BREAKING SILENCE: An Elena Duran Story 3/4
by Vi Moreau
vmoreau@directvinternet.com
============================
Southern Russia
Spring 1158
Methos has been watching the boy, Pyotr, for two days now, ever since the
drowning. The storm on the lake had taken Methos and Irina's other two
sons, and had in fact taken Pyotr also, but Pyotr's Immortality had kicked
in. The boy had revived in a strangling, coughing fit after Methos had
dragged him back to shore. The boy is uneducated, unsophisticated,
superstitious, like all the village are -- but he is not stupid. Never
that.
Methos watches the boy lying on his stomach on a fur rug on the cottage
floor, staring at the flames in the fireplace. Unfortunately, Pyotr has
been mentally fragile from the beginning. Emotionally unstable. Afraid of
demons in the dark, and of his own dreams, of monsters in his head.
Eight-year-old Pyotr's avid gaze, watching the agonized writhing of a fox
they had trapped, had nothing to do with the animal's meat or fur. Pyotr
cares only about himself, and Methos finally comes to the conclusion that
his son lies with almost every exhale. Methos and Irina's expostulations
and punishments do not seem to change his actions. And the potential is
there for many worse things.
Methos had hoped that the boy would grow out of it. That being loved by a
mother and father would give him the emotional bedrock he needed. That he
would live and grow stronger. Or perhaps, that the shock of becoming
Immortal might help him see reality as it was. He loves the boy --
("I'm afraid of the monsters, Father." The truth that time.)
("I've never stolen anything, Father." A lie.)
("I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean it. I would never hurt my little brother
on purpose." Another lie.)
("I love you, Mother." The worst lie of all.)
Perhaps because he's a fellow Immortal, or perhaps because of Pyotr's
imperfections, Methos loves the boy with a ferocious protectiveness. But
the boy has gotten worse, not better.
Pyotr walks up behind Methos while Irina is stirring the pot. The one-room
cottage is lit only by the fire, and the smoke further obscures vision, but
Methos can still see her smile at her only surviving son, and her look of
mixed gratitude, guilt, pain and joy breaks Methos' heart. Her smile for
Methos is full of gratitude and promise. But now he can hear the boy's
harsh breathing right in his ear, can smell the odor of eaten fish on
Pyotr's breath. Having Pyotr behind him, especially now, makes Methos
tense, although he doesn't physically show it.
"Why am I different?" Pyotr asks.
"Because you are," Methos says calmly, again, exuding a confidence he
doesn't feel, as he turns to look into Pyotr's eyes. Two days ago those
eyes had been a sunny, relatively cloudless blue. Now they are the grey of
an incoming storm, hard and edgy. Just exactly the color of the sky and the
lake during the storm that overtook them and changed all their lives. The
fear, the uncertainty Methos sees there -- those he can cope with. It's the
lurking panic, deep within, coiled and ready to strike -- except it isn't
simple panic. It's hatred, rage, madness. Methos has seen it before, and
he's depressed beyond words to see it here and now, and worse than ever.
He's afraid that all his hopes for this boy are dashed and all his fears
have come true. He knew if he said nothing, the not-knowing would destroy
the boy. So, because he really had no choice, he had told Pyotr some of
it -- and realized that there are many ways of destroying someone.
Is the boy strong enough? Emotionally? No he is not -- Methos needs to
face this. So does Pyotr. Plus, physically, the boy hadn't been strong
enough to survive drowning. Methos had tried to build him up, with
exercise, running, by working Pyotr and his brothers hard, by giving him
especially the best food available instead of taking it himself as the head
of the house. Pyotr is thin and wiry, but has never been strong, and if
that doesn't change he'll die anyway, very soon, in another and more
permanent way.
To tell, everything, or not to tell? Methos owes Pyotr an explanation, and
yet ... "After we eat, come with me to look at the stars. We'll talk
then," he whispers. Always whispering.
"Talk about what? What's going on, Husband? Is something wrong with
Pyotr?" Irina asks, again, still numb with pain and deep in mourning, and
overprotective of her last surviving child-but knowing something is going
on.
Now Methos looks into Irina's eyes, which must have been that same innocent
blue at one time, but now looked simply faded and worn. The last two days
have taken their toll on her as well -- and she didn't even have the bodies
of her other two sons to bury. They had sunk into the lake without a trace.
Their boat had washed up on the shore the next day. Maybe the two boys'
bodies will be washed up too, somewhere, sometime. Maybe. He fondly
remembers other times when he'd seen her beautiful eyes sparkle with light
and warmth -- all aimed at him. He'll miss that -- but she, too, is
sharp-witted. Damn, why couldn't he fall in love with pretty but stupid
cows? He'd be much better off. Once he's told the boy everything, he'll
eventually have to tell his mother as well.
And after he tells them both about Pyotr, Methos will have to tell them
about himself.
===========================
present time
But Methos couldn't tell Elena any of this. How both Pyotr and Stephen's
incipient immortality and the incipient madness lurked together since their
births, well hidden until one made its appearance. Then the other came
along for the ride, literally rocking the boat, destroying everyone who
loved them.
