(no subject)
Finally! Sorry for the delay. My fault entirely. My thanks to 
lastrega and
junoesk for beta duty.
All currently posted chapters, plus a new Dictionary of Sidhe Terms can be found on my Work In Process page.
Origins
by MacGeorge
Chapter Seven
It had been a very long night. MacLeod had tossed and turned and mumbled and sighed and gotten up several times, padding quietly around the dark room to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. Methos had also hardly slept at all. Not only was he wired with the usual post-Quickening edginess, but his every sense was attuned to the possibility that Mac might try to sneak downstairs and meditate despite the now-obvious dangers. At last gray light began to soften the dark shadows and Methos sat up and rubbed his face to help stimulate his thought processes. He was utterly, disconcertingly torn, his mind prone to wander off in unpredictable and uncomfortable directions without notice. Part of him was burning with an almost overwhelming compulsion to run far and run long, to find some utterly anonymous place to hide. Then the other part - damn the other part - kept him firmly, solidly, right where he was because… because MacLeod deserved better than to have to deal with anymore of someone else’s ugly ancient history that had come back to bite him in the arse.
He looked over at the rumpled platform bed at the end of the room and was relieved to see that, for the moment at least, Mac was still and silent. It was odd, in a way, to see him like that, so very still yet so very… alive, as only MacLeod could be. The man seemed to exude energy, and it wasn’t just the massive Quickenings he had taken in his relatively short life. It was just… who he was.
An uncomfortable chill washed over Methos shoulders at the memory of Mac lying limp on the floor of the dojo - utterly dead, cold, still and devoid of life. Even now Methos wasn’t precisely sure how he had known, but there was no question in his mind that more than Mac’s body was lifeless, and that Mac wasn’t coming back, barring extraordinary measures. He rubbed his arms for warmth and shook himself free of chilling, morbid thoughts.
He desperately needed a shower, and not just to wash off the stink of the previous night’s battle-sweat. He stood carefully to avoid any telltale creaking from the soft leather couch and retreated into the bathroom. Like the rest of MacLeod’s space, it was essentially spare but spacious and had all the requisite functions and accoutrements, including the odd, occasional touch of luxury. When he finally stepped out of the five-foot square shower with dual showerheads that had massaged the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, the world seemed a much more civilized place.
He wrapped one oversized towel around his waist and draped another over his shoulders. A transparent billow of steam followed him into the main room, quickly dissipating in the cool morning air. The light was on and MacLeod was up, dressed and bustling about in the kitchen even though the sun’s rays had yet to touch the windowsills.
Under most circumstances it would have been a comforting scene. Methos had known very few Immortals he trusted - and yes, respected - as much as he did MacLeod. Which made his current dilemma all the more difficult. With an entire world of Immortals to choose from, those sadistic bastards would choose to pick on the one he had formed a close friendship with. But then, you’ve known what MacLeod was ever since you read his chronicles, haven’t you?, Methos’ own irritating conscience grumbled.
He breathed in the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee and moved towards the kitchen island. “You’re up early,” he commented, picking up a piece of freshly buttered toast.
“So are you,” Mac replied, looking over his shoulder with a half smile and a lifted eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fully conscious this close to dawn before.”
“I’ve seen more dawns than you can count,” Methos mumbled around his toast. “Dawn is vastly overrated, in my opinion. Sunsets are much nicer, warmer and they come at a far more respectable hour. Besides, people look at you funny when you toast the dawn with a nice, cold beer.”
“Since when has it bothered you to have people look at you funny?” MacLeod quipped as he threw some bacon into a hot pan and watched it begin to sizzle. The smell of the cooking meat was tantalizing and Methos came closer, hanging over Mac’s shoulder as he crunched on his toast. It was always like this after a Quickening, all his senses heightened, his whole being more alert and energized. Mac’s very nearness, the vibration of his powerful Quickening, was making Methos edgy and he wasn’t sure which he wanted more, to get closer or move further away. The knowledge that the whole attract/repel dichotomy was built into his genetic structure should have helped mute the sensation, but somehow knowing why it happened didn’t help much.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Mac asked with a raised eyebrow, looking over his shoulder as he tended the cooking meat.
“No,” Methos answered casually. “Just feeling… sort of… hungry.”
Mac looked at him speculatively for a moment, then gave a quick nod before turning back to his task. “Yeah, well this will be ready in a minute, or we can wait and go for a run first, if you want.”
“I just showered, MacLeod. Getting sweaty again wouldn’t make much sense. Besides, after last night, you want to exercise? When did you take up masochism as a lifestyle?”
Duncan shrugged. “It’s just that I know how it can be after a Quickening. All I’m saying is that I’ll be fine. You don’t have to baby sit me every minute. I promise I won’t meditate, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said grumpily, turning back to his bacon, which was about done, so he laid each piece carefully on a piece of paper towel to drain.
Methos just watched for a minute. For anyone who didn’t know him well, MacLeod appeared to be the epitome of physical perfection, every move graceful and economical. But what Methos saw was a man moving with exquisite care, every muscle held under tight, obsessive, specific control.
“Frankly, MacLeod, that’s exactly what I’m worried about. I’m not sure you can control the impulse.”
Mac put the fork down, turned off the fire under the pan and turned around, his expression a little too carefully neutral for Methos’ comfort. “I think in over 400 years I’ve learned a little about self-discipline.” He leaned against the stove, folded his arms across his chest and met Methos’ gaze with a cool, appraising look. “And if I make a promise, I’m pretty good about keeping it. Is it a matter of trust, or are you so worried because you know something more about what’s going on than you’re telling me?”
Methos bit into the rest of his toast and chewed thoughtfully while rubbing his damp hair with the towel. After 5,000 years, chickens were finally coming home to roost, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. “What I know, MacLeod, is that I better put some clothes on before I catch my death of cold,” he quipped. “Got anything clean I can borrow?”
Mac’s dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, then he sighed, pushed away from the stove and crossed the room to rummage in his wardrobe, coming up with sweatpants and a sweater and tossing them in Methos’ direction. They eventually settled into a quiet breakfast, each man lost in his own thoughts or engrossed in the morning paper. When Duncan rose to clear the island of their dishes, Methos pitched in and the two of them worked efficiently in the small space. Duncan put away the last of the dishes and wiped his hands on a towel, studying Methos with a speculative look.
“So, what’s on the agenda for the day?” Methos asked preemptively.
“I don’t know what’s on your agenda, but I’ve got some calls to make, errands to run,” Mac answered. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” he asked. “Students to meet with? Papers to grade? Clothes to wash?” he added pointedly, nodding to the clothes Methos had left lying in a heap by the couch.
Methos was in a bit of a quandary. Instinct told him he needed to stay close to MacLeod, but practically speaking that was unrealistic. MacLeod wouldn’t put up with a babysitter and in the light of a new day, Methos’ paranoia seemed a little overblown. “Yeah, well, I should at least go get the papers I’m supposed to finish grading, I suppose,” he reluctantly acknowledged. “How long are you going to be out?”
“As long as it takes,” Mac answered with an irritated growl. He had put on his coat and moved to his desk and was rummaging in it, taking papers out and putting them in his pockets. The man was close to open rebellion at being so closely monitored and Methos knew he needed to back off a little.
“Okay,” he answered in a deliberately casual tone. “I’ll go get my stuff, do laundry, and then call you and we can talk about what we want to do for dinner and, uh, living arrangements,” Methos added, gesturing vaguely at the space around them.
“And then you can tell me all these secrets you’ve been keeping about what the hell is going on, right?” Mac asked, giving him a grim look while tucking his katana into his coat. He waited, meeting Methos’ eyes with a hard look, but Methos kept his mouth firmly shut. “Right. That’s what I thought,” Mac snapped, heading towards the door.
The room seemed remarkably empty once Mac had gone.
Methos shook himself, deciding he actually did need to do laundry and gather all his papers and his laptop computer. He really needed to stay pretty close to MacLeod. The stakes were awfully high if Mac started the whole meditation thing again. But then, Mac had promised and MacLeod was nothing if not absurdly devoted to keeping promises.
Despite his own admonition to try to give Mac a little more room, by late morning Methos had finished his own chores and was getting restless and called Mac on his cell phone. After over an hour slowly ticked by and Mac hadn’t returned his messages, Methos called Joe to have him contact Mac’s Watcher and find out where Mac was.
