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The River

Part Sixteen: Persistence of Memory

Ash eased Methos out of her arms. He made a small sound of loss, but didn�t wake. She stood, stretched, and sighed, thinking, �I�m sorry, �Thos, I must wake you soon; you�ve slept for almost two days. We need to move Duncan.� Ash went into the bathroom and looked around. There was a bathtub, a rather large one, off in one corner. It appeared large enough to hold MacLeod, even in the position his body was in. She went back out to the main room, took off the sheet, and checked Duncan. He was thawing, but still too stiff to undress except by cutting off his clothes. Ash picked up her backpack and went back to the bathroom. She took a shower and dressed in new clothes she had bought on the way to the barge, another dark sweater and black jeans. She ordinarily would throw out the clothes she had taken off, but she tossed them into the hamper instead, now that she was going to be in one place for a while she would have the time to do laundry, like a normal person. She took her pack and sheathed swords out of the bathroom and dropped them on the couch.

Barefoot, Ash walked back to Duncan, kneeling, she unlaced his hiking boots and removed them. She debated cutting off his jeans, but decided it would be better to leave his clothes on until he was flexible enough to undress. He was so thin; the clothes would cushion his body from the hard surface of the tub. She went back to the bathroom and half-filled the tub, adjusting the water temperature until it was barely lukewarm. Any hotter than that would burn him; there was no circulation to move the heat away from the surface of his skin.

Ash went out and stood over the bed, looking down at Methos. He was so still, so peaceful, except for the trace of sorrow in his expression. She regretted having to wake him, but she needed his help. She sat on the edge of the bed and caressed his hair, then his cheek. �Wake up, �Thos.� Methos frowned and made a slight sound of protest, not wanting to come back to reality, trying to remain in the quiet safety of sleep, but Ash was unrelenting, she kept calling his name, finally gently shaking his shoulder, and he was forced to open his eyes and recognize her.

�What is it? Why can�t you let me sleep?� Methos� voice was almost a croak, thick with the dryness in his throat.

Ash brought him a bottle of water and said, �You�ve been asleep for almost two days.�

�Two days! No wonder I�m so thirsty.� Methos sat up, drank half the bottle in one long swallow, and tried to gather his thoughts; he was groggy from so much sleep. �And I�m starving, is there anything here to eat?�

Ash laughed and said, �I think there�s something you might like.� She went into the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and began taking out items.

Methos drank the rest of the water and lay back, waiting patiently for whatever Ash would produce. The sounds from the kitchen were familiar, and he felt time slip, remembering the last time he had lain here, listening to the sounds of someone in the kitchen. It had been after they made love, he was pleasantly tired, and Mac was creating a culinary masterpiece. He had been sober that day, almost the Duncan he had fallen in love with, and Methos had allowed himself to hope that the worst was over, that he was pulling out of the depression, that he would stop drinking. Then he�d heard it, the clink of the bottle against the rim of the glass. He�d had to look, hoping that he�d made a mistake, that he�d misidentified the sound, but he was far too familiar with that sound. The bottle was on the counter; the glass was in Mac�s hand, and Methos abruptly had to get up and take a shower to hide the fact that he was crying. That night had ended, as had so many others, with him having to help Duncan to bed, he�d been so drunk he could hardly stand up. It was the last time he could remember Duncan cooking. In the days and weeks that followed, Methos would send out for food, or bring home take-out that Duncan would mostly pretend to eat, consuming much more Scotch than food. The memory hurt, he was glad of the distraction when Ash brought a tray to the bed, even though he was not nearly as hungry as he had been.

He propped himself up on one elbow and was struck with a sense of d�j� vu, his reclining position, Ash bringing food, how many times in the past had they performed this exact ritual, in Rome, in other places? Persistence of memory. Dali had it right, it was so surreal, living here in the twenty-first century, remembering the first century, and regretting his actions in both, and so many others. �How many lives have I ruined? How many have died because of me?� It was more than he could bear to think about.

