Fic - Coming to terms - Chapter 1
Author's note : And Chapter one just to follow. It was hard to understand some details of the story. I owe huge thanks to dragonwrangler who discussed the whole story with me, having patience with my troubles and problems. *hugs* You helped me so much. Thanks also to Cyanida who helped me to understand my reaction to the story a little better.
A major warning ahead: Even as I try not to be detailed or too explicit this story deals with some rather adult themes. Many events in the Horsemen camp will at least be discussed and this from a very varying point of view.
Title: Coming to terms
by: Falconsheart
Chapter 1 - Shadow and Light
Age: NC 17
Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fiction, based on "Highlander", which is copyright to Davis/Panzer. No copyright infringement was intended. I don't receive any financial recompensation.
Chapter 1 - In Shadow and Light
It is superb in the air,
Suffering is everywhere,
And each man wears his suffering like a skin.
My history is proud,
Mine is not allowed,
This is the cistern were all wars begin,
The laughter from the armoured car.
This is the man who won’t believe you are what you are.
(James Fenton: Jerusalem)
Submarine base, outside Bordeaux
“I Killed Silas!! I liked Silas!!” The broken voice echoed hollowly from the barren walls of the shelter. Ragged sobs nearly incomprehensible accompanied the voice that was crying out in despair.
Had Duncan not known it was Methos down there in the darkness, he’d never guessed it by himself. Seeing Cassandra’s axe hovering above the helpless man, mixed feelings warred inside him. One blow and the Horsemen of the Apocalpyse would be history indeed, one blow and one of his friends - or former friends - would die, unnecessarily so. The decision was made, before Duncan realised it completely. “Cassandra! I want him to live!” The repeated command carried the weight of the warrior, the clan chief, the leader in Duncan and even through shrouds of hate reached Cassandra. It wasn’t a plea for mercy, no calm words halting her hand, and no consideration for the broken man on the floor or the shelter, it was an order, supported by Duncan’s will alone. No questions asked, none to Cassandra and her wish for revenge, none to Methos, what both of them had to say in that case, did not matter, Duncan had decided and his order was obeyed.
Cassandra let got of the axe, it cluttered down, vanishing in the dirty water that filled the lower shelter. Without looking back Cassandra headed off into the darkness. Duncan still stood unmoving, peering down onto the wreckage of the battle. Perhaps his eyes had eventually adjusted to the darkness in here, or the weird Quickening they had taken showed some effect at last, but suddenly he could see Methos down there in the darkness. A shaking form, crouched by the side of the giant’s corpse, rattled by stifled, painful sobs.
Steps splashing in the dirty water below made Duncan nearly jump. He felt the distinct approach of another Immortal. The characteristic buzz that accompanied any one of them, was strong and resonant with this one. Duncan felt him from quite a distance. He froze, that Quickening was deep and sang from afar, like a beacon in deepest night. Whoever he was, he was strong, this Duncan knew at once. Contrary to Methos, who’s Quickening had suffered a slight blur from his long time out of the game, this one’s was clear, edged and vibrant. Noiselessly Duncan drew his katana again. Who might this be? Another Horseman? An Immortal who had decided that he wanted two powerful Quickenings? An unknown accomplice of Kronos? Stepping back Duncan faded more into the shadows, to see who came, before he got himself into another fight.
The first what he saw was a light dancing above the water, whoever came into the base, was carrying a hand lamp with a strong focus. The silver halo added an eerie note to the already creepy surroundings. Duncan blinked hard, to see something against the sudden brightness. Two shadows shaped out of the darkness. One of them distinctively taller than the second. Duncan raised his hand to protect his eyes from the light. Eventually he could see more than just shadows and coloured specks dancing at his irises.
A tall blonde man, the torch in his right hand, a katana in the left, emerged from the darkness. Albeit barefoot he seemed not to mind the cold, dirty water, in which he was moving. Had he been alone, Duncan would have been sure it was another challenge, just judging by his Quickening. But the second person qualified for nothing else than a child, a wiry, dark-haired girl that just was unlucky enough to stumble across Kronos ugly remains. She did not fall, but caught herself with a smooth move before she could land in the water. Duncan knew by her faint echo that she was still mortal, but who would bring a child - mortal or Pre-Immortal - to a place like this? Into the reach of Kronos or Methos? Yet the girl reacted most strangely, there was no shriek, when she realised on what she had stumbled, nor was there any fear or terror. She just bend down to examine she had found, while the man hurried on, reaching Methos. “Methos, thanks to the gods, you’re alive.” The English he spoke at that moment was strongly accentuated, and positively ancient.
Methos did not really react to the newcomer at first, caught in his own world of grief and pain, but when he tried to help Methos up, he resisted. “Cecil…. Kronos… he had a virus…hidden down there….and I…I killed Silas…” his voice was barely audible.
Cecil rose hastily, placing his lamp high on one of the concrete support beams, to get a steady light, he changed his blade to the right hand. “Where’s Kronos now?” his voice sounded painfully strained, like he prevented it hardly from shaking. The way he eyed the shadows of the submarine base he expected Kronos to emerge from the shadows any moment.
Before Methos could reply, or explain, the little girl came speeding up to them. “Negative on Kronos, he’s lost his head,” she reported rather matter-of-factly, tossing some items at Cecil. “Keys, security keys and credit cards. That idiot scribbled down the PINs.”
Duncan shuddered at that scene. How could a girl of that age have rifled through Kronos possessions so coldly? Who was she anyway? Who was this Cecil? He seemed to be as cold blooded as Methos was usually.
Cecil caught the keys with his left hand, eying them shortly. “Well done, little one.” He turned fully to the girl. “Kronos has hidden a virus down there, and the gods alone know what other weapons. I need to clear out that armoury before we can leave here.”
The girl nodded earnestly. “You want me to stay with Methos?” her light voice echoed eerily from the walls of the bomb shelter. Suddenly Duncan was reminded of a lost fortress which still echoed of childrens voices long gone. He saw the blonde man nod. “Right, Indra. Stay with Methos, take care of him, until I return. I’m leaving most of the arsenal with you. There is another Immortal in here, but he did not move since we entered the building, he’s probably unconscious. Should he come here, use whatever is needed to stall and call for me.” He turned to Methos, who had not moved, just slumped on the cold floor. He seemed lifeless and forlorn thus. Cecil bent down for a moment, placing a comforting hand at Methos shoulder. “It won’t take long to dispose of the virus. I’ll leave Indra with you, she will stay with you until I am back.”
Frozen in his place Duncan watched the blonde man turn and vanish deeper into the bowls of the ruined base. In shocked disbelieve he saw the small girl down there, beside Methos. How could anyone *think* of bringing her here? Not speaking of leaving her with Methos, with a man who was Death. Seeing that girl down there, being utterly unafraid of Methos or these dreadful surroundings. For some moments he was seriously tempted to go down and see her safe at some distance from Methos. But a painful jerk erupting from his chest made him nearly break to his knees. He saw Methos collapse too down there, but while Duncan scrambled to his feet again and passed the momentary weakness, Methos fell unconscious on the floor.
Duncan saw Indra kneel down beside Methos. “Methos!” Cautiously she checked his pulse, Duncan saw that she was counting time, on her watch. “Faint, but stable,” she whispered, her voice shaking a little. “Cecil said this might happen. Don’t fear Methos, you are not alone.” She slipped out of her leather jacket, putting it on the ground to serve as a makeshift cushion. Gently she made Methos head rest on the furry inside of it, before she took a blanket from below her backpack, to cover Methos. “I know, you hate these things,” she said, “But we need to keep you warm.”
