"Throws Me To The Ground," Opportunities story 5. (HL only, R, gen)
Also at the AO3. 
lomedet , despite the icon, I think you can read this one safely.
Throws Me To The Ground
His pulse hammered through his body, thumping in his bound fingertips and feet. Swordsman radar pulses thrummed through him, too, a counterpoint to his heartbeat now instead of the chaos they were combining into earlier.
Somewhere close by -- too close -- he could also feel the person (man, he thought, and wasn't sure if he was guessing, dreaming, or remembering) dancing around him in a monotonously regular pace. The steady shuffle felt like a drumbeat, like Rich's heartbeat, which had finally slowed and steadied to match it. Two steps and pause, two steps and pause, circling around patiently, inexorably, closer and closer.
The question of what happened when the guy got close enough was scaring the hell out of both Rich and his intruder.
Rich thrashed against the bonds again and got no farther than he had before: rips in his skin from the ropes and fingers damn near dislocated from pulling against pieces of leather holding his hands down joint by joint. His eyes were covered by something soft and more leather biting into his temples; his mouth wasn't full of a gag, but the entire jaw was tied shut by still more leather that bit into the bone and the soft underside of his chin.
He couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't do anything but lie naked on the dirt and wonder how long dying was going to take this time. When he could think, anyway, which was never long enough. That was nothing new. He hadn't been able to think straight for months now (moons now, you stupid brat)--
Rich tried to yell at his hitchhiker/hijacker to shut up but his mouth couldn't open. He thrashed harder, trying to get his hands free to claw the bastard out, and someone pulled the blindfold off.
The dancer had stopped moving, so the man forcibly holding his head still had probably been dancing. Fire-illuminated sweat beads sparkled along his hairline and trailed down along the edges of the long scar that ran from above one eyebrow down onto the cheek. The eyelid was undamaged and the brown-green eyes meeting Rich's knew madness but weren't mad just now.
They also knew magic. At the moment, they were sparking with it.
(Run, you little fool; fight him; he knows what we are--)
Rich would have told his interloper to run, but his concentration -- and Achilles' never-ending, contradictory, impossible-to-follow orders -- shattered when his captor slapped him hard enough to strain his neck against the ropes.
"I'm not interested in talking to the rider," he said softly. "I'm talking to the horse. Speak again, invisible one, and I'll kill the boy a few times until you learn manners."
Achilles almost took over then, but Rich shoved him back just as a slap caught him from the other side. Rich straightened his neck, sore now and feeling the spark of healing starting already in hands, shoulders, and neck. He glared at the stranger, but Achilles wasn't trying to shove him aside, or talk; Rich was grateful enough for that to nod a thank you that was barely grudging.
The stranger caught his jaw again, setting his fingertips lightly and precisely against Rich's skin. "So that we understand each other. Tell your rider that if I tighten my grip just a little, every nerve above the throat will think it's on fire. If he slides forward again, I'll prove it."
Rich swallowed, carefully, and didn't dare move. The guy wasn't crazy, but he didn't look like he'd mind giving that demonstration, either.
"Good." He smiled. "No. I'm not going to tell you how I see him, but I do. Now, then, boy. I know you can't move your head, but you can blink. Slow blink once is yes; twice is no. Three is I don't know. I won't like that answer, but I'll take it for some of this. Do you understand me?"
Rich blinked once and swallowed again. He didn't know anything that would interest this guy and he really wasn't interested in ending up someone else's toy. Bad enough he was already exhausted from however many weeks or months of Achilles trying to take over Rich's body. Rich damn well wasn't going to be anybody's puppet.
Warm steel settled across his throat and Rich's attention went straight back to the man watching him. "Killing you would be simpler than asking you questions, boy."
'Boy' was going to get on his nerves fast at this rate, but Rich blinked once anyway, eyes watering from the smoke that blew across them.
To his surprise, the man smiled. "Good. First question: Did your rider use a ritual to take you over?"
Rich blinked once from sheer surprise, then hastily blinked again. That got a nod.
"I thought not. You took him in with his quickening, then?"
Rich blinked three times and the man cocked his head, staring at him, before asking, "With the lightning?"
Rich almost nodded, but Jesus, the guy wasn't kidding about his grip being painful; just trying to nod froze him away from the pain of his fingers. He blinked once and tried not to shiver.
"He's still here. Do you want rid of him?"
Rich tried to blink and Achilles surged up in him, trying to take over Rich's body as if that would keep old Glowing Eyes from getting rid of the right one.
Rich was still trying to haul him back and regain control of his eyes when the stranger smiled.
A heartbeat later, pain poured through Rich, throwing Achilles back from a body that wasn't close enough in form or feeling to his own. Rich's heart tried to pump around a blade; his mind tried to work through too much pain pouring in from heart, nerves, and balls. He arched against the ropes, trying to gasp with a mouth he couldn't open.
When he could see again, it wasn't night anymore, and he wasn't tied to the ground.
