Methos
shivered and pulled the bedclothes closer around him, blinking as
he poked his nose out of the lingering warmth. It was still fully dark,
but the
cabin was a hell of a lot colder than it had been when they'd gone to
bed. The
fire had gone to ashes, pale and delicate as snowflakes on the top.
And
Duncan...Duncan was nowhere to be
seen. Hmm... Presence still flickered at
the edge of
his senses; he was still around somewhere. The question was, where?
Irritation
had a small tussle with concern. Concern won on points. Duncan was still finding
his way back after Connor's death and as much Methos wanted to roll
over and go
back to sleep, he wanted to reassure himself that Duncan was okay more. Not
that he'd ever admit that.
Arranging
the blanket around his shoulders and his face into a suitably pissy expression, Methos rolled himself out of
bed. The
cold hardwood floor made his toes curl and another shiver chased the
first down
his spine. Bloody Scot. The pissy
expression was less of an affectation now. He pulled the blanket more
tightly
around himself, grateful for the lingering warmth it held.
The
cabin was large, but Duncan wasn't inside; he knew
that already. Outside, then. Damn it. Even
the
doorknob was cold under his fingertips as he turned it and forced
himself out
into the pre-dawn chill.
Duncan was there, a
half-formed shape sitting on the steps in the utter dark. His smile was
a brief
flicker of white in the darkness.
"Methos?" Wonderingly, just
like the first time.
"Who else?" Methos answered.
The silence prickled and he rushed to fill it. "It's freezing out here,
MacLeod."
"Not
quite." Duncan turned back to gaze
out across the inky lake. "Snow's coming." There was something in his
voice...more melancholy than Methos had heard from him since the
burial. Duncan
had faced it all, Connor, Faith, the whole damn mess, with his usual
strength
and courage, but Methos knew only too well how memories lay like land
mines,
just waiting for the oddest triggers to set them off.
Methos
drew the top edge of the blanket up over his head, pulling the
thick, dark wool around himself like a
shawl. It wasn't
the first time he'd been this cold, no doubt it wouldn't be the last.
He sighed
to himself and settled down one step up from Duncan.
Duncan glanced back and
Methos was close enough to see his eyes widen. "You look like..." He
shook his head and turned away. "Never mind."
Methos
let it go. "Aren't you cold?"
Duncan shrugged. "The
wind smells like snow. I can't sleep--" He shook his head. "It's
nothing. Forget it."
"Can
you?" There was a long pause but Methos waited it out.
The least he could do -- for a friend. The thought crossed his mind
that if
he'd done more -- done anything, back when it might have made a
difference --
then it might not have come to this, but he squelched it with an old
and
customary ruthlessness. What was done was done. Then Duncan was speaking and he
silenced himself in the wake of that beautiful voice.
"The
first snows of the winter fell the day Connor found me. I'll
never forget the way he looked, standing there in the most ridiculous
get-up
I'd ever seen." Duncan breathed the ghost
of a laugh. "But, god, to have kin again..." Duncan's head tipped back
as he lifted his face to the black sky. "Whenever I feel the first fall
of
snow, I'm back there...reliving it...how it felt not to be alone
anymore. To feel that I wasn't the only one.
He was my kin, my clan,
my brother." Duncan's voice wavered a
little on the last word.
"And
now he's gone," Methos finished for him.
"Yes." Duncan tugged his own
blanket around himself more tightly. "Do you remember what it was like
before you knew what you were? Before you learnt that there was a name
for us
that wasn't a curse?"
Memories
tumbled like great worn river stones in Methos' mind, but it
seemed he had always known what he was. As if whatever mortal life he'd
had was
just a story he'd told himself enough times
to make it
true. He had been born, somewhere, been raised by someone, and managed
by some
great good fortune to stave off death until the moment he'd reached an
age that
was the perfect balance between youth and maturity to allow him to
survive so
absurdly long. But actual memories, feelings, names, faces? Time had
long since
washed them away. He shook his head, then
realized Duncan couldn't see him
where he was sitting. "No. No, I can't," he whispered.
