For all that he had been a priest for many centuries by the time François Mitterrand was President of France, Darius never quite forgave him for the pyramid at the Louvre.
“What did you put in this time?” Methos sputtered as he took an incautiously large sip of the latest of Darius’ concoctions; Darius just smiled, a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
Darius stepped out of the close confines of the small house on the mountain hillside and tipped his face up to the thin winter sunshine. The child would live.
Darius smiled as he listened to the good woman who had the proud duty to polish the furniture in the sanctuary earnestly chide the young person assisting her this week: “Oh no, put that directly away; none of that modern chemistry in this parish. Lemon and beeswax, the good Father’s own recipe, plus plenty of elbow-grease is all that’s needed here.”
“I wish I had one of your infernal, inimitable brews to offer as a libation, old friend,” Methos said quietly as he uncorked the flask he had brought with him; a scent of apple and honey breathed out as he filled two glasses, sipped appreciatively from one and carefully poured out the other at the base of the gravestone. “You’ll have to make do with one of mine instead. You shall be missed.”