The Abbey
A Conference Room later in the day
Methos found himself seated roughly across the table from Rebecca. Yet even though this particular table was round, he got the distinct impression that Rebecca was sitting at its head. The sensation left him feeling quite ill at ease as he surveyed the rest of the attendees.
Seated beside Rebecca on her left hand was her head guard, eyes impassive and fixed ahead. Not even Methos wanted to hazard a guess as to what he was thinking. Next to him and therefore next to Methos sat an aged man in billowy brown robes. His long white beard was well tended though in discordance with his thinning, scraggly hair, which still retained a few wisps of smoky gray. He had entered just moments before, hobbling with a large walking stick. Methos knew the earmarks of a Druid priest when he saw one, and it set his teeth on edge to be seated so close to one.
Of course, the Druid was not as bad as the seemingly kindly old monk seated on Methos's other side engaging the Druid in idle conversation. Being spoken around like that only added to Methos's anxiety as he waited for this meeting to be called to order. Of course, that may have aided by his own personal bias against men of the cloth, but something in the slightly disinterested way that the monk surveyed his surroundings made Methos feel as though he was merely attending a performance—that the monk already knew the outcome and was simply waiting for the acts to play out.
Between the monk and Rebecca and rounding out their tea party of sorts was the Celtic priestess Methos recognized from dinner. He felt her gaze wash over him, her silent questions reaching out towards him from across the table. Methos shifted his gaze and made eye contact, both defiant and dispassionate, and was slightly amused as her expression came to mirror his own. His musings on whether or not she had gleaned something from his soul through that glance, or if she was simply mirroring him for the effect it had, was cut off by the sound of someone clearing their throat.
Rebecca.
"Gentlemen, if you don't mind…?" The Christian and Druid ceased their chatter and turned obedient eyes towards their Lady. Rebecca sat back in her chair, content that all attentions were focused on her. "Now, our guest here is Eofrea to the King, and he has something important to tell us."
That was all the introduction Methos got. All eyes shifted expectantly towards him. He shifted in his seat, uncomfortable at the sudden spotlight. "Ah, Milady Rebecca," he began, his discomfort obvious. "If I may be so bold, what I am about to reveal counts as sensitive information. Of course I mean absolutely no offense whatsoever when I ask you this, but are you sure that all ears present are good candidates to hear such a discussion?"
Rebecca's eyes narrowed at him across the table. "If you are asking me if the members of this council are to be trusted, brother," that word, flung as a curse again, "then be reassured that the least trustworthy set of ears here belongs to you."
All right, that one hurt.
"Ah, yes, well…" His eyes drifted around the table to the others present as he firmly threw his walls in place. He was on a mission here; now it was time to forget all else save what was important to this century. He cleared his throat, and began his tale. "May I assume that you are all familiar with the current tide of politics in our fair province?"
Nods all around.
"Good. Then I need not waste time trying to paint the picture for you before I attempt to describe it. Æthelwulf's reign is drawing to a close. Many foresee that he does not have even five winters left, and as much as I hate to agree with them I find that I must do so. His health is starting to fail, though I wish—"
"But we are not here to discuss your personal wishes," Rebecca smoothly interrupted.
Methos bit his lip to keep from saying something rather inappropriate. "Quite right, Milady," he acquiesced. He took a moment to collect his thoughts before continuing. "Æthelwulf has been doing his best to keep our lands and people safe from Roman invasion, even if by proxy." Methos couldn't help the smile as he said that. He really meant the Roman Church invasion, but it wasn't quite as much fun to say. "Yet at this late hour we are nearly bankrupt, our stores of wealth—monetary and otherwise, having been tithed to keep us free. Our people are starving, refugees are nearly more numerous than our ancestral families, and religious strife is becoming more and more commonplace. Hold no illusions, for we are rapidly approaching our most desperate hour."
"Quite the doom-speaker," the Druid proclaimed almost disinterestedly.
"I didn't come to speak our doom," Methos softly countered, ever aware of Rebecca's burning eyes upon him. "Only to relay the truth."
