Title: Eyes
Author: Juxian Tang
Fandom: Highlander
Pairing: M/o
Rating: NC-17
Status: complete
Archive: yes
Feedback: juxiantang@hotmail.com
URL: http://internetdump.com/users/juxian/fiction.html
Spoilers and timing: some time after Not
To Be
Disclaimer: They are not mine. You know
whose they are! No infringement of copyright is intended.
Warning: rape, extreme torture
Summary: How much can Methos really take?
Comments: flames are not accepted, period.
This story is for Blue
EYES
by Juxian Tang
He came back with a familiar jolt that
arched his chest and made his head fall back. The movement was so restricted
that became barely perceptible. His limbs were stretched so wide apart and the
cuffs on them so tight that he hardly could move an inch. He slumped
exhaustedly, feeling the warm trickles of blood tracing his skin on his wrists
under the irons. There was almost no pain. This kind of pain was imperceptible
compared to the agony that he felt before escaping to death last time. And now
he was back and everything had to start again. He knew it; there was nothing he
could do with it.
He sensed the movement - and even though
he expected it and had to be ready, his heart still sank. Why now? Why so soon?
Did he really ask? He had to know better. He had to learn to seal himself from
pain, from fear - how didn't he come to develop this most necessary ability for
all his life - not that he didn't have enough time for it? Well, perhaps once
he had been able to do it - he didn't remember exactly. But years, hundreds
years, passed since he needed it - and he lost it. Maybe, it wouldn't work
anyway - because the man who prepared to start everything all over again was so
skilled and enthusiastic that it was impossible to fight him this way.
There were so many ways to hurt - he
didn't have protection against all of them. He could switch off his mind from
wearing-out cold - or from the thirst that made his lips cracked and raw. What
was constant could be got used to. But not the outbursts of pain that came inevitably
but unexpectedly, always different but always high-pitched agony.
He felt the icy sharpness of the knife
against his forearm - and a short nick that was not pain itself but the
foreplay, the obligatory detail before the start. As always, the penetration of
the thin tube into his vein made him sick - and the man noticed it, nothing
escaped his eyes. The in and out motions of the tube were almost a parody of
fucking - until he started tossing his head from side to side in torment. He
didn't make a sound, pressing his lips until they felt numb - but his breath
became labored - and the man got satisfied briefly with his victory in this
tiny struggle, just one step in their everyday sessions, every day in the
unnumbered string of days.
The man fixed the tube carefully before
belting him on his face twice. The blows were stunning rather than stinging and
he let his head dangle. It was a small thing, too, easy to ignore. Then there
were fingers digging into his eyes, raising his lids forcibly, rudely. The light
was above him, as he knew it would be. It hurt to look at the light, even
though it seemed to be not so blinding as before. Not because it was dimmed
actually - but because of how he saw it. In fact, he couldn't even see the lamp
any more, just the cloudy ball of bright. The same as the face of the man when
he leant over him was a shape of darkness.
"Welcome back to the party," the
voice hissed over him. Surely. He was always back. He listened to the small
purling sound his blood made running through the tube and wondered how long it
was going to take this time until his body would lose enough blood to give up
and let him go again. And how much time it was going to be for the man to do
what he wanted. Always too much, it was.
The dark oval of the face plunged down to
him, the lips covering his lips, the tongue tasting blood in his mouth - while
the hand slid smoothly towards his groin, so warm on his icy skin, the palm
cupping around his balls. It could almost stand for a caress - but he knew it
never continued to be a caress long enough to mess up his mind. The man didn't
go after it - he had lots of means and lots of time at his disposal to mess up
his mind without the classic alternation of cruel and kind.
He made a distressed sound when the hand
around his genitals clenched and turned, the twist so savage that something
seemed to give way there. It could cripple anyone else - but not him, of
course. That was the thing about him that the man had to find delightful: that
he could repeat it on him as many times as he wished - and even when he died,
it was not for long.
The same agonizing jerk of his genitals
was the first thing he felt when he came round in this position on the concrete
floor in the secluded basement for the first time. The man had hurt him before
that, killing him twice - but somehow this moment was what marked for him the
passage to the nether world where he had been since then. He would call it hell
- but he never exactly believed it hell. What was the point of it when it was
so easy and possible to make suffer alive? One thing did match, however - the
endlessness. There was no any stop to it - and no anything he could do to stop
it. No escape.
He even didn't know how many days passed
since that evening. It was the evening when Mac had his tickets to the opera -
and they parted some hours ago; coolly and lightly, as usual. It seemed that
they felt easier when parting than when meeting, it came to his mind then - and
how long was it going to take for their relief of not seeing each other to become
so apparent that it wouldn't be worth straining? An unpleasant thought - and,
maybe, because of it he was at this bar looking at the bottle of beer in front
of him as if it was the only thing he wanted to see in the world.
