Old Soul 2

WHAT'S AN HONORABLE MAN?

By Yvette Christofilis

PART 2: "It always comes too quickly."

Chapter 9

It had been a long night. Kalfur and Na'bir were both asleep on top of Methos, and his limbs were going numb from the pressure. The physical pain of the rough night was almost all healed, but despair threatened to engulf him. Suddenly angry, Methos clamped down on the despair with an iron will. He would not give up! That would mean death, not real death, but a death that was perhaps worse, even for him.

Methos would do almost anything to survive, the proof of that lay on top of him, along with the memory of the night he had just been though. He could do almost anything, except give up his soul. His soul, mind and heart were his own, and he could live with anything he needed to do to keep them alive and free.

But he had to get out of this!

Moving away from the imprisoning arms and legs of his captors, Methos eased himself out of the bed. He was mildly surprised to find that neither of them moved. Did they have that much wine?

He sniffed at the cups. So! They had put some crushed mushrooms into the their drinks! A slow, triumphant smile played across Methos's lips. He almost shouted with joy, but snuffed the impulse. This was his chance, and it might be his only one. He must proceed with caution.

Moving swiftly, quietly, he put one of his many plans into effect.

He dressed, putting on as many layers of clothing as he could. He wouldn't be able to take any with him, so he must wear them. He took the large water skin he had secreted under the bed and filled it from the jars kept in the room for Na'bir's pleasure.

He found Na'bir's dagger tangled in her clothes and, going over to the bed, stared at his two captors. Yes, Kalfur might be a fellow slave, but by his actions, he was as bad as the slave masters. The tension and shifting emotions on Methos's face spoke of the debate raging inside him. For him to proceed with his plan would be to condemn Na'bir and Kalfur to an existence worse than his. Did he have another choice?

Seeing no other choice, Methos made his decision. The decision made, he acted immediately and without further thought. With one quick thrust, he buried the dagger into Na'bir's heart, then, without hesitation, into Kalfur's. Deep in their drug stupor, the dying immortals barely moved. Would remorse or guilt from his actions follow Methos into the desert? He had no idea. Only time would tell. Whatever came, however, he would live with it. He had to. To get away, he must do this, so he must live with the consequences.

Leaving the bloody dagger on the bed, Methos ran for the window and, slinging the water skin over his shoulder, climbed through it and up to the roof. From the roof, he sounded the alarm. For his plan to work, the household guards had to be summoned while the two were still dead. There had to be witnesses when they came back to life. Only such a miracle as someone coming back from the dead could distract them long enough to allow Methos to get away.

He did not know if Kalfur and Na'bir would be revered as gods or cursed as demons when they emerged from death, but it was quickly made apparent that Egyptians were more prone to believing in evil than in good.

As Methos made his way through Memphis toward the heart of the wild Nile delta, the cries of Kalfur's and Na'bir's torture rang in his ears and twisted in his gut. Those cries and screams would stay with Methos for a very, very long time.

**************************

"Did you know, before, whether they lived or died?" Michael asked.

"No," Methos answered quietly. "I know, now, that Kalfur is alive, but I don't know if Na'bir is."

"So you don't know what happened to them?"

Methos shook his head without answering.

Hearing the story, Michael shivered, finally understanding the depth of hatred Kallman, or Kalfur, could carry. Methos wrapped his arms around him, pulling him close. They lay there together, silent in the face of the unknown, drawing comfort from each other as their train sped through the dark, its whistle sounding like a wail of sworrow and loneliness in the night.

**************************

They managed to stay clear of Pierce and Kallman for almost ten years but then the inevitable happened. Methos and Michael were back once again at Montauk. They were finishing lunch in the little house at the top of the hill when Methos suddenly bolted to his feet, his whole demeanor suddenly like that of a caged animal. Nobody had to tell Michael that there was an immortal nearby. He got to his feet, his mouth tightening with anger. Kallman and Pierce had followed them to their home! Not only had they been hunting Methos for hundreds of years, they were going to invade his private space.

