by Westwind
July 2003
Winter 2061 ~ decimated
January 1, 2061
the cat sits smiling
while the sun ineffably
paints her fur with light
There, Lily. That's a poem about you! As long as she gets to see Duncan and Maggie, she's content. The most placid cat, she looks at me now with her eyes slightly crossed and nothing on her mind--except food.
A dealer offered me some black walnut that was perfectly seasoned; he said it came from over a hundred miles south, a distance we would have covered in a couple of hours BP, but he spoke of it as if it were Far Cathay--something unbearably exotic.
I asked him about the lay of the land, but at first he didn't want to talk about it, afraid of lumber thieves, maybe. He told me about the countryside, emptied of people, flat land with lines of flat-topped hills leading hither and yon (in fact, a dissected peneplain). And about the highway that runs southeast to northwest, meandering across the landscape.
I'm not quite old enough to remember the original plain. The land has risen a couple of hundred feet, leaving the streams to cut through it as they would. A soft limestone, full of ammonites, once I found a pile of flint debris from Indian activity in the middle of an ammonite fossil as big around as a cartwheel.
I yearn to go south and see the land again, see the people, see the changes. But I think we need to go west, to Duncan's island. Lily wouldn't do well on the kind of walkabout I'm thinking of.
Since we don't talk about so many things, I haven't talked to Duncan about this, of course. My reluctance to discuss the Horseman (I don't know why Silas is so much on my mind, but he is.), to share some of the details of my life before and after the Horseman--I don't know; I just can't talk about it. I trust Duncan; I do.
A snowstorm came through last night icy white at the turning of the year
Today is the beginning of a new year, 2061 AD; it has been fifty-two years since the plague. It snowed last night and left everything white. It won't last long; Dallas's weather is so fickle--twenty degrees one week, sixty degrees the next. I'm going out in it, though I don't know why. Is the river frozen? Maybe I'll go see Duncan. And go take a look on the way.
Though I was so sure, it's just possible that it wasn't Duncan doing the hunting; he says no and has continued to deny it vehemently. All I've seen of the kills, after all, is the decapitated bodies--which I buried. I'll try to work the subject into the conversation. Right! And I'll teach the cats to like to swim in my spare time.
January 3, 2061
god damned poetry it controls the meter of life and love and fire
Imago, that's what they called us during Roman times--ghost (among other meanings). We had slipped in among the people but were not of them because we would not die--plague, wounds, poisons, accidents--anything except decapitation.
Putting the journal down, Methos dropped his pen on top of it. He knew what had to be done--get Duncan out of Dallas. Methos sighed. So much of his capital was in wood. Who knew that his furniture would become so popular? Going westward would involve some hardship unless he could convert some of it to cash. There was more bullion in New Orleans, but it would be very difficult to go back. He considered various scenarios but couldn't come up with one he liked, much less one he thought would actually work.
With the sun setting, the whole sky was aflame with light. Getting up and walking out on the patio, Methos looked up at the sky. How many times had he stood like this and watched the transition from day to night? There had been 1,820,000 days (approximately)--of course, one couldn't count the times it was raining and the sun wasn't visible. And there were the times when he just didn't look, leaving out when he had been a prisoner and couldn't see the sun. He sat on the rickety bench slouching against the wall of the building. Immure, immolate, immobile, immense, immaculate, immanent, immutable, immortal--English had became such a facile language.
Methos slouched down further and yawned. The coming dark had put an end to his workday. Everything was inside the shop now, covered over or put up. He yawned again. He wasn't very hungry, but he thought he would take a nap before he fixed some supper.
January 21, 2061
cold and gray and why did I get out of bed; I'm so lonely without you
That went well; he didn't believe me. I've got so much to do, and now I have to hold his hand. I didn't mean that the way it came out. If it comes to that, we'll just pick up and go--just the cats, and a couple of horses, and us. Only I don't know if Duncan will go willingly. And I haven't talked to him about going. Secretive, thy name is Methos.
Duncan is coming over tonight; I'll keep him occupied and make him sleep. That means that I have until about five o'clock to work. I've got to arrange the sale of all the rest of my wood, sell the finished furniture, buy horses, buy provisions, arrange for the cats, et cetera, et cetera, et cetera. And I've got to decide what to feed Duncan and find time to go the market. Sigh.