The stranger stood in front of him in leathers and metal armor now; the intricate face painting on the unscarred side of his face looked like some ritual axes Rich had seen once. His sword hilt was almost as intricate as his tattoos, but the knives in his hands were more simply made and they sparked with the same magic pouring out of his eyes, his hands, the tips of his hair.
Rich tried to back up and someone else grabbed his shoulder, an arm locking around his throat.
That, Rich knew how to handle. He twisted, not trying to guard his throat as he swung an elbow back at his captor's ribs; his other arm reinforced the strike with a hand around that fist. Behind him he heard a crack of bone giving and breath huffed past his ear. The arm around his throat tightened and Rich dropped the elbow, that fist swinging back and in for the guy's balls as Rich raked his boot back onto the opposite shin.
The kick connected; the fist didn't. The guy pulled hastily away anyway and Rich turned to see Achilles there again. "Why am I not surprised? Motherfucker, you couldn’t win the fight last time." Rich smiled grimly and said, "But let's do this dance again and finish it properly this time."
The stranger chuckled and settled his fists on his hips, knives still ready. "Very good, boy. When you finish this, we'll have a talk about how not to get into these messes again."
"Rich. Rich Ryan, not 'boy'."
"Achilles, rather," his enemy growled, his hand closing around something that wasn't there. Rich barely dodged to the side as a whip of flame struck at him. "His body will be mine."
"Christ, you can't hit me with your own magical weapon?" Rich danced around three more attacks, making damn sure they didn't hit because he was sure they'd hurt like hell again. He worked his way close enough to tackle the bastard into the sand, and what the hell were they doing in a desert, anyway?
Rolling down a dune, apparently. Rich kept his eyes and mouth closed -- he got some sand in his mouth and nose, but he'd blinked fast enough, at least -- and came staggering up to his feet with his boots full of sand just in time to throw himself sideways away from that damn flame again.
The stranger walked down the dune behind them and called, "Ryan, this is your mind. His magic is in your body. Use it if you want." His voice was caustic enough to raise lines of blisters dangerously close to Achilles' eyes as he added, "If you're inept with it, you have an excuse."
Achilles threw lightning at the stranger, scorching Rich's shoulder as it went by and momentarily deafening him with the crack of thunder that close.
The stranger smiled and let it hit. He barely rocked when it struck. His armor only shone a little more brightly, as if the magic had polished it. The stranger flicked a bit of something out of his teeth and smiled. "Your cooking needs work. Try again."
Rich looked around, desperately scouring his brain, and wishing that his brain had supplied him with his own sword, plain and secondhand though it was. The sand in his boots rubbed at his feet, scraping his skin -- for being in his own mind, things hurt enough to make him think this might be a dream he could die in.
The scrapes from the sand also reminded him of a bad sci-fi movie he'd seen. Rich looked at the sand, looked at Achilles who was ignoring him for the moment to concentrate on old Glowing Eyes -- and reached for the magic that was supposedly in his own mind.
Terrifyingly, it came to his call.
It felt like trying to hold a fire hose full of water, all force and motion barely contained by Rich's rapidly fading strength. But Rich didn't intend to keep a grip on it. He shaped power with both hands, palms pressing on opposite sides of an imaginary circle to set it spinning, and threw it at Achilles.
Rich wasn't controlling the power anymore; it was pouring through him instead, like a flash flood cutting itself a new channel. It felt as exhausting as bleeding out from a bad wound, as painful as a slow knife drawn deep through muscle. He fell to his knees as the power spiraled counterclockwise like water running down a drain, like a tornado roaring up.
Before Achilles could realize he was in trouble, he was surrounded by a raging sand spout.
Rich heard a scream, saw lightning shoot up and out at an angle that wouldn't hit anyone, felt fire pour into sand and only create jagged glass that cut the bastard even faster. The sand scoured on, tunneling down into the dune and up into a sky so bright that the blue was almost white. In the center of the spout, at the back of Rich's thoughts, Achilles shredded away... and was gone.
The sand fell back to the ground, dark here with blood and bright there with bits of glass.
Rich fell with it, his hands registering that the sand was too hot, that his knees were scraping against the sand starting to get through the weave of his jeans. He was so tired he wanted to keep dropping, but the stranger was out there somewhere.
With an effort like lifting one box or bag too many on too little food, Rich raised his head.
The stranger was walking over to him, his clothing shifting to lightweight cargo pants tucked into moccasin boots, a loose black shirt over all that; the patterns vanished from his face and his hair shortened close to his skull. That intricate sword hilt still poked up over his shoulder and half a dozen daggers were on his legs, his arms, his belt.
"Not badly done, Rich Ryan." He sat down, cross-legged, out of arm's reach but well within his sword's reach of Rich's throat. "Now, then. Are you listening? I don't care to have to do this again."
Rich sagged down. "I'm listening. And do what? I did all the work."
"Did you?" He cocked his head sideways. "It would serve you right if you had done most of it. You left that trash in your own soul, boy. And yes, I know you hate boy. Quit acting like one, perhaps I'll quit calling you one."
"'Perhaps?'" Rich growled and forced himself up until he was sitting at least. "If it's my mind, what the hell are we doing here? I've never been in a desert, old man."