Duncan's voice was low and
rough. "When I was banished from my clan, all I wanted to know was who
I
was -- what I was. If I wasn't Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, then
what
was I? They said I was a demon, but I didn't feel like a demon.
No
matter what they said I was, I knew it was
wrong. They
were wrong. They cursed me and banished me, denied me and--" Duncan's voice broke,
"disowned me as a son." In the silence Methos heard him draw a deep,
ragged breath. "But Connor found me and..." Duncan finished on
something that Methos didn't catch, but the meaning was clear enough.
"He
became your family, your brother," Methos put in.
"Aye, but more than that, Methos,
so much more
than that. He
told me what I was -- that I wasn't evil or wrong, that
Immortality wasn't a curse or the work of the devil. I was...right in
myself
again. Do you have any idea what that meant to me?"
Envy
shafted through Methos in an unexpected, ungenerous burst. "Do
you know how lucky you were?" he asked, at the last minute reining in
the
sharpness that bit at his tongue. He only failed a little.
Duncan turned and looked
at him, surprise in the lift of his heavy brows. "Of course I know,"
he shot back, real passion in his voice for the first time since Scotland. He was on his feet
before Methos could say another word. "Why do you think I--" Duncan broke off and shook
his head. "Never mind," he rasped, slipping past Methos and back into
the cabin.
"Mac!" Methos called as he rose and
almost
tripped over the blanket in the process. He righted himself with a
muttered curse
and stepped back into the room. "Mac?" he said again, closing the
door behind him. Duncan was standing by a
wide window, silhouetted by dying starlight and the faint hint of dawn.
"Want some coffee?"
Methos'
heart pounded in his ears a few times before Duncan said,
"Sure." Another couple of heartbeats.
"Thanks."
Nodding,
though Duncan's back was turned,
Methos busied himself with turning grounds and water into fragrant
brew. The
soft clatter was a comfort in the silence while he waited for Duncan to speak again.
"Here,"
Methos said when it was done, nudging Duncan with the back of
his wrist and passing him one of the two steaming mugs he held.
Duncan wrapped his hands
around it and nodded once. "Did you ever wonder why I took Richie in?
Why
I took an interest in Claudia and Michelle?"
He was
beginning to have an idea, but he held his tongue and shifted to
stand at the window with Duncan, close enough for
their shoulders to brush now and then.
"I
wanted to give them what he gave me," Duncan said softly.
"I knew they would be Immortal someday and I didn't want them to go
through what I did. Immortality is difficult enough without knowing
that
there's more to it than just the killing. Without Connor I might never
have
really known what it means to be Immortal. It's more than just the
Game, more
than the Quickenings. He showed me the...joy. The responsibility.
Showed me
there was value in the things we can do with the time we have." Duncan set the untouched
coffee aside on the deep windowsill and wrapped his arms across his
chest,
turning to face Methos at last with his dark eyes wide and intent.
"Connor
MacLeod gave me back my self. Yes, Methos, I know how lucky I
was. And I
never thanked him for it."
"Yes
you did," Methos told him, surprised at his own vehemence
as he reached out to rest his hand on a tense forearm. "You are his
legacy, Mac, and the man you are was his reward for the gift he gave
you."
Suddenly it seemed very important that Duncan know this. His gut
clenched a little as he met Duncan's gaze squarely.
"And you're a hell of a reward."
Duncan ducked his head and
Methos could see the denial forming on his lips. He touched a finger to
them to
stop it.
"You
are," he said. "Take it from me, I have seen the
best and the worst of what we can become. And you, my friend, are the
best."
Duncan shook his head and
dislodged Methos' silencing finger. "No, not the
best.
Just living the best way I know how."
"Connor's
legacy," Methos returned with a smile. "How was
he with breakfasts?"
Duncan blinked at him.
"Terrible."
"Then I
hope his legacy doesn't extend that far because I am starving."
Deep,
genuine laughter rolled through Duncan.
"Methos...what would I do without you to remind me that we're only
human?"
Methos
watched him go into the kitchen, the
warrior burnished bronze by the rising sun struggling through the
clouds, and
hoped he'd never have to find out.