Oh shit! This is all going wrong. I fell asleep and Duncan didn't wake me up. It's well after midnight, and he was here; I know it.
I didn't consider the effect of putting a for sale sign on some of the wood I'd had seasoning. Duncan now is convinced I'm leaving him. I didn't know he was watching me that closely. Shit. I figured I had about a month; now I've got to do everything in a week. I'll tell him I am just going to move out of town--to a more rural setting. Shit, shit, shit!
And what makes me think that I have to kidnap him. That could just be a worry of my own; maybe I need to say something to him. We don't talk about hunting anymore; it's too touchy a subject. I'm afraid...
February 1, 2061
the hunter walks the night his belt full of stars his sword sharp and clearb
Last year the hammer blows of one hundred degree heat, day after day, made the nights seem much cooler. If nothing else we needed to go somewhere with a more equable climate. An afternoon shower left it almost hot; who knows what the night will bring.
Walking along the greenbelt of the Trinity River, Methos looked up at the night sky. The hunter had been out earlier, but now the clouds chased each other across the sky, obscuring the stars. It was a warm night for February, but the clouds meant rain about midnight. The paper had mentioned sleet for tomorrow.
There were a few Immortals, living ordinary lives, in Dallas; but hunters were plentiful. Drifting through, going any direction, they were opportunists. Methos knew all the tricks; he had been a hunter, too. He had told Duncan that this was not the Gathering, not yet; maybe it would never be.
There it was--the tickle of a Quickening. He stopped and cocked his head; it felt like it was off to the right. He swung off that way and came to a stop beside a giant oak. Hidden by deep shadow, Methos could see in the distance a lone figure sparring with a sapling in the pool of light cast by a gaslight. He was about to leave, when a compulsion made him step out into the open. The hunter let the sapling go and turned to Methos who said, "I challenge you!" He was not surprised that he said it; something older, more feral, was coming out. Pulling his 'Adam Pierson, beloved geek' persona firmly into place, he began to circle with his sword held awkwardly in one hand. He managed to parry every attack that his opponent launched but just barely.
The hunter was good--maybe a couple of hundred years old--but he wasn't going to beat Death. Then Methos stumbled on the exposed roots of an oak tree. The hunter sent a deadly two-handed stroke right at his neck that just missed. Regaining his feet, he let go of Adam and embraced Death in one galvanic jump. Completely on the defensive, the terrified hunter began to back away, seeing something deadly, cold, and lethal in his eyes.
Another presence made itself felt. "Duncan, this one is mine." With a grin on his face, Methos cut his opponent again and again--a slash to the shoulder, then two quick jabs to the thigh. A seemingly wild turn, then on the way back, he opened up his belly.
Realizing that the hunter was trying to escape by gradually moving toward the river, Methos moved around him to herd him back. Duncan MacLeod drew his katana and stepped into the circle of light given off by the gaslight.
"The rules. The rules! One at a time." Methos sounded like someone else.
"Methos, end it."
The hunter hissed. "Methos!"
Methos struck. And the hunter's head rolled to a stop at Duncan's feet. The Quickening was immense; the hunter had been very busy. But the thunderstorm that broke over their heads made it look puny. The lightening from the Quickening was dwarfed by the strikes from the storm that crashed down with a fury. The actinic smell was strong enough not even the flooding rain could dissipate it.
In the middle of the storm, Methos was prostrate with Duncan hovering near him. When the Quickening subsided, Duncan moved to cover him, to try and warm him. "Silas. Silas." And Methos began to weep. Duncan got him to his feet and started home. Methos was silent all the way.
When they got to the door, Methos was walking without help but still looked dazed. Duncan opened the door and started to go in, but Methos remained outside. "Come in. Let's get you dry and warm."
"It was me, wasn't it. I was the one hunting" He seemed to shrink as he said it. "When I thought I was napping, I was hunting." Methos was appalled.
"It wasn't me. I told you it wasn't. Over the last few months I've come to realize what you were doing."
"You followed me." It really was a statement not a question. "A week ago when I thought I had slept through dinner--"
"Only for the last month. I wanted you to see me, to take me the way you took the ones that you found after the Quickening. What you did--it made me want you so much. Has this happened before?"
