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Chapter 1 – The Trouble with Quiet
For the first time in centuries, Methos had what he would almost—almost—call a routine.
He woke late, grumbled about the Mediterranean sunlight being “offensively cheerful,” and wandered into town with a book under one arm and sunglasses that fooled absolutely no one. He taught two classes a week at the small coastal university—Comparative Mythology and the Evolution of Faith Narratives. Students adored him; faculty tolerated him; Shadow, who’d sat through one lecture and heard him refer to Zeus as “an early cautionary tale about HR policy,” declared him irreparably smug.
Still, it worked.
Shadow tended bar down the street, the kind of place where the floors were sand-worn and the regulars didn’t care who you were as long as you poured with a steady hand. Methos sometimes lingered there in the afternoons, claiming it was purely for anthropological research. Shadow didn’t bother to argue.
The trouble started on an ordinary Tuesday, which was precisely how trouble liked to start.
Shadow was polishing glasses when Methos appeared behind the counter, holding a demitasse like a relic.
“This,” he announced, gesturing to the espresso machine, “is the modern altar.”
Shadow didn’t look up. “You pray to caffeine now?”
Methos sipped solemnly. “Don’t you?”
“Not since I learned how to make it myself.”
Methos leaned on the counter. “Blasphemy. Baristas are the last true priests.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet, beloved.”
Shadow snorted, muttering something about “ancient egos and modern plumbing.”
They’d built a strange kind of peace. Evenings ended with the sound of waves instead of arguments, the air heavy with salt and the lazy strum of Methos’s old radio. Shadow cooked. Methos read. Occasionally they switched, which always ended in mild disaster and laughter that echoed through the apartment.
Neither of them said the word home. But it lingered, unspoken, somewhere between the smell of coffee and the sound of the sea.
That night, the weather shifted.
The locals said the wind changed first—warm air turning sharp as glass. Clouds rolled in, bruised and swollen, and the horizon lit up like a warning.
Shadow closed the bar early, locking the doors as thunder began to crawl across the sky. Methos joined him on the balcony, coat pulled tight, hair whipped by the storm.
“You’d think the gods would’ve learned subtlety by now,” Methos muttered.
“Maybe it’s not them,” Shadow said. “Maybe it’s just weather.”
Methos gave him a look. “You and I both know better than to believe in just weather.”
The next morning, the beach was littered with debris—driftwood, shells, and one small object half-buried in the sand.
Shadow found it while walking to the docks. A coin. Worn, heavy, ancient. The metal was dull but the engraving unmistakable: two serpents intertwined around a sword.
He turned it over in his palm, feeling the faint pulse of old magic.
When he showed it to Methos, the immortal went very still.
“Where did you find this?”
“Washed up on the shore. You know it?”
Methos took the coin carefully, thumb brushing the edge like it might cut him. “It’s not supposed to exist anymore.”
Shadow raised an eyebrow. “And yet, here it is.”
Methos stared out toward the sea, voice low. “Then something followed us here.”
The wind rattled the shutters, carrying the first whisper of another storm.
Chapter 2 – The God with No Faith
The first raven appeared on a Tuesday, because of course it did.
It perched on the sign outside the bar, feathers slick with morning dew, head cocked like it was trying to judge the drink menu. Shadow stood at the door, towel slung over his shoulder, and stared at it for a long moment.
“You’ve got the wrong man,” he muttered.
The raven croaked, dropped something shiny—a bottle cap, naturally—and flew off toward the cliffs.
Methos appeared beside him, holding two mugs of coffee. “Making new friends?”
Shadow took his cup. “Old ones, maybe.”
“Divine stalking,” Methos said lightly. “I told you, omniscience is just bad manners with feathers.”
Shadow gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
By the end of the week, the signs multiplied. Someone left a carved wooden eye on the bar counter. Two tourists swore they saw a man made of smoke watching from the dunes. And one night, Shadow heard a voice in the wind whisper his name, low and familiar, like an unwelcome prayer.
He didn’t tell Methos that part. He didn’t have to. The immortal noticed anyway.
They were cleaning up after closing when a regular—a wiry fisherman who always paid in exact change—placed a small bundle of herbs by the register.
“For protection,” he said simply, before heading out into the fog.
Shadow frowned. “Protection from what?”
Methos didn’t look up from the bottle he was drying. “In this town? Taxes. Or tourists.”
