"Gotta be good . . ." The disjointed words drifted through the fog-choked air. The alley reeked of urine and dirty water. Heaps of trash and refuse choked its mouth; dim light seeped into its bowels from a weak streetlamp.
"Gotta be good . . ." Again the fractured statement. The voice was faint, a hint of an accent colored its gray tone. No coherent thought seemed to flow from the mind uttering the phrase. A mound of trash huddled under a broken drainpipe shifted. Stacks of moldering paper sloughed off as a human figure appeared under its depths.
The person was male, his age impossible to determine. He was caked with filth, facial hair matted and grown past his shoulders. His hair was thick and oily, greasy ropes of it trailed down his back. His eyes were vacant and bloodshot, their color washed out in the dim light. He raised a gray hand to his jaw and scratched fiercely. His eyes gained a wild light; fearfully he ducked into his pile of garbage and snuffled around. Searching for something. Frantically he began throwing gloppy handfuls of refuse out of his way.
At the mouth of the alley a tall man stood. His hair was dark and cropped short. His shoulders were broad and powerfully built he stood around six foot. He wore a dark greatcoat, blue jeans and boots. His name was Duncan MacLeod. The man in the alley squealed and continued his harried search.
"Not here . . . its not here, where is it? Gotta be good, he's watching, he'll be disappointed, gotta be good, I liked him and I killed him, liked her too, liked them all . . .still killed 'em, gotta be good now, he's watching." He gurgled in surprised joy and snatched something out of a puddle. MacLeod simply stood and watched. His shoulders seemed to fall as the dirty man's frenetic chant drifted to him. "Thought you'd get me unawares did you? I'm not done yet!" The filthy scarecrow screamed and charged MacLeod. His rags flapped crazily as he leapt over piles of trash howling like a possessed creature.
MacLeod stood his ground until the last possible moment. As the homicidal dervish flowed across the ground the man slid into a crouch and dropped his attacker to the ground. He moved with an economy of speed and selective skill in his blows that spoke of a deep mastery. The crazed creature dropped senseless to the ground, as he fell his weapon clattered at MacLeod's feet.
MacLeod knelt and picked it up it was a sword. He lowered his head and dropped the blade. His shoulders began to shake and quaver, slowly, solemnly the gentle sound of sobs drifted out of the alley and into the damp night.
The young man stood in the doorway. His blonde hair backlit by the winter sun. He flashed a smile at his companion; it was received by a blank stare.
"Mac, you couldn't have known. It's not your fault. He takes off all the time, how were you supposed to know that he was in trouble? He doesn't like to stay in contact, you know that." The young man said his voice strained with emotion.
Mac sat at his desk in the dojo's office going over paperwork. He heaved a sigh and wondered if he could come up with a good excuse to blow off the rest of the day and finish tomorrow sometime. He was wondering whether unfinished laundry qualified when the perfect excuse breezed into the office and flopped into a chair.
"Hey, MacLeod, what's up?" Methos asked smirking and fiddling with a pencil jar.
Mac stared at the oldest man in the world and felt a little seed of irritation burrow under the base of his skull. He wondered if he could convince him to go away, and then wondered if he wanted him to. He hadn't seen Methos in nearly a week and could feel an urge to get truly drunk creeping up on him.
"I don't want to argue with you today, you want to just skip three or four hours of bullshit and get drunk?" He asked tossing his stack of papers into a drawer and slamming it shut. He looked up at his friend expectantly.
"Well, imagine the cheek of that, you really think I came all the way over here just to tempt you into a night of debauchery? Did it ever occur to you that I might have a completely legitimate and worthwhile reason to come over here?" Methos asked working up a suitable expression of wounded innocence.
"No, not really, why, do you?" Mac asked leaning back in his seat and smirking.
"Well, as it happens, I don't, but you didn't know that, now shall you drive or shall I?" Methos asked flipping a pencil into the ceiling tiles of Mac's office.
"You drive? I'm sure." Mac said walking past the sprawled ancient one and knocking his booted feet off his desk.
MacLeod remained silent. He stared out a small window his eyes focused on nothing. The window looked out onto a saltwater bay. Small fishing and pleasure boats crisscrossed his line of sight. Far off on the horizon an oil tanker chugged heading in toward port.
"I should have known, he's never been gone for more than a year, I should have known." His voice was dull, sucked dry of all emotion. He didn't blink and he didn't shift his gaze. He sat in a steel and plastic chair, the strange man's sword on his lap. It had been meticulously cleaned and polished. Mac's blank face was reflected on its surface. The sword was an Ivanhoe.
The room the two stood in was part of a small house located on a cliff overlooking a small bay in a town known as South Port. South Port was a three-hour drive from Seacouver Washington where Mac usually stayed when he wasn't living on his barge in Paris.
"It doesn't matter now anyway Richie, he's here now, we have to help him now." He continued after an uncomfortable pause. Richie stepped into the room and closed the door behind him.
"Fine Mac, but you have to pull yourself together and keep it together. You're no good to him or yourself if all you can do is stare and sit in a corner, he needs you and so do I.
Can you imagine the kind of people that are going to show up if word gets out that the great Duncan MacLeod and Methos the Oldest Immortal are holed up in a shack completely helpless? Think Mac, if the Watchers followed us here and they must have then its only a matter of time before other immortals find out we're here and then Methos is really done for, his cover will be blown, he won't be just some crazy we picked up, he'll be an easy kill. We both have to be functioning and able to fight. I can't do this on my own Mac, I can't . . ." He trailed off as his anger died away.
MacLeod didn't say anything he simply set the sword reverently on a bench seat and left the room. Richie Ryan Mac's protégé sat down on the bench seat and looked out the window. His face was gray and thin. All ready a slimly built man he had lost too much weight. He set his jaw on his palm and sighed. He was only a kid still, permanently frozen at the peak of his youth he would remain a child-man for the rest of his existence. Cursed and blessed by immortality brought on by a violent death. His first death had occurred only a handful of years before; he wasn't even thirty. He had lived more in the last few years than his rough and tumble childhood in orphanages and foster homes had ever prepared him for. His education had been spotty at best. His worldview radically skewed. Mac had changed that for him. Taking him in and giving him a fair chance at a decent life until a hopped up junkie had murdered Richie and Mac's fiancé Tessa Noel. Richie rubbed his torso where the bullets had torn away the last remnants of his innocence. He could hear voices in the other room.
Methos sat in the corner of a bare room. Painted stark white and unfurnished except for an old mattress. The room was scarred with the signs of frenetic activity. He had attempted to claw his way through the walls at several points, bloodying his hands in the process. Rust colored stains marred the walls and door. His clothes were shredded again by his own hands. MacLeod had shaved, bathed and dressed the older man. Clean and unconscious he appeared helpless and dead. His flesh was green white from malnourishment. He was hideously thin his limp flaccid muscles bulged under his flesh like ropes. When he had awoken he had launched into a crazed frenzy of accusations and apologies. One moment he would attack anyone in the room screaming obscenities the next he would beg to die.
"I'm sorry old friend. I do not know who did this to you, I would take you to Sean but he's dead, despite your best efforts. You were there for me in my darkest hour, you saved me from myself, how can I do less for you?"
He paused for a moment frowning in thought and continued, "I suppose this was inevitable, you loathed yourself for millennia. What does that do to a person's psyche? I miss you, I miss finding you flopped on my couch drinking my beer. I miss your wry comments and hard edges. Joe misses you too, he won't admit it much but he does, he wants to come here. I don't know, you aren't exactly yourself . . ." he smiled wryly, sorrowfully.
Methos stared at Mac, his strange eyes shifting colors in the overhead lighting. Mac wondered if anything was left of his old friend. Methos was clad in loose pajama pants and a straight jacket. Mac had been forced to knock him unconscious to get the jacket on him. They couldn't risk letting him escape and the horror of his attempts emphasized his new deranged state.
