Four stories about Methos

The tall dark-haired man came out of the bar in a quiet Parisian street, and gently shut the door after him. He stood there for a while, wondering what to do next and then finally made a decision, quickly walked away. He went along the accustomed road and did not recognize it, peered at the faces of passersby and saw the otherworldly creatures. Even the usual sounds of the awakening city were strange. He was incredibly, impossibly lucky. And although he didn't regard himself being the One as luck, he'd finally got what he wanted – the opportunity to live. The luck was that none of his opponents had been even distantly familiar. He did not have to lay the final blow, looking into the eyes of a friend or a lover, and it made him… uninvolved. Almost uninvolved in the madness that engulfed the world during the last month, when all personal relationships went down the drain, drowned in the Thirst without a trace. Well, quite naturally the Game was won by a person who'd managed to maintain his head on his shoulders longer than the others, literally and figuratively. And those who were gone forever would return. But in dreams, not in nightmares. The man came to the quay, looked around to make sure that no one saw him, and reached under his jacket. On view came a long broad sword with a golden handle. The sun, dancing on the blade made the man squeeze his eyes shut. Without opening his eyes he stretched out his open hands and the ancient weapon hang over the slowly rolling waves of the Seine. He stood there for several minutes, feeling his muscles grew numb, but did not dare to let the sword fall into the welcoming arms of the river. The days merged into a year, years into centuries, he continued to glide through the life, as always, with his eyes wide open, soaking up time like a sponge, leaving his regrets behind him, without looking back, without halting. He was lucky − good friends, faithful women − he convinced himself that he was happy and he really believed in it. Every ten or fifteen years he had to change everything radically − his identity, city, loved ones – but he broke up easily, without curses and tears, without bitterness. Nobody knew who he really was ... For the first time it happened after four hundred years. The dreams came. Dreams about the past. About the time when he had to look over his shoulder, when the desire to survive at any cost blinded his mind, forcing him to refuse even the everyday joys. But the dreams were serene as if everything bad was gone, burnt in the fire of the Gathering, together with the man he used to be. Suddenly he noticed that every time he came to a new city, he tried to seek out the familiar faces in the crowd. The faces of people gone long long ago but who'd left a trace in his life, one way or another. The dreams became brighter over the time, the images clearer, until one morning he realized that that illusory world had become much more real for him than the slowly greying reality. He would prefer nightmares. He was reading the same chapter for the couple of hours, but could not understand a word from it. It was the only library in Europe, which contained the real books. A week ago the last of his kind returned to Paris. The city he didn't visit from that memorable night when the world of the Immortals sank into oblivion forever. He came to the library not to read but to breathe in the familiar dusty air, saturated with the smell of paper glue and old newspapers. He raised his eyes from the page and scanned the hall. Only the experts in the antiquities, students and historians who wished to look at the archaic media came here now. Most of the time the library was empty. He was a little surprised to discover that the librarian was a young woman, pretty and polite, who'd wasted an hour without a peep trying to find him a rare folio. He sighed and closed the book feeling a bit guilty for making the girl search for a thing he'd never really needed. Oh, time. He had so much of this stuff. So much that he never noticed when it'd turned from the finest ether into a muddy pudding, where it was difficult to breathe and almost impossible to move. When did it happen? Why did he forget how it felt to be amused? When did he begin to roll back instead of moving forward, letting the ghosts of the past to dwell in his house? What had he won if his so desired life ceased to be a prize and slowly became a punishment, threatening him with an absolute loneliness? The woman's voice made him jump. He barely understood the question, 'Do you need anything else?' No, no. Mumbling apologies for the inconvenience he almost ran out of the doors with the intention never to return. But he returned. And not because of books. He could not coherently explain why that young librarian had attracted him so much but a month later he was seriously considering the idea of making her his wife number … well, it does not matter. He even decided to legalize the relations for he's already forgotten the last time he did so. But a happy family life threatened to be rather short due to the fact that she had a child. Children were usually much keener than the adults so the unnecessary questions could have begun pretty soon. It meant that he would be forced to disappear again one day, but this time the process promised to be more painful for he was really very fond of that girl. Approaching the house of his fiancée, where he'd been finally invited to get acquainted with her daughter the immortal felt a strange nervousness. Even sitting in waiting on the soft couch with a glass of wine in his hand he continued to feel ill at ease, truly hating such 'bride-shows'. But the next moment he forgot about everything. The sound of the breaking glass and the excited voice asking him if he were ok were suddenly swallowed up by a clear, high pitched sound, he's never expected to hear again. His vision blurred. He could see clearly only the child's face. The girl undoubtedly had no idea about the causes of his strange behavior but was quite amused with the impression she'd made on a big man. Pre-immortal. The child came closer. Blue eyes round as saucers looked at him with curiosity and trust. 'What's your name?' He answered without realizing what he was saying. 'Methos'. He came up with the stupid excuses and fled. His hands were shaking so hard it was a miracle he managed to get home without an accident. The first thing he did after locking the door and closing the shutters - he got a weapon. In order to find his old sword he had to search through the pantry full of stuff, he'd been collecting all these centuries. Few test motions told him that he wasn't even rusty, he was as good as dead. Half a millennium without a practice. Without any practice. What was he thinking about? What was he thinking today revealing his true name to a mortal and a potential adversary? He realized the woman had concealed the fact that the child was adopted. Only one pre-immortal, but there will be others. He could already imagine the mad crowds creeping through the windows and doors like cockroaches, sweeping all before them in a maniacal desire to take the head of the Oldest. And he dared to lament his fate. The night passed in training. In the morning, bone tired he sat on the bed for a short break, and … was woken by a sunbeam, falling on his face through the gap in the blinds. He stumbled to the kitchen and poured himself a glass of vodka from the bottle he'd forgotten on the table the day before. The warm bitterness burnt his larynx; alcohol almost instantly went to his head. He filled up the second glass, and was going to drink it, but suddenly froze, struck by a sudden thought. They don't know… They can't know. He is the last one for whom the words 'There will be only one' make any sense. For those who comes these words will mean nothing. So let them stay in blissful ignorance. He was wrong thinking that the permission to live which had been issued to him five centuries ago was that notorious Prize every immortal had craved to gain in the end of the Gathering. But who said the Gathering was over? It will end only when the last enemy is defeated. And this enemy is not another immortal, but ... time. The same damn Time. And it means that he won for real only now after almost giving up in the middle of the fight. And the Prize is waiting for him. The real one. An opportunity. To make. His own rules. ... He stretched out his open hands, and the ancient weapon hang over the slowly rolling waves of the River Seine. He stood for several minutes, feeling his muscles grew numb and lowered his hands. Rolling over in the air, the sword fell into the bright blue water and disappeared in the deep without leaving a ripple.