Fic: Secret History (1/6) (Adult)

[briarwood]

TITLE: Secret History
SERIES: Secrets
RATING: Adult
FANDOM: Highlander
CATEGORY: Drama, Episode-based
PAIRING: Methos/Alexa, Methos/OFC, Methos/Kronos.
SUMMARY: Set between Something Wicked and Deliverance. After MacLeod’s dark quickening, Joe calls Methos for help. Methos remembers his darkest past.
WARNINGS: It says Methos/Kronos up there, right? That should be all the warning you need :-).
NOTES: This is not a WIP. I'm posting one part each day to give me time to get the last part proofed etc. If you prefer to read all the parts together, it'll be on my website this coming weekend. The Secrets series is a Methos/Joe romance, but each part except the last can be read as an independent story (at least, that's the plan). The M/J action in this one is all friendship; the bulk of this story is the flashback.

PROLOGUE

Athens, 1995

It was almost three o'clock in the morning, but Methos was awake when the phone call came. He was lying in bed, watching the woman sleeping beside him, enjoying the moonlit silence. The phone broke into his contented mood like a brick shattering glass. Methos resisted the urge to swear and snatched up the phone before it could wake Alexa.

"Adam Pierson," he said testily.

He heard a click, then a woman's bored voice. "Connecting your call now, sir."

He waited a second for the operator to clear the line, then repeated, "Adam Pierson."

"Adam, it's Joe. I hope I'm not…interrupting anything."

Methos glanced again at Alexa's blonde head on the pillow beside him. He kept his voice quiet so he wouldn't disturb her, but did not trouble to hide his irritation. "Joe, it's three o'clock in the morning. Of course you interrupted something. My sleep."

"Sorry."

Not in a mood to be conciliatory, Methos snapped, "Well, get to the point. If you woke me at this hour for small talk you're going to be so glad we're on different continents."

"I didn't call for small talk." Joe hesitated for a heartbeat, then asked  bluntly, "What do you know about dark quickenings?"

It was, though Methos didn't learn that until later, precisely the question MacLeod had posed to Joe Dawson, less than twenty four hours earlier.

For Methos, the memory that accompanied Joe's question was so strong that for a moment, just a moment, he was there again. On the deck of the ship, the stench of rotting seaweed filling his lungs, and the taste of his own blood in his mouth. He felt, again, the impact of the axe on his ribs, felt the pain, heard his bones crack and tasted blood in his mouth in the moment before everything went black. He heard, as he had heard in so many dreams, his son's shouted challenge; the beginning of a battle Methos had never witnessed, except in those dreams. He had been dead when it happened.

"Adam…?"

Joe's voice brought him back to the present. His mouth suddenly dry, Methos reached for the glass of water beside the bed. "More than I ever wanted to," he answered succinctly. He sipped some water.

Alexa stirred beside him, but didn't wake.

"Can it be…cured?"

The memories were stronger still; a day of blood and fire, men and women falling at the point of his sword…days later, washing blood from his clothes, watching the others surreptitiously as he worked…cruel laughter ringing in his ears…a boy he had loved, still did love, forever changed…

"Cured? A dark quickening?" He might have laughed, had the memories been less bitter. "No." And then another memory, more recent: walking through a garden in Paris with Darius, who had a theory - no more than that - about this very subject. "Not," he amended, "in my experience. Darius thought it was possible."

There was silence.

Dread rising within him, aware that he didn't really want to hear the answer, Methos asked, "Joe, what's happened?"

"It's MacLeod."

---

PART ONE

Kalliste, 1628 BCE

Bethia pressed up against his body as Methos slowly unlaced her bodice. Her ebony hair was loose, tumbling in heavy waves down her back. The bodice fell open and she sighed. The sigh was echoed by Methos as he traced the curve of her neck with his fingertips, teasing her. One hand supporting her back, he bent to kiss her.

Tonight, he needed her badly, needed to lose himself in her, and he knew she would be happy to give what he needed.

A loud knock at the door interrupted them. It was accompanied by an immortal presence. Methos muttered a curse and went to the door, refastening his clothing hurriedly.

Bethia called after him, "Stay calm, remember!" She didn't sound disturbed.

He glanced back over his shoulder with a forced smile. Calm was difficult in these tense days, particularly when he was interrupted like that, and especially when their unwanted visitor was an immortal. He opened the bedroom door.

Any possibility of calmness fled when he saw Kronos there. "What are you doing in my house?" Methos demanded. He wouldn't trouble to be polite with this man.

The scarred immortal sketched a mocking bow. "Thank you for the welcome, General."

