Interdependence:

Understanding

by C.L. Finn

(c) September, 1998

And I don't want the world to see me, cause I don't think that they'd understand.  When everything's made to be broken, I just want you to know who I am.  -Goo Goo Dolls, Iris

For now we see through a glass, darkly;  but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.  -I Corinthians 13:12

"What's wrong?"

"I'm waiting for you to explain," Amanda answered, pulling back from Duncan's wandering mouth.

"Explain what?" he asked, confused at her sudden interest in talking. His eyes strayed distractedly back to the door Methos had taken his leave through several moments earlier.

"Well," Amanda stood up and pulled away from Duncan in annoyance, "for starters, what's going on between you two? The tension between you the past few days has been as thick as cold porridge. Then there was that little exchange about forgiveness, and this little show was obviously for his benefit. So, start wherever you want... but I want the story."

"Leave it alone, Amanda," Duncan said abruptly, standing and going to refill his glass of Scotch. "It's no big deal."

"Riiiight," Amanda cooed, following Duncan closely. "Come on. Whatever it is, it's obviously bothering you and has put a serious dent in your friendship with Methos. So what did he do to make you so mad?"

"I'm not mad."

"Okay... then what? Hurt? Disappointed?" she asked, her eyes growing wide as he flinched. "That's it, isn't it? Methos did something that disappointed you!"

"Amanda, just stay out of it. You don't know anything about what's going on."

"Oh, I beg to differ, MacLeod. I know exactly what it's like to be on the receiving end of your disappointment. So what is it that the old man did?"

"Dammit Amanda. Can't you just leave it alone?" Duncan growled and moved farther away from her, resisting the urge to pace restlessly across the barge.

He didn't want to get into this-- he really didn't. Especially with Amanda. But she wasn't giving in. Grabbing herself a fresh drink, Amanda perched on the end of MacLeod's bed and silently watched him with a look on her face that told him she wasn't going anywhere until he talked. Duncan paced for a few minutes, trying to ignore her stare. Finally, he sighed and looked out one of the portholes at the quiet, dark river.

"A few months ago," Duncan began, so softly that Amanda had to strain to hear him, "Methos and I had a visitation from his past. Do you know Cassandra?"

"Yeah," Amanda shuddered, and grimaced. "We've met. A thoroughly disagreeable woman. Did she hurt Methos?"

"No," Duncan said, turning around in annoyance at that assumption. "You don't get it, Amanda. Methos hurt her. Once upon a time, she was his slave."

"Oh come on, MacLeod," Amanda said standing up and moving towards him. "This isn't much of a shock, considering how old Methos is. Slavery was once very common. Generally, you either had one, or you were one. I wouldn't be surprised if the old man hasn't been both."

"What?" Duncan looked up, surprised at the idea, then shook his head. "This isn't about that. He was part of a gang of raiders known as the Four Horsemen."

"Like in the Bible?"

"Yeah. They raped, pillaged, and destroyed across two continents for centuries. They were evil, Amanda. Real evil. They wiped out villages-- Cassandra's included-- and terrified millions.... enough so that they became symbols of apocalyptic destruction in the Bible."

"Wow," Amanda said, sinking down into a chair. "Our little Methos? How interesting. I mean, I knew he had some dark shadows lurking about. I've caught glimpses of it, but I wouldn't have guessed he had this in him. What an awful thing to carry around with him for this long."

Duncan turned to stare at Amanda incredulously. He described the horrors Methos had engineered, and Amanda was sitting here feeling pity for him? Sometimes he didn't get her-- sometimes he didn't get any of them, these Ancients. How could killing like that be treated with such blasé? Different times-- that's what Methos had claimed. It couldn't be dismissed that simply. Evil was still evil, whether it was more a part of daily life or not.

"Come on, Duncan. Everyone has a dark past. Or did you suddenly forget the last few days?"

