The day had dawned cloudy and gray, with a chill wind that seemed to blow right through him, freezing the marrow within his bones. It was the kind of day that encouraged sitting around; maybe a game of chess, if he'd had someone to play with, or else spending the day in bed, with that same someone. At the moment, his someone was occupied; Mac was busy taking care of some business for his dojo.
Methos thought about calling Joe up, seeing what he was up to, until he remembered the other man telling them last night that he had to catch up the accounts for the bar. Scratch that idea.
He puttered around the loft for a while, doing 'Saturday things': folding some laundry, tidying up a little, then settling down to look through some old volumes of poetry he'd found in Mac's storage unit a few weeks ago. After an hour or so of trying to focus, to concentrate on the verses, he gave up, feeling too antsy to just sit. He wanted to do something. He would prefer doing it with someone, but any sort of activity that would occupy him was welcome. On a day that was dark and turning to rain outside, staying in alone didn't seem to have the same appeal it once had.
A quick scan through the newspaper showed him the highlights within the city for the late-autumn weekend. An indoor art fair; a poetry reading; a large estate-sale, a few other things that didn't sound any more appealing than the others. Then a blurb for the local arts and humanities museum caught his eye, advertising their latest exhibit on the history of man.
He didn't often do museums; not any more. While they had a purpose for people living in the here and now, an educational as well as aesthetic purpose, he had the actual memories to call upon. Which could be viewed as both better, and worse, depending on what his mood at the time was.
The grayness of the day, and something itching deep inside him, was pushing him toward that museum, toward that exhibit. It was a melancholy day, and his mood matched it, and before he could change his mind, he snatched his coat up and jotted a note down for Mac, and headed out the door.
Maybe he'd find some peace at the museum. Or at least, maybe he'd lose the restlessness.
The museum had undergone a facelift since he'd last been by it; now, rather than looking large and ridiculous, it had achieved a stately sort of grace. Whatever the city had charged the taxpayers, Methos decided it was probably worth it. He paid his admission, listened to the pretty young thing behind the counter chirp about the tours available, and the movies showing in the IMAX theater in the other wing, nodded and accepted his map, and moved on into the building.
He didn't go to museums for educational purposes like so many did, or even just to admire the artifacts. When he went, it was to relive memories of things and places and people that had stopped, or died while he'd kept on going.
Sometimes he went to remember why he felt so alone--even when he wasn't really alone, any more.
For a moment Methos slowed his steps, his eyes reading the placards next to an exhibit, perusing it slowly, before moving on.
The featured exhibit this month was of nomadic tribes through the ages, and the images made his stomach clench. His earliest memories were of a nomadic tribe, living on what was now probably central Europe, moving back and forth from the coast to inland. Methos smiled grimly; his tribe pre-dated the Sumerian cities by several hundred years, and all but the earliest of the Greek cities, as well.
The thought of pulling these ancient memories out into the light of day sent a shiver all through him, and Methos wondered idly what it was about rainy Saturdays that seemed to bring out his masochistic tendencies. //Excise the wound, so that it may heal.// Physician's training that was ages old. This wasn't a wound, precisely, but it still tended to be painful; memories of people and places that had existed so far in the past they bordered on the fanciful, and served only to remind him again of how curious a creature he really was. Five thousand years of history in one lean body; there were times, like now, when he couldn't help but wonder why he'd been chosen to be an Immortal. And truly, he reflected, a bitter smile twisting his mouth, he wouldn't want it any other way, any more. He'd been around so long now, it was difficult at times to remember that it could ever change, that his life could still end.
//Would I be mourned, if I die?// Mac and Joe would miss him, but would they mourn him? There seemed to be a line of distinction between the two ideas. An odd prickle raised the hairs on the back of his neck at the thought of not being around to see Mac any more; it intensified when he realized he would want Mac to mourn him. It was just as startling to realize he himself hadn't mourned anyone in a long time, not even Alexa, as strong as his feelings had been for her. He still missed her. Hell, there were a lot of names and faces he missed, but he hadn't raged at the heavens when he lost her; too many centuries of survival had taught him their lessons well. You live, you love, and eventually, you lose. And then you put it behind you and move on. Methos sighed. Not only was this probably not a good idea, now his mood was darker than it had been this morning. Ah, well, since he was here he might as well finish out this exercise in memories. If nothing else, it might prove to be interesting, to wander through here and there, and see what memories jumped up first.
The first few tableaus showed various stages of nomadic tribes, back to nearly 7000 BCE, and the beginning of the Neolithic Age. Glass cases alongside the exhibits were filled with small flint and bone tools. Methos snorted in amusement at the labeling: an axe, which looked almost double-faced, knives and other implements that were made of small sharpened bones, or flint that had been knapped to a fine edge. There were some arrowheads, and spear tips, and a few other things that made his brain itch. He moved down the exhibit, walking slowly, part of his mind still wondering why, while another part of him was idly amused at the sharp juxtaposition of ancient things and memories with the feel of denim on his legs and vinyl/leather on his feet, and the hum of air-conditioning overhead. It was almost surreal.
Then his eyes fell on a small glass case, and the card beside which read:
Child's
Doll, circa 3000 BCE
possible child's toy, made from hemp and straw, or sticks,
and bound with rawhide or thin strips of cured leather.
Funny, how the smallest things could remind him of times so long past
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3233 BCE
"Come, Child!"
Haldan called him roughly, and he stumbled, his short legs trying to hurry to catch up with his sire. At not-quite-seven years he was tall for his age, with longer than average legs, but sometimes he still had trouble keeping up. His hands and feet were slippery with the mud that seemed to be everywhere, thanks to the water that had fallen from the sky for endless days now. Rain. He'd heard the elders call it rain.
"Methos! Now, boy!" Haldan had stopped, waiting for him to catch up, and as Methos stood up, he realized his fingers were empty. He leaned back down again, eyes flashing frantically for his treasure. There! Half-buried in the mud, several foot-spans from him. He reached for it triumphantly, crying out when Haldan's hand struck the side of his head, as his sire tried to grab him. "You have to hurry, Methos! Now! Forget the toy. We need to get out of the way of the big water."
"Please, Peh--" He dodged the large hand clutching at him and retrieved his toy, clutching it to his thin chest.
It was nothing more than a piece of leather wrapped around some straw, with sticks to mimic arms and legs. But it was his, and he dragged it everywhere, not minding the filth he had to clean off of it occasionally. It was his bebe, something no one else could take from him.
A shout rose up from the people still behind them, and Methos hardly had time to blink when Haldan grabbed him up and ran. They cleared the ledge of rock just before the huge, loud rush of water pounded past them, sweeping several of the tribe along with it. Their screams echoed through the canyon when their heads broke the surface of the water.
Methos clung to Haldan, his heart pounding loud and fast, his knees shaking. They'd almost died. He squeezed his toy tightly to his chest and blinked the tears out of his eyes.
Seacouver, Modern Day
Methos cleared his throat, brushing one finger across the glass as he walked past. //Wonder if Barbie has the same effect these days.// The thought was sardonic, but he was feeling unsettled. He hadn't thought about that memory in...well, a long, long time.
A surge of emotion he'd buried for more centuries than most people could imagine welled up inside him, and he coughed once, trying to push it back down. Demea, his mother. Meh, in the tongue of his birth, long ago wiped into non-existence. He barely remembered her; couldn't call her face to mind with any detail to the features. She'd died when he was very young, trying to give birth to a baby with an oversized head and too many limbs. The infant had been stillborn; she'd died pushing him into the world. Methos could still taste the queasy sickness that had filled his throat when he'd caught a forbidden glimpse before the Healer had carried it away.
Demea had shown him how to make the doll one day when she was big with child and he'd been fretful, and it had been too cold to send him outside to play. He'd been four, maybe five, if he remembered correctly. He couldn't remember now when he'd lost it, but it had been the one link he'd had to the woman he'd called Mother.
Long-forgotten acrid smoke stung his eyes and nose as they had when he'd been a child, and Methos shivered, remembering the funeral pyre. The ground had been too cold and frozen to dig a cairn; there weren't enough stones loose to cover her, and they couldn't leave her body for carnivores. So they'd burned her, the Shaman saying prayers for her inner-self as the flames carried away her physical body.
His brain burned with the memory of a little boy's tears. //They're so fragile, all of them. Dying while trying to bring new life into the world, only to have that life die, as well.// Methos rubbed his temples viciously, resenting the salt-sting burning in his eyes. There was no point in crying; Demea--and the small child who had mourned her--had been dead and gone for over five millennia now.
Haldan hadn't taken another mate after that; Methos doubted if his Father had ever lain with another woman again. There were many who had wanted Haldan, from unmated adolescents up to some of the older women who'd outlived mates. He could remember lying in his furs and blankets, with his head buried beneath, trying to block out the sounds of his sire raging to Abrah that he would never take another mate, would never kill another woman with his child again, and the Headman's quiet, soothing words, trying to calm him.
It was one day, in a similar manner, that he'd learned he wasn't Haldan's--or Demea's--child, not by birth.
Methos sat down on one of the benches provided at intervals through the museum's exhibits and studied the "Nomadic camp, domestic scene." They'd set up mannequins to show a family inside a hide shelter, and his eyes caught the tall, slender poles on the edges, focusing on a memory that went with them.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3231 BCE
Wood-gathering was his chore; he'd been assigned some of the younger children to oversee and to help him. Three loads back, and an always-hungry Methos wandered to his shelter to find something left over from the morning meal. He'd been surprised to hear voices inside the tent; Peh was usually gone during the day, unless the weather was bad.
