This is the way Comes a Horseman and Revelations 6: 8 would have turned

out if we'd been writing for P/D and Rysher. The names remain the same,

but that's about it. Any similarity to the actual scripts is purely

coincidental. Beware! This story contains angst, same gender sex, angst,

violence -- oh, and did we mention angst? This is not for the weak at

heart.

And in case you didn't get the message the first time: WARNING: Rated

ADULT NC-17!!

Here Be Extreme Violence, and we ain't just talkin' beheadings!!

************

EDGE OF DARKNESS
by Meghan Black & Maygra de Rhema

(and M&M Productions; melts down your keyboard, but not your hand)

© 1997

************

SEACOUVER, USA

Methos cursed the heavy traffic that prevented him from getting to

Duncan. He had to protect him; he had to gain protection from him.

Finally, veering off onto a side street, the Immortal was able to get to

the dojo from a back way. He rushed through the doors, then around the

corner into the gym, letting the comforting presence of his lover wash

over him -- calm him.

"Methos, are you all right?" MacLeod rushed out of his office and Methos

felt the familiar hands on his arms and wanted to sink into their warmth

and security. Taking hold of himself, he started to explain when the

question hit him.

"Have you ever heard of an Immortal named Kronos?"

"Kronos?" [Oh shit!] Methos opened his mouth to say the words that would

either bind Duncan closer to him or turn him away forever. He'd thought

to keep his past, or at least most of it, from his lover, but the fates

would not be denied. He would lay his soul bare and let the Scotsman

determine their destiny from this day forward.

But, before he could utter the first syllable, the sense of another

slammed into him. They were close in this building. He looked to Duncan

questioningly. The lift gate rose and another ghost from his past

approached the pair.

"You!" She raised her sword, eyes wide with fear, hatred and memory.

"What's she doing here?" The question was out before he could regain

control of his surprise. He put Duncan, the common denominator between

master and slave, between himself and the witch -- his one-time captive.

With his eyes, Methos appealed to MacLeod. Then aloud, "Duncan, keep her

away from me. She's crazy!"

And to the woman, "You don't know me." Could he bluff his way out of

this one so easily? He doubted it. So close -- he was so close to being

free from his haunted past.

"Do you think I could ever forget your face?"

Methos now pleaded openly with the other Immortal man. "Duncan, don't

believe her. I need to talk to you, alone."

Cassandra wouldn't give up, however, and before he realized what was

happening, Methos was fleeing the dojo while the man he loved held onto

a woman who would see him dead. The scene played out so quickly, he

could not later remember when he'd lost control, letting Duncan force

him to leave rather than face his ghosts and defeat them forever. One

thing was sure. [If I ever face her again, that bitch won't have another

chance to ruin my happiness.]

Wearily he tried to decide his next course of action. Did he stay and

fight Kronos, re-join his brother or return to MacLeod? Mere hours ago

his life held some semblance of normalcy. Two lovers returning home,

hand in hand and then they'd sensed that other one: Kronos or Cassandra,

it mattered not now. At that instant the momentary bliss was wrenched

from him just as Kronos had wrenched the knife from his chest less than

three hours ago. The Immortal dragged his feet through the water puddles

of the wet streets, knowing he had not the strength to fight Kronos

again. At one time he'd fought him the only way he could and won, but he

doubted it could be done again. Besides, why should he? This lifetime

was over and a new one was reaching out, beckoning like hands from the

grave.

He feared that MacLeod would believe the woman, Cassandra. He knew the

Scotsman well and that knowledge included the realization that the

Highlander's world had yet to embrace all the lovely shades of gray

Methos had discovered over the course of 5000 years. And Kronos? [How

can I battle an enemy who knows all my weaknesses and can play me like a

fine instrument?] Methos shuddered as he recalled how he and Kronos had

lived for hundreds of years -- brothers, warriors, lovers, tormentor and

tormented.

With a sigh of resignation, he headed back to the other's abode. He must

never let Kronos know what MacLeod meant to him. He'd hide the depth of

his love until his last dying breath. Then Methos realized that if he

didn't play to Kronos' liking, that prophecy would come true sooner than

he'd like. For as much as defeat offered release, the Immortal realized

that he was not yet ready to end his life. So, he made his decision.

He'd dance with Kronos for now. He'd let him think the Horsemen would

ride again. Just as he'd convinced his Brother of his loyalty once

before, he could do it again. And this time he had the experience of

several thousand years under his belt to call upon.

Yes, he could do it. Not for such a noble cause as saving mankind, the

earth or some misguided sense of good vs. evil. He would do it for

himself and the Scotsman, the noblest cause of all.

**********

It took mere moments to wipe out millennia of ingrained humanity. He

shrugged out of his civility as he would the Trench that was a staple of

his wardrobe. The one that sometimes hid the sword he'd become lazy

about carrying lately. [Never again.] Methos thought grimly. The blade

now settled reassuringly against his thigh as he put the last finishing

touches on his new persona. What remained when he entered the old power

plant to meet Kronos was a replica of Death, one of the Four Horsemen

and a force to be reckoned with.

He was prepared and accepted what would be required of him. Methos knew

of only one way to stop Kronos. Against him, the ancient Immortal knew

he could not win -- but with him and by his side, there might be a

chance. It was what Kronos expected of those who were *with* him that

made him shiver now in the stifling warmth of the abandoned building.

Already Methos could feel his Brother's hands and mouth possessing him

and he hardened his soul as he approached the man intently studying

something on a computer screen in the far corner of the room.

***************

They spoke of power, death, and the thrill of the chase. Methos could

feel his breath coming harder as Kronos talked of their omnipotence. The

ease with which it all came flooding back frightened him.

"You were one of a kind, Methos, as were we all." Kronos cast him a coy

look before turning back toward the blue light of the computer monitor.

He continued to speak, offering Methos his back, testing the depth of

his loyalty.

Yes, the man at the desk would know and require some evidence of the old

Methos before trust could be established. Defiance perhaps, a bit of

devious backstabbing, the barest room for doubt, he could not disappoint

his Brother. Sliding the blade stealthily from his coat, his foot halted

in mid-step at the slight rustle of heavy cloth. They continued the

verbal banter as Kronos made as if he were intently watching the screen

while Methos' hazel eyes narrowed in concentration. The blade rose above

his head as he approached the Horseman's back, knowing that he but

continued a game begun over three thousand years ago.

His arm descended and was blocked by two strong hands. They grasped his

wrist and held a knife to his throat simultaneously. Methos caressed the

blade with his neck, rubbing against the sharp edge like a purring cat.

He then backed away from Kronos, letting the metal slide through several

layers of skin. It was a formidable and erotic sight that met Kronos'

eyes when they finally stood, several feet apart, facing each other.

Methos' chest heaving with a combination of adrenaline, fear, excitement

and memories, the last he tried desperately to put away -- and his

thick, red blood trickling from the slice on his neck to disappear under

his collar. Yes, the man who faced Kronos now was closer to his Brother

than anything he'd seen since their first reacquaintance yesterday.

Closer than Methos knew.

The sword skittered to the floor as Kronos pursued him across the

catwalk. Methos remained planted in the same spot until he finally felt

the warm breath of his brother against his face, while the hard-muscled

chest pressed him backwards. His body's reaction was immediate. Heart

sped to a rate equivalent to the rush he hadn't felt in 3000 years. Skin

flushed hot as the desert sands on which he'd spent so many nights in

those arms. Green-brown eyes met steel gray and neither could look away.

"Don't you want to feel it again? Holding the fate of others in the palm

of your hand? Don't tell me you didn't miss it, Brother -- that you

didn't miss *us*." [Miss the power, the passion or both? It hardly

mattered anymore.]

Yes, the power. It all had to do with power. Methos inhaled deeply,

smelling the fear of those who would oppose him. The memories brought a

rush of sensation, not the least of which he now felt between his legs.

It did not go unnoticed by Kronos either who even now pressed his thigh

hard against Methos' crotch.

"I knew I could count on you. I knew it in the beginning and I knew it

yesterday. All my planning and scheming over the years could not replace

your genius. That's what I've missed -- among other things." Methos'

eyes dropped to the cruel mouth forming into a welcoming smile. He'd

passed the first test and it was time for his reward.