"We know what you speak is true," said the Celtic priestess. "We are not children you must frighten with fireside tales."
"I never claimed that you were," Methos defended diplomatically.
"Tell us what you're here to tell us, Adræfan of the Horse Lords," Rebecca directed. "This council was not called in order to review that which we already know."
Methos bowed his head. "A thousand apologies, Milady" Then, looking up: "We are all very much aware of the outside forces plaguing our people. Yet how many of you are aware of the political undermining taking place from within?"
Well, that got everyone's attention.
"Æthelwulf is nearing the end of his reign, and as of this moment his sons arel itching to take his place."
"But Æthelwulf has guaranteed us that steps have been taken to negate a rivalry," said the monk, speaking for the first time.
Methos nodded. "Indeed his majesty has done so," he conceded. "Yet tell me truly, oh ye privileged few to hold the council of the King, do you really think that his steps will come to fruition?"
Silence around the table. Several individuals exchanged nervous glances with each other.
"That's what I thought," Methos continued. "If it's any consolation, you are not alone in that belief."
"Æthelbald," the priestess announced suddenly. Methos attention snapped to her, but she was too busy having a silent conversation with the Druid.
"Yes…" Methos affirmed, shaking off a sudden chill. "Æthelbald's greed and impatience are widely known at court. I personally fear that he is planning something to undermine his father's rule. Or worse."
"I thought we weren't here to discuss your personal opinions?" the monk challenged. Methos's eyes hardened and he was about to speak but Rebecca beat him to it.
"We are here to discuss why Adræfan has sought sanctuary within these walls," she said. Then to Methos: "Suspecting the eldest son of the King of treason is no trifling matter. You must have proof."
Methos's eyes met each individual seated at the table in turn. "My position is a humble one," he informed them. "I am merely the lord of horses. I am no counselor or advisor to his Majesty the King. I perform no great office nor do I command a single soldier. My ranks are filled with stable hands, breeders, trainers, and the like. It is an important and noble job, yet I am far from an important or noble person. Many at court forget my name; even fewer know anything about me save my office and for how long I've kept it. I am as a servant in their eyes—an important servant, mind you, but a servant none the less." Methos eyes took on a devilish twinkle. "And the funny thing about servants is that most people tend to regard us as no more than scenery."
"You've heard something!" the Druid exclaimed. Methos inclined his head, an almost regal acknowledgment. Rebecca looked oddly satisfied and nodded for him to continue.
"Indeed I have," he admitted. "I have firsthand information detailing Æthelbald's plans to usurp his father's throne."
"That, dear brother, is cause enough for sanctuary," Rebecca decreed with finality, as though perhaps her choice to grant permission had been questioned. And the familiar title was just another word again. Methos wondered if she knew how much the constant change was left him off balance, had him primed to flinch even when the dagger stayed safely inside its sheath.
On second thought, she probably did.
"What are these plans?" the Druid asked, pulling Methos out of his tangent musings. He sat forward in his chair and all save Rebecca leaned in to hear.
"The youngest son of Æthelwulf is to be taken to Rome on the insistence of his mother, the Queen Osburh. She wishes to have her final son anointed by the Pope."
"An unusual request…" the monk mused.
Methos nodded. "The royal midwife that brought young prince Alfred into the world was the one to suggest it. She claims that the birthing situation was… unusual."
"What's unusual enough to warrant divine intervention?" the monk asked, though the question was rhetoric.
Another chill danced down Methos's spine. He shook it off. "Officially, the story goes that it will protect Alfred from what is foreseen as being a hard life ahead for him."
"And unofficially?" the Druid interjected with a sly grin.
Methos bit his lip, hesitant for just a moment. "Unofficially, it is to absolve the boy of the sins of his mother, who brought him into this world."
Stunned silence.
"These are indeed heavy allegations, Adræfan," Rebecca pronounced, naturally the first to gain her composure. "First you accuse the Crowned Prince of plotting treason, and now you insinuate that the Queen has not been faithful. The wives of kings have been executed for less."
