|Methos' Journal: March 1997
by Lisa Hughes
two weeks after events in the episode "Revelations 6:8"
When will the pain stop? When will the nightmares cease? When will the confusion end? When will my heart heal? My soul has come adrift from its moorings and I want to come home.
I am haunted by MacLeod. His righteous indignation. His anger. His rejection. I see his face so clearly, especially in my nightmares. Each one is different, and yet they are all the same. MacLeod and I are together... talking, sparring, working, walking. Suddenly Kronos appears like an evil spirit and snatches him away before I can utter a sound. I wake in a cold sweat.
Silas' face figures in my nightmares as well. The look of utter disbelief on his face when I challenged him in particular. Silas. My gentle brother. Odd using a word like gentle to describe Silas. He was never gentle to any of our victims. Not the ones we killed and not those we left alive to be brought back to the camp as prizes. He may not have had Kronos' "gift" for torture, or Caspian's... appetites, but gentle? No. And yet that is how I remember him. He was such an uncomplicated, simple soul. I envied him that, more than once. And he was always gentle with me. I cannot regret killing him, but deep inside myself I do wish there had been some other way.
If anything the days are worse. I don't sleep. I can't eat. I try to read but the words make no sense. I try to meditate, but I can't seem to find any peace. So I walk. I try to sort things out, but the voices in my head are all too loud yet for blending, for balancing. The voice of reason yelling that MacLeod just needs a chance to assimilate all that's happened. The voice of emotion shouting that if he was my friend he should have accepted me. The voice of anger damning Kronos and Cassandra for ruining everything. The voice of the past screaming that I betrayed my brothers. The voice of recrimination crying that I should have trusted MacLeod in the first place. The voice of need clamoring for me to run to him and do anything, say anything to get him to let me in again. And behind them all one voice pleads for peace, for quiet, for balance. And so I walk.
The Australian aborigines have a tradition called the Walkabout. In this tradition a person who feels he is lost walks until he meets himself again. I have walked hundreds of miles since I last saw you Duncan... but there's no sign of me yet. The thread of my need for you weaves its way through all of my feelings of anger, betrayal, regret, and grief. It binds them together and prevents me from balancing them within myself, from finding peace. I cannot be with you until I find myself... but I cannot seem to find myself without you.
My need to see you blinds me. My need to hear you speak the words deafens me. I walk in a fog. It wraps close about me and hinders my thought. I love you, Duncan, and I want to come home.
My impulses shift from moment to moment. One minute I want to disappear and never see MacLeod's face again. The next I want to run back to him and beg his forgiveness. But I am not interested in forgiveness. Not his for me nor mine for him. What I want is acceptance. I can accept that he can't forgive my past... can he accept that my past is past? I know he doesn't understand me and what happened all those long years ago... but what I don't know is if he can love without understanding.
MacLeod would likely be surprised that in all of my confusion, the one thing that is clear is that the past is gone, and Methos the Horseman, Death, with it. I wish MacLeod could be as certain, could understand what it's like to be separated from an act, an event, by thousands of years. But then, how could he? I change, I evolve everyday. How could I possibly be the same person I was more than 730,000 days ago? He has changed through the years, why can't he accept that I have? And here we have come through clarity into confusion again.
I am bruised and raw still, and long for peace. I suppose I could find it if I didn't feel anything, if I cut myself off from my emotions. But I just can't do that again. I feel again, am truly alive again since I met MacLeod, and I cling to this new life like a drowning man. I won't go back. I won't give it up. So I'll have to find my peace the hard way. The only way out is through. And so I walk.
For now, I'm sure of only simple things. I hurt. I need. I love. I walk. When can I come home?