"So you still want me?" Methos let just the slightest hint of longing

edge his voice and found it not as difficult as he'd expected.

"Not want -- need." Good. Even better. Kronos needing was much easier to

manipulate than Kronos wanting.

"As I recall, you never admitted to needing anything -- well except for

maybe one thing." He let the meaning of his words dangle enticingly

before Kronos. [Might as well raise the curtain. It's showtime.]

Methos let his hand slide down the length of Kronos' side and hips, then

slid around to grasp the jean-covered ass and pull it against him. He

could feel the thickened cock resting against his thigh and smiled back.

Still their eyes never wavered. Kronos' face was inches from his own and

Methos' control slipped a notch as he closed the gap, lightly touching

the thin lips to his own. Kronos opened his mouth to receive the

offering, then pulled back, inhaled deeply and whispered against the

sensuous mouth.

"You smell the same, Methos."

The dark head bent to its task and prevented further verbal

communication from his Brother, but the simple remark pleased him

immensely and he wasn't sure why. He deepened the kiss, plunging his

tongue farther back into Kronos' mouth, roaming across teeth, soft

tissue and muscle.

"And you taste the same." Kronos could remain still no longer. He

grabbed the hand which still rested against his thigh and moved it

around, pressing Methos' palm into his crotch, then catching his breath

when his Brother took over and began massaging him through the thick

denim. Methos knew there would be more talking, more testing to be done.

For now he would give Kronos what he wanted, while reaffirming his own

survival -- at whatever the cost. And was it so high a price that he

begrudged this show of solidarity? No, he thought not.

"Yes, you need me, Kronos. Don't forget it -- " Methos' next words were

cut off by the hardness of Kronos' mouth and the next sound echoing off

the walls of old plant was the metallic slide of a zipper and Methos'

gasp of pain and surprise, followed immediately by a sigh of surrender.

As Kronos wrapped his fingers around Methos his body was already

responding to the aggressive treatment he'd always associated with his

captain. His will might shy away from the memory of long nights making

love to the insatiable Kronos, but his body remembered and pleaded far

more.

"You always did like it rough, brother," Kronos ground through clenched

teeth against Methos' ear. His free hand descended and he shoved the

other man's pants down, allowing the now fully hardened cock to dance

free of its confinement. Methos could not suppress his low moan as the

stroking, biting, sucking and scratching triggered a 3000-year-old

nostalgia reminiscent of a time when Kronos could arouse him with a

glance.

By mutual consent, the two men lowered themselves to the cold cement

floor, but neither noticed any discomfort. Other, more urgent sensations

required attention. Once they'd managed to get rid of their restrictive

clothing, Kronos made as if to please his brother, trailing a fiery path

of kisses and little nibbles across the flushed skin as he pressed him

back against the floor. That should have been Methos' first clue. Kronos

never kissed tenderly or bit lightly. The automatic reaction of his body

had resulted in a position of pure vulnerability. Knees slightly bent,

his thighs had widened as far as possible, allowing full access to every

part of his body. And Kronos took full advantage of it.

Before Methos could raise a cry or hand to stop him, Kronos had grabbed

the sensitive sac between his legs and now held his balls just tight

enough to get his full attention.

"That's. Not. Necessary," Methos gasped through the veil of pain that

had descended like a thick fog. He knew better than to move even a

fraction of an inch.

"It wouldn't be any fun if it was necessary, now would it?" Kronos

returned conversationally. "Just wanted to bring back some of the old

fire, you understand," he said by way of explanation. Methos didn't

argue, but rolled with the mood of dominant and submissive.

Once Kronos saw that he wouldn't have to fight Methos, he seemed to lose

some interest in the game and continued more of the slow seduction. His

palms rolled across the nipples he'd most recently suckled, feeling the

hard little nubs reaching out further for the rough stimulation. Methos

found his body's deception almost amusing in the far reaches of his

brain that still functioned. How ironic that he'd willingly walked into

Kronos' arms solely to thwart the madman's plans, only to find himself

betrayed by the memories of his own body.

Hips lifted up upward Kronos, searching out his touch. And while the

Horseman leader obliged the silent plea with his mouth, licking and

biting the distended cock, his hand reached around for Methos' sword

lying beside them. Kronos' needs had ever been simple -- but not always

pleasant. He held the leather bound hilt up to Methos for his

inspection.

"Remember this, little brother?" Through the haze of desire Methos

focused on the object held aloft. His pupils dilated with remembered

horrors, followed quickly by a renewed pounding in his groin as the

blood pumped fast and furious through his cock. The muscles of his ass

clenched instinctively as Kronos threw his weight across the suddenly

taut body and smiled at the groan accompanying the press of steel and

leather against flesh.

********

Kronos ran his nail along the bare chest, stopping to play around the

teeth marks still healing at juncture of shoulder and neck. "So you'll

kill MacLeod?" It wasn't really a question.

Methos shifted slightly on the hard floor, searching for some position

that would ease the deep ache in his body. Kronos' idea of lovemaking

had not changed, unless you call an enhanced imagination, honed over

centuries of torture, change. But this time it had not been pure

submission. The man now following the line of scratches and bites across

his torso also carried the marks of Methos' knowledge of pleasure and

pain, most of which had been learned at his lover's hands. Lover. How

quickly that term had altered its meaning to him. Last week his lover

had been gentle, caring, sensitive -- his other half. Today his lover

was dominant, controlling and demanding the kind of surrender only

Methos could offer and survive.

Turning onto his side and resting the angular chin in a hand propped up

on his elbow, Methos thought about his next words, the answer to Kronos'

question. The glint of cold metal caught his eye and he realized that at

this very moment he had the opportunity to snatch the sword up from the

floor where it lay inches from his free hand, the opportunity to end

this madness forever. Then he saw the fresh blood staining the leather

of the grip, darkened streaks blending with older, more faded marks,

centuries forgotten, yet always there, lurking in the pits of ancient

memory... Another toy used by Kronos to show how many he "cared". How

could he have forgotten Kronos' penchant for inanimate objects? Methos'

sword had always been one of his favorites and was now the cause of a

lingering burn between his long, muscular legs. And he'd let him. [I

could have stopped him. I'm not his soulless, do-anything-for survival

slave any longer, playing games by his rules. I have everything it takes

to halt this seduction at any point. But I didn't. And I won't take his

head now, either. We'll play *my* game this time.]

Methos raised a curved finger and traced the scar that marked Kronos'

face. "Yes, I'll kill him for *you*." Was there ever any question what

the answer would be? He'd have sworn anything to get the chance to save

his Scotsman and avenge the past. Even if he and Duncan were never to be

again, he could not leave him to the wolves.

By his own will, he'd stripped away the facade of humanity, layer by

excruciatingly won layer; it was what Kronos had wanted and what he'd

need to see this through. The illusion of hunger -- the hunger for

domination, love and acceptance, had served him well in the past. Kronos

had enjoyed making him starve for it once, but Methos had finally had

his fill and it was his turn to tempt another with the tasty morsels and

juicy bits of power that he knew his Brother could not resist. [But will

I succumb to its call as well?]

He pushed Kronos back onto the floor, holding firm when the other would

have squirmed back up. "No. It's my turn now." Something in the murky

depths of those ever changing eyes must have relayed the message that he

would not be denied, for his Brother acquiesced and lay back, cradling

his head in a bent arm. Kronos was murmuring something about it possibly

being even better this time around as Methos lowered his head to the

rough mass of curls between Kronos' legs.

Methos began with a hard bite into the soft indentation where hip met

thigh. The Immortal beneath him screamed his surprise and tried to buck

free, but strong fingers dug into his ass, holding him still against the

dark head. "Not this time, Kronos. Don't fight me."

Kronos decided to let Methos have his way this time. He was curious as

to what his Brother had learned over the centuries and it never hurt to

let the submissive play master. It sometimes helped put them in the

right frame of mind later. Grinning his acceptance and pleasure at the

new arrangement, he pushed his hips up into Methos' face and let the man

do as he would.

"Now that I have your attention," Methos said, referring to the still

red indentations, "I'll have your manhood." It all came back to him in a

flash. Just what Kronos liked -- what turned him on and made him lose

control. Practiced mouth suckled, fingers tweaked, massaged and pinched

while Kronos' legs spread wider, trying to make himself more easily

accessible to all of Methos' ministrations. His groans filled the room

as Methos slid his mouth deep down over the engorged cock, letting it

hit the back of his throat. He used only his own saliva and the bit of

fluid seeping from the head to lubricate searching fingers.

