North of India, West of Cathay

Fandom: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Highlander
AU: The Witch and Death
Word Count: 13,531
Characters: Methos, Willow Rosenberg
Ships: Methos/Willow Rosenberg

This story has art!

Somewhere north of the roof of the world and west of the delights of far Cathay, a woman of power beyond reckoning meets a man once thought a god by half the world.

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From Across the Distant Steppe

Willow pauses at the top of the ridge she’s been climbing, looking out over the narrow valley between her and the next ridge – perhaps more small mountains than hills, but still, not nearly as tall as the Himalayas to the south. And while the valleys are dry here in the rain-shadow of those massive bulwarks, there’s still a beauty to the land that’s often absent in more civilized parts of the world.

Not that she’s seen too much of those in the last couple of years, doing her best to find the least-settled routes to make her journey. A few places – Lisbon in Portugal where she began, Istanbul in Turkey as she crossed the Bosphorus, a few towns along the way where she’s had a chance to eat something she hasn’t cooked herself. The one memorable little town where she found someone willing to ferry a crazy American girl across the Caspian Sea for an exorbitant price that makes her glad she won’t see her parents again for however long this journey takes.

A journey that’s about to be interrupted by someone else out here on their own. Willow smiles to herself, starting down the ridge toward the valley floor. She knows she’s taking the harder route by going over these ridges instead of around, but half the point of her journey is not taking the easier path.

She waves to the man when she’s closer, a smile on her face as she approaches him. “I didn’t expect to see anyone after leaving Kaindy a few days ago. Not for a few more weeks, anyway.”

Running across an American tourist in the middle of what is now one of the most isolated parts of the world ought to be more of a surprise than it actually is. The world really is getting uncomfortably small, Methos reflects, shifting his backpack on his shoulders. He summons up a smile, though, and hopes he’s not about to have to listen to the story of this girl’s journey to ‘find herself’.

“I wasn’t expecting to see anyone either,” he says pleasantly. “Not after dropping off my last load of tourists in Kaindy.” He smiles, and extends a hand. “Adam Pierson.”

“Willow Rosenberg.” Willow accepted the offered hand, giving it a momentary squeeze as she smiles before letting go. “I probably shouldn’t have been so surprised to see someone, it’s a really a beautiful place out here.” She pauses, long past blushing when she babbles. “Where were you headed?”

“Nowhere in particular,” Methos shrugs. “China, I suppose, eventually, though I’m not in any real hurry to get there. I got tired of graduate school, you see.” He smiles, shrugging slightly. It’s not entirely a lie, if instead of ‘graduate school’ he’d said ‘MacLeod’. “What about you?”

“Mongolia, via Kazakhstan.” Willow smiled, bright and warm. “And further east, eventually, too, though I’m really hoping to get to Mongolia before winter, maybe find a village to stay in for a couple months.” Since she doesn’t have a tent of her own, and magic only goes so far when she’s not entirely sure of where her next meal is coming from.

“Understandable. Winter in this part of the world is really unbelievably miserable.” He has much the same plans for the winter as she does. They’re far enough from what people like to call civilization that the old rules of hospitality still apply, and strangers are rarely turned away. “You shouldn’t have much trouble finding a place. The locals are remarkably welcoming.”

“So far, they’ve been nicer here than half the people I’ve met in Europe.” Willow rolls her eyes, thinking of the money she’d spent getting across that continent. Perhaps next time she decided to do something like this, she’d skip Europe altogether. “At least the only really expensive thing was the boat trip across the Caspian Sea.” She shrugs, her smile brightening again. “Have you been traveling a long while? Or just since Kaindy?”

“I started in Turkey, actually.” After flying there from Seacouver, changing flights three times on the way to shake off Dawson. He hadn’t used Adam Pierson’s name to book any of them. “I’ve been shepherding groups of tourists, and just kind of gradually ended up here. Everyone appreciates someone who can speak their language in a foreign country, so it actually pays pretty well.”

Willow nods. “It is nice, like a bit of home where you least expect it. But I’ve kinda enjoyed not hearing English a lot. I mean, it takes a bit to learn enough of the language to get across what I mean, but it’s still nice to learn rather than be catered to.” Being catered to, after all, makes things too easy, just like magic could make things too easy – things that weren’t meant to be easy. Though she does have to admit that she’s had to use magic to enhance her ability to pick up the local languages, so she doesn’t say something insulting or really stupid.

“An excellent point.” And an unexpected attitude, from an American of her generation. Or from anyone, really. “Though not one that everyone would agree with.” Having an interpreter can be crucial while dealing with the local government officials, for example. “What brings you all the way out here, anyway?” he asks, curiosity roused.

Shrugging, Willow shifts her backpack a little. “Finding some pretty places, taking a break from being who I was.” A spoiled, isolated teenager who had a little too much talent and a little too little training. She’s just glad she didn’t screw up worse than she had. And that no one died in the process, even if there were more than a few injuries. “Remembering life is too short not to go where I want to go, even if I have to do it without a lot of money.”

Methos, who has lived by that last philosophy for several thousand years now, finds himself nodding approvingly. “There are certainly worse reasons to go trekking across Asia on foot.” Like avoiding a self-righteous, four hundred year old Scot – though at this point, Methos would likely have considered Antarctica a viable alternative to hanging about with MacLeod. “Though I will say that having money certainly makes things easier, even out here.”

“Yeah, probably.” Willow shrugs. “I mostly don’t worry about it, though.” Not when she can use a few flashy tricks that aren’t too dangerous to earn a meal or a place to sleep when she can’t offer a few hours of helping with animals or crops or kids for the same. “I haven’t had any real trouble finding a few odd jobs when I want to eat something I haven’t cooked.”

“If you’d like, you’re welcome to eat something I’ll cook this evening,” Methos offers. Willow isn’t the shallow American tourist he’d been dreading, and he’d be glad of the right sort of company, which she certainly seems to be. He’d ridden with his brothers along this route once, and at night, the memories are harder to ignore. “I promise it’ll be edible, and absolutely not poisonous.”

“I’ve managed not poisonous before, but I’m not always sure I manage edible,” Willow says cheerfully, smiling at Adam’s offer to cook. “Which is to say yes, I’d like that.” Since she’ll be eating enough of her own food over the next several months, if Adam and her part ways, it’ll be good to get a meal that’s not her own into her.

“Excellent.” Methos smiles. “I picked up supplies in Kaindy, so I hope you’ve gotten used to the local cuisine.” It reminds him of food he’d eaten for millenia, and makes for a pleasant change after spending the last few centuries or so in the West. “Or at least can tolerate my approximation thereof.”

“Anything that isn’t my own cooking right now.” Though she does better with a stove and an oven and a certainty of her ingredients, she still hasn’t mastered the art of cooking from what she finds or catches. “I’ve burned a lot of things trying to cook over a fire.”

“It’s an art.” A dying one, in most parts of the world. Methos doesn’t usually mind – he’s a fan of modernity, and of food that doesn’t come unevenly cooked and with ashes in it. “I did quite a lot of it when I was younger, so I believe I can promise not to burn anything <b>too</b> badly.”

Willow nods, smiling cheerfully again for a moment. “Not too burnt is always good.” She shifts her backpack again, before tilting her head. “Were you planning on stopping soon, or do you want to hike for a while longer? I’m headed mostly east at the moment, and a bit south, over the next ridge. There should be a valley there that leads north toward the river, though it’ll be a bit of a hike to get there.”

“Why not stop now and make for the river in the morning?” Methos suggests. He’s in the mood to settle in for the afternoon. His journal needs to be updated, for one thing, and for another – well, he isn’t trying to keep to any sort of set schedule, so there’s no harm in calling it an early day.

