June 1999
Friends and list sibs,
Some time ago, I started this crossover with the high hopes of creating this whole new alternate universe where mortals and immortals played around on Earth circa A.C. 195
That was before certain things came to the fore. Now I find myself with so little time for writing projects that I no longer write and post on a regular basis. Add to that, certain events that had to do with the merging of GW and Highlander fanfiction and added responsibilities at work, and I was unpleasantly put off writing for a while, choosing instead to lurk and read, and immerse myself in a totally new fandom (SENTINEL! YESSSS!).
So it took me forever to post the end to this particular little snippet. To those who wrote me, asking and wondering, thank you for your continued interest and support. You are the ones that made the completion of this fic possible. If it were up to me, it'd be vegetating in my hard drive together with my GW-Rapunzel fic.
Also, I just realized that the title to this fic is already in use for a brilliant Highlander fanfic series, so I will be changing the title. If anyone has any ideas for a suitable one, I'm open to suggestions.
Finally, I would like to request that death threats, comments and feedback, if any, be sent to me off-list. I have been trying to unsub from GW-Soc since forever, but I don't seem to be succeeding.( Help?) But since there is no overt yaoi in this fic, this seems to be the more appropriate ml to post to, instead of the gwyaoiml. As usual, standard disclaimers (for what they're worth) apply, and if you're asking why this pre-fic message is so long, it's to give those who haven't read the previous parts a chance to change their minds ^_^ Do you *really* want to read this ending without knowing the beginning? And to the others who have, do you *really* want to know what happens next? *evil grin*
To anyone who would like to read the whole fic in its entirety, feel free to ask. I won't re-post it to the ml as the file's too big, and I'm not going to break it up into parts anymore, so it'll be in one e-mail. Make sure your program can accept mails in excess of 20K.
So okay, I guess that's it. Enjoy, or otherwise ^_^ Pick your poison.
[From the last installment...]
Smiling, Methos reached out, ruffling Duo's hair affectionately.
"Aww man," Duo groaned, batting the older man's hand away, "not the hair. Don't mess with the hair."
Methos laughed, and tugged at Duo's hair lightly. And promptly fell silent when he felt the boy's hair *give*. "What the hell?" Methos pulled carefully, ignoring Duo's protests. Until the sight of the long braid brought a smile once more to his lips. "Now why would you want to hide this?"
Duo just frowned back at him, snatching the braided hank of hair away from him and stuffing it once more under his collar. "None of your business," he mumbled gruffly.
"Okay, okay," Methos chuckled, hands up in a gesture of mock surrender. Oh yes, this boy probably held as many secrets as he did. It would be interesting to find out just what -
"Shit!"
It had started as a soft caress, but now that he was no longer occupied with the boy, that soft caress had developed into a full-blown punch. It was a buzzing that was strong and unmistakable. A sonorous grating on his consciousness that gained clarity with each passing millisecond.
"Get down!" Methos grabbed at Duo's shirt, pulling the boy away from the lurching figure that suddenly swept down with powerful arms that ended in blood-tinged spikes of certain death.
[And now for the end.....]
The snarl erupting from the staggering blonde immortal rivalled any wild animal's and the hatred in his eyes burned like lava never could. No words came from his lips, thin pieces of flesh stretched taut across clenched teeth. No audible word, that is. But Methos could read the soundless exclamation as clearly as though it had been shouted, could fathom the screaming threat that dripped in the strings of saliva that bridged the blonde's open jaws. He had made a mistake in indulging a young boy's sentimentality, a pseudo-innocent's sense of honour. He had made the mistake of ignoring a threat that had hounded him for more years than he'd cared to count.
It was a mistake he would atone for quickly.
Methos' fingers curled strongly around the smooth cotton of Duo's shirt, pulling the boy away and back in one swift motion. He ignored the surprised grunt and the wide eyes, flinging the smaller body to the ground behind him. This was not the boy's fight, and he would not have the boy caught in the middle of a situation he would not understand. But as the boy fell and as his own hand curled around the handle of his sword, Methos realised that his enemy's arms were no longer raised in attack, and that the bloody face no longer looked down upon him. The thin lips no longer grimaced with rage but instead sneered with satisfaction. And anticipation.
And the silent patter of blood falling against the concrete floor screamed into his ears, drawing his eyes to the fat, red drops that seemed to fall in slow motion, spreading in petal-like whorls upon contact with the concrete, his shoes, his hand.
And the blood was warm. And the blood was mortal.
Duo flinched as he hit the ground, the ungiving concrete slamming into him as he landed in a boneless sprawl, wondering why he was on the ground instead of standing on his feet. But even as that thought flashed through his mind, his limbs were filled with a lethargy he could not understand and suddenly the ground felt cool to his warm skin. The floor was steady as the world weaved drunkenly before his eyes, and the only way it would stop moving was if he concentrated on that ragged crack that ran across the wall in front of him. Only then would his surroundings stop its lurching so that he could keep the contents of his stomach from crawling up his throat to see the world.
