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Fic: Secret History (2/6) (Adult)
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.
Click for Part One
What in the Lady's name had possessed him to walk to the temple? Leaving through a side gate to avoid the crowd, Methos would have given anything he had for a horse. He couldn't run: that would draw attention and that was the last thing he wanted.
He knew that the city was tense. Five murders, now, in a society with almost no violent crime. Murder was unknown in Keftiu. Men died in battle, and on rare occasions in brawls, but deliberate cold-blooded murder simply didn't happen. Neither did violence toward women. The murders made people scared, and suspicious.
The Keftians were a close-knit society; Outsiders were Outsiders. Most Outsiders on the island lived in enclaves within the city, rather than among the Keftians, though that was tradition and not law. Within the enclaves Outsiders were encouraged to administer their own justice, according to the laws of their own tribes, with the Keftian authorities intervening only when absolutely necessary. It was a system that worked well, most of the time. A few Outsiders were able to become part of Keftian society, as Methos had done, but they were the exceptions.
The murders had shaken the people out of their complacency, however. It was natural for fear to become anger, and the natural target of their anger was the Outsiders. No one, Methos included, believed a Keftian was responsible. But, even when he himself had seen the evidence, Methos hadn't thought - or hadn't wanted to believe - that suspicion and fear would turn on him or those he loved.
Reaching his home, he called out to Bethia as he headed straight for the bedroom they shared. He opened a chest and began to pull out his clothing. At the bottom of the chest - and that in itself spoke volumes - he found his weapons. Weapons he hadn't habitually worn for a decade and hadn't used - except to spar or teach - since the last war. He armed himself quickly: a bronze short sword belted around his waist, a knife strapped to his left leg, another to his arm.
Bethia appeared in the doorway as he finished. "What's happening?"
"We've got trouble."
Why had he not seen this coming? Was he too comfortable here? Of course he was: two centuries in one place. He hadn't allowed himself to believe it could end.
Bethia was at the window. She turned to him, her eyes wide. "They're coming."
Cursing under his breath, Methos ran to the window. He saw - and heard - the gathering crowd. Now it was no longer a crowd…it was a mob. They were minutes away. "We don't have much time, Bethie. Let's go."
"Where?"
"The temple. Teryssa will shelter us, I hope." He didn't want to think about what might happen if she wouldn't.
"I'll get Kaspian," she said.
"No!" Methos snapped. Bethia's eyes opened in shock. He reconsidered quickly. She wouldn't leave without knowing Kaspian was safe. He was worried about the lad, too, but Bethia was his focus. She was the woman he loved. "I'll take care of Kas. Get out of here, Bethie. Please."
"Be safe," she whispered. She ran for the door.
She was an experienced warrior; Methos trusted her to do as she was told. He still felt protective toward her, but she was more than capable of looking after herself. Possibly more so than he was at the moment. Kaspian was another matter. Kaspian was raised as a Keftian; His single sea battle wasn't enough experience to help him cope with this.
Their villa was open-plan, three storeys built around a central courtyard. Kaspian's rooms were the opposite side of the building. Between Methos and where he needed to be, the courtyard stood open, the gate unbarred. There had never been any need to lock it.
He would never make it across the courtyard before they got here. Trusting to luck, he returned to the window. Climbing out onto the ledge, he reached up for the edge of the roof. Getting a firm grip, he hauled himself up. The roof was slightly sloped at the edges but flat in the middle. Staying low, just in case someone looked up, he moved across the roof as quickly as he could. Beneath him, there were flaming torches, and shouting. The outer wall of the house was stone, but inside everything except the pillars was made of timber or clay and wattle. It couldn't withstand a fire. Methos heard something break, and felt the roof shake beneath his feet.
Methos glanced back at his living quarters and saw the room in flames. Fire would spread quickly in this dry heat: he had to move fast. Burning to death wasn't pleasant: Methos had no wish to go through that again. He crouched at the edge of the roof, looking down. Several people were already entering. He would be too late…
Then he heard a cry from below him. Kaspian, shouting a challenge, wielding a burning torch, charged into the mob. Subtle, boy. Methos sighed. I taught you better than that. He drew his sword and leapt from the roof into the fray.
Kaspian saw Methos' leap on the periphery of his vision. He thrust his torch into the face of the nearest man, forcing him to fall back. It cleared a path for Kaspian to reach Methos' side. Kaspian knew they were fighting for their lives. But he had no idea why they were being attacked. He did know how to defend himself.
