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Title: He Commands, Who Is Commanded
Rating: PG-13
Fandom: Highlander
Continuity: Season 6, ish?
Characters/Pairings: Duncan, Methos. Possibly hints of Duncan/Methos, but it was gen in my head when I wrote it
Summary: So how does someone survive for five thousand years, exactly?
Wordcount: 3392
Disclaimer: Not mine
Warnings: Adult concepts, inc. slavery
He Commands, Who Is Commanded
"You were a slave?" He couldn't have sounded more incredulous if he tried, and knew it, but couldn't help it. "Methos. You?"
"Yes?" the old man's voice was blank, curious. "It used to be the going career in the old days, Mac. Lots of the older immortals you might meet will probably have done a stint or two." A sigh, as he moved cups around, the chink as he tapped the bottle against the table meditatively. "Given the need to keep moving, the relative lack of family ties ... most immortals were ripe picking for the slavers. What, you think Cassandra was the first?"
A long, ripe pause, and then cautiously. "You mean you were a slave before the Horsemen?"
A nod, brief, uncommunicative. Methos sipped thoughtfully at his beer. "Myself and Caspian, we'd both been through it. Couple of times for me. Only once for him, but it ... he didn't come back from it properly. There are ways. Surviving slavery. I've always been rather good at it, actually. Caspian ... not so much. Fire-scarred, he was. Inside. Something broke that never healed. Kronos saw it, first time they met. Used it. He was good at that. I was too, but Caspian ... Only Silas ever really reached him." He paused, mouth tilting in a sad smile. "Silas had that way about him. Animals sensed it. Caspian too. Sometimes hated him for it, for reaching down where Caspian never wanted anyone to be able to go again, but Silas didn't understand that. Silas only tried to help, and lashed back when Caspian lashed at him. If had been just them, alone ... Caspian would have killed Silas, one day, just from the fear of it. And Silas ... Silas would have let him, at the end. Brothers, to the last."
He stopped, bottle cradled in both hands between his thighs, head lowered to stare at it blindly. Duncan shifted uneasily, frowning. He didn't want to ... sometimes he forgot, that these men had been more than monsters, that they had been people Methos had once called brothers, that he had loved them, and mourned them too. Sometimes he forgot, and sometimes he didn't want to remember. The Horsemen were too deep a trench between them.
Slowly, cautious still, he tried to bring it back. "But you ... you came back? From slavery?" He winced a bit as Methos looked up blankly, eyes still haunted by old grief and pained regret, but then they cleared and the world's oldest immortal looked back at him as cheerfully and faux-wise as ever.
"Oh yes. In bits and pieces, mostly, but I was still young then. Only a millennium under my belt. Took me a while to get the hang of it. Really, my heyday wasn't until the early Roman era." He leaned back, smiling widely. "Ah, you should have seen me, Macleod! I could have auctions running for hours, climbing through the roof! I could beggar amphitheaters in one sitting." The smile changed, an edge of darkness to it. "And I could choose my buyer, too. I had the art by then. I could sway the crowd to my choosing, and lure in who I needed. For power or kindness, I could take my pick, as I needed at the time."
He nodded in faint satisfaction, peeling absently at the label of his beer. Duncan stared at him, blinking in outright confusion. "But ... you were a slave! We ... we are talking about the same thing, yes?"
Methos peered at him at that, expression suddenly flickering, something edged and calculating flashing for a moment. "I don't know," he said, slowly, consideringly. "Are we?"
Duncan shook his head. "You were on the Railroad, weren't you?" he asked, then somewhat belligerently ... "You held Cassandra. I don't think the idea changes much. Taking another human's life and will and body for your own. Their rights. Their freedom."
Methos pursed his lips, as if rolling the words around his mouth. "Ye-es. And no. There are different ... degrees. Different types, maybe. And it does make a difference. The degree of latitude ... it does make a difference. But at the heart of it ... close enough, yes. I was a slave. I belonged to other men, and women, and occasionally governments. The degree to which I took that to heart varied, becoming less over the years, but more or less what you say, yes. I was indeed a slave."
Duncan shook his head, too many questions springing at once. "Then how ... then what ..."
