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Chapter Nine: The Long Journey to Freedom.
"Better stand tall when they're calling you out
Don't bend, don't break, baby, don't back down
It's my life
And it's now or never
'Cause I ain't gonna live forever
I just want to live while I'm alive (it's my life)"
--("It's My Life" Performed By: Bon Jovi)
It has often been said that a watched pot never boils. However, in the Methos' case, the whole world was bubbling and boiling before he had even finished pouring out the news through the satellites. The forty-eight page treaty Adam Pierson presented the next afternoon was instantly the centre of everyone's attention. A copy had been sent to radio and television stations, random fax machines and any computer connected to the Internet at the time of the transmission. The media stories which ran after the announcement, reported massive delays around the globe as people read over the proposed new laws. Lawyers and judges were being bombarded with questions about the possible consequences. Politicians were working around the clock to determine the seriousness and effectiveness of the treaty. Regular citizens were analyzing their own copies, looking for exactly what Methos was suggesting, or searching for the real purpose of the peace talks, depending on one's opinion of immortals. The discussions were quick, though. Adam had included a deadline for a reply. If the United Nations did not agree or disagree to the proposal in forty-eight hours, the chance for peace had passed. They responded in less than thirty-three.
So it was agreed that in five days time the United Nations would meet in its Paris office and negotiate the treaty with Methos and three other immortals of his choosing. The conference would begin at eleven in the morning and continue until an agreement had been reached. The immortals would provide their own transportation to the building (hence the five day delay), but security there was guaranteed to be intense. The deal was controversial, but the amended and new laws were reasonable and, as Methos had said, immortals and mortals generally agreed with them.
Of course, the doubts in the Shelter had not been eased. They merely changed focus. After the UN had presented their deal and Methos, through Sweet Pea, had agreed, the list of Methos' aids had been sent to the underground base. Its inhabitants believed in the treaty's potential. They believed that the chosen few should leave on the last day before the talks were to be held so that they arrived on time, but not dangerously early. The residents of the Shelter believed that Methos could achieve peace. They even believed that the two Highland warriors would help accomplish the oldest immortal's goal. However, they sincerely doubted the helpfulness of the skinny guy who never took a sparing match seriously, played games with and told bedtime stories to the kids, and was probably an emotional time-bomb by now. They had faith that Sweet Pea could make schedules and handle paperwork, but going to an major peace conference on which all their futures might very well depend, that seemed to be pushing it.
At first, the doubts were voiced with infrequent whispers when Sweet Pea was in his office. Low questions about their Commander's usefulness floating on air. Then, the people realized their friend was either not hearing their ponderings or ignoring them completely. Their concerns were soon expressed at every meal. But gentle mutterings seemed ineffective as well. So, on the third day, what began as whispers became clear questions asked directly to Sweet Pea. His response, "It wasn't my decision to bring me along. That honour belongs to Methos", didn't help matters. By the final supper before Methos' assistants left, the majority of the Shelter was infuriated by his attitude, and down right concerned about how badly he would screw up at the talks.
The confrontation finally occurred when Sweet Pea was about to retreat to his office, and Jimbulaya stepped in his way. "'Fraid, I can't let you go yet."
"What?" Annoyance clearly painted on the pale man's face. "I've got schedules to finalize. We can talk later."
"Sorry," the larger man said. Duncan watched as the african-american crossed his arms over his wide chest. "You've got to spar with me first."
"Let him pass, Jimbulaya," Connor cautioned from his table. "He has work to do and nothing to prove."
"On the contrary, Sweet Pea has a lot to prove." Salami, a slim man with a haunting elf-like face, rose from his chair. "Our best chance for peace relies on his ability to help Methos. Now, the MacLeods can provide unrefuted honesty and protection. Methos knows exactly what he's doing. The only one who doesn't have a purpose is Sweet. I think he should prove he can beat at least one person if the need should arise."
"Sweet Pea has a purpose." Pear stood up. "He's great with people and he's smart. He's a great addition to the team."
"Pear, that isn't his role," corrected a young woman with long curly blonde hair. Her French accent didn't suit her attire; a plaid shirt, and jeans. Not bothering to stand, Cherry continued, "We all know that everyone going is smart and good with strangers. But Chicken and Haggis bring the trust, Methos is there for the wisdom, and Sweet Pea is going because of his innocent looks."
"That isn't true," the young man protested. "If Methos was looking for innocence, he would have picked me or Beef Jerkie over there."
"Will you all please stop analyzing why I'm going and just accept it?" the subject of the discussion asked, before turning back to the figure still blocking his way. "I'm not fighting you."
"Then fight me," Salami suggested. "Or someone who's easy-- Artie--"
"Hey!" Artie shouted. "I've beaten Sweet Pea before. He should fight Pear."
"I'm not fighting anyone. Now, Jim, move."
"No," came the solid response.
"Adam, if you just--"
"No, I'm not going to!" Methos quickly cut off MacLeod's suggestion, knowing it was probably that he should tell the others the truth. They had discussed it before, and the older man had decided that his head might be safer if Methos' true identity couldn't leak to any immortals who couldn't resist the temptation to take his quickening.
"Not going to what?" Artie asked from his seat.
"He's not going to spar, that's what," Salami supplied. "He's gonna ruin everything."
"Yo, Elf man, shut up." Liver tugged at the other man's sleeve, urging him to sit down. "Negative thinking isn't going to help right now."
"Neither is letting him go when Beef Jerkie could easily replace him," countered another woman in the far corner of the mess hall. Sugar's long flower dress swayed as she stood up. "Methos doesn't know that BJ is here or how great a fighter he is. His only real contact here has been Sweet Pea so he probably assumed he would be useful. We could send BJ in Sweet's place and everything would work out."
"Everything wouldn't work out," argued Pear. "Sweet Pea is a great choice, or have you all forgotten what he's done around here?"
"We've forgotten nothing," Cherry asserted. "I remember all the schedules and reports he's organized, but I also remember all the bouts he's lost. Let's face facts. He has brains, but no brawn."
"He probably has plenty of brawn... hidden somewhere under his shirts," the youth stammered.
"No man avoids changing infront of others because he's a muscle house, Pear," Sugar flatly stated. "I think we know he's done it because he's shy."
"A shy man doesn't play 'Hokey-Pokey' with over twenty people watching," Salami countered. "He hides his chest because of a scar he got before he became immortal."
"That's not it at all. Sweet Pea has a tattoo he likes to hide," contended Pear.
"This is all immaterial." Cherry finally stood up. "We should be talking about how we can send BJ instead of Sweet Pea to the conference."
"We are not sending Beef Jerkie in my place," Methos vehemently replied. "We are going to let me go because Methos, for whatever important reason he had, asked for me. Now get out of my way, Jim."
"No can do until you agree to spar with me." The bulky man shook his head and swayed from side to side as the leaner man attempted to slip past him.
"I will do no such thing," Methos stated, growing angrier by the second. He could hear the arguments intensifying behind him. Duncan was trying
to restore order verbally while Connor was physically holding Artie down, trying to convince him that starting a brawl would not help Sweet Pea's case. Salami and Pear were yelling at one another as others moved away from their table, expecting the tossing of insults to soon turn into the flying of fists. Cherry, Beef Jerkie, and Sugar were discussing the ways they could sneak the blonde youth into the conference without offending Methos. Liver was loudly arguing with a curly-haired man who continued to point from Sweet Pea to BJ. Finally, sensing the tension about to reach its climax, Methos turned around to face the crowd. "What the Hell do you think you are all doing?!" Mouths stopped moving and all heads immediately turned to the source of the shout. His voice dropped in volume. "You seriously think this is helping?! You are fighting over a decision that is final. Methos has his reasons and if you really did trust him, you'd accept that. Now you are all going to stop this pointless arguing because I am not changing my mind. I am going to go to that peace conference, not BJ or Pear or anyone else in my place. And I am going to do whatever I have to, whether that be looking innocent, acting smart, or defending myself as best I can. And you will just have to deal with it." His cold stared returned to Jimbulaya. "And you will have to find yourself someone else to spar with. I am going to my office so get out of my way, right now!"
The bigger man moved his face until it was just centimeters from Methos', and in a low, firm voice said, "If anyone at those talks treats you like we just did, you had better have that attitude and conviction." Suddenly straightening up, Jimbulaya smiled. "I think we just found out what Methos already knew; Sweet's got a back bone like the Eiffel Tower. And if I may so, told ya."
Methos turned to see several sheepish grins, and many heads nodding in agreement. The others in the mess hall seemed to relax. MacLeod had the
sneaky suspicion that Jimbulaya had given the old man a test, and he had passed.
"Does that mean we can bring out the cake?" inquired Jellybean, already sliding out of her seat.
"Cake?" Methos watched as the little girl, accompanied by Bean and Peanut, went into the kitchen and retrieved a small round cake covered in white frosting. A single lit pink candle stood in the middle of the dessert. He was still speechless when the children set it on his usual table and Mushroom gently pushed him to sit down.
"They wanted to give you a goodluck present before you left; something that would help you," Jimbulaya explained while the silent man sat down and was surrounded by his little friends. "On his last trip, Artie had grabbed some mix and icing for Jellybean's birthday. She didn't mind using it for you."
