Hear the ocean waves, my love
Hear them breathe and sigh
Feel their kiss upon the pier
As we say goodbye
Take the waves with you, my love
As you sail the skies
And however far you go
List' for their reprise
How typically Ancient, thought Methos. Sappy, sentimental, and entirely impractical. Plus, whoever wrote this tripe back in the day was a total hack, even accounting for the loss in translation.
Suppressing a sigh, he leaned back in his chair and stared out the window at the endless streaks of blue and white. Almost three weeks in hyperspace. If he weren't so infernally bored, cooped up in this tin can, he'd never have even glanced at that ridiculous excuse for poetry.
I can't believe I let Daniel Jackson talk me into this, he grumbled to himself. That archaeologist was astonishingly persuasive when he wanted to be. Though, to be fair, Methos had been looking for something new.
The first day aboard the ship hadn't been so bad, if for no other reason than sheer novelty of the situation. No matter how many pictures he'd seen, there was just no comparison to looking out a window and seeing Planet Earth laid out before him.
Though he didn't normally consider himself the sentimental sort, even he had been momentarily overcome with that sense of wonder as he looked at the beautiful blue sphere he had called home for five thousand years. All the feuds and petty squabbles of mortals and and Immortals alike seemed just so transitory all of a sudden.
Unfortunately, while USS Daedalus may have been a marvel of engineering traveling at heretofore unimaginable speeds, even a ship the length of an aircraft carrier quickly became cramped once they broke orbit and shot into hyperspace. And Methos didn't exactly have the run of the place, either, as a civilian passenger. Unsurprisingly, cabin fever set in rather quickly.
To help stave off utter insanity, he decided to get to know about the place he would shortly be calling home. Atlantis, the not-quite-as-lost-as-it-used-to-be city. Though, to judge by the mission reports, one might assume that the residents of said city had already succumbed to madness.
Nominally in charge of the Expedition was Richard Woolsey, a balding, middle-aged bureaucrat whose initial reports sounded like he was way in over his head before somehow finding some stable ground.
John Sheppard, Colonel, leading the military contingent. American, of course, and just as much a cowboy as an American would be expected to be. All that was missing was a Stetson.
Though, as a medical doctor, Methos's own new boss was actually a terrifyingly young woman named Jennifer Keller, who didn't even look old enough to drive, let alone lead the medical staff of a remote, hyper-advanced Ancient outpost.
Of course, Methos himself was over five thousand years old and regularly pulled off the "starving grad student" look. Who was he to judge?
So, here he was, reading poetry older than he was and so much more stale.
Oh, get over yourself, Old Man, an inner voice mocked him. Methos envisioned stuffing a sock into the source of that voice. The voice was unrepentant. Perhaps it was right to be, Methos (very privately, and very unwillingly) acknowledged.
After all, for the first time in a very long time (even by his standards), he was not automatically guaranteed to be the oldest person in the room. Though the Ancients, no matter how old they were, seemed not to have learned very much despite literally millions of years of civilization.
That annoying inner voice expressed a profound eyeroll, leaving Methos to ponder how an aspect of one's imagination could roll nonexistent eyes.
The Ancients were human, too, huffed that aspect of himself, as if imparting some revelation that should have been totally obvious. Methos grumbled that his subconscious was definitely feeling far too smug that day and should probably shut up. Though his argumentative side subsided swiftly enough, the Immortal knew that it was far more amused than actually defeated.
He let his unfocused gaze drift back to the undefinable blue and white streaks of hyperspace. It should have alarmed him, the maudlin manner in which he had devolved lately. Arguing with his own subconscious was hardly new for him, but it didn't use to argue back in such a distinct and coherent manner. It had come upon him gradually over the past few years.
It was probably Duncan MacLeod's fault. Damn do-gooder Highlander and his damned moral compass. Practically infectious. If it hadn't been for Duncan MacLeod, Methos would still be happy on his own in Paris, minding his own business and perfectly safe hiding among the very Watchers who were searching for him.
Those were the days.
He turned his attention back to the screen of the tablet in his hands and flicked his fingers across it. Amazing. The tablet itself was of Earth build, of course, but to his eyes many of the principles of its design and construction were of decidedly more… exotic origin. In a mere blink of an eye, the humans of Earth had stepped out into a larger universe, and not only adapted but thrived.
A bare century ago, such a device as unremarkable today as a tablet computer would have been awe-inspiringly advanced. (Methos was almost certainly the only one left who had lived on Earth during the original Goa'uld occupation more than five thousand years ago, when such technology was commonplace, and even for him those memories were hazy.)
Now he had to deal with a conscience that wouldn't shut up and an American military-led operation to other planets. Other galaxies. Because here he was, on the way to Used-to-be-Lost City of Atlantis. In the Pegasus Galaxy. On a spaceship.
He couldn't help but let out a small laugh at the utter absurdity of the situation, ignoring the brief glances he got from the other scattered crew and passengers in the room.
Methos, the man who had lived when the catapult was the height of engineering, was riding on a spaceship to another galaxy. Now, if only he could get the voice in his head to just shut up.