcairn's shoulder, "over some stupid misunderstanding."

Dawson saw Fitzcairn nod sadly. "I understand, Duncan. I didn't before and I'm sorry. C'mon, let's get back to the church," he said, helping MacLeod to his feet. "I think we could both use Darius' company right now," Fitzcairn remarked with tremor in his voice.

Once the two Immortals had disappeared down the street, Sullivan and Porter returned to the van.

"What happened, Mick?" Dawson asked as Sullivan drove the van back to the church.

"They fought," Porter said sadly. "MacLeod won."

"Christ, Mick, I know that!" Dawson said angrily. "I know you liked Marcellus, but you're a professional, Mick! Come on now, report!"

Porter took a deep breath. "They were fighting, and Marcellus kept making these mistakes—like he was too angry to fight proper. MacLeod sliced him up a bit, then tried to walk away. Marcellus started yelling something—couldn't make it out, sounded like it was about MacLeod's woman—and they kept fighting. MacLeod got an opening and took it. End of story."

"The body?" Dawson asked. Sometimes Immortals took it upon themselves to hide the decapitated corpses they left behind; sometimes they just walked away from them and left the authorities pondering what appeared to be a grisly crime.

"There was a sewer hole in the factory floor," Porter answered, then said no more.

Owen rejoined the others, who related the story to him. The four Watchers sat in silence in the van for the rest of the evening while the three remaining Immortals consoled each other in the church. It was as though a strong, mighty oak, one they had all taken for granted and assumed would be around forever, had fallen. Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome, approximately two thousand five hundred and thirty years old, would have no gravestone, no marker to indicate his passing. But he would live on in their Chronicles, and the Watchers took some small consolation from that.

* * *

"Duncan MacLeod took your head!" Theresa exclaimed.

"Really?" Marcellus responded superciliously. "I shall have to take that up with Duncan the next time I see him."

Theresa ignored his facetiousness. "Four Watchers were there the night you died! How can you be alive?"

"I was going to make some tea," Marcellus said as he walked into the kitchen and returned the milk to the fridge. "We used to use pure chamomile in Rome to help us sleep. Care for some?"

"_Damn it_, answer me!" Theresa shouted, following him.

"Watch your manners, girl," Marcellus said calmly but sternly as he turned to her. "I don't have to tell you anything. I've probably told you far too much already."

Theresa took a step back. She'd forgotten, for a moment, that she was a Watcher, in the presence of an Immortal, not to mention in violation of most of the rules the Watchers held dear, her Uncle Joe notwithstanding. Marshall, or Marcellus, had said he wouldn't harm her and hadn't, but it wasn't wise to provoke him.

"I'm sorry," she said. "It's just..." She stood before him, arms spread and palms up in supplication. She let out an exasperated sigh. "Never mind," she said, and turned to go back to her bedroom.

"Wait," Marcellus said. "What were you going to say?"

"Nothing. Why do you care?" Theresa said, turning to him and frowning.

Marcellus shrugged. "I find you interesting. Take it as a compliment. It takes a great deal for a mere mortal to stir the interest of a two-thousand, five-hundred year-old man." She cocked an eyebrow at him. "Oh, I don't mean like that!" he declared with a wave of his hand. "Although, come to think of it, you are very beautiful, aren't you?"

His gray eyes gave her a quick once over, and Theresa suddenly wished she had more clothes on. Fortunately, Marcellus changed the topic and turned away to make his tea.

"What I meant is that you have spirit, the way you demanded an explanation of me just now, as rude as you were. And you were brave—if foolhardy—following me into that lion's den earlier tonight." He placed a kettle under the kitchen tap and began to fill it. "So, I find you intriguing, Ms. McNeil. Now, what were you going to say? And please, have a seat. The tea has to steep for awhile."

Theresa couldn't believe any of this. She was in an Immortal's apartment. Not just any Immortal, but apparently one of the most ancient, who had just miraculously returned from certain death. And here he was, asking her to pour her heart out while he made her tea. _Tea_!

In fact, it was the promise of chamomile tea that won her over. She needed to sleep, and chamomile usually did the trick for her as well. And her mother had always told her that in an unusual and stressful situation, _doing_ something normal would make you _feel_ normal. What was more normal than hot tea? She sat down on the couch.

"If I tell you what I was going to say," she offered, "will you tell me how you convinced other Immortals and the Watchers that you've been dead for twelve years?"

"Deal," Marcellus said as he plugged in his kettle.

Theresa took a deep breath. "You're the reason I became a Watcher," she told him.

* * *


	5. Theresa

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 5: Theresa**

_New York, 1985 AD_

"Mom, do you think Madonna is Immortal?"

Christine MacNeil glanced at her teenage daughter, raised her light blonde eyebrows, and laughed softly. "No, sweetheart, we're pretty sure she isn't." She went back to tearing apart a head of romaine lettuce in preparation for dinner.

"That's too bad," Terry MacNeil said. "'Cause then? She'd be around making music, like, _forever_."

Christine's amused blue eyes studied Terry. To say her sixteen-year-old daughter was obsessed with Madonna would be an understatement of mythic proportions. The wall of her room was plastered with pictures and posters of the pop singer. Terry had done an intentionally terrible job of dying her auburn hair blonde to look more like Madonna. She dressed like Madonna, in black tank tops, tights, and floral print dresses that a rummage shop would be embarrassed to sell. She had started wearing a rosary around her neck even though she wasn't Catholic—which was a good thing, because no good Catholic would be caught dead wearing a rosary in that way.

It had all started with that movie, _ Desperately Seeking Susan_, which Terry had now seen at least a dozen times since its release that spring. Now she had all of Madonna's records and Madonna was all she ever talked about—except for Immortals, of course. Now she'd found a way to combine the two topics.

"I'm sure she'll have a long, productive career as long as she has fans like you, dear," Christine said, brushing a loose strand of light blonde hair away from her pale, slender face. "Do me a favor and turn the oven to 375, would you?"

Christine put the lettuce in a salad spinner and told herself to count her blessings. At least her daughter talked to her, unlike the sullen, silent treatment the parents of several of Terry's friends got. And Terry kept her knowledge of Immortals to herself—she had never breathed a word of the 'family secret' to anyone, not even to her closest friends. Her parents had been insistent on that point.

She and her husband had resolved, when they first brought Theresa home, that they would never discuss Immortals around their daughter. But inevitably, in the household of two Watchers, things slipped out; when Terry came to them at the age of six and asked, "What's a kick'ning?", they'd realized they would have to educate her. Interestingly, Terry expressed no interest whatsoever in becoming a Watcher. She wanted to be a pop singer. Failing that, an astronaut, or a dancer, or a doctor, or...her career preferences changed as often as the weather, but Watcher was never on the list.

"Hey Dad! We're in the kitchen!" Terry yelled a few minutes later when both women heard the front door open and close. Though both her parents worked for the Watchers, they worked in different divisions which were housed in different offices—discretely disguised as regular businesses, of course—so her mother usually made it home before her father.

"Thank you, Terry," Christine said sarcastically as she put the stuffed chicken breasts into the oven, "but could you yell a little louder? I don't think they heard you in Hoboken."

"Oh, hardy-har."

David MacNeil walked into the kitchen of his Brownstone apartment and stood in the doorway. Christine's husband, though only forty-seven years old and youthful for his age, looked old and tired tonight. He held his suit jacket over his shoulder and slumped against the door frame. His short blonde hair, which had started to go gray, was mussed and matted. His collar was unbuttoned, his tie askew. He wore a saddened expression on his face.

"Whoa, Dad, who died?" Terry asked tactlessly, looking at her father's morose appearance.

"Terry!" Christine admonished her. "David, what happened?"

"Got some bad news today," he said simply. He walked into the kitchen, pulled back a chair from the table and collapsed into it. "Honey, I could really use a beer."

Christine opened the fridge and pulled out a can of beer. She set it on the table in front of her husband along with a glass and sat down beside him, waiting for him to explain what had happened.

"Dad?" Terry asked as her father poured his beer. "You're kinda scaring me."

"Sorry, pumpkin." He looked at his wife. "There was an incident in Paris last night," he started.

"Is Joe okay?" Christine asked anxiously. Dawson was a close friend, and Christine knew he was stationed there. David MacNeil was a Watcher team lead, with about one hundred Watchers reporting to him, mostly from across North America but some in Europe as well. Dawson was one of them.

"Joe's fine, honey."

Both Christine and Terry breathed a sigh of relief. Terry adored her Uncle Joe; he wasn't really her Uncle, but he was just about one of the coolest guys she'd ever met. He was a Vietnam Vet; he'd lost both legs in that conflict, but managed fine without them, which Terry admired. He played guitar better than anybody she'd ever heard, and he was a top-notch Watcher on her Dad's team. And he treated her like a grown-up. Ultra-cool dude, no question, as far as she was concerned.

"So, what is it then?" Christine asked.

MacNeil sighed and took a long swig of his beer. "Marcellus," he said. "He's gone."

"Who?" Terry asked, but her parents ignored her.

"Oh no," Christine said as she closed her eyes and sighed. She shook her head sadly, then looked at her husband again. "Who did it?"

"You'll never believe it," MacNeil said, shaking his head as well, but in disbelief.

"Who?" Christine asked again.

"Duncan MacLeod," MacNeil replied, his eyebrows raised. Christine's eyes widened in shock.

"Ooo!" Terry exclaimed excitedly, not really following the conversation. "Duncan MacLeod?" The other ultra-cool thing about Uncle Joe was that a couple of years ago, he had been assigned to the coolest, cutest, hottest Immortal around as far as Terry was concerned. Her parents frowned on Terry developing too avid an interest in specific Immortals, especially one with a reputation like Duncan MacLeod's. Still, she'd found it hard to hide her schoolgirl crush on MacLeod from them.

"Try to remain calm, princess," MacNeil tiredly told his daughter with a wan smile. "This isn't a happy occasion," he told her.

"Sorry," Terry said, admonished. "I might understand all this better if you tell me who this...Marcel Marceau guy is. He must be a bad one, right? If Duncan MacLeod took him out?"

"His name is...was...Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Terry," Christine explained in a subdued tone. "And he wasn't one of the bad ones. He was a Roman, one of the last ancient Immortals. He and Duncan MacLeod were friends. Or so I thought. David, what on earth happened?"

"We're still trying to piece that together," MacNeil said, spreading his hands. "They obviously had an argument about something, something big enough to make them pull out their swords and have at it. Apparently Darius and Fitzcairn were there and couldn't talk them out of it."

"I don't know about MacLeod," Christine interjected, "but there's only one thing that would get Marcellus' blood up that way: Alodia."

"Okay," Terry spoke up, unwilling to let her parent's conversation get away from her once more. "Out of the loop, here, again. What or who is Alodia?"

MacNeil turned to his wife. "Y'know, maybe you should give her the Reader's Digest version," he said. "I was desperately trying to get my facts straight this afternoon. I could use a refresher, too."

Christine MacNeil was Senior Chronicle Librarian for North America—a position of great prestige. She was basically in charge of all the Watchers' records for the continent, and then some. Many of the Watchers' Chronicles had been smuggled over to the United States before and during the Second World War to protect them from falling into Nazi hands, and had never been taken back. One of the most extensive Chronicles that wound up in the New York Watchers' library was that of Marcellus.

While Christine hadn't done much field work as a Watcher, her abilities as a researcher and her near-photographic memory were almost legendary within the organization. She had become familiar with Marcellus' tale many years before, when she first started with the Watchers. Organizing his huge back-catalogue of records and reports dating back centuries was one of her first assigned tasks as a Chronicle librarian. Though she had never even seen the man, Marcellus was one of those Immortals whose story was so familiar, he felt like an acquaintance. But she had never related his tragic story to Terry before.

"Let me get dinner on the table," Christine said, desperate to do something normal that would settle her nerves after this upset. "Terry, come and help me, and then I'll tell you all about Marcellus."

A few minutes later, when the family was seated in the dining room with their food in front of them, Christine began to tell Marcellus' story. MacNeil sat back and admired his wife's encyclopedic memory for detail—a definite asset in her job. It felt good to do this, after the sad news he'd received. This was how his family often spent their evenings—with either MacNeil relating a recent event one of his Watchers had witnessed, or with his wife telling a story from the Chronicles.

"Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome," her mother began after swallowing her first mouthful of dinner, "was born just over 2500 years ago and died last night in Paris."

"Could you pass the details, please?" Terry asked, eliciting a subdued laugh from both her parents.

"We think he was born around 545 BCE and became Immortal in 509 BCE, probably in the uprising that led to the creation of the Roman Republic." Christine continued, adopting her strict historian's tone and terminology. "We don't know for sure because almost all of the BCE Chronicles are lost. The first thousand years of his life were wrapped up with the rise and fall of Rome—first the Republic, then the Empire."

Christine chewed and swallowed a mouthful of food, then continued. "For a thousand years, Marcellus served Rome in almost every capacity imaginable. He alternated between lives within Rome itself and lives outside—first in the Italian provinces, and later in the Roman Empire's more far-flung provinces. He served as a general, a senator, a centurion, a bureaucrat, a Praetorian Guard..."

"Mmm!" MacNeil interrupted her; it was part of their pattern, allowing him and his wife to eat their dinner in turn as Terry listened avidly. "Remember that British TV series we watched on PBS last year? _I, Claudius_? I heard Marcellus was the Praetorian Guard that put Claudius forward to be Emperor after Caligula was assassinated."

"That's an unsubstantiated rumor reported in a very early chronicle, dear," Christine said, the hard-nosed historian within her showing.

"Didn't he also hang around with Methos at that time?" MacNeil asked.

"Whoa!" Terry exclaimed as her eyes opened in amazement. "Isn't he, like, the oldest one of all?"

Methos was, indeed, supposedly the oldest living Immortal, over five thousand years old. But no Watcher had reported seeing him for at least a century, and some of the older Chronicles' mentions of him were spurious at best. He had become something of a legend, and doubts and debates circulated about his very existence—the Watcher's version of the Sasquatch or the Loch Ness Monster.

"Yes, to both your questions. They must have been an interesting pair. Methos, as we understand it, was rather cynical, enjoyed living, and avoided confrontations with other Immortals. Marcellus was ruthless and shrewd and rarely flinched from a fight. While Methos was devoted to staying alive, Marcellus was devoted to Rome. He loved Rome the way some men love a woman, and would do anything for her."

"Okay, sounds like he was a little on the obsessive side," Terry commented. "Rome fell, though, right? What happened to him then?"

"After Rome was sacked by the Visigoths, Marcellus went East to serve in the new capitol of the Empire, Byzantium," her mother continued. "Marcellus served under Constantine, Justinian, and several other Byzantine emperors, but he eventually left. I guess Byzantium, or Constantinople as it later became, just wasn't Rome. He wandered for a couple of centuries; he followed the Silk Road to the East. He studied martial arts in the Eastern monasteries and served warlords in both Japan and China for a time. Somehow, in 878 CE, Marcellus turned up in Britain, of all places. Just when the Saxons, who had invaded that island themselves only a few centuries before, were in the fight of their lives against another invader—the Vikings."

"Whose side was Marcellus on?" Terry asked.

"No one's, at first, as far as we know," her mother answered. She frowned. "After the fall of Rome the Watchers weren't well-organized enough to keep someone following Marcellus all over the planet. As a result, much of what we know was pieced together from other historical accounts. But here's what we do know: Marcellus fell in love," Christine said with a satisfied smile.

"Oh, man. Now I remember this part," MacNeil said, rolling his eyes and shaking his head ruefully. "The women at the office love telling the guys about this part."

"What?" Terry said, unimpressed. "That he fell in love? So what? Everyone falls in love."

Christine smiled at her daughter. "Sure, everyone falls in love. But not everyone falls in love and stays in love for _ one thousand years_."

Terry's eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. "Whoa! He stayed with the same chick for a thousand years? She was Immortal too, right? Had to be."

"Yes," her mother said, that satisfied smile still on her face. "Alodia was the daughter of a Saxon nobleman. She was a beautiful young woman...long red hair, green eyes, figure to die for. And she was a warrior; contrary to her society's traditions, and no doubt the over the objections of her family, she fought against the Vikings with the men." Christine paused, knowing she had her daughter on the edge of her seat, and munched on some of her salad.

"So what happened?" Terry asked. "How'd they meet? How'd they fall in love?" Like all sixteen-year-old girls, she adored stories of romance. Her father remained silent and rolled his eyes yet again.

"Well," Christine continued, "the story is a little sketchy. What we know is that Marcellus came across Alodia and a small group of Saxons fighting a much larger group of Vikings. Marcellus rode to their rescue and drove off the Vikings all on his own."

"Cool!" Terry said, smiling. "So he saved her life and swept her off her feet. Was she Immortal yet?"

"No," her mother answered. "That apparently happened a few days later. There was a huge battle between the Vikings and the Saxons at a place called Edington. The Saxons won, apparently with Marcellus' help, but Alodia died in battle that day. Later that night, she revived. Her family thought she was a demon, as usual with a new Immortal. They drove her off, banished her. Most new Immortals have to go through that ordeal alone, but Marcellus was there for her. He took her out of Britain with him."

"Wow..." Terry sighed, "that is just _ so_ romantic."

"Oh, Jesus," her father groaned, his eyes rolling.

"No swearing in this house, Mister," his wife scolded him. "Just for that, you get to clean up."

"So what happened next?" Terry asked as her father began to grumpily clear dishes away.

"They next appear in the Chronicles around a decade later in the South of France. Alodia was his student and, we think, his lover by then. A few years after that, in 891 AD, they were married in Carcassone. We know that for sure because it was a quickie ceremony and they needed two witnesses to make it legal. Guess who they grabbed off the street for that purpose? Their two Watchers!" Christina said with a laugh. "Can you imagine?"

"They must have been sweating bullets," MacNeil chimed in from the kitchen.

"Anyway...for the next few centuries, they traveled the world and seemed very happy. Here's the thing I found interesting: these two warriors nearly stopped participating in war altogether. Marcellus in particular hardly ever served as a soldier or general during that period—he also avoided being any sort of a statesman. They seemed to prefer living with common folk.

"They ran taverns and stables, farmed, traveled with trading caravans. They traveled extensively; they spent most of the sixteenth century in Asia, and visited the New World as well. They also didn't go out of their way to challenge other Immortals; we have more records of them making friends than enemies. It wasn't until the rise of Napoleon, and then the British Empire, that they got involved in wars and statecraft again."

"The British Empire probably reminded ol' Lucius of his glory days in Rome," MacNeil offered as he returned to the table.

"Maybe," Christine said, "but I think their new young friends may have persuaded them to join in as well. Especially Reginald Blount. He was their student and a British noble."

"Hmph," MacNeil grunted. "They weren't always together," he said.

"What's your point, David?" Christine asked with a raised eyebrow and a smile.

"Absence makes the heart grow fonder?" MacNeil offered, a dubious tone in his voice.

"You know where the door is, pal," his wife shot back, earning a giggle from Terry. Christine shrugged. "Of course they spent time apart. They probably got bored from time to time. They often parted ways for years, even decades. But they always got back together, and they spent more years together than they did apart." Christine then sighed sadly, and MacNeil seemed intent on studying a spot on the dining room carpet.

"Okay," Terry said during the pregnant pause, "why do I get the feeling this story doesn't have a happy ending?" Christine patted her daughter's hand and continued.

"I'm afraid it doesn't. In the late nineteenth century, Marcellus and Alodia were living in Mexico. They adopted a young boy named Antonio Sanchez and raised him as their son. It turns out he was an Immortal, and after he had an accident which brought this out, they then took him on as their student. In 1912, Sanchez was fighting in the Mexican revolution with Pancho Villa. Another Immortal, a five-hundred year-old Spaniard named Alberto Luis Ortega, apparently betrayed Sanchez' unit and, in the process, took Sanchez' head."

Christine paused. Whenever she thought about this part of Marcellus' story, she couldn't help thinking about her own beloved daughter and what she would do if anyone caused her any harm.

"So...one of them tracked down this Ortega guy, right?" Terry asked tentatively. She sensed from her parents' subdued tone that things had gone from bad to worse.

"Yes," Christine answered. "Alodia encountered him a few years later, in 1915. They fought and...she lost," she finished quietly.

"Bastard got lucky," MacNeil murmured. He pretended not to, but the romantic, tragic tale got to him every time he heard it too. "She was six hundred years older than him and more experienced. She should have taken him. Bastard got a lucky blow in somehow."

"That seems to be the case," Terry's mother agreed sadly. "Alodia's Watcher at the time was a woman who didn't know much about swordplay, and Ortega's didn't witness the fight, so it's hard to know for certain, but..." Christine paused and sighed. "Sometimes it happens, a younger, or less skilled, or less experienced Immortal manages to get the drop on an older one."

"How did Marcellus take it?" Terry asked, her young face saddened by the tragic story of the Immortal lovers. Her parents exchanged a worried look; Terry caught it. "What? What did he do?"

"Honey," MacNeil said after clearing his throat, "you know how we've always told you that the Watchers operate in secret, that none of the Immortals we watch know of our existence?"

"Only a gazillion times, Dad," Terry said as she rolled her eyes.

"Well," he said hesitantly, "that's...not entirely true."

Terry felt her stomach clench nervously. Though fascinated by her parents' stories of Immortals, she had come to realize that these extraordinary beings were dangerous; some were downright evil. She knew some Immortals had killed ordinary people who had discovered their secret. If they found out about a whole organization of mortals devoted to recording their activities, an organization that included some of the most important people in the world to her, including the two in this room...

"Dad, what do you mean?" she asked anxiously.

"Marcellus...knew about the Watchers," he said quietly. "The only Immortal who does...did. We know this because of his actions that day, when his wife was killed." He looked at his own wife. "Tell her. Don't leave anything out. It's time she knew. She's old enough."

Christine nodded and took a deep breath. "We had two Watchers planted as servants in Marcellus' household, a husband and wife team, the man primarily watching Marcellus, the woman Alodia. They were the ones to break the news to him. He accused them of withholding information. In particular, he accused them of knowing more information about Ortega than they let on. They denied this. And then...he tore open the sleeve of the husband's shirt and exposed his Watcher tattoo," Christine explained, her fingertips brushing against her own tattoo. "He said he knew all about the Watchers, our Chronicles, and our activities, that he had always known."

"'I've always known'," MacNeil quoted the century-old chronicle. "I remember being warned about this when I started with the Watchers. What the hell did he mean? Did he just know about those two Watchers, or did his knowledge go back further?"

"That's the million-dollar question, David," Christine responded. "But we don't know what he meant. And now we never will." She paused and sharply drew a breath before continuing. "He pulled out a sword and held it to the throat of the man's wife, the female Watcher. Marcellus told her husband to divulge everything he knew about Ortega—his aliases, his location, everything—or he would eviscerate the man's wife right there on the spot."

"My God," Terry breathed, wide-eyed. "What did the guy do?"

"What could he do?" her mother said with a shrug. "He told Marcellus what he wanted to know."

"So," Terry asked, "Marcellus went and whacked this Ortega guy, right?"

"Not for lack of trying," her mother told her. "Apparently Ortega didn't realize exactly who he'd killed right away, or who she was married to. But he ran into his teacher, Grayson, right after he'd killed Alodia."

"Whoa, Grayson?" Terry stopped her mother. "Isn't he one of the bad ones?"

"Not one of the good guys, that's for sure," Christine agreed. "Works as an arms dealer these days. Grayson apparently warned Ortega about Marcellus. Ortega went underground—disappeared. We've completely lost him ourselves; he's in the corkers file, though he hasn't resurfaced. Marcellus has been looking for him for years, looking for revenge."

"Maybe Ortega is dead," Terry suggested. "Maybe someone else got him."

"Possibly, but we don't think so," Christine said and shook her head. "Another Immortal would probably talk about it at least, or his killer's Watcher would probably have reported it. But that hasn't happened. No, I suspect the scumbag will pop up shortly once he finds out the man who was chasing him is dead," Christine concluded with a sad sigh.

"So he'll never have revenge for his wife and his son," Terry said sadly. "Is that why you two are so sad about this?"

"It's not that simple, princess, MacNeil said. "I know we're supposed to be objective, but we're human. You hear a story about a one-thousand year love affair, you can't help but be affected."

"Despite all put-on appearances to the contrary," Christine said to her husband with a knowing smile.

"Yeah, yeah," MacNeil replied, feigning annoyance. He wasn't about to share it with Terry yet, but one of his tactics he'd employed to woo Christine had been professing that their love would make that of Marcellus and Alodia pale in comparison.

"The thing is," he went on, "Marcellus became one of the good guys because of her. During the rise and fall of Rome, he was a ruthless, bloodthirsty bastard. 'Scuse my French," he said with a nod to his wife. "But when he met her, he swore off war, and taking heads, and just became this...regular guy. Your mother used to read me excerpts from some of his Chronicles from that period. His Watchers just loved him, he was so happy and generous and full of life." MacNeil shook his head. "And now he's gone, and his wife's killer is probably still alive, and Duncan MacLeod has to live with the guilt of taking a friend's head. There's nothing good here," he said quietly, "Nothing at all."

"Well, maybe Duncan will go after Ortega," Terry offered. "Y'know, a debt of honor?"

"I don't think so," MacNeil answered, shaking his head. "MacLeod's pulling out of the Game, apparently. Packing up his girlfriend and moving to the States to live quietly. After this, I can't blame him."

"This is really sad," Terry said, stating the obvious while blinking away a tear that had suddenly appeared in one of her hazel eyes. Her mother reached over and patted her hand reassuringly.

"It's tragic, Terry," Christine said, her voice quavering. "That's all that can be said. Come on, help me get dessert ready."

A few minutes later, the MacNeil family quietly finished some apple pie and ice cream—Terry's favorite—in silence, each lost in their own sad thoughts. Suddenly Terry turned to her mother and spoke.

"Mom," she said, "I know tomorrow's Saturday, but are you going in to the office?" Christine looked up from her dessert in mild surprise.

"I wasn't planning on it, why?"

"Well, if you were, could I come with you?" Terry asked. "I just...I'd like to read about them. About Marcellus and Alodia. I dunno," she said with an adolescent shrug, and cast her eyes back down to her dessert.

Christine exchanged a surprised look with her husband. Terry had always found their stories at the dinner table interesting, but had never shown an interest in reading those 'dusty old books' as she called the Chronicles. She'd always preferred her mother's fast-paced, abridged versions of the Immortals' lives.

"I suppose I could get a head start on closing Marcellus' Chronicle," she said. "Maybe you could help me with some of the research? Which would mostly consist of reading his and Alodia's Chronicles. I might even be able to convince the Watchers to pay you for your time."

"Really?" Terry said, her head popping up and a smile coming to her face. "Cool!"

* * *

"That's when it all started for me," Theresa told Marcellus as she took another sip of the tea he'd served her. "I wound up helping my Mom with the research, because there was a lot of material on you two. So I started reading your Chronicles. And you...you fascinated me. Not just because you're one of the last of the ancient Immortals or because of everything you did for Rome. You fascinated me because of the love story. This story about you and your wife, a thousand-year love affair. It really got to me, it touched me." She paused and took a sip of the tea.

"Especially when I saw how she changed you. The man who saw Rome rise and fall was a ruthless bastard, like my dad said. But the man who married Alodia...he was a good man. I admired him. I...wanted to meet him," she said quietly, and shot a quick glance his way. "Though I thought I never would, because you were supposedly dead. So I settled for being close to people like him, Immortals, hoping I'd find one like him one day."

Then Theresa turned to look at him. Her brown eyes regarded him with loathing. "But now I have met you and I wish I never had," she said, her disgust evident in her voice. "You're a shadow of that man in the Chronicles. You've been head-hunting non-stop ever since you resurfaced, something you hardly ever did when you were with Alodia. And now you're a goddamn drug dealer, selling poison to mortal kids! It's the same thing I saw with Lizzy Knight: someone you care about dies, and you go straight to hell."

Marcellus said nothing. Instead, he stood and walked over to stare at his late wife's portrait again, leaving Theresa to stare at his back. "We had a deal," he said a moment later, without turning around. "That I'd tell you how I faked my death."

"Yes," she said. Emotionally, she didn't really care anymore; intellectually, however, as a Watcher, she had to know.

"It was a simple matter, really," Marcellus explained as he turned around. "MacLeod owed me more than a few favors. On top of which, he wanted to pull out of the Game and be left alone. What better way to ward off other Immortals than convincing them you've killed one over five times your age? And that you've taken his Quickening, and all his knowledge and skill with it? It bought he and Tessa several years of peace together," he said with a wistful smile, remembering the lovely young Frenchwoman and MacLeod's love for her. He'd always thought of them as a married couple, and thought of the peaceful years they had together as his wedding present to them.

"He didn't like lying to Darius and Fitz," Marcellus continued, "but I convinced him it was necessary, and he was prepared to do anything for Tessa. Apparently he gave quite a performance; those years he spent training as an actor paid off. We set off a few fireworks inside the factory, and Bob's your uncle."

"So...MacLeod _didn't_ have an affair with your wife?" Theresa asked uncertainly. As part of her fascination with Lucius Gaius Marcellus, she had become intimately familiar with the story of Marcellus' supposed death. Details of it had come to light through revelations by Darius, Fitzcairn, and especially MacLeod after the fact. Whatever other Watchers thought of his friendship with MacLeod, Dawson had added reams of missing details to the Chronicles in the past five years.

"Oh, no!" Marcellus replied, and chuckled to himself. "Alodia and Duncan? That's rich!"

"But the letters," Theresa reminded him.

"Oh, those," Marcellus said, still smiling. "Yes, Duncan did write those. Alodia used to read them to me; they used to send us into fits of laughter. MacLeod was not even out of his first century and was still quite the country bumpkin when he wrote those. Barely literate, too. That's why she kept them: they were a source of vast amusement through the years." He paused and looked at Theresa; she looked mildly offended, obviously thinking him rather cruel.

"Look, we didn't have cable back then, all right? Hmph," he grunted as he turned from her, "Well, it did get embarrassing after awhile. We eventually had to tell MacLeod to knock it off after fifteen years. The man never could take a hint, not when it came to, you know..."

"But the Watchers..." Theresa objected from the couch. "There were four there that night!"

"Were there?" Marcellus asked, his eyebrows raised. "And how many of them saw the fight?" Theresa's brows furrowed as she thought that over. "Owens stayed at the church," the Roman recounted. "Sullivan was near Fitzcairn outside. Dawson stayed in the van. The only one who saw anything..."

"...was Mick Porter," Theresa realized. She looked at Marcellus. "But he reported seeing your beheading, your Quickening..."

Marcellus walked back to his chair and sat down. He sighed and his face took on a sad, thoughtful look "How do you think I know all this? Mick Porter," he said quietly, "was my friend. And a good man." He turned his gaze to Theresa. "I deeply regret his passing. You can choose to believe that or not, but I do."

"You and Porter were _friends_?" Theresa asked incredulously. "And...the Watchers never found out about this?"

"Who watches the Watcher?" Marcellus asked rhetorically with a shrug. "I approached him and bought him a drink one night; that goes a long way with a Cockney, let me tell you. He wasn't completely surprised; you'll recall that I've displayed knowledge of your organization before."

"When your wife died," Theresa remembered.

"Yes," Marcellus replied a little wistfully, glancing at the painting again. "I admit, I first approached Porter out of sheer ruthlessness. I wanted to use him to see if the Watchers had any information on Ortega. It was as though the man had vanished off the face of the earth." He turned to Theresa. "You know he plundered the Aztec empire with Cortez, don't you? The man has gold stashed all over the world. So he had the resources to disappear like that. At any rate, Porter sympathized with my desire to avenge my wife. He'd read the Chronicles, as you did. I suppose he found our story affecting as well. But, he told me the Watchers had no more knowledge of the bastard's whereabouts than I did." Marcellus sighed, recalling the time he'd spent with Porter.

"Well, we became friends. I don't think I'd realized, in the sixty-some years since Alodia had died, just how lonely I'd become. I hadn't spent much time with old friends, or met any new ones; I just kept hunting for Ortega. Porter...helped me heal a little. He loved all my old stories; what Watcher wouldn't? And he had a few of his own to throw in. He used to be SAS, did you know that?" Theresa shook her head. "Mick was the one who came up with the idea."

"Of faking your death?" Theresa asked.

"Yes," Marcellus nodded and gazed intently into Theresa's eyes. "You asked how I'd faked my death, but you didn't ask the more important question, which is _why_. It was to draw Ortega back out. To make him feel safe again, so I could find him. A brilliant idea on Mick's part. I'm a little embarrassed I didn't come up with it myself; in my defense, I didn't want to put Mick in that position. But he offered."

"Whoa!" Theresa exclaimed. "You're saying that Mick Porter, a veteran Watcher in good standing, submitted a fake report? That he lied to the Watchers?"

"My dear," Marcellus said patiently, "let me ask you something. Suppose you were given the choice of betraying the Watchers or one of your parents. Suppose you'd discovered your mother had altered or even stolen a Chronicle. What would you do? Turn her in?" Theresa looked away from him and said nothing.

"I thought not. An organization, no matter how much you devote yourself to it, is still just a large, faceless entity. People are quite another matter. Mick Porter was my friend. He wanted to help me. And he had no great love for Alberto Ortega. Why are you so surprised? You know Joe Dawson, don't you? Look at all the things he's done for MacLeod—all out of friendship."