He heard a feminine voice. Ashtha. She came around the most, offering to help Haldan 'relieve his needs.'
"Not all your children, Haldan--you have Methos. Demea had no problem birthing him. Give me a chance, please."
Peh's voice hissed, low and angry. "Get off your knees, woman. Begging for scraps from a man who doesn't want you? Have you no pride? And Demea had no problem, because Demea didn't birth him."
Didn't birth him? Where'd he come from, then? Methos' legs went shaky, and he reached out to grasp the sturdy pole on one side of the tent. Who was really his mother, if not Demea? He'd lost her once, to death; was he going to lose even the tenuous claim he still had--that he'd been hers? He dug his fingers into the palm of his hand, listening intently.
"Didn't birth him? She carried an infant; I remember. She--"
"She lost that one, too." Haldan's voice was weary, and Methos wished Meh was still alive to make him smile. A touch, a smile, a bite of fruit cooled in the stream nearby. How often had Methos been sent out of the tent to go and play, when Peh was irritable, only to come back to a happy, smiling sire? "We were at the salt-lick, gathering some pieces to bring back and she--began hurting. It was too soon for the baby, but we were too far away to fetch the healer, or another woman. I birthed that one...and buried him. We found the child--I found him--lying abandoned, just over the rise, when I went to bury the other. I don't know who birthed him; he was still covered in birthing blood, but no one was around.
"I cleaned him in the river and took him to Demea. She put him to her breast and gave him suck, and he was healthy. I went looking then, for the woman who'd birthed him; perhaps she'd become fevered, it was hard to say. I searched for three days, but never found anyone. And when Demea was able, we came back here, with our son."
"But he isn't--"
"He IS!" Haldan's voice was fierce, and Methos recoiled automatically, having had that ferocity directed at him in the past. His stomach tightened, but the glow inside it grew, too. Peh wasn't disowning him; just the opposite. He was proclaiming that he was his. "He was Demea's, too, as much as he could be, not being her flesh. It was willed by the Mothers, woman! Whatever the circumstances of his birth, Methos is as much mine as any of the children that Demea carried. And he--"
"I can give you children of your own, not a foundling left to die, Haldan!"
"NO!" Haldan roared, then there was a sharp sound, of flesh hitting flesh. "Get out, woman! Don't deny my son and don't come begging here any longer."
Methos had time only to take one step back before the flap of the tent flew up, and a flushed, angry-looking Ashtha walked out, holding her hand to her cheek, tears brimming in her eyes. Haldan was right behind her, and Methos backed up another step. Peh looked angry, angrier than he'd seen in a long, long while. Ashtha shot him a look of pure hatred, and Methos blanched, wondering why she should hate him. He couldn't help who he was...that he was here. He loved his Peh--the thought of being sent away made his stomach ache. He hung onto the pole, not sure if he should step forward, or back.
"Peh--" His voice wouldn't work. His throat felt tight, and it hurt with suppressed tears. Haldan turned his head to look at him, and some of the anger in his eyes softened.
"Non, Methos. Everything's all right. Do your work, child. We'll talk tonight."
His stomach still ached, clenched all into knots like it was, but the look in Peh's eyes and the almost-gentle tone reassured him. He wasn't being disowned; he wouldn't be abandoned. His place in the tribe was still assured. With a nod he let go of the tent pole and walked away, toward the small thicket of trees nearby.
Seacouver, Modern Day
"Hey, Mister. D'you know which way's the bafrooms?"
The voice was small--young--and pulled his attentions away from his musings for a minute. Methos looked down at the small boy clutching himself almost comically, and smiled. //Life was a lot simpler when you could just lift your breechclout and piss wherever and whenever you needed to.// "It's right behind us, next to the water-fountain. There are two doors; do you know which one to use?"
The child nodded and danced away from him. Methos sighed, and stood, ambling slowly nearer the tableau. It was both disturbing and reassuring to remember these things; disturbing, because no matter how good some of the memories were, they were painful, too. Some of the things he'd buried a long time ago in an effort to forget that everyone around him died...and he didn't. It was reassuring, for similar reasons. They were good memories--most of them, at this point. It wasn't until he was older that he'd started "collecting" the bad ones.
//I wonder what Mac thinks about, when he visits museums.// It was an odd thought, but it was valid. The Highlander had lived a lot less than he had, yes. But his youth--up until his death--was bound to have some pretty good memories, too. Maybe that was why MacLeod had gotten involved in antiques. A way to surround himself with things that provided memories--and knowing Mac, he'd take the painful with the pleasurable, because he probably felt he should.
In that regard, the Highlander was stronger than any ten other people Methos had ever known--himself included. //I wonder if he'd share. Of course, then I'd probably have to, too. I hedged, that first time// Talking about his earliest memories was something Methos didn't do. For a long time, it had been a way to distance himself from his beginning, from the pain of seeing all he held dear laid to waste, or die.
After that, it had been pointless. Death didn't have a past; certainly not one that might have personal pain within it. He was the one who caused pain, not felt it.
Later, after he'd sorted things out some, the memories were something that he hoarded almost jealously; he was half-afraid at times if he remembered them too much, took them out and examined them, or shared them, they would fade, like the original moments had.
It was all he had left of himself, of who he'd been before he was an Immortal. And he'd been so many different people over the centuries, done and seen so many things, that he couldn't afford to lose that tiny bit of the original Methos that still remained.
He drew himself up and folded his arms around himself, almost as if trying to hold that piece within. Or trying to keep other things at bay. //Why did I think this was a good idea?// He hadn't done this in a long time; so long, in fact, he couldn't recall the last time he'd taken out these memories and examined them. He walked on, determined to just see the exhibit without letting it get to him.
Someone a few tableaus down had done a wall-painting to go with the model of a hunt and the display of early weapons and hunting implements. It looked realistic enough; with a pang that was partly something akin to homesickness and partly just unrelieved need to purge some of these emotions a little, Methos realized it looked remarkably realistic. The men standing on the edge of the cliff looking at the deer-like animals laying below could have been men from his tribe.
There were five standing in a small group. One was tall and lean; if Methos squinted his eyes he could imagine the face--he looked at it every day in the mirror when he went to shave. Sharp angles, wide mouth with thin, narrow lips, eyes that fluctuated from hazel to amber and back, long black hair tied back in a haphazard braid, and a long, arrogant nose. Standing next to that one.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3226 BCE
"I still think my spear hit it first," Pados grinned at Methos, then slung an arm around the taller boy's shoulders. "Whichever, Methos! Our first real hunt! Our first real kills!"
"Non, you know it was mine." Methos laughed, then brushed his hair out his eyes, tilting his head back to catch the warmth of the sun on his face. "You just don't want to admit you were bested by a younger boy." He poked Pados in the side, watching his friend's reaction out of the corner of his eye. In truth, he didn't care whose spear had struck first. Hunting just felt good; it was using body and mind and spirit all at once, stretching all parts of him. That he got to do it with his best friend, in weather that the Gods had obviously sent, made it all the better. He poked Pados again, snorting quietly when the older boy jerked in response.
"Don't start it, Methos--you can't beat me today." There was a gleam of mischief in Pados' eyes that Methos couldn't resist. He poked again, sending his finger questingly into the soft tuft of hair beneath Pados' arm, knowing that was a ticklish spot for him. The other boy growled in mock-outrage, then tightened his arm around Methos again, grinning.
Methos grinned back and threw his arm around his friend; they jostled each other, pushing against the other's strength. One always had to give; neither ever knew which it would be. Sometimes Methos, with his superior height, and leverage; sometimes Pados, with his denser body and heavier muscles.
His friend was groping with the other arm now, seeking an angle from which to flip Methos over, to start the wrestling in earnest. A whole summer older than Methos, Pados had just started joining the hunters after he'd broken his leg at the beginning of the last cold season.
The other boy was shorter, but not smaller, he had a powerful upper body that Methos envied, and that made the young women in the tribe stop to take note, especially when the boys went swimming. In fact, he noted, Pados was bigger pretty much everywhere, except in height. In that one lone arena, Methos was still ahead. He laughed now, as Pados tried to throw him, and pushed back harder.
"Not today, my friend. Today, I best you." He flipped his head back, throwing his long braid over his shoulder, not wanting to give Pados any advantage. More than once the older boy had gotten hold of the long, dark hair and used it to his benefit.
"You think so, eh?" Pados reached out and grabbed at Methos' bare thighs, flashing beneath the strip of leather slung around his hips. "I'm the better wrestler; you know I'll win."
"I'll win today, Pados. It's my turn!" Methos grunted and shifted; Pados flipped beneath him, and he straddled the older boy triumphantly.
"You got me down but you don't have me, Methos." Pados reached under the breechclout and tugged on Methos' genitals, pulling an indignant squawk from the taller boy.
"You won't win that way, Pados! I can stay here all day--and leave that alone!" Even his ears felt hot; he wasn't used to anyone touching him there. Flustered, he tried to push Pados' hand away, tried to move from the embarrassment of his body responding to that touch. "Pados--"
"Non, mine does that, too." Pados' fingers were still tugging, but it was gentler, more exploratory than the first touch had been. Methos' face flushed hotter when his organ stirred, growing thicker and harder. It had been doing that a lot, lately. Sometimes it happened when he watched Serana and Maara walking toward the lake to bathe--he'd even followed once, hiding in the bushes, his organ hot and hard between his legs--and sometimes, just like now, wrestling with Pados. Whether because of the wrestling, or because of his friend's closeness, Methos didn't know. He'd woken in the mornings a few times lately, too, with his body and his bedding sticky and damp, his mind still spinning with visions he didn't fully understand.