Methos felt himself falling with Kronos, descending into that pit of

urgency that had always ripped through his very mind, stealing all logic

from him. He clawed his way to the surface of reality, only to be

dragged back down again by the overwhelming sensations of demand. His

final effort to hang on was ripped from him when Kronos raised his hips

and pushed his head further down and he could not deny that it was what

they both wanted.

His turgid tongue snaked out and probed the pulsing tight ring of

muscles lower down. When the tip pushed its way through, the soft,

rounded cheeks jerked in his hands and he pressed deeper. The bitter

taste brought with it memories of nights spent satisfying his partner's

every want and need, doing whatever it took to elicit that cry of

pleasure he so longed to hear, and Methos' own cock jumped with

remembered sensations of repulsion and revelation. With a growl and one

swift movement, he sat up, roughly pulling Kronos' legs over his

shoulders and plunged himself into the now loosened opening.

Kronos roared, urging him on. "Yes, Brother! Yes!" Methos pumped in and

out, unmindful and uncaring of what Kronos wanted, but it didn't matter.

As the pulling sensation began in his lower back, feeding through every

nerve fiber and ending, Kronos emptied himself onto both of them. The

feeling of sticky warmth smeared across his belly sent Methos over the

edge and his cries joined Kronos' as he came deep inside his Brother.

********

Methos brought the last of his bags out to the truck. The sooner he

gathered up Kronos and got out of town, the better for all of them. He

needed distance right now from his old self and MacLeod. If he was to be

effective at all in his plans, he couldn't be distracted by his former

lover's presence, always worrying if he'd have to come between Duncan

and Kronos.

And he didn't have the guts to say good-bye. Just out of Immortal

sensing range, Kronos watched from around a brick veneered corner. When

Methos had left him lying on the floor, hastily making some excuse about

needing to pack a bit before they left, jealousy had burned deep inside

the Horseman leader. What they'd done at the power plant meant nothing

as far as he was concerned, proved nothing. Kronos knew the man now

loading his truck too well. All this afternoon had proved was that

Methos was still good at playing the whore for the person holding the

most power. Until he was sure, he'd make certain he didn't lie down for

his Scotsman lover again, even if it meant watching him 24 hours a day.

Kronos would not be played the fool without someone's head as forfeit.

Opening the back of the truck with one hand, Methos grabbed a backpack

and slung it inside. His head jerked up and he sniffed the air like an

animal identifying its prey. [Kronos? No, this one was softer, not so

rough around the edges. Fuck!] He'd hoped to avoid this confrontation,

but now he saw that leaving would be much more difficult than he'd

originally planned. Duncan wouldn't allow him to face Kronos alone, no

matter what the witch had said -- unless he thought Methos wanted to go

with him.

"Going somewhere?" Duncan strolled up to the truck as if their meeting

was totally coincidental, yet nothing out of the ordinary. Methos

dropped the second bag he'd been about to deposit in the truck and

studied MacLeod closely. His body language belied his words. Tension,

betrayal, confusion, doubt, pain -- they were all there and he could

read him so well.

"This has nothing to do with you, Duncan," he continued throwing luggage

in the trunk. "The less you're involved the better for all of us."

"No! The better for you, not *us*."

Methos read the Scotsman correctly. As much as he'd wanted Duncan to

think he was leaving of his own free will, it still hurt that he fell

for it so easily -- believed the worst with minimal proof. Stuffing his

own emotions and needs back into that dark corner where they'd resided

for so many centuries, he braced himself for what he was about to do.

"It was nice, Mac, but we both knew it was only temporary. Did you

really think I could be satisfied with your quiet Boy Scout life for

very long?" God was he really saying that?

"So what Cassandra said is true?"

"That depends. Was I a Horseman? Yes. Did I rape and pillage at will?

Yes. Did I enjoy it?" Methos paused for full effect. "Yes, MacLeod, oh,

yes!" He turned back to the truck as if he considered the subject

closed.

Make this...."Yes, oh gods, yes." So it will match your thoughts echoed

later on.

Mac had other ideas. Before he could react, Methos found himself slammed

hard against the side of the vehicle, Duncan's hands like steel bands

around his arms, pinning him securely.

"Did what we had mean nothing to you? The days shared, the discovery --

the nights we spent?" While Methos stared him squarely in the eye,

Duncan rushed through his words, ending them with a long, hard kiss

meant to suck t he very breath from his lover's body as he took the life

they'd shared back into himself. Took it back from the one who no longer

desired it.

When he raised his head again, Methos could have sworn his body had gone

lighter for want of a soul.

The Scotsman couldn't continue, but Methos saw the brightness in his

eyes that he would have died rather than show another human being. So he

looked away, presenting a stark, angular profile to the man holding him.

Duncan took the gesture as a final rejection. He read what Methos would

have him see. [No, it meant nothing. Gods, what a lie.]

"So, it's you and Kronos now?" Duncan asked in a low, soft voice.

MacLeod searched Methos' face for some indication that he'd

misunderstood -- jumped to the wrong conclusion, as was so often his

wont where that infuriatingly delicious man was concerned. He saw none

of the proof he required however, forgetting that Methos had over 5000

years to master such a simple task as hiding one's emotions. It was

really quite easy once one shut down the heart, lighthouse to the soul

and reflected in the eyes. No, he wouldn't see the truth.

"Yes." All he could muster at the moment, but the final word for Duncan.

"We're through..." MacLeod said just loud enough for Kronos to hear from

his hiding place. He watched the Highlander walk away, cold gray eyes

shifting to observe his "Brother".

Methos remained unmoving beside the truck for longer than Kronos had

expected. He'd thought Methos would get into his car and drive away in

disgust, but instead he seemed to require the vehicle for physical

support. Once MacLeod had passed out of sight, Kronos was witness to a

rare and unexpected expression of emotion crossing the aesthetic

features.

[And what are you showing me, here, dear brother?] Kronos wondered, lips

curving up in a smile that was both predatory and jealous. [Tell me you

have not grown so soft as to fall for a noble spirit and a pretty face?]

But Methos had. It was obvious to anyone who knew him well, and Kronos,

did indeed, know him well. [And you told him such pretty lies. Always

the master of lies, Methos. And he believed you. How can you break your

heart over a man who has not one ounce of appreciation for who you are

or what you can be? But I appreciate you, brother. With all your

charms...] Time to remind Methos of who and what he really was. His

brother was so distraught over MacLeod's reaction -- no matter that he

had engineered the Scot's disgust -- Kronos was once more able to get

within striking range without the older immortal realizing he was close

until it was too late.

Methos' reaction to once more finding a blade buried in his chest was

less of pain and shock this time as resignation.

*****

Methos sucked a sharp breath into aching lungs as life descended upon

him once more. His initial instinct to reach for the pain in his chest

arrested by a lack of viable movements in his hands and arms. Cool, damp

air brushed his skin as awareness settled more forcibly into his foggy

brain. His chest was bare, his hands were bound above him, and the air

stank of petrol and fish and brine. They were near water then, near

boats for Kronos' travel plans...something he required for shipping or

for hiding.

The cold air moved again and Methos shivered, the pain subsiding in his

chest, but the stiffened feel of dried blood on his skin was enough to

remind him why and how he had gotten here, and in such a position.

Kronos was no doubt a little annoyed with him for not having delivered

Mac's head on a platter. He was not scoring points with his brother.

"Awake? Alive? Refreshed from your nap?" Kronos' voice was disgustingly

cheerful, expression echoing his delight as he came into Methos' range

of vision. [He is, in so many ways, like a child,] Methos recalled as he

observed the open, wide-eyed expression, the smile of pure delight at

seeing Methos. A demented child, but a child.

"Not much of a friend, is your MacLeod. Easier to kill him," Kronos

commented, circling behind him, out of sight but Methos knew he was

close. The heat radiated off the other man in waves. "What do you owe

him after all? More than you owe me?"

[A debt long since paid,] Methos thought then went tense as a hand, hot

against the bare skin of his shoulder, caressed him with a familiar firm

gentleness. [Still familiar...] He clamped down on the memories that had

burned themselves irrevocably into his soul for three thousand years.

