Disclaimers: Not my characters, no profits made. A series of Highlander drabbles (i.e., 100 word pieces), from Methos' point of view. Enjoy!
How does she sucker me into these things?
Bad enough she has Duncan wrapped around her cute little finger. I've known her for nearly a millennium now, almost as long as she's been alive: surely that's enough time to have developed an immunity to her wiles.
Which, of course, explains why I'm hanging off the side of a cruise ship in southern Belize, decked out in the latest fashions for modern cat burglers, and waiting for her to get her cute little butt up to speed. Because I've developed an immunity to her wiles.
Gods above, don't I ever learn?
I can't remember her name. Isn't that absurd? He changed my life, and I can't remember her name. The taste the feel the weight the face the name... Even the language is gone. I don't know who he was any more, how she came, when he came. Only that she did, that he changed my mind, my way, my life. That she came when he was needed and left before she was done. Like so many others. And time has stolen him, stolen what was never mine to begin with. Stolen what was only mine. Marched on, uncaring, unnoticing, unrepentant.
A strange creature, is time. A remedy and a curse. Time heals all, yet time is the one at fault in the first place. Seconds, hours, years, days, minutes -- everything comes down to time. And time never stops, never slows, never stays. Nothing can stand against it; hasn't history proven that, time and again and again? Everything drowns, buried under a stream of minutes and hours and seconds, until all that's left is faded memory, and still it goes. Burns away all you ever knew. All you ever hated. All you ever loved. And leaves you wondering, mercy or torture?
It's dark down here. Dry, too; which is odd for a room containing an underground spring. A perfectly ordinary, everyday, utilitarian underground spring, despite what I told MacLeod -- belief is everything, you know -- but still, an underground spring. It's not even particularly lost. Really, there ought to be enough moisture in the air to dampen things. I'm sure it was damp last time I was here.
They're dead. We murdered them, he and I, but try as I might I can't murder memory. So I feel the desert light too keenly, today.
I suppose that's where all the moisture went.
Strange, that he should have died so, in the cold.
It's always hot in the dreams. So very hot. As though Sun Himself had come to the earth and strode its surface with the full and mighty light of His day and we would, over the next rise or beyond the next oasis or past the next village, we would come face to face with Sun Himself, and there we would laugh aloud and challenge and win over even His bright power, so that we would control the world even unto the very light....
And then he died,
so cold.
More drabbles eventually, I suspect.
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