[YGO!/Highlander/DBFS] Fate Tore Us Apart Too Soon (1/1)
Title: “Fate Tore Us Apart Too Soon” (1/1)
Author: darkjediprinces (Me!)
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Highlander
Characters: Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Yami, Yami Bakura, Yugi
Spoilers: DJPfic “Myth of the Ancients”
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Methos takes his annual visit to Bahariya Oasis.
Disclaimer: Methos and Mac belong to… whoever owns Highlander. Yami, Yami Bakura, and Yugi belong to Kazuki Takahashi. I’m just borrowing them and playing. “The Headless Waltz” belongs to Voltaire.
Author’s Notes: Side-story to DBFS and MotA. May actually end up being the last chapter of MotA, for all I know. This is actually exactly what was supposed to happen in that chapter.
“Fate Tore Us Apart Too Soon”
It happened every year. Duncan noticed this. Every year, in November, Methos would pack his bags, leave, and then return two weeks later.
He never asked where Methos went for those two weeks. Never before, that is. It was that time of the year again, and again, Duncan caught Methos packing up.
“You’re leaving again,” Duncan stated.
Methos didn’t look up at him. “Yep. I’m leaving again.”
“Where do you go every year?” Duncan asked.
“Why? Do you want to follow me there?” Methos returned, stuffing a shirt into his bag rather violently.
“No. I’m just concerned. And curious.”
Methos sighed. “I just… it’s got to do with my past. I lost two people I cared very much about a while ago, and every year, I find the time to visit the place where they died. To pay homage.”
“Doesn’t it hurt though? Emotionally?”
“Yeah. It hurts like Hell. But… my… spirituality puts a lot of importance on death and the afterlife.” It wasn’t the whole truth. It never was. Methos’s religion had once had an entire cult devoted to death. He zipped up his pack and swing the strap over his shoulder, gathering up the rest of his things in silence.
“If you need company, Methos-” Duncan began. Methos cut him off.
“I appreciate the offer, Mac, but I have to do this alone,” he responded, quietly, before departing.
* * *
Days later, Methos arrived in Egypt. From Cairo, he bought supplies and borrowed a horse before riding out to Bahariya Oasis, where the remains of the Millennium Temple were located.
A pang of guilt washed over him as he rode up to the temple. It was all that remained of his best friends, Yami and Malik. It was where they had perished in the fight against the Shadow Games. Their bodies had disappeared completely. They had never been buried.
Methos dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and slowly entered the temple, feeling tears in his eyes as the familiar hieroglyphs greeted him. He wandered deep into the temple until he reached the central chamber. There he set down his pack and drew out a large Ziploc bag of combustible, perfumed black powder and a lighter.
There were large, bronze dishes on long metal poles dotted around the room. Methos poured some of the black powder into each dish and lit it, flooding the room with flickering orange-yellow light and the smell of burning incense.
The light revealed motifs on the wall of ten people, depicted in the traditional ancient Egyptian art style. In the centre of the room, above a stone table, was a man with long, spiky black hair, trimmed in red, and with blond bangs. He wore a heavy gold crown which mimicked the spread wings of a bird of prey, plenty of jewelry, and a grey-violet cloak.
The stone table below him was covered in dust and sand, except for a small rectangular area in the centre, where something had, until very recently, sat. Methos knew for a fact that it had been a small golden chest containing the pieces of a puzzle.
To the right of the crowned man was a second young man with long, flowing white hair and brown eyes. He wore long white robes and a blue cloak, and carried a golden staff with a blue gem set at the top. In his outstretched hand, an indent was carved in the shape of a large ring with a pyramid in the centre and five pointers.
The other seven figures “held” similar indents, or “wore” them. A black-haired priestess had a circular indent around her wrist. A ragged looking man with platinum blond hair carried a rod. Methos stared around at the empty slots sadly. They had, until twenty years ago, been filled with the objects meant to fit in the indents. One year, Methos had arrived at the temple to find them missing, and read in the newspaper when he returned to Seacouver that the temple had been discovered and the treasures within taken for study.
Methos ran his hands over the stone carvings of the man with tri-coloured hair and the sorcerer in white, shaking a little. The smell of the incense he had brought with him took his memory back to his childhood. The palace in Men-Nefer had been filled with the same scent.
He knelt at the stone table and intertwined his hands as a Christian at prayer might. But he wasn’t Christian. He still followed the religion of the ancient Egyptians, his own people. He stared at the other figure beside the Pharaoh-for that was what the man with tri-coloured hair had been-and smiled slightly.