Well, he knew it was possible to live
having Mac in his life as a former friend turned an acquaintance. It would be
even possible to live without Mac at all. But he also knew, no matter how
peevish this thought made him, that he missed what was gone between them. He
missed Mac's expectations, taking for granted that he would participate in
Mac's crazy projects, his annoyance when he supposed that Methos failed him in
something and his indulging irony towards his lesser flaws - everything that
made Mac caring, made him warm.
He wished he could do something - wished
there was something to do. But the things like that - oh he wouldn't even be
able to pin them with the words, still less to mend.
He had the second bottle when somebody
walked past his place and dropped something in front of him. It happened so
quickly that when he looked back to see who it was, there was not even a shadow
moving, everybody in the bar apparently into their own business. He looked at
the thing lying on the warm polished wood in front of him, realizing slowly what
it was.
Mac's hair clip. The diamond-shaped one,
heavy silver - he knew it very well, okay, he knew all his clips, there was
time when he used to dig through them in Mac's inlaid box occasionally when
being on the barge - amused with Mac's taste. This one was clicked around a
piece of paper - he unfolded it, blue ink letters on white. "I have
him."
He was stunned. The feeling was so
overwhelming that he was not quite himself. He got up without thinking, glanced
around, hoping absurdly that he would see the one who sent it - and that it
would turn out to be an innocent joke. He even didn't recall for how long Mac
didn't wear his hair long any more.
He walked out of the bar hastily, to the
telephone box, dialed Mac's number. The answering machine switched on as he
stared painfully at his watch, trying to figure out the time. Too late for the
opera, right?
"Mac," he let his voice sound as
worried as he felt, "Mac, come on, take it!"
And that was when he heard a short clap -
and a sting in his chest made him gasp. With somehow amazed eyes he looked at
the neat hole in the glass wall of the box, knowing what it meant, knowing what
the hot pain spreading in his chest meant - but already unable to do anything.
The bullet went right into his heart and his feet let him down at the same time
when his eyes glazed.
The shot was lethal but easy to heal and
he was back at the moment when his body was heaved into the truck of the car.
The one who had shot him was ready to it. Methos saw the flick of the knife
even before he could see the face - and now it was worse, blood filling his
mouth as the blade shredded his lung. There was only one thought before he died
- he didn't feel the buzz. Whoever it was - it was not an Immortal.
Mac… There were not many bright things
since then - but one thing he certainly appreciated. "I have him" was
a lie. Perhaps it was used to lure him out of the bar - but he rather thought
that it was just one more twist of sadistic mind of his captor. The man was
artistic in using the things - big things, small things, pain, threat, fear -
everything worked. Perhaps it had been done purely to enjoy his wild look when
he had got this note.
And while the man didn't have Mac, he had
Methos all right, didn't he?
He probably left the knife in the wound
for a while - in any case, this time Methos revived only when everything was in
order. There was the familiar searing pain in his chest as the air filled his
lungs - and he jerked, coughing and gasping for breath. The revival was never
painless - but this time it changed with an immediate shot of pain that passed
through him - new pain, not the residual one - from his groin. Bad enough to
make him hiss and thrash.
The hand mauling his genitals didn't let
him go, squeezing stronger, wrenching and pulling - the pain hot as fire -
until he felt something tearing there with a new splash of liquid flame.
"No, no, not yet!" the voice
over him spoke tonelessly. He was backhanded on his face, slowly but heavily,
after his eyes had rolled up. "I didn't even start!"
This voice. He came to know it so well -
it's expressionless, robot-like sound, unrevealing anything of the hatred the
man had to have boiling inside him. The voice that was so inhumanly tranquil
that it seemed to sound right in his brain.
When his vision cleared he saw the dirty
ceiling above him - the white bright lamp - the sight that didn't change for
him since then even for a moment - however, now he couldn't see the ceiling
itself, only the lamp: it didn't improve his sight what the man was making to
his eyes. Nothing changed since then: at that moment the man set the pattern,
letting Methos know how everything was going to be, even though he was yet to
realize it.
His arms and legs were pinned to the floor
with thick iron rings - pulled apart so tightly that his muscles trembled with
tension. Cold hard concrete under him. The man undressed him - he gasped when
realizing it and raised his head excruciatingly, trying to look at himself. He
could see blood smeared on his chest where he had been shot and stabbed. And at
the same moment a fist broke on his face.
"What do you want to see? You will
see when I want it."
It felt as if his nose was smashed and
blood filled his mouth slowly, tasting brackish. The palm was gone from his
throbbing balls and both hands lay around his head, the thumbs digging into his
temples. It was when he saw the face for the first time. The face he had never
seen before.
