Troll Princess

        Usually, Methos slept in his boxers. A long time ago, it'd been in the buff, naked as the day he was born. But he  could hardly recall a day where he'd fallen asleep fully clothed.

        Upon opening his eyes, that was the first thing he noticed. Well, that---and the blood-soaked sword twisted in the  bedsheets beside him.

        So it was true. He'd put that bastard Marren out of his misery last night. Methos had a vague recollection of the  distinct sound of a sword being enveloped and cold, hard steel against his skin, but his memory was blank up until  this moment.

        Until he'd awakened, here in bed.

        Without a thought, Methos stripped off black overcoat, sweater, shoes, and jeans and peeled off his boxers as he  headed into the bathroom for a freezing shower. For some reason, he needed to feel the biting sensation of icy  water against his skin. Methos stepped into the shower and switched the water on full blast, standing with his face  under water so cold, his skin was numb in an instant.

        Who the hell cared if he couldn't remember the last twelve hours, he thought as he scrubbed away dried blood  and dirt from his lean body. In five thousand years, the Quickening had done strange things to him on many an  occasion. It had left scorch marks on his body that hadn't healed for days. It had once given him horrific nightmares of blood and agonizing pain that had refused to subside for weeks.

        And now ... now it had stolen his memory.

        The crisp water cascaded over Methos for nearly an hour before he realized how long he'd been there. Ah, he  remembered the first cold shower he'd ever experienced. Three thousand years ago, when his tenth wife, Calia,  had poured muddy river water into a leaky bucket dangling from the ceiling and doused him in the stuff.

        Great Zeus, why was he so reminiscent all of a sudden? He despised his past ...all the evil and destruction he'd  caused as a Horseman, all the times he'd relished a kill, Immortal or otherwise. Sure, the old man used anecdotes  in passing once in a while---people expected those types of things out a five thousand year old man. They wanted  words of wisdom or advice from the sages of the past. But he never actually contemplated the actions of his  "troubled youth". That was then, this was now.
Case closed.

        Finally, Methos slipped from the shower stall with his usual catlike grace to dry himself off. His motions were  detached, his mind in another place. Wipe himself from head to toe with a ratty towel, drag a comb through his  hair, brush his teeth. It was as if he were outside his body, and he didn't much like the sensation.

        Methos stumbled from the bathroom with the faded grey towel wrapped loosely around his waist and flicked on  the stereo without thinking. Bruce Springsteen wailed from the speakers "Glory  Days". How fitting, Methos  thought with a wry grin, considering this damnable sentimental mood I'm in.

        His apartment was still a vision of nighttime. The shades were drawn, the lights off, the restrained sunlight from  outside casting a saffron glow on his surroundings. Funny. Methos hadn't even realized until that moment that he  was moving around in nearly complete darkness. Even the bathroom light was dim, and the old man couldn't  remember turning it off.

        "A hell of a morning," he rasped, his throat dry. "One hell of a morning at that." Grabbing the towel tighter around  his hips, the old man strode over to the window and stared casually down at the city of Paris.

        It should have been bustling by now, old men and women engaged in breakfast and conversation at the cafe  across the street, cars bumper to bumper on the road below.

        But instead, Methos's aged hazel eyes were confronted with an empty stretch of mecadem that reflected the  emptiness he'd been feeling since he'd awaken.

        Somewhere in his unique and expansive vocabulary, Methos managed to utter a bitter oath from a language dead  for millenia ... the only word he could possibly think of to describe the situation. What in Hades was going on?  Had the whole world up and died on him in the middle of the night? He was used to Immortality and loneliness,  sure, but this was ridiculous.

        "What in all bloody hell ...," he managed to mutter. Methos nearly dropped his towel at the sight of the deserted  street below. At another time, he might have cared about letting the towel fall, but now, what did it matter?

        And then he noticed the sky above, lined with storm clouds but still visible in between the cracks.

        It was green ... a pale, mint green.

        "I've gone mad." That was his only option. It must be. A green sky? The city of Paris barren? Nervously, he  laughed, an edgy titter that sounded more like something a nutcase from the insane asylum might allow to escape  from his lips.

        He gripped the window's edge firmly with his free hand and took a deep, all- encompassing breath. No, it was  real, all right. No scent of baguettes in the air, no echo of car horns from the busy intersection three blocks away.  A slight breeze passed over his pale knuckles, and Methos shuddered.

        "Dear God," he swore, stunned. "I'm alone."