That hand slipped along his shoulder and up his throat as Kronos tucked

his head between Methos' upraised arm and face on the opposite side. "Is

the debt paid, brother? The one to MacLeod? You've saved him. Does he

know?"

"Probably not. Or care," Methos said indifferently as Kronos' tongue

came out to lick delicately at his ear.

"Was it worth it-worth disobeying me? Was it worth breaking a promise to

me? You may recall, my forgiveness has to be earned."

"I remember," Methos said quietly, forcing his body to remain relaxed as

the rough fingers stroked along his chest, grazing the right nipple

deliberately. Between the caress and the chill air, it hardened and rose

until Kronos could begin cautiously plucking at it, pinching it until it

grew overly sensitive to the lightest touch. That one spot thoroughly

teased, Kronos' other hand and arm slid around his waist, fingers toying

with the snap on his jeans then dancing away to stroke skin, or ply his

caresses across the denim. Involuntarily Methos' hands clenched around

the ropes at his wrists, unable to stop himself as he shifted his

position on his knees. He heard Kronos chuckle softly in his ear.

"This is very much like a second honeymoon for us, is it not, Methos? Do

you recall how I had to keep you bound for so many days when we first

met -- just to make sure you would not cut my heart out? Does that

passion still burn, brother? Can I summon it still after these many

centuries?"

[Yes...] Methos said nothing, trying to still his reaction to the

patient caresses and touches, teases and pinches. Kronos could summon

those reactions without half trying. He seemed to have forgotten

nothing, no sensitive area, no perfect amount of pressure there or

there. Methos fought back a gasp as Kronos pulled his head back,

suckling at the tender spot just below his ear. Then went tense as a

hand swept across his groin with practiced and sure strength. The snap

was released, the zipper parted and the hot, strong hand covered him,

stroked him.

[One can learn to enjoy a good rape...] He thought ironically, knowing

it both was and was not an assault. He was also aware that his

punishment had not begun yet. This was simple preparation of the medium

for Kronos' rather spectacular displays of displeasure. The man was

good...the best Methos had seen in fifty centuries. He knew cruelty and

excess, power and pleasure like few Methos had ever met.

Already his body was succumbing to the insistent persuasions as Kronos

continued reacquainting himself intimately with his brother's body. The

jeans were pushed down but not off as Kronos pressed against him, one

hand on Methos' hardening cock and the other still stroking his throat.

Kronos' own erection was pressed against Methos' back and buttocks,

straining through the cloth.

"So tell me you missed me, Methos -- even if it's a lie -- and perhaps I

will make this more pleasure than pain."

"I missed you," Methos breathed.

"How sweet," Kronos chuckled and reached once more between Methos'

thighs, strong fingers pressing upward just below his balls to press a

finger deep within him. Methos surged against the intrusion

involuntarily; breath hissing out as Kronos chuckled. "Yes, I can see

that you have," he said and began squeezing the soft sacs, taking the

pressure right to the edge of pain, while his finger continued to probe

and ply the sensitive tissue between Methos' buttocks. Methos closed his

eyes, trying to ride the waves of sensation rather than respond to them

but his hips flexed against the tormenting hand, driving the finger

deeper, and he gasped. He bit his lip a moment later when the probe was

withdrawn, Kronos' arms around his waist as he pulled him upright on his

knees then moved. Cloth rasped against leather and it was no longer

Kronos' jeans pressed to his backside but flesh, hot against his cool

skin.

"There was a time when disobeying me would never have entered your

mind," Kronos crooned against his ear, licking at his skin once more. He

pressed close, the hard rise of his cock sliding between the cleft of

Methos' buttocks, his hands tracing the muscles of the suspended arms as

he bumped his body against Methos'. "There was a time when pleasing me

was your first priority -- have you forgotten?"

"No," Methos hissed as the hands encircling his wrists pulled down,

forcing the bonds to cut deeper into his skin and Kronos pushed him

slowly, forcing him to lean forward, arms beginning to feel the strain

of the awkward position. With his legs tangled in his jeans and Kronos'

weight pressing against him, he couldn't adjust his position or his

balance. His shoulders began to burn from the strain and he bit his lip

harder, drawing blood, remaining silent.

"Be sure you don't ever forget again," Kronos hissed and bit his ear,

one hand masterfully parting his buttocks. Then he was driving his cock

into Methos' ass as he clutched his waist and let his weight press fully

against his brother.

Methos cried out as his shoulders were wrenched back, his insides

burning and tearing from the dry, sudden impalement by Kronos' cock. He

was leaning forward as far as his bound arms would allow and he could

feel the tendons tearing in his arms, the joints ready to give way as

Kronos began driving deeper inside him, thrusts harsh and cruel. His own

burgeoning erection faltered under the pain but Kronos was ready for

that as well. His fingers closed around the softening flesh, stroking

him with a gentleness completely at odds with the rest of his brutal

treatment. Then his other hand snaked under the straining arms and

covered Methos' nose and mouth, cutting off his air.

"Perhaps you remember this as well?" Kronos said harshly. "That the body

can be willing even when the mind is not!"

Panic settled into Methos' brain, panic and pain and yet his body did

betray him, responding to the stimulation, to the lack of oxygen. He

moaned against the restraining hand, sparkles of light and color dancing

before his eyes as he felt his body jerk, response adding to the pain,

adding to Kronos' pleasure. Agony ripped through his back from the

strain, pleasure swelled from his groin under the talented hand and

Kronos was still driving into him, and the channel now slicked with

blood as lubricant. Consciousness started to fail as his body succumbed,

pumping helplessly into Kronos' hand as his brother spilled his hot seed

into his body, marking him, claiming him once more with blood and sex

and power. Orgasm complete, the pain resurged and Methos' last conscious

thought the acknowledgment that even MacLeod's love could not wipe out

the hold that Kronos still had on him.

***************

His own scream woke Methos as Kronos wrenched at his arm, resetting the

dislocated shoulder with the stoic expertise of all good field medics.

Methos made no move to test the injury, knowing that if nothing else,

Kronos was a fair hand at rough first aid for both mortals and

immortals. The joint would heal correctly. It wasn't the first time

Kronos had had to set his shoulder or a broken limb. His sweater was

flung at him and he did move then, easing into the torn and bloodied

fabric. Kronos' hideaway was bone chillingly cold. He was not even

surprised when Kronos' heavy sword came to rest against his throat.

"Tell me why I shouldn't kill you now?" Kronos demanded. As usual his

bloodlusts were running over. Raping and torturing his brother had done

nothing but drive those demented passions to the forefront. This was

Kronos at his most dangerous -- and when he was easiest to manipulate.

The quiet, joyful controlled Kronos was nearly impossible to persuade --

but this one, the barbarian -- this one thought with his blood and

passion -- and his cock. Not his head.

Taking Methos' head was a real threat but not likely -- else Kronos

would never have bothered to tend him.

"Because you need me if you want the Horsemen to ride again," Methos

said calmly, not surprised that the press of steel did nothing more than

make him want to shrug his shoulder free of the weight. "Caspian and

Silas are still alive."

The blade pressed deeper, the edge sliding enough to draw blood as

Kronos came to one knee in front of him -- free hand reaching out to

grasp his hair. "Master of lies, Methos?"

"You survived. So did I," He did not allow himself to flinch or blink as

he watched the expression in Kronos' face change from wildness to

calculation. "I can lead you to them," Methos offered.

The blade shifted slightly, angled to come up under Methos' chin and the

older immortal lifted his head involuntarily leaning away, Kronos

following until Methos was on his back again, Kronos' weight pressing

him down, the blade between them. "And what about MacLeod? And the

witch?"

"What about them?" Methos returned, as Kronos' hand sought his groin

again. There were times in his past when he had thought Kronos

insatiable desires more amusing than anything, but his own responses

were starting to disgust him. Had he fooled himself into thinking that

laying aside his humanity, the veneer of civilization would somehow be

difficult? Was all of it MacLeod's influence? Had he anchored himself so

deeply into the Highlander that his own personality was now dependent

upon one man's strength? His own words seemed to haunt him as he waited

for Kronos to reply. [Yes...oh, gods...yes...] Pulling himself out of

this mire of power and darkness was going to require a strength far

outside himself. A strength available from only one source -- and he had

to deny that source or lose it forever.

