Chapter 12: Look to the stars…
"Towering waves
Will crash across your southern capes
Massive storms
Will reach your eastern shores
Fields of green
Will tumble through your summer days
By design
In your time"
--("In Your Time" Lyrics: Bob Seger)
When the morning sun finally arrived, warming the highlander's stiff body, Mac awoke to find a piece of wood lying at his feet. Wiping the remnants of sleep from his eyes, he looked at the object. It had obviously been pulled off of something, drops of blood had been absorbed in its grain, and the words written upon it had been crudely craved. A quick glance showed Methos' door was still closed, probably locked, but it was quiet inside. Turning his eyes back to the primitively created message, MacLeod frowned. The note stated that he was to knock down a false wall at the far end of the cellar, collect some cases of wine presumably hidden behind it, and then give them to Connor and explain that they would not be leaving today after all. After deciding against trying the doorknob to Methos' room since he might be waking the old man, Mac slowly went to work.
The wall was difficult to break. However, with a little ingenuity, a shovel long discarded in the cellar, and a bit of luck, the old barrier slowly crumbled to reveal a large room stocked with even older wine. The alcohol wasn't exceptional, but then again one didn't normally judge a wine while munching on salted crackers and celery sticks. Methos remained silently locked in his room until after noon. Then the noises came and MacLeod winced, fighting his instincts to help his friend, reminding himself that he had sworn he would leave Methos alone.
The highland warrior busied himself with bringing the wine cases outside. The gaping hole in the front door eased the transporting of the bottles of vintage liquid. Rather than attempting to hold a door open while sliding his burden and himself through as usual, MacLeod could merely step through the door's chopped opening with the boxes in his arms. Not trusting the sturdiness of the rotting wooden porch, Duncan placed the cases on the ground at the foot of the porch steps. Calling himself a coward, but wanting to avoid facing the unsettling screams coming from within the house, he decided to remain outside to greet Connor.
The weather outside was much like it was the day before: warm, with only a sparse amount of fluffy, white clouds in the blue sky. Though the sun was already descending from its peak, there was still adequate light in the late afternoon. There was also a strong breeze, which helped to cool Mac's sweaty body. It was a refreshing change from the stall air lingering in the graying building. Standing there, at the foot of the porch, the highlander took deep breaths and spread out his arms, savouring the relaxation that came with the actions. For years, he'd been refused this. The opportunity to simply stand in the open and enjoy what Mother Nature offered, without fear of attack, had been a luxury for far too long; a luxury he had been without since the world had discovered the immortal truth. After a few moments more, he opened his eyes and lowered his arms. With a small smile, Duncan sat beside the wine cases and waited for Connor, enjoying his newly rediscovered freedom and subsequently worrying about a man who had helped restore it.
While silently urging his kinsman to return fast, the younger MacLeod couldn't deny his anxiety over their future meeting. The deal had been that Methos and Duncan would leave this decaying wreck once Connor returned. Now he had been given the charge to convince his intimidating cousin to leave with merely wine. He somehow had to persuade a man he respected and loved, to turn his back on two friends for a while longer because one friend –the one who had seemed a lifeless shell in the backseat of his car the night before—had requested this and he must have a good reason. He was expected to stand before a man who had taught him and could still probably best him in a swords fight, and tell this man to ignore the love-driven concerns undoubtedly voiced by numerous friends at the Shelter and leave without Methos or any sign the mental state of the oldest immortal was actually improving. He prayed Connor wouldn't kill him for foolishly believing that there might be a way he could succeed.
Before he was able to formulate a plan, MacLeod heard a car coming up the road. He quickly ran up the porch stairs and through the broken door. Strategically positioning himself against the wall just to the right of the door, the highland warrior peered outside while removing his sword from its sheath in his coat. MacLeod strained his eyes as the bright rays of the sun glinted off the shiny vehicle heading their way. It was a Range Rover, the same colour and model they had used to get to this house. However, there was no guarantee its driver would be his friend. Finally the SUV pulled up to the building and Connor stepped out. Duncan released a sigh of relief before putting his sword away and walking to greet his clansman.
"Where's Methos?" the eldest MacLeod asked without preamble.
"Still inside," Duncan responded. "There's been a change of plans."
