Work Text:
765 CE - Iceland
When they spotted land for the first time, Methos thought he might cry. It had taken days to get there and the boat was a small one and what had seemed like a good idea at the time had quickly turned out to be a bit of a nightmare. If Methos never had to hear another Gaelic hymn in his life, it would be too soon. Even if he lived another couple of thousand years. Never mind that he'd chosen to accompany these monks to an unsettled land where they would be the only other people for goodness knew how far. Still, he wasn't going to be spending all of his time in close quarters with them, and they didn't tend to sing much when they were actually working or praying, which was why he'd been so unpleasantly surprised when the hymns had started.
The landing went as smoothly as it could have, given that there was no port here. The rocks on the beach were black and rough, but greener land was visible in the distance. Methos picked up his pack and one of the bundles of manuscripts they'd brought and carried them up the beach to the rocks. As he neared the rocks, an unwelcome sensation washed over and through him: Another immortal nearby. How was that even possible? He'd come here to get away from others of his kind. The only other people nearby should have been other monks or scribes like Methos, working with them even if they hadn't dedicated their lives to the church.
"Welcome!" a voice called from just over a small rise beyond the beach. A man in monk's robes strode over the rise and approached the group coming up from the beach. More monks were following him, two with a cart they soon loaded parcels into. Methos held onto his own belongings, gripping them tightly, wondering if he needed to find a way to work his blade out from the middle of the clothing and bedding he'd wrapped it in.
The immortal monk hung back to walk with him.
"You have nothing to fear from me, my friend," the monk said softly as they made their way down a rough path from the beach, staying a distance behind the main group. "I have laid down my sword. Need I fear you?"
Methos shook his head. "Not me. I've taken enough heads for now." He dropped his voice to a murmur. "But do you know what these men are doing here?"
"I know," was the equally quiet answer. "I have been watching their progress with interest."
"They do not know I am one of those they observe."
The monk laughed softly. "Then we are a pair here. Please, call me Darius."
"I go by Cian these days."
"And you are one of the scribes they have employed?"
Methos nodded. "The writings they have are not always easy to decipher and I have enough knowledge of other languages that I can often make out what others cannot."
"Then let me help you get settled. We can talk over supper later."
The first group had managed to build a number of buildings out of sod and while they weren't as sturdy as the stone monastery they had come from, they were warm and cozy. A few wooden buildings served as storage for supplies and as gathering spaces for meals and prayer. Methos took up residence in Darius' sod house while everyone worked to build more housing for the new arrivals.
The days were pleasant, the nights cold, and the work neverending, but that wasn't unexpected. Methos was glad of the solitude most days. He'd helped cut pieces of sod for the houses for the first few weeks, but soon found himself drawn to the building full of manuscripts. One of the other scribes had begun to organize them and Methos joined him, carefully working through the boxes and oilcloth wrapped parcels.
There were so many more like him than he'd realized, even now. After so many years, so much travel, so many other lands, he'd thought he had a good picture of where other immortals were, but then, he was only one man. As long as he lived, he couldn't be in more than one place at a time.
Darius found him in the library early one morning, reading through a journal that listed all of the battles fought by a man named Tak Ne, though he, like Methos himself, seemed to have used quite a few other names. The journal seemed to be a sort of index to other manuscripts, only two of which Methos had found so far.
"Have you found your own name yet?" Darius asked him as he took a seat nearby. Methos shook his head as he closed the Tak Ne index and stretched a bit. He'd been hunched over the rough desk for close to two hours, if the candle nearby was at all accurate.
"No, but then, I've done a good deal to keep my name out of people's mouths," Methos admitted. "Better to just be Cian right now. Let the past stay in the past."
"I don't know about that," Darius said. He offered Methos a mug full of something warm that smelled unfortunately of moss. "I have changed a great deal in the past few hundred years, but I was Darius then and I am Darius now. I cannot ignore my past. It is a part of me, living and breathing."
Darius ducked to search through the shelves while Methos considered that and then dismissed it. Death did not live or breathe, that much he hoped.
"Here," Darius said, handing him a small bound volume. "Read this, then come speak with me if you would like. But please leave your blade under your pallet. We are consecrating this whole encampment soon and it would be a shame to sully it."
The book was not written by Darius himself, but it did contain a record of most of his life: War after war after war, followed by a sudden change of heart, or perhaps a change of soul. The writer had gone back and forth in his musings on the matter, uncertain whether it had been a conversation between Darius and the mysterious ancient immortal whose head he had taken, or if it had been the mysterious immortal's power that had changed him. Methos had heard rumors, of course. Immortals had their own folklore that spread from teacher to student to friend to enemy.
"Which do you think it was?" Methos asked as he sat down next to Darius while the other immortal stirred a pot full of what was likely to be their evening meal. "Did the man tell you some great truth that changed your view? Or was it something you could not help?"
Darius tasted the stew and added a handful of herbs to it. "He spoke to me. His name was Emrys. He told me things about our kind that I am still uncertain of, and he warned me that fighting him could mean my death. I have come to think that the death he meant was not losing my head, but the death of the man I had been. I chose to think of it much like the first time I died: As a rebirth. A new chance to live. Once I took his head, perhaps I could have resisted, fought the power he carried and its effect on me, but I chose to embrace it."
Methos handed the book back to him and Darius tucked it away inside his robes.
"I've never had that experience," he told Darius. "Maybe it is easier to accept one's past if the change is an opportunity like yours. Most of us simply have to keep walking away from the past, keep the future in our line of sight."
"Perhaps," Darius allowed. "We can speak more on it if you like. If you plan on staying for a while."
Methos shrugged and held out his hands to warm them by the fire under the stew pot. "I'm not eager to get back on a boat any time soon, so yes. I will be staying."
2765 CE - Proxima Centauri b Orbit
There had been singing on the ship during the voyage from Earth, but not hymns, and Methos had been relieved to be able to retire to his own bunk for every sing-along the other colonists had organized. There had also been a lot of down time, which Methos had used to continue to translate some journals he'd been meaning to get to.
The landing was smoother than he'd expected, but then this was his first time touching down on a new planet, so his expectations had been somewhat vague. He figured he'd write about it later, once they'd gotten things unpacked. The survey team had gotten the settlement started for them, and the ship would remain in orbit for a while. Plenty more safeguards than many other relocations he'd gone through.
While Methos waited to claim his quarters and the crates full of his belongings - two allotted to each colonist - he took a moment to look around. The landing area was full of black volcanic sand that glittered in the reddish light from the sun. The temporary housing showed signs of the sand being used in its construction. Good. Using local resources already. They couldn't depend on what they'd been able to bring with them forever.
Just as he'd been given directions to his quarters and a cart to move his crates, he felt an immortal nearing the landing. This time, he wasn't particularly surprised. He'd known who was on the survey team ahead of time, or he wouldn't have volunteered to come this far.
"Darius," he said, seeing the man wearing the same old robes, even this far from Earth. "No holy ground here yet."
Darius smiled at him. "I don't think we'll need it just yet. Or Watchers to chronicle our lives."
"I've got my past right here," Methos told him, patting the crates. "Ignoring it didn't work. So I brought it with me. New world, new me, same past."
~fin~