The Believing Kind

By Wesa

AU: Immortal Witches' Chronicles

Crossover with X-Files

Disclaimers: All things Highlander belong to Gregory Widen and Rysher - Panzer/Davis. Walter Skinner, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, John Doggett, and Maggie Scully belong to Chris Carter and 1013 Productions. The idea of a group of Immortal witches belongs to Claudia Aranda. Wesa belongs to me (big surprise).

Category: Adventure/Angst, a little romance.

Rating: PG, I think. If I've under-rated it, please let me know.

Note: This story was begun between Seasons 7 & 8 of the X-Files, and so of necessity is an AU. Oh well.

By Wesa.

It was late, so late it was almost morning, and Walter Skinner was searching for a small office in Georgetown.

For the last couple of years, Skinner had suffered from a recurrent buzzing vibration in his head that was sometimes so strong it made him nauseous and dizzy. His doctor had insisted he was in perfect health, surprisingly so after a couple of highly stressful events in the last several months. The first incident was when that bastard Krycek had infected him with nanocites. He had actually died for a few minutes before mysteriously reviving. That had been Krycek, of course, manipulating the nanocites.

Then there was the disappearance of Special Agent Fox Mulder just about a year ago, and the ensuing chase through a hospital when an alien posing as Mulder had attempted to kidnap a young boy. And again, after they found the real Mulder, when Krycek had attempted to force him into killing Dana Scully's miracle baby. Well, no need to stress over Krycek anymore. Skinner had killed him instead, and this time the bastard had stayed dead.

The loss of oversight of the X-Files department bothered him less than he had thought it would. As it turned out, he was far more concerned with the agents in the department than with the department itself. With Mulder out of the Bureau and Scully on maternity leave, that left only John Doggett, and the man had shown he knew how to take care of himself in the matter of Bureau politics. Skinner wasn't worried about Doggett.

He was worried about the man who had tried to kill him this morning, though.

After going to bed around eleven Thursday night, Skinner had been rudely awakened by the recurrent buzzing vibration that attacked him at widely varying times and intensities. This time it had been bad, almost migraine in its power, jolting him awake in time to see an intruder enter his bedroom carrying a sword. With a cry of "There can be only one!" the stranger had come after him.

Skinner had dived out of bed to avoid the downstroke that would have severed his head, grabbing his gun off the nightstand in the same movement, and fired from the floor. There was no time for finesse, for his assailant was swinging around for another swipe at him, and Skinner had shot him though the head, spattering the wall and ceiling with blood, bone, and brain tissue.

There can be only one? What the hell did that mean? Skinner had wondered. He'd paused to breathe, to get his bearings, then gotten dressed and gone to call the police. While he was dialing the phone the buzzing in his head had suddenly re-occurred, and once again he'd barely avoided being decapitated, turning just in time to see the dead man enter the living room, sword poised to swing. Skinner ducked under the blade, knocking it away, and tackled his attacker, his greater bulk allowing him to get the better of the swordsman. He pinned him to the floor, demanding, "Who are you? What do you want?"

"Your head," the stranger laughed nastily, "before you are strong enough to take mine. There can be only one." Skinner gasped at an explosion of pain in his gut. He'd been stabbed! He shoved away, stumbling to his feet and staggering across the room to where the sword lay just inside the kitchen doorway. He got his hands on it just in time.

The stranger had come after him again. There can be only one? One what? Only one who keeps his head? Skinner had swung the blade, desperation putting more power behind the stroke than he'd actually meant to. The stranger stood still a moment, then fell, his body and head going opposite directions. A moment later Skinner found himself at the center of an electrical storm that had blown out all the light bulbs in his apartment and the sliding glass door to his balcony, as well as his personal computer and his new television.

Looking with the eyes of an officer of the law at the shambles that had been his apartment, Skinner had known immediately that he couldn't explain this. And after another moment, he realized that his knife wound was completely healed. Other than the blood on his clothes, he himself carried no trace of the attack. There was only one man anywhere who might believe him: Fox Mulder.

After Mulder's resignation from the Bureau and the birth of Scully's son, no one had been particularly surprised when the long-time partners had become more than that to each other. There was some speculation that Mulder was in fact the father of his partner's baby, even though Skinner knew from Mulder's investigations that Scully's abduction five years earlier had left her barren. No one knew exactly what had been done to the woman during the months she was missing; even she had only spotty memories of the event. However, some years later Mulder had found an ovum depository, and within it, a vial marked with Scully's name and a date shortly before she reappeared in a Georgetown hospital. There was little doubt that Agent Scully's ova were inside that vial. If in fact Mulder was the boy's father, it had been a deliberate act, and not one of sexuality, but of love, assisted by reproductive science.

Within weeks of the child's birth, Mulder had all but moved in with Scully, so when Skinner got only the answering machine at his former agent's apartment, he tried Scully's number next.

She had picked up on the second ring. "Hello?"

He could hear the baby crying in the background. "Dana, it's Walter Skinner. I'm sorry if I woke you," he'd apologized.

"No, I was up anyway," she'd replied tiredly. The baby's wails had grown louder as she apparently went to his cradle and picked him up. "Is something wrong?"

"I won't bother you with it. You have enough to do. Is Mulder there? He isn't at his apartment."

"Sir, Mulder isn't with the Bureau anymore," she'd reminded him. The baby's wails were suddenly replaced by sucking sounds, and Skinner had wondered how she got a bottle warmed that quickly.

"This is personal. I need his help. Do you know where I can reach him?"

"He has a new cell number," she'd said, and told him what it was. "He's probably at his office."

Skinner had been about to thank her and hang up. "He has his own office?" he'd asked instead. "Where is he working?"

"Where else? NICAP," Scully had laughed wryly.

So now Skinner searched for the offices of the National Investigative Committee on Aerial Phenomena in Georgetown, tracking down the address Mulder had given him, finally finding it in a run-down but still respectable part of the business district. As he entered the building, the buzzing in his head began again, growing in intensity until his head felt like it might explode. He collapsed in the hallway.

"Skinner?" Mulder's voice seemed to come from a long way away as Skinner felt himself lifted by arms whose strength was greater than seemed possible given their slenderness. Mulder half-carried him to a chair, then squatted in front of him. "Are you all right, sir?"

Old habits die hard, commented one corner of Skinner's mind, sneaking a lucid thought in under the buzzing that was slowly driving him mad. "I don't know," he replied. "Mulder, I killed a man tonight. Twice."

A pause. A hesitation. "Twice?" Mulder repeated. "The same man?"

Skinner nodded, leaning forward and holding his temples between his fists. "This damn buzzing in my head woke me up, and I saw him coming at me with a sword. I shot him."

"Buzzing, sir?" Mulder repeated.

"It comes and goes. Right now, it's like - like - I don't know how to describe it. I want it to stop."

"I'm taking you to a hospital," Mulder decided as a second pair of feet, clad in light blue loafers, came into Skinner's view. "Wes, take care of him while I get my car, would you?"

"Sure, Mulder," replied a lightly accented female voice. "Here, Mr. Skinner. Perhaps a glass of water will make you feel better," she said as the door closed behind Mulder.

Skinner looked up into blue eyes - and the buzzing in his head intensified briefly, then went away. Completely. Gone. He took the glass of water from the girl - she looked about nineteen, twenty at most - and drank from it, using the motion to cover his confusion. "Thanks," he said. "I do feel better. - Who are you?"

"Wesa Hill," she replied. She went to the door, looked out, and returned to stand before Skinner, looking down at him with her arms folded in front of her. "You're new at this, aren't you?" she asked softly.

"New at what?"

"That's what I thought," she replied. "Look, you don't want to see a doctor. They can't help you anyway."

"What are you talking about?"

She shook her head. "There's no time now. Mulder will be back in a minute, and he of all people cannot know what has happened to you."

"Why not?"

"Because he'll believe it," Wesa told him with a wry smile. She stole a glance at the door and added, "He's coming. You shouldn't be here, or - Come with me, quickly." She took his arm, and with more strength than a girl of her size should have possessed, hauled him into the next room, where she shoved him into a small dark room and whispered, "Keep absolutely silent."

A moment later he heard Mulder's voice. "Where did he go?"

"Go?" Wesa responded. "Well, he was there a minute ago. I just went into the other room for a moment. Where could he have gone?"

Skinner could almost see Mulder's frustration when he sighed. "Wesa, I have to go find him. Who knows what's wrong with him?"

"Where will you start?"

Another sigh. "He said he killed a man in his apartment."

Wesa laughed shortly. "Yeah, twice," she said in a disbelieving tone of voice. "Even if that were true, who else could he go to with a story like that?"

Mulder's voice was horrified. "Dana... Wesa, I have to get there first. You know my number; call me if he comes back here."

"Sure thing, Mulder. Go."

A moment later she opened the door. "Come on out. We need to talk."

