Author's Note: This story is NOT connected to my Phobia chronicles. This
is a SEPARATE story, even if certain characters from there do make brief
appearances. In no way, shape or form, are the two universes connected.
In this chapter, I have taken certain liberties with history. Socrates lived in 5th Century BCE Athens, Alexander the Great lived in another time altogether, but I have combined the two times here. I do not own Methos, Socrates, or Plato. I do, however, own Fiona. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------
In the Greek afternoon sunlight, Methos paused to contemplate the market's wine selection. He appeared to be Greek, except for the distinctly Roman nose. His hair was dark, and slightly longer then he preferred to wear it, his eyes hazel in the hollows of his light olive skin. He wore the standard Greek dress and sandals, a sword and change purse belted at his waist.
He decided, pointing his selection to the vendor, attempting to haggle, ignoring the bemused surprise on the vendor's face at his perfect Ancient Greek. He passed some coins from his hand to the vendor's hand, and he took his purchase, stepping again into the crowded throngs of marketplace bodies and shoppers, stopping again at an olive vendor, and repeating the process.
He stopped a third time, this time at a fruit stand, where the vendor proudly informed him, "We have dates for sale today. Fresh from the lands east. Shipped by King Alexander himself."
"Alexander?" Methos repeated.
"Do you not know, Alexander? He is the Greek Emperor, exploring the barbarian lands, in hopes to civilize them into the Greek Empire."
"Of course," the Immortal frowned. "But what if the barbarians do not want to be civilized?"
The vendor looked at him for several moments before he threw his had back to laugh: a sound almost like a roar. "Good jest, friend. But, surely you do not think us to live in the Bronze Age. This is Athens! This is the Golden Age! We have culture, and we live in culture. Living in fear of the apocalypse is a thing of the past, and with the future, comes civilization."
"Yes, I suppose you are right," Methos mumbled, frowning slightly. "How much for those dates?"
With his three purchases in hand, Methos continued through the marketplace, pausing again to buy bread, and leeks. Other than the conversations to haggle with the vendors, he started no conversations, and no one started conversations with him. But that was how he liked it.
Coming to the marketplace edge, he turned sharply to the left, walking silently down a long, winding road, remembering the play he had seen the night before, and how he had left the theater dissatisfied, and wanting a beer. The young woman he encountered upon leaving the pub had been willing, and also willing to stay the entire night for a few extra gold coins. He had liked the idea of holding someone again, while he lulled himself to sleep.
Pausing briefly, he turned left, stopping before a small building, of which had seen better days. He had never understood why when Socrates had the admiration and respect of everyone, he did not take advantage of that admiration and respect to live in better conditions. He sighed, raised his hand, and knocked hesitantly on the door.
A young man opened the door. "Yes, may I help you?"
A frown crossed Methos' face. "I am looking for Socrates. Did he leave? I'm a friend of his."
"A friend, eh? You won't find him here. They arrested him last night on grounds of corruption. He's being held at the prison about four and half leagues from here. I could take you there."
"Yes, yes, please. I need to speak with him."
The young man titled his head slightly, casting Methos a puzzled look. "Give me a minute." He disappeared into the small building, returning several moments later, closing the door behind him. "Follow me then, please."
"Thank you. I am Methos."
"I am Plato. Socrates is my mentor."
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Methos waited for several moments outside the cell while Plato told Socrates of his arrival. Finally, Socrates looked to his direction, and motioned him to enter. "Methos," he greeted, "I thought you would come. I had hoped you would come."
"I brought wine, and I brought food." He motioned to the gifts he carried, dropping them lightly on the bench, where Socrates sat. "I am told the dates came from the Far East."
"Thank you," he paused. "Have you been east, Methos?"
"Yes, several times."
Socrates nodded, watching the Immortal thoughtfully. "You are different."
"Yes," Methos blinked.
"I have long suspected. I have known you fifty years, Methos, and you do not age. I, contrary, have aged greatly. I hear what they say of me. I say that the best, the greatest love comes from the soul, but they whisper I am the ugliest man in all of Athens."
"Oh, but Socrates-"
"Silence, Plato. I am strong; the words do not hurt me. You have asked me to teach you, Methos. I have taught you all that I know." He paused, motioned for Methos to sit. "Plato told you I am to be killed tomorrow."
"Yes, but I do not understand why."
"They say I corrupted the Athenian youth. Like you, like my student," he gestured to Plato, "the youth were curious. I merely quenched their curiosity, and now they will have me killed for it. Forgetting they are the ones, who granted me the permission to teach and to mentor in the first place."
