![]() Katana had not gone into much detail about the magic that brought immortality. It is the Tree of Life, the Fountain of Youth. "The Quickening,” said Ramirez, “is what made you survive when your first death. "I have heard that term before,” Connor said with vague recognition. Ramirez simply explained, "It is the joining of two souls by the Quickening." "What is the Bonding?" asked an anxious Connor. "Now, the Bonding will commence," announced Ramirez. They held a box by protruding handles on either side. Two robed men stepped from behind the platform. Methos did not know what was about to happen, but something told him it would not be good. Ramirez replied, "Trust me, my son, you do not." Another Highlander, Duncan by name, grabbed Connor by the arm. "Yes, you!" Ramirez answered to the unspoken question.Ĭonnor approached the stage. It had something to do with where they had previously settled.Ĭonnor looked befuddled as if he was not sure it was him. He could not recall why they gave themselves that name. It was one of those immigrants who called themselves the Highlanders. He obliged this feeling and noticed that a pathway had been cleared to a single man. ![]() So the man will be an immortal! Methos' weak sense of the Quickening told him to move out of the way. "Let him show himself," proclaimed Ramirez, unsheathing his sword. Someone else asked, "Who is he? Show him to us!" He determined that Ramirez must be planning to train one of these serfs into a messiah. So he is not their leader? Methos was confused. "No, I'm not your leader,” Ramirez insisted, “but because I see with eyes different from yours, I see a man with a great destiny before him." Someone near Methos asked, "Will you lead us, Ramirez?" It startled Methos, who then tried to appear as if he too believed the fool on stage was a god. He rambled on about the criminal act that they were committing as if it were some kind of noble deed. "Free men of the land of Zeist, hear me," began Ramirez. It was Ramirez! Methos knew that General Katana will love to hear this. Everyone seemed to grow silent as they saw the head of the rebellion prepare to address them. Someone crossed the railing/stage, his face shrouded by a hood. Suddenly, the feeling came over him in a rush. He had not yet become accustomed to the feeling of the Quickening. At least, he thought they were immortals. Several were standing together in a huddle amongst the crowd, others scattered around the room. Methos sensed that several immortals were near. Because of the temple structure and the recent additions, the room was a curious mix of steel and stone, technology and faith. He saw that someone had fashioned something akin to a stage from metal railing. No matter who it was, there can be only one punishment-death. Could he be planning to overthrow the empire of Zeist? Methos did not care. Then there was the Kurgan, General Katana's right-hand man. His ideas about the future were declared blasphemy by the Priests. Some said it was Ramirez, the mysterious old prophet. He wondered who was leading this rebellion. He still half-believed that his sand-choked pleas for mercy were answered with his new immortality. His family had been unable to find shelter against the smothering arms of the storm. As he continued his trek toward the temple, he once again found himself unable to sort out the mad events of the last few days. "I do hope I did that right," he said under his breath with a sarcastic undertone that he would perfect over countless centuries. Methos was thankful that no one seemed to notice, at least not those moving toward the hideout. It flew over the dunes in the direction opposite of the temple. As soon as he was sure that no one was looking, he released it into the air. He knelt down, gained his balance in the unstable sand, and raised his arm to set off the flare. He felt as if fate were giving him a hard time just for laughs. ![]() He swore with words long since forgotten as he fumbled with the flare beneath his cloak. Walking here was troublesome enough for him without the cumbersome hood and cape that he had been ordered to wear. Methos slipped on the loose sands of the dune as he crossed it. Few men would dare fight in a place that was dedicated to spiritual matters, and no immortals would dare fight on holy ground-at least as far as Methos understood. There was an obvious tactical advantage to such a location, even beyond the provision of cover. It had been abandoned for nearly fifty years along with all other symbols of a lost religion, and now someone-possibly someone interested in returning to the dated ideals behind that dome-had morphed the once-holy site into a secret meeting place for the like-minded. Methos stared at the dome of the aging temple. "Is this the right place?" pondered the youngest living immortal.
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