Methos tried to divert his attention to the food. Ash was an unexpectedly good cook, he had discovered that many centuries ago, and he wondered if she still was. The contents of the tray proved to be an eclectic mix of past and present, sliced French bread, lightly buttered and toasted, sliced roast beef, condiments for sandwiches, red wine, fruit, two bowls of salad. The salad reminded him most of the past, dark green leaf lettuce, black olives, red wine vinegar, olive oil, crumbled feta cheese. Methos picked up an olive with his fingers, put it in his mouth, and bit down. Amazing how it tasted the same as it would have two thousand years ago, or even four thousand years ago.

Ash noticed his sad, musing look, and asked, �What are you thinking of, �Thos?�

�How some things have changed so much, and others haven�t changed at all.� The sorrow was audible in his voice.

�*You* have changed, old man.� Ash sat on the floor next to the bed.

�Have I? Well, I guess even *I* can change, given two thousand years!� Methos� tone was self-mocking.

Ash�s voice was gentle, a contrast as she answered him, �You have changed in the last hundred and fifty years, you�ve grown, you�ve learned��

�Learned what?� Now the bitterness was audible.

Ash took his face between her hands, making him look in her eyes. �You�ve learned how to love selflessly.�

�Selflessly!� Methos laughed sarcastically, pulling away from her hands, �I don�t know the meaning of the word!�

�Just answer one question for me, Methos. Which hurt you more, your own pain, or that you couldn�t stop Duncan�s pain?�

Methos� face distorted in an expression of grief, and Ash had her answer. She took his face between her hands again, but he wouldn�t open his eyes. �You can�t stop another�s pain, you can only love them and hope they heal.� She stroked her thumbs against his cheekbones.

Now Methos looked at her, his eyes sad, but a smile on his lips. �How did you become so wise?�

�Beats the hell out of me,� Ash shrugged. �Now eat something, I don�t go to the trouble of cooking for just anyone.� She picked up her bowl and a fork and began to eat her salad. After a few bites she said, �This is one thing that�s changed, the food is much better in this century. In almost any shop you can find food from halfway around the world, in any season. The peaches came from South Africa, and the beef came from Australia, it astounds me.�

Methos tasted a glass of the Bordeaux Ash had opened. �The wine is much better, too, I remember the horrible stuff we had in the past, it makes me appreciate wine like this.�

They chatted about wine, and some of the ghastly food that they used to find at inns, and Methos ate much more than he�d expected he would. Ash cleared away the dishes and took them to the sink, and Methos decided he needed a shower. He stood up, nude; Ash had seen him naked so many times he felt unconcerned being nude with her. He walked into the bathroom, noticed the half-full tub, and stuck his head out of the door, saying, �Were you going to take a bath?�

�No, that�s for MacLeod. He�ll thaw out faster if we put him in water.�

�Then let�s move him now.� Methos wanted Duncan back, and he was all for anything that would speed up the process. He came back out and stood over Duncan�s body. Looking at him caused an ache like something twisting inside his heart. He was thinking, �How much pain were you in, how bad did it have to be for you to choose death?� Methos crouched down and touched Duncan�s face. The skin no longer felt like stone, but was still as cool and pale as Carrara marble. He started when Ash rested her hand on his shoulder.

Ash felt him jerk and said, �Sorry, I didn�t mean to startle you. I�ll take his legs, and we�ll move him to the tub.�

�Should we take off his clothes?�

�It will be easier after he relaxes, we should open the jacket though, so his chest can warm up.�

Methos held Duncan�s body around the shoulders and Ash held him by the knees, and they lifted him and carried him into the bathroom, immersing him in the water. Methos kneeled down, reached in and unzipped the jacket, opening it so the water could reach Duncan�s chest, then he took a sharp intake of breath and laid his hand on that silent chest, saying in a voice suddenly choked with tears, �Oh Duncan, my sweater. You died wearing my favorite sweater. I couldn�t find it when I left, did you hide it from me so you could wear it forever?� The twisting thing in his heart was trying to get out by ripping his heart open; the pain was physical and so intense he felt he might black out. The question returned to torment him, �Do you love me Duncan? In spite of the way you hurt me, in spite of the things you said, I want so much to believe that you love me. I want so much to believe that you were trying to take a part of me with you. Or was my sweater just out with the laundry on the night I left, and you put it on because it was the first one that came to hand? Did it mean nothing to you? Do *I* mean nothing to you?� The grief was rising in him, cresting, leaving him keening softly, lost in an undertow of tortured doubt and anguish.