Rising from her knees she looked around the desolate place, taking up an abandoned bucked and began to gather bits of paper, remains of the stools and other things, not even hesitating to take Silas mouldy jacket and put into the bin. First Duncan wondered what she was doing, but moments later he understood, that she was preparing a fire. Anger and admiration waged war inside him. He still was angry at that father - or foster father more likely - who had subjected his little girl to these conditions, yet he felt that the same father ought to be proud of his girl, that handled this situation so calmly and efficiently. Within a quarter of an hour a fire was blazing in the damaged bucket. Indra had placed it close to Methos, to warm him. The old Immortal lay still unmoving. Whatever had caused his condition in the first place, it wasn’t healed by the usual Immortal regeneration. Indra assembled more pieces of the broken table, to keep the fire blazing but she also brought back Metho’s sword. Sitting down beside him, she began to clean it off the blood and dirt from the fighting.
Duncan thought of going down and help her. She took care of Methos so gently, checking his condition regularly, always accompanied by some caring, soothing words. Sometimes she ran her small hand through his spiky hair, just to let him know he wasn’t alone down here. When Duncan just had decided to go down, he saw a movement at the lower door. Cecil was returning, a black pack slung over his shoulder. “Kronos outdid himself this time, Indra,” he said, upon reaching the stairs. “now I know why he was in Africa that long. I’ll bet my sword against a toothpick, he found that virus down at Kongo.” He stopped when he saw the scene. Hurrying over to them, he asked. “What happened?”
“Methos collapsed shortly after you left,” Indra said. “Like you described it to me. I tried to keep him warm, and rested as much as this murky place allows, but I think his temperature has been rising for the last full hour. Can… can it be a post-Quickening shock, like you took last year?”
“No, that’s something entirely different,” Cecil replied. “I have seen this before - only it was never that bad.” He sighed. “Indra, I need you to take the backpack and other stuff, while I carry Methos down to the boat. We need to get him out of here.”
***
“Tall, blonde and looking rather Scandinavian?” Cassandra passed the hotel room restlessly. “That would be him, small wonder he’s still around. He always cared about Methos.”
“Who?” Duncan sat exhausted on the bed, feeling not really clean, even after the third shower. “Who was he and… who was this girl? She was so small, yet she cared about Methos… she even knew his name.” He remembered Methos anger when Richie had learned the truth about ‘Adam Pierson’.
Cassandra began rifling through her bag until producing a fat, dog-eared book. Rifling through the pages she took out a corny photograph and a drawing. “Could this be him?” She asked, handing both items to Duncan.
Duncan studied the pictures. The photograph was of bad quality. It was taken through the window of a conference room. Cecil was standing there, one hand resting at a table, concentrated on the notebook screen of another man, pointing something out. Plans lay scattered around the scene. It was a nightshot and his features were not very clear to make out. The drawing was better, even as it showed him wearing an ancient cuirass. “That’s him, no doubt. Who is he?” he asked again.
“Helios,” Cassandra replied. “He calls himself Cecil Darkmoon these days, but it’s Helios. He’s an old…. Crony of Methos’” She rifled again through her book. “I had no idea that he and Methos were still in contact, even as it hardly surprises me, yet I kept some tabs on him.”
Duncan sighed. An old follower of Methos, someone else who perhaps had been fooled by the ancient Immortal. Cassandra sat down beside him. “I wanted to thank you… you probably saved my life.”
Duncan looked up. “How so? I saved Methos life and expected you to be mad at me…”
“I was, believe me. But knowing that Cecil was there, close enough to witness it all, he would have taken my head before I had recovered from the Quickening.”
Duncan nodded curtly. He did not want to discuss the events with Cassandra, yet he wanted to discuss them… to speak about it. “I need to find them,” he heard himself say.
“Methos and Cecil?” Cassandra asked. “That will be quite a chase. Cecil has seven or eigth hideouts in Europe alone and can count on some protection by certain governments as he is a first class weapon designer. He is said to solve problems with rockets and other weapons no one else can solve. You can’t just go after him.”
Duncan stood up, walking to the window. “I don’t want to fight them, believe me. But I… I need to understand what happened. And after Methos blanked out I felt something… a pain that wasn’t mine. Something happened with us, and I’d rather find out before…”
“Methos blanked out?” Cassandra rose too. “He fell and remained unmoving, not reacting to his surroundings?”
“Right, how do you know?” Duncan inquired astonished.
“I have seen it before.”
“The same said Cecil, but that it never had been that worse,” Duncan recalled.
“Then it *is* bad.” Cassandras hands went flying over her book. “Let’s see, they left by boat… he won’t go too far if he can prevent it, and avoid other Immortals. So they won’t fly or go by train. Cecil had a hideout in France, there - I got it! St. Jean-des-Sables.”
A frown rose on Duncans features. “That would be near La Rochelle, wouldn’t it?” He vaguely recalled that Methos had mentioned the city in some drunken conversation months ago.
***
Five and a half day later Duncan wasn’t sure about the whole idea any more. Or yet, he was, but he still wondered why Cassandra came along. Had she railed and left, he would not have doubted himself so much. But she was sitting on beside him in the car, silently, as they passed the last slope. Duncan could feel Methos close, yet it felt strange, a weak Quickening, not like the old Immortal at all. Stopping the car, he looked first at the lonely house, than to Cassandra. “Why do I feel so strange? It’s like a great cold settling over this place.”
Cassandra eyed him suspiciously. “Perhaps Methos condition is affecting you,” she observed. “This whole double-quickening is scary, you know.”
Duncan stared at the house. Was he really here, just to find out, what had happened to him? Truth to be told, he wasn’t. He also was worried, about this little girl, stuck with two less than nice Immortals, worried about Methos and his weak condition and…. He shoved it aside. He needed to talk to Methos.
The door of the house opened before they could knock. Cecil carried his katana relaxed in his left hand. “Challenges from 2 PM to 11 PM, come back in three hours,” his voice wasn’t even ironic.
“We are not here for a challenge,” Duncan explained.
Cecil’s eyebrows shot up. “so this is what? A social visit?” His eyes scanned Cassandra, before returning to Duncan. “Or a worried friend’s visit? Well, you did not prove much of a friend either.”
Duncan was short of flaring up, but Cassandra was faster. She took a step forward. “How is he, Helios? You look like you have not slept for days. He can’t be well.” There was no anger in her voice now, just utter calm.
Cecil ran his hand through his blonde mane. “Right you are, he is bad, I never saw him that bad, except perhaps after that horrid night in Bethlehem.” He replied earnestly.
Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Not even as bad like after….. Dur-Sharrukin?“ her voice had gone small. “Than it must be bad…. May I… may we come in?”
Duncan could see the weariness in Cecil’s eyes. “You leave your weapons at the door, and stay were I can see you, the kitchen that is right now.”
Inside the house, Duncan saw the girl, Indra for a short moment again. She had come to the hall too. Not for curiosity, but to check, whether she needed to run. Duncan suddenly understood, that Cecil would have fought them, while Indra, and probably Methos, ran for it. How could he teach a girl at this age, the tactics of war? “I said, the kitchen it is.” Cecil’s voice ripped him from his musings.
The kitchen was surprisingly large, and showed all signs that Cecil was occupied there right now. A vast assortment of vegetables lay cut, or waiting to be cut on the table, while something slowly was cooking on the hearth. The oven was working too and a smell of bred hung in the air. Not the normal smell of warm bred, but a kind of bred Duncan had not smelled in some centuries. Cassandra bent down and peered into the oven. Looking up she asked: “Did you really figure out how to make the ‘Bred of the wanderers’ with modern ingredients? I couldn’t make decent one since the 19th century.”
A small laugh escaped Cecil. “I took some years to experiment, before I found out how to do it. Some of the older crops were different, but in a way they all are still around. Triticum spelta came back into fashion eventually, solving most of my problems.” He had taken up a knife and began cutting an assortment of Peppers.
