Chapter Twenty-Two

The wind off the water tasted of salt and fish, ruffling Methos' hair and leaving a few dark strands knocked out of place when it faded away. Even on the warm Mediterranean beach, he wore his greatcoat, the heavy wool less affected by the breezze than his hair was. The only real concession to the warmer climate were the sandals he wore, though the kahkis and white polo shirt, open at the throat, were equally suited for Chicago or Greece.

He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, eyes closed. It hadn't been so very long since he'd last stood on beaches along the Mediterranean Sea, not even by mortal standards. For Methos, the few intervening years since he'd brought Alexa to Greece were barely a blink, an infinitesimal fraction of his thousands of years.

Alexa. Time dulled grief, but Immortality was a double- edged sword. It made time peculiarly fluid, washing the years after a death away into nothing at all, until suddenly it was decades, not days, since death had captured a loved one. A scent, or a gesture, or a smile would bring it all back in a rush, leaving him -- or any Immortal -- surprised in a net of memories from a lifetime before anyone near him had been born.

It would happen. Methos knew it, and a part of him was relieved for it. To remember everyone and everything gone each day would drive anyone insane. Fading memories were the only way to deal with the never-ending loss that was the price of Immortality. The moments of sudden clarity, when they came, were tempered with time, making it easier to remember the good moments, distance making bittersweet pain easier to bear.

For now, though, it was still raw, and Methos kept it close to his heart. He wasn't ready yet to let Alexa go. She'd been something special, something he didn't see often, courage and pride mixed up with fragility, reflected in her dying body. She'd had such defensive walls, and he'd been desperate to break them down, desperate for what little time they could have together. She'd been beautiful, round-faced with gentle eyes and a shy smile. Her hair was thin. He'd never asked if it'd been thicker before cancer invaded, only brushed it and buried his face in the scent of it. It wasn't fair. It was so damned unfair.

A hundred miles off the coat, drowned beneath the sea, lay the potential cure for the cancer that had eaten Alexa from the inside out. Methos opened his eyes, looking out over the blue waters. The cure might be in the Book, and I don't want to give it to the world.

What kind of selfish bastard am I? The question, voiced silently, was without venom. The kind of selfish bastard that puts himself first to survive. Just like I always have. It might not be the right thing to do for the world, but it's the right thing for Immortals. For myself.

Duncan, he thought acidly, would damn the consequences and hand the Book over to medical science on a silver platter. If it meant Immortality for the world, so be it. Mac would accept it with open arms.

Methos grinned despite himself, wandering down the beach into the water, walking along the tide line, foamy water and sand splashing the legs of his pants. But I'm not Duncan. He looked up, squinting at the water, and shook his head. The Highlander had changed him. Less than a decade ago, he wouldn't have stopped to consider what another's actions might be, or whether his own were wrong or right in someone else's eyes. Now, at least, he thought about it. It rarely changed his course of action, but the fact that he gave other viewpoints heed at all was a remarkable change to have affected in such a short period of time.

Duncan was back in Seacouver, at any rate, and unlikely to change Methos' feelings on the matter. It's not that I object to the knowledge being available, exactly. It's that I object to it being available to anyone I don't trust.

That rather narrowed the field of people Methos wanted to have access to the Book. Down to two or three, he thought wryly. I'm curious to read it again, now that I'll be able to understand more of it. Methos shook his head, frowning at the water. He simply didn't want the kind of knowledge available in the Book to be misused, and he was far too old a student of humanity to believe anything else would happen. The answer, then, was to either destroy it, or control it.

He'd prefer to control it. Methos was also far too much a scholar to willingly destroy the Book. He glanced south, over the sea, smiling a little in memory. He'd wept, when the Library at Alexandria burned, fourteen centuries ago. Knowledge was too precious to him, too long a pursuit, to take it from the world entirely. Hiding it, as it had been hidden all these millennia, would be enough.

It was possible humanity would someday reach the point where his kind and mortals could live together, if the Game didn't end before then. It was possible the day would come that Immortality would be parceled out to everyone, not just the wealthy.

It was possible pigs would sprout wings and fly away. Until then, Methos wanted to be the one with the Book. He didn't trust anyone else. It's a limited existence, he thought, amused, but I've grown accustomed to it. He angled up the beach, leaving the water to head back to where he'd parked. The sharp cries of seagulls slowed him, and he looked back over the water, pain tightening his features. He'd left guilt behind a long time ago -- I haven't felt guilt since the eleventh century, he'd told Duncan once. Since I joined with Kronos and became Death, he amended the statement privately. But regret. Regret seems unavoidable.

