Changing of the Guard
By Ecolea - ecolea@wt.net

                         *******************

Includes: Changing of the Guard
          Changing of the Guard 2: The Ninth Chevron
          Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be
          Changing of the Guard 4: The Road To Hammelcar
          Changing of the Guard 5: Terms of Engagement

                         *******************

Changing of the Guard
By Ecolea - ecolea@wt.net

RATING: PG-15

WARNINGS: Language and mature themes

SPOILERS: All of HL & SG1

CATEGORY: Highlander: The Series  Stargate SG-1 Crossover 

SUMMARY: Methos' plans for a little Research and Recreation take a 
decidedly dangerous turn when the Air Force discovers he's an Immortal. 
Can he survive the present, confront his past, and save Earth's future 
all at the same time?

CHARACTERS:: HL: M, DM, JD  & SG1: JO, SC, DJ, T, GH, JF, JC

FEEDBACK: Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious character 
assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net

ARCHIVE: All ready sent to Seventh Dimension and Heliopolis. All others 
go for it.

DISCLAIMER: None of the characters in this story belong to me and I'm 
not making any money. So, please sue me. At least that way I can maybe 
get on Oprah and have the other 7 minutes of my 15 minutes of fame.


AUTHOR'S NOTES: Many thanks to Arameth for guidance, assistance and 
quibbles. And Karoshi, for painlessly picking out the nits. Everyone 
should be so lucky!

For Estella, who deserves more and better.

                         *******************

Changing of The Guard
By Ecolea

The planet was your typical desert dream world, Colonel Jack O'Neill 
thought. Sun, sand and more sun. Oh, and hey, how about a little more 
sand? He yawned in the heat waiting patiently while Daniel and Carter 
did their scientific thing on the only remotely interesting structure in 
the vicinity. A sort of step pyramid, or ziggurat about half a mile from 
the Stargate. It was the only thing left on P4X37 that wasn't covered 
with sand. Long range reconnaissance showed a handful of other 
monolithic structures, but no people. Over the millennia the planet's 
orbit had shifted fractionally, making what had once been a marginally 
habitable planet into a giant sand dune. Whatever civilization had been 
here, was now long gone. A condition Jack hoped to find himself in 
fairly quickly.

"Come on, kids, let's get shakin'!" he called out. "It's way past your 
bedtime!"

Teal'c grunted quietly, his broad face impassive as sweat gleamed 
brightly on his dark skin. He too was displeased with the amount of time 
they'd spent here. Chulak was a moderate world of pleasant climes and 
this desert heat was annoying.

"Hold on, sir!" Samantha Carter called out, her voice echoing from 
inside the building. "Daniel's found something!"

O'Neill glanced at Teal'c and shrugged, nodding in the direction of the 
entrance. "Shall we?"

Teal'c raised an eyebrow, indicating the decision was the colonel's.

With a sigh, Jack headed inside just as the sound of heavy stone grating 
against stone resounded through the cavernous interior. There was a 
scuffing sound and then a shout, followed quickly by a scream and Jack 
raced forward, following the last echo. 

"You two okay?" Jack called down the narrow rectangular opening in the 
floor, where a pair of blond heads could dimly be seen among the tangled 
limbs.

"We're fine," Carter called up.

"Yeah, fine," Daniel wheezed. "I broke Sam's fall." There was short 
scream, followed by groan of agony.

"Uh, sir," Carter reported. "I think he broke more than my fall."

                         *******************

"Ow! Come on, Jack! Have a little sympathy here!"

"Wuss," O'Neill muttered as he helped Daniel into his apartment. "Hey! I 
had that spear thingy in my shoulder and I was pretty cool about it, 
while you guys went off and...and translated or something. So, don't 
tell me about pain. It's just a broken leg."

"In three places! And a dislocated shoulder," Daniel added sullenly.

"This isn't a contest," Carter complained, easing Daniel's good arm from 
around her shoulders as Jack lowered him to the sofa.

"Well, he could've stayed at the SGC." Despite his seeming annoyance 
Jack carefully shifted a few pillows until Daniel was comfortable.

"At the base? For six weeks?" Daniel asked, looking shocked.

Jack only shrugged while Sam went to fetch a glass of water for Daniel 
to take his pain meds. "So, have you given any thought to the general's 
suggestion?" she asked as she returned, handing him the glass.

"About a replacement?"

"It's not a replacement," Samantha reminded him. "They wouldn't be going 
through the Stargate with us. Just assisting in the translation of all 
those tablets you recovered."

O'Neill snickered. "You mean all those tablets we recovered, along with 
Daniel here."

Both his friends frowned and he sighed, slumping down in a chair.

"Well, we do need another translator who's actually competent," Daniel 
muttered. "And I do, or did know this guy back in grad school, Adam 
Pierson. He was a research assistant in the Near Eastern studies 
department, working on his Ph.D. in Proto-Cuneiform. If anyone could 
translate those tablets it'd be him. He dropped off the radar a few 
years back, just before Katherine approached me."

"Think he'd pass muster?" O'Neill asked curiously.

Daniel tried to shrug and winced. "Don't know. I think he's British, or 
maybe Canadian. Nice guy, actually. Pretty laid back. I don't think he'd 
be any kind of security risk, if that's what you're asking. And he's the 
best when it comes to what we're looking for. Absolutely brilliant 
mind."

"So why drop out of sight?" Sam wondered.

"He was painfully shy. I mean, he never publishes, never applies for 
grants. The last time I saw Adam was at a symposium in Paris. He said he 
was thinking about taking a job for one of those obscure foundations 
that's funded by big corporations in need of a tax write off. Said 
they'd let him work out of his apartment."

"Sounds like a real winner," O'Neill sighed.

"Well, I liked him," Daniel insisted. "And he's open minded. The kind of 
guy, once you get to know him, that really means it when he says he's 
your friend."

"So he didn't turn his back on you when you went out on a limb in the 
scholarly community?" Sam smiled.

Daniel carefully shook his head. "Not Adam. He once told me there was 
more to history than mere mortals could probably imagine and that if I 
were right it would mean a whole new way of looking at the past. He was 
a good friend when I really needed one."

Jack nodded slowly. "Sounds like a stand up guy. Okay," he added getting 
to his feet. "We'll tell the general. He'll get security to check him 
out."

                         *******************

"Are you sure about this, Methos?" Joe Dawson asked dubiously.

"It's only for a year, Joe. And the work will be really interesting," he 
responded. "Besides, it's not like I'm doing anything at the moment, now 
that I've left the Watchers."

"Pretty boring between lives, huh?"

Methos shrugged. "It is what it is. And Arizona is nice this time of 
year. Paris is so damp in the winter."

"Old bones aching?" Dawson grinned.

The other man smiled. "It'll be a paid vacation for me. You know, do a 
little translating, catch a few rays, party with the undergrads at 
night."

"Aren't you a little old for them?"

"I'm a little old for everybody," Methos grinned into his beer. 

Joe shook his head and finally sighed. "All right. It's not like I can 
stop you."

Methos gave him a kind smile. "Remember, it's only for a year."

"A lot can happen in a year," Dawson cautioned.

"Not from my point of view," the ancient Immortal reminded him. "And 
anyway, you know where to find me if you need me, right?"

Dawson nodded. "U of A, huh? Good school?"

"So I've heard. Although I'm more interested in its sun bronzed 
beauties."

Dawson chuckled and went back to wiping down the bar, chatting up the 
other customers as he watched Methos depart. Maybe it would be good for 
the old man to get away from Paris for a while. Ever since Alexa had 
died he'd been pretty quiet. More so than usual. Ah hell, Dawson 
thought, it was only for a year.

                         *******************

Methos dragged his exhausted body down to the baggage claim area. The 
flight from Paris to Chicago had been tedious to say the least. Then his 
connecting flight to Tucson had been delayed, canceled and delayed again 
to finally arrive eight hours late. He was tired, wrinkled and feeling 
particularly grimy after wearing the same clothes for the better part of 
two days. If it hadn't been for that truly interesting photocopy they'd 
shown him of one of the tablets he would be working on, he'd have called 
it quits and gone home.

Still, he'd never seen writing quite like that before. Something similar 
to Sumerian proto-cuneiform, but not. Interesting indeed. It was 
definitely a puzzle. And he liked intellectual puzzles. It had, he 
reminded himself as he pulled his luggage from the carousel, given him 
the first jolt of excitement he'd felt in years. Working on his own 
chronicle and reading what early Watchers had thought of him had been 
mildly amusing, but it was certainly not entertaining enough to hold his 
attention for long. He wasn't that much of an ego maniac! And besides, 
he'd already skewed his chronicle enough to make finding him nearly 
impossible. Especially now that they were looking for a short, hairy, 
dark skinned man who loved to surf and spent his days sailing the seven 
seas in search of the perfect wave.

Then, out of the blue he'd gotten this call. Recommended by Dr. Daniel 
Jackson, who was apparently held in high esteem by his new employers. 
Interesting in and of itself. Daniel, for all his brilliance, was 
considered a flake and for years had hung about on the fringes of the 
academia. Not by choice, as Methos had done, but because his ideas were 
just too extreme. The pyramids 10,000 years old and of unknown origin? 
Even he'd had difficulty wrapping his brain around that one. The fact 
that he didn't remember them being built and that they'd always just 
sort of been there, had gone a long way toward convincing him to treat 
Daniel with a certain amount of respect. And there was, of course, the 
boy's marvelous ability with dead languages. Something no one in the 
community would ever dispute, though they would have very much liked to 
from what he recalled.

With an internal shrug at the vagaries and politics of academic life, 
Methos went to find the exit. According to the travel plans he'd been 
given, a car was supposed to be waiting for him. Of course, that was 
eight hours ago and he didn't exactly have an address even if poor Adam 
Pierson could afford to splurge on a taxi. Just a phone number with a 
contact name in case he had any problems. He'd called and left a message 
right before leaving Chicago, but who knew with universities. They 
tended to be terribly disorganized when it came to such things from what 
he recalled.

The glass double doors slid open as he stepped within range of the 
sensors and the warm dry air of the Arizona desert enveloped him. He set 
his bags on the pavement and looked around, surprised when he spotted a 
large black sedan with tinted windows in which the name Pierson on a 
white placard had been placed in the front passenger window. He started 
to reach for his bags and the window rolled down a few inches.

"Dr. Pierson?" a deep male voice called from the shadowy interior.

"Yes, I'm Adam Pierson," he acknowledged, relieved he wouldn't have to 
loiter on the street while waiting for transport.

"Leave those, I'll take care of them."

A soft click came from the right rear passenger door as it unlocked and 
Methos reached for the handle with a sigh. Just a little while longer, 
he thought, and he could have a nice hot shower, crawl between a clean 
set of sheets and rest for a few hours. Nirvana.

He climbed inside, laying his sword case on the floor, a bit startled 
when he saw the tinted security partition between him and the driver, 
but then this car service might cater mainly to corporate accounts where 
privacy was paramount. At least he wouldn't have to make idle chit chat 
with the driver, he thought putting the matter aside. If the university 
wanted to spend its money on fancy taxis rather than send a grad student 
in a beat-up Volvo to meet him, who was he to complain? 

There was a gentle jounce when the driver tossed his bags into the 
trunk, and another when it thudded shut behind him as Methos settled 
himself. The moment they pulled out into the late afternoon traffic he 
rested his head against the comfortably cushioned seat and stared out 
the window. How long had it been since he'd been in the area? he mused 
as he watched the scenery pass by. Sixty, seventy years? No longer, he 
thought. It was after Butch and Sundance. Right around the time the 
authorities were hunting down the last of the outlaws. He'd been a ranch 
hand at one of the big spreads, blending into the crowd. Not that he'd 
been wanted for anything, he reminded himself sardonically -- for all 
that he'd implied as much to Dawson. He'd actually been sent West by his 
New York publisher to capture the essence of the outlaw lifestyle for a 
series of penny dreadfuls the man had in mind. Later, he'd drifted south 
across the border and down into Latin America for a time to visit the 
rubber plantation he'd once owned in Brazil. After he left here, he 
thought yawning widely, maybe he'd do the same.

He drifted to sleep with pleasant thoughts of dusky beauties in thin 
shifts on balmy tropical nights, certain that the driver would wake him 
when they reached their destination. A while later, how long he couldn't 
really tell, Methos woke feeling relaxed and refreshed by his nap. Odd, 
he thought as he peered out the window. The city was no where in sight 
and they were traveling through the desert as the last of the sunlight 
was disappearing.

Startled, he sat up straight and considered what to do. No one had 
actually specified the University in their talks. He'd merely assumed 
that was who he'd be working for. Then again, no one had bothered to 
correct that assumption. And that, he chided himself, had been a 
thoughtless mistake. No doubt he'd been so taken with the prospect of 
working on "the project" as they called it he hadn't really stopped to 
think about just who was funding it.

With a frown he knocked determinedly on the partition. "Excuse me, 
driver, but where are we going?" There was no response and he asked 
again, but the driver didn't seem to notice. Anxiously, he looked around 
the dark interior of the car searching for the door handle. Running his 
hand over the door he was horrified to find that there were no handles 
or indentations. The other door, of course, was identical and he sat 
back with a sense of numb dismay. 

Stupid! Stupid! Stupid! Methos cursed himself.  He should have been more 
observant when he'd gotten in, but then he probably should have checked 
more deeply into the nature of the project and who was handling the 
funding. That he'd been bored with his life and later tired from the 
flight was no excuse for over confidence and laziness. Damn! He'd been 
living too easy for too long to have made such an asinine mistake. Maybe 
MacLeod was right. A little more danger in his life would go a long way 
toward honing those vaunted survival instincts he was always crowing 
about.

So, Methos thought, finally leaning back again. What have you gotten 
yourself into this time? Black marketeers? That seemed most likely, he 
thought ruefully. Someone wanting a personal find translated, or maybe 
an authentication before an illegal sale. The skullduggery might be a 
little overdone in his opinion, but he'd been very cleverly manipulated. 
Something which hadn't happened in quite some time. He tended to think 
of academic circles as fairly tame, though some of the fringe elements 
with which one had to deal were often quite similar to organized crime 
in their machinations. 

What the hell had Daniel dragged him into?! he wondered angrily.  Still, 
he hadn't actually spoken to Jackson, so the young man might not even be 
involved. On the other hand, Jackson had simply up and vanished from 
academia. But then, that was also fairly common when dealing with fringe 
theorists. When the grant money ran out they tended to take obscure 
positions at second rate schools where they could pursue their ideas 
without the pressure of tenure related publishing. He himself had been 
offered any number of those kinds of jobs.

All right, he decided calmly, no need to panic. There was nothing he 
could do about the situation, so there was no point in worrying -- at 
least for the moment. And it wasn't as if he hadn't worked for black 
marketeers in the past -- just not in this century. These days the 
booming underground trade in ancient artifacts probably led to all sorts 
of criminal activity. That didn't necessarily mean he was in any danger. 
Likely, they were just extremely cautious about revealing their 
operation to a stranger. And from what he'd heard in recent years these 
modern fellows were mostly non-violent types who tended to be armchair 
historians with a respect for the professionals. Rumor also had it that 
they tended to pay excessively well, which generally insured that the 
professionals they lured into their schemes remained silent. Yes, he 
could see the naive and oh-so-trusting Daniel accidentally getting 
involved in this kind of mess, especially if he'd needed the money. And 
he'd likely thought Adam Pierson, who never published and was always in 
search of ever more obscure PhDs probably needed the money as well. It 
would be, on Jackson's part, an act of generosity, albeit utterly 
misplaced.

At that Methos had to laugh. That would be just typical of Daniel, who 
never thought beyond the parameters of his own obsession. He doubted the 
young man had changed much in the ensuing years. No doubt he meant well 
by proffering Adam's name and credentials to his employers, but he was 
definitely going to have a few choice words for his so-called friend 
when he caught up with the little bastard again.

They drove on for perhaps another twenty minutes as dusk turned to 
darkness until, in the distance, Methos could see the bright glow of a 
nearby city. At the next exit the driver pulled off the highway and 
headed for the light. Much relieved, Methos nodded to himself. At least 
he'd be near civilization. If necessary, he could play along for a bit, 
maybe even do the translations, then get the hell out.

After another few minutes the car slowed down and Methos peered out the 
window, mildly confused as to why they were stopping. A moment later he 
felt his jaw dropping as they pulled into a military guard station and 
the driver handed over what must have been his orders. 

"Bloody hell!" Methos gasped as they were waved through. The American 
military was funding this?! What the hell could they possibly want with 
a cache of proto-cuneiform tablets?! If that's even what they are, 
Methos nodded slowly to himself. Could be they were in need of a little 
code breaking. That would certainly explain the linguistic oddities he'd 
seen. Well, he thought, if that's what they wanted he'd be happy to 
oblige. It wasn't like he hadn't done that kind of work either. 

Though he didn't like to brag about it, he'd done his bit for the war 
effort in the forties working as a cryptographer for British 
Intelligence. Those had been heady days indeed, when cracking German 
codes meant ending the war and saving thousands of lives, not to mention 
the fascinating intellectual aspect of it. This would also explain the 
duplicitous methods they'd used to get him here. There'd be fairly tight 
security, but it was highly unlikely anyone would take him out and chop 
him into tiny little pieces when they were finished with him.

What really surprised him as they headed toward what was obviously a 
very large installation was the notion that Daniel Jackson might be 
working here. He'd never seemed the patriotic type. But then, who knew 
what the military might have offered him. 

They pulled up in front of a small white washed guest cottage where a 
young officer with captain's bars stood waiting.

"Welcome to Fort Hwachuka, Dr. Pierson," the captain greeted him as he 
opened the door and Methos stepped out.

"Bless you," Methos grinned. "Nasty cold you've got, Captain."

The young man gave him a slight smile as if he'd heard the joke a 
thousand times before. "Thank you, sir, but I was telling you the name 
of the fort."

"Sorry," he grinned even more broadly, not the least bit apologetic 
after what they'd put him through. 

The captain nodded stoically. "I'm Ed Shelby. I'll be your liaison while 
you're here. How was your trip, sir?"

"Tedious," Methos responded tersely as the driver, who was not in 
uniform, carried his bags to the cottage and laid them inside the door. 
There was no point in saying anything about how he'd been lured here 
under false pretenses. The captain wasn't likely to have been either 
responsible or knowledgeable about anything related to his hiring. He 
was just doing his job as he'd been ordered.

"If you'll follow me, I'll show you your quarters," Shelby suggested.

Methos nodded curtly and followed him up the flower lined walk to the 
door where he was handed a set of keys. 

"As I said, I'll be your liaison while you're with us," Shelby informed 
him. "If you need anything just pick up the phone and ask the base 
operator to page me." Methos opened the door and they stepped inside. 
"There's a packet over there on the desk," he pointed toward the neat 
living room as he switched on the hall light. "It contains all the 
information you need on base security, meal times if choose to go to the 
mess hall, building locations you're free to visit and the restricted 
areas you are not. If you need anything in one of the restricted areas 
you should contact me first. You'll also find an identification badge 
that you must have on your person at all times outside of your 
quarters."

Again, Methos nodded. He'd heard this or similar speeches before.

"Are you hungry?" the young man inquired politely. "The kitchen is fully 
stocked, but if you prefer, I can have sent something sent over."

"You guys have surf & turf?" Methos asked, recalling just how well fed 
the Americans had been during the war. He'd often eaten at their mess 
hall whenever he'd been invited, just to avoid the half rations and corn 
flake extended pseudo-meat to which most of Britain had been reduced.

The captain nodded. "Oh, yeah. Best lobster you'll find in the state, 
flown in once a week straight from Maine. How do you want your steak?"

"Medium rare."

"Baked potato?"

Methos grinned. "All the trimmings. Beer, too, if you've got it."

"Sir, might I suggest a soft drink, juice or coffee," Shelby said as he 
gently tried to dissuade him. "You do have a physical in the morning."

Methos raised an eyebrow at that. Any alcohol he might have consumed 
would have long since been metabolized by his Immortal system. Still, 
when in Rome... "Coffee's fine," he murmured.

"I'll have it sent over immediately," the captain told him as he headed 
for the door. "In the morning if you're up to it after your physical, 
I'll give you the grand tour and then you can join the rest of the 
project team for breakfast at the mess hall. There'll be a guard 
stationed outside if you need anything."

Methos thanked the young man, sighing in disgust as he closed the door 
behind him, recalling the annoyance of getting up every morning at 4 am 
to get to work. Not that he'd have to here, but they'd be blowing that 
damned horn for reveille and he'd never been able to sleep through that 
nonsense in any army. Well, at least he wasn't a prisoner, that was some 
consolation at any rate. And in the morning he'd get to speak to whoever 
was in charge and find out why they had approached him in such a 
clandestine fashion. For now though, he thought, kicking off his shoes 
as he searched for the shower, he'd be content with this charmingly 
pleasant cottage, the usual oversized American meal and a decent night's 
sleep. He'd worry about the little things in the morning.

                         *******************

The day started out much as Methos expected. Noisy. Great bleating horns 
and the national anthem blaring from loudspeakers into every nook and 
cranny of the fort. This was shortly followed by thunderous boot 
stomping accompanied by enthusiastically shouted cadences and the 
occasional boom sha-ka-la-ka which made the windows vibrate and drove 
him from the comfort of his bed. He had just enough time to make himself 
presentable and grab a quick cup of coffee before the door bell rang and 
a bright eyed, cheerful Captain Shelby appeared looking like an 
energetic puppy ready to go out and play.

Two hours later he'd gotten a clean bill of health from the doctor, a 
quick tour of the areas he was allowed access to which were surprisingly 
numerous and a run down on the people he'd be joining for breakfast. 
There were several well known experts in cuneiform from around the world 
and a handful of linguists from the military's Defense Language 
Institute, apparently here to observe.

He chatted amiably with the others over breakfast. Though he'd never met 
any of them, Methos had read a number of their papers. Around midmorning 
they were escorted to a large room where they were assigned seats with 
individual files neatly laid at computer terminals and asked to begin 
working.

Methos gave a silent sigh of despair. For the next two days, they were 
informed, they would be asked to work separately on the same documents 
in order to create several independent theories for later discussion. A 
good idea, but incredibly boring. Still, there was the work itself. And 
as Methos opened his folder he forgot to ask about speaking with senior 
officers, or complaining about being misled. There was just the work and 
the fascination of the puzzle before him.

                         *******************

Taps was playing when Methos looked up from his computer screen, 
surprised at how long he'd been sitting at the cramped station. The 
remains of his lunch were in the waste basket under the desk and Captain 
Shelby was patiently waiting. He stood and stretched, rubbing his 
burning eyes. For two days he'd been practically glued to his seat, 
frustrated when they wouldn't let him return with the file to his 
quarters. Whatever they'd given him to work on, the inscriptions went 
well beyond interesting and into the realm of the fantastical.

Though he hadn't yet been allowed access to the actual tablets, the 
scanned images he'd been shown were among the most well preserved he'd 
ever seen. No erosion or breaks whatsoever. That alone was curious. Like 
the others, he'd been given two small sections of different tablets to 
translate -- obviously part of a larger find. The first had spoken of 
ancient gateways to the stars. Or maybe stairways to heaven, Methos 
smirked. The second, of someone called Tok'ra, who'd stood as a weapon, 
or had some kind of weapon against the evil overlords of the Go-ah-uld.

The others were long since gone to dinner when Methos followed the 
captain out of the building, declining his offer of dinner in the mess 
and strolling back to his cottage in quiet, thoughtful contemplation of 
the bits and pieces of stories the tablets had told. If he hadn't heard 
very nearly every creation epic under the sun and by those who'd learned 
them from their own forefathers he'd be inclined to think someone was 
pulling his leg. Yet, there was something about their content which was 
eerily familiar, though he couldn't quite remember where he might have 
heard such a tale. Still, there were thousands of such confabulations as 
he recalled a bit ruefully, mostly based on truth with a lot of 
pretentious fiction thrown in by the poets for good measure. Truth might 
be stranger than fiction, but not to a bard who earned his supper by his 
wit and erudition. He'd heard enough of them over the ages to know when 
they were taking poetic license with the facts. Of course, in those days 
that was to be expected. Historic fact versus fiction was never 
important as long as the pacing of the tale was exciting and the voice 
telling it was reasonably good. 

His colleagues seemed equally fascinated from some of the whispered 
conversations he'd overheard. With a secret smile he opened the front 
door, realizing that he was looking forward to seeing the expressions on 
their faces when he presented his findings in the morning. Not one of 
them had managed to get past the first section with any certainty. He'd 
only succeeded because he'd recalled an obscure southern Mesopotamian 
dialect which had been dying out in the wake of successive invasions 
right around the time he'd taken up with the Horsemen. It was not 
exactly the same, but close enough to allow for a few educated guesses 
on his part.

And the truth was, Methos finally decided as he pulled a beer from the 
fridge, it was unlikely they'd let him out of here before the project 
was completed. The military had gone to a great deal of trouble to get 
him here in secrecy and, he assumed, the other experts as well. 
Something about these tablets interested them. And while he didn't 
really care about their interests, his lay in getting the translations 
done as quickly as possible.

Methos yawned and stretched, then threw himself down on the couch in a 
comfortable sprawl. Putting his beer on the coffee table he grabbed the 
remote and turned on the television, shutting it off a moment later when 
he found the noise irritating. With an exhausted sigh he leaned his head 
back against the cushions, just resting his eyes as he wondered what to 
do about dinner. Maybe he could order a pizza, he thought wearily, 
yawning again. Then again, maybe he should just throw one of those 
frozen meals they'd left in the freezer into the microwave and nuke it. 
He opened his eyes and reached for his beer, then thought better of it 
when the light started to give him a headache. He switched off the lamp 
and put the room into darkness.

Too much time in front of that damnable screen under lousy overhead 
lighting, he silently complained, rubbing the crease between his brows. 
A little nap, he thought. Yes, that was the ticket. A little rest and 
he'd be right as rain in a bit. He wasn't really that hungry anyway. 
He'd just close his eyes and think about what he was going to do to his 
old friend Daniel when he got his hands on him. Maybe later he'd have a 
snack or something.

Content for the moment Methos drifted off to sleep, not even waking 
several hours later when a half a dozen black clad, hooded figures 
surrounded the tiny guest cottage as they prepared to break in.

                         *******************

"Please come with us, sir."

Methos woke with a start, surrounded by several ominous looming figures. 
For a brief instant he was back in Paris, fearful of renegade Watchers 
hunting him down as the most ancient of all Immortal abominations. The 
instant passed and with it came the knowledge of where and when he was. 
And, if that was so, and he was fairly certain it was, this could only 
mean one thing. Soldiers. The voice politely repeated the request. Yup, 
soldiers.

He sat up and took a deep breath before getting to his feet. The idea of 
refusing didn't even enter his mind, nor did asking questions like, "Who 
are you?" or "Where are you taking me?" The hoods made it obvious they 
didn't want him to know the first which meant the second would likely go 
unanswered as well. That left, "What do you want from me?" which he 
asked as they led him through the back door and out to a waiting truck.

"Your complete cooperation," the voice responded neutrally.

Oh, well, of course they wanted that! Methos thought dryly. But his 
cooperation in what? How could he cooperate if he didn't know what they 
wanted? He decided on simply doing as he was told and with a quiet sigh 
he climbed in and took a seat, surrounded by his captors. They rode in 
silence after that. Not long and not far. Somewhere on the fort he was 
certain.

"Move," the voice ordered him out of the truck and Methos obliged, 
suppressing his sudden anxiety as they entered what he quickly 
recognized as the medical building. The antiseptic smell of the halls 
lingered in his nostrils as they marched him up a corridor, through 
multiple sets of security doors and into a changing room. Two of the 
black clad figures remained by the door as the others, he assumed, took 
up positions outside.

"Strip," he was told and pointed toward an open locker where a hospital 
gown sat neatly on an upper shelf.

Savagely controlling his sudden urge to cut and run despite the fact 
that he was greatly out numbered, Methos quietly followed the 
instructions. Immortals and modern hospitals did not mix well. A 
standard physical was never a problem. The most that generally happened 
was that he was cordially asked to donate a pint or two of blood. All 
Immortals were universal donors, just as they were all perfectly healthy 
textbook specimens. He didn't know what the results of a more intensive 
study might show about Immortal physiology, but he dreaded the idea of 
being subjected to one.

"Look, I've already had a physical," he pointed out as he slid the gown 
over his shoulders.

The ensuing silence did not bode well, nor did the opening of a second 
door which led to a very well appointed examination room.

"In there," the voice ordered and Methos briefly closed his eyes, taking 
a deep breath as he steeled himself for what was about to come.

                         *******************

Cold. He was cold and his insides were shivering with the shock of what 
had been done -- clenching tight against any further invasion as his 
hands gripped the hard edge of the exam table. They'd started by 
searching his body. Every inch of it inside and out. Three doctors, each 
taking turns examining him and correlating their findings. There'd been 
x-rays, followed by an alphabet soup of tests. MRI, EKG, EEG and an EMG 
where painful electrical charges had been run through his arms and legs 
to see how the nerves worked. 

Somehow, he'd thought that was the worst. He taken hundreds of 
Quickenings, felt the exquisitely agonizing sensation of being seared by 
lightening, but this was not the same. The sudden, random impacts of 
electrical energy in the space of a few moments were nothing compared to 
the slow, methodical, utterly impersonal torture of waiting for the 
comparatively tiny jolts to come.

Then they'd started taking samples. Blood, hair, fingernails, saliva and 
tissue from various portions of his anatomy. He was handed a cup and 
told to fill it. With what he didn't have to ask. Finally, they'd opened 
him up again with a brightly cold speculum, took a stool sample, checked 
his prostate and filled another little cup with his ejaculate. All 
without ever asking his permission or inquiring as to whether or not he 
was comfortable.

Through it all Methos had remained silent and aloof, deliberately 
numbing himself to either anger or humiliation. He'd lived through 
worse, certainly. Although, he was forced to admit, nothing so 
impersonally cruel. Even being fingered for sale at auction had at least 
taken into account that he physically existed. That he was not simply an 
amalgam of parts to be catalogued, scrutinized and studied. Still, he 
would heal, and he would not allow them to see the emotional hurt they 
had rendered. There would be time later to lick his wounds and weep for 
his lost dignity.

Without a word the doctors left and he hopped from the table and went to 
clean himself as best he could. He moved slowly and the guards at the 
door, who had remained throughout, did not trouble him. When he was done 
one of them handed him something to wear. Not his own clothes, but a 
crisp blue prison issue coverall and a pair of soft shoes.

Oh, dear gods, they knew! They knew what he was. Or if not that, then 
that he was something other than human.

Methos put a hand on the counter to steady himself. He must not give in 
to despair. How much they knew was still in question and, more 
importantly, what they intended to do with that information. 

He dressed in silence, trying to maintain his emotional distance and not 
speculate on how they had learned that he was different. He must simply 
bide in quiet and allow them to ask their questions, which surely they 
would do and soon. His answers must depend on what they asked, not what 
he thought they knew.

He didn't have long to wait, these people were nothing if not efficient. 
He was led across the hall and into a room so brightly lit it made his 
head ache. Which was, he supposed, the point. The walls were painted a 
drab, institutional grayish green, obviously meant to instill 
hopelessness. A hard, straight backed chair and nondescript table were 
bolted to the concrete floor and he was told to take a seat. Behind him, 
a single, sexless guard in the black on black ensemble they all wore 
stood silently at attention in the corner.

An entirely sobering setting indeed, Methos was forced to admit. The 
physical examination, long and painful, had been meant not just for the 
gathering of information, but to break him down -- softening him up just 
enough for this. And to some degree it had worked, he realized with 
chagrin. He was definitely afraid of these people and of what they were 
capable of doing to him. Still, he was made of sterner stuff and unlike 
anyone they had ever encountered which he hoped would be to his 
advantage.

"Who are you?"

Methos glanced around the tiny room, no bigger than a walk-in closet, 
searching for the origin of the disembodied, electronically altered 
voice, but the speakers were extremely well hidden. No doubt the cameras 
watching him were as well.

"You should know," he finally responded. "You invited me here."

"We invited Adam Pierson, but it's obvious that's not who you are."

He shouldn't have been surprised by the accusation, but he was. "You 
must be mistaken."

"You are not Adam Pierson. There is no Adam Pierson."

"I AM Adam Pierson," he insisted, though he suspected it was futile and 
he was right.

"Your birth certificate is a fraud. Adam Pierson does not exist. Neither 
did Helena Pierson, or Benjamin Pierson, the supposed parents of the 
child. They are fictional constructs."

Shit! Methos inwardly cringed. Unlike most Immortals in the modern era 
he'd learned early never to take names off headstones and assume a real 
identity. Instead, he thought he'd been clever, using his medical 
background to issue false birth certificates over the years. Even now, 
it was easy enough to slip into the system through small, backwater 
hospitals as an orderly or nurse, create the necessary documents, have a 
distracted clerk file the appropriate forms and allow them to remain 
dormant until he had need of the identity. Adam Pierson had come into 
existence in just such a manner in 1965. Twenty years later he'd simply 
gone round to his "father's" solicitor, produced an equally fictitious 
set of death certificates and inherited his modest estate. And now the 
game was up.

On the other hand, he thought with just a touch of hope, maybe he wasn't 
as bad off as he had thought. Perhaps they simply thought he was a spy. 
He hadn't been the first to have that idea, not by any stretch of 
imagination. He had in fact stolen it from the Americans, who'd played 
that game even before the First World War. But then, he wasn't about to 
admit to being a spy either if he could avoid it. A bullet to the brain 
might be the least of his worries at that point.

"Your research is wrong," Methos said to the blank wall before him, 
hoping to draw them out a little more. If anyone was Adam Pierson he 
certainly was. Let them prove he wasn't.

And they did exactly that. With his stomach tightening in ever 
increasing knots the voice proceeded to list almost every identity 
Methos had ever owned during the age of modern banking. Every account 
had been traced and by virtue of these his university records. From 
Vienna to Harvard they had it all. From there they recounted a plethora 
of evidence from ships' logs, deeds, estate sales, property taxes he'd 
paid, court cases he'd either brought or been named in, to the church 
bans posted for his three most recent marriages -- essentially public 
records of every kind from the 16th century onward. 

"Now, what are you?" the voice asked when it had finished with its 
accounting. 

He sat quietly for a long moment wearing a calculatedly distressed 
expression, plotting. They did not know about Immortals, he decided. In 
fact, they did not really know much about him. They were simply on a 
fishing expedition having inadvertently found something they'd never 
seen. Good, he thought. He would give them what they wanted. A nice, 
neat fable with enough truth thrown in for them to do whatever checking 
they needed and believe. He would not worry now about what came later.

"What am I?" he repeated thoughtfully. "I am a man. I was born in the 
year 1283,"  he told them, dating himself a little earlier than they had 
for the sake of realism and because there would likely be no records 
that far back. "I was called Valerie du Fontaine. The third son of a 
third son of minor nobility with little ambition except to enter a 
monastery and further my studies as a monk. My family found this 
acceptable and I was shortly enrolled with the brothers who served the 
Knights Templar in France. Not long after this the King of France 
declared the Knights anathema. Soldiers came and arrested those they 
could, killing the rest who were of little importance. 

"They killed me, too," he murmured softly, recalling the day it had 
happened and he'd been driven from his brief sanctuary. He sighed deeply 
for his captors' benefit. "At least," he added, "I think they did. I do 
not know for certain.

"This monastery was built above an ancient grotto, where it was said a 
vision of Christ himself appeared to a shepherd and baptized the boy." 
In truth, it had been an old Roman bathhouse, where the whores had been 
among the best in Gaul. Then again, maybe Christ had appeared to bless 
that notorious den of sin and iniquity. It would have been just like him 
according to Peter and Paul.
 
"Weak with blood loss and thirst I crawled to the shrine and drank of 
its holy waters. For three days I lay there," he went on, keeping up the 
Christian imagery. "Praying to God and asking that I might be healed. On 
the fourth day, which was the Feast of All Saints, I awoke to find my 
prayers had been answered." He paused to increase the drama of his tale 
and devoutly crossed himself, murmuring a blessing.

"Amazed," he finally continued. "I left this place and returned to my 
home, remaining in the bosom of my family for many years. Eventually, it 
came to be noticed that I was not growing older and in fear of being 
burned for a witch and as a heretic because of my past with the 
Templars, I fled to England. From there began my many journeys and many 
lives, such as you have discovered. I broke no laws, harmed no one, and 
disrespected no man worthy to be called such. I have lived as honestly 
and as honorably as can be expected of any man, until this century where 
I was forced to take steps to ensure my survival. I stole nothing from 
anyone. I did not take a name that belonged to another, nor moneys I had 
not earned."

"You entered this country fraudulently and illegally claimed dual 
citizenship," the voice pointed out.

"Damn straight I did!" he told them putting a little honest anger into 
his voice. "I fought in your bloody revolution!" He'd been running from 
Kronos back then and hadn't had much of a choice, but he still felt 
entitled. "Didn't you find a record of that? Dr. Francis Benjamin of 
Bedersville, Pennsylvania. There used to be a plaque in the town square 
with my name on it!"

There was silence from the gallery and he knew he'd scored a point.

"We will continue checking your story, and watching you closely," the 
voice told him. "In the meantime, you may return to the project until we 
find another use for you."

"Another use?" Methos asked softly. He didn't like the sound of that.

"If you are not useful, then you're dangerous. Don't bite the hand that 
feeds you," the voice threatened. "It hits hard."

The icy finger of dread trailed down his spine as he followed the guard 
back to the changing room. They would not let him go. Not in a year, not 
in ten years. And what if they couldn't find another use for him? He 
shivered at the thought as he stripped off the coverall and got out his 
clothes. Then he would make himself useful. He'd done it before. To 
Kronos, to Caesar, even to Khan. He would be the most useful, docile cat 
in the barn -- until he unsheathed his claws and they realized he wasn't 
tamed at all.

                         *******************

The little cottage was quiet and filled with late afternoon shadows when 
they dropped him off and watched him go inside. Reflexively, Methos 
locked and bolted the door then headed for the bathroom where he 
hurriedly shed his clothes and climbed into the shower to wash the stink 
of fear from his pores. He turned the hot water up until it was near 
scalding and stood in the billowing waves of steam as it pounded over 
his back while he rested his forehead against the cool of the tiled 
stall. It eased the cramps in his muscles, gained over the long hours 
where he'd held himself tense and relaxed him enough to allow his 
stomach to unknot. Finally, he slid to the floor, kneeling over the 
drain as he heaved up bile and shook so hard he had to grab hold of the 
wall.

A delayed reaction to the stress and the shock, he reminded himself. 
Neither unprecedented, nor unexpected. Quite healthy, in fact, came the 
sardonic thought. He turned his face up to the spray and rinsed his 
mouth, then sat with his arms wrapped around his legs while the water 
poured down on his head. Eventually, the water cooled and he drew 
himself up, turned off the shower and toweled himself down.

Pulling his robe off the back of the door he slid into it and climbed 
into bed, curling up with his arms around a pillow. He was so tired and 
yet so overwrought sleep would not come. He hated this feeling. This 
helplessness he recalled all too well from days long past when others 
had taken charge of his life. It was useless, he realized, to even 
contemplate escape at the moment. They would be watching for that. And 
it was doubtful he could get off the base, or if he did, he suspected, 
he wouldn't get very far. Why they had even let him return to work on 
their little pet project he couldn't even guess, nor did he want to try. 
In their own way these people were as dangerous to him as any head 
hunter. Revolutionary war hero or not, he doubted they would trouble 
much over dissecting him like a frog.

He shivered at the thought. Better their willing tool than an unwilling 
science project, he reasoned. There was nothing they could learn from 
his body anyway, he realized. The medical exams could not have shown 
anything untoward or they would not have let him come back to the 
project. It was all in the Quickening. And if they got that from him it 
wouldn't matter anymore.

Methos lifted his head as the solemn sound of taps began to play in the 
distance signaling the end of the work day. This was the time when in 
days past the soldiers would leave off what they were doing and lay 
their dead to rest as they laid aside the day. It was a quiet time. A 
momentary pause in the insanity of war which he'd once come to love for 
the sense of peace it brought him. And given his reaction, he mused, as 
the last of the shudders left him, apparently he still did. 

With a sigh, Methos punched up the pillow and tucked it under his head. 
He was free of that place for the moment, and if he played their little 
game one day he would be quit of them too. He yawned and closed his 
eyes. As the last notes faded in the distance, Methos made peace with 
the terrors of the day and at last drifted off into the tranquillity of 
a dreamless night.

                         *******************

Reveille sounded and Methos groaned yanking the pillow over his head. 
Bloody great nuisance, he thought, when he didn't have to be anywhere 
until seven. Then he paused, realizing just how lucky he was to be 
hearing reveille at all. He threw off the pillow and sat up, wondering 
if it had all been just an awful nightmare. 

He lifted his hands to rub the sleep from his eyes and caught sight of a 
small bandage on his wrist where they'd taken blood gasses or something 
equally painful. Angrily, he ripped it off, taking a little skin with 
it. He didn't care and he watched himself heal, sighing with relief at 
the tiny prickles of energy which danced over his flesh. Nightmare it 
might be, but he was alive and relatively free. And for that he felt 
extraordinarily blessed. Five thousand years wasn't enough. Not for him. 
Greedy creature that he was, he wanted more.

Feeling slightly giddy, another reaction to the previous day's shocks he 
knew, Methos climbed out of bed and got himself ready for work. By the 
time Captain Shelby showed up, he was dressed, fed and bouncing around 
the cottage to one of his favorite bands.

"Good morning, Ed," Methos greeted him as he opened the door, surprised 
they'd let the young man remain his liaison. He would have reassigned 
the captain and given the prisoner a less affable guardian. "What's 
that?" he asked, noticing the large blue plastic container in the other 
man's hands.

"I'm glad to see you're okay," Shelby smiled. "They sent word you'd gone 
to the infirmary night before last. My wife made soup just in case you 
were still out of sorts this morning."

Methos hid the shock of his surprise. The man hadn't a clue as to what 
had happened. Which could only mean one thing in a military society. 
Whoever had dragged him out of here wasn't in charge of the project -- 
and wasn't yet high enough in rank to order him a permanent guard. More 
importantly, a faction within the ranks meant whatever he was working on 
was considered important to national security. Nothing else could so 
incite an American to conspiracies and plots. These of course were of no 
concern to Methos. What did concern him was finding out who was in 
charge and getting himself placed under their protection for as long as 
he was involved.

"I'm feeling much better this morning," Methos smiled, taking the soup. 
"And do thank your dear wife, her concern is truly appreciated. I'll 
have it for lunch."

Shelby frowned. "Why don't you take it easy today," he suggested. 
"You've probably been working too hard. Anyway, you can slack off a bit 
now that you've got the job."

"Got the job?" Methos asked, confused.

"Didn't they tell you? That's what all the separate work stations were 
about. You know, a test to see who was the best. And you're it. 
Congratulations. The project is all yours."

"Mine," Methos echoed, feeling numb.

"Yeah. General Hammond flew in yesterday morning to thank the other 
participants and send them home. I guess he figured you weren't up to 
company."

Methos wanted to scream in frustration. "Who's General Hammond?" he 
asked instead.

Shelby shook his head and shrugged. "He's the man in charge. The senior 
officer. I don't know exactly what he does. National security. Very hush 
hush."

"I see," Methos nodded. "Is there any way I can speak with him? To 
discuss the goals of the project, of course."

"I'll put in a request," Shelby offered. "I can't say if he'll respond."

"What was your impression of the man?" Methos asked, hoping against hope 
that he could count on the general's support. If he could at least get 
the project moved away from the fort he might stand a better chance of 
getting out of this thing in a reasonable amount of time.

"Solid," Shelby nodded thoughtfully. "I'd let him watch my back."

Methos raised an eyebrow. A high compliment indeed from a soldier. "I'll 
bear that in mind," he responded, tucking his soup under one arm and 
closing the door as he stepped outside. 

Having done all he could at the moment, he headed off to work, not 
knowing whether to curse himself for an egotistical fool and "winning" 
the project, or thank whatever gods he could recall that he had. He had 
to wonder if his usefulness to the general had thwarted his usefulness 
to the others. Or were their goals similar and just their methods 
divergent? Still, it didn't really matter, did it? He was here and there 
was work to do. Enough to keep him occupied and out of the hands of 
those who were obviously up to no good.

                         *******************

It had been almost two weeks since his arrival and Methos was working 
quietly at his desk, alone in what had once been the testing room. The 
cramped work stations were gone and in their place had come a 
comfortably cushioned chair, an oversized mahogany desk, wide work 
tables, movable chalk boards and a bank of state of the art computers, 
faster and with greater memory than anything he had ever owned. If he 
hadn't felt he'd been so callously ill-used Methos might have been 
content to stay here. 

As things stood now, he felt continually frustrated. What he could see 
of the tablets, which he still hadn't been given access to, was just as 
fascinating as he'd first thought. The problem was with some of the 
photographic imagery. Whatever they were made of didn't look like either 
stone or clay, or even gold, but some kind of metal which gave off a 
reflective halo through the lens distorting the image just enough to 
make him unsure of his translations. A rubbing, or even an artist's 
rendition would have been far superior to what he'd been given. 

Despite the fact that he had spent most of his life reading incised 
characters on a variety of materials and was used to their peculiar 
natural shadows from being placed on various walls and other objects, 
this was entirely different in that he didn't recognize the shadings 
being reflected here. They seemed to shift from photograph to photograph 
making it unclear as to what was part of the letter and what was not. At 
this point, he wasn't even sure of the original translation which had 
gotten him the job, though no one seemed to be complaining. It was 
almost as if they had expected his answers, or knew whether or not the 
translations were accurate. Methos shook his head and sighed. It was all 
so damnably odd.

The phone rang and he reached for it absently. "Pierson," he answered.

"Adam?"

"Daniel?!" Methos sat back in his chair, clutching the cord like a 
lifeline.

"Yeah. Hi. General Hammond asked me to give you a call. He said to 
apologize because he's been in Washington and couldn't get back to you. 
He mentioned that you wanted to discuss the project?"

Taking a deep breath, Methos kept a tight rein on his anger toward the 
younger man. "Daniel, where exactly are you?"

"Me? Where? Oh, I'm at home. Why?"

"I thought I'd get to see you here. You know, catch up on old times."

"Gee, Adam, I'd really like that, but I won't be going anywhere for a 
while."

"How so?"

"I kinda had a little accident. That's why I recommended you to fill in 
while I was gone."

Fill in?! Methos silently exclaimed. The nerve of the boy! "Well, I 
appreciate it, Danny. Really I do." One day he was going to show him 
just how much and make that little accident seem like a paper cut.

"Was there something you needed? I mean about the project," Jackson 
clarified.

"Yes," Methos smiled as he picked up the image he'd been attempting to 
translate. "Yes, there is. Have you seen these photographs? The ones 
they've asked me to work on?"

                         *******************

"It's a legitimate request, Jack."

"Look, I'm sure your buddy is a great guy, but you know the rules. 
Nothing goes out of the SGC unless it's to R&D. If he wants to look at 
the tablets up close and personal he'll have to come here. And stay 
here. For the duration." O'Neill silently groaned. Just what Stargate 
Command needed -- another hopeless geek. There was a brief moment of 
silence on the other end of the phone.

"You're right, I know. It's just, he's the really quiet type. Very 
gentlemanly. Wouldn't hurt a fly. The SGC can be a little intense, if 
you know what I mean."

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "Listen, why don't you just ask him? If he's 
anything like you, he'll be so hypnotized by those tablets he'll only 
come up for air and meals and won't notice a damn thing that's going 
on."

He could almost see Daniel frowning across the line. "I notice, Jack. I 
just try not to make an issue of it when you put gum in my shoes, or 
chocolate pudding in my pants."

"Hey, that was not me! I'd never stoop to the old chewing gum in the 
shoes gag. Must've been Sam."

Daniel laughed softly. "Okay, Jack. I'll let Adam know you'll make the 
arrangements."

"Don't you want to ask him first?"

"Already did. He agreed right off the bat. I do know the rules, Jack."

"So what was this whole conversation about?"

"Just having a little fun. It's weird, you know, but I kind of miss you 
getting on my case about stuff."

"Oh, well if that's all it is. Not like you're trying to give me AN 
ULCER!" Jack slammed down the phone and laughed. Imagine that, the 
little dweeb had actually missed his regular ass chewing.

                         *******************

Methos stood outside the small apartment complex where Daniel lived, 
trying to decide the best approach to take with him. Have Adam Pierson 
beat Daniel within an inch of his life and disappear for the next fifty 
years, or let Death come to terrorize him with the possibilities? 

With a muted snarl he nervously fingered the small piece of paper lying 
crumpled in his pocket. "We'll be watching you," was all that it had 
said, but that was all they had needed. A reminder that while he might 
have arranged a brief reprieve they still knew how to find him.

He leaned his head back and stared up at the night sky. What was he 
still doing here? Why hadn't he run? Certainly not because he was angry 
with Danny. He'd tolerated worse fools than that. Loyalty? Now that was 
more likely, he admitted with a touch of chagrin. Because he knew for 
sure that if he did run, they would hunt him, and while they might not 
find him, they would find Joe and Mac and all he held dear. And in 
finding them they would surely find out everything -- causing the worst 
nightmare of every Immortal living in this modern age to come true. And 
while he knew enough to hide, the others wouldn't. So, it would serve no 
purpose to run at the moment, unless he truly wished to win the Prize by 
virtue of default.

Damn it! he sighed angrily. He would just have to see this thing through 
and hope for the best. Maybe they'd lose interest in a few years and 
find some other poor sod to torment. Or maybe their superiors would find 
their report so utterly ridiculous that they would undercut their own 
position, especially if he were not there to be physical proof for them. 
It was Daniel and his friends then, or nothing.

Before he could change his mind Methos went inside, finding the 
apartment without any problem. He knocked and heard what sounded like 
books falling, a shout of pain mixed with frustration and finally, 
Daniel's voice yelling that the door was open.

He stepped inside and felt his anger start to melt away. Poor Daniel 
looked battered enough at the moment. Besides, he'd never been the sort 
to pull the wings off flies or torture wounded puppies. Daniel's right 
leg was in a cast that reached to his hip and braced by the wheel chair 
so that it stuck out in front of him. His left arm was immobilized in a 
sling and one eye had been blackened, though the coloring was almost 
completely faded. 

"Danny?"

"Adam? Adam!" He dropped the rest of the books he'd been fumbling with 
and worked the controls so that the chair jerked forward.

Methos moved to help, but Daniel waved him off. "It's okay, I've nearly 
got the hang of this thing."

"Must have been some accident," he said, shaking his head as he stowed 
his duffel near the door with the rest of his things.

"Remind me to tell you someday when it's no longer classified."

Methos raised an eyebrow at that. Pip squeak Danny really was working 
for the military. Amazing.

"So," Daniel said, smiling innocently at him. "It's great to see you, 
Adam. They told me you were due at the base in the morning."

Methos nodded and took a seat on the couch. "I am, but I told my liaison 
I'd make my own way here and caught an early flight out instead. Thought 
I'd come round first and see how you were doing before they chained me 
to a desk."

Daniel rolled his eyes. "As well as can be expected given this." He 
looked down at his body and shrugged gingerly. "Could be worse, I 
guess."

Methos sighed and shook his head. "Danny, how in the world did you of 
all people get involved with the military?"

"Pretty much the same way you did." 

Methos tried not to flinch. No, it hadn't been the same for Daniel. He 
was sure of it.

"Somebody approached me and made an offer I couldn't resist."

"Couldn't resist?"

"It's fascinating stuff, Adam. I wish," he sighed. "I wish I could tell 
you all of it, but I can't. Not yet, anyway."

"Classified?"

"Only some of it, now that you're in. But the best stuff... The best 
stuff comes later. Believe me!"

"Really?" Methos murmured, surprised at the heartfelt enthusiasm he was 
hearing. There was something more exciting to Daniel than proving his 
own bizarre theories correct? Now that was interesting.

"Even if it weren't classified I wouldn't tell you now, because you 
wouldn't believe me. Not without seeing. And because they want you to do 
the translations first. Without any outside input. The way I did, so 
they know the work won't be influenced by it. But honestly, Adam," he 
sighed. "It's worth it! All the frustration... All the disappointment... 
Just, trust me on this. When you're done, you'll get it. All of it."

Methos nodded thoughtfully, very much intrigued against his better 
judgment. At least, he thought as Daniel sent him to fetch a beer for 
himself and a couple of aspirin to ease his injuries, he'd be doing 
something which appealed to him -- and that too was something of a 
mystery.

                         *******************

Great Gods! Methos silently exclaimed as they pulled up to the entrance 
of the SGC. It's a bloody bunker! What the hell were these people 
working on? "So what does SGC stand for?" Methos asked his driver, 
staring numbly at what would likely be his home for at least the next 
year.

"That's classified, sir."

"Of course it is." Silly me, he thought sarcastically, wanting to know 
the name of the place where I'm expected to live.

Without a word the driver collected Methos' luggage and led him past a 
pair of heavily armed guards, into a large reception area where more 
soldiers were stationed. His things were taken to be X-rayed and 
carefully searched, just as he was. As his fingertips and retinas were 
being scanned it suddenly hit home to Methos that these people were 
deadly serious. Whatever they were hiding in this mountain was 
considered paramount to this nation's security. And if such were truly 
the case, he wanted desperately to know what it was. He hadn't survived 
5,000 years by playing ostrich, not about the things that really 
mattered. 

They were just finishing their examination of the last of his luggage 
when the elevator opened and a man in green fatigues wearing colonel's 
leaves on his collar stepped out looking bored and resigned. This, 
Methos thought, must be Daniel's Colonel O'Neill -- the bane of his 
existence and apparently, a minor god.

O'Neill opened his mouth to greet his guest then his eyes caught sight 
of Methos' sword case lying open as they searched it and he turned away.

"Hello, gorgeous! Come to papa!" O'Neill's hands strayed toward the 
object of his very obvious desire and Methos cleared his throat. The 
colonel looked up, looking like a kid caught with his hand in a cookie 
jar. "Dr. Pierson?" he asked, holding out that same hand while trying to 
regain something of the professional expression he'd originally worn. 
"I'm Jack O'Neill."

"Colonel," Methos greeted him, shaking hands.

"I take it this little lady is yours," he nodded toward the case which 
the guard had closed and placed with the rest of Methos' belongings.

"Yes, she is," he grinned, enjoying the look of surprise on the 
colonel's face. "I have an extensive collection at home, but she's an 
old friend so I thought I'd bring her along." It was obvious from the 
colonel's expression that he'd never met a 'geek' with a passion for 
arms and armor. "I hope it's all right."

"Hell, yeah!" O'Neill looked fondly at the soldiers guarding the 
reception area. "We like knives here, don't we, kids?"

"SIR, YES, SIR! WE LIKE KNIVES, SIR!"

Methos chuckled softly and grabbed his bags which consisted of a neatly 
packed duffel, a medium sized carry-all and his sword case.

"What, no suitcases filled with books?" O'Neill asked, leading him into 
the elevator.

"I'm sure Daniel brought enough for both of us."

"I'll say," O'Neill muttered as he pressed a button and sent the 
elevator downward, then cast his eyes longingly at the case. "So, 
where'd you find her? That's an Ivanhoe right? 12th century if I'm not 
mistaken."

Methos nodded, impressed. "A weapons dealer in London," he stated 
simply. Of course, the weapons dealer had also been the same master 
smith who'd forged him a fine set of chain mail as well, but O'Neill 
didn't need to know these things.

