A Gathering of Angels 2
A Gathering of Angels
(A Highlander/Touched by an Angel Crossover)
by Maygra de Rhema (c) 1997
If you have comments or suggestions, email me at maygra@bellsouth.net
It was half on Joe's mind to ignore the phone except that he had placed several calls and wanted answers. Actually there were only two calls at the moment that he really wanted to receive. He caught the phone before the second ring.
"Joe, it's Duncan," the familiar voice said and Joe Dawson felt a little knot unwind. "What's happened?"
"Have you seen Methos?" Joe asked, his own question needing an answer before he could even pay attention to MacLeod's.
There was silence for a moment and Joe heard MacLeod's sharp intake of breath. "He wasn't at my house when I got home last night," Joe went on.
"But he was at the club?" Mac said quickly. "You saw him leave."
Joe's brain did a couple of leaps and a twist at the near desperation in Mac's voice. "Wait. Yeah, he was here. Came to listen to Tess sing."
"Monica said he met...a man...and left with him, then you lost power. Joe--"
Oh, Christ, Joe thought, his friend's panicked questions and tone making more sense. Nothing like a few unfinished bits of gossip to stir up a hornet's nest. A second thought struck him as he began to reassure MacLeod, a faint smile easing the weathered lines of his face. Mac needed reassurance. That was a good sign. "He left the bar quite alive if a little worse for the wear, Mac. Yes, he met a challenge, a guy named Eric Shavaughn. But it was close," he added, unable to resist giving a little shove to Mac's conscience, then relented because his own anxieties wouldn't rest. "But he didn't go back to my place. His stuff is still there, but no sign of him. I've been checking in with the Watchers all morning trying to see if there were any other reported encounters last night. Nothing so far-- but I seem to have a lot more Watchers to check in with than usual, suddenly."
"They are looking for him, Joe. I met up with Jonathon Stark in the park this morning. He didn't challenge me...but he might yet. He is looking for Methos as well. Either Kronos was talking before we got him or Cassandra is talking still, or someone else knows. Any ideas where he might have gone? He needs to get out of town. My name is linked with his and where I live is no great secret.."
"Oh, great!" Joe snapped. "We find a nice tuck-away for Methos and you face them all down? That's insane, MacLeod. If Immortals are coming here they are looking for a fight. As Stark apparently told you, you will do just as well."
"I can take care of myself, Joe," MacLeod said with a faint chuckle. "I don't want to be the reason five-thousand years goes to waste," he added more softly. "No matter what he's done."
"Nice sentiment, Mac, but it sounds like it is too late. Shavaughn was looking for you. Probably for the same reason Stark is. I wonder if Shavaughn ever realized he found what he was looking for," he mused. "As for where he might go, I have no idea. The only places he stays when he's in town is either with me...or with you," he said the last tentatively.
The silence was a painful one but Joe bore it almost as stoically as the man at the other end of the line. "He...when Kronos and Cassandra showed up he was staying at the Riverwalk...would he go back?" Mac asked after a moment.
"He might but he gave up that efficiency apartment before he left, Mac. I checked. But he might find a hotel. Could. He was here on Watcher business. They would foot the bill. Let me do some checking. What about you?"
"I'll see what I can find out, Joe," MacLeod promised and rang off.
Anxiety and hope warred a little longer in Joe's heart but the hope won and it was with much more energy and affection that he tackled the phone again to start making calls to the mid range limit of Seacouver's Hotel/Motel industry.
"New look for you," Methos commented wryly as Andrew approached him. The oldest Immortal was sitting on a bench facing the bay and watching the sun rise -- the site one of many pocket parks sprinkled throughout Seacouver's coastal vistas. That he had noticed the long length of steel tucked carefully under Andrew's coat was a product of long years of observation-- and Andrew looked particularly distressed and uncomfortable.
"Come to challenge me after all? Get in line," Methos said flatly and wearily.
"No!" Andrew protested, too quickly, Methos thought. Of course he could be wrong. Skills honed over the centuries at reading expression any body language might or might not apply to angels at all, but he thought they did. Applied to Andrew at least who had to be the most human being Methos had ever met. "Not that way, anyway," Andrew murmured and inclined his head. Methos returned the question with a shrug and Andrew sat down beside him, futzing with the sword which would not settle comfortable. In exasperation Andrew pulled it free, studying its length with something akin to disgust. "How do you do that?" he asked his companion, gaze indicating the loose-limbed sprawl Methos had managed to achieve -- sword intact.
"Practice. Aren't angels supposed to be full of light and grace?" he asked, eyes sliding without will to the blade Andrew held.
"Light yes, but the grace comes attached to the body and this one," Andrew reviewed his own form clinically. "Graceful enough and strong but...not too many occasions for the Angel of Death to do classical ballet," he said with a raised eyebrow and a lopsided grin.
Methos laughed. "No, I suppose not. I can't say it, you know..." he added after a moment, eyes shifting back to the sword. It was not particularly remarkable but it drew his eye more completely than the rather spectacular sunrise tinting the skies.
"Say what?" Andrew asked, his own gaze fully appreciative of the painting of light of color the Creator had blessed the morning with.
"Angel of Death," Methos replied softly.
"You just did," Andrew pointed out.
"In front of...I wanted to tell MacLeod. Twice. The words escaped me...the Angel part anyway. Why are you here, Andrew?" Methos asked, one slender hand snaking out to brush his fingers along the sword. The tips of his fingers halted a mere inch from the bright metal, something very like fear coursing through him.
"Saying it doesn't make it true," Andrew reminded him. "When it's true you'll be able to say it -- as I do."
"What is that?" Methos said, eyes still fixed on the blade.
"Which answer do you want first?" Andrew asked quietly, not losing track of the conversation for a second.
"I'm not sure I am going to like either," Methos admitted. He pulled his hand away, forcing his gaze back to the sunrise only to find the best part of the display had faded as the rising sun burned away the mist and rose above the thin haze of pollution across the skyline.
"What answer would you like?"
"Andrew..." Methos began with a sigh. "You only have two -- riddles or the truth. Which in your case are generally the same thing."
"Very well, I will give you both, then," Andrew said with a faint smile, pushing the blonde hair back from his face. "I am here for you, not your friends. And this is," he hefted the blade, the early morning light making it almost to bright to look at. "Is also here for you."
Methos paled a bit then regained his composure. "Well, that was helpful. Do we fight or am I supposed to just kneel in front of you so you can take my head?"
"I don't think I am supposed to use it," Andrew said, touching the blade with none of the trepidation Methos felt. "Someone else is supposed to wield it..."
"Wonderful," Methos murmured, gaze once more caught by the shining metal. If it was metal. He was not entirely sure.
"It bothers you?"
"It scares the hell out of me...sorry," Methos amended and Andrew grinned, slipping the sword under his coat again.
"It's okay and I think it is supposed to," he added with a chuckle.
"Lovely," Methos said, feeling some better with the terrible weapon out of sight. "So what are you doing here -- now, not in general," he added.
"You...you were alone. I thought you might like company," Andrew said softly, green eyes meeting Methos' hazel ones with an open invitation.
"Death has been my companion for so long..." Methos began quietly and dropped his gaze. "Demon and comfort. I should be surprised, but I am not. You are here for me, but not as Death, is that it?"
"I don't know, Methos. I was just told to be here for you until..." he faltered and Methos reached out to touch his arm lightly.
"It's okay. Better your death as company than my own," he murmured wearily.
"I kind of like having Death as a companion, too," Andrew said with a ghost of a grin, and studied his companion, noting the fatigue and the sorrow. Without a word he slipped his arm around Methos' shoulders, not surprised when the slender Immortal relaxed against him, feeling safe enough to be near sleep even in the warming brightness of the morning.
"People will talk," Methos said sleepily.
"Laugh is more likely," Andrew said with a chuckle. "Such a picture we two Deaths make."