Straight to the heart-- Duncan flinched and rubbed at his face. "That's not fair. It's not the same thing."

"No, maybe what you did and what Methos did isn't the same thing. But the way you accept the past and move on, is. Look, Duncan," Amanda said, reaching up to smooth the creases from his forehead, "I'm not going to pretend to understand why Methos is so important to you. But he is. And more than that, you are incredibly important to him. He risked his life for you the other day-- and that's saying a lot for a man who doesn't risk his life for anyone."

"Nobody asked him to do that."

"Exactly," Amanda said with a gentle smile. "Duncan, my dear, sometimes you can still be quite the dense Scot. I forget sometimes how young you really are." Amanda softened her insult with a kiss and then pulled away.

"What are you talking about?"

"You'll just have to work it out on your own, darling." Amanda grabbed her coat and slipped into it. "Right now, I have a train to catch."

"What? Where are you going?"

"In case you've forgotten, I'm a wanted woman in Paris at the moment thanks to you. I need to make myself scarce for awhile until that silly cop moves on to some new fixation. In the meantime," Amanda turned around as she reached the top of the steps, "do yourself a favor and go talk to the man. Au revoir, MacLeod." With that, and a hastily blown kiss, Amanda was gone, leaving a stunned and confused Highlander in her wake.

"Work it out on my own," Duncan grumbled, turning away to pour himself another Scotch. "Talk to the man. God, I don't need this."

Rubbing at his temples, Duncan put the glass back down deciding that more alcohol was exactly what he didn't need. The last few days had been so painful, confusing, and exhausting since the appearance of Stephen Keane and a dark piece of Duncan's past. On top of all that, he'd had just about as many lectures from Amanda and Methos as he could stand. Sometimes he felt like he was speaking a completely different language as those two. Maybe he was.

They spoke an ancient language-- one that held survival as its bedrock principle. They tended to live solidly in the present, the past packed away like forgotten artifacts. Different times, different morals? Could it really be dismissed that easily? Would he start to look at the past that way one day-- what he'd done after Culloden so distant that he wouldn't or couldn't begin to explain it?

God, he hoped not.

But Duncan MacLeod was not young enough, or naive enough to believe otherwise. There were things from his time that would be very difficult to explain to late-20th Century mortals. And most of his life as an Immortal-- the Game, the Gathering, swordfighting-- was completely alien to those mortals. Was everything really all relative?

We're none of us perfect, MacLeod. Not you, not me, not even Darius.

What Keane hates you for happened. Nothing you do is going to change that. You accept it, MacLeod. It's part of who you are.

We are all both-- good and evil. We have rage and compassion, love and hate, murder and forgiveness.

Is that what Methos had been trying to teach him-- that everything's relative? What he'd done after Culloden may have been evil, but it didn't make him evil. He'd had his reasons-- right or wrong. His deeds had a context, mitigating circumstances that gave them meaning. Taken alone, they made him a murderer. But in context, they were acts of revenge, born of pain and rage. It made them no less wrong, but at least, more understandable.

I want to know how you remember it.

God, that was the only question he'd never asked Methos. And now, sitting alone on his barge, he was incredibly ashamed of that omission. Maybe it was time to take a look at Methos' past from a different perspective.

Downing the last of the Scotch he'd poured, Duncan stood up and set the glass aside. It was time for him to start asking the questions that he'd been so afraid of since the day Methos and Cassandra had squared off on his dojo floor. Grabbing his coat, Duncan walked out into the night, hoping he'd find Methos at home.

Methos slammed the door to his apartment and listened to the glass rattle. He tossed his coat aside furiously and headed for his fridge, grateful that he'd stocked it with beer just yesterday. Grabbing a cold bottle and twisting off the top, he slammed the fridge door only slightly softer than he'd slammed his front door.

