Written 25/08/98
Disclaimer: Characters not mine. TPTB would never be cruel enough to do this to them anyway. Feedback appreciated, even flames. I suppose I deserve a swift kick in the ass for writing this, but... I was feeling morbid.
Summary: Morbid end-of-the-Game story. Methos-centered.
Never before had life been so dark. Never before had time pressed so strongly on his head. Never before had the weight of his five thousand years of age been as driven into him as it was now.
And never before had he cared so little.
He was Methos, the world's oldest Immortal. The world's greatest survivor. The world's deadest soul.
He survived, yes. He knew how to do nothing else. Everything in his existence boiled down to ensuring his head remained attached to his shoulders for one more day. Ensuring his continued survival, his continued existence... but he'd stopped genuinely living millennia ago.
He'd never even realized it until the moment when one young,naive, overgrown Boy Scout walked into his flat and into his heart before the Old Man had been able to build his defenses against the intrusion of simple friendship. Friendship. Gods, it was such a safe sounding word, one that gently rolled off the tongue as if it were a natural sound all animals made. But it held a meaning more powerful and more frighteningly dangerous than any other word in history.
Except one.
And that was a word not even Methos, who excelled in the art of subtle manipulation, could seek to out-match. Time may be a constant, but it... It was eternal. It was something that had just always been, and that all knew would always be. It was there since before Methos could recognize it for what it was, and stayed there long after he'd denied its acknowledgment.
It was something everyone both wanted and feared. Something both spoken, and if lucky, felt by everyone who'd ever lived. Every civilization, every language, every soul knew it was there but only the truly worthy ever got to experience and appreciate its full power. The power that came only from giving it freely.
Methos had never considered himself "worthy" of giving it before.
He'd lived five thousand years, been married 68 times, buried friends and lovers for as long as he could remember. His existence was forever entwined with battles to the death, dependent solely upon the sharpened edge of a sword. He'd been everything, done everything, and thought he'd known everything life had to offer. Both the good and the bad.
He'd been wrong.
It wasn't until he actually found himself kneeling on the cold, hard stone ground of some back alley in Paris, that he saw how foolish he'd been all these many centuries. He'd stopped living before he'd ever even given life a chance. And now he sat staring at his death.
And he didn't care. It didn't matter that he would never be getting up again, that he'd never get to see another day or savor another beer. None of it made even the slightest difference to him now. For he knelt by his choice. And by his choice alone would he die.
The End had come for many in the past few weeks, the ravages of the Game finally playing out in this deadly Gathering. Paris' night's had been lit up by Quickenings rapidly increasing in power and potency as the younger and weaker Immortals lost and were weeded out. Weeks on end of continuous fights had drained the strength of all those still alive, until one by one they began to fall. Leaving disconcerted, but morosely fascinated Watchers the unenviable task of cleaning up after them so the citizens of the world could remain in blissful ignorance of the battle for supremacy being played out under their noses.
Now they were the last two left. The last two Immortals in the entire world. One standing awkwardly, sword held loosely in his hands as he gazed down at the kneeling Ancient at his feet. Silently cursing the man for making it so hard. In a duel, he may have been able to deliver the killing blow. Like this, with the Eldest of his kind--no, the last of his kind--at his feet, calmly waiting for the death strike with no trace of defiance or refusal, but sheer simple acceptance... He didn't think he could do it.
The two men, the last survivors of their secret race, stood surrounded by every Watcher in the area. All come to watch, as was their habit, the winner receive the mysterious and much sought after Prize that was reason for all the death. Each man and woman who stood witness to this pinnacle in history--every field agent, co-ordinator, researcher, or whatnot--was frozen to their small spot in the crowd by whatever emotions were running through them. Sadness, grief, hatred at the lives lost to the Game. Fear, excitement, fascination at being so close to the tantalizing goal of the Prize. Most with too many feelings crawling inside them to bother identifying them all.
And in the center of the circle, Methos finally embraced life as it was meant to be. Opening his heart as wide as it could go, letting the truth be laid out before the man holding his life in his hands. And he gave himself over completely to that which he'd denied himself since before he could remember. He let it--that powerful, unstoppable, incomparable it--consume him totally. And he smiled.
He never heard the swoosh of air as his comrade's sword sliced towards his neck, never felt the cold metal biting into the sensitive flesh of his throat, never saw the pained expression marring his companion's face. Methos didn't notice any of this, the smile never leaving his face and his eyes never breaking the connection forged with those of the man cutting off his head until death had completely overtaken him. And even then, he was happy. For he'd finally allowed himself to feel what he'd never before felt he could, never before felt he was worthy of giving.
Love.
Pure, whole, and given without hesitation. His final and most precious gift. The one thing he'd hoarded to himself for his entire lifetime, the one thing he'd always been too afraid to share. His love. His complete and undemanding love.
The Greeks had a word for it, for that special and most fulfilling of all loves, a word that was still used today: Agape, true unconditional love. The kind most people shied away from ever giving, but wanted and needed more than the air they breathed. The kind most believed could only be given by their nameless and faceless Gods. The kind Methos had come to believe did not exist.
But now he knew better. And he opened his heart and gave every ounce of himself freely to the man he called Friend, the man bearing a razor-edged sword down to his most vulnerable point. The man who was about to end his very long life with one sure stroke because Methos had asked him to, and had re-enforced his plea with the burning truth freely given by his eyes.
The gift of love.
As the most powerful Quickening in Earth's history riveted through Paris, focusing its intense fury on one lone man lifted into the air above the fallen body of his dear friend, that simple gift mattered more to the victor of the Game than the "Prize" assaulting his body. The last look of peace and happiness on his friend's face before he'd cut off his head both pained and soothed him more than the overwhelming sensations of the last great Quickening as its tremendous force ripped at his helpless body.
Long minutes later, when all the power and all the knowledge of every previous Immortal to ever lived had settled into his mind. When the winds had died, the lightening ceased and the sky cleared. When the broken glass and ballistic missiles of debris fell abruptly to the ground in the wake of the Quickenings' end. When the observing Watchers finally deemed it safe to peak out from beneath their arms wrapped protectively round their heads. When the silence stretched so far it seemed to swallow every sound foolish enough to try to intrude... The lone figured hunched in a ball in the epicenter of the disaster area slowly uncurled himself to sit beside the body somehow untouched by the impressive energy of the supreme Quickening of all Quickenings.
Then Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, last Immortal and Winner of the Prize, carefully bent down and with the utmost tenderness picked up the limp body and decapitated head of his friend. And went to go give Methos the proper burial he deserved. Leaving the Watchers to stare at him in awe, curiosity, and confusion amidst the carnage of the End of the Game.