But later that night, Methos gathered the herbs, wrapped them in cloth, and threw them into the sea.
The next morning, a handwritten sign appeared behind the bar.
House Rules:
No smoking near the rum.
No singing after midnight.
No sacrifices, no saints, and absolutely no second coming.
Shadow raised an eyebrow. “You’d be terrible at marketing.”
Methos adjusted the sign, deadpan. “I’d be excellent at crowd control.”
“You’re scared.”
“I’m pragmatic.”
“Same thing.”
Methos poured himself a coffee. “You’d think after five millennia I’d get used to gods meddling. You’d think after five millennia they’d find a new hobby.”
Shadow leaned on the counter, voice softer. “You used to believe in them.”
“I used to believe in a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they were worth the time.”
Days passed. The weather calmed, but the quiet between them deepened—companionable, warm, slightly ridiculous.
They fell into rhythm without trying: Shadow cooked breakfast; Methos complained about it but ate every bite. Methos read the paper aloud in three languages; Shadow nodded through the parts that didn’t matter. They shared mornings, laughter, silence.
Methos called it “logistical efficiency.”
Shadow called it “living together.”
Methos didn’t argue.
But one night, as they stood by the window watching waves break against the rocks, he muttered almost to himself, “I don’t pray anymore.”
Shadow glanced over. “Good. We’ve got a no-prayer policy, remember?”
Methos’s mouth quirked. “Right. House rule number three.”
Still, Shadow thought he saw his hand tighten on the glass, like a man trying not to hold something fragile.
And outside, on the rooftop, a raven waited—silent, patient, watching.
Chapter 3 – A Lecture on Immortality
The university auditorium was full—too full, in Methos’s opinion—for a midweek talk about “Mortal Gods and False Prophets: The Persistence of Belief in Secular Eras.” He’d given the lecture a dozen times before, each audience politely nodding through his jokes about Zeus’s emotional instability and modern cults of celebrity.
This time was different. This time, Shadow was in the back row.
He’d come in quietly, broad-shouldered and amused, wearing that expression that said I’m only here because you said I wouldn’t come. Methos spotted him instantly, of course, and nearly lost his place in the introduction.
“Throughout history,” he began, “mankind has demonstrated a remarkable tendency to worship whatever looks the most like itself—except taller and louder.”
Laughter rippled through the crowd. Shadow raised his hand. “So you’re saying gods are just bad role models?”
Methos didn’t miss a beat. “I’m saying mankind invented divine customer service—petition, complaint, repeat.”
Shadow grinned. “And you’re the complaint department?”
“Retired,” Methos shot back. “No benefits.”
The students were delighted. The debate spiraled—half theology, half stand-up comedy, all recorded by a dozen phones. Within hours, #ImmortalityLecture started trending online. Someone even made a meme of Methos declaring, ‘Faith is just bureaucracy with better lighting.’
By the end, the moderator looked terrified. Methos looked smug. Shadow looked very much like a man who’d done that on purpose.
Afterward, they walked home through the warm night air, the sea breeze carrying the smell of salt and distant rain.
Shadow bumped his shoulder lightly against Methos’s. “You talk about gods like you’ve outlived them.”
Methos smirked. “I have.”
“And yet you still cook for one.”
Methos gave him a side glance. “Old habits die harder than we do.”
Shadow laughed softly, then fell quiet. The rhythm of their footsteps filled the pause—familiar, comfortable, absurdly domestic.
Back at the apartment, Methos poured wine while Shadow closed the shutters. It should have been an ordinary night. But as the lights dimmed, a sound rose from the street below—a soft chant, words too old to belong here.
A man stood in the alley, half in shadow, clutching a carved wooden charm. His voice was hoarse, reverent.
“My lord,” he said, bowing low. “We have waited for your return.”
Shadow froze.
Methos didn’t. He moved with the quiet efficiency of someone who had survived too many centuries not to expect visitors. His hand slipped under the table, fingers brushing the hilt of a sword older than most nations.
The man looked up, eyes wild. “The world forgets the old ways, but we remember. The storm has spoken. It calls for you again.”
Shadow’s voice was steady. “You’re mistaken. The gods have had their time.”
The worshipper’s expression broke into something between awe and despair. “Then why does the sea still whisper your name?”
A gust of wind swept through the alley, carrying the faint cry of a raven.
Methos tightened his grip on the sword. “I told you,” he murmured without looking away from the stranger, “no saints, no sacrifices, and definitely no second coming.”