Methos chuckled with him. "Death rides not a pale horse, he sleeps like a hobo on park benches..." he said. "With an Angel as his companion," he added and slid into a doze, leaning against Andrew's shoulder, hands hidden within the pockets of his coat.
"Couldn't have said it better myself," Andrew said softly and turned his gaze back to glory of the new day.
Duncan MacLeod stared stupidly at his new instructor for a long moment, Monica's expectant face not registering at all when he returned, dressed to go out...looking, not hunting he reminded himself.
"Duncan? Are you all right?" Monica asked.
MacLeod reached out automatically to soothe her with a touch on her arm, dragging a smile to his face as both her presence and her reason for being here registered finally. "Fine, just forgot something I need to do," he said. "I seem to be having a little trouble getting my act together this morning. You all settled?"
"I've put m'things away," she said. "Did you want to go over the classes?"
"Actually, I do, but not right now. Monica, I have an errand to run so make yourself at home -- get comfortable, talk to the clients if you like and we can meet early tomorrow before your first class."
"That would be fine," she said. "But I am supposed to meet Tess when I finish here so, perhaps I'll just meet her early. I'm meeting her at Joe's."
It wasn't in Duncan to be less than a gentleman when there was no reason. "I'm on my way there. Why don't I give you a lift and we can talk about the classes on the way?" he suggested. The distraction, even for a short time, would be welcome, he decided.
Monica's grin gave him all the answer he needed and he found himself grinning back, rather foolishly. His hand found the small of her back as she settled her purse on her shoulder. A wave to Matt and they were out the door. Mac opened the passenger door of the T-bird to let her in and then stopped, the murmur/feel of another Immortal impinging on his senses. He closed her door and turned, scanning the alley carefully, both ends and upward. Two Immortals in one morning was not the way he wanted to start any day.
No one showed himself, however, although the presence was as strong as it had been. Damn, he thought as he slid into the drivers seat and started the car. No challenge meant they were watching so it might be Stark, or someone else. After him or after Methos?
It made no difference, really, he thought. He had meant what he said to Joe. He would not, could not interfere in a legitimate challenge made to the oldest Immortal but he wasn't willing to lead others to him. He wanted to find Methos and get him to leave.
Which was the same thing as interfering, a little voice whispered at him.
"I'm sure Adam is all right," Monica said, unable to watch the war on her companion's face any longer.
"Wha--?" MacLeod glanced at her. "Where did that come from?"
"You looked so...distressed when I told you Adam didn't come back last night," Monica said. "If something had happened, someone would have called you, yes?"
Yes. If they knew...I would...I would know... The thought teased MacLeod's mind considerably, comforting him with the certainty of the thought. He smiled. "Yeah. Someone would have called."
"For someone you are so angry with, you seem to worry a great deal about him," Monica said idly, staring out the window.
"Monica--"
"I know, I know. It's none of my business," she said. "It's just that -- well, life is such a fleeting thing. It seems such a waste to let a misunderstanding keep friends apart," she commented.
"Misunderstanding is a bit of an understatement," MacLeod said with a sigh. "You hardly know either of us, Monica. Why is this so important to you?"
Monica bit her lip, thinking for a moment about how to extricate herself from the box she had built. "Because, it's people that make the world so special. Because I like you and I like Adam and Joe. Because your anger is hurting not only them but yourself and it seems to have no point when you obviously...care for your friends."
"All this in two days of us knowing each other. Are you psychic?" he asked trying to turn the conversation but failing miserably -- perhaps because as uncomfortable as he felt with the conversation it was easier to have it with Monica than with Joe. "I wouldn't call Adam and I friends," he said more sourly as he turned onto the long avenue that led to Joe's bar.
"And if not friends, what would you be then?" she asked.
For a moment MacLeod could not speak, unable to explain the harsh lump of emotion that crowded his throat when the word came unbidden to his mind. A word he had thought forever tainted by the darkness that had described Methos' relationship with the Horsemen.
Brothers.
"Never took you for such a broody hen, Joseph," Tess said cheerfully from the doorway. Joe was on a stool, rather slumped over the bar, turning a coffee cup around and around with the tips of his callused fingers.
He managed a smile for her as she slipped behind the bar and got a fresh cup of coffee for him, swapping it out with the cold one in his hands. "Not broody, Tess. Just thinking."
"'Bout your friends?" she asked, unabashedly prying and Joe nodded, maintaining his smile. "Well, whatever you're thinking doesn't look good!" she said with pursed lips.
"Nothing I can do to help," he returned, sipping the coffee and scowling a bit when it burned his tongue. "They'll have to sort it out themselves."
"Not much of a friend, then are you?" she said evenly. Joe lifted his face to hers in shock at the scolding.
"They are a little big for me to turn over my knee," he pointed out sourly. "Not to mention in better shape."
"Oh, that's right, you are a cripple after all," Tess said with mock sympathy and Joe stared at her. "So much easier to be pitied than take some responsibility and overcome your challenges."
"Tess!" he said. In all the years he had known her, she had never been cruel. She raised an eyebrow and he repeated the thought. "I haven't been that angry young man for a lot of years," he said softly.
"Anymore than you were a cripple then," she said and the warm smile returned to her eyes and mouth. "There isn't any problem or worry you can carry, that God can't help you carry better," she said patting his hand. He caught hers and kissed her knuckles.
"So what are you going to do?" she said with a saucy smile.
The smile that had begun to reline Joe's face faded a bit. "I don't know, Tess. I have talked to them. Tried to make Mac see both sides, tried to get Adam to explain -- he won't. Not unless Mac asks."
"Has he explained it to you?" Tessa asked and Joe started to nod only to stop. He and Methos had talked, but not about the issue, not about the Horsemen or Bordeaux except what had been in Methos' doctored chronicle. Joe understood, or at least accepted the fact that Methos was not the same man.
But they hadn't talked about it. "I never asked," he said more to himself than to Tess.
"And Duncan won't either. Did it not occur to you that Adam might need or want to talk about whatever it is as much as you need to hear it, or as Duncan needs to hear it?" she said quietly. "Or are you afraid to hear it?"
He was. God help him he was. It was so much easier to ignore it. It had all happened so long ago, too many lifetimes ago for Dawson to really grasp. "I don't know," he said honestly.
"Wounds left untreated tend to fester," Tess said and Joe could only agree. He had waited for Methos to say something but hadn't wanted to press, hadn't wanted the elder Immortal to think Joe was a judgmental as MacLeod. Flipping it around Joe could see where Methos might have offered an explanation, or even just details and Joe had...not cut him off but told him it didn't matter. But it did. If not to Joe, then to Methos.
"You may get a chance to do some healing," she said softly, looking over his shoulder and Joe turned to see Methos enter, at his back was at all, blonde man. Joe rose, recalling MacLeod's description of the strange Immortal. But he was with Methos so Joe's initial instinct that spoke of danger faded as he rose from his seat.
"Adam," he murmured. " I was worried--after last night," he dropped his voice.
"I should have called," Adam said with a tight, apologetic smile. "Just needed time to think. Oh, this is Andrew," he introduced his friend and Andrew leaned forward and gripped Joe's hand firmly.
"Heard a lot about you, Joe. Glad to meet you, finally," he said and then waited, hands still clasped with Joe's.
I know him, Joe was sure of it but he could not remember from where. From the Watcher files? Andrew was a fairly striking looking man, a face that made you just want to smile, green eyes that seemed fresher than new grass. He could not place either name or face and, realizing he was staring, finally dropped the hand he had been holding.
"Sorry. You just look really familiar," Joe said with a shake of his head and a smile and caught Methos tensing, paling slightly. "Hey, Adam. You all right?" he asked, reaching out. Even through Methos' coat he could tell the man was cold.
"He spent the night on a park bench," Andrew commented dryly.
"No wonder you are cold. Coffee...have you eaten?" Joe asked nudging Adam toward the bar. "Oh. Manners. Tess, this is Andrew."
"My pleasure," Andrew said with a laugh which Tess returned as they shook hands, as if they already had a joke between them. Joe put his own coffee in Methos' hands.
