LONG HAVE I WAITED: Chapter 2
By Parda and Nightsky (1999)
Trees may bend,
Though straight and tall.
So must we to others' call.
- - - - -Original Message- - - - -
From: Watcher Tribunal ((Tribunal(at)tribdiv . HQ . watchers . org))
To: Watchers
Transmitted: 11/01/96 20:38:09
SUBJECT: URGENT - Search for Adam Pierson
URGENT URGENT URGENT
All Watchers everywhere (field, research, historians, telecommute, retired) are instructed to watch for AWOL Watcher Adam Pierson(picture attached).
Do NOT approach him. Repeat: Do NOT approach.
FIRST report his whereabouts to the Tribunal immediately, then attempt to maintain surveillance.
The Watcher Tribunal
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
To: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)
From: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/01/96 22:31:01
SUBJECT: Pierson/Methos
=P.S. Hey, Joe, did you know that Cassandra and MacLeod were
=at your place this morning? What gives?
Yes, Joseph, what gives? What the hell is going on out there? Wasn't the mess with Galati enough? And Kalas? Do you have to keep breaking your oath?
How many Watchers do you think will die this time, Joe?
And what is this crap you're trying to pull about Pierson?
=Even if Adam Pierson is an Immortal
If? IF? Who are you trying to fool? You son of a bitch, you knew all this time, and you didn't tell anyone!
Think about what this means, Joe. Think.
Adam Pierson has been a Watcher for nearly 10 years. That conniving little bastard has been all through the Watcher chronicles, Joe. All of them. He had access to everything. How many files do you think he's changed or erased?
Adam Pierson is Methos, the oldest Immortal alive. How many Immortals do you think he's hunted down using information from our database? HIS database. No wonder he wanted everything on one CD. I'm almost glad Don Salzer isn't alive to see this.
Adam Pierson is going to be one sorry son of a bitch if I ever see him again. When I think about the number of times I've let that monster, that murdering rapist, into my apartment, it makes my skin crawl.
I tried calling, but you weren't answering. Well, you're going to have to answer for this one, Joe. You'd better have booked a flight to Paris already. The Tribunal is going to want to see you when I finish telling them what's going on.
Dr. Amy Zoll, Senior Watcher
Head of the Methos Project
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
To: (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
From: (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/02/96 03:22:10
SUBJECT: Re: Pierson/Methos
On 11/01/96 you wrote:
=You son of a bitch! You knew all this time, and you didn't tell anyone!
C'mon, Amy, take a few deep breaths and think about it. If I'd said something when I first found out, he would have disappeared 2 years ago, and we would have lost him completely. Now, I don't think he'll care the Watchers know, and we'll be able to keep someone on him.
= When I think about the number of times I've let that monster, that murdering rapist,
= into my apartment, it makes my skin crawl.
I'm still not that convinced he even was one of the Four Horsemen Cassandra keeps raving about. (And it's not like you, Research Girl, to believe a rumor like this before you've done the math.) But even if he was, even if everything she says is true, that he did massacre her village, rape and torture her - that was three THOUSAND years ago.
The world changes. Morals change. People change.
The Adam Pierson we both know is not the same man who could do that to Cassandra. Not any more. I still have faith in him.
Joe
P.S. When you go running to the Tribunal, tell them to keep their pet kidnappers on a leash. I'm booking passage to Europe today. I stand by my choices, and I will answer to the consequences. No need to shout. Or throw me into a car.
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
From: Watcher Tribunal (Tribunal(at)tribdiv . HQ . watchers . org)
To: Joseph Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/02/96 11:45:15
SUBJECT: Disciplinary Action
To: Joseph Dawson, Watcher
From: The Watcher Tribunal
You are hereby summoned to report IMMEDIATELY to Watcher Headquarters. You are relieved of all duties and placed on probation. A Special Field Agent will be assigned to the Immortal Duncan MacLeod.
Bring all chronicles and field notes you have on MacLeod, Cassandra, AND Methos/Pierson.
The Watcher Tribunal
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
To: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)
From: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/03/96 13:31:01
SUBJECT: Re: Pierson/Methos
On 11/02/96 you wrote:
=I'm still not that convinced he even was one of the Four Horsemen Cassandra keeps =raving about. (And it's not like you, Research Girl, to believe a rumor
=like this before you've done the math.)
You're right, Joe. I shouldn't have jumped the gun, and I'm sorry I yelled at you like that. It was just such a shock. I mean, I invited him over for Christmas last year because I felt sorry for him, alone in a foreign country.
However, I AM doing research now, and let me tell you, it doesn't look good. We've identified Kronos under several other names (that scar down his face makes it easy), and he is one scary Immortal. Really scary. Makes the Kurgan seem like a blind wombat.
Oh, the Tribunal still wants to see you, you know. You have a lot of explaining to do, and an e-mail to me isn't going to satisfy them. I've assigned Yvette Berens to Duncan MacLeod while you're busy with that.
= But even if he was, even if everything she says is true,
=that he did massacre her village, rape and torture her -
=that was three THOUSAND years ago.
Yes, it was. But Kronos and Adam Pierson were spotted in Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris early this morning. That's today, Sunday, November 3rd, 1996, NOT three thousand years ago.
=The Adam Pierson we both know is not the same
=man who could do that to Cassandra. Not any
=more. I still have faith in him.
Then why is he hanging around with this slimebag Kronos? Seems to me that Pierson/Methos is pretty much damned by association, but I guess we'll wait and see.
I just wish we knew where they are. They bought tickets for Athens, but they never showed up, and now we don't know where they went.
Dr. Amy Zoll, Senior Watcher
Head of the Methos Project
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
I will heal their backsliding;
I will love them freely:
For mine anger is turned away from him.
Hosea 14:4
Methos was in the Ukraine, and he was enjoying himself. He leaned forward over his mare's neck, urging her faster. Her hooves thudded on the thick leaves covering the path through the forest. Kronos was about one hundred yards ahead of him, and he was getting away. It had been Kronos who suggested the race to the river, and it had been Kronos who had taken the early lead, spurring his horse to a full gallop before Methos had even had time to agree to the race. No matter. Kronos may have taken the early lead, but Methos still had a chance to win, if he was clever. Methos was not going to lose this race.
The river was still a mile away, and the path wound around a bit. With a cry of challenge, he suddenly turned his horse into the forest. Kronos shouted after him, "Methos, you're crazy!" but Methos wasn't listening. He was too busy flinging himself sideways in the saddle so he didn't smack his head on the low branch directly in front of him.
Most of the underbrush was gone this late in the fall, but the vines and smaller branches still whipped at him, cutting his face. Cutting overland would shorten his route by about a few hundred yards, but it was like running the slalom, as he dodged and curved around the larger trees. As long as he avoided being unhorsed by a larger branch, immortal healing would take care of the little stings and cuts the smaller branches inflicted upon him.
He came back out on the main track, just slightly ahead of Kronos. Without looking back, he turned his horse toward the river. He could hear Kronos gaining on him from behind, but kept his eyes and thoughts on the goal.
He reached the banks of the river just a few seconds ahead of Kronos, and reined his exhausted horse to a stop. He dismounted, laughing, and gathered up a handful of dead leaves. As Kronos dismounted, Methos threw the leaves at him, still laughing. Kronos was laughing too; he liked to win, but he could admire someone who beat him fairly. Or sneakily.
"Thor's hammer, Methos! What a chance you took! If you had been unhorsed…"
"It worked, didn't it?" Methos couldn't stop grinning with the euphoria. He really hadn't expected to win. "What did we wager on this little race, anyway? Loser sets up camp? Loser takes care of the horses?" As he spoke, he threw some more leaves at Kronos.
Kronos dodged the leaves, reaching down to throw some back. "Take care of your own horse, Brother. After what you put her through, she deserves it."
Methos went over to his sweating horse and began to unsaddle her. "She was great, Kronos," he said with enthusiasm. "I hardly had to guide her at all."
"Horses are wonderful," Kronos answered, moving toward his own mount. "You can't have this kind of relationship with a car."
"Oh, I don't know," Methos answered. "I had a pretty good relationship with my first car. Bought it almost a hundred years ago, and I've never looked back."
"Smelly things," Kronos said. "Always need gas."
"And I suppose horses don't smell at all," Methos said, setting the saddle on the ground.
"It's a good healthy smell, unlike gasoline fumes."
"You're just trapped in the past," Methos said. "Modern conveniences are to be appreciated, not despised."
The argument continued while the men set up camp. As the sun set, Methos arranged the wood that Kronos had gathered for a campfire. He picked up some small dry twigs and leaves for fire-starters, then asked Kronos, "Do we light this fire the old-fashioned way, too? Shall I go look for some flint?"
With a laugh, Kronos threw Methos a book of matches. "Start the fire, Brother. I'm cold."
The darkness deepened and the stars began to appear overhead. The men finished eating and sat around the fire. Kronos wrapped a blanket around his shoulders and leaned back against a tree, stretching his legs out toward the fire. Methos looked for a place to sprawl, and eventually lay down next to Kronos, resting his head on Kronos' thigh.
"I forgot to bring a pillow," he said in explanation when Kronos looked down at him.
"You do like your comforts," Kronos said, then looked back at the fire.
Methos grinned to himself, pleased he could still make unreasonable demands seem reasonable.
"It's good to see you so relaxed," Kronos added, his hand lightly touching Methos' hair.
Methos looked at the stars through the bare branches overhead. It was good to be relaxed. These last few days, traveling with Kronos, he had had a chance to be himself. He didn't have to pretend to be anyone else - not shy Adam Pierson, not a wise Ancient, not the irascible friend. He could just be Methos.
Tonight, in the midst of this old forest, lying by a campfire with Kronos, the modern world seemed very far away. The forest had looked the same a hundred years ago, when he had last visited Silas; it had no doubt looked this way a thousand years ago when Silas had first settled down here, alone, a hermit in the forest, living quietly with nature and the wild animals.
The last time he had ridden down this narrow path, the peacefulness of the woods had surrounded him, and he had welcomed the silence and the solitude. He wasn't alone now, but he was still surrounded by peace. And so was Kronos.
Kronos wasn't fighting everybody, wasn't demanding. He was just enjoying life, and Methos was enjoying being with Kronos. How could he not? Had he not shaped Kronos for himself, playing Pygmalion? All these years since he had left the Horsemen he had denied himself this companionship, had longed for the day when Kronos would join him again. He would not go back to the raiding - no, he would not, no matter how Kronos begged him. He had made that decision long ago. But to stay with Kronos like this, together ...
Perhaps they could talk Silas into putting them up for a while, and stay here in the forest, away from all the tensions and hatreds and bad memories. Perhaps here, he and Kronos might have a chance to heal.
Kronos broke the silence. "I've been looking for you for years. I thought I'd found you in Ireland, over a thousand years ago, but the monks at the monastery told me you had moved on, to some god-forsaken rock in the middle of the sea." He looked down at Methos again, and his hand went back to his hair, caressing now. "I didn't find you there, either."
Methos turned his head to look at the fire, remembering. He had been on a journey at the time, and the other monks, not liking the looks of Kronos, had sent him on a wild goose chase. Methos had been tempted to meet his wayward son again, but the monks had also told him that Kronos had been traveling with the Vikings. Even then, Methos would not - would not - go back to a life of raiding. Methos had left the monastery immediately, sailed across the Atlantic with a group of monks to Iceland, to run away from his son.
He wasn't going to run anymore. "When I came back to the monastery, they told me," Methos admitted. "But you were gone, and I did not want to see you with a war axe in your hand."
Kronos looked down in surprise. "You were really there? I thought it was all a waste of time. Were you really a monk?"
"Frequently," Methos replied. "A number of times over the years."
"Poverty, chastity, obedience." Kronos shook his head. "I never tried it."
"I dare say not." Methos looked up at Kronos, amused. "Still, monks often ate better than the peasants, and chastity's not so hard for a short time. Obedience, now. I always had trouble with the obedience part. But it was a small price to pay for the peace, the libraries, and the crafts ..."
His words died away, lost in the vastness of the forest. They listened to the sounds of the river flowing nearby, interrupted by the occasional pop from the fire.
Kronos spoke up. "I sailed with the Vikings for almost two hundred years. It was almost like our Horsemen days, going raiding on those ships. We'd pull up to shore, and watch the terror spread. Everybody was afraid of us. The monks were afraid of us."
"With good reason," Methos retorted. "So many were killed, so much destroyed in those days."
Kronos spoke sharply. "Everything is destroyed, Brother. Everything vanishes. Except us."
Methos nodded. All Immortals had to learn to live with that, to accept that. But Kronos hadn't just accepted it, he had embraced it. He had become time's ally, destroying for pleasure, just to watch things burn. Kronos let nothing touch his heart. His soul was sterile, and by his destruction he created a barren world, both for himself, and for others. Methos wanted to make him realize that. "We can appreciate what's around us while it lasts. We have to."
"We don't need anything or anyone else. We'll get Silas and Caspian; it'll be enough."
Methos sat up suddenly, then looked Kronos straight in the eye. "It's not enough, Kronos. Don't you see? Look what happened the last time we were together. For a thousand years, we rode together, and we stopped caring about anything except ourselves. We rode, we raided, we took what we wanted, and we destroyed what we didn't. But we didn't live; we only survived."
Kronos shrugged, and Methos tried to explain. "The whole world was changing around us. Iron smelting, Solomon's Temple, Homer's stories - all that was being created by mortals. But we - we didn't change. The only thing different about us after a thousand years was that our horses were bigger and our swords were longer. And those we stole."
Kronos smiled at that, remembering, but Methos concluded in disgust, "In all those years, we learned nothing. We invented nothing. We contributed nothing."
"I suppose you're going to tell me this is a bad thing," Kronos remarked sarcastically.
Methos groaned and looked at him.
"All right," Kronos relented. "I see your point. But let me tell you something. For the last two thousand years, we've lived among them. And maybe you've learned and invented and contributed the wisdom of the ages to the collective knowledge of mankind. But the truth is - you've been alone. Because they all die. Even the Immortals you know. They die too, because of that stupid Game. Now there's a contribution for you!"
Methos stood and went to feed the fire. He didn't look at Kronos. He didn't speak.
Kronos continued from where he sat. "What's the use of giving to people who just die and are forgotten? And do you think the world moving forward is really good for us? How long will we be able to hide among them with their new technologies, with their fingerprinting, and their photographs, and their passports? When they find out about Immortals, all hell will break loose, and we'll be the ones in the flames. I don't know about you, Brother, but I'd rather watch the other side burn."
So would Methos. And there was truth in what Kronos said.
Kronos moved to stand behind Methos. They stood together, staring at the fire. Kronos was so close Methos could feel his breath on his neck.
"We have to stand together, Brother," Kronos said softly. "The Four Horsemen are invincible. The Game can't touch us. And if we are wise and strike first, the mortals won't touch us either. We can go back to the way it was." He put his hand on Methos' shoulder, slowly caressing, running his hand down Methos' arm. "You want it, Brother. You want the security, and the companionship, and the power again. You can't deny it."
Methos couldn't. "I want it," he agreed. "But it doesn't matter to me that I want it. I will not go back, Kronos. I will not kill, or burn, or plan your raids for you. I will not do it."
"So. At first you will just watch." Kronos accepted that. "Eventually, you will return to the old ways."
Desperately, Methos turned to Kronos. "Kronos. You said it yourself. There are fingerprints, and photographs, and Interpol. There may be a few places left in the world where you'll be able to get away with that kind of raiding, but they won't last. You can't."
"Oh, but I can. You see - I have a plan, Brother. I'll tell you when we get to Bordeaux."
"Bordeaux? France?"
"Yes, France. I have a place there; you'll like it. I even bought it legally. I have the deed, and everything." He grinned. "Of course, I stole the money to buy it with."
Methos laughed, then unrolled his sleeping bag near the fire. Kronos was incorrigible. And mad. Methos knew that; he had seen it in other Immortals before. Many, if not most, Immortals battled with madness from time to time, but Methos wasn't sure just how far Kronos' madness went. He seemed to have gotten over his anger at Methos' betrayal all those years ago. If his madness was based just on his fear and loneliness, then Methos could help him. It might take a century or two, but they had time. They were Immortal.
He snuggled into his sleeping bag and lay down, trying to get comfortable. With a muttered curse, he sat up, then reached under his sleeping bag to pull out a sizable rock. He flung it into the fire and lay back down. What was Kronos' plan? he wondered, staring idly at Kronos, who was still standing by the fire. Does he think he can bring down all of Western civilization?
Kronos turned, meeting his eyes across the fire. He walked around the fire to squat down next to Methos. Methos closed his eyes for a moment, remembering. In the dark of the night, it was so easy to remember all the good years. Slowly, Methos reached up and traced the scar on Kronos' face.
Kronos' breath caught in his throat, then he turned his head and took Methos' finger into his mouth, where he nipped at it gently, his eyes dark with passion. A shiver passed through Methos.
"Cold?" Kronos asked.
"A little," Methos admitted.
Kronos smiled slowly. "I can probably do something to fix that," he said, as he lowered himself to the ground.
The rock sizzled in the fire. Sparks shot into the sky, but as the night wore on, the fire died down to glowing embers. Soon, there was only the sound of the water, flowing forever downstream.
- - - - -Original Message- - - - -
From: Julia Harami (J_harami(at)research. me. watchers . org)
To: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: Monday, November 4, 1996 11:15 PM
SUBJECT: The Four Horsemen
Hi Amy,
On 02/11/96 you wrote:
=I need information about the Four Horsemen of the
=Apocalypse NOW! Anything - legends, myths, factual
=accounts. How likely is it that they were Immortals?
Sorry I didn't get your message until today, Amy. I was on leave. And it sounds like you're in a hurry. Here's a quick synopsis of what I found this morning about the Four Horsemen.
In Christian mythology, they're known as the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, and they're called War, Famine, Pestilence, and Death. In Zoroastrian legends, they're called the Servants of Ahriman.
They appear in a lot of other mythologies, too. It makes sense that they were Immortals. They must have ridden for a long time, and over a wide area, to get into so many cultures' myths.
