by Margaret
29th March 2001
Disclaimer: Not mine, no profit, no harm.
Rated: PG-13 for implied m/m
Pairing: Duncan/Methos
Notes: It fit my mood Summary: Sometimes how you play the game isn't as important
as winning and sometimes even that isn't enough.
The sky was dark, for all it was only mid-afternoon. Heavy, brooding storm clouds reached from horizon to horizon, unmoving despite the warm wind that heralded the coming storm. The breeze was thick with the sweet, metallic taste of blood and lightning as it pooled and eddied in the tree-shaded hollow. And when it coiled and moved on again, python-slow, it carried with it the sounds of sorrow. The Gathering had come. And gone.
Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod dropped to his knees on the blood-drenched grass and wept.
Inarticulate sounds of pain and loss escaped his throat; he couldn't stop them, he didn't even try - there was no point. Everyone was dead; his friends, his enemies, complete strangers that might have been either in time. All killed by one another under the drive of the Gathering, but ultimately killed by him. Amanda was gone, Warren was gone, Robert and Gina... everyone, without regard for age or sex or accomplishments. An entire race wiped out in a single day of bloody murder. Methos...
The sound that escaped Duncan's throat then was unrecognisable even to him, as ragged and torn as the bodies that littered the grass around him. It was the cry of a shattered heart, broken beyond mending, of a lost child or a halved soul. It was *pain*.
The Ancient Immortal had never made it to the final battlefield, contrary to all of the Highlander's expectations. He must have fallen in one of the many skirmishes of the preceding months and Duncan had never known - that cut deepest of all. He had never had the chance to say goodbye, never found the courage to tell his friend how very much he meant to the Highlander, never been able to admit how comfortable and safe Duncan had felt in his company, even when he had seen the man's past and knew he shouldn't be.
The Highlander's only comfort lay in the fact that, though he had never known it at the time, he must have slain Methos' murderer. The desperate flicker of hope sent Duncan reaching deep inside himself, into the maelstrom of the Quickenings he had so recently taken, searching for just a glimmer of his friend's essence. Surely 5,000 years of power could not be subsumed so quickly and completely.
There was nothing. Nothing, but the echoing hollowness of his own heart. Nothing at all.
As if that were the last straw, the katana slipped from the Highlander's nerveless fingers and he curled forward under the weight of that crippling sorrow. On his knees, face pressed to the blood and tear-soaked earth, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod yearned for oblivion.
"I wouldn't recommend it," the words reached him at the same time as the sense of Presence, blessedly free of the murderous pull of the Gathering. The casual words would not even have penetrated the numbing cocoon of his pain had the voice not been so achingly, impossibly familiar. Duncan raised his tear-ravaged face to see the black-clad spectre hovering on the edge of the carnage like some graveyard raven. Hands hidden deep in the pockets of the long coat, the pale, angular face was the only really visible part of the Immortal.
"Methos?" Duncan's voice was choked with tears and hoarse from his screams.
The Eldest smiled, a beautifully familiar smile and Duncan felt his heart clench at the sight, all the more powerful for being so unexpected. "How?" he managed, disbelief warring with a soul deep certainty.
"This isn't the first Gathering, Highlander."
Duncan squinted at the words, as Methos began to carefully pick his way across the corpse-strewn hollow. His exhausted and overloaded brain tried to make sense of the odd statement, but it quickly abandoned the pursuit and left him staring blankly at his friend. Methos snorted softly as he reached the Highlander's side, as if he should have known better than to expect clarity of thought at a time like this. He dropped into a crouch in front of the Highlander and unslung a small pack from his shoulder, retrieving a bottle of water and a cloth from its depths. The hazel eyes were compassionate when they finally met Duncan's confused gaze from only a few feet away.
"Five thousand years ago or thereabouts, the Gathering took place near a small oasis in what is now Egypt." As he spoke Methos dampened the cloth and reached up with his empty hand to gently brush the tangled, sweat-soaked hair from the Highlander's face.
Duncan found himself turning into the hand, wanting to prolong the light touch. Methos' thumb brushed gently over the drying tear tracks on the Highlander's cheek. There was a strange look of detached sadness in the green eyes then as Methos raised the cloth and began to slowly and carefully wipe away all the reminders of the day's tragedy. Blood, sweat, dirt and tears, all gave way to the Ancient's determined care.
"The winner had survived every Challenge thrown his way, but he was nearly destroyed by the aftermath. Kneeling on the red-washed sands he was horrified by what he had done. So many lives had been lost for so little reason; his friends, his enemies, every single one of his kind. He couldn't bear it - the thought that he alone would live forever with nothing but the faces of those he had lost for company."
