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Origins
Chapter Five “This is nuts,” Joe mumbled to himself as he pulled out his cell phone, dialed the emergency number and reported that a friend had collapsed and had stopped breathing. The ambulance arrived within a few minutes in a blare of sirens and flashing lights, and the paramedics quickly took over, pushing Methos out of the way. “He needs to be shocked,” Methos instructed firmly, but the paramedics ignored him as they went about determining whether their patient had a pulse. In only a moment, they had put a breathing tube down Mac’s throat, pulled out their portable heart defibrillator, yanked up Mac’s shirt and applied the paddles. Joe hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until he gasped when Mac’s body jerked in a forced contraction of his muscles. The paramedics continued to work as one listened for a heartbeat while the other compressed the air bag to help Mac breathe. The paramedics exchanged a grim look. “Do it again!” Methos instructed sharply. The young woman turned to him, with a practiced, sympathetic look, “I’m sorry sir, but…” “He is obviously in excellent physical condition. There’s no reason for him to be in cardiac arrest. Shock him again!” Methos demanded. With a resigned shrug, the woman put gel on the paddles once again, waiting while the machine built up another charge with a mechanical whine. She nodded to her partner, who stopped compressions and sat back on his heels. “Clear!” she ordered, pressed the paddles onto Mac’s chest and once again, with a hard whack of noise and a painful-looking arcing of Mac’s torso, she sent a powerful electric current through his body. As the other paramedic again compressed the plastic balloon that sent air into their patient’s lungs, she leaned over, listening to Mac’s chest. With a sigh, she stopped and shook her head at her partner. They kept at it, however, even as they gave up on shocking his heart into action, and prepared to move the body to a gurney. Joe remembered something about local law requiring that they keep CPR efforts going until someone had been declared officially dead by a doctor. All the while the medical professionals had been working, Joe’s mind had been awhirl with desperate, confusing thoughts about what the hell Methos thought he was doing, and what the hell was going on with MacLeod that he wasn’t reviving, and – the worst thought that he kept avoiding – what if MacLeod really was dead? “Wait!” the young paramedic shouted, and stopped squeezing the air bag, staring intently at his patient, his fingers on Mac’s carotid artery. Joe glanced over to Methos, whose head had fallen back slightly, his eyes were closed and he was letting out a long sigh as tension left his body in a rush. Sure enough, with a jerk, MacLeod twisted on the gurney, swiping at the mask covering his face. Forcing Mac’s hands down, with a sudden flurry, the paramedics hustled him into the van and they were off within seconds, sirens wailing into the night, the sound quickly muffled by the still-falling snow. “You okay, Joe?” The voice seemed to come from far away, and it was a moment before he focused on the noise. “What?” His voice sounded breathy and unsteady, even to himself. “I think you need to sit down,” Methos answered, steering him carefully towards the office, kicking the detritus the paramedics had left behind out of the way. But Joe pulled away. “No, I’m okay, but we have to get to the hospital, find out what happened, get him out of there as fast as we can.” Methos gave him a long, inscrutable look and then a quick nod. The hospital emergency room was a peculiar mix of serene quiet and high anxiety. There was a couple standing against a wall, the young woman weeping quietly into the man’s shoulder, while a few people sat around in chairs, some anxious and uncomfortable, ill or just plain bored. They inquired about Mac at the front desk, but were curtly told to wait with everyone else. Joe was hoping Anne Lindsay was on duty, but luck was not with them, and after another fifteen minutes a harassed looking young woman with a stethoscope draped around her neck came to the waiting room, asking if there were any friends or family of Mr. MacLeod present. “I’m his brother, Adam,” Methos immediately answered and came forward. He motioned to Joe, “and this is his Uncle Joe.” Joe barely managed to keep from shooting Methos a dirty look. Uncle Joe, indeed. The woman distractedly ran her fingers through short, blond hair, peering up at them through glasses which had slipped precariously down her nose. She pushed them up and sighed. “We want to send Mr. MacLeod up to ICU for observation and run tests to determine exactly what caused his heart to stop. We don’t have any immediate