"Practice much, or is it just for show?"

"As often as I'm able," Methos admitted. "Though it's hard to find 
decent sparring partners nowadays."

O'Neill gently shook his head and rubbed the crease between his eyes. 
"Are you sure you're Adam Pierson?"

"What? Not bookish enough?" Methos asked, a smile playing at his lips.

"Does the word 'mild' ring a bell?"

Methos laughed softly. "I know I'm not Daniel, but if you like, I can 
accidentally drop a few of your favorite, most breakable possessions on 
occasion," he offered helpfully.

O'Neill looked thoughtful for a moment then shook his head sadly as the 
elevator opened at their floor. "Nah. It's no fun if it isn't 
spontaneous. But thanks anyway."

They stepped out and Methos glanced around at the bland concrete walls. 
"Nice bunker. Love what you've done with the place. Who's your 
decorator?"

"Converted missile silo," O'Neill corrected. "And it was a unique fixer-
upper."

Charming, Methos thought. Not a bomb shelter, but a shelter for a bomb. 
He followed silently as the colonel led him to his new quarters, where 
he stowed his gear.

"That all you brought?" O'Neill asked curiously.

Methos nodded. "I like to travel light."

"Not much shopping out this way," the colonel responded. "But you can 
requisition anything you need. Just ask... Well, ask anyone in uniform. 
Except the general," he qualified. "Don't ask him. Not that he doesn't 
know how to requisition supplies. I'm sure he does. But..."

Methos grinned as O'Neill dug himself further into a hole. "Wouldn't you 
like to show me where I'll be working?"

"Yes!" O'Neill exclaimed gratefully. "I would love to show you the 
laboratory, and the library, and... Hell, I'll even show you the mess 
hall and the rec room. Come on, Pierson, what'd'ya say? You pumped for 
this? I'm pumped!"

Laughing softly as he followed the other man out, Methos had to admit 
that he was rather impressed with Jack O'Neill. Despite the fact that he 
was obviously a fine and dedicated soldier, he also had the wit not to 
take himself too seriously. Given whatever was taking place here that 
was probably a good thing. A very good thing, indeed.

                         *******************

Methos smiled as he surveyed his new domain. Actually, it was Daniel's 
office, but according to O'Neill, Daniel wasn't in it most of the time. 
That seemed odd, but then there seemed to be a number of oddities about 
this base that he couldn't seem to put his finger on. First and foremost 
was the attitude of the SGC's denizens. Upbeat, for the most part, best 
described it. And if memory served, duty like this should have been 
particularly onerous to those assigned. Yet, there seemed to be an air 
of purposefulness mixed with the kind of tension he'd only seen during 
wartime. Of course, that might have something to do with whatever was 
going on several floors below inside the restricted levels to which he 
did not have access.

Another oddity was the medical center, where much to his relief he'd 
been given a very cursory exam. Every possible piece of medical 
equipment and a few whose purpose he could only guess at had been 
crammed into the area. Not to mention the dozens of folding beds he'd 
seen neatly stacked in a side corridor. Almost as if they were preparing 
for a siege. Or under siege, he mused thoughtfully as he stepped over to 
the desk and took a seat.

There was a sharp knock and Methos looked up to see a very pretty blond 
wearing combat pants and a tee shirt standing in the door. Behind her 
came a tall, muscular black man, similarly dressed but sporting a drab 
green bandanna around his bald pate, pushing a handcart loaded with 
black bomb proof cases into the room. He rose to greet them.

"Hi, I'm Samantha Carter," the blond greeted him a little breathlessly 
as she lifted one of the cases. "And this is Teal'c. "

"Adam Pierson," Methos responded as he moved to help her. "Damn that's 
heavy," he said as the weight of the case unexpectedly strained against 
his muscles. "What have you got in these things? Gold bullion?"

Samantha grinned. "Close enough. Your tablets." She glanced at Teal'c, 
who nodded once and began unloading the contents of the cart alongside 
the far wall.

Methos' brows went up. "They aren't gold," he told her bluntly. "If they 
were, I could have read them off the photos."

"No, they're not," she agreed. "What they are is classified."

Methos said nothing, laying the case he was still holding on the work 
table in the center of the room. He opened it slowly, staring down at 
the dull metal.

"They're not radioactive or anything, I hope?" he asked facetiously. It 
might not kill him, but he didn't really want to find out the hard way. 
And certainly not in front of the troops.

"No, not radioactive -- or anything," Samantha answered with a grin as 
she went to assist her companion.

He reached out and ran his fingers along the incised letters on the 
obverse, jumping back with a terrified start and clutching his fist as a 
tiny spark of his Quickening was pulled from his hand and fed back into 
him tenfold.

"Something wrong?" she asked, obviously surprised by his reaction.

Methos stared at the tablet and shook his head. "Just a bit of static 
from the carpet," he murmured absently, rubbing his fingers together. 
Whatever this stuff was it made him feel as if he'd taken a minor jolt 
of energy. Just enough to make his Quickening thrum with the hint of 
power that was waiting. Incredible! 

Samantha stared at him oddly and Methos savagely controlled his sudden 
urge to grasp the tablet. Instead, he swallowed hard and went to look 
through Daniel's supplies. After a little searching he found what he 
needed, snapping on a pair of latex gloves to insulate his hands. As he 
went about preparing, digging out book stands to prop the tablets up he 
glanced at Carter.

"Are these all the tablets?" he asked.

"Actually, there are two hundred and thirty-seven in varying sizes."

Methos nodded, already planning his strategy. "I'll need more room 
then."

"We're preparing an office and work space for you now. It would have 
been ready, but we had a little emergency earlier."

"Any time within the next day or so will be fine, thank you," he 
responded with a brief smile. "Is there a report on the order in which 
the tablets were found?"

"I'll have it sent up," she offered. "This was the first batch we 
brought out, and if you'll note," she pointed to the case on the table. 
"They're labeled and coded."

Methos looked to the case. "P4X37-001," he read softly. "Very good. I'll 
mark the stands." 

Mentally dismissing her, he removed the tablet from its silk lined case 
without incident, propped it up then went to get a blank note book from 
the stack beneath Daniel's desk and proceeded to get to work. It was a 
long time later when he finally looked up and with a touch of amazement 
at his own poor manners, realized he hadn't even thanked them. Oh well, 
he supposed with a mental shrug as he discarded the thought, they must 
be used to it by now with Daniel around and contentedly went back to 
work.

                         *******************

"Jacob!" General Hammond called as his old friend stepped through the 
Stargate followed by another less welcome yet familiar face. "Anise," he 
greeted the female Tok'ra coolly.

"George," Jacob Carter smiled as they shook hands. "Where's Sam and the 
rest of SG-1?"

"Semi-annual physicals," he explained briefly as he led the way to the 
conference room. "They'll be joining us shortly. Why? Your message 
didn't sound urgent. Was it?"

Jacob looked to the woman, who spoke in the reverberating tones of her 
symbiot. "It is not urgent," Anise admitted. "But the high council of 
the Tok'ra finds this discovery of yours to be of great interest."

"Of great interest?" the general asked, taking a seat at the conference 
table.

"Yes. These tablets you have discovered seem to relate to a myth among 
our people of a great leader, one of the Ancients, who was also blended, 
and somehow became a weapon against the Goa'uld."

"He himself became a weapon?" the general asked, confused.

"So the myth claims," Anise agreed. "I was sent to assist Dr. Jackson in 
translating the tablets. It was felt that while there may be no 
practical application for the information, nonetheless it should be 
properly documented."

"I'm afraid that won't be possible," the general explained. "Dr. Jackson 
isn't working on the project and the expert we've hired doesn't have the 
security clearance to even know about the gate much less what's on the 
other side."

"George," Jacob interrupted quietly. "God knows I understand about 
security. But there's more to this than just our interest in an ancient 
myth. Do you know how the Tok'ra began their fight against the Goa'uld?" 

The general shook his head. "As you know, the Tok'ra haven't been very 
forthcoming with that kind of information."

Jacob sighed and nodded in understanding. "The tale dates back to even 
before Selmak was born. Around the time of the uprising against Ra and 
his forces on Earth. For some reason the genetic memory of the Tok'ra is 
incomplete on the subject, but what they do recall is fascinating. One 
of the Ancients befriended a blended one and when his host lay dying and 
there was no other with which to blend, the Ancient chose to blend 
himself rather than see his friend die. Now, this is important, because 
the legends state that the Ancients could not be blended. That their 
bodies somehow rejected and destroyed the Goa'uld parasite. How he did 
it is lost, but once blended he and his symbiot took the name Tok'ra and 
began to organize a grass roots resistance. On Earth and around the 
galaxy. Until that point the alliance against the Goa'uld had struck 
only at obvious threats to their own security. But he took the fight a 
step further. Made it personal. 

"Now," Jacob nodded. "I know that the past is not germane to the current 
hostilities. Heck, no one's seen or heard from the Ancients in at least 
ten millennia. But the Tok'ra have recently suffered some serious losses 
and the council felt that knowing more about their past might help to 
re-enthuse some of our younger members who are feeling somewhat 
demoralized at the moment. And, of course, it might also give us a clue 
as to where the Ancients have gone. It couldn't hurt to be able to ask 
them for help."

The general nodded thoughtfully. He certainly understood the importance 
of high moral amongst soldiers during wartime, though given that the 
Asgard had yet to uphold their end of the bargain in assisting Earth in 
her fight against the Goa'uld threat, he was not hopeful the Ancients 
would be of any more help.

"I'll tell you what," he finally offered. "You can meet with Dr. 
Pierson, but only as your hosts. Talk with him, see how he's doing on 
the translations -- he's been providing us with daily reports, but I'm 
not really qualified to judge his progress. If you think he's working 
fast enough to suit your needs then we'll leave things as they are. If 
not, I'll reconsider your request."

Jacob nodded though Anise seemed ready to argue the point. He silenced 
her with a look and she settled back in her chair. "Agreed," she 
frowned.

"Good. Now, you'll want to change out of those clothes before you go 
up."

Jacob grinned. "Selmak says green isn't really my color, but she'll go 
along with the need for secrecy."

George smiled. "She should have seen us back in 'Nam."

Jacob's eyes glowed as Selmak suddenly spoke. "I have his memories of 
that," she smirked. "Pink lace? You rogue, you!"

                         *******************

Methos tapped a pencil against his teeth staring thoughtfully at the 
tablet in front of him. The story thus far seemed to relate how this 
fellow Tok'ra, who had once been two individuals before something 
referred to as the "joining" went out among the star peoples -- whoever 
they were -- arousing them to the frenzy of battle against their common 
enemy, the infamous Go-ah-uld. An interesting tale, though he didn't 
believe a word of it. It was likely a metamorphic retelling of a natural 
event by some priest soliciting funds for a new temple or grandiose 
statue.

Of course, now came the inevitable listing of the places Tok'ra had 
visited, the people he'd spoken with and the adventures he'd had along 
the way. The problem was, after each of these place names came a series 
of seven symbols which bore no resemblance to any of the characters he'd 
worked with thus far.

There was a knock at the door and Methos sighed at the interruption. 
Still, he admitted, he could use a break. A week of solid translations 
with little to do besides eat and sleep had made him a very dull 
Immortal. Stretching his shoulders, he stood and turned, surprised to 
see his high ranking visitors.

"Dr. Pierson," a heavy-set man with kindly eyes strode forward, 
confidently offering his hand. "I'm General Hammond. This is General 
Carter and Dr. Anise. I apologize for the--"

"Methos?" Carter interrupted, eyes wide and staring in obvious 
astonishment.

The Immortal in question went very still. "I beg your pardon?"

"You are Methos," the man insisted. "Selmak has an image of you in her 
mind. The hair was longer, but it is you."

Methos shook his head, fighting for calm. "I'm afraid you're mistaken, 
General. I'm sure we've never met, and I don't recall ever meeting 
anyone named Selmak."

"You wouldn't. It was before her time."

"Jacob," Hammond interrupted. "I think you must be confused. This is Dr. 
Pierson, our translator."

"There is no mistake," Anise intoned, ignoring the general's previous 
orders as her symbiot took control. "He is the Immortal Methos, who 
stood with Tok'ra at the battle of Annu'tak'ra. Hail to thee, honored 
warrior," she bowed.

Methos felt the blood drain from his face at the sound of her voice. The 
reverberation seemed to chill him to his very bones. "Look, I don't know 
you and I don't know what you're trying to pull, but I'm Adam Pierson, 
linguist. Not anyone's honored warrior."

Now Selmak spoke as Colonel O'Neill, Major Carter and Teal'c quietly 
entered the work room.

"Why do you deny it, honored one? We can see for ourselves the aura of 
your ancient Quickening."

Methos shook his head. He didn't know what was going on, or how they 
knew what they knew, but he'd had quite enough of being the military's 
little science experiment. He'd take his chances on the outside and to 
hell with the Immortal hordes, they'd just have to fend for themselves.

"If you'll excuse me, General," he said in his most insulted tone. "I 
think I'll be leaving now." He'd moved past the two men and was heading 
toward the door when the woman, Anise, came up beside him.

"This is no time for games, old one," she told him as he felt a sharp 
pain in the center of his chest and looked down to see a pair of 
scissors sticking out from between his ribs. Oh, fuck.

"Bitch!" Methos hissed as he sensed himself falling. There was a long 
moment filled with shouting voices and he felt the scissors wrenched 
from his ribs. Then the room around him went dark and the voices dulled 
as he felt the life flowing out of him.

                         *******************

"It's all right, George!" Jacob insisted.

"It is not all right! The man is dead! Colonel arrest that woman."

"With pleasure," O'Neill snarled as he and Teal'c none too gently 
grabbed hold of Anise by the arms, forcing her to drop the bloody 
scissors.

"He's not dead, George," Jacob said calmly. "At least, not permanently."

"Dad," Samantha interjected softly as she knelt by the body feeling for 
a pulse. "He's gone, Dad. She pierced his heart."

"No, he isn't," Jacob repeated. "Just wait."

"Jacob," Hammond said, putting every ounce of patience he owned into 
that one word. "I'd like to believe you. But I know a dead man when I 
see one. And so do you."

"George, remember when I first became blended? I told you there were 
things about Earth's history I'd discovered. Things that would amaze 
you. Well, this is one of them. I never said anything because the Tok'ra 
assumed they no longer existed. Methos-- Dr. Pierson," he corrected for 
their benefit. "Is what the Tok'ra refer to as an Immortal. A race of 
beings who cannot die unless you severe their heads."

"He looks pretty dead to me," Jack interrupted. "Damn. And I kinda liked 
the guy."

"It's only temporary. Immortals regenerate. Look at his chest, Sam."

She did as he asked, pulling aside the dead man's shirt. "There seems to 
be a small energy field around the--"

The body jerked and a loud, rasping gasp came from the mouth as empty 
lungs suddenly filled with air. 

"--wound," Samantha finished as she fell back in astonishment.

Methos' eyes snapped open and he hurriedly glanced around, rolling away 
from Major Carter and into a crouch. He caught sight of Anise and 
suddenly saw red, abruptly launching himself at her. The force of his 
fist impacting with her face sounded through the room, along with the 
crack of her breaking jaw.

"Oops," Jack said with no remorse as he and Teal'c let her unconscious 
body fall hard to the floor. "Sorry, sir. Didn't see that coming."

"See what coming?" The general smirked. "I didn't see anything. Did you, 
Major Carter?"

"I didn't see anything," she answered calmly, getting to her feet and 
wiping her blood stained hands on her pants.

"I also saw nothing," Teal'c added.

Methos looked around seeing both understanding and curiosity in their 
eyes. Yet it made no difference. "Sorry for the mess," he told them. 
"Now, if you'll excuse me, as I said, I'll be going."

Jack stepped in front of him. "Whoa. Hold on, Pierson-- Methos-- 
Whatever your name is. It's not that easy to just walk out of a high 
security installation."

He moved back a pace and straightened, throwing off any remaining 
vestige of his Adam Pierson persona. "Am I to understand I'm a prisoner 
here?" he asked coldly.

"Of course not. He isn't, is he, General?" Jack asked hopefully.

"No," Hammond confirmed. "You're not a prisoner. But we would like to 
ask you a few questions."

"I've had enough of questions," Methos told them angrily. "And enough of 
being made sport of. If I'm not a prisoner then I insist you allow me to 
depart."

"Now, son," the general came forward and gently laid a hand on his 
shoulder. "I can see you're upset. You had a secret and one I'll bet 
that probably doesn't go over very well with the general populace. But 
we like to think we're different here. That people are people no matter 
what they look like or where they come from. Why don't you go back to 
your quarters, take some time to think things through and we'll talk 
again in the morning. I promise no harm will come to you while you're 
with us. You have my word on that as an officer."

"Pretty words," Methos sneered, shrugging off the hand that sought to 
comfort. "But I think not. I've already had a taste of your hospitality 
in that regard."

"He does not lie," Teal'c suddenly stepped forward. "On that you have my 
word as a warrior."

"And mine," Jack echoed.

Samantha raised a hand. "Me three," she smiled.

He looked at them, sensing that they at least believed what they were 
saying. "Till morning then, but on one condition," Methos said as he 
heard Anise begin to stir. "That I never lay eyes on that bitch again. 
Or I swear," he growled, daring anyone to challenge him. "It will be a 
life for a life and she won't be getting up again."

"Works for me," Jack grinned. "Everybody?" The rest of SG-1 nodded. They 
had good reason to dislike Anise, given that she'd risked their lives 
and thought nothing of it simply because the Tok'ra required the 
sacrifice.

"Agreed," the general nodded. "Jacob?"

Carter shrugged. "We have no problem with that," he responded, moving to 
help the scientist to her feet. She clutched her bloody face, tears 
streaming down her cheeks from the pain. "Let's go," he pulled her none 
too gently toward the door, ignoring her inarticulate cry of agony. 
"I'll take you home. After all, I wouldn't want to leave you to the 
primitive care you might be subjected to here. It may take a while 
though," he grinned widely at Methos. "I seem to have misplaced the 
address."

 Anise whimpered pitifully as she was dragged from the room.

"Couldn't happen to a nicer girl," Jack quipped unrepentantly. "Come 
on...Methos?" The Immortal gave a curt nod. "We'll see you safely to 
your quarters."

Despite the fact that he could have easily found his own way there, 
Methos tacitly accepted the colonel's offer. It was, after all, meant as 
a gesture of hospitality.

"Are you sure you're okay?" Jack asked as they moved toward the 
elevator.

"Just peachy," he muttered, plucking at his blood soaked shirt.

"So it's true what my father said? You can only be killed by 
decapitation?"

Methos flinched. He hadn't heard that part of the conversation. "We 
don't like the D word, Major."

She gave him an embarrassed smiled. "Sorry."

The elevator came and he got on with the others, feeling surrounded by a 
flock of over protective mother hens by the time they reached his room. 
They were being incredibly solicitous. First O'Neill saying that he'd 
requisition a new shirt to replace the one Anise had ruined. Teal'c, 
seeing his sword in its display rack on the wall and offering to spar 
with him when he felt better. Then Major Carter running off to fetch him 
some fruit juice, because even though he was Immortal, he must still be 
feeling dehydrated from the loss of fluids, while Jack called after her 
that soup was better and to bring some of that too.

Once she was gone Methos stripped off his shirt, much bemused by his 
audience. The last few minutes had gone a long way toward easing his 
mind as far as his safety with this lot was concerned. He still didn't 
know what was going on here, but he was sure he'd have his answers in 
the morning. Then, he'd either stay or go. Most likely go, he thought as 
he went into his private bath to shower and change. After all, tacit 
acceptance or not, he had his future to think of about. And it didn't 
include another stint in the military, especially when there wasn't a 
war on. He'd only served in the last two because they'd virtually 
exploded around him before he could get out. And they were big enough, 
and nasty enough in his opinion to merit his attention. World domination 
by dictatorial forces had never sounded like a good idea. A free and 
open society was a much healthier place for an Immortal. At least, he'd 
thought so until a few weeks ago.

When he exited the bath he found O'Neill sitting on the chair by his 
desk playing flip the dagger with one of the other pieces he'd brought 
for show. The colonel looked up and set it aside, pointing to a tray on 
his desk.

"Sam left that for you."

Methos took the tray over to his bed and sat down with it. His body 
could rebuild its blood volume without liquid fuel, but the juice and 
the soup would help to at least alleviate his thirst. "Where's your big 
friend, Teal'c?"

Jack looked toward the door. "He's sworn on his oath as a warrior to 
stand guard. He's out there now, feeling proud and useful."

"And so he should," Methos grinned delightedly. A rare honor indeed, he 
thought, in these modern times. "I shall have to thank him for that."

O'Neill nodded. "Listen, uh, Methos?" Jack swallowed uncomfortably. "Do 
you mind if I still call you Pierson?"

Methos smiled. "Actually, I'd prefer it. Adam's fine too."

"Adam then. Look, I just want you to know that we don't condone what 
Anise did. In fact, we don't much like her around here. And we certainly 
don't approve of our...associates committing murder just to make a 
point. So, I can pretty much guarantee that unless there's some extreme 
circumstance which requires her presence she won't be back. And also 
that she won't ever be allowed in the same room with you."

Methos nodded and sipped the juice. "That's good to know. And I'm sure 
one day," he grinned nastily, "she'll come to appreciate that fact."

Jack matched him grin for grin, then he took a deep breath and went on. 
"Another thing, Adam. I don't know what you think of us here, but I'd 
also like to reassure you that in spite of what the public thinks, the 
military in general is not interested in experimenting on civilians."

Methos very obviously flinched and Jack paused, the expression on his 
face changing to one of deep concern. "What happened?"

Methos shook his head. "It's nothing."

"It's not nothing," O'Neill insisted, leaning forward with his hands 
loosely clasped between his thighs. "Whatever happened I need to know. 
Was it our guys?"

Methos gave an abrupt nod and pushed the tray aside. "Look, it's not 
important. I'll be leaving in the morning anyway."

"It is important," he insisted. "And as one soldier to another I'll tell 
you that it happened to me. Not our guys, and probably not what you went 
through, but torture is torture in my book. Now I need to know what 
happened, when it happened and if you know who it was. Because, god damn 
it, Pierson! If our people are pulling shit like that I want it 
stopped!"

"And it doesn't matter that I'm not like you?" he asked, staring fixedly 
at his hands. 

"No, it doesn't matter to me that you're different. I wouldn't let 
Research and Development take Teal'c and I won't let them have you."

Methos glanced up in surprise. "Teal'c?"

"Long story," Jack waved a hand. "You'll hear it the morning. Now give."

Methos moved back on the bed, wrapping his arms around his chest as he 
drew up his knees. He liked this mortal and he knew in his heart that he 
could trust him, like he'd known he could trust MacLeod. Maybe, he 
thought, no matter what his decision a few hours from now, if he did 
tell O'Neill and it was possible to stop them, perhaps he wouldn't have 
to run. And since he very much liked his life at the moment the thought 
of leaving it all behind for a century or two was not a happy one. 
Finally, he closed his eyes and nodded.

"All right," he began quietly. "I never saw their faces, but it was just 
after I arrived at the fort..."

                         *******************

The door Teal'c was guarding suddenly opened and a red faced, furious 
Jack O'Neill stepped out. "No one but me, you, Sam and the general goes 
in or out of this room until further notice, got that?"

"Is something wrong, O'Neill?"

"Oh yeah," he muttered angrily as he stalked down the hall. "But not for 
long."

A few minutes later he was knocking on the door to Hammond's office. 
"General," he said as he opened the door. "We need to talk. Someone got 
hold of Pierson at the fort."

Hammond put aside the file he was reviewing. "I know," he nodded toward 
the file. "I had someone pull up everything we had on him. It all seems 
in order until you get to this."

O'Neill took the folder and glanced at it. "The doctors involved filed a 
medical report?" he asked, surprised.

Hammond nodded. "I don't believe they were in on it. The attending 
thought three physicians to confirm each other's findings was a little 
excessive, despite the fact that they were just following orders, so he 
filed a formal report. I'm having the matter looked into right now," he 
added, getting to his feet and putting on his jacket. "The full report 
should be on my desk by morning. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have an 
errand to run."

O'Neill smiled. "Very good, sir."

"Oh, and Jack?" The general paused at the door. "Keep an eye on Pierson, 
will you? Immortal or not, no one deserves that."

"At least no one we like."

Hammond only sighed. "Good night, Colonel."

"See you at the execution," he murmured, sauntering out of the office. 
Because for six soon to be miserable junior officers there would be one 
come morning -- of sorts. Of that he had no doubt. And he was going to 
be there to enjoy every minute of it, watching them see their budding 
careers go right down the toilet.

                         *******************

It was nearly 3 a.m. when the general's jet landed at the NATO base just 
outside of Paris. There was a car waiting for him and he gave the driver 
the address. Not long after they pulled up outside the building which 
housed Le Blues Bar and Hammond got out, telling the driver to come back 
in an hour. He walked through the door and smiled to himself as he saw 
an old, but familiar face, straightening up behind the bar.

"We're closed, buddy."

"Not even a beer for an old friend?" the general called as he moved into 
the light closer to the bar.

Dawson looked up, staring hard at the face and the uniform. "George? 
George Hammond?!" he finally grinned. "Well I'll be damned. Look at you! 
Major General, huh?"

"So they keep telling me."

"Well I'll be. I haven't seen you since Saigon. Pull up a stool," he 
said, drawing the man his best draft. "Just get into town?"

"Actually, Joe," Hammond told him, taking a sip of his drink and nodding 
in appreciation. "I came to see you about a mutual friend of ours. Adam 
Pierson."

Joe nodded disinterestedly. "You know, Adam, huh?"

"He works for us."

"Adam?" Joe laid his hands on the bar, looking as though he were going 
to fall down. "Adam Pierson? Mild-mannered researcher? Working for you? 
For the military? Sorry, George, but you must have the wrong guy."

"No, we have the right guy. And don't you mean mild-mannered researcher 
who also happens to be an Immortal named Methos?"

Dawson found his cane, a bottle of rye and a shot glass then staggered 
over to the nearest chair. Hammond followed, sorry he didn't have time 
for the niceties with his old friend.

"I won't confirm that," Joe said quietly.

"You don't have to. I saw him die and get up again not five minutes 
later. And I also know about the Watchers. Not exactly why you watch 
these Immortals, but that you do."

Dawson swallowed hard and poured himself a shot. "What do you plan to do 
with this information?"

"Do with it?" Hammond asked, surprised. "You mean about the existence of 
a race that can't die unless you cut off their heads? Nothing. What the 
hell would we do with it, Joe? They're not bothering us. This is the 
military, not television. We don't need people who don't want to work 
with us. You know the best soldiers are the ones willing to do the job 
and get it done right because that's what they get paid for."

"And Adam?"

"Pierson's another matter. We need his help at the moment, although we 
could probably manage without him. What I need from you is a better 
understanding of who and what he is. I need to know how best to approach 
him. Make him feel comfortable so that he'll stay of his own free will."

"What does he have to say about it?"

"Well, given the circumstances, and they're not good, he's more than a 
little upset, but he's agreed to give me until this morning to convince 
him."

Joe snorted. "Upset? I'll bet he's upset! Look, George, you don't know 
what we do? Okay, I'll tell you. We watch Immortals challenge each other 
in something they call the Game. It's a duel to the death between two 
Immortals for what is essentially the other's soul. It's called a 
Quickening. A power, or energy that makes them what they are. When one 
Immortal loses his head to another he also loses his Quickening, which 
is absorbed by the winner, and the older they get the more powerful 
their Quickening becomes. The ultimate goal of this game is for only one 
to remain. Only one, George. It's a case of the winner literally taking 
all. And Methos is old. Very old. His head's worth a lot. More than 
that, he's a friend. So, I'm not going to tell you anything that could 
get him killed."

Hammond nodded slowly. No wonder Pierson was terrified. Still, that 
didn't change things back at Stargate Command. "Joe, I can't tell you 
why we need Pierson, but it's important. Important to me, to you, to 
everyone who lives on this planet. And that includes Immortals. I can 
also promise you that I'll do everything in my power to protect him. No 
one is going to take his head on my watch."

Dawson sighed. "I know you mean well, George, and I believe you. But 
it's not me you have to convince. It ain't even Adam. It's Methos you 
have to sway. And that's a horse of an entirely different color. He's 
survived the Game longer than anyone."

"How long?"

"More than five thousand years."

"My sources say ten."

Joe nearly choked on his drink. "And he confirmed this?"

"He doesn't have to. I trust my sources."

Dawson shook his head in disgust. "I don't know what to tell you, 
George. However old he is, Methos only got there by being smarter and 
more dangerous in his own way than all the rest. You're playing with 
fire and if you keep him where he doesn't want to be you'll be holding a 
ticking bomb that I can guarantee will someday explode in your face. Be 
smart and play it safe. If he wants to go, just turn him loose. No 
questions asked."

Hammond nodded. "I hadn't planned on keeping him against his will, Joe. 
But I would like to appeal to what is obviously a very powerful sense of 
self-preservation."

"Then your reasons better be good. Methos doesn't have any loyalty to 
mortal causes. He can't afford it. But if you can convince him that it's 
in his own best interest to help you... Look, I don't know what you guys 
are up to that could affect the whole world, but hell, he is technically 
its oldest living inhabitant. If this is anyone's planet, Methos'd 
probably consider it his."

                         *******************

At precisely 0900 Jack O'Neill led Methos into General Hammond's office 
and quickly took up the guard before the flags. Methos steeled himself 
for the expected confrontation. They'd ramble on about duty and honor 
and he'd... 

You'll what? Methos chided himself. Tell them it's stuff and nonsense? 
Probably, he thought with a touch of sarcasm. After all, it worked to 
put MacLeod off the scent whenever he was being particularly trying.

"Good morning, Dr. Pierson," the general greeted him. "Please take a 
seat."

With a heavy heart, because they really were attempting to be kind to 
him, Methos did so. Still, no matter how he felt it just wasn't safe for 
him here any longer.

"I'm afraid," the general began politely. "That we left off rather 
abruptly yesterday."

That's putting it mildly, Methos thought.

"There were a number of things about the project I wished to discuss 
with you. As well as what I hope will be your continued relationship 
with us here at the SGC. And we'll get to that shortly. First," he 
handed Methos a half a dozen file folders. "I'd like you to look these 
over whenever you get the chance. No rush."

He briefly glanced at the folders, noting that they seemed to be 
personnel files. Why they were being given to him Methos hadn't a clue, 
but he nodded his acceptance and laid them across his lap.
 
Hammond didn't take his eyes off Methos as the door behind him opened 
and the Immortal heard the swish of cloth as several individuals 
silently entered the room. He stiffened imperceptibly, but didn't look 
around, keeping his attention focused on the general, who ignored the 
interruption.

"Now, I have a bit of business to attend to," he went on barely glancing 
at the new arrivals. "You're welcome to remain where you are until it's 
done."

Methos gave a half shrug and finally looked around, not at all sure what 
was going on, but willing to sit and watch if that's what Hammond 
wanted.

"Gentlemen," Hammond coldly addressed the six waiting officers who 
snapped to attention. Methos felt a shiver of tension rise in his spine 
as he recognized at least two of the officers. They had been the ones 
who approached him in Paris about the job. And, of course, he now 
understood the reason for the files Hammond had given him. Know thy 
enemy was as true now as it had been when the words were first spoken 
and Hammond obviously understood that.

"You are here to receive your new orders," the general began without 
preamble. "McMichaels and Breslow, for the next eighteen months you two 
are going to be manning our communications station in the Outer 
Hebrides."

Methos dug his fingers into the arm of his chair to keep himself from 
laughing. The pair, as he recalled, had been the height of urbane good 
looks and breeding when he'd met with them. Slicked backed, expensively 
coifed hair, sun lamp tans and manicured nails. City boys to the core. 
Mummy and Dadums money and connections wouldn't be able to help them out 
on that empty, windswept rock. And unless they had a secret passion for 
sheep they'd get cold comfort and the cold shoulder from the villagers 
on the nearby islands. He ought to know, he'd been shipwrecked there for 
an entire godforsaken year.

"Delmar and Witowski, I know you'll be thrilled to learn you'll be 
joining our team at the Arctic Circle." The two very tan, very blond, 
and very buff beach boys seemed to wilt visibly. "Hadley and Frankel 
tell me it's wonderful there this time of year. A whole six hours of 
sunlight daily," the general smiled.

"Gustafson and Marlow." Two Nordic gods, who'd probably skied all the 
way to Colorado, blinked nervously. "There's a rain forest in the Amazon 
that needs a road, and gentlemen, you're going to build it."

"But sir!" Gustafson protested, the others briefly joining in.

"Gentlemen!" Hammond's tone demanded silence and he got it. "You have no 
reason to object to these assignments. I am being most generous with 
you. These," he slapped his hand on a file lying on his desk, "are court 
martial offenses and the result if brought to trial would surely be 
prison time. You are all, albeit marginally, " he glared at them 
dangerously. "Guilty of treason. You were not given orders to conduct 
this unacceptable investigation of civilian personnel. Or," he rumbled 
ominously. "You knowingly accepted orders from someone not in a position 
to legally give them. And if that is the case, gentlemen, then you'd 
best be grateful that I'm the one in charge, because whoever gave you 
those orders will be none too pleased with you for getting caught." The 
six paled visibly. "Now you all, of course, have a choice. Report 
immediately for duty to your new assignments, or you will, I assure you, 
be going to prison."

Hammond nodded once as they remained silent.

"Now, on a personal note. Before I dismiss you, let me just say for the 
record that this is the STUPIDEST thing I have ever heard of! Does this 
man," he gestured at Methos, "look 800 years old to you? He barely looks 
the 28 years he claims on his birth certificate! And frankly, I think 
he's fudging it. We'll let it pass, son," Hammond told Methos' gently, 
ignoring the wicked gleam in the Immortal's eyes. "You're doing good 
work for us here."

"But, sir. He confessed!" Breslow insisted and his cohorts hissed at him 
to be quiet. Up until that point, Methos thought with an internal sigh 
of relief, no matter how much circumstantial evidence they had it was 
still just speculation. 

"He confessed?! Hell, I would have confessed to being Mickey Mouse if 
you were asking me these questions! You're just lucky Dr. Pierson is a 
historian, or this could have turned into a tragedy rather than a 
shameful travesty of justice. He spun you a fairy tale he knew you were 
just dumb enough to buy and no doubt saved his life in the process. A 
man who's lived 800 years pretends to be an academic? Don't you think 
he'd be a captain of industry by now? Rich and powerful beyond anyone's 
wildest imaginings? And you found him hiding in a library. I think not, 
gentlemen."

"But, sir, he doesn't exist. We traced the records, sir," Breslow 
offered lamely.

"In the 1960's half this country's population didn't exist at some 
point, Lieutenant. Damn computers! I spent a whole year stuck in Omaha 
until the Air Force finally found me. And I was only supposed to report 
there for two weeks of training!" Hammond shook his head and slapped a 
hand on his desk making the six officers jump. "The sheer, utter 
stupidity of your actions is almost surpassed by your unadulterated 
gall! How dare you try to justify yourselves to me! Now get the hell out 
of my office! Dismissed!"

As the door closed behind them Methos sat back and loosed his strangle 
hold on the chair arms. "But I was hiding in a library," he pointed out, 
bemused by the general's final comments.

"Of course you were, son," Hammond agreed. "And if I could live forever 
I wouldn't be a captain of industry either. But those young fools think 
power and money are the best that life has to offer. And they couldn't 
possibly understand how no one else couldn't want it."

Methos smiled. "True," he agreed. "Maybe now they'll begin to doubt 
their own findings. And for that I thank you. But what about their 
superiors?"

Behind them O'Neill snorted. "If they ever read that report they'll be 
so embarrassed and so completely grateful to have those morons out of 
their hair, they'll burn that file and be glad no one else discovered 
it."

"At ease, Colonel," the general ordered and Jack moved to sit on the 
edge of his desk. "And he's right, son. No one in their right mind would 
give credence to that report. I wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't 
seen the proof with my own eyes. And frankly, I'm still having a hard 
time with it."

"I don't know, sir," Jack drawled. "It's kinda nice having a real live 
hero of the revolution sitting in the same room with us."

Methos rolled his eyes. "My feet froze, my patients died and the only 
time I picked up a gun was to shoot for the pot."

"And they gave you a plaque for that?"

"I made the future mayor of Bedersville a beaver skin cap. It was the 
Forge. He was grateful."

"Valley Forge?" Hammond asked, his eyes going wide. "You were at Valley 
Forge with Washington?"

"And a few thousand other half frozen, half starved, pathetic bastards. 
If I'd had any place safe to desert to I would have. Beastly hell hole!"

Hammond sighed, trying not to laugh. Dawson had painted his picture of 
Methos rather accurately. A man who owed no allegiance to anyone and 
would rather run than fight if given the chance. It seemed at odds with 
the great warrior the Tok'ra remembered, but then who was he to judge? 
"Be that as it may, you're prominently conspicuous in the fresco with 
General Washington in the congressional rotunda."

Methos waved a hand in disregard, sprawling lasciviously in his chair. 
"I slept with the artist," he shrugged. "You should have seen his 
etchings."

Jack choked on his shock.

"You know," Hammond said calmly. "Making yourself out to be a cad and a 
whore isn't going to change my mind. We still need your help, Methos. 
And besides," he smiled. "I was told you are not only a consummate 
actor, but a pathological liar."

"Who said that?!" Methos pulled himself up. "My lies are not 
pathological! They are, in fact, quite logical. 'Don't ask, don't tell', 
remember? Well I've told and now you'll just have to send me packing."

"Yeah," Jack grinned. "But since we've officially decided that you 
couldn't possibly be that guy in the fresco, you really didn't tell us 
anything."

"Semantics," Methos muttered, voicing his annoyance. "Oh, all right," he 
sighed disgustedly, resigning himself to an hour spent listening to the 
general's sales pitch. "You wished to speak with Methos, General 
Hammond." He sat up straight as his sword, all trace of the shallow fop 
gone from his attitude. "Well, you now have his complete attention."

The change in demeanor was extraordinary. "Now this guy I can believe is 
28 -- maybe even 30," O'Neill quipped.

The general just shook his head. "We have some private matters to 
discuss, if you will excuse us, Colonel?"

O'Neill rose and headed for the door. "I'll be in the gate room, if you 
need me. SG-3 is due back in half an hour. Sir."

"Very good, Colonel."

Hammond turned to Methos as the door closed. "Well now, where to begin? 
I think the truth would be a good place to start, don't you?"

"Never hurts," Methos agreed cautiously.

"You and I have an old friend in common. Joe Dawson. I went to see him 
last night."

Methos searched the other man's face. Just how much of the truth about 
Immortals was this man aware of?

"He explained the reasons for your hesitancy about remaining with us. 
And while I can't say I like this Game or the end result which it 
implies, I understand that cultures vary and that what is an acceptable 
state of affairs to some is not to others. Fair enough?"

Methos nodded. "Fair enough."

"While you're with us, I could guarantee your safety from any such 
challenges. One, because unauthorized personnel wouldn't even get 
through the front door. And two, if they were authorized and managed to 
get in, they would not be getting out in anything other than a body bag. 
As I believe you've seen, the military takes a dim view of having its 
civilian personnel attacked or harassed by anyone. Lastly, the only 
members of the team who would be made privy to your special 
circumstances would be the ones you've already met and might of 
necessity be required to work with. Of course, the nature of these 
circumstances would be classified Top Secret. And I can tell you from 
personal experience they'd die before revealing it to anyone."

"What about Daniel?" Methos asked, anticipating what was likely to be a 
problematic relationship if the young historian knew he had unlimited 
access to living history. "I shouldn't like to be trapped in the same 
room with him and his notebook if he found out. I'm not very good at 
playing the 'what's the greatest invention in history' game. No one ever 
believes me when I say it's the toaster. Most perfect gift item ever 
created," he added smugly.

Hammond chuckled then smiled wryly. "I don't believe your Immortality is 
germane to his position on the team, but I'll leave that up to you. 
Right now, it's on a need to know basis and I don't see a need for him 
to know, do you?" 

Methos shook his head. "As things stand now, no I don't. What about 
Anise and General Carter?"

"Apparently, they were already aware of the existence of Immortals and 
given their location and affiliations, I highly doubt they would allow 
any harm to come to you. It was in fact Jacob who requested that I make 
this appeal to you once he realized who you were. And while I can't tell 
you any more than that for the moment, I hope what I have said will ease 
your fears in that regard."

Methos nodded thoughtfully. "I'm not sure exactly what that means for 
myself and other Immortals, but I'd be willing to wait and see."

"Good. Now, if I've allayed most of your concerns on that subject, I'd 
like to tell you our little secret. Because frankly, it's a doozy. And 
I'm hopeful that once you know you'll change your mind about working 
with us."

Methos said nothing, though he didn't doubt for a moment that what the 
general intended to do about his safety was the god's honest truth as 
far as Hammond was concerned. However, a secret interesting enough for 
him to knowingly involve himself in any government's national security 
had to be truly compelling and this he doubted utterly.

"I'm listening."

"Have you ever heard of an archaeologist by the name of Langford?" the 
general asked getting to his feet.

"Katherine Langford? She's not well known, and I'm not sure if she's 
still alive, but yes, I've heard of her."

"Actually, it was her father who discovered what you're about to see, 
though she was involved in the project during its early phases. If 
you'll please follow me."

Methos rose and listened, looking around curiously as the general led 
him through a series of corridors. This was the restricted area of the 
facility he'd never seen.

"In 1928," the general told him, "Dr. Langford made a startling 
discovery on the Giza Plateau." He opened the door to what looked like 
an operations center and ushered Methos in. "He found this."

Methos stared down through the gallery windows. A huge circular object 
with a ramp leading up to its center dominated the virtually empty room 
below.

"What is it?" he asked, craning for a better look at what seemed to be 
writing on its heavily carved face.

"That's what we wanted to know. It isn't made of any material found on 
Earth."

Methos shot him a surprised glance then turned back to stare at the 
object.

"On and off over the last fifty years the military tried to figure it 
out. Then, several years ago, Katherine Langford brought Daniel Jackson 
on board to help decipher the inscription on the cover stones found 
buried with the device. His breakthrough allowed us to do more than just 
turn it on."

Methos looked back at the general. "So what does it do?"

"It's a gateway, son. A Stargate to other worlds."

Methos laughed. "That's a good one, but what does it really do?"

"Colonel?" the general asked.

"Any minute..." O'Neill looked at his watch, "...now."

The blare of warning klaxons suddenly filled the base and a half a dozen 
battle ready soldiers raced into the gate room.

"Picking up SG-3's transmission signal, sir," one of the technicians 
called.

"Open the iris," the general ordered. "We generally keep it closed," he 
told Methos, who was watching the object with a bemused expression as 
its hollow center was revealed and its outer tier began to rotate. 
"We've had a few problems with unwelcome guests from time to time."

"That's a bit of an understatement," O'Neill muttered.

"Really, General, you'll have to do better than this if..." Methos felt 
the room begin to vibrate and he looked back at the gate as its symbols 
began to glow. He leaned forward in attempt to read what appeared to be 
a variety of glyphs when the center of the object exploded outward in a 
brilliant ball of light. He leaped back, staring open mouthed as the 
device seemed to suck the maelstrom back into itself creating a smooth, 
yet weirdly undulating pool of light within the body of the ring, while 
a massive energy torque flowed out behind trailing off into nothing. 
Speechless, Methos watched as an instant later several soldiers, who 
hadn't been there before and couldn't have possibly come from anywhere 
else, stepped from the light and casually made their way down the ramp.

Distantly, Methos heard the general's voice over the loudspeaker 
informing SG-3 that they had a quarter of an hour until their 
debriefing. He felt a hand on his shoulder and found Hammond standing 
beside him. "I remember how I felt the first time I saw it," he said 
quietly as the light in the center of the gate suddenly winked out and 
the iris closed up tight. "Scared me half to death at the thought of 
what it might mean. The endless possibilities."

For a long moment Methos said nothing. There seemed to be no words to 
describe how he was feeling. He briefly thought about arguing, but why 
would Hammond lie about something so patently unbelievable? And if that 
was indeed the case which seemed far more likely, then, "And I thought 
the world was just starting to get interesting," Methos whispered 
breathlessly. "But this..." he shook his head and lapsed back into 
silence for a moment. "How does it work?" he finally asked.

"Major Carter can best answer that," the general responded. "And I'll 
leave you for the time being in SG-1's very capable hands. We'll talk 
again later and you can tell me your decision."

Methos started to say something, but the general shook his head. "No. 
There's more. Much more. Not all of it pleasant. And I want you to hear 
it all before you decide anything. Agreed?"

Methos nodded and turned to the major, who stood beside O'Neill waiting 
expectantly. 

"If you'll follow me, Dr. Pierson," she began, leading the way down to 
the gate room. What followed was a sometimes complicated but fascinating 
exposition on the creation of stable, localized and directed worm holes, 
while he wandered around the room studying the now dormant device from 
every angle. As to who built the thing she could only answer that the 
Stargate system was developed and scattered across the universe perhaps 
hundreds of thousands of years earlier by an alien race known only as 
the Ancients.

"Friends of yours?" O'Neill asked hopefully.

Methos grinned. "Hardly. I'm a mere babe in arms by comparison."

Samantha looked at him curiously. "But according to my dad you were at 
something called the Battle of Annu'tak'ra, led by an Ancient some ten 
thousand years ago."

With a shake of his head Methos told them the truth. "I wasn't born ten 
thousand years ago. More like five. And it's been so long I can barely 
remember much before the Bronze Age. I don't know where your father gets 
his information, but it couldn't possibly have been me."

O'Neill and Carter glanced at each other. 

"If you can't remember much," Jack asked. "How can you be certain just 
how old you are? Or if you were there or not?"

Methos gave them a wry smile. "Oh," he said glancing toward the 
Stargate. "I think I'd remember that."

"Maybe there's a reason you can't," Carter responded.

Methos shrugged. "Believe what you like, Major. As for my age, Colonel, 
I never said I was certain. We kept time differently then. First it was 
which stars one had been born under and their placement in the heavens 
at the moment of birth. Later we did it by the reigns of kings. But that 
only works for as long as a particular civilization remembers who was in 
power and for how long. Eventually my reference points disappeared. I 
couldn't give you an exact date if I wanted to. My best guess is 5,000 
years give or take a few centuries."

O'Neill nodded thoughtfully as Samantha chewed her lip. "You know what 
stars you were born under?" she finally asked.

"I think I do," he admitted. "As I said, it has been a long time. Why?"

"Well, if you knew what they were we could run a simulation until we 
came up with the right combination. Compensating for precession and 
spatial drift it would probably give us a date within ten or twenty 
years."

"What difference would it make?" Methos smiled gently. "The past is gone 
and to me it is of very little importance."

"How can you say that? You're a historian!"

"For you, Major Carter. Not for me. The past is filled with wonderful 
things and the thoughts of men and women who should be remembered and 
whose work should be recalled. Human memory is so fragile and fraught 
with so many misconceptions that it sometimes requires a little aid 
along the way. If I can help save something of those lessons your 
forefathers learned through trial and error and pass it on to their 
children's children, does it not make the understanding of the present 
and the road to the future a less rocky path for us both?"

"It does," Samantha agreed quietly. "But if you are missing a huge chunk 
of memory then I think it would be safer for everyone concerned if we 
knew about it now."

"That's good, Carter," Jack suddenly interjected. "But first things 
first, birthday parties later. We still haven't mentioned the nosy 
neighbors."

"That would be the unpleasantness the general referred to?" Methos 
asked.
 
Jack smiled sourly and nodded. "Oh yeah. Let's go find Teal'c. I think 
it's time for round two of show and tell."

                         *******************

"Bourbon," Methos gasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He 
could still taste the bile on the back of his throat as Jack opened the 
bottle and started pouring. 

"Say when."

At about three quarters full Methos held up a hand, "When," and grabbed 
the glass, gulping at least two shots before his shoulders sagged and he 
slumped in the chair beside O'Neill's bed. He glanced at Teal'c, who 
waited patiently for him to recover from his first shock of seeing the 
parasite he'd been forced to incubate for the so called gods.

"Sorry," he murmured, trying not to stare at the man's stomach. "So 
that...thing is a Goa'uld?"

"No offense was taken," Teal'c promised. "Yes, that is a Goa'uld in its 
immature state."

"Is it..." Methos shuddered, "...aware of us?"

"Good question," Samantha sighed as she moved to sit on the bed. "We're 
not entirely sure. We have good reason to believe it is at least 
partially able to access its racial memories. But is it aware of us as 
individuals outside of its Jaffa? We just don't know. Not even the 
Tok'ra are certain, but then they don't use human incubators like the 
Goa'uld and they don't take over their human hosts."

"In their case it's more like a time share deal," Jack supplied.

Methos shook his head. "And to think when I was young I worshipped such 
gods."

"You are not alone in that, Methos." Teal'c came and laid a hand on his 
shoulder. "On Chulak and on many other worlds the false gods still 
reign. It is here that the battle is being fought."

Methos reached up and gently squeezed the hand on his shoulder. With a 
frown he looked at the two officers. "Why don't you just get that thing 
out of him?!" he asked, suddenly very angry. 

"We would if we could," Jack told him softly. "Unfortunately, removing 
it will kill him."

"We've tried," Samantha added. "And hopefully, one day, we'll be able 
to. But for now..."

Methos nodded. "Of course you can't." He sighed and sipped his drink as 
Teal'c moved away. "I'm still not sure what to say about all this, 
except that it is certainly a horrible thing to do to anybody. But the 
truth is," he sighed sadly. "I'm a selfish bastard and it doesn't really 
concern me. I expect that if I live another five thousand years this too 
will have passed and been forgotten."

"Another 5,000 years?" Jack snorted. "You may not even get five. We're 
at war here! These people don't just want to come back and pick up where 
they left off, they want to annihilate the entire planet as an example 
to others."

"And sealing the Stargate won't help," Samantha added. "We tried that. 
When Jack and Daniel destroyed Ra they frightened the other Goa'uld into 
taking action against us. We had to get out there and find some way to 
defend ourselves. Granted, the exploration of other worlds is a 
wonderful tool for science, but our main goal, our real purpose, is to 
figure out how to fight them and win."

"And right now," Jack took up the cause. "We don't stand a hope in hell 
of defeating an entire fleet. Oh, we've managed to beat back a few of 
their mother ships through good luck and by the skin of our teeth. We 
even managed to negotiate a kind of treaty with the system lords. But 
eventually they'll be coming for us and whether you like it or not, 
Pierson, you and your Immortal buddies also live here."

"I can tell you now," Teal'c added. "That should you, or others like 
you, survive the initial onslaught, though all humans on this world were 
dead or enslaved, it would not go well for you. According to the Tok'ra 
you can neither be hosts nor Jaffa. As such, they would consider your 
kind far more of a threat than mere humans."

Methos exhaled slowly and finished his drink. "All right. I'm in."

"That's it?" Jack asked, puzzled by his sudden about face. "You're in?"

"What do you want me to say? For 5,000 years I've wandered this world 
thinking I was a man without a nation -- without a home. Not even a plot 
of land I could point to and say 'there I was born'. And now you tell me 
that my one surety is a lie. That the one place I thought to call my 
own, an entire world I once believed had an infinite number of hideaways 
to wait out the centuries in blessed peace, is really just a poorly 
defended fortress -- and one that offers no sanctuary at all. Like you," 
Methos explained, voice tight with emotion. "This is all I've got! Of 
course I'm bloody in!"

                         *******************

The clock on the night stand read 0230 and Methos sighed, turning over 
to try and get at least a few hours of sleep. At 0300 he finally gave up 
and threw off the covers to sit on the edge of his bed.

"I must be completely insane," he muttered disgustedly. 

Still, this wasn't simply a matter of conscience, or even, god save him 
from all MacLeods, loyalty, friendship and honor. This was truly a fight 
from which he couldn't just walk away. This was his home, too. And that 
hideous creature residing inside Teal'c was one of thousands who wanted 
to take it away from him just because they could. It was too like 
centuries past when there was no place he thought of as truly safe for 
any Immortal. If the soldiers didn't get you the peasants surely would. 
And with nowhere left to hide, this time the alternative truly was 
unthinkable.

The phone suddenly rang and Methos stared at the thing as if it were a 
foreign object. Who could be calling him at this hour? The only person 
who might know where he was...

Methos smiled and picked up the phone. "Hello, Joe."

"Adam? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Joe."

"You're not pissed at me for talking to George are you?"

"No," Methos sighed. "He knew enough to qualify for a first approach as 
far as our friends are concerned anyway. The rest... Well, that was 
unavoidable. And in a way I'm glad it happened."

"You are?" Joe asked, his astonishment plain even across the line.

"Yes. And I'll be staying on for a while."

"You will?"

"Why so surprised, Joe? Surely you know me well enough to know I look 
after my own best interests first."

"Uh, yeah. That's what's so scary. I'm having a hard time imagining 
anything that could get you to pull your head out of your ass."

Methos chuckled and phrased his words carefully, knowing the line would 
be monitored. "Let's just say I'm having a Mac attack and leave it at 
that, shall we?"

"Speaking of our friend, he was in here this morning and wanted to know 
if you wanted your book back. You know, the one on seventeenth century 
arms and armor. Said you might need it at some point."

Bless his do-gooder heart, MacLeod was offering to launch a rescue 
mission. "No, I don't think I'll need that one anytime soon. Although he 
might find the sequel on Culloden to be of interest."

There was silence from the other end of the phone and he knew that Joe 
understood. Something was going down that affected the world. From Mac's 
point of view that had been the final defeat of the Highland clans by 
the invading English troops. It had effectively destroyed everything he 
would have known and understood at the time. And the allusion to it 
would tell Joe as much as he needed to comprehend Methos' reasons for 
remaining.

"Ill let him know," Joe said quietly.

"You do that," Methos responded. "And if there's another book he has I 
might need, I'll certainly let him know when the time comes."

"Right. And if there's anything in my collection you want, all you have 
to do is ask."

"Thanks, Joe. I appreciate the offer, but hopefully it won't come to 
that. They've got a pretty extensive library here and I know how 
precious those particular books are."

Again there was silence as he let Joe know just how high the stakes 
actually were.

"Well, I've got to go open the bar," the other man finally offered, his 
voice a little shaky. "The lunch crowd will be here soon."

"It was good to hear from you, Joe. Give Mac my regards."

After he hung up the phone Methos frowned. He was well and truly awake 
now. He stood and stretched, pacing the room as he tried to think of 
something to do. He could go to his work room, but he was still too 
wound up to concentrate on that. He'd tried earlier after speaking with 
General Hammond again, but the words on the tablets had taken on a more 
sinister aspect now that he understood what it all meant. He knew he 
needed time to absorb everything he'd learned before once again trying 
to unravel that puzzle.

What you need is to stop thinking and do something! he told himself 
sternly as his eyes casually fell on the Ivanhoe in its display rack. Of 
course! A good solid workout was just what he needed to focus himself 
inward and allow the events of the last day or so to assimilate on their 
own.

He dressed himself in a pair of loose fitting trousers he'd picked up in 
Tibet, a plain black tee shirt and soft soled shoes, then tossed a 
change of clothes in his gym bag. After taking down his sword, he placed 
it in its case and headed for the gymnasium. Moving through the 
corridors, Methos was not surprised by the amount of activity around 
him. In any military establishment there was always something going on 
day or night, and the SGC was no exception.

