"I'm getting predictable again, aren't I?"
Joe Dawson smiled and sat down on the bench beside him. "I wouldn't say that. Usually you're impossible to find."
Methos avoided Joe's eyes, looking around the park he had chosen as refuge and meditation retreat. The small copse of trees was as private and secure as any nature spot in the middle of Paris could be. The other benches surrounding the modest stone fountain in the middle were normally unoccupied, giving him the peace he needed to sort through his thoughts. "Sometimes it's good to be alone."
"Yeah, I can take a hint." Joe rested his hands on his cane, following Methos' gaze around the area and showing no sign of actually taking that hint. "This is a nice place you've got here. Good place to think."
"Usually, it is," Methos told him, allowing a hint of irritation to creep into his voice. As much as he enjoyed Joe's company, he was not in a social mood at the moment. He had not been for quite some time, in fact. "Did you come here just to check out the view, or was there a point to this little visit?
His friend turned to him with a solemn face and Methos' heart sank. What now? Who else did he know that could die? Something in his expression must have revealed his sudden dismay, and Joe hastened to reassure him. "Don't panic, nothing's happened. I just came to warn you. Cassandra's back in town. And her Watcher says it looks like she's hunting."
"For me," Methos stated bluntly.
Joe shrugged. "You seem like the most likely target. From what little Mac told me, it didn't sound like she was too happy with either one of you when she took off the last time." Methos kept his eyes on the fountain, and after a moment of uncomfortable silence, Joe stood up. "Well, I just thought you should have fair warning. If you see Mac...."
Methos reopened the French history book he had been reading and turned his gaze downward. "I'm sure you'll see him before I will."
He thought his tone was suitably dismissive, but Joe chose to ignore it and ploughed on. "Methos, I really think...."
Snapping his book shut again, Methos cut him off before he could finish the thought. "Joe, there's nothing you can do about this. There are some fences that can't be mended, and it's not your job to play carpenter."
"If you would just talk to him!" Joe burst out.
Methos cut him off again. "I have talked to him, Joe. He's not ready to listen. There are things about me that Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod just can't deal with, and I'm not going to risk getting my head cut off by shoving that fact in his face once too often."
"It's just that he doesn't understand...." Joe's voice trailed off hesitantly and Methos jumped into the pause.
"Doesn't understand what? That I killed as many people, destroyed as much of the world as I could, for thousands of years? How I could do it? How I could let it happen? What?"
"He doesn't understand how you could go back to Kronos again," Joe said quietly, avoiding his friend's eyes, stunning Methos into silence for a moment.
"I should have known that would be the thing he couldn't handle," Methos murmured at last, his voice little more than a sigh. "Why I went back to Kronos.... It was simple, really. It was why I always went back to Kronos."
350 CE
"Never question my orders in front of the others! Never!" The words were accompanied by another savage blow to his face, knocking him down. Methos sprawled bonelessly on the skins that covered the floor of Kronos' tent, stunned from the impact of the other man's fist against his jaw. He tried to respond, but the sharp pain shooting through his mouth warned him that his jawbone was undoubtedly broken. His tongue probed the loosened teeth on that side of his mouth, tasting the tang of blood even as he tried to push them back into place enough to heal. With one hand, he clutched the side of his face to hold the broken bone straight and with the other attempted to ward off the boot which impacted unerringly with his ribcage.
"The Romans...," he gasped when he could speak again, almost doubled over from the pain of the repeated blows Kronos had rained upon his body. The bruises on his face were layered one over the other, blackening his features while his system struggled to heal his more serious injuries.
"Screw the fucking Romans," Kronos snarled. He bent down and pulled Methos' hand away from his face, taking both wrists and pinning them to the floor above the other man's head. "What happened to you, Methos? Did all those years away from us change you into a soft, mewling woman?"
Methos nearly screamed with the pain of Kronos' weight against his broken ribs, but swallowed the cries. He could not afford any display of weakness. "It isn't softness to recognize a situation in which you cannot prevail. The Romans have a fully-armed and well-trained force, as well as a fortified camp. We still aren't back to our full strength, and what allies we have among the Germanics are hundreds of miles away. We can't win."
Kronos had to know what Methos said was true, but with a sinking heart Methos realized that they were well past the point where Kronos would admit to it. He had misjudged his brother, and his own place within the group. A point which Kronos seemed delighted to bring home to him with another blow across his face with the iron rod, causing his left eye to swell almost shut. "You spent too much time amongst the effete court scribes. Do you call them Brothers now? Did you let them drain your courage from you?"
He tried to protest, but Kronos had a tight grip on his throat, choking off his air supply. For one desperate moment he would have given anything to be back in Syria, in the employ of the Roman governor of that province, safe amongst his books and scrolls in the quiet peace of the library. It was a thought he would not dare vocalize even if he could have, but somehow Kronos knew, as he always did. The rage in the cold blue eyes would have paralyzed Methos if he could have moved at all, and he could only whimper with anguish as Kronos pulled his iron dagger from its sheath at his waist and drove through Methos' right hand. His writing hand, a token whose symbolism could not be mistaken.
"I rescued you from that feeble life, and this is the thanks I receive? The first raid I ask you to plan, and all you can tell me is that we aren't strong enough." Kronos twisted the dagger sharply, snapping the delicate bones and tendons in his hand, then leaned close until his breath was hot on Methos' face. "I hadn't expected to find you so changed. Perhaps you aren't the man I thought you were after all."
Methos struggled to stammer out a denial, whatever words would placate Kronos and make him stop. "I am, Kronos. Give me a chance to show you."
His tormentor sat back, still straddling his legs, and gazed down at him speculatively. Methos was far too weak to make any further effort to convince Kronos of his sincerity; he merely waited for the verdict. "You will plan this raid? No more talk of the fearsome Romans we cannot defeat?"
He pushed past the pain in his throat to nod his consent. His voice refused to obey him, but Kronos seemed satisfied with that much of a pledge. An instant later the dagger was jerked out of his hand and Kronos released him. Methos swallowed back a sob of pain as he tried to sit up, but collapsed weakly back onto the floor before he even got his shoulders off the ground. He closed his eyes, praying silently that Kronos would let him be long enough for him to heal. To his surprise, a gentle hand touched his forehead and he heard a much gentler voice soothing him. "You have gone soft, Brother, from all these years away from us. Not to fear, we'll soon have you back to your old self." The hand skimming lightly over his hair, cut into the Roman style.
That was exactly what Methos feared, although he could not say so. He could so easily become again what he had been, what Kronos had never ceased being, but that time of his life was past. Yet Kronos was addictive, he could not deny that, as the rough hands stroked down his face and began rubbing his shoulders. He sighed from the pleasure of the ministrations combined with the sharp pains from his injuries.
His head was lolling back against the fur rugs as Kronos worked to relax him, almost unaware of his surroundings until Kronos lifted himself up and urged Methos to turn over. Somehow Methos found the energy to obey, and soon felt Kronos' weight settle back onto his legs. The fingers made a few short strokes down his back, then gripped the neck of his shirt and tugged hard until the dirty cotton ripped apart. He allowed the shirt to be eased off of him, distantly regretting its loss as one of the few things he had brought with him from the life he had left. Trying to lay his face down on his arms so as not to press against any sore spots, he felt the familiar hands moving again over his back in techniques gleaned centuries before from long dead Greek slaves. Kronos had always been a master at turning pain into pleasure -- as well as the other way around - and, as his fingers moved up Methos' spine, the sparks of healing energy seemed to accompany them as his own body repaired itself.