"I'm not a child," Methos said setting the cup down, sounding more tired than irritated. Joe backed off and caught Tess looking at him.
"No. You're tired and you had a bad night. Why didn't you go back to the house?" Joe asked settling on the bar stool next to him as Tess and Andrew made a discreet withdrawal to the end of the bar.
Methos looked a little surprised that Joe would ask, hand creeping toward the hot coffee despite his words. When was the last time anyone cared enough about you to ask, old man? Joe thought. Alexa had. Methos had been like a different person then. Young, excited, in love, devastated and still in love. Alexa had been the same.
What had it done to him to be wrenched out of his isolated world by that love? Joe knew the facts, knew the events that had twisted MacLeod's world and Methos' up into a frenzy of dangerous encounters. Encounters Methos might otherwise have avoided? Had falling in love with Alexa been like Sleeping Beauty in reverse? Something had awakened the eldest Immortal beginning with his first meeting with MacLeod. Joe had seen the change from the mild, quiet graduate student he'd known for ten years into a man with opinions, convictions and a past. Seen it, noticed it, commented on the history Methos had seen, lived through--and never once bothered to ask. He and MacLeod had both been guilty of turning to Methos for some sort of sage wisdom of the ages, then scoffed and teased and discounted what Methos had said when it didn't agree with their own views. As if five thousand years of living could only be measured against what they knew. They valued him, not for himself, but for what he was.
Until the Horsemen. Even then Joe had defended Methos only based on that history. Knowing in his heart that the Methos who had loved Alexa could not be the same man who had killed and raped Cassandra, or butchered thousands.
"It was a bad Quickening, Joe," Methos said softly, not really looking at him. "Not that any of them are good but I just needed time to think, to let it settle."
"I was worried," Joe said, letting his heart instead of his mind do the talking. "So was Mac."
Methos looked up at that a sour and not very pleasant smile on his face. "I'm sure," he said and sipped at the coffee.
"He was. He heard about it this morning and called. Wanted to make sure you were all right. He also suggested you get out of town. Said he ran into another Immortal named Stark who is hunting you."
The hazel eyes widened a bit. "Hunting? Did MacLeod--"
"No. It didn't come to a fight, but it might yet. He's afraid where there is one there will be others. He may be right," Joe said.
"There always are," Methos murmured and Joe listened to tone as well as words. Where was the spark, the instinct that told--had told--Methos to head for safer grounds in the past? He didn't even seem concerned and only vaguely interested.
"Don't you think you might want to disappear?" Joe prodded.
"Would be the smart thing," Methos agreed but there was no enthusiasm in the voice, in fact, it got softer and Joe was suddenly aware that Methos had not been answering his question but saying something else entirely.
"Not necessarily," Joe said and lay his hand on the other man's shoulder, kneading gently. "Disappearing as in finding some safe ground for a bit--not vanishing into the darkness." He knew that feeling, had been reminded of it by Tess, that darkness that seemed to swallow him just after he had returned from 'Nam, when his soul felt like it had been lost to the jungles with his legs, when the joy he'd once known in so many things seemed like some far-fetched dream and there was no one who understood or even tried.
Until Tess showed up with her brusque ways and her angel's voice. She had bullied and cajoled, gotten him involved with patients who were much worse off then he was physically but who still had their souls intact.
"Some people might miss you," Joe said trying for a lighter tone and got a small, indulgent smile. "I would miss you," he said more earnestly, realizing how easy it would be to let this man slip away without getting to know him. He could call it respecting his privacy or maintaining his oath to the Watchers only to look back someday and realize watching the people had become more important than the people he was watching.
Methos met his eyes briefly then dropped them, swallowing more than coffee. "Thanks, Joe. That's nice to hear," he said, in a bare whisper, then seemed to gather himself up, pulling strength from the words, the touch. "I think...I think I will go back to the house and get that sleep."
"Methos," Joe kept his voice low. He rarely ever used the older Immortal's real name. "I would like..." This was harder than it should be. "If you need someone to talk to, about what's happened...or anything. I am a pretty good listener...and I don't have to do it with a pen in my hand."
Methos pushed away from the counter, the movement causing Joe's hand to slip away from his shoulder as he turned. "Thank you... for a great many things. Let me get some rest and then..."
"When you are ready," Joe said and Methos smiled and nodded, still looking tired but at peace too. Joe met the smile with one of his own.
"Andrew, do you need a--" Methos stopped, head turning toward the door and Joe caught Andrew rising as well, Tess looking nervous for some reason. The door opened and a man entered, long coat moving around his tall frame, the auburn hair gleaming near red in the light from outside.
"Well, well...door number one," he murmured, sizing Andrew up before glancing at Methos. "Or door number two?" he said with a broad smile and took the step inside that would allow the door to close. "Jonathon Stark. I came looking for a man named Methos to make the myth real."
Too late.... Joe thought as his friend took a step forward.
Andrew stepped forward as well, the green eyes narrowing and Stark shifted his gaze again, smile tightening. "Now, now...one or the other or neither. Or both but you have to take turns," he added, incredibly confident. "You won't know till you try," Andrew said and shook off Tess' arms with a look of surprise when she slapped at this shoulder.
"Andrew, aren't you supposed to step in after the fight?" Methos said and his voice was like a sliver of ice. "You might not like my bedtime stories, Stark, but I'd be the last one to deny a man his right to an education," Methos said with a smile. "Joe has enough problems keeping this place neat without us adding to the mess. I'm sure I can tell you all sorts of myths...Graham Park in an hour or so? It's just down the block."
"Graham Park, Now. You've a reputation for leaving your lessons unfinished," Stark said and held the door open. Methos hesitated and then moved, never looking at the other three people in the bar.
"Methos, it's not time!" Andrew said sharply.
"I'll keep it in mind," Methos said and followed Stark out.
"Damn," Joe said and grabbed up his coat, hurrying after them, Andrew on his heels.
Tess remained, watching the door, eyes cast heavenward for reinforcements.
Graham Park was almost completely enclosed by the sea wall against the bay. The runner's track meandering over and along the shore. It had begun as a battery, to keep the swells of the bay from flooding the street beyond, a real problem early in Seacouver's history. The stark concrete and stone had seen its share of lovers, children hurling stones, people who needed solitude...and death. The high walls had hosted an accident or two in their time, the straight drop down allowing no purchase for a fallen person to grab onto before the harsh currents dragged the hapless victim deeper out into the bay or slammed them against the stone. The city fathers had tried building higher, topping the stone with iron bars. Years of changes had left the wall as ugly as a prison despite the spectacular view but the number of deaths had dropped significantly.
Stark idly read the historical placard, glancing at his companion, then over his shoulder when Andrew and Joe approached.
"Intereference?" he asked.
"Morbid interest," Methos said, with a chuckle at his own joke. He wasn't sure Andrew would get it but Methos thought it was funny. "Don't worry. Andrew isn't into revenge. No need for it," he said and shrugged out of his coat, Stark doing the same.
"Student of yours?"
Methos laughed again. "Hardly. You might say I studied under him, but I never learned his style or grace. Are we done with the interview now? Or do you want more proof of my credentials?"
"And here I thought I was supposed to be learning something," Stark said and sized his opponent up carefully. Eyes lingering on Methos' hands. "Rumor says you invented writing."
"Nope. Just penmanship," Methos said and then jerked back two steps as Stark came at him. He fell back again, swords barely touching as Stark tested reach--they were about evenly matched. Stark was slightly taller but he was long legged for his height, his arms not quite in balance with that extra length. Methos drove in and under his blade with a testing offensive and dropped back again, watching as his opponent rolled his shoulders.
"Very quick," Stark said approvingly then came at him again.
Joe found himself clinging to Andrew's arm, his companion's eyes fully fixed on the fight. Methos seemed to be holding his own and Joe had to catch his breath. He had never seen Methos fight before, heard only reports from MacLeod. He was so fast and all movement and then would go still, body relaxed as if he had not moved at all. Stark, by reputation, had incredible stamina and was known for the power he put behind his blows. His opponents often ended up with broken limbs--not that it mattered since he was the winner.