She doesn’t actually have a schedule she needs to keep, other than finding a place to stay by winter, and after a moment, Willow nods. “Sounds good. Do you have supplies for food, or should I start a fire while you see if there’s something to catch?” She’s gotten pretty good at tracking down her meals, even if half the time she’s using a little tiny bit of magic to do so. More than she probably should be using, really, along with everything else, though she is trying to keep her desire to use magic for everything in check.

“I have enough,” Methos says, making a face at the idea of hunting. It’s never been one of his favourite activities, and has always been a reason to prefer cities. He nods at one particular hill, only a few hundred yards away. “How does that look?” Old instincts make him more comfortable on the high ground, and it’s not yet cold enough that the wind will be a problem.

Willow looks over at the hill, and nods. It looks nice, and it’ll give them a nice view of the surrounding terrain. Though she’ll have a harder time hiding that she does magic if Adam has everything he needs for making food. “Looks good to me.”

It doesn’t take them long to reach the indicated hill, and Methos shrugs off his pack gratefully, sprawling onto the ground next to it for a few moments, looking up at the sky.

“Give me a minute, and I’ll go find something for us to light on fire,” he tells Willow.

Dropping her pack onto the ground, Willow sits down with a little more grace, leaning back on her hands and arching her back to ease some of the kinks out of it. She doesn’t tell Adam that she could make them a fire that probably wouldn’t need anything to burn, since it’s much better to have a fire she doesn’t have to hide that she made from nothing. She even has a flint-and-steel set in her backpack to strike sparks, or pretend to strike sparks while she makes the tinder catch anyway.

“The nearest wood is probably near the river. It’s part of why I wanted to reach it today, so I didn’t have to cook over dung or grass. Grass burns too hot and dung leaves a funny flavor to my food.”

Methos cracks one eye open and squints up at her. “If you really want to, we can try and make the river. Though I will warn you that if you make me pick that pack back up, I’ll almost certainly complain.”

Willow shrugs, looking down to meet his gaze with a half-smile. “Nope. Just telling you what’s the most likely fuel source.” Other than sheer nothingness, because she really does have to remember to keep her magic in check around him. He’s not an audience to be dazzled, and he’s not small game that needs to be held still until she can brain it with a rock or something.

“It won’t be the first time I’ve cooked over one or the other,” Methos says, closing his eye again. “Though if you can abide the taste, a dung fire means there’s less chance of my burning everything.” Every time he’s confronted with the necessity of starting a fire, he’s tempted to return to civilisation, where there are air conditioners and stoves. Then he remembers why he’s out here in the first place.

Willow nods, though she knows Adam can’t see the gesture through closed eyelids. “Better funny flavors than burnt food.” Because even if it tastes odd, it’s edible. She’s still not convinced anything that’s been burnt is edible.

“I have some spices that should help mask the flavour,” Methos tells her. He doesn’t particularly want to move, but pushes himself into a sitting position anyway. “Next time I do this, I’m definitely going by horseback,” he mutters, casting a baleful look at his pack. “In fact, I may see if I can buy one in the next village we reach.”

She has her eyes half-closed, listening to Adam mutter to himself, a faint smile on her face. It’s been a while since she’d heard English before running into Adam, and it is nice to hear a familiar language out here in the middle of nowhere. “Why would you need a horse?” Willow tilts her head curiously, looking over at Adam. “I mean, except to carry a tent, maybe.”

“A tent, extra food, books – and myself.” Methos looks ruefully at his feet. “Cross-continental travel is a great deal more pleasant when you’re riding, rather than walking the entire way. Besides, I like horses.” And it’s also tempting to revisit on horseback the places he and his brothers had terrorized so very long ago. Of all the world, this part of it is in some ways the least changed.

“I like walking.” Willow shrugs. She also started out doing this the hard way on purpose. Even if she has learned some hard-won self-control, and it more at ease with herself and her potential, she’s still not really willing to stop walking and ride instead. As much, perhaps, because walking’s become a habit now. She’ll probably even keep walking more once she’s home, she thinks. If she ever really goes home, since she’s not sure where that is anymore – and she doesn’t mean where her parents’ house is.

“I’ve done more than my fair share of it,” Methos says ruefully. He sighs, and gets to his feet. “And I suppose now I’ll get to do a little more. Unless you happen to be carrying gasoline and matches, anyway.”

“Nope.” Willow smiles sunnily at Adam. She knows she has something more potent than gasoline and matches, but that doesn’t mean she wants to reveal it or use it. Only that it is there, if she needs to draw on it, which she doesn’t at the moment. Not until they have a fire ready to light, anyway.

“You probably ought to come with me,” he tells her. “It’s not as dangerous out here as it was a few thousand years ago, but that doesn’t mean there’s any point in taking chances. The few people who do live out here are desperately poor, and therefore easily tempted.”

Willow is tempted, for a brief moment, to tell him she’ll be fine. In the end, though, it’s best just to go along, and stay in the company of someone who might be better able to fend off someone deciding they looked like a good target. She gets to her feet easily, shrugging. “I’m not as easy a target as I look, but I wouldn’t want to tempt anyone to find that out the hard way.”

Or more accurately, she’s not going to tempt anyone to find that out the hard way. And a little more walking about looking for dung to fuel the fire isn’t going to hurt her, not when she’d originally planned to attempt to get to the river today.

“Depending on how well armed they are, it won’t matter what kind of mark you are,” Methos points out. “It’s why I carry a gun.” The sword and the knives are for other threats. “I’ve had to make a point of having it a few times, but that usually does the trick. At least, it has so far.” He smiles, feigning a touch of embarrassment.

A small smile crosses Willow’s face, and she shrugs. “Guns don’t scare me.” She does have the sense to set cantrips and protections before she goes to sleep out in the open, for all that she’s avoiding using much magic on her journey. It’s something she can rightly justify using magic for, since there isn’t an equally useful mundane equivalent. Though she supposes that a horse or a dog might make a decent warning system, if she was sure she’d wake up if they alerted to something wrong.

She is, Methos thinks, too young to realise how very final and how very inevitable death actually is. He picks his pack back up, unwilling to leave it behind and risk losing his journal.

At least he didn’t ask why she wasn’t afraid of guns, though Willow has the impression she just might have stuck her foot in her mouth again. A habit she hasn’t entirely managed to get out of, though she does manage to get the embarrassment over having done so, if she’s done so, under control pretty quickly. Before she starts stammering out the reason she’s not actually frightened of guns – their effects on those who have no ability to protect themselves from them, yes, but not the weapons themselves. If not before she blushes.

She follows Adam’s example after a moment, scooping up her pack though she’s not sure there’s anything in there anyone other than her would find valuable. That she finds it valuable is enough to keep it with her. Even if it does mean she can carry less for the fire.

Methos nods his approval. One of the most important things to remember about life on the road is to always carry everything with you at all times. When you haven’t got much, you don’t have to lose much for it to be a disaster.

“This way,” he suggests. There’s a line of low almost-hill to the left of their camp, and that will be the best place possible to start their search for fuel for the fire.

Willow nods, keeping close to Adam, preferring not to let him get too far away if anything happens. She doesn’t expect anything, but her journey’s been remarkably uneventful so far, especially compared to her life before, and she’s slightly nervous about it. And meeting someone new who’s not local only adds to her worry that something will decide to go wrong.

“The last time I was in this part of the world,” Methos tells her, “it was the middle of winter, and the snow was as high as a man’s chest at the shallow points.” He doesn’t add that this had been nearly two thousand years ago, or what he’d been calling himself at the time. “We spent four or five months camped at the foot of a rise not much different from that one, and were bloody grateful for the windbreak.”

