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
An Ending or a Beginning?
He rides on
a white horse; he wears a golden crown. Three Horsemen come from
Hell, but he is the sword of God - the power of the Kingdom of
Heaven.
Unknown
Methos ignored MacLeod's words. Instead he paced across to the door and opened it. "There's the door - *use* it."
MacLeod groaned. "What is it? Why can't you trust me with this?"
Methos slammed the door again and stalked across to where MacLeod was sitting. Before MacLeod could blink, Methos had him pinned against the wall. "It's not *can't* MacLeod," he hissed out, "it's *won't*. And as for *why*, give me one good reason. After everything you said, give me one good reason why I should."
MacLeod could think of nothing to say.
"I thought so. Get out!" Methos spat, and forcibly propelled MacLeod towards the doorway. The Scot was too stunned to react until they reached the door. Then his self-defence reflexes kicked in, and in a blur of movement, Methos was the one pinned up against the wall.
"Come on Methos, what's it going to hurt to tell me this?"
"Our friendship."
The words were barely audible, and one look into Methos' face told MacLeod that this was the honest truth. There were no masks or facades shielding Methos' insecurities. For a second, MacLeod knew he was looking directly into the heart of the enigma that was Methos. Then with a slam, all the barriers, masks and shielding came down.
"Now *get* *OUT*," Methos gritted out.
Positions were reversed once more as the ancient Immortal took control again. Again, MacLeod found himself being propelled in the direction of the door. In desperation, he attempted to trip Methos, and succeeded.
The ancient lost his balance, and the pair crashed to the ground. For a few moments, the two Immortals grappled together, before finally MacLeod's larger bulk won out and they finished with the Scot pinning Methos' narrower frame to the ground.
"I am *not* running this time, Methos," MacLeod snapped. "I shouldn't have run like I did in Seacouver. I *know* that now."
"Well you had your chance," Methos hissed back.
"I'm *asking* for another." MacLeod softened his expression. "Please?"
Methos' face twisted up into an angry sneer. "The clan chieftain is begging lowly me for another chance?" From somewhere within that narrow frame came a surge of power, and MacLeod found himself pinned hard against the floor. "Tell me this, MacLeod, if none of this had happened, would *I* have got a second chance? Hmm?"
"I..."
Methos' hands roughly grabbed MacLeod's collar. "No, I wouldn't have done, would I? Be honest, MacLeod. In your eyes, I was irredeemable. And you think I'm going to tell you *anything*? Why the hell should I trust you? Why the hell should I trust you with a damn *thing*?"
"Methos..."
"Uh-uh, MacLeod, don't say it," Methos continued, shaking his head. "Because frankly, I won't believe it."
"Methos...please..."
"Please what? Kiss the nightmares goodbye? I *can't*..." Suddenly all the anger and tension bled out of Methos' bearing. "How can I when I can't even get rid of my own?"
Without a word more, Methos slid off the Highlander's prone form and huddled himself into a disconsolate ball. Stunned at the sudden capitulation, it took MacLeod a few moments before he recovered himself enough to sit up.
"Methos?"
Looking across at the dejected form, he could see thin shoulders shaking and a sound reached him - a sob, it sounded like.
"Methos?"
"MacLeod just *go*...please..."
The desolation in the tone tore at MacLeod's heart; while he suspected he wasn't the root cause of it, he knew he was the catalyst, and now - more than ever - he regretted what had occurred in Seacouver. He crawled across to the sobbing - and he was sure now it was sobs that were wracking Methos - huddle and went to put his arm around the trembling shoulders, only for Methos to flinch away.
"Please...*go*."
"Methos...please..."
"Just go." The words were barely above a whisper.
For a long, frozen moment, MacLeod debated with himself as to what he should do. Methos wanted him to leave - had done so for the last fifteen minutes, or so - but intuition told MacLeod that if he left now, it could be the last time he ever saw the ancient Immortal; and he couldn't let that happen. Yet, what choice did he have?
"All right, Methos. I'll go."
As MacLeod stood up, he half hoped that Methos would make some movement to stop him, but the pitiful ball of humanity didn't react. With a heavy heart, MacLeod left the apartment.
*************************************
MacLeod felt listless.
It had been a week since he had left Methos' apartment, and there had been no sight or sound of the old man since. He hadn't seen him. Nor had Joe. Nor had Amanda, who was back in town. The only reason he knew Methos had not simply lit out for parts unknown was word from Joe who - similarly worried - had placed a junior Watcher on alert out side Methos' apartment. The junior had duly reported back that newspapers were disappearing from the doorstep each morning, lights were going on and off behind the blinds and the SUV that Methos currently owned was still parked up outside.
Of course, that was no guarantee. If Methos wanted to fool them into thinking he was still there when in fact he was long gone, the ancient was more than capable; and after all, junior Watchers had to sleep sometimes.
MacLeod had not shared the subject material of the argument with Joe and Amanda - he judged it information that was purely between himself and Methos - but every time he saw either of them, he could feel their disapproval. They had both decided (rightly, MacLeod knew) that Methos' disappearance was his fault - and they were not shy of letting him know. Yet there was nothing he could do about it.
He felt as if there should be. As if there was something he could do that would make things right. But what?
Even as he reached this point in his thoughts, he felt the first touch of an Immortal presence. **Friend or foe?**
Gathering up his katana, MacLeod made his way out of the barge and onto the deck, intent on meeting whoever it was.
"I am Duncan Mac..."
"We know who you are, and we have not come to challenge you."
MacLeod span round and found himself facing three people a man and two women, instead of the one Immortal he had felt. "Who are you?"
