IMPORTANT AUTHOR'S NOTE, READ BEFORE CONTINUING: With University and Life getting busy and in the way, I know there's no way I'll actually get around to finishing the entire crossover Epic that I'd originally planned. BUT! I know how horrendous it is to follow a fic that doesn't have closure. So, here I present to you: what I had written four Chapter Four, as well as all the notes and extra scenes that I'd written up for the entire story outline. I found everything on my old computer, and figured I might as well dish it out now rather than forget about it again and let it rot on an unused harddrive. A few of the points in the storyline are fleshed out quite a bit, but most are still in my head; it doesn't stray too far from the skeleton structure. If anyone fancies taking up where I left off, be my guest. If anyone likes any particular plot point or idea and wants to use it in their own fic, be my guest. I hope you, my lovely reader, might find something that sparks off a good plot bunny! I'm very sorry I couldn't continue this story, but it was far too large a project to commit to with everything that's been going on, and there was no point in kidding myself any longer that I might finish it completely.

That said, on with the show!

The Fifth

Chapter Four

Wake up. Breathe in. Burning. Cool. Colder. Numbing. Eyes close. Everything black.

Wake up. Breathe in. Burn. Cold. Numb. Eyes listless. Blackness.

Wake up. Breathe. Burn. Cold. Numb. Black.

Wake up. Numb. Black.

Numb. Black.


Mind screaming. No breath to sound it out. Focus – deepdarkwaterheavydrowningdrowingdrowning – FOCUS. Science, technology – years and years of life years and years of drowning water surrounding blackness-

Focus. Face; eyes kind, smile warm. Beautiful. She – Alcmene –



Gold eyes peer through memories. Pierce through soul. Scalding anger. Hate, obliviating.

Gold eyes rake their claws in deep. Hate. Anger. Weight of years upon years of madness.


Har – Zeu – Hera –


Wake up. Blackness, surrounding. Don't feel anything. Don't see anything. Lungs don't try to breathe any more. Then, everything feels that little bit warmer. Eyes close. Numb. Black.

Can't – can't – have to focus, can't lose… Can't – Water weighing mind spinning memories slipping cold away –

Wake up.


Everything slips away.


3862 BC

Something sharp pokes his side repeatedly; a sudden push, and he's on his side – and water spills up his throat and he coughs it out and he has to remember to breathe. A mantra in his head pounds; focus, one two: in, out. In, out. In, out.

Squinting in the dark, he looks to his side and sees a moist rock that he's been swept into by the current. He stares, and then looks up – to a sky with stars in it and he looks down and sees water and realises that something isn't quite right.

Then he realises that he forgot to think about breathing, and the world turns black again.


He doesn't know how long it takes him to concentrate on breathing enough that he no longer stops if his mind wanders. He doesn't know where he is, except that there's hot sand beneath his feet that rubs his skin raw the wrong way. His feet feel too small and his legs too short and his voice not quite deep enough. He knows he woke up in a river and he's been following it for two days now, and only stops when a young girl scampers over the horizon and heads straight for him.

"Who are you?" She asks, sun-burnt hair long about her face; and the world feels like it's tilting on its side, because she's taller than him and for some reason that doesn't feel right.

"I don't know," He says, and startles himself with his honesty. His words echo the twang of hers, and it tastes different yet familiar against his tongue.

"Every person has a name," she says smugly, and waits for his answer. Impetuous youth, he thinks, then considers the question and finds he can't quite get his thoughts around it.

"I think I may be many people." Images flash through his mind - hints of different names and sounds and cultures of people. It makes his head hurt.

A grin lightens her face. "That sounds like – like a... mystery! We don't find many puzzles out here. A riddle; what one name is many people? Do you have to solve it to find your name?"

"I… No. It's…" More things flash through his mind; impossible things. Things that can only be supernatural explanations for natural phenomena (and he doesn't know how he knows this, either). Gods and things which quake like demons flash in his mind; things that sound like they could only exist in a legend, or in a "Myth," He says, and wonders why the hint of deities and otherworldly beings tickles the edge of his senses.

"A myth? Well, if that pleases you." The girl takes his wrist and draws him away from the water, and in the distance he begins to see shapes of other people. The precocious little girl smiles at him, as if he is a new toy or pet for her to discover. "Then I shall name you Methos."


The girl's name is Shani, and Methos knows she saved his life from being lost in the desert. Her curiosity may have led her to him, but her strong sense of responsibility made her drag and introduce him to her parents, speaking of gifts from gods and waxing reason after reason for him to stay, all of which Methos knows she made up on the spot. Shani had a theatrical spark, which she used fondly with loud expressions and stern manner to keep her siblings in line.

She was the oldest of four siblings – now five, with him – and quite happily bossed him about. Methos let her, because without her he'd be lost. Shani had smiled when she helped teach him how to speak right and showed him how their family survived, and comforted him when he cried for his loss. Because that was all Methos had; a loss of something deep and searing within his soul, and Shani felt responsible to fill it.

Methos also had two brothers and another sister. Shani had judged them all together once, not long after she'd first brought him to them, and nodded to herself with collected confidence.

"Yes, that's right!" She said, grinning at him. "You're smaller than Shu but taller than Yafeu – and since me and Shu are taller than you and older, that makes you the second oldest boy." She frowned at him and Yafeu, tilting her head to her side. "Yafeu's four years old and Shu's six. I think that makes you five!"

Methos scowled at her. "How old are you, then?"

"I'm seven. Which means I'm the oldest, so I'm in charge – mum said so!"

Methos felt like arguing back – because really, he felt much older than five, but it wasn't something he could really explain. He couldn't remember anything from before Shani found him at the riverbed. But, he reasoned to himself as he looked up at Shani, he was smaller than his brother Shu, and since so was Yafeu and Masika and they were both younger than him… He guessed that meant he must be too.

He was glad that Shani had decided to go exploring that day; without her, he doubted he would have found the oasis that the family lived in. He probably would have died, wandering alone in the endless desert.

Methos had nightmares, most nights; dreams that seemed to encompass years and years but when he woke up slipped away in seconds. He dreamed of men with painted bodies and dark skin; of huts, and birds and a strange, enthralling freedom within the colour blue. Ghosts of waters weighing down on him, endlessly suffocating, whispers to his subconscious; yellow, horrored eyes and the name Harry teasing the edges of his memory.

Methos would wake up in a cold sweat, the weight of amnesia frightening, and would mark each year he spent here in the desert on a slab of thin but sturdy, flat rock. He never again wanted to forget how old he was. He didn't want to forget who he was, either – but in the dead of night, half-way between sleep and consciousness, a deep searing, burning anger caught in his throat and it scared him; what kind of person was capable of that level of darkness?

Methos wasn't sure if he wanted to remember.


3832 BC

When he was approximately thirty-five years old, the oasis at which his family lived ran dry. He was horrified for all of them that what they needed to survive was gone, but in the back of his mind he felt strangely glad; water, in any deep form, terrified him. He had been a part of this family for thirty years, but still the only memories he had of before still lingered – fragments of wet darkness and the pressure of the ocean, suffocating, entrapping, binding him to the current; and then long, blurred hours of the cold as each wave wrapped over him, caressing his flesh with freezing fingers that scratched at every corner of his body, and he would be carried on the surface of the sea and he would stare up at the stars, unable to feel anything at all – and he would wish for the darkness to take him over once more so he didn't have to face it all over and over again.

A shudder would run up his spine at the very thought of it; being near water, he would gag as the memory of it feeling hard like ice forcing its way through raw lips and slipping like a knife down his throat; so cold that it burned his stomach before it froze his lungs.

Slowly, Methos let the heat of the desert sun pierce through the film of memory and anchor him to reality; carefully, he wrapped up his family's small provisions in the thick cloth that they used to shelter them from the arid sands, and with a thick rope secured it to his back.

