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 casually. He grasped the

dark hair again and jerked Methos' head up to meet the defiance in the

hazel eyes.

"Do your good deed in memory of your lover, Methos. Spend some time

remembering his taste and feel. I have an errand to run -- a message to

deliver to the leaders of Bordeaux -- I need to make sure they

understand they shouldn't drink the water. Because when I come for you

-- and it won't be long -- we will begin your lessons again," Kronos

said and struck him once more, opening a gash in his cheek and sending

him sprawling sideways. Methos curled up but not in time to avoid the

near bone shattering kick to his groin. Kronos left him them, nearly

insensate and gasping.

Methos' watering eyes fixed on the sword just outside his current reach,

darkness closing over his mind as he realized Kronos had left it

deliberately. Not because he thought Methos no threat with steel, but

because the hilt still bore traces of old blood -- a reminder of things

that had been -- A promise of things to come.

***********

"Don't expect rescue from MacLeod," Methos said, fingers already working

the keys into the lock. "He's dead." Cassandra stared at him in shock

and surprise, her expression almost comical as he opened the door and

stepped back.

"You're lying," she hissed, pressing herself against the bars -- getting

as far away from him as possible.

"Don't be more of a fool that you already are, Cassandra. Get out.

Kronos has no more use for you alive and unharmed. Your worth as bait

for MacLeod is at an end," Methos snapped, hardly able to believe he

could talk about Mac's death so dispassionately. His own rage and

despair were burning close to the surface and Cassandra would be an easy

enough target.

Except Mac had cared for her. Possibly even loved her once -- then, now.

It made no difference any longer. It was enough to pay for her freedom.

One last gesture of life in memory of his love's existence before he

hurled himself headlong into Kronos' nightmares.

He stepped back further, clearing the way for her. "Unless you have some

suicidal desire to be a plaything for Silas or Caspian, take the high

road, woman," he said evenly.

She took a step forward, then another, emerging from her cell

cautiously. "His death is on your hands," she said as she cleared her

prison.

Methos remained silent but his fingers tightened on his sword hilt.

Cassandra saw it for the warning it was and sidled away only to stop as

Kronos' bellow of rage rang through the base. Footsteps rang on the

metal stairs and Methos and Cassandra stared upward to see Kronos and

Silas descending.

...And Silas. It took a moment for Methos to grasp the fact that Caspian

was not with them. That there was no third presence to be felt.

"Two of you and he still gets away!" Kronos was livid, Silas hanging

back lest the anger be turned on him.

"I will go look for him -- " Silas said then stopped before he ran into

Kronos.

"You lied. He's alive!" Cassandra taunted.

[Couldn't have said it better,] Methos thought but pulled his sword up,

for one brief moment feeling as a newborn child might -- unsullied,

washed clean -- brand new. In the next moment he strengthened his

resolve to keep his lies the truth. Kronos wouldn't give up on MacLeod

yet. Not unless Methos made the choice for him -- permanently.

He thought it impossible that he could keep his thoughts out of his

expression. MacLeod lived! They'd failed. Nothing mattered any longer,

yet the wheels of their regrouping already turned at incredible speed

and he wasn't sure he had the strength or will to slow them down. He'd

just given his very life over to Kronos, and believing his lover dead,

had cared little for his fate. What did the rest matter? But the spark

of life...of living that Mac had offered him still dangled like a golden

carrot. The other half of his soul still breathed and the gods had

proven it in their fickleness. A spark of hope flared slightly in its

bank of cold ashes.

He never thought for a moment that just because the Highlander lived,

that their moment in the sun could shine again. He'd made sure of that.

When all else swirled in a myriad of murky uncertainty, he'd ensured the

hatred of his beloved. Of that much he was certain. But something inside

Methos clawed its way to the surface, grasping at MacLeod's code of

chivalry and justice...of life, before sinking again for the third time.

If he didn't move now...redeem some small portion of himself, he had no

doubt he would never see that flame again. The future would be Kronos'

indeed.

"Get out," he murmured and Cassandra heard him, edging away again as

Kronos resumed his slow advance.

"Yes, Cassandra, get out," Kronos said coldly. "I have no use for you at

all any longer -- but you..." His blade came up to point at Methos.

"He'll come for you. Wonder what he'll find?"

"Go..." Methos hissed once more at Cassandra and heard her move, never

letting his eyes stray from Kronos' face.

"It would seem that Methos and I have some ground rules left to lay..."

Kronos purred to Silas and the giant frowned but moved as Kronos did to

flank Methos. Punishment for transgressions made sense to Silas -- even

when he wasn't sure what they were.

Kronos made sure Methos could not try for the stairs and Silas blocked

the escape route Cassandra had taken. Trapped between them Methos fought

and more blood than his own ended up slicking the floor before he was

pinned to the cell, Silas' meaty hands gripping his wrists until his

hands lost all feeling and Kronos' long dagger buried in his stomach

just above the waistband of his jeans.

With Silas holding him and weakened by blood loss and pain, Methos quit

fighting. Kronos didn't want his head -- not yet. But he wanted. Oh,

gods, yes -- he wanted vengeance. He wanted payment in pain and blood

for Methos' deceptions -- for his deceit -- his infidelity. Kronos

stepped away; gathering up ropes and binding Methos spread-eagled

against the bars before pulling his knife out.

"Cassandra will find the Highlander for us, Silas," Kronos said, almost

calmly. "Go and wait for them. Let me know when they arrive."

The quiet tone motivated Silas far more than a threat or shout could do

and he moved away, casting one look at Methos in regret. Not for what

was to happen, but that Methos had been foolish enough to provoke Kronos

beyond reason.

"It always comes back to us -- to we two, does it not, Methos?" Kronos

said almost sadly, trailing the bloodied tip of his dagger along Methos'

jaw. "Or it should have. We are meant to be together -- from the start.

Can't you see that? Tell me you care nothing for this infant highland

boy. Tell me you will be my brother, by right arm -- mine, until the end

of time," the tone was almost pleading as Kronos leaned in close, his

breath warming Methos' cheek.