Through the fuzzy haze that had crept unnoticed before his eyes, Duo realised that the world around him was silent save for the sound of ragged breathing. Belatedly he mused, wondering if he was listening to himself, and if he was, then why was he having such difficulty breathing, anyway? Because he shouldn't, should he? After all, he was just lying there, enjoying the cooling floor and trying to ignore the way the warmth in his body seemed to leach into the stone beneath him. He wasn't exerting himself, wasn't moving and yet he felt so very tired, and there was a cold wind blowing across his back and his head felt heavy and his head felt light and he was a mass of contradictions and he didn't know which way was up or down and he didn't particularly care.
And when the raspy 'NO!' stabbed in his ears, Duo couldn't help but turn toward the sound. But it was so damn hard, because his neck just didn't want to move. But it was Adam's voice and it compelled and commanded, and Duo just didn't feel like disobeying. So he turned away from that boring crack in the wall, and the slight movement of his head sent a blazing fire down his back and arm. And the green-gold eyes he'd glimpsed were blotted out by black spots that crowded his eyesight and the effort became too much so he finally just closed his eyes and let the black spots spread until they covered everything.
"NO!" Methos whirled, gold-flecked eyes searching and finding the fallen body behind him. And his breath froze in his throat.
Duo lay on the floor, half-curled into himself, eyes wide and staring at a spot on a far wall. The braid that hid within his shirt lay across his back, half-unravelled, covering the pure white of his torn shirt in broken strips of mahogany and gold, blending into a hue of such rich chestnut that one might ignore the onslaught of yet another colour vying for dominance -- the blossoming scarlet of blood.
Methos drew in a disbelieving breath, desperately wondering what had gone wrong even as he took in the sight of the unmoving boy bleeding at his feet. And when the boy's violet eyes suddenly shifted its gaze, darting from the wall to his face, Methos felt a rage surge within him, grabbing hold of his arms and lending him strength where once there had been stupor. With an inarticulate cry of anger, Methos whirled, arms flexed and aim sure, gripping the weapon that had been friend and companion over centuries of life and death.
And the man known to Duo Maxwell as Mikhail Krokopovitch never realised that he was dead until he was. And the sneer on his lips remained even as his head thumped upon the cold concrete, frozen forever as the immortal formerly known as Death proved once more why that title was so apt.
Methos dropped to his knees, his sword suddenly heavy in his hands. It clattered upon the concrete when he released his grip, lying cold and motionless as a soft wind filtered through the still air, picking up speed with the seconds until a small gale filled the alley. Methos closed his eyes, shutting away the sight that was already so familiar even though he hadn't seen it for so long. The crackling of electricity filled his ears, drowning out the blustering of the wind as it gained velocity. Krokopovitch's quickening rose from his cooling flesh, arcing into the air as it searched for a new home.
And when it found him, Methos screamed as the age-old pain blended seamlessly with the pleasure, tearing into the very fabric of his being and making itself a part of his own. And as the quickening died down, he sobbed with grief and relief and joy and horror and a mixture of too many emotions to be catalogued. But mainly, he sobbed for life because no matter how many times he'd wanted death, each time he lived, he was glad.
The first breath always felt electric. The way it surged into lungs like the tide during a full moon, warm and eclectic as it pushed its way into lungs still bristling with an energy that was foreign yet familiar. The air rode on atoms so charged that each burst felt like a tiny quickening of its own, and it was always to that feeling that Methos opened his eyes, coupled with the wonder of how another's death could make him feel so very *alive*.
Green-gold eyes took in the carnage; a headless body with blood still trickling in lethargic spurts through slashed vessels, a bodiless head that still seemed to rock with the momentum of its passage as it separated from its stem; the heady smell of death that ebbed with the dying breeze; the ragged sounds of his own breaths. And Methos shut his eyes against the sensory assault, letting the age-old mechanisms he'd had perfected to take away the sorrow and dull the pain.
Wearily, the immortal stood, hand already searching for and finding his fallen sword. The metal still gleamed dangerously, though its shine was dulled by the taint of blood. With a huff of unconcealed disgust, Methos walked toward the fallen corpse and perfunctorily wiped the blade on the coat that had once kept it warm. When he was satisfied that the sword was clean enough, Methos once more secreted the weapon in the hidden harness under his coat, tucking it in with short, concise movements born from centuries of practice.
Only then did he turn, the aquiline features schooled once more into unfeeling stoicism as he gazed upon the body of another victim of the day's foray. One that did not deserve what the fates had handed him, certainly, but one that had accepted it nonetheless.
Methos hesitated momentarily, wondering whether he should just leave the alley with its two new, lifeless additions.
*Who'd return the favour when it's finally your turn, eh?*
The memory of a soft voice, heavy with melancholy, decided for him. And Methos crouched, gently gathering the smaller body into his arms. Letting Duo's head fall slack against his shoulder, the older man rested his chin on the boy's head as he felt for, and found, Duo's knapsack. The slight body felt light in his arms, without that ominous weight one normally associated with the dead, yet the rapidly cooling flesh seemed proof positive. So Methos shrugged, shouldered the boy's bag and walked out of the alley, leaving the faintest of whispers behind.
"I will, Duo. I will."
End Part Eleven
Shirin
Please send comments to: shirini@pc.jaring.my