"You're in one now," was the amused reply. "Didn't you know? You're outside Las Vegas. Achilles was a fool. After that mess in New York, the casinos will be willing to suspect magic. And he'd never heard of subtlety."
Rich shrugged. "Okay, fine, my body's in a desert. Right now, am I in the real desert, or your desert in my mind?"
That got a sudden smile, sharp as the man's blades. "Well, well. Perhaps you were worth my trouble to rescue."
"If I'm not, why did you bother?" Rich snapped, wishing for water or shade or just not to be so fucking exhausted.
"Some gifts have to be used or you'll be used by them. You've acquired one. Will you learn to use your magic, or shall I kill you from a safe distance and let it be wasted?" From him, it had all the importance of 'Do you want fries with that?'
That quickly, Rich's sword was under his hand. "Uh-uh. Achilles didn't get to take over my body and you don't get to kill me just because dumbass had a gun he couldn't shoot worth a damn."
"Are you going to learn to shoot it, then?" Glowing eyes leaned forward. "Show me. Change this." One hand -- still full of a knife, Rich noticed -- waved at the world around them.
The last thing Rich wanted to do right now was use the magic that had already exhausted him. Sunlight gleaming on the edges of the stranger's knife changed it to the second to last thing. Fine. then. "What's your name, anyway?" Rich asked, drawing a couple deep, hot breaths as he tried to gather some strength back.
"K--" He began, then stopped mid-syllable, voice shifting to a growl. "None of your business just now, Rich Ryan."
Rich looked from the man's steady blade to the discomfort on his face. He said softly, "The magic won't let you give me an alias, will it?"
A tight, sharp smile was the only reply that got. "Change this world, Rich Ryan, or die."
"Why?" Rich glared at him, his hand tightening on the sword hilt it knew so well by now.
The stranger smiled without looking down at Rich's sword. "I'd kill you in three strokes, boy. I'm not Death. That doesn't mean you can survive me." Without explaining that, he leaned in, his sword suddenly at Rich's throat. "If you cannot control your own mind, you will never control the magic that fool poured into you. Change this world, control your mind -- or die."
Rich dug his hands into the sand and closed his eyes, pouring out his power and his wishes at the same time. He pulled up the memory and imposed it on this reality, changing the sand under his hand from hot and fine to cooler and coarser. The air acquired a taste of salt and a cold, damp wind. The scent of fir rose up around him and the sound of waves slapping against sand and stones. He could smell wet rock and feel the shadows of a storm rolling ashore. The sand under his hands and knees packed into damp, barely yielding handfuls instead of dry, scorching powder.
Rich opened his eyes and they were in the small cove on the Oregon coast he'd clambered down to. It only existed at low tide; Rich could see the seaweed tumbling in the shallows. He looked back and the cliffs loomed over him.
The stranger looked around and nodded once. "Good. A good start. Remember this place the next time you have trouble. If you'd dreamed it sooner, you could have drowned Achilles in that water and he'd have never surfaced."
"What?" Rich stared at him, too startled to realize he was no longer exhausted.
"This is your heart of power, boy, your refuge. A surprisingly stark one for so recent an immortal. Good. You'll need that isolation at times, living with this power." The stranger smiled, edged but not unfriendly. "And this is where you come when you take a head. Come here, take what you need from their quickening -- magic, skills, languages, any strength they'd gathered over the years -- and add it to your own. Then use that driftwood to start a fire and burn what's left of them, or drown them under the rising tides, or cram them into your cliffs there and seal them tight."
His hands were pointing out the options and Rich watched, nodding as he took in instructions that actually made sense. The stranger looked at him. "You won with a sword. Was it yours or his?"
"Mine. From the last crazy bastard who tried to kill me." Rich asked grimly, "What's a quickening?"
The stranger's eyes widened just a little and he finally laughed, wicked and pleased. "Well, well, well. Do you mean that fool was even more inept than I thought? Tell me about Holy Ground, Rich Ryan."
"Never heard of them. They are a band, right?" Rich shot back.
"You don't know the rules, you barely know that sword for all your bravado -- what are you, a knife man? And you held out against a man with magic and against my hands on your nerves?" His smile was growing more edged by the moment. "Perhaps you are worth my time, Rich Ryan."
Rich backed away from him, got his feet under him in the sand so water pooled around his toes, and leaned against the rock at his back. "Meaning what?"
That quickly, the cove was gone and Rich was trying to breathe in a body still racked with pain.
The knife was out of his heart, however, and his balls were healing quickly. The nerve pain shot across his eyes, but when the red and green streaks were gone, he could see stars above him, thousands of them -- there were no city lights, only a fire burned down to coals. Strong, callused fingers were freeing his mouth now, although his hands and feet were still pinned down.
Rich coughed, inhaled deeply through his mouth because he could, and damn near choked on desert air when his brain was still in northern Oregon. The stranger smiled at him, which somehow only made him look more dangerous. "Your name, boy?"