Death lay in that soft caress of air. Kronos would not let him live to

betray him again -- but he wanted to. Methos could smell the desire --

the need in the other man -- the same way he could smell the dank, musty

air. He had never bothered to ask why Kronos was determined that Methos

remained with him -- why after centuries, Kronos would be willing to

even pretend to trust him when he showed no such consideration for

anyone else.

A word and Methos might escape the worst of Kronos' anger. A lie and

Kronos would believe him -- again.

And then what? Start this damnable dance over?

"No."

One word. Yes or no decided his fate and Methos knew he had pushed

Kronos across the line for the last time. His head was forfeit but not

immediately and he made no effort to hide the scream of agony as Kronos'

dagger plunged into his shoulder, ripping downward through his shirt and

across his breast. The second cut caught him across the cheek even as

Kronos ripped at the snap on his jeans, tearing the zipper and the

fabric. His sword was plunged into the left pants leg to rip the denim,

the backside of the blade's edge leaving a long furrow of fire along

Methos' leg.

There was no finesse as Kronos stripped him, cut the clothing from him

and left him naked and bleeding. "What you are so willing to give to

your Scotsman I will take as has always been my right!" Kronos snarled,

opening his own jeans to pull out his cock and rubbing it quickly to

attention. "You may have wanted his gentle touches, Methos. But it is

mine you will remember for the rest of your very short life."

An arm snaked around his waist, jerking him forward almost more than his

bonds would allow. The grip so strong he felt his ribs begin to creak as

pain shot up his spine and buried itself in his brain. The ropes tore at

his wrists and ankles as Kronos braced one booted foot against the bars,

wedging his knee behind Methos at the small of his back, forcing his

pelvis forward. Kronos held up his dagger in front of the pain-glazed

eyes. "Remember this lover, Methos?" Kronos demanded. His hand squeezed

around the blade until blood ran. "Meet a new one -- " Kronos hissed and

reversed his grip, presenting the bloodied blade, face contorted in rage

and anticipation. And despair? Methos could not be sure -- would never

know after that moment passed from confusion and pain to pain alone.

Then there was nothing but pain and the sound of his own screams

deafening him and drowning out all thought -- all awareness -- and

severing Methos from his one last longing claim to any hope at all.

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

Silas' warning had been timely -- MacLeod was on his way but Cassandra

had not yet surfaced. She would though. Kronos had no doubts at all

about that. She would want to see for herself the bodies. More fool she

for thinking it would be the bodies she hoped for -- well, one might be.

A minute, maybe less, and Kronos would hold all the cards his little

drama demanded. He turned back to his former "Brother," To the man he

called both lover and slave now. Methos was still gasping to quell his

pain; the dark head bent forward, muscles spasming throughout the

slender bloodied frame. "Did you hear that, Methos? Your lover is close

-- sorry, ex-lover. Your hero. I will have to test his heroism -- hate

for him not be worthy of you. One life against thousands. Which will he

choose? Can you guess? Will he think you are worth saving? Or is he here

because I am worth killing? Trying to kill?" Gentle fingers lifted the

captive's chin, Kronos smiling at his handiwork on the ruin of the face.

"Don't you want to try and save him? Make me an offer, Methos. One I

can't refuse."

"Everything...anything..." The whisper was so soft, Kronos had to lean

in to hear it and then kissed the bloodied mouth carefully, catching the

near sob his slave offered.

"Too little, too late, Methos," Kronos said. "What would MacLeod think

if he heard that, I wonder? But he won't. It will be our secret -- to

our graves," Kronos said and fit the twisted and knotted kerchief

between the swollen lips and past the teeth. Tying it carefully and

tightly enough to elicit another whimper. His hands went still at the

back of Methos' head as another Immortal's presence made itself known.

"He's heeerrrreeee!" Kronos laughed and set his stage, letting the head

drop back down as he pressed the tip of his knife into a gash that began

at the base of Methos' throat and dragged it downward. He watched in

never ending fascination as blood welled into the wound and traveled to

mingle with the other fluids and stains now dyeing the ivory skin.

"Kronos!"

The smile on Kronos' face had stopped lesser men in their tracks. But

MacLeod seemed oblivious to either the implication or the power as he

came down the steps, body tightly controlled, handsome face twisted in

an anger and despair that warmed Kronos' heart. He stopped a few feet

from them when Kronos idly pressed the flat of his blade against the

unprotected throat of his captive.

"Is this what you expected to see, Highlander? Did you come to my

Camelot like Arthur on his white charger, expecting to save the witch?

Well, you're too late. Our own Galahad here has already seen to that

and look what his reward is..." He stepped back to reveal the full

extent of his workmanship. The tortures had all been recent...the gashes

and cuts and bruises unhealed. Not one inch of Methos' body remained

undamaged. MacLeod felt nausea rise in his stomach as the slender body

moved. Methos was neither dead nor unconscious, but he was gagged. The

gag tied as tightly as the bonds securing his wrists to the stanchions,

ropes cutting into the thin flesh of his wrists and ankles nearly to the

bone. "Our Methos has stamina...he does have that..." Kronos purred

catching the dark head and yanking it back to expose his face. A twin

cut to the gash permanently marring Kronos' face now scored Methos' face

-- the left eye swollen shut. But Kronos had not stopped there. He had

extended the slice downward, was still doing so as he picked up the

continuous line that faded right below Methos' left nipple. His knife

dug into the flesh and was dragged downward, the body arching away in a

tight, mute protest against the pain. Kronos stopped just below Methos'

abdomen, driving the blade deep into the flat-planed hip. Methos' scream

was muffled against the gag, the hazel eyes fever bright in agony and

warning.

"What do you want, Kronos?" MacLeod demanded.

"I have what I want," Kronos sneered and crouched running his hands

along the bloodied skin. "Have you sampled this yet, MacLeod? Have you

tasted what our sweet Methos has to offer?" His hands crept along the

flaccid flesh at Methos' groin. "Have you ever seen him given over

entirely to passion and desire and lust? It's a sight to behold,

Highlander. And if you have, does he take you or let you take him? Do

you take him roughly or sweetly? Do you gentle that wild ancient spirit

or rush to meet it? Does his taste burn through you as it does through

me? Three millennia and I still crave the taste and feel of him. I will

miss him. Will you? You'll never find another lover like him, MacLeod. I

never have."