“What Watcher?” Joe asked.
A cold chill chased down Methos spine and seemed to seep into his bones. “What do you mean, ‘What Watcher?’ Joe? That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Watch?”
“You know I don’t keep a fulltime Watcher on Mac, and you told me you were going to stay with him, so why should I?” Joe answered irritably, although Methos could hear a touch of worry in his voice.
By mid afternoon, when there had still been no response to his several messages, Methos drove to Joe’s bar where the lunch crowd was occupying the Watcher’s full attention. Despite the dark looks Methos pointedly threw in the Watcher’s direction, it was almost a half an hour before Joe the crowd cleared out enough for Joe to join Methos across from his seat at the bar.
“I’ve got somebody keeping an eye on the dojo now, but it’s probably nothing,” Joe tried to sound reassuring. “Maybe the battery died on his cell phone.”
Methos gave him a dark look, and Joe flinched, turning away to put on some more coffee. “How about I go do a little poking around at his place to see if I can figure out where he might have gone?”
“Well, your snooping around his apartment is probably just gonna piss him off,” Joe snarled, slamming the glass carafe onto the burner with a little too much force.
“I’ll worry about pissing him off when we figure out what the hell he’s up to,” Methos muttered.
Joe gave him a sharp look. “It’s possible he might’ve run into another Immortal and is dealing with that, although we haven’t gotten any reports of Quickenings in the area. Yet.” Joe paused, studying Methos for a moment. “What are you thinking, Methos?”
Methos drummed a little pattern on the wood of the bar with his fingers. “Nothing, I just don’t like him being out of touch like this.” He stood to go, but Joe held up his hand, reached into his pocket and extracted a ring of keys, pulling one loose. “Mac had the locks changed last week.” He held it out towards Methos, but pulled it back as Methos reached for it. “Not until you tell me what you think is going on,” Joe said grimly. Without appearing to have moved at all, Methos had the possession of the key and was backing out before Joe even realized it was gone.
“Sorry, Joe,” Methos shrugged. “Maybe another time.”
“You bastard!” Joe shouted after him, but Methos knew the mortal didn’t have a prayer of catching up to him, and the closing door quickly masked the sound of Joe’s angry protests.
Mac’s place was empty. Oh, it wasn’t just that MacLeod wasn’t there. It was more than that. The signs were subtle but Methos had always had an eye for details that others might not notice. The spare coat that was usually hanging on the coat tree was missing, each drawer in the wardrobe had excess space, and - most importantly - the duffle bag that took up a small corner of the upper part of the wardrobe was gone.
“Damn him!” Methos muttered as he reached for his cell phone.
~~~~~~
It took time for ‘Thalia to recover from retrieving Dane, who had been almost unrecognizable when she finally managed to tie a line around his torso before she, too collapsed and died of the poisons in the atmosphere, the unbearable heat and the toxic rain that had completely eaten through her protective clothing and large portions of her flesh. It had been a devastating experience - not just the physical trial, but the emotional impact of seeing her beautiful world utterly destroyed. She had not been above ground for many, many fanshea, and while she knew that conditions were terrible, nothing had prepared her for seeing it first-hand. The soaring architecture perfected and refined over a stretch of time such that even she could not remember the origins of most of it, was gone. The vast expanse of gardens and forests so carefully and lovingly cultivated by the hand of every Danae that had ever walked this soil were stunted and dead. The only remaining life left was that which they had deliberately altered to survive in such a hostile environment in order to preserve as much as they could of the atmosphere for as long as possible.
She had found Dane’s body at the base of what had once been his forest home, a creation of his own hands and mind and energy that had been so enormous and towering that at one time its highest reaches were perpetually shrouded in misty clouds. Growths of rich hues of amber and ocher had formed the walls of the hundreds of rooms built into the side of a mountain, each swirled in chaotic patterns and imbued with wonderful, subtle scents of whatever plant life Dane had coaxed to his will. Archways, stairs, paths, caverns - even the furniture, had all been grown to Dane’s precise specifications. Over time, each room had become an individualized display of the brilliant geneticist’s and horticulturist’s art, a delight to every sense, including the awareness of knowledge and wisdom that went into planning the smallest detail of every space and its intended use.
That entire mountain was now a barren wasteland, with only the stumps of a few of the largest growths still remaining, and even those were devoid of life, their enormous, decayed remains being gradually eaten away by the corrosive atmosphere.
She had wept as she wrapped the line around the pitiful mound of flesh that was what remained of Ce’dane of the Mountains, his clothes gone, his skin so eaten away that she feared his body would disintegrate as it was pulled back towards the shelter of underground, and that he might truly die as a result. But she could barely manage even that before the pain of her own flesh being stripped from her bones combined with the barely breathable atmosphere to render her unconscious, and ultimately - dead.
She awoke with a gulping gasp of pain and near-panic as shards of agony stabbed every nerve-ending in her body. Her head, her eyes, her arms, her legs were all on fire and she cried out, but even that small involuntary effort generated new layers of pain. How long had it been, a small part of her mind wondered, since she had suffered any more than the transient discomfort of a misstep or small abrasion? Making the Transition from death to life was a horror she had not endured since her first Transition to Sidhe’fanshea - the ritual passage from infancy to becoming Of the Sidhe. And then it had been only a fleeting, if shocking, sensation.
It seemed to take forever as she drifted in and out of consciousness, but gradually, gradually, the pain eased, but left her panting and thrashing. She vaguely realized that she had been laid out in her own quarters on her bed of geesta, her bedchamber delineated by soft layers of transparent fabric that undulated gently, stirred by the ever-present breezes that moved throughout the vast underground city that had been their home for so long. A g’nagal gently stroked her forehead with its fingers, periodically putting a cup of cool liquid to her lips. Even with the drugs the pain was intense, well-nigh unbearable, and she was abnormally aware of the pounding of her own heart as each throb generated a stab of agony. “Make it stop,” she managed to gasp, but the only response was urging by the g’nagal to drink from the cup it offered. The liquid must have been infused with a sleeping agent, because she quickly drifted off despite the lingering memory/nightmare of feeling her flesh disintegrate from her bones.
When she awoke again, the light in the room was barely discernable without movement to generate luminescence, but she deliberately remained still. She was alone, although no doubt had she called out or even moved significantly, a g’nagal would be almost instantly at her side. For the moment, however, she relished the quiet. She had forgotten about the lightness of spirit, the near-euphoria that accompanied the sudden cessation of intense pain. From time to time, there had even been those among them who would obsessively hurt themselves solely for the moments of artificial joy felt once the self-punishment had stopped. It had never been her path, but she could understand the attraction, especially to those who had lost their sense of purpose over the long, tedious stretch of fanshea. When a people had no threat to its individual or racial survival, the greatest challenge was…sanity.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even that slight movement brought a silent g’nagal to her side. It knelt, awaiting any request she might have. “Bring me something to drink and eat,” she instructed softly, and the creature rose and slipped away to do her bidding.
She wondered how much time had passed as her body had healed. The passage of time was not something she usually concerned herself with, but time had different meanings across the dimensional Gate, and the potential for events outpacing her own readiness was a serious issue - one with which she was ill equipped to deal, especially at the moment. She gazed in dismay at her emaciated arms and assumed the rest of her body was similarly depleted in muscle mass and strength. A touch to her chest also revealed a reversion back to her pre-childbearing state. It was, after all, the only real outer designation that made her nominally female, and she felt oddly disappointed at the loss. Fewer and fewer of the Sidhe were willing - even for the relatively short gestation period - to expend the time and considerable energy to deal with the inconvenience of producing an offspring, especially now that such creations were not really of the Sidhe, but genetically modeled after the merely mortal humans and immediately released across the dimensional gateway, never to be seen again.
Being v’tah - the bearer of life - used to be a source of great joy, vied for among the strongest and eldest of their kind. The act of creation was one of transcendent physical pleasure, and the body’s change to bear and nurture the child was the only permanent alteration of their form possible after the Transition.