That's quite a legacy to leave, to be remembered with fear thousands of years after they stop riding. Makes me wonder what kind of men would do that? How did they get started?
I'll send you more in a bit.
Julia Harami
Research Head, Middle East Region
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
I did know thee in the wilderness,
in the land of great drought.
Hosea 13:5
Tilpuk, Mesopotamia - 1508 BCE
The doorkeeper was a new slave, and he did not recognize Methos. To be fair, Methos had been gone for three years, looking for new sources of tin far to the west, in the mines of Iberia, and the doorkeeper was only doing his job. But still, Methos was hot and he was tired, and he didn't appreciate being kept waiting in the zigzagged halls of the entryway.
"Methos!" Kronos' wife Settah called, her red skirts swirling about her ankles, her veil floating behind her as she hurried into the entryway. Her dark eyes had brightened at the sight of him, and Methos felt much better. "Welcome home, husband's brother," she said formally, then kissed him on the cheek in greeting. "It's so good to see you again. Come in, come in!" She took him by the hand and led him into the cool interior of the house, calling to one of the slaves, "Go to the foundry and tell your master that his brother is here!"
Methos looked around the house with interest, noticing the changes. Beautiful woven hangings covered three of the walls, making the house feel rather like a tent, and there was more furniture, even a few intricately carved wooden pieces. Ornate vases sat in a row along one wall. Kronos had done very well for himself indeed, in the years Methos had been away.
Settah's children from her previous marriage had changed, too, of course, grown taller, older. They stood shyly against the wall as a slave washed his feet with cool water and Settah brought him a most-welcome draught of beer. He was almost ready to ask for another when Kronos hurried in, his embroidered dark-green tunic dusty from the streets and smelling of smoke from the foundry, but handsome just the same.
"Kronos!" Methos exclaimed, standing up, a broad grin on his face.
"Greetings, Brother!" Kronos replied, hurrying forward to wrap Methos in a hug, then the two of them just stood there with their arms about each other for a moment. Kronos pulled back a little and said, "It's been a long time."
"Too long," Methos agreed, still grinning, but now looking closely at Kronos. The scar across his eye would never fade, but his dark beard and hair were immaculate, and there was a sparkle in his eyes, a look of contentment in the way he held himself. Methos tried to find more words to greet Kronos with, but found himself oddly tongue-tied as he reached to grip Kronos' upper arm, the muscles there tight and firm from all the hard work in the foundry. No matter. Kronos didn't need to hear the words; he knew.
"I've missed you, too, Brother," Kronos said softly, as he grasped Methos' arm in return.
The youngest of the children, a boy of about three, detached himself from the wall and grabbed at Kronos' leg, obviously wanting some of Kronos' attention for himself. Methos moved back and laughed as Kronos swung the boy up, holding him upside down, then dropped to the ground with the boy and started tickling him. This seemed to be the signal that all the children had been waiting for. They ran forward, and Kronos disappeared under a tangle of small arms and legs and bodies.
His voice carried over the laughter and squeals of the children. "You could help me out here, Brother. It's six against one."
Methos laughed and went back to his seat. It had been a long time since he had been around children, and it was more fun watching Kronos deal with the onslaught. A slave brought him another beer, and Methos smiled and thanked her, then leaned back and sipped contentedly.
Finally, Settah called a halt to the impromptu wrestling match, and the children were all sent on their way, save for the lad who had started the whole thing. He was still clinging to Kronos' back. Kronos ignored him as he called for food and led Methos into the courtyard.
Once there, Kronos sat down on a bench, then made a show of squishing the young boy, still clinging to his back, against the wall of the house. After more giggles and squeals, and another short wrestling match, the boy went into the house, although Methos caught sight of him peeking out from the doorway.
"Cute little rascal," Methos said, as he picked up the fresh beer a slave had brought with the food. "That must be the one who was born after I left?" Soon after Kronos had married the wealthy pregnant widow, Methos had started his journey, ostensibly to find new sources of tin for Kronos' foundry, but really to give the couple some time to themselves.
Kronos nodded. "Smart, too. Settah says I spoil him. We named him after you, you know - Methsiri." Kronos spoke the name with a local accent.
"Did you now? Perhaps I'll have to compete with you for the boy's affection." Methos sprawled back in his chair, and regarded Kronos seriously for a moment. "Domesticity suits you, Brother," he remarked with a smile.
"It does," Kronos agreed. "It's a different way of life. But I'm happy, Methos. I'd never been miserable before, really. But this is so ... so different."
Different, but temporary, Methos thought to himself. We are Immortal. Kronos knows this with his head, but his heart hasn't realized it yet. "How goes the business?" he asked, changing the subject.
"Couldn't be better. Orders are coming in everyday for new swords, shields, and armaments. The city is gearing up for war."
Methos nodded. On his journey here he'd seen the results of the most recent waves of battles to move through the land. Hammurabi had kept the peace in Babylonia, but Hammurabi had been dead for two hundred and fifty years. His empire was dead, too. The people in the south had broken away completely, the capital city of Babylon itself had been burned, and the outlying tribes had come in to pick at the carcass.
"On the way here, I passed a number of cities that were completely destroyed," Methos said, leaning forward in his concern. "Not just overrun, where the inhabitants had to pay more taxes to a new king or to different priests, but destroyed. The buildings were burned and demolished, the ground salted, the bodies unburied and left for the vultures. This new brand of warfare is unspeakable, Kronos. The destruction is total." He looked Kronos in the eye and said earnestly, "Staying may not be the wisest course of action."
Kronos looked away, then set down his drink. "A few years ago, I might have agreed with you. We could have left here, gone to Egypt, or the Indus Valley, or even to those bloody cold islands in the north. But I can't leave, Methos. I have a family now, a business. Settah was born in Tilpuk; she'll never leave. My life is here, and if I am called to defend this city, I will do so."
Methos nodded slowly, recognizing Kronos' need to protect his family and his friends. And Methos would stand with Kronos.
The attack came less than four months later. The Gelonite tribe came with their strong swords, their arrows, and fire. Both Methos and Kronos served with the army, standing guard, defending the city. But the Gelonites were stronger, and they breached the walls, pouring into the city through the gap. Methos was separated from Kronos early in the fighting, but he stood with the other men of Tilpuk, fighting valiantly, until a spear struck him in the side and he went down, the darkness of death overwhelming him.
He came back to life with a gasp, eyes opening to stare at the bright sky, much to his dismay. A Gelonite soldier was looting the bodies nearby and heard him. "Not dead yet?" he asked, and, using his foot to flip Methos on his side, slid his sword through his back and into his lung. Coughing as the blood welled up into his mouth, Methos relaxed and surrendered to the inevitable, letting death take him again.
When he came to again, he was naked, lying in the sun. He lay there, quietly, barely daring to breathe, listening to the well-remembered sounds of defeat - the screams of women, the wails of frightened children, and the groans of dying men, and through it all, the harsh orders and laughter of the victorious soldiers. He could smell smoke, and heard the crackle of flames nearby. Daring to open his eyes a slit, he saw an encampment of soldiers nearby, where an officer was directing the destruction.
He didn't dare to move - naked, he wouldn't be able to blend in, weaponless, he wouldn't be able to fight. If he were discovered alive, unhurt, there were only two possibilities - death again, or being marched off into slavery with the conquered women and children. He'd been a slave before. Death, and then escape, was the preferable option. Perhaps when night fell, he'd be able to move about in the shadows. He couldn't feel Kronos, but his companion had to be around somewhere.
But, as luck would have it, a company of soldiers camped right near where Methos was lying. He was terrified for a few minutes that they would drag the bodies away - it was hard pretending to be dead when being scraped over streets, and someone might notice there was no death wound - but these men didn't seem to mind eating, raping, and sleeping in the midst of the corpses.
The next day, the soldiers moved out swiftly. Survivors of Tilpuk had been herded up the day before and during the night, and now they were quickly marched away. Behind them the invaders left a deserted and silent city, inhabited only by corpses - and two Immortals. Methos slowly, carefully sat up. He could hear nothing except the shrill shrieks of the carrion birds and the crackling of flames.
His skin was burned and painful from lying all morning in the blistering sun, but better that than being one of the swollen corpses littering the streets. The smell of the town was beginning to be overwhelming; it would be a few days before the birds and the wild dogs took care of that problem.
There was little left worth scavenging, but he found a torn blanket and fashioned it into some sort of covering, then circled the city, hoping to sense Kronos. After failing at that, he began to look closely at the corpses.
By mid-afternoon he had determined that Kronos had not fallen on the city's walls, and he wandered into the sacked city. He made his way toward his home - Kronos' home. It was possible that Kronos would have headed there, to protect his family once the walls had been breached.
The house was still standing, but small tendrils of smoke were rising from the courtyard. Methos went inside, stepping over the body of the doorkeeper in the entryway. More bodies lay sprawled along a wall, the older household slaves, the ones not worth keeping. Flies buzzed over them, a shifting black cloud. The soldiers had made a pile of many of the household furnishings - the tapestries, the furniture, the clothes - and set fire to it. The thick scents of blood and smoke and burning flesh lingered in the air, and flames still flickered.
"No purpose but destruction," Methos thought, as he wondered if he would find anything worth saving. Then he saw a head and torso, sticking out from under the charred remains.
Kronos.
Methos swallowed hard. Had Kronos managed to crawl partially out of the fire, or had the soldiers placed his feet and legs in the fire only to prolong his agony? At least he was dead now. He grabbed Kronos under the armpits and slowly, carefully, pulled his brother from the fire.
Kronos was naked - black, red, white. From the waist down, his flesh was blackened, charred, in places burned away so that the bones showed. There were red scorch marks on his chest and arms, but the ropes that had bound his arms tightly behind his back still held. His head was barely burned at all, but the scar across his eye was a vivid, angry line, and his face was twisted in agony.
Methos had seen death before, many times, but he still felt sick as he looked at the remains of his companion. Even immortal healing would not repair this damage quickly.
And it did not. As evening fell, Kronos returned to life, but was in great pain as muscle and tendons regenerated. Methos stayed at his side, leaving him only to get water, or to search for food.
In the dark of the night, Kronos became delirious with the pain. "They came," he mumbled. "They came."
Methos sat up at the words.
"The children!" Kronos called, lifting his head and staring wildly. "They're taking the children!" He struggled to sit up. "I must stop them!"
"Hush, Kronos," Methos said, pushing him back down, trying to calm him. "Not now. It's not happening now."
"Settah!" Kronos cried out, and Methos closed his eyes at the agony in his brother's voice. "Leave her alone!" He struck out, hitting Methos under the chin. "You bastard! Let go of me! Let go of me!"
Methos ignored the blood in his mouth from his cut tongue and grabbed Kronos by the arms again. "Kronos!" he said firmly, "it's Methos."
Kronos stared at him, and slowly the wildness in his eyes became recognition. "Methos?" he asked in wonder.
"Yes," Methos said, gentle now. "I'm here."
Kronos relaxed at that, fell back on the ground. Then he started weeping, shaking his head back and forth, tears coming from his tightly closed eyes. "I couldn't stop them, Methos. I couldn't stop them. I killed the first one, but there were too many."
"I know," Methos said, holding his brother tightly. He had seen it before.
"They made me watch," Kronos whispered, his voice raw with horror and hate. "All of them. They took turns. She was screaming." He was staring straight ahead now, remembering. "Oh, gods, she was screaming, but I couldn't help her. I tried, but they tied me up and they made me watch." He turned his face away, shaking. "Oh, gods, Methos, I tried."
"I know, Kronos," Methos said again, his own eyes wet. "I know."
"They took them away, all the children, all the women, my wife. They took them away and they left me to burn." The hate was stronger than the horror now, and he looked back up at Methos. "They're all going to burn. I swear that to you, Methos. I'm going to make them all burn."
"Hush, Kronos," Methos urged, rocking him gently. "Sleep now."
But Kronos said it again, before he drifted off to sleep. "I'm going to make them all burn."
The next morning, Kronos could sit up. In the afternoon, as soon as he could walk, he wanted to start off after the army. Methos stopped him. "You are not strong enough, yet, my Brother. You could barely march an hour, let alone a day. You live, you will grow stronger. We will fight another day."
Kronos collapsed onto the floor, his weakness proving the wisdom of Methos' words. "You will come with me, my Father?" he asked.
Methos' heart jumped at the title, one he had not heard since Kronos had become an Immortal. He sank down beside the stricken man, his hand reaching out to stroke the hair from Kronos' sweat-covered forehead. "Yes, my son," he answered, using the language of Kronos' boyhood. "Where you go, I will go. I promise. We will stay together."
Kronos' eyes closed in exhaustion and gratitude. "Forever," he whispered, as he fell asleep.
Methos remained at his side, holding him. "Forever," he agreed. It was possible. They were Immortals.
It was good they were Immortals, Methos thought, as they tramped their way through the wilderness day after day, heading for the Gelonite homelands in the mountains to the east. There had been little enough in the way of supplies or weapons left in the looted city, and the route was hard.
Kronos moved with anger and purpose; Methos had no doubt that when they reached the Gelonites, Kronos would attack the first outpost he saw, steal a sword, and then try to hack his way through the entire army. At least they were days behind. He would have time to try to talk Kronos into a plan of more finesse, more subtlety, with more chance of success.
The vultures marked the trail for them. The captives were dying on this harsh march. The rocks and stones offered little in way of sustenance, and the heat of the midday sun was brutal. The weaker captives and the children were dying quickly, and their bodies were being left along the trail. As they saw each body, Kronos ran quickly, scattering the vultures and throwing rocks at the hyenas. Methos could see the relief he felt when each body turned out to be a stranger, or a mere acquaintance.
That could not last, of course. The first body they found from Kronos' household was Maliya, a slave who had often come to Methos' bed, and occasionally to Kronos' as well. They took the time from their pursuit to build a cairn over her, protecting her from nature's scavengers.
That night, as they camped, Kronos sat silent, staring into the distance. Methos knew he was realizing that his chances of rescuing his family were slim indeed, and getting slimmer every day. He came and sat by Kronos, placing his hand on his knee in comfort. For a while, they sat quietly, staring at the stars, then Methos spoke. "It would have happened someday, you know. She would have died, and you would have had to go on."
"Not like this," Kronos said bitterly. "Not like this."
"No, not like this," Methos agreed. "But whether they die in battle, or in childbirth, or in old age, it always hurts."
"Battle, childbirth, old age," Kronos answered. "Those wouldn't have been my fault."
"Your fault?" Methos questioned. "How can it be your fault? You defended the city, you fought to the best of your ability until you died. Do not take the blame for this."
"I should have done more!" he said angrily. "I should have been able to stop this!"
"We are Immortals, not gods. In many ways, we are no more than other men. Be reasonable, Kronos. You could not have stopped this. Sometimes there is no stopping violence."
"And there is no stopping the violence in my heart," Kronos answered. "I will have my wife and children back, or I will kill every last one of the murdering bastards. They destroyed my family, my people, my home - and I will have my revenge."
"Even that may not be enough to ease your heart," Methos answered. Kronos said nothing, and after a moment Methos got up, rolled himself in his blanket, and lay down. But Kronos remained awake far into the night, staring into the fire.
Two days later, the inevitable happened, as Methos had feared it would. Another group of bodies lay in the sand, their throats cut. Were they too slow, had they dared to complain, or were they just an object lesson to the other slaves? They would never know, but two of the bodies were that of Settah and the young boy, Methsiri.
Kronos' cry of grief split the heavens, scattering the birds and startling even Methos, who had expected it. The grim determination that had kept Kronos going on this long hard march disintegrated as he saw the failure of his mission; the end of his happy life. For the first time since the destruction of Tilpuk he wept, his grief pouring out of him. But the tears did nothing to ease the anger and hatred he felt.
Methos turned away from the grieving man, leaving him alone in his grief. Tears running down his own cheeks, more for Kronos than for the other two, he began gathering rocks for the cairn they would build. When Kronos quieted, Methos left his work and went to sit by him.
Kronos was rocking back and forth, holding the body of Methsiri. "He had so much life, so much joy," he said brokenly.
"I know," Methos answered.
"He had a future, and they took it from him!" Kronos cried. "We had a life, and they took it from us!"
"Yes," Methos said. "But we are Immortal. We will find another life."
Kronos stood, letting the child's body fall to the ground. "To have that taken away, too?" he demanded. "I don't want another life!"
Silently, Methos began to arrange the boy's body next to Settah's, in preparation for building the cairn.
"Leave him," Kronos ordered, striding away and picking up his pack. "Every time we stop to bury the dead, the bastards get further away."
Startled, Methos looked up. "But -"
"Leave him! Leave them all." Kronos began striding after the army. Uneasily, Methos rose, and followed after him. Glancing back at the exposed bodies, he wondered if Kronos would regret this when the grief and the anger left him.
But the grief and the anger never left him. Kronos never again let a child touch his heart.
And so it began. Two men could not take revenge on the entire Gelonite tribe, but they could hide in the mountains and harry soldiers, attack trade caravans, destroy food shipments. They found colleagues in escaped slaves, bandits, or deserting soldiers. They would form a band for a while, but eventually the mortals would die. Then Kronos and Methos would work alone until they could form another group. Year after year they lived in the hills, stealing what they needed, living on hatred.
Kronos took an unholy glee in each death, each burned caravan, while Methos found the challenge of planning the raids invigorating. After fifty years or so, the Gelonite tribe was conquered, not by any actions of theirs, but by the stronger, even more ruthless tribe of the Kassites. No more could Methos and Kronos be considered freedom fighters or guerrillas. Now they were no more than one of the many bands of brigands and robbers that flourished outside the cities.
For violence was the rule of the day. Famine, climate changes, and invasions from the sea threw the entire world into chaos. Conquerors destroyed existing cities, burned them to the ground, no longer interested in ruling or assimilating their people. Egypt withdrew behind its borders, struggling for its very existence. Almost overnight, it seemed that the world of Sumer, which had been the one constant in Methos' long life, was gone. The people living there now had different gods, different rules. Change, destruction, and death were everywhere. The only constant in his life was Kronos, just as he had long known he would be.
