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This one may require some explaining. Heh. Though first, I should note that finishing college work seems to prompt Highlander fic from me, for some reason. Heh. But. Anyway.
And now, the snippet itself:
Title: With Care, With Abandon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Highlander, Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Sana (OFC), mention of Severus Snape and a lot of Methos' history
Summary: Methos discusses his new student with an old friend
Wordcount: 1091
Warnings/Notes: Fantasy. Just a window on a potential Methos
Disclaimer: Not mine
Much as I have massive original stories in my head, for more or less my own entertainment only, so too do I have massive fanfics in my head, for pretty much the same reason. Massive internal narratives that I really have no intention of ever writing down, that are just there for my own pleasure and amusement. As much (or as little, of late) as I write, it is honestly nothing to the amount of stories I have going in my head. And I will never write them down. A lot of them, by this stage, are simply too big. But this one ... for some reason, I wanted to share a little snippet of this one. Just for the window on Methos, just for a second. I wanted to share it.
The story it comes from is a Highlander/Harry Potter crossover in my head, which involves an immortal Severus Snape, coming back after dying in Deathly Hallows and with Methos as his teacher (who else?). It's pretty much pure fantasy on my part, and I make no apologies for it, as I probably won't ever be inflicting it on anyone else. Heh. It also features an original female character of mine, from the Highlander half. You'll meet her in the following snippet. *smiles faintly*
The story it comes from is a Highlander/Harry Potter crossover in my head, which involves an immortal Severus Snape, coming back after dying in Deathly Hallows and with Methos as his teacher (who else?). It's pretty much pure fantasy on my part, and I make no apologies for it, as I probably won't ever be inflicting it on anyone else. Heh. It also features an original female character of mine, from the Highlander half. You'll meet her in the following snippet. *smiles faintly*
And now, the snippet itself:
Title: With Care, With Abandon
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Highlander, Harry Potter
Characters/Pairings: Methos, Sana (OFC), mention of Severus Snape and a lot of Methos' history
Summary: Methos discusses his new student with an old friend
Wordcount: 1091
Warnings/Notes: Fantasy. Just a window on a potential Methos
Disclaimer: Not mine
With Care, With Abandon
"He is not like your other student," she said, softly, contemplatively. Watching him over the rim of her cup, watching the curl of firelight over his features. He watched her back, as avidly, as closely. Watched the ageless, quiet thing behind her dark eyes, the endless knowing creased into her skin. Among the oldest of them to look at, she was, and yet without age. Such a contrast to him, smooth-cheeked and ancient beyond compare.
"I know," he answered, rolling his cup in his palms, smiling absently. He knew, always, who she meant. In the end, really, there had been only one. Only one, to whom all subsequent must be compared. Only one, whom he had loved with the first and most fearsome of passions, and to whom all others were, in some way, but echoes.
He was no longer that man, no longer that love. And each subsequent youth had been unique unto themselves, and precious for it, gifts for what little time he had known them. But the connection could not be denied, to that first. He had been that man for so long. He had loved that love for so many years. The first of his students. And the first, for good or ill, would never be forgotten.
"He could have been," he said, after a moment. Tipping back his head to watch her under lidded eyes, thoughtful, sharing aloud. "Severus. He could have been, had he died that little bit sooner, had he seen that little bit less, had he chosen that little differently. He could have been ... so much like him. He has it in him. He has ... so much of it in him. He could have been all the other was, and more. He's more brains. He has more experience."
She smiled, a wry thing, a knowing thing, creasing at the corners of her mouth, following the paths of old smiles. She looked so knowing, this one. So much more the ancient than he. She looked so wise.
"Yes," she said, simply.
"He could be that, still. Power doesn't hold the attraction it once did, he's seen too much for that, but that could change. He could grow confident. Arrogant. He could come to think of the costs as something he could bear, as an immortal. He could be all Kronos was, and more. If he found something he wanted. If he suffered something he could not bear." He paused, tipped his head to the side, smiling obliquely. "He could be that. If he chose."