Securely winding his cowl around his head, he followed Shani as she set off, leading the family. Where before there were seven, now there were six: their father Madu had passed away two years before. He had shown them all what he knew before his passing, and Shani took her role as the next responsible eldest with stubborn determination. She knew the way to the next oasis, and would lead them all. Their mother, Mandisa, had yet to recover from her husband's death: a shell of her former self, she spoke little and ate less; thin and fragile she followed along silently, head bowed and form bent in resigned defeat.

Methos frowned at the sand as he walked, holding a heavy cloth wound around him tightly. Looking at his family, a pang hit his heart; they're all grown up now, but he still felt like a lost little child.

He prepared dinner for all of them that night under the cooling desert, and dug them a place to sleep in the still warm sand and propped up their tent. While everyone else went to sleep though, he stayed outside; looking up at the skies and thinking that the stars didn't seem like they were in the right place – like they'd drifted somehow, since before he could remember. When he went to sleep, it wasn't an easy one; whispers of a coming tragedy teased at the edge of his mind.


It came at them two days later, without warning; the wind swept up and suddenly the sand was whipping around them, burning them with every edge. Methos is scared – they're trapped beneath a dune with a sandstorm raging towards them. A hand grips his, and he looks up into Shani's face, looking as terrified as he felt but with a weary resignation. His fingers tighten, and he stares at her as long as he can – then everything turns red and hot and suddenly, he can't breathe anymore. He screams and cries, but he's drowned out by the sand.


3825 BC

Methos woke to the sound of a blade sharpening. Eyes still closed, he focused on the sound of the metal slipping against wet rock. He felt warm, nestled in blankets; his limbs felt weak, the taste of sand bitter on his tongue. The last thing he could remember of the storm was a hazing pain, before blackness overwhelming and then – nothing. Methos frowned as he tried to remember – he'd promised himself he would never, ever forget again – but all he could see in his memory was glimpses of heat under the pressure of heavy, crushing sand that rubbed him raw and choked him inside and out.

Methos stilled as the realisation hit him. His family – they'd been trapped in that sandstorm! There was no way anyone could have survived that. Did that mean…? Had he died? Was he dead?

There was a sharp sound then, that startled him out of his thoughts, and he opened his eyes to see a man staring down at him, placing down a rock and a knife onto the floor. The man's skin was darker than his own, and thick black hair fell about his head. He was dressed all in white, except for the patterned red cloth that was tied around his head – protection against the desert sun, Methos knew. The man continued to stare at him, bearded face hard but curious.

"I wonder," the man started in a voice like grinding gravel (and Methos wondered how he could understand him, because those sounds that shaped the man's words were not the kind he had grown up with), "What kind of man still lives after we dig him out of the sands?"

Methos remained silent, not knowing how to continue. The other man leant forward, elbows resting in the crook of his knees. His gaze was piercing.

"You," the man continued, "are a stranger. But you must understand my predicament," he said as his hand drifted back towards his knife, "that strangers here are not welcome. Especially not strangers that can survive being buried in the sands. What kind of stranger are you?" He paused, but not long enough to wait for an answer, "What are your intentions to my people?"

"Your people?"

"You are staying with the tribe of Banu Ghatafan."

"Could I speak to your elder? I mean no harm – I am willing to prove it."

The man let out a short, bark-like laugh. "No, I will not let you near our Sheikh; not until I understand who you are."

Methos opened his mouth to protest, but was cut of by a shake of the other man's head. "Me against my brother," he said, and it felt to Methos as if it were the beginning of a chant. "My brothers and me against my cousins," the man continued, "then my cousins and me against strangers.

"You are a stranger. What is your purpose, here?"

"I am no stranger. My name is Methos."

"We are Bedouin. What are you?"

"I am – was, from a small family that lived in an oasis. The oasis ran dry, and we moved on – but were trapped by a sandstorm. I fear they are – dead; like I should be, still trapped in the sands."

Methos dropped his gaze and clenched his eyes as the truth of the words hit home. Again, he was alone.

The man studied him for a moment, before nodding. "I will take you to the Sheikh. He will decide what to do with you."


3760 BC

He had to leave the Bedouin tribe when it became evident that he wasn't aging. It had scared him at first, when he realised it had been twenty years and still he lacked the wrinkles and whiter hair that grew on others his age; looking into the reflection on his blade one day, and actually seeing that he hadn't aged rather than just knowing he hadn't ever since he'd been trapped in the sandstorm had frightened him – because it was unnatural and however long he'd been staying with this tribe, he was still a stranger, of different descent. From then on he kept his face covered and tried to match his movements to those of elder years, but then he and the tribe had realised that sixty years had passed and he should have been dead by now.

So Methos left the Bedouin tribe that had helped him get back onto his feet after his grief; he would explore the lands, and try his best not to be found out as an ageless being. He feared that only the will of an evil spirit was keeping him alive – why else would someone as odd and undeserving as he still live? No; if anyone had deserved to live, it was Shani.


Methos travelled wherever he could; along the long plains and by the dead sea, he passed camps and tribes and learnt a little of what he could along the way; different ways to hunt, sew, cook, and survive. He climbed the landscape to Petra, in all it's sheer stone glory with Nabataeans nestled in the bowels of caves, where he lived for many years learning to carve into the stone walls that protected the camp's location – and where, following instinct, he found himself chipping away into the stone's surface odd markings that took a little out of him every time he made one, but seemed to resonate in power; markings of protection, of fertility and growth.

He couldn't stay with groups of people all the time though, and as he wandered he had to live within the wilderness and surrounded by fauna; he would hunt large beasts that would hunt him in turn, predator-sleek and spotted black on golden fur. He'd taken camels from Bedouins and ridden them across the mountains, sleeping with them for heat when the sun went down and the icy chill would spread. There were other animals in the desert too; ones smaller than the gold-and-black beasts with longer snouts and large, pointed black ears with vicious sharp teeth; others with small but stone-hard feet that clattered against the mountainsides with stumpy tails and long, curved, sturdy horns. There were small lizards with blue heads and necks and large lizards with fat tails and toothless jaws. Little golden mice scurried under the stones, so quick and agile that he never could quite catch one.

He was once killed by a black snake that struck at him when he accidentally stepped on it, hood flared and maw wide and reaching before he could react, burning venom spreading through his arm and shooting straight to his heart. He'd woken up with a sharp gasp and the feeling of his lungs almost exploding with the desperate need for oxygen, realization stinging at the fact that not only would he never age but that he was also so wrong for this world that not even death would take him. After he'd calmed down, he'd heard furious spitting to his right.

"What! But I bit you! I wasss going to eat you!"

"What?" He startled, looking around for the person who spoke (who had apparently killed him?), only to find the black snake that had lunged at him before he blacked out coiled anxiously near him, head bowed and hood flared.

He stared at the snake, and it stared straight back at him. Could it…? No, no way.

The snake moved, ready to spring again. "Maybe I ssshould bite the ssthing again,"

"No! Don't do ssthat!" Methos quickly replied, startling himself at the underlining hiss to his words. It took him a few moments to process the fact that the snake had just spoken. As in, he could understand it.

The snake looked quite stunned. "You ssspoke!"

Methos had to disagree. "No, you ssspoke – you jussst did it again!"



"Ssthere you go again, human! You're ssspeaking!"

"Of courssse I'm ssspeaking – but you ssshouldn't be able to,"

"Don't be sssilly, human. I've alwaysss been able to ssspeak. But I've never before heard of a human being able to ssspeak the ssserpant tongue."

"I'm not ssspeaking ssserpant tongue – it isss ssthe language of Sssinai."

"Lisssten to yourssself, human. You are not ssspeaking any human tongue."

Methos was startled at the possibility, and focused his mind on what he'd just said – and realised that his mouth hadn't been forming the words he'd thought he'd been saying.

He was stunned. Had he actually just been speaking another language – the language of snakes – without even realising it?