The cold grey eyes stared in his only for
a moment before the man leant to his face and kissed him on his lips roughly,
the tongue invading his mouth impudently. The man held his face tightly enough
not to let Methos move at all, still less to turn away - and at the first
moment the kiss was so unexpected that he didn't think about turning away. He
tried to push the other's tongue from his mouth, however - and the man didn't
fight him. He stopped kissing and bit his lips instead.
It was a full-force bite, not threatening
but injuring and Methos made a painful sound when the teeth crashed the tissue
of his lower lip, cutting it savagely until there was so much blood drawn that
it trickled on his chin. The man raised his head and spat some of this blood on
his face.
"You'll die here, bitch," the
words were hateful, the voice was measured as always. "But before that
you'll die times and times again."
Methos felt the man pulling up and getting
between his spread legs. The man's mouth was smeared in red but he didn't
appear to notice it. There was this deadly concentration in his face, the one
that kept there through everything he was doing - the one Methos was going to
see for so long, to know it was there even now, when he couldn't see it.
He was strung so tightly on the floor that
the man had to be uncomfortable when sticking the hand under his balls. His
ass-checks were pressed to the floor and the man's hand sought for the opening
in annoyance. He found it eventually - Methos was tense long before it, knowing
what was going to happen and trying to keep shut. He felt the finger stabbing
against his anus, trying to get in - and even though there was possibly more
pain when he resisted than if he yielded, he hated the idea of letting it in.
For God's sake, what was going on? A
complete stranger shot him and cuffed him and beat him and now was going to
rape him - and he even couldn't pin this face to anything, couldn't find any
reason, any justification to what was happening, to the hatred this man was
spilling on him.
Would it be easier if he knew? Hardly -
but like that it made him so unsure and befuddled - his mind jumped in
different directions while the fingers at his opening were tearing him, trying
to enter. He couldn't keep the man out, of course, the fingers were stronger
and more insistent than his clenching muscles - besides, blood made them slick
- and the man didn't care how much blood he was drawing. In fact, the more was
probably the better for him.
Methos felt a finger penetrating him and
he couldn't tighten again the same as before. It felt bad - burning and
twisting inside him. It had been several years since he had sex this way and
his body was not adjusted to the invasion at all. He tossed his head back,
clenching his teeth when the second finger was added. He tried to breathe
through his nose - slowly, quietly - but it didn't help much, he still could
hear rather noisy sound of his broken breath.
Soon there was enough blood to make the
fingers go smoother - and as the man continued to finger-fuck him, he managed
to relax enough to speak:
"You don't have to do it. We can come
to an agreement."
The fingers were yanked out of him
immediately - but he didn't have time to feel relief. He saw the man grabbing
something from the floor and at the next moment a heavy iron rod broke on his
face. He heard the bone crashing, knowing that his jaw was broken. The pain
made him see red but the voice came through the mist all the same.
"Don't speak. Don't ever speak.
Remember it."
The hand grabbed his broken jaw and moved
it cruelly, making him shriek when the shattered fragments grated against each
other.
"I don't want to hear you
speaking," the man repeated as if to make him learn the lesson better. It
was when he got to know real fear. That he could need this lesson. That he was
going to be there long enough to need it.
He always knew about pain that it was easy
to forget. For one thing, it made every new pain of dying sharp and stunning as
if it had never been experienced. For the other thing, it made him overlook
that dying, being dead, was not the worst sometimes. When he had felt the
bullet tearing through his heart, he had been afraid of never getting back,
having his head off. And when it turned out that he had kept it, that the man,
being mortal, probably was not interested in beheading him at all - he was
elated.
Now he had second thoughts about it.
As his jaw was healing, the man adjusted
himself between his legs again, the sound of zipper going down unmistakable and
sickening. Methos' position was not in the most convenient for penetration -
but the man didn't seem to care. He lay down on him, the heavy cock pushing
bluntly under his balls. He shoved with such fierceness that had to hurt
himself significantly - and Methos felt his tissues didn't stand, tearing and
letting go. He pulled his arms wildly, convulsing with pain. But the cuffs
fitted perfectly, clasped very tightly around his wrists - and his jerks only
caused them to bleed.
The head of the cock inside him was
pushing farther, gaining the entrance, stretching him. It felt so hot that it
seemed to be sizzling, his torn anus agonizingly painful. The man grounded his
hips over him, again and again, getting deeper inch by inch - Methos could
hardly believe anybody could be so long. Deceptive feeling, of course, the man
was not longer or thicker than anybody else - but he couldn't help feeling it.
Pain was shooting through his half-healed jaw as he gritted his teeth
desperately, trying not to cry out.
