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The Peacemaker by Jennifer Campbell Methos, MacLeod, Darius, Don Salzer and James Horton don't belong to me. I promise to return them no worse for wear when I'm done. I make no money off this, unfortunately. This is the second story in the "Overtures" cycle, following The Greatest Game. You might understand the background of this story better if you read it first, but this story stands on its own. Warning: I messed a lot with Darius' timeline. If that bugs you, stop now. =============================== Israel, AD 66 The war was over, but the healing had not yet begun. Not the mending of the body -- attempts at that type of healing might kill as easily as save in this era -- but the slower, more painful mending of the soul, and of a homeland ravaged by merciless conquerers. Mikalos surveyed the carnage of the latest battle -- the last battle, he reminded himself -- with a mental shield barring access to his emotions. To let himself feel guilt about his role in the slaughter would invite in madness with open arms. Most of the corpses bleeding into the Jewish homeland were the Jews themselves; they were fools who dared to challenge the supremacy of Roman rule. Emperor Titus had ordered their rebellion ended, and so the Romans had delivered, under the leadership of General Darius. Mikalos turned his gaze from the battlefield and began searching the nearby hills for the man he had called friend long before Romans had come to this land. Darius' military genius once again had won the day, and he deserved at least a sincere congratulations. Mikalos located his target standing alone on a hill behind him, facing the new graveyard. Mikalos sheathed his sword and approached his friend. "Well done, Darius," he said, once by his friend's side. "The Roman captains were fools for doubting your ability. The Jews will remember this defeat and not think of rebellion for, perhaps, several hundred years. Maybe you'll have the chance to fight them again someday." "Never again," Darius whispered. Mikalos studied the general's face, and his satisfaction quickly became worry. Darius was pale, his eyes dark with fatigue. He leaned on his sword as a crutch and refused to take his eyes from the carnage. "What do you mean?" Mikalos asked. "Never again, Methos. Never again will I lead men to battle." "Why do you say that? You are the greatest general Rome has ever known. It is thanks to you that Titus rules over half the known world." "I am the greatest butcher Rome has ever known," Darius retorted, his voice harsh with anger. "These people only wanted the freedom to worship their own god and not our cruel, inhuman monsters. And they died for their god. It was all so pointless." He paused. "Do you see all the bodies on that field, Methos? This morning, they were living, breathing creatures, full of dreams and goals and faith. Now they are all dead ... because of me. I can't take anymore blood on my hands." He threw his sword to the ground. "I will not fight again." Darius walked away, leaving his blood-covered sword in the dirt, and Mikalos did nothing to stop him. He had seen this so many times before. An immortal lives for centuries with death, and the weight becomes too much to bear. He runs from the pain, sick at his own deeds, never again to regain his warrior soul. Mikalos had one word for such an immortal: broken. After 3,000 years, Mikalos himself had yet to surrender to peace. Still, he was not completely without compassion. Part of him felt distain and bloodlust push against his mental shield, begging him to release Darius from his guilt and humiliation with one swing of the sword, but the more sane side of him won out. He knew that he and Darius had been friends for too long to part now. Whatever crisis Darius underwent, Mikalos would remain at his side. So Mikalos, sometimes known as Methos the immortal, wiped the blood from Darius' sword with his own sleeve and followed behind his friend. The sword he would keep safe until its owner needed it once again. Darius could not, after all, stay out of the Game forever. =============================== From Methos' journal: May 1992 =============================== The sensation came as Methos lifted the tea cup for his first sip. It wrapped around him, invaded his body and set every nerve tingling. He briefly closed his eyes, examining the immortal's particular feeling, and started to swear when he recognized the mark of Duncan MacLeod. "Damn it to hell," he muttered. "Damn bloody Scot." He felt gentle hands take the tea cup from him. Darius shot him a scolding look as he set the cup on the table. "Kindly remember, Methos, that you are in a church." "Sorry, Darius, but if MacLeod interrupts us one more time, I think I'll be forced to take his head." "Not in here, you won't. Besides, he's better than you." This time, Methos glared at Darius, but he had no time to reply. He slipped out of the office