diagnosis, but obviously we are very concerned. However, he seems determined to leave without treatment or tests. I think he is still disoriented, and if he doesn’t calm down we’ll need to sedate him, and I’d rather not do that until we have completed our initial run of tests. Perhaps if you spoke to him it might reassure him that we’re only trying to help him.” “Sure,” Methos quickly agreed, and the two of them followed the doctor down the hallway to an examining room, where MacLeod was lying, a canula feeding him oxygen to his nose, an IV in his arm and electronic leads stuck in various places onto his chest. They had pinned his wrists with Velcro restraints and he looked ghastly pale. His expression was a little dazed and panicked as he jerked against his bonds, probably a reaction from feeling the approach of another Immortal when he was helpless to defend himself. “Easy, Mr. MacLeod,” the doctor attempted to reassure him. “Take these off me!” Mac growled, yanking at the wrist restraints, but he stilled when he spotted Methos and Joe. “Not until you calm down. You’ve had a major cardiac incident and we need to run some tests…” “Doctor,” Methos interrupted, “Perhaps if you left us alone for a few minutes?” With a dark look at both the visitors and her patient, she gave a curt nod. “We’re only trying to help you, Mr. MacLeod,” she stated firmly, and marched out of the room. “Your seduction techniques must be slipping,” Methos commented dryly. “I don’t think she likes you.” “Get these damned things off,” Mac repeated hoarsely, and Methos pulled the Velcro loose and helped Mac to a sitting position, where he wavered alarmingly for a minute and his already pale face went gray. He still had on his sweat pants, and Methos loaned him his coat so he wouldn’t be quite so noticeable, while Joe helped him put on a pair of shoes they had grabbed at the loft. Mac managed to stand, but Methos had to keep a firm grip on his arm to keep him upright. Joe made sure the corridor was clear, and they managed to shuffle Mac out of the room without being stopped. ~~~~~ Mac’s mind was still reeling from the shock of waking up in an ambulance, but he gathered himself and managed to shake off Methos’ helping hand as they moved purposefully down the hallway towards the exit doors. They walked towards the parking lot, staying close to the shadows, but the adrenaline rush of their surreptitious exit from the hospital was wearing off, and Mac slowed his pace, then tried to catch back up again when he noticed the other two men eyeing him like some odd laboratory specimen. But when the world tilted and he had to put his hand out to hold onto a nearby car roof, Methos grabbed his elbow, saying something he couldn’t quite understand because of the high noisy whine in his ears. Mac got the general gist of what Methos said from the look on his face. He forced himself to push away from the reassuring solidity of the car. "Yeah. I’m fine." Right. He was not fine, and he knew it. His chest still ached, making it difficult to take a deep breath, and his heart pounded in an uncomfortably fast, uneven rhythm. His legs did not seem to want to carry him at all, much less in the direction he wished. And what he really wanted to do, against all logic, was to sink down right here into the snow and find that wonderful place in his mind again, where music and light and wonder collided...where there was no death, no conflict...only acceptance. "Mac!" His focus snapped back to the here and now. "Get a grip, MacLeod. Stay with us." It was Methos again, shaking him. "Okay." He took a careful shallow breath, then another, trying to clear the cobwebs from his mind. "I'm here. I'm here," he murmured, as much to himself as to his friends. For a few moments, the ride back to the dojo was made in tense silence, but Mac knew it wouldn’t last. “What the hell happened?” Joe finally asked. “I don’t remember,” Mac answered. It was true. Sort of. For a few weeks he had heeded Methos admonition to stop the deep meditation on the off chance that the old Immortal knew what he was talking about, but lately he had felt an increasingly desperate need for that respite. He hadn’t been getting a lot of rest since every time he would fall asleep, strange and vivid images assaulted him. Just exercising hadn’t brought him any peace, either physically or emotionally, and tonight, when he had relaxed into his normal cool-down routine, somehow he found himself on his knees without really thinking about it, settling into that sweet, welcoming sense of release from the heavy burden of all his years of grief and strife. He knew he was floating away, roaming free of his body, stretching himself further and further, until he was unaware of anything but a sense of utter peace. Until he was