"But...why worry about deceiving the Watchers?" Theresa asked.

"Just to be on the safe side," Marcellus answered with a shrug. "In case Ortega knew, or found out about the Watchers."

"So, what now?" Theresa said, shaking her head, still finding it hard to accept everything he'd said, but sensing it was true. "Are you back in the Game because Ortega has resurfaced somewhere?"

"Have you ever wondered," Marcellus went on, seemingly ignoring her question, "why we Immortals keep using the same name over and over again? MacLeod hardly ever uses an alias, and mine—Lucas Marshall, Lucius Marcellus...don't you think it would be easier for us to cover our tracks if we used different names?"

"I guess," Theresa said, frowning. _ Where is he going with this?_ she wondered.

"Partly it's because no one other than the Watchers notices or cares, and few of us know about you people anyway," Marcellus went on. "But names have power. They remind us of who we are, where we come from. And the longer you live, the more attached you get to that name." He paused and stood up. "One of the largest crack cocaine operations in this city is run by a man named Albert Lewis."

Theresa shook her head. She was still several steps behind him logically, trying to connect the seemingly disparate dots he was talking about. Though she did recall 'Mr. Lewis' was the name the other drug dealers they had encountered that night seemed to refer to as the head honcho.

"So?" she asked.

"Albert Lewis. Alberto Luis Ortega." Her eyes widened, but then she frowned. "Oh, I have more evidence than just that flimsy coincidence. Suffice it to say I know that it's him. He's resurfaced, as I knew he would. Took him a decade, but he's back, trying to breathe the air like a free man again." Marcellus smiled wolfishly. "I can't wait to see the look on his face. Just before I chop off the head it's on, of course."

Suddenly, it all fell into place for Theresa. She closed her eyes and let her head fall into her hands.

"You're not dealing drugs," she said morosely.

"I believe I said that several times earlier tonight," Marcellus replied.

Theresa raised her head and looked at him. "You're trying to get close to Ortega," she said.

"Of course!" he replied passionately. "Just as I got close to Knight, and Jones, and Templar, and Markoff, and so many others whose heads I've taken since I resurfaced myself a year ago. Yes, I've been taking heads, because I've been settling scores, my dear. Mortals have courts to right their wrongs. Immortals do not. When an Immortal falls, only another Immortal can avenge him. That's what I've been doing. Not collecting heads for their own sake. I've been avenging my friends, my...my family," he finished, his voice reduced to a whisper.

"But...it won't bring them back," Theresa said. "They're gone, killing their killers won't fix that."

"Ah! That's where you're wrong, little Watcher," he declared. Theresa looked at him as though he was crazy. "They're here!" he said, thumping his hand against his chest. "Their Quickenings! I can feel them, feel them all inside me, if I just…close my eyes and let everything else go quiet. They're all here, inside me, in my heart," he said and placed his hand over his chest. "Except for my wife and my son. Ortega has them. He has no right to them. They belong with me. So I've come back, to claim these...shattered fragments of the ones I have loved from the scum who stole them from me," he said, then sat down heavily in his chair.

Theresa watched the ancient Immortal's gray eyes. She thought she saw a deep, tremendous loneliness there. She realized he was right, that their Quickenings would live on inside him as they had inside the Immortals who had first taken them. Perhaps that was all the solace he had left. Theresa took a deep breath and blinked away the tears that had formed in her eyes.

"I am...so sorry for what I said to you before," she told him. "I'm a fool. I'm a Watcher, but I'm blind," she said. "I don't know anything."

"Don't," Marcellus told her. "Don't beat yourself up. Life's too short, believe me, I'm an expert on that." Theresa looked up at him and laughed softly, as did he. "You are right, though, killing the killers won't bring them back." He took a deep breath and stared off into the distance. "For a thousand years, I lived for Rome. Then Rome fell and I was lost. I found Alodia and for a thousand years I lived for love." He sighed heavily. "For the last eighty years I have lived for vengeance. It's a cold, empty thing to live for. Ortega is the last. When I take his head...I don't know what I'm going to live for anymore."

"The Prize?" Theresa said. In response, Marcellus smiled and laughed bitterly.

"I cannot _begin_ to tell you how disinterested I am in the Prize," he declared. "Whatever the hell it is. None of us truly knows. But I know I'm not worthy of it. I've lived too long, I've become...too cynical, too bitter, too ruthless. It should go to someone younger. Someone like MacLeod," he said, nodding. "MacLeod would be worthy of the prize. He's a good man."

"You're a good man," Theresa insisted. "You're worthy of it too."

"Well," he said, looking up at her. "That's the nicest thing anyone's said to me in a very long time, little Watcher," Marcellus said, smiling at her. "You're wrong, of course. But you're young."

"No, _you're_ wrong. But you're old," she countered, and they both smiled.

"What am I going to do with you, little Watcher?" Marcellus asked her.

Theresa stared at him, trying to fathom his meaning. She knew he meant her no harm; if she'd doubted it before, she was certain of it now. Before her was, she felt certain, the man she'd read about in the Chronicles, the man who had inspired her to learn more about Immortals and eventually become one of their Watchers. But she sensed that he wanted her out of the way...out of harm's way. _Well, too bad_, she thought.

"Let me do my job," she said. "Until they reassign me or kick me out, I'm your Watcher. Let me watch. Let me come with you when you confront Ortega."

"Are you _insane_?" Marcellus said, then laughed derisively. "Ortega's men think you're a narcotics officer of some sort, remember? Bringing you along is a good way to get _both_ of us killed! No. I think you should stay here until this is all over." He stood up and made a dismissive gesture at her, then turned to take his empty mug to the kitchen.

"_No_!" Theresa shouted angrily. She stood up from the couch and placed her fists on her hips. "_Screw you_, Citizen of Rome! You think just because you're twenty-five hundred years old that you can order me around? I'm a trained Watcher! I've followed other Immortals into dangerous places, and I'm not going to let a plum assignment like you waltz off without me tagging along! So unless you plan on chaining me to the bedpost, Mister, you better get used to the idea of having me around!"

Marcellus studied her, his gray eyes narrowing as she glowered at him. She had bravery, and spirit, this young woman; he'd remarked on it before, and her display of it now...it aroused him. It reminded him of Alodia. His eyes wandered down over her body and back up again, giving her a traditional, very intense once-over. The corners of his lips curled into a roguish smile.

"I could get _very_ used to that idea," Marcellus said, his voice a low, husky murmur. He laughed softly. "Chained to the bedpost, eh? Funny, you don't seem the type."

He took a casual step towards her. Theresa stood, frozen in place, shocked at how the situation had shifted so suddenly; she was bewildered, uncertain how she should react. Her body had been aroused to anger a moment before. The pounding of her heart in her chest now made her suddenly aware of her body, aware that she had nothing on but a thin cotton t-shirt, and he had nothing on but black silk pajamas.

She was locked inside a warehouse basement with an Immortal, a warrior nearly a hundred times her age. She looked into his eyes, those ancient grey eyes that had seen empires rise and fall, that had seen more sunsets and sunrises than she could count, that had looked upon so many beautiful women and now looked upon her. For the first time in over a decade, she felt blood rise to her cheeks in a girlish blush. Her throat felt dry.

"I won't chain you," he said quietly, his head shaking slowly. "I want your hands to be free. Free to do whatever they wish." He took another step towards her. Then another. She didn't move away. "Free to touch, to hold, to caress..."

He was close now, his voice a barely audible murmur. Theresa could feel the warmth of his body from where it stood in front of her, perhaps no more than a foot away. His eyes were narrow as he studied her face through his lashes. She recognized the scent of his cologne: Eternity. How appropriate. She was breathing deeply now; she could feel her breasts rising and falling behind the thin cotton that covered them.

Of course she'd fantasized about him, this man who had loved one woman devotedly for a millennium, what woman wouldn't? But she had forced herself to forget those fantasies, to repress them, when she began her Watcher training. Now those fantasies, and the feelings they fed off, came back with a vengeance. Though she stood in a concrete basement room, her body suddenly felt very warm.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered. His hand slowly reached out towards her face. His fingertips touched her cheek, touched them more softly than summer rain. His fingertips glided over her lips, which parted slightly. She closed her eyes and shuddered as she released the breath she'd been holding, letting it caress his fingertips as it escaped. She could sense his face moving closer to her own. "So beautiful, and so young..." he whispered, his lips almost on top of hers.

"_No_!" she exclaimed, her eyes opening, as she stepped back away from him. Of course she was young, much younger than him, she always would be; she was a Watcher, not an Immortal. She backed away to the far end of the couch, standing so its full length was between them. "Oh God," she said, her hands held up in front of her, "I'm not even supposed to _be_ here!" She looked at him. He seemed slightly stunned; he stood stock-still, watching her. "I'm sorry," she said, crossing her arms and holding them over her breasts, her head shaking back and forth. "I can't do this! I'm a Watcher! I'm _your_ Watcher! This is...wrong!"

"I apologize," Marcellus murmured as held up one hand apologetically and directed his gaze at the ground in front of him. "I meant no disrespect." Theresa began to calm down, thankful he wasn't going to force the issue. His eyes lifted to look into hers once again. "You _ are_ very beautiful," he said, "and I..." he paused, and his eyes glanced at the portrait of the woman he'd loved for over a thousand years. "Well," he said, the corners of his mouth curving into a sad, rueful grin, "let's just say it's been awhile."

Theresa looked into his eyes and saw, once again, the loneliness she'd seen there before. She saw the desperate need he had to reach out, to connect with another being, and she saw the fear he had of having that connection broken. She looked into his ancient gray eyes and felt as small and as insignificant as she did years ago, looking up at the Milky Way from a grassy knoll in the Hamptons when she was a girl. No matter how long she lived, no matter how many people she herself lost, she could never know, could never approach the monumental loneliness of this man. At that moment, she suddenly knew that she could refuse him nothing. She was sure he knew it, was sure he could see it in her eyes. Her body, her very soul, were his for the taking. A word, a gesture, and she would be his.

They stood in silence, eyes locked, for a very tense moment. Then he spoke. "We should both get some rest," he said calmly, and conflicting feelings of relief and disappointment washed through her. He paused for a moment, then walked around the far end of the couch, away from her and into the hallway. "Turn out the light when you go to bed, Theresa," he said gently over his shoulder. "We'll talk about Ortega in the morning." He walked into his bedroom and closed the door.

Theresa slowly lowered her body to the couch. She wrapped her arms around herself, crossing them over her breasts, and took a deep breath and released it. She sat there, calming herself, for some time. A few minutes later she rose, turned out the light, and returned to the spare bedroom. She fell onto the bed and fell asleep almost the moment her head hit the pillow. She had not locked the door behind her this time.

* * *

Across town, in a West side suburb given over to large, pricey homes on expansive grounds, stood a three-storey, century-old brick building that had once been a very exclusive private boy's school. Ivy covered the bottom half of the former school, and the building was surrounded by several hectares of grassy parkland, which was in turn surrounded by a tall brick fence, recently topped by electrified wires.

The school had been converted to a luxurious private residence a few years back by a wealthy software tycoon. He had been forced to sell it two years ago when the software industry's dominant company suddenly decided to compete with his company's product. It now belonged to one Albert Lewis, who supposedly owned an import and export firm. That was not far from the truth—Lewis actually ran the largest drug operation in town.

Lewis had begun his climb to the top of the local drug world three years earlier, ruthlessly eliminating his competitors until no one was left to challenge him. He rarely emerged from his secure estate except when necessary to oversee his multi-million dollar illegal business operation. He had no fear of competitors; he had eliminated any who could have posed a threat to him. If he feared anything, it was others of his kind: Immortals.

Alberto Luis Ortega had only recently assumed the alias of Albert Lewis and resumed living openly among others. For decades he had lived in hiding, anonymously, in fear of the wrath of the man whose wife and adopted son he had killed: Lucius Gaius Marcellus. The ancient Roman was more than two thousand years older than Ortega, and Ortega's teacher, Grayson, had warned him of the man's tenacity and deadly fighting skills. So Ortega had hidden, often living in miserable poverty to ensure his anonymity.

But Marcellus was dead. Ortega hadn't believed it at first; he still wasn't sure he completely believed it. But over a decade had gone by, and no one had reported seeing him. The Immortals who had witnessed his Quickening were among the most honorable and honest of their kind, and Ortega had recently acquired confirmation of Marcellus' demise from another source. Besides, Ortega had grown weary of the hiding and running. So he had emerged from his anonymous hiding places and lived in the opulent, illicit comfort befitting a modern drug lord.

Still, it was prudent to keep one's skills sharp. Which was why, this evening, Ortega stood in the large, refurbished gymnasium of the former school where he now lived. Large lightning rods had been installed in the gymnasium, their heavy metal shafts penetrating the earth beneath the room to capture and dispel the excess energy thrown off by a Quickening.

A few yards away from Ortega stood another Immortal, sword in hand, nervously facing him in combat. Around the edge of the gymnasium stood Ortega's four most trusted lieutenants, including Robert Duke, all of whom knew of his extraordinary nature. Each stood in the center of one of the gym's four high walls, their backs against the painted cinder blocks..

"Come on!" Ortega beckoned to the Immortal before him. In his right hand, which was covered by a black dueling glove, Ortega held a blade of the finest Castilian steel, forged in Toledo four centuries ago. Ortega wore a loose white shirt and black pants. His jet-black hair formed tight curls on top of his head, and was cut severely short on the sides and back.

The Immortal opposite hesitated, glancing around the room at the four men witnessing this event. Each man held a gun. A few minutes earlier, the Immortal had attempted to run and escape. One of Ortega's lieutenants had shot him. When the man revived, he found himself back in the middle of the gymnasium, facing his irascible opponent. The Immortal reached up and brushed sweat away from his forehead, beneath his mop of short blond hair.

"I don't want to fight you," he protested.

"Then you'll die," Ortega replied, a nasty smile on his face. He stepped towards his opponent, his sword tip dancing from side to side.

"I'll die anyway!" the Immortal protested. "Your men will kill me!"

"Maybe," Ortega said with an amused shrug. "Maybe not. If you kill me, someone in this room gets a promotion. Now come on!" Ortega swatted at the man's Ivanhoe sword with his rapier; the blades rang out as they clashed.

Ortega's words weren't entirely true. His lieutenants knew that if Ortega died, they would end up on a turf war with one another to claim his empire. None of them was an Immortal. They were all middle-aged, wealthy, and comfortable. If Ortega lived, the status quo was maintained. They also knew that the lieutenant who drew a sword to cut off Ortega's head would probably get three bullets in his back from the others for his trouble. So they watched, eyeing each other and the two Immortals in the middle of the room a little uncomfortably.

In the center of the gymnasium, the battle was finally on. Ortega swung his sword in a series of skillful attacks which his opponent desperately parried. Ortega stopped, his opponent backed up, and the two Immortals circled one another.

"Come on," Ortega said with a smile, beckoning to his opponent, "show me what you've got!"

The other Immortal ran towards him, shouting angrily, swinging his sword to Ortega's right. The Spaniard parried; his opponent countered to his left. Again Ortega parried easily. He quickly slashed his sword tip down across his opponent's body. The other Immortal screamed in pain as his right thigh was cut open.

Ortega danced back. He held his arms open wide, inviting the injured Immortal to attack. His opponent grimaced, then swung wildly at Ortega. The Spaniard laughed and jumped back, easily avoiding the blade. The man lunged and Ortega side-stepped, parrying with a downward blow. He then slashed back towards his opponent and cut open the man's shoulder. The man yelled in pain and dropped his sword.

"You're not even trying!" Ortega snarled in disgust as the blond Immortal picked up his sword with his left hand. Ortega rolled his dark eyes. The man took a limping step towards him and lunged. Ortega contemptuously parried the blow and drove his sword tip into the man's heart. The blond Immortal's mouth dropped open, and his eyes widened in shock and pain. Ortega withdrew his blade and his opponent dropped to the floor, dead.

Ortega signaled for his lieutenants to draw near. As they walked closer to him, he casually tossed his sword to one.

"Cut his head off when I'm gone," he told the man. "Then get rid of the body."

"Don't you want his…whatchimacallit?" Duke asked.

"His _Quickening_?" Ortega responded contemptuously. He stepped towards Duke. "A Quickening is the sum of an Immortal's knowledge and power. _This_ fool," he said, gesturing dismissively at the other Immortal's corpse, "has _neither_. All I'd get for my trouble is a headache and the shakes for an hour." Ortega turned to leave the gymnasium. He signaled for Duke and another man, slightly younger and more slender than Duke, to follow him. "Robert, have you found out anything else about this…what's his name…Marshall?"

"Nothing," Duke said, shaking his head as he followed his boss. "If he's a fed, he's new. No one knows anything about him."

"You think he's a cop?" Ortega asked. They left the gymnasium and began to walk down a long hallway lined with paintings and sculpture.

"He had that woman working with him," Duke replied. "Used that flash grenade to haul her ass out of there. That sort of heroics has cop written all over it."

"What do you think, Andrew?" Ortega asked the other man.

"There is another possibility," Andrew Howard said. He had short black hair, just starting to gray at the temples, and bright blue eyes. He wore a crisp blue suit, white shirt, and an Ivy League tie. He looked like the chief of staff for a congressman rather than a lieutenant for a drug lord. "He could be an Immortal."

"And the woman?" Ortega asked.

"Yet another Immortal?" Howard said with a shrug.

"We don't work in teams, Andrew, you know that," Ortega responded as he turned a corner and continued down another hallway. "It's against the Rules of the Game, remember? Even when Lady Alodia came after me, she came alone."

"She could be a Watcher," Howard said. Ortega stopped and turned to look at him.

"One of yours?" Ortega said, his eyes narrowed.

Howard nodded. Unconsciously, his right hand brushed over the Watcher tattoo concealed beneath the left sleeve of his suit jacket and shirt sleeve. Howard had made a deal with Ortega just over two years before: in exchange for being allowed to watch the Immortal—and living a comfortably extravagant lifestyle—he fed Ortega exclusive information from the Watchers about other Immortals.

"No, that makes no sense!" Ortega said, frowning. "Why would he bother saving her? You have contact with me, but the Watchers forbid that. He wouldn't have known who or what she was."

"Maybe he knows about the Watchers. More of you Immortals do these days. And if she talked, she might reveal who and what he was," Howard suggested. "Or maybe he's just one of the chivalrous ones, like MacLeod."

"Maybe," Ortega said with a nod, then continued walking down the hallway. "But I'm inclined to agree with Robert on this—it sounds like a couple of cops to me. Still, look into it. Contact the Watchers and find out if there's an Immortal named Marshall with a female Watcher. And Andrew…" Ortega paused, stopping in his tracks again and turning to his Watcher lieutenant.

"Sir?" Howard responded nonchalantly.

"Try to find me a better sparring partner next time, will you?" Ortega said in a mildly annoyed voice. "This one…what's the expression…_sucked_. Good night."

Howard nodded, but Ortega had already turned away and walked into his bedroom, closing the door behind him, leaving his two lieutenants in the hall. They looked at one another briefly, with the sort of silent glance that spoke volumes between two men who worked together but may someday be rivals. They then parted, each heading in a different direction in the huge refurbished school-turned-mansion.

* * *


	6. Methos

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 6: Methos**

Theresa awoke to the murmur of male voices coming from the other side of her closed bedroom door. She got out of bed and crept up to the door, then pressed her ear against it, but couldn't make out the conversation. Whoever Marcellus was talking to, they were both keeping their voices low—probably intentionally, so she couldn't hear.

She quickly went over to the spare bedroom's closet. At the back, she found a blood-red, full-length silk robe. She quickly wrapped it around her body, wishing she'd bothered to find and put it on last night before that..._incident_ with Marcellus. She slowly, silently pulled her door open and crept out into the hall. She pressed herself against the far wall and peeked around the corner into the dining room.

Seated at the dining table was a tall, somewhat gaunt but handsome man. He was clean-shaven, with angular features, close-cropped black hair, and piercing blue eyes. He spoke with a cultured British accent, and as if he had known Marcellus for some time. Marcellus was seated on the opposite side of the table from him. She could smell the scent of fresh coffee and saw both men sipping from steaming mugs, but resisted the overwhelming urge to get a cup for herself. Theresa immediately pegged Marcellus' guest as another Immortal, and the conversation she could now hear pretty much confirmed it.

"Why don't you get MacLeod to do it? Or at least help you?" the tall man was saying. "He _lives_ for this sort of thing."

"I don't need a pup like MacLeod to fight my battles for me," Marcellus responded in a gruff, mildly offended voice.

The tall man sat back in his chair, threw up his hands, and sighed heavily. "I don't know why I'm even bothering. You haven't changed. You're as stubborn and pig-headed as you ever were."

"I prefer to think of myself as devoted to my principles," Marcellus retorted.

The tall man laughed. "You? _ Principles_? That's new," he said through a cynical smile.

"I don't have many," Marcellus said, qualifying himself, "but what few I do have I am committed to. And avenging old friends and family is one of them."

The tall man leaned forward and focused his piercing blue eyes on the Roman. "We're old friends too, or so I'd like to think. And I don't have many of my old friends left," he said.

"Neither do I," Marcellus said gently, "which is why I'm doing this. And why you of all people should understand." He took a sip of his coffee while the tall man watched him. "Then again, some of your old friends, you're better off without. I can think of three in particular. So maybe that's why you're having trouble with this." Marcellus suddenly turned his head and looked over his right shoulder towards the hallway. "Good morning, Theresa," he called out. "Care for some coffee? It's fresh."

Theresa froze where she stood, then rolled her eyes and abashedly emerged from her ineffective hiding place. She glanced at both men and slowly approached the table.

"Coffee sounds good. Milk, no sugar," she said quietly.

Marcellus stood up and went into the kitchen. Theresa said nothing as she took a seat on one side of the table in between the chairs the two men had chosen. She glanced at the tall man and was taken aback when she saw his piercing blue eyes studying her intently. Before she could react, he reached over and gently but firmly grabbed her left wrist, eliciting a soft gasp from the young Watcher. He pulled back the sleeve of the silk robe to reveal her Watcher tattoo. The man exhaled audibly and turned to look at Marcellus, who had returned to the table with Theresa's coffee, which he set down in front of her. The tall man held up Theresa's wrist to him, displaying the tattoo.

"Yes, I know, I told you," Marcellus said impatiently with a frown and a wave of his hand as he sat down on Theresa's right. The tall man continue to gaze at him intently. Marcellus shrugged. "The Fates," he said.

The tall man released Theresa's wrist, laughed derisively, and rolled his blue eyes. "You don't still _believe_ that ancient mumbo jumbo, do you?" he asked Marcellus.

"Better than believing in _nothing_," Marcellus responded pointedly.

"I believe in _many_ things," the tall man responded, leaning forward. "I believe in life. I believe in seeing tomorrow's sunrise. I believe in enjoying the company of a beautiful woman," he said with a glance at Theresa. "And I believe that tonight, while you're risking your stupid head, _I'll_ be enjoying a beer at Joe's."

"It's my stupid head to risk," Marcellus said gently, then sighed. "Besides, Ortega is the last. After him, I'm through."

"Yes, that's what I'm worried about," the tall man said.

The trio sat in silence for a moment. Whatever drama was being played out here, Theresa realized all too well that she was a newcomer to it. Emphasis on the word _new_. She said nothing, sitting silently, glancing from the one man to the other, gently swirling her coffee around in her cup.

Finally, Marcellus sighed and the corners of his lips curled into a gentle smile. "I appreciate your concern, my friend. But I'm an old campaigner. You really shouldn't underestimate me. Many have done so before, and they've not around to repeat their mistake."

The tall man sighed and stared into his coffee mug. Then his piercing gaze returned to Theresa. "And her?" he asked, as if she wasn't sitting there and capable of responding on her own.

Marcellus cast his gray eyes in Theresa's direction. "She and I will talk after you've gone."

"_Talk_?" the tall man exclaimed. "What the hell is there to talk about? You can't go where he's going," he said, finally addressing Theresa directly. "You try to follow him into Ortega's den, it'll just get you killed." Theresa returned his gaze, then glanced at Marcellus.

"I'm his Watcher," she said simply.

The tall man pushed his torso back into his chair and slapped his hands against the table in exasperation.

"You're _both_ insane. You _ deserve_ one another." He glanced at Marcellus, then his eyes wandered over Theresa's lovely face and the curve of her breasts beneath her robe. One of his dark brows rose, and he shook his head. "And I thought Dawson stepped over the line..." he muttered into his coffee mug.

Before Theresa could respond to his remark, Marcellus loudly slammed his empty coffee mug onto the table, making his two guests look at him in surprise.

"I don't like what you're insinuating, _old friend_," he said sharply. "Not that it's any of your business, but _ she_ slept in the spare bedroom and _I_ slept in mine. Now apologize to the lady," he ordered.

The tall man, frowning, blinked in surprise at Marcellus' indignation. His blue eyes glanced at Theresa, then back to Marcellus, then back to Theresa again. His eyebrows raised slightly, and Theresa thought some sort of understanding she couldn't fathom appeared in the man's face at that point.

"I'm sorry," he said to her. He looked back at Marcellus. "I was the one who stepped over the line there. No offense."

Marcellus smiled softly. "None taken," he said with a gentle shake of his head, then looked to Theresa, and saw her nod in agreement. "Now, I hate to shove you out the door..."

"...but that's exactly what you're going to do," the tall man said, finishing his friend's sentence. They both pushed back their chairs and rose from the table. Marcellus motioned to Theresa not to get up. "I suppose you have a busy day ahead, planning your almost certain death. I wouldn't want to interfere."

"Or observe and record?" Marcellus said with a smile. Both men chuckled softly as they walked towards the door.

Theresa turned in her chair and rolled her eyes. "_Jesus_, do _all_ of you know _everything_ about the Watchers?" she called after them. The two Immortals stopped and turned to look at her. They looked sideways at each other for a moment, then burst out laughing, which only annoyed Theresa even more. She glared at them while they laughed so hard they had to wipe tears from their eyes. "I don't see what's so funny!" she said angrily.

"I'm sorry, my dear," Marcellus said, struggling to gain control of himself. "It's a, um, private joke. Trust me, your organization is only known to a select few." That remark made the tall man snort, and Marcellus had to once again suppress his laughter. Theresa waved an annoyed hand at the two men; she turned back to her coffee and away from them.

"Well," the tall man said as they reached the door, an amused smile still on his lips, "I know it's a cliché, but...be careful, will you, Lucius?" He glanced at Theresa's back. "Both of you."

"I will," Marcellus reassured him. "Save a seat for me at Joe's," he said with a smile. His tall friend smiled and walked out the door, which Marcellus slid closed and locked behind him. He then walked back to the kitchen. "Care for some breakfast?" he asked Theresa.

"Sure," she said, watching him carefully, the gears obviously turning behind her hazel eyes. "You didn't introduce us," she pointed out.

"No, I didn't, did I?" Marcellus agreed ambiguously as he opened the fridge. He pulled out some eggs. "Omelet?"

Theresa nodded. She paused a moment and frowned; suddenly, several things about the two Immortals' conversation clicked for her. The fact that their acquaintanceship went back a very long time. The reference to the three friends the other man could do without. His attitude towards living and fighting.

"Was that Methos?" she asked.

Marcellus stopped, stood still, and looked at her. He held her gaze for a moment. Then he smiled.

"His name's Adam," he said smoothly. Theresa blinked, then her eyes opened wide in disbelief. "Oh, not _that_ Adam, he's not _that_ old!" Marcellus said, chuckling.

"Oh," Theresa said, with some disappointment. "Well, how old is he?"

Marcellus shrugged as he cracked four eggs into a mixing bowl, then added a little water. "He's got a few years on me," he said.

Theresa sighed. "You're not exactly straight answer guy, are you?"

"Nope," Marcellus agreed, beating the eggs with a fork.

"So, Ortega," Theresa said, changing the subject. "You said we'd talk about him when your friend left. What's the plan?"

"The plan, my dear," Marcellus said as he poured half of the egg mixture into a frying pan, where it sizzled and popped, "is that I go and take his head while you wait here for me to come home." He turned and saw Theresa's lovely features contorting into an enraged frown. He held up his hand. "But, seeing as how you won't stand for that unless I do something kinky involving chains and a bedpost—not that I'm opposed—I'm going to have to come up with another plan." He turned back to the stove top and poured some grated cheese and chopped peppers into the middle of the omelet.

"That smells incredible," Theresa, her anger dissipating, said as she heard her stomach rumble. "So the new plan will involve me, right?"

"I suppose you're not going to leave me any choice," Marcellus answered as he used a spatula to fold the omelet, then a moment later, lift it out of the pan and onto a plate. He turned and held the plate towards her, but paused. His gray eyes gazed into hers intently.

"You could die," he said flatly. "I'd really rather you didn't. There are better things to do in this world than following vengeful Immortals into life-threatening situations. You should find a different job. Get married to some nice fellow who will never know anything about us. Have children, and grand-children. Hell, throw in a dog and a picket fence, if you want them."

Theresa paused before she answered. "Walter Simons—he's the Watcher who trained me in the field—gave me a similar speech once," she said evenly.

"What was your answer?" Marcellus asked, still holding the plate before her.

"I said, 'Real lives are for wimps'." Theresa reached out and took the plate from Marcellus. He handed her a fork and knife, and she greedily dug in to her breakfast. "This is incredible. After you finish with Ortega, you should open a restaurant."

Marcellus turned to make his own omelet. "Are you prepared to die, Theresa MacNeil?" he asked, then turned to look at her.

Theresa swallowed a mouthful of food and looked back at him. "Are you, Lucius Gaius Marcellus?"

Marcellus turned back to the stove top and worked on his omelet. "I've been prepared to die for over eighty years," he said in a tired voice.

"Then you will," she said to him. Marcellus turned to glare at her. "If you want to die, if you're going in there feeling sorry for yourself and how lonely you are, you may as well just serve your head to Ortega on a platter. He obviously has something to live for, or else he wouldn't have bothered hiding from you all those years. What about you? Are you living for anything other than vengeance? Your friend Adam had a point. Maybe you don't have something grand to live for anymore, like Rome or love, but you have to have _something_. Even if it's as simple as a beer at the end of the day."

"Or enjoying the company of a beautiful woman?" Marcellus asked with a slight smile.

Theresa shifted a little in her chair, but quickly recovered her momentum.

"Whatever floats your boat, old-timer. What your friend was saying, and what I'm saying, is there has to be something waiting for you when the fighting's done, no matter how mundane. Otherwise…what the hell is it for?"

Marcellus placed his omelet on a plate and joined her at the table. He sat down, began to cut into his breakfast with a knife and fork, then stopped and looked at his Watcher.

"Tell you what," the Immortal said, "if I get through this, if we _both_ get through this, will you promise to let me buy you a drink at Joe's?"

Theresa blinked. Her training made her resist the idea of being seen in public with an Immortal. Then she realized that she'd pretty much blown her assignment anyway, so what did it matter? The ironic thing is that she had inadvertently been handed her dream assignment, but now it and her entire career as a Watcher were about to vanish. Even if she hadn't messed up and been made, once the Watchers learned of Lucas Marshall's true identity, they would assign a whole team to him, led by a much more senior Watcher. She'd be lucky to be a junior member of that team, but she was probably going to be out on her ass for gross incompetence. So he wanted to buy her a drink. Why the hell not? She had a feeling she'd need it.

"Okay," she agreed.

Marcellus smiled and took a sip of his coffee. "There. Now I have something to live for. If you watch the sun come up with me tomorrow as well, I'll have attained all three of Adam's recommended pleasures."

Theresa smiled and looked down at her plate. She wasn't sure how comfortable she felt flirting with a two-thousand, five-hundred year old man. Of course she'd fallen a little in love with him when she'd read his Chronicles all those years ago. Of course she'd had fantasies about him. But having fantasies—especially about a man you thought was unattainable, not to mention dead—was one thing. Living them out was quite another.

"So how do we get Ortega?" she asked, feeling a very strong urge to change the topic. She took another mouthful of food, then looked up to meet his gaze. The look on his face told her he wasn't fooled by her conversational gambit, but that he would allow it.

"I assume you've had training in martial arts, weapons, and combat tactics?" Marcellus asked her, becoming serious and professional.

"Extensive," Theresa responded. "Not that they did me any good last night, but…"

"Have you ever killed a man?" Marcellus asked. Theresa blinked, then her eyes widened. She shook her head. "I'm hoping it won't come to that, but it might. Do you think you're capable of it?"

"I've...been trained to do it. I know how," she answered, her voice tight.

"That will have to do. It should allow you to at least decide if it's necessary or not. If it is, don't hesitate. These men are killers, and they're...how did you put it? Selling poison to mortal children? An apt description." He paused. "You're going to be right in the thick of things. If you're going to insist on tagging along, the best way to keep you safe will be to keep you close," Marcellus told her. "You saw last night what hanging around at a distance will get you."

"Sorry about that," Theresa said. "I assumed you were meeting another Immortal. I should have read the situation better, but the information we had on Lucas Marshall was pretty Goddamned sparse. I had no idea I'd be heading into a drug deal. Like I said, if I had, I would have approached the situation very differently." Her eyes widened with concern. "You don't think Ortega got spooked, do you? That he'll disappear again?"

