Chapter Sixteen

Just after midnight the next day, Methos jerked upright, hand closing on the covers in search of a sword that wasn't there. Ghean pushed herself up on her elbows, blinking tiredly at him. "What is it?"

The Immortal swung out of bed, shaking his hair back over his shoulders. "A nightmare," he answered. "Go back to sleep. I'm going to get a drink of water. I'll be back soon."

Ghean nodded, eyes already closed again as her head dropped into the pillow. Methos watched her for a brief moment, bending to brush the back of his hand across the air above her cheekbone. "I love you," he whispered, and picked up his sword to go out and meet the Immortal who waited for him.

The moon had faded to a sliver, its light reflected poorly from garden walls and making monsters of trees and shadows. Methos walked the path cautiously, flat sandals offering little purchase and causing gravel stones to shift slightly under his weight. Each movement cracked like a richocheted shot to Methos' ears, forcing him to abandong any pretense of silence.

Aroz sat on one of the stone benches, elbows on his knees and hands hanging loosely, head dropped as he studied the ground. He was dressed as Methos was, in the lightweight pants that Atlatneans customarily slept in, shirt left behind in his quarters. His sword lay on the bench besdie him, bronze glinting dully in the moonlight. As Methos stopped a few yards away, Aroz lifted his head, expression unreadable in the half light. After a minute he stood, sword gripped loosely in his hand. "I wasn't sure you would come."

"We don't have to do this," Methos said tiredly.

Aroz smiled thinly, casting a glance at the small house Methos had come from. "You struck her. I am still her bodyguard. Even if we were not Immortal, her honor would still be at stake."

"She was about to expose us," Methos pointed out. "Loudly, and to a sizeable group of people. I couldn't allow that."

Aroz shrugged. "Who would have believed her?"

"Someone might have. I didn't live as long as I have by letting people announce to random strangers that I'm Immortal. I couldn't take the chance."

"And so you prefer to strike your beloved?"

Methos sighed, looked away momentarily, then looked back. "Yes. I'll stop someone by any means necessary to keep our secret safe."

"Even the woman you are to marry."

Methos tilted his head back a little, weariness in the movement. Eyes still on Aroz, he said, "Yes. There will be a time that she understands, Aroz, but it hasn't come yet. She's still mortal."

Aroz looked up towards the house again. "How long will you continue to allow her to be unaware of what she is?"

"Allow?" Methos straightened his head, staring at Aroz. "I don't allow or disallow people their Immortality. I'm old, not omnipotent. It's not my choice when or if she becomes Immortal." He, too, glanced back towards the house, and his shoulders dropped. More quietly, he admitted, "I don't think I could bear to lose her to old age, not knowing the potential is in her. A few years . . . five or six. She'd still be young."

"And if she hates you for keeping it secret? What if you lose her to that?"

Methos turned back to Aroze, smile wry. "Maybe she'd let me make it up to her in a few hundred yeras. I don't expect the marriage to last after she learns. It wouldn't be fair to her."

Aroz shook his head. "Then why not tell her now? Let her make the choice now?"

"Why not tell her yourself?" Methos asked shortly, lifting his eyebrows when Aroz looked away uncomfortably. The older Immortal let the silence draw out a few moments longer before speaking again. "I won't tell her yet because Immortality changes us all in a fundamental way, and Ghean is still very young. I don't want to see her vividness fade. Not yet." He closed his eyes, calling the image of Ghean's smile to mind. "Let her enjoy that passion while she can. It may not survive the first death." He could hear the sorrow in his own voice, and smiled sardonically at it. When he opened his eyes again, it was to find Aroz staring at him, a quizzical frown wrinkling his forehead.

"You really do love her."

Methos groaned. "Of course I do. You think I want to marry her so you can't have her? Don't be stupid, Aroz. I haven't lived this long courting that kind of idiocy, either."

Aroz stood quietly a few minutes, eyebrows still drawn down as he examined Methos. "I don't understand you," he said eventually.

Methos snorted, a sound of amusement that shook his body. "You're not the first, and you won't be the last. Does your lack of understanding go so far that it requires us to fight, Aroz? Because whether it does or doesn't, I'd like to get this over with so I can go back to bed."

Aroz's expression darkened again. For the third time, he looked at the house where Ghean slept. "I have protected her all my life, at any cost. Will you do the same?"

At any cost except my own survival. Methos nodded slowly, the caveat remaining unspoken. "I will."

Aroz nodded once. "Then we have no real quarrel. Much as I would like to stand in your place, I haven't the heart to deprive Ghean of her groom mere hours before the ceremony." He lifted his sword, leveling it at Methos. "Do not betray her," he said flatly.

Methos smirked. "I'll expect to find you waiting, if I do." He took two steps backwards, effectively dismissing the other Immortal. Aroz nodded again, and turned his back, walking swiftly from the gardens.

