Methos rode across the desert, the sun beating down on him. His face
was painted, a single black bar that covered the right side from forehead
to chin. A sword rode at his waist, comfortable, familiar, as much a part
of him as the arms with which he weilded it. He was Death. Where he rode,
scenes of destruction followed. He was the monster in the night, the
avenging god swooping down upon the pathetic humans before him. His
brothers rode beside him, Kronos in the lead. They were unstoppable. They
were the Four Horsemen.
Behind them, a column of smoke rose into the air, carried on the backs of the wails of women. What once had been a small grouping of nomads was now a scene of bloodshed and death. Methos wore a necklace he had taken from a woman he had disemboweled. It was a golden chain, hung with a pendant carefully sculpted into the shape of a rising sun, with a polished amber stone set in the center. The sun flashed and shimmered on the gold, making it live.
Before them was their encampment, a set of rude tents, patchworks of animal hides draped across poles stuck deep into the desert sands. Their hoarded treasures were piled in the largest of the tents, baskets of fruit and dried meat were strewn throughout the site, clay pots of water, sealed against the sun, rested at odd angles around the central fire. Their slaves scurried about, held not with rope or binding, but with fear. There was no escaping the Horsemen.
Methos dismounted, handing the reins of his powerful bay to a terrified man. The man led the horse off, towards the corral. Entering his tent, Methos looked for the familiar figure of Casse, and with a pang, remembered the night several months ago that he had seen her flee into the desert. Resolutely, he forced the feeling down. He would not admit to anyone, not even himself, that he had cared for her. To do so would be fatal. He did miss her gentle touch, though. He reached outside the tent flap and grabbed the nearest drudge, a quivering young woman with tears on her cheeks. She had been taken in the most recent raid, he realized as he dragged her inside. She didn't yet know how to behave, or what was expected of her. He roughly instructed her to tend to his armor and to help him into more comfortable attire. She did as she was asked with hands that shook.
When she finished, he grabbed her thigh, pulling her down beside him on the furs that made up his bed. He reached for her, began to caress her, then let his hands fall. He didn't want her, not really. She held no interest for him. Her dark hair, dusky skin, and brown eyes were the same as every other slave's. She had no spark of the unusual to recommend her. And she wasn't Casse. With a curse and a sharp blow, he sent the girl fleeing from his tent. Grabbing a skin of wine, he went looking for Silas.
Silas, a huge hulking brute of a man, was sitting in the shade of his tent, sharpening his axe. The axe was a match for the man; crude, oversized, perfect for slaughter.
"Methos!" Silas roared, waving him closer with his blade. "Come, sit, share that drink you carry!"
Methos smiled and sat, holding out the wineskin.
"Be welcome to it, Brother. It is better than some we've had, not that you can tell."
Silas laughed and nodded, taking a long swallow. He handed the wineskin back to Methos, who also took a long swallow. Silas returned to sharpening his axe, and Methos stared off into the desert, watching the heat dance above the sands.
"What troubles you, Methos?" Silas asked, not pausing in the steady rhythm of his sharpening.
"Just restless. I want to be out riding, not sitting here waiting for Kronos to decide it's time to move again," he responded, still watching the sands. He stood abrubtly, tossing the wineskin to the ground. "I'm not going to just sit here any longer. I'm going to go after those four women who got away this morning."
Silas nodded, but made no move to rise.
"Go, if you have the need, but tell Kronos that you're leaving. He wants to know where we all are if we go riding."
"Damn Kronos. He doesn't own me," Methos retorted, but he went to Kronos's tent before making his way to the corral.
"Kronos! Kronos! You in there?" he called from the entryway to the slightly more elaborate tent. "Kronos, I'm going for a ride. I want to try and catch those four women from this morning."
"Get out of here, then!" Kronos bellowed from inside the tent. "Don't keep mouthing at me about it!"
Methos continued to the corral, grabbing his saddle from the ground and whistling for his horse. The sturdy bay trotted over to him, nuzzling him. He offered it an apple, which it accepted and ate while he saddled it. Mounting, Methos urged his horse out of the coral and into the open desert. As the shifting sands passed beneath his horse's hooves like water, he felt free. The tensions of the encampment fell away as he rode, the mounted god of death.
Suddenly his skin prickled, and his ears buzzed. An eerie, almost musical sound seemed to fill the air, and he forced his mount to a sudden stop. Wildly, he looked around. He sensed another Immortal, and for a brief moment, thought that it was Casse. The feeling was different, though. The eerie musical quality was new to him, and it felt like an Immortal who had not yet been Awakened. There was a rustle to his right, and he urged his mount towards it. A shadow suddenly seperated from the boulder it had been hiding behind and fled, desperately seeking escape. He rode it down, felling it with a sharp blow with the pommel of his sword. The shadow crumpled and fell.
Methos dismounted, his curiosity aroused. Turning the small figure over with his foot, he found himself looking at a young woman unlike any he had ever seen. The woman's hair was sun-kissed brown, resulting in a sandy blonde color. Her skin, most of which was covered by a sand colored shawl, was pale, and the eyes that fluttered open were the same brilliant blue as the sky. She looked at him, with a peircing, unearthly gaze, then slowly rose to her feet. He didn't stop her, he wanted a better look at her. He noticed as she rose that she wore the claw of some large predator on a leather thong around her neck. When she was standing, she stared straight into his eyes, exhibiting little of the terror he expected. She was dazed and disoriented from the blow to her head.
"Who are you, girl?" he demanded, brandishing his sword threateningly.
"I am called Djinn," she replied, eying his sword warily. "I was the Seer of the village I lived in."
