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Chapter Five: More Than Meets The Eye.
"You can't hide your lyin' eyes
And your smile is a thin disguise.
I thought by now you'd realize
There ain't no way to hide you lyin' eyes."
--("Lyin' Eyes" Performed by: The Eagles. )
There was a light knock on the door and Methos moved past the highlander to answer it. MacLeod began plotting how he'd get the truth out of the old man. Methos' alcohol tolerance had yet to be beaten and there probably wasn't any beer or liquor in the Shelter so that wouldn't work. Maybe a game of twenty questions. His train of thought was instantly derailed when he saw the expression on the face of who he assumed was Pear. The man, in his late teens or early twenties, looked like his long time pet just died.
"I'm sorry, Sweet," the boy hesitantly said while handing some discs (the reports) to Methos. "Cara's place was hit late this morning. We think it's an unauthorized raid by the ITF and that's why it wasn't in the news. The known survivours made it to the DeValincourts less than thirty minutes ago... Samuel and Lucy aren't among them." Methos was suddenly a terrifyingly good imitation of a statue. "We verified the report. They may have made it somewhere else, but Cara isn't sure. I'm sorry, Sweet. We all are."
"Do we know how this happened?" Methos' lips were moving. That was his voice. Yet, somehow it didn't seem like he was speaking. The question was void of all emotion. Had his eyes even blinked? "How did the ITF find them?"
"Apparently, a young couple brought their son on a shopping mission. He talked to a stranger. Robert said the guy's description matches that of ITF Agent Hughes." Pear coldly recited the facts before his emotions slipped through. "Danny didn't know any better, Sweet, and no one realized he was gone 'til it was too late. They had prepared to leave when the family got back, but... it just wasn't enough, I guess."
"I see." Did he? Methos' eyes seemed empty. The plane maybe flying, but someone had definitely switched to autopilot. "All communications except ones with the DeValincourts are postponed until after Kiwi has sent copies of the report to all eighteen bases. I want a complete list of injuries, and deaths (confirmed and suspected) sent to Methos at once. I will be in my office reviewing this information to prepare my own report for Methos so no disruptions unless absolutely necessary. Understood?"
"Yes, Sweet. Rosemary's already sending the copies and preparing the list. She knew you'd want that."
"Good. Now take MacLeod to his room. Make sure he knows where everything is. Mark his comm time for... nine-fifteen until ten tonight. Have Kiwi teach him the equipment. Rose needs the break."
"Got it." Pear turned his sad eyes toward Mac and the highlander's heart sunk even further in his chest. "Ready Mr. MacLeod?"
He wanted to say no. He wanted to grab Methos and shake him until the oldest immortal's stone mask cracked, until those hazel eyes showed signs of life again. He wanted to ask Methos who Samuel and Lucy were and get a tear-filled answer. He wanted to tell his friend that things would be okay and know his friend would believe him. He wanted Methos to act like any of the information after Samuel and Lucy had actually registered. He wanted to see that wry grin spread across the old man's lips and hear that accented voice with that ever-present tone of amusement say this was all part of some sick initiation ritual. He neither did nor got what he wanted. Methos wouldn't have wanted either, anyway. The Scot took one last agonizing look at Methos, gave his condolences to "Adam", and then left the room. The cold silence in the office as the door was gently closed behind him was one of the worst things Mac had ever heard.
The highlander and his guide were silent for a minute while they walked away from the office that seemed to be emitting a cold wind. When they were far enough away for the man's tastes, Pear stopped and turned to MacLeod. "Do you know who Samuel and Lucy are... I mean, were?"
"No, I was hoping you could tell me."
That obviously wasn't the answer the boy with a buzz-cut wanted. He lowered his eyes, sighed, and when he spoke again his voice was very low. "No one could tell you, but Lucy and Samuel. They were the only people Sweet Pea ever tried to call. He never told us how he knew them or who they were. He can give and give, but... it's like he always holds back too." Another sigh. "I was hoping since you called him by his real first name that you'd know something."
"I'm sorry. I haven't seen Adam in years, and he never mentioned them before. I wish I knew something to tell you."
Pear scanned the highlander's face, noted the sincerity in the statement, and gave a bittersweet smile. "Come on, I've got to show you the rest of this place and get back to work before something else happens." The young man began moving down the winding hallway again. "The door on your left leads to the comm. room. That door's not used much so you should knock before opening it. Unless you'd like to see how quickly Rose can tackle you to the ground. From personal experience, that lady is dangerously fast and the floor is, like, rock hard."
Mac's muted laughter was stilled as the pair walked into a wide cavern. There was a natural spring extending from the centre to the other end of the area. Hanging lamps illuminated the way to five other lit corridors. "That," Pear pointed to the one directly to their left, "leads to the men's restroom. It's pretty much fancy piping leading to another underground spring not connected to the big one here. But, hey, it works. The tunnel next to it," his finger moved again, "is for the ladies. Old joke is that any man who goes into that one won't be a man when Sweet Pea finds him. Sweet always laughs at that, but no one's dared test him." The digit pointed to another tunnel. "That leads to the generators and ventilation fans that make this place livable." The stubby finger swung to indicate another corridor. "That one takes you to the library. It isn't much though. A lot of empty bookshelves, but the books that are in there, are really good. You've got classics, new works, joke books, and I think the kids put the magic book back after their show."
"Their show?"
"Sweet Pea and the kids put on a magic show a few nights back. Peanut did mind reading. Mushroom made a coin disappear. Almond, Bean, and Cherry sawed Seed in half using two boxes and a cardboard knife." Pear's smile grew. "It was great. Though, I think Salami is still looking for his watch from Jellybean and Sweet's trick."
"Why does everyone have a food for a name?" MacLeod inquired, realizing that it wasn't just a few people with unusual names.
"You can thank Jimbulaya, Artie, and good ol' Sweet Pea for that." Pear turned to look at the highlander, postponing the rest of the tour. "I wasn't here at the time, but I heard what happened. As the story goes, when Adam Pierson came here, Jimbulaya aka Jim LaFontaine started calling him 'P'. Within a day, it became 'Sweet P' because all his changes were 'sweet'. Artie had always called Jim Jimbulaya 'cause the big guy's a chef. Anyway, when the kids heard the nicknames, they said they wanted code-names too. I guess to make the stay more pleasant, Sweet Pea, Jimbulaya, and Artie came up with names for everyone. Artie's name is supposedly for Artichoke. Your cousin's is Haggis. I'm Pear because my name's really Percy and it just sort of goes on like that. Kiwi aka Lou is unique and really hairy. Rosemary's real name is Rose-Marie. Peanut's is Penilope. Uh, Jellybean's really Jenny, Bean's Ben, Almond's Amanda, and um, Mushroom is Matthew. You'll get a name too. Your friend BJ's already being called Beef Jerkie. The trick is not to get offended. The names aren't insults, just pathetic ways of lightening up the mood."
"This may take a bit of getting used to," Mac commented before Pear began walking toward the last lit hallway.
