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ishafelRemix of by The Posting Wind by Elistaire.
Summary: We are what we make of ourselves.
The first time he did this, he was so young, so new to immortality-- the world was so young and new-- that he did not even know it was not supposed to be possible. The first time he did this, there were no sniper rifles, no long bows, no spears, only a pile of rocks at the top of a cliff. The first time, there was no Game, no rules to be broken.
Humanity creates its own limits, and then strains against them. Methos sits quietly in the grass, just before dawn. He can feel his heart, steady and slow. He can feel the wind at his back. Immortality is about mastering death, but there are other things that can be mastered. The human body, the human mind. Methos could make his heart beat faster, hold his hand over a flame without feeling it.
He has been here for more than hour, quiet and still in the dark. If he had started earlier-- if he had tried as a new immortal, he might have held dominion over animals as Silas had, or bent other immortals to his will as Cassandra could-- if he had been someone else, if he had needed something else.
But he had needed to kill, and that was what he had learned to do. Fifty years ago he could have let his Quickening go as easily, more easily, than a sword sliding through bone. He has spent a long time away from the Game. He needs the stillness, the wind, the smell of cut grass. Between one breath and the next, between heartbeats, his immortality slips away.
The Watchers theorize that a Quickening is an immortal's soul. They have never seen what Methos can do. They would not believe it was possible. Methos has a knife is his pocket. He draws the blade across his thumb, and watches the blood well up. It doesn't heal.
He stands up, brushing the grass off his jeans, and picks up the duffel bag with the gun. If he had done this the day he met Mac, he wouldn't be in a park at dawn, preparing to break all the laws immortals hold sacred, all the rules he's set for himself.
The last time he did this, fifty years ago when he did this, it was easy. It was living with what he'd done that was hard. That was why when Mac had come looking for Adam Pierson, he had met Methos. Because Methos had promised himself, because he'd thought, then, that nothing would ever matter this much again.
He'd forgotten what it was like to love someone so much you broke promises you'd made to yourself. That's why his jeans are damp from the wet grass, his hand still bleeding. He's going to watch Mac's back, to make sure Mac survives this challenge. It's the kind of thing Mac would hate, which secretly makes Methos happy.
The gun goes in the trunk of the car, and while he's at it Methos digs out a baby wipe and cleans the blood off his hands. If he were mortal, he might worry about infection, but his Quickening will be back by tomorrow morning. He won't even have time to miss it.
He wouldn't miss his soul, either. But then, Methos has yet to be convinced of the existence of the human soul-- never mind the immortal soul. He prefers to believe that his mistakes, and his victories, are his own. On his good days, he believes that people are inherently decent, even when the threat of hell isn't present.
There are a lot of things the Quickening might be, but it isn't some sort of divinely inspired conscience. Methos feels no different, no freer, with the weight of it gone. He has done terrible things with it, and terrible things without it, and been sorry or not-sorry afterward.
This time, at least, should be one of the not-sorry ones. Mac might not agree, of course-- interfering in a Challenge, shooting someone from ambush, hiding his Quickening to do so-- but Mac's world-view is a luxury Methos has not had in a very long time. Right and wrong mean very little on a long enough timeline.
The last time Methos did this, he was sorry before he did it and sorrier afterward.
He parks three blocks from the warehouse and slings the strap of the duffel bag over his shoulder. Mac said six, which means that he'll be there by five thirty, but it's not quite five now. Mac spent too much time in Britain, and it shows; he's never quite gotten past the pistols for two, breakfast for one stage.
Methos likes his Challenges in the afternoon, thank you, because that gives him all day to figure out how to dodge them. He makes himself a handy nest on a rafter with clear lines of sight, and sets the Tango up. It's a beautiful rifle, designed to do everything but pull its own trigger. That's just as well, since Methos was a better shot with the rocks.
He ends up flat on his stomach, the gun cool and smooth against his cheek. He does not think about what will happen if he falls. Mortals are terribly fragile.
The first time he cast his Quickening away, he waited like an animal in the dark for his prey. The last time that he did it was in Texas under a warm white sun with a high-powered French rifle. Five thousand years, more or less, between them. Everything has changed but Methos.
Today he is breaking a promise he made to himself, and last time he was keeping one. He will kill this immortal he has never met, if he has to to keep MacLeod safe. He shot an immortal he loved, fifty years ago, to keep the world safe.
He could never explain Jack to MacLeod, even if he wanted to, even if he decides to explain this particular party trick. But Methos learned long ago that immortals were not meant to be leaders, and he swore then that if he could prevent another Kronos from rising to power that he would.
What he can't say to Mac is that Jack Kennedy was no Kronos, but that he had to die, publicly and awfully, for Kronos's sins. What he can't say to Mac is, I love you, the way he never could say it to Kronos except by doing everything he could to protect him.
No one ever really changes, and all of them are bound by the limits of what they imagined themselves capable of being. Methos is a killer and MacLeod is a hero and everyone else is somewhere in between. Methos waits in the dark for Mac to come and be saved.
Also, VelvetMouse cleverly remixed my LM Alcott story "For Want of a Nail," here. Three times Charlie Campbell didn't die, you guys! It's Christmas in May!
