Methos is gone.

 

I stare at the glass of whiskey in my hand, glaring at my odd, wavering reflection.  Good job, Highlander, I say to myself.  Chase off the most important person in your life after having him less than two months.  Real good.

 

Joe leans over the bar at me.  “Mac?” he says tentatively. 

 

The corner of my mind that’s still sober realizes he has reason to be tentative.  For the past three days, ever since Richie came back, I’ve been living in a bottle.  And acting like it.  I threatened Joe, told him I’d teach him what it feels like to die a couple times, then maybe he’d leave me alone.

 

Joe’s a pre-Immortal.  I never sensed a thing, but then, the note Methos left to Joe said he’d had trouble sensing it, and if Methos could barely tell, I wouldn’t have a hope.  The Old Man’s ability to sense that sort of thing is much stronger than mine. 

 

Methos is gone.

 

I feel like there’s a huge hole been ripped in my chest, like someone opened me up, took my heart out, and let me heal back up with a big gaping hole where my hear was.  I can feel the absence of Methos’ Presence more strongly than I ever felt anything else; it consumes me and tears me to ribbons.  I want to put my head down on the bar and cry.

 

Other patrons have glanced at me occasionally, asking Joe sotto voce if I’d be all right.  He always tells them that I’ll be okay in a few days; I’m just getting over some bad news.

 

I’ll never get better.  I might pull myself out of the bottle at some point, might start going through the motions of life again, might even look alive, but inside, I’ll be dead, because Methos is… was… my life, and he left.

 

Methos is gone.

 

I haven’t seen Richie since the day he came back.  I think he’s gotten the clue that I’m not happy with him.  Either that or Joe’s told him to stay away from me. 

 

Good thinking, Joe.  I don’t know what I’d do if Richie came in right now.  If he hadn’t come back…

 

If he hadn’t come back I’d still have hurt Methos some other way.  The Old Man had predicted it often enough.  “You’ll be the final death of me yet, Duncan,” he’d say in that rich voice, that voice I could easily get lost in. 

 

Maybe it’s a good thing he left before I could hurt him any worse than I have.  At least he’s still alive, and as he’s said, that’s all that matters in the end.

 

Methos is gone.

 

I’ve always thought he’d be the one.  It’s funny, you know, because he thought I would, but I think right now, if someone challenged me I’d just let him take my head so the pain would stop.  The pain that’s tearing me apart.  I can’t stand it, this gaping absence that only Methos can heal. 

 

Methos is gone.

 

Gone.