"They?"
"The Elders. The Athenian Governing Body." He paused again, choosing a fig, swallowing it whole. "I have lived a full life. I am not afraid to die."
"No," whispered Methos, turning away. He caught Plato's discontent in the darkness.
"What is your secret, Methos? Why do you remain the same, when everything around you changes?"
"I change, just not physically. I am Immortal."
"Immortal?"
"Yes, I cannot die."
"Never?"
"If someone were to take my head, I could. But elsehow, no, never."
"You will have to explain this Immortality to me sometimes, Methos. But first tell me, the poison I taught you last time you visited, it worked to your desired effect?"
"Yes, I thank you."
"Good," nodded Socrates. "It was made from hemlock. It will be what I too swallow tomorrow."
"But-"
"I am not afraid, Methos," he repeated. "I was always afraid that if I observed objects with my eyes and tried to comprehend them with my other senses, I might blind my soul altogether. Now, I will never know if I am correct or not. My student will have to continue my work for me. To teach the world what I could not. He is a better man than I ever was."
Plato nodded briefly, stepping from the shadows to sit nearer to his mentor, to his teacher, to his friend. "I will, old mentor. I promise you."
"I would like one more lesson from you to remember, old friend," Methos requested. Several moments of silence had passed, in which each had drunk a flask of wine in silent toast.
"I will give one to you, but first, I have a request of you."
"Should it be in my power."
"I leave a daughter in this world. When I am gone, I wish for you to look after her. Keep close to her, check in every once in a while. Plato has already promised, but I want to know she will have one more friend in his world."
"You have a daughter?"
"Yes. Her name is Fiona. She is originally from the Britannia Isles, west and north of here. I found her when she was three. She is sixteen now."
"I will do as you ask, Socrates."
"Thank you, my friend. I had hoped-" He shook his head, and looked away. "Let he who moves the world, move himself first."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------
When the Elders administered to Socrates the hemlock, Methos was not beside him. But Plato was, and later, after Socrates had died, the younger philosopher found him, and they talked long, remembering the man they had both been fond of.
Methos agreed he would stay, and for three years he did. Fiona came to them too, and Methos learned to love both her and Plato. When she was nineteen, and newly married, he left.
"Will I see you again, foster-father?" she asked.
"Many more times," he promised, bending to kiss her lips once. He had left while Plato slept.
In this chapter, I have taken certain liberties with history. Socrates lived in 5th Century BCE Athens, Alexander the Great lived in another time altogether, but I have combined the two times here. I do not own Methos, Socrates, or Plato. I do, however, own Fiona. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- --------------------------------------
In the Greek afternoon sunlight, Methos paused to contemplate the market's wine selection. He appeared to be Greek, except for the distinctly Roman nose. His hair was dark, and slightly longer then he preferred to wear it, his eyes hazel in the hollows of his light olive skin. He wore the standard Greek dress and sandals, a sword and change purse belted at his waist.
He decided, pointing his selection to the vendor, attempting to haggle, ignoring the bemused surprise on the vendor's face at his perfect Ancient Greek. He passed some coins from his hand to the vendor's hand, and he took his purchase, stepping again into the crowded throngs of marketplace bodies and shoppers, stopping again at an olive vendor, and repeating the process.
He stopped a third time, this time at a fruit stand, where the vendor proudly informed him, "We have dates for sale today. Fresh from the lands east. Shipped by King Alexander himself."
"Alexander?" Methos repeated.
"Do you not know, Alexander? He is the Greek Emperor, exploring the barbarian lands, in hopes to civilize them into the Greek Empire."
"Of course," the Immortal frowned. "But what if the barbarians do not want to be civilized?"
The vendor looked at him for several moments before he threw his had back to laugh: a sound almost like a roar. "Good jest, friend. But, surely you do not think us to live in the Bronze Age. This is Athens! This is the Golden Age! We have culture, and we live in culture. Living in fear of the apocalypse is a thing of the past, and with the future, comes civilization."
"Yes, I suppose you are right," Methos mumbled, frowning slightly. "How much for those dates?"
With his three purchases in hand, Methos continued through the marketplace, pausing again to buy bread, and leeks. Other than the conversations to haggle with the vendors, he started no conversations, and no one started conversations with him. But that was how he liked it.
Coming to the marketplace edge, he turned sharply to the left, walking silently down a long, winding road, remembering the play he had seen the night before, and how he had left the theater dissatisfied, and wanting a beer. The young woman he encountered upon leaving the pub had been willing, and also willing to stay the entire night for a few extra gold coins. He had liked the idea of holding someone again, while he lulled himself to sleep.