"Rich Ryan. Not boy. And what name are you gonna give me, now that you don't have to give me the real one?"
That got the same sharp smile. "For now, Korvin will do." When Rich narrowed his eyes, Korvin smiled. "Corvus is the crow family, Rich Ryan. Crows go anywhere, survive everything, and thrive near battles."
"Not reassuring," Rich said flatly.
"Isn't it? You need someone to show you how to use that sword properly, how to live. When to hide on Holy Ground so no one uses a blade on you. And how to hide in this world. It's gotten much more complicated this last century. If you want to see your next one, you'll come with me."
"The last--" Rich stared into Korvin's eyes: still glowing, still not mad. Oh, fuck. He forced out, "Why? What do I have to pay you to get that much help?"
Korvin smiled. "You travel with me and you watch my back if you want me to watch yours. And you learn to use your magic to guard both of us. Do we have a deal?"
"What else aren't you telling me?" Rich looked at him. "If it was that simple, you'd have untied me already."
Korvin's eyes froze him against the dirt. "I've been betrayed by brothers already, Ryan. If you're going to leave, do it before you want to go for my head and tell me when you go. Otherwise, I'll go for yours. I know one magic already. I can learn more if necessary."
Rich sagged against the ground and said softly, "I don’t have any brothers, but that sounds like it sucked. Sorry, man." He nodded before Korvin could say anything. "Hell, you already bailed me out of my own head. Now you're offering to explain some of this crazy and show me how to use my sword for more than hack and slash?"
"You must have a decent slash," Korvin said dryly. "Yes. If you'll swear blood oath with me."
"What's it going to mean?" Rich asked. He added immediately, "I don't want you coming after me because I screwed up something I didn't know about."
"It means us before the rest of the world," Korvin said lightly. "If we meet any of my other brothers -- I think there's only one left -- he swears to you as well... or we're gone."
"You've known him longer," Rich said uneasily.
"Shamans make Methos nervous for some reason," Korvin said lightly. "He might be over that by now. He might not. We'll stay clear of him." He added, "Look on the bright side, Ryan. I'll be swearing the same things in return. If I'm angry and going to leave, I'll tell you and do it. I won't come for your head first unless you've already moved against me."
He contemplated that and Rich's motionless, trapped body, and said, "And if you haven't acted against me to my face, if I only find traces of the plot, I'll ask you before I move against you." He smiled, sharp as his blades. "Of course, if I ask and you lie to me, I'll kill you slowly before I take your head."
Rich lay still and thought about it. "If I find a plot and ask about it, you don't try to kill me for asking. You answer."
"What applies to me, applies to you -- if we swear. Well?"
Rich nodded once. "Yeah. We swear. You said blood brothers?"
Korvin's knife first cut Rich's hand free, then laid the palm open. Rich winced, but Korvin cut his own hand open and clasped his, their blood mingling as both hands shot sparks and healed.
"Welcome, brother." The stars and embers glittered on the blood-smeared blade as Korvin cut him loose and guarded Rich's back while he got dressed.
Their magics still glittered in their eyes as they set out for Korvin's truck.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:
For those of you going, 'What the hell just happened, Rhi?' This is Opportunities-verse. Among the changes that come from Darius never taking a Light Quickening, we've just hit a ramification of Duncan still laughing, wenching, partying and thieving with Methos and Amanda: He never settled down with Tessa Noel, and they never met Richard Ryan.
Rich is immortal now, obviously, but he's been getting by (barely, at times) on wits, instincts, and luck, and he had the bad luck to kill a mage. Achilles was immortal, yes, but he'd been taken in by magic users as a child. (My suspicion is that it was Marvel's Salem Seven.) Achilles was about 100 when Rich killed him and not bad with magic, but certainly not the bad-ass he thought.
As for Kronos? (What? Like the scar didn't tell you who it was if the AO3 tags didn't?) One of his aliases is Dexter Korvin, which reminded me that the Corvus genus is, in fact, the crow family. In the Opportunities-verse, Kronos took Jim Coltec's head before Coltec was overwhelmed by a Dark Quickening.
Coltec's quickening balanced Kronos out a bit better, clearing away some of the years of darkness. It also left him with a gift for soul-healing that Kronos didn't want but knows better than to ignore. I've seen speculation that Kronos might have been a shaman's apprentice in his youth, and I'm running with it here. So, he has same sharp edges and sense of humor, but he's a little more willing to let others live and prone to help occasionally because it's do it on his schedule or his gift's. Not much of an option for him.
The mess in New York Kronos mentions is the battle with the Chitauri during "The Avengers."
Title from, and story written to, Florence and the Machine's "Drumming Song." I blame Raine for that, and Sleeps With Coyote always gets the blame if I'm writing Kronos, even if I don't know how it's her fault. You know: Thank you, ladies!
Last, sometime after I finished this and started in on the edits, I finally realized this has a lot of parallels with "To Be"/"Not To Be." They weren't intentional, but I'm kind of pleased about it anyway. I had no idea I was writing fix-it fic for that, but I stand by it anyway.
Feel free to ask any other questions that come to mind.
