What the Thunder Said
By Jennifer Campbell
If this story looks familiar to you, there's a reason: I wrote it quite awhile ago. I just never got around to posting it to this site until now. I've done some minor edits, and I'll be posting a new chapter every day or two. I hope you enjoy.
Methos, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod and Cassandra belong to people with a lot more money than me. Thank you to my wonderful betas, Atti, Tracey and JezT, and my final two checkers, MacXavier and Sue Ellen. And a special thanks to Farquarson, without whom this and many of my stories would have suffered. Thanks also to Dee and my family, who are the best cheerleaders I could ever ask for.
ll snippets of verse are from T.S. Eliot's "The Waste Land," the poem that inspired this story. Information on the city of Petra comes from National Geographic and the Web site kinghussein.gov.
Warning: This is a story about the Gathering, which means that all immortals except one will die. If you don't like reading about major character deaths, then stop now.
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After the torchlight red on sweaty faces
After the frosty silence in the gardens
After the agony in stony places
The shouting and the crying
Prison and palace and reverberation
Of thunder of spring over distant mountains
He who was living is now dead
We who were living are now dying
With a little patience
-- T.S. Eliot, "The Waste Land"
Part 1: The Fire Sermon
With lightning and agony, thus ends the Game. The victor falls to his knees, gently lays his broadsword on the bedrock and sobs for the pain of it. All he has known for centuries, all he can remember for five thousand years, drains into the thirsty rock with the blood of his final opponent.
Thus ends the Game, with a grief-filled sob and only the April thunder to witness its passing.
Methos feels no different as he bows his head over his opponent, his friend. He senses no Prize. Shaking with the force to snap bones, he slumps his weary shoulders, and salty tears dry against his cheeks. Around him, the towers of rock rumble in a shock wave and the brittle brush surrenders silently to the wind. But he sees the body before him and nothing more. He grasps the callused hand in his own.
"I'm sorry ..." he rasps, the words catching in his parched throat.
He touches his forehead to the cold fingers in tribute before taking his sword in both hands, using it as a crutch as he struggles to his feet. Slowly, strength returns to his legs and he can stand without support. He sheathes his sword and pulls the katana from where it is jammed into a crack in the rock. The hot wind ruffles his hair and whips the shredded remains of his shirt around his body, but he does not notice. He reverses the sword, grasps the hilt between his palms and bows so deeply that the katana's tip scrapes the ground.
"Farewell, Duncan MacLeod of the clan MacLeod," he whispers. "May you find peace."
Then he turns and stumbles away, leaving the body to nature and the thunder, mourning softly in the distance.
#
Three weeks later, he picks open the back door of Joe's after closing time and slips inside. Joe looks up from the cash register, where he is counting the night's earnings, and his hands abruptly stop sifting through the money. He blinks, as though to clear his eyes of this hallucination, but the lean figure does not vanish. Joe's mouth works silently as Methos approaches the bar and drops heavily onto a stool.
"Close your mouth, Joe, or you'll start catching flies," Methos says dully.
"You're alive," Joe breathes. He braces his hips against the counter and leans over, examining Methos with wide eyes. "Every Watcher in the world is searching for the winner, and it's been you all along."
"You noticed." Methos props his elbows on the bartop and slouches forward. "Can I have a beer?"
Joe blinks. "Um, yeah. Yeah, sure, buddy."
As Joe becomes the barkeeper, filling two tall glasses from the tap, Methos allows his gaze to wander. So many memories here, of good times and bad. Over there, the table where MacLeod joined him after killing Byron, and on a shelf behind the counter, the glass Joe reserved for MacLeod's use.
Even in death, the Highlander's presence weighs heavily on this place, in every booth and neon light, which is why Methos has returned. He knows his sense of honor, however faint, won't allow him to run from his grief or from his duty to share the story with MacLeod's former Watcher. What Joe does afterward is up to him: Throw Methos out of the bar, nod wisely and say he understands or simply transcribe the tale for future generations. Maybe Joe would even try to kill him. In any case, his reaction doesn't matter. Nothing Joe could do or say would change a thing.
Methos takes the beer with thanks and savors a long drink, swishing the nectar across his tongue before swallowing. With a contented sigh, he closes his eyes and enjoys a moment of serenity.
Then Joe's voice cuts the silence. "I tried calling you, and when you never answered I assumed you were dead. Where have you been?"
Methos shrugs. "Places no one goes."
"Do any of those places have names?" Joe presses, but Methos' only answer is an amused smile. With annoyance Joe says, "Come on, Methos, you didn't come here to throw riddles at me. You did it, didn't you."
Methos eyes flicker.
"You won the Prize," Joe prompts.
"There is no Prize." Methos takes another drink. "There never was."
Joe shakes his head, disbelief clear in his expression. He sits on a stool behind the counter. "Well, ain't that a bitch. You survive since the Bronze Age, and you don't get a damn thing."
"You're wrong, Joe."
"What do you mean?" His eyebrows furrow.
"I get to live."
"Oh, yeah. I forgot that part," Joe says with a soft chuckle. "You get to live for eternity."
"Or until the world ends. Whichever comes first."
Joe lifts his glass in a toast. "To a long life. May you enjoy your victory."
Methos clinks his glass against Joe's, producing a hollow sound, and sips his beer. Victory, Joe calls it, and he the victor. Or is that victim? Is this a Prize or a punishment, confined to the hell of eternal boredom as friends die, civilizations fade and everything crumbles into nothing. I will show you fear in a handful of dust. Perhaps that is what I face, Methos thinks. Perhaps my waste land is only beginning.
Joe sets his glass on the counter and shifts on his stool, his eyes darting between his drink and Methos' face. With a calming breath, he asks the question Methos can see burning in his eyes.
"MacLeod," he says quietly. "Were you there when he died?"
Methos nods. "I was there."
"You killed the bastard who did it, right?"
"Not exactly," Methos says, grimacing.
"What happened, then?"
"It's a long story, Joe. Are you sure you want to hear it?"
"I have all night. Start talking."
So Methos closes his eyes and visualizes the scene, so fresh in his perfect memory. The barge, Paris in the frigid month of February, and MacLeod, sitting cross-legged on the wooden floor with his katana across his knees.
Methos begins the tale.
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To be continued. But if you can't wait, you can read the whole story at my website: I can't seem to get the URL to save the right way here, so just click on my name at the top of the story and you can link to my website from there.