"Stupid, bloody, infuriating child," he spat into the empty room. That was followed by a colorful stream of insults in several different languages as he paced across his apartment. That in itself annoyed the ancient Immortal-- he worked hard at keeping the past where it belonged. It was only when his emotions were out of control that he lapsed into long dead languages.

And he really hated being out of control.

Finishing off his beer, he tossed the bottle and reached for another one. Sipping at the beer, he took several deep breaths to try and calm himself. It was no use getting angry at the Highlander. The man was who he was, and Methos was never going to change that. As strong and courageous and honorable as Duncan MacLeod was, he also had a real blind spot when it came to seeing other people's perspective. He only saw the world in his terms.

Methos knew this-- and he thought he'd accepted it. So why did he let it get to him like this?

"You bloody well know why," he grated to his inner questions.

Methos considered just packing up and disappearing. Not an unusual consideration-- it was usually his first instinct. But he dismissed it just as quickly. This friendship meant something to him. Duncan MacLeod was important. And for that he would stick around. He would put up with the idiot. He would allow himself to be dismissed like Duncan had done tonight. For some bizarre reason, he felt he owed it to MacLeod to give him the time he needed to get over Methos' past.

But he wouldn't wait indefinitely. That much he was sure of.

Setting his beer aside, Methos decided that what he really needed was to relax and re-center himself-- then he could make a decision rationally. He stripped off his sweater and pulled off his shoes then settled into the lotus position in the middle of his floor. Several deep breaths later, he felt himself beginning to relax and let go of the anger and annoyance, slipping into a light meditation.

About an hour later, Methos was pulled out of his meditation by the approach of an Immortal, followed soon after by a knock on his door. Normally, he might have reached for his sword, but he knew this presence. Since Bordeaux, Duncan MacLeod's quickening was as distinctive as his face. Despite his more relaxed state, Methos couldn't help but be annoyed at the intrusion.

He opened the door anyway and stood staring silently at the figure standing outside his door. Any number of lines flitted through his mind, but he found that he could produce none of them. He wasn't really sure he wanted to know why the Highlander had shown up at his door at 1 a.m. So he stood and watched Duncan standing there nervously, his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, waiting for something. Probably for those same smart-assed lines-- or to be invited in.

Duncan's patience didn't last long. "Look Methos, I came to apologize. Are you going to invite me in or are we going to have a staring contest?"

With a small nod, Methos stepped away from the door, leaving it open for MacLeod. He moved toward the kitchen as Duncan closed the door behind him and pulled off his coat.

"You want something to drink?"

"No thanks. Methos, I came to apologize for that little scene on the barge earlier. It was childish. And..." Duncan turned away from Methos, pacing the room nervously, "and I wanted to thank you for trying to help... for taking on Keane, even if it did annoy the hell out of me at the time."

Methos tried to hide his smile at Duncan's grudging tone. "Apology accepted and you're welcome."

Methos watched Duncan continue to pace, wondering what else this visit was about. He had a strong feeling he wasn't going to be getting to bed anytime soon.

"Was there something else? Cause, I was really looking forward to getting some sleep." He picked up Duncan's coat and held it out to him, but Duncan simply shot him an irritated look and sat down on the edge of his couch.

"Methos, I want to understand."

"Understand what?"

"The Horsemen... who you were... how you became who you are now."

"Been there, done that," Methos said, shaking his head and moving across the room, away from Duncan.

"No," Duncan answered with certainty. "I demanded answers and you threw a bunch of stuff in my face guaranteed to hurt me. Whether it was because you were hurt, or afraid, or whatever, doesn't matter. I'm asking you now to just talk to me."

"Despite the method of my delivery, everything I said to you that day was true. I can't make it all go away for you, MacLeod."

"I'm not asking you to. Under the bridge, you accused me of creating a false image of you. So, now I'm asking... show me the truth. Allow me to get to know you, Methos. Please."

