The cemetery
No time lapse
Amanda led Methos silently, her hand holding his in a strong, reassuring grip. Together they wound their way through the paths of the cemetery at a steady, even pace; neither rushing nor hesitant. Whether or not he wanted to go was immaterial; right now Methos had no choice. Amanda was taking him to see Rebecca. Part of him winced while another part of him smiled. For better or worse, it gave him a sense of being led home.
As they walked… past sculpted angels and cold stone monuments… past simple graves with simple coverings… through row upon row of the silent dead… Methos allowed his mind to wander back to another time and place, and another fateful walk.
The Abbey
Nearly two weeks after the prince awoke
Just after dawn
Rebecca led the way, wearing robes of pale gray embroidered with silver. Parts of her hair were pulled back into braids, and she wore a simple circlet on her brow.
The captain of her guard followed close behind, wearing the colors of the sun and the moon. He had a broadsword at his hip and a shovel slung over one shoulder.
Methos came third, in the closest approximation to the traveling garb he wore when he first arrived. Rebecca had replacements made for him.
Flanking him on either side were Freca and Eorl. Their swords were loose at their hips, but they held no weapons in their hands.
The monk who attended the conference meeting followed next, wearing common monk's robes and carrying a hand-sized bronze crucifix.
Prince Æthelbert brought up the rear. His left arm was in a sling and still of little use to him after all the muscle damage the dagger had wrought. He concealed his pain well, however, and walked unaided.
Amanda walked beside him, on the pretense of ensuring that he didn't stumble. She wore a modest and simple burgundy dress. Her long dark hair was brushed out, but not pulled back.
The seven of them silently picked their way through the lingering mists on this chilly morning. Rebecca had led them out of St. Anne's and away from the grounds. Finally after what seemed an eternity to march in solemn silence, Rebecca stopped. The party found themselves standing atop a gentle hill. St. Anne's could still be seen in the distance behind them, but in the distance ahead, still obscured by fog, was the sea. The air was crisp with the faint scent of salt from what is now called English Channel. Somewhere up in the cloudy sky, a few gulls were calling.
"Does the condemned feel that this location is to his liking?" Rebecca asked Methos, no emotion betrayed in her voice or showing on her face.
"As a place to die?" Methos asked casually. Then he grew somber and his voice quieted. "I only wish the fog would clear so I could see the water."
Rebecca held his gaze a moment in silent understanding before she turned to face the prince. Then, almost as if the scene was rehearsed, Amanda backed away from him and made her way to Rebecca's side. Off to their right and slightly forward of them her head guard stood, his expression blank as he surveyed the scene. To the left, and positioned so that in three groups they formed a semi-circle, the Catholic stood, cross in hand. His expression was resigned.
Methos stood in the center of this formation, and with Freca and Eorl still standing beside him, a pace apart on either side. He had his back immediately to Rebecca because he was facing Æthelbert, who pulled the half circle down into a teardrop that left Methos and the guards standing at an awkward center.
"Adræfan Eofrea," the prince began, his tone formal. "Lord of Horses you were for my father the king, and Lord of Horses you shall remain. I return your title to you, with all the rights and privileges contained therein. When you die this day, it shall be with the dignity you have proven and the honor you have earned."
Methos demurred, his head bowing low. "Thank you, my prince."
Æthelbert continued, "when I look into your eyes, I see only a man driven by the strength of his convictions. There is no cowardice that I can see, nor is there shame. If indeed you are the traitor the Crowned Prince has found you to be, then I judge it to be the same level of treachery found in all revolutionaries. Alas that both are dangerous to the survival of the monarchy." The prince paused to let his speech finish echoing in everyone's ears. Then it seemed that his formality developed an edge to it, as though a protective shield of enforced neutrality was erected to cover an immense sadness.
"You have been sentenced to die for your crimes, Adræfan Lord of Horses, and on this morning you shall meet your fate. Is your soul prepared?"
"As much as it can be, to be forcibly separated from the body," Methos replied with the same casualty he used when first addressing Rebecca.
Æthelbert nodded. "Then as a prisoner of the Crown, now according to our laws, I will entertain your final requests. Speak them now, or hold your peace."