Duncan felt oddly out of place. Something was going on here, that Cassandra understood, but he did not. She rose, studying the pot on the hearth and nodded. “It must be bad, judging by this. Since when?”
“Since Bordeaux,” Cecil replied. “Mind to tell me what brought you here? You’ll hardly want to help me cooking.”
To his astonishment, Cassandra took one of the other knives, studying the wide variety of fresh herbs on the windowsill. “Perhaps I should,” she said in light tones. “You got goat’s cheese I assume? Yes? Then you’ll need herbs and oil.” And expertly she began to pluck some of the herbs.
Duncans chin fell. “Cassandra?” he spurted. “What is this to be? A cooking party?”
Cassandra wheeled around. “No, but don’t interfere right now. Cecil, for all his achievements could never produce a decent herb and oil to go with goat’s cheese, much as he tried.” She shot the tall man a sharp glance. Cecil nodded gratefully.
Duncan looked from one to the other. “I think I wandered in a nuthouse! We came here to ask questions, and you start cooking???”
Cassandra looked shortly up from her work, “He is trying to get Methos eat something, get some foot down his throat, so to speak. He seems to haven’t touched a thing for five days. Gods, I am glad Kronos is dead.”
Not that this helped Duncan much. “I know the Old man can be picky when it comes to eating, but after five days, he should gladly eat whatever you have here.”
“He won’t,” Cassandra’s voice was utterly calm. “it’s a hard exercise to get some bites into him, in that state. And now Duncan - shut up.”
***
Two hours later Duncan was puzzled sitting in an easy chair, in the main living room, as Cassandra and Cecil came back. “He hasn’t changed in that,” Cassandra just said. “He still doesn’t eat with one of us around.”
“He doesn’t mind Indra,” Cecil replied. “And she’ll see that he will eat some. Thanks for the help.”
Cassandra gave a snort. “After I did not take his head, I’m hardly keen on having him starve. You may be think me bad but not that bad.”
Duncan was still puzzled by the strange energy between Cassandra and Cecil. They bitched at each other easily, but worked together like they had never done anything else. Cecil shook his head. “No, I never thought you bad. Whinny, spoiled and sometimes weak… but never bad, you had no evil in you.” Cassandra paled a little at these words, which made Duncan rise again. “Cecil, you can’t call Cassandra weak, or whinny. I know you are Methos friend, and believe me I know how hard it is to accept this: but we can’t begin to comprehend what Methos did to her.”
A strange smile sparkled in Cassandra’s eyes, it was a faint sort of amusement. “Actually, he can, Duncan.” She pointed out.
A vague understanding began to dawn in Duncan. “A follower of Methos, you said… you mean he was a follower of Death?” His eyes went cold. “So you were another one to… ride along the riders, violate people… hurt Cassandra?”
Cecil leaned back, shifting his body balance slightly into an attack position. “Not one redeeming quality, not even intelligence,” he observed, directed at Duncan.
Cassandra stepped between the two men. “You got it the wrong way round, Duncan. Cecil - much as I hate to ask this of you - you should *show* Duncan, he won’t understand otherwise.”
Both man glared at each other, but relaxed visibly. Cecil sighed, as he hesitatingly turned his back to Duncan, slipping his T-Shirt over his head. For a moment Duncan believed Cecil mad, to strip right now, but then he saw it. Two tattoos on the muscular shoulderblades. Both tattoos were very intricate, showing a Horse with a Rider, sword raised to strike and eagle on his shoulder. It was a very detailed tattoo, and easily one of the most beautiful Duncan had ever seen, had he not guessed that it meant something rather nasty. An intricate ring of writing encircled it:
He was well read enough to see that this was greek and to understand what it meant. „Et cum aperuisset sigillum quartum audivi vocem quarti animalis dicentis veni et vidi.” He whispered the Latin translation of the words, that - up to this day - for him had belonged to the Book of Revelation. “And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.” Not Duncan understood the eagle on the Rider’s shoulder too. The fourth Rider and the Fourth beast in unison, the writing around them both, the fourth seal. Come and See.
Cecil relieved him by putting on the T-Shirt again and turning. He seemed not to feel exposed or embarrassed. “At least you could translate it, without help.”
Duncan swallowed. “I could. Methos did these, I take it? To mark his followers?” Something was unsaid here, something he did not understand.
“To mark his property,” Cassandra replied with forced calm. “Contrary to me, Cecil was still mortal when he got these, and they stayed, while mine faded.”
“Mine did too, only slower,” Cecil corrected. “These were done a century ago.” He stated this as if it wasn’t anything special, while sitting down.
Duncan let himself fall into the easy chair again, glad to sit. “So you were his slave too?” He hardly could muster the strength to ask this. Another victim of Methos, and someone who still was attached to him. A longtime Stockholm syndrome?
Cecil frowned. “The answer is yes, even as things are far more complicated than you think. I doubt you could understand it.”
Cassy smiled humourlessly. “It takes some time to figure you out, Helios. Believe me. And I was there.” She pointed out without any spite in her voice.
Duncan looked from one to the other again. “So you have been roughly though the same. But still you stand on the opposite ends of the scale. How…”
Cassandra and Cecil exchanged a glance, than Cassandra spoke. “That’s true Duncan, and it is so, because I hated Methos from the day I was brought into the Horsemen’s camp and Helios… well, he loved Methos, or grew to love him. I am still not sure where to draw the line.”
“Love?” Duncan stared at Cecil like at a highly dangerous explosive. “How could you love him… if he did to you what he did to Cassandra…”
“Well, he wasn’t the first, Kronos got me first.” Cecil replied, his voice casual.
Cassandra shook her head. “Perhaps you should tell him you story, Helios.” She advised.
“No, you know we’ll end up fighting. For there is the one point, that drives us apart, Cassy. You know of what I speak.”
Cassandra took a deep breath. “I’ve got an idea. You tell your story, your point of view. After that I tell mine, and Duncan can decide what he believes. Do you think this would be fair?”
“It would be, Cassandra. Except on Duncan,” Cecil replied. “You can’t ask him to hear our both tales, it would be asked too much.”
Duncan studied Cecil’s features, calm, relaxed even as he walked the brink of some horrid memory. Cassandra was more tense, yet determined to remain calm. Perhaps killing Kronos had helped her to settle for something like peace. “How would this be - you two tell your stories? Adding what the other leaves out, helping each other along, when one can’t speak of what happened next?”
Both nodded, if reluctantly. “Where to begin?” Cecil asked, rising to get some bottles of water for them. There would be much talking. Duncan waited for him to come back. “Begin with your past, before you came to the Horsemen’s camp. I know much of Cassandra’s story, but I have no idea who you were. I always believed the horsemen were more in the Mediterranean, and you look like from more northern Europe.”
Cecil nodded, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “I was born on an island on the Baltic sea,” he began speaking. “I don’t know which any more, but I like to believe that it was the Isle of Hiuma. My father was trading amber to the strangers that came to our coast and bronze to our people. I think we were a well to do family, for this time, for I can’t remember truly. I know I was a foundling, my father had found me by the sea one morning, and believed me to be a gift from the gods of the sea. That’s nearly all I can tell you about the land of my birth, except for pictures and short impressions. I never learned for what crime my father was tried and executed, but this he was and my mother faced banishment. She took me, my siblings and me away from the island and we journeyed south. I don’t recall much of this either. Except we journeyed through large woods, and it was always dark. Wolves followed us and snow fell, I can’t recall all that much of it. Only the song my mother used to sing to us, to keep us calm at nights, while the wolves were howling afar. My other siblings died on that journey, and my mother died too. I would have died too, had I not been found. Mind - no one would have minded had Hagen let my die, or even killed me. Hagen found me, beside the corpse of my mother and took me with him. He was grizzled old warrior who had journeyed north protecting a bronze trader. I don’t know how long the journey was, but I am sure it was summer, when we reached the Alps. Hagen had lost his wife and children years ago and took me in like a son. He taught me the only thing he knew: warfare. By the time I was fifteen we were involved in some minor campaigns in what is today known as Italy. Hagen died when he tried to protect our Lord from murder. He had warned Remus more then once, but he had never believed it.”