Methos stared at the younger Immortal-- so earnest in his plea. It was hard not to give in and tell him anything he wanted to know, but it was the fear of how those answers would be received that made him hesitate. But wasn't this what he really wanted-- to be known by this man? To get rid of all the personas and false fronts was terrifying... but also incredibly tempting.

"If you're looking for my life story, MacLeod, I'm sorry. Even we don't have that kind of time," he said, sitting down in the ornate chair across from MacLeod. "What exactly is it that you want to know?"

Duncan leaned back on the couch and ran his hand through his hair. What did he want to know? He had so many questions, he didn't know where to start. But he was also aware that this willingness to talk was not likely to last long, so it was best to get to the heart of the matter.

"I guess what I really want to understand is how you changed. What happened between the time that Cassandra knew you and when we met that made you such a different person?"

"Death on a Horse to Adam Pierson in twelve easy steps?" Methos asked sarcastically and then chuckled. "I don't have any easy answers for you, Mac. I don't have any romantic little story about taking a Holy Man's head and deciding to lay down my sword... or the love of a good woman... or a religious gestalt. It was a process, not an event."

"Then tell me, Methos. I'm making an effort here... can't you do the same?"

Methos stood up abruptly and paced across the room. "God, I don't even know where to start," he muttered to himself, rubbing a hand across his face.

"Start with the Horsemen. With Kronos," Duncan said softly.

Methos turned and looked at Duncan intently, trying to gauge his sincerity, his receptiveness to this information. All he found in the Scot's eyes was honesty and an open curiosity. Taking a deep breath, he nodded decisively, committing himself to this course.

"All right." He sat down and grabbed his boots, pulling them on. "How do you feel about walking? I'll do this, but I can't do it here. The walls are too close."

"I can walk," Duncan answered simply and stood up, slipping back into his coat and putting his gloves on. He watched Methos pull a heavy sweater on over the t-shirt he'd been wearing and grab his own coat and a scarf. Methos buttoned up and grabbed his sword and keys, tucking both into their proper places, then followed Duncan out the door.

They stopped outside the building and took in the weather. It was cold, but clear and crisp. Not a bad night for a walk if you didn't mind the cold. Methos pulled on his own gloves and turned up the street. Duncan was a bit surprised-- where he would have turned down toward the river, Methos had turned up the street, heading for higher ground, toward Montmartre. He fell into step next to Methos and walked silently for about two blocks.

"So, where was I?" Methos asked, breaking the silence.

Duncan smiled at the typical Methos question. He hadn't actually started yet, but Duncan took the cue. "The whole bloody world was different," he said, attempting to imitate Methos' British accent. He always wondered when and why Methos had taken on that particular accent. But it was a question for another time.

"Riiiight," Methos drawled, and grinned at Duncan then turned serious, pulling his coat tighter around him. "It really was, MacLeod. I don't know if you could ever really comprehend it. My memory before I met Kronos is scetchy, filled with holes and vague impressions. I honestly don't know where I came from. I have a few pretty good ideas, but that's about it.

"I remember caravans. I remember being a slave at some point. I remember being a soldier. I remember farming and fishing. But I don't really have any coherent memories of getting from one thing to the other. I knew about Immortality, but I don't remember how I died or how I learned about the Game. It just seems like I always knew."

Methos shrugged and turned up a narrow street. He shook his head when he sensed that Duncan was about to begin a series of questions. He wanted to get on with answering Duncan's original question, not get bogged down with speculation about his origins.

"I was passing through Aleppo when I met Kronos. The village that I was living in had been overrun by Assyrians the previous winter and everyone I knew and cared about killed or enslaved. I was drifting, looking for a new life I guess. Anyway, I was surviving as a thief... stealing what I needed, or wanted at the moment. I'd been caught stealing bread one day and beaten by the merchant and his friends. I managed to escape and got the hell out of the city.

"On the way out of town, I ran across a caravan that was being attacked. It was bloody, but really sloppy in execution. I watched from a ridge in curiosity, but when the rider who seemed to be the leader got closer, I felt him. He, of course, felt me and before I could get away, he ran me down on his horse."

