Warnings, Hints and Disclaimers : The story is rated "R." Homosexual sex and rape is suggested but not described graphically (except maybe in one brief scene). This story takes place before the flashbacks in "Comes a Horseman" and "Revelation 6:8." Characters by Davis/Panzer, yadda yadda yadda, insert usual disclaimer here.Comments and criticisms are very welcome and can be sent to AdamMethos@aol.com.

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We Share Everything
by Shaz

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They rose over the dune like the early morning sun, but brought darkness instead of light -- death at the points of their swords. Death on horseback.

Their four horses thundered into the settlement, drowning out for a moment the screams of the early risers who first beheld the Horsemen of the Apocalypse. But soon too many voices were shouting. The shrieks, the begging for mercy, the supplications to spare the children -- all clashed with the sound of swords tearing tents apart and knocking over carefully constructed lean-tos.

Eventually, the swords silenced the screamers too.

The sun cast its fire over a still expanse. Nothing moved but the odd strip of cloth, still clinging to its tent pole, fluttering in the wind. Then the wind died, as if the world was holding its breath. And the sun was eclipsed by four silhouettes: War, Famine, Pestilence.

Death.

They brought their own light. Flames licked the air as they hurled their torches.

And the village burned.

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A scream cut through the night. Then laughter. And music.

The young girl moved to the sound of drumbeats, smiling enticingly, hands tracing patterns in the air. She was dancing for her life. She pulled the scarf from her shoulders and leaned over to slide it around the neck of one of the Horsemen. She tried not to look behind him to the corner of the master's tent where the headless body of the previous dancer lay. That one had displeased the master.

The Horseman's blue-painted face broke into grin. Throwing down his tankard of ale, he took her hand and stood, accepting her invitation to the dance. Another young woman picked up the tankard and quickly refilled it for when he returned.

The other Horseman screamed again and pounded the ground, apparently amused by the sight of the blue-faced one dancing.

"Shut up, Caspian!" the master bellowed. "You're making my head hurt."

"Methos is good," Caspian snickered.

"Isn't he." It was a statement, not a question. The master paused mid-sip, his tankard resting against his bottom lip as he watched Methos and the girl swaying together, closer and closer, until their bodies were pressed against each other and their noses were touching. And they were smiling. Then the girl pushed him away with a dramatic wave of her hand and a giggle. Methos clutched his chest in mock-heartbreak and sank to his knees, laughing.

"But the girl," Caspian continued. "I don't like the way her arms move." He unsheathed his sword. Dried blood from the beheaded dancer still encrusted its blade. "I think she would look better with no arms."

"Put it away, Caspian," the master said. "If you kill her, who will dance for us tomorrow?" He stood and clapped his hands twice. "Enough! That's enough for tonight."

The drums stopped immediately. The Horsemen's slaves gathered their musical instruments, picked up the scraps of bone and seeds left over from the evening's meal. An older man carefully wrapped the dead dancer's body in linen and carried her out for burial.

The three Horsemen stood, swords and ax in hand.

"Not you, Methos." The master smiled. "I'm not finished with you."

The other two left the tent without a backward glance.

"You want to go over the plans for tomorrow's raid?" Methos started to draw a diagram on the ground with the tip of his sword.

"No." Stepping behind him, the master took the sword out of his hand and threw it aside. He whispered in Methos' ear, "That's not quite what I had in mind." His breath stank of stale ale.

"You're drunk, Kronos," Methos hissed.

"So?" Kronos laughed.

Suddenly, impossibly fast for one so inebriated, he grabbed Methos about the waist with one hand and pressed the blade of a knife to his throat with the other. "I want you, Methos." He loosened Methos' pants.

Methos squeezed his eyes shut and held his breath as he felt Kronos' sweaty hand roaming over his genitals. "Don't do this," he whispered hoarsely.

"Or what?" Taking the knife away, Kronos pushed Methos to his knees, then onto his stomach. "What will you do, hm?" He kicked Methos' legs apart and knelt between them.

"No." Methos twisted his body to the side then froze as Kronos pressed the blade of Methos' sword against the back of his neck.

"You have a choice to make, brother. I'll either have your body -" Kronos chuckled. "-- or I'll have your head."