"And if he did, you would help him."
So baldly, she said it. So quiet and without judgement. Sana, who asked nothing of anyone, whose silences weighed more than words, and who parcelled her truths to be only that, and nothing more. If he did, you would help him. And yes. He would.
"Yes," he said, soft and wry. No shame in the admittance. He was too old for that, and knew himself too well. In years, centuries to come, he might look back, might regret. In the moment, as he chose, he would know the depth of his choice, and understand its consequences. But he would feel no shame. He loved, and his loves were too few and far between, too ephemeral and too faint for him to ever be anything but thorough, for him to ever do anything but surrender, in totality. If Severus chose, he would help him, as he had helped Duncan, George, Anthea, Kronos and his brothers. If. If.
"I will help him," he said, quietly, and with the smallest edge to his smile. "If and when, I will help him. But ... he will not." A laugh, bright as glass, a wry twisting of his hand as he watched the darkness. "He has seen too much. He will not. I don't know what he will, but he won't be that. I know it."
She smiled, then. Not the goddess, serene and untouchable, not the divinity who had sat upon her mountain for two thousand years, and looked upon the toils of her people with the implacable face of time. She smiled, as a woman smiles, and as his friend, with the true light of humour in her eyes.
"And so you hedge your bets," she murmured, laughing at him from the firelight, and he grinned, and sketched for her a bow. "The student of human nature, are you?"
He smirked, a little. "I'm no more a youth, Sana," he reminded, mouth curving faintly inwards, knowing. "I've lived enough of love to choose its objects with more care." A laugh. "Some little, at least. I fix my roving eye with far more care than once I used to." He had the luxury of choice, after all. The luxury of time, and the luxury of knowing enough of himself to guard against the future, and the past. There would never be another Kronos. There could not.
She smiled at him, still the woman, and now there was judgement in it. Now there was weighing. But not heavy, and not against him. She smiled, as if at a foolish child, and shook her head for his optimism. He, the oldest of the old, the most cynical, the most embittered. She smiled at his foolish hope, and he could not at all fault her for it.
"You gave the other a thousand years," she said, and it was gentle. "You gave for him one fifth of what you have lived, and became a monster for all the world to fear. All for him. And now, this little one. This child. What will you be for him, do you think? What will he ask of you, that you will become for his sake?"
And he was silent, for a moment. In the dimness and the firelight, caught between the darkness and the light, he dipped his head to hide his face from her view, and was silent. For the moment, while he thought, and the shadows danced about his face, the past and the future tangled in their fingers. A moment, no more.
Then he lifted his face to her, Methos, the oldest, the most ancient, and in his eyes there was nothing but the sparkle of delight, of wonder and anticipation and a mad and knowing kind of love. He looked at her, with a grin upon his lips, and said, with utmost reverence:
"I don't know. I don't know, Sana. But I think it will be ... interesting, to find out."
And Sana, the goddess in the mountain, smiled at him, and wished the world its luck.
"He is not like your other student," she said, softly, contemplatively. Watching him over the rim of her cup, watching the curl of firelight over his features. He watched her back, as avidly, as closely. Watched the ageless, quiet thing behind her dark eyes, the endless knowing creased into her skin. Among the oldest of them to look at, she was, and yet without age. Such a contrast to him, smooth-cheeked and ancient beyond compare.
"I know," he answered, rolling his cup in his palms, smiling absently. He knew, always, who she meant. In the end, really, there had been only one. Only one, to whom all subsequent must be compared. Only one, whom he had loved with the first and most fearsome of passions, and to whom all others were, in some way, but echoes.
He was no longer that man, no longer that love. And each subsequent youth had been unique unto themselves, and precious for it, gifts for what little time he had known them. But the connection could not be denied, to that first. He had been that man for so long. He had loved that love for so many years. The first of his students. And the first, for good or ill, would never be forgotten.