"A Seer? You are barely older than a child, and a woman. You cannot be a Seer. Where did you come from?"
"I came from the place that the Horsemen burned this day," she stated, looking at him as though she was not seeing him.
"I see you found what you were looking for, Brother," hissed a voice from behind him. Methos turned, to see Caspian looking down at him from atop his grey charger. "You must bring your prize back to the camp. Kronos will want to see her."
"I will. I just caught her, I wanted to know who she was. Can't you sense it? She's like us," he snarled, glaring at the invader. Methos didn't entirely trust Caspian, and he certainly didn't like him.
"Well bring her back and ask your questions there. It seems like we have a replacement for the one that ran off," Caspian sneered, turning and beginning to ride back towards the encampment. Methos glared at his retreating back, then turned towards the young woman standing in front of him. She was still confused and unsure from the blow that had felled her.
Brusquely, he grabbed the girl and tossed her onto his horse, in front of his saddle. She didn't fight him, and sat quietly as he mounted behind her. He considered binding her hands, but it seemed pointless with her being so cooperative. He wrapped one arm around her waist to keep her steady, then urged his mount into a run. The girl, frightened by the speed, leaned back against his chest and clutched a handful of the horse's mane.
They arrived in the camp shortly after Caspian did, and Kronos was there to meet them. He stood impatiently by Methos's tent while Methos put his horse in the corral, keeping a tight grip on the young woman's arm as he did so. She seemed more alert after the ride, and he didn't want her deciding to bolt at the last moment. Satisfied that the grudge who had taken his horse was capable, Methos dragged the young woman to his tent and the waiting Kronos.
"Caspian said you think she's like us," Kronos stated as they approached.
"Yes, I can sense it. She's not been killed yet, but she's definately like us."
"You seem to be very good at finding attractive female potentials," Kronos said, laughing. "Look at her, she's stunning."
She was stunning, Methos thought, looking her over again. Her facial features were fine, sculpted, with a thin nose and high cheekbones. Her coloring was unique, and lovely in its uniqueness. She was not tall, coming up merely to his mid-chest, and while stocky and strong, she was full figured. He felt a sudden desire for her.
"She's pretty enough," Methos responded to Kronos's comment. He didn't want to let Kronos know how stunning he found her. "She claimed she was a Seer."
"The woman thinks she's a Seer, hmm? That's different..." Kronos grabbed the girl's chin roughly and forced her head back, looking into her strange blue eyes. "Tell me, girl, who are you?"
"Djinn," she responded quietly, eyes wide with apprehension as Kronos turned her head this way and that, looking at her from several angles.
"Are you a Seer, girl?" Kronos demanded, forcing her to look straight at him again. Her pupils dialated with fear, and Methos could feel the tenseness of her body as she backed up against him.
"Y-y-yes," she stuttered, quivering. Methos knew the girl was terrified of Kronos, and it didn't seem as funny with this one as it had when others had stood before him and cowered.
"Then you know who I am," Kronos stated, slowly grinning his most frightening grin.
"The whole desert knows who you are. I wouldn't have to be a Seer to know your name, Kronos. You are Pestilence, a Horseman." The girl was brave, Methos thought, to challenge Kronos like that.
Kronos laughed cruelly.
"True enough, girl. The whole desert knows me. So tell me, little Seer, what do you see when you look at me?" He grabbed her, pulled her against his body, crushing her against him. "What do you see, little Seer?"
Her frightened blue eyes took on a grey cast, and the fear seemed to leave her face. When she spoke, her voice had an eerie quality, like she was speaking from the bottom of a well.
"I See death, Kronos. For you, and your Horsemen. You bring death with you wherever you go, death and cruelty, but the day will come when you will fall. I See pain. You love nothing but pain, you live for the hurt you cause to others..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes went back to normal. She let out a pathetic squeak of fear, and tried to pull away from him. "And I See your intent," she whispered, dispair in her voice. "I See what you will do to me."
Kronos, enraged by the idea that anyone could think the Horsemen would fall, struck her viciously and let her fall to the ground.
"Whatever it is you think you See, little girl, it won't be nearly as unpleasant as what I'm going to do to you. Methos, tie her up and keep her out of my sight until I tell you to bring her to me," he ordered, seething.
"Yes, Kronos," Methos answered, grabbing the girl and lifting her off the ground. She didn't resist him, and he brought her into his tent and bound her hands and feet with tight leather straps. He pushed her into one corner of his tent, where she sat with her head bowed, tears running down pale cheeks. Methos watched her cry for a while, but finally he couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"Did you really See the Horsemen fall?" he asked, curiosity overcoming his desire not to know. The young woman looked up at him, pain etched into her fine features.
"The Horsemen will fall, Methos. You ride with them now, as Death, but you won't ride with them much longer. Soon the world will change, and you along with it. Nothing will remain the same. Kronos will seek once more to draw the Horsemen together, but your sword and the sword of your young brother will stop them. You will kill the Horsemen, Methos... You shall be the deliverer of their destruction."
Methos stared at her, unable to believe what he had just heard. He raised a hand to strike her, then lowered it again. What would hitting her accomplish? But how could he Not ride with the Horsemen? How could he deliver their destruction? They were his Brothers. They rode together, killed together, shared the spoils of victory together. He shook his head.
"You're wrong, girl. The Horsemen are my Brothers," he managed finally. She just smiled in response, a sad, pitying little smile.