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The Four Horsemen rode into to camp pulling trains of cattle, horses and people behind them. Those who couldn't keep up had fallen and were dragged by the horses. Some had died along the way, their heads hitting a rock as the Horsemen rode through particularly rough terrain. Or they had swallowed too much sand and choked to death. Those ones entered the Horsemen's camp as battered and bruised corpses.

The Horsemen's slaves were lined up in two rows on either side of the trains. As soon as the horses halted, they came forward, unhooking the trains, taking the animals to where the other livestock was held, leading the survivors to a nearby river to wash up, and dragging the dead to a large open grave downwind from the encampment.

Kronos rode through the camp, surveying all the activity with a proud smile. The smile soon turned to a sneer. He held up his hand to halt the other three Horsemen behind him.

"Someone is missing." He looked over to the horse corral. "And a horse is gone."

"No." One of the male slaves shook his head. "No, you must be mistaken."

"Don't lie to me." Kronos unsheathed his sword and shoved it into the man's abdomen until the point burst through his back. "I do so hate dishonesty. Brothers!" he called. "It seems we shall have more sport today!"

The Horsemen circled the camp until they found fresh hoofprints on the far side. Then with shouts they pulled their death masks over their faces, raised their swords and ax in the air, and charged into the desert again.

They came back hours after the sun had set. With them was the missing horse. The runaway slave was tied up and thrown over the horse's back but he was... alive. The slaves began to whisper among themselves as the Horsemen dismounted. A man approached the runaway and began to untie him.

"No," Kronos said. "Silas has other plans for that one."

The ax-wielding Horseman grabbed the runaway by the hair and dragged him off the horse.

Caspian licked his lips. "Can I help?"

"No! He's mine!"

Kronos glared at them both.

"Well," Silas relented, "I want his head. I like the shape."

"I'll have his arms and legs then." Caspian drew his sword. "Would you like his heart, Methos?"

The slave began to scream.

Methos turned away from the scene.

Kronos laughed. "Let them have their fun. I'll see you in my tent." He took the horses' reins and led them off.

Silas looked up from his handiwork -- with his ax, he had delicately cut the slave's skin along the eyebrows and peeled it away from the skull -- to see Methos gazing after Kronos. But Kronos was already out of sight; only darkness remained.

"Something wrong, brother?" Silas asked.

Methos tore his gaze away from the night and stared at Silas. "No." He turned and headed for Kronos' tent.

When Kronos returned, he found Methos standing in the middle of the tent. Kronos' mouth curled up in a smile. "What are you still on your feet for? You know what I want." He reached for his sword but didn't draw it. Instead, his hand caressed the pommel. "I'm not drunk tonight, Methos."

Methos looked down, jaw clenched, and slowly began to strip.

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Methos threw his dagger into a post then got up to retrieve it. Silas looked up from the rock where he was sitting, sharpening his ax. Methos returned and dropped cross-legged beside Silas, staring down at the dagger's blade as if willing it to bend.

"You're thinking again." Silas smiled. "Planning our next raid?" Methos didn't say anything.

After a long pause, Silas continued more tentatively. "How's Kronos treating you?"

Methos gazed into the distance. He saw the young dancer from the other night carrying buckets of oat to feed the horses. His eyes narrowed in concentration and he flicked his wrist.

The dagger sailed through the air and lodged itself between the girl's breasts. The girl gasped once, eyes wide. She turned her head to see where the knife had come from but her body was already sinking to the ground. The buckets spilled their contents onto the dry earth.

Methos got up again and approached the body. Its eyes were still wide and staring, but lifeless now. He put is foot on the girl's stomach, then bent down and yanked the dagger from her ribcage.

"You!" He gestured to another slave, an older woman who was laying clothing out to dry on some rocks. "Take this away." He headed back towards Silas, paused, then called over his shoulder. "And feed the horses."

"You're lucky, you know," Silas said when Methos returned to his cross-legged position beside him.

"And why is that, Silas?" Methos dug the tip of the dagger into the ground and flicked the dirt with it.

"You -- you're pretty. You'll always find favor with men and women. Me --" Silas gave a deep-throated laugh and pounded his fist against his chest. "I will never attract women -- or men."

Methos stopped flicking dirt. "That's not true." He put down the dagger then rose to his knees so he was face to face with Silas. He placed his hand tentatively against Silas' cheek, staring into his gray eyes. "I like you, Silas," Methos whispered. He closed his eyes and leaned in towards Silas.

