Methos stood on the cliff, the ocean a maelstrom below him. Surely the roar of the crashing waves was no more violent than storm that raged in his soul. Could what they were survive? Or were the broken pieces of that life beyond mending, beyond healing? He didn’t know anymore. Didn’t know if the pain of even the attempt was something he could bear. So much had been lost that his impulse was to disappear, remake himself, and to leave this life behind like so many withered autumn leaves. Leave before the first brush of winter could touch his heart.
Okay, now can I work on my story? [baps muse] I really want to write the bit where Methos is the apothecary for the court of Henry VIII at the very least!
BTW, the entire Highlander Drabble Tree can be found here. Many wonderful pieces for you to read.