The man stopped at last. Methos felt the
hot breath on his face and opened his pain-misted eyes to meet the stare of
cold grey, cold even in arousal.
"Tight," the man remarked.
"It is the last time when you are tight, bitch. I'll loosen you so much
that you'll take anything up to you. You'll be so loose that you'll shit
yourself without noticing it."
He drove his teeth in the corner of
Methos' mouth brutally, then moved over his face biting, bruising and drawing
blood, down to his neck. Methos thrashed under these bites; it hurt - but even
it hurt probably less than the cock up to his ass when the man started
thrusting. His weight was solid on Methos' chest and just his pelvis worked,
grinding, every thrust excruciatingly deep. Methos knew he was healing only to
be torn again and new blood made the strokes smoother but not less painful.
When the bites became shorter and messier
and the strokes wilder, he knew it was coming to the end. Thanks God - because
he was not sure how he still continued to endure it; his breath was wet labored
gasps and he felt the muscles of his chest and belly contracting shakily, his
limbs quivering despite his injured wrists and ankles. The man locked the teeth
on his throat, making several last strokes - and then went limp over him.
Methos lay feeling blood and sperm trickle
out of him around the softening cock. His face was covered with blue and purple
dents of the bruises but the pain subsided slowly. The pain - not the anguish
in his mind. So, that was it? Raped - and what now? It didn't gain him
anything, not changed his position a bit - only worsened it, probably. He was completely
helpless, cuffed - and the man over him was the same mysterious and hateful as
before. And no clues to what to do.
Perhaps if he… The thought was sickening
but it was probably the only thing he could try. If he tried to play willing
with the man - would it help? Well, he would hardly be able to fake arousal -
but to be pliant - flexible, as Amanda used to call it. The man forbade him to
speak - but there was something he still could do, certainly.
He felt dizzy. He was so out of use to do
these things - he had believed with all his heart he would never have to do
them again. This man on him - no, it was sick, he couldn't do it! But he knew
he would. He shifted slightly, ready to show his willingness - to kiss his
captor if necessary. And at the same moment the man got up abruptly.
There was no trace of post-coital bliss in
his eyes at all, their expressionlessness the evidence of madness itself. The
limp cock was wrenched out causing some bleeding again.
"You dirty whore!" there was a
scathing blow on his face. How could he know, Methos thought, he didn't even
have time to try anything! "What do you hope to get like that? You'll get
nothing. You think I finished with you? I didn't nearly start!"
With sudden fury his three fingers broke
into Methos' bleeding, terribly vulnerable opening. They turned round and
round, stretching brutally, tearing again - and even before the man continued,
Methos knew what it was going to be. He bit his lip preparing himself to the
rising pain - but it was not that he could really prepare himself - as the
forth finger invaded him and then the thumb, the hand shredding his rectum
mercilessly while the voice explained him indifferently:
"With a mortal man I would have to
care not to injure him lethally. But not with you. I can wring your insides out
and you'll heal it the same well as anything."
Yes, it felt like this - wringing his
insides out as the fist was thrusting into him, so deep that it felt as a gut
punch on every in-ward stroke, the pain as sharp as if it was a knife slashing
his insides. He passed out crying, despite his efforts to seal his cries on the
lacerated lips, the blackness that swept him so welcome, so blissful.
But not for long. He knew it was not for
long because when he regained consciousness, the man held his face - and his
hand was slick with blood, Methos' blood that still didn't have time to dry.
"You're going to hate your healing
abilities, I bet," the man said, his eyes searching Methos' for something.
"Think about the irony! You will dream about me killing you."
Methos found himself looking at the black
round hole of the gun's muzzle. There was no silencer on it now. It touched his
face, traced the line of his jaw, over his neck and chest, stopping shortly
against his heart and then sliding down further.
He convulsed when the muzzle was forced
into his barely healing opening.
"Here it goes," the man said
pulling the trigger.
The shot still seemed to reverberate
through his body when he came round later - even though the pain was gone and
his destroyed insides whole again. He shivered with cold and exhaustion of
death and revival. It was when he felt the small cut on his left forearm for
the first time - and the tube inserted to his vein. He didn't know what it had
to mean - and he raised his head tensely, trying to see.
"Interested?" the man tried to
grip his hair but failed, it was just too short and he pressed on his neck,
pushing Methos' head forward painfully. "Get used to this sight!"
Methos saw the thin plastic tube, red with
blood running through it - he looked where this tube was going to - and was
amazed to see that it was just the drain hole on the floor. It didn't make
sense. At least, then.
"How long does it take for you to
bleed to death?" the man asked in a matter-of-fact voice. "You don't
know? We'll find out. Not so quickly, I hope."