"Let me go MacLeod, I'm better now." He hissed staring feverishly at Mac.
"Methos? Is that really you?" Mac asked warily, disbelieving taking a tentative step toward him.
"Let me go MacLeod, its over, we can go back to Seacouver, we can leave here, we can go spend time listening to Joe and training Richie."
Mac's head spun, Methos was better? "Methos, what happened to you?"
"Come here MacLeod and I'll show you." Methos crooned and stood up he raised his hand and walked toward Mac.
Mac stood frozen, rooted, a voice in the back of his head was screaming. Something's wrong, this isn't right, run, leave do something don't just stand! But he remained where he was. Methos reached forward, somehow his straight jacket had vanished; he was wearing his old coat, and a shapeless sweater. He placed his hand on Mac's forehead.
Mac jerked and tried to break contact, he went rigid and his jaws clenched and slammed together. He felt blinding crippling pain, his world exploded and his soul was wrenched. He opened his mind desperate to drive away the barrage of images and feelings. Somewhere he could feel his sanity cracking. All at once his lethargy, his rigid helplessness crumbled and he lurched forward.
He was slumped in the corner of Methos's cell. His mouth tasted foul and his eyes were gritty. Slowly he stood stretching cramped muscles. Methos lay curled in a tight ball. His features were flaccid and limp- devoid of intelligence. His thin strong hands were balled into fists and one arm was flung over his eyes. The straitjacket lay crumpled in a corner; Mac didn't have the heart to replace it. A dream, it was only a dream. Shaking his aching head Mac left the room and its senseless tenant. He had slept for hours. The sun had set and the lighthouse was flashing on the point. He walked down the hall, past his own room on the left and into the kitchen. Richie was standing at the stove cooking something; a T.V. sat on the counter playing the evening news.
"Finally wake up huh?" Richie asked absently reaching into a cupboard for some ingredients while watching the T.V.
"Yeah." Mac asked still feeling disoriented from the dream.
"Joe called, he still wants to come down." Richie said and snagged a pot of pepper and a handful of dried peppers. He dropped them as he reached to close the cupboard with his elbow.
"Shit." He muttered and dropped to his knees to retrieve the spices. He remained there for a moment and when he stood he had tears in his eyes.
"You gonna snap out of it?" He said softly tears streaming down his cheeks.
Mac reached out and pulled his young friend toward him, he wrapped him in a bear hug and let his own tears come. For weeks he had held back, believing it would be better for Richie if he didn't grieve, if he didn't let his own hopelessness overwhelm the young man. Richie sobbed and hung limp in Mac's arms.
Slowly Richie straightened up and wiped away his tears.
"You're right. I'm sorry; I thought that if I could hold back, if I could keep control then it wouldn't . . .wouldn't really be real. I never meant . . . I'm sorry Richie." Mac said softly letting his own tears dry.
Richie remained silent; he picked up the pepper, and poured it into the skillet and began chopping the peppers. Mac watched him and then stood and helped, he washed the dishes and set the table. They both sat down, but neither of them ate. They just sat as the food grew cold and the night grew old.
Methos sat, arms pinned to his too prominent ribs. His mind was fractured, like a badly broken leg. Shards here and there connected by the ghost of a form. Deep in the primal part of his mind lay a fragment of his former self. As he stared and gurgled inanely that shard slowly woke and began to rebuild the framework of consciousness.
Days passed with no change in the ancient man. He grew less violent in the first weeks and then slipped into a still state. He would move around his room for a few hours each day before settling in the corner. Where he would gurgle and hum to himself for hours until he crawled onto his ragged mattress and slept, only to repeat the cycle the next day. He would not eat and had to be force-fed or fed intravenously when he grew too weak to resist.
MacLeod stood in the kitchen of the little house. He was cooking an omelet that no one would eat and arguing with his friend and Watcher Joe Dawson.
"I don't know Joe, it looked like he was getting better for awhile, but now he just does the same thing day in and day out. If only Sean wasn't . . . if only there was someone we could take him to." Joe tactfully didn't mention the fact that MacLeod had killed Sean Burns the only immortal with any real psychological training. MacLeod had killed him while in the grip of a dark quickening. Overcome by the evil of the immortals he had killed he had become evil himself raping and killing his way to Burns. Where Methos had found him and saved him from himself.
"Mac, I understand you're feelings, but at least wait until I can see him. I know you've been trying to protect me. I know he's nothing like he was, but I have to see him, I have to make it real before I can give you a decision. Besides Mac he's my friend as much as yours you crazy Scot bastard." Joe's voice was almost pleading. Mac didn't reply for a moment. The younger man was right, he had a right to see Methos. Nonetheless it took an effort to say so.
"Okay, Joe you win, just be careful, we don't know who could be watching."
"I'll be there as soon as possible, take care Mac." Joe said hurriedly and hung up.
Richie walked into the room, he took in Mac standing at the stove glaring at the phone receiver and frowning. Richie smirked and took the phone from his hand.
"Joe?" he asked rhetorically and hung up the receiver. Mac only got that worked up if he'd been talking Joe out of coming down again.
"He's coming this time." Mac said and took the skillet off the stovetop; he dumped the omelet onto a plate and set the hot skillet in the sink.
Richie remained silent; it had to happen eventually.
"So we're going to decide soon then?" He asked secretly hoping they would never have to decide whether or not they had to abandon Methos. Either to an order of monks or simply take his head and end his misery. He stared at the omelet; they'd made a practice out of preparing a meal everyday for Methos and taking it to him. All it had ever gotten them so far was food on the walls. Mac just nodded, Richie reached to take the plate but Mac intercepted him and picked it up himself.
"S'okay, I'll take it." He said and smiled unconvincingly.
Richie watched him tread out of the kitchen and down the hall. He heaved a sigh and reached to turn off the stove. The newly re-awakened portion of Methos had been working steadily. Soon Methos felt and acknowledged his body's basic needs. Abandoned synapses sparked into life, slowly a new sensation crept through his cells and blood stream. Gingerly it registered in the dim recesses of his rekindled mind that he was hungry.
Mac opened the door and closed it behind him, careful to keep his gaze from the huddled man in the corner. He hated the sight of Methos's fine features glistening with drool or contorted with irrational ravings. His soul rebelled at the knowledge that such an intelligent man, a man so devoted to survival could come to such a state. If it could happen to Methos, why couldn't it happen to anyone?
He walked toward Methos. He crouched next to him and set the plate on the floor. Methos stared at the corner. Mercifully he wasn't moaning, or drooling, or rocking. To Mac's surprise Methos's eyes turned and looked into his. There was no recognition in them, barely even any sentience. Mutely he made twitching motions toward the plate and its steamy occupant. Stunned Mac snatched it up and tore a piece off the omelet spearing it on the fork he held it toward the crippled ancient. Methos jerked toward it and made frantic suckling motions when he couldn't quite reach it. Mac thrust it toward his open mouth and it vanished in a mess of gobbling and uncoordinated chewing.
Mac fed him the rest of the omelet and then cups of thin broth. Methos had always had access to a restroom although his infrequent intake of nourishment had made it more of a token than a necessity. Now he made full use of it, vomiting up the omelet. After the omelet he managed to keep more of the broth down.
As Mac helped Methos back to his mattress he heard the door open. He looked up and saw Richie's slack-jawed stare. It was only then that he realized he hadn't told him that Methos was eating, when he had gone into the kitchen to make the broth Richie was practicing his sword play out in the back yard.
"He's . . ." Richie stammered.
"Yes, nearly a quart of broth, though the omelet was too much." Mac said joyfully.
"Yeah, but he's . . .I mean, he's eating, does that mean . . .?" he left the sentence uncompleted; the possibility of a full recovery had been abandoned within days of bringing Methos to the house. The hopes for any type of recovery had died weeks ago when it became clear that Methos would never recover from his desolate cycle of barely conscious monotony.