But her choice to be the v’tah for the last potential opener of the Gate had been made for entirely pragmatic reasons. She was determined to control the offspring’s attributes more carefully than in previous efforts, which generated a source of major contention among those who contributed to its genetic composition. She had been the one to require more initial energy from the various contributors and had made the final choices not only to emphasize strength and endurance, but to imbue the progeny with a certain charisma that would attract others of its kind, as well as an inbred propensity towards caring for others, even to the point of self-sacrifice. For, after all, wasn’t that what they were requiring of it? The others had scoffed at her esoteric notions that such subtle attributes would make a difference in the final push to open the Gate. Thalia defied the conventional wisdom that greed for power was the sole motivator that would compel the progeny to act in accordance with their plan. After all, the previous specialized subjects had failed miserably. The first had exhibited an astonishing willfulness and simply defied their pressure and conditioning. The second had been deliberately gifted with what they had assumed was unbeatable physical strength, but he had been beaten, against all expectations - and by someone with the very characteristics Thalia felt, if emphasized in even larger measure, would give them the leverage they would need to compel their will.
The food and drink was delivered and she forced herself to take in as much as she could. She wouldn’t even be able to attempt ka’queha until she was substantially restored in strength, but she could not finish the platter of fresh fruits and greens that the g’nagal had brought. When she sighed and waved the dishes away, it gathered them up and turned to leave. “Wait,” she called, and it instantly stopped and turned, awaiting her instructions. “How is Ce’dane?” she asked.
“Ce’dane of the Mountains has not awakened from his healing,” it responded slowly, “but he lives.”
Thalia nodded, and the g’nagal turned and slipped silently away. Her mind wandered from extraneous thought to extraneous thought, pondering on how long it would take Ce’dane to recover - not physically. Dane’s internal resources were on a par with her own so his physical recovery was never in doubt. No, the question was whether he was lost to them in other ways, whether the occasional madness of the long fanshea, which struck them all periodically, exacerbated by the confinement of the dark, constructed dún that was now their entire universe, had combined to steal his reason, his very essence of being. It was happening to them all, in one way or another, she admitted to herself with a sigh that turned into a shudder of dread. With the move away from the radiation and heat of their deteriorating sun, into the underground - a move utterly necessary for their survival - they had become a bitter, isolated people. Even she. There were even a number of the Sidhe who had simply gone to their chambers, reclined on their bed of geesta and… stopped being, lying in perpetual state of ka’queha. Thalia had always hoped that once the Gateway was open, they could transport their bodies across, bring them into the sunlight and they would be born again.
But perhaps not. Perhaps it was too late for them. Perhaps it was too late for all of them. Thalia lay back, not wanting to think anymore, not wanting to feel anymore, and slept.
~~~~~~
The sense of urgency, the need to ‘get’ somewhere, especially away from the irritation of Methos’ and Joe’s watchful eyes, had moderated considerably as he drove south through Washington and Oregon and into California. Driving along the Pacific Coast Highway had always been a favorite way to relax. As the weather warmed he rolled down the rented sedan’s windows to breathe the salty moisture of the ocean churning only a short distance off to his right and was refreshed by his frequent glimpses of the vast gray-blue of the Pacific Ocean.
Gradually, the almost painful tension that had bedeviled him for months began to ease a little, so he slowed down and took his time, traveling without any particular destination in mind. He stopped in small inland motels, avoiding the tourist crowds, and was relieved to find he wasn’t having the bizarre dreams that had been troubling him for months, or if he did dream, the details escaped him immediately upon wakening so they didn’t feel like there was some urgent message his brain was trying to tell him - a message he neither understood nor wanted to hear.
He used cash, mostly, even though he had switched to a previously unused identity he’d kept current over the past decade, establishing credit cards and bank accounts, driver’s license and passport. Of course, he’d used other personas in the past but had never bothered to disabuse Joe and Methos of their conviction that he was incapable of using any identity other than Duncan MacLeod. The Watchers had just never caught him at it. The knowledge that there were holes in his Watcher Chronicles made him smile.
It was sometimes nice to be underestimated. Joe surely knew he had the skills and know-how to acquire fake passports and construct an entirely new identity. Did Joe think he did it just for entertainment? While the notion that his friends thought so little of him was irksome, it was worth it for the opportunity to escape Watcher scrutiny, at least for a while. He hadn’t realized just how oppressive knowing your every move was monitored was until he was free of it. He would have to be careful, though. His face was too well known and while he could grow a mustache or change his hair color and style, his basic features were very recognizable. He’d avoid crossing any international borders or going into any big city centers, and he’d sure as hell stay away from other Immortals, even those he trusted, since they’d have their own Watchers. Besides, if what Methos had said was true, his presence would only put them at risk - again. That was another sobering thought that was a recurring theme in his life. How many times had his very existence been a threat - sometimes fatal, to the people he cared most about?
Yeah, his experience with O’Rourke had dispelled the heavy sense of uselessness and depression that had haunted him since Richie’s death, when it had been a real struggle to get back to being able to deal with life at all, much less staying focused long enough to banish some pissed-off millennial demon. But just because he had worked past most of that pain didn’t mean that, under current circumstances, his friends weren’t better off keeping him at a distance. He was pretty sure even Methos would agree, given that whole “You’re the cause of a Gathering” crap he had been spouting during the most recent Methosian lecture on his many failings.
As he drove and the days passed in peaceful monotony, the painful knot between his shoulders began to loosen and he finally began to think about a destination. Wilderness appealed to him but his island retreat was too obvious. And while true wilderness was getting harder and harder to find, the Americas still had vast tracts of relatively unoccupied areas, so he turned east, away from the California coast and towards Arizona. The incredible landscape and ancient feel of western Arizona would be a balm to his admittedly troubled soul. Unlike the great forests of the northwest, where you could lose yourself in a very private canopy of green oak and pine and alder and aspen, there was no where like the vast carved canyons, spires and endless plains of the southwest desert to make you feel just how insignificant one human life - even an immortal life - was in the endless wheel of time. And insignificant was good. Insignificance meant what you did mattered only to you, and the small day-to-day, mundane details of life settled into their proper, comfortable perspective.
The drive across the desert towards Las Vegas was soothingly boring. He listened to NPR on the radio, chuckling as Garrison Keillor wove his amusing tales of Lake Woebegon’s ordinary people doing ordinary things, thereby revealing the universality of the human experience. It was comforting to hear anecdotes that made him feel part of, rather than separate from, the rest of the world.
He arrived in Las Vegas one early evening and cruised slowly down the main boulevard for awhile, watching the bizarre parade of people and extraordinary excess - of lights, of water, of fire, of gilded columns and mirrored surfaces until his head ached from it all and he sped out of town without stopping, driving through the deep desert darkness until he finally found a small town with an isolated motel that had absolutely no distinguishing characteristic except for the amusingly trite absence of the “E” in its neon “MOTEL” sign.
The mattress was lumpy, the bedspread frayed, the nightstands were of chipped and stained vinyl laminate, and the place smelled of stale cigarettes, dust and mildew, but he had driven long enough to be a little buzzed from the car’s constant vibration and he fell into the bed, grateful just to be prone for awhile. He had certainly been in worse places in his long life, and he slept - dreamlessly, until well past dawn.
He stepped out into the light of a bright morning high desert sun, discovering that the little town he had happened upon by chance, Braddockville by name - had very few redeeming features. Its primary economic activity appeared to be as a gas and bathroom stop for buses taking tour groups to and from the Grand Canyon to larger cities like Flagstaff, Phoenix or Las Vegas. There were a couple of souvenir and tee-shirt shops along the main drag, which was all of about a mile long, plus a combination gas station-hardware store-garage and antique shop (called Joe’s Trading Emporium, which made him smile), a coffee shop, a few fastfood restaurants, three major brand gas stations, a beauty salon and four, no make that five, bars, with the main attraction along the highway evidently being a garishly colorful ice cream and burger place right next door to the garage.
