Death All Around
Due to the impending arrival of Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, Methos had decided to go walkabout while Cassandra and Chelle and Amanda introduced the no doubt disgruntled and always dangerous newcomer to the peaceful ways of their settlement. The distant hills beckoned, so (after bidding Cassandra good luck and parking their children with friends), Methos had collected camping gear from the exchange then walked away from the town.
On the third day, he reached the hills, and then he started to climb. He'd done short hikes and overnights with the children, but he hadn't been this far out on his own in years. Hawks soared overhead, rabbits nibbled grass, and at dusk he listened to yips of coyotes and mournful calls between owls. They hadn't imported wolves or bears yet.
The planet had been at the algae stage of evolution when Karla had found it a few centuries back, and on this continent she'd deployed a temperate forest bio-diversity package with automated updates. The sparse ecosystems had become self-sustaining, and their biologists were carefully adding new species from time to time. It wasn't lush yet, but it was still beautiful. Also, Methos appreciated not having to be on the lookout for predators who wanted to eat him.
For humans, of course, hunger wasn't the only reason for hunting. On the sixth day, Methos abruptly looked up from his evening ablutions to find Connor MacLeod watching him from the other side of the river.
Being naked, wet, and weaponless was not how Methos preferred to meet an opponent. Happily, the river was deep, fast and wide, and so Connor couldn't charge him immediately, waving his sword and screaming "Die, Murdering Scum!" or some other cheerful greeting.
Mustering his aplomb, Methos gave Connor a nod, who didn't respond. Even across the water, Methos could feel the implacable sledgehammer of that stare. Methos rinsed off the last of the soap then went back to his camp to prepare.
As he dressed, he reviewed the situation. In years past whenever danger threatened, he would disappear or hide, in the hopes that the opponent would eventually get bored and lose interest. But Connor MacLeod was notoriously stubborn. If Methos left this camp, Connor would track him down, no doubt to the ends of this earth and all the other planets, as well.
Connor was also a seasoned warrior, and he wouldn't be easy to defeat. If Method killed him but didn't take his head (as Methos had done to others who wanted revenge for the Game), that would just piss Connor off. He'd come after Methos again. However, beheading Connor would mean exile for Methos from this planet, and the severe disapproval of most of his friends. He could live with both of those consequences, and he would, if he had to, but he didn't want to, and more importantly, he didn't want to kill Connor. Though he would do that, too, if Connor left him no choice.
Methos laid a fire so he could cook the rabbit he'd caught earlier that day. As the flame caught, he went over his options. He couldn't run, he couldn't hide, he didn't want to fight, and he really didn't want to kill. He absolutely did not want to die.
Time for a tactical surrender. Over the centuries, Methos had made a character study of the man who was Duncan's kinsman and Cassandra's lover. Connor wasn't quite so noble as Duncan. The elder MacLeod could be ruthless and practical, and he'd kill an active threat without a qualm, but he liked to think of himself as trustworthy and fair. After "teaching a lesson" or meting out what he saw as deserved punishment (and giving himself an outlet for his own rage, though he had gotten better at managing that over the centuries), Connor could forgive (though he would never forget) or at least be willing to let the errant miscreant walk away. Most importantly, he wasn't a murdering psychopath or a committed sadist, and his own sense of honor wouldn't let him behead an opponent who wasn't fighting back.
Methos was nearly positive about that last part. Just in case he was wrong, he adjusted the stiletto strapped to his forearm, checked the poison tip in his ring, and placed a tiny dagger in his sock.
Then he added a few sticks to the fire, skewered the rabbit for roasting, and waited for Connor to arrive.
Connor had to backtrack nearly half a mile before he found a place to ford the river. After that, it was a simple matter of following the scent of wood smoke. Connor was grimly pleased that he wouldn't have to continue to hunt Methos down. He'd spent enough of this century searching.
When Connor arrived at the camp, Methos stood up and stepped away from the fire. He made no move to reach for a sword or a weapon of any kind, just stood there with his arms down and his hands open and empty. "I won't fight you, MacLeod," he announced.
"Not even if I draw my sword?" Connor asked, stopping five paces away.
"Do you want my head?" Methos countered, still making no move.
Connor didn't, nor did he want to fight with swords. He wanted to punch that lying mouth, always Methos's most dangerous weapon. Spreading lies, creating confusion, sowing discord … professing false love. Over the centuries, how many patsies had Methos seduced into fighting his battles for him? Duncan, always too quick to trust his heart to another, had fallen for this man's lies. Connor wanted to beat this treacherous bastard into the ground with his bare hands, and he could well imagine naming every single person he knew who had been lost to the stupid Game that this idiot had invented and punching him for each one, over and over again, until his face became a bloody spongy pulp, and then leaving him to whimper in pain in the dirt.
