Usual disclaimer: Kronos, MacLeod, Cassandra,
and Methos don't belong to me. (And I wouldn't want Cassandra
anyway.) Rysher and Panzer/Davis have that honor, I'm just borrowing
their toys (though I haven't asked first), and will return them
unharmed. Even Cassandra.
Tip o' the cyber-hat to the Immortal Valkyrie, whose perfectly
innocent comment a month ago sent my mind down a whole other track,
and Heather Alexander, whose song "Blood Brothers" provided
the prime inspiration for this tale.
Final note...I've used a good portion of David Tynan's dialogue,
but in the interest of artistic license, have wandered a bit from
the episode as aired.
Summary: "Comes a Horseman",
from Kronos' POV. Rated....oh, R,
for language, implied m/m. Mostly UST, pretty tame for this list.
This is my first attempt at an erotic piece...let me know how
you think I did.
PAY WHAT YOU OWE
by Jacynthe Demorae
He hadn't set out to accomplish this, but when the opportunity
had
presented itself, he had been unable to resist. And Cassandra
made such an easy target. If a thought ever passed through her
brain, it got side-tracked the instant one triggered her emotions.
He'd let her get a glimpse of him, lingering just enough for the
look of horrified realization to touch her features before he
vanished.
Hide and seek, by his own rules. He'd linger just at the edge
of her sensing range, then retreating. Had she really sensed
another Immortal, or was she hallucinating? It had been a merry
romp through three countries, but now Kronos was getting bored.
Time for the endgame.
And so Seacouver, if only because he'd never been there. And maybe
the music. Not for the night life, certainly. The Orient suited
him better. He'd led Cassandra through the business district,
working her into a fair lather-traffic lights were so useful-and
entered the block where the neighborhood began to decay.
His plan fell apart passing the TV studio. An Immortal, ahead
of him, maybe two...the sense kept shifting. Kronos hesitated,
and ducked to the side, watching the front of the studio. A cluster
of mortals, smiling and calling out to-
Sapriste.
One of the men had sable brown hair past his shoulders, curling
slightly. The other, lean and trim, with dark hair cropped as
close as a priest's... Kronos froze, absolutely stunned for the
first time in centuries.
Methos.
He stared, attention locked on the slender, young-seeming man
who strolled along beside the other man, hands thrust in the pockets
of his jeans. So casual. So carefree. But alive. He fancied
he could see the rise and fall of the man's chest, taste the hint
of the man's power at the edge of his senses. No matter the modern
clothing, the mild demeanor. This was his brother, who he'd long
believed dead. He watched the easy interplay between the men,
the banter. A slow burn he barely recognized as anger built up
in the pit of his stomach, laced through with emotions he hadn't
named in centuries, much less experienced.
Methos lived.
The lapse cost him. His nerve endings flared again, signaling
the
approach of another Immortal. Damn! Cassandra! No time to linger
here. Kronos abandoned his watchpost with one last look towards
the men-who at last appeared to have detected his presence. He
ducked into the alley and waited, controlling his breathing, stilling
the whirl of his thoughts.
Would Cassandra spot Methos? Would she recognize him? Frustration
clawed at his belly. Methos could never take the hard line needed
with that particular chattel. The bitch might try for his head-or
was she one of the female Immortals who had never found a proper
teacher and thus never learned the sword?
Women had other ways to insure their survival-and Cassandra had
learned many of them in the Horsemen's camp.
Presence flared, too subdued to be Methos or Cassandra. Male figure,
sword drawn. A familiar sword, a familiar man. Kronos gave a feral
grin. Oh, why not boost this game up with another moving target?
He'd been cheated of this whelp's Quickening by a mortal bullet-a
mortal who'd later paid for his interference. Cassandra and the
younger MacLeod...a fine pair of hares for a hunt.
"Adios, Highlander," he mocked. "Now you see me,
now you don't."
And then he reached, nudging at the wispy water vapor drifting
through the air. It thickened, condensed and swirled between himself
and the Highlander. Look for me through that, fool. He'd
learned that one long after he left the desert....these wetlands
offered so much more to play with.
He retreated in silence, stifling the urge to laugh as he listened
to the bullish Scot try to find him. Presence sparked near-by....the
woman, perhaps. He'd stirred things enough. MacLeod had seen him,
and if he was as close to Methos as he'd acted, wo uld pass the
information along. And then Methos would be aware. Be waiting.
***
Tracking Methos through the city had not been easy. Methos had
lost none of his guile, and this was familiar territory for him.
His range had increased, too. Several times, he stopped, almost
catching Kronos' Presence, before Kronos hastily moved out of
range. But now he'd followed Methos to a quiet, secluded building
in a middling-to-wealthy part of the city. Kronos watched the
entrance hungrily, waiting for Methos to re-appear. He still could
not believe this was truly his lost brother.