Narrowed eyes focused on the younger man. "Oh?"
"Connor," he began, hastily attempting to find just the right words to resolve his situation. "Methos has been working out a lot of pent up emotions. He isn't ready to face others yet. He thinks that by tomorrow—"
"That wasn't the deal."
"I know, but he—"
"Exactly how bad is he?"
"I don't know, exactly. He locked himself in a room last night. I haven't seen him since," the youngest of the pair explained. "I wanted to help him. I could hear him breaking things in his room, screaming and crying—"
"What did you do?" Connor's question was spoken with unrivaled gentleness and concern for his former student.
"If you could have heard him…" MacLeod briefly looked at the cold house behind him, idly wondering if he could hear Methos' cries even now, outside, or if the heart-wrenching sounds were mere echoes in his mind. "I was going to break down the door-- it wouldn't have helped, but... If I just knew—but I don't know whom he's mourning or if that's the only reason he's in such pain. Last night, I knew he wouldn't accept a hug. I wasn't sure he'd even recognize me; his pain is so great…" Shaking his head to rid himself of the disheartening memories, he continued. "Methos needs to do this alone; there's nothing we can do."
"There is plenty we can do," Connor disagreed. "We can pack his scrawny butt into the car and bring it back to the Shelter. He can work out his problems on the way."
"Connor--."
"Go tell him we care, and then drag him out. We're leaving, as planned."
Mac fixed his friend with a hard stare.
"People at the shelter saw the look on his face after Luc was taken away." Connor stated, as if that simple sentence would explain everything.
"And?"
"*And* while they may have accepted that Methos wanted to savour life outside of the shelter for one night alone, they'll rip me apart if I try to feed that bull to them again." The senior highlander replied, his aggravation clearly present in his tone. "Everyone's worried about him and he needs professional help."
"His note said that tomorrow he should be fine."
"His note?" Connor repeated incredulously. "He's lost it, Duncan. We both knew he was getting overloaded. If we push him a little, we can get him the help he needs."
"I think we've pushed him enough."
Not liking his cousin's tone, Connor raised his chin slightly, instinctively readying himself for an unintentional challenge. "What's that supposed to mean?"
Duncan ran a hand over his tired face and released a sigh of frustration. He didn't want to argue or assign blame. He didn't want to be in such a precarious position that threatened those very actions.
"Duncan?"
"Maybe if we hadn't insisted he do so much work for this, it wouldn't be so bad." His kinsman was already shaking his head in denial. "Connor, we made him become the ambassador, organize the treaty negotiations, schedule—"
"And what would have happened if we hadn't?" The seasoned warrior interrupted. "Do you really believe he would have been better off if we hadn't kept him occupied? If he hadn't been able to focus on duty after duty, Methos would have lost what little hold he had on sanity long before now." Allowing the information to be digested by his clansman, Connor waited a moment before continuing. "I tried talking to him when I first came to the Shelter. He always had work to do, said he'd deal with it later. After a while, I realized his way was to push himself so much that he couldn't feel the pain."
"Then you should have *made* him work through it back then. By time I went to talk about Lucy and Samuel, he was completely ignoring their importance, just focusing on the treaty."
"So am I guilty of pushing him too much or too little?"
The junior MacLeod was taken aback by the gentle inquiry. He rubbed his face with one hand, feeling the building stress with every movement. He looked back that the decaying building. "I don't know. I just feel so… useless to him. Last night all that separated us was this… lousy, wooden door. I heard him crying and… I couldn't go in and comfort him."
"Duncan—"
"If I broke it down, if I broke that old, rotting door last night… I would have broken a promise and who knows what else. So I just sat there, Connor, hoping, dreaming things would be okay…"
"It will be okay."
"You didn't hear him."
"No, I didn't. But he needs to get out of this place."
"He needs more."
"Yes, and once we're back at the shelter, we'll get him the help he needs."
"No," Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod said with a sudden certainty. He met his kinsman's gaze, unflinching. "No. He needs no interruptions, here. He needs the time he asked for, and he needs us to give it to him."
"Duncan, will you listen? Methos has to leave here, now."
"No, he had to leave the shelter, and he shouldn't have to go back there until he's ready. If that means a little more time, then he stays here tonight."