In the gym he found others, both male and female, working out and chose 
a place for himself at the far end away from all the equipment and mats. 
Putting his case on one of the benches along the wall he mentally paced 
off an area for himself and began his kata. It was a form so old he 
didn't even recall where he'd learned it. But he'd done it nearly every 
day of his life for as long as he could remember and the moves were so 
ingrained he rarely thought about them. He couldn't even explain them to 
Mac the one time he'd asked. The few students he'd had he'd taught other 
forms of meditation. Whatever seemed to suit them best. For himself, 
this simply felt right. And despite everything he'd learned in places 
like China, Japan and Tibet he'd never been able to achieve the degree 
of centering or depth of focus he could with his normal routine.

As he moved deeper into the various stages of his meditation Methos 
became peripherally aware that he had drawn an audience. But this often 
happened when he practiced in public and he paid it no mind at all. It 
was with some surprise then as he neared the final stages that he sensed 
someone nearby echoing his movements. This had also happened before. A 
monk or aficionado of the art would begin to copy the moves, but never 
to his recollection with such accuracy. The thought disappeared almost 
before he'd realized he'd had it and he passed into the final stage 
where nothing, save the presence of another Immortal could have broken 
his concentration. A long time later, as he stepped back for the final 
time and at last laid his arms at his side, Methos turned to his shadow 
and bowed. Teal'c did likewise.

"I offer my humble thanks and gratitude," the larger man rumbled.

Methos smiled. "You're welcome always," he responded formally then went 
to retrieve his sword in order to properly finish his workout. It would 
have been better with a partner, but... He suddenly remembered Teal'c's 
earlier offer to spar.

"Would you join me?" he asked, seeing the soft leather case at the other 
end of the bench.

"I would be honored."

As Methos set the practice guards around the edges of his blade he 
couldn't help but notice the increased movement on the barbican above 
the gym floor. The place, of course, was a model of modern engineering. 
Designed not only for holding sporting events, but providing room for an 
audience. He didn't mind at all as long as they stayed off the floor. 
But given the profession of his audience he doubted there was any need 
to worry on that score. 

He didn't bother with wrist guards or any of the other paraphernalia 
associated with the sport. In real life he knew he'd rarely get the 
chance to be that ready, unless he was preparing for battle or called 
the challenge himself.  So when he did practice it was with the greatest 
impediment to success possible. Bare hands and bare feet, let the sweat 
run where it may. If he sprained a wrist so much the better, since it 
would teach him not to make the same mistake next time.

As he slipped off his shoes and moved back out onto the floor he smiled 
to himself as he recalled his first conversation with MacLeod. He hadn't 
lied when he'd said he was out of practice, but after a few thousand 
years the moves had become second nature. If he slacked off for a 
century or two, it didn't seem to matter in the long run. A couple of 
weeks of regular sessions and he was back in top form -- exactly where 
he'd been since he'd first begun to orbit the MacLeod pantheon.  And 
even out of practice he could probably take on most any Immortal and 
win. He might not have the anger and the passion, but survival was a 
hell of a strong motivating factor when you came right down to it.

He began another series of stretches, this time using the Ivanhoe as a 
balancing point. Unlike the katana, or other light weight cavalry style 
swords most Immortals preferred, the Ivanhoe was a substantial piece to 
wield in battle. Not only meant for slicing and stabbing, but for doing 
solid impact damage. Finally, it became merely an extension of his arms 
and Methos turned to face his opponent.

                         *******************

"Colonel, what's going on?" 

"Not now, Carter," Jack hissed above the clash and clang of steel as he 
pulled her through the crowd. "Out of the way. Excuse us." Rank had 
certain privileges and O'Neill used every one of them until he and 
Samantha were standing at the edge of the walkway overlooking the gym. 
It seemed that half the base had turned out for this.

"How long have they been at it?" he quietly asked the guy next to him. 
He'd gone to get Sam as soon as Methos had started his warm up. Not 
because he was worried, but because he'd thought she'd appreciate the 
insight into Pierson's character. He'd been supposed to work out with 
Teal'c as they did nearly every morning, but when he'd found them in the 
final stage of that strange kata he'd hung back in the crowd to watch.

"Just got started," the other man murmured.

O'Neill nodded and leaned his elbows against the edge as he watched the 
mock fight unfold. They were still in the opening rounds, testing each 
others defenses and getting a feel for each other's style.

"You thinking what I'm thinking, Carter?"

"He's been at this a very long time," she responded quietly.

Jack nodded slowly. What they'd thought to be a lanky, but decent 
physique beneath those loose fitting sweaters and jeans had suddenly 
turned out to be in better shape than their own. Not an ounce of spare 
fat existed on that sinewy frame. And the elongated muscles of his arms 
seemed to have been carved out of stone. He moved like a warrior. Not 
with the fancy dance-like moves some practitioners tried. Pierson was 
all business and clever cunning as he sought for weak points in Teal'c's 
defenses. More often than not he breached them and moved back for 
another round.

"So much for the librarian," O'Neill smiled.

"You're not serious?" Sam asked, her voice tinged with shock.

"I want him on the team, Carter, not sitting on his ass in the SGC."

"But, sir," she began as Methos suddenly disarmed Teal'c in another 
quick parry.

"No buts, Major. This is not open to discussion. We started out as five 
and I've always had the option to replace Ferretti. I'm simply going to 
exercise it. Don't worry," he grinned. "I'll take care of the paper 
work. You just schedule us some training time."

"Yes, sir," she nodded dubiously.

"He's just playing with him," Jack suddenly murmured, shaking his head, 
but Sam had gone. Too bad, he thought as Teal'c tried something new and 
took the offensive. She and Daniel would just have to live with it. 
Ferretti had been his best friend and he hadn't needed to either guide 
or guard the other man as he felt he had to with the others. Part of him 
had always desperately wanted those sureties back. More importantly, 
Methos couldn't be taken over by the enemy, or easily killed in a fight. 
Well, he could be, but he'd come back -- and that Immortality thing 
meant he'd have one less worry to keep him awake at night.

                         *******************

"What do you mean I'm drafted?" Methos asked, bemused as he sat on a 
bench in the locker room tying his shoes. "You can't draft me. I'm not a 
citizen. And besides, didn't you get it? I already agreed to work with 
you."

"You agreed to honor the contract you signed in Paris," Jack informed 
him. "But if you ever want to go through that gate, you're going to have 
to sign on the dotted line."

"What about Daniel?"

"Technically, he's just a civilian observer. He also signed a waiver 
absolving the military or the United States government of any indemnity 
in the case of loss of limb or life -- and we have a Presidential order 
allowing him access. Think you could stand up to that kind of scrutiny, 
Methos?"

Bastard! he thought, annoyed. Of course he couldn't and Jack knew that.

"You still can't draft me. As I said, I'm not a citizen."

"You are and I can. You fought in the American Revolution. Whether you 
knew it or not you were automatically granted citizenship at that time. 
And that law still exists. You fight under our flag, you become one of 
us. As for drafting you, there's a little known clause in the 
Constitution that allows for any citizen, regardless of age or sex, to 
be conscripted if they have a skill that can't be duplicated and that 
skill is required -- war time or not. Well, you do and I require it."

Methos frowned. He had forgotten about that sneaky little loophole the 
framers of that blasted document had designed. "So you can draft me. 
Fine. But why?"

O'Neill suddenly smiled. "You've been a soldier for a very long time and 
I want you at my back. I need someone with your strengths. Daniel and 
Sam are first and foremost academics. And Teal'c has his own set of 
problems. My first team through the gate was, with the exception of 
Daniel, a hand picked squad who'd seen combat with Special Forces. Only 
two came back alive and they died not long after we opened the gate for 
the second time."

Methos nodded. "And I have the advantage of being both an academic and a 
seasoned fighter. Well," he sighed, sitting up and resting his arms on 
his thighs. "I can't fault your logic." He shook his head slowly. 
"Still, I haven't served in battle for more than a century. In the armed 
forces, yes. But not as a combatant."

"What were you?"

"Well, I worked as a secretary in the war office during the First World 
War and as a code cracker in MI during the second. I never got near any 
actual fighting."

"Why not?" Jack asked curiously as Methos stood.

"Those are bloody big bombs you've gone and invented! Take your fucking 
head off in one shot. I want to live, Colonel. Not die in some 
meaningless skirmish in a cause that will eventually be forgotten. But 
if I am to die, I want it to be by the hand of another Immortal. 
Hopefully, one who deserves what I have to offer."

"That Quickie thing, huh?"

Methos smiled. "It's called a Quickening. And yes, that's exactly why."

"Okay, well we don't see too many bombs. Too primitive I guess for those 
oh-so-sophisticated alien bad guys. Lots of energy weapons and 
electronics that will fry your brain of course."

"Of course," Methos responded drolly.

"Anyway, if you want to go through the gate, this is your only option. 
Take it or leave it."

Methos sighed and followed Jack into the hall. You're a fool, he told 
himself firmly. But saving the world aside, there was still that 
damnable gate. That damned, incredible Stargate.

In his mind's eye Methos saw a flash of his own hand holding a stone 
knife as he carefully skinned some animal he'd caught. From that to 
this, he thought, and his heart leapt with a profound sense of joy. He'd 
lived to see this! Against all the odds he'd made it this far. Into a 
future he could never have imagined, let alone dreamed of even a century 
before. This was better than H.G. Wells or Jules Verne, both of whom 
he'd known and whose books he'd once loved.

"You are an evil, manipulative son of a bitch, Jack O'Neill," Methos 
told him.

"But you want to go through the Stargate." Jack gave him a wide slow 
smile.

"Of course I want to! Now, where do I sign?"

                         *******************

"Come on in," O'Neill gestured at Methos once he'd finally found the 
colonel's office. 

Methos looked around the small room with its banged up steel desk, 
squeaky metal chairs, half a dozen slowly rusting file cabinets and one 
antique manual typewriter sitting in the center of the desk and nearly 
shuddered.

"This is your office?" he asked dubiously, even though the colonel's 
name was on the door.

"I know. I know," O'Neill nodded. "I should requisition some new stuff. 
But hell, I'm hardly ever in here. Am I, Teal'c?"

The big man nodded. "It is true. I have never seen Colonel O'Neill in 
this office."

O'Neill held out his hands as if to say, "See? I told you," and waved 
Methos to a chair.

"I've done most of it," he gestured at the typewriter in front of him 
which held some sort of form wrapped around its cylinder. "I just need 
you to help play fill in the blanks. You okay with that?" 

Methos said nothing, but took a chair and looked expectantly at Jack.

"Not having second thoughts are you?"

"Along with third, fourth and fifth," Methos sighed.

"You can still change your mind," O'Neill offered.

Methos gave him a disgusted sneer. If he could have, he would have. He 
should know, he'd really tried. "Let's just get on with it."

Jack shrugged. "Okay. Full name and date of birth. Oops. Sorry," O'Neill 
grinned apologetically. "Could have done that one myself. M-E-T--" he 
started to type.

"Are you mad?!" Methos suddenly stood up. "You can't put my real name on 
there!"

"H-O-S. Methos. I have to. Law says so." He glanced up, grinning 
happily. "Don't worry so much," he waved Methos back into his seat. "No 
one reads this stuff anyway once it's in the computer."

Methos rolled his eyes and sat down. That much was probably true given 
the nature of bureaucracies in general, but he'd lodge a complaint with 
General Hammond anyway. A public record of his name and stats hadn't 
ever been part of their deal.

"Middle initial?"

Methos looked at the man as if he'd lost his mind.

"Guess not, huh?"

"O'Neill," Methos sighed in exasperation. "Don't try my patience."

"O," Teal'c rumbled from his place near the cabinets. "The middle letter 
must be O."

"O?" Methos raised an eyebrow. "And how do you figure that?"

"Colonel O'Neill once explained to me the purpose of a second or third 
name to identify one with a clan or place of birth. Did you not?"

"I did," O'Neill nodded.

"So, if I am Teal'c O. Chulak as you are Jack O. Neill then he must be 
Methos O. Earth."

Methos squeezed the bridge of his nose and tried not to laugh.

"Well if ya gotta have a name..." Jack grinned. 

"Thank you, Teal'c," Methos said, then waved a hand to tell O'Neill to 
just do it and move on. "And I've no doubt, my young friend, that one 
day you too shall discover that not only have you served your people 
well, but that they have repaid you by turning your name to mud."

"Date and place of birth? Oh, I know that! Chal-co-li-thic era," Jack 
typed slowly. "Planet Dirt."

Methos chuckled. O'Neill had better hope no one else read this, or 
someone would likely schedule him for a psych evaluation -- and not just 
his strange inductee.

"Social security number?"

"000-00-0001," Methos grinned as Jack looked up.

"First in line, eh?"

"Early riser," Methos shrugged negligently.

"Works for me. Mother's maiden name?"

"Terra," Methos answered promptly.

"Father's name?"

"Firma."

Jack snorted. "Big guy, huh?"

"24,000 miles in circumference." Methos squared his shoulders and 
smirked.

"Ouch! Okay. List job titles and previous places of employment."

"Which ones?"

"Well, let's start with the longest period you've ever worked and go 
from there."

"Death. One thousand, three hundred seventeen years."

"Death?" Jack sat back from the typewriter and stared at him.

Methos nodded. He'd wanted him on the team so badly, then he really 
ought to know just what he was getting. "Yes. Death. As in Revelations. 
You know, the fourth seal, rode a pale horse, Hades followed behind. 
That was me. Death."

"O-kay," Jack nodded skeptically and typed. "Angel of Death."

"Trust me, O'Neill," Methos said quite seriously, leaning forward. "I 
was no angel."

The colonel frowned and searched through his drawers until he found an 
old fashioned eraser. He rubbed away the words, then blew on the page 
and laid his hands on the keys. "No angel. Right. Minion of Satan," he 
typed instead, then pulled the form out of the machine, ignoring Methos' 
laughter. 

"I think that about does it. Teal'c, please give Satan's minion here his 
BDUs." 

Methos took the pile of clothes, glanced at his name boldly stenciled 
across the pocket and tossed them aside, no longer laughing. "Now that's 
not funny, O'Neill."

"Okay. I didn't know. I'll have them put the O'Earth on later. All 
right?" He slapped the paper down in front of Methos. "X marks the spot, 
kid. Sign right here."

Furious, Methos stood and reached for the document intending to tear it 
up, but before he could take it someone knocked at the door.

"Hey, Colonel," a young Marine poked his head in. "If you're done here, 
could we have our store room back?"

Methos snatched up the paper and glanced at it, then down at the 
typewriter which he suddenly realized held no ribbon, then back at the 
computerized, neatly filled out form. It listed his name as Adam Pierson 
with all the pertinent information he'd already provided. He picked up 
the uniform and peeled the label off the pocket. Underneath, it 
thankfully read Pierson.

"Bastard!" Methos laughed, falling back into the chair. Still, he 
thought, it had been a very long time since anyone had gotten something 
that elaborate over on him. And he not only appreciated the skill it had 
taken to pull it off, but the fact that O'Neill liked him well enough to 
even bother. Practical jokes in the military were considered a sign of 
affection. With a sigh, he picked up a pen and signed his name with a 
flourish.

Jack held out his hand and Methos took it.

"Welcome to Stargate Command."

                         *******************

So these are Stargate addresses, Methos thought as he sat in his work 
room once again studying the king list tablets. Now that he had full 
access to all of Daniel's previous work many of the references he'd 
struggled with finally became clear. He'd back tracked and corrected his 
previous translations, replacing words like "the joined ones" with 
symbiot. Still, he had over 200 tablets left to complete and the task 
seemed daunting at this point. Part of him couldn't wait for Daniel to 
come back and give him a hand, while the other was dreading that very 
thing.

"Pierson?"

"Good afternoon, Colonel," Methos looked at the door and smiled. 
"Please, come in."

Jack looked at the dozen or so tablets on the work table as he sauntered 
past. "Having fun?" he asked with a hint of mocking amusement.

"Yes, actually. See those three tablets on the left?" Jack looked over 
and nodded. "They tell of how Tok'ra went to the planet of the Don-gi, 
where the Queen judged every man by the size of his penis and Tok'ra was 
sadly found wanting."

 Jack's eyebrows shot up. "Too small?"

"No, too large. She suggested surgery and he apparently left in quite a 
hurry."

Jack chuckled. "I'll bet he did."

"That last one tells of the argument he and his symbiot had over the 
whole affair, or lack thereof. Amazingly, the worm seemed to think it 
would grow back."

O'Neill's eyes went wide. "What's the address? I plan to avoid planet 
Dong--"

Methos burst out laughing at the colonel's expression.

"Good one, Adam," Jack admitted ruefully.

"Academia does have its little perks. Now, was there something you 
needed to see me about? Or shall I regale you with more and better tales 
of Tok'ra, the well-armed?" 

"Basic training stuff mostly. Modified, of course, but necessary."

"Like what?"

"Oh, weapons training, marksmanship. Can you take an M-16 apart and put 
it back together in 9 seconds. Things like that."

"Actually, I can," Methos smiled brightly.

"Sure you can," Jack nodded distractedly, obviously thinking this was 
another joke.

Methos smiled patiently. "I take it you would like to do this now?"

"Now would be good. We just got a message from the Tok'ra. Things are 
probably about to become busy around here, so we need to get this done."

Methos got to his feet and followed Jack out. "You think there'll be 
some action?"

"Always is with them," he responded dryly.

"You don't like the Tok'ra, do you?" Methos asked quietly.

"Don't trust 'em," Jack clarified. "They seem to think we lesser folk 
are here to help them fight their battles, and not the other way around. 
What should be equal isn't. And we're usually left holding the short end 
of the stick."

Methos nodded as they got into the elevator to head up to the above 
ground area of the base and its firing ranges. So, he wasn't the only 
one to have misgivings about them. "Sounds like the Tok'ra need to have 
their cages rattled."

"Big time," Jack agreed, than stared at Methos and smiled. "You know, 
they are supposed to be our allies, Pierson."

"It was a wise man who once said that our enemies make us powerful, but 
our friends teach us humility."

"Who said that?"

"Julius Caesar, on receiving Pompey's head."

                         *******************

"What's that?" Sam asked as she entered the conference room.

"Pierson's range results." Jack held up the paper silhouette for her to 
ogle. "Qualified Expert center mass and sniper. On the first try. Gotta 
love that guy!"

"No. I don't," Carter shook her head, looking nervously at the paper. 
"Sir, the man also went for the knee caps, elbows and wrists. Doesn't 
that strike you as odd? Even a little ominous?"

"Shows how much you know, Major."

"Colonel, those are torture shots!"

"Your point being?"

She suddenly seemed to remember to whom she was speaking. "Never mind." 
She turned away, taking the seat next to Teal'c.

O'Neill sighed. "I know what you're thinking, Carter. And if it were 
anyone outside the armed services besides Pierson -- given his special 
needs -- I'd be worried too. But it's crunch time, Major, and skills 
like that don't come cheap or easy."

"Let's just say I wouldn't want to live next door to anyone who 
deliberately learned to do that as a hobby and leave it at that, 
Colonel."

"I doubt you could afford the house next door, Major." Methos strolled 
in and casually sprawled in the chair across from her.

"Whatever." She looked hopefully toward the door to General Hammond's 
office.

"You're afraid of me," Methos grinned dangerously. Carter glared at him 
and his smile broadened. "Smart girl."

"Enough you two," O'Neill ordered, annoyed. They didn't have to be in 
love, just work as a team.

The door opened and General Hammond walked in followed by Jacob Carter. 
"Good afternoon, people." There were greetings all around as the two men 
sat down. 

"Before we begin, George," Jacob looked to his old friend. "With your 
permission, Selmak has something she'd like to say to Methos." The 
general nodded and Jacob's expression changed.

"Greetings to Methos, companion of Tok'ra, from the High Council of the 
Tok'ra. We offer our most sincere apologies for any offense Anise may 
have caused and would like to assure you that she has been suitably 
chastised for her actions."

"That's nice," Methos responded laconically.

"I am told you still claim no knowledge of your heritage, is this true?"

Methos sighed in exasperation. "Look, I don't know what you want me to 
say. I may have forgotten a lot, but misplacing an extra 5,000 years is 
highly unlikely. I'm old, not senile."

"Is this really germane?" Hammond interrupted.

Suddenly, Jacob was back. "Not really," he admitted. "They're just 
disappointed. Apparently, they consider Methos almost as much of a hero 
as Tok'ra."

At that Methos snorted. "I'm no one's hero."

"You're my hero," Jack insisted, clutching the silhouette to his chest 
and earning a brief smile.

"Perhaps I may shed some light on the matter," Teal'c finally spoke. 
Everyone paused as he looked at Methos. "Do you recall my mirroring of 
you during the last stages of Chel'no're?"

"You mean the kata?" Methos asked, surprised.

"Indeed. It is why I believe you must be he whom the Tok'ra praise, for 
you are a Master of the Art, while I am but a student."

"I thought you were a master of Chel'no're?" O'Neill asked, confused.

Teal'c shook his head slowly. "I have mastered that part of Chel'no're 
which I was taught, but I left Chulak before my studies could be 
completed. There are no Masters on this world, save Methos."

"Do you recall where you learned it?" Jacob asked the Immortal.

"Where?" Methos responded with a laugh. "I don't rightly recall when. 
And how can you be so sure this Chel'no're wasn't practiced for 
centuries, or even millennia after the Goa'uld left, just as they were 
still worshipped as gods?"

"Because," Teal'c explained. "The form you use was lost to us more than 
10,000 years ago when the last and greatest Master of the Art was killed 
in battle along with his most proficient students. We have but 
descriptions left in the archives. Many have tried to use these to 
achieve the final stage -- and many have died trying."

"There is a way to find out," Sam reminded everyone.

Methos sighed. "And again I ask you, Carter, what would be the point? My 
age, whatever it is, has no bearing on the present."

"But it may have a great deal of bearing on the future," Selmak stated.

"Your future," Methos scoffed. "Look, I'm sorry your wee ones are 
feeling a bit out of sorts, but I have no desire to become anyone's 
symbol of hope and encouragement. There's one bloody reason I'm here and 
that's to protect what's mine! Not to help your children deal with their 
feelings of inadequacy as they confront a hostile universe."

Hammond cleared his throat. "Excuse me, people, but this argument serves 
no purpose. We're here to discuss the current translation project, not 
to bicker among ourselves. Now, could we please move on?" 

The room came to order and the general sat back in his chair. "Our first 
bit of business is to bring everyone up to speed. Dr. Pierson. Since the 
Tok'ra have been given copies of your work they are, of course, aware of 
the latest translations you've completed. In turn, they have provided us 
with copies of their completed translation of those tablets as well as 
others you haven't yet had a chance to work through. If you would all 
take a moment to look these over." He selected a handful of folders from 
the stack of files he'd brought with him and passed them around.

Methos hid his distaste, guessing whom they had to thank for the 
translations and promising himself that he'd go over them very, very 
carefully. From what he'd learned of Anise, the woman had more of an 
interest in ancient weapons that might be useful to the Tok'ra than the 
ancient cultures she purportedly claimed to be studying. One could not 
truly study a culture one held in contempt. Nor could one give due 
credence to that culture's experiences when the ultimate goal was to 
acquire their technological expertise. He would not put it past her to 
have deliberately slanted any number of passages to suit her own 
purposes, knowing the humans would likely bear the brunt of any 
subsequent engagement. And it gave him pause to wonder now, at how 
succinctly she had solved her little access problem by throwing the SGC 
into a minor upheaval by revealing the Immortal among them. A revelation 
they might have ignored, but for her little stunt.

"I take it these were computer generated?" Methos finally asked.

"Based on your foundations, of course," Jacob responded.

Methos closed the folder and carefully laid it aside. "It's a tricky 
dialect," he told him with a polite smile. "I'll make the necessary 
corrections. But do thank Anise for her efforts. I'm sure she did the 
best she was able."

"Rattle them bars," Jack murmured and tossed his own folder onto the 
table. "Let's cut to the chase, Jacob. The abridged version, please?"

"Well, you already know the gist of the story," Jacob shrugged. "The end 
result seems to have been that Tok'ra somehow created a weapon which 
destroyed an entire Goa'uld fleet."

"I knew there had to be an alien weapon involved here somewhere," 
O'Neill muttered. 

"Problem is," Jacob went on, ignoring his comment. "We're missing some 
key pieces of the puzzle. The story breaks off in the middle at the end 
of the last tablet."

"Meaning," the general informed them. "That we need SG-1 to return to 
P4X37 and find those missing tablets."

"Oh, joy," Jack sighed and looked to Methos. "Bring lots of extra sun 
block."

As the meeting broke up, Methos felt the shock of his surprise mixed 
with an incredible amount of excitement and a hint of fear. This was it. 
He was really going to do this thing, wasn't he?

Oh, yeah, he thought as he passed the stairs leading to the gate room. 
The world was definitely getting interesting.

                         *******************

"Uh, Colonel," Carter said as Methos and Teal'c entered the gate room an 
hour later. "He's got a sword with him."

"I think they come as a matched set," Jack told her calmly. "Like the 
rig," he said to Methos, who merely grinned.

The ancient Immortal had attached the lightweight scabbard he usually 
wore inside his coat to a nylon harness which allowed him to wear his 
sword slanted across his back beneath his pack.

Seeing the team was in place, the crew in operations activated the 
Stargate and Methos watched the process with a sense of awe and nervous 
tension in his stomach.

"Ready?" Jack asked in an undertone of concern. 

Methos wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers, unable to take his eyes 
off the Stargate. "Is this what the first day of school feels like? All 
tingly butterflies and queasy gnawing?"

"Sounds about right," Jack admitted as he led the way up the ramp. 
"Don't worry," he smiled kindly. "I've done this at least a couple of 
hundred times. You'll do fine."

Methos watched as O'Neill and then Carter nonchalantly entered the 
portal. Behind him, Teal'c waited patiently as Methos fought the instant 
of panic which suddenly reared its ugly head at the thought of being 
broken down into his composite molecules and whisked across the galaxy. 
But instead of retreating, he took a huge deep breath, closed his eyes 
and stepped forward into the light.

                         *******************

Cold, and yet not cold. Intense heat, and soothing balm. Bright white 
light, but without sight. Wind rushing through every pore of his body in 
a complete and utter calm. Methos found himself face down in the sand an 
instant later, gasping for air.

"Takes a little getting used to," he heard O'Neill say as the colonel 
helped him to sit up.

"Wild ride!" he grinned and saw O'Neill smile. "Take that, Mr. Disney!"

"Gets better," Jack told him as he got to his feet.

Methos looked around, enjoying the warmth of the sun on his face. Two 
suns, he suddenly realized, startled by a sight his instincts told him 
should not exist. By all the gods, he thought, a sense of wonder filling 
him. I'm not only standing on another planet, but for the first time in 
my life I am completely free of the Game! Now that was worth signing 
over a small portion of his life to the military.

"It's over this way," Samantha pointed as she led them toward a rising 
dune. 

At the top, Methos paused to stare across the sand swept landscape at 
the looming ziggurat in the distance. "That's the Temple of Inanna," he 
told them quietly. "There was one just like it in Uruk." He nodded 
slowly. "So this is where the bitch went."

"Knew her, did you?" Jack asked. 

Methos shook his head. "Never met the woman. But like everyone else back 
then, I was intimately acquainted with her prostitutes." The colonel 
raised an eyebrow. "Inanna was also known as the Whore of Babylon. A 
bitch goddess who murdered her husbands regularly. The tarts were part 
of her mystique. Le petite morte as ritual sacrifice in worship."

"See?!" Jack complained to Teal'c. "Now that was important information. 
Daniel never tells us these things."

The Jaffa's countenance remained impassive. "Daniel Jackson has 
knowledge of many things. Perhaps these prostitutes are not among them."

"Y' think?" O'Neill asked sarcastically.

Methos heard the comment over his shoulder as he followed Major Carter 
and looked back with a wide-eyed, calculatedly shocked expression. "What 
has that shameless reprobate got you believing?"

"Beg pardon?" O'Neill hurriedly caught up with him.

"In college, Daniel went through women like you go through socks, Jack. 
That incredible brain of his has memorized every bit sexual esoterica 
there is. Including the entire Kama Sutra."

"Why that little..."

Pay back was indeed a bitch, Methos thought smugly as he slogged his way 
through the sand. Of course, he could be wrong. Daniel might actually 
have read the damn book and not used that bloody big tome as a door 
stop. At the very least, watching him as he tried to either live up to 
or deny the lie would certainly be entertaining.

                         *******************

"So this is where you found them?" Methos asked, chuckling.

"I'm sure she didn't mean to fall on him," O'Neill responded sincerely.

"Of course not," Methos solemnly agreed.

"Could we get on with this?!" Sam interjected heatedly, reaching for the 
rope she'd secured to assist them in descending.

"Oh, you won't find anything down there," Methos pointed out, casually 
moving away from the opening.

"Well, this is where we found the other tablets," she reminded him 
unnecessarily.

"So you've said," Methos nodded. "And I take it the chamber was 
excavated quite thoroughly?"

"Yes. But we still might have missed something."

Methos finally took pity on her. She was, after all, such an earnest 
young lady. "I highly doubt that given the quality of your experts in 
the field. More likely, the temple priests had the final tablets on 
display somewhere else. The great epics were worshipped cyclically. Each 
year a different part of the story would be recounted and so on until it 
was complete. Then they'd start over so anyone who might have missed a 
particular bit or had a favorite part could hear it again. Kind of like 
free concerts in the park. The propaganda rewards were enormous."

Now Sam was listening -- and of course, arguing. "Why would a Goa'uld 
direct her priests to recite an epic that details a major Goa'uld 
defeat?" Before he could respond her eyes widened in understanding. 
"Unless it doesn't?"

"Exactly," Methos smiled. "The end of the story would have been the most 
important. The part where Inanna betrays her lover, Tok'ra, and shows 
her power over him."

Carter nodded slowly. "That's why the early tablets were hidden."

"Perhaps," he agreed. "Or trotted out as a series of examples in 
futility. Nothing so kills hope as hearing how badly the mighty have 
fallen."

"This is all very interesting." O'Neill interrupted. "But where would 
the rest of the tablets be? We went over this place top to bottom before 
we left here."

"I'd guess in the temple proper somewhere."

"I thought this was the temple?" Jack asked.

"This?" Methos looked around and grinned. "Hell no! These are the temple 
offices and storage facilities. Inanna would never have set foot down 
here." He turned away and headed for the exit, the others following. 
Once outside he circled the building until he reached the base of the 
ceremonial stairs and started climbing.

"This would have been a landing pad?" Methos asked as they reached the 
flat summit.

"Probably," O'Neill agreed as Methos led them across the wide staging 
area and into the temple itself. 

Unlike its counterpart in Mesopotamia this temple had been made of 
stone, not mud brick and Methos looked around, startled by the empty 
surfaces around him.

"Where are the carvings?" he whispered in astonishment. The walls should 
have been covered with them. And there was no altar. He'd expected to 
find the tablets there. Set in the stone around its base where the 
ancient plaques of gold inlaid with lapis lazuli bearing the many tales 
of Inanna in the old city had been.

"Carvings?!" O'Neill exploded, recalling his very first experience 
gating. "Don't tell me you assumed there'd be inscriptions. Jesus! They 
don't put 'em on the walls out here!"

Methos stared at him, then suddenly his eyes moved past the other man 
and out to the landing platform, narrowing. "Of course," he murmured and 
strode back the way they'd come. He paced out the general area then 
began sweeping the sand aside with his feet until he found what he 
wanted. He smiled and crooked a finger at the rest of the team. When 
they were standing beside him, Methos stepped back and showed them the 
tablet set in the paving stones underneath.

"'And I have laid my heel like a yoke upon the neck of mine enemy'," he 
recited slowly. "'And forever shall he writhe ignominiously beneath the 
tread of my feet.'" Methos curled a lip in disgust. "Bitch took the 
words literally." 
 
                         *******************

"He did what?!" Daniel shouted over the phone.

O'Neill covered the mouth piece while he laughed. "Your friend, 
Pierson," he repeated slowly. "Borrowed Teal'c's staff and blew the damn 
things out of the ground. Said temples like that were thick as thieves 
in the Bronze Age, so why bother excavating."

 "Is he there?! Is he? I want to speak with him!"

"Hey!" O'Neill called across the room to Methos, who was working with 
Sam to sort through the labeling. "Hey! Satan's minion! Your friend the 
sex fiend wants a word with you!"

Methos rolled his eyes at the irreverent colonel as he hurriedly made 
his way over and grabbed the phone. "Pierson."

"What did he just call me?" Daniel queried nervously.

"Sorry, wasn't listening."

"Yeah, right. Okay. Adam, did you shoot up an ancient alien temple?"

"No, I did some down and dirty excavating."

"You did! I can't believe it!"

"Look, Danny," Methos sighed patiently. "You and I have had this 
argument a thousand times. And if you managed to live another thousand 
years we'd probably still be having it. People count, not pots."

"And if their pots are all we have left?" Daniel asked quietly.

"Then apparently they weren't very interesting people."

There was a long pause and Methos could practically hear Daniel's teeth 
grinding. 

"Listen, Adam. I'm not going to get into this with you right now, okay? 
I'll be in tomorrow and we can start working on those new translations."

"Been brushing up on your proto-cuneiform?" Methos asked pointedly.

"As a matter of fact, I have been. I'll see you in the morning."

"Fine. Good night, Danny."

Methos exhaled disgustedly as he hung up the phone. 

"Does that to me all the time," O'Neill offered sympathetically.

"He means well," Methos smiled briefly.

"You really like the kid."

"Don't sound so surprised, O'Neill. He's got a brilliant mind and there 
isn't a malicious bone in his body. So, he can be a little annoying." 
Jack rolled his eyes. "Okay, a lot annoying. But then, so can I. I 
think..." Methos sighed softly. "I sometimes think Daniel is probably 
who I would be if I weren't what I am. If that makes any sense."

"Makes a lot of sense, actually. Thanks to you though, I keep having to 
readjust my dweeb-o-meter."

With a smile, Methos went back to work. Daniel could do what he liked 
come morning. By the time he got here the translations would be 
complete. He did, after all, have Anise's computerized technique. And 
she'd been more than accurate in her translations, in spite of what he'd 
implied. No doubt, he thought as he scanned in the first of the new 
tablets using her filtering frequency, someone had sat her down and 
explained a few of life's necessities. The most important being, never 
to piss off your coworkers. They often had nasty ways of getting even.

                         *******************

"'And going forth to do battle Tok'ra created for himself a carapace'," 
Daniel read aloud. "Don't you think that's a strange way to describe 
body armor?"

"No, Danny, I don't," Methos sighed. "And if you'd ever worn chain mail 
you'd agree."

Daniel grinned. "Still doing that historical re-enactment stuff, huh?" 
He shifted his cast to a more comfortable position, knocking over his 
crutches as he did so.

Methos grunted a response as he gathered them up for the third time. "On 
and off. Mostly off these days." He propped the crutches securely 
against the wall, well away from Daniel's fidgeting. "Look, it's not 
that I don't agree with you. The word is odd. It's definitely a unique 
descriptor. But the story says he rode within the carapace to fight the 
Goa'uld, so how can it possibly be some form of advanced body armor? It 
had to be a ship of sorts. Probably a one man fighter. That's the only 
logical conclusion."

"What if it were both?" Daniel asked and Methos stared at him as though 
he'd lost his mind.

"Come again?"

Daniel shrugged. "I don't know. Just an idea. Hand me one of those 
tablets, Adam."

Methos looked across the room where he'd left a dozen or so out on the 
work table. With a shrug he snapped on a pair of gloves and went to 
retrieve one.

"What are those for?" Daniel asked, staring at Methos' hands as he 
deposited the tablet on the desk between them.

"Just a precaution. I think I'm slightly allergic to whatever this stuff 
is. Gives me a rash."

"Did you get it checked out in the infirmary?" Daniel asked with a hint 
of concern.

"They're not sure," Methos lied adroitly. "Could have been something I 
ate. But as long as I wear these I seem to be fine."

"Well the metal is odd," he agreed, slowly running his fingers over the 
surface of the tablet. "The tests indicate it's similar to naqueda, the 
mineral the gate's made out of," Daniel explained. "But the molecular 
structure is a little different. As if it were meant to provide a 
different kind of energy source."

Methos said nothing. He was not a geologist after all. Neither was 
Daniel for that matter, but the kid had picked up a lot of obscure 
knowledge in recent years and he was willing to bow to his expertise on 
those subjects.

"Funny how the reverse is completely without markings," he commented 
turning the tablet over. "And look at this scoring. Kind of looks like a 
pattern, doesn't it?"

Methos leaned forward and nodded. "Could be. So what? The pieces could 
have been made up of a larger slab that was broken down for the purpose. 
As for the reverse being rough, they might have planned all along to 
mount the tablets. Why polish what will never be seen by the public?"

Daniel nodded absently then cocked his head. "Maybe. Do these edges seem 
a little uneven to you as well?"

Methos shrugged. "Maybe that's part of their charm. Not every 
civilization likes their edges neatly rounded."

"Have you tried laying them out all together just to see what comes up?"

Methos felt a shiver of fear at the suggestion. He'd very consciously 
avoided doing anything like that. His Quickening's response to one 
tablet had been disturbing. The idea of putting all the tablets out and 
into one confined space made his skin crawl.

"I don't think that's necessary, Danny. If you want to examine them for 
patterns we can use the computer scans to manipulate them much more 
easily. It would certainly be faster."

"Yeah, it would," Daniel sighed.

They both looked up as Colonel O'Neill entered unannounced. "Hope I'm 
not interrupting, but, uh, Pierson, we've got a little problem. Would 
you excuse us, Daniel?"

Methos grimaced and nodded pointedly to Jackson's leg. "I'll be right 
with you, Jack." He turned back to his friend. "Look, here's the 
keyboard," he moved it to where it was easier for Daniel to reach, then 
turned the monitor to face him. "I'll be back as soon as I'm able."

Daniel waved distractedly as he left and Methos heaved a silent sigh of 
relief. He didn't know whether or not putting the pieces together might 
be dangerous to him, but he certainly wasn't eager to find out. Nor was 
he interested in letting the mortals discover that little secret. They 
might not be concerned with his Immortality now, but just let them get a 
hint of the kind of power that might be available to him, or any other 
Immortal for that matter, and they'd be singing a different tune, he was 
sure of it.

"How's it going in there?" O'Neill asked once they were alone in the 
corridor.

"The work? Or me and Danny?"

"Both."

Methos smiled. "The first is going well. He's come up with some 
interesting ideas I never would have thought of. Whether they're useful 
remains to be seen. As for Danny and I, well... I doubt we'll ever see 
eye to eye on a few things. Luckily, he's incapable of holding a grudge 
for more than a few minutes."

O'Neill snorted and started walking toward the elevator. "Tell that to 
Apophos. If Daniel ever gets the upper hand there he'll kill him in an 
eye blink."

"How's that?" Methos asked, surprised yet believing the colonel's 
professional estimation.

Jack paused as they waited. "He hasn't told you about Sha're?" Methos 
shook his head. "Daniel's married." Methos' eyes went wide and he 
glanced back toward the work room.

"He never mentioned it."

"Not surprising," O'Neill went on quietly. "Apophos wanted an attractive 
host for his own wife. He decided on Sha're."

"One of those things is inside his wife?" Methos swallowed in horror as 
O'Neill nodded. "Poor Danny."

"Poor Sha're," Jack added as the elevator came and they stepped inside. 
"She's aware and she knows what's happened to her."

Methos wiped his face with his hand. Terrible as it was, it was not his 
problem. It wasn't like there was anything to be done about it either. 
But still, it explained a lot about Daniel's new found intensity for 
something other than his own devices.

Finally, Methos let it go and sighed. "You said you needed to see me 
about something?"

"Actually, it's more of a someone rather than a something. Know anybody 
by the name of MacLeod?"

Methos groaned. "He's here?"

"In the flesh."

"Yeah, I know MacLeod. The infant's probably come to rescue me from your 
dastardly clutches."

"Infant?"

"A mere four hundred years. Thinks he's everybody's knight in shining 
armor. Yours too, if you let him. Duncan is nothing if not loyal, true, 
thrifty and brave. The ultimate Boy Scout."

O'Neill looked interested. "Think he'd be willing to come work for us?"

Methos shrugged. "Don't see why not. He's served in some form or other 
in nearly every major conflict for the past four centuries. Just 
remember, he was raised to be his clan's chieftain. So if he adopts you, 
you're his responsibility for life. And this saving the world stuff is 
right up his alley."

The colonel nodded. "I'll keep it in mind."

As they reached the surface Methos caught sight of MacLeod standing 
easily next to a pair of guards.

"We'll take it from here," O'Neill told them as he led the way outside.

"Look at you!" MacLeod crowed, grinning from ear to ear as he slowly 
paced around the ancient Immortal.

Methos rolled his eyes. He was wearing standard issue combat pants and a 
tee shirt. "I'm sure you haven't come to discuss my new wardrobe, Mac. 
And I don't need rescuing. So why are you here?"

MacLeod glanced at O'Neill and Methos nodded. "Duncan MacLeod of the 
Clan MacLeod, Colonel Jack O'Neill, United States Air Force."

The two men shook hands. "A pleasure," Jack said sincerely. "One of 
these days we'll have to sit down and discuss the nature of modern 
warfare."

MacLeod looked stunned. "He knows about us?"

"He was there for the dog and pony show," Methos shrugged. "Couldn't be 
helped."

"Right," MacLeod nodded, taking it in stride. "Joe mentioned that. He 
also mentioned Culloden. Care to explain that?"

"Not at the moment," Methos told him as MacLeod stubbornly crossed his 
arms. "I also indicated that if your services were required I'd let you 
know."

"Meth-- Adam," MacLeod corrected himself and Methos sighed.

"Don't bother, he knows that, too."

The Scot's mouth fell open. "Everything?" he finally asked.

"Let's just say, O'Neill knows me in the biblical sense and leave it at 
that, shall we?"

"Hey!" Jack stammered. "No casting aspersions here. I may have to work 
with this guy."

Methos chuckled. "I meant Death, Jack."

The colonel nodded, relaxing. "Oh, yeah. Well, minion of Satan or not," 
O'Neill shrugged, "that's ancient history."

MacLeod nodded slowly. "I want in, Methos. That's why I'm here. Anything 
serious enough to get your attention has to be important. And if it 
means anything like Culloden ever happening again -- anywhere -- I want 
to make it stop. I didn't stand by for the Nazis or the Fascists, and 
I'm not standing on the sidelines for this."

Methos looked at Jack with an "I told you so" expression and shrugged. 
"It's your decision, Colonel."

O'Neill smiled. "I'll tell you what. Let me talk to my superiors and see 
what we can come up with."

"Jack?!" Methos uttered, surprised.

"Look, Pierson. It has occurred to us that an elite force of Immortal 
shock troops, say about a dozen, would be of enormous benefit. We're 
hanging out in the open with our pants down here," he reminded the 
Immortal forcefully. "We'll take anything that might give us even a 
slight advantage. And it would," he added knowingly. "Go a long way 
toward calming any fears about Immortal loyalties others might have."

Methos sighed and nodded. One didn't have to be prescient to see that 
the days of Immortals remaining safely hidden from the larger world were 
probably numbered. And having already established themselves on the side 
of humanity would put paid to any notion of what might happen should the 
Prize be won. Not that he believed in the myth of ruling over humanity, 
but the idea behind it might appeal to some as a rallying cry against 
Immortals. Having Big Brother on their side could help nip that kind of 
insanity in the bud before the massacres started.

"Listen, Duncan. Give Jack some time to sort this out. You're staying in 
town?" 

MacLeod nodded. "At the Orange Tree Inn, just off the highway."

"Great. Let's say we get together for dinner later on. Seven okay?"

"Fine by me."

"In the meantime, you can maybe think about any others you know who 
might be willing to join up."

"You really think that's a good idea?" MacLeod asked nervously.

"This concerns all of us, Mac. If we don't get involved there may be 
nothing left to get involved in, if you take my meaning."

"Shit!" MacLeod grimaced. "That bad, huh?"

"Worse."

Duncan's expression went very still. "I'll see what I can come up with. 
Have Dawson check a few names. Maybe put out some feelers."

"Good. We'll see you then."

As MacLeod returned to his car Jack stared after him then looked at 
Methos. "You guys have done this before," he stated simply.

"Actually, we haven't," Methos gave him a sad smile. "But most of us 
have spent at least a portion of our lives fighting. Either singly or in 
massed combat with very little choice in the matter. Tactics and 
strategy are the necessary tools of our survival. And as you know they 
have a language all their own."

"Yes, they do," he agreed softly. "Let's go talk to Hammond. He'll need 
to be briefed before we can make any moves." Methos nodded. "And it'll 
have to have Presidential approval." At that, Methos' eyes went wide. 
"Don't worry, he knows what's at stake here."

Methos didn't like it, but what could he do? MacLeod had forced the 
issue. And once Mac became involved in anything he'd set his mind to, 
the big Scot would never let it go. 

Ah well, if it came down to a war against Immortals, Methos thought with 
a secret smile, he'd just evacuate himself the hell out. He'd been going 
through Daniel's reports on some of the worlds they'd visited and a few 
didn't look half bad. Surely one would be safe enough to call home for a 
while.

                         *******************

The meeting with General Hammond had gone well, better than Methos had 
expected. The only people in the government who were going to know about 
Immortals in general were the Joint Chiefs and the President -- who told 
nobody anything -- not even themselves. As far as anyone else was 
concerned, if they could gather together enough participants, the 
identities of the team members would remain 'need to know' only.  And 
since no one really needed to know, Methos felt sure they would be safe. 
As for himself, it was agreed that Adam Pierson would continue as he 
was, with no one, not even the other Immortals, any the wiser about 
Methos.

With a couple of hours left before he and Jack needed to head over to 
Mac's hotel, Methos decided to check in on Daniel and see what he'd come 
up with on those scans. Returning to his work room he was surprised not 
to find him there, but then perhaps Daniel had gotten tired and gone 
back to his quarters. As he started leave Methos glanced at the table, 
staring in shock at the empty stands where the tablets had been. His 
eyes quickly turned to the corner where he'd stacked the cases, finding 
them missing as well.

"Son of a bitch! Daniel!" he hissed furiously, stalking out of the room. 
Now where would the brat have taken them? He stopped the first person he 
passed in the corridor, asking if they'd seen Dr. Jackson. After three 
tries he finally found someone who knew and was directed to an empty 
staging area on another level. 

After a short search he found the room. And, angrier than he'd been 
since this whole thing had started Methos flung open the door with a 
foul curse...and tripped. Shouting in surprise he rolled, trying to 
disentangle himself from the obstacle -- Daniel's crutches by the sound 
of it -- and put a hand out to steady himself.

"Shit!" Methos gasped, yanking his hand back as he touched something 
hard and cold then felt a surge of energy racing up his arm. "No!" He 
scrabbled back, at last seeing Daniel and Major Carter parked in front 
of a bank of portable monitors near the door.

"What the hell was that?!" Daniel demanded, trying to rise. While Methos 
could only shake his head, staring in horror at the large contiguous 
octagon in which the tablets had been laid out.

"Pierson?" he heard Carter ask as he uselessly grabbed his head, feeling 
overwhelmed by the awful noise of a tremendous buzz. A moment later the 
tablets began to pulse with power.

"Get out!" Methos shouted as he finally made it to his feet, doubling 
over as he staggered away from them and from the tablets which had 
suddenly begun to glow. "Get MacLeod!" 

Suddenly, a single column of energy rose from the tablets like a tower 
of light. It searched the room, moving sinuously past the two mortals as 
if they weren't even there. Then it focused on Methos, hauled back like 
a fist and slammed into him hard.

By the door, the two horrified spectators saw him thrown across the room 
until he was pinned to the far wall by the sheer force of the energies 
involved. Then the tablets began to rise above the floor as they 
metamorphosed into a solid golden ball. This too began to alter itself 
almost immediately. Growing brighter and more translucent so that Carter 
and Daniel were forced to huddle against the wall shielding their eyes. 
Then suddenly it too joined in the stream of light piercing the ancient 
Immortal until it seemed that every last particle of energy was trying 
to fill him up.

How long this went on Methos didn't know, his mind was overwhelmed with 
images. Times and places worlds apart that meant nothing to him. And at 
some point he even saw himself. Young and, god help him, tiny. Quite 
literally a babe in arms. And he knew who it was who held him. Knew the 
man who fed and clothed and raised him up to call him Father. And when 
his own insignificant form could take no more, Methos screamed and went 
on screaming as bolt after bolt of lightening shot out of his body to 
send the SGC into electronic chaos before ricocheting back in a vain 
attempt to be reabsorbed.

But it was all too much. The power of this bizarre Quickening, the 
staggering amounts of information cascading into his brain, the sheer 
volume of the knowledge being provided was more than Methos could handle 
for a time. And he found himself a safe place in his mind to hide and 
prayed to a god he didn't believe in to please, just let this pass him 
by.

                         *******************

"How long has he been like this?" General Hammond wanted to know.

O'Neill shook his head, staring in awe as Methos somehow hung suspended 
in mid-air, hands folded against his chest, eyes closed as if he were 
merely sleeping, surrounded by a nimbus of blue-white light. "He was 
like this when I got here." Jack swallowed hard and nodded to the clutch 
of people on the other side of the door. "Carter and Daniel were with 
him."

"Dr. Fraiser?" the general asked as he stepped over. "How are they?"

The petite woman shrugged. "A few cuts and bruises from when things 
exploded in here. And Carter's hands are a little singed -- apparently 
she tried to get him down after the fire works stopped. Other than that, 
they're fine."

"And Pierson?"

The doctor shook her head. "We can't get close enough to tell. Now that 
the back-up generators are running, we can set up some monitoring 
equipment and see what turns up. I'll keep you apprised."

"Very good," Hammond nodded and turned to O'Neill as she moved away. 
"Think he's still alive?" he asked quietly.

"Well, his head's still attached to his neck, sir. I think that's a good 
sign."

"Right," the general nodded uncertainly. "Find out what happened here, 
Colonel. Let me know if anything changes. I'll be in Operations."

As soon as Hammond was gone Jack went over to Samantha and Daniel, 
taking them out to the corridor to give the medical team room to work. 
"Everything okay you two?"

"Fine, sir," Carter responded as Daniel nodded.

"I take it you saw what went down?"

"I'm not really sure what I saw," Daniel admitted. "I mean, Adam came in 
and, uh, tripped over my crutches. I guess I didn't hear them fall," he 
babbled apologetically. "His hand came to rest on the tablets and there 
was this weird spark. But it went out of his fingers and into the 
tablets. Then it kind of got sucked back into his hand. After that, all 
hell broke loose and he was shouting for us to get out and get him a 
magloud, whatever that is."

"MacLeod?" Jack asked and looked at Sam. "He asked for MacLeod?"

"That's what it sounded like, sir. But I think Daniel just mentioned 
something important. I hadn't really thought about it, but the first day 
Pierson got here something happened in Daniel's office. Teal'c and I had 
just delivered some of the tablets. I left him looking at the first one 
and something about it literally made him jump. He said it was nothing. 
Just a little static shock from the carpet."

"Uh, Sam, I don't have any carpet in my office," Daniel pointed out.

"I know that," she rolled her eyes. "But it didn't register at the time. 
The air down here is pretty dry and with all the electrical equipment 
around I'm always getting shocked."

"And he always wore gloves whenever he handled them," Jack mused 
thoughtfully. "Said he didn't want to mess them up with his oils or 
something."

Daniel raised an eyebrow. "He told me they gave him a rash."

"Jesus!" Jack shook his head. "So he knew something was wrong when he 
touched them. But why would he hide that from us?"

"Maybe he thought it had more to do with what he is than what we are?" 
Sam suggested. "Those electrical charges looked a lot like what General 
Hammond's friend described."

"But how could he have a Quickie? Only you two were around."

"What are you guys talking about?!" Jackson interrupted angrily. "Look, 
that's my friend in there and you're acting as if there's nothing wrong 
with him. Well, news flash! He's floating in the middle of the room and 
we don't even know if he's dead or alive!"

"It's a long story," Jack sighed. "Carter, fill him in. I'm going to do 
what Pierson wanted."

"And that would be?" Samantha asked.

"Get MacLeod. He's another one and he's right here in town. Oh, and 
Carter?" O'Neill turned back as he suddenly thought of something. "You 
said he fell against the tablets. Well, where the hell are they?"

"They're inside him, sir," she whispered, going a little pale.

Daniel nodded. "I think they're what's holding him up."

                         *******************

"MacLeod?"

Duncan turned at the sound of O'Neill's voice. From the expression on 
his face he could see there was something wrong. 

"Where's Methos?" he asked quietly, hurriedly getting up from his stool 
at the bar.

"Oh, just hangin' around back at the base. In fact, I'm taking you to 
see him now," Jack said as he took his arm.

MacLeod pulled free. "I'm not going anywhere with you until I know 
what's wrong. Where's Methos?"

O'Neill sighed in frustration. "He's back at the base, hanging around. I 
mean literally, MacLeod. Right now, he's floating in mid-air. And the 
last thing he asked for before whatever happened to him nearly blew the 
base sky high, was you. So either you come quietly, or so help me, I 
will shoot your ass and drive back with your corpse."

"Look, if this is a joke you two have cooked up..."

O'Neill pulled out his side arm. "Get in the fucking car."

MacLeod preceded him outside, the other patrons pointedly ignoring them. 
With Cheyenne Mountain just down the road, no one questioned the fact 
that the military had the right to make an arrest when required.

"Aren't you going to cuff me?" MacLeod asked nastily as he climbed into 
the jeep.

"You aren't under arrest," O'Neill muttered as he slammed the door shut 
and raced around to the other side. "I wasn't joking," he said after he 
got in and pulled out of the lot. 

With a start, MacLeod realized he'd never shut the engine off. "No," he 
finally said. "You're not." MacLeod turned in his seat as the car peeled 
onto the highway. "All right then, what's wrong?"

"Just what I said. Pierson was working on something for us and 
apparently it blew up in his face."

"I don't buy it. Methos is smarter than that."

"Whatever you say," O'Neill curtly responded. "Just tell me one thing. 
Would Pierson ever withhold information about something he considered 
dangerous to one of us? To non-Immortals, I mean."

"We call you mortals. And no, Methos would never do that. He might avoid 
the situation entirely after he gave it, but he'd definitely give you 
fair warning."

O'Neill looked relieved. "Okay. But would he keep quiet if he thought it 
might pose a danger to himself?"

"Yeah," MacLeod nodded thoughtfully. "He would. Especially, if he 
thought it could be used against him. But that's absurd, because there 
isn't anything on earth that could be a real danger to one of us, unless 
it's another Immortal with a sword."

"On Earth, you say?"

MacLeod opened his mouth to respond, suddenly looking around as he 
sensed another Immortal presence. "Methos? Stop the car, it's Methos!"

O'Neill barely glanced up from the road. "Pierson's back at the base, 
MacLeod."

"No! I just felt him. We have to go back. Stop the car!"

"What do you mean you just felt him?"

"His presence. I felt his presence! It's how we know when another 
Immortal is close. Now turn around and stop the car!"

"MacLeod," Jack insisted. "I swear to you, Pierson is at the base."

There was a long pause and finally MacLeod spoke. "You may be right," he 
responded slowly. "It's the strangest thing, but I can still feel him, 
and if he was back there," MacLeod looked down along the road they'd 
just traveled. "I shouldn't be able to." He shook his head which was 
still buzzing. "How far is the base from here?"

