There
was wine in the glass he held, the kind of thick, red wine that you simply
know will have the same effect on you like the molten rock it resembles. And
it did, Methos decided; after having several glasses of it, anyway.
Methos
dipped the tip of his forefinger in the wine, and then lifted it, watching a
red drop slide down to his palm. There had been blood once, on the same
finger, flowing from wounds that were now long gone. No scars betrayed their
location, but he remembered them clearly. And he could also recall the
circumstances the wounds had been inflicted in, as well as the reason.
He
licked his finger clean and then downed the
remaining wine, slightly disappointed at its taste. Well, at least his head
was buzzing a little. Methos
shrugged and broke the glass on the edge of the table, then picked a shard and
carefully made an incision in the still wet finger. Only a soft hiss escaped
the tight-lipped mouth, and he took his time as the thin piece of glass slid
smoothly through his flesh.
Methos
put the bloodied shard down. For a few moments, he watched as blood dripped
from his finger onto the table, and then the wound sealed itself, like it
always did, leaving no scar behind, in that calming, casual manner. Methos
stood, picked the shards of glass one by one and threw them in the trash bin,
then poured himself another glass of wine.
He
licked his finger clean, for the second time.
There
was no scar, only healed, pink tissue. But as he took a sip from the new
glass, he could still feel the familiar tang of copper at the back of his
throat.
Just
like always.
--The
End--