Methos nodded gravely. "Be that as it may, please believe me when I tell you that Queen Osburh is certain that Alfred is not Æthelwulf's son."
"And is the king aware of this?" the priestess asked.
Methos sighed. "I cannot say. The Queen is under the impression that he is not, but only she and King Æthelwulf know how frequently they've been abed together."
"Adræfan," Rebecca interrupted, "all speculation aside, are you saying that there's a connection between Æthelbald's plans to usurp the throne and his mother's supposed adultery?"
"Not quite," Methos answered. "I don't believe there's an overt connection, but rather that Æthelbald is planning on using his father's scheduled pilgrimage with Alfred as his timeframe during which he can attempt to seize the throne."
"While the cat's away…" A sly grin accompanied the Druid's musings.
Methos nodded. "Precisely."
"Do you know when the King plans to make this pilgrimage?" Rebecca asked.
"Not exactly," Methos confessed. "We have a cushion of time for now though. Queen Osburh does not want a toddler gallivanting across half of Europe." Nods from around the table. "It will happen though. We have maybe five years at best."
"But I thought you were worried that he wasn't going to live that long?" the monk reminded him.
Methos folded his hands neatly on the table and stared directly at him. "You mean, do I think that such a trip, even two years from now would be quite detrimental to the King's health? That for him to leave, especially at a much later date as his Queen requests, would be akin to suicide? And that such a tragedy would most likely result in the abandonment of Prince Alfred on the mercies of whatever kingdom they happened to be passing through with nothing but a few coins and a papal blessing to his name? You're right, my good servant of the cloth. I am worried."
Silence in the aftermath of Methos's speech. The monk seemed to shrink a little there in his chair.
"Who knows that you possess this information?" Rebecca asked at length, returning the conversation to the track.
Methos sighed. "Æthelbert."
Silence turned to gasps.
"The second son!" the priestess exclaimed.
"You mean to say that Prince Æthelbert has information saying that you believe his older brother is conspiring against their father?" the Druid asked.
"Æthelbert is too busy commanding legions to pay attention to affairs at court," the monk dismissed.
"And who do you think tends the legionnaires' horses?" Methos redirected. The monk fell silent again.
"Æthelbert is no fool," the priestess affirmed. "He knows of his brother's greed."
"His time in the army has hardened him," Rebecca added. "He is not an easy man to fool."
"Even when his family is concerned?" the Druid countered.
"It doesn't matter," Methos interrupted. "As of yet there's no discernable proof against Æthelbald, yet Æthelbert has heard me speak against him."
"Many people don't like the Crowned Prince," the priestess reminded everyone. "What does that prove?"
"Æthelbert told his brother that he heard the Lord of Horses spreading rumors of disloyalty and prelude to treason," said Methos. "Æthelbald of course demanded restitution for this insult."
"Did he challenge you on the field of battle?" the Druid asked.
Methos snorted a laugh. "I wish." Then a sigh as he sat back in his chair. "No, he's much too cowardly for that."
"What did he do instead then?" the Druid returned.
Methos smiled sadly. "Ordered me to be executed for treason."
Unsurprised nods around the table, a few gasps.
"Beheading," Rebecca concluded, her eyes cold.
Methos nodded. "And I rather like having my head attached."
"So you fled," said the monk.
"That's why the King's guard chased you all the way to our doorstep," the priestess followed.
Methos offered a half-hearted smile and a shrug.
"You're a fugitive escaping the death mark for an unforgivable offense," the Druid sagely pondered. "You are not safe beyond these walls."
"Maybe not even then," Methos muttered. Then he looked up and met everyone's eyes in turn, Rebecca's last. He held her gaze as he said: "I know Æthelbald; he won't stop until he has my head on a pike. And on his brother's word, Æthelbert would chase me to the ends of the Earth, for he holds loyalty above all else."
"And like a good little prince, Æthelbert protects his kingdom first," said the priestess with a fair amount of sarcasm.
