June 1999
Dying hurt. Living hurt. Everything hurt. Whoever decided to create existence messed up when they decided to add immortals to the mix.
Methos groaned. He would have screamed, and cried, and yelled, but all that would have taken too much effort. More than what he could spare. It already took all that he had to actually draw in that first burning breath, filling up newly-healed lungs that quickly abandoned its collapsed state with a joyous flutter, nudging his heart to beat. And beat. And beat.
Once more, Methos lived.
He opened his eyes, feeling the tiny pricklings of his quickening hasten to repair whatever damage that still remained. His muscles ached, and his stomach felt like a herd of elephants had decided to practice the samba on it. But, as he drew in another long breath, he was alive. It hurt, but he was alive. And the air that flowed into his lungs tasted sweet. Methos blinked, wondering why he felt something was amiss.
Oh yeah.
He scrambled into a sitting position, slightly panicked at the feel of empty, weaponless hands. He was dead, and Mikhail was going to make it a permanent condition. Should have made it a permanent condition. So why wasn't he dead? His hands flew to his head. Yes, it was still there. Strongly anchored to the rest of his body even. But...
The sight of the sprawled, unliving body of his opponent answered his unvoiced questions. Methos groaned, loudly, not caring if anyone heard him.
"How the hell did this happen?" he asked, thinking aloud.
A soft whimper drew his attention away from the lifeless body, and he pulled himself quickly into an alert crouch, ready to spring into whatever action was necessary should it become necessary.
The sight of a pair of wide, terrified violet eyes answered his other question.
End Part Eight
Shirin
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