"I doubt it," Marcellus said, shaking his head as he cleared the table and took the plates back to the kitchen. "In fact, that whole incident with you may have helped in that regard. It may have convinced him he just had a couple of narcotics officers after him rather than an Immortal. Besides, he has quite an investment here. I don't think he'll be abandoning it after a relatively minor incident like that." He finished loading the dishwasher and sat down at the table. "Can you obey my orders? To the letter?"

Theresa looked at him for a moment, then nodded. "Provided you don't order me to stay away, yes."

"All right, then," Marcellus said, and leaned forward. "Here's the plan."

For the next quarter hour, he explained the intended sequence of events while Theresa listened attentively. Periodically, she interrupted him with questions, and he patiently provided her with the answers she needed. When he had finished, Theresa sat back in her chair and blew a long breath out through her pursed lips.

"It's risky," she said.

"I prefer the term 'audacious'," Marcellus said with a confident smile. Theresa laughed. Then Marcellus grew serious. "You don't have to come along, you know," he said.

"I thought we covered that," Theresa said flatly. "Where you go, I go. Besides, doing this without me changes the plan from 'audacious' to 'moronic'."

Marcellus smiled. "No chains and bedposts, eh?" he asked with one eyebrow cocked.

Theresa narrowed her eyes. "Ask me again in ten to twelve hours," she said in a low, suggestive voice.

Both of Marcellus' thick brows rose at that, and his eyes widened. "Wouldn't that be a gross violation of Watcher protocol?"

"Just _being_ here is a violation of protocol!" Theresa exclaimed, rolling her eyes. "_Talking_ to you is a violation of protocol! And helping you take out another Immortal..." She paused and shook her head. "Screw it. I'm going to get kicked out of the Watchers anyway," she said in a resigned voice, one corner of her mouth curled into a rueful half-smile. "I may as well break every rule in the book while I'm at it."

"I don't see why you have to leave the Watchers," Marcellus commented. She looked at him, surprised. "Who watches the Watcher, remember? They never knew about Porter and I, they don't have to know about you and I. We're the only two people who know that we've had any contact. I'm certainly not going to tell anyone. Oh, and, uh, Adam, but he's no blabbermouth either, trust me." Theresa stared at him, the expression on her face incredulous but hopeful. "I hate to see a dream die," he said, his eyes locked onto hers. "Of course, you and I would likely have to forgo all further contact after today," he concluded, and she thought she detected just a hint of regret in his voice.

"Why don't we...talk about it when this is all over," Theresa said quietly, after a moment of silence as she considered what he'd said.

Her emotions were in a whirl. Could she really stay with the Watchers after all? If Marcellus cooperated as he'd just indicated he would, it was possible. But that part about no further contact bothered her. Once the genie was out of the bottle, it was damn hard to put it back in; MacLeod and Dawson had discovered that. And there was a part of herself, a part she'd buried long ago, that felt miserable about the idea of never being in this man's presence ever again, never talking to him, never... _ Whoa, one thing at a time, girl_, she told herself. _We've got a dangerous task to accomplish first._

They sat in silence for a few moments. Eventually, though, Theresa couldn't contain herself. She was a Watcher, and here was a 2500-year-old Immortal sitting right at her elbow. If she stayed with the Watchers as he was suggesting, she realized she may never get this opportunity again. She had so many questions for him she didn't know where to begin. So she glanced at the portrait of his late wife and picked one.

"Can I...ask you a question?" she asked, turning to look at him.

"You may _ask_," Marcellus answered with slight smile.

"I always wanted to know...how you met her," Theresa said quietly. "What happened. The Chronicles are extremely sketchy regarding that part of your story. And we have some time to kill."

For a moment, Marcellus sat and stared at her, not moving, and Theresa felt sure he was going to refuse her request. Then he sighed, took a breath, and began to tell his story.

* * *


	7. Alodia

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 7: Alodia**

_South-West England, 878 AD_

Alodia, daughter of Thane Aldred of the Saxons, looked angrily through a copse of trees at a group of a half-dozen Vikings rummaging through a peasant's home. The bloody bodies of a woman and two children lay unmoving on the ground outside the small hut, which lay at the edge of a hay-filled meadow surrounded by trees. The woman's corpse was naked as well—she had obviously been raped before being killed.

"There's six of them, Alodia," her oldest brother, Algar, said to her quietly. His brown eyes prudently studied the enemy. "And only three of us, including you," the brown-haired young man told her, stroking his beard thoughtfully. He clearly meant to imply that as a woman, she hardly counted. They'd been out foraging for food, not looking for trouble.

"I know, Algar," she growled at him, then cast a glance first at him, then at her other brother, Alden. He shrugged, but Alodia could see the indignant anger in his eyes.

Alden was two years younger than Algar, had lighter, sandy-brown hair, and often resented his older brother's caution. Though two years older than Alodia, Alden usually followed the lead of his younger, adopted sister, the tomboy—it had been so since their childhood.

"It won't be a fair fight," Alodia went on in a disappointed tone.

"Precisely," her cautious older brother said, sighing with relief.

The red-headed young woman turned and looked at him with a confident smile, her green eyes burning with righteous anger. "They should have brought more men!" she said, then sprang from behind the trees where she and her brothers had hidden.

She drew her sword from its scabbard and shouted out her adoptive family's battle cry, drawing the surprised attention of the six Vikings a few yards away. Her long red hair waved behind her, and her blue woolen tunic flapped against her body, as she ran screaming towards them.

"Oh, Jesu!" Algar grumbled as Alden eagerly followed his sister into battle. He reluctantly drew his own sword and followed his overzealous younger siblings.

The Viking closest to Alodia watched her running towards them. He turned to smile at his comrades when he saw that it was a woman who approached them. The other men laughed, anticipating some lewd fun. The first Viking, wearing a light tunic and dark woolen leggings, turned back towards her and raised his sword, leering, preparing to knock the red-headed young woman down, but not kill her. There were better things to do with her than kill her. His companions noticed two young men following her and drew their own weapons.

Alodia drew within two yards of the first Viking. He casually swung his sword's broad side towards her head. She swiftly swung her own lighter sword in a two-handed grip to parry the blow easily. Metal rang against metal; she quickly swung her sword over her head before the surprised Viking could pull back to mete out another blow. Her sword-tip traveled down in front and across the man's body; his eyes went wide as the woman quickly and efficiently eviscerated him. The man fell to his knees, dropping his sword and grabbing at his spilling guts, dying as he collapsed onto the ground.

Another large, hulking Viking, seeing his comrade fall and realizing this girl was not to be taken lightly, stepped forward and swung a battle-axe over his head towards her. Alodia waited until the last possible moment, then side-stepped the blow, allowing the huge axe to become buried in the ground. She then plunged her blade into the Viking's chest from the side as he attempted to pull his stuck weapon from the ground, piercing his chain mail shirt with surprising strength and mortally wounding him. As the man's eyes went wide and blood poured from his mouth, Alodia brought up her left foot to his ribs and kicked him off of her blade.

"Save some for us, sister!" Alden cried as he came up behind her and Algar closed in.

The Vikings, seeing the odds evening so quickly, began to retreat a little. One turned and gave a loud cry in Norse over his shoulder. The three siblings, now united in battle, quickly dispatched two more of the Vikings. While they did so, the remaining two had turned and run to the top of a grassy knoll just behind the hut, where they now stopped and turned to face the three young warriors.

"Why have they stopped?" Alden asked as he and Alodia prepared to give chase. They stopped dead in their tracks when a dozen more Vikings appeared at the top of the knoll.

"Christ's blood!" Algar swore. "We have to retreat!"

"No," Alodia said with resigned calm. "They'll catch us. They have the high ground. We must stand."

Unseen by the combatants of either side, a man on horseback watched the battle from the other side of the meadow. He'd first thought the young, red-headed Saxon woman foolish when she rushed the Vikings, but her bravery and skill had impressed him. Now he grew even more impressed as he saw her urging her male companions to hold their ground against a force obviously superior in number. As the Vikings shouted and charged down the small hill, the man made his decision. He urged his beast to a gallop.

Across the meadow, the three siblings watched helplessly as the much larger group of Vikings charged angrily towards them.

"You stupid bitch, you've killed us!" Algar snarled at his sister.

"Save your breath and hold your ground!" she shouted back. The Vikings were almost upon them.

When the Norsemen had charged to within five yards of the trio, every head on the small battlefield turned as a huge black horse suddenly appeared and ran between the two sides. The Vikings stopped their charge short, some of them sliding on the dew-soaked grass, while the trio of Saxons took a surprised step back. The dark horse suddenly turned, its head towards the Saxons as it bucked its powerful back legs into the group of surprised Vikings. One hoof struck a man square in the face, bashing in the front of his skull; he died instantly. The other hoof caught a Viking in the chest, breaking several of his ribs and driving him back so he knocked down two of his comrades.

The horse turned to its right, whirling, and as it did so, its rider swung his sword backwards at the group of shocked Norsemen. A severed head spun in the air, spraying blood, and fell to the ground. Another man screamed as the rider's next swift blow left his arm hanging from his shoulder by a bloody thread of muscle tissue. The horse continued its turn and reared up on its back legs, lashing out its front hooves at the Vikings, who stumbled backwards in a panic. One Viking ran forward and attempted to grab the rider from his left side; he earned a sharp, fatal blow to the top of his head from the man's sword for his audacity.

The Vikings fell back from the deadly horseman, and the horse leapt away to stand alongside the trio of Saxons. Alodia looked up at the rider, their savior. His black hair was strikingly short, his face clean-shaven. Thick, arched black brows were furrowed on his forehead as he stared down the Vikings; his gray eyes regarded them coolly. He wore a scarlet tunic beneath a shining metal breastplate; similar armor covered his black woolen leggings.

The rider surprised them by climbing down from his horse; the Saxons and Vikings both had expected him to remain in the saddle. One of the Vikings shouted at his comrades in Norse, obviously urging them to take the small group opposite, whom they still outnumbered. The rider calmly pulled a bow from a hook and an arrow from a quiver on his saddle. He deftly threaded the arrow, drew the string and took aim. Just as the lead Viking took a step forward, the rider's arrow pierced his neck. The man dropped his sword and fell to his knees, hands gripping his throat as blood ran from between his fingers. The rider drew his bow again and shot another Viking in the chest; the man collapsed, screaming and trying to pull the arrow from his body. The remaining seven Norsemen looked at each other, turned, and ran back up the hill they had so confidently charged down not a few minutes before.

The rider returned his bow to his saddle and patted his horse, cooing to it in Latin. Alodia stepped towards him, intending to thank him and ask his name. When she approached to within a yard of him, he spun around and his gray eyes regarded her intently. Surprised by his sudden movement and intense gaze, Alodia took a step back and her words froze in her throat. Her green eyes opened wide, and for the first time in many years, the bold young Saxon woman felt blood rise to her cheeks in a blush.

As the eldest, Algar felt it was his duty to take the lead. "We are much obliged to you, stranger. I am Algar, eldest son of Thane Aldred. This is my younger brother Alden, and my sister Alodia. I can understand by your look that you are surprised to see a woman in arms; so are we all, but these are desperate times."

The rider, still staring at Alodia, nodded. He pulled his eyes away from the young woman and looked at her eldest brother. "So I understand. I would be honored to join your cause, if you will have me."

Alden smiled broadly and nodded his head. "Of course, sir! You fight like the devil, if I may say so. We owe you our very lives!"

The stranger's lips stretched into a closed-mouth smile as he turned to Alden. He waved his hand dismissively. "I'm sure you could have handled them on your own," he said, returning his gaze to Alodia and earning a smile for his compliment, "but why should I let you have all the sport? There seem to be enough Vikings to go around."

The trio of Saxons laughed softly at the well-spoken stranger's jests. "Pray, sir," Alodia said, finally finding her voice, "to whom do we have the honor of speaking?"

The stranger's gray eyes narrowed and studied her, prompting the young woman to blush once again, much to her surprise. "I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus," he said. "And the honor is entirely mine, dear lady."

* * *

Later that night, Marcellus was seated at a makeshift banquet table in a tent near the Marsh of Athelney in the West of England. Alodia's father, Thane Aldred, a Saxon nobleman and knight, was host. Several other guests were there as well; the nobleman's tent overflowed with refugees from his estate a few miles to the East, all displaced by the Viking's surprise invasion of Wessex during the preceding winter. Supper was now finished, and many of the guests had wandered off to their billets or smaller tents, but most remained, listening avidly to the conversation conducted by those seated at the main table.

"These Vikings are little better than thieves," Thane Aldred was explaining to Marcellus. He was in his early forties and was considered quite old, though he had retained his health, and was widely respected. His long, dark brown hair was streaked with gray, as was his beard. "They kill indiscriminately, slaughtering men, women, even children alike. They plunder our land, leaving our people to starve. And they are heathens as well! But in seven days, we will make our stand and turn the tide. Forces from across the West are massing under King Alfred's banner. There will be a great battle, and once victory is ours, we will drive these invaders from our shores."

Several of the guests applauded when the Thane finished speaking.

"I have no doubt you are correct, and I have witnessed the Norsemen's brutality first-hand," Marcellus said. Having saved the knight's three grown children from almost certain death, he sat in the place of honor tonight at Aldred's right hand. Surrounded by men with long hair and beards or moustaches, the foreigner's short hair and clean-shaven face made him stand out on the dais. The three siblings had told everyone they could find of his prowess in battle; already the story was reaching mythic proportions in the retelling, the size of the Viking force growing from a dozen and a half to a hundred or more.

"But surely you must realize this is merely the repetition of a pattern, my Lord," Marcellus continued.

"How do you mean, Lucius?" Alden, seated to the left of his father and elder brother, asked. Beside him in turn sat his sister Alodia, who said very little that evening, but whose eyes never strayed far from the foreign warrior. She had donned a long blue woolen gown with silk sleeves and fine embroidery decorating it, and her long red hair was worn loose and tumbled down her back. Despite her tomboyish reputation, every male eye in the tent regarded her with admiration.

"Please do not be offended, but I am sure it is well known within your lore that your own people were, not so long ago, invaders of this land." The people seated nearby shifted a little uncomfortably, but did not contradict him, for they knew he spoke the truth. "And you were not the first. My ancestors, the Romans, invaded Britannia, as it was then known, centuries ago. And they found evidence of previous invaders. As I said, there is a pattern being repeated here; you would think the water surrounding this land would act as a barrier to invasion, but in fact it provides the same ease of access that roads do on land."

"Do you mean to say we have no more legitimate claim to this land than these barbaric invaders?" The speaker, his tone ripe with offense, was Deogol, another Thane, younger than Aldred by some twenty years. He had a square face, long black hair, and a drooping moustache. His eyes were narrow and blue and appeared, to Marcellus, to possess a low cunning. He sat beside Alodia, as was his place; he had been her betrothed since childhood. If not for the chaos created by the Vikings, they would have been married years ago.

All eyes in the room turned eagerly to Marcellus. He had been deftly fending off pointed verbal barbs from Deogol all night. Everyone had seen the way Alodia regarded the handsome newcomer who had saved her life, including Deogol, and everyone could see that the young Thane was deeply jealous. Their verbal jousting had provided much of the evening's entertainment, with Marcellus constantly emerging as the clear winner—which only seemed to egg on his rival.

"Not at all, Thane Deogol," Marcellus said with a slight smile. "It has been my experience that legitimacy belongs, quite simply, to the victor. The Saxons were victorious four centuries ago. You are in a fight right now to retain your legitimate claim to these lands. Otherwise you face the prospect of a having a group of Norsemen sit at this table four hundred years from now, discussing how to fend off the latest invader of _their_ land." A murmur in the room indicated the displeasure with which that possible future was regarded.

"You speak of your experience, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," Deogol said, "but I am curious. Where did you gain this experience? Are you truly a knight as you claim, or are you merely a peasant with a sword?"

There were several gasps in the room at the clear insult. Duels had been fought over less. Marcellus, however, simply cocked an eyebrow and looked amused.

"Deogol, watch your tongue!" Alden admonished his sister's betrothed; he did not care for the man much more than she did, however beneficial the alliance might be to their families. He eagerly jumped to the defense of his new friend. "Of course he's a knight! His bearing, his speech, not to mention his skill in battle all speak to his nobility!"

Deogol held up one hand and smiled. "I meant no offense, Alden," he said, though he obviously had intended to insult the foreigner. "I am merely curious...how were these exceptional qualities obtained? Who did you serve? Had you a master?"

"I had a mistress," Marcellus answered, a fond smile of remembrance on his lips. "A beautiful, noble mistress, such as the world has never seen before or since. I served her for many years." His smile suddenly faded, remembering the fate of his mistress, his beloved Rome. "But she...fell ill, and went into decline. Eventually, she passed from this world. Her lands fell into the hands of pretenders, and barbarians not unlike the ones you face. Which is why I will gladly fight at your side to repel them."

"Well spoken," Thane Aldred complimented his guest of honor as the remaining guests applauded. Marcellus bowed his head. He glanced down the table and saw Alodia, her green eyes shining, leaning forward slightly and bestowing an admiring smile upon him. Behind her, Deogol regarded him with cold contempt.

In truth, Marcellus' being there was nothing short of a complete accident. After growing disenchanted with the machinations of the Byzantine Empire, the Roman Immortal had taken to wandering. He'd first followed the trade caravans to the East, venturing to exotic lands the Romans had heard of but never seen, including some that Alexander had conquered. He'd gone even further, spending time in the Far East, including the grand empire of Chung Kuo, or China as it was also known. He'd studied martial arts and mysticism in the monasteries and had served as a military advisor to emperors and warlords. But he had once again grown disenchanted and taken to wandering.

He had grown curious about places he'd seen hundreds of years before. So he had traveled back to the West and had begun to visit the various former provinces of the Roman Empire, places he had marched through with legions in time past, just to see how much they'd changed. Britain was one of those places. It was not the most pleasant land for a Roman; it was too cold, too damp, and lacked many of the hallmarks of civilization a Roman would value. But Marcellus had helped the emperor Claudius conquer the place, and he had decided to include it in his travels. He'd found a land torn apart by conflict between the Vikings who had conquered much of the North and East, and the Saxons who made their home in the West. Marcellus had done his best to avoid getting involved in the fighting until the bravery and skill of the young Saxon woman sitting near him captured his attention—and his admiration.

Shortly after his host finished discussing the current political situation with him, the servants cleared away the last of the plates and the remaining guests went off to their various tents or other quarters. Marcellus had been granted a tent himself, and he went back towards it, walking around the dark side of the larger tent used for the meal. As he turned around the corner of the tent, Alodia stepped out of the darkness to stop him; she had obviously been waiting for him to pass by. Marcellus stopped in his tracks. The beautiful young woman looked around in the night to ensure no one else was nearby.

"You must allow me to apologize on behalf of my betrothed for his rudeness," she said.

"I took no offense, milady," Marcellus responded. His gray eyes wandered over Alodia's body, which was subtly illuminated by a nearly-full moon and nearby campfires. Her long, dark blue woolen dress was tied around her waist with a silk cord. The dress covered her body modestly from her neck to her feet, but emphasized the exquisite curves of her athletic body, and the material appeared almost black in the dim light, contrasting with her alabaster skin and red hair. Marcellus marveled at her beauty; he had seen her in sunlight, candlelight, and moonlight, and she had appeared exceptionally beautiful in all three.

"In fact, I found conversation with Deogol most stimulating," Marcellus said generously.

Alodia noticed his eyes appreciating her body and smiled, clearly enjoying the attentions of this mysterious foreigner. "You are too kind, Marcellus of Rome."

"I must insist that you call me Lucius," he said.

"I should not be so familiar," Alodia said, gently shaking her head of long red hair.

"If only when we are alone?" Marcellus suggested.

"We should not _be_ alone," she said with a soft laugh and a coy smile.

"And yet here we are," Marcellus said in a low murmur, a soft smile on his lips. Alodia said nothing, but smiled and boldly returned his gaze. "I am curious," Marcellus said a moment later.

"About what...Lucius?" Just saying his first name gave her a clandestine thrill; she felt her heart beating faster in her chest as she did so.

Marcellus smiled to hear her speak his name as he'd requested. Then his eyes narrowed. "I'm curious about whether or not you love him," he said, looking at her through his lashes.

The smile disappeared from Alodia's face. Her green eyes fell to gaze at the grassy ground before lifting to stare back into his. "I am a nobleman's daughter, sir," she said flatly. "Love is not something I concern myself with. Deogol and I have been betrothed since we were both children. It is...a good match, a good alliance for our families. I will be one-and-twenty this autumn, and it is well past time I was married. I will do my father's bidding, as a dutiful daughter should," she said, as if reciting the speech from rote. Her hands remained clasped in front of her as she spoke.

"But you're not Thane Aldred's daughter, are you?" Marcellus asked, his tone rhetorical. Alodia's green eyes widened as she stared at Marcellus in surprise. "Do not misunderstand me," he said, raising one hand apologetically. "I am not questioning the legitimacy of your birth. I merely noticed that you bear little physical resemblance to your immediate family."

Alodia took a deep breath; she straightened her back, drew herself to her full height, and regarded him impassively. Marcellus smiled in admiration at this display of her noble bearing.

"I was a foundling," Alodia explained calmly and with great dignity. "I was a mere babe, found one morning in the great hall of my father's estate. Lady Audrey took pity on me, God bless her. She could no longer bear children after the birth of my brother Alden, and had always wanted a daughter. They have never treated me any differently from one of their own, and have been tolerant of my desire to learn warcraft in spite of my sex. I have, in turn, endeavored to fulfill my role as a loyal and loving daughter to them."

Marcellus nodded; it was as he expected. He'd sensed the latent Immortality in her when she'd first drawn near to him after the skirmish earlier that day. Her mysterious origins were also typical of one of his kind. He was sorely tempted to bestow eternal life on her himself. He had never encountered such a beautiful and fascinating woman—and given his age, that was remarkable. She possessed such forthrightness and bravery as he had rarely seen in her sex; she stared boldly at him, daring him to insult her for her mysterious and probably illegitimate birth. _What an Immortal, what a companion she'd make_, he thought, _her exceptional beauty preserved forever!_ But he rejected the notion immediately; he knew she would hate him for inflicting such a life on her. No, it must be left to the vagaries of the Fates.

"You'll hear no rancor or enmity from me on the topic, milady," he assured her, and she smiled slightly. "It is my opinion that action and behavior are more indicative of one's true nature than the mere accident of birth. And your bearing indicates that you are a most noble woman, indeed." Her smile broadened at his compliment. "I cannot help but wonder, however," he went on, "how the bold warrior woman I saw earlier today could so meekly enter into what appears to be a very loveless match."

Her smile vanished at his words, and she made a quarter turn away from him. She drew a deep breath and sighed. "Things seem so simple in battle," she said. "The choices are so clear: fight and live, or yield and die. The world of the castle, the manor, the great hall, is not nearly so elementary, the choices not nearly so clear—quite the opposite." She paused and turned to look at him. "I envy men sometimes. I often think your world is so much simpler than that of women."

"Sometimes it is," Marcellus agreed. "Sometimes not, I suspect."

They heard a voice from around the corner of the tent as someone drew near; they both looked towards it. "I should go," Alodia said.

"Very well. Good night, sweet lady," Marcellus said, and turned to go.

Alodia placed her hand on his arm, stopping him. She turned towards the voices, gauging the distance, ensuring whoever approached was still far around the corner. She turned towards Marcellus, leaned forward, and kissed him lightly on the lips. She leaned back, smiled, then ran off into the night. Marcellus turned and walked towards his tent. He was still smiling several minutes later when he finally fell asleep.

* * *

Two days later, Marcellus was walking around the military camp with roughly three dozen of the highest-ranking Saxon noblemen, mostly Thanes and some higher-ranking Earldormans. Hundreds of men comprising King Alfred's army, or _fyrd_, surrounded the high-ranking group. Some tents and latrines had been set up at the edge of the field, along with makeshift blacksmith shops to sharpen swords and battle-axes or repair coats of chain mail and helmets. Several men were exercising, lifting heavy stones, practicing their sword strokes. Thane Aldred's children, Algar, Alden, and Alodia, stood at the back of the small crowd, listening intently; but knowing their place, they kept their peace.

"So, Marcellus," King Alfred said, "what do you make of our army?" The other nobles stopped and turned to listen. As the Saxon forces had continued to gather over the last couple of days, Marcellus had displayed an impressive knowledge of military strategy and tactics, analyzing and dissecting well-known battles stretching back into antiquity, earning him ever-increasing respect from the Saxon nobles, and bringing him to the attention of the King himself. They eagerly awaited his assessment; even Deogol cocked his head to listen to him.

Marcellus paused and looked at the King. He was a thin man who had suffered from ill health all his life; but his reedy body belied a tremendous strength of spirit that Marcellus had quickly recognized and come to admire. King Alfred, who had hoped to make his Saxon kingdom a cultural center, had also quickly come to respect the foreign warrior, who was so well-read and wise in not just warcraft, but in philosophy and other topics as well. And Marcellus hailed from Rome itself, still regarded as the center of civilization.

"Do you want my honest opinion, Sire?" he asked the monarch.

The King nodded eagerly. "Of course!" he insisted. "We all do!"

Marcellus looked at the other nobles who awaited his assessment. He turned and cast his calculating gaze over the vast array of assembled men. He clasped his hands behind his back and exhaled audibly.

"What do I think of your army? Not much, I'm afraid," he said, to suddenly shocked stares. "The overall fighting ability of your soldiers isn't much better than one would see in a drunken tavern brawl. They lack discipline, skill, and even the most basic understanding of tactics, let alone strategy. They appear incapable of functioning in units of any size. I could take a hundred men, train them for two months, and they'd run through this assembled horde like a hot knife through butter."

He turned around to face the shocked, wide-eyed faces of the assembled Saxon nobility. "However, you are fortunate in one respect: your enemy, of whom I would make very much the same assessment. In other words, you are evenly matched. On the day of battle, it will likely come down to simple numbers: who has more men, and who inflicts more casualties."

Deogol, standing at the back of the crowd, snorted. "What would this..._outsider_ know about our fighting prowess?" he asked rhetorically. "He's never even seen our army in battle!" He glanced at Alodia when he finished, expecting support; instead, she turned her head from him, disgusted by his rudeness.

There was no love lost between the two men; Alodia continued to favor Marcellus with approving glances, and Deogol's resentment continued to grow. Marcellus was thoroughly aware of the man's feelings—they were plain as day on his face, and in the increasingly resentful remarks he directed at the Roman warrior. While he watched Deogol with caution, Marcellus had to admit that he enjoyed seeing the young Saxon's growing jealousy. The other nobles, including Thane Aldred, were growing more and more uncomfortable with Deogol's petulant displays.

While Marcellus and Alodia had not had another opportunity for a clandestine conversation, her admiring looks were not lost on him, and he remembered fondly that quick, illicit kiss. Marcellus had watched Alodia practicing her sword strokes with her brothers a few minutes before and realized he may have found something precious enough to replace his lost, beloved Rome. Certain things he would still leave to the fates, but he began to consider how he could win Alodia away from Deogol. He knew he'd already, in a brief time, won her heart, but also knew the true battle would be for the consent of her father. His ascending regard by the other nobles fit right into his nascent plan.

"I don't need to see the army in battle to assess it," Marcellus replied evenly. "Wars and battles are won or lost before the first soldier even sets foot on a battlefield." Deogol snorted again and waved his arm dismissively, but the other nobles had learned to give much weight to the opinion of this 'outsider'.

"Is there anything we could do in the remaining time?" Thane Aldred asked. "Anything that could tip the balance in our favor?"

Marcellus smiled at Aldred; he genuinely liked the man. He wasn't afraid of the truth, of hearing an opinion he might not like; and rather than dwelling on problems, he always looked for solutions. He wished he could offer better hope to his new friend.

"I'm sorry, my Lord," Marcellus said. "We have less than a week. That's not much time to transform an unruly mob into a disciplined fighting force."

"We don't need your advice, Roman," Deogol sneered. "We have God on our side!"

The other nobles said nothing; it would seem like blasphemy to contradict that statement. Aldred smiled slightly, however, knowing Marcellus would have an apt response.

"I am sure we do, Deogol," Marcellus said, "but the Lord works in strange and mysterious ways, and we must be vigilant not to earn His mighty wrath. It would be most presumptuous of us to assume we could know His mind or fathom His divine plan." The other nobles, who considered themselves devout adherents to the relatively new faith of Christianity, nodded sagely. Marcellus, of course, put little stock in the new religion, but he had become well-acquainted with its scriptures and beliefs. _ If this devil they believe in can quote scripture to suit his purpose, why can't I?_ he reasoned, calculating as always.

"A hundred men," Alden suddenly said from the back of the crowd.

"What was that, Alden?" his father asked, turning to look at his younger son, surprised the young man had spoken at all.

Alden looked about nervously as every pair of eyes, including his King's, fastened on him. He looked for a friendly face and found that of Marcellus. "Yes, Alden," Marcellus said with a smile. "If you have an idea, by all means, share it, because I'm fresh out of them."

Alden stepped forward to stand directly in front of Marcellus, and spoke directly to his new friend—it was the only way he felt comfortable enough to speak in front of so many high-ranking nobles. "You said...you could train a hundred men to go through this vast army easily," he said.

Marcellus shook his head. "I said I'd need at least two months to train them, my young friend," he said. "We do not have nearly that much time."

"But...what if they don't need to go through the army of Vikings like...a hot knife through butter?" Alden insisted, quoting Marcellus' metaphor. "What if they just need to tip the balance, like father said? Would five days of training be enough to do that?"

Marcellus put his chin in his hand and lowered his gaze to the ground in front of him. For several seconds he rocked back and forth on his heels. The assembled nobles held their collective breath. Finally he nodded slowly.

"Possibly," he said, then glanced at Alden. "It certainly couldn't hurt," he said with a smile. The other nobles looked at one another, hope glimmering in their eyes again. "Do I have your consent to do this?" Marcellus asked the King.

King Alfred glanced around at the nodding heads of his nobles; only Deogol refused his consent, but the young Saxon held his tongue. "I would say you do," the King told him.

"Good," Marcellus said, nodding, his gaze drifting to the distance as his calculating mind went to work. "I'll need a century—one hundred of your best warriors. No...not your best," he corrected himself, holding up his hand. "One hundred of your most _disciplined_ and _obedient_ warriors. Pay no heed to their rank or station, as I will not, and warn them of that. I'll need a separate area to train them, and I'll need complete independence, no interference from the rest of you."

"There's a smaller, fallow field on the other side of that row of poplars," Algar offered, pointing across the camp.

Marcellus looked in that direction and nodded. "That should do fine," he said. "I'll have to trust you gentlemen to pick out the hundred men. No, wait, make it ninety-eight. I'll start with Algar and Alden...and Alodia as well," he said, pointing to each of Aldred's children in turn. "I've seen them fight already."

"Alodia?!" Deogol objected. "But she's a woman!"

Deogol had never approved of Alodia's involvement in military matters. It seemed most unseemly for a nobleman's daughter, and his future wife, to be engaged in battles and bloodshed. The other nobles often made sport of Aldred's tomboyish daughter, though never to his face; Thane Aldred had earned too much respect among the other nobles. Deogol, less sure of his good standing in his peers' opinion, had no intention of being a figure of fun. He intended to put a stop to Alodia's unladylike habits as soon as they were wed.

"I saw her fell two burly Vikings in the time it takes to blink," Marcellus told him. "If you had a hundred women who could fight like her, I'd take on the damn Vikings with them alone and send the rest of you home," he said, smiling at Alodia as the assembled nobles erupted into laughter. Their spirits were rising; if their women could take down the Vikings so effectively, what hope did the barbarians have?

"On the day of battle, gentlemen," Marcellus continued when the laughter died down, "this elite force will be at the front and center of our army. They will be the tip of the sword which we will plunge into the very heart of our enemy!"

The assembled nobles erupted into blood-thirsty cheers. Marcellus glanced at Alodia; her green eyes were wide and shining with admiration. He shifted his gaze to her father and saw a similar look. It was all coming together, as his plans always did. He would win this battle for them; his force, under his leadership, would indeed tip the balance, he felt confident of that. The Gauls and the Goths had been a greater challenge than these unruly Vikings. And when it was done, they would give him whatever he desired, and he desired but one thing: the beautiful young Saxon woman who stood before him. He'd keep her close by him in the battle to ensure her safety, the Fates be damned.

As Marcellus' carefully conceived plan began to come together, one other man in the crowd came to the same conclusion, foresaw the same outcome. Deogol turned from the cheering nobles in disgust, formulating his own dark plan as he stormed away.

* * *


	8. Deogol

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 8: Deogol**

"I still don't understand," Theresa said after she emerged, showered and dressed, from her room. Marcellus had suggested a break so she could prepare for the eventful day ahead. "If you fell in love with Alodia at first sight, didn't you _want_ to make her Immortal?"

Marcellus nodded. "Of course. I was sorely tempted. But I'd seen other Immortals make that mistake, expecting to create a lover, or son or daughter, and ending up with a monster instead. There's no surer way to make someone hate you. Duncan found that out; I wish I'd been there to stop him."

Theresa had to admit he had a point. Duncan MacLeod had barely been out of his first century when he'd married Kate, a beautiful Irish seamstress and a potential Immortal. On their wedding night, he had plunged a knife into her chest to make manifest her immortality. She'd hated him ever since.

"So why not tell her? Let her decide?" Theresa asked as she entered the living room and sat back on the couch.