Jack looked to the side, noting the next marker. "About three miles out 
-- and one mile down."

MacLeod's eyes went wide. "That's impossible!"

"Is not!" O'Neill shot back, his tone filled with sarcasm.

"Okay," MacLeod rubbed his forehead, trying to overcome the growing 
noise in his head. "Now, just tell me from start to finish exactly what 
happened..."

                         *******************

O'Neill quickly navigated them through base security, while MacLeod 
looked around, seeing dozens more armed soldiers than there had been 
this morning. He still wasn't sure he believed O'Neill's version of 
events, but then he was in no position to argue.

"Nice set up," MacLeod commented as the elevator traveled down.

"Rehabbed missile silo." Jack shook his head. "Don't ask."

They came out into a corridor lined with guards, none of whom could have 
done a thing to stop the man whose presence had put them on alert.

"You might just as well let them stand down," MacLeod told the colonel. 
"If it comes to it, I'm probably the only one who can prevent him from 
doing any harm."

"How's that?" O'Neill asked as he led the way, clearly ignoring the 
suggestion.

MacLeod pulled his coat aside to show him the grip of his sword. 
"There's only one reason I can think of why Methos would have sent for 
me. To take his head if something's gone wrong."

At that, O'Neill stopped cold and flung him against the wall, shoving 
his gun under MacLeod's chin. "You lay a finger on him without 
authorization and I'll blow your fucking head off!"

"It's not my choice!" MacLeod growled angrily. "It's his! He's asked 
this of me before, O'Neill. And I've refused. I don't want his head, or 
his Quickening! But if he isn't Methos anymore then he has to be 
stopped. He knew that when he sent for me."

Jack let out a deep breath and eased up just a little. "Why would he 
ever ask you to do something like that?"

"Perhaps because he considers me honorable. There have been times when 
he's been more afraid of the wrong man taking his head and gaining his 
power than he has ever been of dying." MacLeod gave him an ironic half 
smile. "I've managed to avoid it thus far. And I swear on my life, 
Colonel, that I will do nothing unless it's absolutely called for."

"How will we know if it is or not?" O'Neill finally backed off.

"I'm not sure," MacLeod admitted cautiously. "But an educated guess says 
he wants us to find out."

O'Neill stared at him coldly. "Fine. But we make the call."

MacLeod stared thoughtfully at the man and finally nodded. "Agreed."

A moment later and they were standing outside the door. "Major Carter, 
this is Duncan MacLeod." Samantha nodded a brief greeting. "Any change?"

"About ten minutes ago his eyes opened and closed. Nothing since then, 
sir."

O'Neill looked at MacLeod. "That'd be about the time..."

"He felt me coming," MacLeod nodded.

"Right. Come on."

As MacLeod entered the room the sense of presence grew even stronger. It 
certainly felt like Methos, but more than that there was a subtle 
undercurrent of something different. He looked across the room and his 
stomach tightened in shock. Perfectly, utterly calm, Methos hung 
breathless and still above the floor.

MacLeod moved forward slowly. "Clear the room," he told O'Neill. "If 
this goes badly I don't want to see anyone get hurt."

"We're soldiers, MacLeod. Just get on with it."

"No. You made him a promise. Get them out and turn off those monitors. 
Allow him some dignity, Colonel."

"Oh yeah, this is real dignified," O'Neill gestured toward the silent 
Immortal. "He looks like an ad for The Exorcist XX. Death takes a 
holiday -- ten feet off the floor!"

"Colonel, please!"

With a sigh, Jack ordered the monitors off and everyone out, then 
crossed his arms and stood staring at MacLeod.

Duncan took a deep breath and suppressed a shudder. One wrong move and 
O'Neill would kill him, of that he was certain. What had Methos done to 
engender such loyalty? Then again, did he really want to know?

Ignoring the psychic daggers stabbing him in the back, MacLeod moved 
forward. Ten feet, twenty. When he was an equal distance away from 
Methos he held out his arm and brushed it against the radiant nimbus of 
light. It sparked against his finger tips and he felt the pull of those 
Quickening energies inside him answering the call. This was amazing! 
He'd never even heard of anything like it before. And it was caused by 
some alien artifact? 

He stepped within the corona and the buzzing within his head suddenly 
died. "Methos?" MacLeod whispered as if afraid to wake what lay within 
the sleeping man. "Methos?" he repeated more firmly.

"Hello again, Mac."

He nearly jumped out of his skin as the luminescent eyes opened.

"Am I late for dinner?"

Without warning, the light surrounding the ancient Immortal suddenly 
winked out and Methos dropped heavily to the ground. MacLeod rushed 
forward, halting just outside of grabbing distance.

"Methos?" MacLeod asked, laying a hand on the hilt of his sword. From 
behind, Duncan heard the deliberate sound of a trigger cocking. If they 
got out of this, he decided, very much annoyed, he was going to have to 
seriously reconsider his position on Methos' continued existence. "Do 
you remember why you sent for me?"

The writhing Immortal groaned, clutching his broken ankle. "Of course I 
remember, you nit wit! To take my head in case something had gone 
horribly wrong."

"And what do you think about that now?"

"That if you don't get your stupid, ignorant, blue painted arse over 
here and give me a hand, I'll be obliged to take your own stupid, 
ignorant, blue painted head off!"

He removed his hand from his coat and turned to Jack. "It's him," he 
sighed in disgust, walking away. The crisis was over. Let Methos' new 
friends deal with his whining. Whatever the hell that was, he thought as 
his empty belly grumbled loudly, he'd rather worry about it on a full 
stomach.

                         *******************

"And how is my favorite minion this fine morning?" O'Neill asked, 
altogether too cheerful as he sauntered into the infirmary.

"Hungry," Methos responded petulantly as he pushed aside a plateful of 
bland scrambled eggs. "And how did I suddenly get to be your minion?"

"Don't you read the papers?" Jack puffed up his chest. "I am the Great 
Satan!"

"For now," Methos smirked. "Just don't let it go to your head. I may 
want that title back in another millennium."

"Spoilsport!"

The conversation paused as Dr. Fraiser came over with a clip board.

"He ready to be sprung yet, Doc?"

Fraiser sighed and shook her head, extremely puzzled. "Well, I can't 
find anything wrong with him. All the test results came back negative. 
We've scanned for everything we know how to scan for -- and a few things 
our techs came up with on the spur of the moment. Even his limp is gone. 
He's completely, impossibly normal."

Methos smiled widely, hiding his relief as the doctor disconnected him 
from the monitors and returned to her duties. Whatever energies his 
Quickening was made up of apparently hadn't registered on their 
machines.

"You look like the cat that ate the canary," O'Neill commented as he 
waited for Methos to finish dressing.

"I always look like this after I've taken a 10,000 year old Quickening."

Jack's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "You told Hammond you couldn't 
remember anything."

Methos nodded. "Last night I didn't. It sometimes takes a while for 
things to settle down in here," he tapped his forehead. "I very nearly 
lost myself in the midst of it. One of the things I hate most about 
Quickenings," he confided. "Everybody else's bits and pieces. Not to 
mention the flotsam and jetsam of everything they've picked up from 
others over the years. I was on my way back when Mac showed up. Thanks 
to you, by the way," he nodded and Jack waved it off. "Seeing him helped 
ground me -- literally and figuratively speaking. Otherwise, I might 
have still been up there."

"So that's not something that happens normally," Jack concluded.

"Not as far as I know," Methos agreed. "But then Tok'ra was an unusual 
being."

O'Neill stared at him for a long moment. "I think we'd better call a 
meeting."

Methos tied his last boot lace and sighed, looking forlornly back at his 
barely touched breakfast dishes. "Could I at least get something decent 
to eat? I was sort of hung up during dinner."

                         *******************

Methos was finishing up the last of his biscuits and gravy when Daniel 
carefully negotiated the conference room and sat next to him. Silence 
reigned for nearly a full minute until Methos turned to stare at his 
friend. "What?!" he finally asked in exasperation.

"You could have told me, Adam," Daniel responded, his tone filled with 
hurt.

"Told you what?" Methos calmly poured another cup of coffee. "Told you 
my name? My age? My entire life story? Something I've barely spoken of 
to anyone in nearly two thousand years. Who are you that I should put my 
life in your hands?"

Daniel flushed and shifted uncomfortably. "You're right. I'm sorry. It 
was presumptuous of me to think..."

"To think you were different?" Methos smiled kindly. "You are different, 
Daniel. You're my friend. And while I do appreciate that, let me remind 
you that I am not an icon. I'm just a guy trying to survive."

There was not much left to say as the general entered followed by 
O'Neill, Teal'c, Carter and MacLeod.

"Dr. Pierson," Hammond nodded in his direction as they took their seats. 
"I trust you're feeling better this morning?"

"Right as rain, feet firmly planted on the ground," Methos responded 
cheerily.

"Glad to hear it," the general smiled. "Now," he began, growing serious. 
"Can you tell us why you saw fit not to inform anyone that you were 
having a problem with the tablets?"

Methos took a deep breath and pushed his tray aside. "I wasn't exactly 
having any problems. The tablets seemed to be reactive to my Quickening. 
Why? I couldn't tell you. I've never seen anything like it before. Was I 
worried? Not really. I frankly didn't know what to be worried of. Did I 
think it concerned you as mortals? No. I did not. I was hired to do a 
job, so I put on a pair of gloves and got to work."

The general nodded and leaned forward. "You were afraid we'd use that 
information against you, weren't you?" When Methos remained silent the 
general went on. "You don't have to answer that, son. I know you were. 
I'd have been afraid too. But I want you to understand something. My 
people can and will protect you, but we need to know what to protect you 
from. We can't do that if you're not forthcoming with us. This whole 
mess could have been avoided if you'd simply trusted us."

"Those are fine sentiments, General Hammond. But what would you have 
done if I'd told you the tablets were feeding me power ten times my 
own?"

"They what?" Duncan blurted, stunned. "That can't happen!"

Methos just looked at him and shrugged. He really didn't understand it 
either.

Ignoring MacLeod's outburst the general answered Methos' question. "What 
would we have done? We'd have run more tests on the tablets. And, if you 
were willing, on your reaction to the tablets. In any case, everything 
would have been done in a controlled environment, with your safety very 
much in mind."

"My safety was never in doubt, General. My sanity was. And I would never 
have agreed to any sort of experimentation. I don't want power. And..." 
Methos struggled to find the words until he finally looked at MacLeod. 
"You tell them, Duncan."

MacLeod nodded and sighed. "Only once has a Quickening ever been 
recorded. Luckily, I destroyed the only copy."

"But why?" Samantha asked. "The amount of energy I observed... If it 
could be studied and quantified. One day even harnessed--"

"We're not some damned power plants!" MacLeod heatedly interrupted. 
"We're men and women! Some of us might be willing to make certain 
sacrifices for the sake of mortals, but to give up our lives to make 
your engine run faster is not an option!"

"He's correct, Major Carter," Hammond added. "And as I understand it, 
none of our equipment has been able to detect one iota of evidence that 
this energy even exists." Carter looked ready to rebut his argument, but 
he held up a hand. "I know, you think you can eventually figure it out. 
But at what cost? I will not authorize any undertaking in the pursuit of 
something that might end in death or derangement for those involved. Is 
that clear?"

"Yes, sir," Carter nodded, clearly disappointed.

"All right then, let's move on."

What followed was a brief account from Daniel and Carter as to what had 
happened from their point of view and an even briefer one from Methos'. 
He was more surprised than they were to find out that the tablets had 
somehow metamorphosed and were even now inside him, but then that 
explained a lot.

"Would you like to elaborate on that?" Hammond asked.

Methos shrugged. "I believe it was as Daniel suspected. That the tablets 
were in fact Tok'ra's carapace."

"Ah, you've lost me," O'Neill suddenly interjected. "Are you saying the 
Ancients were bugs?"

Methos grinned. "No, I'm saying the Ancients were probably somehow 
related to Immortals. And somewhere along the line they learned to 
manipulate the energy of the Quickening. To use it in such a way that 
they could, for want of a better word, transmogrify."

Taking a deep breath Methos tried to explain. "To understand, you need 
to know a few things. First and foremost that when an Immortal takes a 
Quickening he gains not just the other party's power, but his or her 
knowledge and life experience. Not all of it, of course -- that would 
drive us insane. But a good portion of those memories that were 
considered important."

Methos smiled ruefully. "The bigger the Quickening the more information. 
And I learned a bloody lot from Tok'ra," he sighed. "Now, let me tell 
you a story...

"Eons ago Tok'ra was given a choice. He could join the other Ancients on 
some kind of spiritual journey, or he could remain behind," Methos began 
quietly. "But Tok'ra had a friend. A man who had been taken over by a 
sentient parasite. Morgot, had been among a large group of colonists 
who, after landing on their brave new world, were systematically taken 
over. Now, it wasn't deliberate, mind you. At least not the first time. 
The symbiots didn't know they were parasites. It was an accident. One of 
the colonists was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But then, that's 
how these things happen.

"Of course, not all of the symbiots were evil. Like all beings 
everywhere there were both good and bad among them. The first to blend 
though was. It saw the benefits of not mucking about in the slime and 
decided it liked technology -- and perhaps more of its friends would 
like it too. So, it introduced a number of its brethren into hosts. 
That's how Morgot became joined.

"As it turned out, some of the symbiots weren't interested in the things 
the first Goa'uld was. Some actually liked their hosts. Wanted to 
experience life with them. Others wanted to take the colony ships and 
find bigger and better worlds with more technology to exploit. 
Naturally, they fought. Unfortunately, the good guys lost. Morgot and 
his companions fled through the Stargate they'd discovered on their 
world, which is how he ran into Tok'ra. They became friends and it was 
Tok'ra who helped broker the defensive alliance among the galactic 
powers once they realized the danger the Goa'uld represented. But the 
alliance wasn't the declaration of war Morgot had wanted. He was 
disappointed that anyone not of the five great powers would not be 
protected, so he convinced Tok'ra to help him stem the tide of invasion 
in those areas where the alliance's writ did not run. So, off they went 
on their mission of mercy.

"Now, as I said, Tok'ra was given a choice, and it was right around this 
time Morgot became ill. He was, in fact, dying. Not the symbiot, but the 
mortal body of the host. Since there was no other willing body around, 
Tok'ra decided to manipulate his own energy field, I suppose you'd call 
it, in order to save at least one of his friends. Otherwise, the 
Ancients, like Immortals, are immune. Apparently, Quickening energies 
tend to fry the poor buggers. And for some reason, taking Morgot into 
his body prevented Tok'ra from joining the other Ancients. He was 
content though. And, inspired by his new relationship with Morgot, 
headed off again to confront the Goa'uld. This time, instead of hit or 
miss guerrilla runs, they were going to build an army."

Methos' storytelling was suddenly interrupted by the sound of the klaxon 
alerting them that the Stargate was in use.

"That would be Jacob," General Hammond announced as he excused himself 
and went to greet his old friend.

Methos leaned across the table toward O'Neill. "Has MacLeod seen...?"

Jack shook his head and grinned. "Now's as good a time as any, I'd say."

"Come on, Mac. Time to see the elephant," Methos told him, getting to 
his feet.

"What's this about?"

"Well," Methos began, leading the way to the gate room. "You know there 
are aliens involved in this, right."

MacLeod snorted in disbelief. "So I've been told. But I haven't seen 
anything yet that would convince me. You floating in mid air from an 
unusually large Quickening sounds more like something Connor once told 
me about the Quickening he took from the Kurgan, rather than a visit 
from ET."

"Then hopefully what you are about to see will convince you. If not, 
I'll ask Teal'c to show you his tummy."

"The guy with the gold stamp on his forehead? Are you trying to tell me 
he's an alien?"

"No, he's perfectly human. It's the larval Goa'uld incubating inside him 
that's the alien."

"Right!" MacLeod rolled his eyes and followed him into the gate room 
just as the wormhole exploded outward.

"Mother of God!" MacLeod shouted as he flung up his arms and jumped 
back.

"Oh relax, Duncan, it's only an energy vortex," Methos smirked. "Happens 
every day around here."

At that instant, Jacob stepped through the Stargate.

"He's not an alien!" MacLeod whispered after getting a good look at the 
man.

Jacob turned in his direction and smiled as his eyes started to glow. 
"You're right," came the deep vibration of Selmak's voice. "Only one of 
us is from another planet. And she's a girl."

MacLeod muttered something in Gaelic and Methos chuckled. 

Selmak raised one of Jacob's eyebrows. "What did he say?"

Methos grinned. "My friend here says he likes girls, but you'll forgive 
him if he doesn't ask you out. You seem to be missing certain equipment 
he considers crucial to the process."

Selmak laughed. "Tell him perhaps next time I won't be and we shall have 
to plan for that." Suddenly, Jacob came to the fore. "Hey, you! Stop 
hittin' on my girl! Get your own damn symbiot if you want one so bad."

At that MacLeod shut his mouth, obviously determined to keep it that way 
as Methos just stood there and laughed.

A few minutes later they were all back in the conference room, Methos 
enjoying the presence of a very subdued Duncan MacLeod.

"I'm sorry I'm late," Jacob said as he settled into a chair. "But we 
have what could be a serious problem and I wanted to wait until the last 
of our scout ships reported in. We've detected an unknown fleet massing 
in a sector just outside of Goa'uld space."

"That would be Inanna," Methos interjected, smiling sardonically at the 
shocked faces around the table. "I was trying to tell you, I just hadn't 
gotten to that bit yet."

"Well?" Hammond gestured for him to move it along.

"Right. To recap for our late comers... Tok'ra joined with Morgot, 
determined to build an army capable of attacking the major Goa'uld 
strongholds simultaneously. The problem turned out to be that while 
there was support for this endeavor from many systems, there was also no 
cohesive power base to bring them together. Each of them wanted Tok'ra 
to lead their forces and none was willing to compromise with any other."

"Yes," Selmak interjected. "This is what our legends tell us. But how 
Tok'ra overcame this, we do not know."

"I was about to tell you," Methos complained again at the interruption. 
"Anyway, Tok'ra had a wife. Or, he'd had a wife before he blended with 
Morgot and changed his name to Tok'ra. I'm not sure. But, in any event, 
his wife, Inanna, who'd infiltrated the Goa'uld here on Earth, suggested 
that they gather together all of Morgot's companions and as each one's 
host died, the symbiots could then be joined to others like she and 
Tok'ra, and therefore never die. Apparently, Tok'ra's example of 
remaining behind rubbed off on a number of others. They could each take 
charge of a group of allied forces which seemed like a great idea to 
everyone involved. And, just to prove they were on the up and up to the 
other Ancients, she volunteered to go first.

Methos paused and looked slowly around the table. "Problem was, Inanna 
already had a symbiot. And they were the best of friends. Like minds and 
what not. Her plan was to gather together all the good symbiots and set 
them to fighting the bad symbiots in the hope that they would destroy 
each other. Or, at the very least keep each other busy enough so that 
she'd be left alone to consolidate the little empire she was planning to 
establish. More importantly, she knew how to destroy Tok'ra and his 
friends. And they were her biggest problem."

Selmak leaned forward. "This is not in our archives."

"No," Methos agreed. "I'm sure it's not. But this is Tok'ra's story as 
he recalls the events."

Selmak sat back and simply nodded. "I am listening, Companion of 
Tok'ra."

"First of all, I wasn't his companion. I was his student."

"So you have lived for over 10,000 years," Carter nodded.

"Technically," Methos shrugged. "But I spent most of the first half of 
that under a couple of tons of rock. So, we can't really count that as 
living, now can we?"

"Ten thousand?" MacLeod murmured, awe struck.

"Five or ten, Mac, what's the difference? It's all just numbers. Now, 
can I get on with this story before Inanna shows up? She won't wait to 
start shooting while we finish having tea and biscuits."

"Please," General Hammond told him, eyes widened with shock.

"Thank you," Methos nodded politely. "Inanna's plan was to have Tok'ra's 
forces either crush, or at least severely damage the Goa'uld, then she 
would turn and destroy Tok'ra. Of course he trusted her. And when the 
battle was done, and Tok'ra had gathered together all his forces to 
celebrate, she killed them all. Only, she missed me, because I was still 
mortal and very dead after the first few shots."

"But what about the carapace?" Daniel asked. "Why didn't it protect 
Tok'ra?"

Methos sighed. "Because he loved and trusted Inanna. Somehow, she'd 
gotten close enough to strike from the inside. The carapace was an 
extension of Tok'ra, a sort of protective covering, and when it 
shattered a portion of his Quickening remained within the parts. Without 
knowing exactly what it was, Inanna took what she thought were the 
pieces of a very advanced fighter and brought them home as a trophy for 
her wall. Then you found them, and I touched them and what was left of 
Tok'ra's essence remembered me. The rest is as they say, history."

"But how do you know Inanna is coming here?"

"Because, my friends, she, and not her late husband, or his dead 
followers, established the Tok'ra."

                         *******************

"So what haven't you told them, Methos?" MacLeod asked as they stood 
outside the entrance to the SGC compound. They were waiting for a car to 
take Mac back to his hotel and this was as good a chance as any for them 
to talk in private.

Methos didn't even bother to hide his smile. "How Inanna managed to kill 
Tok'ra."

"Which was?"

"They exchanged tokens before they parted. Her own necklace blew his 
head off."

MacLeod flinched at the thought. "Good call. But," Duncan sighed. "I've 
never heard of a Quickening being that detailed. Let alone of something 
as odd as a partial Quickening. Images, yes. Even words sometimes. "

"Well, that's the other thing I didn't mention. I now have all of Tok'ra 
inside." MacLeod brows rose in disbelief, but the big Scot nodded for 
him to go on and Methos sighed. 

"I was mortal and acting as his aide. Tok'ra usually kept me close. 
Except for that time, when he went in alone. Of course, I was waiting 
there to meet him after the battle. Inanna's ships came in low as if to 
land and started firing. Like I said, I was killed in the very first 
strike." Methos shrugged and looked away. "I'm not sure how long it took 
for me to revive, but almost as soon as I did his Quickening hit me. You 
can imagine what that was like. The next thing I knew the entire world 
seemed to be falling in on me. I think the magnitude of that Quickening, 
even split as it was, shook the planet. When I woke up -- I think an 
earthquake must have moved the rock -- I didn't know who I was, or where 
I came from. Just the name had stuck. When I touched the tablets the 
rest of Tok'ra pretty much dashed inside and some of those memories came 
back. Don't ask me to explain it, Mac. That's just the way it was."

"So, these Ancients were Immortals?"

Again Methos shrugged. "More like super Immortals if you ask me. Or 
maybe, Immortals who grew old without the Game and learned to use their 
Quickenings for something other than a light show. I can't honestly say, 
Mac. I really don't know. "

MacLeod shook his head and sighed as the car finally pulled up. "It's 
certainly given me something to think about."

"You're not alone."

MacLeod smiled. "By the way," he said as he began to climb inside. "Tell 
your friend O'Neill he needs to ease up on that trigger happy finger of 
his."

"Jack? Why? What happened?"

"I don't know how or why you've conned him into thinking you're god's 
gift to this green earth, but next time you send for me, make sure the 
cavalry knows I'm on your side."

"He threatened you?"

MacLeod nodded. "Big time."

As the car pulled away Methos stared after it, thoughtfully considering 
the possibilities. He'd planned to go it alone, or to at least try. But 
if he could count on O'Neill to back him up... With a smile of pure 
pleasure he turned on his heel and headed back inside.

                         *******************

Methos knocked on the door of Jack's real office, entering as he was 
invited.

"MacLeod gone off to rally the Immortal masses?"

"What he can of them. I wouldn't hold my breath, if I were you. 
Immortals don't tend to congregate in groups."

"What, no reunions? No weddings? Nada?"

Methos shrugged. "Reunions tend to be held at the point of a sword. 
Weddings now, those occasionally do occur." Methos looked thoughtful for 
a moment then deliberately changed the subject. "Jacob gone?"

Jack took the hint and nodded. "Yeah. Selmak wasn't happy, but she 
agreed to say nothing about what you told us."

Methos nodded and sauntered into the room to take a seat on the big 
leather couch across from O'Neill's desk. Now this was an office, he 
thought, complete with TV, mini bar and microwave oven. Homey right down 
to the pictures of family and friends littering the credenza and the 
hockey memorabilia on the walls. For a long time Methos just sat 
absorbing the ambiance of the room, until Jack finally stood up and took 
a seat on the other end of the couch.

"All right, Pierson, give. Something's on your mind. What is it?" 

Methos snorted. "There's always something on my mind. Right now I'm 
considering the possibilities."

"Which are?"

He leaned back and crossed his arms. "Alone or with company."

"Company, of course. Now, where are we going and what do I need?"

Methos smiled. "Just your passport."

"And why would I need a passport?"

"Because one generally requires one to get through customs."

"I don't." Methos raised an eyebrow and Jack smiled. "I've got the 
plane, you've got the plan, let's go."

"Just like that?"

"Yeah, come on. Just let me make a couple of calls and we're out of 
here."

"Just like that?" Methos repeated.

"Just like what?" O'Neill asked, obviously amused.

"Aren't you going to ask me where we're going and why?"

"You'll tell me when you're ready."

"Isn't that rather trusting of you?"

"That's the point," he grinned and went back to his desk.

With a shake of his head, because he wouldn't trust himself if he were 
him, Methos waited while Jack notified Hammond they would be off base, 
called the hanger to requisition his personal plane and dashed out a 
quick set of orders. In moments they were gone and on their way.

Four appalling hours and in Methos' mind, at least a thousand stomach 
churning loop the loops later, they landed at a nameless base in London 
which even he hadn't known existed. And apparently, at least for this 
mission, neither did they, thanks to Jack's preparations. All of which 
gave Methos a mean case of visa envy. With one set of orders in lieu of 
a passport O'Neill could go anywhere he pleased, be anyone he pleased 
and never have to worry about anyone questioning his identity. And as 
Methos knew very well, no matter how superb the quality of the forgery, 
there was no Immortal immune to that instant of terror when the customs 
agent approached. Maybe there was more to this modern military than he'd 
previously considered?

A car was waiting at the exit and Jack deferred to Methos as he tossed 
him the keys.

"I hate driving on the wrong side of the road."

"It's the right side."

"No, it's the wrong side."

"No, it the right side." As Jack frowned Methos smiled and added, "As 
compared to the left side, of course."

"Whatever!" Jack slammed the door. "Just drive! We've got maybe 24 hours 
before the shit hits the fan. So go!"

"I'm going, I'm going!" Methos laughed. "Relax. We'll be there in twenty 
minutes."

"And where is there by the way?"

"Home. I need to get something."

"I see," Jack responded dryly. A moment later he turned in his seat and 
exploded. "What do you mean we're going to your house?! What'd you do? 
Forget your favorite CD?"

"Now that you mention it..." He relented as Jack began to turn a little 
too red. "Okay. We're going to get something that should get us into 
Inanna's stronghold."

"Oh." Jack sat back, looking mollified. "That's a good thing."

"Just remind me to pick up those CD's on the way out." O'Neill groaned 
in disgust. "As long as we're here mind you."

A short while later they pulled up in front of Methos' old manor house.

"You live here?" Jack asked, astounded as they trotted up the front 
stairs.

"No," Methos responded sarcastically. "We're breaking in."

"Cool!"

Methos rolled his eyes as he unlocked the front door and turned on the 
lights. Everything had been under drop clothes since he'd decided to 
join the Watchers and a light layer of dust shrouded the room.

"I think you need to fire your housekeeper," Jack commented sardonically 
as he followed the other man inside.

"That dear sweet lady? Never! Although," Methos added thoughtfully. 
"I've been gone so long she might be dead. Oh, well," he went on with a 
shrug. "She'll have left the position to her daughter, or maybe her 
granddaughter by now."

Jack stared at him in disbelief, refusing to dignify the idea of 
hereditary maid work with a comment. Especially, maids that apparently 
didn't have to clean anything.

"This way," Methos smiled. "It's in the museum wing."

"You have a museum in your house?"

"No, I have a wing where I keep old things. My things."

"That's too strange for words," Jack shook his head staring at the 
eclectically decorated rooms.

"Well, I'd keep them in the attic but there's not enough space."

"Try the garage."

"I have six cars in there. No room."

Jack just shook his head and followed. "The rich are weird."

Methos chuckled, leading the way through a gallery filled with art works 
by the great masters, known and unknown, which he'd collected over the 
centuries. As they passed through a series of corridors, Methos pointed 
out which era each room contained.

"The room to your left was my Renaissance period."

Jack looked in to see a hall crammed with every bit of paraphernalia 
from horse riggings to clothing and shook his head. And He thought he 
was a pack rat!

After a couple more rooms on the same order, he threw up his hands in 
exasperation. "Ah jeez, its Super Daniel!"

"Hey!" Methos complained. "This is my stuff. Okay? You have your stuff 
and I have my stuff. No one's stuff is better than anyone else's. 
Besides," he added, slightly aggrieved. "This is just a small fraction 
of what I did have. Most of it was lost. Although, every now and then, 
something turns up at an auction or estate sale and I get lucky and 
bring it home."

Jack was about to make a smart ass remark when he recalled what Hammond 
had told him. Immortals couldn't have children. And the wistful 
expression in Methos' eyes when he'd spoken about weddings meant they 
had little hope of a normal life with friends and family. This, he 
looked around more understanding of it's purpose, was essentially a poor 
man's substitute. No wonder he treasured his bits and pieces.

"Kidding aside," Jack told him kindly. "Someday you'll have to let me 
come back here and explore."

Methos turned to look at the other man, surprised at the warmth in his 
voice. "Of course. Just don't bring Danny. He'll walk into the Egyptian 
room and we wouldn't see him again until he was old."

"He'd die in there," Jack insisted. "And then we'd have to stick him in 
one of those mummy cases."

"Now there's an idea," Methos grinned. "I have several to choose from."

They finally reached the Roman exhibition hall and Jack hung back in 
awe. Room after room of shields, swords, chariots, and even furniture.

"How'd you manage to save all this stuff?" he asked as he followed 
deeper.

"Stored it in the wine cellars, of course. I lived here once, right 
before the Christians took it over. See that little beauty?" Methos 
pointed to one of the smaller chariots. "I drove her for the Greens 
before Tiberius at the Coliseum and won. Had my pick of any man or woman 
in Rome that night," he added proudly. Methos looked back over his 
shoulder and smiled. "Look, this may take a few minutes. I have to find 
the damned thing. So, why don't you have a look around."

He left Jack to his wanderings and headed for the far side of the hall 
where he'd neatly stacked several dozen trunks. Methos scratched his 
head as he examined the boxes. He knew it was in one of them, but which? 
He'd packed it away so long ago and never gotten it out again, even when 
the need to hide it had ended that the only clear memory he had was of 
laying it up with his clothing. "Best just get started," he sighed and 
grabbed the first of them.

It was just as hard as ever, he realized after a time of shifting and 
sorting, to go through these old, dear things without pausing every now 
and again to relive the memories. There was the fine, white cloak he'd 
worn to Publius' party and the wine stain the fuller had never managed 
to get clean. And here the leather sandals with gold embroidery he'd 
received as a wedding present from Clodia three months before she'd died 
of the fever, while beneath it lay his gift to her. A scarlet gown of 
rare silk from Chin, hemmed in silver fringe and stitched with fanciful 
winged creatures. He could never bear to part with any of it. Each 
little trinket, even the old clay thimble he'd used to keep his kit in 
good repair held a meaning and a memory for Methos. Until, at last, he 
took a deep breath and just got through it.

After perhaps the tenth such walk down memory lane Methos finally found 
it. "Here you are!" he exclaimed as he reached the bottom of the trunk. 
It was wrapped in a piece of medium quality dyed leather. Deliberately 
made to look worthless, although it was in fact the most valuable of all 
his possessions. He took out the pendant and held it up to the light. 
Such a dull looking thing with it's plain, unpolished exterior. Yet, it 
held such meaning for him. It should have born an inscription, he knew, 
like the images of others he now held in his memories thanks to Tok'ra. 
And had he come of age, become an Immortal while the Ancient had lived, 
it would have. Now, thanks to Inanna's betrayal, it never would.

Methos put the trunks back where he'd found them and went to find Jack. 
It wasn't that difficult, and when he did he slapped a hand over his 
mouth, biting his lip to keep from laughing out loud. The good colonel 
had on one of his favorite dress helmets, worn only in procession, 
swishing the great plumes around like a drunken ostrich. With it he wore 
a centurion's cloak, while having at the air with a cavalry blade. He 
looked completely ridiculous and utterly charming.

"Having fun?" Methos finally asked, enjoying the sight of O'Neill 
playing dress up.

"Oh yeah!" He whirled about and nearly fell over as he tried to properly 
balance the weight of the helmet.

Methos laughed as Jack looked thoroughly chagrined. "No," he grinned 
when the colonel removed the helm and started to put it back. "Keep it. 
It suits you. But here," he came forward and searched through the pile 
of clothes. "This is the proper tunic and here's the breast plate and 
cloak. And take that short sword by the bust of Apollo instead. We'll 
find you the rest of the gear later." 

It amused Methos no end to see the colonel both flabbergasted and deeply 
touched by his gift.

"Are you sure?" O'Neill asked tentatively, obviously shocked to be given 
the priceless treasures he just happened to be caught playing with.

"Yes. I'm sure."

Jack nodded. "Thank you," he said gravely. "I promise to look after them 
well."

Methos simply smiled, understanding the unsaid words O'Neill could not 
express. That not only had he been given something of great monetary 
value for the excellent condition they were in, but of great personal 
value as well, which was far more important to both of them. Jack now 
had a piece of Methos' own history to remember their friendship and to 
know that no matter what happened something of the ancient Immortal 
would always be with him.

"So, did you find what you were looking for?" Jack finally asked as they 
left the room and started back.

"Right here," Methos held it up for inspection.

"Ah... Nice necklace. What's it got to do with Inanna?"

Methos grimaced. "It's not a necklace, it's like a bulla."

"Well, bulla for you, but it looks like a necklace to me."

With a sigh Methos handed it over. "A bulla was the Roman equivalent of 
an ID bracelet. Children wore them until they came of age and were 
initiated into whatever sacred rites their parents decreed. Then the 
bulla would be symbolically sacrificed to the gods."

"So what makes this one so special?"

"It was the only thing I was wearing when I woke up in that pile of 
rubble five thousand years ago. And," he reached out and scratched the 
surface until the cheap silver dip he'd put on some 1500 years earlier 
flaked away. "I think it's made of the same stuff as the Stargate."

"Your point being?"

"Really, Colonel," Methos drawled, taking it back and tucking it into 
his pocket. "You don't imagine you're the only ones to ever come up with 
the idea of transmitting an identification signal when passing through 
the Stargate, do you?"

                         *******************

Methos gave a last tweak to the detonator and stood back, admiring his 
handiwork. Inanna had always liked pretty things as he recalled. Fitting 
the thin filigree sheath of gold and tiny gemstones around the pendant 
and chain of naqueda had been easy. Setting and connecting the tiny 
charges within the hasps which held the jewels in place had been hard. 
Harder yet, he frowned as he critically examined the work, would be 
wearing the damn thing until he could exchange it with Inanna.

With a sigh he placed the bulla in the small bomb proof case O'Neill had 
provided, clipping the detonator, made to look like an innocuous cell 
phone, to his belt. Behind him, the door to his work room opened and he 
turned to find Jack waiting patiently.

"Teal'c on board?"

O'Neill nodded. "He wasn't pleased about leaving Hammond and Carter out 
of the loop, but I think he understands."

"And you have no problem with this?" Methos asked, already knowing the 
response.

"I'm a soldier," Jack replied. "I do what I have to for the sake of my 
country."

Methos shook his head. "This isn't a soldier's mission. It's an 
assassin's."

"We make the hard choices here," O'Neill smiled grimly. "This is one of 
them. If we can stop Inanna before the fleet launches I'm willing to 
accept the consequences."

Methos nodded. What they were about to do would never be sanctioned, but 
the powers that be might look the other way after the fact as long as 
they succeeded. If not... Well, Methos didn't really think that would be 
a problem. Either they'd be dead and the world along with them, or 
Inanna would be no more.

"You have the stuff?" Methos asked quietly as he picked up the case and 
they left the work room, heading down to operations.

"Already planted," Jack grinned. "I'll signal Teal'c just before we hit 
the gate room. He'll set off the gas bomb and move into position. Once 
it's locked down we'll have about three minutes while they reconfigure 
the codes."

"And Teal'c?"

"The destination will automatically wipe once we're through. I know 
enough to do that," he added wryly. "But Teal'c will tell them the 
truth. Hammond will understand. So will the others."

Methos nodded. Teal'c would be all right. There was not much they could 
do to him anyway. Not with what he carried inside him and his knowledge 
of the Goa'uld.

"All right then," Methos agreed. "Let's get this show on the road."

                         *******************

It was a simple plan and it worked with simple beauty. Since the 
invasion alert all the SG teams currently off world had either been 
recalled or ordered to stay put. With only a skeleton crew left in 
operations they were easily rendered unconscious by the colorless, 
odorless ether Jack had managed to procure. Now they waited anxiously, 
ignoring the alarms as Teal'c activated the gate.

Methos opened the case and removed the bulla, closing his eyes as he 
slipped the deadly device around his neck.

"Now you're sure that thing will get us through?" O'Neill asked as the 
gateway finally opened.

"Reasonably sure," Methos grinned as he stepped up to the wormhole.

"Reasonably?!" Jack growled. "You said it would!"

Methos shrugged. "Well, there's always plan B."

"Which is?"

"We walk in the door and I shout, 'Hi, Mom! I'm home!'"

At that, Methos stepped through, leaving Jack to stare after him in 
horror. 

"Jesus!" he hissed. He hadn't even guessed, though he should have known. 
Methos had all but told them truth. She was Tok'ra's wife and he the 
man's mortal student. And Immortals couldn't have children. Which 
meant... 

Jack suddenly felt ill. Methos had known all along and still he'd chosen 
to do this. Jack shuddered at the thought of being forced to make such a 
choice. A choice that took more than simple courage. The moral 
implications alone would have left most individuals unable to function. 

O'Neill looked back at Teal'c and saluted then stepped through the gate, 
vowing silently that no matter what happened, no one else would ever 
know.

*

"Looks like it worked," Methos grinned as Jack exited the wormhole.

The colonel glanced around the rather plain reception area, noting the 
lack of guards then stared calmly at Methos, who wordlessly accepted the 
other man's regard. He knew what O'Neill was thinking which was why he 
hadn't said anything before. But morality aside, Inanna had killed him 
once and would do it again if she believed for an instant that he was a 
threat. The trick was to make her certain he wasn't.

Jack nodded once and stepped up beside him. "Let's move out," he 
ordered. "And remember, I want that thing off your neck as soon as you 
can manage it."

"I assure you, that's at the top of my list. And you remember, too," he 
added. "We set it off when we're back at the gate. Not before."

O'Neill shrugged, obviously not understanding. "Sure. Not before we're 
clear. Got it."

"First things first," Methos grimaced as he turned toward the door. "The 
throne room is this way. 

"You've been here before," Jack surmised as Methos easily led them 
through corridor after nearly identical corridor.

"No," the Immortal responded. "But Tok'ra's memories record Inanna as 
being a creature of habit. Disorder is uncertainty to someone like her. 
She'll have copied the old ways as closely as possible and Tok'ra knew 
the layout of her palace."

"So, what are you going to tell her about me? I mean, isn't she going to 
wonder why you didn't come alone?"

"Well, I'd planned on saying you were my servant, but I don't think that 
will fly anymore," he looked pointedly at Jack's gun, though he'd 
deliberately come lightly armed with only a dagger for show. The point 
was to appear harmless and naive. Just a boy and his mom. 

"How about your bodyguard?"

"Why would I need one?" Methos grinned. "No," he sighed regretfully. 
"You'll just have to be my lover."

O'Neill glared at him then shook his head in disgust. "Fine. But if we 
have to spend the night, no stealing the covers."

"I wouldn't dream of it," Methos laughed, then his face went still as he 
sensed her.

They rounded another corner and came face to face with Inanna's guards. 
Methos lifted his chin and said something in a guttural language and 
they parted, allowing both men to pass. A moment later they were through 
the antechamber and into the throne room proper. At the far end, Inanna 
waited, seated on a mound of giant pillows surrounded by her retinue.

"Remain here," Methos murmured. "And no matter what I do don't react." 
With that he moved away, giving O'Neill no chance to argue.

He approached Inanna's throne with his eyes respectfully downcast. At 
the foot of the dais he knelt, leaning forward in the crouch to lightly 
kiss the hem of her dress.

"Welcome, Methos."

A cool response, but he'd expected as much. This should warm things up. 
"Greetings, my lady mother."

"My son." A hand reached down and rested gently on his head, indicating 
that he had permission to look at her.

"It is good to see you, Mother," he smiled, noting that she was just as 
beautiful as he recalled. Pale and slim with hair the color of midnight. 
"I feared you were dead. Killed in the final attack which the Goa'uld 
launched against my father's forces."

There, Methos thought smugly, that should give her something to think 
about.

"And I you, my beloved son." She reached out a hand and he took it, 
allowing himself to be drawn up to kneel beside Inanna. "But how did you 
find me, little one? And after so long? Could you not have come sooner?"

"The gate was lost and when I awoke from my long sleep of the first 
death I could not find it. Recently, I discovered the humans had not 
only recovered it, but learned how to open it. I came as soon as I 
could, Mother."

"But how did you know where to find me?" she asked again, squeezing his 
fingers a little too hard in her eagerness for a response.

She was so predictable, Methos thought with disgust. "I did only as my 
father bid me," he gave a tentative smile. "He spoke of this place as 
one you and he had found during your wanderings, long before I was 
fortunate enough to receive the generosity of your home. He said that if 
all were lost it would be to here, the place where you were once 
happiest, that you would come."

Tok'ra had never said anything of the sort, but his memories held this 
place to be located close to the fleet she'd amassed and it seemed a 
logical conclusion. In any case, the death grip on his fingers loosened 
and Inanna relaxed, laying back against her pillows.

"Who is the human?" she asked casually, signaling for Jack to come 
forward.

Methos nodded imperceptibly for O'Neill to do so. "This is my friend, 
mother."

She laughed at his delicate use of the term friend in her language, 
which might mean either playmate or lover.

"Greetings," she said in perfect English, startling both men into 
stunned silence. Still, it confirmed something Methos had only 
suspected. Inanna did not just have spies among the Tok'ra, but 
doubtless had the ability to move among them at will. Or, at least to 
send her symbiot into their midst with no one the wiser. "And does the 
friend of my son have a name?"

"Jim Dandy," O'Neill announced, bowing more gracefully than Methos would 
ever have given him credit for. "A pleasure to finally make your 
acquaintance."

"It pleases me also," she smiled sweetly, but Methos could see the 
calculation in her eyes. She might never have seen a gun, but she knew a 
warrior when she laid eyes on one. But then, what else would the son of 
a warrior choose as his companion?

"Come, let us dine together. Then we shall make plans for our future."

"I'm afraid we can't, Mother," Methos announced sadly. "We must return 
to Earth. The Goa'uld are about to launch their forces against our 
friends there." The expression on her face was priceless. "I came only 
to see that you were well and to let you know that I lived, maintaining 
our fight against the common foe."

"Of course you are, dearest. I only wish I were able to help. But my 
ships are scattered and not very powerful."

Methos gently touched her hand. "I have missed you, Mother," he said, 
suddenly feeling the weight of the bulla against his throat. "Would 
you...?" He rested the fingers of his other hand against the pendant.

Inanna smiled. It was an ancient custom among her people, done only 
before battle. Which was how she had managed to overcome Tok'ra.

"Yes," she agreed as she removed her own. "I will keep your name safe. 
And if you should fall, I shall open my throat and speak it daily."

Methos carefully removed the bulla, stilling the trembling in his hands 
by force of will as he held it out and she lowered her neck to receive 
the gift. He did the same, trying desperately not to telegraph his 
sudden fear. Once the chain was firmly clasped he rose.

"I will return soon. I promise, Mother. And then we will visit for 
longer."

She nodded, fingering the pretty filigree. It was not customary to 
decorate the bulla, but Inanna seemed pleased. "I shall look forward to 
your return then, my son. Go," she added as Methos turned to leave. 
"Bring back memories to me of your father."

He nodded, his throat suddenly closing up and he needed Jack's arm 
around his shoulder to guide him from the room. As soon as they were out 
of sight of the guards, O'Neill suddenly yanked the chain from his 
throat.

"No!" Methos screamed, even as Jack set off the detonator, tossing 
Inanna's bulla back toward the throne room. 

The double explosion knocked them off their feet, but Methos desperately 
scrambled up. "Run!"

"What!" O'Neill yelled as he chased after the terrified Immortal. "She's 
dead!"

But Methos didn't dare look back. "We're too close, damn you! I don't 
want her inside me! Now run!"

"Oh fuck!" he heard Jack shout, but still he wouldn't stop. He didn't 
know how far away he needed to be, but he knew he was still too damn 
close. Her memories, her life. He didn't want any of it. But they were 
nearly at the gate, maybe there would be time enough. Maybe...

"Oh god!" he whispered as he felt the first tiny tendrils of power 
seeking him out as the hot wind of her Quickening howled up the 
corridor. "Hurry, Jack! Hurry!" Methos cried as O'Neill reached the DHD 
and started punching in the address home.

But it was too late, and Methos knew it even as the gate opened and the 
first bolt of energy raced along the walls and surged into the gate 
room. He flung out his arms to steady himself and in the instant it 
struck felt his own Quickening arise within him and burst outward in 
response. It flowed through him and toward Inanna, burning his senses as 
it passed, leaving him lying in a heap at the base of the DHD with 
O'Neill crouched above.

"What the hell?" Methos asked, shielding his eyes against the whirling 
maelstrom overhead.

"You're asking me?!" Jack exclaimed, hauling him to his feet and 
dragging him toward the gate as the ground shook with the energies 
exploding around the room. "Let's just get the hell out!" 

They practically fell through the gate, breathlessly tumbling down the 
ramp to the floor as they emerged on the other side. Behind them, the 
iris sealed itself and General Hammond stalked forward. Around the room 
a dozen armed soldiers stood at the ready, the klaxon still blaring an 
alert.

"Is there any reason," Hammond asked curtly. "Why I shouldn't have the 
pair of you immediately arrested?"

"Well, Inanna's dead," Jack gasped, staggering to his feet.

"She is, is she?"

"Permanently so," Methos nodded reassuringly.

"Then why did we just receive word from the Tok'ra that her forces are 
on their way and will be here any time?"

Methos and Jack looked at each other.

"She is dead, General." Methos insisted. "She has to be. I just outran 
her Quickening."

"Then who's leading her forces?!"

"Good question," Jack admitted. "Maybe when they find out they'll just 
turn around and go home," he suggested optimistically.

"Let's hope so, Colonel. For both your sakes, let's hope so."

O'Neill nodded and grabbed Methos' arm pulling him toward the exit. 
Angrily, Hammond turned to stop them.

"Just where the hell do you think you're going now?"

Jack paused to stare in disbelief. "To scramble, sir. We're going to 
need every plane in the air if they get here and decide to fight 
anyway."

"With him?" the general asked, pointing at Methos, who looked equally 
baffled.

O'Neill nodded. "He's qualified," was all the colonel had to say as he 
tugged Methos from the room.

"Qualified?! What do mean I'm qualified?" Methos demanded trying to 
break free of Jack's grip as he was pulled down the corridor.

"I just qualified you."

"You're not serious?! I puke in your plane and now I'm qualified to co-
pilot?!"

"I fly," O'Neill explained as if he were a five year old. "You shoot the 
weapons."

"But that's not--"

"This isn't the movies!" O'Neill shouted as he shoved him into the 
elevator.

"Why me?" Methos asked, bewildered. "Why not Teal'c or Carter?"

Jack grimaced in annoyance. "Teal'c can fly his own plane. And Carter 
isn't a pilot. She's not even a gunner. And unless it's in space she 
probably can't even navigate. You on the other hand..."

"I couldn't find my way out of a paper bag, honest!" Methos insisted.

"Look, I went with you, now you go with me. Get it?"

"I knew this loyalty thing sucked!" Methos complained. 

The elevator arrived at the surface and O'Neill commandeered a nearby 
jeep to drive them the mile or so to the air field. At the hanger, 
O'Neill ran them to the lockers and tossed Methos a flight suit. With a 
grimace of distaste Methos stripped as Jack ordered and slid into the 
uniform. He really didn't want to do this. Going out in a blaze of glory 
had never been his idea of a good time. But if he ran Jack would 
probably shoot him and drag his dead body along anyway.

"What now?" Methos sighed disgustedly as he followed O'Neill down the 
hall and into the men's room.

"Pee now, fly friendly," was all O'Neill had to say as he whipped it out 
and aimed.

Methos curled a lip and nodded, doing the same. Pissing into an ice cold 
relief tube had been a singular experience during his first flight. One 
he wasn't eager to repeat.

"You know," he muttered as he zipped up after and went to wash his 
hands. "The Romans would never have stood for this."

"Guys in skirts don't have to worry about metal teeth catching anything 
when they need to take a leak. Shall we?"

Methos glared, but followed anyway. Out on the tarmac, empty now that 
they were the last ones to leave, Methos raced alongside Jack to the far 
end where his plane stood waiting. As O'Neill hurriedly removed the 
blocks which kept the plane from rolling in the high winds, Methos 
glanced back at the mountain as he felt the ground begin vibrate and 
every hair on his body stand on end.

"What the--?" Jack looked up and his mouth dropped open as the top of 
the mountain was suddenly engulfed in a cloud of boiling light.

Methos began to backpedal away from the plane. "Get out of here, Jack," 
he ordered. "Take off. Do it now!"

"What the hell is that?" he asked.

Methos shook his head desperately, knowing there was no where to run. If 
it could find him here... "Not what. Who!" he gaped in horror. "That's 
Tok'ra! Now move!"

"I'm not leaving you!" Jack insisted. "Get in the plane!"

"Don't you get it?!" Methos shouted as the monstrous Quickening rounded 
in their direction as it pin pointed his position. "It had to have come 
through gate! You wouldn't be safe with me in there. Now go!"

"I'm not going anywhere!"

"Then stay back!" Methos snarled and began to run. Distancing himself 
not from the impossibly large, apparently sentient Quickening, but away 
from Jack's proximity. He might survive, but the fool hardy mortal 
wouldn't stand a chance against the power of Tok'ra's energies.

As it barreled down on him, Methos found himself in the middle of the 
field not knowing what to do. Stand and take it, or huddle and hope it 
didn't kill him too many times before it was over? Suddenly it was 
there, swooping down over his head and Methos fell to the ground, 
throwing his arms up in a vain effort to defend against it. Then... 
Nothing. Methos opened his eyes, shaking with a terror so profound a 
small voice inside his head told him he should be grateful he'd already 
emptied his bladder.

Quiet laughter suddenly filled his mind. "This time, Methos," the voice 
rumbled gently through his senses. "I have a moment to ask."

"Tok'ra?" he whispered, trying unsuccessfully to swallow his fear as the 
Quickening surrounded him in a thick roiling cloud of sparkling fog. A 
small finger of vapor reached out to tickle him. "Hey!" Methos slapped 
at it, feeling the static discharge warmly enfolding his hand.

"I said I had a moment, son. Not all the time in the universe to answer 
your questions. We have a fleet to stop, don't we?"

"But..."

"I need your body, Methos. I cannot fully manifest on this plain without 
a physical form. Inanna's symbiot still lives and seeks vengeance for 
her murder. Now, will you allow our Quickenings to join?"

Not again! he thought desperately. But what choice did he have at the 
moment? "Just do it!" Methos squeezed his eyes shut, steeling himself 
against the onslaught.

Yet, instead of the intense pain he'd expected, Methos felt a gentle, 
comforting warmth filling places he'd never known existed with a peace 
as profound as his terror moments earlier. There were no gut wrenching 
memories and no colossal blasts of energy to make him scream in agony. 
He felt safe and loved even as he knew he was rising up again, but this 
time he didn't care.

His lack of fear lasted only as long as his eyes were closed. The 
instant he opened them and looked down to see Jack O'Neill a tiny 
figure, growing more indistinct with every second, Methos had to fight 
the urge to grab hold of something.

"Father? What's happening?!"

"I won't drop you," Tok'ra promised, his tone filled with amusement. 

"That's comforting!" Methos snapped, annoyed.

There was more gentle laughter. "Don't be afraid, son. I've gotten you 
safely this far, do you think I'd let anything happen to you now?"

"You what?" Methos asked, confused, trying not to think about the stars 
quickly drawing closer above.

"I couldn't leave you alone and unprotected. Not with Inanna still 
alive."

Methos felt something inside him start to squirm with what felt like 
embarrassment. "You were there? With me for everything? You saw?"

The warmth seemed to spread more deeply into his limbs, offering 
comfort. "Yes, son. I saw."

"Death. The Horsemen. The centuries where I..." Methos choked on the 
words. He'd lived so selfishly, so utterly without morals or conscience 
in light of what Tok'ra had taught. "And you said nothing? Did nothing 
to stop me?"

"I am your father, not a god, Methos. It is your life. It was your 
choice."

That was true, he admitted sadly. "Now what?" Methos asked nervously as 
the nimbus surrounding him began to solidify.

"Now we build our armor and finally end this fight."

With a gasp of surprise Methos felt the energies flowing through him. A 
part of his mind watched in awe as Tok'ra manipulated their joined 
Quickening, sloughing off cells from Methos' body and weaving the hard 
outer casing until it was glowing with life. Completed, the shell was a 
neat square, virtually indestructible and transparent.

"Impressive," Methos commented, reaching out to gently touch the inner 
carapace as he floated down to sit on the floor.

"Thank you. And if you can avoid that ridiculous Game of yours, you too 
may one day be able to do this on your own."

"I did not start that," Methos insisted.

"No, but you played it all the same," Tok'ra pointed out as they flew 
past the moon. "One does not acquire power from other Immortals, son. 
That is a lie."

"But..."

"What did I teach you?"

Methos hung his head. "Live. Grow stronger," he whispered.

"Our energies increase with every moment of life, not with the death of 
another."

"Then why the Quickening?" Methos asked, raising his head. "Why does it 
enter us?"

Tok'ra sighed. "We are not born into mortal bodies, child. Our parents, 
the beings that give us life, are made up of energy -- and we are but a 
small fraction of their power spun off into mortal corpses. They give 
life where there was none and leave the new child in a place where it 
will be cared for. In the course of time the Ancients leave this 
offspring to develop on its own, knowing that the energy within cannot 
die, but will eventually evolve. Every Quickening you've taken is a 
separate entity which cannot face the fact that it has been deprived of 
its home. So, it seeks out what it knows. Resides within you until it 
decides to move on."

The whole idea of hundreds of people currently living inside him gave 
Methos reason for pause. "Can they...?"

"Band together?" Tok'ra finished. "Feed on your energy and eventually 
take you over?"

Methos nodded.

"Not the ones you hold. They are far too young to even be aware of the 
others. And as I said, one Quickening does not feed upon another. In 
time they will leave of their own accord. Many taken long ago already 
have."

Well, that was a relief! "And if they were older than me?"

There was a long pause as Methos waited, catching sight of the first of 
many ships as they came through some kind of vortex. Finally, Tok'ra 
spoke.

"Inanna could have taken you. She was powerful enough to cast you out 
and force you to find a new home. Or trap you there with the others."