After gauging the seriousness in his clansman's eyes, Connor snorted. "Now we know why he wanted you to stay with him."
"He's lost a lot. If he wants time, I think he deserves that much. At this point, it's the least we can give him."
"Fine, show me around." At Duncan's confused look, he elaborated. "No one at the shelter is going to be satisfied with just wine. They'll want to know all about this breath-taking bed and breakfast the mighty Methos is staying in."
"Breath-taking bed and breakfast?"
"I may embellished a little, just to get them off my back last night."
Chuckling, the younger man began guiding his elder through and around the premises. Each man devised ways to describe the crumbling mansion in flattering terms without completely lying. Long before the tour ended, the senior Scotsman silently admitted himself a coward for the relief he felt because he knew he could leave and evade the suffering present in a certain room on the right and closest to the stairs on the second floor. Connor told his former student all the news from the shelter, mentioned the global reaction to the treaty, packed the wine cases into the SUV, wished his kinsman some much needed good luck, and then, in his own shameful opinion, he fled to the shelter.
It was evening when Connor had finally left Duncan to watch over the world's oldest immortal—who just happened to have left his room sometime during Connor's visit, was no longer screaming or crying, and was nowhere to be found as far as Duncan could see. There was an immortal presence coming from somewhere, but he couldn't pinpoint where. The trained hunter looked around the interior, checking all nooks, and the exterior of the house, paying close attention to the roof and any ledges upon which the wily old man might be hiding. Becoming more and more frustrated and worried, he investigated everywhere for a second time.
It was dark by time he located his quarry outside. The source of his annoyance was lying on the collapsed porch roof at the back of the house. The roof had fallen in such a way that it rested at almost its original angle. Instead of its support being from posts, it came from the ground. Mac presumed the posts, which had once held it up, were somehow underneath it now. But the roof itself appeared quite secure propped up on the ground as it was, or at least it was supporting Methos' weight. It was missing more than one shingle and the remaining amount was faded beyond the point of deciphering its original colour. However, as Duncan leaned against the fallen roof, he tested and approved of its sturdiness.
Methos seemed oblivious to the highlander's attentions. His gaze was fixed on the sky above. Apparently the stars and moon hanging in their expected positions were of far more interest than Duncan's sudden appearance. Or perhaps, Mac conceded, the old man was in yet another trance and didn't realize anyone was near him. But at least Methos did blink occasionally, suggesting something was going on in the mystery they called his mind. Another sign of improvement was an open bottle of wine Methos held in one hand. It had obviously been liberated from the recently revealed area in the basement sometime during Connor's visit and Duncan's subsequent search. There were also a few celery sticks next to him, clearly taken from the bag Mac had left in the den earlier that day. So the ancient man was possibly eating and drinking. It was more than the highlander had dared hope that morning. He decided to remain silent, unwilling to shatter the peaceful quiet enveloping them at the moment. Instead he turned his eyes to the black blanket of night and the thousands of lights woven in it.
"Guiding lights."
The voice had been so soft and unexpected that Duncan didn't realize someone was speaking at first. The spoken sentence was missed but the gentle tone was remembered, and the sorrow still contained within was noticed. "What?"
"Guiding lights, those stars. At least that's what an astrologer will tell you. Your destiny in lights, all up there for the world to read. You ever hear that?"
"Yeah, I've heard that," responded MacLeod, turning his head to look at his friend who continued to look at the stars. "When I was a kid, my father used to tell me that the stars were all the great chieftains before him."
"Ah, yes, the great ancients are watching from above." The words dripped of sarcasm. "I've heard that one too. Most clans and tribes tend to have that theory, in fact." Methos paused, straining his vision as if to see what the stars might hold. "Poets claim the stars are these wonderful orbs of light that flicker and blink and do all sorts of fanciful things that make them magical. Romantics will tell you about objects that foretell soul mates and make a night's walk so lovely. Old sailors claim the stars are guides, able to bring people home safely and lead groups away from danger." He stopped his deep examination of the sky, allowing his eyes to view his subject matter normally again. "Then you have parents misleading their children with stories of stars granting wishes and making miracles. And then there are those who fancy themselves writers, but bother to write cheesy lines about pinpricks in the cloak of night and the sun's babies staying up late." He snorted. "Darn fools always ignore the truth."