Methos smiled pitilessly. "Then how could I take Cassandra? Then how could I hold power? Then how did I free myself? Then what did it do to me?" He grinned, blank and cool, like a shark. "Pick one, Macleod, and I'll answer. Only one, though. Choose wisely." He wagged an admonishing finger, only smiling at Duncan's look of warning and faint unease.
Duncan clenched his fists for a moment, and tried to think. He wasn't sure how this conversation had started, or what he had hoped to get from it, but Methos had taken it somewhere else. He was guiding it somewhere, to some conclusion only he could fathom, and all Duncan could do was try and follow, and keep as much dignity as possible.
"No," he said, softly. "You pick one, Methos. Tell me ... teach me whatever lesson you have in mind, since you've brought us here. I'll not be goaded by you."
There was a pause, then, as the older immortal looked him over slowly, eyebrows raising in honest surprise, and a hint of somewhat wry respect. Humour too, ever-present and rolling beneath the surface of the man like a sea, but Duncan didn't mind that so much anymore. It was simply part of the man. Part of his friend.
"You are learning, then," Methos said quietly, musingly. "You are listening."
"I always listen," Duncan replied, equally quiet. "You don't think so, but I do, Methos. I always listen to you, even if I don't agree, even if I can't agree. That's not going to change, either." Methos' eyes crinkled, lighting with genuine warmth, and the edge of something that looked, for a moment, like pride. His smile was real, now, and soft.
"That's all I've ever wanted, Macleod. Duncan. All I've ever asked. Nothing more."
"I know." Hesitant, vaguely shamed. "I know that. Now." He stopped, wanting to say more, some faltering apology, maybe, but Methos raised a slender hand with a smile, and shook his head, laughter bubbling up a little.
"Well, better late than never, I suppose," he said, and laughed when Duncan threw a cushion at him, returning fire immediately, and for a while no more was said, though plenty was aimed. Duncan let the moment roll, until it settled, and smiled for his friend as they collapsed back, wheezing. Methos' eyes sparkled at him.
A silence, then, for a little minute, until his thoughts settled and a question rose from the depths. The same question, as always, if only because others were so rarely answered. "How?" he murmured, quietly. "How did you survive?" How do you always survive? What carries you through all this, my friend, what makes you fit to last five thousand years unbroken, where others die or fall to madness? What is it that drives you?
Methos looked at him, tapping the lip of the bottle against his lower lip, eyes warm and amused, and also wary. Forever wary, even now, forever calculating. Duncan couldn't even resent it anymore. It was too much a part of who Methos was, a caution born millennia ago that no friendship now could ever fully banish. He knew that, and accepted it, even if he could never like it.
"When you fight," Methos said at last, staring out to somewhere in the middle distance. "When you fight, when it's down to the finish, when you can see every thought your opponent has, when you can sense their every need and motive, when there is nothing but the blade between you and death, and they leap towards it ... You know what that feels like?"
Duncan nodded mutely.
"It's that. Only ... longer. Unending, really. Fighting. Surviving. Living. It's all the one. One long fight, from start to finish, against death, against that ending, and you can't lose. You can't ever lose. The opponent can shift and change, be a man, a woman, a nation, an idea, but the fight is the same. It's all the same. Slavery was just ... another phase in the battle. Another face for the enemy to wear. It was a warrior who fought with certain weapons, and all you had to do was learn them, and counter them. No different from the sword, or the axe, or the gun. No different from the camouflage, from the hiding, from the running. Just threats, and how to counter them. Or how to use them, turn them on the enemy himself, bend his hand against his own heart ..."
He trailed off, thoughtful, and Duncan found voice to ask, once more ... "How?" Methos tilted his head towards him, a strange smile flickering over his lips, a darkness hovering behind his eyes.
"You really want to know?" he asked. "Want to see?" And danger, there was danger in that question, Duncan could sense it, could all but touch it. There was something sharp waiting there, but he had to know.
"I do," he whispered. "I do."
And Methos smiled, and flowed to his feet, moving like water, beckoning for Duncan to follow. One pale hand reached behind the couch, curling gently around the hilt of his sword, and he gestured for Duncan to do the same. Hesitantly, Duncan obeyed.
"You're my master, Macleod," Methos said, gently, and Duncan flinched despite himself, already shaking his head, but Methos only smiled, and continued on. "Or my opponent. Or both. Look at me in anger. Threaten me." His smile flickered again, mercurial and sly. "And do try to be convincing, won't you? The game's no fun, otherwise."