Methos waited until Aroz was entirely out of sight before releasing a slow breath. Someday I won't be able to avoid that fight, he thought waspishly. It might be better to force it now, when I know I can beat him. But I'd no more divest Ghean of his presence at the wedding than he'd deprive her of mine. With a sigh, Methos turned back to the house. He'd only taken a step or two when an indistinct tingle shivered down his backbone. He lifted the bared sword warily, searching the darkness for the Immortal whom he'd been warned of.

"It's only me." Ghean stepped out from behind a tree only a few feet away, a blanket clutched around her shoulders. "I thought I was being quiet."

Methos lowered the sword, slipping an arm around Ghean's shoulders. "You were. How long have you been out here?" The awareness of her potential Quickening thudded at the back of his head, a headache timed to match his heartbeat.

"Just a minute," she answered, snuggling against his side. "You'd been gone too long to get water, so I got up to look for you."

Methos encouraged her to begin walking back to the house with a brief squeeze. "I didn't think you'd really woken up at all." A little hesitantly, he asked, "You were listening to us?"

Ghean nodded against his ribs. "I'm glad you didn't have to fight him," she said softly. "I love you both."

"I know," Methos said, equally gently. "I'm glad, too." He pushed the door open, escorting Ghean inside. She padded back into the bedroom, dragging the blanket up onto the bed with her, and curled into a small lump in the center of the bed. Methos laughed quietly, leaving his sandals by the side of the bed as he climbed in wiht her. She rolled over sleepily, looking up at him with half lidded eyes.

"You won't fight him?" she asked drowsily.

Methos laid a hand against her cheek, smiling down at her. "I'll try not to," he promised. "Someday I might have to, but I'll try to avoid it."

Ghean smiled contentedly, eyes drifting fully closed as sleep claimed her again.

She didn't hear, Methos concluded. If she'd heard, she'd be awake and angry. He wrapped an arm around her, pulling her against his chest, and let sleep find him again, as well.

Ghean kissed his cheek just past daybreak and told him to find something to keep busy for the morning. Thus far, Methos' method of entertainment had been nervously pacing the outer wall of the temple, manfully dismissing the urge to peek through the windows. A quick glance at the sun told him he'd been at this task for almost four hours. He was relatively certain he would wear a path in the stone tier the temple sat on before the sun reached its zenith and it was time for the ceremony.

A burst of giggles from inside nearly forced him to break his vow to not spy on the women inside. They had been doing that all morning. Methos' curiousity was eating him alive. He slowed next to a window, then fixed his gaze on his toes, finally smiling at himself. One would think hundreds of years of practice would reduce the apprehension of getting married. He laughed. One might also think that hundreds of years of warfare would numb one enough that each new battle wouldn't send a surge of adreneline through the body. One would be very wrong, and, Methos decided, one should not pursue the comparisons of marriage and battle any further. Grinning, he resumed his methodical walk around the outside of the temple.

Minyah appeared from within the temple, hazel-gold eyes merry. "Ghean tells me that it is time for you to bathe and dress for the ceremony," she announced.

Methos shot another glance at the sky, eyebrows lifting. "It's not for almost two hours," he protested.

Minyah nodded solemnly. "True," she agreed, "but Ghean is certain that you are wearing a path in the stone and that you will trip in the groove you have left when you enter the temple. Such an ignominous entrance would ill suit the husband of a wife of Aries." The words were delivered with utter sincerity, tone at odds with the smile developing across her face. "Had she realized you would occupy yourself by carving a new riverbed with your feet, she would have given you specific tastsk." Minyah's voice gave way to the laughter on her face. "I told her men never know what to do with themselves on the day of the ceremony. I see that age makes no difference, and I was correct." Minyah looked distinctly smug. "That is always satisfying."

Methos threw his head back and laughed. "Minyah, are you ever wrong?"

The woman smiled. "No," she said, self-assuredly, "and in the unlikely event I should be, I would not admit it. Go and bathe, Methos. Here." Minyah stepped forward, holding her hand out, palm up. "This is for you."

Curious, Methos lifted the package out of Minyah's hand, raising an eyebrow for permission to open it. She nodded, stepping back again with a small smile.

The box was a tiny wooden replica of the one the Book was kept in. Methos studied it a moment, finding the pressure points that slid it open by the faint indentations in the wood. It popped open, revealing a length of soft leather slipped through a silver pendent. Methos picked it up, turning it over in his hand to examine the delicate replica of the House Aries symbol. Sunlight bounced off the etchings that segmented the ram's horns, and the silver studs that represented the Houses glittered faintly.

"It is a hair tie," Minyah explained, gesturing at the short leather strip. "Our House laws only allow necklaces to be worn by those born or adopted into the House, but there are no laws against other versions of the symbols being worn as jewelry. I hoped it might welcome you into Aries properly. Your hair is quite long enough to wear it." Minyah sounded anxious for the first time since Methos had met her. He looked up with a reassuring smile, reaching out to take her hand.

"Thank you, Minyah. This is the first time I've ever received a gift from a parent who knew the truth. It means a great deal to me." Methos closed his hand protectively over the piece. "Thank you," he repeated. "I will treasure it."

