The Elvis Minutes #02: Methos





If it hadn't been for Dawson's part in all of this, I think I could have convinced myself that it'd been a dream. Methos was just a myth. That's what I'd told Joe when he called, asking me to protect some Watcher researcher/Methos expert from Kalas' wrath. I had no trouble in taking the assignment. I'd needed no further incentive to go after Kalas. He was responsible for taking so many people, good people, from me. Brother Timon and Brother Paul. And...and Fitz. Fitz, who would rather buy you an ale instead of fight. Fitz, who had been at my side during some of the best times of my life. I learned to read with Fitz. I laughed with Fitz. I loved with Fitz. At times, I even cried with Fitz, and Kalas--God damn him--had taken his head just to get at me. No, I didn't need to believe in Methos to confront Kalas.

But given I'm standing in Methos' flat, I have to believe, even though it's a little difficult since the flat has been stripped bare, its occupant quite obviously long gone. I, Duncan MacLeod, met a myth, a legend, a fairytale told to new Immortals to give them something to aspire to, and he was nothing like the myth or the legend or the fairytale. He was-- more, much more, although he'd been quick to try to convince me otherwise.

"So have you..." I had artlessly asked.

"Made any sense of it, found any purpose?"

He'd pretended he hadn't, but I don't know if I believed him. He'd tossed the question--and its answer--out so quickly as if to get it out of the way.

"That's what I'd ask if I'd just met me," he'd said in a self- deprecating manner.

That makes me wonder how many times he'd answered the question honestly, and had been "shot" as the messenger. Even in my mere four hundred years, I've noticed people expect certain answers to questions and if they don't get them, they react with anger and sometimes violence.

He told me that he'd been keeping a diary almost since writing began and once again I was struck by his age. Can you imagine all that history? But it wasn't history when he wrote it down. It was the present. It was life. It was death, mayhem, strife, and war after bloody war.... At times my own past is too much for me to bear. Five thousand years of that? I would have begged someone to remove my head long ago.

Maybe if he had come to me from that angle I could have done as he asked. Maybe I could have taken his head. But his clumsy fight.... I knew I was being played by the wet figure I met in the tunnel.

"It's about passion and hate," he'd said. "I don't have the fire. You do. You want Kalas." He'd taken my hand and raised my blade against his neck. "Live, Highlander, grow stronger. Fight another day."

Finally, words of wisdom from the World's Oldest Man--and biggest liar.

It was the Old One's eyes that had given him away. One glance and I'd tumbled headfirst into those multi-hued pools. I'd slipped effortlessly through the gold layer, floundered in the green, and nearly drowned in the fathomless dark depths beyond. Then beams of pure, undistorted light had coalesced around me, and I'd found myself engulfed in a sphere of flawless, faceted crystal which sent out an array of colors so rich that my eyes had teared at the beauty. Then the fragile orb had gently buoyed me to the surface and I'd safely spilled back into myself, utterly changed. Fire? Passion? Both paled into oblivion compared to that which had embraced me in those precious few seconds.

What was that light? What is he?

Where do you come from?
Tell me who you are.
Do you come from another world?
Or from some distant star?

Behead him? And be lost in his overwhelming essence? Ian and Mary MacLeod hadn't raised a fool. No, I'd decided right then and there that I'd do everything in my power to make sure Methos kept his quickening and I kept mine. Later, hopefully, there would be a chance for us to figure out a more appealing way to merge. You see, there's a connection between us, one that had sprung into being at the instant we met...and one that is growing stronger although we are apart. If only we could have explored that feeling in depth before he fled. But there was no way we could take such a risk. Not with Kalas after both of us.

Kalas. The real reason why Methos had wanted me to take his head. He thought I couldn't defeat Kalas. Was it the connection that made him worry so about me? Or was there something else going on? Damn, I wish he hadn't disappeared on me. There are so many questions, so much I don't know about him, so much I want to know about him....

Tell me more about yourself.
Do you feel the way I feel?
Are you just a vision?
Or are you really real?

He'd broken up my fight with Kalas, interfered with the Game without an ounce of remorse by calling in the police to cart Kalas off for the murder of the Watcher, Don Salzer.

"Why?" I'd demanded afterwards, frustration and adrenalin making me sound more harsh than I'd intended.

"Because I didn't know if you could beat him. It was a chance I couldn't take. Remember, Highlander, live, grow stronger, fight another day."

He'd left me then. And as I look around this empty apartment I know I should feel angry and hurt that he's not here. But that connection we shared still exists. I'll meet Methos again one day. My heart assures me of that.

It's funny, you know. My parents were Catholic and my da would have beaten me black and blue for feeling the things I'm feeling for Methos. But my ma, I think she would have understood.

"Take care wi' what ye harm or shun, Duncan," Mary had warned me, "for th' angels walk among us in many forms."

Oh, Ma, how right you were.

Where do you come from?
Angel, won't you say?
Tell me all that there is to know,
And tell me that you'll stay.

Where Do You Come From? ~ words & music by Ruth Batchelor - Bob Roberts

Continues in Elvis Minutes #03: Angel