The newly edited chapter two. Hope you enjoy. Thanks for Reading!

********************************Of Memory*******************************************

Methos stood outside of Joe's door collecting his emotions. "…after I'm gone." He heard Joe's muffled words through the closed door. It was just as he feared it would be, this tearing away of so much artifice. It left him feeling raw, tender to even the touch of the cold door behind him. He pushed away and walked outside. The cold air was biting and he wrapped his coat closer, bowing his head against the onslaught. His destination was uncertain. He knew it was foolish to be out while so distracted, but he didn't care. He was feeling the fool.

He berated himself as he walked for snapping at Joe. He hadn't deserved it. He meant well, he cared, and in return his kindness was met with contempt and anger. You are such an asshole, he told himself. Old and wise my ass. The thought was laughable. He owed Joe an apology and he would give it, but first he had to clear his head. He had to shake off this agitation that stirred within him.

He was infuriated with everything. The cruelty of life, the unfairness that someone like Joe's time was so short, while he lived on, ungrateful. Sure, he was world weary and exhausted but it hadn't been right to complain to Joe of that. When the man would probably give most anything for more time. He was unworthy of the long life he had received and Joe's suggestion otherwise, in the face of so much proof, had infuriated him for more reasons than he could explain. Even Joe calling him good-hearted had sent a shot of frustration and resentment through him. Maybe he had been good once but he had done too much, seen too much for goodness. He was hard and bitter. Surely Joe could see that.

He was enraged at all he had gone through so long ago. His reaction to those things, his choices. Joe was right they were shitty, all. He had made so many mistakes, inflicted so many wrongs. Sure he had done what he had to survive, and more than that, to survive on his terms. But that didn't make them right and it didn't spare him the regret. So he lectured himself that regrets and guilt served no useful purpose but he wouldn't pretend he was some saint. Not even for Joe, not even now.

He thought of the life Joe suggested. A life where he let more friends in, opened himself up. He wished it were possible but to make deep connections, to even casually "open-up", were no more options for him than remaining hidden had proven to be. Was Joe really blind to the limits he had to live within? His head was a prize. He had to watch every move he made. Every action had to be weighed against the consequence. Friendship and love opened the door for fatal mistakes. He had to be so very careful not just for himself but for anyone he attached himself to. Joe understood more than most what an immortals life entailed. Did he really not see the tight-rope he walked upon? The thought left him feeling a heavy sort of loneliness and disappointment that bordered on betrayal.

Absently he kicked at a pebble. Maybe Joe was right. Maybe he should try to be more in the world. It's not like his hiding away had done anyone any favors. But was it even an option after so long out of the game? He had dipped his toes in the water being friends with MacLeod and look at how often that had nearly cost him everything. It was a waste of time to wonder about such things. There were no easy answers, not after so many lifetimes, if ever. Damn him, if there were even hard ones he had yet to find them. There were only more questions. One piled on top of the other spawning little progeny harder to answer than the last. One would be overtaken if they climbed into that pile. He shrugged, maybe he just thought too much.

Distracted, he bumped into a passerby. "I'm sorry, excuse me." He put his hand on the strangers arm and was taken aback by the large, round, vaguely familiar face that stared back at him. "Silas." He said, uncertain if the name had escaped his lips or not. The only response the man gave was a silent scowl as he continued on his way. The sound of hoof-beats, the approaching clatter of saddle and sword, made its way to Methos' ears. He didn't look to see which way the sounds came from, he knew. They were phantoms, nightmares of his own creation who rode in his mind alone. He pushed them away. It was nothing new. He closed his eyes a second before watching the large man meander down the sidewalk.

He thought of his brothers, his twisted, demented brothers. In the end he had wronged them. He had wielded the blade that ended their lives. If not directly than through manipulation. He could say it was his responsibility to put an end to it. But deep down he knew he had done what he had simply to survive. He had made a choice and if there was any deeper, nobler purpose for his actions he would not allow himself the thought. He would not reason his guilt away this time. He owed them that much. With their end he had found a peace. No longer did he have to look over his shoulder, to wonder when Kronos would find him again. It was over. For that he was grateful. They could join the ranks of all his other demons.

