fajrdrako | Cold Comfort

Title: Cold Comfort
Author:

fajrdrako
Fandom: Highlander
Character: Methos
Challenge: from

baronjanus, who wanted something about Methos and tea
Rating: G
Disclaimer: Not mine, no claims, all property of Marvel Comics.
Notes: 704 words. Written after walking home on a cold January night in Ottawa.

Cold Comfort

Methos woke. It was cold. He had never imagined such cold. It was so cold that he had lost all sense of his body. He supposed he could move, still, but he didn't bother to try. Ice on his eyelids made if difficult to blink, but he forced his eyes open on painful light - and saw nothing.

Snow fell on show, out of a white sky.

He shut his eyes again against the painful light, and dozed. Could an Immortal die of the cold? Probably not. Would his limbs freeze and fall off, like icicles on a branch? Would bears gnaw his frozen bones?

He found himself laughing at the image.

He had lived a long, long time.

He tried to move, but either his frozen arms and legs could not respond, or the weight of snow on them was too much. Quite a fate for the embodiment of Death - put on ice for all eternity. One with the glaciers.

Vaguely, he supposed he was hungry. A cold mug of beer would be nice. Take the edge off. When had he last tasted beer?

He thought he heard a voice. Perhaps they were calling him from the other side of death - who, though? The ones he had loved? The ones he had killed?

Perhaps they were laughing at him, the creature who had put himself above them, and now couldn't move out of a snowdrift. Should he ask forgiveness? His words were lost on the wind.

He was alone. So alone. An eternity of solitude, in the empty white cold.

He lay in a world of dreams and illusions. He thought he heard singing. He thought he tasted venison. He thought he was laughing, again, at a joke he couldn't quite remember.

Then there was nothingness. Nothing at all.

Eventually, into the nothingness came a scent, naggingly familiar. He struggled awake, trying to place it. Tea. Tea. It was tea. He could smell as clearly as if it were real. He could even imagine he felt the heat of the steam, wafting around his nose. He felt a hand, lifting his head. "Try to take a sip," said a familiar voice.

"Darius," said Methos.

"Don't move," said the comforting voice of the priest. "Rest. Take a sip of tea."

Methos could not quite manage a smile, but wanted to. "Tea made out of holy water?"

Darius scoffed. "That's for me, not the likes of you. Holy water would run at the sight of you. Drink!"

It was hot, and tasted of mixed, exotic herbs. Methos drank, found he enjoyed it, and drank some more. That woke him enough to look around. He found the strength, even, to move his head. They were in a tent, at night, with candles lit to see by. A hearth-fire burned for warmth. Through the smoke-hole above them, smoke drifted out to the sky. It was pleasant here. It wasn't bitterly cold or snowy, not inside the tent. He could hear the wind outside.

"You found me," he said.

"Easily enough," said Darius. "There were tracks. I knew how to look for them. The snow kept blowing, but it stopped falling."

"You carried me?"

"Not far." Darius had seemed so frail, so impractical. Methos believed mysticism had weakened him. Maybe not. "I have dogs and a sled. After some rest, they can take us home."

It was a long journey from... wherever Darius had come from. "Why?"

Darius took a sip of his own cup of tea, and didn't answer.

"You left me. You washed your hands of me for good. You said I was an amoral fool."

"You are," agreed Darius. "Doesn't mean I want you to suffer."

"You hunted for me?"

"A private atonement." He took the fur mitt off his hand, and put it on Methos' forehead, warm and dry. "A gift."

"Survival," said Methos. "The thing I value most." His voice, under the heavy layer of weariness, had a trace of irony. "Even more than I valued you."

"I have faith in many things," said the Priest. "I also have faith in you."

- end -

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Cold Comfort

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