The summer parade of vans packed with dirty, tired Canyon campers had slacked off, so he was probably personally responsible for a considerable uptick in the local economy, he mused as he ate an obscenely high-fat breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns and biscuits served by a shy but smiling round-faced young Indian woman whose plastic name tag labeled her as “Maria”. He snuck several long glances as her as she served the locals coffee in a large corner booth, taking their off-color ribbing in stride and giving as good as she got. It tugged painfully at his heartstrings, but he couldn’t help himself. She wasn’t Sioux, probably Navaho or another of the local tribes. Still, she had the lovely, warm, golden skin…
Damn, but he was a sentimental idiot. Little Deer and Kahani had died over a hundred years ago, for God’s sake. Disgusted with himself, he left a ridiculously generous tip and slipped out while she was busy making a fresh pot of coffee. He felt a desperate need for exercise but this place didn’t look exactly like a physical fitness mecca, so he opted for walking along the cracked and broken sidewalk, stretching his legs and absorbing the feel the of the desert sun on his skin. The air was winter-crisp in spite of the bright sunlight, and it would have been nice to be able to break into a run, but that would have drawn too much attention. After a half-mile or so, he reached the edge of town, so he crossed the wide highway, timing his walk between eighteen-wheelers, campers and SUVs speeding along at about 80 miles an hour. The other side of the highway also presented little in the way of the interesting or unusual, although there were some beat up, outrageously decorated old cars parked around the ice cream parlor, next door to Joe’s Trading Emporium, used as quaint signage to attract and entertain the customers.
He slowed as he walked by, cataloguing the near-antique vehicles in his mind, just to test his memory. There was a late 60’s Volkswagen Beetle, badly rusted, with its seats ripped out, but it was garishly painted to advertise ice cream and french fries, touted as “the best in the world, or at least in Braddockville!” More interesting was a 1954 Chevy 3100 truck.
It was hard to tell what color it had originally been since time, exposure and long use had dimmed the paint job to a mushy, spotty maroon. The seats were torn, with dirty, stained foam rubber poking up through the nondescript fabric that had once covered it. There was an old green army tarp thrown over the back, so he couldn’t really see what shape the truck bed was in, but all of the tires were flat. Curious, he circled the vehicle, noting that despite its age, there was remarkably little rust - probably due to the desert environment. The original door handles were intact and the floorboards, what he could see of them through dirty windows and underneath the debris of ripped foam rubber, ancient magazines and old take-out soda cups, were surprisingly solid looking.
“You a fan of old cars?” a gentle baritone asked behind him. He had been aware of the man’s near-silent approach and had caught a brief reflection in the truck’s window of a figure in a stained baseball cap.
“Antiques of all kinds are a hobby of mine,” he answered, turning to face a burly man in a faded plaid western shirt. His dark skin was weathered from long exposure to the sun, his teeth stained by time and tobacco, but his eyes were sharp, examining Mac with a curious expression.
“You a collector, or just an admirer?”
“A little of both, really. I’ve restored a few older models in my time. I have a 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible back home. Keeping her running has been a challenge, though.”
The man examined the old truck with a crooked, affectionate smile. “My old man used this truck for his whole life. Bought it right after the war, brand new, all bright and shiny red.” He walked toward the back, pulling the tarp away to reveal the wooden side slats still intact, if weathered to almost gray. The bed was battered, but intact and rust-free. “It was his pride and joy and I always wanted to fix her back up, but I never had the time and finding the parts these days…” he shrugged. “It makes me sad to see her just sitting out here collecting dust. Tony,” he jutted his chin towards the ice cream shop, “wanted to paint her up with silly slogans and advertising, but I wouldn’t let him. Not this one, not Rosie.” He patted the truck on the roof as though it were some pet he wanted to comfort.
“Rosie, eh?” Mac responded with a smile. “Well, compatible parts aren’t that hard to find anymore now that we have the internet,” Mac advised. He unlatched the hood, which moved up with a hard shove and a screech of poorly oiled hinges, and then propped it open with a long rod. He peered inside to see if he could spot any major problems in the engine. “And if you know what you’re doing, you can substitute a lot of parts. This engine looks pretty well shot, but I bet you could find a rebuilt Chevy engine that could be made to work.”
The man leaned in beside Mac, peering into the grimy shadows of the engine’s inner workings. “Yeah, well, it’d take a lot of time and expertise I don’t really have, I’m afraid.” He stood and offered a weathered hand. “I’m Joe,” he said, indicating towards the “Joe’s Trading Emporium” sign.”
“MacKinsey Lawson,” MacLeod responded, taking the hard-callused hand and giving it a firm shake. “But my friends call me Mac.”
~~~~~~~
Joe scrolled through the day’s reports on “unknown/unexpected Immortal sightings”, looking for evidence of MacLeod’s whereabouts as Methos silently slouched in an office chair on the other side of the desk.
“Here’s something about a tall, dark-haired male Immortal,” he murmured, and Methos instantly sat up, leaning forward in anticipation. “Nah,” Joe sighed after looking at the entry more closely. “It looks like it was Matthew McCormick showing up at an investigation after a beheading in Omaha.”
Methos muttered some incomprehensible foreign phrase that Joe decided could probably be universally translated as, “Damn it!” and stood, pacing the room, his hands jammed into his pockets, and growled, “Who would have thought in the day of computers and credit cards, the idiot could have disappeared that completely. He’s been using the same name since the day he was born!”
Joe sat back, eyeing his tense, rangy friend. “And you thought he couldn’t lose us if he really wanted to? He’s not a stupid man, Methos, and he’s been around for over 400 years.” Joe sighed and scrubbed his face tiredly, trying to get his brain to function at a slightly higher level. “Besides, you said you’d feel if he had started meditating again, so maybe he just needed to get away and clear his head.”
“Get away from me, you mean?” Methos stopped his pacing and pinning Joe with a hard glare.
“I dunno,” Joe shrugged. “Maybe. You’re the oldest, so maybe there was something about being around you that….”
“That’s not it!” Methos snapped. “And if he’s stopped meditating for the moment it just means they…” his voice trailed off. “It just means it’ll be worse when he starts back up again, and there won’t be anyone around to watch his back.”
Joe sat forward, meeting Methos’ glare with one of his own. “Who, precisely, are “they”, Methos?”
“There is no “they”, Joe. It’s just a figure of speech,” Methos groused, turning away to pace again. “Maybe he’s contacted Robert and Gina deValicourt by now. I’ll try them again.”
“They said they’d call if they heard from him. Jeez, Methos, you’re like a longtailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. And don’t give me that, “There is no ‘they’” crap. You know something you’re not tellin’ and if you expect me to help you find him, you’re gonna have to give me a little somethin’ in return.” Joe leaned forward on the desk, leaning on his forearms. “And maybe if you had told MacLeod what you know he might not have rabbitted out of here so fast.”
“And maybe he would have done something fatally stupid, like go and get himself killed,” Methos snapped back.
“Your faith in him is underwhelming,” Joe muttered almost inaudibly, but Methos looked at him with a frown.
“Oh, I have a lot of faith in his bloody heroics and overblown martyr complex.”
“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t always work, does it? What about that whole thing with Steven Keane? You and Amanda were convinced he was going to deliberately lose a fight out of guilt, but that wasn’t what he was going on at all. You don’t always know what he’s thinking, Methos. Being old doesn’t make you omniscient.”
Methos’ eyes narrowed at being corrected. “Fair enough, but when it comes to self-sacrifice, he’s pretty fucking ready to throw himself on the pyre, isn’t he?” Methos braced his hands on the desk, leaning over to whisper malevolently, “Or have you so conveniently forgotten that you managed to get yourself kidnapped and almost got him killed on your behalf?”
Joe’s mouth tightened in anger but he held it in check, recognizing the nasty comment for what it was - a diversion. But the wily old Immortal had already revealed too much. “Self-sacrifice? And just what, pray tell, in our current situation, involves MacLeod’s self-sacrifice?”
Methos pushed away from the desk slowly, then sank back into his chair. He stared at the floor blindly for a long, silent pause. “I can’t be completely certain,” he finally said, but he was speaking so softly Joe had to strain to hear. “It was so damned long ago I had pretty much forgotten, or at least assumed it was… irrelevant.”
Joe waited in the office’s semi-dark, hardly daring to breathe in anticipation that Methos might, just might, finally reveal something of what was going on in that ancient head. The only light was from the office desk, which cast stark shadows along one side of Methos’ sharp features as he gripped his temples with one long-fingered hand. “It goes back, all the way back,” he sighed softly. “Back to the beginning of what we are, and why we are here.”
To be continued….
lastrega and
junoesk for beta duty.
All currently posted chapters, plus a new Dictionary of Sidhe Terms can be found on my Work In Process page.
