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.
Nomadic Encampment, circa 3214 BCE
It was pre-dawn, the air still cool and damp with a night-feel to it. He'd been up for hours, tracking and hunting, wanting something fresh and filling to go with the barley and grains that would be waiting at home, but also enjoying the coolness before the heat of the day.
A small animal scurried past him, and Methos raised his arm, the rawhide thong whipping over his head. The two stones made solid thwacking noises as they found their targets and Methos nodded in satisfaction. One animal wasn't a lot, but at least it would add to the meal. He didn't think he could stomach grains alone again.
It
was smallish and rodent-like, and Methos smiled grimly when he picked it up.
Maara wouldn't want to clean it; he might as well skin it out right here, right
now. His mate could clean almost anything, as she was a good hunter in her own
right, but when it came to small things with long tails, she got squeamish.
Methos glanced up at the sky, seeing it lighten, the dark of night giving way
to the faint pinks and golds that heralded dawn. He wiped his blade off on his
breechclout, taking care not to stain the leggings beneath it. Too much
material went into the leggings; he couldn't hunt enough around here for
another pair for at least a whole season. Time to get back. Camp would be
stirring, with those who hadn't gone out to hunt waking to start morning
chores.
If he was lucky, the girls would still be asleep, and maybe he could catch Maara also still asleep, wrapped in their furs.
And wake her himself.
Grinning, he shouldered the small carcass and set off for camp.
*****
Methos ducked inside the shelter, surprised to see two of the sleeping spots empty. Where were the girls? A low, warm, still-sleepy voice murmured from the far side, "I sent them out to get berries. They should be gone for a while."
His grin changed from surprised to something closer to predatory when Maara half-sat up, one bare shoulder peeking out from the furs.
"Time alone? And you still warm in bed?"
"Waiting for you, Methos." Her smile matched his, and his stomach twisted with a spike of love and arousal like it always did when she gave him that look.
"Anon." He set the small carcass next to the cooking part of the hearth, then stripped off his tunic and leggings to kneel beside her, hands already reaching out to touch her. Her mouth was warm and moist, opening for him with a whisper of a sigh. He shifted down, pulling her on top of him, cupping her bottom to hold her close. He was already hard, aching for her, and when she rubbed herself against him, dampness spreading between them, he groaned into their kiss, then broke it, panting heavily. "Now, Maara..."
She smiled, a combination of seduction and innocence that still made his heart contract, and shifted over him, rising to her knees. When she sank down onto his organ, taking him deep within her, he cried out sharply, her softer one meeting with his and mingling in the air.
They held the position, neither moving, for several long moments, then Methos stroked his hands up her body, watching her eyes darken from the color of raw honey to a darkness like the earth after a rainstorm. He cupped her breasts, thumbs rubbing her nipples, then moved down to cup the swell of her belly.
"You should have had a dozen children, Maara. You were so beautiful, carrying them, giving them life..." His hands moved, restless, fretful, back and forth. Maara rocked over him, arching into the touch. "I can still see you, body swollen, heavy... breasts full of milk... so beautiful, so blessed."
That was his only regret in this joining. His father's seed had been powerful, potent, and deadly, while his own was apparently lifeless. Not once in all their years together had Maara been with child again. And no matter how much Methos considered them his, the seed that gave the girls life had been Pados'. His hands stroked up and down, remembering the full swell of her belly just before birth; the ripe, dark color of her breasts; the taste of them and breast milk when he'd suckled once, to see what it was like.
Methos shifted, pushing himself upward, drawing her closer to him, his mouth opening to take one swollen nipple inside. She smelled warm, a sleepy scent, mixed with the fragrance of grasses and the wild berries that they'd had with the evening meal last night. Soft moans and gasps rose around them as he suckled, Maara's fingers clenching onto his shoulders, holding tight.
She froze over him when he rocked up to meet her, pushing deep. "Methos--please"
"Ride, Maara...don't stop--" His voice was hoarse, the words thick and heavy in his throat. He rocked upward again, shuddering when she tightened around him.
"Kiss me." Her words were deep, throaty; Methos shivered with arousal when they wound through him, sliding into his soul. He shifted, groaning when she stretched out over him, body still rocking gently, her mouth closing over his, open and warm for his tongue to explore.
Their bodies moved together, rocking and thrusting, into a harder, faster rhythm. Methos cupped Maara's buttocks, spreading and kneading, pushing himself deeper inside her as his peak approached. He could feel himself, stiff and straining inside her; felt the contractions begin deep inside her warmth as she reached completion, her body clenching tight around him when he held still, pouring his seed into her.
They'd barely had time to gasp in a few needed breaths, their bodies still damp and sweaty, when the first scream resounded through camp.
*****
It was chaos, all over. Outside the shelter were men on horses and members of the camp running, shrieking with terror, or yelling challenges, fighting with spears and arrows. Methos and Maara stood in the entryway of their shelter, stricken by the scene; already many were bleeding, several lay dead or dying on the ground. What was happening? Who were these people, invading a peaceful camp?
"Run, Maara! Find the girls, go hide by the river! Perhaps they won't go that far." His voice was low, a harsh whisper ringing in the space between them.
"Non--I'm needed here, Methos." She kissed him once, hard, then whispered, "I love you."
Methos' stomach twisted with fear--for her, and for their daughters, but he knew she was right. They needed everyone, man or woman, who could throw a spear or shoot an arrow, to fight these invaders. He watched in horror as Hochim fell, stabbed in the center of his chest by demon with a strange weapon. Strange weapons that flashed brightly in the early morning sun.
Maara slipped from his side, and Methos sent a silent prayer to the Mothers to watch over one of their own. He sent another prayer and the promise of a blood offering, burned just as the sun set over the lake tonight, if the Mothers and Fathers kept his girls safe, wherever they were.
Fingers clenching his bow, arrows in his hand, he waded out into the melee, determined to beat these intruders, to drive them from his home.
He quickly lost track of how many of his friends went down; the morning sun became flowing blood moving over everything, staining things a brilliant crimson, rather than the gentle rays of red, gold, and pink. The scent of blood hung in the air, choking everything with its thick, cloying smell. Methos gagged on the taste when it flowed into his mouth from a cut across his forehead and reached to wipe at it, smearing it over his face.
Methos looked around, seeing things through the strange, dark haze of blood: Arika and Abrah, lying atop each other, Abrah's spear still held tightly in his hand. A man was looming over them, blade flashing in the air. His father's shout of challenge echoed into his ears, and he watched the intruder turn slowly, a dark, evil smile spreading over his face. The scream of warning stuck in his throat, along with the plea for mercy from the Mothers and Fathers.