"This takes you to the sleeping quarters. In reality, it's just, like, seven small rooms and then two gigantic ones." He stopped walking. "The first three on your right here are for newbies, like you and Beef Jerkie. This way you can sort of ease yourself into the collective, as it were. The next door leads to the big one. That's for the guys. About twenty thin-mattresses on a creaky, rotting, wooden floor. The blankets are thick though so you won't get cold and there are some heaters too, just in case. For doors on the left here, we have: first the Commander's quarters. That's where Sweet Pea sleeps. Then there's the room for the women and children, and then the conjugal rooms. Your lady love comes by and you two want to make with the love, you have your pick of three well soundproofed rooms. Apparently, they weren't that sound proof when the DeValincourts first came here. But after, like, two nights, work to thicken the walls started up. Now, you can't hear a thing. There's a one night limit per month, though. If you keep moving down, you'll get to Joe's, the kitchen, and the mess hall." Pear opened one of the doors and, seeing clothes neatly folded on the end of the mattress, stepped inside. "This would be your room, Mr. MacLeod."
"Please, no mister. Mac or MacLeod will do just fine." He walked into his new room. Pear's dismal description of the rooms was unfortunately accurate. A single hanging lamp lit the nearly bare room. A pile of sheets lay in a corner while a thin mattress was pushed against the far wall. It looked remarkably like a prison cell.
"I'd appreciate the Mister if I were you. By tonight, you'll be called a food." Pear patted the Scot on the shoulder with a chuckle. "Which reminds me, supper'll be in about an hour. There's a clock under those sheets, in case you don't have a watch. It's probably hidden somewhere behind the old magazines, cd player, and CDs. Salami thinks it's funny to hide stuff like that," the young man said while rolling his eyes. "Now, since you arrived so late they might not've been able to take stuff out of the stew. If you find something in it you don't like, just take it out and don't worry. They'll follow your list next time."
"My list?" MacLeod's forehead creased with confusion. "What list?"
"Didn't they ask you what foods you hate before you saw Sweet?" Pear asked, clearly shocked by the news.
"No. Artie explained a bit about Methos and then gave me a tour to, uh, Sweet Pea's office."
"Oh, well then this tour's far from over." The man sank down to the mattress. "All right, when you go for supper, grab one of the forms hanging on the wall to... well, it'll be to your right if you take the hall we were just in. The form will have big, bold letters saying "I Can't Stand..." so you can't miss it. Write out any foods you can't stand and then put it in the kitchen. Someone'll help you if you get lost in the maze of counters. Now, we get a lot of crazy foods in here. I mean, fried grasshoppers, haggis, ants, flowers I coulda sworn were poisonous. So, if you've tried termites before and were sick afterwards, you might want to write that on the form too. The cooks usually prepare two dishes. If one has your dreaded termites, the other will be termite-free. But, and this is a huge but, if you've never tried termites before and just don't want to try 'em, don't write them on the form. Sweet Pea'll probably finish off the termites if you find they do make ya sick. The guy's got, like, an iron-stomach. He usually suggests those freaky foods. So, he'll have no problem eating what you've found ya hate. But, you gotta at least *try*. Not just because our resources are seriously limited, but 'cause the kiddies need the protein and that. Some of those bugs and flowers are really good for them and because of Salami saying he didn't like liver.. the food, not the guy here.. most of those kids wouldn't touch the stuff for days. Artie had snuck, like, ten pounds of the stuff in here and the kids didn't want to touch any of it. Luckily, Sweet and Salami had a lil' chat and the next night Salami tried the stuff. Turns out the bozo likes liver with onions, just didn't like his mom's cooking."
Mac sat beside Pear, giving his legs a rest. "Anything else I should know?"
"Plenty. For supper, our water is in a pitcher at the front. The mortals' water is in the bottles."
Duncan looked sharply at his tour guide. "You're immortal?"
"Yeah." The, now possibly old, young man replied, as if that was the most absurd question he'd ever been asked.
"But I didn't sense you. How do you hide your presence?"
"You ever put on cologne and after awhile you can't smell it?" Mac nodded. "That's what happens to an immortal's presence when you get twenty-one of us in a place this small. All our 'waves' are still here. It's just your senses have been over-sensitized. You can't feel any of us individually anymore. Didn't anyone warn you?"
"Jimbulaya said something about it. I just didn't realize how right he was."
"Don't worry, Mr. MacLeod. You can still tell who's a member of Club Deathless. Just listen for jokes about history or stories that begin with 'I came back to life this one time...' If that doesn't work, then you're either talking to a mortal or a young immortal like me. In that case, just ask for an age. If the person gives you one, they're a mortal."
"This may take a lot of getting used to." Mac revised his earlier opinion.
"Oh, it does," the youth admitted. "The main tunnel maybe oval shaped, but you can still get lost. And the kids love to ask if you feel 'higgledy-piggledy', or if you can stand 'akimbo'."
"And if I said yes..?"
"Then you'd be feeling disoriented, and could stand with your hands on your hips and your elbows pointing out," his tour guide laughed. "Part of the kids' storytime is spent learning a new word. I don't know how Sweet Pea knows all those silly words, but every week they'll hunt you down and ask you a question with their new word. This week's is mucker."
"Which, if I remember correctly, means-- friend?" Pear nodded his head. "Why do I get the feeling I should be writing some of this down?"
"Don't worry, you'll get it in time. It takes awhile, but one day you'll be able to give tours just like this." The young briefly patted Mac's back as physical reassurance. "But you will need to know the rules SO getting back to water. Ours comes from the spring and is supposedly safe. It was tested years ago and no major levels of deadly bacteria found-- or so I'm told. In case that changes, then at least we revive. The mortals don't have that option, especially since the kids get as young as three 'round here. So, we bring bottled water in for them. There's a nice couple who run the gas station you went to, the one where you met Jimbulaya. They've been stock piling the bottles in their cellar for years, bought it all thanks to a huge cheque from the old man himself. I don't know if Denise or Al ever met Methos in person, but I think he knew Denise's father from a war." The youth shrugged his shoulders. "Anyway, that's the water rule. The curfew rule is that the kids are in bed by nine-thirty. No later and no exceptions. Everyone else goes to bed at their leisure. Though, 'their leisure' tends to extend as far as eleven-thirty. The only people up after that usually work the, affectionately named, graveyard shift. Uh, the bath and bed rule is: don't be shy. There's a small waterfall in each restroom so you can use that for quick clean-ups. But that big spring you saw is the bathtub in here and everyone uses it. Times are from eight to eleven in the morning, and then from seven to twelve at night. That way, for about eight hours, the bath has time to be cleaned out. As for the bed, when you're moved in with the rest of us, you will be changing in front of us. Well, everyone except Sweet. He manages to clean when no one's around, and he changes in his room." He looked at MacLeod, a spark of mischief in his eyes. "Hey, you wanna settle a bet?"
"What bet?" he asked hesitantly.
"We've got a pot going on why Sweet Pea doesn't change in front of anyone. It's up to three hundred and forty-eight francs, I think. Two to one odds say he's just really shy. Three to one says he's got this embarrassing tattoo. And the odds are four to one that there's some strange scar that he wants to hide 'cause it's too painful or something. I put ten francs on the tat, myself."
"And you think I've seen him naked?" Mac's eyes were wide as he realized just what Pear was suggesting.
"Not in a sexual way!" the young man quickly assured him. "I just mean you knew him before this war started or at least before he got the name Sweet Pea. Maybe you guys went swimming together or something. He doesn't hit me as the type to hate the water after all the sailing he's done. Or maybe he got drunk one night and told you. Or he was in a challenge and a rip in his shirt revealed that "Mother" tattoo. I mean, okay so that challenge idea is as far-fetched as they get considering how little he uses the dojo, but he can't possibly hold his liquor. You must've heard something at least, right?"