"He could have been," he said, after a moment. Tipping back his head to watch her under lidded eyes, thoughtful, sharing aloud. "Severus. He could have been, had he died that little bit sooner, had he seen that little bit less, had he chosen that little differently. He could have been ... so much like him. He has it in him. He has ... so much of it in him. He could have been all the other was, and more. He's more brains. He has more experience."
She smiled, a wry thing, a knowing thing, creasing at the corners of her mouth, following the paths of old smiles. She looked so knowing, this one. So much more the ancient than he. She looked so wise.
"Yes," she said, simply.
"He could be that, still. Power doesn't hold the attraction it once did, he's seen too much for that, but that could change. He could grow confident. Arrogant. He could come to think of the costs as something he could bear, as an immortal. He could be all Kronos was, and more. If he found something he wanted. If he suffered something he could not bear." He paused, tipped his head to the side, smiling obliquely. "He could be that. If he chose."
"And if he did, you would help him."
So baldly, she said it. So quiet and without judgement. Sana, who asked nothing of anyone, whose silences weighed more than words, and who parcelled her truths to be only that, and nothing more. If he did, you would help him. And yes. He would.
"Yes," he said, soft and wry. No shame in the admittance. He was too old for that, and knew himself too well. In years, centuries to come, he might look back, might regret. In the moment, as he chose, he would know the depth of his choice, and understand its consequences. But he would feel no shame. He loved, and his loves were too few and far between, too ephemeral and too faint for him to ever be anything but thorough, for him to ever do anything but surrender, in totality. If Severus chose, he would help him, as he had helped Duncan, George, Anthea, Kronos and his brothers. If. If.
"I will help him," he said, quietly, and with the smallest edge to his smile. "If and when, I will help him. But ... he will not." A laugh, bright as glass, a wry twisting of his hand as he watched the darkness. "He has seen too much. He will not. I don't know what he will, but he won't be that. I know it."
She smiled, then. Not the goddess, serene and untouchable, not the divinity who had sat upon her mountain for two thousand years, and looked upon the toils of her people with the implacable face of time. She smiled, as a woman smiles, and as his friend, with the true light of humour in her eyes.
"And so you hedge your bets," she murmured, laughing at him from the firelight, and he grinned, and sketched for her a bow. "The student of human nature, are you?"
He smirked, a little. "I'm no more a youth, Sana," he reminded, mouth curving faintly inwards, knowing. "I've lived enough of love to choose its objects with more care." A laugh. "Some little, at least. I fix my roving eye with far more care than once I used to." He had the luxury of choice, after all. The luxury of time, and the luxury of knowing enough of himself to guard against the future, and the past. There would never be another Kronos. There could not.
She smiled at him, still the woman, and now there was judgement in it. Now there was weighing. But not heavy, and not against him. She smiled, as if at a foolish child, and shook her head for his optimism. He, the oldest of the old, the most cynical, the most embittered. She smiled at his foolish hope, and he could not at all fault her for it.
"You gave the other a thousand years," she said, and it was gentle. "You gave for him one fifth of what you have lived, and became a monster for all the world to fear. All for him. And now, this little one. This child. What will you be for him, do you think? What will he ask of you, that you will become for his sake?"
And he was silent, for a moment. In the dimness and the firelight, caught between the darkness and the light, he dipped his head to hide his face from her view, and was silent. For the moment, while he thought, and the shadows danced about his face, the past and the future tangled in their fingers. A moment, no more.
Then he lifted his face to her, Methos, the oldest, the most ancient, and in his eyes there was nothing but the sparkle of delight, of wonder and anticipation and a mad and knowing kind of love. He looked at her, with a grin upon his lips, and said, with utmost reverence:
"I don't know. I don't know, Sana. But I think it will be ... interesting, to find out."
And Sana, the goddess in the mountain, smiled at him, and wished the world its luck.
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