Methos sat down and sipped his beer. He looked around, making brief eye contact with the others, mentally preparing himself for what he was about to do.
"It was during the middle ages," he began. An outright lie. "We were in Europe at the time, somewhere just east of the Urals. I had spent quite a bit of time just wandering the countryside, not really caring about what day it was, or what century for that matter. I was still comparatively young." That part was true, even though at that time period he was older than Amanda is now.
"Comparatively?" Richie arched an eyebrow.
"What some people consider young is a bit different than others," Joe said with a smile.
"Exactly," said Methos. "I had been part of a nomadic tribe—" he suddenly laughed. "Gypsies you could say, although to their culture we cared a little too much about material things." He didn't know how much clearer he could paint it and hoped that Duncan and Joe had caught on by now. If they did they gave no indication. He continued:
"We were a strong enterprise. I guess you might say we had the monopoly on our industry." This was also true, though Methos failed to mention that the 'industry' he spoke of involved spreading fear and death. "If we were in it for the money, we might have described ourselves as wealthy, but really, we were just surviving. Times were hard, and so we joined forces and decided henceforth to share and share alike. We became very good at what we each contributed to the… outfit we had concocted. We were just doing what we were best at, and the wealth and influence kept rolling in. We didn't give it much thought, though. It meant that we had all the comforts of home; and that we were safe and wouldn't starve to death."
Methos once again glanced around the table. Amanda and Richie, both knowing Methos's true age, were doing their best to pick out the true story lying beneath the façade, but without knowledge of the horsemen they were helpless to follow the hints, and the four horsemen of the apocalypse isn't something someone would just guess at. For all intents and purposes, Connor appeared to just be sitting back and listening to the tale. Duncan and Joe had their best poker faces on, so it was unclear if they had picked up on what Methos would have considered his obvious hidden message. Methos decided to clump them with the biggest clue-by-four yet. He looked right at Duncan and said:
"And, for a group of four immortals, starving to death was simply not an option to discuss."
That did it. Duncan's jaw clenched and Methos was sure that his hands under the table were balled into fists, but the highlander did his best, to his credit, to not give anything away by his demeanor. Methos looked at Joe, who had lowered his head to stare into his beer. He grinned wickedly before continuing.
"As I said, we four immortals decided to pool our resources to ensure we lived comfortably for a while. We had all come from a very paranoid, lonely, look-over-your-shoulder way of existing, and frankly we just got sick of it. Four heads are better than one, so we set out to see if four could accomplish what one could not." All eyes were on him, he had them eating out of the palm of his hand, and he was enjoying the power he had over them in that instant perhaps a bit more than he should have.
"We lived like kings. Well, like nomadic kings. Wandering wherever the winds took us. Years passed and we had not a care or concern in the world. No immortal would dare take on four. Even if he won, the others would take his head after the quickening knocked him on his ass." Methos looked at Richie then, who nodded in understanding about their previous conversation. "And it would take a considerable number of mortal warriors to take down four seasoned immortals who grew up living and dying by the sword, and who practiced with them frequently."
Methos closed his eyes and smiled, lost momentarily in memory. It wasn't always bad. There had been lighter moments, moments much like today, where they would pass an evening around the fire, drinking wine and telling tales. For better or worse they were all brothers, and family you always find yourself ready to forgive. Himself, on the other hand…
Duncan saw Methos drift and caught its meaning. However he failed to see below the surface of it, and spoke freely.
"What about betrayal?" He asked coldly.
Methos was jarred out of his momentary reverie. He looked quickly at Duncan and found himself pinned by the highlander's unforgiving gaze.
"B—betrayal?" Methos's voice faltered slightly. It was not unnoticed by the others.
"You know, one of you deciding to turn against another?"
Methos inhaled sharply and looked away. Duncan had only meant to remind Methos of what Kronos had put him through, to remind him of just who he was remembering so fondly. Methos didn't see it that way, however. He had betrayed Kronos to Duncan in the end, and before it was over he himself had taken Silas's head. Methos reeled inwardly from the attack, and absolutely hated being made to feel guilty. He turned his sharply to regard Duncan, but the highlander's expression hadn't changed. He was about to formulate a comeback to put Duncan in his place when it suddenly occurred to him what the highlander's true intentions were. Surely Duncan wasn't referring to the betrayal of the horsemen, but of a betrayal even more personal. Kronos had kidnapped Cassandra while he was telling Duncan about the fountain, and who's to say that Duncan didn't feel like he had been betrayed to Kronos? After all, his victory wasn't assured, and Methos's parting line had been I go with the winner.