"They will come after you -- the witch at least. She wants us both

dead."

"She will do what MacLeod counsels and he wants nothing to do with

either of us," Methos said, forcing conviction into his words, his tone.

"So he said," Kronos murmured softly and Methos' eyes widened,

wondering, terrified to think how much Kronos knew. But his brother

offered him no more clues as he suddenly laid his blade aside, hands

reaching up to cup Methos' head. Kronos' thigh pressed between the legs

of the man trapped beneath him. "Well, then. Perhaps we shall change

venues -- I have a little place in France. What about the others?"

"Silas is in the Ukraine. Caspian is in Bucharest. We can pick them up

on the way," Methos said closing his eyes as Kronos let his passions

rule again, the mouth nipping along his throat, once more leaving marks.

His hips ground against Methos', bulge already signaling his readiness

to continue their reunion, his domination -- whatever label Kronos chose

to give it.

Then suddenly Kronos levered himself off Methos and rolled to his side,

observing with pleasure the flushed cheeks and trembling body of his

lover. "Then he'll be safe, for now; your MacLeod. I never punish twice

for the same mistake," Kronos chuckled.

No. He didn't. But Methos knew that correction for a second mistake made

sure there would not be third. Permanently sure.

"I'll go make our travel arrangements," Kronos said congenially and

rose, leaving Methos on his back against the concrete.

Solitude. It would be a rare and precious commodity from now until the

end -- whatever end this drama was forced to take. Methos took it,

denying himself the urge to try and escape or elude Kronos. To do so now

would ensure that Kronos would go after Mac, or Joe or anyone that

Methos had even a vague affection for -- and not just to draw him out,

but to make sure he had no place else, no one else to turn to. Quite the

bloody shepherd was Kronos. Know where your flocks are, always -- must

keep the wolves fed.

Methos stared up into the shadowed ceiling, feeling the darkness press

around him, down on him, seeping its way inside. Too easy, too easy to

just give in to Kronos -- completely. To avoid the careful phrasings,

the deadly games, the careful manipulations of power and submission. He

was good at it -- or had been once. But there had never been much else

at stake beside himself -- his survival. Bodily survival. If that were

all he had to worry about now, there would be no problem either.

But it wasn't. After five millennia Methos had finally found something

that meant more to him than himself -- and having sought so long for the

prize -- for his prize -- he was determined not to lose it again -- or

at least not the hope of it being in his grasp once more, however

briefly.

A drug. An addiction. He had avoided such dependencies in the past but

now he craved the one he had made for himself. There was only one source

and it might be denied him forever but it was still there. Would remain

there if it took the last drop of blood, the last breath, the last ounce

of will Methos possessed to keep it there.

For the briefest of moments he allowed himself to remember the feel of a

different set of lips against his own. Not the harsh cruel demands of

Kronos' mouth, but softness, the wondering joy that shone in MacLeod's

dark eyes every time he kissed Methos. The Highlander's taste was as

sharp and real as the dark, mechanical scents round him. The feel of

MacLeod's body, strong and supple and warm, worked to displace the chill

air. The feel of Mac inside him, filling him, possessing him without

trying to own him was enough to make his eyes burn and his stomach

clench in a want and need that Kronos would never understand, and never

be able to replace.

Anything else Kronos wanted from him he could have. Methos would give it

without compunction or regret or reservation. MacLeod had given Methos

something small and precious that could not be stolen or broken. A small

part of himself -- a tiny new-made Methos that had no past, no sins, and

no reason to exist other than at one time, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan

MacLeod had willed it so. Future rejections or denials could not undo

it. Kronos' manipulations could not destroy it.

Nothing else had any meaning. Securing that small prize Methos rose and

went to seek his brother, the faintest, darkest smile on his lips. The

rules were about to be rewritten in his relationship with Kronos.

************

BUCHAREST, ROMANIA

Sheer pleasure coursed through Methos, drawing fire through his blood

and a heaviness in his loins. Half-waking, he felt his lover's mouth on

him, greedily suckling, stroking him to an aching hardness that was all

pleasure. Mac's mouth covered him with warmth and a gentle moistness,

fingers seeking his chest to rub at his nipples. His body arched into

the demanding mouth, thrusts uncontrollable as his hips were raised and

he reached out to wrap his fingers in the thick satin of Mac's hair to

gentle him. His fingers encountered not the Highlander's thick mane,

however, but the short-cropped hair of another and he recovered his

disappointment and anger at being beguiled by his own desires before

Kronos realized he had awakened. Easier to mask his anger as his brother

expertly applied his mouth again and drove Methos to orgasm. Kronos'

chuckle was lost in the groan that escaped Methos as his body succumbed

to his ministrations. The close cropped head dropped again to taste his

brother's submission, smile threatening to tear his face as he lapped

hungrily at the warm seed to the accompaniment of Methos' moans. Kronos

thought the sounds indicative of his brother's passion but Methos knew

better.

"Good morning, brother," Kronos said, drawing himself up along Methos'

body to savage him with a kiss as his body shuddered to completion.

Methos met him, the source of his anger and disappointment of no concern

to Kronos and his brother laughed against his mouth as Methos twisted,

strength masterfully shoving Kronos onto his back so he could straddle

the other man's hips. Kronos was as naked as he was; compact body

sprawled under him in delight.

Methos caught his wrists; forcing them above Kronos' head and leaning

his weight into the grip before diving down to plunder Kronos' mouth

brutally with his own. He shoved all his memories of Mac's caresses deep

within and took out his rage at his own betraying psyche on Kronos.

Kronos seemed be delighted, possibly even a bit wary at the sudden

savagery and hopefully laying it along the marks indicating that Methos

had, indeed, returned to the horsemen in full force.

"What's the matter, Methos? Didn't you like my wake up call?" Kronos

said when Methos pulled back, tasting blood, the crimson swell dyeing

Kronos lips.

"I didn't set one," Methos said evenly, feral smile covering his own

mouth as he felt Kronos' cock stir beneath him, roused by the turnabout,

by the look on Methos' face.

"Would you prefer to sleep in? Shall we put Caspian off for another

day?" Kronos offered and pressed upward, eyes narrowing when Methos

pressed back, refusing to release him.

"Three thousand years has improved your manners not at all, Kronos,"

Methos snarled, and shifted, quick as a cat, moving his knees to part

Kronos' thighs then put his weight on them, pinning his brother to the

bed. He bent his head to find a nipple and bit, hard enough to elicit a

yelp of angry surprise from Kronos and the other man struggled. Methos

twisted at his wrists, slender hands stronger than they looked and

Kronos hissed, eyes glittering at the savage satisfaction on Methos'

face at causing him pain.

"Be careful how far you press this game, brother," Kronos hissed,

suddenly wary. His eyes darted to the bedside table where his sword lay

indolently against the wood, his long-hilted dagger on top.

"You used to be better at taking what you dished out, brother," Methos

said harshly and bent his head again to bite and Kronos roared as he

drew blood. The well-muscled body bucked, nearly dislodging Methos but

he shifted again, driving his knees down onto the thighs forcibly.

Awkward with the spring of the mattress below them to bounce him back

and he nearly lost his grip on Kronos wrists.

Kronos took the momentary unbalance and arched his spine, twisting.

Methos' left knee slipped off his thigh and Kronos drove his own knee

into Methos side and back, dislodging him. Methos hissed as both of them

dove for the dagger, hands closing over it together and fighting for

control. Bodies tangled together, the blade sharp enough to cut at the

slightest pass, the sheets were stained here and there with crimson

streaks until Methos drove his elbow into Kronos jaw, knocking him off

the bed and onto the floor -- dagger held in his hands and face set in

fury. Methos' eyes glittered as he moved, getting one foot under him,

then swearing as Kronos dove for his sword. Twisting, Methos reached for

his own only to find a steel hand enclosing his ankle, yanking him back

and he turned again, breath catching at the sharp steel leveled at his

belly.

Kronos stared down at his brother, his own breathing coming in short,

harsh gasps. He felt his lips curve, not releasing his grip on Methos'

ankle as he let the sword point press into the flat, muscled stomach,

drawing yet more blood. Methos' eyes narrowed but he made no sound.