And Kronos embraced this new world. The walls he had built around his heart after the destruction of Tilpuk had never been breached, instead they were shored up and strengthened. He reveled in the destruction; he rejoiced in the fear he could cause. He dismissed mortals as insignificant, rarely even bothering to learn their names. Immortals were different, and before long they had "adopted" two new Immortals into their band of raiders. With Silas and Caspian, the Four Horsemen were born.
For Methos stayed. At first, he had tried to temper Kronos, tried to make him see that change and the death of mortals would always be a part of their lives. But nothing would appease the fire that burned within Kronos, and soon Methos stopped trying, embracing instead the life that Kronos led. Soon, his life too narrowed down to his "family" - his three brothers. It was easy to discount any others as "outsiders," "non-humans," who existed only at the discretion of the powerful four. He found that not only was he good at killing, but that he could take pleasure in it. There was a certain intellectual pleasure to be found in torture, in wondering how long it would take him to get the needed information from the victim. Methos found that he enjoyed the feelings of power that breaking a slave could bring him.
And so the years - the centuries - passed. The Horsemen would part for a decade or two, but always reunited, raiding again and keeping the legends alive. As time passed, there were more Immortals to be found, and the taking of heads became more common. But the bond between the Four Brothers remained solid. They shared everything, and they never raised a sword against each other.
- - - - -Original Message- - - - -
To: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
From: Prof. Emile LaFarge E_LaFarge(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/04/96 09:28:43
SUBJECT: Re: Alterations in Chronicles
Dear Dr. Zoll,
Dans un courrier daté du 02/11/1996 09:28:43, vous avez écrit :
CONFIDENTIAL:
=We believe an Immortal (who may actually BE
=Methos) might have infiltrated the Watchers. We
=are concerned about possible falsification in
=the Methos chronicles during the last decade.
=I am sorry to bother you, but since you were the
= Head of the Methos Project for nearly twenty
=years, I would appreciate your help in verifying
=the information we have. Please look over the
=attached files and tell me if anything is changed,
=added, or missing.
You were right to be concerned. I immediately noticed these two alterations in the chronicles:
Year: 1788 BCE - during the 3rd year of Hammurabi's reign, Babylon.
There used to be a chronicle of one Et Maru and a woman being thrown in the river in punishment for violating Edict 129. Both of them survived the drowning. This is now missing.
Year: 454 BCE - Watcher Zanthros
The name of the victor in a battle in Ancient Greece has been changed from Methos to Xanthos (aka Tak-Ne, Ramirez). This was the last documented reference to Methos in the chronicles.
Taking into account the other information you have sent me, it seems as if Methos were trying to erase evidence of himself from the Chronicles.
There are probably more changes. I am still looking. Falsifications have almost certainly occurred in other chronicles as well.
Prof. E. LeFarge, Senior Watcher (retired)
- - - - -End of Message- - - - -
TELEPHONE CONVERSATION, Wednesday, November 6, 12:07 p.m.
Dr. A? Are you there? Guess not.
Melanie here; I'm in Paris right now, at the airport, but I won't be for long. MacLeod and Cassandra are on their way to Bucharest. I guess they have a lead on Kronos and Methos, or Pierson, or whoever the hell he is. You can tell Yvette to meet me there.
Bye!
Ye have plowed wickedness;
ye have reaped iniquity.
Hosea 10:13
Methos forced himself to relax as he followed the doctor down the narrow, dark staircase. This place reminded him way too closely of a dungeon that he had spent too much time in during the thirteenth century. It had been some nobleman's castle, and try as he might, he couldn't remember what he had done to piss the bastard off. The three years he had spent in the gloom of the lower levels of that castle had seemed every bit as long as the four thousand years that had preceded them.
It had been seven hundred years ago, and Methos hadn't remembered that time in ages, but, as he followed the doctor down the narrow staircase into the bowels of the asylum, he couldn't stop the shiver that ran down his back. The cries of the inmates were indistinguishable from sounds of prisoners. And then there were the rats. Methos could hear the unmistakable sounds of rats coming from behind the closed doors.
His cell in that dungeon had been crawling with rats. Even with Immortal healing, rat bites were painful, and they seemed to take forever to heal in his malnourished and weak state. The rats had considered him an unceasing food source. It hadn't been long before he had realized that they were the same. Raw rodent, vile though it was, had become a much-appreciated addition to a prisoner's diet of moldy bread and stagnant water.
They moved through another hallway, inmates staring at them as they passed, moving quickly out of the way. "The Dark Man is coming!" a man screamed at them, anguished. Indeed, he is, Methos thought, as he walked silently by. Indeed, he is.
Beside him, Silas reached out and touched the man reassuringly on his head, then followed Methos down the corridor. Silas was still playing gently on his flute, and the lilting music sounded a compelling touch of normality as they descended deeper into the insane asylum.
On this lowest level, the walls were hewn of rock, and moisture glinted yellow in the light of the dim electric bulbs. Methos pulled his coat more tightly around himself, shivering at the raw dampness, then wrinkled his nose at the smell - a noisome compound of mildew, sweat, human fear, and human excrement.
"Much more humane," Methos murmured sarcastically, remembering the doctor's earlier proud words. He had read Caspian's chronicles, and, up until now, had believed that Caspian was exactly where he belonged. But seeing this hospital, he changed his mind. No one deserved to be in a place like this. Not even Caspian.
For Caspian was here; Methos could sense him. The doctor unlocked a door at the end of the corridor, and Kronos entered first. Caspian's familiar laugh rang out: a wild howl of joy, of relief, and of exultation. Methos ducked through the door and got his first glimpse of his former brother - thin, unkempt, absolutely filthy, and chained to the wall. He moved quietly to stand behind the doctor, and Silas entered the room.
"Unchain him," Kronos commanded, but the doctor balked. The glints of madness were clearly evident in Caspian's eyes, and perhaps the doctor saw the glints of madness in the other men's eyes as well.
The doctor muttered something about calling Security, but Kronos wasn't going to wait. He drew his sword and, in a lightning-fast stroke, severed the chains that held Caspian to the wall. Before anyone else could move, Caspian leapt for the doctor, his hands outstretched, going for the throat.
Methos looked away, suddenly queasy. Caspian was on the floor playing with the doctor now, releasing his pressure on the throat just long enough for the doctor to gasp, then tightening his grip again. Like sex, the act of killing was something to prolong, something to build up to. Methos had known that well, in days gone by.
The Great Desert - The Iron Age
Methos paused in his aimless stroll about the Horsemen's camp as an agonized scream ripped across the air. Now that sounded promising. He'd been bored all day; this place was nothing but hot dry wind and hot dry sand. Another scream echoed, and Methos stalked quickly to the source of the noise.
He pulled back the flap on Caspian's tent, and his eyes widened in amusement as he took in the scene in front of him - no wonder he'd heard a shriek.
A naked slave was lying on the floor, arms and legs tied to stakes driven deeply into the ground. Shallow cuts oozed red on his belly, blood pooling on the skin, but not enough blood to run down to the floor - yet. Caspian was kneeling above his victim,knife in hand. From the anticipation in his eyes, Caspian had barely begun with the afternoon's entertainment.
"This fool almost ruined my favorite horse," Caspian explained. "Since he isn't fit to work in the paddocks, I decided to make use of him another way. How long do you think I can keep him alive?"
"A while," Methos said, ducking his head and coming into the tent. "Can you silence him, Brother? Loud noises make my head ache."
Caspian's eyes lit up at that, and Methos knew he was remembering the last time they had played this game. Caspian held the bloody knife between his teeth while he roughly gagged the slave.
Methos knelt on one side of the slave, Caspian on the other. Caspian made another cut down the outside of the slave's calf, deep enough that the thin red line separated to show yellow, then red, and then white, as the knife scraped the ankle bone. He looked across to Methos, raising an eyebrow in challenge as he handed over the knife.
Methos made a cut along the slave's face, cutting from theforehead down to the ear - shallow, but just enough to bleed heavily. Methos inhaled deeply, the smell of fresh blood arousing him as always. He looked at his handiwork with a critical eye, pleased at what he saw. It was a masterful cut, the blood running down the side of the slave's head, but not into the eyes - Methos liked to be able to see the fear and pain in a slave's eyes. With a self-satisfied smile, he handed the knife back to Caspian.
Back and forth the knife went, as the game continued. The afternoon drew into dusk. Blood soaked into the sand floor of the tent, and the slave's muted groans and whimpers turned into silence. It was Caspian who made the first error, when a deep cut to the thigh nicked the huge blood vessel there. As the blood began pouring onto the floor, the two men looked at each other over the slave's flaccid body, knowing the game was over. Then they each turned to look at the slave, savoring the final moments, watching the light in his eyes fade away as he finally bled to death.
Methos leaned back on his heels and stretched his arms over his head. During their game, the slave's eyes had shown fear, but also resignation. However, at the moment of death, Methos thought he'd seen a flash of hatred in those eyes. Methos loved it when they seemed to hate; it made it more satisfying, more worthwhile, somehow.
"Gods, that was great!" Caspian rose and poured them wine. He handed a goblet to Methos. "No one can draw out a death like you can, Methos."
"You do pretty well, " Methos said, closing his eyes in pleasure, for Caspian's hand was now massaging the back of his neck, releasing some of the tension there. Methos was tense in other places, too.
"Shall we?" Caspian suggested, leaning closer, his fingers gently rubbing the base of Methos' skull.
Methos took a deep breath, reveling in the hot, rich scent of fear and blood, but - why didn't Caspian ever think about the consequences of his actions? "You'll probably have to move your tent tomorrow," he said. "The flies will be dreadful. Let's take a couple of the women into my tent. The evening is young."
"Good idea," Caspian agreed, then he squeezed Methos' shoulder in gratitude and affection. "Thanks for playing with me, Methos."
Methos shrugged and stood. He had enjoyed the afternoon, too, and was looking forward to the aftermath. "What are brothers for?"
Bucharest, Romania - Wednesday, 6 November 1996, 6:14 p.m.
Methos swallowed heavily, willing his stomach not to betray him as Caspian continued to strangle the man. He averted his eyes and walked to the far side of the cell, but he couldn't avert his ears. The choking gasps of the doctor mingled with Caspian's grunts of effort.
He glanced at Silas and Kronos, who had gathered around to watch. They stood entranced, voyeurs obviously aroused by the sight of the doctor lying under Caspian. The man's body was twitching, his heels feebly drumming on the floor, making one last effort to free himself before death came.
Et tu, Silas? Methos asked silently. He had counted on the large man, so gentle with the simple-minded, so kind to animals, to back him against Kronos. Apparently, he had underestimated the seductive lure of power, of domination, of death.
The doctor's final rattling gasp pulled his eyes unwillingly back to Caspian, and he remembered the words from a lecture at the Watcher Academy. "Watch and record, but never interfere. Their actions do not impact on your morality."
But didn't they? This death - this murder - was tame compared to what Caspian could do. And what was Kronos planning? He had always been imaginative, and his hints during the trip from the Ukraine left Methos decidedly troubled.
Could he stand by and watch, do nothing, as his brothers terrorized the earth? People died, true. Always they died. Civilizations rose and fell with time; it was inevitable. There had been massacres and slaughters and raids throughout history - be it at the hands of the Horsemen, the Huns, the Vikings, the cowboys and Indians of the American West, or the Nazis during World War II. Methos had long ago accepted that this was the way it was; human nature, if you wish. It was inevitable, true, but that didn't mean he had to like it. That didn't mean he had to help.
He couldn't just leave; Kronos needed him. But he had another friend, who would never be content to stand on the sidelines and watch. Who would never sit and do nothing while evil flourished.
His brothers filed out of the cell, and in a sudden moment of decisiveness, Methos paused to drop a matchbook imprinted with the name of a hotel in Bordeaux on the floor before he followed them
It was a long shot, he knew. Had MacLeod gone to Joe? Had the Watchers managed to connect Caspari with the Horsemen? Would MacLeod find the matchbook before the police came? And was MacLeod even looking for him? "We're through," he had said. Was MacLeod still safe in Seacouver, still in bed with Cassandra?
It was worth the chance. It was three against one now, and he needed every advantage he could get.
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
To: Joe Dawson (J_Dawson(at)field . us . watchers . org)
From: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/07/96 12:14:53
SUBJECT: Want to bet?
Joe,
I thought you'd be interested in this report from Yvette:
=I began surveillance of Duncan MacLeod and Cassandra
=in Bucharest, Romania, yesterday, on Wednesday
=evening, November 6. This morning (Thursday), they visited an
=asylum for the criminally insane, then immediately traveled to
=Bordeaux, France. They registered at the Hotel de Seze and appear
=to be waiting for someone to contact them.
Guess who was in that asylum? An Immortal by the name of Evan Caspari, no known date of first death. His Watcher works there; she said three men showed up on Wednesday night. She has since identified Methos and Kronos from the Watcher files, and she says they called their companion Silas. Caspari escaped, and the head doctor there was strangled.
Caspari's chronicles aren't very appealing. Seems he likes to eat the people he kills. And the animals. And the insects. Only sometimes he doesn't kill them first.
Want to bet against this four of a kind being the Four Horsemen? Want to lay a bet on Pierson now? There's a joker in this deck, Joe, but I'm not laughing.
Amy
- - - - - End of Message- - - - -
Their heart is divided.
Hosea 10:2
Methos strolled through the echoing halls of the abandoned Nazi submarine base, wondering how Kronos had found such a place. And in the name of all the gods, why? The acrid reek of oil and gasoline lay sharp over the pervasive odors of mildew and mold. He didn't even want to think about what kinds of things were growing in the watery bays where the subs had been built.
This place was gloomy, dismal, dank, and dark. There were no light bulbs, for Kronos had decided to give the place a decidedly medieval air. Flaming torches lit the dark hallways. Braziers burned in the gathering room, but the fires did nothing to dispel the aching dampness and the frigid drafts.
Methos didn't like being cold. The others didn't seem to mind. Kronos had picked the place. For now, Caspian was simply glad to be out of the insane asylum and to have a more varied menu than live cockroaches. Silas was happy pretty much anywhere, as long as he had his axe or his flute in his hand, or some animals to play with.
That was it. The monkey room would be warm. Methos headed down the hall.
Silas was there, of course, feeding the monkeys pieces of bread, making odd little monkey noises in his throat. "Methos!" he called cheerfully, then added in concern, "You look troubled."
Methos shrugged and tried to smile. The monkeys weren't here simply to keep Silas happy; Kronos had used them to develop a deadly virus, and he had enough of the stuff to wipe out half of Europe. Methos remembered what it was like to see bodies piled in the streets while rats gnawed at the rotting flesh. Kronos wanted to see it again. "Just thinking," Methos told Silas.
"Ah, you were always good at that, eh?" Silas said. "Well, after all these years you still are."
Not good enough. He was having a hard time thinking his way out of this mess; things were happening so fast! They had arrived in Bordeaux only yesterday morning, and Kronos and Caspian had prepared a bomb filled with the virus yesterday afternoon. Last night, the Horsemen had set the bomb in a fountain in downtown Bordeaux. Methos could not let that bomb explode.
Silas handed a large chunk of bread to a monkey, and it chittered with delight. Silas did not sound so happy. "Nothing like the old days, is it?"
Methos took a deep breath as he looked closely at his brother. Was Silas troubled by this, too? Maybe together they could convince Kronos to stop. Caspian was hopeless; it was no wonder he had been locked up, but Silas had lived a relatively peaceful life for the last thousand years. Methos had read his chronicles. Silas had married several times, raised families, kept a farm. Maybe he had moved beyond the need for power.
But then Methos remembered the look on Silas' face when Caspian had killed the doctor. Maybe not. He decided to be cautious. "What do you mean?"
"I don't like this killing from a distance," Silas said, his eyes far away, his hands flexing and unflexing as he remembered. "I like to feel my axe in my hands, look into my enemies' eyes before I strike."
"Soon enough," Methos murmured, backing away.
"You don't think the virus will work," Silas said, hope coming into his eyes
"Oh, it will work," Methos replied wearily. Silas didn't understand. Once the virus struck, half the population would die, the other half panic. There would be charges of witchcraft, and sacrifices to the gods. Science and medicine wouldn't help them. And as the structure of civilization fell apart, as police and fire departments and armies and governments became undermanned and helpless, there would be plenty of people to kill. The world would be ripe for the Horsemen to conquer.
How badly did Silas want to feel his axe in his hands? "Silas," Methos began, standing close to his brother, "for two thousand years we have lived without this. We have lived without the blood, the fear. The power."
Silas nodded, smiling, remembering. "And for two thousand years I have dreamed of the day when we would ride again!"
Methos could not smile back. "We are together again, Silas. Isn't that enough?"
"Like you always said, Methos," his brother answered, "we live. We grow stronger. And then we fight."
We fight another day! Methos almost screamed at him in frustration. Put off the fight until tomorrow. And tomorrow never comes. But Methos was running out of tomorrows; the bomb was scheduled to go off tonight. "I'll see you later," he said to Silas, then headed for the door.
Silas called after him, "Do you think he'll let me have one?"
Methos stopped and turned. "What?"
"Monkey!" Silas replied, surprised that Methos had to ask. "I like this one." He chirruped to the monkey in front of him and gave it another piece of bread. The monkey chirruped back and started to nibble.
The room around Methos shifted, wavered, and became an open field under blue sky, many centuries ago. A cool breeze brought the scent of spring flowers and coming rain.
"I want this one, Brother," Silas said, gently stroking a newborn colt as it nursed from its dam. "He'll be a fine horse for me. Can I keep it?"
Methos laughed and crouched beside his brother, laying one arm across Silas' immense shoulders, reaching out to stroke the still-damp brown hair of the foal with his other hand. "The mare belongs to Kronos," he said. "But he'll share. I'll ask him for you," he offered, and Silas looked at him and grinned.
Methos blinked, and the walls were solid once again. He and Silas were trapped in a concrete bunker with the fetid smell of monkey droppings, and no hint of sun or sky. "I'll ask him for you," Methos said quietly.