Skinner gazed at her in annoyance. "I'm not accustomed to being shoved into closets, young lady."

"Don't call me 'young lady,'" she snapped. "I'm older than I look, and I'm no lady. I'm Immortal, and so are you."

Skinner stared at her. "Oh, great, another nutcase."

"That guy came after you with a sword, you said?" she asked, wandering casually over to the coat rack in the corner. "Was it anything like this one?" Before he could flinch away there was a sword in her hand, and its point was touching his Adam's apple.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed, jerking away.

"To quote Xavier St. Cloud," Wesa said, "'I don't sleep with virgins, and I don't kill children.' If I wanted your head, I would have had it. Let that be your first lesson. Never trust another Immortal until you have reason to trust them."

"My head?" Skinner repeated. "The man I killed tonight, the one with the sword. He - He kept trying to decapitate me."

"He was after your quickening," Wesa explained unhelpfully. "When an Immortal dies, his quickening is transferred to the Immortal who killed him. Some of our kind grow strong by gathering the small quickenings of the newly Immortal."

Skinner sat down heavily in a chair behind a nearby desk. He swallowed hard. "You must be using the term 'Immortal' loosely," he commented.

Wesa smiled wryly and perched on the corner of the desk where he sat. "It's not a perfect word, but there doesn't seem to be a better one. It's the accepted term," she explained. "We are Immortal - loosely, as you said. We do not fall ill. We do not age after the first death. We heal from injury very quickly. We can be killed, just like anyone, but unlike anyone else, we will recover, unless our heads come loose from our shoulders. And we fight."

"Fight? Who? Why?" Skinner heard himself asking as if it could be true.

"Some fight to gain power, through gathering other quickenings," she said, her eyes on the sword in her hands. "Some fight because they enjoy it. Others wish to gain the Prize, if there actually is such a thing. Me, I fight to stay alive, or to avenge the death of a friend. Very rarely one of us becomes so dangerous through the gathering of power that he can no longer be tolerated. When that happens, I may go head-hunting, if no one else beats me to it."

Skinner was appalled at her casual attitude. "You just - cut off their heads?" he asked.

"Sometimes," she admitted. She looked at him and smiled. "There are Rules. Rule number one: If all else fails, you're safe on holy ground, anyone's holy ground. Even the most cowardly among us, even the most evil will not take the head of another Immortal on holy ground. I wish mortals were as safe from us. Rule number two: Fights are single combat. You cannot intervene to help someone else, and no one else can help you. Rule number three: We keep our existence secret, and we clean up after ourselves wherever possible. 'Possible' allows for some latitude. You said you shot the man who attacked you?"

"Yeah, but he wouldn't stay dead," Skinner replied. "He kept getting up and coming after me again. I finally took his sword and cut off his head. Then my apartment sort of..." He paused and spread his hands, at a loss for words.

"Exploded?" Wesa suggested with a faint smile. "Lightning and electricity everywhere? Hit you? Kinda hurt, but was kinda like really great sex, too?" Skinner nodded, turning red. "Congratulations," she told him. "You're the only person I know who took his first quickening without knowing what was going on. Normally, your teacher would release you to go out on your own now, but since you haven't had a teacher yet, I guess we'll have to make an exception." She looked at her watch. "How long does it take to get to Dana's apartment and back here?"

"Half an hour. Maybe twenty minutes this time of night," he replied.

"Time to get you out of here." She slipped the sword back into the folds of her overcoat, somehow hiding its existence completely, and picked up a briefcase. "I was about to go home anyway when you arrived, so Mulder won't think anything of me being gone. We'll swing past your place to see if anyone called the cops, but we won't stop. That's the next place he'll look for you."

"I have to go to work in the morning," he protested.

"You'll call in sick."

"I can't do that!"

"Why not?" She led the way out the door and into a parking garage across the street, where a red Fiat waited.

"For one thing, it's a lie."

She tilted her head and looked at him from under her eyebrows. "You're an assistant director of the United States' Federal Bureau of Investigation, and you have the gall to try to tell me you've never lied? Come on, Skinner, I wasn't born yesterday. Get in the car. If your apartment isn't crawling with cops, you may be able to continue as AD Skinner for a few years. If there are cops, we head straight for Florida and the Bahamas. Do you speak Spanish?"

"A little. Why?" he asked, settling into the car's passenger seat with his knees at an uncomfortable angle.

"I have a safe place in Chile." Wesa reached over and adjusted the position of the seat. "Sorry, I think Tsila was the last to ride shotgun. Her legs are quite a bit shorter than yours."

"Another Immortal?"

Wesa nodded. "A dear friend of mine. She and I, and some others, we're like sisters. If you kill any of them, I'll kill you." There was no malice in her words; they were a simple statement of fact.

"Look, I can just go home and take the consequences if -"

"If what?" Wesa interrupted. "If the cops have discovered the body? Death by electrocution is highly unpleasant. So is hanging; trust me on this one. If you have a choice, choose execution by lethal injection, and name me as next of kin. Then pray to whatever god you revere that you don't meet up with one of us in prison. Whatever you do, don't settle for a life sentence. You'll be there a long, long time."

Skinner looked at her in stunned bemusement. "Who are you?" he repeated.

She looked at him with a smile. "I'm Wesa, and I appear to be your teacher. Unless you would prefer someone else? Let's see ... Duncan has a student ... Adam is too lazy ... Connor's headhunting. Amanda would be more interested in jumping your bones than in training you. Darius is very powerful, but he's been out of the game for hundreds of years; I'd advise against him. Richie's still very young. And then there are my sisters. We're a bit scattered right now, but if you like, I can take you to one of them for training. However, if you wish to remain with the FBI for a while, I'm the one who lives here. For the moment at least."

"Where are we going?"

"I can put you up for the rest of the night, so you'll be safe. I have very powerful friends; there are few who would dare to attack me, and once they know you're my student, they'll likely leave you alone as well." Wesa shifted gears and accelerated through a yellow light, turning left as they came off Key Bridge onto the Interstate. "And you need a sword."

"Why?" It was all happening too fast. Skinner didn't trust this teenage blonde who assumed responsibility for his life as if it were no more than an inconvenient duty. She spoke too quickly and made assumptions too easily, as if she had a right to tell him what he was going to do with his own life. And she drove much too fast. They were on Highway 110 now, and even though there was little traffic at this time of the morning, there was too much for the speed she was driving.

"Edged weapons are the only way to kill another Immortal," she replied, "and even I can't save you if you go around shooting people to incapacitate them before you take their heads. You need a sword, and you have to learn how to use it. To defend yourself, if for no other reason. Unless you want to live in a monastery for the rest of your life. Do you?"

Skinner shook his head. "Where would I get a sword?"

"I have some extras," Wesa said casually. "There's a two-handed claymore I think would suit you, and it's too heavy for me, even as a practice sword. You're big enough that you'll be able to build the upper body strength to use it."

"'Build?'" Skinner repeated, feeling slightly offended.

Wesa laughed, turning toward the airport. "You're in pretty good shape now," she said, "for a desk jockey. By the time I get through with you, you'll be in great shape for a professional gym rat."

"But why?" Skinner repeated.

"Because along with skill in handling a sword, you need strength and endurance. Even a two-pound sword feels heavy when you've been using it for a while. The claymore weighs nearly five pounds," she explained.

"Why not go with a lighter sword?" Skinner couldn't believe he was taking this girl seriously.

"As you gain skill, we may trade you up to a katana," Wesa allowed. "But as a beginner, you need the strength of the claymore."

"What do you use?" Skinner had no idea what kind of sword she had had pointed at his throat earlier that night.

"A rapier," she replied. "It's light, fast, flexible, and compensates some for the disadvantage I have in reach - but the blade isn't as strong as some of the other kinds of swords. That's where skill comes in. But," she added warningly, "it takes skill to use the claymore as well. You can't just go in hacking and expect to win. By and large your opponents will be highly skilled and well able to take on a swordsman with a claymore. And of course, some of them also use claymores. Against them, skill and endurance will be your only advantages."

As they neared his apartment, Wesa pulled over at a corner and turned off her headlights. They watched the building in silence for a few moments, then Wesa reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a telephone, dialing a number from memory. "Kasey, hi. Someone attacked a young one tonight in Crystal City. The young one survived. Did we have someone on the attacker?" She listened a moment, her brows climbing toward her hairline. "Good. He doesn't want to disappear right now. No cops?"

A moment later she disconnected and turned off her cell phone, turning to smile at Skinner. "No cops," she said, "and the body has been removed. You'll be able to go home after all. But not tonight. Mulder will be looking for you tonight."

Skinner nodded. "And I do have to work tomorrow. If I'm not there when he calls - and he will - he'll alert someone, probably Agent Doggett."