He howled in rage when he heard Haldan's shout of pain. Two arrows found their way to the man who killed his father; another one drove the strange, shining blade out of the hand of the man beside him. Methos ignored the tears that stung his eyes when he saw his sire wasn't rising. Haldan had lived a good, long life; all Methos could do now was remember his father with honor and love.
How long could this last? Why was it happening? Had they dishonored their ancients so badly, they'd turned their backs? Methos realized he didn't even feel fear any longer; just bewilderment--so many why's--and no answers coming, only more death.
//Please keep my girls safe. No matter what I may have done, they're innocent of any wrong-doing. Don't let harm come to them; please, Mothers, watch over them.//
Maara's scream echoed across the clearing.
Methos turned, his shout of "NON!" lost amidst the other shouts and screams and the noise of animals crazed by the scent of blood. He didn't feel the first slice across his abdomen, nor the arrow that hit his side. He didn't feel the hot flow of blood as it cascaded down his torso. His world narrowed to nothing but the sight of Maara's head pulled back, her throat bared, and the moist red line that appeared as that evil, shining blade cut across it.
Something propelled him across the clearing of death, adrenaline racing through his body, shutting out everything but the sight of Maara's body, shaking as her blood ran out. He clenched the man around the neck and drew his knife--flint, sharpened and honed to a deadly edge--across the bulging, pulsing throat. The man's blood poured over them both, turning the earth beneath them to red mud.
The body dropped before him, and Methos had time for one more look at the man who'd killed Maara before a jolt of pain shot through his system, adding to what had already ripped into him. He looked down in surprise at the spear head protruding from his chest and gave a groan as his legs gave out under him. The shock of its withdrawal raged through him, sending more shards of pain to mix within him.
Hot wetness joined the cooling wet beneath him, body fluids mixing with the mud, and as his vision dimmed, Methos realized what was happening: his internal light was about to become one more dotting the sky, part of Father Sky's night lights. He hoped he would be near Maara; maybe they could shine together, watch over the girls from the sky. Tears stung his eyes, and his mouth went dry as he thought about not watching them finish growing, not sharing their triumphs and hurts. With the tiny part of his mind that stood apart from this, that hadn't dimmed yet, he hoped they were all right, that they'd missed this somehow.
A red-black cloud settled over his eyes, and he no longer knew if it was day or night, if his eyes were open or closed. He wasn't warm, and he wasn't cold; he wasn't anything. And with the thought that he'd never be anything again, he felt his last breath leave his lungs, and then there was nothing.
*****
The first breath back into his lungs forced a startled, pained gasp from him as his body remembered what it was like to breathe again.
The next breath sent groans echoing around him; everything felt stiff and painful to move. It was dark, and Methos realized with a sense of shock that his eyes were still closed. He rubbed his eyes viciously, flaking off the blood that had dried over them, sealing him inside that red-black hell.
It was still bright out; somehow, he'd envisioned it should be dark; after all, wasn't Father Sky dark? That was the only time the lights shone.
But it wasn't. Something wasn't right.
With a groan, Methos pushed himself into an upright position, his hands going to clutch at the gaping wound in his chest. There was nothing there, save for some blood on his skin--no sign of the wound. Had Father Sky healed him? Would his inner-fire not show at least the signs of his passage from one world to the next?
A strange tingle raced through him; it felt like all of his skin was suddenly rippling, like the waves on the lake, when the wind was high. A burst of--something--inside him, burning him, but not hot. It centered right on where the spear wound had been, radiating outward, pulling each muscle into its grasp, making his whole body feel like the lightning bolts from an angry Father Sky sounded--sizzling and gasping with heat.
He drew a finger through the blood dried on him; it coated his skin, along with the mud, and it itched. Around him hung the thick, sickeningly-sweet scent of blood and the other scents of death that accompanied it. Flies buzzed around the bodies lying beside him and around him. With a grimace of distaste he waved them away, hearing the carrion birds that were circling overhead calling to each other.
The bodies--
Maara! He bolted up onto his knees, then staggered to his feet, every muscle inside screaming at the sudden movements. She was lying, half turned on her side, facing away from him. He dropped to his knees beside her, hands reaching out, turning her over to face him.
Her eyes stared up at him, but there was nothing left of the inner fire that had made her Maara; there was nothing left of the woman he'd loved for so many years. His fingers shook, holding her; the tremble extended to his entire body as he realized that he wasn't dead...and that she was. That they all were.
Everyone, save for him.
Her body was cool now; he could feel the difference with it clutched close to him. She didn't smell like his Maara; she smelled of death and the beginning stink of decay, and he gagged once, swallowing against the tears that were flooding his mouth, his eyes, making his nose run. She couldn't be dead; they couldn't all be dead, and have him be left alone. Why? Why would he still be alive? No, not still, he corrected himself bitterly. He wasn't *still* anything. He'd died. He just hadn't stayed that way.
Why?
"WHY?!" He tossed his head back and screamed it; the word echoed around him, around all of them, flooding his mind, filling the air, but not the emptiness.
Inside, he could feel it, dark and horrible, building and growing. Rage...something so black, so all-encompassing, he couldn't quite comprehend it completely. It was like...when the Mothers and Fathers had decided that Pados should be taken and that he should be left behind. But Pados had been one person; this time, they'd taken everything...everyone.
The sunlight flashed at him, winking cruelly, reminding him that in spite of all that had happened, he was still here to see it. It flashed again, shining off of that strange material the invaders had used, blinding him when he looked at it. He reached a shaking hand for it, pushing the corpse half-lying on it off, pulling it out. A knife...but unlike any he'd ever seen before. It wasn't made of stone, nor of bone; it was hard, yet flexible. Long and oh-so-sharp, the blade cut his finger when he ran it across, testing the edge.
Another curious tingle, and Methos looked down. Amazement, followed by fear arced through him when a small bolt of light spread over the cut, mending it as he watched. The long knife fell from his fingers as the shock reverberated through him. He healed while he watched!
What in the name of all the Mothers and Fathers had he turned into?
Methos pulled Maara closer to him, burying his face in her neck, feeling the stickiness in her hair as the strands clung to his sweaty skin. He could hear his words, his sobs, the pleas he made to anyone who would listen. She'd been his light and his strength; now he was alone and not himself any longer; he was frightened to be himself--he was unnatural, now. No longer Methos. No longer...human?
Was he an--undead? A shudder of revulsion rippled through him at the thought. Those were hideous creatures, inner spirits who refused to go to the next world; they lingered on, scaring children and bringing bad luck.