"Thank you, Brother," Silas called, trusting Methos to do this for him, as he had always trusted Methos.
Methos did not reply. He left the stifling warmth of the room and headed for the sun.
The air outside was cool and bracing, a quick wind off the water. Gray clouds covered the sky, and he could smell approaching rain. Not unusual for an autumn day in this part of the world. He stared into the dark river that ran alongside the submarine bunker, and watched the water flow.
"Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow," he quoted under his breath. For an Immortal, there were countless tomorrows. Did he want to live in the tomorrow Kronos envisioned? Did he want to wait for the world to emerge from the Dark Age Kronos would plunge them into?
A week ago, Methos had thought he could help his brother. He had thought he could make atonement. He had left Kronos alone in the dark for hundreds of years; it was his duty to lead his brother into the light.
Soon, there would be no light.
Methos blinked back tears and stared into the distance. He had avoided making a decision two thousand years ago, but then only two lives had been affected. The stakes were larger now. There was no longer any doubt in his mind; he would have to call MacLeod. He hadn't wanted to involve him in this; he had wanted to keep MacLeod safe. But he couldn't stop the bomb on his own.
MacLeod should be at the hotel in Bordeaux right now, if he had found the clue Methos had left for him in Caspian's cell. If MacLeod wasn't at the hotel, then Methos would have to call in the Watchers or the police, or maybe even the Foreign Legion, and he definitely didn't want to do that.
- - - - - Original Message- - - - -
To: Yvette Berens (Y_Berens(at)field . weu . watchers . org); Melanie Hind (M_Hind(at)field . us . watchers . org)
CC: (Tribunal(at)tribdiv . HQ . watchers . org)
From: Amy Zoll (A_Zoll(at)research . weu . watchers . org)
Transmitted: 11/08/96 10:11:33
SUBJECT: Keeping up with the Horsemen
To Melanie and Yvette
Just to bring both of you up to date:
Yvette reports that MacLeod met with Methos at Elysium Church in Bordeaux earlier tonight, then left on a dead run to the Place de Quinconces and disarmed what looked like a bomb. Let's be glad he did, and let's take a closer look at all the information we have so far.
Whatever Methos/Pierson may have been, it looks as though he's helping MacLeod now. Maybe Joe was right; maybe Methos/Pierson is a good guy after all.
However, the others aren't. Melanie phoned and said that Cassandra was kidnapped from the Hotel de Seze by the other three Horsemen. Melanie is following Kronos and Cassandra back to the Horsemen's lair, so we'll finally find out where they've been hiding.
However - nobody knows where Methos is; Kronos has Cassandra; and the other two are out hunting MacLeod.
This doesn't look good. We'll just have to sit tight and wait it out.
Amy Zoll
- - - - - End of Message- - - - -
Now they shall be found faulty.
Hosea 10:2
Methos ordered another vodka, then slumped back in his chair and listened to the chatter around him in the bar. The university students were loud and cheerful, out on a Friday night, eager to drink and talk and smoke and ogle each other. Most of them were earnestly discussing the merits of musicians and fashions and sports, except for the pair of students behind him, who were actually arguing about existentialism. Two young women eyed him from the bar, and Methos lifted his glass to them in salute. They giggled and turned away, smoothing short skirts over bare thighs, tossing long hair over their shoulders. The brunette glanced back at him, the second step in that ancient dance, but Methos looked away. Not tonight.
Maybe never. If Kronos succeeded, the flood of darkness would sweep them all into the abyss. Methos sipped at his drink, his friend Byron's well-remembered words sliding into his mind.
Morn came and went - and came, and brought no day,
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation; and all hearts
Were chill'd into a selfish prayer for light:
And they did live by watchfires.
"Fires of the night," Methos murmured. The fires would come, infernos of fear and hate and despair, incinerating the universities, the cities, the people, the world.
These students, those two girls, would be bloated corpses, heaped in piles in the streets. Those few who survived would scrape the earth with shivering hands for food, while famine fed upon their entrails.
Methos had seen it all before.
He finished his drink, then wandered the streets of Bordeaux. Eventually, he found himself walking on the Quai Richelieu, past the barges moored on the river, past the grand buildings of the Place de la Bourie. He stopped at the entrance to the Esplinade des Quinconces, staring at the fountain where he and Caspian had set the bomb the night before.
The water was flowing now; the statue of the riders on horseback was unharmed. MacLeod must have disarmed the bomb. Methos sighed deeply in relief, then walked to a bench near the fountain and sat down, huddling into his coat for warmth against the damp air. He was still cold inside.
He had managed to stop this bomb, thanks to MacLeod. But he knew this wasn't the end of it; Kronos wasn't going to stop. It wouldn't take much to release the deadly virus into the world and open the gates of Hell.
And War, which for a moment was no more
Did glut himself again: a meal was bought
With blood.
With blood, with desolation, with despair - Kronos wasn't going to stop until he'd gorged himself on death, until no love was left.
Someone had to stop him.
He'd said as much before. "Someone had to," he had told a stunned MacLeod last year, while he had stood over Kristin's headless body on a deserted beach, waiting for her Quickening to take him. MacLeod hadn't been able to bring himself to kill his former lover, even though he knew she was a murderer, even though he knew she would kill again, so Methos had killed her for him.
Methos closed his eyes as his face contorted with pain, but this time, the stakes were too high and the weapons too deadly. There might be no other option. Kronos might have to die.
And men forgot their passions in the dread
Of this their desolation.
"Someone has to do it," Methos whispered to himself, but even as he said it, he knew he never could.
MacLeod could, if it came down to that. Thank God for MacLeod.
Methos got up from the bench and headed back to the Horsemen. He needed to know what Kronos had planned.
Because thou hast rejected knowledge,
I will also reject thee.
Hosea 3:6
Kronos was waiting for him in the submarine base. "Your bomb didn't go off," he announced, eating a chicken leg as he lounged in a chair. "Not much of a plan, was it?"
"Well, I'll think of better," Methos answered breezily, coming to stand near the fire in the round brazier, trying to get warm.
"I'm sure you will," Kronos agreed, in a smiling threat and an ominous promise. "Otherwise, I might have to improvise." He took a final bite of meat.
Methos didn't much like the sound of that.
"By the way," Kronos asked, "where were you?"
He shrugged and started to tell the lie he had prepared. "I was just -"
"- warning your friend," Kronos cut in, standing and tossing the chicken bone into the fire.
Methos stared at Kronos, surprised. He didn't have anything prepared to say to that. How had Kronos known? He knew he hadn't been followed.
"You didn't really think," Kronos asked, coming closer, standing before him, "I wouldn't know you'd tell MacLeod, did you?"
Well, he'd hoped. Methos started to offer an excuse, but Kronos didn't seem interested.
"I wasn't really surprised," Kronos went on. "You've always fought for what was important to you, and for some reason, this world of art, and poetry, and learning is important to you. But once it's gone, you'll let it go. You're good at that. And make no mistake, Methos. I intend to use this virus with you - or without you.
"Look at this," Kronos said, holding up a remote control. "All I have to do is punch in a few numbers, and a small vial explodes in the reservoir above Bordeaux. And then - well, you know what happens next, don't you?"
Methos knew. All earth was but one thought - and that was death, immediate and inglorious.
"You're my right-hand man, Methos," Kronos continued. "I expect to find you at my right hand." The threat was clear. Methos nodded.
Kronos pocketed the control, then stepped forward and smiled in his face. "We all have our own little plans." He stretched out his hand, palm up. "Cell phone?" he asked politely.
Swallowing in a dry throat, Methos handed his phone to Kronos. The little plan Methos had wasn't working very well. When had Kronos learned so much?
"Come with me," Kronos said cheerfully. "I have something else to show you."
Apprehensively, Methos followed. Kronos led him through echoing corridors and deserted halls, to a platform that overlooked a water-filled chamber. Cassandra lay partially conscious and moaning slightly, probably drugged, on the concrete floor of a cage. A torch smoldered on each of the square pillars at the corners, on an island prison surrounded by a moat of black water.
Methos hadn't been prepared for this, either. Damn that stubborn woman! He had told MacLeod to get her away from here. Now he would have to do it.
"She was asking about you," Kronos told him.
Methos closed his eyes, wishing that woman were anywhere but here.
Kronos leaned his elbows on the railing, staring down at Cassandra. "You knew exactly what you were doing when you sent MacLeod to that fountain, didn't you?"
Methos just looked at him warily. Kronos was playing cat and mouse, and Methos was the mouse.
"So I did what you expected," Kronos said. "I went and got Cassandra while she was unprotected." He turned to Methos and asked, all innocence and hope, "That was the plan, wasn't it?"
Methos nodded, for there was nothing else he could do.
"You see," Kronos said in great satisfaction, "I know you better than you know yourself."
That might very well be true. Damn! Methos murmured, "Which is why the plan was perfect."
"Your plans always are," Kronos complimented him, and Methos forced himself to smile. Kronos turned around, leaning his back against the railing, and mused, "I wonder what your friend MacLeod thinks of you now, though."
"Think I care?" Oh, but he did. He cared a great deal.
"You should," Kronos warned. "You lured him away. When he comes back, and finds that someone's stolen his woman ..."
Kronos was grinning now, that satiated smile Methos recognized from their Horsemen days. By capturing Cassandra, Kronos had outwitted Methos, stolen MacLeod's woman, killed the woman who had stabbed him, and no doubt raped her, too. Sweet vengeance, indeed.
"If that was me," Kronos concluded, gloating, "I'd want you dead."
MacLeod probably would want him dead, and Methos couldn't blame him. How could he have been so stupid? How could he have let Kronos get the upper hand this way? It was time to stop improvising and start thinking, time to figure a way out of this mess while he kept Kronos happy. "Well then," Methos said calmly, hoping to allay Kronos' suspicions, "we should prepare for MacLeod to come here."
Kronos' eyes were alight with glee. "Already thought of that."
We all have our own little plans. Oh great gods. Methos forced down the bile in his throat, forced down the fear that gnawed in his guts, then forced out the words, making them sound casual, almost disinterested. "Did you send Caspian or Silas?"
Kronos sniggered, then leaned forward and said softly, "Both." He was still laughing as he walked away, leaving Methos alone, closing his eyes against the desolation of despair.
It wasn't the first time Kronos had killed one of his friends.
The Coast of Greece - Fifth Century BCE
"Now that this is absurd will become perfectly clear if we stop using many terms all at once: 'pleasant', 'painful', 'good', and 'bad', and instead, since there turned out to be just two things, we use just two names for them, first of all 'good' and 'bad', and then 'pleasant' and 'painful'." Meidias paused, looking earnestly around him, and the other men gathered on the steps of the marketplace nodded, some stroking their beards thoughtfully.
Meidias nodded back, then continued on. "Let's agree on that, then, and say, 'Though a man knows that some things are bad, he does them all the same.' Now if someone asks 'Why?' we shall say 'Because he is overcome'. 'Overcome by what?' he will ask. And we can no longer say 'By pleasure', for it has another name, 'good', instead of 'pleasure', and so when he says 'Overcome by what?' we shall answer, if you please, 'Overcome by the good'. Now if our questioner happens to be an ill-mannered fellow, he'll burst out laughing and say -"
I ought to burst out laughing, Kronos thought, no longer even pretending to listen. This is absurd. What was he doing here? He was sitting on the steps of the marketplace, in the midday sun - in the hot sun - wearing these ridiculous, impractical clothes, which would be impossible to fight in, and listening to Meidias drone on and on. And on. And all because Methos wanted him to.
Over twenty years before, Methos had left the Brothers, as they all did from time to time, saying he was going to "see the world" and he'd be back soon. When he didn't come back after ten years, Kronos had started getting concerned; there seemed to be a lot more Immortals whacking off heads out there these days then there used to be. After fifteen years, he was downright worried, and he left Silas and Caspian at their camp and went looking for Methos.
He never expected to find this. Here in this weak and womanish Greek town, Methos had settled down. He was married - married - to a skinny, whey-faced, cold-eyed shrew. His wife was extremely rich, it was true, and Methos lived in a luxury Kronos had never seen before. Methos had quite a good reputation in the town, as a student and as a teacher. His opinion was sought after, his companionship oft requested. And, in spite of Kronos' entreaties, Methos was in no hurry to leave.
"Stay here awhile," he had begged Kronos. "Living in the wilderness the way we do, in the camp, we have none of this. Stay awhile." And Kronos had agreed.
He must have been out of his mind. Summer was the time for raiding, for burning, for new prisoners to break. Not for sitting on the steps of the marketplace, talking about - whatever it was they were talking about.
Methos' voice brought his attention back to the discussion. Perhaps he was making his excuses, so they could leave. But no. Gods! Listen to him!
"But, the things that cowards go for are exactly the opposite of those that the courageous go for," Methos was saying, leaning forward in his enthusiasm. "For instance, courageous men are willing to go to war, but cowards aren't."
Shut up, Methos! Now they'll go on for hours over what it means to be courageous, and whether being courageous is 'praiseworthy' or not. Not even bothering to stifle his yawn, Kronos looked around. A bee was buzzing around his head, and he let it buzz for a while, before swatting it away. It went over and buzzed around the head of the man sitting next to him, listening avidly to what Methos and Meidias were saying. Kronos hoped he had angered the bee enough that it would sting - what was his name? No matter. The fool would probably jump and yell, and the discussion would pause, at least. No such luck. The bee flew away.
Glancing around the marketplace again, his eye was caught by a young slave-woman, heading to the well in the middle of the day. He watched her for a while, thinking of all the better ways to spend the afternoon. She had close-cropped hair, as all the slaves did. Kronos never cut his women's hair; he preferred something to hold onto, but he had to admit, as he watched her bending to draw the water, the soft nape of her neck clearly exposed, it was alluring in a strange, foreign sort of way. He kept his attention on her until she left the marketplace, her backside swaying as she walked up the stairs of one of the narrow crooked streets.
Kronos yawned again and stretched out his feet. Methos and Meidias were still discussing what was to be feared. Nothing was to be feared, damn it! They were Immortal, Horsemen, Brothers. Nothing was to be feared, but some things were to be avoided. Like this absurd discussion, for instance.
Without even trying to be subtle about it, he stood and left the group of men, stepping on the fool's fingers without a word of apology. He heard Methos' voice falter for an instant, as he realized Kronos was leaving, but only for an instant. Methos didn't excuse himself to leave with him, didn't even pause before he went back to his argument.
"And so, the good is not necessarily always what seems to be 'good,' and the evil is not necessarily always ..."
With Methos' words fading in the distance, Kronos stalked out of the marketplace, heading toward the brothels. He could show Methos what good and evil meant.
Long after Kronos had sauntered off, Methos left the marketplace alone. He was a bit annoyed with Kronos, who wasn't even trying to fit in. He had planned on dining with Kronos at one of the public taverns that evening, trying to get some special one-on-one time with his comrade, but he wasn't going to go searching for Kronos after the scene he had made leaving. Putting Kronos out of his mind, Methos headed for Theophemos' house.
Theophemos was in his early forties, a prominent physician in the polis, and they had met soon after Methos had come to the city. As Methos appeared to be in his early twenties, he was almost too old to have a lover, but not quite, and so Theophemos' courtship of Methos had not raised any eyebrows. After an enjoyable chase, Methos had allowed himself to be won, becoming Theophemos' eromenos, his beloved. As the erastes, the lover, of the couple, the "older" and wealthier Theophemos had showered Methos with gifts and favors. In fact, Methos' wife Phile was Theophemos' niece. If it hadn't been for Theophemos' sponsorship, Phile's father would never have chosen a foreigner for her husband. Methos owed Theophemos a great deal, and their relationship had gone on much longer than was usual.
Methos found his lover in the conservatory, as usual, making a tincture from some herbs. "Working hard?" he asked, coming up behind Theophemos and dropping a kiss on his shoulder.
"Methos!" Theophemos said, delighted. "I didn't expect to see you today." He returned Methos' kiss, along with a caress that promised so much more. Then, just as Methos reached for him, he turned back to the worktable with a smile.
Methos gave up for now; he knew Theophemos liked to tease him, and it was always worth the wait. He glanced at the leaves on the worktable. "Hmmm, I don't recognize those leaves; what are they?"
"These?" Theophemos said. "No, you wouldn't have seen these before. I don't keep these around much. Still, with your interest in poisons and drugs, you'll want to know about this." He handed Methos a bowl half-filled with a clear liquid. "Odorless, tasteless - a few drops of this in wine will put a patient to sleep for hours. But more than a few drops will kill - quickly and quietly. The victim would drink it, and a few minutes later feel dizzy. He would fall unconscious a moment or two later, and nothing would revive him."
Methos sniffed the contents of the bowl. He was a Horseman, also known as Death, and someday he would need to know this. He dipped his finger into the liquid and brought it to his lips.
"Methos!" Theophemos' urgent voice stopped him. "I know you have an incredible resistance to such drugs, and, for some reason which you will not explain, an inconceivable interest in lethal doses. But, for reasons which I am sure you can conceive, I would prefer you to remain conscious this evening."
Methos laughed and set down the bowl. He helped Theophemos put the drugs away, then went with the older man into the living quarters of the house.
Some time later, wearing only loincloths in the heat of the summer evening, the two men lay on their dining couches in the andron, the portion of the house set aside for the men. A slave set out the dinner platters on the three-legged table - wheat bread, fish cooked with cheese and herbs, and ... peacock eggs?
"Now those are a luxury," Methos commented with appreciation.
"A gift from a rich man whose daughter was sick," Theophemos explained, reaching for one of the eggs. "Methos," he began, "I was surprised to see you tonight; I thought you were planning on dining with your brother?"
Methos shrugged. "He had agreed to stay with me at the debate this afternoon, but he left early. I didn't know where he went, and I didn't want to look for him." Not looking at Theophemos, Methos daintily reached for some of the fish with two fingers of his right hand. It had only taken him a few weeks to learn which fingers of which hand were to be used for which dish, but it was instinctive for him now. Kronos, however, still grabbed for his food with whichever hand was closest.