If only, he thought. If only Ghean had rediscovered Atlantis earlier. If only I'd thought to look there myself. If only the cancer hadn't been so bad. If only, if only, if only. Alexa would want me to give the Book to the doctors.

Alexa is dead.

Methos turned his back on the water and finished the climb to the car, trying hard to leave regret behind him.

He was almost surprised that Ghean wasn't waiting for him at the car. She knew he'd come to Greece; the University had returned Duncan's call, politely falling over itself in its eagerness to accept the donation to the Atlantis fund. They were almost rabidly apologetic at Dr. Kostani's insistance that only Dr. Pierson accompany her on the undersea explorations, although, the harried woman on the other end of the line assured Duncan, he was most definetely welcome if he wished to stay at the land base or even on the ship. Duncan had looked at Methos, and demurred. Methos was fairly certain the Highlander had an absurdly romantic notion in his thick Scottish skull, and rolled his eyes at Duncan as Mac hung up the phone.

It wasn't, Methos agreed, that the idea was unappealing. Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks, but bears it out even to the edge of doom. If this be error, and upon me prov'd, I never writ, nor no man ever loved. A smile curved Methos' mouth as he recalled Shakespeare's sonnet. No one, certainly, was more qualified than Methos to pass judgement on love's ability to pass through the centuries.

Until the gut-wrenching shock of seeing Cassandra again, even Methos had always relegated those eternal loves to fond memory, only reflective of the true feeling. Her pale eyes, filled with fury, gave the lie to the reflection, and the truth to Shakespeare's words. In the terrifying moment when he'd first seen her again, Methos learned that love hadn't altered at all. It had only settled into memory, waiting for a chance to re-emerge.

It had been much the same with Ghean's unexpected reappearance. The same sick, thudding disbelief had twisted his stomach, somehow bringing all of the good moments they'd had to mind.

And Ghean still had her intensity, the dark-eyed focus that made the rest of the world fade away. Watching her, as they'd exchanged stories, filling in what had happened in Atlantis and after, had been breathtaking. The short haircut she wore now highlighted her eyes in a way the hip-length style she'd worn in Atlantis never could have. The innocence, as he'd feared, had been lost. Whether it was the first death, or the ensuing thousands of years of captivity that had broken naievete away from her was irrelevant. Replacing it was anger, a fire that burned a little too near the surface. It was as compelling, perhaps even more than innocence had been, for the danger inherent within.

It was what kept the idea of rekindled romance nothing more than a charming and idle thought. Passion, Methos thrived on. It was part of what drew him to Duncan, as well as Joe and Amanda, and one reason they had come to matter so much to him. All of them had an astonishing passion in life -- Duncan for his rigid code of right and wrong, Joe for his belief in the Watchers, and Amanda in her sheer exuberance for living on the edge. Methos had his own passions, more tempered: scholarship, medicine, and above all else, survival.

Ghean had passion in her anger, but no visible focus. It was not, Methos was certain, that the focus was not there, but merely that he couldn't see it. Far too many years separated them for him to be able intuitively guess what she might be thinking or plotting. Until he knew, Methos couldn't let sentimentality cloud his judgement.

And still you expected her to be waiting for you. Arrogant old man. He grinned at himself.

It wasn't impossible that she might have been waiting. The University had offered him a room in the small complex they were renting for their land base, but Methos had declined. The key word in their description was small. Methos was uncomfortable with placing himself so near another Immortal, particularly one he didn't entirely trust. Though he'd never slept through the tingling headache that announced another Immortal's arrival, the warning wasn't a constant: once and Immortal entered the range of sensitivity, the feeling faded away. Methos prefered not to risk the proximity being so close that the warning would be useless, and instead rented himself a room at a nearby bed and breakfast. The University had the name and room number, and Ghean could have learned from the proprietor that Dr. Pierson had asked directions to the beach that morning.

Methos pulled the car up to the B&B, shaking his head. All of which, he teased himself, comes out to a great deal of trouble. For someone who's busy swearing off revitalized romances, you're spending a lot of time hypothosizing how Ghean might 'happen' to come across you. Grinning again, he locked the car door and took the stairs up to the bed and breakfast's second floor two at a time.

Halfway up, the chill of warning slashed through him. Glancing over his shoulder to assure himself there were no mortals lurking, Methos drew his sword, taking the last steps more cautiously. At the head of the stairs, he craned his neck around the corner, peering down the hallway.