"Do you...touch it? When it's hard?" Unconsciously, he rubbed himself against the other boy, wondering if it affected his friend like this. Unlike himself, Pados was showing signs of manhood. He had the rough beginnings of a beard now that he'd worn proudly until the weather grew too warm, and it began itching him. He also had thick, soft hair under his arms, and a sprinkling on his chest. Even now, it was gleaming golden in the sunlight, soft bits that drew Methos' attention as much as the curves of the girls he watched. Perhaps his friend knew how to deal with these strange feelings and longings.
Pados opened his mouth, and Methos strained forward a little, hands clutching at thick, muscled biceps, anxious to hear what his friend would say. A shout from Abrah and Miglan forestalled an answer.
"Boys! If you two are going to be men, you need to finish this off! We're going to take the animals to the river to skin. The meat needs to be dried, so we'll need wood for the fires. Come along!"
Methos sighed in quiet defeat; perhaps another day, another time, and he'd get the answers he wanted. He brushed Pados' hand from him and stood up, not sure how to deal with the flush of heat that had moved over all of him. His friend climbed to his feet, as well, and leaned in close, his breath warm against Methos' ear. "I'll tell you later, Methos. After dark, when the moon's up, at the cove."
A strange tingle seared through him, adding to the flush, and for the first time in his life, Methos found himself tongue-tied around the boy he called best friend. He nodded, swallowing thickly, then bent to pick up his bow and the bundle of arrows that he'd dropped to the ground. His organ ached, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest as quickly as if he'd just run from the lake's edge to their encampment. With luck, by the time he and Pados had collected wood and started the fires, his body would have cooled down enough that he didn't embarrass himself. He hoped.
Seacouver, Modern Day
//It's really good that no one has to repeat adolescence; the human race would have killed themselves off before they could get started.// He could still feel the heat of that moment--of dawning sexual awareness--rising over him. Methos wondered who had it easier, coming of age: youth all those years ago, or youth today? Admittedly, he didn't know many kids in this day and age that hadn't already made it through adolescence. //I guess, if I had to choose, I'd take then--there wasn't as much that was considered 'bad' or 'wrong.'// Sex was all a part of the cycle of life and treated thusly. Sex between family members was taboo, if the family members were closely-related in the chain, because it weakened many different bonds: family, tribal, everything. Otherwise, pretty much anything was accepted.
An exhibit of beads and fragments of frayed, rotting cloth drew his attention, and he wandered over, intrigued. His tribe hadn't had the means to produce much in the way of cloth; if they'd had the plants available to harvest, looms were still awkward and heavy to move, even with the pack animals that they had. On occasion, their path would cross those of other tribes, or they would come across a small settlement around a lake, or near a river, and they would trade for things that they needed or wanted. Woven cloth was one of those, and not everyone had it. Haldan had had blankets for himself and Methos, and they'd both had warm shirts, but mostly they wore cured fur and leather. Breechclouts, leggings, over-tunics for when the weather grew cold and damp.
There were some bracelets in with the collection of ancient trinkets; some carved out of ivory, some out of wood. Several had designs scratched into them, then colored in with dyes. A small ivory statue caught his eye, and he leaned in to look closely. It was a Mother-figure, roughly-shaped, with large, heavy breasts and hips, and a swollen belly; the head and limbs were mere suggestions, only. His tribe had had stories of how the first such carvings had brought luck to their ancients; several in the tribe had continued in the tradition of making them for important ceremonies and rites, such as first matings. Abrah, his father's brother, had not only been Headman of their tribe, but an accomplished carver, as well. He'd made one such for Methos' mating; the ancient Immortal had carried it with him for centuries, until it was lost--along with most of his possessions, such as they'd been--when a boat he'd been on had capsized.
//So much lost; so many things and people gone. Does time give or does it take? I don't regret that I've lived, but I regret that I've lost. I regret what I've lost.//
He wasn't prepared to deal with those memories out of order; chronologically, this would be a lot easier. Simpler. Neater, in many ways. There was a reason he didn't take these memories out very often; their weight would likely crush him, if he did.
Not to say that the thousands upon thousands of memories--good, bad or otherwise--that had come since couldn't do that as well, but the earliest ones--his pre-Immortal life--had a razor-sharpness to them to which none of the others could compare. He'd been an innocent during that time. A certain amount of violence was part of everyday life, but it was more often the violence of nature, not of man-against-man, and losses were understood and accepted. He'd expected to live his life like the rest of them, taking chances where needed, winning sometimes, losing others. Living life with friends and loved ones, and that life ending eventually, as all did.
Methos snorted. //Well, that life did end, no doubt about that.//
He moved away from the Nomadic exhibits and wandered through some that were more focused on some of the other ancient peoples, the earliest of the city-dwellers and settlers, his mind still whirling through those days long, long past
Nomadic encampment, circa 3226 BCE
The camp was slowly quieting for the night; Methos could almost hear it falling asleep. One by one, interior fires went out as people put their children to bed, or went to bed themselves. He sat just outside the flap of his tent, watching Haldan trace in the dirt as he explained to Miglan and Abrah why he thought the reindeer were going to move northeast when the weather turned cooler.
S'mala, their healer, and Arika, Miglan's wife and one of the best hunters in the tribe, sat with the men, adding comments and suggestions. Their tribe didn't often go east; for them to follow the herds that way, a lot of other decisions would have to be made.
It would be very exciting to travel somewhere different, to see different places and maybe new faces. Their sister-tribe wasn't far away, and most people had family within both, but it wasn't the same. Methos sighed quietly, wondering if he'd ever see one of the cities the elders talked about. It seemed like something from one of their story-myths, something too fantastic to be believed.
The clouds parted, showing the moon nearly full up, and Methos realized he had somewhere to be. His stomach tightened with excitement and anticipation, and not a little fear. He'd scarcely been able to eat dinner; Haldan hadn't said anything, merely raised an eyebrow thoughtfully as he'd fidgeted around. He stood and grabbed his bow and pack; only a fool wandered into the forest after dark without some sort of protection, even if just going to the lake's edge. His father looked up from the circle of the small fire.
"Going swimming, Methos?"
He nodded, hoping his body didn't show the emotions he was feeling inside. "Anon, Peh. Pados and I. We might try for that carp again, as well." Not a lie, exactly, and he wasn't sure why he'd embroidered the story, except that his tongue and mind seemed to be in different places right now. Haldan studied him for a minute, and Methos was glad for the darkness that hid the heat moving up his throat and face.
"Be careful," was all his sire said before turning back to his conversation. Arika gave him a smile and a wink as he moved around them, and it was all he could do not to stumble in surprise, his body leaping to full alertness suddenly.
A smile from a pretty girl. That was all it took. Methos sighed, then grinned when he saw his friend leaning against a tree at the far side of the encampment, arms folded across his chest, watching him. A pretty girl...or a pretty boy. Pados had to be the prettiest--the most handsome--of all of them, with his long, golden hair and deep blue eyes. Like the sky at night, not quite black, but darker than the daytime sky. Methos, normally very sure of himself, felt more awkward around his friend right now than he'd ever felt around anyone--even Maara.
"Hola," he called quietly. The other boy's smile changed from amused to welcoming.
"Hola. Ready to go?" Pados shouldered a medium-sized pack, and Methos blinked.
"Are we staying out all night?"
"We'll have to see, won't we." The older boy grinned again. "Depends on what--arises." The gentle emphasis on the last word made Methos' stomach coil with excitement again. His body felt tight inside its skin, and the air felt too warm to breathe.
"Pados--"
"Non, Methos. It's all right. We'll swim for a while, then see what the night feels like. And we'll talk. You wanted to talk, didn't you?" A broad hand curved once over his shoulder, and it was all Methos could do to nod; every thought, every word he'd ever known how to speak, had vanished from his mind.
*****
The edge of the lake was a pleasant walk from the encampment; not too far to make it inconvenient to carry water, but far enough that if no one else was around, you were alone. Methos hunted around for a small log, then pushed it over to Pados with his foot, watching as the other boy pulled some willow branches loose from the tree draping overhead of them.
They tied the pack and Methos' bow and arrows to the log, then waded in. Their cove wasn't far; it was enough of a distance to make their muscles burn slightly but not so far that they would get overtired swimming there.
It was actually a small lagoon, semi-hidden from the rest of the lake by means of an overgrowth of willow branches and other trees and brush. Methos had found it by accident one day when he'd hooked a large carp that had pulled him and his small boat through the bushes. He'd shown Pados, and they'd promptly claimed it as theirs, their own private place to lie about and talk, dream, or do nothing.
They settled the log on the beach, then stripped off their breechclouts and dove back into the water, each trying to splash the other. Methos took advantage of his lighter, longer body to dive under Pados and get hold of him from behind.
"And who's the better now, hmm?" Methos tightened his arms around the broad chest, ignoring the fierce resistance Pados was putting up. "You might best me on land, but you're no match in water."
"Anon, and are you a fish now, braggart?" Pados relaxed his body, and Methos relaxed his hold in response, jerking and swearing under his breath when a large hand reached up and grabbed at his braid floating on the water. He pulled back, and succeeded only in pulling his hair. Pados laughed and wound the braid around his fist, holding Methos tightly. The only way the younger boy could get free was if he were willing to sacrifice his hair--and Methos wasn't ready to do that yet.