through a back door into a hallway behind the main part of the church. This happened so often nowadays that Methos wondered whether visiting Darius justified the risk. But the priest had a calming influence over the more volatile immortal, allowing Methos to drop his masks and just be for a short while. It was a beautiful feeling to know Darius expected nothing of him save his company, and it kept Methos coming back for more. Such a gift was worth any risk, he decided. Methos strained to hear the conversation within the office, but the voices were muffled behind the door. He finally gave up and leaned casually against the wall, waiting for MacLeod to leave. After a few more minutes, the voices quieted and Darius opened the door, beckoning Methos to rejoin him. "That was quick," Methos said, returning to his chair. Darius nodded. "Someday, you will face a situation where you cannot run from MacLeod, and then you have no choice but to meet him." Darius' voice sounded strained, setting off a warning in Methos' head. He looked sharply at the priest, who moved with a bit more stiffness than before. His eyes seemed more wild. The tell-tale signs were slight, but after 2,000 years of friendship, Methos knew all the signals. Something in the conversation with MacLeod had worried Darius more than a little. "All right, Darius, tell me what's wrong," he said, not even bothering to subtly direct the conversation. Both he and Darius were too old to use such games with each other. Darius pursed his lips, showing his slight annoyance. "I forget that it's impossible to hide anything from you." He sighed. "Have you ever heard of a watcher named James Horton?" James Horton was a fanatical crazyman who believed all immortals were evil. What's worse, Methos thought, Horton tended to attract followers as misguided as himself. Adam Pierson had been quietly pushing for Horton's expulsion from the Watchers for several years, but no one listened seriously to a young researcher. So far, all Horton had done was preach -- at least to Methos' knowledge -- but the oldest immortal dreaded the day when the renegade would take his teachings to the next level. Hearing the name on Darius' lips made him wonder whether that day had come. "What do you know of Horton?" Methos asked. "I've heard through sources that he knows I have one of the chronicles," Darius answered, his voice surprisingly calm. "He'll be coming for me soon, I think." This was the last thing Methos expected to hear. He thought, perhaps, Horton had killed one of Darius' students or was threatening MacLeod, but not this. If Horton came for the priest, Methos knew Darius had no means to defend himself. He would die. OK, old man, time for some fast talking. He pulled the sword from under his coat and set it on the table between them. Darius shook his head. "Please, Darius, take it. I carry a second blade, if that's what you're worried about." "No. Methos, do you remember the oath I made when I became a priest? I gave my life to God, and if He wants to take my life, I give it to Him willingly." Methos sputtered. "But, Darius -- This is crazy! We're not talking about religion, we're talking about your life. We're talking about losing your life." The resolution in Darius' eyes did not falter. "Look, Darius, I can remember dozens of religions since I was born. People need to know that when they die, that's not the end of their existence. So in every era, there's a new set of gods with a new set of rules, and people fall down on their knees and worship. But we don't. We know that a thousand years from now, their gods will fade into myth -- bedtime stories for children. The same will happen with the Christian god, and a thousand years from now, you will have died for a forgotten deity." Darius, who already knew of Methos' attitude toward religion, simply shook his head again and laid one hand over Methos', still gripping the sword's hilt. "I know you only put faith in yourself, my friend. I cannot do the same. I have had dreams, so powerful that I knew they came not from my own imagination. Dreams of death..." he said quietly. "I knew this day would come eventually when I gave up my sword, but I do not regret my decision. I am at peace with myself, and I am ready to die." Methos' body relaxed at Darius' touch, and he slowly regained his control. For almost a millennium after the war in Israel, Methos had tried unsuccessfully to convince Darius to take back his sword, and he eventually had given up. Once he made a decision, Darius gave himself up completely to his new cause. If he were determined to die, nothing Methos could say would change his mind. "Take back your sword, Methos," Darius said, squeezing his friend's hand briefly. "Live." Methos withdrew his hand, leaving the sword on the table, and walked around the room aimlessly. He lightly ran his fingers over the small hole in the wall where Darius kept the chronicle. All this for a book. It