Shadow glanced at him—half exasperation, half gratitude. “You’d be a terrible prophet.”
Methos’s mouth curved faintly. “Good. The job doesn’t pay well.”
But beneath the humor, something sharp lingered—an unspoken understanding that peace, for people like them, never lasted long.
And outside, the raven called again.
Chapter 4 – Ghosts on the Coast
By morning, the internet had already decided the world was ending.
#StormGod trended globally. Videos showed lightning striking in perfect circles. Streetlights flickered in rhythmic pulses, spelling out something that—depending on who you asked—was either binary code or divine Morse. And someone on TikTok claimed their toaster had started whispering prophecies about caffeine.
Shadow scrolled through his phone at the bar, grim-faced. “This is faith gone viral.”
Methos leaned over his shoulder, sipping coffee that was somehow both too strong and too cold. “No, this is déjà vu. We’ve been here before, just with better lighting and worse grammar.”
“People didn’t worship hashtags before.”
“They worshiped the people holding them.”
Shadow gave him a look. “You’re not helping.”
Methos grinned. “I wasn’t trying to.”
An hour later, Methos insisted on “a proper academic approach.” Which turned out to mean PowerPoint.
He dimmed the lights in their apartment and gestured dramatically to the projection on the wall.
“Slide one,” he announced. “The Evolution of Faith: from Stone to Smartphone.”
Shadow folded his arms. “You’re serious about this.”
“I’m an educator.”
“You’re a chaos gremlin with tenure.”
Methos ignored him. “Memetic worship,” he continued, clicking the next slide, “is when ideas evolve into idols. The divine goes digital. Hashtags become halos. Likes become liturgy.”
The projector whirred, froze, and crashed. The screen blinked blue.
Methos sighed. “Even my immortality doesn’t protect me from Microsoft.”
Shadow smirked. “Guess you’re not all-powerful after all.”
Methos deadpanned, “Blasphemy noted.”
The trail led them to the cliffs outside town, where old signal towers stood like crooked spires. Lightning kept striking the same antenna, humming with unnatural rhythm.
When the wind shifted, the air shimmered—and something stepped out of the storm.
The figure was made of static and light, voice echoing like a dozen overlapping frequencies. “The prayers have changed,” it said, “but the hunger remains.”
Methos squinted. “Fantastic. A deity with Wi-Fi.”
The digital storm deity raised an arm, thunder cracking in response.
Methos muttered, “This is why I hate progress,” and drew his sword.
What followed could best be described as chaotic divine nonsense.
The storm entity hurled bolts of lightning that fried every nearby phone. Shadow countered by channeling what little of his old divine essence remained—just enough to redirect the strikes into the sea.
Methos, meanwhile, sprinted through the chaos yelling, “If you crash my hard drive, I’m taking you with me!” before slicing through the storm’s core with a flash of ancient steel.
The deity flickered, screamed in feedback, and dissolved into a thousand broken signals.
Silence returned, broken only by the buzz of fried electronics.
Methos dropped to one knee, breathing hard, his hand bleeding where lightning had grazed him. The wound closed slowly, silver light knitting flesh back together.
He scowled at it. “Five thousand years, still no hazard pay.”
Shadow crouched beside him, taking his hand. “You’re impossible.”
Methos grinned faintly. “And yet beloved.”
Shadow rolled his eyes, but his voice softened. “Consider it divine compensation.”
He pressed a slow, quiet kiss to Methos’s knuckles—just enough warmth to cut through the chill of ozone and rain.
Methos didn’t say anything for a long moment. Then, softly, “Remind me to file a complaint with HR.”
Shadow smiled. “You mean heaven?”
Methos met his gaze, something tender flickering beneath the sarcasm. “No. You.”
The wind carried away the last traces of static. The sea shimmered faintly, as if amused.
And somewhere deep in the storm’s fading heart, a voice whispered—not angry, not defeated, just curious:
Who prays to you now?
Chapter 5 – The Bar with Too Many Patrons
By the end of the week, the bar had stopped being a bar and started being something between a sanctuary and a supernatural open mic night.
It began innocently enough: one wandering demigod ordering “something fermented, but heroic.” Then came a water spirit who refused to drink from glasses (“Only seashells hold proper resonance”), and finally, a disoriented angel in a raincoat who kept asking if this was “the last checkpoint before heaven.”
