Author's Note: I'm sorry I haven't updated in forever, and hopefully,
since summer starts soon, I'll be able to spend much more time writing. I
know this chapter is short, I PROMISE there will be more, and it will get
better, and longer.
Special notes:
Highlanderfanatic- I'm flattered you took the time to leave a review, and I'm glad you like the story! I'll write more, I promise.
Capsgirl32- Thanks for the review, I'm glad you feel I have a feel for the dialogue.
Angiewulf- Thank you for the review, and I'm sorry I didn't get this posted sooner. I've got more, its just mostly handwritten, and its taking a while to get it up.
Lady Jade86- Yay! I've got more, like I said I would. Thanks so much for the early encouragement, and for introducing me to the world of fanfiction!
Anyhow... On with the story.
Kronos grabbed Djinn by the back of the neck. She had been outside filling a waterskin from the spring for Methos when he approached. Terror filled her veins at his touch. She dropped the waterskin and froze, petrified.
"Good morning, little Seer. I see you survived the night." He grinned at her, walking around her so he could look her in the eyes. "Wonderful. It has been too long since we had a true beauty in the camp."
She didn't respond. She couldn't. Her voice was as frozen with terror as the rest of her. He laughed coldly.
"What, little Seer? Frightened?" he taunted, forcing her up against the wall that surrounded the spring. He grabbed her chin, turning her head so he could look at her from several angles. In her panicked state, she could do nothing. Her mind shut down. Kronos, irritated by her lack of response, struck her. She cried out, and he hit her again. The pain snapped her out of her helpless panic. She whimpered as he hit her a third time, raising her arms in a feeble attempt to protect herself. Her eyes glimmered with the faintest touch of a vision, and her fear lessened.
Kronos sensed the change in the young woman, and dealt her a vicious blow to her stomach. She doubled over and fell to the ground, curling around herself. It was weak protection against the angry kicks he directed at her.
Methos left his tent, wondering where Djinn had gone, and where the water he'd sent her for was. He hoped she hadn't tried to run. He didn't want to have to hunt her down. He approached the spring and saw Kronos standing over the girl, kicking her as she lay curled on the ground. He stormed forward, intending to grab Kronos and throw him aside. Only when the girl, without opening her tightly shut eyes, shook her head, did he hesitate.
"Don't," she pleaded. Methos stopped. Kronos, assuming the plea was directed at him, snarled at her and kicked her harder. Methos trembled in place, angry at Kronos, angry at Djinn, angry at himself. Feelings he hadn't had for nearly five hundred years flooded through him. His humanity was waking, after centuries of sleep. Death was dying. The change terrified him. He felt helpless again for the first time since he painted himself with the black stripe of his mask. Kronos dragged Djinn to her feet, shaking her. He leaned close, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin as he spoke.
"I will break you, girl. You will yield to me. I swear it," he hissed, wrapping a hand around her throat. "You. Will. Break." He flung her to the ground again and stalked off, never noticing Methos standing nearby. Djinn struggled to rise, bruises forming, the pain lingering. Hands shaking, she gathered the waterskin up and began to refill it. Methos went to her, steadying her hands. She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes.
"You said you wouldn't protect me," she said quietly, staring intently into his dark, powerful eyes. He turned away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I didn't protect you," he answered. He was still angry. He was angry at Djinn, for evoking feelings in him that he didn't know how to handle. He was much angrier at himself for not interfering when Kronos was beating her. She sought his eyes again, and he evaded her glance.
"You wanted to." Calm, flat, direct. Her words cut into him, because they were the truth. He released her hands.
"Finish with the water, then come back inside the tent. Stay there until I ask for you," he ordered coldly, then turned on his heel and walked away. He didn't see the speculative look she cast at him.
After a month, things had settled into a routine. Djinn served Methos, preparing his food, fetching things for him, cleaning his clothes and his tent, and sharing his bed. She tried to avoid being out of the tent for long periods of time. The Horsemen still rode, though Methos was more and more uncomfortable with the wanton slaughter. More and more often, when he sought Djinn's embrace after a battle, it was for comfort rather than the simple pleasures of sex. He hadn't ever sought Casse for comfort, what could be so different about this pale girl with the sky-touched eyes?