suddenly jolted with a crushing pain searing his chest. He had been lambasted with sensory input – of pain, of noise and hands on him, people saying things to him he couldn’t understand, a tube down his throat so he couldn’t talk, and then in a hospital, of all places. The need to escape had been almost overwhelming and if Methos hadn’t arrived when he had, he was sure he would have quickly resorted to violence. “What?” Mac realized Joe had asked him another question and he hadn’t been listening. “I asked you what was the last thing you do remember?” “I, uh,” Mac stalled for time by running his fingers through his hair and shifting in his seat. “I was exercising in the dojo.” “We found you in a meditation pose,” Methos inserted grimly as he pulled up behind the dojo and parked the car. “I warned you, MacLeod.” “Warned him?” Joe asked, his attention suddenly focused on Methos. “About what? You knew this was going to happen. Damn it, I knew it!” “No!” Methos snapped, getting out and slamming the driver side door closed, then coming around and jerking the passenger door open. “I knew the kind of meditation he was doing was not natural, that’s all. But I didn’t realize he would somehow manage to kill himself at it,” he growled, throwing an irritated look at MacLeod, then jerking his head towards the building. “Get inside. Now,” Methos ordered in a tone of command Mac had never heard him use before. Mac didn’t know whether to feel chastened or insulted, but he was too exhausted to really care, so he forced himself to move once again. The effort required to walk to the lift, stay on his feet for the brief ride up, and then make it to the nearest chair seemed almost more than he could manage. He let his head fall back and his eyes close, grateful to be back in his own domain and off his feet – until he felt an uncomfortable frisson of new Presence shiver across his shoulders. Damn! He started to push himself up, but felt a hand on his shoulder. “Not this time, MacLeod. You’re in no shape for it,” Methos ordered. Anger and bone-deep urgency gave Mac the energy he needed to get to his feet. “Nobody fights my fights for me, Methos!” The two of them stood toe-to-toe, but Methos returned his glare with a look of calm resignation, or was that pity? Mac moved to push past the irritating man, but was met with a fist holding the hilt of Methos’ broadsword. He was startled in that half-second before he registered the pain, then blackness shut everything down. ~~~~~~~ Joe looked at the crumpled form on the floor, then at Methos. “I don’t think he’s having a very good day.” Great. Just what the situation needed, an amateur comedian. Methos jammed his broadsword back into his coat. “I’ll be back in a while,” he snapped. “Lock the elevator behind me and don’t let anyone in but me, and I mean anyone!” He rode the elevator back down to the dojo. As he expected, it was just a kid, probably not 200 years old yet and so eager for a fight Methos didn’t even have a chance to question him about the wisdom of rushing headlong into a battle when he didn’t know his opponent, or even seem to have a reason for the challenge other than the peculiar battle lust that had drawn him here. The alley behind the dojo was well screened from the surrounding buildings and the street and well-lit by MacLeod’s automatic security system, but the child attacked with an ear-splitting battle cry, probably of some tribal Arabic origin. A part of Methos’ brain detached itself as he analyzed his opponent’s moves. Not bad for a youngster, and he carried an impressive scimitar made from Toledo steel. But he needed to finish this quickly and avoid drawing any more attention than the Quickening inevitably would. He found himself smiling a little, which seemed to annoy the young man, but the notion of one more “unusual weather phenomenon” making the news was amusing in a macabre sort of way. The boy danced forward, meeting Methos’ broadsword and turning aside, swirling around and moving in with a musical hum of his blade, aiming a deadly slice towards Methos belly, but Methos just turned away from the blow then did his own circular dance, aiming high. With a predictable, ugly sounding ‘thwack’ the head disengaged from the boy’s shoulders and rolled across the alley, colliding noisily with a trashcan. He knew he only had about three long breaths before the Quickening hit, and spent them clearing his mind, relaxing as much as he could so that he could let the pain of it slide away. This was always the tricky part. Most Quickenings came when you were emotionally and physically exhausted. The normal response was to brace yourself, to tense every muscle and fight the onslaught of alien energy. Those Quickenings were inevitably excruciating even if the aftermath was a release