“Hiya stranger,” he said, softly.
The second figure was himself, just after he had become Immortal. He had been unaware of it at the time. Since then, his skin had paled considerably and his hair had lightened to a dark brown instead of its previous black. Instead of a long ponytail, as his younger self had, Methos now kept his hair cropped short.
He drew in a shaky, uncertain breath as he turned his attention back to the other two figures. After a moment, he spoke. “Yami…” he nodded at the Pharaoh. “Malik…” Inclined his head at the sorcerer in white. “Khenmesu-i(1). I’ve missed you. If I didn’t have other things to do I’d spend every second of my life here with you.”
He wasn’t expecting an answer. This was what he did when he was here. He would talk and hope his words reached his friends in Duat(2).
He was silent for several more moments. Finally he spoke again.
“This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have died when you did. You should be here with me, helping me in the Game.” A deep, shaky breath. “My friends, you… are my only strength. And… my only weakness. Fate… tore us apart too soon.”
* * *
“…Fate tore us apart too soon.”
Yami, former Pharaoh of Egypt, sat atop the roof of his host’s home in Dominion City, Oregon, gazing into the night sky sadly. Well, not sat, really. He wasn’t solid and therefore couldn’t truly “sit”, only mimic the action.
“Khenmes-i… I miss you,” He said, quietly.
Below him, a window slid open and his host, Yugi Moto, poked his head out.
“Yami, what’re you doing up there?” He asked, sleepily.
“Reminiscing.”
Yugi climbed up on the roof next to him. “About what?”
“A friend.”
“…Monosyllabic tonight, aren’t we?”
Yami smiled, sadly. “I’m sorry, Yugi. It’s just… sad. For me.”
“Why?”
“… Remember when you were in ancient Egypt with me when I was alive?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember the captain of my Royal Guard?”
Yugi thought for a moment. “You mean the guy with long black hair and the red cloak? Absolutely vicious with a khepesh(3)?”
“Yeah, him. He and I grew up together… He’ll be dead by now. And I miss him. I… sometimes I wish I would’ve told him that I’d be back in this time period.”
“…Why didn’t you?”
Yami sighed. “Malik and I agreed… if he knew we were coming back, Methos would’ve tried to find a way to becoming immortal, just to see us again. And… I’m not sure there is a way. And if there isn’t, he only would’ve hurt himself.”
Yugi nodded sadly. “I understand.”
“He’s not dead, Tepeysa,” a deep, hoarse, British-accented voice spoke, abruptly. Malik stood beside them, arms crossed over his chest.
“…That’s just cruel, Malik,” Yami responded, sourly.
“I’m not being mean, Tepeysa,” Malik insisted, softly. “He really is alive.”
“He can’t be.”
“He is. I just had a vision of him.”
Yami stared at Malik incredulously. Malik seized his hand and closed his eyes. Both of their heads filled with images of Methos in the Millennium Temple. His hair was cropped short, and his skin was much paler than before. He was talking quietly, mixing English and Khemetic together from time to time.
Quite abruptly, he stopped and opened his eyes, wincing. He stood and face a black man holding a bastard sword.
“This is holy ground,” he said. “I won’t fight here.”
“This is nobody’s holy ground,” the man responded. “The ancient Egyptians are long dead.”
“It’s holy ground to me,” Methos snarled, drawing out an English Broadsword.
“But not to anyone else. Fight, or I take your head here and now.”
Methos sighed, smiling wryly, and began to sing. “As above, so below; place your bets, which way the head will roll. Made in your image we are at least as twisted and mean as thee. ‘Fore your eyes, what a curious sight, your children have turned on you. And you say you don’t sleep well at night…” He grinned evilly. “Well, we’ll take care of that for you.” He swing the broadsword at the man. The man blocked the blow and retaliated with the bastard sword. The two continued to fight until Methos managed to cut off the man’s head.
Lightning flashed, and Methos yelled as it struck him. More flared, arching up from the fallen man’s body and knocking over one of the torches. Finally, it all subsided, and Methos fell to his knees.
Yami gasped and brought himself back to the here and nnow.
“He’s alive,” Malik repeated, quietly.
(1) Khenmes-i; khenmesu-i : “My friend; my friends” (masculine, in both cases.)
(2) Duat : The ancient Eygptian Underworld
(3) khepesh : an ancient Egyptian scimitar
Author: darkjediprinces (Me!)