"This was Kronos?" Duncan asked.

"Yep. I challenged him, but he just laughed at me," Methos stopped and leaned up against a wall with a chuckle. "Perfectly understandable considering I was in the dirt on my ass and he was standing over me on a horse. I guess he was amused by my chutzpah, because instead of cutting my head off, he took me back to their camp with him. He fed me and offered me use of the camp whores. I think he just liked the company."

Uncomfortable with Duncan's scandalized look, Methos pushed away from the wall and continued walking. Duncan fell into place next to him once again, staying silent despite all the questions and comments obviously running through his mind.

"Kronos always saw mortals as different from us... a lesser being to be ruled. He had a God complex I suppose. Anyway, he seemed to crave the company of someone like him. A friendship with an equal. He was generous with his food, drink, and whores... so I stuck around, and I helped on his raids. But he was basically a thug back then."

Duncan snorted in disgust at the description.

"Okay, a lesser class of thug," Methos agreed. "Which he might have remained if not for me."

"What do you mean?"

"Kronos was brutal and ruthless. He loved the killing, and he was greedy-- power hungry. He was also an excellent leader. But he was never a strategist. He didn't know how to use the violence to it's best effect. I'm not sure he would have ever been much more than the equivalent of a neighborhood bully. I didn't really have a taste for the blood like he did, but I knew how to channel his. I had a knack for strategy, and I knew how to utilize terror. Fear is a more powerful weapon than any sword, MacLeod."

"God, Methos," Duncan breathed and sat down heavily on an iron bus-stop bench.

He scrubbed at his face with his gloved hands, trying to wipe away the anger that the ancient Immortal's words invoked. He was trying so hard to remain silent and calm, to listen to Methos. After all, he'd asked for this. Cassandra's description of Methos and Kronos came back to him. It was true. Kronos had been the heart of the Horsemen, but Methos had been the head.

"We can stop anytime you want, MacLeod. But you wanted the truth. This is it."

"I know, it's just..." he fought for an explanation. "Hard to hear, I guess."

"I know," Methos said softly and leaned up against a light pole, wrapping one arm around it. "Look... it was an intellectual challenge. It was the first time I remember ever being really good at something. And the mind games between Kronos and I were.... I dunno... in a strange way, better than sex."

"But for a thousand years, Methos? Surely the games couldn't have kept you interested for that long?"

"No," Methos said, his expression turning strangely blank and distant. He turned around on the pole, facing away from Duncan, but still clinging to it. "How much do you know about addiction?" he asked, failing at the casual tone he was clearly attempting.

"What? You mean like drugs? Alcohol?"

"Yeah.... in a sense. Violence and power can be far more addicting," he said in a soft voice that sent chills down Duncan's spine. "In the beginning, it was just the game. But Kronos introduced me to the seduction of death. Causing that kind of fear in people is an incredible rush, MacLeod. I learned to love it-- that power-- and then to crave it just like a junkie craves heroin. It's an ugly truth, Duncan, but there it is."

Duncan stood up, fighting off the feeling of his skin crawling at Methos' tone of voice. He didn't understand this-- he could never understand this. He knew that Quickenings could be addictive if one wasn't careful, but the killing?

"That's why you avoid fights, isn't it?" he asked, the thought suddenly striking him.

"Yeah," Methos nodded, sitting down where Duncan had been. "That's part of it. Mainly I just want to live, and the best odds on insuring that are to avoid fighting in the first place. But, yeah, the fear of going back to that place inside me scares me enough to stay out of the Game."

As much as Duncan wanted to be angry and disgusted at everything Methos had told him, he couldn't ignore the fact that the ancient's words and voice were laced with self-disgust and fear. Methos was good at shuttering that away behind his impassable face, but Duncan had learned to read his voice. This voice was filled with enough pain for both of them.

