To Arrive in the Present

Methos. A man. A myth. The oldest immortal alive.

A convenient legend, created to make all those would-be hunters chase their own tail, searching for a man who had no face, who could be everyone or no-one at all.

An impulsive creation of his youth, a diversion at a time when a quick getaway was more important than the eventual consequences.

Not that at that time – or centuries, millennia later, even – he had dreamed of the possibility of applying that much sought-after label to himself, of actually inheriting the title he, himself, had thoughtlessly created.

Methos, the title that had, in his mind, become his name.

The name that made for such a frustrating inconvenience now.

Now he himself was the holy grail of head hunters and Watchers alike, and while 'researching Methos as Adam Pierson' was a delicious hiding place, he had underestimated the shy Dr. Pierson's value to those who sought Methos.

He had allowed himself to fall into one of the most dangerous traps – to be blinded by his own knowledge.

He knew that 'Methos' history' was so much hot air, that the first time the name was spoken, it was already credited with the weight of five millennia.

But of course there were those that took it seriously.

Time to skip town. Country. Continent.

(Maybe farther. But he didn't know that yet.)