Methos slept. To all outward appearances he was peaceful but his subconscious mind was working overtime. It was as if, having (for the most part) been kept in tight check during his waking hours, the emotional turmoil was now free to surge up and overwhelm the very core of his being. Scenes from his past seeped into his brain in a confusing miasma, rather as though someone had used the search facility on a video finally settling on one scene to replay. His breathing became fast and shallow and his skin slick with sweat as the scene unfolded. It was not a memory he could place but as it progressed he sank deeper into its grasp.
He was lying in the corner of a stone cell. His wrists shackled tightly together, naked and exhausted. He was barely awake in fact.
Sulla had realised that his slender, lissome, young whore was beginning to show signs of the strain of his life. The lines of fatigue on his face making him appear much older than his twenty one years. Rather than making life easier by reducing the number of customers he sent to Meli-mateos he had decided to maximise the profit he made from his exotic featured slave in the short time he saw now available to him. If anything therefore, Meli's work load had increased over the past few months. He had lasted longer than many of the other whores in the brothel. The average useful life of a brothel slave in Sulla's house was three years. After which they were sold on to the salt mines where a short life was guaranteed.
He had purchased Meli when he was just approaching fifteen years of age - somewhat younger than he would have considered buying virgins prior to this, but given the success of this venture it was a policy he had since adhered to when buying new stock.
On this day he had sent sixteen customers to Meli's cell. It had been difficult to rouse the young man from sleep initially but he had performed well throughout the day, though after each customer left he had slumped back on his mat in the corner - eyes dull from fatigue.
The last few customers of the day were taking their leave and the doorman was closing up, when one last customer sought entry and asked for Meli- mateos by name. He desired, he said, to spend the entire night with the youth. Never one to turn down the chance to earn extra coin Sulla admitted the man and shown him to Meli's cell.
"Meli-mateos, you have company." Sulla said, poking the apparently sleeping youth with his foot.
Meli heard the voice come to him as if from far away but he felt the foot well enough and jerked away from it as best he could.. He snapped fully awake and struggled to rise, his shackles making it difficult for him to gain leverage. Sulla impatiently seized Meli's hair and dragged him, gasping, to his feet.
"Forgive me master." He managed to croak out.
"I will forgive you Meli-mateos if you now give your full attention to Master Cyrus." He indicated the burly man behind him.
Meli looked nervously at the man. It was the same man he remembered form four years earlier at Ariostos' house. He shivered at the memory and swallowed his fear as he walked toward Cyrus and knelt at his feet, his heart beating wildly all the time. "Welcome Master Cyrus, it will be my pleasure to serve you in any way you desire." He said.
That night saw much repetition of the style of 'play' which had been a feature of the three day sojourn with Ariostos. Meli had borne it as well as he could, but in his weakened and exhausted state he had found it more and more difficult to concentrate in meeting Cyrus' demands and his efforts to minimise the pain caused by Cyrus began to be less successful. After several hours of rough treatment Meli could no longer stifle his hisses of pain nor the occasional scream. instead he stuffed one fist into his mouth and bit down hard to try and block the sound. Noting this Cyrus smiled, grimly satisfied. 'This one has much strength and stamina. Ariostos' assessment of him was correct.' He thought.
From his pack he produced a long handled knife which glinted in the light of the torches on the wall. "Now Meli my love, let's see what you are really made of." He growled menacingly. He approached the youth cowering on the floor with the knife in one hand and a staff in the other. Raising the staff he began to rain blows across Meli's lower back causing him to arch forward and straighten his legs with each stroke. Seizing the opportunity Cyrus dug his knife low into Meli's left hip and twisted it full circle. Blood welled up from the wound and flowed freely over the knife, along his leg and onto the floor. Writhing in agony, Meli fought desperately to reach the knife but the shackles meant that his reach did not extend far enough for him to get any purchase on it.
"Don't struggle child. This too will pass. Whatever you do you cannot escape your destiny." So saying Cyrus seized the handle of the knife and pulled downward cutting a long slash on the outside of Meli's thigh. Meli screamed, now less concerned to hide his agony and more intent on rousing Sulla. he was in real fear for his life now and saw no reason to be discreet. Cyrus was out of control, he seemed to be drunk and was clearly not to be reasoned with. The only thing that could save him would be outside intervention.
Furious at Meli's scream, Cyrus struck Meli across the face causing his head to strike the wall with some force. He slumped to the floor almost senseless. Cyrus stood over him, a twisted and feral expression on his face. He stamped hard on the side of Meli's head and ground his heel into his victim's temple, watching him twitch with satisfaction. Blood trickled out of Meli's ear and nose, his skull obviously fractured. Breathless now, Meli had no energy left for screaming for a while.