General hadn't been his title for more than a decade, and Kronos knew it. Methos felt Bethia's calming hand on his back as she came to his side. He ignored the attempt to provoke, because he knew she wanted him to keep his temper. "Well?" he asked Kronos.

"At the temple," Kronos said. His eyes flickered to Bethia, gleaming as he noted her dishevelled state, then back to Methos. "I hope I didn't spoil your...pleasures."

Methos saw the glance Kronos directed at Bethia, and didn't like it. Nor would he be drawn by cryptic pronouncements. "What is at the temple?" he demanded impatiently.

"A better show than the bull dancers if you don't hurry." Kronos' smile was amused.

Methos' heart sank. He didn't trust Kronos, but trouble had been brewing for weeks: he was probably telling the truth. He looked at Bethia apologetically.

"You're not going…" she began.

"If there's trouble, Priestess Teryssa will send for me soon anyway." He kissed her briefly on her lips. "I'll be back before you know it." He was out the door before she could argue further.

At the temple he found a crowd gathered…no, not a crowd, more like a mob. It was early evening, and some carried torches; Methos wasn't naïve enough to think they were for light. He glanced at Kronos, who had kept pace with him. "What's going on?" The mood of the crowd was ugly.

"I assumed you'd know," Kronos told him.

The man's sarcasm was becoming more than irritating. Methos ignored it and pushed his way through the crowd. He heard a shout: "It's him!" and simultaneously became aware that Kronos wasn't with him. He grew even more confused. There was a ring of guards around the temple. They let him through, but the bronze temple gates were closed. Through the lattice, he saw Teryssa within and called to her.

Teryssa wore dark red; the colour of death. Her white hair was covered with a veil of the same hue. In the darkness of the temple, her clothing drained her face of colour; she almost looked like a ghost herself. It brought home to Methos how old she was now. Mortal. Dying. He had known her since she was a child small enough to run beneath his horse. Teryssa turned at Methos' call and walked to the gate, but she didn't come close.

"Why are you here, General?"

Methos was accustomed to formality from Teryssa and she always accorded him the courtesy of his former title. Methos guessed it was a hard habit for her to break; she had known him as the General most of her life. Teryssa was both the highest ranked priestess on the island of Kalliste and one of the secular leaders of Keftiu. Methos considered her a friend. But her voice was cold tonight; that was unusual. He answered her question as calmly as he could, "Kro… someone told me I should come."

Behind him he heard someone shout his name. He didn't turn, keeping his eyes on the priestess.

Teryssa hesitated so long he was sure she was going to turn him away. Finally she nodded, closing her eyes briefly. "Perhaps it is best. Enter." She gestured, and the gate was opened for him. "Come," she said.

Methos followed.

When he realised she was leading him toward the sanctum, Methos hesitated. He had lived on the island of Kalliste for nearly two centuries, he was at home here and accepted, but he was still an Outsider. Outsiders were not permitted in the inner temple.

"Come," Teryssa repeated.

She was priestess…and she was someone Methos trusted. The sacrilege - if sacrilege his presence was - would be her responsibility. He followed her. There was a painted frieze on the wall as they descended the stone steps. In the darkness, the figures depicted almost seemed to move. The air turned cold as they went deeper into the earth, and he caught the scent of incense ahead of them.

The sanctum was dim, lit by tallow candles in stone jars. A thin curtain concealed most of the room from his sight. Before the curtain, two bodies were laid out. Both of them were women.

Two of them? Methos thought. This was obviously what Teryssa wanted him to see. He looked at her, seeking guidance. She simply nodded. Methos took a deep breath of the incense-rich air and moved closer to the bodies. He recognised neither of the women. But he did recognise what had been done to them. The first had been decapitated. Cleanly. A single blow from something extremely sharp…probably a war axe. The second had died from blood loss; her throat had been cut, equally cleanly.

That was unexpected. The others were all killed in the same way.

Both women had been dressed for burial, but Methos didn't need to see more. He knew what injuries the ceremonial cloths would conceal. Bruises and lacerations from a brutal rape before the death. Two of the first three killed had been cut open afterwards. The killer took something different from each of them; why, Methos couldn't guess. Someone interrupted him the third time.

"The same?" he asked quietly. These two made five deaths. Five murders.

"Yes."

Methos felt cold. Kalliste was his home. A home on holy ground, among people who knew what he was and accepted his kind, if warily. It was the place he had raised a family. A refuge.

"Why are you showing me this? In here?"

"Because this is where they lie. And because I wanted you to see the shroud."