"He probably headed toward the brothels," Theophemos muttered. "I heard a rumor yesterday that he spends a great deal of time there. Less lately, though. A number of the houses will no longer admit him. He's hurt some of the prostitutes badly. There has been some talk of legal action, but they know you would have to pay his fines."
Methos didn't answer. He'd hoped that Kronos would be able to control himself for a short time, but he knew very well that Kronos liked rough sex.
Frustrated by Methos' lack of response, Theophemos stood quickly and walked over to crouch next to Methos. "Methos, I know he is your brother; it's obvious you care a great deal about him, but - it's time for him to leave. To go back to ... to wherever it is the two of you came from."
Methos looked away, taking some more of the fish, refusing to answer, and Theophemos went on. "He's not one of us, Methos. He never will be. People had forgotten that you were not born here, but he reminds them."
Not meeting his eyes, Methos answered, "I know he's having a hard time fitting in, but he'll come around. You'll see. He'll find his place."
Theophemos perused him pensively, running his fingers through his graying beard. "Your loyalty to your brother does you credit, Methos. But you are deluding yourself. Kronos will never be civilized. You will have to choose, my friend. You cannot have both Kronos and Greece."
Methos swung his legs over the back of the couch, turning away from the food. "I can," he said. "I just have to try harder. I'm a good teacher; I can do this." He slipped on his tunic and then reached for his mantle.
Theophemos shook his head, clearly disagreeing, but he held his tongue. "Don't you want anything else to eat? I can have the slave clear this away and bring in the wine," he said, as Methos began to tie on his sandals.
"No," Methos answered. "I think I'll go looking for Kronos after all."
Methos walked the streets of the less reputable areas of the city, looking for Kronos. It wasn't until he came to one of the cheaper brothels near the waterfront that he discovered what his brother had been up to since he had walked away from the philosophy discussion at midday.
Methos had barely stepped foot inside the brothel when Chloe, an older woman who had done well for herself on the streets and now managed younger women in the same profession, accosted him.
"You! Methos!" she cried, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him into the house with an amazing strength that belied her years. "I was planning on looking for you tomorrow morning; you've saved me the trouble! Do you know what that brother of yours did here today?"
Methos winced. The word "brother" had been spoken with as much venom as it was possible to put into a word. He had no doubt he would hear the story, and it wouldn't be pleasant.
It wasn't. Kronos had beaten one of the pornai, beaten her so badly, in fact, that the whore-mistress had been forced to call the physician in. Chloe dragged Methos to the cubicle where the girl lay on a couch against the wall, her wheat-colored hair dark with sweat, her left arm wrapped tightly against her side.
"Look! Here, and here!" Chloe pulled back the filmy cloth of the girl's peplos, exposing her small breasts. "He bit her! The physician says she may have scars for life! And the bone in her arm is broken! It will be a while before she can work again."
Methos glanced at the bruised body in the bed and, with a resigned sigh, turned to face the accusing glare of the old woman. This nuisance was likely to prove expensive.
And it was. After much haggling, he and Chloe came to an agreement - Methos would pay the healer's fees, maintenance for the girl's care until she could work again, and the expected earnings of the girl for the same period, plus interest. Chloe would let the matter drop and not summon Kronos to court. Once they reached their arrangement, she offered him a cup of wine, but Methos declined, having an uneasy feeling that he'd better go find Kronos.
It wasn't hard to follow the trail Kronos was leaving - shattered jars and broken tables in a tavern, another beaten whore, five men staggering around in the aftermath of a brawl. Methos managed to avoid meeting the managers of any of those establishments, although he had no doubt that he'd be hearing from them about damages in the morning.
Hades take the man! Had it been so long since Kronos had lived among civilized men that he had no concept of how to behave? He could at least be more considerate of Methos' reputation. News of this drunken debauchery would be the talk of the town in the morning. Methos hadn't been born here; it had taken him a while to earn his place, to earn the respect of the citizens of the polis. He - and his sponsors - had worked hard for that, and he wasn't going to let Kronos destroy it.
The night watchmen were patrolling the streets when Methos finally arrived home. Kronos was there, thank the gods, he could sense him. Then came the sounds of crashes and screams. Methos ran through the courtyard and up the stairs to the women's quarters, then stopped short at the door in shock.
His wife, Phile, was standing behind her chair, her spindle rolling about on the floor. Her hair was undone and her clothing ripped, but her eyes flashed fury at Kronos. Two of the female slaves stood in front of her, one brandishing a wooden spindle as long as a man's foot, the other holding a stool in front of her like a weapon. Kronos stood on the other side of the room, laughing, piles of unspun wool pooled around his feet.
"Stay back," the slave with the spindle warned Kronos, and the shorter one lifted the stool menacingly.
"Give me that spindle," Kronos suggested with a grin, "and I'll show you what to do with it. All three of you. But the mistress of the house can be first." He smiled at Phile as he kicked the overturned wool basket out of the way, then took a step toward them, tugging at his belt. "Or maybe you'd like something bigger instea-"
"Kronos!" Methos snarled, stepping forward.
Kronos turned to him and grinned even more widely. "Hey, Brother! Come to join in the fun?"
In an instant, Methos' sword was in his hand, and he stood in front of the women, facing Kronos. "Have you lost your mind, Kronos?" he demanded. "Whoring and brawling all over the city wasn't enough for you? You have to come here and challenge my authority?"
Kronos took a step forward, only to be brought up short as Methos lifted his sword threateningly. "What's the matter, Brother?" he asked. "Unwilling to share?"
"She is my wife, not a slave," Methos said sharply. "If you want a woman for your bed, we'll go to the markets tomorrow, and I'll buy you one."
"I don't want 'a woman.' I want yours!" Kronos said, gesturing obscenely at Phile. "Brothers share."
"She's not mine to share," Methos said, biting the words out. "This house is hers. The slaves are hers. The furnishings and the vases and everything else here is hers. The money I just spent to pay your fines is hers. As her husband, I manage it for her, but if her father or her brothers decide I'm not to be trusted, they can throw me out and marry her to someone else."
"That sounds like a plan," Kronos said, with a grin. "Let's prove you're not to be trusted; they can throw you out, and we'll leave tomorrow. Caspian and Silas are waiting."
Methos looked at him stonily for a moment. "I have responsibilities and duties here," he said. "I can't leave."
"Curse you, Methos!" Kronos shouted. "Curse you, and your wife here, and your lover across town. It's absurd, you with your students, and your lovers and your responsibilities - working with the magistrates, helping to keep order, to keep the peace! Have you forgotten who you are?" he asked, stepping forward, incredulous now. "Have you forgotten the Brotherhood?" Kronos stared into his eyes, then said firmly, "You swore an oath, Methos, but you forgot to come back to us. I've come all this way to get you, and I tell you now - we leave tomorrow."
There was silence in the room for a heartbeat - two heartbeats. In that short space of time Methos weighed his options - the old against the new - the killing, the destruction, the terror, the eternal comradeship of the Horsemen against the learning, the plays, the mental challenge of discussing philosophy in the marketplace. It had been a long time since Methos had been happy with the Horsemen, and suddenly he knew why. What had begun as a refuge from the ravages of time had become a trap. For a thousand years he had lived with the same people, doing the same things, and the world had passed him by.
Kronos was still staring, still waiting, then Methos' answer broke the sudden silence between them: "No. Not yet." He wasn't going back. Not without discovering what the world had to offer him now.
Kronos met his eyes with contempt. "You'd rather have this" - he waved one hand at the house around them - "than the freedom of the plains? You'd rather have her" - he gestured at Phile - "than your brothers who love you, who will be there for you, forever?"
Methos didn't answer. He stood there, standing guard between his wife and his brother, still holding his sword, still ready to fight.
Kronos gave a short laugh. "You fool! Soon there will be nothing to hold you here!" He started to leave, then stopped at the doorway and turned to Methos. "Think about it, Methos. We'll leave tomorrow - I'll wait for you at the old quarry near the fork in the river. It's time to go home." Without waiting for Methos to answer, Kronos stormed from the room, then slammed the door on his way out.
Methos slowly sheathed the sword as he listened to Kronos' receding footsteps and the distant slamming of the courtyard gate. Kronos was right, of course. Soon - too soon - Phile, Theophemos, all the people in this city would be dead, and he would go on. Even sooner, the people of the polis would notice he did not age, and he would have to leave. He could count on his brothers to be there for him today, tomorrow, and for generations to come. But for now he would stay here. Tomorrow would come soon enough.
He turned and faced his wife, then winced at the fury in her eyes.
"Not yet?" Phile repeated, her voice cold. "Just when are you planning on leaving?"
"Phile-" he began, but she stalked from the room. He followed her to her chamber, then reassured her as best he could, although that best didn't sound very good, even to him. Eventually, she told him she wanted to sleep, so Methos went through the silent house to his own room. He poured himself a cup of wine and sat alone, thinking, far into the night.
Morning came very early for Methos. As he had expected, representatives of the brothel and the taverns came to demand payment for the damages. Then came a complaint by a citizen whose son had been accosted by Kronos on the street. Phile wanted to see him next. She was still furious, and she let him know in no uncertain terms, that, brother or no, Kronos was no longer welcome in her house.
When Methos finally ventured out into the streets, the sideways glances and whispered comments made it clear just what the main topic of gossip was this morning. Deciding to forego his trip to the gymnasium, he headed for Theophemos' house. There at least, he could find some peace and quiet, and he and Theophemos could discuss how best to handle this catastrophe.
He found peace and quiet there - too much. The slaves looked at him curiously as he entered the unnaturally silent house.
"Is Theophemos home?" he asked, and, without a word, the door-slave gestured him toward the andron. As he walked through the courtyard, he could hear wailing coming from the women's quarters, and a strange, unfamiliar dread settled in his heart. His steps faltered, and his breathing became difficult as he slowly approached the closed door.
Another silent slave pushed the door open, revealing the body of Theophemos lying on a couch, hands crossed over his breast. Honeycakes and a flask of oil had been set at his head, food for the journey to the land of the dead.
With a cry of despair, Methos rushed over to the bier and flung himself to his knees. He had been a Horseman long enough to know exactly how Theophemos had died; the bulging eyes and swollen tongue were the signs of a man who had been strangled, the thin mark around his neck showed that a garrote had been used. Methos reached up and stroked his lover's gray hair, surprised to find tears running down his face. How long had it been since anyone close to him had died? A sob escaped him as he knelt there, then another.
Eventually, gentle hands drew him up and led him into Theophemos' workroom. Methos looked through blurry eyes to see the familiar face of his father-in-law Pyrrhus, Theophemos' brother. Pyrrhus helped him into a chair and pressed a cup of wine into his hand. Methos tried to hold it, but the cup slipped from his nerveless fingers and crashed to the floor.
"Why?" Methos asked, tears still running down his cheeks. "Why, Pyrrhus? He was so gentle, so learned. He helped everyone. Why would anyone want ..." His words died away as Pyrrhus crouched in front of him.
"Methos," his father-in-law said quietly, "do you know where Kronos is?"
Methos stared at him for a minute, not quite understanding the question. As comprehension set in, he buried his face in his hands. "Oh, Zeus!" he murmured piously. Zeus knew what it was to be betrayed by a brother, when Poseidon had conspired against him to give the Greeks victory over the Trojans.
"I have witnesses," Pyrrhus continued. "The slaves say he came late last night, banging on the door, and rousing the household, asking to see Theophemos. They assumed Kronos was ill."
Methos stood and walked to the chest where Theophemos had stored his scrolls. Mechanically, he picked one up and began to unroll it. It was a lexicon of herbs that Theophemos had been working on, categorizing different medicines and their effects on the body.
Without facing Pyrrhus, he began to speak. "There was an incident at my house last night," he admitted. Even if he had been inclined to keep it a secret, there were two slaves and his wife who had witnessed the argument. "Kronos wanted me to leave. I refused. He said ... he said that there would soon be nothing to keep me here." He whirled to face Pyrrhus, crumpling the scroll in his hands. "I swear, I thought he meant that I would get bored, or ... or ..." He took a deep breath. "I never once thought he would ... he would ... kill ..." His voice broke, and he could say no more.
Pyrrhus' words came clear and cold. "He will be brought to the court of the Aeropagus to stand trial for homicide. I have sent the archons after him, to have him thrown into prison like the kakaourgos, the common criminal that he is. Do you know where he is, Methos?" Pyrrhus demanded, all gentleness gone from his voice. He was the head of the household; he was the only one who could seek justice for his brother, and seek justice he would.
Methos shook his head, slowly. "Gone, I suspect. He said he was leaving today."
"Then I shall have the archons seek him outside the city," Pyrrhus declared and he strode from the workroom.
Slowly, reverently, Methos smoothed the scroll and rerolled it, then replaced it in the chest. Somehow, that scroll signified everything that Greece meant to him - the poetry, the learning, the struggle for knowledge. For the first time in many, many years, Methos felt no desire to protect Kronos. Kronos had gone too far. Theophemos hadn't been some easily replaceable slave; Theophemos had been an educated man, a man of value - to Methos, to the polis, and to the world.
But Kronos was an Immortal, not to be judged by mortal men. Methos walked over to the worktable and picked up the flask of poison that Theophemos had been distilling the day before. There would be justice for Theophemos, but not by Pyrrhus, or by the homicide court, or by the archons. Kronos was his. As Methos put the flask into the pouch at his waist, Kronos' words from the night before echoed in his brain. "I shall wait for you at the old quarry near the fork at the river."
Methos walked unseeing through the streets to the city gate, heading for the countryside. The familiar weight of his sword hidden beneath his mantle was reassuring, even comforting. There were more Immortals than ever running around these days, all hunting for Quickenings. But it wasn't a strange Immortal Methos was planning to meet; he was going to confront his own brother. The sword might be necessary for that, too.
His footsteps moved him quickly forward, but his mind went round and round. What right did Kronos have? How dare he? He and Kronos had been together for countless years, but Kronos didn't own him, had no right to give him an ultimatum. By the time Methos reached the quarry, his grief had turned into a cold rage.
And Kronos was just lying there, curse him! Lying on a slab of white marble, sunning himself, looking like the fox who had tricked the crow out of its cheese. He was dressed in his raiding clothes, wearing armor and leather instead of the Greek tunic and mantle. All he needed was the war paint to look the complete barbarian.
"Methos!" Kronos exclaimed as he jumped up and walked forward, smiling - smiling!- in greeting. "Couldn't you at least have bought some horses? No matter, we'll find some at the next inn we come to."
Was that all Kronos cared about? Theophemos was dead, his own reputation in jeopardy, and all Kronos could ask about was the horses? Methos took a deep breath, trying to control himself, then he advanced until he was only an arm's length away. Methos said nothing, and the silence grew.
The exuberant grin on Kronos' face faded, but the look of triumph in his eyes still gleamed.
Methos looked at his brother deeply, evaluating, judging. He didn't like what he saw. "Why?" he asked, finally. "Why did you have to kill him? I would have come back to you sooner or later."
"Would you?" Kronos asked, finally serious. "I couldn't take the chance. I can't lose you, Methos." He let that hang between them for a moment, then said calmly, "I killed him to remind you."
"Remind me?" Methos said, grinding out the words.
"What it's like when they die!" Kronos exclaimed, stepping back and clenching his fists. "Why we want nothing to do with them! They're not like us, Methos!" Kronos said. He laid a gentle hand on Methos' shoulder and said softly, "We keep ourselves to ourselves."
Methos didn't look away, nor did he relent. "I remember what it is like when they die. I did not need to be reminded." He moved away from Kronos' hand. "Did you begrudge me ten or fifteen years, Kronos? The little time we would have before he died?"
Kronos shrugged. "Maybe. It doesn't matter now, does it? He's dead, you're here, and we're leaving." He grinned yet again. "Even if we do have to find some horses to steal."
Methos shook his head, slowly. "You don't understand, do you, Kronos? It had nothing to do with him. It's this place, Kronos. It's ... it's alive. I want to stay here and study with them."
Kronos snorted. "You? Methos the scholar? That's a good one, Brother."
Methos looked at him earnestly. "I'm serious. It's what I want to do. Study and learn." He had been a scribe in Nippur, but this was different. Here his mind was constantly stimulated; things he had taken for granted were challenged; and the mortals he surrounded himself with surprised him.
Kronos flung himself back down on the white slab. "'Study and learn.' You've been saying that since I got here. And I've been at your side, listening to you discuss love and hate and goodness and duty and soul and spirit until even your head is spinning. You go around and around, Methos, and even if you spent the rest of your life here, you would never resolve anything." Kronos sprang up again, pacing back and forth. "What's the point? You've been alive longer than those fools can even imagine." He stopped to stare at Methos and demanded, "What can they teach you?
"Most everything, it seems," Methos answered. "About the world. About myself. About who we are."
Kronos scoffed. "I can tell you who we are."
"Can you?" Methos asked mildly, only slightly curious.
"I'm Kronos," he said, thumping himself on the chest. "I always have been, and I always will be." He reached out and grasped Methos by the arm. "And you're just like me. We are who we are, and that's more than enough."
"Not for me," Methos said, pulling away. "Not anymore. I'm not going back with you, Kronos. I'm staying here."
"You'll be all right once you're back with the Horsemen. Once you go raiding again." Kronos reached out to him again and said engagingly, "You know I'm right."
He probably was too; that was the danger of it. The power of the Horsemen was like wine - the more you had the more you wanted. Another reason not to go back. Methos shook his head and asked, "We have to live on your terms, is that it, Kronos? Kronos has to stay with Methos, and they have to live as Horsemen?"
Kronos shrugged and smiled. "Sounds good to me."
Methos didn't think so. "We've done that for a long time. Let's turn it around. If you want to stay with me, then live the way I want to - here in the polis." A look of revulsion passed over Kronos' face, and Methos continued. "If you want to continue with the Horsemen, then go. I'll wait for you here. Someday you'll see I'm right."
"You are insane!" Kronos said incredulously. "What on earth makes you think that?"
Methos held up a hand to stop him. "I've been alive for so long, Kronos, I have seen the old gods die and new ones be born. I have seen whole peoples destroyed and forgotten. What they have here in this city is permanent. Even if they all disappeared tomorrow, the mathematics would still be true. The science would still hold. The music would still be beautiful. I need this, Kronos," Methos said, trying to make Kronos understand. "And some day, as you grow older, so will you. And I'll be here, waiting, to welcome you."