The pain was gone entirely before too long, but Methos did not move to sit up or pull away. He existed in a hazy state of warmth, the bliss that always came after the pain left him. Kronos' hands did not stop, even when the last bruise had faded, but rather moved even more intently over his shoulders and back, rubbing along his arms and lightly caressing his sides. A brief hesitation as the hands reached his waist again, then the fingers were loosening his belt and pulling the rough material of his trousers down his legs. For that instant Methos missed the warm weight atop him, but then leather touched his skin again as Kronos returned.
The hands returned to his waist, stroking his sensitive skin just lightly enough to send shivers down his spine before moving downwards over his hips and around. They cupped his buttocks, fitting perfectly around them as they always had, rubbing gently to increase his shivering. It was a natural progression, well-remembered and expected, when a finger slipped into him, working insistently deeper, and Methos groaned softly to show his approval at this turn of events.
The sexual energy crackled between them like a lightening storm, or a Quickening, and Methos arched his back to push himself against the probing finger, ecstatic when a second digit was introduced and a thumb lightly stroked his balls. It had always been like this between them. The conflict, the conquest, the passion. He thought he ought to resist, while at the same time recognizing himself as incapable of doing so. Kronos had never been a man to be resisted.
Kronos' fingers continued working him, sending a slow warmth spreading through his entire lower body. Methos moaned again when he felt the hard bulge at Kronos' crotch brush his thigh, the heat reaching his skin even through the layer of clothing that still remained between them. It was only then that he realized how hard his own cock had become, pressing almost painfully into the floor. The fingers withdrew abruptly, leaving him cold and empty, and Kronos' weight shifted for a moment. Then the hands were on his shoulders again and the hard length of Kronos' cock was brushing across his buttocks.
Methos was torn between pushing his hips down into the rug to generate friction against his own aching cock, and pressing back against the other man in hopes of greater fulfillment. Kronos leaned forward, keeping his hands on Methos' shoulders while pressing the full length of his naked body against the other man's. His lips brushed against the nape of Methos' neck before his teeth scraped lightly over the thin shoulder. Then his breath was burning on Methos' ear. "You want this, I can feel it. Have you dreamed of it, yearned for it, like I have?"
His response was merely a nod, as unable to answer verbally as before, although this time his muteness was caused by pleasure rather than pain. He had dreamed of this, in the darkest hours of the darkest nights, longing for the pure abandonment of all thought he had always found in their lovemaking. For a man whose identity was so firmly based in his ability to think, giving up that faculty was the ultimate surrender. And Kronos was the only man who could take it from him.
The tip of the thick cock behind him was pressing against his entrance. The civilized Greeks and Romans had delicately fragranced oils to ease this kind of joining, but they needed none of it here. The desire now was so strong that, as Kronos pushed slowly into him, Methos did not so much as wince at the pain. One strong thrust, then another, as the already stretched channel yielded to Kronos' demanding cock. At the third thrust Methos gasped as Kronos sank himself to the root inside of him.
They paused for a long, agonizing moment. Methos savored the feeling of being filled by Kronos, knowing the other man gloried in the possession of him. Another sharp thrust broke the spell and Methos levered himself onto his elbows as they began to move together. The centuries that had passed since they had last shared a bed vanished into nothing as the familiar pounding rhythm reasserted itself. Methos bit down on his lip, tasting the metallic tinge of blood, surging back against Kronos to drive him deeper. It was sex without subtlety or finesse, and after only a short time Kronos let out a hoarse cry, flooding Methos with wet heat.
Kronos collapsed on top of him, breathing in short pants as he recovered from his orgasm. Methos buried his face in his arms again and struggled to repress a moan. His arousal was truly painful now, trapped beneath both their bodies, screaming for release. At last Kronos withdrew and rolled off of him, allowing him to gingerly sit up, his cock jutting out red and swollen in front of him. It was almost too much when Kronos reached out and teasingly caressed the aching flesh. "You're still in quite a state. Do you want to finish it?" Methos nodded, drawing a ragged breath. Kronos released his cock to grip his shoulders and press him back down to the ground. Methos' arms came up in an instinctive embrace, and Kronos reached back to guide one hand down to his own buttocks. "Is this what you want?"
The smooth skin burned into his palm, but even as he slipped a probing finger into him, Methos knew that he could not possibly last long enough to take his pleasure inside Kronos as the other man had in him. Instead he arched up against the muscular form that covered him, trying to gain enough stimulation to come as he desperately needed. But Kronos slipped deftly out of his arms, sliding down his body until his mouth was level with the straining erection. His tongue licked around the head, still teasing until Methos' patience snapped and he thrust his hips demandingly toward Kronos' face. A low chuckle answered him, then the moist heat of a strong mouth was sucking him. The pressure was perfectly applied to bring him to the quick climax he craved, and the pleasure was intense enough to make his consciousness blur as he came hard into Kronos' mouth. Each swallow brought another throb of pleasure he thought would never end until he was a boneless heap of sated flesh.
He had not felt anything so intense since the last time they had been together. Night had fallen during their physical reunion, and the flicker of the campfire outside the tent provided the only illumination as Kronos gathered Methos back into his arms and pulled a blanket over them both. "It's good, so good to have you back," he murmured sleepily. He was soon asleep, but Methos stayed awake long afterward, stroking Kronos' tangled hair and watching the shadows play against the wall of the tent.
Yes, he was back. But how much of him, and for how long? He had submitted to Kronos' will in agreeing to plan the raid, but the Romans were still there, and the task was no less impossible now than it had been an hour ago. His body still quivered from the passion Kronos had evoked in him, and memories of the man he had been the last time he felt that passion threatened to overwhelm his present, more sedate identity. Already he ached to cling to Kronos' strength, to let his intellect be ignited by Kronos' fiery ambition. It would be so easy to go back to this life, so tempting. He could persuade Kronos to find less imposing enemies to conquer, build an alliance to bring down the rotting Roman Empire once and for all, build for themselves another empire with Kronos' will, his cleverness, and the brute strength of the other Horsemen. Or he could find a way out, as he had before, and retreat back into the life of books and contemplation he had so carefully constructed for himself, making sure Kronos could not find him again, this time.
A thousand years of power or a thousand years of safety. A choice he had to make, and soon.
The fire and the shadows had long faded away before Methos slept.
"It was something MacLeod could never accept, much less understand. Why make things worse trying to explain?"
Joe shook his head sadly, but before he could continue his argument, the burr of his cellphone distracted him. He turned away as he pulled the phone out of his coat pocket, and Methos mentally voiced the hope that business would take the man away before he somehow bullied Methos into another futile attempt at reconciliation with the Highlander. "Dawson," he heard Joe say softly. After listening in silence for a long moment, Joe turned back to him, and with an impassive face, extended the phone to him. "It's for you."
He took the proffered instrument suspiciously, half expecting to hear MacLeod's voice after his curt "Yes?"
"It's time, Methos," a familiar low voice said in his ear. It was a voice that sent prickles of arousal and dread up his back. Sweet and beguiling, with a hint of an ancient accent, but also an edge of cold steel. "You won't escape me again."
"I wasn't aware I was trying." His mild tone gave lie to the sudden dryness in his throat. He had expected this, had almost resigned himself to it, although he would have avoided it if he had been given the choice. But he would not run from it. He was so very tired of running.
"You can't hide behind MacLeod forever," Cassandra reiterated. "I spared you before, for his sake, but you will face me now so he cannot interfere again."
"Where?" he asked simply, not bothering to tell her how unlikely it was that the Highlander would intervene in another fight on his behalf.