"Which is?" MacLeod had almost been too afraid to ask, knowing that the answer would not be the least bit uplifting. He was not wrong.
Methos briefly looked at his friend, catching his eye easily. "That they're all lies, of course." The Neolithic man returned his attention to the stars. "Stars are just burning balls of gas, using up all their fuel until they burn out and then implode; just ask any scientist. There's nothing magical about 'em. They exist millions and billions of miles away from us, in the cold vacuum of space, just racing to their own extinction. Not a thing romantic about that, is there? They've changed their position in the past, and they'll do it again. You can only see them when the weather's decent. How that makes them the great guides of legend is far more a wonder than the stars themselves. They don't make dreams come true, or even fit the ridiculous descriptions they're given. You ever realize that, Mac?"
"I don't know if I'd go that far."
"Why not? Those things are hideous."
"Stars aren't hideous, Methos."
For a second they shared a glance, just a quick look to measure each other's resolve, before looking back that the burning balls of gas in the cold vacuum of space.
"From far away they look fine, I'll admit. But if you ever got close to one, it'd burn you alive in a heartbeat. Quite ugly when you see them as they really are. Take away all the myth, and they're inhuman monstrosities consuming all that they are until nothing's left but a big gaping blackhole. Scientists even say some are already burnt out, we simply haven't realized that they're dead yet. Can you imagine how many stars we romantically describe as living beings winking at us, but have actually been dead for years?" Methos released a short humourless laugh. "Still, people will look up and create odes to the stars. They'll mention whimsical lights being scattered close to one another in the night sky, and the truth is stars are light years apart. There are no friends up there, Mac, just strangers slowly dying alone with only themselves to provide warmth. Science doesn't view stars as wondrously as everyone else seems to prefer."
"No, I guess not."
"Fantasy wins over fact every time, highlander. What a dreamer calls twinkling; a scientist calls an angry eruption of fire, flaring up on the star's surface. While dreamers prattle on about the order of the stars and tell stories of Orion and the Great Bear, astronomers declare that there is no grand order. Stars merely exist wherever they happen to be, and there was no great plan in their creation, simply chance. Dreamers will tell adults and kids these farfetched theories all the time, trying to believe that stars are more than what they are. Not that I blame them, mind you. The reality is rather depressing when you think about it."
Methos sniffed, sat up and took a swig of wine before offering the bottle to MacLeod who politely declined. With a shrug, the ancient man placed the bottle beside him, positioning it so that it wouldn't tip over or fall. He then began eating the celery sticks. Occasionally, he would glance up at the stars, but only briefly and never without an accompanying sigh.
MacLeod watched him, silently trying to determine the depth of his friend's despair. The highlander could easily recall looking at the stars as a child and being filled with hope and wonder, imagining the previous chieftains watching over him and waiting for him to join them. After his banishment from the clan, Mac still dreamed of one day being welcomed into their ranks. While he'd read about what stars truly were long ago, he'd always felt they gave hope. Even tonight, while searching for Methos, Duncan had spared a moment to look toward the heavens, asking for guidance from the stars. Though they'd refused to grant him council, he had returned to his task feeling a refreshed hope inside him.
But Methos was seeing despair where he saw inspiration. Though wanting to believe that his friend was better, that he'd worked through his pain, MacLeod could not ignore the painful truth. Methos' mind and body where functioning well, his physical health was not in jeopardy despite the violence the night before. Methos' soul, however, was fractured, the shards producing a drained, battered and beaten imitation of the man who once seemed to have a bottomless pit of hope. In Mac's mind, he could recall time after time when the oldest immortal had dared to dream the impossible, had risked everything on a long shot, had looked at him as if surprised there had ever been any doubt, had courageously had faith when everything named him a fool for doing so. Yet, here was the body that once housed such a creature, and all there was inside was a tired, broken soul burning out. There may have appeared to be life there, but Mac knew something was dying.
"Is that what you see when you look up there?"
Methos looked at him, a slightly confused expression on his face.
"The stars, is that what you see when you look at them? Is that what you tell kids? That they're dying balls of gas lost and lonely in the cold sky?"
"Of course not," Methos said calmly. "I do have a heart."
"Then what do you tell them? What do you say you see when you dream?"