Mac shook his head fiercely "No, don't even think it Richie, not yet, don't even hope Richie, its impossible." Richie knew this, yet it was impossible not to hope, just a little deep down.
They continued feeding Methos until he could hold down solid food. They watched him in cycles, hoping for more signs of change. They brought a T.V. into his room thinking it might spark his interest, or at least a reaction. They fed him three meals a day and he began to regain weight. His skin was still pale but the yellow tinge began to fade. He didn't make eye contact with anyone again. A week after he began eating Joe arrived.
Mac met him in the driveway.
"Hi Mac, how're you and Richie doin?" Joe asked avoiding the main subject as he pulled a duffel bag out of his trunk. Mac picked up the bag and closed the trunk.
"We're doing well enough. Look Joe, there's been a change, I want you to remember that he's basically a vegetable and we still don't know why. He seems to have improved slightly but he may regress. It's going to be ugly and I want you to try to be prepared."
"What change?" Joe demanded ignoring Mac's warning.
"He's started eating solid food, and well, it may have been a fluke, but he made eye-contact."
"That's fantastic! When did this happen?" Joe demanded walking toward the front door. Mac walked alongside him carrying his bag and opening the door. Joe was an amputee, he had lost both legs in Vietnam and now as he approached old age his prosthetics pained him more frequently. Mac had noticed a wheelchair stowed in the trunk along with the bag.
"Joe, reality check! He's not Methos anymore, okay? Keep that in mind. Remember that, he's not going to be the same ever again." Mac said coldly.
"Don't you think I know that? I know he's never going to be the same! Just tell me when this happened." Joe snapped back.
"I'm sorry Joe, its just, its not a pretty sight okay? It happened the same day you called." Joe nodded and followed Mac into the house through the kitchen past Richie's room and into the spare room.
"Where's Richie?" Joe asked unzipping the bag.
"He's with him now, we don't leave him anymore." Mac said
"I'd like to see him now." Mac just nodded and led the way. When he reached the door he knocked gently and waited. At Richie's soft acknowledgement he opened the door. It was late at least 10:30, and Methos was asleep. He lay curled in a tight ball on the mattress, one blanket pulled over him. Joe and Mac entered quietly and sat next to Richie on the floor.
Joe leaned forward and studied his drinking buddy's face. His features were slack, his brow unlined. Sleeping he thought, he looks just like a young boy. Uneasily he wondered if the same innocence would carry into consciousness. He was still too thin but he understood why. How could you force a lunatic to eat when you couldn't get close to him? His heart ached for the witty mind that had once remarked "We ate, we drank, we vomited." When questioned about ancient Greek Gastronomy habits.
He reached out and laid a hand on Methos's shoulder. Gently he shook him. Methos awoke slowly twitchingly. He opened his eyes and focused on the unfamiliar face hovering inches from his own. He made an inarticulate noise and scurried off the bed and into the corner. He buried his face in his hands and moaned.
Joe jerked as though burned and stared after the spidery creature his features frozen in horror. Slowly his face crumpled and went blank.
"Methos? Hey buddy?" He crooned slowly moving toward him.
Mac and Richie stood and followed Joe at a distance. Joe crouched awkwardly and kept talking.
"Hey man, its me Joe, you remember me? Come on I know you do, remember that bastard Walker and Amy? Remember the favor you did for me? I'm going to repay you now, okay? I'm going to help you out of this silence, I'm going to help make the world familiar again." He kept talking resorting to anything to keep his voice going continuously reminding
Methos that he was there and he wasn't a threat. Again he placed his hand on Methos's shoulder. This time Methos didn't flee.
Joe sat with his hand on his friends shoulder and talked for hours. By the time the sun appeared his voice was raw. But Methos had come out of the corner and sat staring at Richie and Mac. Worn out Mac had to help Joe to his bed. When he returned Richie lay on the floor asleep and Methos was sitting in his corner. Mac woke Richie and sent him to bed, he turned on Methos's T.V. and walked to the kitchen to make some breakfast.
The spark of Methos's mind had grown to a small ember. He could focus on his own needs and was beginning to recall emotions. He remembered fear and dread, he remembered love and pleasure. All he felt now was confusion. He struggled to focus coherent thoughts. He knew no words, could not articulate. So he stared and slept. Words would come soon.
After feeding Methos a small breakfast Mac sat in the corner and stared at the view while he thought. It looked like Methos was improving but perhaps he was relapsing to his former irrational violent state. If that were so what would they do? If he or Richie took his head to spare his suffering would they too go mad? If they didn't would the monks be up to caring for a mad and violent immortal for eternity? He struggled with the problem for a while before giving it up for the moment. Eventually he fell asleep.
Days passed, Methos did not become violent and eventually he grew accustomed to Joe. The spark that had grown into an ember grew to a small fire. He began a basic thought process, everyday he watched one of his guardians come in and use a knife and fork to divide food into portions small enough to be eaten. He made a vague sort of decision to do it for himself. In the silence of his mind he struggled to find a voice.
Joe backed into Methos's room balancing two plates; both held a steak and baked potato. Joe set one plate on the floor next to Methos and balanced the other with one hand as he awkwardly sat down.
"Okay my friend, dinner time." He said and reached for the silverware he'd left on the first plate. To his surprise it wasn't there, he looked up to see Methos attempting to feed himself. Joe burst into laughter at the caricature of his friend desperately attempting to slice the steak with a fork handle. Gently Joe helped Methos hold the utensils correctly and demonstrated their use. Immediately Methos began to cut the meal into pieces and devour it, he then started on Joe's.
"By God you are getting better, you've even upgraded to theft!" Joe cried. His laughter brought Mac and Richie who stood staring and then started laughing as well. Methos ignored them and continued eating until both plates were bare. He then scurried back into his corner and ignored the rest of the room.
He spoke for the first time since his disappearance a week later. Mac had dropped off his food and was telling him about a movie he and Richie had gone to the night before when Methos interrupted.
"So then the hero says something lame like, 'well that's what you think and.. "
"MmmmaaaaaccLLLLLeeoooodddddd." Methos gurgled struggling to enunciate.
Mac dropped to his knees.
"Methos? Do you remember me?" He whispered.
Methos stared blankly and repeated, "MmmaaccLeeooddd?" Doing a better job on the pronunciation.
"Yes, that's me, MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod." He pleaded hoping Methos was remembering his name and not just repeating a word he had heard almost daily for three months.
Methos frowned and said, "Joe?" The name was easier to say and dropped from his tongue like a rock. Mac sat back on his heels and shook his head.
"I'm MacLeod, do you want Joe? I'll go get Joe, just don't, don't stop." He said frantically and irrationally and all but ran from the room. When he returned it was with Joe and Richie.
Methos sat in his usual place and watched them approach. They sat in a semicircle around him; Joe sat in a chair Mac had dragged in a few days ago.
"Come on Methos, its okay, I'm MacLeod, Duncan MacLeod. This is Joe, you wanted Joe, right?" He asked pointing to Joe.
The tiny fire in Methos's mind that had reawakened forgotten abilities, jumpstarted his brain and forced his mind into activity blazed into a forest fire. He screamed and lurched to his feet. He knocked his companions across the room when they tried to calm and restrain him. He howled and shrieked tearing at his clothes. He was remembering. His life as Death, the ages since, meeting MacLeod, killing Silas, and more, so much more. He raged until exhausted and burnt out he dropped to his knees. He went limp and dissolved into tears his breathing was ragged and his entire body hurt, he felt the familiar exhaustion common after a quickening. He remembered everything.
"Methos?" A soft voice questioned, he couldn't tell who's it was. He closed his eyes and remained silent. He felt hands under his arms dragging him onto the mattress.
"No" He murmured weakly. He stopped moving.
"Where?" The voice asked he still couldn't tell who's it was.
"Bed, real bed." He sighed trying to gain the strength to open his eyes, he gave up and welcomed the arms of Morpheus.