Ash took him in her arms but he seemed unaware of her, he was so far away, drowning in his sorrow. Ash had to pull him back, quickly, before he went under completely. �Listen to me, �Thos, I�m here, look at me, hear me, let the pain go, it�s all right, you can let the pain go.� Her voice was deep, velvet, it pierced the haze of grief and somehow it happened, he let go. The hurt diminished until it was almost bearable, and Methos� crying ebbed. Ash helped him up and took him back to bed and laid him down again. She covered him, he was still breathing in ragged gasps and whimpers and Ash soothed him, murmuring, �It�s all right, it will get better, let it go, let it go �Thos.� She lay next to him; he turned to her and held her close, hiding his face against her shoulder. Ash was wondering, �How can I help you if I don�t know why you hurt so much?� She spoke to Methos, very softly, �What did Duncan do to you, how did he wound you so deeply?�

Methos could have answered, �He beat me,� or �He raped me,� but he said neither of those things. He answered with the words that caused the worst of his pain, Duncan�s words, the words that ripped him apart more than anything.

�He said he could never love me.�

Ash could hear the anguish in his voice. �Did he mean it? Duncan was in pain; sometimes people in pain lash out at anyone near, like an injured animal will bite someone trying to help it. Or it could have been that he was afraid for you, he knew he would draw a challenger eventually, perhaps he was afraid you would have to fight for him and he didn�t want that, so he did whatever he could think of to make you leave.�

�Well he certainly succeeded in making me leave,� Methos� voice was muffled by her shoulder, tremulous with the aftermath of tears, �but I�ve been less than half alive since I left him. Nothing matters without him. I live in a huge house, by day I wander from room to room trying to find some purpose, some reason to go on. I wander the streets at night, searching for I don�t know what, unless it�s an opponent, or him. I worry endlessly, how is he, where is he, is he lying in an alley passed out or�dead. I live in fear of hearing he�s dead. I can�t go on like this,� Methos drew a ragged breath, �and he couldn�t go on. I can�t stop loving him and he said he couldn�t love me. I haven�t felt this torn apart in two millennia.�

�Do you want to sleep again, �Thos?� She caressed his hair.

�Could you make me sleep for a hundred years?�

�Then Duncan could wake you with a kiss.�

�If only he would.� Methos drew another ragged breath. �Why do I always fall most deeply in love with men who can�t love me? Over and over I repeat the pattern, Duncan, Byron, Aren.�

He felt Ash tense, she always avoided any mention of Aren, but there were things he needed to say, things he�d held inside for two thousand years. He raised his head and looked in her eyes. �I�m so sorry, Ash, I never meant to hurt him. I was so blinded by Aren, so infatuated; I couldn�t see anything else. I wanted him and was determined to have him, and I should have known better. He couldn�t stay away from you, night after night he would leave my bed and go to you.�

�He couldn�t sleep without me.�

Ash�s voice was a rough whisper, and the sound of it gave Methos pain. Her voice was once so different, a lyrical soprano, not this smoky contralto, the result of her screaming, screaming that he could still hear in his memory. Nothing could erase the sound, or the image of her holding Aren in her arms, drenched in his blood.

�How could you ever forgive me? That�s why you always run from me, isn�t it. You can�t forgive me, and I don�t blame you. I caused both your deaths. Nero forced you to kill Aren, and he made me watch it. Then he made me watch you die in the arena.�

�I saw you that day. I�d killed my opponent, and turned to salute the Emperor. You were standing at the edge of the Imperial box. You had been watching me fight, suddenly you leaned forward, trying to warn me, and I felt a blow. When I looked down there was a blade sticking out of my chest. There was no pain at first, then the gladius was pulled out and the pain came, white-hot, taking my breath away, smashing me to my knees. I looked up again and saw you, the light glinted on your face, I knew you were crying, and I knew I was dying. I had fallen on my side; I rolled over, onto my back and looked away, at the sky. I couldn�t bear to look at your face.�

�I was never sure you had seen me. It was then, watching you die, that I knew how much I loved you. I was crying for the pain I caused you, for my own stupidity, for my blindness. I loved you two thousand years ago, I love you now, but it�s always tainted by regret. Of course you can�t forgive me; I can�t forgive myself. Aren�s ghost forever lies between us.�

�His ghost is always with me, it always will be, but I do love you, Methos. You were there when I came back to life, you taught me what I needed to survive. We were together for years.�

�Can we be together now?� Methos reached up and caressed her cheek. �I want to touch you, I want to feel you next to me, I want to drive that ghost away with my body.� He slipped his hands under her sweater, she wore nothing under it, and his hands skimmed across her skin, making her shiver. It was the shiver that gave her away. Methos knew that shiver, knew it meant that it would take little more for her to do what he wanted. Ash was so sensual, and he knew her body so well. He pulled up her sweater and took one nipple in his mouth and sucked on it, flicking his tongue across it, and Ash moaned and arched into him. His hands found the waistband of her jeans, slid down the zipper, and found their way inside, his long fingers finding the most sensitive spot and stroking it with exquisite gentleness. Ash raised her hips and Methos pulled her jeans off, she took off the sweater, then got in under the covers next to him.

Methos kissed her, holding her close, pressing his body against her, rubbing skin on skin. He was hard, aching, and Ash moved on top of him, astride him. She took him deep inside her, she was riding him, and now it was his turn to do what she wanted. He could only hold on to her thighs, trying not to moan. Methos let her take control, lying still beneath her, giving himself up to the feeling, allowing himself to cry out. It felt so good to give up all control, to let his body be taken over, to just let it happen. Ash was moving with delicate slowness, the sensation drawn-out, attenuated, fragile, driving him half-mad. He was tossing his head, moaning, he began to thrust up, desperately needing more friction, unable to hold still any longer. Ash increased speed, matching Methos� rhythm, taking him to where he needed to be. She watched his face, his expressions telling her everything, shifting from need, to need met, to ecstasy. The look on Methos� face when he came, mouth open, eyes closed, head thrown back, the cords in his neck standing out as he screamed, that look was all Ash needed. She closed her eyes and shuddered.

It stunned her that she could still do this, that she could still give this much pleasure to him, or any man. She had thought she was incapable of giving anything, and she had thought she could never want to feel any of this again. Methos was driving away a ghost, but not the one he thought he was. Not the ghost of Aren, but the ghost of a monster who left her hating her own body for betraying her. �Johann von Kaltenberg is dead, he can�t hurt me now,� she thought. Yes, but the hurt was only part of it, the easy part. The hard part was the pleasure; he had delighted in forcing her pleasure, forcing her to orgasm over and over, while simultaneously she wanted to vomit in revulsion. It had left her repelled by any thought of contact with anyone, but somehow Methos had overcome her repulsion and had made her feel ecstasy, pure and clear. �I do love you, Methos, and I can feel again, pleasure and pain. I hope I can bear these feelings, there so much love, and so much pain.�

Methos opened his eyes and was surprised by the look on Ash�s face. It was a look of grief, not pleasure as he had expected. �What is it? What�s wrong?� His voice was husky and he reached up to her face, cupping her cheek.

Ash smiled and turned her head, dropping a quick kiss into his palm. �We have to get up. There�s a delivery due soon.� She pulled away from him and picked up her clothes.

Methos knew that look had nothing to do with having to get up, but let her get away without telling him what had made her look so grief-stricken. Ash hid her pain from him as much as possible, she always had. �What�s being delivered? There�s a pile of boxes over there already.�

�A hospital bed. There�s no way we can take care of Duncan in this bed, it�s too low, and there�s no way to�� Ash hesitated.

�There�s no way to what?� Methos sat up; somehow he didn�t like the sound of that hesitation.

