Long Have I Waited The story of  Methos and Kronos from the beginning to the end
	by Parda and Nightsky
	copyright August 1999

OFFICIAL DISCLAIMER STUFF:  Not our characters, not our universe, not for profit, just for fun (and angst).  Some of the dialog is directly from Highlander: The Series.  Some of the correspondence is directly from the Watcher CD.

RATING: PG-13.  No explicit sex, although sexual activities (including rape and homosexuality) occur off-screen.

WARNING:  Do not try to use the e-mail addresses in the story.  They don't go anywhere.  (We tried.)

Kronos stood in the shadows, waiting.  Hunting.  It reminded him of the old days.

He smiled to himself, a slow curl of lip.  Soon, it would be just like the old days, the days when he and his brother Methos had ridden together as part of the Four Horsemen, the days when the Four Horsemen had ruled the world.  Soon.

Methos lived in that building, in Apartment 311-B.  That was his vehicle, the black one parked in front.  That was his window, the second from the end, on the left side of the building.

Kronos had been in Seacouver for over two months now, watching Methos.  It was finally time to renew his brother's acquaintance.  He would have acted sooner, but he had been waiting for the witch Cassandra to track him down.  He had left a trail for her -- not too easy, not too hard -- and she had finally arrived in Seacouver last night.  Everything was going according to plan.

This afternoon, Kronos had allowed Cassandra to follow him to the television studio where Methos and MacLeod were watching some idiotic TV show.  Then Kronos had lured both her and MacLeod into the studio's back lot.  Kronos had hidden himself, and MacLeod and the witch had left the lot together, just as he had planned.  Cassandra would tell MacLeod all about him, all about the Horsemen -- and all about Methos.

How delightful to think of both Methos and Cassandra still being alive.  He had not seen Methos for over two thousand years, and he had not seen Cassandra for even longer.  But the rumors were true.  Both of them were alive.

For now.

Methos stood back and considered, then made a few final adjustments -- a little more here, a little lower there.  Perfect.  He moved to the center of his apartment and waited until the moment felt right before he began to move, his entire body one fluid motion, arms and legs coordinated, breathing controlled, every movement graceful.

<Come on, Baby!  Let's do the twist!>
<Come on, Baby!  Let's do the twist!>
<Take me by my little hand and go like this!>

Oooh, yes.  Methos could go like this.  And like that.  And round 'n' around 'n' up 'n' down, just like they did ... well, not last summer.  It had been a few years.  OK, more than a few years.  But he still knew how.

<Come on and twist, yeah!  Baby, twist!>
<Oooh -- yeah, just like this!>

Yeah, just like this.  He could give MacLeod lessons.  Methos grinned and went all the way to the floor and then back up again.  That would be fun.  Try three letters, his ass.  He would, Chubby Checkers and all.

<Yeah, rock on now!>
<Yeah, twist on now!>
<Twist!>

The music faded, and Methos went into the kitchen and got himself a well-earned beer.  He lay back in his favorite chair, wondering if MacLeod had actually challenged the Immortal they had sensed earlier at the TV station, wondering (in some small corner of his mind) if MacLeod were still alive.

Probably.  MacLeod was a big boy; he had survived four hundred years.  He could take care of himself.

Probably.

Methos took a long drink of beer, wondering how he could convince MacLeod to stop chasing down every Immortal he met.  MacLeod was definitely above average, but the law of averages would still catch up to him sooner or later.  One small mistake, one slip, and the Game was over.  For somebody, anyway.

He didn't want that to happen to MacLeod.  He was just starting to get really comfortable with the lad, just starting to get comfortable here.  He didn't want to have to leave.

Again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Nippur, Babylonia -- 1770 BCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

It was time to leave.  Dust-filled shafts of evening sunlight slanted across the room from the small high windows on the western wall, and the other temple scribes were starting to cover their clay writing tablets with damp cloths.

Methos set down his reed stylus, then leaned back on his stool and stretched his arms over his head, working out the stiffness in his shoulders.  He had become so interested in reading about the journey of the sun-god Shamash that he had forgotten to shift position while he had been translating the old story from Sumerian into Akkadian.

The story had brought back pleasant memories for him; he and his wife had heard it during a religious festival over four centuries ago, when the city of Ur still towered above the plain, before the Akkadians had come to this land.  In those days, no one would have thought of writing down the stories; stories were to be performed and listened to, not read.  But only scholars spoke Sumerian these days, and someday, only scholars would be interested in the old stories.

"See you tomorrow, Dubsar," Methos called to the scribe who sat next to him.

Dubsar nodded, but did not reply.  No one replied.

The silence followed Methos all the way down to the courtyard and out the temple gates.  The marketplace was not silent.  Even though the farmers who had come into the city earlier today to sell their produce had already left, the merchants' stalls and shops were still doing a brisk trade.

The slaves who worked in the weaving shops or the potteries were heading home for the night; their duty completed for the day, the night was theirs to do with as they pleased.  Children ran laughing and shrieking through the streets, playing games, hoping to find a dropped apple or fig.

"Greetings, Utnapi!" Methos called through the wide window of the temple cook shop at the corner of the marketplace.  He often stopped here on his way home; senior scribes were allotted one hot meal a day in addition to their weekly ration of grain and beer, and Utnapi was an excellent cook and a friendly woman to chat with.

Methos leaned his elbows on the broad window ledge that served as a table, and surveyed the choices.  The clay ovens against the far wall held round loaves of barley bread, and on top of the ovens were the hot dishes: fried fish and goat stew today.  A large pot of cold beans and onions sat on the table in the corner.  "Is the fish fresh today?" he asked.

Utnapi nodded briefly, then turned to serve the man standing next to him.  "The goat stew for you, I know, Gamesh.  That's your favorite," she said, setting the bowl in front of him.  "Is your son's cough all better now?"  At Gamesh's nod, she continued, "I hear they have a new healer down by the cobblers' alley, knows all sorts of charms.  If he takes sick again, you should give her a gift, maybe one of the weavings your wife does."

"I'll have the fried fish with barley bread today," Methos said, and Utnapi fetched his food, then set it in front of him with a thump.  "And beer!" he reminded her, but she was already serving the two women at the far end of the window.

Methos waited until she came back to the window ledge.  "Beer, please," he said again, and when she finally brought it to him, he added with a smile, "I'm surprised you forgot it, Utnapi.  I've been coming here ten years, and I always have beer."

Utnapi did not smile back, and the other customers looked at him curiously.  Methos finished his food quickly, then turned to leave.  The hushed voices of the women followed him.

"Is he the one?  The one who has found what Gilgamesh did not?  The one they call demon?"

Methos did not wait to hear the answer.  The food he had eaten sat heavily in his stomach as he quickly walked away.  The rumors had begun.  It was definitely time to leave.

One would think, he reflected as he walked through the narrow, dusty streets, that after so many lifetimes, he would be used to leaving.

But he never got used to it.  Whether he was driven out with stones and curses after people noticed he was different, or whether he had time to plan his departure, leaving was always heartbreaking, agonizing, and bloody infuriating.  And the longer he lived in a place, the more it hurt.

He had lived in the holy city of Nippur for fifteen years, ever since that little incident in Babylon.  For fifteen years he had worked in the temple as a master-scribe, turning mere acquaintances into friends.  For fifteen years he had lived with Tilmun-Ea-Nasir's family, been part of the family.  Methos had pulled the very drunk Tilmun out of an irrigation ditch one night, and ever since then they had been friends.  Methos had stood beside Tilmun at his wedding, and Tilmun's children were like his own.  When Methos had brought home his concubine, Yarili, to share his bed, Tilmun had accepted her into the household as well.

And now, almost overnight, the whispers were starting, and his friends were turning away from him.

He had no choice.  A thousand years had shown him that delaying the inevitable didn't lessen the pain, or make it less sharp; it only made it hurt longer.

He would leave tonight.

That evening at Tilmun's house, Methos played with the children a bit longer than usual, tucking them in at night, and then telling them stories long past their usual bedtime.

Yarili watched him from the doorway, her long black hair unplaited for the night, her eyes dark above high cheekbones.  She was a strong woman and a good worker, whose husband had sold her into temple slavery nine years ago because she was barren.  She had worked in the Temple weaving shops ever since.  Methos had met Yarili in the marketplace, and they had known each other for two years before she had agreed to move in with him.  They could not marry, because she was a slave and he was free, but during the last five years, with Yarili at his side in the evenings and in his bed at night, he had been happy.

Yarili caught him by the hand and led him up the narrow staircase to their small attic room.  She did not speak, but he soon realized that she had heard the rumors about him, too.  The almost desperate way she held him, telling him without words that she didn't care what people said about her man, telling him -- and showing him -- how much she loved him, made that clear.  Afterward, he lay awake in the dark, holding her tightly to him as she slept.  Almost, he woke her to tell her the truth, to ask her to come with him.  But she was a slave and must remain in the city.  And he had to leave.

When the house was dark and quiet, Methos silently rose from his bed and dressed, tucking his knife in his belt and folding the extra blanket from the bed around his shoulders.  He looked at a necklace Tilmun had given him -- a beautiful thing, a large disk inscribed with a picture of the god Ammurru, hung from a delicate golden chain.  No, better not.  Better not get attached to possessions, better not get attached to the short-lived people around him.  He'd learned that lesson well.

No memories, he thought.  Start fresh.  But he picked up the headband Yarili had woven for him and given to him last year, then tied it around his head to hold back his neatly braided hair.  In the kitchen, he packed some cheese, figs, and a few loaves of bread.  It would be enough.  His head jerked up when he heard a small muffled sound.

Tilmun stood in the doorway, his eyes taking in Methos' clothes, and the pack sitting on the table.  "Going somewhere?" Tilmun asked, his anger at Methos' secrecy barely concealed.

"You should be in bed," Methos replied, placing one last round loaf of barley bread in the pack, resigning himself to the confrontation, wishing it didn't have to be this way.

"You have been my friend, a member of my family, since before my children were born," Tilmun reminded him.  "Yet you would steal away in the dark of night?"  He stepped into the kitchen and peered at Methos in the dimness.  "Why do you leave this way?"

Methos shook his head and turned away from his friend, then jerked the straps on the pack tight.

"How can you just leave?" Tilmun demanded, grabbing him by the arm.  "Answer me!"

Methos dropped his hold on the pack, and gently disengaged his arm.  "Some things are best unanswered, Tilmun," he said.  "Do not ask."

"Is what they say true?" Tilmun asked, suspicion and fear springing to his eyes, his voice dropping to a whisper.  "Are you in truth possessed by a demon?"

Demon.  Possessed.  Accursed.  Methos had heard these cries before, generally before he was stoned, attacked, or driven out of town.  He did not need this now.  "Goodbye, Tilmun."  He picked up the pack and headed for the door.

"No!"  Tilmun reached out and caught him by the arm.  "You are not just leaving.  Is what they say true?"

Methos whirled and struck his friend's hand away.  He had been sneaking away, no good-byes, no emotional scenes, just as he preferred.  How dare Tilmun come and demand this of him?

"Am I possessed by a demon?" Methos repeated, feeling the rage flood through him, knowing it showed in his face, in his eyes.  Rage not just at Tilmun, but at all those who had called him thus, all those who had turned him out, turned him away.  Methos knew the answer.  "Yes."

Tilmun stood frozen, shaking his head slowly from side to side.

"Did you not wish to hear the truth?" Methos demanded.  "I've been possessed as long as I've been alive, all the time I've lived in your house.  My demon protects me from injury; he protects me from illness; he protects me from death!"

Tilmun took a step back, still shaking his head, his hands groping for the solid posts on either side of the doorway.

Methos saw the fear, the rejection, and he struck out in anger again, speaking only the truth.  "The gods forsook me long ago.  I and my demon have been living in your house for all these years."

Tilmun clutched at the clay amulet he wore on a string around his neck and muttered a few words under his breath.

Methos laughed bitterly and took a step closer to his so-called friend.  "Are you afraid that my demon will take your children?" he asked softly.  "That my demon will curse your wife?"  Methos knew by the terror in the other's eyes that it was so.  He reached into the pouch at his belt and pulled out some shekels.  "Here," he said, throwing the money at Tilmun.  The money struck him in the face and the chest, then fell to the floor.  Methos waited until the clatter died away, then said, "That should be enough to hire a priest to make the necessary sacrifices, so that you may sleep in peace at night."

Anger burned away some of the terror in Tilmun's eyes.  "Get out," he commanded.  "Leave us and never come back."

Methos swallowed hard and nodded grimly.  Somehow, knowing that Tilmun was also hurting lessened his own pain.  He picked up his pack and walked through the courtyard, through the entranceway, and out into the street.  His lips twisted in a grim smile when he heard the door slammed and bolted behind him.  His feet carried him through the deserted street, around the corner.

When he reached the next street his knees gave out, and he had to lean against the wall of the nearest building.  Tears came unbidden to his eyes, and he shuddered, covering his face with his hands.  It was done.  There was no going back.  He was an Immortal, and once again, he had no home, no friends, no people.

Methos straightened, took a deep breath, then walked out of the city into the darkness.

Forever.

Alone.

Methos wandered for several weeks after he left Nippur.  He followed the Tigris River north, staying for a few days in different villages, but avoiding the larger settlements.  Methos had already lived several lifetimes when he had first come to the lands between the two rivers.  He had traveled much in the intervening years, but he always came back to Sumeria.  It had always felt like home.  Until now.  Villages he had once known had become cities, while other cities had completely vanished.  Fields that had been golden with grain now lay fallow and abandoned.  The very earth had changed -- great flat plains where once there had been marshes or seas, the rivers shifted, the hills moved.

The people had changed, too.  As he walked the dusty paths, Methos spoke to himself in Sumerian, but the people around him were Babylonian, ruled by Hammurabi the Amorite.  They worshipped almost the same gods, ate almost the same foods, but they were different.

Methos stopped near a crumbled wall and camped for the night.  Somewhere near here there had been a great battle back in his warrior days.  At least he thought it was somewhere near here; it was hard to tell.  The landmarks were all gone.

In those days, he had worked for one of the great kings.  He had spent years as a minister, developing a new tax plan.  How proud he had been, and the king and priests had been pleased with it as well.  When war had broken out, they had sent him to negotiate the peace treaty.  He had worked hard on that treaty; he had thought the people would live in peace forever because of his efforts.  He had thought he had made a difference.

But what difference had he made?  No one even remembered the names of the cities, or that there had ever been a battle or a famous treaty.  Tears of self-pity came to his eyes, as he sat there, all alone in the night.  The treaties had been broken, the laws forgotten, the very cities destroyed.  Even the wall he leaned against would last only a few seasons longer; the mud-bricks would quickly melt back into the earth and disappear.  Everything disappeared.

Methos wrapped his blanket around him and closed his eyes, remembering one of the first things he had ever written with a reed stylus into a clay brick.  "The gods alone live forever under the divine sun; but as for mankind, their days are numbered, and their activities will be nothing but wind."  He was neither god nor man -- he would live forever, but he would have nothing save the wind.

He had had such dreams.

When he woke in the morning, he shook off the morbid mood from the night before and headed for the nearest village.  It was time for a change, but -- was there anything new left in the world for him?

One thing he knew; being alone was not good for him.  The barley harvest was due, and Methos found himself a place among the villagers.  He loosened his carefully braided beard and hair, a sign of his status as a senior-scribe, for he was scribe no longer.  Now he was merely another young man, full of wanderlust, journeying in the warmth of summer.  He even enjoyed a tryst with one of the young women one warm afternoon.

But soon it was time to leave again.

Alone.

Again.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seacouver
Thursday, 31 October 1996, 9:07 p.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos shook his head, then finished off the last of his beer.  He hadn't thought of those times in ages, it was so long ago.  They had been good times, mostly, even if he had been alone.  He didn't mind being alone.  Usually.  Well, OK, he'd never really liked being alone, but it was safer.

Methos stood and stretched.  He wasn't going anywhere tonight, except maybe to rent a video and then go hang out with MacLeod.

Or maybe teach him to do the Twist.  Ooh, yeah.  Methos grabbed the CD and his keys, then turned off the lights.

Kronos was still waiting, but not for much longer.  The lights had just gone out in Methos' apartment.  Perhaps he should have painted his face with the old symbols, worn the old clothes.  Tonight was Halloween; strange costumes were expected.  It would have been amusing to greet his brother that way, just to see the look on his face.  But it was too late, for Methos was coming from the building now.

Kronos took a few steps, to get just within sensing range, as Methos walked out into the parking lot.

Methos turned from the door of his vehicle and peered into the shadows.  "MacLeod?" he called uncertainly.

The smile disappeared from Kronos' face, his lips tightening in anger and jealousy.  He knew Methos and MacLeod had been spending a lot of time together.  They wouldn't anymore.  Cassandra would see to that.

Now for the second part of his plan.  Kronos took another step toward Methos.

"MacLeod, is that you?" Methos called.

Kronos drew his knife -- the knife that had once belonged to Methos -- and threw it in one easy motion, stabbing his brother right in the heart.  He strode forward as Methos sagged helplessly against the side of the vehicle, and he smiled in delicious anticipation.  "Greetings, Brother."  Ah, but the look on Methos' face was priceless.  He hadn't needed the facepaint after all.

"Kronos?" Methos choked out, before he started to slump to the ground.

Kronos smiled as he watched Methos fall.  "I missed you, too, Brother."
 

Kronos lugged his brother's body into the vehicle and drove to the abandoned power station where he had made his home for the last month.  He liked living there.  It was much more suitable than a motel.  Much more ... private.  After all, some things should be kept in the family, and he and Methos had a lot to talk about.

He dumped Methos on a circular platform, then left him there all night.  It was good to see Methos helpless, and dead.  He had dreamed of this for centuries.

It was morning before he felt ready to remove the knife from his brother's chest.  Methos revived quickly.  That hadn't changed.

"Been a long time," Kronos commented, coming up from behind Methos and running the links of a heavy chain through his hands.  "How are you feeling?"

Methos managed to stop coughing long enough to answer, "Like I left my heart in San Francisco."  The sarcasm hadn't changed either.

Kronos had his own brand of sarcasm.  "I didn't know you had a heart."  He watched curiously as Methos continued to wheeze.  "Does it hurt?"

"What do you think?" Methos snarled, then rolled over and started to get up.

Not so fast.  It was good to see Methos on his back.  "Since you ask?"  Kronos knelt beside his brother and pushed him down.  "I think you're not used to pain, Brother.  What's happened, you got soft?"

Methos didn't even try to fight him, just lay there, a dog submitting to the leader of the pack.  But his tongue was still defiant.  "I just passed through my angry adolescence a little quicker than you, Kronos."

Yes, that was the old Methos.  Kronos moved aside to let his brother sit up.  "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."  He eyed his brother speculatively, then leaned in and whispered in his ear.  "Or did."

"So, you've come to kill me," Methos said, not sounding at all surprised.  After what he'd done, death was the least of what he deserved, and Methos knew it.

Kronos sat down next to him, swinging his feet back and forth, the links of the chain cold and smooth in his hands.  "It's what I do best!" he agreed with pride, wondering what it would be like to have his brother's Quickening, to be close to him forever.  But, no.  He didn't want to kill Methos, not permanently.  It was time to offer Methos a bone.  "But you do have a choice."

Methos didn't jump at it, but he sniffed.  "Oh, I'm all for choices."

"Well, you can either lose your head."  Methos didn't look excited by that idea, and Kronos smiled as he offered the prime cut.  "Or you can join me."

"Since you put it that way ..."  Methos nodded and bit.  "Welcome back, Brother."

Yes, just like the old days.  Kronos was satisfied, for now.  He tossed the chain aside, and it landed right next to Methos.  Kronos still didn't completely trust him, but that would come, with time.

They were brothers, and family, and more.

Methos didn't bother to watch Kronos leave; he knew Kronos wouldn't be going far.  The chain lay beside him; its cold, metal links coiled in a heap, a silent, deadly serpent.  Methos picked it up and wound it around his hands.  He had dreamed of this reunion throughout the centuries, whiled away many lonely nights remembering the companionship he and Kronos shared so long ago.  Like Kronos, he had always known they would be together again someday, but in his dreams ... in his dreams it was always on his terms, never on Kronos'.  This was nothing like any of his dreams.  This was a nightmare.

"Welcome back, Brother," he said again, experimentally, listening to the way the words echoed in the air, remembering the first time they had called each other that, remembering the scent of wood smoke and the softness of furs.  He remembered further back, to the first time he had ever seen Kronos.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Babylonia -- 1768 BCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Traveling alone, are you?" the man in the small caravan of laden donkeys called out to Methos as they neared the village.  "Where are you bound?"

Methos came a little closer, having no answer for that.  He had been wandering for the past two years, going nowhere in particular, hoping to see something new in the world, enduring the fate the gods had chosen for him.  "North," he answered, picking a place, gesturing vaguely in that direction.

"We're to Syria, to sell cloth," the man said, looking him over closely.  "We could use an extra man to help with the animals.  Care to travel with us?"

Methos nodded, glad enough to have the company.

"I'm Metik," the man said, his lined face creasing into a smile.  "My wife, Eleli, and my son and daughter."

Methos smiled back and nodded at the woman and the two adolescents.  The girl was perhaps fourteen, the boy twelve.  "Methos," he said, introducing himself.  A familiar sensation washed over him, and he turned with a great deal of interest to a tall heavy-set man and a young boy of about seven, with thick dark hair, approaching the group.

"Ah, here comes Rurik," Metik said.

He did not introduce Rurik's slave, of course, but Methos already knew all he needed to know.  The boy was a pre-Immortal.

The beginning of the trip was easy, a simple stroll through flat fields along canals and past villages.  Babylonia stretched far.  Soon, however, they were heading into the wilderness, skirting the northern boundaries of the Syrian Desert.

Metik and Eleli were a friendly couple, chattering on about their weaving shop in their village, their daughter's wedding to one of Eleli's kinsman in Syria, their son's eagerness to learn the cloth business.

Rurik said little, and never smiled.  Neither did his boy.

At first, Methos kept to himself, not wishing to become attached.  But Eleli invited him to join their family circle around the campfire, and soon Methos found himself there, laughing and telling stories.  Her children loved to hear the tales he knew of the gods and the kings, tales he knew so well.

The slave-boy wanted to hear them, too.  Methos could see his eyes shining as he crouched just outside the circle of light, listening intently.  Then Rurik would call for him, and the boy would disappear into the darkness.

Rurik kept him close at hand during the day, too.  One evening, as they were unloading the asses, the boy staggered under the weight of the bolt of cloth and fell, dropping his burden onto the dusty ground.

"Clumsy dolt!" Rurik raged, giving the boy a blow that sent him sprawling to the ground alongside the cloth.  "How many times have I told you to be careful?  That cloth is worth far more than you are."  He dragged the boy to his feet, then sent him sprawling again with a powerful shove.

The boy landed heavily on some rocks, and then lay stunned, the wind knocked out of him.

"Get up!" Rurik ranted.  "Don't just lie there!"  When the boy didn't get up quickly enough, Rurik drew back a foot to kick him into action.

But Methos grabbed Rurik's arm and spun him around, moving him away from the boy.  "Easy there," Methos said, as though he were quieting an animal.  "He's just a boy; he's doing his best.  The packs are heavy."

"Mind your own business!" Rurik said, yanking his arm from Methos' grasp.  "He's my slave, and I'll do what I want with him."

"Undoubtedly," Methos agreed.  "But the boy can't work if we have to carry him.  There is no reason to do him any permanent damage."

Rurik glared, but then Metik called from the other side of the camp.  He glanced at Metik, and then looked at the boy still lying on the ground.

"Go," Methos said.  "I'll finish unloading.  And I'll make sure the boy does his share."

As Rurik hurried away, Methos turned toward the boy, but Eleli was there before him.  Skillfully, she checked the boy for broken bones, luckily finding none.  As soon as he could, the boy scurried away, back to unloading the pack animals.

"Thank you," she said quietly to Methos.  "The boy didn't deserve that."

"And I suppose it was a coincidence that Metik needed Rurik just then?"

Eleli smiled at him, tacitly admitting her involvement.  "No boy deserves to be treated that way, even a slave," she said.  "Half-starved, bruises upon bruises, some old, some new.  If the boy doesn't grow up, Rurik'll never get his money's worth out of him.  But perhaps Rurik doesn't care.  The boy's his catamite, you know."

"Is he?" Methos asked, looking at the boy struggling with the heavy bolts of cloth, then glancing away to where Rurik was still talking with Metik.

"It's an abomination against the gods," Eleli said.  "Using children that way."

Methos nodded.  There were proverbs, religious admonitions, and out-and-out laws against pederasty in many places, but it still existed, and probably always would.

"I can't think of any way to stop it," Eleli went on, "unless I offered to sleep with him myself."

Methos looked at her, amused.  "I don't think Metik would approve of that."

"No," she answered.  "And I can't offer him either of my children either."

"No," Methos murmured as she walked away.  "You can't."

The noises woke Methos that night, and when he rolled over, there was just enough light from the new moon for him to see vague shapes in the darkness.  But the sounds were unmistakable.  Rurik groaned and moaned, then cried out, while the boy tried to stifle his whimpers of pain.  Eventually, Rurik rolled over and went to sleep.  The boy rose, then slowly and painfully crawled as far away from Rurik as he could, before he lay down again.

Methos listened to the sound of the boy crying softly in the darkness, then finally fell back to sleep.

The next day, Methos made a point to stay close to Rurik.  They walked together by the side of the caravan, while the boy took up the rear.  When they broke at the heat of the day, Methos and Rurik sat together and shared a wineskin.  And when night came, Methos laid his bedroll next to Rurik's, while the boy scurried away, and slept next to the asses to keep warm.

A few days later, Eleli approached Methos.  "Thank you," she said, "for the boy.  It can't be pleasant for you."

Methos shrugged.  Rurik wasn't the kind of person he'd choose for a lover, but he'd bargained with his body before.  A strong back in the fields, a willing body in bed, what was the difference?  And if Rurik was a rough and inconsiderate lover -- well, Methos was an Immortal.  The bruises and the pain didn't last long.  So he could look at Eleli and honestly say, "It's nothing.  What does it cost me?  A few hours of sleep each night?"  He grimaced slightly.  "I've slept with worse.  It's worth it to see the difference in the boy."

"Yes, it is," Eleli agreed.  "He talks more now, asks my son questions.  As long as you and Rurik aren't close by."  They walked in silence for a few moments, then she said, "What will happen when we get to Syria?  It's only a twelve-day away."

"Don't pick it now," Methos said, quoting a well-known proverb.  "It'll bear fruit soon enough."

It bore fruit sooner than any of them had expected.  Methos and Metik had been looking at one of the animals, which seemed to be going lame.  Their doctoring took them longer than they had expected, and when they left the animals' compound, only Eleli and her two children were nearby.  Concerned, Methos began looking for Rurik and the boy.  He found them a little distance from camp.  The boy was naked, kneeling on all fours.  Rurik was holding him down with one hand on his back, and holding up his own tunic with the other.

Methos broke into a run.

Rurik saw him coming and stopped where he was, poised to enter the boy.  "Keep your distance, Methos," Rurik threatened.  "The boy is mine, and I don't share."

"Let him go, Rurik."  Methos' voice was no less threatening.  "You don't need the boy."

"Because I've got you?  There's a hell of a lot of difference between a young piglet and an old sow."

"Leave the boy alone."  Methos let his voice go cold as ice, and he knew his eyes were the same.  He approached the two, his hands held loose and ready at his side.  The weight of his knife in his belt was welcome, and familiar.

"Radascu take you!" Rurik swore, pushing the boy violently to the ground.  He let his tunic fall and faced Methos.  "What's wrong, Methos?  Are you jealous -- jealous that I could leave your bed for the boy?"  His eyes narrowed and he took a step closer.  "Or is it that you want the boy for yourself?"

Without thinking, Methos translated an ancient Sumerian proverb into Akkadian.  "Cursed is he who has sex with a child, for evil shall follow him."  It had been a long time since Methos had served as a priest in a temple, but the Voice of Admonition was still his.

Rurik both heard the threat and feared the curse.  "You'll not speak to me so, damn you!" he exclaimed, as he drew his knife and rushed at Methos.

Methos had been expecting some reaction, but the big man's speed still surprised him.  He drew his own knife and pivoted, but not fast enough to escape a deep slice down his upper left arm.  He ignored the fierce burning and the blood dripping off his elbow, and concentrated on staying alive.

They circled for a moment or two, Methos letting his "injured" arm hang limply at his side.  Rurik charged again, and again Methos pivoted just a little too slowly, letting Rurik score a glancing blow along his ribs.

Rurik was smiling, anticipating an easy victory.  He was big and strong and murderously fast, and had obviously been the victor of many a tavern brawl, while his opponent was slim and had already been wounded twice.

But Methos had over a thousand years of dirty tricks, and he was an Immortal.  The real part of the fight was going to be brutal and quick.  He allowed fear to show in his eyes and made his breathing ragged, then he let out a desperate yell and feinted -- not too fast -- toward Rurik's eyes with his knife.  As Rurik lifted his arm to block that threat, Methos kicked him neatly just below the kneecap, then shifted his stance and kicked him again, right between the legs.  Methos could feel his toenails digging deep into the softness there.

Rurik howled and dropped to the ground.  Methos moved in for the kill.  He stabbed Rurik in the lower back, angling the knife upward to reach up under the ribs.  Rurik coughed, a strangled choking sound, then collapsed.  Methos grabbed hold of his hair and yanked his head back.  The eyes were glazing, but they were still aware.

"Evil followed you," Methos said softly, then rasped the tip of his knife across Rurik's throat, letting the blood spout out onto the ground.  The eyelids fluttered and closed, and Methos released his hold on the hair.  Rurik's head flopped forward, then lolled off to one side.

Methos wiped his knife on the dead man's clothing, then he stepped back and took a deep breath of satisfaction and relief.  He was alive, and that whoreson was dead.  He took another breath and sank to his knees, considering what to do next.  There would most likely be repercussions for killing Rurik.  Metik and Eleli probably wouldn't say anything -- they hadn't liked Rurik any more than Methos had, but once they got to Syria ...

A shadow fell across the body, and Methos looked up in surprise.  It was the boy, staring.  He came over, slowly, curiously, like a wary wolf pup investigating a kill.  He was still naked, the yellow and brown marks of old bruises in sharp contrast to the bright-red marks on his arms and hips where new bruises would soon form.  "You killed him," the boy said, his voice not quite certain.

"Yes," Methos agreed.  "He won't hurt you anymore."

The boy didn't speak again, but he held out his hand, looking pointedly at Methos' knife.  Unsure, Methos handed it to him, then he stood and stepped back to see what the boy would do.

The boy dropped to one knee beside the body.  With all his strength, he thrust the knife down into Rurik's back, plunging it in to the hilt.  It took both of his hands to pull it out again, but he did it, then plunged the knife back down again.

Uneasy, Methos watched as the boy stabbed Rurik over and over.  Eventually, he moved forward and caught at the boy's arm.  "Enough," he said, pulling the boy to his feet.  "It's over, lad," Methos said, squatting down to look him in the eye.  "It's finished."

