In the Bleak Mid-Winter
By Palladia
During the days of long shadows, Methos had taken
to walking the streets of Paris, crossing and re-crossing the Seine, standing
in the middle of the bridges, staring sightlessly into the river. It was cold
enough that wraiths of mist rose from the river, dancing.
When he had first seen this river, the little
Celtic village had been Lutetia, on what was now the Ile de la Cite'.
He'd been passing as a Roman, then, a surgeon with the troops, and they'd
celebrated Saturnalia, while the locals lit bonfires to get rid of the results
of the fall slaughtering.
He'd been a surgeon for Alexander, too, and
watched the celebrations for Zoroaster, high in the Hindu Kush, always an
observer, never really a celebrant, even when he seemed to be: a part of him
stood aside and watched.
Methos found himself wondering just how much
Earth's tilt on its axis contributed to the religions of its people. If there
were no seasons, would the death-and-rebirth stories have arisen?
Other people's celebrations, other people's
creeds, he smiled to himself, never his. By this time, he was walking the
narrow avenues of the Pere LaChaise cemetery, thinking idly that if he were
going to be wool-gathering, perhaps he should do it on holy ground.
The feeling was so faint, just a murmur, and he almost
shrugged it off, but his caution never really slept: alertness washed away his
reverie. It was near dusk, and he'd have to leave before the gates were closed,
but there was something in division 7, Methos thought, turning his head like a
deer trying to localize a sound.
A little bundle lay at the tomb of Heloise and
Abelard, wrapped in a blanket, tied with a red ribbon, with a sprig of
mistletoe at the knot.
They leave gifts for the dead, he thought, Jim Morrison's tomb is awash in them.
Then the bundle moved a little, and he knew.
Gathering it up, tucking it inside his coat, he headed straight for the gates.
"Just for a couple of days, Duncan, I want to
show her Paris. We'll be very quiet."
Duncan looked at Fitzcairn and his lady friend, wondering
when ever Fitz had been quiet. But it was nearly Christmas, and how bad could
it be?
The friend's name was Adelie, Fitz told him later
in private. He would surely recognise her stage name, so just let's leave it at
that, all right, laddie? She needed a rest: eight performances a week were very
wearing. If she stayed in London, she'd feel guilty, so he'd sort of dragged
her off.
It had been a good meal, Fitz had stoked up his
pipe, and they were sprawled near the fireplace, with only its glow lighting
their faces, cutting hard shadows on the men's profiles. Adelie had fallen
asleep, her head in Fitz's lap, when the door opened to let in a cold snap of
winter air.
"Duncan, I hate to bother you, but I have a
problem." Methos unbuttoned his overcoat, brought out the bundle, and
knelt by the fire to show the face, very pink from the chill. Fitz looked at
him with a wry grin.
"You don't have a problem: you have a
solution. You just didn't know it. Here. . ." Fitz reached up, carefully
took the bundle from the other man and tucked it in beside the sleeping woman.
In her sleep, whatever she was dreaming curled her around it, and a log in the
fire broke, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney.
The only religion I've ever really held, Methos smiled at the new-made madonna, Life is worth
living, and worth sustaining.
The quiet could not last with a new baby, all
three men knew. Still, there would be a little more joy in the world that this
one foundling was, in fact, found.