of endorphins that left you both weak and oddly, giddily sated. But sometimes, if you opened yourself, welcomed the energy, let it fill you and complete you, it was glorious, and for those moments you were more alive than any being on the planet. Then the endorphin release sent you higher than the finest designer drug, into a spiraling rush of feelings of intense power and pleasure. It was incredibly addictive, the desire for it an integral part of Immortals’ genetic make-up just as the base drive to procreate sometimes drove mortals to acts of irrational violence. However, most mortals controlled their basest urges and only the few who allowed sex to become a substitute for their sense of worth, of control, of power, became sexual predators, to be hunted down and locked away or shot like the dogs they were. Not so with Immortals. Their urges were far closer to the surface, the need and opportunity part and parcel of their existence, and thus his race had become a people driven by violence, colored by malice and greed because they all believed that There Can Be Only One. Except for the few whose human side had proven stronger. That’s what had made Darius different, made MacLeod different, even special, someone they couldn’t afford to lose. Such men and women gathered like-minded Immortals about him and they, as a group, were the best promise Immortals had to overcome their own ancestry and evolve into a true Tribe. Or clan, perhaps. Methos sagged against the cold brick wall, lifted his head and let the still-falling snow gather on his face, cooling the raging internal heat the Quickening had generated. He smiled. Quickenings always left you feeling physically drained, but this one had been easy – actually it had felt good, better than good. Even the usual Quickening aftereffect of weakness felt more like post-orgasmic relaxation, even though he knew it would evolve soon into an edgy horniness that had its own potential benefits. Ah, yes, it would be oh-so-easy to fall back into that persona he had left behind long ago. He leaned his head back and closed his eyes, willing the notion away. He opened his eyes at last, gazing dispassionately at the decapitated remains of the latest victim of his ancestors’ folly. He pulled out his cell phone. “Joe, the body’s in the alley, could you…?” ~~~~~~~ Mac sat tensely in his chair, his grip on his scotch far too tight. Joe was perched on a bar stool at the kitchen island, and had been mostly silent while they had waited for Methos’ return, only taking the one phone call, then making one himself to arrange for the ‘disappearance’ of whomever Methos had dispatched downstairs. The Quickening had shaken the building and momentarily made the lights flicker, but otherwise hadn’t been very powerful. Nonetheless, just sitting and waiting for it had built the tension to almost intolerable levels. If Mac hadn’t been so inexplicably weak in the knees he most certainly would have followed, but as it was he would just have been a distraction. And that scared him and infuriated him. In fact, Mac was furious about a lot of things. At Joe, at Methos, but mostly at himself, which made it all the worse. When he finally felt Methos’ approach he jerked to his feet and was waiting to throw up the gate to the lift when it rattled to a stop. Methos was leaning – no lounging – against the back wall, looking quite satisfied with himself, and he exuded that tingling vibration of charismatic energy from a freshly taken Quickening. His clothes didn’t even look mussed, and for some reason that irritated Mac all the more. “Enjoy yourself?” Mac heard himself growl, wondering distantly where all this anger was coming from. “I thought you avoided fights.” Methos just raised an eyebrow at him, shoved away from the wall and sauntered to the liquor cabinet, pouring himself a stiff scotch. “I do,” he answered at last, after a large swallow of his drink. “But that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy a good Quickening from time to time.” The look on Methos’ face was a complex mix of amusement, irony, weariness and resignation – and that only fed Mac’s inner fury, but somehow he managed to control the urge to throttle the man, settling for clenching his fists until his fingernails dug into his palms. Mac took a deep breath, reaching for calm, desperately wishing Joe and Methos would just leave so he could go downstairs and… no, that wasn’t right. Now there was an issue he could at least attempt to grapple with. “Joe said you insisted on calling 911 and that’s why I ended up in a hospital emergency room.” Mac was proud that he managed to say it without shouting. “What the hell were you thinking?” His volume rose on that one, and he took another deep, calming breath. Methos just made himself