"The Luxembourg Gardens."
He rolled his eyes briefly skyward although she could not see it. "Really, Cassandra, everyone goes there. Wouldn't you rather someplace more cozy for our little tete a tete?"
"Tonight, six o'clock," she snapped. "Be there, or I'll come and take your head without bothering with a fair fight."
A click and then dead air. Repressing one last remark about fair fights being overrated, Methos turned off the cell phone and turned to hand it back to Joe. His friend was still observing him with the same concerned look, and Methos ignored the cold lump in his stomach to present a casual air. "She really has no sense of setting. It's almost a shame. This could be a very dramatic moment in Immortal history."
Joe narrowed his eyes, and Methos suspected his blase manner had not fooled the Watcher. "As long as you don't try to make this into a Greek tragedy. I know how those end, too."
Methos gave him a quick smile and stood up, tucking his book under his arm. "I'll do my best, Joe. I always do." He took a step away, the paused. "MacLeod believes in trial by combat. That some sort of divine justice determines who wins and who loses."
"Don't you worry about what MacLeod believes," Joe said sharply, hauling himself to his feet and moving in front of Methos. When the other man did not answer, Joe grabbed his arm, his worry clearly etched on his face. "Are you looking for expiation or condemnation?"
"I did not look for this at all," Methos replied, trying to pull his arm from the other man's grasp. He found he could not free himself without knocking his friend over. With a small sigh, he met Joe's eyes. "Is there really a difference?"
"Yes," Joe replied incredulously. He held Methos' gaze for a long moment, then dropped his eyes and released Methos' arm. "Just... take care of yourself."
Methos touched his friend's shoulder briefly. "I've been doing a fair job of it for the last five millennia." Joe glanced up and smiled slightly in response before looking down again. "Joe, I haven't believed in divine justice in a very long time. Whatever happens, happens. It's the way we live."
As he walked away, he heard Joe's voice call after him. "As long as you keep on living!"
"That would be ideal, Joe," he muttered softly and continued on.
The late afternoon sun was just touching the tops of the trees in the Luxembourg Gardens when Methos arrived. The gravel crunched beneath his feet as he wandered, seemingly aimless, along the paths toward the most secluded area of the blooming gardens. A lingering wintery coolness in the air made him hunch within his long coat, keeping his gaze down on his steadily moving feet to avoid eye contact with the few other visitors who glanced at him curiously.
Human contact was not something he desired at the moment. Over the past couple of weeks he had made a concerted effort to shun it altogether, except for the occasional drink at Joe's after all the other customers had gone home. Joe knew when to play his guitar and leave Methos alone, offering only his quiet presence as comfort. He had not exchanged more than five words with anyone until Joe had sought him out that morning.
Even the birds were silent when at last he found the place that felt right. Reaching into his open coat he drew out his heavy broadsword before settling onto one of several nearby benches to wait. He stared off into the blue sky with a vacant expression in his eyes, trying to recapture the trance-like state of concentration and aggression that had once made him unsurpassed as a swordsman. Turning off the part of his soul that felt hatred and wrath had protected him from the fear of what he had been, but it also had taken away the finer passions of his being. Gradually over the last three years he had begun to reclaim that part of himself, to know again the totality of the man he was. It was what made him alive, and what would keep him alive. If he could hang on to it now, when all his supports were being torn away.
Whether he wanted to evoke an emotion or banish feeling altogether he still was not sure by the time the tingling filled his head. He shook off the sensation, instinctively lifting his head to scan the area for the other Immortal whose presence had signaled him. He found her standing still, across the green from him next to a tall hedge, watching him.
She was still beautiful, was Cassandra, with her long dark hair and piercing blue eyes. The deep green sweater and black jeans hugged her slender figure in a way that would turn the head of any man, as she had turned his head, and more recently Duncan MacLeod's. A lump filled his throat as an image he had thought long forgotten filled his mind's eye: a wild young Immortal, with tangled hair and fire in her eyes looking at him with mingled fear and adoration, melting into desire at his merest touch. Now icy hatred filled her scrutiny, and as he met her eyes, she stepped out of the shadow of the hedge, stripping off her coat and drawing her sword in one graceful movement.
Methos rose and walked forward onto the rectangular green to meet her, stopping a few feet away. He thought briefly of asking her one last time if they could not just walk away, but he shrugged off the thought almost as soon as it formed. MacLeod's influence again. Unapplicable here, as in most cases involving anyone but the Highlander. "A good place for a challenge," he remarked conversationally. "Did MacLeod suggest it to you."
Her look changed to confusion and suspicion. "I haven't spoken to Duncan MacLeod since the last time we met." A measure of scorn colored her tone, which Methos shook off as irrelevant to him. "I expected him to be tagging along at your heels, ready to protect you again. If you showed up at all, that is."
He smiled faintly, digging the tip of his sword into the ground in front of him and resting his hands on the hilt; neither of them wanted MacLeod here to interfere. "I said I would be here. And it didn't sound like an invitation you would let me refuse."
"No," she stated flatly. "I spared you once because Duncan asked it, but that was then. Now if you run, I will hunt you and find you, no matter where you try to hide. You won't escape me again, Methos. Though I thought you would surely try."
Studying the pommel of his weapon, he glanced up at her with a wry look. "Oh? Maybe you underestimate me."
A harsh laugh escaped her throat and she raised her sword. "Oh, I don't think so. You're a coward, and you always were." He pulled up his blade in response, eyeing her warily and waiting for the first strike. "Even three thousand years ago, you could murder helpless villagers and rape innocent women, but you could never even stand up to Kronos' slightest whim." She spat as she said the name of his ancient comrade, dead now by MacLeod's hand.
"You really think so?" Methos questioned softly. Like an adder striking its prey, Cassandra lunged at him and he danced back out of reach of her blade. "And why do you imagine that is?"
"You were, and still are, a coward," she panted as they each waited for a chance to attack. "There's nothing else to imagine."
"I wish that were true," he murmured under her hearing, and raised his blade again.
350 CE
The stifling stillness of early morning surrounded the tent as Methos awoke. Kronos still slumbered beside him, his arm flung over Methos' back. Methos carefully wriggled out from under him and sat up. Last night he had been torn, his body overwhelmed by passion while his rational mind protested the dangerous situation, but now he knew what he had to do. It was not what he wanted to do, not what he would have chosen, but it was the only thing that would keep him alive. And as always, that was his priority.
He gathered his clothing from where Kronos had scattered it the night before, dressing in silence before slipping out into the silent camp. The frigid air burned his lungs and he swallowed against it as he made his way to the makeshift hitching post. The horse Kronos had given him upon his forcible return, white in a blatant reminder of the old days, stood quietly and whuffled softly at him as he untied it.
"Quietly, now, that's a good girl," he murmured into the mare's ear, throwing a saddle onto its back. He lead his mount to the far edge of camp, avoiding the tents of Silas and Caspian which stood like guardposts, and only swung himself onto the horse when he was out of sight of any possible watchers.
Methos rode until the noonday sun shone directly above him, dappling his skin through the treetops. He knew where he was going, even if he did not know exactly where it was. The Romans were charmingly predictable in their military strategies, including where they tended to set up their camps. Once he found the first evidence of their passage, they would not be hard to track.
His instincts had not faded with his sedentary lifestyle, and not long after midday he heard a shout in Latin just before two Roman soldiers stepped out of the trees to block his way.
"Stop right there!" one of them called out, standing with spear ready. "You're in Imperial territory. Who are you and where do you come from?"
