Chapter 29
Bird calls and the scent of green growing things sprinkled with dew woke the weary travelers at dawn. Methos stretched contentedly in his bed. The ticking had just the right amount of feathers, the pillows were lumpy exactly where they should be covered with linens woven so fine they felt like silk against his skin and smelling of just the right mix of perfumes to titillate his senses.
God, what a shameless, self-indulgent hedonist you were, Methos thought bemused. With a sigh of regret for both his former self and the need to leave this comfortable nest he arose, indulging himself just a little more after dressing by sneaking down the back stairs to the stables. He quickly checked the animals then saddled the white stallion. With his bow and quiver at his back, Methos mounted and rode out. Back down to the valley below where he let the stallion have his head for a time, racing with the wind in his hair, the hot scent of horse in his nostrils and the rising sun warm against his skin.
The morning sun was high when he returned hours later to find O'Neill in the middle of the stable yard neatly dressed in his uniform as he stood with arms folded, obviously waiting and annoyed.
"You wanna let someone know when you plan to disappear for a while," the colonel told him coldly.
"Takes all the fun out of the sneaking part," Methos confided, grinning as he cut the ties on the bag of game he had strapped to the saddle and letting it drop to the ground. "Besides," he added, easily dismounting. "You can see the entire valley from Zekna's room. You knew where I was."
"That's not the point, Captain."
"Reestablishing the pecking order are we, Colonel?" Methos smirked as he picked up the bag, slung it over his shoulder and took the reins.
O'Neill frowned. "There is no pecking order. There's me and then there are rules for you to follow."
Methos sighed tiredly as he led the way to the stable. He'd had such a lovely ride and now this! "Yes, I know," he sneered. "The chain of command."
"Then there's no reason for you not to follow it, is there?"
Methos stopped abruptly and turned to face Jack, his eyes narrowing dangerously. "This conversation grows tiresome, O'Neill. Much as I find it amusing, I am not your minion."
"Oh, but you are, Captain Pierson. You became mine the minute you signed on the dotted line," O'Neill said mildly as he slowly backed Methos against the horse "I think you've forgotten who you are and where you come from, Pierson. We aren't your pets - and this isn't your home. Like the rest of us, you're just a visitor here. Perhaps you ought to consider rethinking your position - Captain." At that he turned and walked away without looking back.
Methos stared after the man, utterly shocked. Not by the colonel's words, but that O'Neill had noticed what he hadn't. He was adapting, Methos realized, appalled by his behavior. He winced with embarrassment. There'd been no call to treat the man so rudely. As though he were an inferior sent only to entertain him - and doing a piss poor job of it at that! He could only imagine what the colonel must have really thought from what little he'd said, but the general idea disgusted him.
But why here? Why now? he wondered, distractedly moving toward the stable. It wasn't like he'd ever been truly happy as a Horseman. He'd never have left it behind if that were the case. Might have ended up like Kronos, filled with anger and bitterness. Or Silas, dreaming of the good old days and how nice it would be to ride the plains again killing everything in sight. But in those days he hadn't known how to be anything else. And, god help him, he'd loved it. The power and the freedom from constraint. But happy? He didn't think so.
That was it, wasn't it? Methos cocked his head, pausing at the stable doors. The freedom to be who he was now. With these people he suddenly had something he'd never experienced with the Horsemen. Camaraderie without fear or coercion. And in this place and time he could have the power too. With all his knowledge he could find a place and make it his. It tempted him and Methos knew it. Called to a part of him he'd thought long since buried. He could have everything he'd never had. He could live his life - without want or need or even the anger that had kept him constantly moving - until, of course, he ended up right back where he had started.
He glanced at the house, finally seeing it clearly. Not his home - not even when he'd rightfully lived here. It was built on a foundation of blood. The stones carved from stolen lives - the property of all those who'd died to make the Horsemen rich. His things had never been his, but the remains of others. Used goods, bought with their suffering. And yet, it had called to him as well.
How thin the veneer of civilization, he thought ironically, beginning to unsaddle the horse. He'd come so far and worked so hard to move beyond the Horseman, only to find the savage still pacing him just beneath the surface. But O'Neill had seen it, because it called to him too. The predator that lurked within, waiting for that moment when the keeper of the cage forgot to check the lock. And Methos had almost let him slip the leash.
He spent a long time cleaning the stable then currying the horses, letting them out into the paddock with Amelia to graze. Then he went to the slaughter room and dressed the rabbits he'd caught that morning, putting up the meat in a jar of salted water and spiced wine to preserve it. He avoided the others, slipping up the back stairs through the servants passages and into his quarters.
With a sigh he shut the door and stared at the room's contents. Pathetic, he thought disgustedly, finally confronting the obvious. He hadn't deserved any of this. Methos sneered at the little toys his former self had collected which littered the room like so much junk. Pretty trinkets of faience, ivory, amber and gold. Miniature horses and statues of gods he couldn't have put a name to when he'd taken them, though he knew them now. He'd always thought he'd seen himself for what he was, but maybe he never really had. Which led him to wonder what the others thought of him.
Teal'c was obvious. The man wouldn't judge him. Couldn't really, if he even thought about it at all. Like the warrior he was, he would accept or deny Methos based on his deeds, and thus far he'd done nothing to warrant rejection by the Jaffa. Not yet, he amended thoughtfully.
Daniel, of course, knew Adam, and those parts of Methos he'd recently begun to see. But the young man could not possibly comprehend the scope of what he was, or what he'd been except in the vaguest terms. And he was likely not to judge him too harshly even if he thought about the things Methos had done. Telling himself that it was a different time and a different world, which was the truth, but not the only truth there was.
He considered Samantha then. Major Carter probably had the most balanced opinion. She'd taken him as he'd presented himself from the day he'd walked into the SGC. A brilliant, dangerous, amusing and occasionally charming scientific puzzle. She would see the modern Methos, though without immediately disregarding the man he'd been. The scientist in her would not allow that, though like Teal'c she was unlikely to judge him for it.
And O'Neill? Of them all, O'Neill was probably the only one who could see Methos for what he truly was. Had to, because he'd pointed out his failings so well. He'd seen the temptation which faced the Immortal. Seen Methos drifting towards it. And with a wisdom far beyond his years, had ever so gently had slapped him back into the present. More to the point, O'Neill would have no trouble guessing from whence everything in this place came. He wouldn't hide from that knowledge.
In truth, Methos knew, if he'd met O'Neill as the man he'd been three thousand years ago, Jack would have cheerfully killed him without a moment's hesitation. Taken his head and wandered off to dinner whistling a happy tune. And rightfully so, Methos admitted sadly. Yet, O'Neill accepted Methos as he was now. Cared enough to keep him grounded - though he must have long since guessed just how difficult this journey was for the Immortal. And in the end, as long as he stepped back from the precipice that yawned, all would be forgiven.
Methos shook his head, looking down at his clothes. No, he told himself firmly. Not his clothes. Not anymore.
He found his uniform and headed for the bath at the end of the hall. An hour later, freshly shaved, hair trimmed short and dressed in fatigues. Methos presented himself for orders. Not a word was said, not even a smile, but they both knew just how close to disaster he'd come.
And later that night, Methos happily cleared out of the Horseman's room and found himself another.
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