by C. E. Murphy
Methos glanced at one perfunctorily. “Very nice,” he said politely. “Ghean, later, all right? We need to talk about some things?”
Ghean sighed, casting a hopeful look at the bracelets. “All right,” she agreed. “Later,” she promised the merchant, then looked up at Methos. “What’s wrong? Did Mother say something awful? I told her not to!”
Methos laughed in spite of himself. “No, she said nothing awful. She made me think, though. Come back to my tent? We need some privacy.”
Ghean’s mouth curved in a slow smile. “That sounds promising,” she purred, an entirely different voice than the concerned one of a moment ago.
Methos looked down at her, and laughed. “None of that,” he warned, “or I’ll entirely forget what I need to talk to you about.”
Ghean smiled again. “You’ll remember later.”
-o-O-o-
“What,” Ghean asked, some hours later, “did you want to talk about?” She propped her chin on Methos’ chest, blinking sleep away.
Methos opened his eyes slowly, looking at the tent roof. It was nearly seven feet high, far taller than any of the other tents in the city. The extra yards of fabric had cost him, but it was well relief from the sense that the roof was balanced precariously on his own head. “Mmmf,” he said thoughtfully, and turned on his side to wrap his arms around Ghean, kissing her hair. “Can’t it wait?”
“It was very important four hours ago,” Ghean pointed out, grinning at his chest.
“Mmm-hmm. And I was cruelly distracted and it’s gone clean out of my head. I’m left with nothing but inspired passion for you.” He grinned, ducking his head to kiss her.
“I don’t believe you,” Ghean said happily. “What was it? I want to go find some dinner.”
“Ah,” Methos said, “You don’t really care what I have to say. This is just a ploy to wake me up and get me moving so you can eat.”
Ghean rolled him back onto his back, flinging an elbow over his chest and resting her chin on the back of her hand. “I can think of other ways to get you moving,” she threatened idly. “Of course, those will neither get me dinner nor talk about your important topic. Now, go on. I’m listening.” She moved her hand a little, to kiss his chest, watching him through her eyelashes.
Methos sighed, eyes closing contentedly. “I’m not sure where to start,” he confessed. Ghean hitched herself up on an elbow and kissed his chest again, along the breastbone.
“You’d better think of somewhere,” she said, “or I will, and then I’ll miss dinner.”
“That really doesn’t help me think, Ghean,” he pointed out. She looked up with an unrepentant smile, and resumed the kisses. Laughing, he dropped an arm over his eyes. This is decidedly more entertaining than explaining myself. Maybe it could wait until … “No,” he half groaned, aloud, and rolled onto his side, firmly setting Ghean several inches away. “That line of distraction will keep me from talking about this for years, and it really is important, Ghean.”
Brown eyes sparkled merrily back at him. “Oh, all right.” Ghean propped her head on her hand, elbow crooked. “What is it?” She studied his face a moment, and her eyebrows drew down. “It’s all right,” she assured him, and put a small hand against his chest. “Go on.”
Methos sighed. This is never easy. “Ghean, what — this is going to sound absurd. I need you to hear me out, all right?”
Her eyebrows reversed, crinkling up, and she nodded, wide-eyed.
Methos nodded a little, pulling in a breath. “You remember yesterday when I said I’d learned to read when I was younger?”
Ghean’s eyebrows remained elevated. “Well, of course. I suppose a few people outside of Atlantis do learn to read when they’re children.”
Methos shook his head a bit. “Not when I was a child. Just … younger. I have no memories of my childhood, when or where I was born.”
Ghean shrugged easily. “So? I hardly remember anything before I was five or six. Most people don’t, I think. That’s hardly unusual.”
“I know. But I didn’t learn to read ten or fifteen years ago, Ghean. I learned to read about five hundred years ago.”
Ghean’s eyebrows shot back up, and she laughed. “Methos, whatever it is you need to tell me, it can’t be as bad as all this. Five hundred years ago, indeed. Stop making up stories and just tell me.”
A thin smile twisted Methos’ mouth. “Ghean, I’m over a thousand years old. I learned to read nearly at the very moment the world outside Atlantis discovered the arts of reading and writing. I’m Immortal.”