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Throws Me To The Ground
His pulse hammered through his body, thumping in his bound fingertips and feet. Swordsman radar pulses thrummed through him, too, a counterpoint to his heartbeat now instead of the chaos they were combining into earlier.
Somewhere close by -- too close -- he could also feel the person (man, he thought, and wasn't sure if he was guessing, dreaming, or remembering) dancing around him in a monotonously regular pace. The steady shuffle felt like a drumbeat, like Rich's heartbeat, which had finally slowed and steadied to match it. Two steps and pause, two steps and pause, circling around patiently, inexorably, closer and closer.
The question of what happened when the guy got close enough was scaring the hell out of both Rich and his intruder.
Rich thrashed against the bonds again and got no farther than he had before: rips in his skin from the ropes and fingers damn near dislocated from pulling against pieces of leather holding his hands down joint by joint. His eyes were covered by something soft and more leather biting into his temples; his mouth wasn't full of a gag, but the entire jaw was tied shut by still more leather that bit into the bone and the soft underside of his chin.
He couldn't move, couldn't see, couldn't do anything but lie naked on the dirt and wonder how long dying was going to take this time. When he could think, anyway, which was never long enough. That was nothing new. He hadn't been able to think straight for months now (moons now, you stupid brat)--
Rich tried to yell at his hitchhiker/hijacker to shut up but his mouth couldn't open. He thrashed harder, trying to get his hands free to claw the bastard out, and someone pulled the blindfold off.
The dancer had stopped moving, so the man forcibly holding his head still had probably been dancing. Fire-illuminated sweat beads sparkled along his hairline and trailed down along the edges of the long scar that ran from above one eyebrow down onto the cheek. The eyelid was undamaged and the brown-green eyes meeting Rich's knew madness but weren't mad just now.
They also knew magic. At the moment, they were sparking with it.
(Run, you little fool; fight him; he knows what we are--)
Rich would have told his interloper to run, but his concentration -- and Achilles' never-ending, contradictory, impossible-to-follow orders -- shattered when his captor slapped him hard enough to strain his neck against the ropes.
"I'm not interested in talking to the rider," he said softly. "I'm talking to the horse. Speak again, invisible one, and I'll kill the boy a few times until you learn manners."
Achilles almost took over then, but Rich shoved him back just as a slap caught him from the other side. Rich straightened his neck, sore now and feeling the spark of healing starting already in hands, shoulders, and neck. He glared at the stranger, but Achilles wasn't trying to shove him aside, or talk; Rich was grateful enough for that to nod a thank you that was barely grudging.
The stranger caught his jaw again, setting his fingertips lightly and precisely against Rich's skin. "So that we understand each other. Tell your rider that if I tighten my grip just a little, every nerve above the throat will think it's on fire. If he slides forward again, I'll prove it."
Rich swallowed, carefully, and didn't dare move. The guy wasn't crazy, but he didn't look like he'd mind giving that demonstration, either.
"Good." He smiled. "No. I'm not going to tell you how I see him, but I do. Now, then, boy. I know you can't move your head, but you can blink. Slow blink once is yes; twice is no. Three is I don't know. I won't like that answer, but I'll take it for some of this. Do you understand me?"
Rich blinked once and swallowed again. He didn't know anything that would interest this guy and he really wasn't interested in ending up someone else's toy. Bad enough he was already exhausted from however many weeks or months of Achilles trying to take over Rich's body. Rich damn well wasn't going to be anybody's puppet.
Warm steel settled across his throat and Rich's attention went straight back to the man watching him. "Killing you would be simpler than asking you questions, boy."
'Boy' was going to get on his nerves fast at this rate, but Rich blinked once anyway, eyes watering from the smoke that blew across them.
To his surprise, the man smiled. "Good. First question: Did your rider use a ritual to take you over?"
Rich blinked once from sheer surprise, then hastily blinked again. That got a nod.
"I thought not. You took him in with his quickening, then?"
Rich blinked three times and the man cocked his head, staring at him, before asking, "With the lightning?"
Rich almost nodded, but Jesus, the guy wasn't kidding about his grip being painful; just trying to nod froze him away from the pain of his fingers. He blinked once and tried not to shiver.
"He's still here. Do you want rid of him?"
Rich tried to blink and Achilles surged up in him, trying to take over Rich's body as if that would keep old Glowing Eyes from getting rid of the right one.
Rich was still trying to haul him back and regain control of his eyes when the stranger smiled.
A heartbeat later, pain poured through Rich, throwing Achilles back from a body that wasn't close enough in form or feeling to his own. Rich's heart tried to pump around a blade; his mind tried to work through too much pain pouring in from heart, nerves, and balls. He arched against the ropes, trying to gasp with a mouth he couldn't open.
When he could see again, it wasn't night anymore, and he wasn't tied to the ground.
The stranger stood in front of him in leathers and metal armor now; the intricate face painting on the unscarred side of his face looked like some ritual axes Rich had seen once. His sword hilt was almost as intricate as his tattoos, but the knives in his hands were more simply made and they sparked with the same magic pouring out of his eyes, his hands, the tips of his hair.
