Date: Fri, 22 Sep 1995 09:38:35 -0400 Reply-To: GrinnyP@AOL.COM Sender: Highlander TV show stories From: Carol Ann Liddiard Subject: "Origins" Chapter 11, part 2 . . . and the rest of chapter 11 . . . -------------------- Abesti sat in the dark, watching Mitozko twitch as he started to awake. She had already cleared their little house of all cutting weapons in preparation for the talk she knew they had to have. When Mitozko sat up, she began talking in a low voice. All night they sat there as she poured out the whole story of her people from the beginning. She held nothing back, not even the Seer's prophesies about the Game. When she finally fell silent, she could watch his reaction by the first light of dawn. He stared at her in silence for a long while, then stood and walked out the door. Abesti sat for much longer. She didn't cry as she had no tears left. The heat of midday finally roused her to get up and make preparations to leave. Where she was going next, she didn't know. For the first time in nearly four thousand years, Abesti had no plans. --------------------- Idaho Wilderness, 1995 "She should have told you earlier, Methos." Duncan argued as they pitched the first tent. "She had no business keeping you in the dark like that. You were totally unprepared for the challenge when it came." "Hindsight is 20/20, Highlander," was Methos' tolerant reply. "She thought she was protecting me by keeping me out of the game. And", he added as he pounded the last stake in, "she had her reasons. She didn't want me to have to kill to survive, so she killed for me." Methos looked up at Duncan. "You don't understand how hard it was for her to do that." "She was treating you like a child," Duncan shot back as he unpacked the second tent. "Duncan," Methos said quietly, "she was treating me like *her* child. You, on the other hand, would never treat someone like that. Someone like, say, a student." Duncan saw Richie smother a grin as he turned away from the tent-raising. "I've never treated you like that, Richie," Duncan argued. Richie busied himself with unpacking weapons, his shoulders shaking slightly. He cleared his throat and said, "Of course not, Mac." He turned back to Methos, who was hastily backing away. "I'll just check the perimeter," the older immortal called as he made good his escape. --------------------- Later that evening, Duncan was walking around the camp, too restless to settle down. Trying to calm his rising anxieties about Anne and Joe, he decided that a brisk walk might help. As he neared the creek behind the campsite, he spotted a movement out of the corner of his eye. He turned in time to see Carol slipping away in the direction of the Hunter's compound. He hurried to follow. Two steps later, he was brought up short as Methos stepped out of the shadows and blocked his path. "Don't follow her, Duncan." "But she's heading towards the Hunters." Duncan argued, trying to step around Methos. "I want to know what she's up to now." "She's gone to prepare a little surprise for tomorrow." Methos moved to block the Highlander again. "She needs to go alone." Duncan nodded and backed off, remembering Carol's almost unnatural stealth while they were under attack from the snipers. "Hey guys, what's going on?" Richie joined them on the trail. "Was there a meeting I didn't hear about?" The older immortals shared a look and turned back towards the camp, taking Richie along with them. "We were just talking about Methos' early days as an immortal, Richie," Duncan said as they herded the younger immortal back towards the tents. "Cool, man. So tell me, Methos, what was it like anyway? Were there lots of other immortals back then?" "Not really, Richie, we were few and far between in those days," Methos replied as they all settled around the small camp stove. They had decided against an open fire as too easily spotted. "After you left Carol, where did you go?" asked Duncan. Methos stared blindly into the distance. "That is not a pretty tale, Duncan MacLeod. I was filled with a lot of rage and I did some things that I don't like to think about." "For instance . . . " Richie prodded him after a few moments of silence. "For instance, Richie," Methos continued to peer into the past, "I became a soldier, a mercenary really. I traveled all over the world, fighting for one army or another. I had decided, you see, that I needed to be a better fighter to compete with the other immortals for the prize." "There's no dishonor in being a warrior, Methos." Duncan tried to reassure his friend. "Many of us grew up in a culture that taught us to fight at an early age." "But I *didn't* grow up in a warrior culture, Duncan. My people were peaceful farming folk." Methos replied absently. "I became a soldier for two reasons. The first of course was to learn how to fight, to kill. The second was to find other immortals, who usually ended up in that line of work. And of course it enabled me to find and kill new immortals. In those days, most new immortals died their first death on the battlefield. If they did it within range of me, they soon lost their heads as well." He came back to the present to find them both staring at him in shock. "You seem surprised. Well don't be. It's amazing what depths a human can sink to, and the amount of justification he can produce to explain it." Duncan recovered first. "I'm sorry, Methos, it's just that you don't seem . . ." " . . . like the kind of person capable of executing someone in cold blood?" Methos finished. "Oh, I did that, and worse. Sometimes when I sensed pre-immortals, I killed them the first time myself. Then as soon as they 'recovered', I would behead them. I had convinced myself, you see, that I needed the power if I was to compete with the other immortals out there, especially the few remaining old ones, and the Kurgan." He shook his head. "As I said, it's amazing how a person can try to justify the most heinous acts." "You mean you only went after new immortals?" Richie asked, appalled. "No, Richie, I didn't just go after new immortals. I went after any immortal I could challenge, new or