Fandom: Yu-Gi-Oh!, Highlander
Characters: Methos, Duncan MacLeod, Yami, Yami Bakura, Yugi
Spoilers: DJPfic “Myth of the Ancients”
Rating: PG
Warnings: None.
Summary: Methos takes his annual visit to Bahariya Oasis.
Disclaimer: Methos and Mac belong to… whoever owns Highlander. Yami, Yami Bakura, and Yugi belong to Kazuki Takahashi. I’m just borrowing them and playing. “The Headless Waltz” belongs to Voltaire.
Author’s Notes: Side-story to DBFS and MotA. May actually end up being the last chapter of MotA, for all I know. This is actually exactly what was supposed to happen in that chapter.
“Fate Tore Us Apart Too Soon”
It happened every year. Duncan noticed this. Every year, in November, Methos would pack his bags, leave, and then return two weeks later.
He never asked where Methos went for those two weeks. Never before, that is. It was that time of the year again, and again, Duncan caught Methos packing up.
“You’re leaving again,” Duncan stated.
Methos didn’t look up at him. “Yep. I’m leaving again.”
“Where do you go every year?” Duncan asked.
“Why? Do you want to follow me there?” Methos returned, stuffing a shirt into his bag rather violently.
“No. I’m just concerned. And curious.”
Methos sighed. “I just… it’s got to do with my past. I lost two people I cared very much about a while ago, and every year, I find the time to visit the place where they died. To pay homage.”
“Doesn’t it hurt though? Emotionally?”
“Yeah. It hurts like Hell. But… my… spirituality puts a lot of importance on death and the afterlife.” It wasn’t the whole truth. It never was. Methos’s religion had once had an entire cult devoted to death. He zipped up his pack and swing the strap over his shoulder, gathering up the rest of his things in silence.
“If you need company, Methos-” Duncan began. Methos cut him off.
“I appreciate the offer, Mac, but I have to do this alone,” he responded, quietly, before departing.
* * *
Days later, Methos arrived in Egypt. From Cairo, he bought supplies and borrowed a horse before riding out to Bahariya Oasis, where the remains of the Millennium Temple were located.
A pang of guilt washed over him as he rode up to the temple. It was all that remained of his best friends, Yami and Malik. It was where they had perished in the fight against the Shadow Games. Their bodies had disappeared completely. They had never been buried.
Methos dismounted and tied his horse to a nearby tree. He hoisted his pack onto his shoulders and slowly entered the temple, feeling tears in his eyes as the familiar hieroglyphs greeted him. He wandered deep into the temple until he reached the central chamber. There he set down his pack and drew out a large Ziploc bag of combustible, perfumed black powder and a lighter.
There were large, bronze dishes on long metal poles dotted around the room. Methos poured some of the black powder into each dish and lit it, flooding the room with flickering orange-yellow light and the smell of burning incense.
The light revealed motifs on the wall of ten people, depicted in the traditional ancient Egyptian art style. In the centre of the room, above a stone table, was a man with long, spiky black hair, trimmed in red, and with blond bangs. He wore a heavy gold crown which mimicked the spread wings of a bird of prey, plenty of jewelry, and a grey-violet cloak.
The stone table below him was covered in dust and sand, except for a small rectangular area in the centre, where something had, until very recently, sat. Methos knew for a fact that it had been a small golden chest containing the pieces of a puzzle.
To the right of the crowned man was a second young man with long, flowing white hair and brown eyes. He wore long white robes and a blue cloak, and carried a golden staff with a blue gem set at the top. In his outstretched hand, an indent was carved in the shape of a large ring with a pyramid in the centre and five pointers.
The other seven figures “held” similar indents, or “wore” them. A black-haired priestess had a circular indent around her wrist. A ragged looking man with platinum blond hair carried a rod. Methos stared around at the empty slots sadly. They had, until twenty years ago, been filled with the objects meant to fit in the indents. One year, Methos had arrived at the temple to find them missing, and read in the newspaper when he returned to Seacouver that the temple had been discovered and the treasures within taken for study.
Methos ran his hands over the stone carvings of the man with tri-coloured hair and the sorcerer in white, shaking a little. The smell of the incense he had brought with him took his memory back to his childhood. The palace in Men-Nefer had been filled with the same scent.
He knelt at the stone table and intertwined his hands as a Christian at prayer might. But he wasn’t Christian. He still followed the religion of the ancient Egyptians, his own people. He stared at the other figure beside the Pharaoh-for that was what the man with tri-coloured hair had been-and smiled slightly.