Metik, Eleli, and their children helped to build the cairn of stones over the body, right where it lay.  No one said anything about the fight, or the outcome, but Metik kept shooting appraising glances toward Methos, and everyone treated Methos with a bit more respect.

They traveled on, and the boy recovered quickly and now seemed to prefer Methos' companionship to Eleli's.  Methos, however, had other concerns.

One night, he spoke to Metik and Eleli.  "Rurik had kin in Syria.  I hope you won't think I'm abandoning you, but ..."

"But you're going to abandon us," Metik said with a rueful smile.  "You don't have to.  We'll tell everyone that Rurik died in an accident on the trail."

"I'd rather not chance it," Methos answered.  "Legally, I had no right to interfere between Rurik and his slave.  And besides -- Rurik's kinsmen can claim his property, and I'm keeping the boy."

They left the next morning.  Metik gave Methos his wages and two of the asses.  Methos and the boy headed south, toward Egypt.  The boy seemed to have thrown off the sullenness of his days with Rurik, and he chattered on and asked questions with the insatiable curiosity only a child has.

Methos felt a fullness in his heart as he watched the child, as he answered the child's endless questions, and as he made plans.  Time and time again, he concentrated, listening intently for the low thrum that signified a pre-Immortal.  Time and time again, he heard it, and each time, his heart skipped in gladness.  At last, he had a child he could raise whom he would not have to bury, or desert.  At last, he would have a companion who might live with him through the ages.

As they journeyed, Methos started to teach him some basic words in Egyptian and Minoan.  They also discussed the need for new names.  This was great fun to the boy, who didn't remember ever being called anything besides "Boy!" and "Slave!" and various unsavory epithets.  They tried out all sorts of names, from the sublime to the ridiculous.

"Limpop," suggested Methos one night by the fire.

"Pookbah," answered the boy, then started giggling so hard he fell over.

Methos laughed and pulled him upright.  He put his arm around the boy and started telling a story, a tale of the beginnings of the gods.

The boy listened carefully.  "I like that," he said, when Methos was finished.  "I like the way the littlest one found the courage to kill his father."

"Bloodthirsty little imp, aren't you?" Methos said, ruffling the boy's dark hair, although he understood quite well.  "Why don't we use the name of the youngest one for you, little one?" he asked.  "Why don't we call you Kronos?"

"That's good.  Kronos," the boy repeated, rolling the word around in his mouth.  "And what shall I call you, Methos?"

"How about Abum?" Methos said, giving the Akkadian word for father.

Kronos repeated that name, too.  "Abum," he said, his dark blue eyes shining in the light from the fire.  "I like that."

Methos liked it, too.

Methos took his new son to the island of Crete, where he purchased a vineyard in the country, near the village of Gournia.  Kronos grew up as all boys grow up, climbing trees, catching frogs, playing with the other boys.  He took care of the chickens and the goats, weeded the grapevines, and helped harvest the grapes.  By the age of fifteen, he was a handsome lad, and the girls were very interested in him.  Kronos was interested in the girls, too.  But by eighteen, he was bored with the girls, bored with the vineyard, and bored with the village of Gournia.

One spring evening, as Kronos and Methos sat outside their small stone house, a jug of wine between them, Kronos brought the subject up.  "Father, I've been thinking."

Methos looked at Kronos with interest and amusement.

"I want to leave here for a while," Kronos said.  "I've been thinking of leaving on one of the ships from Mallia.  I could see some of the world, travel a bit."

Methos didn't answer, but did some thinking of his own.  They had been on Crete for eleven years.  Kronos had never seemed to notice that his father didn't age, didn't change, but someday soon, one of the villagers would.  It was time to leave.

Kronos misinterpreted his silence.  "I'd come back, Father.  I know you expect me to take over the vineyard someday.  But, I thought, just for a bit, right now --"

"Be honest, Kronos," Methos interrupted.  "You have no interest in running a farm."

"Well, no," Kronos admitted, twirling his cup between his hands.  "But someone will have to."

"Perhaps.  But not us.  The vineyard has served its purpose.  I'm bored of it; you're bored of it.  Let's sell it, and leave together.  It's been a long time since I've done any journeying."

Methos sold the farm to a ship's captain who wanted to settle down with a wife, then he followed Kronos up the gangplank of a ship bound for the city of Pylos.  Methos felt surprisingly lighthearted, even though he was leaving his old life and starting again.  This time, he didn't have to leave alone.  His role as a father was finished; his son had grown up, and the two of them could be traveling companions now.

And travel they did.  From Pylos, they wandered across Greece, then took ship to Troy.  Kronos joined a group of fighting men there, learning to fight with sword and spear.  Kronos loved the camaraderie of the troop and proved very good at martial skills.

Methos, who didn't want to have to explain why a training wound healed too quickly, found employment in a tavern in the town, keeping the accounts and serving the tables.  Kronos and his buddies were frequent visitors.  After two years, the wanderlust hit Kronos again, and they left.

They went north and west, following the mountain trails.  Kronos loved the great forests.  They wandered all over Europe, following the trade routes along the rivers and the mountain passes.  They spent one winter far in the north, with a remote, old-fashioned people who still used stone tools.  Methos busied himself in the flint workshops, honing old skills and learning new techniques.  Kronos joined the hunters and trappers, enjoying the thrill of the hunt and the friendship with the men.  He was justly proud of the piles of rich furs he was gathering.

Eventually, they settled along one of the main trade routes between the cities of the Mediterranean and the tribal lands to the north.  Kronos and Methos hired themselves out as guards and guides, protecting the traders as they traveled along the twenty-day stretch between two rivers.  Wine, metal, and jewelry came from the cities, and amber, furs, and lumber went back.  Protecting the traders from predators -- both animal and human -- was challenging work, and Kronos thrived on it.

Methos looked up when the weak autumn sunlight suddenly disappeared and the inside of the wood hut darkened.

"Does Kronos live here?" asked the short, dark-haired man standing in the doorway.  "My partner Gelic traveled this route three years ago, and he said Kronos was the one to get as a guide."

Methos nodded as he set aside the leather tunic he had been sewing.  "He lives here, but he doesn't always sleep here," Methos explained, and the man grinned.

"I heard about that, too."

Methos laughed as he stood and motioned the man to come inside.  Kronos had gotten quite a reputation, both with the traders and with the women, and the reputation was well deserved.  "I'm Methos," he said.  "Come sit by the fire."

"I'm Harati," the trader said as he sat on the floor.  "We've got a shipment of aurochs horns and amber to go to the cities in the south, and we're in a hurry.  What with the rains and all this time of year, I thought we'd better get the best guide we could.  Gelic told me about the time Kronos helped fight off the wolves, and found food, even with that freak snow."

Methos nodded, remembering that trip.  They had arrived late and wet and hungry, but all of the group survived and the shipment had been safe.  Kronos had seen to that.

"Will Kronos be back soon?" Harati asked.  "I'd like to talk to him."

Methos nodded again, knowing that Harati assumed Kronos was the elder.  Methos didn't mind.  It was good to see Kronos maturing and taking the lead, good to have a brother instead of a son.  "He'll be back soon," Methos said, and in a short time the hut darkened again as a tall bearded figure in a cape of fox furs came through the door.

"Methos," Kronos greeted him with a warm smile, then hung his bronze sword from the hook on the wall and turned to greet their customer.  "I'm Kronos.  Waiting for me?"

The arrangements were soon made, and the party set off the next morning.  "Are you trying to impress our clients, or just in a hurry to sleep with Majika?" Methos asked, for Kronos was setting a good pace.

Kronos threw back his head and laughed, and several of the men in the group turned around and grinned at the infectious sound.  "She said she'd be expecting me, Methos," Kronos said.  "It's twelve days to her village, and I don't want her to have to wait too long."  He leaned over and slapped Methos on the back.  "Maybe this time you can tell her sister the healer to expect you.  I think Karjah likes you."

Methos smiled as he gave a small shrug.  He didn't want to take the chance; mortals were so easy to love, but they died so quickly and were gone.  He could wait.  He had Kronos.

They made good time, until the tenth day when thieves ambushed them as they traveled through a narrow valley.  They fought them off, but Kronos took a spear in the thigh and a sword cut across the face.

"You can't walk on this leg, Kronos," Methos told him as he wrapped a rag around the deep wound.  "You shouldn't even try to stand."

Kronos ignored him, his face white and his lips tight as he forced himself to his feet, but after two steps he lurched and grabbed at Methos for support.  "It seems you were right, Methos."

"Would I lie to you?" Methos asked as he eased Kronos gently to the ground, then settled him there on the fallen leaves.  They fixed a litter, and the men took turns carrying him until they reached the village the next day.  "I think Majika is going to have to wait a little longer, Kronos," Methos said, teasing Kronos again, trying to cheer him up.  "You shouldn't try to bed her with that leg, either."

"That's not the leg I use!" Kronos retorted, but his grin was weak and his face was pale.

"Majika will help me take care of him," Karjah the healer said, coming forward.  "Bring him to my hut."

Methos left Kronos in the care of the sisters and finished escorting Harati's band.  It rained every day, and it took eight days to reach the river.  As soon as the last of Harati's men were aboard the ferry, Methos turned around and headed back to Kronos.  The rain had finally stopped and the moon was full, so Methos traveled part of the familiar trail after dark, going as quickly as he could.  He reached the village in four days.

He was muddy and cold and wet, but he went straight to Karjah's hut, ducking his head as he went through the low doorway.  He didn't even need to look at the healer to know the news was bad.  He could smell the flesh-rot in Kronos from the threshold, a faint, cloying, sickening scent.

Karjah got up from her place by the fire, where Kronos lay on a pallet, covered by a bearskin, and met Methos by the door.  "It's the slash across the face," she said, her voice low, though Kronos was obviously unconscious.  "The spear wound in the thigh healed clean enough, but the one across the eye ..."  She shook her head, her brown braids swinging, then looked back at Kronos.  "I tried poultices, I tried lancing, I tried the charms, but it's gone too far.  I'm sorry."

Methos nodded, silently cursing the thieves who had wounded Kronos, cursing the trading party who had hired them in the first place, cursing the rain that had delayed him getting back here, cursing the very bear-skin his son was lying on.  Kronos had to be in pain, and he had been lying in this hut for nearly twelve days now.

"Thank you," he said to Karjah, then added appealingly, "I'd like ... I'd like to be alone with him, until the end."

"Of course," she said, her dark eyes sympathetic.  "I'll spend the night at my sister's.  You can stay here."  She moved about the hut and gathered a few things, then left him alone.

Methos knelt by Kronos and looked closely at his face, then swallowed hard.  The smell was stronger now, and the wound was a suppurating, swollen mass of flesh, all along the right side of the face, from chin to forehead.  His face was dead white, except for the streaks of red running out from the cut, and the yellow-green pus that leaked from the wound.

"Kronos," Methos called softly, again and again, until his son awoke.

"Father," Kronos said finally, blinking hazily with his one good eye.  "I knew you would come.  I've been waiting."

Methos smiled sadly, and reached for Kronos' hand.  The skin was hot and dry.

Kronos spoke again, his voice hoarse.  "The wound is spreading, and the rot is setting in."  He tried to smile; only the left side of his lips would obey.  "I'm glad, in a way.  I'd rather be dead than blind.  At least I can still see you."

There was no cure for the infection that was spreading through Kronos' body; it was unlikely he'd last through the night.  Looking at Kronos, Methos realized it was time.  Kronos was in the prime of manhood; it was fitting that Immortality came upon him now.  Methos didn't want Kronos to have to wait for the final, agonizing death, and he didn't want to take a chance on Kronos going blind in both eyes.  He wasn't sure how far the Immortal healing would go.  "I can cure you," Methos stated.

"Can you?"  Kronos didn't sound surprised.  "I know you have a healing magic."

Methos cocked his head and raised an eyebrow.  "Oh?  And how do you know that?"

"You heal too quickly when you cut yourself shaving," Kronos answered.

"You never said anything."

"I figured if you wanted me to know, you'd tell me."

Methos drew his dagger from his belt.  "It's time for you to know now," he said, and drew the dagger across his palm.  The blood welled up, and he held out the palm for Kronos to see.  Sparks of healing glowed in the dim hut, and Methos wiped away the blood, revealing the smooth skin.

"How ..."

"You can do it, too," Methos said, beginning to draw the furs off Kronos body, until his chest was bare.  "But you must trust me."

"You sound like one of the priests.  'Trust me, and all will be well.'  And then when all is not well, it's because you didn't trust enough."

"I've taught you to be as cynical as I," Methos said, ruefully.  "This isn't like that.  It *will* work.  Do you trust me?"

"With my life, Father."

Methos nodded.  "Then close your eyes."

Kronos did, showing his faith in the man who had been his savior, his father, and his companion for as long as he could remember.  And Methos took his dagger and stabbed him in the heart.

Kronos' eye flew open, his shock and betrayal etched deep on his face.  His mouth opened as he met his father's eyes, trying to demand an explanation, but there was no breath to speak.

Methos took Kronos' hand and brought it to his lips.  "All will be well," he whispered.  Kronos' accusing gaze never left his, but Methos did not look away.  He watched as the light faded, until Kronos stared at him with the unseeing eyes of death.

Now there was nothing to do but wait.  Methos reached out and closed Kronos' eye.  He wiped his knife on one of the rags in the hut and set it carefully on the floor, but he did not move from Kronos' side.

The night drew on.  The hut darkened.  An owl hooted overhead.  He watched as the wounds on Kronos' body healed; the flesh closed and became firm.  The swelling on his face shrunk, and the red streaks faded away.  Soon Kronos looked like Kronos again; only a dark line of raised flesh went from forehead to cheek across his right eye.  And still he did not breathe.

The night became chill.  Methos pulled the sleeping furs back up around Kronos' body, and wrapped one around himself.  Outside the wolves howled.  And Methos waited.

The sudden, harsh indrawn breath woke him.  He had dozed off, sitting in the dark hut.  He reached forward, his arms going around Kronos, as he whispered reassuring words, calming words, words to ease the pain that would soon become familiar to Kronos, the pain of passing from death into life.

"Shh, shh, lad.  It's all right.  Just breathe, Kronos.  The pain will soon be gone."  He spoke in Minoan, the language they had spoken on their farm in Crete, when Kronos had been a child.

Kronos sat up suddenly, and Methos sat back.  Kronos' hands went to his chest, and he looked down in amazement.  His hands then went to his face, but the puffy skin, the tenderness and the pain that had been his companion for the past twelve days were gone.

With a knowing smile, Methos leaned forward and began to unwrap the bandage from Kronos' thigh.  The deep wound made by the spear was gone as well.

"All your wounds will heal thus," Methos explained softly.  "If you take a death wound, you will die, but you will not stay dead.  You will return to life in a short time.  Only if your head leaves your shoulders will you die.  You will no longer age; you will not sicken.  You are Immortal."

"I am a god," Kronos breathed.  "Only the gods live forever."

"Perhaps," said Methos, remembering times long ago when he had also believed that.  "But if we are the sons of the gods, we have been abandoned by them.  I have wandered the earth for countless years, and I have never met a god.  We live among men throughout eternity.  And they do not think us gods; they are more apt to believe us demons."

Methos reached out and gently traced a finger down the scar that went over Kronos' eye.  "You've a scar there.  It will be there forever, making it hard for you to blend in."

Kronos caught Methos' hand, and brought it to his lips.  "Why do I need to blend in, with you to guard my back?  This is a marvelous gift you have given me, my Father."

Methos shook his head and pulled his hand back.  "It was not a gift.  You have been an Immortal all along; I merely hastened its awakening.  And I think the name Father is no longer appropriate.  You are a grown man; you look older than I do.  We are equals, Kronos, and have been for years."

Kronos considered, then reached for Methos' hand again and held it firmly between his own.  "If we are equals," he said softly, "can we be shield-brothers as well?"  The blue of his eyes showed dark in the dim firelight.

This time, Methos did not pull away.  He had been waiting for this moment for years.  He reached out with his free hand and, once again, traced the new scar across Kronos' face.  How it altered his appearance, but it would never fade -- he would have to get used to it.  Slowly, gently, his fingertips moved across Kronos' lips.  Both of Kronos' arms went around him, drawing him closer.  Their lips met, tentatively at first, then with more passion.

It was Kronos who broke the kiss, looking around the hut with purpose.  The pallet that had been his deathbed he deemed too narrow.  With a low laugh of triumph, he piled the furs up on the floor, making a rich, luxurious bed for the two of them.  When he was finished, Methos went to him, a glow of joy in his eyes.

"Brother," he whispered, and his brother answered, "Yes."

Dawn was breaking, and the fire had burned down to embers when they woke.  "We should leave," Methos said.  "We don't want to have to explain how you healed."

Kronos stretched and yawned and nodded, and the two men began to gather their things.  "Methos, wait," Kronos called quietly, and Methos turned and walked back toward him.  Kronos reached into his pack and pulled out his own dagger, a bright bronze blade with a bone handle.  "I will give you my dagger," Kronos said, handing it to Methos, "and I will keep this one."

He picked up Methos' dagger from the floor, and then he smiled at Methos.  "It will remind me always of the love and the life you have given me.  From this day forward, we will be brothers -- in arms, in Immortality, and in blood."  Then, in the custom of the people of the forest, he took the dagger and slashed across his palm.  He held out the dagger to Methos.

Methos quickly took the dagger and slashed his own palm, then reached out and grasped Kronos' hand, mingling their blood.  "Brothers," he agreed, holding tight.  "For eternity."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seacouver
Friday, 1 November 1996, 9:42 a.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"For eternity," Methos muttered, looking down the corridor Kronos had disappeared into, wrapping the chain more tightly around his hands.  How long was eternity, anyway?  He had left Kronos an eternity ago -- gone his own way, made a new life for himself, many new lives.

Had Kronos done the same?

Twenty-five hundred years ago, Methos had turned his back on his brother, his son.  Was that wrong?  MacLeod would say yes, that as long as someone wanted help, you had to help them.  Did Kronos want help?  He had come looking for Methos, after all.

And, Methos had to admit, he wanted Kronos.  He didn't want the old days back, but oh, how he wanted his companion back.  If there was even a chance that Kronos would leave the old ways behind, Methos had to take it.  The time for doing nothing was past.

Methos stood and unwound the chain from his wrists, shaking his hands free, letting the chain fall to the ground.  Then he went to look for his brother.
 

Methos walked up the stairs to the dojo, instead of running as he usually did.  He had told Kronos that they would leave town together, but he wanted to say goodbye to MacLeod first.  Somehow, he doubted that Kronos and MacLeod would like each other very much.  Each would see in the other the things he hated most, completely missing, of course, the things they had in common.

They were mirror images, dark and light, light and dark, both of them strengthened by love and by hate, and both of them weakened by the same.  Quick to judge, quick to fight, slow to forgive, and slow to relinquish a friend.

This was not going to be easy.

Methos wasn't going to relinquish his friends either.  He didn't have that many.  The presence of another Immortal hit him as he came through the doorway, and he sighed with relief when he saw MacLeod in the office at the far end of the dojo.

"Methos!"  MacLeod set down a large book and came over to greet him.

Methos tried to keep his voice steady.  "I was worried about you, MacLeod."  Worried that the other Immortal at the TV studio might have taken MacLeod's head yesterday afternoon -- worried that the other Immortal might actually have been Kronos.  Methos didn't even want to think about which of the two might win a fight to the death; they were too closely matched.  MacLeod had either taken a head yesterday or walked away from whoever was in town.  "Glad you made it."

"Yeah, me too," MacLeod agreed.

Methos knew he needed to be vague about his reasons for leaving.  "Something ... unexpected has come up--"

"Tell me about it," MacLeod interrupted.

Methos blinked in annoyance.  He'd been *trying* to, but MacLeod obviously had his own news to share.

"Listen," MacLeod continued, "have you ever heard of an Immortal named Kronos?"

Methos experienced a most peculiar sensation -- his mind went completely blank.  "Kronos?" he repeated, the word sounding odd and foreign, yet terrifyingly familiar.  How had MacLeod found out about Kronos?

MacLeod nodded, as if it were the most natural question in the world.  "Yeah."

How was he going to answer this?  Methos took a deep breath, then froze, all senses alert to the approach of another Immortal, maybe the one from the TV studio?  He and MacLeod both turned toward the elevator that went to MacLeod's loft upstairs.  A woman was lifting the gate.

Methos gave her a quick glance -- tall, curvaceous, long hair, long legs.  Another woman?  Another Immortal woman?  How many lovers did MacLeod have, anyway?

The woman was giving him a quick glance, too, and she obviously did not like what she saw.  Her eyes narrowed, and she came forward menacingly.  "You?" she spat.

He looked at MacLeod in confusion.  "Who's this?"  Why was MacLeod's latest lover angry at him?

The woman whipped out her sword and advanced on him.  "Draw your sword," she demanded.

Methos stepped back, then moved behind the weight bench and took the time to look at her more carefully -- brownish hair, green eyes, high cheekbones ... and very anxious to kill him.  Couldn't be more than a few dozen or so women who had fit that description over the millennia.  But this one was an Immortal, and she knew how to kill him -- permanently.  He didn't take his eyes from her as he asked, more urgently now, "MacLeod, who is she?"

"Cassandra, what are you doing?" MacLeod demanded.

Methos blinked.  Cassandra?  He had never known a woman named Cassandra.

The woman named Cassandra obviously thought she knew him.  "Stay out of this, MacLeod," she warned, as the Scot got in her way.

Methos said, slowly and deliberately, hoping to avoid this fight, "You -- don't know me."

Cassandra snarled at him, "Do you think I could ever forget you?"

Methos shook his head slowly, and restrained himself from saying, Maybe I was unforgettable, but you weren't.  Who was she, and why did she want his head?  A bad date?  He had left her with the bill?  What?  Maybe he had known her by another name.

"You killed my people!" she said, her voice cold and very intense.  "You butchered my tribe!"

"This is crazy!  It wasn't me, MacLeod," he said, desperately hoping that was true.  He hadn't done that sort of thing in ages.  He did not want to fight her.  He definitely did not want to kill her.  Killing MacLeod's lovers was never a good idea.  She was getting more aggressive with her sword, and it was making Methos very nervous.  "Do something!" he said to MacLeod.  Maybe MacLeod would restrain her until he could get an explanation.

Cassandra said fiercely, jabbing at him with her sword, "This is between you and me, Methos."

She knew his *name*?  This was more than serious; this was deadly.  He had not used the name Methos since he had left the Horsemen, not until he had met MacLeod eighteen months before.  He must have known her a long time ago -- a very long time ago.  Millennia ago.  Methos moved behind the speed-bag stand for better protection and desperately ransacked his memories.

Oh, gods below!  Methos caught his breath in sudden realization, studiously avoiding MacLeod's sharp look at the sound.

Not her!  Not now!  Not here!  Not with MacLeod!  Methos didn't want to hear her explanation anymore.  He didn't particularly want MacLeod to hear it, either, but he wasn't going to be able to stop that now.

Luckily, MacLeod finally grabbed Cassandra by the arms.  "Get out of here now!  Go!" he yelled to Methos, as he held back the raging woman.

Methos needed no encouragement.  As he ran out the dojo door, almost colliding with a young woman carrying a gym bag, he heard Cassandra yelling, "Let go of me!  Let go of me!"

She had said that before, a very long time ago.  He remembered now.  She had never forgotten.  Methos didn't bother with the door to the street.  He went out the window.

He climbed the fire escape to the roof, where he could no longer sense the other Immortals, and simply sat there, staring out at the buildings.  Cassandra had obviously told MacLeod about Kronos; now she was going to tell MacLeod about him, too.  Methos had thought she had been beheaded over three thousand years ago during the fall of Troy, but she obviously wasn't dead.  She wasn't lying, either.  He had killed her people -- and her -- and then he had made her his slave.

Methos pulled his knees to his chest and put his head down.  MacLeod would never understand who he had been, what he had done.  He could never go back to MacLeod.

Their friendship was over.

Not yet, damn it!  Not yet!  He had only known MacLeod for a year and a half, and it was just this spring when he had really started to feel comfortable with him.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Near Cognac, France -- 14 May 1996
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Where are we going?" MacLeod demanded for the third time.

"Do you always have to know everything, MacLeod?" Methos asked as he drove the rented sports car along the narrow country road, past vineyards tinted with pale green.  Methos downshifted to pass a slow-moving lorry, then shifted again to speed up, just barely missing an oncoming car as he maneuvered back into his own lane.  He didn't miss the whiteness of MacLeod's fingers as they clenched on the side of the door, or the way MacLeod's foot was jammed against the floorboard, slamming on imaginary brakes.

"You should loosen up a little, MacLeod," Methos said, increasing the speed to an even 140 kilometers an hour.  "Live a little."

"I'd like to live a little longer today," MacLeod responded dryly.  "Without dying."

Methos grinned and kept driving.  The sun was shining, the birds were singing, it was the epitome of springtime.  Methos hadn't seen a better one in centuries.  After a few more kilometers (which didn't take very long), Methos turned off the road onto a dirt lane, then parked the car near an enormous oak tree.  "We're here," he announced, hopping out of the car.

"Where?" MacLeod demanded yet again.

Methos spread his arms wide, embracing the fields of barley and the hills in the distance, the sky, the world.  "The perfect place for a picnic, of course."  He rummaged in the back of the car and pulled out the hamper, then carried it to the tree.  MacLeod followed with the blanket.

"Strawberries with Chateau Peyraguey," Methos said, pouring them each a glass of wine.  "Heaven."

It was.  Or close to it.  He and MacLeod ate strawberries and drank more wine, then lay on their backs and stared up at the slivers of blue between the branches.  Methos allowed himself to think of Alexa, dead now for over two weeks, her coffin buried, the raw earth above her grave just beginning to take on its first covering of green.

Spring had been her favorite season, but they hadn't had a chance to see one together.  He had brought her strawberries, though.  He had held one to her lips for her to eat as she lay in the hospital bed, and then he had kissed her.  Heaven, for a time.

For a lifetime.

"These are good!" MacLeod commented, reaching for another one.  "There's nothing like fresh-picked strawberries, but the season doesn't last very long."

"No," Methos agreed, "it doesn't."  He ate the next berry slowly.  Farewell, Alexa, he thought, savoring the sweetness of the fruit.  I loved you.

When the wine and the strawberries were gone, Methos produced fine cigars.

"You're decadent, Methos," MacLeod said lazily, puffing away.

"Decadent?  Me?"  Methos knew better.  "You should have seen Caligula.  Or Tycho Brahe.  Or Byron.  Or --"

"Or any one of at least five hundred historical personages whom you knew personally," MacLeod interrupted with a grin.

"Five thousand, at least," Methos said, pretending to be affronted.  "One a year."  They both smiled, then were silent for a time.  Methos amused himself by blowing smoke rings.

"Gina and Robert de Valincourt's wedding is in three weeks," MacLeod commented finally, after blowing the biggest smoke ring yet.

"And the divorce is in two?"

"They're doing much better now," MacLeod said, defending his friends who were about to celebrate their three hundredth wedding anniversary by getting married again.

Methos blew another smoke ring.

"Have you heard of any other couples who've stayed together that long, Methos?"

"Oh, once or twice," Methos said, stretching to get comfortable.  "It usually comes to swords."

"Or dishes," MacLeod said with a smile, referring to one of Gina and Robert's fights.

Methos smiled back, but he remembered swords.

"Connor and I have known each other for nearly four hundred years, but we don't spend that much time together."  MacLeod looked almost wistful as he spoke of his teacher, his kinsman.  "I think we'd get on each other's nerves."  He shook his head.  "Can you imagine living with someone for centuries?"

Methos turned lazily to look at his friend, as they lay at their ease on this warm spring day.  "Yes," Methos said, feeling relaxed and comfortable and at peace.  "I can."

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Seacouver
Friday, 1 November 1996, 12:37 p.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos hadn't felt that sense of comradeship with another Immortal for a very long time.  Not since he had ridden with the Brotherhood.

He shivered as a chill wind swept across the roof and a lonely train horn blew.  He carefully scanned the area for any signs of MacLeod or Cassandra, then climbed down the fire escape.  Maybe if he hurried he could get out of town before MacLeod demanded an explanation, or before Cassandra demanded his head.

Methos went back to his brother.
 

Kronos was waiting for him in the power station.  "So, you're back."

Methos shrugged as he walked beside the stilled dynamos.  "What'd you think I'd do?  Run and hide?"

"No."  Kronos jumped down the last three rungs of the ladder and came over to him.  "You're too smart for that.  You know I'd hunt you down, however long it took."

You could try, Methos thought, but you wouldn't succeed.  Methos knew how to hide; he had done it for over two thousand years.  He could do it for another thousand.  But running was tiring, expensive, and boring.  Not to mention lonely.  And besides, he'd run long enough; Kronos needed him now.  "Well, it's nice to feel wanted," Methos said.

"Not want," Kronos corrected.  "Need!"  He clapped Methos on the arm.  "You are one of a kind, Methos, as we all were.  There was never a band like us, never in all history."

Methos almost told him, You should read more history, Number One, but he controlled himself and remained silent.  Kronos really ought to get out more.  Read a book.  Take a college class.  Go to a movie.  Even watch TV.  "One of a kind"?  The Four Horsemen had been petty raiders, bandits, no different than ten thousand other bands that skulked on the edges of settlements and swept in when the civilizations were dying.

The only thing different about the Four Horsemen was that they kept coming back, year after year, generation after generation, and the survivors remembered.  Of such things were legends made, but those legends belonged in the past.  Kronos wanted them to live again.

In his five thousand years, Methos had seen many Immortals struggle with insanity.  Kronos had not been exactly stable during their Horsemen days, and he didn't look that balanced now.  If Methos had done things differently, would Kronos be different today?

Perhaps.  Perhaps not.  Methos wanted to make a difference now, to go inside Kronos' shell and find the man he remembered, to bring him back into the light.  Methos knew that the trust and the love still lay under the wariness and the anger.  It would take a lot to break the bonds of family that he and Kronos had forged over the centuries.  More than a few thousand years of separation.  More than a few fatal stabbings, more than being imprisoned for a few centuries.  They were Brothers.

But first, Kronos would have to trust him again.  When last they had met, Methos had had the upper hand, and Kronos was obviously still smarting from his defeat and punishment.  Perhaps it was time to let Kronos feel more in control, to abdicate the alpha-male position -- temporarily, of course.  Kronos already believed he had gone soft; it wouldn't be hard to confirm that opinion.  And letting people underestimate him was -- as Methos knew from long experience -- an excellent and useful advantage.

Methos drew his sword and hid it behind his back, then moved closer to Kronos, who was reading something on his desk.  "You took quite a risk, letting me out of your sight earlier on today," Methos said.

Kronos did not look up from his paper.  "A lot of time has passed since we rode together.  I had to be sure of you."

Methos took a single swing at Kronos, knowing it would never connect.

Kronos turned immediately and immobilized Methos' sword arm, even as he was pulling his knife to hold it to Methos' throat.  "And now I am," he said pleasantly.  He wrested Methos' sword away, and Methos let him have it.