comfortable on the couch and took another sip of scotch. “You were dead. Extreme measures were called for.” “That’s ridiculous.” Methos looked up at him. “Are you questioning my ability to discern the difference between dead and alive, MacLeod?” Mac sighed in frustration. “It doesn’t make any sense that I would be dead, just from meditation. And even if I was, I wasn’t … dead. Not permanently. Christ, do you know what it felt like to be shocked like that?” Mac found himself pacing back and forth in front of his desk. “To wake up with a tube down my throat, stuck full of needles, monitors attached to every part of my body in a hospital emergency room?” Mac realized he was shouting and sweat was pooling in his clinched fists as sharp, painful visions returned of being drugged and helpless, a captive unwilling object of medical experimentation, the feeling of panic as fresh as when it happened at least a decade ago. He saw Methos give Joe a puzzled look. “Is there something I should know?” Methos asked. “Later,” Joe replied with a frown and a small shake of his head. Damn the both of them. Now Methos would insist on knowing all about Dr. What’s-his-name and his bizarre obsessions. Mac took in a ragged breath and sat down before he displayed any more irrational behavior, which he seemed to be doing a lot of lately. “Okay, let’s say for the moment that I accept that I was – momentarily – dead. What the hell did that have to do with calling 911? All you had to do was wait a few minutes!” There was an uncomfortable silence while Mac endured Methos’ aloof, expressionless regard, and Joe shifted restlessly on his stool. “We did.” “Did what?” “Waited. For quite a while, actually.” Methos casually sipped more of his whisky. “But you were more than dead, MacLeod. You were gone. Elsewhere,” he gestured nebulously with his free hand. “I assumed you were off in whatever netherworld you go lately when you want to escape life’s trials and tribulations, and you showed no sign of bothering to come back. So,” he shrugged, “I figured the only way to deal with it was to force the issue, to shock your heart back into starting. I didn’t even know if it would work,” he added at last, staring thoughtfully into his glass and, for just a second, Mac thought he saw Methos’ hand shake a little, then decided he must be mistaken, or maybe it was an aftereffect of the Quickening. “You’re losing it, Methos. After five thousand years, senility has finally set in.” Mac turned to Joe for support, but Joe just shrugged and shook his head. “I dunno, Mac. You were out for an awfully long time, and there weren’t any wounds that I could see.” Mac swallowed the derisive words that came to mind. He was Immortal, for God’s sake. Until someone took his head, he’d always come back, and no one knew that better than the oldest Immortal alive. And to expose him like that to mortal scrutiny… foolish and dangerous – not something Methos was known for. But something bizarre sure as hell had happened. He absently rubbed at his chest where the memory of a crushing, squeezing agony still lingered. Also lingering was the aching exhaustion and lethargy. “Maybe we all just need some rest,” he sighed, looking up at his two unwanted guests, assuming they’d take the hint. Joe struggled to his feet and found his coat. “I could sure as hell use some,” Joe sighed, and turned, obviously expecting Methos to accompany him, but Methos showed no sign of leaving. “That was a hint, Methos,” Mac finally clarified. Methos smiled into his drink. “I know, but I think I better stick around to deal with any other unwanted intruders. And Mac and I need to talk,” he said to Joe pointedly. “Methos…,” Mac and Joe said simultaneously, each protesting for entirely different reasons. But Methos had that closed, intractable look that brooked no argument, and both men grimaced in recognition that Methos would do what Methos would do and their protests were a complete waste of time and effort. Mac closed his eyes and rested his head on the back of the chair, waiting until he heard the elevator descend. “All right,” Mac stated tiredly when he was sure they were alone, “you told me the meditation was not a good idea, but the notion that doing it somehow lures other Immortals clear across the country is just ridiculous. And… I just…,” Mac sighed, running out of words and out of energy. “I know,” Methos voice drifted softly across the silence. “You needed it. It started feeling essential, like air to breathe or food to eat.” Mac opened his eyes, catching Methos watching him with a speculative look. “You know? You’ve done that kind of meditation?” He pushed himself forward on the chair. “You escaped? God, Methos it is so… freeing. Like flying, like the past is gone and the future is just floating out