Wesa gestured with her chin. "There he is," she said. She waited until Mulder had entered Skinner's apartment building, then started her car and pulled out into the light early morning traffic. "Would he give you no leeway at all?" she asked. "You really do need to know what you're getting into."

**********

Skinner looked around the room in astonishment. Wesa's house sat on a steep bluff overlooking the Potomac just outside the Beltway. Although from the street and driveway it appeared to be a two-story dwelling, once inside, Wesa descended stairs leading down to a huge basement room. A nearly solid wall of glass on the south side of the room let in the brightening dawn, lighting up the weights along the opposite wall and the mats spread out on the highly varnished oak floor. "You have your own gym?" he asked. "Isn't that expensive?"

"What good would the money be if I were dead?" Wesa retorted. "Invest smart; money does make life a whole lot easier." She went to a locked cabinet in an unobtrusive corner. Skinner followed, noting the design of inlaid wood, which could not have been inexpensive. When Wesa opened the cabinet, Skinner gasped at the array of sharp weapons displayed inside. There were swords, both straight and curved, with hilts of plain wood, fancy basket hilts, and everything in between. There were daggers and stilettos, and even a double-bladed axe with its blades shaped like dragons.

She smiled at his expression, and reached for one of the longer swords. "This is a two-hand claymore," she said, pulling it slightly from its scabbard to show him the blade. "This is your dearest friend, your companion, your guardian. Always keep it near you; make it a part of yourself." She slid the blade back into the scabbard and put it into his hands.

"I can't take this," Skinner objected. "It must be worth hundreds of dollars."

"Thousands, actually," Wesa corrected. "Your life is worth more. Never touch the blade with your hands. The oils and contaminants on your skin could weaken or destroy the blade. Use a clean cloth." She closed up the cabinet and locked it. "Come on, I'll show you to a guest room. I'm afraid I don't have any men's pajamas here. I don't think I know anyone who wears them."

Skinner let his mouth pull to one side in a wry smile as he followed her up the stairs. "You still don't," he told her. "And how many men could a girl your age know well enough to have them spending the night here?"

Wesa shook her head. "You're still hung up on appearance. You'll have to get over that. Do you want some breakfast before you sleep?" she asked, changing the subject.

**********

After only a few hours' sleep, Skinner was awakened by sunlight flooding into his face when the curtains on the east side of his borrowed bedroom were thrown open to admit the summer sunlight. "Get up," Wesa said, throwing some sweats at him. "I think these'll fit, though they might be a little short. You're taller than Adam."

"Adam who?"

"Not now. If you aren't dressed in two minutes, I'm coming back in here to help you." She went out and closed the door behind her, but Skinner never doubted she would make good on the threat, and slid into the sweatpants and shirt quickly. He was reaching for the doorknob when she came back in.

"Good, you can follow instructions," she observed. She found his cell phone on the nightstand where he had left it, and instructed him to call in sick. "And make it convincing," she added. "We don't need anyone to think you're anywhere but at home. When you're done, turn it off and come downstairs."

For a teenager, she sure could be bossy. She did seem to know what was going on, though, so Skinner did as she instructed. When he joined her, she showed him how to hide his sword in his clothing, then took him through the neighboring parkland on a run that seemed to last for hours. The only place she paused was where the path they were following came out of the woods at the edge of a gorge. She pointed down into it at the kayakers and told him, "Emergency escape route. If you don't drown, you'll probably die from bashing against the rocks. But anyone would be a fool to follow you. If a mortal sees you take it though, that's it. You won't be able to be Walter Skinner anymore. It'd be a good idea to establish a couple other identities while you're in a position to do so. Come on."

**********

"What do you mean he isn't there?" Mulder asked, speaking into the phone. He shook his head at Scully as he listened, frowning, to the explanation given by Skinner's assistant. "All right, thank you." He disconnected and turned to his former partner. "He called in sick this morning. Said he didn't feel well and was going to stay home today."

"I thought you said you were at his apartment," Scully objected.

"I was. Wherever he called from, it wasn't there. And I'll tell you something else: There was no sign that anyone died in his apartment last night, but his TV and computer monitor were both missing, and the door to his balcony was covered with plastic. The glass was gone." Mulder shook his head. "Something very strange is going on here, Dana."

She lifted her son to her shoulder and gently patted his back. "Should I call Agent Doggett?"

Mulder's face had softened, watching her with the boy he thought of as his own son. "No, I'll do it. You stay here and look after William. Let me know if Skinner calls you again, though. Okay?" He covered the baby's small, nearly hairless head with one large hand. "And you, young man, you don't over-work your mom, now. D'you hear me?"

Scully smiled up at him. "You'll let me know when you find anything, right?" Mulder smiled down at her and nodded, then kissed her on the forehead before he went out the door.

**********

They ran another twenty minutes to get back to the house, where Skinner wanted to simply lie on the bed and breathe for an hour or so. Wesa had other ideas.

Swordfighting lessons started with how to hold his claymore, how to swing it and how to control the swing so that the heavy sword didn't get away from him. She then set him a series of exercises, and hovered nearby, watching his form to make sure he didn't get started on any bad habits that would be hard to break later on.

Parry, thrust, lunge. Parry, thrust, lunge. The whole thing was hugely repetitive. He yawned.

"Bored?" Wesa asked. "That imaginary opponent wants to remove your head from your shoulders, and he doesn't much care about finesse. You're falling into a rhythm that will let your opponent know exactly where your sword is going to be and when. If you do that in a real fight, you're dead. Permanently."

He sighed and turned toward her, letting the point of his sword fall. He never even saw her draw her rapier, but the next thing he knew her blade was at his throat. Skinner felt his spine lengthening.

"Never drop your guard," Wesa hissed. "Never!"

His spine was at full extension. "I get your point," he said, wondering if he could lift his jaw farther away from her blade without her noticing. "Um."

Wesa drew her blade away. "I wouldn't mark you, Skinner," she said softly. "If I intended to kill you, you would already be dead. You have to understand the rules of the Game, and sometimes I may get a little insistent about it. The first time you have to fight for your life, you'll appreciate it."

By evening she had him lifting weights. Skinner had never worked out so hard for so long, and he was positive he would be so sore the next morning he wouldn't be able to drag himself out of bed. He said as much to Wesa, and she laughed. "I'm going easy on you; you're already in pretty good shape. And Immortal healing will take care of the muscle pain. You'll be surprised at how good you'll feel tomorrow. Finish another two sets, then run up and grab a shower. I'll have dinner finished by the time you get back downstairs." She disappeared up the stairs, and Skinner paused briefly before continuing his exercises. So far she had done him no harm, though she made him work very hard. He'd continue to go along with it for the time being.

**********

"AD Skinner?" Doggett called as he knocked on the apartment door.

Mulder touched his arm, urging him to step aside, and produced the lockpick with which he had gained access the previous night.

Doggett watched him as he picked the apartment lock. "That's technically breaking and entering. I should arrest you," he told Mulder.

"For all you know, I have a standing invitation from AD Skinner," Mulder replied.

"Right," Doggett admitted disbelievingly as the door swung open, "and I'm the Tooth Fairy."

Mulder chuckled and led the way inside. "Like I told you, he isn't here. His TV's gone," he added gesturing to the obviously empty place where it had been, "and so's his computer. And look at the balcony door."

Doggett turned his attention to the glass slider. Its glass gone, it was covered with a piece of clear plastic. "Maybe the set was giving him trouble, and he heaved it outside."

"Skinner occasionally wanted to throw me out an eleventh-floor window, but he's usually more restrained than that with inanimate objects," Mulder replied. "So if he's not ill, where is he?"

"I don't know, Mulder!" Doggett exclaimed in exasperation. "AD Skinner's an adult. Maybe he's got a girlfriend. Who else was around the last time you saw him?"

Mulder shook his head. "Just Wes, and she was as surprised that he was gone as I was."

"'She?'" Doggett repeated.

Mulder turned to him with a look on his face that expressed his disgust with the idea. "Wesa's not much more than a teenager, Agent Doggett," he said shortly.

"Do you know where she lives?"

Mulder sighed. "I can find out."

**********

Surprisingly, he didn't feel the expected muscle stiffness the next morning. Saturday was a repeat of Friday, save that everything came two hours earlier in the day, and that she added real swordfighting lessons just before dinner. Skinner learned then just what she meant about Immortal healing, as part of the lesson included real cuts and jabs. Although the injuries healed within a few moments after they were inflicted, by Sunday evening when she drove him back to his apartment, he felt like a pincushion, psychologically at least.

"You aren't ready," she warned him. "Don't go out except to go to work. Make sure you take your sword in with you, though I think you should be safe enough on FBI premises, at least while there are lots of others there. You have my cell number; if you feel the presence of another of us, you call me. Okay?" Then Wesa caught sight of a slender figure outside of Skinner's apartment building. "Oh, merde," she murmured, and drove on past.