He must surely be. How else to explain waking from death with no mark upon him to show he'd been dead at all? He wasn't in the other world; this wasn't the realm of Father Sky--he was still very much on Mother Earth.
He was always going to be alone, then. He couldn't go to his kin in their sister-tribe; they would see he was undead--he'd be a spectre to them; something to be feared, not welcomed.
Would he always be alive? If he couldn't die, what was he? Was he still human? Still mortal? Could he be killed at all?
Tears chased over his cheeks, mixing with the blood, sending spatters of pink down onto Maara's tunic. He rocked her body slowly, ignoring the sounds of birds landing around him, of the carrion eaters beginning their easy meal. It wasn't until one particularly bold bird landed near him that Methos jerked back to reality. The sun was much further down in the sky than the last time he'd looked at it, and the bodies around him were stiff and beginning to stink with the early stages of rot.
Even if he were undead, it was his responsibility to see to caring for his friends and loved ones. It was up to him to bury them, to provide them with funeral rites.
*****
He couldn't dig a grave big enough for all of them by himself; mortal, or undead, he still had the same strengths and weaknesses he'd had before he died. A funeral pyre was the best thing for him to do.
Methos sighed when the sun dropped low enough to no longer burn him with its heat. It had taken him most of the afternoon to gather enough wood to build the huge pyre; now he had to move the bodies, then he could rest--and figure out what he should be doing.
He refused to look at most of them as he shifted bodies; these were his friends, people he'd grown from infancy knowing. Father, friends, kin, his mate. His children.
He realized with a sinking feeling that the girls' bodies weren't in with the rest. Where were they? Had they been killed somewhere else, their bodies even now lying alone with no one to mind them? He dropped the flat-faced shovel he'd been using to trench around the stacked brush and cupped his hands around his mouth.
"Kayla! Anya! Do you hear me?"
His only answer was the gentle sloughing sound the wind made through the trees.
A slow-rising panic moved through him as he inspected each corpse one more time, making sure he hadn't missed them somehow.
//Non, and you're truly a fool, to think you might miss your own daughters!// His hands shook as he brushed Maara's hair back from her face once more. With her eyes pressed shut, he could almost believe she was simply resting, waiting for him to wake her. Tears stung his eyes, and he knuckled them away impatiently. He had no time for tears; he had to find his girls!
//'I sent them for berries. They shouldn't be back for a while.'// Maara's voice, in his head. Behind his closed eyes, her face, smiling and seductive, her eyes warm with love. Berries. The best place to pick berries was the thicket of brush near the grove of nut trees. Methos opened his eyes and reached grimly for his spear. It was unlikely he'd need the protection for himself; animals should be afraid of the undead as well, but habit was hard to break. He didn't want to consider what he would do if his daughters saw what he'd become and rejected him.
"Peh's coming, girls. I won't leave you alone, Kayla, AnyaI'm on my way."
His voice carried on the wind, spreading out before him, but there was no answer returning on it.
*****
It was long past moonrise when Methos was forced to admit he couldn't find Kayla and Anya, didn't know what had happened to them. He'd trekked around the clearing to the grove and found the baskets they'd been using to gather berries. Those had been abandoned early; the berries inside were withered and drying out from exposure to the sun and wind. No sign of his daughters though, and he pressed on, trying to track them and failing.
No blood, no bodies, no track marks to indicate they'd been anywhere through here. Nothing.
He was growling with frustration and rage when he looped back into camp; one look around the death scene and the emotions were compounded by grief so deep he couldn't even feel it all.
How do you feel anything completely, when you've just lost everything?
He couldn't find Kayla and Anya.
His girls were gone. Disappeared, as if they'd never existed, and he had no idea to where, or how. In some peculiar way that he didn't understand, Maara's death didn't hurt as badly as that; at least he'd seen her die; had held her body, could see what had happened.
Not knowing was, by far, worse.
The sigh he breathed was ragged; he felt like every emotion he'd ever experienced was swollen and tender. He was one big bruise like a wound that wouldn't--or couldn't--heal. Another sigh and he pushed himself wearily to his feet. He hadn't found his daughters, but he had a responsibility to take care of the others.
Maara's body was the last one he put on the pile; the fire was already burning in the small pit, the pyre waiting to be set, to set them free.
His hands shook as he knelt in the dirt, stroking her hair back with his fingers. Images ran through his mind, faster than he could form thoughts to go with them: of her smiling and laughing; crying as she held the girls for the first time; so serious the first time they made love; eyes flashing with anger when he'd bounced Anya too hard, making her sick; eyes warm and seductive when the girls were asleep; her face pale and tired after they'd been sick; the imposing figure she made, leading the last reindeer hunt.
The look on her face when she'd last kissed him before the slaughter of their tribe.
He'd lost their children.
He'd lost her.
He'd lost himself.
There were no more tears; he felt dried up inside. No room for sorrow, when rage as black as night was filling him, burning him with its heat, sapping all moisture from him. He leaned over and kissed Maara, one last farewell kiss, his throat catching, hot and tight around his words.
"I'm sorry, Maara. Please find them If you can see them, watch over them, and forgive me if you can. I should be with you. I don't know why I'm not. I'm sorry."
He pulled his joining bracelet from her wrist; the braided leather was stiff and shiny from long wear and exposure to the elements. It crackled faintly when he stretched it to fit over his hand, and then it was on his wrist, the last link he had to his mate.
Methos knelt in the dirt beside the funeral pyre until the last body had been consumed and the ashes were cooling. Dawn was streaking the sky above him before he moved, standing stiffly, his body aching from holding one position for so long.
He went inside his shelter and gathered his few personal possessions into his knapsack, then added traveling supplies to the pack. He dropped the bloodstained breechclout onto the floor of the shelter and pulled on his leggings and tunic. He paused for just a moment beside the place where he and Maara had lain together, loved together, then folded up the large leather cloak they'd used sometimes as an extra blanket. It would serve as his now. One last stop, to stand over the mats his girls had slept on. Their dolls were tucked beneath their furs and Methos had bent to gather them up before the thought registered fully in his mind. His bow and arrows, and the shiny, odd knife he'd picked up completed his traveling supplies.
A little of the rage cracked, letting tears out as he tucked the two small dolls into his pack. The sun was rising over the lake; rather than head toward it, he turned west out of camp. Somewhere out there was a group of men with long, strange knives. And maybe his girls. If he went west, maybe just maybe he would find them.
Seacouver, Modern Day
The Presence of another Immortal buzzed inside his head, adding its own warning to the others screaming at him like air-raid sirens. His hand was already inside his coat reaching for the handle of the sword, warm from its proximity to his body. It was only the barest measure of control that allowed him to hear the quiet, well-known voice calling his name before he actually drew his sword.