"Well since a request to spare my life will go unanswered…" Methos started with forced humor, though it quickly cooled. "I would ask that the Lady Rebecca keep memoriam of my death, as according to our family's custom."
Æthelbert looked from Methos to Rebecca.
"It will be done," she replied, her voice hoarse and thick with repressed emotion.
Methos bowed his head again, both thankful and accepting.
"Adræfan Eofrea, I must now carry out your sentence. Have you any final words before your execution?"
"Just this, my prince," Methos said, his voice surprisingly neutral. Then he flashed Æthelbert a blinding grin, warm and wet as tears. "Remember to keep your left arm steady."
Æthelbert's breath hitched and he bit down on his lip. This silenced everyone else's looks of confusion.
"My brother's valet was to be your executioner," the prince continued, his voice strained now instead of level. "Unfortunately it seems as though fate had other plans. The head of the Abbey's guard has volunteered to take his place." Æthelbert paused as the captain stepped forward, but then he spoke again, voicing the words as another man might take a knife to his own flesh. "Know, Adræfan, that I would have done it, had you asked. If I had strength enough in my arm not—" and there his throat clicked around a painful swallow— "Not dishonor you, by failing to cut cleanly. Oh my honor, Adræfan."
Stunned, Methos could not form an answer in words. Instead he managed to let his carefully constructed walls crumble just a little, to let the boy Æthelbert had been see just a little of the man that Methos was. And there was gratitude in that look, surely, coupled with commissioned respect. And—to Æthelbert more precious than gold—a mentor's esteem.
"On your knees," the captain directed as soon as the moment had passed.
Methos obliged him, his expression falling stoic once again even as he kept his gaze fixed on Prince Æthelbert, who bravely withstood the eye contact. Then the monk began to speak in Latin, the usual platitudes, blessings, and prayers for one about to be executed. Methos ignored him, and let his thoughts stray down the darkened alleys of his mind that he hadn't visited in time innumerable. And he almost smiled, if only for the prince's sake. And for Rebecca's.
The captain took up his position behind Methos. The immortal didn't bow his head, as per custom for beheadings. No, if the captain wanted his head so badly, he would have to hack it off the hard way. Methos wanted to keep his gaze fixed upon Æthelbert.
"When the time comes… don't look down."
"What?"
"Don't bow before your executioner."
"Why not?"
"I want the last thing you see when you leave this world… to be a friend."
Methos was determined to oblige him.
The monk finished his spiel.
Methos locked eyes with Æthelbert's.
Amanda stood tense beside Rebecca and slightly behind so that when the quickening roared through the glade it would go to her teacher. However the hell her teacher was going to explain the light show… Amanda wasn't currently able to think that far ahead.
Freca and Eorl backed away, out of splatter range.
Then Methos heard the unmistakable sound of a sword unsheathing his Methos's back. He held his breath.
Time seemed to slow down.
A gentle breeze blew around them.
A gull called out from somewhere unseen.
Methos felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end as his body sensed the swing of the blade.
Then a sudden, searing pain, and Methos's eyes show wide. For all he had been determined not to break that eye contact, he couldn't help but look down…
...To see the tip of the captain's sword protruding four bloodstained inches out of the center of his chest.
Methos looked back up at Æthelbert, startled, confused. The prince's expression hadn't changed, but now his face was wet with tears.
Methos gasped silently as the sword was yanked back through his chest with a faint slurping sound. The rush of air formed a blood bubble that popped wetly inside his mouth, leaving its remnants to dribble down his chin. That slight tickle was the last thing the immortal knew as his world plunged into darkness.
The cemetery
A simple white monument, engraved with plated gold. Elegant, yet modest. Perfectly fitting for Rebecca.
Rebecca
Horne
1959-1994
Methos could only stare.
Time didn't speed up or slow down.
The sun didn't symbolically come out from behind the clouds, nor did it start to rain.
His vision didn't flash or fade.
His senses didn't heighten or fall away.
He wasn't overcome by a sudden rush of emotion.
He didn't cry out or fall to his knees.