"He doesn't suspect his brother, yet. But he does believe his brother's opinions regarding traitors to the crown." A sardonic smirk acknowledged the inherent irony Methos recognized in his words.
"What does the King think of all this?" the priestess interjected. "What of Æthelred?"
"Æthelred is just a boy," said the monk, once again dismissive.
"So is Æthelbert," the Druid countered.
"Æthelbert…" Methos interrupted, only to have the words fail him. He closed his eyes as if pained and took a deep breath before continuing. "Æthelbert is no less a danger for his age," he said at length. "At barely two and twenty he is one of the foremost strategists for his father." Then, looking down for now eye contact with Rebecca was unbearable. "He has been well taught." He didn't see Rebecca nod.
"And Æthelred?" she asked, her voice noticeably softer.
Methos looked up again. "Æthelred is too busy riding horses and training falcons to notice much of what goes on at court," he said neutrally, all emotion restrained. "Even if he is aware of what's going on… he wouldn't help nor hinder matters any unless Æthelbert directly asked him, and that isn't likely to happen."
"His brothers keep him on a short leash," the priestess surmised.
"Æthelbert does," Methos acknowledged. "Æthelbald could care less."
"But what of the King?" the monk demanded.
Methos sighed tiredly. "Think no less of my loyalties for my saying this," he began, "but I'm afraid that our king is far more skilled in international diplomacy than in the interpersonal, especially with regards to his own family. He loves his sons, make no mistake. But he doesn't know who they really are."
"And where does that leave you?" the priestess asked, though really the question was redundant.
Methos looked to her with sad, haunted eyes. "I am marked for death," he gravely reminded everyone. "Æthelbert will track me down on his brother's orders. It's only a matter of time before they come for me." A sad smile then. "Æthelbert will ride out himself to bring me to justice, and I have no ally at court to help me, for the King—even if made aware of this situation, would do nothing against his eldest son. At the most lenient I would be banished, and then my message would be forced to flee with me. As it is, I'm living on borrowed time."
"Then why stay?" the Druid asked. "Why not escape with your life while you still can?"
"Don't you know?" Methos returned, feeling every last one of his four thousand years. "Others need to know of Æthelbald's treachery. King Æthelwulf's reign must not be compromised."
"And you would risk your life for that?" the monk asked.
Methos met Rebecca's eye and nodded. "I would risk almost anything for that."
Rebecca paused, as though she was letting it all sink in, digesting the facts as they had been presented. Then: "I believe you, Adræfan of the Horse Lords."
Methos's smirk deftly masked his profound relief at hearing that. "The question is, what are you going to do about it?"
"For now, absolutely nothing," Rebecca answered. "We have until Æthelbert's forces arrive to make our plans. And even when they do, this place is still held as sanctuary. He won't attack outright."
"You mean to speak with him," the priestess guessed.
"I do," Rebecca acknowledged, newfound steel in her voice.
"And if he can't be reasoned with?" the monk challenged.
Rebecca met Methos's eyes then. The steel belied a hidden hurt that they both silently acknowledged. It made Methos look away.
"We will burn that bridge if we come to it," Rebecca pronounced at length.
The others seemed to silently agree.
The café
Methos finished his tale and sat silently, staring into his now-cold coffee. Amanda too was lost in her own thoughts. She had of course known of the council meeting, but all that she really knew about its contents was that afterwards Rebecca doubled the guard and sent many scouts off to parts unknown. The atmosphere had been tense, but it seemed as though the inhabitants of the abbey were taking the fatalistic approach and trying not to let whatever was coming interfere with everyday life.
"You were waiting for Æthelbert's army…" she concluded finally. Methos gave no indications that he'd heard her. "You knew," Amanda continued. "You knew all along, didn't you." More of an accusation than a question.
Methos just nodded again. The coffee had gone from tepid to cold in the paper cup between his hands. Quite undrinkable, but for some reason worthy of keeping close at hand. "From the moment the abbey doors opened for me I knew the risk," he admitted at last. "Then, when Rebecca granted me sanctuary anyway…" Methos seemed trapped by that undrinkable coffee, unable to remove his hands from the cup nor his eyes from the liquid within.
