A Tournament of Lies
Another winter in Paris,
and Methos wondered if he would ever learn. Wrapping
his cold fingers around his cup of tea, he allowed himself a heavy sigh, his
breath disturbing the swirls of steam rising from his cup. MacLeod’s words
rang in his head.
“You lied to me,
Another deep sigh, this
one Methos wasn’t even aware of, too busy marveling at his own naiveté,
wondering what on earth made him think that this time Duncan would understand.
Yes, he’d lied. Of
course he’d lied. He’d tell a million more lies if that was what was
necessary to keep Mac with his head firmly attached to his shoulders. He’d
lie, cheat, steal and kill without hesitation, if that’s what it took to keep
Duncan alive till the end. When Methos had told Duncan he was too important to
lose, all those years ago, he had bloody well meant it.
Settling back in his chair, Methos thought about the endless string of lies that filled his past.
Lies that saved lives -
lies that took lives -
lies that meant nothing -
lies that were too monumental to contemplate -
and on and on they went, with so many more ahead, waiting to be spoken.
A wry smile contorted his face as Methos thought of the greatest lie - every time he walked away from Mac, swearing he wouldn’t come back.
It didn’t bother him too much. Unlike Duncan, Methos had long ago learned to accept, and expect, his own lies.
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