Kronos grinned at the Highlander. "No woman's arms could bring me the

ecstasy he does. No lover before or since has ever submitted to me with

such passion. Do you feel that way as well? Do you not feel like the

most powerful man in the world when his body arches into yours, when he

refuses to cry out or surrender until you do?" Kronos' smile grew wider

and a flush tinted MacLeod's tanned cheeks as Kronos described Methos in

throes of passion. "Do you want to give him anything he wants when your

cock is sheathed inside him and he moans your name?"

MacLeod tensed as Kronos brought the blade up again, pressing the tip

into the sensitive flesh just below Methos' navel and pressing inward.

Blood flowed over his hand as Methos twitched. "His passions are his

only power over me. Did you think he had more? Did you really believe

that he was my equal? He was useful, as Caspian and Silas were useful.

Quick mind, a hot body -- willing or no. There's no need for lies now,

Highlander. Did he tell you how he came to us? He told me he has changed

-- but he hasn't. He changed for me -- for a thousand years. Became as

bad as I am, used me as his template. Raped and pillaged and killed like

a professional. But the moment we parted he went back to what he had

been. A man who would fight when he must, kill when he had to but not

for the pleasure of it -- only the necessity of it. That is what you

wanted to know is it not, Highlander? You still need to know if he is

worth saving -- you with your tight little code of morals and ethics. Is

the monster he was worth saving?"

"Yes..." Mac hissed, fingers tightening around his sword.

"Very well. Then here is the offer. You have a choice. You can save

Methos or," he held up a remote. "You can save Bordeaux. His life

weighed against thousands. Appropriate don't you think? The trigger is

set for thirty minutes. You have just enough time to get to the

reservoir -- and I'll tell you exactly where -- and you can disarm the

bomb. Stop the virus. No time to spare. If you engage me -- they will

all die. If you do not then Methos will."

Kronos laughed and then drove his blade deeper and ripped it to the

side. Methos screamed as the sharp steel tore through his abdomen and

Mac had no time to think even as Kronos depressed the remote.

MacLeod lunged, but only landed in the empty spot where Kronos had been

beside Methos. His nostrils were assaulted by the stench from the man

against the cage. Blood, urine and semen blended to form a noxious mess

of dried fluids caked across his entire body. Although his mouth was

gagged, Methos spoke to Mac with his eyes, pleading. Duncan knew not if

it was for his life, for what he'd done, or to save the city under which

Kronos had just placed a death warrant. And he had no time to make sure.

Swiftly he used his own knife to cut the bindings around wrists and

ankles and easing the body to the floor before turning again to the

madman who'd thought to regain the power he'd forfeited with the loss of

Methos by his side.

"You're a dead man, Kronos." Duncan bent his knees slightly and spread

his arms, knife in one hand and sword in the other. Kronos prepared for

the challenge and couldn't help but admire the masculine figure before

him, temporarily transformed to a dark lionine animal protecting his

own. The long hair was loosened and swung with each movement of

MacLeod's head and bunched muscles protested against the confining cloth

of his shirt. Methos had chosen his protector well.

He knew the Scotsman had made his choice, but couldn't help taunting him

once more before engaging in battle. "The bomb is secured just below the

watch house on the dam, under the third support. Black, then white, then

red. You remember that, Highlander. Twenty-nine minutes and thirty

seconds," Kronos laughed with a chuckle, Methos' blood still running

over his free hand to spill to the floor. His other held his sword,

watching for his opponent's first move.

Duncan MacLeod knew the importance of hanging on to every last thread of

rationale, though. He'd won too many fights simply on the basis of

keeping a level head. This would be his most difficult by far. He tried

not to look in the corner where Methos was stirring, ungagging himself

and massaging wrists that still bled freely. The few seconds it had

taken him to make his decision to fight Kronos had given the dazed

Immortal time to begin his recovery. But all Mac could see from the

corner of his eye was a mass of bleeding flesh. The muscles in his jaw

worked with his rage and he drew upon centuries of warrior training to

breathe evenly and succinctly.

Kronos would have none of that. "Ah, but I see the good people of

Bordeaux will have to wait a little longer for their hero, eh?" And the

Scotsman could hold back no longer.

"You'll wish I'd only taken your head when I'm done, Kronos," he ground

out through clenched teeth. The two men were evenly matched skill-wise.

It would all come down to who was the coolest...the calmest -- the

luckiest.

Methos watched from his position on the floor, willing his body to heal.

The wound in his side was the slowest to mend, being the deepest and

freshest of all the others. The memory of ripping flesh and tearing

tissue almost made him cry out, but he stuffed one fisted hand into his

mouth to muffle the sound. MacLeod didn't need that right now and he

would not shame himself by whimpering like a small child. Had it been

utter foolishness to believe he could best Kronos after all this time?

That he could be the controller rather than the controllee for a change?

The dance had been too treacherous and he was far too out of practice.

The fine line he'd tread had done naught but slice his feet into

ribbons.

A sigh escaped as Methos felt the skin, muscle and tissue over his side

begin to heal. Duncan seemed to be holding his own, although Kronos had

the strength of the mad on his side. He knew it was terribly cliché, but

Methos couldn't help a feeling of pride swell inside as he watched his

Highlander defend that damnable righteous code of honor. He tensed when

Kronos moved in quickly, slicing the air under MacLeod's arm, ripping

shirt and skin alike. Duncan sidestepped and never showed whatever pain

may have accompanied the maneuver. Methodical and clean. That's how he'd

remained alive and that's how he would win tonight.

Then a movement at the doorway caught his eye and Methos lurched to his

feet, intent on stopping the intruder from interference. Silas scanned

the room and stopped at the figure leaning heavily against the wall,

hands still holding his side.

"I thought you were one of us again," Silas sounded almost like a

pouting child.

"There was no *us*, Silas. Only Kronos using those who would fall under

his spell once more." He couldn't believe the two of them were standing

there talking so conversationally. He used the time to inch his way

toward the sword Kronos had tossed away just before taking him. Silas'

broad, curved blade hung loosely in his right hand, but Methos wasn't

fooled by the casualness of his gesture.

