Please Remember Me
© HonorH
Song excerpts are from "Dante’s Prayer" by Loreena McKennitt on her album The Book of Secrets, copyright 1997 by Quinlan Road Music Ltd.
The events in the flashbacks take place an indeterminate number of years after the events of "The Warrior, the Bard, the Thief, and the Immie."
***
"The Navajo have a saying: ‘The spirit lives as long as someone who lives remembers you.’" Duncan MacLeod to Methos at Alexa’s grave in "Through a Glass, Darkly."
***
Adam Pierson, otherwise known as Methos, the world’s oldest man, walked unobtrusively through the streets of Paris. It was, he thought, a remarkably ugly day, even for a Paris winter. The sky was overcast, the air was cold, and the ground was icy where it wasn’t covered in slush. Of course, he could always move to his other main residence in Seacouver, but that city was bound to be in about the same condition as Paris, only muckier.
It was times like these when he thought seriously about changing his name and moving on to a new life. Right at the moment his brain was occupying itself with variations on his last few names. Pierson, Adams, Ambrose—or maybe he could do like Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod and stick with one name for four hundred years.
Methos shook his head. It was a wonder the Aggravating Scot had lasted this long. For that matter, it was a wonder Methos had formed a friendship with the Highlander. Could there be a more mismatched pair?
Come to think of it, there was one. Of course, they hadn’t been around for what? Two thousand years? He hit another slick spot and struggled to stay upright.
At that moment, a small figure collided with him. He had an impression of brightly-colored hair against a black coat and a woman’s sharp cry as he instinctively grabbed her to keep her from falling. He heard several thumps as the items she’d been carrying hit the ground.
"Steady!" he urged in French as she grabbed onto his duster. A moment or so of getting her feet under her, then a sigh of relief. Methos pulled back to look at her face.
Gabrielle?!?
His feet suddenly came out from under him, and he fell on his bum with an unceremonious thud. He didn’t even feel the impact as he continued to stare at her face.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going. Are you okay?" She bent down to help him up.
"Ahhh . . ." His voice seemed to have failed him.
Her cheeks turned pink. "Er . . . parlez-vous anglais?" she asked tentatively.
Methos shook himself. "Yes . . . yes, I do."
She was the exact image of Gabrielle. Same strawberry-blond hair, same green eyes, same youthful features. But Gabrielle had been dead for two millennia.
"Are you okay?" she inquired again. Her voice was the same, too, if he remembered correctly.
He shook himself. "Yes, I’m fine, Miss . . ?"
"Angel," she told him. "Angel Covington"
The name hit him like a thunderclap. Of course. He should have guessed. But not even the late Janice Covington had looked as much like her ancestor as this girl did.
Angel was collecting her books, which had fallen to the ground. Belatedly, Methos reached out to help her.
He realized an introduction was in order. "Adam Pierson," he said, offering a hand.
It was her turn to look at him sharply. Her eyes narrowed briefly, as if she was trying to remember something important. "Do I know you?" she asked. "You seem so familiar, like I should."
Methos smiled. "I was just thinking the same about you, actually. You remind me of someone I knew." They finished gathering the books, which he realized were historical texts from the Middle Ages. "Um, where to?"
She gestured toward a rental car parked nearby. He helped her put the books in the back seat.
"Well . . . thanks." She still had that puzzled expression, like she was trying to remember him. Suddenly, he didn’t want her to leave.
"Can I buy you a drink?" he blurted, then grinned, a little embarrassed. Even after five thousand years, he could still make a perfect fool out of himself in front of women. "I’m not making a pass or anything, it’s just that you do remind me of someone who meant a lot to me."
She eyed him, then looked at her watch. "Why not? I’ve only got a few hours left in Paris, and I’d like to figure out who you remind me of."