Origins
by MacGeorge
Chapter Seven
It had been a very long night. MacLeod had tossed and turned and mumbled and sighed and gotten up several times, padding quietly around the dark room to go to the bathroom or get a drink of water. Methos had also hardly slept at all. Not only was he wired with the usual post-Quickening edginess, but his every sense was attuned to the possibility that Mac might try to sneak downstairs and meditate despite the now-obvious dangers. At last gray light began to soften the dark shadows and Methos sat up and rubbed his face to help stimulate his thought processes. He was utterly, disconcertingly torn, his mind prone to wander off in unpredictable and uncomfortable directions without notice. Part of him was burning with an almost overwhelming compulsion to run far and run long, to find some utterly anonymous place to hide. Then the other part - damn the other part - kept him firmly, solidly, right where he was because… because MacLeod deserved better than to have to deal with anymore of someone else’s ugly ancient history that had come back to bite him in the arse.
He looked over at the rumpled platform bed at the end of the room and was relieved to see that, for the moment at least, Mac was still and silent. It was odd, in a way, to see him like that, so very still yet so very… alive, as only MacLeod could be. The man seemed to exude energy, and it wasn’t just the massive Quickenings he had taken in his relatively short life. It was just… who he was.
An uncomfortable chill washed over Methos shoulders at the memory of Mac lying limp on the floor of the dojo - utterly dead, cold, still and devoid of life. Even now Methos wasn’t precisely sure how he had known, but there was no question in his mind that more than Mac’s body was lifeless, and that Mac wasn’t coming back, barring extraordinary measures. He rubbed his arms for warmth and shook himself free of chilling, morbid thoughts.
He desperately needed a shower, and not just to wash off the stink of the previous night’s battle-sweat. He stood carefully to avoid any telltale creaking from the soft leather couch and retreated into the bathroom. Like the rest of MacLeod’s space, it was essentially spare but spacious and had all the requisite functions and accoutrements, including the odd, occasional touch of luxury. When he finally stepped out of the five-foot square shower with dual showerheads that had massaged the kinks out of his neck and shoulders, the world seemed a much more civilized place.
He wrapped one oversized towel around his waist and draped another over his shoulders. A transparent billow of steam followed him into the main room, quickly dissipating in the cool morning air. The light was on and MacLeod was up, dressed and bustling about in the kitchen even though the sun’s rays had yet to touch the windowsills.
Under most circumstances it would have been a comforting scene. Methos had known very few Immortals he trusted - and yes, respected - as much as he did MacLeod. Which made his current dilemma all the more difficult. With an entire world of Immortals to choose from, those sadistic bastards would choose to pick on the one he had formed a close friendship with. But then, you’ve known what MacLeod was ever since you read his chronicles, haven’t you?, Methos’ own irritating conscience grumbled.
He breathed in the delicious aroma of freshly ground coffee and moved towards the kitchen island. “You’re up early,” he commented, picking up a piece of freshly buttered toast.
“So are you,” Mac replied, looking over his shoulder with a half smile and a lifted eyebrow. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fully conscious this close to dawn before.”
“I’ve seen more dawns than you can count,” Methos mumbled around his toast. “Dawn is vastly overrated, in my opinion. Sunsets are much nicer, warmer and they come at a far more respectable hour. Besides, people look at you funny when you toast the dawn with a nice, cold beer.”
“Since when has it bothered you to have people look at you funny?” MacLeod quipped as he threw some bacon into a hot pan and watched it begin to sizzle. The smell of the cooking meat was tantalizing and Methos came closer, hanging over Mac’s shoulder as he crunched on his toast. It was always like this after a Quickening, all his senses heightened, his whole being more alert and energized. Mac’s very nearness, the vibration of his powerful Quickening, was making Methos edgy and he wasn’t sure which he wanted more, to get closer or move further away. The knowledge that the whole attract/repel dichotomy was built into his genetic structure should have helped mute the sensation, but somehow knowing why it happened didn’t help much.
“Is there something I can do for you?” Mac asked with a raised eyebrow, looking over his shoulder as he tended the cooking meat.
“No,” Methos answered casually. “Just feeling… sort of… hungry.”
Mac looked at him speculatively for a moment, then gave a quick nod before turning back to his task. “Yeah, well this will be ready in a minute, or we can wait and go for a run first, if you want.”
“I just showered, MacLeod. Getting sweaty again wouldn’t make much sense. Besides, after last night, you want to exercise? When did you take up masochism as a lifestyle?”
Duncan shrugged. “It’s just that I know how it can be after a Quickening. All I’m saying is that I’ll be fine. You don’t have to baby sit me every minute. I promise I won’t meditate, if that’s what you’re worried about,” he said grumpily, turning back to his bacon, which was about done, so he laid each piece carefully on a piece of paper towel to drain.
Methos just watched for a minute. For anyone who didn’t know him well, MacLeod appeared to be the epitome of physical perfection, every move graceful and economical. But what Methos saw was a man moving with exquisite care, every muscle held under tight, obsessive, specific control.
“Frankly, MacLeod, that’s exactly what I’m worried about. I’m not sure you can control the impulse.”
Mac put the fork down, turned off the fire under the pan and turned around, his expression a little too carefully neutral for Methos’ comfort. “I think in over 400 years I’ve learned a little about self-discipline.” He leaned against the stove, folded his arms across his chest and met Methos’ gaze with a cool, appraising look. “And if I make a promise, I’m pretty good about keeping it. Is it a matter of trust, or are you so worried because you know something more about what’s going on than you’re telling me?”
Methos bit into the rest of his toast and chewed thoughtfully while rubbing his damp hair with the towel. After 5,000 years, chickens were finally coming home to roost, and he hadn’t a clue what to do about it. “What I know, MacLeod, is that I better put some clothes on before I catch my death of cold,” he quipped. “Got anything clean I can borrow?”
Mac’s dark eyes narrowed in annoyance, then he sighed, pushed away from the stove and crossed the room to rummage in his wardrobe, coming up with sweatpants and a sweater and tossing them in Methos’ direction. They eventually settled into a quiet breakfast, each man lost in his own thoughts or engrossed in the morning paper. When Duncan rose to clear the island of their dishes, Methos pitched in and the two of them worked efficiently in the small space. Duncan put away the last of the dishes and wiped his hands on a towel, studying Methos with a speculative look.
“So, what’s on the agenda for the day?” Methos asked preemptively.
“I don’t know what’s on your agenda, but I’ve got some calls to make, errands to run,” Mac answered. “Don’t you have to be somewhere?” he asked. “Students to meet with? Papers to grade? Clothes to wash?” he added pointedly, nodding to the clothes Methos had left lying in a heap by the couch.
Methos was in a bit of a quandary. Instinct told him he needed to stay close to MacLeod, but practically speaking that was unrealistic. MacLeod wouldn’t put up with a babysitter and in the light of a new day, Methos’ paranoia seemed a little overblown. “Yeah, well, I should at least go get the papers I’m supposed to finish grading, I suppose,” he reluctantly acknowledged. “How long are you going to be out?”
“As long as it takes,” Mac answered with an irritated growl. He had put on his coat and moved to his desk and was rummaging in it, taking papers out and putting them in his pockets. The man was close to open rebellion at being so closely monitored and Methos knew he needed to back off a little.
“Okay,” he answered in a deliberately casual tone. “I’ll go get my stuff, do laundry, and then call you and we can talk about what we want to do for dinner and, uh, living arrangements,” Methos added, gesturing vaguely at the space around them.
“And then you can tell me all these secrets you’ve been keeping about what the hell is going on, right?” Mac asked, giving him a grim look while tucking his katana into his coat. He waited, meeting Methos’ eyes with a hard look, but Methos kept his mouth firmly shut. “Right. That’s what I thought,” Mac snapped, heading towards the door.
The room seemed remarkably empty once Mac had gone.
Methos shook himself, deciding he actually did need to do laundry and gather all his papers and his laptop computer. He really needed to stay pretty close to MacLeod. The stakes were awfully high if Mac started the whole meditation thing again. But then, Mac had promised and MacLeod was nothing if not absurdly devoted to keeping promises.
Despite his own admonition to try to give Mac a little more room, by late morning Methos had finished his own chores and was getting restless and called Mac on his cell phone. After over an hour slowly ticked by and Mac hadn’t returned his messages, Methos called Joe to have him contact Mac’s Watcher and find out where Mac was.