Ghean stepped out of his room, hands spread deliberately wide and open at her sides. "They let me in," she called. "I explained I was a work collegue. I don't," she added, smiling, "think they believed me."

Methos sighed, coming around the corner and down the hall without resheathing his sword. "Don't do that to me," he said irritably. "I behave badly when surprised."

"Only when surprised? You seem to have displayed bad behavior extensively since we've become reacquainted." Ghean went back into his room, Methos a step behind her.

The room was pink. The walls themselves were an inoffensive pale rose, just enough color to them to warm the room. Alone, it would have been pleasant. Unfortunately, the decorator hadn't stopped there. A fuzzy carpet, a few shades off fuschia and with loops coming out of the weave, reflected off the walls, rendering both floor and walls brighter than they'd originally been. The curtains over the windows almost defied putting a name to the color. Methos had, after much horrified deliberation, concluded they were probably magenta. The bedcovers were not only pink, but were embroidered with heavy red roses. Even the overhead light had a pink bulb in it.

It was, the proprietor had told him firmly, the only available room. The others were being redecorated. Methos, staring in dismay at the overwhelming decor, could see why.

It didn't get better with repeated exposure. Methos considered buying a pair of sunglasses just to deal with the glare of the room, although he loathed wearing them outside. Ghean was grinning at the room. "It's very you, "Met--"

"Adam," he corrected, before she finished his name. After an audible pause, she continued.

"Adam. I think they call this being in touch with your feminine side?"

"I make a terrible woman." Methos grimaced. "I'm too flat-chested, and I just can't disguise the Adam's apple. I have," he added, "been surprised a lot since your reappearance. It no doubt accounts for my ill temper."

"Isn't life more exciting that way?" Ghean sat down on the bed, leaving the chair -- an armchair covered with dark pink plush -- for Methos. He eyed it distastefully, and sat, kicking his feet up on the dresser. He hadn't examined it, but decided it was probably made of rosewood, to keep in theme.

"It's more unpredictable. I don't like unpredictable. Speaking of which, what are you doing here?"

Ghean's eyebrows rose, disappearing beneath her bangs. "Is my appearance unpredictable?"

Methos cast a glance at her, then chuckled despite himself. "I was expecting you while I was down at the beach," he confessed.

"I see. I'll have to work on my timing, then." Ghean folded her arms, leaning against the headboard. "I've painted a glowing review of you, Methos. Michael's expecting a venerable old man, or a child of genuis beyond compare."

Methos leaned backwards in the plush-covered chair, tilting it precariously far and snagging the door with his fingertips to swing it closed as Ghean used his real name again. Her eyebrows lifted, curious, and he shook his head. "You're going to have to learn to call me Adam."

"Why? We're behind closed doors now."

"Don't be difficult."

Ghean dimpled, an almost apologetic smile. "I'm terribly sorry, Adam. But since we are behind closed doors, can't I use your true name?"

Goosebumps ran over Methos' arms, even under the greatcoat he hadn't shed. A true name is a thing of power. And you, despite your years, are a superstitious old man, he chided himself. "Just watch it in public, Ghean. Legends are confirmed by chance encounters and evesdropping, and I much prefer my status to be legendary instead of confirmed."

Ghean pursed her lips, lifting a hand to tap her thumb against her mouth idly. "Were you this paranoid in Atlantis, Methos?"

"No," he said shortly. "But I was a lot younger then, too."

Ghean was silent a moment, folding her arms again. "Tell me about your life, Methos," she asked quietly. "Tell me about the life I might have lived. Would you have ever told me what I was?"

Methos lowered his head, pinching the bridge of his nose. "I was going to," he sighed. "Despite the Rules, I was going to. In a few years, five or six years. You were so young, Ghean. I didn't want to jeapordize the enthusiasm for life you had, the enthusiasm that I loved so much. Even Aroz agreed with me, tacitly, at least. I thought we had time." He dropped his hand, looking up at her again.

Ghean regarded him steadily in return. She wore a white silk tanktop tucked into an above-the-knee black skirt. The tank left her arms bared, showing more muscle than Methos remembered from Atlantis. She'd left her shoes, black pumps, on the floor, and had her ankles crossed in front of her on the bed. The necklace of Aries was caught in her arms, the silver chain loose against her neck. Her hair was held back by a white headband, leaving her bangs down. She looked astonishingly kitten-like, brown eyes tempered with curiousity.