was insane. "I wish I could change your mind," he said. "Promise me one thing, Methos." The older immortal returned his attention to Darius. "What?" "Promise me that when the time comes for you to meet Duncan MacLeod, you will be his friend. Neither of you are built to face this world alone. You can give each other the strength to survive, to live. Of all the reasons to fight despair, brotherhood is the strongest." Darius walked to Methos, forcing him to meet his eyes. "Promise me, Methos." The last request of a dead man, Methos thought. No. The last request of a friend. "I promise," he said. Darius smiled. "Thank you, my brother. Now I can die without regret." Methos felt the tears that had threatened to reduce him to a helpless, quivering mass return in force. His vision became blurry, and he knew he could not stay here any longer. Without a word, he retrieved his sword and headed toward the door. "Good luck, Methos." Methos looked back once. Darius stood alone, a solitary figure that radiated peace and acceptance. Methos imprinted every detail of the vision in his memory because he knew he would not see his friend again. "And to you, my brother." He turned and left. =============================== England, 1123 Methos' hands were covered in blood, but not blood spilt by his sword. He had been splitting wood outside his cottage when he heard his wife's screams from within. He had dropped the ax and run inside, only to find Lillian's dead body on the floor, a dagger protruding grotesquely from her bared breasts, and a man in the midst of searching through her clothes -- for money, probably. Methos yelled wordlessly, letting loose his shock, anger and grief. Then he drew his sword and ran at the man. To Methos, if felt as if he were coated in thick honey, not able to move fast enough as the murderer dashed for the door. Methos was torn between following the man and checking on his wife, and, in the end, his love for Lillian won out. He dropped to his knees at her side and, ignoring the blood that slicked her skin, he felt for a pulse. Nothing. Tears burned his eyes, and he blinked to clear his vision. Her death was so sudden, so needless. She had been killed in her own home by a stranger. Why? Why was Lillian dead? Why? Methos buried his grief deep within and allowed a heated rage to sear through his mind. He'd track that murderer to the ends of the earth if necessary. Oh, yes, the bastard would pay. He grabbed his sword and ran to the front door through which his prey had vanished. The man had left a thin trail of blood that wound down the city street like a serpent. Swerving between the passers-by, Methos followed the track as it led directly to a church. Darius' church. I have you now, you bastard, he thought as he opened the church doors. Now you're going to die. He saw the man at the altar, knelt piously with his head bowed. All Methos saw was the blood that stained his dirty shirt to a deep red. With a wordless growl, he stalked toward the front of the church, sword raised. "Michael, stop!" said a commanding voice. Methos, too far gone in his anger to recognize his alias, continued forward. The man turned to see his attacker and screamed in panic. Methos kicked him in the stomach and raised his sword for the killing blow. "Methos!" This time, the name registered, and he looked toward the speaker. Darius stood by the altar, one hand on the man's shoulder and the other raised as a warning. The priest's eyes burned with so much anger that Methos stopped in midswing. "This is not the answer," Darius said, his voice heavy with command. "He killed my wife," Methos growled. "He took Lillian from me for no reason, Darius. We didn't even know him, but he came into my house and killed her." Darius stepped between the immortal and the murderer, and Methos was forced to lower his sword. Even through his haze, he could not cut down the priest. "Methos, this is the house of God. You will not shed blood here." "I don't believe in your god, Darius. He didn't protect Lillian, did he?" "Do you believe in me, then?" Darius' question shook Methos from his rage. The priest touched him lightly on the arm and looked into his eyes. "Do you believe in me?" "Yes," Methos whispered roughly. "Then listen to me. I know this man; I visit him and his companions almost every day. His name is John, and he escaped this morning from the sheriff's dungeon. John is a bad man, yes, but if you kill him in cold blood, you will be no better than he is." "I've done worse." "I know. I know you have, Methos, but you left that past behind you. Remember?" Darius' grip shifted to the hand still tense around the sword hilt. "John was not always a murderer. He was a farmer until the duke took his land and killed his family when he fought back. He was put in jail and tortured. They called him an animal, and so that's what he became. Their violence prompted his vengence and look what happened. Your vengence will come