He couldn't tell Elena any of this. Or maybe ...
Could Methos just tell her: "Elena, Stephen Holz went mad?" Or, "Elena,
Stephen was crazy from the start?" Could he? Even if it were true? And
was it true? Probably.
"Elena," he began. "Irina had blue eyes and a small scar on her lip, and
her hair was the color of soft, ripening wheat. You have a farm -- you know
that color, in the fall, before the snows. She was very wise, for a mortal.
And she loved me -- I guess that made all the difference, to me. She lost
her three sons, all the children she had, all at once. The eldest and the
youngest drowned in the lake, while we were fishing ... I think this is one
reason I've always hated fishing." He paused, took a deep breath,
hesitating. "The middle son, Pyotr, died of ... Immortality."
=============================
Southern Russia
Spring 1158
Methos is bent over the side of the boat, pulling in the net, when he senses
the heaviness in his bones which signals a difference in air pressure. He
looks up and sees the squall in the distance. He's determined it will not
get to them before they make shore.
"Father, the net's too heavy and I'm going to drop it," Ilya chides him.
"You need to keep pulling."
"Pulling, yes," Methos agrees absently. But maybe ... Methos straightens up
and puts his hand to his forehead, blocking the sun to get a better look.
Suddenly he lets go of the rope.
"Father!" Ilya yells.
"Let it go!" Methos commands, making an immediate decision. "We have to get
to shore now, right away."
"But our net, Father -- "
Methos pulls out his knife and cuts the rope, casting the net -- the only
one they have -- adrift. Then he puts his face, angrily, in the oldest
boy's and says, harshly. "We're leaving now, I said."
The boy shrinks back in fear and surprise, and his two younger brothers
freeze where they crouch beneath the flapping sail. But Methos isn't angry
at Ilya. He's angry at himself, because even now he suspects he's too late,
that wind is coming up too soon. Much sooner than he counted on -- an error
in judgement in a place where the penalty for mistakes is death. And as he
calls out orders to furl the sail and get the boat to shore, he can feel the
fear coil inside him. He looks at the approaching squall and at the white
peaks on the water -- white peaks that were not there a moment before. And
Methos knows they're not going to make it to shore.
In the next few minutes, as he barks out orders, he and the three boys work
frantically and hopelessly to keep the small boat afloat. But the white
waves grow even higher, crashing against the side of the craft, finally
tipping it onto its side.
The first one to fall overboard is the youngest, Ivan. He goes under the
surface almost immediately, before Methos can jump in, which he doesn't get
a chance to do, because the small boat is swamped at once, and now they're
all in the water. Methos, Ilya, Ivan. And Pyotr. Ivan is probably almost
doomed; he's not a strong swimmer, and he's only twelve, and the shore is a
long distance away. Ilya is the oldest -- he might make it to the shore, if
he doesn't panic. Which he probably will. Then there's Pyotr. Pyotr is
cold and steady, but probably, Methos has suspected from the beginning --
and he has also suspected this fact has made Methos love him all the more --
not quite sane. This will not help keep him calm, and he will probably not
survive either. He'll probably drown too, even though Methos has taught
them all the rudiments of swimming.
But as he looks around while the water peaks and another wave washes over
his face, he sees Ivan, calling out to his father, coughing as the cold
water washes into his open mouth. Perhaps he can save the boy. Methos
starts toward Ivan. Then he sees Pyotr. Pyotr is going under, and this
close Methos can see the whites of the boy's eyes, the terror there. And
the defeat. Not a good sign for a would-be Immortal. Pyotr *will* drown.
Of course, all Methos has to do is get Pyotr's body to shore. Because even
if Pyotr drowns, he won't drown permanently. But an Immortal at thirteen is
doomed. Methos has run across other children, Immortal before their time,
before they can truly defend themselves. Before they can even learn to run
well. Doomed, every one of them.
Like Pyotr.
Unless he leaves Ivan to drown, hopes Ilya will make it to shore on his own.
And saves Pyotr.
Methos makes his choice. But the sudden storm is violent, ruthless, and
Methos and all three of his sons drown that day.
============================
present time
Methos sat silent now, after telling her his story, yet Elena had said
nothing to this, nothing! Why was he doing this for Elena Duran again?
Telling her something hurtful about himself, and she was just taking it in,
like a very quiet sponge -- except he had no idea if it was helping her or
not, and he didn't want to waste his energy, waste his pain.
"You asked me about Stephen several times," Methos reminded her, with a
twinge of guilt he wouldn't allow to show. "What I thought. And I always
told you he was worrisome, to watch him, to take care. It seems ..."
He hadn't told her enough when she asked him. He had suspected from the
beginning . something about Stephen Holz, something that wasn't right, but
it had been none of his business, and maybe it wouldn't have mattered
anyway. But she had asked for his advice, for his wisdom, and he had held
back. Now, too late, he had to tell her, and he wondered how much would
this hurt her? And is this what he wanted, to shake her up, shock her out
of her stupor? And did he, Methos, really want to be the one to do this?
What if she got really angry? At him? Was he willing to take the risk?