Pados' voice was rich with amusement. "Who has who now?"
"Once doesn't beget the whole, you sneak." Methos reached a tentative hand out; if he moved slowly, maybe he could wiggle free. A smile cracked his face at the thought of getting out of this hold; Pados would never forget it, for certain. He stroked his fingers down over Pados' ribs, very lightly, very slowly, and watched the other boy shiver. When his friend turned his head to glare at him, Methos gave him a bland smile. "Non, Pados. You have me. What's the problem?"
"You're crafty, Methos. I don't trust you not to--Hey!" He jerked, pulling a shout from Methos as his hand convulsed tightly around the wound-up hair. Methos responded by pulling harder on the short hair growing from Pados' chest. The other boy muttered something under his breath and opened his hand, letting the long braid float clear of it. "Cheater and braggart. You're twice-cursed, Methos. Perhaps you can add slow to it, as well." He grinned and dove under the water, Methos giving chase.
They tussled and wrestled through the water some more, bodies clashing and rubbing and colliding. When they finally staggered onto shore, both were breathing heavily. They flopped onto the sand, toes still dragging in the water lapping at the beach.
Methos laid back, one arm over his eyes, watching the moon from under its weight. It was clear, and brilliantly white, and it looked so close, it sometimes seemed as if he could reach out and touch it.
"How far away do you think it is?" He gestured with one finger, turning his head slightly toward the other boy. Pados was in a similar position, though his head was resting on his arms. In the light of the moon his face seemed softer, somehow, younger, more open.
"I think it's too far away to think about, Methos. One day's journey, or a thousand, it's beyond our reach."
"Don't you want to even think about it?"
Pados shrugged. "Non. What's the point? Neither you nor I will ever reach it. Even if only a day's journey--or less--how would you reach it? Stones or logs stacked more than a man's height fall; Luna is at least that far away."
"Much more than a man's height, I should think."
"Anon--and you do, don't you? Think about things a lot." Pados had shifted onto his side, his head resting on one hand, propped on his elbow. "What did you want to ask me earlier?"
A blush stole over Methos, and he shivered with the sudden rush of heat in the coolness of late night. To his shock and dismay, his friend reached one hand out and traced a slow, steady finger down the groove in the center of his chest. How could he keep his thoughts in order if Pados was touching him? His skin crawled with heat, and his throat felt thick and tight. "I--" He swallowed with difficulty. Pados wasn't doing anything, really; just sliding one finger up and down his chest. "Do you touch yourself? When it gets hard?" He gestured helplessly to his crotch, and his organ, which was even now stirring, taking an interest in the waves of sensation moving through his body.
To his surprise, rather than laughing, Pados' face remained serious, solemn. "Yes," he said softly. "And it feels good, Methos." He paused, and Methos could almost feel the weight of those dark eyes on him. His body throbbed, the heat of his blood increasing just from that look. "But if feels even better...if someone touches it for you." Pados' hand replaced his finger, sliding a little lower, coming to rest just below the small indentation that marked his birth, the tie between mother and child.
A strong, broad hand spread out, fingers kneading his belly, and Methos moaned softly, turning his head fully to look at Pados. "Is this--?"
"The elders say that people couple to make babies, but they do it because it feels good, too." Pados licked his lips, and Methos found himself fascinated by that small act. "Two men can't make a baby, no matter how many times they couple, so for us, it's only because it feels good."
"Is it...can it be wrong, then? If no baby, there's no honoring the Mothers---"
"Non. No honoring perhaps, but no disrespect meant, either. The Mothers see when love and pleasure are intended, even if no babies can grow." Pados leaned close to Methos, and the younger boy sighed when warm breath caressed his lips. Close...he was so close Methos raised one hand tentatively and touched the fringe of hair hanging over Pados' eyes, then stroked his fingers back, sinking them into the warm, thick weight of it. Pados moved closer still, fingers skimming lightly up and down, stealing all thought from Methos' mind. When warm, soft lips touched his gently, questioningly, he shuddered, heat racing through him like the lightning he'd seen strike a tree once.
More warmth, wet and slippery, touched him, and Methos realized Pados was licking his lips, probing gently. He groaned softly and opened his mouth, letting that wet, warm tongue in. He shivered and shuddered in his friend's arms when it touched his own, then stroked through his mouth. He brought his free hand up to clench around Pados' arm, holding on tightly as his world shifted around him, as that incredible kiss went on, Pados' mouth tasting him, consuming him, setting him on fire.
When they separated, both boys were panting lightly, their skins glistening with droplets of sweat. Methos swiped his finger through one and brought it to his mouth, tasting Pados and salt, feeling his organ throb in response. Pados grinned and rubbed Methos' belly again, fingers teasing at the small indent there, stroking and pressing.
Those warm fingers stole a little further down, combing through the soft, wiry hair that had started to grow in around his organ, and Methos' breath left his body in a soft chuff of surprise and need. He was lost in the dark eyes boring into his; they held him tightly, even as Pados' fingers wrapped around his aching, throbbing organ and began stroking it gently.
The speed increased, then firmed, and the hand slipping up and down his aching length made him feel splintered inside; he was hot and cold, burning like the sun in summer, freezing like droplets of water caught in the winter's wind. He could stand tall and reach Luna; he was so small that the hand covering him covered all of him. Behind his tightly clenched eyes, Methos could see rainbows sparkling with colors he couldn't even give name to. They were all that had been and all that would be, and it was nothing he understood, and then he understood everything, as his body arched upward into the hand touching him, a low, pained groan falling from his lips. He panted softly, the words forced out through gritted teeth.
"Pados, I need--"
"Anon." He opened his eyes when the hand left him and whimpered quietly. His body burned and throbbed; this was what he felt in those dreams that left his blood singing! Heat, pounding and pulsing through him, replacing his blood with water like they'd found in the hot springs, bubbling and roiling about. When Pados' full weight settled on him, the other boy's hot, hard organ rubbing against his, Methos groaned, reaching instinctively to wrap his arms over the other's back, pushing upward to make more skin touch. "You need this, Methos *this*!" Pados rubbed back, thrusting his hips into Methos', grinding their bodies--and their organs--together. He had time for one assenting, agreeing gasp, and Pados' mouth was on his, not the easy kiss of before, nor the tasting, questing kiss that had left them panting; this was a kiss to devour him--it seared him all the way inside, from his head to his toes.
Fire pounded inside of him in rhythm to the thrusts of their bodies against each other, and Methos tore his mouth from Pados with a cry as his body convulsed, spilling his seed, hot and thick, over both their bellies. His friend leaned and bit his throat, groaning against Methos' skin as he ground hard against him, his own seed spreading between them, coating their bodies with more sticky heat.
Seacouver, Modern Day
An echo of the emotions from that moment throbbed through him, and Methos was absurdly glad for an instant of the long coat he wore. After all these centuries, all this time, to still feel that, even just a little--it was nothing short of amazing. A little awe-inspiring, actually.
//Pados.// The name tingled on his tongue, though it tasted strange after all this time. It wasn't a name that belonged in this current life of his. //Duncan. Duncan MacLeod.//. That name felt right. It belonged, in the here and now.
//Past love, present love. Neither one belonged to me, exclusively. Pados wasn't mine, ever; Duncan could be, if I still believed in fairy-tales.// Had he ever truly been in love with Pados? Doubtful. He'd loved him, yes. They'd been brothers of a sort, truer even than his twisted, needy relationship with Kronos. They'd grown up together, became men together, loved together when they needed the comfort of each other but he'd never been in love with him.
That hadn't made his death hurt any less; love was love, no matter whom or what shading, and Methos had mourned that death as strongly as he'd mourned Demea's.
And how long had it been since he'd mourned anyone with that strength? How long since he'd felt pain that wanted to split him in two; since he'd raged at the heavens, and all gods and spirits who dared to take that person from him?
Far, far longer than he cared to remember.
Was that why he started holding back, why he held back so much of himself any more? To lessen the hurt? He'd never thought himself afraid of pain before. Not like that. But it hurt incredibly to know they would die. All of them, all those frail, frail mortals, and even the Immortals, eventually, and that he'd keep going on, regardless.
Was that why he held back so much from Mac? //'Before that, it all starts to blur a bit.'// His voice, his words. Those memories were crystal clear. It was the pain and joy of them, and knowing he couldn't have those or risk a deeper pain, that made him blur them. Knowing that made him keep the memories blurred.
He raised his head and looked around, not comfortable with this influx of emotion, nor of feeling it in such a public spot. It made him edgy, uneasy, and left him vulnerable, in many ways. He couldn't afford vulnerability, either emotional or physical; the price it carried was too steep. The sky outside had darkened, and as he stood there looking around, Methos heard the distant rumbling of thunder. Perfect. Dark and rainy; it suited his mood. It was nearly deserted inside; either people had decided to stay in because of the rain, or no one cared about the nomadic tribes of days long past.
//Ahh, and are we going to wallow in self-pity now, old man? It doesn't become you, y'know. You have no reason to feel sorry for yourself. They're dead, and you've gone on. That's all you could do, wasn't it? Live, grow stronger...and remember them?//
The urge to run out of there, out of that place, to somewhere far away nearly overwhelmed him for a moment. Methos balanced himself on his toes, his muscles tensed for flight, his heart pumping adrenaline into his system. No. He'd begun this; he'd finish it. Now that the ghosts were loose, the least he could do was to honor them properly, show them respect by acknowledging them. By remembering them.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3224 BCE
"You're a fool, you know," Methos shifted his kill to his other shoulder and shot Pados a grin meant to take the sting from his words.