"I thought all of this continent was Imperial territory now," Methos remarked mildly. "As for myself, I come bearing gifts for Rome. Take me to see your commander."
The two soldiers exchanged glances. "And just what are these gifts?" asked the one who had spoken before.
"The band of barbarians you call the Horsemen," Methos replied. "I can tell you how to defeat them once and for all. Think your commander would be interested in that?"
Another glance, then the one who had spoken nodded abruptly. "I will take you into the camp."
The camp turned out to be more like a fortress, as the habitations of Roman legions usually were, with a well-built stockade and watch towers. An unusual number of guards were posted around the perimeter, but then this part of Dacia had never been completely brought under Roman control. His escort led Methos into the fortified camp and through a maze of tent until they reached the largest one.
"Wait here," the legionnaire told him, leaving him outside under the suspicious gaze of several other soldiers as he ducked inside the tent.
Methos waited patiently, knowing that he would be granted his audience. The Romans wanted the Horsemen, wanted them badly, and he knew that he could ask for almost anything if he could deliver the long-hated band into Roman hands. And as he expected, it was only a matter of minutes before the soldier reemerged and beckoned him into the tent.
The centurion was a muscular man, tall as best Methos could judge while the man was sitting, with distinctive patrician features and greying hair in a severe military cut. Piercing blue eyes looked coldly up at Methos as the man gestured him to a seat with a slight motion of his thick hand. Methos lowered himself onto the padded stool in front of the centurion's makeshift desk with a slight wince, the ache from the night before lingering and exacerbated by his long ride ahorseback.
"I am Gaius Ternius, commander of this legion," the centurion said, never taking his eyes from the other man's face. Methos could feel himself being weighed and measured and remained perfectly still and calm. "They say you have information about the Horsemen."
"I do," Methos answered simply. "I can deliver them to you."
Ternius arched an eyebrow and leaned back in his chair. "Can you really? And just how were you planning to do that?"
"By telling you where they are and how to defeat them." Methos schooled his face into an expression of stricken innocence. It was vital that the man never suspect his true nature, or he would be destroyed along with the others. "I was once held captive by them. I escaped, but then recently they found me again."
"They must place great value on you." The centurion's gaze was steady and suspicious, and Methos played his strategy out carefully.
"I am merely a scholar, but I have skills they find... useful." He dropped his eyes, letting the centurion read his own interpretations into the words. Observing out of the corner of his eye, he watched as emotions from curiosity to disgust played over the man's face. Let him think what he liked, as long as he gave Methos what he needed. "I was with them for a number of years, and I can tell you how to put them down once and for all."
"We have destroyed them dozens of times over the centuries," the Roman replied. "And each time they have reformed and continued to terrorize the Pax Romana."
Methos leaned forward and fixed his most earnest gaze on the centurion. "Yes, I know. That is because you have never destroyed them completely. You have never destroyed the one who leads them, and as long as he remains, the Horsemen will remain as well."
"The one? We have killed a hundred of their leaders...."
"No, you haven't," Methos interrupted impatiently. "There is one man, one man you cannot kill who holds the Horsemen together."
"For hundreds of years...," the centurion said doubtfully.
"For longer than that," Methos insisted. "He is not of this world, he is something other, a creature who cannot die. Your only hope of destroying the Horsemen is to capture him and imprison him where he cannot escape. I suggest holy ground."
They were silent for a time as the centurion considered Methos' words. Methos waited as patiently as he could, not wanting to push the man too hard until he knew how he would respond.
"This man," the Roman said at last, "he is some sort of demon or demi-god, immortal?"
Methos nodded gravely. "Something like that. No matter how many times you kill him, he will rise again, fully healed."
The man was silent for a moment longer before looking up. "I don't know whether to believe what you say or not, but if you can lead us to the Horsemen and identify this man who is their leader, we will try what you say."
He could not restrain a small sigh of relief. "You will not regret taking this chance, centurion. You will win fame as the man who defeated the Horsemen once and for all."
The centurion gave him a small, tight smile. "Fame means little to me, stranger. My only goal is to keep this territory safe under Roman control, and the Horsemen are the main obstacle to that." He paused and eyed Methos again. "And you, what do you gain from this? What reward do you ask for your services?"
"Only my freedom," Methos said quietly. "I had a peaceful life in service to the governor of Syria before the Horsemen came back for me, and I only want to return to that life. Finish the Horsemen and let me go."
"Very well," the Roman agreed. "You will guide us back to the camp --"
"No," Methos interrupted again. "I will tell you exactly where it is, and then I will go back. Come tonight, late, when they all are asleep. They are overconfident, there will be no guard and you can enter the enclosure easily enough if you can find it. I will make sure their leader is ... sufficiently distracted so that his capture will be simple."
Another pause, then the centurion nodded abruptly and stood up. Methos stood as well, his estimate confirmed that the Roman was nearly as tall as he was himself. The other man strode out of the tent and Methos followed a few steps behind. He halted just outside as the centurion called out to one of his men and spoke to him in a low voice. The soldier saluted sharply and walked away as the commander turned back to Methos. "There is a place that will be suitable as a prison for this man you speak of. It is indeed on holy ground, and they have held prisoners for us in the past. I have sent a man to warn them of our coming."
"Then it is settled," Methos said, a strange feeling of finality settling into the pit of his stomach. "Let me tell you what you must do."
Even if Methos had been able to put his memories into words, Cassandra was making it abundantly clear she had no desire to listen. She kept up a steady pressure of attack, putting every ounce of strength and skill into the fight. Methos parried her blows with relative ease; she was already better than when she had fought Kronos in Seacouver, but he was still the superior swordsman by far. Still she kept him busy enough fending her off so that he could not find an opportunity to launch an offensive of his own.
She had evidently been counting on her early vigor to help her land a mortal blow, for after the first few minutes her movements slowed slightly. Methos recognized the signs of fatigue and began to push himself harder, shifting the battle tide in his favor. Cassandra blocked every blow, but he kept pressing and slowly drove her back against one of the bristling green hedges that was taller than either of them. He trapped her there, arms raised, long enough to score a deep wound along her upper right arm. Crying out in pain, she swung her own sword at his head. He ducked and pulled back enough to aim a thrust into her midsection, but she managed to dive to her right, landing on the path and rolling away from him.
The few seconds she gained before he charged after her were barely sufficient for her arm to heal, and she was still moving stiffly when she engaged him again. In this stage the advantage was clearly his. Grimly Methos estimated how long it would take before he finished her, but before he could strike at her again the same familiar tingling that had signaled her arrival filled his skull again. Cassandra's head lifted in recognition of the sensation at the same moment, and they exchanged a wary glance before stepping apart and lowering their swords. This was a private battle, and witnesses were undesirable. Particularly witnesses who might decide to take two Quickenings for the price of one after their own fight was finished.
Footsteps pounded as a herald just before a tall, dark-haired man appeared from the path off to the main gardens. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of them and Methos felt his heart sink in dismay.
MacLeod. Just lovely. He had held out no vain hopes that MacLeod would never find out about this battle, but he had hoped it could be avoided until it was too late for the exceptionally meddlesome man to do anything about it.
Cassandra was glaring at him as if it were all his fault. He decided to ignore her, turning his own glare on MacLeod and muttering under his breath. "Joe Dawson just can't keep his mouth shut." He knew there was a Watcher on Cassandra, and probably on him as well, so there was no chance of keeping this little rendezvous a secret from them. And no doubt Dawson was only concerned for his well-being. Still, he really did not need to tell Duncan MacLeod everything. "Just this once, he could have kept his mouth shut."
