by Anne Olsen
Warning/Rating: Angst, Character death, spoilers for season four if by any chance you haven't seen it yet. Methos POV. PG13
Disclaimer: Highlander is the property of Panzer/Davis, Rysher/ Gaumount Televison.
Summary: Methos regrets his loss.
Thanks to: the beta team - Bast, Hex, haraamis and Gina.
Comments to: anneo @ paradise.net.nz
Time always reveals
The lonely heart of morning
The wound that would not heal
It's the bitter taste of losing everything
That I have held so close
~ "Fallen" – Sarah McLachlan
I sink to my knees, dropping the flowers that I've brought on your grave. I whisper your name, wishing I could hear you speak mine just one last time.
I wanted the name on your lips to be mine, not his. Adam Pierson isn't me; he doesn't carry the pain of centuries of loss and regret.
I was going to tell you in those last few moments that we had together, but you died in my arms before I could share with you who I truly am. What I am.
Yes, I was Death once - Death on a horse. People feared me, feared all of us, and quite rightly so. We were the four horsemen of the Apocalypse. We were the stories told to children to scare them.
I'm not sure if /my/ nightmares exist because of what we did, or because I was so damn good at it.
Tracing the blurring words on your headstone, I manage a weak laugh. "See how the mighty have fallen."
But I wanted to fall. There's only so much raping and pillaging that one can take before it starts to eat away at your soul and dulls your responses to everything else.
It's ironic really. I /was/ Death, and yet I have no control over it. I cling to life – hell, I'm rather attached to it after five thousand years – but I have to keep watching those who I care about die. Time after bloody time.
You'd think that after so many years, I'd be used to it, but the feeling never goes away. Each loss brings with it the determination that I won't allow myself to get close to someone again.
The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Maybe, so is the road to love.
Your smile awakened something in me that I'd long thought dead. Something that I'd tried, and at which I had failed miserably. I didn't want to care. I couldn't afford to care. I hurt too much.
I'm not a boy scout – and yet, I find myself coming back time and again to guide these children, to protect them from their own human failings.
Failings that I still possess, however much I try to convince myself otherwise.
You saw through my shield of sarcasm and dry wit, but then, I never felt the need to use it between us.
With you I could be myself. You might have thought of me as Adam, but you spent those months with Methos. With me; the real me – I had no need to fear attack or to defend.
There's a subtle difference between the two; after all, attack is always the best form of defence. And God knows that I've had to defend myself often enough. I'm good at that too, when I have to be. The fact that I don't like to fight, doesn't mean I don't play to win.
I don't like losing. I never have. It hurts like hell.
"Methos," the wind whispers to me, the wind running its fingers through my hair.
Maybe you did hear me, or maybe it's wistful thinking.
I'll miss you, my love.