He had heard rumors over the centuries, whispers of the world's
oldest man. Some of the more likely ones he had even investigated
himself. One had led him to a stocky, grizzled man who prattled
on about peace and how Immortals should all lay down their swords
and talk to each other, apparently mistaking the Gathering for
a social event.
Kronos had almost taken the man's head. The idiot's message was
aggravating enough, but to do it in his brother's name, his brother,
who had been Death, who had ridden beside him and written his
name in blood and fire across a continent... That degree of insult
should not have passed unanswered. And it hadn't, but Kronos had
not been the one to silence the yapping fool. Missed chances.
Even Immortals had them.
But now... He would not miss this one. Not for the world at his
feet once more. Not for the Prize itself.
I hope this isn't a library, Kronos thought as the time
stretched on. Methos had never been able to resist the lure of
books, had been the first of the four to unravel the mystery of
writing.
+++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
"Thoughts preserved, Kronos. Even we cannot remember
it all."
Kronos made a dismissive gesture. "We remember what we need
to. If the rest fades, it wasn't that important."
Methos shook his head, his long hair swinging over his shoulders.
"You really don't understand."
He tried, for his brother's sake. Methos had always possessed
an innate gift of seeing the whole and the forces moving within
it. It was what made his strategies so solid, that ability to
anticipate what did not yet exist. Kronos became lost in the minutiae,
the fine details of the immediate. If Methos said these markings
had some significance beyond a mortal's feeble attempts to outlast
himself...he would listen. But he still saw no need for concern.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
And Methos had been right. The new recordings *had* become important.
People became aware of the Horsemen, generations after a raid.
And, relying on records instead of fear-blurred memories and fire-side
tales...they learned to prepare.
Kronos still thought the burning of the Great Library to have
been a step in the right direction, but there was that line about
spilled wine...
At last, Methos stepped out into the street, carrying a pack in
his hand. Yes...this was his brother. He no longer strode with
the sure confidence he'd owned as a Horseman, but he could sense
that power, leashed, contained. Kronos moved forward, reaching
for one of the knives he carried.
Methos' Presence shivered along his skin, almost as soon as Methos
detected his.
"MacLeod?"
MacLeod. After so long, after such deception...Methos turned to
him with another man's name on his lips? Rage blurred his vision,
and the knife fairly leapt from his hand, burying itself in Methos'
chest. One slender hand rose, pressed against the wound in a futile,
reflexive effort to staunch the blood.
"Greetings, brother," he purred.
"Kronos..." Methos choked out.
Oh, how those eyes widened, luminous with realization. Kronos
closed the gap between them, staring into his brother's eyes as
they darkened from gold to green, to glazed brown. The other Immortal
coughed and choked, his Presence flickering.
"I missed you too," he murmured, as Methos began to
slide towards the ground.
Kronos caught him just before he hit the ground, as the spark
of his Quickening faded to near-nothing. Blood stained his brother's
lips, and he leaned in, brushing them with his own, feeling the
last, dying tingle of his brother's power.
Some blood was sweeter than others. He crouched over his brother's
limp form and reached, seeking out that fine thread of
awareness that existed in every Immortal who still had his head.
Found it, and fed it with his own power, coaxing it up to a higher
level. Methos would, on some level, be aware, but the knife
in his chest would keep him from reviving.
Think of that while you walk the shadows, brother. Think of
that, and wonder how long it will be until I let you live again.
"We should take this out of the street," he murmured,
as if Methos could hear him. "Shall we take your car? It's
handy."
Wrestling Methos' dead body into the passenger seat was a bit
difficult, but Kronos got him settled, the older man's coat pulled
tight to conceal the knife still in his chest. He reached up and
trailed the back of his fingers across Methos' slack face. Once
the knife was removed, life would rush through that body once
more, turning the skin warm and firm. And with the return of life...
With an anticipatory smile, Kronos started the car.
II
Kronos watched from the shadows, the long, lean body stretched
out on the floor as if it were on private display. For my eyes
only. In his hands hung the hook and chain he'd gathered up
after their arrival, just in case Methos had...ideas. The bloodstained
knife lay at his feet. Also just in case. His fingers moved restlessly
over the forged links, testing their weight and strength.
"Been a long time." He couldn't keep the anticipation
out of his voice. "How are you feeling?" he asked in
mock concern. As if he had to ask.
With a little concentration, he could
feel the searing pain in Methos' chest, lungs struggling to knit
together, clear themselves of blood and fluid, the kind of pain
that painted brilliant smears of color behind closed eyes and
lingered long in the memory of the nerves.
Methos rolled over onto his side, coughing. "Like I left
my heart in San Francisco."
"I didn't know you had a heart." Not one that wasn't
spoken for. Not one that wasn't mine. We shared everything, brother.