Duncan looked up. “Remus? 753 BC?”
“More like 749BC, but then I was never able to keep track of all the calendars. You’d have to ask Methos.” Cecil replied. “After Hagen’s death, there was no staying for me. He had left me only one thing: Nagelring, his sword.”
Again Duncan jumped. “Nagelring, of the legend? I thought it was a myth.”
“It wasn’t. But it wasn’t magic. It was iron, a good iron blade in fact. I never learned where Hagen got it from.” Cecil closed his eyes, visibly forcing back the memories of his long dead foster father. “By the time I was twenty one, I was a seasoned warrior, had a reputation of being fierce and had fought in many skirmishes in Greece and the eastern borders.” Cecil went on. “Along with thousand other warriors we were send from Mycene to stop a force that was crushing across whole Greece: the four Horsemen. They had burned cities, temples and villages. No one had been able to stop them. They were led by Kronos, who was called ‘the end of time’, and by the greatest warrior alive: Methos. We had all heard of him, they said he was a Prince of Meluha, who had been banished unjustly and since then haunted the earth, they said he had crossed the river of Death twice and thus could not die, and everyone knew he was the finest strategist alive and a great swordsman too.” Cecil slowly drank some water. He avoided looking at Duncan or Cassandra. “The Horsemen had never many warriors under their command, hundred or two hundred maximum. But those were handpicked, the best of the best, everyone fiercely loyal to them. We were five times as many, and we lost the day. I was among the last ones standing, and Kronos himself came at me. We fought - honourably so - because no one else interfered, and he won out. I couldn’t stand before him. He didn’t kill me, but took me prisoner. Something had intrigued him.”
“Your blonde hair,” Cassandra interjected. “I heard him say he had never seen hair like the sun before. And your fighting had impressed him, too.”
Cecil nodded absentmindedly. “What is there to say? He had bested me, which made me his slave. To the victor go the spoils. I tried to take it the best I could, as a warrior should.”
Duncan slowly reached out, touching Cecil’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it is alright. I… I have some impressions of what Kronos did to you.”
Cecil shook his head. “If you ever want to understand…. Then I have to tell it. Yes, he had his way with me, often so. I resisted, he enjoyed forcing me, and I would resist again. I learned the rules of the Horsemen camp. Everyone of them had his share of slaves, and the warriors were divided the same way. Caspians warriors were madmen like he himself was, Silas troop was stupid but obedient and Kronos had assembled only the best under his command. Methos had found no one worthy to serve him thus. He had only few slaves and kept much to himself. Of the four Kronos loved him most, time and again he’d have me and other slaves assist Methos servants. I admired Methos, greatly. He was much above all others, and I began to believe the story of the banished Prince of Meluha. It was already Autumn when another Immortal, a slave to Caspian tried to kill Methos, I happened to be there..”
“You thwarted the whole attempt, killed him and came close to attacking Caspian,” Cassandra interjected. By that time there wasn’t a slave in the camp who had not a bet how long you would resist Kronos. We all expected you to break any passing month, you never did. Yet you saved Methos, and Kronos was… impressed. After he punished you for attacking Caspian.”
Cecil rolled his eyes. “He did, and enjoyed it, greatly so. That morning he asked me if I’d again attack Caspian, when I thought he was threatening Methos. I said, I would, thinking he might kill me right on the spot. Instead he grinned and made me swear an oath - a blood oath - to protect Methos, no matter from what, no matter from whom and to serve him faithfully and loyally.” Cecil slowly ran his finger along a scar in his palm. “I swore that oath and he told me, no one should know of it. Next day he presented me to Methos.” Cecil fell silent, searching for words. Eventually he went on. “Methos did show no interest in me, but set me to take care of his horse.”
Cassandra laughed weakly. “He had me, at that time, and you were good with horses everyone knew this. Yet he came after you, after that battle near Knossoss.”
Cecil arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean, Cassy?”
Cassandra shook her head. “He raped you, or it was close to it. Coerced you. “Do I need the blade?” Do you remember? You kneeling on the ground? His blade at your throat…”
Cecil shifted uneasily. “I had seen this one coming,” he said. “When he returned from that battle, he was furious, strained and tense. He needed to let it go, I had seen it coming,” Still he remembered it vividly.
Pushed down to his knees, after he had brought another bucket of water. Strong hands that held him down, a cold blade at his throat. Methos stood unmoving, only studying him, while he had buried his free hand in Helios’ blonde hair. “Do I need the sword?” he asked with a wolfish smile. Helios could see the light in those green golden eyes that held him in thrall. Fear and apprehension warred in him, yet that touch made him shiver even more. “No,” he replied hoarsely. Methos tossed the blade aside, smiling. “Good.”
“You didn’t resist him,” Cassandra said in a hush. “You tried to go along, yet he raped you.”
Cecil shook his head. “It was hard - I won’t deny it, but Methos never had the innate cruelty of Kronos, he never made me feel - used.”
Cassandra nodded. “What explained what happened later.”
Helios awoke in the dark. He needed not to think to remember where he was, or what had happened. He still could feel the painful marks on his body. Methos was lying not far, asleep. At least he had allowed him to sleep here. That was more than Helios was used to. Even in the dark he could see, that Methos must have fallen asleep at once after he was done, or he would have cleared himself up. He always was cleanly. Helios forced himself to rise. There had been a bucket of water, that he had carried up from the River before…. Before his encounter with Methos. He silently walked to the tentflap and checked the bucket. The water had gone dirty, was useless. Suppressing the ache in his muscles he took up the bucked and walked down to the river. No one took notice of him. Even that he walked nearly without clothing did not annoy anyone. He had done this for punishment before. Kronos had loved it. Down by the river he knelt in the sand, relaxing for a moment. The wind was whispering in the trees around him, the soft murmur of the water was soothing. Slowly Helios took the time to wash himself. He could feel the traces of the night clearly. Yet they weren’t half as bad as the marks Kronos had left him with. Somehow it did not feel the same. Perhaps… perhaps because Kronos had just enjoyed breaking him, while Methos… even in the rough touches he had felt something else… Methos had bedded him not for the fun of inflicting pain, but because he was attracted by him. Which made all the difference in the world.
Helios enjoyed having time to wash, it was a rare luxury among slaves. He even washed his hair to get the dirt out again. Then he took the bucket of water and walked back to the camp. Upon entering the tent he realised the boldness of his intentions for the first time. He had not been send to get water, even as the guards outside had assumed it, and he surely was not ordered to clean up Methos. But then, he knew Methos hated being dirty unnecessarily. He bent down beside sleeping Methos, dipping some cloth into the water and cautiously began his work. Even as Methos stirred some time, he fortunately woke not at once, only when Helios was already finished and brought the bucket outside again. When Helios turned, he saw that Methos was wide awake, and sitting on his blankets. The keen eyes studied Helios calmly, wordlessly. Then Methos lifted one hand, extending it towards Helios.
Helios heart made a painful jump. He knew what this meant. It was an unspoken invitation. The invitation to return *there* at his own free will. It would still mean pain, and probably violence. Yet he would have accepted it freely. It meant giving himself to Methos out of his own free will. They eyes met. Helios knew that he still could leave. He wouldn’t be punished for this. But he could not, and he knew this, even before he stepped back into the tent, accepting the hand, while kneeling down.
Some unknown time later, between two ravishing kisses, he heard this word, this first word between them: MINE.