"You prevented that," Methos sighed.

"Indeed," Tok'ra's voice smiled. "I forced her to evolve."

"But how does one--"

"No more questions," Tok'ra suddenly ordered. "Now, watch carefully. It 
is time to fight."

There was really nothing to watch, Methos would think later. It was 
simply a matter of focusing his thoughts. Pointing helped, but as Tok'ra 
showed him, his Quickening did not reside in the tips of his fingers. It 
was true enough, Methos realized, that one Quickening could not devour 
another. But it was also true that the energies could be willingly 
combined. Still, that required an effort of concentration which left 
Methos exhausted. Worse was the knowledge of the deaths he was causing. 
For even as he sent out his energies, the touch of which destroyed the 
ships, some of it surged back into him, carrying the weight of those 
lives in a brief flash of shared understanding before their souls moved 
on.

When the last of the ships had either exploded or retreated, Methos 
collapsed, holding his head in his arms.

"It is not easy to be a weapon, my son," the voice of Tok'ra offered 
kindly.

"It does seem to have its drawbacks," Methos whispered painfully.

"As you discovered on your own," Tok'ra pointed out.

No matter how many times he'd heard mortals say it, he knew now that 
he'd never quite understood. You were always a child to your parents and 
they could, with a few well chosen words, make you feel just that small. 
Methos felt himself flush with shame. "I did learn."

"Yes, and I am proud of you for that. It was not easy for you to give up 
your anger."

"But what was I angry at? I can't even remember now."

"Me," Tok'ra sighed. "For dying, for bringing that mountain down on you 
to shield you from Inanna, for feeling abandoned and lost. For more 
things than I can recount, child."

"About Inanna," Methos began, feeling his chest tighten at the words. 
"Was that your idea or mine?"

"You came to that unfortunate, but necessary conclusion on your own."

"Wonderful. Haven't seen the woman in 10,000 years and the first thing I 
do is kill her," Methos murmured, disgusted with himself. Suddenly, it 
hit him. "I murdered my mother!" he realized with a ghastly start. And 
for the first time in 5,000 years Methos truly began to weep. For 
himself. For Inanna. For Tok'ra. And for the inconceivable nature of his 
own corrupted heart. What was he that he could logically deduce and 
carry out such a heinous act?

Death, came the quiet whisper of his own mind. Methos cringed at the 
thought. What a fool he'd been to think he had so easily conquered the 
bastard. The fear and anger induced horror that had once been the most 
inhuman scourge to ever walk the Earth. He'd beat out his three 
companions for sheer brilliance in planning the kill and seeing it 
through. But Death was more insidious than that, he suddenly realized. 
He had learned new ways to make his presence felt. How subtly, how 
rationally he'd planned it all and done the deed with little care for 
anything else. In spite of all his hard won humanity, Death was still 
just below the surface, waiting for him to slip up.

"Sneaky little shit," Methos muttered, wiping his eyes.

"Don't, Methos," Tok'ra's voice was stern now. "Don't compartmentalize 
this aspect of yourself. He is not a stranger, but a part of who you 
are. Think of what the world was like 3500 years ago when every major 
civilization in your part of the world was collapsing in on itself. In 
an insane world you acted insanely and that is how you survived. And 
when the world was again safe and sane you put all that aside."

"Oh, that's sweet!" Methos laughed derisively. "Been there, said that, 
took the easy philosophical out. I murdered my mother, you son of a 
bitch! Not to help you, not to save the world, but to keep my own 
worthless neck intact!"

"Inanna forced your hand and you reacted in the only way you knew how," 
Tok'ra admitted calmly. "As ruthlessly and as without compassion as she 
had acted towards you. You are the child of us both and you have always 
behaved accordingly, for good or ill. You were raised to survive. Regret 
the necessity, but never the many years of your life."

"And the innocents I killed. Should I not regret that?" Methos asked 
angrily.

"Yes. Regret that. But accept and move on. Death is not who you are, it 
is what you sometimes must become. And even as Death you have often 
shown compassion."

"Compassionate Death?!" Methos snorted. "What I did I did for myself. If 
I chose to spare a life it was to use it for my own purposes."

"As do we all, my son. Even the best of motives are never entirely 
selfless. I have watched with interest the rise of the Christ. He wished 
to save mortals because he believed they were all a part of his God. In 
effect, saving a part of himself that otherwise might have been lost."

"You're calling God selfish?!" Methos laughter verged on hysteria. 

"I would be if I were him and they were mine." Tok'ra's voice held a 
smile. "But in this case, we are speaking of you. And I taught you to 
survive for my own selfish reasons. Because like the god of Christ views 
his own children, you are mine and I love you."

It was pointless to continue the argument Methos realized and their 
dialogue ended as he lapsed into silence, watching as they neared the 
Earth and passed easily through the outer layers of the planet's 
atmosphere. Now, he was not only physically exhausted, but emotionally 
drained as well.

They landed in a meadow a few hundred feet below the snow line near the 
air base, the carapace slowly fading away and returning to its place 
inside him.

"It is time, son."

Methos nodded. He'd be leaving soon too if he could manage it. He'd had 
quite enough of this Stargate business. Let Mac and the others take 
point if Hammond was so hot to have Immortals working for the SGC.

"Any last words of wisdom," Methos drawled, distancing himself from the 
moment as he got to his feet.

Tok'ra sighed. "I think I've said enough, don't you?"

Methos winced inwardly. He was being a prick and he knew it, but 5,000 
years of bitterness was hard to shake off in less than an hour.

"I'm sorry I'm not what you wanted," Methos mocked him. "But as you 
said. It's my life."

"Indeed it is. But watch and learn, young one. Teach the truth if you 
can." 

Methos held out his arms as he felt the energies within him begin to 
slide gently through his pores to coalesce above him.

"This is your Prize!" The mass of energy laughed as if discovering a 
whole new universe filled with delight. "Evolution to a higher form! 
That is the great journey of the Ancients!"

He watched in awe as the power of Tok'ra's Quickening seemed to grow and 
expand then contract until it was a mere pinpoint of light. Then, just 
before it winked out, Methos came to his senses.

"Father! Wait! I... I'm sorry. I... Thank you."

The whispered response was almost inaudible and Methos wasn't quite 
certain he'd heard it correctly. 

"The ninth symbol is Time..."
 
Bereft, Methos sat in the grass waiting as a handful of jeeps raced up 
the mountain. There'd be the long debriefing and the obvious questions 
to which he must respond, but in the end he too would go. Maybe for a 
time, maybe for good. Right now he didn't want to think about any of it. 
A moment later, he was surrounded and O'Neill was coming forward, 
followed by Carter and MacLeod.

"You okay?" Jack asked as he knelt beside Methos.

The older man nodded. "He's gone."

"Our satellites picked up some pretty weird images about an hour ago," 
Samantha commented as Methos slowly got to his feet.

"Wasn't me." He gave a rueful grin and sighed. "Was Tok'ra. I was just 
along for the ride." 

"Nice ride," MacLeod smiled. "Care to educate the rest of us."

Methos shrugged. "Live. Grow stronger. Evolve."

At that, Methos turned away and climbed into the nearest transport. 
O'Neill quieted the others when they would have pressed him for more, 
getting in beside the eldest Immortal and giving him a gentle squeeze on 
the shoulder to let him know he understood.

"How 'bout dinner?" Jack asked as they drove away, deliberately changing 
the subject in order to give Methos time to adjust and unwind.

Methos smiled. Normalcy was just what he needed, and he appreciated that 
more than anything. "I hear O'Malley's in town is pretty good."

"Uh... Yeah, it's great. But we're banned from going there anymore."

"You're banned?" Methos asked, genuinely surprised.

"Yeah, Danny-boy got into a bar fight and well, Carter and I kinda 
helped it along."

"Daniel? In a bar fight?" Methos laughed long and hard at the idea. 
Finally, he wiped his eyes and sighed. "Well, I'm open to suggestions."

"Barbecue? My place?"

Methos nodded and it was decided. As they hit the highway Jack shifted 
into high gear, speeding past the base in obvious violation of his 
orders. There would be no debriefing tonight. No questions Methos felt 
unable or unwilling to answer. Just a quiet night of sharing food and 
friendship with someone who at least knew when to be silent.

                         *******************

Epilogue

Three months later...

Of all the places for Adam Pierson to go to ground Jack O'Neill had 
never considered Nepal to be one of them. Maybe he should have, he 
thought wryly as he very carefully landed the small Harrier jet on the 
side of a grassy slope not far from where the transmission signal 
emanated. Methos had been fairly terse, even abrupt during his 
debriefing before being given compassionate leave. Hammond hadn't asked, 
and no one else had said a word, but it was clearly understood that 
Pierson had been very quietly hurting. Whether he'd come back, of 
course, was the obvious question.

There wasn't much to see around here, O'Neill thought as he looked 
around, and maybe that was the point. The Himalayas of course were 
spectacular, and Methos' hiding place was just as spectacularly hidden 
within the upper foot hills of the mountains. But it had taken just one 
pass of a satellite to determine that the ancient Immortal was very much 
in residence.

He found the entrance with very little trouble, although unless you knew 
what you were looking for it was neatly hidden by an optical illusion of 
perspective, appearing to be nothing more than a small bump in the side 
of the mountain. Inside, it was as dark and dank as one might expect. 
Further back it narrowed so that one thin man with a hand truck might 
easily pass through. On the other side of that narrow opening Jack found 
the first signs of habitation. Maybe ten tons of stored goods dating 
back to the turn of the century if the labels were anything to judge by, 
and several thousand propane tanks stacked neatly against the walls.

"Nice. A little paranoid, but nice," Jack murmured as he moved through 
the storage cave, coming across a small door about half way through. He 
opened it cautiously and smiled. Now this was a hideout, he thought as 
he stepped outside. The cave led to a small sheltered valley within the 
peaks. A miniature Shangri-La of sorts and he wondered if that was where 
Pierson had gotten the idea.

Behind him, he heard a gun cocking and Jack lifted his arms. "I come in 
peace."

"Next time," Methos responded testily, putting up his weapon as O'Neill 
turned around. "Call first." He held up his cell phone and pointed to 
the camouflaged satellite dish and microwave tower on the hill above 
them. "Don't you know there's a war going on here?"

O'Neill shrugged and lowered his hands. "Didn't think you'd answer and 
it might have made you leave."

Methos scowled. "Just how did you find me, anyway?" he asked, heading 
toward the house he'd built about half a mile away.

"You took your transmitter with you. Little known fact, Pierson," Jack 
confided as he followed down the steep hillside. 

"They can act as homing beacons," Methos concluded with a sigh. "Shit!" 
They reached the house and he opened the door, stepping aside to allow 
his somewhat welcome guest inside. Placing both hands together, Methos 
bowed and gave the typical Nepalese greeting. "Namaste."

"Huh?"

"Make yourself at home," Methos rolled his eyes.

"No can do, Pierson. Get your stuff and let's go." He looked at his 
watch. "Another six hours and thirty-seven minutes and you're AWOL."

"Don't be ridiculous," Methos scoffed. "You have MacLeod and his friends 
to back you up now. And Daniel should have returned to work already. 
What do you need me for?"

"Let's just say, I like your style, Captain Pierson."

"Captain?" Methos laughed.

"Yup. Hammond thought it was appropriate, since you were no longer a 
captain of industry. Oh, and," he fished a flat velvet display box out 
of his jacket. "If you hadn't lit out so quick you'd have gotten this 
from the man himself." 

He tossed the box to Methos, who opened it gingerly. "The Presidential 
Medal of Honor?!" he gasped. "Don't you have to be dead or something to 
get this?"

"Yeah. So? You've been dead and your...something. I left the others back 
at the base," he added. "There are at least a dozen. The Iron Cross, the 
Victoria Cross, the Croix de Guerre. A Gold Star from the Russians. Not 
to mention a bunch of other distinguished service medals from our guys -
- and the Purple Heart."

"The Purple Heart?" Methos asked, dumbfounded. "The only thing wounded 
was my dignity."

"My idea," Jack grinned. "Knew you'd like it."

For a long moment Methos stood speechless until finally he closed the 
box and laid it aside. "How nice. More pretty baubles."

Jack grimaced. "That reminds me. This," he pulled a silver box out of 
his pocket, "is from the Tok'ra. Glows whether it's in the dark or not."

Methos raised his hands, demurring. "You keep it. It's probably a homing 
device."

"That's why it's in a lead lined box," Jack grinned.

"So all this," Methos cocked his head in amazement, "is to convince me 
to come back?"

"No," Jack smiled. "That's to say thank you. This," he pulled out his 
gun, trying not to laugh at Methos' affronted expression, "is to 
convince you to get your ass packed and in that jet. Don't you know the 
punishment for going AWOL is more time in the service -- with no 
furloughs. And," he added cheerfully. "We also dock your pay for six 
months."

"But--"

"Aw, come on, Pierson! Don't make me do the corpse thing. I don't need 
any more of your bodily fluids messing up my cockpit."

Methos frowned and started looking for his duffel bag as Jack tossed him 
clothes, a CD player, a few discs and some personal items, never 
lowering the gun.

"This is so typically American," Methos sniped as he hurriedly filled 
the bag.

"You should know, Mr. Revolutionary War plaque."

"Ingrate," Methos sneered, hiding a smile. He hadn't really thought 
they'd want him back, not after what he'd done to Inanna. But it felt 
good to be wanted. And after taking some time to think about it, he 
truly had wanted to explore the other side of that Stargate. Still, he 
could get a lot of mileage out of playing the unwilling victim. 

"All right," he growled, yanking the duffel shut and slinging it over 
his shoulder. "Let's go."

Jack followed, finally putting away his weapon as he closed the door. 
"Did I mention this was a nice little vacation spot? You'll really have 
to invite me back sometime."

Not having invited him in the first place, Methos rolled his eyes. "Use 
it anytime you want," he grated.

"Gee, thanks! How's the fishing?"

Methos twisted his lips in disgust. "It's wonderful, Jack. Help 
yourself."

As they reached the jet and climbed in O'Neill turned and smiled 
happily.

"So, my little minion. What'd you get me during your visit to Nepal?"

<end>

                         *******************


Changing of the Guard 2: The Ninth Chevron
By Ecolea - ecolea@wt.net

RATING: PG-15

WARNINGS: Mature themes

SPOILERS: Nothing is sacred.

CATEGORY: Highlander: The Series Stargate SG-1 Crossover 

TIME FRAME: Second in series 

SUMMARY: An important discovery in the Egyptian desert leads SG-1 on a 
dangerous mission to save the Earth. Caught between the man he was and 
the man he is, can all of Methos' skills and knowledge help the team 
survive, or will that be his undoing? 

CHARACTERS: HL: M & SG1: JO, SC, DJ, T, GH Various and sundry original 
characters.

FEEDBACK: Comments, flames, superfluous remarks and vicious character 
assassination may be cheerfully sent to: ecolea@wt.net

ARCHIVE: Already sent to Seventh Dimension (www.seventh-dimension.org) 
and Heliopolis (http://www.sg1-heliopolis.com). All others: Go for it.

DISCLAIMER: Okay, so a few of the characters in this story actually 
belong to me, but I'm still not making any money off the others. But 
please, go ahead and sue me anyway. If fact, I'll make you a deal. You 
help me gain fame and notoriety -- and I'll help your lawyers spend all 
that retainer money!

AUTHOR'S NOTES: For the sake of readability in most cases modern place 
names and descriptions of certain artifacts have been used. Purists will 
cringe, but hey, a cup is a cup is a cup.

Note to canon junkies: Yes, I fudged a little in this one -- a couple of 
minor points -- but if the producers/writers can't be bothered to follow 
canon from episode to episode and movie to movie why should I? 

Personal note: Many thanks to Arameth for diabolical and fiendish 
torment of the author, guidance and without whom none of this would be 
possible. To Daisy, for just being there. And to Karoshi, for painlessly 
picking out the nits. Everyone should be so lucky! 

In Memorium: One more for Estella, who left the way she lived -- with 
dignity and style.

                         *******************

Prologue
Reconnaissance Mission
Planet P7X4238

"Well they certainly weren't very friendly," Jack O'Neill muttered 
sullenly, holding a thick square of gauze to his forehead where a small 
stone had hit him.

"I told you they wouldn't be," Methos shrugged, rubbing his shoulder. 
The rock hadn't been very big, but whoever had thrown it had put their 
all into the gesture. A few shots from a zat gun and the attendant 
electrical show that went with it had frightened the rest of the 
villagers off, but not before they'd done some damage, however slight 
that was.

"How did you know?" Samantha Carter asked, easing a knot out of her 
thigh.

"Call it deja vu, Major," Methos smiled grimly. "I sort of knew their 
ancestors."

Daniel Jackson looked up from where he knelt over his pack. "I thought I 
recognized the clothing style. Early Mesopotamian, right?"

"Very early," Methos agreed. "Pre-bronze age, in fact."

"Must have been caught up in a Goa'uld slave run," O'Neill commented, 
checking the gauze to see whether the flow of blood had stopped. "Good 
enough," he mumbled, tossing the pad aside. "Come on, let's get back to 
the gate. Teal'c!" he called and the dark skinned Jaffa, who'd been 
guarding the clearing while they saw to their wounds came over. "Take 
point," he ordered as he stood. "Carter, watch our asses."

"Yes, sir," she responded as they moved out.

Methos fell in beside O'Neill and Daniel, also keeping an eye out for 
any villagers who might have gotten their courage back. He doubted it, 
but there was always a first time.

They'd walked about half a mile before Daniel finally spoke up. "Deja 
vu, huh?" he asked softly. "How many times did it happen?"

"Enough," Methos responded lightly. "People weren't very friendly 
towards strangers in those days. Not if they looked substantially 
different from what they imagined a normal human should look like. You 
couldn't even call it racism. It was just otherness that was 
frightening."

"What did you do?"

"What any sensible being would," Methos shrugged. "I hid. Found some 
nice comfy caves and stayed well away from everyone."

Daniel looked shocked. "For how long?"

"I don't know," Methos admitted with a dismissive shrug. "A few hundred 
years, maybe more. I didn't keep track. It's all a sort of blur to me 
now. Just hunting for food and trying to stay alive, mostly."

"So you knew you were Immortal?"

Methos sighed, finally giving into the idea that the questions wouldn't 
stop until something else distracted Daniel. "I knew I was different, 
but I didn't know why. Five thousand years ago I had no memories, 
remember?"

"Right," Daniel nodded. "So, how did you find out?"

"The same day I took my first head," he murmured, remembering the 
moment. "I was fishing."

"Fishing?" Jack asked, suddenly interested.

Methos grinned. The colonel had been listening, but unlike Daniel never 
dreamed of asking prying, uncomfortable questions. "Not for sport, for 
food. The lake wasn't very big and it was close to one of the villages I 
avoided, but I wanted some water reeds for making rope and I was hungry, 
so I fished."

"What happened?" Daniel asked as they started to climb one of several 
hills that led back to the gate.

"A man showed up. Not much different from the villagers in looks, but he 
had an ax. A very big bronze ax. He shouted something to the effect that 
he was going to cut off my head and swallow my soul, which as you can 
imagine rather shocked me. I was used to sticks and stones -- being 
driven away -- although one village headman decided he wanted to eat my 
demon heart which was what made me hide in the first place. But no one 
had ever just come out and said they were going to kill me without 
reason. And he wasn't frightened of me, which I found puzzling." Not to 
mention, he thought wryly, that his stomach had been twisted in knots 
and his head buzzing so loudly he'd though he'd lose his mind.

"Well, he obviously didn't take your head," O'Neill pointed out.

"No," Methos agreed. "He might have had an ax, but I had a fishing spear 
-- and I wasn't shy about using it. Idiot never even got close."

"Then you took his head," Daniel surmised.

"I'd like to say yes," Methos grinned ruefully. "To say that I stood 
there all proud and manly thinking, 'Take my head, will you?! I'll show 
you, pond scum!' But I was just as terrified of him as the villagers 
were of me."

"Why?" O'Neill asked, surprised.

"I'd never seen bronze before. And he hadn't been the least bit afraid 
of me. I knew I wasn't a demon, but maybe he was. When I finally pulled 
myself together and got my spear out of his chest I stopped to look at 
the ax. He revived while I was examining it and I was so startled... I 
mean, he came back to life just like I did and he'd already said he 
wanted to eat my soul. So, I hit him with it. And that's when my fear 
turned to anger and I chopped off his head along with some other bits 
and pieces."

"Sounds messy," O'Neill grimaced.

"Extremely," Methos allowed. "But then, what did I know? I thought if I 
hit it enough times it would stay down. And somewhere in there his 
Quickening showed up and I thought, 'Run!' So I did, but it caught me. 
After that," he shrugged. "I had some of his memories and I knew what I 
was. And what I was supposedly supposed to do."

"Not a very pleasant introduction to Immortality," Daniel commented 
softly as they reached the Stargate.

"No," Methos agreed, watching Carter punch in the address home. "But it 
got me out of those damn caves. And no one threw stones at me anymore -- 
because now I had a big bronze ax and I wasn't shy about using it."

To one side of him, Jack was snickering, while Daniel looked appalled. 
The gate opened and they headed through. Another mission accomplished. 
Sort of.

                         *******************

Part One
Chapter 1

"That was great!" O'Neill shouted as they left the arena in Colorado 
Springs. Behind them a huge neon sign blinked, 'In Concert! Bruce 
Springsteen and the E Street Band! One Night Only!' 

"Yeah, thanks, Adam," Daniel grinned. "At least this time we didn't have 
to hitchhike."

Methos rolled his eyes, looking over his shoulder to where Samantha and 
Dr. Fraiser followed. Beside him, Teal'c was still rubbing his ears, but 
smiling. "I can't believe you've worked together this long and only just 
discovered there was one thing you all had in common."

"It's that close knit fraternity thing we've got going," Jack remarked 
as he led the way to the parking lot. "Head banging doesn't generally 
come up at the debriefing."

"Guess not," Methos grinned as Samantha suddenly smiled in his 
direction. A little of the ice between them seemed to have thawed, he 
thought relieved. It wasn't exactly bribery, but getting his hands on 
six front row seats to the hottest ticket in town had been a stroke of 
genius. More importantly, Carter was looking at him as something more 
akin to human and less like a potential science project. And if watching 
him dance and scream with 30,000 other music lovers was what it took to 
get him off her list of things to do, Methos was just as happy to do it.

"Food?" Jack asked a few minutes later as everyone climbed into the van 
he'd borrowed. 

A chorus of "Yeah!" with accompanying nods greeted his suggestion. 

"Okay. Where to?"

"Let's try that new place," Samantha suggested. "Bellinni's, over on 
Ninth. One of the techs mentioned they had a great menu."

"The one that's got it's own micro brewery?" Methos asked. He'd been 
meaning to check the place out, but had been too busy getting his new 
apartment in order between missions.

Daniel laughed as Carter nodded. "You never could pass up a beer."

"Not a decent one at any rate," Methos agreed. "Or the occasional fine 
wine. Not to mention a good sherry or glass of properly aged whiskey, 
brandy, or bourbon."

Dr. Fraiser cleared her throat. "Unless someone mentions the words 
designated driver," she threatened cheerfully. "I'm going to schedule 
all of you for a liver biopsy."

"That's me," O'Neill raised his hand. "Keep your scalpel sheathed, doc."

"So it's Bellinni's," Samantha grinned. "Take Main to--"

"I know how to get there, Carter," O'Neill interrupted in exasperation 
just as his cell phone rang. "Damn," he muttered, fishing it out of his 
jacket. 

He answered, frowning as he listened. "Yes, sir. We'll be there in half 
an hour." O'Neill snapped it shut, slipping it back into his pocket. 
"Sorry, kids," he told them, turning in the opposite direction from 
where they'd planned to go. "We're back on the clock."

"What's up?" Daniel asked.

"One of our satellites picked up something in the Egyptian desert," he 
explained briefly. "Outline makes it look to be a Goa'uld transport 
ship. But nobody's sure."

"Why not?" Methos asked, surprised.

O'Neill shrugged. "Guess we'll find out, won't we?"

                         *******************

"This is familiar," Methos grumbled as he stepped out of the small 
passenger jet and onto the tarmac at the airfield in Cairo.

"That's my line," O'Neill muttered as he came from behind. "God, I hate 
commercial flights."

Methos grimaced as they waited for the rest of the team then followed 
the other passengers to customs. They'd taken the long route to Egypt. A 
military transport had left them in Denver where a connecting flight 
brought them to Chicago. From there they'd flown to Athens, switched 
carries to board yet another plane to Alexandria and then another, 
smaller jet to the local airport in Cairo. "I still say we should have 
flown O'Neill Airlines," he sighed. "But then why listen to me? What do 
I know about the desert?"

"This isn't about the desert," O'Neill reminded him. "It's about 
following the letter of the law--"

"If not the spirit."

"--of our little agreement with the Russians," O'Neill finished. "They 
shut down their Stargate and we share whatever knowledge we gather 
through ours."

"And since this mission technically has nothing to do with the 
Stargate," Methos added with a wry twist of his lips. "Your government 
feels safe playing fast and loose with the terms of the agreement. 
Because, as we all know, the Egyptians are allies of the Russians. I do 
get it, Jack. I just don't happen to agree. The free flow of information 
is important for a free society to flourish. "

"This isn't about information. It's about tactics. It was a tactical 
decision to go in undercover. And who says we won't share?"

"No one, Jack. Forget I even mentioned it." 

"Mentioned what?" O'Neill grinned as they entered the main airport 
building and lined up. 

Customs was a hassle, but they got through it and Methos was simply 
relieved to have his sword back and quite content to let Daniel take 
care of the petty details like taxis, hotels, currency exchanges and 
what not. An hour later they were safely ensconced in a moderately 
priced, yet comfortable suite at one of the less expensive hotels. 
Daniel divvied up the keys and gave out the room assignments. Carter, of 
course, had her own bedroom, while Teal'c and O'Neill took the back room 
that overlooked the inner courtyard. He and the Immortal would take the 
front room with its grand view of the pyramids.
 
Methos tossed his bag on the floor beside the bed nearest the door and 
threw himself down on the mattress, sighing with relief as a cool breeze 
from the air conditioner caressed his skin.

"You know," he drawled, closing his eyes as Daniel came in. "You might 
have let Jack and Teal'c take the room with the view. Rank should have 
its privileges."

"Jack hates the pyramids," Daniel said as he started to unpack. "They 
remind him of what they're bases for. Goa'uld ships. And Teal'c doesn't 
care. Besides," he added quietly. "I thought you might appreciate it."

Methos laughed softly. "Old home week? Not me. Never had much use for 
pyramids. Interesting structures, but I remember my first view of them 
when they still had their limestone facings and the priestly caste 
reigned supreme along the Nile."

Daniel paused and waited, but Methos remained silent. "So? What did you 
think of them that first time?"

"Incredible. Huge. Grandiose. Monuments to the gigantic egos of dead men 
who deserved much less than they thought they were worth. Although," he 
added thoughtfully, finally opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling. "I 
did like Hatshepsut. She certainly deserved to be remembered. Even if 
she did look a bit silly in that beard all the pharaohs wore."

"You knew Hatshepsut?" Daniel asked, quietly stunned.

Methos shook his head and sat up. "Nope. Saw her once in a procession 
though. She was fairly old, but her eyes were piercingly bright -- made 
me think of crocodiles floating in the river on a moonlit night. 
Beautiful and deadly in a horrific sort of way."

In silence, Daniel watched as Methos removed his sword from its travel 
case and carefully laid it under the bed.

"Uh, is there something going on here that I'm missing?" he finally 
asked.

"No more than usual," Methos grinned and toed off his sneakers. 

Daniel nodded slowly. "Jack won't let anything happen to you, Adam. Not 
even if he has to risk his own life. And neither will I."

"Thank you," he answered sincerely. "That's a lovely sentiment. But I'll 
warn you now. Never interfere in what I am or what I might have to do."

"But it's sick!" Daniel responded vehemently.

"Perhaps it is," Methos told him mildly. "But it's our way and I accept 
it. Now, I'm going to take a very long, very hot shower. Why don't you 
order everyone up some room service."

Daniel shook his head as the door closed behind Methos and he went to 
the phone. He would never understand how anyone, least of all someone as 
seemingly well balanced as his friend, could accept genocide as a way of 
life. On the other hand, what choice did he have?

                         *******************

An hour later, feeling refreshed and relaxed in a clean pair of jeans 
and a light cotton shirt, Methos wandered barefoot into the central 
living room following the scent of food. He smiled appreciatively as he 
lifted the various tray covers, finding a good mix of traditional 
Egyptian foods. He filled a plate with spicy lamb stew and flat bread, 
grabbed a bottle of Egyptian beer then found the remote, turned on the 
television and started flipping around the satellite. 

"Anything good on?" Samantha asked as she came out of her room, dressed 
similarly in jeans and a tee shirt with her hair still slightly damp.

"Nope," he sighed and shut it off. "Ten thousand years of civilization 
and we're left with Leave it to Beaver and I Love Lucy reruns. Whatever 
happened to art?"

"I think it got lost somewhere between Bigfoot: Man or Myth and Big 
Rigs: The Accidents We Love To Watch."

Methos laughed and pointed to the dinner cart. "Try the lamb. It's 
excellent."

She did as he suggested and curled up on the love seat across from him 
to eat. "This is good," she said after taking a tentative bite. "My mom 
used to make something similar except with beef."

Methos nodded. "Modern Greek cooking."

"Dad was stationed in Athens for a year," she agreed.

"So, where is everybody?" Methos finally asked as he put his plate aside 
and settled back with his beer.

Between bites Samantha responded. "Colonel O'Neill's at the embassy 
getting our gear." 

Methos nodded. That would be the classified stuff and ordinance they 
couldn't take on a commercial flight. 

"Teal'c's meditating, and Daniel's off to look up an old colleague whose 
working on an archaeological dig not far from the coordinates the 
satellite identified."

"Trying to find out if he's seen anything unusual in the area," Methos 
surmised.

"She," Carter corrected with a brief nod. "From what I gather they were 
pretty close for a while. He's hoping to wrangle an invite for us out to 
the site."

"Whatever for?" Methos asked, getting up from his seat to stretch and 
make his way over to the tall French doors which dominated the room. The 
late afternoon sun lit the Nile and across her gleaming surface lay the 
distant pyramids of Giza. 

"Cover," Samantha explained. "The colonel wants to rent a jeep to take 
us out there. As long as it looks legitimate at the start, he figures we 
can detour and head anywhere we want."

Methos nodded absently and stepped out onto the balcony. It was a good 
plan and he didn't doubt that Daniel would wrangle his way back into his 
old flame's good graces. The boy could be positively charming when he 
recollected he was a man and not a human history machine. Behind him, 
Methos heard the quiet clink of china as Carter put down her plate and 
the soft whisper of cloth as she joined him on the terrace. For a long 
time they stood quiet, just watching the sun lowering in the distance, 
until finally she spoke.

"What's it like to watch the world change?" she asked softly.

Methos gave her a puzzled look, not quite certain what she really wanted 
to know.

"I mean," she explained, managing to look vaguely embarrassed as well as 
extremely curious. "I can calculate the changes in the atmosphere, the 
geological shifts, all the variables and differentials of space until I 
know what stars were where and when and what it all must have looked 
like, but to see it all change in one lifetime... It's hard to imagine."

Methos smiled kindly. "I'm not sure I can answer that. I'm not sure 
anyone really can. I guess it's like reading a book. The first page 
pulls you in and you just keep on from there, absorbing what comes. Some 
of the chapters are interesting, some of them not, but there's always 
another."

Her brow furrowed slightly as she thought about that. "But what do you 
see when you look out there?" Samantha nodded toward the monuments in 
the distance.

"Same as you," he shrugged and followed her gaze. "They're a bit more 
tattered and worn from my point of view, but still essentially the same. 
And down there," he added, leaning against the rail to gaze into the 
street below. "Strip away the cars, the buildings, all the modern 
appliances the world has grown to love and the people are exactly as 
they were when the pyramids were built. In one sense the pharaohs were 
right. Egypt is eternal. No matter how many armies have passed through 
here, none could ever truly conquer this land. As long as the people 
remain, Egypt lives. And as long as the Nile flows, the people will 
remain."

If she had any other questions the sound of a door opening and closing 
behind them put an end to it.

"Hey, campers! Look what Colonel Jack's got!" 

They turned as one, smiling as O'Neill set down his bags. 

"Get over here, Pierson. I need you to take a look at this map."

"I am ever obedient to your will, O Great Satan," he responded 
sardonically, sprawling on the couch.

"That's, O Great Satan, sir," Jack muttered absently, tossing him the 
map. "Now, be a good minion and find us a way around that Egyptian 
military operation that seems to have sprung up overnight."

Methos ignored the jibe and opened the map. "Wonderful," he sighed as he 
got a look at the latest satellite pass. "Guess we aren't the only 
interested parties in town."

                         *******************

Chapter 2

It was a long hot drive to Dr. Nazuq's camp. They'd left Cairo right 
after breakfast, renting a jeep as O'Neill had planned then taken the 
ferry across to Giza. From there, in the shadow of the pyramids, they 
followed her directions. There were no roads this far into the western 
desert and the doctor was not there to guide them, having returned to 
the site the previous evening with supplies. They traveled north along 
the river for an hour or so, turning west for the final leg. Not very 
deep into the desert, but far enough to make the vast ocean of sand 
around them seem daunting and endless.

"That's it," Jack called, spotting tents in the distance when they were 
a few miles out. "So," he turned to Daniel, who sat behind him with 
Teal'c and Carter. "What are they digging for?"

"A lost Egyptian city maybe," the archaeologist replied. "Doesn't have a 
name yet, but they've done some good work this season. Two rooms and a 
small shrine so far."

"They won't find much more," Methos advised. "This was only an outpost 
on the trade route to Cyrene before the Nile shifted eastward. "

"Don't tell Yasmin that," Daniel grinned. "You'll spoil her fun!"

Methos smiled and nodded. It wasn't so much the size of the discovery, 
he knew, but the delight in uncovering some unknown bit of knowledge 
that put the other fragments in place that made an archaeologist's day.

"What's that?" Samantha asked as she spotted a large bundle of what 
looked to be clothing on the ground about half a mile from the camp. 
O'Neill slowed down then stopped as they pulled even with what was 
obviously a body. Wary now, they climbed out of the jeep and Methos toed 
the corpse over, revealing the blood soaked sand beneath the gaping 
bullet wound in the man's chest.

"That's Ibrahim," Daniel said quietly. "He was Yasmin's assistant."

"Not anymore," Jack muttered as he reached under his seat and pulled out 
a small bag, quickly distributing several Goa'uld zat guns. They had 
other ordinance, but with civilians around, O'Neill wasn't prepared to 
risk lives.

He gestured for Teal'c and Samantha to circle the small encampment from 
the far side, while he, Methos and Daniel took the near. They found Dr. 
Nazuq first, sprawled in her jeep then two more bodies inside one of the 
tents.

"How many archaeologists?" Methos asked Daniel, who was still pale from 
the sight of his ex-girlfriend's body.

"Four paid," he responded dully. "Not counting any students who might 
have unofficially signed up."

"You okay?" Methos asked more gently.

Daniel only nodded as they moved further into the camp. They found 
another body near a small generator and another near a second vehicle 
where he'd obviously tried to run. When Teal'c and Carter arrived they 
reported three more in the recovery tent, where artifacts were first 
catalogued then stored.

"Look's like thieves," Samantha told them. "There's a few pieces of 
broken crockery left in there, but everything else is gone."

"Not thieves," Methos said. "Real thieves would have stripped the place 
bare and buried the bodies," he added.

O'Neill nodded knowingly. "Equipment's still here."

"Yeah," Daniel agreed. "The black market for ancient artifacts is good, 
but the one for tents, generators and computers is a lot better -- and 
of much less interest to the authorities." 

Samantha nodded slowly. "So why were they killed? To keep them quiet?"

"Maybe. Or to avoid potential witnesses," Methos responded.

"Colonel O'Neill, did you not say there was an army camped nearby?" 
Teal'c suddenly asked.

"Yeah," Jack nodded, walking over to a small pile of carbine shells on 
the ground. "Intel says it's just a training exercise," he added 
mockingly.

"If that's true, then I don't get it," Daniel sighed, following O'Neill 
with the others. "The whole team was Egyptian and the Egyptian military 
wouldn't do this to their own. They're too respectful of their own 
history. They'd ask them to leave the area, secure the site and escort 
the team out, but they'd never steal the artifacts."

"Wasn't the locals," O'Neill finally said as he crouched, picking up a 
spent shell and cursorily examining it. "These rounds came from a 
Kalashnikov. Definitely not standard issue for the Egyptian army."

"And thieves are more likely to carry American or German semi-automatic 
weapons," Methos pointed out. "Much easier to get and far more reliable 
than Russian guns. At least, in my opinion."

"Sounds like the competition just heated up a notch," Carter murmured.

Silently, Methos agreed with that assessment. It might be that for the 
Egyptians this was a simple training exercise, Methos thoughtfully 
acknowledged. But there were often Russian military advisors tagging 
along, and their agenda might be far more insidious and unclear to their 
allies.

"Okay," the colonel stood and tossed the shell aside. "Let's leave this 
one alone for now. We'll report later and let the locals handle it. Move 
out."

They headed back to the jeep, quiet strain showing on everyone's face. 
If it was indeed a Goa'uld ship sitting out there in the desert, whoever 
owned that singular piece of technology would gain a great advantage. So 
far, the Russians appeared to have little or no knowledge of the 
Goa'uld. And while Methos might have great admiration and respect for 
the general populace of that particular nation, he was also still leery 
of its political goals. A single naquada generator could power several 
major cities for a lifetime, freeing up enough resources to begin a new 
cold war. And the last one as he recalled, hadn't been much fun for 
either of the parties involved.

They detoured south then turned west again. Dr. Nazuq's camp had been a 
mere twenty miles from the Egyptian base, while the military camp was a 
good fifty miles from the ship's coordinates. In terms of this 
particular desert that was a relatively short distance, though not a 
healthy one. The average hale and hearty individual could manage perhaps 
thirty miles in a day walking, but even the average soldier wouldn't 
risk the fifty. And certainly not just to satisfy his curiosity.

It was late afternoon when they stopped some five miles out from the 
target coordinates. They changed from their street clothes into desert 
camouflage, making their way across the dunes until they were little 
more than a mile out.

"Busy little beavers, aren't they?" O'Neill muttered as he and the 
others observed the bustling activity around the ship through their 
field glasses. 

"Looks like they've been digging it out," Carter responded.

Large earth movers and trucks had been brought to the site, all neatly 
hidden under individual camouflage netting.

"The ship is most definitely Hatak class in origin," Teal'c announced. 
"But an older cargo ship and larger than any I have ever seen."

"Those are definitely Russian uniforms," Carter added. "About fifty, 
maybe more."

"Yeah, sweet," O'Neill said, sliding down a little and sitting back 
against the sand. 

"Looks like they aren't camping here," Methos said, joining him. 

"Seems that way. Just the one command tent and a latrine," O'Neill 
nodded.

"Too suspicious," Methos agreed. "If they stayed one or two nights it 
might be put down as part of a training exercise. But a large group of 
Russian military advisors disappearing into the desert would certainly 
arouse any Egyptian's innate inquisitiveness. They might be allies, but 
there's an old saying. 'Trust in Allah, but lock up your camel at 
night.'"

"I always liked 'Take the Pepsi Challenge' myself," O'Neill quipped and 
put away his binoculars. "Okay, kids," he finally decided. "Let's go 
back to the jeep. We'll set up a base camp there and report in. Return 
after dark. If they aren't spending the night, they probably won't 
bother to leave a guard. Missing men would have to be reported."

"Very true," Methos added. "Besides, who would expect to find five 
willing idiots ready to take on the Russian army?"

O'Neill grimaced wryly. "It's a good job, isn't it?"

                         *******************

"That's odd," Carter observed quietly as she examined the code pad for 
the ship's airlock. "Doesn't look like anyone's gone inside."

Methos leaned over and nodded an affirmative. "Sand's still encrusted on 
it. I'd say they're planning to abscond with the goods before letting 
their scientists take a crack at it."

"Sounds like someone else isn't interested in keeping up their end of an 
agreement either," O'Neill pointedly responded.

"Boys with toys," Methos sighed and Samantha gave him a rare smile.

"Shall we?" the colonel frowned, gesturing toward the lock.

Teal'c stepped forward and tapped the panel several times. Nothing 
happened. He tried it again using a different pattern this time, again 
without result.

"Stand back," O'Neill ordered then pointed his zat gun at the lock and 
fired. The system shorted out and Teal'c took several minutes to pry 
open the panel and bypass the mechanism. The door slid open a few inches 
then stalled completely, forcing O'Neill and Teal'c to push it the rest 
of the way back.

"Sand," Daniel explained at O'Neill's annoyed expression. "Fouls the 
lubricants. If the external vents were open it's probably gotten into 
everything."

"No kidding," the colonel muttered, frowning. "We'll have to clean it 
before we leave."

"Indeed," Teal'c agreed, turning on his flashlight and allowing the 
others to pass as they did the same.

The air inside was hot and dry. Not unexpected, Methos silently noted, 
but the place was eerie. They moved forward, weapons ready and nearly 
stumbled across several bodies as they turned into the first corridor.

"Goa'uld?" O'Neill asked.

"This one is," Carter nodded, kneeling beside a mummified corpse. "I 
can't tell what killed it though," she said, taking a closer look. "The 
rest seem to be Jaffa.

"Get samples," he ordered. "Of everything. Teal'c. Stay with her." They 
nodded and Samantha got to work as he and his companions cautiously 
moved off.

There were more bodies the further in they went. Some contorted in 
agony, others looking as though they'd simply fallen where they stood. 
They reached the bridge, finding another corpse -- dead in the act of 
reaching for the lift off controls.

"Looks like they were trying to escape," Daniel commented.

"Yeah, but from what?" O'Neill asked quietly, moving slowly around the 
room as he searched for an answer to his question.

"There are no outward signs of violence," Daniel responded. "From the 
look of it," he added, shining his light into the corpse's mummified 
face. "I'd say poison. Some sort of gas maybe."

"It's possible," O'Neill nodded.

"No, it's not," Methos pointed out. "Unless they arrived fairly 
recently. And given this accumulation of sand," he kicked at the thickly 
covered floor. "I'd guess this ship's been here a lot longer than a 
century." 

"Something in the area then?" Daniel offered.

"There's nothing here!" O'Neill spread his arms, looking mystified.

"That's not entirely true," Methos corrected. "There was a city 
hereabouts, or so I was told. It was all rumors really. A city built in 
secret by the pharaoh Shishak," he explained. "Right around the time he 
made war on the Judeans. A place to send all the treasures of Solomon's 
temple that he'd gathered from his siege of Jerusalem."

"That's just a myth," Daniel said. "We know where Tanis is. And it's 
never been lost."

"This place wasn't called Tanis, but Tanlit," Methos explained. "Sort of 
the short form of Tanis to differentiate between the two."

"Tanis?" Jack asked curiously. "Why does that name sound familiar?"

"Raiders of the Lost Ark," Methos grinned. "The place where Indiana 
Jones found the Ark of the Covenant. Great movie, very weak on history." 
O'Neill nodded. "Still," he went on as the colonel led the way back into 
the corridor. "Behind most myths there's generally a kernel of truth. In 
this case, I was always inclined to believe the rumors. Tanis in the 
north was held by one faction of the priestly caste -- mostly family 
related to Shishak, while Thebes in the south was held by another, not 
counting those in Karnak and other places. Shishak was strong enough to 
unite them all and by virtue of that, Upper and Lower Egypt under his 
sole rule. There was quite a bit of unrest even then and sending such 
revered artifacts, even if they weren't Egyptian, to any of the 
priesthood might have started another uprising. I wouldn't have done it. 
And there used to be a fairly large oasis not far from here dedicated to 
Atum." Methos grimaced wryly as he thought of something. "Atum was 
usually represented as either a man or a serpent and his worship was 
later merged with that of Ra. I'm guessing the two are one in the same."

"They were," Daniel confirmed.

"So, the snakeheads knew about this place and the logistics were good," 
O'Neill said thoughtfully as they headed back for Carter and Teal'c. 

"Seem that way," Methos agreed.

"But you never saw this city?" Daniel asked as he walked alongside the 
Immortal.

Methos shook his head. "Three thousand years ago I was still trolling 
for trouble. Somewhere in Anatolia, I believe. I only heard about it 
after the fact. Though I do remember being quite proud of the Judeans 
for buying Shishak off with Solomon's gold. Very smart."

"But not the Ark," Daniel said. "The bible says it stayed in Jerusalem."

"That's one story," Methos responded. "But I know for a fact it went 
south much earlier."

"That's what the Coptics claim. That it went to Ethiopia with Bathsheba 
and her son for safekeeping."

Methos shrugged as they joined Teal'c and Carter, who were just 
finishing up. "I don't know who the hell they were or where the Ark 
ultimately ended up, but whatever they had in that box killed the lot of 
us. The Horsemen raided that caravan. Rich Judean priests and even 
richer nobles. All guarding what we thought was a great big box of gold 
sent as tribute. They tried to warn us, I'll give them that. Of course, 
we ignored the priests and opened it once we'd gotten safely away. The 
last thing I remember was writhing in agony until Silas closed it up. 
When we revived it was gone, but we were sick as dogs for weeks after. 
Got ourselves out of Africa right smart."

"You were all sick?" Carter asked, surprised. "What were they symptoms?"

Methos shuddered even to remember. "Burns everywhere that didn't seem to 
heal. Vomiting and bloody stool. We swelled up in places that should 
never swell like that and both Silas and Caspian lost their hair. I 
don't know how many times we died after that first time, but it kept on 
killing us -- and everyone we came into contact with until we burned 
everything we owned, even our horses, in a great pyre."

"You burned everything? Even your clothes?" she asked.

Methos chuckled ruefully. "By that time we weren't wearing any if we 
could possibly avoid it. Our skin was excruciatingly tender."

"You know what it is?" Daniel asked her.

"Sounds like radiation poisoning. And from the look of these bodies, I'm 
beginning to think something similar may have happened here."

"Naquada does not produce noticeably dangerous amounts of harmful 
radiation," Teal'c pointed out.

"No," Samantha agreed. "But a radioactive substance could have been 
introduced into the environment." She studied one of her instruments. "I 
am picking up traces of subatomic particles still lingering in the air. 
Nothing that could cause us a problem, but it is a little higher than 
normal."

O'Neill nodded. "If we've got everything we need here, let's get back to 
camp and report in."

"Yes, sir," she said. "I can analyze the samples tonight and have a 
report for you in the morning."

"Good."

"So, what are we going to do about the ship?" Daniel asked nervously as 
they made their way to the exit. "We can't just leave it here."

"We're not flying it anywhere until we know what killed everyone," 
O'Neill responded as he paused with Teal'c to clear the door of sand and 
make sure it was sealed. "Whatever it is could still be on board. We 
need to know more about what happened."

"I might be able to help there," Methos offered.

"I thought you said you were never here?"

"I wasn't, but I may know someone who was." 

Daniel cast excited, puppy dog eyes in the Immortal's direction and 
Methos grinned. "Ptahsennes has been around since the first Tuthmose's 
reign, and he never leaves Egypt. Doesn't much like the modern era 
either, except for some jazz recordings and an old record player he 
liberated from the Nazis during the war. We go back a ways and he might 
be willing to talk."

"You know where to find him?" O'Neill asked. With the hatch now closed 
he carefully swept the sand to make it look as though no one had 
entered.

"Pretty much," Methos nodded. "He sent me a postcard about thirty years 
ago with a picture of Alexandria and a note telling me to stop by some 
time."

"Thirty years ago?!" Jack uttered, moving the group back toward camp. 
"How do you know he's still there?"

"Because he's living in my house," Methos explained. "Or what used to be 
my house when I lived there. It's been a couple of thousand years, but 
the place is still standing. And this is Egypt after all. Things and 
people move a lot more slowly here."

"Okay," O'Neill nodded. "You can check it out tomorrow. And," he looked 
over at Daniel, "think you could take him with you? He'll sulk all day 
in his tent if you don't."

Daniel frowned, but gazed hopefully at Methos. 

"Sure," the Immortal finally gave in. "Why not? It'll amuse the hell out 
of the old bastard. Just don't be surprised if he calls you a carrion 
eater," Methos warned the younger man. "He doesn't have much use for 
archaeologists."

                         *******************

Chapter 3

The drive to Alexandria the next morning had been mostly uneventful, 
except for Daniel's never ending stream of questions. Methos didn't 
really mind answering them and talking kept the boy from thinking about 
the loss of Yasmin Nazuq and her erstwhile colleagues. While O'Neill had 
reported the situation to General Hammond, it had been agreed that at 
present no action could be taken to remove the bodies. It was doubtful 
whoever had killed them would come back, but the stakes at the moment 
were just too high to take that chance.

When they reached the outskirts of the city, Methos wended their way up 
an old road until they came to the outer wall that marked the beginning 
of the property. The house was set on a hill top and the old stone 
gleamed a cool white in the late morning sunlight.

He sensed Ptahsennes as he pulled into the front drive where the stables 
had once been, though the mud brick structure was long since gone. 
Methos got out as a shadow appeared in a window then smiled as he saw 
his old friend opening the door.

"Methos!" Ptahsennes called out as he strode forward. "You son of a 
diseased camel mated with a braying ass! Welcome old friend!"

Methos laughed, holding out his arms as the stout Immortal, older in 
appearance though a hand span shorter, grabbed his shoulders and pulled 
him tight. "It's good to see you too," he smiled, hugging him back. "I 
see you're still shaving your head, you sun shriveled lump of dried 
beetle dung."

The other man rubbed his bald pate. "The old ways are still the best," 
Ptahsennes grinned. "Now, introduce me to your very pretty boy."

Daniel raised an eyebrow at that and promptly introduced himself. "Dr. 
Daniel Jackson," he said in the same ancient dialect Ptahsennes had been 
speaking, offering his hand. "It's an honor, revered father. And Methos 
and I are colleagues."

"A doctor who speaks the old tongue?" Ptahsennes asked warily. "Not 
another tomb robber are you?"

"Uh, no," Daniel answered carefully. "I'm currently employed as a 
linguist."

"Ah," Ptahsennes nodded, finally taking his hand. "That is better. The 
old tongue is still the most beautiful, even spoken badly by the likes 
of a western carrion eater such as yourself."

Methos chuckled at Daniel's confused expression. "Thank the man, Danny. 
That was a compliment."

"Uh, thanks...I think."

Ptahsennes guided them into the house past stacks of records piled 
nearly to the ceiling. "If he is not your current favorite," he murmured 
softly in Methos' ear. "Pray tell, old friend, how he comes to know of 
our kind?"

"An accident of chance," Methos explained just as quietly. "But he is 
loyal and holds his tongue."

"The two most useful virtues," Ptahsennes agreed, laying the matter to 
rest. "Come into the garden and see my fruit trees," he offered in a 
normal tone. "Cool and fragrant after a morning in the hot sun. Girl!" 
he called to an old woman sweeping the floor who looked to be at least 
ninety. "Bring wine for my friends and I. And some of those little 
pastries you sneak when you think I'm not watching." She snorted in 
derision, though her shoulders shook with mirth as she scurried off.

"In the old days," he confided to Daniel. "I would have beaten her for 
that. But she has been with me many years and good servants without 
tongues are hard to find."

Daniel looked a little pale as he settled on a pillow beneath the shade 
of an orange tree, but Methos ignored him, sprawling on the grass while 
Ptahsennes took the stool beside him. Like a proper guest, he waited 
until the servant had brought their refreshments and his host opened the 
conversation.

"So, why have you come, old friend? Still looking for that stash you 
think you left behind? I promise you, the pharaoh's guards were very 
thorough in their search. I had a difficult time putting the place back 
in order."

"Stash?" Daniel asked curiously.

Methos rolled his eyes. "93 BC," he explained. "I billed myself as a 
Phonecian trader. Had a marvelous little business going in costly spices 
and unguents."

"With a most excellent sideline in opium," Ptahsennes interjected, 
smiling.

Daniel's eyes went wide. "You dealt drugs?"

"It wasn't like that back then," Methos sighed. "No one cared who was 
toasted and who wasn't. The entire western world," he raised his cup, 
"was pretty much sloshed most of the time anyway. The water killed you, 
so we all drank beer or wine. And it wasn't selling opium that got me in 
trouble."

"No," Ptahsennes laughed. "It was not selling opium! This one," he 
gestured at Methos. "Sold the drug at a fair price to anyone, but saved 
his best tricks for the families of his dear departed customers. Such a 
devout man they all thought when he would come to offer his wares as the 
priests purified the body. He'd bring gifts of sweet oil and sandalwood 
then sell them enough dope at half price to last the deceased an 
eternity in the underworld. Only it wasn't opium in those little bottles 
he put in the tombs. It was a paste of floured water!"

Methos chuckled. "If that whining little bastard Diomenes hadn't robbed 
his uncle's tomb and found me out, I'd have been a richer man today."

"You were a scam artist, too?!" Daniel gasped.

"Don't look so shocked," Methos smirked. "And, come to think of it, you 
should be grateful. Just whom do you think invented the free sample?"

Ptahsennes laughed. "Ah," he sighed. "Those were good days."

"No they weren't," Methos disagreed amiably. "No cars, no films, no air 
conditioning. Always worrying about money. I, for one, would not go back 
there."

"If you hadn't spent everything you earned on those damn books of yours 
you'd have had money," Ptahsennes reminded him gently. "As for the 
rest... It would be just as well if it never happened. Who needs a car 
when there are horses, camels and donkeys? Why does everyone these days 
want to go fast? The business will wait. If not, then perhaps it was not 
worth the trouble. And films? Bah! Men in blue tights and red capes 
flying about saving the world. Men could save their own world if they 
would but listen to the gods. And air conditioning," he shook his head 
as Methos chuckled, having heard it all before. "Gives me a headache. 
All that cold unnatural air. Here it is pleasant," he looked with 
satisfaction around his garden. "And business can be done just as well 
in the shade of a fruit tree, can it not?"

"It can indeed," Methos allowed his old friend. "And speaking of 
business..."

"Yes," Ptahsennes smiled. "I was wondering when you'd get to that, old 
lion."

"Shishak," Methos said, watching Ptahsennes' eyes light up.

"A good pharaoh, even if he was of the Lybian line. Don't tell me you're 
seeking the lost treasures of Solomon this time?" the old Egyptian 
laughed. "Will you never learn?"

"It's the boy," he twitched his head in Daniel's direction, feeling no 
compunction about lying to his old friend. He was Methos, and it was, 
after all, expected. "He wants to prove a theory to his fellow 
historians. That Shishak built a treasure city in the desert, out near 
the Oasis of Atum-Ra."

Ptahsennes nodded. "A difficult business that," he murmured. "So much 
rivalry between the priests at the time. I remember it well. Tanlit, he 
called it. And yes, he brought his treasures there."

Now Daniel spoke up. "So, what happened to it?"

"No one knows for certain," Ptahsennes told him honestly. "The Judeans 
claimed it was their god who destroyed the city. But why their god would 
not have destroyed Shishak's army on the spot, before the pharaoh 
carried off the contents of his temple has never been adequately 
explained to me. I do know that those who carried the treasure into 
Egypt later died horribly of disease. As did Shishak within a year of 
his return. And that the whole area, not just the city, but the 
surrounding districts as well, were later found empty of people. As if 
one day all the inhabitants suddenly just decided to leave. But no one 
came to the pharaoh asking for help against an invading army, so nothing 
was done. Though Shishak's heir sent scouts to learn the fate of that 
city. They did not return," Ptahsennes added quietly.