"But you stayed…" Amanda mused out loud. She was idly tracing a finger around her cup, trailing coffee stains with her as she went. Then suddenly her finger stopped. She looked at Methos harshly, squinting almost.
Too bad he was incapable of noticing.
"You stayed because you knew you wouldn't let it happen," Amanda decreed. "That was your plan all along—it's why you came to the abbey in the first place! You came to Rebecca to buy yourself the time to make sure others would know what you knew—you wanted it to end that way!"
Methos looked up at that, slack-jawed in shock as the ghosts of those times swirled in his eyes, amber-gold. Amanda watched as Methos returned to himself, slowly and by degrees, until at last he found his voice.
"If I had any other option, believe me I would have taken it."
Amanda arched a sardonic eyebrow. "And spared yourself a particularly nasty end?"
Methos slowly cocked his head to the side and glared. It wasn't a murderous glare, or a sarcastic one. No, it was cold. Downright glacial, actually. And the anger that she was so readily expecting never came. There was a sadness there instead, a sadness that made Amanda regret that she's even said a word to Methos.
No, not Methos.
Adræfan?
What color were his eyes back then?
"Who were you…?" she asked at length, her voice trailing.
His voice was strained, as though the answer was pulled somewhere from the depths of his gut and scraped over everything rough and ragged on its way out. "An exile."
"Adræfan, Lord of Horses."
"That was my name," Methos dismissed.
"It's a title, not a name."
"It's the name I took."
"Names are given." An echo of Rebecca's voice.
Methos snorted in disgust. "Who gave you the name 'Amanda'?"
But Amanda didn't miss a beat. "Some old crone."
The scholar Adam Pierson jerked his head around at her ready answer.
"Some half crazed, half starved old hag that I only half remember. But she draped me in rags and gave me half her beggar's winnings."
Methos looked stricken. "I didn't know…"
Amanda relished his expression. "No watcher does." Another familiarity. Another curse.
That softened expression became defiant. "Amanda never told Adræfan."
"She told Methos."
"Are we really all that different?"
Amanda scoffed. "Methos and Adræfan? Or Benjamin Adams, or Adam Pierson, or whatever other names you've used?"
He turned away. The cold coffee began leaking through the cracks in the cup being clenched in his hands. "They're only masks."
Her gaze was hard, her tone unforgiving. "Then who's wearing them?"
The cup crumbled. Cold coffee splashed across his hands and dribbled over the paper saucer and onto the tabletop. It smelt stale and acrid the way bad coffee does, but then suddenly his vision tunneled inwards and the stains washed red before his eyes. He shivered; a shuddering blink, and once again his hands were covered in the tragic remnants of his coffee.
"I... I don't know." Something had broken inside. His voice had been cut all to pieces on the shards.
The words—and the sound of them—knifed straight through Amanda's bitter thoughts, thoughts that stemmed from bitter memories and bitterly broken promises… the bitter taste of loss conveyed by the stale smell of cold and bitter coffee dripping off the side of the table and splashing on the floor unheeded about by the two who saw it fall.
"Who wears the Methos mask?" she asked softly, almost maternally with the way brand new concern etched through the delicate syllables.
He was reminded of Rebecca then. It made his stomach turn.
"Adam Pierson," he answered, the final word on the matter as he sat back in his chair and casually wiped his hands with the few napkins that had escaped the deluge of coffee.
Amanda saw him retreat, back behind his high walls and out of reach of her outstretched hand. She sighed and looked away only to see his reflection in the storefront window as the setting sun cast long shadows and orange light fell in wisps of smoky dust and provided her with a tainted looking glass. Methos's reflection was haphazardly mopping up the remains of the spill and Amanda mused at how their lives had turned to coffee.
"Sorry about that," Methos said idly, finally breaking the silence. Amanda knew he was referring only to the spill.
"Don't worry about it," she said with half-hearted sincerity. A pause, then: "You're out of coffee."