The snake hissed a chuckle, "It wasss an honour to meet a human that could ssspeak the ssserpent tongue and resssissst our poissson. I will have to tell my nesssst matesss about you, ssspeaker."

The snake hissed a farewell as it slithered off, and Methos hissed one back, sitting there and massaging his arm in shocked confusion. Life – or whatever it was he was going through – just got a whole lot more interesting.


The first time he realised that his strange language acquisition was not focused solely to snakes was when he travelled for three months with two camels. One morning he woke up to a rumbling groan near his left ear that startled him awake and he froze, keeping silent and still. Was he being ambushed?

"Bored," came a rather low, languid voice.

"Me too," came a rather solemn reply.

Nothing else was said for almost five minutes; the whole time, Methos didn't move and kept still. He did not want to alert them that he was awake. They might try and kill him, and he wasn't quite willing to risk death by man any time soon. Something about other people with blades put him on edge.

"Hungry," came the rather low, languid voice again.

"Me too," came the rather solemn reply again.

Methos opened his eyes, knowing that they were behind him, and wondered what the hell was going on.

Ten minutes later the solemn sounding one started speaking. "Good, you here now. You and me talk. All other suns with man no one talk. You and me no bored we talk."

Methos wondered if maybe something was wrong with either him or whoever was next to him, but he decided it was time to act. Quickly, he sprung to his feet, sword drawn – only to find that the only ones next to him were his two camels. They looked at him, blinking slowly. One of them yawned. Seeing no one about, he stared oddly at the two animals, before shaking his head and rubbing his eyes. He took a sip of water and tried to go back to sleep. Maybe he'd spent too much time in the sun.


The next morning, Methos woke up early, still slightly jittery from the odd dream he'd had the night before. He shook his head, trying to wipe away any traces of any downright bizarre thoughts. He looked at the camels and sighed. They looked too dumb to speak, anyway.

"C'mon," he said, as he tugged at the reigns of the closest one, shifting the pack closer. "Let's get an early start."

The camel raised its head, lips pulled back as it bared its teeth, rows of slabs like whitened stone.

"What?" Methos asked, annoyed with the camel that didn't want to cooperate. He hadn't actually expected an answer.

"Tired. Walk lot when sun rose last. Sleep now." It came out low and lumbering, a softer voice than he would have imagined.

Methos gaped as it huffed at him, then lowered its head and settled back to sleep. Well, damn. Either he hadn't imagined what he'd heard the other day, or there was seriously something funky in the water.


Methos discovered that, if he consistently heard a language for several months – be it human or otherwise – he would somehow learn it; and something about him allowed his voice to act in ways inhuman, causing him able to make the same noises as animals, producing sounds that he'd never thought possible for a human (did that mean he wasn't human?). He couldn't remember ever spending any lengthy period around snakes though, and thought it must have happened before those years of memories he'd lost to the sea.

Methos decided he never wanted to ride another camel again. They didn't talk often, but dear lord they were the dullest creatures he had ever encountered. At least snakes could hold a conversation.


3000 BC

Methos settled down in the Sinai region where he met and married a nomad girl with long, black hair and a strong, beautiful face. He'd been with other women before, some of which he'd knowingly – and sometimes unknowingly – also married; he'd loved each one of them in their own way, but this women was different; the kind you'd only find one of in a century – in ten centuries even; this woman was like magic, and his love for her sang in his veins. Her smile eased his troubles and her laugh made them disappear. Whenever he was near her his legs felt a little weak and his heart beat that much faster, and he felt impossibly young and human around her.

He was with her for ten years, never able to giver her a child; it pained him and he could see how much it saddened her; but never once had she even thought of leaving him for another, more capable and worthy man, despite how much he protested. She was a wonderful woman that deserved all that life could give her; she would have been a wonderful mother and should have had a family of her own, and Methos felt guilt for not being able to make that happen.

She only smiled at him and took his head in her hands, kissing him gently whenever he tried to persuade her that she should leave him for someone else (because there was no way he could ever leave her); and she would tell him, in that sweet way of hers, that he was worth all that life could give him and that no other man would ever be as good.

He shared with her his secrets; his seeming immortality, how he didn't know his origins; his time with the Bedouin tribe and all the tribes after, and even his ability to talk to animals. She delighted in his talents, warming him from the inside out as she reassured him that nothing he was capable of doing made him seem any less human in her eyes. She said he was a gift from the gods, and over time he almost found himself agreeing with her – for, he felt, only a god could have created a woman so understanding and lovely as her.


Methos would, later in life, come to realise how everything fell in patterns and waves of cycles. He would see the end of all things and the end of things as he knew them. His world would end more than once, and each time he'd pick himself back up and start anew because it was all he could do.

For the person known as Methos who had already experienced the tragedy of a family torn suddenly away from him, he woke up one day to the world ending with the sound of people screaming.

Their homes were burning and the people were burning and people all around him were screaming and dying. He rushed out, sword in hand, to find their tribe swarming with Egyptian soldiers. He fought as fast and as hard as he could – but there were just too many. "Why!" He shouted, voice hoarse, at the soldier that gutted him.

"For the Pharaoh," The man snarled. "He smites all you nomads, you demons!" The man twisted his sword and yanked it out and the floor gave out from under him. Methos tried to breathe but something hot and wet caught in his throat and his stomach felt like it was burning.

Somehow, he managed to curl onto his side and twist his head to look around – and saw with growing horror that no, he had fought for nothing – because the women and children hadn't gotten away and there was his lovely woman with long black hair lying on the ground and looking back at him with tears in her eyes as she tried to smile at him and tell him it would be okay.

Then, her body jerked horribly and her mouth open and red spilled out and she looked like she was trying to breath in everything but the air. Methos felt numb and light headed as everything blacked at the edges.

All light in her eyes withered as his whole world died with her.


Breath burned down his throat and he struggled to open his lips, turning his head to the side with a raspy groan. His hand, feeling almost numb and useless, scrabbled against the earth; fingers dug into the soil and gripped. His heart beat a pain into his chest and light began to colour his eyelids.

The hand against his stomach flexed, slipping against his slick skin and feeling smooth flesh. He cracked open his eyes and looked down at himself and saw the congealing pool of red. He raised his fingers to his lips and dusted off flakes of blood.

His blurred vision snapped into clarity.

A marbled face looked back at him; white and blue and slack in death, stained crimson and broken.

Methos looked away. That corpse was no-longer his wife.

Methos felt numb to the hollow of his core. He dragged himself to height and staggered to his feet, swaying in the midmorning sun.

His head tipped back as he stared out into the blue of the sky. He let hate fill his soul.

The sun beamed down on him. Rage tore through his throat.

His cry of grief echoed through the lifeless sands.


He wandered the desert for months, allowing the bitter winds to drag him in their wake. Not once did he eat or drink; he let himself waste away against the heat. Still he walked on, gaunt and sickly thin but still full of strength, still able to go on.

And then one day he came upon a tree, a dark shadow in the distance. As he came closer, it began to rise above the sands in an arch that seemed to stretch forever. He reached the base and carefully rested the skin of his palms against the rough grooves of the bark; felt the patter of life seep into his pores. He looked up into the branches and caught the speckled light through the leaves. A beam of light, filtered through the growth, hazed through his sight, warm and misty and smooth like silk. He looked up and thought the tree was at least sixty feet tall.

From the folds of his shirt he withdrew a short dagger and cut into the bark. He gave it one sharp push, then cupped the gash with his hands and felt like he had spoken. A brief dazzling heat bloomed beneath his fingers, and then a trickle of liquid spilled out from the tree; Methos leant forward and lapped at the milky sap and thought it was the sweetest thing he'd ever tasted.