Rich tried to back up and someone else grabbed his shoulder, an arm locking around his throat.
That, Rich knew how to handle. He twisted, not trying to guard his throat as he swung an elbow back at his captor's ribs; his other arm reinforced the strike with a hand around that fist. Behind him he heard a crack of bone giving and breath huffed past his ear. The arm around his throat tightened and Rich dropped the elbow, that fist swinging back and in for the guy's balls as Rich raked his boot back onto the opposite shin.
The kick connected; the fist didn't. The guy pulled hastily away anyway and Rich turned to see Achilles there again. "Why am I not surprised? Motherfucker, you couldn’t win the fight last time." Rich smiled grimly and said, "But let's do this dance again and finish it properly this time."
The stranger chuckled and settled his fists on his hips, knives still ready. "Very good, boy. When you finish this, we'll have a talk about how not to get into these messes again."
"Rich. Rich Ryan, not 'boy'."
"Achilles, rather," his enemy growled, his hand closing around something that wasn't there. Rich barely dodged to the side as a whip of flame struck at him. "His body will be mine."
"Christ, you can't hit me with your own magical weapon?" Rich danced around three more attacks, making damn sure they didn't hit because he was sure they'd hurt like hell again. He worked his way close enough to tackle the bastard into the sand, and what the hell were they doing in a desert, anyway?
Rolling down a dune, apparently. Rich kept his eyes and mouth closed -- he got some sand in his mouth and nose, but he'd blinked fast enough, at least -- and came staggering up to his feet with his boots full of sand just in time to throw himself sideways away from that damn flame again.
The stranger walked down the dune behind them and called, "Ryan, this is your mind. His magic is in your body. Use it if you want." His voice was caustic enough to raise lines of blisters dangerously close to Achilles' eyes as he added, "If you're inept with it, you have an excuse."
Achilles threw lightning at the stranger, scorching Rich's shoulder as it went by and momentarily deafening him with the crack of thunder that close.
The stranger smiled and let it hit. He barely rocked when it struck. His armor only shone a little more brightly, as if the magic had polished it. The stranger flicked a bit of something out of his teeth and smiled. "Your cooking needs work. Try again."
Rich looked around, desperately scouring his brain, and wishing that his brain had supplied him with his own sword, plain and secondhand though it was. The sand in his boots rubbed at his feet, scraping his skin -- for being in his own mind, things hurt enough to make him think this might be a dream he could die in.
The scrapes from the sand also reminded him of a bad sci-fi movie he'd seen. Rich looked at the sand, looked at Achilles who was ignoring him for the moment to concentrate on old Glowing Eyes -- and reached for the magic that was supposedly in his own mind.
Terrifyingly, it came to his call.
It felt like trying to hold a fire hose full of water, all force and motion barely contained by Rich's rapidly fading strength. But Rich didn't intend to keep a grip on it. He shaped power with both hands, palms pressing on opposite sides of an imaginary circle to set it spinning, and threw it at Achilles.
Rich wasn't controlling the power anymore; it was pouring through him instead, like a flash flood cutting itself a new channel. It felt as exhausting as bleeding out from a bad wound, as painful as a slow knife drawn deep through muscle. He fell to his knees as the power spiraled counterclockwise like water running down a drain, like a tornado roaring up.
Before Achilles could realize he was in trouble, he was surrounded by a raging sand spout.
Rich heard a scream, saw lightning shoot up and out at an angle that wouldn't hit anyone, felt fire pour into sand and only create jagged glass that cut the bastard even faster. The sand scoured on, tunneling down into the dune and up into a sky so bright that the blue was almost white. In the center of the spout, at the back of Rich's thoughts, Achilles shredded away... and was gone.
The sand fell back to the ground, dark here with blood and bright there with bits of glass.
Rich fell with it, his hands registering that the sand was too hot, that his knees were scraping against the sand starting to get through the weave of his jeans. He was so tired he wanted to keep dropping, but the stranger was out there somewhere.
With an effort like lifting one box or bag too many on too little food, Rich raised his head.
The stranger was walking over to him, his clothing shifting to lightweight cargo pants tucked into moccasin boots, a loose black shirt over all that; the patterns vanished from his face and his hair shortened close to his skull. That intricate sword hilt still poked up over his shoulder and half a dozen daggers were on his legs, his arms, his belt.
"Not badly done, Rich Ryan." He sat down, cross-legged, out of arm's reach but well within his sword's reach of Rich's throat. "Now, then. Are you listening? I don't care to have to do this again."
Rich sagged down. "I'm listening. And do what? I did all the work."
"Did you?" He cocked his head sideways. "It would serve you right if you had done most of it. You left that trash in your own soul, boy. And yes, I know you hate boy. Quit acting like one, perhaps I'll quit calling you one."
"'Perhaps?'" Rich growled and forced himself up until he was sitting at least. "If it's my mind, what the hell are we doing here? I've never been in a desert, old man."