At last, turning Meli onto his belly, Cyrus forced his legs apart and entered him roughly. Groaning in ecstasy not only at the sensation of being inside Meli but also at the signs of his discomfort. He thrust deeply into Meli's body until at last he came in long spurts. Finally sated he withdrew.
"Oh Meli! Ariostos was right about you. We almost left it too late. However, fortunately for us and for you we've judged this just right. You are at your peak now Meli. I think it's time you met your destiny."
As he spoke he picked up his knife again and approached the terrified youth. Meli's eyes widened in horror as he realised that he was about to die. None of what Cyrus had said made any sense to him, but the certainty of his imminent death he did understand. Hoarse or not, weak from loss of blood or not, Meli knew without question that he needed to rouse Sulla now. Opening his mouth he began to yell with all his remaining strength. "Voetho, Sulla. Sulla Voetho!!!"
Yet it was already too late. He knew as soon as he began that no one would arrive in time to save him. Cyrus plunged the knife into Meli's abdomen and sliced from side to side. Choking, Meli gasped out "Parakalo. Parakalo......Ohe"
Cyrus ignored his plea and began another slice, this time from under the breastbone he sliced downward. It was not necessary from the point of view of causing death, Meli was already dying, but it did cause more pain and Meli's last action was to give and agonised scream. "Oheeeeeeeee." He shrieked, before he breathed his last and was still.
In the lounge Duncan was engrossed in the Aristotle. he had reached the section discussing how fictional characters should be portrayed.
Anyone can have a brave character, but there are kinds of courage, as well as kinds of sagacity, that may be inappropriate to a woman.
Grinning, He mused on how well Aristotle would have held up his side of an argument on this with someone such as Camille Paglia. Suddenly he thought he heard sounds from Methos' room. Going to look through the door he saw his friend curled in his side, breathing hard, his hands clasped as if in supplication but still apparently asleep. Satisfied that all was well and deciding to leave Methos to his much needed rest he went through to the kitchen to make coffee. He had just placed the filter in the machine when he heard the scream. He rushed to Methos room in time to hear his plea for help and the begging for something to stop. Methos had moved to the top of the bed and was curled in on himself. His face was running with perspiration and his hair was matted to his head. The final scream made Duncan catch his breath. It was obvious that Methos was in the grip of another nightmare, but given what he had said about how he had felt toward Joe in the garden he was loathe to bring him out of it too abruptly.
Standing by the side of the bed he tried softly calling Methos' name. There was no response at all from the body on the bed, but at least he was no longer screaming. Cautiously, Duncan reached down and pulled at one of Methos' wrists. He was astonished when both wrists came up. it was as if some invisible force had connected the wrists together. He let the arms fall back and instead placed both hands on Methos' shoulders and shook him gently, all the time calling for him to wake up. he began to think he wasn't going to succeed when he found himself being regarded by two gold green eyes full of fear and suspicion. Then with a wild yell Methos sprang from the bed and fought Duncan, biting ,hitting, struggling to throttle his friend, all the while with his hands still no more than a few inches apart.
Duncan fended him off as best he could, enduring the small wounds that Methos managed to inflict and trying not to injure him in return. He continuously tried to rouse Methos by calling his name, but to no avail. Then, as suddenly as it had began, it was all over and Methos collapsed at Duncan's feet totally unconscious.
Cursing, Duncan lifted Methos to sit on the bed and leant him back against the pillows, before fetching a damp flannel from the bathroom and his katana from his coat. When he returned to the room he bathed Methos' face and dried it. Then he sat at the end of the bed, sword in hand, tip raised in readiness and firmly called Methos to wake up.
This time he was rewarded by a faint stirring, some mumbled protests and finally an annoyed looking Methos opened his eyes.
"What?" He snapped. "Can't a guy take a nap anymore?"
Duncan lowered his sword tip until it rested on Methos' Adam's apple. "I Suppose that might depend on who the guy is and where he thinks he is at the time." He countered.
Trying desperately hard not to move Methos swallowed. What's going on Mac? What's the sword in aid of?" He looked at Duncan and waited.
"Well the fact that you recognise me is a good start." Duncan said, moving the tip of the sword away from the Adam's apple and down to rest over Methos' heart. "Now tell me where you are and who you are."
"Are you crazy? This is Joe's house, 4255 Pimlico Avenue. I am Methos and you are Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod. What kind of game are we playing here?"
"That is something I am not altogether sure of." Said Duncan. " How much do you remember?"
"Of what? You're talking in riddles Mac."
"You don't remember the nightmare you just had, where you were calling for help and begging and pleading in Greek. The one where you started to fight me and tried to throttle me?"