This was, after all, Elena Duran -- and extreme grief, coupled with anger,
could just create the spark that would make her dangerous -- to him. Would
he possibly convince her to get off Holy Ground only to have her come after
him?
He got up and paced to the end of the cell. Three paces over. Three paces
back. He looked down on her. This was her life. Why? "Why are you here,
Elena? Is this helping you? Is it helping anyone? What if everyone who
lost a child went into a convent? They'd surely become overcrowded,
wouldn't they?"
His attempt at levity didn't veer his own mind away from the memories, so he
began again ...
=========================
Southern Russia
Spring 1158
Two days have passed since the drownings when Methos goes out to look at the
star-filled sky with Pyotr, as he had promised, and they talk ... And Pyotr
has the predictable reaction, and Methos closes his eyes, wishing that for
once he'd been wrong.
What do you do when you realize a young Immortal you love is too young, or
too weak, or too -- say it, now -- insane to survive the Game? Or maybe all
of the above? When you realize you can't protect him, you can't save him,
you can't keep him alive -- what do you do with him then?
What you do is wait, and try to talk to the boy when you can, try to make
him understand, and see the lack of understanding in his eyes, and hope
you're wrong. And you don't sleep, because the madness comes to the boy in
the night.
Two days after that, when Methos has decided he needs to tell Irina
everything, he wakes one dark night and grabs at the boy's wrist. It was
the sound of heavy breathing that had given Pyotr away, and the tip of the
knife Pyotr is holding has pierced Methos' tunic, right above his heart.
But the pain in his heart comes from deeper inside, not from the pinprick of
a knife tip.
"I just wanted to know if it was really true, Father," the boy whispers.
Methos can hear the lie, hear Pyotr lick his lips. He can smell the fear
and sweat on the boy. But by the light of the banked fire he can just make
out the two pinpoints of Pyotr's eyes. The fire there burns hotter than any
flame. The boy burns to kill Methos, his own father.
Methos swallows thickly. "You already know it's true, Pyotr," he whispers,
getting up, never releasing Pyotr's wrist, praying not to wake Irina.
Blessedly, she sleeps through this, and in a moment of blind panic he looks
toward her, wondering if she's still alive -- but he'd heard her breathing
just a moment before.
He pushes Pyotr to the other side of their one-room cabin, by the fire, and
the boy doesn't resist. But the fire in Pyotr's eyes still glows.
/Oh, Gods, no./ "Don't you see how this would hurt your mother?"
"So what?" Methos can see reflected in that hot gaze the shine of the knife
blade in Irina's chest. "I don't give a damn about her," Pyotr whispers
harshly, with a venom that goes deep.
"Go to sleep," he tells the boy, knowing he'll have to talk to Pyotr, again,
in the morning.
In the morning, the two go fishing again. Methos brings his sword, and he
knows that Pyotr has brought that knife with him. "What were you really
doing last night?" he asks Pyotr. But Methos already knows the answer.
Pyotr stares at him hard, his blue eyes like flint. "You know," he says.
/Yes, I know./ "Tell me," Methos insists.
"We're special, you and I. We are invincible. We can't be hurt. We are
like God."
"Never!" Methos insists, putting his face into Pyotr's. "Never, ever think
you're a god! That's madness, boy! It's insanity." But why not? When
Methos had ridden with his brothers, the Four Horsemen, for a thousand
years, he had believed himself to be invincible. Unable to be hurt. A god.
And he was a full-grown, sane man. Maybe not sane, he reflects ruefully.
But this is a sick boy. "And your mother -- "
"My mother? She can't possibly be my mother! Not mine! You said so
yourself, we're special, different. Besides, she's just a woman. She's
nothing. She's worse than nothing. Does she even deserve to live? Only
you and I, Father -- "
/No!/ "Listen to me, Pyotr. Listen to me like you've never listened
before. Irina is your mother, and she loves you. And -- listen
carefully -- there is no you and I," Methos says flatly. Uselessly.
Uselessly because in the end the fire in Pyotr's eyes doesn't dim. And if
another Immortal found him ...
Once they are out in the middle of the lake, far out of sight of any other
fishing boat, Methos points, saying to Pyotr, "Look there."
Pyotr turns to look, and Methos hits his son from behind. Methos drapes his
son's body so that the boy's head is over the side of the fishing boat, then
Methos closes his eyes and takes a few breaths, just to get his courage up
and his bile down. Then he pulls his sword out from the bundle in the boat
and swings easily, with lots and lots of practice. The small lightning
storm over the lake almost sinks them this time. Once it's over, he weighs
down the body, and Pyotr joins his brothers at the dark, weedy bottom of the
lake.
When he finally makes it to shore, Methos makes sure the boat is secure,
then takes up his pack, which was also in the bottom of the boat, wrapped in
an old blanket. Giving one last glance in the direction of the cottage that
had been his home for a decade, he turns south and walks away, into the
hills. Eventually, Vassily will share Irina's bed, or perhaps Misha. One
of them will look into the blue eyes of the woman who had suffered so much
and had trusted him so much. And had loved him so much. Perhaps one of
them can give Irina what Methos could never give her -- in fact, what Methos
had taken from her: more sons to replace the three she had lost.