"And only other fools follow a fool. So the reason I am is because?" The older man quirked an eyebrow and shifted his own kill, casting a glance back behind them. Methos followed his gaze and frowned at the trail of blood the carcasses were leaving on the snowy ground. Both of them had a coating of it down their backs and onto their leggings.
"Ahh. You have a willing mate to spend days such as this inside with, under the blankets. Why would you come out? There's no need; I hunt only because I wanted out for exercise. But you didn't need to. So why?" Never mind that he was glad Pados had wanted to come along; that was not the point here.
"Maara's fretful right now. It's better not to be in the tent with her." Pados threw another look over his shoulder and moved a little faster. Methos grimaced and sped up as well, not looking backward.
"Is she still sick?"
"Anon. Morning, mid-day, night-time; if she's awake, her belly complains." The blond-haired man turned scared eyes toward Methos. "I thought when the Mothers blessed a woman, it would be a good thing. She's not supposed to be sick like this, is she?"
"Non, Pados. You're asking me?" Methos remembered his mother and all the babies she'd lost. She'd never been sick once with any that came after him. "Maybe it's better if she's sick now." His voice cracked, then steadied. Even though Pados was the one mated to Maara, the embers of the crush he'd felt for her still burned deep inside. The thought of her dying like Meh was too awful to contemplate. "We're being followed."
"I know." They sped up again, and Methos wished desperately he'd brought more arrows. Stupid, stupid, *stupid* to let himself run out like that. He had his spear, and his sling, and none in the tribe could match him with either of those--none had his height--but arrows worked better for some things.
"Can you see it? Do you know what it is?"
"Non. A big cat, probably. Smelled the blood." Pados glanced at Methos. "We've left a trail."
"We should have skinned them out when we killed them." The reason they hadn't brought a flush of heat to Methos' skin with the memory. He could still smell Pados on his skin, could still taste his sweat.
"Too late to worry about what we should have done." Another quick glance behind them. "Leave the carcasses?"
"It might draw attention away from us," Methos nodded decisively. "But our clothes stink with blood," he pointed out. "We may still draw it."
"We should chance it. We can run faster without the extra weight."
"Anon. Now?"
Pados grunted an agreement and loosened the thong holding the weight of his kill to his utility belt. Methos tugged on his at the same time, and when the animals dropped, they gave matching shouts and sprinted forward, hoping the bloody carcasses would hold their predator's interest long enough to give them a head start.
The answering roar behind them made his heart sink and lent speed to his run; if the cat got them, it would be all over with. The rush of adrenaline gave him an added burst of speed, and Methos grunted when he saw that Pados was keeping up with him--no easy feat for the shorter, shorter-legged man. The thicket of trees was beginning to clear a little. A bit further, and they'd be near the shore of the lake; perhaps there they could make a stand. If not, camp wasn't much beyond that.
Pados stumbled.
A rock, a stick, a mound of dirt hidden beneath snow, or just his own feet, Methos never knew which it was and didn't care. All he knew was the surprised grunt he heard, followed by a terrified cry that turned to a howl of pain. The cat's scream seemed to ring in his ears, and it seemed like time had slowed to nothing, each moment hanging before him. He swung around and watched it slash its claws into Pados' back as it jumped, its head bending to sink its teeth into the juncture of neck and shoulder.
"PADOS!" His own cry rent the air, ringing through the cold, clear afternoon, startling a flock of winter birds that roosted in the trees overhead. The cat screamed again, and Pados right along with it, though this cry was much weaker than the first ones. The snow around his friend was turning crimson; it was like a fiery red slash against the bright whiteness of the snow. Methos hollered again, pulling stones from the pouch at his belt with shaking hands. The cat turned its head to look at him, and the bitter taste of sickness rose in Methos' throat, along with icy-hot rage, when he saw the yellow-white muzzle stained red with blood.
Pados' blood.
"NON!" He shouted the word, yelling others, not knowing what he was saying. Pados couldn't die! He had a mate, a child on the way, he had Methos to talk to, and watch over, and to share days like today with. He wasn't meant to feed a hungry cat in the dead of winter!
The stones hit dead-on, centered between the cat's eyes, knocking it off-balance, knocking it off Pados. His friend's chest moved sluggishly, once, then twice, then Methos couldn't watch any longer, he was readying his spear to end the life of the beast in front of him.
He was almost too close; the throw could easily have gone astray, and then he'd have been the next meal for the animal. But the Mothers decided to be merciful, and the spear landed in the chest of the cat, pulling an enraged shriek from it. Methos dared close enough to jerk it out and thrust in again, earning himself several gashes across one leg, sending small crimson rivulets of blood dripping down his leg to mix with the rest of the blood pooling and steaming on the frozen ground.
The moment he was certain the animal was dead, Methos pushed the carcass aside, frantically reaching for his friend. He knew as soon as he shifted him that Pados' life-force was gone; the cat had torn a huge, ragged hole in the side of his neck. Each time his heart pumped, it pushed large amounts of the precious red liquid out onto the wet snow.
He sat there for a moment, stunned into complete silence that his friend could be gone so easily, so quickly. //It was too fast. Death should take longer, be more difficult. The spirit shouldn't give up so easily--should it?// Then he was kneeling, fists clenched tightly against the anger that filled him. He wanted to scream, he wanted to cry, he wanted to rage, and nothing would come out. His throat felt like it had swollen shut, trapping the emotion inside his chest, where it burned like a firebrand.
//Not death! Please, Mothers, not death, not for him...don't take him from me don't leave Maara alone, Father Sky doesn't need his light yet, don't take him// He held the other man, shaking, his body shivering from the cold he no longer noticed, tears pooling in his eyes and freezing on his cheeks.
A far-away scream reminded him of how vulnerable he was out here, like this. Blood was all around him, all over him, the rich scent undoubtedly traveling on the thin wind, letting any other predatory carnivore in the area know there was an easy meal close by. Methos cursed under his breath; mourning would have to wait until he could get Pados back to camp. Then the Mothers and Fathers would know how he truly felt about this loss. He'd mourn Pados as he did his mother, until his turn to pass over, until his life-force became another light in the sky.
Seacouver, Modern Day
The jolt back to reality was a little harder this time, and Methos looked around with bleary eyes at the group of people who jostled by him, laughing and talking good-naturedly. When had a group of people come in, unnoticed? Had he been that far away? God, how long had he been here now? Wandering around, sitting lost in thought, lost in the past.
He glared at the exhibits in front of him; ancient warriors and hunters, doing battle with Mother Nature for food, shelter, clothing--all the necessities. Doing battle for the very life that She took away, often just on a whim. //I wish I could blur these into non-existence. But who would remember, then? There's no one else alive who was there...who knows what it felt like to struggle and to feel victory when you won against the odds. No one else who can applaud the strength that overcomes, in spite of frailty. If I forgetter stop remembering who will ever know that Pados once lived, and loved, and laughed? Who would know that he and I would lie on the grass, or the beach, and argue if the moon was attainable? Who would know that my Mother made me a doll, and my Father argued that I was his, even though I wasn't? There is no one else No one can understand and I can't forget. Because of that, I can't forget.//
But did he have the strength to remember?
Duncan would understand. Duncan didn't have the age that equaled ancient in any language you wanted to count in, but more than anyone Methos knew, the Highlander understood loving and losing--and the importance of remembering.
He stood up and paced in front of the glass case showing a group of people with a pack animal loaded down with baskets and a travois. He'd made one like that, had used it to haul Pados' body back to the camp. He'd taken the cat, too; later he'd skinned it and burned its heart as an offering to the Mothers and Fathers and to Pados' spirit.
But taking Pados' body back to camp and taking part in the burial--another funeral pyre, why did his loved ones always die in the months when the ground was too cold to dig a grave?--was far from the hardest thing he'd had to do. Methos' eyes glazed over with tears as he stared at another case with an assortment of mats made from cloth and rushes and small sticks
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3224 BCE
"I--*can't*!" Methos stared at Abrah and Hochim in horror. "That's--"
"It's as the Mothers will it, Methos." Hochim was training to be their leader and not too many years older than Methos himself. "You know she can't stay unjoined--not carrying life." The man frowned. "That's courting disaster for all of us. We can't risk that."
"Then find someone else. Please. I can't. I can't...join...with Maara." Even the thought made his stomach churn. As strong as his feelings for her had been, she'd been his best friend's mate, and he was the one who brought that mate back to camp--dead. Maara hadn't stopped crying since he brought the body back to camp; their healer had finally given her an herbal that made her sleep, though her brow was still furrowed deeply, drawn by grief.
"There IS no one else, Methos! No one old enough, who's still unjoined. You think we haven't considered everything, before approaching you? We know you and Pados were--close." Abrah hesitated on that word, and Methos narrowed his eyes at the Headman. Abrah stared back, a frown gathering on his face. "Non, Methos--you're the only one. We don't want anyone to take on two mates; you're a man, a good hunter and weapons-maker. Maara will be a good mate for you."
He was going to be sick. It was churning up inside him, boiling his innards. This was wrong. So, so wrong.
"And if she doesn't want me?" he asked softly, a dangerous calm to his voice. "Then what? Will you force her to the joining mat? Five months gone with child?"