there, pure and simple and sweet.” “The price is too high, MacLeod,” Methos stated flatly. “You think that jerk downstairs just happened to be passing by?” “I don’t know!” Mac heard himself growl in frustration. “It all seems so ridiculous. That my meditation causes a gathering? Do you realize how absurd that sounds?” “Our whole existence is absurd,” Methos sighed grimly into his glass. “That doesn’t mean it isn’t real.” “Then tell me what you know, Methos. Tell me why this is happening.” “Why is hardly important,” Methos snapped impatiently. “You always wanted me to play the role of wise advisor, well here’s some wisdom for you: Don’t do it anymore. Ignore the dreams, resist the urge to meditate.” “Not good enough, Methos,” Mac insisted. “What aren’t you telling me?” Methos stood, his presence suddenly filling the room with ominous portent, his Quickening almost crackling in the air. “I could spend the next century talking about my life, and there still would be things I hadn’t told you. Live with it. I tell you what you need to know.” Mac was propelled to his own feet, and moved close. “And you get to decide what that is, like some guru on a mountaintop? And here I thought you were Just A Guy!” he sneered, as a rush of adrenaline provided a jolt of aggressive energy and he discovered his hands were aching for the feel of a blade in his hand. He stepped back, almost stumbling, appalled at his own barbaric impulses. He had arrogantly begun to believe that in the past few years he had achieved better control. “I… I’m sorry,” he murmured, turning away, his face heating with shame. “That was uncalled for.” “No, it wasn’t,” Methos answered gently behind him. “You’re being pushed to the limits of your endurance, and you haven’t even been aware of it.” Mac leaned both hands up against the kitchen island, unwilling to look Methos in the face. “You keep saying that, but I have no idea what you’re talking about, Methos. No one is pushing me.” He wiped a shaking hand across his clammy brow. He really needed to get some sleep. He just knew he didn’t want to talk about this anymore. “Look, this isn’t a good time. Maybe tomorrow…” “Oh, they’ve got you good,” he heard Methos murmur behind him. Mac forced himself to turn around. He leaned back up against the island and crossed his arms. “Who has got me good, Methos? Or is that one of those things I don’t need to know?” Methos seemed to study him for a moment, and Mac wondered what he saw. Did Methos think he was stupid? Naive? Stubborn? Probably all of the above. He really needed to get away. Get away from Methos, get away from everybody. Someplace far, someplace safe…. “You’ve always been susceptible to suggestion, haven’t you? They did that part really well.” With an effort, Mac forced his attention back to Methos’ words. “What? What do you mean? Who did what part?” “Joe updated your Chronicles and I read about your meeting with Cassandra in her magic little hideaway in Donan Woods. You could see what no one else could, even when you were only a kid. And you were so vulnerable to both Kantos and Cassandra and their abilities to project their will, to John Garrick and his visions, to Ahriman. It’s a fundamental part of who you are, MacLeod, a weakness you need to recognize.” That struck Mac as funny, and he wasn’t even sure why. “Now we’re talking about my “fey” Celtic heritage, are we?” He chuckled. “How did we get off on that? Next you’ll tell me I have elvish blood and am the rightful ruler of Rivandell, where we must return to find the Ring of Power.” He sighed, too tired to continue the conversation. “I don’t have pointy ears, and this isn’t a fairytale. This is my life, and I really just need some sleep. So, if you don’t mind…” “I’m staying here,” Methos announced. “You need a keeper, MacLeod.” “A babysitter, you mean,” Mac growled, pushing away from the island. “I don’t need you or anyone else to protect me, Methos. Now go home.” Methos just cocked an annoying smile at him, then turned and lay down on the couch, stretching his long legs out and crossing them at the ankle, his hands folded behind his head. He wiggled around a little in an ostentatious display of nesting behavior. “Got a spare pillow?” he asked with a yawn. They could continue to argue about it, an argument Mac was certain he would lose, or he could just give in gracefully. Well, maybe not gracefully, Mac decided irritably as he crossed to a chest and yanked out a spare blanket and pillow, tossing them so they landed on Methos’ chest and face. He then chose to ignore his “guest” as he barely managed to summon enough energy to change into pajama bottoms and fall into bed, and he could feel sleep close in on him even before his head hit the pillow.
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