The smile was gone from Kronos' face now; his eyes shone with determination. "I'd rather hear the screams of a village as we ride, than that caterwauling they call music. And I don't intend to lose you. You are coming back with me, willing or unwilling."
"Don't you understand?" Methos was desperate now. "It's boring." He swung around and admitted, "Yes, there was a time when the screams of a child as I hacked her mother to bits in front of her made me feel alive! Yes, the look of fear and helplessness on the mother's face made me feel great and powerful. They couldn't hurt me if I could hurt them first."
Kronos was nodding, his face alight with glee, but Methos shook his head and looked away. "It's always the same. The look of fear - it doesn't change. It's the same in the person I killed yesterday, the same in the person I killed last year, or three years ago, or three lifetimes ago. It's always the same."
Methos tried to explain again, groping for the words. "What's happening here, in Greece - it's new, it's different, it's exciting, it's ..." He met Kronos' uncomprehending eyes and said simply, "I don't need the Horsemen anymore; I do need this."
Kronos' answer was just as simple. "You'll always need the Horsemen."
Methos shook his head and walked away from him, over to the marble slab that Kronos had been lying on, but Kronos followed, speaking urgently. "There are countless Immortals out there, running around with swords, chopping each other's head off, playing that bloody Game. With the Horsemen, you don't need to worry about them. No other Immortal will get close enough to the four of us to be a danger."
"Such faith in my skill," Methos retorted sharply. "I took the head off some young fool last year, on a bridge outside of town. It wasn't that difficult; I'm pretty good with a sword. I don't think I need to worry about too much."
"I won't risk it," Kronos answered, "and I won't risk you." He drew his sword. "I'm taking you back - dead or alive."
Methos felt a cold dread in his heart. Kronos meant it. "Put away your sword, Kronos," he commanded. "This is too important to decide with some sort of challenge. Let's talk about it."
"We've been talking!" Kronos exploded, slamming his fist on the rock. "For months, we've been talking! It's time to do something."
Yes, to do something. To take a stand. Theophemos had been a friend, and Kronos had slaughtered him without a second thought. Methos had told Kronos what he wanted, and Kronos had discounted his wishes, the way an adult dismisses a toddler who doesn't want to go to bed. It was time to do something.
"You're right," Methos agreed, and he smiled. "Let's have a drink."
Kronos hesitated, his sword still in his hand, then laughed. "Good idea."
Methos turned his back on Kronos and pulled out a wineskin and two cups from his pack, then used the slab as a low table and poured the wine. As he heard the soft whisper of Kronos resheathing his sword, Methos took the flask from Theophemos' workshop out of his pouch and poured some poison into Kronos' cup.
"Here," Methos said cheerfully, turning back around and handing Kronos the cup. "Let's drink." They raised their cups to their lips. Methos took a few swallows, then put his cup down on the rock, watching with grim satisfaction as Kronos drained his cup. Kronos never did anything by halves.
"All this talking has made you forget who you really are," Kronos said, slamming the empty cup back on the rock. "You're Methos. Your purpose is to shed blood, to take what you want, and to destroy the weak. You can't live without it, Methos - the freedom, the power. It's what makes you what you are; it's what makes you Methos." Kronos waved one hand airily toward the direction of the city. "Oh, you may hide behind the trappings of Greece, behind the words, behind the fancy table manners, and the poetry readings, and your wife. But deep down inside, you are what I am." He leaned closer and said with confidence, "We are the same, and we belong together. Forever."
"I never forget what I am," Methos said, watching him closely. "The more I learn, the more aware I become. And I'm finished riding with you."
"The hell you are! You are coming back with me, dead or alive. I meant it, Methos!" Kronos drew his sword again.
Methos didn't move; he just stared at Kronos, waiting.
Kronos stopped, discomfited by Methos' passivity. "You could at least fight me, if you think it's that important."
Yes, that was how the Horsemen had solved disputes all these years. When something was in contention, some kind of contest was declared, and the winner had his way. What a stupid way to decide things. How much more satisfying to discuss things and to choose the most prudent course.
"Fight me, damn you!" Kronos shouted.
"Why?" Methos asked, lifting his eyebrows. "When I've already won?"
Kronos took a step forward, then suddenly he wavered on his feet, blinking rapidly. "What ..."
"The wine," Methos answered, watching him closely. "One of the 'useless' things I found in my studies. That potion would kill most people. It will stop even you." The sword fell from Kronos fingers and clanged on the small rocks on the ground. "I'd sit down before I fall down, if I were you," Methos suggested.
Kronos fell to his knees, although it didn't appear to be voluntary. "Methos," he croaked. "Brother ..." Words seemed to fail him as his eyes closed, then he slowly crumpled to the ground. Moments later, his breathing ceased. Theophemos had been right; it was an easy way to die.
Methos stood still for a moment, staring at the dead body of his brother. What to do now? Kronos would recover soon enough, and Methos had no doubts that Kronos would come after him again. Who would Kronos kill next time? The young boys Methos tutored? Phile? Or maybe Methos himself, so that Kronos could drag his dead body to the nearest seaport and onto a ship? It was not to be borne.
Methos drew his sword and lifted it over his head, and then he stopped. This was the Horsemen's way - to solve problems with violence. He lowered the sword and turned his back on Kronos, then stood beside the slab of white marble, slowly letting his fingers trace the lines and the veins that marked its surface. How it glittered in the sun!
It seemed unnaturally quiet in the quarry now, even the birds were silent. He lifted his wine-cup, but did not drink, merely stared at the cup as though he had never seen it before. Suddenly, angrily, he flung the cup against the stone and watched it shatter. Red drops of wine glistened on the ground and showed dark against the glittering white surface. Like blood, he realized. Like blood offered to the gods.
He sat down on the slab to think. What to do now? Killing Kronos would guarantee that he would be left alone to live his new life, but it would also mean that he would be alone forever. There would be no chance for Kronos to rejoin him in the future. And Methos was sure that Kronos would change, would learn to value other things than killing and burning. He had to. A future without Kronos was unthinkable.
And Kronos was right - he and Methos were alike. They did belong together. Methos was about to embark on a new life, and someday - someday, Kronos would choose to join him. Methos knew this was true, as surely as he knew the sun and the planets revolved around the Earth. Someday, Kronos would reemerge into the light, realize that there was more to life than death and destruction. Someday, he and Kronos would call each other brother again. Someday - but not yet.
"The problem," Methos said out loud, as he would have instructed his students to solve a logic problem, "is that Kronos must be stopped from interfering with my life. If I take his head, he cannot stop me, but that is not acceptable. If he is at liberty, he will not stop trying to oppose me. So, that is not an option. The only other alternative is imprisonment." And besides, Kronos deserved it.
The quarry was riddled with tunnels and caves. Methos went exploring and quickly found a suitable place, a small chamber with a narrow entrance which would not be too difficult to block. With some difficulty, Methos lifted Kronos' body and carried it into the chamber. He backed away and began to push boulders in front of the opening.
The doorway was almost blocked when he heard the gasp that signified Kronos' return to life. Methos speeded up his efforts. He really didn't want to talk to Kronos about this.
"Methos, what are you doing?" Kronos' face appeared at the small opening. Methos didn't answer, just shoved another rock into the passageway. "This isn't funny, Methos. Let me out."
Methos stopped moving rocks just long enough to answer. "Did Theophemos beg you, Kronos? Did he ask you to stop killing him?"
"What does he have to do with this?"
Methos glared at him and shoved another rock into place. "You shouldn't have tried to force me. This will give you time to think."
"Think?" Kronos demanded. "Think about what?" The opening got even smaller, and Kronos yelled, "Methos!"
"Think about life. About how we live." Methos looked around, judging how best to fill in the entire passageway. "You'll see I'm right, eventually."
"Gods, Methos! Don't!" Kronos sounded desperate now, then added a panicked scream. "Methos!"
Methos ignored him as he backed out of the passageway. A few strong pulls on the loose rocks at the front of the cavern, and the ceiling fell. Methos dodged the tumbling rocks, then looked back at the buried chamber. "Farewell, my brother," he said softly. "I'll be back someday."
Flushed with exertion, Methos began walking back to the city, using the forest path instead of the road. He didn't want to talk to anyone. He was hungry and thirsty, and he stopped at a tavern near the city gate. Service seemed slow today, but perhaps that was just because he was so heavy-hearted. It wasn't until he was almost done that he noticed the whispers and the stares.
Perhaps it was time to leave. He paid his bill and left the tavern, walking through the familiar streets toward his home.
"Ho! Methos!" Methos turned at the call and waited for his friend Dicaeogenes to catch up. Dicaeogenes spoke for a moment of Theophemos, then came to the point. "The fact is, Methos, that, well - I've hired Aphobus to tutor my two boys. We, uh, we won't be needing you anymore. And I've heard that Timostrate has also asked him to take over tutoring her sons. I thought I'd tell you, just in case you don't see her before tomorrow."
Nonplussed, Methos stood and watched his friend walk away. But it wasn't until he reached his home that he realized how bad things were.
There were no slaves standing in the doorway to greet him, to offer him wine or refreshment. No wife came to ask him how his day went. Instead, Pyrrhus sternly led him into the andron.
"You lied to me, Methos," he said, angrily. "Phile tells me that last night, Kronos told you he would be waiting for you at the old quarry. Yet when I asked you this morning, you told me you did not know where he was. You helped him get away."
"I took care of it, Pyrhhus," Methos tried to explain. "Justice has been done."
"It is not justice if it is done in secret! All the citizens must know what has happened." Pyrhhus took a deep breath. "I have told Phile she is to divorce you. I will find her another husband. One who understands our ways, who knows what justice is."
This had all happened before, Methos remembered, a very long time ago. Back before he had had brothers, this betrayal was the only constant in his life. Methos gathered his things, carefully wrapping the scrolls that contained his journals, and left the house.
It was definitely time to leave.
The next morning, he bought a horse and rode out of the city. It wasn't long before he found himself at the fork in the river, near the quarry. He got off his horse and sat on the bluff above the river, watching the water flow downstream.
What should he do now? He could dig Kronos out of the cave and laugh with him until all this was forgotten. Then they would follow the river down to the sea, take ship, and return to their brothers. But, no! He hadn't been wrong when he'd told Kronos he was bored with the Horsemen; he truly didn't want to go back. Greek cities and colonies rimmed the Great Inland Sea; there were many places he could go. He could start again somewhere else.
His brother's words rang in his ears. "You can't live without it, Methos - the freedom, the power. It's what makes you what you are; it's what makes you Methos."
No, Kronos. You're wrong. I can live without it, and so can you. I'll prove it to you. I will live the good life, the life espoused by the Greeks. And when I come back to you, you will know it can be done. He rummaged in his pack, finding the flask of poison he had used yesterday. He removed the stopper and looked at the liquid. With a sudden movement, he raised the flask to his lips and took a deep swallow, then another.
If it was freedom and power that made Methos, then Methos is dead. And very soon, his vision blurred and his breathing became shallow. He closed his eyes, glad that he was sitting down. Very soon thereafter, his breathing stopped.
As gentle as his death, so was his rebirth. He came back to life under a tree, and opened his eyes to see a dove on the branch above him. He sat up, aware of a headache that was quickly fading and forgotten.
"Methos is no more," he said out loud, although only the dove heard him. Mounting the horse, he headed upriver, away from the sea. The river tumbled noisily over rocks as he followed it, then he turned his horse away from the water and headed into the hills. Alone.
He never looked back. And the name Methos did not pass his lips again for over two thousand years.
Submarine Base -Saturday, 9 November 1996, 2:56 a.m.
"Over two thousand years," Methos murmured, staring at the dark water in the submarine bay below. Two thousand years. He had changed so much in those centuries, learned so many things. He had practiced almost every profession there was - farmer, lawyer, doctor, thief. He had gone through periods when it was a joy to be alive, and each day brought him another pleasure; and through periods when the loneliness and the depression had threatened to overcome him, and he could barely bring himself to step outside.
How could Kronos have stayed the same all these years? Had his personality been written in stone before Methos had ever met him? Had it been the long imprisonment that had frozen him in time? Methos had gone back to the quarry years later, but, although he had found the fork in the river easily enough, the quarry had been gone, and trees grew unimpeded all around. The polis was still there, although it had become a poor farming village. He had spent days there, pestering the uneducated farmers, none of whom had ever heard of a quarry. Finally, one of the oldest women had told him of a tale she had heard from her great-grandmother of an earthquake, which had leveled the city and filled in the great holes in the ground.
Eventually, he had given up, assuming that Kronos was either still entombed deep under the ground, or that he had somehow gotten free. Either way, there was nothing he could do.
"Nothing you can do," whispered Methos, taking a final look at Cassandra as she lay in the cage. She was sleeping quietly now, and Methos went to bed, exhausted and numb with grief, both old and new. Kronos was already asleep.
When Methos woke late the next morning, his brother was gone and he was alone. Methos sat on his bed and stared at the wall. MacLeod was dead.
He left the room and wandered around the base, but the only person he saw was Kronos, adding logs to the fire in the brazier. Caspian and Silas weren't back yet; maybe they were still searching for MacLeod. Maybe, Methos thought with sudden desperate hope, maybe MacLeod wasn't dead. Maybe he was still alive.
That hope shattered into gut-wrenching dread. Maybe Kronos had told them to hunt. Maybe Silas and Caspian were bringing MacLeod back here, so that Methos could fulfill his part of the blood-oath and take MacLeod's head, while Kronos took Cassandra's.
Kronos would love that. And if Methos refused to take MacLeod's head, then Kronos would do it for him. Kronos would love that even more. He would gloat over it, recount each detail, talk about the kill and the Quickening - MacLeod's Quickening.
Could he do that? Could he stand by and watch Kronos take MacLeod's head? He couldn't fight all three of them. He couldn't kill his brothers, and he didn't want MacLeod to die.
Gods! What would he do?
Kronos didn't give him any more time to think about it. He looked up and called, "Cassandra's awake now. Let's have some fun."
Oh, joy. This wasn't his idea of fun - hadn't been for centuries. But Kronos patted his pocket where the little remote control device was located. He wasn't being given a choice.
Kronos was in a generous mood. "Do you want to go first?" he asked as they walked to Cassandra's cage.
He didn't want to touch her at all. Methos shrugged.
Kronos laughed. "Then you can watch." He challenged Methos with a hard stare, a threat. "At first. Eventually ..."
Eventually, Kronos would expect him to join in, to return to the old ways, and for now Methos had to make Kronos believe that he would. So Methos stood against the wall and watched, as he had watched while Caspian had strangled the doctor. Watched by averting his eyes, wishing he were not there, wishing it wasn't happening, knowing that if he interfered in any way, if he showed that he cared, it would only be worse for her.
It was only sex, after all, Methos thought, as he tried not to hear the harsh breathing and the moans. Kronos had only hit her twice, and Cassandra was hardly a virgin. It would be over soon, and she would survive.
Methos stared at the floor. This would be over soon. The rest of the nightmare wouldn't.
Field Notes: Cassandra
Watcher: Melanie Hind
Date: Saturday, 9 November 1996, 2 p.m.
Place: near Bordeaux, France
Kronos took Cassandra into some kind of bunker-like building on Friday night, and it's Saturday afternoon now. I haven't seen any evidence of a Quickening, and I'm too far away to hear screams. God only knows what he's doing to her in there.
Methos showed up in the middle of the night, around 2 a.m. on Saturday. Nothing much has happened since then. No sign of the other two Horsemen.
Watcher Antonio Tullio will be here to watch Cassandra for me for the night.
=Note To Self =
Recommend that Watchers be given better emergency field accommodations than a Fiat and a shovel. Tullio said he was bringing a tent and a camp-stove. I'm going to go back to town for a shower and a hot meal and a comfortable bed. I hope Cassandra has the same, but I really doubt it.
This non-interference rule sucks.
Though they bring up their children,
yet will I bereave them,
that there shall not be a man left.
Hosea 13:8
After Kronos had finished with Cassandra, he locked her back in the cage. Methos left her alone for a few hours, then brought her dinner and a blanket.
She was not at all grateful.
That was hardly surprising. She didn't want to eat, so he tried talking to her, but she didn't want to talk, either. He tried one last time, to make her see reason.
"Cassandra," he said quietly, "we have to be careful. I have seen what happens to people who go up against Kronos." She had to understand that; she had seen it herself. More than seen it. "If we want to survive," he said, softly now, "we will keep him happy." For a while at least, until they could stop him.
"I didn't do it then, and I won't now." She stared straight at him and said simply, "I'd rather die."
Death before dishonor. What an idiotic, stupid, bloody, waste! Was there any honor to be had after death? Live, grow stronger, get your honor back another day, but live. It was not Cassandra's way. Methos answered just as simply, "Well then, you'll die."
She didn't even seem to care.
Methos shook his head in disgust. There was no point in even trying to reason with her. He might as well tell her. Maybe that would wake her up. No one was going to rescue her from this. "You can forget about MacLeod."
She stared at him, her face impassive, her eyes blank.
Methos wanted her to know. He wanted to share the knowledge with someone who cared. He wanted someone to mourn for his friend, because he didn't think he was ever going to get the chance to do it himself.
He leaned closer to the cage and told her the truth, saying it out loud for the very first time. "MacLeod is dead."
She didn't move, didn't make a sound, but he had seen the emptiness in her eyes. He knew it well, and he didn't want to see it again, not in hers, not in his own. He turned and left her there alone, then wandered on through empty, echoing halls.
MacLeod is dead. MacLeod is dead. MacLeod - is - dead.
Dead.
Get used to it, old man. Dead. MacLeod is dead.
Retreat. Regroup. Reconsider.
Remember. Oh, gods! He's dead!
Methos found himself at the monkey room again, the animals chittering at him when he walked by. They were hungry and thirsty, and he fed them one by one. Silas wasn't here to do it. Silas and Caspian were busy killing MacLeod.
