Happy Holidays, All Participants and Readers!
This is the last fic of the fest. I encourage you to read stories you haven't and give our authors lots of feedback! Additional guessing will be open in a new thread here until Sunday morning, when authors will be revealed! You can read the old guesses in the first post, here. And if you haven't read and commented on your gift fic, please do so; our authors were excited to work for you!
Title: Selah
Author: Your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, amand_r
Written for: The Community hlh_shortcuts, writers and readers alike.
Characters/Pairings: Duncan, Methos, Anna, Connor [:)]
Rating: G, for General audiences everywhere.
Author's Notes: Post The Source. Yeah, I know. Appropriate, no? See notes at the end.
Summary: Duncan was rather torn: did he hug Methos? Did they shake hands? Did he grill him for information? Would they have to fight now?
Selah
This story begins with an ending. That's how it always works. Or maybe not an ending, but the end of something else. And that ending is simple: a man walks up over the hill and out of a horizon.
Duncan was putting the finishing touches on little Connor's homemade swing set when he heard the Presence in his head. It gave him more than a few seconds of pause because, well, mostly because what Immortals hadn't killed each other had been killed by the Guardian. The Prize had pretty much confirmed that, hadn't it?
He hadn't replaced his sword. There was no need, actually. It was strange, though, because even when they'd left the island and he'd figured it out, cut his hand and watched it heal and understood that it wasn't really over, it was hard to accept the whole not-aging thing even more. Or maybe it wasn't. Or maybe he was lonely for the future.
Anna said that he had to concentrate on the now, live in the present, and not think about things like death and dying, and all that rot. All that rot, she called it, which in and of itself was a reminder of her frailty.
That they had moved here where Duncan could see his son's namesake's grave right there next to Heather's every time he crossed the moor on the way home from hunting had been no coincidence. But it hadn't been until recently that Duncan had realized the symbolism of it all.
But now, in the moment, feeling that sense like so many needles in his head again, it almost hurt, like the first time. The first time had been painful, not because it was painful, but because anything new like that tended to register as pain. Duncan wondered if this was what it was like for girls losing their virginity.
He hefted the axe in his hand and scanned the area, wondering first where Anna and Connor were in their return from the local market. The house was bordered on three sides by forest, and only the hill behind him was free of verge. If he had to fight in the forest, he wasn't going to be pleased. But he would prefer to be out there than in the vicinity of the house. The idea of Connor finding his father's headless body made a lump block Duncan's throat.
Finally, as the pain receded a bit, which meant that his opponent was near enough and had been there long enough for Duncan to get used to him, a figure trudged over the crest of the hill, framed by the setting sun.
His hair was exactly the same as it had been the last time he'd seen him. The long legs were encased in jeans, ending with hiking boots. The sweater was probably something he'd once stolen from Duncan himself, and the jacket, mercifully free of fringe.
Duncan was rather torn: did he hug Methos? Did they shake hands? Did he grill him for information? Would they have to fight now?
"This is a strange thing indeed," Duncan said finally, because it was the only thing rattling around his mind as Methos ambled towards him with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
Methos had no sword. If he did, it was still in his pack. While Duncan hadn't gotten a new weapon, Methos surely wasn't doing without. Five thousand years couldn't have been abandoned just because of the Prize. Or the Prize that wasn't.
It struck Duncan that once Connor had thought he'd won the Prize. He wondered if it really existed, or whether they'd all managed to dupe themselves into thinking this had such a linear ending.
"Yes," Methos said, "very strange." He shuffled from one foot to the other. He lifted a bottle of something brown in his hand. "I'm a Greek, bearing gifts."
Duncan looked behind him to the house. He hadn't heard any noises from that direction, so Connor and Anna were still out. He knew that he'd at least hear the dog if they were coming. Plus, Connor had made him promise that he'd be done with the swing set by the time they got back, so if her was anywhere near the house, it'd be out back to check on Duncan's progress.
"What kind of gift?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He hoped Methos didn't expect good conversation out of him for at least a minute or two. It was a miracle he had managed to find his voice. Hell, it was miracle enough he hadn't dropped the axe.