"So, where did Caspian and Silas come in?" Duncan asked, steering the conversation away from this rocky terrain. "You haven't mentioned them."

"Kronos had a group of mortal thugs working for him at first," Methos said, standing up again, and after a questioning glance at Duncan, resumed his walking. "But like I said, he craved the company of his own kind. And I knew that to be really effective, we needed a band that couldn't die. Four Gods on horseback was my idea. Kronos found Caspian. I found and recruited Silas."

At the soft smile that crossed Methos' face, Duncan had to ask. "Tell me about him. Silas."

"I don't really know much about where he came from, but he was a slave when I came across him. His owners had discovered his ability to heal, and he was being used in what was essentially the equivalent of 'bear baiting'. He was huge and strong, and people would pay good money to bet on whether he could win a fight with any number of animals. It was horrible... one of the saddest things I've ever seen in five-thousand years."

"And you saved him?" Duncan asked, when Methos fell silent in his memories.

"I tried to buy him first," Methos answered. "But he made his owner too much money to part with. So I killed the man and took Silas," he said matter-of-factly. Duncan found that he couldn't find much outrage for that particular act.

"He was not very bright and he was intrinsically violent in nature. But Mac," Methos said sadly, "he was so sweet and so loyal, and so.... I don't know.... I know it doesn't make any sense, but he was so gentle. Everything truly was black and white with him. You either killed something or you loved it. There was no middle ground for him... no value judgments. He was a good friend."

"I'm sorry, Methos," Duncan said softly, reaching out to grasp the older Immortal's shoulder.

"No need to be," Methos said, shaking himself out of the memory. "I made my choices freely."

"But still..." Duncan began, but Methos cut him off, stopping at a corner.

"You want some coffee?" he asked, heading in to a little all night patisserie. "I could stand to warm up."

"Sure," Duncan said, understanding that the subject of Silas was to be dropped.

The place was nearly deserted, but by unspoken agreement, both men avoided the previous conversation, seeking instead a respite along with the warmth. Duncan ordered a mocha latte and a pastry, while Methos ordered an Ethiopian blend espresso with steamed milk and a croissant with soft cheese. They sat down at a small table near the window and ate in silence, both lost in thought.

Methos watched Duncan finish his pastry and lick the powdered sugar off his fingers. He chuckled and shook his head in amusement.

"You really have a sweet tooth, don't you?" he asked.

Duncan shrugged. "Always have. Tessa was worse than me," he smiled at a memory. "She could eat a whole cheesecake. Of course, then she'd feel guilty about it for days. But it was a pleasure to watch her devour it."

Methos smiled, enjoying the unconstrained love that lit up Duncan's eyes when he talked about Tessa. "I wish I could have met her."

"Yeah," Duncan said softly, then veered away from that topic. "You're not that big on sweets though, are you?"

"Nope. I have a few weaknesses, like ice cream. But mostly my vices tend toward the salty."

"Yeah, I remember. You and your junk food. I don't think I've ever seen anyone enjoy pizza like you do. Not even Richie."

"One of the few things I like about American food." Methos sat back and enjoyed the more companionable silence that followed. It was nice to sit and talk about something neutral for a change. For a few seconds he could pretend that the last months hadn't happened, that Kronos hadn't shattered the peace he'd found with Duncan MacLeod. But his mind wouldn't let him pretend for long. He had a story to finish, and the night wasn't getting any younger.

"You ready?" he asked, standing up. "I'm gonna get a refill for the road. You?"

"No thanks," Duncan said, finishing off his cup while Methos had his topped off and got a lid for it. He followed Methos back out into the cold night, and then turned up the street once again, into the tiny streets that made up the artist quarter of Paris. The narrow, steep streets wound through old buildings filled with artist garrets and apartments.

"What made you leave the Horsemen?" Duncan asked, initiating the conversation again.

Methos chuckled and answered simply, "books."