Methos finished the food in his mouth, his eyes downcast. He looked up as he lay back down, and thought. He was silent as he contemplated an answer. Just as MacLeod was giving up on ever hearing the old man again tonight, Methos spoke.
"They're going to kill me, Mac. All those people in the world are going to want me dead soon enough." The voice was barely more than a whisper.
"Methos—"
The oldest immortal continued speaking, either ignoring MacLeod's intended protest or not noticing it at all. "The myth of Methos is going to crack in a week, maybe two. Then they'll see me, plain old me who is where he is by chance. No guide. No advisor." He began ticking the negatives off on his fingers. "No wise sage. No hero. No adventurer. No saint. No one they want." Methos ran his hands over his face before speaking again. "I'm just the guy who's gotten lucky and, oh yeah, happened to be the scourge of over two continents for over a thousand years and earned the cute nickname 'Death.' They'll never believe I didn't lie at the negotiations. They'll never trust me or like me. They'll never even want to see my face again. Do you realize the only thing that may keep me alive for more than a month is the idea that I may bestow historical details and answer some archeologists' burning questions? And once they know I'm not going to be talking endlessly about my past, it's off with the murderer's head and good riddance!"
"It won't be like that. We'll stand up for you, and they'll see you as everyone at the shelter does."
"Oh, come on, Mac, be realistic!" The elder shouted angrily. "I don't want to hide a huge part of my youth. I can't. People will find out about the Horsemen and then it's bye-bye head. And it won't matter what you or Connor or Joe or anyone else says, they are going to want blood for my crimes and they're going to get it."
"It doesn't have to be that way."
"There's no escaping the inevitable. What kept me alive the last time mortals knew of immortals is going to be what kills me this time."
"Don't talk like that, Methos. You have a lot of living left to do."
"The time for dreams is over. What I've done… would you believe I'd changed, knowing how little I seemed to react to the deaths of friends?"
"Everyone at the shelter knew you were in pain," argued MacLeod. In his mind, he could hear Pear's request to help Sweet Pea. "They worried about you and hoped you were at least crying in private."
"But they must have known I wasn't. That will come out."
"They knew you had a good reason."
"Really? And what reason would that have been? 'Cause I'm heartless and unfeeling?"
Duncan frowned, barely resisting the urge to reach over and try smacking some sense into his oblivious friend. "No, because you were too hurt and vulnerable to open up to just anyone at a time when you had to stay focused to keep others you cared about alive. Or maybe because later you knew if you did open up, every emotion would erupt like it did last night."
Methos was silent for a long moment, absorbing the highlander's insight. When he did speak, his voice was hushed with sadness. "I didn't think it would erupt. Not before last night, anyway. But sometimes when you take down your shields, you can't put them up again. I couldn't be so raw for this war. I had to shut down certain bits."
"You shut down everything in the car last night," Mac mentioned.
"I used a trick I learned from before I can remember. I conditioned myself to handle pain so much, but never joy. Guess I forgot I'd feel that again. When the treaty was signed—even when those idiots were being dragged away, I couldn't deal with the relief very well. It was either turn everything off or turn everything on." He gave a careless shrug. "Luckily, I ended up doing both."
"Are you feeling better?"
"I don't think I would be so coherent if I wasn't." Another shrug. "Not that it matters. Emotionally sound or not, the great illusion that was Methos is now me and me is a dead man. And, therefore, Death is a dead man, huh."
"He is n—YOU are not a dead man. They will see you have changed."
"Right, of course, I forgot about the mounds of irrefutable evidence we've secretly been storing. Where did we put it all again? Land of the Sugarplum fairies, was it?"
"You made a treaty to end an international war and got it signed."
A mirthless laugh halted Mac's argument. "I made the treaty to get the Hell out of the shelter."
"You know as well as I do that you could have escaped without it and been safer."
"I was willing to start a nuclear war to get out. How much rational thinking do you honestly believe I was using?"
"You still decided on the treaty and peace."
"Yeah, fat bit of luck that is. Once the truth comes out about me, that ohh-so important piece of paper will be burned on global television to the applause of billions. If they don't chuck it sooner."
"Connor said it's being well received around the world."
"Riiiiight, and there aren't any protests because everyone suddenly loves immortals huh?"