That had been a bad winter. By the end of it, they’d all been half-mad from the wind and the snow and the dark chill gloom of the tents – and from being cooped up with one another for so long. The horses had died, and they’d eaten the slaves, not out of Caspian’s usual perversity, but out of necessity. A month and a half into it, a local shaman had stumbled across them, and irritated Methos by pointing out that they should have gone south long since.

The old man had died with a curse on his lips, and Methos had considered the next few months proof that it had worked, and had buried the takings from the shaman’s body instead of keeping them, even the fist-sized ruby that had been worth several large fortunes, and probably still would be. They’d slaughtered the first group of locals they came across in the spring, and ridden south without looking back.

Shaking off the memories, Methos tucks his hands into his coat pockets and reminds himself firmly that despite his surroundings, he’s in the century of the telephone and the microwave, and that he’s Adam Pierson, twenty-something and harmless, to whom Methos is an abstraction, a Holy Grail that might not even exist any longer.

“At least you had company. I wouldn’t want to be out here alone.” Willow keeps an eye out for any sign of fuel for the fire. “It’s why I’m planning to be somewhere with a few more people when winter comes, even if the only shelter is a tent. It’s better than nothing, and better than being alone.”

She smiles at the sight of a bit of wood, even though it’s small and looks half-charred already, as if someone had made a fire here from wood they’d carried, and left the remains behind. Picking it up, she frowned a little at the glint of something almost entirely buried under the dirt. A gleaming something that tugs at her, and she sets the bit of wood aside to brush the soil and grass-roots away from whatever it is.

“Adam! Come look at this.” Willow pries the ruby from the dirt, brushing some clinging soil away before holding it up to the sun. It’s bright and rich, and beautiful.

Methos looks over at Willow when she calls, and nearly curses when he sees what she’s holding up. He’s at her side in a few long strides, reaching out to take the ruby, to toss it away, as he starts to speak. “Willow…” He doesn’t have a chance to say more than her name when he feels like the ground has dropped out from under him, and he’s without anchor, dizzy and disoriented.

Willow feels something reaching out as Adam does, magic that wraps around them both as soon as he touches the ruby, spinning and twisting. Whirling them about in a blur of color and motion that she nearly squeezes her eyes shut against. She doesn’t know what it’s doing, but tries to focus as the magic does its work.

When the world reasserts itself, the ruby is gone, and Adam stumbles backward, falling on his backside. Willow does much the same, though she catches herself more readily. Perhaps only because she’d been focused on the magic, and slightly more prepared for the abrupt stop.

---

---

Bright Helios and Jupiter’s Crown

“We’re not in Kansas anymore.” Willow gives Adam a wry smile as he gets to his feet. “Interesting tornado, though, never seen anything like that before.” And she doesn’t want to see anything like it again, unless it’s getting her home. She really doesn’t like the feel of the magic – like a heavy oil, clinging to her skin still. It makes her want to take a bath and scrub it all off.

“We’re not in the twenty-first century any more,” Methos says grimly, looking around. “Nor in the Far East. I think we’re near the Mediterranean.” He takes another breath, and the sweet, untainted air makes his stomach twist. “Fuck,” he says again, then because that seems totally inadequate, lets loose with a string of curses that borrows from a dozen odd languages and should by rights have blistered the bark off of the nearby trees. “I don’t know when we are, but it’s definitely some time before the Industrial Revolution. I need a look at the buildings or the people to be more precise.” he says, once he’s finished cursing. At least Willow isn’t in hysterics, or babbling that it isn’t possible. It shouldn’t be, certainly – especially as there’s certainly an earlier version of himself somewhere on the planet – but that doesn’t change the facts.

“Then we should find some buildings or people. Or people-ish sorts, anyway.” Willow supposes they could have been dumped in another dimension as well, but she doesn’t really think so. The world feels too familiar, even if it feels a bit different from what she’s used to. More alive and vital than it had, even in the midst of wilderness. Younger, like Adam said.

She’s actually surprised Adam’s taking this so well, for someone who she didn’t think was familiar with magic. If he is familiar with it after all, maybe she doesn’t have to be so careful around him to hide what she can do.

“People-ish sorts?” Methos asks, then dismisses it. “We need to be very careful. Strangers haven’t always been treated very well, throughout most of history. If we’re far enough back, we run a real risk of being taken as slaves. Our clothing is not only unusual, but very good quality, which means we’ll attract avarice as well as attention – and that’s a dangerous combination.” They’re standing on a slope, and Methos starts downhill, heading for the trees so as to have something resembling both cover and shade. “If we run into anyone, keep quiet and let me do the talking. The chances are relatively good that I’ll speak the language.”

Attention isn’t particularly something Willow wants to attract, especially in the past. Too many risk factors for getting herself killed, and her parents would never even find a body, unless they dug her up in some archeological site. Which, since she didn’t even know where they were, she couldn’t figure out the odds of. So, avoiding the whole risk of being killed. For any reason, which means no magic, though that’s less difficult a prospect now than it had been at the beginning of her journey.

“You learned a lot of languages in school?” She latches onto something Adam’s said to make conversation, since she doesn’t really want him to return to her comment about people-ish sorts. Explaining demons and alternate dimensions is not something she particularly wants to do.

“Something like that.” It’s probably futile to hope that they’ll get out of this before he has to explain why, exactly, he’s familiar with most of the languages spoken in the Mediterranean region for the past few thousand years, but habit keeps him from saying more than he has to on the subject. “I’ve a pretty decent grounding in the cultures of the region as well, so follow my lead if it comes down to that.” Hopefully, he’ll get a look at the locals that will allow him to make a few preparations to blend in.

Willow nods. “Studying is good.” Studying the local customs before she attempts to interact, and learn how to blend in. At least long enough to figure out how to get home, since the ruby is still where they found it, probably. If it hasn’t been destroyed in the course of the spell taking effect. She would have been happier to have it with her, to be able to study it and maybe tease the spell apart, and get them home. Though how to do so without letting Adam figure out she’s a witch… well, she’s not entirely sure how she’d have done that.

If Willow is as sensible as she’s so far appeared to be, Methos thinks, they both might survive this yet.

On the far side of the strip of trees, Methos stops. There is a neat little house only about a hundred yards away, and the architecture and the style of plowing in the fields beyond it are all he needs to see. He can pinpoint their temporal location to within a century, and their geographical one to within a few hundred miles. Taking Willow firmly by the arm, he retreats to the shade and shelter of the trees. “Do you want the good news first, or the bad news?”

“Bad news,” Willow says firmly, preferring to have the good after, to lighten the bad. And she hopes the bad isn’t too bad. She’s not a fan of things going really wrong, especially after the sort of bad magic had become. “Good news is always better after.”

Methos nods. “All right, then. The bad news is that we’re about two thousand years away from when we were when we woke up this morning. That style of building, and the design of the plow that’s sitting in the field, only coexisted for about a century, and only in one area. We’re no more than fifty or sixty kilometers from the heart of the Roman Empire – definitely not Kansas.” Methos unslings his pack and deposits it on a fallen tree. “The good news is that I can probably keep us from attracting the wrong kind of attention.” The best news, so far as Methos is concerned, is that he can wear his sword openly, a luxury he hasn’t been able to indulge in for centuries. First, though, he needed to find them both more suitable attire.

“Rome?” Willow ducks her head when she squeaks on the word. Rome’s one of the places she’s both sorta wanted to see, and sorta didn’t. The latter mostly for some of the same reasons she’s not sure of most of European history having all that many places and times she’d want to visit, if to less of an extent now than some points in the future. And at least they won’t be able to tell her religion or her magical abilities at a glance. Most of them, anyway. There are bound to be Roman sorcerers around somewhere, and she kinda hopes they don’t run into any.

“The one and only,” Methos agrees. There are certainly less agreeable places to have ended up. “At least it’s relatively civilized, especially compared to the rest of the world at the moment.” And at least he can be sure he won’t accidentally run into himself. His present self is somewhere in Gaul, playing soldier. “How’s your Latin?”