"What?"

"Well, not exactly books... I mean, they didn't actually exist. But it's the same concept."

"I don't understand."

"Eventually, the addiction began to lose it's appeal. I suppose more than anything, I just got bored with it all. And... the world was changing. Armies and empires began to rule the world that we had terrorized. Our small band just didn't have the resources to fight that kind of change. Kronos wanted to move into Europe, to work on consolidating our power. Build our own army... our own empire.

"We had to split up to avoid a particular General who was hell bent on tracking and destroying us, and we planned to meet up in Macedonia. I was traveling through Greece and got caught in a storm on the road to Athens... took shelter in a cave with a group of travelers. They were students and I sat in that cave for the next two days and listened to them argue logic and philosophy." Methos laughed, and Duncan watched the way his eyes lit up at the memory. "I fell in love, MacLeod."

"With one of the students?"

"No... with their life. With the gymnastics that they put each other's minds through. With the sheer beauty of knowledge sought and shared. I can't really explain it," he said, shaking his head in frustration, then taking a drink of his coffee. "It was intoxicating... and I wanted to be a part of it."

"So, you left the Horsemen to join them?"

"Well, it wasn't that simple. Athenian society was very rigid. I couldn't have just walked in and said I wanted to be a student. Besides, I could only marginally read... and Greek was beyond me. But once I'd made up my mind, I did what I had to do."

"What was that?"

"Just another part of the story that you won't like, Mac. I was used to simply taking what I needed. So when the storm ended, I followed the boys at a distance until they split up briefly at a local spring. Then I kidnapped one of them. Took him away and forced him to teach me to read and write Greek, to speak the fluent Greek of the upper classes, and to be able to throw around enough knowledge to be accepted in the circles. He told me everything I needed to know about Athenian society.

"When I was ready, I created an identity for myself and went to Athens. It was..."

"Methos," Duncan interrupted, "what happened to the boy?"

Methos sighed in exasperation. "I killed him, MacLeod. As I also killed the man whose identity I stole. My goal might have been lofty, but my methods weren't very just. I didn't change overnight, Mac. I became a student of Socrates, and it was a truly amazing new life. But that wasn't the end of my bloodlust. It wasn't even the last I saw of Kronos. I spent a lot of time over the next thousand years or so in one army or another. But I always came back to my love of learning... whether it be philosophy, art, literature, history, medicine, astronomy. Always to the desire to be something other than what I had been with Kronos."

Methos lapsed into silence as they neared the top of the hill. The Sacre Couer sat above them, it's dramatic white domes lit up by flood lights as it floated over the city. Duncan stayed silent too, trying to digest what Methos had told him, to put it into some kind of perspective. They walked up the white steps in synch, next to each other, but in two very different places. When they reached the top, Methos sat down on the steps and looked out over the lights of Paris, glad for such a clear night.

"I'm not proud of most of what I've done in my life," he said softly, and Duncan wasn't even sure he wasn't talking to himself. "But I worked very hard at becoming who I am now. I know what's important to me and what's not. That Methos is just as much a part of me as Adam Pierson, as well as many more parts that you haven't even seen yet. I know who I am... but you are the first person in such a long time that I have wanted to share that with."

Duncan ran his hands over his face. It was a heavy responsibility Methos was giving him, but he was touched by it. He'd found something tonight-- not all of his answers, but some of them. Maybe enough of them. He stood several steps below Methos and looked at him.

"I can't say that I understand it all, Methos. I probably never will. You were right about that. But I appreciate your honesty, and I understand a lot more now than I did several hours ago."

Methos drained the last of his coffee, which had become cold, and set the cup beside him. He rubbed his hands together for warmth and looked up at Duncan. "So, what now?"

"I don't know. What I do know is that I have missed you. It's like a part of me has been missing since Bordeaux. More than anything, Methos, I want my friend back. But I'm afraid that I damaged that beyond repair."