"This is about more than you or Maara, Methos. This is about the good of the tribe. You wear a man's clothing; you hunt with a man's weapons; you have a man's appetites. Surely you can take a bit of a man's responsibility?" Abrah's voice held sarcasm, and Methos felt a flush steal over his cheeks. His father's brother knew where to hit--he was like a flea biting at tender parts.
"It's not--" he started the words, his voice rough with anger, with sadness, with a feeling that life had betrayed him somehow. He saw Abrah motioning Hochim out of the tent with his hand. A warm hand settled on his shoulder, and he stiffened against the touch.
"Life isn't fair, Methos. Life is hard, and cruel, and generally takes what it wants of us, not the other way around. But it is as it is, and we make do. Maara needs a mate; the child she carries must have a sire at the hearth when it's birthed. You have no mate; you show no particular interest in any of the unmated girls in the tribe, and I know from years past that you had feelings for Maara. There is no reason you can't do this."
"Except that it feels like--betrayal." He whispered the last word, then drew himself up to his full height. "Anon," he said quietly, his voice ragged. "I'll join with her. But you let me tell her. Agreed?"
"Agreed." Abrah's fingers curled in on his shoulder, and Methos stiffened again, holding himself tightly until the other man released him. He turned, ready to leave, only to have Abrah's voice stop him. "Today, Methos. She needs to be told today. You have three, four days at most. We have to have the ceremony before the moon wanes."
"Anon." He could hear the harshness in the word, but didn't care. If only he could turn his back, ignore this. But no, Abrah was right, curse him. He was a man; it was his responsibility.
*****
He stopped by his tent first. Haldan was sleeping, so he moved around as quietly as possible, looking through his things for the small braided length of leather he'd made long ago, when he'd hoped, then kept because he couldn't bring himself to get rid of it.
"Methos."
The quiet voice startled him, and Methos' head shot up from where he'd been poking. "Anon, Peh?"
"Will you do it, Son?" The older man shifted slowly into a sitting position, his eyes holding Methos' own.
"I agreed," he answered softly. "I think it's wrong; I ought to be allowed to join out of love for someone like everyone else, but I'll do it."
Haldan's eyes were soft with understanding and sympathy. "You are joining out of love, Methos. Not only for Maara, but for Pados, and for the rest of the tribe as well. We do things that aren't--comfortable--when we care about the people around us. That's what sets us above animals. We can reason, and see, and understand what needs to be done."
"Do we have to like it?" His heart contracted tightly when a shadow rippled through him. He didn't understand the feeling, or the glimmer that sparked it, only knew it made him shiver like the winter wind outside.
"Non. Mostly, we won't. But when it's the right thing to do, Methos, that won't matter. You'll feel it here." Haldan thumped his chest over his heart. "Maara needs a man at her hearth. She'll birth a baby; new life for the tribe. And Pados will live on in that life. Be strong, child. It's the way of things. You do things you don't want to do; you grow stronger, you keep on living. And somewhere in between, you find happiness where you thought none would be."
Methos' fingers closed around the small bit of leather, and he drew it out, Haldan's words ringing in his ears. "Maybe, eventually," he said softly, his voice tight. "But my happiness against hers--I want her happy, Peh."
"Then do the best you can, and make an effort to understand, and eventually you'll reach middle ground. It won't happen overnight, Methos. But perhaps...it won't take as long as you might fear, either."
"But what if--" He swallowed against the fear crowding into his throat. "What if I spend my whole life hoping for something that never happens?"
"Then at least you'll have done the best you can do. Sometimes life is about doing what's right, not about what you want it to be." Haldan reached out and grasped Methos' shoulder once, squeezing lightly. "I think you'll find though, that what you hope for and what ends up being, are often the same thing."
*****
Maara's tent was on the other side of the clearing. Methos pulled his outer tunic tightly around himself, hunching in against the wind. It was a sharp wind today, scouring the countryside, pulling scents and sounds into itself. Almost like nothing existed outside of it, except for the purpose of feeding it, of making it stronger. He shuddered against the visual that provided and tried to ignore the howling in his ears.
The tent flap was down against the cold, and Methos huddled miserably in front of it for a moment, screwing up his courage. When he realized he was going to freeze to death if he didn't get out of the cold soon, he cleared his throat and called softly, "Hola, Maara."
"Methos." Her voice was quiet, subdued. It neither offered him entrance, nor refused it, so he pushed the flap aside and ducked in, sighing in relief to be out of the stinging wind.
It was much darker in here, like in his own shelter, and warm from the fire burning on the hearth in the center of the structure. Methos kept his eyes turned away from the things propped beside the entry-way; he didn't want to see Pados' spears and arrows. Being in here made the ache inside him clench into something that felt like a living entity, slithering and shifting through him.
Maara obviously felt the same way about his being here; she turned her head away when he crouched down beside the fire, her eyes glistening with tears.
"I'm sorry," she whispered. "It's not you, Methos. Everything reminds me--"
"Non, Maara." His own voice sounded broken, even to his ears. He reached out and wiped one tear off her cheek; it clung to his skin, the moisture spreading out, leaking between fingers. Not one tear, but many, a whole river's worth. He pulled his hand back when it shook. "Don't. Don't apologize." His throat tightened. //I miss him, too. And I miss the smile I always used to see on your face. Sorrow is like drops of water into a pond; each one makes the ripples spread.//
She nodded and wiped her eyes, then turned her head to face him. Her eyes still glistened, but Methos resolutely ignored them. He would do what he needed to do, and be gone, letting her grieve in peace. He took a deep breath and reached into the small pouch hanging off his belt, pulling out the narrow braided strip.
"Maara." When her eyes swung up to search his face, he took a deep breath, trying to calm his thoughts. His hand shook a little when he reached for hers, his fingers sliding easily around her wrist. She frowned, her eyes closing as she shook her head and drew her arm in close, pulling it out of his reach.
"Non, Methos. I--"
"Not by my choice, Maara. I swear, this wasn't my choice. Abrah and Hochim" His voice trailed off, and he reached to wipe at the tears leaking again from beneath her closed lids. "It's my responsibility," he said quietly, voice cracking. "You're with child, and--"
"I know."
His heart contracted violently at the emotion in those two small words. He'd never heard anyone sound so lost, sobereft. "Did you love him so much, then?" He couldn't help the tiny note of wistfulness that crept in; with luck she would miss it.
"Pados was Anon. I did. And this," she caressed her hand over her rounded belly, drawing Methos' eye downward, bringing a blush to his cheeks. That touch seemed so intimate; he hadn't any right to see it. "This is the legacy of that, Methos." She sighed and opened her eyes, staring straight into his. He jerked his hand back, startled by the directness of that raw gaze. "I know, though. I can't can't stay"
"I'm sorry, Maara." His fingers clenched tightly around the leather, knuckles white with strain.
"Don't apologize." His words, pushed back at him. Even the tone was nearly the same. Methos almost smiled, this was all so absurd. "Did they say when?"
"No more than four days. Before the moon wanes." He wanted to look anywhere else but into those eyes; it was wrong to feel the desire and longing that welled up inside him. Those emotions warred fiercely with grief and sadness, mixed heavily with responsibility and duty. His stomach churned sickly as he tried to push it down, dampen the intensity. She nodded, then stretched her arm out, presenting her wrist. Pados' offering bracelet was still there, and Methos' fingers fumbled as he tried to undo the knot. When it slid free, he handed it to Maara, then caught her hand in his when she would have reached to drop it into the fire. "Non! Maara, no!"
"But we're--"
"Don't give that up, Maara. You love him; keep the bracelet. It's--" He couldn't stay here much longer. He was either going to be sick, or disgrace himself completely and cry in front of her. Tears weren't bad, but he didn't want her to see them; she had enough grief to deal with right now.
"Thank you." Her voice was whisper-soft and brittle, like a leaf left after frosting season began. He nodded stiffly and tied the thin braid around her wrist. The sooner done, the sooner he could leave.
The ages-old ritual words wouldn't come to him, though. Promises and vows to love, and protect, and care for--he wanted to make them, but they didn't seem appropriate. Methos swallowed. "I'll--take care of you, Maara. The child is of your body, your spirit; I'll care and provide for it as if it were of mine. You'll not want for anything while I'm alive, I promise."
She nodded, her eyes glistening again. Silently he cursed--everyone. Pados for dying; the Mothers and Fathers for deciding it was time for him to go; Abrah, Hochim, and his sire for insisting on this; himself for not saving Pados. His fingers curled inward, holding her lightly for a moment before releasing her, the pulse fluttering under his thumb making his own quiver and jump.
"I'll make the mat," he said quietly, surprising them both. Her eyes widened, then she shook her head.
"I'll do it, Methos. That's my--" Maara bit her lip, then swallowed. "I'll have it ready in two days time."
"Two days." He nodded, pushing backward, shoving his feet beneath him. Time to go, to get as far from here as he could. Briefly he wished it were warm weather, and he could escape to his cove, and dream of times when he didn't have to be the man he was now. "Until then, I'll not--intrude."
He stood up, and she followed him. One hand reached out to touch his cheek, her fingers cool, then hot where they touched. "Anon."
Before she could say or do anything else, Methos whirled and fled the tent.
Seacouver, Modern Day
The urge to flee was still strong. Methos shuddered and made his way to the small out-door cafeteria set on the patio of the museum. It had rained; the ground was damp, and he could see droplets of water sparkling and glinting on top of tables and chairs. The sun was poking through the clouds in places, creating a ragged patchwork of light and darkness splashing over the landscape.