"What do you think happened?" Daniel asked curiously.

"The Four Horsemen came and stole it all away," Ptahsennes answered 
bitterly, staring into his wine and not noticing how his companions 
stiffened in surprise.

"Are you certain?" Methos asked gently.

"As certain as anyone can be when it came to those bastards. Death and 
his henchmen," the Egyptian spat in the sand. "Wherever they are may 
they rot for eternity."

Methos looked away, swallowing his pain as he brought himself to speak. 
"I had heard they were in Anatolia at the time," he said thoughtfully. 
"And they were not the only scourge in those days. More infamous than 
most, but only one of many. Besides," he added reasonably. "It would 
take an army to empty an entire district."

"Perhaps," Ptahsennes agreed distantly, his eyes drifting to the little 
stream that ran through his garden as he remembered his own history. 
"But long before that they took my wife, you know. And all the children 
we had adopted."

Methos bowed his head. "No. I didn't," he whispered sadly. "I'm sorry."

"Mmmm," Ptahsennes nodded. "It was in the reign of Tuthmose III."

At that Methos looked up, relief visibly flooding his features. He'd 
been nowhere near Egypt then, but as so often happened in the past one 
raiding band of horsemen was much the same as any other. He listened as 
Ptahsennes told how he had been away on temple business and come home to 
find the temple looted and burned to the ground, his village destroyed. 
The men dead, the women and children missing. It sounded like an attack 
by a rival priesthood to Methos from that description. One thing he and 
the Horsemen had never done by tacit agreement was to lay waste to holy 
ground. Not because they feared the consequences, but because they might 
one day have need of that temple or shrine to protect themselves from 
others of their kind.

"But how do you know it was them?" Daniel asked quietly, having watched 
both men react to the story.

"One of the slaves saw them coming and hid. He alone survived."

Methos sighed silently in disgust. He'd heard that one before. Soldiers, 
slaves, farmers. When faced with overwhelming odds they often hid or 
ran, forgetting to give the alarm in their panic. When it was all over 
they would come out and so as not to shame themselves claim it was an 
attack by the almighty Horsemen. And who could stand against such demons 
the people would ask and nod their heads knowingly -- ever after kind to 
the survivors. They had been the bogey men and everyone believed 
whatever was said when it came to the Four Horsemen -- no matter how 
preposterous it might have sounded!

Daniel looked at his watch and then at Methos. "We have to get back, 
Adam. They'll be waiting."

Methos nodded and Ptahsennes sighed sadly. "Go if you must, but stay a 
moment, old friend. I have something for you and I must find it before 
you leave."

"We'll be in the house," Methos told him as they rose.

Ptahsennes left them in the great room, surrounded by his records as he 
went to search.

They were quiet as they waited until Daniel finally spoke up. "He 
doesn't know," he stated softly.

"Not many do," Methos agreed.

"But if he finds out..."

Methos sighed, picking up an old album and examining the cover. "Then I 
shall have to hope he never does."

"You didn't kill his family, did you?" Daniel's voice was small with 
worry. 

"No," Methos shook his head, putting the record aside. "We were in 
Mesopotamia at the time."

"You should tell him," Daniel advised. "Tell him the truth. He likes 
you. He'll understand."

Methos laughed harshly. "He'd never believe it. Especially coming from 
me. Death claiming innocence? And how could I prove it?" he smiled 
sadly. "It would only drive a wedge between us, knowing my real past. 
He'd feel honor bound to challenge me."

"He does!" came the hoarse awful cry from behind them as something 
crashed to the floor. Methos turned in surprise to see Ptahsennes 
standing in the door, sword in hand.

A look of infinite sadness crossed Methos face. "Go start the car, 
Daniel."

The younger man nodded, hurriedly backing away and a moment later Methos 
heard the engine turn over.

"I won't fight you, old friend," Methos told him softly. "And you have 
no cause to challenge me. I did not harm your family."

Ptahsennes moved forward dangerously, pointing his blade as Methos 
followed Daniel's path to the door.

"You were Death!" the Egyptian hissed.

"I was many things," Methos admitted, edging his way outside. "But none 
I regret more than that."

"Regret?!" Ptahsennes shouted angrily, following. "Regret is for oath 
breakers. Not for such as you."

"I can give you nothing else. And the dead need nothing."

"The dead cry out for vengeance!" Ptahsennes roared, suddenly lunging 
forward.

With his own sword still in the car Methos dodged to the side, reaching 
behind his back as he moved to pull out his zat gun. He almost avoided 
another heavy blow, but it caught his shoulder just as he fired.

"Adam!" Daniel cried, leaping over the side of the jeep to kneel beside 
his friend.

"We have to hurry," Methos gasped, clutching his bloody arm.

Daniel grimaced and grabbed the gun, firing a second time to kill the 
Immortal. "We have a minute. Can you walk?"

Methos nodded weakly as the younger man helped him to his feet. "I'm 
impressed," he finally said once they were away and the waves of pain 
had subsided as his body began to repair itself.

"With what?" Daniel asked, keeping his eyes on the road as he navigated 
traffic.

"You've become positively blood thirsty. I wasn't even thinking about a 
second shot. Just getting the hell out."

Daniel shook his head sadly. "More a matter of practicality than a 
thirst for blood. I didn't want to kill him, even though I know he'll 
get up again."

"But you did and I'm grateful."

"And I'm sorry," Daniel sighed. "I should have waited until we were in 
the car."

"Yes, you should have," Methos nodded, carefully checking his shoulder 
to make sure the skin was knitted up before he ripped the sleeve off his 
bloody shirt and used it to clean the area. 

"Do you think he'll come after you?" Daniel finally asked.

Methos shoved the bloody rag under his seat. "Maybe. Probably. If I run 
into him again, certainly. But since Ptahsennes never leaves Egypt, I'm 
not too worried."

"I'm really am sorry," Daniel repeated softly. "He was your friend and I 
screwed that up."

Methos sighed. "I've lost many friends, Daniel, even old ones. To the 
Game, to my past. It happens," he shrugged. "Give him a few hundred 
years and he might eventually get over the shock." Daniel glanced at 
him, surprised at his calm. "It does happen you know. Time heals all 
wounds. I mean, look at me. Am I not a mellow fellow?"

Daniel laughed softly. "Very mellow," he agreed. "Which is probably why 
I just can't seem to picture you as one of the Four Horsemen of the 
Apocalypse sweeping across the plains in a storm of fire."

Now it was Methos' turn to laugh. "Makes a great billboard, but it 
wasn't that impressive really. We were the ancient equivalent of gang 
banging hoodlums. That's all. Purse snatchers and thugs. A little more 
creative than most, but not by much. As for sweeping the plains..." 
Methos shrugged. "That wasn't us. Four guys on horseback do not sweep 
anything. We trotted, we cantered -- sometimes we even charged. But we 
never swept across anywhere. That's what armies are for."

"So what you're saying is that you were just a typical bunch of angry, 
rebellious kids -- even if you were a couple of thousand years old at 
the time."

An apt description, Methos thought wryly. "Yes, we were very angry. Me 
more than the others I suspect."

"Why?" Daniel wanted to know.

"I told you how it was," Methos explained tiredly. "People hated me, so 
I hated them right back. They tried to kill me, so I killed them 
instead. If someone didn't want to sell me something because I was 
different, I took it. I couldn't have a real family, so I sold theirs 
and didn't look back. It didn't matter that they might not be the ones 
who hurt me. What mattered was that they had the power to do it again. 
As I said, I was very, very angry."

"What changed?"

"I did," Methos said, yawning. "You can be angry for just so long before 
it eats away what's left of your soul. I wanted more. And then I met 
someone. Someone who knew what I was and instead of killing me out of 
hand gave me a second chance."

Daniel nodded thoughtfully, looking over at his friend whose eyes were 
drooping with fatigue. "Here," he said, reaching down to grab a bottle 
of water. "You lost a lot of blood. I can drive us back. Why don't you 
get some rest?"

Methos drank then settled back against the seat cushions. With an amused 
glance Daniel watched as the Immortal drifted off, looking more like the 
college kid he'd first known than the scourge of the ancient world he'd 
suddenly discovered. Whoever had given him that second chance, Daniel 
thought, deserved not only Methos' thanks, but his own. What a tragedy 
it would have been, if that all that knowledge, not to mention the good 
and decent man who held it, were lost.

                         *******************

"That's fascinating," O'Neill said after Daniel finished recounting 
their meeting with Ptahsennes, carefully editing out the bit where he'd 
cost Methos a dear friend. "Really fascinating," Jack yawned. "But how 
does that help us?"

Carter hid a smile. "It tells us that thousands of years ago someone 
around here had access to nuclear material, Colonel."

"I must have missed that bit." Methos looked up from his chicken in 
salsa. Whatever anyone said about Napoleon, he'd been right about one 
thing. An army traveled on its stomach -- and Methos was extremely happy 
the Americans had decided to take him up on it. "Are we talking actual 
fissionable material or a stray bit of uranium?"

"Unknown," Carter admitted with a sigh. "Although I can pretty much rule 
out the uranium theory. Whatever killed the Goa'uld was powerful enough 
to do it in a matter of minutes."

"Like Chernobyl," Daniel commented. 

Methos raised a questioning brow and the archaeologist shrugged. 

"When the accident happened," he explained. "Those closest to it died 
within minutes. Just like you and your...friends did when you stole the 
Ark of the Covenant."

"Exactly," Samantha nodded. "Everything around you was contaminated, 
including your clothes. And everything you came into contact with, like 
your horses, was then hit by radiation and subsequently died."

It sounded reasonable, but... "You're saying the Judeans somehow got 
hold of something so radioactive it was enough to poison everybody 
around it, but not them? Then palmed it off on Shishak?" Methos asked 
doubtfully.

"It' possible," Carter speculated. "That they had access to a meteoric 
site and used some of that stone."

"Used it in what?" Jack asked, baffled. "The Ten Commandments?"

"Why not," Daniel responded. "Once the original tablets were brought 
down from Mt. Sinai and smashed they were placed in a special box and 
never looked at, never touched. It was forbidden under Mosaic Law."

"I suppose it's possible," Methos gave a half shrug and nodded. "There 
have always been stories about stones which fell from the heavens. 
Stones much sought after by kings and priests as a show of power. And 
with those myths came a warning. We didn't know about radiation, of 
course, but the stories often claimed that anyone who handled the stones 
would die."

Jack shook his head, holding up a hand. "Time out, folks. This is great, 
but you said you stole the Ark, right?" Methos nodded. "You also said it 
was before Shack Attack got his hands on it, that right too?" Again 
Methos nodded, though he was smiling now. "So, if the Ark was in 
Ethiopia, how could Shack bring the Ark here?"

"He could," Daniel said slowly. "If the Ark he was given was a decoy."

"An exact replica of the original," Carter nodded thoughtfully. "With 
all the same properties."

"But if the Judeans knew what the stone was capable of," Methos 
insisted. "They would never have kept it in the city. Eventually they 
all would have died."

"Yes," Carter agreed. "Unless it was shielded properly. Encased in lead 
or stone -- something to absorb the radiation."

Methos' eyes went wide. "When I was in Jerusalem the Ark was kept in a 
stone vault, supposedly never seen by anyone but the High Priest. No one 
but he and the king would have known if it had been sent out of the 
city. And the Ark was always a target, even in Solomon's time -- a very 
powerful symbol. Not only for the warring factions within Israel and 
Judea, but to their enemies. Still, if Solomon sent the Ark south with 
Bathsheba, as I believe he did, then what was everyone worshipping?"

"The second set of tablets Moses brought down," Daniel theorized.

"Or an empty box," Carter suggested. "Except this one had a small bit of 
highly radioactive material inside it. If anyone did get their hands on 
the Ark they would die."

"But not just because they stole it," Methos surmised. "But because they 
dared to open the box like we did."

"No," Carter said. "There are enough stray atomic particles in both the 
sand and that ship to say otherwise. Whatever came here was leaking 
radiation like a sieve. Once the false Ark left its containment unit in 
Jerusalem whoever came in contact with it would die. Even if they never 
opened the Ark, it would have killed them within a year."

"Wonderful story," O'Neill finally interrupted. "But what the hell does 
it have to do with the Goa'uld?"

"They gave them the Ark," Daniel said.

"And why would they do that?" 

"Think about it, Jack. The Goa'uld land on your doorstep. They say 
they're sent by the gods. Ptahsennes said the surrounding districts were 
emptied of people. And what do the Goa'uld do? They take slaves -- and 
anything else they can get their greedy hands on."

"Daniel Jackson is correct," Teal'c agreed. "It is what they do. I have 
many times seen it happen. The ship will land and those nearest the ship 
will be forced to provide food and other goods the Goa'uld cannot make, 
while those in nearby areas will be captured and forced through the gate 
by the Jaffa. When that is done, the guards will bring those in the host 
village through, or kill them if they fight."

"And imagine," Methos added his own thoughts. "You're an Egyptian priest 
seeing this happen. Somehow you've come to realize that they are not 
gods. None of your own magic works against them, but you've got this 
very powerful box stolen from your enemies. Enemies who've probably told 
you never to open it on pain of death, which only makes you want to open 
it more. Maybe you do, maybe you don't. But these beings are asking for 
everything you own anyway, so you give it to them. And while you're at 
it, you ask if they'd like to see what's inside. I'd take that shot."

"Or," Daniel countered. "They gave it to the gods as a form of tribute. 
The Jaffa guarding the ship could have opened it just to see what was 
inside."

"Either way, it makes sense," Jack nodded. "Okay. So, bible study aside 
Major, there's no danger to us from that ship?"

"None that I can think of, sir," she responded. "The priests must have 
taken back the Ark or the Goa'uld managed to somehow get it off the 
ship, which is probably how everyone else died so rapidly."

"And anyone coming to look would have died as well," Methos nodded.

"So where is it?" Jack asked.

"Buried out here somewhere," Samantha shrugged. "The sand is a good 
insulator. By now most of the radiation has leached into the ground, but 
I'd leave it where it is just to be safe. We're in no danger, if that's 
what you're asking, sir."

"It is," O'Neill grinned. "Okay, kids. Let's pack it up. We're flyin' 
that baby out tonight."

                         *******************

Chapter 4

The sun was sinking by the time Ptahsennes reached the edge of the 
western desert. He could drive -- after a fashion -- though it wasn't 
something he liked to admit. One thing he had changed his mind about 
though, was his concept of time. He now understood why everyone rushed 
everywhere. He didn't know where Death was, but he knew where he was 
going. And Ptahsennes intended to be there, waiting.

                         *******************

"If I never saw another desert again, I could die happy," O'Neill 
muttered as they topped the last rise and headed down toward the ship.

Methos grinned. "It's not so bad once you get used to it. At least it's-
-" He stopped abruptly as he sensed the presence of another Immortal.

"Time to die, Horseman!"

Weapons came up as everyone turned. Except for Methos, who closed his 
eyes and took a deep, painful breath.

"Hello again, Ptahsennes," he finally said, turning to face his accuser. 
"I'm very busy right now, do you mind if we do this later?"

"I am not laughing, carrion. I will have your head. Tonight!"

"Uh, hold up a minute here," Jack raised his hand. "No one's head is 
going anywhere. Especially not his," he jerked a thumb at Methos. 
"Unless you haven't noticed, your friend here is wearing U.S. Government 
Issue. Which means," he pointed out. "That his head belongs to us -- 
along with his ass. And we're not fixing to let either of them go any 
time soon."

Ptahsennes stared in disbelief. "What have you done, Methos?! One mortal 
who knows our secret was not enough? You must tell the whole world?!"

"Shit happens," Methos said bluntly.

Ptahsennes nodded slowly. "So be it. Then you must all die."

"No!" Methos shouted as O'Neill and the others instantly cocked their 
weapons. The sound of heavy machinery suddenly sounded in the distance 
and lights from several dozen vehicles appeared on the distant horizon.

"Oh, man!" O'Neill complained loudly. "You woke up the Russians!"

"It's a bit of a crowd for this, Ptahsennes!" Methos snarled in disgust.

"It matters not," the Egyptian said. "Fight me now, coward. Or I will 
hunt you down -- if I have to leave Egypt to do it!"

Methos compressed his lips and nodded slowly. "Get in the ship, Jack. 
Go! All of you!" he shouted when they made no move to leave. 

"We are so not doing this now," O'Neill shook his head.

"No. We are not," Methos agreed. "I will take care of Ptahsennes."

"The hell you will!" Jack told him angrily.

Methos frowned deeply. "When I agreed to this I made it clear to General 
Hammond that I would not tolerate interference in a fair challenge. 
Well, fair challenge is given and accepted. Now, go!"

"Fine!" O'Neill retorted. "But if you're not in that ship in three 
minutes I will kill you. Repeatedly!"

Ptahsennes laughed. "You will not have the chance, mortal. This one 
belongs to me now."

O'Neill glared at the Egyptian then turned to Methos. "Just kill his 
crazy ass!" he told the Immortal angrily.

"Not if I can help it," Methos murmured softly as the colonel stalked 
off followed by the rest of the team. 

The lights on the horizon were drawing closer and Methos estimated they 
had only a few minutes before the place was crawling with Russian 
troops.

"Come, old friend," he finally nodded as he shrugged off his pack and 
drew his sword from the sheath at his back. "Let's do this where--"

Ptahsennes didn't bother to let him finish, rushing forward as soon as 
his sword was free. Methos back peddled, drawing his old friend away 
from the oncoming soldiers and around the other side of the ship.

"You don't understand what's happening here, Ptahsennes!" Methos called 
as he hurriedly deflected a parry, answering with a thrust of his own 
past the other man's defenses which was easily countered. "Just let me 
explain!" Maybe reason would help, Methos hoped, though he doubted it.

"I have all the explanation I need," Ptahsennes growled. "You're in my 
desert. Stealing. Again!" he shouted. "I saw those bodies you left 
behind. Murdering rogue!"

"That wasn't us!" Methos ducked and Ptahsennes' sword passed far too 
close to his hair.

"Lies! More lies!"

The blows came more quickly and Methos no longer had time to think. 
Ptahsennes had always been good, even in practice. And right now, 
Ptahsennes wasn't practicing.

                         *******************

"We up and running yet?" O'Neill called over his radio from where he and 
Daniel guarded the main hatchway. He fired on a squad of Russian troops 
as Daniel used Teal'c staff weapon to break up their advance.

"Momentarily," the Jaffa called back.

O'Neill cocked his head as he heard a dangerously familiar sound. 
"Incoming!" he shouted as he and Daniel hit the deck.

The ship rocked as a mortar exploded against the hull. Then another and 
another, until it suddenly dawned on O'Neill that the Russians planned 
to destroy the ship rather than let it take off.

"We got any shields?!" he called desperately as he heard an explosion 
from within the ship itself.

"We have nothing!" Teal'c responded a moment later as he and Carter came 
running down the corridor. 

"That last round hit the engine core," she reported. "We can't stop the 
power build up." 

"We have little time, O'Neill," Teal'c added. "This ship will soon be 
destroyed."

"Oh, that's just beautiful!" the colonel snapped disgustedly. 

"Sir," Carter said as the ship rocked again. "We can still use the 
Stargate to get out."

"I thought we couldn't do that!" he responded testily, firing several 
rounds out the hatch. "Only one gate on Earth opens at a time."

"Technically, sir, this gate isn't on Earth," she explained. "It has a 
different address entirely. I'm guessing it's like all the other ship 
based Stargates we've seen. Its system should automatically compensate 
for the differential."

"Daniel," O'Neill ordered. "Secure the gate. Get ready to dial us home."

"What about Adam?" the archaeologist demanded. "We can't just leave 
him!" 

"We're going! If he wants to play Knights of the Round Table with his 
buddies we can't help him."

Daniel looked furious, but he headed for the Stargate nonetheless.

Another round of mortar fire struck the ship and O'Neill ordered the 
others back. "Seal that door," he told Teal'c. "Carter, see if you can 
locate Pierson. Find a hatch close to where he is. If you have to, shoot 
him and the bastard he's fighting with and drag Pierson's ass on board. 
You have two minutes!"

"Yes, sir!" she answered smartly and took off running down the corridor.

                         *******************

The ground shook again as Methos felt the bite of Ptahsennes' blade in 
his thigh. Sand was lousy footing to begin with, but this was 
ridiculous. Still, his opponent was just as bad off, bleeding from 
nearly as many wounds as Methos.

On the other side of the ship the fight raged on, a strange counterpoint 
to the ancient clash of steel. End it now, Methos' inner voice told him 
as he saw another opening in Ptahsennes' defenses. He could make a 
straight cut to the shoulder and an upward thrust to the neck -- just as 
Ptahsennes had tried to do to him that morning. Or, he could use this 
opening to disarm and disable. He lunged to take advantage of his luck 
just as another mortar exploded behind them. Unable to compensate, 
Methos flew forward, his sword rising upward to spear Ptahsennes' 
throat.

"No!" he shouted as he saw the light of Ptahsennes' Quickening gleam 
brightly against the Egyptian's dark skin. Ptahsennes' eyes widened in 
surprise and Methos shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry," he whispered, 
furious at the fates which had never meant for two such disparate forms 
of war to come together. Shutting his eyes Methos yanked his sword free, 
partially cleaving the neck to let the head loll sideways. Sloppy work, 
he thought as the body dropped to the ground, but he could do no better 
by his old friend now.

As Methos fell to his knees someone called his name. A woman. Carter, he 
thought bleakly, ignoring her as he raised his sword and waited to 
receive Ptahsennes' Quickening. 

Suddenly, there was a hand in his hair and he flinched as sharp nailed 
fingers painfully pinched his earlobe.

"Move it, Pierson!" Carter ordered, dragging him toward an open airlock. 
"We're leaving!"

If he hadn't been so shocked Methos might have fought, but if she'd 
meant to get his attention Carter had succeeded completely. Even before 
he realized he was moving Methos was up and running for the hatch, 
following his twisted ear.

The first wave of the Quickening caught him at the door, knocking the 
pair forward as it loosened Carter's hold.

"Go!" he shouted, shoving her toward the corridor. "I'll follow!" Then 
he couldn't speak for the pain as the lightening seared his flesh. 
Staggering forward, Methos rounded the corner to see the others waiting 
impatiently near the gate. He gasped, falling to his knees as several 
bolts of energy pounded him in quick succession. Debris rained down as 
the strikes shot around the room, exploding against every available 
surface. Dimly through the haze of his vision, Methos saw Daniel 
punching in the address. The Quickening was dying, he realized 
gratefully as the last few discharges went wild, dancing across the face 
of the Stargate.

The outer track turned, the chevrons locking into place as Teal'c and 
O'Neill grabbed Methos, pulling him toward the gate. Then several 
mortars exploded against the hull, sending most of what was left of the 
ceiling crashing down. They sheltered as best they could, but it seemed 
to take forever for the gate to open and when it did, the vortex turned 
multi-colored, undulating weirdly as the gate crackled with energy.

"What the hell?!" O'Neill gasped. 

Even as he spoke the vortex settled back to normal and another 
explosion, this time from within the ship, savagely shook the room. 

"Let's go!" he shouted. And they flung themselves into the light as the 
world behind them was suddenly blasted to pieces.

                         *******************

Part Two
Chapter 5

Water dripped onto rock, the sound of it echoing in the dank underground 
chamber. The gateway stood behind an altar set high above the rest of 
the room. The only other sound, metal scraping and squealing as the 
ancient wheel turned and light suddenly burst into the room as its 
center filled with energy. An instant later, five figures tumbled out, 
releasing harsh groans and quiet cries as they hit the ground rolling. 
Behind them, the light winked out and the sound of water dripping on 
rock continued its relentless echoing through the dank underground hall.

"Did I not say, 'Dial us home'?" O'Neill asked in complete darkness.

"You did," Teal'c stated succinctly.

"Thought so."

"Guess the general forgot to pay this month's electric."

"Shut up, Pierson! I'm mad at you!" O'Neill turned on his flashlight. 
"Oh, Daniel..." he sang, saccharine sweet. "Pray tell, does this look 
like the SGC to you?" Everyone turned on their flashlights, cautiously 
looking around.

"I dialed correctly, Jack. You were there. You saw me."

"Something happened to the gate," Carter said, getting to her feet.

"Major Carter is correct," Teal'c added. "Never have I seen a gate 
behave so erratically."

Daniel glanced over at Methos for more support, but the Immortal merely 
shrugged. "Don't look at me. I'm the newbie."

"There was a lot of electrical discharge around the gate," Carter 
pointed out as she panned her light over the Stargate above them.

"Indeed, we have experienced similar problems with the gate mechanism 
from unexpected energy surges," Teal'c reminded them quietly.

Methos raised a questioning brow.

Daniel nodded slowly. "He's right. Remember 1969? Come to the sit in?"

"Must have missed that one," Methos responded, training his light on the 
ceiling and surrounding walls.

"Did you make it to Woodstock?" O'Neill asked.

"Of course. I was a roadie for the Stones. Great music, rotten 
facilities," he added with a grimace, catching sight of a narrow 
staircase against the far wall and ambling over.

"Well then," Jack said petulantly. "You didn't miss anything." 

"Glad to hear it," Methos responded lightly, refusing to be baited. If 
O'Neill was upset that he'd accepted Ptahsennes' challenge then the 
colonel would just have to live with it. Some things were more important 
than following orders. "There're some stairs here," he said, shining his 
light up into the corner. "Should be an exit, but I think it's blocked."

The others came over, O'Neill taking the lead as he climbed the rough 
hewn steps. "Looks like part of the building above collapsed," he called 
down. "I can see light though, so it can't be too deep. Teal'c, you 
wanna give me a hand here?"

The big man handed his staff to Daniel then made his way up the stairs. 
In short order they had enough of the debris cleared for everyone to 
scramble through the opening. Outside, night was falling and the air was 
redolent with the heavy scent of rain, green grass and moist earth.

O'Neill breathed deeply and sighed. "At least it's not a desert," he 
said to no one in particular. "So, where are we? Any ideas?"

Carter looked around at the tumbled down stones of the structure covered 
with lichen and vines then glanced at the darkening sky and shook her 
head. "It doesn't look familiar, sir. But," she added, reaching around 
to remove the lap top computer she always carried in her pack. "I should 
be able to triangulate our location from the position of the stars."

"That won't be necessary," Methos whispered softly, seeming stunned as 
he stared off into the distance. "I know where we are. I'm just not sure 
of when."

"When?!" O'Neill repeated, eyes going wide.

Methos nodded slowly. "Daniel?" He waved the younger man over to where 
he stood then pointed toward a not too distant peak. "That's Mt. 
Parnassus, isn't it?"

Daniel peered through his glasses, eyes going round with shock. "Uh, it 
looks like it. But..." he looked back over his shoulder, past the ruins 
behind them and into the distance, shaking his head.

"Go on," Methos told him quietly. "Say it."

"If that's Mt. Parnassus," Daniel shrugged, looking flabbergasted as he 
pointed southwest. "Then that should be Delphi. But it can't be. The 
city's missing."

"Not missing," Methos sighed, glancing up at the few stars already 
peeking through the atmosphere. "And it's not really a city. Not yet 
anyway. It's still just a local shrine with a rather large village 
attached to it."

"What are you saying?" O'Neill demanded.

Methos shook his head, turning to look at the building they'd just 
crawled out of. The cast of the stone and the monumental size of them. 
Then he looked back at the mountain and closed his eyes briefly as he 
remembered. "I know this place," he whispered.

"Okay," O'Neill said. "That's a good thing, right?"

Methos simply stared at him for a long moment then turned to Samantha. 
"Major, if you'll look to the eastern horizon you will see Andromeda. 
She's lower in the sky than you're used to, but it's still her, isn't 
it?"

Carter looked where he pointed and nodded slowly. "It looks like the 
constellation Andromeda, but the position's all wrong."

"No, it's not wrong," Methos said slowly. "Or... It's right for the 
time, but we're wrong."

"Wait a minute," O'Neill interjected. "Is he saying what I think he's 
saying? Carter? Daniel? Tell me we're not doing this again!"

"I'm sorry, sir," the major apologized. "But Pierson is right. This is 
definitely Earth -- probably somewhere in Greece, if that is Mt. 
Parnassus. But I'd have to guess we're at least a couple of thousand 
years from where we should be."

"More like three," Methos corrected her softly.

"Are you sure?" Daniel breathed, swallowing hard as Methos nodded 
slowly.

"Aw, damn!" O'Neill fumed. "I hate this time travel bullshit!"

"Well, I'm not thrilled with it either!" Methos retorted, suddenly more 
angry than startled by the strangeness of it all. "I've been here, 
remember? Itchy woolen blankets for clothing. Chickens, pigs and goats 
sleeping in your bedroom," he recounted disgustedly. "And let's not 
forget the civilized world's favorite pastime -- taking your enemy's 
head and spitting it on a tall pointy stick as you parade through town 
at festival time! You never once! Not once!" he complained bitterly. 
"Said anything about time travel when you coerced me into this Stargate 
business!"

"Guys! Guys!" Daniel interjected, pleadingly as O'Neill scowled 
furiously. "We can figure a way out of here, just like we did the last 
time. All we need to do is work out how we got here and reverse the 
process. Right, Sam?"

Carter said nothing, glancing toward the mountain as the others looked 
to her for an answer. "It's worth a try," she finally agreed.

O'Neill took a deep breath and sighed, relaxing slowly. "We," he wagged 
a finger at Methos, "will talk later. For now," he ordered, moving 
toward a patch of clear ground beside the ruins. "Let's sort out the 
supplies and make camp while we try and get a handle on this thing."

                         *******************

Methos sat quietly, ignoring everyone as he cleaned his sword by the 
fire. Having lost his pack back when he'd fought Ptahsennes, he'd built 
the fire using a bit of flint he'd found in the dirt and the edge of his 
sword, leaving the others to cook their freeze dried rations while he 
searched through the ruins until he'd found an old whetstone.

Nearby, he could feel O'Neill watching him. Worried, Methos supposed, 
about whether he'd made the right decision in dragging his 'minion' back 
from Nepal. Then again, maybe not, Methos thought wryly. For all his 
bluster, O'Neill seemed to like him. More importantly, he was unafraid -
- without needing to denigrate Methos' abilities in order to achieve 
that fearless state.

He heard rather than saw O'Neill wordlessly pick up a plate of food and 
come to sit beside him on the other side of the fire.

"I'm sorry about your friend," O'Neill said quietly as he placed the 
food beside him. "Daniel told me what happened. Why he challenged you."

Methos gave a half shrug and nodded. "Ptahsennes was a good man," he 
offered. "I shall miss him."

"Then why'd you do it?" O'Neill asked, squinting into the fire as if 
he'd find his answer there. "I thought you didn't like challenges."

"I didn't mean to kill him," Methos admitted, finally sheathing his 
sword. "But I knew Ptahsennes. He would have felt honor bound to hunt 
me. And I thought," he sighed sadly. "I thought if I gave him a good 
fight, made him feel as though he'd tried his best to defeat me, but I 
won and spared his life, he would also feel honor bound to let the past 
go. We might not have been friends, but at least he would have been 
alive."

"But you slipped." Methos gave him a look of surprise. "Carter told me."

The Immortal nodded. "I played a dangerous game," he agreed. "And 
Ptahsennes lost." Another regret, he thought bitterly, added to a list 
that was already far too long.

They sat for a time just watching the fire. "You should eat something," 
O'Neill finally told him. "Have some protein with that iron," he nodded 
at the sword.

Methos smiled wryly and picked up the plate. He didn't have much of an 
appetite, but he ate anyway, feeling a little less like a pariah after 
his outburst.

"You know," he told Jack, between bites. "I really should have guessed 
about the time travel."

"How's that?"

"Because Tok'ra said something to me before he disappeared," Methos 
began slowly. "Actually, it was the very last thing he said. I didn't 
know what it meant then. I wasn't even sure I'd heard it right. But now, 
after what happen in Egypt, I'm beginning to wonder."

"That's...interesting. But utterly meaningless. Since I don't know what 
the hell you're talking about."

Methos grimaced, knowing O'Neill was probably not going to be very happy 
with him once he explained. "The last thing Tok'ra said to me sounded 
like, 'The ninth symbol is Time'. I mean, it may have absolutely nothing 
to do with what happened to us, I just thought I ought to mention it."

For a long moment O'Neill simply stared at him then turned to the 
others. "After Daniel punched in the address," he asked tersely, "did 
anyone else see a bunch of stuff fall on the DHD? And maybe a couple of 
extra key pads lighting up?"

"I didn't see the pads," Daniel cocked his head, looking perplexed. "But 
like you said, the ceiling was caving in. Some of it must have hit the 
DHD."

"I didn't see it either, sir," Carter admitted. "But I thought the outer 
track took a long time to lock into place."

"It did," Teal'c nodded.

"What I thought," O'Neill sighed tiredly. "Pierson here says Tok'ra made 
a death bed confession. Only he didn't get it. And someone," he glared 
at Methos, "didn't bother to read the memo on what constitutes a 
debriefing. Like, reporting the little things all-powerful beings tell 
us before they vanish into the space time continuum."

"Sir," Carter asked. "What did Tok'ra say?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just some stuff about the ninth chevron representing 
Time."

They all stared at Methos, who merely shrugged. "I thought he was just 
being profound. You know, something I'd figure out in a few thousand 
years. It's not like we even use eight."

"Actually," Daniel said uncomfortably. "The eighth is used for 
intergalactic travel."

"Apparently, no one sent me the memo on that one either," Methos glared 
back at Jack.

"I'm not sure any of this really matters," Carter interjected. "The 
number of variables needed to come up with an exact address for 
returning to a specific point in time are astronomical. Just hitting the 
keys randomly won't do it."

"But we have seen the gate used as time travel device before," Daniel 
pointed out. 

O'Neill shook his head. "1969 was an accident, Daniel." 

"Yes, but the time loop incident wasn't. That was a deliberate attempt 
to alter the fabric of Time."

Carter nodded. "True. But the Ancients themselves failed to make it 
work. If they knew it was possible to use the gate for time travel, why 
would they have gone to the trouble of creating a separate device to 
send their whole world back in time? Why not just send someone back to 
change history?"

"They might not have known it was possible," Methos interjected, though 
the others looked doubtful. "The Ancients who designed the gate system 
might not have given that little piece of information out to everybody. 
It's not the kind of thing I'd put in the manual. Too easy to abuse. I'd 
keep it for special circumstances, if I even used it at all."

"Yes," Teal'c said quietly. "It would not be prudent to disseminate such 
information. And there are many symbols on the gates we have seen which 
do not correspond to any known star systems. If only one represented the 
aspect of Time we would not know it."

"But you'd still need an awful lot of power going into the gate in order 
to make use of it," Carter pointed out.

"Ptahsennes' Quickening," Daniel theorized. "It could have charged the 
gate enough to make it possible."

"It could have," the major admitted. "But that doesn't explain why the 
wormhole changed color and undulated."

"Maybe it was confused," Methos said softly, drawing stares. "Look," he 
said. "From what I gather, the technology the Ancients used was vastly 
different from ours. Tok'ra implied they were beings who didn't really 
need bodies anymore -- they were essentially all mind. And from what 
you've told me, at least some Goa'uld technology requires an element of 
thought control to make certain objects work."

"Like the hand devices," Carter nodded.

"Exactly," Methos went on. "Suppose the gate was accidentally set for 
time travel mode, but needed the mental input to really make it work? 
Maybe it got something from one us. The last historic date we all 
thought about in common was the year Shishak went to Jerusalem. Well, I 
hate to tell you this, but if we aren't pretty close to it I'd be 
awfully surprised."

"Maybe," Carter tentatively agreed. "Or maybe it just went to the 
nearest available gate in time at the same location for which it had 
been programmed."

"The nearest available gate was at the SGC," O'Neill pointed out.

Carter took a deep breath and let it out slowly. "I'm not sure it was, 
sir. I've been going over the data I took from the ship. If my 
calculations are right..."

"And they usually are," O'Neill muttered.

"...I don't think the gate in Colorado exists anymore."

"Run that by me again." 

"Sir, I'm sorry. But when I said the ship was safe I was working from a 
misconception. I neglected to take into account the effect of the 
radiation on the naquada used in building the ship."

Daniel drew a horrified breath. "She's right, Jack. Radiation and 
naquada don't mix well. Or, they do, but the result is more dangerous. 
Remember Ra?"

"Yeah, I remember," O'Neill nodded soberly. "Together they make a bigger 
bomb. But you said there was no radiation left in that ship, Carter."

"There wasn't," she admitted. "Because it was all absorbed by the 
naquada in the hull. Over time, it must have changed its molecular 
structure, making it unstable."

"But they've got shields for that," O'Neill said, looking to Teal'c. 
"Don't they?"

"Not," the Jaffa pointed out, "on the inside. Radioactive material is 
strictly prohibited aboard Goa'uld ships, on pain of death."

"Are you telling me," O'Neill asked slowly. "That when that ship blew it 
became the world's biggest bomb?"

Carter bit her lip and nodded. "I think so, sir."

"You think so?! You either know or you don't, Major. I need an answer!" 
O'Neill demanded.

"Yes, sir," she said quietly. "But there's only one way to know for 
sure. We need to find a way to dial out and see if anyone's at home."

                         *******************

"That's the sequence," Jack said, pointing to the key pads on the DHD 
inside the ruins.

Carter shook her head. "It might work. But we still need the same kind 
of power Ptahsennes Quickening provided. If," she added dubiously, 
"that's what caused us to jump in the first place." 

"Uh, Sam. If your calculations are right and this is 926 BC," Daniel 
said softly. "Then this is the sub-Mycenean period. It's a Dark Age in 
Greece. We're just not going to find that kind of power here."

"I might be able to help with that," Methos smiled.

O'Neill gave him a wry grimace. "I may be pissed at you, Pierson, but 
I'm not going to cut off your head just to see if this works!"

Methos' eyes went wide. "I wouldn't even suggest it!" he insisted. "But 
older Immortals do have some control over the planet's electrical 
field."

Daniel shook his head. "We need the equivalent of several bolts of 
lighting, Adam. Not just a random electrical discharge."

"Come," Methos smiled, ushering them up the stairs and back outside. The 
morning was bright and clear, though it had rained on and off during the 
night. There was a chill in the air, but the sun was warming the land as 
it drew high. Methos shooed them all away. "Stand back, children. I'm 
about to scare the dickens out of you." 

O'Neill rolled his eyes and found a seat on some fallen stones as Methos 
strode into the open closer to the tree line.

This probably wasn't the wisest thing to do, he silently admitted as he 
set himself with feet apart, threw back his head and closed his eyes. 
Still, there was no help for it if he wanted to go home and not spend 
the next three thousand years quite literally reliving the nightmares of 
his past.

He took a deep breath, reaching from within himself for the power he 
remembered. In the distance, thunder roared as he raised his arm and 
called the lightening to him. It crackled above, refusing to be tamed. 
Then he focused his will with a shout of triumph and pulled down the 
power of the heavens. It came in searing waves and strikes, burning his 
skin until he pointed his other arm, throwing the lightening into the 
trees. Again and again, he did this, having forgotten the joy of this 
particular venture. So many years in hiding, so many gains forsaken. 
Immortals played with lightening. With the power and the willingness to 
simply be a conduit.

When he'd finally had enough, Methos eased back and lowered his arms, 
enjoying the last caress of the static discharge as it traveled across 
his skin. With a sigh of pure pleasure he opened his eyes to find his 
mortal companions staring in open mouthed horror.

I might have overdone it just a tad, he thought with chagrin as he 
rejoined them, sprawling on the grass near Carter's feet. "Think it'll 
get the job done?"

Silence greeted him until Jack frowned and spoke up. "Show off."

Methos laughed. "God!" he sighed, falling back in relief. "I haven't 
done that in ages. I'd forgotten how much fun that was."

"Fun?" Teal'c asked, clearly appalled. "Power like that is what made the 
Goa'uld evil."

"True," Methos admitted quietly, slowly sitting up and stretching. "But 
then the Goa'uld don't have any limits placed on them by an outside 
agency. I haven't been able to do that freely in over two thousand 
years. Repercussions and consequences tend to keep one honest."

The Jaffa nodded thoughtfully. "Then you must have such fun more often."

"Sure," O'Neill shrugged. "We'll take him out to Area 51. He can have 
all the fun he wants there. In the meantime, Carter?"

She finally closed her mouth and nodded. "If he can direct it at the 
gate, sir, it should work."

"Good," O'Neill said, then looked around at Daniel to see how he'd taken 
the whole fireworks display. 

Methos nervously followed his gaze. "You okay, Danny?"

The archaeologist said nothing, simply staring at the smoking, 
splintered trees across the clearing. 

"He's speechless," O'Neill grinned appreciatively. "Which is actually a 
good thing," he added, suddenly quite serious. "Because none of you ever 
saw this," he looked at the others. "No one needs to know, because it 
never happened. Understood?"

Teal'c and Carter nodded in agreement, then O'Neill gave Daniel a little 
shove. "You gettin' this, Danny?"

"Uh, yeah," the younger man nodded.

"You sure?" O'Neill asked.

Finally, Daniel looked at Methos. "Yeah, I'm sure," he answered softly. 
Then, "They'd take you apart for that, wouldn't they?" he asked, no 
doubt reminded of Methos' unceremonious and painful introduction to the 
SGC.

Methos only smiled wistfully at his innocence. "No, Danny," he said 
quietly. "For that," he pointed to the smoking ruin of the trees. 
"They'd kill me."

                         *******************

Chapter 6

O'Neill shook his head, looking around the heavily wooded area while 
they waited on Carter to finish running another simulation. The Stargate 
was rigged with fishing wire from their survival kits and attached to 
Methos' sword in place of a lightening rod to create a focal point for 
the energies he would call. It should work, the major insisted, but just 
to be sure she wanted to run a few models.

"There's something I just don't get," O'Neill finally muttered. "What's 
a Stargate doing in the middle of Ancient Greece? And why hasn't it been 
active until now?"

"It's probably from the original Shrine of Pythias at Delphi," Daniel 
responded.

"Oh, now that's helpful," O'Neill rolled his eyes.

Methos smiled wryly. "In mythology," he explained. "The god Pythias 
often took the form of a python."

"Another snakehead," O'Neill grimaced in disgust.

"Very likely," Methos agreed. 

"According to the legend," Daniel explained. "Pythias fought Apollo and 
lost. Only to be trapped in his lair at the center of the earth. The 
passage down was supposedly at Delphi. After the battle, the Omphalos, 
or passageway, was sealed over and another temple erected on the site, 
where the Sibyl, a sort of mystic cum fortune teller priestess, became 
the Oracle of Apollo."

"Supposedly," Methos said, taking up the story. "Pythias' breath came 
from a hole left in the ground and inhaling the fumes gave whoever sat 
on the stone above the Omphalos the ability to see the future. Bunch of 
drug addled bimbos muttering nonsense, if you ask me," he snorted 
derisively.

"You never went to the Oracle at Delphi?" Daniel asked, surprised.

"Oh, I went," Methos nodded. "257 BC," he recalled. "It was great fun. 
Sort of like going to Vegas. You know it's going to cost a fortune and 
everything's in favor of the house, but you go anyway, just to see what 
all the hype is about."

"So what did you ask her?"

"When I'd die, of course."

O'Neill laughed. "What'd she say?"

"That I was mocking her and to get the hell out," Methos smirked. "Woman 
had no sense of humor."

"She knew what you were?" Daniel asked, astonished.

"Of course she did," Methos grinned. "She was Immortal. Liked to play 
handmaiden of the gods. Kept her safe on holy ground for centuries. I 
did run into her again a few years back. Owns an occult book shop in New 
York. Still no sense of humor," he sighed.

O'Neill grinned and shook his head while Daniel looked vaguely shocked.

The colonel finally sighed. "That's...interesting, but what does it have 
to do with the gate downstairs?"

"Nothing," Methos shrugged. "Except that some of the original Pythians 
probably survived and brought the gate here in the hope that one day the 
god would rise."

"When most of Greece was leveled by a series of earthquakes," Daniel 
added, glancing at the ruins. "Maybe only the gate survived."

"My guess," Methos commented. "Is that it will soon be buried in another 
one. Much the same as every other gate the Goa'uld might have left 
behind."

"That brings to mind another problem," Daniel said softly. "If this 
doesn't work, what are we going to do? We can't stay here."

"It'll work," O'Neill insisted, refusing to give up hope.

Methos nodded. It had better work, he thought, because right now they 
were running out of options. Most of all, he didn't fancy spending the 
next three thousand years avoiding the Horsemen. Especially since he'd 
also have to avoid himself in all those places he'd been avoiding the 
others.

Behind them, Carter emerged from the ruins, Teal'c trailing beside. 
"We're ready, sir."

Methos rose with the rest of the team, but stayed at the entrance above. 
This would be tricky, he knew, to call the Quickening and not lose 
himself in the power as he waited for the gate to open then to grab his 
sword as he ran and leap through the gate before it could close once the 
current died. But then, the simplest of plans were often the most 
dangerous and if he missed his chance he would be stuck here unless the 
others could find a way to get him back.

"Okay," Carter murmured, checking the connections one last time. "Let's 
do it."

They moved back against the far wall watching as Methos raised his arm 
and called the lightening, directing it to his sword and from there to 
the gate itself. With enough power energizing the gate, Carter darted 
out and programmed the DHD. They got ready to run, watching as the outer 
track turned and the chevrons locked. Then...nothing. 

A moment later, when it was obvious they weren't leaving O'Neill called 
to Methos telling him to stand down. Exhausted, he fell to his knees, 
blearily watching as Teal'c gathered up his sword and the others joined 
him above.

"Well, that was a big bust," O'Neill muttered, leaning down to grab 
Methos under the arms and haul him outside. "You okay?"

The Immortal nodded. "Bitterly disappointed," he admitted. "I was so 
hoping Major Carter was wrong."

"I too am unhappy," Teal'c stated, offering Methos his sword.

"You're not the only ones," Daniel said, sinking to the grass beside his 
companions.

"Well, there is another option," Carter pointed out, joining them. "We 
find a place to live quietly and in three thousand years Captain Pierson 
makes sure we don't ever go to that ship."

Methos raised his brows. "Thanks for the vote of confidence in terms of 
my continued survival, Major, but what in the world will I do for the 
next three thousand years while I'm waiting to pull your asses out of 
the fire?"

"Whatever you did for the last three thousand," she said calmly. "Once 
you warn us and we don't go, history will have changed and this will 
have never happened. The timeline will correct itself and the original 
Methos will still be part of the SGC never having gone back in time."

"So, I will simply cease to exist," Methos surmised. "How kind of you to 
offer me that option."

"It's just an idea," O'Neill told him. "We can try something else before 
it comes to that."

"Like what?" Daniel asked. "If that ship explodes again the chain 
reaction is still going to rip the atmosphere from the planet. We need 
to find a way to stop it."

"What about the Tok'ra?" O'Neill asked.

"Even if we knew where some of them were this far back in time it still 
wouldn't do us any good," Daniel pointed out. "We need to prevent that 
ship from exploding."

"Then we must go to Egypt and await the arrival of the Goa'uld," Teal'c 
stated blandly. "Once there, we will find a way to prevent your world's 
destruction and utilize their gate to return us to our own time."

A stunned silence greeted his suggestion, until Methos finally nodded. 
"It might just work. I mean, we've got two years to get there."

                         *******************

Chapter 7

By late afternoon they'd succeeded in setting up a more permanent camp 
next to the eastern wall of the ruins with a hastily constructed shelter 
made of tent halves and emergency blankets. Layering on their street 
clothes underneath their thin desert uniforms had added extra protection 
against the sudden drop in temperature the rains had brought. A large 
fire warmed the area sufficiently, though the looming cloud cover atop 
Mt. Parnassus foretold more bad weather to come. A quick inventory of 
their supplies had revealed enough freeze dried rations, energy bars and 
candy to last about two weeks, if they were careful. But Methos had 
plans to supplement that by hunting as well as to go shopping.

"Shopping?" O'Neill asked, obviously surprised at the suggestion.

"Yeah," Methos grinned. "Shopping. We need stuff. Like clothes, food, 
blankets, a donkey. Daniel's right, O'Neill. We can't remain here 
indefinitely and leave for Egypt when the time comes. We've got to move 
now."

"Why now?"

Methos gave a quiet sigh. How could he expect these children of the 
modern age to truly understand? "First," he explained patiently. "It may 
be winter and travel is limited, but there are still people moving 
around out there," he gestured toward the forest. "The locals may be 
superstitious about this place and not come here, but others might. And 
being afraid of something doesn't necessarily mean you're afraid to 
fight the evil demons who've suddenly sprung up in your backyard. Quite 
the opposite, in fact, believe me."

"Okay. We need to move. Got it," O'Neill nodded. "Next?"

"Second," Methos went on. "We can't run around dressed in these clothes 
and not expect to be challenged. The Dorians never were a placid bunch, 
even once they got settled hereabouts. They're a tribal people and still 
very suspicious of foreigners. We need to look like them as much as 
possible, so that even if they know we're not from around here they'll 
think we're not too distantly related. Following the forms and customs 
is always a good idea."

"Great," Jack grimaced. "We all get to wear itchy woolen blankets for 
clothing."

"I'll buy some linen for linings," Methos smiled, wondering vaguely why 
he hadn't thought of that three thousand years ago. "I promise, you 
won't get a rash."

"Gee, thanks, Dad!" O'Neill rolled his eyes. "And the donkey?"

"A donkey and cart to start. Eventually we'll need horses. These," he 
held up the torn wrapper of an energy bar, "do not exist. Everything 
comes in sacks, baskets or clay jars. Which means we'll need pack 
animals to carry our supplies. And once you add them into the equation 
the logistics have to be proportionately enlarged. Grain and food stuffs 
for us, oats for the donkeys and horses. And we'll need travel supplies. 
Tents, bedding, cookware, and items to barter when cash money won't 
suffice. There aren't any inns yet, Colonel, and we can't just wander 
into town looking for the familiar golden arches."

"Did you have to say that?" O'Neill complained, staring miserably at his 
energy bar. "Damn! Now I want a burger and fries."

"That's something else you won't see much of for a while," Methos told 
him softly. "Meat, especially beef, is very expensive. Most people make 
do with fish and the occasional fowl. Pork and goat are available, but 
usually only eaten after they're sacrificed. And in Egypt most meals, 
even in wealthy houses, consist mainly of bread and beer. Of course, 
we'll supplement that with cheese, fruit, fish and as much meat as we 
can afford, but don't expect the quality to be as good as you might 
like."

"Sounds yummy," the colonel grumbled. "So, when do we leave for the 
mall?"

"I'm leaving. You're not."

"Are you ashamed of us?"

Methos grinned, looking around the fire at his companions' bemused 
expressions. "Maybe later -- when you all start scratching in public," 
he smirked. "For now though, not one of you is safe beyond this 
clearing. Teal'c," he nodded at the big Jaffa. "Is far too exotic 
without the appropriate entourage. Major Carter and Daniel," he shook 
his head as he looked at the pair. "Let's just say blondes are rare in 
this part of the world and highly prized. As for you," he looked at 
O'Neill. "I'd feel a whole lot better if you stayed to guard them while 
I'm gone."

"We can take care of ourselves," Samantha insisted.

"He's talking about slavery, Carter," O'Neill pointed out.

"Or worse," Methos sighed. "Let me be blunt, Major. You're both not only 
blonde, but your skin is fair and you're attractive. Tell me, Danny, you 
know the times. With a combination like that where would you expect to 
end up?"

The archaeologist flushed deeply, but nodded. "Probably a brothel -- if 
we were lucky. Personal pets of some local ruler if we're not."

"Lucky?!" Carter asked, horrified.

"Lucky as it gets," Methos shrugged. "You'd be better off in a brothel. 
If it's a good house the owner's less likely to beat you if you're 
bringing in good money -- which you certainly would because of your hair 
and eyes. And the customers would give you gifts. Eventually, you might 
even get enough money to buy yourself out, but not until you were used 
up by the amount of trade you'd be forced to endure. And then what would 
you do?" he added pointedly. "You have no useful skills like weaving or 
sewing. And no one would be likely to marry you because you wouldn't 
have a dowry, or a family line which could be traced. The fact is," he 
told her honestly. "This world is not friendly to those without the 
means of survival, Major. There are no social services, no charitable 
organizations and no international movements rallying to free the 
slaves. They are, quite simply, appliances. Human washing machines and 
industrial cogs."

Samantha grimaced, looking obviously disgusted. "So, we all just sit 
back while you to take care of us?" she finally asked, very much 
annoyed.

"Just for a little while," he said gently. "Once we're on the road 
things will be different. You'll all have your parts to play in our 
little charade."

"Don't tell me," O'Neill grimaced wryly. "You've got a plan."
 
"Don't I always?" Methos smiled widely.

                         *******************

"Oh, this was a great plan," Methos muttered angrily as he wended his 
way through the forest. He was cold and wet and desperately hungry, 
since he'd refused to take what little supplies the others had. Just a 
canteen for water and some strips of rabbit he'd caught the night 
before. In his pocket he had twenty-two copper pennies, the total sum of 
useful coinage they'd had among them. He had other coins, but the metal 
being unknown might not go over well with the locals. They'd probably 
take it, but not at a fair exchange rate like the copper -- it being 
used in combination with tin to make bronze. And much of it, he knew, 
would go towards their immediate purchases. He would have to think of 
something else to help them survive. Had, in fact, already thought of 
it, but it was an idea he knew none of them would like.

The scent of burning wood caught his attention and he made his way 
toward whatever little hovel he might be lucky enough to have stumbled 
upon. There were few roads this far into the back country and dressed as 
he was he didn't dare travel on anything more established than a goat 
track.

He was surprised then when he reached the edge of the forest to find a 
fairly large farm house on the outskirts of what appeared to be a 
village. But then he'd spent most of his time during this period in 
Greek history in Africa or Asia Minor. Civilized places where the cities 
and towns were more to his liking. He and the Horsemen had been through 
here a few times, but they'd never stayed longer than a few decades at 
most. The Myceneans had been far too eager to fight and after the 
collapse of their civilization there wasn't much gold to be had anyway. 
The Dorians, who now dominated the area after taking advantage of that 
collapse and successfully invading, might have been less organized, but 
they had also been far less acquisitive than the Horsemen had liked.

He moved through the woods, carefully screening himself in the foliage 
until he'd edged around toward the front of the house. Inside, two women 
were chatting and he could hear their laughter drifting in his 
direction. There were no men about, Methos smiled to himself, imagining 
that they were probably in the village gossiping and drinking wine with 
the rest of the farmers. This being the rainy season there wasn't much 
to do on a farm after the animals got fed and the goats got milked. Only 
a single male slave watched at the door and an old one at that. A sop to 
convention that said the women must never be left alone and unguarded. 
He didn't see any children, but they might be in the village as well, 
running wild with the rest of the urchins until a slave was sent to call 
them home.

Methos pulled out his zat gun and carefully moved out toward the side of 
the house. Staying close to the wall he edged around the corner to the 
front, where the slave seemed to have nodded off. He fired once then 
caught the man before he could fall into the mud beside the door. No 
alarm came from the house and Methos easily pulled the man inside.