"Aren'tcha gonna blow it out?" asked Mushroom, watching wax slide down the candle until it solidified on the icing.
"He's gotta make a wish first, silly," Peanut chided the boy with chestnut hair. "Remember, one person makes a wish, blows out the candle, and then whatever he wished for comes true."
"Is that what they're teaching you these days?" Seeing a couple of heads nod in his peripheral vision, Methos smiled. His voice was gentle and serious. "Well, let me set you straight then. There is a rule that if there's only one candle to blow out, more than one person can blow it out. The only catch is that everyone must be making the same wish, but we can't tell each other what we're wishing for. Those combined wishes on that one candle creates sort of a, uh, super wish. It's more likely to come true, no matter how impossible it is."
"Well, I think we're all hoping for the same thing," Artie piped up.
Suddenly, Methos was aware of the crowd which had formed around his table. "Well then, on the count of three, we all blow together. Ready?" Several 'ready's were spoken from various people standing around him. "One. Two. Three!" The mixed breathes of the group quickly extinguished the flame and a round of applause followed its end.
The rest of the evening was an unstructured Farewell Party which caused an equal share of laughter and tears. Kids laughed as Sweet Pea told them one last story. Adults cried as Sweet "One Day I'll Learn How To Bluff" Pea played poker and finally won-- nearly every hand. Friends cheered while playing a game of Limbo. Jellybean sniffled as she made Duncan promise to bring her Sweet Pea home unharmed. The music was upbeat, forcing the mood to be light when the reality of what awaited three friends was remembered. And while the sense of joy still waiffed in the air and filled the rock-encased Shelter, Duncan and Connor ushered Methos to his room to get much needed rest.
Their alarm clocks sang at seven and they were on the road by eight. Connor was the Range Rover's driver, Methos was the navigator, and Duncan was, as the oldest man said, "the guy who sits in the back and occasionally asks if we're there yet." They left armed with their swords, whole trench coats, clean suits the most sly immortal of the trio had procured over the decades ("It's not that big of a deal, Mac. I've owned suits before, you two are about the same size, and you didn't clean out your closet when you sold the dojo."), and Methos' briefcase containing, among other things, the original treaty. For over an hour, the three men enjoyed the scenery as the sun rose, gently kissing the world as it did so. When the sights no longer soothed his excited soul, Connor went to turn on the radio.
Methos grabbed his hand before it touched the button. "Oh, no you don't."
"What? I was just going to listen to some music."
"I've heard what you two listen to, and I'll not have opera playing all the way to Paris."
"Opera is great music," Connor declared. "If you had any sense, you'd realize that."
"Not liking opera means that one has sense."
"At least our stations play more music than commercials, Methos." Duncan leaned over from the backseat. "And I want to listen to something relaxing, not your kind of music."
"You want relaxing? Open the briefcase beside you, there are some discs full of soothing music and they're all commercial-free."
Being more curious than obedient, MacLeod grabbed the case and looked inside. True to his word, there were some discs, all by soft-rock artists. What captured the Scot's attention, however, was something else entirely. "You're bringing your baseball?"
"Of course, it could be a goodluck charm."
"What baseball?" Connor inquired.
"The baseball he caught with his face."
"You consider that ball goodluck and you say I don't have sense," snickered Connor, before momentarily looking over his shoulder at Duncan. "How'd you manage to drag him to a game anyway?"
"I didn't have to," his cousin explained. "Joe taught him baseball in '96, and ever since whenever those two have been in the same city, they watched whatever game was on. In 2023, Methos treated Joe and I to game three of the World Series, Seattle Marlins versus Toronto Blue Jays. It was great up until a foul ball broke his face."
"It hit the second level and then hit me," Methos clarified. "It wasn't a line drive caught on the Jumbotron."
"But it broke your face?" The elder highlander asked, trying to understand why anyone would keep a souvenir of that experience.
"Shattered his face is more like it." MacLeod inspected the ball, noting that, indeed, the bloodstains were still present. "You'd think it would have been lucky that he heals fast. But, thanks to Tanya, he had to cover his face with his hands all the way to the infirmary, and then had to keep breaking his nose until the doctor set it."
"Tanya?"
"This short, peroxide-brunette who decided to be charitable and watch out for the guy with the "cute British accent" for the entire game." Mac could still hear her explaining how a foul ball could be counted as a strike while Methos patiently tried to tell her that, though it was his first time *going to* a professional baseball game, he knew how the game was played. "When Casanova here was hit, she insisted that she accompanied us. The moment we set foot in the sickbay, she told the nurse Methos' nose was definitely broken and, since we didn't have time to clean up any of the blood or check that it was straight, he had to play along. Joe and I had to keep distracting the attending nurse and Tanya so he could keep breaking his nose."
"Nine agonizing times," Methos sadly added. "I'd never been so happy to see a doctor in my life."
"The rest of the game, he had to wear a nose-brace, and Tanya kept checking to make sure he was still feeling fine and didn't need her to drive him to "the hospital or something." The only good thing she did was grab this ball and give it to us instead of keeping it for herself."
"I don't see how that ball could possibly be a goodluck charm if it did that much damage," Connor remarked, turning the automobile down a paved road. Thirty minutes and they'd arrive.
"The Marlins won that game and went on to win the World Series!" exclaimed Methos. "This is a souvenir of the game their luck changed for the better, and we did have a great time, despite my injuries. I know it isn't a charm, really. But this morning Jellybean wanted to know what I was bringing for goodluck, and since I didn't want her scouring the entire Shelter looking for rabbit's feet or four-leaf clovers, I grabbed the ball."
"The gift that keeps on giving," chuckled Connor, earning him a withering glare from Methos, "like music discs."
Taking the hint, MacLeod dropped the ball back in the briefcase, and handed a disc to his cousin. "I've heard of this band before. I think they're supposed to be good."
The sandy haired man examined the disc before sliding it into the slim slot. The music was slightly faster than he'd been hoping for, and the lyrics were in spanish which slowed his understanding, but song's mood was upbeat and uplifting. He had to admit, it was just what he needed. His thoughts were becoming doubts the closer they came to Paris. His and everyone else's in the minivan. But the music wiped those concepts from their minds, replacing them with words of victory and freedom, and hope. The rest of the drive was spent quietly allowing the tune to continue doing just that. They could face their fears in the French capital. But in the safety of their Range Rover, the trio would listen to the instruments and soft voice, convincing themselves that everything would work out smoothly.
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Chapter Ten: "...life is about change, learning to accept who you are, good or bad." -Duncan MacLeod, "Not to Be."
"Please heed the call
Don't stand in the doorway
Don't block up the hall
For he that gets hurt
Will be he who has stalled
There's a battle outside
And it is ragin'.
It'll soon shake your windows
And rattle your walls
For the times they are a-changin'.
--("The Times They Are A-Changin'." Lyrics: Bob Dylan)
The United Nations Headquarters, recently relocated in the Eiffel Tower's hometown, was a monstrous building. It was new. It had hundreds of sparkling clean windows. It had beautifully sculpted gargoyles adorning its many corners. It had a huge lobby with red carpeting. It had twenty stairs leading to its front doors. It had potted plants lining its stairs and two little trees standing at attention at its double glass doors. It had well over fifty journalists and camera operators crowding its stairs. It had several more officers guarding its entrance, and there were guardrails too. Its closest neighbours were two smaller stores selling maps and souvenirs situated on either side of it across two different streets. It was welcoming leaders from around the world inside. Its conference room was to become a battlefield in fifteen minutes. The impressive tower was a testament of all that the world hoped to achieve; a mixture of the old and new styles, the private discussions and public announcements. It was smooth and cool, despite the hot sun shining on it, worshipping it. It was a spectacle to behold. It was a structure that demanded respect and awe. It was two blocks away from where three immortals, determined to end a war, stood staring at it from their parked SUV.
"Ready?" Methos picked up his briefcase from its spot on the sidewalk. The MacLeods exchanged glances, visually conveying their uncertainty and worries regarding the plan, before nodding. "Good."
"I'll take point," Connor commanded as they approached the congregation of people blocking their way to the front doors. "Duncan, you take rear, and Sweet Pea-- don't wander away."
Giving little more than a mildly irritated face, Methos obeyed as they pushed, excused, and 'no comment'-ed through the crowd. Microphones were thrust in their faces. Flashes nearly blinded them. One side of the mass would shove them one way, only to have the other surge in the opposite direction. It was like three salmon fighting their way upstream with shouting waves. Fortunately, Connor decided half way through that he preferred being a bull to a salmon. Grunting as he went, the elder MacLeod shoved journalists and equipment out of his way. Eventually the mob backed away, rather than face the charging immortal head on.
"Glad to see you made it," announced a smirking officer in the lobby. His statement would have sounded more sincere if he wasn't chomping on gum, and didn't find their trouble so amusing. "Where are the others?"
"As previously explained, they're arriving later," Methos answered tartly, quickly checking his coat and briefcase to see if anything was missing. Thankfully, everything seemed intact. Everything, but Connor's calm.
"This place is supposed to be secure," he raged. "We could have been shot or stabbed out there."
"It's not like you would've been hurt," the man shrugged.
"We could have been," Duncan interjected. "We were guaranteed a secure and safe meeting."
"And you've got one," the guard stated smugly. "So what if you had to talk to the media first? They aren't out for blood... unlike some things."