Methos shook the bottle in one hand. "A toast? To the new Clan MacLeod."
Duncan watched Methos measure out two fingers of something brown and probably alcoholic into two old thermos caps. He handed one over and let Mac sniff it before he drank from his own cup. It had crossed Duncan's mind that whatever was in this was poison, but he didn't want to say it aloud.
"It's not poison," Methos said, smirking. "Well, not intentionally." He drained his cup and made a face while refilling it. "Definitely not intentionally. Perhaps accidentally."
Duncan sat down on the log next to them, and Methos mirrored him. They stared at the swing set, sipping from their cups in silence. Methos dumped his pack on the ground next to his long legs.
Duncan examined Methos's coat, something warm and lined with polar fleece. "I made a kid," was all he could say eventually.
"Yeah," Methos said around a yawn, "I was really gratified to see that happen." He gave Duncan a thumbs up. "Thanks for the free show back there."
"You saw it?"
Methos rolled his eyes. "Who didn't see it? It was like a nuclear money shot." And then he paused. "Oh dear god, I didn't just say that referencing-"
"-We'll just pretend you didn't," Duncan said quickly, before slamming his shot down and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Eugh. Whet the hell is this shit?"
Methos sighed. "It was supposed to be scotch, but I think I missed a crucial step in its creation."
Duncan snorted. "Like the aging process."
Methos shrugged. "There was a dire need. I had no time, Johnny Walker."
"What happened to regular scotch?" Duncan asked as Methos refilled his cup. "You know, the stuff you didn't make?"
Methos raised an eyebrow. "You drank it all." He rolled the contents of his cup around with his wrist and tilted his head. "Or I drank it all. It's hard to remember. Between you and me and Joe, we drank a lot in those days."
When he said it, his eyes didn't darken. He didn't seem angry, which made Duncan a little sad, because he knew that for him, just like for Methos, Joe's memory had faded into an unsentimental thing that they could talk about without feeling overwhelming sadness. It had happened countless times over the years with various people, and knowing that it had happened wasn't even arresting either. It was just what it was.
Duncan saluted him with his cup. "I dare say someone needs to start a new distillery in this Brave New World." He picked up the clear bottle and regarded the brown liquid in front of him with scrutiny. "And it shouldn't be you."
Methos sighed. "How true." He sniffed. "I make wonderful mead," he said dryly, "I'm just rather afraid of bees."
"Bees. You're afraid of bees."
Methos took the bottle from him, pouring himself another shot and slamming it home before replying. "Have you ever been stung to death by ground bees?" He made a face, and Duncan wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or the memory of death by bees. "Eugh." Oh, that was from the alcohol.
He finally found something to say. Something of import. "How did you...?" He trailed off, not really sure how to ask it.
"Cannibals are notoriously gullible," Methos offered, but didn't elaborate. Duncan waited for more, but it definitely wasn't coming
Methos found words, though it wasn't further explanation. "We're not the only ones, you know."
Duncan sighed. "I know."
And there it was. He had known. Perhaps in every part of him but his heart of hearts, he had deluded himself into thinking that if they moved out here, if he didn't replace his sword, then they could ignore Immortals forever. He didn't want to think about the future, of the time when he might have to take up the sword again, of how he would eventually have to hand a blade over to his son, his son with Connor's sandy hair and Anna's eyes. His bright boy with Anna's sensitive nature and inquisitiveness about the world.
"I'm thinking of starting the Watchers up again." Methos made a face. "Watcher, 2.0. New and improved. With scrubbing bubbles."
Duncan wasn't sure if he was serious, though surely if he hadn't been, then he wouldn't have brought that subject up.
"Whatever for?" he asked. "They were nothing but trouble."
Methos sniffed and bit his lip. "They were good for some things, Mac. Think about it: if they hadn't existed, you wouldn't have Connor."
Duncan ignored that Methos knew his son's name. "Oh, I think I would. There were other factors there."
"Then think on this: we would never have met."
That one was too easy. "You can't say that for sure."