"Do you really think she'd have believed me?" Marcellus asked.

"Well, all you had to do was stick a knife in your heart..." Theresa countered.

"...and she'd have thought me some sort of demon," Marcellus said. "Those were different times, Theresa. Even today, people would have a hard time accepting it.

"And even if I had managed to convince her, imagine the terrible choice she would have faced. Stay mortal, and attempt to live a normal life, all the while knowing that a violent injury that would kill anyone else would give her eternal life. Or, become an Immortal, and watch everyone she loved grow old and die, all the while fighting other Immortals to stay alive." He shook his head. "I have encountered many potentials over the centuries, and hard experience has taught me it's best to leave their ultimate destiny to the Fates. Then the potential can live his life making choices that are pure and true to themselves."

"I guess I can understand that," Theresa said quietly. She glanced at him sympathetically. "That must have been hard for you, though."

"You have no idea," he said, shaking his head slowly. "But you see? Intervening would have been the height of selfishness on my part. How could I treat her with so little regard if I loved her? And I did love her. She was facing the greatest fight of her young life, and I wanted to be there to protect her, or at least teach her to protect herself."

* * *

_South-West England, 878 AD_

"The primary weapon of the Vikings is the battle-axe," Marcellus said, addressing the one hundred men—plus one woman—under his command, who were gathered around him on the smaller training field the next day. In his hands, he wielded one of the large, heavy weapons of the Saxons' enemy. The men eyed the broad, frighteningly effective blade of the axe warily.

"Its weight alone makes the weapon dangerous," Marcellus continued. "Combined with a sharp edge, it can easily cut a man in two."

Marcellus swung the blade over his head, then rotated it in his hands, swinging it in a vertical circle first on his left, then deftly shifting the heavy weapon and performing the same action on his right. The blade made a low _whoosh_ as Marcellus swung it around his body. The sound and the rapidly-moving blade made many of the men shift their weight nervously. Marcellus stopped the blade as it swung down in front of his body, as if slicing an invisible opponent in half.

"Osric, come over here," Marcellus said, beckoning to one of his recruits. A large, bear-like Saxon with a sandy beard stepped forward, frowning and uncertain. Marcellus handed him the battle-axe. "Have you wielded one of these before, Osric?"

The big man nodded. "Several times, Marcellus."

The Roman smiled and drew his sword, a long, single-bladed rapier forged in Toledo. "Attack me with it."

Osric hesitated. "I...do not want to hurt you!" he objected.

Marcellus smiled broadly. "I assure you that you will not. And I won't hurt you. Come now," he said, beckoning. Still, he could see the big Saxon hesitate. "Come on, you fat, stupid ox!" Marcellus shouted.

Osric had a frightfully short temper, Marcellus had heard. The next second proved it. The huge Saxon frowned angrily at Marcellus, lifted the battle-axe back over his head, and shouted as he swung it forward towards his commander. Several of the men watching, and Alodia, gasped.

Marcellus waited until the huge blade began its forward motion. He side-stepped the blow and parried the axe with his sword, directing it away from him rather than attempting to stop it. The battle-axe struck the ground where Marcellus had been standing and became half-buried there. Marcellus swung his blade over the bent body of the big Saxon, stopping the sword just before it sliced through the man's flesh. Osric froze when he felt cold metal on the back of his neck.

"The battle-axe has two cutting edges: one is made of steel. The other is forged of fear," Marcellus declared. "The Vikings rely on the intimidation their large weapons create in their opponents as much as they rely on the blade's killing power. But the axe is heavy and awkward. Even in the hands of a strong opponent, its wielder is vulnerable to over-commitment, both before the blow and afterwards." He raised his sword from Osric's neck. "Thank you for providing a demonstration of that, Osric. I recommend you stick to a sword or spear from now on," Marcellus said, patting the huge Saxon on the back. "Oh, sorry about the insult."

"I've been called worse, Marcellus," Osric replied with a smile; the men around them laughed.

"Allow your opponent to commit himself," Marcellus went on. "Then strike immediately, on his backswing. Or, failing that, move, parry, and strike once he is off-balance and vulnerable as I just did. Do not attempt to stop the blade, not with your sword, and certainly not with your body," he said with a smile. Again, the men laughed. "Move away from the blow and redirect it with your sword or your shield. Then strike.

"The servants have prepared two piles of practice sticks for us," he went on, gesturing towards two stacks of wood nearby. "The larger, heavier sticks will be battle-axes; the smaller, lighter ones swords. Choose a partner. Each of you grab one of each type of stick to practice with. Perform the moves slowly at first, then more quickly as you get used to them. Then switch weapons. Oh, and do try not to bash each other's skulls in!"

The men laughed again at that; between his fighting prowess and his likeable manner, he was winning them over. That was important, Marcellus knew; he had very little time to train them, and he had to make sure they listened to and obeyed his every word.

Marcellus gestured for Alodia to join him as he walked around the training ground, watching the men practice. He occasionally stopped to provide directions or hints as they talked.

"I've appointed your brother Algar as my second-in-command," he told her. "I value his caution, as it tempers my own appetite for risk. I'll be dividing the men into groups of ten, each with one man in command. Alden will be one of the commanders of those smaller units—centurions, I call them." Marcellus couldn't resist using the title; it just brought back so many fond memories.

"And what of me?" Alodia asked, somewhat defensively. "Do you plan to keep me a safe distance from the enemy, washing and sewing clothes, perhaps?" Her tone indicated she would stand for no such thing.

"Of course not," Marcellus said with a smile, then addressed one of the men. "Sigewald! Keep your arm straight when you strike!" Marcellus turned back towards Alodia. "That would be a waste of a skillful warrior. You, Alodia, will be my personal bodyguard. You'll be beside me, right in the thick of the battle, swatting Vikings off of my back."

"Is that the only thing you wanted me to do with your body? Guard it?" she asked saucily as he told her of the assignment.

"There are, perhaps, some other duties you could perform," he said smoothly, his smile becoming salacious.

"I think _you_ need some exercise," she said, one eyebrow raised in mock offense, "and _I_ need to practice."

Marcellus nodded and gestured towards the two diminished piles of practice weapons. "Grab two sticks for us and I'll practice with you."

"Excellent," she said with a teasing smile. "I have a strong urge to try to bash your head in right now anyway."

Marcellus laughed as she ran away to obtain two practice weapons, her step light and prancing like a girl's. He watched her, delighted with her company and her spirit, and recognized that she had spoken the truth three nights before: she felt happiest and most comfortable here, on a training ground or field of battle. And yet she could shine brighter than any lady at a banquet, earning admiring glances from every man in the room. He shook his head in quiet appreciation as she ran back to him, a crudely carved stick in each hand. She threw him the larger, heavier one.

"Have at you!" she shouted, and swung her stick towards him. He barely managed to parry the blow and stepped back, laughing. She swung again, narrowly missing his head and he stopped laughing.

"I'm going to need my head intact, Alodia!" he shouted, somewhat taken aback by the ferocity of her attack.

"Then you'd better protect it!" she yelled back, smiling, and swung the stick at him again. He parried the blow and stepped backwards.

The men around them stopped their practicing to watch. Alodia continued to attack him wildly, keeping Marcellus on the defensive. She saw the reluctance in his gray eyes to strike at a woman and took advantage of it. The men began to gather around them, keeping a safe distance but watching avidly.

"She'll kill him," Alden remarked in an amused tone to his brother.

"I wouldn't bet on it," Algar remarked. "She'll make him angry—she's _good_ at making men angry—and then she'll regret it."

"The great warrior!" Alodia shouted, mocking him. She lunged at his mid-section; he parried the blow and side-stepped. "Ha! I could take you with one hand tied behind my back!"

Marcellus' gray eyes narrowed at that. He had never been bested in battle, and wasn't about to let it happen for the first time at the hands of a woman, no matter how magnificent he thought she was. He took a step back and swung the heavy stick around his body as he had the battle-axe a few minutes before.

"Told you," Algar remarked to Alden, seeing the determined expression now on Marcellus' face. "Here it comes."

Alodia narrowed her green eyes and swung at Marcellus, a feint to his right side. He easily parried. She spun and swung her stick around with a shout. When she finished her turn, her eyes went wide. Her opponent had disappeared; Marcellus, anticipating her blow, had ducked beneath it and rolled forward. She suddenly felt a heavy stick strike her in the back of her knees. With a yelp, she fell backwards, landing ignobly on her behind, her arms flailing. Marcellus rose above her and pointed one end of his heavy stick at her throat.

Alodia's green eyes opened wide, staring up at him in surprise. Then she smiled. "You have to teach me that!" she cried. The men around them erupted in laughter, then applause. Marcellus turned and glowered at them.

"What are you festering dung-heaps looking at?" he shouted in mock offense. "I know none of you ever seen a woman flat on her back before, but that's no excuse! Get back to work!"

The men laughed loudly, and Marcellus smiled. The crowd of soldiers ambled away, back to practice their battle techniques. He reached down, grabbed Alodia's hand, and helped her to her feet. She kept hold of his hand once she was standing, her green eyes wide and staring intently into his. She leaned towards him.

"No man has bested me like that since I was fifteen," she told him breathlessly.

"Really?" Marcellus said dryly. "That's a long dry spell. No wonder you're so ferocious."

Alodia pulled her hand back abruptly. Her mouth opened in shock, but its corners remained curled upwards in a smile.

"You're terrible!" she told him.

"Yes," he agreed, smiling. "I don't know how I live with myself." Then his expression grew more serious as he remembered their purpose there and the upcoming battle. "Now, do you want me to show you that move?" She nodded her head eagerly, and they too returned to practicing their fighting skills.

For the rest of that day, Marcellus worked his force hard to prepare them for the battle with the Vikings. He covered basic technique that first day; this appealed to the Saxons' preferences. King Alfred had no standing army, and the soldiers had little formal training. They took their cues from their epic poem _Beowulf_, holding individual bravery in combat in the highest regard. Marcellus started with that, showing them techniques that would increase their chances against their Norse opponents. He had to win their respect and trust first, and quickly, by appealing to their cultural inclinations. He had done it before many times as a Roman general, training foreign troops by working first with their strengths and then gradually molding them into the Roman system.

On the second day, he began drilling them in marching formations and synchronized movements. He particularly wanted them to learn how to form a shield-wall like the old legions, grouping their shields together and stabbing out from behind them with spears or swords. They were reluctant at first, but he kept at them. Thane Aldred's three grown children responded enthusiastically to his guidance and helped win over the men to this strange way of fighting.

Partway through the third day of training, several of the other nobles, including King Alfred, came by to check on his progress. Marcellus had his men demonstrate the shield-wall formation. The King and several of his nobles immediately saw the wisdom of the tactic. They left and began to drill the rest of the army in its use. The shield-wall would likely have to absorb a great deal of abuse from the Vikings, but could prove effective against the Norsemen's undisciplined tactics. Marcellus knew the Saxons would not hold the formation for the entire battle, but if they used it just long enough, it might make all the difference.

He also continued to practice with Alodia during this time, honing her already-formidable fighting skills. She was an able warrior, one of the best he'd ever seen, regardless of her gender—perhaps because of it. With so many of her opponents relying on simple brute strength for victory, strength which she could not match, Alodia had compensated by developing her skill to even the odds. Marcellus had not been lying when he'd told the King he'd be willing to take on the Vikings with one hundred women like her.

His men noticed how joyously the two worked and practiced together. Talk of their growing affection was all over the camp. Marcellus knew such talk would get back to Deogol, and he drew a certain satisfaction from his rival's no-doubt growing jealousy. Neither he nor Alodia saw Deogol at all during the day, as he remained with the main force. At dinner each evening, Deogol was quiet and subdued, unwilling to engage Marcellus any further in verbal jousting. Marcellus was glad not to have to put up with the petulant Saxon's pejorative remarks; perhaps he was developing some maturity after all. Gradually, as the impending battle and his feelings for Alodia loomed larger in Marcellus' mind, Deogol faded from it, which was probably why he let his guard down.

Marcellus had a pattern he'd followed since the early days of the Republic: he was always the first man onto the field and the last man off it. At the end of each of the first three days of training, when the sun had set, he had sent the men back to the regular camp for their supper. He insisted Alodia go back with her brothers at the end of each day; he thought emerging from the copse of trees with her would appear unseemly, and he had no intention of upsetting his plan to win her now. Besides, it gave him a little quiet time to think and make plans for the next day's exercises.

At the end of the third day of preparations, two days before the battle, he sat on the side of the empty field at twilight and made notes on a strip of cloth with a quill, using pig's blood for ink.

"This is truly a dark age," he muttered to himself.

He would have given anything for clean Egyptian parchment and Octopus' ink, but had to make do with what was at hand. He also would have given anything for a proper glass of honey-sweetened wine, a plate of olives, cheese made from goat's milk, snails poached in olive oil and garlic... His mouth watered and his stomach growled; he set the quill down and gathered his meager writing materials into a bundle.

"Right. Time for supper, you old campaigner," he said to himself. The light was dying anyway.

Marcellus walked back to the row of trees that separated the two training fields. The poplars, their leaves freshly opened in the spring air, formed black silhouettes against an indigo sky; the stars had begun to appear in the darkening twilight heavens. In the distance, he could hear the dull murmur of hundreds of men gathered around campfires, preparing their evening meal. _Jupiter, but that brings back memories!_ he thought. He almost regretted that he'd be dining in Aldred's tent instead.

He remembered marching through Britannia over eight hundred years before as a general in the Emperor Claudius' army, finally bringing the cold, rainy island into the Roman orbit. _Has it really been that long?_ He laughed softly as he walked between the trees, remembering Claudius and how the Senate had ridiculed the stuttering, lame-footed old man when he came before them to be approved as Emperor. They had called Claudius a fool. But Claudius had proved them wrong. _I chose well_, Marcellus reflected, _after that maniac Caligula..._

The sudden snap of a twig in the darkness behind Marcellus put an end to his reminiscing. Before he could react, he felt a strong hand cover his mouth, and a sharp blade plunged into his side, a killing blow to his right kidney. His eyes went wide and he yelled angrily into the hand that covered his mouth. But his cry was muffled, and the men too far away and too preoccupied with making their supper to hear him. He felt the knife twist in his gut, his assailant taking obvious pleasure in inflicting as much pain as he could. Marcellus' knees buckled and he fell to the ground, his attacker plunging with him, the hand still over his mouth, the blade still in his side.

"We don't need you here, outsider," Deogol whispered in his ear. "We don't need you coming here, taking over our army, stealing our _women_." Deogol gave the knife another twist at that, and Marcellus' body jerked in pain. He could feel his blood running down his side, over his hip and thigh. His eyes rolled back in his head as consciousness left him. Marcellus drew one last, rattling breath, then slumped to the ground as Deogol released his lifeless corpse.

Deogol withdrew his knife and stood up, his heart beating rapidly. He looked around furtively. No one was nearby, no one had heard anything. He moved quietly through the woods towards a package of fresh clothing he'd stashed there. He stripped naked, threw his blood-soaked clothes, the knife, and a large rock into an oilskin bag, and changed into the fresh clothes. He walked through the trees, following a trail in the dark he'd practiced walking down so often for three days that he could have done it blindfolded. He reached a deep pond and threw the bag in, and it sank to the bottom. He smiled. Alodia was his now, as she should be. He walked back towards Aldred's tent.

A few minutes later, in the copse of trees, Marcellus revived. The Immortal's eyes opened suddenly, and his back arched as he drew a loud, painful breath. After a moment, he slowly sat up. His side, still healing, ached from the knife wound. But that would pass, and soon. He stood up, looking around to ensure neither Deogol nor anyone else had witnessed his return from the dead. He quietly cursed his carelessness. _ That's what thirteen hundred years of memories will get you, you old fool_, he told himself.

Normally, when an Immortal died in front of witnesses, he had to disappear lest his true nature be discovered. But Marcellus was not about to ride over the hill into the next town as usual. There was only one witness this time—his murderer. The calculating Roman was determined not just to defeat this enemy, but to destroy him. Deogol had unknowingly given him the perfect opportunity to do just that. Marcellus smiled malevolently. First, he needed some fresh clothing...

An hour later, Thane Aldred, his family, and his retainers were in the midst of their supper in the large tent. Alodia and her brothers kept glancing at the entrance expectantly. Marcellus was late, and Marcellus was _never_ late. Especially not for supper—the man ate like a horse to keep that sharp mind and active body going.

"I don't know what could be keeping him," Alodia said to her brothers, who were seated on her right, as usual. Her lovely features were drawn into a frown, a frown that grew more worried with each passing moment.

"Relax, my love," Deogol said calmly from her left. "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually."

"Maybe we should send some men back to the training field," Alden suggested. "It's dark, maybe he slipped or something."

Suddenly Alodia's frown lifted and she smiled. "Oh, there he is!"

Deogol glanced at his betrothed, sure she'd mistaken some other man for the foreign interloper. Then his eyes followed her gaze and went completely wide. The color drained from his face; his breath caught in his throat. There, entering the tent, was Marcellus, looking quite alive and healthy. His clean-shaven face beamed as he slapped men on the back as he usually did, and they called out his name boisterously. He gradually made his way through the seated throng to the main table.

"No..." Deogol muttered. He couldn't have killed the wrong man; even in the falling dark, there was no mistaking that close-cropped hair, that clean-shaven face; almost every other man in the camp had a beard. And he had killed him, had felt him go limp, he'd heard the death rattle. "No, it's not possible..." he muttered, his head shaking.

"What did you say, Deogol...?" Alodia asked, turning to her husband-to-be. She stopped short when she saw his expression; he looked as though he had seen a ghost. "Deogol? What's the matter?"

The young Saxon, his face white and a cold sweat beading on his forehead, rose slowly from his seat and pointed at Marcellus, who now stood just before the main table. "_No_!" he shouted, "You're _dead_!"

Deogol's outburst brought the entire crowd to a silent stand-still. All eyes shifted from Deogol, to Marcellus, to whom he was pointing, and back to Deogol. Marcellus looked at him and frowned. Then he looked about the tent, his face showing a rising alarm. He slapped his open hands against his chest, then turned to two men seated at a nearby table and anxiously placed his hands on each of their shoulders. The two men suddenly smiled and, as laughter began to grow, grabbed Marcellus and started patting their hands on his shoulders and back as well, ensuring that he was, indeed, alive and present. Marcellus' shoulders suddenly slumped and he mockingly blew out a relieved breath as the laughter in the room reached a crescendo. Marcellus turned back to face the main table, his arms spread wide, looked at Deogol and smiled.

"Apparently not!" he exclaimed, to more laughter and some applause. Marcellus very vigorously ran around the end of the main table and took his usual seat at Thane Aldred's right hand. "Sorry I'm late," he told his host, "slipped on the grass in the dark and had to change my clothes. Took awhile to decide what to wear," he said with a mocking smile. "Wanted to look my best to charm your beautiful wife away from you," he joked, earning a pleased laugh from Lady Audrey.

Meanwhile, Deogol, still on his feet and staring wide-eyed at Marcellus, began to notice several pairs of eyes trained on him. The faces turned towards him regarded him dubiously, as though he had suddenly gone mad—faces that included Alodia and her father. A murmur arose in the room as the laughter died down and more people began to discuss his strange behavior.

"What is the meaning of this absurd outburst, Deogol?" Aldred bellowed, silencing the room once again. All eyes now turned to the young Saxon. He looked about, eyes wild like some cornered animal. He couldn't explain it to himself, how could he explain it to them? He grasped for an explanation, and lit upon the first one that popped into his fevered mind.

"A dream," he muttered, lowering himself back to his seat. "It was a dream I had. I...I'm sorry..." His explanation caused a stir in the room, among the superstitious people gathered there.

"Well, _that's_ hardly auspicious," Marcellus commented dryly. He turned and saw Alodia looking at him anxiously. He smiled and shook his head, holding his hand up to reassure her. She looked a little relieved, but only a little.

"We'll have no more talk of this!" Aldred shouted to the assembled crowd. He smiled and spread his arms. "Eat, drink, and be merry, my friends," he said through a forced smile.

Gradually, the noise in the tent returned to a normal conversational level, though much of the conversation concerned what had just happened and what it might mean. Thane Aldred turned to his future son-in-law and glowered at him. Things had been going so well, and now this stupid boy had blurted out some inauspicious nonsense about Marcellus—about their hope, for that is what he represented, as far as Aldred was concerned—being dead. Aldred was not a superstitious man; he believed what the bible contained, and everything else was nonsense. But most others were not so skeptical as he, and he worried about the effect this would have on their army's spirit.

Then Aldred turned to look at Marcellus, and a smile came back to his face. The man was engaged in a spirited conversation with his wife and had her laughing as though nothing had happened. Clearly _he_ wasn't concerned, and Aldred hoped that would offset the effect of Deogol's outburst.

Aldred sat back in thought, glancing at the two men, and wondered if he hadn't made a mistake, all those years ago, promising his adopted daughter's hand to Thane Deogol. As for Marcellus, if the Saxons won this battle, the King would likely reward the foreign strategist with several acres of land. If he helped the Saxons drive the Vikings further out of Wessex, Marcellus would likely become a Thane himself, or perhaps even an Earldorman—one of the King's principal advisors. Aldred could do worse, he realized, than to align his family with the upwardly mobile Roman warrior.

Later, after dinner had ended and the guests began to file out, a still-shaken Deogol got up to leave. He hadn't spoken a word to anyone for the rest of dinner. He felt a hand on his shoulder and turned back. The blood drained from his face once again when he saw Marcellus there, a concerned smile on his clean-shaven face.

"I hope you're feeling all right, Deogol," Marcellus said in a friendly voice. The other guests had moved away, heading for the exits; no one was close enough to hear their conversation.

"I'm fine," Deogol declared, and tried to turn to go, but Marcellus' firm grip held him in place.

"I'm not that easy to kill, _boy_," Marcellus murmured. His face was friendly, but his tone was low and threatening. "But I'll bet you are," he continued, and patted Deogol on his right side, in the exact spot where the young Saxon had driven a knife into him. Deogol's eyes went wide. "Pleasant dreams," Marcellus said as he turned to go.

As Marcellus left the tent, he recalled a line from an ancient text. "Whom the gods would destroy, they first make mad," he quoted, then chuckled softly as he walked to his own small tent. He glanced at the corner where Alodia had accosted him that first night as he passed by it, recalling their clandestine conversation and stolen kiss. He stopped when he saw that Thane Aldred's daughter stood there in the dark yet again.

She stepped towards him and, as she had done that first night, looked around for other people. Seeing none, she turned to him.

"I wanted to speak with you," she said, her face serious. "I'm worried, Lucius."

Marcellus frowned. "About Deogol's dream?" he asked.

Alodia shook her head. "No. My father brought me up to disdain such things as ignorant superstition. But it made me think...made me worry. About the battle, and what will come after it."

She sighed and looked away from him. "I don't know if I'll ever be able to talk with you again, once the battle is done. If we win—and with your assistance, I think we will—I will no longer have an excuse to put off my marriage. With the Vikings in retreat, my hand will not be needed on the battlefield. Deogol will see to it that our betrothal is consummated. And then I'll never see you again," she said wistfully, returning her gaze to rest upon his face. She reached out and delicately took hold of his hand. "Deogol hates you. He hides it of late, but he is jealous. He would never allow us to have any contact."

Marcellus lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it. "You assume too much, Alodia. Do not despair." He smiled at her. "I have a plan," he whispered conspiratorially.

"You always have a plan," she said, the smile returning to her lips. "What does it involve?"

"Us," Marcellus told her, his face serious. "You and I. Together. As husband and wife. Would you like that?"

Her beautiful green eyes widened at his words. She stared at him in silence a moment, then shook her head and gently removed her hand from his. "Do not tease me, Lucius. I am betrothed to another, and have been since childhood. Such things are not easily undone."

Lucius smiled gently. "You didn't answer my question. If you were free to marry whomsoever you chose, would you take me?"

Her green eyes watched him silently for a moment before she answered. "In a heartbeat," she murmured, then cast her eyes downward. "If only I could choose."

That was all he needed to hear. "Good," he said, a confident smile tugging at the corners of his lips. "Let me see to it, Alodia. Trust in me." Marcellus glanced around, then leaned forward and kissed her. He took a step back and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. "We'll be together, Alodia. I promise." Then he turned and walked to his tent, leaving Alodia to return to hers with her emotions in turmoil.

* * *

The last two days before the great battle passed without incident for the most part. Marcellus saw Deogol watching him from a distance both days as he walked to the training ground in the morning. Each day, he turned and smiled at his rival and patted his lower right side, which made the young Saxon blanch and turn away.

At the end of the last day, after a shortened training session with the troops and a dinner made somewhat tense and somber by the anticipation of battle the next day, Marcellus went to the stables to see to his horse, Sulla. He'd named the steed after the ancient Roman dictator, of course. Marcellus had served under Sulla, but had never much liked the man, especially in his decrepit old age. The idea of riding his namesake, giving him orders and reigning him in, gave Marcellus a certain perverse pleasure. Nevertheless, Sulla was a good horse, a loyal companion, and a well-trained war-beast, and Marcellus felt he'd been neglecting the animal since he'd taken on the task of training the one hundred soldiers. Neither the Saxons nor the Vikings fought with cavalry, so Sulla would sit out tomorrow's battle.

A full moon hung in the dark sky as Marcellus walked to the stables. Most of the horses were in fields nearby, but those of the highest-ranking nobles had been quartered here, in a large stable that was part of an estate that bordered on the Marsh of Athelney. As a reward for his advice and leadership, Marcellus had been provided a stall for Sulla in the stables.

The stables were abandoned and quiet when he entered. The stable hands usually slept with their charges, but here they had been generously provided with their own tent. Marcellus walked to Sulla's stall, carefully placed the tallow candle he'd brought for light on the top of a thick post, and placed his sword on the straw-covered floor. He took out a curry comb and began to rub down the midnight-black horse's hide, eliciting a low, satisfied whinny from the beast, who loved the attention. Marcellus crooned to the animal in Latin and went about tending to him.

Several minutes later, Marcellus heard someone enter the stable. He could hear soft, careful footfalls on the straw, coming slowly towards Sulla's stall. Whoever it was had not brought a torch or lantern, and approached him in the dark. Marcellus immediately concluded it was Deogol, coming to make yet another attempt on his life.

_He'll get much more than he bargained for this time_, Marcellus thought as he silently knelt and grabbed his sword from where it lay on the straw. He listened carefully. The straw muffled the sound of the footfalls, but he could just gauge the distance if he listened carefully. Close enough, he thought, and suddenly sprang from his horse's stall, his sword held before him.

Alodia gasped loudly and leapt back when Marcellus suddenly appeared, wielding a weapon and evidently prepared to use it. The Roman's eyes went wide with surprise. He exhaled loudly and lowered his sword. He set the weapon back down on the straw and gave the young Saxon noblewoman an embarrassed look.

"I apologize, milady," he said.

Alodia, holding her right hand over her suddenly pounding heart, shook her head. "It was my fault. I should have announced my presence. Everyone is so tense, what with the battle before us tomorrow."

Marcellus nodded sagely. He'd lost count of the number of battles he'd fought in his thirteen hundred years, but he had not grown jaded about them. He always felt a nervous exhilaration the night before that robbed him of sleep but sharpened his nerves. Alodia apparently suffered from similar feelings. The sun had gone down hours before, dinner had finished and the guests gone back to their beds, but here she stood, still attired in a long white woolen dress she had worn at dinner. Over it she wore a long, dark cloak with a loose hood, evidently to hide herself in the dark on this secret visitation.

"I was just tending to Sulla," Marcellus told Alodia, pointing his thumb at the animal's stall.

Alodia nodded. "I thought as much when I saw you headed this way."

Marcellus took a step towards her. "And you followed me out here? For what purpose?" He asked, his voice low and affecting innocence.

Alodia looked at him steadily and raised her chin slightly. "Do I need a reason?" she responded confidently.

Marcellus took another step towards Alodia and smiled. "No. But if you have one, I should very much like to hear it."

He now stood directly in front of her, less than a yard away. She still regarded him haughtily, but her lips had parted and he could see her breasts rising and falling beneath her cloak and thin woolen gown as her breaths grew ever more shallow and rapid. He began to take another step. She held up her right hand in front of her, fingers spread, stopping him. He reached out with his own right hand and gently curled it behind her outstretched fingers. He slowly pressed her hand to his chest, over his own beating heart. In the dim light of the stable, her green eyes locked on to his gray ones and held them in an intense, steady gaze.

A heartbeat later, her left hand grabbed the back of his head and pulled his face towards hers. Their lips met in a hungry, passionate kiss. He released her hand and threw his arm around her slender waist, pulling her body against his. He felt her breasts crushed against his hard chest. His lips released hers and he began to plant a trail of kisses along her cheek and down her neck. Her skin tasted of lavender water and salt. Her head fell back, her long red hair sliding over her shoulders to hang down to her hips. She breathed heavily, her eyes closed, as his warm lips and hot breath caressed the white skin of her throat.

Suddenly Marcellus pulled away from her. She looked him, confused yet ardent. He stepped into the stall of his horse. He opened one of his saddlebags which hung over the side of the stall and withdrew a folded woolen blanket. He blew out the tallow candle and took her hand in his. In the near-total darkness, he led her to a ladder a few feet away. He climbed the ladder, followed by her, to a hay-loft at the end of the stable. A large, open upper door allowed the light of the full moon to enter the loft. Marcellus spread the blanket over a pile of soft, clean hay and turned back to face Alodia.

As he'd spread out the blanket, she had quickly discarded her cloak and gown and tossed them aside. She stood before him, naked in the moonlight. Marcellus froze, captivated by her bold, unabashed beauty. In the ethereal moonlight, her skin was pale and seemed to glow, as though she were an elf and not human. Her shoulders were slender but strong, her breasts full, high, and firm, a few freckles spread across and between them. His eyes traveled down over her trim abdomen to the auburn delta at the apex of her thighs. Her arms hung at her sides, her hands laid atop her milky white thighs. Her weight rested on one leg, the other bent slightly at the knee.

Marcellus kicked his soft leather shoes from his feet. He pulled off his tunic, revealing a muscular chest decorated with dark hairs; his chest hair tapered to a point on his flat stomach that drew Alodia's eyes down to his slender waist. Marcellus then stripped off his leggings. His lean, muscular legs were covered the same dark, delicate hairs as his chest. He saw Alodia's eyes drawn to his aroused sex. Her eyes flickered back to his, and he smiled.

Marcellus held out his hand to her. She took it. He led her towards the blanket and lowered her down upon it. He then gently laid his naked body on top of hers and their lips met again. As he kissed her, he ran his hands gently over her body, caressing her shoulders, her breasts, her flat abdomen and thighs. He broke the kiss and then began to explore her pale skin with his warm mouth and tongue, kissing and teasing the same places his hands had touched only a moment before.

Alodia lay back, her hands encouraging him as she caressed his strong shoulders and head of close-cropped hair, occasionally gasping and pressing his head against her body when he performed an action she enjoyed. Eventually he pressed his hands against her thighs, pushing them apart, and lowered his head to pleasure her as she watched him avidly.

She moaned and writhed in response to his skillful ministrations, and several minutes later, he felt her body tense, then shudder as she let a throaty groan escape her lips. As she lay limp and gasping, he slid his body back up to cover hers. He reached down with one hand and prepared to enter her. Alodia's green eyes flew open and stared into his as she felt him at the entrance to her womanhood. She shook her head slowly.

"I've never..." she breathed, and he caught her meaning instantly. His body froze in position.

"Do you want to stop?" he murmured, his tone gentle.

"No," she said, her eyes suddenly burning with the hard determination he had seen in them so often in the past week on the training field. She never shrunk from a challenge.

Marcellus smiled gently and his hand caressed her cheek. "I'll be gentle," he whispered. "There will be a little pain, but then it will be over, and it will soon start to feel much better." She held his gaze and nodded.

The Roman had been with many women, of course, in his thirteen hundred years on earth, and had deflowered more than his share of virgins. He had suspected that she had never known intimacy with a man; despite her boldness, or perhaps because of it, Marcellus got the sense that Alodia would have allowed no man to take her virginity unless she felt he was worthy of the honor. Hence the pleasure he had given her first to prepare her. He brushed his lips against hers now and slowly, gently, began to move into her.

Her mouth opened wide and she gulped a breath as she felt him press against her maidenhead. He hesitated, seeing if she would change her mind and ask him to stop. He would have honored such a request, but she did no such thing. He pushed, she gasped, and then turned her head. A single tear coursed down her cheek. He leaned forward and kissed it away. Slowly he began to move. She grimaced at first, her eyes clenched tight and soft whimpers escaping her lips, but she allowed him to continue.

Gradually pleasure began to overcome the pain. She wrapped her arms around his torso, then slid one hand up to hold the back of his head. She pulled his head down and their lips met in a deep, passionate kiss. He began to accelerate his tempo. She released his lips, moaned softly, and moved her hips against his, encouraging him. He pressed himself up on his elbows. She locked her eyes upon his. She reached down and squeezed his buttock, then smiled wickedly. He smiled back, then lost himself in his passion, moving his body in a quickening rhythm. She writhed and panted beneath him. Within moments, his muscles locked and he gave a strained cry of release.