Connor's lunge was stopped by Duncan grabbing his arm and Methos softly saying his name. His respect for authority figures-- the police specifically-- was infamous since he really didn't have any. And though, in his opinion, the jerk deserved a good punch right in the chops, the shortest of the group backed off. They couldn't have him fighting with an officer of the law when they were about to engage in peace talks. After taking a few cleansing breathes, he shrugged away the last of his anger, and stubbornly refused to look back at the guard, certain his rage would return if he did so. "Let's go."
Cautiously, they followed the officer, Luc, to the security centre. He explained how to use the translators while Methos' case was x-rayed, their coats were searched, and their bodies were scanned for other hidden weapons. The only items which required explanation were Methos' baseball and their swords. Once the guards were satisfied that the ball didn't contain a miniature bomb or bugging device, and the swords were simply there as signs of peace, the trio was escorted to a large room, closely resembling an auditorium.
Their seats, they were told, were located in the centre of bottom level. They were to be the main attraction in this theatre. Camera operators stood at the three exits. The others' seats formed an inclined semi-circle stretching back ten rows, with aisles separating sections after every fifteen seats. Infront of each row was a long table, with a microphone and earphones for translations, and a nameplate attached before each chair. The chairs were comfy, and the tables were polished. All except the ones in the centre of the bottom level.
"At least they didn't give us cardboard boxes," quipped Methos, walking down the ramp to put his briefcase on the steel table. While they descended, he surveyed the room. Presidents, Prime Ministers, and their assorted assistants were still filing in, finding their seats, and conversing with others, stringently avoiding eye contact with the immortals. "Friendly bunch."
"At least we have the Prime Minister of the United Kingdom on our side," Connor assured them. "Alistair promised me that the other night."
"That's a relief. Any ideas about what they're saying?" Duncan inquired, realizing that his italian was too rusty to understand the fast-paced discussion occurring to his right.
"I think the guy in the grey suit is asking when Methos is supposed to arrive." Connor tried to listen to the next conversation they passed by, but he had never learnt Finnish. The next group was speaking what sounded like Russian, but too quietly for him to be certain. Finally they reached the last floor and he could gaze at the mortals without appearing nosy, just harmlessly curious.
Duncan joined him shortly before placing his sword on the cold black table, next to Methos'. Taking one last look around, Connor turned to lay his sword with the others, mindful not to hit the standing microphones or headsets. He could hear a set of voices behind him grow louder, but he hadn't spoken Swahili in decades and had a feeling that they weren't really discussing a new dough. "Duncan, do you know what they're saying?"
"Not a clue, though I'm sure it's about us." The junior MacLeod frowned as he noticed some nicks in his katana's blade. He hadn't had the opportunity to polish it since Riley had decided to share his secret with the world. He couldn't help but feel his treasured sword deserved better than that treatment. "We should find out soon. The conference starts in two minutes."
"They're wondering why two Scottish warriors are carrying around Japanese swords," explained Methos as he removed the treaty, scrap paper, and pens from his briefcase. "The group before that, to our left and a few rows up, was saying that I look a lot thinner and whiter in person. Which is probably true since television adds, what, ten pounds, is it?" He looked up as the Highland cousins rounded the table to pretend to watch him work while observing their audience. "And the people before them were discussing Methos' absence, though they would only refer to him as the Ancient One."
"I think Sweet Pea suits you better." Duncan smiled at the man to his left while the representatives slowly took their seats.
"And Chicken suits you too," retorted Methos, patting his friend's shoulder. A loud bell sounded to signal the beginning of the conference.
"We said we'd speak mostly English, right?" Connor asked while he and the others slipped the earphones over their heads.
"Yep." The eldest of their kind gestured for them to take their seats. "Time to look sharp, act smart, and hope we have a few open minds in the room. I believe you have the floor, Mac."
Swallowing his fear, Duncan switched on their microphones and began the opening speech he'd repeated in his mind over and over again all the way to Paris. "Good morning and thank-you for coming. The swords you see displayed on this table have been with us for centuries. They were often considered extensions of ourselves when we were forced to defend ourselves or protect others. But today we lay them bare before you as a sign that we truly desire a future without bloodshed, without violence, without secrets. We, like you, are not models of our kind. We are here to present the ideals and wishes of the majority of immortals. Those are what may be discussed. Our pasts, like your own, are not on trial. Today, we will find a way to live in harmony through calm and rational discussion. I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, son of Mary and the past clan Chieftain Ian MacLeod. I am four hundred and forty-four years old, and I consider it an honour and a privilege to be a part of this."
"I am Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, son of Rachel and Sean MacLeod. I am five hundred and eighteen years old, and I am here to--"
"Where is Methos?" interrupted a chubby man seated in the middle of the seventh row. His Russian accent was thick, but the aggravation was clearly present in his tone. "The pale skeleton down there said he'd come."
"And he has," Methos informed him, trying unsuccessfully to hide his usual amused grin. "I'm Methos."
The man, President Mikel Yessier according to his nameplate, slammed his fist on the table. "You are Adam Pierson! You're friend Joe has surrendered that information. How dare you insult me, insult all of us, with this lie! You beg for peace and then you mock us?! You--" Adam Pierson's raised hand halted his rant.
"Let me try that again with a straight face," the lean man said while lowering his hand. "I am Methos." The room was instantly quiet. Everyone just gawked at the man who, seconds earlier, was a shy, poker-playing, young immortal. In the time it took to honestly introduce himself again, the oldest man had somehow transformed before the gathered assembly. His shoulders seemed broader. His posture was straighter. The eyes that previously held awe and self-doubt, now contained self-confidence and wisdom. The face which had seemed so innocent and gentle was suddenly strong and experienced. His amused voice was unwavering and powerful. The immortal who was undoubtedly Adam Pierson seconds ago was now undoubtedly Thee Methos. As if the metamorphosis wasn't enough, he continued to introduce himself in every language still in use, including sign language and pig latin. "For the talks, I will try to continue speaking English just to make it easier on the translators."
"You start this peace conference with a lie?" Mikel roared, his face literally red with rage.
"No, we start with a truth," responded Methos, "An important truth I have hidden for centuries. I have done this because honesty is imperative to the success of these talks. This conference was set up based on the honest desire for an end to this war. It began with honest admissions and it will succeed because of consistent honesty. I don't want to lie to any of you and have no intention of doing so. I, also, don't think that you will all believe my words without doubt."
"We aren't stupid enough to believe something that foolish," contributed Connor. "But we aren't going to believe everything any of you say either. We all have doubts. But I have been taught that if we try to listen for the reasons behind the words, we can hear the truths."
"This treaty was written by Methos, following the truths you have recognized in various countries. It doesn't lie about what immortals are capable of doing, or what we are entitled to." MacLeod tapped the contract in front of him. "These suggested laws are honest and accurate. Don't dwell on the fact that he didn't say he was Methos when he first offered the treaty. Unlike you and I, he isn't used to introducing himself by his real name. For thousands of years, he hasn't had the luxury to safely to do so."
"Thank-you, Mac," Methos said. "Look, if going by alias after alias has taught me anything, it's that the name isn't important. I was Methos when I said I was Adam Pierson, and I am still me. That is a fact. My being here to achieve long-lasting peace, by doing and giving what I have to, is another fact. Duncan and Connor still holding on to their roots as part of the Clan MacLeod is another fact. A fact is that we have all risked something to be here, and that we believe in this treaty enough that we were willing to come here. We are here to deal with facts."
"Facts?" a woman in the ninth row in the left section of the theatre asked. "And what *fact* do you wish to discuss?"
"The fact that immortals need mortals." The MacLeods both hid smiles, realizing how their friend had gracefully steered the discussion away from himself. "You see, another fact is that a gifted immortal is extremely rare. I have heard of very few, met even less. The poetry, art, technology, and other wonders of this world which we enjoy are created primarily by mortals. Monet was no more immortal than DaVinci or Gates, or Hawknings or Poe."
"We have been able to live our lives because mortals have made it enjoyable, tolerable," Connor injected, happy that no politician had decided to interrupt and return the subject to Methos. "You let us live. Not just those like Van Gogh or Shakespeare, but people like Joe Dawson, and Shirley Weatherbot, and Heather."
"I have learnt hundreds of lessons from mortals," Duncan spoke up. "My katana was a gift from the man who taught me about other forms of honour, responsibility, and family. I have questioned my beliefs and changed my opinions as mortals have shown me different views about friendship and forgiveness. My parents were mortals and I would not be Duncan MacLeod if it were not for their guidance and love."
"So you need us," a tiny Irish man in the third row paraphrased with disdain. "Am I to assume that we supposedly need you as well? Despite all we apparently give you, you give us something in return?"
Feeling that this was where his ancient friend had hoped to go with the discussion, Duncan smiled. "Exactly. Gifted immortals, as Methos has admitted, are rarities, but they do use their talents throughout their lives. Claudia Jardine and Lord Byron are perfect examples." He barely shared a glance with Methos, but knew what the statement had done to their friendship. Another uncrossed bridge had been mended. "Claudia has given this world beautiful music under several different aliases for decades. Byron created wonderful poetry and songs for centuries. And though they are both deceased, other immortals continue to grace us with their genius."