A major warning ahead: Even as I try not to be detailed or too explicit this story deals with some rather adult themes. Many events in the Horsemen camp will at least be discussed and this from a very varying point of view.
Title: Coming to terms
by: Falconsheart
Chapter 1 - Shadow and Light
Age: NC 17
Disclaimer: This is a non-commercial work of fiction, based on "Highlander", which is copyright to Davis/Panzer. No copyright infringement was intended. I don't receive any financial recompensation.
Chapter 1 - In Shadow and Light
It is superb in the air,
Suffering is everywhere,
And each man wears his suffering like a skin.
My history is proud,
Mine is not allowed,
This is the cistern were all wars begin,
The laughter from the armoured car.
This is the man who won’t believe you are what you are.
(James Fenton: Jerusalem)
Submarine base, outside Bordeaux
“I Killed Silas!! I liked Silas!!” The broken voice echoed hollowly from the barren walls of the shelter. Ragged sobs nearly incomprehensible accompanied the voice that was crying out in despair.
Had Duncan not known it was Methos down there in the darkness, he’d never guessed it by himself. Seeing Cassandra’s axe hovering above the helpless man, mixed feelings warred inside him. One blow and the Horsemen of the Apocalpyse would be history indeed, one blow and one of his friends - or former friends - would die, unnecessarily so. The decision was made, before Duncan realised it completely. “Cassandra! I want him to live!” The repeated command carried the weight of the warrior, the clan chief, the leader in Duncan and even through shrouds of hate reached Cassandra. It wasn’t a plea for mercy, no calm words halting her hand, and no consideration for the broken man on the floor or the shelter, it was an order, supported by Duncan’s will alone. No questions asked, none to Cassandra and her wish for revenge, none to Methos, what both of them had to say in that case, did not matter, Duncan had decided and his order was obeyed.
Cassandra let got of the axe, it cluttered down, vanishing in the dirty water that filled the lower shelter. Without looking back Cassandra headed off into the darkness. Duncan still stood unmoving, peering down onto the wreckage of the battle. Perhaps his eyes had eventually adjusted to the darkness in here, or the weird Quickening they had taken showed some effect at last, but suddenly he could see Methos down there in the darkness. A shaking form, crouched by the side of the giant’s corpse, rattled by stifled, painful sobs.
Steps splashing in the dirty water below made Duncan nearly jump. He felt the distinct approach of another Immortal. The characteristic buzz that accompanied any one of them, was strong and resonant with this one. Duncan felt him from quite a distance. He froze, that Quickening was deep and sang from afar, like a beacon in deepest night. Whoever he was, he was strong, this Duncan knew at once. Contrary to Methos, who’s Quickening had suffered a slight blur from his long time out of the game, this one’s was clear, edged and vibrant. Noiselessly Duncan drew his katana again. Who might this be? Another Horseman? An Immortal who had decided that he wanted two powerful Quickenings? An unknown accomplice of Kronos? Stepping back Duncan faded more into the shadows, to see who came, before he got himself into another fight.
The first what he saw was a light dancing above the water, whoever came into the base, was carrying a hand lamp with a strong focus. The silver halo added an eerie note to the already creepy surroundings. Duncan blinked hard, to see something against the sudden brightness. Two shadows shaped out of the darkness. One of them distinctively taller than the second. Duncan raised his hand to protect his eyes from the light. Eventually he could see more than just shadows and coloured specks dancing at his irises.
A tall blonde man, the torch in his right hand, a katana in the left, emerged from the darkness. Albeit barefoot he seemed not to mind the cold, dirty water, in which he was moving. Had he been alone, Duncan would have been sure it was another challenge, just judging by his Quickening. But the second person qualified for nothing else than a child, a wiry, dark-haired girl that just was unlucky enough to stumble across Kronos ugly remains. She did not fall, but caught herself with a smooth move before she could land in the water. Duncan knew by her faint echo that she was still mortal, but who would bring a child - mortal or Pre-Immortal - to a place like this? Into the reach of Kronos or Methos? Yet the girl reacted most strangely, there was no shriek, when she realised on what she had stumbled, nor was there any fear or terror. She just bend down to examine she had found, while the man hurried on, reaching Methos. “Methos, thanks to the gods, you’re alive.” The English he spoke at that moment was strongly accentuated, and positively ancient.
Methos did not really react to the newcomer at first, caught in his own world of grief and pain, but when he tried to help Methos up, he resisted. “Cecil…. Kronos… he had a virus…hidden down there….and I…I killed Silas…” his voice was barely audible.
Cecil rose hastily, placing his lamp high on one of the concrete support beams, to get a steady light, he changed his blade to the right hand. “Where’s Kronos now?” his voice sounded painfully strained, like he prevented it hardly from shaking. The way he eyed the shadows of the submarine base he expected Kronos to emerge from the shadows any moment.
Before Methos could reply, or explain, the little girl came speeding up to them. “Negative on Kronos, he’s lost his head,” she reported rather matter-of-factly, tossing some items at Cecil. “Keys, security keys and credit cards. That idiot scribbled down the PINs.”
Duncan shuddered at that scene. How could a girl of that age have rifled through Kronos possessions so coldly? Who was she anyway? Who was this Cecil? He seemed to be as cold blooded as Methos was usually.
Cecil caught the keys with his left hand, eying them shortly. “Well done, little one.” He turned fully to the girl. “Kronos has hidden a virus down there, and the gods alone know what other weapons. I need to clear out that armoury before we can leave here.”
The girl nodded earnestly. “You want me to stay with Methos?” her light voice echoed eerily from the walls of the bomb shelter. Suddenly Duncan was reminded of a lost fortress which still echoed of childrens voices long gone. He saw the blonde man nod. “Right, Indra. Stay with Methos, take care of him, until I return. I’m leaving most of the arsenal with you. There is another Immortal in here, but he did not move since we entered the building, he’s probably unconscious. Should he come here, use whatever is needed to stall and call for me.” He turned to Methos, who had not moved, just slumped on the cold floor. He seemed lifeless and forlorn thus. Cecil bent down for a moment, placing a comforting hand at Methos shoulder. “It won’t take long to dispose of the virus. I’ll leave Indra with you, she will stay with you until I am back.”
Frozen in his place Duncan watched the blonde man turn and vanish deeper into the bowls of the ruined base. In shocked disbelieve he saw the small girl down there, beside Methos. How could anyone *think* of bringing her here? Not speaking of leaving her with Methos, with a man who was Death. Seeing that girl down there, being utterly unafraid of Methos or these dreadful surroundings. For some moments he was seriously tempted to go down and see her safe at some distance from Methos. But a painful jerk erupting from his chest made him nearly break to his knees. He saw Methos collapse too down there, but while Duncan scrambled to his feet again and passed the momentary weakness, Methos fell unconscious on the floor.
Duncan saw Indra kneel down beside Methos. “Methos!” Cautiously she checked his pulse, Duncan saw that she was counting time, on her watch. “Faint, but stable,” she whispered, her voice shaking a little. “Cecil said this might happen. Don’t fear Methos, you are not alone.” She slipped out of her leather jacket, putting it on the ground to serve as a makeshift cushion. Gently she made Methos head rest on the furry inside of it, before she took a blanket from below her backpack, to cover Methos. “I know, you hate these things,” she said, “But we need to keep you warm.”