"You're in one now," was the amused reply. "Didn't you know? You're outside Las Vegas. Achilles was a fool. After that mess in New York, the casinos will be willing to suspect magic. And he'd never heard of subtlety."
Rich shrugged. "Okay, fine, my body's in a desert. Right now, am I in the real desert, or your desert in my mind?"
That got a sudden smile, sharp as the man's blades. "Well, well. Perhaps you were worth my trouble to rescue."
"If I'm not, why did you bother?" Rich snapped, wishing for water or shade or just not to be so fucking exhausted.
"Some gifts have to be used or you'll be used by them. You've acquired one. Will you learn to use your magic, or shall I kill you from a safe distance and let it be wasted?" From him, it had all the importance of 'Do you want fries with that?'
That quickly, Rich's sword was under his hand. "Uh-uh. Achilles didn't get to take over my body and you don't get to kill me just because dumbass had a gun he couldn't shoot worth a damn."
"Are you going to learn to shoot it, then?" Glowing eyes leaned forward. "Show me. Change this." One hand -- still full of a knife, Rich noticed -- waved at the world around them.
The last thing Rich wanted to do right now was use the magic that had already exhausted him. Sunlight gleaming on the edges of the stranger's knife changed it to the second to last thing. Fine. then. "What's your name, anyway?" Rich asked, drawing a couple deep, hot breaths as he tried to gather some strength back.
"K--" He began, then stopped mid-syllable, voice shifting to a growl. "None of your business just now, Rich Ryan."
Rich looked from the man's steady blade to the discomfort on his face. He said softly, "The magic won't let you give me an alias, will it?"
A tight, sharp smile was the only reply that got. "Change this world, Rich Ryan, or die."
"Why?" Rich glared at him, his hand tightening on the sword hilt it knew so well by now.
The stranger smiled without looking down at Rich's sword. "I'd kill you in three strokes, boy. I'm not Death. That doesn't mean you can survive me." Without explaining that, he leaned in, his sword suddenly at Rich's throat. "If you cannot control your own mind, you will never control the magic that fool poured into you. Change this world, control your mind -- or die."
Rich dug his hands into the sand and closed his eyes, pouring out his power and his wishes at the same time. He pulled up the memory and imposed it on this reality, changing the sand under his hand from hot and fine to cooler and coarser. The air acquired a taste of salt and a cold, damp wind. The scent of fir rose up around him and the sound of waves slapping against sand and stones. He could smell wet rock and feel the shadows of a storm rolling ashore. The sand under his hands and knees packed into damp, barely yielding handfuls instead of dry, scorching powder.
Rich opened his eyes and they were in the small cove on the Oregon coast he'd clambered down to. It only existed at low tide; Rich could see the seaweed tumbling in the shallows. He looked back and the cliffs loomed over him.
The stranger looked around and nodded once. "Good. A good start. Remember this place the next time you have trouble. If you'd dreamed it sooner, you could have drowned Achilles in that water and he'd have never surfaced."
"What?" Rich stared at him, too startled to realize he was no longer exhausted.
"This is your heart of power, boy, your refuge. A surprisingly stark one for so recent an immortal. Good. You'll need that isolation at times, living with this power." The stranger smiled, edged but not unfriendly. "And this is where you come when you take a head. Come here, take what you need from their quickening -- magic, skills, languages, any strength they'd gathered over the years -- and add it to your own. Then use that driftwood to start a fire and burn what's left of them, or drown them under the rising tides, or cram them into your cliffs there and seal them tight."
His hands were pointing out the options and Rich watched, nodding as he took in instructions that actually made sense. The stranger looked at him. "You won with a sword. Was it yours or his?"
"Mine. From the last crazy bastard who tried to kill me." Rich asked grimly, "What's a quickening?"
The stranger's eyes widened just a little and he finally laughed, wicked and pleased. "Well, well, well. Do you mean that fool was even more inept than I thought? Tell me about Holy Ground, Rich Ryan."
"Never heard of them. They are a band, right?" Rich shot back.
"You don't know the rules, you barely know that sword for all your bravado -- what are you, a knife man? And you held out against a man with magic and against my hands on your nerves?" His smile was growing more edged by the moment. "Perhaps you are worth my time, Rich Ryan."
Rich backed away from him, got his feet under him in the sand so water pooled around his toes, and leaned against the rock at his back. "Meaning what?"
That quickly, the cove was gone and Rich was trying to breathe in a body still racked with pain.
The knife was out of his heart, however, and his balls were healing quickly. The nerve pain shot across his eyes, but when the red and green streaks were gone, he could see stars above him, thousands of them -- there were no city lights, only a fire burned down to coals. Strong, callused fingers were freeing his mouth now, although his hands and feet were still pinned down.
Rich coughed, inhaled deeply through his mouth because he could, and damn near choked on desert air when his brain was still in northern Oregon. The stranger smiled at him, which somehow only made him look more dangerous. "Your name, boy?"
"Rich Ryan. Not boy. And what name are you gonna give me, now that you don't have to give me the real one?"