Deep inside him, a feeling was growing. He was coming to a conclusion, inevitable once his humanity had begun to wake. It would be a long time in coming, but he was starting to question his involvement with the Horsemen.
His uneasiness wasn't hidden as well as he'd hoped. Kronos knew something had changed with his Second. He also knew it was because of the Seer. Time and time again, he would grab her when Methos sent her out of the tent for items, or when she was on her way to bathe or prepare food. Usually he beat her. Sometimes he delivered worse than a beating. She faced the beatings with weak protests, but little fear. When he reached for her, however, with the glint in his eyes that said he planned more than usual, she froze. The panic left her helpless, weak, unable to even voice a plea for mercy. Kronos usually waited until Methos was within hearing range to hurt her. He was testing his second, looking for signs that he was going to break.
One afternoon, when the sun was high over the desert and heat rose from the ground in shimmering walls, Methos sought out Silas for a match. He was anxious, and fuming. Djinn had come trembling into the tent that morning from her trip to the spring smelling of sex with tears on her cheeks. The bruises had already begun to fade, but she didn't heal as quickly as most immortals, and it was clear that the beating had been particularly vicious. Unable to do anything for her, he had decided to work some of his frustrations out in a friendly sparring match with Silas. Silas had readily agreed, and stood in the practice square with his axe. He seemed oblivious to the broiling heat.
Methos took his place opposite Silas. The sun was directly above them, for now. Neither would start at a disadvantage from facing it. No breeze rose to disturb the glistening sand, and the waves of heat rose up like walls to fence them in. He raised his sword in a salute, and Silas mirrored the salute with his axe. Then, in a whirling ring of silver, Methos attacked. His blade, a well made hand and a half sword, moved like condensed wind as he went towards Silas with a complicated double crescent. Silas didn't move until Methos had crossed the square. Then, with startling agility for a man of his bulk, he twisted aside and blocked the sword on his thick axe handle. Flicking with the axe, he diverted the sword and brought his own weapon at Methos's neck. Methos twisted and brought his blade to intercept, then lunged. Back and forth they went, whirling, twisting, hacking, neither gaining or losing ground. Methos was working out his frustrations, his sword becoming the vessel of his pent-up fury. He moved faster than usual, and his attacks had more force behind them. Silas found himself having to work to defend against his smaller Brother. But Methos's anger distracted him. He lunged, but neglected to block Silas's descending axe. The blade touched the back of his neck, and they both froze. Methos lowered his blade and Silas raised his axe.
"Well fought, Brother," Methos acknowledged, fingering the already healing nick from the axe-blade.
"Be glad you fight alongside me, Methos," Silas said, laughing. "You've never won a match against me."
"I know, my friend," Methos responded. iI would if I needed to, though/i, he thought darkly to himself. iI would if I needed to./i
Silas lumbered off to clean up and get a drink, chuckling. Methos stood panting in the practice square, not willing to move just yet. A cool, damp towel was placed across the back of his neck, and another was run gently across his forehead. Djinn stood next to him, tending him with the towels and holding a waterskin.
"Master, you look exhausted. Here, drink. It will refresh you," she said, concerned. "I've never seen anyone move like that. It was amazing," she continued, looking at him with awe. He accepted the waterskin, drinking deeply of the slightly fruity, very cool water. He'd have to find out how she kept the water so cool, and where she got the juices she used to flavor it. He didn't think they had any fresh berries in the camp at the moment. She continued to tend him with the cool towel. It felt good, and he was pleased to see she seemed to have recovered from the morning's attack. Absently, he reached out and caressed her cheek. She stared at him in open- mouthed surprise, then with a look of fear, lowered his hand from her skin. He looked at her, surprised, until he realized they were standing in the open, not surrounded by the fur walls of his tent. There was a sound from behind him, and Djinn's look of fear grew. She whimpered suddenly, covering the cheek he'd touched. She acted for all the world as though he had just struck her.
Kronos stalked past. Djinn kept her head down, continuing to act as though she had been disciplined. He glanced at her, and a cruel smile came to his lips. He kept walking, satisfied that Methos was at least keeping himself detached enough to punish the girl. He vanished out of sight between two huts.
