Survival
By Sarah Li MacKiver
I finish your last journal and fixate, as always, on
you. Although you are unaware of my fascination, you live in my thoughts, in my
dreams, but especially in my heart.
Or is it me who lives in yours?
I re-read the collection of your past adventures. Or
perhaps I should call them misadventures. I’ve read them again and again. I
never tire of them because they are about my favorite subject.
You.
You didn't see it as it was. You should have. Life
isn't all about lilies, bunnies and fairies, you know. And it’s not about art,
science or mathematics...or even history. What it's about is flesh and blood,
co-existing and persisting, life and beating death. Survival of the fittest.
Being fit enough to survive.
And I’m not talking about the shape of your body,
although yours is simply awesome. I’m talking about your mindset. Your
convictions. Your ability to separate your idealisms from what you know truly
exists and to act accordingly.
How do you survive, you ask? By subsisting, not
relenting. When you find yourself falling, as clichéd as it sounds, pick
yourself up, dust yourself off and continue along your way. Plodding through
the seconds of your lifetime; the minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years, decades.
Centuries. Millenniums. As many as it takes.
The trick is to never say die. And that’s not easy,
because, sometimes, it’s easier to just lie down and close your eyes.
Sometimes, death is the easy way out. But if you take that easy way, what
wonderous things you will miss tomorrow, and the next day.
Me? I don’t want to miss a thing.
You’ve walked the earth for less than five centuries--
less than a tenth of my lifetime, and you’re still driven to hang onto your
heathen history. And, yes, as long as we’re on that subject, I realize mine was
far worse, but that’s neither here nor there. You haven’t evolved. You haven’t
grown. You’re hanging onto a set of negative ethics that died with the mortals
who raised you from an infant.
Let it go. It belongs with them—in the past. Dead.
Only fools refuse to upgrade their memories. A closed
mind can learn nothing new. Learn from your mistakes, and the mistakes of
others. How many other proverbs should I quote? Have I made a point, or am I
wasting my eloquence on a dunderhead?
I hope not.
Life wasn’t this complicated in our pasts. In our
youth, they didn’t hand out social security cards and drivers’ licenses to
every man, woman and idiot who asked, and they didn’t find every headless body
lying about. We weren’t hunted then, except by each other. And if there were
watchers, we didn’t know about them. We were safer.
At least we thought we were.
Sometimes I wonder how mortals manage such pain and
suffering in such a short lifetime. Now I know why some species eat their
young. Life itself is horrible.
A man is born, he suffers, he learns many useless,
ungodly horrors, grudgingly tolerates other like beings who are worse than
himself who strive to intimidate and dominate him. His mind is always shadowed,
his heart darkens, his spirit grows heavier. Then he dies and leaves behind
family and friends who pretend to weep for him.
Tears be spared. He’s dead, now. He suffers no more.
But what of us? No end, no reprieve.
Here are the tears.
Duncan MacLeod turns at our shared buzz and gives me a quizzical smile.
“Methos. It’s good to see you.”
God, he’s wonderful. The face, the body, the
posture…for him, I would die this minute. And I think he knows. I think he’s
very much aware of my infatuation with him and is having a grand time teasing
me along with those dashing smiles and those gorgeous brown eyes.
Somehow, I feel inferior in his presence. Why do I
feel that way?
I confess I don’t know. I’m more than five thousand
years old and I’m clueless.
I know my smile appears shy. “I’ve been busy lately.”
“Doing what?” he asks, and I notice he’s wearing the
tan/brown shirt I gave him for Christmas last year. It suits his coloring.
“
His smile turns to amusement and affection. “You lead
such a hectic life, Methos.”
I want him. More than anything, more than everything…I
want him. Now. I plead with a glance, then drop my eyes to his chest, ignoring
his wonder directed at my flushed face.
I am awed by the power he has over me, able to reduce
me to a blushing wallflower with a single thought. No other man has ever been
so important to me in so many ways. I keep my eyes steadfastly on his second
button.
“Tell me what you were reading about.” he suggests
after clearing his throat.
I resist the urge to undo his buttons and answer his
question. “You.”
“You were reading about me?”
“Yes, your journals.”
He lifts my chin on a crooked finger and bends closer
to me. For a brief moment, I expect him to kiss me, but he simply looks into my
eyes. “Methos, is there something you would like to tell me? What’s on your
mind?”
I force a chuckle and draw back from him. “Yes, I
would very much like to tell you that drinking beer is on my mind.”
He sighs and gets me a bottle.
I’m a coward. Maybe that’s why I’ve survived so long, not because of my
woebegone philosophy or my years of experience. It’s because I hid what I was,
what I felt, and what I wanted.
He gazes at me as I lounge on his couch and I feel the
questions coming. I put on my best façade and meet his eyes. “All right,
MacLeod. What’s on your mind?”
He’s uncertain, but he wants to talk. He sits by me
and puts his arm around my shoulders. “Do you really want to know?”
I give him a hesitant half-shrug and he laughs out
loud. “You. You’re on my mind.”
“In what respect?”
His rich voice reaches an incredulous, mocking
inflection. “In what respect?” He pulls me closer and suddenly, his lips are
pressed against my ear. A whisper tickles me. “Methos, do you realize that I
love you and will move heaven and earth to possess you?”
The surprise leaves me numb and speechless. For a
moment, I think I’ve suffered a stroke. I feel a strange shaking and tightening
in my throat. When I register my condition, I understand.
I am so pathetic.
MacLeod pulls me closer, holds me tightly and whispers
more information into my ear. “I’ve got you. It’s all right. Just let me hold
you.”
I find myself clinging to him. “Stop me before I lose
my mind.” I beg.
He pushes me to elbow’s length and brushes away my
silly tears.
Then he kisses me. And kisses me again, and again.
“Is this what you want?” he asks softly. “To belong to
me? To let me be yours?”
“Yes, this is what I want.” I say, staring placidly
into those deep eyes.
“For how long?”
This time, I kiss him. “For the next five thousand
years or so.” I murmur against his lips.
~end~