A moment later he collapsed onto her; he then pulled himself out of her and rolled onto his back. Alodia shifted onto her side and lay her right arm and leg over him and placed her head on his chest. They lay together in the moonlight, their naked bodies covered with perspiration, both gulping air into their overworked lungs.

A few moments later, Marcellus felt her body shudder against his. He smiled and silently congratulated himself on his skill, but her next words dealt his male ego a hard blow.

"I hate you," she murmured. The smile left his face as he lifted his head slightly to look at her. It wasn't the sort of declaration a man expected from a woman after a bout of passionate love-making. She tilted her head up from where it lay on his chest and looked at him. "I've never been afraid. Not of fighting, or battles, or even death. But now look at me: I'm trembling like the last leaf on a tree in autumn. And it's all because of you."

Her voice was quiet and calm, but belied her body's emotional state. She held up her hand in front of his face; in the moonlight, he could see the slight tremor in it. She lowered her hand and her head and stared off into the darkness of the stables.

"If I die in battle," Alodia went on, "they'll write songs about me. They'll never rival _Beowulf_, but still, there would be songs. If I survive, then I shall enter a loveless marriage. I will most likely die in childbirth. Deogol will remarry, another woman will raise my children, and I will be forgotten. Tell me, Lucius, if you had my two choices, which would you prefer?"

Suddenly it all made sense to Marcellus. He had never given much thought to why she had learned sword-fighting and warcraft. He had put it down to the desperate times for the Saxons, that they needed able bodies to fight and therefore welcomed the occasional woman into the ranks. But for Alodia, destined since childhood to marry a man she despised, it had been the only alternative life open to her—even if it meant, ironically, her death. Sometimes Marcellus forgot how painfully short a mortal life could be, and how desperate they craved some form of...well, immortality.

"And now you have come into my life," she continued, her voice still even and emotionless. "And you bring another possibility I had never entertained before. You taunt me with the prospect of a marriage, filled with love, to a man who respects me for what I am. You bring me hope. And I hate you for it," she said, and her voice finally cracked; not with the hatred she spoke of, but with sorrow. "Because now I am afraid. Oh, Lucius, I am so afraid of tomorrow! If you should die..."

"Shhh," he shushed her, tilting up her chin to look at him. Tears had begun to form in those beautiful green eyes he adored. "Don't be afraid. I am not going to die. And neither are you. We cannot die, Alodia." She frowned at him, not comprehending, as she blinked away her tears.

He was tempted, right then, to tell her everything. To tell her about her Immortality, and his. To persuade her to come away with him before the battle, to abandon the Saxons, to leave behind the only home she had never known. But he knew she would not believe him, and also knew she would never leave. Her loyalty to her people and her family was one of the traits he most admired about her. And Lucius Gaius Marcellus had never run from a fight, not in all his thirteen hundred years.

"Why do you think I brought you into this special unit I'm training, my dear?" Marcellus said instead. "It wasn't just because of your fighting skills—which are formidable. And it wasn't just to have you nearby, though I have treasured the moments with you over the last few days. I brought you in so I could keep you close in the battle tomorrow—so we can fight together and protect one another. I made you my bodyguard, but I am also yours, don't you see?"

Alodia's mouth opened, but she did not speak. She frowned, realizing his words made a certain sense. But she shook her head. "But...even if we both survive, I am still betrothed..."

"...to a man whose star is in decline, while mine is in ascendance," he said, explaining the other part of his plan. "We will win tomorrow, my darling, and you and I and our hundred men will be a key part of that victory. The King will want to reward me. Your _father_ will want to reward me. They will offer me titles and lands, but I will refuse; there will be other battles to win against the Vikings before they leave your land, other chances to win those prizes. After tomorrow, I will accept only one prize, and that is your hand," he explained, steepling his fingers against hers, then intertwining them.

Alodia closed her eyes and a sad smile appeared on her lips. She shook her head where it lay against his broad chest. "You are a confident man, Lucius, and you have good reason to be. But even the best plans have a way of going awry. So many things can go wrong..."

"Then you adjust the plan," Lucius explained patiently. "And you anticipate what can go wrong and plan contingencies. You must trust me, Alodia, I've looked at this from every angle, and it always ends the same way: with you and I together."

Alodia looked at him, her green eyes adoring but sad, and smiled. "I hope you are right, I truly do." She lifted her head, leaned forward, and kissed him softly on the lips. He reached behind her head and gently took hold of several strands of her long red hair. He pulled her head down, pressing her lips against his again. The kiss deepened, along with their breath. Her breasts pressed softly against his chest. Her hand reached down and brushed against his sex, which was already stirring with arousal once again.

Marcellus then pulled her head back, breaking the kiss. "Again?" he asked her, smiling seductively. She laughed softly and smiled. Then she nodded. And around them, for just a little while, it seemed as if the world had gone still, and was holding its breath.

* * *

Just before daybreak the next day, the army was on the move. The battlefield was not far away, a little over an hour's march. Marcellus marched at the head of the army, in front of his elite force of one hundred men.

The strategy, of necessity for such a large, relatively undisciplined force, was simple: divide and conquer. Marcellus' unit would be the spear point of the Saxon force, plunging directly into the front and center of the enemy's line. Much of the best Saxon fighters would follow behind them and on each flank. They would drive a wedge between the enemy force, cutting them in half to prevent them from functioning together. Deogol would be in the group directly behind Marcellus' force; he didn't care much for having his would-be murderer at his back, but didn't have much choice.

By the time the Saxons reached the battlefield, they could make out the huge enemy force massing across the grassy expanse from them. As near as Marcellus and the other Saxons could reckon, the Vikings appeared equal in number to their own host. The battlefield was a large, open expanse, flat and grassy, mostly bereft of trees. There were two small copses of trees in two dips in the terrain, right in between the two opposing forces.

The battle horns sounded and the drums on both sides began to pound. The Saxons could hear the loud, belligerent shouts of the Norsemen opposite and countered with war cries of their own.

Just before the battle started, a man rode forward with a message for Marcellus. He identified himself as an Earldorman, one of the high-ranking nobles advising King Alfred, and responsible for the King's intelligence. In other words, a spy.

"We've heard word of a formidable warrior the Vikings have in their force," he said. "Not enough to turn the tide of battle, of course, but the King thought you should be aware. He's likely to be in the center of their force, so you're likely to meet him."

Marcellus nodded. "Does this warrior have a name?" he asked.

"He calls himself Loki, after their pagan god of chaos and mischief," the man said.

"Charming," was Marcellus' response. Once the advisor had left, he turned to Alodia. "Are you still afraid?" he asked her quietly, so no one else could hear.

"Now that the battle is upon us, I have no time for fear," she said, her green eyes looking boldly into his. Then they softened, just for a moment. "And as long as you are near, I shall fear nothing," she said, and favored him with a fleeting smile, which he returned. At that very moment, a battle horn sounded, and their eyes turned towards the enemy. The battle was on.

The two sides approached one another across the open field, the spring sun gleaming off helmets, shields, the blades of spears, swords, and battle-axes. The beating of the war drums and the shouting voices of men filled every ear on both sides. Advancing on foot with his force, Alodia at his side, Marcellus felt the same exhilaration he'd always felt going into battle leading a force of men. There was always a chance a blow would get through his defenses and cripple him, or even decapitate him and thus end his long life. The thrill, and the fear of death, made his heart beat fiercely in his chest.

The two battle lines met and clashed. The sound of metal against metal, of swords, shields, and battleaxes clanging, reverberated across the battlefield. Men shouted as they attacked and screamed as they fell. The loamy scent of disturbed earth and the acrid smell of freshly-spilled blood filled the air. In the midst of the chaos, Marcellus' hundred men clung to a semblance of order. They kept their shields and spear-tips forward, maintaining the shield-wall for the time being. The Roman had taken five days to teach the entire group to move and fight as one, to support one another and to drive towards the same goal. Above all, they would listen for and respond instantly to his shouted orders.

Opposing them, the Vikings mostly fought with battleaxes, though some used swords. The heavy, sharp axes could deliver terrible killing blows, but their size and weight, as Marcellus had described to his troops, slowed their wielders. The Vikings swung the axes and did some damage, but not nearly as much as they were used to. The long spears of the shield-wall held them at bay, reducing the effectiveness of the axes. Viking after Viking fell to wounds inflicted by the stabbing spears when they tried to attack the bristling Saxon shield-wall. Gradually the Vikings were pushed back.

As the Saxons sensed the Viking line weakening, their exhilaration began to overcome their discipline. The shield wall began to break apart as more and more Saxons stepped out of the formation to attack individual Vikings. The Saxons began to abandon their spears, often leaving them deep in the belly of a dying Viking, and unsheathed their short, single-edged swords.

Their Norse opponents, seeing the impenetrable shield-wall opening up, began to counter-attack. The battle could have been lost at this point, but Marcellus had anticipated this course of events. The men he had trained employed his tactics against the Viking battle-axes. They struck at the Vikings on their lengthy backswings, before they could bring their weapons to bear, or side-stepped their opponents' blows and struck before the Norsemen could recover and try again. Slowly, the Viking counter-attack began to crumble and the hundred men penetrated further into the Viking line.

All this time Marcellus and Alodia fought at one another's side. They had trained for days to fight together, to watch one another's backs, and now it paid off. The Vikings spotted Alodia and sneered and shouted, desperate to strike down this impudent girl who thought she could match them in battle. Scores of the Norsemen threw themselves at the duo, and they all fell to their blades. It was as though Alodia were a bright red flame, and the Vikings were moths drawn to her, only to fall dead upon contact.

As the Viking force split into two, the Saxon's best and fiercest warriors followed the leading wedge. Now came a crucial point as Marcellus' force found itself surrounded on both flanks. This is when he knew the fiercest fighting would occur, and this is where the battle would be won or lost. The Vikings rallied yet again, and the Saxons were pushed back momentarily. But the Saxons were fighting for their adopted land, for their very way of life; a fierceness borne of desperation made them rally in turn, and the Vikings began to fall back further. The Saxon force, sensing victory, pressed on. Wave after wave of Saxons fell upon the faltering Vikings, wearing them down.

It was at this point, over three hours into the battle, that Marcellus noticed they had pushed well beyond the midway point of the battlefield. To his right, mere yards away, stood one of the two copses of trees he had spotted earlier. Men flowed around the trees, rarely venturing in between them. The foliage made visibility within the copse problematic, and the men of both sides seemed adverse to entering the trees and running the risk of being ambushed. Out of the corner of his eye, Marcellus spotted a Viking who'd apparently lost his nerve and was running back from the fighting and into the trees. He saw a Saxon run after the Viking, and instantly recognize the pursuer: Thane Deogol, the man who had tried to kill him. Marcellus smiled wolfishly. He would not get a better opportunity. He quickly dispatched two Vikings who had the temerity to challenge him and turned towards the trees.

"Wait!" Alodia shouted at him. This was not part of the plan; they were to stay together. "Where are you going?"

"Wait here," Marcellus told her. "Fight alongside Algar. I'll be back!" Alodia shouted an objection, but Marcellus turned as he ran and shouted, "Follow my orders!"

Marcellus entered the copse of trees through some tall bushes that surrounded it. When he entered, it seemed as though he had entered another world. The sounds of the battle surrounded him but were muffled by the leaves on the bushes and the tree canopy. The copse was perhaps thirty yards in diameter, and it would provide perfect cover for what he wanted to do. He heard a shout within the trees and ran towards it, ducking around tree trunks and jumping over their gnarled roots. Within seconds he found Deogol, his sword embedded in the cowardly Viking's back.

Deogol pulled his sword from the dying Norse warrior and turned, intending to return to the battle. He saw Marcellus waiting for him and froze in his tracks. His eyes went wide at the still-impossible sight of the man he thought he had stabbed and left for dead. The blood drained from his face. Marcellus, for his part, smiled and stepped forward casually.

"Deogol, my friend," Marcellus said. "stabbing someone else in the back. How do you think you'd do in fair fight?" He raised his sword and beckoned the Saxon towards him.

"You should be dead!" Deogol shouted, but made no move to attack.

"Prove it, _boy_," Marcellus snarled.

Whether it was through fear, or anger, or desperation, Deogol found the courage to attack. He shouted and charged towards Marcellus. He drew back his sword and swung it at the Roman. Marcellus stood his ground, then pivoted backwards and to his right. He swatted away Deogol's desperate blow with his own sword, then contemptuously drove his sword hilt into the Saxon's face, just between his eyes. Deogol's feet flew out from under him, and his sword fell away from his hand. He landed on his back, his ribs striking against a hard tree root. He lay groaning on the ground as Marcellus stood over him.

The Roman Immortal drove his sword into the soft ground and pulled a dagger from his belt. He knelt down, grabbed Deogol's long black hair, and lifted him to a sitting position. He placed a hand over the Saxon's mouth and positioned the knife over the man's right kidney. Sensing what was about to happen, Deogol struggled weakly in Marcellus' grip. The Immortal leaned his head down and whispered into Deogol's ear.

"Die the death you had planned for me, traitor," he hissed, and plunged the knife into Deogol's side. "Die knowing that I will indeed take your woman," he went on, twisting the blade as his victim writhed in his death throes. "Alodia is mine. You're not worthy of her." Soon, the man's struggles' grew weaker, and Marcellus let him drop to the ground, quite dead. He wiped the blade on Deogol's tunic and returned it to his belt. He then retrieved his sword and returned to the battle.

Stepping out of the copse of trees, Marcellus saw that his hundred men had moved a few yards ahead. He spotted Alodia's bright red hair, loosely flowing from under her helmet, a few dozen yards away and began to run past the other combatants to rejoin her. Marcellus had nearly reached her and the line of opposing Vikings when he suddenly came to a dead stop. The tingling sensation in his temples and the back of his head warned him of the presence of another Immortal. His gray eyes scanned the area, seeking the other of his kind. Then he spotted him.

A tall man, well over six feet in height, stared back at him from some fifty-odd feet away. He wore the horned helmet and carried the huge battle-axe of the Vikings. A light blue woolen tunic was stretched across his barrel-like chest; black leggings encased his thick thighs, while fur pelts were tied around his calves and feet by leather straps. He had a long brown beard, and Marcellus could see him smiling maliciously beneath it.

"Loki," Marcellus said, knowing instinctively that this was the warrior about whom he had been warned.

The other Immortal saw Marcellus mouth his name and nodded. He began to slowly, confidently walk towards the Roman. "Lately, yes," he called out in Saxon over the din of battle. "But not always. I am Cergitorix of Gaul. And you are?"

"I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome," Marcellus answered evenly.

The Gaul laughed when he heard that, then switched languages to Latin. "Indeed? A _Roman_? Oh, this will be a pleasure!" he roared, and patted his side. Hanging there, Marcellus saw one of the old, short Roman stabbing swords, a _gladius_, in a scabbard. No doubt the huge Gaul had taken it from a dead legionnaire, probably centuries ago.

Marcellus had never hated the Gauls and had often admired their prowess as warriors. Nevertheless, they had paid the price for opposing Rome; Caesar had seen to that, as had Marcellus serving under him. But this Gaul, now fighting in the guise of a Viking, raised his ire. He took an instant dislike to the man. Marcellus glanced around himself, however; they were surrounded by hundreds of mortals engaged in combat. This was not the time or the place for a Quickening. Not that Cergitorix seemed to care; he kept advancing while Marcellus stood his ground.

A few yards away, Alodia heard Marcellus speak his own name and turned to look for him. She then spotted the huge Viking advancing towards her beloved and her heart leapt to her throat. This is what she had feared. She saw all the hope Marcellus had given her for a better life about to be dashed in the next instant. Unless she acted; the Viking was closer to her than to Marcellus. She shouted her family's battle cry and ran at the Viking, her sword raised to strike.

Cergitorix heard her shout and turned to face her. He warded off her blow with the blade of his battle-axe. Before she could draw back and strike again, he quickly swung the handle of the axe around and struck her shoulder with it. Alodia fell to the ground as Marcellus watched in horror from a few yards away. He ran towards them. Though he moved with all his speed, he felt as though he was running through water. He saw the Gaul's eyes widen as he sensed Alodia's true nature; saw the man turn towards him and smile maliciously. Then he turned back to Alodia, towering over where she lay on her side on the wet ground, and drew his battleaxe back.

Marcellus was still several feet away. He shouted Alodia's name. Whether she heard him or whether some other instinct took hold of her, Alodia looked up and saw the axe swinging towards her. She rolled away from it. The Gaul's axe missed her neck and buried itself deep in the ground. Cergitorix left it there and drew the old Roman sword from his belt. He knelt down. With his free hand he grabbed Alodia's leg to prevent her escape; she lay writhing and kicking on her back. Marcellus raised his sword. He was only a few steps away.

Cergitorix stabbed the sword down. Marcellus lunged forward. The old Roman sword plunged into Alodia's abdomen. She cried out in pain, her green eyes open wide. The sword went through her and pinned her to the ground. She clasped it with her hands. Marcellus' sword, a second too late, plunged into the Gaul's ribs. The huge man's head tossed back and he bellowed with pain. He wrenched the short sword out of Alodia. Her back arched in agony.

Marcellus pulled his sword out of the Gaul. The huge man swung at him with the bloodied short sword. Marcellus leapt over his swing and plunged his sword into the Gaul's torso again, this time striking the man's heart. He collapsed onto his side once Marcellus pulled his sword out. Marcellus held his sword to the man's neck; the Gaul's eyes, narrowed with pain, looked up into his and saw that the Roman would not risk a Quickening surrounded by so many mortals. He smiled.

"Another time, Roman..." Cergitorix wheezed, then his eyes closed.

Marcellus stepped away from the dead Gaul and looked towards Alodia. She lay on the ground, blood oozing from her wound. Her hands, soaked with blood, desperately pressed against the gash. Her green eyes were open wide and her breaths were ragged. Suddenly Algar and a handful of Marcellus' men ran forward; they gathered her up and carried her back several yards, away from the fighting, as Marcellus followed. They laid her on a clean patch of grass. Marcellus knelt down and gathered her in his arms while the others stood in silent shock. Alodia's eyes, their lids heavier now, saw him.

"You'll...sing a song about me?" she whispered.

Marcellus brushed her red hair out of her eyes and away from her forehead. "I'll _write_ one," he promised her.

"Good," she said, smiling wanly. Then her smile vanished and her eyes grew wide. "I love you," she said.

"I thought you hated me," Marcellus joked softly.

"That too," she answered. Then her eyes clenched tight and her lips pulled back in a grimace. Blood trickled from her mouth. Her body convulsed. "It...hurts..." she said, her eyes opening and looking into his.

"I know it does, my love," Marcellus said as a single tear rolled down his cheek. "But only for a little while." He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own. When he straightened, she was gone. Her eyes stared emptily into the blue sky above them. Marcellus gently closed them.

For several moments he knelt there on the ground, not moving, the body of his beloved dead in his arms. Several of his men stood around, staring. A few dozen yards away the battle still raged. It might as well have been on another world. Then Marcellus straightened. He looked up and spoke to two of the men he had trained.

"Take her body back to her father," he said. The men knelt and picked up her limp corpse. Marcellus stood. He turned and looked at the men around him, then turned back towards the battle. He took up his sword from where he had dropped it on the ground to cradle Alodia. He lifted the blade above his head.

"ALODIA!!" he shouted.

The men paused for a heartbeat, then lifted their own swords. "ALODIA!!" they shouted. As a group, they ran back to the front line, shouting her name. The rest of the hundred men heard the call and took it up. They knew its meaning. They knew the red-haired warrior woman, the beloved of their commander, had fallen. Then the rest of the Saxon army took up the cry. The thought of Alodia's death filled them not with sorrow or despair, but righteous anger. The Vikings had killed their last Saxon woman, they decided to a man. Still calling her name, their fury stoked, the Saxons unleashed their outrage on the hapless Vikings. By falling in battle, Alodia provided her people's army with the last push it needed. Within an hour, the enemy was defeated and had retreated from the battlefield. Victory was theirs.

As he heard the horns blowing, ordering the Viking retreat, Marcellus collapsed to his knees on the blood-soaked ground. He hung his head in despair. No, she was not truly dead; he knew that. But he had wanted so much to protect her, to shield her from the lonely, homeless, eternal life of an Immortal. A more optimistic man would have focused on how her youth and beauty would now be preserved forever, on how she could, potentially, provide companionship for him. But Marcellus could not entertain those thoughts—not yet. All he could think about was the terrible, terrible trial that now awaited them both.

* * *


	9. Cergitorix

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 9: Cergitorix**

"Here. You should wear this."

Marcellus handed Theresa his Kevlar vest. They were getting ready to leave, to set his elaborate plan in motion. Marcellus had gathered up his coat and his swords; Theresa had grabbed her jacket and was about to pull it on when he held the bulletproof vest in front of her. She stared at it, then shook her head.

"No," she said, "you're the one going directly into the line of fire. You need it more than me."

"I'm an Immortal," Marcellus explained, a hint of impatience in his voice. "I'll survive bullet wounds. You won't. And I don't have a spare."

"And what if Ortega decides to pull a Lizzy Knight maneuver on you?" Theresa asked pointedly.

"He won't. His twisted sense of pride and honor won't let him."

"Are you sure of that?" Theresa fired back at him. "He spent eighty years hiding from you, Lucius. Maybe he follows his twisted code of honor with other Immortals, but you might be different. Don't take that chance. Wear the freakin' vest!" She paused and glanced at the vest, then down at the ample curve of her breasts. "Besides, I don't think it'll fit me," she remarked as she cocked an eyebrow.

Marcellus' eyes wandered down to examine her chest as well. They remained there a moment longer than Theresa felt comfortable with, but not long enough so she felt obliged to say something about it. Still, she shifted her weight uncomfortably and cleared her throat. Marcellus raised his eyes and looked into hers.

The Roman sighed. He laid his swords and coat on the sofa and began to undo the buttons of his black silk shirt. Theresa's eyes widened slightly as he opened the shirt and pulled it out of his pants, revealing his bare chest. He had a strong, well-developed torso, muscular but not muscle-bound. Short black hairs were spread evenly across his upper chest; they tapered gradually as they ran down to his washboard stomach and waist. Marcellus removed the shirt then pulled on the Kevlar vest and fastened it beneath his arms. He then put his shirt back on and began to button it. Theresa watched silently, somewhat taken aback, through the entire operation.

"Glad I'm not the only one who has trouble making eye contact," he remarked.

Theresa's eyes shot up to his, which regarded her with an undeniably lascivious mirth. She turned away, put her jacket on, and walked to the door. Behind her, Marcellus' lips curled into a wicked grin. He watched her shapely backside flexing as she struggled with the heavy door. He threw on his coat, grabbed his swords, helped her with the door, then followed her out.

"Okay, so, after the battle," Theresa said, anxious to change the subject as they left the apartment and walked out to Marcellus' car. She opened the right side door and slid into the passenger seat. "I thought you would have been happy. You won, and now Alodia was Immortal and you could take her away and be with her, right?"

"It wasn't that simple," Marcellus explained patiently as he placed his swords on the back seat, then settled himself into the driver's seat. "Her death was witnessed, and her body taken to be prepared for burial. She would have to go through a terrible ordeal when she revived amongst her friends and family, as all Immortals do. And I had no guarantee that she would accept what she had become, or accept me once she knew what I was. For all my careful planning, this was not a contingency I had expected—because I dreaded even thinking about it. I had wanted to spare her this fate, and the suffering it involved."

Marcellus started the car and put it into gear. As they left his warehouse abode, he continued his story.

* * *

_South-West England, 878 AD_

That night, after the great battle, Marcellus sat in his tent, disconsolate and anxious. Throughout the West of England that evening, the Saxons were celebrating the day's victory as the second night of a full moon shone upon the land. In Thane Aldred's large communal tent, however, that celebration was muted by the death of the couple's only daughter. Alodia's body had been cleaned and dressed in a white linen robe. They had wreathed her long red hair with flowers and laid her out on a raised platform in the tent. Her family, along with their servants and retainers, had gathered there to mourn the beloved young woman. But Marcellus stayed away.

"Marcellus?" a young male voice inquired from just outside the entrance to his tent. Marcellus stood and walked outside. Alodia's brother Alden stood there, his eyes red from weeping. "Are you not coming to the wake?" he asked, his voice made rough from his cries of grief.

"Not just yet," Marcellus answered. "Perhaps later."

Alden nodded. As a member of Marcellus' elite hundred men, he had been present every day to see his sister and the foreign warrior training together and falling in love. He had eagerly hoped to see his new friend bound to his family by marriage. Though Marcellus lacked land and a title, Alden knew that would not be the case for long; there were more battles to be fought and won, and the brilliant foreign strategist would be properly rewarded by King Alfred for his assistance. More importantly, however, Alden much preferred the foreigner to Deogol, lost that day as well; Deogol had always regarded Alden with a superior, knowing contempt, as though he were twenty years older than Alodia's brother rather than two. Both he and his beloved sister would have been much happier if she had married Marcellus instead. Now, Alden thought, that would never happen.

"I understand and share your grief, my friend," Alden said softly, gently placing a hand on the Roman's shoulder. "I am...nearly inconsolable myself," he said, his voice cracking. Marcellus placed his hand over the younger man's. "But I am taking comfort from the company of family and friends. You should come do the same."

Marcellus opened his mouth to answer Alden when he was interrupted by a woman's scream of absolute horror. They then heard muted shouts and raised voices coming from the same direction

"That came from my father's tent!" Alden said, and began to run towards the origin of the commotion.

Behind him, Marcellus closed his eyes and sighed heavily. He knew what had transpired. _And so it begins_, he thought. Though it had been over thirteen hundred years, he had not forgotten his own first revival as an Immortal. How could he forget? In his mind's eye, he could still see the fear and repulsion in the faces of his family and friends. They had pelted him with rocks and garbage to drive him away, cursing him as an evil spirit. Their blows had not hurt him nearly so much as their rejection. Everyone he had ever loved, his family, his friends, the people of his village—all had turned against him in their fear and ignorance. He had wandered, bitter and alone, little better than a wild animal, for nearly a decade before that foppish Egyptian found him, told him what he was, and taught him their ways.

Now Alodia would suffer as he had, he thought as he walked towards Thane Aldred's tent. The commotion grew louder in his ears as he approached. He had never wanted this life for her; any temptation he had felt to make her Immortal was purely selfish on his part. As his love for her had grown, so had his selfless regard for her. He wanted her to enjoy the normal life of a mortal, no matter how short it would seem to him, no matter how painful it would be to watch her die. Why would he want to rip her so painfully from the loving bosom of her family, from the only world she had ever known? Why would he want inflict upon her the eternal wandering, the loneliness, the never-ending fight to stay alive? She would never have forgiven him; he would never have been able to forgive himself.

So he had thought he could keep her safe, that he could ward off the violence surrounding them in this land, in these times. He shook his head and cursed himself. He cursed his arrogance, cursed his over-confidence in his cunning and shrewdness. He also cursed his ruthlessness and his appetite for vengeance; all it had taken was a brief absence from her side so he could exact revenge on his murderous rival for her affection, and she had suffered a violent death. The Fates were punishing him for his hubris, but those perverse sisters knew better than to punish him directly. Instead, he would watch, helpless, as a person he had come to love more than himself would suffer for his sins.

As Marcellus approached the entrance to the communal tent, he felt the tingling in his head that alerted him to the presence of another Immortal. From inside the tent, he heard a female voice cry out in pain. The first few times a new Immortal encountered another, the tingling felt like a splitting headache. Marcellus knew Alodia had sensed him; it was her voice he heard crying out. He could also hear voices around her gasping and shouting as every movement of the revived dead woman terrified them.

"Please," Alodia said in a strained voice as she gritted her teeth to ward off the sudden headache, "do not be afraid! This is a miracle, surely!" She spread her arms and looked down at her body, clad in its white linen dress. She remembered her painful death on the battlefield hours before. What other explanation could there be for her sudden and mysterious restoration?

"We shall see," her father said stonily. He stared at her, his face ashen, his eyes wide, as he held his sobbing wife. He turned over his shoulder to look at a servant. "Fetch the priest. _Now_!" he shouted when the still-shocked man did not move.

Marcellus watched the frightened servant race by him as he stood at the entrance to the tent. _Of course_, he thought despondently, _a holy man to provide explanations though he has none_. He had seen this drama played out a number of times over his many centuries. He knew all the players, knew all their lines. He hung back, morosely watching the scene unfold. He resisted the urge to grab her and carry her away. She may never forgive him for it, but he knew she had to go through this.

Centuries before, he had encountered another potential young Immortal, a young man of Palestine. Marcellus had spirited away the man's body from his village after he had fallen in battle, but before he had revived. He had thought he was doing the young man a favor. But the obstinate youth had returned to his village as soon as Marcellus' back was turned. His horrified family and friends had inflicted every possible sort of mortal wound on him, trying to destroy what they thought was an evil spirit, before they finally cut his head off.

"Father, Mother, please!" Alodia was pleading. "It is I, Alodia, your daughter!" She took a step towards her parents. Her mother screamed in horror; her father drew his sword to hold her at bay. Alodia's green eyes opened wide in shock; she shook her head in disbelief. "Father! I mean you no harm! I could never harm any of you!" she cried, looking around at her family. "Alden, Algar, do you not know me?" she begged her brothers.

Alden, who had pushed himself to the front of the crowd upon his return to the tent, stared wide-eyed at his sister whom he had seen slain only a few hours before. Tears streamed down his face; he only cared that his precious sister, the beloved playmate of his youth, stood alive and well before him when he had thought her lost. He reached out towards her and took a step forward.

Algar stopped him, throwing his strong arm across his younger brother's chest. "Stop, Alden, do not approach her!" he ordered. Alden looked back and forth between his stern older brother and his younger sister, uncertain as to what he should do.

"But Algar," he cried, "it's Alodia! God has given her back to us!"

"We don't know that," Algar, thoughtful and cautious despite this most upsetting event, answered. His dark brown eyes remained guardedly fastened on Alodia, watching her every move. His hand rested on his sword hilt. "We saw her die, Alden. This is most unnatural."

Alodia shook her head, unable to understand her family's rejection. Couldn't they believe their own eyes? "I do not understand it myself, Algar!" she cried, her voice cracking. "But here I stand! The Holy Bible speaks of people being brought back from the dead..." she began to say.

"Our Lord Almighty himself raised Lazarus," a deep sonorous voice intoned from the entrance to the tent. The crowd parted as the priest walked forward. The man wore a long, plain brown robe, the hood pulled back to reveal silver-grey hair, long and neatly combed, and a matching beard. His blue eyes fastened upon Alodia as he strode towards her, holding a carved wooden cross in front of himself.

"On Judgment Day," the priest said in the same tone he used for his sermons, "He will return and raise the dead from their graves." He came to a stop a few feet from Alodia, standing alongside her father. "That day is not yet come." He addressed the crowd over his shoulder. "This...creature you see before you is a blasphemy. An evil spirit has possessed the body of your beloved daughter. This is the work of the devil himself!"

The priest's words were greeted with cries of horror and anger. The Saxons had been converted to Christianity centuries before. In such violent times, when mortal lives lasted only a few short years, the hope of eternal salvation offered the only solace and hope. The presence of an evil spirit could only be indicative of terrible wickedness, some colossal sin that condemned the entire community and their souls to damnation. For this to happen on the eve of their great victory...

"Destroy her!" a voice in the crowd cried out.

"Drive it away!" shouted another. Other voices began to angrily yell for similar action.

"No!" Alodia cried, he eyes terrified, "Please! I am not an evil spirit! I am Alodia! You know me, you all know me!"

"Silence, demon!" the priest shouted, stepping forward and holding the cross in front of her. "We'll not listen to your lies!" The priest turned his head towards Thane Aldred, but did not take his eyes off the confused young woman. "We must act quickly, my Lord."

"What should we do, Father?" Aldred asked as Alodia listened to their conversation in horror.

The Thane was a devout man. All his life he had done his best to live by the teachings of the holy church. And the priest was old, wise, and respected, not just because of his holy orders, but because of his position as one the local elders in the village near Aldred's estate. The Thane would do whatever the priest recommended, and everyone in the crowd knew it.

The priest looked at Alodia with a mixture of fear and contempt. "Your daughter's spirit has fled. It is safe in the bosom of our Lord. This...empty shell must be destroyed so the evil spirit can no longer inhabit her body." He paused and glanced at the Saxon thane. "Burn it at the stake. It is the surest way."

"NO!!" Alodia screamed, her eyes wide with terror as she saw her father glance at her and slowly, sadly nod. "Do not do this!"

But her fear only seemed to confirm what the priest had said. She saw the looks in the eyes of the priest, her father, and others in the crowd grow more determined because of her response. Like a cornered animal, she began to look for a way to escape. She ran towards an opening in the crowd.

"Stop her!" the priest shouted. Arms reached towards her; Alodia struck out wildly, desperately, at the grasping hands, but they caught her. "Restrain her!" the priest ordered. "Fetch some rope! She must be restrained!" he yelled as the young woman fought madly against the arms of her friends and family which held her fast, determined to destroy her. She screamed in terror as tears ran down her cheeks.

At the back of the room, Marcellus' stomach clenched in horror. He had hoped they would banish her; then he would leave, catch up with her, and take her away to teach her what she needed to know. But to be burned alive!

Several centuries before, Marcellus had once been caught inside a burning building and had suffered a similar fate. It had not killed him, of course, but it had been one of the most hellish experiences of his long life. The flames had scorched and burned away his flesh, in places to the bone. He had screamed in agony until his lungs filled with smoke and they, too, had burned. His revival had been worse. He awoke in an agony unlike any he had known before or since. The mere minutes it had taken for his Immortal body to repair the damage had seemed like hours; he remembered his burnt flesh crackling away as new tissues slowly grew and knitted together. The pain had nearly driven him mad. He could not bear the thought of his beloved suffering that way. He had cursed his cleverness before, but now he had to call upon it to save her.

A servant had returned with a coil of rope. As Alodia screamed and struggled, several men bound her arms behind her back, her forearms painfully folded over one another and tied together. They then tied a length of rope around her neck to serve as a sort of leash. Their work done, they backed away and pulled her, sobbing and helpless, to her feet.

"Burn her!" voices in the crowd cried out. "Destroy the demon!"

"Take her outside!" the priest shouted, and the crowd, now an angry mob, began to move towards the entrance to the tent.

"YOU FOOLS!!" Marcellus exclaimed in his battlefield bellow, bringing the crowd to a halt.

He strode forward angrily through the mob, which parted before him. Alodia's eyes opened wide when she heard the voice of her beloved. She searched for his face in the crowd. As he emerged from the mass of onlookers to stand in front of her, he saw her lovely face fill with hope, hope that the man she loved would rescue her from the madness of this crowd. Marcellus looked away from her, knowing he had to dash that hope in order to fulfill it. He prayed to all his gods that she would be able to forgive him for what he had to do.

The priest looked at him angrily. "What right do you have to interfere, foreigner?" he asked.

"I interfere to keep you from destroying yourselves!" Marcellus answered, glaring at the crowd. His words had impact. Everyone knew the warrior had seen much in his travels. He saw the crowd, including the priest, look at one another uncertainly. Good, Marcellus thought, I've got their attention.

"What do you know of such things, Marcellus?" Aldred asked.

Marcellus turned to the priest. "I mean no disrespect, Holy Father, but have you ever encountered such an terrible event before?"

The priest's eyes darted about uncertainly. "No," he admitted, "but the Bible..."

"...the Bible says that hellfire is the devil's home!" Marcellus interrupted. "By submitting this creature to the flames, you will only make it stronger! It will destroy you all!"

The crowd shifted uncomfortably and a frightened murmur arose. Marcellus' words appealed to their beliefs and superstitions, as he knew they would. Alodia, meanwhile, shook her head in disbelief. She could not accept that her beloved would reject her as well. It was too much. Tears ran freely down her soft cheeks.

"No!" she cried, "Lucius, my love! Please, can't you see that it is I...?"

"Silence, demon!" Marcellus shouted at her.

He stepped towards Alodia and violently backhanded her. She cried out in pain and shock, and the surrounding crowd gasped despite their growing abhorrence of her. Alodia spun about and fell to her knees. Marcellus fought to hide his own self-loathing at that moment. Romans had always frowned upon violence towards women. Wife-beaters in ancient Rome were an embarrassment to their class; they became social outcasts. For him to strike any woman, let alone one he loved, was anathema to him. But he had to make his performance as convincing as possible if he was to prevent the crowd from burning Alodia at the stake.

It was all he could do, however, to maintain his composure when Alodia turned to look at him after he'd struck her. He saw no anger in her wide, cornered eyes. Instead he saw only complete and utter despair. In that instant, Alodia lost all hope. Everyone she loved had now turned against her. Her head fell to her chest as her body was wracked by desolate sobs. Inside, Marcellus felt his heart break for the pain he had just inflicted on her. He wondered if perhaps it was worse than anything the flames could have done. But it was too late now; he had to press on.

"I have encountered such a thing in my travels, and more than once," he told the crowd, who now hung on his every word. "The first time was in a village in Bavaria. The villagers attempted to destroy the possessed corpse with flames. They only fed the demon and made it stronger. It destroyed their village and killed the inhabitants. I barely escaped with my own life, I suspect only because I was not a local resident. Or maybe because the proud demon wanted someone to tell its tale to others."

The terrified crowd looked around nervously. Once again, it was their leader, Thane Aldred, who spoke. "What can we do, Marcellus? Is there some way to cast out this evil spirit?"

Marcellus nodded. "After that horrible event, I sought out an order of monks in Italy who had knowledge of such things. They taught me a ritual to banish the spirit."

"I have never heard of such a thing," the priest objected.

"Be glad that you have not, Holy Father," Marcellus told him. "For the ritual is dangerous and the demon will fight horribly; whosoever performs it risks not just his life, but his immortal soul. This is why the monks keep the knowledge secret, so the uninitiated do not suffer eternal damnation by performing the rites incorrectly." Several people in the crowd gasped in horror at Marcellus' words; the priest's eyes went wide. He and several others crossed themselves. Marcellus knew he had them.

"Marcellus," Aldred said, "we cannot ask you to do this. You have done so much for us already..."

The Roman held up his hand. "You do not have to ask, my Lord. This spirit has desecrated the body of your daughter and of the woman I loved. I have performed the ritual once before. I can do it again." Alodia gave an anguished wail as he spoke; Marcellus did his best to ignore her.

Aldred nodded sadly, his eyes filled with admiration for the foreign warrior's bravery. "What must be done, my friend?"

"I must take the possessed corpse far from here, immediately, tonight. I must perform the ritual alone." He turned to speak to the assembled crowd. "If any of you attempt to follow, you risk death and eternal damnation!" More frightened gasps told him he would not have to worry about curious onlookers tailing him. He turned back to Aldred. "I will not return to you. When the deed is done, I will leave this place. The memories...are too painful to bear."

"I understand, my friend," Aldred said sadly. "And...Alodia's body?"

Marcellus shook his head and placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "I am sorry, my Lord, but her body will be destroyed. But take comfort in the priest's words: her soul is in heaven. This is an empty shell the devil now tortures us with." Aldred's face tightened as he held back tears, and he nodded.

"Go fetch my horse from the stable," Marcellus ordered a nearby servant. "You," he said, pointing to another servant, "retrieve my things from my tent. Place my saddle and all my bags upon him."

He then turned to Alodia. She still knelt on the grassy floor, her body shaking with quiet, anguished sobs. Though it made bile rise to his throat, Marcellus grabbed the rope that was tied around her slender neck and pulled her to her feet. She gasped, then cried out as she felt the mob push her forward and the man she loved pull her towards the door.

"Please...no...I beg you!" she sobbed as they went outside.

"Silence!" Marcellus ordered with a sharp tug on the leash. Her desolate cries cut him to the core. It would not do if he broke down in tears now.

Shortly thereafter the servant brought Sulla, saddled and loaded, out to Marcellus. A crowd of other Saxons from the camp had gathered outside, drawn to the mysterious disturbance. Gasps and screams sounded throughout the crowd at the sight of Alodia, mysteriously returned from the dead. Thane Aldred's retainers and villagers spread through the crowd, explaining what had happened as Marcellus led Alodia to his horse.

Marcellus realized he could not seat Alodia on the horse behind him, not if he had to maintain the illusion that he believed her possessed by a demon. So he tied the free end of the rope that was around her neck to his horse's saddle, praying again that she would find it in her heart to somehow forgive him for his despicable treatment of her. Marcellus climbed up onto the horse's back and turned to the crowd.

"Remain here, if you value your immortal souls!" he ordered, and allowed some of the anguish he felt to creep into his voice. "Pray for my safety," he said. He saw Aldred and the priest nod.

"Go with God, my friend," Aldred said.

Marcellus urged Sulla forward. He heard Alodia cry from behind him as she felt the rope around her neck pull her forward. He prayed she did not fall over and get dragged out of the camp. He heard her footfalls as she desperately ran to keep up with the trotting horse and sighed with some small measure of relief. Now turned away from the crowd and out of their sight, Marcellus allowed the tears to flow from his eyes.

He rode for some time, away from Athelney to the East. The lingering presence of Vikings in that area would also ensure no curious onlookers would follow him. Alodia ran behind him, doing her best to keep up. Her sobs and cries of anguish filled his ears.

As soon as he felt he had ridden far enough, he began to look behind him. He wanted to be certain that no one had followed. He brought Sulla to a stop and climbed down off the horse's back. Alodia, emotionally and physically exhausted, collapsed to her knees. Marcellus' grey eyes studied the vast, empty plain that surrounded them. He saw no movement in the moonlight, and heard nothing but the calls of crickets and the occasional hoot of an owl.

He turned to Alodia. Her hands were bound painfully behind her back, her shoulders slumped in exhausted resignation. She had stopped sobbing; she was too tired for that. Resigned to her fate, she knelt in complete despair, waiting for the man she loved to take her life. Marcellus knelt before her. She didn't look up. He could hear her drawing ragged breaths. He pulled a knife from his belt.

"In God's name, I beg you, Lucius...make it quick," she mumbled, her voice utterly despondent.

Marcellus tenderly placed his fingers beneath her chin and lifted her head. He gently pushed back the tangled red hair that covered her face. She did not raise her eyes to meet his. In the pale light of the full moon, he could see that her alabaster skin and long robe were stained with mud thrown upon her by the horse's hooves. He could still see wet tracks her tears had left on her soft cheeks, and her eyes were red and sore, the skin around them puffed from weeping.

To her surprise, he lowered his head and softly brushed his lips against hers. He then reached up and used the knife to cut through the rope around her throat. Her green eyes went wide with startled confusion as he moved behind her and began to slice through the ropes that bound her arms.

"I am so sorry, my love," he said, his voice quiet and choked with emotion. "So sorry for what I had to do. I couldn't let them hurt you." He cut through the last of her bonds and remained on his knees behind her, his eyes fixed on the ground. "I am so sorry that I had to hurt you myself."

"Lucius?" Alodia murmured, a note of hope in her voice as she massaged her aching forearms with her hands. She turned to look at him. His face was pained, his brows knit together as if some terrible agony gnawed away at his insides.

"Can you ever forgive me, Alodia?" he asked. He felt her hands upon his face. She tilted his head to look at her. Her eyes were wide in astonishment, and her lips quivered on the verge of a relieved smile.

"Lucius!" she cried. Her voice trembled as she spoke. "You know it's me? You don't believe I'm a demon?"

"Of course not!" he declared. He smiled sadly. "You're no demon...you're an angel."

Alodia threw her arms around him in relief. She fell against his chest and wept. Marcellus held her close, stroking her hair and rocking her sobbing body to soothe her. He blinked away tears of his own. After several minutes, her sobs died down and she swallowed deep breaths. She pushed herself back a little, but stayed in his arms. She laid her hands flat upon his chest and shook her head.

"What has happened to me, Lucius?" she asked, her voice hoarse from weeping. "Do you have any idea?"

Before he could answer, Marcellus felt the distinctive tingling in his head signifying the nearby presence of another Immortal, layered on top of the similar sensation Alodia's presence produced. It was like hearing a single musical note and then hearing another similar yet distinctly different note played over top of the first.

Alodia's eyes clenched shut; she pressed her hands against her temples and groaned. "W-what is that? Why does my head hurt so?" she asked him through clenched teeth.

"It's another one of our kind," Marcellus said, rising to his feet and looking around. It was the Gaul. It had to be. Come back to finish the job he'd started. "You're not ready for this," Marcellus told her, pulling her to her feet and leading her to his horse.

Across the plain, a few dozen yards away, he saw a hulking figure atop a large horse. Marcellus silently cursed. He'd hoped the man would be afoot so he could simply ride away. He lifted Alodia onto Sulla's back, climbed on the horse himself, and stirred the beast into a gallop away from the other Immortal. He looked behind and saw the man pursuing.

_Damn!_ Marcellus thought. He had hoped, once he'd managed to get Alodia away from her home, to introduce her slowly to her Immortality and what it meant. The Gaul would force the issue; she may not be able to accept everything at once. And Marcellus worried that the Gaul would challenge her rather than him. According to the rules of the Game, he would not be able to interfere. Alodia was a formidable warrior, but she was not yet prepared to take on an Immortal several centuries older than herself. Of course Marcellus would take the foolish brute's head afterwards, but that would be little consolation.

There was only one possible solution: to get Alodia to holy ground. But the closest church was back near Athelney, and they couldn't return there. Marcellus looked back over his shoulder. The Gaul was gaining. Marcellus had never regretted choosing Sulla for his might and war training rather than his speed until that moment. He could feel Alodia's body pressed against his, felt her arms around his chest clinging desperately to him as they fled. Though she didn't completely understand the situation, the tension in her arms and hands conveyed the fear she felt.

Marcellus looked desperately around the moonlit plain. He had ridden out to this empty area to be away from prying eyes. Now he tried to remember where the nearest town was located, but knew he would not make it there in time. Just as he began to despair, he spotted a strange formation ahead of him, atop a slight elevation in the plain. In the moonlight, he could make out a ring of carved stones, all rectangular, some stacked intentionally into arches. He recalled recently seeing a similar but much larger formation, made of much larger stones, on the Salisbury Plain, a few miles further to the East. He smiled. Holy ground—it had to be.

It didn't matter how ancient the ground was, or that the religion that had blessed it was lost to the ages. Not even the most evil of their kind would violate that rule. He grabbed the reins and slapped them against Sulla's neck, and jabbed his heels into the horse's ribs, urging him to make one great burst of speed that would carry them to the ancient holy site and safety.

As he reached the edge of the stone circle, he heard the Gaul bring his horse to a stop a few yards behind him. Marcellus exhaled with relief as he slowed his own panting steed to a stop within the ancient construction. The dark gray stones appeared black in the moonlight. Marcellus couldn't help but marvel at the race that had carried the stone blocks here and erected them so long ago, before the advancements of Roman engineering that would have simplified the construction of such a site. He dismounted and held his arms out to Alodia, who climbed off the horse as well. Marcellus tied the animal's reins tightly around one of the narrower stone monoliths.

"Why are we here, Lucius?" she asked. "Why did our pursuer stop?"

"This is holy ground, my love," he explained. "Our kind cannot fight on holy ground. It is our most sacred rule."

Alodia stared at him in confusion. "Holy ground? Our kind? I don't understand, Lucius! What's going..."

"Roman!" the Gaul called from outside the stone circle. Marcellus and Alodia turned towards him. They stepped around one of the stone monoliths to look at their pursuer. They could see his dark silhouette atop his horse, a few yards outside the stone circle.

"This is holy ground, Cergitorix of Gaul," Marcellus called out to him. "You know the rules of the Game."

"Indeed I do, Lucius Gaius Marcellus of Rome," the Gaul shouted back. It sounded as though he spat when he said the name of Marcellus' beloved home city. "How long do you think you can stay there, trembling behind the stones with your woman? You must come out some time. And I will be here."

Marcellus cursed silently; he'd entertained a hope—faint, he knew—that the man would simply leave in frustration. Now he would have to fight the Gaul. He had no idea how Alodia would react upon witnessing her first Quickening. Marcellus briefly considered merely wounding or killing the Gaul without taking his head, then dismissed the notion. It would only make the man angry, and he would catch up to them another time. No, better to nip this problem in the bud, whatever its effect on Alodia.

"I'm a sporting man, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," the Gaul bellowed back as Marcellus considered his options. "Send the girl out to do your fighting for you. You can escape while I enjoy her favors and take her head." The man laughed.

"I'll teach this Viking a lesson in proper manners," Alodia hissed as she reached for Marcellus' sword hilt. She had had enough, and now she was presented with a target so she could vent all her frustration, her anguish, her torment. Marcellus caught her wrist.

"Don't be foolish!" he told her. "You're not ready to face one of our own kind—you won't be for years!" She looked at him and frowned, unable to comprehend the full meaning of his words. "Damn it! There's not enough time to explain..."

"I'm waiting, Lucius Gaius Marcellus," the Gaul called out. "I can wait all night. Who will come out to face me? You or the girl?"

"I defeated you in battle once today, Gaul," Marcellus yelled back. "Are you so eager to have me finish you off?"

The Gaul only laughed. "I am eager for a rematch, Roman. I await your pleasure."

_Jupiter_! Marcellus thought. There was no getting rid of the man. He had no choice. He would have to fight him. He turned to Alodia.

"Listen to me carefully, Alodia. You must listen and obey my orders now as if we were on a field of battle. I do not have time to explain them, you must trust me."

"But, Lucius...," Alodia began to say.

"No, listen!" he hissed. He hated to be harsh with her after everything she had suffered that day, but he had no choice. "You must stay here, within the stone circle, while I fight this man. Do not leave it. Do not interfere. When the fight is done, remain here. Do not leave, no matter what occurs, no matter how strange a sight you may see." Marcellus turned and took a step forward, out of the ancient circle of stones. Alodia caught him by his arm.

"Lucius, please!" she pleaded. "I recognize this man now. He's the one who...who wounded me, who _killed_ me earlier today! I'm sure I saw you kill him in turn, yet here he stands! How is that possible? How is it possible that _I'm_ standing here?"

"Alodia, we don't have time!" Marcellus answered impatiently. "I will explain everything, I promise, when the battle is done!"

"But what if...what if you don't win?" Alodia asked. "Lucius, please...I'm afraid, my head is whirling, and only you seem to know what's happening!"

Her question brought him up short. Especially after the fall of Rome and with the many centuries he'd been alive, Marcellus had begun to grow blasé about the possibility of his own defeat and death. Ironically, it seemed to have made him more formidable when fighting other Immortals—he focused on the moment rather than worrying about the outcome. Now, however, he had someone to live for—someone who needed him to guide her. But what if he wasn't there? She would be truly and completely alone. He walked back to his horse and pulled his old Roman legionary sword from a saddlebag. He handed it to Alicia.

"If I lose," he said, brushing her cheek with his fingertips, "take this and cut off the Gaul's head. Do it immediately, no matter what strange things you see. He will be weak, and you must strike at that moment. It's the only way to kill him. Then take Sulla. You must leave Britain. There are coins in the saddlebags. Go to Paris. Find a church called _ Saint Julien le Pauvre_; there's a priest there named Darius. He will help you." Once again, Marcellus turned to go, and once again she caught him.

"I love you," she said. "Come back to me."

Marcellus nodded. "I love you as well. I fully intend to." He kissed her and strode out into the night, away from the protection of the ancient stone circle.

"Finally," the Gaul said as he approached. The huge man climbed down from his horse. He pulled a large, heavy Viking broadsword from his saddle. Marcellus held his own sword, a fine rapier forged in Toledo, before him.

"What, no battle-axe?" Marcellus asked nonchalantly.

The Gaul smiled. "I saw how the Saxons ducked and weaved around the Viking battle-axes today. You taught them that, didn't you?" Marcellus nodded, a bemused smile crossing his face. His eyes glanced at the Gaul's belt, where he saw the old Roman legionary sword still hanging there. The Gaul followed his gaze. "Yes, the same blade that killed your woman and made her Immortal. I got it back after the battle; it's an old trophy I took from one of your Generals before I fed him to our pigs. Perhaps I'll use it to take the girl's head once I have yours."

"Talk is cheap," Marcellus snarled, and lunged forward with his blade. The Gaul quickly parried, stepping back.

The two opponents circled each other. The Gaul had the definite advantage in size and reach, and strength as well. He moved surprisingly fast for such a large man. Marcellus knew instantly that victory, for him, would come down to skill and whatever slight advantage in speed he might have. The Toledan steel of his blade could easily take the punishment of the Gaul's heavier weapon, but trying to match the larger man's strength would be foolish. Marcellus waited for the Gaul to make a move.

Cergitorix feinted a stroke to Marcellus' legs, then switched to a lunge to his mid-section. Marcellus saw the restraint in the Gaul's muscles that indicated a feint and parried the lunge. Hoping to catch Cergitorix off-balance, he slid his sword over his opponent's and towards the large man's torso in a counter-attack. But the Gaul stepped back and fended off Marcellus' attack, swiping his blade away.

The Roman swung his sword over top of his opponents'; the Gaul parried and stepped back. Marcellus again swung, attacking the Gaul's opposite side; again Cergitorix parried and backed up. Marcellus pressed his attack, but Cergitorix sought to turn the tables; using his strength against Marcellus' skill, he swatted away Marcellus' attack angrily. Marcellus allowed the force of the swing to pivot his body; he swung around quickly and struck towards his opponent's stomach. The Gaul barely managed to parry the blow and stumbled backwards quickly, away from his opponent.

Regaining his balance, Cergitorix laughed heartily. "I'm glad to see you're going to make a contest of this, Roman. I could use the exercise!"

With that, he sprung forward on the attack, swinging his sword to alternating sides and heights, forcing Marcellus to parry blow after blow and back away. Marcellus allowed him to attack. He noticed the Gaul had already begun to sweat in the cool night air. The man had considerable girth and a broad belly; he was probably far to fond of ale for his own good. Perhaps, Marcellus thought, he hadn't the stamina for a long fight.

The Roman began to take a more defensive posture as they fought, allowing his opponent to exhaust himself. The Gaul attacked again and again but didn't seem to get anywhere against his smaller but skillful opponent. Marcellus could see Cergitorix starting to breathe heavily and gnash his teeth in frustration. He was content to play a waiting game. Sooner or later the big man would make a mistake.

To Alodia, watching from beside one of the stone monoliths, it appeared as though the Viking suddenly had the advantage. Why didn't Marcellus counter-attack? Her beloved kept backing away, parrying, moving in circles as his huge opponent kept coming. Marcellus had saved her, had believed in her and cleverly rescued her when everyone else she cared for had turned against her. She couldn't allow this brute to take him from her, even though he had ordered her to not interfere. She drew the short Roman sword from its scabbard and ran out from the stone circle.

Marcellus parried yet another lunge from Cergitorix and smiled. The bigger man's blows were weakening. Soon, he thought, the Gaul would over-extend himself, or stumble, or make some other mistake, and then, Marcellus knew, he would have him. He stepped to his right to avoid another blow. As he changed position, he saw, in his peripheral vision, a form advancing upon them from the stone circle. In the moonlight, Alodia's long linen robe made her glow like a ghost against the dark field. She ran towards them with the ancient Roman sword in her hand.

"Alodia, no!" he cried out, but she ignored him and kept coming.

Cergitorix had seen the slender figure advancing upon them as well. He caught the concern in Marcellus' voice. Though he would shortly face two opponents, Cergitorix knew he could use the Roman's affection for the girl to his advantage.

As Alodia drew near, the Gaul swung and used his tremendous weight to deal Marcellus a heavy blow; Marcellus parried, but felt the force of the blow through his entire arm, and it drove him back several paces. Cergitorix then made a quarter-turn towards the advancing woman. She swung the short sword, but the big man easily swatted it aside. He then swung his hands forward and struck her in the face, knocking her down. As she fell, he swung his sword over his head, aiming for her neck.

Marcellus, forced away by the Gaul's heavy blow, watched this in a panic. The Gaul's side was open to attack, but that would not stop the blow that would sever Alodia's head from her body. The woman he loved had one chance. Marcellus lunged forward and extended his rapier. It caught the Gaul's sword just before it struck Alodia's neck. She fell to the ground and rolled away instinctively. But though he had saved his beloved, he had doomed himself. His desperate lunge had left him over-extended and off-balance. Marcellus drew back his sword to protect his vulnerable neck. Cergitorix anticipated this and instead stabbed his broadsword into the Roman's exposed abdomen.

Marcellus' back arched and his eyes went wide as he felt the blade plunge deep into his midsection. The sword ran through him and out his back, impaling him. A sharp, burning pain extended from his abdomen and enveloped his entire body. His arms went limp, and he dropped his own sword. He hung there like a piece of meat on a skewer, waiting for the deathblow that would take his head. He had failed. Failed himself, and failed his beloved. The Fates would have their final, utterly complete victory over him.

The Gaul smiled malevolently and leaned forward. "Know this before I take your head, Roman: I will also take your woman. When I am done with her, I will take her head as well."

Marcellus heard the words. They stirred some last ounce of resistance and strength within him. Cergitorix pulled back on his sword; it didn't budge. He looked down. Marcellus had reached forward with one hand and laid hold of the broadsword's crossguard. He then reached out with his other hand and, before the bigger man could react, drew out the Gaul's trophy sword, the old Roman _gladius_. With a strength born of desperation, Marcellus wildly swung the short sword and severed the Gaul's head from his neck.

The Gaul's hands clenched his sword-hilt in an iron death-grip. As his body fell back, it pulled on his sword. Marcellus now pushed forward on the crossguard. The broadsword slid painfully from his body. Marcellus screamed in agony until blood filled his throat and mouth. Once the tip of the sword left his body, he collapsed to the ground, first falling to his knees, then on to his side, like some puppet whose strings had been cut.

"LUCIUS!!" Alodia screamed from where she lay on the ground, seeing her beloved fall. He had won the fight, but at the cost of his own life. She pushed herself up.

Marcellus lay on the cold wet ground, his lifeblood seeping from him. He heard Alodia's cry; it sounded as though it came from the far end of a long, dark tunnel. Then he saw a flash of light, the first sign of the Quickening. He watched it in a detached manner, as though it were happening to someone else. He entertained an idle thought that he'd really prefer to die and be unaware of the Quickening—they were always so exhausting and painful, and he didn't fancy enduring one with a mortal wound in his stomach.

Another flash of light arced over him. He felt a sudden wind blow against his face. Then it hit him. The Gaul's Quickening illuminated the field like a lighting strike. It slammed into Marcellus, flipping him onto his back and arching his body painfully. The Roman felt the mystic energy released from his opponent wash over him, lighting every nerve on fire. Unseen by him in his agony, the Quickening's energy leapt towards the ancient stone circle and flowed across and around the ring of monoliths, lighting them like huge stone candles. Trapped within the circle, Marcellus' horse, Sulla, whinnied in a panic, but his tether held him; the Gaul's horse reared and fled across the plain. In surprise and terror, Alodia fell back to the ground. A ring of fire appeared around the stones, scorching the earth. Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the Quickening ended. The circle of fire died down. Marcellus' mortally wounded body collapsed onto the ground. The Roman Immortal's eyes rolled back into his head and he died.

For several minutes, Alodia lay on the ground, terrified by the awesome spectacle she had just witnessed. Her green eyes, opened wide, looked about the vast Plain, wondering if anyone else had seen the strange, fantastic display. Then her frightened eyes fell upon the unmoving body of her lover, and all concern over what she had seen vanished from her mind. She scrambled on her hands and knees to Marcellus' side, then lifted his body and cradled him in her arms, as he had done with her body earlier that day when she'd fallen in battle. She didn't think she could cry anymore, as she had shed so many tears already that night, but she felt her face growing wet again nonetheless.

"Oh, Lucius, no, what have I done..." she groaned in sorrow as her fingertips caressed his face. "Please...don't leave me alone..." She leaned down to kiss him.

At that moment, Marcellus' eyes flew open. His back arched and he drew an agonized, wheezing breath. Alodia screamed and pushed his body away. She scrambled backwards away from him as he rolled and coughed. Then his head lifted and he looked back towards her.

"Alodia..." he called to her, his voice weak and reedy.

"NO!!" she cried in horror. This was too much, it had all been too much. It was madness, a nightmare! She scrambled awkwardly to her feet. She turned and prepared to run, to flee, she didn't know where, she only knew she had to get away.

Marcellus watched as she turned her back on him and started to run. He was weak from the Quickening and from the mortal wound in his abdomen that was still healing. He couldn't catch her; he could barely stand. If she ran, he didn't know what would happen to her. She might go back to her family, and they'd burn her or try to kill her some other way, or she would encounter another Immortal, and then all his effort to save her would be for naught. He had to stop her. Desperately, he called after her.

"Alodia!" he cried hoarsely. "Do not turn from me as your family turned from you!"

He looked up. She had stopped. But her back remained turned to him. He had to choose his words carefully. _Mercury_, he thought in silent prayer, _guide my tongue_.

"I know you are frightened," he said as he pushed himself to his hands and knees. "I know you are horrified by what you have experienced and what you have seen. I know you are hurt, hurt deep in your heart, by everyone you love turning against you. I know because it happened to me."

Marcellus pushed his body up so he sat on his haunches. He looked towards her. She had turned her head over her shoulder to look at him. _Good_. He kept talking.

"I also lived when I should have died, Alodia, as I did just now," he told her. "I was banished by my people, by my family; they feared me and drove me away. They did not understand what I was, and neither did I. I feared myself, as you fear yourself now. Until one of our kind found me, and taught me what I am."

"One of our kind..." Alodia repeated. She remembered he had used the phrase earlier. Her body turned to towards him.

"Yes," Marcellus said, shakily pushing himself to his feet. "We are Immortals. We live among mortal men until a violent death brings out our true nature. We cannot die, Alodia."

She shook her head, unable to believe what he said. It contradicted everything she'd been told, everything she believed. "No," she said, "this is madness. This cannot be..."

"Alodia, it is not madness," he said, taking a tentative step towards her. She took a step backwards, away from him, and he stopped. "Think about what you have seen, what you have experienced. And look into your heart! You know what I am saying is true. You suffered a mortal blow in battle today. Now you stand before me, whole and alive. I suffered a mortal blow just now, and look," he pulled open his bloodied tunic, revealing the unharmed skin of his abdomen, "I am healed, _just as you were_." He took a step towards her, and this time she did not back away.

"We are alike, Alodia! The feeling in your head when I am near, when the Gaul drew near," he said, and saw her raise her hand to her temple, "that is the Quickening. All Immortals possess it. When we near one another, we feel it, like a string on a lute that vibrates in sympathy to its companions. And when we take a head," he said, gesturing towards the decapitated corpse of the Gaul, "which is the only way we can die, our defeated opponent's Quickening, their knowledge and power, becomes part of us. That was the lightning you saw, leaping from his body to mine, after our fight." Alodia's eyes cast about the dark plain, trying to fathom everything he told her. He walked slowly towards her. She did not move away, but warily watched him approach.

"I know your mind is awhirl, Alodia," he said softly. "I know you feel as if your world has been turned upside-down. And I know you have a thousand questions you want answered. And I can answer them. But only if you trust me. And you must trust me, my love, for as hard as it may be to accept, as terrible a truth as it is, there is no one else you can trust now."

He stood a mere yard away from her now. He held out his hand to her.

For a very long moment, she stared at the hand he offered to her. Slowly, she raised her own hand and moved it towards him. She placed her hand in his. His fingers gently closed about hers and he smiled tenderly. Suddenly she stepped towards him, throwing her body against his. He threw his arms about her and held her as she trembled within his embrace.

"I am so sorry, Alodia," he whispered into her ear. "I never wanted this life for you. I tried to protect you, but I...I failed. You were right. My plan went awry. I hope...I pray you can forgive me."

Alodia tilted her head back so she could look into his eyes. She frowned slightly. "I don't understand, Lucius," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "You said...I am Immortal. How could you have prevented that?"

Marcellus sighed. "I told you. Our Immortality is only produced by a violent death, such as the one you suffered in the battle today. If you had never suffered a violent death, you would have lived out the normal life of a mortal."

Alodia's frowned deepened. She pushed back from him. "Lucius—why would you want to deny me Immortality? Why would you want me to live a short life and die like everyone else? You said you loved me!"

"I do, Alodia, I do!" Marcellus insisted as he gently pulled her back towards him. "We pay a terrible price for our Immortality. The rejection by those you love is only one small part of it. You saw that tonight—your family, your friends, you are dead to them. They will never accept you. We must leave here and not return, not for a very long time, if ever. And even if we find another place and other people to love, the vast majority will be mortal. We will have to watch them grow old and die, Alodia. And children," he said, his voice choking as he tried to imagine how the news would sadden her, "Oh, my love...we cannot produce children! We are forever alone. The loneliness—the terrible loneliness of living so long is the highest price. I would have spared you that if I could. I am so sorry."

She placed her head on his shoulder. For several minutes, they clung to one another in the middle of the broad, moonlit plain. Alodia stood still in his arms, absorbing everything he had said. Eventually, she asked softly, "How long have you been alive, Lucius?"

"A very long time," he answered, his voice low and gentle. He looked into her eyes. "You heard the Gaul call me a Roman, did you not?"

Alodia nodded. Marcellus continued to look at her, his eyebrows raised. Her eyes grew wide as she comprehended his meaning.

"God in heaven..." she breathed, her head shaking in disbelief. "Those...ancient battles you described at dinner..."

"I was in most of them," he said with an abashed grin.

Alodia suddenly smiled. "You must have so many stories..." she said, her mind boggling.

"A few," Marcellus said with a nod. He smiled back. It was promising, her reaction. She seemed to be accepting it. Marcellus couldn't help but admire her. She was displaying the strength and resiliency he'd seen her show on the battlefield.

Suddenly her smile vanished. She reached out and touched his cheek with her fingertips.

"But you've been lonely...?" she murmured.

"I have indeed," he whispered back, thinking of all the lost friends, all the lost loves, and of the fall of his beloved Rome.

"No more," she whispered, her green eyes gazing lovingly into his. She leaned forward and softly pressed her lips against his. "And never again."

Marcellus' eyes stared at her in amazement, then clenched shut. It was more than he could have hoped for, more than he thought possible, more than he could bear. He felt as though a great weight, one which he had been carrying for centuries as it got heavier and heavier, was lifted from him. Here he'd thought she would have so much trouble adjusting to her existence as an Immortal, but it was he who had never, in thirteen hundred years, been able to completely accept his lot. A tear ran down his cheek. Alodia kissed it away. She shushed him gently.

"No tears, my love," she whispered. "If we have no one else, at least we have each other. It will have to be enough. We shall make sure it is."

Despite her words, or truly, because of them, Marcellus wept. His body shook and he clung to her, his soul venting the anguish of thirteen centuries of wretched loneliness. Despite his remarkable age, he felt like a child in need of comfort. She stroked his head and back and held him, her voice gentle and soothing as it reassured him. Tears came to her own eyes as this extraordinary man, strong enough to survive centuries of conflict and struggle, broke down in her arms. All because, for the first time, he had found the love and companionship he hadn't fully realized he needed.

Finally the tremors that shook his body died down. He looked at her, his face streaming with tears, and looked embarrassed by his outburst. She touched his cheek and shook her head, silently admonishing him for being ashamed of sharing his deepest feelings with her.

Alodia took a deep breath. "I suppose we must go."

"Yes," Marcellus agreed. Together, their arms about one another, he and Alodia began to walk back to the stone circle where Sulla, still a little distraught by the Quickening, was tethered. They reached the anxious horse and Marcellus cooed to him in Latin to settle him down.

Suddenly Marcellus turned to Alodia. "I'll never leave you," he declared solemnly.

The strong-spirited, red-haired Saxon warrior woman looked at him and smiled demurely. "I know," she said simply.

They climbed atop the midnight-black horse and rode off into the night, across the dark plain, and into their long, shared future.

* * *


	10. Ortega

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 10: Ortega**

Theresa and Marcellus were parked in a dark, mostly-empty parking garage beneath a hotel near downtown, waiting like two cops on a stake-out. They both sipped from cups of take-out coffee and sat quietly in his car once he'd finished his tale. Marcellus' _katana_ was carefully placed beside his right leg, its hilt resting against his hip.

"Wow," Theresa muttered quietly. She blinked rapidly, then turned away from Marcellus as she wiped away a tear that rolled down her cheek. "Okay. That was...even more romantic than I'd ever imagined. I mean, it was terrible too, but...still." She shook her head, then turned to look at the pensive Immortal, who stared straight ahead, his gaze intent on a black limousine parked a few yards away. "Thank you," she said.

He stole a glance at her. "For what?"

"For sharing that with me," she answered, her eyes shining.

"We had some time to kill," Marcellus said with a shrug, his eyes back on the limo.

Theresa stared at his impassive profile as they sat in silence and waited. She had known Marcellus' story for most of her adult life, but she had not truly known the man. Not until last night—and she knew she was only scratching the surface.

Theresa knew the Immortal was a man of deep, turbulent passions—passion for Rome, for his wife, and now for revenge. But he didn't let that show. He'd just shared the most intensely personal story of his life with her, but now he shut her out completely. He sat stonily in the car as though they'd been discussing nothing more important than the weather.

She thought about saying something, about pushing away that controlled, emotionless facade as Alodia had. But she knew she wouldn't succeed. Marcellus had loved Alodia, that's why he had let her in past his barriers and defenses. Theresa herself was...a distraction, at best, she told herself. She wished she could be more, but that was impossible. He was an Immortal. She was a Watcher.

And yet, here she was, talking to him and querying him about his past—a complete violation of the Watchers' most fundamental protocols. She found herself questioning those rules she'd lived by for so many years. How rewarding it was to contact one of these people, to hear their stories first hand! Perhaps Joe Dawson was onto something.

Or maybe the other Watchers, particularly the ones most critical of Dawson, were simply jealous. They'd cautioned her, Simons and the other Watchers, especially because of her family's close relationship with Dawson, not to follow in his footsteps. Lizzy Knight had made that easy; Theresa had never wanted to get closer than twenty feet to the woman, and even that often felt too close. But to be talking to Lucius Gaius Marcellus, to be hearing his love story first-hand...it was the sort of thing a Watcher dreamed of, but never admitted.

Theresa shifted her gaze back to the limousine they were watching. On the other hand, she wondered if the more traditional Watchers had a point. It was one thing to talk to Marcellus about his life. It was quite another to be helping him hunt another Immortal as she was. If the Watchers found out about this, she'd be thrown out faster than she could blink.

Or worse; at one point, the Watchers had put Joe Dawson through a kangaroo court and had then attempted to execute him. Theresa tried to imagine facing a firing squad as Dawson had. Would she be willing to do the same? Just to help Marcellus avenge the woman he'd loved for a thousand years? Theresa glanced back at the stoic Roman. _Yes_, she realized, _I would_. The revelation shocked her, but she realized it made sense. _Just by being here, I'm sacrificing all the principles I've lived by for over a decade. Why wouldn't I be willing to sacrifice my life as well?_

"That's why you told me the story, isn't it?" Theresa suddenly said.

"What?" Marcellus responded, frowning.

"That love story. You and Alodia," she went on. "You told it to me to make sure I'd be willing to help you."

Marcellus shifted a little uneasily in his seat. "I told you the story because you _asked_ me to," he said. "You'd already agreed to help me. Insisted on it, in fact."

Theresa smiled softly and shook her head. "It doesn't matter," she said, then sighed. "Your story did a number on me long ago. At the tender, impressionable age of sixteen, I read the tale of a warrior who swore off war for the sake of a love that lasted a thousand years," she said poetically, her voice soft and wistful, "and I was doomed."

"Don't say that," Marcellus murmured. He gently covered her hand with his. Her heart skipped a beat at his touch. "Don't tempt the Fates like that." Before she could respond, his body tensed and he removed his hand. "Here they come," he said.

Theresa looked out the window of Marcellus' car and saw four figures approaching the limousine. She quietly opened her car door and slid out, staying low and ducking behind a nearby concrete pillar to stay out of sight. Her black pants and jacket made her difficult to see in the gloom of the parking garage. Marcellus remained in the driver's seat and prepared to start the engine.

The four men approached the limousine, opened the doors, and climbed in—two in the front, two in the back. The limo's engine started; the lights came on. The big car began to back out of its parking space. The driver turned the car as it backed up until it pointed forward, towards the parking garage's exit.

Marcellus' car was parked in a spot ahead and to the left of the limo. He fired up his engine and, just as the limo began to pull forward, lurched his car forward into its path. The limo tilted forward and its tires squealed briefly as the driver hit the brakes to avoid a collision. The doors of the limo opened and a grim smile curled the corners of Marcellus' lips. He had assessed his opponents correctly. These men weren't the type to back away from a confrontation. When caught in an ambush by an unknown opponent, the wisest course of action is retreat. Wisdom, however, obviously played second fiddle to machismo with drug-dealing thugs.

Marcellus threw open his door and, as he emerged, pulled a special pistol from inside his leather coat. He aimed the gun over the top his car's roof and took two quick shots. He hit the driver and the man on the front passenger side, both of whom had just emerged from the limo. They were drawing their guns but were hit before they could bring their weapons to bear. The impact of the shot threw each man back against the open door behind them, and they then slid down to the pavement, unconscious.

Marcellus had used a high-tech tranquilizer dart gun to incapacitate the two men out of deference to Theresa. He had no desire to make her an accessory to murder, even if the world would be no poorer for the loss of the two hoodlums. With the first two men incapacitated, that left the two men in the rear of the limousine. Marcellus would see to Mr. Duke, leaving the remaining man to Theresa's not-so-tender mercies.

The young Watcher had sprung into action the moment she saw the limo's doors open. Theresa had been in position next to the concrete pillar near the big car's left side. She left the other three men to Marcellus and targeted the man emerging from behind the driver. She recognized the thug as the sandy-haired pervert who had felt her up when he'd frisked her the night before. _Oh goody_, she thought as she moved in on him.

The driver standing in front of the man denied Marcellus a clear shot at the sandy-haired thug, and vice-versa. He drew his weapon just as Theresa reached him. She kicked at the door, slamming it against the man. The top of the door caught his right hand, which held his weapon. The man flinched and grunted in pain, but held on to his gun. Theresa threw the left side of her body heavily against the car door, pinning the man and allowing her to face him. She viciously struck out at the man's right wrist with her left elbow once, twice, making him yell in pain. He dropped his weapon after the second strike. It clattered to the concrete as he angrily shoved the door open; Theresa deftly kicked the gun under the limo then danced around the door to face the thug.

"Hi there," she said with a smile as she took a defensive Tae Kwon Do stance, "remember me?"

The man's lips peeled back into something resembling both a sneer and a lecherous grin, indicating that he did. _Good_, Theresa thought. The man stepped towards her and swung his right arm in a roundhouse punch. Theresa easily side-stepped the telegraphed punch, and when the man had fully extended his arm and was off-balance, she grabbed his right wrist with her right hand and drove the palm of her left hand into his elbow. The man's arm broke with a sickening snap. He shrieked in pain and dropped to his knees.

"Guess you don't have much luck with girls unless you've got a buddy holding a gun on one, huh?" Theresa remarked. She then pulled her right leg back and swung it forward, catching the man's head with a low roundhouse kick. The impact threw his head against the edge of the car door and he fell to the concrete, unconscious.

Meanwhile, Marcellus saw Duke's burly figure emerge from the right rear side of the limo. Duke was reaching inside his coat, fumbling for a gun. Marcellus dropped his tranquilizer gun onto the roof of his car, reached inside his coat and deftly pulled out a Japanese throwing star. As Duke pulled out his gun, Marcellus flung the star with an accuracy honed through centuries of practice. Duke bellowed as the star hit the back of his right hand, the pain forcing him to drop his weapon. He could have tranquilized Duke as well, but he needed him awake. And afraid.

Marcellus pulled out his _katana_ and ran around his car towards Duke. The burly criminal was on his knees behind the rear door, his left hand fumbling for the gun he'd dropped. Just as he latched on to it, Marcellus stepped around the car door and swung his _katana_, just stopping it as it touched Duke's wrist. The razor-sharp edge of the sword made a tiny incision in the man's skin, and he froze. He looked up at Marcellus, a mixture of fear, anger, and astonishment registering on his broad face.

"Did I ever tell you what happened to the last person who drew a gun on me?" Marcellus asked with a confident grin.

Duke released the handgun and Marcellus kicked it away, underneath a nearby car. He motioned for Duke to stand, then shifted the sword so its cutting edge rested against the man's throat. Marcellus stole a glance at the other side of the limo just in time to see Theresa take down her sandy-haired nemesis.

"Do you feel better now that you've vented your feelings?" Marcellus asked clinically from the other side of the car where he still held Duke at sword-point.

"Much," Theresa answered as she dragged the three unconscious men away from the limo. She took the guns from the men, tossing them into the front seat of the limousine. She then walked over to Marcellus' sedan, tucked the dart gun into an inside pocket of her jacket, and casually backed up his car into the parking space where it had been sitting for the last few hours while they waited for Duke and his men.

Marcellus had spent several weeks studying Ortega's organization, his men, and their habits and movements. On this particular day of the week, he had discovered, Duke always came to this hotel in the early evening to have supper and conjugal relations with his mistress. A minimal escort accompanied him for the event, and they parked in an underutilized area of the parking garage, making it perfect for an ambush.

Theresa walked back to the limo and settled into the driver's seat, while Marcellus motioned for Duke to climb back into the back of the big car. Once inside, Marcellus and Theresa closed the doors and she steered the limousine out of the parking garage. Marcellus kept his sword trained on Duke, who was now sweating nervously. He stared at Marcellus, wide-eyed and suspicious.

"You're like him," Duke said to Marcellus. The Roman slightly raised his dark, heavy brows at the remark. "You're an Immortal."

"It's the sword, isn't it?" Marcellus said with a casual smile. "It's a dead giveaway. Didn't used to be. Ah, the good old days."

"What's your beef with him?" Duke asked, frowning angrily.

"None of your business, you fat lackey," Marcellus snarled, then eased back in his seat a little. "Now, I know a little about your operation. Lewis has a portable drug lab. Its location changes every week. It begins operation in its new location tonight, and Lewis will be there to oversee it. The one piece of information I'm lacking is its location. Take me to it."

"Go to hell," Duke replied, then sucked air through his teeth when Marcellus shifted the blade closer to his neck.

"Allow me to explain your position to you, Mr. Duke, since you're obviously too thick to understand it on your own," Marcellus said in a low, threatening tone. "Taking me to Lewis is a win-win scenario for you. We'll fight; if he wins, you've brought your employer an enemy to eliminate. If I win, you're in position to take over."

Marcellus shifted his weight and leaned forward. He pressed the sword against Duke's throat, making the stocky criminal lean back in his seat.

"But if you _don't_ cooperate…well, this is a Japanese _katana_; once unsheathed, it _must_ draw blood. I can easily be persuaded to draw yours instead of his. That would, I suppose, be quite a display of loyalty on your part. In return, I'm sure your boss will chip in for a very nice headstone."

"All right!" Duke cried out, his eyes wide in fear. "All right, you crazy bastard! I'll take you to him! You can chop each other's heads off for all I care!"

Marcellus settled back in his seat, but kept the sword edge close to Duke's throat.

"That's just grand," Marcellus said with a smile. "I suppose you're smarter than you look, though not by much. Please give the directions to my lovely and talented assistant in the driver's seat."

* * *

Just under a half hour later, the limousine pulled up to an old factory south of downtown, near the docks. The blocks around the factory were filled with mostly abandoned and decrepit industrial buildings. From outside, the occupants of the limo could see lights inside the factory, indicating activity.

"This is the place, is it?" Marcellus asked. For the whole ride, he'd held his sword to the burly criminal's throat. It was still there. Duke's forehead was glistening with sweat.

"Yeah, it is," Duke replied. "You gonna let me go now?"

"Oh, no, Mr. Duke," Marcellus replied. "I wouldn't want you to miss out on the fun. You're coming in with me. My dear," Marcellus said over his shoulder to Theresa, "once we get out of the car, I want you to leave. Return to the apartment. Wait for me there."

"Hey!" Theresa exclaimed angrily, turning around in the driver's seat, "That wasn't the deal! Where you go, I go, remember?"

"You will obey my orders or face my wrath," Marcellus said with a snarl. "Now do as I say!"

Theresa exhaled angrily but remained in the driver's seat. Marcellus climbed out of the limo, then led Duke out at sword point. He closed the rear door, and then signaled to Theresa. She reluctantly shifted the big car into gear, then drove away from the factory. She drove a little over a block away and parked the limo on a dark side street. She grabbed one of the guns she'd obtained from Duke's thugs, got out, and pulled a dark wool cap over her head. She ran back to the factory, sticking to the shadows.

* * *

A few minutes before, Andrew Howard had parked his car outside the factory and walked inside quickly. The Watcher appeared agitated, his pace brisk, his manner somewhat nervous.

"Andrew!" Ortega said inside the factory, surprised to see his lieutenant there, since Howard did not oversee operations. "What are you doing here?"

Howard, visibly concerned, approached Ortega and drew him aside. Around them, about two dozen men were in the final stages of putting the drug lab into operation. Large barrels of chemical compounds surrounded the factory floor; metal tubing connected them to stainless steel mixing vats and stills. Some of the equipment would be used to process cocaine into crack; others would create Ecstasy for sale at rave parities; still others would produce the relatively newer, more potent and dangerous drug, Methamphetamine, or Crystal Meth.

"I would have used the cell, but…" Howard began to say. Ortega waved away his excuse; they never risked discussions of Immortals or drug operations over insecure cell phone lines. Important conversations on those topics occurred face-to-face. "Marshall _is_ an Immortal. _And_ he has a female Watcher who fits the description Duke gave us."

"All right," Ortega said, nodding sagely. "So now we know what we're facing. How old is this Marshall?"

"We're not sure; he only appeared on the scene as an Immortal a year ago."

"Really?" Ortega said with a sneer. "Doesn't sound like he'd be much more of a challenge than that child you brought to me yesterday."

"I wouldn't be so sure," Howard replied. "Marshall has quite a record. Over a dozen confirmed kills in the last year. Some of them against very old Immortals. Three of them were older than you."

"Indeed?" Ortega said as he turned to look at Howard. His sneer changed to a smile. "Sounds like more of a challenge then! Good! Let's see if we can find this Marshall and bring him to the gym…" Ortega paused, then looked around as his head and neck tingled, indicating the nearby presence of another Immortal. "Never mind. It looks like that won't be necessary."

Howard followed Ortega's eyes across the factory floor. There, walking in from behind some abandoned machinery, was Ortega's other lieutenant, Robert Duke. The burly man was red-faced and sweating profusely. Behind him was another man, not much taller than Duke, but in much better shape and preternaturally calm. He had a long Japanese sword held to Duke's throat. His head was shaved bald, save for the neatly-trimmed, dark Van Dyke beard he sported on his upper lip and chin. He wore a long, dark leather coat over equally dark clothing. His cold gray eyes had fastened onto Ortega's from across the room.

"For Christ's sake don't shoot!" Duke shouted, his hands held up, as a half-dozen of Ortega's men leveled their weapons at him and the Immortal behind him.

"Weapons down!" Ortega shouted, and his men obeyed. "So. You are Marshall?" Across the room, the man holding Duke hostage slowly shook his head.

"You know who I am, Ortega," Marcellus said, his voice low and cold. It sounded like ice grinding against stone.

Ortega blinked, surprised to hear the other, supposedly young Immortal use his real name. Then he paused for a moment as he tried to place the man's face, but couldn't. He looked at Howard, who only stared back at him blankly. Then realization dawned on him. His head swung back to look at the Immortal facing him. Blood drained from his face.

"Marcellus," he murmured.

The other Immortal nodded slowly. Beside Ortega, Howard's eyes widened in amazement. For a moment, no one in the building said anything. Then Ortega began to laugh. He laughed softly at first, but it quickly grew louder, becoming a full belly-laugh, and the Immortal drug lord had to wipe tears from his eyes. His men looked between this interloper and their mirthful boss uncertainly. Marcellus remained impassive. Finally, after a couple of minutes, Ortega spoke.

"You know," he said, still laughing softly, "I never completely believed you were dead. It was just…a little too convenient."

"So why come out of hiding?" Marcellus asked.

"Because I was _sick_ of hiding!" Ortega shouted back at him. "Sick of living like a dog, running from town to town, always looking over my shoulder!" He paused and drew a breath, then smiled again. "You know? I'm glad you're here. I really am. We can settle this, once and for all. We should have done this years ago." He signaled to his men. "Robert and Andrew will stay here. The rest of you—leave." The other men hesitated. "_GO_!!" he shouted angrily, and the other two dozen men rapidly left the factory.

Once they had gone, Marcellus pushed Duke forward. The stocky criminal ran from him, joining his boss and his colleague on the other side of the factory floor.

"Why the audience?" Marcellus asked. He held his _katana_ casually in his right hand, its blade held slightly in front of his right leg, its tip pointed at the floor. He stood beside the heavy machinery for a long conveyor belt. The four men in the room knew it would provide him with cover if he needed it.

"These are two of my most trusted lieutenants," Ortega explained. "They witness all my fights."

"And never interfere?" Marcellus asked. "I was led to believe that you consider yourself an honorable man."

"I _am_ an honorable man!" Ortega insisted angrily. "I am of pure Spanish noble blood! I served under Ferdinand and Isabella! I have _never_ broken our rules, Marcellus!" He paused a moment and smiled. "Not even when I fought Sanchez. And not when I fought your wife. I won and took their heads in fair combat."

"Do you really think I care?" Marcellus said flatly.

Ortega smiled and snorted. "They will _ not_ interfere. You have my word. But there is one thing you should know before we begin. If I win, I win. If _you_ win, however…they know about Immortals. They will take your head while you are still weak from the Quickening."

"And you consider that honorable?" Marcellus asked contemptuously.

Ortega shrugged. "It is what it is. So I'm a sore loser. Sue me. But I give you this one chance, Marcellus: walk away now. Leave this city—this continent. Never cross my path again. I give you this chance out of respect for your adopted son and wife, who both fought bravely."

The two Immortals paused a moment, then Marcellus spoke. When he did, his voice was calm and even, with the firmness of finality.

"Alberto Luis Ortega. I am Lucius Gaius Marcellus, Citizen of Rome. You killed Antonio Sanchez, my adopted son, and Alodia, my beloved wife. You possess their Quickenings. You have no right to them. I am here to claim them, and to claim the right of vengeance and justice. Draw your sword and prepare to die."

"So be it," Ortega said, nodding. He gestured for Howard and Duke to walk away and stand at opposite sides of the factory floor. He stepped over to a nearby table and opened a long, slender metal carrying case. From inside it, he drew out his dueling rapier from Toledo. He turned to Marcellus, held his sword upright in front of his body, and gave his opponent a brief bow. Then the two men stepped guardedly into the middle of the empty factory floor, their swords held low and extended towards each other.

* * *

Unnoticed by the four men below, Theresa had entered the factory through a side entrance and had climbed to a catwalk that was one storey above the factory floor and ran around it, clinging to the walls of the building. She found a wide support pillar and hid behind it, carefully checking for any of Ortega's men who might have remained and taken up position on the catwalk as well. She saw none, and turned her attention to the factory floor.

She had arrived just in time to hear Ortega's threat that Marcellus would die regardless of the outcome. That much, Marcellus had anticipated. It fit with Ortega's history, which Marcellus had studied extensively, largely thanks to Mick Porter. Marcellus had also confronted Grayson at one point. He had given his fellow ancient Immortal a choice: fight me or tell me everything you know about your former student, Ortega. Grayson was a practical man and loyal to no one but himself; he might have taken Marcellus in a fight, but why take the chance? He'd told Marcellus everything he wanted to know.

Theresa drew the gun she had acquired from Duke's thug from her jacket pocket. She rejected using the tranq gun out of hand. She was reluctant to kill anyone, even scum like these men, and with what Marcellus had planned, leaving someone unconscious in the factory would be a death sentence. She looked at the factory floor, picked her target, and waited.

* * *

The fight between the two Immortals continued on the factory floor. The two men had circled each other warily at first. Now they clashed ferociously, Toledo and Japanese steel ringing as their swords met time and again. Marcellus knew he would not have an easy victory; Ortega seemed his equal in every way. No wonder both Antonio and Alodia had fallen to him.

Every one of Marcellus' thrusts, Ortega parried. Every feint, he anticipated. Every attack spawned a dangerous counter-attack. Finally an attack got through Marcellus' defenses. He just managed to parry a low lunge, but the blade of Ortega's rapier still cut through the leg of his pants and into his thigh. Marcellus grimaced at the pain and backed away.

"You think I did _nothing_ for eighty years?" Ortega shouted as he forced Marcellus to a defensive retreat. "I practiced! I learned! So that when you finally found me, I could defeat you!"

Ortega feinted to Marcellus' left then swung his sword tip to the Roman's right. Marcellus had to pull his _katana_ back, holding its tip up and the blade vertical to block the swipe at his right shoulder. Ortega pushed forward and knocked Marcellus back against a high table, their swords crossed, his rapier's edge blocked from the Roman's neck only by the Japanese blade.

"Good!" Marcellus shouted, then elbowed Ortega in the ribs, forcing him back. "I wouldn't want this to be over too quickly for you!"

Ortega clutched his side and retreated a few steps, eyeing Marcellus warily. Marcellus pushed himself away from the table and pointed his sword towards his opponent. The two injured Immortals glared at one another, awaiting the other's next move. Suddenly, Marcellus frowned quizzically. He dropped his sword tip slightly.

"Time out," Marcellus said evenly.

"What?" Ortega asked, frowning with incomprehension.

"Time out!" Marcellus repeated. "Don't you ever watch American football?"

"I know what it means!" Ortega shouted back at him. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"I wanted to ask you something," Marcellus said calmly.

"Do you want to fight or talk?" Ortega demanded, his expression reflecting his exasperation.

"Consider it a dying man's last request," Marcellus said. "You've already indicated I'm dead either way…"

"Fine!" Ortega responded impatiently. "What?"

Marcellus glanced left and right at Duke and Howard, standing at opposite ends of the factory floor. He raised his voice a little so they could hear.

"Have your men seen a Quickening before?" he asked.

"Yes," Ortega said with a condescending smile. "Several. And today they'll see yours!"

"Hmm," Marcellus nodded. "A rather _ explosive_ event, a Quickening, wouldn't you say?"

"What?" Ortega demanded? "What do you…"

Ortega was cut off by a nearby _pop_, followed by a sudden explosion which threw him to the ground. He barely managed to hang on to his sword as he fell. Several yards behind him, one of the vats of chemicals had exploded. He lifted his head to see Marcellus on the ground a few feet from him. The two Immortals looked at each other and scrambled to their feet. Ortega kept his sword pointed at Marcellus, but glanced around the factory, noticing the chemical fire behind him. He looked at Marcellus again. The Roman was smiling wolfishly. _Perfect timing_,_ little Watcher_, he thought. _And a perfect shot. Just as we planned it._

"Should be quite a show, gentlemen!" Marcellus shouted. "Stick around!"

He lunged at a stunned Ortega, who barely managed to parry in time. Ortega retreated around a table; Marcellus leapt on top of it, kicking beakers and platters aside, lashing his sword at a defensive Ortega, who ran away and awkwardly parried each blow.

At either end of the factory, Duke and Howard had fallen to their knees when the blast went off. They looked at the two combatants, their fight growing wilder by the second, then at each other. Both could see the same thought in the eyes of the other man: _they might survive this, but we won't_. As one, they rose to their feet and ran for the door.

"No!" Ortega shouted when he saw, in his peripheral vision, his two lieutenants leaving the factory. "Get back here, you cowards!"

"Good help is _so_ hard to find, isn't it, Al?" Marcellus remarked as he jumped down from the table. "Now it's just us, as it's supposed to be." He stood a few feet from Ortega. He held his _katana_ over his head, its tip pointing at his opponent, and extended his left arm, his palm held up and facing the Spaniard. He bent his knees slightly; his weight rested on the balls of his feet. He awaited his opponent's next move.

Ortega turned and glared at him. The Spaniard sneered, then shouted angrily. He ran towards Marcellus, his sword held high to strike at his opponent's neck. The Roman stood his ground. Ortega had almost reached him. Suddenly Marcellus stepped backwards and pivoted to his right. He lowered his left arm, reached across his body, and pulled his shorter sword, the _wakizashi_, from his coat. Ortega swung his blade. Marcellus parried with the short sword, sending Ortega's blade low and away from him. The Spaniard stepped past him. Marcellus slashed the long _katana_ at his neck. Ortega took perhaps two or three more steps without a head before his body collapsed to the concrete factory floor. His sword clattered to the concrete. Marcellus stood stock still, looking over his defeated opponent's corpse with a cold, evaluating eye.

"It's over, my love," he said softly. "It's finally over…"

Up on the catwalk, Theresa ran to a nearby ladder that lowered to the factory floor. She pressed her heels on the outside of the ladder's metal poles and quickly slid down, her hands deftly rappelling her down each rung. She hit the concrete factory floor and ran towards Marcellus. She was only a few yards from him when the Quickening began. She immediately threw herself under a large, nearby table.

A thin bolt of mystical lightening arced to the factory's ceiling. Marcellus watched it with his head bent back, and spread his arms wide, a sword held in each hand. The lightening followed a parabolic arc and fell back towards him. It gathered strength and size as it fell. It struck the ground in front of the Roman's body with a loud boom and he fell to his knees. His swords fell from his hands. Before him, the Quickening's energy glowed white-hot in a column that reached to the building's roof.

Theresa watched, her eyes wide with amazement, as the column of energy changed shape. It narrowed in the middle and at the top. It shrank down to the height of a person—of a woman. Two arcs of energy extended out from its side, like arms. Marcellus knelt before it, tears streaming down his face. Then the column of mystic energy moved forward and enveloped him. He tossed his head back, closed his eyes, and a deep shout of equal parts agony and ecstasy rose from his throat. His body shuddered. He gulped a breath, arched his back, and yelled again. As he did, energy exploded from him, arcing to the containers of chemicals nearby. The large vats and barrels of explosive chemicals blew apart in a deafening, fiery frenzy.

Beneath the table, Theresa curled into a fetal position, squeezed her eyes shut, and held her hands over her ears while the Quickening ran its course. She heard a huge barrel fall and bounce off the top of the table. She gasped and opened her eyes. Around her, most of the vats and barrels used for the drug lab had caught on fire. Some of them had simply spilled instead, and flammable chemicals ran across the concrete floor, threatening to engulf the two of them in flames at any moment. She looked over at Marcellus. The Quickening had ended; he'd fallen onto his side and lay on the ground in exhaustion, his eyes rolled back in his head, his mouth slack as he gasped for air.

Theresa pushed herself out from under the table. Another container exploded behind her. She ducked and screamed, but ran towards Marcellus. She grabbed him underneath his arms and pulled him to a sitting position. He seemed to be in a trance. His cheeks were wet with tears. She slapped his face.

"C'mon, centurion!" she shouted. "On your feet!"

"Huh?" Marcellus grunted, then flinched when another explosion went off nearby. The fire was spreading; the factory would be a blazing inferno within minutes.

"We have to get out of here!" Theresa shouted. She looked towards the factory's main door, the one Marcellus had entered. There was a gap in the spreading flames. They could just make it, if they hurried. "C'mon, let's go!"

Marcellus shook his head, then reached out and weakly grabbed his swords. Theresa helped him to his feet. She threw one of his arms over her shoulder and struggled to move his weight. Together, they stumbled through the fire growing around them towards the gap that led out of the growing blaze.

* * *

Outside, moments before, Howard and Duke had run out to find the rest of Ortega's drug lab crew gathered around the entrance to the factory, waiting and wondering what the hell was going on.

"Get out of here!" Howard shouted to them. "The place is gonna blow!"

They didn't need to be told twice. Every man took off at a dead run. Drug labs had to use a number of unstable and highly explosive chemicals for processing. Everyone knew the places could become fiery deathtraps from just one spark. At that moment, they heard an explosion from inside the building. Lightning seemed to be erupting from the roof. Through the huge factory doors, Duke and Howard could see a ferocious blaze starting.

"Come on, Duke!" Howard shouted to his colleague, "we have to get away from here!"

But Duke was standing, looking back into the entrance to the factory. He had caught one of the security goons before he ran off and had taken his handgun.

"Goddamn bastards…" he was muttering. "Goddamn Immortal bastards! Freaks! They're gonna ruin everything!"

"Jesus, Robert," Howard shouted at him, "let it go! Come on!"

"No!" Duke shouted back. "I'm staying here! Either one of those sons of bitches steps outta there, I'm gonna kill him!"

"You don't even have a sword, you idiot!" Howard shouted, but Duke ignored him. Howard waved at him dismissively, then ran away from the factory.

Duke waited just outside the entrance to the factory. He could see the flames spreading inside, destroying a huge investment in equipment and raw materials. And if Ortega was dead, a gang war would erupt, with him right in the middle, fighting for his life. Everything he'd worked for was about to crumble apart, lost in a flash. All because of two centuries-old freaks with a grudge.

Suddenly, the growing flames backlit a dark figure—no, two dark figures emerging. Both of them? Duke didn't care. He'd shoot them, then while they were disabled, run up and grab one of their swords and chop both their damn heads off. The two figures were coming closer to the door. He could see one, slightly smaller, was holding the other up.

Duke lifted the gun and took aim at the larger figure first. He squeezed off two shots and saw the man fall. The smaller figure was not Ortega, he then could see; it was a woman. _That bitch from last night—it has to be_, he thought. She was bending over the man who'd just fallen. He took aim and fired at her, two quick shots. Just as he did, the woman turned and pointed something at him. Robert Duke felt two rounds hit him square in the chest. He fell backwards, felt his head smash against the cold pavement, and that was all he ever felt.

Marcellus grimaced. The Kevlar had held, but it still felt as though a mule had kicked him in the chest. He painfully pushed himself to a sitting position. He saw Theresa kneeling beside him.

"Bastards don't know when to quit, do they?" he remarked, then glanced outside the factory doors to see if any other opponents remained. Seeing no one else nearby, he then turned his head to look at Theresa. Her eyes were open, unblinking, looking at him in confusion. Something was wrong. "Theresa?" he said, reaching out for her. She tried to stand up, but couldn't. She fell over, her hand clutching her side. "Theresa!" he shouted, and crawled to her.

He knelt beside her, then lifted her by the shoulders and cradled the young woman in his arms. He gently pushed her hands away where she was pressing them against her side. He unzipped her jacket and spread it apart, then tore open her shirt, buttons popping off and landing on the pavement as he did so. He saw two entry wounds, bleeding profusely—one in her lower right side, directly into her kidney, the other one higher, just beneath her bra, probably into her lung. He'd been on enough battlefields to know mortal wounds when he saw them. He pressed his eyes shut and shook his head. He heard a soft sound over the roar of the fire behind him. He opened his eyes. She was trying to say something. He leaned forward, his head bent towards her.

"Sorry…'bout the drink," she whispered. The corners of her mouth twitched briefly into a smile.

"I'll have one for you," he told her, his voice a rough whisper. He brushed her short auburn hair off of her forehead. She nodded weakly. Her hazel eyes looked into his and shone for a moment, then she shut them tight.

"It…hurts," she said through clenched teeth.

"I know," he answered softly, "but only for a little while." He caressed her cheek with the back of his fingers, and then she was gone. Her hazel eyes seemed to stare into his without blinking. He sadly reached down and closed them. Behind him, the fire spread and the factory continued to burn. The Fates were not done with punishing him, it seemed.