Rising from her knees she looked around the desolate place, taking up an abandoned bucked and began to gather bits of paper, remains of the stools and other things, not even hesitating to take Silas mouldy jacket and put into the bin. First Duncan wondered what she was doing, but moments later he understood, that she was preparing a fire. Anger and admiration waged war inside him. He still was angry at that father - or foster father more likely - who had subjected his little girl to these conditions, yet he felt that the same father ought to be proud of his girl, that handled this situation so calmly and efficiently. Within a quarter of an hour a fire was blazing in the damaged bucket. Indra had placed it close to Methos, to warm him. The old Immortal lay still unmoving. Whatever had caused his condition in the first place, it wasn’t healed by the usual Immortal regeneration. Indra assembled more pieces of the broken table, to keep the fire blazing but she also brought back Metho’s sword. Sitting down beside him, she began to clean it off the blood and dirt from the fighting.
Duncan thought of going down and help her. She took care of Methos so gently, checking his condition regularly, always accompanied by some caring, soothing words. Sometimes she ran her small hand through his spiky hair, just to let him know he wasn’t alone down here. When Duncan just had decided to go down, he saw a movement at the lower door. Cecil was returning, a black pack slung over his shoulder. “Kronos outdid himself this time, Indra,” he said, upon reaching the stairs. “now I know why he was in Africa that long. I’ll bet my sword against a toothpick, he found that virus down at Kongo.” He stopped when he saw the scene. Hurrying over to them, he asked. “What happened?”
“Methos collapsed shortly after you left,” Indra said. “Like you described it to me. I tried to keep him warm, and rested as much as this murky place allows, but I think his temperature has been rising for the last full hour. Can… can it be a post-Quickening shock, like you took last year?”
“No, that’s something entirely different,” Cecil replied. “I have seen this before - only it was never that bad.” He sighed. “Indra, I need you to take the backpack and other stuff, while I carry Methos down to the boat. We need to get him out of here.”
***
“Tall, blonde and looking rather Scandinavian?” Cassandra passed the hotel room restlessly. “That would be him, small wonder he’s still around. He always cared about Methos.”
“Who?” Duncan sat exhausted on the bed, feeling not really clean, even after the third shower. “Who was he and… who was this girl? She was so small, yet she cared about Methos… she even knew his name.” He remembered Methos anger when Richie had learned the truth about ‘Adam Pierson’.
Cassandra began rifling through her bag until producing a fat, dog-eared book. Rifling through the pages she took out a corny photograph and a drawing. “Could this be him?” She asked, handing both items to Duncan.
Duncan studied the pictures. The photograph was of bad quality. It was taken through the window of a conference room. Cecil was standing there, one hand resting at a table, concentrated on the notebook screen of another man, pointing something out. Plans lay scattered around the scene. It was a nightshot and his features were not very clear to make out. The drawing was better, even as it showed him wearing an ancient cuirass. “That’s him, no doubt. Who is he?” he asked again.
“Helios,” Cassandra replied. “He calls himself Cecil Darkmoon these days, but it’s Helios. He’s an old…. Crony of Methos’” She rifled again through her book. “I had no idea that he and Methos were still in contact, even as it hardly surprises me, yet I kept some tabs on him.”
Duncan sighed. An old follower of Methos, someone else who perhaps had been fooled by the ancient Immortal. Cassandra sat down beside him. “I wanted to thank you… you probably saved my life.”
Duncan looked up. “How so? I saved Methos life and expected you to be mad at me…”
“I was, believe me. But knowing that Cecil was there, close enough to witness it all, he would have taken my head before I had recovered from the Quickening.”
Duncan nodded curtly. He did not want to discuss the events with Cassandra, yet he wanted to discuss them… to speak about it. “I need to find them,” he heard himself say.
“Methos and Cecil?” Cassandra asked. “That will be quite a chase. Cecil has seven or eigth hideouts in Europe alone and can count on some protection by certain governments as he is a first class weapon designer. He is said to solve problems with rockets and other weapons no one else can solve. You can’t just go after him.”
Duncan stood up, walking to the window. “I don’t want to fight them, believe me. But I… I need to understand what happened. And after Methos blanked out I felt something… a pain that wasn’t mine. Something happened with us, and I’d rather find out before…”
“Methos blanked out?” Cassandra rose too. “He fell and remained unmoving, not reacting to his surroundings?”
“Right, how do you know?” Duncan inquired astonished.
“I have seen it before.”
“The same said Cecil, but that it never had been that worse,” Duncan recalled.
“Then it *is* bad.” Cassandras hands went flying over her book. “Let’s see, they left by boat… he won’t go too far if he can prevent it, and avoid other Immortals. So they won’t fly or go by train. Cecil had a hideout in France, there - I got it! St. Jean-des-Sables.”
A frown rose on Duncans features. “That would be near La Rochelle, wouldn’t it?” He vaguely recalled that Methos had mentioned the city in some drunken conversation months ago.
***
Five and a half day later Duncan wasn’t sure about the whole idea any more. Or yet, he was, but he still wondered why Cassandra came along. Had she railed and left, he would not have doubted himself so much. But she was sitting on beside him in the car, silently, as they passed the last slope. Duncan could feel Methos close, yet it felt strange, a weak Quickening, not like the old Immortal at all. Stopping the car, he looked first at the lonely house, than to Cassandra. “Why do I feel so strange? It’s like a great cold settling over this place.”
Cassandra eyed him suspiciously. “Perhaps Methos condition is affecting you,” she observed. “This whole double-quickening is scary, you know.”
Duncan stared at the house. Was he really here, just to find out, what had happened to him? Truth to be told, he wasn’t. He also was worried, about this little girl, stuck with two less than nice Immortals, worried about Methos and his weak condition and…. He shoved it aside. He needed to talk to Methos.
The door of the house opened before they could knock. Cecil carried his katana relaxed in his left hand. “Challenges from 2 PM to 11 PM, come back in three hours,” his voice wasn’t even ironic.
“We are not here for a challenge,” Duncan explained.
Cecil’s eyebrows shot up. “so this is what? A social visit?” His eyes scanned Cassandra, before returning to Duncan. “Or a worried friend’s visit? Well, you did not prove much of a friend either.”
Duncan was short of flaring up, but Cassandra was faster. She took a step forward. “How is he, Helios? You look like you have not slept for days. He can’t be well.” There was no anger in her voice now, just utter calm.
Cecil ran his hand through his blonde mane. “Right you are, he is bad, I never saw him that bad, except perhaps after that horrid night in Bethlehem.” He replied earnestly.
Cassandra’s eyes widened. “Not even as bad like after….. Dur-Sharrukin?“ her voice had gone small. “Than it must be bad…. May I… may we come in?”
Duncan could see the weariness in Cecil’s eyes. “You leave your weapons at the door, and stay were I can see you, the kitchen that is right now.”
Inside the house, Duncan saw the girl, Indra for a short moment again. She had come to the hall too. Not for curiosity, but to check, whether she needed to run. Duncan suddenly understood, that Cecil would have fought them, while Indra, and probably Methos, ran for it. How could he teach a girl at this age, the tactics of war? “I said, the kitchen it is.” Cecil’s voice ripped him from his musings.
The kitchen was surprisingly large, and showed all signs that Cecil was occupied there right now. A vast assortment of vegetables lay cut, or waiting to be cut on the table, while something slowly was cooking on the hearth. The oven was working too and a smell of bred hung in the air. Not the normal smell of warm bred, but a kind of bred Duncan had not smelled in some centuries. Cassandra bent down and peered into the oven. Looking up she asked: “Did you really figure out how to make the ‘Bred of the wanderers’ with modern ingredients? I couldn’t make decent one since the 19th century.”
A small laugh escaped Cecil. “I took some years to experiment, before I found out how to do it. Some of the older crops were different, but in a way they all are still around. Triticum spelta came back into fashion eventually, solving most of my problems.” He had taken up a knife and began cutting an assortment of Peppers.
Duncan felt oddly out of place. Something was going on here, that Cassandra understood, but he did not. She rose, studying the pot on the hearth and nodded. “It must be bad, judging by this. Since when?”