"Stop!" MacLeod called breathlessly. "Methos, Cassandra, you can't do this."
She shot a look at the Scot that was filled with no less hatred than the one she had turned on Methos. "This is between me and him, Duncan. You cannot interfere." Turning back to Methos, she hefted her blade again, meeting him in mid-swing as if their previous course of combat had never been interrupted.
Methos turned his own concentration back to the fight, but MacLeod seemed determined not to give up. "Methos, stop this!" he shouted, a note of command in his voice that might have rankled with the other Immortal if he had not already returned to the completely focused state in which he fought. Duncan MacLeod could claim no more power to command either of them.
MacLeod was left to stand helplessly by and watch as the battle continued on. Methos was somewhat surprised that she did not try any tricks of hypnotism as a last resort with him, as she had with Kronos. Whether she realized that they would not work on him either, or whether it was because she wanted a traditional duel, he could not have said. But somehow he was glad that she did not try, and was glad he had not had to resort to his backup arsenal he kept at hand. This would be a clean fight, with no question as to its outcome or its validity.
The inevitable weariness began to overcome her before it effected him, and not long after she miscalculated fatally. Methos instantly saw the opening in her guard and sent his blade through her stomach before dashing her sword from her hands. She fell to her knees, a stunned, but resigned expression making a mask of her features. He raised his sword again, ready to deliver the final strike until he heard the shout from their audience of one.
"Methos, don't do it! You don't have to kill her. Show her mercy, let her go."
Methos wondered vaguely who MacLeod thought he was talking to, his friend or the Horseman. Despite his annoyance with the interference, Methos hesitated, his arms lowering slowly down until the steel rested on Cassandra's shoulder. Three thousand years ago he had taken everything from her. Her home, her family, her innocence. He had hoped that after she left she would find happiness in her freedom, but three months ago the sight of him had again stripped her of everything she had gained for herself in the interval. He had no right to take her life as well.
At that moment he might have walked away, had Cassandra not looked up at him, her eyes as open and vulnerable as they had been the night she had begged him to save her from Kronos. And for the first time he understood. She would truly rather die than live again at his mercy. Short of giving up his own head, this was all he could do for her.
He nodded to her in understanding and she closed her eyes. Blocking out Mac's desperate shouts, he raised his blade again and brought it down in a clean arc through her neck.
The Quickening was more painful than some, more erotic than most as the essence of Cassandra's being flooded into him. He did not want the memories that came, either hers or his own, but he could not make them stop. Thousands of fragments of an unhappy life, lovers and friends there and as quickly gone. Tiny spots of stolen joy warmed him briefly, until he saw himself through her eyes, towering over all awareness. A god and a demon, who had used her and abandoned her, and in doing so, enslaved her all over again.
When the influx of energy faded, Methos fell to his knees beside her body. He reached out gently to touch her, just above the wound, still open and bleeding, he had inflicted. The flow of blood slowed to a stop as he knelt there in silence, the only sound in his ears that of MacLeod's footsteps as the other Immortal came up to stand before him.
Only dimly aware of the Highlander's presence at first, Methos tenderly caressed the dead flesh beneath him. "She loved me," he said at last, speaking less to MacLeod than to himself. "She loved me, and I betrayed her."
MacLeod's voice was choked with emotion as he replied, taking the comments to be addressed to himself after all. "Betrayal is obviously something you know a lot about, Methos."
Methos flung his head back and laughed bitterly. "Oh, Mac. If only you knew what you were saying. If only you knew."
350 CE
Thundering back into camp on the white horse, Methos almost felt as if he had stepped back in time. There were Caspian and Silas, quarreling over some inanity, glancing his way warily, expecting interference if they went too far. There were the slaves and camp followers, eagerly watching for a chance to ingratiate themselves with their masters, and not sure quite what to make of him yet. And there was Kronos, standing before his tent with his arms crossed in front of him, expression completely impassive but with eyes that communicated his suspicion as clearly as if he had been shouting at Methos.
Yes, it was just like the good old days.
"You left this morning without a word to me, Brother," Kronos began with elaborate casualness as Methos dismounted.
He smiled softly to himself, turning his back to Kronos as he looped the reins securely around the hitching post. "Yes, I did," he agreed mildly. Still not looking at Kronos, he moved around to start pulling the saddle off of his mount. He was not surprised to feel the hard body of the other man behind him, trapping him against the side of the horse.
"I don't like it when you do that," Kronos whispered silkily in his ear. "The last time you did that, you didn't come back."
Methos' head was lowered, eyes fixed firmly on the smooth flank of the horse as he fought to control his body's reaction to the strong form pressing into him. "I'm back now, aren't I?" He decided it was a losing battle even as Kronos' hands came to rest on his shoulders.
Hot breath in his ear preceded Kronos' reply. "Yes, you are." The tone was half reassurance, half warning. "I wouldn't want to have to chase you over all of the known world and back again."
"You won't," Methos promised in a low whisper. For what little it meant. Kronos had never trusted him, and with perfectly good reason. He had never been trustworthy.
He could feel Kronos' grin even though he could not see it. "Good to hear that, Methos. For both our sakes." The strong hands on his shoulders began to twist him around, and he acceded without protest, turning to meet Kronos' eyes, bright with the stimulation of their by-play.
And foreplay, Methos admitted silently to himself. His breath was coming more quickly, and his cock was straining against his breeches, straining toward Kronos, so close he could feel the heat radiating off the other body. The rush of danger, both from his trip that day and his return to the Horsemen's camp, had left him intensely aroused -- a condition that was only exacerbated by the perpetual danger of consorting with Kronos.
Without warning, but not unexpectedly, Kronos' mouth was on his. The kiss was bruisingly hard, even after Methos parted his lips to let Kronos explore him thoroughly. Soon the lack of air made his ears ring, but even through that he was aware of the absolute silence around them. Silas and Caspian had ceased their bickering, and were no doubt watching the encounter with winks and nudges. The rest of the camp's inhabitants were probably staring at them as well, wondering just who was the newcomer in the passionate embrace with the Horsemen's leader.
As much as Methos hated to be the object of such universal attention, by the time Kronos pulled away just enough to tug him toward his tent he was beyond caring who was watching or what they thought. All he could feel was the strong arm around his waist and the solid back beneath his own hand. Then they were in the coolness of the tent, with as much privacy as they could hope for, and their hands were free to wander as they pleased.
Kronos wasted no time in baring Methos' flesh to his inspection, tugging viciously at his belt and shirt to get them off as quickly as possible. "You went to the Roman camp, didn't you?" Breeches and boots were gone as hastily as Methos could step out of them.
Methos suppressed his moan as he ripped Kronos' shirt across his chest, spinning his partner around to pull the sleeves off his arms. "Yes, of course. Where else would I have gone?"
"Nowhere else," Kronos groaned as he kicked away the remainder of his clothing, standing gloriously nude. He made no attempt to turn back around, but waited until Methos came up and embraced him from behind. "Will you take now what you would not last night, Brother?"
Long, pale fingers slid across his chest and pinched his taut nipples as Methos pressed against him, his erection rubbing demandingly between the tight buttocks. "Yes," he whispered hoarsely into his ear. "I'll take you now." He wanted Kronos so badly, needed him in a way he had not needed anything or anyone in centuries. Only this man could satisfy the burning and the pressure in his loins, give him the consuming experience he craved.