Shadow stood behind the counter, towel in hand, watching the chaos unfold like a man regretting all his life choices.
Methos leaned against the bar with the serenity of someone who had lived through empires collapsing. “We’re running out of wine,” he said calmly.
Shadow opened the fridge, sighed. “We’ve got beer.”
Methos looked personally offended. “That’s not divine.”
“You want divine, go perform a miracle.”
Methos deadpanned, “Do we have a miracle for this?”
Shadow: “No. Just a Costco membership.”
Methos’s eyes narrowed. “Blasphemy.”
The angel raised a hand timidly. “Excuse me—does Costco still require a membership?”
Methos pointed a bottle opener at him. “You’re on thin grace, feather-boy.”
Somehow, it worked. The bar stayed warm, full, and absurdly alive. The demigod played dice with the fishermen. The water spirit sang to the bottles, making the corks hum. The angel discovered espresso and declared it “divine revelation in liquid form.”
Shadow wiped the counter, amused despite himself. “You know, this isn’t the quiet life we planned.”
Methos smirked. “We planned?”
“Fine. You planned. I just followed your caffeine trail.”
Methos poured himself a glass of what little wine remained, holding it to the light. “You have to admit, immortality looks good on me.”
Shadow raised an eyebrow. “You mean the part where you’re grumpy and dramatic?”
“The part where I’m still here,” Methos replied, softer.
Shadow smiled. “Then it looks good on you.”
A pause. Then, with mock solemnity, Methos added, “So does mortality—on you.”
Shadow chuckled. “That’s the weirdest compliment I’ve ever gotten.”
“You’re welcome. It’s heartfelt.”
“It’s disturbing.”
“Same thing,” Methos said, and for once, didn’t hide the affection in his tone.
Later that night, after the last strange patron had gone—after the demigod promised to bring ambrosia, after the angel left a feather as payment, after the bar fell back into blessed, exhausted quiet—they sat on the counter together, half-drunk and wholly content.
The windows were fogged. The air smelled of wine, salt, and candle wax.
Methos tilted his head toward the door. “You realize if this continues, we’ll need bouncers.”
Shadow nodded. “Or exorcists.”
“Same thing,” Methos murmured, smiling into his glass.
He looked at Shadow then, really looked—at the man who had walked away from gods, who had chosen warmth over worship.
And Shadow, catching the glance, said quietly, “You think we’ll ever get normal again?”
Methos clinked their glasses together. “Define normal.”
Shadow laughed, low and easy. “You. Me. Quiet.”
Methos leaned in, voice dropping. “Impossible. But I can offer an upgrade.”
Shadow arched a brow. “To what?”
Methos smiled. “Eternal abnormality.”
Shadow grinned, and before either could ruin it with more words, he reached forward, caught Methos by the collar, and kissed him.
Slow, sure, and slightly wine-flavored—exactly the kind of miracle Methos didn’t believe in but somehow kept finding anyway.
Outside, the last stray feather drifted against the window, catching the light like a tiny, blessed spark.
Chapter 6 – The Historian Lies
When Shadow woke, the bar was silent. No coffee brewing, no sarcastic commentary about mortal incompetence—just the faint hum of the fridge and a folded note beside the espresso machine.
The note was short, written in Methos’s neat, infuriatingly calm handwriting:
“Some debts don’t stay buried. Don’t follow me.”
Next to it lay the old coin—the one Methos used to toy with when thinking too hard, rolling it across his knuckles like a worry stone. Its edges were warm, almost pulsing faintly with memory.
Shadow stared at it for a long time. “You really think that’ll stop me,” he muttered, and grabbed his coat.
By noon, he’d traced the trail north—to a desolate excavation site on the coast. Archaeologists had uncovered something ancient, something Methos-shaped.
A tent flapped in the wind, half-collapsed. Inside, the air stank of ozone and wine. Methos stood in the ruins, sword in hand, eyes fixed on the figure rising from the sand: another Immortal, older, angrier, draped in dust and centuries of betrayal.
“So,” the stranger rasped. “The coward returns.”
Methos’s tone was light, but his grip wasn’t. “Coward’s such an ugly word. I prefer ‘strategically alive.’”
Shadow stepped into view, the wind whipping his coat. “You really need better exits.”
Methos blinked once, and something—relief, guilt, irritation—flashed through his expression. “I told you not to come.”
“You also said you’d restock the bar. You lie a lot.”