Summary: We are what we make of ourselves.
The first time he did this, he was so young, so new to immortality-- the world was so young and new-- that he did not even know it was not supposed to be possible. The first time he did this, there were no sniper rifles, no long bows, no spears, only a pile of rocks at the top of a cliff. The first time, there was no Game, no rules to be broken.
Humanity creates its own limits, and then strains against them. Methos sits quietly in the grass, just before dawn. He can feel his heart, steady and slow. He can feel the wind at his back. Immortality is about mastering death, but there are other things that can be mastered. The human body, the human mind. Methos could make his heart beat faster, hold his hand over a flame without feeling it.
He has been here for more than hour, quiet and still in the dark. If he had started earlier-- if he had tried as a new immortal, he might have held dominion over animals as Silas had, or bent other immortals to his will as Cassandra could-- if he had been someone else, if he had needed something else.
But he had needed to kill, and that was what he had learned to do. Fifty years ago he could have let his Quickening go as easily, more easily, than a sword sliding through bone. He has spent a long time away from the Game. He needs the stillness, the wind, the smell of cut grass. Between one breath and the next, between heartbeats, his immortality slips away.
The Watchers theorize that a Quickening is an immortal's soul. They have never seen what Methos can do. They would not believe it was possible. Methos has a knife is his pocket. He draws the blade across his thumb, and watches the blood well up. It doesn't heal.
He stands up, brushing the grass off his jeans, and picks up the duffel bag with the gun. If he had done this the day he met Mac, he wouldn't be in a park at dawn, preparing to break all the laws immortals hold sacred, all the rules he's set for himself.
The last time he did this, fifty years ago when he did this, it was easy. It was living with what he'd done that was hard. That was why when Mac had come looking for Adam Pierson, he had met Methos. Because Methos had promised himself, because he'd thought, then, that nothing would ever matter this much again.
He'd forgotten what it was like to love someone so much you broke promises you'd made to yourself. That's why his jeans are damp from the wet grass, his hand still bleeding. He's going to watch Mac's back, to make sure Mac survives this challenge. It's the kind of thing Mac would hate, which secretly makes Methos happy.
The gun goes in the trunk of the car, and while he's at it Methos digs out a baby wipe and cleans the blood off his hands. If he were mortal, he might worry about infection, but his Quickening will be back by tomorrow morning. He won't even have time to miss it.
He wouldn't miss his soul, either. But then, Methos has yet to be convinced of the existence of the human soul-- never mind the immortal soul. He prefers to believe that his mistakes, and his victories, are his own. On his good days, he believes that people are inherently decent, even when the threat of hell isn't present.
There are a lot of things the Quickening might be, but it isn't some sort of divinely inspired conscience. Methos feels no different, no freer, with the weight of it gone. He has done terrible things with it, and terrible things without it, and been sorry or not-sorry afterward.
This time, at least, should be one of the not-sorry ones. Mac might not agree, of course-- interfering in a Challenge, shooting someone from ambush, hiding his Quickening to do so-- but Mac's world-view is a luxury Methos has not had in a very long time. Right and wrong mean very little on a long enough timeline.
The last time Methos did this, he was sorry before he did it and sorrier afterward.
He parks three blocks from the warehouse and slings the strap of the duffel bag over his shoulder. Mac said six, which means that he'll be there by five thirty, but it's not quite five now. Mac spent too much time in Britain, and it shows; he's never quite gotten past the pistols for two, breakfast for one stage.
Methos likes his Challenges in the afternoon, thank you, because that gives him all day to figure out how to dodge them. He makes himself a handy nest on a rafter with clear lines of sight, and sets the Tango up. It's a beautiful rifle, designed to do everything but pull its own trigger. That's just as well, since Methos was a better shot with the rocks.
He ends up flat on his stomach, the gun cool and smooth against his cheek. He does not think about what will happen if he falls. Mortals are terribly fragile.
The first time he cast his Quickening away, he waited like an animal in the dark for his prey. The last time that he did it was in Texas under a warm white sun with a high-powered French rifle. Five thousand years, more or less, between them. Everything has changed but Methos.
Today he is breaking a promise he made to himself, and last time he was keeping one. He will kill this immortal he has never met, if he has to to keep MacLeod safe. He shot an immortal he loved, fifty years ago, to keep the world safe.
He could never explain Jack to MacLeod, even if he wanted to, even if he decides to explain this particular party trick. But Methos learned long ago that immortals were not meant to be leaders, and he swore then that if he could prevent another Kronos from rising to power that he would.
What he can't say to Mac is that Jack Kennedy was no Kronos, but that he had to die, publicly and awfully, for Kronos's sins. What he can't say to Mac is, I love you, the way he never could say it to Kronos except by doing everything he could to protect him.
No one ever really changes, and all of them are bound by the limits of what they imagined themselves capable of being. Methos is a killer and MacLeod is a hero and everyone else is somewhere in between. Methos waits in the dark for Mac to come and be saved.
Also, VelvetMouse cleverly remixed my LM Alcott story "For Want of a Nail," here. Three times Charlie Campbell didn't die, you guys! It's Christmas in May!