His hands roamed lower, gripping the thick cock of his brother even as he brought his knee up to part his thighs, dropping them both to the floor of the tent. Methos barely felt the brief pain in his knees as he landed; the sensation of the head of his cock pushing into the tight entrance of Kronos' body was enough to drive him half-mad with lust. With a low cry he thrust violently into Kronos, only vaguely aware of the other's answering cry of pain as he was engulfed by the close heat. Kronos pushed back against him until he was completely sheathed. The sensation of the compact body pressed against his made him frantic and he pulled most of the way out only to drive back in with great force.
Another thrust and another, until Kronos fell forward, bracing himself on his hands as his body shook from the impact. Methos kept his fist wrapped around the throbbing flesh below him, the feel of Kronos pumping into his hand almost as stimulating as his own cock pumping into that tight ass. He gasped, his breath coming in hoarse gulps, and gripped Kronos more tightly around the waist to keep him close against him. The pressure built to an unbearable peak in his loins, driving all other awareness from his mind, until with a cry of mingled pain and ecstasy he gave in to his need for release.
Methos rode the pulsing waves of his orgasm until they faded into minor aftershocks, his mind gradually clearing from its haze. He was still buried inside Kronos, draped over the other man, his hand filled with softened flesh and sticky ejaculate. With a low groan he withdrew, letting himself fall to the side and drawing Kronos down with him. His eyes met those of his brother for the first time since they had begun making love, and the intensity of the passion he saw there was enough to bring him to hardness all over again as Kronos lay down on top of him.
Hours passed before they exhausted the limits of even Immortal endurance, and the two men lay still in each other's arms. Methos let his fingers work through the tangled black hair beneath his chin, staring up at the tent poles and allowing his eyes to rest for a moment without letting his guard down. His tired body moaned its need for sleep, but he ignored it, as he had in a thousand other dangerous situations over his lifespan.
The night was quiet, save for the deep breathing beside him, but Methos still listened intently. His mind strained to concentrate and not drift off into dreaming, and it was almost a relief when the first crackling of branches sounded on the outskirts of the camp. He remained motionless as the noises increased in volume and multiplied, until the first scream of a slave rang through the still night.
Kronos jerked against him, snapping instantly awake at the sound. He looked around in confusion until the din of metal against metal and shouts in Latin made him scramble to his feet. "Romans! They must have followed you back from your scouting mission." He pulled on his breeches and reached for his sword. "Damn you, Methos! How could you be so careless?"
"No one followed me," Methos protested calmly as he found his own clothes and put them back on. Kronos glared at him doubtfully, but he met the look without blinking. It was true, after all. The Romans had not followed him.
They ran from the tent into the full clamor of the attack. It was instantly clear that there was no hope for them. The few male slaves the Horsemen kept lay slaughtered around the camp perimeter, and the females cowered inside the tents. Methos emerged just in time to see Caspian fall with a Roman short sword through his heart, even as Silas bellowed his anger and gutted the man who had done it. Kronos screamed in equal rage as an arrow took Silas in the chest, raising his sword to make his stand against the attackers, but Methos caught his arm and pulled him back. "Don't fight, Brother," he murmured in the other man's ear. "You'll only make it worse for yourself."
Kronos yanked himself out of Methos' grasp with a grunt of anger and disbelief. Methos kept a firm grip on his own blade in case Kronos decided to cut him down out of fury and expediency, but before either of them could make a move, they were surrounded by Romans. The soldiers did not assail them, instead circling them in a bristling ring of iron, swords and spears held ready to skewer them at any moment. Kronos pivoted around, snarling like a trapped animal as he examined their captors.
The circle of infantry broke briefly to allow a man in a red cloak to step through. The insignia rank on the helmet and breastplate he now wore would have told Methos that this was the commander even if he had not already known the man's face. Methos stepped a pace back as the centurion approached to examine Kronos. "So, this is the one?"
A perplexed look passed over Kronos' face, until Methos answered the question. "Yes, this is him. The leader of the Horsemen." The Kronos' expression went blank, except for the hatred that burned in his eyes when he looked to the man he had called his brother, and who had now betrayed him.
The Roman smiled. "Excellent. We have sought long and hard for you, Horseman, but you have always eluded us. Now, thanks to your friend here, you will never trouble the civilized world again." He made a small gesture with one hand and two burly soldiers came and seized Kronos by the arms.
They made as if to drag him away, but he twisted in their grasp until he could see Methos again. "What did they promise you, Methos?" he spat, still struggling against his captors. "Gold? Power? Thirty pieces of silver?"
Methos smiled slightly. He would not have expected Kronos to know that reference, but it fit as well as any. "They promised me freedom from you. The life I chose for myself, in peace."
Kronos started to growl a reply, but the centurion jerked his head and one of the restrainers clamped a hand over the Horseman's mouth. "Take him back to the fort and bind him. If he gives any trouble, kill him."
As his men obeyed the command, Methos came to stand in front of the Roman. "Remember what I told you. He is a supernatural creature; you cannot kill him."
The man smiled thinly. "All the better. I will heed your words. He will be punished for his crimes as best we can manage. Then we will make sure he will not ride again." He paused and eyed Methos with disdain and some fear. "And you are free to go wherever you choose, as we agreed."
Methos bowed his head in acknowledgment. "I will come with you to watch it done. When it is over, I will go."
"Do as you please," the Roman answered curtly. He turned sharply on his heel and walked away. Methos trailed behind him, leaving the Horsemen's camp without a backward glance. Silas and Caspian would wake eventually and be left to find their own way in the world for the first time in millennia. He would make sure he never met them again. Although he had saved their lives by not mentioning their Immortality to the Roman commander, they would still be anxious to avenge this betrayal. But it would be far too late for them to do anything about it.
The rest of the night was cold and dark. Methos had no place in the Roman encampment, huddling beneath his cloak at the base of a tree until the sky began to lighten and the soldiers began to stir. He made himself as unobtrusive as possible, watching and waiting as the sound of nails being hammered into wood echoed in the quiet of the dawn. Footsteps came up beside him and he squinted up at the Roman centurion, struggling without success to remember the man's name.
"You look like you've been to Hades and back," the man commented, with more sympathy than he had shown him in any of their contact the previous day. He pulled out one of the small, round loaves of bread that made up the majority of the Romans' provisions and handed it to Methos, who accepted it in silence. "Did you sleep at all?"
"No," Methos replied without elaboration, gnawing at the bread, which was obviously more than a day old. Sleep had hardly been an option, here in a strange place, surrounded by men who bore him little goodwill, with Silas and Caspian still only a few miles distant. Still, he was grateful they did not know the truth of who he was; to the Romans, he was merely an unwilling slave who had turned on his masters. Had they known his true nature and position with the Horsemen... he would undoubtedly be sharing Kronos' fate. The aching in his head and fatigue in his limbs was a small price to pay for salvation.
The Roman nudged him gently with one booted foot and pointed off to their left. "Look, there it is." Methos turned his head to follow the man's view and watched as a new tree was raised in the wooded area. It was a trunk meant to have only one branch, the deep groove indicating where the bar of the cross would be lashed once the victim was nailed to it. The sight made Methos' blood run cold.
"Crucifixion is hardly a common practice in the Empire these days," Methos remarked carefully. He had seen men crucified on more than one occasion in years past, narrowly avoiding the fate himself a number of times, and he had not been displeased to notice that particular method of execution gradually abandoned by the Romans amongst whom he now lived.
"This man is hardly a common criminal," the centurion retorted. "In fact, he is a very special case, and we are far from Rome now. We have fought to destroy the Horsemen for centuries, but always they have eluded us, raiding on the outskirts of the Empire. I always suspected they were demons, and now I know it was true, at least for one of them. And thanks to you, the plague is now ended."