But Connor had learned, through bitter experience, that his rage could not be let loose to rampage as it pleased. It was too dangerous for others, and too hard for Connor to put it back in its cage. Methos knew that, Connor was certain, so what game was Methos playing at now? Was he honestly seeking absolution through pain, or was he tempting Connor to lose control so Methos could then claim moral high ground?
Hitting Methos—or taking his head—would fix nothing. Ramirez and Duncan and Kastagir and Ceirdwyn would all still be dead, and the Game would still be going on. What Connor really wanted was answers. So he went to the campfire, took off his pack, and sat down. Methos eyed him warily but sat down on the opposite side and began to roast a skinned rabbit over the flames. Neither spoke while it was cooking, and when Methos offered half of it to Connor, they ate in silence, too.
The sun went down and twilight came. The smaller moon began to rise. Connor hadn't expected Methos to be able to stay quiet so long. He decided to start the conversation with a simple question. "How is Evann?"
"Alive," Methos answered promptly. "As of seventy-seven years ago."
"Good. She knows?"
"Oh, yeah. I told her about our origin, the Game, the children… all of it. I also told her about the settlement here, but she was married and had adopted kids and didn't want to leave her family. I gave her the coordinates—"
"Encrypted?" Connor broke in.
"Of course. She said she'd come later."
That "later" should be about now, unless... "I looked for her," Connor told him. "About forty years ago. Nothing."
"She's good at hiding," Methos said, as if to reassure them both. "She'll show up; she always does."
Connor nodded and poked the fire with a stick. Evann was a survivor. As was Methos, who often chose to run away. Except not now. "You said you wouldn't fight me. Why?"
He shrugged. "You're Duncan's kin. You have the right to exact weregild."
Connor recognized that archaic Germanic term: man-gold. Restitution to the family for a man's life, used as a mechanism to prevent retaliatory feuds. Sometimes called blood money, payable in goods or in punishment or pain. But most immortals had lost loved ones to the Game. "Have you let other people hit you?"
"No." But then Methos rubbed his cheek. "Well, except Amanda."
Amanda got away with all kinds of things. "Do you want me to hit you?"
"No." That quick reply was heartfelt.
Connor looked Methos over from head to toe. The man was sitting motionless, shoulders slumped, hands on his thighs. Yet there was a tenseness about him, an anticipation. He wasn't relaxed; he had resigned himself to the inevitable. He was waiting for the hammer to fall. "But you would let me hit you."
Methos grimaced but met Connor's gaze. "Yes."
An old trick, seeking out physical pain to mask—and maybe even reduce—the pain inside. But whatever burdens Methos was carrying— guilt, grief, anger, remorse, shame—Connor would do nothing to lessen that load. "No," Connor told him. "The loss of Duncan is beyond any weregild you could ever give."
Methos swallowed hard and looked away. "I know."
Connor was not impressed by Methos's grief. "Then why the hell," he ground out, "didn't you tell Duncan the Prize wasn't real?"
Methos closed his eyes and sighed. "I did try, MacLeod. He reacted the same way you did when Cassandra tried to tell you."
"All she had was a feeling. You had facts."
"I had a story," Methos corrected.
"Based on fact," Connor persisted. "You could have convinced him."
"Maybe. But even if I had, do you think Duncan would have stopped fighting?"
"Not stopped," Connor admitted. "But he may not have fought so readily. Or so often."
Methos leaned forward, seemingly earnest and sincere. "Duncan challenged 'evil immortals' either for a personal vendetta or because he wanted to stop them from hurting peoplenow,not because they might—in some long-distant future—win the Prize."
The rules of the Game had made that seem so simple.
"While he was in the Solar system and our Tribunal was killing those of us who didn't follow the rules, Duncan didn't fight, but out here—" Methos waved his hand at the vast field of stars above. "There are too many places to hide and not enough people to patrol. The Tribunal was too slow." Methos jabbed a stick at the coals and watched the fire flare. "So Duncan—and some others—picked up their swords again, and vigilante justice prevailed."
"It's on Earth now, too," Connor observed with grim satisfaction.
Methos's head came up, like a hound on the hunt. "Who did you kill?"
"Mayur Sturridge, near Cambridge on Britain."
Methos nodded slowly. "I remember that name. Unpleasant fellow, but not monumentally so, and quite young. Did he challenge you?"
"I went after him."
Methos rolled his eyes. "Why?"
"Why do you think, Methos?" Connor snapped. "I come back and almost everyone I know is dead, and only about twenty-five of us are still alive. One of them happens to be you, and it looks like you've been taking dozens of heads."