A patented Adam Pierson chuckle. "So it would seem."
"You want some more?"
A smile, genuine this time. "Actually, I think I've had enough caffeine for one day."
"Beer?"
"Ah, no thanks," Methos weakly refused as he fought down a sudden wave of nausea.
Amanda's eyes narrowed. "Do you know the last time I saw you refuse a beer?"
"Don't." A cold, commanding voice. Glittering gold eyes.
Amanda sat back and raised her arms, an exaggerated expression of contrition. "Hey, when I see you not drinking beer it's the same as seeing MacLeod not fretting over something trivial." Then she shrugged. "I worry."
Methos laughed a cold, bitter guffaw. "I didn't think you were the type."
"Oh, I'm usually not," Amanda agreed with a casually dismissive hand wave, then a predatory grin slid across her face. "I just happened to think you were worth the exception. My mistake."
Methos recoiled. He looked down and a way, studying the coffee stains evaporating off the floor. "I'm sorry."
"Bullshit."
Methos winced.
"You're not the type."
Methos looked up, aghast. "Not the type to be sorry?"
"You haven't felt guilt since the eleventh century," Amanda mocked.
Methos blinked, then shrugged one shoulder oh-so-casually. "Not as a general rule," he admitted. "I just happened to think you were worth the exception." He looked away again, back to the floor, as though keeping up such smug airs was too exhaustive to be bothered with.
"Your mistake?" Amanda finished, her voice pinched into a pained sort of squeak.
Methos laughed again, low and bitter in the back of his throat. "No."
And then silence, stretching out between them like a yawning chasm until at last Amanda broke it.
With a sniffle.Methos looked up to see that Amanda had turned so that she now faced completely away from him. She's pulled one leg up until that foot rested on the seat of her chair and as she hugged her knee to her chin. The ancient immortal saw a lone tear slowly track down Amanda's profiled face and fall silently to the floor.
"I'm sorry," Methos said gently. "I... I didn't mean that."
Amanda laughed through another sniffle. "I know. It's not that."
"What then?" Methos's voice was soothing. Amanda nearly relaxed.
"I did."
"Did what?" Methos asked, confused.
"I did mean it. When I said—" she choked herself off, gave a hasty head shake. "I meant it."
Methos blinked. "That you were worried? I believe you."
Amanda shook her head and laughed again as another tear dropped from her chin down onto her knee. "No. I meant to hurt you. I wanted to hurt you."
"Why?" No outrage, no accusation or indignation. Just innocent curiosity.
Her response was quiet, pained. "I don't know."
Methos took a moment to consider. "Leaswene wanted to hurt me," he said finally. "And Amanda is sorry for it."
The femme immortal just shook her head again. "No. No, I'm not like you. It's all me inside. I'm not some… collection, of names and personalities. Your masks... I can't, I—" she bit herself off again, clamping down on her lip hard enough to bruise. "I'm just… me."
Methos studied her for a long moment, and then nodded as though he had always known that. He probably did, if Amanda gave it any thought.
"And what does that mean to you?" he asked, gently prodding. "You have the ghost of a little girl whom an old beggar woman named Amanda." Amanda bit her lip and looked to the floor as another tear let loose. "And the ghost of a new immortal whom Adræfan called "Leaswene, and so marked the beginning of the end of her stay in paradise."
Amanda dragged a hand across her eyes, swatting away the moisture. "It all changed so much after you left. Rebecca changed."
"The times changed," Methos elaborated.
"We're immortal!" Amanda suddenly exclaimed, probably louder than she ought. "We're supposed to be immune to time." Time, the word spoken as a curse.
A curse indeed.
Methos offered a rueful smile. "If only that were true."
And that left them wallowing in silence once again, until finally:
"Methos?"
"Hmm?"
"Did she ever tell you? I mean, you know... how?"
Methos sighed heavily. "You mean what happened in the end?"
Amanda nodded.
"No," he lied, deadpan.
Amanda nodded again, this time in acceptance.
"I miss her."
"I know." Pause. Then, softly, "so do I."