MacLeod tried unsuccessfully to stifle the chuckles erupting in his throat. "Adam-- Sweet Pea-- he, he, uh, he's just-- he's just different. He does what he does for his own reasons and, trust me, you'll never really figure them out. Even when he explains them to you."
"Ah, figures." Pear shook his head, frowning. "You know he's like 'Hamlet.'" Noting Mac's confused expression, he continued, "In high school, I had to read Hamlet. I thought I could understand Shakespeare. I mean, "Romeo and Juliet" and "MacBeth" I got easy. But that "Hamlet"—I read it, knew what the words meant, but couldn't get exactly what the story was really all about. And that's Sweet to a T. I see him, know what he's saying, but can't for the life of me figure out the 'why'."
"That's Adam all right," the highlander agreed. "His reasons are clear to him. He just likes to hide them from the rest of us."
"But why?" Pear looked directly at him, his eyes suddenly pleading for a glimpse of understanding. "I gave him that report and he must've known we'd all know he'd be hurting. You saw what he did. Put up that damn mask that just holds all his pain inside like we didn't know it was there. You must've seen the look when he went still. Those lifeless eyes staring at me. God, I've seen it so many times, but never that bad!"
"How many times?"
"I've lost count," the young man snorted, breaking eye contact with MacLeod. "I'll give him a report on the latest casualties and he'll get that damn look. He won't say who they were, though. He won't even admit he knew any of them. But his eyes will get the 'void'-look to them, and then he'll stay in his office until supper. You know, you just *know* he lost someone he knew-- a friend, a teacher, a student, or God, a lover! But he just acts like nothing happened. Just eats supper, talks and jokes, tells the kids their bedtime story, and then hides in his room. As if this entire place is blind to his pain! And why? Like this place isn't used to handling loss. Do you know how many times I would've loved to hear him say he needed someone to talk to? How many times any of us would have loved to hear him admit he lost someone dear? But, nooo. He just lost the only two people we know he really cared about, and he acted like they were nothing. Nothing! The only people he ever called when it wasn't about shelter business, when he actually asked for privacy, and he didn't even double-check to make sure they were dead. He didn't run into the comm., or ask for details. No, just 'how'd it happen?' Why?"
"I don't know," came the sorrow-filled reply.
"You know, I think everyone here'll mourn Samuel and Lucy's deaths just because of Sweet." Pear sniffed. "We'll cry for them without knowing anything about them besides their names, where they were, and that they were Sweet's friends. They could've been the worst couple who ever walked this Earth and he just talked to them to keep 'em out of trouble at the base, but they'll be missed. God, I hope our prayers are enough 'cause I don't think he'll bother."
"He will," MacLeod assured him. "Adam tries to stand tall when he loses someone, but I know he cries inside and I'm sure that, when he's in his office or in his room, he is thinking about them."
"But he needs more than that." Pear's voice was strained. "The others may not notice it, but I do. He's staying in his office more and more. I've seen the scraps of papers all over his desk. They're finished reports and schedules. I don't know what he does in there anymore, but it isn't working on what he says he's working on. We used to have to remind him when he could use the comm to talk to Lucy and Samuel. The last couple of months, though... it was like he couldn't forget them. At first I thought he'd finally gotten it into his thick skull that his appointment was on the second Thursday of every month at ten pm. But—I think maybe he talked to them. Not about who died, but something that made him smile when he left that room. I think he really needed that. I swear, getting to see a smile that reaches his eyes is like winning the lottery. And no one's won that jackpot in months." The young man let out a heavy sigh. "I just want to know he'll be all right, MacLeod. Sweet Pea was so nice when my teacher died. He said that "keeping those feelings inside isn't helping anyone." You know, when I said I didn't know what to say, he took some blank paper and a pencil out of his desk and told me to draw Denis."
"Did that work?" Maybe he could use that technique on Methos. If his grief was deep enough, the old man might not realize what he was doing.
"Nope, I can't draw much more than stick figures." A faint grin floated across the man's lips. "I don't think he expected me to draw anything, though. Sweet just took the paper and pencil, and told me that he'd draw the picture. He said he thought he'd seen Denis' picture before." Pear shook his head. "I don't know who Sweet Pea drew, but whoever it was, he wasn't Denis. So I told Sweet what was wrong with the portraiture and slowly-- bit by bit—he fixed it. By the time the face looked right, I had told Sweet everything about Denis; the way he could arch just one eyebrow, and wiggle his ears, and how he always seemed to woo women despite his crooked grin. I still have that picture too. Sweet was right about keeping those things inside. You think if I asked him directly, he'd let some of his feelings out?"
"Probably not," Mac admitted. "Tonight, I'll talk to him. He has told me things in the past that-- I don't think he shares with a lot of other people."
"Thanks." Pear stood up, a sad smile on his face. "I should be going. The guy we're talking about is probably wondering what hole I fell in. I'll see you at supper."
Mac waved good-bye as the young man exited the room, fully intending to talk to Methos. But things didn't work out that way. Before supper, he only had time to change his clothes and use the restroom to quickly wash-up. During supper, Mac was swarmed by other inhabitants of the Shelter asking what he'd been doing for the past four years. Connor, on the other hand, only spoke up to say he missed his cousin and that the Clan MacLeod, though not publicly, still accepted them as kinsmen. Then, Jimbulaya announced his name was 'Chicken' because some old movie called "Chicken Run" had a Scottish chicken named Mac. The burly man said it was fitting. Also, Jellybean did ask if he'd be her mucker and Cashew wondered if he'd knew how to stand akimbo. They were surprized he knew what they meant until Pear confessed to spoiling their trick. Though, Peanut caught him off guard when she asked if he really was airy-fairy. Luckily, Pear was there to whisper what the word meant and Duncan could honestly say he wasn't unrealistic-- at least not all the time. After supper, Mac couldn't interrupt 'storytime' and had been persuaded into practicing in the dojo by Connor. His reluctance to leave Joe's was eased when his cousin pointed out how everyone else was watching Methos. Even the kids were sitting closer to the old man. After a few rounds in the dojo, Mac had to go to the comm. Kiwi really was a hairy man and had an unusual fashion sense. He certainly wasn't colour coordinated. But the man did know the equipment and Mac had been able to talk to Gina, and Alistar MacLeod-- considered chieftain of the current 'clan'. However, he was only able to leave a message at Amanda's base. Once his time was up, Mac was pulled into a poker game since Methos had already gone to bed with strict orders not to be disturbed. By the time the highlander went to bed, he was promising himself that he'd talk to the oldest immortal the next day.
****
Note: The definition I use for 'mucker' is British. The
Canadian definition is for a rough hockey player.
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Chapter Six: The Cut Heart Bleeds.
"Now the hardness of this world slowly grinds your dreams away
Makin' a fool's joke out of the promises we make
And what once seemed black and white turns to so many shades of gray
We lose ourselves in work to do and bills to pay
And it's a ride, ride, ride, and there ain't much cover
With no one runnin' by your side my blood brother
--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce
Springsteen.)
Every time Duncan closed his eyes, he could see Methos' face. As disconcerting as that was in itself, it was made worse by the old man's expression. It was the way Methos had looked when he had discovered his friends were quite possibly dead. His eyes were hollow, as if their life had left with Samuel and Lucy. The face was cold, warmth having left it as well. His features, frozen and the lines were deep grooves in his alabaster skin. Mac couldn't bear to look at it for more than a second, but it wouldn't leave him. He had seen that mask before too. Methos had worn it when Alexa had died. As well as when Byron and Silas had been killed. The strong armour he'd worn every time someone he cared for died was on again, and Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had failed to remove it again. One of his closest friends was hurting inside and he'd done nothing to ease that pain.