Methos's resolve crumbled in that instant. Duncan had never intended Methos to interpret his words like that, and immediately realized his mistake. Methos's eyes widened slightly in barely concealed horror, and he opened his mouth as if to say something, but no words came out. He closed his mouth and looked away, dropping his head off to the side and exhaling the breath he had been holding. He shook his head slightly. He regained his composure with a slight laugh and looked up, his expression reflecting some sad truth that only he was privy to.
"No, Duncan. The thought of betrayal never entered our minds. We never had any reason to fear each other."
Methos's uncharacteristic use of his first name was not unnoticed by Duncan, nor was the slight hitch in his voice on the word 'betrayal' or the way the bottom dropped from the sentence as Methos finished it, making his voice almost a whisper. This time Duncan looked away.
"Continue with your story, Adam," said Amanda softly, and Methos knew that there was no escape. He would be forced to tell the story, to relive each moment of it. If Duncan hadn't pointed out harsh reality to him, and if this particular story didn't hold such sad memories, then maybe Methos would have survived its telling. Still, he took a deep breath and centered himself, knowing that he had nothing to do but go on with the tale.
"Right, the story," he said, but there was no emotion in it. "Well, as I was saying, we lived together, cooperated, pooled our knowledge, skill, and resources. Well, to each his niche, and mine was… planning." Methos searched for a good word to use, figuring 'death' would be inappropriate. The same goes for 'educating' new slaves, and acts of physical and psychological brutality.
"I wasn't the leader," Methos continued, "as in I didn't have the last word on things, but I was the one to make the suggestions." If he sounded like he was bragging, well that was intentional. The self-loathing that colored his voice, however? That he had remarkably little control over. It was banished swiftly, however, as the scholar took up the tale again when the five thousand year old man could not.
"Where should we travel, how should we go about business once we get there. I could have led them, but I wasn't… power-hungry… enough for it." Methos look up at the ceiling, avoiding all eye contact with them, and then closed his eyes. "I was the mastermind behind it all. They would tell me what they want and I would give them the means to make it happen. There was no obstacle I couldn't lead us around, no challenge I couldn't break. Without me, our enterprise wouldn't have lasted nearly as long."
The statement didn't have any traces of ego in it. Instead it was lined with something entirely uncharacteristic of Methos: regret, and resignation. Joe could tell that Duncan was the primary audience now, and only some thin remnant of logic caused Methos to shroud the truth for the sake of the others. Joe knew that Duncan was catching the full meaning and implication, and he felt slightly embarrassed, like he was overhearing a priest and confessor.
Methos looked straight ahead now, but at no one in particular. "It was during a rather prosperous time for us. We had managed to procure nearly double what our expected payload was during one particular business deal. Fearless Leader—" he laughed again at his turn of phrase, "decided that all this was somehow my fault, and declared an evening in celebration of me." Methos didn't dare look to Duncan again, and only hoped the man was getting it. The destruction of the city had been total, with very few survivors. Did Duncan know this? Did he understand what it meant? Methos decided it didn't matter because Duncan would force him to tell the real version of the story shortly hereafter.
"Congratulations," said Connor, not heavily but certainly not lightly, sharply cutting through the brief silence. Methos looked at the elder MacLeod, but his face gave nothing away except a passing interest in him and his story. To add insult to injury, Methos wondered what Ramirez had told him, and if he was seeing through the vail like Duncan and Joe.
It didn't matter. Methos would proceed as if his house of cards really stood for something.
"Our leader announced to our servants a contest," he continued. "Whichever one could come up with the best way of pleasing me, of making me happiest, then that person would be given over to my sole employ, as opposed to remaining employed by the organization." All noted Methos's failure to thank Connor for his acknowledgment.
"Their prize was to become your personal domestic instead of a company employee, like a yeoman?" Amanda asked innocently. However much of this story she was buying into, the euphemisms remained intact.
"Something like that," said Methos, briefly looking at Amanda before returning his stare back to the void. "They had until the new moon to come up with their selections."
"Let me guess," said Richie, "the lucky contestant was the one who gave you your first taste of beer?"