Methos's and Michael's eyes met. "There's more than one," Methos whispered.

"How many?"

"At least two, maybe more. Get your sword."

Their swords were in the same spot in the living room. They each grabbed one. "Come on!" Methos commanded. "Out the back."

All of the years of teaching and training came flooding back to Michael. Outside there would be a broader field of vision and more room to maneuver.

Just before they left the back door, Michael grabbed Methos's arm. "Don't do anything risky, now!" he admonished. "Be careful."

The corner of Methos's mouth crooked up in a half-grin. "It's what I do best."

Michael could see that Methos was already preparing for battle. His eyes had gone dark and his face was cold and expressionless. The bloodlust had started creeping over his immortal lover and soon he would be lost to it, but not quite yet. Methos took a brief moment to grab Michael in a hard hug. They kissed, deeply, then went out the back door. It was time.

The people hunting Methos had taken the time to get to know the area. They were waiting for them in the middle of the meadow at the top of the hill. Michael's dream came back to him, but this time, he would be seeing the battle live.

There were two of them, a man and a woman, their swords already out. The man was Craig Kallman, still tall and pale. He grinned when he saw Methos and Michael, showing his teeth. That grin frightened Michael.

The woman, on the other hand, seemed less frightening. She was much shorter than the man, and heavier, with short, tousled blonde hair. The only hard edge she showed was around her eyes. The rest of her looked soft and yielding, until you looked in those eyes. Then you saw the killer.

"Methos!" the man called out. "We are Craig Kallman and Margaret Pierce."

Methos lifted his sword slightly, hefting it, getting a comfortable grip. "Which one is bringing the challenge?"

"We both are."

Methos shook his head. "Goes against the rules."

"We don't care!" Margaret Pierce cried, her voice shrill with emotion and anticipation. "Do you know how long we've been looking for you?"

"Doesn't matter. Pick one or I refuse the challenge."

"You can't refuse the challenge," Kallman answered, his mild voice reproving Methos as if he were a little boy.

Methos laughed. The cold sound of it sent a chill down Michael's back. "I can do whatever I want," Methos said, his deep voice hard and colder than his laugh.

Michael was gratified to see that he was not the only one affected by Methos's frosty attitude. Although the mild-sounding man seemed unaffected, the shrill woman suddenly looked very nervous. Be careful what you ask for, Michael said to himself. Or what you look for--.

Kallman and Pierce put their heads together and whispered for a moment. Pierce gestured wildly, but Kallman shook his head abruptly. He laid down the law and Margaret Pierce stepped back and out of the way. He then turned back to Methos.

"Craig Kallman," the man called mildly. "I bring the challenge."

"You sure you want to use that name?" Methos asked. It was obviously a taunt. "Wouldn't you prefer--another?"

Kallman's face tightened, his mild expression turning to stone. With great effort, the ancient immortal calmed himself, forcing his anger away.

Seeing that his attempt to unsettle Kallman was in vain, Methos smiled slightly and began a slow, deliberate stroll toward his challenger.

Kallman waited with the tip of his bare sword resting on the ground. He didn't watch Methos walk toward him. Keeping his eyes lowered, he focused on his blade, his face calm and quiet again.

Pierce's gaze, on the other hand, was riveted on Methos. She watched his every step as he moved closer, her eyes narrowing. She was measuring Kallman's opponent, sizing him up, her round face bright with anticipation and the sweaty sheen of bloodlust.

Michael looked at Kallman. Knowing how old he was, Methos considered Kallman the more formidable of the two. Kallman was calm and exuded a relaxed air, his head lowered and his lean body lost in his long, tan coat.

Michael couldn't help but notice that Margaret's breath was coming faster. He wondered if it meant that Margaret was frightened. He wished he could ask Methos, but suddenly knew what the immortal would tell him. Michael was making the classic human mistake: in his mind, he was changing reality to fit his fond hopes. Margaret was probably breathing heavily because she couldn't wait to get her blade into his lover.