Silas watched the fighters intently and Methos could tell he was ready

to jump in should his leader fall or require help.

"Forget it! You'll have to go through me to get any further in this

room."

Silas seemed surprised by this and turned large, blue eyes on Methos.

"But, Brother, you wouldn't fight me -- not over an outsider." Methos'

relationship with Mac was totally beyond the large blonde's ken. He

honestly didn't understand the line Methos had drawn or how close he'd

come to stepping over it. Subtle emotions were things Silas had little

experience with.

Rather than verbalize his response, Methos finally reached the spot

where his sword lay and reached down to sweep it up quicker than the

large man could react. Grasping the hilt with both hands, the darker of

the two circled around, forcing Silas to turn his back on the other

fighters. He stopped when Silas just stood, staring at him in curiosity.

Then it dawned on Methos; here he stood, ready for battle, sword in

hand, covered in blood and totally naked. His bare feet slapped against

the flagstones as he used this unfortunate state of affairs to his

advantage. He felt lighter, more agile -- he could maneuver with ease,

something Silas would never be able to do.

The muscles in his legs and arms worked with each movement and neither

opponent realized what a vision of symmetrical perfection he displayed

as each maneuver was executed with precise grace and balance. Methos was

fully healed now and without the bulky covering of his usual garb, was

as a marble statue, come alive.

Before Silas could attack, Methos tried to reason with the only one of

them who'd ever shown him real kindness. "You can walk away now,

*Brother*," he emphasized what they'd meant to each other at one time.

"Kronos is dead. He'll never leave this building alive and you don't

have to follow." He knew he'd let Silas leave if he chose, but the man's

next words killed any hope of that happening.

"And it's because we are Brothers that I fight you now. We cannot be

divided again but by death." So be it.

Methos spun around and skidded to a halt, feeling the cool floor sliding

under his feet. His heart was not in the battle at first. He fought

Silas half-heartedly until the gentle giant's swing took a chunk of meat

out of his thigh the size of a grapefruit. He'd have to kill him and

there was no getting around it. But the next moments made him wonder if

he'd waited too late to enter the fight seriously. Blood from his newest

wound flowed down his leg, making his purchase unsteady and weak. His

foot slipped in the sticky fluid, causing him to fall right at Silas'

feet. Rolling to the side, the wide blade barely missed his head, but

rather sparked off the stones of the floor.

Staggering to his feet with Silas hot on his heels, Methos practically

ran into MacLeod and Kronos, their fight having moved to just a few feet

from them. The deep brown eyes that once had meant security, safety and

love now spoke of revenge and questions unanswered. Kronos was goading

Mac on further with his barbs of Methos' humiliation at his hands.

[Don't listen to him] Methos projected. [I am nothing to you anymore.]

But that small smoldering bit of hope flared before easing once more

into the darkness of Methos' soul. Had he imagined the look of

reassurance in his Highlander's eyes...the slight twitching of lips

meant to support and lend strength?

He continued to avoid Silas' sword, swinging away from the other battle,

taking the danger with him. Once Methos' blade connected solidly with

that of his opponent and the vibration dancing up his arm nearly lost

the contest then and there. He snuck another look at MacLeod, now

pushing Kronos back with the pure might of justice. Methos gripped his

sword firmly and sidestepped Silas once more, but this time he recovered

much faster than the lumbering beast of a man before him. With all the

grace of a cat, the dark head followed but a split second behind the

arms that were swinging his sword like a toy. He could not have

choreographed the move more perfectly. Silas' head arched through the

air as Methos' body smoothly executed the deadly ballet, spinning to a

halt with arms outstretched and head held high. The last thing he saw

before the first jolt of quickening hit him was the culmination of the

other performance being played out in the room.

Duncan had had Kronos on the defensive for the last several moments. His

will to win enhanced by the knowledge that Methos fought beside him

again. Finally he had the Horseman leader on his knees and there was

nowhere else to go. It was only a matter of getting his blade through

the weakened defenses of his opponent. And Kronos saw it too.

"Just remember Highlander. The next time you suck the cock of your

lover--the next time you take him tenderly in your arms--it was always

me he wanted. It's me he sees when he's fucking you. He was my whore

first," The mocking words were the last Kronos would utter in this life.

The room was charged instantly with the combined energies of over three

thousand millennia. Ancient screams echoed through Duncan's head and he

was thrown back against the cold, damp wall, but had not the strength to

even hold himself against it. The Highlander fell to his knees, his

head jerked backwards, giving him a fair view of Methos, physically but

feet away -- yet hundreds of miles removed in the throes of Silas'

quickening. Then even in death, the shock and horror of Kronos and his

twisted mind ripped the last vestiges of control from MacLeod, just as

Kronos had taken control in life. He never heard the low moan, building

in intensity, coming from the man whose life he'd just saved.

It began low, deep...somewhere from the very pits of his bowels. The

first minute of grief for Silas and what he'd been forced to do was

replaced by an overpowering sense of depravity and sensory overload. He

was not prepared for the primitive psyche of the gentlest of the

Horseman. Silas had been a hedonist in the purest sense of the word.

When he was hungry he ate, tired he slept, what he wanted he took. So

simple, yet the current flowing through Methos now was anything but. A

combination of sadness, need, want -- a craving so animalistic in nature

no modern language could voice its cry.

Head thrown back, spine arching from the tongue of fires flowing up his

legs and through his groin, Methos groaned his need. Long, sensuous

fingers reached out for tangible evidence that he'd survived the battle

and found grounding in the soft flesh of the other immortal, oblivious

in the midst of yet another battle with Kronos.

The instant Methos touched MacLeod he felt the earth settle beneath him

and the need grew stronger. Hands supporting his weight completed the

sense of grounding. He let his head fall forward, shoulders heaving

with the effort not to cry, laugh and shout the joy he felt. Duncan was

alive and it didn't matter any longer that Silas was dead by his hand or

the city of Bordeaux might breathe its last after tonight. Lean,

sensuous hips rolled into the feeling, pressing downward as if

remembering the luxurious feel of a well-muscled, tall figure beneath

him.