Methos closed his eyes, again sucked in by the pain of memory. "Bright boy," he said to no one.
Duncan and Joe both sat back in their seats. Beer was Methos's last connection to the horsemen. What did he think of or remember when he drank?
"I made out like a bandit those two weeks," Methos went on. "I got a new pair of boots, many new clothes, some jewelry, and the many additional comforts that the less mechanically and artistically inclined came up with." Idly he wondered how many saw through that euphemism. He had learned quite a bit about the sexual habits and customs of the different cultures that the horsemen slaves represented.
"Those were a happy two weeks. We had decided that the wine we procured in the deal was too heavy to transport with us, so we stayed just outside the city walls and drank it morning, noon, and night until the last drops were finished."
"Sounds like fun," Richie appraised.
Methos laughed sadly. "You have no idea."
The best part was the glow from the fires at night, as the city slowly burned to the ground. That was back when the smell of burning flesh had actually appealed to him—or rather, his immunity to the scent appealed to him. It makes him sick now, but how much of that is psychosomatic is uncertain.
Methos continued with the tale. After all, it was just getting to the good part.
"In the end it was a tossup. One of the young lads had carved me a beautiful bow. We picked him up in the Balkins somewhere. Thin as a rail and hair down to his ass."
"Young lad?" Duncan asked blankly.
Methos knew why. "Oh yes MacLeod. We equally employed both girls and boys." Methos saw both Joe and Duncan shift in their seats. Richie slouched, the meaning not lost on him even if the context was. Only Amanda and Connor remained stoic at the statement. Methos looked off to the right, trying to wrench the details from his mind.
"His name was Vershkin, or was it Veraskin? Something like that, but I don't exactly remember. He was only with us a short time." As though speaking the memories aloud gave them permission, they all came flooding back. They crashed into him like the pounding tide, trying to break him as the surf erodes the shoreline. In that instant, he secretly wished that the analogy was literal, and that the instant his mind let go, he would be washed back out to see. Drowning in memory surely has to be better than being crushed by it.
Yet that was not an option. Methos was trapped in his chair, forced to weather the tide. The only outlet was verbal, and he let the memories pour from him in the form of words as he continued his tale.
"Medicine as we know it today didn't exist back then. If that little secret of the blood transfusion was known, who knows? Maybe I could have saved him." Methos closed his eyes yet again, this time to blink away tears. It had to have been the spray, right? That's why he felt the sting of salt in his eyes. The memories were doing it. Memories of a child he failed to protect. Memories of the realization the he felt the need to protect the children from his brothers—and not remembering when that need took hold.
Yet unbeknownst to him, Duncan and Joe picked up on something that Methos did not intend. He had attempted to save the boy's life, and his friends reacted to this fact strongly.
"He was barely fifteen at the time and already a man at that age, but still a boy to we four immortals. He hadn't even begun to shave yet." The memories flowed freely and easily over his tongue, and Methos thought to ease their journey with a bit of beer. He took a sip, seeking familiar that comfort, but found that it wasn't forthcoming. Instead, it nearly made him sick. Anyone would have blamed nerves, but Methos laughed and called it karma.
"He came in second, and to reward him I told him to fashion a comb for his hair that would be his to keep." The laugh dissolved into a fond smile. "I still have the bow, and the comb, and the comb still has a few strands of his hair."
Duncan's jaw dropped slightly at this. The events Methos were describing took place over three thousand years ago. That they survived, and that he still had them, was remarkable.
"So who won?" Asked Amanda, anxious to leave what she deemed an upsetting topic behind.
Methos saw this and laughed slightly at the irony. "Ah yes, the winner. The one without whom I would never have tasted this fine, amber liquid." Methos's voice was dripping in mocking sarcasm as he lofted his beer and set it back on the table. Then his eyes seemed to glaze over as the memories took hold once more. "She was beautiful. We picked her up in, I guess it would be Turkey, or thereabouts. She could have been Persian, but she had been a slave before coming into our employ. The daughter of a slave and her master." With a soft sigh the scholar took up the tale, allowing the immortal a moment's respite.
"I guess her mother was captured up north somewhere because she had Anglican facial features, high cheekbones and such, and dark blue eyes. If she didn't have the dark tanned skin, coarser black hair, and smaller stature of Persian women you could have called her Irish by voice alone, but I don't think I'd ever been to Eire then, so who knows." Methos absently sipped his beer again and startled himself by being repulsed by it. He swished it in his mouth a few times before swallowing, and casually slid the glass out of his way. This was not unnoticed.