Methos backed away.  "Don't you understand?" he cried out.  "I'm not like that anymore.  I have changed."  His sword stroke had not been in earnest, but his words were.

"No."  Kronos came to him, very certain of himself, and of this.  "You pretended to.  Maybe even convinced yourself you had, but inside you're still there, Methos."  Kronos looked him up and down and smiled, a slow wolfish grin.  "You're like me."

"Not anymore," Methos protested.

"No?"  Kronos almost laughed in his face.  "Tell me you haven't missed it."

"The killing?" Methos asked in disgust and disbelief.

"The freedom!" Kronos exulted, his arms open to receive it, his eyes alight with glee.  "The power!  Riding out of the sun, knowing that you're the most terrifying thing that they've ever seen."

Methos remembered.  He could hear the screams of terror, and he shivered as the thrill of excitement raced up and down his spine.  He felt again the weight of his sword held high in his hand, the surging muscles of his galloping horse as he rode down a fleeing woman, the sheer joy of the power and the lust that took him when he had leaned over and slashed at her, slicing deep into her arm.  He tasted again the warm blood that had spattered onto his face and into his mouth, and he swallowed, then licked his lips for more.

Kronos wasn't even looking at him now; he was lost in the memories.  "Knowing that their weapons and their gods are useless against you, that you're the last thing they'll ever see."

Methos was losing himself in the memories, too, drowning in them, and he closed his eyes.  He saw a youth kneeling before him, his dark eyes wide and pleading, his beardless face pale with fear as he begged for his life.  Which had given him more pleasure -- the boy's begging or the boy's body, which Methos had used and discarded?  Even now, the memory of the despair on the boy's face, when he had realized that all his pleading had been in vain, had the power to arouse.

Kronos came back to him now, close behind him, and urged him on.  "That's what you're meant to be, Methos."

Methos was breathing hard, trembling with fear, lust, desire, and shame.

"Don't fight it," Kronos whispered, then added in a fierce seduction into power, "Feel it."

And Methos did.  All through him.  He remembered it, and he wanted it again -- the blood, the power, the terror, the thrill, the freedom to take whatever he wanted, whenever he wanted.  Kronos had been right.  The Horseman was still in there.  It was part of who he was.

Methos took a few more deep breaths, willing himself to be calm.  It was not part of who he wanted to be.  Kronos smiled, thinking he had won this exchange, and in a way, he had.  Methos had wanted Kronos to feel more in control, but now he was no longer even sure how much he could control himself.

Methos nodded to Kronos, solemnly, respectfully, acknowledging the truth, even if he did not welcome it.  Some things never changed.  They could be buried, hidden, forgotten for millennia, but they were still there, waiting to be rediscovered, waiting to reemerge.  Kronos was right about that.

Kronos leaned close and confided, "You know Cassandra's here."

"We didn't exactly exchange gifts," Methos said, as he thought through the implications of Kronos' statement.  This was not a coincidence.  Kronos had obviously planned the whole thing.  How long had Kronos been spying on him?  Who else besides Cassandra did he know about?  MacLeod?  Joe Dawson?  Oh, this was bloody marvelous.  Just how long had Kronos been in Seacouver?  And what other gambits did he have planned?  Methos needed to know.

Talking about Cassandra should produce more information.  Methos leaned back casually against the railing and told Kronos the tale.  "First thing I know, there's this raging virago coming at me with a sword, and I'm trying to figure out who she is."

Kronos laughed in delight.  "You'd forgotten her?"

"She was just a woman."  Methos shrugged.  "There were so many women."

"Not many Immortal ones."  Kronos was watching him avidly.  "Not ones that survived."

Methos shrugged again, hoping to convince Kronos that Cassandra was nothing to him.

His brother smiled, then said, "You know she'll kill you if she gets the chance."

Methos nodded.  That had been painfully obvious, even to the most casual observer.

"You never could bring yourself to take her head, could you?" Kronos asked curiously.  His smile broadened; he was happy to do his brother a favor.  "So I'm going to do it for you."

Damn!  Methos tried to look pleased, wondering how he could possibly protect both Cassandra and MacLeod.  And he knew Kronos wouldn't offer without expecting something back.  "And in return?"

"You kill Duncan MacLeod."

Methos blinked.  That was a steeper price than he had expected.  "But he's my friend," he protested, then realized how stupid he had been.  In Kronos' world, there were no friends, only brothers.  Methos tried to cover his slip.  "He's nothing to you.  Why?"

"Why?" Kronos demanded, the raised scar showing livid against his pale skin.  "Because he's your friend!"  The very word sounded like a curse.  "Because you still have to prove yourself!"  Kronos came closer, his eyes blazing with madness.  "And because YOU OWE ME!"

Methos said nothing.  It was true.  He owed Kronos a debt he could never repay, not in a thousand years.

Kronos took his knife, the knife he had used to kill Methos, the knife Methos had once used to kill him, and sliced deep across his palm.  Bright blood glistened on the blade.  "Now swear," he demanded, offering the blade hilt-first.  "Swear you will kill MacLeod."

Methos accepted the knife, and accepted the challenge.  The slice hurt, but he let nothing show on his face.  He had not gotten that soft.  Or maybe he was becoming hardened again.  He stared straight into his brother's eyes and made a solemn vow.  "I swear."  He remembered vows sworn with Kronos millennia ago -- vows they had both broken.

He offered his bloody hand to his brother, and Kronos clasped it tightly.  Kronos' wound had already closed, but Methos could feel the edges of his own skin separate under the pressure.  Their hands were slick with blood.

His brother's eyes were bright with fierce joy, but shadows of suspicion and jealousy remained.  "You forgot her," Kronos said.  "Did you ever forget *me*?"

"No!"  Methos moved closer, and tightened his grasp.  "No.  Never."  The shadows of jealousy flickered, and Methos knew he had to drive them away.  "We're brothers," he pledged.  Kronos was watching him, testing him, trusting him, and Methos spoke the truth.  "I wanted ... I watched ... I waited ..."  Methos had been waiting for Kronos to leave the anger behind.  He had wanted his brother to join him in a life of creation, instead of destruction, to live as they once had lived.  It had been so long, and he had been so long alone.  Methos allowed all his yearning to show.  "*Long* have I waited ..."

"I have waited, too, Brother," Kronos said, the shadows gone, only friendship showing now.  He grasped Methos' upper arm with his free hand.  "And the time is finally here.  We are together again."

They were together again, but Kronos had not yet found his way out of the darkness of destruction.  For over two thousand years, he had been trying to recreate the Horsemen's ways, and now he wanted Methos to join him.

"Shall we stay together?" Kronos asked, loneliness and longing in his eyes.

Methos had already made his decision.  He would stay, but he would stay to help.  Given enough time, people changed.  They changed for the better and they changed for the worse.  Kronos could change again.  Methos reached out and clasped Kronos' arm, completing the connection, and answered his brother's question.  "We stay together -- Brother."
 

Methos sighed as he confronted the staircase in his apartment building for the fourth time in twenty minutes.  Of course, today would be the day the elevator stopped working.  The repair crew had said it would be running within the hour, but Methos did not have time to spare.  He was supposed to meet Kronos at the power station in two hours, and he had to get his journals into the safe-deposit box at the bank before he left.  At least he lived on the third floor instead of the tenth, and there was only one more box to move.  He groaned and started up the stairs.

In his apartment, he taped the last box shut, then locked the door and started for the stairs.  His lease expired at the end of the month, but he doubted he would be back before then.  He shrugged.  He had abandoned belongings before, but he never abandoned his journals if he could help it, and he didn't want Dawson or MacLeod or worse, Kronos, getting into his records and books.  A man needed some privacy.  An Immortal needed more.

Someday, perhaps, there would be someone he could share these journals with.

He was just about to load the box into his SUV when the familiar and very unwelcome sense of another Immortal flooded over him.  Gods!  Not now!

It was MacLeod, dark coat flowing over white sweater and black jeans, dark hair pulled to the nape of his neck, dark eyes watchful under very dark brows.  MacLeod was definitely in one of his black, brooding, Celtic, angry, judgmental moods.  Cassandra had told him everything.  Of course she had.  Wonderful.  Just bloody wonderful.

"Going somewhere?" MacLeod called, walking toward him.

Methos gave him only the briefest of glances.  "You shouldn't be here."

"What are you running from?" MacLeod asked.  "The question, or the answer?"

"There is no answer, MacLeod."  Methos shoved the box into the back of the vehicle.  "Let it be."

"Is what she said true?"  MacLeod came closer, his eyes and voice very serious, very hurt.

Methos did not need this.  "I'm out of here."  He slammed the back door shut and started for the driver's side.

"No, you're not," MacLeod said incredulously, stepping in front of him.  "You're not out of here."  He demanded again, "Is what she said true?"

Methos sighed in frustration.  This man was way too stubborn for his own good.  And for Methos' own good.  "The times were different, MacLeod."  He didn't think he could explain it to MacLeod, but he had to try.  "I was different.  The whole ... bloody world was different, OK?"

"Did you kill all those people?" MacLeod asked, focusing on the simple black and white issue that mattered to him.

Methos had been right; he couldn't make MacLeod understand.  MacLeod had never seen a civilization fall, never seen the lawlessness and the despair that went with it.  No matter what he said, no matter what he did, MacLeod would never understand.  This was it.  It was over.

Kronos would win this game, unless Methos swept the pieces from the board.  Kronos wanted Methos to have no one but his brother, just like the old days.  Kronos wanted MacLeod dead.  Methos knew he had to keep the two of them separated, and he already had a sure-fire way to get Kronos out of town.  But he had to make certain that MacLeod didn't follow them.

Methos knew exactly how to do that.  MacLeod wanted to know if he had killed?  The answer was simple.  "Yes."

It was only one word, hanging in the air between them.  Only one word, to change the look in MacLeod's eyes from hope to revulsion.  Only one word, to destroy a friendship and leave Methos adrift.

"Is that what you want to hear?" Methos challenged him.

MacLeod said nothing.

"Killing was all I knew," Methos said.  "Is *that* what you want to hear?"

"It's enough," MacLeod said, then turned to walk away.

Damn him!  Methos grabbed MacLeod and slammed him against the door.  MacLeod wasn't going to get away that easily.  He had wanted an answer, and he was bloody well going to listen to it!

"No," Methos snarled, "it's not enough."  Now it was the old Methos talking.  Kronos had been right.  The Horseman was still in Methos; the Horseman would always be there, and Methos wanted MacLeod to see the Horseman.  Methos smiled at MacLeod now, enjoying the sense of control, the sense of power, because MacLeod was listening, and MacLeod was horrified.

"I killed," Methos said, letting the word linger on his tongue, "but I didn't just kill fifty.  I didn't kill a hundred."  He smiled engagingly at MacLeod.  "I killed -- a thousand."  The horror in MacLeod's eyes was not enough.  Methos wanted to see fear.  "I killed TEN thousand!"  Ah, that was better, wasn't it?  MacLeod had flinched.  It took a lot to make the Scot flinch.

"And I was *good* at it."  Methos smiled again, relishing the sense of freedom that came from finally speaking the truth, both to himself and to MacLeod.  It was good to be honest at last.  He shook his head a little, remembering, reliving, relishing, and said pleasantly, "And it wasn't for vengeance."

MacLeod was shaking his head, too, but in denial.

"It wasn't for greed," Methos added.  "It was because -- I liked it."  And he had.  He had liked it a lot.  Methos laughed, the sound strangled and painful in his throat, and dropped his hands from MacLeod.  He didn't need to hold MacLeod still anymore.

"Cassandra was nothing.  Her village was nothing."  Nothing.  Nothing had mattered then.  Nothing mattered anymore.  He was alone.  "Do you know who I was?" he asked MacLeod, wondering if MacLeod could tell him who he was now.

But MacLeod said nothing, merely stared at him, his dark eyes reproachful and angry and sad.

Methos didn't need that.  He didn't want that.  He knew who he needed to be.  He leaned forward seductively, a lover sharing a secret over the pillow.  "I was Death."

The laughter came, unbidden, unwanted, and Methos kept laughing as MacLeod grabbed him and slammed him against the side of the car.  "Death," Methos repeated, through the spasms.  "Death on a horse."  MacLeod was smiling faintly, a rictus of pain, and Methos knew that MacLeod's expression mirrored his own.

"When mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me," Methos confided with pride.  "I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night."  MacLeod wasn't smiling anymore, and Methos spat out the words, "Is *that* what you want to hear?"

MacLeod had asked, and Methos had answered with the truth.  The whole truth and nothing but the truth, so help me God.

Help me.

There was no help.  He was alone.  Methos swallowed hard and nodded.  "The answer is yes."  He took a deep breath, wondering where the laughter had gone.  "Oh, yes."

MacLeod was still his mirror, nodding with him, swallowing hard, his smile gone, too.  "We're through," he said, and removed his hands from Methos.

Methos nodded once more, and watched in silence as MacLeod left him alone.  When he was gone, Methos got in his SUV and just sat there, his head down on his hands.  He had thoroughly burned his bridges now.
 

Methos was tempted to look in the rear-view mirror for flames when he drove over the bridge that led to the abandoned power station.  He settled for murmuring, "Alea iacta est," when he reached the shore.  The die is cast.  Of course, he wasn't coming with an army at his back, the way Julius Caesar had when he had crossed the Rubicon.  He was coming alone.

He had driven MacLeod away, probably forever, and he had thrown in his lot with Kronos.  For better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health.  Until death do us part.

Oh, yes, the die was truly cast now.

Methos parked some distance from the power station, then approached the building.  He was in no hurry to see Kronos.  As he entered the basement, he heard the familiar metallic clang of swords from above, but the sound did not last long.  Damn!  How had MacLeod found this place so fast?  Even as he started running toward where the noise of the fight had been, Methos knew the answer: Joe Dawson, Watcher Extraordinaire.

"You!  Witch!"  Kronos yelled, his voice echoing strangely among the walkways and equipment.

Methos immediately slowed to a cautious walk.  Cassandra?  Cassandra had challenged Kronos to a sword fight?  The woman was completely insane.  He himself wouldn't challenge Kronos to a sword fight.  But she had obviously gotten away from Kronos somehow.  Methos drew his sword and took a few more steps, then stopped when he felt the presence of another Immortal.  He listened carefully, and there she was -- soft, hesitant footsteps only a few meters away, behind the generator.

Kronos called again.  "You're dead!  Come out now, and I'll make it quick."

Methos made it quicker.  Cassandra turned just as he came up behind her, and Methos punched her in the face with the hilt of his sword.  She crumpled into his arms, and Methos carried her away.

Kronos' words floated after him.  "Otherwise, you'll be begging me to kill you."

When Cassandra had been his slave, before she had realized that she was truly immortal, she had begged Methos to stop hurting her, to simply kill her.  He had.  And then he had started to hurt her again.

No more.  Not him, not Kronos.  Never again.  Cassandra was not "nothing" any more.

Methos walked as fast as he could toward the river, with Cassandra limp and heavy in his arms.  She regained consciousness just as he reached the top of the bridge, and looked at him with hate-filled eyes.

"You should have killed me when you had the chance," she said, still groggy from the blow.

Methos did not answer.  He dropped her into the river, fifteen meters below.  She made a good splash when she landed, and he untangled himself from the belt of her coat and threw it in after her.  The river should keep her busy for a while and out of harm's way.  Kronos was unlikely to look for her here, and by tomorrow he and Kronos would be gone.  Clear the board again; sweep them all onto the floor!  Regroup, start over, play another game.

Methos went back to the power station and heard the harsh sounds of a sword fight once more.  It was MacLeod this time, ever the white knight.  He had come to rescue the helpless maiden, the white pawn in this deadly game of chess, and then he had challenged Kronos, the dark knight.

Marvelous.  Methos would have to stop them before they killed each other.  They were both too important to him to lose.  A fire should do it, along with the police and the fire trucks.

Methos left the building as the fire started to spread, then waited in his SUV, the engine running.  Flames were shooting out of the windows and sirens wailed in the distance before MacLeod finally emerged from a nearby door and ran across the street, away from the burning building.  Stubborn Scot.

But at least the fire had worked.  Kronos and MacLeod had been separated, and the police and the fire trucks would keep them from reengaging.  Both men would think he had betrayed them, but only one opinion mattered.

Kronos appeared at the far end of the building.  Show time.  Methos started driving, heading straight for his brother, and -- unfortunately -- right by MacLeod.

MacLeod whirled to face him, his katana coming up, his body ready to fight, his eyes dark and deadly.

"No fear, MacLeod," Methos murmured as he drove past, keeping his face impassive.  He hadn't broken up the fight just to run MacLeod down now.  He stopped in front of Kronos, then leaned over and opened the passenger door.  "Get in!" he commanded, and Kronos did, though his eyes were as deadly as MacLeod's.  Explaining this to Kronos was not going to be easy.  Suppressing a sigh, Methos made a U-turn in the gravel parking lot and took off back down the road, back toward MacLeod.

Kronos waved cheerily as they drove past, and this time MacLeod's eyes were black holes, like twin barrels of a gun.

If looks could kill, Methos thought, wincing as he saw the disbelief and shattered trust on MacLeod's face, but he kept on driving, away from the coming sirens, away from his friend.  Methos sent out a silent farewell wish.  Live, Highlander.  Grow stronger.  Someday perhaps you will understand.  Some vows, some chains, can never be broken.

In the seat beside him, Kronos leaned back and laughed.
 

Kronos started laughing again as he and Methos drove toward the docks.

"What's so funny?" Methos asked.

"The look on MacLeod's face when I waved," Kronos said, remembering.  "He's so ... serious about his anger.  They must have invented the phrase 'black thunderclouds on his brow' just for him."  Kronos laughed once more, but Methos didn't join in.  In fact, he was looking serious, too.  "What's the matter, Brother?"  Kronos elbowed him hard in the ribs.  "Missing your 'friend'?"

Methos kept his eyes on the road.  "You're the one I picked up.  Not him."

That was true, but Kronos still had some questions.  "Pull over here," he ordered, and Methos complied.  "We're going for a moonlit stroll, you and I," Kronos said, "along the waterside.  Do you find that ... romantic?"

"It might be, except for the smells," Methos answered as they got out.

"Always the fastidious one, eh, Methos?"  Kronos let Methos get a few steps ahead of him, then drew his sword and held it close against his brother's neck.  Methos made absolutely no move to resist him.

"Why did you stop the fight?" Kronos demanded.  He wasn't really angry, for he knew how devious Methos could be, but he still wanted some answers.  "You saved MacLeod."

Methos didn't shrug, not with the razor-sharp edge so close, but his voice was completely casual.  "Could have gone either way.  I couldn't take the chance."

"Were you afraid of me losing?" Kronos asked quietly.  "Or him?"  Methos said nothing, and Kronos moved the sword closer to his chin, wondering just far this friendship between Methos and MacLeod went.  "Have I been wrong about you?"  Still no response, and Kronos tilted the blade, pushing Methos to the edge.  "Maybe I should kill you right now and make absolutely sure."

Methos smiled slightly, a very self-satisfied smile.  "If you do that, you'll never have the Four Horsemen."

He could not have heard Methos right.  "What are you saying?" Kronos demanded.

Now Methos' smile was one of amusement.  "Silas and Caspian are alive."

"You're lying!" Kronos burst out, his hands tightening on the hilt, the edge of the blade nicking Methos' skin.

Methos actually tilted his head slowly, turning toward the cold steel as if it were a lover's caress.  His voice was soft and caressing, too.  "I can take you to them."

Kronos slowly withdrew his blade and stepped back.  Methos was still alive, why not the others?  Methos would help him, and they could all be together again.  "Then you live," he said to Methos, knowing he could trust his brother in this.  "The Four Horsemen ride again."

Kronos breathed deeply of the cool night air, savage exultation surging in his veins, more alive than he had felt in centuries.  They would all be alive again, not just living day to day.

"Kronos."

Methos' voice had hardened now with resolve, and Kronos turned to see Methos kneeling at his feet.  Methos lifted the blade and placed it back at his throat.  Kronos held the blade rock-steady as he looked at Methos' serious face.

"I cannot ask you for forgiveness, Kronos.  What I did to you -- it was unforgivable.  I know that.  But if you want to reunite the Horsemen, you must put it behind you.  If you cannot, then kill me.  No more games, Kronos.  No more sniping, no more threats.  End this now, one way or the other."

Kronos' arm trembled with the desire to strike.  For centuries, he had dreamed of seeing Methos on his knees before him, and he wanted his revenge.

"If this is what you need to do," Methos continued, "then do it.  You have the right, after what I did to you."  His voice went soft once again.  "If you want my head, take it."

Kronos twisted his sword just slightly, nicking the skin of Methos' neck.  "I ought to," he answered, feeling now the surge of blood-lust, of hate.  "All those years in the darkness ..."

Methos tilted his head back, stretching his neck, making it an easier target.  He looked up into Kronos' eyes.  "My life is yours," he offered.  "My head is yours."

The sword was right there; that head was right there.  He could do it.  He could strike, and take his revenge, take his brother's life.  It would feel ... so ... good!

Gods!  Kronos turned away, and his arm fell to his side, the sword too heavy in his hand.  "Damn you, Methos!" he exclaimed, trembling all over.  "Damn you!"

Methos stood, then placed his hand on Kronos' arm.  "I know," he said gently.  "I could never take your head, either.  If I could have, I'd have done it in Greece."

Kronos stepped away as he sheathed his sword, then gazed out over the water.  "It would have been kinder if you had."

Methos was in the Ukraine, and he was enjoying himself.  He leaned forward over his mare's neck, urging her faster.  Her hooves thudded on the thick leaves covering the path through the forest.  Kronos was about one hundred yards ahead of him, and he was getting away.  It had been Kronos who suggested the race to the river, and it had been Kronos who had taken the early lead, spurring his horse to a full gallop before Methos had even had time to agree to the race.  No matter.  Kronos may have taken the early lead, but Methos still had a chance to win, if he was clever.  Methos was not going to lose this race.

The river was still a mile away, and the path wound around a bit.  With a cry of challenge, he suddenly turned his horse into the forest.  Kronos shouted after him, "Methos, you're crazy!" but Methos wasn't listening.  He was too busy flinging himself sideways in the saddle so he didn't smack his head on the low branch directly in front of him.

Most of the underbrush was gone this late in the fall, but the vines and smaller branches still whipped at him, cutting his face.  Cutting overland would shorten his route by about a few hundred yards, but it was like running the slalom, as he dodged and curved around the larger trees.  As long as he avoided being unhorsed by a larger branch, immortal healing would take care of the little stings and cuts the smaller branches inflicted upon him.

He came back out on the main track, just slightly ahead of Kronos.  Without looking back, he turned his horse toward the river.  He could hear Kronos gaining on him from behind, but kept his eyes and thoughts on the goal.

He reached the banks of the river just a few seconds ahead of Kronos, and reined his exhausted horse to a stop.  He dismounted, laughing, and gathered up a handful of dead leaves.  As Kronos dismounted, Methos threw the leaves at him, still laughing.  Kronos was laughing too; he liked to win, but he could admire someone who beat him fairly.  Or sneakily.

"Thor's hammer, Methos!  What a chance you took!  If you had been unhorsed…"

"It worked, didn't it?"  Methos couldn't stop grinning with the euphoria.  He really hadn't expected to win.  "What did we wager on this little race, anyway?  Loser sets up camp?  Loser takes care of the horses?"  As he spoke, he threw some more leaves at Kronos.

Kronos dodged the leaves, reaching down to throw some back.  "Take care of your own horse, Brother.  After what you put her through, she deserves it."

Methos went over to his sweating horse and began to unsaddle her.  "She was great, Kronos," he said with enthusiasm.  "I hardly had to guide her at all."

"Horses are wonderful," Kronos answered, moving toward his own mount.  "You can't have this kind of relationship with a car."

"Oh, I don't know," Methos answered.  "I had a pretty good relationship with my first car.  Bought it almost a hundred years ago, and I've never looked back."

"Smelly things," Kronos said.  "Always need gas."

"And I suppose horses don't smell at all," Methos said, setting the saddle on the ground.

"It's a good healthy smell, unlike gasoline fumes."

"You're just trapped in the past," Methos said.  "Modern conveniences are to be appreciated, not despised."

The argument continued while the men set up camp.  As the sun set, Methos arranged the wood that Kronos had gathered for a campfire.  He picked up some small dry twigs and leaves for fire-starters, then asked Kronos, "Do we light this fire the old-fashioned way, too?  Shall I go look for some flint?"

With a laugh, Kronos threw Methos a book of matches.  "Start the fire, Brother.  I'm cold."

The darkness deepened and the stars began to appear overhead.  The men finished eating and sat around the fire.  Kronos wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against a tree, stretching his legs out toward the fire.  Methos looked for a place to sprawl, and eventually lay down next to Kronos, resting his head on Kronos' thigh.

"I forgot to bring a pillow," he said in explanation when Kronos looked down at him.

"You do like your comforts," Kronos said, then looked back at the fire.

Methos grinned to himself, pleased he could still make unreasonable demands seem reasonable.

"It's good to see you so relaxed," Kronos added, his hand lightly touching Methos' hair.

Methos looked at the stars through the bare branches overhead.  It was good to be relaxed.  These last few days, traveling with Kronos, he had had a chance to be himself.  He didn't have to pretend to be anyone else -- not shy Adam Pierson, not a wise Ancient, not the irascible friend.  He could just be Methos.

Tonight, in the midst of this old forest, lying by a campfire with Kronos, the modern world seemed very far away.  The forest had looked the same a hundred years ago, when he had last visited Silas; it had no doubt looked this way a thousand years ago when Silas had first settled down here, alone, a hermit in the forest, living quietly with nature and the wild animals.

The last time he had ridden down this narrow path, the peacefulness of the woods had surrounded him, and he had welcomed the silence and the solitude.  He wasn't alone now, but he was still surrounded by peace.  And so was Kronos.

Kronos wasn't fighting everybody, wasn't demanding.  He was just enjoying life, and Methos was enjoying being with Kronos.  How could he not?  Had he not shaped Kronos for himself, playing Pygmalion?  All these years since he had left the Horsemen he had denied himself this companionship, had longed for the day when Kronos would join him again.  He would not go back to the raiding -- no, he would not, no matter how Kronos begged him.  He had made that decision long ago.  But to stay with Kronos like this, together ...

Perhaps they could talk Silas into putting them up for a while, and stay here in the forest, away from all the tensions and hatreds and bad memories.  Perhaps here, he and Kronos might have a chance to heal.

Kronos broke the silence.  "I've been looking for you for years.  I thought I'd found you in Ireland, over a thousand years ago, but the monks at the monastery told me you had moved on, to some god-forsaken rock in the middle of the sea."  He looked down at Methos again, and his hand went back to his hair, caressing now.  "I didn't find you there, either."

Methos turned his head to look at the fire, remembering.  He had been on a journey at the time, and the other monks, not liking the looks of Kronos, had sent him on a wild goose chase.  Methos had been tempted to meet his wayward son again, but the monks had also told him that Kronos had been traveling with the Vikings.  Even then, Methos would not -- would not -- go back to a life of raiding.  Methos had left the monastery immediately, sailed across the Atlantic with a group of monks to Iceland, to run away from his son.

He wasn't going to run anymore.  "When I came back to the monastery, they told me," Methos admitted.  "But you were gone, and I did not want to see you with a war axe in your hand."

Kronos looked down in surprise.  "You were really there?  I thought it was all a waste of time.  Were you really a monk?"

"Frequently," Methos replied.  "A number of times over the years."

"Poverty, chastity, obedience."  Kronos shook his head.  "*I* never tried it."

"I dare say not."  Methos looked up at Kronos, amused.  "Still, monks often ate better than the peasants, and chastity's not so hard for a short time.  Obedience, now.  I always had trouble with the obedience part.  But it was a small price to pay for the peace, the libraries, and the crafts ..."

His words died away, lost in the vastness of the forest.  They listened to the sounds of the river flowing nearby, interrupted by the occasional pop from the fire.

Kronos spoke up.  "I sailed with the Vikings for almost two hundred years.  It was almost like our Horsemen days, going raiding on those ships.  We'd pull up to shore, and watch the terror spread.  Everybody was afraid of us.  The *monks* were afraid of us."

"With good reason," Methos retorted.  "So many were killed, so much destroyed in those days."

Kronos spoke sharply.  "Everything is destroyed, Brother.  Everything vanishes.  Except us."

Methos nodded.  All Immortals had to learn to live with that, to accept that.  But Kronos hadn't just accepted it, he had embraced it.  He had become time's ally, destroying for pleasure, just to watch things burn.  Kronos let nothing touch his heart.  His soul was sterile, and by his destruction he created a barren world, both for himself, and for others.  Methos wanted to make him realize that.  "We can appreciate what's around us while it lasts.  We have to."

"We don't need anything or anyone else.  We'll get Silas and Caspian; it'll be enough."

Methos sat up suddenly, then looked Kronos straight in the eye.  "It's not enough, Kronos.  Don't you see?  Look what happened the last time we were together.  For a thousand years, we rode together, and we stopped caring about anything except ourselves.  We rode, we raided, we took what we wanted, and we destroyed what we didn't.  But we didn't *live*; we only survived."

Kronos shrugged, and Methos tried to explain.  "The whole world was changing around us.  Iron smelting, Solomon's Temple, Homer's stories -- all that was being created by mortals.  But we -- we didn't change.  The only thing different about us after a thousand years was that our horses were bigger and our swords were longer.  And those we stole."

Kronos smiled at that, remembering, but Methos concluded in disgust, "In all those years, we learned nothing.  We invented nothing.  We contributed nothing."

"I suppose you're going to tell me this is a bad thing," Kronos remarked sarcastically.

Methos groaned and looked at him.

"All right," Kronos relented.  "I see your point.  But let me tell you something.  For the last two thousand years, we've lived among them.  And maybe you've learned and invented and contributed the wisdom of the ages to the collective knowledge of mankind.  But the truth is -- you've been alone.  Because they all die.  Even the Immortals you know.  They die too, because of that stupid Game.  Now there's a contribution for you!"

Methos stood and went to feed the fire.  He didn't look at Kronos.  He didn't speak.

Kronos continued from where he sat.  "What's the use of giving to people who just die and are forgotten?  And do you think the world moving forward is really good for us?  How long will we be able to hide among them with their new technologies, with their fingerprinting, and their photographs, and their passports?  When they find out about Immortals, all hell will break loose, and we'll be the ones in the flames.  I don't know about you, Brother, but I'd rather watch the other side burn."

So would Methos.  And there was truth in what Kronos said.

Kronos moved to stand behind Methos.  They stood together, staring at the fire.  Kronos was so close Methos could feel his breath on his neck.

"We have to stand together, Brother," Kronos said softly.  "The Four Horsemen are invincible.  The Game can't touch us.  And if we are wise and strike first, the mortals won't touch us either.  We can go back to the way it was."  He put his hand on Methos' shoulder, slowly caressing, running his hand down Methos' arm.  "You want it, Brother.  You want the security, and the companionship, and the power again.  You can't deny it."