"Other immortals have even helped mortal prodigies." The elder MacLeod knew his kinsman and himself were on a roll. "Shakespeare, Van Gogh, even Michelangelo have been tutored by immortals. Duncan and I have sponsored other mortals we knew could be great if they just had the chance."
"And we aren't the only ones. Immortals may have amassed great fortunes over the centuries, but the majority of us use our wealth to assist others in need," his cousin pointed out. "If not gifts of money, then we have given mortals shelter, food, or someone to talk to, a shoulder to cry on. Methos has been a doctor several times, tending to the rich and the poor; the masters and the slaves. Countless other immortals have done the same or entered into similar fields. Some have become surgeons, psychiatrists, priests, monks who never raised a sword in millennia. The sole mission in their lives has become to aide those who need it, regardless of who it is."
"Immortals have even lost their lives fighting in wars to protect mortals, to save their freedom from dictators such as Napoleon and Hitler." Connor's pride raised his voice. They really had helped the world. "If we weren't soldiers, then immortals were the medics treating the injured. Throughout history, we have been giving back to mortal society what it has given us."
"Those aren't immortal gifts," argued the Irish Prime Minister, his voice louder than his body would suggest possible.
"Agreed," Methos muttered immediately.
Clive Barley waved his finger at the three men on the bottom level. "Any mortal has done those same things, also throughout history. What do you do that is so special we can't, hmm?"
Methos' eyes sparkled as he waited, allowing the anxiety and excitement to build in the spacious room. "Perhaps nothing at all. Beyond the physical, I would say we are rather the same beings. We share the same feelings, desires, and needs. We work the same as you. We change with age, as you do. However, since our age can be so much greater than your own, we have the opportunity to change much more, to see the world better. That doesn't make us special since mortals have often given us as completely different perceptions as other immortals have. All in all, as mortals have offered us, we have returned the favour with zest. We can give all which mortals can, for longer. Again, only the physical seems to separate me from you. If this treaty is signed, if we work together, perhaps we will discover what allows immortals to live for so long and how we can use that to help mortals. I have tried to figure this out alone before and failed. We--"
"Fascinating," huffed Mikel. "Your great talent isn't so great, Methos. I want to know why I should bother to negotiate to this wondrous treaty of yours. I am here because I wanted to meet the legendary immortal. And I have yet to be impressed. You talk much, but about nothing important to me. And your comrades have yet to support your little speech. Tell me, what does your treaty offer me that I want?"
"Besides peace?" MacLeod could only stare at the man, as dozens of other words with meanings synonymous with peace swirled in his mind. What else could the man want?
"The opportunity to possibly prolong lives, eradicate diseases," offered Connor, suffering a similar problem as his clansman. "A chance for new recipes for alcoholic beverages?" That earned him a glare from Mac. "I don't know what you want, but this treaty-- it could stop the fighting, stop the fear."
"Don't you want to change what's going on?" Duncan hadn't missed Methos' sudden silence. The old man was letting him lead again, as if he'd really been leading at all today. "This whole conference wasn't just to see who the oldest immortal is. And I can't believe that that's all it is for you. This is a chance to end the pain, to find a harmony we've secretly had for centuries and millennia, to knowingly grow together. You have to be here for that."
"Do I now?" sneered the Russian President. "And what happens if I'm not?"
"The same thing that's happened to every culture that refused to embrace change and adapt for a better future," Connor volunteered. "If you don't learn how to change with the rest of the world, you don't survive."
"Is that a threat?!" shouted Mikel, rising out of his chair and leaning over the table.
"Not in the least so sit down," commanded Methos. The other delegates' eyes seconded the order and the bulky male hesitantly lowered himself to his cushy seat and proceeded to sulk in silence. "If you did not change, you'd still be in diapers and there wouldn't be a future for mortals or, quite possibly, immortals either."
Catching the look Methos directed at him, Duncan quickly continued what his cousin's thought had apparently begun. "It is a fact of life that in order to survive we must change. That's what life is about, change. As I have witnessed, an immortal who doesn't change with the times either dies or is killed because he tries to bring back the past."
"It is a sad fact," interjected Methos, "But true nonetheless. Change is a necessity."
"This treaty provides us with a wonderful opportunity to change, to grow and become better than we were," Connor added.
"Exactly," agreed the oldest immortal. "This is our chance to change our lives for the better, to do it together."
"Even if you only came here to see Methos, stay because you want to grow with us. Don't deny your people the chance to evolve," pleaded MacLeod, finally feeling steel confidence gripping his heart. The looks the representatives were giving him, and the pride and strength echoing in his friends' voices, practically screamed eminent success. "Please, let us discuss the treaty, negotiate the laws so that it lasts, and finally be able to grow side by side without secrets. Is there really anyone who doesn't want to evolve into a world like that?"
He stood, frozen in place, as mumbled conversations were shared by the mortal members in the room. Only his eyes seemed capable of movement, and they caught sight of Methos and Connor. The other immortals were apparently dealing with the same infliction. Mac idly wondered if this whole situation could have been avoided if they hadn't brought that cursed baseball.
"Well," Mikel cleared his throat, "If we are to do this, I think we should begin on page two. Unless anyone disagrees, I have a few questions about section D1."
There were mumblings of agreement and the delegates began flipping to the second page of the treaty. They weren't overtly excited, but at least it was something. Duncan released the breathe he hadn't known he was holding, and flipped the treaty over to the second page. His smile's size rivaled by Connor's and Methos'. "Page two, then."
Over the next four and a half hours, they negotiated each section. The delegates raising hands to signal when they wished to speak. Their aids raced in and out of the room, carrying the revised sections of the treaty to be called to lawyers, analyzed, and then returned with points that had to be further discussed and explained. The mortals were slightly less organized than the immortals. The MacLeods did most of the talking while Methos rewrote the law every time it changed, checking for any possibly dangerous loopholes. It was an interesting procedure to watch. Duncan arguing one point. Connor reading over a note Methos scribbled down to add to the discussion. Methos furiously jotting down the revised bill, analyzing it, and then underlining words that would have to be changed, and parts that couldn't even be allowed in the treaty. And then, they'd switch roles almost unconsciously. Suddenly, Connor would speak up and then it was Duncan looking over Methos' arm to see what the old man was writing. Or Methos would end his silence to correct someone or help argue a point, and it was a MacLeod altering the treaty and examining the wording. The cycle flowed seamlessly. Even when someone went, escorted by a security guard, for a break to get food or relieve some bladder pressure, the immortals smoothly continued. They only stopped when another bell rang, signaling a break for everyone to eat.
"Phew," Duncan panted. "That was a hard law to change."
"Did you really think discussing the installation of capital punishment for certain immortals would be easy?" Methos leaned back against his chair, cracking his stiff spine. "Oh, I needed that."
"I need that coffee they're bringing in," Connor moaned. He was beginning to feel the wear of the peace talks.
"Smells good." The oldest of the trio eyed the white cart the caterers were wheeling in. He lazily watched as more uniformed men entered the room, positioning themselves by the exits. The others were setting up around the immortals' table while the delegates patiently waited in their seats for the sign that they could come down for the food. The only visible food was the coffee, but the covered silver platters promised something to fill Methos' aching stomach. The carrot sticks and celery stalks he'd been able to snack on during the first part of the conference had filled him only to a point. He licked his lips at the thought of cold cuts of ham and turkey. It had been awhile since he'd been able to enjoy a meal consisting of just that.
"You're dreaming of turkey slices too?" mused Connor, focusing on the elegantly decorated cart in front of them. He didn't need to see his friend's head move to know he was right. They hadn't had cold meat slices in the Shelter. Jimbulaya always insisted on hot food. "I can barely remember what eating it is like."
"It's cold," teased MacLeod.
"And you've got to chew it and then swallow," added Methos. "You can't skip that first step like we usually do when Jim's cooking." His good mood was halted when he noticed Luc standing at one of the exits. The guard's smile was too big. His arms were folded over his chest too proudly. Methos' instincts told him something wasn't right. Judging by the sharp intakes of breathe on either side of him, the oldest members of the Clan MacLeod shared his feelings. "Wha--"
The question was cut off in a blur of movement which resulted in guards being shoved out of the room, doors being barricaded, international leaders and their aids ducking under their tables, treaty papers and pens being pushed off the table, warning shots being fired thoughtfully at the immortals, caterers displaying their ammunition and gear, Duncan and Connor's corpses being held, bent over the table with their swords carefully pressing against the back of their necks, and Methos' reviving form being dragged over to the cart which had held the Connor's attention moments earlier. Waking to find his arms restrained behind him by another mortal he had thought would give him those coveted turkey slices, Methos groaned. He had been so sure no one would try this. They would be idiots if they did. Glimpsing Luc's grinning face again, Methos corrected himself. They were trying this because they were idiots.
"Just once, can't everyone use their brains," he muttered to himself.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Ugly," taunted Luc, standing in front of the slim man. "It's time for the world to see what kind of a killer you and your kind really are."
"And what kind is that?" Methos wasn't interested in the answer. Luc couldn't possibly know his past. If the smug jerk did, they wouldn't have bothered with this fiasco. Even if they were idiots. However, while the most-assuredly now fired guard rambled about what he and his compatriots believed, Methos could survey the room and positioning of the other caterers/terrorists.