Pausing briefly, he turned left, stopping before a small building, of which had seen better days. He had never understood why when Socrates had the admiration and respect of everyone, he did not take advantage of that admiration and respect to live in better conditions. He sighed, raised his hand, and knocked hesitantly on the door.
A young man opened the door. "Yes, may I help you?"
A frown crossed Methos' face. "I am looking for Socrates. Did he leave? I'm a friend of his."
"A friend, eh? You won't find him here. They arrested him last night on grounds of corruption. He's being held at the prison about four and half leagues from here. I could take you there."
"Yes, yes, please. I need to speak with him."
The young man titled his head slightly, casting Methos a puzzled look. "Give me a minute." He disappeared into the small building, returning several moments later, closing the door behind him. "Follow me then, please."
"Thank you. I am Methos."
"I am Plato. Socrates is my mentor."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------
Methos waited for several moments outside the cell while Plato told Socrates of his arrival. Finally, Socrates looked to his direction, and motioned him to enter. "Methos," he greeted, "I thought you would come. I had hoped you would come."
"I brought wine, and I brought food." He motioned to the gifts he carried, dropping them lightly on the bench, where Socrates sat. "I am told the dates came from the Far East."
"Thank you," he paused. "Have you been east, Methos?"
"Yes, several times."
Socrates nodded, watching the Immortal thoughtfully. "You are different."
"Yes," Methos blinked.
"I have long suspected. I have known you fifty years, Methos, and you do not age. I, contrary, have aged greatly. I hear what they say of me. I say that the best, the greatest love comes from the soul, but they whisper I am the ugliest man in all of Athens."
"Oh, but Socrates-"
"Silence, Plato. I am strong; the words do not hurt me. You have asked me to teach you, Methos. I have taught you all that I know." He paused, motioned for Methos to sit. "Plato told you I am to be killed tomorrow."
"Yes, but I do not understand why."
"They say I corrupted the Athenian youth. Like you, like my student," he gestured to Plato, "the youth were curious. I merely quenched their curiosity, and now they will have me killed for it. Forgetting they are the ones, who granted me the permission to teach and to mentor in the first place."
"They?"
"The Elders. The Athenian Governing Body." He paused again, choosing a fig, swallowing it whole. "I have lived a full life. I am not afraid to die."
"No," whispered Methos, turning away. He caught Plato's discontent in the darkness.
"What is your secret, Methos? Why do you remain the same, when everything around you changes?"
"I change, just not physically. I am Immortal."
"Immortal?"
"Yes, I cannot die."
"Never?"
"If someone were to take my head, I could. But elsehow, no, never."
"You will have to explain this Immortality to me sometimes, Methos. But first tell me, the poison I taught you last time you visited, it worked to your desired effect?"
"Yes, I thank you."
"Good," nodded Socrates. "It was made from hemlock. It will be what I too swallow tomorrow."
"But-"
"I am not afraid, Methos," he repeated. "I was always afraid that if I observed objects with my eyes and tried to comprehend them with my other senses, I might blind my soul altogether. Now, I will never know if I am correct or not. My student will have to continue my work for me. To teach the world what I could not. He is a better man than I ever was."
Plato nodded briefly, stepping from the shadows to sit nearer to his mentor, to his teacher, to his friend. "I will, old mentor. I promise you."
"I would like one more lesson from you to remember, old friend," Methos requested. Several moments of silence had passed, in which each had drunk a flask of wine in silent toast.
"I will give one to you, but first, I have a request of you."
"Should it be in my power."
"I leave a daughter in this world. When I am gone, I wish for you to look after her. Keep close to her, check in every once in a while. Plato has already promised, but I want to know she will have one more friend in his world."
"You have a daughter?"
"Yes. Her name is Fiona. She is originally from the Britannia Isles, west and north of here. I found her when she was three. She is sixteen now."
"I will do as you ask, Socrates."
"Thank you, my friend. I had hoped-" He shook his head, and looked away. "Let he who moves the world, move himself first."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- ------
When the Elders administered to Socrates the hemlock, Methos was not beside him. But Plato was, and later, after Socrates had died, the younger philosopher found him, and they talked long, remembering the man they had both been fond of.
Methos agreed he would stay, and for three years he did. Fiona came to them too, and Methos learned to love both her and Plato. When she was nineteen, and newly married, he left.
"Will I see you again, foster-father?" she asked.
"Many more times," he promised, bending to kiss her lips once. He had left while Plato slept.