“Since Bordeaux,” Cecil replied. “Mind to tell me what brought you here? You’ll hardly want to help me cooking.”
To his astonishment, Cassandra took one of the other knives, studying the wide variety of fresh herbs on the windowsill. “Perhaps I should,” she said in light tones. “You got goat’s cheese I assume? Yes? Then you’ll need herbs and oil.” And expertly she began to pluck some of the herbs.
Duncans chin fell. “Cassandra?” he spurted. “What is this to be? A cooking party?”
Cassandra wheeled around. “No, but don’t interfere right now. Cecil, for all his achievements could never produce a decent herb and oil to go with goat’s cheese, much as he tried.” She shot the tall man a sharp glance. Cecil nodded gratefully.
Duncan looked from one to the other. “I think I wandered in a nuthouse! We came here to ask questions, and you start cooking???”
Cassandra looked shortly up from her work, “He is trying to get Methos eat something, get some foot down his throat, so to speak. He seems to haven’t touched a thing for five days. Gods, I am glad Kronos is dead.”
Not that this helped Duncan much. “I know the Old man can be picky when it comes to eating, but after five days, he should gladly eat whatever you have here.”
“He won’t,” Cassandra’s voice was utterly calm. “it’s a hard exercise to get some bites into him, in that state. And now Duncan - shut up.”
***
Two hours later Duncan was puzzled sitting in an easy chair, in the main living room, as Cassandra and Cecil came back. “He hasn’t changed in that,” Cassandra just said. “He still doesn’t eat with one of us around.”
“He doesn’t mind Indra,” Cecil replied. “And she’ll see that he will eat some. Thanks for the help.”
Cassandra gave a snort. “After I did not take his head, I’m hardly keen on having him starve. You may be think me bad but not that bad.”
Duncan was still puzzled by the strange energy between Cassandra and Cecil. They bitched at each other easily, but worked together like they had never done anything else. Cecil shook his head. “No, I never thought you bad. Whinny, spoiled and sometimes weak… but never bad, you had no evil in you.” Cassandra paled a little at these words, which made Duncan rise again. “Cecil, you can’t call Cassandra weak, or whinny. I know you are Methos friend, and believe me I know how hard it is to accept this: but we can’t begin to comprehend what Methos did to her.”
A strange smile sparkled in Cassandra’s eyes, it was a faint sort of amusement. “Actually, he can, Duncan.” She pointed out.
A vague understanding began to dawn in Duncan. “A follower of Methos, you said… you mean he was a follower of Death?” His eyes went cold. “So you were another one to… ride along the riders, violate people… hurt Cassandra?”
Cecil leaned back, shifting his body balance slightly into an attack position. “Not one redeeming quality, not even intelligence,” he observed, directed at Duncan.
Cassandra stepped between the two men. “You got it the wrong way round, Duncan. Cecil - much as I hate to ask this of you - you should *show* Duncan, he won’t understand otherwise.”
Both man glared at each other, but relaxed visibly. Cecil sighed, as he hesitatingly turned his back to Duncan, slipping his T-Shirt over his head. For a moment Duncan believed Cecil mad, to strip right now, but then he saw it. Two tattoos on the muscular shoulderblades. Both tattoos were very intricate, showing a Horse with a Rider, sword raised to strike and eagle on his shoulder. It was a very detailed tattoo, and easily one of the most beautiful Duncan had ever seen, had he not guessed that it meant something rather nasty. An intricate ring of writing encircled it:
He was well read enough to see that this was greek and to understand what it meant. „Et cum aperuisset sigillum quartum audivi vocem quarti animalis dicentis veni et vidi.” He whispered the Latin translation of the words, that - up to this day - for him had belonged to the Book of Revelation. “And when he had opened the fourth seal, I heard the voice of the fourth beast say, Come and see.” Not Duncan understood the eagle on the Rider’s shoulder too. The fourth Rider and the Fourth beast in unison, the writing around them both, the fourth seal. Come and See.
Cecil relieved him by putting on the T-Shirt again and turning. He seemed not to feel exposed or embarrassed. “At least you could translate it, without help.”
Duncan swallowed. “I could. Methos did these, I take it? To mark his followers?” Something was unsaid here, something he did not understand.
“To mark his property,” Cassandra replied with forced calm. “Contrary to me, Cecil was still mortal when he got these, and they stayed, while mine faded.”
“Mine did too, only slower,” Cecil corrected. “These were done a century ago.” He stated this as if it wasn’t anything special, while sitting down.
Duncan let himself fall into the easy chair again, glad to sit. “So you were his slave too?” He hardly could muster the strength to ask this. Another victim of Methos, and someone who still was attached to him. A longtime Stockholm syndrome?
Cecil frowned. “The answer is yes, even as things are far more complicated than you think. I doubt you could understand it.”
Cassy smiled humourlessly. “It takes some time to figure you out, Helios. Believe me. And I was there.” She pointed out without any spite in her voice.
Duncan looked from one to the other again. “So you have been roughly though the same. But still you stand on the opposite ends of the scale. How…”
Cassandra and Cecil exchanged a glance, than Cassandra spoke. “That’s true Duncan, and it is so, because I hated Methos from the day I was brought into the Horsemen’s camp and Helios… well, he loved Methos, or grew to love him. I am still not sure where to draw the line.”
“Love?” Duncan stared at Cecil like at a highly dangerous explosive. “How could you love him… if he did to you what he did to Cassandra…”
“Well, he wasn’t the first, Kronos got me first.” Cecil replied, his voice casual.
Cassandra shook her head. “Perhaps you should tell him you story, Helios.” She advised.
“No, you know we’ll end up fighting. For there is the one point, that drives us apart, Cassy. You know of what I speak.”
Cassandra took a deep breath. “I’ve got an idea. You tell your story, your point of view. After that I tell mine, and Duncan can decide what he believes. Do you think this would be fair?”
“It would be, Cassandra. Except on Duncan,” Cecil replied. “You can’t ask him to hear our both tales, it would be asked too much.”
Duncan studied Cecil’s features, calm, relaxed even as he walked the brink of some horrid memory. Cassandra was more tense, yet determined to remain calm. Perhaps killing Kronos had helped her to settle for something like peace. “How would this be - you two tell your stories? Adding what the other leaves out, helping each other along, when one can’t speak of what happened next?”
Both nodded, if reluctantly. “Where to begin?” Cecil asked, rising to get some bottles of water for them. There would be much talking. Duncan waited for him to come back. “Begin with your past, before you came to the Horsemen’s camp. I know much of Cassandra’s story, but I have no idea who you were. I always believed the horsemen were more in the Mediterranean, and you look like from more northern Europe.”
Cecil nodded, sitting cross-legged on the sofa. “I was born on an island on the Baltic sea,” he began speaking. “I don’t know which any more, but I like to believe that it was the Isle of Hiuma. My father was trading amber to the strangers that came to our coast and bronze to our people. I think we were a well to do family, for this time, for I can’t remember truly. I know I was a foundling, my father had found me by the sea one morning, and believed me to be a gift from the gods of the sea. That’s nearly all I can tell you about the land of my birth, except for pictures and short impressions. I never learned for what crime my father was tried and executed, but this he was and my mother faced banishment. She took me, my siblings and me away from the island and we journeyed south. I don’t recall much of this either. Except we journeyed through large woods, and it was always dark. Wolves followed us and snow fell, I can’t recall all that much of it. Only the song my mother used to sing to us, to keep us calm at nights, while the wolves were howling afar. My other siblings died on that journey, and my mother died too. I would have died too, had I not been found. Mind - no one would have minded had Hagen let my die, or even killed me. Hagen found me, beside the corpse of my mother and took me with him. He was grizzled old warrior who had journeyed north protecting a bronze trader. I don’t know how long the journey was, but I am sure it was summer, when we reached the Alps. Hagen had lost his wife and children years ago and took me in like a son. He taught me the only thing he knew: warfare. By the time I was fifteen we were involved in some minor campaigns in what is today known as Italy. Hagen died when he tried to protect our Lord from murder. He had warned Remus more then once, but he had never believed it.”
