Chapter Text
Prologue
Byron: "Do you want a tombstone that says, 'He Lived For Centuries' or one that says, 'For Centuries He Was Alive'?"
Methos: "You're not listening to me. I don't want a tombstone."
(Highlander: TV Series – "The Modern Prometheus")
Tired of the Game
Austria, Tyrol: The Former Province of Noricum
The Present
"I am the end of time!"
Kronos' words vibrated through my body, clawing at my heart and clinging to my mind like someone drowning, clinging to a piece of driftwood.
Seconds before his time was up.
Seconds before Silas' time was up.
Seconds before my time was up.
"I want him to live!"
Had MacLeod not stopped Cassandra from taking my head, the legend of the Four Horsemen would have fallen into oblivion forever that night, and our former victim would have been the only one to still remember the events of ancient times and centuries past.
Had MacLeod not dared to intervene and thus break the ancient rules of the Game to which we are all bound without exception, I would have lost my head that night to the only person who might have had the right to take it.
The day in the surreal surroundings of the abandoned submarine base near Bordeaux really and truly marked the end of time. Not only for the men I had once considered my brothers in almost everything but birth, but for me as well.
I felt troubled and shaken as never before. Exhausted and drained to the core. And even though I knew I was no longer the same as I had been thousands of years ago, I also knew that this part of my past would forever lurk in the dark, waiting for me to make a mistake. It would wait patiently for the right moment to catch up with me and destroy me and the few people I loved for good.
The bitter tears I shed as I knelt by Silas' side.
I shed them not only over the loss of the men who had once been my friends, my brothers. Nor over all those long-forgotten memories that had pushed me back into my past and almost cost me my head.
I shed them for myself, as I had to realise that there were things I could not run from, no matter how desperately I tried.
I shed them, deeply shaken by the loyalty of a friend who trusted me, even though the circumstances and everything he had learnt about me just a few days earlier must have been against me in his eyes.
I also shed them over the inability of a woman to forgive. The same woman I had failed to protect, even though I knew I should.
Months had passed since those days in Bordeaux, and as if Kronos' last words had foreseen the events to come, the strange circumstances and sinister incidents that led to the loss and death of Richie Ryan, MacLeod's young friend and student, did indeed make it feel as though the end of time was near.
A deep-rooted primal fear of humanity was resurfacing.
The fear of the impending end of the world as it approached the latest change of millennia.
The number of self-proclaimed experts preaching the doom of humanity was greater than ever before, and once again uncertainty and ignorance led to the most bizarre results, while a few were clever at stoking fear among those who were afraid of everything and were therefore willing to believe in anything.
Even if it involved the most absurd, wild and strange theories.
Some things never change.
This was not the first time, and it would not be the last. And as always, those who were so afraid of losing their lives that even the tiniest hint of a vague promise of a chance of survival was enough to make them pay whatever sum was demanded of them would pay the highest price.
And for what? A futile attempt to escape the inevitable. Death.
Glorious times for charlatans and religious zealots.
Perhaps Kronos was right.
Perhaps humanity deserved the return of the Four Horsemen, but even a ruthless band like ours couldn't 'save' humanity from its own stupidity.
Not really. Not today, when it worshipped other gods than a band of immortals on horseback.
I shook my head and smiled at the thought as I followed the narrow path through the forest that would take me to the place I hoped to see again.
Nestled in picturesque landscapes, protected by rugged mountain ranges and near the confluence of two torrents, the trading hub that was once full of life and colourful activity fell victim to the interplay of time and the primal forces of nature.
Thus, today only ruins remain of the once beautiful flourishing Roman city, some of which got excavated and restored to attract visitors and guests interested in history and archaeology.
Two thousand years ago, when the Romans ruled most of the known world, and when I first visited, these ruins were full of life.
Ancient forests, fertile soil and vast fields brought prosperity and wealth to the city and its inhabitants, and its foresighted and carefully chosen location made it a place to retreat to if you wanted to escape the hustle and bustle of the metropolis of Rome. It was a place where you could easily forget all your worries.