"Our names will mean nothing to you," stated the man. "You may call us Anna, Enrique and Natascha - if that makes you feel more comfortable."
Anna, the woman to his right smiled, and MacLeod thought his insides would melt from the sheer dazzling beauty of it. "We are pleased to finally meet you," she said.
"Anna!" complained Natascha. "Leave him alone!"
No sooner had Natascha spoken than the feelings of intense lust and desire lifted from MacLeod's mind, leaving him more than a little stunned.
Enrique glared at both women. "We have come to ask something of you. We need your help."
"Help?"
"We need...a...defender. Not for us, but for those who cannot defend themselves..."
"You're Inanna, Enlil and Ninhursag." MacLeod felt certain of it.
Enrique's eyes widened. "You are too young to know those names."
MacLeod shrugged. "If you are who I think, then you know who my friend is."
"Did I not tell you?" muttered 'Natascha'. "You are correct, Highlander. We are the ancients to whom those names were attached."
MacLeod felt his mouth dry at the thought of standing face to face with three Gods. In a blinding flash, he knew how intimidated Methos must have been all those thousands of years ago - hell, he was feeling intimidated, and he was considerably older now than Methos had been then.
"Whether he knows those names or not, the fact remains," 'Anna' (Inanna, MacLeod guessed) put in, "we need him."
Enrique...Enlil nodded. "Will you help us, Highlander? Become our hand on earth?"
Another of Methos' comments came to MacLeod from that fateful evening. "And what of Methos? He told me his task was done only when someone took his head. If you've killed him..."
Before he could finish his sentence, Enlil and Inanna stepped aside. Behind them, huddled on the deck - in more or less the same posture as MacLeod had last seen him - was Methos. Sobs still shook the slender frame and again MacLeod felt his heart twist at the sight.
"Methos..."
"He cannot hear you," stated Ninhursag. "It is nothing that we have done - not even something that you have done; much as you might wish to call the blame to you. It is a hell of his own making."
The words were so cold they snagged MacLeod's temper. "A hell of his own making? You *forced* him to do your work for *five thousand years*...I don't call that a hell of his own making."
Enlil shook his head. "When you left him, the nightmares came for him; the weight of the memories became too much. It was not your fault - nor truly ours. But what happens to him now is up to you."
MacLeod looked from him to Inanna and Ninhursag. "What options do I have?"
"You could turn us aside - that would be your right," said Inanna. "And
that would leave your friend vulnerable to the first head hunter of your kind."
"Or you could accept our request, and ensure that your friend is safe," said Ninhursag.
"The choice is yours," concluded Enlil.
"It's no choice at all," MacLeod retorted.
Enlil nodded once. "So be it."
A resonant hum filled MacLeod's ears. It was a noise that filled his - it felt like Cassandra's Voice but the suggestion was far more forceful. And then MacLeod couldn't think anymore. All that existed was the suggestion and what it compelled him to do...
***********************************
Joe and Amanda had been engaging in a debate about blues music when a shell-shocked MacLeod stumbled into Maurice's bar.
"Duncan?"
"Mac?"
The queries came from Immortal and Watcher at the same time.
"Methos is dead."
Four syllables laden with no emotion and every emotion at once. Neither Joe nor Amanda could react to the words - there was no way to react. It was only after the Scot had turned and left once more that either of them wondered 'how'.
************************************
Numbly, MacLeod prowled the streets of Paris. Hundreds upon thousands of new, yet ancient, memories crowded his mind. He finally knew the truth of the Horsemen - they had been a band of petty warlords that the trio of Gods had wanted some control over so as to prevent wholesale genocide. So Methos had been forced to join them, as the strategist. It was thanks to his planning that certain nomadic tribes, settlements and such were left alone to flourish and later produce people who had gone on to shape the world. But in their stead, hundreds upon thousands of others had been killed. And finally MacLeod understood why Methos had never wanted this shade from his past to come to light.
As he prowled, more thoughts filled his mind. Thoughts he recognised as being Methosian. At one time, he would have considered them convoluted and confusing - but now they seemed a natural aspect of his mind. Methos' sarcasm and wit were laid bare to him - and now he knew where the barbs had come from. Knew that the harsh words and spiky personality were the only defensive mechanism available to a man so frequently betrayed by life.
Without really realising it, MacLeod had found himself in the wrong part of Paris. He wanted to get back to the barge - to pack and move on; there was no way he could remain in Paris now - but as he turned to head toward the river, a scream cut through the air.
A sudden burst of a sensation almost like an Immortal presence, but distinctly *not*, raced through him. The Vow. Conscious thought fled - he *had* to help...
************************************
"Well Adam, it's a nice new day, see," the nurse said chattily as she fussed with the curtains. "Looks like we might have a nice spot of sun for St David's Day tomorrow." She turned to the bed, not expecting anything to have changed. The next words out of her mouth were "Doctor you had better get in here!"
On the bed Adam lay, blinking somewhat owlishly.
"Where am I?" he asked.
"You're in Cardiff General hospital," the nurse replied as calmly as she could muster.
A frown crossed his face. "I'm...sick?"
"You have been." The nurse could hear the approach of the doctor and the rest of the medical entourage. "But I think you're going to get better now."
"That's good." He smiled. It was such a bright, dazzling and unaffected smile the nurse felt tears prick the backs of her eyelids. "You called me Adam...is that my name?"
Sadly the nurse shook her head. "You don't know yourself?"
It was his turn to shake his head. "Adam's a nice name...I think I'd like to be called Adam."
The End?