Methos slammed both fists against the door of the cage, and the monkey within screamed in alarm. Methos wanted to scream, too, but he didn't. He couldn't. He started to clean the cages, removing the monkey droppings, scrubbing the trays. Cage after cage after cage, his hands covered with excrement, trying not to think, not to remember, not to feel.
He finished with the cages and washed his hands over and over, washed them clean, then he sat at the table, his head pillowed on his arms.
I had a dream, which was not all a dream
The bright sun was extinguish'd, and the stars
Did wander darkling in the eternal space.
Methos hid his eyes and wept.
MacLeod was dead.
"Wake up, Methos!" Kronos called from the doorway.
Methos jerked awake, then stood and stretched, his back aching from sitting at the table for so long.
"Ready for some more fun?" Kronos asked, then led the way down the hall to one of the bedrooms. "Here," he said, as he handed Methos his coat, "you can watch."
I am a Watcher, Methos thought, staring at the floor, not even glancing at the bed. I observe and record, but never interfere.
Kronos was brutal this time, and between the moans and grunts came cries of pain and the sharp crack of slaps on naked flesh.
It would be over soon. There was nothing he could do.
"Help me," she pleaded. "Please!"
He gritted his teeth and closed his eyes as Kronos laughed and hit her, not an open-handed slap this time, but a hard punch with a fist. She cried out with the pain, then cried out again and again under a steady rain of blows.
Methos stared at the floor. She would survive. He should know.
Eventually, she started to beg. "Don't hurt me! Please don't hurt me!"
The sound of the blows stopped, then Kronos clapped him on the shoulder. "I've tamed her for you, Brother." He laughed as he took his coat from Methos' hand. "She was asking about you earlier."
Kronos left the room, and then softly, hesitantly, she called to him. "Adam?"
His head jerked at the unexpected name. "Alexa?" he gasped.
Her face was bruised and bloody, her eyes more bewildered than accusing. "I called you, but you didn't help."
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He tried to go to her, but he could not move.
"Adam?" she asked, her voice breaking, but he could only shake his head. "You don't care, do you?" she asked, and hurt and disappointment replaced the surprise. She pulled herself slowly and painfully to her feet, and now there was revulsion in her voice. "You lied to me."
"Alexa, no ..."
"I'm nothing to you."
Methos couldn't change what he had done. What he hadn't done.
She was gone.
Methos hid his face in his hands and wept. "I'm sorry. Oh, Alexa, I'm so sorry."
Methos jerked awake, his face wet with tears. The monkeys were chittering in their cages, and Kronos was not there. He drew a deep shuddering breath, shaking with relief and fear. It had only been a dream. Alexa had died six months ago, cradled in his arms, sure of his love. He had never betrayed her trust, never stood by and watched while Kronos raped and beat her. She had never looked at him with such contempt, such hate.
Cassandra had. And there had been others throughout the years.
Methos stood and shoved the chair back with an oath, knocking it to the floor. He couldn't let this continue; he wasn't going to stand by and watch anymore.
He left the monkey room and went to the kitchen for some food. It was almost sunrise. Kronos was asleep, and Silas and Caspian still weren't back. How long did it take, anyway? They had been gone for more than twenty-four hours. Where the hell were they? Still hunting? Still fighting? Or maybe they had taken MacLeod's head already and were celebrating - getting drunk or getting laid.
What was he going to do?
There had to be a way.
He sat at the table and dipped the tea bag in and out of his cup, thinking over his options. MacLeod was dead. OK. That plan was down. What were the options now? Think, damn it! Think clearly.
One - do nothing. Go along with Kronos. I will survive. The world will recover. Eventually.
Two - kill Kronos, before the virus is released. Someone has to do it. Gods, how have we come to this? Methos thought in anguish. Can I do it? Could I take his head? He's a better swordsman than I am, but I'm trickier.
Or am I? Sudden doubt made him falter.
I used to be trickier, but he's been one step ahead of me since Seacouver, Methos admitted to himself. I've either lost my edge, or I've become incredibly transparent, or - MacLeod was my weakness, he realized. Just as Kronos had been my weakness for centuries.
MacLeod was dead. Caspian and Silas would be returning soon, and it would be three against one. Unless MacLeod had managed to kill one of them first. No, best to think of worst case scenario - three of them. And forget about MacLeod. Forget about the grief. Forget about your friend. Turn to the problem at hand.
With an effort, Methos stilled the grief. He needed a partner - a partner who would be able to help him stop Kronos, because he knew he couldn't do it by himself.
MacLeod was dead.
But Cassandra was alive, and she hated Kronos enough to kill him. The problem was, she hated him, too. He didn't have much of a choice. Methos fixed her some breakfast, then went to visit her in her cage.
Field Notes: Cassandra (Temporary Assignment)
Watcher: Antonio Tullio
Date: Sunday, 10 November 1996, 0600
Place: near Bordeaux, France
No movement all night. Melanie Hind will be arriving shortly to resume surveillance of Cassandra.
I will rend the caul of their heart.
Hosea 13:8
Methos sat on the ledge outside Cassandra's cage, listening to the lick of the water against the walls. Cassandra was huddled in a blanket on the far side of the cage, ignoring him. At least she had eaten this time. "The sun will be up soon," he commented, wondering again when Silas and Caspian would be back.
Cassandra ignored him, pulling the blanket closer. Maybe he would have to start talking about the weather next. But after a few moments, she deigned to acknowledge his presence, glancing in his direction.
"Tell me, Methos," Cassandra asked, "did you take MacLeod's head? Or was it Kronos' turn this time?"
He met her eyes, once again surprised at the hatred there. More than three thousand years and she could still hate like that. He himself could barely remember his enemies from a thousand years ago, and there had been some who had undoubtedly treated him as badly as he had treated her.
Her hate was fresh and bitter. It gave her the strength she needed to kill, but unfortunately she wanted to kill him. If he could only convince her to leave him alone and go after Kronos. Or at least go after Kronos first.
She was still glaring at him, and Methos shifted uneasily under her stare. He had known this woman for only a short time - what had it been? A year, maybe two? Had that brief time with him been enough to poison her with hatred forever? To drive her mad?
Unlike Kronos, Cassandra hadn't gone mad with grief and fury when her family had been butchered, but she seemed mad enough now, mad with fury and hate and the need for revenge. He had heard of delayed reaction to post-traumatic stress disorder, but this was ridiculous. Was he the only Immortal with the ability to move on? A unique Teflon Immortal?
"I didn't mean for this to happen," he said. None of this - MacLeod, the virus, the cage, the rapes - recent and ancient - the hatred.
"Your sword slipped?" she asked, the sarcasm cutting deep.
Methos blinked, willing - ordering! - the tears not to come. Oh, MacLeod. "I didn't kill him," he said quietly.
"No?" she challenged. "Maybe you didn't take his head, but who lured him away? Who handed him over to Kronos? Who lied to him? Who betrayed him?" She smiled, but there was no joy or humor in her smile. "It was you, Methos."
Methos turned away. She was good, throwing his failure in his face. He had thought he could manage Kronos, keep him away from MacLeod, come out of this with both his friends intact, with his family restored, maybe even enlarged. Instead, Kronos had had the upper hand since the beginning. Kronos had been playing with him, instead of the other way around.
Pride, Methos, pride. You thought you were stronger, wiser than anyone. Cassandra hasn't even mentioned your worst sin: pride. Hubris. An affront to the gods.
Cassandra wasn't finished. "You know, Methos, sometimes Duncan sounded as if he thought you were his teacher. He trusted you. He thought you were his friend."
Methos blinked again and managed to whisper, "I was," but his voice betrayed him with the roughness of unshed tears, and he knew Cassandra had heard. She was good with voices.
"I'm glad to be your enemy then," she said. "At least I know where I stand with you."
Damn it! How could he get her to stop focusing on him and start focusing on Kronos? Maybe more of an apology would help. "Cassandra," he said earnestly, trying again, moving from the ledge to stand beside her, "I didn't mean for this to happen, either." He gestured at the cage this time, hoping she would understand him, accept his oblique apology for her imprisonment, for Kronos' treatment of her.
"No?" she mocked him. "It's a mistake, then? A little torture, some rape, a murder or two - just a misunderstanding?"
Bloody hell! He hadn't touched her, hadn't raped her in thousands of years. And he hadn't murdered anyone in centuries. Not without a good reason, anyway.
They didn't have time for this. Methos tried yet again to make her see reason. "If I had tried to stop Kronos, then or now, he would have taken your head, or made it even worse." He shrugged slightly, helplessly. "I knew you would survive."
"I didn't survive," she spat back at him. "I died in his tent."
He was silent, looking at her, knowing there was more, and she said softly, "My body died, too."
It took him a moment to understand. Then he did, and was appalled. She had stopped living that day. She had survived to run away that night, alive in body, but dead in spirit. And she had remained dead for three thousand years. Methos had trouble believing it. He had known mortals who had lived through worse and had recovered to lead full lives, sometimes with their captors, sometimes rescued. Not all recovered, but some did. And she had so much longer than they to put it behind her. Perhaps if she had been abused for centuries, this fury would make sense, but ...
"Did you leave the camp?" she asked, brittle and sharp.
Methos swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry. "I was there." No excuses.
She nodded, not at all surprised. "Then you heard."
Of course, he had heard. The whole bloody camp had heard. It had been damned annoying. Not that sounds of rape and beatings were unusual, of course, but she hadn't merely whimpered and moaned and screamed in pain. She had screamed his name.
What had she expected him to do? Rescue her? She knew that all slaves were shared. If he had gone into Kronos' tent and done anything, said anything, Kronos would have made it much worse. And after that, Kronos would have taken her head.
At least she had survived, and her screams had worked, in a way. He hadn't rescued her, but he hadn't stopped her when she rescued herself by killing Kronos with his own knife. Oh, the jokes that had gone around the camp after that! Never to Kronos' face, of course, but it had been too funny not to laugh about.
Had he let her go out of guilt? Admiration for her courage? The realization that she would never adapt to the reality of her life in the Horsemen's camp, and that one of the brothers would eventually take her head? Had he simply not wanted to destroy her chance at an Immortal life so soon? Whatever the reasons, he had stood there that evening and watched her flee, hoping she would find happiness somewhere.
Obviously, he had hoped in vain. "I let you go," he said, wanting to offer her something, to let her know he was on her side.
"Yes, you let me go," she said, meaning something much different.
"Don't you understand?" he demanded, frustration and anguish scraping at his soul. "There was nothing I could do! Kronos was my brother! There are cages you can't see, and promises you can't break." Promises of love, of commitment, promises made in hope and dreams. Promises that strangle you slowly and devour your soul.
He had never made her any promises then, and he had very little to offer her now. But what he had to give, he would. "I saw you escape that night," he repeated. "I let you go. And I didn't want MacLeod to die." Anything to change the subject.
"Why are you here?" she asked suddenly, attacking from a different direction. "Are you looking for some kind of absolution from me, Methos?" She studied him for a moment, then suggested knowingly, "Or forgiveness?"
"Can you?" he asked, wondering if he had finally gotten through to her. Can you, Cassandra? Can you see beyond the darkness of the hatred that engulfs you? Forgiveness is the first step, Cassandra. It is so easy to strike out in revenge, so easy to return pain for pain. But that way lies death. I should know.
Cassandra looked him in the eyes and smiled, angry and grim. She reached out and grasped the bars on the door of the cage, then shook it. "Ask me another time."
Methos knew what she meant. A prisoner was powerless, and a slave did not forgive her master. Methos reached out and took hold of the bars right about her hands. "I haven't got the keys, either." They stared at each other through the door. "I'm as much a prisoner as you are."
Her smile was bitterly triumphant. "More."
"More," he whispered in return, knowing it was true. He had the key to his own cage, but he could not bring himself to use it.
He let go and went back to the ledge, staring at the torches again. Finally, he said, "I'm trying to get both of us out of here alive." He owed MacLeod that much, at least, and he owed it to her. "I can't do that without your cooperation."
She leaned back against the bars of the cage, relaxed and at ease. "Being politically correct doesn't suit you, Methos. Don't you mean obedience?"
Another time, he might have found that amusing, but he was too tired now to do more than close his eyes and sigh. There was no reasoning with this woman. She hated herself almost as much as she hated him, but maybe she hated Kronos more.
He turned to her and offered her a devil's bargain. "Cassandra, you killed Kronos once, and you can do it again." If she killed Kronos, then he would have enough time to take the remote control and lock his brother up. But he knew he had to offer Cassandra more than that. He suggested invitingly, "We can make it permanent this time."
Cassandra wasn't buying it. "I get to 'keep him happy,' and you get to take his head?"
"You can have his head," Methos said, willing to offer her anything. He didn't actually have to keep his promise. "I'll give you a sword."
She actually thought about it for a moment, then asked coolly, "What do I get out of this?"
Methos repressed a smile. The woman was in no position to bargain, but here she was, making deals. In a way, she reminded him of himself.
"When he's dead, I want your head, too," she stated. "Will you kneel down and offer it to me?"
Methos stared. Offer up his head, too? She'd never believe him. Or would she? Greater love hath no man, and all that. OK, fine, if that's what it took to get her to say yes. The world was at stake. He opened his mouth to say yes, but nothing came out. He sat there for a long moment, his mouth open. His lungs seemed paralyzed; he could not even speak the lie. No matter what the cost, he would not sacrifice his life. Not for Cassandra, not for his brothers, not for MacLeod, not even for the world. Methos snapped his mouth shut in frustration and slammed his fist against the side of the cage.
"I thought not." Her voice held triumphant vindication. "You haven't changed at all."
Methos stared at the flickers of red on the black water, reflections from the torches above. She was wrong; he had changed. But to sacrifice himself was unthinkable. When he looked up, he saw only the steady gleam of hatred and distrust in Cassandra's eyes.
"Cassandra, can't you let go of it?" he asked, annoyed and frustrated both with her and with himself. "It was three thousand years ago."
"It was yesterday!" she snarled, leaning forward in her rage.
"Yeah," he agreed, remembering with distaste what Kronos had done to her. "But yesterday's over. Do you want a tomorrow?"
"Not with him," she said immediately, then she actually giggled, a forced hysterical sound. "That would be a fate worse than death."
Methos stared at her. That phrase had never meant anything to him, the ultimate oxymoron, but he understood her meaning now, and the pun behind her words. The Four Horsemen had once been known as Death, and they had gloried in the name. He smiled wryly. "I never knew you had a sense of humor."
"We never had much of a chance to laugh."
"No." The word was more whispered than spoken. Nor would the world, unless Kronos were stopped. Methos sat with his head bowed for a moment, then looked at her. "We never will, unless we get out of this. And the key to escape is Kronos."
She hesitated, then shook her head. "I can't do that, Methos."
Methos wanted to slap her, but that would hardly help his cause. He settled for an insult. "You have got to be the most stupidly stubborn woman I have ever met."
"I am what you made me," Cassandra replied, "a Daughter of Night."
Methos was puzzled; the phrase struck a chord, but he couldn't exactly place it.
"Have you forgotten that story, Methos?" Her eyes were intent upon him. "You should never forget. Not that story. Not you." She waited a moment, staring at him, and then she began to speak. She spoke in the Greek of the old days, before Plato, before Homer. She spoke in the early Greek of Odysseus and Achilles. She spoke with rhythm and cadence, with fire and prophecy, and with power.
Methos listened with his eyes half-closed, remembering countless other stories told around other fires, down through the ages. This was an old story, almost as old as he was, a Greek adaptation of an older myth about the struggles between the gods, a story he had once told to his son.
In the version Cassandra was telling, Uranus the Sky-Father fought his son for the throne of the gods, and Uranus lost. The son banished the father from the day-sky to the night, but castrated him first, to eliminate any future contenders for the throne.
Methos shifted, trying to get more comfortable on the cold concrete slab, as Cassandra continued to speak.
"But from the wound of Uranus the Sky-Father there came blood, and three drops of the blood fell onto Gaia the Earth-Mother. And the Mother accepted the blood and held it within her, and brought forth from herself three women, three sisters, and she called them Daughters of Night."
Methos closed his eyes all the way and leaned his back against the pillar of the cage, letting Cassandra's words wash over him. Her words and her language were carrying him back to another time, another world - a world that had been special to him, a world that had given him something to live for, a world for which he had defied even Kronos.
"The three sisters are immortal. They carry whips and torches, and they pursue those who have done wrong, driving them mad, hounding them even unto death, and beyond. And the sisters are called by name Alecto the Unceasing, Megaera the Grudging, and Tisiphone the Vengeful."
Methos opened his eyes and shrugged, making it as casual as he could. He remembered this story now.
Cassandra added, "Men call them - the Furies."
He nodded. "Should I start calling you Tisiphone?" he asked. "Or Alecto? Or Megaera? Or just plain Fury?"
"All of them." Cassandra was still watching him. "All three. And more. I am all women, Methos. All the women you ever abused, ever raped, ever killed. The men and the children, too. The others are dead now, but I am not. I speak for them, and I have come for you."
Did she honestly think that the gods had waited this long before sending retribution into his life? Did she think that he had never suffered? She was definitely furious, but she was not Nemesis, no matter what she thought. And he was not a savior, no matter how much he had wanted to be. He couldn't save Kronos, and he couldn't save the world. Maybe he couldn't ever save himself.
But Cassandra was waiting for some response. He started clapping his hands slowly. "Very poetic, Cassandra," he said, "very Greek."
"I am more a Trojan than I am a Greek," she corrected. "And there was another Cassandra in Troy - my namesake, my foster-daughter. No one ever believed her, but she was always right in the end."
Cassandra's eyes glowed with a kind of madness, and her long hair fell about her face. No wonder Kronos always called her a witch. Methos didn't believe in witchcraft. He hadn't for a very long time.
But Cassandra's voice sounded eerie somehow, echoing in the chamber. "I tell you now, Methos, there is no escape for you. The Furies pursue into madness, unto death, and beyond."
Methos stared at her. He couldn't look away. He knew the voice of prophecy when he heard it.
Cassandra added, "You know the name of the son who castrates his father, don't you, Methos?"