"There are a couple. One's being planned for when we pick up Joe. But overall, I think people have had enough time to digest what the treaty proposed and agree with it. They'll not kill you for it, or for what you did thousands of years ago. You proved in those talks who you really are."
"And then the truth will come out and prove who else I can really be and then it's time to find the next oldest immortal."
"If they try to attack your integrity, I'll mention so many people you've saved and helped, heads will spin. You will have so many supporters, you will be safe."
"Too bad the mob against me will outnumber my many supposed supporters."
"Stop it."
"Stop what? Being honest?"
"Stop acting like you're a lamb awaiting the slaughter. You're not. And I won't let you become one. So just stop it!" Methos turned to look at him. The old man's expression was unreadable, but he was listening. "This treaty is holding. Other nations already want to sign it. Everyone at the shelter is concerned about you and for you. There isn't one of them—not one—that wants you to be hurting anymore and they'll be damned if they're going to let anything happen to you. Tomorrow we see Joe again and if you're talking like this and he still used a cane, he'd hit you upside the head. Hard. And you know it."
"How touching."
"I'm serious, Methos. Whatever you need, we'll be there for you."
Methos raised a skeptical eyebrow. "Really? You do realize I'm not changing for them? Adapting may have gotten me this far, but I'm not becoming a totally different person just to save my neck. I'm not apologizing for what I've done. I won't be asking for forgiveness or crying false tears to win anyone over. And I'm going to avoid as much responsibility as possible. I'm going to tell quite a few people to get lost and never fake being the least bit sorry for it."
"So, in short, you're going to be you again."
This comment seemed unbelievably comical to Methos. He erupted with laughter, and then fell back with the vibrations still shaking his body. He laughed so hard, tears were forming in his eyes. His hand quickly wiped them away. Slowly, the laughter subsided, replaced by sobs. MacLeod climbed onto the fallen roof and moved close to his friend. Before he was able to gather the oldest man into his arms, Methos sat up and turned to face Mac.
"I can't be me."
"Yes, you can," Mac murmured the assurance. "It'll be okay. We'll figure out something."
Methos shook his head vigorously. "You don't understand. I…" He sniffed, trying to hold some tears back. "I'm not well, highlander. I'm thinking of letting others fight my battles for me. I don't want a position that offers power and some security. I am worrying about strangers liking me, for goodness sakes."
"So you need a therapist," Duncan said carelessly. "Connor and I figured that when you zoned out in the car and then tore apart your room last night. We'll get you help."
"And then the whole world will learn that Methos is psychotic. That ought to help my situation a lot." He closed his eyes and hung his head.
"We can do it discreetly. They'll never know."
"They're neither blind nor stupid, MacLeod. They will find out the truth. There's no escaping it."
"Then run."
Methos' head whipped up and large eyes stared in confusion at the highland warrior leaning against the fallen roof. "Run?"
"Yeah, run," Mac repeated. "Leave this place. Find somewhere you can heal in peace, and stay there as long as you have to."
"You, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, want me, the current Immortal Ambassador, to run and hide?" Methos pursed his lips for a second. "Okay, now I'm having bad hallucinations."
"You're not hallucinating. I'm serious. Nothing says that the one who signed the treaty had to be chained to being the ambassador. Connor or I can fill in while you're gone. Methos, I've always known that you are one person who should never be trapped, and I'm starting to see that that's exactly what you are."
"So… you want me to… run away… from my problems," the current Immortal Ambassador said slowly. He was clearly having difficulty comprehending his friend's suggestion.
"Not run away from your problems," Duncan clarified. "Go some place where you can deal with everything without the world watching. And when you're ready, come back."
"And you're serious?"
"If you leave now, I could honestly say I don't know where you are when Connor comes tomorrow."
"You are serious." Methos breathed the words. He stared in disbelief at his friend. "Duncan, who do you see when you look at me?"
MacLeod quickly searched his mind for something good and useful to say. The question had to be answered delicately. Unfortunately, nothing Darius or Sean Burns ever said seemed to fit with this particular problem. Joe, for all his wisdom and insight, had never predicted Methos in this predicament and, therefore, had never given any of his usual, blunt advice on the topic. His father certainly had never mentioned how to handle a question that threatened to hurt a dear friend, perhaps send him hurdling into the abyss. His mother, however, had. Or at least she'd helped him when he had been as uncertain as his friend.