Djinn looked up at Methos, frightened now of how he would react. She had acted to protect both herself and him, but she wasn't sure now that it was the right thing to do. He looked down at her, expression unreadable. She went pale, fearing his disapproval. The thought of angering him made her blood run chill, even more so than did facing Kronos. He took her by the arm, still silent and unreadable, and led her back to his tent. She trembled the entire way there.
"Explain," he ordered, still hiding his reaction behind a still mask. Shivering, she did.
"You've said before, he... he won't let you get attached. I was afraid he had seen... I didn't want him to... I didn't want him to get angry! I'm sorry, truly I am, if it was wrong, I'm sorry I presumed, but I was scared," she babbled, kneeling at his feet. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. Methos reached down and took her chin, tilting her head until she was looking into his eyes.
"Which of us were you trying to protect?" he asked, eyes narrow with concentration. She tried to look away, but he held her still.
"Both," she whispered, biting her lip. She expected to be struck for her impertinence, for assuming that he could possibly need her protection. He released his hold on her chin, and she stared at the ground. He reached down and brushed her tears away, gentle.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't leave the tent until I return."
She looked up, confused, but he had turned away and was leaving the tent.
Methos saddled his horse and rode off into the savage heat of the midday sun. He needed to think, and he never thought as well as he did when riding. Pushing his horse into a short gallop, he headed north towards the great river.
The great river, a huge, constant rope of water that pulsed through the land and made life in the arid region possible, flowed from the Sea in the West to the Sea in the East. Along its length, life was possible. Flowers and shrubs, trees and reeds, all found places along its shores. Theirs was a fragile existence, subject to the whims of the gods and the earth. As Methos rode, he sullenly pondered that fragility. It was ironic to him how life would cling so desperately to existence, even in the harsh, untamable desert. It was beautiful, even under the adversity of its surroundings. Something about that stubborn determination to survive was irresistible, powerful, addictive...
Methos scowled at the turn his thoughts were taking. The girl was beginning to make him crazy. The feelings she evoked were unmanageable. He wanted her, not as a slave, but as a woman. His woman. He didn't ever want to see her profaned by Kronos's touch again. He didn't want to see the traces of the tears she tried to hide. Angry, he turned his horse, heading back towards camp. He didn't want to want her.
The desert sands held no answers for him today. He set off at a gallop for the encampment.
Special notes:
Highlanderfanatic- I'm flattered you took the time to leave a review, and I'm glad you like the story! I'll write more, I promise.
Capsgirl32- Thanks for the review, I'm glad you feel I have a feel for the dialogue.
Angiewulf- Thank you for the review, and I'm sorry I didn't get this posted sooner. I've got more, its just mostly handwritten, and its taking a while to get it up.
Lady Jade86- Yay! I've got more, like I said I would. Thanks so much for the early encouragement, and for introducing me to the world of fanfiction!
Anyhow... On with the story.
Kronos grabbed Djinn by the back of the neck. She had been outside filling a waterskin from the spring for Methos when he approached. Terror filled her veins at his touch. She dropped the waterskin and froze, petrified.
"Good morning, little Seer. I see you survived the night." He grinned at her, walking around her so he could look her in the eyes. "Wonderful. It has been too long since we had a true beauty in the camp."
She didn't respond. She couldn't. Her voice was as frozen with terror as the rest of her. He laughed coldly.
"What, little Seer? Frightened?" he taunted, forcing her up against the wall that surrounded the spring. He grabbed her chin, turning her head so he could look at her from several angles. In her panicked state, she could do nothing. Her mind shut down. Kronos, irritated by her lack of response, struck her. She cried out, and he hit her again. The pain snapped her out of her helpless panic. She whimpered as he hit her a third time, raising her arms in a feeble attempt to protect herself. Her eyes glimmered with the faintest touch of a vision, and her fear lessened.
Kronos sensed the change in the young woman, and dealt her a vicious blow to her stomach. She doubled over and fell to the ground, curling around herself. It was weak protection against the angry kicks he directed at her.
Methos left his tent, wondering where Djinn had gone, and where the water he'd sent her for was. He hoped she hadn't tried to run. He didn't want to have to hunt her down. He approached the spring and saw Kronos standing over the girl, kicking her as she lay curled on the ground. He stormed forward, intending to grab Kronos and throw him aside. Only when the girl, without opening her tightly shut eyes, shook her head, did he hesitate.