Then he was wrenched back, the connection lost, torn from him with a

pain no less fierce than the tortures Kronos has inflicted. And it was

Kronos still, and Silas, and Mac, the three presences twisted together

in the last agonizing burst of the Quickenings. Methos heard Duncan

scream but whether from pain or loss, he could not tell as he was

overwhelmed by Mac' sense of loathing, his disgust and hatred of all

that the Horsemen were and had been. His own loathing and weakness rose

up to meet his lover's and for one brief flash he saw through MacLeod's

eyes, saw himself through Duncan's horror and grief. [How can you

grieve for what you hate?] was the last coherent thought he had before

the grief welled up within and drove him once more to his hands and

knees.

Methos was certain Mac had seen himself through other eyes as well. The

Highlander's presence was the only anchor he could cling to, hold on to

while his past ripped through both of them. Kronos' past...Silas'...even

Caspian reared his head amidst the death and despair, until he could no

longer separate his own history from theirs or MacLeod's. Then the sweet

agony of desire was on him again, his body convulsing under the force of

it with the intensity and ecstasy of an orgasm but without the release.

When it was done with him, Methos could not move, nor cared to.

Everything he had ever wanted had been shattered under the force of the

Quickening. There was not enough hope in him to even sustain his tiny

prize. MacLeod loathed him and the mere miracle of the Highlander's life

was no longer enough of a shield against the open wounds in his soul

left behind from the combined deaths of his brothers and against Mac's

hatred. MacLeod's presence burned into what was left of his soul, tried

to fill the gaps and failed and Methos let the building sobs in his

chest spill out, denied any end to his losses. He was only peripherally

aware that another Immortal loomed close, that he could not, even if he

wanted to, raise a hand in his own defense.

"Cassandra!" Mac's voice ripped though Methos' sobs as he finally

identified who stood over him.

His own personal angel of death. Thank the gods...

"You want him to live?" She sounded incredulous. Methos was wondering

why she even bothered to ask.

"I want him to live!" Mac said in a tone so dragged with pain and

weariness it but added to Methos' own.

He heard her move. Heard the air sliced with the edge of a blade when

Mac's voice snapped out again. "Cassandra! I want him to LIVE!"

But why? Methos could no more comprehend that choice than he could the

fact that Cassandra obeyed MacLeod's command.

The clatter of steel dropping hollowly against the floor made him flinch

and Cassandra's footsteps faded away. The echoes ringing against the

concrete and steel seemed harsh and sharp to his overtaxed senses and

Methos cared not at all as he dragged air into his lungs. Mac's protest

barely registered in his mind. The fact that his lover...no, the

Highlander...not his any longer.... The fact that Mac was able to rub

two thoughts together and come up with words was beyond Methos' ability

to comprehend. Even when the words were directed at him...as they were

now. Hands touched his shoulders and he flinched, pulling away but they

were relentless as he was turned.

"Methos?" Concern. How very odd, Methos thought as he tried to

concentrate on what Duncan was saying. "I have to get to the reservoir,"

Mac said but his hands pressed against the still healing wound in

Methos' thigh, the less agonizing one in his side. Touching, checking.

"You have time," Methos managed. That's right -- Mac still had to save

Bordeaux. He was the Hero after all and Methos was.... was what, now? "I

fucked with the timer," Gods his voice sounded normal even to his own

ears. "It's off by an extra thirty minutes or so. I didn't want you to

have to cut it too close."

The hands fell away slowly and Methos dared to look into the dark eyes

so wide in shock and surprise. "Me? You thought I...."

"That was the plan, Mac. Save Bordeaux. Save the world," Methos murmured

and fought for his feet. A strong hand caught his arm, pulling him

upward and he leaned against the cage. How can Mac be so steady after

*that*? He wondered, not noticing that the hand was still on his arm.

Nausea reeled through him, Silas' death like some bitter pill he would

be swallowing forever.

"Go on...," he managed. "I'll get dinner started."

The joke fell flat while Mac stared at him with something akin to horror

in his face. [What did I expect? What did you expect, Mac? How could you

possibly ever understand? This...these games of Kronos' are so far out

of your ken you could never understand. But you'll remember...that I was

his whore, his lackey...his...whatever he needed *when* he needed it...]

Finally he felt the hand, the touch burning into him, warming his skin

but not quite reaching his soul or his heart. He jerked away clinging to

the bars. Concentrating on staying upright, on holding his little prize

with both hands so Mac could not try and wrench it away from him. Mac

was so close -- heat pouring off his body, strength there waiting to be

taken, to be used.

A hand on the back of his neck and Methos went absolutely still. "Be

here when I get back. Can you manage that much?"

"I have no place to go." That much, at least, was true. But having no

place to go didn't mean he couldn't go anyway.

"Methos -- "

"I bought you time, Mac. Not forever," he said harshly and still would

not look at the face again, afraid of what he might see -- or might not

see.

One stroke across his shoulders, as gentle as a kiss but not as

satisfying. It would be the only good-bye they would have. Methos

remained still until those steps faded as well, until Mac's presence no

longer sent a mix of pain and pleasure along his nerves. The presence

gone, the sense of loss was too immediate...too overwhelming and he sank

to his knees again. A few minutes to regain his strength, his will. His

bag was already packed. He could be out of the base and halfway to

anywhere before Mac returned. He shivered at a movement of air and found

a bitter smile for himself. Putting clothing on was probably a good

idea.

The sharp, harsh murmur/feel of another caught him off guard. Not

MacLeod. He knew Mac's signature like no other's but this one was old --

rough and smooth, stressed. He lifted his head.

"Hello, Cassandra," it was inane but he had rather expected her. Mac's

plea for his life had apparently lost its force the moment the

Highlander was out of sight.

"I couldn't do it in front of him, but I can now," Cassandra said

coldly. "And tell him you came after me. He'll believe me."

"He won't," Methos said. Whatever else Mac might believe of him, he knew

Methos would not attack Cassandra -- had to know Methos didn't care

enough to try. But Mac would care if Methos killed her? One more nail in

the coffin of a love that was never meant to be. Despise her as he

might, Methos could not, in any conscience, blame the woman in front of

him for the depth of her hatred. "So do you just kill me or do I get to

fight for my life?" he asked knowing the answer already.