"Game?" Duncan asked, levelly, but his sword was raised, his brow heavy and cold. He glared, leaning in as if to strike. Methos grinned, nodding enthusiastically.
"That's it!" he said, bringing up his own sword to a light guard, smiling encouragingly. "Brandish! Threaten! Come for my head, and sneer at me for it!" He moved back a couple of light steps, and gestured invitingly, still smiling. "Be a monster, Macleod! Terrify me! Attack!"
Baffled, Duncan shook his head, but followed through. Raising the katana high, he stalked forward with a snarl, feeling lips twist with contempt as he sought the emotions Methos wanted. Too easy, maybe, when he remembered some of those he'd fought. When he remember some of those this man had called brother ... He felt the anger uncurl inside him, and knew his expression was fearsome, play act or not. Methos saw it, and smiled, for one brief second. And then he changed.
He dropped his sword from guard to floor, holding it suddenly as if it were a snake, as if it terrified him to be caught with it. His features twisted, eyes bright with panic and sudden fear, expression a pleading mask as his body curved in on itself, flinched down to bear a blow, and he backed away onto his knees, the hand holding the sword pressing the hilt tight to the floor, the other flung out in mute terror for him to stop.
"Forgive me!" he cried, and the fear in his voice was so visceral it stopped Duncan in his tracks, so real it shook him to the core. His katana halted on the upswing, stunned, and the other immortal shook, outright terror on his face, and for the life of him Duncan could find no lie, no lie at all, in that expression. "Duncan, please. I didn't mean it. Please! Please, don't kill me." A sob, a sob, caught in his throat, and the proud immortal curved to the floor, abasing himself, hands scrabbling in Duncan's direction as if desperate to prove his innocence, his lack of offense. He keened an apology, abject with fear, and Duncan all but fell back from him, sword dropping with a clang. Methos looked back up at the sound.
Something flickered behind the fear, a glimmer of desperate calculation, a shadow old as time, and then the other immortal was crawling forward, face twisting on itself again, now to form a desperate, hopeful smile that made the bile rise in Duncan's throat. He pulled back another step, and Methos froze, blinking fearfully. "Duncan ...? Duncan, I don't ... thank you, Duncan. Thank you for sparing me. I can ... I can make it up to you ... I will make it up to you, believe me ..."
He pulled himself to his feet, ignoring the horrified twisting of Duncan's features, pulled himself up to stand loosely, and then did ... something. Changed something, in his posture, in the way he stood, canting hips and shoulders to bare himself from neck to knee, pushing forward what was his to give in aching vulnerability, displaying himself in one smooth, subtle motion, offered for the taking. His head turned to one side, eyes dropping demurely to the floor, lashes fluttering with his panicked breathing as he struggle to master his fear and present a comely face. In two seconds, from pitiful grovelling, he became something pained and terrified and bare, dignified and vulnerable, a desperate offering, and in his face was nothing but the terrified hope that it would be accepted, and he allowed to live.
Duncan dropped to his knees, struggling desperately not to be sick. "Methos ..." he whispered, rasped, and the other immortal quivered as if struck, flinched minutely beneath desperate control. "Methos, what ... don't, please ... what ...?"
"It's not what you want?" Methos whispered, brokenly, and for a second his shoulders slumped in an eloquent despair, before stiffening in determination as terrified eyes came up to meet his. "I can ... I can be something else ... offer something else ..." He came forward, slowly, beseeching, hands raised to flutter in panic between them, and still his body was canted in offering, still put forward on display, in case Duncan changed his mind, in case he wasn't sure. "I'm literate. I can do housework. I can be useful. Please, I beg you ..." He came closer, almost close enough to touch, sinking to his knees in front of Duncan, face leaning close until those bright, fearful eyes were all Duncan could focus on. "Duncan, please, don't hurt me, I promise I can ..."
And then, so suddenly the change almost gave Duncan whiplash, Methos changed once more, fear vanishing without a trace, face hardened to a killing mask as he rose up in a crouch over Duncan's knees, and a chill on Duncan's neck made him look down, to where his own katana was laid against his throat. Taken up silently from his side, two inches from his own hand, while Methos distracted him.