Finally deciding to confront the ancient, Mac got out of bed and headed towards Methos' room. His friend wouldn't appreciate the late visit, but it was doubtful that Mac would be interrupting a good dream. Unfortunately, instead of being in a fitful slumber or staring blindly on his bed, the slim man wasn't in his room. Though, there were noises coming from the mess hall.
Upon inspection, the noises' creator was an older gentleman with a fluffy beard. He was clad in a plaid shirt and jeans with suspenders, and was eating some grapes while readying a table for a card game.
"Excuse me," Mac whispered.
The man's head shot up, examined the person before him, and then smiled. "You must be Chicken of the Clan MacLeod."
"Yeah, that's me, Chicken." Smiling, Mac stepped forward to shake the man's outstretched hand.
"I'm Peaches so don't get too upset, son." The comment did make him feel better.
"I won't." He looked around the mess hall, checking to see who else was around. There was no one. "I was looking for, uh, Sweet Pea. Is he going to be playing tonight?"
"I don't honestly know. The others'll be back from patrols soon, but he usually sits in later at night, when he's decided he just can't go to sleep. He might since Lucy and Samuel died. They were close friends."
"He told you about them?" Mac watched as the bearded man quickly shuffled a deck of cards.
"Nay, Sweet Pea can give everything, but himself." Peaches looked around without explaining his statement. "Since I heard you're a good friend of his, I'll tell you something." His voice dropped to an even softer whisper. "When he isn't in his room or office or out here, Sweet likes to hide down the lit tunnel just beyond the room for the generators. I've never gone down there, but he told me once that in an emergency I could. Just keep to the right, I think it was."
"You must be a good friend too, if he told you that."
"Uh-ugh." The man shook his head, a smile evident despite the whiskers. "I just watch out for the child."
"Child?"
"Hey, I was born BCE and he wasn't. Anyone that young can be called a child in my book, kid."
"Thanks." Mac began leaving the room, a smile still on his face. "Have fun with your game."
"Goodluck with Sweet Pea, Chicken."
Goodluck was certainly needed as Duncan wound his way through the maze-like tunnel. He had already come across three forks in the path, and, if Peaches had been wrong about sticking to the right, he was as good as lost. The further he crept, the more certain he was that he would find Jimmy Hoffa sooner than he'd find Methos or his way back. Rounding yet another damp corner, Mac spied a small flickering torch hooked to a wall in a cavern up ahead. He hadn't realized how far from the shelter he had traveled until he felt an immortal signature. His smile increased as he approached, despite the nagging thought that he didn't know if it was Methos he was about to see.
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Chapter 7: Seek and ye shall find
"On through the houses of the dead past those fallen in their tracks
Always movin' ahead and never lookin' back
Now I don't know how I feel, I don't know how I feel tonight
If I've fallen 'neath the wheel, if I've lost or I've gained sight
I don't even know why, I don't know why I made this call
Or if any of this matters anymore after all."
--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce Springsteen.)
The first thing Mac saw when he entered was a little fire burning in the centre of the spacious cavern. The second was a very small spring pushed against the back wall. Next were the torches attached to the walls adjacent to the natural pool, helping to light the area. Then came Methos sitting in an alcove in the wall directly opposite the fire and spring. He was gracelessly tossing pebbles over the light source and into the water. The dancing flames cast eerie shadows over his angular face which refused to acknowledge the highlander's presence. It was a strange scene and for a moment all Mac could do was stare.
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, can't sleep?" That snapped the Scot out of his mild trance, though Methos' attention was still focused on the natural pool.
"Not a wink." Hesitantly, he walked toward the older man and sat beside him, nearly banging his head off the stone ceiling in the process. The other man didn't seem to notice. "This is a nice, little... uh--"
"Hide-away?" Another pebble flew through the flames and into the stone-surrounded pond. "So, want to talk about what's keeping you up?"
"What?" Mac's brow furrowed in confusion. He was certain that was supposed to be his line.
Another pebble made it into the spring.
"Well, you obviously came here to talk. Either that or you got lost on your way to the loo." The man still wasn't looking at him. "So... what did you want to talk about? What happened to... Susan and Gerald, wasn't it?"
The situation was becoming more surreal every second. Mac fought the sudden urge to pinch himself and prove that this wasn't a dream. "How do you know about them?"
"In the same manner I suspect Connor found out I was Methos; someone told me."
Another pebble traveled to its mark.
"Who?"
"Well, he said it was you."
"No, I meant who told you about Susan and Gerald."
"Oh, that was Artie. He has a tendency to babble." Methos hesitated before he threw another stone. "There's an independent refuge about a mile from that old factory you were staying in. They don't normally communicate with us, but we've traded goods before. The next time Artie goes out, I'll have him swing by the place and check for your friends."
"Thanks."
"It's nothing." The elder of the pair shrugged. "Anything else you want to talk about? How the Marlins are doing this year? The weather?"
"We haven't talked about how the Marlins are doing in ten years." Mac scooped a pile of pebbles into his hand and began lazily tossing them into the calm water as well. When in Rome, after all.
"Yeah, but I hear they're doing good this year. They may make it to the World Series again."
"Do you still have the baseball from the last time they made it?" MacLeod inquired, watching as his pebble disappeared just beyond the flames.
"Of course! It's the best souvenir I've ever gotten!" The next stone Methos threw soared well above the fire and hit the far wall before splashing into the spring. "It's safely hidden in my desk, where no one can dirty it or clean the blood stains off."
"Those were the good old days, weren't they?" Mac wistfully asked.
Like that the air of happiness was sucked from the room, replaced by sadness and tension. "The good old days never existed."
Another stone dropped into the clear liquid.
"Sure they did," Duncan responded, immediately remembering times he could easily call 'good'; going to that baseball game was one of them. As well as going to a boxing match with Richie, seeing an art exhibit with Tessa. A huffed "Whatever." interrupted his thoughts.
"Look, MacLeod, if you're feeling better now, maybe you should go back to your room and get some sleep. Keep going left this time and you'll find your way out eventually."
"I'm staying until you tell me about Samuel and Lucy."
Methos glanced at his friend, gauging the highlander's determination. Sighing, he looked at the pebbles in his hand before turning his gaze back to the main light source. "They were friends."
"That's all?"
"They were good friends." A pebble landed in the spring.
"How did you meet them?"
"None of your business."
"Fine. What were they like?"
"None. Of. Your. Business."
"All right, what did they look like?"
"What is this? The bloody inquisition?!" A pebble forcefully ricocheted off the far wall into the water.
"Nothing of the sort. I just want to know what you clearly want to tell me."
"What I *want* to tell you?" Methos shook his head, chuckling.
"If you didn't want to tell me something, you would have told me to leave already."
"I did."
"You would have made me leave. One way or another, you would have driven me out of here. So what is it you want to talk about?"