Minyah clapped her hands together, dismissing sentimentality with the sharp sound. "Excellent," she said, clearly pleased. "Now you must go and bathe. Take your time," she adviced. "I am certain the priests would appreciate you not returning to wear a rut around their temple."

A little while later, Methos closed his eyes, sinking into the bath until only his hair floated on top of the water, a black spider's web hovering on surface tension. Heat seeped into him slowly, and he drifted in the darkness, listening to the sound of his blood coursing in his ears. Tension slowly ebbed out of his shoulders, and he smiled sleepily into the water. One of the overlooked advantages of Immortality was the ability to submerge himself until all his cares filtered away in the peculiar silence underwater, without ever having to come up for air.

Atlanteans were the only people he'd ever met who bathed with at least weekly frequency, a habit he found blissfully luxurious. The cleverly-laid pipes that carried both cold and hot water from mountain springs made private, heated bathing extraordinarily easy. Methos wholeheartedly approved. I wonder if I could stay in Atlantis until the rest of the world catches up to its level of civilization. The thought made him grin, and he surged out of the water, laughing, hair streaming over his face.

"I thought you were never going to come up."

"Yagh!" Methos leapt backwards, scrambling half out of the bath in a frantic search for a blade before the voice settled into a familiar place in his mind. Edgily pushing wet hair out of his face, Methos glared at Ragar, who laughed openly at the startled Immortal.

"I'm sorry," the mortal scholar said, sounding not in the least repentant. "I've been sitting here for at least ten minutes. If I hadn't believed you before, I'd have to now."

Trying to hold on to the scowl, Methos settled back into the hot water, ducking his head under to smooth hair back from his face. "You scared me," he said accusingly. Ragar laughed again.

"So I see. I didn't mean to, but I must say it was worth it. I've never seen anyone levitate out of a bathtub before. I got your note. I can't decide if you're astonishingly arrogant or painfully humble."

"Probably arrogant," Methos said. "Why?"

"First you browbeat me into bringing you to Atlantis' most secret treasure. Then you tell me a story likening yourself to my gods, and when I go away to consider your story, you interrupt my meditations with a note asking me to stand for you in your wedding. The day before the wedding. That is not usual, my friend."

"Oh." Methos took a handful of soap, scrubbing it through his hair. "I didn't know I was supposed to have someone stand as a witness for me until yesterday morning. You were the only one who came to mind. I don't make friends particularly easily, Ragar, but I think I'd consider you a friend."

"Would you?" Ragar asked curiously. "Can a thousand-year- old man make a mortal friend that quickly?"

Methos smiled a little wistfully. "A thousand-year-old man has to, Ragar. Taking time ot make up my mind could too easily take the rest of your life. I have to decide very quickly if I want to be friends with someone." He ducked his head again, rinsing his hair. When he surfaced, he added, "If I didn't consider you a friend, and trustworthy, you can be sure I wouldn't have told you about myself."

"How can you be certain I'm trustworthy?"

Methos smiled faintly. "Nobody's pointed at me and started telling stories yet. If you tell people about me, I'll have to run, and then you'll never learn the stories I have to tell."

Ragar pulled a face. "Sometimes being a scholar is too transparent a calling. You're right: your secret is safe. But this wedding -- "

Methos leaned forward. "I'd be honored if you'd stand as my witness, Ragar. I know it's presumptious to ask, as we've only known each other a month and I asked at the last minute, but I would very much appreciate it. It would be the first, and probably the last time that everyone intimately involved with a marriage ceremony knew who and what I really was. That's something I'd like very much."

Ragar pressed his lips closed at the man in the bathtub. "It's all about you, isn't it?" he asked. "Nothing else really matters."

"Other things matter," Methos said stiffly.

"Just not as much."

Methos was silent, looking for a way around an honest answer. After a moment he shrugged, and nodded. "Just not as much."

"Mmm." Ragar folded his arms, thinking. "I'll stand for you," he said, after deliberation. "But I want to ask something in return."

"What?"

"Remember me," Ragar said. "In your journal, or however it is that you keep the days and years and centuries straight in your mind. I would like someone, a thousand years from now, to remember Ragar the scholar, even if he never did anything particularly spectacular with his life."

"You earned the trust of a thousand-year-old man," Methos said a little dryly. "That's not something that happens every day."

Ragar shook his head, not to be put off. "That's what I want in exchange, Methos. Remember me. Remember me, and live, so that I'll have made some small mark on history, even if it's through just one man."

"I will remember you," Methos promised softly. He glanced at the water, a small smile reflecting back at him. Out of all the promises he'd made over the last weeks, it was the only one he was sure he could keep.

Ragar nodded, satisfied, then stood energetically. "Well, get out of the water," he ordered. "You have a wedding to dress for. It's only an hour away!"

Butterflies rattled Methos' stomach, tying themselves into cast-iron knots of nervousness. You're a thousand years old, he scolded himself. You should be able to handle a little wedding ceremony.

"Five more minutes," he mumbled pleadingly, and sank underwater again to the sound of laughter.