Methos stood with his head down, shaken periodically by tremors. "Yes." He was beyond answering anything, especially not the questions that Duncan would want answered. His mind was mostly empty, just one thing flickered--his need for a warm body (cold ones had lost their savor long ago), his need to take with no restraint for mortal frailties. The crashing waves of the Quickening plus the revelation that his traitorous mind had brought him to the limits of his self control left him befuddled. Methos raised his head and looked at Duncan.
Duncan stood in the moment of reaching out. He read Methos's need, caught his arm, and brought him inside before could turn and leave. "Come in. I know what you--mmphf." Methos was kissing Duncan with a frightening hunger.
Struggling to stay sane, Methos concentrated on one thing--not doing any real damage to Duncan. Looking ancient, he still was wet from the rain, his eyes dominating a face gone white in the low light from inside the house; it threw deep shadows under his cheekbones and chin. Methos looked at Duncan, and there was little of the rational left in him. Duncan turned and locked and barred the door; at least they would not be interrupted until this was finished.
Pulling Methos to him, he began to cover Methos's neck with bites while pulling off their coats at the same time. But Methos was having none of it. He pulled away and backed Duncan up to the couch. As he went down, Methos tore Duncan's shirt off in a shower of buttons with his own following.
They wrestled to remove boots, jeans, long underwear, and at the same time took and received kisses, nips, bites, scratches. With a growl of impatience, a snarl of frustration, Methos seized Duncan, and dragged him up, and turned him around; Methos had just enough control to spit. Then Methos was driving toward the center, without mercy, without tenderness. This was about need, not love.
The bolts of the Quickening had cleaved a way for the lightening of sex; Methos didn't know he was screaming, and it didn't last long. Methos was holding Duncan's shoulders and pulling him back to meet his inward stroke. The sudden explosion of orgasm sent Methos spinning off into unconsciousness.
As Methos came to himself, he turned his head into his arms and cried, for the beloved dead, Silas, only a little bit for Kronos, and not at all for Caspian, who should have been dead long ago. Why couldn't he let the past go? He cried for everything he had done, and for everything he would do to survive. Because for months he had not known that he had been doing this.
Duncan was now collapsed over the corner of the couch, completely winded. When he realized that Methos was crying again, Duncan rolled over and put his arm around him. "Shh, shh. I'm here." Some of the tension went out of Methos body. He caught Duncan and drew him down to the floor.
March 2, 2061
alas my brother why did i call you to me i spoke and you died
I killed Silas. No amount of talking would convince him that everything around him had changed. He remained, always, Kronos's creature. I didn't want to kill him, but he wouldn't listen.
Silas had told me once that the prettiest thing he had ever seen was a rainbow over the heads of a herd of mares and foals. And yet that was the herd that Silas had slaughtered with his own hands during the winter that had had no end. Remembering the Santorini eruption, I never doubted that a volcano had let go and caused the bitterly cold weather.
He had a real love for animals--horses, wild cats, and thin dogs, an antelope baby or a bear cub, the little soft ones of the forest floor (mice, voles, shrews, moles). He was always running some kind of hospital for them. But when Kronos said "kill them all, and come with me," Silas did just that.
He had been Kronos's creature. Silas had said "I don't like this killing from a distance." He had liked to feel that crazy ax cleave flesh. It had been a terrible weapon; it hadn't been balanced for him. I had beaten him in sparring enough that I had been sure I could beat him in combat; just keep him moving and keep dodging until he started to tire.
"For two thousand years I've dreamed of the day when we would ride again." The Four Maniacs of the Apocalypse doesn't have quite the ring of the original; a shaped nuclear charge mounted on a cruise missile--just one, right in the nose. "We live, we grow stronger, we fight." Shut up, Methos. Shut up.
When he had asked, "How can you go against what you are?" I had an epiphany. I had changed, and he, Caspian, and Kronos had, fundamentally, not. They wanted what had been. I had to get out of this if I could. My solution left me crying on the floor of the submarine base, crying from grief for Kronos and Silas--and from relief.
I, too, was Kronos's creature. I will never get over it--not if I live another five thousand years. Everything in the past two thousand years has been an expiation. Well, almost everything.
Finis.