"There's that 'want' word again, MacLeod." Another small stone sailed through the flames and into the pool. "I clearly don't *want* to talk about it. Hell, I don't *want* to talk about anything right now. But you keep using that word. As if I want to do anything, but relax and toss some stones in that pond." Seemingly to make his point, the old man threw a pebble into the spring. "Of course, I suppose I should have expected that. You saying 'want', I mean." The strong rage in his tone melted away. "Everyone makes mistakes like that. Like when they use 'should' improperly. "The mortals *should* stop killing us." "There *should* be no headhunters during the war." "Only the evil people *should* die." While they're telling me that, the mortals and headhunters *are* killing good people. You'd think someone would clue into that." He shrugged. "I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway. Or at least it won't."
"What do you mean?" MacLeod's brown eyes narrowed, his gut saying he wouldn't like the answer.
"Leave it be and go to bed."
"What did you mean?" Mac repeated, his voice as solid as steel.
"I came to a conclusion tonight." Turning to face the highlander, Methos caught his gaze and held it. "Tomorrow, I'm going on unsecured broadcasting frequencies to present a peace treaty to the world. They should take it seriously when I mention that the legendary Methos will discuss it in person at a conference held in Paris."
MacLeod brain stopped working for a second, unprepared for the onslaught of thoughts his friend's announcement had caused. "Methos, that's, that's-- it's dangerous, irresponsible-- they'll kill you! They'll trace you back here-- it'll ruin everything you worked for-- I can't believe you even suggested this! It's ludicrous, suicide! Have you gone mad? Your plan-- it's, it's--" he sputtered. "It isn't even a plan! It's, it's-- a kamikaze mission. They'll--- you'll--- what were you thinking? Were you thinking?!"
"Are you through?" Methos calmly asked, looking bored. "The broadcast won't trace back here. The treaty is good enough that they won't kill me on sight and it won't ruin anything I've worked for."
"There has to be some other way besides revealing yourself." The highlander was frantically searching for an alternative course of action. "There are other options."
"Oh, I know another option." The older man broke eye contact to look at the clear liquid gathered in the pit in the cavern. "I spent fifteen minutes in my office today working on the other option, preparing instructions and figuring out who I should contact to implement the plan. I had the maps copied and the agents picked out and finished my letter from Methos to explain why I was ordering the attack. Then I spent another twenty minutes convincing myself that a nuclear war was a bad idea."
"A nuclear war?" Again the highlander fought the urge to prove this was all some twisted dream. "You can't be serious."
"It would solve our problems, Mac."
"It would kill everyone and everything, immortals included!" His wide eyes glared at his friend.
"Raise your hand if you survived Chernobyl." Methos briefly lifted his hand.
"You? But--"
"As far as any watcher would know, Adam Pierson was in England, battling the depression caused by the sudden death of my dearest aunt from my obscure past. In truth, I was still healing from the effects of checking on Silas. Never did get to see if the big guy was okay." He sniffed. "It isn't fun or easy, Mac. You die thousands of times in tremendous pain until you finally make it somewhere that isn't radioactive. Several weeks later, you've recovered and are as good as new-- with a lot of nightmares. They last awhile longer. But the bottom line is that we'd live and our hunters wouldn't."
"Neither would Joe or Amy or any of our other friends!" Duncan knew his shouts were echoing. He knew he was letting his anger get the better of him. He also knew he wasn't helping the man who had risked his neck to save Mac from a dark quickening. And if said selfless man would act a little sorry that he had intended to kill billions of innocent people, Duncan would have cared. "How could you even suggest this?"
The answering voice was a mere whisper compared to MacLeod's. "Because they will die anyway. Because I can't stand being forced to hide down here for who-knows how long. Because--" Methos sighed loudly. "This is what I didn't want to talk about until tomorrow, Mac. Can't you just let it be 'til then?"
"You can't tell me you had the nearly irresistible urge to destroy life as we know it and then expect to talk about it tomorrow!" MacLeod took a deep breathe, trying to calm himself. "Why would-- Why? Is this some Horseman instinct you're not suppressing? Is this what Kronos--"
"Don't bring him into this." Methos slipped out of the alcove. The voice remained low, but had gained strength.
"He tried to kill everyone before and now you want to--"
"I don't *want* to kill anyone!" The slimmer man glared at his friend, anger shimmering in his eyes. "I just *need* this to stop now and that's one of the best ways to do it."
"That sounds like Horseman-logic to me." The younger man returned the glare. "You're justified in killing numerous innocent people because you want something now and can't calmly and rationally find another way to get it."
"I hate to burst your bubble, but my plans were always calmly and rationally thought-out, MacLeod. I know you like to think of them as crazy impulse-driven acts of violence and terror, but they never were." Methos shot daggers as he spoke. "It's so easy for you to past judgment on all of this, isn't it? To say that because you don't understand the 'why' it means we were simply homicidal maniacs?"
"What would you call a group of insane people who murdered or tortured everyone they met for fun?"
"I don't know. We didn't do that." A feral grin spread across the older man's face. "But that's all you think we did, isn't it? As a game, we just rode out, stole supplies, burnt down homes, and killed every innocent person we could find?" MacLeod just silently looked at him. "Well, now that helps explain why you never brought up the Horsemen all these years. You think we were just four lunatics on horseback, killing people as we went for a cheap thrill."
"You said Kronos set villages on fire to watch them burn." The highlander pointed out.
"He did. He lived to conquer and he conquered with fear. Silas was with us to fight for animals and Caspian came along because, well, he was just unbalanced." The amused expression hadn't left Methos' face.
"And you joined because you wanted to be Death?" The Scot raised his eyebrows, disbelieving what his longtime friend was confessing.
"I did." After waiting for the gentle admission to sink into the highlander's brain, Methos resumed his speech. "Back then, the world for us was how it is today, only worse. Us being hunted and hated for what we are, and yet unable to explain our existence. But there was no escaping it back then. No cave deep enough. Just more pain, and hate, and betrayal, and executions."
"So you became a mass-murdering rapist? Makes sense to me," MacLeod remarked acidly.
"The only way to stop feeling the pain was to embrace it. I stopped trying to avoid it, to push it away and pretend it would stop, and began taking it all in, letting it become not just a part of me, but all of me." The eldest paused to look at the fire, momentarily lost in a memory. "When I met Kronos, I saw a man who was free of the pain and he saw a man who lived because of it."
"He was insane," MacLeod pointed out.
"Yeah, but we both wanted to end the pain. We thought ruling the world was the way to go." Methos shrugged before turning to face his friend. "Part of me wants to say that I was truly stupid back then, that for centuries I actually believed we could do it. But I knew it would never be simple. I ended up staying with Kronos and the others mostly because with them I never felt like I didn't belong, like I wasn't loved, and I did enjoy feeling superior to everyone else."
"If that's true, if times were so great, why'd you leave them?"
"Because one day I realized that I would be Death all my life if something didn't change." Methos made his way back to the alcove and sat down. "All those raids and battles, all the captures and massacres, all the blood and power, and still I was hunted and hated, ignorant of what I was and hurting. After almost a thousand years, even having what the Horsemen offered wasn't enough. I had to leave, had to find something more in life."
"What did you find?" MacLeod asked, calmly absorbing the information.
A slight smile tugged at the corners of the oldest immortal mouth. "I don't know. Nothing I didn't know was possible before or that I thought could last." He paused as he picked up his disguarded pebbles and studied them like runes. "I can't really put it into words. There was a different sort of love, not tremendously different, or different in any way I could explain." Giving up on the stones which refused to grant him answers, Methos turned to the highlander. "All I know for sure is that I left, gave life another shot, and things worked certain ways and in the end, I didn't want or need the power or the blood anymore. I felt a sort of new kind of peace inside. If that makes any sense."