A branch dipped above him, and he looked up into the deep purpled green of the fig. It twisted neatly off the tree with a grasp of his fingers. The fruit blushed with health and split open in his palms with a slice of his nail. The heart of it gleamed at him in bruised cream. He looked into the reflective moisture and glimpsed the blue face of Death.

Then suddenly, there was a shout behind him that rocked him from his daze, and he turned to see a farmer and something wooden aimed at his head.

He lost consciousness beneath the sycamore and dreamt of having sat upon the tree.


Methos had been caught stealing figs, and it was decided by the man who'd knocked him down to bring him before the Pharaoh for judgement. Methos rode in a wooden jail that creaked forward on wide wheels, sat with other thieves and beggars. They were a sorry lot; thin and grubby with clothes that peeled like second skins. The men that herded them across the plains were pleased in their cruelty of caging them like animals; they would be rewarded for catching criminals.

Methos felt the numbness that had pervaded his most recent waking days sharply ebb away throughout the journey; felt a tang of life, kindled by the taste of fig that brought vengeance as the edge of his mind's blade; it poised, swaying between his anger in general at those soldiers who killed his wife and the one responsible for it all happening.

He grit his teeth at the thought. Pharaoh. He'd heard of those; men who played at the hems of the divine and rose above the throng of civility and ruled the ranks of people.

Methos turned his head against the rough cage and pressed his skin against the gap. "Who is the Pharaoh?" He asked.

One of the men that held the chains spat at him. "Nomad scum," he twisted from a twisted, bitter face. "You'll see Pharaoh Djer soon enough."

Methos turned his head back and let his dark thoughts lap at him, and turned the imagined likeness of the Pharaoh inside and out inside his head. Djer, his darkness promised. He wouldn't soon forget.


As they finally reached their endpoint, he saw great stone temple walls in the distance that seemed to soak in the sun as they loomed with sheer presence. They passed mud brick houses cobbled together, becoming more sturdy and elaborate as they reached through the streets towards the more privileged. Light music of airy tones and plucked harmonies drifted through the streets and the people as they moved about, snatches of jewels catching the light in every direction.

And then it felt like all of a sudden, he was dragged along by armed, muscled men, hands gripping him tight and pressing down the flex of his back until his knees buckled under him and cracked heavily against the floor.

As he forcefully knelt, something new crept along the edges of his senses; a growing static of something creeping into his awareness. It made his head throb as it approached like the tide, steady but full of erratic potential. It jolted against his thoughts and made a twinge flash down his spine like lightning.

He tried to crane his neck towards the disturbance, but fingers twisted into his hair and dragged his head back down, pushing his hunched body into a semblance of a bow. The facsimile of subservience grated at his manner and increased the discomfort he felt at the presence; it felt like scarabs were scratching just underneath his skin.

"look at me," a deep, commanding voice said, and the fingers in his hair grasped and pulled his head back, until he finally met the eyes of the man he'd wanted to see.

The biting weight of the other man's – presence? Spirit? Aura? Power? – subsided with the connection. Methos took in the image of the pharaoh; splendour dripping across each limb, connecting jewelled cloth that fell around his waist in waves. Cloth of black and striped gold framed his face, which gleamed clean and strong and smooth. His eyes were as black as that which framed them, stretched out slanting and regal. A definite sneer set his features, as well as a look of something different, something other.

Djer. Methos bristles, burning anger straining at the edges; he wants to lash out, to lance and stab at the scab of a man before him until nothing remained but cold satisfaction.

The Pharaoh studied him, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes. "Guards," he intoned, "I will speak to this one later. Take him away and keep him there until make use of him."

The guards bowed, and the drag against his hair and body twisted and heaved him up, marching him away; eventually he arrived in a small pit-like room, in which he was thrown in and left with a guard to watch him.

Methos was curious. Normally criminals were immediately sentenced; slavery, if able-bodied; execution if not. Without connections, exceptions were rarely given.

Later, word came back to him and he was taken from the room and back to the Pharaoh, who sat upon a throne and regarded him with calculating eyes. He made a gesture, and the guards left them alone in the room.

"What is your name?" Djer asked. It was not a question; it was a demand.

Methos bit down a snarl; for now, he would play nice. He might be able to turn whatever situation this was into his advantage. "Methos," he answered.

"I am the Pharaoh Djer, and long have I lived without meeting many like me. Our kind are a rarity."

Methos wanted to question what on earth the other man was on about, but kept quiet; one did not question or call out the Pharaoh if they wanted to be regarded with civility.

"I am an immortal being, Methos; and that feeling, that connection we held upon our distance ensures me that you are an immortal also."

"What?" Methos couldn't help but ask.

Djer seemed amused. "Ah, you are young, yet; I see your lack of comprehension in your eyes. Tell me; have you ever died, Methos? Passed beyond this realm, yet still found your way back?"

Methos didn't say anything, but apparently that was enough for Djer.

"That feeling in the back of your head when you were around me – it is the ultimate locator for another immortal."

"How can you be so sure?" Methos said.

Djer smirked. He rose, and stood before him, a hairs breadth away. "I can see it in your eyes," he said.

Then, there was a quick jolt – a flash of movement – and Methos felt the breath jump out of him. He looked down, and saw the handle of Djer's knife protruding from his body. He tried to speak, but the words died breathless on his lips. He fell before the pharaoh as the light dimmed and he felt himself die.

Not again, he groaned.


Methos woke with a strained, painful gasp. "What the fu-"

"Now, was that so hard?" Djer spoke to him, an obscene, stretched smile slit across his face.

Methos sat up, rubbing his chest.

"There's your proof," Djer said, "Come, my brother. We have much to discuss."

Methos eyed the hidden guards, then took the proffered hand. He'd wait, and see what this madman wanted.


Methos bit back an incredulous snarl, and plastered a blank look of awe on his face. "... The son of the Falcon God," he said, repeating what Djer had told him. Blasphemy, he thought; your miserable facsimile of immortality could never be the scion of true divine power.

"That I am," Djer continued, lounging and drinking deep from wine as servants catered to his whim. "I have ruled Egypt since time began. And I will rule until time ends. As Pharoah, I was chosen by the Gods; my immortality is a gift of their blessing." He reagarded the other man over the rim of his glass. "... and yet, you have been blessed with it aswell." He hummed, swilling the liquid. "You will be my protégé,

((and here is where I stopped writing this chapter. And now comes the convoluted, fuck-long "notes" that includes several fleshed out scenes and an epilogue. Also, please keep in mind that all the notes and scenes are all first drafts! I apologise! It was quite a while ago that they were written.))

Djer believes himself to be the son of the Falcon god and states that he has ruled Egypt since time began. Instead of punishing Methos, he makes him his protegé and plans for Methos to be his successor. Methos has other plans to avenge his wife's death. One night, when Djer is sleeping, Methos shoots him with a poison dart, and before he revives, binds him in burial wrappings and places him in a sarcophagus, thereby dooming him to spend eternity as a mummy. The next morning, he becomes the new Pharaoh of Egypt.


He hears the voice of Anubis behind him, who implies that he know all that he has done. (If I weigh your heart – I wonder… There is so much darkness in you, my Pharaoh; so much death. I like you, my Pharaoh; but you should not forget your place.

You should not forget yours!

Methos reached for his sword for the second time that night, but was stopped by the sudden buzzing in his head of an immortal. Anubis laughed beneath his mask.

Run, my Pharaoh. Run away, and don't come back until you see sense!

Methos looked into the eyes of the Jackal's head, and as the other man's head tilted to the left, the buzzing of another immortal stopped. Methos gasped, as he realised who had been giving that feeling. "What – what are you?"

More than you could imagine as you are now. I might even tell you, one day; but not now. You are weak and not yourself. Go.

