Methos was young once.
In those days, mortal youth was short. Life was hard, and few mortals were blessed enough to live longer than a few decades. From the time he was old enough to obey, Methos worked. On festival days, he listened to the priests, enraptured by the tales they told of the gods. Nimet the god of summer, perpetually at war with Kallor, goddess of winter. Draray, who wove the world out of her own being. Ineet, goddess of death and love, who was very creative when seeking her revenge. But his favorite was Yemi, spoken of only in whispers, god of a host of scattered areas with no explanation for why: hunting and knowledge and doing what had to be done and the kind of luck that kept you alive when you should have died. He was a god who didn't want to be worshipped, for mortals to come to depend upon his aid: there were no festivals dedicated to him, no sacrifices given. Any prayers offered to him were furtive and hidden.
It hadn't taken the priests long to notice his interest and take him as their apprentice. Where his agemates' minds were firmly rooted to the ground, his seemed to reach for the heavens every chance it got, as was fitting for a priest. Farmers and hunters had no time to care for anything other than the physical; the higher world was the task of the priests, who had to be able to look towards it. He wasn't able to dedicate himself to Yemi, so he dedicated himself to all the gods, and none.
He died sheltering a boy from a half-starved lion with his body. It wasn't a priest's job to protect anybody's physical body, but he thought that Yemi would approve.
He awoke at a fireside and knew immediately that he must be in Irtai, the land of the dead. He hadn't survived the lion's attack, of course; he had known that he wouldn't, and now he was in no pain. But when he opened his eyes he didn't see Ineet, but a man with dark hair and only one eye who explained what he was.
In those days, Immortal youth was long. Bronze weapons were still new enough that few carried them, although new fear of permanent death had made them an increasingly popular trend among Immortals; never before had there been anything which could so easily kill an Immortal. Already, Immortals hundreds and thousands of years old had died at the hands of Immortals wielding bronze weapons. The age of Immortal suspicion had only just begun, and had not yet affected Immortal youth.
Immortals, so long-lived and having no reason to fear each other, kept their students until they had taught them all they could, the joys of life and secret knowledge they had accumulated over their lifetimes. There was no reason not to do so, and every reason to; what other purpose was there to their lives? Immortals were considered young for hundreds of years- free to roam, as nothing could harm them, but always attached to an older Immortal who taught them the ways of Immortality and the wider world.
It was a time of rapid change for Immortals. They either adapted quickly or not at all, killed by the bronze swords they refused to learn to use. To a people made static and pacifistic by never dying, the change was too great for many to adapt quickly enough. And for those who remained, suspicion was high. Swords meant protection and threat; the Buzz changed from joyous announcement of Immortal company to warning of possible death. Even students weren't safe from suspicion, young though they were. Weren't they Immortal, too? Rumors abounded about the horrors their kind had begun to perpetuate on each other, even the students. Perhaps especially the students, who after all had not been steeped in the traditions of Immortals as long as their elders had. Around them, the usual teaching period grew shorter and shorter, and the War became worse and worse. They hadn't called it the Game yet.
But through it all, his teacher remained the same, a solid if unusual rock for him to steady himself on. Even Methos, newly Immortal, could trace the changes in the world of Immortals, could see the suspicion and terror in the eyes of the Immortals they met, but his teacher showed none of it, though it seemed that every time they met another Immortal there was more news of his friends' deaths and worse suspicion.
As a priest, Methos had been taught how to observe. How to watch the world for signs from the gods, to better serve them and live in harmony with their desires. How to watch his people, to learn their characters and serve them best. How to watch outsiders, to see past their words to their hearts and discover if they were friends or enemies- protecting the tribe from human dangers was a spiritual duty. His tribe was limited now, only himself and his teacher, so he found himself often watching his teacher. He felt lost, unable to fulfill his duty. He couldn't even figure out his teacher, much less help him as he had helped his first people. But as time passed, he began to weave together the bits and pieces he knew into something resembling knowledge.
Time passed, and Methos grew in experience. Piecemeal, his youth slipped away, seeming to take his faith in the gods with it. His hands stained red with the blood of the first mortal he killed, a lover who tried to kill him, he lost his faith in Ineet. Nimet was lost in the icy north, snowy all year round. His faith in Draray just unraveled over time. But throughout it all, he kept his faith in Yemi- after all, even if he called himself by a different name now, wasn't he Methos's own teacher?