Methos couldn't.  "I want it," he agreed.  "But it doesn't matter to me that I want it.  I will not go back, Kronos.  I will not kill, or burn, or plan your raids for you.  I will not do it."

"So.  At first you will just watch."  Kronos accepted that.  "Eventually, you will return to the old ways."

Desperately, Methos turned to Kronos.  "Kronos.  You said it yourself.  There are fingerprints, and photographs, and Interpol.  There may be a few places left in the world where you'll be able to get away with that kind of raiding, but they won't last.  You *can't.*"

"Oh, but I can.  You see -- I have a plan, Brother.  I'll tell you when we get to Bordeaux."

"Bordeaux?  France?"

"Yes, *France.*  I have a place there; you'll like it.  I even bought it legally.  I have the deed, and everything."  He grinned.  "Of course, I stole the money to buy it with."

Methos laughed, then unrolled his sleeping bag near the fire.  Kronos was incorrigible.  And mad.  Methos knew that; he had seen it in other Immortals before.  Many, if not most, Immortals battled with madness from time to time, but Methos wasn't sure just how far Kronos' madness went.  He seemed to have gotten over his anger at Methos' betrayal all those years ago.  If his madness was based just on his fear and loneliness, then Methos could help him.  It might take a century or two, but they had time.  They were Immortal.

He snuggled into his sleeping bag and lay down, trying to get comfortable.  With a muttered curse, he sat up, then reached under his sleeping bag to pull out a sizable rock.  He flung it into the fire and lay back down.  What was Kronos' plan? he wondered, staring idly at Kronos, who was still standing by the fire.  Does he think he can bring down all of Western civilization?

Kronos turned, meeting his eyes across the fire.  He walked around the fire to squat down next to Methos.  Methos closed his eyes for a moment, remembering.  In the dark of the night, it was so easy to remember all the good years.  Slowly, Methos reached up and traced the scar on Kronos' face.

Kronos' breath caught in his throat, then he turned his head and took Methos' finger into his mouth, where he nipped at it gently, his eyes dark with passion.  A shiver passed through Methos.

"Cold?" Kronos asked.

"A little," Methos admitted.

Kronos smiled slowly.  "I can probably do something to fix that," he said, as he lowered himself to the ground.

The rock sizzled in the fire.  Sparks shot into the sky, but as the night wore on, the fire died down to glowing embers.  Soon, there was only the sound of the water, flowing forever downstream.
 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Tilpuk, Mesopotamia -- 1508 BCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The doorkeeper was a new slave, and he did not recognize Methos.  To be fair, Methos had been gone for three years, looking for new sources of tin far to the west, in the mines of Iberia, and the doorkeeper was only doing his job.  But still, Methos was hot and he was tired, and he didn't appreciate being kept waiting in the zigzagged halls of the entryway.

"Methos!" Kronos' wife Settah called, her red skirts swirling about her ankles, her veil floating behind her as she hurried into the entryway.  Her dark eyes had brightened at the sight of him, and Methos felt much better.  "Welcome home, husband's brother," she said formally, then kissed him on the cheek in greeting.  "It's so good to see you again.  Come in, come in!"  She took him by the hand and led him into the cool interior of the house, calling to one of the slaves, "Go to the foundry and tell your master that his brother is here!"

Methos looked around the house with interest, noticing the changes.  Beautiful woven hangings covered three of the walls, making the house feel rather like a tent, and there was more furniture, even a few intricately carved wooden pieces.  Ornate vases sat in a row along one wall.  Kronos had done very well for himself indeed, in the years Methos had been away.

Settah's children from her previous marriage had changed, too, of course, grown taller, older.  They stood shyly against the wall as a slave washed his feet with cool water and Settah brought him a most-welcome draught of beer.  He was almost ready to ask for another when Kronos hurried in, his embroidered dark-green tunic dusty from the streets and smelling of smoke from the foundry, but handsome just the same.

"Kronos!" Methos exclaimed, standing up, a broad grin on his face.

"Greetings, Brother!" Kronos replied, hurrying forward to wrap Methos in a hug, then the two of them just stood there with their arms about each other for a moment.  Kronos pulled back a little and said, "It's been a long time."

"Too long," Methos agreed, still grinning, but now looking closely at Kronos.  The scar across his eye would never fade, but his dark beard and hair were immaculate, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, a look of contentment in the way he held himself.  Methos tried to find more words to greet Kronos with, but found himself oddly tongue-tied as he reached to grip Kronos' upper arm, the muscles there tight and firm from all the hard work in the foundry.  No matter.  Kronos didn't need to hear the words; he knew.

"I've missed you, too, Brother," Kronos said softly, as he grasped Methos' arm in return.

The youngest of the children, a boy of about three, detached himself from the wall and grabbed at Kronos' leg, obviously wanting some of Kronos' attention for himself.  Methos moved back and laughed as Kronos swung the boy up, holding him upside down, then dropped to the ground with the boy and started tickling him.  This seemed to be the signal that all the children had been waiting for.  They ran forward, and Kronos disappeared under a tangle of small arms and legs and bodies.

His voice carried over the laughter and squeals of the children.  "You could help me out here, Brother.  It's six against one."

Methos laughed and went back to his seat.  It had been a long time since he had been around children, and it was more fun watching Kronos deal with the onslaught.  A slave brought him another beer, and Methos smiled and thanked her, then leaned back and sipped contentedly.

Finally, Settah called a halt to the impromptu wrestling match, and the children were all sent on their way, save for the lad who had started the whole thing.  He was still clinging to Kronos' back.  Kronos ignored him as he called for food and led Methos into the courtyard.

Once there, Kronos sat down on a bench, then made a show of squishing the young boy, still clinging to his back, against the wall of the house.  After more giggles and squeals, and another short wrestling match, the boy went into the house, although Methos caught sight of him peeking out from the doorway.

"Cute little rascal," Methos said, as he picked up the fresh beer a slave had brought with the food.  "That must be the one who was born after I left?"  Soon after Kronos had married the wealthy pregnant widow, Methos had started his journey, ostensibly to find new sources of tin for Kronos' foundry, but really to give the couple some time to themselves.

Kronos nodded.  "Smart, too.  Settah says I spoil him.  We named him after you, you know -- Methsiri."  Kronos spoke the name with a local accent.

"Did you now?  Perhaps I'll have to compete with you for the boy's affection."  Methos sprawled back in his chair, and regarded Kronos seriously for a moment.  "Domesticity suits you, Brother," he remarked with a smile.

"It does," Kronos agreed.  "It's a different way of life.  But I'm *happy*, Methos.  I'd never been miserable before, really.  But this is so ... so different."

Different, but temporary, Methos thought to himself.  We are Immortal.  Kronos knows this with his head, but his heart hasn't realized it yet.  "How goes the business?" he asked, changing the subject.

"Couldn't be better.  Orders are coming in everyday for new swords, shields, and armaments.  The city is gearing up for war."

Methos nodded.  On his journey here he'd seen the results of the most recent waves of battles to move through the land.  Hammurabi had kept the peace in Babylonia, but Hammurabi had been dead for two hundred and fifty years.  His empire was dead, too.  The  people in the south had broken away completely, the capital city of Babylon itself had been burned, and the outlying tribes had come in to pick at the carcass.

"On the way here, I passed a number of cities that were completely destroyed," Methos said, leaning forward in his concern.  "Not just overrun, where the inhabitants had to pay more taxes to a new king or to different priests, but destroyed.  The buildings were burned and demolished, the ground salted, the bodies unburied and left for the vultures.  This new brand of warfare is unspeakable, Kronos.  The destruction is total."  He looked Kronos in the eye and said earnestly, "Staying may not be the wisest course of action."

Kronos looked away, then set down his drink.  "A few years ago, I might have agreed with you.  We could have left here, gone to Egypt, or the Indus Valley, or even to those bloody cold islands in the north.  But I can't leave, Methos.  I have a family now, a business.  Settah was born in Tilpuk; she'll never leave.  My life is here, and if I am called to defend this city, I will do so."

Methos nodded slowly, recognizing Kronos' need to protect his family and his friends.  And Methos would stand with Kronos.

The attack came less than four months later.  The Gelonite tribe came with their strong swords, their arrows, and fire.  Both Methos and Kronos served with the army, standing guard, defending the city.  But the Gelonites were stronger, and they breached the walls, pouring into the city through the gap.  Methos was separated from Kronos early in the fighting, but he stood with the other men of Tilpuk, fighting valiantly, until a spear struck him in the side and he went down, the darkness of death overwhelming him.

He came back to life with a gasp, eyes opening to stare at the bright sky, much to his dismay.  A Gelonite soldier was looting the bodies nearby and heard him.  "Not dead yet?" he asked, and, using his foot to flip Methos on his side, slid his sword through his back and into his lung.  Coughing as the blood welled up into his mouth, Methos relaxed and surrendered to the inevitable, letting death take him again.

When he came to again, he was naked, lying in the sun.  He lay there, quietly, barely daring to breathe, listening to the well-remembered sounds of defeat -- the screams of women, the wails of frightened children, and the groans of dying men, and through it all, the harsh orders and laughter of the victorious soldiers.  He could smell smoke, and heard the crackle of flames nearby.  Daring to open his eyes a slit, he saw an encampment of soldiers nearby, where an officer was directing the destruction.

He didn't dare to move -- naked, he wouldn't be able to blend in, weaponless, he wouldn't be able to fight.  If he were discovered alive, unhurt, there were only two possibilities -- death again, or being marched off into slavery with the conquered women and children.  He'd been a slave before.  Death, and then escape, was the preferable option.  Perhaps when night fell, he'd be able to move about in the shadows.  He couldn't *feel* Kronos, but his companion had to be around somewhere.

But, as luck would have it, a company of soldiers camped right near where Methos was lying.  He was terrified for a few minutes that they would drag the bodies away -- it was hard pretending to be dead when being scraped over streets, and someone might notice there was no death wound -- but these men didn't seem to mind eating, raping, and sleeping in the midst of the corpses.

The next day, the soldiers moved out swiftly.  Survivors of Tilpuk had been herded up the day before and during the night, and now they were quickly marched away.  Behind them the invaders left a deserted and silent city, inhabited only by corpses -- and two Immortals.  Methos slowly, carefully sat up.  He could hear nothing except the shrill shrieks of the carrion birds and the crackling of flames.

His skin was burned and painful from lying all morning in the blistering sun, but better that than being one of the swollen corpses littering the streets.  The smell of the town was beginning to be overwhelming; it would be a few days before the birds and the wild dogs took care of that problem.

There was little left worth scavenging, but he found a torn blanket and fashioned it into some sort of covering, then circled the city, hoping to sense Kronos.  After failing at that, he began to look closely at the corpses.

By mid-afternoon he had determined that Kronos had not fallen on the city's walls, and he wandered into the sacked city.  He made his way toward his home -- Kronos' home.  It was possible that Kronos would have headed there, to protect his family once the walls had been breached.

The house was still standing, but small tendrils of smoke were rising from the courtyard.  Methos went inside, stepping over the body of the doorkeeper in the entryway.  More bodies lay sprawled along a wall, the older household slaves, the ones not worth keeping.  Flies buzzed over them, a shifting black cloud.  The soldiers had made a pile of many of the household furnishings -- the tapestries, the furniture, the clothes -- and set fire to it.  The thick scents of blood and smoke and burning flesh lingered in the air, and flames still flickered.

"No purpose but destruction," Methos thought, as he wondered if he would find anything worth saving.  Then he saw a head and torso, sticking out from under the charred remains.

Kronos.

Methos swallowed hard.  Had Kronos managed to crawl partially out of the fire, or had the soldiers placed his feet and legs in the fire only to prolong his agony?  At least he was dead now.  He grabbed Kronos under the armpits and slowly, carefully, pulled his brother from the fire.

Kronos was naked -- black, red, white.  From the waist down, his flesh was blackened, charred, in places burned away so that the bones showed.  There were red scorch marks on his chest and arms, but the ropes that had bound his arms tightly behind his back still held.  His head was barely burned at all, but the scar across his eye was a vivid, angry line, and his face was twisted in agony.

Methos had seen death before, many times, but he still felt sick as he looked at the remains of his companion.  Even immortal healing would not repair this damage quickly.

And it did not.  As evening fell, Kronos returned to life, but was in great pain as muscle and tendons regenerated.  Methos stayed at his side, leaving him only to get water, or to search for food.

In the dark of the night, Kronos became delirious with the pain.  "They came," he mumbled.  "They came."

Methos sat up at the words.

"The children!" Kronos called, lifting his head and staring wildly.  "They're taking the children!"  He struggled to sit up.  "I must stop them!"

"Hush, Kronos," Methos said, pushing him back down, trying to calm him.  "Not now.  It's not happening now."

"Settah!" Kronos cried out, and Methos closed his eyes at the agony in his brother's voice.  "Leave her alone!"  He struck out, hitting Methos under the chin.  "You bastard!  Let go of me!  Let go of me!"

Methos ignored the blood in his mouth from his cut tongue and grabbed Kronos by the arms again.  "Kronos!" he said firmly, "it's Methos."

Kronos stared at him, and slowly the wildness in his eyes became recognition.  "Methos?" he asked in wonder.

"Yes," Methos said, gentle now.  "I'm here."

Kronos relaxed at that, fell back on the ground.  Then he started weeping, shaking his head back and forth, tears coming from his tightly closed eyes.  "I couldn't stop them, Methos.  I couldn't stop them.  I killed the first one, but there were too many."

"I know," Methos said, holding his brother tightly.  He had seen it before.

"They made me watch," Kronos whispered, his voice raw with horror and hate.  "All of them.  They took turns.  She was screaming."  He was staring straight ahead now, remembering.  "Oh, gods, she was screaming, but I couldn't help her.  I tried, but they tied me up and they made me watch."  He turned his face away, shaking.  "Oh, gods, Methos, I tried."

"I know, Kronos," Methos said again, his own eyes wet.  "I know."

"They took them away, all the children, all the women, my wife.  They took them away and they left me to burn."  The hate was stronger than the horror now, and he looked back up at Methos.  "They're all going to burn.  I swear that to you, Methos.  I'm going to make them all burn."

"Hush, Kronos," Methos urged, rocking him gently.  "Sleep now."

But Kronos said it again, before he drifted off to sleep.  "I'm going to make them all burn."

The next morning, Kronos could sit up.  In the afternoon, as soon as he could walk, he wanted to start off after the army.  Methos stopped him.  "You are not strong enough, yet, my Brother.  You could barely march an hour, let alone a day.  You live, you will grow stronger.  We will fight another day."

Kronos collapsed onto the floor, his weakness proving the wisdom of Methos' words.  "You will come with me, my Father?" he asked.

Methos' heart jumped at the title, one he had not heard since Kronos had become an Immortal.  He sank down beside the stricken man, his hand reaching out to stroke the hair from Kronos' sweat-covered forehead.  "Yes, my son," he answered, using the language of Kronos' boyhood.  "Where you go, I will go.  I promise.  We will stay together."

Kronos' eyes closed in exhaustion and gratitude.  "Forever," he whispered, as he fell asleep.

Methos remained at his side, holding him.  "Forever," he agreed.  It was possible.  They were Immortals.

It was good they were Immortals, Methos thought, as they tramped their way through the wilderness day after day, heading for the Gelonite homelands in the mountains to the east.  There had been little enough in the way of supplies or weapons left in the looted city, and the route was hard.

Kronos moved with anger and purpose; Methos had no doubt that when they reached the Gelonites, Kronos would attack the first outpost he saw, steal a sword, and then try to hack his way through the entire army.  At least they were days behind.  He would have time to try to talk Kronos into a plan of more finesse, more subtlety, with more chance of success.

The vultures marked the trail for them.  The captives were dying on this harsh march.  The rocks and stones offered little in way of sustenance, and the heat of the midday sun was brutal.  The weaker captives and the children were dying quickly, and their bodies were being left along the trail.  As they saw each body, Kronos ran quickly, scattering the vultures and throwing rocks at the hyenas.  Methos could see the relief he felt when each body turned out to be a stranger, or a mere acquaintance.

That could not last, of course.  The first body they found from Kronos' household was Maliya, a slave who had often come to Methos' bed, and occasionally to Kronos' as well.  They took the time from their pursuit to build a cairn over her, protecting her from nature's scavengers.

That night, as they camped, Kronos sat silent, staring into the distance.  Methos knew he was realizing that his chances of rescuing his family were slim indeed, and getting slimmer every day.  He came and sat by Kronos, placing his hand on his knee in comfort.  For a while, they sat quietly, staring at the stars, then Methos spoke.  "It would have happened someday, you know.  She would have died, and you would have had to go on."

"Not like this," Kronos said bitterly.  "Not like this."

"No, not like this," Methos agreed.  "But whether they die in battle, or in childbirth, or in old age, it always hurts."

"Battle, childbirth, old age," Kronos answered.  "Those wouldn't have been my fault."

"Your fault?" Methos questioned.  "How can it be your fault?  You defended the city, you fought to the best of your ability until you *died*.  Do not take the blame for this."

"I should have done more!" he said angrily.  "I should have been able to stop this!"

"We are Immortals, not gods.  In many ways, we are no more than other men.  Be reasonable, Kronos.  You could not have stopped this.  Sometimes there is no stopping violence."

"And there is no stopping the violence in my heart," Kronos answered.  "I will have my wife and children back, or I will kill every last one of the murdering bastards.  They destroyed my family, my people, my home -- and I will have my revenge."

"Even that may not be enough to ease your heart," Methos answered.  Kronos said nothing, and after a moment Methos got up, rolled himself in his blanket, and lay down.  But Kronos remained awake far into the night, staring into the fire.

Two days later, the inevitable happened, as Methos had feared it would.  Another group of bodies lay in the sand, their throats cut.  Were they too slow, had they dared to complain, or were they just an object lesson to the other slaves?  They would never know, but two of the bodies were that of Settah and the young boy, Methsiri.

Kronos' cry of grief split the heavens, scattering the birds and startling even Methos, who had expected it.  The grim determination that had kept Kronos going on this long hard march disintegrated as he saw the failure of his mission; the end of his happy life.  For the first time since the destruction of Tilpuk he wept, his grief pouring out of him.  But the tears did nothing to ease the anger and hatred he felt.

Methos turned away from the grieving man, leaving him alone in his grief.  Tears running down his own cheeks, more for Kronos than for the other two, he began gathering rocks for the cairn they would build.  When Kronos quieted, Methos left his work and went to sit by him.

Kronos was rocking back and forth, holding the body of Methsiri.  "He had so much life, so much joy," he said brokenly.

"I know," Methos answered.

"He had a future, and they took it from him!" Kronos cried.  "We had a life, and they took it from us!"

"Yes," Methos said.  "But we are Immortal.  We will find another life."

Kronos stood, letting the child's body fall to the ground.  "To have that taken away, too?" he demanded.  "I don't *want* another life!"

Silently, Methos began to arrange the boy's body next to Settah's, in preparation for building the cairn.

"Leave him," Kronos ordered, striding away and picking up his pack.  "Every time we stop to bury the dead, the bastards get further away."

Startled, Methos looked up.  "But --"

"Leave him!  Leave them all."  Kronos began striding after the army.  Uneasily, Methos rose, and followed after him.  Glancing back at the exposed bodies, he wondered if Kronos would regret this when the grief and the anger left him.

But the grief and the anger never left him.  Kronos never again let a child touch his heart.

And so it began.  Two men could not take revenge on the entire Gelonite tribe, but they could hide in the mountains and harry soldiers, attack trade caravans, destroy food shipments.  They found colleagues in escaped slaves, bandits, or deserting soldiers.  They would form a band for a while, but eventually the mortals would die.  Then Kronos and Methos would work alone until they could form another group.  Year after year they lived in the hills, stealing what they needed, living on hatred.

Kronos took an unholy glee in each death, each burned caravan, while Methos found the challenge of planning the raids invigorating.  After fifty years or so, the Gelonite tribe was conquered, not by any actions of theirs, but by the stronger, even more ruthless tribe of the Kassites.  No more could Methos and Kronos be considered freedom fighters or guerrillas.  Now they were no more than one of the many bands of brigands and robbers that flourished outside the cities.

For violence was the rule of the day.  Famine, climate changes, and invasions from the sea threw the entire world into chaos.  Conquerors destroyed existing cities, burned them to the ground, no longer interested in ruling or assimilating their people.  Egypt withdrew behind its borders, struggling for its very existence.  Almost overnight, it seemed that the world of Sumer, which had been the one constant in Methos' long life, was gone.  The people living there now had different gods, different rules.  Change, destruction, and death were everywhere.  The only constant in his life was Kronos, just as he had long known he would be.

And Kronos embraced this new world.  The walls he had built around his heart after the destruction of Tilpuk had never been breached, instead they were shored up and strengthened.  He reveled in the destruction; he rejoiced in the fear he could cause.  He dismissed mortals as insignificant, rarely even bothering to learn their names.  Immortals were different, and before long they had "adopted" two new Immortals into their band of raiders.  With Silas and Caspian, the Four Horsemen were born.

For Methos stayed.  At first, he had tried to temper Kronos, tried to make him see that change and the death of mortals would always be a part of their lives.  But nothing would appease the fire that burned within Kronos, and soon Methos stopped trying, embracing instead the life that Kronos led.  Soon, his life too narrowed down to his "family" -- his three brothers.  It was easy to discount any others as "outsiders," "non-humans," who existed only at the discretion of the powerful four.  He found that not only was he good at killing, but that he could take pleasure in it.  There was a certain intellectual pleasure to be found in torture, in wondering how long it would take him to get the needed information from the victim.  Methos found that he enjoyed the feelings of power that breaking a slave could bring him.

And so the years -- the centuries -- passed.  The Horsemen would part for a decade or two, but always reunited, raiding again and keeping the legends alive.  As time passed, there were more Immortals to be found, and the taking of heads became more common.  But the bond between the Four Brothers remained solid.  They shared everything, and they never raised a sword against each other.
 

Methos forced himself to relax as he followed the doctor down the narrow, dark staircase.  This place reminded him way too closely of a dungeon that he had spent too much time in during the thirteenth century.  It had been some nobleman's castle, and try as he might, he couldn't remember what he had done to piss the bastard off.  The three years he had spent in the gloom of the lower levels of that castle had seemed every bit as long as the four thousand years that had preceded them.

It had been seven hundred years ago, and Methos hadn't remembered that time in ages, but, as he followed the doctor down the narrow staircase into the bowels of the asylum, he couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his back.  The cries of the inmates were indistinguishable from sounds of prisoners.  And then there were the rats.  Methos could hear the unmistakable sounds of rats coming from behind the closed doors.

His cell in that dungeon had been crawling with rats.  Even with Immortal healing, rat bites were painful, and they seemed to take forever to heal in his malnourished and weak state.  The rats had considered him an unceasing food source.  It hadn't been long before he had realized that they were the same.  Raw rodent, vile though it was, had become a much-appreciated addition to a prisoner's diet of moldy bread and stagnant water.

They moved through another hallway, inmates staring at them as they passed, moving quickly out of the way.  "The Dark Man is coming!" a man screamed at them, anguished.  Indeed, he is, Methos thought, as he walked silently by.  Indeed, he is.

Beside him, Silas reached out and touched the man reassuringly on his head, then followed Methos down the corridor.  Silas was still playing gently on his flute, and the lilting music sounded a compelling touch of normality as they descended deeper into the insane asylum.

On this lowest level, the walls were hewn of rock, and moisture glinted yellow in the light of the dim electric bulbs.  Methos pulled his coat more tightly around himself, shivering at the raw dampness, then wrinkled his nose at the smell -- a noisome compound of mildew, sweat, human fear, and human excrement.

"Much more humane," Methos murmured sarcastically, remembering the doctor's earlier proud words.  He had read Caspian's chronicles, and, up until now, had believed that Caspian was exactly where he belonged.  But seeing this hospital, he changed his mind.  No one deserved to be in a place like this.  Not even Caspian.

For Caspian was here; Methos could sense him. The doctor unlocked a door at the end of the corridor, and Kronos entered first.  Caspian's familiar laugh rang out: a wild howl of joy, of relief, and of exultation.  Methos ducked through the door and got his first glimpse of his former brother -- thin, unkempt, absolutely filthy, and chained to the wall.  He moved quietly to stand behind the doctor, and Silas entered the room.

"Unchain him," Kronos commanded, but the doctor balked.  The glints of madness were clearly evident in Caspian's eyes, and perhaps the doctor saw the glints of madness in the other men's eyes as well.

The doctor muttered something about calling Security, but Kronos wasn't going to wait.  He drew his sword and, in a lightning-fast stroke, severed the chains that held Caspian to the wall.  Before anyone else could move, Caspian leapt for the doctor, his hands outstretched, going for the throat.

Methos looked away, suddenly queasy.  Caspian was on the floor playing with the doctor now, releasing his pressure on the throat just long enough for the doctor to gasp, then tightening his grip again.  Like sex, the act of killing was something to prolong, something to build up to.  Methos had known that well, in days gone by.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Great Desert -- The Iron Age
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos paused in his aimless stroll about the Horsemen's camp as an agonized scream ripped across the air.  Now that sounded promising.  He'd been bored all day; this place was nothing but hot dry wind and hot dry sand.  Another scream echoed, and Methos stalked quickly to the source of the noise.

He pulled back the flap on Caspian's tent, and his eyes widened in amusement as he took in the scene in front of him -- no wonder he'd heard a shriek.

A naked slave was lying on the floor, arms and legs tied to stakes driven deeply into the ground.  Shallow cuts oozed red on his belly, blood pooling on the skin, but not enough blood to run down to the floor -- yet.  Caspian was kneeling above his victim, knife in hand.  From the anticipation in his eyes, Caspian had barely begun with the afternoon's entertainment.

"This fool almost ruined my favorite horse," Caspian explained.  "Since he isn't fit to work in the paddocks, I decided to make use of him another way.  How long do you think I can keep him alive?"

"A while," Methos said, ducking his head and coming into the tent.  "Can you silence him, Brother?  Loud noises make my head ache."

Caspian's eyes lit up at that, and Methos knew he was remembering the last time they had played this game.  Caspian held the bloody knife between his teeth while he roughly gagged the slave.

Methos knelt on one side of the slave, Caspian on the other.  Caspian made another cut down the outside of the slave's calf, deep enough that the thin red line separated to show yellow, then red, and then white, as the knife scraped the ankle bone.  He looked across to Methos, raising an eyebrow in challenge as he handed over the knife.

Methos made a cut along the slave's face, cutting from the forehead down to the ear -- shallow, but just enough to bleed heavily.  Methos inhaled deeply, the smell of fresh blood arousing him as always.  He looked at his handiwork with a critical eye, pleased at what he saw.  It was a masterful cut, the blood running down the side of the slave's head, but not into the eyes -- Methos liked to be able to see the fear and pain in a slave's eyes.  With a self-satisfied smile, he handed the knife back to Caspian.

Back and forth the knife went, as the game continued.  The afternoon drew into dusk.  Blood soaked into the sand floor of the tent, and the slave's muted groans and whimpers turned into silence.  It was Caspian who made the first error, when a deep cut to the thigh nicked the huge blood vessel there.  As the blood began pouring onto the floor, the two men looked at each other over the slave's flaccid body, knowing the game was over.  Then they each turned to look at the slave, savoring the final moments, watching the light in his eyes fade away as he finally bled to death.

Methos leaned back on his heels and stretched his arms over his head.  During their game, the slave's eyes had shown fear, but also resignation.  However, at the moment of death, Methos thought he'd seen a flash of hatred in those eyes.  Methos loved it when they seemed to hate; it made it more satisfying, more worthwhile, somehow.

"Gods, that was great!"  Caspian rose and poured them wine.  He handed a goblet to Methos.  "No one can draw out a death like you can, Methos."

"You do pretty well, " Methos said, closing his eyes in pleasure, for Caspian's hand was now massaging the back of his neck, releasing some of the tension there.  Methos was tense in other places, too.

"Shall we?" Caspian suggested, leaning closer, his fingers gently rubbing the base of Methos' skull.

Methos took a deep breath, reveling in the hot, rich scent of fear and blood, but -- why didn't Caspian ever think about the consequences of his actions?  "You'll probably have to move your tent tomorrow," he said.  "The flies will be dreadful.  Let's take a couple of the women into my tent.  The evening is young."

"Good idea," Caspian agreed, then he squeezed Methos' shoulder in gratitude and affection.  "Thanks for playing with me, Methos."

Methos shrugged and stood.  He had enjoyed the afternoon, too, and was looking forward to the aftermath.  "What are brothers for?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Bucharest, Romania
Wednesday, 6 November 1996, 6:14 p.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Methos swallowed heavily, willing his stomach not to betray him as Caspian continued to strangle the man.  He averted his eyes and walked to the far side of the cell, but he couldn't avert his ears.  The choking gasps of the doctor mingled with Caspian's grunts of effort.

He glanced at Silas and Kronos, who had gathered around to watch.  They stood entranced, voyeurs, obviously aroused by the sight of the doctor lying under Caspian.  The man's body was twitching, his heels feebly drumming on the floor, making one last effort to free himself before death came.

Et tu, Silas? Methos asked silently.  He had counted on the large man, so gentle with the simple-minded, so kind to animals, to back him against Kronos.  Apparently, he had underestimated the seductive lure of power, of domination, of death.

The doctor's final rattling gasp pulled his eyes unwillingly back to Caspian, and he remembered the words from a lecture at the Watcher Academy.  "Watch and record, but never interfere.  Their actions do not impact on *your* morality."

But didn't they?  This death -- this murder -- was tame compared to what Caspian could do.  And what was Kronos planning?  He had always been imaginative, and his hints during the trip from the Ukraine left Methos decidedly troubled.

Could he stand by and watch, do nothing, as his brothers terrorized the earth?  People died, true.  Always they died.  Civilizations rose and fell with time; it was inevitable.  There had been massacres and slaughters and raids throughout history -- be it at the hands of the Horsemen, the Huns, the Vikings, the cowboys and Indians of the American West, or the Nazis during World War II.  Methos had long ago accepted that this was the way it was; human nature, if you wish.  It was inevitable, true, but that didn't mean he had to like it.  That didn't mean he had to *help*.

He couldn't just leave; Kronos needed him.  But he had another friend, who would never be content to stand on the sidelines and watch.  Who would never sit and do nothing while evil flourished.

His brothers filed out of the cell, and in a sudden moment of decisiveness, Methos paused to drop a matchbook imprinted with the name of a hotel in Bordeaux on the floor before he followed them

It was a long shot, he knew.  Had MacLeod gone to Joe?  Had the Watchers managed to connect Caspari with the Horsemen?  Would MacLeod find the matchbook before the police came?  And was MacLeod even looking for him?  "We're through," he had said.  Was MacLeod still safe in Seacouver, still in bed with Cassandra?

It was worth the chance.  It was three against one now, and he needed every advantage he could get.
 