Methos felt the hand on his chest; he was
so cold that it seemed unpleasantly hot for him - the fingers playing with his
nipple. He didn't forget the prohibition to speak - but regarding his
possibilities, he decided to risk. Nothing could save him from pain, he already
suspected it. But asking the questions - maybe, getting answers - it could save
him from the agony of unknown that his mind was in.
"Why do you do it? What did I do to
you?"
He still didn't know, even now. Sometimes
in what the man said there were some hints that could possibly be understood -
sometimes it almost seemed to him that he got it, one more fact and he would
get it. But he didn't. And as the time was going by, he felt it was more and
more difficult to concentrate on thinking. Besides, the reasons of his torturer
didn't matter. It mattered that it was going on and on - never stopped. Never
was going to stop.
The man broke his jaw again when hearing
him speak - and then used the same iron rod, heated in the fire, to burn the
insides of his mouth until he choked on blood and clear liquid seeping from the
burns. He was choking with screams, too, long before the man finished.
The rod… It was a simple and extremely
successful means of inflicting pain, stunningly successful. Methos lost the
count of times when his bones were shattered with it, when he was beaten to
death with it. When he was fucked with it heated - he knew now what it was
really be fucked with a red-hot rod, fresh meaning of the old metaphor.
Blood loss was making its input and he
felt woozy, about to pass out. And dying was okay, he didn't mind it. It would
just send him into feeling nothing.
But the man didn't let him slip away so
easily. Methos saw the gun again - and it pointed at his groin when shooting.
The pain was horrific, like nothing he had felt yet - he couldn't help
shrieking, thrashing madly in the cuffs as the ball of fire exploded in his
bottom belly.
Blood made a pool around his thighs
immediately. The man knelt at him and reached his hand to the bullet entrance,
where the shattered pubic bone was white in scarlet blood. Methos thought he
couldn't feel it, it was beyond anything a man could feel and still be alive -
but he felt it all right as the man widened the orifice with his fingers, then
coated his cock with blood.
"I'll fuck you as the whore
you're," he said trusting into the open wound.
* * *
He dreamed about curling; just to be able
to lie on his side, pull up his legs and press his arms to his chest. This wish
was haunting even when he had the chance to get just asleep, not to slide into
death or oblivion. The ache in his stretched limbs was constant while the
numbness of immobility in his spine and shoulders was replaced with sharp pangs
of pain from time to time. He had his backside rubbed in blood against the
rough concrete but his healing abilities spared him from sores.
He felt cold and rather light-headed all
the time with the permanent blood loss. The tube in his vein was the most
habitual sight for him, so, after a while he stopped turning his head to see at
it; the more so as it became more and more difficult to see all in all.
"Do you know why I do it?" the
man asked once; it was a rare case when he spoke to say something, not to let
out another portion of curses, always in a flawlessly even voice. Methos looked
at him questioningly, not daring to speak. He had tried to speak several times
since the beginning - and every time the punishment had been more severe - so,
he got it at last.
"You always heal, don't you? Every
time when your blood leaks out and you die - your body re-supply it. But how
does it happen? Where does this blood come from?
"I mean, it can be that because of
some mutation your body has this ability to repair itself. Cuts, burns, broken
bones - whatever. But where does it take something what is gone? Blood is a
part of you, right? It can't re-appear unceasingly from nowhere. If I cut off
your hand and press it back, you will heal. But if I cut it off and take it
away - you won't grow the new one. Right?"
He started smashing Methos' kneecap with
the hammer in the end of his speech and Methos didn't quite get the end about
the loss of parts.
But he recalled it when the man bent to
his face, gripping firmly on his hair - and he saw the screwdriver in his hand.
He didn't realize at once what was going to happen but the horror already sang
through him. He squirmed desperately, trying to get away, as the screwdriver
was nearing to his eye.
"Open it!" the man slammed his
head into the concrete. "Keep it open, you slut!"
The tip of the screwdriver approached
implacably until it was forced between his eyelids. He had never experienced
anything like that - the metal of the tool scraping over his socket, spooning
around his eyeball and driving it out. He thrashed, breaking his wrists, and
choked with scream as the man took his eye and tore off the string of the nerve
that still connected it.
The dark field in his sight shocked him
more than pain. He cried out incoherently and then he saw the bloodied
screwdriver nearing again. He tried to turn away, as much as he could, not
caring what was going to be with him for this rebellion - nothing could be
worse, anyway. But the man coped with his easily, fixing his head between his
knees, repeating the horrible motion of the screwdriver on his other eye.
He lay unable to stop shuddering in horror
but although his consciousness failed minutely, he was sure he didn't pass out
completely. He floated in the dimness - that was not black as he could expect
it would be - but undetermined grey. He could feel his eyelids falling and
rising over the empty sockets, already healing.