Without thinking about it twice he quickly stripped the man of his tunic 
and sandals. Good wool, he thought. Not, he was glad, simply a 
threadbare, cut down castoff of the master's. Likely made new by the 
women of the house because the slave been with them a long while and 
they were rather fond of the old fart. He bundled the clothes and 
sandals inside his jacket and turned to leave, pausing for a moment to 
look back. The man was old by the standard of the times and would 
certainly be punished for the loss -- even if no sane man would give 
away his only clothing. Still, masters as he well knew, did not have to 
be rational in their ire. Cloth and leather were expensive and quick 
replacements might not be easy to find. With a silent sigh he pulled a 
penny from his pocket and put it on the floor beside the old man. Far 
more than the items were worth, but whatever excuse he gave the family 
that owned him at least now they could afford not to beat him too hard. 

He ran for the woods, moving swiftly through the undergrowth, still 
feeling the tiny rush of adrenaline his little adventure had caused. It 
sustained him until he deemed he was far enough away from the village to 
stop and make use of the things he'd bought. 

Well, not exactly bought, Methos thought wryly as he changed his 
clothes. Still, it was close enough for his scruples to suit even the 
Highlander's morals. Well, maybe not his, Methos thought, with a grimace 
of distaste. Not unless he'd found a warm blanket for the old slave and 
tucked him up safe for the night before running off. On the other hand, 
he knew what most people in this day and age were like. And he didn't 
doubt for a moment that if he'd offered the same money to the women 
they'd have thought nothing of stripping the old, much favored slave 
bare on the spot. 

Feeling less like a hunted man than he probably should have without his 
sword, though he did have a pair of daggers strapped to his sides, 
Methos rolled up his own clothes, wrapping them inside his uniform 
jacket. His combat boots would have been better for this terrain, he 
sighed in dismay, but they just wouldn't work with the chiton. Pity, he 
thought, but he'd just have to put up with mud between his toes and the 
occasional rock. 

"Now for the donkey," he muttered with a disgusted sigh. At least then 
he could ride.

                         *******************

Chapter 8

He was an odd looking slave when he rode into Delphi, but they were used 
to that. Even before the rest of the country was back on its collective 
feet in another century or so, the Oracle still had visitors coming from 
far and wide. Not as many as it would eventually have, and not nearly as 
often, but enough to mask his presence and for Methos that was all 
right.

They didn't ask where he was from, or care much about him at all except 
to remark on the fairness of his skin. What concerned the small 
shopkeepers was the weight and purity of his coin. And none cared at all 
how he came by it. He was obviously a trusted slave to be deemed so 
responsible at such a young age. He was also well mannered, though not 
disgustingly servile. So they sold him a small cart and some ready made 
clothes at exorbitant prices and counted themselves lucky even if his 
master was an idiot. No one bought clothes made ready to wear except 
foreign fools and motherless bachelors.

With eight pennies left in his pocket Methos went on a shopping spree, 
but this time he bargained hard. When he was done both the cart and the 
donkey were overloaded with jars of foodstuffs, chests of linen, leather 
and bolts of lesser quality wool cloth along with numerous household 
items. And with his last penny he purchased another sword.

Hiding a smile he urged the donkey forward and with a gentle flick of 
the reins he started back. When spring came and foaling season arrived 
he'd be back to buy the horses -- and maybe a little something more.

                         *******************
 
"He said it could take a week or more, so no, Daniel, I'm not worried." 
O'Neill scooped another handful of clay from the stream into the sack 
he'd made out of his rain poncho. "Not yet, anyway."

"Well, I am," the archaeologist muttered. "Adam's out there alone and 
virtually unarmed. What if he runs into another Immortal. Damn it! He 
wouldn't even be in this mess if I hadn't recommended him for that 
translation job."

"Feeling a little guilty, are we?"

"Maybe I am," Daniel admitted. "It's just... It can't be easy for him. 
Look at us. I don't know about you, but this isn't my idea of a good 
time."

"You managed well enough on Abydos," O'Neill pointed out.

"That was different. I had Sha're to think of and for the first six 
months I barely felt the culture shock. Then reality set in and I had to 
go into the fields with the others, even if I was teaching most of the 
rest of the time."

"You did good, Daniel. And Pierson will be fine. He's been here and done 
that, remember?"

"That's not the point," he muttered, turning as Carter came part way 
down the path.

"Colonel!" she called urgently. "Teal'c just radioed in. Someone's 
coming."

O'Neill handed Daniel the clay filled rain poncho and went to meet her. 
"Is it Pierson?"

"He thinks so, sir, but he can't be sure. He's still a ways out."

O'Neill nodded and strode back up the path toward the hills behind the 
temple where they'd built their new camp. The day after Methos had left 
it had rained so long and hard that the temple had flooded, so they'd 
moved to higher ground and dug in for the duration. More importantly, it 
had a good view of the land on all sides. A short while later he reached 
the top and joined Teal'c in their observation post, easily climbing up 
the rope they'd secured to a tree and into the branches above.

"Which direction?" O'Neill asked the Jaffa, who lounged comfortably 
several feet away.

"From the south," he pointed. "One man leading a beast and a cart."

O'Neill pulled out his binoculars and had a look. A tall thin man 
completely wrapped in what looked like a blanket trudged along leading a 
donkey and cart up the narrow, overgrown path that led to the temple. 
The man paused in his journey long enough to push back the cloth that 
covered his head to take a drink from the canteen which hung from the 
side of the cart.

"It's him," O'Neill grinned.

"Shall we go meet him?" Teal'c asked.

O'Neill shook his head. "Nah," he smiled. "He looks okay from here. And 
besides," he added as he felt something cool and wet splash against his 
cheek. "It's starting to rain."

                         *******************

"Come on, girl," Methos urged the donkey. "Just a little bit further and 
you can have a nice rest and something to eat where it's toasty warm and 
dry."

The animal balked again at the up slope in the path and Methos sighed in 
despair. He missed cars and buses and floor board heating, and right 
about now he wouldn't even mind getting one of those annoying 
telemarketing phone calls. He moved up the path in the dark, tripping as 
his long chiton, soaked and heavy with rain water, wrapped around his 
ankles pulling him down into the rocky mud.

God, he thought miserably, shivering as the wind whipped him cruelly, 
he'd forgotten just how awful it was.

"Need some help, soldier?" he heard as the brilliant glare of a 
flashlight beam suddenly blinded him.

Wincing, Methos shielded his eyes with his arm. "Christ, O'Neill! It's 
about fucking time! Just how long have you been watching?!"

Strong hands helped him to his feet as he heard the colonel chuckling 
from above. Teal'c, he realized with relief as the big man threw an arm 
around his shoulders. 

"Couple of hours," O'Neill told him as the Jaffa practically lifted him 
the rest of the way up the path. "You were doing okay until your friend 
there decided to stop."

Ah, he thought, suddenly understanding. This was his punishment for not 
revealing Tok'ra's little message at the proper time. So be it, Methos 
thought, too tired to argue. 

The light went off as he sensed two figures moving past him in dark.

"Glad you're safe, Adam," Daniel murmured, laying a hand on his 
shoulder.

"There's warm food back at camp," Samantha added. "Why don't you go dry 
off."

He nodded tiredly in response, barely noticing when Teal'c turned back 
to help take charge of the donkey and cart and O'Neill led him past the 
ruins. 

"We moved to higher ground a week or so ago," he informed Methos as he 
helped him up the path. "It's a little rough, but we're working on it."

A structure loomed against the dark and for a moment Methos thought he 
was seeing an old style barracks. Then he was inside and his tired eyes 
grew round as he got his first look at what these children of the modern 
age had wrought.

It was indeed a barracks of sorts. A little rectangular house made of 
rough hewn logs with a clay floor covered in straw. In one corner of the 
room granite blocks from the ruins and field stone had been used to 
create a huge hearth with a small opening in the ceiling just above to 
draw the smoke out. To build the roof they'd obviously scavenged timber 
from the old temple's ceiling. Good seasoned wood originally coated in 
pitch and meant to last a dozen generations or more. The cracks had been 
filled in with more clay and probably covered over with sod for extra 
warmth.

"Like I said," O'Neill shrugged. "It's rough, but it keeps the rain 
off."

Rough? Methos thought, astonished. "I've seen rich men living in worse," 
he mumbled, staggering towards the fire.

"Hey! Hey!" O'Neill called. "You're dripping on my floor!"

Methos sighed exhaustedly and briefly closed his eyes. Modern children, 
modern sensibilities, he thought wryly. With a shrug of his shoulders 
the himation, his cloak, fell to floor, quickly followed by the chiton. 
With practiced fingers he unlaced his sandals, walking away from the 
nasty wet pile dressed only in his dignity and sank limply to his 
haunches by the hearth.

Behind him, he could hear O'Neill muttering as he picked up after him, 
but didn't bother to pay attention. He was chilled to the bone and 
starving. The packet of bread, cheese, fish and olives he'd bought in 
Delphi had run out the day before and opening the wax seals on the jars 
would have ruined the contents. "Carter mentioned food," he whispered 
tiredly.

O'Neill came up behind him and laid a uniform jacket across his 
shoulders, dropping a dry pair of jeans and a tee shirt beside him into 
which Methos hurriedly scrambled.

"In here," Jack said, shoving aside a large flat paving stone from the 
front of the hearth. Inset into the blocks they'd left an opening, lined 
it with clay to hold the heat and built an oven. 

Methos grunted in surprise. "Clever," he murmured, then moaned softly as 
he inhaled the marvelous aroma of the food inside.

"Carter's idea," O'Neill grinned, grabbing a plate and fork from a stack 
nearby. "Me? I'd have just gone with a spit. Barbecue style."

Methos nodded. So would he. But trust a woman to design a better, more 
serviceable hearth.

O'Neill speared a couple of small birds onto the plate then used one of 
the camping cups to ladle some vegetables beside it.

"You've done well," Methos said appreciatively, noting the wild onions, 
turnips and mushrooms that now graced the plate O'Neill handed over.

"Just the basics," he responded, watching Methos savor his first bite. 
"The Air Force requires survival training for all its pilots. This is 
just Foraging 101. At least we didn't have to resort to eating bugs. Oh, 
and there's fish and pork smoking in the shed out back."

Methos' eyes went wide. "You guys took a boar?!"

"Just Teal'c. He didn't know what it was. Found it rooting around the 
latrine and used his staff on it. Too bad you missed it, we had ribs 
last night."

"Well save me the tongue," Methos insisted, refusing to hide his 
delight. "I haven't had a decent boar's tongue dinner in over six 
hundred years."

"It's all yours," O'Neill told him, glancing past Methos as the door 
behind them opened.

"We got it all up," Carter informed them. "Daniel's securing the donkey 
out back under the tent."

Methos shook his head. That donkey would be living better than their 
neighbors down the road if the children had their way, he thought 
sardonically.

"Good work," O'Neill told her, getting to his feet. "I'll give you a 
hand getting everything inside."

They left Methos to his dinner and he watched, much bemused while with 
military precision they quickly stacked the goods he'd bought against 
the opposite wall. 

"Think you got enough stuff?" O'Neill asked sarcastically as Teal'c, 
Daniel and Carter brought in the last items.

"Not as much as I would have liked," Methos told him honestly. "But 
enough for five healthy individuals to get by for a time."

"Sir," Carter said, glancing worriedly at Methos as she discreetly 
showed the colonel something she'd carried in.

O'Neill frowned and held up the old slave's tunic he'd first worn. "What 
the hell is this?" he asked angrily, obviously referring to the bloody 
cuts and tears in the cloth.

Methos shrugged. "A handful of street toughs tried to divest me of my 
goods on the way out of Delphi. I simply disabused them of the notion 
that I was harmless."

"Right," O'Neill nodded briefly. "From now on, you don't go anywhere 
alone. That's an order."

"An order that cannot be carried out," Methos told him bluntly. "None of 
you speak the language, and even Daniel doesn't speak it well enough to 
make himself clearly understood in the market. You don't move like 
proper Greeks and you don't know the cultural forms. Gossip and chatter 
being the only entertainment around, taking even one of you to town 
right now would be suicide."

"So we learn," Daniel said, accepting Methos' expert judgment. "But Jack 
is right. It isn't safe for you to go alone."

Methos shook his head and smiled. "I'm tougher than I look, Danny. And 
I've been at this quite a bit longer than any of you have."

"That may be true," O'Neill told him. "But you're also our ace in the 
hole. And if we have to spend the rest of our miserable lives here, 
you're going to be right there, miserably spending yours alongside us."

"All right," Methos offered, smiling with pleasure at the oddly 
comforting sentiment, and willing now to compromise. "How about this? I 
will teach you what I think you need to know if anything should by 
chance happen to me. And in addition, I promise to take no risks that I 
have never undertaken before. Anything else, I know how to survive or 
endure."

"Fair enough," O'Neill nodded. "Now get some rest," he gestured toward 
the sleeping bags rolled up in the corner. "Tomorrow you can help me 
start on a bedroom for Carter."

                         *******************

Chapter 9

The sound of hammering woke Methos early the next morning and he sighed, 
rubbing his eyes as he sat up. He didn't know whether to curse or praise 
a military that believed hammers, nails, pliers, saws, spades and axes 
should be considered part of the basic survival package. Still, he 
thought, having awakened warm and dry for the first time in nearly a 
fortnight, who was he to complain?

He got out of bed and rolled up the sleeping bag, disdaining the 
himation and chiton someone had hung by the fire to dry and went to find 
his boots and socks. They were neatly stacked with the rest of the 
team's gear and he gratefully put them on before going outside.

"Morning!" Jack called as he banged away at a wooden frame that looked 
to be more scavenged planking. "Just making some shelving for all our 
stuff," he explained at Methos' quizzical expression.

The Immortal merely nodded. "You know, we're leaving in a few months."

"So what?" O'Neill said, putting aside his tools as he stood up. "We're 
not gonna freeze our asses off living in a tent just because we're not 
sticking around that long. Why should we? Besides, what else is there to 
do around here?"

That was true, Methos nodded. And why not? Everyone ought to have a 
hobby. "Where is everybody?" he asked curiously, looking around the 
empty camp.

"Carter and Daniel took the cart down to the stream to get more clay for 
the major's flooring. And Teal'c's decided to try his hand at wood 
working. He's out looking for trees that speak to him -- although I've 
never liked a chatty dining room table. Too annoying, don't you think?"

"Only if we haven't been properly introduced," Methos responded drolly.

"Come on," O'Neill grinned, leading him over to the side of the little 
house where a new foundation was being laid for an extension.

O'Neill reached behind a pile of timber and pulled out a small thermos. 
"Saved this for you," he said, tossing the item to Methos. "It's the 
last of the coffee."

"Thanks," he smiled gratefully, taking a seat on the logs before pouring 
out the contents into the lid cup. "I'm definitely going to miss this," 
he sighed, taking a sip. Even freeze dried the stuff tasted heavenly.

"We'll get back," O'Neill said with certainty.

Methos only nodded. He too was hopeful, and yet remained pragmatic about 
the situation -- already planning ahead to where he might have to take 
them if they didn't. Certainly out of the way of any invading armies. 
Though that might be difficult in this day and age.

"So, you want to give me your report?" O'Neill asked quietly.

"Nothing much to tell," he shrugged. "I walked to Delphi, spent your 
pocket change and came back here. Other than that rabble in town I 
didn't have any trouble."

"No one in the area knows we're here?" 

Methos shook his head. "I passed through several villages on the way 
back. The nearest one to the south is a day and a half from here. And 
given the amount of rain we've had the north is probably flooding. Like 
I said, there's not a lot of movement during the winter months, but come 
spring someone might show up. I saw signs of Dionysians in the woods 
further down the slopes. The women probably use the ruins for their 
ceremonies. We should definitely leave before the Great Festival."

"What? And miss all the fun?" O'Neill grinned.

"It's not fun," Methos told him curtly. "If they're using the ruins 
they're probably also using the hills for the wilding. I've never 
actually seen the ceremony. That was forbidden. But I have seen the 
results. They drink a lot of wine mixed with hallucinogens to bring on 
visions and race through the woods in praise of Dionysos. If they find a 
male, any male," he stressed, "even a small child, they'll tear him to 
pieces. Bare hands, bare teeth. And it's all legal."

"You've gotta be kidding?" O'Neill whispered, appalled.

"Not even a little," he answered in deadly earnest. "It's a wild cult 
that came out of India a few centuries back and took hold among the 
women. Remember, Greek females are suppressed by their men, not just 
oppressed. As you can imagine," he added wryly. "Dionysos, even if he is 
the god of wine, isn't much favored by the male population. But they 
seem to feel that letting the girls engage in a little ritual madness 
once a year is a small price to pay for quiet in the house all the 
rest."

"Okay," O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "I'll put out a memo. No partying 
with the local women."

"Don't worry," Methos grinned. "We should be well away from here by the 
time the grapes are harvested and the new wine is ready for the 
festival."

"Sounds good to me. Now that's settled," he smiled. "You wanna give me a 
hand here?"

Methos glanced in dismay at the building materials. Construction was not 
a trade he'd ever really been interested in, and he'd done it only when 
absolutely necessary. "Actually," he offered brightly. "I thought I'd go 
check your snares and reset them. Those birds last night were 
marvelous."

"Gee, thanks!" O'Neill grinned. "But I didn't use any snares."

Methos gave him a confused look. "Then how...?"

The colonel shrugged and whipped out his zat gun, firing once at the 
nearest tree. A dozen or so birds dropped to the ground as Methos sat 
staring in amazement.

O'Neill put the weapon away and moved to start working. "You wanna get 
lunch, Pierson?" he gestured grandly at the decimation.

Methos rolled his eyes and sighed. "You have a fast food mind," he 
muttered disgustedly, putting away the empty thermos.

"Teach you to try and wriggle out of duty, Captain Pierson. Oh, and by 
the way," O'Neill smirked as he walked away. "He who cooks also cleans. 
You police the cabin today. And don't forget the latrine," he ordered 
cheerfully. "I know Teal'c will be grateful."

With a wry grimace Methos saluted. "Thank you, sir!" he called to 
O'Neill's retreating figure. "Glad to be back, sir! I'll fetch a good 
price at market, sir! I hear they're having a sale on minions!"

"Not a chance, Pierson!" he shot back. "The Great Satan likes you right 
where you are. Under his thumb and happy about it!"

"On a cold day in hell," Methos muttered as O'Neill rounded the corner. 
"Bloody ungrateful bastard!" he sighed, glancing at the fallen covey. 
Still, he'd known what he was getting into when he'd signed those papers 
back at the SGC. If everyone else was working, he'd be expected to as 
well. He got to his feet and took off his jacket to put the birds in. 
Ah, hell, maybe it wasn't so bad. He who cooked might also have to clean 
-- but then he usually got to eat the most heartily.

                         *******************

Chapter 10

Daniel shook his head slowly. "You can't be serious, Adam?"

"We need money," Methos insisted. "And lots of it. For the passage to 
Egypt. For bribing officials to look the other way when we get there. 
For food and clothing. Not to mention life's other little necessities -- 
like transportation and housing costs. It's the only way!"

"No," Daniel said, refusing to listen as he got up from his grinding to 
add more flour to his bread mix. It was his turn to cook today and 
Methos had taken the opportunity to come by and pitch his idea. "It's 
bad enough we had to take stones from the ruins to build the foundation 
for this place. I won't be a party to it!"

"A party to what?" O'Neill asked as he came in, taking off his rain 
poncho and muddy boots before going to the hearth for a cup of wild mint 
tea.

"Adam wants to rob the tholoi we found last week."

"The what?" O'Neill asked, taking a seat at the table.

Teal'c had done a fine job, Methos thought absently. He'd leveled the 
wood to perfection and polished it with some of the bees wax Methos had 
bought for sealing jars and making candles. It would be a shame to leave 
it all behind, the Immortal thought, but leave they must. After three 
weeks up here everyone seemed to be settling in and he considered it his 
job to remind them why they could not.

"The tombs Sam and I came across when we were out foraging," Daniel 
explained.

"I knew that," O'Neill said hurriedly. "Those mounds you raved about, 
right?" Daniel nodded and O'Neill gave Methos a curious glance. "So, 
what's in them, other than the dear departed, that's got you're interest 
piqued?"

"Gold," Methos told him, crossing his arms as he leaned back in his 
chair. "Enough to get us to Egypt and then some."

O'Neill nodded. "He's got a point, Daniel."

Jackson put down the bowl he was using for bread making and turned to 
stare. "Those tombs are valuable historical evidence from an important 
period in Greek history. We can't just strip them because we need the 
money!"

Methos gave a wry twist of his lips. "So speaks a man who robs tombs 
professionally."

"That's different and you know it!" Daniel shouted, incensed by the 
accusation.

"Is it?" Methos asked coolly. "You do it for the sake of the historical 
record. For knowledge," he added mockingly. "But those people didn't 
want to be known. They didn't care whether or not you understood them. 
They wanted to be left in peace on their journey to the underworld, 
whether you accept their religious practices as valid or not. And the 
last fate any of them would have chosen was to have their bones and 
their grave goods on display for hordes of curious gawkers. They would 
have wept with shame to be so disrespected. There was a reason for 
cursing anyone who entered a tomb."

"But you want to," Daniel stated quietly.

"They're dead, Danny. They don't need that gold and we do."

"We can find another way," he insisted, looking to Jack for support.

The colonel sat quietly for a long moment, staring into his cup. "If 
those were my loved ones out there," he said softly. "I'd be really 
pissed off if anyone, for any reason, dug up their graves. But," he 
added with a quiet sigh. "You both have a point. Knowledge versus 
necessity. Daniel," he said with finality. "You have a week to come up 
with an alternative. Then we start digging."

                         *******************

Methos hoisted the deer he'd bagged over his shoulders and started 
heading back to camp. Now that the cabin was finished to everyone's 
satisfaction there was more time for him to enjoy the simple pursuits 
he'd once considered a normal part of life. Not that he'd ever made an 
effort to go hunting when professionals and butchers were available to 
do the job for him -- and he was just as content to buy his meat at the 
supermarket. But there was a certain amount of gratification involved 
when he brought something big into camp. And, shallow, egotistical man 
that he was, Methos admitted ruefully, he quite liked the applause.

A while later he entered the clearing, surprised to find the place 
nearly empty. With the exception of O'Neill, who sat under what had 
become the all purpose work tent -- and he seemed to be occupied with 
something other than building this morning -- no one else was in 
evidence. Teal'c, having gotten the carpentry bug was probably out 
chatting up the trees again. Carter was likely working on some project 
or other. And if he knew Danny, which he did, the boy was probably down 
by the tombs trying to document as much as he could before O'Neill gave 
the okay and let Methos rip into them.

The Immortal hid a smile at the thought. Poor Daniel had not been able 
to come up with a single alternative that wasn't either too time 
consuming or too dangerous. Methos was still silently laughing over the 
preposterous notion of the entire team traveling through the countryside 
as itinerant soothsayers and dealers in healthful potions. They'd all be 
dead inside a week! Such things might seem possible to the modern mind, 
but the ancient way of thinking was far too different. In this part of 
the world, strangers were not only unwelcome, but those with magical 
abilities were feared and hated. The first child that took sick, or mare 
that died in foaling would be blamed on them -- even if they hadn't been 
anywhere near the injured parties. The very rain that fell in the same 
amount and at the same time each year would be considered a curse of the 
gods and fingers would be pointed at the newcomers. It wouldn't matter 
if they gave good advice on when to plant and what to plant in overtaxed 
fields. If your ancestors planted beans on the third moon of the second 
month after the first crow cawed as you were getting out of bed then you 
did the same. And anyone who said different was a renegade and an 
agitator who ought to be dead.

No, Methos knew, there was no other way than the one he had suggested. 
Which meant Daniel was sulking and being a general pain in the ass 
whenever he was around, but so be it. It was time the boy looked past 
the articles of history and saw the people behind them. Warts and all. 
The pot might be beautiful, but the slave who was forced to make it and 
beaten if it broke was at the heart of its history. The living, 
breathing artist who painted it more important than the sum total of his 
work. For all that Daniel loved history, he did not yet know how to love 
the people who had lived that history. They were as strange and 
unaccountable to him in their thoughts and ideas as the members of SG-1 
would be to them.

"Hey!" Methos greeted O'Neill as he came over, dropping the deer on the 
ground.

"Hey yourself, great white hunter," O'Neill grinned.

Methos shrugged, reaching for his canteen. "Just thought we could use a 
change from fish and poultry," he said with studied nonchalance before 
drinking.

O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "Did you check the duty roster this 
morning?" he asked, equally casual.

"Yeah, I did," Methos said, not bothering to hide his annoyance. "I'll 
go to the stream a little later. Although I don't see why we need more 
clay. Carter has her separate bedroom -- as per regulations -- what do 
we need more for?"

"Because we need a kiln."

"For what?" Methos asked, truly curious.

"Carter wants to run some experiments to separate something from 
something else in order to do whatever it is she's doing, and I," he 
smiled. "Am going to use this." He held up a rather crude potter's 
wheel. "Teal'c made it for me," he grinned.

Methos cocked his head. "Well, it's nice that you have a hobby," he 
answered tartly. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need to get a bowl -- so I 
can properly dress the deer we are all going to eat."

That was it, he thought disgustedly, stalking towards the house. 
Tomorrow, when it was his turn to cook, he was definitely going to make 
a deer blood stew -- with heart, liver, tongue and kidneys. Maybe even 
throw in a few lengths of innards just to watch the children squirm as 
it wriggled and slid across their plates. He opened the door to find the 
major up to her elbows in bowls -- every last one of them from the look 
of it -- spread over the table and every available surface. She wasn't 
cooking -- O'Neill had that duty today -- and she was never very happy 
when she got it. Then again, neither was anyone else. So then, what was 
she up to?

Methos went over to the table and glanced down. 

"Rocks?" he asked, angrily wondering when they would learn that this 
wasn't summer vacation. "You're collecting rocks?" he repeated.

She glanced up looking perfectly innocent and content as she sorted 
another stone into the correctly classified bowl. "Actually, I'm looking 
for iodine crystals in the rock formations."

"Were you planning to dye something?" he asked, surprised by her 
response.

She smiled and shook her head, running her scanner over another rock 
looking for the substance she sought. "Colonel O'Neill put me in charge 
of the medical kit," she explained. "We're also going to run out of 
water purification tablets eventually and iodine is a naturally 
occurring antibacterial. Two drops in a gallon of water will purify it 
completely. And, given the number of cuts, scraps, burns and blisters 
everyone's been getting I thought it might be prudent to plan ahead. 
Which reminds me. I need alcohol for the kit and to process the crystal 
once I've smelted it out of the rock. How much of our grain can I have?"

Methos stared at her dumbly for a long moment. "As much as you like," he 
finally murmured. 

Now it was her turn to look surprised. Methos had been placed in charge 
of the food supply and as they'd all learned in the past few weeks he 
was notoriously tightfisted with it. Foraging to supplement their stores 
had become a way of life for almost everybody whenever they were out in 
the field.

"I don't need much," she told him carefully, obviously unsure of his 
reaction. "Maybe a couple of sacks."

"Did I ever tell you I was a doctor in a former incarnation?" he 
suddenly asked, picking up a large bowl and sitting down in the chair on 
which it had been placed as he held it in his lap. "Several times, in 
fact."

"Colonel O'Neill mentioned it," she nodded dubiously. "One of the 
reasons I started this project was because I considered the possibility 
that one of us might be injured severely enough to require surgery at 
some point. I think we'd all like it better if you had sterile equipment 
to work with. I know I would."

Methos smiled wryly, absently running his fingers over the rocks. He 
would never have thought to make iodine or alcohol, he realized. Wine 
and vinegar both purified water and he'd already purchased some of each, 
which they used exclusively for cooking now. But later... He would have 
had them carry about several jars of the stuff wherever they went. 
Methos gave a tiny shake of his head. Leave it to the modern mind to 
micro-miniaturize even that! Why carry gallons, when a few ounces will 
do? Leaving more room to carry other equally valuable supplies. And he 
knew how to make several good salves, but none with the potency a proper 
surgery required. Why they could even make aspirin and refined 
penicillin if they wanted!

"It's a brilliant idea, Major Carter," he told her honestly. "I'd no 
clue you were a chemist as well."

"Sort of comes with the science geek territory," she shrugged, giving 
him a self-deprecating smile. "And if there's anything you can think of 
that we might need, I'd be happy to give it a try."

"I'll make a list," he said, glancing down at the bowl as he moved to 
put it aside. "What's this?" he asked curiously as something familiar 
caught his eye.

Samantha leaned forward to look as he held the stone up. "Carnelian 
probably. That sample came from an area where it's common in the rock."

"Carnelian," he repeated, utterly stunned. "What else is in these?" he 
waved a hand across the table.

"Besides that?" Carter shrugged. "Mostly quartz, a little hematite and 
tigers eye, maybe some amethyst. Why?"

"Those are all semi-precious stones," Methos told her, but her 
expression remained only vaguely curious. With a wide grin he leaned 
forward impulsively and kissed her on the nose, laughing softly as she 
fell back, completely startled. "Forgive me, Major, but I think you just 
found our ticket to Egypt!"

                         *******************

Chapter 11

Methos sat by the hearth hand tooling a long strip of deerskin into a 
sword belt. It was delicate, painstaking work, but after two months in 
this place he finally had the time. He listened to the rain pattering on 
the ground outside and wondered how Teal'c and Daniel were getting on. 
They'd gone out early to check the rabbit snares he'd put out and had 
yet to return, while Jack was happy in his little potter's shed making 
more ceramic beakers, test tubes and other items for Carter's work.

He glanced up as Samantha accidentally dropped the tool she'd been 
working with trying chip out another good sized stone. That too was 
painstaking work and everyone took a turn at it, because they didn't 
dare try to smelt it out of the rock. Their control over the kiln's 
temperature wasn't that good and they'd already ruined several precious 
batches of stones. 

"Damn it!" she hissed as she bent to pick up the implement, angrily 
pushing back the hair that now constantly fell in her eyes. Except for 
Teal'c they were all looking a bit shaggy these days. Methos was about 
to offer her one of the many ribbons he'd bought for her use -- things 
which she'd glanced at and then ignored -- when she turned to him and 
started to speak.

Methos held up a hand and shook his head. "In Greek, please," he told 
her quietly. 

As promised, Methos had been working with the team on language skills 
and custom. Daniel, of course, was almost completely fluent in Greek and 
in contemporary Ancient Egyptian, rather than the hybrid dialects of 
Abydos and the Goa'uld. Teal'c was also doing well, though Methos didn't 
think he'd have to do much talking on the journey. All he'd need to do 
was stand there looking dangerous and most people would give him 
anything -- until of course they got to Egypt, where he'd just naturally 
blend in.

O'Neill and Carter on the other hand were problem students, and he'd 
already given up on ever getting them past the basics in Egyptian. As 
for their education in Greek -- which he considered an absolute 
necessity --- neither was very musically inclined and Ancient Greek was 
an inflected language where the pitch, lilt and tone of the spoken word 
often determined its meaning. To improve their skills Methos had decreed 
that they speak only Greek when they were alone with him. Jack chafed, 
but went along with it. Carter simply forgot -- constantly.

Samantha frowned, but nodded, asking her question with the most 
atrocious pronunciation he'd heard from her yet, completely changing the 
meaning. Feigning affront, Methos glanced at his crotch then looked her 
in the eye.

"No," he told her indignantly. "You may not borrow my fat man!"

Appalled, Carter covered her mouth, blushing fiercely until she started 
to laugh. Which of course set Methos to laughing.

"I'm sorry," she finally choked, gesturing at the table. "It's just that 
I'm so frustrated!" Another horrified expression of embarrassment 
crossed her face as his eyes went wide and Samantha realized she'd done 
it again -- and in her own native tongue!

Eventually, they both stopped laughing. Methos put aside his work and 
stood up, stretching the kinks out of his muscles. "Enough," he told her 
gently. "I'm giving you the afternoon off. I think we both need it at 
this point."

She nodded gratefully and sighed, again brushing back the annoying locks 
of hair.

"Would you like me to do something about that?" Methos asked kindly, 
finally taking pity on her plight.

"Don't tell me," Samantha smiled tiredly. "You also do hair and nails."

"After a fashion," he agreed. "Come on, instead of language what do you 
say to working on cultural assimilation for a change of pace?" She 
glanced guiltily down at the stones. "They'll keep," Methos insisted. 
"And besides," he added, trying to alleviate any embarrassment she might 
be feeling. "I was planning this for everyone later in the week. Maybe 
it'll be easier to remember to speak the language if you look like one 
of the people," he suggested.

"Well, I obviously need a break," she finally nodded. "Okay, you're on. 
What do I do?"

Methos grabbed a chair and set it by the hearth. "All you need to do is 
sit," he told her, going to the corner as she moved. He opened one of 
the smaller chests and pulled out a box of toiletries containing all the 
things a woman of some status would require daily. Then, going back to 
the hearth he laid out the items he needed, putting the rest aside.

"What are those for?" Samantha asked as Methos rested a pair of hollow, 
tube shaped clay implements with bone handles near the fire. He told her 
and from the expression on her face, for a moment he thought he'd get 
slapped.

"You had curling irons?! And you didn't bother to tell me?!" she 
accused, voicing her ire.

Methos smiled impishly. "You never asked."

"What else have you got in there?" she said, reaching for the box.

Methos grinned. There was a woman under that uniform after all, he 
thought with relief. "Perfumed oils, scented wax, combs, ribbons, 
cosmetics and a few pieces of jewelry."

"Cosmetics?" she repeated hopefully.

"Not Revlon, I'm afraid. Or whatever it is girls wear nowadays. But it 
gets the job done."

Carter opened the box and looked at the confusing array of tiny jars and 
unmixed powders. "Looks complicated," she said a little wistfully.

"Takes a bit of practice," he agreed. "But you'll get the hang of it 
eventually."

She gave him a long considering stare then handed over the box. "Okay, 
Pierson, let's see what you've got. Make me pretty."

Methos accepted the challenge with a grace born of centuries. "Too late 
for that I'm afraid. Your parents got there long before me."

                         *******************

It was with some trepidation a few hours later that Colonel O'Neill 
approached the house. The windows, covered in thickly waxed linen, 
glowed brightly in the late afternoon shadows which harbored more rain 
for the night. But that was typical. Wet in the morning, again around 
lunch and sometimes in the evening the skies would open and the deluge 
would start all over again. What was not typical was the sound of music 
and laughter coming from inside. By this time of day everyone was 
usually too tired to do more than practice their language skills or 
listen to Pierson's lectures on proper Greek etiquette. Which was never 
too onerous since he generally interspersed these talks with amusing 
anecdotes and stories of his own social gaffs and faux pas.

So, he was more than a little surprised when he opened the door to find 
everyone dressed in blankets. The beds Teal'c had made had been moved 
and set into a half circle at the side of the room -- and in the center 
Methos and Daniel were line dancing to the sound of the Jaffa's flute. 
Nearby, Carter lay on one of the beds, a wine cup in her hand, looking 
spectacular. Hair curled up in an attractive do and set with decorative 
combs and ribbons, she giggled as Daniel tripped over his feet when 
Teal'c suddenly broke off his tune.

"You guys decided to have a blow out and you didn't invite me?!" O'Neill 
complained, pretending to be hurt, but in truth secretly pleased to see 
his team relaxed and happy for the first time in months.

"Uh, sorry, Jack," Daniel apologized, faintly embarrassed as Carter 
stood, nervously putting aside her cup. "We kind of got lost in the 
moment."

"Apparently."

They stared guiltily at him, except for Methos, who showed not the least 
bit of remorse. O'Neill frowned, looking them over one by one.

"Well, don't I get a bed sheet?" he finally asked feigning annoyance.

"Right this way, Colonel Satan, sir!" Methos grinned as he bowed O'Neill 
toward Carter's bedroom.

The colonel gave Samantha a surprised glance. Her room was strictly off 
limits unless the door was open and the man inside had her express 
permission to be there.

"It's okay, sir," she told him, blushing faintly. "Getting these on..." 
She absently touched one of the many folds and draperies of her chiton. 
"Well, it gets a little...personal."

O'Neill paused as he digested her words. "You mean you're not..." He 
couldn't even bring himself to say it as he stared at their faces. "None 
of you?!"

Methos chuckled as the others stood there looking clearly uncomfortable. 
"You want to be authentic, don't you?"

O'Neill grimaced. "I was kinda hoping that was all just a nasty rumor."

"Afraid not," Methos shook his head. "And with all due respect, Colonel, 
underwear is highly overrated. But not to worry," he grinned widely. 
"You're fat man is safe in my hands."

Carter unaccountably burst out laughing, while O'Neill turned red and 
stalked into the bedroom. 

"You leave him out of this, Pierson!"

The door slammed behind him and Methos sighed. He was definitely going 
to have to add alum to their list of supplies. His chances of getting 
O'Neill into a public bathhouse, he suddenly realized, had just taken a 
nose dive.
 
                         *******************

Chapter 12

The morning was bright with sunshine and birdsong. A perfect spring day, 
Methos thought, inhaling deeply. He didn't know what lay ahead and at 
the moment he didn't really care. 

Now, that was not entirely true, Methos suddenly realized with a touch 
of chagrin. He did care. About these people, about the future, and about 
his own place in this crazy, screwed up universe.

Okay, so he cared, Methos admitted silently. But not, he grinned, enough 
to spoil his pleasure at the first truly beautiful morning since they'd 
been here. There would be no rain today, he was certain of it.

Behind him, the door opened quietly and he heard O'Neill's soft 
greeting. The others were probably still sleeping, today being 
everyone's day off. A special allowance the colonel had made as long as 
they all shared in the housekeeping chores.

Methos returned his greeting with a nod. "We should leave in a few days, 
a week at most," he said quietly.

"We?" O'Neill asked curiously.

"Yes," Methos nodded. "You and I. We. Go to Delphi. Buy horses. Drink 
beer. Wine. And get arrested for loitering."

"You had me up until the horses," O'Neill sighed, sitting down on one of 
benches Teal'c had placed to either side of the door. "But," he finally 
nodded. "I'd definitely like to recon the area. So, what's the plan?"

"Same as before," Methos shrugged. "We walk. We shop. We come back here. 
Only this time it's safe enough for you to go with me."

"How's that?" O'Neill asked.

Methos opened his arms wide as if to encompass the world. "It's spring!" 
he exclaimed enthusiastically.

"I take it that's a big deal around here," O'Neill responded, 
unimpressed.

"Only if you're alive," Methos rolled his eyes and sat down beside him. 
"Listen, in a few days the roads will be dry. The mares have already 
started foaling and the yearlings will be coming to market."

O'Neill gave him an odd stare. "I'm a little fuzzy on the whole Son of 
Flicka thing, but keep going."

Methos sighed and did his best to try and convey the true meaning of 
spring to a child of the modern era. "Don't you get it, O'Neill? Farmers 
who need seed and tools will travel to the markets to sell the extra 
cloth and flax their women have woven during the winter. Knowing this, 
spice merchants, potters, arms makers, dye makers, perfumers and 
jewelers from everywhere will come to the cities. It's the one time of 
year when strangers are not only welcome, but expected. In the villages, 
on the roads, it doesn't matter. And most important of all, you can look 
at anything and everything and no one will question why."

"Good cover," O'Neill nodded slowly. "I like it. But why don't we all 
just leave now?"

"Because it's also the time of year that most slaves are bought and 
sold. And when the wealthy come to shop -- or take what they want if 
they can't make a price. They're bored from being cooped up too long. 
Thinking of getting that new slave that will entertain them for the rest 
of the year before discarding him or her to the fields or the kitchens. 
They make the laws, so they can do what they like and they know it. The 
others aren't safe yet, and they won't be until we get back with the 
rest of our disguise."

 "The horses?" O'Neill asked, surprised.

"Them too," Methos nodded. "But I was thinking more along the line of 
oxen..."

                         *******************

"So what do you think?" Methos asked as they reached the hills 
overlooking Delphi.

For three days they had walked, talking little as O'Neill contemplated 
the land and its people. To say he wasn't impressed would have been an 
overstatement. He was, in fact, quite clearly disappointed. Now, looking 
down on the untidy sprawl of fieldstone houses and wooden huts with 
thatched roofs that was Delphi, O'Neill had to shake his head in 
amazement.

"I thought this was supposed to be the cradle of Western Civilization," 
he commented.

"Give them another three centuries and they'll be well on their way," 
Methos responded lightly. "Right now, they're about a half step up from 
subsistence farming. No written language to speak of and no concept of 
modern economics."

 "I thought Daniel said they had a pretty high level of sophistication 
just a few hundred years ago?" he asked as they started down.

"Those were the Myceneans. You know, the guys who fought at Troy," 
Methos explained. "They lost control of the country when the big 
earthquake hit about three hundred years ago. God, that was a nasty 
piece of business," he shook his head, remembering. "Not a stone left 
standing for hundreds of miles in every direction of the epicenter. 
People just sat on what was left of their homes until they keeled over 
and died. Starvation and disease took thousands more and the aristocracy 
could do nothing for them. They were just as bad off as the rest. Took 
another century before it was all gone and the Dorians had everything, 
but what you see here is the end result of that collapse. A tribal, 
agrarian society just beginning to feel settled enough to start 
exploring the world around them. In a quarter century or so they'll 
actually start trading with their neighbors."

O'Neill nodded. "Looks pretty much like every other piss poor, pathetic 
little dirt ball we've been to," he murmured as they reached the road 
and joined the steady stream of travelers moving toward the town. "All 
they need is a gate and a few snakeheads coming by every so often."

"True," Methos agreed quietly. "But this is your world and these are 
your ancestors. Not some strangers who might be descended from a handful 
of kidnap victims left on another planet. These people will eventually 
have living, breathing children. Some of whom might watch the same 
television shows, listen to the same music and dream about owning the 
same kind of car you do."

"You really know how to take the fun out of it, don't you?" O'Neill 
commented.

Methos smiled kindly. "I tell you this, because there is no gate to run 
back to when things go wrong. No back up, no SGC, no escape -- at least 
for the moment. You will see things here. Things that are so 
unconscionably cruel that you won't be able to fathom how you could ever 
have been born of such stock. Even if none of your antecedents spring 
from this place, somewhere in your past there is one just like it."

"If you're trying to tell me not to be Daniel, running around trying to 
save the universe then you're preaching to the choir, Pierson."

"That's another thing," Methos pointed out. "It's time you started 
calling me by my proper name."

"Piersoneaus?"

Methos hid a smile. "Come, Yanos, son of Neleus, there's something I 
want to show you."

O'Neill grimaced at the name Methos had given him before they'd left. 
The same way he'd named the others. Samantas, Danaeus and Teulokos. He 
hated it, but he'd thought Cornelios was worse, so he'd finally accepted 
it.

A little while later they'd reached the town's outskirts, entering with 
the rest of the morning rush. There was no gate, no outer wall, and no 
means of defense except the swords and daggers everyone seemed to carry. 
The streets were narrow and cramped. Only wide enough for a tall man to 
stretch out his arms and touch the walls on either side. The place was 
noisy, claustrophobic and oddly enough, both strange and familiar at the 
same time. O'Neill had seen dozens of villages not too unlike this one 
in his travels on Earth. And they all pretty much felt the same. Though 
he'd never had that same feeling on any of the other worlds he'd been 
too. But then, this was his sun and his world, and somehow, his mind and 
body knew it.

"Something smells good," O'Neill murmured as they passed a shop with an 
open front.

Methos paused in his step. "This town is big enough to have a real 
bakery," he explained. "I see the proprietor has just put out some fresh 
baked loaves. Hungry?"

"Oh, yeah," he nodded. "For fresh bread and not that flat, pasty stuff 
you and Daniel make? Anytime."

"Good," Methos grinned. "Let's see if he'll take a nickel for a couple 
of his finest."

There was a little haggling, but the man seemed very taken with the 
unusual coinage, smiling when he bit it and throwing in an extra loaf 
because he was certain he'd just robbed the two strangers. Methos led 
him over to an alley around the side of the building, hunkering down 
against the wall out of the flow of traffic to sit and eat. O'Neill 
shrugged and joined him.

With the first bite Jack simply closed his eyes and savored. Warm, 
fresh, soft delicious bread. A little more grainy than wheat bread and 
made with honey instead of sugar, but it was still wonderful to the 
taste.

"This is great!" O'Neill exclaimed after another two bites.

"Glad you like it," Methos nodded. "Want to see how it's made?"

O'Neill gave him a quizzical look. "Sure," he finally said as Methos 
stood and led the way to the back of the house. "I can give my 
compliments to the baker."

The rear entry to the courtyard stood open and Methos looked inside then 
stepped back, twitching his head at the doorway. "You're in luck, Yanos. 
The baker is in."

O'Neill moved around him, standing stock still as he laid eyes on the 
baker. No big shouldered, round bellied, happy stereotype in a white 
apron covered in flour dust stood to meet him. But a pair of thin, 
wretched looking women bound in thick, heavy leather collars that 
covered their necks up to their mouths knelt on a hard stone floor 
kneading and pounding. 

"They will never taste the bread they bake," Methos' voice was a dark 
whisper from behind. "Never do more than crawl from their corner to the 
wash basin, so that they cannot even lick the flour from their hands. 
They get the dry crusts that no one wants to use even for feeding geese 
and hens. And when they cannot lift their arms to knead they'll be sent 
into the streets to sell the bread and never dare to try and eat it for 
fear of being sent to the mines."

O'Neill looked pale and disgusted as he stepped back out, tossing the 
rest of his bread aside. "Point taken -- Methos."

The Immortal sighed as he watched O'Neill walk away. He shrugged and 
picked up the bread, not bothering to dust it off as he quickly ducked 
back into the kitchen. Over in the far corner a pile of straw served as 
bedding for the slaves. Too weary to do more than glance at him, the 
women hardly looked up from their work until he tucked both his loaf and 
O'Neill's half eaten one as well as the extra loaf they'd been given 
under the straw. Then their eyes went wide with fear and consternation. 
No doubt, Methos thought, they were afraid the master might think it 
stolen.

"Good bread, little one," he gently pinched the cheek of a girl who 
couldn't have been more than twelve. "Wait until they're all in bed," he 
warned. "Then fill your bellies." She couldn't even nod in her collar, 
so she blinked her eyes to show she understood. 

Shocked by his own actions Methos left hurriedly, wondering what in the 
world had come over him. He should never have given them hope like that. 
Never have given them food which might prolong their lives and their 
suffering by another minute. It was an act of kindness completely 
inconsistent with the times. And he knew better! Especially after his 
lecture to O'Neill. Yet, without thinking, he'd done it.

"Just couldn't resist, could you?" Jack accused as he rejoined the 
colonel.

Methos only shrugged, hiding his own internal quandary. It had been a 
cruel thing to do to the man, but... "You had to understand," he 
explained gently.

"Not that," O'Neill shook his head. "The bread -- you phony!"

                         *******************

Chapter 13

Their first order of business that day was to sell the dozen or so gem 
stones they'd brought with them. They wandered around the market -- an 
open air field not far from the Oracle where one day a permanent agora 
would be built. One with marble colonnades, shade trees, benches, 
fountains and statues to entice the eye and give succor to weary 
travelers and citizens. The current collection of tents, stalls, wagons 
and carts that constituted the market wasn't much more than a noisy, 
confusing jumble at present, but Methos moved through it with practiced 
ease, pausing now and again as something caught Jack's eye.

There were several jewelers already in residence, he explained to 
O'Neill after their first walk through. But only two dealt in stones of 
any worth. The rest carried silver, gold and bronze trinkets for the 
more affluent. And only one of the two regularly showed his wares to 
kings.

He led O'Neill back into the controlled chaos and over to the largest 
tent in the market. There was no stall out front, or slave to hawk the 
master's goods. Those desiring to buy or sell would find him, without 
the need for advertising.

Methos approached the entrance, glancing inside to make sure the jeweler 
wasn't with another customer then politely scratched at the tent post 
when he saw the man alone. The jeweler, not much past his prime by 
Methos standards, lifted a hand to usher them in.

"I am Methos, son of Tok'ra, who offers greetings," he said, taking a 
seat on the mat opposite the man. "My companion is Yanos, son of 
Neleus."

The jeweler nodded deeply. "I am Mendanes of Achiaea, who offers welcome 
to all his customers."

"May the gods smile favorably upon him then," Methos smiled. At least 
this man wasn't put off by the fact that they were obviously foreign. 
While O'Neill had tanned over the past few days, enough to bring him a 
little closer in shading to the population, Methos hadn't and never 
would. A sunburn was damage to the skin and as quickly as he burned he 
healed with disgusting regularity. "But we come to sell, not buy, good 
Mendanes."

The jeweler smiled thoughtfully and clapped his hands. Out the shadows 
in the corner a slave arose and Methos waited patiently as the boy 
brought wine already mixed with water and a bowl of figs then returned 
to his corner. He took a sip and judged Mendanes honest, there being 
more parts water to wine. An old trick, he knew, to give the customer 
strong drink before making the price. With a surreptitious glance he 
checked on O'Neill, who was surprisingly placid, following Methos' 
instructions to the letter. "Do as I do and say nothing."

With a slight nod of approval Methos reached into the front of his 
chiton and pulled out a small leather bag, removing the strap from 
around his neck to lay it open on the mat before him.

Mendanes' quickly stifled gasp was a good sign that he was impressed, 
not only by the size of the stones, but by their gloss. He picked up a 
piece of tigers eye and held it to the light. Methos said nothing as one 
by one he examined the others. Uncut and polished to perfection using 
modern techniques, they were all exceptional pieces.

Finally, Mendanes put down the last stone and gave a desultory nod. 
"These are fairly common stones," he said, beginning the time honored 
dance of the bargain.

"If you aren't interested," Methos said, moving as if to sweep them back 
into their bag.

"Wait!" the man exclaimed, laying a warm hand on Methos' arm. "Don't be 
so hasty, young friend. I might be able to find a use for them."

So, now they were friends? Methos thought, amused. Mendanes was 
obviously eager to buy, but not to be taken to the cleaners. Even if, as 
Methos well knew, these common stones were the best representatives of 
their kind the man was ever likely to see.

"I am in no hurry," Methos told him, sitting back. He took another sip 
of wine and nibbled a fig as Mendanes took another moment to examine the 
stones again.

"Perhaps I was mistaken and they are not so common after all," Mendanes 
finally said when Methos made no move rush him. Here was obviously a 
customer who knew the worth of his wares.

"Not common at all," Methos agreed, taking the hint. If the stones had a 
unique history, one which would please the ear, titillate the mind and 
increase the stones value in the eye of the beholder Mendanes would 
certainly feel better about shelling out a small fortune for them. He'd 
make at least twice that from the uneducated, but hideously rich 
aristocracy, who were always trying to keep up with their wealthy 
friends and neighbors.

"The stones you see before you," Methos said, making up the tale as he 
went. "Come from the land of Khemet, brought there by the Pharaoh 
Imhotep from fabled Nubia and washed in the desert sands for twenty 
years by a thousand slaves until they shone as bright as the stars in 
the heavens."

"They do have a nice polish," Mendanes allowed.

"A nice polish?!" Methos feigned shock. "Each of these stones was worn 
for a year in the warm bosom of the pharaoh's beloved daughter, Nefreti. 
She who killed herself after the death of her lover, Ahknaten -- 
executed by her father for daring to offer the princess a lotus blossom 
in the garden! A nice polish indeed!"

Mendanes' eyes widened as he drew an awestruck breath. An hour later, 
after some cursory haggling and the expected sharing of wine and gossip, 
Methos and Jack left the jeweler's tent. The little sack around his neck 
was heavy with gold and silver, but Methos was extraordinarily pleased.

"In the warm bosom of the pharaoh's daughter?" O'Neill finally asked 
when they were far enough away.

Methos shrugged. "What did you want me to say? That they were blasted 
out of a rock formation by a Goa'uld staff weapon, polished in a gravel 
filled tumbler by an archaeologist and given luster in a weak solution 
of bicarbonate acid by Major Carter?"

"Doesn't quite have the same ring to it, does it?" O'Neill agreed.

"Not quite," Methos nodded.

"Yeah, but is it enough to get us to Egypt?"

Methos felt the weight against his chest and smiled. "More than enough 
to give us a damn good start."

                         *******************

"Where to next?" O'Neill asked as they headed down a side street.

"Flesh market's on the other side of town," Methos said, licking his 
sticky fingers. For lunch, they'd found a stall where an early version 
of the shish-kabob was sold, using goat instead of lamb. Then they'd 
stopped at a kiosk where an old woman made dough balls, deep fried in 
oil and drizzled with warm honey.

"Flesh?" O'Neill repeated. 

"Meat of every kind," Methos explained. "Two legged and four. They keep 
it out of town because of the stench."

"Thanks for the warning," O'Neill grimaced as they headed in that 
direction. Even this far away the scent of animals was redolent in the 
warm, heavy air.

"Oh, the slave sales are over for the day," Methos told him lightly. 
"Those are held in the morning when their bodies are clean and fresh. 
Wouldn't do to have the merchandise looking wilted and smelling of the 
pens. Might lower the price."

"Sweet," O'Neill muttered. "Let's just get this over with."

Methos didn't bother to respond. He was sorry to have to be so blunt. To 
rip away all the illusions of the bright white history books O'Neill had 
grown up with. But there was no other way. No matter what O'Neill 
thought of himself and his capabilities as a tough as nails covert 
operative, the man had still been gently raised. If he was going to 
survive in this world and help his people to survive along with him, 
then he had to understand the simple facts of everyday life.

The pens, a mere quarter mile away as they reached the edge of town, 
were quiet at the moment, and Methos did nothing to draw O'Neill's 
attention to them. In the heat of the day this part of the market was 
never busy. And given a choice, had Methos been alone, he'd certainly 
have waited and gone the next morning. But he wasn't, and not trusting 
O'Neill's gut reaction to the sight of a slave auction, he'd decided not 
to put it off.

They moved across the wide field where temporary paddocks had been set 
up. Just some wooden posts and rope to keep the animals from wandering 
off. There were goats, sheep, chickens, geese and ducks for sale near 
the front, but the larger animals were all towards the back. Donkeys, 
mules and cows came next then the paddocks spread out further apart and 
Methos nodded to himself as he saw a fine pair of oxen being watered and 
fed.

The man in charge of them was obviously an overseer for one of the 
larger estates. Only the very wealthy could afford to keep these animals 
given the amounts they ate. But the wealthy rarely sold such riches, 
using the beasts both in the fields and to draw their wagons, though on 
rare occasions they might sacrifice one for a wedding. If they were 
selling then it clearly meant trouble at home. A poor crop that 
threatened to affect the family's social status, or an illness which had 
spread among the other animals and reduced their income. Still, what was 
trouble for one was often good fortune for another.

Methos didn't spend time on pleasantries with this man, who was no doubt 
tired from having spent the day talking to potential buyers and wouldn't 
have appreciated the waste of his time. The overseer named a price, 
which Methos refused, offering another amount far less than they were 
worth. They haggled for half an hour and when the man stood firm at six 
silver drachma for the pair, Methos knew that this was the lowest price 
set by the owner and accepted.

He gave the overseer a quarter of the amount as earnest money to show 
his master, then asked the man if he wanted to make something extra. The 
overseer, glad to be of service now that his job was done, and always 
willing to help out a paying customer if it put something in his purse, 
accepted Methos' charge to buy them a good, sturdy ox cart and enough 
feed to last the journey home. He gave the man his smallest silver coin 
and named a fee. Not very much, but then the man would likely pocket 
most of the money left over from the purchase. It was expected and they 
both knew it.