Methos escorted her one street over to Le Blues Bar. Inside, he spotted Joe Dawson. As he and Angel took their seats, a waitress brought over Methos’s usual beer and asked Angel for her order. She requested a wine cooler and shrugged off her coat, revealing a peach turtleneck sweater and charcoal-gray wool skirt.
Methos decided to break the ice (so to speak—his rump was still healing from the last ice he’d broken). "I couldn’t help but notice your books. Are you a student?"
She shook her head. "Actually, the books are for my job. I’m a researcher at the Covington Institute in New Zealand. I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of it?"
"Actually, I have," he replied. That seemed to surprise her. "Headquarters for the International Association of Xena Studies, isn’t it?"
Now she was gaping openly at him. "You’ve heard of the IAXS? No way!"
"I’m something of a historian myself." THAT was an understatement. How many people had ever made a living by researching themselves and lying to their superiors about it? "A few years back, I was researching Ancient Greece when I came across the IAXS database. Fascinating stuff. I got some good information off it."
"Wow!" she exclaimed. "I guess I’m so used to people not knowing what we are, or, worse yet, treating us like we’re respectable archaeology’s bratty little sister that I’m amazed to find someone who . . ." Angel trailed off. "Wow. I’m really glad I ran into you."
"Likewise." He waited while the waiter came over with Angel’s drink.
"Who do I remind you of?" she suddenly asked.
How to answer that? He looked at her and answered slowly. "Someone very special. She died some time back, though . . ."
Some time. Try two thousand years. He thought back to the last time he’d seen Gabrielle.
***
When the dark wood fell before me
And all the paths were overgrown
When the priests of pride say there is no other way
I tilled the sorrows of stone.
***
Methos stood in the square, talking to a few lords whose names he had trouble remembering. They were so generic, he thought. Not an original one in the bunch. Zeus help them if one of them had to come up with a thought on his own. Right now, the oldest one was droning on about how things used to be in his day.
Not even close, youngster, Methos thought. I was there, and it wasn’t ever like that.
He wasn’t sure what instinct made him look over his shoulder across the square. There, standing and watching him, was a figure he felt sure he should know. He narrowed his eyes.
"Gabrielle?" He didn’t realize he’d said it aloud until he saw the other lords staring at him. Quickly, he excused himself.
As he approached her, he saw that it was, in fact, Gabrielle, but not as he remembered her. For one thing, her clothes were different. She wore a long, loose-cut dress the color of autumn leaves, and her hair was braided back, like she was deliberately trying to blend in. The greater difference, though, was in her bearing. She seemed barely able to hold herself upright. Her face was pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes.
"Gabrielle?" he said more softly as he reached her.
"Methos." He barely heard her voice. It occurred to him that she might faint right in front of him. He reached out to steady her and found her leaning into his arms. With sudden alarm, he realized how very thin and fragile she felt.
"Gabrielle, where’s Xena?" he whispered. She suddenly sucked in a breath, as if something had hurt her. He pulled back and saw the truth in her face. "Oh, no, Gabrielle . . ." All he could do was hold her.
"Milord?" The polite inquiry came from just behind him. Methos turned his head, irritated, to find one of the lords he’d just been talking to watching him curiously.
"This is . . . my cousin," Methos lied. "She was just widowed. I need to take her back to my house." He moved off quickly, one arm still around the bard’s shoulders.
As they made their way to the house warrior and bard had stayed in just a few years ago while they schemed some slavers out of town, Methos wondered if what he’d told the lord was closer to the truth than it might seem. Gabrielle had spent years with Xena. They’d lived together, eaten together, fought beside (and probably with) each other, shared both joys and sorrows. No doubt they would still be together if . . . if the warrior had lived. Methos wondered what could possibly have killed Xena.
Gabrielle herself seemed to be on her last legs. He guessed that she hadn’t eaten or slept in longer than was good for her. Judging by the way she walked, she was hurt somehow, too. She stumbled as they entered Methos’s courtyard.