Ghean frowned, shaking her head. “Methos, stop it. You’re frightening me.”
He took another deep breath. “This is the truth, Ghean. I’ve lived ten centuries, or more. There are others like me, who don’t die. We heal very quickly, and the only way to kill one of us is to take our head.”
Ghean sat up, pulling blankets around her, frown growing deeper. “Methos, stop this. It isn’t funny.”
“No,” he agreed, “it isn’t.” He sat up as well, reaching under the pallets that made up the bed on the tent’s floor, to pull a short, fat-bladed sword from beneath the matting. Settling back on his heels, he laid the blade across his thighs a moment, looking at Ghean. “I don’t usually explain this to people unless they’ve seen me die; I told none of my other wives save one. Still, it seems the best way to explain is to show you. Please don’t scream.” With a swift, sure motion, he lifted the short sword again and spliced open his palm, hissing with pain.
Ghean jerked in a horrified gasp of air, lurching to her feet. “Methos! You’ll need a physician!”
“Watch,” he said quietly, and spread his hand, fingers splayed back, to display the cut. Bone was visible for a few moments, tendons laid bare as crimson flowed between his fingers to drip on the blankets. Ghean swayed where she stood, watching as both ends of the injury began to heal, eating inwards to the deepest part of the cut. Fresh blood discolored and dried as the healing slowed a little, severed tendons visibly knitting together, then muscle reconstituting. The skin reformed in a smooth swirl. Methos closed his hand in a fist, and looked up at Ghean.
Her eyes were locked on his hand, shock stamped on her face. “How — how?” Her eyes snapped to meet his, fear in the demanding question.
“I am Immortal,” Methos repeated softly. “That kind of injury is easiest to … demonstrate with. I can do something more drastic, if you need me to.”
“No!” Ghean’s voice rose sharply. She took a step back, clutching the blanket around herself more tightly. “It’s not possible. No one heals that fast. You’re tricking me somehow. Why are you doing this? It’s not funny. Why are you doing this?”
Methos opened his hand again slowly. Rust-colored flakes broke and fell away, leaving no trace of the cut. “Because you deserve to know who it is you might marry. What I am.”
Ghean’s eyes dropped to his unscarred palm. “Are — are you a god?”
He lowered his head, shaking it. “No. Not a god. Just a man, Ghean. Different than most, but just a man. I don’t want to frighten you, Ghean, but you had to know before we married. Please … .” He reached out towards her, to catch her hand.
Ghean bolted backwards, nearly tripping over the blanket she clutched. “No! Don’t touch me! Don’t — !” She whirled and ran for the door, darting out into the sands.
-o-O-o-
Well over a week passed. Methos made himself easy enough to avoid, keeping to his tent during the hot days, venturing out at night to pace the desert and think. He didn’t quite believe Ghean would return to him. It is not easy to learn that your lover is not at all what you thought he was. Methos sat in the sand with a faint groan, looking up at the star-littered sky. Sharp-edged in the desert’s clear air, only a few shone with any color, traces of blues and reds. The rest were stark, white against black. The universe presents itself as black and white, and we’re offended when there are shades of grey inbetween.
“It’s a lot easier to see thing
s in black and white. I thought you were all white, at first. A good scholar, a good man, someone to love.”
Methos startled, looking over his shoulder. “I didn’t know I’d said that aloud.”
Ghean continued down the side of the dune, towards him. “Then you told me what you were, and I thought you were all black. Something evil and unnatural, to be feared and hated.”
Methos closed his eyes against the stars, staying silent this time.
“I have been thinking,” Ghean went on, “very hard, these last several days.” She sat down in the sand beside him, spreading a cloak out around her. Her hair was loose, falling over the cloack to brush against the sand. “I suppose I’m not very old, and I’ve always seen everything in black and white. But you’re not black or white, are you?” It wasn’t a question that needed answering. “You’re grey. You belong to two different worlds, and that, if nothing else, makes you grey. You have to have different considerations. Do you try to do the right thing, Methos?”