After making arrangements to meet the following day to complete the 
transaction, Methos paused on the way to the horses to drink some water.

"That looked expensive," O'Neill commented as Methos offered him some.

"Very," he agreed. "But they're just for cover. We'll sell them once we 
get to the coast. Should even make a bit of money off the sale."

O'Neill shook his head, giving Methos back his canteen. "Are you ever 
going to tell me what this plan of yours is?"

"And spoil the surprise?" Methos looked shocked. "I'm living just to see 
the expression on your face when it's revealed."

The colonel gave him a wry smile. "Let's hope it's one you can live 
with."

"The risk is half the fun," Methos grinned, moving toward the nearest 
corral. He liked only one of the animals he saw there and wandered 
further afield, hoping for better, then way off in the distance heard 
the panicked, angry whinnying of a terrified horse.

"Come on, let's see what the ruckus is about," Methos said as frenzied 
shouts and at least two other horses joined in to trumpet anger and 
alarm.

"You're not thinking of helping anyone, are you?" Jack called after him. 
"Methos?!"

The Immortal ignored him, moving easily through the crowd which had 
gathered to watch. At the front, he found a waist high fence, more 
sturdy than the rest, and given the current behavior of the occupants 
Methos could guess why. 

An unbroken white stallion, taller than most Greek horses, though 
nowhere near the height of an Arabian, ran the length and breadth of the 
area followed by his equally wild consorts. A pair of fine mares, one a 
reddish brown color, the other black with white hocks.

"They're perfect," he whispered as O'Neill came up beside him.

"They just kicked the shit out of that guy over there," the colonel 
responded, discreetly pointing toward a man being carried from the field 
by his companions.

"Don't be a wuss, Yanos."

"You're calling me a wuss?!"

Methos rolled his eyes and turned to look for the owner. He found him as 
the crowd dispersed. A tired looking man, who seemed extremely agitated 
as the buyer he'd thought he'd had furiously shook his head, shouted a 
few choice curses and left.

"Hey, friend!" Methos called to one of the men still milling about. 
"What's the story on that lot?" He nodded at the horses and the man 
shrugged.

"The sire was mad. Bad blood, if you ask me. But old Archimedes," he 
nodded toward the owner. "He figured he could make back his money if he 
bred the bastard to gentle dams. Instead, they bred true. Now he'll have 
to put them down, like he did the sire last summer after it killed a 
groom."

"That would be a shame," Methos murmured thoughtfully as the man walked 
away.

"Are you out of what's left of your mind?!" O'Neill demanded. "Didn't 
you hear? Those things are dangerous!"

"Nonsense," Methos responded lightly. "They just haven't been handled 
right."

O'Neill's face went blank. "That wasn't an invitation for discussion, 
Captain."

Methos glared at him to no effect then finally sighed. "Colonel, who are 
you going to trust? Some illiterate peasant who's probably never even 
sat a horse? Or me?" he asked snidely. "You know, there's a reason we 
were called The Horsemen and not Those Four Running Guys in Scary Masks. 
I've never once had to put down a steed for bad behavior -- even when I 
specifically trained them to kill with their hooves."

For a long moment O'Neill stared at him then paused to watch the horses. 
They'd calmed down a bit and were resting after their run. "You think 
you can handle them?" he finally asked.

"I don't think I can. I know it! Look at them," Methos pleaded. "They've 
got strength and endurance and that fool Archimedes can't even see it! 
We can buy them for a song and sell them when we get to Egypt for ten 
times what he'll charge us here."

"I must be losing it," O'Neill finally muttered. "All right, Methos. 
Permission granted. Go buy the horses."

It wasn't quite that easy as they soon discovered. Archimedes, already 
fearful of charges being brought against him by the man who'd been 
injured, was loath to allow Methos into the corral. He was so young and 
couldn't possibly have enough experience to handle The Beast as 
Archimedes called the white stallion. Look what had happened to Anoos. A 
man twice his age who'd spent his whole life around horses. Finally, 
Methos made him an offer he couldn't refuse. He'd pay him for one horse, 
in advance, and if he couldn't sit the animal Archimedes could keep the 
money.

The old man laughed long and hard at that. "If you can sit The Beast, 
boy, you can have the others for the price of the one."

"That's a deal," Methos grinned as they shook forearms. He looked at 
Jack who simply rolled his eyes and shook his head as the Immortal 
handed over the money. "Do me a favor, Yanos?" he asked as he shrugged 
off his himation and folded it neatly.

"Carry your broken body off the field of battle?" O'Neill asked 
sarcastically.

Methos chuckled. "That too when the time comes. Right now, just hold 
onto these." He handed over his cloak and sword then quickly stripped 
off his long chiton which would only get in the way, tossing it casually 
over his shoulder. Then, naked but for his sandals, Methos approached 
the animal cautiously.

Around the paddock a crowd gathered, probably eager for more blood and 
violence. But Methos knew better. He moved and as the stallion followed 
turned him into the sun, quickly darting around to wrap the tunic about 
its head, covering his eyes. The Beast moved nervously for a few moments 
until he finally settled. Then, quick as he could, Methos grabbed the 
horse's mane and jumped on his back, knotting his fingers deeply into 
the full tufts at his neck. The stallion remained quiescent for an 
instant then shook his head in confusion. The loosely wrapped chiton 
fell away and the horse suddenly went wild.

Methos held on for what seemed like endless hours as the stallion bucked 
and twisted. His shoulders burned with the effort to keep his hands in 
place while his spine seemed to jar further out of alignment with every 
painful second. Long minutes later the horse finally understood that he 
couldn't throw his rider and Methos heaved a sigh of relief as the 
animal quieted. He leaned forward, wincing as his raw backside slid 
against the rough brush of the stallion's coat, wrapping stiff arms 
around the animal's neck while whispering soft words of encouragement 
into his ear. Stifling a groan of agony he slid off, then pulled the 
stallion's head down and gently blew in his nostrils. There were more 
soft words and a brief time spent patting the animal's nose, until 
Methos judged him calm enough to release.

A roar of applause sprang up as The Beast trotted off to graze -- a 
beast no longer -- but Methos simply ignored it to find and put on his 
dusty but undamaged chiton, and hide his quickly healing posterior. The 
rest he would pay for later, he knew with painful certainty as he headed 
for the exit and Archimedes, who looked both pleased and disappointed 
all at once. He might be quit of three obstreperous horses, but he was 
also out a good sum of money. A well deserved loss, in Methos' opinion.

"I'll be by to collect my horses tomorrow!" he called to the old man, 
who simply waved a hand in acceptance and nodded, then he grabbed Jack's 
arm and hurriedly led him away.

"What's the rush?" O'Neill asked as they reached the town proper and 
Methos ducked around the corner. He caught the Immortal just as he fell, 
lowering him gently to the ground as he groaned in agony, every muscle 
in his body suddenly seizing up.

"Shit! Shit!" Methos hissed as he writhed and curled, pressing his legs 
together as his thigh muscles cramped so tightly he thought he'd scream.

"What the hell is wrong?!" O'Neill demanded.

"What the hell do you think is wrong?!" Methos managed to gasp. "That 
hurt!"

"Well, yeah," O'Neill nodded. "Especially the bare ass routine. But 
you're Immortal. So..."

"So nothing," Methos choked. "I just pulled every muscle in my body. But 
they aren't damaged! Stretching them is a natural process, like 
heartburn. I may not get an ulcer, but it sure as hell hurts!"

"Oh, brother!" O'Neill muttered, throwing down his pack as he knelt 
beside the Immortal. He quickly found what he wanted and pulled out a 
large white tablet. "Here," he said, getting an arm around Methos' 
shoulders. "Get this down."

"I'm an Immortal! Don't be absurd," Methos whispered as he quickly 
became exhausted. "Give me a few minutes and I'll get moving. If I stay 
warm tonight it might not be too bad in the morning."

"Unacceptable," O'Neill responded flatly. "I need you on your feet now, 
not in a couple of days. Besides, I'm making it an order. And what do 
you mean you can't take pain meds because you're immortal? What kind of 
idiotic idea is that?"

Methos stared at Jack in astonishment then glanced at the tablet. It 
certainly couldn't hurt. And he'd prescribed similar pain relief for 
countless others, though he'd never once considered it for himself. In 
truth, the idea had never occurred to him. With a faint sense of 
trepidation Methos took the pill and stuck it in his mouth, grimacing an 
instant later as the bitter medicinal taste of the thing made him want 
to wretch.

"Ech!" He spat out the tablet as O'Neill laughed, giving him some water.

"Don't tell me you've never done drugs?!" he chortled, picking up the 
tablet and cleaning it off.

"Only the really good pharmaceuticals," Methos grimaced as he wiped his 
mouth. "But I never popped pills or used needles. My last foray into the 
ozone layer came in a sugar cube and went by the curious name of Mellow 
Yellow."

"You've never taken a pill?!"

Methos shook his head, struggling to sit up. "And after that, I never 
want to. That's awful!"

O'Neill's shoulders shook with mirth. "You're not supposed to bite and 
swallow. Just swallow."

Methos shrank back as he offered it again, until O'Neill sighed in 
disgust and grabbed his face. "Tilt back, open wide, tongue down," he 
ordered.

He could barely move a muscle to walk, let alone fight, so Methos simply 
squeezed his eyes shut and gave in to the horror. It felt too big for 
his throat as the tablet touched the back of his tongue and he nearly 
gagged. But there was water being sloshed into his mouth and O'Neill 
shouting the unhelpful phrase, "Think oyster!" as he shoved Methos' jaws 
closed, rubbed a thumb across his Adam's apple and forced him to 
swallow. At last, Jack released him and Methos fell back, coughing hard.

"Your bedside manner sucks!" he hissed when he'd finally caught his 
breath, wiping his face with the back of a hand.

"And you're a lousy patient," O'Neill shrugged. "Now eat this," he 
added, shoving one of the leftover honeyed dough balls at Methos.

"I'm not a child," Methos grimaced. "The spoonful of sugar technique 
won't work with me. I'm still pissed at you!"

"This isn't a treat," O'Neill explained calmly. "I just put eighteen 
hundred milligrams of Ibuprofen in your stomach. You need to eat 
something to keep from puking it up."

"Eighteen hundred?!" Methos exclaimed, horrified as he quickly accepted 
the food.

"Yeah, we use it for gun shot," O'Neill told him. "Now, just sit back. 
Takes about twenty minutes before it really kicks in."

"Sit back?" he asked around the food in his mouth. "In another twenty 
minutes I won't be able to walk at all! I have to keep moving!"

"No, you don't have to keep moving. You have to sit back and rest."

"But--"

"Who are you going to trust?" O'Neill grinned. "A bunch of ignorant 
Immortals who've never thought of using modern medicine? Or me?" he 
asked smugly. "You know, there's a reason Doc Fraiser is always nearby 
when I come through the Stargate."

                         *******************

Chapter 14

"How y' feelin', sport?"

Methos yawned and stretched luxuriously in his bed roll, sighing in 
contentment as not a single twinge interfered with his pleasure. When 
O'Neill had helped him back to the field where they'd planned to camp 
he'd been sore, but thankfully, not in what he'd consider a great deal 
of pain. He'd figured he'd still be a bit stiff come morning, but there 
wasn't even that. 

"I feel fine," he murmured in amazement, recalling the night before. "In 
fact, I feel great."

"Good," O'Neill grinned, throwing Methos his chiton. "Next time, don't 
argue so much and I'll give you a lollipop."

Methos rolled his eyes and slipped the tunic over his head. "There won't 
be a next time," he said. "We can't replace Ibuprofen. I won't let you 
empty the med kit just because I have a few aches and pains."

"Wasn't from the kit," O'Neill told him as he rolled up his blankets. 
"That came from my own personal stash." 

Methos looked up, surprised. As he recollected, modern soldiers never 
gave up their private caches of pain killers -- not unless the Sergeant 
was dying, or their best buddy was gut shot, or something equally 
horrendous. For themselves, there was always a little more pain they 
could tolerate, a bit more discomfort they were willing to endure. And 
O'Neill went on to confirm this observation.

"I never take all the pain meds Fraiser gives me. But I've learned over 
the years to keep some stuff on hand. Just in case."

"Smart," Methos nodded, vaguely wondering how he'd managed to achieve 
best buddy status, because from the way O'Neill generally treated him, 
he certainly wasn't the feared and revered Drill Sergeant. Unless, of 
course, one considered the other option. Perhaps the colonel thought of 
him as the annoying kid brother who needed lots of looking after. Now 
there was an unsettling thought.

"We done here?" O'Neill asked, grabbing his pack as Methos stood, 
tossing his cloak over his shoulders.

"Almost," he responded, pinning his himation about his shoulders. "We 
need supplies for the road and a few more things to complete our little 
ruse, then we can leave."

O'Neill heaved a sigh of resignation as they started back toward the 
market and Methos hid a smile. He imagined the colonel was dreaming of 
nice airy shopping malls with food courts and canned music. Instead, 
Methos found an open stall selling a proper farmer's breakfast of hard 
boiled eggs, goat cheese, bread, raw onions and wine mixed with three 
parts water. 

They ate it hunkered against a wall watching the sun come up and the 
town come to life. Shops opened, slaves came down to the wells to fetch 
water for the households, farmers with tools on their shoulders headed 
out into the fields, and pack animals with their burdens carried goods 
to and fro while sleepy children rode their backs making their morning 
deliveries. A day like any other Methos had seen repeated in a thousand 
variations for as long as he could remember. And, he supposed, it was 
the same in the future. Though the shops opened at the slothful hour of 
nine or ten, the farmers had tractors or trucks, and goods came to 
brightly lit, scrupulously clean supermarkets in big rigs driven by 
adults. Still, it was the same old dance, if dressed in new clothes.

They finished eating and stood, Methos rubbing his stomach to ease the 
passage of the onion. He still loved the taste of them raw, but he'd 
forgotten just what a whole one, even as small as that one had been, did 
to him.

O'Neill caught the movement and shook his head. "Don't tell me," he 
sighed. "You've got heartburn."

Methos only shrugged. "Onions were thought to be good for the 
digestion," he explained as the colonel once again delved into his pack.

"Meet Mr. Tums," O'Neill said, handing him a very large pink tablet. 
"He's an old friend. Remind me to introduce you to his good buddy, Uncle 
Pepcid, when we get home."

Methos looked aghast at the size of the thing. "I can't swallow that!"

"Trust me, if it's pink and smells like a cherry you can chew the 
sucker."

Well, it didn't smell like a cherry to Methos, but he nibbled the edge 
and didn't find it too horrible. It was chalky, but sweet and slightly 
tart so he ate it. A few minutes later he was astonished to find the 
burning in his stomach gone.

"You know," he said as they reached the open market. "I'm beginning to 
rethink my stance on the usefulness of modern medicine for Immortals. If 
it won't kill us permanently, we tend to just tough it out. Now I'm not 
so sure. I might even go back to medical school," he added 
enthusiastically. "You know, I've always wanted to do a heart 
transplant. Or maybe kidneys. Those are interesting, too."

O'Neill just stared at him. "Could we focus here," the colonel pointedly 
reminded. "Remember? Mission. Egypt. End of world. Kinda puts a damper 
on the whole Ben Casey thing, don't y' think?"

"But we're here," Methos smiled, nodding at the nearest stall.

"We came back to buy jewelry?!" O'Neill whispered angrily.

"But it's for Daniel, Teal'c and Carter," Methos told him, looking 
wounded.

O'Neill rubbed his face with a hand. "Is this something I need to be 
here for?" he finally asked.

"Not really," Methos responded, hiding a smile. "I also have to buy more 
clothes for us. Something really ostentatious this time."

"Great, more skirts," O'Neill sighed. "You have fun. I'm gonna watch the 
big sweaty guys making armor."

Methos laughed and hurriedly reached under his chiton to pull out a few 
coins for Jack. "Enjoy yourself," he smiled. "And don't pay more than 
half what I just gave you, unless it's a full set of armor with a thick 
quilted padding and good leather straps."

He'd never buy it, Methos knew as the colonel sauntered off looking 
relieved. Not when he learned he'd have to strip for the measuring and 
have parts of his body shaved for the molding -- then wait several weeks 
to get the finished product back. But they could always use a couple of 
good shields and O'Neill was sensible enough to do just that. Besides, 
he thought, turning to examine a set of earrings he'd had his eye on, 
learning how to handle money and be at ease in a crowd was just as 
important as knowing how to trounce the enemy on the field of battle. 

                         *******************

The sun was just beginning to dip into the western sky as Methos stood 
watching the slaves bring a steady stream of goods and supplies out to 
the ox cart. It stood just a quarter mile from the last house that could 
be considered a part of the town, but the streets had been too narrow 
for Methos to even consider bringing it inside. Still, it was a common 
enough occurrence for the shopkeepers not to worry over, especially 
during the spring market. 

As soon as the cart was loaded the overseer who'd sold them the oxen 
came by and Methos handed him a coin. The man had done a very good job 
buying the cart, which even had its own small awning for when the women 
were traveling. And after giving the overseer the rest of the money for 
the oxen along with his fee, the man had offered to direct the slaves 
bringing out their supplies. Certainly, Methos could have done it 
himself, but he wasn't much interested in directing slaves at the 
moment. He was thinking about his new horses.

Five days, maybe six to get back to camp since they'd have to stick to 
the main roads, and at least two weeks to get the horses ready. Not to 
mention teaching the others how to ride virtually bareback. A leather 
saddle pad was not at all the same as a modern saddle. And without 
stirrups, which hadn't yet been invented, sitting a horse meant the 
knees did most of the painful work of holding the rider up.

When both the overseer and the slaves were gone, he looked over at 
O'Neill, who was lying on his back sprawled across the grain sacks, 
playing with a long blade of sweet grass stuck between his teeth. He'd 
done well at the armorer's. Buying a decent pair of shields, plain 
enough for real soldiers to be carrying, and one ridiculously ornamental 
one covered in flying sea creatures chased in silver, with wings and 
tails that swept up and away from its surface. Not the least bit useful 
in a real fight, where all those pretty fetishes could easily catch a 
sword tip. If Methos hadn't known better he'd have thought Jack knew 
exactly what he was planning.

"Hey, Yanos!" Methos called up and Jack glanced down. "Think you can 
watch the cart for a while?"

"Oh, yeah!" O'Neill said as he sat up and nodded, fingering one of a 
pair of small daggers he'd also purchased. The other was strapped to the 
inside of his forearm. "Not a problem."

At that, Methos grinned and hurried off to fetch his prize.

                         *******************

Chapter 15
 
O'Neill watched with one eye half open as Methos stole out of his bed 
roll just before dawn the next morning and slipped behind the wagon. 
Bemused, he settled back, wondering just whom the Immortal thought he 
was fooling.

They'd left Delphi sometime after noon by his estimate and put a good 
ten miles between them and the town before pulling off the road. And all 
the while Methos had walked behind the cart talking to the horses, 
pressing against them, and in general making friends with the objects of 
his obsession. He'd fed and watered them when they'd stopped for the 
night, giving Jack a few cursory instructions on how to tend the oxen 
then staked them out to graze. And when he'd finally gotten them settled 
down, joining O'Neill by the fire, Methos was more chatty and talkative 
than the colonel had ever seen him.

He'd been a Master of Horses dozens of times over the ages. For kings 
and queens and nobles across most of Europe and Asia. He'd bred and 
broken horses on and off for a good part of his life. The last time in 
1898 on a ranch in New Mexico somewhere south of Santa Fe. He not only 
knew horses, but understood them as well. All the little tricks and 
foibles they were wont to get up to when a strong hand was not present 
to guide and care for them.

Not knowing much about horses, O'Neill had simply listened -- more to 
Methos' tone of voice than what he'd actually been saying. And somewhere 
in that long soliloquy Methos forgot he was giving, Jack had finally 
reached the conclusion that Methos lacked a real childhood.

It was understandable, O'Neill admitted silently as he watched the 
Immortal quietly lead the white stallion out into the field where they'd 
camped. Given the circumstances surrounding his first death and his 
revival five thousand years later, he could imagine the kind of 
emotional loss and devastation he would have been feeling, even if 
Methos himself hadn't been able to comprehend why he felt that way.

As a good commander it was O'Neill's job to look for that kind of thing. 
To judge and estimate the best way to handle his people based on their 
emotional wants and needs. Shouting worked for some, while a kind word 
and gentle encouragement worked better with others. Methos on the other 
hand, needed to be teased and cajoled into acting. Despite his great 
age, he was still a playful twenty-something whenever he forgot to be 
the ancient Immortal striding fearlessly through history.

With a sigh, O'Neill rose up on an elbow and found his binoculars, 
watching through the half light peeking over the horizon as Methos 
belted his chiton with a piece of rope, blousing the material until it 
hung above his knees. Then he ran the horse in circles for a while, 
finally jumping on its back before the animal knew what was happening.

O'Neill chuckled as the stallion bucked and Methos went flying. But in a 
moment he was back on his feet and at it again. At least this time, 
O'Neill thought wryly, he didn't have to play super macho bronco buster 
in order to make a point. And from where he sat, it looked as though the 
Immortal was staying loose, keeping those muscles fluid and his limbs 
relaxed as he rolled with the punches. 

In a way, O'Neill thought, putting aside the binoculars to begin the 
familiar process of breaking camp, he had to admire the man's 
persistence. Not only with the horses, but in his own life. Had Methos 
ever once really given up on himself? O'Neill didn't think so -- but he 
had. In his short little life he had on occasion contemplated ending 
what was left of it. He couldn't begin to imagine Methos ever seriously 
considering that option, no matter what Duncan MacLeod said. And, if 
after fifty centuries of war, famine, heartbreak and slaughter Methos 
still wanted to go on, that was certainly something for a mere mortal of 
less than fifty to reflect on.

                         *******************

"Hey, Pale Rider, how's Trigger doing?"

"You named my horse?!" Methos responded angrily, pointedly ignoring the 
more accurate jibe.

"You're horse?" O'Neill retorted. "When did it get to be your horse? 
Listen, Bronco Billy, if those are anyone's horses they're mine. So, 
bite me!"

"But Trigger!" Methos sighed disgustedly as he knelt beside the fire to 
grab some cheese and an apple. It was night again and all day he had 
worked the horses, alternating between them whenever they'd stopped to 
eat and water the oxen. O'Neill had been pretty decent about it once 
he'd explained that by breaking them on the road they could save time 
once they got back to camp. It also meant that Methos was worn out now, 
though he'd rested in the cart between sessions. "Couldn't you have 
picked something more dignified?" he grumbled.

O'Neill rolled his eyes. "So, pick something else," he told the sulking 
Immortal.

"I can't now!" Methos complained, wincing as he really started to feel 
the long day in his muscles. "It's sort of a tradition, you know. Like 
naming a kid. The first thing you call them after you get them home 
sticks in your mind forever. Doesn't matter what's on the birth 
certificate."

"I get it," O'Neill nodded. He'd been Jack for so long that he often 
forgot his real name was John. And his son had been Charlie, never Chuck 
or Charles. "So, Wilma and Betty won't do for the girls, huh?"

"Damn it, Jack!" Methos shouted, throwing the rest of his apple at 
O'Neill, who fell back laughing. "Those poor, noble creatures," he added 
mournfully, rubbing his aching shoulder. "Forever to be remembered as 
cartoon characters and an overfed, dandified plow horse!"

"Think of it as something to live down to," O'Neill replied as he 
reached into his pack and pulled out a small pill bottle.

"No," Methos waved a hand as he saw what Jack offered. "I'm tired and 
sore, but it's nothing I can't handle."

"This isn't a democracy, Captain Pierson," O'Neill responded quietly. 

Methos frowned but held out his hand. The colonel was correct and he 
knew it. Any military was for all intents and purposes a contained 
dictatorship -- its first order of business to keep its weapons, which 
consisted mainly of the soldiers who directed the implements of war, at 
peak performance. Anything which interfered with that was bad and 
therefore had to be stopped. He looked curiously at the little yellow 
pill O'Neill handed him. "What is it?"

The colonel looked at the label and shrugged. "Dilaud. Ten milligrams. 
Also for gun shot, but in this case as I seem to recall, it was for 
getting blasted with staff fire. Works the same as the Ibuprofen, but I 
was kind of hoping for a lot less fuss getting it down that skinny neck 
of yours."

Methos grimaced. "I know what Dilaud is," he said, finally putting the 
pill in his mouth and accepting the canteen O'Neill handed him. "So, 
what else have you got in that magic sack of yours?" he asked after 
swallowing. This time it was much easier, he thought with relief.

"Some Vicodin, a few Compazine, maybe some codeine. Why? You planning to 
open a pharmacy?"

"You never know," Methos grinned, easing back on his bedroll and closing 
his eyes. A moment later something struck him in the face and he sat up, 
startled and looking anxiously around until his eyes fell on a piece of 
cellophane glittering near the fire.

"Enjoy your lolly," O'Neill told him. "Oh. And Zorro," he added, laying 
back down in his own blankets. "I'm tired of playing Gunga Din, water 
boy of oxen. You can look after Fred and Ethel tomorrow in between 
rounds. I intend to sleep in."

Methos stared at Jack then at the candy. With a shrug he picked it up. 
After all, he'd never eaten a lollipop before. Not that he didn't know 
what it was. They'd been around for quite a while. Still, no one had 
ever thought to offer him one and he wasn't much of a sweet eater to 
seek them out. Methos shrugged and unwrapped it. Might as well try this 
one, he thought, amused by his own curiosity as he gave the little disk 
of hardened sugar a tentative lick before happily sticking it in his 
mouth -- especially since Jack would probably think to quiz him on it in 
the morning.

                         *******************

Chapter 16

The days of travel passed swiftly after that. Once the horses learned 
that their lot in life was to carry a rider, Methos adapted back into 
the saddle almost as if he'd never left it. By the time they reached the 
small narrow valley below the temple he was racing ahead of the wagon 
and with O'Neill's bemused permission scouting the forest on all sides.

As expected, he found signs of traffic around the villages they passed 
through. People were moving again. The men going out to hunt for game to 
replenish their supplies as they waited for the harvest, the women 
seeking fresh new shoots of wild herbs and anything they couldn't grow 
in their gardens. The common folk mostly stuck close to home, the world 
outside being fraught with dangers unknown. So, it was with some 
surprise as they moved up the road leading to the temple that Methos 
found the remains of someone's cook fire.

O'Neill halted the cart as Methos dismounted.

"Trouble?" the colonel asked as he climbed down, joining Methos where he 
squatted by the cold ashes. There were several broken arrow shafts lying 
on the ground nearby which was heavily stained with blood.

"Hunters," Methos nodded as he stood. "Probably rich kids from the 
bigger farms out looking for any sign of incursions from up north. 
Happens a lot. Nomads looking for better grazing lands find a good spot 
to settle down and the locals want to run them off. Doesn't matter that 
their ancestors did exactly the same thing. They were here first. So 
they think it's their duty to root them out. Kill whoever fights, sell 
whoever survives and split the spoils of war."

"Sweet," O'Neill muttered, reaching under his cloak to pull out his zat 
gun as something moved in the trees beyond the clearing.

"It's just us, Colonel!" Major Carter called down, moving out into the 
open followed by Daniel and Teal'c.

"You kids all right?" he asked, putting away his weapon.

"We're fine," Daniel nodded. "These guys just showed up last week. About 
a dozen or so with horses. We laid low and kept an eye on them until a 
couple started moving to explore the temple. Then Sam sent up a flare 
from inside and they all packed up and left in a hurry. That was about 
three days ago."

Methos frowned. "That might not have been the wisest thing to do," he 
told them. "You may have frightened them off, but they now have a 
wondrous tale to tell. And there's always some joker who'll take it into 
his head that the gods should be appeased, or that this is where you 
should come to ask a favor. Or maybe he's got some time to waste and 
wants his own wondrous tale to tell so he can get free meals for life 
out of his friends and neighbors. Safer just to let them look around and 
frighten themselves off with stories of angry spirits and whatever they 
do to trespassers."

"We didn't consider that," Daniel admitted ruefully.

"Of course you didn't," Methos said amiably. "It's not like you've ever 
interacted for long periods of time with most of the cultures you've 
come across. And knowing about the people," he offered gently. "Doesn't 
mean you can gauge their reactions to random events."

"But I should have," he responded quietly.

"Why? You aren't an anthropologist or a sociologist. And the whole 
mindset of the SGC isn't one of non-interference with the local 
cultures. It's the exact opposite. Which is not to say," Methos added. 
"That what the SGC does is wrong. It's just a case of me and mine first, 
you and yours we'll worry about when we have the time. The Goa'uld 
haven't given us the luxury of making a more humane choice. And frankly, 
I always thought the non-interference directive on Star Trek was 
idiotic. Lots of things interfere with the natural growth of cultures. 
And unless the underpinnings of the society in question are already on 
shaky ground just meeting a handful of space travelers isn't going to 
destroy it, just make it expand its horizons."

"That's a wonderful theory, Pierson, but do we really have time to 
discuss the whole Kirk versus Picard issue?" O'Neill asked 
sarcastically.

"There's always time for intelligent discussion," Methos responded 
haughtily. "And there's no contest there. Kirk above all others."

"Not all," O'Neill smirked. "Janeway's pretty hot."

"To each his own," Methos grinned, leaping back into the saddle.

"And where do you think you're going?"

"To scout the area," he responded, giving O'Neill a bemused glance. 
"With your permission, of course. I'd like to make sure there aren't any 
others roaming around who might cause trouble for us."

O'Neill nodded. "Make it so, Tonto."

Methos rolled his eyes in disgust as he turned the horse and headed out. 
If O'Neill kept up the western name calling for much longer, he was 
going to start missing the minion thing after all.

                         *******************

It was nearing sunset when Methos finally returned to camp after 
settling Wilma in the small, makeshift stable the others had built while 
they were gone. It wasn't much, just half a dozen covered stalls and a 
little rail fence enclosed paddock. Still, it was enough to suit his 
purposes and Methos was pleased with what he'd found when he'd arrived. 
Despite all of Jack's grumbling at being reduced to water carrier and 
stable boy he'd at least taken the care of the animals to heart. The 
stalls were clean with fresh hay, and clear water filled the hollowed 
out log they'd used for a trough. The other horses had been fed and 
curried, the oxen left to graze in the field nearby -- even Amelia, the 
donkey, was looking fat and happy. 

The cabin was warm and cozy as Methos stepped inside and the wonderful 
aroma of warm stew filled the room. The others were sitting comfortably 
around the place in various states of dress, mostly consisting of 
uniform pants and tee shirts.

"Are you guys sure you want to leave?" Methos asked. "'Cause this place 
is really nice for the times."

Pillows, a handful of wet clay and a rock all came sailing in his 
direction as Methos ducked under the table.

"I was joking!" he shouted as cries of outrage reached his ears. 
Apparently they still wanted cable TV, pizza dinners, and a working 
toilet more than the hardy, but character building pioneer life of their 
ancestors. Even Teal'c was glaring at him as he poked his head out to 
make sure nothing else was about to start flying. "Sorry," he grinned. 
"Just making sure we're all together on this."

"Home isn't where the hearth is," O'Neill muttered sullenly. "It's where 
the Chinese place knows to deliver on Sundays."

"A most astute observation," Methos agreed, finally making his point. 
"Which is why tonight is the last night we will all be able to wear 
modern clothing, use modern appliances, or speak anything other than 
Greek unless absolutely necessary."

Stunned silence greeted him as it at last sank in. They were almost 
ready to escape the boredom and isolation of their little haven and head 
out into the larger world where danger awaited.

"Pierson's right," O'Neill said quietly. "We've only got one chance. 
Let's make sure we get this thing right."

                         *******************

Chapter 17

"What do you mean we aren't going to Athens?" Daniel asked as they were 
loading the wagon.

"Megara is closer and it'll be just as easy to find a ship there, if not 
easier," Methos told him brusquely. "Athenians aren't always welcome on 
the islands. The Megarans tend to be a lot friendlier with their 
neighbors."

"But it's Athens!" Daniel exclaimed. "At a time when--"

"When it's still a backwater fishing port just like any other," Methos 
finished disgustedly.

"That's not the point," Daniel retorted.

"No," Methos agreed. "The point is I don't want to go to Athens."

Daniel stared at him owlishly. Methos had let him keep his glasses, but 
since he'd also had two pairs of contacts in his pack, Methos had 
insisted he wear those in public.

"I thought you said the Horsemen were in Anatolia?" Daniel said quietly.

"They are," Methos sighed. "And this has nothing to do with them," he 
explained, pausing as he started to lift one of the beds up and Daniel 
made no move to help him. "It's just..." he shrugged, looking off into 
the distance. "I'm not ready to go back to Athens. Not yet. Not in any 
age."

"You want to talk about it?" Daniel asked, growing concerned.

"Not really," Methos admitted. "Suffice to say there was a woman. Alexa. 
She loved Athens and I loved seeing it again through her eyes. And then 
she died. So, you'll forgive me if I'm not eager to revisit that 
memory."

"I'm sorry," Daniel nodded slowly. "You're right. We should go to 
Megara. It's closer."

Methos gave him a grateful smile as the front door opened.

"That's the last of it," Carter said, putting down an armload of linens. 
"Except for the stuff we need every day."

"Good," Methos told her. "I can load the donkey in the morning."

"Daniel," Carter said. "The colonel wants to see you as soon as you're 
finished here."

Daniel nodded as she went back inside. Methos shrugged. "Just help me 
with the bed and I'll get the rest," he offered. Most of the heavy work 
was done anyway and Methos wanted everything loaded where he could get 
at it when needed. They'd all been very surprised when he'd told them to 
empty the cabin of everything that wasn't nailed in place. But that was 
all part of his plan, he'd explained, and they'd know everything come 
morning.

When it was all done to his satisfaction Methos went down to check on 
the animals and see that they were fed, watered and bedded down for the 
night, then stopped by the stream to wash. By the time he returned to 
camp night was falling and he suddenly realized he hadn't seen any of 
the others for quite some time. He opened the door to find them all 
huddled around the hearth. O'Neill rose first, blocking his view of 
whatever they'd been looking at. 

"Where the hell have you been?!" he demanded.

"Well, Mom, Johnny asked me to come by his place for a game of catch, 
then Billy's dad took us for ice cream. Where the hell do you think I've 
been?" he asked sarcastically. "Working hard to save your ass!"

"And because of that," O'Neill told him sharply. "I have to do this!"

He stepped away from the others who suddenly moved back to reveal one of 
the finest bows Methos had ever seen, while beside it lay a quiver of 
arrows. His lips parted in surprise and he inhaled deeply as he knelt to 
examine their gift. 

"This is really nice!" he exclaimed testing the bow which had been made 
from a length of ash wood and polished to perfection. The arrows were 
light and tipped with new iron heads which O'Neill must have secretly 
purchased in Delphi. The fletchings were made of dyed feathers and 
arranged in a pattern he'd never seen. While the quiver itself was a 
masterpiece of workmanship. Deer skin stretched around wood and tooled 
in a running border of leaves individually dyed green with a hunting 
scene in the center.

"Teal'c did all the carving," Daniel told him. "Carter redesigned the 
bow and did the fletching, so these arrows should be more aerodynamic 
than you might be used to. I just helped draw the hunting scene."

"The rest," Carter added. "Was Colonel O'Neill's project."

Methos turned wide eyes to Jack, who stood there frowning. "You did 
this?" he asked, holding up the quiver.

"Okay, so I took a couple of art classes in college," O'Neill huffed 
defensively. "Sue me!"

Methos swallowed hard, looking from one friendly face to another not 
quite sure what to say that would accurately express how he was feeling. 
No friend had ever gone to this much trouble to hand make him so special 
a gift. The amount of time each facet of its preparation must have taken 
was also telling. Off time was precious to soldiers, and from what he 
saw here they'd spent at least a good portion of theirs thinking of him. 
And everything was so beautifully crafted. More importantly, each one of 
them had used some area of their expertise to create it. In truth, he 
would have been satisfied with a decent bow and a serviceable quiver 
with a few sharply whittled arrows. 

"I think he's speechless," Daniel commented.

"It's about time," O'Neill muttered. "You'd think somebody stuck a key 
in his back and wound him up too tight."

Methos bowed his head, laughing softly. "Thank you," he finally said, 
looking from one to the other. "It's a beautiful gift. I'll keep it 
always."

"And he means always," O'Neill nodded thoughtfully. "Which in itself is 
very cool."

The others were smiling as they thought about that. Something they'd 
made would be seen and treasured for lifetimes to come. A little slice 
of immortality they themselves could own.

"So," O'Neill asked, daintily lifting the hem of his chiton and taking a 
seat on the edge of the hearth. "We gonna eat or what?"

For the rest of the evening they shared a lively meal interspersed with 
stories of home, friends and family. They laughed a lot and generally 
ignored the fact that there might be danger ahead. It was the only way 
to deal with it. To hope like hell that they could manage to make their 
way to Egypt and successfully accomplish their mission. As for Methos, 
he silently vowed that even if they failed, he would make sure his 
friends spent the rest of their lives in splendid comfort and safety.

                         *******************

Part Three
Chapter 17

Dawn was a tiny sliver on the eastern horizon as they rose and gathered 
their bedding. There wasn't much talking as they ate a cold breakfast of 
smoked fish and bread, just the occasional word or comment about 
whatever task they were focused on. While Methos secured their travel 
gear and supplies to the donkey, Teal'c and Daniel harnessed the oxen 
and O'Neill saddled the horses. 

"All right," Methos said when everything was loaded and ready except for 
the shields the colonel had purchased and one large bundle. "Places 
everybody."

"Carter isn't here," O'Neill reminded.

"She can take a little extra time," Methos told him smugly. "She's our 
centerpiece."

"O-kay," the colonel nodded dubiously. "Hey, can I have the window 
seat?"

"You'll get plenty of air sitting on Betty," Methos responded. "But 
first," he said, opening the package. "Remove your robe."

"But you haven't even asked me out yet!"

"And I'm not likely to once you're wearing this." Methos held up the 
sword he'd purchased and the deer skin belt he'd made.

"Cool!" O'Neill said, removing his himation. 

The belt went around his waist, neatly tied with fringe at both ends. 
Methos took a moment to adjust his chiton so that it bloused over the 
belt, leaving the hem to fall just above his knees. The sword had it's 
own girder which went over the colonel's head to hang across one 
shoulder with the scabbard comfortably strapped to his back. Taking the 
himation, linen now because the weather was getting warmer, Methos 
redressed O'Neill, placing the folds carefully so that there would be no 
impediment if Jack need to reach for the blade.

He handed O'Neill one of the shields and stood back to admire his 
handiwork. "Now, you're a soldier," he nodded.

"Imagine that," O'Neill muttered, looking down at himself disgustedly. 

Methos rolled his eyes and helped him place the shield over his back so 
he could ride with it then turned to the other members of the team.

"Teal'c," Methos gave a half bow as the Jaffa came forward and he 
unwrapped a fine linen cloak stitched with hundreds of tiny feathers 
dyed in rainbow colors. "You," he explained, removing the plain himation 
Teal'c had worn and replacing it with the new one, "are an ambassador 
from Numidia. A very important man."

"Indeed," the Jaffa intoned.

Methos took out several heavy gold bracelets, putting them on Teal'c's 
wrists and ankles then added rings for his fingers and a heavy gold neck 
chain and pendant.

"You won't really need to do anything," he told the big man. "Just look 
distant and regal. Pay no attention to anyone. Not even us."

"A simple request. Most easily done," Teal'c grinned wickedly.

"Thought it might be," Methos chuckled. "One more thing. Two, actually," 
he amended. "You'll ride Trigger and carry this monstrosity."

Teal'c grimaced at the hideous shield he held up.

"Hey!" the colonel complained. "That is a great depiction of fish."

"I believe there is a saying among the ancient peoples of the Ta're," 
Teal'c began. "To return from battle with one's shield or lying dead 
upon it." 

"With my shield or on it. Yes," Methos nodded.

"Then please see to it. Should the worst happen, it may be any shield 
but this."

"You have my solemn oath on that," Methos agreed emphatically as he 
helped the Jaffa hang the detestable armor across his back.

O'Neill frowned mightily and stomped over to Betty. "We ready yet, 
kemosabi?"

Methos sighed in despair. "Look, Jack. Just pick a name. Any nickname! 
Then stick to it. Even minion is better than this!"

"Y' think?" O'Neill grinned, then dropped his sudden mask of affability. 
"Just get this show on the road, Pierson. We're not playing here."

Methos nodded. O'Neill was right. He was delaying. "Sorry, Danny, but I 
have to pierce your ears," he told the young archaeologist.

"I think I see where this is going," Jackson nodded.

"Don't worry," Methos said gently, holding up a pair of earrings that 
looked like tiny lions' heads. "These are lighter than they look and 
I've got a good salve there to keep you from itching."

A little alcohol and a fine needle from the med kit allowed Methos to do 
the work quick and neat. A pair of gold bracelets to match and a lion's 
head broach to hold his himation at the shoulder and Daniel was ready.

"Major Carter!" Methos called. "You can come out now!"

The front door opened and Carter stepped out, drawing stares from the 
other members of the team. Her fine blonde hair was curled high and held 
in place by tiny combs of beaten gold set with miniature sheaves of 
wheat. The same motif was repeated in all of her jewelry. From the huge 
dangling earrings to the small pins that held her sleeves together at 
various points from her shoulders to her wrists. She wasn't wearing 
bracelets or a necklace, but the belt that encircled the waist of her 
flawlessly white chiton whispered musically as the sheaves slid across 
her hips as she walked.

"It's brilliant!" Daniel whispered as he looked to Methos. "We're 
untouchable!"

"What's brilliant?" O'Neill asked. "She looks like an ad for the 
Farmer's Almanac."

"She's a bride, Jack! Don't you get it?" Daniel explained. "A noble 
bride on her way to be married. Led by the groom's ambassador," he waved 
at Teal'c. "Protected by a pair of her father's soldiers. And bringing 
with her a dowry of such wealth her husband could only be a king!"

"Don't forget your own role in our little charade," Methos grinned, 
bowing deeply. "The honored brother who acts as his father's emissary, 
driving a fine pair of oxen and his very beautiful sister."

"So?" O'Neill asked again. "What's the big deal?"

Methos cast his eyes to the heavens, sighing again in despair. "Do you 
know how much bad karma messing with anyone looking like us would 
bring?"

"Not to mention the war it would cause," Daniel added.

"Okay. So no one messes with the king's main squeeze. Got it," O'Neill 
nodded. "Carter, get in the wagon."

"Yes, Colonel."

"No!" Methos shouted. "You don't speak to her. And she doesn't speak to 
anybody! Daniel speaks for her and we speak to him only when necessary."

"So what do I do?" Carter asked angrily. "Just sit up there looking 
stupid?"

"No," Methos told her calmly. "You are a princess. You sit demurely with 
your eyes downcast and pay no attention to anybody."

"The whole way to Egypt?!" she shouted.

"Only when we're in public, damn it! You can chat with Danny. But only 
if he speaks first."

Carter frowned and O'Neill looked furious.

"Please," Methos said quietly. "It's only when we pass through a 
village, or if we're close to anyone on the roads. If you say anything 
then, he'll be required to beat you."

"I thought princesses got special treatment?" she asked, giving Daniel 
an icy glare.

"Only in storybooks, Samantas," Methos told her kindly. "In the real 
world, they may have more to eat and prettier clothing, but they get 
treated far worse than most other women."

"He's right, Sam," Daniel added.

"It's not that I like doing this to you," Methos explained. "But it's 
the only way we can get to Megara without running the risk of being 
stopped for any reason. Your very presence makes the rest of us safe. 
And if we do have to stop where there are people you won't have to stay 
with the other women. You'll have a special place with Jack and I as 
guards. The other women won't expect you to eat or even gossip with 
them. You'll be both respected and ignored by everybody."

Finally, she nodded. "Okay. If it'll get us there safely, I'll play 
along."

"Thank you," Methos heaved a sigh of relief. "Danaeus," he turned to 
Daniel. "Help your sister into the wagon. No one but you touches her 
until we get to Megara."

Methos adjusted his own chiton, strapped on his sword, slid his shield 
over his back, and tossed the rest of the gear into the wagon. Without a 
backward glance at the little cabin he turned and went to his horse as 
Jack mounted alongside him. 

"Just for the record, Methos," O'Neill said quietly. "This plan sucks."

Methos grimaced wryly as he kneed his horse forward. "If it gets us 
where we need to go in one piece, I don't care if stands up and farts."

                         *******************

Chapter 18

The houses and fields stood empty in the bright summer sun. Whole 
villages depopulated in a matter of minutes. Even those unable to walk 
were carried to the road where the great and mighty were passing. Only 
once in a generation might such an event take place and those who missed 
it would listen in rapt awe to those who hadn't and account themselves 
lucky just to hear the tale.

They came out of the north it was said. Rumor flew on the feet of 
children, who ran ahead to win sweets and praise from their neighbors. 
Royalty is passing, come show your respect and be entertained.

People lined the roads, some having left their homes many miles away and 
long before dawn just to wait in the heat of the day. But none left 
disappointed. A man of rich exotic color, like the fine dark wood of the 
precious cypresses of Lebanon polished to gleaming perfection led the 
procession. A prince of his people, or maybe a lesser king himself, so 
wealthy he decorated his skin with gold emblazoned on his forehead. But 
who else, they whispered, would be sent to bring back so rare a prize?

 She was fair like the cream which rises to the top of the milk jug, 
with hair of sunlight to crown her glory. Even the gold she wore paled 
beside such beauty. And as she passed, her unblinking eyes held the road 
ahead as though her only thought was for the husband awaiting at the end 
of her long journey. 

Then there was the relative who accompanied her. Skin nearly as fair as 
the woman, his own hair dipped in gold with eyes the color of the sky at 
morning. Tall and stalwart, a man of honor indeed, who plied the one who 
might challenge a goddess with sips of cool wine and simple conversation 
that might keep his charge amused.

Of course this wondrous entourage had guards. Only two, but did they 
need more than that when the two were of such frightening demeanor? They 
glared at the people with faces carved like granite, searching the 
crowds as if they could see into the hearts of men and know who might 
offer insult or danger. One was a hawk, the other a lion, terrifying in 
their coldness. It was said that together they had beaten back the Four 
Horsemen who'd tried to steal their lady and hacked the monsters to 
death. And this was believed because it was said. And why shouldn't it 
be true? If you could but look into the eyes of these fearless men you 
would know it!

And as the procession passed onto the horizon the people gathered in the 
road behind to catch every last bit of its magnificence. Well pleased 
and satisfied that they had been blessed by the gods themselves, they 
returned to their homes and their fields to repeat the tale as often as 
they were able until the myth turned into legend.

                         *******************

The wagon turned at a bend in the road putting a large stand of trees 
between SG-1 and their latest audience. Methos glanced back over his 
shoulder to make sure no one was following and nodded.

"It's over for the moment," he told O'Neill.

"At ease," Jack announced to the others, who heaved a sigh of relief. 
"You okay, Carter?" he asked, riding over to the wagon.

Samantha was slumped in her heavily padded chair which sat beneath the 
awning. "Just tired of sitting, Colonel."

O'Neill nodded. "This looks like a good place to stop for lunch. Why 
don't you get down and stretch your legs?"

"Thank you, sir." She stood up and stretched in a most unladylike 
manner, rolling her head to ease the tension in her neck. "Come on, 
Daniel, help me down from here."

Jackson nodded, moving stiffly off the hard bench, kneading his lower 
back as he reached the ground. He winced sharply as he touched a tender 
spot then frowned at Carter as he held out his hands and lifted her 
down. "Could you not kick me quite so hard next time? I'm getting a 
bruise there," he complained.

"If you'd just speak to me, I wouldn't have to kick you at all," she 
replied unrepentantly, walking away to lean against a tree trunk and do 
some leg stretches.

"We are all tired, Daniel Jackson," Teal'c said quietly as he came over. 
"She perhaps more than we. It is not easy for Major Carter to sit so 
silently on display."

"Tell me about it," Daniel muttered, rubbing his sore spot again.

Teal'c merely raised an eyebrow and went to find a comfortable seat in 
the shade beside O'Neill.

On the other side of the wagon Methos easily slid off his horse, loosely 
hitching the mare to the cart. He pulled his canteen from the saddle bag 
and quenched his thirst, going over to the donkey to retrieve the basket 
he'd filled that morning with food for the day. He could tell by his 
companions' expressions that they were already weary of the game, and 
after three weeks of being ogled by the masses he couldn't really blame 
them.

"Cheer up," he said as he joined them, setting down the basket. "Another 
three weeks, maybe a little longer if we lose another wheel, then we can 
ditch this whole set up and sneak into Megara like good little covert 
operatives."

"You knew this would happen," O'Neill accused, obviously referring to 
the endless streams of people that came out to greet them.

"I was counting on it," he agreed. "And it's to our advantage to play up 
to them. A few local aristocrats might be greedy, but they'll think 
twice if the entire district is watching. It's their crops that will 
burn and their families that will be slaughtered if the nobles go out of 
their way to make a powerful enemy needlessly. And many of the villagers 
can still tell stories of those same nobles whose ancestors were just as 
poor as they are now when they first arrived, but found a good plot of 
land, or killed their neighbor to get it. Blood feud is a way of life 
here, and you can bet that if one tribe offends us the next will want to 
protect themselves from our anger by taking up arms against the 
evildoers."

"So no one is willing to do anything that might get them killed," Carter 
surmised as she finally joined them.

"Would you if you were them?" Methos asked. "They may be poor by our 
standards," he explained. "But they're comfortable and content with 
their lot in lives. They're warm in the winter, they have food to eat 
and a few small luxuries. Maybe a vial of rose water for Mother once a 
year, or a basket of peaches from Argos the whole family can share. We 
might not think it's a lot, but they're happy because they don't know 
they aren't supposed to be."

"Makes you wonder what a few innovations in technology would do here," 
Daniel murmured.

"Not much," Methos snorted, parceling out the contents of the basket to 
everybody. "Especially after they killed you for even suggesting it. I 
remember when day laborers rioted in England when machines put them out 
of work in the mid 19th century. It's only in the past hundred years 
that people have come to see technology as a necessity -- and only in 
the last twenty that business has cushioned the blow to the economy by 
retraining workers in other fields. Innovation has never been the poor 
man's friend."

That seemed to end the discussion and they were quiet as they ate, more 
cheese, olives, way bread and a handful of figs. Meat was for the 
evenings when O'Neill could find a quiet place and attack a tree, or 
when they were between distant villages and Methos felt it was safe 
enough to go hunting.

"Did you hear what they were saying at that last village?" Carter 
suddenly asked. Everyone looked at her curiously. "That Colonel O'Neill 
and Methos had destroyed the Four Horsemen."

"I'd always wondered where that tale came from," Methos admitted. "The 
Lion and the Hawk. Wishful thinking, I suppose."

"Yeah," Daniel asked. "Whatever happened to them? The other Horsemen, I 
mean."

"They're dead," Methos said blandly.

"In the Game," Daniel nodded.

"You could say that," Methos responded and kept eating.

"Well, it was or it wasn't," O'Neill challenged the Immortal. "Come on, 
Pierson. Give."

Methos thought for a moment, then gave an internal shrug. It was over 
and done with. Whether they enjoyed hearing the tale or the role he'd 
played in it wasn't really important, was it?

"It happened just a few years ago our time," he explained quietly. 
"Kronos found me and decided we should have a sort of class reunion. 
Only this time he didn't want to ride through the countryside laying 
waste to small pockets of humanity. He wanted the entire world at its 
collective knees."

O'Neill snorted in amusement. "And how was he going to achieve that 
imaginative feat?" he asked dryly.

"Biological warfare," Methos answered succinctly, watching their eyes 
widen. "He must have spent years studying. And it's a pity really. 
Without realizing what he was doing he became a brilliant virologist. 
Created a toxin to rival Ebola -- and without a vaccine. Thought if he 
unleashed it on even a small part of the world they'd have to give us 
everything. All the power and bootlicking he'd ever dreamed of."

"That would have lasted all of five seconds," O'Neill chuckled 
mirthlessly. "He'd have just loved that Welcome To The World Powers gift 
we'd have sent. You know," he confided. "Some of our nukes only make a 
tiny little boom and have no fall out worth mentioning."

Methos nodded wryly. "It was insane," he agreed. "But he could have 
wiped out millions before you stopped him. Maybe more if the virus 
became airborne."

"What happened?" Carter asked.

"I left MacLeod a trail and he came after us."

"You were in on it?!" Daniel looked shocked.

"Of course I was in on it! Kronos would have killed me if I hadn't 
agreed -- and that virus would still have been out there waiting to 
destroy humanity. He might have liked the advantages of the modern era, 
but he wasn't above being spiteful and petty. He could just as easily 
have sent the world back to the Stone Age, found himself a good horse 
and started all over again -- with him in charge of whoever managed to 
survive the plague. And I knew how to handle biologically hazardous 
material. To destroy the virus so completely that not a single microbe 
would escape. After MacLeod took out Caspian and I knew he could take 
Kronos, I went for Silas and it ended."

"So you only pretended to be in on it," Carter nodded thoughtfully.

"Wouldn't have made a difference which if Kronos had succeeded. I would 
have been just as guilty in your eyes. And come to think of it," Methos 
cocked his head. "Knowing what I know now I probably shouldn't have been 
as eager to take care of it personally."

"How's that?" O'Neill asked.

"Well, that story," Methos responded. "The Lion and the Hawk. When 
Kronos showed up and MacLeod already wanted his head I thought maybe it 
was a bit of prophecy unfolding. I mean, you never know about that sort 
of thing, do you? And one of the symbols of Scotland is the Lion 
Rampant. I thought it meant we were destined to win." 

Sometimes, Methos thought ruefully as the others smiled at his childish 
whimsy, he amazed even himself with his own egotistical stupidity!

They finished their meal in silence, then wearily resumed their places. 
Once they were mounted O'Neill sidled the horse over and quietly brought 
up the earlier conversation 

"You still would have done it," O'Neill said with conviction. "Even if 
you weren't sure you could win."

Methos raised an eyebrow. "You really think so?" he asked, not at all 
certain he wouldn't have handled it differently.

"Oh, yeah," O'Neill nodded. "You may be a cold, calculating son of a 
bitch to everyone else, but deep down inside you'll always be my 
marshmallow minion."

Stunned, Methos watched as he rode to the other side of the wagon. 
"Kronos was right," he whispered, aghast. "I've not only gotten soft," 
he grimaced. "But chewy!"

                         *******************

Chapter 19

A week later they paused in their journey to rest at a hot spring in the 
foothills below the Garania mountains. It was sheltered by the remains 
of a small shrine to Hephaestus, god of the forge, one Methos had 
remembered from his days with the Horsemen. But the old priest who had 
cared for it two centuries earlier had died and the shrine must have 
become lost. 

They set up camp for the night and took their turns, smiling as they 
rejoined their comrades by the fire. Going next to last, Methos sighed 
with pleasure as he sank into the heat of the spring and slid beneath 
the surface. He relaxed himself, breathing in the hot, metallic tasting 
water unconcerned with drowning, until every fiber of his being felt 
soothed and comfortable for the first time in weeks. He drowsed there, 
floating peacefully until he drifted off.

"PIERSON!!"

A hand gripped his hair, pulling him up and out of his warm cocoon, 
flailing and sputtering with indignation.

"What?!" he shouted at O'Neill, who knelt beside the pool.

"You drowned."

"I was napping!" 

O'Neill stared at him in disbelief until Methos finally sighed in 
disgust and explained. "I don't kno