Getting a grip on himself, Michael thought about everything that Ed Lacey and Methos had taught him about swords and fighting with them. One thing that Methos had said to him came back clearly, in Methos's deep, rich voice:

"Assume that your opponent is better than he appears--is better than you. If he appears to weaken, remember that it's a lie. He's trying to fool you. If he looks like he's slipping or has made a mistake, watch out, it's a feint. If you know this, all the time, the one time that it is a mistake, or he's really weakening, you'll have your opening. When that happens, don't wait. Kill him."

"That's pretty cold, isn't it?" Michael had asked.

"No, Michael, listen to me. Kill him."

Michael watched as Methos approached Kallman, gently hefting his sword. When they were about 15 feet apart, Methos stopped and leveled the sword at Kallman. In his deepest, richest voice, he said:

"I am Methos."

Upon finally hearing those words, Kallman bared his teeth in an eerie grin, his eyes widening as two conflicting emotions seemed to surge up in him--triumph and hatred.

Methos did not give him time to recover. He attacked.

With a clash, the battle was joined. Kallman's coat whipped around him, not slowing him down at all. Methos was light and agile on his feet, dressed as he was in jeans and a simple shirt. He went for Kallman, matching him stroke for stroke, slowly striving for the advantage. The battle went on and on.

It seemed that Methos had learned from their previous encounter. He went after Kallman in a way he hadn't before, slowly, looking for ways to fight dirty, looking for a way to invite deceit into the fray. Methos was only slightly older and more experienced than Kallman, and so stamina was playing a large part in this fight.

After a while, as both men began to tire, Kallman started losing ground. Michael could almost see that the fight was gradually becoming Methos's.

He heard a small sound and looked toward Margaret Pierce. She saw it as well. Her eyes betrayed the fear she felt as she realized that Kallman could lose this fight. Michael knew just how she felt. He had felt the exact same way when this battle began. Methos, however, was slowly gaining the upper hand and Kallman was slowly losing. It was only a matter of time before he made a mistake.

When the mistake finally came, it was almost anticlimactic. Kallman's ankle turned on a loose stone in the grass. With a hopeless cry, he started to fall. Following the advice he had given Michael, Methos did not hesitate. He pivoted, and with an arching stroke, caught Kallman's neck and swept his head off his shoulders.

"Craaaig!" Margaret screamed in anguish. She took off toward Methos crying: "You bastard! You bastard!"

Whirling to face her, Methos brought his sword up as the Quickening took him.

It was a huge, awesome display, as befitting such an old, powerful Quickening. As lightning danced around Methos's stiffened form, Margaret tried to get at him. Bolt after bolt slammed into Methos's body, holding Margaret at bay as the madwoman tried to penetrate the wall of thunderbolts and ozone with her sword blade.

A stroke of lightning grabbed her and flung her away from Methos. That was when Michael made his move.

Stepping forward, Michael took a stance between Margaret and his screaming, Quickening-engulfed lover.

"Get out of my way!" Margaret screamed over the roar of the Quickening.

"No!" Michael cried back, lifting his own sword. "You wait, or you fight me!"

Her eyes narrowed and her face become feral. "You don't want to fight me," she snarled.

"You wait, or you fight me!" Michael repeated.

"Whatever!" she growled, and she was on him.

Wild with fury and lusting for revenge, the woman attacked. Michael met her, but knew almost immediately that his skills, although good, especially when fueled with his mortal fear and adrenaline, was no match for the madness of Margaret Pierce. She talked and talked as she pounded at Michael.

"You bastards! You've killed him. Do know what you've done? You've killed him, you bastard. I'll kill you. I'll kill you. I'll kill you."

Michael settled coldly into the fight, struggling to hang on, knowing that as soon as the Quickening was over, Methos could take over this nightmare. His intent was to just keep going until Methos was free.

Then a sneaky thought of unwitting betrayal crept into Michael's mind. What if, after such a powerful Quickening, even Methos was no match for the furious insanity he was facing?

That little thought was enough. Michael faltered and his guard slipped, allowing Margaret an opening. With a bellow of triumph, Margaret skewered Michael through the chest.