"No, MacLeod," Methos said with a chuckle. "You haven't managed to chase me away yet."

"Thank god," Duncan said, and sat down next to Methos. "So, you wanna come back to the barge for breakfast?" he asked, noticing that the sky had begun to lighten. He reached over for Methos' hand.

"Uh...Mac..." Methos stuttered standing up and moving away from Duncan. "Look, things are good here. I really want to work on rebuilding this friendship. But as for the other..." he trailed off, turning away. "I think maybe we should just stick with working on this for now. Less complicated that way."

"Okay," Duncan nodded. He was disappointed, but he understood. And intellectually, he had to agree. They weren't ready for the other emotions yet. Not until they could rebuild the trust. Not until he had a chance to really get to know Methos... the real Methos. "I think I can handle that," he said with a grin.

"Good," Methos nodded and turned to look out over the city. "How about lunch later this week?"

"Yeah, sounds good. Joe's going to be in town in a few weeks with his band. I know he'd like to see you."

Methos looked at Duncan sharply. "I thought you and Cassandra went and told him everything."

"We did. Methos, he argued for you from the beginning. He seemed to understand what I couldn't. He's a good friend."

"Yeah," Methos said with a surprisingly unguarded smile, "I guess he is."

They lapsed into silence for several more minutes, until Methos shivered and pulled his coat tighter. "I'm freezing. You wanna share a cab back down?"

"Nah," Duncan answered. "Go ahead. I'm gonna watch the sunrise and walk back." He suddenly felt the need to be alone and think through everything he'd learned tonight.

"You sure?" Methos asked.

"Yeah. And Methos?" he called, as Methos started down the steps. Methos turned back around and looked up at Duncan. "Thanks for all the answers."

"Thanks for asking the questions, Mac," Methos said intently, then smiled and turned around, walking briskly down the steps.

As he watched him go, Duncan wondered why it always seemed to be Methos walking away from him for one reason or another. At least this time he didn't have to worry about ever seeing his friend again.

The sky had already begun to lighten to a pre-dawn gray, and fog hung over much of the City of Lights. But Duncan MacLeod wasn't paying much attention to the view. Instead his head was suddenly filled with images of Methos and his books. He remembered one afternoon-- months ago, before Kronos and Cassandra-- when Methos had gotten into one of his storage rooms in the dojo, finding his crates of books.

Methos had proceeded the spend the entire day lost in there, oblivious to anything else, including MacLeod, going through the old books. At first, Duncan had been annoyed at being ignored, but he'd quickly found something to amuse himself. Watching Methos. It was one of his favorite pastimes-- but this day was different. It had felt almost like being a voyeur. There was a privateness about the way the ancient Immortal had picked up each book, stopping to stroke the leather or delicate pages as he leafed through them, the secret smile that curved his lips when he found one particularly interesting and stopped to read, the way everything had ceased to exist outside of that dusty, poorly lit room. It had been hands-down one of the most sensual afternoons he'd spent with Methos during their brief relationship.

He pictured that same scene now, but in different times and different places. Perhaps Methos had been right when he told Duncan that he already knew him. Maybe, without knowing it, he had caught a glimpse inside the enigma that afternoon. A glimpse that had been expanded significantly tonight, but that he knew was still only a glimpse. The other side of what he'd been shown still made him uncomfortable, made his skin crawl at the thought of the violence Methos had been capable of and had enjoyed so much. Something that Darius had said once resonated with Duncan suddenly.

To deny what I was, would be to deny what I have become.

Perhaps that was true. That in knowing where Methos had come from, he could find knowing the man now all that more precious. And he took comfort in the fact that Methos seemed willing finally to be known.

On to Part III: Territory.

Thanks to Maria, my cosmic twin and alpha reader, who understands Methos as I do.

Back to Green Couch Zone.

 E-mail me with comments!

Graphics on this page from Celtic Web Art.