The Immortal laughed, bitter. “He’s good at that. He lied to me, too. Promised we’d share eternity. Then he buried me under it.”
Methos’s voice dropped. “You were trying to burn the world down. I just… redirected your enthusiasm.”
“Into a tomb.”
Methos hesitated, then said quietly, “It was that or everything else.”
The stranger drew his blade, metal whispering against the wind. “Then let’s finish what you started.”
The fight was chaos—ancient and modern colliding, sword against sand, lightning against memory.
Methos fought with precision born of centuries, Shadow with blunt determination and divine reflexes he’d sworn he no longer had.
At one point, Methos shouted, “You’re supposed to stay out of this!”
Shadow blocked a strike meant for him. “You’re supposed to ask for help!”
“That’s not my strong suit!”
“No kidding!”
They moved together anyway—two very tired immortals, one reluctant god, both utterly done with destiny’s nonsense.
When the dust finally settled, the other Immortal lay defeated—not dead, just gone to ground again, as beings like them always did.
Methos slumped against a broken pillar, and laughed breathlessly. “Five thousand years and still no hazard pay.”
Shadow knelt beside him. “You could’ve told me.”
Methos met his eyes. “Told you what? That I’m not just hiding from death? That I’m hiding from guilt older than your pantheon?”
Shadow didn’t flinch. “You think I haven’t done worse?”
Methos froze.
“You underestimate,” Shadow said softly, “how many gods I’ve disappointed.”
For a moment, the silence was thick enough to drown in. Then Methos let out a shaky laugh—half disbelief, half relief. “You’re a terrible priest.”
“Good thing I retired.”
When the storm broke, they sat in the ruins, sharing a stolen bottle of wine from the archaeologists’ camp.
Methos tilted his head back, letting the rain hit his face, washing away dust and blood. “You know,” he murmured, “I thought the past was supposed to stay buried.”
Shadow glanced at him. “Maybe it doesn’t have to. Maybe it just needs company.”
Methos looked at him then, eyes tired but warm. “You volunteering?”
Shadow smiled faintly. “You couldn’t get rid of me if you tried.”
Methos’s hand found his, fingers curling slow, deliberate. “I’ve noticed.”
The kiss came quiet, inevitable—tasting of rain and regret and something steadier than forgiveness.
Above them, the storm cleared, leaving the sea glittering with coins of reflected light.
Chapter 7 – The Confession of the Dead
The storm had barely passed when they made it back to town. The bar’s windows rattled in the lingering wind, and the “OPEN” sign flickered like it couldn’t decide which side of mortality it was on.
Inside, the place looked as if it had hosted a divine brawl—or possibly another one of Methos’s “quiet evenings.” Bottles lined the counter like fallen soldiers, and Methos sat among them, half-drunk, barefoot, and fully defensive.
He raised a glass as Shadow entered. “Ah. The resurrected bartender returns. Statistically, you should’ve let me drown.”
Shadow leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Statistically, you’re bad at math.”
Methos frowned into his glass. “I’m excellent at math. It’s arithmetic I distrust.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Also logic, ethics, and mortality, but who’s counting?”
“You, apparently.”
Methos smirked, that familiar, infuriating curve of lips that managed to hide exhaustion and pride in the same motion. “Well, when you’ve lived this long, someone has to keep score.”
Shadow stepped closer, voice low. “That what this is? Keeping score?”
Methos shrugged. “You fight gods, I drink wine. Balance of power.”
“Except one of us bleeds for it.”
Methos’s smirk faltered. “You shouldn’t care that much.”
“I do.”
“Then you’re a fool.”
Shadow’s eyes narrowed. “Takes one to know one.”
The silence that followed was not quiet—it buzzed with everything they hadn’t said since the ruins.
Methos finally sighed, pushing the glass aside. “You want a confession? Fine. I’ve outlived too many people to believe love means anything. It ends. Always. It’s a statistical certainty.”
Shadow met his gaze. “And yet here you are—still trying to prove yourself wrong.”
Methos gave a tired laugh. “Or right. Depends on the century.”
Shadow’s voice dropped. “You think I don’t get it? I’ve worshiped gods, I’ve been one, and I’ve watched every kind of devotion crumble. But I still keep trying.”
Methos stared at him, something raw flickering in his eyes. “You’re too stubborn for divinity.”
“And you’re too scared for immortality.”
The words landed hard. Methos stood—slowly, deliberately—and for a second, Shadow thought he’d walk away.