Duncan was mesmerised by the quiet, calm voice and the soft touches of the cloth to his skin. He found himself watching the slight changes in expression and tone of voice as Methos spoke, even as the Ancient focused on the work of his hands.
"So he wished for oblivion, for the pain of the loss to go away."
For the barest instant, green eyes flickered up to meet Duncan's brown and there was a wealth of understanding in their depths. Duncan felt the pain in his heart ease just a little because of that look, but before he could respond, Methos was concentrating on his hands again.
"The Prize gave him his wish. He forgot his friends, forgot his enemies, forgot everything of his life before, forgot that there had ever been anything to miss. Until all he had was the knowledge of the Prize and that last stroke of his blade."
Duncan felt a dawning horror surface in his tired brain as it finally made the connections it had been patiently led to. "Methos?" he rasped hesitantly, ignoring the stilling of the cloth as he reached out to touch his friend's pale face.
Methos' downcast eyes rose to meet Duncan's gaze, open and unguarded, an ages-old regret visible in their liquid depths. The hand holding the cloth dropped and Methos simply met Duncan's eyes across the small distance separating them.
"Running from the pain means running from all the good memories too, Duncan. It's too high a price to pay." There was such unadorned honesty in that voice.
Duncan opened his mouth, not quite sure what he was going to say, "Methos..." His voice croaked and vanished as his abused throat finally gave up. His effort was rewarded with a wan smile though and Methos reached up to stroke long fingers through the Highlander's tangled mane.
"For what it's worth, the next time the Gathering comes, it won't affect you. You'll feel the pull, but you'll be able to ignore it." Methos' expression remained calm and serious as he spoke, "You've stepped outside the Game now, Highlander - your life, from here on, is up to you."
Duncan was speechless for all that his voice had returned. His Immortality had finally become the gift it should have been... and all it had cost him were the lives of everyone he held dear... or not quite. The loss of so many loved ones made the prospect of forever almost too painful to contemplate, but... surely it would be easier to bear if he weren't alone.
"I won't be alone though, will I?" Duncan had to ask.
His blurted question earned a small, gentle smile from his friend, "Not if you don't want to be, Duncan." And the Highlander knew with a certainty that his ancient friend wasn't referring to any gift the Prize would bestow. If he had never been sure of his friend's heart before, he was now.
Duncan slowly wrapped his hand around Methos' and raised the slender appendage to his lips. Brushing his lips over his friend's knuckles, Duncan raised his eyes to Methos'. "Thank you," he murmured softly, meaning it for every care the Ancient had ever shown him and the generous spirit that had most recently spared him from lasting regret. He watched as Methos' fair skin flushed and the chameleon eyes darkened with unmistakable emotion.
"You're very welcome, Duncan," came the almost breathless reply as if Methos had been caught off-guard by the strength of his own emotions. Or he couldn't *quite* believe his very good fortune.
Duncan found himself smiling at the vaguely flustered expression before he leaned in and kissed the slightly-parted lips in confirmation and reassurance. Methos' long arms wrapped around his shoulders, holding tight, and the kiss deepened, heedless of the mud, the blood or the rain that had begun to fall.
Lightning crackled overhead and Duncan could feel its echoes within his body, the Prize still waiting to be used. But he knew now to be wary of its power, knew its gift could be a double-edged blade as deadly as any he had faced during the day. He pulled slightly away from Methos, but not far, close enough still to hold and be held by his soon-to-be lover. Duncan looked up into the storm-darkened sky and then returned his focus to his friend. "What should I...?" he asked quietly.
Methos' expression turned fond, "I don't know Duncan, it's your wish. I only wanted you to know the dangers."
Duncan looked at his friend again and smiled; the heavy raindrops were plastering the spiky hair down and running down the long neck, but in the tawny depths of Methos' eyes Duncan could see all the love the Ancient had kept so carefully guarded before. His for the asking, and maybe even long before that.
He shook his head when Methos' gaze turned curious under the extended study. Only one thought had presented itself to the Highlander's tired mind and he didn't need the Prize for that. Duncan tightened his arms around the surprising solidity of Methos' lean frame and pulled him closer, enjoying the warmth of his friend's body as he felt the unsettling energy of the Prize finally dissipate back into the earth and air to await the next victor. Methos twisted in his arms, not to escape, but to see his face better, and it occurred to Duncan that the Ancient had felt him give up the Prize.
Duncan met the curious eyes with a smile and gently kissed the lips so close, feeling Methos' surprised pleasure as he answered the unspoken question, "I already have everything I could possibly wish for, right here."
From quiet homes and first beginning, 'Dedicatory Ode' - Hilaire Belloc
Finis.
Out to the undiscovered ends,
There's nothing worth the wear of winning,
But laughter and the love of friends.