"Kas! Take this!" Methos shouted as Kaspian reached his side. Methos' eyes were wild, his hair loose about his face. He had a knife in his hand. Kaspian took it quickly, grasping the blade. As he turned the knife in his hand, he hesitated momentarily, stunned by the realisation that Methos was afraid.
Methos had taught Kaspian to fight; had drilled him with every weapon he knew until his actions were as automatic as drawing breath. That training served them both now. Knowing intuitively what was needed, Kaspian turned to face the crowd, wielding both dagger and torch as weapons. The two immortals fought back to back, edging toward the open gate.
It felt wrong. Kaspian had fought for his life before, when his ship was raided by the Akhaians. He had killed men in that battle. Methos taught him well; Kas never hesitated to strike when he had to. But these people were Keftian. Why were his own people now his enemies?
And suddenly the way to the gate was clear. "Methos!" Kaspian shouted.
"Kas, go!"
Kaspian obeyed, running for the opening. As he ran, he shoved the knife into his belt. He heard a scream behind him and looked back. It couldn't have been Methos' voice he heard, but Methos wasn't with him.
Kaspian threw the torch back at the people. He ducked into to doorway of another villa. Looking back at his own home, he saw no sign of Methos.
Kaspian fought a different enemy then: panic. He had no idea what was happening, and nowhere to go. He needed Methos, or Bethia. Methos couldn't fight his way through that crowd alone. They needed help…
Kronos! The Akhaian immortal was a great warrior. Kaspian took off at a run, seeking help.
Methos saw Kaspian's escape but before he could follow the crowd surged toward him again. He lifted the sword and began to fight. In the end, though, it was the sheer numbers that overwhelmed him. Methos found himself held down, helpless, the sword gone from his hand.
He heard a woman's scream and forced his head up. Fear flooded his veins with adrenaline.
"Bethia!" he shouted. "No!"
And saw the axe come down.
He watched her head fall, uncomprehending. He heard the shouts around him turn to cheers. Saw a man holding a bloodied axe raise it in triumph, then meet Methos' eyes. That look was the last of reality Methos knew. Bethia's quickening slammed into him like an avalanche. Energy surrounded him as her remembered scream rang in his head and blue-white fire stole his vision.
Methos screamed.
Bethia had been his entire world. Now she became his world in another way. He lived her terrified first death, knew the fear and anger that had driven her since that day. He felt her love for him in his heart and in his blood and it was painful. Lightning spiralled upward into the night, taking Methos with it. In his mind the very sky was aflame.
Then it came down and somewhere below, deep in the earth, the quickening fire touched fire of a different kind…and was gone.
It was over.
The quickening left him exhausted, shaking on the ground. In that moment Methos was barely rational, but as the room and the people swam back into his vision he knew that he was next. Understood that there was no escape, no controlling these people. Hands that had set him free in fear of the quickening took hold of him again, holding him down. Methos couldn't stop shaking.
It wasn't fear that caused his body to shake, nor the quickening. Methos was shaking because the ground shook. Thunder came from deep within the earth, louder by far than a storm. The anger of the people turned to fear and he found himself free once more. Free only to cling to the earth beneath him as fire raged all around and the building that had been his home for a century began to crack and fall.
Seconds seemed like hours until the shuddering of the earth began to die away. In the silence that followed, Methos struggled to his knees, but he wasn't the only one who did so.
He saw his lover's body lying nearby, blood pooling around her severed neck. He saw the man who had taken her life begin to rise. He saw the bloodied axe glinting on the ground between them. Methos snatched up the weapon, rage filling him. The axe felt good in his hands. He rose to his feet, looking down at his enemy. He hesitated for one reason only: he remembered he stood on holy ground. The man wasn't immortal, though, and what more could Methos lose? His hesitation lasted only a moment.
Some things an immortal doesn't forget, however long the skills might go unused. How to kill is one of those things. Methos waited until the man met his eyes. He wanted to see the knowledge of death dawn on the bastard. And then he hefted the axe and swung. Not at the neck, as he would have done if the man were immortal, but lower, angled to the man's shoulder. He felt the collarbone shatter beneath his blow. The mortal's scream mirrored Bethia's. Methos yanked the axe free, knowing he had delivered a fatal blow. It might take the man some time to die, but he would die. It felt good.
Something struck him from behind and he staggered. As he turned to face his attacker, someone else wrenched the axe from his hand. Methos swore, shocked that he could be taken so easily. He still wore a knife; instantly it was in his hand. But it was already too late. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't kill them all with a single dagger.