Kronos dragged the girl forward, calmly ignoring her attempts to free herself from his grasp. His grip on her arm was easily hard enough to bruise, and he was none too gentle as he led her to a point near the center of the encampment. Four wooden stakes had been driven into packed earth, and ropes ran from each. Djinn's eyes widened in terror when she saw them. Desperately, she flung herself forward, hoping to jolt Kronos's grip enough to free herself, but he struck her viciously with his free hand, knocking her to the ground. She curled up tightly on the hard packed gound, wishing she could vanish into the sands.
Her outline seemed to waver for a moment, then to blur. Kronos kicked her viciously, interrupting whatever weak spell she had started. Methos, standing silently to the side along with Silas and Caspian, was startled. In all his long years of riding, he had never seen magic, besides that which kept the Immortals from dying. He wasn't even sure about that magic. Seeing the young, frightened woman display something that could only be true magic disturbed him.
Kronos was also disturbed, but it made him more determined to break the young woman to his will. He meant to have this pale beauty, to have her bow before him. He grabbed her firmly, straddling her to keep her still, and bound her feet, each to a seperate stake. He turned, still keeping her trapped by virtue of his weight, and undid the bindings on her hands. She immediately began to strike at him, clawing, hitting, desperately trying to get him off. He hit her again, and grabbed one of her arms. Ignoring her pounding with her free hand, he bound her left wrist to the third stake. He grabbed for her right hand, but she yanked it back, then slammed it forward in one last desperate attempt at a hit. The heel of her hand smashed forward against Kronos's chin, making him reel. With a bellow of rage, he began to beat her, hitting her with reckless fury. He pummeled her, continuing to hit her until well after she stopped moving. When his fury subsided, he grabbed her limp arm and bound it, while she simply lay still, keening a plaintive cry.
Methos forced himself to remain still. This wasn't anything new. He'd seen this happen a hundred times before, participated in this a hundred times before. It had never moved him like this. He'd never felt a need to interfere before. She was just another slave, wasn't she? Why did he care if Kronos beat her or not? He didn't even know her, not like he'd known Casse. He'd wanted to interfere then, as well, but the same thing kept him still then as now. Kronos would kill him if he let it be known that he cared. Still, he was burning inside with the need to cry out, to prevent Kronos from hurting Djinn any further. He wanted to draw his blade, to challenge Kronos, but he could not win. He knew he could not win. He didn't even know why he was considering it. She was nothing to him, she should be nothing to him. Yet she wasn't. Something about her made him want to protect her.
Kronos, oblivious to Methos's internal machinations, drew a knife from its sheath. He cut Djinn's sand colored wrapping away, exposing her bruised flesh to the night air and to the eyes of his Brothers. Caspian laughed, a hyena-like cackle, and Silas grinned widely. Methos did not smile. Kronos began to explore Djinn's pale body with the tip of his blade, and Methos closed his eyes. He knew what would come next, and he didn't want to watch.
Kronos was brual, driven by his rage and his desire for control. Djinn screamed, begged, cursed, but nothing would stay his cruelty. Violently, viciously, he took her, tearing into her with the intent to destroy her. Once, twice, again, he brought ruin down upon her with his force. Methos forced himself to stay silent when her shrieks turned to racking cries, then disolved back into the broken keening wail.
Finally Kronos had sated his lust. He stood and retied the top of his breeches. He delivered a final kick to the keening young woman, and motioned for Caspian to take his place. Methos gritted his teeth and tried to force himself to ignore what was happening in front of him. Caspian was no less cruel than Kronos. He delighted in each cry of pain he could ellicit from the trapped woman. He tired of the game sooner than Kronos had, though, and surrendered his place to Silas. Silas was rough, but not brutal, taking pleasure in the action, not the pain it caused. Methos found himself grateful for the straightforward way Silas handled himself. When Silas was finished, Kronos looked at Methos, an order implicit in his cold eyes.
In spite of himself, in spite of the sudden disgust he had felt for the actions of his Brothers, he found himself wanting the battered woman before him. He moved forward, untying his breechcloth and taking Silas's place. Her eyes met his, and a wave of guilt ran over him. He leaned down and caressed her gently, lightly running his hands along her skin. Her sharp intake of breath almost made him draw his hands back. She was bruised, battered, and even a light touch hurt her. There was an old, familiar excitement rising, stirred by her pain, her fear. It was fought by his sudden sense of sympathy. He was confused, unsure. Something very familiar to him had suddenly become strange.
"What, Methos, have you forgotten what to do with a woman?" Kronos asked, laughing. Caspian and Silas joined the laughter, as a flush creeped along Methos's skin. He crushed the confusion, and allowed his hands to roam, letting the old feelings course through him. He grew more involved, more intense, sensations seemed to be amplified. But still there was guilt. Her weak cries of pain, in a voice hoarse from screaming, seemed to wedge themselves in his soul. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear.
"Keep making noise, girl. I'll try not to hurt you, but if Kronos thinks I care, he'll hurt you worse. I'll be as careful as I can, but you have to keep making noise," he whispered, lightening his touches, trying to keep from hurting her. She gave no sign she heard, continuing to cry out in pain, though he sensed a relaxation in her that had not been there before. Carefully he took her, being as gentle to her damaged body as he could. Her body tensed with pain, but she didn't fight him. Kronos seemed satisfied with her outcry, and when Methos stood and tied his breechcloth, he made no comment.
"What do you want done with her, Kronos?" Methos asked, keeping his voice cold and impassive.
Kronos grinned.
"I thought we'd give her a little gift, Brother. Hand me your sword."
Methos handed Kronos his sword, still keeping his features impassive. He relinquished his grip on the blade reluctantly. Djinn looked at them both, wild eyed. She tensed, struggling weakly against the strong ropes that held her.
"What are you going to do, Kronos?" Methos's voice was strained. Kronos whirled, holding Methos's blade at the ready, glaring.
"Are you questioning me, Methos? Do you dare to question me?"
"I was just curious. Do what you will, it's no matter to me," Methos responded, backing up a step to take himself out of range of the sword Kronos weilded.
"That's right. It is of no matter to you. You'd best remember that," Kronos snarled, then turned toward Djinn. With two swift slashes, he inscribed an X directly above the girl's heart. He held the blade out to Methos. "Take your sword, Methos," he directed.
Methos took the blade back from Kronos and moved to return it to its sheath. Kronos shook his head.
"Na-ah, Methos. Don't put it away just yet. You believe she's a potential, so let's test your theory." He gestured to the X he had made. "Let's see you make her Immortal."
Methos stared at Kronos, unmoving. He hadn't expected this. There was no sport in killing a target who was bound and trapped. Kronos glared impatiently, and Methos moved slowly to Djinn's side. She stared up at him, afraid. She didn't understand; she didn't know about Immortals. She was young, scarcely eighteen; she did not want to die. Methos saw all of this in her frightened eyes. He raised his sword. She closed her eyes tightly. Taking his sword in both hands, he drove it downwards. It slipped smoothly between her ribs and found her heart.
Methos withdrew his sword and wiped it clean on the sand.
"Satisfied?" he asked, looking at Kronos impassively.
"For now." Kronos turned and walked away. "If she wakes, untie her and get her cleaned up," he called over his shoulder. He disappeared into his tent.
Methos looked down at Djinn's still form. In the light of the half- moon, she was more pale, more ethereal, than she was under the desert sun. She didn't look quite as real as he expected. It seemed as though she would simply dissolve into the moonlight, and vanish.
Djinn gasped and thrashed against the ropes that still held her. Her eyes opened wide, and she looked around in confusion. They settled on Methos, and seemed to ask all the questions she hadn't yet spoken.
"I was right," he said, mostly to himself. "You are Immortal."
She stared at him, fear in her eyes.
"What happened? I thought... I thought you stabbed me. What magic is this? What sorcery do you possess to do this?"
"You will live until we choose otherwise. You belong to the Horsemen now, and you will remain as ours until the end of time." He bent and untied her ankles, then her wrists. "Come, girl. You need to get cleaned up." He pulled her towards the secret of their encampment, a spring protected from the desert sand by a pillar of stone. He told Djinn to stay still, filling a bowl of water and handing it to her. "Wash. When you are clean, dry yourself with this." He held out a soft lambskin to her.
She did as she was told, carefully washing herself of the results of her abuse. She winced as she brushed over bruises that hadn't yet vanished. For a time she cleaned herself in silence.
"Why?" she asked finally.
"Why what?" Methos responded, startled out of his thoughts by her unexpected speech.
"You were kind. Why?"
He started to answer, but stopped. He didn't know why. She confused him, made him feel things he didn't understand. Her eyes locked on his as he struggled for an answer, and he turned away, disconcerted. Anger flooded him at the confusion she was causing.
"Don't ask questions, girl," he snapped, trying to disguise his own confusion. She dropped her intense gaze, looking at the damp sand below her. Methos immediately felt guilty for his sharp comment, which made him even more angry. He turned away from her, focusing on the moonlit desert beyond the encampment. The sands were a beautiful shifting silver, the stars brilliant in the heavens, the sky dark and deep. It was a stunning sight, mysterious and beautiful. He heard Djinn move, noticed her come to stand beside him, wondering what had caught his eye. She looked out at the desert as well, silent, remembering other nights, other places, times before her life was turned upside down.
A cool wind blew across the desert, making the sand shift. Djinn began to shiver. Her clothing was ruined, the lambskin too small to do much, and damp as well. Shivering, she stepped closer to Methos, trying to use him to block the cool wind. Startled, he stepped away, the spell of the desert broken. He noticed the shivering of the girl beside him, and he grabbed a blanket that had been left near the spring and wrapped it around her.
Surprised by the gesture, she smiled hesitantly. He turned away, frustrated by the feelings she evoked. She dropped her eyes to the ground again. Methos grabbed her arm and brusquely led her to his tent. She followed without complaint, eyes downcast. He felt her tense when she realized he was taking her inside the simple dwelling, but she continued to follow. He roughly directed her to a corner of the tent, tossing her a large fur.
"Wrap up in that; you'll sleep there for now. Be ready to prepare food in the morning." Methos lay down on his furs, watching Djinn as she nervously wrapped the fur around herself and curled up on the groundcloth of the tent. She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Methos closed his eyes, but resisted the impulse to sleep. He heard the girl turn once, then again, as though settling comfortably, then there was silence. Methos continued to lie still, waiting.
The sound of the heavy fur dropping to the ground prompted him to open his eyes just slightly. Djinn was creeping silently towards the opening of the tent, scarcely breathing in her effort to leave unnoticed. She drew even with him, and then nearly past. His hand shot out from beneath the sleeping-furs and grabbed her ankle.
"That is a bad idea, girl. There is no escape from the Horsemen. Go back to your furs and lie down, and I won't mention this in the morning. Try something like this again, and I'll hand you over to Kronos," he whispered to the startled girl. Her wide blue eyes shone with fear at his threat, and she tried to turn. He kept his grip, and she looked down at him, questioning, frightened.
"Watch yourself, girl. The others won't be so forgiving." He released her ankle. She turned and went back to the corner. He heard her lie down and curl up, and he heard her begin to cry. He turned over to his side, trying to block the sound of her quiet sobs. She fell silent eventually, and Methos allowed himself to sleep.
Behind them, a column of smoke rose into the air, carried on the backs of the wails of women. What once had been a small grouping of nomads was now a scene of bloodshed and death. Methos wore a necklace he had taken from a woman he had disemboweled. It was a golden chain, hung with a pendant carefully sculpted into the shape of a rising sun, with a polished amber stone set in the center. The sun flashed and shimmered on the gold, making it live.
Before them was their encampment, a set of rude tents, patchworks of animal hides draped across poles stuck deep into the desert sands. Their hoarded treasures were piled in the largest of the tents, baskets of fruit and dried meat were strewn throughout the site, clay pots of water, sealed against the sun, rested at odd angles around the central fire. Their slaves scurried about, held not with rope or binding, but with fear. There was no escaping the Horsemen.
Methos dismounted, handing the reins of his powerful bay to a terrified man. The man led the horse off, towards the corral. Entering his tent, Methos looked for the familiar figure of Casse, and with a pang, remembered the night several months ago that he had seen her flee into the desert. Resolutely, he forced the feeling down. He would not admit to anyone, not even himself, that he had cared for her. To do so would be fatal. He did miss her gentle touch, though. He reached outside the tent flap and grabbed the nearest drudge, a quivering young woman with tears on her cheeks. She had been taken in the most recent raid, he realized as he dragged her inside. She didn't yet know how to behave, or what was expected of her. He roughly instructed her to tend to his armor and to help him into more comfortable attire. She did as she was asked with hands that shook.
When she finished, he grabbed her thigh, pulling her down beside him on the furs that made up his bed. He reached for her, began to caress her, then let his hands fall. He didn't want her, not really. She held no interest for him. Her dark hair, dusky skin, and brown eyes were the same as every other slave's. She had no spark of the unusual to recommend her. And she wasn't Casse. With a curse and a sharp blow, he sent the girl fleeing from his tent. Grabbing a skin of wine, he went looking for Silas.
Silas, a huge hulking brute of a man, was sitting in the shade of his tent, sharpening his axe. The axe was a match for the man; crude, oversized, perfect for slaughter.
"Methos!" Silas roared, waving him closer with his blade. "Come, sit, share that drink you carry!"
Methos smiled and sat, holding out the wineskin.
"Be welcome to it, Brother. It is better than some we've had, not that you can tell."
Silas laughed and nodded, taking a long swallow. He handed the wineskin back to Methos, who also took a long swallow. Silas returned to sharpening his axe, and Methos stared off into the desert, watching the heat dance above the sands.
"What troubles you, Methos?" Silas asked, not pausing in the steady rhythm of his sharpening.
"Just restless. I want to be out riding, not sitting here waiting for Kronos to decide it's time to move again," he responded, still watching the sands. He stood abrubtly, tossing the wineskin to the ground. "I'm not going to just sit here any longer. I'm going to go after those four women who got away this morning."
Silas nodded, but made no move to rise.
"Go, if you have the need, but tell Kronos that you're leaving. He wants to know where we all are if we go riding."
"Damn Kronos. He doesn't own me," Methos retorted, but he went to Kronos's tent before making his way to the corral.
"Kronos! Kronos! You in there?" he called from the entryway to the slightly more elaborate tent. "Kronos, I'm going for a ride. I want to try and catch those four women from this morning."
"Get out of here, then!" Kronos bellowed from inside the tent. "Don't keep mouthing at me about it!"
Methos continued to the corral, grabbing his saddle from the ground and whistling for his horse. The sturdy bay trotted over to him, nuzzling him. He offered it an apple, which it accepted and ate while he saddled it. Mounting, Methos urged his horse out of the coral and into the open desert. As the shifting sands passed beneath his horse's hooves like water, he felt free. The tensions of the encampment fell away as he rode, the mounted god of death.
Suddenly his skin prickled, and his ears buzzed. An eerie, almost musical sound seemed to fill the air, and he forced his mount to a sudden stop. Wildly, he looked around. He sensed another Immortal, and for a brief moment, thought that it was Casse. The feeling was different, though. The eerie musical quality was new to him, and it felt like an Immortal who had not yet been Awakened. There was a rustle to his right, and he urged his mount towards it. A shadow suddenly seperated from the boulder it had been hiding behind and fled, desperately seeking escape. He rode it down, felling it with a sharp blow with the pommel of his sword. The shadow crumpled and fell.
Methos dismounted, his curiosity aroused. Turning the small figure over with his foot, he found himself looking at a young woman unlike any he had ever seen. The woman's hair was sun-kissed brown, resulting in a sandy blonde color. Her skin, most of which was covered by a sand colored shawl, was pale, and the eyes that fluttered open were the same brilliant blue as the sky. She looked at him, with a peircing, unearthly gaze, then slowly rose to her feet. He didn't stop her, he wanted a better look at her. He noticed as she rose that she wore the claw of some large predator on a leather thong around her neck. When she was standing, she stared straight into his eyes, exhibiting little of the terror he expected. She was dazed and disoriented from the blow to her head.
"Who are you, girl?" he demanded, brandishing his sword threateningly.
"I am called Djinn," she replied, eying his sword warily. "I was the Seer of the village I lived in."
"A Seer? You are barely older than a child, and a woman. You cannot be a Seer. Where did you come from?"
"I came from the place that the Horsemen burned this day," she stated, looking at him as though she was not seeing him.
"I see you found what you were looking for, Brother," hissed a voice from behind him. Methos turned, to see Caspian looking down at him from atop his grey charger. "You must bring your prize back to the camp. Kronos will want to see her."
"I will. I just caught her, I wanted to know who she was. Can't you sense it? She's like us," he snarled, glaring at the invader. Methos didn't entirely trust Caspian, and he certainly didn't like him.
"Well bring her back and ask your questions there. It seems like we have a replacement for the one that ran off," Caspian sneered, turning and beginning to ride back towards the encampment. Methos glared at his retreating back, then turned towards the young woman standing in front of him. She was still confused and unsure from the blow that had felled her.
Brusquely, he grabbed the girl and tossed her onto his horse, in front of his saddle. She didn't fight him, and sat quietly as he mounted behind her. He considered binding her hands, but it seemed pointless with her being so cooperative. He wrapped one arm around her waist to keep her steady, then urged his mount into a run. The girl, frightened by the speed, leaned back against his chest and clutched a handful of the horse's mane.
They arrived in the camp shortly after Caspian did, and Kronos was there to meet them. He stood impatiently by Methos's tent while Methos put his horse in the corral, keeping a tight grip on the young woman's arm as he did so. She seemed more alert after the ride, and he didn't want her deciding to bolt at the last moment. Satisfied that the grudge who had taken his horse was capable, Methos dragged the young woman to his tent and the waiting Kronos.
"Caspian said you think she's like us," Kronos stated as they approached.
"Yes, I can sense it. She's not been killed yet, but she's definately like us."
"You seem to be very good at finding attractive female potentials," Kronos said, laughing. "Look at her, she's stunning."
She was stunning, Methos thought, looking her over again. Her facial features were fine, sculpted, with a thin nose and high cheekbones. Her coloring was unique, and lovely in its uniqueness. She was not tall, coming up merely to his mid-chest, and while stocky and strong, she was full figured. He felt a sudden desire for her.
"She's pretty enough," Methos responded to Kronos's comment. He didn't want to let Kronos know how stunning he found her. "She claimed she was a Seer."
"The woman thinks she's a Seer, hmm? That's different..." Kronos grabbed the girl's chin roughly and forced her head back, looking into her strange blue eyes. "Tell me, girl, who are you?"
"Djinn," she responded quietly, eyes wide with apprehension as Kronos turned her head this way and that, looking at her from several angles.
"Are you a Seer, girl?" Kronos demanded, forcing her to look straight at him again. Her pupils dialated with fear, and Methos could feel the tenseness of her body as she backed up against him.
"Y-y-yes," she stuttered, quivering. Methos knew the girl was terrified of Kronos, and it didn't seem as funny with this one as it had when others had stood before him and cowered.
"Then you know who I am," Kronos stated, slowly grinning his most frightening grin.
"The whole desert knows who you are. I wouldn't have to be a Seer to know your name, Kronos. You are Pestilence, a Horseman." The girl was brave, Methos thought, to challenge Kronos like that.
Kronos laughed cruelly.
"True enough, girl. The whole desert knows me. So tell me, little Seer, what do you see when you look at me?" He grabbed her, pulled her against his body, crushing her against him. "What do you see, little Seer?"
Her frightened blue eyes took on a grey cast, and the fear seemed to leave her face. When she spoke, her voice had an eerie quality, like she was speaking from the bottom of a well.
"I See death, Kronos. For you, and your Horsemen. You bring death with you wherever you go, death and cruelty, but the day will come when you will fall. I See pain. You love nothing but pain, you live for the hurt you cause to others..." Her voice trailed off, and her eyes went back to normal. She let out a pathetic squeak of fear, and tried to pull away from him. "And I See your intent," she whispered, dispair in her voice. "I See what you will do to me."
Kronos, enraged by the idea that anyone could think the Horsemen would fall, struck her viciously and let her fall to the ground.
"Whatever it is you think you See, little girl, it won't be nearly as unpleasant as what I'm going to do to you. Methos, tie her up and keep her out of my sight until I tell you to bring her to me," he ordered, seething.
"Yes, Kronos," Methos answered, grabbing the girl and lifting her off the ground. She didn't resist him, and he brought her into his tent and bound her hands and feet with tight leather straps. He pushed her into one corner of his tent, where she sat with her head bowed, tears running down pale cheeks. Methos watched her cry for a while, but finally he couldn't stand the silence any longer.
"Did you really See the Horsemen fall?" he asked, curiosity overcoming his desire not to know. The young woman looked up at him, pain etched into her fine features.
"The Horsemen will fall, Methos. You ride with them now, as Death, but you won't ride with them much longer. Soon the world will change, and you along with it. Nothing will remain the same. Kronos will seek once more to draw the Horsemen together, but your sword and the sword of your young brother will stop them. You will kill the Horsemen, Methos... You shall be the deliverer of their destruction."
Methos stared at her, unable to believe what he had just heard. He raised a hand to strike her, then lowered it again. What would hitting her accomplish? But how could he Not ride with the Horsemen? How could he deliver their destruction? They were his Brothers. They rode together, killed together, shared the spoils of victory together. He shook his head.
"You're wrong, girl. The Horsemen are my Brothers," he managed finally. She just smiled in response, a sad, pitying little smile.
Kronos dragged the girl forward, calmly ignoring her attempts to free herself from his grasp. His grip on her arm was easily hard enough to bruise, and he was none too gentle as he led her to a point near the center of the encampment. Four wooden stakes had been driven into packed earth, and ropes ran from each. Djinn's eyes widened in terror when she saw them. Desperately, she flung herself forward, hoping to jolt Kronos's grip enough to free herself, but he struck her viciously with his free hand, knocking her to the ground. She curled up tightly on the hard packed gound, wishing she could vanish into the sands.