"No one can say anything for sure, you know. It's a big lie. We thought for sure you'd be the last one standing. Well, look at me." Methos spread his arms a bit, and then looked down at their sitting position. "Well, figuratively."
This was an argument to no where. Duncan decided to let it, like so many other things, go. If the Watchers started again, and Methos was the one to do it, then so much the better for them that an Immortal was pulling the strings. Not that there couldn't have been an Immortal the first time. Duncan's internal thought processes continued to churn as he glanced at Methos out of the corner of his eye.
"I didn't start the Watchers last time, Mac," Methos said from out of the blue, or not so out of the blue. "And I don't know what you're thinking. I'm just guessing what I would be thinking." He paused, tilting his head. "Then again, if my hypothesis was correct, then in a sense I was reading your thoughts."
Duncan gave the matter thought, then decided that he didn't really care for mind puzzles. Not today. "Where will you go?" he asked, not so much changing the subject as furtively swiping it out for something that looked similar.
"Well, Paris and London are trashed still, and the States are a mess, but Lisbon and Amsterdam are in good shape, and so is Florence." Methos glanced at him and fiddled with the zipper to his jacket. "I'm thinking of another continent, though. Like Perth. Or Brisbane." He grinned. "Let's go Outback tonight."
Duncan shook his head. "All that pop culture you crammed in the last fifteen years is useless now, isn't it?"
The sun disappeared a bit as clouds rolled across the horizon. Methos shrugged again. "All pop culture disappears. It just turns up later in museums, mislabeled."
Duncan laughed. The wind picked up a little and the swing creaked on its new chain. Anna and Connor would be home soon. He was making shepherd's pie, and he knew that if he got closer to the house he would be able to smell it. He toyed for a moment with the idea of setting the table for four. It would be nice, really, to use that one dusty plate that always sat at the bottom of the pile in the cupboard.
"Come inside," he said, standing. "Anna would be delighted to see you." Methos remained seated but raised an eyebrow. He played with the cap of the bottle in one hand. "Oh, well, maybe not."
And that was true. Now, it didn't really matter that he was immortal. It didn't matter that their son was immortal, the little extra bit of life force thrumming through him in ways that made him a little more reckless on the jungle gym, a little more brave when jumping off the logs into the swimming hole.
But it would matter soon enough.
"No, I have to get going," Methos said, finally standing and stretching. "I have places to be."
"Come inside, and at least meet Connor."
Methos made a face. "Oh hell no." He capped his turpentine scotch. "I got enough of him the first time."
Duncan wasn't sure what that meant, but he shrugged. "You'd like him."
Methos took his ratty cups from Duncan and tucked them in a side pocket of his backpack before shouldering the whole thing. "No, I wouldn't." He kicked the stump that he'd been sitting on and grimaced. "This thing is rotted out. You'd better clear it before you get termites."
Duncan ignored that bit. He already knew about the termites. "You're just leaving?"
Methos gave him a hard look. "Yes. But I'll be back. You'll be back. We'll do this again."
"In what, another ten thousand years?" Duncan kicked the stump and it fell over. A host of termites scattered.
Methos shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe I'll be ready to have kids by then."
Duncan laughed. "I'll have to watch my ass."
Methos gave him an enigmatic look. "Yeah, your ass. That's what you should be careful about."
"Where will you go?" Duncan asked, crossing his arms because his hands were at a loss for what to do. Methos didn't answer him. Behind him the trees rustled in the breeze and a mourning dove warbled over the wind.
Methos held out his arm, to shake, probably, and Duncan grasped it at the forearm. It was a manly hug, really, he thought, manly in that clasp-one-arm-and-pull-it-in kind of way, and he could live with that. The last time he'd hugged an Immortal, really hugged another Immortal, had been Amanda, ages ago. Before the trek for The Source, hell, before he'd met Anna. Joe had told him later that she'd fallen in Iceland, to some young thing with a penchant for Tasers.