"Methos?"
Mac smiling at him, eyes warm with concern, watched him from where he'd stopped when Methos had tensed and reached inside his coat. Six feet away.
There was too much inside him right now. It needed an outlet. "What the hell are doing, sneaking up on me, MacLeod? I could have taken your head before I knew it was you!" His voice hissed, pain and longing racing through each syllable. "What're you doing here?"
The other Immortal took a wary step forward, hands up in a solicitous gesture and very obviously empty. "You left a note that you were coming here, and it was getting late. Figured I'd see if you were still here, and we could have dinner on the way back." A pause, then Mac took another step closer. "I wasn't sneaking up on you. You were so far gone, I called your name a couple of times before you heard me."
How had he missed Mac's Presence for that long? He tried to focus on the man before him, but his thoughts were still focused backward in time. Self-recrimination wasn't something Methos practiced often, but some of those memories brought it on in buckets full. Never able to find his girls. Not knowing what happened to them. Never certain.
That not knowing had been a wound that had refused to heal for decades. If it had ever truly healed.
Methos settled himself against a support column and stared at the exhibits of weapons, hearing the sounds of the dying in his ears, seeing the blood that washed over the land like a wave. He wiped at the moisture on his face, wondering when he'd cried and for which memory. Or was it for all of them?
"Methos?" Mac's voice was darker now; the ancient Immortal could hear the spike of curiosity, the love and concern. He held himself tautly when the Highlander stepped into his personal space, one broad finger swiping through the tear-tracks on his face. "Talk to me. What's wrong?"
//If it were that easy, Highlander, I'd have told you years ago.// The thought was almost as bitter as the tears he'd swallowed through the centuries. He closed his eyes to shut out Mac's face and those eyes. Hadn't he wanted to share this, just a little bit ago? Where was his knight-errant then? //It's all in the timing.// He opened his eyes, forced a light note into his voice.
"Nothing's wrong, MacLeod. Just doing a bit of reminiscing."
The frown gathering on his lover's face told him he hadn't fooled the other Immortal one bit.
"Heavy-duty memories, it looks like," Mac touched his cheek once more, then stepped back, giving him some room. Methos watched him glance around the room as if noticing the contents for the first time, then step toward the glass case. "Were they good, or bad?"
"Why do they have to be either/or?" he countered. "Memories can be both, y'know." //These certainly had elements of both.//
"I know," Mac said softly, peering at an ancient sword. "I was just wondering which ones you were remembering."
"I had one like that," Methos moved behind him, looking at the blade. "My very first one." //When in doubt, change the subject, if at all possible.// Not that he thought for one minute it would distract Mac for long, as the man was as tenacious as a dog with a bone, but it might buy him a minute to put himself into some sort of order.
Maybe.
"Bronze-age?" The edge was still in MacLeod's voice, but at least he was going the direction Methos offered him. Hopefully.
"Mmhmm." As close as Mac was, Methos could smell his skin, could almost taste the tang of sweat. Mac was almost religious about showering after workouts, but sometimes the tang was still there, hidden beneath the clean taste of soap. He wanted to taste the other man, almost desperately, wanted to get the remembered taste of blood and smoke and death out of his mouth.
"What happened to it?" Intuitive to his feelings, his thoughts, Mac shifted subtly, moving closer to Methos.
"I lost it at sea. Boat capsized." Between the ancient memories and the current memory of how Duncan felt against him, the words stuck in his throat, coming out a little harsher than he intended.
He wanted to touch and feel someone warm and alive in his arms, wanted to drive back the memory of a cold body and sightless eyes that had once smiled at him with the same warmth with which Mac was looking at him now. Methos rested his hands on broad shoulders, feeling the strength of muscles beneath the cloth between their skin.
"Was it your first?"
"Yes." Part of him wanted to just open his mouth and share everything with this man who'd become so important to him. But the other part of him--the part that had been guarding himself for ages--urged caution. Reveal it, and he risked losing himself.
Did he risk losing even more, if he didn't? That thought was enough to send a shudder through the lean frame, and Methos took an involuntary step back. Fight-or-flight...which was appropriate here? Why was he so rattled? Did the memories always do this, and it'd just been so long since he'd taken them out, that he'd forgotten? Or was it the possibility that he could share these with Mac--and the potential repercussions? He didn't know any more, and wasn't sure he had the strength to find out.
Mac was watching him; he could feel the weight of those dark eyes on him, even without looking. "What?"
"Did you look at the whole exhibit? I saw some things--"
"I've walked through all of it, yes." Flight. That was looking the most appealing. Methos turned around, his coat whirling around his legs with the sudden motion. Mac was there, in his face, before he'd cleared the doorway. "Out of my way, Highlander." He raised his arms to push, hard, if necessary. Mac shook his head.
"You're not leaving, Methos."
//Heaven save me from stubborn, pig-headed Scots.// "No? Care to tell me why not?"
"Because you don't really want to leave. You saw something in here--memories are hard things, Methos. But you can't just ignore them, or push them away."
"And you think I don't know this?" The oldest Immortal shifted, crossing his arms defensively, his voice betraying his emotions. "MacLeod--do you remember who you're talking to? How old I am? I have more memories inside me than any other person could fathom. You think I haven't figured out that some of them--that some are harder than others?"
The other man ignored the sarcasm, his eyes reflecting sympathy, empathy, many other things that Methos felt too off-balance to name. "I know you have. That's not the point. I think you *don't* remember a lot of them--because of that."
"What, and my stint as Death wasn't an intense one?" The bitterness in his voice was obvious even to him, and he watched Mac wince when he flung that into his face. The memory of what had come of that was painful, as well. A period they very nearly didn't get through.
"How often did you walk around, pulling that memory up?" Mac countered, his voice surprisingly even. Methos was impressed; the whole episode with Kronos had profoundly affected Mac--from the beginning to the Quickening at the end.
"I don't pull any of them up, if I can help it!" As soon as he hissed the words, Methos realized what he'd just revealed; the power he'd given Mac over him, if he chose to wield it.
"I know you don't." Mac's voice was softer, closer, somehow, though he hadn't moved forward. "I'm not surprised. You have enough--you could spend all of your time in the past, if you wanted. But that wouldn't be too comfortable, would it? I know it isn't for me."
He was too old and too tired to do this. Every single part of him, down to the atoms that formed him, felt weary. "What do you want, Duncan?"
"To share some of those with you. Joy, pain, sadness--any of it. You've listened to me--"
"And your point is--what? You feel obligated to listen to me because I've listened to you?" //When in doubt, or when scared, go on the defensive. Works every time.//
At least, if the opponent wasn't a bloody stubborn Scot, it did.