They closed again, the ring of metal and the blur of movement tangling them for a moment until Methos pushed off, dropping back and into a crouch. There was blood on Stark's pale blue shirt and his eyes narrowed.
"I'm not settling for first blood," he snarled and closed again, Methos twisting to counter and both of them ending up against the wall. Joe caught his breath at the flash of white skin, tinged red under Methos' black sweater. The blood was his, not Stark's.
Stark swept back, slamming the smaller man into the wall, pain tingeing Methos' harsh features for a brief moment before the oldest Immortal pushed back, advancing in short hops as he kept Stark's blade occupied.
Then both men went still, as did Andrew, and Joe turned.
"Didn't hide him well enough, MacLeod," Stark called out and took advantage of the distraction. Methos bit off a sharp cry and was retreating, free hand pressed to a deep cut above his knee. His leg almost gave way as Stark pressed, but he rolled, came up under the man and raked his blade across Stark's belly, dropping him to all fours.
"Get up," Joe heard Mac's harsh whisper as the Highlander drew abreast of them, but Methos seemed not to hear. His face was gray and sweating and when he tried to move, the injured leg folded up under him.
Stark was recovering faster, despite the belly wound. He was not quite able to get to his feet either but he could turn.
"Methos!" Mac called it out, talking a half dozen steps forward without thinking, katana held out.
The eldest Immortal pushed back as Stark lunged at him from a kneeling position, almost ending up on his back, twisting from side to side before managing to roll on his belly and come up to his knees, Stark behind him. His blade came under his arm, impaling the other Immortal as he tried for a head swing. Stark's' death didn't arrest the swing however and Methos screamed as the blade bit into his neck, slumping forward, Stark on his back, covering him.
The three observers waited, MacLeod the first to start forward when neither man moved. He pulled Stark off, not removing the sword still erect in his chest, then reached for the still, slender figure beneath him. Blood covered MacLeod's hands as he rolled Methos over gently, the gash in his throat having severed the jugular.
"Mac, you can't--" Joe began.
"I know the rules!" MacLeod snapped back. "They are both dead. I'd say the fight is over." The "for now" went unspoken between the three of them.
"Methos will heal," Joe said soothingly. "And come back before Stark--as long as Stark has that sword in him. He'll win."
"Will he?" Andrew said, staring down at both bodies, face pale, green eyes intense. "What's he win, Joe? Another soul rattling around inside him? A little more power, a little more pain? For what?" He drew a deep breath and reached out, pulling Methos' sword from Stark's body.
"What are you doing?" Mac demanded, gathering Methos up in his arms and cradling the lax body close to his chest.
"Interefereing," Andrew said shortly and handed Joe the bloodied weapon. "You can leave Methos here or you can leave," Andrew said to Mac, crouching beside Stark.
"I thought you were his friend!" Mac snarled.
"Wrong answer," Andrew said harshly. "I thought you were his friend." His expression softened. "Take him home, Duncan MacLeod," he murmured and moved to get Methos' coat, tucking it securely around the pale, still form.
The expression on MacLeod's face was angry and confused but he took the advice and the opportunity, moving heavily with his burden back toward the bar and his car.
"What if someone sees them?" Joe hissed.
"They won't," Andrew said and waited until Stark began to stir, then took Joe's arm and let the confused Watcher lean against him slightly as they made their way back. Joe had questions but they wouldn't come to his tongue as he studied his companion, the events of the last few minutes fading under the sharp and uncomfortable feeling that he did know Andrew.
Ask and ye shall receive. It echoed through Joe's mind as they crossed the street. "I know you," he said as sure of that as anything in his life.
Andrew smiled, open, friendly, even approving. "You do," he agreed.
"But where?" Joe asked as a breeze lifted Andrew's fair hair, the sun slipping out to lighten and warm the strong features.
He was in so much pain, and it was dark and rainy. He could not move, only flail his hands as he waited for help...or to die...either preferable to the pain in his shattered legs. He must have drifted then for a rare glimpse of sunlight washed through the humid jungle, a light breeze cooling his skin, easing his pain for a moment and he wept for that relief. Someone had come. Help... a fair face and green eyes, smiled gently into his. "Not yet, Joseph," the reassuring voice said and Joe held onto that reassurance with all the strength his twenty-year-old soul could summon. Then there were other hands helping him, the blonde stranger gone, but the peace remained, the hope...
"I haven't come for you this time either, Joseph...not for the last time anyway," Andrew said gently with a smile. "Just to help..."
Joe could only nod, knowing it was neither sun nor a trick of the atmosphere that made Andrew seem to issue light from within. The green eyes were laughing with joy not humor, the smile as comforting and terrible as it had been twenty years before.
"Why then?" Joe finally managed to ask.
"I can't tell you...I'm not entirely sure myself, yet," Andrew said and the light seemed to fade a bit but not the warmth. "I wasn't exactly supposed to meet up with you again at all but where Methos goes, I generally am supposed to follow."
"To...take him?" Joe asked his heart freezing in his chest. Too late!
"No, Joe. Immortals aren't my...department...usually," Andrew said and sounded almost as confused as Joe felt. "Just trust God, Joe."
"I always have," Joe said softly, knowing it was true but never having said it before . Andrew squeezed his arm lightly and nodded.
"He knows," he said and the look in his eyes was so intense Joe had to look down and realized he still had Methos' sword, the blood still dulling the bright blade.
He looked up and Andrew was gone as was MacLeod's T-bird. He smiled faintly, resettling his grip on the hilt. It didn't surprise him at all that he did not feel in any way alone.
"Och, how can anyone that looks as small as you do weigh so much?" MacLeod complained to his still insensate burden as he carried him up the outside stairs to his loft. Methos had shown no signs of reviving, a fact that Mac did not like at all. The wound in his throat had stopped bleeding but MacLeod couldn't tell under all the drying stains if that was because it was healing or because there wasn't any blood left to drain. Methos was so pale and cold, looking frail without the force of his personality to make him seem larger...larger than life at times, Mac had to admit as he maneuvered himself and his burden inside. Methos went on to the bed, Mac ignoring the damage to his linens as he moved through the loft gathering towels and water and began the messy job of cleaning his friend off.
Methos' sweater was torn beyond repair and Mac removed it, noting the wound on his side was almost gone then began wiping at the slender throat, almost gasping in relief as his efforts revealed a slowly healing gash just above the joint of shoulder and throat. Deep enough to nick the large vein but not enough to do irreparable damage as had been done to Kalas' throat. Kalas who had almost taken Methos' head for the same reason Stark wanted it.
Pulling a blanket over Methos, Mac rummaged through his drawers, tossing a clean sweater onto the bed along with a pair of jeans that weren't his. Richie's, he thought, but couldn't be sure. He had juice and...he smiled faintly...beer, pulling out one of the bottles for himself while waiting for his guest to wake up.
It happened quietly, Methos stirring as if he were asleep, fingers reaching for something--probably his sword. When the hazel eyes finally opened they were fully cognizant, fixed unerringly on MacLeod.
"Welcome back," Mac said, pointing his beer bottle at the clothes on the bed. "Yours are a little worse for wear."
"Thanks," Methos said, sitting up and pushing the blanket back. He gathered up the clothes then sat, expression distant.
"You were winning," MacLeod said gently. "We...Andrew and Joe and I just weren't sure how long..."
"I see. Andrew--soft touch, he is," Methos said with a faint smile and rose, then almost fell, going down hard to his knees. Mac slipped off the chair and was at his side in a moment.
"You lost a lot of blood. Give it a few minutes, it'll settle," Mac said catching the other man's hand and elbow to help him up.
Methos nodded but made no move to push off, head hanging down, face pale and skin ice cold. His other hand came up to the now rapidly healing gash in his throat, healing but still raw under his fingers, smearing them slightly with blood. He swallowed heavily. "Mac," his voice was rough. Without the cultured overtones he sounded young and, at the moment, frightened and unsure. "I don't want to die," he said in a whisper.