Methos strolled through the echoing halls of the abandoned Nazi submarine base, wondering how Kronos had found such a place.  And in the name of all the gods, *why*?  The acrid reek of oil and gasoline lay sharp over the pervasive odors of mildew and mold.  He didn't even want to think about what kinds of things were growing in the watery bays where the subs had been built.

This place was gloomy, dismal, dank, and *dark*.  There were no light bulbs, for Kronos had decided to give the place a decidedly medieval air.  Flaming torches lit the dark hallways.  Braziers burned in the gathering room, but the fires did nothing to dispel the aching dampness and the frigid drafts.

Methos didn't like being cold.  The others didn't seem to mind.  Kronos had picked the place.  For now, Caspian was simply glad to be out of the insane asylum and to have a more varied menu than live cockroaches.  Silas was happy pretty much anywhere, as long as he had his axe or his flute in his hand, or some animals to play with.

That was it.  The monkey room would be warm.  Methos headed down the hall.

Silas was there, of course, feeding the monkeys pieces of bread, making odd little monkey noises in his throat.  "Methos!" he called cheerfully, then added in concern, "You look troubled."

Methos shrugged and tried to smile.  The monkeys weren't here simply to keep Silas happy; Kronos had used them to develop a deadly virus, and he had enough of the stuff to wipe out half of Europe.  Methos remembered what it was like to see bodies piled in the streets while rats gnawed at the rotting flesh.  Kronos wanted to see it again.  "Just thinking," Methos told Silas.

"Ah, you were always good at that, eh?" Silas said.  "Well, after all these years you still are."

Not good enough.  He was having a hard time thinking his way out of this mess; things were happening so fast!  They had arrived in Bordeaux only yesterday morning, and Kronos and Caspian had prepared a bomb filled with the virus yesterday afternoon.  Last night, the Horsemen had set the bomb in a fountain in downtown Bordeaux.  Methos could not let that bomb explode.

Silas handed a large chunk of bread to a monkey, and it chittered with delight.  Silas did not sound so happy.  "Nothing like the old days, is it?"

Methos took a deep breath as he looked closely at his brother.  Was Silas troubled by this, too?  Maybe together they could convince Kronos to stop.  Caspian was hopeless; it was no wonder he had been locked up, but Silas had lived a relatively peaceful life for the last thousand years.  Methos had read his chronicles.  Silas had married several times, raised families, kept a farm.  Maybe he had moved beyond the need for power.

But then Methos remembered the look on Silas' face when Caspian had killed the doctor.  Maybe not.  He decided to be cautious.  "What do you mean?"

"I don't like this killing from a distance," Silas said, his eyes far away, his hands flexing and unflexing as he remembered.  "I like to feel my axe in my hands, look into my enemies' eyes before I strike."

"Soon enough," Methos murmured, backing away.

"You don't think the virus will work," Silas said, hope coming into his eyes

"Oh, it will work," Methos replied wearily.  Silas didn't understand.  Once the virus struck, half the population would die, the other half panic.  There would be charges of witchcraft, and sacrifices to the gods.  Science and medicine wouldn't help them.  And as the structure of civilization fell apart, as police and fire departments and armies and governments became undermanned and helpless, there would be plenty of people to kill.  The world would be ripe for the Horsemen to conquer.

How badly did Silas want to feel his axe in his hands?  "Silas," Methos began, standing close to his brother, "for two thousand years we have lived without this.  We have lived without the blood, the fear.  The power."

Silas nodded, smiling, remembering.  "And for two thousand years I have dreamed of the day when we would ride again!"

Methos could not smile back.  "We are together again, Silas.  Isn't that enough?"

"Like you always said, Methos," his brother answered, "we live.  We grow stronger.  And then we *fight.*"

We fight *another day!* Methos almost screamed at him in frustration.  Put off the fight until tomorrow.  And tomorrow never comes.  But Methos was running out of tomorrows; the bomb was scheduled to go off tonight.  "I'll see you later," he said to Silas, then headed for the door.

Silas called after him, "Do you think he'll let me have one?"

Methos stopped and turned.  "What?"

"Monkey!" Silas replied, surprised that Methos had to ask.  "I like this one."  He chirruped to the monkey in front of him and gave it another piece of bread.  The monkey chirruped back and started to nibble.

The room around Methos shifted, wavered, and became an open field under blue sky, many centuries ago.  A cool breeze brought the scent of spring flowers and coming rain.

"I want this one, Brother," Silas said, gently stroking a newborn colt as it nursed from its dam.  "He'll be a fine horse for me.  Can I keep it?"

Methos laughed and crouched beside his brother, laying one arm across Silas' immense shoulders, reaching out to stroke the still-damp brown hair of the foal with his other hand.  "The mare belongs to Kronos," he said.  "But he'll share.  I'll ask him for you," he offered, and Silas looked at him and grinned.

Methos blinked, and the walls were solid once again.  He and Silas were trapped in a concrete bunker with the fetid smell of monkey droppings, and no hint of sun or sky.  "I'll ask him for you," Methos said quietly.

"Thank you, Brother," Silas called, trusting Methos to do this for him, as he had always trusted Methos.

Methos did not reply.  He left the stifling warmth of the room and headed for the sun.

The air outside was cool and bracing, a quick wind off the water.  Gray clouds covered the sky, and he could smell approaching rain.  Not unusual for an autumn day in this part of the world.  He stared into the dark river that ran alongside the submarine bunker, and watched the water flow.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," he quoted under his breath.  For an Immortal, there were countless tomorrows.  Did he want to live in the tomorrow Kronos envisioned?  Did he want to wait for the world to emerge from the Dark Age Kronos would plunge them into?

A week ago, Methos had thought he could help his brother.  He had thought he could make atonement.  He had left Kronos alone in the dark for hundreds of years; it was his duty to lead his brother into the light.

Soon, there would be no light.

Methos blinked back tears and stared into the distance.  He had avoided making a decision two thousand years ago, but then only two lives had been affected.  The stakes were larger now.  There was no longer any doubt in his mind; he would have to call MacLeod.  He hadn't wanted to involve him in this; he had wanted to keep MacLeod safe.  But he couldn't stop the bomb on his own.

MacLeod should be at the hotel in Bordeaux right now, if he had found the clue Methos had left for him in Caspian's cell.  If MacLeod wasn't at the hotel, then Methos would have to call in the Watchers or the police, or maybe even the Foreign Legion, and he definitely didn't want to do that.
 

Methos ordered another vodka, then slumped back in his chair and listened to the chatter around him in the bar.  The university students were loud and cheerful, out on a Friday night, eager to drink and talk and smoke and ogle each other.  Most of them were earnestly discussing the merits of musicians and fashions and sports, except for the pair of students behind him, who were actually arguing about existentialism.  Two young women eyed him from the bar, and Methos lifted his glass to them in salute.  They giggled and turned away, smoothing short skirts over bare thighs, tossing long hair over their shoulders.  The brunette glanced back at him, the second step in that ancient dance, but Methos looked away.  Not tonight.

Maybe never.  If Kronos succeeded, the flood of darkness would sweep them all into the abyss.  Methos sipped at his drink, his friend Byron's well-remembered words sliding into his mind.

  Morn came and went -- and came, and brought no day,
  And men forgot their passions in the dread
  Of this their desolation; and all hearts
  Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
  And they did live by watchfires.

"Fires of the night," Methos murmured.  The fires would come, infernos of fear and hate and despair, incinerating the universities, the cities, the people, the world.

These students, those two girls, would be bloated corpses, heaped in piles in the streets.  Those few who survived would scrape the earth with shivering hands for food, while famine fed upon their entrails.

Methos had seen it all before.

He finished his drink, then wandered the streets of Bordeaux.  Eventually, he found himself walking on the Quai Richelieu, past the barges moored on the river, past the grand buildings of the Place de la Bourie.  He stopped at the entrance to the Esplinade des Quinconces, staring at the fountain where he and Caspian had set the bomb the night before.

The water was flowing now; the statue of the riders on horseback was unharmed.  MacLeod must have disarmed the bomb.  Methos sighed deeply in relief, then walked to a bench near the fountain and sat down, huddling into his coat for warmth against the damp air.  He was still cold inside.

He had managed to stop this bomb, thanks to MacLeod.  But he knew this wasn't the end of it; Kronos wasn't going to stop.  It wouldn't take much to release the deadly virus into the world and open the gates of Hell.

  And War, which for a moment was no more
  Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
  With blood.

With blood, with desolation, with despair -- Kronos wasn't going to stop until he'd gorged himself on death, until no love was left.

Someone had to stop him.

He'd said as much before.  "Someone had to," he had told a stunned MacLeod last year, while he had stood over Kristin's headless body on a deserted beach, waiting for her Quickening to take him.  MacLeod hadn't been able to bring himself to kill his former lover, even though he knew she was a murderer, even though he knew she would kill again, so Methos had killed her for him.

Methos closed his eyes as his face contorted with pain, but this time, the stakes were too high and the weapons too deadly.  There might be no other option.  Kronos might have to die.

  And men forgot their passions in the dread
  Of this their desolation.

"Someone has to do it," Methos whispered to himself, but even as he said it, he knew he never could.

MacLeod could, if it came down to that.  Thank God for MacLeod.

Methos got up from the bench and headed back to the Horsemen.  He needed to know what Kronos had planned.

Kronos was waiting for him in the submarine base.  "Your bomb didn't go off," he announced, eating a chicken leg as he lounged in a chair.  "Not much of a plan, was it?"

"Well, I'll think of better," Methos answered breezily, coming to stand near the fire in the round brazier, trying to get warm.

"I'm sure you will," Kronos agreed, in a smiling threat and an ominous promise.  "Otherwise, I might have to improvise."  He took a final bite of meat.

Methos didn't much like the sound of that.

"By the way," Kronos asked, "where were you?"

He shrugged and started to tell the lie he had prepared.  "I was just --"

"-- warning your friend," Kronos cut in, standing and tossing the chicken bone into the fire.

Methos stared at Kronos, surprised.  He didn't have anything prepared to say to that.  How had Kronos known?  He *knew* he hadn't been followed.

"You didn't really think," Kronos asked, coming closer, standing before him, "I wouldn't know you'd tell MacLeod, did you?"

Well, he'd hoped.  Methos started to offer an excuse, but Kronos didn't seem interested.

"I wasn't really surprised," Kronos went on.  "You've always fought for what was important to you, and for some reason, this world of art, and poetry, and learning is important to you.  But once it's gone, you'll let it go.  You're good at that.  And make no mistake, Methos.  I intend to use this virus with you -- or without you.

"Look at this," Kronos said, holding up a remote control.  "All I have to do is punch in a few numbers, and a small vial explodes in the reservoir above Bordeaux.  And then -- well, you know what happens next, don't you?"

Methos knew.  All earth was but one thought -- and that was death, immediate and inglorious.

"You're my right-hand man, Methos," Kronos continued.  "I expect to find you at my right hand."  The threat was clear.  Methos nodded.

Kronos pocketed the control, then stepped forward and smiled in his face.  "We all have our own little plans."  He stretched out his hand, palm up.  "Cell phone?" he asked politely.

Swallowing in a dry throat, Methos handed his phone to Kronos.  The little plan Methos had wasn't working very well.  When had Kronos learned so much?

"Come with me," Kronos said cheerfully.  "I have something else to show you."

Apprehensively, Methos followed.  Kronos led him through echoing corridors and deserted halls, to a platform that overlooked a water-filled chamber.  Cassandra lay partially conscious and moaning slightly, probably drugged, on the concrete floor of a cage.  A torch smoldered on each of the square pillars at the corners, on an island prison surrounded by a moat of black water.

Methos hadn't been prepared for this, either.  Damn that stubborn woman!  He had told MacLeod to get her away from here.  Now he would have to do it.

"She was asking about you," Kronos told him.

Methos closed his eyes, wishing that woman were anywhere but here.

Kronos leaned his elbows on the railing, staring down at Cassandra.  "You knew exactly what you were doing when you sent MacLeod to that fountain, didn't you?"

Methos just looked at him warily.  Kronos was playing cat and mouse, and Methos was the mouse.

"So I did what you expected," Kronos said.  "I went and got Cassandra while she was unprotected."  He turned to Methos and asked, all innocence and hope, "That was the plan, wasn't it?"

Methos nodded, for there was nothing else he could do.

"You see," Kronos said in great satisfaction, "I know you better than you know yourself."

That might very well be true.  Damn!  Methos murmured, "Which is why the plan was perfect."

"Your plans always are," Kronos complimented him, and Methos forced himself to smile.  Kronos turned around, leaning his back against the railing, and mused, "I wonder what your friend MacLeod thinks of you now, though."

"Think I care?"  Oh, but he did.  He cared a great deal.

"You should," Kronos warned.  "You lured him away.  When he comes back, and finds that someone's stolen his woman ..."

Kronos was grinning now, that satiated smile Methos recognized from their Horsemen days.  By capturing Cassandra, Kronos had outwitted Methos, stolen MacLeod's woman, killed the woman who had stabbed him, and no doubt raped her, too.  Sweet vengeance, indeed.

"If that was me," Kronos concluded, gloating, "I'd want you dead."

MacLeod probably would want him dead, and Methos couldn't blame him.  How could he have been so stupid?  How could he have let Kronos get the upper hand this way?  It was time to stop improvising and start thinking, time to figure a way out of this mess while he kept Kronos happy.  "Well then," Methos said calmly, hoping to allay Kronos' suspicions, "we should prepare for MacLeod to come here."

Kronos' eyes were alight with glee.  "Already thought of that."

We all have our own little plans.  Oh great gods.  Methos forced down the bile in his throat, forced down the fear that gnawed in his guts, then forced out the words, making them sound casual, almost disinterested.  "Did you send Caspian or Silas?"

Kronos sniggered, then leaned forward and said softly, "Both."  He was still laughing as he walked away, leaving Methos alone, closing his eyes against the desolation of despair.

It wasn't the first time Kronos had killed one of his friends.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
The Coast of Greece -- Fifth Century BCE
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Now that this is absurd will become perfectly clear if we stop using many terms all at once: 'pleasant', 'painful', 'good', and 'bad', and instead, since there turned out to be just two things, we use just two names for them, first of all 'good' and 'bad', and then 'pleasant' and 'painful'."  Meidias paused, looking earnestly around him, and the other men gathered on the steps of the marketplace nodded, some stroking their beards thoughtfully.

Meidias nodded back, then continued on.  "Let's agree on that, then, and say, 'Though a man knows that some things are bad, he does them all the same.'  Now if someone asks 'Why?' we shall say 'Because he is overcome'.  'Overcome by what?' he will ask.  And we can no longer say 'By pleasure', for it has another name, 'good', instead of 'pleasure', and so when he says 'Overcome by what?' we shall answer, if you please, 'Overcome by the good'.  Now if our questioner happens to be an ill-mannered fellow, he'll burst out laughing and say --"

I ought to burst out laughing, Kronos thought, no longer even pretending to listen.  This is absurd.  What was he doing here?  He was sitting on the steps of the marketplace, in the midday sun -- in the *hot* sun -- wearing these ridiculous, impractical clothes, which would be impossible to fight in, and listening to Meidias drone on and on.  And on.  And all because Methos wanted him to.

Over twenty years before, Methos had left the Brothers, as they all did from time to time, saying he was going to "see the world" and he'd be back soon.  When he didn't come back after ten years, Kronos had started getting concerned; there seemed to be a lot more Immortals whacking off heads out there these days then there used to be.  After fifteen years, he was downright worried, and he left Silas and Caspian at their camp and went looking for Methos.

He never expected to find this.  Here in this weak and womanish Greek town, Methos had settled down.  He was married -- *married* -- to a skinny, whey-faced, cold-eyed shrew.  His wife was extremely rich, it was true, and Methos lived in a luxury Kronos had never seen before.  Methos had quite a good reputation in the town, as a student and as a teacher.  His opinion was sought after, his companionship oft requested.  And, in spite of Kronos' entreaties, Methos was in no hurry to leave.

"Stay here awhile," he had begged Kronos.  "Living in the wilderness the way we do, in the camp, we have none of this.  Stay awhile."  And Kronos had agreed.

He must have been out of his mind.  Summer was the time for raiding, for burning, for new prisoners to break.  Not for sitting on the steps of the marketplace, talking about -- whatever it was they were talking about.

Methos' voice brought his attention back to the discussion.  Perhaps he was making his excuses, so they could leave.  But no.  Gods!  Listen to him!

"But, the things that cowards go for are exactly the opposite of those that the courageous go for," Methos was saying, leaning forward in his enthusiasm.  "For instance, courageous men are willing to go to war, but cowards aren't."

Shut up, Methos!  Now they'll go on for hours over what it means to be courageous, and whether being courageous is 'praiseworthy' or not.  Not even bothering to stifle his yawn, Kronos looked around.  A bee was buzzing around his head, and he let it buzz for a while, before swatting it away.  It went over and buzzed around the head of the man sitting next to him, listening avidly to what Methos and Meidias were saying.  Kronos hoped he had angered the bee enough that it would sting -- what was his name?  No matter.  The fool would probably jump and yell, and the discussion would pause, at least.  No such luck.  The bee flew away.

Glancing around the marketplace again, his eye was caught by a young slave-woman, heading to the well in the middle of the day.  He watched her for a while, thinking of all the better ways to spend the afternoon.  She had close-cropped hair, as all the slaves did.  Kronos never cut his women's hair; he preferred something to hold onto, but he had to admit, as he watched her bending to draw the water, the soft nape of her neck clearly exposed, it was alluring in a strange, foreign sort of way.  He kept his attention on her until she left the marketplace, her backside swaying as she walked up the stairs of one of the narrow crooked streets.

Kronos yawned again and stretched out his feet.  Methos and Meidias were still discussing what was to be feared.  Nothing was to be feared, damn it!  They were Immortal, Horsemen, Brothers.  Nothing was to be feared, but some things were to be avoided.  Like this absurd discussion, for instance.

Without even trying to be subtle about it, he stood and left the group of men, stepping on the fool's fingers without a word of apology.  He heard Methos' voice falter for an instant, as he realized Kronos was leaving, but only for an instant.  Methos didn't excuse himself to leave with him, didn't even pause before he went back to his argument.

"And so, the good is not necessarily always what seems to be 'good,' and the evil is not necessarily always ..."

With Methos' words fading in the distance, Kronos stalked out of the marketplace, heading toward the brothels.  He could show Methos what good and evil meant.

Long after Kronos had sauntered off, Methos left the marketplace alone.  He was a bit annoyed with Kronos, who wasn't even *trying* to fit in.  He had planned on dining with Kronos at one of the public taverns that evening, trying to get some special one-on-one time with his comrade, but he wasn't going to go searching for Kronos after the scene he had made leaving.  Putting Kronos out of his mind, Methos headed for Theophemos' house.

Theophemos was in his early forties, a prominent physician in the polis, and they had met soon after Methos had come to the city.  As Methos appeared to be in his early twenties, he was almost too old to have a lover, but not quite, and so Theophemos' courtship of Methos had not raised any eyebrows.  After an enjoyable chase, Methos had allowed himself to be won, becoming Theophemos' eromenos, his beloved.  As the erastes, the lover, of the couple, the "older" and wealthier Theophemos had showered Methos with gifts and favors.  In fact, Methos' wife Phile was Theophemos' niece.  If it hadn't been for Theophemos' sponsorship, Phile's father would never have chosen a foreigner for her husband.  Methos owed Theophemos a great deal, and their relationship had gone on much longer than was usual.

Methos found his lover in the conservatory, as usual, making a tincture from some herbs.  "Working hard?" he asked, coming up behind Theophemos and dropping a kiss on his shoulder.

"Methos!" Theophemos said, delighted.  "I didn't expect to see you today."  He returned Methos' kiss, along with a caress that promised so much more.  Then, just as Methos reached for him, he turned back to the worktable with a smile.

Methos gave up for now; he knew Theophemos liked to tease him, and it was always worth the wait.  He glanced at the leaves on the worktable.  "Hmmm, I don't recognize those leaves; what are they?"

"These?" Theophemos said.  "No, you wouldn't have seen these before.  I don't keep these around much.  Still, with your interest in poisons and drugs, you'll want to know about this."  He handed Methos a bowl half-filled with a clear liquid.  "Odorless, tasteless -- a few drops of this in wine will put a patient to sleep for hours.  But more than a few drops will kill -- quickly and quietly.  The victim would drink it, and a few minutes later feel dizzy.  He would fall unconscious a moment or two later, and nothing would revive him."

Methos sniffed the contents of the bowl.  He was a Horseman, also known as Death, and someday he would need to know this.  He dipped his finger into the liquid and brought it to his lips.

"Methos!"  Theophemos' urgent voice stopped him.  "I know you have an incredible resistance to such drugs, and, for some reason which you will not explain, an inconceivable interest in lethal doses.  But, for reasons which I am sure you can conceive, *I* would prefer you to remain conscious this evening."

Methos laughed and set down the bowl.  He helped Theophemos put the drugs away, then went with the older man into the living quarters of the house.

Some time later, wearing only loincloths in the heat of the summer evening, the two men lay on their dining couches in the andron, the portion of the house set aside for the men.  A slave set out the dinner platters on the three-legged table -- wheat bread, fish cooked with cheese and herbs, and ... peacock eggs?

"Now those are a luxury," Methos commented with appreciation.

"A gift from a rich man whose daughter was sick," Theophemos explained, reaching for one of the eggs.  "Methos," he began, "I was surprised to see you tonight; I thought you were planning on dining with your brother?"

Methos shrugged.  "He had agreed to stay with me at the debate this afternoon, but he left early.  I didn't know where he went, and I didn't want to look for him."  Not looking at Theophemos, Methos daintily reached for some of the fish with two fingers of his right hand.  It had only taken him a few weeks to learn which fingers of which hand were to be used for which dish, but it was instinctive for him now.  Kronos, however, still grabbed for his food with whichever hand was closest.

"He probably headed toward the brothels," Theophemos muttered.  "I heard a rumor yesterday that he spends a great deal of time there.  Less lately, though.  A number of the houses will no longer admit him.  He's hurt some of the prostitutes badly.  There has been some talk of legal action, but they know you would have to pay his fines."

Methos didn't answer.  He'd hoped that Kronos would be able to control himself for a short time, but he knew very well that Kronos liked rough sex.

Frustrated by Methos' lack of response, Theophemos stood quickly and walked over to crouch next to Methos.  "Methos, I know he is your brother; it's obvious you care a great deal about him, but -- it's time for him to leave.  To go back to ... to wherever it is the two of you came from."

Methos looked away, taking some more of the fish, refusing to answer, and Theophemos went on.  "He's not one of us, Methos.  He never will be.  People had forgotten that you were not born here, but he reminds them."

Not meeting his eyes, Methos answered, "I know he's having a hard time fitting in, but he'll come around.  You'll see.  He'll find his place."

Theophemos perused him pensively, running his fingers through his graying beard.  "Your loyalty to your brother does you credit, Methos.  But you are deluding yourself.  Kronos will never be civilized.  You will have to choose, my friend.  You cannot have both Kronos and Greece."

Methos swung his legs over the back of the couch, turning away from the food.  "I can," he said.  "I just have to try harder.  I'm a good teacher; I can do this."  He slipped on his tunic and then reached for his mantle.

Theophemos shook his head, clearly disagreeing, but he held his tongue.  "Don't you want anything else to eat?  I can have the slave clear this away and bring in the wine," he said, as Methos began to tie on his sandals.

"No," Methos answered.  "I think I'll go looking for Kronos after all."

Methos walked the streets of the less reputable areas of the city, looking for Kronos.  It wasn't until he came to one of the cheaper brothels near the waterfront that he discovered what his brother had been up to since he had walked away from the philosophy discussion at midday.

Methos had barely stepped foot inside the brothel when Chloe, an older woman who had done well for herself on the streets and now managed younger women in the same profession, accosted him.

"You!  Methos!"  she cried, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into the house with an amazing strength that belied her years.  "I was planning on looking for you tomorrow morning; you've saved me the trouble!  Do you know what that *brother* of yours did here today?"

Methos winced.  The word "brother" had been spoken with as much venom as it was possible to put into a word.  He had no doubt he would hear the story, and it wouldn't be pleasant.

It wasn't.  Kronos had beaten one of the pornai, beaten her so badly, in fact, that the whore-mistress had been forced to call the physician in.  Chloe dragged Methos to the cubicle where the girl lay on a couch against the wall, her wheat-colored hair dark with sweat, her left arm wrapped tightly against her side.

"Look!  Here, and here!"  Chloe pulled back the filmy cloth of the girl's peplos, exposing her small breasts.  "He bit her!  The physician says she may have scars for life!  And the bone in her arm is broken!  It will be a while before she can work again."

Methos glanced at the bruised body in the bed and, with a resigned sigh, turned to face the accusing glare of the old woman.  This nuisance was likely to prove expensive.

And it was.  After much haggling, he and Chloe came to an agreement -- Methos would pay the healer's fees, maintenance for the girl's care until she could work again, and the expected earnings of the girl for the same period, plus interest.  Chloe would let the matter drop and not summon Kronos to court.  Once they reached their arrangement, she offered him a cup of wine, but Methos declined, having an uneasy feeling that he'd better go find Kronos.

It wasn't hard to follow the trail Kronos was leaving -- shattered jars and broken tables in a tavern, another beaten whore, five men staggering around in the aftermath of a brawl.  Methos managed to avoid meeting the managers of any of those establishments, although he had no doubt that he'd be hearing from them about damages in the morning.

Hades take the man!  Had it been so long since Kronos had lived among civilized men that he had no concept of how to behave?  He could at least be more considerate of Methos' reputation.  News of this drunken debauchery would be the talk of the town in the morning.  Methos hadn't been born here; it had taken him a while to earn his place, to earn the respect of the citizens of the polis.  He -- and his sponsors -- had worked hard for that, and he wasn't going to let Kronos destroy it.

The night watchmen were patrolling the streets when Methos finally arrived home.  Kronos was there, thank the gods, he could sense him.  Then came the sounds of crashes and screams.  Methos ran through the courtyard and up the stairs to the women's quarters, then stopped short at the door in shock.

His wife, Phile, was standing behind her chair, her spindle rolling about on the floor.  Her hair was undone and her clothing ripped, but her eyes flashed fury at Kronos.  Two of the female slaves stood in front of her, one brandishing a wooden spindle as long as a man's foot, the other holding a stool in front of her like a weapon.  Kronos stood on the other side of the room, laughing, piles of unspun wool pooled around his feet.

"Stay back," the slave with the spindle warned Kronos, and the shorter one lifted the stool menacingly.

"Give me that spindle," Kronos suggested with a grin, "and I'll show you what to do with it.  All three of you.  But the mistress of the house can be first."  He smiled at Phile as he kicked the overturned wool basket out of the way, then took a step toward them, tugging at his belt.  "Or maybe you'd like something bigger instea--"

"Kronos!" Methos snarled, stepping forward.

Kronos turned to him and grinned even more widely.  "Hey, Brother!  Come to join in the fun?"

In an instant, Methos' sword was in his hand, and he stood in front of the women, facing Kronos.  "Have you lost your mind, Kronos?" he demanded.  "Whoring and brawling all over the city wasn't enough for you?  You have to come here and challenge my authority?"

Kronos took a step forward, only to be brought up short as Methos lifted his sword threateningly.  "What's the matter, Brother?" he asked.  "Unwilling to share?"

"She is my *wife*, not a slave," Methos said sharply.  "If you want a woman for your bed, we'll go to the markets tomorrow, and I'll buy you one."

"I don't want 'a woman.'  I want *yours*!" Kronos said, gesturing obscenely at Phile.  "Brothers share."

"She's not mine to share," Methos said, biting the words out.  "This house is hers.  The slaves are hers.  The furnishings and the vases and everything else here is hers.  The money I just spent to pay *your* fines is *hers*.  As her husband, I manage it for her, but if her father or her brothers decide I'm not to be trusted, they can throw me out and marry her to someone else."

"That sounds like a plan," Kronos said, with a grin.  "Let's prove you're not to be trusted; they can throw you out, and we'll leave tomorrow.  Caspian and Silas are waiting."

Methos looked at him stonily for a moment.  "I have responsibilities and duties here," he said.  "I can't leave."

"Curse you, Methos!" Kronos shouted.  "Curse you, and your wife here, and your lover across town.  It's absurd, you with your students, and your lovers and your responsibilities -- working with the magistrates, helping to keep order, to keep the peace!  Have you forgotten who you are?" he asked, stepping forward, incredulous now.  "Have you forgotten the Brotherhood?"  Kronos stared into his eyes, then said firmly, "You swore an oath, Methos, but you forgot to come back to us.  I've come all this way to get you, and I tell you now -- we leave tomorrow."

There was silence in the room for a heartbeat -- two heartbeats.  In that short space of time Methos weighed his options -- the old against the new -- the killing, the destruction, the terror, the eternal comradeship of the Horsemen against the learning, the plays, the mental challenge of discussing philosophy in the marketplace.  It had been a long time since Methos had been happy with the Horsemen, and suddenly he knew why.  What had begun as a refuge from the ravages of time had become a trap.  For a thousand years he had lived with the same people, doing the same things, and the world had passed him by.

Kronos was still staring, still waiting, then Methos' answer broke the sudden silence between them:  "No.  Not yet."  He wasn't going back.  Not without discovering what the world had to offer him now.

Kronos met his eyes with contempt.  "You'd rather have this" -- he waved one hand at the house around them -- "than the freedom of the plains?  You'd rather have *her*" -- he gestured at Phile -- "than your brothers who love you, who will be there for you, forever?"

Methos didn't answer.  He stood there, standing guard between his wife and his brother, still holding his sword, still ready to fight.

Kronos gave a short laugh.  "You fool!  Soon there will be nothing to hold you here!"  He started to leave, then stopped at the doorway and turned to Methos.  "Think about it, Methos.  We'll leave tomorrow -- I'll wait for you at the old quarry near the fork in the river.  It's time to go home."  Without waiting for Methos to answer, Kronos stormed from the room, then slammed the door on his way out.

Methos slowly sheathed the sword as he listened to Kronos' receding footsteps and the distant slamming of the courtyard gate.  Kronos was right, of course.  Soon -- too soon -- Phile, Theophemos, all the people in this city would be dead, and he would go on.  Even sooner, the people of the polis would notice he did not age, and he would have to leave.  He could count on his brothers to be there for him today, tomorrow, and for generations to come.  But for now he would stay here.  Tomorrow would come soon enough.

He turned and faced his wife, then winced at the fury in her eyes.

"Not yet?" Phile repeated, her voice cold.  "Just when are you planning on leaving?"

"Phile--" he began, but she stalked from the room.  He followed her to her chamber, then reassured her as best he could, although that best didn't sound very good, even to him.  Eventually, she told him she wanted to sleep, so Methos went through the silent house to his own room.  He poured himself a cup of wine and sat alone, thinking, far into the night.

Morning came very early for Methos.  As he had expected, representatives of the brothel and the taverns came to demand payment for the damages.  Then came a complaint by a citizen whose son had been accosted by Kronos on the street.  Phile wanted to see him next.  She was still furious, and she let him know in no uncertain terms, that, brother or no, Kronos was no longer welcome in *her* house.