“What Watcher?” Joe asked.
A cold chill chased down Methos spine and seemed to seep into his bones. “What do you mean, ‘What Watcher?’ Joe? That’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Watch?”
“You know I don’t keep a fulltime Watcher on Mac, and you told me you were going to stay with him, so why should I?” Joe answered irritably, although Methos could hear a touch of worry in his voice.
By mid afternoon, when there had still been no response to his several messages, Methos drove to Joe’s bar where the lunch crowd was occupying the Watcher’s full attention. Despite the dark looks Methos pointedly threw in the Watcher’s direction, it was almost a half an hour before Joe the crowd cleared out enough for Joe to join Methos across from his seat at the bar.
“I’ve got somebody keeping an eye on the dojo now, but it’s probably nothing,” Joe tried to sound reassuring. “Maybe the battery died on his cell phone.”
Methos gave him a dark look, and Joe flinched, turning away to put on some more coffee. “How about I go do a little poking around at his place to see if I can figure out where he might have gone?”
“Well, your snooping around his apartment is probably just gonna piss him off,” Joe snarled, slamming the glass carafe onto the burner with a little too much force.
“I’ll worry about pissing him off when we figure out what the hell he’s up to,” Methos muttered.
Joe gave him a sharp look. “It’s possible he might’ve run into another Immortal and is dealing with that, although we haven’t gotten any reports of Quickenings in the area. Yet.” Joe paused, studying Methos for a moment. “What are you thinking, Methos?”
Methos drummed a little pattern on the wood of the bar with his fingers. “Nothing, I just don’t like him being out of touch like this.” He stood to go, but Joe held up his hand, reached into his pocket and extracted a ring of keys, pulling one loose. “Mac had the locks changed last week.” He held it out towards Methos, but pulled it back as Methos reached for it. “Not until you tell me what you think is going on,” Joe said grimly. Without appearing to have moved at all, Methos had the possession of the key and was backing out before Joe even realized it was gone.
“Sorry, Joe,” Methos shrugged. “Maybe another time.”
“You bastard!” Joe shouted after him, but Methos knew the mortal didn’t have a prayer of catching up to him, and the closing door quickly masked the sound of Joe’s angry protests.
Mac’s place was empty. Oh, it wasn’t just that MacLeod wasn’t there. It was more than that. The signs were subtle but Methos had always had an eye for details that others might not notice. The spare coat that was usually hanging on the coat tree was missing, each drawer in the wardrobe had excess space, and - most importantly - the duffle bag that took up a small corner of the upper part of the wardrobe was gone.
“Damn him!” Methos muttered as he reached for his cell phone.
~~~~~~
It took time for ‘Thalia to recover from retrieving Dane, who had been almost unrecognizable when she finally managed to tie a line around his torso before she, too collapsed and died of the poisons in the atmosphere, the unbearable heat and the toxic rain that had completely eaten through her protective clothing and large portions of her flesh. It had been a devastating experience - not just the physical trial, but the emotional impact of seeing her beautiful world utterly destroyed. She had not been above ground for many, many fanshea, and while she knew that conditions were terrible, nothing had prepared her for seeing it first-hand. The soaring architecture perfected and refined over a stretch of time such that even she could not remember the origins of most of it, was gone. The vast expanse of gardens and forests so carefully and lovingly cultivated by the hand of every Danae that had ever walked this soil were stunted and dead. The only remaining life left was that which they had deliberately altered to survive in such a hostile environment in order to preserve as much as they could of the atmosphere for as long as possible.
She had found Dane’s body at the base of what had once been his forest home, a creation of his own hands and mind and energy that had been so enormous and towering that at one time its highest reaches were perpetually shrouded in misty clouds. Growths of rich hues of amber and ocher had formed the walls of the hundreds of rooms built into the side of a mountain, each swirled in chaotic patterns and imbued with wonderful, subtle scents of whatever plant life Dane had coaxed to his will. Archways, stairs, paths, caverns - even the furniture, had all been grown to Dane’s precise specifications. Over time, each room had become an individualized display of the brilliant geneticist’s and horticulturist’s art, a delight to every sense, including the awareness of knowledge and wisdom that went into planning the smallest detail of every space and its intended use.
That entire mountain was now a barren wasteland, with only the stumps of a few of the largest growths still remaining, and even those were devoid of life, their enormous, decayed remains being gradually eaten away by the corrosive atmosphere.
She had wept as she wrapped the line around the pitiful mound of flesh that was what remained of Ce’dane of the Mountains, his clothes gone, his skin so eaten away that she feared his body would disintegrate as it was pulled back towards the shelter of underground, and that he might truly die as a result. But she could barely manage even that before the pain of her own flesh being stripped from her bones combined with the barely breathable atmosphere to render her unconscious, and ultimately - dead.
She awoke with a gulping gasp of pain and near-panic as shards of agony stabbed every nerve-ending in her body. Her head, her eyes, her arms, her legs were all on fire and she cried out, but even that small involuntary effort generated new layers of pain. How long had it been, a small part of her mind wondered, since she had suffered any more than the transient discomfort of a misstep or small abrasion? Making the Transition from death to life was a horror she had not endured since her first Transition to Sidhe’fanshea - the ritual passage from infancy to becoming Of the Sidhe. And then it had been only a fleeting, if shocking, sensation.
It seemed to take forever as she drifted in and out of consciousness, but gradually, gradually, the pain eased, but left her panting and thrashing. She vaguely realized that she had been laid out in her own quarters on her bed of geesta, her bedchamber delineated by soft layers of transparent fabric that undulated gently, stirred by the ever-present breezes that moved throughout the vast underground city that had been their home for so long. A g’nagal gently stroked her forehead with its fingers, periodically putting a cup of cool liquid to her lips. Even with the drugs the pain was intense, well-nigh unbearable, and she was abnormally aware of the pounding of her own heart as each throb generated a stab of agony. “Make it stop,” she managed to gasp, but the only response was urging by the g’nagal to drink from the cup it offered. The liquid must have been infused with a sleeping agent, because she quickly drifted off despite the lingering memory/nightmare of feeling her flesh disintegrate from her bones.
When she awoke again, the light in the room was barely discernable without movement to generate luminescence, but she deliberately remained still. She was alone, although no doubt had she called out or even moved significantly, a g’nagal would be almost instantly at her side. For the moment, however, she relished the quiet. She had forgotten about the lightness of spirit, the near-euphoria that accompanied the sudden cessation of intense pain. From time to time, there had even been those among them who would obsessively hurt themselves solely for the moments of artificial joy felt once the self-punishment had stopped. It had never been her path, but she could understand the attraction, especially to those who had lost their sense of purpose over the long, tedious stretch of fanshea. When a people had no threat to its individual or racial survival, the greatest challenge was…sanity.
She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Even that slight movement brought a silent g’nagal to her side. It knelt, awaiting any request she might have. “Bring me something to drink and eat,” she instructed softly, and the creature rose and slipped away to do her bidding.
She wondered how much time had passed as her body had healed. The passage of time was not something she usually concerned herself with, but time had different meanings across the dimensional Gate, and the potential for events outpacing her own readiness was a serious issue - one with which she was ill equipped to deal, especially at the moment. She gazed in dismay at her emaciated arms and assumed the rest of her body was similarly depleted in muscle mass and strength. A touch to her chest also revealed a reversion back to her pre-childbearing state. It was, after all, the only real outer designation that made her nominally female, and she felt oddly disappointed at the loss. Fewer and fewer of the Sidhe were willing - even for the relatively short gestation period - to expend the time and considerable energy to deal with the inconvenience of producing an offspring, especially now that such creations were not really of the Sidhe, but genetically modeled after the merely mortal humans and immediately released across the dimensional gateway, never to be seen again.
Being v’tah - the bearer of life - used to be a source of great joy, vied for among the strongest and eldest of their kind. The act of creation was one of transcendent physical pleasure, and the body’s change to bear and nurture the child was the only permanent alteration of their form possible after the Transition.