MacLeod rocked back on his heels. Whatever he had thought Methos might be going through physically and emotionally, it was not this. His hand moved from Methos' elbow to his shoulder, kneading the tense muscle gently. "You didn't..."
"No...I don't want to die...I thought I did. First Kalas...I was tired and it seemed...I hadn't realized..." his words were tumbling over each other, not particularly coherently, not unlike his ramblings about Alexa but without the joy and wonder.
"Methos. You're tired and worn. Get a shower, and some rest," MacLeod said, uncomfortable with this suddenly emotionally vulnerable man. Not at all the hardened killer Mac had built in his mind.
The voice stopped, the slender body stiffening under his hand. "Right. Sorry. You'd think I had taken a Quickening or something," Methos mumbled and got his feet under him.
MacLeod let him go, mind centered on another Quickening...one they had shared, one that had left Methos even more vulnerable. It had taken weeks for Mac to get the sound of Methos out of his mind, out of his nightmares. Days before he realized with shock that Methos had been unwilling or unprepared to protect himself from Cassandra. He had seemed...strong, distant, but all right when they had met at the church later.
And now, months later, he seemed as he had immediately after the Horsemen had been put down--after they had put the Horsemen down. He closed his eyes, resting his lips against his closed hand as he heard the shower start, then was jarred out of his twisting contemplations by a thud, thump and a moan. He was on his feet in a moment, rushing toward the bathroom and pulling the door open without knocking. Steam hit him and a wave of heat but his eyes went to the figure sprawled on the floor. Methos still had his jeans on, one arm hooked over the tub, the scalding water already tuning the pale skin red and angry. He had fainted or fallen, a fresh bruise on the side of his face as Mac pulled him away from the bathtub and turned the water off, turning on colder water in the sink as he swung Methos' legs around and lifted them up onto the commode seat, putting curled towels under the older Immortal's neck before applying a cold cloth to the pale face.
He could only wait, startled and concerned by Methos' collapse but not for the first time seeing the strain the last few months had taken on a man he had started to think was invulnerable. Immortals didn't get sick, not in the normal sense, but they could succumb to forms of neglect. It was what Mac saw now, what Tess had seen. Methos was too thin, pale skin unhealthy looking as if he were in the first stages of starvation, the dark hair was dulled and limp.
MacLeod moved, returning swiftly with a glass of juice just as Methos began stirring again. Pulling him upright carefully, Mac made him drink, examining his arm. Already the angry flush had faded, no hint of the burn on the fair skin.
Methos kept his eyes down, embarrassed and uncertain. Twice now...in front of MacLeod, forcing the man to care for someone he had no care for. Or didn't want to care for, he amended.
"When was the last time you ate?" MacLeod asked him.
"Why is everyone all of sudden worried about my dietary habits?"
"They are...I am more worried about you. Methos..."
"Don't. We are through, Mac, you said it. I understand why. I don't blame you. I should have told you...might have if it had ever come up. Don't make me one of your pet projects."
"What do ye want from me?" Mac asked him. "I should have asked that a long time ago."
"Nothing, MacLeod," Methos said face tightening as he got to his feet. "Let me borrow the clothes and I'll get out of your way."
"Or out of my life?" Duncan asked.
"It's what you want isn't it?" Methos snapped at him.
"I don't know."
The tone of voice stopped Methos more surely than the hand on his arm. "Stay long enough to eat something, at least."
"I'll grab something on the way to Joe's."
"I don't believe you."
"What? That I won't get something to eat?" Methos said, grabbing up the offered sweater and shrugging into it.
"No, that you don't want to die," Mac said. "That's what this is all about, isn't it? That's what taking on these challenges is about, isn't it? Not eating...what are you doing?"
"Not coping very well," Methos said quietly and turned to MacLeod. "Is that what you wanted to hear? You wanted Justice for my past, well here it is, MacLeod. I can't sleep without reliving every day of a thousand years of hell you can't even imagine. I can't eat without choking on the food that I stole from every mouth in every village I destroyed. I see faces I barely even looked at when I rode with no conscience, no restraint, no reason other than because..." he stopped, suddenly, unable to look at MacLeod any longer. "No. I don't want to die, MacLeod. But living is not such a great prize either."
"Because why?" Mac asked folding his arms across his chest, willing to listen but not sure he really wanted to.
"Because ...because it was what I knew, what I could do, all I could do. I wasn't just Death, MacLeod. I was dead. As dead as man can be and still see and taste and breathe. I had been dead a long time before I ever met up with Kronos. Two thousand years of fighting and loving and living and losing everything I had, everything I wanted again and again and again and there was nothing, nothing, I could do to stop it. The killing, the stealing, the destruction--I was good at it because I had been watching it happen around me for two thousand years. And I was angry, and helpless, and I prayed to a dozen different gods to stop it, to end it, to show me something different. Not one of them answered. Kronos saw it all so differently," his voice dropped to a whisper and Methos dropped as well, onto the end of the bed to let his hands, usually so expressive, trail listlessly between his knees. "What he could not stop, he took control of, and I rode with him. Willingly, not gladly, but willingly."
MacLeod felt nauseated but the anger didn't accompany it, nor the tearing of his loyalties. He felt sick for Methos. There was more, he knew, Andrew had said as much and MacLeod had no reason to disbelieve him.
It did not show up in his face and before he could speak, Methos was on his feet again and heading out the door. Pushing off the counter MacLeod intercepted him just as he opened the door. Then staggered back as Methos rounded on him, the edge of a very hard fist catching MacLeod on the jaw and sending him to his knees with Methos standing over him, body taut and poised for a fight.
"Well, I guess you are feeling better," Andrew piped up and both men turned to him and the Angel of Death rocked back on his heels with a sheepish look on his face. "Am I interrupting something?" he asked innocently.
"Don't let him, leave," MacLeod mumbled from the floor, rubbing his jaw and eyeing Methos with exasperation before levering himself to his feet.
"Get out of my way, Andrew," Methos hissed and Andrew stepped aside while MacLeod lunged forward.
"He doesn't have a sword!" MacLeod snapped and Methos stopped, foot poised on the steps, looking back slowly. "At least borrow one until you get yours back," Mac growled but it was a poor mask for a plea.
"Here," Andrew offered, pulling his own from his coat and Methos eyed it, his anger vanishing under the renewed trepidation on his face.
"No. I don't want one," he said, all too away he sounded like a child but the bright blade stirred something uncomfortable in his chest. "Where's mine?"
"Joe has it and I think you do want this one," Andrew said gently. "Take it."
MacLeod moved cautiously forward. Methos had paled again, lifting his eyes to Andrew's as he took a step back and down, looking for all the world like he would bolt or faint.
"Methos, for the love of God, take the blade," Mac said and reached for it.
"MacLeod, Don't!" Methos said and moved, trying to push the blade from MacLeod's grasp. Andrew released it, green eyes tearing as he stepped back while the two Immortals' hands closed over the hilt.
"It has a name," Andrew said with both grace and sorrow as the two men went down under the weight of the blade, a weight that had nothing to do with its composition, but only its purpose.
"It's called Justice," Andrew murmured, well aware that the two men kneeling on the floor already knew the true nature of the blade that now joined them.
Duncan barely heard Andrew. He had not felt the burn when he first touched the blade. It had only begun when Methos' long fingers closed over his. He wanted to drop it, staring at his own hand as if it were something not part of himself. He and Methos were knee to knee, barely two hand's spans between them, and his companion was staring at their joined hands with outright fear.
His own fear rising, MacLeod wanted nothing more than to comfort and find comfort and his desire guided his free hand to hook around the back of Methos' neck.