Sharp slaps on his cheeks brought him
back. The man was near - and Methos turned his head towards him instinctively,
as he got to be trained to do for these days - but this time he saw nothing, of
course.
"Do you know where they are?"
the man said - and for the first time Methos thought that there was the meaning
of this expressionlessness. As if the voice belonged to some superior creature,
the supreme being that had the right over his life and death and sanity itself.
"In my hand. The don't hurt any more, do they? Even if I crush them in my
palm, you won't feel it.
"If I return them now, they'll be
okay. Even human eyes do. But if I drop them to the fire? What will you be
worth then? I wonder how long it'll take until some of your kind finds you and
takes your head - or, maybe, you'll find him yourself and ask to do it?"
"Please," he thought the man
wanted him to plead, that this time was different from those when he was
forbidden to. And the thing was that he couldn't keep silent, the anxiety was
too huge to cope with it, even pain was better than it.
"Shut up, whore!" the words were
rude, the tone didn't change. "I think I'll have to glue your lips
together and feed you through the nose. It is such a good idea that I regret I
didn't come to it earlier!"
Methos tossed his head back in anguish, a
ragged wailing sound escaping his throat. He felt the thumb parting his
eyelids, stroking the empty socket.
Then the man forced his eyes back. This
time Methos passed out not with pain - it was bearable in comparison to what he
had been through - but with the incredible sickness of the sensation. And it
was good that his mind switched off - because he could lose his mind all in all
at that moment.
When he was back, his eyes were where they
had to be and functioning - seeing, even though dimly, and still sore but
healing. They functioned in everything, even the lachrymal ducts worked. Tears
trickled from the corners of his eyes and he couldn't stop them. For the first
time since he had been here, he cried - he hadn't cried with pain or with despair
- but now the relief did it to him.
"You can make these sounds," the
man approved listening to the sobs that shook him. "It can be even useful.
I am sure MacLeod would love to hear it."
Mac. He was somewhere. In the beginning,
when Methos realized that it was a set-up, that Mac had never been captured, he
felt euphoric with relief. Mac was safe, he didn't have to worry about him! But
since then he continued to hear about Mac, the man never seemed to forget about
him.
The man used to call him. Methos watched
him as he walked around the basement, with the black phone pressed to his ear.
Usually before dialing he told Methos to hush - and it was not the order he
could disobey. Not that Methos could spoil their conversation - the most often
the man even didn't say anything, apparently listening to Mac's
"hallo" in silence. His face was cold as usual but also hardly
perceptibly smug.
Sometimes he spoke, however. Just short
phrases out of blue - he was chary of words, wasn't he? "I have him."
"I still have him." "He is still alive."
Once he brought the phone to Methos,
whispering urgently:
"MacLeod wants to hear you. He
doesn't believe you are here. Come on, let him know. Scream for him."
He had the kettle of boiling water in his
other hand - and he turned it over on Methos' crotch. Methos knew what was
going to happen and was ready. When the scalding liquid hit him, the pain so
keen that it seemed to pierce him to his heart, he managed to keep silent. He
passed out before the revenge went down on him.
He had decided to keep silent it
instinctively but when he was back, he thought about the man's words. If Mac
didn't believe that he was there - it was good. Then he wouldn't do any stupid
thing and get himself in the catch that the man was preparing for him. He had
to keep Mac unbelieving as long as he could - as much as it depended on him.
But he supposed that later, during one of
the sessions, when he was too gone to be able to refrain from screaming, the
man still let Mac listen to him.
Some time after that the man brought the
video camera. By then Methos' vision went down so significantly that he saw
everything just as the darker and lighter shades. The light above him that had
been so annoying in the beginning of his confinement was just a cloud of fluffy
grey now. He had to strain his brains to figure out what the darker shape in
the man's hands was until he saw the small red indicator of recording.
"Yes, it is him. Hard to recognize,
right?" the camera was floating above his body. "He heals sufficiently
badly now. You will be surprised, MacLeod, how long it takes him to heal just a
broken wrist."
The man was in disguise - after a while
Methos discerned it - a long coat, leather gloves, even his face was covered.
He looked like the Invisible Man, Methos thought, and it suddenly made him
giggle.
"Don't clown around," the man
backhanded him, the metal clip on the glove splitting his lip. "Raise your
head," he grabbed his hair - not quite successfully because of slick
leather. "Look where the bird is going to fly out. Introduce yourself.
Say: "Hello, Mac, it's Methos"!"
The man recorded a normal three-hour long
tape - Methos saw several times as the man replaced the small camera tapes -
but he couldn't be sure, there were times when he was not lucid at all. The man
applied the full program to him - spared him from nothing of the usual things
he repeated every day - and introduced some new, too. And because this time he
didn't have his vein open, Methos couldn't escape to death so easily.