"Yew are Methos," Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod said firmly. The memory of Mary's words had awakened his Scottish burr. "And yew are my friend. And no one can take that from yew. Yew give help instead of advice. Yew talk over beers, instead of lecture. Yew are one of the greatest friends Joe and Amanda or Amy or anyone could hope for. Yew are the oldest immortal because yew have earned that title with your own blood and tears. Yew are far braver than yew think, and far more caring than yew want others ta believe. But we know who yew are. I see 'im whenever I look at yew. Yew are Methos."
The recipient of the speech took a deep breath. "I see."
Mac, on the other hand, was holding his breath. He impatiently waited for his friend to say something more, anything. But all Methos did was turn away, laid back down, and stare at the stars again. His reaction was unsettlingly non-existent.
"Methos?" The highlander ventured when he could finally wait no longer.
"If that is how you see me—as unrealistic and delusional as that is—then why do you seem to believe I would go scurrying away at a time like this?" Methos chided while he kept his eyes on the sky above. "I've got some freedom again, friends. Tomorrow I get to see Joe. And if I'm trapped, I'll find a way out. I just need to look at things in the proper perspective and I work it out. Even Kronos said I was a survivour. You really should know me better than this."
MacLeod tried unsuccessfully to hide his smile. "I guess I should."
"Damn right, you should. I mean, just how many times do you think I haven't felt trapped? I'm a five thousand year old man who looks thirty, couldn't say his real name or age in public, has had to hide the names of former students, friends, and family for centuries, and who had to change to fit into a world that has to switch fashions and traditions as often as it creates new slang. I'd be inhuman if I didn't feel trapped." The teasing tone was warming the highlander. "And needing a shrink? My mental health improves while talking to a friend like you, thank you very much. Not with someone I barely know and don't trust. And, when, precisely, did you think I was anything remotely resembling sane? Being friends with watchers, trying to talk sense into thickheaded Scots, thinking Nick might turn Amanda legit? Running off to get a peace treaty signed and suggesting we wouldn't be attacked? Perhaps you're insane for believing me."
"Perhaps." Duncan lay back on the fallen roof. Finally, he felt relaxed.
"Yeah, most likely. Both of us, crazy. Connor, too. Heck, the whole world really. Guess that's why we fit in so well."
"Joe always said the world was full of nuts."
Methos chuckled slightly. "Gods, I hate it when he's right."
"Hey, you were right too, about the treaty."
"I think the correct term for being crazy and right is 'lucky'."
A comfortable silence fell. Out of the corner of Mac's eye, he could see a small smile on Methos' face. It brought a full smile to his. What was going through the ancient's mind was, as usual, unknown, but if it kept him grinning, Mac wasn't about to question it.
In his own mind, Duncan was planning the future. He knew he was no Darius or Sean Burns. But what he lacked in education, he could make up for in contacts. Hopefully Liam would welcome the opportunity to probe Methos' psyche, just to make certain the old man was *too* crazy. Or he could ask Joe. Though no longer able to play a guitar due to arthritis, the blues man's mere presence had a way of soothing one's soul as his music once did. The retired watcher was much quieter and reserved in his old age, but Methos didn't seem like he needed a talker. He simply needed someone to listen and occasionally say something to prompt reflection and further talking. So he and Connor could be options as well. Even Amanda if she decided to stay close by for more than a month. Or they could all take turns to play therapist so that the state of the oldest immortal's mind was publicly viewed as nothing less than fine.
"Any word on Samuel and Lucy?" The inquiry abruptly derailed the highlander's train of thought.
Steeling himself for the pain, he answered. "I'm sorry. A few more of Cara's people finally made it to the Shelter yesterday. They confirmed your friends didn't make it."
Methos nodded once, some tears visible in his eyes. "I thought as much."
"Could you tell me about them sometime?"