[Gods...you are a thing of beauty, my brother,] Kronos thought in a rare

appreciation for aesthetic pleasures. Exertion and anger flushed Methos'

skin, prompted by the proximity of steel and Kronos' sweating body. For

one brief moment Kronos saw Methos as he had been three thousand years

ago, the silken hair cast long, the lean hard body sweat drenched and

taut, ready for him. He had never understood Methos' need to be forced

into yielding -- but it was a game the older Immortal had never

surrendered -- even when his cries of pleasure would disturb the whole

camp as he gave into Kronos' affections. Something in Methos had always

demanded he be tamed -- and he rode the razor's edge still -- pressing

Kronos to his limits, to the verge of taking his head time and again --

daring him to do so and never for one moment doubting that Kronos was

capable of it.

But Kronos always found the control not to -- always held back in that

last instant. There would be punishment for pushing him and Methos

seemed to crave that as well. Pleasurable in many ways but Kronos never

failed to make sure Methos knew he was being punished -- just as Methos

had often punished him. But rarely with pain. No, Methos' punishments

could be harsher. He would deny Kronos any sport, submitting like one of

the slaves, allowing Kronos to do what he would with no participation

whatsoever and no sound. Such a lack of response inevitably sent Kronos

into a rage and Methos would emerge battered and bloodied and smiling at

his success in making his brother lose such complete control.

He was playing the same game now and Kronos could already feel his blood

burning in anger. But he had learned many things since then and Methos

might be surprised to find patience among them. So, Methos wanted to be

forced. But punishment meant bending him to Kronos' will and pleasures.

Kronos smiled and saw the wary look in the hazel eyes. He slid the tip

of the sword up along the glistening skin, gently, careful not to break

the flesh, until the point rested under Methos' chin. Then he followed

the blade, turning it so it lay crosswise against the ivory column as

his body covered his brother's. One hand went out to free the knife and

set it aside.

"Then I apologize for waking you so, Brother," Kronos said softly and

kissed him, gently -- coaxing him rather than forcing him. Teasing the

moist lips apart and exploring the hesitantly yielded interior slowly.

His hands began to stroke, to pleasure, never a rough movement. One

thigh worked its way cautiously between Methos' legs as Kronos explored

his body tenderly. "Is this how you prefer your lovers now, Methos?"

Kronos murmured and seemed not to notice when Methos' breath caught. [Is

this how your Highlander tames you, brother...with

this...gentleness...?] Kronos wondered, inwardly scoffing at the idea

but he had no doubt that this was how MacLeod made love to the man below

him.

He could feel the responses building despite Methos' efforts to stop

them. His brother was hard; stomach muscles fluttering as Kronos pressed

gentle nips to the sensitive flesh under his ear. His fingers twined

with Methos' as he nudged the thighs further apart then bent his head to

renew the efforts he had begun earlier, stroking himself to hardness

before reaching under to catch the thighs and lift them. His tongued

danced around the turgid shaft and below. His smile became more

calculating as Methos clutched at the linens, eyes slightly wild and

body beginning to strain upward and into the gentle assault. Kronos

rocked against him and was rewarded with a moan -- the first sound

Methos had made since losing their wrestling match. Wetting his fingers

he pressed and felt the body tighten further, heard the sudden inrush of

air as Methos gasped. The body was surrendering to him -- to his touch

-- in a way Kronos had never experienced before. He preferred Methos

wild and fighting, but he could see where the sudden pliancy might

appeal to a milksop such as MacLeod.

There was no protest as Kronos hooked his arms under Methos' knees,

drawing him close, cock pressed against the tight opening. Steel gray

eyes locked with glazed hazel ones as he pressed his entry. Restlessness

overtook the slender body then a certain denial stroked across the

flushed face. Kronos grinned. He had chosen rightly, Methos was just now

realizing he was yielding without protest, without demands -- asking for

it as he had never done before without coercion.

Now Methos was too far lost to the demands of his body to deny them. A

moan escaped the parted lips as Kronos gentled his way inside the hot

body, hissing as the deep muscles clenched around him. Powerful legs

locked around his waist and dug into his buttocks, drawing Kronos

deeper. Another moan of protest as Kronos pulled back, then in again,

setting a slower rhythm than was his wont. Kronos kept the satisfied

smile from his face as he braced his hands on either side of the

writhing body, but inside his anger burned again. These responses

belonged to MacLeod -- no doubt it was he Methos now pretended was

taking him so thoroughly. MacLeod garnering every nuance of passion from

the slender form when Kronos had always had to fight Methos every inch

of the way.

[Damn you, Methos...!] His innards raged as he reached the peak of

sensation, his spine arching into the body clamped around his as he

drove his seed into the familiar warmth. Methos arched into the sudden

harsh pumping and Kronos stroked him with a firm grip until the body

shuddered and surrendered, warmth spilling over his hand. He reached for

the dagger, gasping harshly, eyes glittering with hatred as he saw the

lips unconsciously form a name that was not Kronos. With Methos still in

the thrall of his orgasm, Kronos drove the blade deep into Methos' chest

with a scream of rage and saw once more that smile of victory on the

perfect mouth as Methos died, spilling the last of his fill over Kronos'

hands.

With a snarl of rage, Kronos pulled his body free of the lax, dead

embrace of his lover. His Brother. Little of the furniture survived his

temper and when that was done he went back to the body, staring at the

bloodied knife. Seeing the deeply ingrained stains on the hilt. His

sword was in his hand again in an instant, blade laid across the

unprotected throat. *Mine! He is mine!* Some dark part of his soul

screamed in protest and he was pressed, pressed to swear that if Methos

could not be his body and soul, he would be no one's. Kronos had never

had to compete for Methos' respect, his loyalty, his *affections*, for

hell's sake, before. Not even truly with the witch. She had been a

diversion, a punishment of sorts -- a reminder to Methos of the life

he'd led before meeting Kronos.

Kronos had come to believe his life and purpose had begun on his first

violent meeting with the golden eyed, sharp-witted, sensuous man now

dead at Kronos' whim. Too lose him to the self-righteous, cow-eyed,

infant child of the thrice-cursed highlands was too much. Kronos wanted

his brother back. His lover -- the other half of his twisted soul. There

was only one way to do it -- one way to accomplish it and it meant he

would have to outthink Methos every step of the way. The Highlander

would die and Kronos would make Methos watch it.

Methos would pay for his betrayal. Set on his course, Kronos calmed and

smiled and pulled the blade free of his lover's chest. Then he reversed

it so it cut into his palm, letting his blood and Methos' mingle on the

blade as he waited. Methos would pay for his betrayal and his deceptions

and his lies -- - beginning now. He fingered the long hilt, then spread

the muscled thighs and waited....

And Methos would never know Kronos was aware of his treachery until the

Highlander's head fell at his feet.

********

A pounding on the door caused a bellow from Kronos and Silas entered,

unfazed by either his leader's expression or volume. Kronos stood naked

in the center of the room, his gaze shifting toward the bathroom. Silas'

eyes followed Kronos' as Methos emerged. He, at least, had managed to

slip into jeans, but they lay open, the zipper unclosed and the nest of

dark curls springing through the fly. Watery rivulets of crimson stains

and fading bruises marked the pale skin, the denim damp and the towel

Methos wiped his face with also stained brown and scarlet.

Silas seemed to think the scene neither strange nor disgusting. Why

should he when he'd partaken of both men in various settings over their

centuries together? He'd known as soon as he saw Kronos and Methos in

the wood that the span of years, the distance, and lifetimes had changed

nothing between them. The possessive way Kronos' hand had massaged the

long, graceful arch of Methos' neck while they talked around their

dinner in the suite the night before, spoke of passions not forgotten.

The long glances the green-brown eyes had cast across the room when

unaware of Silas' scrutiny. Those two belonged together and the fates

had reunited them. It was good.

"You had a message delivered," Silas informed them but Kronos primarily.

"They brought it to me so as not to disturb you. MacLeod and the witch

are on their way here. They should arrive tomorrow."

Kronos grinned speculatively. "Will they now?" he said, cutting his gaze

toward Methos. Neither shock nor surprise showed on the sharp features

but the hazel eyes had narrowed even as Methos lounged casually back

against the wall, arms crossed over his chest.

"We should waste no time in getting to Caspian, then, and move on to

Bordeaux," Methos said evenly and Kronos nodded.