But the last time he'd hugged an Immortal, just a little bit, it had been Methos, back on the island, that night before they'd been found, before Reggie had died, when they had all been cold and depressed and frightened. Maybe it had been because they were slowly becoming mortal. Maybe he'd been afraid, genuinely afraid, for the first time since Tessa had died.
He remembered it keenly though, because there was something special about hugging another Immortal, a real one, and not the pre-Immortal that young Connor was. He remembered Methos's spark, his hands desperately digging into Duncan's shoulder blades, his face buried in Duncan's fur, and that had been the last time Duncan had ever felt a Quickening in the way that he'd been so used to, the casual kind, the non-fatal kind, in which something just arced a little bit, like a static charge.
He missed it.
"Stay," he choked out, wondering when he'd decided that he wasn't satisfied with what was currently in his life.
The arms unwound, the head raised, and something gentle mocked, just a little bit. "No." Methos cleared his throat then, and looked off behind Duncan's shoulder. "Someone's home."
Duncan turned back to the house in time to see Connor and Anna coming to the crest of the hill in front of the cottage, their arms full of burlap sacks, Connor's dog, Thunder, padding alongside them. The sun lit up the area in front of them, and they seemed clear as day to his eyes, luminous, features defined by the light.
"Yeah, they're-" He turned back to Methos, but all he was already gone, the last of his shoulders disappearing over the crest of the hill, until for a second, only his head remained there, haloed by the sun, solitary, devoid of body in an almost ominous way.
Thunder barked a few times, his long legs carrying him off into the distance to scout for his master. By the time he reached Duncan, Methos was gone, and the sun had dipped below the hill, leaving traces of itself behind in the tips of the grass.
And simply, this story ends with a beginning. That wasn't how it was supposed to work, anyway, but it did. And it wasn't the kind of beginning you'd think, with a conflict or impending doom, but with a greeting and a farewell. The ending depends on whether one is arriving or departing, and in this case, that answer is simple: a man walks down a hill and out of a horizon.
END
A/N: Thank you to everyone for participating. I had been working on this for a while, and as the weeks progressed, it became more and more apparent that this story was about endings and beginnings, which I think concludes the fest well.
It was a pleasure, and thanks for writing and reading. See you next year!
Title: Selah
Author: Your Friendly Neighborhood Spiderman, amand_r
Written for: The Community hlh_shortcuts, writers and readers alike.
Characters/Pairings: Duncan, Methos, Anna, Connor [:)]
Rating: G, for General audiences everywhere.
Author's Notes: Post The Source. Yeah, I know. Appropriate, no? See notes at the end.
Summary: Duncan was rather torn: did he hug Methos? Did they shake hands? Did he grill him for information? Would they have to fight now?
Selah
This story begins with an ending. That's how it always works. Or maybe not an ending, but the end of something else. And that ending is simple: a man walks up over the hill and out of a horizon.
Duncan was putting the finishing touches on little Connor's homemade swing set when he heard the Presence in his head. It gave him more than a few seconds of pause because, well, mostly because what Immortals hadn't killed each other had been killed by the Guardian. The Prize had pretty much confirmed that, hadn't it?
He hadn't replaced his sword. There was no need, actually. It was strange, though, because even when they'd left the island and he'd figured it out, cut his hand and watched it heal and understood that it wasn't really over, it was hard to accept the whole not-aging thing even more. Or maybe it wasn't. Or maybe he was lonely for the future.
Anna said that he had to concentrate on the now, live in the present, and not think about things like death and dying, and all that rot. All that rot, she called it, which in and of itself was a reminder of her frailty.
That they had moved here where Duncan could see his son's namesake's grave right there next to Heather's every time he crossed the moor on the way home from hunting had been no coincidence. But it hadn't been until recently that Duncan had realized the symbolism of it all.
But now, in the moment, feeling that sense like so many needles in his head again, it almost hurt, like the first time. The first time had been painful, not because it was painful, but because anything new like that tended to register as pain. Duncan wondered if this was what it was like for girls losing their virginity.