Once inside, Methos ordered a meal to be laid out, a bath drawn, and a room prepared. He tried asking what had happened, but she only shook her head in response to his gentle inquiries. When the food came, she only stared at it. Then she shook her head again.
"Not hungry." The weakness in her tone belied the words.
"Eat, Gabrielle," he ordered. "A weak body won’t help your mind heal. Believe me, I know."
She seemed stricken as she looked into his eyes. However, she started eating. If it wasn’t as much as he’d hoped, it was enough to keep her alive. Finally, she stood and walked toward the bathing room like an automaton.
His faithful housekeeper Lavinia hurried up, wringing her hands. "Poor little lamb, she looks so weak and tired. I can’t imagine what’s happened to her to make her like that, but oh, how awful it must have been, Milord, and can anything be done for her? I just can’t stand for her to look so sad and worn!"
"I don’t know, Lavinia," Methos admitted. So he did what he did know to do.
He treated her obvious wounds. She had a series of what looked like terrible burns along her right side, but those were older and most of them looked like they’d been treated, although one was just beginning to get infected. Other than that, she had the scrapes and bruises of one who’d recently been in a fight. Unless he missed his guess, she’d met up with brigands somewhere along the road. Unless he missed his guess, they’d gotten the worse end of the deal.
After he finished doctoring her wounds, he gently rubbed the soreness from her muscles until she slept. Then he kept a vigil all night. Several times, she awakened, as if from a nightmare. Each time, she looked around as if hoping to see someone. Each time, she emitted a sort of despairing moan as the person she hoped to see wasn’t there. Methos tried to soothe her, but her pain was beyond his reach.
When day came, he allowed her to sleep late and brought her breakfast. She ate and got out of bed at his insistence. He helped her out to the courtyard where the flowers were in bloom, hoping she’d talk. She didn’t, so he did. He told her about the flowers and where and when he’d seen each variety for the first time. He took her on a tour of the house, pointing out various curiosities he’d collected during his travels and telling her the stories behind them. When they sat down for lunch, he kept talking. He spoke of local politics adding his own satirical twists to everything. He talked about the Crown Prince and how glad he was that the lad took after his mother, the good and intelligent Queen Theodesia, rather than his father, who, in Methos’s private opinion, wasn’t qualified to lead a flock of sheep across the road. He told her everything that had happened since she and Xena had been there last.
Finally, evening came. After dinner, Methos checked her wounds again and was gratified to see that they were healing nicely. She went to bed quietly. Methos instructed one of the maidservants to keep watch over her and to tell him if anything was wrong.
This went on for days. Methos would talk to her, feed her, and check her wounds. She, however, rarely spoke or showed any sign of emotion. That was what worried him most. At his insistence, she ate enough, and her wounds were healing, but the warm, chatty woman he’d come to care about just seemed absent. What had happened, he wondered, to make her like this? Was it just the natural result of losing her soulmate, or was it something more? He wouldn’t know until she told him.
Finally, one evening, after Gabrielle had gone to her bedroom, the maid he’d assigned to her came tearing into the atrium where Methos sat.
"Milord!" she gasped. "The lady, she’s . . ."
Methos was out of his seat before she could finish her sentence. As he approached Gabrielle’s room, he heard the sound of screaming and something breaking. He ran in.
Inside was a madwoman. Gabrielle seemed intent on breaking everything in the room that could be broken. She was screaming and crying, cursing and pleading all at once. When she saw Methos, she flew at him, beating against him with her fists.
He didn’t mind. She could’ve beaten him black and blue if it would have helped her. In another moment, though, she buried her face against him, and a sound came from her lungs, somewhere between a scream and a sob, that he wouldn’t understand for two thousand years.
Now his mind flashed to a trainyard and an abortive swordfight and Amanda’s face as she whispered, "I’m sorry." He remembered burying his face against her neck as a roar of pain and frustration over Alexa, his dying beloved, welled up from deep inside him, the exact sound Gabrielle had made all those years before.