Mac frowned, then smiled briefly, the tail of his hair bouncing slightly when he shook his head. "You know that's not what I meant. Don't go twisting my words, Methos." Now he was closer; the movement so fast Methos didn't see it until Mac was standing right in front of him, drawing him closer still. "You listened...you were there, because you cared. Because you wanted to be there. And it's the same for me. Everything else aside--you're my friend, Methos. I hate to see you all twisted up if there's anything I can do to help you untwist."
"What makes you think you can help me? What makes you so sure that talking about my memories will help--that it won't make things worse?" Too close again; Methos whirled, moving away from him, back toward the glass case with the ancient sword in it. The sword flashed in his mind, blade shiny in the sun, glinting as it slashed across Maara's throat. "You're right--I don't like being in the past."
"I don't know that it will. But sharing your pain might. Might ease it enough to bear it. You were ready to take my head a few minutes ago. I know it wasn't just because you didn't notice me right away."
Methos stiffened and turned away, trying to hold himself against the caring, the offering in that warm, rich voice. Love, friendship, trust--they all throbbed around him, disguised in those deep, lilting tones. Wasn't it about time he offered a little faith, a little of the trust given to him? So often he'd accused Mac of being too trusting, too open--but was keeping himself closed off any better, in the end?
//I can't do this!// His inner voice screamed at him, in agony just at the thought of sharing those memories. //You don't have a choice,// he quelled the voice ruthlessly. //The pressure is getting too strong. I don't know how--to circumvent it any longer.//
It occurred to him that he could just tell a few lies, maybe a half-truth or two, then drag MacLeod back to loft. He could seduce Mac into believing whatever he told him. Sex was a powerful thing; it could serve not only to throw him off the scent of the hunt, but the smell and taste of the Highlander, and the feel of the big body in his arms would enable him to push these unwanted emotions back down. He could block them out until they didn't bother him any longer. Couldn't he?
The hair on the back of Methos' neck stood up as he considered that option. Could he use him that way? Everything about his existence, for more centuries than he could remember now, had been about survival. Use whatever means, and whomever was available, to achieve that end goal. Survival, above all. A lesson he'd been trying to teach Duncan for years now.
Maybe...it was time to learn a few of the lessons Duncan had been trying to teach him.
The irony of that made him laugh, a harsh, bitter chuckle that hurt his throat. Mac swiveled from where he'd been faking interest in some ancient spears and arrows, to look at Methos, one eyebrow cocked. "Methos?"
He took a deep breath, too tired of the fight to fight it any longer.
"It was wholesale slaughter, Duncan. My father, friends, wife. My daughters. All of them gone like they'd never existed." He sat down on the bench closest to him, ignoring the other man and those eyes that he knew were watching him. "Men on horses, with swords; they rode into our camp--a camp a lot like the ones in the exhibits in the next room--and cut us all down. Sure, we had horses...a few. We used them for pack animals, when we moved around. But I'd never seen--none of us had ever seen--a metal sword." Harsh, brittle laughter, making his throat hurt. "We weren't too many clicks removed from the Stone Age. Fuck that, we *were* the Stone Age."
Methos raised his head to look at the Highlander, still standing by the weapons case. "I watched my tribe massacred in front of me--they cut Maara's throat like she was nothing. I can still see the blade slicing across her skin. That was when I--that was my first death. A spear through the chest."
"I thought you didn't remember that far back." Mac sounded a little surprised, and Methos flashed him a bitter grin before turning to stare at several paintings on the wall behind him.
"I remember everything, MacLeod. I simply choose to forget, most of the time--as you pointed out. What's the point in remembering all this? I'm not even always certain I feel the emotions any more, or if I'm just feeling the echo of those emotions."
"You must feel something real, or you wouldn't choose not to remember."
"Do you have any idea what it's like to lose everything?" Methos swung around, his eyes snapping. "I know you've lost--don't bother answering that. But not just one person, or a friend, or even a group of them--but everything single fucking thing that made up your life--including your life? I chose to stop remembering, to stop reliving, because I didn't want to keep feeling the pain. I died with them, with my tribe--and then I woke up. Alone. Afraid. I was--I wasn't normal, any more. I wasn't natural. People didn't die then come back to life in my culture, at that time, the only beings who did that were evil spirits.
"I didn't know what to think about myself any longer; didn't know what to do with myself. I tried to find my daughters, and it's like they never existed--I don't know if they were killed, or taken for slaves, or what happened to them. I went a little crazy, not knowing...tried to track them, to find them...got myself killed over and over again, trying to die, and always waking up*always*."
Methos stopped, his gut twisting with that memory. How many times had he died, those first few years of immortality? He'd stopped counting after a while; now, he had no idea. It had been a lot. He'd raged at the heavens, and his ancestors and Gods, and everything in between. And in between rages had been bouts of utter insanity, when he'd tried over and over to die, not realizing then that there was only one way for an Immortal to die.
"No one to help you? To guide you?" Mac's voice was soft, pulling him out of the past again. He snorted and shook his head.
"I don't know for certain there were any other Immortals around. Certainly not around me, at that time, anyway. And I couldn't go to my kin in our sister-tribe. I was undead, Mac. I'd have been driven off in terror."
"How would they have known? If everyone else was dead--?"
Methos shrugged and sat back down. When had he gotten up? "I don't know now that they would have. But the stories passed from generation to generation then were that you could always tell an undead, and I had no reason at the time to believe differently." He looked up, eyes stinging again, and gave Mac a twisted grimace he hoped looked like a smile. "I wasn't exactly myself then."
"How old were you?"
Another shrug. "That I don't know for sure--it wasn't like we celebrated birthdays, you know. Around twenty-six, I suppose. I knew by then that I wasn't Haldan's child by blood, and I'd pretty much figured out that Maara wasn't going to have any children by me, though of course I didn't know why. Everyone in the tribe just assumed I was sterile, and that was that. It took me a while to figure out that Immortals aren't capable of siring children."
"You mentioned daughters, though." Mac sat down cautiously, close enough for their thighs to touch lightly. Methos didn't move, welcoming the warmth and solidity of Mac next to him.
"Maara, my wife, mate, whatever word you want to use, was pregnant when her mate was killed. Our beliefs held that a pregnant woman couldn't be unmated--it was bad luck. And I was the only one who was grown enough, who didn't have a mate already It surprised everyone when she had twins."
"I'll bet." Mac's voice held a hint of laughter within the concern. "From single and carefree to married, with children. Must have been quite an adjustment."