Michael felt freezing heat as the blade entered his body and the shock, the cold shock of the impact stopped all movement as the world receded. Slowly, very slowly Michael fell. He could barely feel the wound, or the fall. Maybe it's not that bad, he thought.

He was alert enough to know what was coming next. Margaret Pierce was an immortal and for immortals, taking a head was second nature. He closed his eyes, praying for his body to go numb.

"No!" Michael heard the cry even through the cotton that was muffling his eyes and ears. Despite everything, Michael smiled at the sound of Methos's voice.

"Get away from him, you bitch. You wanted me, now come and get me!"

Margaret's and Methos's swords came together in a furious crash that expressed the depth of emotion they were both feeling. They were deep in the bloodlust, but they were both also enraged. Craig Kallman, one of the world's oldest immortals and Margaret's constant companion for several hundred years, was dead and Michael Forrest, Methos's lover for over 25 years, was dying, and they both wanted the other's head.

Methos had the more experience and Kallman's Quickening gave him the edge over Pierce, especially since he was filled with red-hot fury. Before long, he had beaten Margaret back, and with little fanfare, Methos unceremoniously cut off her head.

Like Craig Kallman, Margaret Pierce was dead and another Quickening battered Methos to the ground.

Her Quickening was considerably shorter and less powerful and the moment he was released, Methos ran to Michael. The pragmatist in him told him that it was too late, that there was no way Michael could have survived the thrust Methos had seen him sustain. The lover in him refused to believe it was over.

Going onto his knees beside Michael, Methos saw the great damage caused by Margaret's sword. At Methos's gentle touch, Michael's eyes fluttered open.

"Thank the gods," Methos muttered. "Stay still, sweetheart, don't move. Let me take a look here."

Michael's movements were feeble as he stopped Methos's probing hand. "It's too--late, Methos," he whispered. "There's--too much--damage. It's too late--."

"No!" Methos cried. "It's not too late. It can't be!"

Michael smiled weakly. The sight of Michael's pain-filled face softening into a smile caught at Methos's throat and brought tears to his eyes.

"I'm sorry I couldn't--beat her, Methos," Michael panted. "I--kept her--off you, but I--couldn't--finish--her--off."

"It's okay, my love. I finished her for you." Bitterness filled Methos as he gathered his dying lover into his arms. "But I wish her Quickening was wasted."

"Shhhh." Michael reached up to stroke Methos's cheek with a gentle touch. "Take--the power. Use it to survive--."

"Come on, Michael, stay with me. Don't leave yet. It's not enough time--." Anguish clogged Methos's voice, choking off his words.

Michael's hand dropped weakly from Methos's face, but not before he had felt the dampness on Methos's cheek.

"I--can't--believe it," he whispered hoarsely. "You do--cry."

"Michael?" It was a sob.

"I love--you, Methos. I'll always--love you."

Methos pulled Michael closer. "I love you, too, Michael," he whispered into his ear. "And I'll always love you."

Michael smiled again and let his head fall against Methos's chest. Suddenly his eyes popped open and he lifted his head weakly.

"Methos!"

"I'm here, Michael."

"Methos, add me--to your--collection."

"My collection?"

"The pictures--photographs--daguerreo--types. I want--to be--part of--it."

A fresh wave of tears surged up in Methos. "You're already there, my love."

"Good. Good--." His words trailed off.

Holding Michael in his arms, cradling his head against his chest, Methos knew the precise moment Michael stopped breathing.

For a bare moment, Methos was protected by disbelief. Then reality came crashing in and with an anguished cry, Methos buried his head in the hollow of Michael's neck.

With huge gasping sobs, the tears came and Methos rocked back and forth on his hilltop, clinging to his dead lover. Darkness engulfed him and his world shattered, leaving him defenseless, naked and alone. Bitterness lodged in his throat and ashes filled his mouth. No matter how much he wept, he tasted only bitterness and ashes.