"You think you can fool us?" There was one guard in each of the four aisles leading to the doors, a semi-automatic for each person, but they're attention was focused half on the cowering delegates and half on their comrades. Their reaction time would be greatly reduced. If they could be moved closer to the bottom level, there might be a way to save the other mortals in the room. "The moment I saw you I knew you were a murderer."
"What gave you that idea?" There was a guard at each exit, well armed, and alert. They would pose a problem. Drawing four people who didn't like their jobs closer was possible if he caused a big enough fuss. Creating enough trouble that would bring eight people down to his level, when six were serious about their duties, would be near impossible, even if he did want several United Nations members to be caught in the likely crossfire. Besides, camera operators were standing next to them-- instant hostages if Methos wasn't careful.
"You take each other's head, call it a game, and have the nerve to ask what told me you're a murderer?" Behind the smirking Luc were five other men. Two were merely holding the MacLeod cousins in place while the other two terrorists kept the katanas just above the immortals' necks. The men restraining Methos' companions were obviously straining muscles and nerves in their efforts to contain their captives. If Connor and Duncan were given the right opportunity, they could easily get away. The sword holding men weren't much of a problem either. Their attention was mostly on Methos. Unfortunately, the combination of the four men meant he would have to do something extreme if his friends were going to escape with their necks intact. "You aren't going to deny that *truth* are you?"
"Not when you have loaded guns aimed at mortals and sharp blades positioned at my friends' throats." The remaining man didn't seem to have a function. He was simply standing with his hands clasped behind him, intently watching the proceedings. This man with the thick black goatee was a definite wild card. A wild card with a bad comb-over, a beergut, and a wrinkled deep blue suit, but certainly an unpredictable element. Methos would have to see more about him before he could formulate an effective plan.
"But you admit it's the truth?"
"I would confess to being a peacock with seven dwarfs as nephews, as long as you have guns pointed at people who can't survive being shot." Methos rotated his shoulders, noting his captor's reaction. The person holding him, a man judging by the flat chest, was a bit slow to tighten his grip on Methos' wrists, and that grip was fairly loose. It wouldn't be too difficult to escape from him.
"Then let's not point guns at them." Luc snapped his fingers and the guards hesitantly lowered their weapons. If the man was their leader, then they were his doubting followers. He certainly didn't look like a leader. Long, unruly hair often falling over his eyes, teeth which had already yellowed, and a strut that shouted arrogance. He was barely in his thirties too. An infant compared to the rest of the gang. Considering the others' response to his order, they probably thought of him as a child too. "Happy?"
Methos quelled the urge to say 'no' and request some cold turkey slices. "Could any answer I give be right?" he asked instead. He watched as Luc withdrew a butcher knife from the cart. Maybe the kid planned on beheading him on international television. The oldest man hadn't actually intended to lose his life on this endeavour. It was just nice to tell the mortals that, added to his reputation. "Maybe you should reconsider this, Luc."
"I'm surprised. You carry a sword and yet this little knife makes you nervous," Luc snickered.
"I get worried when babies hold sharp objects." The young man was not impressed by that remark. In fact, Methos surmised that being called a baby was a very sensitive blow to Luc. This theory was supported by the evidence of the blade sliding in and out of his stomach. Methos bent over in pain, one section of his brain noting that his captor allowed him to freely do so. Escaping the man's grasp would be easier than he thought.
"Just because you're a fossil doesn't mean I'm a baby," snarled the leader before death momentarily claimed Methos.
"Luc, calm down." Reviving, the oldest man smiled. The warning came from the suit clad man of their gang. Probably the one the others considered their true leader. "Just get him to confess."
"Don't order me around," barked Luc. "We agreed that since I could get you all past security I was in charge."
"Luc, don't argue." The voice came from behind Methos. It was either a man holding his wrists, or a flat-chested woman with an unbelievably deep voice. It didn't matter to Methos, of course. His attention was focused mainly on the MacLeods. "The real police aren't gonna stand outside forever. Either get him to talk or let Heath do it."
"Or give up now before someone gets hurt," Methos suggested. Duncan and Connor both caught his glance before he straightened his stance. He had an idea. "Let's be perfectly honest, *Luc*. You kill any immortal here and the quickening will likely cause enough structural damage to kill everyone in this room. Even if it doesn't, it'll be enough of a distraction that the thousands of real armed guards standing outside those doors will be able to storm this room, capture you and your minions, and save the other two immortals before you can kill them." Neither Luc nor Heath seemed to appreciate Methos' frankness. "And if you try to threaten those delegates again, they'll storm the room anyway before you could shoot anyone else."
"Shut up."
"Let's face facts, Luc." Methos ignored the man's warning. MacLeod tensed, recalling other times the old man had improvised. "This was a terrible plan."
"I have you exactly where I want you. Your friends are trapped. These traitors," he waved to indicate the politicians and their assistants, "are hiding like the cowards they are. And no one can stop us." Luc smirked. "This was a great plan."
"Oh, I'm not insulting the implementation of the plan," Methos corrected himself quickly. "You obviously had things well organized to get this far."
"Spoken like a man who's done this before," speculated Heath. "How many people have you killed?"
"I'm running the show," yelled Luc. "I ask the questions. You watch the doors. That's the deal."
"Oh, shut up," shouted the guard in the left aisle. "Heath can call the shots. We just needed you to let us in."
"I'm in charge!" Methos was slightly surprized the youth didn't stomp his foot with that pronouncement. "And I'll get the answers."
"Right, kid," the oldest man snorted. "What answers would you like? What does two plus two equal? What colour do yellow and blue make, perhaps?"
"Shut it, old man!" fumed the former guard. "How many people have you killed?"
"Didn't you ever learn to say 'please'? Or are you still learning your alphabet, child?" That butcher knife was moving toward him again. Methos mentally smiled. This was going to be too easy. "Do your parents try to teach you any manners when they feed you?"
"Don't kill him again!" hollered Heath, instantly walking toward the youth. Methos noticed the other guards were moving closer to the bottom level. Maybe he couldn't cause enough fuss to draw them from their positions, but two men fighting over leadership certainly could. "You idiot, we want a confession, not a corpse."
"Back off," cautioned Luc, waving the knife around. "Even if I killed him, he'd revive." The rest of the gang was getting closer, even the guards at the doors were slowly inching away from their posts. The other mortals in the room were being forgotten. "If he doesn't know we're serious, he's never going to talk."
"He's not going to talk while he's dead either," argued the man holding Methos' wrists. Duncan licked his lips, sensing the tension rising every second. He could only hope this was part of the plan.
"I'm not going to talk regardless," Methos put in. "I don't like talking while restrained. I feel it hinders a conversation. Don't you agree, Heath?" He purposefully looked past Luc. "You are the brains of this operation? The real leader of this group, right?"
MacLeod caught his kinsman's eye, ensuring they were both ready, as the answer was a mixture of 'yes' and 'no' coming from various people in the room. At any moment, the tension explosion would occur and then they could try to escape.
"Luc is the runt you leave for the police to catch, isn't he?" Methos continued.
"I am not!" raved the man in question. "Stop trying to start trouble."
"He wouldn't be able to start trouble if you'd calm down and let Heath do his work," heatedly insisted Methos' captor. Connor's muscles tensed as the blade at his neck was unconsciously moved down his back. The man holding it was no longer concentrating on his possible victim.
"I am in charge so just shut up!" Luc protested while Duncan sensed his guards easing away from him, finding the scene Methos was creating far more interesting. "You obey my orders. I am the leader!"
"Then I almost hate to break it to you, Luc, but I think there's a mutiny a foot," Methos casually added. It was just the push the thirty-something male needed and a flurry of action followed.
The butcher knife finally rediscovered the oldest immortal's gut. Heath charged at the man they had pretended was their leader. The guards in the aisles raced to break up the fight. The MacLoeds used the distraction to kick the sword carrying men in the legs. The men holding them against the table were unprepared for the action and soon were unconscious on the floor, courtesy of two powerful punches. The armed security guards finally had the opportunity to barge into the room, knocking down the rebels with only a few shots being fired. The commotion wasn't overlooked by the battling group in front of Methos, but their momentary shock was long enough for the old man to revive, break the grip on his wrists and lunge at the men before him. Heath howled in pain as his fall twisted his ankle. Duncan grabbed one terrorist off the pile while Connor took on another. The real security guards were racing down the aisles, shouting orders that the intruders should surrender and that delegates should stay down. MacLeod knocked down the man who had restrained Methos. Connor put a gun to a woman's temple, urging her to give up. Methos struggled with Luc on the carpeted floor. The two deaths had reduced the old man's energy and the youth was angry enough not to care what his knife slashed. Unfortunately, it was mostly slashing Methos' stomach and underarms. Finally, after several tries, Methos was able to grab the thrashing arm and land a strong elbow to the young man's chin. A quick left hook followed and Luc was unconscious. Carefully, Methos stood up and backed away from the scene, examining the consequences of his scheme, while armed police officers handcuffed Luc's inert form.
As the entire group of terrorists were hauled from the room, Duncan and Connor checked on their still panting comrade. The politicians and their aids quietly sat in their chairs, allowing the recent events to absorb into their brains. Some custodians cleared out the food carts, which didn't have any food, let alone cold turkey slices. Other custodians straightened the immortals' table and chairs, leaning the swords against the back wall next to Methos.