“Hiya stranger,” he said, softly.
The second figure was himself, just after he had become Immortal. He had been unaware of it at the time. Since then, his skin had paled considerably and his hair had lightened to a dark brown instead of its previous black. Instead of a long ponytail, as his younger self had, Methos now kept his hair cropped short.
He drew in a shaky, uncertain breath as he turned his attention back to the other two figures. After a moment, he spoke. “Yami…” he nodded at the Pharaoh. “Malik…” Inclined his head at the sorcerer in white. “Khenmesu-i(1). I’ve missed you. If I didn’t have other things to do I’d spend every second of my life here with you.”
He wasn’t expecting an answer. This was what he did when he was here. He would talk and hope his words reached his friends in Duat(2).
He was silent for several more moments. Finally he spoke again.
“This isn’t right. You shouldn’t have died when you did. You should be here with me, helping me in the Game.” A deep, shaky breath. “My friends, you… are my only strength. And… my only weakness. Fate… tore us apart too soon.”
* * *
“…Fate tore us apart too soon.”
Yami, former Pharaoh of Egypt, sat atop the roof of his host’s home in Dominion City, Oregon, gazing into the night sky sadly. Well, not sat, really. He wasn’t solid and therefore couldn’t truly “sit”, only mimic the action.
“Khenmes-i… I miss you,” He said, quietly.
Below him, a window slid open and his host, Yugi Moto, poked his head out.
“Yami, what’re you doing up there?” He asked, sleepily.
“Reminiscing.”
Yugi climbed up on the roof next to him. “About what?”
“A friend.”
“…Monosyllabic tonight, aren’t we?”
Yami smiled, sadly. “I’m sorry, Yugi. It’s just… sad. For me.”
“Why?”
“… Remember when you were in ancient Egypt with me when I was alive?”
“Sure.”
“Do you remember the captain of my Royal Guard?”
Yugi thought for a moment. “You mean the guy with long black hair and the red cloak? Absolutely vicious with a khepesh(3)?”
“Yeah, him. He and I grew up together… He’ll be dead by now. And I miss him. I… sometimes I wish I would’ve told him that I’d be back in this time period.”
“…Why didn’t you?”
Yami sighed. “Malik and I agreed… if he knew we were coming back, Methos would’ve tried to find a way to becoming immortal, just to see us again. And… I’m not sure there is a way. And if there isn’t, he only would’ve hurt himself.”
Yugi nodded sadly. “I understand.”
“He’s not dead, Tepeysa,” a deep, hoarse, British-accented voice spoke, abruptly. Malik stood beside them, arms crossed over his chest.
“…That’s just cruel, Malik,” Yami responded, sourly.
“I’m not being mean, Tepeysa,” Malik insisted, softly. “He really is alive.”
“He can’t be.”
“He is. I just had a vision of him.”
Yami stared at Malik incredulously. Malik seized his hand and closed his eyes. Both of their heads filled with images of Methos in the Millennium Temple. His hair was cropped short, and his skin was much paler than before. He was talking quietly, mixing English and Khemetic together from time to time.
Quite abruptly, he stopped and opened his eyes, wincing. He stood and face a black man holding a bastard sword.
“This is holy ground,” he said. “I won’t fight here.”
“This is nobody’s holy ground,” the man responded. “The ancient Egyptians are long dead.”
“It’s holy ground to me,” Methos snarled, drawing out an English Broadsword.
“But not to anyone else. Fight, or I take your head here and now.”
Methos sighed, smiling wryly, and began to sing. “As above, so below; place your bets, which way the head will roll. Made in your image we are at least as twisted and mean as thee. ‘Fore your eyes, what a curious sight, your children have turned on you. And you say you don’t sleep well at night…” He grinned evilly. “Well, we’ll take care of that for you.” He swing the broadsword at the man. The man blocked the blow and retaliated with the bastard sword. The two continued to fight until Methos managed to cut off the man’s head.
Lightning flashed, and Methos yelled as it struck him. More flared, arching up from the fallen man’s body and knocking over one of the torches. Finally, it all subsided, and Methos fell to his knees.
Yami gasped and brought himself back to the here and nnow.
“He’s alive,” Malik repeated, quietly.
(1) Khenmes-i; khenmesu-i : “My friend; my friends” (masculine, in both cases.)
(2) Duat : The ancient Eygptian Underworld
(3) khepesh : an ancient Egyptian scimitar