Duncan looked up. “Remus? 753 BC?”
“More like 749BC, but then I was never able to keep track of all the calendars. You’d have to ask Methos.” Cecil replied. “After Hagen’s death, there was no staying for me. He had left me only one thing: Nagelring, his sword.”
Again Duncan jumped. “Nagelring, of the legend? I thought it was a myth.”
“It wasn’t. But it wasn’t magic. It was iron, a good iron blade in fact. I never learned where Hagen got it from.” Cecil closed his eyes, visibly forcing back the memories of his long dead foster father. “By the time I was twenty one, I was a seasoned warrior, had a reputation of being fierce and had fought in many skirmishes in Greece and the eastern borders.” Cecil went on. “Along with thousand other warriors we were send from Mycene to stop a force that was crushing across whole Greece: the four Horsemen. They had burned cities, temples and villages. No one had been able to stop them. They were led by Kronos, who was called ‘the end of time’, and by the greatest warrior alive: Methos. We had all heard of him, they said he was a Prince of Meluha, who had been banished unjustly and since then haunted the earth, they said he had crossed the river of Death twice and thus could not die, and everyone knew he was the finest strategist alive and a great swordsman too.” Cecil slowly drank some water. He avoided looking at Duncan or Cassandra. “The Horsemen had never many warriors under their command, hundred or two hundred maximum. But those were handpicked, the best of the best, everyone fiercely loyal to them. We were five times as many, and we lost the day. I was among the last ones standing, and Kronos himself came at me. We fought - honourably so - because no one else interfered, and he won out. I couldn’t stand before him. He didn’t kill me, but took me prisoner. Something had intrigued him.”
“Your blonde hair,” Cassandra interjected. “I heard him say he had never seen hair like the sun before. And your fighting had impressed him, too.”
Cecil nodded absentmindedly. “What is there to say? He had bested me, which made me his slave. To the victor go the spoils. I tried to take it the best I could, as a warrior should.”
Duncan slowly reached out, touching Cecil’s shoulder. “If you don’t want to talk about it, it is alright. I… I have some impressions of what Kronos did to you.”
Cecil shook his head. “If you ever want to understand…. Then I have to tell it. Yes, he had his way with me, often so. I resisted, he enjoyed forcing me, and I would resist again. I learned the rules of the Horsemen camp. Everyone of them had his share of slaves, and the warriors were divided the same way. Caspians warriors were madmen like he himself was, Silas troop was stupid but obedient and Kronos had assembled only the best under his command. Methos had found no one worthy to serve him thus. He had only few slaves and kept much to himself. Of the four Kronos loved him most, time and again he’d have me and other slaves assist Methos servants. I admired Methos, greatly. He was much above all others, and I began to believe the story of the banished Prince of Meluha. It was already Autumn when another Immortal, a slave to Caspian tried to kill Methos, I happened to be there..”
“You thwarted the whole attempt, killed him and came close to attacking Caspian,” Cassandra interjected. By that time there wasn’t a slave in the camp who had not a bet how long you would resist Kronos. We all expected you to break any passing month, you never did. Yet you saved Methos, and Kronos was… impressed. After he punished you for attacking Caspian.”
Cecil rolled his eyes. “He did, and enjoyed it, greatly so. That morning he asked me if I’d again attack Caspian, when I thought he was threatening Methos. I said, I would, thinking he might kill me right on the spot. Instead he grinned and made me swear an oath - a blood oath - to protect Methos, no matter from what, no matter from whom and to serve him faithfully and loyally.” Cecil slowly ran his finger along a scar in his palm. “I swore that oath and he told me, no one should know of it. Next day he presented me to Methos.” Cecil fell silent, searching for words. Eventually he went on. “Methos did show no interest in me, but set me to take care of his horse.”
Cassandra laughed weakly. “He had me, at that time, and you were good with horses everyone knew this. Yet he came after you, after that battle near Knossoss.”
Cecil arched an eyebrow. “What do you mean, Cassy?”
Cassandra shook her head. “He raped you, or it was close to it. Coerced you. “Do I need the blade?” Do you remember? You kneeling on the ground? His blade at your throat…”
Cecil shifted uneasily. “I had seen this one coming,” he said. “When he returned from that battle, he was furious, strained and tense. He needed to let it go, I had seen it coming,” Still he remembered it vividly.
Pushed down to his knees, after he had brought another bucket of water. Strong hands that held him down, a cold blade at his throat. Methos stood unmoving, only studying him, while he had buried his free hand in Helios’ blonde hair. “Do I need the sword?” he asked with a wolfish smile. Helios could see the light in those green golden eyes that held him in thrall. Fear and apprehension warred in him, yet that touch made him shiver even more. “No,” he replied hoarsely. Methos tossed the blade aside, smiling. “Good.”
“You didn’t resist him,” Cassandra said in a hush. “You tried to go along, yet he raped you.”
Cecil shook his head. “It was hard - I won’t deny it, but Methos never had the innate cruelty of Kronos, he never made me feel - used.”
Cassandra nodded. “What explained what happened later.”
Helios awoke in the dark. He needed not to think to remember where he was, or what had happened. He still could feel the painful marks on his body. Methos was lying not far, asleep. At least he had allowed him to sleep here. That was more than Helios was used to. Even in the dark he could see, that Methos must have fallen asleep at once after he was done, or he would have cleared himself up. He always was cleanly. Helios forced himself to rise. There had been a bucket of water, that he had carried up from the River before…. Before his encounter with Methos. He silently walked to the tentflap and checked the bucket. The water had gone dirty, was useless. Suppressing the ache in his muscles he took up the bucked and walked down to the river. No one took notice of him. Even that he walked nearly without clothing did not annoy anyone. He had done this for punishment before. Kronos had loved it. Down by the river he knelt in the sand, relaxing for a moment. The wind was whispering in the trees around him, the soft murmur of the water was soothing. Slowly Helios took the time to wash himself. He could feel the traces of the night clearly. Yet they weren’t half as bad as the marks Kronos had left him with. Somehow it did not feel the same. Perhaps… perhaps because Kronos had just enjoyed breaking him, while Methos… even in the rough touches he had felt something else… Methos had bedded him not for the fun of inflicting pain, but because he was attracted by him. Which made all the difference in the world.
Helios enjoyed having time to wash, it was a rare luxury among slaves. He even washed his hair to get the dirt out again. Then he took the bucket of water and walked back to the camp. Upon entering the tent he realised the boldness of his intentions for the first time. He had not been send to get water, even as the guards outside had assumed it, and he surely was not ordered to clean up Methos. But then, he knew Methos hated being dirty unnecessarily. He bent down beside sleeping Methos, dipping some cloth into the water and cautiously began his work. Even as Methos stirred some time, he fortunately woke not at once, only when Helios was already finished and brought the bucket outside again. When Helios turned, he saw that Methos was wide awake, and sitting on his blankets. The keen eyes studied Helios calmly, wordlessly. Then Methos lifted one hand, extending it towards Helios.
Helios heart made a painful jump. He knew what this meant. It was an unspoken invitation. The invitation to return *there* at his own free will. It would still mean pain, and probably violence. Yet he would have accepted it freely. It meant giving himself to Methos out of his own free will. They eyes met. Helios knew that he still could leave. He wouldn’t be punished for this. But he could not, and he knew this, even before he stepped back into the tent, accepting the hand, while kneeling down.
Some unknown time later, between two ravishing kisses, he heard this word, this first word between them: MINE.