How could you have forgotten? "Does it hurt?"
"What do you think?" Methos snarled. Recovery appeared
to be going
slowly.
"Since you ask?" Kronos knelt down and pushed him on
his back again, the chain swinging, links clanking ominously.
"I think you're not used to pain, brother," he taunted
through clenched teeth. "What's happened, you got soft?"
He barely heard Methos' retort about adolescence. The body beneath
his hand was as lean and strongly muscled as he remembered And
Methos was still disoriented from the healing. Vulnerable.
"For a long time I thought you were dead. I didn't even bother
looking for you." Why look for a corpse, after all?
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Methos had been challenged. With a smirk and a nod for his brothers,
Methos rode off to meet his latest victim. Kronos and the others
made themselves comfortable in the small bit of shade available.
This shouldn't take long.
Kronos pillowed his head on his hands and closed his eyes. The
place in his mind where Methos' presence usually occupied was
empty. His brother had blocked him out for the duration of the
challenge. Anything else would be a violation of the rules even
the Four Horsemen had to live by. Too tempting, in the heat of
a challenge, to tap into another's strength to supplement one's
own. It was what they all did on raids. It was part of what made
them, collectively, invincible.
Time passed. The sky darkened from hot
white-blue to the deeper shade of approaching twilight. And still
no sign of a Quickening.
"It's taking a long time," Silas said. Even Caspian
was beginning to be concerned.
Kronos didn't open his eyes. "He's playing," he said,
confident in his brother's martial skills. "Why interrupt
his sport?"
Lightening split the sky, followed by a scream of wind made hollow
by distance. Kronos sat up, smiling. "Well, that settles
that."
He reached out to touch Methos' presence...and found nothing.
The
desert air went cold around him.
"Get the horses,' he told the others.
"Why?" asked Silas. "He'll be back."
Caspian, catching on, said nothing, but dragged their slower companion
to his feet. "The horses."
They rode in grim silence, Kronos trying again and again to find
Methos. It should be easiest for him. Mind, body, and soul...he'd
touched all of Methos, could find him across an empty plain or
a village green. Except now he had only emptiness. Could Methos
have lost?
The Horsemen crested a rise. Caspian's sharp eyes spotted it first,
the swathe of pale fabric half-buried in the sand. Silently, he
reached out and touched Kronos' arm to get his attention, then
pointed. The Horsemen closed in, drawing their mounts to a halt.
Kronos vaulted off the horse, all of his attention focused on
the
half-buried body in the sand. He shoved aside the sand with his
hands, his demeanor warding off any attempt by the others to help
him. He had to be the first to see, to confirm by sight what he
already knew. They had seen the Quickening.
At last, the sand was cleared away. Methos' clothing, rent and
blood-stained, armor shattered over the heart... Metallic glints
proved to be shards of his brother's shattered sword. His strength
had not failed him, the sword had. No sign of the head, probably
carried off as a trophy, along with the rest of Methos' gear.
He looked up, saw Caspian and Silas standing just out of range.
Blind, seething rage boiled up from the wellspring inside him.
He made a broad, violent gesture to Caspian.
"Find him," he rasped. "Find whoever did this."
Without a word, Caspian turned towards his horse.
"But that can't be Methos," Silas protested.
Caspian growled something. "If he says it's Methos,
it's Methos. Now shut up and ride."
Kronos waited until the last hoofbeats faded. Then he reached
out,
touched the cold, stiff body. Empty. Just as he was now. Three,
instead of four. There could never be enough blood to pay for
this.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Kronos sat back and let Methos get up. The fresh warmth of the
other man's body still lingered against his fingers. He watched
hungrily, as the slender man recovered himself.
"I heard rumors about the world's oldest man," he whispered.
"You slipped up there, old friend. You got sloppy."
Methos shrugged. "Well, we're none of us perfect."
"I shouldn't be surprised you're still alive. You were always
the one I counted on. You weren't the strongest or the toughest,
but you were the survivor. It's what you do best. Or did."
Until you let me believe you were dead. Until you sent us on
a rampage of vengeance that scattered us over the world. *Deception*,
my brother, is what you do best.
"So you've come to kill me."
I should. For what you cost me.
Kronos sat down next to him. The older Immortal's Quickening sang
against the exposed areas of his skin. He'd missed that. Mortals,
other Immortals...weren't the same.
"It's what I do best!" he said cheerfully. "But
you do have a choice."
"Oh, I'm all for choices."
"Well, you can either lose your head. Or you can join me."
And then I will have your Quickening--have *you*--forever.
"Since you put it that way . . . Welcome back, brother."
Triumph surged through Kronos and he reached out, putting a hand
at the back of Methos' slender neck.
"Then welcome me properly, brother," he whispered.
~finis~
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