"Silas, see to a car for us - we will be leaving within the hour,"

Kronos said and picked up his jeans from the bed as the giant left them.

Kronos put his pants on, waiting until he was gone before speaking. "You

don't want to wait and say hello to your old friend and ex-lover?" he

asked slyly, Methos unsure which label referred to who.

"I doubt Cassandra and I have anything pleasant to say to one another,"

Methos said as Kronos approached him.

"Probably not. You should have killed her then, Methos. You and

Silas...both with weaknesses for helpless things. Only she is not so

helpless now, is she Methos? In fact, she's downright dangerous. Turning

your...friend...against you like that-spreading lies. And after all the

kindnesses you showed her, too," Kronos said tragically. His hand

skimmed along the tight muscles of Methos' chest as he slipped behind

him. Methos did nothing but adjust his stance so Kronos could press

close, eyes watching the hand as it skimmed along his pectorals to brush

across his nipple. "And now she's taken your place in MacLeod's

affections. In his bed as well, no doubt," Kronos whispered against his

throat. "He's a fool, your Highlander, to let you go so easily."

Methos forced himself not to tense as Kronos' hand sought lower, rough

fingers slipping through the damp hairs at his groin. The thin lips were

pressed against his throat and he turned into the nuzzling mouth.

"I will never throw you over for some doe-eyed slut, brother," Kronos

said. "I keep what is mine and am not so easily dissuaded from what I

want. And I don't give a damn about your past."

[You are my past...and my future is as dead as I am.] Methos thought and

leaned against him, pressing his groin into the caress of the strong

hand. He turned his head to capture the waiting mouth -- silencing

Kronos and his own small cry of protest at MacLeod's betrayal. It didn't

matter that he had engineered that hatred - it still cut deep.

******

BORDEAUX, FRANCE

Camelot. Methos had nearly laughed hysterically at Kronos' impassioned

comparison. But the abandoned submarine base had its charms, if you were

in to early dungeon décor. And then Methos had found another reason to

fight hysteria as he realized that Kronos might -- just might --

actually have a chance at dominating the world. His brother had not

spent his centuries idly and his grasp of the mechanics and potentials

both of modern electronics and biological devastation drove a core of

ice through Methos he could feel in his bowels. Kronos had the mechanism

-- now all he needed was a plan -- and he had Methos.

And plan Methos did, layers upon layers of plots and twists, some of

which he told Kronos -- enough to make them plausible, even workable --

the underlying plots as twisty and confusing as Kronos' mind. Some were

complicated, some beautifully simple -- presented and modified with as

much passion as Methos could summon, only to have them torn apart by

some detail -- details he'd deliberately missed. The delays buying him

time, buying MacLeod time, until they had the basics.

Methos was the first to notice that the Four Horsemen were not quite as

solid as they'd once been -- Kronos too involved in his schemes to

notice, Silas too slow, and Caspian too easily distracted -- and

restless. His years of captivity had left him even more a psychopath

than Methos remembered. Silas was his favorite target when his

frustrations boiled over -- and that was nearly every hour on the hour.

The confinement was no doubt worse for him than any of them -- but

Kronos was adamant that they stay at the base save for brief jaunts for

supplies. No tourist side trips, no whoring and little freedom. His

frustrations grew and Methos let them -- not interfering as he once had

in the sudden violent arguments Caspian and Silas were prone to. Kronos

stopped them when he caught them at it, looking to Methos for support.

Methos gave it, but only when asked. Kronos knew the defiance for what

it was and Methos' punishments mounted nightly.

Even at night Kronos demanded they sleep in the same chamber -- the only

one that had heat supplied from the portable generator in the labs,

rather than the rough braziers that burned through the base. Once, such

an arrangement had been as common as not when the Horsemen were moving

across the deserts. Sleeping together making the erection of campsites

quick work and providing them with a measure of security -- each

watching the other's backs.

Now it was from lack of trust that Kronos kept them together. Four

adequately comfortable pallets on the concrete floor, small chests for

what few belongings any of them had brought with them. But despite the

fourth pallet it was made obvious on their first night together that

Kronos had no intention of sleeping alone.

Methos made no protest when Kronos climbed under the blankets with him,

almost welcoming the hot body against the chill air in the darkened

base. Sleep, however, was not on Kronos' mind particularly. Three

millennia ago Methos had no embarrassment in partaking of Kronos'

attentions in front of the others -- Silas and Caspian had then had

diversions of their own. But there were no slaves in this new Camelot

and if Kronos cared at all about the tensions he might be raising as he

took his pleasures noisily, he gave no sign. That first night Methos was

witness to Caspian's immediate answer to the rutting taking place in

front of him as his once captain mounted his lieutenant. Caspian,

failing to come to orgasm at his own hand as Kronos did, cast harsh

black eyes on Methos' face throughout his observation. Caspian's

expression was both frustrated and calculating when Kronos hauled his

lover down beside him and trapped the slender body with arms and legs

wrapped around Methos in a loose embrace. Silas, the ox, could sleep

through anything. Methos got little sleep at all and neither did

Caspian, his moans audible as he tried again and again to bring about

his own release.

Caspian was unlikely to approach Silas and while Kronos would have said

yes without hesitation, Caspian had a true aversion to being submissive

in any form, especially sex.

And there was the matter of old debts....

Methos had no more trust for Caspian than he did Kronos -- less

actually. The workings of Kronos' mind, at least Methos had some

understanding of -- some respect for. But Caspian was volatile and

unpredictable. He neither thought nor planned, too easily giving in to

whatever passions drove at him -- whatever demons had been birthed in

his twisted soul three thousand years before.

Nor would Kronos interfere in whatever little power plays were enacted

until someone was close to losing their head. The pack mentality ruled,

Methos and Caspian vying for the Beta position to Kronos' Alpha. Silas

would ever be the follower, but Caspian had long been second to Kronos

before Methos arrived -- now he wanted that position back. They had

fought this battle before with Caspian the loser, but he was as aware as

Kronos that Methos had long been away from their common games. Testing

the solidarity of Methos position was not just an option -- it was an

imperative.

The first challenge came in the showers Kronos had managed to rig --

nothing fancy -- just the stripped down fixtures of the base's original

communal baths. The water was frigid, the generator needed for the

environmental controls in the labs and not for the sybaritic pleasures

of the Horseman. Methos would take his turn early, more to have a few

moments of solitude than for any heightened sense of hygiene. But he was

not a fool and Caspian's advances were becoming bolder. Third day at the

base and Methos felt another's approach in the gray pre-dawn hours. He

turned to see Caspian watching him -- the leer on his face obvious and

threatening. Methos never dropped his gaze as the darker man approached,

hands already rubbing at his bared crotch, cock swollen and ready. Then

stopping as Methos turned to face him -- revealing the slender blade

he'd strapped to his thigh, fingertips resting lightly on the hilt. It

had been obscured by his body's profile, remaining unobserved by Caspian

upon entering the showers.

Methos brushed past him, danced the edge again. "Make sure you take full

advantage of the cold water, brother," he said softly, making eye

contact -- challenge offered, met and put down in one phrasing.

But it was only the first and Caspian sulked throughout the day as the

four of them worked on Kronos and Methos' plans, assembling the

electronic parts for the small deadly devices needed to bring Kronos'

intentions to reality. At the end of it, Methos was both bored and

tense, seeking his bed for at least some small amount of rest before

Kronos came to make his nightly demands. It was an indicator of his

fatigue that he actually allowed himself to slumber, waking as a body

pressed close to his, then grabbed at him -- hand covering his mouth as

a second wrenched his arm up and back. A long body, over muscled but

less controlled, covered his.

"Have you forgotten that brothers share?" Caspian chuckled into his ear

as he pressed his thigh between Methos'. Breathing was difficult -- and

Caspian would have no compunctions about taking Methos conscious or

unconscious, living or dead. Hard flesh probed and sought, already

pumping against Methos' bare skin, flesh sticking wetly to flesh. He

relaxed and pressed back against Caspian with a moan and heard the

laughter as Caspian released his tight grip across Methos' mouth and

nose. Methos took the first few seconds to drag air into his lungs then

rubbed his buttocks against his brother's erection and started to roll

onto his belly. Caspian following with a hiss of anticipated pleasure,

shifted, finger seeking entry.