"Don't," she pleaded. Methos stopped. Kronos, assuming the plea was directed at him, snarled at her and kicked her harder. Methos trembled in place, angry at Kronos, angry at Djinn, angry at himself. Feelings he hadn't had for nearly five hundred years flooded through him. His humanity was waking, after centuries of sleep. Death was dying. The change terrified him. He felt helpless again for the first time since he painted himself with the black stripe of his mask. Kronos dragged Djinn to her feet, shaking her. He leaned close, so close that she could feel his breath on her skin as he spoke.
"I will break you, girl. You will yield to me. I swear it," he hissed, wrapping a hand around her throat. "You. Will. Break." He flung her to the ground again and stalked off, never noticing Methos standing nearby. Djinn struggled to rise, bruises forming, the pain lingering. Hands shaking, she gathered the waterskin up and began to refill it. Methos went to her, steadying her hands. She looked up at him, tears brimming in her eyes.
"You said you wouldn't protect me," she said quietly, staring intently into his dark, powerful eyes. He turned away, unable to meet her gaze.
"I didn't protect you," he answered. He was still angry. He was angry at Djinn, for evoking feelings in him that he didn't know how to handle. He was much angrier at himself for not interfering when Kronos was beating her. She sought his eyes again, and he evaded her glance.
"You wanted to." Calm, flat, direct. Her words cut into him, because they were the truth. He released her hands.
"Finish with the water, then come back inside the tent. Stay there until I ask for you," he ordered coldly, then turned on his heel and walked away. He didn't see the speculative look she cast at him.
After a month, things had settled into a routine. Djinn served Methos, preparing his food, fetching things for him, cleaning his clothes and his tent, and sharing his bed. She tried to avoid being out of the tent for long periods of time. The Horsemen still rode, though Methos was more and more uncomfortable with the wanton slaughter. More and more often, when he sought Djinn's embrace after a battle, it was for comfort rather than the simple pleasures of sex. He hadn't ever sought Casse for comfort, what could be so different about this pale girl with the sky-touched eyes?
Deep inside him, a feeling was growing. He was coming to a conclusion, inevitable once his humanity had begun to wake. It would be a long time in coming, but he was starting to question his involvement with the Horsemen.
His uneasiness wasn't hidden as well as he'd hoped. Kronos knew something had changed with his Second. He also knew it was because of the Seer. Time and time again, he would grab her when Methos sent her out of the tent for items, or when she was on her way to bathe or prepare food. Usually he beat her. Sometimes he delivered worse than a beating. She faced the beatings with weak protests, but little fear. When he reached for her, however, with the glint in his eyes that said he planned more than usual, she froze. The panic left her helpless, weak, unable to even voice a plea for mercy. Kronos usually waited until Methos was within hearing range to hurt her. He was testing his second, looking for signs that he was going to break.
One afternoon, when the sun was high over the desert and heat rose from the ground in shimmering walls, Methos sought out Silas for a match. He was anxious, and fuming. Djinn had come trembling into the tent that morning from her trip to the spring smelling of sex with tears on her cheeks. The bruises had already begun to fade, but she didn't heal as quickly as most immortals, and it was clear that the beating had been particularly vicious. Unable to do anything for her, he had decided to work some of his frustrations out in a friendly sparring match with Silas. Silas had readily agreed, and stood in the practice square with his axe. He seemed oblivious to the broiling heat.
Methos took his place opposite Silas. The sun was directly above them, for now. Neither would start at a disadvantage from facing it. No breeze rose to disturb the glistening sand, and the waves of heat rose up like walls to fence them in. He raised his sword in a salute, and Silas mirrored the salute with his axe. Then, in a whirling ring of silver, Methos attacked. His blade, a well made hand and a half sword, moved like condensed wind as he went towards Silas with a complicated double crescent. Silas didn't move until Methos had crossed the square. Then, with startling agility for a man of his bulk, he twisted aside and blocked the sword on his thick axe handle. Flicking with the axe, he diverted the sword and brought his own weapon at Methos's neck. Methos twisted and brought his blade to intercept, then lunged. Back and forth they went, whirling, twisting, hacking, neither gaining or losing ground. Methos was working out his frustrations, his sword becoming the vessel of his pent-up fury. He moved faster than usual, and his attacks had more force behind them. Silas found himself having to work to defend against his smaller Brother. But Methos's anger distracted him. He lunged, but neglected to block Silas's descending axe. The blade touched the back of his neck, and they both froze. Methos lowered his blade and Silas raised his axe.