A sick feeling began to pervade his stomach, and he put his bread aside. "You owe me no thanks. I did nothing for you."
The Roman's look turned cool again. "Maybe so, but that hardly matters now, does it?" A shout from one of his men caught his attention. "I think all is prepared. You wished to watch? Now is the time. When he is dead, we will take him to his prison, where he will be kept forever, or at least as long as Rome rules this land." He turned and walked away, not waiting to see Methos rise and follow him.
They stood a few feet away from the cross and waiting. Soon Kronos was dragged, nearly unconscious, by the same two men who had been his captors the night before. His brown linen shirt was drenched with blood, knife holes ripping the fabric over his chest. Obviously they had found it necessary to kill him and keep him dead to hold him. Methos had already figured as much; the camp had been too quiet during the night.
Kronos came wide awake as they approached, spitting and cursing the Romans in a dozen dead idioms, nearly dislocating his shoulders trying to break free of them. They maneuvered him to the foot of the cross, then another soldier came and struck him hard on the temple with the hilt of his sword. Stunned by the blow, Kronos offered no resistance as he was stretched across the great plank of wood. Methos felt each blow of the nails into Kronos' hands as if they were being driven into his own body, but he kept his face perfectly blank to all observers as he watched the bar being lifted into place to complete the cross before Kronos' feet were nailed to the wood as well.
He had forgotten what a tedious process crucifixion was. Despite Kronos' weakened condition from the trauma of the night before, he took a very long time to die. After a while he revived somewhat from his insensate state, twisting his head around to find Methos. Completely impassive, Methos met Kronos' eyes and held them. A paralyzing cold steeled his heart against the sight before him, and he absorbed all the hatred and loathing that flowed from Kronos without flinching. They stayed in that position for what must have been hours, though Methos lost any conception of time after his legs grew numb and his head grew light. After a while the Romans went about their daily business, ignoring the gruesome display just outside their camp except for the occasional sidelong look. Still Methos stayed, watching Kronos watch him, in full acknowledgment of his own role in the drama.
Occasionally Kronos would gasp or writhe with the pain, but always his eyes returned to Methos, until at last they became glassy and his breath rattled in his chest before ceasing altogether. Methos remained motionless, having stood still for so long he hardly remembered how to move. A short time later he felt a hand on his shoulder, and managed to turn his head to see the Roman centurion standing beside him, the setting sun glaring behind him. "It is done. We will take him now to his prison. Do you still wish to accompany us?"
Mutely Methos nodded, though he wished he could have refused, and the Roman left him to direct his men in taking Kronos' lifeless body down from the cross and wrapping him in a length of dirty linen that would serve as a makeshift shroud. They loaded his body into a wagon. They loaded the body into a single-horse wagon, and the centurion counted off twenty of the biggest legionaries to accompany the grim procession. Methos merely stood quietly and waited until one of the men approached him, leading a horse. "Here, we brought this one back for you. You will need it." He recognized the beast as the one Kronos had given him on his return to the Horsemen, and took the reigns with a small gesture of thanks.
He rode beside the centurion as they set out into the night, cautiously wending their way over the broken ground. The Roman presence in this part of Dacia had never been consistently strong enough to establish the well-kept roads on which the Empire prided itself, and the woods were always filled with dangers at night, from wild animals to equally wild humans. The foot soldiers did not appear nervous, but kept their javelins at the ready, and Methos was glad for them. Despite his knowledge that the Horsemen had already wiped out any competing marauders, this was not a wood he relished traveling in the dark.
The half moon hone at the midpoint of its journey across the black sky when the centurion finally motioned for them to halt. He called out a few cryptic words in Greek, and then waited. Methos pulled his cloak more tightly around him against the cold air. A shadowy figure soon emerged from the trees and gestured for the small company to follow. They trailed behind, Kronos' provisional bier rattling loudly as it was dragged across the increasingly rocky terrain.
They came upon the modest stone structure as if it had appeared out of the mist, and Methos' flesh prickled with the unmistakable aura of holy ground. Despite the unearthly atmosphere of their approach, the building looked sturdy and solid, built to weather the ravages of time as well as any Immortal. The cloaked figure waved at them to enter as he pushed open the large wooden door and disappeared into the darkness within. Methos and the centurion dismounted and tied their horses to the hitching post outside while four of the soldiers lifted Kronos' corpse from the wagon and bore him inside.
Methos followed the footsteps of the Romans as he blindly felt his way through the murky blackness of the interior corridor. It was almost as cold inside the building as in the forest, and just for a moment Methos longed for the cheerfully burning campfire outside Kronos' tent. The sudden flare of the torch made him start in surprise, but then the small figure who held it spoke. "What have you brought us, my brother?"
Methos nearly cringed at the phrase, until he realized that the man, clad simply in rustic wool and leather garb, was speaking to the centurion and not to him. He drew a deep breath, already wanting to be gone from this place as quickly as he could.
"A creature of hell, my friend," the centurion answered, tilting his head toward the dead man they carried. "One who will not stay dead, no matter how many times you kill him. He has been a blight upon the peace of the Empire for many years, but we have subdued him at last. Will you hold him?"
The man moved closer with the light, and for the first time Methos noticed the plain wooden cross which hung from his neck from a leather cord. An enclave of Christians, then, driven from civilization by the legal persecutions inflicted on them after Constantine's death, secluding themselves to worship their god in peace. He watched the man carefully as he approached Kronos, gesturing for the bearers to lay him on the stone floor, then bending over him to examine the still form. "How did you overcome him?"
"We captured him, then crucified him," the centurion replied bluntly.
The Christian nodded. "The enactment of our Lord's Passion would have a powerful effect, even on a demon such as this one." Methos restrained his remark on the general effects of crucifixion on any type of human flesh, observing silently as the man examined Kronos' hands and face. "And yet despite this torment, he bears no marks of his ordeal."
Methos stepped a pace closer, squinting into the flickering light to get a better look at Kronos. Sure enough, the dead flesh was already whole again, without blemish save for the eternal scar over the eye that had marked Kronos since before his first death. A thought about the speed of Immortal healing occurred to Methos as he gazed at the still hands laying limply against the cold stone, but before he could give voice to it, there was a blur of motion and the Christian was emitting a strangled scream. Kronos lived again, his hands on the man's throat, a feral glitter in his eyes.
Even as Methos lunged forward himself, the Roman soldiers tore the man from Kronos' grasp, beating their newly risen prisoner down and pinning him back to the floor. One legionnaire raised his short sword, ready to bring it down into Kronos' heart again, but the Christian managed to choke out a command for them to stop. The soldier looked to his commander, and the centurion held out a restraining hand as their host struggled to regain his breath. "No, you may not kill him again. There is no place for violent acts in this house."
Holy ground. Not that it would stop Kronos from wreaking as much violence on the place as he could, but Methos noticed that for the moment his brother seemed to have ceased his struggles as his future jailer bent again to look into his eyes. "This will be your home now, for as long as you live on this earth. Your prison, but we will treat you kindly."
Kronos seemed stunned as they hauled him to his feet, as if finally understanding what his punishment was to be. His captors began forcing him along the corridor toward a set of stairs cut downward into the rock. As he passed by the men watching, he spotted Methos out of the corner of his eye and began shouting again. "You did this, Methos! You betrayed me, when I needed you the most. You were my brother, the other half of my soul -- and this is what you have done!"