Shroud? What shroud? For a moment Methos was confused. Then he realised she was referring to the curtain. He looked at it more closely and saw a subtle image painted on the cloth. That was strange. The Keftians painted on wood or on stone, but never that he had seen before on cloth. The shroud was ancient. The image on it had probably been as gaudily coloured as the temple frescoes when it was made, but now it was faded with age, and in the candle-lit sanctum Methos saw only shades of brown. He suppressed a shiver of awe. The shroud was truly ancient. It might be older than he was.

The shroud's faded colours depicted a winged human figure. Keftian artists used skin colour to indicate the sex of the figures they painted: female figures were pale, male figures dark. But the shroud was so faded it was impossible to guess the shade, and the obvious physical attributes that should have shown the figure's sex were obscured. The face was gaunt, almost skeletal.

"When I was a child," Teryssa said softly, "this spectre haunted my dreams long before I ever saw it here, on the great shroud." Her voice took on a chanting cadence as she spoke. "From the day I first saw you, during my novitiate, the spectre in my dreams had your face. I feared it, and so I feared you, but you taught me to conquer my fear. Tonight, I believe I understand the vision for the first time."

"The spectre is death," Methos heard himself say. He understood little of this. Teryssa was revered as a seer, and while Methos was sceptical about such things he did know she was no charlatan. A vision of death with his face? What did that mean? He hadn't killed anyone since he came to Kalliste, hadn't even taken a head....well, except in the war, but that could hardly be called murder. So why would Teryssa see death in him now?

Teryssa nodded, confirming his words. "Today a spectre of death hovers over our city, General. The people gathering in the temple plaza understand, as I now understand, that the end of this lies with you."

Methos swallowed. "You hold me responsible for this?" His gesture indicated the bodies before them.

She did not answer at once. "I do not hold you to blame," she said eventually.

Methos understood. Teryssa did not believe he was guilty, but she did consider him responsible. As they both knew others would. It made sense. There was no point in trying to explain to these people that the nature of immortals' lives kept them solitary, independent. They were expected to be a community because other Outsiders were. And as Methos held some standing in Keftiu, however reluctantly, he was held responsible for that non-existent community. He had told Teryssa himself that he suspected an immortal hand in these murders.

He looked at the priestess. "What do you want of me?" he asked, already knowing the answer.

"These women were not your kind, Methos. Who could have done this thing?"

Kronos, he thought instantly, the scarred face with the smiling blue eyes rose quickly before his mind's eye. But Methos had no evidence, only instinct. He knew himself well enough to recognise that his own dislike of Kronos might be warping his judgement. Kronos' obvious interest in Bethia didn't engender his trust, either. He refused to voice the accusation.

"Not me, or mine," Methos said. Of that much he was certain. Kaspian wasn't capable of this and Bethia…if she had murdered before, it was never without reason.

Teryssa stepped close to him then, laying one hand over his heart. "This I know. I remember how much you have done for us. They do not."

Bethia's hand stroked his cheek gently. "Will you tell me what is on your mind?" she whispered.

She was upset that he wasn't in the mood to make love to her. Methos turned to face her, getting tangled in the sheets again as he moved. "Priestess Teryssa sent for me again today," he said.

Bethia's hair, free of its usual severe braid, was spread across the pillow and he brought a strand to his lips. She smiled.

Methos sighed. "It's the murders. She thinks an immortal is responsible. She wanted my advice." With Bethia's encouragement, Methos explained the evidence he had heard and seen.

Bethia, no stranger to violence and murder, wasn't shocked by the details. She was shocked by his belief that an immortal was to blame. "It doesn't make sense, Methos. Any man could have killed those women. One of us couldn't. Kalliste is holy ground."

He shook his head. "Each of the women was found on the edges of the island. Beaches, cliffs."

"Even so…" she began to object.

"Bethie." His fingertips on her mouth silenced her.

"You have a suspect in mind, don't you?" she pressed.

Reluctantly, Methos nodded. "Kronos. I don't trust him. He's not the type to seek refuge on holy ground, and he arrived here a few days before the first death."

"That doesn't make him a killer," Bethia had said gently. She kissed him, then lay back in the bed. Methos reached for her, holding her against him gently, and after a while, they both slept.

"Methos?" Teryssa's voice broke into the recollection.

He looked at her again. Teryssa had been a child when the war she referred to was fought. They weren't a warlike people, these Keftians. Fifty years before, when battle came to their shores, their defence had been worse than pathetic. Methos, the Outsider, had defended his home, nothing more. In doing so he found unwanted leadership thrust on him, but once he had accepted the position he enjoyed it. Battle was in his blood, death was part and parcel of who he was. It had earned him acceptance, and status in Kalliste.

Methos was grateful for Teryssa's trust, however misplaced it might be. "I will find the one responsible, priestess. You have my word. Tonight, however, I think I should go home. With your permission."

Part Two