"Tell me oh wise and ancient one. . ." Mac said
"Watch your tongue youngster or I'll have to paddle you." Methos interrupted drunkenly. He was attempting to watch a horse race on the television after imbibing entirely too much alcohol and could not remember whether or not he had bet on a horse in this race or whether it was a different race.
"As I was saying you walking talking ego, tell me, have you ever come across anything supernatural in your long life, oh guru?" Mac asked half serious, half drunk.
"Define supernatural, really natural or what?" He said struggling to remember if Billy's Little Wonder or Flies at Midnight with Dynamite was the horse he'd placed money on. He was ninety nine percent sure that he'd bet on this race, if it was Billy's then he'd lost an insane amount of money, if it was Flies he'd lost slightly less money.
"I don't know, you know, witches, goblins, werewolves, vampires, hags, the whole nine yards." Mac said reaching for another bottle of beer. Joe spied the two camped out at his best table and began making his way through the packed bar. Blues wailed through the sound system. A local group sat onstage, steel string guitars and heavy bass rumbled behind the vocalist's mournful lyrics.
"Mmm have you?" Methos asked finally turning his attention away from the T.V. in time to miss the trailer proclaiming the footage to be from a race twenty years ago.
"Well, unless you count Cassandra and Ahriman, no." Mac said knocking back his beer and swallowing hungrily.
"Oh, I see, so unless I count Cassandra the witch of whatever wood and Ahriman a Zoroastrian demon bent on the destruction of the world it's a no then?" Methos said mockingly.
"Answer the question and stop trying to change the subject." Mac said pulling out a chair for Joe.
"What question?" Joe asked sitting down and signaling a waitress for a beer.
"Mmm the boy wonder wants to know whether I've ever come across anything supernatural." Methos said scoffing a handful of nuts.
"Good question, have you?" Joe asked spearing a cashew from Methos's stash on the table. Methos arched an eyebrow and smirked his eyes gleaming.
"Why do you want to know?" He asked his audience, enjoying their frustration and Mac's attempt to articulate through a haze of whiskey. Methos had been drinking steadily but five thousand years of practice had made his tolerance for alcohol and his self-control when intoxicated a work of art.
"You're a slippery bastard aren't you?" Joe asked watching the new band play. He wondered if he should invite them to a regular gig.
"Umph, if you don't want to talk about it fine," Mac said taking the sour grapes stance, 'It's probably not in your line of expertise anyway."
"Not in my line of expertise? I'll have you know that I am an expert in arts that have been lost to you and your modern compatriots for eons you intolerable child, I am a teacher of many things." He said pompously puffing his chest.
He winked at Joe and said; "I could tell you about the Leprechauns."
To his surprise Mac took the bait, "Leprechauns are real?" He asked incredulously.
"And that ladies and gentlemen is my cue to leave, that cannot be topped and will always be remembered." He said sliding out of his characteristic oozing posture and sidling toward the door.
Dimly Mac realized he'd been snookered and attempted to retaliate, "You bandy-legged pompous freeloading lazy . . ." He ran out of descriptions suitable for public and resorted to spluttering. Joe laughed and ordered another couple of beers.
Once they were satisfied that Methos would be safe sleeping alone they gathered in the kitchen.
"What the hell was that?" Richie asked voicing their thoughts.
"Mmm, well, it looked almost like he was receiving a quickening." Mac said.
"Yeah, except it looked like it was coming out of him almost, not into him. He tore off most of his clothes, I didn't think he was that strong." Joe said
"Do you think we should watch him tonight? You know, make sure that doesn't happen again?" Richie asked
"I don't think any of us will be able to sleep anyway so why don't we all just wait with him." Joe said.
Methos dreamed, he saw the face of his brother of a thousand years blood, Kronos. Kronos was trying to tell him something, Methos wasn't listening, he was trying to touch a woman, to grab her wrist and keep her from running, but he couldn't see her face. Kronos began shouting and the woman was getting further away, desperate Methos begged the woman to stop, she looked back at him over her shoulder but kept running. It was Cassandra, at the same time Kronos spun Methos around to face him and cut his throat.
He woke screaming. His friends were awake at once. Joe was lying on a cot in the corner, Richie was sitting against the wall and MacLeod was sitting in a hard plastic chair.
MacLeod leaned over him.
"Methos?"
"What do you want you bloody Scot? What time is it?" Methos demanded sleepily, the dream had driven the night before, and the months before that from his mind. Mac stared at Methos dumbfounded.
"Oh, right." Methos said and sat up. The others stared at him blankly for a moment and then all began talking at once. He caught maybe one word in ten but he could tell they were happy and had been worried. He felt comforted and deeply weary.
"Calm down guys you're driving me crazy." He said, they immediately shut up and stared at him.
"Sorry, just a little joke, guess its not very funny huh?" he said offhandedly looking around for a bathrobe or some clothes.
"Hold it pal, you're not getting up until we get some answers and know for sure that what happened to you isn't going to happen again." Joe stated, preempting his friend's escape plan.
"What makes you think I want to tell you? Maybe its personal, you ever think of that?" Methos snapped peevishly.
"That's it? Do you know how long you're been here? Do you know how we found you or what condition you were in when we did? You've got some explaining to do, as well as some healing, you're not leaving here until you're much stronger. I won't have the world's oldest immortal die because of me." MacLeod snapped irritated.
"Good to know I'm loved huh?" Methos said surrendering. He briefly pondered pointing out that he wasn't the world's oldest immortal, he was his own, or that it wasn't actually Mac's fault Methos was lying there. But thought better of it, famous Scots guilt.
"Its going to take a while to tell you all of it, I want you to know that I remember everything. I know what you've done for me and what I did to you. I remember the Horsemen and I remember Walker, Joe, but it's going to be awhile before I can tell you everything. Can you handle that?" Solemnly each of the gathered men nodded. Methos nodded in acceptance and fell silent. He honestly didn't know where to start.
MacLeod watched him and sympathized, "Tell us what you can." He said softly.
Methos nodded and began
"Leprechauns!" Methos, snorted and stumbled slightly on the curb. Catching himself he paused and took a deep breath of the damp midnight air. He briefly considered 'borrowing' Mac's car but figured that would exceed his weakly irritation allowance and possibly result in an early death. Instead he decided to walk to his flat. It wasn't too far and he could use a walk to clear the alcohol haze from his system.
He tucked his hands into his coat and set out, clouds of his breath drifted in the air as he moved along. He hadn't been honest with Mac; he had had supernatural experiences in his life he just didn't wish to speak of them. His childhood, and his first master if he'd had one were all lost to the mists of time. He could not recall much of his life before his first quickening. In the roughly five thousand years since then he had lived hundreds of lives and known millions of people. Had hundreds, if not thousands of lovers, had seen mighty civilizations rise and fall. Ancient cities crumble to dust and entire races vanish from the face of the earth. Habit had made him mask the immense sorrow and age evident in his gaze at unguarded moments. His desire for survival was honed to a razor edge, the only thing that kept him from giving up like so many others. Even so he had offered his head to Mac when they first met. Methos smiled at the memory of that experience, even when he had attempted to trick Mac into killing him he had failed. Mac had seen through the ruse.
"MacLeod." He whispered to the sweet night air. He picked up his pace as the foggy air began to penetrate his clothing. The Ivanhoe thumped rhythmically against his thigh, it was a familiar and comforting weight. In a forever-changing world it helped to have something close and known like that. He felt it helped anchor him, reminding him of himself. As he breathed deeply he caught a scent. It was spicy and artificial, cologne or deodorant.
He frowned and kept his pace unchanged as he listened hard.Somewhere ahead he heard a faint creak and scrape. Someone was waiting for him, and someone else was behind him. Smoothly he reached down and loosened the Ivanhoe in its scabbard. He studied the layout of the street ahead of him; there was an alley to his right and an inset storefront to his left. He couldn't be sure which held his would be attacker. Frowning he flexed his hands and tensed his shoulders.