He came back to the present. Angel, the exact copy of her ancestor, was staring at his expressive face, sympathy in her eyes. "You don’t have to tell me," she assured him. She shook her head. "But you really do remind me of someone, Adam. I just wish I could figure out who."
A though struck him. "You know, while I was doing my own research, I came across some things you might be interested in. Some old texts that talk about an ancient woman-warrior—legends, of course, but you know how a lot of legends have their basis in fact. There’s one in particular that might interest you." It ought to, he added silently. I wrote it. "I could send it to the IAXS."
Angel nodded eagerly. "I’d love that. Why don’t I give you our address?" She opened her wallet and pulled out a card. Methos’s attention was caught by a photograph, though. A dark-haired woman with amazing blue eyes.
"Who is that?" He pointed to the picture.
The woman across from him smiled warmly. "That’s my best friend, Alexandra Pappas Kanaredes. Isn’t she beautiful?"
"Very striking," he agreed. Inwardly, he was bemused. What was it with these women? Did they find each other every generation or what?
"Xan and I practically grew up together," Angel was saying. "Her grandmother and mine were best friends for most of their lives. Quite a pair, those two. You couldn’t imagine two people more different. I will always remember Granny Covington sitting back with one of those disgusting cigars of hers and saying to Xan, ‘Yeah, I remember the first time I met your grandmother. I thought she was a real (expletive) lady.’"
Methos had to laugh. That certainly sounded like the Janice Covington he knew. "Xan?" he asked aloud.
Angel shrugged. "Well, none of the usual nicknames for Alexandra really work on her. It’s hard to explain. Xan just suits her, y’know?"
Methos squinted. "Who’s the chap trying to get into the picture?"
"That would be Theodore," Angel laughed. "He’s mostly harmless. He’s got this obsession about turning Xena’s life into a TV series, though."
As she said this, she accidentally gave the photo booklet a flip, and Methos went rigid as he saw the next picture.
It was of him. More specifically, of him and Alexa on a beach in Santorini. Angel saw the photo and she, too, went rigid.
"Adam Pierson," she whispered. "Of course. That’s who you are."
He reached out almost unconsciously and brought the photo closer to him. He should have seen it before, he thought. He should have guessed.
"You were the one, weren’t you? You were in love with my cousin Alexa." Angel’s words brought him back to reality.
"She was your cousin? Of course." He remembered now. "She talked about her cousin Angel. I-I guess I just didn’t put it together until now."
"Adam." Angel reached out and grabbed his hand. "I can’t believe I didn’t . . . it’s just that I only knew you through Alexa’s descriptions and this photo. She’s who I reminded you of, isn’t she?"
Not exactly, but now that he looked, he saw it. He couldn’t believe he’d missed it: the clear aqua eyes, the small frame, the innocent smile, even the soft, sweet voice. Of course Alexa was a descendent of Gabrielle’s.
Or was she? "Angel, this may seem like a very strange question," he began, "but how exactly was Alexa related to you?"
Angel seemed to think a moment. "Well, Granny Covington had a son, Gabriel, who was my father, and a daughter. Her daughter, Xenia, married a man named Peter Bond and they had Alexa."
Then it was true. He’d loved one of Gabrielle’s descendants, her daughter removed by millennia. Somehow, the news didn’t shock him as much as gratify; it only made sense that the woman who had brought him back to life after two centuries of simply existing was related to Gabrielle.
True, it was Duncan MacLeod who’d rudely burst in on Methos’s carefully constructed ivory tower, bringing the ancient back into the Game. It was MacLeod who had intrigued Methos so much that he’d followed the man back to the States in order to try and figure him out. But it was Alexa who had given him a reason to live.
She had been dying. He had been dead. Somehow, they brought each other back to life for a whirlwind tour of the world. In those few months, they had shared more of living than Methos had for over two hundred years. Those precious days of discovering each other and what they could be for each other were something Methos hadn’t wanted to let go of, indeed, almost lost his life for. They’d needed each other so much.