"Most of them came here," Methos explained.
"I know that now," Connor said. "But then... I thought you'd turned Horseman, starting with the women and children at the Cloudrise School." Ignoring the other man's muttered oath, Connor finished, "Clearly, the Gathering was at hand, the final fight for your bloody stupid 'prize'."
"Ah yes, of course, the Prize with all the power of the universe," Methos agreed. "Very noble of you, to do your bit to keep it from the wrong hands. Although, you might have just hidden yourself on Holy Ground. As long as you were alive, no one else could ever win it."
Connor had no patience with this man's sarcasm. "Fuck you."
"We're all fucked," Methos replied. "Because—since you asked for my opinion—I think the Prize has also been a convenient excuse for us to pursue the thrill of battle and victory and the gloriously excruciating power of a Quickening well won."
Connor tossed the stick on the fire. It glowed red hot before becoming bone-white ash that crumbled into gray.
"Am I wrong?" Methos asked with mock confusion.
Because of the Game this idiot had started, all immortals had to become killers to survive. Some got so they liked it. They craved it: the hunting, the excitement, the quickenings, the bloodlust, the chance to kill, even the chance of dying themselves. Connor knew that, and Duncan had, too, while Methos—with his hands bloody from thousands of kills-perhaps knew best of all. Connor admitted, "It's a hell of a high."
"Yeah," Methos muttered and rubbed the back of his neck with one hand. The moonlight bathed one half of his face to silver while shadows claimed the other side. "I did tell Duncan the Prize wasn't real," he said quietly. "I told him he didn't need to fight. But he didn't believe me because he didn't want to believe that, and—more importantly—because he trusted you more then he trusted me."
Connor closed his eyes in anguish, seeing anew how the deadly chains ran: from Tjanefer to Ramirez to Connor to Duncan, and to all their students in turn. With fervor and sincerity, they'd each taught others the rules of the Game, helping to spread a fatally virulent meme. And because Connor, Duncan's teacher and clansman, had believed in the Game and the Prize, Duncan had too.
After Connor abruptly left the campsite (without saying a word), Methos laid down and rolled onto his back with a sigh, closing his eyes and spreading his arms wide to either side. Tears came, hot and bitter, and Methos didn't fight them, didn't resist at all, any more than he would have resisted Connor's blows.
The loss of Duncan is beyond any weregild you could ever give.
Methos knew that. Nothing brought back the dead. Nor was he guilty of Duncan's death. But Methos also knew that some of responsibility was his, for Duncan and for Ramirez and Vibia and Darius and Kyra and all the other Immortals who'd gotten sucked into the maelstrom of death that the Horsemen had started four millennia ago because they thought it would be "fun." Just like killing mortals had been "fun". Thousands upon thousands of people, murdered by his hand, and thousands more dead from the Game he had helped to invent.
Long ago, Methos had decided to handle that crippling load of guilt through atonement, helping where he could and fixing what was possible, not making the same mistakes again, and then—and most importantly—moving on. But this past century, living the good life in a community of fellow immortals, replete with friends and children, having pretty much exactly what he'd yearned for all his long life, all the while knowing—full well and none better—that he did not deserve it, while thousands of dead and (relatively) blameless immortals would never experience it at all… Methos had been noticing some feelings of guilt. And shame.
Non sum dignus, Domine.I am not worthy.
Nothing Methos could ever give—or do or say or endure—nothingcould ever make up for what he had done. And while Methos was relieved (vastly so) that Connor had (somewhat surprisingly) declined the opportunity to administer a beating, and then sat with him in companionable silence during and after dinner, their conversation had focused on the past. Methos didn't like to remember those days.
But that was nothing new, and there was nothing to be done about it.
So. Turn away, face forward, and move on. Learn from the past and make a better future. And he was doing that, here on this planet, and not just for himself. That was worthwhile, and thus (by extension) so was he.
Methos sat up and wiped the tears away. Time for bed. As he brushed his teeth and picked out a shred of rabbit meat, he reflected upon the word companion, a person with whom you shared bread. What to call the person with whom you shared meat? The Greeksyntrophosmeant eating together, but it carried a connotation of fostering an infant and didn't specify meat. Likely the word he wanted was inThe Illiad, but he didn't remember it right now, so Methos amused himself by thinking of others. Concarnian. Fellow feaster. Niku-iri tomo. BBQ Bro.
He tended to the fire then pulled out a blanket (this planet didn't have extreme seasons, but the nights grew cool) and laid down to sleep. Dreams of Duncan kept him company that night, and he awake before sunrise to the sound of birdsong and the promise of a new day.