Willow bites her lip, giving Adam a sheepish grin. “Um. Technical?” Esoteric, learned in the context of magic, and actually much better than she’s entirely willing to admit. Because she’s never, even in the depths of her addiction, wanted anyone to know just how well she’s learned more than one language, so long as it allowed her to make use of spells she found in books. Latin, Egyptian, Sumerian. A scattering of other languages of Europe and Asia.

“In that case, let me do the talking.” None of the clothing in his pack is even remotely appropriate, and none of it can be suitably altered. “Romans can be as snooty as the English when it comes to accent and pronunciation, and foreigners in the empire are always at risk of ending up in the slave pits. Damn! None of this is going to work.” He shoves irritably at his pack. “What I wouldn’t give for a set of decent bedsheets at the moment.”

“They hang their laundry up outside to dry, right?” Willow can keep a glamour up long enough to steal some clothes – or sheets – they can alter to fit, and allow them to blend in without an exhaustive use of magic that’ll scream as loudly to a sorcerer as the wrong accent to normal people. And she’s pretty sure her Latin is as close to Rome’s standard as it can get – pronunciation can be as vital in a spell – but she can’t tell Adam why she thinks that.

Methos nods. “But I’d rather not get caught stealing. Roman justice has a lot in common with twenty-first century Middle Eastern justice, and I need both of my hands.” It’s still the best option they have. Methos doesn’t want to find out how the Romans would react to blue jeans. Besides, Italy is a lot warmer than their previous location, and he’s starting to sweat.

Methos pulls off his coat and – after a moment’s consideration – his sweater. It means that Willow will get a look at the knives in their sheaths on his wrists, but so be it. He isn’t going to be able to be Adam any longer anyway. Adam has no place in this time period: he wouldn’t last a day.

Methos puts his sweater into his pack, takes his sword out of his coat, and puts that away too. As he does, he puts Adam away as well.

“We’ll wait until mid afternoon, when the household lies down for their siesta,” he says. “In the mean time, we might as well be comfortable.” He sits down next to his pack and starts digging for his journal.

The knives on Adam’s wrists are a surprise, and Willow’s eyebrows go up again, staring a moment. But it’s more useful than having no weapons – and she nearly stares again when she sees the sword. There’s certainly more to Adam than she thought at first.

After a moment, she sets her own pack down next to the tree, settling onto the ground. Drawing in a deep breath, and closing her eyes, taking a long moment to let go of the outside world. Glamours aren’t just about what a person sees or hears, after all. They’re about changing the perceptions of everyone who can in any way sense those who are glamoured. Making everyone believe that she and Adam are other people, people who belong – though anyone who sees them, if anyone sees them, won’t be able to say who they saw later.

And to do that, she has to be fully aware of the presence she’s trying to disguise. Even just hiding herself can be difficult, if she’s not centered and grounded. In tune with herself and the earth. As well as, in this case, in tune with Adam, more so than she has been. She only hopes he doesn’t actually notice what she’s doing as she reaches out a tendril of magic, trying to figure out what he is to the inner eye.

Willow yelps when she does so, yanking her metaphorical hand back, and physically jerking as well, away from Adam. Whatever he is, she doesn’t know if she could disguise him. Like looking into the sun, while trying to reach into the heart of a bonfire. Painful, although the brief exposure does seem to do a good job of scrubbing away the magical residue of the spell that brought them here.

“What the hell was that?” Methos scrambles to his feet, resisting the temptation to go for a weapon. He has mixed emotions about magic in general and witches in particular, and very definite feelings about anyone messing around in his head without permission. “I wouldn’t recommend doing that again,” he tells her, voice dangerous.

“I was going to try a glamour while going to steal laundry.” Willow doesn’t open her eyes yet, digging her fingers into the soil as she tries to get her bearings back. And to stop feeling like her skin is too tight all of a sudden. “I can’t do that if I don’t know what I’m trying to hide. Or it tends to backfire.”

She risks opening one eye to look at Adam, before squeezing her eyes shut again, grimacing at the pain. “Haven’t tried anything like this in almost a year,” she muttered, digging her fingers a little deeper into the ground. “I wasn’t going to do anything to mess with your head. Stupid spell that dumped us here did enough of that already.” Willow doesn’t even know where that knowledge had come from, though she suspects she got more than she bargained for when she touched Adam with that tendril of magic.

“What do you mean, the spell already did that?” Methos asks. If something has messed with his head, he needs to know what it did. He’s too dangerous when he’s insane to risk letting something like that go. “And I don’t care if you’re trying to whiten my bloody teeth – you damn well ask first. You have no idea whether or not what you were trying to do was safe, and neither do I. I also don’t fancy having you get lost inside my head.” Five thousand plus years can come close to overwhelming him sometimes, and he lived them.

“I don’t know what I mean by that, it just popped into my head, and it’s not like I’m going to just go, ‘I’m a witch’ to some random stranger I met a few hours ago, no matter what else I was willing to trust you with.” Willow leans back against the tree, pulling in another deep breath, trying not to either get hysterical, or to get drawn into doing something stupid. Like reaching back out, when she knows she shouldn’t.

“Besides, I was walking across the world as part of trying to break the addiction. Wasn’t supposed to use it, even though I needed to for when I was sleeping alone in the middle of nowhere. Just cantrips, but even those can be dangerous after going off the deep end.”

“Digging around in my head is more dangerous,” Methos says coldly, then relents, sitting back down and sighing. “I’m sorry. It’s just – from what I know of magic, you have to leave yourself open when you’re doing what you just did, and there are things in my head you don’t want to leave yourself open to. And if you have issues with power and addiction…” Methos grimaces. “Let’s just say that you’re not the only one.” He looks steadily at her. “What did you see?”

Willow keeps her eyes closed another minute, quiet before she opens her eyes to look at Adam. No. Not Adam. “Your name. Time.” She’s not really aware that her eyes are darker than they have been, as she meets his gaze steadily. “Blinding light, scorching heat. My skin feels two sizes too tight, and I can’t stop feeling like I want more.”

She didn’t get more than impressions, not that she consciously recall. “You’re not a vampire, or any other sort of demon, so I didn’t even think about the chance you might be older than you look by more than a few years.” That he’s far, far older than he looks is rather an understatement, Willow thinks.

At least she seems to have missed the Horseman. Methos doesn’t want to have to try to explain Death to a modern witch. As for what she did see – “That name is something I’ll thank you to keep to yourself, even more than the rest of what you saw – though that’s not for public consumption either.” He looks at her for a moment, weighing what he knows of her, trying to read her. Finally, he nods. “As for the rest of it – I suppose I owe you a few answers.” It is, after all, his fault that she’s two thousand years from home.

“Magic rarely is for public consumption.” Willow gives him a weak smile, curling her fingers a little tighter into the soil. Fighting the urge to taste again. “A lot of my life is just. Not.” Not safe for the public to know, not safe for <b>her</b> if the public knew. “And a few answers would be good. Maybe make sense of some of it?”

“Ask.” Methos doesn’t usually make that kind of offer, but he owes Willow that much, and probably more. “But answer something for me first, if you would. What is it that you want more of?” If it’s his Quickening that’s tempting her, he wants to know.

“It’s like looking into the sun, while jumping into a bonfire.” It’s all Willow can think of to describe it. “And at the same time it’s…” She pauses, tilting her head. “Like the best sex I’ve never had. Or the really spectacular high that black magic gave me. I don’t know what it is, just. As addictive as magic.” It’s the only way she can think of to describe the hunger for something she knows probably isn’t good for her.