//Married, mated, joined, whatever you want to call it, I've done it sixty-eight times. You'd think I'd be a little less spooked remembering the first one.//
He'd had both genders for mates, and all manner of ceremonies with them. Some had been simple, nothing more than an exchange of vows, sometimes with few witnesses, once with none but he and the man he'd pledged to. Several had been extremely ornate, very ritualized ceremonies; he still shuddered, thinking about the last one like that, back in the mid-1700's, to the twin daughters of a highly-ranked Chinese minister.
And then there was the first.
Two people, children by today's standards, kneeling on a rough mat of winter-dried grasses and rushes; one five months pregnant and mourning her first mate, and the other trembling with longing and the feeling of hopelessness and sorrow.
The ancient Immortal standing on the sun-and-rain splashed terrace trembled now with those same emotions. //It was so cold; I felt cold inside and out. And Maara--she looked like she'd never been warm in her life.// The ceremony had been inside the Shaman's shelter. Abrah had joined their wrists together with a length of soft fur, and Kirah had spoken the formal words that joined them together as mates.
When Methos had pressed his lips against Maara's in the ritual kiss, he'd tasted the salt from her tears.
//I
don't want to do this anymore. This hurts too much. Why'd I do this? Why'd I do
this alone?//
For the span of a heartbeat, Methos wished MacLeod were nearby. He wouldn't
hesitate this time; he'd share those earliest memories, both the joy and the
pain. Or would he? He'd held them in all these years,
carefully--selfishly--protecting them. Never shared them with anyone. Could he
now? Wouldn't that make him all the more vulnerable in the end?
Could he be any more vulnerable than he was now, caught as he was in the throes of these ancient memories? Methos took a deep breath, breathing in the humid air, trying to clear a little of the emotion out.
It smelled good out here. Rain always reminded him of good things, and right now the memories surging through his mind needed a little help.
It had been raining the first time he and Pados had met at the swimming place. Friends for life.
It had been raining when he took his first head, and felt the surge of power, and powerfulness that countered the fear he'd felt from the act itself.
It had been raining the day he opened his first medical practice, the day he saved a young man's life. It had still been raining when they made love for the first time.
It had been raining the day he learned that maybe love could grow, even with sorrow shading it.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3224 BCE
It was nearly silent in the encampment; the only thing he could hear was the sound of rain falling outside, driving away the cold of winter and bringing in the welcomed warmth and life of spring.
Maara was curled onto her side, shifting restlessly in her sleep. The bigger she got, the more difficult it was for her to find a comfortable spot to lie in. Methos had rubbed her back for a long time that night, trying to ease the ache a little for her. When she'd finally fallen asleep, he'd moved quietly back from her, aching with emotion, wanting to stay and curl up against her and not feeling he had the right.
Almost three months joined and they might as well been living in separate shelters. Though he never saw her crying, Methos could hear Maara sometimes at night, after it was quiet, and knew that no matter how she might appear during the day, she still grieved. He kept his distance, wanting to comfort, but not knowing how and unwilling to intrude. He felt awkward; Maara was Pados', not his.
His own feelings for Pados conflicted things even worse. He didn't know how to handle the emotions that flowed through him. He missed him; missed having someone to talk to, someone to hang around with, or hunt with. If he were completely honest with himself, he missed having sex with him, too. Pados had been right from the start; having someone else touch you was far, far better than touching yourself. And he wanted to be touched again. Wanted it almost desperately, some days.
Right now his body screamed for release; his mind and heart screamed for something else, and all he wanted to do was curl up against the warmth lying not a full pace away from him.
And he couldn't make himself do it. Couldn't make himself reach out to her, or even to reach for himself. It wouldn't be hard to relieve himself; a few strokes--just like Pados had done so many times for him.
Methos groaned and shifted, uncomfortable now, as well. He pulled the blankets up to his chin and closed his eyes, listening to the rain, trying to let it lull his mind into calm. He startled when Maara's hand grasped his, settling his hand onto her swollen belly.
"What--?"
"Shhh. Feel it." Her voice was low, soft in the darkness. He spread his fingers out, feeling the warmth of her skin. "He's moving around, Methos."
And he was. Under his palm, under the pads of his fingers, Methos could feel the baby shifting and kicking, pushing at the body that was holding him inside. A smile curved his lips; he knew the baby had been moving around for a while. Maara would get a soft look on her face and stroke her belly any time he shifted. But this was the first time she'd invited Methos to touch, to share it.
"He moves a lot now, doesn't he." Small feet--or hands?--were beating a rapid tattoo against his palm, and he shifted it slowly, cupping the swell of her, moving as the baby moved.
"Anon. All the time. I think he has many hands and feet, not just two of each." There was a breathless catch to her voice, and Methos shifted onto an elbow so he could see her face.
"Are you all right, Maara? It's not time, is it?" Quickly he counted off in his head; if she were going to birth the baby now, it was too early. Thoughts of his mother flashed through his mind, and he readied himself to get up and fetch S'mala, if it was necessary.
"Non--it's not time. He's just restless. Crowded in there, I think." She shifted awkwardly, slowly, rolling to her other side to face him. His breath caught in his chest, lodged behind the emotion rising inside him when Maara reached up and touched his cheek with one hand, her fingers cool in the warmth of the shelter. She guided his hand across her belly with the other, following the small rolls and kicks the infant was making inside her.
When her hand guided his up to one full breast he smothered a groan and tried to twitch away, only to be held fast by the look in her eyes.
"Maara, please--" He wasn't sure what he was asking for. Was he begging for surcease? Or for more?
She cupped his hand around her breast, then tilted her head toward him, her breath warm on his lips when she spoke. "Pados will always occupy a place in my heart, Methos, but I need to accept he's not coming back. I have to go on, and you're a good man. You--have been patient, and understanding, where most would not, I think. I don't know how I would have gotten through alone."
"I didn't do anything," he began helplessly, voice trembling a little. Her flesh burned him where he touched, but he couldn't have let go if his life depended on it. "I just--"
"You gave me time, and space, and you were here. Your spirit touched mine. It supported me. And I--thank you, for that."
Her eyes drifted shut as she leaned in further, closing the tiny distance still between them. Methos couldn't stop his quiet groan when he felt the softness of her mouth give under his as their lips touched, then pressed together. When she opened to his gently questing tongue, he groaned again, the sound trapped between them, lost inside their kiss.
Mindful of the baby she carried, Methos pulled Maara closer, his hands moving up her face to cup it, his thumbs stroking gently over the curve of her cheeks, over the line of her jaw. Filling his need to touch her, to hold her, to feel her warm in his arms. He tilted her head a little and covered her mouth with his, wanting so badly to be gentle, to go slow and easy, but shaking with his desire to taste her. Her mouth was warm and welcoming, and she returned his tentative caresses, encouraging him to be bolder, more aggressive. Kissing her was so very different from the rough, hungry kisses he'd exchanged with Pados; those hadn't been anything but physical, a need to get as close as possible. In the back of his fevered mind he wondered if this were any different; his desire to get as close to Maara as possible was nearly overwhelming. He tore his mouth from hers to breathe, his gut clenching with heat when he heard the soft whimper from her.
"Maara--" His breathing was ragged, his voice cracked and rough. Methos bent his head to nuzzle her neck, pressing soft kisses against the spot where her neck joined with her shoulder. She murmured something very soft, very low, and he opened his mouth, sucking lightly at the warm skin, feeling the beat of her heart throbbing against his tongue. "You taste good. You feel so good"
"Kiss me again." Her voice was low and hot; it sent waves of need throbbing through Methos, like lightning sizzling across a storm-dark sky.
"The baby," he whispered, his voice thick. "WeI--"
"Just touch me, Methos. It'll be all right." Her hand swept down his chest, touching and stroking him, igniting the fire that burned thoughts of *gentle* out of his brain, replacing them with arousal. When she wrapped her fingers around his organ he arched forward, his teeth grinding together in a silent groan of pleasure.
Their kisses were hungry, now; slick and heated with need, long exchanges of tongues stroking and probing, of mouths open and accepting. When Methos moved his hands slowly, gently, over Maara's body, she shuddered and arched toward him, encouraging his tentative exploration with low moans and whispers. When he found the slippery, welcoming heat of her and pushed one finger deep inside, she clenched tight around him. When he moved that finger, stroking in and out, then rubbing the small, hard nub of flesh within her folds, she shook in his arms, her cry of completion swallowed by his kiss. His own cry echoed around them when he threw his head back, holding himself rigid as his seed poured over her fingers, slicking the way for her stroking and petting.
Seacouver, Modern Day
//I wonder if we would have ever gotten that far if she hadn't taken the initiative. I'd have probably pissed around forever, not wanting to push.// But she had, and he'd gained confidence, and in the end it had turned out okay, and it didn't matter all that much any more, since that was more lifetimes ago than he could bear to consider some days. //I do wonder though, how many bridegrooms go into marriage a virgin, and stay that way for six months afterward.// It was an amusing thought, and the memories of losing his virginity--completely--spread warmth through him.
They didn't fully consummate their joining until after Maara had given birth. By the time they'd accepted that they could get past the memories of Pados, Maara had been too pregnant for sex to be much of an option, other than mutual touching and kissing. And after that, for a few months, she'd been too tired, or sore, or the babies had interrupted.
Babies.