"Hey, that was my apartment," Skinner objected.

"Yeah, and that was Mulder getting into his car out front," Wesa retorted. "He can't see us together. Unless you want to let him think we're having an affair ... or..." She let the sentence trail off as if an idea had just struck her.

"Or what?" Skinner asked.

She pulled off the street into a parking garage and drove up to a level that was nearly deserted, where she parked and turned to him. "There's an organization called the Watchers," she began.

Skinner listened in disbelief as she told him about the people whose job it was to record the history of Immortals. "We don't want most mortals to find out about us. I've been through a couple of witch-hunts, and they aren't any fun at all. The Watchers know that the mere revelation of our existence could topple the civilization we all have to live in, so they keep our secret, and in exchange most of us who know about them don't object to having our activities recorded, at least not most of the time. We do ditch them once in a while," she added with a little smile, "usually to protect those we know they don't know about."

"Do they know about me?" he asked.

"Oh, yeah. Henstridge had a Watcher. And because of you, they've found me again. I haven't had a Watcher since 1989," she explained. "Skinner, Mulder's aptitudes and training make him an ideal Watcher, and since he will find out anyway, maybe we can set you up with a Watcher you won't mind too much. Problem is, Watchers aren't supposed to get involved, and I don't know if he could stay out of your challenges. He still respects you. Think you can keep him out?"

"Mulder doesn't - " Skinner began automatically. Wesa's wry smile stopped him.

"Looks like the respect runs both ways," she observed. "There are some strings I can pull."

"What about Scully?"

"She's an FBI agent," Wesa replied, "and besides, she has a new baby to look after."

**********

"Mulder, hi," Skinner greeted his former agent, crouching down beside his open car window, and Mulder nearly jumped out of his skin. "There's something I want you to do for me."

"Skinner!" Mulder exclaimed. "Where have you been?"

"My place," Wesa said, getting into the passenger seat and closing the door. Skinner opened the back door and got in behind Mulder.

Mulder looked at the girl next to him, then back at Skinner. "Kind of young for you, isn't she?" he asked, making his disapproval plain.

Wesa rolled her eyes. "I'm older than I look," she said, "and I don't sleep with my students."

"That's kinda what we wanted to talk to you about, Mulder," Skinner said.

"Wesa's age?" Mulder asked incredulously.

Wesa snickered. "Indirectly. There'll be someone who'll approach you about a job, a new career, Mulder. We want you to listen, perhaps scoff a bit if you can find it within yourself to do so, and then accept the position," she said. "The person who approaches you must not know of this conversation. Don't tell anyone, not even Scully."

"Why?"

"Watchers aren't supposed to associate with those they watch. It nearly always goes bad for someone," she explained.

"Watchers?" Mulder repeated. "Who are they going to ask me to watch?"

"Hopefully," Skinner said as he got out of the car, "me."

"Goodnight," Wesa called. "I'll pick you up at five next Friday. Stay safe." She watched him until he disappeared into his building, then turned to Mulder. "My car's in the parking garage down the street. Can I bum a ride?"

**********

Mulder reached the tavern named in the note he'd received in the mail on Monday, and went inside nearly three minutes ahead of the appointed time. He stood still a moment, looking around, then went to his right, to the last of the high-backed red vinyl upholstered booths. The fragile-looking elderly man sitting in the booth raised dark brown eyes from his newspaper and looked up at him curiously. Hesitantly, Mulder asked, "Uh, Mr. Quintana?"

"Sit down, Mr. Mulder," Quintana said in a surprisingly strong voice, faintly accented with a strange lilt that wasn't quite Spanish. Mulder complied without really thinking about it. "I understand you were formerly employed by the United States government as an FBI agent?"

"Yes," Mulder agreed. "May I ask what this is all about?"

"We'll get to that. You come highly recommended, but I am unsure just why as yet," Quintana told him. He paused while the waitress brought cups and poured coffee. "What was your assignment in the FBI?" he asked as she moved away again.

"I was a Special Agent, sir," Mulder told him. "My exact assignment is still classified."

"Ah. And why are you no longer with the Bureau?" The man's olive-skinned hands played idly with the spoon after he finished stirring creamer into his coffee.

Mulder briefly considered his reply before speaking. "My ... supervisor's supervisor didn't approve of the ... direction ... of my inquiries."

Quintana nodded, his brown eyes narrowing thoughtfully. "Kersh didn't think the FBI should be investigating the paranormal, is that it?" he asked.

That brought Mulder up short. "You know?" he asked in astonishment.

"Tell me, did you ever investigate any beheadings?"

"There was an accidental decapitation of an ambulance attendant," Mulder replied, mystified.

"The cancer-eater. Yes. We watched him for a time, but he wasn't one of those we normally keep track of. The beheadings I speak of are deliberate."

"Then no, I don't think I ever have," Mulder told the little brown man.

"Would you like to?"

The old man had Mulder's interest now, but Mulder tried not to show that he was intrigued. "It sounds like a case for Violent Crimes," he suggested.

Quintana shook his head, frowning. "Violent Crimes, the FBI, and the police must all be kept out of most beheadings. If they knew the truth, if the truth became known by the general public, our entire civilization might crumble." He gazed at Mulder calculatingly. "I'm told that you are a believer in the most outrageous of theories, Mr. Mulder. Does that include Immortality?"

Mulder blinked. "Im - Immortality?" he stumbled. This was what Wesa and Skinner wanted him working on? "What does that have to do with beheadings?"

"More than you can possibly imagine," Quintana promised him, standing up. If possible, he was even shorter standing than sitting. "Come with me."

They went together to Quintana's car, where the elderly man made a call on his cell phone. His end of the conversation consisted of only one word: "Where?" He listened a moment, then drove to a warehouse on Annapolis Road outside of Lanham, where he turned to Mulder and said, "We watch, but we do not interfere. Keep quiet. Do not let them see you. If they know we are there, then what you have come here to see will not happen, at least not tonight. They will break and run. You are no longer an officer of the law. Remember that tonight."

Intrigued, Mulder followed the old man through an unlocked side door and up a staircase. Quintana could move surprisingly quietly and agilely for a man of his age, and with almost no noise they reached a steel catwalk high over the warehouse floor, not that anyone would have heard their progress over the sound of metal objects clanging together. They joined a third man, closer to Mulder's age, who was taking pictures of the fight below.

On the warehouse floor, two women fought with swords. The encounter looked almost as if it had been choreographed, and if it hadn't been obvious that each was landing serious blows and cuts to the other, Mulder would have thought this had been arranged for his benefit. Perhaps it was, he thought to himself frantically a moment later, only then realizing that one of the women was Wesa. There were bloodstains on her clothing, and her shirt and jeans showed just how sharp the other woman's sword was. He started to go to her aid, but Quintana laid a hand on his wrist.

"I realize this is difficult for you, Mr. Mulder," he whispered, "but she is capable of taking care of herself. She has been for a long time. I know you think of her as a friend, but you must understand what she is."

"She's a teenager!" Mulder whispered back hoarsely.

But Quintana shook his head. "Not for a long, long time."

"Here it comes," the third man said softly.

As Mulder looked back down at the fight, Wesa swung her sword at her kneeling opponent. For a moment, nothing happened ... Then the head and the body fell in different directions.

"Time to go," Quintana said urgently, his voice drawing Wesa's attention up to the small group of men on the catwalk.

Her eyes widened. "Mulder!" she screamed as a tendril of electricity licked along another catwalk on the far side of the warehouse. "That's metal! Get out of here! Go now, before it starts!"

The fear in her voice spurred him into movement, and he followed Quintana and the other man, exiting the warehouse just as all hell broke loose.

He stood with the other men and watched in astonishment as lightning raged inside the warehouse. There was almost none outside, and what little there was seemed to come from inside, striking at a Grand Am parked a few yards away. All three men turned away, covering their heads with their arms as the headlights exploded and the hood was blown loose.

After a couple of minutes, the electrical display subsided, and Mulder started to go to his friend. The other two men held him back, and while he was getting free of their grasp - he didn't want to injure Quintana - Wesa stumbled out of the building. Mulder started to go to her, but she looked at the three men briefly, then turned and ran off into the darkness. Obviously her injuries weren't bothering her too badly. A moment later there was the familiar sound of the Fiat engine being gunned into life, then tires squealed and headlights swept across them and away.

Mulder turned to the other men. "What the hell just happened? Will somebody give me a straight answer?" he demanded.

Quintana nodded. "You have just witnessed a challenge and a quickening," he replied unhelpfully. "Mr. Lootens, I believe you will need a ride back to Georgetown. Are you ready to make your final report on this assignment?"

"Yes, sir," Lootens replied morosely. He looked at the remains of his Grand Am. "I loved that car," he sighed.

"The organization will buy you a new one, this time," Quintana assured him, leading the way to his own car. "Perhaps you will learn not to park so close to the field of combat next time?"