Methos simply stood there, gazing down at the simple grave and monument to 'Rebecca Horne.'
The sky was overcast, the air chilly and damp. Just like that long ago morning.
Amanda still held his hand. She squeezed slightly in reassurance.
Methos didn't speak.
He didn't know if he could or not, because he didn't try. Perhaps he couldn't try, but that seemed like over-analyzing, just a bit.
Methos could only stare, and stare he did, in the cold and the damp, in real time, with nothing to add to or detract from the moment—nothing to sharpen reality or rip to him away from it. His eyes fell on the beautiful simplicity of the final resting place of the Blessed Daughter of Mycenae and did not stray.
His mind did not wander.
He didn't dwell on the injustice of having the inscription written with the English alphabet (for Rebecca Horne was English, was she not?). He didn't think to how Rebecca must have not left behind a will, for surely she would not have consented to being planted in the cold ground, buried like something trying to be hidden away—or worse, forgotten. Or had she strayed so far from the early beliefs they both held so dearly to that she did not mind her husband's decision? And even if so, then surely, a Babylonian burial would have been called for, not such a simplistic, Catholic rite, tailored for this modern age of church-going apathetic children of skepticism and technology.
Methos did not think about those things.
Nor did he note the inaccuracy of the inscribed date of birth. He didn't even bother to note the inaccuracy of the name! Such things seemed moot, and immaterial, and not worth the efforts to contemplate.
Methos didn't think at all. He just stood there, in the cold and foggy damp, holding Amanda's hand.
Staring.
Feet firmly planted in reality.
"Is it what you expected?" he heard Amanda ask, breaking the silence that surrounded them.
"I never expected her to die…" Methos answered honestly, emotionless.
"I know what you mean," Amanda sympathized. Her unspoken question lingered in the air.
"Four years…" Methos breathed. "I've lived for over five thousand… this should seem infinitesimal to me."
"But it feels like forever," Amanda finished for him.
Methos nodded. "I've gone centuries without seeing her before…"
"Decades," Amanda offered for herself. "It never seemed so long then. All that time, wasted."
"Immortals are far too careless with time," Methos observed.
"We all think we'll live forever."
Methos snorted a bitter laugh. "We all plan to live forever," he corrected.
Amanda nodded. "Even as we watch our immortal friends die."
Methos was silent at that. He still hadn't taken his eyes from Rebecca's grave.
"Would you rather have been beheaded at the Abbey?" Amanda persisted, reminding him of their earlier discussion left dangling.
Methos steeled himself for what was inevitably to come. "If it would have meant never having to stand here…"
"You know that's not what I meant."
Methos was silent so long that by the time he spoke, Amanda had all but given up on getting any answers out of him.
"When I revived and discovered my head in tact, everyone had gone except Rebecca's captain. He had disturbed the earth nearby, to make it look as though I'd been buried there. He was waiting patiently for me, sitting on the ground drawing icons in the dirt with the tip of a dagger. When I came to, he pointed me in the direction of the Channel, told me that I would find a small fishing village over there, and that it would be best if I got the hell outta dodge for the next hundred years or so." Methos laughed suddenly. "That was my first clue that he knew anything about immortals. He also made it quite clear that he never wanted to see my face around the Abbey again."
"Did you ever go back?" Amanda asked him. "I mean, I know you never did while I still lived there, but after?"
Methos was silent a moment, his eyes haunted. "The next time I saw St. Anne's it was in ruins, and Rebecca had long since fled."
"And if you had died back then, it would have been for the preservation of the Abbey," Amanda declared with muted triumph. "Instead of having to live in an age without Sanctuaries."
Methos didn't bother to refute the point. "First the Ancient died, then the fall of St. Anne's… and Darius's death, and now? Now..."
"You're the last one left."
Methos turned sharply, ripping his eyes from the grave at last to stare intently at Amanda. Rebecca's last surviving student…
"That's what you're thinking, isn't it?" she asked him, though it was more of a statement than a question.
Methos studied her face. It was blank, neutral, unassuming.
So very much like Rebecca.
"She never told me why I wasn't beheaded…" he said at length, redirecting his gaze back to the grave and changing the subject.
