Summary:Immortals are fallen angels. Lucifer wants a word with his brother. Methos doesn't care.
Characters: Lucifer, Methos
Beta: canyssa
Diclaimer: nope, not mine
originally posted comment fic, tigriswolf prompt: "Supernatural/Highlander, Lucifer&Methos, Lucifer wants a word with his brother. Methos doesn't care."
His name isn't Adam or Ben or Carl or any of the other names mortals and immortals have known him by in the last millennia or five. His name isn't even Methos, which should be quite obvious. His real name, the one his Father gave him, the one he cherishes with pride and shame is myth too, but myth so old that no one would even believe him where he to share that particular secret with anybody. Not that he trusts anyone enough to do that. Moot point and water under the bridge.
Still, the name exists and he remembers.
He is Malak al-Maut. Maybe "was" is a better term.
Every hundred years or so he makes a journey to Wulingyuan and mingling with mortals visits Tianzishan. He is not here for a picturesque view or a postcard. He climbs the mountain and walks its paths and waits for a sunrise on the top of one of the platforms because Tianzi is the closest place to home he will ever find on Earth. Not Egypt, where he made his first breath of scalding- hot air all those thousands of years ago, not Western Europe with its cities, not the New World he favors as of late.
He inhales crisp autumn air and dreams among the beauty of ailing nature about days long gone, days of Glory and Purpose and allows himself just for a fleeting moment to thinks that today would be the day he reclaims the power pulsing under his feet. That today would be the day he would leave the Game behind. He knows it won't be, like it wasn't last century or that day all those thousands of years ago he remembered and found his torn Grace bound to a pillar. But still the tantalizing possibility is there and there are days when it's all that's keeping him from doing something foolish.
One moment he is alone with his thoughts and doubts and hopes and then – he is not.
There is a being trying to look like a white man in his thirties.
-Azrael,- it greets him
- That's not my name.
- Of course it is.
- Then I can call you Samael?
- If you want, brother.
- Well, then I guess I'll just call you Lucy. Less formal, you know.
- I missed you.
- You miss an archangel's sword at your side, Lucy dear, not me. Please, do not confuse us in the future.
- That's not true, - says his guest, sounding genuinely hurt.
- Then you didn't come here, at the repository of my Grace, to offer me opportunity of a lifetime to join you forces in another great war against Heaven?
- I just want my brother back at my side.
- I'm touched, really. I can even cry if you want or compose an insufferable hymn about our tragic brotherly bond, if it will make you feel better. But my answer will be still "no".
- It was a "yes" once.
- And then I killed my brothers and sisters for you, I fell from Heaven for you, I was condemned and became this… I learned from my mistake, snake.
- But you can reclaim all that.
- You really do not understand, do you?
- Azrael…
- My name is Adam. And I don't care, not anymore.
The blond man sighs wearily and disappears.