A mistake. The sob rose in his throat unchecked as what and who Methos was and had been washed over him. He could focus on no image, no horror, no moment of gentleness as he was barraged with a history too vast to even comprehend. Early years that crept from the very dawn of mankind's first claims to supremacy of this world, to take what was laid before them as a birthright. Respect for the primal forces that ripped heaven and earth apart, gave rise to crops, to animals for food and protection, shifting as those other creatures fell before him with more regularity than his brothers and sisters fell under claws and teeth. Winds could be denied to some extent with the erection of structures to keep the howling beasts of air at bay.
Having subdued one enemy, mindless and random, another rose -- a mirror of himself -- other men who might not be as clever or patient, who would rather steal than build, who would rather take than coax food from the reluctant soil. Who saw those that were weaker as only another kind of beast to be subdued, to serve them, grow their food, be the objects of lust and desire and occasionally a little tenderness. There were no faces to hate, to fear; they all blurred into a mix of demands and abuse, of cowardice and dominance, shifting from conqueror to master to enemy to...
Beast. Better then to be on the on the end of the blade or the whip, to watch other beasts like himself toil under the heat while he watched from the semi-coolness of a tent and sipped sweet wine. To drive those would be masters under his heel, or under his sword until the land drank up their blood, and their lives and their hopes. His hopes until the conquest became only what he did, the conqueror what he was. There was no joy in it. It was how the world divided itself. Be the hunter or be the food. Live or die -- only he couldn't die, no interest in goading his Brothers to end his endless life. And every night, in the glimmer of his memory came the whisper of what had been, what might be again, vain hopes that fell silent under the nightmares of a lash to his back, of the blood of a loved one spilling over his hands while he went on and on and on.
Until small hands reached up to him, wanting comfort, not understanding even the bare fact that his world had been shattered around him. He could be your heir. And inherit this emptiness? To become the one of the Soulless? Spare him the pain. And he had while his brothers laughed at his ruthlessness.
There was no one he could lift his hands up to, no quelling sword came to separate him from this nothingness to another, but the memory stirred waking, that there were other things, if not joy than knowledge.
So simple an explanation, so forgivable but it wasn't. The killing did not end, nor the taking. He wanted knowledge and he sought, separated himself from those he had claimed kinship from for a third of his lifetime and went after that knowledge the same way he had gutted a village. Emperors called upon him for what he knew, for how he exercised that knowledge with no more care for the number of lives to be affected than he had when he put them to the sword himself.
And while he learned and advised and put his knowledge to work, the world changed. The goddesses and gods he had abandoned for their perfidy faded under a new one, and he paid little heed to this new one either, for all there was a different murmuring in the back of his mind that kept telling him to look up. He had done so at the height of Rome's glory to see that three thousand years of living had left him so ignorant of understanding, the one-time Beast he might have been might be reborn.
And like a new born he set out to explore this world, awakening long buried delights in seeing and tasting and sensing, in having someone nearby who saw the world with the wisdom of ancients while his eyes remained as wondering as a child's. Wives, lovers and companions washed in and out of his life like tides and he learned to fight again, for them, for their beliefs, for their lives.
With every loss, he huddled back under his masque of uncaring for a time but the world was too wonderful, it was moving so fast that even his vast age and endless life would never be able to see it all, experience it all, to appreciate it all.
He killed when he had too, hid when he could, avoiding those of his own kind because they wanted to stop him before he could experience and learn and be awed by the imagination and persistence of his short-lived cousins. He hid because his name was known, because they wanted his power when he knew in his heart, carefully protected as it was, that he had no real power to offer them -- the power of his long life, yes, but the real power was in this living.
His long life saw them...the mortals with their short lives and huge hopes...building toward their own destruction, learning and relearning the same lessons from millennia past as some took what was not theirs, beat their kin under their lashes and their hatred as he had done. When their numbers increased the illnesses and sicknesses that would further shorten their lives spread plagues of death and ignorance. No bright hopes then, just more of the same, rushing headlong into the arms of death -- Death no longer had need to ride them down. They went willingly and blindly.
He could not be party to it...it was too sad, too much a waste and he retreated, watching, his despair and solitude growing deeper with each decade. If Immortals could not be taught to use their long lives to end this madness and mortals too short-lived to see their few hopes to fruition then what was the point?
Wait and watch, a voice murmured, the same that had told him to look up, and he did. He heard murmuring of a different hope, a few, here and there, Immortals who had thought and compassion enough to care what happened, who might yet see mankind out of its destructive adolescence and into maturity. Darius who he knew, who had changed so vastly from his time in the legions to being a soft voice of reason. And Darius had a protégé, a warrior, yes, but who knew instinctively that mortals were meant to be cherished to be protected -- but he needed guidance still. Guidance Darius had provided until the teacher was torn from the student.
Too big a task for a man who had compassion but little conscience, knowledge but little caring, who stayed separate while this student was so much a part of the world he lived in, envy was the only emotion that even began to describe his feelings.
So he had to learn again, to extend his friendship, rusty as it was, to others, to find some common ground between he and this promise. The meeting came too quickly though. He was not prepared, he had not expected...he was not ready. Better to give this promise what he could. Fighting was not something he wanted any longer, the killing as abhorrent as it was addictive.
His careful plan fell to pieces under the promise of honesty or loyalty and unable to run away, he tried to meet each gesture in kind, but they were so disparate, one full of laughter and light the other trying not to let the shadows of his long life reclaim him.
Until the shadows of another's life reached out to steal his promise. It was unfair -- but then life had never been designed with fairness intact. Still, it would not stand. He was nothing if not tenacious. Friendship he had offered, and knowledge but trust he had withheld, for fear of betrayal. His last shield, the last guard he had to let down. Not fear of this promise housed in the body and spirit of a man -- but to ask him to trust someone who could barely say trust and live in the same breath.
So he was forced to trust himself, to take that trust and extend it beyond himself, to take his knowledge, his compassion and his care and lay it out before the shadow creature his promise had become. It seemed such a paltry offering, a weak solution, and for a brief moment, for a breathtaking moment of sheer faith, he had thought to offer his head and his strength to MacLeod and then thought again, fearing his own darkness would merge with that MacLeod already carried.
To rely on his own weakness then...to offer only what he could summon from some long forgotten life when he believed that good could occasionally triumph, emerge victorious.
He was not surprised then, when that shadow tempted every tenant of the rules he had learned, to place blade to throat with no care of the consequences. It seemed he was right after all. But there was no joy in being right.
Sheer wonder came when the promise became...almost an oath. You are not alone. Not out here and not in there. A hand pressed across a wildly beating heart that fought for all that had been and he realized the words were not for MacLeod, but for himself.
Everything else had been confusion and uncertainty as MacLeod fought his way back from the shadows, overcame and went on. But that encounter with MacLeod's dark shadow coupled with the love he had for a woman who, in her dying, knew more about living than he -- all of it left him with no anchors, no tried and true methods of making it from day to day much less decade to decade or century to century. So he stayed and learned. He was not the teacher, he was the student -- come late to his lessons but willing to listen and think and debate. To care and trust and want to be part of something other than his own long history.
Andrew crouched over the two curled bodies, anxiously; watching, waiting. His instinct was to pry the white hands from the hilt but Justice was not his to wield only to bear witness to. The blade rested between them, Duncan's body curled around it, Methos curled around Duncan, the older Immortal's face gray and strained and with grief and pain deeply etched on his face -- an expression of abandonment Andrew had seen only once or twice before in his endless existence.
It took him a moment to realize there was movement between the two men but all of it was MacLeod's; the muscular frame shaking and trembling under the force of sobs so tight and silent he might well have been dying rather than weeping. If he was aware of the body curled around his, he gave no sign, not even when Methos slipped away to fall senseless to the floor, arm twisted awkwardly where MacLeod's hand trapped his against the hilt.
"Duncan, let go," Andrew said softly, almost reaching out to touch the man then drawing back, never feeling the limitations of his own gifts quite so acutely.
"He can't," Methos' voice was a rough sound, the oldest Immortal's lips barely moving, his eyes still closed. He had to be in some discomfort from the twist of his arm but he remained still. "My justice. It was supposed to be my justice," he whispered.