"What was her name?" Joe asked.
Methos opened his mouth as if to answer, but shut it tightly as a look of sheer horror crossed his face. He muttered something that sounded like it would loosely translate to 'dear God' in a language no one recognized, and looked at Joe.
"I don't remember. She was… I can picture her face as clearly as if I had seen her yesterday, I can remember her voice telling me stories of her homeland. I even remember those damned unimportant stories! And I can't for the life of me remember her name!" Methos's first instinct was to laugh at the irony, but it came out as a choked sob. "It appears even we immortals are prone to bouts of senility," he said to Joe, laughing now as he wiped his eyes and hoped that the others thought it was from the laughter.
"Don't worry about it," said Joe, again feeling embarrassed for having to witness this. He half expected Methos to get up, he had a clear getaway, but for some reason Duncan's gaze from across the booth pinned him to his seat the way an angry parents holds a child to a chair for an agonizing lecture.
"Maybe it'll come to you," offered Connor nonchalantly.
Methos took a deep breath, centering himself once again, letting the scholar come forth. He continued after a brief pause. "She was fourteen, or so the best guess was. She was never told her age, and we all sort of ball-parked it from her state of development and things she remembered. Being a slave before we acquired her, she had an amusing sense of what her role was. There was never a period of acclimation, like our other servants. She was prepared and willing from day one."
Duncan didn't know what surprised him more during that speech, the fact that the girl was willing and able to serve the horsemen the way he heard Cassandra describe it, or the fact that Methos spoke with almost no emotion whatsoever, as though he was reciting from a textbook.
"My best guess was that she was part of a small harem from the way she described her life. We all enjoyed the way she would try and pamper us." A slight smile crossed Methos's lips, however fleeting, and didn't quite reach his eyes.
"And a fourteen year old girl knew how to brew beer?" Duncan asked, trying to keep his voice neutral. He didn't want Methos to return to the tendrils of memory and not tell the rest of the story.
"No one was as shocked as I," Methos admitted, his voice returning to normal with that statement. "It wasn't all that hard, actually. Apparently the city we stopped at had a thriving beer industry, because the necessary grains grew in the fields outside the city walls. She used one of the smaller empty wine casks and buried it under ground for those two weeks. I don't know where she found the yeast. Remarkable though, the outcome, and I had thought that only the Egyptians held the secret of beer at that time. I guess the Persians discovered it. Funny though, she didn't call it beer. The word she used, roughly translated, means 'grain mead.'"
Methos finished his speech the way a professor wraps up a lecture to enable the students to finish taking notes. He sipped his beer again for emphasis, somewhere in his subconscious believing that it would somehow taste right again. The sharp closing of his eyes and the exaggerated motions of his forced swallowing told his companions a different tale. In an instant the happy-go-lucky grad student persona vanished without a trace and Methos, the millennia-weary immortal replaced him.
"Ellembahara," he said, his voice catching as he practically spit out the remaining syllables. "Ironic I remember the word she used when she handed me a goblet, but her name escapes me."
"What was the word?" Joe asked softly, trying to return the immortal to the present and spare him the agony of memory.
"I remember the beer," Methos practically spat, obviously not heeding Joe's comment if in fact he heard it at all. "How fitting." His voice left all traces of pain and was brimming now with sarcasm barely restraining anger. He lofted the glass in a mock salute. "Well here's to you, girly. I hope you're not disappointed that the gift has outlasted the giver in the mind of the eternally grateful!" He downed the remnants of the glass in one long, anguishing gulp. The others could only watch as his face turned ashen green and then washed over to deathly pale.
"Elle-hem-bar-har-a," said Connor, slowly enunciating every syllable. "It's a bastardized form of two separate Egyptian words, no doubt the Persian traders lost something in the translation."
Methos turned sharply to regard Connor, and found himself the subject of the elder MacLeod's careful scrutiny and Connor, for his part, was uncertain of what exactly he saw. Anger, fear, hatred, resignation… guilt? Too many emotions swirled in the other's hazel eyes. Were they brown? Were they green? Gold? It seemed to vary with his true emotions, not the ones he schooled his face into portraying. They finally settled on some dark shade as something new crossed the man's features: realization, and with realization came defeat, and at last Connor knew, or at least greatly suspected. From the void he heard Ramirez's final taunt, or rather, the last words he had ever heard the Egyptian immortal speak.