"Yes, sir," Lootens replied.

**********

The records had detailed her life down through the centuries, though there were large gaps when the Watchers had lost track of the eternal teenager for decades. From what the records did say, Wesa preferred western and southern Europe, the Middle East, northeastern Africa, and - after Columbus' discoveries and especially after the Second World War - the Western Hemisphere.

He pulled over to the side of the street and watched as Walter Skinner exited his apartment building and climbed into the Fiat beside the young-looking blonde.

Mengele! The Angel of Death had been an Immortal? Mulder had quickly branched off and looked him up, but the information consisted of only a notice of his death and speculation about who might have beheaded him. Tsila was an Immortal woman with whom Wesa often traveled. Outwardly the two seemed to have little in common, as Tsila was a Mayan Indian, but obviously something had happened to forge a lasting friendship.

The Watchers' most recent sighting of Wesa Hill, prior to the night she assumed responsibility for training Walter Skinner, had been in 1989 at San Francisco State College, when her Watcher disappeared. His last entry into her Chronicle seemed to indicate she had been searching for someone. Headhunting, the Chronicle called it.

"'Headhunting?'" Mulder repeated to himself. "Wesa?"

She obviously was not the innocent teenager she appeared.

Mulder leaned back in the seat of the car, watching Wesa's Fiat ahead and absently picking at the new tattoo blistering on his wrist. The teenager who had been his assistant at NICAP was a cold-blooded killer, according to her Chronicle. Hell, he'd seen it for himself. And although he knew Skinner - Skinner's an Immortal! - had the steel in his soul to be able to kill should circumstances warrant it, he didn't seem like the kind of person who would voluntarily take part in this silly Game, either.

They called it a Game! Even in the basement of the Georgetown library where the local chapter of a worldwide organization of Watchers had their offices, where Mulder had read the Chronicle of Wesa's life, even there they called the series of challenges and combats a Game, as if it were a sporting event. Mulder shook his head in dismay at the callousness of the term.

Mulder would be working closely with Wesa's watcher during his training, while Skinner was being trained by the older Immortal. As yet, he had no idea who this person might be. He had been told only that she had recently completed her previous assignment - read: her Immortal subject had lost his head - and that he was to meet her at a specific place after Wesa had picked Skinner up for his weekend of training.

So, when Wesa and Skinner turned north on 495, Mulder turned south as per his instructions, despite his misgivings. He drove to the next exit, then left the Beltway, heading west.

**********

Skinner tossed his small case on the bed in the room he had slept in the previous weekend. "What would your parents think?" he asked jestingly. He was unprepared for the glare Wesa gave him from her bedroom door. "What?"

Wesa sighed and shook her head. "Nothing. You couldn't know. I over-reacted; I'm sorry."

Skinner frowned. "If you don't tell me what I said wrong, I'm likely to make the same mistake again," he pointed out.

"Get changed," she told him. "If you really want to know, we can discuss how the ownership of women has changed over time while you work on your form." She closed her door firmly.

Ten minutes later he found her in the basement gym, pummeling a body bag furiously and cursing in a language he didn't recognize. He hesitated at the base of the stairs. "Should I come back later?" he asked.

"Have you ever been married, Skinner?" she asked, catching hold of the swinging bag. She was breathing more deeply than usual, but was not out of breath by any stretch of the imagination. At his nod, she asked, "How much did you pay your wife's father for her?"

"What? Nothing!" Skinner exclaimed in shock at the idea.

Wesa snorted softly. "Oh, yeah, they don't do that anymore... Okay, did you ever hit her? Did you ever grab her and start having sex before she even knew what you wanted? Did you ever rip your way into her? Did you beat her for not doing what you wanted her to do, even though you had asked the impossible? If you had asked at all, and not just assumed that she knew what you wanted..."

Skinner stared at her, alarmed at the deep anger she had been carrying for who knew how long, and was now unloading on him. "Wesa ... No, I never did. I loved my wife. I still do. I'm just such a shit to live with that she divorced me."

"You got off easy," she told him bitterly. "My husband bought me from my father for three blankets and a dog. On the day I went to his hut, he raped me, killed the man I loved, and murdered my mother. My father blamed me, and so did Valeg's father. The whole village turned their backs on me, even though Vidogg had already killed three wives before me. He was your age at least - old for that time - and I was fifteen.

"I endured marriage for four years, until I learned that there was a witch living a day's travel to the east. I ran away, hoping the witch would take me in as a student, an apprentice, but Vidogg caught up with me, practically on her doorstep." She fell silent, apparently lost in the long-forgotten past.

After a moment, Skinner apologized. "Wesa, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to bring up bad memories."

"They aren't all bad," she murmured, swallowing hard. "I hadn't thought of Valeg in a long time. I loved him, but I hadn't thought about him in many years. That's so sad. And then there was the witch. She took me in after Vidogg killed me. She taught me what it was to be Immortal." Her lips twitched in a sad smile. "She introduced me to Luvik, who taught me to ride." Apparently there was something funny about that, for she smiled at a private joke. "I thought Luvik was Loki at first. He was tall for those days, slender, yet nearly as muscular as you are. His face was thin, sharp-featured, but almost always smiling. And that hair! Red as fire, it was, and all standing straight up from his head unless he braided it and tied it down." She shook her head regretfully.

Skinner studied her sad smile for a moment. "You loved him," he observed. "What happened?"

"He was killed in battle years later. A Kurgan warrior took off his head with a battle-axe," Wesa explained. "I saw it happen. I was watching the battle from a hill in the middle of the valley where they were fighting." Tears welled up in her eyes. "Thank the gods I was there, and in time to catch his quickening, or we might have been lost him completely."

**********

Mulder pulled his car even with the white Lumina parked in a turnout just off the local access road that paralleled the river. It was getting dark; how was he supposed to find his mentor in this deepening gloom? He got out of his car and, since he had last seen the two Immortals crossing the river, he carefully made his way downslope.

Across the river, a big house sat on a bluff, the lowest of its three levels ablaze with light. Inside, Mulder could see a man and a woman facing off with swords. If that was Wesa's house, then most likely the man would be Skinner. "Shit," he murmured, aghast.

"Fox Mulder," a familiar voice chastised him, "I hope you don't talk like that around my grandson."

He turned, his jaw dropping when he made out the owner of the voice sitting in the gloom behind a camera on a tripod, a telephoto lens trained on the figures on the far side of the water. "Mrs. Scully?" he gasped.

Dana's mother grinned at him. "Surely you didn't think I could afford to live in Georgetown on nothing more than a widow's pension and the income from Bill's insurance?" she asked. "Come and sit, Fox. I have a blanket. Did you bring your camera?"

Mulder gestured. "We have to stop them! I've seen what she's capable of!"

Maggie grinned at him. "She can't very well teach him how to defend himself without teaching him how to handle a sword," she said. "Relax, Fox. AD Skinner is in good hands. Would you like a cup of coffee?"

Mulder sat beside her, and as they watched the fencing pair in the house across the river, Maggie explained how she had come to join the Watchers, and about her assignment to watch Sven Henstridge. She told him how difficult it had been to simply record the man's many murders of Immortals too young to have skill enough to defend themselves against him. She smiled as she described her astonishment upon realizing that he was stalking her daughter's FBI supervisor. Her voice broke as she told Mulder about the despair she felt at not being able to warn Skinner, who of course would not have believed her anyway.

"Can you imagine the expression on his face?" she asked. "And of course, he would have told Dana her mother needed to be institutionalized."

Mulder nodded, smiling ruefully. "He's not the believing kind. So what happened?"

"I followed Henstridge to Crystal City, to AD Skinner's apartment. I heard the gunshots," Maggie said. "Then several minutes later there was the quickening - it shattered lights all up and down the hallway. A few minutes later, to my surprise, Skinner walked out the door. He looked very perturbed. I called for a cleanup team to come to his apartment, and I followed him all over Georgetown. He made a couple of telephone calls, but I couldn't get close enough to hear what was said, and eventually he led me to your office. A few minutes after you left, he came outside with that girl." She indicated the female figure across the water. "I followed them here, and when she gave him a sword it was obvious she had decided to be his teacher.

"I made my final report on Henstridge and applied to be Skinner's watcher, but I guess they were afraid I had become too involved with my assignment and might be looking for revenge, so I was assigned to Wesa." Maggie smiled. "She has a fascinating history. Did you read it?"

Mulder nodded. "Skinner doesn't have a history, so I read his teacher's instead. But can you tell me, what is a Horseman, and why is it capitalized?"

**********

His teacher was upstairs showering after their morning run when Skinner suddenly felt a new buzz invade his awareness. It felt different than the buzz he got from Wesa, less threatening yet with an undercurrent of explosive power that he knew was even more dangerous. With her warnings about headhunters echoing in his mind, he peered outside and saw a man slide out of a dark green Range Rover, moving like a predator and drawing a sword out with him. The sword looked very sharp and well used.