The attack came sooner than he expected. The first man struck him in the back of the legs; he had expected it would come from behind. He allowed his weight to fall on the man's shoulders and rolled on to his back, he did a handspring and landed on his feet drawing the Ivanhoe. He brought the pommel down on the back of the man's skull. All this had given the second man enough time to draw a bead on Methos.
The shot split the night air like a blade despite its silencer. It caught Methos high on the left shoulder; it knocked him off his feet. He struggled to regain his feet as the new man lashed out and kicked him in the solar plexus. Methos grunted and dropped to his face rolling away from his attacker. He crawled to his feet and leveled the sword at the new man.
He had felt a buzz from neither of the men. They were mortals and trained in combat. He bared his teeth and tried to run, far enough to heal and slip away. His opponent was nearly six feet tall; he wore black including gloves and a ski mask. Methos feigned pain in his shoulder although the wound had already healed. Tucking it back giving the appearance he wished to spare further injury. The man leveled his weapon at Methos once again.
"Who are you? Why are you doing this?" Methos gasped breathlessly.
Snatching up a piece of brick discarded at the curb he threw it at the man. He could see his sword a few feet away lying in the dim light of a flickering streetlamp. In answer the man shot him in the chest. Blinding pain exploded above his heart. The impact knocked him flat on his back, spread eagled. The Ivanhoe fell from his numbed hand. Weak and dying with no other plan but escape he tried to crawl away. He made it almost ten feet before the man stopped him.
He put his foot on Methos's back and pushed him to the ground. Methos screamed when his shattered chest struck the wet pavement. The man flipped him over and leveled the tunnel of his .45 at Methos's face. Calmly, deliberately, he pulled the trigger.
Mac shook his head, "So this person, whoever he was killed you?"
"Well, as dead as three point blank wounds from a .45 caliber handgun can make a person, yeah." Methos said flippantly.
"When I came to they had me strung up like those da Vinci drawings of the human body?" Methos continued.
He awoke slowly; his first sight was of a scuffed and filthy concrete floor. Deep gauges scored the surface; something heavy had been dragged across it recently. Dimly he realized he was nearly naked and tied in a most untenable position. He was also very cold. Blood from his wounds had dribbled down his body and dripped off his heels onto the floor, forming a wide shallow puddle. Vaguely he wondered how he could have held so much liquid. A bright light was focused on him blinding and frightening him in a primal way. Beyond the light he could hear movement and voices. He concentrated on himself and his body. Performing a sort of mental diagnostic. He was too weak to fight or run. His wounds had healed but he was suffering from hypothermia.
"Welcome." A rich mellow voice called from beyond the light startling Methos.
Methos licked his lips and swallowed, his voice still croaked.
"Who?" He demanded lifting his head for a moment to give what he hoped was a defiant look in the general direction of the voice; weak he dropped his head once again. He couldn't muster the energy or concentration to speak in full sentences.
"No one of consequence to anyone but you my friend." The voice crooned.
"Who!" Methos demanded again, his voice cracking and erupting into ragged coughs.
"Persistent I see, I am a cog, that is all, a simple tool in a long line of tools designed to bring you to heel."
"Weh. . .wha?" Methos gurgled desperately.
"Exactly my friend."
"Not friend." He snarled.
"That remains to be seen." All at once the light snapped off.
Methos felt a clammy fear crawl over his flesh.I can't see them coming, I can't see them in the dark. He thought wildly. A hand closed over his face and forced a chemical soaked cloth over his mouth and nose. In moments a fog shrouded his mind and ushered him into oblivion.
When he woke again he was still hanging but had been dressed and wrapped in blankets, he could feel a needle jabbing his right wrist. The light was still out and as far as he could tell no one was with him. Strangely he felt lonely more than afraid or angry. Somewhere in the fog of his drug induced sleep he had accepted that he would not leave this place alive. MacLeod and Richie would not come. Joe's Watchers would be no help Methos would die here. He didn't feel depressed more resigned. It was a curious feeling akin to his state of mind when he had offered himself to MacLeod. He felt stronger and desperately wished he could live. He ached to return to his life.
"I can be your friend or I can be your enemy, Kronos will look like a gentle companion composed of a well ordered mind once I am through with you, but only if you make me."
It was the voice from before. Methos could not feel his hands or feet.
"Let me down." He said calmly imagining his numb hands around the voice's throat.
"I don't think so, we couldn't have you killing me and trying to run away could we?"
"Who are you?" Methos croaked he twitched his wrists and felt the pressure of the needle in his wrist bite.
"Mmm my name is not important." The voice continued in the same reasonable tone.
Methos tugged on the rope binding his right wrist it gave slightly. He kept talking to the voice while he struggled to free at least one hand.
"Please, why am I here? I don't know what you're talking about, or why you think you know me. I don't remember anything!"
"A few thousand years pass and you completely abandon us? Now, that's not very loyal, is it?" Afraid and thinking rapidly Methosdecided to try to throw his captor off the scent.
"You psychotic bastard! I don't know you! I never knew you! You obviously know I am an immortal, but I have not been alive for thousands of years! I was born in the twenties, not the dawn of time!" He howled pulling at his bonds.
There, his right hand was free; he pulled it through the loop of rope and felt the bite of the needle pull free. He began working harder on his left hand and supporting his weight by gripping the loop of rope that had held his right hand.
"My, we are quite an accomplished liar, aren't we? Perhaps it will help if I call you Arctus?"
Methos had never heard the name before; although it was terribly familiar. It reminded him of how it feels when you've forgotten something terribly important, but simply can't remember what it was you've forgotten. He mouthed it to himself, Arc-toos. His left hand was slick with blood but he was gaining more freedom of movement.
"I've never heard that name, my name is Adam." He snapped keeping to his cover as student extraordinaire Adam Pierson. His left hand and forearmed burned. The wrist was numb but he had gained even more room, one last tug should do it.
"Let me go, I have powerful friends. They'll come for me, let me go." Methos begged, helplessly.
Was this the voice of Death? He wondered insanely. He felt a bitter taste coat his mouth.
"I grow tired of this, guards, rebind our guest and make sure they're tight this time, I will hold your lives forfeit should he succeed in loosing his bonds once again."
Methos all but howled in frustration. He focused on the sounds around him. A ladder, he felt the weight leaning against the framework of his prison. It set the scaffold swinging slightly. Methos shifted his weight to accentuate the swing. Keeping his right hand in place to avoid spooking his prey he clenched his fist. Whoever it was leaned over him, he could feel the body heat. Lashing out with all his strength he aimed for what he hoped was the head or throat. He struck the person's larynx, there was a thick squishy crunch followed by a strangled cry as the person lost its grip and fell to the ground.
A wet crunch drifted up to Methos. Instantly the world was filled with light and shouts. Blinded Methos ducked his head and dangling by one hand tore at the leather straps binding his ankles. With unnatural strength accented by terror and survival instinct he snapped the straps and dropped to the floor. It was a long fall nearly thirty feet; his left ankle broke on impact.
Squinting around him he saw human shapes darting around the circle of light. His victim lay crumpled on the floor. He noted with regret that it had been a young woman. Her wide face was frozen in an expression of horrified pain. Others were coming toward him. Insane with fear and rage he darted out of the light in a fairly random direction. He collided with limbs as he ran; shouts and even gunshots rang out. He struck a wall with his shoulder and began running along it hoping to find a door. His elbow struck a doorknob painfully. He slid to a halt and tugged at it, locked. A stray bullet zinged off the plaster beside him. Hurling himself at the door Methos broke it loose from the frame and staggered into the light.
Running awkwardly and limping in pain from his badly healed ankle he tried to gain his bearings. He was on a pier in an unfamiliar area. Figures a mocking voice cried somewhere in his head, always an abandoned warehouse or pier. This wasn't abandoned he noted as he ran to the edge of the pier. A fresh logo was painted on its side. He dove headfirst into the water, a delicate swan dive of frantic clumsiness. Seconds later dozens of bullets struck the surface whirring and splitting the torrid water, several struck Methos, none fatally.