Her outline seemed to waver for a moment, then to blur. Kronos kicked her viciously, interrupting whatever weak spell she had started. Methos, standing silently to the side along with Silas and Caspian, was startled. In all his long years of riding, he had never seen magic, besides that which kept the Immortals from dying. He wasn't even sure about that magic. Seeing the young, frightened woman display something that could only be true magic disturbed him.
Kronos was also disturbed, but it made him more determined to break the young woman to his will. He meant to have this pale beauty, to have her bow before him. He grabbed her firmly, straddling her to keep her still, and bound her feet, each to a seperate stake. He turned, still keeping her trapped by virtue of his weight, and undid the bindings on her hands. She immediately began to strike at him, clawing, hitting, desperately trying to get him off. He hit her again, and grabbed one of her arms. Ignoring her pounding with her free hand, he bound her left wrist to the third stake. He grabbed for her right hand, but she yanked it back, then slammed it forward in one last desperate attempt at a hit. The heel of her hand smashed forward against Kronos's chin, making him reel. With a bellow of rage, he began to beat her, hitting her with reckless fury. He pummeled her, continuing to hit her until well after she stopped moving. When his fury subsided, he grabbed her limp arm and bound it, while she simply lay still, keening a plaintive cry.
Methos forced himself to remain still. This wasn't anything new. He'd seen this happen a hundred times before, participated in this a hundred times before. It had never moved him like this. He'd never felt a need to interfere before. She was just another slave, wasn't she? Why did he care if Kronos beat her or not? He didn't even know her, not like he'd known Casse. He'd wanted to interfere then, as well, but the same thing kept him still then as now. Kronos would kill him if he let it be known that he cared. Still, he was burning inside with the need to cry out, to prevent Kronos from hurting Djinn any further. He wanted to draw his blade, to challenge Kronos, but he could not win. He knew he could not win. He didn't even know why he was considering it. She was nothing to him, she should be nothing to him. Yet she wasn't. Something about her made him want to protect her.
Kronos, oblivious to Methos's internal machinations, drew a knife from its sheath. He cut Djinn's sand colored wrapping away, exposing her bruised flesh to the night air and to the eyes of his Brothers. Caspian laughed, a hyena-like cackle, and Silas grinned widely. Methos did not smile. Kronos began to explore Djinn's pale body with the tip of his blade, and Methos closed his eyes. He knew what would come next, and he didn't want to watch.
Kronos was brual, driven by his rage and his desire for control. Djinn screamed, begged, cursed, but nothing would stay his cruelty. Violently, viciously, he took her, tearing into her with the intent to destroy her. Once, twice, again, he brought ruin down upon her with his force. Methos forced himself to stay silent when her shrieks turned to racking cries, then disolved back into the broken keening wail.
Finally Kronos had sated his lust. He stood and retied the top of his breeches. He delivered a final kick to the keening young woman, and motioned for Caspian to take his place. Methos gritted his teeth and tried to force himself to ignore what was happening in front of him. Caspian was no less cruel than Kronos. He delighted in each cry of pain he could ellicit from the trapped woman. He tired of the game sooner than Kronos had, though, and surrendered his place to Silas. Silas was rough, but not brutal, taking pleasure in the action, not the pain it caused. Methos found himself grateful for the straightforward way Silas handled himself. When Silas was finished, Kronos looked at Methos, an order implicit in his cold eyes.
In spite of himself, in spite of the sudden disgust he had felt for the actions of his Brothers, he found himself wanting the battered woman before him. He moved forward, untying his breechcloth and taking Silas's place. Her eyes met his, and a wave of guilt ran over him. He leaned down and caressed her gently, lightly running his hands along her skin. Her sharp intake of breath almost made him draw his hands back. She was bruised, battered, and even a light touch hurt her. There was an old, familiar excitement rising, stirred by her pain, her fear. It was fought by his sudden sense of sympathy. He was confused, unsure. Something very familiar to him had suddenly become strange.
"What, Methos, have you forgotten what to do with a woman?" Kronos asked, laughing. Caspian and Silas joined the laughter, as a flush creeped along Methos's skin. He crushed the confusion, and allowed his hands to roam, letting the old feelings course through him. He grew more involved, more intense, sensations seemed to be amplified. But still there was guilt. Her weak cries of pain, in a voice hoarse from screaming, seemed to wedge themselves in his soul. Leaning close, he whispered in her ear.
"Keep making noise, girl. I'll try not to hurt you, but if Kronos thinks I care, he'll hurt you worse. I'll be as careful as I can, but you have to keep making noise," he whispered, lightening his touches, trying to keep from hurting her. She gave no sign she heard, continuing to cry out in pain, though he sensed a relaxation in her that had not been there before. Carefully he took her, being as gentle to her damaged body as he could. Her body tensed with pain, but she didn't fight him. Kronos seemed satisfied with her outcry, and when Methos stood and tied his breechcloth, he made no comment.
"What do you want done with her, Kronos?" Methos asked, keeping his voice cold and impassive.
Kronos grinned.
"I thought we'd give her a little gift, Brother. Hand me your sword."
Methos handed Kronos his sword, still keeping his features impassive. He relinquished his grip on the blade reluctantly. Djinn looked at them both, wild eyed. She tensed, struggling weakly against the strong ropes that held her.
"What are you going to do, Kronos?" Methos's voice was strained. Kronos whirled, holding Methos's blade at the ready, glaring.