Methos shook his head. "It was all so unexpected that by the time I realized it'd happened, I'd adjusted, for the most part." He closed his eyes against the wave of grief that hit him, surprised by the strength of it. "I--loved them, Duncan. All of them. And this is why I don't remember," he hissed quietly, his breathing fast and painful, trying to hold the sobs inside.
"You can't hold it in, Methos. You can't not remember, just because it's painful." Heat moved closer to him, warming him. Knowing Mac was closer was warming, in itself.
"And I suppose you always remember the painful things? You think of how Tessa died, or your Father's reaction to your immortality often, then?" He couldn't help the sharp, sarcastic words; they were out before he could stop them. Beside him Mac tensed, his body responding with its own fight or flight imperative. Methos cursed himself silently, counting nearly twenty beats of his heart before Mac relaxed a little, sinking back against the bench.
"No--I don't. But when they happen...I go with them."
"Do you think of those--on purpose, ever?" Methos gentled his voice, honestly curious. Maybe Mac had some way of dealing with those, other than to not deal with them.
"Sometimes. Not often. I did, for a while, when I felt like--like I needed to. Now...I won't lie, it still hurts to remember...but I can remember the pain, mixed with the good things. And it doesn't hurt so bad."
"Why would you want to remember anything that would cause you pain?"
"Why would you want to forget?" Mac countered, turning surprised eyes to the ancient beside him. "I don't want to forget the pain, Methos. It's part of who I am--it's part of what's made me who I am. It's what has made you who and what you are. The good, the bad, the painful, the pleasant. As you said earlier, memories are usually a mixture of both--very seldom are they only one or the other."
"And they mix together--" Methos broke off, the memories of his last moments of making love to Maara tangled up with her death. Pleasure and pain. "Sometimes--the good hurts as bad as the bad does."
"Yeah, I know. But if you close yourself off, you might as well be dead, Methos. What's the point in living if you're not going to feel anything, or experience the emotions to their fullest?"
"Alexa died, too," Methos said softly, his eyes burning again. "No matter how much I wished differently, she still died."
"I know." Mac's voice was close, barely a murmur, warm against his ear. The arm that slid along his shoulders was even warmer; it helped keep the ice from settling over him.
"You--could be next," he managed, his voice shaky. Mac dead was not a thought he wanted to entertain.
"Either of us could," the other man's voice was low, almost gentle. "It's the way things are."
He took a few deep breaths, trying to ride out the different emotions tangling and moving inside him. It was hard to feel this much when he hadn't in so long. Totally counter to his survival techniques; emotion made him vulnerable, and he wasn't prepared to handle that. But Mac wouldn't let him be vulnerable. Mac would share his strength, would share himself, if Methos allowed himself to accept that. All he had to do was drop the shields he'd erected and used for so many centuries.
"We need--to get out of here," he whispered. "I--"
"Let's go, then." Mac stood slowly, keeping his hand on Methos' shoulder, fingers squeezing lightly once.
They started across the room, moving slowly, the exhibits winding backwards as they walked. Methos stopped in front of the exhibit with the ragged, worn doll, staring, his mind whirling frantically.
"It's been--a long time, Mac. I haven't--" He paused, swallowing against the tightness in his throat. //Can I trust him with this? Can I trust *me*? I haven't trusted, truly, in a long time and I've opened up even less than that. I don't even know if I can, any more. Each time it gets knocked back, it's a little harder, the next. But if I close myself off completely--//
The result of that was unthinkable.
"I don't know...if I can do this. If I can *feel* again...trust again. I know I--can't do it alone."
"All you have to do is ask," Mac's voice was soft; the words rich and full of promise.
"Then--I'm asking."
"You're not alone, Methos."
He was almost surprised when the world didn't fall out from under his feet.
He managed to wait until they were inside the loft, with the elevator closed behind them. Mac turned to set his coat on the hook, and Methos was there, pressing him to the wall, his mouth searching for the warm taste of the Highlander. Words were one thing. Right now, he needed physical reassurance, as well.
Salt. He tasted of salt, and earthy, musky man, just like Methos knew he would. Rather than the full lips that were opened so temptingly, he homed in on Mac's neck, his lips and tongue teasing at the warm flesh, hovering over the pulse point that was fluttering in the hollow of Mac's throat. Methos closed his lips over it, tongue flickering as he sucked lightly, the soft moan he coaxed out washing over him, warming him.
"Methos--"
More warmth. When Duncan said his name like that, thick and husky, throaty, like he'd never been pleasured this way before, it sent shivers all through his body. He sucked harder, scoring tender skin with his teeth, feeling the shudders that swept through the other man.
"So good," he muttered against the warm throat. Here, with his tongue pressed against the large vein that throbbed with life, it was easy to understand how vampire lore had started. He bit again, feeling a rush of urgency, and desperate need threaded into the hunger that Duncan always managed to raise in him. Large hands came up to stroke through his hair, cupping the back of his head as he licked and sucked. "You taste so good, Duncan."
"*Methos*." It was a groan this time, and large hands tugged his head up, until he could look into Duncan's eyes. They were shining with a wealth of emotion. "This is not to bury emotions, or to hide, right? But to celebrate, to feel." Duncan's voice was husky, but insistent. Methos swallowed; the concern in that voice--the *love* he heard, nearly undid him.
"To feel," he agreed roughly, leaning in to kiss Mac hard.
The hands in his hair tightened as Mac arched his head back, baring his throat further, and Methos heard the soft groan through the pulse pounding inside his head when he scored Mac's neck again with his teeth.
"Too many clothes, Methos." Fingers released his hair, scrabbled at his coat. Methos pulled back with a soft groan, his eyes fixating on the purple-red bruise he'd left on Mac's throat. //Too bad it'll be gone before morning. I like my mark on him.// He shrugged out of his coat, tossing it haphazardly on the closest piece of furniture. His sword followed, settled more gently. Mac's eyes were dark, watching him, as the other man raised his hands to unbutton the crisp white shirt he wore.
Methos shook his head. "No--let me." One dark eyebrow raised, and the ancient gave Mac a grin. "I like to undress you, Highlander. It's rather like opening a gift, one ribbon at a time."
That earned him a full-blown smile. "I'd never thought of myself as a Christmas present before."
"Definitely a present." Methos reached out, grasped the edges of Mac's shirt, fingers fumbling at the buttons, slipping them out quickly. A primal urge pounded inside him to just take, to bury himself inside this man.
He didn't want to do that, though. He wanted to savor, to taste, to immerse himself in this. He slipped the shirt down Duncan's shoulders, bending his head slightly to follow the line and curve of shoulder with his tongue, teeth scraping relentlessly, lightly, on the tanned flesh. Warm hands closed over his arms, tugging on him, pulling him up and closer.