Michael was gone. The beautiful, sexy DJ, arms swinging above his head as he danced, who embraced everything life had to offer, was gone forever, and there was nothing he could do about it. For the first time in hundreds and hundreds of years, Methos's life felt barren, stretching out before him bleak and desolate.

For a long time Methos cried, holding Michael as his body cooled, sobbing bitterly at the thought of the final tasks he had to do.

He couldn't move until he had stopped crying, and by then, he was completely hollow, drained of all emotion, and empty.

**************************

Duncan MacLeod and Amanda watched Robert Brown walk down the hill. Robert had given the house a wide berth as if loath to go near it. He had not gone back to the house for something to eat, instead staying by Michael's grave until it was time to leave. Duncan sighed when the glint of Robert's graying blond hair disappeared into the woods that ringed the top of the hill.

Methos had called Robert as Jesse Williams to let him know that Michael was dead. He was banking on the fact that news of a car accident in Eastern Europe wouldn't have found its way to Pittsburgh. He was right. Robert had accepted the caller as Jesse without question. He was suspicious, however.

Methos told Robert everything he needed to know about the funeral and burial details, but he didn't tell Robert very much about how Michael had died. Robert clearly got the feeling that Michael had been murdered somehow and that Jesse was probably part of the reason. Robert was relieved when Jesse didn't show up at the funeral.

Methos had made all the arrangements, including the burial near the huge oak in the middle of the meadow at the top of his hill. It was pretty clear to Duncan why Methos didn't show up. Robert had known Jesse 25 years ago, and Jesse was unchanged in that time. Duncan and Amada were strangers to him, and who was going to question such young friends when one was in such grief?

Robert was out of sight, and Duncan didn't wait for him to reappear out of the bottom of the woods only to disappear into the many developments that filled the hill below the woods. He turned back to the tree, walking over to the freshly turned dirt of Michael's grave.

"He wanted to bury Jackie here."

"What?" Amanda was still watching the woods where Robert had disappeared.

"Methos wanted to bury Jackie here when she died."

"Jackie was--?" Amanda asked, coming to stand next to Duncan.

"Jacqueline. Michael was Jackie reincarnated."

"If you believe that stuff."

"Yeah," Duncan answered slowly, "if you believe that stuff."

Amanda tilted her head up, regarding Duncan thoughtfully. "So, why didn't he?"

"Hmmm?"

"Why didn't he bury Jackie here?"

"The town wouldn't let him."

Amanda looked around. "Changed their minds this time, eh?"

"I guess by owning all this land and these woods, Methos is considered pretty powerful around here. Maybe they just decided to let him do whatever he wanted."

"Why didn't he come?"

"Robert was coming."

"Good reason not to come to the funeral. Why isn't he even in New York?"

"He couldn't take it. He's a wreck. He thinks it's his fault Michael died."

Amanda arched a cynical eyebrow at the tall Scot. "Isn't it?"

"Amanda!"

"Come on, Duncan! Those two wereafter Methos, after all. They had been after him for hundreds of years and no mere mortal was going to get in their way."

"I know, I know, but it makes it harder to bear."

"Yeah," Amanda said, softening. "Well, I suppose it was Michael's choice. Being withan immortal is as dangerous as beingan immortal, and he had to know that. He had to know the consequences, especially after fighting you."

Duncan looked off into the distance, mulling and brooding over what he knew of Michael's life. "It's so short, their lives, and the end comes so quickly."

Amanda laced an arm through one of Duncan's, drawing close to him. "It always comes too quickly," she murmured.

They were quiet for a long time, looking down at Michael's grave, lost in their own thoughts and memories.

"Do you think he'll be okay?" Amanda finally asked.

"Who, Methos? Sure. It may take some time, but he'll be fine. He always is. He'll be back making us miserable before you know it."

But Duncan was wrong.

He didn't know it then, but Methos had dropped out of sight and out of Duncan's life. He had made all the arrangements for the funeral and the upkeep of the house, but before Michael was buried, Methos disappeared. Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod would not see Methos, or even hear from him, for more than 100 years.

PART 2: FINI

MUSIC NOTES for Part 2: