Long Have I Waited Chapter 1, a highlander fanfic

LONG HAVE I WAITED

by Nightsky and Parda (1999)

Long have I waited

for your coming home to me,

and living deeply our new lives.

- - - - -Original Message- - - - -

From: Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

To: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)

Transmitted: Thursday, October 31, 1996 6:24 PM

SUBJECT: Cassandra in Seacouver

Hi Joe,

Long time, no see! Hope you're ready to play some poker, 'cause I'm going to win back everything I lost and more at that game back in June!

A quick update on Cassandra for you:

Your guy Duncan MacLeod beheaded her worst enemy Roland this summer, and she's done nothing but travel since then, except for about two months in Edinburgh with Connor MacLeod. (He was helping her with her swordfighting, and boy, did she need help!) But then she started traveling again.

She's hunting somebody, and she's serious. When we got to Seacouver last night, I thought she would visit MacLeod, but she checked into a hotel, then got up real early this morning and started hunting again.

(You may already know this part if you were following MacLeod today.)

This afternoon she went to a TV studio. She saw a man (dark hair, about 5'9") from a distance, but then he disappeared, and MacLeod showed up. She and MacLeod went off together. They've been holed up in his loft ever since. I guess they're keeping each other warm. :)

E-mail me if you're up for a poker game tonight. And bring plenty of money. (weg)

Melanie

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

CHAPTER 1

Come back to me

With all your heart,

Don't let fear keep us apart.

The days of visitation are come.

Hosea 9:7

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.

They shall be wanderers among the nations.

Hosea 9:17

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!

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 worshiped 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.

The days of recompense are come.

Hosea 9:7

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."

- - - - -Original Message- - - - -

From: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)

To: Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

Transmitted: Thursday, October 31, 1996 7:32 PM

SUBJECT: poker Game

Hey Melanie,

Glad to hear you're in town! Thanks for the update on Cassandra and the info about MacLeod.

So Cassandra is friends with both MacLeods - that is interesting. Wonder if Connor went wandering in the woods when he was a kid, too.

=Long time, no see! Hope you're ready to play some poker, 'cause I'm going to win back everything I lost and more at that game back in June!

You think so? Come on down to my club around 9, and we'll see. I've got Halloween candy here at the bar, but bring plenty of money. (weg) I think I might have a few more aces up my sleeve.

See you tonight!

Joe

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

I will not execute the fierceness of mine anger;

I will not return to destroy.

Hosea 11:9

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.

I drew them with cords of a man,

with bands of love.

Hosea 11:4

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 the Peloponnese, 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.

Field Notes: Cassandra

Watcher: Melanie Hind

Date: Friday, 1 November 1996

Place: Seacouver, Washington, USA

Cassandra and Duncan MacLeod spent the night together in his loft. This morning, they went to Cassandra's hotel and got her stuff, then drove to "Joe's," a blues bar. (This bar is owned by Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod's Watcher! And it's not open for business at nine o'clock in the morning. Oh, Joe?) Then they went back to MacLeod's dojo.

It's 11:42, and a man just went into the dojo. I think it might be Adam Pierson!

I'm going to go "work out" in the dojo and see if I can get a better look.

Ye have eaten the fruit of lies.

Hosea 10:13

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 four?"

"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.

- - - - -Original Message- - - - -

To: ((A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)

From: (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

CC: (J_ Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)

Transmitted: 11/01/96 13:13:11

SUBJECT: Methos is Alive!

Dr. A. -

Sorry I didn't send condolences on Constantine earlier. It was a plumb assignment, shame it had to end like that. But if you thought the Methos Chronicle was going to be an easy gig, think again. I just heard Cassandra tell MacLeod that Methos rode with a gang of Bronze Age raiders called the Four Horsemen. Ever wonder where that myth in Revelations comes from? That is what you get to find out.

'Cause, if that's not enough to make your little researcher's heart palpitate, there's this (I hope you're sitting down): She fingered ADAM PIERSON as METHOS! I saw him there when she did it.

And while he certainly denied being the raping and pillaging bastard she accused him of, he did not deny being Immortal, or Methos. Just think of it, our mild-mannered Adam the world's oldest Immortal in disguise. He's been yanking our chain all this time!

Anyway, gotta run - have to alert the Tribunal and then keep an eye on Cassandra, who's on a quest to whack the leader of the Horsemen, some nutbar named Kronos. But I thought I should warn you before all hell breaks loose!

Melanie Hind, Seacouver, Washington, USA

P.S. Hey, Joe, did you know that Cassandra and MacLeod were at your bar this morning? What gives? You told me at the poker game you planned to sleep in till noon (dreaming of ways to spend all your winnings, no doubt.) Since when was "Joe's" a breakfast joint?

P.P.S. I didn't know Pierson could move so fast. He almost knocked me over. (I was standing in the hallway of the dojo listening.)

P.P.P.S. I'll pay you tomorrow, Joe. I should know better than to bet against four jacks!

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

Blood toucheth blood.

Hosea 4:2

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."

- - - - -Original Message- - - - -

From: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)

To: Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

Transmitted: Friday, November 1, 1996 2:31 PM

SUBJECT: Adam Pierson

Whoa, Melanie, calm down! Stop and think about this. Adam Pierson as a raping and pillaging murderer? Come on. Pierson?

Are you sure it was him? Did he even pull a sword?

What do we know about Cassandra, anyway? She shows up out of the blue, tells MacLeod some story, accuses a guy of rape and murder, and you immediately assume it's true? Not in this country. We need some proof, and we don't have a shred of evidence.

And even if Adam Pierson is an Immortal, that doesn't mean he did all these things.

Please, PLEASE, don't go telling everybody about this yet. I know you told Amy Zoll, the head of the Methos Project, and that makes sense, but let's not go off half-cocked here, ok? Remember the mess we had with the last guy who pretended to be Methos?

Let's wait and see. Call me. I want to talk to you about this.

Joe

- - - - - End of Message- - - - -

For the wickedness of their doings

I will drive them out of my house;

I will love them no more.

- Hosea 9:15

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.

TELEPHONE CONVERSATION, Friday, 4:10 p.m.

Joe? It's Melanie. Cassandra's sitting outside an abandoned power station near the South Docks, getting ready. Kronos is in there. I got your message; we'll talk later about Pierson-Methos. Got to go.

Therefore, behold,

I will hedge up thy way with thorns,

and make a wall,

that thou shalt not find thy paths.

Hosea 2:6

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.

- - - - -Original Message- - - - -

From: Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)

To: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)

CC: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)

Transmitted: Friday, November 1, 1996, 7:38 PM

SUBJECT: Cassandra, Methos, Kronos, and MacLeod

Hi Dr. A and Joe -

What a day! I was right. All hell did break loose.

I already told you what happened today at lunchtime, when Cassandra accused Pierson of being not only a Horseman, but said he was Methos, too. Then there was that fight between Kronos and MacLeod at the power station, when the fire trucks came.

I was waiting for Cassandra to leave the power station, when I saw Pierson-Methos give Kronos a ride in his truck. MacLeod saw it too. Kronos waved as they drove off, and MacLeod looked like he was ready to rip somebody's head off. And I can guess whose.

Those shreds of evidence are starting to look like ropes, Joe.

I followed Cassandra back to MacLeod's loft, then he showed up about an hour later. Then they went to a hotel. (I guess they don't want Methos and Kronos to find them too easy.) I'm staying a few doors down from MacLeod and Cassandra, and I'm ready for bed. If tomorrow is as busy as today was, I'm going to need my sleep.

Melanie Hind, Seacouver

- - - - -End of Message- - - - -

Now will I gather them.

- Hosea 8:10

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."

Continued in Chapter 2