"What do you think, monster?" Cassandra hissed and Methos rolled as her

blade came down. He was unsteady on his feet. The Quickenings he and Mac

had shared had all but healed him but he still felt disoriented and not

quite attached to his body. He dived for his sword, feeling the tip of

Cassandra's rake across his shoulder. He came up under her blade, barely

able to avoid having her swing rip open his throat.

She had gotten better over the centuries -- never Kronos' match, but

then neither had Methos been. Her attacks were further fueled by hatred,

by betrayal and a passion for revenge that burned as brightly as Kronos'

passion for domination had.

But there was no real doubt of the outcome and Cassandra knew it.

Planned for it as he held her down, sword pressed to the white column of

her throat. "I'll haunt you forever and Duncan will never forgive you

for this -- any of it," she snarled at him, claw-like fingers digging

into the wrist that held her throat.

"Yes, well, you've made sure of it, haven't you?" he asked softly and

swung. Her body dropped and rolled to the edge of the slab, the splash

barely noticeable in the black water. With a sob of rage and despair

Methos flung his blade aside, heard it hit metal and splinter, the steel

snapping and dropping in two bell peals of defeat.

Cassandra's age alone guaranteed that her Quickening would be at least

as devastating as the one he had shared so recently with Mac. [It

doesn't matter if you haunt me, witch. Mac was there long before and

will remain long after,] he thought as the elemental forces coalesced

and gathered against him. He dropped to his knees as the first burst of

energy began arcing, feeling Cassandra's hatred rise up as palpably as

the winds -- then he was driven back as both that hatred and the arcs of

lighting struck him at the same time. They drove him back as he twisted,

trying to escape the pain and the emotion and the underlying swell of

sensation that was both exquisite and soul destroying. The floor fell

away beneath him and his grounding contact with anything failed him. Ice

cold water closed around him, the elemental forces driving him deeper

into the water, pain causing what little air he had in his lungs to be

expelled in a massive convulsion. The darkness that finally took him was

as black and cold as the water he drowned in -- but even that dark place

seemed filled with light compared to the hollow despair and sense of

loss that overcame him at his death.

*******

He could breathe. It hurt to do so -- the ache and burn familiar to

anyone who has ever drowned. He coughed and the burn grew harsher but it

also hurt too much to scream or moan or do anything but whimper.

He was cold. The kind of coldness that scarred bone. But there was

warmth close by; he could feel it in isolated bands across his back and

arms, more pressed against his chest as he moved -- as he was moved. It

was a damp warmth, though. Warm enough but smelling of sodden cloth and

the stench of fish and brine. Of blood and sweat and something else. A

scent that had only one source and that was as imprinted into his

olfactory senses as the name was branded into his heart.

"Mac...?" he managed it, afraid to open his eyes lest it be more dreams,

more fantasies, more torment. His voice sounded hoarse to his own ears.

"I'm here," gently said, the voice thick with emotion and raw in its own

right. The warmth grew more palpable as he was held, a hand rubbing the

coldness from his flesh, the voice washing a bit of ice from his soul.

The voice continued and Methos had to concentrate on picking up what was

being said. "...I thought she had killed you. Then I ...realized you had

killed her. I saw the Quickening on the road on my way back. When I got

here you were in the water and I couldn't see you...your... head..." The

husky voice broke and Methos reached out instinctively to comfort. His

fingers were caught and squeezed almost painfully and he made no sound

and still kept his eyes closed, hearing Mac's heart beat rapidly under

his cheek.

***

Methos barely remembered Mac getting him to the hotel. Once there, the

privacy of their room, in the safety of MacLeod's arms, he slept. He

vaguely recalled being roused from time to time to drink something or be

guided to the bathroom. There had been at least one bath he was sure --

possibly more but it was all indistinct. All he was positive of was that

every time he woke, he woke to the feel of Mac's strong arms holding him

or at least gentling him back into sleep within moments.

Later, Mac told him he'd slept for nearly seventy-two hours straight.

Immortal healing was all very well for wounds but did nothing to

alleviate exhaustion or depression or stress. By the time Methos was

ready to actually take some interest in the day to day necessities of

living, MacLeod was the one looking and acting stressed.

Methos was aware Mac had watched him while he slept-watched over him

protectively and anxiously. Ready to actually think for a change, rather

than react, Methos watched the strain fade like magic from the dark eyes

and the tense mouth eased into a smile at Methos' simple request for

something to drink.

Mac sat next to him as he drank the provided juice, ignoring the

half-hearted demands for a beer, and sweeping the dark silk of Methos'

hair from his forehead as he set the glass aside. Methos might have

crabbed at him for Mac's sudden and incessant need to touch him except

he liked it, wanted it and was embarrassingly susceptible to mild panics

if Mac were not close.

At some point Mac got him clothes -- new clothes and Methos didn't even

ask what had happened to the gear and belongings he had taken to the

base. His sword was here, laid out carefully on the dresser on a piece

of cloth -- both halves of it. The break was jagged -- not something

that could be repaired but Mac had cleaned the steel anyway until it

shone as brightly as the katana lying next to it. There was another

sword there as well, one Methos recognized with a rather morbid

fascination, also cleaned -- Mac having taken better care of Kronos'

blade than the owner ever had.

"I...thought you might want to keep it," Mac said evenly when he found

Methos staring at it.

"Your trophy, MacLeod. Not mine," Methos said unable to get to what

possible reasoning MacLeod had used and then he rose, struggling to get

out of the room -- needing air and space. Mac was all solicitousness,

touches as gentle as if he were handling a wild thing. But he also never

left Methos alone for more than a few moments at a time. The care the

same the Scot would lavish on any wounded creature. Methos sought the

balcony staring out a different Bordeaux than he'd ever really expected

to see -- almost snapping at Mac to leave him alone for a few minutes

when the Warrior followed him silently, nursing a cup of coffee.

"Nice view," Methos said instead trying to lean casually against the

railing. Mac managed it better, putting his back to it and glancing over

his shoulder.