The slender, brown-haired man seemed completely at ease with the ancient weapon he carried, unlike Skinner, who still felt silly wielding his claymore, as if someone somewhere had made a cosmic mistake. Nevertheless he drew the sword Wesa had given him, and moved to head off the stranger as he entered the house from the deck on the west end, where Wesa's hot tub steamed gently in the still-cool morning.

**********

"Uh-oh," Maggie said, snapping pictures of the man entering Wesa's house with his sword drawn. "One or both of us might have a short assignment."

"Who's that guy?" Mulder asked.

"Don't know. I haven't seen him before."

After a moment's silence while nothing happened, Mulder asked, "Now what do we do?"

"We wait for a quickening," Maggie told him calmly. "More coffee?"

**********

Of course the unknown Immortal was not surprised to see him. The two men faced off in silence for a moment, sizing each other up, before the stranger said in a mild tone, "I didn't come here to fight you. Just leave, and I'll let you go in peace."

"No deal," Skinner replied tightly.

Each man altered his stance and his grip on his weapon, becoming subtly more aggressive. Slowly they circled each other in a strange sort of dance.

Skinner struck first, slashing at an opening that disappeared as he moved. His strike was blocked with a parry he didn't even see, and a line of fire traced its way down the front of his right thigh. The pain was excruciating.

Suddenly realizing he was again fighting for his life, Skinner ran through his entire repertoire of moves in under a minute. The quiet stranger blocked each almost casually. Then with a flip of his Ivanhoe, he sent Skinner's claymore flying in a perfect arc to land on its point at the foot of the stairs and stand there, its blade singing. He drew back and prepared for the downstroke that would end Skinner's life.

"Stop!" Wesa cried from the top of the stairs. "Did he challenge you, Adam?" Carrying her rapier, she nearly flew down the steps, barefooted and with her hair dripping on her short terry robe.

Adam's eyes never flickered away from Skinner, though he did take a step backward and fall into a less-threatening stance. "Now that you mention it, no," he said. "I thought he was after you."

"Wesa, do you know this guy?" Skinner asked.

She pressed him backwards, physically separating the combatants. "Know your limitations, Walter," she told him. "You couldn't hope to beat Adam." She turned back to the other man, stepped close into his arms, and turned her face up invitingly. Adam obliged, his free hand slipping around her back and pressing her body close to his as they kissed.

Skinner was beginning to feel a bit like a voyeur when they finally released each other. "How long can you stay?" Wesa asked softly.

"As long as you'll let me," Adam replied. "I have no commitments at the moment."

Wesa grinned. "Why doesn't that surprise me?" she asked, rolling her eyes. Then she turned to make introductions. "Walter Skinner, Adam Pierson - you are still using that one?"

He shrugged. "It's convenient. And the Watchers know me by that name." Pierson looked toward Skinner, then back into Wesa's eyes. "You're sure I'm not intruding?"

"He's my student, Adam, not my lover," she told him, a little impatiently. "There's beer in the fridge. Have you eaten this morning?"

**********

"Shouldn't something have happened by now?" Mulder asked.

Maggie shrugged. "Maybe they're evenly matched. I'll bet Wesa's house is being trashed inside."

Mulder stared at her. "Wesa? Evenly matched with that guy?" he asked.

"I've been watching her for almost a week now," Maggie told him. "I've seen her in action. She's good. Henstridge wouldn't have had a chance against her."

**********

While Skinner showered and Wesa dressed, Pierson started breakfast. When Skinner came back downstairs, he found the other two Immortals laughing together in the kitchen, arguing good-naturedly over a bottle of beer that Pierson held up and out of Wesa's reach. "Give it to me," she cajoled.

"I am not going to let you waste a perfectly good beer," he insisted. The argument seemed to have been going on for some time.

"I thought you liked beer," she laughed.

"I do. And I'm not going to let you waste it by cooking with it."

"You'll like it, I promise. I've seen you eat." Mischief lit Wesa's eyes, and with her left hand she grabbed at Pierson's crotch. Automatically he dropped both hands to protect himself, and Wesa snatched the beer away from him, quickly pouring it into the mixing bowl on the counter beside her.

"Hey!" Pierson protested. "That's cheating."

"You enjoyed it and you know it," Wesa replied calmly, vigorously stirring the contents of the bowl. She grinned up at him. "Want me to kiss it and make it better?"

"No!" he denied quickly. "You don't know how to not use your teeth!" Pierson spotted Skinner in the doorway and moved out of Wesa's reach. "Besides," he added, "we have company."

Wesa glanced at Skinner. "Hi, Walter. Breakfast is nearly ready." She frowned at Pierson. "Are you becoming a prude, Old Man? I remember a time when you didn't much care who was watching. In fact, Kronos learned a lot by watching us."

'Old Man?' Skinner wondered. If she thinks Pierson is old, what does she think of me?

Pierson was frowning at her last statement. "You slept with Kronos?"

She cocked an eyebrow at him as she poured batter onto a hot griddle. "You object? I seem to recall your face among those encouraging him the night he tried to force me."

"You aren't still holding that against me, are you? It was a long time ago."

She pursed her lips. "Well...If you want to make it up to me, Ada-Lisa is researching the reason for Immortal infertility, and she needs semen samples..."

Pierson grinned. "Yes? How does she plan to get them? Are you setting me up with one of your friends, Wesa?"

She glared at him. "When you get there, she'll give you a magazine and a small bottle, and send you into a little room alone. You're expected to get it into the bottle before you come out," she said.

Pierson wrinkled his nose, but Wesa cut off his disparaging comment. "Be grateful that you get to have fun. She had to do surgery on me."

"Huh," Pierson grunted.

"Has she learned anything yet?" Skinner asked. The others looked at him in surprise; they had nearly forgotten he was there.

"Mortal semen doesn't penetrate an Immortal egg cell," Wesa replied. She started carefully turning pancakes. "Apparently Immortal eggs have the same healing capacities as the rest of the body, and the damage done by sperm trying to enter is healed as quickly as any other injury. And even if the genetic material of a mortal sperm cell is injected into an Immortal egg, the resulting embryo is attacked by the mother's immune system immediately after implantation. She thinks it might be possible to bring it to term in a host mother, or with immuno-suppressant drugs."

"Sounds like she has it pretty much figured out," Pierson said, scrambling half a dozen eggs in a cast iron skillet. "What does she need me for?"

"We think we understand why female Immortals don't get pregnant," Wesa told him, "but female mortals should. Why don't they? And we're no closer to learning where Immortals come from. Since we can't have children, how do we get conceived and born? And since we're all foundlings, who bears and abandons us?"

Pierson frowned. "Wesa," he said slowly, "you've lived with these questions nearly all your life. Why are you so anxious for an answer now?"

She busied herself with taking up the cooked pancakes. "Kuyenray," she said quietly. "Holding her... I ache for a child, Me - Adam."

"Why don't you just adopt? Or find a nice widower with young children?" he suggested gently. "I can't tell you how many other men's children I've raised." A contemplative expression crossed the older Immortal's face and Skinner suddenly understood that this man who looked only in his mid-to-late twenties might be several hundred years his senior. "I suppose I could figure it out," Pierson added regretfully, "but why? They're all dead now in any case."

"Look at me," Wesa said, facing him and gesturing to her own body. "I was nineteen when I died the first time. If you were with an adoption agency, would you give me a child? I wouldn't. And I've raised other women's children," she added. "It doesn't satisfy the ache."

She took up the pancakes and poured more batter, while Pierson stirred the eggs. "If it'll make you happy," he said, "I'll do it...and I'll get a lot of the other guys to do it, too. - Right, Skinner?" Pierson eyed the young Immortal with a straight face.

"Uh, right." Skinner was taken aback at the older man's sudden interest.

Wesa flipped pancakes. "Did I tell you that Ada-Lisa can tell how old the different donors are by looking at the mitochondrial DNA?" she asked casually.

Pierson made a face. "Why don't you trust me, Wesa?" he asked. Skinner tried unsuccessfully to smother a laugh, and Pierson glared at him.

"Because you're a schemer," she replied, "and because you've been known to disappear without so much as leaving a note. If you do that to me again this time, and you don't do this for me -- " She took up the second batch of pancakes and set the platter on the table. "Breakfast's ready. Eat," she choked, then left the room in a rush.

"Don't," Pierson advised when Skinner started to go after her. "She's pissed at me. Get too close right now and she'll take your head off. I've seen it happen. She'll be okay in a while." He served himself half the eggs and gave the rest to Skinner.

Skinner hesitated, then sat down. "She has... a lot of issues. Sounds like you might be the reason for some of them," he observed cautiously.

Pierson took half the pancakes and poured syrup over them. "The world was different then, Skinner. The world has changed, Wesa has changed, and so have I."