"I promise I can kill you inside a second," the oldest immortal finished, flat and chill and vicious, implacable. "Every time. Every single time. I can kill you any time I want, Macleod, and have done, to those who came before you." He paused, pressed the blade a hair tighter, let a line of blood drop free. "How do I survive? How does a slave command his owner? By offering, Macleod. Anything and everything. By using what my opponent sends against me. Desires, fears. Disgust, contempt, pity. I can kill a good man with his pity, a cruel man with his disgust, a lustful man with his desire. I can be the fearful slave, the willing whore, the cowering sycophant, the deadly warrior. Anything at all. There is next to nothing I am not willing to give, in order to survive. For five thousand years, I have been warlord, merchant, slave, whatever it took. I survived what has broken better men by simply being willing to break, willing to give, all for one more moment, one more hour, one more day. And you know what?" He leaned close, lips feathering over Duncan's forehead, a strange and terrible benediction. "It has worked!"
He say back on his heels, then, mobile face losing the intensity as if it had never been, losing the killing edge as easily as it had lost the fear beforehand, settling back into the amused amiability Duncan was so used to seeing there, the daily face Methos wore, bemused and sardonic scholar. The katana dropped from his neck to be cradled negligently across bony knees, and Methos smiled faintly, one eyebrow raised in invitation, for questions, for reaction. For something. But Duncan couldn't find anything to give. He knelt in a heap, and stared, blank and blind and stunned, for long enough that Methos' vague triumph faded to concern.
"Mac? Are you alright?" Wary, not moving from the crouch, fingers shifting to hold the blade more firmly once more. Duncan stared at him, just stared, until his head starting shaking all by itself, tears and bile clawing in his throat around the words until he could barely manage to force them out.
"If I had ... when we first met ... if I'd ..." He stopped, unable to finish, but Methos understood anyway, and his face shifted rapidly, comprehension, understanding, a flash of admiration, then resignation, determination, and that strange pity.
"Yes, Mac," he said softly. "Kalas wanted me nothing but dead, and you were too powerful to chance messing with in my condition at the time. If you'd been different, if you'd wanted ... anything I just offered ... I would have given it to you. I was waiting determined to do just that. Whatever you seemed to want, in order to keep myself alive."
Duncan shook his head, numb, something ringing in his ears. "And what you have offered me ... what you've given ... has it always been just ... do you ..." Do you fear me? Do you give me everything you've given, just because you're afraid? Was any of it ever real?
"Mac." A soft but determined call, and then ... "Duncan! Duncan Macleod of the Clan bloody Macleod! You listen to me, you hairbrained oaf!" Hands touched his face, gentled him, and Methos' eyes were there once more, soft and concerned, angry, exasperated. Real. But realer than the fear? "You listen to me, Duncan," Methos continued, soft and stern. "You are not that man. You are not that monster. Listen to me. I came to you expecting a power I would have to fear, to placate with whatever I had to offer. Instead, I found you. I found a man willing to protect me for no other reason than that I needed protection. I found a man willing to listen to what I had to say. A man willing to find the darkness in my past, and come to accept it, however slowly. A man worth trusting my life to. A man worth giving my life for. I found you, you stubborn bastard!"
He stopped, paused, something bright and warm in his eyes. He reached up, traced a finger over the line the blade had made in Duncan's neck, something rueful and self-amused in his faint smile. "I found you, Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod. Stubborn, exasperating, pain in the neck, but worth knowing. Worth giving to. Worth sharing with. I promise you. I promise you, Duncan. I have given you nothing, nothing, that I did not want with all my heart to give. I have given you nothing out of fear. Nothing at all. I do promise you that."
Duncan looked up at him, wondering and empty, feeling more fragile than he could ever remember, in the face of that confidence. "Why?" he whispered. "Why?"
And Methos smiled, laughed, tipped his head back to look down his patrician nose in smug amusement and vibrant enjoyment, and reached up to tap the end of Duncan's nose lightly. "Because," he said. "Because you're Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod, and I'm a contrary bastard who likes messing with people's heads and is easily amused. Because I can. Because I want to. Because it's a nice century, all things considered, and I damn well bloody feel like it!" He grinned, nodded. "That's why, you idiot Scot. Can you think of a better reason?"
And honestly, Duncan could not.