"It is. Cassandra liked it," MacLeod said quietly and Methos looked

away. Time for the judgment, the *now that you're better I think it's

best we went our separate ways* part of the sentence. He sought and

found his tiny prize. He couldn't begrudge Mac his feelings. "...knew

she couldn't let go of her hatred. You had no choice." Methos caught

only the end of Mac's words and then wasn't sure he'd heard them

correctly.

"We always have choices," Methos said because it seemed appropriate to

say something.

"Maybe. You could have chosen to let her take your head. I'm glad you

didn't."

Methos stared at him to find the dark eyes watching him; handsome face

not set in anger or disgust, just a little sad.

A mirthless chuckle escaped Methos. "Yes, well, Kronos said survival is

what I do best."

"I never understood what that meant to you before. You survived more

than I think I'm capable of enduring."

"You can learn to endure anything, MacLeod, given motivation enough."

He spoke, but knew Duncan would never understand the depths he actually

*would* go to for survival.

Mac nodded and it was the Highlander's turn to look away. "Rather an

extreme way to tell me to mind my own business."

"Well, Mac, you don't have such a great track record of doing so and the

subtle approach doesn't always work with you," Methos said. His tiny

prize was burning bright. He could survive this torture as easily as

anything Kronos had offered.

"Did you plan it all -- from the start?"

"Plan what? I only had one plan, Mac. Stay alive."

"And keep me alive? Because that's what this was all about wasn't it?"

Suddenly Mac's voice had turned hard...anger brimming just below the

surface.

"I wanted to keep you out of it."

"Or did you want me in it so I could kill Kronos?"

The protest sprang from mind to lips and stopped there. "If I'd been

able to do it he would have been dead a long time ago," Methos said.

[Gods know I thought about it often enough.] "We were brothers, MacLeod

-- in blood, in war, in everything but birth. Judging him was like

judging myself. For a thousand years he was closer to me than anyone

before or since." [Until you...two years and I can wipe out ten

centuries of inseparatabilty without blinking an eye.]

"And Cassandra?"

"One of a thousand regrets, MacLeod," Methos murmured because it was

true, because he wanted Mac to at least know there was some part of him

that had not been taken over entirely by Kronos' madness.

"Am I one of those regrets?" It was said so softly Methos almost missed

it and then realized Mac had moved in close -- very close and Methos

could do nothing to avoid the look in the dark eyes, nor could he read

what answer Mac wanted to hear.

But he deserved an answer -- if nothing else Mac deserved that much.

Either answer could be the last wedge to drive them apart. Methos

already thought it was inevitable, but he couldn't release the faint

spark of hope. "No," Methos said at last -- offering the last thing he

could to his lover. The truth.

"You were going to leave, disappear, if Cassandra hadn't shown up again,

weren't you?"

"Yes."

"Well, at least I can thank her for that."

"For what? For stopping me? Why?"

Mac actually let a smile warm his face. "Saved me the trouble of having

to search the planet for you -- or at least this part of France."

"Search for -- why in the name of all that's holy would you want to do

that?" Methos said bitterly. "I know what I've done and been, MacLeod.

There isn't any court in the world that can pass judgment on my past."

"Judgment's already been made," Mac said and his hands were empty of the

coffee cup as they slipped over Methos' shoulders, then gently worked

upward along his throat and into his hair. The broad thumbs rubbed

gently at the sensitive points under Methos' ears as his head was tilted

back.

"You were pronounced guilty for being a fool. Someone as old as you

should know better," Mac said softly and then his lips brushed Methos'

eliciting a startled parting that Mac took full advantage of with no

hesitation. Methos wanted to protest but found it lost under the sudden

warmth flooding through him. He was almost afraid to taste the tongue

tasting him, exploring his mouth, renewing its acquaintance with his

feel and texture until Mac started the gentle suction, coaxing him,

inviting him. Methos moaned softly, one hand gripping the rail in a

death grip, his other hand coming up hesitantly to feel the warm cheek,

to stray to the dark hair and finger it.

Methos pulled back first, almost gasping, his body surrendering to the

dull aching need as quickly as it ever had with Kronos. Possibly faster.

His jeans were too tight, the air too warm and he seemed to have caught

a fever of some sort -- he was trembling so violently.

"If I've been judged then what's my sentence? What do I owe?" he asked

shakily, hardly daring to look up.

"First, you're under house arrest until I know you won't try to escape

your punishment," Mac said, his eyes darkening briefly in regret for his

choice of words but Methos barely noticed them. "Then you have to

tolerate the rigid stupidity of your appointed jailer -- that would be

me," he added in case Methos misunderstood and his expression lightened

when the first hint of a smile touched his lover's mouth. "And finally,

after much deliberation and contemplation, you have to forgive your

accuser -- if you can," the last was said without humor but with a hope

that Methos knew was reflected in his own eyes.

"What I've done -- " Methos began.

" -- Is past. I can accept it, Methos. I think I already had before...

before I followed you here. Started to. But there was so much -- we fear

what we don't understand and you were right. I never will understand. I

wasn't there. Who's to say I wouldn't have made the same choices?"

"You wouldn't have," Methos said with conviction. "And as for

forgiveness -- "

Mac's hand pressed against his lips. "Not now. You have to think about

it -- for a really long time. I've constructed this whole new jail for

us to occupy while you serve your sentence. Be a shame for it to go

empty..." Mac said catching his fingers and pressing them to the center

of his chest where his heart was beating solidly, rapidly.

[I could wait long enough for Mac's heart to count off every life I took

-- every life I lost...] Methos thought idly as he nodded, unable to

speak, only to agree. It seemed like a good plan and he started

counting, until Mac's mouth found his again and he lost track and had to

start all over again.

****

Coming out of the darkness was no longer so terrifying as Methos woke,

still disoriented but not wary. Mac lay spooned against him, one

muscular arm across his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, their

legs tangled with not even a sheet between them.

"Go back to sleep, you're safe," Mac's voice was husky with sleep, lips

pressing briefly against Methos' skin to soothe and comfort and his grip

tightened almost imperceptibly.

"How do you know when I'm awake?" Methos asked after a moment. He knew

when Mac woke as well, where he was -- vaguely. MacLeod's presence had

indeed been burned into his soul.