Did you know, Gabrielle? he wondered, giving in to fancy. Did you send her to me?
Angel’s hand tightened on his. "Adam, you should know how much you meant to her." She gathered her thoughts for a moment. "After she got her diagnosis, she’d call and talk to me the same as always, but as her illness got to wearing on her, it was like I could feel the life going out of her. Sometimes she’d cry, but more often, she’d just sound hopeless. Like she was already gone. But . . . when you came in and swept her off to see the world, it was like the life came back."
Methos shook his head. "If I did that for her, it was only giving back what she gave me. She gave me a reason to come back into life when I’d been doing my best to stay out of it for a long, long time."
They talked, then, about Alexa. Angel had grown up shuttling between the U.S. and New Zealand, but she’d managed to keep up a fairly close relationship with her cousin until college. From then on, they’d written letters and made occasional phone calls. Finally, Angel had settled in New Zealand, and Alexa had moved west, settling in Seacouver.
Methos told her about the places he and Alexa had explored together both in the States and in Europe. At one point, he called over Joe Dawson, who had loved Alexa very much in his own right and was happy to meet her cousin. Angel remembered him from Alexa’s letters, too. Finally, Methos asked Angel if she’d like to see Alexa’s grave.
As the two set out for the cemetery, Methos thought back again to Gabrielle.
***
I did not believe because I could not see
Though you came to me in the night
When the dawn seemed forever lost
You showed me your love in the light of the stars.
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me.
***
She shed more tears than he had thought possible. He just held her, allowing the storm of emotion to take her where she needed to go. At last she slept, cradled in his arms, and he carried her from her room to his. She didn’t need to be confronted by the damage she’d done when she awoke.
He laid her in his own bed, then laid on a couch nearby, knowing he’d hear her if she stirred. As he watched her sleep, exhausted, it came to him that he loved her. Not in a sexual way—although he admitted to himself he would gladly have taken her to wife if she’d been willing—but instead as a dear and true friend. One who had seen him at his worst, seen the evil he was capable of, yet still accepted him, still offered him friendship and love. One who had thought it was worth endangering her own self to save him.
Now he realized how he, himself, had tried to take her pain upon himself, to ease it any way he could. It was perhaps the first time he’d done something completely unselfish. The first time he’d loved without condition. He savored the moment and the knowledge like a precious jewel.
She slept the night through without stirring. When morning came, he called Lavinia (who got quite the wrong impression at seeing Gabrielle asleep in Methos’s bed) and asked her to bring up some breakfast. Shortly afterward, Gabrielle awoke.
"M-Methos?" she murmured, rubbing her swollen eyes.
"I’m here, Gabrielle." He sat on the side of the bed. "How do you feel this morning?"
She lifted herself against the pillows and seemed to consider the question. Her face fell.
"Methos, I-I’m sorry. Your guest room . . ."
He shook his head, cutting her off. "It doesn’t matter. What’s important is you."
She colored a little. "No, you’ve been so kind to me—I can never thank you enough—and then I broke all those things . . ."
"Doesn’t matter." Now he turned and sat against the pillows beside her. "I mean, we all have things we do when we’re in pain. You scream and throw things. Me, I paint a blue streak on my face, grab a horse, and go on a killing spree."
That actually got a watery laugh. "That’s a grotesque joke, Methos."
"Most of mine are." He looked at her. "Gabrielle, what happened?"
She sighed and swallowed hard. Methos brought the breakfast tray over, and she drank a little juice. Then she began her story.
"About four years ago, Xena and I helped defend a Greek city against the Romans. One of the city leaders was named Calion. Calion was attractive, charismatic, and a skilled warrior, and he and Xena were—taken with each other. They had an affair, but he was killed in battle. Shortly after we left, though, Xena discovered, much to her shock, that she was pregnant.