A broader grin spread over his face, and Methos wandered against the slight flow of traffic back to the display of ancient toys. Dolls, some blocks of wood that had been purposely shaped, pebbles that were colored black and red, with a small leather pouch next to them--the Neolithic version of marbles.
Maara had birthed twins. Girl twins.
//I'm not sure who was more surprised--her, or me. Hell, the whole tribe was in shock for the first few days.// Several people had urged her to give one up; twins were looked upon suspiciously by the still rather superstitious tribes of that day and age. Children were a blessing, yes, but a woman only had two breasts--feeding twins was draining at best. Fortunately, Maara didn't have any other children who still wanted to suck, and her sister, Maya, helped out by nursing one or the other when Maara needed some help.
It was kind of comical now, to remember how excited he'd been when the girls were born, and how scared to death. He'd seen his mother die in childbirth; he'd watched his father mourn the rest of his life because of it. But when her labor was over, and Maara had been cleaned up, and he'd been allowed to see her and hold the girl...she'd forgotten his terror and all his concerns, and fallen completely, utterly in love with the two tiny bundles he'd been given.
//Would I feel that way now? If someone handed me a baby and said, 'congratulations, it's a--whatever'? I don't think so. So much has changed since then; *I* have changed since then. I look at them--all of them--differently, now. Mortals are born, they die, and that's it. But if it had been Kayla and AnyaIf I could see them again, have them back now--I wonder.//
There was very little point to this line of thought; they'd been long gone and dead, though Methos had wondered for a long time what had become of them, and would catch himself looking at blondes, trying to imagine if they were descendants.
//Kayla and Anya. She let me name them. Hell, she asked me to name them. They were mine No one else's. Even with Pados' hair and dark blue eyes, and nothing at all of me to lay claim to they were mine. It was me they called 'Peh' me who taught them to walk, to talk, to look at the stars and wonder how far away they were It was me who taught Kayla to hunt, and Anya how to make weapons.// His eyes fell on the glass case that had started all of this. //I showed them how to make their dolls.//
He sat down on the nearest bench, his eyes still on the small case and the ragged bits of leather and wood inside it.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3219 BCE
Both of them were fretful now, fussing and crying, and Methos wondered yet again why he'd insisted Maara go with her sister to the lake shore.
He loved the girls. Loved them dearly. But Mothers and Fathers above, he didn't know what to do with them when they were sick, and when they got like this, fretting for their Meh in tiny, hoarse voices. He stuck his head outside the shelter; it was nearly mid-day, from the angle of the sun. Maara wouldn't be back until after sunset, if she got back today. It was time to find something to distract two small, sick babies, and quickly.
Babies. He was going to have to get past that; they weren't babies any longer. Both walked and talked, and they strutted around the camp as if they owned it. Which, he conceded with a grin, they did. The only twins born that had survived, in the tribe's memory, they were regarded with a bit of suspicion, and a lot of awe, when they toddled about.
They hadn't toddled anywhere in days. Both girls were inside the shelter at the Healer's behest, suffering from a strange illness that kept lingering on. Their small bodies were dotted with red marks; their dark blue eyes watery and scrunched up against the brightness of the sun. Both children had burned to the touch for days, though that seemed to finally be easing somewhat.
Methos had sent Maara out against her wishes. The girls were still sick, yes, but she needed a break from caring for them. It would do her good to spend some time with her sister, out in the fresh spring air. He could care for them, and if not, well, Arika was close at hand, as was the Healer.
He sat now, gathering them both onto his lap, cuddling them close. Kayla leaned her head back against Methos' arm, her small face screwed up.
"I hurt, Peh," she said softly. "Right here." Her finger touched her throat for an instant. Methos leaned in and gave it a kiss.
"Does that help?"
"Maybe a little. I want Meh...please, can she come back?"
"Meh needs to be out for a little while, Kayla. She'll be back soon, I promise. Are you hungry? Anya?" Two heads shook from side-to-side, and Methos sighed quietly. "Thirsty? Anya, you've not had a drink for a while, do you want some water?"
She shook her head again, then huddled in against the tall man. He could feel the warmth rising from her skin and stifled another sigh. More fever. Hadn't they been sick long enough? He hugged them close for a moment, his brain racing.
"I'm going to show you something...and then I'm going to show you how to make one." Carefully, so he didn't dislodge either girl, Methos leaned back and groped around in the small bag that held the few treasures he'd kept. His first sling; a special stone that Pados had found for him, that held streaks of gray and blue in it; the doll his mother had made for him. He pulled the doll out and held it up for both girls to see. Fever-dulled eyes perked a little bit.
"What is it, Peh?"
"Is it yours, Peh?"
"Can I have one? How do you make it?"
Two small voices chattered quickly, and Methos grinned; at last, something to distract them from how badly they felt. He should have done this days ago, when Maara was paling from lack of sleep and the girls whined every time they turned over. Of course, sick as they'd been days ago, it wouldn't have made a bit of difference.
"It's a doll; it was my bebe when I was small, like you are now." He handed the toy off to Anya, who turned it over carefully, examining it.
"Johnas has one," she said quietly, her voice hoarse. Her eyes sparkled a bit though, and Methos smiled at her. "He let me play with it one day. We played we had a hearth, and I was its Meh. It was very funny to have a baby that didn't cry; his sister cries all the time."
"You have to pretend it cries, Anya," Kayla informed her with barely-concealed superiority. The elder by several hours, Kayla seldom missed an opportunity to remind her sister in some small way.
"Anon, girls. But you can pretend it's a quiet baby as well, Kayla. Some babies are quieter. Not all raise enough noise to scare birds from their trees." Methos nudged the twins gently and was rewarded by small smiles; they knew he was teasing them. "Shall we make dolls for you? Then you can pretend hearths all you want, or not. Perhaps take the bebe fishing, Kayla? Mine hunted with me for a long time--I made it a tiny spear."
"You did? Can I? Or a fishing stick?" Their voices raised again, bubbling with excitement. This time Methos did tip them gently out of his lap. They settled onto the bedding and waited while he gathered up pieces of leather and fur, some rawhide strips and some straw from near the entryway. Sticks they could add later, if the girls wanted.
Hours later, when the sun was dipping beneath the horizon, each girl tucked a newly made doll into bed with her, eyes smiling at Methos as he tucked them all into their beds.
"Peh?" Kayla curled onto her side, the doll held under her chin.
"Mmm?" He brushed wisps of hair out of her eyes, staring at the dark blue--Pados' eyes--that watched him so closely.
"Can I keep her forever?"
"I don't see why not. I still have mine."
"When did you make yours, Peh?" Anya's eyes opened slowly; Methos could see tiredness hanging in them. He chucked her gently under the chin.
"When I was very small, and sick, just as you are. My Meh showed me how to make one, to distract me from the sickness."
"Where's your Meh?"
"She's one of the lights in Father Sky, Anya. Go to sleep, girls. Meh will be back tonight, or in the morning; you can show her your dolls then."
Two sets of eyes closed obediently; Kayla's popped open again a moment later. "Peh?"
He sighed quietly. "Anon?"
"Thank you."
"You're welcome, Kayla. Go to sleep, child. The Dream-makers are growing impatient, waiting for you."
She smiled at him. "You always say that, but they always wait for me."
"And one day they won't. Sleep well."
A quiet whisper floated over to him. "I love you, Peh."
Seacouver, Modern Day
//I've had many other women and children in my life since then, and not once has another affected me like that. Not once. My girls, my babies.// He stared at his reflection in the glass case; behind him, reflected also in the glass, he could see the sky growing dark again. //Piss on it. It bloody well better be dark--pitch black would serve--for the next little while. Sunlight doesn't belong with some of these memories.//
Though it did belong with many of them. He'd been happy. Happy, fulfilled, uncaring that his world would--or could--change so drastically.
//How could anyone be that innocent, that unknowing? I can't believe I was.// But if he thought about it, he could believe. Why would he have believed, or known, differently? In his world, such as it was then, you were born, you lived your life, taking as much joy from it as was possible, and eventually you died.
Unless, of course, you were Immortal.
Methos got up off his bench and wandered back down the hallway. One more exhibit. He didn't know for certain, but then again he did. Seldom had he encountered a collection of artifacts such as this without that final, crowning point. It was painful, in a way, knowing it was there, knowing he had to look at it, to face what was coming. Knowing the light of the previous memories had to be matched with darkness.
The hallway opened into a small room. Gathered here and there were small collections of weapons; everything from sharpened sticks on up. He didn't need to look at those; most of them he'd owned, or made, at one time or another. There was only one display in particular that he was looking for; it drew him straight across the room like steel to a magnet.
Early Bronze-age Weapons
Methos read the tag, then stared at the small assortment of knives, arrow-heads, and a sword. He'd known, if he followed the exhibits long enough, he'd find this. He'd expected it. He couldn't have the final memory of that piece of his life without it.
Early
examples of metal-working.
Knives, arrowtips, and swords were made
of bronze; an easily malleable metal alloy
that first appeared in what is now modern Greece
circa 3,000 BCE. Believed to have been introduced
by Indo-European tribes.
//Yes, and we know that some people had it before 3,000 BCE, don't we?// The thought rose up, bitter and hot, tightening his throat, choking him. For just an instant, for the brief time it took his heart to beat, then beat again, the rage he'd felt then, he felt now. Not an echo of those emotions, like earlier, but the pure, unadulterated rage of a man who'd not learned to control his feelings. The rage of a man who'd lost everything.