"No, Methos." Silas pushed him back gently. "I don't want to do that. I would rather do this!" Tossing away his ax, Silas grabbed Methos in a bear hug and threw him over his shoulder.

"Silas!" Methos screamed, pounding his back to no avail. The huge man got up, carried Methos to the river, then dumped him head-first into it. Methos surfaced, coughing and sputtering, the blue paint on his face almost washed off.

Silas stripped down to his loincloth then jumped in with a roar. The huge splash he made washed the rest of the blue paint away.

"I'll get you for that." Methos slapped his hand against the water.

"You call that a splash?" Silas chortled. "That's no splash. This is a splash." He brought both his hands down on the water.

Methos screamed again, but this time it dissolved into giggles as they tried to see who could churn up the most water.

In the distance, the old woman was careful not to spill any oats as she carried buckets to feed the horses.

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The impossible was happening.

The Horsemen were fleeing.

Behind them was a small army of villagers on horseback, armed with swords, sticks, rocks, whatever they could use as a weapon. They had known the Horsemen were coming. Several settlements had banded together and overwhelmed the Horsemen by sheer force of numbers.

They killed Kronos' horse.

Now Kronos rode with Methos, and the three horses fled with their battered and bloodied riders.

The Horsemen's retreat only spurred the mortals on more. Kronos yelled as a dagger lodged itself into his back. He slid off Methos' horse. Methos reined to a halt and jumped off his horse, drawing his sword.

Caspian and Silas slowed down, but Methos waved them away. "Go on! Get out of here!"

The lead villager drew his horse up beside Methos. He raised his sword in the air. "And now you die," he sneered, "Horseman."

"Don't make promises you can't keep." Methos ducked as the sword arced over his head and spun, slicing through the horse's left legs with a backhanded swing. The man screamed as his horse sank to the ground and he found himself falling into Methos' embrace.

Methos grabbed him about the waist and held his sword to the man's throat. The other villagers froze, unsure of what to do.

Methos smiled behind his skull-mask. "Let me and my friend go, and your friend lives. Make one move towards me and he dies."

"Your friend is already dead," another villager, a young man, called out.

Methos glanced over to where Kronos' body lay unmoving in the sand. "That's of no concern to you."

As if to refute the young man, Kronos began to stir. He moaned and lifted his head. With audible gasps the villagers began to back away, several of them making signs to obscure deities in the air.

"Welcome back, brother. Get on the horse."

Groggily, Kronos obeyed. Methos backed up towards his horse, dragging the hostage with him. When he reached the horse, he kicked the man's legs out from under him and shoved him face down into the sand. "Next time," he hissed, then jumped on his horse. He and Kronos rode off without looking back.

"You should have killed him," Kronos sneered. "Are you getting soft, Methos?"

"You fool! If I killed him, do you think they would have stopped chasing us?"

They rode in stony silence back to camp.

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By the time they got back to camp Kronos had fully recovered and was seething. Cursing, he strode about the camp, tearing down a tent, knocking over lean-tos, hacking his sword into posts, cows, and a hapless slave who didn't get the warning from the others to stay out of view. Methos, Silas and Caspian stood silently to one side, watching Kronos work through his rage.

Eventually Kronos made his way back to his companions. He stopped in front of Methos.

"I'll see you in my tent." He turned and walked towards his tent.

Methos looked at Silas.

"Be strong, brother," Silas rumbled. He slapped Methos on the back then headed for his own tent.

Methos gripped his sword tightly and stared at Kronos' retreating back. "No!" he shouted. "I am not going to your tent."

Caspian laughed like a hyena. Silas only stared, eyes wide and jaw clamped shut.

Kronos froze then turned around slowly. "What was that you said?" His voice was too calm, too pleasant.

"I -- am -- not -- going." Methos spoke haltingly, as if he had to force the words out.

Kronos marched towards him.

Methos raised his sword, pointing it at Kronos. He was already breathing hard, though he hadn't moved from his spot.

Kronos laughed. "You're challenging me?" He drew his sword. Then his voice grew deadly. "If this is a joke, it's not funny -- Methos." He made the name sound like a curse.

"Do I look like I'm laughing?" Methos swung at Kronos, but Kronos easily parried. Their swords clashed with sparks.

Kronos grinned. "You'll have to do better than that."

Swinging his sword like a pendulum in front of him, Kronos launched a fast and furious attack. Methos blocked each thrust and jab but started to back away from the force of Kronos' blows. Kronos shouted -- in pleasure or anger, it was hard to tell which -- and shoved his sword forward. Methos knocked the blade aside with his own, and drew his dagger but Kronos grabbed his wrist before the dagger could find its target.

"Now that's cheating." Kronos squeezed his wrist until Methos felt the bones fracturing. He cried out in pain as the dagger slid from his grip.

Kronos pushed him to his knees and pressed his sword against the back of Methos' neck. "I should take your head and make an example of you."

Head bowed, Methos dropped his sword and squeezed his eyes shut.

"But I don't want your head." Kronos kicked the sword out of reach then bent over and whispered in Methos' ear, "I want your body." He took his blade away for a moment to drag Methos to his feet then brought it back to his throat. He leaned in to Methos' other ear. "And I want your soul."

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Kronos spared nothing. He took Methos with all the force he would have used on the villagers, had it been within his power. Afterwards Methos lay curled up on the ground, hugging his arms to his chest, sobbing.

Kronos stood, pulled on his breeches. He gazed down at Methos impassively. "You have gone soft."

Methos stared up at Kronos, blinking back tears. He heard the tent flap rustle and looked to see Caspian entering. He looked back at Kronos questioningly but Kronos' face was unreadable.

Caspian, on the other hand, had a maniacal gleam in his eyes. He grinned, pulling a long-bladed knife from his boot. "We share everything!" he bellowed.

"No," Methos whispered, shaking his head. "Kronos, no."

He scrambled to get up but Caspian kicked him in the back, knocking him onto his stomach again. Methos felt the cold blade of the knife tracing a path between his buttocks.

"Kronos..."

And then Caspian stabbed him.

Methos screamed.

Caspian twisted the knife.

And kept screaming as he felt his life draining away with his blood.

And Kronos watched, arms crossed, expressionless, the firelight casting flickering light and shadows across his face.

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Methos awoke in excruciating pain. He was still lying face-down in the dirt. The weight of Caspian's body still pressed into him, moving against him.

Kronos hadn't budged either. He still gazed on impassively.

Methos cried. "Kronos. Please. Help me."

Finally, Kronos moved. He strolled over to Methos, knelt down beside his head. He lifted Methos' chin off the ground and stared into his eyes.

"Caspian likes you better when you're dead." He let Methos' head drop again then strolled out of the tent without looking back, whistling.

Methos screamed.

"KRONOS!"

"SILAS!"

But it only turned Caspian on more and he howled like a mad animal, and rode Methos harder.

Outside the slaves huddled together. None slept, yet none spoke. Some of the younger ones cried softly into their bedding.

Silas lay in his tent, staring at the roof, counting to ten over and over.

The screams carried on long into the night.

It was as if the gates of hell had opened, and the demons within were escaping.

At dawn Caspian emerged from the tent, his face and arms and clothing covered in blood, king of the demons himself.

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Everything changed after that.

Methos had no tent of his own, no belongings of his own. Instead, whenever the Horsemen weren't out on raids, he was sent to Kronos' tent to wait for him.

And every night Kronos came, to claim Methos' body -- and his soul. And after he was through, Methos was dismissed to Caspian's tent to spend the rest of the night.

Sometimes, when Kronos or Caspian wasn't in the mood, Methos was sent to Silas. He would envelop Methos in his big bear hug and just hold him for hours, neither of them speaking a word.

The Horsemen moved camp several times over the years. Slaves died, and new ones were taken.

Eventually the visits to Caspian became less frequent, and Caspian started dismissing Methos before the night was through. Maybe he grew bored, or he ran out of different ways to kill Methos. Or both.

Methos saw Silas less often too. Instead, Kronos would always be there, lying beside Methos, holding him in his arms all night.

It wasn't all good. After a particularly bad raid -- when the village was suffering from drought and famine and the people were already dead or dying, making it no sport to kill them -- Kronos was in a foul mood for days, and inevitably took it out on Methos.

But Methos just endured, and planned more raids, and waited for the Horsemen's fortunes to change.

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One evening Kronos entered their tent, a gleam in his eye.

"Guess where we are."

Methos stopped sharpening Kronos' sword and looked up. He shrugged and shook his head. Kronos crouched in front of him.

"The village that drove us away."