Then yelped in pain as Methos surged upward, smashing the back of his

head into Caspian's face and twisting, that same deadly dagger drawn as

the larger man was shoved back and down, Methos' knee dropping heavily

against his stomach and remaining to trap one arm and the body. Fingers

dragged at Caspian's hair, forcing him to meet the cold glitter in the

gold-green eyes, the dagger poised at the base of Caspian's cock to

press into the single swollen sac of glands, the other truncated and

centuries lost.

"No. Brothers ask!" Methos hissed, leaning in. "And I don't recall

saying yes. I seem to have lost my other trophy along the way, Caspian

-- care to surrender another?" The blade pricked and Caspian snarled,

writhing under the iron grip. "You want to be fucked, little brother --

talk to Kronos. You want to fuck something, I suggest you be nicer to

Silas -- or his monkeys. You want to change your sex -- come back and

see *me*. Now I've asked. I won't do so again," Methos added, lips close

to the tight mouth.

He pulled away and then lay back down -- forcing relaxation into his

body while his insides tightened in readiness. Caspian lay where he was

for a few moments then got up and stalked away.

The tension eased outward and Methos nearly jumped out of his skin,

rising and twisting when a hand touched his arm and found Kronos

watching him with amusement on his face. "Will I have to ask as well,

brother?" Kronos questioned, sliding a hand over his flank.

"You might," Methos snarled.

"Make me," Kronos challenged not surprised when Methos did.

***********

"Hello?"

Methos' breath caught for a brief moment. Just the sound of that voice

shaking his resolve -- turning the madness he'd embraced into the horror

it was rather than an inevitability.

"Elysium church. Thirty minutes. Come alone." There was more he wanted

to say, needed to say and he shut the phone off before he could give in

to the weakness. Before he could beg for MacLeod's help. His

forgiveness. His touch. He'd forfeited the right for these things when

he'd walked into Kronos' arms.

His excuses were taken. Kronos barely acknowledging his request now that

the bomb was set and he was preparing the next step of his plan --

Methos' plan.

The sanctuary of Holy Ground had never seemed quite so appealing as

Methos waited, tensing when he felt the approach of an Immortal-and only

one. He sat suddenly, not sure his legs would hold him up and he was

right when MacLeod presented a stony faced visage and came no closer to

him than was necessary to speak without shouting.

Methos had not meant for their conversation to include explanations but

Mac demanded them and Methos answered. Some masochistic part of him

wanting to have the Highlander say, "Yes, I understand." Not to agree

only to...accept. He had known it was impossible. He had planned it that

way -- and he was Methos, the master strategist. Why should it surprise

him that Mac should fall as easily for his deceits as Kronos had --

Kronos whose entire life was made up with deceptions, treachery and

evil.

Then a miracle happened and Methos was unprepared. Mac asked him to go

with him to defuse the bomb -- and seemed to expect he would do so.

Methos was forced to look down to avoid the expectation in the dark eyes

-- unable to bear the disappointment he knew would follow.

"I go up against Kronos and I lose," he said evenly, hating the words.

Hating the weakness it forced upon him, the display of cowardice that

MacLeod would never understand -- but would believe.

"Going with the winner," Mac said, tone so full of loathing and disgust

Methos had to still the desire to wipe at his skin as if he were covered

in some palpable filth.

"Bright boy," he managed.

"Don't do this, Methos," Mac said, almost a plea but his pride made it

more of a demand.

"It's already done, MacLeod. White, then black, then red. And get

Cassandra out of here. Kronos won't let her escape him again," he

cautioned.

MacLeod's face twisted as if he were going to say something else, then

turned away, shoulders set and never a backward glance.

Methos watched him, praying MacLeod would heed his warning and spirit

Cassandra away -- but it was unlikely. He suspected too much and unless

Methos found a permanent solution and quickly, there would be nothing he

could do to keep Mac from pursuing Kronos to one of their deaths.

Allies would have been nice, but there were none. He had ever been a

favorite of Silas' but the big man enjoyed the companionship and

camaraderie of his "Brothers." His needs were simple and

straightforward. Delaying as long as possible Methos returned to the

base to find Kronos waiting for him, a genial smile on his face as he

lounged indolently in a chair.

"Your bomb did not go off, Methos. Not much of a plan, was it?"

"It makes no difference. We move on to the next step-"

Kronos got to his feet and advanced, smiling more broadly when Methos

did not yield his ground. "Did MacLeod take your warning well?"

Methos kept his breathing even, but his stomach clenched tightly. Had

Kronos been following him?

"I know you better than you know yourself, brother," Kronos said

slipping an arm around Methos' shoulders, lips pressed close to his ear.

"Does he well and truly hate you now? Have you cast him aside forever?

Driven him away? I thought that might be your plan -- I liked mine

better. I want MacLeod to come here. But you knew that already, didn't

you, Methos? It's why you've been trying so hard to keep him away." He

was still smiling, but it had changed and Methos grew instantly wary but

did not resist when Kronos reached up to ease his coat off his shoulders

then reach inside the folds and relieve him of his sword. "My dearest

brother, that's what makes you my perfect right arm," Kronos said

casually, making a show of testing the level and balance of the blade

before reversing his grip on the hilt. "We think alike. We always have.

Now we have a guest -- someone MacLeod still cares about. She's been

asking for you." Kronos asked, bringing Methos' blade up to its owner's

throat.

Methos leaned in to the steel, letting his own smile show. "Well, then,

we should prepare for MacLeod to come here."

Kronos laughed and pressed him back, sword point lowering to mid chest

as he forced Methos against the wall, his smile growing colder. "I

already have."

Pressed against the wall, Methos fought to put them on equal mental

ground again, tracking Kronos' thinking desperately. "Did you send

Caspian or Silas?"

All the time part of him cursed the fact that he'd have to deny the

Scotsman again; doubting he had the strength it would take. That part

controlling his heart leapt with joy at the chance to gaze in the depths

of the earth brown eyes he yearned to drown in once more.

Kronos chuckled in surprise and appreciation. "Both," he said and then

the smile was gone. Without another word or any warning he reversed his

grip on the sword and struck Methos across the face with enough force to

drive him to his knees. "Which leaves me to deal with you," Kronos said

harshly, crushing Methos' hopes as quickly as he'd raised them.

Methos rolled as the booted foot came at him, catching the kick along

his hip rather than his ribs, but Kronos had no intention of letting him

evade his punishment. He crouched beside Methos, dropping his knee

sharply against the heaving chest and held him.

"I am extremely disappointed in you, brother. There was a time when I

thought only Caspian thought with his cock, but you seem to have the

same problem. Did you really think I believed you would abandon MacLeod

-- knowing his penchant for noble causes? You think I don't know it's

him you think of, feel, smell and taste every time I touch you? I share

with my brothers, not with anyone else!" His fingers twisted in Methos'

shirt, dragging him to his feet and slamming him against the wall again

with enough force to nearly render Methos unconscious. The strong

fingers dug into Methos' hair, yanking his head back, a knee pressed

between his thighs and driven upward with enough force to drag a sharp

cry from the other Immortal.

"It would seem three thousand years has been long enough for you to

forget how we first met -- and how you had to earn the right to call

yourself a Horseman," Kronos snarled. "Shall I begin your lessons anew,

Methos? Perhaps some quality time spent with Caspian will sharpen your

memory. If I had planned a little better I'd have had them bring MacLeod

back alive and show him how quickly you learn."

Another blow across his face sent Methos reeling against the high rail

overlooking the open boat bay below, blood dripping to make a barely

noticeable splash against the black water. Kronos fists drove into his

back between his shoulder blades, almost sending him tumbling over the

rail. He clung fiercely to the metal only to gag and choke as the steel

sinews of Kronos' arm snaked around his throat, pressing him more firmly

against the rail

"He won't be coming to save you, Methos," Kronos rasped in his ear. "And

you have failed miserably at saving him. But with him dead, I have no

more need for the witch-so maybe you can save someone after all --

again. How ironic that the one you care the least about, the one who

probably hates you most of all, is the only one you will be able to

save," Kronos said and released him. Allowing Methos to drop to all

fours as he gasped for breath.

Kronos crouched in front of him, laying Methos' sword and the keys to

Cassandra's cell on the floor in front of him c