He watched his faint shadow lead the way, pulling at his feet. The ghosts of his past once acknowledged were no longer content with merely watching. They began to dance around him. One by one they mocked him, whispered in his ears, demon, curse, monster. Relentless all. Amongst the crowd his first wife stepped forward. Calm, silent, her foremost place amongst his tormentors assured. Her face was as cold and heartless as the day she watched him sink beneath the waters. How he had loved her. How he had loved her even after she had sacrificed him, despite the lunacy of it. It was why he had fallen so hard, so quickly, and easily for Alexa. Gentle, brave, strong Alexa was the mirror image of his first wife. Yet she possessed all of the sweetness that those early times would not, cold not allow. Just looking at her had made him feel like a young man again. He had allowed himself the thought that they were being given a second chance. Even up till the day he had lost the Methuselah Stone he had thought it was not only possible but meant to be. How cruel had fate proven to be in the end. He shook them all away. All the regret, the longing, the anger, all the maddening loss they carried with them was too much.

He blew warm air into his cupped hands. The chill of the evening breaking through his thoughts. It was then that he realized he had wandered to the Seine. He stared at the dark water. Part of him wanted to jump in, to sink beneath the surface and never return. Shouldn't that have been his destiny after all? Twice over he was given to the waters by his fellow man only to return. Their sacrifice not accepted. He was being honest with Joe when he said he didn't remember being under for all those weeks. What he didn't, couldn't allow himself to tell Joe, was about after. The nightmares, the endless shivering as if his body would never lose the chill of the water, and the fear. The fear of water that lingered still. Even as he watched the gentle waves created by a passing boat lap on the Seine's surface he felt it. So much time and still those ancient wounds could take hold of him. No he couldn't share that with Joe.

A buried anger swelled within him. Anger for all the wrongs, the sins of omission, the necessary evils, the distrust and suspicions he had to create. All to extend a cursed life. A life that, as far as he was concerned, should have ended with the antler of an elk. He had wanted nothing more than to simply live, to find peace, to rest at the end. He would have been grateful for the years spent with his wife. Happy with the life they had created. Wouldn't that have been enough?

He fell to his knees before the water of the Seine, of time, of memory. He pounded the ground, allowing himself one single moment of unrestrained emotion.

He thought of Joe, alone in his home, dying. His only companion one of the damned creatures he had spent his life watching. And for what? What had he, or Mac, or any of their kind ever done for Joe Dawson? Wasted his life, that's what. He raged aloud to no one, nothing, for silence was the only answer his pleading ever received.

He remained on his knees. His forehead pressed against the ground, his hands laced together behind his head. Part of him wanting to cry, wanting to pull his hair and rend his clothes as was a custom. But there were no tears left within him and he hadn't the energy to feed such sorrow. He took deep breaths until the fire raging inside him died down. The ground was cold against his skin. He pushed himself up to sit on his heels. He gazed at the city before him. This too, this beautiful city would crumble. Would he live to see it or would he be the first to succumb to times destruction? The fading light of day cast an amber glow on the buildings and made the frost sparkle like diamonds.

It was then, caught in admiration of man's skill and nature's fierce perfection, that he felt the buzz of another immortal. He drew in freezing air that stung his nostrils and forced his eyes to tear-up. That was it then. He clinched his jaw, composing himself, his face turned to stone. Introspection gave way to instinct. He stood dusting the frost from his clothes. It was time to move on, not just in this moment, but in the bigger picture. He had to leave this city. He had to find someplace remote, isolated enough for him to collect himself in peace. If he were to survive, he had come to learn about himself, he had to be alone for a time.

He put his hands in his pockets and walked in the opposite direction of the other immortal. A little voice nagged at him. He was running away from the truth and the grief he would soon have to face. He should have never allowed the day to take the turn that it had, he admonished himself. How could he have? Because you're a lonely old man that needs someone to know his life's secrets just once, Joe's words rang in his ear. He should have known better. "Bloody old fool." He said aloud to the night alone. He raised his collar and pulled his coat tighter around himself. He would return to Joe. He would see him across and then he would go. He would go to steady himself and to mourn. Mourn not only Joe but all that could have been, all that was, and all that was yet to be.