I'm turning my back on Death. Poetic, isn't it?
Too bad it wasn't true. Methos could feel Ramirez's unforgiving eyes like branding irons scalding him unmercifully from behind Connor's boyishly inquisitive gaze. He idly wondered if Connor was aware of just how powerful the presence of an ancient immortal resting on the outside edge of your conscious mind truly was. This immediately hooked Methos's mind into wondering how much of Kronos was staring at him in that moment, hurling heavy-handed words, like 'betrayal' across the booth. It was frightening to ponder yet another shining example of the way Kronos had truly won Bordeaux, for as far as Methos was concerned, the world was ending right now, and he was telling stories by the all-consuming fire.
The spell was broken by the sound of shattering glass. Methos registered the sound, but was somehow detached from it, not recognizing the sound for what it was at first. It was the scent of blood, and someone's frantic yelling, that fully brought him back to reality.
"I'm bleeding?" Methos regarded his hand in amazement. At one point he was holding a glass—where did it go? And how come his hand was stained with blood? Just then his hand was encompassed with napkins and suddenly sound snapped into place. He looked up and it was Richie's voice he picked out first.
"Jesus Christ, old man. Don't you know that Joe charges you if you break glasses?" It was Richie's voice because Richie was the one pressing napkins onto his hand, nothing but concern on his eternally young face. Methos looked around suddenly, remembering he had a rather large audience. Connor was gone, mercifully. He went behind the bar to grab a trash bin and more paper towels. Duncan was gathering up the glass shards into the napkins while Joe wiped up the frothy remnants of Methos's beer glass. Amanda just sat and watched, wonder and concern gracing her dark features.
"I'll heal," said Methos to Richie once he found his voice again. By now Connor had returned and was helping Duncan to dispose of the glass shards and soiled napkins.
"I know that," said Richie, affecting an annoyed tone not unlike the one Methos often uses. "But you just seemed content to bleed all over the booth until then, and I for one hate trying to clean blood out of antique wood-grain."
Richie removed his hands from the napkins as Methos brought his other hand over. He removed the napkins, shocked to discover that his quickening had taken care the injury already. I healed and didn't even realize it.
He threw the bloody napkins in the trash bin that Connor had brought and stared at his friends in the booth. They were patiently awaiting Methos to either excuse himself or to continue on with his tale, although none of them would have held it against him if he didn't. Even Duncan, who was so quick want to hold Methos to his fate when it concerned his horseman past, had felt that tonight had progressed rapidly from watching Methos sweat, to going a bit too far, to poignant though indecent insights into Methos's soul. He had wanted to see Methos tell the tale so that only he and Joe would get it, watch him suffer though comfortable discomfort, expecting to feel the heat of Methos's annoyance later on, and then they would both laugh it off and continue with their lives.
It had happened just like that countless times, but since Bordeaux, things had been different. They were trying to rebuild their friendship, but the recent events in Paris could have served to end their efforts before they got off the ground. Duncan had spurned Methos after he challenged Keane, knowing that Methos unabashedly risked his head for him. Then he had begged Methos to stand aside while he challenged Byron, Methos's own student. His turning on Methos after the incident outside the ancient's apartment, wherein he had confessed all about being a horseman, Duncan had thought had been absolved when he convinced Cassandra to let Methos live, but how did Methos see it? A life sentence, Duncan thought dryly. I sentenced him to live, with his pain, with his regrets, with his past.
Yet in spite of such a harsh judgment, for indeed death would have been the easy way out, Methos had come instantly when Amanda had told him that Duncan's life was in danger, even going so far as to challenge Keane to keep Duncan safe, and he had spurned him for it, cast off the gesture as though it were something vulgar. Then not too much later, after the two had finally been able to maintain the façade that nothing had happened between them, the incident with Byron occurred. Duncan wondered if he would have just stepped aside when a friend told him that Richie had to die, for that's exactly what he did to Methos. If a friend told me? Sure, a friend who had sentenced me to what could be deemed the cruelest punishment for my crimes and who had practically spat on my purest gesture of what that friendship still meant to me…
Duncan tensed as he watched Richie hold napkins on Methos's bleeding hand trying to make sure the booth wasn't inundated with blood. He never wanted nor expected this. Methos had tried to rise to the challenge presented him, goaded on by his friends to do so. To tell of the origins of his love for beer and keeping his age a secret at the same time, a perfect little barb at the ancient immortal.