“That’s me – or, rather, the power inside of me that makes me what I am. It’s the reason I can still pass as a student, while my contemporaries – those that aren’t dust already – are for the most part mummified.” He doesn’t explain further. If she can sense it, if she can crave it, he’s not about to tell her anything more about what it is or does.

“How did you end up with that?” Willow is mostly focused on staying inside her own skin right now, despite the fact she feels like she’s vibrating with the craving for that fire again. It’s the same sort of thing that made her realize just how badly she was hooked on magic, even if she hadn’t done anything about it until someone got hurt.

“I was born this way – rather, with the potential for it. At some point, I died violently, and that changed it from potentiality to actuality.” Methos shrugs. “It’s not like vampirism, or the stories about the Fountain of Youth. You either are or you aren’t; it can’t be passed on, or stolen, or even replicated, though mortals have tried on more than one occasion, most notably during the Second World War.” Methos shrugs. “Personally, I wish I could pass it on, even occasionally. I’ve lost a lot of people in five thousand odd years. It would have been nice to have been able to give some of them the choice.”

“Vampires are real,” Willow says absently, the thought of them stirring up ideas, though she still keeps herself firmly inside her own skin. “You’re not the only one like this, are you?” Something like this where someone has the potential from birth can’t be a fluke, and especially not with the way he’s talking about it. There have to be others, and not all of them can be like Methos. Not so bright or blinding, maybe.

That she’s thinking about feeding a nascent addiction doesn’t even occur to her, or what the side effects might be of doing something to someone who has the same energy driving them as Methos does.

“I’ve encountered vampires before,” Methos says, dryly amused. The effects of Immortal blood can be unpredictable even when the Immortal in question is young. The last time one had tried snacking on Methos, it had been terribly stunned to discover itself human again – and then dead very shortly after that. “Though they tend to avoid us whenever possible. They have to be very stupid or very hungry – or too young to know better, to bite one of us.” Tilting his head to one side, Methos looks at Willow. She’s the only mortal he’s ever met who’d been able to get more from a Quickening than the knowledge of its existence. The touch of her mind had been startling, but not painful – had been rather the opposite, actually – and certainly not harmful. If he keeps Death carefully walled away, and makes sure that she doesn’t get lost in five thousand years of memory… “You can try again, if you like,” he offers. “Now that I’ve had the chance to prepare.”

Willow watches him for a long moment, knowing her hunger has to be showing in her expression. Tilting her head to one side slightly before reaching out a tendril of magic again, delicately brushing against the edges of what Methos is. Closing her eyes once more, relaxing against the tree with a beautific expression on her face. Skimming along the edges, like a surfer on the edge of a wave.

She feels like she’s touching sunlight, and dips deeper, tugging gently. Like drinking lightning, fire along her veins, echoes of memories vibrating through her mind. Rome is just another empire that rose, and will fall, modern life is a blip in time that could go forward or back. Hanging above the abyss of time itself, knowing it’s staring back into her as she stares into it. Barely aware that all of what she is can be as easily read by Methos as she’s reading him.

“Time and memory.” Her voice is breathless, as if she’s been running. “Horses on the steppe, rise and fall of empires and civilizations. Birth and death and everything in between, love and grief and rage so deep.” She opens her eyes, tilting her head slightly, her eyes black as the night sky, with hints in their depths of blue lightning. “Like drinking sunlight, or lightning. Fire and ice and so good.”

For Methos, it’s like a Quickening, memory and ecstasy tracing like the sharp edge of a blade along every fiber of his being. There is no pain, perhaps because the Quickening is his own: no lightning, save for the feel of it raging inside of him. Instead, there’s a pleasure so deep that it’s inscribing itself on his bones while his life and Willow’s play out before his eyes.

He’s walking on a beach with Alexa, and when he looks down the hand in his is guitar callused, the nails short and dark blue. It’s all like that: fleeting images that resolve briefly into whole memories as Methos’ conscious mind skims over the life mingling with his own. He knows he’ll be able to call them up at will after this, as easily as he can his own, or those of an Immortal he’s killed, but for now he’s content with the moments Willow’s subconscious chooses to present to him, and the ones his own wants to relive.

At some point, he becomes aware that he’s holding Willow’s hand, small and warm and soft in his own. It anchors him against the tide of memory and bliss; reminds him when and where they are, and that they cannot afford to sit here like this, pleasure-blind and lost in each other, for long.

“Willow,” he says, bringing her back to the surface without pulling away, or trying to disentangle his Quickening from her power.

“Mm?” Willow blinks, the darkness starting to fade from her eyes as she focuses on Methos once more. Startled to realize time has passed, and not quite yet aware of just how easily she’d slipped into feeding her new-found addiction. “Did I get lost?”

She thinks perhaps for a moment there she did, though for the most part, she’s riding far too high on the rush to really be bothered by it. The rush, the memories – and now she knows some of what he meant when he had said she wasn’t the only one with issues of power and addiction. “You miss it sometimes.”

“Oh, yes,” Methos admits. He’d locked Death away before inviting Willow in, but Death had been culmination, not aberration, and Death isn’t the only one of his names that mortals have worshipped over the years. “But only sometimes. It does get better. Sometimes, I’m content simply to be Adam. I’ve outgrown most of my darker hungers.” He’d done it by indulging them until he was more than sated, but he doesn’t say so – doesn’t think he needs to. “Though this is something entirely new, even for me.” He smiles, wondering what she would do if he kissed her. “Since as far as I know I’m the oldest person in the world, that’s saying a great deal.”

A smile curves Willow’s lips, and she lets out a soft giggle. “I’ve never encountered anything like it, so it’s new for me, too.” She pauses, unconsciously licking her lips. Willow isn’t certain what would happen if she indulged her addiction, the new hunger or the old, as far as Methos had his own. If the world would still be standing when she was done, or if it would be in cinders and ash around her – she has a faint memory of someone saying she could destroy the world if she tried, though she can’t remember his name.

“We should get those clothes to blend in soon.” Willow thinks she wouldn’t even be able to glamour herself right now, with the new rush from skimming the surface of Methos. She doesn’t know what it’s done yet, but she thinks it’s changed something. Something she won’t be able to pinpoint until she takes time to still herself and focus.

Methos glances up at the sun. “Let’s give it another ten minutes,” he suggests. “Give the slaves time to fall asleep as well.” It’s impossible not to look at Willow, now that he knows the finely-tempered steel at the core of her and the blast-furnace heat of her power, not to mention the threads of light and darkness that bind it together. “They’re always the last in a household to lie down, and what we’re doing won’t take long. Better to wait than to go too early.” This close, there are flecks of a deeper green in her eyes, and he can see a faint scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, no doubt from all the time she’s spent outdoors lately. He wants to kiss her very badly indeed, but he doesn’t want her to think he’s trying to take advantage of her need of his help to negotiate the pitfalls of the past.

Willow nods, the knowledge he’s using rising unbidden to the back of her mind a moment before it fades away again, as easily recalled and dismissed as her own memories. She’s certain there will be nightmares sooner or later, and dreams where she can’t untangle her life from his, but eventually it will settle. More knowledge that’s been pulled from Methos’ memories.

“And we probably don’t want to stay around here too long afterward.” No matter that she’s picked up a broader vocabulary in Latin now, and probably could mimic a decent accent, they’ll still have stolen the clothing from someone, and sooner or later, someone will figure it out if they stay too close. “Maybe travel to Rome itself from here?” Since she doesn’t have an idea how to get them home again, save perhaps by living through the intervening centuries, and hoping they don’t find that ruby again. She’s certain it’s still out there, waiting for another chance to latch onto Methos and dump him into some other place and time from his past.

“Rome is probably our best bet,” Methos agrees. “You’ll never pass for Roman-born, not with your coloring, and in the country, neither will I. The city is much more cosmopolitan. There are people there from every corner of the Empire, and you and I should pass more or less unremarked.” Though he’ll still have his hands full defending her honor – and his life – unless he can make them seem too important to be molested. Too important – or too dangerous.