That got the same sharp smile. "For now, Korvin will do." When Rich narrowed his eyes, Korvin smiled. "Corvus is the crow family, Rich Ryan. Crows go anywhere, survive everything, and thrive near battles."
"Not reassuring," Rich said flatly.
"Isn't it? You need someone to show you how to use that sword properly, how to live. When to hide on Holy Ground so no one uses a blade on you. And how to hide in this world. It's gotten much more complicated this last century. If you want to see your next one, you'll come with me."
"The last--" Rich stared into Korvin's eyes: still glowing, still not mad. Oh, fuck. He forced out, "Why? What do I have to pay you to get that much help?"
Korvin smiled. "You travel with me and you watch my back if you want me to watch yours. And you learn to use your magic to guard both of us. Do we have a deal?"
"What else aren't you telling me?" Rich looked at him. "If it was that simple, you'd have untied me already."
Korvin's eyes froze him against the dirt. "I've been betrayed by brothers already, Ryan. If you're going to leave, do it before you want to go for my head and tell me when you go. Otherwise, I'll go for yours. I know one magic already. I can learn more if necessary."
Rich sagged against the ground and said softly, "I don’t have any brothers, but that sounds like it sucked. Sorry, man." He nodded before Korvin could say anything. "Hell, you already bailed me out of my own head. Now you're offering to explain some of this crazy and show me how to use my sword for more than hack and slash?"
"You must have a decent slash," Korvin said dryly. "Yes. If you'll swear blood oath with me."
"What's it going to mean?" Rich asked. He added immediately, "I don't want you coming after me because I screwed up something I didn't know about."
"It means us before the rest of the world," Korvin said lightly. "If we meet any of my other brothers -- I think there's only one left -- he swears to you as well... or we're gone."
"You've known him longer," Rich said uneasily.
"Shamans make Methos nervous for some reason," Korvin said lightly. "He might be over that by now. He might not. We'll stay clear of him." He added, "Look on the bright side, Ryan. I'll be swearing the same things in return. If I'm angry and going to leave, I'll tell you and do it. I won't come for your head first unless you've already moved against me."
He contemplated that and Rich's motionless, trapped body, and said, "And if you haven't acted against me to my face, if I only find traces of the plot, I'll ask you before I move against you." He smiled, sharp as his blades. "Of course, if I ask and you lie to me, I'll kill you slowly before I take your head."
Rich lay still and thought about it. "If I find a plot and ask about it, you don't try to kill me for asking. You answer."
"What applies to me, applies to you -- if we swear. Well?"
Rich nodded once. "Yeah. We swear. You said blood brothers?"
Korvin's knife first cut Rich's hand free, then laid the palm open. Rich winced, but Korvin cut his own hand open and clasped his, their blood mingling as both hands shot sparks and healed.
"Welcome, brother." The stars and embers glittered on the blood-smeared blade as Korvin cut him loose and guarded Rich's back while he got dressed.
Their magics still glittered in their eyes as they set out for Korvin's truck.
~ ~ ~ finis ~ ~ ~
Comments, Commentary, and Miscellanea:
For those of you going, 'What the hell just happened, Rhi?' This is Opportunities-verse. Among the changes that come from Darius never taking a Light Quickening, we've just hit a ramification of Duncan still laughing, wenching, partying and thieving with Methos and Amanda: He never settled down with Tessa Noel, and they never met Richard Ryan.
Rich is immortal now, obviously, but he's been getting by (barely, at times) on wits, instincts, and luck, and he had the bad luck to kill a mage. Achilles was immortal, yes, but he'd been taken in by magic users as a child. (My suspicion is that it was Marvel's Salem Seven.) Achilles was about 100 when Rich killed him and not bad with magic, but certainly not the bad-ass he thought.
As for Kronos? (What? Like the scar didn't tell you who it was if the AO3 tags didn't?) One of his aliases is Dexter Korvin, which reminded me that the Corvus genus is, in fact, the crow family. In the Opportunities-verse, Kronos took Jim Coltec's head before Coltec was overwhelmed by a Dark Quickening.
Coltec's quickening balanced Kronos out a bit better, clearing away some of the years of darkness. It also left him with a gift for soul-healing that Kronos didn't want but knows better than to ignore. I've seen speculation that Kronos might have been a shaman's apprentice in his youth, and I'm running with it here. So, he has same sharp edges and sense of humor, but he's a little more willing to let others live and prone to help occasionally because it's do it on his schedule or his gift's. Not much of an option for him.
The mess in New York Kronos mentions is the battle with the Chitauri during "The Avengers."
Title from, and story written to, Florence and the Machine's "Drumming Song." I blame Raine for that, and Sleeps With Coyote always gets the blame if I'm writing Kronos, even if I don't know how it's her fault. You know: Thank you, ladies!
Last, sometime after I finished this and started in on the edits, I finally realized this has a lot of parallels with "To Be"/"Not To Be." They weren't intentional, but I'm kind of pleased about it anyway. I had no idea I was writing fix-it fic for that, but I stand by it anyway.
Feel free to ask any other questions that come to mind.
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