But why?
Why did he have to twist the knife? What would come from watching Methos squirm under the unwanted attention? His own satisfaction, and then a day of Methos's fuming anger and perhaps a retaliatory battle of words, but then laughter and drinking and it was behind them, their friendship in tact. All the more bonus that this was a horsemen story.
Why?
The question nagged at him as he saw his friend seemingly unaware that he was bleeding profusely. Why did he feel the need to hurt the man so? A man who had saved him from the dark quickening without so much as a breath of judgment, a man who valued his Scottish hide enough to betray his own brothers, a man that he had watched bury the love of his life and in his eyes saw that grief is also immortal. They were truly able to connect then, in their misery. Trading lighthearted stories of Alexa and Tessa until both exhaustion and alcohol claimed them both to sleep. That was on the barge. And when Duncan awoke the next morning, Methos was gone.
Why?
Richie was talking now, and the question still nagged at him, even as he threw the glass shards away. Why did he want so desperately at times to pettily hurt the man who had endured blind hatred in exchange for saving his life? Together they had killed his 'brothers,' and Duncan sentenced him to live for his troubles. Even as Methos sobbed, seemingly unaware of how close he had come to losing his head, at the time it seemed like the right thing to do.
Then, as if that weren't enough, he had seen Methos challenge Keane, something the old man rarely did. But why was it so strange? After all, he had killed Kristen. Why? Because the highlander couldn't do it himself. Chivalry indeed. Methos would kill anyone—risk anything, even his beloved Silas, to keep MacLeod safe. And he had just let him take Byron's head. Would I have just let Methos take Richie's? The question was ridiculous. There was only one answer.
Duncan saw Methos throw the napkins away, his hand healed. Then he remembered suddenly his first meetings with Methos. He had called the cops to break up the fight with Kalas, after offering up his head didn't work! Survival was Methos's chief concern, or so everyone had always though. Yet the true answer was staring at Duncan, as bright and obvious as the overhead lamp above the booth where everyone was watching Methos crumble right before their very eyes.
All those answers were suddenly clear. Why did he try so hard to hurt the man? Because I felt betrayed when he didn't tell me about the horsemen. That was it, plain and simple. He wanted to get back at the man who had offered him his head, risked his life to help him during the dark quickening, gone so far as to shoot him or call the cops to keep him safe, taken challenges and heads for him, once from someone he had called 'brother,' and betrayed those he had cared most about to his unyielding Katana, including one of his own students, and all because he felt betrayed that he didn't freely open up and share the most painful part of his past with him. And now he watched helplessly as Methos tried to return to reality, memory of that past threatening to overtake him at every turn, pain visible in his every word, his every gesture, as he valiantly tried to give his challengers satisfaction, so we can see him squirm. It made one wonder who the true master of betrayal and cruelty was at this table.
Duncan suddenly felt sick. Methos was wringing his hands together now. The rest sat in awed silence. Duncan knew why. It was the sight of blood on his hands, an integral part of the memory experience. Well it had progressed far enough! Guilt and shame worked to make Duncan nauseous at the sight of Methos, and of everyone watching him like a giant goldfish blissfully unaware of the crowd of spectators gathered around. Methos's mental and emotional state had rapidly deteriorated as the story had progressed, and no one made a move to stop it, least of all Duncan. They were all silently watching this crucifixion to satisfy their own selfish curiosities. Or perhaps they simply didn't know what to do.
Duncan decided that it couldn't continue. He would absolve Methos of the need to continue with the story, wondering why he had stayed with it for so long when given plenty of opportunities to escape. Did he need to appease his audience that much? Was he searching for the acceptance I have repeatedly denied him? Is that why he invited Richie to stay? Duncan resolved to end the matter here and now, and to very soon sit Methos down and have a long chat. He owed the man some serious apologies.
He had just opened his mouth to speak when he heard Amanda's voice.
"Go wash your hands, Adam," she said gently, laying a hand on his shoulder.