Of course he knew, and Cassandra knew he knew, and she was still going to say it.
"His name," she said, "is Kronos."
The woman made him damned uncomfortable. Her words came back to him: "Into madness, unto death, and beyond." The prophecies of the priestesses of the temple always came true, one way or another. There was no escape.
It had already started. He was living in madness now, living among the Horsemen and Cassandra. Death was as close as Kronos' virus, as close as the others' swords. At least she had mentioned beyond. That was reassuring. It was nice to know there would be a beyond.
What the hell was he going to do? Cassandra wouldn't cooperate with him at all. Well, that had always been a long shot. Kronos had vials of deadly poison just waiting to explode into the city's water supply. Caspian and Silas would surely be back soon, and then it would be three against one, although the two of them would probably be drunk on a combination of women, drugs or booze, and a Quickening - MacLeod's Quickening.
Methos didn't want to think about it, but he had to. MacLeod was dead. There was no hero coming to save the day. And Methos knew that Cassandra had been partially right. It was partly his fault. He went through his options again.
One - do nothing and go along with Kronos. I'll survive. The world will recover. Eventually. But Cassandra's words had brought back Greece to him. He had defied Kronos then, defied him in the name of art, of science, of learning. He had made the right decision then, and he knew it. He would make the right decision now. Doing nothing was no longer an option. MacLeod would have been proud of him.
Let's start again. What were the options?
One - call the police, have the three of them arrested for kidnapping. Right, like Kronos would let him near a phone now. Kronos hadn't returned Methos' cell phone. He hadn't returned his gun, either.
Two - find the virus and destroy it, before Kronos or Silas or Caspian sees me. Oh, sure. That would be easy enough.
Three - contact the Watchers. It was their fight, too, their civilization at stake, but if Kronos found out about them, he would slaughter them like sheep. Besides, Methos had no way to contact them. He was on his own.
Four - kill Kronos myself. Visions came to him of a young boy, leaning against him in the night around a campfire. He heard himself laughing as he watched a gangly youth trying to stay on a horse the first time he ever mounted. He saw a young man's joy in his first battle, and saw the man on the floor playing with the children and puppies in the house in Tilpuk. He saw Kronos and himself getting drunk around the campfire, with Silas and Caspian. Sharing a willing woman in Kronos' tent. Laughing like madmen as they fled from a huge cavalry force, encountered during a badly bungled raid. No fear, only exhilaration and challenge.
No. He couldn't do it. He might, if he stretched himself, have the skill to defeat Kronos, but he would never have the will, not even with MacLeod's ghost egging him on.
Five, five ... There had to be a five. Methos leaned his head back against the pillar and closed his eyes. It had been hundreds of years since he had believed in any god, since he had truly prayed, but suddenly praying seemed like a very good idea.
Field Notes: Duncan MacLeod (Temporary Assignment)
Watcher: Yvette Berens
Date: Sunday, 10 November 1996, 0708
Place: Bordeaux, France
Note: The two Horsemen referred to each other as Caspian and Silas. I suggest Caspian be listed as Caspari's earliest known name.
On Friday night (8 Nov), Duncan MacLeod took Caspian's head on a bridge, then jumped into the river to escape Silas. MacLeod went to the Hotel de Seze, presumably to look for Cassandra, then left and checked into another hotel. He woke very early and spent the day in Bordeaux, asking questions, visiting a pet shop and a zoo among other places. He went back to the hotel at 10 in the evening. I do not think he had slept more than six hours in the last day and a half.
This morning, I followed him to an abandoned Nazi submarine bunker outside Bordeaux. Melanie Hind (Cassandra's Watcher) informs me that Silas arrived a few minutes ago. She believes that Kronos, Methos/Pierson, and Cassandra are still within the bunker.
MacLeod is scouting around the building. If he goes in, I will follow him. Melanie Hind will wait outside.
They shall fall by the sword.
Hosea 13:16
Methos opened his eyes at the approach of an Immortal, but he did not move from his place at the end of the cage. There was nowhere to go.
Kronos and Silas came in, and Silas had his axe in his hands. Methos sat up a little from his slouch. Those two were in a hurry; something was going on. Kronos unlocked the cage door and said to Silas, "If MacLeod even gets close, kill her."
MacLeod? MacLeod! Methos was glad he was sitting down, glad his face was in the shadows. He closed his eyes again, relief and giddy joy flooding through him. MacLeod was alive. Alive. The pillar behind him was solid and real.
"He's alive?" Cassandra asked, echoing his thoughts, throwing off her blanket, showing the excitement and elation Methos dared not reveal.
For Kronos was watching, and he was angry indeed. "Not for long!" he told Cassandra, sounding very sure of himself.
Cassandra crawled toward Methos in the cage, her eyes bright with malicious satisfaction. "You failed!" she exulted.
Not yet, Methos thought, not yet! MacLeod was back in the game, and it wasn't over yet. Either Kronos or MacLeod could win, or it might even end in a stalemate.
Kronos made the first move. "Come along, my clever friend," Kronos said. "You and I are going to poison a city."
Methos went with Kronos, as he always had.
Kronos quickly outlined his plans as they walked through the hallways, Methos at his right side, where he belonged. Methos was silent as he nodded and listened, thinking things through. His brother would offer suggestions in a few moments, Kronos knew. This was how they worked best - Kronos had the ideas, Methos had the plans. Just like the old days.
Or almost. Caspian was dead. Well, that was no great loss, really, not in the larger scheme of things. And Kronos had much larger schemes. They were heading for the outside when the sensation of another Immortal came along. It was MacLeod, of course, standing at the top of the steep staircase.
How delightful. They wouldn't have to hunt down Caspian's killer after all. Kronos started up the steps, his brother right behind him.
"The Three Horsemen of the Apocalypse," MacLeod declaimed from the top of the stairs. "Doesn't exactly have the same ring, does it, Kronos?" MacLeod stared down at them. "What are you going to do now?"
And wouldn't MacLeod just love to know? Kronos knew this game, and he liked to play. "You're not going to be around long enough to find out."
"Oh, we'll see about that," MacLeod answered, drawing his sword.
"Think of Cassandra," Kronos warned, stopping him where he stood. "Lay down your sword, and she lives. Fight and win," - as if MacLeod could! - "or lose, she dies."
MacLeod hesitated.
"Come on, MacLeod!" Kronos challenged. "Your life for hers! What do you say?"
This time MacLeod looked past him to look at Methos. MacLeod didn't seem to like what he saw there, because he answered grimly, "I think she'd rather be dead."
No doubt, Kronos thought, but who cared what she wanted? At least he had finally gotten his revenge on the bitch. He wouldn't have minded keeping her around for a bit longer, but she had served her purpose.
MacLeod was still glaring at Methos. "You set me up." He sounded very hurt, very incredulous, and very angry.
Kronos smiled to himself. Yes, that little plan had worked perfectly. Cassandra had driven a wedge between Methos and MacLeod, and Kronos had split them completely apart. Methos had nothing left but the brotherhood now. He would have to see that.
Kronos turned slightly, not taking his eyes off MacLeod, and spoke to his brother. "Tell Silas to finish her." He savored the final words. "And let her know, it was MacLeod's decision."
Methos headed down the steps, and MacLeod called after him, "Methos, don't do this!
Methos didn't listen, as Kronos had known he wouldn't. "Like you said," Methos answered from the bottom of the stairs, "I go with the winner." He snatched up his sword from a table and ran from the room.
Kronos smiled openly this time. Methos was one of the brothers, and MacLeod had no claim on him. Kronos picked up his sword. It had been a long time since he had had a good fight, and he was going to be the winner.
"Don't do this. Don't do this. Don't do this," Methos chanted to himself, as he ran through the echoing corridors, the acrid scents of oil and gas harsh in his throat. But it was too late; Kronos and MacLeod were already fighting. Methos could hear the clash of steel behind him.
Too soon, too late, he was at the small bay that held Cassandra's cage, a very short tower in a filthy moat, a princess waiting to be rescued. Yeah, right. He was not cut out for this kind of work. This was MacLeod's job, to be the knight in shining armor. It was MacLeod's job to come riding in on a white horse. Methos had ridden a pale horse, and he had never gone in for that noble knight stuff. But now MacLeod was busy doing another knightly job, fighting an enemy in single combat.
No! Don't do this!
It was too late. Methos splashed through the frigid water, his feet burning with the ache of cold, his sword in his hand. The four torches at the corners of the cage sputtered fitfully in the damp air, while shadows of waves shimmered from the walls to the ceiling and back again, and the water lapped at his legs. Methos rested his hand on the solid pillar of the cage.
Cassandra was waiting, of course, glaring at him from her cage. Silas was waiting, too, holding his axe. "MacLeod's here?" he asked, for once in his life figuring out something on his own.
Methos was still panting slightly from the run. Why did Silas have to pick now to be observant? He tried frantically to think of something to say, some lie, anything to delay what was going to happen, but Silas was already opening the cage. "Yes," he said quietly. Oh, yes.
Methos closed his eyes and listened to Cassandra's shrieks of "No!" as Silas dragged her from the corner of the cage. Methos had heard her say that before, long ago.
"You don't care, do you?" the dream-Alexa had asked him. "I'm nothing to you."
No. Never again. No one was nothing, and he would never stand by and watch again. Now it was time for him to say no. Methos finally opened his eyes, then stepped forward, both hands on the hilt of his sword.
Cassandra was on her hands and knees, struggling futilely against Silas' mighty grip on the back of her shirt. Silas was not looking at Methos; his attention was on Cassandra, and his neck was unprotected. No! He had to give Silas a choice.
Silas raised his axe high, aiming for Cassandra's neck.
Now! Do it! No! YES! The alternative was unthinkable. Methos raised his sword to block the blow, but he could not bear to look. I told you it would be soon enough, my friend, he thought. Forgive me.
"You're challenging me?" Silas asked incredulously. "For the girl's head?" He shrugged and smiled. "Take it," he offered, eager to share. He backed away slightly and lowered his axe, still holding tight to Cassandra's shirt. "She's yours, brother."
Methos swallowed hard, cursing Silas for not being very observant now. Silas was offering him one final chance to avoid this confrontation. All Methos had to do was kill Cassandra, and the others would never know.
No. It could not be. He could not do that. He could not become Death again. Methos placed his sword against Silas' axe, and his words came fiercely. "I am not your brother."
Silas blinked, finally understanding, and his confusion turned to bewildered hurt. "How can you do this?" He cocked his head, and the shadows of the cage painted a stark tartan of black and white across the side of his face. His hurt became the anger of betrayal and loss. "How can you go against what you are?"
Methos glanced once at Cassandra, her eyes steady upon him from where she crouched on the floor of the cage. She was watching, and waiting, and he remembered her words: "I know what you are now." Did she know? Did he?
At least he knew what he was not. He was not a Horseman. He would never become Death again. Never! Methos allowed all the rage and frustration of this last week, these last millennia, to grow within him, to give him strength. Methos had to do what he had often told MacLeod not to do. He must become that damned knight on that damned white horse, that judge, that executioner.
He faced Silas, and saw merely another Immortal, a stranger, an opponent, an enemy. Methos said savagely, "You don't know anything about me!" and struck out at the other man.
Silas' face twisted with rage, and he let go of Cassandra to grasp his axe with both hands. She retreated into the cage, and the axe beat down on the blade.
The brotherhood was broken.
Away from the cage, down the torchlit hall, through empty rooms and echoing bays, the two men fought that deadly dance, cursing, aching, slipping, turning, certain of one thing alone - one of them must die.
Methos was fighting for his life. Or his death. But then, he was Death. Or he had been Death once. He never wanted to become Death again. Remember, man, that thou art death and unto death thou shalt return. No. Never again.
Parry, duck, feint, slice, thrust. Back up! Gods, the strength of this man! Methos took a shuddering gasp for air. His sword was an aching weight welded to his hands, his arms were quivering with exhaustion, his breath was burning in his throat. He couldn't last much longer.
The ground disappeared beneath his feet, and he went backward heavily on the tilted gangplank, grabbing at the handrails to stop his descent and dropping his sword as he fell. The axe was close to his head; Methos ducked off the end of the gangplank and rolled to get to his sword. The axe was still coming. He had to get to his sword.
He was stopped by the sound of his name.
"Methos."
He froze on his knees, caught there defenseless by the bitterness in the voice, and the disbelief in the eyes. Kronos was watching, his sword in his hand. Kronos was there - his son, his student, his brother, his friend. His enemy. The disbelief in the eyes changed to despair, then to hate, and Methos stared back unblinking. Judge not, that ye shall not be judged.
Methos turned his back on Kronos and reached for his sword. The axe was still there, still coming for him, and Methos wanted to live.
The Horsemen were finished. Kronos was nothing to him. Silas was nothing to him. Death was nothing to him. Methos had once been Death, but he was himself now, and he wanted to live. O death, where is thy victory? O death, where is thy sting?
Here, and here, and there! A solid clash of blows, the grunts and pants loud in the chill damp air, and he and his enemy turned with a twist of the sword. The other was behind him now; they were back to back, a classic fighting position for friends and brothers-in-arms, a sudden reversal of position. Of course. Traitor, quisling, Judas, turncoat, Cronus, betrayer, Set ...
Neither could see the other, yet Methos knew, without looking, the exact position of the other Immortal. He knew, from thousands of hours spent in just this position with this same Immortal, exactly where and how the other was standing, how high the neck was, how the right shoulder was held slightly above the left, where the axe would be.
The voice of Kronos screamed in fury, "I am the End of Time!"
It was the end. It was time. Cast a cold eye on life, on death. This was the way it had to be. Had to be, must be. Do it. Do it! DO IT!
Methos swung his sword, and death came.
Horseman, pass by.
For they have sown the wind,
and they shall reap the whirlwind.
Hosea 8:7
The pain went on and on. Methos stood, arms outstretched, sword dangling uselessly from his hand, while the Quickening gouged into his soul and ripped through his body. He stood, trying only to breathe. Air. Just air. A simple breath was all he wanted. He couldn't get it.
The pain slowed, now only licks of fire along his nerves, instead of torrents of excruciating agony. He breathed again, a careful inhalation, but then the pain started again.
Gods! It was going to kill him! It was worse now, all the energy concentrated at a single point in his brain instead of spread throughout his body. He still couldn't breathe, couldn't move, couldn't think. He could only feel.
Kronos, Silas, MacLeod, himself - all combined and melting together, hate and lust and joy and pain, fear and love and loneliness. On and on and on and on. Methos knew he was going to die.
He didn't, but he felt as though he had. Sometime during that blast of energy, he had dropped his sword. Now he dropped to his knees, onto a floor slick with Silas' blood. His brother's head lay only a few feet away.
Methos closed his eyes as the pain took him again. This time, he knew, it would never end. This time, the pain came from inside and there was no escape. He had killed his brother. All of his brothers were dead, and it was all his fault.
"I killed Silas!" he cried out in anguish, rocking back and forth on his hands and on his knees, a child moaning in pain. The moan became a howl of rage and frustration and love. "I liked Silas!"
And Silas was there, right beside him, as he had always been, down through the years. "We ride, Brother?" he asked, eager and excited.
No. Never again. The brotherhood is broken. The hoofbeats will sound no more.
But footsteps came, ringing on the metal walkway, and Cassandra stood above him, pale Tisiphone, robed with all the pomp of horror, dyed in gore. His brother's axe was in her hands. As it should be.
"Now I'm supposed to forgive you?" she cried, a furious shriek, from a shrieking Fury.
No. No forgiveness. None. Ever. My brothers are dead.
"Cassandra!"
MacLeod's voice, coming across the water. MacLeod was alive, and Kronos was dead. My brother is dead.
"You want him to live?" Cassandra asked, incredulous.
No. Let me die.
"Yes," MacLeod answered, the words floating on the air. "I want him to live."
"I want this one, Brother," Silas said, an echo in his mind, a happy smile on his face as he looked at a newborn colt. "Can I keep it?"
Oh, Silas, my brother, my brother, I killed you. You're dead.
"Cassandra!" It was MacLeod again, louder this time. "I want him to live!"
NO! Shut up, MacLeod! I want to die! Should I beg you, Cassandra? I'm already on my knees. Should I beg you for mercy? A single swift stroke, the coup de grace?
Silas was still there, his eyes curious and concerned. "Not like the old days, is it, Brother?"
No. Oh, no.
Cassandra cried out, a single anguished cry, and Methos readied himself for the blow. Kill me, Cassandra. End it now.
But Cassandra dropped the axe and walked away. She left him there alone.
Alone, except for the voices in his mind, and someone weeping far away, empty aching sobs.
"Take it. She's yours, Brother," Silas said, giving him the gift of a newborn filly.
Kronos was there, too. "We never raise a blade against each other. Isn't that right, Methos?"
O my brothers! O my brothers. Silas, Kronos, Caspian. Silas, Kronos, Caspian. All dead. All dead by my hand.
"Methos?"
This voice was outside him; this voice was real. And the hand that touched his shoulder was alive.
"NO!" He scrambled away, scuttled on his hands and his knees, then picked himself up and ran. There was his brother's head, Kronos' head, lying forgotten against the wall.
It wasn't right that it should end this way. It wasn't right. Kronos shouldn't be alone anymore. Not his brother. Not his son. Not him.
He picked up the head and held it, close against his breast, close against his heart. He rocked it like a baby, keening softly all the while.
"Methos," MacLeod said, in gentle tones he did not deserve. "I'll wait for you, at the hotel. Call me." His voice sounded broken. "Please."
Methos did not answer, and MacLeod turned and walked away. He left him there alone.
The head was warm and bloody, the hair still thick and soft. I knew him, Horatio. A man of infinite jest and limited wisdom. Kronos, my son, my brother, my friend.
"I'm glad to be your enemy," Cassandra had said. "At least I know where I stand with you."
Oh, my son, my son. I failed you. I failed. It's all my fault.
The ancient words of lamentation came unbidden to his tongue. Many languages, many years, many tears. The voices in his head continued, while his own voice rode high above them all.
"Mea culpa. Mea culpa, mei filii."
Continued in Chapter 3