He jogged underwater reveling in the oddball immortal ability to breathe underwater until he judged enough time had passed. Carefully Methos broke the surface. The pier and its insane gun-toting occupants were nearly a mile behind him, though he noted uneasily that a small group was piling into a small motorboat. Irritated he ducked back under the surface and continued on.
"I must have gone probably ten miles that day, they came close but never found me. That was just the beginning; I almost made it back here. Came damn close, but they got me again." Methos said and fell silent.
Mac studied him for a moment. He was still gaunt, large black circles had camped out underneath his eyes and he had a wild look in his eyes. He watched Joe sit and stare at Methos, Richie looked at no one, only his hands. The young man stood up suddenly and looked around a bit frantically.
"Uh, anyone want some lunch or something? 'Cause I was going to make something . . . Methos?" Richie asked distractedly.
"Sure Ryan, whatever is fine." Methos said casually, he suspected young Ryan was suffering from an acute attack of sudden guilt.
"Ryan, its okay, I know." He said softly. Richie went rigid and slowly raised his head to meet Methos's eyes.
"You do?" he gasped. Methos nodded. Richie's face twisted, shock, relief, shame, and sorrow danced across it. Richie opened his mouth to say more but Methos interrupted him.
"Don't risk it kid, I'll explain it to him, and Ryan, I understand, I forgive you, but I don't trust you." He held the boy's gaze until Richie looked away, sadly Richie nodded.
The Highlander watched this exchange with an expression of slack- jawed incomprehension. His jaws flapped and he tried to gather his thoughts.
"Don't bother MacLeod, he can't talk about it." Methos said tiredly.
"What do you mean? What are you talking about? Do you think Richie did something to you? Somebody better start talking, right bloody now!" The irate Scot snapped.
"No, you thick skulled, temperamental, steel swinger, I mean he can't, now shut up and let me sleep, I'll tell you when I wake up." Methos growled and vanished under the covers.
An uneasy stunned silence descended over the men. Nervous Richie slipped into the hall and headed toward the kitchen. Joe watched him leave with a blank stare; vaguely he thought I'm too old for this shit anymore. MacLeod glared at Methos briefly and smiled, the old S.O.B. can still bug the hell out of me, he thought and saw the door close softly as Richie left. Joe and MacLeod followed him.
Richie picked up his bike helmet and sword from the kitchen table where he had left them in preparation for some errand running he'd had planned. Joe walked past Richie out onto the porch and stood leaning on a rail watching the marine traffic and sea birds below. MacLeod walked into the kitchen and stood leaning in the doorway. He watched Richie slip the sword and scabbard over his shoulder and tuck the helmet under his arm.
"Leaving?" Mac asked coldly. Slowly Richie raised his head and nodded.
"Why?" Mac asked in a friendlier tone and gripped the young man's unburdened shoulder. Richie stared at his teacher and friend, his brother and father, and swallowed hard.
He shook off Mac's hand and said, "I have to, you heard him, he doesn't trust me, neither will you when he tells you why. I . . ." He trailed off into momentary silence rubbing at his throat again. A red irritated mark was beginning to show on his neck it appeared to ring it.
"For what its worth I'm sorry Mac, and I won't be back." He pushed past Mac and started down the short hall to the front door.
"That's not good enough, I don't care what happened, we all make mistakes, if you really wanted Methos dead, you wouldn't have come here and helped him. If you just walk out of here, what are you proving?"
"I don't want to prove anything, Mac, I just want to go, ok?" He said still heading for the door.
"Richie, you are trying to prove something, why else did you come back? To prove that you're still a good person, to prove that Methos is still your friend, if you leave now, you'll lose all that."
"You don't get it Mac, its gone all ready, I came back to see if he would remember what happened, I came back to . . .to see if it was too late, and . . .it is. So I'm leaving now." He said softly pausing outside Methos's room.
MacLeod remained silent as he left the house, distantly Mac heard his bike start and roar out of the driveway. Joe walked back in off the porch and sat heavily at one the chairs. Painfully he laid his cane across his knees and looked at Mac.
"Now what? Save the kid?" he asked. Mac ignored him for a moment deep in thought. Finally he looked up.
"We have to hear Methos out, then maybe we can get Richie to come back. I don't know . . .When did everything get so complicated huh, Joe?" Mac asked flopping into a chair next to his graying friend.
In Methos's dreams he was back in the warehouse the faceless voice demanding things from him again. Demanding to know why he had failed. Why he had betrayed his people. Screaming and frantic he pleaded, again he was helpless and begging. Again none would listen. They pulled his limbs taught and began to arrange their toys on shiny steel platters blades, flames, acid, drugs, and of course electrical probes. He broke into a sweat and tried to flee but it was as if he were made of lead. The pale feminine hand reached for the acid and he screamed . . .
He woke in a cold sweat Joe and Mac were leaning over him; Mac was supporting him with one hand on his back. He gasped and stared around for a moment before gaining his bearings and relaxing, or rather trying to relax. Despite his orders his body remained rigid not trusting that he was safe. Breathing deeply and murmuring a meditative chant he leaned back into his pillows. For the first time he wondered whose room he was in.
"Ok now?" Mac asked as he sat in a chair that had been brought in and pulled next to his bed while he slept, Joe sat in another next to Mac.
Methos nodded and closed his eyes briefly. The memories were so sharp and painful that he buried them deep lest he go mad. Still like the razors they were they worked their way to the surface. Slicing through any flesh in the way.
"Richie go?" He asked somewhat rhetorically. Mac nodded.
"Fine, do you want me to go on?" He asked. Neither man answered at first, MacLeod motioned to a T.V. tray set up with water and soup. Methos regarded it blankly for a moment and then shook his head.
.
Methos staggered into the street. Night had fallen while he hid from his pursuers. His first destination was Joe's, then he would leave town and start over. He didn't have a choice anymore. He was only a few blocks away now. Gasping in pain from his badly healed ankle and weak from blood loss and fear he dragged on.
Only a block from the bar he paused to catch his breath. He felt the familiar buzz of an immortal's presence, a very young immortal. Immediately he cursed the loss of his sword. Hopefully it was only Richie, if it was anyone else he would have to hide or bluff. He scanned the street for a suitable place. He spotted a fire escape and staggered toward its dangling ladder; he didn't know how he could reach it.
Richie Ryan stepped out of the shadows and into the pale yellow light reflected from the dim streetlamps scattered along the block. Immediately Methos relaxed.
"Richie, what are you doing out here?" Methos gasped leaning against a pitted brick wall and catching his breath.
"Looking for you." Richie said. He stood at an awkward angle. His right side facing the ancient man almost a fighting stance. Methos's radar went off and he tensed. Not soon enough it turned out. Richie lifted his arm he held a pistol. Methos couldn't tell the exact caliber in the uncertain light, but it was large, a .35 at least. Richie's eyes pleaded for forgiveness even as he pulled the trigger and shattered his friend's heart.
"Erk." Methos squalled before being knocked backward into a pile of trash. Richie dropped the gun and fell to his knees. Distantly he heard a car door slam. An angry red mark circled his throat it appeared to be an abrasion. Which was impossible, any minor wound would heal almost instantly.
A man jogged into the alley followed by a team of men. Working efficiently the team injected Methos with a sedative, bound his limbs and dropped him into a trunk. They saluted the other man and ignored Richie as they leaped into the car and drove off. The man turned to Richie expectantly.
Richie ignored him staring at the gun with a blank expression. Finally he seemed to realize that some sort of response was expected from him. Disjointedly he picked up the weapon and offered it the other man.
Ryan's companion was an even six feet tall. His features were thin, and angular, piercing cobalt eyes set above a smallish razor like nose and a close cut crop of black hair set off his strong jaw and wide shoulders. He looked strong, more importantly he looked dangerous.