When Methos finally ventured out into the streets, the sideways glances and whispered comments made it clear just *what* the main topic of gossip was this morning.  Deciding to forego his trip to the gymnasium, he headed for Theophemos' house.  There at least, he could find some peace and quiet, and he and Theophemos could discuss how best to handle this catastrophe.

He found peace and quiet there -- too much.  The slaves looked at him curiously as he entered the unnaturally silent house.

"Is Theophemos home?" he asked, and, without a word, the door-slave gestured him toward the andron.  As he walked through the courtyard, he could hear wailing coming from the women's quarters, and a strange, unfamiliar dread settled in his heart.  His steps faltered, and his breathing became difficult as he slowly approached the closed door.

Another silent slave pushed the door open, revealing the body of Theophemos lying on a couch, hands crossed over his breast.  Honeycakes and a flask of oil had been set at his head, food for the journey to the land of the dead.

With a cry of despair, Methos rushed over to the bier and flung himself to his knees.  He had been a Horseman long enough to know exactly how Theophemos had died; the bulging eyes and swollen tongue were the signs of a man who had been strangled, the thin mark around his neck showed that a garrote had been used.  Methos reached up and stroked his lover's gray hair, surprised to find tears running down his face.  How long had it been since anyone close to him had died?  A sob escaped him as he knelt there, then another.

Eventually, gentle hands drew him up and led him into Theophemos' workroom.  Methos looked through blurry eyes to see the familiar face of his father-in-law Pyrrhus, Theophemos' brother.  Pyrrhus helped him into a chair and pressed a cup of wine into his hand.  Methos tried to hold it, but the cup slipped from his nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.

"Why?" Methos asked, tears still running down his cheeks.  "Why, Pyrrhus?  He was so gentle, so learned.  He helped everyone.  Why would anyone want ..."  His words died away as Pyrrhus crouched in front of him.

"Methos," his father-in-law said quietly, "do you know where Kronos is?"

Methos stared at him for a minute, not quite understanding the question.  As comprehension set in, he buried his face in his hands.  "Oh, Zeus!" he murmured piously.  Zeus knew what it was to be betrayed by a brother, when Poseidon had conspired against him to give the Greeks victory over the Trojans.

"I have witnesses," Pyrrhus continued.  "The slaves say he came late last night, banging on the door, and rousing the household, asking to see Theophemos.  They assumed Kronos was ill."

Methos stood and walked to the chest where Theophemos had stored his scrolls.  Mechanically, he picked one up and began to unroll it.  It was a lexicon of herbs that Theophemos had been working on, categorizing different medicines and their effects on the body.

Without facing Pyrrhus, he began to speak.  "There was an incident at my house last night," he admitted.  Even if he had been inclined to keep it a secret, there were two slaves and his wife who had witnessed the argument.  "Kronos wanted me to leave.  I refused.  He said ... he said that there would soon be nothing to keep me here."  He whirled to face Pyrrhus, crumpling the scroll in his hands.  "I swear, I thought he meant that I would get bored, or ... or ..."  He took a deep breath.  "I never once thought he would ... he would ... kill ..."  His voice broke, and he could say no more.

Pyrrhus' words came clear and cold.  "He will be brought to the court of the Aeropagus to stand trial for homicide.  I have sent the archons after him, to have him thrown into prison like the kakaourgos, the common criminal that he is.  Do you know where he is, Methos?" Pyrrhus demanded, all gentleness gone from his voice.  He was the head of the household; he was the only one who could seek justice for his brother, and seek justice he would.

Methos shook his head, slowly.  "Gone, I suspect.  He said he was leaving today."

"Then I shall have the archons seek him outside the city," Pyrrhus declared and he strode from the workroom.

Slowly, reverently, Methos smoothed the scroll and rerolled it, then replaced it in the chest.  Somehow, that scroll signified everything that Greece meant to him -- the poetry, the learning, the struggle for knowledge.  For the first time in many, many years, Methos felt no desire to protect Kronos.  Kronos had gone too far.  Theophemos hadn't been some easily replaceable slave; Theophemos had been an educated man, a man of value -- to Methos, to the polis, and to the world.

But Kronos was an Immortal, not to be judged by mortal men.  Methos walked over to the worktable and picked up the flask of poison that Theophemos had been distilling the day before.  There would be justice for Theophemos, but not by Pyrrhus, or by the homicide court, or by the archons.  Kronos was *his*.  As Methos put the flask into the pouch at his waist, Kronos' words from the night before echoed in his brain.  "I shall wait for you at the old quarry near the fork at the river."

Methos walked unseeing through the streets to the city gate, heading for the countryside.  The familiar weight of his sword hidden beneath his mantle was reassuring, even comforting.  There were more Immortals than ever running around these days, all hunting for Quickenings.  But it wasn't a strange Immortal Methos was planning to meet; he was going to confront his own brother.  The sword might be necessary for that, too.

His footsteps moved him quickly forward, but his mind went round and round.  What *right* did Kronos have?  How *dare* he?  He and Kronos had been together for countless years, but Kronos didn't own him, had no right to give him an ultimatum.  By the time Methos reached the quarry, his grief had turned into a cold rage.

And Kronos was just lying there, curse him!  Lying on a slab of white marble, sunning himself, looking like the fox who had tricked the crow out of its cheese.  He was dressed in his raiding clothes, wearing armor and leather instead of the Greek tunic and mantle.  All he needed was the war paint to look the complete barbarian.

"Methos!" Kronos exclaimed as he jumped up and walked forward, smiling -- *smiling!*-- in greeting.  "Couldn't you at least have bought some horses?  No matter, we'll find some at the next inn we come to."

Was that all Kronos cared about?  Theophemos was dead, his own reputation in jeopardy, and all Kronos could ask about was the *horses*?  Methos took a deep breath, trying to control himself, then he advanced until he was only an arm's length away.  Methos said nothing, and the silence grew.

The exuberant grin on Kronos' face faded, but the look of triumph in his eyes still gleamed.

Methos looked at his brother deeply, evaluating, judging.  He didn't like what he saw.  "Why?" he asked, finally.  "Why did you have to kill him?  I would have come back to you sooner or later."

"Would you?" Kronos asked, finally serious.  "I couldn't take the chance.  I can't lose you, Methos."  He let that hang between them for a moment, then said calmly, "I killed him to remind you."

"Remind me?" Methos said, grinding out the words.

"What it's like when they die!" Kronos exclaimed, stepping back and clenching his fists.  "Why we want nothing to do with them!  They're not like us, Methos!" Kronos said.  He laid a gentle hand on Methos' shoulder and said softly, "We keep ourselves to ourselves."

Methos didn't look away, nor did he relent.  "I remember what it is like when they die.  I did not need to be reminded."  He moved away from Kronos' hand.  "Did you begrudge me ten or fifteen years, Kronos?  The little time we would have before he died?"

Kronos shrugged.  "Maybe.  It doesn't matter now, does it?  He's dead, you're here, and we're leaving."  He grinned yet again.  "Even if we do have to find some horses to steal."

Methos shook his head, slowly.  "You don't understand, do you, Kronos?  It had nothing to do with *him*.  It's this place, Kronos.  It's ... it's alive.  I want to stay here and study with them."

Kronos snorted.  "You?  Methos the scholar?  That's a good one, Brother."

Methos looked at him earnestly.  "I'm serious.  It's what I want to do.  Study and learn."  He had been a scribe in Nippur, but this was different.  Here his mind was constantly stimulated; things he had taken for granted were challenged; and the mortals he surrounded himself with surprised him.

Kronos flung himself back down on the white slab.  "'Study and learn.'  You've been saying that since I got here.  And I've been at your side, listening to you discuss love and hate and goodness and duty and soul and spirit until even *your* head is spinning.  You go around and around, Methos, and even if you spent the rest of your life here, you would never resolve anything."  Kronos sprang up again, pacing back and forth.  "What's the point?  You've been alive longer than those fools can even imagine."  He stopped to stare at Methos and demanded, "What can they teach you?

"Most everything, it seems," Methos answered.  "About the world.  About myself.  About who we are."

Kronos scoffed.  "I can tell you who we are."

"Can you?" Methos asked mildly, only slightly curious.

"I'm Kronos," he said, thumping himself on the chest.  "I always have been, and I always will be."  He reached out and grasped Methos by the arm.  "And you're just like me.  We are who we are, and that's more than enough."

"Not for me," Methos said, pulling away.  "Not anymore.  I'm not going back with you, Kronos.  I'm staying here."

"You'll be all right once you're back with the Horsemen.  Once you go raiding again."  Kronos reached out to him again and said engagingly, "You know I'm right."

He probably was too; that was the danger of it.  The power of the Horsemen was like wine -- the more you had the more you wanted.  Another reason not to go back.  Methos shook his head and asked, "We have to live on your terms, is that it, Kronos?  Kronos has to stay with Methos, and they have to live as Horsemen?"

Kronos shrugged and smiled.  "Sounds good to me."

Methos didn't think so.  "We've done that for a long time.  Let's turn it around.  If you want to stay with me, then live the way I want to -- here in the polis."  A look of revulsion passed over Kronos' face, and Methos continued.  "If you want to continue with the Horsemen, then go.  I'll wait for you here.  Someday you'll see I'm right."

"You are insane!" Kronos said incredulously.  "What on earth makes you think that?"

Methos held up a hand to stop him.  "I've been alive for so long, Kronos, I have seen the old gods die and new ones be born.  I have seen whole peoples destroyed and forgotten.  What they have here in this city is permanent.  Even if they all disappeared tomorrow, the mathematics would still be true.  The science would still hold.  The music would still be beautiful.  I need this, Kronos," Methos said, trying to make Kronos understand.  "And some day, as you grow older, so will you.  And I'll be here, waiting, to welcome you."

The smile was gone from Kronos' face now; his eyes shone with determination.  "I'd rather hear the screams of a village as we ride, than that caterwauling they call music.  And I don't intend to lose you.  You are coming back with me, willing or unwilling."

"Don't you understand?"  Methos was desperate now.  "It's *boring.*"  He swung around and admitted, "Yes, there was a time when the screams of a child as I hacked her mother to bits in front of her made me feel alive!  Yes, the look of fear and helplessness on the mother's face made me feel great and powerful.  They couldn't hurt me if I could hurt them first."

Kronos was nodding, his face alight with glee, but Methos shook his head and looked away.  "It's always the same.  The look of fear -- it doesn't change.  It's the same in the person I killed yesterday, the same in the person I killed last year, or three years ago, or three lifetimes ago.  It's always the same."

Methos tried to explain again, groping for the words.  "What's happening here, in Greece -- it's new, it's different, it's exciting, it's ..."  He met Kronos' uncomprehending eyes and said simply, "I don't need the Horsemen anymore; I do need this."

Kronos' answer was just as simple.  "You'll always need the Horsemen."

Methos shook his head and walked away from him, over to the marble slab that Kronos had been lying on, but Kronos followed, speaking urgently.  "There are countless Immortals out there, running around with swords, chopping each other's head off, playing that bloody Game.  With the Horsemen, you don't need to worry about them.  No other Immortal will get close enough to the four of us to be a danger."

"Such faith in my skill," Methos retorted sharply.  "I took the head off some young fool last year, on a bridge outside of town.  It wasn't that difficult; I'm pretty good with a sword.  I don't think I need to worry about too much."

"I won't risk it," Kronos answered, "and I won't risk you."  He drew his sword.  "I'm taking you back -- dead or alive."

Methos felt a cold dread in his heart.  Kronos meant it.  "Put away your sword, Kronos," he commanded.  "This is too important to decide with some sort of challenge.  Let's talk about it."

"We've been talking!" Kronos exploded, slamming his fist on the rock.  "For months, we've been talking!  It's time to *do* something."

Yes, to do something.  To take a stand.  Theophemos had been a friend, and Kronos had slaughtered him without a second thought.  Methos had told Kronos what he wanted, and Kronos had discounted his wishes, the way an adult dismisses a toddler who doesn't want to go to bed.  It was time to do something.

"You're right," Methos agreed, and he smiled.  "Let's have a drink."

Kronos hesitated, his sword still in his hand, then laughed.  "Good idea."

Methos turned his back on Kronos and pulled out a wineskin and two cups from his pack, then used the slab as a low table and poured the wine.  As he heard the soft whisper of Kronos resheathing his sword, Methos took the flask from Theophemos' workshop out of his pouch and poured some poison into Kronos' cup.

"Here," Methos said cheerfully, turning back around and handing Kronos the cup.  "Let's drink."  They raised their cups to their lips.  Methos took a few swallows, then put his cup down on the rock, watching with grim satisfaction as Kronos drained his cup.  Kronos never did anything by halves.

"All this talking has made you forget who you really are," Kronos said, slamming the empty cup back on the rock.  "You're Methos.  Your purpose is to shed blood, to take what you want, and to destroy the weak.  You can't live without it, Methos -- the freedom, the power.  It's what makes you what you are; it's what makes you *Methos.*"  Kronos waved one hand airily toward the direction of the city.  "Oh, you may hide behind the trappings of Greece, behind the words, behind the fancy table manners, and the poetry readings, and your wife.  But deep down inside, you are what I am."  He leaned closer and said with confidence, "We are the same, and we belong together.  Forever."

"I never forget what I am," Methos said, watching him closely.  "The more I learn, the more aware I become.  And I'm finished riding with you."

"The hell you are!  You are coming back with me, dead or alive.  I meant it, Methos!"  Kronos drew his sword again.

Methos didn't move; he just stared at Kronos, waiting.

Kronos stopped, discomfited by Methos' passivity.  "You could at least fight me, if you think it's that important."

Yes, that was how the Horsemen had solved disputes all these years.  When something was in contention, some kind of contest was declared, and the winner had his way.  What a stupid way to decide things.  How much more satisfying to discuss things and to choose the most prudent course.

"Fight me, damn you!" Kronos shouted.

"Why?" Methos asked, lifting his eyebrows.  "When I've already won?"

Kronos took a step forward, then suddenly he wavered on his feet, blinking rapidly.  "What ..."

"The wine," Methos answered, watching him closely.  "One of the 'useless' things I found in my studies.  That potion would kill most people.  It will stop even you."  The sword fell from Kronos fingers and clanged on the small rocks on the ground.  "I'd sit down before I fall down, if I were you," Methos suggested.

Kronos fell to his knees, although it didn't appear to be voluntary.  "Methos," he croaked.  "Brother ..."  Words seemed to fail him as his eyes closed, then he slowly crumpled to the ground.  Moments later, his breathing ceased.  Theophemos had been right; it was an easy way to die.

Methos stood still for a moment, staring at the dead body of his brother.  What to do now?  Kronos would recover soon enough, and Methos had no doubts that Kronos would come after him again.  Who would Kronos kill next time?  The young boys Methos tutored?  Phile?  Or maybe Methos himself, so that Kronos could drag his dead body to the nearest seaport and onto a ship?  It was not to be borne.

Methos drew his sword and lifted it over his head, and then he stopped.  This was the Horsemen's way -- to solve problems with violence.  He lowered the sword and turned his back on Kronos, then stood beside the slab of white marble, slowly letting his fingers trace the lines and the veins that marked its surface.  How it glittered in the sun!

It seemed unnaturally quiet in the quarry now, even the birds were silent.  He lifted his wine-cup, but did not drink, merely stared at the cup as though he had never seen it before.  Suddenly, angrily, he flung the cup against the stone and watched it shatter.  Red drops of wine glistened on the ground and showed dark against the glittering white surface.  Like blood, he realized.  Like blood offered to the gods.

He sat down on the slab to think.  What to do now?  Killing Kronos would guarantee that he would be left alone to live his new life, but it would also mean that he would be alone forever.  There would be no chance for Kronos to rejoin him in the future.  And Methos was sure that Kronos would change, would learn to value other things than killing and burning.  He had to.  A future without Kronos was unthinkable.

And Kronos was right -- he and Methos were alike.  They did belong together.  Methos was about to embark on a new life, and someday -- someday, Kronos would choose to join him.  Methos knew this was true, as surely as he knew the sun and the planets revolved around the Earth.  Someday, Kronos would reemerge into the light, realize that there was more to life than death and destruction.  Someday, he and Kronos would call each other brother again.  Someday -- but not yet.

"The problem," Methos said out loud, as he would have instructed his students to solve a logic problem, "is that Kronos must be stopped from interfering with my life.  If I take his head, he cannot stop me, but that is not acceptable.  If he is at liberty, he will not stop trying to oppose me.  So, that is not an option.  The only other alternative is imprisonment."  And besides, Kronos *deserved* it.

The quarry was riddled with tunnels and caves.  Methos went exploring and quickly found a suitable place, a small chamber with a narrow entrance which would not be too difficult to block.  With some difficulty, Methos lifted Kronos' body and carried it into the chamber.  He backed away and began to push boulders in front of the opening.

The doorway was almost blocked when he heard the gasp that signified Kronos' return to life.  Methos speeded up his efforts.  He really didn't want to talk to Kronos about this.

"Methos, what are you doing?"  Kronos' face appeared at the small opening.  Methos didn't answer, just shoved another rock into the passageway.  "This isn't funny, Methos.  Let me out."

Methos stopped moving rocks just long enough to answer.  "Did Theophemos beg you, Kronos?  Did he ask you to stop killing him?"

"What does he have to do with this?"

Methos glared at him and shoved another rock into place.  "You shouldn't have tried to force me.  This will give you time to think."

"Think?" Kronos demanded.  "Think about *what*?"  The opening got even smaller, and Kronos yelled, "Methos!"

"Think about life.  About how we live."  Methos looked around, judging how best to fill in the entire passageway.  "You'll see I'm right, eventually."

"Gods, Methos!  Don't!"  Kronos sounded desperate now, then added a panicked scream.  "Methos!"

Methos ignored him as he backed out of the passageway.  A few strong pulls on the loose rocks at the front of the cavern, and the ceiling fell.  Methos dodged the tumbling rocks, then looked back at the buried chamber.  "Farewell, my brother," he said softly.  "I'll be back  someday."

Flushed with exertion, Methos began walking back to the city, using the forest path instead of the road.  He didn't want to talk to anyone.  He was hungry and thirsty, and he stopped at a tavern near the city gate.  Service seemed slow today, but perhaps that was just because he was so heavy-hearted.  It wasn't until he was almost done that he noticed the whispers and the stares.

Perhaps it was time to leave.  He paid his bill and left the tavern, walking through the familiar streets toward his home.

"Ho!  Methos!"  Methos turned at the call and waited for his friend Dicaeogenes to catch up.  Dicaeogenes spoke for a moment of Theophemos, then came to the point.  "The fact is, Methos, that, well -- I've hired Aphobus to tutor my two boys.  We, uh, we won't be needing you anymore.  And I've heard that Timostrate has also asked him to take over tutoring her sons.  I thought I'd tell you, just in case you don't see her before tomorrow."

Nonplussed, Methos stood and watched his friend walk away.  But it wasn't until he reached his home that he realized how bad things were.

There were no slaves standing in the doorway to greet him, to offer him wine or refreshment.  No wife came to ask him how his day went.  Instead, Pyrrhus sternly led him into the andron.

"You lied to me, Methos," he said, angrily.  "Phile tells me that last night, Kronos told you he would be waiting for you at the old quarry.  Yet when I asked you this morning, you told me you did not know where he was.  You helped him get away."

"I took care of it, Pyrhhus," Methos tried to explain.  "Justice has been done."

"It is not justice if it is done in secret!  All the citizens must know what has happened."  Pyrhhus took a deep breath.  "I have told Phile she is to divorce you.  I will find her another husband.  One who understands our ways, who knows what justice is."

This had all happened before, Methos remembered, a very long time ago.  Back before he had had brothers, this betrayal was the only constant in his life.  Methos gathered his things, carefully wrapping the scrolls that contained his journals, and left the house.

It was definitely time to leave.

The next morning, he bought a horse and rode out of the city.  It wasn't long before he found himself at the fork in the river, near the quarry.  He got off his horse and sat on the bluff above the river, watching the water flow downstream.

What should he do now?  He could dig Kronos out of the cave and laugh with him until all this was forgotten.  Then they would follow the river down to the sea, take ship, and return to their brothers.  But, no!  He hadn't been wrong when he'd told Kronos he was bored with the Horsemen; he truly didn't want to go back.  Greek cities and colonies rimmed the Great Inland Sea; there were many places he could go.  He could start again somewhere else.

His brother's words rang in his ears.  "You can't live without it, Methos -- the freedom, the power.  It's what makes you what you are; it's what makes you *Methos.*"

No, Kronos.  You're wrong.  I can live without it, and so can you.  I'll prove it to you.  I will live the good life, the life espoused by the Greeks.  And when I come back to you, you will know it can be done.  He rummaged in his pack, finding the flask of poison he had used yesterday.  He removed the stopper and looked at the liquid.  With a sudden movement, he raised the flask to his lips and took a deep swallow, then another.

If it was freedom and power that made Methos, then Methos is dead.  And very soon, his vision blurred and his breathing became shallow.  He closed his eyes, glad that he was sitting down.  Very soon thereafter, his breathing stopped.

As gentle as his death, so was his rebirth.  He came back to life under a tree, and opened his eyes to see a dove on the branch above him.  He sat up, aware of a headache that was quickly fading and forgotten.

"Methos is no more," he said out loud, although only the dove heard him.  Mounting the horse, he headed upriver, away from the sea.  The river tumbled noisily over rocks as he followed it, then he turned his horse away from the water and headed into the hills.  Alone.

He never looked back.  And the name Methos did not pass his lips again for over two thousand years.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Submarine Base
Saturday, 9 November 1996, 2:56 a.m.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Over two thousand years," Methos murmured, staring at the dark water in the submarine bay below.  Two thousand years.  He had changed so much in those centuries, learned so many things.  He had practiced almost every profession there was -- farmer, lawyer, doctor, thief.  He had gone through periods when it was a joy to be alive, and each day brought him another pleasure; and through periods when the loneliness and the depression had threatened to overcome him, and he could barely bring himself to step outside.

How could Kronos have stayed the same all these years?  Had his personality been written in stone before Methos had ever met him?  Had it been the long imprisonment that had frozen him in time?  Methos had gone back to the quarry years later, but, although he had found the fork in the river easily enough, the quarry had been gone, and trees grew unimpeded all around.  The polis was still there, although it had become a poor farming village.  He had spent days there, pestering the uneducated farmers, none of whom had ever heard of a quarry.  Finally, one of the oldest women had told him of a tale she had heard from her great-grandmother of an earthquake, which had leveled the city and filled in the great holes in the ground.

Eventually, he had given up, assuming that Kronos was either still entombed deep under the ground, or that he had somehow gotten free.  Either way, there was nothing he could do.

"Nothing you can do," whispered Methos, taking a final look at Cassandra as she lay in the cage.  She was sleeping quietly now, and Methos went to bed, exhausted and numb with grief, both old and new.  Kronos was already asleep.

When Methos woke late the next morning, his brother was gone and he was alone.  Methos sat on his bed and stared at the wall.  MacLeod was dead.

He left the room and wandered around the base, but the only person he saw was Kronos, adding logs to the fire in the brazier.  Caspian and Silas weren't back yet; maybe they were still searching for MacLeod.  Maybe, Methos thought with sudden desperate hope, maybe MacLeod wasn't dead.  Maybe he was still alive.

That hope shattered into gut-wrenching dread.  Maybe Kronos had told them to hunt.  Maybe Silas and Caspian were bringing MacLeod back here, so that Methos could fulfill his part of the blood-oath and take MacLeod's head, while Kronos took Cassandra's.

Kronos would love that.  And if Methos refused to take MacLeod's head, then Kronos would do it for him.  Kronos would love that even more.  He would gloat over it, recount each detail, talk about the kill and the Quickening -- MacLeod's Quickening.

Could he do that?  Could he stand by and watch Kronos take MacLeod's head?  He couldn't fight all three of them.  He couldn't kill his brothers, and he didn't want MacLeod to die.

Gods!  What would he do?

Kronos didn't give him any more time to think about it.  He looked up and called, "Cassandra's awake now.  Let's have some fun."

Oh, joy.  This wasn't his idea of fun -- hadn't been for centuries.  But Kronos patted his pocket where the little remote control device was located.  He wasn't being given a choice.

Kronos was in a generous mood.  "Do you want to go first?" he asked as they walked to Cassandra's cage.

He didn't want to touch her at all.  Methos shrugged.

Kronos laughed.  "Then you can watch."  He challenged Methos with a hard stare, a threat.  "At first.  Eventually ..."

Eventually, Kronos would expect him to join in, to return to the old ways, and for now Methos had to make Kronos believe that he would.  So Methos stood against the wall and watched, as he had watched while Caspian had strangled the doctor.  Watched by averting his eyes, wishing he were not there, wishing it wasn't happening, knowing that if he interfered in any way, if he showed that he cared, it would only be worse for her.

It was only sex, after all, Methos thought, as he tried not to hear the harsh breathing and the moans.  Kronos had only hit her twice, and Cassandra was hardly a virgin.  It would be over soon, and she would survive.

Methos stared at the floor.  This would be over soon.  The rest of the nightmare wouldn't.
 

After Kronos had finished with Cassandra, he locked her back in the cage.  Methos left her alone for a few hours, then brought her dinner and a blanket.

She was not at all grateful.

That was hardly surprising.  She didn't want to eat, so he tried talking to her, but she didn't want to talk, either.  He tried one last time, to make her see reason.

"Cassandra," he said quietly, "we have to be careful.  I have seen what happens to people who go up against Kronos."  She had to understand that; she had seen it herself.  More than seen it.  "If we want to survive," he said, softly now, "we will keep him happy."  For a while at least, until they could stop him.

"I didn't do it then, and I won't now."  She stared straight at him and said simply, "I'd rather die."

Death before dishonor.  What an idiotic, stupid, bloody, *waste*!  Was there any honor to be had after death?  Live, grow stronger, get your honor back another day, but *live*.  It was not Cassandra's way.  Methos answered just as simply, "Well then, you'll die."

She didn't even seem to care.

Methos shook his head in disgust.  There was no point in even trying to reason with her.  He might as well tell her.  Maybe that would wake her up.  No one was going to rescue her from this.  "You can forget about MacLeod."

She stared at him, her face impassive, her eyes blank.

Methos wanted her to know.  He wanted to share the knowledge with someone who cared.  He wanted someone to mourn for his friend, because he didn't think he was ever going to get the chance to do it himself.

He leaned closer to the cage and told her the truth, saying it out loud for the very first time.  "MacLeod is dead."

She didn't move, didn't make a sound, but he had seen the emptiness in her eyes.  He knew it well, and he didn't want to see it again, not in hers, not in his own.  He turned and left her there alone, then wandered on through empty, echoing halls.

MacLeod is dead.  MacLeod is dead.  MacLeod -- is -- dead.

Dead.

Get used to it, old man.  Dead.  MacLeod is dead.

Retreat.  Regroup.  Reconsider.

Remember.  Oh, gods!  He's dead!

Methos found himself at the monkey room again, the animals chittering at him when he walked by.  They were hungry and thirsty, and he fed them one by one.  Silas wasn't here to do it.  Silas and Caspian were busy killing MacLeod.

Methos slammed both fists against the door of the cage, and the monkey within screamed in alarm.  Methos wanted to scream, too, but he didn't.  He couldn't.  He started to clean the cages, removing the monkey droppings, scrubbing the trays.  Cage after cage after cage, his hands covered with excrement, trying not to think, not to remember, not to feel.

He finished with the cages and washed his hands over and over, washed them clean, then he sat at the table, his head pillowed on his arms.

  I had a dream, which was not all a dream
  The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
  Did wander darkling in the eternal space.

Methos hid his eyes and wept.

MacLeod was dead.

"Wake up, Methos!" Kronos called from the doorway.

Methos jerked awake, then stood and stretched, his back aching from sitting at the table for so long.

"Ready for some more fun?" Kronos asked, then led the way down the hall to one of the bedrooms.  "Here," he said, as he handed Methos his coat, "you can watch."

I am a Watcher, Methos thought, staring at the floor, not even glancing at the bed.  I observe and record, but never interfere.

Kronos was brutal this time, and between the moans and grunts came cries of pain and the sharp crack of slaps on naked flesh.

It would be over soon.  There was nothing he could do.

"Help me," she pleaded.  "Please!"

He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as Kronos laughed and hit her, not an open-handed slap this time, but a hard punch with a fist.  She cried out with the pain, then cried out again and again under a steady rain of blows.

Methos stared at the floor.  She would survive.  He should know.

Eventually, she started to beg.  "Don't hurt me!  Please don't hurt me!"

The sound of the blows stopped, then Kronos clapped him on the shoulder.  "I've tamed her for you, Brother."  He laughed as he took his coat from Methos' hand.  "She was asking about you earlier."

Kronos left the room, and then softly, hesitantly, she called to him.  "Adam?"

His head jerked at the unexpected name.  "Alexa?" he gasped.

Her face was bruised and bloody, her eyes more bewildered than accusing.  "I called you, but you didn't help."

"I'm sorry," he whispered.  He tried to go to her, but he could not move.

"Adam?" she asked, her voice breaking, but he could only shake his head.  "You don't care, do you?" she asked, and hurt and disappointment replaced the surprise.  She pulled herself slowly and painfully to her feet, and now there was revulsion in her voice.  "You lied to me."

"Alexa, no ..."

"I'm nothing to you."

Methos couldn't change what he had done.  What he hadn't done.

She was gone.

Methos hid his face in his hands and wept.  "I'm sorry.  Oh, Alexa, I'm so sorry."

Methos jerked awake, his face wet with tears.  The monkeys were chittering in their cages, and Kronos was not there.  He drew a deep shuddering breath, shaking with relief and fear.  It had only been a dream.  Alexa had died six months ago, cradled in his arms, sure of his love.  He had never betrayed her trust, never stood by and watched while Kronos raped and beat her.  She had never looked at him with such contempt, such hate.

Cassandra had.  And there had been others throughout the years.

Methos stood and shoved the chair back with an oath, knocking it to the floor.  He couldn't let this continue; he wasn't going to stand by and watch anymore.

He left the monkey room and went to the kitchen for some food.  It was almost sunrise.  Kronos was asleep, and Silas and Caspian still weren't back.  How long did it take, anyway?  They had been gone for more than twenty-four hours.  Where the hell were they?  Still hunting?  Still fighting?  Or maybe they had taken MacLeod's head already and were celebrating -- getting drunk or getting laid.

What was he going to do?

There had to be a way.

He sat at the table and dipped the tea bag in and out of his cup, thinking over his options.  MacLeod was dead.  OK.  That plan was down.  What were the options now?  Think, damn it!  Think clearly.

One -- do nothing.  Go along with Kronos.  I will survive.  The world will recover.  Eventually.

Two -- kill Kronos, before the virus is released.  Someone has to do it.  Gods, how have we come to this?  Methos thought in anguish.  Can I do it?  Could I take his head?  He's a better swordsman than I am, but I'm trickier.

Or am I?  Sudden doubt made him falter.