"Not really," MacLeod admitted. "But if you found this 'peace-like' feeling without blood back then, why do you want a nuclear war now?"
"I told you, I don't. I just need this to be over. The war is bringing back memories better-off repressed. Too many friends are being hurt or killed." The owner of the world's oldest heart sniffed before continuing. "Something drastic has to be done and that was easiest."
"Sometimes I'm glad I can't think like you do." Duncan watched as Methos tossed a stone through the fire and into the spring. "The easiest option for stopping this: nuke 'em."
"I did decide against it." Another pebble soared through the flames and landed in the clear liquid beyond. "Remember, I was going to present a peace treaty instead?"
"I remember. This whole conversation was being saved for tomorrow." Duncan added his own stone to the growing collection at the bottom of the liquid-filled pit.
"Every soul-damning fact." Methos threw his pebble to land in the ripples caused by MacLeod's.
"So you knew we'd have this entire conversation, huh?" More small waves spread across the liquid surface.
"Not the entire conversation." The next pebble hit the far wall before tumbling into the water. "But yeah."
"Then why were you going to wait?"
"Can't blame a guy for trying to delay the inevitable, can you?" The innocence in the question was too much for Mac. He didn't even try to stop the laugh, simply allowed it to escape his throat and carry all the tension which had seeped into his body when the serious conversation began with it. Pretending to adjust his shirt collar and cuffs, Methos said curtly, "Sir, I will take that to mean a no."
"Now I know you've lost it." The seriousness in Methos' posture stopped the chuckles which racked Duncan's body.
"I knew we would discuss my problem when I told you my plan. It wasn't hard to guess that the reaction wasn't going to be pleasant. I figured one night of pretending things were right in the world wouldn't be too much to ask." Another one of his pebbles arrived at its destination. "Though, being wrong about that last part doesn't mean you're right about the treaty. It will work. I wouldn't be risking my neck otherwise."
"You were willing to start a nuclear war," MacLeod stated bluntly.
"That was different." Methos' face scrunched with disgust and frustration directed at both himself and his friend. "That was a moment of irrational desperation. This—this is a thoroughly thought-out, well crafted plan destined to secure success. The treaty is just current laws adjusted to accommodate immortal needs; longer prison sentences, a different definition of a death sentence, that sort of thing. Immortals will agree with it because it guarantees the rights we were given when society thought we were mortals. And mortals will agree with it because it addresses their fears and concerns. They need to know who's immortal and who isn't. There's a section about universal immortal identification." Cutting off the protest forming on MacLeod's lips, Methos hurriedly explained further. "We naturally know who's mortal so it's only fair that they can tell who's not. I know how hard admitting who and what we are will be, but it is necessary. When Riley came back, I had three identities going. Stephen LaSapien may have had a fixed income, but Will Adams still owns the old Watcher's Headquarters and the building that housed your dojo, and Adam Peterson Jr. has investments in several lucrative businesses. All property owned legally and taxes paid on time. Even so, revealing that Methos has a fair bit of change in the bank, in several banks actually, probably won't go over well. I wouldn't give up that secret if I didn't think it was worth it. And this is worth it. My plan will work."
"If your plan will work, then why did you wait until now to implement it?" MacLeod knew Methos was making sense, and the temptation to believe him was strong. However, Methos was still a man who, hours previously, thought destroying the world was a pretty good idea. "Why not when you first came up with the treaty?"
"Because you only arrived this afternoon."
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Chapter 8: Are You Thinking What I'm Thinking?
"But the stars are burnin' bright like some mystery uncovered
I'll keep movin' through the dark with you in my heart
My blood brother."
--("Blood Brothers" Lyrics and Music By: Bruce Springsteen.)
Mac closed his eyes, hoping he had just heard wrong. This incredibly insane treaty plan did not need him.
"You and Connor are essential to my plan's success." No, Methos was not suggesting he was needed in this suicide attempt. "Methos may be smart and powerful, but being unquestionably honest has rarely made it into the myth. Whereas the honour of the MacLeods can not be challenged." No, he was not going to be a part of this hair-brained scheme. Getting killed and revealing Methos' identity would not help anyone. "Our reputations alone will guarantee that we'll at least survive until the conference starts. No one will try to kill us when we're working for peace, and protests against cruelty to immortals are being held. It would only hurt the people who want us dead and we'll organize it to ensure our safety." No, he was not going to be persuaded by Methos' lame attempts to instill confidence. "Once the talks begin, no one will doubt your honesty and everyone will assume I know what I'm talking about. I'll make sure it's fully secured and broadcast live internationally so no one will try to chop our heads off. They would have to be idiots to try anything. The world will see us, hear us, and we'll convince them that killing us would be foolish." No, he would not be conned by a man who had probably been a salesman a few times over. "Mac, the treaty practically sells itself." No, he was not buying into his friend's optimism. "All we have to do is explain a few points, negotiate a couple of rules. It's simple." No, he would not be tricked into believing it was simple. "Well, not tremendously simple, but this has less risk involved than that affair with the Gina and Robert did." No, he would not give in to guilt. "Connor's already agreed. And he still has trouble seeing me as the manipulator during the Horsemen ordeal." No, he would not cave because of peer pressure. Just because his kinsman jumped off a bridge didn't mean he had to join in. "There's no reason to say no."
"Yes, there is," he replied with a tired voice. Reining in his hope had exhausted MacLeod. It was hard not to forget all the problems the plan presented, and focus solely on what it offered. However, not addressing the problems could easily lead to their deaths.
"Like what?"
"One word," he said. "Cassandra."
"No longer a concern. She's been dead for over two years now. I burnt her body myself." The thought of something burning reminded Methos to tend the now dying fire. He pulled some wood laying at the foot of the alcove and gingerly placed it into the shrinking flames. With his back turned, he failed to notice the icy glare being sent to him.
"How could you?" MacLeod barely managed to ground out.
"Hmm...?" Methos turned to face his companion, finally realizing the nearly unrestrained anger raging in the Scot's eyes.
"Was it easy, Methos? Was killing someone you made love to *really* easier than dying?" Venom dripped from each word.
"I didn't kill her!" Methos' face curled with confusion. "And what I did to her-- we never made love, Mac. She would have killed you for even suggesting such a thing. What are you thinking?"
"That you had someone else kill her and then burnt the body yourself!" He was out of the alcove, towering over Methos.
"I did no such thing," the elder man pronounced each syllable. "I killed the guy who took her head and then burnt their bodies to hide the evidence and give them an acceptable farewell. It was either that or leave them in the cornfield on my way here."
"If you weren't trying to have her killed, why were you even near her?" His tone was calmer, but he was still intentionally invading the other man's personal space. "She would have killed you as soon as look at you."
"Again, I would have to agree." Accepting his position, a slightly smirking Methos crossed his legs and settled himself on the floor. The heat warming his back would become unbearable eventually, but his tolerance for pain would last until the end of the explanation. He craned his neck to capture the highlander's gaze as he spoke. "When I was running the Watcher's basement in Paris, Cassandra decided to drop by. Liam had told her she was going to see "The Commander." He just forgot to mention that "The Commander" was named Pierson. She had been left to wait in my office alone, free to peruse the papers on my desk and appreciate what I was doing. That's why she didn't kill me as soon as she looked at me. Though I'll admit she probably thought about it."