Instead, Methos said, very softly, “You don’t know what you’re trying to love.”
Shadow stepped forward, close enough to feel his breath. “Maybe you should let me find out.”
The next moment was less thought than collision.
Shadow grabbed Methos by the collar, the chair clattered backward, and the kiss hit like lightning—sharp, impossible, and years overdue. Methos tasted of wine and stormlight; Shadow of earth and home.
For a heartbeat, the world went utterly still.
When they broke apart, Methos stood blinking, dazed, hair mussed and mouth parted in something between disbelief and laughter.
“Well,” he managed, breathless, “that complicates everything.”
Shadow smiled faintly. “We were already complicated.”
Methos chuckled low. “You have a terrible sense of timing.”
Shadow: “You have a terrible sense of self-preservation.”
Methos: “Touché.”
They stood there in the flickering bar light—two immortals of different kinds, alive in the mess of it, the air thick with the kind of silence that means don’t leave yet.
Methos finally exhaled, poured the last of the bottle into two glasses, and handed one over. “If this is going to be our downfall,” he said, voice rough but smiling, “we might as well toast to it.”
Shadow clinked his glass lightly against his. “To what?”
Methos thought for a moment, eyes warm. “To complications.”
Chapter 8 – The God and the Historian
Weeks passed, as they always did when eternity decided to nap.
The storm was a rumor now, the sea tamed back into silver and calm. Tourists returned to the town—loud, sunburned, blissfully unaware that their favorite seaside bar had once hosted demigods, angels, and one immortal hangover.
Shadow reopened The Last Coin with minimal ceremony. Methos called it “the least dramatic resurrection in history.”
Shadow just shrugged. “You want fanfare, buy a trumpet.”
They fell back into something that looked suspiciously like a life—quiet mornings, slow nights, too much coffee, and the occasional philosophical argument disguised as flirtation.
One afternoon, Methos commandeered the corner table with a typewriter (where he got it, Shadow refused to ask) and three open bottles of wine.
Shadow wiped down the counter. “You’re writing a memoir again, aren’t you?”
Methos didn’t look up. “Absolutely not. It’s a study.”
“On what?”
“Living gods. Cultural endurance of divinity across epochs.”
“In other words,” Shadow said dryly, “you’re writing about yourself.”
Methos paused, smirked. “Purely academic.”
Shadow leaned over, reading a line upside down: ‘Divinity ages poorly, but not as poorly as the men who fall in love with it.’
He gave Methos a look. “You realize that’s about me, right?”
Methos: “Don’t flatter yourself. It’s a general observation.”
Shadow: “Right. A general observation sitting in my bar, drinking my wine, wearing my shirt.”
Methos grinned without looking up. “You said I could borrow it.”
“I didn’t mean indefinitely.”
Methos typed another line, muttering, “Mortals and their possessive tendencies.”
Shadow laughed and tossed him a corkscrew. “Immortals and their freeloading tendencies.”
That evening, the sun melted into the horizon, turning the sky to amber and wine.
They took a bottle to the beach—no glasses, no ceremony, just the soft hiss of waves and the rhythmic pull of the tide.
Methos sat in the sand, sleeves rolled, hair wind-tousled, every bit the reluctant myth he pretended not to be.
Shadow dropped beside him, the bottle passing between them like shared confession.
Methos broke the quiet first. “So what now, divine bartender?”
Shadow tipped the bottle, watching the wine catch the last light. “We live. We laugh. We outdrink the end of the world.”
Methos smiled, slow and genuine. “Ambitious plan.”
“You got a better one?”
Methos tilted the bottle toward him in mock salute. “To terrible immortals and even worse decisions.”
Shadow raised it in return. “To us.”
They drank until the stars came out—two figures against an endless sea, one ancient enough to have forgotten beginnings, the other too stubborn to believe in endings.
When the bottle was empty, Shadow leaned over, brushed his thumb across Methos’s jaw, and kissed him.
It wasn’t a promise, or a prayer—just a truth that didn’t need either.
Methos kissed back, tasting of salt and eternity. When they finally broke apart, he whispered, “You realize this makes us cliché.”
Shadow smiled. “We’ve earned it.”
Methos laughed quietly, leaning against him as the tide reached their feet.
And as the waves swallowed the sun, two immortals laughed—one out of faith, one out of habit—and somewhere between them, eternity exhaled.