Disclaimer: No harm, no foul - I don't own the characters, I don't make any money out of writing this, it's purely for enjoyment.
This is for those on the Methos/Slash list who were debating Methos' role within the Horsemen. What can I say - I got inspired g. It hasn't been beta'd in the strictest sense of the word, but it has been read by the wonderful Sonia and Anthea (danke, merci, gratzi, spaseba, cheers m'dears g). All mistakes, errors and slaughter of the English language are my fault - but if it doesn't make sense, blame Sonia and Anthea eg
Revelation 6:2
And I saw, and
behold a white horse: and he that sat on him had a bow; and a
crown was given unto him: and he went forth conquering and to
conquer.
Revelation 6:2
***MacLeod's Barge, February 1997***
MacLeod was just preparing to settle down for the evening when he felt the approach of another Immortal. With a groan and a grimace, he reached for the dragon headed Katana, hoping – praying almost – that whoever this Immortal was, they were just simply passing.
No such luck. The barge gave a gentle roll as someone stepped onto the gangplank. After what seemed an eternity to the waiting Scot, there was a tentative tap on the door. Enemies, MacLeod decided, were not so polite – they tended to just simply kick the door in. Still, given Amanda had left Paris, caution was the better part of valour.
"Who is it?"
The door pushed open. "Me?" The distinctively accented voice belonged to the oldest Immortal.
"Methos?!" MacLeod could barely believe it. Ever since...well ever since they had got back from Bordeaux, the ancient Immortal had been doing his best to avoid MacLeod – something that MacLeod had mixed feelings about. On the one hand, it meant he didn't have to try and resolve his conflicting feelings about Methos and his role within the Horsemen. On the other hand, conflicting feelings or no, MacLeod found he was missing the verbal sparring and the general companionship.
"I know...I'm probably the last person you want to see right now...but...ah..." The explanation came to a halt as Methos suddenly clamped his jaw shut to hold in a groan of pain.
"Forget that!" MacLeod released the Katana and swiftly crossed the barge to help the other Immortal in.
Once into the light, MacLeod could see the damage. The eldest's clothing was shredded and caked in blood – most of it still wet – and sticking out from his lower back, just shy of having hit the spine, was a crossbow quarrel. The Scot sucked in a horrified breath. A lesser Immortal would have probably already been dead. Judging by the pallor beneath the dirt and blood on Methos' face, it was will alone that was keeping him alive.
"Methos we need to get that out," MacLeod stated, indicating the quarrel.
"Do it. Please."
The words were gritted out between clenched teeth. A terse nod met them. Carefully, MacLeod helped Methos to lie on the couch, then after allowing the ancient a moment to prepare, MacLeod pulled the bolt free. There was a brief grimace of more pain, then the old one finally succumbed to the pain, and slid into unconsciousness.
Over the next two hours, MacLeod watched over the ancient Immortal as he slid between coma and babbling unconsciousness. In the raving moments, the Scot could make out snatches of what was being said:
"No...no please... I can't... Just a man...please don't... Please don't... I couldn't... I don't want it... I'm not worthy..."
Not worthy of what? Part of MacLeod wanted to know. The rest of him – the parts that had such a hard time accepting the Horsemen – was convinced that Methos could be worthy of nothing. Increasingly though it was the majority feeling, the Scot began to wonder more and more about what Methos was raving about.
"Please...don't make me...please... I don't want to be like them...not even for you...please...no..."
The words became incoherent – and possibly ceased to be in English, not that MacLeod could tell – and moments later, Methos slid back into the quieter, if more disconcerting, comatose state.
More time slid passed as MacLeod watched over the oldest Immortal. Dawn was beginning to break as finally Methos regained consciousness.
"You're back, then," said MacLeod neutrally, as Methos finally moved himself from the dead sprawl into a more comfortable position – although still horizontal on the couch.
"Yeah." Methos looked uneasy. "Look...I shouldn't... I..." He started to sit up, only to find MacLeod's hand gently forcing him to lie back.
"Methos – at least wait until you're fully recovered before you go. You're not in a state to walk – and I'll bet your car isn't parked on the quay...even if I was prepared to let you drive, which I'm not."
Methos closed his eyes. "You win, MacLeod."
MacLeod's mouth quirked up in approximation of amusement. "First time for everything, huh?" The amusement faded. "What happened last night Methos?" he asked softly.
"Long story."
MacLeod's jaw tightened. "No. I'm *not* going to let you fob me off, Methos. What happened? You looked like you'd taken on..."
"A gang and come off worst. Who says barbarians are unintelligent?" The detachment to the words was pure Methosian; the barb was classic Methos. And yet...
"Methos?"
A hazel eye opened and regarded MacLeod. "I took on a gang and came off worst. At least," he added, closing the eye again and snorting, "*they* think I came of worst."
"Methos...?" MacLeod shook his head, trying to understand. "You took on a *gang*?"
"Is there an echo in here or something?" Methos shot back.
"Why?"
The single syllable caused the ancient Immortal to suddenly tense. "Why what?"
MacLeod felt exasperation rise. "Why take on a gang? Why risk yourself like that? Do you *know* how close that crossbow bolt was to paralysing you?"
"Miscalculation on my part," said Methos coolly, reopening both eyes and pinning MacLeod with the expression on them. "I didn't dive fast enough."
Incredulity swept through MacLeod. "Didn't dive... Methos?!" Slowly, the Scot organised his thoughts into some kind of coherent order. "Why?"
A strange expression crossed Methos' face. "I had to."
"What are you trying to prove? That you've changed? That you're not Death any more? I *know* that...I've known that for weeks..."
Methos shook his head. "This isn't about proving anything to anyone. And contrary to popular rumour," he added, "your opinion isn't the most important thing in the world to me. This has nothing to do with you."
MacLeod felt a brief spurt of anger at the words, which he fought down. He wanted to get to the bottom of this – not drive Methos even further away. "Look...can you just tell me why?"
"Like I said," Methos replied, tiredness suddenly bleeding into his voice, "it's something I have to do... It's...a vow."
Just when MacLeod thought his belief couldn't be pushed any further... Methos' words were even more puzzling. "A *vow*?"
"Oh yes, I forgot. A man with no honour couldn't possibly keep a vow. Silly me," Methos snapped. He moved to sit up – and this time didn't let MacLeod's hand stop him. "Well, I feel fine now – so I'll just be..."
"Who to?"
"Be on my..."
"Methos, *who* to?"
"You know I was a Horseman, Mac," Methos stated, getting to his feet. "Well...you could say I was the first horseman."
"I don't..."
"Revelation, chapter six. Read it."
Then before the stunned Highlander could do, or say anything else, Methos was gone. It took a few moments for MacLeod to regain his senses. When he did, he dived across to his bookshelves to find his copy of the Bible and looked up the reference Methos had given him. When he found it, he recognised it as the description of the coming of the Four Horsemen.
"What...?"
A frown creased MacLeod's face for a moment. He knew Methos had been a Horseman – knew all about the ancient's time as a harbinger of death – so... No. Methos had said the first... Death was the fourth. Bemusement turned to astonishment as he read the second verse.
The second, third and fourth Horsemen from came from hell to wreck havoc, but the first... The first was sent from God to be His sword on earth.