Mac would be repulsed to see it, he
thought while being fucked, this pain so dispensable now that he practically
didn't register it. Mac used to claim that he had seen devilish things in his
life - but, in reality, he was just an innocent baby with his experience. He
would be sick with this… sex part.
The torture part included acid - and he
understood, not for the first time, that whatever had already been done to him,
it hardly could prepare him to what still could be done. He barely heard his
own screams when the scalding trickles of the acid crawled on his face.
In the end the man repeated his favorite
trick with the eyes - and finished eventually shoving the muzzle of the gun in
Methos' mouth and pulling the trigger.
The man glued the sticker on the tape
where it was written: "The ultimate proof." Well, right, with this
tape there was no hope any more that Mac would be able not to believe.
* * *
The colors of grey that he still could see
were merging and sometimes he couldn't even say whether his eyes were open or
shut. But he didn't mind. He didn't like to see the movement, the shadows
changing - because it meant only one thing - that his captor was near and was
preparing to do something.
He couldn't get used to his bones
breaking. He might have had to - why not, to something that happened with such
regularity? And he found out that if he didn't move, if he didn't move at all,
the pain was even bearable. But how could he stop moving his ribs that
punctured his lungs with every inhale? He couldn't stop breathing, even if he wanted
it.
The man was speaking on the phone. Mac
again.
"I can let him go. Do you want it? I
can return him, with no additional conditions. Tomorrow… I think I won't get in
time today. I'll have to cut off his tongue at first. And his nose. And his
ears. And put out his eyes. And chop off his hands and feet. Then you can have
him. And then you can finish him off yourself because it will be the most
merciful thing to do. Agreed? No? Then wait until I decide you can have him
back."
The phone was dropped on the table.
"Kill me," he didn't care any
more if speaking meant more pain. Everything meant pain. Living meant it
unceasingly.
He knew he would be punished - and didn't
even tensed expecting it. But this time the man didn't hit him. He walked
closer - close enough for Methos to feel the toes of the boots touching his
ribs. The voice was almost soft when he asked:
"Are you sure?"
Yes, yes, I am! He would have said it a
long time ago if he had known it could earn him death! He didn't quite believe,
however, that he could get away so easily - but he desperately wanted to
believe. It was such anguish to want to stop it and to be unable to do
anything!
The sound of the sword unsheathing was
unmistakable. So, it was the truth. He asked himself if he was afraid but he
really was not. He opened his eyes wide, looking up, and even though he
couldn't really see it - he saw it all the same: the sword raised over his
head. The swing.
The metal blade flashed the sparkles
hitting the concrete.
Ooh yes. He knew it would be like that,
didn't he? He felt falling, even though it seemed that he was already so deep
in the abyss that there was nowhere to fall deeper.
Only moments, maybe, minutes later he
registered the sound of panting above him. The man still was in the same position,
resting on the sword set against the floor. For the first time his breath was
shaken - sob-like.
"Do you recognize the sword?"
and his voice was shaken, too, when he spoke.
"Yes," he didn't and they both
knew it.
"I loved her," the man said.
"You both killed her. I will make you both pay. First you and then your
friend. You will hurt until it stops hurt here," he pressed his hand to
his chest. Then, with his voice changing back to expressionless, he said.
"You asked me to kill you? Here you are."
The sword stabbed him in his heart. Not
like that, he had the time to think, dying. And he had time to hear the
thoughtful voice of the man:
"You are not ready to be returned
yet."
* * *
Everything was gone. His vision was gone.
His ability to feel was so shaky that he could hardly determine the pain,
unsure anymore whether he felt it all the time and never felt. He even didn't
want to be returned any more. Not ready? The man must have been right.
The abyss of grey was huge above and
around him - and except the grey mist nothing existed there. There was
something tranquil in it, something safe - to be so isolated, so undisturbed.
The fall was over.
And then suddenly he started seeing Mac.
The mist was between them - but he saw Mac's face the same clear as he was no
longer able to see anything. He could see Mac was looking at him - frowning as
if preparing himself for something - and he knew absolutely for sure that Mac
was going to step into this abyss - for him.
He couldn't let it happen! To have Mac
risking his life for him - it was wrong, it was such a mistake! Just too
unequal exchange. Mac's life was so precious while his was already
non-existing. Mac was goodness - while he was… nothing at best, badness in
fact. He was a failure and a monster, a crime against life. And Mac knew it;
once he had easier believed it his dream where he had to kill Methos than in
reality where Methos stood by him.