This brought Methos out of the fog once again. Blood. On my hands. Again. I wonder how it always returns to this? These memories would be easier if their blood was nice and stayed on my sword where it belonged. Then Amanda's voice:
"Go wash your hands, Adam."
Wash? Wash what? Oh, my hands. There's blood on my hands again.
"Adam?"
Methos shuddered and shook his head a few times. It was then he became aware of the sea of faces staring at him in wide-eyed concern.
"I'm gonna go wash up," he said quickly as he practically threw himself out of the booth and walked briskly towards the men's room. The sound of running water could be heard moments later. The others sat stunned for a moment before Connor spoke.
"I know who he is now," he said, the tone in his voice giving nothing away.
"What do you mean?" Duncan asked gravely.
"I know what Ramirez told me of him."
"Ramirez knew Methos?" Joe asked, leaving the pretense behind once and for all.
"Yes. In Egypt, millennia ago."
"Millennia?" Richie gaped, astonished.
"They were once quite close, but had sort of a falling out I believe. They hadn't spoken in over 1500 years, and then Ramirez died before they could make amends."
"I see," said Duncan, realization beginning to dawn on him.
"Do you know what caused it?" Joe asked. His manner conveyed 'professional watcher' perfectly, but Duncan could tell his curiosity was more than just scholarly interest. Connor glanced at each face in turn before speaking.
"From what I gathered, another one of Methos's old friends showed up, looking for his head. Ramirez, apparently, was a lot like you Duncan in his younger days, and he took the challenge himself. Apparently the challenger used this golden opportunity to fill Ramirez in on some details concerning Methos's past. Well the challenger killed Ramirez but didn't take his head. When he revived, he and Methos had words, and then parted company, never to see or speak to each other again."
Duncan hung his head, the weight of Connor's words hitting him fully. Methos's friendship with Ramirez hadn't survived knowledge of the horsemen, and now Ramirez was dead, his quickening swimming inside Connor. Methos had gone into tonight knowing that he would have to deal with Ramirez's ghost and Duncan's seeming coldness and unforgiving nature, for the sake of giving Duncan a birthday celebration. No wonder he wasn't too keen on letting Connor know his true identity! He had two antagonists to worry about, and no ally, as Joe he would have been allowed his watcher-esque detachment and Amanda and Richie were blissfully ignorant of all undertones. Granted they sensed something was up, but hopefully now they were attributing to the memory and guilt over Ramirez as opposed to everything else such memory and guilt entailed.
"You know," Duncan declared. A statement, not a question.
"Only what I've been told," said Connor.
"Would Ramirez lie to you?" Joe asked. Again a question that didn't need to be answered.
"Well no wonder he's upset," Richie mused.
"What do you mean?" Duncan asked, curious.
"Well if he and Ramirez were friends and had this huge fight that lasted centuries, and then Ramirez died before they could resolve it, well, I know if it were me I'd be feeling pretty guilty about it. Thinking that I should have, you know, done something or said something. I mean, even we immortals don't have unlimited time. We can't just let things sit and expect people to always be here. How many times have you buried immortal friends in the time that I've known you, Mac? And then, to have Connor sitting here, as blatant a reminder of Ramirez as a neon sign would be—"
"And having to deal with all that baggage on top of telling a story that's obviously emotionally painful in its own right," said Amanda, cutting off Richie as she caught the drift.
"Exactly," said Richie. "Pain, on top of pain, and not wanting to give any of it away."
Duncan smiled. Richie was many things, but oblivious wasn't one of them, not where his friends were concerned. Amanda could be dense at times, existing on 'Planet Amanda,' but even she notices when something is so obviously bothering someone she cares about. He was wrong to discount the two of them as having anything valuable to add to this discussion.
Then his smile darkened as he looked at Joe, and saw similar emotions reflected there. Methos was reliving the pain of the memory, which is attached to the pain of the horsemen, which involves the pain of Ramirez and the pain that Duncan himself was unwittingly inflicting. Pain on top of pain entwined with even more pain, and oh by the way tell a painful story while trying to keep separate versions of that pain a secret from three different people.
It was Joe's turn to hang his head. What he had learned over Thanksgiving should have been enough for him to stop this wretched progression before it began, but then, interfering that that would have signaled that he did, in fact, learn something about Methos that perhaps the others did not know. Either way he could have chosen, there was no way to win, not while MacLeod was pushing for the story to be told. Like the watcher he was, all Joe could do… was watch.