"We decided that the Amazon nation was the best place for her to have her baby. She thought it would be best to leave the child with them or the Centaurs once it was born because she didn’t think she’d be a good mother. After little Lycea was born, though, Xena had a change of heart. She wanted to be mother to her daughter. We settled with the Amazons, I as their queen and Xena as my champion and war chief. For three years, we were happy and at peace.
"Then news came to us that Ares was on the move, massing armies in the South. Xena knew she had to stop him before he took over Greece. She wanted to go alone, but I wouldn’t let her. We left Lycea and the Amazon nation in the care of Chilapa, my regent, and headed south to where we knew Ares would be."
Gabrielle closed her eyes now. Methos could practically feel the pain emanating from her soul. It took her a long time to continue. "The final battle was horrific. There were times I thought the whole world would be turned inside out by the struggle, but in the end it was Xena who succeeded. She trapped Ares with the Eye of Hephaestus . . . but at the cost of her own life. Her-her last request was that I take Lycea and raise her as my own daughter. I took Xena’s body back to her mother, in Amphipolis. Now I’m going back to the Amazon nation and Lycea."
As Gabrielle’s tale came to a close, Methos realized something. The reason it had taken her so long to grieve Xena was that she’d had to be strong: first for Xena, then for Xena’s family, and now for Lycea and the Amazon nation. He could offer her something, though.
He reached out and ran his hand through her soft-as-silk hair. "You don’t have to be strong for me, Gabrielle," he told her gently.
She turned, buried her face in his chest, and cried her heart out.
***
Then the mountain rose before me
By the deep well of desire
From the fountain of forgiveness
Beyond the ice and the fire.
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me.
***
"Alexa Bond, Beloved," Angel read from the tombstone. She reached out to touch the cold granite, then looked up at her companion. "No dates. Why?"
"Because she didn’t want them," Methos, as Adam Pierson, explained. "She said she’d had enough of pity while she lived; she wanted no more after her death, because she died so young. I remembered, when it came time to make an epitaph, what someone very wise once told me: that to love, and to be loved, is more important than length of life."
Angel nodded thoughtfully. "Yes. That’s true." She stood. "Thank you for bringing me here, Adam. I know this must be hard for you."
It wasn’t, really. Methos sometimes thought his whole life was bound up in graveyards, tombs, and cemeteries. Friends and loves who now lived only in his memory. Each time another died, he swore it would be the last time he loved. Each time, he knew he lied.
After all, the alternative was unthinkable.
He took her away from the graveyard then, leading her on a walking tour of his favorite haunts in Paris. The first place they stopped was St. Julien le Pauvre, Darius’s church. Inside, Angel lit a candle to Alexa’s memory.
Methos watched, his mind reflecting on the parallels he saw. Xena, from warlord to hero; Darius, from conqueror to holy man; himself, from Death to . . . what?
The thought continued to dog him as they walked through the streets. Normally, it was a thought he brushed aside easily. If it went on too long, after all, it might bother his head to the point that he would let it get cut off. Somehow, though, walking beside this woman made him wonder if millennia of survival was all it had cracked up to be. Yes, Xena and Gabrielle had had only a short time upon this earth before they left it, but how brightly had they burned until that end! Had he ever burned so bright? What had he done that excused his continued existence?
He pushed that depressing thought away as he realized the circuit he’d led Angel on was nearing his apartment. "Why don’t we stop in and warm up a bit while I get you that book?" he offered. Angel, who was half-frozen, agreed readily.
Inside, she discarded her coat while he made coffee and searched his bookcases. He watched as a picture caught her eye. It was of Alexa, her auburn hair shining red in the Mediterranean sun as she stood at the bow of a cruise ship. She looked youthful, alive, and very happy. Then Angel picked something up from in front of the picture.
Methos walked over and started as he realized what it was: an iron bracelet engraved with the Endless Knot of the Celts.
***
Though we share this humble path, alone
How fragile is the heart
Oh give these clay feet wings to fly
To touch the face of the stars.