But her choice to be the v’tah for the last potential opener of the Gate had been made for entirely pragmatic reasons. She was determined to control the offspring’s attributes more carefully than in previous efforts, which generated a source of major contention among those who contributed to its genetic composition. She had been the one to require more initial energy from the various contributors and had made the final choices not only to emphasize strength and endurance, but to imbue the progeny with a certain charisma that would attract others of its kind, as well as an inbred propensity towards caring for others, even to the point of self-sacrifice. For, after all, wasn’t that what they were requiring of it? The others had scoffed at her esoteric notions that such subtle attributes would make a difference in the final push to open the Gate. Thalia defied the conventional wisdom that greed for power was the sole motivator that would compel the progeny to act in accordance with their plan. After all, the previous specialized subjects had failed miserably. The first had exhibited an astonishing willfulness and simply defied their pressure and conditioning. The second had been deliberately gifted with what they had assumed was unbeatable physical strength, but he had been beaten, against all expectations - and by someone with the very characteristics Thalia felt, if emphasized in even larger measure, would give them the leverage they would need to compel their will.
The food and drink was delivered and she forced herself to take in as much as she could. She wouldn’t even be able to attempt ka’queha until she was substantially restored in strength, but she could not finish the platter of fresh fruits and greens that the g’nagal had brought. When she sighed and waved the dishes away, it gathered them up and turned to leave. “Wait,” she called, and it instantly stopped and turned, awaiting her instructions. “How is Ce’dane?” she asked.
“Ce’dane of the Mountains has not awakened from his healing,” it responded slowly, “but he lives.”
Thalia nodded, and the g’nagal turned and slipped silently away. Her mind wandered from extraneous thought to extraneous thought, pondering on how long it would take Ce’dane to recover - not physically. Dane’s internal resources were on a par with her own so his physical recovery was never in doubt. No, the question was whether he was lost to them in other ways, whether the occasional madness of the long fanshea, which struck them all periodically, exacerbated by the confinement of the dark, constructed dún that was now their entire universe, had combined to steal his reason, his very essence of being. It was happening to them all, in one way or another, she admitted to herself with a sigh that turned into a shudder of dread. With the move away from the radiation and heat of their deteriorating sun, into the underground - a move utterly necessary for their survival - they had become a bitter, isolated people. Even she. There were even a number of the Sidhe who had simply gone to their chambers, reclined on their bed of geesta and… stopped being, lying in perpetual state of ka’queha. Thalia had always hoped that once the Gateway was open, they could transport their bodies across, bring them into the sunlight and they would be born again.
But perhaps not. Perhaps it was too late for them. Perhaps it was too late for all of them. Thalia lay back, not wanting to think anymore, not wanting to feel anymore, and slept.
~~~~~~
The sense of urgency, the need to ‘get’ somewhere, especially away from the irritation of Methos’ and Joe’s watchful eyes, had moderated considerably as he drove south through Washington and Oregon and into California. Driving along the Pacific Coast Highway had always been a favorite way to relax. As the weather warmed he rolled down the rented sedan’s windows to breathe the salty moisture of the ocean churning only a short distance off to his right and was refreshed by his frequent glimpses of the vast gray-blue of the Pacific Ocean.
Gradually, the almost painful tension that had bedeviled him for months began to ease a little, so he slowed down and took his time, traveling without any particular destination in mind. He stopped in small inland motels, avoiding the tourist crowds, and was relieved to find he wasn’t having the bizarre dreams that had been troubling him for months, or if he did dream, the details escaped him immediately upon wakening so they didn’t feel like there was some urgent message his brain was trying to tell him - a message he neither understood nor wanted to hear.
He used cash, mostly, even though he had switched to a previously unused identity he’d kept current over the past decade, establishing credit cards and bank accounts, driver’s license and passport. Of course, he’d used other personas in the past but had never bothered to disabuse Joe and Methos of their conviction that he was incapable of using any identity other than Duncan MacLeod. The Watchers had just never caught him at it. The knowledge that there were holes in his Watcher Chronicles made him smile.
It was sometimes nice to be underestimated. Joe surely knew he had the skills and know-how to acquire fake passports and construct an entirely new identity. Did Joe think he did it just for entertainment? While the notion that his friends thought so little of him was irksome, it was worth it for the opportunity to escape Watcher scrutiny, at least for a while. He hadn’t realized just how oppressive knowing your every move was monitored was until he was free of it. He would have to be careful, though. His face was too well known and while he could grow a mustache or change his hair color and style, his basic features were very recognizable. He’d avoid crossing any international borders or going into any big city centers, and he’d sure as hell stay away from other Immortals, even those he trusted, since they’d have their own Watchers. Besides, if what Methos had said was true, his presence would only put them at risk - again. That was another sobering thought that was a recurring theme in his life. How many times had his very existence been a threat - sometimes fatal, to the people he cared most about?
Yeah, his experience with O’Rourke had dispelled the heavy sense of uselessness and depression that had haunted him since Richie’s death, when it had been a real struggle to get back to being able to deal with life at all, much less staying focused long enough to banish some pissed-off millennial demon. But just because he had worked past most of that pain didn’t mean that, under current circumstances, his friends weren’t better off keeping him at a distance. He was pretty sure even Methos would agree, given that whole “You’re the cause of a Gathering” crap he had been spouting during the most recent Methosian lecture on his many failings.
As he drove and the days passed in peaceful monotony, the painful knot between his shoulders began to loosen and he finally began to think about a destination. Wilderness appealed to him but his island retreat was too obvious. And while true wilderness was getting harder and harder to find, the Americas still had vast tracts of relatively unoccupied areas, so he turned east, away from the California coast and towards Arizona. The incredible landscape and ancient feel of western Arizona would be a balm to his admittedly troubled soul. Unlike the great forests of the northwest, where you could lose yourself in a very private canopy of green oak and pine and alder and aspen, there was no where like the vast carved canyons, spires and endless plains of the southwest desert to make you feel just how insignificant one human life - even an immortal life - was in the endless wheel of time. And insignificant was good. Insignificance meant what you did mattered only to you, and the small day-to-day, mundane details of life settled into their proper, comfortable perspective.
The drive across the desert towards Las Vegas was soothingly boring. He listened to NPR on the radio, chuckling as Garrison Keillor wove his amusing tales of Lake Woebegon’s ordinary people doing ordinary things, thereby revealing the universality of the human experience. It was comforting to hear anecdotes that made him feel part of, rather than separate from, the rest of the world.
He arrived in Las Vegas one early evening and cruised slowly down the main boulevard for awhile, watching the bizarre parade of people and extraordinary excess - of lights, of water, of fire, of gilded columns and mirrored surfaces until his head ached from it all and he sped out of town without stopping, driving through the deep desert darkness until he finally found a small town with an isolated motel that had absolutely no distinguishing characteristic except for the amusingly trite absence of the “E” in its neon “MOTEL” sign.
The mattress was lumpy, the bedspread frayed, the nightstands were of chipped and stained vinyl laminate, and the place smelled of stale cigarettes, dust and mildew, but he had driven long enough to be a little buzzed from the car’s constant vibration and he fell into the bed, grateful just to be prone for awhile. He had certainly been in worse places in his long life, and he slept - dreamlessly, until well past dawn.
He stepped out into the light of a bright morning high desert sun, discovering that the little town he had happened upon by chance, Braddockville by name - had very few redeeming features. Its primary economic activity appeared to be as a gas and bathroom stop for buses taking tour groups to and from the Grand Canyon to larger cities like Flagstaff, Phoenix or Las Vegas. There were a couple of souvenir and tee-shirt shops along the main drag, which was all of about a mile long, plus a combination gas station-hardware store-garage and antique shop (called Joe’s Trading Emporium, which made him smile), a coffee shop, a few fastfood restaurants, three major brand gas stations, a beauty salon and four, no make that five, bars, with the main attraction along the highway evidently being a garishly colorful ice cream and burger place right next door to the garage.
