Sitting the Dead
Maybe now he could take a breath.
It seemed as if he had spent the whole ordeal holding it in, waiting, doomed, knowing full well this was probably what he deserved. It seemed only fitting that it would end the way it had begun-the four of them. He almost felt the end breathing down his neck-
No. No "almost" about it. Kronos believed himself to be the end, and that was enough. From the moment he looked into those mad eyes, he knew he should have been dead.
But Kronos never did it-never tried. Instead…
Instead of finishing that thought, Methos reached for the remote control and turned the stereo on. The room had suddenly seemed too quiet. It was as if he could hear himself think, and he didn't want that. Sometimes he imagined that his mind was his own worst enemy-full of memories that wouldn't die and voices that he would never hear again. Just like he never thought he would hear Kronos' voice again, softly menacing and laced with the poetry of destruction. "Don't fight it; feel it." From anyone else, that was a bumper sticker. From Kronos, it was an invitation to madness. The man had a way with words. More of a way with knives, but a definite way with words.
It was hard to imagine him dead. It was hard to imagine any of them that way. Caspian. Silas. Not seeing them, not speaking to them, just the simple knowing that they still endured once made him feel less alone.
And now, he was. Alone. He had survived, and that, as the man said, was what he did best. He survived-whatever that meant. And now, he guessed he could breathe easier.
Sure, he could.
Of course, he could be dead, too, he reminded himself, rising to get another beer. Cassandra could have ended it for him-there was no way he could have defended himself at that moment, and if this had taught him anything, it was that there was no defense for himself where she was concerned. There were only recriminations and regrets. He could replay the things he had said-they all sounded wrong. He couldn't sort out the things he needed to say from the things she needed to hear. He ended up saying neither. Maybe there never would be words to equal what needed said.
And no actions, either. Even if she took his head, that wouldn't quite do it-but there was a moment, however brief, knowing she stood over him. No, it hadn't been a drama, but a tragedy, and there was a definite pattern to how those are supposed to end.
He felt very happy not to be Hamlet. But for one moment, he could have entertained it-death. MacLeod prevented that.
He'd have to repay him for that, someday.
He twisted the cap and let it fly and then surveyed the bottle. The words of an old friend came back to him, "Methos, don't tell me that isn't Greek. I'll even define it-Attic wit, Spartan frame, drunken helot." That had been a Watcher. He'd only learned that later-a dead old friend, now. He had a lot of those. Friends that were dead.
Funny how death didn't always silence them. Jokes. Threats.
Goodbyes.
Forgiveness. No, never that. Sometimes the things the dead didn't say spoke loudest. The one thing he could never get out of the dead would be that. Forgiveness.
Only the living could forgive.
She still lived-he wondered if he could get that from her. The more he gave it thought, the more improbable it seemed-not because he didn't believe she could ever give it, but because he could never ask. No, he saw. He had already asked too much from her, over and over again, back then. He had asked for obedience, for loyalty, for…why kid himself? He had taken. He took everything he could from her. What amazed him was how much was left.
"I'm not your sorry little slave anymore"-as if he needed to be told! As if he couldn't see-perhaps that was the worst thing he had done. That she thought he'd still see her that way, only made him wonder if she could still see herself that way. But that wasn't how it had been. Not "sorry." And he certainly didn't see anything sorry about her, now. "Now I'm supposed to forgive you?" she'd asked, as he knelt there. Silas was dead-Kronos was dead. How would she know what he expected? He never expected forgiveness at that moment. He didn't expect that the world could still go on, at that moment.
Who the hell had been sorry, then?
But something must have affected her. She never did come back after him, not after MacLeod told her he wanted him alive. Was it MacLeod's influence alone, or did he dare to think she could find it in her heart to feel anything for him, besides rage? He couldn't imagine what, and so help him, he wasn't sure he wanted to know. Maybe she finally saw that her monster had a human face.
He wasn't sure he believed that. But it was as good an answer as any.
He took a swallow from the bottle, and looked around. The apartment had the lived-in look of a place only a ghost lived in. It struck him that he'd spent the week like this, and it disturbed him-mourning? Was that what this was? Kronos. Silas. He'd had a hand in what they were. He had a hand in how they died. Even Caspian…but he couldn't imagine this was mourning-for them?
What the Horsemen were never exactly inspired anything sentimental in him. He had been glad to leave. He had changed, he told himself. He was not the same as they were-he would never be, ever again. He would not go back to that-to being a Horseman. To being with them.
And now, it could never happen again. They were dead. Just like the man he used to be. And then, he knew what he was in mourning for. Or rather, who.
Himself.
("Sitting the Dead"-a custom, I forget from where, similar to the idea of a wake. But it has the same rhythm as "walking the witch", so I went with it. Sometimes I just like the rhythm of a thing.)