old. I even took out two of the remaining old ones. And that does not even begin to count the number of mortals I killed during my two thousand years of soldiering." "Whoa." Richie thought about it for a minute. "But . . . you're not like that anymore, are you?" Methos smiled for the first time after beginning his narrative. "No, Richie, I'm not like that anymore. I quit soldiering and went back to learning over three thousand years ago. Unfortunately, during that time my 'reputation' was made. I've spent the last three millennia running from that." "But what made you change?" Richie asked, puzzled. "Was it like with Darius? Did you kill a really good immortal and suddenly repent, or something?" "No, it wasn't like that. I just did something that made me stop and take a good look at what I'd become." "Which was . . ." Richie prompted. "Something that I don't like to talk about," Methos replied. He sighed at Richie's frustrated look. "At any rate, I took a good long look at myself and was pretty ashamed at what I saw. So then I got the idea that I was going to make up for all my sins." "Like Darius," interjected Richie. Methos smiled again. "Not exactly. Darius tried to make up for his barbarism by helping mortals. I decided to fight evil by making sure one of the evil ones didn't win the prize." Duncan looked surprised. "You began fostering immortals, teaching them." "Indeed." Methos gave Duncan an indulgent look. "I searched out pre-immortals, but this time it was to teach, not to kill. I taught them all I knew of fighting, but also all I knew of the game, and the prize. After about 350 years, while I was teaching a new student in Egypt, I found Abesti again. Or," he chuckled, "to be more accurate she found me. I think she'd been waiting for me to come to my senses all those years." He stood and stretched. "So, that's enough of my history. These tired old bones need some sleep before tomorrow." "Good night, Methos," Duncan said as the older immortal ducked into his tent. He and Richie headed into their tent and silence fell over the camp. In his tent, Methos stripped down and climbed into his sleeping bag. The conversation with the younger immortals had brought back memories he usually kept deeply buried. *Stop brooding, Adam.* The voice in his head dragged him back to the present. *I'm on my way back.* *Sorry, but I can't help it,* he replied. *Adam, it was a long time ago. You were a different person then. Now I order you to stop beating yourself up about something you can't change.* *Aye, aye, Captain.* She broke off the contact in a huff and he was amused. However, in a few moments his depression had returned. *Adam . . . * Carol was back, exasperated. *I know, love, I know. Don't dwell on it anymore. Tell me, do you still dwell on certain things?* He knew how to effectively silence Carol when she got angry with his brooding. *I try not to, anyway,* her mental acquiescence startled him. *What? You don't think I can let you win an argument?* *I think that you will keep at me until I stop thinking about it.* *For once you're right, dear.* Methos grinned, clasped his hands behind his head and stretched back. *Nice to know you finally acknowledge that I'm right. Now, will you ever let me have the last word?* *Maybe.* He chuckled and waited for his lover to arrive. --------------------- /Notes/ As noted before, the training needed to successfully absorb oroimentza (see: "Quickening") took several years for a fully adept Herrialdaketa. When these "memories" were transferred, a lifetime of experience would pour into the receiving ontzi (lit. "receptacle", although "host" is often used as a substitute), where they would eventually be stored alongside his/her own memories. In this manner, knowledge was preserved and passed from generation to generation. It was traditional for the ontzi to absent his/herself from the tribe for three days in order to "process" the oroimentza and incorporate it successfully into his/her psyche. The distraction of being around many telepaths could be detrimental to this process, which required abundant concentration. The only modern analogy available to non-telepaths is the idea of storing computer data in a database. The memories could then be accessed by the ontzi when necessary. Disorientation during the transfer itself is not uncommon, and the ontzi often describes the process as a series of vignettes rapidly playing themselves out -- one after the other -- at high speeds. Strangely, this is rather similar to the phenomenon reported by near-drowning victims, of their own lives passing in front of their eyes at high speed. The virus created by the Wise One was designed specifically to destroy the telepathic abilities of people with the genetic code of the Herrialdaketa, so it is surprising that although they can no longer "access" the memories of an oroimentza, they can still absorb one. It has been confirmed by tests conducted by one of the few remaining Herrialdaketa that the memories are contained, intact, within the thought patterns of the Elbarridun Haurketa (see: new immortals) who absorb them, although their ability to access them is gone. Even more remarkable, during the absorption process they still get the "vignette" effect of the memories quickly flashing across their consciousness, enough that they can understand in a limited way that they are seeing someone else's life "flash before their eyes". This has given rise to the legend among the New Immortals that to receive the oroimentza (or, as they call it, the quickening) of someone who has truly died, that what is being received is their power and experience. And it is more true than not. There are even a few recorded cases of New Immortals being changed forever by what they saw during a quickening. (to be continued in chapter 12) ----------------------- Heads up: I will soon lose access to my liddiard@bs1.prc.com address, so please direct all future mail to the aol address. All questions/comments/criticisms/flames to me at GrinnyP@aol.com Carol Ann =========================================================================