"Are you okay?" Duncan knew it was a silly question to ask a man who had probably been in thousands of situations like this before. However, seeing his friend crouched against that wall, staring at the floor with vacant eyes, forced him to ask it anyway.
"That was a close one, wasn't it?" Not looking up, Methos ignored the question.
"Everyone made it out uninjured," Connor stated, eyeing the man responsible for their situation. "Well, everyone who couldn't heal fast and mattered."
"They all mattered," the eldest ground out before glaring at the sandy haired man. The younger MacLeod was relieved to see the light in those hazel eyes. "Don't say they didn't matter just because they thought we deserved to die. That's not what MacLeods are supposed to do, is it, Mac?"
"No, it's not," Duncan affirmed slowly, avoiding his cousin's gaze. "And friends are supposed to say if they're okay or not."
"I'm fine." Methos stood up, and straightened his tie, ignoring the large, stained slashes in his previously clean white shirt. "I just needed a little time-out to organize some thoughts." He gave a shaky smile. "Don't worry, guys, I'm okay."
Exchanging a doubtful expression with his cousin, Connor thumped the old man on the back. "Come on, they'll want to hear you say that after this whole ordeal."
"Especially since it was televised," mentioned MacLeod, picking up their swords.
"That brings up an interesting question," Methos said, allowing the highlanders to lead him back to their newly wiped steel table.
"And what's that?" Duncan set their weapons back on the metal surface.
"Do you think they got my best side?"
"Neither one is any better than the other," snickered Connor. "I'm still amazed you haven't broken a camera yet."
"Excuse me," a familiar voice called from the delegates' seats, "Methos, a question." Mikel's hand waved furiously, trying to get their attention. "How many have you killed?"
"Mikel, that is hardly appropriate," scolded Clive. "They've just been through this chaos."
"And we just passed a bill regarding killers," countered the Russian. "I think it is important to know how many people the man has killed."
"How many have I killed in five thousand years," repeated Methos. To the shock of the congregation, the oldest immortal actually considered the question. He rubbed his chin, as though mentally tallying up the bodies. "Far more than I can count, honestly." Methos frowned in concentration. "I have lived through wars and battles, through times when laws weren't obeyed or were vastly more brutal than today; through times when the way of life was kill or be killed, times when shortcomings in medicine meant that granting death was the medicine. The number of people I have sent to the grave by intention, mistake and order is unfortunately very high." He looked at the gathered delegates, his face the model of sincerity and regret. "I have never been so inhuman as to believe that those deaths were meaningless, nor have I gone a day without wishing that history was different. I am a man whose hands are stained with the blood of the guilty and sadly the innocent as well." He paused to briefly glance at this companions, to see the support in their eyes before continuing. "I will understand if you wish to continue these talks without me."
"After seeing you in action today, I believe that would be a mistake," the female German Chancellor announced after a beat. "I am sure you have done and been many things, both commendable and regrettable. However, you are clearly someone wanting life and peace. You are not a cold-blooded murderer. I suggest that while they find some food, we continue with these negotiations with you and your friends."
Several 'agreed's were shouted before the immortals reclaimed their seats. Connor eyed the scattered papers of what used to be the treaty. "Just give us some time to organize this." He switched off the microphones as he and the other immortals attempted to make sense of the mess.
"Don't say it, either of you," Methos firmly cautioned, grabbing his briefcase from under the table. "You can scold me on the way to the Shelter."
"I wasn't going to reprimand you." Duncan began putting the half of the papers into a pile while Connor handled the other half. "Unless, of course, you were seriously going to sit out the rest of the treaty talks. We can't do this without you."
"You two would do just fine," Methos whispered, turning his eyes back to his case, searching for new pens. He had no idea where the old ones had flown to when Luc and his merry band had attacked. "Thanks for the thought though."
"I don't know. I think we could handle this without him," commented Connor, checking the page numbers to ensure they were in the correct order. "Just as long as we were the ones holding on to that lucky baseball of yours." The light-hearted suggestion brought a smile to the ancient's lips, and Duncan made a mental note to thank his cousin for coming. "Ready?"
Doubling checking the pages' order, Mac nodded. "I'm ready for peace."
"I am more than ready," Methos remarked before switching their microphones back on. "Ladies and gentlemen, we apologize for the delay. Shall we start where we left off, on page twenty-six?"
"Perhaps we should delay this further," suggested a short woman in the fifth row in the right section. The Spanish President pointed at Methos. "You should, first, fully recover from the shock those mad men caused."
"Any more delays could invite other attacks," Connor announced. "It is safer if we continue until we come to a tentative agreement, as we were promised."
"Your Methos was stabbed at least two times."
"I'm fine."
"But--"
"I will take as many wounds as it takes to get this treaty signed," asserted Methos. "Maybe you can wait for peace, but I can't. I have been hated and hunted for too long. I am tired of it. I know that things won't and can't even change the moment we reach an agreement, but the MacLeods and I initiated these talks with the hope that one day, in the near future, that dream can be true for each and every person in this world, immortal or not. Quite frankly, I never cared if you came to meet me, see the highlander cousins, or really did come to end the fighting." His voice was growing in volume, the energy it contained was almost tangible. "I came here for peace, and I will not leave until I have that guaranteed! I refuse to again slink away and cower in some dark little corner because people don't like what I am and don't want the huge inconvenience of figuring it out. If you want peace and change half as badly as I do, then by the gods, you will stay here and get it!"
Those words of encouragement were enough to silence any other objections and ensure everyone stayed, hammering out the treaty. The seamless cycle employed by the immortals before was a bit rougher. All three men were more eager to speak up this time. However, they adapted to their new ambition, as well as the leaders'. Food was brought from the cafeteria into the conference room so the negotiations were not interrupted. The excitement of the attack and the speech made by Methos were strong motivations. The action was fast-paced, details were discussed with fury. The aides were frantically running in and out of conference room. Finally, after a total of thirteen hours and fifty-four minutes of tough negotiation, they proudly announced that the peace treaty was completed. With resounding applause, president after prime minister signed the newly printed document.
Methos reclined in his hard wood chair and closed his eyes, savouring the feel of victory. He was half-tempted to run up to a camera and say 'Hi' to the people watching in the Shelter. But his body resisted the urge, vehemently arguing that he required rest. His smile grew. He could hear more clapping, more cheering, as someone else put their name on the finished treaty. There was also the sound of glass hitting glass, someone must have ordered wine or champagne to celebrate. He'd open his eyes when they gave him a glass, or when he heard papers rustling on their way to MacLeod. He wanted to see his friend sign that treaty, wanted to have that scene seared into his memory. But those sounds and thoughts were interrupted by whispering at the end of their table. "Mac?" His eyes remained closed.
"Yes?" The whispering stopped.
"What were you two talking about over there?"
"We were wondering what language you were going to use to sign your name on the treaty," the voice was hoarse and low. Obviously Connor.
"I'm not, so you can stop chatting." He could imagine the happy faces as his friends, allies really, came out of the Shelter. Jellybean and Mushroom would probably run straight for a tree and then urge him to climb up with them.
"You're not what?" The question stopped the vision just as Shirley was scolding him for letting the kids climb up a tree. She always said he was too much like a kid. "Methos, you're not what? Using a known language?"
"I'm not signing it, Mac. You are." Now his mind was picturing Joe and Amanda coming to see him and the MacLeod cousins. The French President had promised them that their favourite bluesman would be released from prison and the hospital in two days. There would be a huge press meeting at the hospital, but they would be allowed to take Joe home to see his daughter and her family.
"What do you mean Duncan's signing it?" Connor's question ended the scene playing in Methos' head, just when Joe was going to say something to his oldest buddy.
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe exactly what it sounds like. He signs." Methos sniffed as his mind played another scene. Samuel was there, waving to his oldest friend. His voice was muted, but he was smiling. The oldest man watched as the man who appeared to be in his forties gestured for someone hiding behind a corner, probably Lucy. But no one was coming out and then Samuel was frowning, gripping his throat, his eyes pleading with Methos to stop his invisible pain. Methos shuddered before opening his eyes.
"What's wrong?" MacLeod was observing him with concern spread over his face.
"N-nothing." Methos exhaled a shaky breathe. "Just remembering why no victory is truly sweet." His heart slowly stopped its pounding. "I'm okay, Mac. You, uh, you know what, um, language you're going to use to sign the treaty?"
Duncan frowned, having seen that flash of cold emptiness briefly invading Methos' eyes, and knowing that his friend wasn't going to talk about whatever had upset him. "No."
"We discussed it and think you should do it." Connor leaned closer to the old man.
"I thought *we* discussed it before and decided Mac was going to be the Immortal Ambassador so he signs."
"No, *we* didn't."
"Methos, you're a better choice for the position than I am."
"Right, the guy who used to be called 'Death' is a better choice than the immortal boy scout. Is that it?"
"You haven't been killing anyone since I met you."
"We've been stuck in a cave with thirty-four other people since you met me. Who could I really kill, Connor?"
"The Immortal Ambassador has to talk about the needs of immortals in general and ensure that these laws are respected," Duncan pressed on. "Who better than the one who's been listening to other immortals for decades to know what they want? The one person in the all the world who created these laws?"