I used to be trickier, but he's been one step ahead of me since Seacouver, Methos admitted to himself.  I've either lost my edge, or I've become incredibly transparent, or -- MacLeod was my weakness, he realized.  Just as Kronos had been my weakness for centuries.

MacLeod was dead.  Caspian and Silas would be returning soon, and it would be three against one.  Unless MacLeod had managed to kill one of them first.  No, best to think of worst case scenario -- three of them.  And forget about MacLeod.  Forget about the grief.  Forget about your friend.  Turn to the problem at hand.

With an effort, Methos stilled the grief.  He needed a partner -- a partner who would be able to help him stop Kronos, because he knew he couldn't do it by himself.

MacLeod was dead.

But Cassandra was alive, and she hated Kronos enough to kill him.  The problem was, she hated him, too.  He didn't have much of a choice.  Methos fixed her some breakfast, then went to visit her in her cage.
 

Methos sat on the ledge outside Cassandra's cage, listening to the lick of the water against the walls.  Cassandra was huddled in a blanket on the far side of the cage, ignoring him.  At least she had eaten this time.  "The sun will be up soon," he commented, wondering again when Silas and Caspian would be back.

Cassandra ignored him, pulling the blanket closer.  Maybe he would have to start talking about the weather next.  But after a few moments, she deigned to acknowledge his presence, glancing in his direction.

"Tell me, Methos," Cassandra asked, "did you take MacLeod's head?  Or was it Kronos' turn this time?"

He met her eyes, once again surprised at the hatred there.  More than three thousand years and she could still hate like that.  He himself could barely remember his enemies from a thousand years ago, and there had been some who had undoubtedly treated him as badly as he had treated her.

Her hate was fresh and bitter.  It gave her the strength she needed to kill, but unfortunately she wanted to kill him.  If he could only convince her to leave him alone and go after Kronos.  Or at least go after Kronos first.

She was still glaring at him, and Methos shifted uneasily under her stare.  He had known this woman for only a short time -- what had it been?  A year, maybe two?  Had that brief time with him been enough to poison her with hatred forever?  To drive her mad?

Unlike Kronos, Cassandra hadn't gone mad with grief and fury when her family had been butchered, but she seemed mad enough now, mad with fury and hate and the need for revenge.  He had heard of delayed reaction to post-traumatic stress disorder, but this was ridiculous.  Was he the only Immortal with the ability to move on?  A unique Teflon Immortal?

"I didn't mean for this to happen," he said.  None of this -- MacLeod, the virus, the cage, the rapes -- recent and ancient -- the hatred.

"Your sword slipped?" she asked, the sarcasm cutting deep.

Methos blinked, willing -- ordering! -- the tears not to come.  Oh, MacLeod.  "I didn't kill him," he said quietly.

"No?" she challenged.  "Maybe you didn't take his head, but who lured him away?  Who handed him over to Kronos?  Who lied to him?  Who betrayed him?"  She smiled, but there was no joy or humor in her smile.  "It was you, Methos."

Methos turned away.  She was good, throwing his failure in his face.  He had thought he could manage Kronos, keep him away from MacLeod, come out of this with both his friends intact, with his family restored, maybe even enlarged.  Instead, Kronos had had the upper hand since the beginning.  Kronos had been playing with him, instead of the other way around.

Pride, Methos, pride.  You thought you were stronger, wiser than anyone.  Cassandra hasn't even mentioned your worst sin: pride.  Hubris.  An affront to the gods.

Cassandra wasn't finished.  "You know, Methos, sometimes Duncan sounded as if he thought you were his teacher.  He trusted you.  He thought you were his friend."

Methos blinked again and managed to whisper, "I was," but his voice betrayed him with the roughness of unshed tears, and he knew Cassandra had heard.  She was good with voices.

"I'm glad to be your enemy then," she said.  "At least I know where I stand with you."

Damn it!  How could he get her to stop focusing on him and start focusing on Kronos?  Maybe more of an apology would help.  "Cassandra," he said earnestly, trying again, moving from the ledge to stand beside her, "I didn't mean for this to happen, either."  He gestured at the cage this time, hoping she would understand him, accept his oblique apology for her imprisonment, for Kronos' treatment of her.

"No?" she mocked him.  "It's a mistake, then?  A little torture, some rape, a murder or two -- just a misunderstanding?"

Bloody hell!  He hadn't touched her, hadn't raped her in thousands of years.  And he hadn't murdered anyone in centuries.  Not without a good reason, anyway.

They didn't have time for this.  Methos tried yet again to make her see reason.  "If I had tried to stop Kronos, then or now, he would have taken your head, or made it even worse."  He shrugged slightly, helplessly.  "I knew you would survive."

"I didn't *survive,*" she spat back at him.  "I *died* in his tent."

He was silent, looking at her, knowing there was more, and she said softly, "My body died, too."

It took him a moment to understand.  Then he did, and was appalled.  She had stopped living that day.  She had *survived* to run away that night, alive in body, but dead in spirit.  And she had remained dead for three thousand years.  Methos had trouble believing it.  He had known mortals who had lived through worse and had recovered to lead full lives, sometimes with their captors, sometimes rescued.  Not all recovered, but some did.  And she had so much longer than they to put it behind her.  Perhaps if she had been abused for centuries, this fury would make sense, but ...

"Did you leave the camp?" she asked, brittle and sharp.

Methos swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.  "I was there."  No excuses.

She nodded, not at all surprised.  "Then you heard."

Of course, he had heard.  The whole bloody camp had heard.  It had been damned annoying.  Not that sounds of rape and beatings were unusual, of course, but she hadn't merely whimpered and moaned and screamed in pain.  She had screamed his name.

What had she expected him to do?  Rescue her?  She knew that all slaves were shared.  If he had gone into Kronos' tent and done anything, said anything, Kronos would have made it much worse.  And after *that*, Kronos would have taken her head.

At least she had survived, and her screams had worked, in a way.  He hadn't rescued her, but he hadn't stopped her when she rescued herself by killing Kronos with his own knife.  Oh, the jokes that had gone around the camp after that!  Never to Kronos' face, of course, but it had been too funny not to laugh about.

Had he let her go out of guilt?  Admiration for her courage?  The realization that she would never adapt to the reality of her life in the Horsemen's camp, and that one of the brothers would eventually take her head?  Had he simply not wanted to destroy her chance at an Immortal life so soon?  Whatever the reasons, he had stood there that evening and watched her flee, hoping she would find happiness somewhere.

Obviously, he had hoped in vain.  "I let you go," he said, wanting to offer her something, to let her know he was on her side.

"Yes, you let me go," she said, meaning something much different.

"Don't you understand?" he demanded, frustration and anguish scraping at his soul.  "There was nothing I could do!  Kronos was my brother!  There are cages you can't see, and promises you can't break."  Promises of love, of commitment, promises made in hope and dreams.  Promises that strangle you slowly and devour your soul.

He had never made her any promises then, and he had very little to offer her now.  But what he had to give, he would.  "I saw you escape that night," he repeated.  "I let you go.  And I didn't want MacLeod to die."  Anything to change the subject.

"Why are you here?" she asked suddenly, attacking from a different direction.  "Are you looking for some kind of absolution from me, Methos?"  She studied him for a moment, then suggested knowingly, "Or forgiveness?"

"Can you?" he asked, wondering if he had finally gotten through to her.  Can you, Cassandra?  Can you see beyond the darkness of the hatred that engulfs you?  Forgiveness is the first step, Cassandra.  It is so easy to strike out in revenge, so easy to return pain for pain.  But that way lies death.  I should know.

Cassandra looked him in the eyes and smiled, angry and grim.  She reached out and grasped the bars on the door of the cage, then shook it.  "Ask me another time."

Methos knew what she meant.  A prisoner was powerless, and a slave did not forgive her master.  Methos reached out and took hold of the bars right about her hands.  "I haven't got the keys, either."  They stared at each other through the door.  "I'm as much a prisoner as you are."

Her smile was bitterly triumphant.  "More."

"More," he whispered in return, knowing it was true.  He had the key to his own cage, but he could not bring himself to use it.

He let go and went back to the ledge, staring at the torches again.  Finally, he said, "I'm trying to get both of us out of here alive."  He owed MacLeod that much, at least, and he owed it to her.  "I can't do that without your cooperation."

She leaned back against the bars of the cage, relaxed and at ease.  "Being politically correct doesn't suit you, Methos.  Don't you mean obedience?"

Another time, he might have found that amusing, but he was too tired now to do more than close his eyes and sigh.  There was no reasoning with this woman.  She hated herself almost as much as she hated him, but maybe she hated Kronos more.

He turned to her and offered her a devil's bargain.  "Cassandra, you killed Kronos once, and you can do it again."  If she killed Kronos, then he would have enough time to take the remote control and lock his brother up.  But he knew he had to offer Cassandra more than that.  He suggested invitingly, "We can make it permanent this time."

Cassandra wasn't buying it.  "I get to 'keep him happy,' and *you* get to take his head?"

"You can have his head," Methos said, willing to offer her anything.  He didn't actually have to keep his promise.  "I'll give you a sword."

She actually thought about it for a moment, then asked coolly, "What do I get out of this?"

Methos repressed a smile.  The woman was in no position to bargain, but here she was, making deals.  In a way, she reminded him of himself.

"When he's dead, I want your head, too," she stated.  "Will you kneel down and offer it to me?"

Methos stared.  Offer up his head, too?  She'd never believe him.  Or would she?  Greater love hath no man, and all that.  OK, fine, if that's what it took to get her to say yes.  The world was at stake.  He opened his mouth to say yes, but nothing came out.  He sat there for a long moment, his mouth open.  His lungs seemed paralyzed; he could not even speak the lie.  No matter what the cost, he would not sacrifice his life.  Not for Cassandra, not for his brothers, not for MacLeod, not even for the world.  Methos snapped his mouth shut in frustration and slammed his fist against the side of the cage.

"I thought not."  Her voice held triumphant vindication.  "You haven't changed at all."

Methos stared at the flickers of red on the black water, reflections from the torches above.  She was wrong; he had changed.  But to sacrifice himself was unthinkable.  When he looked up, he saw only the steady gleam of hatred and distrust in Cassandra's eyes.

"Cassandra, can't you let go of it?" he asked, annoyed and frustrated both with her and with himself.  "It was three thousand years ago."

"It was yesterday!" she snarled, leaning forward in her rage.

"Yeah," he agreed, remembering with distaste what Kronos had done to her.  "But yesterday's over.  Do you want a tomorrow?"

"Not with him," she said immediately, then she actually giggled, a forced hysterical sound.  "That would be a fate worse than death."

Methos stared at her.  That phrase had never meant anything to him, the ultimate oxymoron, but he understood her meaning now, and the pun behind her words.  The Four Horsemen had once been known as Death, and they had gloried in the name.  He smiled wryly.  "I never knew you had a sense of humor."

"We never had much of a chance to laugh."

"No."  The word was more whispered than spoken.  Nor would the world, unless Kronos were stopped.  Methos sat with his head bowed for a moment, then looked at her.  "We never will, unless we get out of this.  And the key to escape is Kronos."

She hesitated, then shook her head.  "I can't do that, Methos."

Methos wanted to slap her, but that would hardly help his cause.  He settled for an insult.  "You have got to be the most stupidly stubborn woman I have ever met."

"I am what you made me," Cassandra replied, "a Daughter of Night."

Methos was puzzled; the phrase struck a chord, but he couldn't exactly place it.

"Have you forgotten that story, Methos?"  Her eyes were intent upon him.  "You should never forget.  Not that story.  Not you."  She waited a moment, staring at him, and then she began to speak.  She spoke in the Greek of the old days, before Plato, before Homer.  She spoke in the early Greek of Odysseus and Achilles.  She spoke with rhythm and cadence, with fire and prophecy, and with power.

Methos listened with his eyes half-closed, remembering countless other stories told around other fires, down through the ages.  This was an old story, almost as old as he was, a Greek adaptation of an older myth about the struggles between the gods, a story he had once told to his son.

In the version Cassandra was telling, Uranus the Sky-Father fought his son for the throne of the gods, and Uranus lost.  The son banished the father from the day-sky to the night, but castrated him first, to eliminate any future contenders for the throne.

Methos shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the cold concrete slab, as Cassandra continued to speak.

"But from the wound of Uranus the Sky-Father there came blood, and three drops of the blood fell onto Gaia the Earth-Mother.  And the Mother accepted the blood and held it within her, and brought forth from herself three women, three sisters, and she called them Daughters of Night."

Methos closed his eyes all the way and leaned his back against the pillar of the cage, letting Cassandra's words wash over him.  Her words and her language were carrying him back to another time, another world -- a world that had been special to him, a world that had given him something to live for, a world for which he had defied even Kronos.

"The three sisters are immortal.  They carry whips and torches, and they pursue those who have done wrong, driving them mad, hounding them even unto death, and beyond.  And the sisters are called by name Alecto the Unceasing, Megaera the Grudging, and Tisiphone the Vengeful."

Methos opened his eyes and shrugged, making it as casual as he could.  He remembered this story now.

Cassandra added, "Men call them -- the Furies."

He nodded.  "Should I start calling you Tisiphone?" he asked.  "Or Alecto?  Or Megaera?  Or just plain Fury?"

"All of them."  Cassandra was still watching him.  "All three.  And more.  I am all women, Methos.  All the women you ever abused, ever raped, ever killed.  The men and the children, too.  The others are dead now, but I am not.  I speak for them, and I have come for you."

Did she honestly think that the gods had waited this long before sending retribution into his life?  Did she think that he had never suffered?  She was definitely furious, but she was not Nemesis, no matter what she thought.  And he was not a savior, no matter how much he had wanted to be.  He couldn't save Kronos, and he couldn't save the world.  Maybe he couldn't ever save himself.

But Cassandra was waiting for some response.  He started clapping his hands slowly.  "Very poetic, Cassandra," he said, "very Greek."

"I am more a Trojan than I am a Greek," she corrected.  "And there was another Cassandra in Troy -- my namesake, my foster-daughter.  No one ever believed her, but she was always right in the end."

Cassandra's eyes glowed with a kind of madness, and her long hair fell about her face.  No wonder Kronos always called her a witch.  Methos didn't believe in witchcraft.  He hadn't for a very long time.

But Cassandra's voice sounded eerie somehow, echoing in the chamber.  "I tell you now, Methos, there is no escape for you.  The Furies pursue into madness, unto death, and beyond."

Methos stared at her.  He couldn't look away.  He knew the voice of prophecy when he heard it.

Cassandra added, "You know the name of the son who castrates his father, don't you, Methos?"

Of course he knew, and Cassandra knew he knew, and she was still going to say it.

"His name," she said, "is Kronos."

The woman made him damned uncomfortable.  Her words came back to him: "Into madness, unto death, and beyond."  The prophecies of the priestesses of the temple always came true, one way or another.  There was no escape.

It had already started.  He was living in madness now, living among the Horsemen and Cassandra.  Death was as close as Kronos' virus, as close as the others' swords.  At least she had mentioned beyond.  That was reassuring.  It was nice to know there would be a beyond.

What the hell was he going to do?  Cassandra wouldn't cooperate with him at all.  Well, that had always been a long shot.  Kronos had vials of deadly poison just waiting to explode into the city's water supply.  Caspian and Silas would surely be back soon, and then it would be three against one, although the two of them would probably be drunk on a combination of women, drugs or booze, and a Quickening -- MacLeod's Quickening.

Methos didn't want to think about it, but he had to.  MacLeod was dead.  There was no hero coming to save the day.  And Methos knew that Cassandra had been partially right.  It was partly his fault.  He went through his options again.

One -- do nothing and go along with Kronos.  I'll survive.  The world will recover.  Eventually.  But Cassandra's words had brought back Greece to him.  He had defied Kronos then, defied him in the name of art, of science, of learning.  He had made the right decision then, and he knew it.  He would make the right decision now.  Doing nothing was no longer an option.  MacLeod would have been proud of him.

Let's start again.  What were the options?

One -- call the police, have the three of them arrested for kidnapping.  Right, like Kronos would let him near a phone now.  Kronos hadn't returned Methos' cell phone.  He hadn't returned his gun, either.

Two -- find the virus and destroy it, before Kronos or Silas or Caspian sees me.  Oh, sure.  That would be easy enough.

Three -- contact the Watchers.  It was their fight, too, their civilization at stake, but if Kronos found out about them, he would slaughter them like sheep.  Besides, Methos had no way to contact them.  He was on his own.

Four -- kill Kronos myself.  Visions came to him of a young boy, leaning against him in the night around a campfire.  He heard himself laughing as he watched a gangly youth trying to stay on a horse the first time he ever mounted.  He saw a young man's joy in his first battle, and saw the man on the floor playing with the children and puppies in the house in Tilpuk.  He saw Kronos and himself getting drunk around the campfire, with Silas and Caspian.  Sharing a willing woman in Kronos' tent.  Laughing like madmen as they fled from a huge cavalry force, encountered during a badly bungled raid.  No fear, only exhilaration and challenge.

No.  He couldn't do it.  He might, if he stretched himself, have the skill to defeat Kronos, but he would never have the will, not even with MacLeod's ghost egging him on.

Five, five ...  There had to be a five.  Methos leaned his head back against the pillar and closed his eyes.  It had been hundreds of years since he had believed in any god, since he had truly prayed, but suddenly praying seemed like a very good idea.
 

Methos opened his eyes at the approach of an Immortal, but he did not move from his place at the end of the cage.  There was nowhere to go.

Kronos and Silas came in, and Silas had his axe in his hands.  Methos sat up a little from his slouch.  Those two were in a hurry; something was going on.  Kronos unlocked the cage door and said to Silas, "If MacLeod even gets close, kill her."

MacLeod?  MacLeod!  Methos was glad he was sitting down, glad his face was in the shadows.  He closed his eyes again, relief and giddy joy flooding through him.  MacLeod was alive.  Alive.  The pillar behind him was solid and real.

"He's alive?" Cassandra asked, echoing his thoughts, throwing off her blanket, showing the excitement and elation Methos dared not reveal.

For Kronos was watching, and he was angry indeed.  "Not for long!" he told Cassandra, sounding very sure of himself.

Cassandra crawled toward Methos in the cage, her eyes bright with malicious satisfaction.  "You failed!" she exulted.

Not yet, Methos thought, not yet!  MacLeod was back in the game, and it wasn't over yet.  Either Kronos or MacLeod could win, or it might even end in a stalemate.

Kronos made the first move.  "Come along, my clever friend," Kronos said.  "You and I are going to poison a city."

Methos went with Kronos, as he always had.

Kronos quickly outlined his plans as they walked through the hallways, Methos at his right side, where he belonged.  Methos was silent as he nodded and listened, thinking things through.  His brother would offer suggestions in a few moments, Kronos knew.  This was how they worked best -- Kronos had the ideas, Methos had the plans.  Just like the old days.

Or almost.  Caspian was dead.  Well, that was no great loss, really, not in the larger scheme of things.  And Kronos had much larger schemes.  They were heading for the outside when the sensation of another Immortal came along.  It was MacLeod, of course, standing at the top of the steep staircase.

How delightful.  They wouldn't have to hunt down Caspian's killer after all.  Kronos started up the steps, his brother right behind him.

"The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse," MacLeod declaimed from the top of the stairs.  "Doesn't exactly have the same ring, does it, Kronos?"  MacLeod stared down at them.  "What are you going to do now?"

And wouldn't MacLeod just love to know?  Kronos knew this game, and he liked to play.  "You're not going to be around long enough to find out."

"Oh, we'll see about that," MacLeod answered, drawing his sword.

"Think of Cassandra," Kronos warned, stopping him where he stood.  "Lay down your sword, and she lives.  Fight and win," -- as if MacLeod could! -- "or lose, she dies."

MacLeod hesitated.

"Come on, MacLeod!" Kronos challenged.  "Your life for hers!  What do you say?"

This time MacLeod looked past him to look at Methos.  MacLeod didn't seem to like what he saw there, because he answered grimly, "I think she'd rather be dead."

No doubt, Kronos thought, but who cared what she wanted?  At least he had finally gotten his revenge on the bitch.  He wouldn't have minded keeping her around for a bit longer, but she had served her purpose.

MacLeod was still glaring at Methos.  "You set me up."  He sounded very hurt, very incredulous, and very angry.

Kronos smiled to himself.  Yes, that little plan had worked perfectly.  Cassandra had driven a wedge between Methos and MacLeod, and Kronos had split them completely apart.  Methos had nothing left but the brotherhood now.  He would have to see that.

Kronos turned slightly, not taking his eyes off MacLeod, and spoke to his brother.  "Tell Silas to finish her."  He savored the final words.  "And let her know, it was MacLeod's decision."

Methos headed down the steps, and MacLeod called after him, "Methos, don't do this!

Methos didn't listen, as Kronos had known he wouldn't.  "Like you said," Methos answered from the bottom of the stairs, "I go with the winner."  He snatched up his sword from a table and ran from the room.

Kronos smiled openly this time.  Methos was one of the brothers, and MacLeod had no claim on him.  Kronos picked up his sword.  It had been a long time since he had had a good fight, and he was going to be the winner.

"Don't do this.  Don't do this.  Don't do this," Methos chanted to himself, as he ran through the echoing corridors, the acrid scents of oil and gas harsh in his throat.  But it was too late; Kronos and MacLeod were already fighting.  Methos could hear the clash of steel behind him.

Too soon, too late, he was at the small bay that held Cassandra's cage, a very short tower in a filthy moat, a princess waiting to be rescued.  Yeah, right.  He was not cut out for this kind of work.  This was MacLeod's job, to be the knight in shining armor.  It was MacLeod's job to come riding in on a white horse.  Methos had ridden a pale horse, and he had never gone in for that noble knight stuff.  But now MacLeod was busy doing another knightly job, fighting an enemy in single combat.

No!  Don't do this!

It was too late.  Methos splashed through the frigid water, his feet burning with the ache of cold, his sword in his hand.  The four torches at the corners of the cage sputtered fitfully in the damp air, while shadows of waves shimmered from the walls to the ceiling and back again, and the water lapped at his legs.  Methos rested his hand on the solid pillar of the cage.

Cassandra was waiting, of course, glaring at him from her cage.  Silas was waiting, too, holding his axe.  "MacLeod's here?" he asked, for once in his life figuring out something on his own.

Methos was still panting slightly from the run.  Why did Silas have to pick now to be observant?  He tried frantically to think of something to say, some lie, anything to delay what was going to happen, but Silas was already opening the cage.  "Yes," he said quietly.  Oh, yes.

Methos closed his eyes and listened to Cassandra's shrieks of "No!" as Silas dragged her from the corner of the cage.  Methos had heard her say that before, long ago.

"You don't care, do you?" the dream-Alexa had asked him.  "I'm nothing to you."

No.  Never again.  No one was nothing, and he would never stand by and watch again.  Now it was time for him to say no.  Methos finally opened his eyes, then stepped forward, both hands on the hilt of his sword.

Cassandra was on her hands and knees, struggling futilely against Silas' mighty grip on the back of her shirt.  Silas was not looking at Methos; his attention was on Cassandra, and his neck was unprotected.  No!  He had to give Silas a choice.

Silas raised his axe high, aiming for Cassandra's neck.

Now!  Do it!  No!  YES!  The alternative was unthinkable.  Methos raised his sword to block the blow, but he could not bear to look.  I told you it would be soon enough, my friend, he thought.  Forgive me.

"You're challenging me?" Silas asked incredulously.  "For the girl's head?"  He shrugged and smiled.  "Take it," he offered, eager to share.  He backed away slightly and lowered his axe, still holding tight to Cassandra's shirt.  "She's yours, brother."

Methos swallowed hard, cursing Silas for not being very observant now.  Silas was offering him one final chance to avoid this confrontation.  All Methos had to do was kill Cassandra, and the others would never know.

No.  It could not be.  He could not do that.  He could not become Death again.  Methos placed his sword against Silas' axe, and his words came fiercely.  "I am not your brother."

Silas blinked, finally understanding, and his confusion turned to bewildered hurt.  "How can you do this?"  He cocked his head, and the shadows of the cage painted a stark tartan of black and white across the side of his face.  His hurt became the anger of betrayal and loss.  "How can you go against what you are?"

Methos glanced once at Cassandra, her eyes steady upon him from where she crouched on the floor of the cage.  She was watching, and waiting, and he remembered her words: "I know what you are now."  Did she know?  Did he?

At least he knew what he was not.  He was not a Horseman.  He would never become Death again.  Never!  Methos allowed all the rage and frustration of this last week, these last millennia, to grow within him, to give him strength.  Methos had to do what he had often told MacLeod not to do.  He must become that damned knight on that damned white horse, that judge, that executioner.

He faced Silas, and saw merely another Immortal, a stranger, an opponent, an enemy.  Methos said savagely, "You don't know anything about me!" and struck out at the other man.

Silas' face twisted with rage, and he let go of Cassandra to grasp his axe with both hands.  She retreated into the cage, and the axe beat down on the blade.

The brotherhood was broken.

Away from the cage, down the torchlit hall, through empty rooms and echoing bays, the two men fought that deadly dance, cursing, aching, slipping, turning, certain of one thing alone -- one of them must die.

Methos was fighting for his life.  Or his death.  But then, he was Death.  Or he had been Death once.  He never wanted to become Death again.  Remember, man, that thou art death and unto death thou shalt return.  No.  Never again.

Parry, duck, feint, slice, thrust.  Back up!  Gods, the strength of this man!  Methos took a shuddering gasp for air.  His sword was an aching weight welded to his hands, his arms were quivering with exhaustion, his breath was burning in his throat.  He couldn't last much longer.

The ground disappeared beneath his feet, and he went backward heavily on the tilted gangplank, grabbing at the handrails to stop his descent and dropping his sword as he fell.  The axe was close to his head; Methos ducked off the end of the gangplank and rolled to get to his sword.  The axe was still coming.  He had to get to his sword.

He was stopped by the sound of his name.

"Methos."

He froze on his knees, caught there defenseless by the bitterness in the voice, and the disbelief in the eyes.  Kronos was watching, his sword in his hand.  Kronos was there -- his son, his student, his brother, his friend.  His enemy.  The disbelief in the eyes changed to despair, then to hate, and Methos stared back unblinking.  Judge not, that ye shall not be judged.

Methos turned his back on Kronos and reached for his sword.  The axe was still there, still coming for him, and Methos wanted to live.

The Horsemen were finished.  Kronos was nothing to him.  Silas was nothing to him.  Death was nothing to him.  Methos had once been Death, but he was himself now, and he wanted to live.  O death, where is thy victory?  O death, where is thy sting?

Here, and here, and there!  A solid clash of blows, the grunts and pants loud in the chill damp air, and he and his enemy turned with a twist of the sword.  The other was behind him now; they were back to back, a classic fighting position for friends and brothers-in-arms, a sudden reversal of position.  Of course.  Traitor, quisling, Judas, turncoat, Cronus, betrayer, Set ...

Neither could see the other, yet Methos knew, without looking, the exact position of the other Immortal.  He knew, from thousands of hours spent in just this position with this same Immortal, exactly where and how the other was standing, how high the neck was, how the right shoulder was held slightly above the left, where the axe would be.

The voice of Kronos screamed in fury, "I am the End of Time!"

It was the end.  It was time.  Cast a cold eye on life, on death.  This was the way it had to be.  Had to be, must be.  Do it.  Do it!  DO IT!

Methos swung his sword, and death came.

Horseman, pass by.

The pain went on and on.  Methos stood, arms outstretched, sword dangling uselessly from his hand, while the Quickening gouged into his soul and ripped through his body.  He stood, trying only to breathe.  Air.  Just air.  A simple breath was all he wanted.  He couldn't get it.

The pain slowed, now only licks of fire along his nerves, instead of torrents of excruciating agony.  He breathed again, a careful inhalation, but then the pain started again.

Gods!  It was going to kill him!  It was worse now, all the energy concentrated at a single point in his brain instead of spread throughout his body.  He still couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think.  He could only feel.

Kronos, Silas, MacLeod, himself -- all combined and melting together, hate and lust and joy and pain, fear and love and loneliness.  On and on and on and on.  Methos knew he was going to die.

He didn't, but he felt as though he had.  Sometime during that blast of energy, he had dropped his sword.  Now he dropped to his knees, onto a floor slick with Silas' blood.  His brother's head lay only a few feet away.

Methos closed his eyes as the pain took him again.  This time, he knew, it would never end.  This time, the pain came from inside and there was no escape.  He had killed his brother.  All of his brothers were dead, and it was all his fault.

"I killed Silas!" he cried out in anguish, rocking back and forth on his hands and on his knees, a child moaning in pain.  The moan became a howl of rage and frustration and love.  "I liked Silas!"

And Silas was there, right beside him, as he had always been, down through the years.  "We ride, Brother?" he asked, eager and excited.

No.  Never again.  The brotherhood is broken.  The hoofbeats will sound no more.

But footsteps came, ringing on the metal walkway, and Cassandra stood above him, pale Tisiphone, robed with all the pomp of horror, dyed in gore.  His brother's axe was in her hands.  As it should be.

"Now I'm supposed to forgive you?" she cried, a furious shriek, from a shrieking Fury.

No.  No forgiveness.  None.  Ever.  My brothers are dead.

"Cassandra!"

MacLeod's voice, coming across the water.  MacLeod was alive, and Kronos was dead.  My brother is dead.

"You want him to live?" Cassandra asked, incredulous.

No.  Let me die.

"Yes," MacLeod answered, the words floating on the air.  "I want him to live."

"I want this one, Brother," Silas said, an echo in his mind, a happy smile on his face as he looked at a newborn colt.  "Can I keep it?"

Oh, Silas, my brother, my brother, I killed you.  You're dead.

"*Cassandra!*"  It was MacLeod again, louder this time.  "I want him to live!"

NO!  Shut up, MacLeod!  I want to die!  Should I beg you, Cassandra?  I'm already on my knees.  Should I beg you for mercy?  A single swift stroke, the coup de grace?

Silas was still there, his eyes curious and concerned.  "Not like the old days, is it, Brother?"

No.  Oh, no.

Cassandra cried out, a single anguished cry, and Methos readied himself for the blow.  Kill me, Cassandra.  End it now.

But Cassandra dropped the axe and walked away.  She left him there alone.

Alone, except for the voices in his mind, and someone weeping far away, empty aching sobs.

"Take it.  She's yours, Brother," Silas said, giving him the gift of a newborn filly.

Kronos was there, too.  "We never raise a blade against each other.  Isn't that right, Methos?"

O my brothers!  O my brothers.  Silas, Kronos, Caspian.  Silas, Kronos, Caspian.  All dead.  All dead by my hand.

"Methos?"

This voice was outside him; this voice was real.  And the hand that touched his shoulder was alive.

"NO!"  He scrambled away, scuttled on his hands and his knees, then picked himself up and ran.  There was his brother's head, Kronos' head, lying forgotten against the wall.

It wasn't right that it should end this way.  It wasn't right.  Kronos shouldn't be alone anymore.  Not his brother.  Not his son.  Not him.