Then moved, coiling his strength and his will in one sudden burst of energy. Andrew heard the bones in his wrist snap and Methos did not so much as twitch as he came to his knees and laid his other hand along the blade and pulled.
"Methos!" Andrew's alarm grew, winging a prayer heavenward for what appeared to be a pronouncement gone horribly wrong.
Blood flowed over the older Immortal's hands, staining his skin, his shirt, and the floor as he kicked out and wrenched the blade free, shoving Duncan back with his foot, loosening the death grip. The blade clattered to the floor, but before Andrew could reach for it, Methos had it in his hand again, bloodied fingers closing over the hilt. The older Immortal swallowed and got to his knees, holding the blade in front of him, point up, staring at the scarlet smears on the bright metal, his broken wrist laying uselessly against his thigh.
"What happens if I take a head with this, Andrew?" he asked dispassionately, voice hollow. "What happens if someone takes my head with this?" .
"It's not meant for killing," Andrew said rising as Methos did and then backing away as the Immortal moved, pressing the point to his throat."No? But it can, can't it? It can kill a soul."
"It is Justice only. Accept it and move on," Andrew said evenly.
"There is no Justice for what I've been, what I've done. There isn't even redemption," Methos hissed. "That's what I was supposed to know, right? To let Justice work through MacLeod? Let him...as...good a man as I have ever known...let him be the judge. And to think I was so arrogant in my disdain for his Judgment, for his values. Who was he to judge me?" .
"That's not what was meant. You are confusing Justice with Judgment, Forgiveness with Mercy. They aren't the same. One has to temper the other. Justice is the balance between Judgment and Mercy. You have that, Methos. God gave it to you in a form you could understand," Andrew pleaded.
"God...God gave me a life that can't end, that can only replay joy and pain until it all becomes the same!" Methos snapped out on a harsh intake of air.
"You have never believed that..." Andrew said a little desperately.
"There isn't anything left to believe in! I kept hoping and praying that if I lived long enough I would find a reason, some answer. That living was the only way I could ever know...anything...to find a point to any of this. I thought I had," Methos murmured, his gaze dropping to the still crouched form of Duncan MacLeod. For long moments he said nothing and Andrew had no arguments for him, his inspiration stubbornly, willfully silent. What Methos needed to learn he had to learn on his own.
Shreds of strength were gathered from nowhere. "Well, then, if I can't find a reason, perhaps I can find some peace. Don't leave him, please," Methos said and Andrew could not say if Methos were asking him or God. Nor did he move to follow Methos as the oldest Immortal moved past him and fled out into the darkness.
Darkness could come in so many forms. There was the rich darkness of the night, star spotted and endless. The darkness of a heart touched by nothing and empty. The quiet shadows when life and light glimmer just out of reach.
And the darkness that comes when one looks deeply into one's own soul and sees not darkness but the mirror of everything one sees around them. The reflection of faith and desire and anger and hate and sorrow.
Duncan MacLeod had looked into the darkness and seen the reflection of his own face. Justice had no right or wrong attached to it: it was what it was.
"What have I done?" his bewildered murmur was met by song and by a light so bright he could not bear to look upon it, yet he lifted his face to it as a growing thing seeks the sun.
"Seen the truth," Monica said quietly. She stood before him, looking as she had every time he had seen her, smiling, expression open and inviting, the rich reddish hair ashine with light. But she was more than he had thought.
His eyes dropped, not willing to face her as she was, eyes closing as he saw the blood on his hands, on the floor. Not his blood, Methos'.
"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, you have never run away from the truth in your whole long life," Monica said gently. "I'd really rather you dinnae' start now."
"I never knew...how could I know?" he whispered, closing his fingers around the stains on his palms. "He doesn't need my forgiveness, I need his."
"He doesn't need your forgiveness at all, Duncan. Just your friendship and your love," Monica said.
"What can I do? What have I done...he's gone," MacLeod said raising his face to Monica's again, as if she had the answer. "He saw my horror and ran from it."
"Not yours, Duncan. His own. Just as you have seen your own Darkness and turned away from it again and again. God gave Immortals a gift and a task, Duncan. The gift was a life long enough to fulfill the task."
"And the task?"
"That I can't tell you, I don't know. But I do know that wherever God is, love is also."
"You..." he hesitated, getting his knees beneath him. "What are you? Am I dreaming this?"
Monica smiled. "No. You aren't dreaming. I am an Angel, sent by God. You and Methos...there is more at stake here than a friendship between two Immortals. But you will need each other to face it. I was sent here to show you the truth," her smile wavered a little. "But it seems in this case the truth is not enough."
"What do you want from me?"
"God wants nothing from you but that which you already give him, your love. But he does ask that you share that love with others -- not just those who are easy to love, but the ones...those that are harder to love but need it all the more for being away from it for so long."
MacLeod closed his eyes again. "Methos. The justice..."
"Was given to Methos long ago...it's part of the reason he has lived so long," Andrew murmured and Duncan saw him differently as well. Gone was the slightly shy, awkward Immortal and stood before him was a confident being with a bright glorious shine in his eyes and the touch of the stars around his presence.
"You are his friend. How could you--"
"I am the Angel of Death, Duncan. A death it isn't my task to lead any Immortal through. And yes, I am his friend, even as humans judge such things." Andrew crouched in front of the dazed Scot. "I was told to bring him Justice, so he could recognize it, to know that there is no payment be extracted from him, that Justice has been meted out."
"Then...then why did he run..."
"Because he feels unworthy of Justice, only of judgment. When you have waited for something for so long and it is not what you expected, it can be frightening. And he expected that Judgment from you...but you can't judge him, can you, Duncan? Not knowing as you do that good men can, occasionally, do great evil."
Andrew's tone was not accusatory but Duncan flushed anyway. "I have to find him," he said, getting to his feet. "Where has he gone?"
Monica's eyes were filled with tears and she shook her head. "He has gone seeking what he could not gain from you."
"Andrew you have to help me--" Duncan breathed and turned...but Andrew was gone and when he looked back again, he was alone in the loft with only the darkness closing around him and the sharp, coppery scent of Methos' blood on his hands.
It is not true that rain means the angels are crying, nor does thunder mean that God is angry. But there are times when the rain falls just so, with such a soft patter and a warmth that soaks the skin without chilling that one might think it tears or that in hearing thunder, and feeling guilt, one might think that God's anger is justified. It is not true, but not all truth is plain or easy to see.
Had he told that to some child during his long life? Some child, feeling badly about some minor transgression and frightened by the storms, thought the deluge to be her fault? Elspeth. Yes, Elspeth. Seven years old and having let loose the ponies in the barn so that they ran free and one had stumbled and broken a leg and had to be put down. She had come to him tear streaked and racked with guilt, thinking the pony's death her fault. Her sin to expiate. She had gone to confession, she had done her penance and still the weight of that sadness would not be relieved.
How long had her young heart borne that guilt, unexpiated by father or Father?
She had been dead at ten and he did not know if she ever forgave herself for the pony's death. He had moved on with his wife and her three dear children dead and while he had not forgotten them, he had not brought them to conscious memory for more years than all the length of their lives combined.
He could ask Andrew, he thought, turning his face upward to let the rain fall across his face. Not warm but chilling and for once he welcomed the cold, letting it numb him, hoping it would numb him down to the very core that now burned with every breath.
Sharing one's sins did not spread the burden it merely made it twice as heavy for each to bear. Culloden was a mistake, MacLeod. That burden he had not known lay so heavy on his friends soul. Culloden was no more than a border skirmish. Take out every farming community east of Ur and count the bodies then.
It wasn't even his time with the Horsemen. He could almost convince himself to chalk that up to madness...Andrew claimed him dead. Perhaps he had been and was now living his life in reverse. He stared at the blade in his hands. It held no horror for him now. It had surrendered that, given it over. For himself he could have stood it but he had hoped that his Justice would never taint another. As if he had the right to hope for anything.