"The one who can enforce them?" Methos suggested, irritably. "Look, Mac, people naturally believe you. I knew that the day I met you, and that hasn't changed. When people look at me, they see... I don't know, someone who isn't famously honest. My reputation may have gotten me this far, but it won't last while I'm Ambassador. Yours can and will because it isn't made up."
"Neither is yours. If you'd open your eyes, you'd realize that."
"My eyes are wide open, and I see that you are the best person for the job."
"Though I have the utmost confidence in my cousin," Connor inserted, "Methos, you're the best choice. You're smart, know politics, laws, people--"
"And I can rub my belly while patting my head," the neolithic man quipped. "That doesn't mean anything."
"With everything you've done, Methos, you can relate to almost anyone."
"That too doesn't mean anything."
"The Ambassador has to get the other countries not connected to the UN to agree to this treaty. You can do that."
"So can you, MacLeod. If you really want, I'll be your advisor. But I am not putting my name on that treaty. It deserves someone better than that."
"It deserves the man who created it and made sure it was made international law."
"I said before you were going to do it and that's it."
"I'm not signing."
"Fine, Connor can."
"I'm not signing either."
"Then the treaty isn't getting signed," snipped Methos. "We just wasted time and energy securing peace and you're throwing it away."
"We're not throwing anything away," Connor asserted. "You're the one who's going to sign."
The oldest immortal folded his arms over his chest, and glared at the senior MacLeod. "Duncan led our happy troupe to this place, to peace. His name gets put on the treaty, end of discussion."
There was a commotion as the document was brought down the aisle. It was the immortals' turn to write a name and make peace official.
"That's not final," argued the younger Scot in a hushed voice. "You led us here, Methos. You set up the conference, wrote the treaty, fought for the peace, and your name gets put on the treaty."
"I didn't--"
"Besides, if you don't, these mortals are going to think something's wrong," Connor coolly concluded. "They expect you to be the one signing and if you make Duncan or I do it-- well, wouldn't you think something was up?"
Further argument was stopped as Clive proudly placed the peace contract before Methos. The old man gave both MacLeods a cold stare before eyeing the pen. Slowly, he stood up and switched on the microphones. "I have no intention of offending any one," he began. Connor face dropped while Duncan swallowed nervously. What if Methos really wasn't going to sign? "I have given this some thought and, after a quick discussion with my associates," he indicated the two worried highlanders, "I have come to a conclusion which some of you may not appreciate." Duncan felt a sharp kick to his leg; his cousin's kind way to telling him to do something, anything. "I apologize if I have alarmed anyone by this announcement, but I feel it is important, especially considering what I am about to do." The junior MacLeod prepared to rise, lest Methos make a statement they would all regret. "Though I have enjoyed the many cultures and languages I have discovered through my extensive travels over the millennia, and I have great respect for each and every one of them, I have decided to write my name in my original language." The MacLeods released their breaths. "I believe this will be the best way to signify my support of the treaty, and desire to preserve it. Thank-you." Methos switched off the microphones, and signed the document. He cast a sideways glance at his friends before whispering in Gaelic. "Don't gloat, Mac. It's unbecoming, you know."
The consequential laughter was drown out by the applause. Soon glasses filled with champagne were given to the immortals as the politicians personally shook their hands and patted their backs. Methos was the primary interest, but Duncan and Connor socialized with several people as the conference and celebration neared their end. However, while everyone had genuine smiles, Duncan realized Methos' never reached his eyes. Remembering Pear's words days earlier, he frowned. They hadn't won the lottery in the old man's eyes.
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Chapter Eleven: The Peace After Peace Was Granted
"Have you never been mellow?
Have you never tried to find a comfort from inside you?
Have you never been happy just to hear your song?
Have you never let someone else be strong?"
--("Have You Never Been Mellow?" Lyrics By: Farrar)
Connor looked in his rear view mirror, sadly observing the sullen man slouched in the back seat. The old warrior's heart ached for the poor creature staring blindly at the passing darkened scenery. The pale body's eyes were as black as the night through which they were traveling, but unsettlingly more hollow. The cadaver itself was still, solid, and yet, appeared as though a ghost to the seasoned highlander watching it. The form had a definite face and partial outline provided by the glowing moon lazily dangling in the star-spackled sky. However, beyond that, the skin-wrapped skeleton seemed invisible; the rest of its appendages, and its shredded and tattered clothing effortlessly blending in with the shadows in the rear of the Range Rover.
Occasionally, the stray ray of light of a passing vehicle would illuminate the inert body. The eyes would allow the glare to reflect on their dark surfaces, giving them the illusion of life, but denied it penetration to anything buried beneath. The face hosting the black orbs ignored the light all together. It refused to move or twitch, merely continued resting itself against the cold window as the automobile bounced down the bumpy dirt road. The remainder of the body revealed its existence during those short seconds, and then dutifully returned to its dark home. It stayed unmoving, quiet, and eerily paler than either highlander had seen it before.
Connor had tried to communicate with the man lost in the backseat. Each attempt was answered with unnerving silence, and an inexplicable chill which would suddenly invade the SUV's interior before scurrying up the senior Scot's spine. He was certain he had voiced his question, having checked with his cousin more than once, but the body was oblivious to his inquiry; to his existence, to Duncan's, and perhaps even to its own. Instead, all Connor could do was whisper to his cousin. An irrational fear prevented him from speaking any louder, as though afraid he would wake the dead which clearly wished to sleep in its coffin of pale flesh. Duncan seemed to share the fear and would reply in hushed tones, short and to the point. The corpse they were transporting was sucking their joyful conversations away from them before the pair could even initiate them; hiding those gleefilled words deep within where nothing living could hope to reach them.
"What are we going to do, Duncan?" The question was strained, as their speaker realized the world outside was brighter than the inside of the Range Rover. They couldn't return to the Shelter with a man who, with all physical signs brushed aside, was dead.
"I don't know." Once again, MacLeod dared to look back at his friend's body. Somewhere, buried under layers of depression and loss, lay Methos. But that soul had surrendered to the weight of long-denied pain and suffering as soon as the trio had begun their drive back to their hideout. It had sunk to the bottom of the neolithic heart, drown barely before it gulped one last breath, and had yet to swim to the surface. Methos' eyes weren't pools of black. They were black holes; spheres void of anything, vacuuming the world around them without care or consideration. The information merely passed through those portals as though it didn't exist, those same portals which once captured everything, studied it, felt it, and shimmered with knowledge as a result. "I thought maybe he'd snap out of it."
The mournful confession pushed the knife even deeper into Connor's already injured heart. The cadaver was also drawing the hope out of the living immortals, it seemed. "We can't tell them that he suddenly went like that. Jimbulaya is protective of Sweet Pea, so is Peaches. They're likely to try to beat the truth out of us."
"But that is the truth," replied Duncan, looking away from the man who stubbornly refused to acknowledge his presence.
"They don't know that," protested Connor, checking the rear view again as he had been instructed when they left the United Nations Headquarters. It had been the last thing Methos had uttered before he went into his lifeless trance. "Make sure we're not followed. We don't need reporters finding the Shelter," he had said, before looking out the window. Somewhere along the way, without the notice of his two companions, the ancient immortal had stopped looking out that window. Somewhere along that long route, he had stopped seeing what was directly infront of his lean face.
"They'll have to believe us," Duncan insisted, feeling a chunk of cold fear forming in his stomach. The thought of Methos' persistent refusal to sign the treaty was floating in the Scot's head. Maybe his old friend knew something like this would happen, but couldn't bring himself to clearly warn them. Was Duncan really so busy believing *in* his friend that he failed to simply believe Methos? MacLeod swallowed hard, the lingering dread seizing his mind as he was unable to dismiss the concept.
"No, they don't have to believe us," pressed the senior highlander. "They're going to see Methos' body, ask what happened, and they won't accept that we don't have a clue." Connor glared at the new Immortal Ambassador. In turn, Methos remained still, silent, and decidedly dead to the world. "The politicians aren't going to deal with this either. They can't see Methos like that."
"I know, but we can't just hide him from everyone," Duncan stated while his cousin eyed a decrepit house coming into view.
"We can't?" challenged Connor, "We don't have to dump him in the middle of nowhere. We could bring him to the Shelter, endure the beatings, and then keep him there until he recovers. We could tell the public that he wanted to savour his peace alone for awhile."
Duncan couldn't deny the appeal the idea had. It was similar to Methos and Cassandra's deal. It could work. His heart was persuading him that it was what Methos would have wanted. "We could tell them that if he had lost his head, they would have seen a quickening. It would prove that he was still alive... physically anyway."
"They would believe it and then we could get Liam to help him, or someone else with psychiatric training."
For moment Duncan thought he was dreaming, and he was certain his heart had skipped a beat. He could have sworn that Methos had just blinked. It was an action he had missed since he and his cousin had noticed Methos' comatose state. However, the ancient was blinking again, and the moonlight wasn't reflecting off the eyes' surface, but rather something behind them; something forcefully pushing its way past the darkness which previously smothered it. MacLeod reverently touched his cousin's arm, and breathed one command that summoned both of his friends to action, "Look."
As Connor observed Methos, the source of their prior concern sniffed and straightened his posture while gazing out the window. What exactly he was looking at, the older highlander didn't know. But whatever it was, it was driving Methos to move, to stretch, to finally speak. "Turn back."