Breathe life into this feeble heart
Lift this mortal veil of fear
Take these crumbled hopes, etched with tears
We’ll rise above these earthly cares.
***
Gabrielle stood in Methos’s grand hall, running her fingers lightly over the stone Methos had shown her on her last visit. She looked up to find the ancient watching her.
"The Endless Knot," she said. "Your wife in Albion gave this to you, wanting you to remember her so you and she would be forever a part of each other."
"Yes," Methos confirmed. "I have never forgotten."
The bard turned toward him, face serious. "Methos, how does your memory work? Most mortals would be driven mad by the weight of so many memories."
Methos didn’t quite know, and said so. "But I think they must somehow be stored within my Quickening. When one Immortal receives another’s Quickening, memories are a part of it. Nothing distinct, though—just images and feelings."
She received this quietly, keeping her focus on his face. "Then Methos, I want a part of us to stay with you forever. I want you to know who we were so that what we were will not be forgotten."
With that, she began to tell him the story of the warrior and the bard. The telling took two days of her speaking literally from sunrise to sunset, and even then, he knew she was economizing on details. Still, the flavor of those memories came through. When she laughed, he laughed with her. When she cried, he felt her pain as if it was his own. And all night, after the tale was told, he dreamed the things she’d told him.
When he awoke, she was sitting on the edge of his bed. To look at her he could barely have told that she’d been hurt, so complete was her recovery. Now she gazed on him with clear, peaceful eyes.
"It’s time for me to go," she said simply, and he knew it was. They ate breakfast together and she gathered her meager belongings, preparing to leave. He went with her as far as the city gates. There, she stopped.
She turned and looked long into his face. "Thank you, Methos. More than I can say."
He shook his head and took her face into his hands. "Gabrielle, what I’ve done, I’ve done out of love. You of all people understand that."
"Remember me," she charged him. "Remember us, and live."
"I will," he pledged.
The tiny woman moved closer then, placing her hands on his shoulders and leaning up to press her lips lightly against his in a bittersweet good-bye kiss. He embraced her, his friend, his beloved. Then he let her go. Her eyes kept his for another moment before she turned and continued her long journey back to the Amazons.
In another few days, Methos received a message from Rebecca, who he’d told to keep an eye out for Gabrielle. The message said simply that Gabrielle had stopped for one night at Rebecca’s farm, and she’d been well and strong then.
That was the last Methos had ever heard of Gabrielle until he met Janice Covington fifty years ago. He’d taken some pains then to correct the eccentric archaeologist’s perceptions of her ancestor (which had been difficult considering he couldn’t tell her who or what he was, but he’d managed it in the end). He’d also anonymously underwritten her institute. Periodically, he still donated money to it through the dummy corporations he’d set up to conceal his wealth.
Now he looked down at the bracelet Angel held and heard a ghostly echo in his mind: Alexa, whispering to him with her last breath, "Please remember me." He gently took the bracelet from Angel, only to fit it onto her wrist.
"I gave this to Alexa," he explained. "You should have it now."
Her fingers caught his. "Adam, this is very old. It’s priceless—I can’t accept it," she protested.
"Yes, you can," he argued. "I gave it to Alexa, and you, unless I’m mistaken, are her next of kin. It belongs to you."
She stared at him. "I don’t know what to say."
He smiled. "Then don’t say anything." He turned and picked up the book he’d found. "Here—I think you’ll find this useful."
Angel ran her fingers over the cover, then raised her clear green eyes to his. "Thank you, Adam. I . . . think I understand why Alexa loved you so much." She looked like she was going to say more, but her eyes caught the clock behind him. "Oh, shoot, I’ve gotta get to the airport!"
She gathered up her coat and they walked out the door. Fortunately, her rental car was only a block or so away from his apartment. When they got there, she stopped and looked up at him.
