by Sealie
In the beginning….
‘In the beginning god, or God,
created Adam. Now that’s a joke if I ever heard one. And Methos – Methuselah.
The man has to have a sense of humour, but damn it’s on the sharp side of
sarcastic.’
“Methos?”
Methos flicked his hand out in the universal sign
‘shut up’.
~*~
Methos sauntered along at his side, his hands
plunged deep in his pockets.
“What do you see in that stuff?”
Methos glanced at him sideway through long lashes.
“It’s a game; isn’t it.” Methos pulled his hands
free and waved expansively. “Their world is ephemeral. An image jacked into
their minds. And here and now we’re
bombarded with images, and news and information censored every which way but loose.”
“Please, trust no one.”
“That’s from another television program, isn’t it?”
“Highlander, even you’re not this naïve. Do you
honestly believe that we’re not manipulated from sunrise to sunset, sunset to
sunrise?”
The ancient immortal grinned;
“So what did you think of the film?” he asked
changing the subject.
“I think that it’s a good job we don’t fight like
that.”
“But think--” Methos grinned avariciously, “--you
can chop their heads off so easily when they’re prancing about in slow motion.”
There wasn’t really any answer to that.
~*~
Methos followed him home. They never finished off
Methos’ place. Although
“Beer?”
Methos shook his head and prowled around the loft.
Ignoring him,
“You want to talk about it?”
“About what?” He stopped by the window and peered
out into uptown Seacouver.
“Did the movie bother you?”
“What movie?”
“No. I preferred the first one.”
“Why?”
“Because it was new, exiting, first beginnings --
the second part is just a continuation… endurance,” Methos said in a moment,
Mac realised, of perfect honesty. Methos’ green-brown eyes slide sideways and
were veiled behind long lashes. He huffed, a wry, depreciative huff.
“Endurance?” Mac echoed.
“Yeah, there were no surprises. We know the plot,
we know the way that it will turn out. I think I need to watch a Danish movie:
no happy endings. I saw a good one about a bunch of convicts on an outward
bound course. They killed their warden and then each other.”
‘Okay, he’s
in a strangely reflective mood,’ Mac realised.
“Beginnings are infinitely more preferable,” Methos
mused almost to himself.
‘How many,
new beginnings, first beginnings -- wasn’t that an oxymoron or something? --
has he experienced?’ Mac wondered. Methos sounded tired and disillusioned.
As long as he had known the man, he hadn’t heard that degree of dejection in
the ancient immortal’s voice.
“What about endings?” Macleod heard himself ask.
“Endings are an entirely different kettle of fish,”
Methos answered. “There are always regrets.” Abruptly, he turned on his heel.
“Thanks for the beer.”
Before Mac could blink the ancient immortal had
left the building.
~*~
The Highlander stopped by his apartment a couple of
times, and missed a long weekend when he had to go down to
~*~
On the off chance,
“Methos, I know you’re in there.”
“Announce it to the whole bloody world, Macleod.”
Methos flung open the door. “You’re as bad as Amanda.”
“Who do you think told me how to get in?”
“I’m changing my name.” Methos span away and
flounced back into his apartment.
This wasn’t a sitting room it was a sanctum
sanctorum.
Methos flopped onto his throne.
“To what do I owe this pleasure, Macleod?”
“No reason. Thought I’d drop by. You fancy going
out for something to eat?”
Methos looked him sideways. “What do you think it
is?”
There
was a table beside the chair which was at a level perfect to balance a beer on
but in this case, Duncan could see ceramics, objet d’
arts littered before him like defeated chess pieces. Methos hadn’t moved the
tray; so that they were laid out for the Highlander’s inspection.
Centre
stage stood a pottery beaker. It was roughly made with geometric patterns
embedded in the clay before it was fired. It seemed to be solidly constructed.
“Is
this what I think it is?”
“I
don’t know, what do you think it is?”
“A
‘Beaker’ pot.”
“Hmm,
very good.”
“Is it
yours?” Silence met the question,
Methos retreated into a far corner and crossed his
arms over his narrow chest.
“A trader.”
“A trader?” Duncan echoed, drawing a fingertip down
the side of the ancient vessel.
“Yeah, strange guy. I’d never seen his like before.
Taller than my extended family. The family was small, dark and swarthy. His
hair was brown - shot with grey. It was straight like mine. His skin was the
same as ours: weathered. But his clothes were unbelievable. I know now that
they were woven on a loom.”
“How
long have you had it?”
“Four thousand years give or take a century or two
or three.”
“What?”
“Please,” Methos drawled, in a heartbeat he was
across the room and had snatched the beaker -- gently -- from
His hands moved over the pottery lovingly.
“I suppose that you were five hundred years old
when you got that pot?”
“Give the man a cigar,” Methos said snidely.
‘Imagine
being on the Earth when the Beaker People roamed. Imagine being on the Earth
when
Methos waited patiently for
Then
Methos plucked it from the table with long fingers.
“No. My father did.”
“Oh?” Methos flopped back onto his chair. “I lied.”
“What!”
“Kidding.” Methos’ hazel eyes filled with amused
cynicism.
“So where did you get it from? It’s obviously
important to you. All this stuff is. Where did the arrow head come from?”
“It was on a
thong around my neck, when I took my first quickening.”
“It’s the same age as you?”
“Or older.”
“You could carbon-date it.”
“Even if I could carbon date flint what would that
prove? I could have found it lying in a stream when it had been lost for
hundreds of years.”
Oh. There wasn’t really an answer to that. “Aren’t
you interested?”
“In my age?”
“Yes.”
Methos flicked the arrowhead, juggling it over his
fingers. As the sharp edge nicked his skin, quickening lightning flashed in the
cuts. “No.”
It wasn’t accurate to say that Methos was lying,
but it wasn’t the whole truth, but
“I guess you’re five thousand and five. I have
known you for a few years.”
Methos smirked.
“How long have you been five thousand years old?”
“For one year,” Methos said puckishly.
“I’m sure that you could put it to music: five
thousand, four hundred and twenty eight years on the wall…” he said singsong.
“You didn’t answer the question.”
“There was no calendar, Macleod. Five thousand is
and always has been an estimate.”
“Which brings me back to my original question: How
long have you been five thousand years old?”
Methos’ eyes meandered up to the right, and he
muttered under his breath as he counted on his fingers. “Getting on… about…. Uhm… must be… about… one thousand years.”
“You’re six thousand years old? Six thousand?”
Methos’ arrowhead continued to dance frenetically
over his fingers; he was as frustrated as
Now
“Happy Birthday, Methos.”
~*~
“Everything comes to those who wait,” Methos said
reflectively, a thousand years later.
Finis