Methos snarled, but inside something crept up his spine. Fear. He looks at Anubis as the other steps forward into a beam of light – and realises with a sharp horror that it isn't a mask of a Jackal on his head. Dark fur creeps up the other's neck and his maw is stretched back revealing two rows of sharp teeth clenching in a parody of a grin. Dark animal eyes pierce into his soul as the Jackal's ear twitches. Anubis' whole body leans back and shudders with a laugh and Methos wonders what kind monster or demon or spiritual godly being this thing is, both immortal and not, at the same time?

He leaves and doesn't look back.


2400 BCE (He kills Joseph in a violent disagreement by chopping his head off, and doesn't know how the lightening appeared, and when he wakes he finds himself in the care of Menahem; asking Menahem about the lightening, Menahem replies that he's only witnessed it himself once before when an immortal friend of his became beheaded in an accident; Menahem calls it a 'quickening', and gave Methos his theory that by taking it from another immortal you gain their power and skills, as well as some memories.

"Are you going to take my head?"

"Why should I? There's no rule that says I should. You need to be careful, though; I've been around a long time, and there are rumours that there's an immortal out there who's discovered this too, and finds the whole debacle amusing; he's making a game out of beheading his own people, of all things! It's disgusting, and the man is a lunatic. I'd best teach you how to wield a sword, in case you come across him or any he has influenced; he's like a disease, and this idea of playing a game of immortal versus immortal looks to be spreading."

"I don't understand. Why would he want the memories of another immortal? And what would the power do? Make him heal faster? We already can't stay dead! What's the point?"

"Do you remember what happened when you took the quickening?"

"I – no, I don't."

"I remember what happened when I took mine. It's euphoric, Methos; it feels like nothing else. After I took it, I felt like I could fly; like nothing could ever stop me. Like I was a god."

(Methos shivered. No, he didn't like the sound of that. )

He finds he can already wield a sword, although does not understand how his body can remember whilst his mind cannot. He tells Menahem of how he was found washed ashore, and the other immortal theorises how that must have been his first death, but the way in which he died – and might have stayed dead for so long under the waters – could have damaged his memory. For a long time, Methos believes that he cannot remember anything from before his 'first' death. It is only after he kills Logan/Remus that he realizes how true it is, in that it is with his first death that he began to forget who he truly was.


2400 BCE-2100 BCE-Methos first meets Kronos and his friend Silas, who share his distaste for mortals. Caspian later joins their band. Silas proposes an idea to use their power and immortality to wreak havoc among mortals. They become known as the Four Horsemen and raid the countryside for several hundred years. On one raid Kronos takes the head of an Immortal living in a small village. After that, Silas and Caspian long to experience it for themselves. Fearing their betrayal, Methos leaves, avoiding contact with immortals for the next few years.

Meets Kronos, rage snapped because of similarity in name to one which he inexplicably hates, although the similarity also draws his curiosity. He finds it easy to follow orders from a man named such, although he does not no why (he spent many years trained to do so).

Becomes horseman. Insert terrible years of violence. Finds himself enraptured by it, revelling in it, losing himself to a terrible instinct that tells him that he his superior. That he is a God. He sees a woman that looks like she who found him ashore, and he suddenly notices his consuming rage, and realizes how similar and terrible it is. It frightens him, to realize that he cannot control it.

(Sees Kronos behead an immortal and take his quickening…)

"No! Kronos – why did you do that!"

"Can you not feel it, Methos? The power of it – running through my veins, it's fantastic! It's fun!"

"It's not fun – it's killing our own kind!"

"It's a game, Methos, didn't you know? We're all playing it! Ha ha. "

(the words that echo Menahem's chills him)

"No – Kronos, I don't know what you've heard, but it's not a game."

"Don't be so naïve, Methos! It's a game because I made it that way. I was the first, you know, to realise its potential – each time I take an immortal's life, I feel so much stronger. I wonder what would happen if one person took the power from all the other immortals?"

"You – you can't –"

"Oh, don't worry, Methos. We're brothers. I wouldn't take your life – what's the fun in having the power to rule the world, if I'm dong it all alone? Besides, you're the tactician. I'll need your help."

In a pillage, stabs a child – and realizes, looking down on the young, shocked face, that he has never hurt a child before. The shout – No! Remus! REMUS! – and the other young boy that hysterically punches and screams at him – startles him awake and he thinks nonono – this isn't right - (Hercules, his mind whispers)

"you killed him! You – yuh you killed him! You demon! You monster!" – it is only as the swipes sting that he realizes the child is now using a dagger or sharp weapon of some kind, and so pushes the child to the ground, who scrabbles for his dead brother and cries protectively hunched over the body. Methos stares, and for the first time the cries grate at his soul. And then looks at the child, and sees sharp, bloodstained nails shaped more like claws. He looks back –

"my brothers, I should.. I should go back to them.." And turns to the children, and thinks that he must kill them. But as he prepares to do so, the dead child heaves a great gasp of air and wakes up, confused and no-longer wounded. Methos is shocked – was this another immortal? But no, he couldn't be. He didn't feel like one, nor had he felt a pre-immortal in the area. The other child is just as surprised, and they both look fearfully up at him. Methos stares, "it seems the Gods have blessed you children. It is a sign from the spirits." He does not know why he says such, but he believes it to be true. He kneels down to their level, - Death will not take you this day. – He realizes that if he does not to the deed, his brothers will. And he thinks that he does not like the idea of them killing him, of one of his brothers eating them. He feels like they must be safe, and so he rides with them on his horse and travels for days and days. They do not stop, but once they do, He lets them go – "wait, sir. I can't… I can't look after my brother alone". – Romulus looks shamed at this, but Death – Methos – smiles. – "Then I must follow the spirit's will as they intended. I will look after you. You shall be safe from Death."

The messenger spirits visit him that night, and heal his mind enough to remember and understand. He realizes how his quickening killed the Goa-uld, but in attacking his most weakest part – his vulnerable neck – it still managed to spread it's influence and damage him. They are his first children, and they are with him when he remembers his past. They are still young yet, and so her raises them as he would a member of his tribe


Worrying that he might forget everything again, he rights down everything he can remember and stars a diary.

He teaches the children how to fight as they stay on the move. Romulus, the eldest (12) realises that Methos has a certain purposefulness when he choose their direction; he confronts him, and Methos admits that they're going to Egypt – he has unfinished business there. (thinks of Inpu's transformation etc)

John Watson = Inpu, Ancient Egyption

("Do you believe in magic?"

Shocked by the statement, methos could do nothing but bark out a startled laugh.

"Magic! If only the world were so wonderful."

Inpu didn't laugh; his face, deadly serious (although a hint of a smirk played about his lips). "Have you ever done anything that you cannot explain? Acts which do not quite fit into the rules of the norm?"

"I… well." His face paled, pasted milky white as memories, sudden and brought upon by the direction of his thoughts bombarded him. "I am Shaman. Well – I was, a long time ago. I haven't been a Shaman in many years."

((Come now. Surely you didn't believe you were the only immortal with magic, did you?))

As Methos puts the boys to bed at night, (Would you tell us a story?). "There was once a god named Zeus…"


realised along the journey that the two boy's mutation affected them mentally, too – without a routine of meditation of some sort, their animalistic instincts took control

Takes the boys with him to visit Greece. Hears the myth of Hercules and frantically tries to find out more – and cries when he sees how Hercules is depicted wearing his lightning bolt symbol.


Rome's early history is shrouded in legend. According to Roman tradition, the city was founded by Romulus on 21 April 753 BC.

The legendary origin of the city tells that Romulus and Remus decided to build a city. After an argument, Romulus killed his brother Remus.

when Methos tells them of how he used to be known as the god Zeus and founded Greece, the brothers decide they want to build a city too.

When in a pub, a scribe buys them drinks, saying that he thinks they look interesting and that interesting-looking people usually have equally interesting tales to tell.

(Oh? And how exactly do we look interesting?" Snarled Romulus as Remus scowled.

Methos rolled his eyes. "Where are your manners, boys? Honestly, it's as if you were raised by wolves.))

Romulus wishes to build the new city on the Palatine Hill but Remus prefers the Aventine Hill. They agree to determine the site through augury. Romulus appears to receive the more favourable signs but each claims the results in his favour. In the disputes that follow, Remus is killed.

(Methos sighed. "You know he's never going to forgive you for this."

Romulus scowled. "I won – and he knows that! Besides, it's not like he was going to stay dead. And he would have killed me for the city, too!"


Methos becomes curious as to what become of Romulus' city and so decides to go there and experience the culture as a native

Becomes Marcus Antonius (in Latin: M·ANTONIVS·M·F·M·N[1]) (c. January 14, 83 BC–August 1, 30 BC), known in English as Mark Antony, was a Roman politician and general. He was an important supporter and the loyal friend of Gaius Julius Caesar as a military commander and administrator, being Caesar's second cousin, once removed, by his mother Julia Antonia

Cleopatra, arranging his burial services, did so with a means for him to get out. He found a letter addressed to him, sealed with a kiss, saying that his death – however brief – showed her that she could not live a life without him, as she understood he would have to live a life with her, a long and lonely life. She did not want him to see her grow old, she did not want him to see her die. And so, in the letter, she bid him farewell; and hoped that it would be many centuries, at least, before she saw him again. She had shown him a different side to magic, and she told him to live and learn and experience what she, an unmagical mortal woman, never would. He respected her wishes, heartbroken, and was long gone when he heard news of her death. She had loved magic, and in respect to her he sought it out, spending the next thousand years travelling and learning.


Skims over how he travelled the world and learnt different forms of magic in memory of Cleopatra, before travelling to England.

900 AD

(his last name is ravenclaw)

meets Rowena, she adores him. Falls in love, and is the first woman other than Cleopatra to seduce him first. He finds himself revelling in her similarity to the other woman – her passion, her intelligence, her wit. He helps her build Hogwarts, as she persuades him to teach wizards and witches runes like he taught her. Deep in work, though, he calls her Cleopatra, but does not even realize his mistake. She slaps him, feeling broken-hearted at how he only loved what she represented. He tries to argue that it was only the similarities which first attracted him, but that he loves her in her own right, but she wants nothing more to do with him after learning that his love was based on a lie. She forces him to leave, and she dies of broken heart as the man who meant everything to her does what she says. But of course he would always do as she asked, and again it reminds him of Cleopatra as she dies not long later, although this parting feels bitter and full of sorrow rather than the understanding love that he and Cleopatra shared. He later hears of the travesty that happened to her children, and feels guilt for the last time. (you guys who watch Highlander carefully will understand from the hint what comes for him next)


1330 AD

Becomes Nicolas Flamel (French pronunciation: [nikɔlɑ flaˈmɛl]) (early 1330-1418) who was a successful French scrivener and manuscript-seller who developed a posthumous reputation as an alchemist due to his reputed work on the philosopher's stone.


Meets a little immortal girl and realizes that she can do magic. He adopts Perenelle, realizing that she is the first magic immortal that he has seen in all his life. He teaches her in the same way he taught Remus and Romulus, and she attends Beauxbatons Academy of Magic. She dies when she is twenty-two, and rushes home in shock, only to find that the man who raised her is immortal too. It is her idea to use alchemy to create the philosophers stone as an excuse to be able to keep the same persona for much longer, and as he stops himself aging, when introduced someone they believe that the pair are married, since they share the same surname. Perenelle decides it's a funny idea and milks it, much to Nicolas' embarrassment and displeasure.


She says she wants to adopt, saddened as she is by her inability to have children of her own. He does not want any, uncomfortable at the idea of people believing that he shared a child with someone whom he thought of as a daughter. He is tired of outliving the people he loves, and she leaves when he admits that if he had not known she was immortal then he would not have saved her from the streets.


He feels at a loss for what to do with his life now without her presence, and decides to do something to stop himself from dwelling on her and feeling guilty about yet another woman in his life. He majored in medicine at the University of Heidelberg in Heidelberg, Germany, in 1453.



He goes back to his large house in the south of France, to find that she just came back with a boy in tow, and he finds out by finding a pre-immortal quickening in a guest bedroom of his rather large house. He follows her own quickening – having left it till later, since he was able to recognise it – and finds her determined to make him appreciate the love a family can bring.

Bringing up Jack, found by a kindly old man named Johnathan, a shepherd, who had a touch of the Sight to him, he realizes she is right, and that it is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. (oh my god, such a lame pun. But I'm a huge fan of the punny, so would definitely sneak that line in there somehow.)

(She smiled at him, tears pricking the corners of both their eyes. "That sounded almost poetic, old man."

"Hmm, you're right," he grinned, winking at her, "I'll have to tell it to a proper poet, if I remember it.")

((If I had finished this story, I would have tried my best to make Methos the source of as many historical jokes as possible.))


Becomes Benjamin Adams (December 16, 1764 – March 28, 1837) was an American lawyer and politician. Adams was born in Mendon, Massachusetts in 1764. Benjamin Adams grew up in Mendon, which was then a rural agricultural community. He was well educated by existing public schools in that community.

He was also known as "Ben Adams" when he moved to Arizona around 1860. Stays for twenty-six years.

Goes to England in 1886. In 1894, meets Inpu (John Watson) in the streets. They talk, and Methos sees Sherlock, realising he's a pre-immortal. Inpu knows this too and plans to be his teacher once Sherlock has his first death – jokes how with all the reckless things the man does, it's a miracle it hasn't happened already.

Inpu tells him of a child that he and Sherlock rescued the other day. Not a pre-immortal.

"What makes you think I should concern myself with her?"

"My pharaoh, it's no coincidence that our paths crossed today. You should remember, I'm still that being you first met – and I saw her soul… It is remarkably similar to yours."

"Similar? How so?"

"Hmm. Like a familial relation. With the amount of genetic variation and cross-breeding that all the mortals do, I normally wouldn't have bothered, but since it's you, I thought it was worth keeping an eye on. Do you want her?"

"I… Yes. How old is she?"

"She just turned four."

(Comes back to Perenelle's house in 1894 with young child in tow.)

Perenelle looked down at the young child asleep in his arms, then scowled up at him, arms folded and looking wholly unimpressed. "I thought you were just going to Arizona?"

"I was. I mean, I did – then I felt like travelling for a bit, and, well… Come on, she's adorable. And four years old. A witch. No parents, no family, no home –"

"Alright, alright!" Perenelle sighed, her gaze softening as she looked down at the little girl. "She's not immortal," she warned him, a touch of concern for him in her voice.

"I know," Methos murmured, turning his head to kiss the child on her forehead. "But this child… The first time I saw her, she seemed familiar, somehow; my blood, my magic, it recognises her. She needed my help, and I was able to give it."

1890 – the young girl (witch) is born, then adopted by Methos in 1894


1899 – Dumbledore, 18, seeks apprenticeship with Flamel. Learns alchemy and together discover 12 uses of dragons blood. (Dumbledore laughed at him for his white hair and beard – the 'old man' look Methos sports when 'Nicholas Flamel') (oh, come on! It's not a long beard. – It's still hair, on your face. You have a hairy face.)

(Methos meets Grindelwald when he comes to visit Albus to see how he is doing and to meet the person his friend has been working with. Methos does not like Gellert, and doesn't like the way Albus hangs onto the boy's every word.)

1900 Perenelle finds Albus and Nicholas sniping and arguing at each other, having gotten stressed out over their research and constant closed-quarters. She tells them off and forces them to go out on holiday and catch a breather from eachother and their work.

On another "adventure" in Flagstaff, Arizona, Methos faces being hanged at dawn, but is rescued by the Sundance Kid. Later, he Butch Cassidy and Sundance attempt to break into a tough vault.

Albus persuades Flamel to send his daughter to Hogwarts in 1901, where she meets Anthony Potter. (Methos previously sent all his children to Beuxbatons, not wanting to be reminded of Rowena's death that he feels guilty for).

World war I - 1914 to 1918. All that shit with Grindlewald. But how much would Methos get involved, beyond what he already did in the original Highlander timeline?

He is elated by birth of grandchild to lift up his spirits after the war, since the Potter's met before the war, and her then boyfriend had to fight in it Since he had a squib brother that was joining the army and he couldn't leave his baby brother in a war alone. They married straight after the war. a man she admittedly felt attracted to at first because of his name, as the stories he told all his children as bedtime stories were tales of his past. After she marries him, Methos tells her of how the stories were true, and that he was in fact once known as Harry Potter. She names her child after him (BORN 1921), and none of them realize that Harold Potter is in fact Methos' biological grandfather.

World War Two – again, question of how Methos might interact with it beyond original Highlander timeline.


Between 1980 and 1996 he was known as "Adam Pierson."

Methos goes to James Potter's wedding as Nicholas Flamel, looking in his late fifties with a short beard. – it was well known that the Potter's were close family friends with the Flamels, although no-one but Dumbledore knew just how close. finds that there's something about Peter that he doesn't like.

1979 – starts to feel strange, doesn't like what he feels from the Wizarding World or the war with Voldemort. Starts setting up a new life for Adam Pierson (miles and miles away, Lilly Potter nee Evans grinned happily at the results before her. She was pregnant!)

1980 – Harry Potter is born

1981 – Wakes up during the night on Halloween with his scar bleeding, having witnessed the death of Lilly and James through the scar's link. The next day when he gets the Daily Prophet, is horrified to learn that it wasn't a dream like he'd tried to convince himself. When he hears about the kid's lightning bolt scar, he puts himself in deep meditation and remembers his first five years of life, finally knowing where he really came from, although he doesn't feel entitled to it. Harry is innocent and pure; Methos is the amalgamation of the depths of human depravity, and the hard path of redemption.

Goes to their funeral, and is furious when Dumbledore won't reveal the location of Harry Potter. (even though he knows he can't visit, because he doesn't dare test time travel laws, especially realizing what a monumental impact he's already had on history.)

Finds out about Sirius' incarceration without a trial – breaks into the Ministry and gets the information he needs. Sneaks into Azkaban with veritaserum and questions Sirius then and there – and, when finding out he's innocent, apparatus him out.

("We can't just leave Azkaban! It's Azkaban!"

"It's fine, I'll apparate us out."

"But – you can't, it's warded – "

"Please. I'm Nicholas Fucking Flamel. Like any wizard's ward is going to stop me.")


1984-While a student in ancient languages at Oxford, Methos is recruited by Don Salzer to join the Watchers as a historian. He does so, and graduates sixth in a class of 103.

1984-1985-Methos works as a historian in the Watchers.

1985-1987-Settling in Paris, Methos works as a researcher in the Watchers under Don Salzer and the two begin to work on an interactive database.

1987-1996-Methos becomes the Watchers' top Methos scholar.

1991 – Harry Potter should have gone to Hogwarts. Perenelle calls him, tells him how she'd felt like updating her wizarding education so had gone as a muggle-born (as a girl named Hermione), and wants to keep an eye on what's surrounding their stone. Can't believe how idiotic Dumbledore seems to have grown from when they first knew him, announcing to a school full of children about a corridor of death!

She complains that he should have de-aged too and come to Hogwarts with her as Harry Potter because she's bored and lonely.

(" How did you -?"

"Please, Nick. I've seen that scar of yours hundreds of times – you never bothered to cover it up at home, did you? I've known since the first description of baby Harry Potter came out ten years ago in the Daily Prophet. Dumbledore's looking for you, you know. ")

Methos is furious when he finds out that Dumbledore destroyed his stone without asking, saying that it was for the greater good and that it had to be destroyed else Voldemort get his hands on it.


1992 – becomes curious about the Chamber of Secrets when Perenelle calls him and tells him about it. Goes to Hogwarts pretending to be Hermione's godfather and Nicholas Flamel's son, as he knows that Dumbledore would recognize him. ('Adam Flamel', incase he's spotted by anyone from Hogwarts when he's in his Adam Pierson persona). Says that he's worried for Hermione and doesn't trust her safety with Dumbledore since he's the man who got his dad's stone destroyed, and let a Dark Lord into the school on the back of a professors head.

(Oh, dad's fine. But he certainly doesn't want to see you.)

("But – you're muggleborn!"

"Yes, I know. But my dad and Uncle Adam went to school in the south of France and grew up near each other – I always go there in the summer. Of course, dad didn't know that Uncle Adam was going to Beauxbaton's Acadamy for magic until Uncle Adam saw me do my first accidental magic when I was four.")

Explores the school, and managed to locate the Diary by the dark magic that resonates with his scar. Writes in it, and manages to find the Chamber of Secrets. Makes sure the Basilisk can't get back out into the school (really, what would be the point in killing such a magnificent creature?) rather likes the idea of having a pet basilisk. Keeps the book so he can analyse it, but doesn't write in it anymore


In 1992 he may have had a brief meeting with Connor MacLeodbefore the elder Highlander went into the Sanctuary.

They have a drink together in a pub? (Goddamn Highlander, you're such a boy scout. Thank the spirits there's only one of you. (Connor grins wryly, but doesn't comment. Methos feels a deep foreboding, and mourns that his life is never simple.))


1994 – Perenelle calls him and tells him how his name came out of the cup – and apparently, it's a magically binding contract, so if he doesn't compete he'll lose his magic! (Bullocks, thinks Methos; he's far older than that stupid cup. He'd certainly never given his permission to be tied to a magical contract, so there's no way it works) His curiosity is peaked though, so he goes to Hogwarts as a spectator for the tasks, having been invited to watch them by his goddaughter.

(You've been hanging out with Viktor Krum?

Of course! It's good for interrelations, you know.)

Is not exactly fond of Krum when he realizes after the second task that he's more than just a friend to Perenelle, as he views her as his daughter and good friend.

Promises Hermione to keep an eye on Krum in the third task, so when he sees Krum get portkeyed to an unknown location he gets his magic to latch onto the magical signature and apparatus to the graveyard. Stuns Pettigrew before he can do anything to Krum, who is lying unconscious.

(Krum gets to cup first – Cedric still at disadvantage from bad interaction with dragon – didn't know they were coming)

"IMPERIO!" Methos casts. (Very angry when he recognizes Peter) "Tell me what you were planning to do." (Pettigrew tells him about the Horcruxes) He takes his basilisk venom-coated sword and beheads the Voldemort creature with it.

Wakes Viktor up to check he's okay, then re-charms the Cup and sends him back.

Apparates back to his home, takes the book from the shelf and stabs it with the sword. With a deadly smirk, he focuses his magic inwards to his scar and realizes that he can use this connection to Voldemort to apparate to all the other Horcruxes.

Sheaths his sword and gathers his magic. Good riddance to that madman.

(write him finding each one? focusing his quickening on his scar and forcefully directing it with his magic and think sharply that it is wrong and foreign and should be destroyed as an intruder to his body, just like a Goa'uld symbiote.


(Because life goes on, even after Voldemort.)

March 1995- Methos meetsDuncan MacLeod after he learns that Kalas has killed Watcher Donald Salzer.

1995 – The pre-immortal (now immortal) 'Jack' that Perenelle adopted is Jack O'Neil from Stargate. Charlie O'Neill dies by accidentally shooting himself with Jack's gun. Jack retires from active duty. A few months later, Jack is recalled to active duty to be a part of the stargate programme. Around this time, Daniel also presents his theory on aliens and pyramids.

1995 – Jack: So, I'm getting divorced. But you'll never guess what I've been up to, old man…

(Methos tells Jack about being Zeus, and what he knows about the Goa'uld.)