“I try to stay alive.” He sensed, more than saw, Ghean turning her head to look at him. “I don’t know if I try to do the right thing. I thought telling you was the right thing, not for survival, but because I love you. I have done things you wouldn’t consider right, to survive. I’m sure I will again.”
Ghean nodded, looking out over the desert, quiet. “You’re a thousand years old?”
Methos shrugged a little. “I think so. Maybe more, maybe a little less. I don’t remember much before I started keeping journals.”
“When was that?”
Methos’ mouth turned up in a smile. “About ten minutes after they invented writing. Five hundred, eight hundred years ago.”
“You said ‘your other wives’.”
Methos nodded. “I’ve been married. Eight or nine times.”
“How many of them knew?”
“Three. Two who saw me die and come back, and a third whom I chose to tell.” Methos smiled again. “She was a lot like you.”
Ghean glanced at him. “Why did you tell me?”
He looked at her, then at the desert. “Atlanteans live a long time. It’s easier than lying or acting out an old age I’m not actually acheiving. You’d have realized in a few years, ten years, that something was wrong. You’re too intelligent to accept lies, in the long run. I’d have to tell you the truth eventually. It seemed better to do it now.”
Ghean almost laughed, making a sharp sound. “I’m not sure if I’m flattered or insulted.”
Methos twisted another smile. “Be flattered,” he advised. “It’s not your age that makes you see things in black and white. Most people never learn to see any other way.”
“Most people,” Ghean said, “aren’t in love with a thousand-year-old-man. Tell me about being Immortal, Methos. It’s hard to imagine. Everyone dreams of never dying, but what’s it really like?”
You’ll find out. Aloud, he said, “Exhilarating. And difficult. Watching those you love age and die while you remain eternally the same never stops hurting.”
“I don’t believe anyone can remain eternally the same.”
Methos shot her a startled look, and smiled quickly. “I’d love to debate the philosophy with you.”
“Haven’t you changed?” she asked. “Since you became Immortal?”
Methos tilted his head. “If you overlook the fact that I don’t know what I was like before I became Immortal … yes, I have. It might be more accurate to say while you remain unaging. It isn’t easy, however you phrase it.”
Ghean nodded, silent again for a while. “Mother explained to me what you’d told her. How you fight with each other. Will you and Aroz fight?”
“If he makes it necessary.”
“Will you kill him?”
“If I can.”
Ghean shuddered a little, drawing her cloak tightly around herself. “How many men have you killed?”
Methos shook his head. “I stopped counting. The only time I see the faces clearly are in dreams.”
“You frighten me,” Ghean admitted in a small voice.
Methos sighed. “I don’t want to, Ghean. In most respects, I am what you thought I was. I’m a scholar. My interest is in watching history, not making it. All I want is to keep seeing it happen. My luck is in that I have more time to do that than most people do.”
“And you’ll really live forever.”
Methos smiled. “Or die trying.”
Ghean looked at him, surprised, and laughed. “I guess that’s what we all do.” She pressed her lips together, watching the desert again. “How many others are there like you? Are they all as old as you?”
“I don’t know. New Immortals are born — made — every day, but I have no idea how many. Whether there are any older than I am,” he shrugged. “I don’t know that either. I don’t know how old I am, which makes it hard to say. I haven’t met anybody older than I am.”
“Were you the first?”
The image of the axe rising and falling, blood dull in the pale moonlight, danced in front of the stars. “I don’t know,” he said again. “I don’t think so.” Was the one who died my teacher? Or just some chance Immortal whose life crossed with mine, just to end in that rush of instinct? Eyes closing, Methos tried to chase down the memories. The images faded again, to a grey blur that crystalized into surety only as the battle with the nameless stranger began. He shook his head, and repeated, “I don’t know.”
Ghean nodded, drawing her knees up under her chin, silent again for a time. Eventually, just louder than the wind, she asked, “How can someone like you love someone like me?”
Ah. There’s the real question. Methos turned to face her, not quite daring to reach out and pull her against himself. “How could I not?” he asked, as softly. “You’re intelligent and brave — bold enough to come back, to face me even after I told you about myself. Your vivacity, your love for life — they remind me of why life is worth living, even after the long years. Without someone like you, there’s just history, and history is mostly about death.” He fell quiet a moment, then added, “I need you more than you need me, Ghean.” The words faded in the darkness, while he considered how much truth was in them.