Swallowing the lump forming his throat, the Neolithic man began. "I met Samuel for about an hour three hundred years ago. He was in the jail cell next to mind. We talked a bit. He was a rather happy fellow, despite his unfortunate position. Then I was released and never saw his smiling face again. We only started talking again because his girlfriend, Lucy, had found a chess puzzle book I'd forgotten at Cara's. One night she contacted the shelter to ask how I had solved one of the puzzles and Samuel happened to be in the room with her. We used to talk and try to solve the remaining puzzles."
"That's all you did?" Somehow, he had expected to hear about close friends who knew treasured secrets. Casual friends playing games hadn't come into the picture.
"For a little while, Mac, we pretended all was right in the world and that our biggest concern was how to get checkmate in less than six moves. I miss them."
"I am sorry."
"Isn't everyone?"
After a beat, Duncan asked what was next.
"Oh, well, a traditional blood oath to guarantee you're the ambassador. I'll play advisor, but that's it." Methos continued before Mac could ask if he was serious. "Before that though, I believe we can enjoy one night under the stars."
"Are you still seeing things dying up there?"
"Still?" The old man snorted in disbelief. "I never see things dying when I look at stars, MacLeod. I was just saying what some people see when they look up."
"So what do you see?"
"The same things I've seen since Kronos asked me that question thousands of years ago. You know, he saw the stars as sort of peepholes for the gods who were too afraid to get any closer to us."
"Methos."
"See the second star to the right of the dimmest star in that cluster," Methos said while pointing. "That star is for when the treaty was signed. And the star right above us is the day we became friends. And if I could find the little dipper, I'd show you Alexa. She's the top of its handle."
"Really?"
"The star right after it is when she said she loved me. I pointed it out to her on a beach in Santorini. She loved the idea."
"I can understand why."
"Which one would you say Tessa is?"
Duncan inspected his choices before pointing to a small group of stars to his right. "The brightest star near the middle, the one that looks like it's twinkling, that's Tessa. She always sparkled."
"Who's next to her?"
"Debra," the Scotsman replied with a certainty that surprised himself. "She would have to be there."
"And let me guess, the two stars just above them and off to the right, those are your parents?"
MacLeod briefly pondered that. Both stars were bright and, the more he thought about it, they almost looked like a pair he remembered seeing on other nights while stargazing. "Maybe. Should I introduce you?"
"Nope," Methos said smiling. "The star about three from your parents on the left is Don, I believe. Donald Saltzer. No doubt he's told them all about me. Complaining about how I never told him the truth about myself. That's why he seems so far away. Luckily, I think Byron is close to him, burning as brightly as ever. Don loved Byron's work."
"I'm sorry I--"
Methos waved the apology away. "Don't be. There's a star near Orion's belt that marks the end of Byron's tragedy. You did the right thing, don't regret that, not even for my sake." Eager to change the topic to something happier, the ancient immortal pointed to yet another star. "That one is when I got my lucky baseball. Is that back at the Shelter now?"
"Yeah, Connor was using it distract some of the people who can't believe Sweet Pea is the Big Enchilada."
"Don't tell me I've got another food nickname," Methos groaned.
"Okay, I won't. But I will say there are a few immortals wanting to talk to the Big E."
"Who and what about?" the elder male grumbled.
"Keane and Peaches for starters. They're having a hard time reconciling the man they met with thee Methos."
"There's a star in Torres for Keane's one track mind, and one in Aries for Peter's desire to protect young Sweet Pea. And the really bright one near Byron and Don is for the laughs I'm going to have talking to those two."
"So these are what stars are to you, huh?"
"I see the markers of our lives, highlander. Up there, scattered like glitter over the night sky, lay our past successes, and future opportunities, all the friends and family we have loved and lost. They show all the many accomplishments we've had, will have, and can have. They do not dictate our fate; they merely reveal the billions of possibilities in our lives. The stars are, to me, a panoply of everything that makes the dark less bleak, and the night less lonely."
"The star in the distance, close to the horizon directly before you, do you see it?"
Methos focused on the star, pursing his lips in concentration. "What about it?"
"I think that's the marker that everything's going to be okay."
A smile spread across his face. "You know, I think it is, Mac. I think it is, indeed."
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
"And after all
The dead ends and the lessons learned
After all
The stars have turned to stone
There'll be peace
Across the great unbroken void
All benign
In your time
You'll be fine
In your time."
--("In Your Time" Lyrics: Bob Seger)
~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~-~
THE END