Willow nods. “Which would be better for us in the long run, while we try to figure out how to get back to the twenty-first century, if we can. Back to where and when we were.” If there’s a way to do so. If not, she’ll find a way to make sure she lives the intervening centuries. Methos shouldn’t have to do that alone again, and she’s not going to leave her parents wondering what happened to her. If they wonder, which she’s not entirely certain they will.

“If we can,” Methos echoes. If this is really the result of a two and a half thousand year old curse, that might be impossible – and now that he knows she’s a witch, he <b>has</b> to tell her about it – though he’ll leave out the details if he can. “I owe you an apology. If you hadn’t been with me, or if I’d waited for you to drop that bloody ruby, you’d still be safely in the proper time. The spell that did this was aimed at me, not you.” Methos reaches up and gently brushes a tendril of copper-colored hair out of Willow’s green eyes. “I should also apologize for being glad you’re here – but I won’t. I am sorry that you got tangled up in my mess, though.”

“If it can be done, I’ll figure it out.” Willow smiles at Methos’ gesture. She hasn’t really had anyone she’s been close to since her parents moved out of Sunnydale and dragged her with them. “And I know the spell was aimed at you. It reached out before you even touched the ruby, but you moved too fast for me to warn you not to.”

Willow’s smile makes Methos want to kiss her even more. He settles for stroking her hair once before taking his hand away.

“That spell was two and a half thousand years old, and the man who cast it has been dead since a few seconds after it was cast – and it still threw the two of us across two millenia and half the planet. It was a shaman’s death curse, and it’s my fault that you were caught by it. I don’t do apologies often, and I do guilt even more infrequently, but on that score I offer you both.”

“Your apology is accepted,” Willow said formally, before letting her smile return. “And it helps, knowing that.” It gives her a place to start, though she’s not sure how to unravel it yet. Clues are in what it’s done to Methos – and by extension after what she’s done, to herself – and there are probably others in the language the shaman spoke, and the power he had and the medium he used to send his curse across time to meddle in their lives. “I don’t know the answer yet, but I’ll figure it out.”

“You realize that just gives me one more selfish reason to be glad you’re here,” Methos points out. “Among the many that spring to mind, that one ranks up there with both the company and the view.” The view is particularly enjoyable, Methos decides. He’s always been partial to red-heads, and Willow is an especially beautiful one. That she is both smart and capable only makes it better.

Willow blushes, dropping her chin, and watching Methos through her hair a moment before she reaches up to brush it back, looking up again. Tilting her head slightly to one side, her gaze meeting Methos’. She licks her lips once more, a bit more deliberately this time. “I’m glad I’m here. I wouldn’t want you to get stuck all by yourself.”

“Then I’ll stop flagellating myself over it,” Methos says, never taking his eyes from hers. He lifts a hand to cup her cheek, stroking his thumb over her cheekbone, threading his fingers into her coppery hair as he leans down to kiss her.

It’s been several years since she had someone around to kiss her, and Willow closes her eyes, leaning into the kiss. The thought that they should be stealing clothes to fit in is a distant one, her focus more on the here and now and Methos. She reaches up to grip his wrist, wanting to keep him close, despite the knowledge they should get moving soon.

When she pulls back to breathe, she gives Methos a warm, happy smile, tightening her grip on his wrist for a moment. “We should probably go get those clothes now, so we have more time to do this later without risking getting noticed as strangers.” At least, not the kind of strangers who’d end up in slave pens or some such. Willow really doesn’t want to end up losing track of Methos when she’s just starting to explore who he is beneath the veneer of Adam.

Much as Methos hates to stop, he can’t fault her logic. He brushes one more kiss over her lips before reluctantly letting go.

“Can you cast that glamour, or am I going to be using my rusty but still present talents for liberating things that don’t belong to me?” Methos can’t help smiling, any more than he can help leaning down to kiss her yet again.

“I wouldn’t trust it not to backfire even on just me right now.” Willow gives him a rueful smile in return, reaching for her pack as she uses the tree behind her to get to her feet. She has to lean against it for a long moment, a little dizzy as she stands, though it passes soon enough. “And I haven’t enough a handle on you to try it on you. Old-fashioned way it is, I guess.”

“Are you all right?” Methos asks, catching her elbow as she sways. Even though he’d been careful earlier, a Quickening is a lot for a mortal mind to handle, even one as incredible as Willow’s.

Willow nods, giving Methos a lopsided smile. “Just a little dizzy for a moment. All better now, though.” She’s not sure what caused the moment of dizziness, but it is, as she said, gone now, and she’s certain she’s fine. And right now, there are more important things. Like getting clothes and traveling to Rome.

“In that case, why don’t you stay here, while I go and get us the things we’ll need?” Methos suggests. “Unless – could you keep the entire house asleep? Almost all of them probably will be already. If you can keep them that way, we can have our pick of the household goods instead of having to limit ourselves to what’s readily available.” He’d much rather be able to take everything he needs than have to survive on scraps.

Tilting her head, Willow nods again after a moment. “I probably can.” It’s more magic than she should be using, but somehow that consideration feels far more distant than it had while she was walking across the world. Here and now, she needs the magic to survive, and if she gets lost in it… well, Methos will probably help keep her from falling too far. Or stop her if she needs stopped, whatever it takes. “It’ll be better to cast the spell once we’re at the house, though. Less chance I miss somebody.”

“Come on, then.” Methos helps to scoop up the rest of their things. “Keep everything from our time. It’ll all prove useful.” For trade, mostly. Even his old jeans with the hole in the knee will come in handy. “And from now on, Latin, unless we need to communicate privately. I need the practice, and you need to smooth out the edges of yours.”

“Before we get to Rome, and someone notices we’re both rusty,” Willow replies in the Latin that needs practicing. It feels slightly odd on her tongue to be using it for everyday speech, but nothing terribly difficult. And the words don’t have power unless she imbues them with such, so it’s not really a danger to speak it.

She scoops up her backpack once more, glad to keep it close as she follows Methos down toward the house. Readying a simple sleep spell to blast the household with so they can take what they need. “And if they have horses, are we going to take a couple, or will we wait until we can buy at least one?” Since she doesn’t know how they mark animals as belonging to someone, if they do so.

“We’ll be helping ourselves to the horses, if they’re decent enough to be worth taking.” Methos is a good judge of horseflesh, and isn’t about to take a mount that will founder under them before they reach Rome. “We’re not too far from the city, but I’d still rather ride than walk.” He studies Willow, his head tilted to one side. “What are your feelings on a hair cut? I could pass you off as a boy without too much trouble, and you’d be a great deal safer.”

Willow bites her lip, thinking before she nods slowly. “I like my hair longer, but I’d rather be safer than worry about my hair. And I can always grow it back out again when it isn’t so dangerous to be a woman instead of a boy.” And once she gets a handle on herself again, she can glamour herself enough that everyone around them thinks she’s a boy, and grow her hair out anyway.

“I’ll take care of it once we finish our foraging session.” Methos runs a hand through his own hair, which works for Adam Pierson, but won’t for a Roman patrician. “I’ll need to cut mine as well.” Besides, when his hair is short, he looks less like a tentative schoolboy. Adam Pierson wouldn’t have done well in Rome. Methos had done very well indeed, the first time around.

Nodding, Willow focuses on the house coming closer, waiting until they’re almost inside before releasing the spell she’d been silently crafting on the walk down. Blanketing the house with a command to sleep, letting it coalesce around the people who are in there, deepening the sleep of those who were already napping, and pushing those who weren’t over the edge and into the arms of Morpheus. “They shouldn’t wake up for hours now,” she murmurs, smiling at Methos.