An immortal presence knifed into his awareness. Kaspian? He heard a voice shouting his name over the roar of the flames. Then the neigh of a horse…no, two horses. One of them reared, forcing the crowd to part. As the horse came down, thrashing hooves inches from Methos' face, the horseman's blue eyes met his. A hand reached out to him. Instinctively he grasped the hand, leaping onto the horse behind Kronos. He clung to his unlikely rescuer as the horse reared again, scattering the mob. Moments later they were riding out of the city.
Methos was silent as they rode. His heart beat with a rhythm not his own and his blood burned. He could barely see.
Kronos had been living in the Akhaian enclave. He did not, however, head for home. The city streets were full of people as he rode, people milling around in confusion. Kronos rode at a gallop into the darkness outside the city, Methos clinging to his back. He took them west along the cliffs until the city was far behind them.
It was only when they stopped that Methos realised Kaspian was with them: he was the second horseman. It was that fact - he hadn't even noticed another immortal presence - that finally woke him up. He slid down from the horse, brushing his sweat-damp hair out of his eyes. Ignoring Kronos for the moment, he went to Kaspian as the boy leapt from his own mount.
Boy. He still thought of Kaspian as a child. He wasn't a child any more. Kaspian was a man, and an immortal. And Bethia was the only mother he had ever known.
Kaspian's face was in shadow. He faced Methos, one hand still on the horse's bridle.
Methos, his blood still thrumming with the fire of an unwanted quickening, could only look at him. "Kaspian…" he began. His voice sounded very far away.
"That was a quickening," Kaspian accused. "Who did you kill?"
Methos' heart sank. Kaspian hadn't been immortal for long and he had never experienced a quickening. Would he believe that Methos hadn't taken her head? He had to. "I didn't kill anyone, Kaspian. They killed her. Bethie."
"I saw it. But I…I thought… It can wait."
Methos nodded, relieved. He felt Kronos at his side and turned to him. "Thanks. I owe you."
"We can camp here tonight. It should be safe." Kronos eyed Methos with uncharacteristic concern. "That was holy ground. Will you be alright?"
"No," Methos answered shortly, moving away.
The stars above were bright. Methos lay awake, watching the stars. The stars had been as bright the night he found Bethia…
She was a slave. Methos found her dying in a stinking midden, the marks of abuse on her body mute evidence of the violence she had suffered. In that quarter, a murdered slave was a tragic, but not uncommon sight. Methos knew better than to get involved with such things. Mortal life was cheap.
But the slave girl's immortal signature called to him. It wasn't the signature of an experienced immortal. It was fresh, new. The girl's first death, her immortality transforming from potential to reviving power. Methos sighed, letting the pack fall from his shoulder as he knelt beside the girl. He lifted her hair away from her face. She didn't react to his touch, and she wasn't breathing. He saw her wounds beginning to close. There wasn't much time.
"Get away from there!"
At the peremptory shout, Methos stood, turning to face the speaker. He was a heavily built man dressed in fine clothes. Methos stepped in front of the girl, shielding her body from the man's sight. Methos wore a travelling priest's robes; he was no priest, but it was the safest guise in these parts. It also gave him a little power. He fixed the man with a stern gaze and waited for recognition.
After a few moments, he saw a flicker of fear in the man's eyes. But the man said nothing, only returned Methos' stare.
"The girl is dying," Methos said. "Is she yours?"
"What is your interest, priest?" the man demanded. His voice was challenging, but his body language was defensive: he was nervous.
Methos knelt again. He removed his outer cloak, laying it gently over the girl's body to conceal the healing of her wounds. "If she's yours," he said, with his back to the man, "I'll buy her from you." He covered her mouth with his hand as she took a sharp breath, her eyes flying open. He leaned close, speaking quietly. "Stay down and stay quiet if you want to live."
Behind him, the man laughed. "Buy a dying slave? Are you mad?"
"She isn't dead yet. I may be able to save her. I can at least help her to die with some dignity." He reached for the purse at his belt. "Is she yours?" he repeated.
"She is."
Methos threw the purse at him. "If that's not enough, I'll be at the temple near the south gate until dawn two days from now." As if his offer had already been accepted, he gathered the girl into his arms. She was thin, and weighed very little. He was able to hold her with one hand while he shouldered his pack again, then cradling her more gently he began to walk away. The man made no move to stop him.