"Practice," Mac said with a chuckle and lifted his head to kiss the bare

shoulder Methos presented as he twisted slightly in the bed. "Maybe

the...the Quickenings we shared. I just know. Your...presence...changes,

like a whisper in my ear."

Methos closed his eyes, unable to stop the small tensing in his body as

he thought of that brief moment when he had been overwhelmed by both

Silas and Kronos' presences -- and Mac's. The last had been his anchor.

Mac pulled at his shoulder, easing him onto his back at the transmission

of that tension, studying him carefully. He touched his lover with a

gentleness that made Methos feel fragile as spun glass.

"I won't break, Mac," Methos whispered.

"No. I'm not sure you can be broken -- although God knows Kronos tried,"

And then it was Mac's turn to shudder and tense. Methos could only

imagine what was seen on the inward turn of his lover's eyes. Not pretty

and not pleasant, obviously. "How he could -- I'll never understand that

kind of ...love..."

Methos had expected disgust, but heard only confusion and concern in the

rich lilt of his lover's voice.

"Hardly love," Methos said, turning on his side to face him -- his turn

to gentle and soothe. "I doubt Kronos ever loved anything in his life --

except power."

"No, it was love," Mac said suddenly, pushing himself up and propping

his head on one hand. "Twisted, possessive -- but it's what he felt. He

would never have taken your head, Methos. No matter what. I didn't know

it at the time -- I'm not sure he did either. But he did love you. Maybe

the only way he knew how."

Methos was silent, knowing there was a question between them again and

not sure how to answer it -- if he could answer it.

"I was his whore, Mac. That's what I thought -- what he thought. If I

loved him at all I never knew it either. And it's not him I see in your

arms. It was you I saw in his -- sometimes. But mostly it was him. I

couldn't have summoned your face for.... to replace Kronos' for what he

wanted...how he wanted."

Mac moved in closer, enfolding him, buffering him against the memories

that brought more pain than the actual events.

"I know...I saw...." Whatever Mac might have seen or garnered from

Kronos Quickening was too much for the Scot to speak of and Methos

understood as he lost himself in the kiss, to the touches that burned

his blood as Mac tried to erase the horror and the betrayal. There was

no comparison between Mac and Kronos -- never had been as Methos gave up

willingly to MacLeod what Kronos had been denied even to his death, the

complete surrender of Methos' ancient soul. Mac's hands and mouth were

everywhere, his urgency no less rapacious than Kronos' but in all else

it was only MacLeod that Methos opened to, mouth and body, spirit and

passion. Being taken had never felt so much like giving as in the

Highlander's arms. Pleasure was heaped upon pleasure as the sure hands

touched and pressed, probed and parted. Mac's mouth closed over his

nipple with gentle pressure then moved lower to trace the hollow of his

hip before tasting him slowly, soft mouth easing the straining hardness

of his cock until Methos was gasping and moaning. He wanted no savagery

even had Mac been capable of it. For every remembered bruise or cut or

pain there was only the soothing balm of kiss and touch, erasing the

memories until Methos was unable to contemplate how easily he had

returned to the darker side of his passions.

"Let me love you," Mac said against his throat as if permission were

needed and Methos gave it wordlessly as he was filled. His moans became

short gasps of pleasure as he arched into the strong embrace, into the

gentle possession. Body straining to merge with his lover until they

found the point of convergence together and he dropped from nightmare

into heaven with Mac's strength carrying him all the way.

And there was more, as he was gentled from his shudders, kissed from

tension's aftermath, and thanked without words. The last alone enough to

allow his tiny prize to bloom into its full potential.

"I do burn for you," Mac said softly, his body covering Methos', cheek

pressed against his chest and still stroking him as Methos threaded his

fingers through the dark mane spread over his skin. "Kronos cut deep

with that. More because I understood it -- and I didn't want to. I

didn't want -- don't want to be anything like him. Not for you, with you

-- or in any way."

"You aren't," Methos reassured him with a faint smile at his Scotsman's

doubts. "And Kronos didn't understand that at all. Passion he could

summon, response and desire but not this. Not this kind of merging when

I can lose myself -- lose all of it and never fear it won't be returned.

Everything about him was about dominance and possession. About taking,

subjugating -- subduing. It made him insane that I would give to you

what I denied him every time -- he could have killed me for it and never

understood. Would have. Tried. Did, more times than I can remember,"

Methos said and Mac pulled himself up against the pillows to draw Methos

into his arms, against his chest.

"And why did you? You suffered...Methos, he wanted you to hurt -- wanted

to hurt you. Wouldn't it have been easier just to give in?"

Silence fell between them for long moments as Methos tried to put into

words both his reasons and his emotions. He would never tell Duncan

about that tiny, secret part that begged for Kronos' domination.

Instead, he concentrated on the obvious.

"Maybe, but he never asked, Mac," he said at last, fingers seeking

MacLeod's and reassured when Mac's hand closed over his. "He took,

assumed -- forced, every part of what we had. Demanded, but never asked.

And because he didn't, I wouldn't. I knew he needed me, wanted me, but

never that he -- "

"And if you had, would it have made a difference?"

"I...I don't know, Mac. I suppose I never will. But it took a thousand

years for me to walk away."

"Patient man," Mac said, a small jest and no accusation. "What made you

leave? Was it Cassandra?

"In part -- maybe. I was out scouting one day and I just kept going.

There was no plan. I kept expecting Kronos to come after me. Kept

expecting I would go back. But I didn't -- nor did he."

Mac cleared his throat. "He waited. For nearly thirty years in the same

general area. Checked for Quickenings, thinking you dead. Searching to

see if you'd been captured -- held prisoner. He never...he never

expected you to just leave."

Methos closed his eyes and turned into Mac's arms again, drawing

strength from his embrace and allowing one small lie between them,

thinking of Kronos as Mac began making love to him once more. [Oh, my

brother, a few words and we might all have been spared this,] Methos

thought, not without a certain anger at himself for never having seen

it. Then he surrendered the could-have-beens and the last touch of his

brother to his lover, to Mac's soul cleansing loving and vowed not

regret what he had lost or gained ever again.

-finis-