�There�s no way to fasten the restraints.�

�Restraints?� Methos remembered the ropes she had bound him with when he was out of his mind, withdrawing from absinthe. �Will we have to use them on him? Can�t we keep him out with drugs instead of having to tie him down?�

�I hope so, but we�d better be prepared in case the drugs don�t work on him. It can be tricky with Immortals, some things work, some don�t, and it varies from person to person, like mortals we have different reactions to drugs.�

�You think it�s going to be really bad, don�t you.�

�I know Duncan was drinking more than two bottles of Scotch a day. That much would�ve killed a mortal. His nervous system has been bathed in alcohol for months; I can only imagine how he�s going to react. You were a doctor, do you have any ideas?�

�I haven�t been a doctor in a hundred years, my knowledge is a bit less than current.�

�And how about your personal knowledge? What you went through with the absinthe was about the same as what Duncan�s going to go through. What do you remember?�

�I remember feeling like I was hit by an enormous fist, I realized later it was a convulsion. That fist hit me repeatedly, and I remember dying.� Methos took a deep breath. �I remember one hallucination very clearly. I watched these creatures burrow out of my arm, hideous wormlike insect things, they kept pouring out of me, and then they turned and began to devour me alive. I remember screaming and screaming.� Methos� face bore a look of horror. �Oh gods, my poor Duncan, after all you�ve been through, to have to go through that.�

�He may not remember anything. You don�t remember very much, it took five days. Several times you screamed for so long I had to use what drugs were available at the time. I gave you morphine intravenously; it quieted you, but didn�t make you unconscious. I couldn�t leave you, you kept babbling in delirium, I was afraid of what you might say, although much of it was in languages no one would recognize.�

�I must have caused you some trouble, screaming like that.�

�Not really, you did cause me to hire a dominatrix, though, your screams attracted a slightly different clientele.�

�You�re joking!� Methos was starting to laugh.

�No I�m not! Her name was Miss Margaret, and her specialty was what she called �a proper English boarding school whipping.� It was very popular!�

Ash had a twinkle in her eye, and Methos was almost sure she was kidding, until it came back to him. �Gods, yes! She was tall and had masses of pale blonde hair, and it sounded like she really loved her work.�

�So you do remember her!� Ash said over her shoulder, on her way to the bathroom. She changed her course, going into the living area and picking up the sheet that had covered Duncan, then went into the bathroom.

Methos heard the shower running and decided he should join her, he had intended to shower before they moved Duncan to the tub. He got up and walked into the bathroom. The sheet was covering the tub, reducing the body under it to vague lumps. Methos had to resist the urge to uncover him, to look at him, to mourn over him. He turned away, to meet Ash coming out of the shower.

�Well, I was going to join you, but it seems you�re too fast for me.�

�I just needed a quick rinse. Take your time, the water is relaxing.�

Methos could hear the tone in her voice, the tone that planted a suggestion. He saw no reason to resist the suggestion, relaxing was just what he needed. He stood under the water, letting it wash away the tension. He heard a series of bumps and bangs, and muffled voices, and he assumed the bed had arrived. He didn�t want to leave the shower, it felt so good, but the water finally began to run cold. He dried off and went out to the main area and began rummaging in the wardrobe, coming up with a pair of faded jeans and a sweater of an unusual amethyst-gray color. He put them on over his bare skin, the jeans too big in the waist and slipping down on his slim hips.

�Oh, I forgot to tell you, your things are here, Joe brought them when he came to take me to get the supplies for Duncan.�

�Duncan�s wearing *my* sweater, it�s only fair.�

Ash knew he�d seen his suitcase. He�d wanted to wear Duncan�s clothes, had wanted to feel close to him this way.

Methos was looking through the shelves, muttering to himself. �I left a book here somewhere, ah, here it is!�

He was studiously not looking in the direction of the bed that had displaced the couch, which was pushed back against the wall. Methos didn�t want to think about that bed and what it meant. He went to the familiar bed, Ash had straightened it out, and he lay down on top of the covers to read.

Ash watched Methos read for a while; she noticed his eyelids were growing heavy, his head nodding. Methos fell asleep; Ash took the book from his unresisting hand and covered him with the afghan from the foot of the bed. There was nothing to do now but wait. Wait for Duncan to thaw, wait for whatever would happen when he came back. Wait to see if they could pull him out of hell.

She sat and watched Methos sleep as darkness fell.

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