From a distance, standing beside the car which he'd parked on the street outside the factory, Andrew Howard watched the scene with detachment. He would file one, last report to the Watchers—he owed them that much. And what a report it would be! The return of Lucius Gaius Marcellus and the deaths of Alberto Luis Ortega and a Watcher. Once he finished it, he would quit the Watchers. With both Ortega and Duke gone, there would be a power vacuum in this town, and he intended to fill it. He got into his car and drove away.

* * *


	11. Joe's

**Who Watches the Watcher?**

_A Highlander novel by Sisiutil_

* * *

This story is fictional and does not contain any references to any actual persons living or dead. All characters contained in this story who appeared in the Highlander franchise are the property of Warner Media/Davis Panzer Productions, Inc.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Joe's**

The next day, in late afternoon, a trio of men sat at a table in Joe's Bar. Each had a bottle of beer that he sipped from every now and then. They'd talked for most of the afternoon and had run out of talk a few minutes before. Now they just sat in the bar, empty except for the three of them, each preoccupied with his own thoughts.

Two of the men lifted their heads and turned to look at the front door just before it opened. A fourth man walked in. He wore a long, dark leather coat and dark clothing beneath it. He removed his wrap-around sunglasses once he entered the dark bar. His head was bald and his face was clean-shaven. As he slowly walked towards the trio, they could see stubble on his head, as though he'd suddenly decided to grow his hair out.

"You've got your nerve," Joe Dawson snarled, struggling to stand as Marcellus approached their table, "comin' in here today!" Methos and Duncan MacLeod also stood, their arms reaching out to gently restrain the angry Watcher.

Marcellus came to stand before him, his face expressionless, except for his eyes, which seemed tired and saddened.

"I thought you might have some questions, Dawson," Marcellus said quietly.

"Yeah, I got some questions all right!" Dawson shouted. "Like what the hell you thought you were doin' dragging Terry into some goddamn firefight! You son of a bitch!"

Dawson grabbed his cane from where it rested against the table. He lifted it and made as if to strike the Roman with it. Methos and MacLeod reached out to stop Dawson, calling his name as they did so, but Marcellus made no move to defend himself.

"Do you really think you can do anything to me that would make me feel worse than I already do?" Marcellus asked Dawson. "If you do, please do it."

Dawson glared at him for a moment, then put the cane back down and awkwardly dropped back into his chair. He sighed heavily, then took a swig of his beer.

"What the hell happened?" he finally asked.

"May I sit down?" Marcellus asked politely. Dawson looked up at him, glaring again, then looked away and waved him towards a chair. "Thank you," Marcellus said, pulled the chair over, and sat down. "I assume Ortega's Watcher reported in?"

"Yeah," Dawson replied, "he sent in his report along with his resignation. I guess watching a drug lord scumbag like Ortega operate turned him off this gig."

"Really?" Marcellus said flatly, one eyebrow raised slightly. "Well then, you know what happened at the factory last night."

"Yeah, I know what happened," Joe snapped. "You finally caught and killed the man who killed your wife. Too bad there was so much collateral damage. And what the hell happened to Terry's body, anyway?"

"There was a fire, Dawson," Marcellus answered, his voice flat. "The whole factory blew up right after she died. I was exhausted from the Quickening. I barely made it out myself before I turned into a Roman candle."

"You think this is funny?" Dawson shouted. "You son of a…"

"Joe," Methos interjected, "you're not helping."

Dawson turned to glare at Methos for a moment, but then let out a long sigh and shook his head. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his eyes, which were tired and red. He'd spent a good portion of the morning weeping. The phone call to Theresa's parents in New York had been the worst of it. They'd been inconsolable, as he'd expected. They were all Watchers, and they all blamed themselves for ever allowing her into their organization in the first place.

"I know," Dawson said sadly. "It's just…I've known her since she was a kid." His voice cracked, and he paused for a moment, then turned to Marcellus. "I know the _what_. What I want from you is the _why_."

Marcellus nodded, his gray eyes staring at a spot on the bar floor.

"I gave her every opportunity to withdraw," he explained. "I urged her to do so. She refused. Methos can attest to that. I did everything except physically restrain her."

"And why didn't you do that?" Dawson demanded.

Marcellus raised his head and looked Dawson in the eye. "When the Watchers wanted to execute you, and MacLeod tried to talk you into leaving, you stayed. How would you have felt if he'd knocked you on the head and dragged you out of there?"

"Angry as hell," Dawson admitted.

"Even though he would have saved your life?" Marcellus asked.

"It's not the same!" Dawson insisted.

"Isn't it?" Marcellus replied. "You had to be true to yourself and your beliefs. So did she. She knew the risks not just last night, but when she joined the Watchers years ago. I laid out her choices for her clearly and without deception. She chose, and her choice was pure and true to herself. That's how she lived her life, and how she died. May the same be said of us all."

The four men were silent for some time. Dawson and MacLeod stared at the tabletop, lost in thought. Marcellus looked across the table at Methos. Their eyes met in an unspoken challenge. Methos stared back at Marcellus, then he sighed quietly and almost imperceptibly nodded his head. Marcellus gave a single nod back then turned to Dawson again.

"Joseph," he said quietly, "she was one of the bravest women I have ever met. And in some ways, she was also one of the wisest, despite her youth—or perhaps, because of it. And coming from someone of my years, that's saying something. If you think it worthwhile, please pass that along to her parents, along with my condolences."

Dawson stared at the ancient Immortal for a moment. Then he nodded. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. I think that might mean something to them."

"Good," Marcellus said with a nod. "Now if it's not too much to ask, her dying wish—as strange as it may seem—was that I should have a drink here. It was to have been with her, but given the circumstances, I think she'd be glad I was having it with you."

"I'll get it, Joe," MacLeod offered, rising from the table. Normally he wouldn't have done so, preferring to respect his disabled friend's independence. But today Dawson was weighed down by the death of a young woman he regarded as a niece, as family—the closest thing he ever had to a daughter of his own. "What'll it be, Lucius?" MacLeod asked from behind the bar.

"A shot of Scotch whiskey, if you please," Lucius said. A moment later, the shot glass of dark amber liquid was in front of him. "It's what she reminded me of," he explained. "Smooth and beautiful, but with one hell of a kick."

Dawson chuckled quietly. "That was Terry, all right."

Marcellus raised his shot glass and the other three men raised their beer bottles.

"To Theresa MacNeil," Marcellus said. "The best damn Watcher there ever was. Present company excepted of course."

"To Theresa," the other three chimed in. Glass rang against glass, then the quartet drank and sat in silence for a moment.

"Listen, gentlemen," Marcellus said. "I just thought you should know that I'll be heading off for awhile. You might not be seeing me or hearing from me again for quite some time."

"Oh, like that's anything new," Methos remarked.

"Yeah, you're pretty damn good at that," Dawson said. "The only one better was that bastard Ortega."

"I thought you said you weren't gonna disappear again?" MacLeod asked.

"I've lived a very long time," Marcellus said. "For a thousand years, I lived for Rome. Then I lost her. For a thousand years after that, I lived for Alodia. Then I lost _her_. For nearly a century, I've lived for vengeance. And, truth to tell, I'm more than happy to lose that cold-hearted bitch. So now I have to find something else to live for."

"I could give you a few ideas," Methos said.

Marcellus glanced at him. "You already have, old friend. Notice, I just had a drink at Joe's, and this morning..." He paused and drew a deep breath. "This morning, I watched the sun come up. I haven't done that in years. It was…extraordinarily beautiful. Did you see it?"

"No," Methos answered, then smiled contentedly. "I was…enjoying the company of a beautiful woman."

Marcellus smiled and nodded. MacLeod and Dawson turned and looked at the oldest living Immortal, their eyebrows raised.

"Who?" Dawson asked.

"Anyone I know?" MacLeod remarked.

"Well, I'm not telling you two anything!" Methos responded. "You've both proven you can't keep a secret longer than two minutes!"

As MacLeod and Dawson began to voice their objections, Marcellus rose from his chair. The other three turned to watch him.

"I'd love to stay, but I really must be going. How much for the drink, Dawson?"

The Watcher waved his hand dismissively. "It's on the house. Any friend of Terry's…" Marcellus smiled at that. "Hey, that stuff about you going off again…you tryin' to tell me not to have them assign a Watcher to you?"

"Oh, my dear Joseph, please!" Marcellus said innocently. "I wouldn't dream of telling the Watchers how to run their quaint little organization!" He glanced at Methos, who looked away and coughed. He turned back to MacLeod's Watcher. "But whoever they do assign to me…just tell them to make sure it's somebody who's not easily frustrated. And…I wouldn't mind a head start, if it's all the same to you." He lifted his arm in a Roman salute. "_Ave_ and farewell, my friends."

* * *

Two hours later, Marcellus walked into his basement apartment beneath the old warehouse. He shut the door behind him and automatically reached for the lights before realizing they were already on. He walked into the living room and took off his coat, tossing it onto the sofa. He then walked into the kitchen, opened the fridge, and pulled out a bottle of beer. He had opened it and was about to take a sip when he heard her walk into the room.

"So, did they buy it?" she asked, her voice flat and expressionless.

Marcellus turned and looked at Theresa MacNeil. She couldn't use that name anymore, of course. He had already obtained some very expensive, very authentic-looking forged documents for her. They'd obtain some new official ones later, when they had time. It would be one of several things he'd be teaching her. How to obtain a new identity every twenty to forty years, possibly more often than that. How to make it look as though you were aging when you actually weren't. And, most important of all, how to fight with a sword.

"Yes, I'd say they did," he answered quietly. "I'm a very effective liar. It's not one of the personality traits I'm proudest of, but it has proven to be very useful."

"Joe thinks I'm dead?" she asked. "Is that absolutely necessary? Couldn't we tell…"

"Theresa, we've been over this," Marcellus said patiently. "The Watchers think you're dead. If they find out you're an Immortal…"

"I know, I know!" she exclaimed, holding her hands up in front of her. "They'll hunt me down themselves." She leaned against the wall, her shoulders slumped, her face dejected.

"They've done it before," he reminded her.

The Watchers had tests to discover Immortals. The most effective was to inflict a mild injury—a cut—and watch to see if it healed instantly. Methos still hadn't told Marcellus how he'd managed to fool them on that one for so long, but the crafty Roman had some ideas. Nonetheless, for the most part, Immortals were relatively easy to detect. It was the _potential_ Immortals that were impossible to discover—for mortals, anyway.

Potentials passed for mortals because they were, effectively, mortal. Marcellus had known several potentials who had lived normal lives, married, had children, and died peacefully of illness or old age. Only another Immortal could detect a potential, and only by passing within a yard or two of one. Even then, their latent Quickening was so subtle that it could be mistaken for a nervous spasm or a cold shiver. And until two nights ago, Theresa MacNeil, despite functioning as a Watcher in the field for five years, had apparently never been close enough to an Immortal to be noticed for what she was.

Two nights ago at Joe's, however, as he stood next to her at the bar, Marcellus had unmistakably sensed Theresa's latent Immortality. That hadn't surprised him. The real shock had come when he noticed the Watcher tattoo on her left wrist. He knew what would happen to her if she ever achieved Immortality. It had happened a handful of times in the Watchers' history. Each and every time, they had hunted down and taken the head of the new Immortal themselves, simply because that person knew too much about the Watchers and their organization. The Watchers never interfered—unless they had to do so to protect themselves.

But the Fates had taken a hand. They had, in a fit of perverse humor—or was it divine wisdom?—arranged for Theresa to become Marcellus' Watcher. They had thrown her into danger the first time, two nights before, to push the two into even closer contact. And they had placed her in mortal danger last night to make her Immortality manifest. Regardless of those strange sisters' reasons for it, Theresa had been placed in the company of one of the few men who could protect her.

And he would protect her, even from herself. He remembered the shock on her face when she'd revived last night in the spare bedroom, the confusion, the sudden realization. He remembered the anger she'd vented at him for not telling her until she remembered that he hadn't told Alodia either, and remembered why. Then she'd begun to understand why he'd told her the story. She had wanted, of course, to contact her parents to let them know she was alive. He'd had a devil of a time talking her out of it.

"Yeah, I know," she now said, her voice resigned. She glanced at the front door. "You locked me in when you went out." Marcellus nodded. "And you disconnected the phone." Again, he nodded. "You don't trust me."

"Theresa," Marcellus said with a sigh, "do you think you can trust yourself right now? After what's happened to you?"

"I just…" her eyes closed, and her voice caught. "I just keep thinking of what my mom and dad are going through right now."

They were Theresa's adoptive parents, of course. By the age of thirteen, when the precocious teenager had figured out enough about genetics to wonder how two blond, blue-eyed, fair-skinned Aryans had managed to produce a girl with auburn hair, brown eyes, and an olive complexion, they'd finally told her about their infertility and her adoption, insisting that they loved her as if she was their own. They'd certainly never given her reason to doubt that. Which only made this harder for her.

"They're probably going through a great deal of grief, pain, and anguish," Marcellus told her.

"_So why can't I tell them I'm okay_?" Theresa demanded, shouting in frustration. A tear ran down her cheek.

"Because their anguish would be tenfold if they knew that the organization to which they had devoted their lives was doing its best to hunt down and kill their only daughter. I would rather not put them or Joe Dawson in the position of concealing the secret of your existence from the Watchers. They would live in constant fear that one slip on their part would cost you your life. It's terrible, but it's better that they think you're dead."

"Just like your family thought you were dead," Theresa said sadly, but calming down. "And the way Alodia's family thought she was dead. And every other Immortal's family…"

"Yes."

"Things haven't changed that much, have they?" she said, her voice trembling. Her hazel eyes still brimmed with tears. She took a step towards him. Her hands reached up and pressed against his chest. He gently put his arms around her and held her against his strong body. He'd embraced her several times like this since her revival last night.

"You're not alone," he whispered to her. "I won't leave you alone," he promised.

Marcellus took her left hand in his, gently drawing it away from his chest. He stole a glance at her left wrist, where they'd burned off her Watcher tattoo with some mild acid that morning. It was completely healed, with fresh, healthy skin making it seem as though the mark had never been there. Her hair was dyed dark brown, almost black. She had changed into new clothes, a white blouse and long burgundy skirt; Theresa MacNeil never wore skirts. Marcellus cast an approving eye on the changes they'd made to disguise her appearance.

"You were gone so long," Theresa said, pushing herself back from him. "I was worried."

"I had some errands to run," Marcellus said smoothly.

He removed his arms from her and grabbed his beer again. He saw no reason to tell her about his visit to Andrew Howard. Once he'd determined that the man had submitted his report, which would establish Theresa's death as a fact, Howard's purpose on this earth had been served. The police and the Watchers would explain away the man's death as the first of many in a war between drug gangs struggling to take over the local trade once Albert Lewis had disappeared. Marcellus and Mick Porter had deduced Howard's culpability over a year ago. The Watchers would have taken him out themselves, eventually; he'd simply saved them the trouble. Marcellus would also sleep better knowing the world lacked a former Watcher with a drug empire at his disposal.

Theresa nodded, accepting his explanation. She knew they had to leave town and go into hiding as soon as possible. Though she hated leaving her friends and family thinking she was dead, Theresa wanted to live. She was barely into her first lifetime. And she was gradually realizing that Marcellus truly wanted to keep her alive, and she knew would have to do whatever he said was necessary to stay that way.

"Are you going to be my teacher?" she suddenly asked.

"I thought I already was," Marcellus said with a smile. "Are you _asking_ me to be your teacher?" Theresa hesitated a moment, but then nodded. "Then I accept," he said, and a gentle smile curled the corners of her mouth.

"It was worse for you, wasn't it?" Theresa said a moment later. "Worse than for me, maybe even worse than it was for Alodia. You were alone."

"I don't know how you measure misery," Marcellus said with a shrug. "But it wasn't pleasant."

"That's when it started for you, didn't it?" she asked. "The loneliness?"

Marcellus looked at her, evaluating her yet again. She continued to surprise him with her perceptiveness. She had a way of seeing through his facades, of penetrating his defenses. He'd known only one other woman who'd been able to do that. He tilted his beer bottle up above his lips and emptied it.

"Yes, I suppose," he admitted reluctantly. "But we can talk about that another time. I haven't packed. Once I do, we have to go."

Marcellus walked into his bedroom. He pulled out a large duffel bag from his closet and began to throw clothes and other items into it. Theresa followed him into the room and watched him. She seemed to have a powerful need to be near him right now. Marcellus understood. He'd also craved contact, and comfort, from others when he had first become Immortal. But he had received scorn and rejection instead. Is that when he had begun to bury his feelings from everyone, including himself?

The Roman shook his head. There'd be time for introspection later. He had to get Theresa out of town and disappear before he was assigned a new Watcher—assuming they hadn't done so already. He stole a glance at her, standing in the entrance to his bedroom, leaning against the doorframe, her lovely face so full of anxiety. But full of hope as well. And strength. She'd need it.

"You're sure MacLeod doesn't know I'm an Immortal?" she asked. She'd been racking her brain, trying to figure out if she'd been near enough to any other Immortals to be detected.

"I don't think so," he said as he tossed some shirts into the duffel. "From the way you described it, you were never close enough to him, and he certainly didn't indicate that he knew. The only other Immortal who knows about you is Methos, and he won't say anything. I'm quite sure of that."

"Okay, good," Theresa said. Then her eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open at what he'd said. "_Oh my God_! That _was_ Methos! I _knew_ it! You son of a _bitch_!" She turned around in the doorframe, her hands gesticulating, then turned back to face him. "I don't believe it! The oldest living Immortal! Right beside me, having a _ coffee_, for Chrissake!" She paused a moment and calmed herself. She raised one eyebrow and cocked her head. "He was pretty…_well-preserved_ for a five thousand year old guy…"

"I'm just guessing here," Marcellus said with a sly grin, "but I get the feeling you have a thing for older men?" He turned towards her, his gray eyes narrow as he looked at her through his lashes.

Theresa felt herself blush, then she got a little angry at herself for doing it. She never blushed anymore, hadn't done so since she was a teenager. Marcellus, though, could make her feel like a schoolgirl with a remark or a look, then boom, she went red in the face. Well, she had to acknowledge, he had twenty-five hundred years on her, so maybe she was entitled to feel and act so young. Nonetheless, she felt an urge to change the topic. Something about the two ancient Immortals had been bothering her anyway.

"So…what was that private joke you and Methos had about the Watchers?" she asked him.

"Oh…that," Marcellus said with a chuckle, throwing some socks and underwear into his bag. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me," she said insistently.

* * *

_Rome, 88 BC_

Late one warm day in autumn, in a quiet wine bar near the Forum, sat an Immortal so old he had trouble remembering his own origins. He was tall, dark-haired, and had a handsomely angular face. He wore the long, purple-bordered toga of a Senator and sat quietly, sipping honey-sweetened wine from a ceramic chalice. He sat alone, but was waiting for someone.

Suddenly the Senator's eyes opened a little wider. He sat up straighter in his chair and he looked expectantly at the entrance to the wine bar a few feet away. As a precaution, he moved his hand to touch the hilt of a sword concealed beneath the folds of his toga.

In the entrance to the bar, a figure appeared and entered. He wore a long scarlet tunic beneath a breastplate of shining armor. On his head, encircling his close-cropped dark hair, he wore a grass crown—the highest prize awarded to a Roman military commander. The grass crown was formed from foliage pulled from the field of battle and presented by the commander's own legion as a reward for exemplary leadership and bravery. He had come to the wine bar straight from his Triumph, the traditional parade of victory for a Governor or, in his case, a General returning with hard-won prizes from a new Roman province.

The two men spotted one another; the Senator rose as he relaxed and released his hold on his hidden sword. They smiled, walked towards one another, and embraced.

"Greetings, Methos, my old friend," Lucius Gaius Marcellus said.

"Greetings, Lucius. And congratulations," Methos added as he leaned back to admire the grass crown. The two men sat down at Methos' table, and the older Immortal signaled a nearby slave to bring a chalice of wine for his guest.

Marcellus looked around the wine bar while they waited. "Where's Constantine?" he asked, enquiring about another Immortal Roman of their acquaintance. "I thought he was going to share this drink with us."

"He had to run off to Egypt," Methos explained. "Some problem with the Pharaoh and his court. Again. So he's gone to try to negotiate an agreement."

Marcellus rolled his eyes. "Better him than me," he grunted. He had little patience for the Egyptians, their crumbling, corrupt kingdom, and their constant requests to renegotiate treaties. "Egypt should have been a Roman province by now," he remarked contemptuously.

"The Senate disagrees," Methos responded matter-of-factly. He was one of the disagreeing Senators; conquering Egypt, they felt, would require too much resources and earn them too much enmity in the region.

Marcellus raised his eyebrows. "Give me three legions and two weeks. Done," he said, his hand chopping horizontally to indicate the finality his impact would have on Egypt.

"You've had _four_ legions for two _years_. Aren't you tired of playing soldier yet?" Marcellus simply smiled at him. Methos sighed. "Speaking of which, how were things in Iberia?" he asked, deftly changing the subject once the wine had been delivered and the two men left alone in their quiet corner to talk.

"Challenging, old friend," Marcellus answered as he took a sip of wine. "But rewarding. On the way back, I saw they were starting work on an aqueduct in Segovia. I think it promises to be quite a spectacular one, given the hilly terrain. We shall have to go back and see it some day."

"I hope we shall, though the way things are going, I have my doubts," Methos said, his eyebrows raising slightly.

Marcellus frowned. "What are you talking about, Methos? Some new intrigue in the Senate I should know about?"

The older Immortal smiled and shook his head. "There are _always_ new intrigues in the Senate, but if they were of any great concern to us, I would have mentioned them in my letters."

"What then?" Marcellus asked, leaning forward and lowering his voice. He had known Methos for over three hundred years—long enough to know that the older Immortal only avoided one topic in letters that could be intercepted or read by prying eyes: anything related to Immortals and the Game.

Methos quickly glanced around to ensure no one could eavesdrop on their conversation, then leaned forward and spoke in a lower tone as well. "I encountered no less than five new Immortals during the two years you were gone. _Five!_ It used to be I could go for a century or more without encountering one of our kind. Now scarcely a day passes when I don't feel the presence of another Immortal nearby."

Marcellus nodded in agreement. "I know what you mean. I encountered _six_ while I was in Iberia."

Methos cocked an eyebrow. "Did you take any heads?" He knew his younger counterpart had a greater enthusiasm for the Game than he did.

Marcellus nodded yet again. "Three. One was trying to lead an uprising—no choice there. The other two were too pig-headed to back down. Two more were smarter and went on their way. Oh, and one, I managed to win over. Brought him back to Rome with me; I'll have to introduce you. His name's Darius. He's quite bloodthirsty, I think you'll like him," Marcellus finished brightly.

Methos laughed softly and shook his head. He was loathe to admit it, but there was something about Marcellus and his irrepressible confidence and pride that charmed him, that had won the ancient Immortal over in spite of his general distrust of others of his kind. Marcellus' pride came not from conceit about himself, but grew from his zealous devotion to his hugely successful city and its civilization. Marcellus was convinced that the Roman Empire would last forever; Methos knew better, but at the moment, Rome ran the world, and Methos understood the wisdom of siding with a winner.

"What about you?" Marcellus asked quietly. "Did you take any heads while I was away?"

"No, I managed to talk my way out of things each time, or just disappear down an alley." Though Methos possessed formidable fighting skills, he preferred not to use them. He had lived long enough to know that quite often, victory came down not to skill and experience, but to luck. He had no intention of seeing his run out. "Though I was tempted to take on one fellow."

"Oh?" Marcellus said, his eyebrows rising. He knew of and accepted Methos' reluctance to take heads; it was one reason the two men could relax in each others' company. "Why? Did he want your head that badly?"

Methos shifted uncomfortably and grimaced. "No...he was an ancient _Greek_," he answered, his voice heavy with meaning. "My head was not on the list of body parts in which he was interested." Marcellus looked at Methos, his gray eyes opening wide, and burst into gales of laughter. "He kept following me around the Forum," Methos went on, as Marcellus continued to guffaw and wipe tears from his eyes. "I kept telling him, 'I don't want to fight!' and he kept saying 'Neither do I!' 'Then why don't you _go away_?' I finally said. 'Because I _like_ you!'..." Methos rolled his eyes, earning more laughter from Marcellus, and Methos had to laugh as well.

Eventually, the two men's laughter died down. They emptied their chalices of wine and signaled for more. Their Immortal bodies' ability to repair damage—including that inflicted by alcohol—meant they had to quaff copious amounts of wine to feel its effects.

Marcellus took a deep breath and let it out; then his face grew more serious. "Do you think our numbers are increasing?" he asked Methos quietly.

Methos took a thoughtful sip of his wine and shrugged. "Possibly. The census seems to indicate that the mortal population is increasing, probably thanks to the Roman Peace. Why wouldn't the Immortal population increase as well?"

"I think there's more to it," Marcellus said thoughtfully, holding his chin in his hand. "Our roads, they make the population more mobile, including other Immortals. You and the Horsemen didn't leave Asia Minor for centuries. But now..."

"...all roads lead to Rome," Methos said. "I don't like it. The longer I live, the more attached to life I get. But with more Immortals around, it increases the chances that one day soon..." He drew his forefinger across his throat rather than finishing his statement.

Marcellus nodded. "It does make it difficult to plan ahead," he agreed. "And as you're so fond of pointing out, what if you meet up with the one who's faster, or stronger, or just luckier?"

Both men paused, lost in thought for a moment. Marcellus had no desire to die; he had so much more to do for his beloved Rome. As for Methos, he had no grand plans or schemes, but he was tremendously fond of living. They both sipped their wine in silence, lost in thought for a moment.

"If only we could keep track of them," Methos said.

"You mean like the census?" Marcellus said, frowning.

"Exactly!" Methos said, pointing at his fellow Immortal. "If we could only know how many of us there are...and their vital statistics: their age, years of training, number of kills, movements..."

Marcellus shook his head. "I don't think you'll find any Immortals willing to volunteer that information, my friend."

"No, of course not," Methos said. He paused. "You'd only get it by spying on them."

Again Marcellus shook his head. "How could we possibly spy on one another when we can sense one another's presence?"

"Yes, you're right," Methos said in a discouraged tone. Again he paused, then laughed softly.

"What?" Marcellus asked. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing. Well...I just had the most ridiculous idea. What if we got mortals to do the spying for us?" he said with a smile and a laugh.

"Are you mad?" Marcellus said, his eyebrows raised. He leaned towards Methos and lowered his voice. "_Mortals_? They'd destroy us if they knew about us, you know that! And if they spied on us, they'd find out how to do it quickly enough! The wine's gone to your head, my friend."

Methos raised his hands. "I know, I know! I said it was ridiculous, didn't I?"

Both men sat in silence and drank their wine. They called for more, which the slave dutifully brought to them, then left the two prominent citizens of Rome alone. Suddenly, they both exchanged a sideways glance. They quickly turned towards one another and leaned close together.

"If we make it a sort of mystery cult..." Methos began to say in an enthusiastic whisper.

"Yes, I was just thinking that!" Marcellus agreed, his gray eyes wide with excitement. "There would have to be screenings for members, indoctrination, and a strict set of rules..."

"_Very_ strict," Methos said, nodding. "They'd have to do nothing but observe us, and record our actions..."

"...but they could _never_ interfere!" Marcellus said, finishing Methos' sentence and pointing at his friend for emphasis. The two men paused and stared at each other for a moment.

"This could work," they both said simultaneously. They smiled conspiratorially and continued to make their plans.

* * *

Theresa stared at Marcellus, her eyes open wide in disbelief, her mouth hanging open as he related the story. "Do you mean to tell me," she said slowly once he was done, "that the Watchers...the organization to which I have devoted most of my _adult life_...was cooked up by a couple of _Immortals_, in a _bar_, as a _drunken lark_?!"

Marcellus shrugged apologetically. "Well, when you put it _that_ way..."

"I don't believe this!" Theresa exclaimed, throwing up her hands and letting them fall to her thighs.

"Believe what you want," Marcellus said in an amused tone. "It's how it all got started. We never expected it to last this long, I'll tell you that much. For awhile, I thought the Watchers had disappeared along with the Empire. Imagine my surprise when I spotted someone with that tattoo following me around during the Dark Ages. Could have knocked me over with a feather."

"No. Wait," Theresa said, holding up an objecting index finger. "The Watchers started _two thousand_ years before that, when Gilgamesh..." she glanced at Marcellus, who looked very much like a man trying very hard to avoid bursting out laughing. "What?"

"You people still _believe_ that?" he asked, then couldn't hold back any longer as the laughter burst from him. He fell back onto his bed, hooting loudly, as Theresa glowered at him.

"Joe Dawson told me that!" she declared insistently.

"Oh, _well_ then," Marcellus said between guffaws, "it _must_ be true!" He continued laughing uproariously for several moments. "That...that was Methos' idea," he finally managed to blurt out, as he wiped tears from his eyes. "Stroke of genius, really. Didn't you ever wonder why the Chronicles only date back two thousand years?"

"The older chronicles were lost when..." she began to say when she heard yet another suppressed snort of laughter from him. "Oh, never mind!" She stared at him, her hazel eyes narrowing. "Are you telling me the truth?" she asked.

Marcellus sat up and looked at her. He took a deep breath, calmed himself, and his gray eyes held hers in an intense gaze. "My dear, I will make you this promise right now: from this moment on, I will never tell you anything _but_ the truth, however unpleasant and harsh it may be. You have a long, difficult road ahead of you, and if I'm to be your teacher, I would do us both a disservice if I misled you. I need you to trust in me completely."

Theresa returned his gaze evenly. She looked into the steady gray eyes of the ancient Immortal and realized that of all the beings on this planet, this ruthless, cunning man was the only one she could truly trust now. The thought made a shiver run down her spine.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked him rhetorically.

He answered anyway. "Life is full of choices. The one facing you is simple: either trust and obey me completely..."

"Or...?"

"...or take one of my swords and chop your own head off before the Watchers do it for you. If you can't do the former, do the latter and save us both a lot of trouble."

Theresa smiled and shook her head gently. "Boy, when you said harsh and unpleasant, you weren't kidding, were you?" she said. He only stared back at her silently in response. Theresa looked at him, then nodded. "I trust you, Lucius. I _have_ to. But I won't keep my mouth shut like some meek little novice. I'll do what you tell me to, but if I don't like it, by God, you'll hear about it. And we've got eternity for me to chew your ear off, pal."

Marcellus watched her for a moment, then stood up from where he sat on the bed. He smiled and reached out with his right hand. "Deal," he said simply. Theresa took his hand, shook it, and nodded. "We have to go," Marcellus then told her, grabbing his duffel bag and throwing it over his shoulder.

Theresa nodded in agreement, then turned and walked out of the bedroom with Marcellus behind her. She looked around the apartment as they walked past the living room. "What about this place?" she asked. "If we're not coming back here for a long time..."

Marcellus looked around. "I'll have Methos and Duncan take care of things...sell the place off. You're right, we won't be needing it."

Theresa cast her eyes over to the life-size portrait of Alodia. "What about her?" she asked softly. "Are you going to have her sent to you?"

Marcellus turned to look at the portrait of his long-dead, beloved wife. He looked at it sadly for a moment. But then he noticed the smile, the beginnings of the impish grin on his lost love's face. He smiled back. _Go on, my love_, he could almost hear Alodia telling him, _ live, find joy again, it's what I would have wanted for you_. Then he shook his head.

"No," Marcellus answered, and Theresa's eyes went wide with surprise. "I think I'll have Duncan sell it for me. He still has a few connections in the antique business." He turned to look into Theresa's astounded face. "It's time I moved on," he told her gently. "Time I found something else to live for."

He kept looking directly into her hazel eyes. Her lips parted slightly. She felt her heart beginning to pound in her chest.

"She...was your student too," Theresa said, nodding towards the portrait, "wasn't she?"

"Yes," Marcellus said. "She was."

Theresa swallowed. "Do you think...you and I..." she began to ask, her voice barely above a whisper. Her right hand raised and hovered mere inches in front of Marcellus' face.

Marcellus reached out and took her hand in his. He then clasped his other hand around it as well. Her fingers felt so smooth and soft, so delicate in his strong hands which were calloused by centuries of swordplay. His eyes flickered down to look at her breasts, which rose and fell as she began to draw deeper, more rapid breaths. He looked up and studied her beautiful face, framed by her dark hair: her dark hazel eyes, so anxious yet full of hope; her parted lips, so soft, the slightly thicker lower lip giving her the appearance of a mild pout. He longed to press those lips against his own, to feel once again the joy, the thrill of love, the relief from the bleak loneliness of his long existence.

But doing so now would break the delicate bond of trust that was just forming between them. He could not allow her to believe he had any ulterior motives. She had to believe he cared for nothing but her well-being. Only then would the lessons take; only then would she come through the transition to life as an Immortal with her humanity, her inner beauty, and her pure heart intact. Though he wanted, _needed_ to draw her to him so badly, he knew he could not. The relationship of teacher and student was not one of equals; the relationship between two lovers had to be.

But he could wait. He had lived for over twenty-five centuries. It had taken him the first thirteen to find true love. What price was the passage of time, in exchange for a second chance? There was one tremendous advantage to being Immortal: it taught one patience. She would learn that too. He smiled at her.

"Ask me that again," he said, "in ten to twelve years." And thus began the lessons.

* * *


End file.

Highlander, Adventure, Romance