Ghean nodded slowly, then leaned against him, sighing. Methos smiled, sliding his arm around her shoulders. “I’m glad you came back,” he whispered, lowering his head to kiss her.
He froze mid-motion as a warning headache flowed through him. Kiss abandoned, he stiffened, lifting his head to search the shadowed dunes. Ghean straightened, frowning curiously as she pushed a strand of hair back from her face. “Methos? What is it?”
“Company,” Methos growled, and scrambled to his feet, hand on the sword’s hilt at his waist. Ghean remained where she was, seated in the sand, looking up at him with confusion. “Go,” he ordered. “There’s another Immortal. Go back to the town. I’ll meet you there later.”
Her eyes widened in alarm, pupils swallowing the brown in the faint moon’s light. “No!” she protested. “I’ll stay. I won’t leave you!”
A shadow separated itself from the night, easy strides across the sand marking Aroz’s approach. Black eyed, black haired, black skinned, and black-robed, he stood several inches shorter than Methos, inches lost in height made up in breadth. His face was sharp-edged, craggier than Methos’, with thin white scars under his cheekbones and on his chin. He stopped several feet from the pair, a dangerous slash of darkness against the night, and bowed slightly to Ghean.
“There you are, Ghean. Your mother asked me to find you and send you home.” Aroz’s voice was at odds with his appearance, smooth and light, not the voice of a warrior. He lifted his eyes from Ghean to Methos. “Methos and I have business to attend to.”
Ghean shook her head, coming to her knees in the sand. “No. No, Aroz. Bring me back with you. I’ll go back with you right now. With you.” She climbed to her feet, hovering between the two men.
“Ghean,” Methos said gently. “Go on. It’s all right. I will see you,” h
e repeated firmly, “in a few minutes.” The bronze blade he drew made a whisper of sound as it left the sheath. Aroz drew his own blade. Methos watched it glint dull silver in the moonlight, and whispered a curse under his breath. His own blade was hard won and had taken time to forge, but the color of Aroz’s sword suggested it was of the legendary Atlantean steel. “Ghean,” Methos said more urgently, “go.”
Ghean whimpered, then ran, tripping over her cloak and pulling herself up the sandy hillside with hands and feet. In mere seconds, the desert swallowed the sounds of her flight. Methos’ shoulders loosened, and he turned his full attention on the other Immortal.
Aroz paced around him in a wide circle, sizing him up in a nearly ritualistic fashion. Methos turned slowly, to watch him, steadily, waiting patiently for Aroz to press the attack. Only when he had completed a full circuit around Methos did Aroz speak.
“You have the reach.” His light voice was pitched to carry just to Methos, no further. “But I have the better blade. Make this easier on both of us, and let me take you. I will tell Ghean you fought well.”
“Thank you,” Methos said, “but I’d prefer to carry my own tidings. Are you mad? We don’t have to do this.”
“We do,” Aroz disagreed. “If for no other reason than there can be only one.”
“Right,” Methos grated. “Ghean has nothing to do with it.”
“She would make a fine temporary prize, wouldn’t she?” With a shout, Aroz sprang forward, the deadly steel blade whistling down towards Methos’ weaker bronze blade. Methos danced backwards, withdrawing his sword just slowly enough that sparks darted along the edges of both blades as they clashed together. Methos winced, seeing threads of metal shard away from his sword. This is going to have to be a fast fight, or I’m going to be left without anything to fight with.
He spun away from another charge, stepping just outside Aroz’s reach and whirling to drive a wide, circular blow towards Aroz’s back. Aroz, misjudging the length of Methos’ reach, turned back to the battle and all but into the swing of Methos’ blad. Skin tore in a wide rent, and the smaller Immortal staggered back with a startled gasp. Hardly defeated, he knocked the bronze sword aside, wrapping his free arm around his side to stem the bloodflow while his Immortal body knitted itself back together.