"Are you questioning me, Methos? Do you dare to question me?"
"I was just curious. Do what you will, it's no matter to me," Methos responded, backing up a step to take himself out of range of the sword Kronos weilded.
"That's right. It is of no matter to you. You'd best remember that," Kronos snarled, then turned toward Djinn. With two swift slashes, he inscribed an X directly above the girl's heart. He held the blade out to Methos. "Take your sword, Methos," he directed.
Methos took the blade back from Kronos and moved to return it to its sheath. Kronos shook his head.
"Na-ah, Methos. Don't put it away just yet. You believe she's a potential, so let's test your theory." He gestured to the X he had made. "Let's see you make her Immortal."
Methos stared at Kronos, unmoving. He hadn't expected this. There was no sport in killing a target who was bound and trapped. Kronos glared impatiently, and Methos moved slowly to Djinn's side. She stared up at him, afraid. She didn't understand; she didn't know about Immortals. She was young, scarcely eighteen; she did not want to die. Methos saw all of this in her frightened eyes. He raised his sword. She closed her eyes tightly. Taking his sword in both hands, he drove it downwards. It slipped smoothly between her ribs and found her heart.
Methos withdrew his sword and wiped it clean on the sand.
"Satisfied?" he asked, looking at Kronos impassively.
"For now." Kronos turned and walked away. "If she wakes, untie her and get her cleaned up," he called over his shoulder. He disappeared into his tent.
Methos looked down at Djinn's still form. In the light of the half- moon, she was more pale, more ethereal, than she was under the desert sun. She didn't look quite as real as he expected. It seemed as though she would simply dissolve into the moonlight, and vanish.
Djinn gasped and thrashed against the ropes that still held her. Her eyes opened wide, and she looked around in confusion. They settled on Methos, and seemed to ask all the questions she hadn't yet spoken.
"I was right," he said, mostly to himself. "You are Immortal."
She stared at him, fear in her eyes.
"What happened? I thought... I thought you stabbed me. What magic is this? What sorcery do you possess to do this?"
"You will live until we choose otherwise. You belong to the Horsemen now, and you will remain as ours until the end of time." He bent and untied her ankles, then her wrists. "Come, girl. You need to get cleaned up." He pulled her towards the secret of their encampment, a spring protected from the desert sand by a pillar of stone. He told Djinn to stay still, filling a bowl of water and handing it to her. "Wash. When you are clean, dry yourself with this." He held out a soft lambskin to her.
She did as she was told, carefully washing herself of the results of her abuse. She winced as she brushed over bruises that hadn't yet vanished. For a time she cleaned herself in silence.
"Why?" she asked finally.
"Why what?" Methos responded, startled out of his thoughts by her unexpected speech.
"You were kind. Why?"
He started to answer, but stopped. He didn't know why. She confused him, made him feel things he didn't understand. Her eyes locked on his as he struggled for an answer, and he turned away, disconcerted. Anger flooded him at the confusion she was causing.
"Don't ask questions, girl," he snapped, trying to disguise his own confusion. She dropped her intense gaze, looking at the damp sand below her. Methos immediately felt guilty for his sharp comment, which made him even more angry. He turned away from her, focusing on the moonlit desert beyond the encampment. The sands were a beautiful shifting silver, the stars brilliant in the heavens, the sky dark and deep. It was a stunning sight, mysterious and beautiful. He heard Djinn move, noticed her come to stand beside him, wondering what had caught his eye. She looked out at the desert as well, silent, remembering other nights, other places, times before her life was turned upside down.
A cool wind blew across the desert, making the sand shift. Djinn began to shiver. Her clothing was ruined, the lambskin too small to do much, and damp as well. Shivering, she stepped closer to Methos, trying to use him to block the cool wind. Startled, he stepped away, the spell of the desert broken. He noticed the shivering of the girl beside him, and he grabbed a blanket that had been left near the spring and wrapped it around her.
Surprised by the gesture, she smiled hesitantly. He turned away, frustrated by the feelings she evoked. She dropped her eyes to the ground again. Methos grabbed her arm and brusquely led her to his tent. She followed without complaint, eyes downcast. He felt her tense when she realized he was taking her inside the simple dwelling, but she continued to follow. He roughly directed her to a corner of the tent, tossing her a large fur.
"Wrap up in that; you'll sleep there for now. Be ready to prepare food in the morning." Methos lay down on his furs, watching Djinn as she nervously wrapped the fur around herself and curled up on the groundcloth of the tent. She closed her eyes and seemed to fall asleep. Methos closed his eyes, but resisted the impulse to sleep. He heard the girl turn once, then again, as though settling comfortably, then there was silence. Methos continued to lie still, waiting.
The sound of the heavy fur dropping to the ground prompted him to open his eyes just slightly. Djinn was creeping silently towards the opening of the tent, scarcely breathing in her effort to leave unnoticed. She drew even with him, and then nearly past. His hand shot out from beneath the sleeping-furs and grabbed her ankle.
"That is a bad idea, girl. There is no escape from the Horsemen. Go back to your furs and lie down, and I won't mention this in the morning. Try something like this again, and I'll hand you over to Kronos," he whispered to the startled girl. Her wide blue eyes shone with fear at his threat, and she tried to turn. He kept his grip, and she looked down at him, questioning, frightened.
"Watch yourself, girl. The others won't be so forgiving." He released her ankle. She turned and went back to the corner. He heard her lie down and curl up, and he heard her begin to cry. He turned over to his side, trying to block the sound of her quiet sobs. She fell silent eventually, and Methos allowed himself to sleep.