Xover: Changing of the Guard 3: Be All That You Can Be 21/22
Ecolea (ecolea@WT.NET)
Fri, 28 Sep 2001 08:09:29 GMT
If you are recieving a second copy of this, please forgive me,
but I have had reports that it has not gone through for many
people on the list. Apologies, Ecolea.
Chapter 26
The party hadn't turned out quite as the de Valicourts had
planned, Methos noted ironically. He hadn't been the only one
concerned about showing up in their "native" costume obviously.
He supposed not many Immortals wanted to admit that they'd been
pretty low down on the social register at the time of their first
death. And in those days the clothing really did make the woman
or the man. Amanda, for one, had worn a noblewoman's dress,
rather than, as she'd put it, "the usual dusty rags." And
Ptahsennes, who could be consistently counted on to champion the
old ways, was in full priestly regalia, as opposed to the simple
loin wrap that had been the uniform of his youth -- though his
excuse had been the chilly Colorado weather. Only the de
Valicourts, MacLeod, and Alexander had chosen to be as accurate
as possible. Then again, Methos mused, they'd been at the top of
the heap when they had lived and died.
For himself, Methos had chosen a comfortable pair of slacks and a
double-knit pullover, pleading a dearth of accurate materials.
After all, rhinos were on the endangered species list -- so was
spandex for that matter, now that the disco years were over and
done with.
He sauntered past the drinks table, grabbing a bottle of some
domestic brew still silently amazed over who seemed to be
becoming fast friends with whom. Robert and Ptahsennes,
perpetually nostalgic types, had hit it off, which wasn't too
surprising now that he thought about it. But Bra'tac and Amanda?
Cierdwyn and Teal'c? It boggled the mind, Methos thought, or
maybe they had other reasons than those he knew.
He nodded to Hammond as he moved across the room, smiling as he
overheard Alex asking the general, "When all this is over, sir,
you think you could get me into the space program?" And the
general's reply, "I'll look into it -- son."
MacLeod caught his eye and Methos sighed in despair as the
Highlander made his way deliberately toward him.
"You want to tell me what happened between you two?" MacLeod
asked quietly after cornering him near the hall closet. The de
Valicourts had leased a rambling old house done in some bucolic
style on a fairly large piece of property with a man made lake
just outside the city proper. A little "getaway place" Gina had
called it when she'd given Methos directions to the party.
Methos frowned, not wanting to discuss his odd relationship with
Cassandra just now. "It's a party, MacLeod. Why not celebrate the
fact that we aren't actively trying to kill each other?"
"I would," MacLeod agreed. "Except Cassandra's very vulnerable
right now. So if you're playing some kind of game here..."
Methos grimaced disgustedly. "Sometimes, MacLeod, you can be such
a fool! I know she's vulnerable. Why do think I arranged for her
to meet Cierdwyn? And foot the bill!"
"I know." MacLeod's smile was beatific. "Cierdwyn called me when
I didn't show at the church. I just wanted to hear you admit to
having an altruistic moment."
Methos pushed away from the wall. "Oh, grow up," he muttered and
stalked down the hall to Robert's study.
Without bothering to turn on the lights, Methos flung himself
down on a big leather couch and stared out the large bay window
that overlooked the lake. It was quiet in here, and peaceful.
Maybe he should take Jack up on that offer to go fishing after
all. He wasn't much for fishing, but a little reading retreat
might be nice. Things had definitely been uncomfortable with the
others since they'd all got back. This latest run in with MacLeod
only one of many painful examples. His friends might know
intellectually what Captain Pierson had been about, but that
didn't stop them from despising him for playing the tyrant -- and
reminding Methos, however obliquely of that fact. At least Jack
wouldn't pick at the scab covering his too raw emotions.
And there was that other little problem he had now. O'Neill's
immortality. God, the idea made him shake every time he thought
about it.
A soft knock at the door distracted him and Methos tiredly
sighed. "Yes?" he called out.
"I was looking for you," Cassandra said quietly as she came in
and gently closed the door. She leaned back against it for a long
moment then moved to stand by the window -- a study in shadow and
moonlight.
The sight of her was disturbing and Methos looked away. She'd
chosen to wear a simple, floor length white dress, cinched at the
waist and heavily embroidered in gold thread at the wrists and
neck. It was too evocative of the dress he'd had made for her and
the golden baubles he'd tossed her way after one particularly
vicious raid. He wondered vaguely if she was even aware of it,
but the thought faded as he realized it wasn't his place to say.
"You have not told Colonel O'Neill what he is," she stated
simply.
Methos shook his head. "I'm thinking it's a bad idea, actually."
She turned her gaze on him and smiled. "I agree."
"You do?" Methos' eyes went wide.
Cassandra nodded. "He isn't part of the Game. He's... I don't
know what he is, but if he doesn't need to prepare for Challenge
then he should be left to find his own way."