He hefted the axe in his hand and scanned the area, wondering first where Anna and Connor were in their return from the local market. The house was bordered on three sides by forest, and only the hill behind him was free of verge. If he had to fight in the forest, he wasn't going to be pleased. But he would prefer to be out there than in the vicinity of the house. The idea of Connor finding his father's headless body made a lump block Duncan's throat.
Finally, as the pain receded a bit, which meant that his opponent was near enough and had been there long enough for Duncan to get used to him, a figure trudged over the crest of the hill, framed by the setting sun.
His hair was exactly the same as it had been the last time he'd seen him. The long legs were encased in jeans, ending with hiking boots. The sweater was probably something he'd once stolen from Duncan himself, and the jacket, mercifully free of fringe.
Duncan was rather torn: did he hug Methos? Did they shake hands? Did he grill him for information? Would they have to fight now?
"This is a strange thing indeed," Duncan said finally, because it was the only thing rattling around his mind as Methos ambled towards him with a look of smug satisfaction on his face.
Methos had no sword. If he did, it was still in his pack. While Duncan hadn't gotten a new weapon, Methos surely wasn't doing without. Five thousand years couldn't have been abandoned just because of the Prize. Or the Prize that wasn't.
It struck Duncan that once Connor had thought he'd won the Prize. He wondered if it really existed, or whether they'd all managed to dupe themselves into thinking this had such a linear ending.
"Yes," Methos said, "very strange." He shuffled from one foot to the other. He lifted a bottle of something brown in his hand. "I'm a Greek, bearing gifts."
Duncan looked behind him to the house. He hadn't heard any noises from that direction, so Connor and Anna were still out. He knew that he'd at least hear the dog if they were coming. Plus, Connor had made him promise that he'd be done with the swing set by the time they got back, so if her was anywhere near the house, it'd be out back to check on Duncan's progress.
"What kind of gift?" he asked, though he already knew the answer. He hoped Methos didn't expect good conversation out of him for at least a minute or two. It was a miracle he had managed to find his voice. Hell, it was miracle enough he hadn't dropped the axe.
Methos shook the bottle in one hand. "A toast? To the new Clan MacLeod."
Duncan watched Methos measure out two fingers of something brown and probably alcoholic into two old thermos caps. He handed one over and let Mac sniff it before he drank from his own cup. It had crossed Duncan's mind that whatever was in this was poison, but he didn't want to say it aloud.
"It's not poison," Methos said, smirking. "Well, not intentionally." He drained his cup and made a face while refilling it. "Definitely not intentionally. Perhaps accidentally."
Duncan sat down on the log next to them, and Methos mirrored him. They stared at the swing set, sipping from their cups in silence. Methos dumped his pack on the ground next to his long legs.
Duncan examined Methos's coat, something warm and lined with polar fleece. "I made a kid," was all he could say eventually.
"Yeah," Methos said around a yawn, "I was really gratified to see that happen." He gave Duncan a thumbs up. "Thanks for the free show back there."
"You saw it?"
Methos rolled his eyes. "Who didn't see it? It was like a nuclear money shot." And then he paused. "Oh dear god, I didn't just say that referencing-"
"-We'll just pretend you didn't," Duncan said quickly, before slamming his shot down and wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "Eugh. Whet the hell is this shit?"
Methos sighed. "It was supposed to be scotch, but I think I missed a crucial step in its creation."
Duncan snorted. "Like the aging process."
Methos shrugged. "There was a dire need. I had no time, Johnny Walker."
"What happened to regular scotch?" Duncan asked as Methos refilled his cup. "You know, the stuff you didn't make?"
Methos raised an eyebrow. "You drank it all." He rolled the contents of his cup around with his wrist and tilted his head. "Or I drank it all. It's hard to remember. Between you and me and Joe, we drank a lot in those days."
When he said it, his eyes didn't darken. He didn't seem angry, which made Duncan a little sad, because he knew that for him, just like for Methos, Joe's memory had faded into an unsentimental thing that they could talk about without feeling overwhelming sadness. It had happened countless times over the years with various people, and knowing that it had happened wasn't even arresting either. It was just what it was.