"How did she end up in a cornfield?" MacLeod's jaw was clenched when he finished, trying to control his rage.
"I'm getting to that." He shifted his position a bit, relieving a portion of his roasting back from the heat. "I explained my plan and then made a deal with her. She would keep my secret and let me continue what I was doing. In return, when peace was established, we would slip away to somewhere private and I would let her take my head. No one would know that Methos was someone the world would hate, and she could have her revenge." Methos tilted his head. "Would you sit down? I can handle a scorched back, but my neck's starting to cramp." MacLeod just raised an eyebrow in response. "Fine, fine, fine." Methos made a face, before cracking his neck from side to side. "Uh, let's see, so the deal was made and we were being civil. We weren't best friends, but after awhile she wasn't staring at me half as coldly as you are now. When the time came for me to relocate here, I was willing to let her run the place in my absence and have Gina set up a new shelter somewhere else. But she insisted that she see exactly what 'Death' was up to, and I couldn't really refuse. Driving with just her as company wasn't so bad. She knew enough not to clench her jaw like you are so that it wouldn't stick that way. And we actually talked. Nothing deep or meaningful, but nothing about how I was the true spawn of Satan and deserved to be burning in Hell for all eternity, which was a nice change. She even laughed at a crack I had made about... I think it was Yuti, the leader of the ITF at the time. Cassandra stopped once she realized what she did, but for a few seconds there, Mac, it was wonderful. It wasn't Death and his former victim in that Range Rover. We were simply Methos and Cassandra." Methos sniffed, and cracked his neck again. "Anyway, half way here, I stopped to take a pee break and she wandered off into this corn field. The next thing I knew, the storm that was supposed to arrive that night had arrived that afternoon, minus the rain. I went to see how well she did; found out she didn't."
Mac's jaw relaxed before its owner joined Methos on the ground. "And so you killed her killer and then gave an impromptu cremation for the bodies."
"Exactly." The oldest man shifted his seat away from the dancing flames, allowing his back to heal. "Kenneth was so surprized when I told him to raise his sword too. Apologized for killing one of my friends and said I couldn't fight him because he followed the rules of the Game."
"Wait." MacLeod raised his hand as his mind absorbed this latest bit of information. "You knew Kenny? A short kid with blonde hair and quite a mouth?"
"Knew him? We were partners!" Methos laughed at his friend's shocked reaction. "We met in-- 1784, I think it was. I caught the munchkin trying to steal money from my hotel room. He was crying, and tried to give me some sob story about losing his teacher and running for his life."
"You didn't believe him." Sometimes Methos' paranoia paid off.
"Had my sword to his throat before he could start begging for his life," the old man laughed again. "Ah, Kenneth shut up at that point and gave me this look. I knew then he was most definitely not a new immortal. We... discussed matters and came to the conclusion that a partnership would be mutually beneficial. I had come to the hotel to relieve a fellow by the name of Jeremiah of his heavy financial burden. Unfortunately, he had said burden locked in a safe in his room. Kenneth agreed to get into the safe while I entertained Jeremiah at the saloon and then we'd split the profit."
"You trusted that he'd come back and not leave with the money?" MacLeod inquired, not even bothering to comment about their robbery; years of knowing Amanda generally stopped him from making such arguments.
"Our partnership wasn't based solely on a common goal, Mac. We hung out together, planning the crime and getting drunk. Apparently, I was the first person who had ever gotten him thoroughly sloshed. When the night came, we were two friends on our way to becoming two wealthy friends." Duncan shook his head when Methos waggled his eyebrows. "The job ran smoothly and every job we did after that. It was a great alliance too. We only split up because he wanted to explore the north and I was looking at the south. That last night I tried to get him a date, but Belinda said she never spent the evening with anyone who looked like her kid, no matter how much I was willing to pay."
"You tried to hire a hooker?"
"Kenneth was older than you at the time, MacLeod. He couldn't 'do' anything really, but I figured a good going-away present could be the opportunity to, at the very least, kiss a woman who didn't treat him like a son. I offered Belinda over a fifty dollars and she still turned me down. So instead, I decided to give him a bigger cut from our last crime which was exactly what he wanted to give me. We ended up with our usual equal amounts of cash and went our separate ways. I think that's what he really wanted as a goodbye, you know. I mean, still being treated as an equal adult partner."
"You mean to tell me that you, the oldest immortal—the oldest person in the world, never once called him a kid?" Duncan, who had been called a kid more than once by Methos, raised his eyebrows.
"Mac, Kenneth was over five hundred years old. He had lived that long in that body. He most certainly was not a child and when he wasn't treated like one, he didn't act like one. He could hold a mature conversation longer than most of the older-looking people I've met. From the moment I met him 'til the moment I took his head, I treated him as the man he was inside," the lanky man stated flatly. "I suppose that's why he didn't really stop me from killing him. I acted like he was just another adult opponent I was facing."
"But you were still friends when you fought?" MacLeod's skin began to crawl.
"Of course. I didn't hate Kenneth. I could understand why he killed Cassandra and it probably was a fair fight-- well, fair for him. But he couldn't keep taking heads while the war was on. I would have brought him here, but-- you're experience with him is an example of what kind of problems that would have caused. His fear of betrayal that was certain to come and the usual instinct to treat him as a defenseless infant would have resulted in constant fights." Methos heavy sigh didn't alleviate Duncan's unease. There was something eerily familiar about the situation. "I needed this place to be strong. He would have been a weak link."
"But I thought you were friends." Mac's mind was replaying another time, another place, another reality. Methos was killing another friend he considered to be a weak link. " If he had won a fair fight—"
"He said the same thing." Methos was staring into the fire, but his eyes weren't focused on the flames. Oblivious to the memories playing in the Scot's head, the old man was remembering the last moments his former partner was alive.
Meanwhile, Mac could clearly see Richie-- on his knees begging his 'friend' not to kill him. He could hear the young red-head pleading with Methos. His shaky voice trying to remind his teacher of that reality, that they were friends. "What did you say?"
"I told him we were friends." Methos' voice was soft. "Then I said good-bye to my friend." He sniffed before blinking several times, allowing his mind to return to the present. Finally looking at MacLeod, he realized the highlander's glare. "What? I told you. It wasn't anything personal."
"Did you enjoy the reckoning?" The hurt was clear in the voice while Duncan tried to convince himself that this Methos wasn't the Methos from his vision during the O'Roarke incident. But the words were too similar. The reasons too much alike.
"Mac, will you stop looking at me like that?! For goodness' sakes, it wasn't a joke to me. It was a fair fight and it's not like I took his head with a bloody smile plastered on my face!" The listener finally saw the differences between the incidences and between the two Methos'; the most important differences. Immediately his features softened. "What the hell is wrong with you anyway? I'm supposed to be crazy one down here."
"I just-- I was thinking--" Duncan stammered, deciding now was not a good time to confess he had a strange vision over thirty years ago and that he needed sleep.
"You just thought I'd gone completely nuts and enjoyed killing a friend," Methos grunted.
"No, I just remembered someone who did, someone I had to kill," he half-lied. "You aren't him, though."
"I should hope not." The brunette's mouth twisted as its owner considered the situation. Coming to a conclusion, Methos let the subject drop. "Well, anyway, that's why Cassandra won't be a problem. The only people who know I was Death on horseback are you, me, Joe, Amanda, Amy, and Tim. As long as none of you talk until long after the treaty's signed, everything's safe. See, no reason not to help."