With a sigh, I turned my back on the ruins and followed a small, stony path uphill until I arrived at a familiar place.
Once nestled into the gentle slope, an elegant Roman villa was sheltered from prying eyes by old, gnarled trees and wild hedges, while its fountains and baths were supplied with fresh, clear water from a spring that granted its owner independence from the bustling city on the plain below.
From the hill on which the villa was built, there was a wide view of the landscape, including the extensive valley, the many small settlements around it, and the city itself with its amazing surroundings. It was and is a remarkable place, and it once belonged to a remarkable man.
An old friend. One of the few I called true friends.
He was a cynic, a satirist, and an aesthete, and both, this place high above the valley and the impressive villa. belonged to him.
Centuries before the ancestors of those who now dig for ruins and small treasures were born.
In another time. In another life. Two thousand years ago.
I looked around and tried to find answers to a thousand questions.
What brought me back here right now?
After not having given it a thought for what felt like half an eternity?
I am the end of time.
The end of the world is near.
Both sounded absurd to my ears.
What meaning could it have for me, for whom time holds no significance?
What meaning could it have for me, who does not measure in years or decades, but in centuries and millennia?
What meaning could it have for me, whose memories stretch so far back that their origins are nothing more than a blurred image reflected in a blind mirror?
What meaning could it have for me, who was once called 'Death' and brought about the end of the world for those unfortunate enough to cross my path?
'None.' I heard the calm, slightly amused voice of my old friend answering my unspoken questions.
Unless, well, unless the old prophecies about the end of the world come true. Then the end of the world would undoubtedly affect me too because, in that case, the end of the world would also mean the end of the Game.
Not that I would mourn it, the end of the Game.
The Game, yes.
A strange and rather tame way of describing the fact that immortals hunt each other down, fighting to the death with archaic weapons in godforsaken places until one takes the other's head.
Sounds weird, doesn't it? To me, it does.
The Game.
To me, it's not about common sense, honour, or pursuing a vaguely defined prize offered as a reward to the last man standing.
To me, it's a morbid variation of a perpetual massacre, justified by its rules, set somewhere in the distant past and serving only one purpose. To find a lone survivor after centuries of slaughter.
For the common good. For the good of the world. Maybe even for the good of the universe.
So it is said. So it is told. So are its rules.
I am part of this Game. I am part of its rules. I am part of its world. For five thousand years.
But does that mean I have to believe in this Game and its rules?
Because I am immortal?
Because I am forced to take part in it?
Because I love this world, with all its beauty and even its flaws?
I have seen and experienced things beyond imagination and kept noting them down since writing began.
I have done things I cannot put into words. Things I will never be forgiven for.
Regardless of the length of my life.
And for what? The vague chance of being the chosen one?
To be honest, I am tired.
Tired of the Game.
Tired of the killing that has dominated my life for so long.
It exhausts me to lose friends, both mortal and immortal, to unscrupulous participants in the Game.
It exhausts me to attempt escaping the slaughter by hiding, although I have never regretted avoiding fighting and killing for some time.
Does it matter to me who the chosen one will be?
No, it doesn't. Even if I live to see the day of the final gathering.
I have neither the ambition nor the fire needed to hold the fate of our world in my hands.
It is enough for me to remain who I am, even though I cannot escape the 'Game of Murder and Death' forever. I have no choice. I am bound to it, just as I am bound to my memories.
To count in centuries or even millennia means to accumulate tonnes of memories, both good and bad.
And so remains the memory of Cassandra, who to this day cannot forgive me.
And so remains the memory of Kronos, who could not accept that I had changed while he did not.
Neither of them ever got to know how my life changed twice when I encountered them.
Our second encounter taught me that I don't want to be anyone other than myself.
With all my faults. With all my virtues.
I am neither black nor white. I am of countless shades, and if I hadn't kept my old self deep inside me, I would never have survived this long.
But it was our first encounter that led me down the path that made me aware of what and who I really am.
My name is Methos.
My story begins at a time when a man's life was meaningless, when a sword decided between life and death, and when only a few ever learnt my real name.