Duncan saluted him with his cup. "I dare say someone needs to start a new distillery in this Brave New World." He picked up the clear bottle and regarded the brown liquid in front of him with scrutiny. "And it shouldn't be you."
Methos sighed. "How true." He sniffed. "I make wonderful mead," he said dryly, "I'm just rather afraid of bees."
"Bees. You're afraid of bees."
Methos took the bottle from him, pouring himself another shot and slamming it home before replying. "Have you ever been stung to death by ground bees?" He made a face, and Duncan wasn't sure if it was from the alcohol or the memory of death by bees. "Eugh." Oh, that was from the alcohol.
He finally found something to say. Something of import. "How did you...?" He trailed off, not really sure how to ask it.
"Cannibals are notoriously gullible," Methos offered, but didn't elaborate. Duncan waited for more, but it definitely wasn't coming
Methos found words, though it wasn't further explanation. "We're not the only ones, you know."
Duncan sighed. "I know."
And there it was. He had known. Perhaps in every part of him but his heart of hearts, he had deluded himself into thinking that if they moved out here, if he didn't replace his sword, then they could ignore Immortals forever. He didn't want to think about the future, of the time when he might have to take up the sword again, of how he would eventually have to hand a blade over to his son, his son with Connor's sandy hair and Anna's eyes. His bright boy with Anna's sensitive nature and inquisitiveness about the world.
"I'm thinking of starting the Watchers up again." Methos made a face. "Watcher, 2.0. New and improved. With scrubbing bubbles."
Duncan wasn't sure if he was serious, though surely if he hadn't been, then he wouldn't have brought that subject up.
"Whatever for?" he asked. "They were nothing but trouble."
Methos sniffed and bit his lip. "They were good for some things, Mac. Think about it: if they hadn't existed, you wouldn't have Connor."
Duncan ignored that Methos knew his son's name. "Oh, I think I would. There were other factors there."
"Then think on this: we would never have met."
That one was too easy. "You can't say that for sure."
"No one can say anything for sure, you know. It's a big lie. We thought for sure you'd be the last one standing. Well, look at me." Methos spread his arms a bit, and then looked down at their sitting position. "Well, figuratively."
This was an argument to no where. Duncan decided to let it, like so many other things, go. If the Watchers started again, and Methos was the one to do it, then so much the better for them that an Immortal was pulling the strings. Not that there couldn't have been an Immortal the first time. Duncan's internal thought processes continued to churn as he glanced at Methos out of the corner of his eye.
"I didn't start the Watchers last time, Mac," Methos said from out of the blue, or not so out of the blue. "And I don't know what you're thinking. I'm just guessing what I would be thinking." He paused, tilting his head. "Then again, if my hypothesis was correct, then in a sense I was reading your thoughts."
Duncan gave the matter thought, then decided that he didn't really care for mind puzzles. Not today. "Where will you go?" he asked, not so much changing the subject as furtively swiping it out for something that looked similar.
"Well, Paris and London are trashed still, and the States are a mess, but Lisbon and Amsterdam are in good shape, and so is Florence." Methos glanced at him and fiddled with the zipper to his jacket. "I'm thinking of another continent, though. Like Perth. Or Brisbane." He grinned. "Let's go Outback tonight."
Duncan shook his head. "All that pop culture you crammed in the last fifteen years is useless now, isn't it?"
The sun disappeared a bit as clouds rolled across the horizon. Methos shrugged again. "All pop culture disappears. It just turns up later in museums, mislabeled."
Duncan laughed. The wind picked up a little and the swing creaked on its new chain. Anna and Connor would be home soon. He was making shepherd's pie, and he knew that if he got closer to the house he would be able to smell it. He toyed for a moment with the idea of setting the table for four. It would be nice, really, to use that one dusty plate that always sat at the bottom of the pile in the cupboard.
"Come inside," he said, standing. "Anna would be delighted to see you." Methos remained seated but raised an eyebrow. He played with the cap of the bottle in one hand. "Oh, well, maybe not."