The blue-eyed stranger regarded the proffered weapon with an air of mild interest before finally accepting it. He eyed young Ryan the way a scientist might study a lab rat infected with a particularly virulent strain of Ebola and left to die in a cage; a sort of clinical sadism.
"You can go for now, but remember we own you." He smirked and turned on his heel.
"Wait!" Richie called returning for a moment to himself.
The stranger laughed and kept walking. Cursing Richie stared after him as he faded into the shadows. He stared at the pool of blood seeping into the sludge smeared on the ground. Shivering he looked into the sky; a few stars pierced the gray shroud.
Methos opened his eyes and coughed hoarsely. The lighting was dim; he could feel he was bound again. Wherever he was he was warmer, he took a deep breathe, and smelled only damp wood and humid air. That was bad, he'd been moved, and the air in Seacouver was never this warm or humid, not in February. Still coughing he tried to focus his eyes; he seemed groggier than he should have been.
One of the benefits to his age was that he had died in an amazing number of different ways. He had been shot and stabbed through the heart an incredible number of times. Drawing on those experiences and memories he realized he was far more incapacitated than he should have been.
His mouth tasted cottony and foul, drugs he surmised. Abruptly he thought of Richie. Why? Obviously he wasn't head hunting, then what? He hadn't wanted to do that. Methos prided himself on being an excellent judge of character-yet another benefit of age he thought dourly, and Ryan was not the sort of person to jump an opponent. He again tried to see his surroundings. His eyes hurt as well, they burned and ached.
"Ahh, I see you have awakened." Methos froze it was the voice again, the cursed voice from the warehouse.
"Don't bother trying to see where you are, you have been drugged and acid has been poured on your eyes. I think you will find escaping from here an interesting challenge once you're blind. You see we've no idea if your sight will fully recover. Presumably your healing ability will see to it that you do. But, then we've discovered that certain injuries to the head and neck have a harder time healing than others for your kind, I guess we'll find out, hmm?" It ended jovially.
"You did what?" Methos croaked, he could see the logic of it, but the pain was beginning to become acute as the sedative wore off.
"Don't act surprised my dear boy, you have done far worse in your long life, surely you see the wisdom in incapacitating and weakening a subject?" Methos remained silent. The pain was agonizing-daggers of pain lanced through his skull. Desperately his eyes began to tear trying to rid themselves of the destructive substance. His cheeks and face were soon wet but the pain did not abate. He arched his back and tugged at his bonds. They were handcuffs faintly he heard a metallic clank. Unable to focus his mind due to the pain he simply writhed and tugged. Some part of his mind told him it would be a poor idea to scream, he ignored this advice and howled.
The owner of the voice watched his subject's contortions and screams. A blank expression settled over his features, his blue eyes gleamed hungrily. He reached for a scalpel lying on a tray with several other instruments of his trade. He held it edge up and watched light play along its length.
"Give him a dose of sedative in an hour, enough to stop the screaming but not dull the pain. I have work to do." He commanded to the apparently empty room and stepped toward Methos.
MacLeod blanched and seemed to collapse into himself although his posture didn't change. Joe stared at Methos for a moment before reaching out and gripping his upper arm fiercely. Methos wouldn't raise his eyes to meet theirs. His flesh crawled at Joe's touch and he struggled to suppress the urge to pull away. Sensing his friend's reluctance to accept physical contact Joe released him.
"He was right . . . I have done worse . . . I would have done that if I had ever thought of it." He said softly.
MacLeod moved as though to speak. Perhaps to deny Methos's confession, but he realized the futility of such a gesture and remained silent.
"I don't know how long it lasted. He was a master whoever he was. He would keep me barely sedated, just enough to keep me fairly quiet. Never letting me pass out for more than a few seconds and never letting me die."
Hours turned into days and days into weeks. Methos wouldn't break. This bothered his blue-eyed demon, never before had a subject resisted him so before. Granted this one had a unique past and untold strengths. Frowning he shifted the electrode from his right to his left hand and fiddled with the amperage. Electricity was always a difficult tool with these creatures. It was unpredictable at best, dangerous for the wielder and it could kill the immortal.
Smiling he turned off the electrode and began gathering his equipment. He would try something new he decided. He piled his paraphernalia on a trolley and left the room whistling cheerfully.
As silence descended Methos relaxed. He had been functioning on primal instincts and broken awareness for God only knew how long. In the brief spaces when the man he had dubbed Baal ceased his hideous ministrations he fought to heal and rest his sanity. Pain thudded and rocketed through his exhausted frame. Each and every portion of his body had been pierced, burned, crushed, broken, sliced, and electrocuted. His vision was still damaged everything he saw was blurred. Whether due to the injury, sweat, blood, or tears, he couldn't tell. His throat was raw and bled occasionally, no doubt due to his screams.
Eventually he had discovered that he was bound to a flat steel table, secured by handcuffs and shackles. The table appeared to be bolted to the floor, at least it had never broken loose during his struggles or seizures. He thought he had an I.V. somewhere providing nourishment and drugs designed to calm Methos when Baal insisted on asking more of his mad questions. If Methos knew the answers he would have given them, had tried to. Baal didn't seem to be interested in immortals as a whole or even in particular. He seemed satisfied with what he knew already. Instead he wanted to know about MacLeod and Ahriman, Methos and his life with the Horsemen and other inane pieces of information. Methos got the feeling when he thought about the infrequent interrogation sessions that Baal wasn't looking for the answers to his questions. He was looking for something else maybe Methos's reactions to the questions. Grateful for a respite from the unending agony however short Methos closed his eyes.
The blue-eyed man left Methos alone for nearly a week. Allowing his taxed body to heal and his active mind to mull over the events of the last few weeks. He would allow his subject enough time to regain his strength and mental capacities. Even enough time to gain some idea of who and what the man and his companions were and their agenda. Then he would spring the final phase of his plan. His thin lips stretched in a hideous expression of satisfaction. His feminine fingers tapped along his prominent cheekbone as he lost himself in satisfying daydreams.
A few days later as Methos lay lightly dozing mulling over his situation Baal returned. During his vacation as Methos thought of it he had come to several conclusions: One, Baal knew a hell of a lot about Methos and MacLeod. Two, Richie Ryan must have told Baal which meant Baal must have forced it from him just as he had forced Ryan to shoot Methos. Three, Baal wasn't trying to find out what Methos knew he was trying to find out what Methos didn't know, and Four. Methos had to find out how Baal had broken Richie and why. At the root of it all was the why, Baal was going to a great deal of trouble, Methos had to find out why. Methos could feel Baal staring at him but refused to open his eyes.
"I have decided to try something new with you." Methos didn't reply.
"Are you familiar with sensory deprivation?" Baal asked sweetly.
"It is a process in which a subject is shut off from stimuli. It is used among other things to train assassins and perform interrogations. Its quite effective but often results in the subject losing any grip on reality." Determined Methos remained impassive unmoving. Baal smiled his twisted thin-lipped smirk and leaned over Methos.
"Good night." He said simply. Immediately a large dose of drugs began to filter through the I.V. incapacitating the immortal.
"I don't really remember what happened after that, just glimpses, I think they put me in a tank of water in the dark. Somewhere in there they must have grown tired or found out what they needed. Anyway, they let me go I don't know where. All I can remember is how bright the sun was and trying to find a dark place." Methos finished and picked up the now tepid bowl of broth.
His companions sat thinking. Joe stood and shook his head angrily.
"How, Methos? How did they get to Richie?" he asked gruffly rubbing his hand along the top of his cane.
"Ahh, now that is interesting. Apparently this madman has developed some sort of device, a collar of sorts that is implanted under the subcutaneous tissue on an immortal's . . ."
"Neck . . "MacLeod interrupted horrified.
"
Clever boy." Methos said offhandedly and gulped some soup, a small amount dribbled down his chin.
"Holy God . . ." Joe whispered and made the sign of the cross. The magnitude of the intelligent evil behind such a decision nauseated the Watcher. He swallowed hard and an unbidden image of young Richie's head blown clean off his neck leapt to mind.