"One important place you're forgetting, old man." Duncan's voice was like mead, thick and sweet, impossibly rich, suffusing him with heat. He groaned low in his throat when his lover's mouth opened, hovering near his, whispering, "Kiss me, Methos."
Request? Plea? Order? Whatever, it was impossible to resist, and he had no intention of trying. The tie holding Duncan's hair back came loose in his fingers, and then he was burying his hands to the wrists in that incredible hair, shuddering when it flowed over his skin, igniting a fire inside him that wanted to burn out of control. The heat in Duncan's mouth was an inferno, hot, and wet, tongue swirling and stroking at his, driving his control away. He held Duncan's head firmly in his hands, fingers tangled in long hair, and pushed the Highlander back against the wall, pinning him there while his mouth plundered and took, answering his body's demand.
Hot hands stroked his hair, his shoulders, reached under his sweater to caress him, tracing through the line of sweat trickling down his back. One hand splayed over his back, nails digging in gently; the other hand moved around to his chest to pull and pinch at nipples gone hard and pebbled with need. Methos groaned into Duncan's mouth and arched against him, forcing his mouth open wider, trying to climb inside.
He wasn't making love to Duncan to block anything out; not after talking like they had. But pain and need, love and hunger, they were all swirling around inside him now, making it impossible to separate one from the other entirely. He knew who he was with; his body, his spirit, could never mistake Duncan MacLeod for anyone else, but *then* had merged with *now*, at least a little, and he was caught in the grip, helpless to do anything but ride it out.
Loud breathing echoed through the loft when he tore his mouth from Duncan's, pulling his head back to suck at his throat again. Over and over, biting and sucking, feeling the heat of life under his lips, under his hands, sweaty and trembling against him.
One hand dropped to cup Duncan's groin, rubbing at the erection throbbing behind linen slacks.
"Ahh--yeah" Duncan's head stayed back, though Methos wasn't holding him there. His mouth was swollen from hungry kisses, his lips wet from the same. His whole body had a flush to it, and looking at the heavy, broad chest with its fine mat of dark hair, and the dark nipples standing erect, hungry for his touches, made Methos' body flush with need. He startled when Duncan's head snapped down, eyes gone nearly black and completely bottomless with hunger. He held that hot gaze as he reached out and pulled on one nipple, his cock throbbing behind his jeans at the lush groan that rose around them. Duncan stretched his body, then reached out and skimmed Methos' sweater up over his head.
"Bed," Methos groaned, when a wet tongue lapped at his nipples. "Now, Duncan--"
"Right behind you." Duncan lapped at him again, and Methos shuddered.
"Come on, MacLeod. Bed Now" He forced the other man's head up, growling low in his throat at the hungry stare that met his. Duncan's eyes redefined hunger, yes, but deeper within them flickered understanding, acceptance, love. He growled again, softly, and tugged on Duncan's arm, leading him toward the bed that was still mussed from similar activities much earlier today.
//How do you know me so well, when I've shared only the smallest parts of myself with you? Is that why you can offer what you have--? Trusting me, even without knowing me?//
Friends for several years, warily circling each other, nearly not having that, after the fallout from Kronos.
Then lovers, that first night after both had had one too many at Joe's; the many nights after that segueing casually from 'it's comfortable' to 'it's what we both want.' Somewhere along the way, 'MacLeod' had become 'Duncan', and so much more to him than just a key player in the Game. More than just his friend, or someone to warm his bed. He'd become someone Methos didn't like to think of not seeing any more.
He didn't have to. Mac had told him he wasn't alone. He could hold onto that, because when Duncan MacLeod said something like that, he meant it.
Usually sex between them was something of a power struggle; two alpha males battling it out for supremacy, not always knowing who would end up on top. Tonight there was no struggle; Mac shivered when Methos undid the fine linen slacks, letting the soft fabric slide down heavy, muscular thighs. Soft cotton boxers followed, exposing a thick, hard cock that jutted forward, the velvety head poking impishly from Mac's foreskin, gleaming moistly in the dim light in the room.
Strong, warm fingers undid the buttons on his jeans, pushing at them impatiently. Methos could hear the soft lilt behind Mac's words, even when it wasn't pronounced. He closed his eyes when warmth touched him; broad, knowing hands skimming up and down his body, cupping and stroking the hungry length of him, ruffling the light arrow of hair on his belly, and the sparser bits on his chest, teasing at aching nipples. He moaned softly, "Duncan, you're killing me."
"You're strong, you can take it."
Methos blinked; he'd said something very similar to his lover, just a few nights ago. A little more of the sadness leached out of his heart as present joy pushed at past darkness. He wouldn't ever forget those memories, or those people, but maybe Mac was right--sometimes sharing lightened things a bit.
"Still with me?" Mac's voice was a little concerned, and Methos opened his eyes, abruptly aware that he'd strayed somewhere. He nodded, reaching to grasp Mac's hand.
"Right here, Highlander." He slid their joined hands up to cover his heart, leaning to kiss Mac once again, shivering at the heat that seemed to rise over him from the contact.
"Right where you should be," Duncan's voice whispered. It was in his mouth, as soft as a sigh; it was in his ears, low and sexy, making him throb. Duncan's voice, everywhere, filling his senses as they kissed and touched.
Methos shifted backward, folding himself onto the bed, pulling Duncan down with him, on top of him, groaning at the sensation of hot, heavy male covering him. Skin that was tanned from the sun, and soft, yet full of strength; so much of it, covering him, warming him, reminding him that he was alive, and he was here, rejoicing in life once again...that he wasn't alone.
His fingers stroked downward to cup Duncan's ass, rubbing and petting, dipping into the warm, sweaty, shadowy cleft between, teasing lightly at the small pucker he found there. MacLeod hissed and grunted, shifting himself a little so Methos had a better angle to play from. He grinned ferally and bit into the side of Mac's neck when his first finger breached the tight heat he'd been stroking. Duncan grunted and pushed against him, letting Methos into his body slowly, sending answering shivers through both of them.
"Do you want it?" Methos whispered the question into Mac's ear, his tongue tracing an outline as he spoke. He pushed his finger slowly in and out, pausing to rub it through the sweat that was dripping down now, moistening it for more play. Mac's answer was to push back against the intruder and moan softly.
"Y'know I do...don't tease, Methos" He rubbed his body against Methos', the damp head of his cock smearing liquid onto Methos' thigh. He arched into Duncan, spreading his legs so they fit together at a better angle, leaning up to meet him part way, their mouths fusing together once again.