Methos stared at him. "That was over a hundred years ago, Kronos. No one there will even remember us."

"Yes!" Kronos threw his arms out. "So they will never expect us! You must come with us when we scout tomorrow." Kronos clenched his hand into a fist. "I want that village, Methos."

Methos smiled. "Ask and it shall be yours."

He suddenly swung Kronos' sword, barely missing Kronos' neck. Instead he brought the sword down on a bowl of fruit, cutting it in half. He picked up a piece of apple and offered it to Kronos. "It's ripe."

Kronos laughed and took the fruit. He reached over and tweaked Methos' nose.

"You are one of a kind, Methos."

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The village had grown in the past hundred years, and prospered. But it was a farming community and had no defenses. The Horsemen wiped out over half of its inhabitants before they managed to mount any sort of resistance. And what a pitiful resistance it was. The remaining villagers holed themselves up in a large storage hut and tossed rocks whenever any of the Horsemen got too close.

Kronos was unperturbed. Astride their mounts, the Horsemen lined up in a row outside of the storage hut, torches in hand.

Kronos nodded to Methos. "You may light the first fire, brother."

Methos rode forward then stopped suddenly as a wave of vague nausea overcame him -- the sensation of another immortal nearby. But it was so faint, it had to be one who wasn't immortal yet. He looked back at Kronos.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Kronos called out.

Turning back, Methos raised his hand to throw the torch.

"Stop!" The door to the hut opened and an old man came out, his hands in the air, shaking. "Please, take what you want but please, spare us."

Kronos came forward. Methos saw him pause a moment as he too felt the other one.

"Tell the rest to come outside," Kronos ordered.

The old man looked behind him into the hut and nodded. He stepped aside and slowly the other villagers trudged out in single file. There were fifty-seven men, women and children in all. Fifty had already emerged when they saw her.

She couldn't have been more than sixteen, with long dark-brown hair and a face yet unmarked by years, though her hands were already callused from long days working the fields.

"You." Kronos pointed his sword at her. "Come over here."

Trembling and wide-eyed, the girl came forward and took her place beside Kronos' horse. Kronos looked back at the row of villagers. Methos could hear the smile in his voice behind his death-mask.

"Now burn them. Burn them all."

The villagers scattered in a panic. With shouts, the Four Horsemen charged forward, fiery demons with torches held high and cloaks billowing. One by one they set the villagers ablaze.

Their bodies erupting in flames, the mortals blindly stumbled in circles and over each other, around and around yet going nowhere. Sacrifices to Kronos' black will.

In the midst of the chaos, the young girl stood and wailed until Caspian ran her through with his sword and put her out of her misery.

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That evening, the Horsemen celebrated their taking of the village. There was a full moon out and the slaves erected a huge spit outside where they roasted ten of the pigs taken from the village. There was much food and ale and music and laughter. And, amazingly enough, no more deaths. It seemed even Caspian had his fill of killing that day.

Methos left the festivities early and walked down to the river. Shedding his armor, he waded into the cold water until it was chest-high then spread his arms wide and lifted his head to the stars. The shock of the cold and the caress of the current coursing over every part of his body felt almost like a quickening, and he stood like that several minutes just enjoying the rush.

Finally, after his body had acclimated and he no longer felt the cold, he dipped his head in the river to wash off the face paint and climbed out. The revelry was still going on. It looked like the girl they found that day was the newest dancer. Methos watched her for a moment, silhouetted against the huge spit fire, gyrating awkwardly for the amusement of Kronos, Caspian and Silas, then he gathered his clothes and headed for the tent he and Kronos shared.

It was much warmer inside, thanks to the torches the slaves had lit and liberally spread throughout the tent. Methos slipped into a loincloth then lay down in the animal fur they used for bedding. He rolled onto his side, his hands clasped under his cheek as if in prayer, and watched the entrance to the tent. And gradually fell asleep.

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Methos woke with a start, though he didn't know what had awakened him. Most of the torches had burnt out. The music and laughter had died down and the camp was still except for the sound of night animals scurrying about. He reached into the space next to him, but Kronos wasn't there.

Cloaking himself in the fur bedding, he left the tent. The fire in the spit was just ash now. By moonlight, he saw the outline of a body lying by the spit. "I suppose Caspian couldn't restrain himself after all," he murmured. He crossed the clearing in the center of the camp towards the body. As he approached, he sensed the pull of another immortal nearby, and saw the body move, then make a noise.