Methos looked suddenly very edgy. "No Mac I don't. But if I did all that, and I believe you, then I am further gone than I thought. I shouldn't have come here. I am a danger to my friends. I can't go anywhere else and be a danger to others. So saying he wrapped his hand around the tip of Duncan's sword and raised it again to his neck.
<
"What are you doing?" Duncan asked, trying not to jerk the sword away. Methos' hand was closed so tightly around the blade that it was cut to the bone and bleeding profusely. If he made a sudden move now Methos would lose his fingers.
"It's the only other option Mac. I offered you my head once to help defeat Kalas. I am doing it again now to prevent any further harm. It's obvious what's happening here. I have finally lost my sanity. Hardly surprising after five thousand years perhaps but definitely very dangerous for all those I come in contact with. so I beg you, as a friend. Put an end to it before it's too late...please."
His eyes looked up beseechingly at Duncan as though he were trying to will him into action. There was a long pause before Duncan let out a breath and finally spoke.
"no. I think there may still be other options open yet. Catriona may be able to shed some light on this. Also it would hardly be fair to repay Joe for all his hospitality to you by letting a quickening destroy his house..least of all your quickening. We'll talk it over. Now let go of the sword Methos. You're dripping blood all over Joe's quilt" He indicated the growing blood stain beside Methos.
Guiltily, Methos withdrew his hand from Duncan's blade and rose from the bed. "You're right Mac. Here isn't the place for this. But ...." He paused and looked at Duncan searchingly, "I want your solemn promise that after we have talked this over..if there's no obvious solution you will take my head.
Glumly, Duncan nodded his agreement. " I promise Methos. But I will not give up on you yet old man.
"Don't invest me with some sentimental notions of the ancient hero Mac." Methos warned. "It isn't accurate and we both know too much about what I am capable of if the worst comes to the worst. I don't want that ever to happen again. I am relying on you and on your code of honour to prevent it from happening again. Is that clear?"
"As crystal." Duncan said. "I will keep my promise Methos, but only if I have to. You've helped me out of more deep dark holes than I care to think of before now. I should have that opportunity to help you from at least one don't you think? I intend at least to try before I take the last option. No arguments here."
Methos shrugged resignedly. "Then I suppose I'll have to settle for that for now." He sighed.
He picked up the quilt and walked through to the kitchen. After running cold water into the sink he dug into a cupboard and pulled out a box of salt. concentrating on cleaning the blood from the quilt made him feel slightly calmer and a little more in control, though he was still shaken to think that he could have attacked Duncan whilst in the grip of a nightmare and yet have no recollection of it.
At least he had been able to recall exactly what had occurred earlier that day when he had slipped back into the past. He also clearly recalled the other instances over the past months. Since Bordeaux he had felt in the grip of a despair that he had only been able to alleviate either through work or through forcing himself to concentrate on the welfare of his friends.
Finding that, over the past six months, even that had not been enough he had withdrawn more and more into himself until, deciding that this was only making matters worse, he had returned to Seacouver in an attempt to get back to some semblance of normality. Something which, he now reflected, he had singularly and spectacularly failed to achieve.
In fact if anything it seemed to have added to his problems. Now there was the question of whether he had, during other previous nightmares, caused any harm to others and not remembered it on waking. He thought it unlikely but this incident had shaken his faith in the accuracy of even his most recent memories.
His other nightmares he remembered quite distinctly as far as he was aware. Most had either involved his time in Auschwitz and Belsen or - more usually his time with the Horsemen - specifically the first meeting with Kronos and the treatment he had received at the hands of the leader of the Horseman and his brothers-in arms.
Living through the months of torture it had taken for him to break and finally be 'admitted' as one of the band had been, until the second world war the worst time in his life that he could recall. Which, considering that what he did recollect of his life before that time was, on the whole, less than pleasant, was a fair indication of the lengths to which Kronos had gone to ensure that his new 'brother' was under no illusions as to what would be his fate for disloyalty to either him personally or to the band as a whole.
But even through these nightmares he had been aware of all that had occurred in them when he awoke, sweat drenched and exhausted. The nightmares finally becoming so wearing on his spirit that he had begun to fight sleep as if it were his mortal enemy. Sleep deprivation had only served to deepen his feelings of despair and not to alleviate the problem at all, however, and now he had begun slipping back even during his waking hours.
It was pretty clear to him that something had to give, and soon. Given the recent turn of events he was anxious to avoid the fallout from that imminent explosion - as much for the few remaining people he cared about as for himself.
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During these times it had always been Methos who was the one to pull him back to sanity. Now he was, in his view, in debt to Methos. He needed to return the favour and he didn't have the least idea where to begin. Frustrated, he returned his attention to making the coffee he had abandoned earlier. He needed time to think.