He groped under the pillow as they kissed, fingers searching for the tube of lubricant they'd tossed aside heedlessly that morning. It wasn't something they really needed but it made things nicer, all slick and slippery. He groaned into Mac's mouth when his fingers finally closed around it.
In moments he'd slicked himself up, the touch of his hand on that sensitive, overly-stimulated part of him almost more than he could bear. Duncan shivered above him when Methos caressed his with slippery fingers, teasing at the small hole and the tight, protective muscles.
"Ride me, Highlander," he whispered against Duncan's neck. A soft kiss against the vein pulsing there, then another, placed just so on Duncan's ear. "Ride, Duncan. Please." His voice caught in a soft sob that was pleasure and joy, sadness and pain, all combined. Duncan nodded and shifted back over him, his eyes holding Methos' own.
"Never alone, Methos," he groaned softly, body sinking down onto the thick erection. "Not...when...there're the two of us" A pause, then low, harsh panting filled the air. "God, you feel good--"
"You could make God himself beg," Methos gritted his teeth as sensation stabbed through his body. Duncan was tight and hot around him, the muscular ring caressing Methos' cock as he shifted, sliding up and down.
The wide, sensuous mouth opened in shocked surprise for a moment, then curved into a hot smile. "As long as *this* God begs, we're doing fine." Duncan's voice, like thick, hot honey, poured over him, melting him slowly. Methos felt an answering smile curve his lips, and his hands slid to stroke and caress Duncan's hips, one moving inward to stroke the rampant, throbbing cock bobbing before him.
"I'm a God now, eh? I can do that. And I can beg--if necessary." He stroked the firm column once, then twice, slicking his hand with the juices that were dripping. "Come for me, Duncan. Come on my cock, in my hand...come with me." He thrust up slowly, meeting Mac's downward glide, hearing the catch in his lover's breathing, groaning himself with the other man tightened around him, muscles flexing almost painfully on his swollen, aching flesh.
And then there was nothing but pounding, searing heat moving through him as they lost themselves in the rhythm, bodies rubbing and pumping, stroking and thrusting. Methos cupped Mac's balls, holding the heated sacs as he stroked along the stiff cock, his thumb teasing at the slick head, rubbing the moisture back into soft, velvety skin. He had to let go with one hand, needed to grip Mac's hip, hold onto the one thing that was a constant in his universe, and yet shaking that universe to its foundations. Their mouths met, tasted, clung to each other, the sobs and grunts of pleasure multiplying in the stillness of the room.
The heavy, sharp sensation of orgasm knifed through him, starting as a small fire in Methos' belly and moving outward quickly, spreading like flames licking at gasoline. He thrust up rapidly, pounding into the sweaty body riding his, hearing Mac's gasps of pleasure-pain as he thrust as deeply as possible, holding himself there as he poured into the other man.
Mac threw his head back with a long, exultant cry, Methos' body clenched tight between his thighs, his whole body vibrating as his cock spasmed, his own offering coating Methos' chest, belly, and hand in thick, viscous drops.
When he could breathe again, Methos brought his sticky hand to his mouth and licked Mac's juices off. Mac leaned down and kissed him; their mouths ground together so hard, so roughly it was almost painful. He grasped Mac's arms tightly, knowing he was leaving bruises, but not caring, only caring that the other man was here with him...for him. He shuddered when his lover shifted, their bodies separating as Mac moved to lie beside him.
He reached for Mac, their fingers twining together, resting on Mac's flat belly. He was growing sleepy now, with that post-sex lassitude that seemed to creep over him no matter when he had sex. When Methos turned his head, he was surprised to see Mac watching him intently, eyes warm.
"You look more relaxed," MacLeod's voice was thicker, heavier, carrying tones of slumber within it.
"I feel more relaxed." Methos shifted their hands, bringing them to rest over his heart. "I--tried, not to--hide behind it."
"Try is all you can do, Methos. It's all any of us can do." With his hair tumbling around his face and shoulders, and his lips red and swollen, Mac looked decidedly debauched, a look Methos thought was good for him. He squeezed the warm hand enfolded with his.
"When in the hell did you get so smart, Highlander?"
The look that Mac gave him--sleepy, sultry, loving, all at once--stole his breath away. "I've had a good teacher."
"You're an ass," Methos complained mildly, turning his head to see MacLeod better. "If anyone's been teaching--" He broke off, and leaned to kiss the other man. "Thank you," he said softly.
"Welcome." The warmth of Mac's eyes increased. "When I said you're not alone, I meant it."
"I know." He didn't know what else to say to that--there were so many things, and so few, all at the same time. The warmth in those eyes felt like they were feeding his soul, warming him for the first time in nearly forever. Right now, with that zinging through him, he felt he could do anything, deal with everything.
A small voice inside him warned him that was only illusion. He drew a deep breath, not sure he wanted to risk the peace they'd achieved right now, or not. Mac cocked an eyebrow, waiting silently.
"It won't be easy, Duncan," Methos cautioned finally, his voice low, sleepy. "Survival has been my main goal for millennia now. Survival by any means necessary."
"I'd be surprised--and disappointed--if it were easy, Methos." Mac's voice rumbled warmly around them, filling the cracks between their skins. "I wouldn't want you to be easy--in anything."
"As long as you know." The smile was in his voice, if not actually on his face. He shifted, letting Mac's body cradle his, their hands resting between them, between their hearts. "You have plans for tomorrow?"
Eyes that had closed opened now, slowly, looking at him curiously. "Nothing I can't do some other time. What'd you have in mind?"
//What I have in mind is probably insanity, for even considering this. But what I told you once before, about needing to remember people, because that makes them real...I guess that applies here, too. Maybe if I share some of this, some of myself, that will make those memories--those people--more to me. Instead of taking away from me, I'll be giving to them. I'll make them mean even more.// "I thought maybe--we could go to the museum."
Mac squeezed his fingers. "You sure?"
He laughed, a little breathlessly, very uncertainly. "No, but I think--there are things I'd like you to see."
Eyes as warm as the summer sun met his, holding his gaze solemnly. "I'd like that."
Methos
nodded, closing his eyes briefly while the world spun around him and his inner
voices screamed at him. For just a moment, he was terrified--what had he
promised? What had he set himself up for? He couldn't do this. Didn't want to
do this. He'd done it alone long ago, which was why he'd stopped doing it.
Emotions were best left behind. He shuddered once, with the chaos raging inside
him, then remembered Mac's words: 'You're not alone.' It was like a soothing
balm calming him. He took a couple of deep breaths, forcing his heart to slow,
his mind to settle.
When
he opened his eyes again, Mac was watching him, eyes still warm, still
concerned...and he wasn't alone.
~Finis~