He smiles back down at her, giving in to the impulse to kiss her again. He is entirely enchanted with her, in a way that has nothing to do with magic. “Brilliant. They’ll think it was ghosts, or demons.”

The house itself belongs to a clearly well-to-do family, and Methos helps himself to enough clothing for both himself and Willow. For her, he gets both male and female clothing: for himself, he takes the householder’s best and second best togas, as well as some clothing better suited for traveling – tunic and leggings, as well as several pairs of shoes. He also helps himself to most of the small, valuable objects in the house, and any food he could find that wouldn’t spoil. An impulse of mischief prompts him to take a stick of charcoal, and to inscribe a thanks on the kitchen wall. He signs it Dionysius, and keeps his hand deliberately crude, like a schoolboy’s, before heading back upstairs to look for Willow.

Prodding at some of her memories from Methos, Willow goes in search of a few things herself, taking anything that might be used to write on, and to write with, along with the bags to carry them in. It’ll be easier to unravel the spell if she can write out her thoughts and the diagrams rather than trying to keep it all in her head. She’s quite serious about finding a way to reverse the spell – or at least to stop it from effecting them again if they find the ruby once more. Something she has a niggling feeling they may well do.

Methos finds Willow in a room that seems to be serving as an office, and smiles at her as she looks up. “I was going to suggest we get going,” he tells her, “but as the household is going to be out for a few hours, it seems a shame to waste the chance to rest.” Especially, he doesn’t say, as she’d been dizzy earlier. He’d felt the power in her, but wasn’t sure how to measure it – or whether her encounter with his Quickening might have left her tired. “Besides, it’s a little hot outside for someone as fair as you are.”

Willow smiles at Methos, leaning a hip against the desk she’d been raiding. “A little hot, but not too bad. And I don’t want to be too close when someone wakes up, even if it is a few hours.” Though she could be convinced to rest a little, at least, she’d still prefer to move on sooner rather than later. After all, once they’re safely elsewhere, and able to blend into the time and place, they’ll have all the time in the world to do whatever they want.

“It’s not the heat, so much as my wanting to avoid your coming down with a serious case of sunburn.” His smile is a little melancholy. “I’d like you to live a long and healthy life, not succumb to skin cancer because you went wandering around in the past with me.” He’d rather see her Immortal, but as that’s impossible, he’ll settle for seeing her live well into her nineties, and die surrounded by family. Pushing those thoughts aside, he takes her hand and kisses her palm. “Indulge me. If it becomes necessary, you can always put them under again.”

Tilting her head, Willow smiles, and leans in to kiss him back. “They’ll be seriously freaked when they finally wake up.” For the entire household to sleep the day away, and wake to find their valuables, their horses, their food and their clothes missing – well, Willow knows she’d be freaking out a bit. And wondering what happened.

“That’s the joy of this era. There are gods and demons and spirits – friendly and not-so-friendly – around every corner, and not believing in them is rather like not believing in the sun.” He kisses her again, this time a little more seriously, dropping a hand to her waist, then sliding it around her back to pull her closer. When he pulls away, they’re both breathless. “If you like, we can leave them some kind of compensation for their troubles.” Though not money. Methos had already liberated all the man had, and wasn’t about to return any of it.

Demons being real isn’t something that Willow doubts, though she’s not sure they’re actually around every corner, even now. “What kind of compensation?” She isn’t thinking money, or anything that they could take with them that might be useful later, since their own survival is the most important thing to her at the moment. She leans into him, resting her head on his shoulder, enjoying the chance to be close, even if they really should be thinking about continuing on their way. Sooner or later.

“We’ll figure something out,” Methos assures her. “Later. Though the story alone will be enough for them to dine out on for years.” He kisses the top of Willow’s head. “For now, though, you’re coming with me.”

---

---

Hearth Fire and Sunlight

Their first glimpse of Rome comes when they crest a hill, and see the city laid out below them, sprawling and grand and infinitely familiar, at least to Methos’ eyes: like seeing a dear friend he’d thought long dead. He reins in the horses and sits there, watching the city, for a long moment, wrapping one arm around Willow. “There’s something I thought I’d never see again,” he says, smiling.

Leaning back against Methos, Willow smiles at the sight, that’s familiar and unfamiliar at the same time. There are memories she’s gotten from Methos of Rome, but to see it herself for the first time is almost breath-taking. “It’s beautiful.” She tilts her head back against Methos’ shoulder so she can look up at his face. “We should find an inn or something soon, shouldn’t we? Before the day gets too warm, and we should stop for the day and take a nap.” It’s something she’s getting used to, and it’s certainly nice to sleep through the worst of the day’s heat.

Methos nods. “There’s one maybe fifteen minutes from where we are now that’s clean and relatively safe. I’d rather not take rooms in the heart of the city, not at this time of year. The heat and the smell are bad enough, but Rome is also subject to outbreaks of disease, like any large city at this point in history. I’d much prefer to keep you on the outskirts.” It’s more expensive, but it’s worth it to keep Willow healthy.

Willow nods, shivering a little at the thought of catching something and dying before she has a chance to really explore things. It’s the sort of thing that makes her fond of modern conveniences that have yet to be invented, and glad for at least some of the conveniences that Rome should already have. Like running water and maybe sewers. “Outskirts it is, then. And we can worry about seeing other parts of Rome later.” Like after she’s had a chance to boost the changes that have happened in her after the experience with delving into Methos, into his Quickening and his mind. And after she at least attempts to explain it to him, when she’s not quite entirely sure of the explanation herself.

It ends up being a twenty-minute ride to the hostel, but the rooms are as clean as Methos remembers, and the smells coming out of the kitchen just as good as they had been the last time he’d been here. It doesn’t take long at all before they’re comfortably ensconced in the best rooms the hostel has to offer, with the promise of food in a few hours.

“I probably ought to go down and supervise,” Methos says. “If they use unboiled water in anything, you could get badly sick.”

Nodding, Willow settles onto one of the comfortable benches in the main room of the small suite they’ve been given. “I’ll be here.” She pauses, chewing on her lip a little. “And there’s something I’d like to try after we’ve eaten, to see if it works. I’ll explain before I try it, I promise, I just. Hope it does work, because then maybe I won’t have to worry so much about getting sick.”

Methos lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “In that case, why not try it before we’ve eaten? That way, we can use the meal as a test to see if whatever it is you want to do works.”

“And if it doesn’t work, I can probably find a way to make the problem go away, so long as I can find the right herbs and stuff.” Willow nods, shifting so she’s stretched out on the bench, relaxed and comfortable as she can get right now. “Remember when I was… surfing your mind?” It’s the best analogy she can think of at the moment. “I think I got a bit more than I meant to, a little piece of your Quickening. And I’m wondering if I add a little more to that little piece if it won’t help protect me from diseases that I don’t have any immunity to.”

She’s watching him, chewing on her lip again, and worried about what he’ll say. Wondering if he’ll agree to it, and if she can really do this – or if it’ll even work.

Methos goes very still, watching her consideringly for a long moment. “What makes you think you got any of it at all?” He hasn’t been able to sense her, which he should be, unless the part she took was utterly miniscule. Nor has it caused him any problems – but he’s not sure he wants to chance that with a larger piece of it.

“I’m not sure.” Willow isn’t entirely conscious of the fact she’s wringing her hands. “There’s something different since I tried that. Sorta. More aware, maybe? And like I could keep going further than I could before. And I haven’t gotten sunburnt any. I should have a little.” It’s not much, but she has a pretty good idea that she’s got at least a little portion of Methos’ Quickening. “I wasn’t even trying to take any, it just. Happened? Something. I don’t know how.”