There were still reasons in Mac's opinion though. "As soon as you make your broadcast, people are going to suspect that you're Methos. And the moment they see you, Connor, and I walking to the talks, they're going to definitely know who you are. Someone is likely to kill you then, and the idea that you lied to mortals will make the killing seem justified to people."
"It may not be common knowledge to you, but the rest of the world knows what Adam Pierson is, and what he looks like." Methos tossed another pebble into the rock-enclosed water. "A few days after he went into the hospital, Joe accidentally told the truth about his old poker buddy. He apparently provided the description of a "lanky guy with quite a beak on him" and Artie says my picture made it into the Gazette not two days ago. Plus, Joe also let it slip that Methos was recorded as having blonde hair and thick arms courtesy of centuries of sword fighting. No one will realize we're one and the same until we're at the talks. So, again, no problems."
"But my past--"
"Has been discussed by every so-called analyst and specialist in the world," Methos supplied. "Practically every single decision you and Connor have ever made has been justified by three or four experts. If anyone brings up your dark quickening or Richie, just let me handle it. I'll drop so many names, heads will spin."
"And if they bring up the game--"
"We'll bring up the fact that headhunters are few and far between nowadays, and that in shelters across the globe thousands of immortals have lived in harmony. We'll point out that the game hasn't been played by the majority of our kind for years. Mortals and immortals will agree with chapter 53 of the treaty which suggests penalties for anyone who decapitates anyone else before the gathering is confirmed."
"That won't put an end to the game, Methos." MacLeod watched as his friend sadly nodded.
"I know. But if there's one good thing to come out of this war, it will be that we know we do not have to kill to survive. I doubt anyone will instantly disregard that truth the moment the treaty is signed. We'll deal with the gathering when it comes, but until then... we will have peace. The talks will help ensure that." The oldest man smiled. "Yet another reason to agree to this."
"But there's still the risk--"
"Risk? What risk?"
"If this doesn't work, we won't lose just one shot at peace. They will kill us, and then who's going to take care of this shelter? Or watch over Joe while he's in prison? Or keep Jellybean and the other kids happy when the rest of world is fighting? I'll agree to go with Connor, but you can't come. No one else knows how to run all those bases at once," MacLeod tried his hand at guilt. "When they take your head, they'll take hope along with it. We can't lose hope and we can't lose you. You're too important."
"So are you. Why do you think I've tried to keep you alive for all these years? To win some stupid unknown prize so you can be alone for eternity and I can be dead?!" Methos threw another stone into the waiting water. "You are Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, as you have been all your life. You are the greatest link between immortals and mortals; have been since you became immortal. I've known this day was bound to arrive sooner or later; when our secret would come out. It was only a matter of time, and I'm not about to abandon our best chance for peace, now that it's here, because my life's in danger. I've led you this far, I'll not chicken-out now."
"We'll find another way or try when there are more mortals siding with immortals."
"I already explained that no intelligent person would dare kill us until after the conference and we'll have the treaty signed before then."
"You don't know that for sure."
"But I do know that I have to do something," Methos persisted. "I think we can both agree that I'm going crazy, MacLeod. I can't stand hiding, waiting for someone to kill me, watching as yet another friend gets closer to death. I need to be able to lay my friends to rest. I need to walk outside without thinking about what I can lose. I need to give Jellybean and the others that chance too." His voice shook with emotion. "You want to talk about risk? How about the risk that if I don't do this now, when people are beginning to question what side they're on, I'm not going to be sane enough to help anyone later?" He took a deep breath, burying his feelings. "Mac, I have instructions already typed up, explaining exactly what to do and what funds to use. If this fails and I die, they will be able to carry on and it will be a blessing. I can survive many things; the knowledge that I am slowly reliving my past isn't one of them. I can't take much more." He paused again, organizing his thoughts and emotions. "As long as I'm decapitated first, you and Connor should be able to escape. My quickening ought to be large enough to ensure that. I realize this is a lot to ask, but I need this war to be over before I crack."
"So, you've spent hours, days, possibly weeks even constructing this treaty, and are willing to risk your life presenting it *just* to keep your sanity in tact?" MacLeod's resolve had nearly been worn away by the speech, but he needed to make sure there wasn't an ulterior motive for his friend's plot.
"Yes, I am doing something just to help myself. I am unbelievably selfish," Methos huffed. "I thought you already knew that."
"Unbelievable is right. I'm beginning to think you don't have a real selfish bone in your body," Mac countered.
"Mac, you're mistaking me for someone else." He pursed his lips. "I'm not the Methos who's selfless, noble, all-knowing, been everywhere and done everything. I'm just your average guy who doesn't know everything, still hasn't seen or done all this world has to offer, and is, quite frankly, thinking about his own needs and wants ninety-nine percent of the time. A shock, I know."
"You have a problem admitting how good you are, you know that?" MacLeod beamed, finally feeling like he was talking to his old friend again. Methos had always allowed compliments and insults alike to roll off him; rarely letting anything to perceivably seep past his skin. "But I suppose we can work on that after we come back from the talks."
"You can certainly try." Methos' grin stretched ear to ear. "Thank-you."
"Well, according to your logic, I'm doing this to repay my debt to you," the black-haired man laughed.
"Your *perceived* debt to me. One doesn't actually exist." The next pebble skipped over the water twice.
"I don't know how you do it," MacLeod admitted, wondering how someone so old could still be unaware of his goodness.
"Really? It's all in the wrist." To demonstrate, Methos skipped the next stone. "See?"
"Yeah," Duncan said, deciding not to engage his friend in another serious conversation tonight. Methos seemed to have lost his desire to discuss matters. Understandable since Methos had given more of himself and his past in the past hour than he had in the nearly forty years prior. Mac figured it would be cruel to try for more information, especially when they didn't have anything to dull the edge of truth. "Do you happen to have any beer stashed around here? To celebrate?"
"Nope, no alcohol anywhere in the Shelter. But if I've gotten used to it, I'm sure you will too." Methos glanced at his watch. "Look, it's getting late. You should go back to your room. Try to get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be a busy day."
MacLeod nodded, standing up. "You should take your own advice."
"I'll go soon enough."
"Come on, I'm curious to see what Commander quarters are like."
"You really think I sleep in *that* room?" The grin reverted to its usual amused size. "My real room is hidden past the generators. You just turn left at the first fork in the path. It isn't incredibly cozy, but it is secure. Every volume of my journal is safe there."
"You still write everyday?" the more muscular of the pair asked, approaching the cavern's entrance.
"I've never written everyday, Mac," Methos said, standing up to see his friend out. "But it is important to me to keep it as updated as possible."
MacLeod couldn't help be feel the situation wasn't fair for anyone. Should they fail in their mission for peace, Methos would have been wasting his time by updating his beloved journal. His most prized possession could be lost for years, quite possibly forever; the opportunity to truly know the legendary Methos and history along with it. If the Navejo were correct that the spirit did live as long as someone alive remembered it, then everyone Methos had ever met and thought to write about would die the day he did. Yet, MacLeod refused to voice that depressing knowledge, refused to ask Methos what the future of their documented history was. Instead he told himself that they'd return intact, waved good-bye to his friend before traveling back down the tunnel, remembering to stay to the left, while Methos returned to sitting in the alcove, calmly tossing pebbles over the flames and into the spring.