But the thing was that no matter what Mac
really felt to him - he would try anyway. Even unwilling - he would try to save
him at any price, put his life on the stake for it, the same as he had done it
for Joe and Amanda. He would do it for any of his friends- just because this
word meant for him so much, even when it was not supported by the real feeling
any more. It was Mac, he wouldn't be himself if he didn't, he wouldn't just be
able to live with it!
It made Methos feel despair again, made
him thrash wildly, trying the cuffs that never let go. Please don't let Mac do
it! If only there was something he could do. And looking up from the abyss, he
suddenly knew what to do. He could turn and go away - away, from salvation,
from Mac - until the mist would cover him all over and there would be nothing
but this mist. Then Mac would see there was nobody to rescue - and would be
safe.
The man passed the blade over his chest,
drawing a long line on his ribs. He barely flinched at it. His legs and arms
were like lashes, broken again, for how many times? The tube was gone from his
vein - so, this time it was not going to be over soon. But for a while the man
didn't do anything, just sat with him. Then he pressed his fingernail to the
cut, running it up and down.
"It is still here. Such a shallow
gash. You don't heal any more, do you know it? Well, you do heal, actually -
still better than we mortals - but it can be said that for an Immortal you
don't heal at all."
Suddenly there was a stab of hot pain in
his chest - and he felt how his heart fluttered, wounded, shredded with the tip
of the knife. He was ready to slip to the oblivion.
"And you don't die," the man
continued plucking the knife between his ribs. "Did you notice it?"
He might. The thing was he didn't
remember.
"I made it to you. I think it was
this thing with blood. You lost so much of it that you lost… how do you call it?
Your Quickening? No, not right. Your power. I messed up your body so much that
it doesn't know what to do. You are hanging between life and death, not healing
and not dying! I wonder for how long it is possible to keep you like
that."
Not healing and not dying. The image from
the legend. Only there was no Parsifal to come and heal him.
"Well, I guess I will have to live
with my curiosity. I still have MacLeod to do the same to him. Now you are
ready to be returned."
The phone buttons were clicking.
"You can come and take him."
No! He screamed his heart out but he knew
he was not heard.
"Last fuck," the man was over
him again, his weight heavy and making the wound on his chest ooze blood
stronger. Methos didn't feel the penetration - nothing physical at all. It was
his mind that was ablaze.
Not Mac! Not in his place!
"Don't fret so," the man
whispered to his face. "I won't do anything worse to him than I have done
to you."
The thick tongue was forced in his mouth,
licking and thrusting, lapping blood with such enjoyment as if it was honey.
Honey. Legends. It struck him suddenly and Methos smiled deliriously into the
kiss. He knew what he could do. For once. With a wild jerk of his head he
thrust forward, swallowing more of this tongue into his mouth, as much as he
could - and then clenching his teeth desperately.
He felt the flesh letting go. A stunning,
inhuman scream choked almost at once as blood filled his mouth with violent
flow. The man thrashed on him, gasping for breath and unable to breathe, pain
shock more dangerous than blood loss. Methos could feel how the man's chest
expanded madly, the man's heart contacting like a punctured ball. Then it
stopped.
Dead. The man collapsed on him, twice as
heavy at once. But it didn't matter. Blood leaked on Methos' face from the
man's open mouth. Methos turned his face away and spat the piece of flesh on
the floor. Now it was okay. He could just lie - in silence - motionless - and
wait.
Wait until he felt the buzz inside his
head. He didn't have to see to know who it was - Mac coming in, looking around
- moving so soundlessly that if Methos didn't know he was there, he wouldn't
ever hear it. The man wouldn't have known. Mac was careful! It was good to know
that he was going to fight, was not going to sacrifice himself blindly.
Then Mac had to see. It took moments for
him to understand what was there - and suddenly his steps became loud and
hasty, approaching quickly. Methos felt as the dead body was lifted from him
and it was good not to feel this weight pressing on his chest any more.
He sighed. Mac looked at him. He had to
see his blood-coated mouth, the piece of gory meat on the floor. Mac had to
know what he had done. And he knew what Mac felt. He was glad he couldn't see
Mac's expression, disbelief and disgust on his face.
Everything was over, he understood it. He
lost Mac. And he couldn't even struggle against it, he just didn't have any
strength left. If Mac didn't want him any more - let it be. He gave up.
He let the grey mist envelop him tighter,
let it cover everything. He wrapped in this mist, curling, rolling in the ball,
confined inside himself, with nothing to penetrate his solitude, his
untouchable tranquility. He wouldn't suffer any more. No Mac, no pain.
Unfeeling.
Unfeeling even though he could feel how
the irons were unlocked on his wrists and ankles - and his broken limbs were
touched hesitantly but not dared to move - and something soft covered his body,
wooly and warm - but not so warm as the hand that was smoothing his hair back
from his forehead in hasty, almost feverish movements.
The End