"Where?"
"To the house we just passed." Methos finally looked at the highlanders, noticing the grim expressions on their faces. However, he had nothing more to say, nothing he could say. Instead he attempted to smile, failed, and determinedly began trying to press out his permanently wrinkled suit.
The senior MacLeod considered his options. He could ignore Methos' request and go to the Shelter so the old man could receive professional help or he could return to the house which had spurned the oldest immortal from his coma-like state. With a frown, Connor turned the SUV around and headed to the worn down house.
Methos was out of the vehicle the moment it stopped in front of the uninviting building. He stood for a minute, admiring the structure's beauty which only he could see. As the MacLeods came to stand behind him, they could only see a decrepit, deserted house which had abandoned all attempts to look welcoming years before. "This is the place."
"The place for what?" inquired Duncan, a combination of joy and sadness stirring in his heart as he saw an expression of glee wash over his friend's face.
"For what I need to do," replied Methos before turning to look at his companions. "I'll be staying here tonight. You two can pick me up tomorrow afternoon."
"Out of the question."
"I have my sword. I'll survive."
"We are not leaving you here alone," stated Connor. "Perhaps you can't remember it, but for almost the past hour your mind wasn't in that skull of yours. We can all look over the house together, do whatever it is you need to get done, and then we'll leave for the Shelter."
Methos thought for a few minutes, considering his options. "No deal. I have to stay here tonight without interruptions. Mac can stay and watch me, but not both of you. Leave the snacks we swiped from the conference. We'll leave tomorrow afternoon."
"Methos--"
"That's the deal. Take it or leave it, Connor."
Sharing a conversation using only their faces and eyes, the highlanders reluctantly decided to accept the offer. The elder Scot hesitantly returned to their transportation and drove off, frustrated eyes looking in the rear view mirror until he could no longer see the outlines of his friends.
"Well, Meth--" Duncan stopped speaking once he realized Methos was not standing beside him, but actually walking up to the porch. Grimacing, he hurriedly caught up, upset by his friend's behaviour and uneasy by the house's appearance close-up.
The oldest immortal was oblivious to the mansion's disarray. He cheerfully reached over the door frame, feeling for a rusted key. The facts that both porch windows were broken and the door had a chopped hole large enough to allow Moby Dick entry were ignored by the ancient male. He grinned as his lean fingers caressed the key before removing it from its hiding place and put it in the door's lock. The miracle that the metal object had still been there after years, possibly decades, was deemed as important as the other routes of entrance. Methos eagerly licked his lips as the broken door opened to reveal an even more depressing interior than the house's exterior.
The inside of the house lacked many things. Light dared to creep only a few feet past broken windows. Wind decided that the wooden structure was too uninviting. Delightful aromas were denied admittance long before Methos and MacLeod had approached the building. Life had escaped its rotting and decaying confines years prior, and ghosts of the past refused to remain. Despite the few pieces of furniture left in the house, it was barren.
Unless, of course, one was to look at the decor through Methos' eyes. The ancient didn't seem to notice these eerie facts which set Mac's nerves on edge. Instead the slim man smiled before sauntering towards the stairs. "My room's on the second floor, closest to the stairs and first door on the right."
"Wait," Duncan called out, grabbing his friend's arm. "I'm here to keep you safe while you do... whatever you're going to do. First, we check out this place. Then, you can go sleep in your room."
Not having the luxury to argue, Methos nodded his reluctant consent. "Fine, but we'll make it quick and then you have to promise not to disturb me no matter what."
There was something about how the old man had said 'no matter what' which made the hairs on MacLeod's neck stand on end. However, he could find nothing overtly wrong with the statement and Methos was compromising already. With a deep frown, MacLeod agreed.
The rest of the house was in as great shape as the lobby had suggested. Wallpaper had peeled. Paint had either faded or chipped off. Most doors were either off their hinges or had been hacked apart. The majority of furniture had been slashed open, stuffing ripped out and thrown aside with as much respect as one would expect a thief to have. The stairs were sturdy, but the railing shook. The windows had all been smashed open, and drapes were rarely intact. Beds were non-existent, while tattered blankets were occasionally scattered on the floors of some rooms. Cupboards were bare, chairs were turned over, tables were shoved against walls for a reason only the person who moved them could explain. Books had been either burnt or ripped. The cellar's stone walls were cracked, and the shards of its lone light bulb were still laying haphazardly on the floor. Cobwebs and dust were apparently trying to replace everything the house lacked. Every room was less cluttered than MacLeod's room at the Shelter, just dirtier.
"Satisfied?" Methos curtly asked, already leaving the basement.
"Yes, I suppose it's safe." Turning, Duncan barely had time to finish his answer before he saw his friend dashing up the stairs. "Methos!"
"You promised no interruptions," came the reminding shout.
With a snort of frustration, MacLeod left the darkened room and headed for the den... or what he assumed was once a den. It was the room in which at least one person had decided to pile books on to a sofa to make a bonfire. Luckily, a handful novels had survived the horrendous act... only to be have pages torn out later on. It was a sight that made the highland barbarian sigh. Sadly, he picked up a book of T.S. Elliot poems which was merely singed on the edges of its cover and missing only the first twelve pages. After brushing off one nearly intact cushion, Mac plopped his exhausted body down and began reading... or at least attempted to read. His mind refused to focus on the printed words, more interested in looking at the room.
There was something nagging at his senses. It wasn't the placement of dust or the chaos apparent in each room. It wasn't the lack of wind. Duncan began systematically considering each aspect of the house. The absence of window panes was not bothering him. It wasn't the limited moonlight illuminating what otherwise would be a completely darkened building. Methos' behaviour was a concern, but that wasn't what was setting Mac's nerves on edge. He replayed their search of the house, recalling every area which had required closer inspection. It wasn't the porch roof that rested where it had collapsed infront of the back door. It hadn't been the broken doors or even the doors which were whole. However, Mac, now rising to his feet, had a feeling the problem had been present throughout their investigation. There hadn't been another person in the house. He had checked enough times to ensure that. The highlander could not remember thinking that someone had been following or watching them. His heart rate was slowly increasing as he headed for the stairs. He may have promised not to disturb Methos, but there could be a serious situation underfoot. As he climbed the stairs, he finally heard it. Or more precisely, he didn't.
MacLeod stopped on the third step and gazed around the room, realizing just how quiet the place was. In fact, as Duncan remembered his tour/search, the building was unsettlingly silent. The floor and stairs didn't creak. Hinges refused to squeak. There was no breeze whistling through the house. No birds sang from the rafters in the attic. Mice refrained from whispering in the cellar. The only sounds that had been present were the ones MacLeod and Methos had made. Feeling slightly sheepish that he had almost bothered the old man over literally nothing, Duncan wandered back to his seat in the ruined study.
Again he tried to read, but his mind kept pondering what Methos had seen when he looked at the rooms. His smile had never wavered, though his eyes had lost their light a few times. He had opened each door, ignoring if it was no longer firmly attached to its frame. Methos had even commented that his messy room was "just perfect for tonight's events." Of what events he spoke were a mystery to MacLeod, but the assertment seemed to heighten Methos' determination to end the inspection quickly. Deciding not to dwell on a question that could possibly never be answered, Mac returned his eyes to the old poems; only to have his attention snatched by what sounded like a wind's low-pitched squeal. The sound came again, louder, and again.
Hesitantly, Duncan went in search of its source. The noise was getting louder. As he approached the stairs, he realized it was coming from Methos' room. Growing concerned with each step, MacLeod raced up the wooden stairs, the noises increasing in volume and frequency as he did so. There was the sound of wood being broken and glass shattering when he finally reached the door. Then there was yelling and crying, but the door was locked. He forcefully jiggled the handle and hit the door, shouting all the while with the hope that his voice would overpower the screams eminanting from his friend's room. Just as MacLeod was about to kick the door open, Methos' voice flew from the behind the wooden barrier, "Why?!"
It was not the question which stopped MacLeod. It was the heart-cringing tone in which it was spoken. The intense sense of lost and greif tightly wrapping itself around each letter. It was the voice Duncan had longed to hear when he had tried to confront Methos about Lucy and Samuel the first night he had arrived at the Shelter. It was unseen tears which he knew flowed with the word. It was the need and desperation hiding in those three letters. It was the strange comforting feeling which accompanied the shout. It was the way honest admission displayed itself in the short question that gave MacLeod pause. It was the mixed softness and harshness in the tone which triggered the memory of Mac giving Methos his word. It was the sound of clothes being violently torn that forced the highlander to obey his earlier promise with a heavy-heart, sensing he was both failing and passing a test. It was the painful sobbing which followed Methos' inquiry that made Duncan back up until he could slide his back down the adjacent wall. It was the sound of things still being broken which kept his eyes glued to the door, his heart pounding in his chest. It was the sorrowful whispered cries slipping past the door which caused him to finally close his eyes, fighting back tears as the realization of exactly how much pain his friend had held inside his frail figure hit. It was the sudden thuds of fists hitting walls that forced the Scottish warrior to wrap his arms around his legs and silently pray that Methos would be all right in the morning. It was the rhythymic sound of his oldest friend weeping and breaking to which Duncan MacLeod, physically and emotionally tired, fell asleep.