And that was true. Now, it didn't really matter that he was immortal. It didn't matter that their son was immortal, the little extra bit of life force thrumming through him in ways that made him a little more reckless on the jungle gym, a little more brave when jumping off the logs into the swimming hole.
But it would matter soon enough.
"No, I have to get going," Methos said, finally standing and stretching. "I have places to be."
"Come inside, and at least meet Connor."
Methos made a face. "Oh hell no." He capped his turpentine scotch. "I got enough of him the first time."
Duncan wasn't sure what that meant, but he shrugged. "You'd like him."
Methos took his ratty cups from Duncan and tucked them in a side pocket of his backpack before shouldering the whole thing. "No, I wouldn't." He kicked the stump that he'd been sitting on and grimaced. "This thing is rotted out. You'd better clear it before you get termites."
Duncan ignored that bit. He already knew about the termites. "You're just leaving?"
Methos gave him a hard look. "Yes. But I'll be back. You'll be back. We'll do this again."
"In what, another ten thousand years?" Duncan kicked the stump and it fell over. A host of termites scattered.
Methos shrugged. "Yeah. Maybe I'll be ready to have kids by then."
Duncan laughed. "I'll have to watch my ass."
Methos gave him an enigmatic look. "Yeah, your ass. That's what you should be careful about."
"Where will you go?" Duncan asked, crossing his arms because his hands were at a loss for what to do. Methos didn't answer him. Behind him the trees rustled in the breeze and a mourning dove warbled over the wind.
Methos held out his arm, to shake, probably, and Duncan grasped it at the forearm. It was a manly hug, really, he thought, manly in that clasp-one-arm-and-pull-it-in kind of way, and he could live with that. The last time he'd hugged an Immortal, really hugged another Immortal, had been Amanda, ages ago. Before the trek for The Source, hell, before he'd met Anna. Joe had told him later that she'd fallen in Iceland, to some young thing with a penchant for Tasers.
But the last time he'd hugged an Immortal, just a little bit, it had been Methos, back on the island, that night before they'd been found, before Reggie had died, when they had all been cold and depressed and frightened. Maybe it had been because they were slowly becoming mortal. Maybe he'd been afraid, genuinely afraid, for the first time since Tessa had died.
He remembered it keenly though, because there was something special about hugging another Immortal, a real one, and not the pre-Immortal that young Connor was. He remembered Methos's spark, his hands desperately digging into Duncan's shoulder blades, his face buried in Duncan's fur, and that had been the last time Duncan had ever felt a Quickening in the way that he'd been so used to, the casual kind, the non-fatal kind, in which something just arced a little bit, like a static charge.
He missed it.
"Stay," he choked out, wondering when he'd decided that he wasn't satisfied with what was currently in his life.
The arms unwound, the head raised, and something gentle mocked, just a little bit. "No." Methos cleared his throat then, and looked off behind Duncan's shoulder. "Someone's home."
Duncan turned back to the house in time to see Connor and Anna coming to the crest of the hill in front of the cottage, their arms full of burlap sacks, Connor's dog, Thunder, padding alongside them. The sun lit up the area in front of them, and they seemed clear as day to his eyes, luminous, features defined by the light.
"Yeah, they're-" He turned back to Methos, but all he was already gone, the last of his shoulders disappearing over the crest of the hill, until for a second, only his head remained there, haloed by the sun, solitary, devoid of body in an almost ominous way.
Thunder barked a few times, his long legs carrying him off into the distance to scout for his master. By the time he reached Duncan, Methos was gone, and the sun had dipped below the hill, leaving traces of itself behind in the tips of the grass.
And simply, this story ends with a beginning. That wasn't how it was supposed to work, anyway, but it did. And it wasn't the kind of beginning you'd think, with a conflict or impending doom, but with a greeting and a farewell. The ending depends on whether one is arriving or departing, and in this case, that answer is simple: a man walks down a hill and out of a horizon.
END
A/N: Thank you to everyone for participating. I had been working on this for a while, and as the weeks progressed, it became more and more apparent that this story was about endings and beginnings, which I think concludes the fest well.
It was a pleasure, and thanks for writing and reading. See you next year!