"Adam, you still have my card, don’t you?" she asked anxiously. He produced it from his pocket. "Good. It’s got my New Zealand phone number, snail mail, and email address on it. If you find anything else you think the Institute might be interested in, or if you want to talk about Alexa, or . . ." she trailed off, grinning. "Look, I don’t care if you just send me bad jokes. I’d really like to keep in touch with you, Adam."
"I’d like that very much, too, Angel," he told her. He fished an old receipt out of his pocket, borrowed a pen from Angel, and wrote his own information on it. "This is my email. It’s hard to tell if I’ll be in the States or Europe from month to month," depending on the whereabouts of a certain Highland Boy Scout, he thought, "so this is the best way of getting ahold of me."
She nodded, then impulsively reached up to hug him. She even smelled like Gabrielle, he thought. After a long moment, she moved back around to the driver’s side of the car. When she got there, though, she stopped, eyeing him hard.
"You will remember, won’t you?" she asked.
"Always," he promised.
She got in the car and was gone. Methos stood looking after her for a long while. He suddenly remembered something he’d said to MacLeod once when the Highlander had asked him if he ever wanted to just forget everything and start over.
"No," Methos had said. "Who would remember Alexa?"
Who would remember Alexa, and Xena, and Gabrielle? There were so few true ancients left, and only a very few of those had known Xena and Gabrielle. He knew Autolycus was still around somewhere, pulling playful heists and shaking off Watchers. Methos didn’t know of any others. Troyius and Rebecca were both dead. Ganewyn was old enough, but she’d been in the wrong part of the world during their lifetimes. Marcus Constantine might have met them—Methos would have to ask him next time they got together for their biannual drink and game of "Risk." Of course, Constantine being a Roman general would have put a damper on any relationship he might have had with Xena. Cassandra was old enough, but Methos couldn’t exactly call her up to discuss old times.
How interesting, he thought. From Death on a Horse to He Who Remembers. He chuckled a little at his own fancy, but it was true. He remembered things no one else had been around to witness. The history of the world for the past five thousand years was bound up in his memory. Oddly enough, the thought gave him peace. That was as good a reason as any to exist, wasn’t it?
His feet had taken him back to Le Blues Bar. Suddenly, the sense of two Immortals assaulted him. He had a feeling he knew who they were.
Looking in, he confirmed his suspicions. Duncan MacLeod and Amanda sat at a table, both looking expectantly at the entrance. They smiled in greeting as Methos strolled in and welcomed himself to a seat at their table.
"Have a seat, Old Timer," said MacLeod, smirking. A beer appeared in front of the ancient, who looked smug.
"They know me so well," he demurred. Amanda rolled her eyes.
Methos considered the lovers for a long moment. Of all the Immortals he’d known, MacLeod was the most likely to survive the Gathering, if such a thing was to happen. Gabrielle had wanted someone to know the history she and Xena had shared. If Methos was not to survive—which he fully intended to, but one never could tell—he wanted someone to know of them who would live.
"I met the most wonderful person today," he began. "A relative of Alexa’s." He saw the instant light of empathy in Amanda’s eyes. His own warmed in response. "Actually, though, the story begins long before I ever met her. About two thousand years before, come to think of it. Would you like to hear it?"
Neither looked too sure. Methos knew what would hook Amanda. "Rebecca comes into it."
The not-quite-reformed thief—the second, Methos suddenly realized, who Rebecca had mentored—sat up and took notice, the way she always did when someone mentioned the name of the woman who had taught her the meanings of words like "courage," "forgiveness," and "love." MacLeod himself was starting to be intrigued by his ancient friend’s manner.
Methos decided they were interested enough to begin the telling. "About two thousand years ago, I was sitting in a Temple of Athena, minding my own business, when suddenly, the most amazing woman walked in . . ."
***
Cast your eyes on the ocean
Cast your soul to the sea
When the dark night seems endless
Please remember me
Please remember me . . .
***
Fini et fini