to no better. John's death with accomplish nothing." "It will make me feel a hell of a lot better." "Will it?" "Yes," Methos said, but his response lacked conviction. Darius' words were making sense. "I don't think so. Once you kill John, the emptiness won't go away. You will leave this church in search of another victim, and another, but none of their deaths will heal the pain you feel. Only love can do that." He paused. "Let go of your hate, Methos. I beg you." Methos sneered. "You would beg for this bastard's life?" "No. I am begging you to save your own soul. Please, Methos. Give me the sword." As Methos loosened his grip, Darius pulled the blade from his unprotesting hand. The rage was gone, and grief overwhelmed him as he finally realized his loss. Oh, Lillian! Forgive me for not being there. He dropped to his knees and sobbed uncontrollably, not even noticing as John ran out the church door and straight into the sheriff's soldiers. Darius watched as the soldiers knocked John unconscious and dragged him away. Methos only felt Darius' caring hands stroking his hair and holding him until there were no tears left. "Honor Lillian's memory, my brother, with life, not death," Darius said. And Methos believed him. =============================== May 1992 =============================== Queen music blared through Methos' earphones, but he didn't really hear. The only voice in his mind was MacLeod's, screaming Darius' name. After he'd yelled and cried himself hoarse, MacLeod finally had left, allowing Methos to emerge from his hiding place. The Scot carried so much anger, scattered and unfocused. In many ways, MacLeod was still a child because he didn't know how to channel the rage and use it to his own advantage. Instead, it would burn through him until he released it with revenge. Even Darius had not succeeded in teaching the Highlander that there were other ways to cope with loss. After Methos left the church, he did not want to return to the bookstore. So he wandered the streets aimlessly and then settled for a bench by the canal. He often came here when life pained him. He sat on that bench for hours, letting the Queen tape flip into auto-reverse several times. He tried to accept Darius' death. Ah, Darius, my brother. The world will be a worse place without you. Methos felt a light touch on the back of his shoulder, and for a moment he thought Darius had returned from the afterlife. He pulled the earphones off and turned, meeting the concerned eyes of Don Salzer. "I thought I might find you here," Don said quietly. "When you didn't come back to the store after lunch, I got worried." "Well, it's nice to know I'm appreciated." Methos managed a half smile, but he knew it wasn't enough to fool Don, who sat next to him and stared into the canal. "Darius was killed this afternoon in his own church," Don whispered. Methos felt his razor-thin grip to sanity begin to slip. "I know," he choked out. Don nodded. "I thought you might. No one knows who killed him." "I know." They sat in silence for several minutes before Methos spoke again. "Darius was a friend of Methos." "Really?" "Yes. They served together in the Roman army around the beginning of the first millennium." "They knew each other a long time, then." Methos could only nod. He knew if he spoke again, he would begin to cry, and that would leave too many questions unanswered in Don's mind. But maybe it didn't matter. Don was probably the only mortal who might accept the true identity of Adam Pierson without running straight to Watcher headquarters. "What do you think Methos is feeling right now?" Don asked. He's in a lot of pain. He's trying to lock the grief away with all the others he has lost. There are so many. "Darius once said that Methos only put faith in himself. He was wrong, I think. Methos put his faith in Darius, perhaps too much for his own good." "So you think Methos is grieving?" "Yes. If he knows." "He knows." Don spoke with so much certainty that Methos looked at him curiously. "Methos has a way of finding things out. I mean, he knows about us. He'd have to for the number of times he's barely slipped through our fingers. He knows about Darius, too." He paused, turning his gaze from the canal to Methos' eyes. "But I know something else. Methos is strong in spirit, and no matter who he loses, he will go on. And he will have happy times again." Not for the first time, Methos wondered how much Don had guessed about him. That last comment sounded more like an attempt at personal comfort than a statement about a research subject. Whatever the comment's intention, it pushed Methos over the edge. He closed his eyes as tears finally began to flow freely. Don pulled his friend's head onto his shoulder and let Methos release his grief. "It's all right, my friend," Don whispered. "There will be happy times again." =============================== From Methos' journal: This is how I prefer to remember Darius: the end |