He picked up the head and held it, close against his breast, close against his heart.  He rocked it like a baby, keening softly all the while.

"Methos," MacLeod said, in gentle tones he did not deserve.  "I'll wait for you, at the hotel.  Call me."  His voice sounded broken.  "Please."

Methos did not answer, and MacLeod turned and walked away.  He left him there alone.

The head was warm and bloody, the hair still thick and soft.  I knew him, Horatio.  A man of infinite jest and limited wisdom.  Kronos, my son, my brother, my friend.

"I'm glad to be your enemy," Cassandra had said.  "At least I know where I stand with you."

Oh, my son, my son.  I failed you.  I failed.  It's all my fault.

The ancient words of lamentation came unbidden to his tongue.  Many languages, many years, many tears.  The voices in his head continued, while his own voice rode high above them all.

"Mea culpa.  Mea culpa, mei filii."

The voices -- long dead, newly dead, long forgotten, half-remembered -- were still speaking, and he tried to answer.

"Come with me, Brother!" Kronos called across the meadow, ready to race to the tree.
The alternative is unthinkable.

"Aren't you a little young, to be so cynical?" Alexa asked, her eyes disappointed.
I am over five thousand years old, and I don't know who I am anymore.

"Who are you now, Methos?" MacLeod asked, angry and hurt.
I'm just a guy.

"You killed them?" Cassandra asked in horror.  "All of them?"
I killed a thousand.  I killed TEN thousand!

"Can anyone live for five thousand years and say they did nothing?" a man who called himself Methos asked.  "Risked nothing?  Merely stayed alive?  It'd be pointless."
Survive.

"Thanks for playing with me, Methos."  Caspian smiled across the tent.
It's just a game.

"We are the Four Horsemen."  Kronos was waiting for him.  "Remember that."
I'm not like that anymore!

"What game are you playing?"
Live.  Grow stronger.  Fight another day.

"And what shall I call you, Methos?" the young boy asked.
Father.

"You lied to me," Alexa said through bruised and bleeding lips.  "I'm nothing to you."
You live to serve me.

"We are the same, and we belong together," Kronos declared.  "Forever."
Forever can be a very long time.

"Now I'm supposed to forgive you?"

There could be no answer, let it be.

Let it be.

Let it be done, according to thy will.

The voices faded, and Methos rose stiffly to his feet, the head still in his arms.  It wasn't warm anymore.  He walked slowly to the crumpled body, left where it had fallen.  The blood had dried, rusty brown on the black clothes.  Methos squatted, then gathered Kronos' body onto his lap.  He placed the head on top of Kronos' torso, then stood, staggering under the weight.

The head started to roll, and Methos bent his own head, holding Kronos close against his chest, tucking his chin on top of Kronos' forehead.  He had to carry the body and the head together.  They shouldn't be separated.

Methos made his way down to the platform where Silas lay, then laid Kronos alongside him.  He arranged both bodies, legs straight, arms crossed.  He placed the heads neatly where they should have been, looking at each other.  He laid Silas' axe on the broad chest and helped Silas hold the handle.  The fingers were stiff, but curved.

Then he went to get Kronos' sword.  The blade was still marked with MacLeod's blood, and Methos scrubbed it off on his shirt as he walked back.  This weapon went at his brother's feet, for Kronos needed another blade.  Methos knew where it was, of course, tucked into Kronos' belt.  Kronos had kept it all this time, close by his side.  Side-by-side, together.  For eternity.

Methos wrapped Kronos' hands around the handle of the bronze knife -- the knife that Methos had used to stab him in the heart, the knife that Methos had given him almost four thousand years ago.  Through all the centuries, nothing had shaken Kronos' faith in the man who had rescued him as a child, who had given him Immortality, who had ridden at his side.  Kronos had never believed that Methos would truly betray him.

But Methos had, and Kronos was dead.

His hands were damp.  His cheeks were wet.  He felt nothing, nothing except the blood on his hands and the ache in his heart, and the loneliness that would never end.  His brothers were dead, and he was alone.  The air was damp and cold, a fog coming in through the open bays now, the sunshine gone to mist.  Methos shivered in the shadows.

A fire.  That was what was needed: a fire.  Methos went to gather fuel.  Furniture, scraps of lumber, oil drums, gasoline, wooden crates -- they all went into the pile around the brothers.  A flaming torch was easily come by; the braziers were still burning.

Methos circled the pyre, then touched the torch to the wood on one side, then another, and then again.  The flames started low, fitful licks of red and yellow.  Methos threw the torch into the center of the pile.  It landed between the brothers, and the flames grew, reaching high, burning, illuminating, consuming, destroying.  The bodies smoked and blackened, then started to burn.  The reek of gasoline and burning hair mingled with the richer scent of roasting flesh.

He stood and watched, tears on his face, his hands by his sides.  His palms felt sticky, and he rubbed them up and down on his legs, but the stickiness remained.  Methos stopped and looked.  His clothes were covered in blood, and so was he.  He stripped immediately, tearing off the sweatshirt and blue jeans, the shoes, the socks, everything.  It all went on the fire.

The heat was fierce; his bare skin shrank from it, pulled tight across his cheekbones, but it wasn't enough.  He stepped closer, and held his hands into the flames.  The skin reddened, then started to blacken and char, and Methos could bear it no more.  He snatched his hands back and fell to his knees, nauseated with the pain, but his hands were already healing, and the blood was gone.

The tears were gone, too, and Methos wanted to weep.  Grant me tears, O Lord, to blot out my sins; may I not cease from them, O God, until I have been purified.  Grant me the gift of tears, a well of tears, fierce floods of tears.

There were none.  There was only the burning in his eyes and the aching desiccation in his soul, with the gentle lap of black water all around.  Even the voices were silent now.

The fire burned, and he watched on his knees, watched the dying embers of the funeral pyre, an altar-place heaped high.  The coals glowed red.  The pyre held charred, blackened husks that would crumble at a touch, and the ashes of his hopes and his dreams, the ashes of himself.  Methos had risen from the ashes many times before, a phoenix in the flames, created and recreated over and over again.  He had been many things.

What was he now?

He was old, he was tired, and he was alone.

Methos went back to the room he had slept in and found some clothes.  He dressed slowly and mechanically, then he climbed the stairs that led out of the bunker.

He walked in silence into the night.
 

Methos walked for a long time, wandering.  The fields were empty now, the harvest done.  He spent the night in small grove of trees, sheltered from the wind, and when the sun rose, he started to wander again.  It didn't matter where he went.  Nothing mattered anymore.

His brothers were dead.

"Do you trust me, Kronos?"

"With my life."

And Kronos had.

Methos went on alone, as the shadows lengthened and the day went on.  He stopped and stared at nothing.

Nothing.

"Je m'appelle Andre Nevarsel."

Methos scrambled to his feet.  The unpleasant sensation of a nearby Immortal was almost overwhelming.  How had he let him get so close?  Methos blinked, trying to force his mind to this new threat -- male, French, about his own height, more than his weight, short dark hair, dark eyes, probably less than a few centuries old.  And only three meters away.

Methos glanced about quickly, evaluating the terrain.  They were standing in an abandoned field, and Nevarsel's car was parked alongside the country road.  The field was a decent place for a fight -- level, unobstructed, a hedgerow not far away.  There were no rocks to trip on, no tree branches to snag a blade.

No place to run.  No place to hide.

"Are you a new one, then?" Nevarsel asked, switching to English, puzzled by Methos' lack of response.  "It is customary to introduce yourself when challenged."

"I have no quarrel with you."  The words came automatically to Methos' lips, and he wondered why he had said them.  Deep inside, a fury was growing, threatening the numbness he had felt ever since he had left the submarine base.

"Quarrel?" Nevarsel asked, a faint sneer curling his upper lip.  "What is this quarrel?"  He drew his sword, a nineteenth-century saber.  "We should start before the rain comes, no?"

"Rain?"  The air was fresh and sharp, a cool slap to the face, and Methos glanced to the west.  The setting sun was a bloody ball of fire, wreathed in the billowing smoke of black storm clouds.  The sky was dark, and the storm would come soon.  He could smell it.

Nevarsel approached, flattening the withered meadow grasses beneath his boots.  His stride was confident, his smile arrogant.  "There can be only one."

Fury flooded through Methos, drowned him.  All the feelings of the last two weeks -- all the terror; all the love, all the regret, the panic, and the grief -- were swept away.  In their place was only an unmitigated anger, a need to destroy everything in sight.  Lips drew back to bare teeth, and he hissed deep in his throat.  He dodged Nevarsel's first unhurried blow, then drew his broadsword and faced his opponent.

Nevarsel stopped, then took a step backward.  His eyes flickered uncertainly from Methos' sword to Methos' face, and the Frenchman swallowed hard.

Now it was Methos' turn to smile.  He knew what he looked like -- death, immediate and inglorious.  He knew the rage and the madness that showed in his eyes.  He could feel the fury inside him, and he decided to let it out.

First came a few blows, fast and furious, to terrify and confuse his opponent.  Then with a calculated slice, Methos scored first blood, cutting deeply into Nevarsel's right arm, severing the tendons and the muscles.

The sword fell from Nevarsel's dead fingers, and he clutched his arm close against him.

From his most ancient memories, Methos knew that one way to avoid feeling pain was to inflict it on others.  He circled his enemy casually, once, and then he began to cut -- slowly, maliciously, waiting in between each stroke for Nevarsel to begin to heal, but never waiting quite long enough.  Shoulder, thigh, hand, ribs, the tendons behind the knee -- Methos avoided any stroke that would bring death, postponing that final moment.  He wanted his victim alert and alive until the end.

Nevarsel was on his knees now, gasping with pain, crying out with agony at each new assault.  Methos watched and listened and cut him some more.  Cold satisfaction burned white-hot as Methos reveled in -- wallowed in -- the gasps and the cries, the smell of blood, and the fear in his victim's eyes.

Finally, he was satiated.  Nevarsel was merely whimpering now, a huddled mass of quivering, bleeding flesh.  Finally, the other man's pain almost matched his own.  Methos lifted his sword for the final cut, then paused, his sword held high.  He wanted this last satisfaction.  "Look at me," he commanded.

The other Immortal did not move, and Methos grabbed Nevarsel's hair and yanked his head back.

Silent desperation and fear shone through the dullness of pain in Frenchman's eyes.  "Who are you?" Nevarsel managed to ask again, his lips bitten through and bloody.

For the first time in over two thousand years the name fell easily and confidently from his lips, and the words carried in the still air.  "I am Methos."  That was indeed who he was.  He was a survivor, and he was a killer.  He had beaten this other Immortal into the ground, and now he was going to take his head.  But it wouldn't be for vengeance.  It wouldn't be for the Prize.

It was because he liked it.

And he was good at it.

Methos stared into the other man's eyes as he swung his sword cleanly and smoothly.  The blade slowed only slightly as Methos severed the head from the body, and he was satisfied.  Almost.

He rested the tip of the sword in the earth and leaned on the handle, breathing deeply of the chill night air.  Another phrase came easily to his lips, a phrase he had said many times before, over many centuries, over many bodies.

"I am Death."

Then the lightning came, and he was all of that, and more.

The power was glorious; it was wonderful.  It fed a hunger deep inside his soul.  Too long had he gone without this.  Too long had he hidden and denied this side of himself.  It was who he was, and it was what he wanted.  It was an offering to the gods, and he was a god himself, with the power of life in his hands, and the power of death.

The rain came with the lightning, a slow, steady, autumn rain, relentless, ceaseless, and cold.  It felt good.  It all felt good, the fire screaming through his veins, the coldness washing over his skin.  Methos let go of his sword and opened his arms to the power, spread them wide, then he flung back his head for a taste of the rain.

The lightning of the Quickening flickered and slowed and died away.  Methos stood there, trembling, breathing deeply, his mouth still open.  Slowly, he let his arms fall to his side.  Now, he was satisfied.

He stretched and looked about him, then bent and retrieved both his sword and Nevarsel's.  Shields, swords, scalps, entire heads -- ever since warriors had learned to count, they had taken trophies from battlefields.  Methos had to step over the body to walk to where the head lay, a surprisingly small object on the muddy ground.  The rain had already washed most of the blood into the earth.

The eyes were still open, and Methos shoved the head with his foot so he could look once more into those eyes.  He wanted to see the fear again, to relive the pleasure of power.  But the eyes were empty now, glazed over with death, sightless, staring eyes.  Methos stared back, then dropped both swords and fell to his knees.

"Oh, gods!"  His stomach heaved, and the bitter taste of bile filled his mouth and his nose.  He did not have to look behind him to see the hacked-up body.  He remembered exactly what it looked like, exactly what he had done.

"O my God."

Methos stayed on his knees for a long time, while the cold rain fell.

This was what he had been when he had ridden with Kronos.  This was what he had done.  But not for millennia, not for over two thousand years.  How had he let himself go back?

Now the coldness did not come from the rain; it came from inside.  Where else was there to go?

Kronos was dead; nothing Methos had done had mattered.  Nothing.  All the learning, all the discussions of theology and philosophy and love were only empty words.  All the buildings he had ever helped build were destroyed.  All the treaties he had devised and the codes of law he had worked on were forgotten.  All the books he had ever written and the things he had created were lost.  All the women he had loved and the children he had raised were dead.  Everything was gone.

All of his work, all of his time, all of his love -- obliterated.  And for what?  Why had he bothered?  Why had he cared?  It didn't matter.  Nothing mattered.  He had tried to live a good life so that Kronos could see there was more to life than killing.  He had tried to "set a good example" for his son.

What a bloody, worthless waste of time.  Byron knew: The world was void, seasonless, herbless, treeless, manless, lifeless -- a lump of death -- a chaos of hard clay.

  Darkness has no need of aid.  She is the Universe.

Had he ever even believed in anything he had done?  Had it all been an act?  A lie, even to himself?  Kronos had known.  His words were true: "You pretended to change.  Maybe you even convinced yourself you had, but inside you're still there, Methos.  You're like me."  Had the last two thousand aching empty years been nothing more than part of the interminable power-struggle between himself and Kronos?

He had lost either way.  Kronos was dead, and he had nothing left.

Nothing.

The rain fell cold and steady on his back as he lay face down in the dirt, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed.  The earth beneath him was mud now, the mud peculiar to battlefields.  This was mud made from blood and water and dirt, churned by wagon wheels and boot heels, by the tramp of horses' hooves and the agonized flail of human arms and legs.  He had seen this mud before -- walked in it, fought in it, fallen in it, lain in it, tasted it, been buried in it.

The mud was slippery, yielding, endlessly malleable.  Treacherous.  He needed something solid, a touchstone for his soul.

He needed MacLeod.
 

The rain stopped just before dawn.  Methos climbed the worn, stone steps of Elysium Church and sat in front of the massive, wooden doors, waiting for the sun to rise, waiting for MacLeod.  The night-clerk at the Hotel de Seze had promised to deliver his message.  Methos didn't know when -- or if -- MacLeod would come, but he was going to wait right here.

He was terrified to leave Holy Ground.  He couldn't take the chance that he might be challenged again, might have another excuse to fight.  To kill.  Methos huddled on the steps, his coat pulled around him.  Not that it helped.  His coat was soaked through, and so was he.  At least the rain had washed away the mud.  And the blood.

The sun rose, or at least it seemed to.  The solid mass of gray clouds in the east grew slightly less gray, and a patch of brightness moved slowly above the horizon.  He stood and went into the graveyard, moving briskly and slapping his hands against himself, trying to get warm.  Color gradually returned to the world, though it was hard to tell in this place -- gray stone church, black iron fence, white marble tombstones.  Pots of bronze chrysanthemums lined the outside wall of the church and stood around the base of a tall, Celtic cross.  The flowers' crisp scent floated on the air.  Offerings to the dead.  As if the dead cared.

He went back to the steps and waited.  The priest finally arrived for early morning mass, and Methos followed him in.  He sat at the back of the church during the service, letting the words flow over him and around him, not so much listening as absorbing.  He did not take Communion.  He did not say the prayers.

There was no music, just the words of the liturgy, and then the mass was over.  The priest gave the final benediction.  "Allez-en paix."  Go in peace.

Methos stayed where he was, on his knees on the cold stone floor.

The people filed out, and the priest left soon after, with a murmured blessing in his direction.  Methos bowed his head, but did not respond.

The church was silent.  The candle in the red glass cup burned near the altar, an eternal presence, a ceaseless flame.  Methos had not been a monk for centuries, but he started to recite the psalms.  The Latin phrases had calmed his soul in the past; they were a form of meditation, the Catholic version of Om.

But the words were no longer there.  It had been too long, and he had gone too far.  He rose stiffly from his knees, then sat on the hard wooden chair, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, his head down.  He closed his eyes and tried to remember a psalter he had once owned.  It was almost there; he could almost see it -- the glorious illuminations on the vellum page; the thin, angular Celtic script; the slight roughness of the leather covers in the palms of his hands.

Then Kronos was there, smiling, as he always smiled -- a knowing, mocking smile, full of evil joy.  Kronos took the book from his hands and tossed it onto a fire.  The edges of the book curled and smoldered, and blackness spread over the page.  The glorious pictures burned away, and the book was gone.

His eyes snapped open and he bolted from the chair.  Methos stopped after a few steps and looked around.  He was alone.  Chairs stood in uneven rows; four massive pillars rose at the corners of the nave and reached to the vaulted ceiling.  The sky had cleared a little, maybe, for the stained-glass window high above the doorway glowed with red and blue light, and the church was not so dim.

He was tired, that was all.  He needed sleep.  Methos pushed some chairs together to make a bench, then he lay down and slept at the base of one of the pillars.

When he woke, he stretched and yawned, then slumped in one of the chairs.  It was almost noon, and MacLeod still hadn't come.  MacLeod had said he would wait, and it had only been two days.  Hadn't it?  Methos cast back in his mind, trying to remember.  Yes.  Today was Tuesday.  Yesterday had been Armistice Day, a day to commemorate peace.

Methos didn't want to try to remember anything else from his past.  He picked up the missal from underneath the chair and leafed through the pages.

After a while, his muscles tightened and his stomach churned.  Methos did not look up.  It was MacLeod coming in the doorway; he recognized the footsteps.

MacLeod sat down one chair away from him and said nothing, for a while.  MacLeod always had something to say, eventually.  "Interesting reading?" he asked.

"Second Samuel, chapter nineteen," Methos answered, still not looking up, trying for the familiar -- and safe -- banter.  "Whoever wrote this probably got all the details wrong, but they sure got the emotions right."  His voice broke on the last few words.

MacLeod leaned toward him.  "You all right?"

Methos shook his head, then slammed the book shut and dropped it on the chair between them.  There was nothing for him there.  He stood and walked up the nave, stopping in front of the altar.  The flame of the presence still burned.  The cross hung stark against the pale stone.  Holy Ground, for an unholy race, for an unholy man.  There was nothing for him here.

"It was too close, MacLeod," he said, his voice still rough.  "Too close.  I don't know how I'm going to get through this, what I'm going to do."  Nothing mattered.  Nothing.  He shook his head and whispered, "I don't know who I am anymore."

"You're a survivor," MacLeod said harshly, standing now.  "You'll survive."

Would he?  Why?  Methos turned and finally looked at MacLeod.  "You shouldn't have stopped her."

MacLeod blinked in surprise.  "Cassandra was wrong about you."

Methos closed his eyes, remembering Andre Nevarsel's terror the night before, remembering his own pleasure.  "No, MacLeod.  No, she wasn't."

"Yes, she was."  MacLeod sounded very sure of himself, very sure of Methos.  MacLeod came to him, earnest, sincere -- solid rock.  "She saw only part of you, Methos.  She saw you only as she remembered you.  She didn't see you as you are now."

Methos had to clear his throat before he could speak.  "You think so?"

MacLeod didn't hesitate at all.  "Yes."  He reached out to touch Methos, ignoring the way Methos stiffened under his grip, certain even now.  "The person Cassandra knew wouldn't have helped me through the dark Quickening.  He wouldn't have risked everything to help Alexa.  He wouldn't have put his life on the line to help Joe."

Methos shrugged.  "Maybe."  Methos pulled his arm away and turned back to the altar.  "I'm on the edge, MacLeod, and I don't know which way I'll fall."  He shot a glance at MacLeod, then stared at the floor as he admitted, "But I know I need you.  I need you to keep me focused, to remind me ..."  To be the rock on which I can build my self.

MacLeod was watching, and waiting, his eyes dark in the dimness of the church.

Methos forced himself to face MacLeod, to stand up and look him in the eye.  "I'm ... going to Holy Ground for a bit.  When I come back, maybe you could put up with seeing me occasionally?"

MacLeod said nothing.

"I'll buy the beer," Methos offered, desperation cracking through his banter once again.

MacLeod finally responded, a quick nod, a small smile, and Methos closed his eyes in relief.  The two men walked together to the door.

"Tell me about Kronos," MacLeod asked as they stepped outside.  "What was he to you?"

Now that was a hell of a question.  Methos didn't want to alienate MacLeod, not anymore, not now.  But he realized with shock that he couldn't lie, either.

"He wasn't always like that, MacLeod.  I found him when he was a boy.  After he became Immortal, we worked together, fought together, lived together with his family.  Then one day, there was a raid.  The older slaves were killed, the children and wives taken.  Kronos wanted revenge, so we took it.  And then, we just kept taking."

The white tombstones were streaked with gray and green lichen; black smears of rain-washed pollution etched tear-streaks down their sides.  Methos kept walking.  "When I decided to leave the Horsemen, Kronos didn't want me to go.  We fought.  I won, but ... I couldn't do it.  I couldn't take his head.  So I left."

He stopped and stared through the iron fence to the empty field across the road.  "I was hiding from him before Julius Caesar invaded Britain.  Over the centuries, I used the Watchers to get news of him, hoping I would find that Kronos had changed, that the anger had run its course ..."  He shook his head and started walking again.  The anger had never ended.  The madness had never ceased.

MacLeod caught up to him.  "But you had to know Kronos would come for you one day."

"I tried not to think about it."  He had waited so long.

"You could have killed him," MacLeod said.  "Why didn't you?"

"I wanted to."  Methos stopped yet again, remembering the hate.  "I would have slept easier if he had been dead.  But what he was, I had a hand in creating.  We were brothers -- in arms, in blood, in everything except birth."  Now he remembered the love.

Families were never simple.  Methos wanted MacLeod to understand.  "If I judged him worthy to die, then I judged myself the same way."

MacLeod was nodding a little.

Methos wasn't surprised at MacLeod's easy acknowledgement.  MacLeod knew about judgment -- too much sometimes.  Methos said firmly, "And I wanted to live."  He paused and added softly, surprised and relieved, "I still do."  He started walking again.

MacLeod's voice called after him.  "You set the whole thing up, didn't you?"

Had he?  Could he even remember?  "What do you mean?"

"You knew he'd come after Cassandra, and you let him, because you knew I'd come after her."

That wasn't quite the way it had happened, certainly not the way he had planned it, but Methos said nothing.

MacLeod continued, right beside him now, "You couldn't kill him, but you hoped I could."

Methos glanced at MacLeod.  "Maybe," he said, and kept walking.

"Maybe," MacLeod repeated, a skeptical echo, and they left the cemetery and walked out into the field.  They walked in silence for some time, past wooded copses; past far-off barns and small houses; past leafless vineyards, tortured fences of twisted grapevine.  MacLeod had one final question.  "Methos, what about Cassandra?"

What about her, indeed?  How would MacLeod like to hear that she was just one of countless people whom he had enslaved and abused over the centuries?  Cassandra had been nothing.  Now ... now she was the only one left from those times, the only one who remembered.  She reminded him of what he had been -- what he could all too easily be again.

Her voice whispered to him, as he had heard so many other voices lately: "Into madness, unto death, and beyond."  He had come as close to madness as he ever wanted to in these last few days, and he had tasted the power of death again.  Now it was time for beyond.

"One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod."  His own voice haunted him this time: ten thousand.  He shook his head and said again, "One of a thousand regrets."

Methos left MacLeod there on the hill and headed into the valley below.
 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS:

• our husbands and children, who were most understanding (usually) when we sat down at the computer to write.
• all the people who discussed history, myths, and characterization with us: Cathy Butterfield, Candyce Byrnes, Mikal Fox, and especially Selena..
• and all those who read this in advance, sending us comments and corrections: Becki, Pat Bentley, Melissa Hall, Gillian Leeds, Lorie, Sharon Marais, Vi Moreau, Laura Nauta, Robin Tennenbaum, and Anne Thurman-Tate.

ABOUT THE TITLE:
The title of this story and the quotes at the beginnings of the chapters come from the song "Long Have I Waited."  It is a hymn inspired by the book of Hosea, where Yahweh entreats the people of Israel to come back to him after worshipping foreign gods and goddesses.  The entreaty is written as a husband asking his wife to leave her lovers and return to their home.

The quotes at the beginning of the scenes are all from the Book of Hosea in the Christian Bible.  (King James Version.)

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ABOUT THE WATCHERS:
The Watcher characters of Amy Zoll, Melanie Hind, and Julia Harami are all mentioned in the Watcher CD.  Yvette Berens and Professor LeFarge are our original characters.

The e-mail from Melanie Hind to Dr. Amy Zoll (dated November 1st which begins "Sorry I didn't send condolences on Constantine earlier ...") is directly from the Watcher CD (except for the post scripts).  Joe's response to Amy Zoll ("C'mon, Amy, take a few deep breaths and think about it ...") is also from the Watcher CD.  All other correspondence is from our imagination.

The abbreviation (weg) stands for "wicked, evil grin."

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ABOUT BABYLONIA:
Nippur was one of Sumeria's biggest cities and a major religious center forty centuries ago.  Around 1800 BCE, at a time when Sumerian civilization was quickly being replaced by  the Akkadians, a project to write many of the ancient tales was begun in the temple in Nippur.  Many of the Sumerian writings, including the tale of Gilgamesh, came from archaeological digs at Nippur.  Dubsar is the Sumerian word for scribe.

The full text of Hammurabi's Edict 129:  If a man's wife be surprised (in flagrante delicto) with another man, both shall be tied and thrown into the water, but the husband may pardon his wife and the king his slaves.  (Special thanks to Cathy Butterfield, and her excellent story "Risk" [available at http://www.erols.com/darkpanther/methpage.html].)

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ABOUT ANCIENT GREECE:
In the Greek flashback, Kronos is being bored by quotes from Plato's "Protagoras."

The Aeropagus was reputed to be the most ancient homicide court in Greece.  Foreigners and even gods are said to have resorted to it.  From early times, it tried all cases of homicide, in addition to general criminal jurisdiction.  After the differentiation of voluntary, involuntary, and justifiable homicide, four additional courts were instituted.  Voluntary homicide, wounding with intent, poisoning, and arson came within the jurisdiction of the Aeropagus.  The King Archon, unlike the magistrates who presided over the sittings of the heliastic courts, both presided over and actively participated in trials at the Aeropagus.

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ABOUT THE QUOTES:

"You should read more history, Number One" is a quote from Star Trek: the New Generation. Captain Jean-Luc Picard frequently says it to his second-in-command.

Julius Caesar said, "Alea iacta est," (The die is cast) when he defied the Roman Senate's decree and crossed the Rubicon River with his army.

"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow" is from Shakespeare's MacBeth.

In the scene by the fountain, Methos remembers Byron's poem "Darkness" which was written in summer of 1816, during a vacation with Dr. Polidori (who was replaced in the TV episode with Dr. Adams).  Various phrases and sentences also appear throughout the rest of the story. (The full text of this poem is available at <http://library.utoronto.ca/www/utel/rp/poems/byron7.html>

In the submarine base, Methos remembers (or misremembers) several quotes:

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ABOUT THE TRAITORS:
The names Methos remembers are Quisling, Judas, Kronos, and Set.

• VIDKUN QUISLING (1887-1945) was a Norwegian politician and diplomat before WWII, as well as serving in the "intelligence service."  He actively collaborated in the German conquest of Norway in 1940, and was then proclaimed sole political head of that country, as head of a State Council of 13 Nazi-dominated commissioners.  His name became synonymous with traitor and collaborator.  He was shot in 1945.
• JUDAS is remembered in the Christian Bible as the betrayer of his teacher Jesus.
• KRONOS (one of the Titans in Greek mythology, sometimes called Saturn or Chronus) was the youngest child of Uranus the Sky-God and Gaea the Earth-Goddess.  Uranus feared his children and imprisoned them in the deep chasm of Tartarus.  Gaea freed Kronos, handed him a scythe, and bade him vanquish his father.  He did so, but Uranus cursed him, saying that one day Kronos would be deposed by his own son.  He was.  (His youngest son was named Zeus, or Jupiter.)
• SET was the Egyptian god of night, brother to Osiris, god of the day.  The story of Set varied over the years.  At first, he was seen as a complement to his brother Osiris, a Yin/Yang type of partnership.  However, the Hyskos tribe conquered Egypt in 1500 BCE and adopted Set as their patron.  After the Hyskos were driven out, Set fell into disfavor.  His temples were defaced, and a new legend sprang up.  In this tale, Set became jealous of Osiris.  He betrayed him, killed him, then dismembered the body, scattering the pieces.  The goddess Isis, wife of Osiris, reassembled the body, conceived a child from it, then gave birth to Horus.  Horus defeated Set in an epic battle which lasted eighty years, during which many gruesome things happened (more dismemberment).  Horus eventually won, then either banished, castrated, or killed Set (depending on which version of the story you read).  Horus then took his late father's place as ruler of the gods and goddesses.

  
  "Set represents the aspiration of the genetic drive for survival, the animal response, the raw instinct, the drive to ride the natural cycle of the hunter and the hunted.  His tools include trickery, subtlety, the refined arts of guerrilla warfare and the silver tongue.  His cunning is unmatched, as is his mastery of the nefarious disciplines of sabotage and deceit.  He is an utterly amoral being, using whatever means will achieve his ends.  In this light (or in the absence thereof), his evil is not that of a blind, raging monster, but rather that of the absence of emotion and conscience, the total domination of will and cold intellect over the other faculties."

OTHER STORIES IN THIS FANFICTION UNIVERSE ARE:

"Hope Remembered 2 -- Fury" -- The companion story to "Long Have I Waited," this is Cassandra's version of what happened after Kronos showed up in Seacouver.
"The Voice of Death" -- the story of Roland and his time with the Horsemen.  For all of you who wondered how Kronos and Methos learned to resist the Voice.
"Just a Game" -- An early tale of the Horsemen, and their contribution to the Game.

And other stories about Cassandra:

"Hope Forgotten" -- the story of Cassandra and the Prophecy
"Hope Remembered 3 -- Confidante" -- where Cassandra went after she left Methos on the floor.
"Hope Remembered 4 -- Kindred" -- Cassandra confronts Duncan after the Horsemen.
"Dearer Yet the Brotherhood" -- Connor finds out that Duncan's new friend is Cassandra's old enemy.
"Hope Triumphant -- Healer" -- Cassandra and Methos finally get a chance to talk.

All of these stories are on Parda's web page (http://www.erols.com/darkpanther/), and at Seventh Dimension.