Amanda waved a dismissive hand. "Father Leonard verified that you were dead. Rebecca convinced Prince Æthelbert that you did not deserve the disgrace of having your head severed and then paraded back to Æthelbald on a pike."
Methos laughed despite himself. "She did?"
"It didn't take much convincing."
Silence again. Amanda almost reached for his hand.
Almost.
"I never saw him again."
Amanda bit her lip. Then: "he pardoned you, you know."
"What?"
"When he became king, Æthelbert pardoned you. He said that Æthelbald deserved whatever treason he got."
Methos laughed again, and this time it was a genuine, lighthearted sound. It made Amanda smile to hear it.
"She loved you," Methos said once the laughter had died.
"I wanted her to be proud of me," Amanda countered, soft regret coloring her voice.
"So be someone she would have been proud of," Methos replied in all seriousness. "You still have time."
Amanda didn't reply. She stood staring silently at Rebecca's grave, her expression oddly thoughtful.
"And you got me here," Methos continued around a half-hearted shrug. "She would have been proud of you for that."
Amanda offered up the ghost of a smile. "She loved you too, you know."
"I know," Methos answered. Truly, he had known that ever since the night of the feast.
But as with Amanda, Rebecca's love wasn't what mattered most to him. "But, did she ever forgive me?"
Amanda bit her lip, remembering what it was like when she realized—truly realized—what it was like to be forgiven. Rebecca had taught her that. "I'm sure she did," she answered over the lump in her throat. "Rebecca wasn't the type to carry a grudge."
Methos bit back a bitter smile. "You've never done anything to make her mad enough."
"I wouldn't be so sure of that," Amanda rebuffed, cynically serious.
Methos laughed at her, but not unkindly, and shook his head. "Trust me. I'm sure."
Amanda scowled, but secretly a grin was hidden there. "Why? What did you do that was so terrible?" Who did you kill? she desperately wanted to ask.
I sacked Babylon, Methos desperately wanted to tell her. Maybe then she would understand, and stop trying to debase herself to Rebecca's memory. A carefree thief with a heart of gold was nothing to be ashamed of. Thievery was nothing next to betrayal, and Amanda would die first.
Methos knew that, even if Amanda doubted.
She was better than him.
Surprisingly then Methos reached out, clasped her hand in his again and gave a gentle squeeze before releasing her again. "Tell MacLeod that I said he could tell you," he said at length, and Amanda blinked in surprise.
"And then remember, that's not what Rebecca was holding over me."
Amanda stammered slightly, her mind reeling. "Wait!" she called out as Methos turned to go.
Methos turned back around.
"Where are you going?"
"Home," he replied, evasively candid, but something in the way his eyes lit when he said that made Amanda question the depth of that reply. Where was home? was sitting on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn't bring herself to ask it.
"Can I give you a lift?" she asked instead.
Methos smiled kindly but shook his head. "I think I'd rather walk this time," he replied, lighthearted candor taking any potnential sting out of his words before even as spoke them.
Amanda smiled softly, warmly, back at him. "Take care then."
Methos nodded. "You too, Amanda." And then he turned, and continued walking.
Amanda stood by Rebecca's grave, silently watching him go, until he rounded a bend in the cemetery path and disappeared from view.
Her eyes turned from the emptiness ahead back to the coldness of Rebecca's grave, yet she found that right now that it didn't chill her quite so much.
"Your brother is a good man, Estë of Mycenae." she said to her teacher's grave, smiling softly. "We'll take care of each other. I promise." With that said, Amanda too turned to go. She walked silently away from Rebecca just as the sun began to break through the clouds blanketing the sky.
Amanda casually picked her way back through the cemetery and out of the gates as the sun, now visible below the low cloud cover, began to slowly sink back behind the horizon. The light flashed brilliantly and then began to fade as metropolitan Paris obscured the sunset and cast long shadows that were slowly swallowed whole by the returning overcast of the day.
In the middle of the cemetery parking lot, as the fading light turned the world to ethereal gray, Amanda hugged herself briefly, then dropped her arms.
She smiled.
It was warm.
-fin-