"Are you going to sit here until Stark comes?" Andrew asked and Methos did not even bother to wonder or try to catch the angel out on his sudden appearance.
"Stark...whoever. Nice sword," Methos commented, his fingers white-knuckled on the hilt. He could not let go. He had tried. He glanced up, unreasonably glad that Andrew's blonde hair was as plastered to his head as Methos' was to his own. He had the opinion that Andrew looked more like a drowned rat than he did at the moment.
"What if it's Duncan? He's looking for you."
"Now that, my friend would be almost justice in itself. The Boy Scout faces Death. Think there's a special merit badge in it for him?" Methos let the point fall to the muddy earth, wincing as the recently broken wrist snapped, not healing. "Handicap for experience," he said softly. "You lied to me," he whispered.
"No...I don't think so."
"You told me once that in death there is life. For you, perhaps. All my version of Death brings is chaos and confusion. My own primarily. And I am tired of it, Andrew. I am tired of this life that offers such hope but not to the hopeless."
"No one needs be hopeless, Mateos," Andrew said. "You know that better than anyone."
"Maybe once. I cannot believe..." his voice trailed away. "The hope your God seeks is in the noble heart of a half-grown Highlander. Not in the broken and weary spirit of a former slave. Go away, Andrew." Methos rose and faced toward the path leading to the bay and Andrew rose with him. "I think it time Death parted company from Life."
He moved away, silent as a ghost, seeing another shadow and Andrew almost went after him only to find Tess' hand on his arm and her umbrella shielding him from the soft rain. "We have to stop him. He'll fight to lose," Andrew murmured.
"First he has to fight, Angel boy," Tess said solemnly. "But not Stark."
"But that is Stark."
Tess looked at him impatiently. "I know that. I brought him here."
"You ...what?" Andrew said, face flushing as he moved forward after Methos.
Tess cast her eyes heavenward and went after him.
"Do you always bring an audience?" Stark demanded as Methos neared, all but dragging his sword.
"If they paid for their tickets, who am I to say no?" Methos countered and waited while Stark hesitated, looking up at the rain.
"I don't suppose you would like to move this indoors?" Stark asked and Methos smiled faintly and shook his head. "Well, I suppose there is the convenient cover of the storm to cover your Quickening. Should be fairly spectacular. Five thousand years."
"Give or take a few centuries," Methos offered. "Be careful what you wish for though, Stark. It might hurt like hell. It hasn't exactly been a bed of roses for me."
"I'll keep that in mind," Stark said, shrugging out of his coat and throwing it over a nearby bush. "That sword looks a little heavy for you," he commented as Methos raised the blade awkwardly.
"I'm rather attached," Methos murmured and waited. So did Stark until it was obvious Methos was not going to start.
Stark swung and Methos blocked. Again and the oldest Immortal fell back. Half a dozen more parries with Methos losing ground the whole way and Stark stopped, studying him, watching his arms, seeing the tight strain in the thin face. He came at him again, harder and frowned even as Methos made a clumsy block and went down to one knee, blood scoring his side.
"You fought better the other day," Stark observed as Methos blocked what could have been a killing blow.
"Bad day. Sorry," Methos said getting to his feet.
"I expected more of a challenge. Pity," Stark said and began again, this time not letting up. They came close and Stark crossed their blades and wrenched downward, watching Methos' face go white as the wrist snapped again under the pressure
Stark smiled and inclined his head -- a token of respect as he thrust downward, shoving Methos to his knees. "Rest well, old one. No doubt you've earned it."
"STARK!"
"You can't interfere, MacLeod!!" Stark snapped laying his blade along the back of Methos' neck.
"No...but I can damn well make sure you don't enjoy the victory!" MacLeod snarled.
"Let it be done, MacLeod," Methos said, not looking up and so missed the look the Highlander gave him.
"It will be, but you gave Justice into my hands, Methos. Do you take it back?"
Methos looked up then, saw the hard implacable expression on the Scot's face and felt the last of the blood drain from his own. "No. I do not withdraw it."
"Your call, Stark," MacLeod said. "You can walk away now and live or..." he inclined his head toward Methos. "His Justice is mine to mete out. I will either give it to him through my own hand or through you."
Stark hesitated, knowing MacLeod was not bluffing. His blade still rested on Methos' neck, that thrum of power almost palpable.
As was MacLeod's.
"You and I will meet again, MacLeod," Stark said, backing away.
Not until Stark had gathered his coat and moved out of sight did Duncan come forward to kneel next to Methos, pulling him up right from his hands and knees.
The Highlander's large hand closed over Methos' fingers and pried them from the blade hilt, aware of the shudder that ran through the oldest Immortal's body and the wince of pain (or was it relief?) that washed over the tight features.
"Your hands, Duncan," Methos murmured. "If you won't let me have Stark's peace, then give me yours. You promised Justice."
"No, God promised Justice," Tess said quietly and both men looked up at her, Methos leaning heavily against MacLeod's shoulder. "Methos seems unwilling to accept it from Him, so perhaps he will accept it from you. Pick up the sword, Duncan," Tess said gently.
"No!" MacLeod said, arms coming protectively around Methos.
"You promised him Justice. Pick up the sword and keep your word. Trust in God, and give Methos the peace he craves."
"Mac, please," Methos said softly, raising his good arm up. "What you have done for other friends who can be redeemed no other way. Remember Brian Cullen -- I am no less lost than he and I am tired of fighting."
"Trust God, and pick up the sword," Monica said, suddenly before them and smiling. "There is truth in Justice as well, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."
Methos' hand closed over the sword and placed it in Duncan's hand, then pulled away, coming to his knees and bowing his head. With reverent care, Duncan set the katana aside and picked up Justice.
"If you get all guilty about this, Mac...I will haunt you," Methos said softly.
Lifting the blade, Mac closed his eyes, and lifted his head, staring upward and praying. The rain stopped, the clouds parting and the sun broke out, shining along the bright blade. With a faint smile, Mac swung.
A caress across his neck and cheek, the warmth of the sun on his exposed neck and Methos saw justice strike the earth just below him, jerking as he felt the coldness pass through him, a shock like cold water and he cried out.
Then MacLeod was beside him, Justice buried in the dirt, shining white, and solid as the earth below.
"Justice for your past sins, Methos," he said, pulling his friend upright. "Is that you live with them and go on."
Methos heard him, felt that truth sear though him and was, for one despairing moment, unsure if he could bear this unexpected and not wholly welcome truth. "I...I can't..." he managed, then had to fall silent or embarrass himself completely. This was it? Andrew had been right, God had given his soul justice when his mind cried out for Judgment. This was too much to bear...to face more lifetimes...to go on...he couldn't do this and found himself clinging to MacLeod's forearm like a ship anchored in a storm.
"No, you can't. Not alone," Andrew said, squatting down in front of them and pulling Methos' injured wrist into his large hands. "But then, you aren't alone, Methos. You haven't been for a long time. You just need to be reminded from time to time." He waited, glancing at MacLeod as he said the last, letting the Highlander know that the same truth belonged to him as well. "I think it's time Death took a holiday," he added with a grin which broadened as Methos let loose a laugh that was half sob.
Between them Duncan and Andrew got the eldest Immortal to his feet, Monica coming forward to present the katana to MacLeod, properly, hilt extended over her bent arm. He inclined his head, dark eyes bright as he guided his friend back along the path, toward Joe's where warmth and friendship would begin the healing of an ancient soul.
"You have very good friends, Andrew," Monica commented with a grin, watching as Methos seemed to find his balance but not resist the steadying arm MacLeod laid across his shoulder.
Andrew rocked back on his heels. "I do. Best in the world," he grinned at his two companions then leaned forward to pull Justice from the dirt and held it up. "I love my job," he said and flung the blade high and out over the bay, laughing with sheer joy as the blade shimmered and fluttered and became a pure white dove, winging toward heaven.
-END-
*MacBeth, William Shakespeare
(c) A Gathering of Angels V. Watts, 5/1997