Skinner frowned. "Just how old are you, Pierson?" he asked.

The other man's mouth twisted wryly. "Eat your breakfast before it gets cold," he advised.

**********

"Apparently they know each other," Mulder said, watching through binoculars as Wesa instructed Skinner. She studied his form, making minor adjustments, while the stranger sat on one of the weight benches drinking a beer. He seemed to be making helpful comments that irritated Skinner and which Wesa tolerated with resigned amusement.

"It's unusual," Maggie replied, "but not unheard-of. Some Immortals are friends for centuries."

**********

"Strike, don't slash," Wesa instructed Skinner. "Plan ahead - but stay flexible. Your opponent might not do what you expect."

Pierson drained another beer - his third since lunch. "Kids today," he murmured, mimicking the tone many adults used to commiserate with one another over the younger generation.

Skinner had had enough of the constant condescension. He stepped back from the lesson Wesa was giving him and lowered his sword, looking at Pierson with a scowl. "Just how old are you?" he asked. "What makes you such hot stuff?"

Wesa laid her sword edge-on against Skinner's neck, then lifted it away. "He's older than you are," she told him, her voice velvety and threatening. "Older than you're ever gonna be if you don't stop letting him distract you."

Still irritated, Skinner turned his concentration back to Wesa's instruction. He'd ignore that asshole if it killed him.

**********

It wasn't all training and work. Evening brought a semblance of normalcy to Skinner's existence as they watched a movie in the living room. That is, Skinner tried to watch the movie while Wesa and Pierson discussed the merits of science fiction.

"It's ridiculous," Pierson maintained from his position sprawled on the sofa. "This stuff could never happen."

Guess you don't know everything, smartass, Skinner thought smugly. Too bad I can't tell you about the X-Files. That'd wipe that smug look off your face.

"Why not?" Wesa shot back. She shoved one of Pierson's feet off of her lap.

"It's fantasy," he objected. "No one could ever believe it."

He doesn't know Mulder. And he's never come across the Hag. He's never been infected with nanocites. He's never seen children dying of smallpox from bee stings. And I can't tell him about any of them, Skinner grumbled to himself.

"That's kinda the point," Wesa told him. "The second word in the phrase is 'fiction.' How much creativity does it take to write ordinary characters living in an ordinary world? Sci-fi writers often create a reality with rules that are different from those in the everyday world."

"But look at that, Wesa," he pointed to the television. "They're supposed to be in outer space. Why aren't they floating away with every step?"

Wesa rolled her eyes. "Because they filmed it on Earth, bozo. There are certain monetary constraints in making a film - like you can't take your whole crew up on a real spaceship. The cost would be prohibitive, even if the technology existed, so they write in a technological advance that might not even be possible. But then again, it might. Adam, you take this entirely too seriously."

"Stuff like that doesn't happen," he complained.

Oh, yeah? "And Immortals do?" Skinner asked. Mulder would be getting a real kick out of this if he could hear it. He frowned as he realized that Mulder had some expertise with placing listening devices. And he and Wesa had been out of the house for over an hour that morning before Pierson had arrived. Mulder might well be listening. He'd better watch what he said.

"He's got a point, Adam," Wesa agreed. "Who would ever believe we were real?"

"It isn't even good fiction."

"Oh, you haven't liked anything since Beowulf," she retorted. "Just because it isn't the Divine Comedy doesn't mean it's worthless. It's harmless fun."

"You watch too much television," he admonished her.

She looked at him incredulously. "Why did you think I went and got a job? I needed the money? Pfft!" She blew air out through the sides of her mouth. "I caught myself watching daytime TV; soap operas, talk shows!" She threw her hands up in the air. "I'm gonna have some ice cream. Anyone else want some?"

Skinner agreed immediately. He was tired of eating healthy.

"What flavor?" Pierson asked. Wesa regarded him wordlessly. "Oh, not chocolate again."

She snorted softly. "You know, I don't need chocolate when you're around, but most of the time you aren't here. So I buy chocolate. Be grateful. I tried coca leaves the first time I was in South America. Chocolate is a much less destructive habit than cocaine."

"Not to mention legal," Skinner said mildly. Wesa grinned at him as she went to the kitchen.

Pierson smiled wryly. "It wouldn't stop her if it was something she really wanted to do," he said, cocking his head to listen to the fragment of melody Wesa hummed as she assembled dishes, spoons and the carton of frozen dessert, then began dishing it up. When she returned, he said, "That's a haunting tune. What is it?"

She shrugged, leaning back and savoring her first bite. "Mmmm... I don't have any idea," she told him. "Oh, this is good."

Skinner took a bite, smiling around it. "The theme from Kung Fu," he told them.

While Pierson chuckled, Wesa stared at Skinner in horror, but after a long while she settled back in the cushions of her sofa, trying to avoid Pierson's feet, and went back to enjoying her ice cream. "Adam," she said, "I think I owe you an apology. I do watch too much TV."

"What was it he said?" Pierson asked, absently running his bare toes up and down her back. "That philosopher you're so fond of quoting - something about Immortals would be bored, wasn't it?"

"You mean Blish? 'You can't kill time. It dies a slow death of boredom.'" Wesa quoted softly. "Maybe that's why I was watching too much TV in the first place."

"Picking up Skinner as a student will help," he said worriedly. "And tomorrow he and I will go visit Ada-Lisa's clinic. Maybe someday you can get that baby you want."

"Now who's creating science fiction?" Wesa asked, smiling sadly at him.

**********

The noises coming from Wesa's room were not conducive to relaxation, and Skinner couldn't ignore them well enough to sleep that night. Every time the noises stopped, he would just about drop off, and then they would start up again. So, he got out of bed and pulled on his sweatpants, found his bag, and pulled out the binoculars he had remembered to pack this weekend.

If Mulder was his watcher, didn't that mean he would have to be nearby? Skinner had looked around Wesa's house and its environs carefully, and the only place he could find that would allow for proper surveillance was an open clearing across the river. It was dark, of course, but the 7x50 field glasses he had brought were highly rated for nighttime use.

Skinner made his way downstairs to the gym, leaving the lights off. He'd been in Wesa's house enough by now to be able to navigate to the stairs and down even in the dark, and he didn't want to have to wait for his eyes to re-adjust.

After several minutes of searching the dark far bank, he found Mulder standing on a nearly level spot high on the bank, stretching as if he had been still for hours. A few feet away, a dark-haired, middle-aged woman knelt, folding up a blanket. Skinner frowned. He knew that woman from somewhere. Where had he seen her before? Mulder turned and packed up a camera with a tripod, then politely allowed the vaguely familiar woman to precede him up the bank.

A strengthening of the background buzz he felt around the two older Immortals alerted him to their presence, and he looked around. Pierson wore only a pair of boxers, though he carried his sword; Wesa had on her short white robe and carried her rapier. "What is it?" she asked in a whisper.

"Watchers. They're leaving," he reassured them. "Just two, though. I recognized Mulder; guess he got the assignment we were hoping he would. I should recognize the woman, too. I've seen her before." He looked at Pierson and shook his head. "No sign of yours."

"I lost him at Orly Airport," Pierson said. "I didn't know the Watchers had found Wesa, and I didn't want to lead them to her."

She raised her eyebrows at him. "How did they re-locate you?" she asked. "Didn't they think you were dead? Would've been a perfect time to change names and disappear for a couple of decades."

"I hadn't planned to fight Cassandra that night," he replied as if it should have been obvious.

Wesa chuckled softly. "Well, duh! As I recall, Joe said you were drunk when you left the bar."

Pierson ignored her sarcasm. "So I had business to clear up, a lawyer to visit," he added.

She rolled her eyes. "And his watcher saw you."

He shrugged. "She's his receptionist," he replied. "I worked with her a little when I was in the Watchers. Of course she only knows me as Adam Pierson, and she thinks the first time I died was in '94, that my being Immortal after that car wreck was something they couldn't have foreseen when I joined the organization." He grinned. "Of course, she wanted to know who Cassandra had beheaded in my garden..."

Wesa tilted her head and looked at him from under her eyebrows. "You didn't," she challenged in a highly amused voice. "Even you are not that warped."

"Oh, yes I am," he disagreed. "I told her I believed it was one of the Horsemen, and that I rather thought it was Methos, from what Cassandra had said to him. I mean, the lady was pissed."

Wesa laughed in reluctant admiration. "You cold-hearted bastard," she accused softly, grinning.

"Who's Methos?" Skinner asked. "What horsemen?"

The older Immortals looked at each other. "You tell him," Pierson said. "You're his teacher."

Wesa smiled. "Why don't you go get us each a beer, then?" she suggested softly. Pierson grinned and turned, taking the steps back to the main floor two at a time. Wesa took Skinner's arm and drew him after her more slowly. "The watchers are gone?"