1996 – the horsemen return arc dun dun dunnn


Early 1997 – Jack is back in the Stargate programme.

(intermingling between Methos and Jack)

add in a bit of Sirius, who had found Remus Lupin days after He'd escaped from Azkaban. Methos finds his name funny, especially as he can tell he's a werewolf. They came to visit him in Joe's bar. Methos decides to let Joe and some of his immortal peeps in on magic.


1998 - Meeting Remus Lupin (properly, rather than just seeing in the Potter's wedding) reminded him that it had been quite a while since he'd heard from the first children he'd raised. Tracks down Romulus – now "Sabertooth" from X-men storyline (film version?) – and literally beats the sourness out of him. Find out about Remus'(Logan/Wolverine) memory loss. (Damn it – why didn't you contact me? You know I would have helped you the second I found out.

Snarling – "He don't want no help – fucker should get himself out of his own mess!"

"He's your brother!"

"Yeah, he was my brother – we fought neck and neck together for fuckin' years but he showed his fucking true colours when he went soft on me and left" –

"He went soft on you? Soft? That's not how I raised you! Don't let your animalistic side control you, Romulus. "

"Yeah, well, it fucking gets harder to control the longer it goes on – the more I grow, the more it does too! If I didn't fucking meditate loads like you taught me when I was a kid, I would have lost my mind completely by now. … I'm doing the best I can."

"With amnesia, has Remus forgotten that he needs to meditate?"

"Nah, I checked. It's like a muscle memory or something, because I've seen him practicing meditation on the go when he's training or on that stupid motorbike of his."

Romulus promises that he'll keep an eye on Remus, but says he would have done that anyway even without the old man interfering.

Methos gives him his number, says if he ever needs him, and tells him where he usually goes.

("I'm going by Adam a lot, these days."

"I'm going by Victor."

Adam rolls his eyes. "I'll have to tell you about Perernell's new boyfriend, sometime.")

Methos hadn't actually expected Romulus to take him up on his offer so relatively soon, but figured that Wolves were generally pack animals, and without having Remus as company, Romulus must have grudgingly sought him out. Claims he was 'passing through the area' and remembered he'd find him thereabouts.

Methos tells Romulus about the research he's been doing on ways to heal from Adamantium brain damage, and says that finding ways to counteract the metal is hard (because it actually has very high magical qualities?), but that he's onto something that would take a while to work out, but seemed like a viable treatment option.


2003 AD – clone of Jack O'neil.

clone comes to Methos, thinking that as a clone he wouldn't be thought of as a son but goes to him as the only person he knows to be able to change the way he looks (can't stand looking like someone he thinks he isn't). Methos hugs him hard – "do you remember Perenelle tucking you in at night? Do you remember me teaching you how to use a sword?"

"Yes, but those memories aren't mine –"

"Memories are funny things. If I lost all my memories, would I still be me?"

"Yes, of course you would, but –"

"But nothing boy, hear me out. I once did – lose all my memories, I mean. But I wasn't myself afterwards; I was a horrible person. I was cultivated into a despicable thing – nothing like what I used to be. Then when I got my memory back… I remembered everything, but it was like they didn't really belong to me; this was a different person, and I felt like I was stealing his memories. But they were mine now, and I took what I could – because those memories made me a better person. I've experienced a lot of things, son, and it took me a long, hard time to learn the truth; it doesn't matter what you are or used to be, so long as you try to be the person you want to be. As far as I'm concerned, you're my son as much as you ever were."

("How about John, after the Shepherd who found you?"

"Sure. John… John Sheppard. I like it.")

("but I – the other me – his current legal name is John now –"

"Oh, as if legality ever really had a true impact on either of us. You deserve to keep that connection to your past – a connection to the you that makes you who you are. Names are important; they are representations of the self, they keep you grounded when everything else changes. Why do you think people know the name of Methos? It would have been much simpler to stop using it entirely a long time ago, especially if I wanted to stay unnoticed. But I didn't, and I feel like it forces me into a better man – keeps me connected to my past.")

Methos makes John a potion that will permanently alter his appearance, doing so on a genetic level – if a sample of his new DNA was taken, the closest match to Jack O'Neill would be a relationship as distant as cousin, at best.

Methos helps John forge new identity papers now that he's got a new appearance (and conveniently ties off the paper trail of what the government had made for the clone), and ages him a few years, making it seem as if John had already done his airforce military traininig – ("I just did my bit in school, I need to get back out in the action. Airforce is good; there's no feeling quite like flying.")

2004 AD

John Sheppard flies Jack O'neill to the stargate base. Is loving the fact that Jack doesn't recognize him – especially since they were both suppressing their quickening so other immortals wouldn't sense it (a trick Methos taught them after their first death).

("Goddamn * insert name of dart thing * "

Jack pulls out his gun. "Wait, how do you know what that was?"

"Ahh, come on Jacky. Don't you recognize your own brother?"

Jack stares in confusion. "You're not Romulus or Remus." He paused, then squinted his eys and tilted his head. "Wait. Are you?")

2005 AD – Methos gets himself onto the Atlantis project as a linguist/historian/anthropologist.


2005 – with the help of Ancient technology, manages to produce a potion that combined science and magic, that would not only fix what the adamantium bullets did to Remus' brain, but restore the memories he lost because of it.

goes back to Earth, finds Remus – now 'Wolverine' – with the x-men. Knows he can't just sneak up behind the man and inject him with the solution. Standing at the gates of the school, he remembers how he first met Xavier, through his friend Eric…

(Que flashback of helping young Eric (Magneto) in the war as Benjamin Adams, and telling both of them that his immortality was his mutation.)

Goes in and meets Xavier, tells him that he heard what had happened to a good friend of his – a fellow immortal mutant, and believed he'd created a solution to help. (Xavier's a good man and wants what's best for all mutants – sometimes, being upfront works out better than being sneaky).

Gets help for amnesia cure from Inpu, since he's the only doctor that Methos would trust with one of his children so badly injured and in such delicate matters.

Inpu = now going by James Wilson. Sherlock = now Doctor House.

At end of chapter, visits Joe and Duncan. Thinks about the stargate program, atlantis, mutant evolution and the progression of magic after the war with Voldemort. Understands that the world was changing, would keep changing, and the best he could do was prepare for it – and help his friends prepare for it too along the way.

"So. What do you think about Aliens?"


Sometime in the not-too distant future… (Stardate: whatever)

Methos felt he had the right to be a rather grumpy man. True, life still delivered the most amazing surprises; technology now was advanced enough that he was able to have his very first genetic child – his darling Joanna – but her mother, understandably, became rather upset when he told her he was immortal. Horrified by the idea of him living long after she passed away, his wife – now ex – had divorced him and left him in the dust, unable to cope with the idea of an immortal man in her life.

Methos scowled as a woman forced him out of the cubicle and towards his seat. He didn't really want to be here. Ever since he had once drowned for almost four hundred years, he'd developed a rather bad phobia of being on water, which translated rather horridly to ships. Which, of course, meant that he felt irritated and terrified on any type of ship - especially ones crafted by only human technology. A headache started to worm its way between his eyes; no, he did not trust human technology hurtling its way through the blackness of space, with its capacity for dumbfuckery and that terrible moment of 'oh, sorry Methos – I only remembered to bring one parachute! Since you're immortal though, you'll be alright, right?'

No. He did not like flying in human technology; he much preferred Asgard, Ancient, or heck, even Goa'uld ships. They, at least, had already had several millennia to work out the kinks. Humans, though, had only relatively recently begun space travel. And humans were just too unpredictable with the – well, the human element to mess up the slightest things.

Unfortunately, things weren't looking any better when he was shoved in a seat next to a pre-immortal that had the bluest eyes he'd ever seen and that horrifying, terrifying aura of Highlander-self-sacrificing-boy-scout that promised to drag him into many, many 'adventures'.

Methos felt like throwing up.