Bethia, a Hebrew girl, was terrified when Methos carried her into the temple of a heathen god. The temple was holy ground, though, and his priest's robes gained him entry. It wasn't difficult to persuade her to stay; she was a slave, and he had bought her. Methos took advantage of that to begin with. He became her teacher, and in the years that followed he helped a beaten down slave girl transform into a confident young warrior.
Some ten years after her first death, a continent away from the place they met, Bethia left her teacher. Almost a century later, she had admitted to Methos that she returned to the man who had killed her, for revenge. Methos hadn't asked her what form her revenge had taken. He hadn't needed to. By then, Bethia had become a remarkable woman, and a remarkable immortal. Beautiful, clever…and deadly. In that century Bethia and Methos had become lovers, but the relationship hadn't lasted. Bethia was a wanderer at heart. She couldn't settle in one place, or with one man, for long.
She carried a longbow in her hand, an arrow nocked and ready. The rocky ground beneath her feet was warm, heated by the flames that had swept through the small village. Smoke still rose from the ruined houses. She wrinkled her nose as a change of the wind brought the sickly smell of burned flesh. The smell brought back memories of her childhood, her mother's screams… Bethia shook her head to clear the memory. As she did, she became aware of something else. A sense of presence.
It wasn't an immortal presence. She hadn't felt anything quite like this before. She moved toward it. Burnt wood cracked beneath her boots as she entered what was left of one of the shacks. There were two bodies among the ashes: a man and a woman. Her senses heightened by danger, she could hear someone breathing.
And there in the corner she found him. A boy, no older than five, cowering against the wall of his ruined home. The presence she felt was coming from the child. He wasn't an immortal, but she could feel the potential in him. She frowned, trying to remember what Methos had told her about this. She waited, listening, but there was no one else near. No one alive, at least.
Bethia set her bow aside and knelt in the ash-covered ground. She reached out toward the boy with one hand. "Hello," she began, softly.
Methos started awake. He remembered Bethia telling him about that day, but the dream had been too vivid. A memory. His eyes filled with tears as he was reminded anew what that meant. Bethia's memories in his dreams. She was gone…forever.
The boy hadn't been able to tell her his name, so Bethia named him Kaspian. It took her almost a year to reach Kalliste with the child. She had denied knowing Methos was living there when they encountered each other, but he understood, now, that she had known, and had hoped to find him there. Methos was glad to welcome them both. They raised the boy together.
Immortals couldn't have children. It had been a fact of Methos' life, all of his life. He had been married many times before, for love, or convenience or companionship, but raising a family had never been part of it. Living with Bethia and Kaspian was the first time Methos had been a father. It was quite an experience. He was surprised by how much he came to care for the boy. More, it sometimes seemed, than Bethia, who had been struck by wanderlust again as soon as Kaspian was grown. By that time, though, their "family" was well established, and when she left them she hadn't said goodbye. She said "until I return".
"I wish you wouldn't go," Methos told her. He held her hands in his, stepping back to look at her. She had exchanged her Keftian dress for leather travelling clothes. Methos understood her wanderlust: he had felt the same need himself for centuries. He knew she had to leave them, but he knew, now, that she would return. She had a home to return to.
Bethia smiled, lifting a callused hand to his face. "You could come with me."
"Bethie, I have a life here. A job to do."
"Protecting these mortals? Methos, they're not like us. Why would you fight their battles?"
"No, they're not like us. But they're good people. There aren't many places where immortals would be welcomed and allowed to live openly as we do here."
"Not many," she agreed. She kissed him again, on the tip of his nose, making him laugh. "Each time we meet, love, the reunion is sweeter. I will come back…if I live."
Methos heard a thunder-like rumble from the restless earth. Remembering the earthquake of the night before, Methos looked east, suddenly aware of what he would see. The volcano that gave Kalliste its hot springs and winter warmth, the volcano the priestesses called the "Voice of the Goddess", the reason Kalliste was holy ground…the volcano that had slept for so long was beginning to wake.
The thunder signalled an aftershock, but that was mild, nothing like the violent earthquake that had accompanied the quickening. It was enough to terrify the horses, though, and to wake the sleeping immortals. It was enough to remind Methos of the night before. The coincidence stayed in his thoughts…the quickening…the earthquake…holy ground. Could there be a connection? The quickening had been powerful, more powerful than Bethia's quickening should have been.
As the aftershock died away, Methos saw a column of smoke above the sleeping volcano rising into the sky. The wind was taking the smoke away from the land, but the wind would change. If that volcano was truly the voice of their Lady, it seemed she was a little angry.