Snore.

"Silas?"

Silas sat up quickly, grabbing the ax that was lying next to him. His shoulders sagged when he saw his friend.

"Methos, you're awake," he rumbled groggily.

"What are you doing out here?" Methos looked over at Silas' tent and then noticed that it was lit from within. Shadows moved upon the tent walls. Wrapping the fur tighter about himself, Methos started for Silas' tent.

"Methos, don't!" Silas scrambled up, but Methos swung around and cast a glare at him that stopped him in his tracks.

Reaching the tent, Methos could now hear murmurs and giggles. He paused to steel himself then lifted the flap.

Inside lay Kronos and the young immortal, naked, their bodies still flushed and wet from lovemaking. Kronos looked up, annoyed at the intrusion.

"Go away, Methos. Can't you see I'm busy?"

Methos let go of the tent flap and turned away, squeezing his eyes shut as if that would erase the image in his mind.

"Who's that?" he heard the girl giggle.

"Just the camp whore," Kronos replied.

Methos opened his eyes to see Silas still standing forlornly by the spit. He made a few faltering steps towards Silas then threw off the fur and ran back to Kronos' tent, dropping to his knees once he was inside.

Looking around, he grabbed Kronos' dagger from where it lay next to a fruit bowl and raised it above his head, but there were no slaves or small animals in sight. Instead, Methos swung his arm in a high arc, as if it was a sword he held, and drove the dagger into the ground until half the hilt was buried.

He screamed into the night.

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The next day Kronos decided that Methos could have his own tent again.

The next time the Horsemen celebrated a successful raid, they found a new dancer because the young immortal would only be dancing for Kronos now.

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Methos sat on the ground outside his tent, watching the sun rise over the dunes. The dawn sky bathed the camp in a warm red glow. Everyone was still asleep. Almost everyone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw movement from Kronos' tent. The young immortal emerged and dashed in a half-run half-skip to the river. There she shed her tunic and dived into the water. She came up for air and ducked back under several times. Finally she raised her hands above her head in a lazy stretch and stepped out onto the riverbank.

She picked up her tunic then noticed Methos watching her. Dropping it, she sauntered towards him, unashamed of her nakedness. She stopped directly in front of him and looked down, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Do you like what you see?"

Methos let his gaze wander down her body then looked away to the side.

The girl's smile turned to a frown. "Answer me when I speak to you!" She kicked sand in his face.

Methos jumped up with his sword and shoved its blade against the girl's neck. The girl stared at him wide-eyed. Then she began to laugh. She stepped back from the blade.

"You can't kill me! I'm immortal!" She spread her arms in the air. "Kronos says I'm going to live forever!" She twirled around giddily.

Methos cocked his head to the side. "I think there's one thing Kronos neglected to mention." He raised his sword and with one smooth, diagonal cut, separated her head from her shoulders.

Methos backed away from the body as he felt the air begin to sizzle and pop. Torches that were burnt out flared to life all over the camp. The animals got restless -- horses whinnied, cows uttered low moans, pigs began running in circles in their pen.

There wasn't a cloud in the sky, yet the lightning came. The first bolt blew up the spit in the center of the camp. The next exploded in the river, raising steam and raining droplets all about.

The third struck Methos in the chest, knocking him backwards, but somehow he managed to stay on his feet, spreading his arms and lifting his head to the sky to call down more lightning. And the bolts came, racking his body over and over until it was no longer able to feel pain, but interpreted the sensations as pleasure instead, the pleasure he was forced to give Kronos all those years, the pleasure that he was denied for over a century, coursed through every nerve in his body, burning them out, until he felt himself falling into

Black.

Methos opened his eyes. And looked into a blue sky. He was lying on his back. Panting. He was dimly aware of Silas and Caspian and Kronos running towards him, then halting as he rolled over and slowly raised himself onto his elbows, then hands, then hands and knees, then shakily, using his sword for support, he stood.

Kronos took a step forward. And screamed.

"METHOS!"

Methos stared at him a long time. Swallowed. Blinked. Then croaked, "I did you a favor. You were growing too attached -- brother."

He turned and staggered to his tent, dragging his sword in the sand, feeling Kronos' malevolent glare at his back the whole way.

 

 

The end

 

 

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