"Well fought, Brother," Methos acknowledged, fingering the already healing nick from the axe-blade.
"Be glad you fight alongside me, Methos," Silas said, laughing. "You've never won a match against me."
"I know, my friend," Methos responded. iI would if I needed to, though/i, he thought darkly to himself. iI would if I needed to./i
Silas lumbered off to clean up and get a drink, chuckling. Methos stood panting in the practice square, not willing to move just yet. A cool, damp towel was placed across the back of his neck, and another was run gently across his forehead. Djinn stood next to him, tending him with the towels and holding a waterskin.
"Master, you look exhausted. Here, drink. It will refresh you," she said, concerned. "I've never seen anyone move like that. It was amazing," she continued, looking at him with awe. He accepted the waterskin, drinking deeply of the slightly fruity, very cool water. He'd have to find out how she kept the water so cool, and where she got the juices she used to flavor it. He didn't think they had any fresh berries in the camp at the moment. She continued to tend him with the cool towel. It felt good, and he was pleased to see she seemed to have recovered from the morning's attack. Absently, he reached out and caressed her cheek. She stared at him in open- mouthed surprise, then with a look of fear, lowered his hand from her skin. He looked at her, surprised, until he realized they were standing in the open, not surrounded by the fur walls of his tent. There was a sound from behind him, and Djinn's look of fear grew. She whimpered suddenly, covering the cheek he'd touched. She acted for all the world as though he had just struck her.
Kronos stalked past. Djinn kept her head down, continuing to act as though she had been disciplined. He glanced at her, and a cruel smile came to his lips. He kept walking, satisfied that Methos was at least keeping himself detached enough to punish the girl. He vanished out of sight between two huts.
Djinn looked up at Methos, frightened now of how he would react. She had acted to protect both herself and him, but she wasn't sure now that it was the right thing to do. He looked down at her, expression unreadable. She went pale, fearing his disapproval. The thought of angering him made her blood run chill, even more so than did facing Kronos. He took her by the arm, still silent and unreadable, and led her back to his tent. She trembled the entire way there.
"Explain," he ordered, still hiding his reaction behind a still mask. Shivering, she did.
"You've said before, he... he won't let you get attached. I was afraid he had seen... I didn't want him to... I didn't want him to get angry! I'm sorry, truly I am, if it was wrong, I'm sorry I presumed, but I was scared," she babbled, kneeling at his feet. Tears were coursing down her cheeks. Methos reached down and took her chin, tilting her head until she was looking into his eyes.
"Which of us were you trying to protect?" he asked, eyes narrow with concentration. She tried to look away, but he held her still.
"Both," she whispered, biting her lip. She expected to be struck for her impertinence, for assuming that he could possibly need her protection. He released his hold on her chin, and she stared at the ground. He reached down and brushed her tears away, gentle.
"Stay here," he said. "Don't leave the tent until I return."
She looked up, confused, but he had turned away and was leaving the tent.
Methos saddled his horse and rode off into the savage heat of the midday sun. He needed to think, and he never thought as well as he did when riding. Pushing his horse into a short gallop, he headed north towards the great river.
The great river, a huge, constant rope of water that pulsed through the land and made life in the arid region possible, flowed from the Sea in the West to the Sea in the East. Along its length, life was possible. Flowers and shrubs, trees and reeds, all found places along its shores. Theirs was a fragile existence, subject to the whims of the gods and the earth. As Methos rode, he sullenly pondered that fragility. It was ironic to him how life would cling so desperately to existence, even in the harsh, untamable desert. It was beautiful, even under the adversity of its surroundings. Something about that stubborn determination to survive was irresistible, powerful, addictive...
Methos scowled at the turn his thoughts were taking. The girl was beginning to make him crazy. The feelings she evoked were unmanageable. He wanted her, not as a slave, but as a woman. His woman. He didn't ever want to see her profaned by Kronos's touch again. He didn't want to see the traces of the tears she tried to hide. Angry, he turned his horse, heading back towards camp. He didn't want to want her.
The desert sands held no answers for him today. He set off at a gallop for the encampment.