"How . . ." Began MacLeod.
"Do they monitor it? I don't know I suspect its programmed to go off at key phrases or signals, I never really had a chance to check." Methos said.
The room was silent for a moment. Methos finished his meal and sat back. MacLeod seemed to be deep in thought or perhaps memory. Joe was pale he sat and fidgeted with his cane.
"We have to find Richie, or these people, we have to do something." MacLeod said finally.
"Wrong, you have to." Methos said pulling blankets over his shoulders.
Mac moved as though to stand, to argue. Joe put a hand on his arm and shook his head. Mac stared at him for a moment unconvinced finally he nodded and they left the room.
"Let him be Mac, he's been through the ninth gate of hell. I can't blame him for not wanting to help Richie or face those guys again."
"I know that, and I'm sorry, its just, can you imagine Richie killing him. Knowing the kind of people that would take him?"
"No, I can't. That doesn't change the fact that he did. Look Mac it was him or Methos, it wasn't like he had a choice!" Joe said and paused looking at his old friend for a moment.
"If you want to do something go find Richie, get his side of the story, if you can. We're going to need all the help we can get to stop these guys."
Mac didn't reply for a moment simply glaring at Joe, "Fine, what are you going to do in the meantime?"
"I'm gonna call in some favors and warn the tribunal about these guys. I may be retired but I'm still a Watcher. Mac, they'll listen and they might even help." Joe snapped.
"Yeah with a little bloodshed and some arm-breaking." Mac muttered turning away from Joe and striding into his own room.
The Watcher's system had been helpful in the past. But the individual Watchers and their hierarchy had at best been a nuisance, at worst death squads. MacLeod thought about his friend Jakob Galati, about James Horton the renegade and murderer, and about the fiasco of a trial for Joe that had nearly resulted in both of their executions. Yeah, Joe's information was usually helpful but the Watchers themselves were about as useful as a guillotine.
Mac would find Richie and get some answers but he doubted the Watchers would be any help at all, quite the opposite. Joe simply watched him go. For someone nearly five hundred years old he rarely thought things through. He had a mental image of suicidal Lancelot charging off to kill people he barely knew for people he didn't much appreciate. He knew that wasn't fair, Mac was a just person, when he was wrong he was drastically deadly wrong, but he wasn't wrong often. Still he got damned annoying with his holier than thou crap and holy crusades. Joe couldn't count the number of times he had rushed off to whack some guy without a plan or backup. Joe closed his eyes; it was hard watching your oldest friend constantly risk his life just to earn the right to live another day.
Abruptly he thought of Ahriman. Mac nearly killed Richie that night; only Richie's reflexes had saved his life. Blocking a deadly blow from Mac's katana as he desperately fought the Zoroastrian demon Ahriman. Ahriman, bent on the destruction of the world it was driving Mac insane masquerading as all of his nightmares.
Kronos leader of the Horsemen, Horton the renegade watcher who had slaughtered Darius and dozens of other immortals and Richie, turned to evil. Mac defeated Ahriman, as he crushed all his enemies. That didn't make it any easier to watch him charge off to combat where only one could walk away with a head. Joe thought of Methos and what he had told Joe and MacLeod of the Horsemen. The four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, Methos who was Death and the brains of the operation, Kronos who was Pestilence and leader of the band, Caspian and Silas were Famine and War, they were simply killers. MacLeod had faced them, killing Caspian and Kronos, finally accepting Methos. Methos killed Silas with his own hands. Silas the simplest of the Horsemen and the closest thing Methos had had to a friend during their thirteen hundred year reign of terror. Methos had killed him. Joe wondered at the kind of man that could make that kind of moral journey. That could go from a calculating killer, a soulless torturing demon to a mild scholar who avoided combat as much as possible to the point of running from an enemy for hundreds and even thousands of years. What kind of man was that? Joe shook his head. MacLeod appeared holding his katana and a duffel bag.
"I'm going after him, call me if you find out anything. I'll try to be back soon; if I'm not back in a day have Amanda stand guard. Just tell her I asked you, she'll come." He said heading for the door.
"Mac." Joe called. The immortal stopped and faced him. His eyes looked shadowed, hunted, and hurt.
"Be careful huh?" Mac didn't bother replying he stepped out into a light drizzle and closed the door.
Methos dreamed, he remembered more when he dreamed but he fought the memories. One of the lessons he had learned in his long life was that some things were well worth forgetting. Yet another lesson was that some things once forgotten could resurface in the most painful and dangerous of ways. He was back in the room. Baal wasn't there, he still couldn't see but he could move. He sat up and tried get off the table. There was no floor,l just a vast cold space. He pulled his legs up and stared around. There were no walls either. He wasn't afraid, it seemed okay that there were no walls that there was no ceiling and he was alone. Then he realized why, Baal wasn't there and neither was his tray, or the I.V. He felt safe and relaxed, odd.
Then it started, a sort of low grinding noise. It grew in volume until he could make out individual voices. It was screaming, thousands of voices screaming in pain and fear. To his horror they were familiar, Cassandra's voice, Silas's crying for mercy, and countless others, his victims. They began to meld into one awful noise assaulting him with a physical power battering him numbing his ears. Finally they began to fade into one voice -his own voice begging and howling for mercy from Baal. Justice his dream self whispered. And closed his eyes. Justice. He opened them and he was in his room.
His bedding was soaked with sweat. His muscles were quivering and twitching with pent up energy. Carefully Methos peeled away the wet bedding and dropped his feet to the floor. His clothing was transparent with liquid. Disgusted he peeled off his shirt and let it drop with a depressing splat to the floor. A pile of clothes sat on Joe's chair. He reached over and snagged it. Smiling at Joe's choices he slipped out of his remaining sweaty clothes and into the new ones.
Joe sat on the balcony watching the bay. A small tugboat was towing a massive oil tanker through the tricky maze of sandbars blocking the mouth of the bay. Dozens of gleaming white fishing boats reflected the watery winter light. A sharp salt breeze ruffled his gray streaked hair before seeking a more malleable playmate. He seemed sitting in thought to be more a statue than a man. Limping and pale Methos opened the thin screen door and stepped onto the warped cedar planks. He was bare foot and his shirt hung loose and unbuttoned. He leaned on the weather-beaten railing and stared.
Joe didn't move. That was fine Methos didn't feel like talking anymore. Apparently Mac had chosen his usual tactic, rush off and try to fix things. He didn't much care, he was tired, deeply tired, his spirit, his instincts told him to let it be. He sighed and pulled a rusted wrought iron chair up to the railing. Joe watched his friend slump into the chair, he noted wryly that the ancient adopted his usual boneless posture. Damn cat man; he thought vaguely watching Methos's near feline contentment in simply sitting. They sat that way until sunset. The sun seemed to leap suicidally into the icy winter sea, quenching its fiery colors in gunmetal gray rippling waters. Somehow this sight pleased Methos, the dull orange red fading into the pleasing rhythm. Joe shivered and stood leaning heavily on his cane. Methos glanced up at him, noting for the first time how much older he seemed than when they had last met. His hair was much grayer, actually white in places and he relied on his cane more. A faint shadow of sorrow gripped him when he realized he was going to loose Joe very soon. A part of him wanted to rail at the cruel unfairness of it. Joe was the only man who knew Methos's past and hadn't judged him. Had instead attempted to understand him. Methos would deeply miss him. He watched the musician flee the encroaching night and disappear inside. Methos remained sprawled barefoot and bare-chested. He knew it wasn't a healthy decision, but he wanted to be cold, to be bare. He wanted to be forced to shiver and react to cold. He needed to be reminded that he could react, he could feel, because he was alive.
Only he hadn't shivered once. The cold seeped into him and seemed to become part of him. He smirked and wondered if he was getting hypothermia. Finally as the last of the stars peered above the horizon he went inside.