Methos smiled wryly. "He's an Ancient. Or will be, one day." She
gave him an incredulous stare. "One of Father's little jokes on
me, I suppose you could call it," he explained. "I can't really
tell you about it, but I went back and checked the mission
reports. Apparently, Tok'ra 'slimed' Jack on his way out. At
least, that's how O'Neill described it. Carter reported the
Quickening passed right through him. I'm guessing Tok'ra altered
O'Neill's genetic code in the same way the Ancients originally
altered theirs -- back when they were just plain old human."
"But why?" Cassandra asked, horrified. "To give him such pain...
The burden of eternity."
Methos shook his head. "Tok'ra wouldn't have seen it that way. He
asked O'Neill to look after me and Jack agreed."
Her brows rose in consternation. "You are the last man who needs
looking after. Why would Tok'ra think you did?"
Methos shifted uncomfortably. "He was nearly half a million years
old when he died, Cassandra. In his mind, I'm still just a kid."
She burst out laughing and Methos grimaced. "Told you so. It was
his little joke. O'Neill looks after me while I get to look after
him -- for eternity."
"And neither of you ever needs to be lonely," she added softly.
"Eternal friendship, Methos. There's a great deal to be said for
it."
"Whatever," he muttered. "But I don't want to tell him. Not just
yet, anyway. Like you said, he doesn't need to know in order to
live. And knowing will change him profoundly. I know Jack. He'd
start taking risks he normally wouldn't in order to protect his
people. Risks that might get others inadvertently killed or
injured because he stopped thinking conservatively. He'd never
forgive himself if that happened."
"My thoughts exactly," Cassandra nodded. "He's a good and caring
man, Colonel O'Neill. The knowledge would be...distracting."
They lapsed into a comfortable silence, neither wanting to break
the almost magical peace they'd found between them. Finally,
Cassandra sighed. They both knew there had to be an end to this.
"Why were you kind to me, Methos? Do you know how much damage
that did?"
Methos closed his eyes and bit his lip. He'd been wondering how
long it would take for her to get to this. "I know now," he
answered softly. "But then..." he shook his head. "It was because
you were kind to me."
"When?" she demanded.
Methos smiled to remember it. "You made me ink when I was running
out. And not the cheap runny stuff I'd bought from some Assyrian
traders. But good ink. A thousand years later when I recopied
that journal it still hadn't faded. You didn't need to do that.
And I would never have known to ask it of you."
Cassandra shook her head, laughing softly at the irony. "I
spilled the last of your ink and knew you'd kill me. That's why I
made it. And better than what you'd had so you wouldn't even
think to look for the other."
"Oh." Methos felt a pain in his chest where that hadn't been one
before and wondered at the many ways a man could delude himself.
"But you did take that pile of loot I'd collected and made a
barren field tent into a home. It was lovely and restful. Even
Caspian was envious of me."
"I had to sleep on that pile, remember?" Cassandra snorted. "What
a load of junk you had in there. I got tired of having pot
handles and lamp stands poking me. Spread out, I could sleep on
the carpets."
The knife went in just a little further, but Methos took a deep
breath, leaned forward and tried again. "No matter what I said to
Kronos, you did bring me the best food in camp." Then he smiled
ruefully and shook his head. "Because you had to eat it too,
didn't you?"
A small, sad smile played at Cassandra's lips. "Had it been so
long since anyone at all had been kind to you that you mistook
simple slaves' tricks for genuine feelings?"
"Apparently," Methos whispered, his throat closing painfully.
Cassandra took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Moving from
her place at the window she went to stand before him.
"I know now that you never meant to confuse me," she nodded. "And
I can see for myself that you have changed. You are not the man
you were. Yet, I can never forget what you did, Methos. Nor," she
added with finality, "can we ever be friends. But," she went on,
laying a hand atop Methos' head in an age old gesture as he bowed
his neck. "I do forgive you," she whispered softly. "Go in peace
and know prosperity, old one."
The floodgates opened and it seemed as if five thousand years of
unshed tears suddenly decided to flow out of him. He barely knew
she'd gone by the time he knelt on the floor exhausted from his
weeping. So much grief, so much happiness. Methos didn't know
which emotion he should be feeling only that he felt them keenly.
He ached where one hope had been abandoned and where another one
might one day take its place. A weight had been lifted and yet he
was loath to part company with it, for it had been with him so
long he could not remember living without it.
Yet still, Methos felt a shifting inside him. As if those
anguished souls which had ridden him for ages had suddenly
departed. He'd accepted his past and put it behind him, true. But
he'd never found it within himself to forgive his actions. But
Cassandra had, and he was somehow the better for it now.
With a sigh, Methos wiped his face dry and got to his feet,
opening the window to get some air. He breathed deeply, trying to
calm his wildly beating heart, until at last the sounds of the
night and the stillness of the lake beyond soothed away the last
of his sobs.