Methos shut his eyes agains the image, standing to pull his coat off and drop it over the back of the chair. "You read the Methos Chronicles that the Watchers kept. You've read a lot of the life you might have lived." He sat back down, shaking his head. "Another time, I'll tell you about some of it. Tell me about this role I'm supposed to play."

"You sound like I've assigned it to you." Ghean's face lost the odd youthfulness and settled into more determined lines. "It was your idea to tag along on my exploration."

"Yes, but you told your Dr. Powers that I was inutterably clever. While I'd never disagree, I need to know how far my supposed boundaries stretch."

"He's known me for years," Ghean defended herself. "I can only push my own apparent knowledge so far, before it starts to look suspicious. You wanted to come along. The least I could do was make you useful to me."

"I live to serve," Methos said dryly. "What do I know, Ghean, or shall I just make it up as I go along?" He steepled his fingers, listening intently as Ghean outline the history she'd sketched for Michael. "Good God," Methos burst out when she was done. "You told him I could translate Atlantean?"

"Don't be silly," she said smoothly. "I merely suggested that if anyone could, you could. Besides, there may be nothing left. The paper and scrolls won't have survived."

"Unless they're encapsulated like the Book was," Methos said.

"Even so, the room might have been destroyed. Those boxes won't hold up under being crushed to a pulp, no matter how well made they were." Ghean took a rose-embroidered pillow and switched ends of the bed, rolling onto her stomach and folding the pillow under her chin so she could keep watching Methos.

Methos arched an eyebrow. "Do you think it was destroyed?"

Ghean hestiated. "I don't want it to have been," she said. "There isn't a great deal left to the city, Methos. The road structure is still visible, and some of the buildings are left, mostly partial remains. Without something like the Book, I may never prove that Atlantis was the great advanced civilization of legend."

"How were you going to do that before I told you where the Book was?"

Ghean shrugged a shoulder. "With whatever I could find. The sewer system was too far underground to be able to dig up, but I hoped for some of the artwork to have survived, maybe some of the houses. I want to try to find the library again and see if anything there was miraculously preserved. Some of the older books were kept in the boxes to keep them from corroding in the air. The Book would make it all a lot easier."

"Is that what you're looking for, Ghean? Ease of fame and fortune? You've got that, you know. Even if they decide this isn't Atlantis, you've made an incredible find."

Ghean's eyes glittered as she looked up at Methos. "No," she said softly. "I don't care about fame or fortune. I want Atlantis back."

Methos shook his head. "It's gone, Ghean. It's been gone for thousands of years. The past doesn't come back."

"I did," Ghean said, "You did. All we need is the island, now."

"I doubt you're going to be able to raise it from the sea floor, Ghean. Somebody doesn't like it when Immortals fight on holy ground. Atlantis is drowned for good."

Ghean shifted again, sitting with her legs folded under her, the pillow hugged across her middle. "How did you know?" she asked. "How did you know something terrible would happen?"

Methos spread his hands. "The Rules," he said helplessly. "No fighting on holy ground. I didn't know what would happen, and I didn't want to stay to find out. It's not that I remember being in a similiar situation before Atlantis. I just trusted the Rules."

"Why?"

"Because they're the first thing I remember?" Methos shrugged. "I don't know, Ghean. It was holy ground, the Rulse say no fighting on holy ground, the sky was boiling black. It seemed like running was the best possible option. I can't give you a better reason. I just wanted to run, and so I did."

"A lot of people would call you a coward," Ghean observed quietly.

"A lot of people," Methos said, "would have died at Atlantis. What do you want me to say, Ghean? Do you want me to say I'm sorry? I'm sorry you were caught in an oubliette for four and a half millennia. Does that help? Does it make it better, or make it all go away?"

Ghean's shoulders tensed as she looked at Methos. "Are you sorry you didn't try to rescue me?"

"No," Methos said, and watched everything gentle drain from Ghean's face. "I'm sorry you were trapped, Ghean. I'm sorry you went through that, but you're asking me to be sorry for putting my survival first, and I won't do that."

Ghean stood up, putting her shoes on and placing the pillow very carefully back at the head of the bed. "The first expedition leaves at seven, Tuesday morning. We'll be leaving promptly, so please be on time." She brushed past him, stopping just inside the door to look over her shoulder. "You could have lied."

Methos listened to the staccato clip of her heels going down the hallway, and stood to go to the window then the sound faded entirely. Ghean went out the front door, climbing into her car and slamming the door with a hard dull thud. Seconds later the car disappeared down the road.

Poorly, if honestly, handled, Methos mocked himself, and turned away from the window, letting the curtain drop.