Once back at Joe's he entered quietly hoping to find him asleep but the blues man was reclining on the couch. Headphones on, eyes closed, he swayed to the music playing in his ears. Methos watched as he began taking off his coat. As if he could feel eyes upon him, Joe looked over. "Hey you're back." He sat up, taking off his headphones as he did. "I was waiting for you."

Methos turned around to hang up his coat. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He knew he had to have a better disposition, if not for himself than for Joe. He turned around, "Turns out it's a bit chilly for a walk." He rubbed his hands together to emphasize the point as he walked to the kitchen. He pushed his sweater sleeves up and grabbed a tea pot from the stove, filling it with water. "Tea?" he asked Joe from over his shoulder.

Joe curled his nose slightly, "Nah. Thanks." Methos lit the burner and placed the kettle upon it. "Coffee then?" He began looking through the cupboards not remembering where exactly he had placed the coffee.

"I'm good." Joe said from the living room. Methos shrugged slightly, stopping his search. "Methos about earlier. I'm…" Joe sounded hesitant.

"Don't be. You have nothing to apologize for." Methos dropped his head.

"No, I shouldn't have pushed."

"Joe, I am sorry you had to. I haven't dealt with things properly, perhaps. And I certainly had no cause to snap at you. I'm sorry"

The old mortal made a grumbly growl from his spot on the couch, "It's forgotten, history."

Methos said to himself, "That it is." He made his way into the partition of the living room and leaned against the wall, waiting for the tea pot to whistle. Joe looked up at him, "I just worry about you sometimes." Methos' gaze dropped to his exposed arm, "I know you do Joe."

"It's a lonely life." He was speaking for the both of them. Methos finally looked up, "Yeah, well isn't that the way of old age…loneliness?" Methos shook himself from the approaching solemn mood. He pushed from the wall and returned to the kitchen. He removed a cup from the cupboard and placed tea in the bottom. "But we do all get over it eventually." He said aloud, not certain Joe would even hear him, as he returned to the living room.

Joe stared at him, "Some of us sooner than others." Methos said nothing and Joe could see the walls were back up. He wasn't going to get more than wise-ass remarks and lousy jokes out of him. He stared intently at his friend, "You're a tough old nut. You know that."

"Takes one to know one." Methos grinned and moved farther into the living room, taking a seat on the edge of a chair. That was what had made them such good friends after all. They did know each other all too well. Even before today's conversation. They had both seen the best and the worst of mankind but more importantly they, neither one, tried to convince themselves or anyone else they were heroes or saints. They both had their demons, their doubts, their regrets, and they faced them daily. They recognized a kindred soul, one in the other.

"Yeah." After a long pause Joe finally said, wrapping up his headphone cord. "I don't know how you guys do it. Go on and on." He knew he couldn't do it. Methos was right, he was ready. Ready to see who and what waited for him on the other side.

"One foot in front of the other Joe. Simple." He stared at Joe a moment and smiled, "Come on have some tea with me before I call it a night."

Joe took in the youthful grin that accompanied such tired eyes. Simple my ass, he thought. "Fine. Fine. You still offering that coffee?" He had to admit he needed this easy exit from the day's tension.

"Coffee, tea, hot cocoa, name your poison. I am here to serve." Methos stood from his edge of the chair and began walking back to the kitchen. "How 'bout some aspirin too. My head is killin' me." Joe called after him.

"Shame you can't hold your liquor. You lush." Methos called back.

Joe humphed, "Lush."

The two men shared a silent moment, a private exchange, as Methos prepared their drinks. They had come to something of an understanding. This was where they would part. Joe had some of the answers he wanted but he would have to leave them here. Methos in turn would have to continue on putting his past behind him, and one day soon that would include Joe. For now though, they would share some warm drink and good company. They would live in the moment. For in the end, mortal or immortal, it was all they were allowed.