The summer parade of vans packed with dirty, tired Canyon campers had slacked off, so he was probably personally responsible for a considerable uptick in the local economy, he mused as he ate an obscenely high-fat breakfast of eggs, bacon, hash browns and biscuits served by a shy but smiling round-faced young Indian woman whose plastic name tag labeled her as “Maria”. He snuck several long glances as her as she served the locals coffee in a large corner booth, taking their off-color ribbing in stride and giving as good as she got. It tugged painfully at his heartstrings, but he couldn’t help himself. She wasn’t Sioux, probably Navaho or another of the local tribes. Still, she had the lovely, warm, golden skin…
Damn, but he was a sentimental idiot. Little Deer and Kahani had died over a hundred years ago, for God’s sake. Disgusted with himself, he left a ridiculously generous tip and slipped out while she was busy making a fresh pot of coffee. He felt a desperate need for exercise but this place didn’t look exactly like a physical fitness mecca, so he opted for walking along the cracked and broken sidewalk, stretching his legs and absorbing the feel the of the desert sun on his skin. The air was winter-crisp in spite of the bright sunlight, and it would have been nice to be able to break into a run, but that would have drawn too much attention. After a half-mile or so, he reached the edge of town, so he crossed the wide highway, timing his walk between eighteen-wheelers, campers and SUVs speeding along at about 80 miles an hour. The other side of the highway also presented little in the way of the interesting or unusual, although there were some beat up, outrageously decorated old cars parked around the ice cream parlor, next door to Joe’s Trading Emporium, used as quaint signage to attract and entertain the customers.
He slowed as he walked by, cataloguing the near-antique vehicles in his mind, just to test his memory. There was a late 60’s Volkswagen Beetle, badly rusted, with its seats ripped out, but it was garishly painted to advertise ice cream and french fries, touted as “the best in the world, or at least in Braddockville!” More interesting was a 1954 Chevy 3100 truck.
It was hard to tell what color it had originally been since time, exposure and long use had dimmed the paint job to a mushy, spotty maroon. The seats were torn, with dirty, stained foam rubber poking up through the nondescript fabric that had once covered it. There was an old green army tarp thrown over the back, so he couldn’t really see what shape the truck bed was in, but all of the tires were flat. Curious, he circled the vehicle, noting that despite its age, there was remarkably little rust - probably due to the desert environment. The original door handles were intact and the floorboards, what he could see of them through dirty windows and underneath the debris of ripped foam rubber, ancient magazines and old take-out soda cups, were surprisingly solid looking.
“You a fan of old cars?” a gentle baritone asked behind him. He had been aware of the man’s near-silent approach and had caught a brief reflection in the truck’s window of a figure in a stained baseball cap.
“Antiques of all kinds are a hobby of mine,” he answered, turning to face a burly man in a faded plaid western shirt. His dark skin was weathered from long exposure to the sun, his teeth stained by time and tobacco, but his eyes were sharp, examining Mac with a curious expression.
“You a collector, or just an admirer?”
“A little of both, really. I’ve restored a few older models in my time. I have a 1966 Ford Thunderbird convertible back home. Keeping her running has been a challenge, though.”
The man examined the old truck with a crooked, affectionate smile. “My old man used this truck for his whole life. Bought it right after the war, brand new, all bright and shiny red.” He walked toward the back, pulling the tarp away to reveal the wooden side slats still intact, if weathered to almost gray. The bed was battered, but intact and rust-free. “It was his pride and joy and I always wanted to fix her back up, but I never had the time and finding the parts these days…” he shrugged. “It makes me sad to see her just sitting out here collecting dust. Tony,” he jutted his chin towards the ice cream shop, “wanted to paint her up with silly slogans and advertising, but I wouldn’t let him. Not this one, not Rosie.” He patted the truck on the roof as though it were some pet he wanted to comfort.
“Rosie, eh?” Mac responded with a smile. “Well, compatible parts aren’t that hard to find anymore now that we have the internet,” Mac advised. He unlatched the hood, which moved up with a hard shove and a screech of poorly oiled hinges, and then propped it open with a long rod. He peered inside to see if he could spot any major problems in the engine. “And if you know what you’re doing, you can substitute a lot of parts. This engine looks pretty well shot, but I bet you could find a rebuilt Chevy engine that could be made to work.”
The man leaned in beside Mac, peering into the grimy shadows of the engine’s inner workings. “Yeah, well, it’d take a lot of time and expertise I don’t really have, I’m afraid.” He stood and offered a weathered hand. “I’m Joe,” he said, indicating towards the “Joe’s Trading Emporium” sign.”
“MacKinsey Lawson,” MacLeod responded, taking the hard-callused hand and giving it a firm shake. “But my friends call me Mac.”
~~~~~~~
Joe scrolled through the day’s reports on “unknown/unexpected Immortal sightings”, looking for evidence of MacLeod’s whereabouts as Methos silently slouched in an office chair on the other side of the desk.
“Here’s something about a tall, dark-haired male Immortal,” he murmured, and Methos instantly sat up, leaning forward in anticipation. “Nah,” Joe sighed after looking at the entry more closely. “It looks like it was Matthew McCormick showing up at an investigation after a beheading in Omaha.”
Methos muttered some incomprehensible foreign phrase that Joe decided could probably be universally translated as, “Damn it!” and stood, pacing the room, his hands jammed into his pockets, and growled, “Who would have thought in the day of computers and credit cards, the idiot could have disappeared that completely. He’s been using the same name since the day he was born!”
Joe sat back, eyeing his tense, rangy friend. “And you thought he couldn’t lose us if he really wanted to? He’s not a stupid man, Methos, and he’s been around for over 400 years.” Joe sighed and scrubbed his face tiredly, trying to get his brain to function at a slightly higher level. “Besides, you said you’d feel if he had started meditating again, so maybe he just needed to get away and clear his head.”
“Get away from me, you mean?” Methos stopped his pacing and pinning Joe with a hard glare.
“I dunno,” Joe shrugged. “Maybe. You’re the oldest, so maybe there was something about being around you that….”
“That’s not it!” Methos snapped. “And if he’s stopped meditating for the moment it just means they…” his voice trailed off. “It just means it’ll be worse when he starts back up again, and there won’t be anyone around to watch his back.”
Joe sat forward, meeting Methos’ glare with one of his own. “Who, precisely, are “they”, Methos?”
“There is no “they”, Joe. It’s just a figure of speech,” Methos groused, turning away to pace again. “Maybe he’s contacted Robert and Gina deValicourt by now. I’ll try them again.”
“They said they’d call if they heard from him. Jeez, Methos, you’re like a longtailed cat in a room full of rockin’ chairs. And don’t give me that, “There is no ‘they’” crap. You know something you’re not tellin’ and if you expect me to help you find him, you’re gonna have to give me a little somethin’ in return.” Joe leaned forward on the desk, leaning on his forearms. “And maybe if you had told MacLeod what you know he might not have rabbitted out of here so fast.”
“And maybe he would have done something fatally stupid, like go and get himself killed,” Methos snapped back.
“Your faith in him is underwhelming,” Joe muttered almost inaudibly, but Methos looked at him with a frown.
“Oh, I have a lot of faith in his bloody heroics and overblown martyr complex.”
“Yeah? Well, that doesn’t always work, does it? What about that whole thing with Steven Keane? You and Amanda were convinced he was going to deliberately lose a fight out of guilt, but that wasn’t what he was going on at all. You don’t always know what he’s thinking, Methos. Being old doesn’t make you omniscient.”
Methos’ eyes narrowed at being corrected. “Fair enough, but when it comes to self-sacrifice, he’s pretty fucking ready to throw himself on the pyre, isn’t he?” Methos braced his hands on the desk, leaning over to whisper malevolently, “Or have you so conveniently forgotten that you managed to get yourself kidnapped and almost got him killed on your behalf?”
Joe’s mouth tightened in anger but he held it in check, recognizing the nasty comment for what it was - a diversion. But the wily old Immortal had already revealed too much. “Self-sacrifice? And just what, pray tell, in our current situation, involves MacLeod’s self-sacrifice?”
Methos pushed away from the desk slowly, then sank back into his chair. He stared at the floor blindly for a long, silent pause. “I can’t be completely certain,” he finally said, but he was speaking so softly Joe had to strain to hear. “It was so damned long ago I had pretty much forgotten, or at least assumed it was… irrelevant.”
Joe waited in the office’s semi-dark, hardly daring to breathe in anticipation that Methos might, just might, finally reveal something of what was going on in that ancient head. The only light was from the office desk, which cast stark shadows along one side of Methos’ sharp features as he gripped his temples with one long-fingered hand. “It goes back, all the way back,” he sighed softly. “Back to the beginning of what we are, and why we are here.”
To be continued….