Methos studies her for another long minute, then nods, dissipating the tension that had been building between them. “As long as you stop when I tell you to, then yes. Try it.” He pauses. “It won’t hurt me, will it? If you start to feel me dimming, you put back what you took and get out of my head.”

“No clouds between me and the sun,” Willow agrees, nodding as she relaxes. Waiting for a moment before reaching out like she had before, cautious and gentle as she brushes against the edges of Methos. Flirting with his Quickening, as it were, before gently spinning off tendrils, like hand-pulling loose wool from a sheep. Just enough for her skin to feel a little too tight, to feel that little bit heady that she had before, pulling herself back at that point even though she’s reluctant to break the contact.

Methos shivers at the contact. It’s the Quickening without the pain, the pleasure intense enough to leave him gasping. Bits and pieces of his own life float past his mind: MacLeod, gleaming and perfect and untouchable as he flows through a kata, Joe smiling at him from behind the bar, Kronos grinning at him in the light from a burning village.

Methos shoves that image into the back of his brain, but the rest – Byron, his arms spread for applause; Rebecca, handing him a cup of tea; Amanda knocking on his door at three AM, shouting his real name. And then Willow’s life – a red-haired boy, a blonde girl who can only be the Slayer, a young man with dark hair and his eyes made darker by sorrow. Names, too, float out of the ether: Oz, Xander, Buffy. And then Willow’s pulling away. Even now, Methos can feel his Quickening repairing the holes she’s made in it – and he knows it won’t keep her alive.

“You can take more,” he urges, almost gasps, lifting up a hand to pick up one of Willow’s. “I don’t mind; I promise.”

Startling a bit, Willow looks at Methos for a long moment, balanced between pulling away and reaching out with both hands for more. Her eyes darken as she almost dives back in, physically getting closer as well, snuggling into Methos as she draws more of his Quickening to her. Wrapping herself in it like wrapping herself in a blanket, warm and comforting. Her skin feels far too small to hold her in it, and she isn’t entirely sure she isn’t floating, despite the anchoring presence of Methos. Hovering, all but flying over the abyss, the high as incredible as it was the first time. It’s a sensation she’s not sure she’ll ever truly get used to.

Methos wraps his arms around her, pulling her closer. He tips her chin up and kisses her, lighting flickering from his mouth to hers. He can feel her draining his Quickening, but as he can also feel his Quickening regenerating itself even as she takes from it – and the feeling is incredible, ecstasy without the agony or the overload.

Willow gasps, pressing closer to Methos, almost as if trying to burrow under his skin physically as much as she already has with magic and mind. Drawing as much as she dares, lightning flickering blue under her skin, in the depths of eyes gone black as pitch. Drawing back only when she has a niggling sense that any more and she’ll burn herself out from the inside. Reluctant, and slow, but pulling back into her own skin as best she can, even as she stays nestled in Methos’ arms.

Seperating from Willow is like coming down, and Methos only reluctantly lets her pull away, lets her disentangle his mind from hers. She’s clinging to him, small and warm and very like his lost Alexa, and he’s bending his head to kiss the top of hers when he realizes that he can sense her. Not like he would a pre-Immortal, or even like he would one of his own – but sense her he can, regardless: a pale, flickering flame next to an Immortal sun, but burning with her own light, not a reflection of his own.

With a whoop of joy, he snatches her up and spins her around. “You did it!” he tells her, slipping into English in his excitement. “You bloody well did it!” And he himself doesn’t feel the least bit diminished. “I can feel you – not like you’re one of us, but I can feel you!”

Laughing, Willow holds on while Methos spins her, a wide smile on her face. She can feel the difference, beyond the feeling of not quite fitting in her own skin. Feels like she’s basking in the sun even with walls and a roof between her and that body. She wonders if that’s how it feels to Methos to be around other Immortals – or rather, what other Immortals feel around him, since she’s gotten the impression, ever since the first touch, that he’s ancient.

“Amazing.” Methos smiles down at her, and puts away the regret he feels at not being able to have given this to other mortals. Assuming it works as he’s expecting, any way.

“It is.” Willow can’t stop smiling, and she leans her head against Methos’ shoulder once he sets her down. “I can feel you, too, you know. Like I’m standing in sunlight in the summer, all warm and bright. I like it.” And she wonders if other Immortals might feel similar, which would let her know when others are around.

If she can feel him, it’s almost certain to have worked. Methos smiles again. “That’s a good sign. It’s not an edgy feeling? Like something prickling along your nerves?” That she describes it as a pleasant sensation makes Methos wonder how much of his own dislike of sensing other Immortals comes from the expectation of a fight.

Willow frowns a little, her brow furrowing in confusion. “No. It felt kinda tingly when I was pulling. Kinda like static, but not all ouchy?” She shrugs after a second, and smiles again. “Now it just feels like sunlight. Or maybe like being in front of a fire, all toasty warm and nice and comforting.”

‘Comforting’ is not a word anyone else has ever used to describe his Presence, and it’s enough to make Methos wonder what, exactly, the two of them have done. Not made her pre-Immortal, not if she can sense him. Something new, then – he’s certainly never heard of anything like this before.

“And otherwise?” he asks. “How do you feel?”

“Safe. Aware and awake, more than I’ve ever been. Alive.” Willow smiles, looking down and away a moment before she looks up at Methos again. “It felt like flying. Or free-falling. Except without the sudden stop at the end.” She chuckles, shrugging. “Exhilarating, and like nothing I’ve ever felt or done before.”

For her, too, then, it had been a Quickening without pain. He wonders how much she’d seen of his life, but isn’t sure he wants to ask. If she had seen Death, surely she wouldn’t associate him with safety, not after that, but asking might stir up memories she didn’t know were in her head.

“Shall I go supervise the cook, or would you like to chance the local water?” he asks.

Chewing on her lower lip a moment, Willow shrugs. “Let’s see if this worked the way I hoped it would.” She smiles up at Methos again, bright and cheerful in a way she hasn’t felt since she moved away from Sunnydale. “I can always fix it later if something goes a little wrong.” The right herbs, the right incantation, and even if she falls ill, she’ll be fine. Or, if this doesn’t protect her entirely, it should at least help enough that if there’s anything in the food or water to make her sick, it shouldn’t be bad.

Methos nods. He’s half tempted to see if she’ll heal, but he doesn’t want to push things. He can’t help wondering if all new Immortals feel better, more alive after their first deaths, or if it’s something unique to Willow. In a way, they’ve made her Immortal without the usual traumas – if it works as well as he hopes, any way.

Willow rests her head against Methos’ shoulder, leaning into him as she slips one arm around him. She hasn’t felt this safe since she was a small girl, and she’s enjoying the sensation. “It feels like I’m protected, without being stifled or held back.”

Methos closes his eyes. No one has had this kind of unquestioning trust in him since Alexa died, and even she had only known Adam. It would be so easy, so tempting, to tell himself that Willow knows him – after all, she’s been further into his head than anyone but MacLeod – but that would be self-delusion. Better than anyone, he knows how high his walls are, and how very unsafe she might be with him in the wrong circumstances.

“I’m glad,” he says quietly.

“I know.” Willow smiles, a slow curve of the lips that’s warm and knowing – and perhaps a bit smug. She’s not quite sure why she knows she’s safe, merely that there is a bone-deep knowledge that there’s no one else with whom she’d be safer.

Sometimes she’s so like Alexa that it hurts – and them she does something that’s entirely herself, and reminds him all over again that her appeal has very little to do with nostalgia.

“How long do you think it’ll be before the meal is ready?” Willow looks up at him with an inviting smile, her eyes glinting with mischief.

“An hour, at least.” Methos smiles down at her, one eyebrow lifting. “Plenty of time for a nap – if that’s what you were wanting.”

Willow just smiles again, and pulls him down for a kiss.

---

Originally Posted: 6 April 2012

AO3 | DW