He nodded. "They were packing up, yeah. I think they left for the night."

They reached the living room, where Pierson met them with three opened bottles of beer. Wesa lit the candles that stood on the fireplace mantle, then sat beside Pierson. "You might want to sit down," she suggested to Skinner. "This could take a while.

"Methos is said to be the oldest living Immortal," she began as Skinner seated himself in the chair he had occupied earlier. "There are no Watcher records on him before he rode with the Horsemen, but he was ancient even then, and Immortals themselves believe him to be about 5000 years old."

"Five thousand?" Skinner was astonished. "Is that possible?"

"It's possible to live forever, as long as you stay out of danger," Pierson said. "All you have to do is keep your head."

Wesa sipped at her beer, then continued, "The original Four Horsemen were a band of marauders who rode together during the Bronze Age in southeastern Europe, the Middle East, and northern Africa. Their names were Methos, Kronos, Caspian, and Silas, and they were all Immortals. They attacked villages and caravans, taking whatever they wanted, including women and slaves, and killing everyone else, destroying everything they couldn't carry away. People called them the end of the world. For many, they were.

"Except during their attacks, Silas was a gentle soul. He was a bit simple, but he liked animals, especially the young ones, and after the Horsemen split up, he lived for centuries in farming communities along the Danube.

"Caspian was insane, a psychopath whose only allegiance was to the men he called his brothers. After the breakup, he wandered, occasionally committing mass atrocities. When such facilities became available, he spent the rest of his life in asylums.

"Kronos was the heart of the group. It was his will that sent them riding out to search for victims, and it was he who held them together for more than a millenium. He was crazy, too, but more subtle about it. Where Caspian might cut an opponent to shreds in an instant, Kronos would take an enemy captive and torture him for days.

"But Methos ... Methos was the brains of the outfit. He planned their raids, and so was the one responsible for their long-term success. The others described him at various times as a reserved man, quiet. Oh, he could kill, and did so with the worst of them. He was good at it. But he never seemed to take any joy in it the way the others did.

"Cassandra says that Kronos stabbed her, and then Methos killed her foster father right in front of her. When she woke up, they were back in the Horsemen's camp. Methos told her he was a god, with the power of life and death over her. He didn't tell her his real name; he said he was Death. Then he raped her."

Wesa paused. "You have to understand, the world was different then. The culture was different. A woman who had no father, brother, or husband to protect her had to protect herself, and they weren't taught to do that. By having sex with her, Methos staked his claim to Cassandra, and probably saved her from years of torture at Kronos' and Caspian's hands. But she has only recently begun to understand this.

"She became Death's slave. She mended his clothes, cooked his meals, did his bidding in bed. Occasionally, when she became too willful, he killed her, but it was a quick and relatively easy death; he didn't torture her. It was just a reminder of his power over her. And gradually, she came to think of him as her protector, and then she started to fall in love with him.

"She never realized that Methos was afraid of Kronos."

Wesa looked at Pierson a moment, and the meaningful expression that passed between them told Skinner that Wesa knew more than she was telling, and that Pierson knew even more. Who are these people? Skinner wondered. Just what kind of secrets are they keeping?

"Cassandra also never realized," Wesa continued after a moment, "that Death was actually a pretty good slave owner; at least he took responsibility for her welfare. He didn't love her, but he cared for her. And she reawakened feelings he had buried long before. Cassandra never saw any of this. But Kronos did."

Wesa sighed and continued, "Kronos saw that Methos was getting restless. It wasn't the kind of restlessness they were all familiar with, the kind that led to an incognito visit to one of the larger towns around, where a man could spend an evening getting drunk and taking as many women as he wished. It was the kind of restlessness that would lead, eventually, to Methos taking Cassandra and leaving the Horsemen permanently. If he wanted to keep his brother around, he had to act. He had to destroy the growing closeness between Death and his slave girl. So he invoked the one rule the Horsemen had: what belonged to one, belonged to all.

"Cassandra was terrified of Kronos, and horrified that her master didn't lift a hand to help her. We don't know exactly what Kronos did to her. She can't talk about it. We do know that she eventually found a way to stab him to death and escape, and we know from his journals that Methos saw her go and made no effort to stop her. No doubt he realized that if he kept her, her life would become an unending hell, and that if he went after her, Kronos would hunt them down and kill them both - permanently - in his fury at what he saw as a betrayal. Methos told no one but his journals how much it cost him to stay, and let her go.

"It was, at most, a century or two after that when the Horsemen disbanded, having influenced the myths of an entire region and many races. We think they broke up because Methos somehow slipped away, and Kronos went after him. With both the head and the heart of the Horsemen gone, the others were directionless and soon went their separate ways.

"Somewhere along the line, Kronos came to believe that Methos was dead." She shrugged. "But in December 1938 Kronos managed to blackmail his way into the bed of a woman who had loved Methos millennia earlier, and he jumped up in the middle of the night and accused her of hiding him in Tahiti."

Pierson blinked. "Tahiti?" he repeated. "I was in Tahiti in 1938." He frowned at Wesa.

"I know," she said. "I knew then. After - what happened - I wanted to join you there. I wanted to get as far away from Germany as I could, but then - Kronos - I'm sorry." She looked at him mournfully.

"You're how he found out I was still alive?" Pierson asked dangerously.

He's Methos! Skinner realized suddenly, his throat drying. Shit! Did I call him an asshole to his face? he worried. This guy had several millennia-worth of experience on him, and apparently not many qualms about killing. He quickly took several big swallows from his beer, relaxing a little when he realized that Wesa knew all that - hell, she'd just told him - and she obviously still loved the guy. Maybe he wasn't all that dangerous after all. And maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't notice Skinner if he didn't make any sudden moves.

Wesa nodded miserably. "And he's why I couldn't warn you. He might have been watching me. A letter, even a spell, would have led him straight to you."

Pierson - Methos - jumped to his feet, and began pacing angrily. "In all those years, you couldn't find a chance to warn me that he knew?" he demanded.

Skinner decided he was safe, at least temporarily. They had completely forgotten his existence.

"I meant to!" she protested. "When we met in San Francisco in '89, I was going to tell you, but first you - you distracted me, and then you disappeared again! Why do you always have to do that?"

"Why do you always have to try to tie me down?" he shouted.

Wesa blanched. "Tie you down?" she repeated in a horrified whisper, shaking her head. "That's what they did to me...That's what Kronos did to you, controlled you... No... I could never do that to you. I'm not like him. With me, you're always free to come, or to go, or to stay. I'd like for you to stay, but only if you want to."

"And now this baby thing - Do you think I didn't realize that if it worked, Ada-Lisa would implant an embryo that came from my sperm into you?" he demanded. "What is that, if not another way to tie me to you?"

Again Wesa shook her head. "It was a way to have a part of you close, even if you weren't here, even if you lost a challenge. I wasn't going to tell you," she murmured. "You would never have known - unless it was a girl, an Immortal, and after she was grown the two of you started planning to have a baby together. I couldn't let you do that to each other. But otherwise - " Another quick shake of her head - "I would never have told you. The child, maybe, if someone took your head, but you - you need to be free. I know that. I've always known that."

Methos stared at Wesa, who was hugging her arms close to her chest and staring at the floor as she sat shivering miserably on the couch. After a moment he sat beside her and took her into his arms. "I guess I knew that, too," he told her gently. "I wouldn't keep coming back to you if I thought you would try to hold me too tightly. It's just that I'm afraid, Wesa. I've lost so many people I cared for over the years - my wives, their children, Alexa, and finally, even my brothers - that it's become easier not to let myself care. It hurts too much." He tucked his fingers under her chin and lifted her face, gently wiping her tears away.

"But if it means that much to you, you can have your baby," he added softly. "I'll give Ada-Lisa what she needs, for as long as it takes for her to succeed."

All Skinner's efforts to be invisible were for naught. Methos turned his attention to the younger man and looked daggers at him, adding, "And by all the lost gods, Skinner, if you breathe one word of this to anyone, especially a Watcher, or if you ever come to me as if I were some kind of mystical guardian of knowledge, I'll have your head, despite the fact that it'll piss Wesa off. You address me as Pierson. At least for now." He might as well have been wearing a black robe and carrying a scythe, rather than sitting on a sofa in his underwear.

Skinner believed him. He swallowed the lump in his throat and said uneasily, "Then you should know - it's possible that Mulder - my watcher - bugged the house while we were out for our run this morning, before you got here. He knows how, and it's the kind of thing he would think of."

**********

Practically wearing a hole in the carpet as he paced, Mulder excitedly repeated the story.

"A five thousand year old man?" Scully laughed softly at him from her sofa as she gave William his two o'clock feeding. "Mulder, Wesa must have seen you plant that bug. She knew you were listening, and she was pulling your leg. Immortals! I swear, you'll believe anything!"