wickedwords

For

workerb, who brought up the idea so I had to run with it.

The first time a wraith feeds on him, they know he is different. A drone puts his hand on Methos' chest, and the quickening energy spills out into its hand, tearing away a tiny piece of someone else's soul. Startled, the wraith reports it, as Methos doesn’t age. From the quickening of a child to the quickening of a bed-ridden dodderer, the wraith pluck and consume the souls Methos had taken, each one a different taste, a different feel, like a gold chocolate box. He becomes the hive queen's own, a special treat for celebration days.

And he never dies.