Methos closed his eyes, willing the burning pain in his gut to subsume into the vast coldness that had enveloped him since the Romans first entered the Horsemen's camp on his instructions. They descended the stair into the earth, the air growing damp and bitingly cold around them. Kronos continued to fight against the restraining hands and shout obscenities until they reached a modestly sized stonewalled room, piled with grain and dried meat stored against the coming winter. At one end of the room was an unassuming metal door, held fast with a thick iron bolt. With the help of one of the soldiers, the Christian eased the bolt out of its holding and laboriously pulled the heavy door open.
Kronos moaned in despair as he was roughly maneuvered toward the doorway, looking with terror at the small cell beyond it. "Please, Methos, stop them! Don't let them do this to me." Methos kept his head down, following the course of a rat as it skittered across the floor before being skewered by the spear of a disgusted soldier. A sidelong glance showed him Kronos being hurled into the cell, sliding on his stomach the short distance until he hit the opposite wall. Two Romans exerted all their strength to slam the door shut, just as Kronos flung himself against it from the other side. They held it as the Christian slid the massive bolt home, trapping Kronos there for as much of eternity as his prison would last.
The small party turned back to the stairs, except for Methos who remained staring at the cell door for a long moment and listening to Kronos' voice, muffled but still audible. "I'll find you, Methos! Someday I'll be free, and then I will hunt you down and kill you like the dog you are. Watch for me, Methos! Watch for me!"
He hurried up the stairs after the others.
In the entrance hall, the centurion bid him farewell. "You will stay here, then, until first light? Are you sure you do not wish to stay with us until we get to a town?" Methos shook his head; the sooner he was away from them, the better he would feel, and from the distasteful looks several of the men were casting him, the feeling was mutual. "Then I wish you well in your life. You have done a good thing here."
"A good thing," Methos echoed, a slight smile touching his mouth as the Romans disappeared into the darkness.
A rough hand touched his shoulder, and he looked around into the mild eyes of the Christian, whose name he had never learned. "Come, my brother, and rest. You are safe here, under God's protection."
"In a moment," Methos replied softly, and the man understanding and left him alone. Not until dawn did he move from his place, and then he slipped quietly out the door. A long journey lay ahead of him.
Time was what his betrayal had bought him. Time for the Christian exile to become a saint, for the little enclave in the Dacian woods to become a thriving medieval monastery. Time to live a hundred new lives, each one taking him further than the last until he was unrecognizable as the man he had been then. Sometimes he could not even recognize himself.
Slowly Methos pushed himself to his feet, realizing as he stood that his breath was coming in heaving gasps from the stress of the memories. He was peripherally aware that MacLeod was still standing across from him, and when he had gathered enough of his wits about him, he raised his eyes to meet the Scotsman's horrified stare.
Mac shook his head almost imperceptibly, the turmoil within him bringing a sheen to his dark eyes. "Who the hell are you, Methos?" he asked in a ragged voice.
Methos smiled slightly and shrugged. What answer did he expect this time? There were no more lies he could tell; the Highlander would simply have to deal with the truth. "You can't possibly understand what has made me who I am, MacLeod. Obviously I am not who you want me to be -- but it was too late for that thousands of years before you were born. This is my fault, I suppose, for expecting you to comprehend that. Maybe someday you will."
He stepped over Cassandra's body and started to brush past MacLeod, but the other man grabbled his shoulder and pulled him back to face him. "Don't talk to me like I'm Richie, Methos. I'm tired of your inscrutability act."
Calmly, Methos raised his eyebrows with a derisive look that made MacLeod bristle under his gaze. "But Mac, you are exactly like Richie to me. Young, naive, bumbling through the world trying to make everything better, but no having any understanding of what you are actually doing. There is a far greater difference between you and me than you and him. And not just in age."
MacLeod still stared at him, stonefaced, until the silence stretched Methos' nerves to their snapping point. He lifted his sword, holding it between them in a clear posture of challenge, ignoring Mac's expression of shock. "Want to make the world a better place today, MacLeod? Want to rid the earth of yet another scourge upon this blessed sphere? Well, here I am."
"I don't want to fight you," MacLeod answered, although he still grimly drew his katana and held it defensively.
Methos laughed, an edge of despair in the sound. "But why not? You've already judged me worthy of death. We both know this had to come sooner or later. And I'm tired of waiting for it."
"You couldn't judge yourself, so you want me to do it?"
If he had any patience left with this man, it would have been sorely tried by now. Fortunately, he had given up the necessity of diplomacy. "It's already done. Put your sword where your mortality is, Highlander."
MacLeod's eyes went narrow and cold, and Methos knew the inevitable decision had finally been made. "Have it your way, Methos."
No warmth now in how he said that name, and as he blocked the first swing, Methos felt something akin to relief that he could finally give up. No more illusions, no more idealizations. Mac was no closer to seeing the reality of him than every before, but at least now Methos had no more need to hid behind an acceptable facade. What would happen, would happen. Only one regret remained to be added to the sum total of his life: that this realization on both their parts had cost him this friendship, and now possibly his life.
The first time they had fought, they both had held back their full strength and skill. In the years since then they had sparred together many times, always with an air of playfulness to mitigate the seriousness of training for the Game. But this was different. MacLeod fought without restraint, deep in concentration, and it was all Methos could do to hold his own.
He had no illusions as to what the outcome of this match would be. Duncan MacLeod had the faith of the righteous to fire him while Methos felt only a cold emptiness in his heart. he briefly regretted the absence of his portable arsenal, but perhaps there was something to this notion of destiny after all. Maybe it was the Highlander's place to judge him for his crimes, when he could not even judge himself. Maybe it was only just that he die for his crimes, as Kronos eventually had, at MacLeod's hands. But even if he could make himself believe that, it did not make this any easier.
Already weary from his first battle, Methos could feel his energy fading and his defense becoming weaker. The pain began to seep through the icy defenses he had put up around his soul, and a stifled sob momentarily choked him. once before he had been sincere in his willingness to give MacLeod his head, and he could still think of no other Immortal he would rather take his Quickening. But then everything had gone wrong, become twisted from what it could have been, and should have been a sacred act was reduced to an execution. Sordid, and unclean.
"You know, MacLeod, I would have given you my head," he gasped as Duncan scored a deep wound across his abdomen. "What hurts is that you feel the need to take it."
'No more games," MacLeod growled, pressing forward fiercely against him. "I can't play them with you, and I won't be toyed with anymore."
It was all a game, and Mac was the biggest player of them all. But even if Methos had been able to find a way to explain that to him, it was already too late. His chest and arms were numb with fatigue and it took only one misstep for the battle to be over. MacLeod caught his sword and jerked it out of his hand, bringing his own swordhand back to strike Methos across the face in a blow powerful enough to send him to his knees.
His chest heaved with dry sobs as Methos tilted his head back and closed his eyes. The agony of waiting was prolonged until his dignity crumbled and he could not stand it a moment longer. "Finish it, MacLeod! It's time for this to end."
Still he remained alive, and at last he opened his eyes to see MacLeod standing over him. The katana was lifted to deliver the final blow, but tears streamed unchecked down the Highlander's face. "Damn you, Methos!" Duncan finally snarled, swinging the blade in a downstroke. The steel whistled past Methos' ear and adrenaline surged through his heart at the closeness of it. "Damn you to hell!"
He left Methos there on his knees, shaking uncontrollably. He was alive, and looked to stay that way for at least a while longer. But for what this time? The laughter could not be held back, nor could the tears. "Oh, don't worry about it, Mac," he whispered to the retreating back. "That's already been taken care of."
Then even his knees would not hold him upright, and oldest living man slumped bonelessly onto his side, barely feeling the gravel scrape his face before escaping into oblivion.
END
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