Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood, for amand_r
Title: Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood
Author: My Little Highlander: A Kind of Magic aka hafital
Written For amand_r
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, the Four Horsemen
Rating: R to NC-17, for some violence and sexual situations
Warnings: Please be aware that parts of this story feature the Four Horsemen in all their Bronze Age glory, Methos and Caspian in particular, when they were very bad men indeed. Some of it is not pretty or kind.
Author's Notes: The title is from a song by the same name from the group Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. The modern-day portions of this story are set a couple of years after the end of the television series.
Except for the May Day riot in London in the year 2000, nothing in this story bears resemblance to actual history.
I owe great big thank yous to my two betas.
Summary: "I leave you alone for ten minutes and find you directing troops into battle," said MacLeod. "Well," said Methos, "I came out here to find out what all the fuss was about, and, you know." Methos finished with a shrug and a wave of his hand, as if to say this sort of thing was a natural hazard of his day-to-day life.
Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood
*
The Persian Plateau, late summer
*
It was Caspian who woke him, with a kick to his side and a splash of cold water. Cursing, Methos leapt from the soft nest of skins he'd used as a bed and, naked still, he strangled Caspian with his bare hands.
Caspian laughed, gasping stinking breath, his mouth opened wide in howling amusement, dark eyes gleaming. Methos squeezed harder but it only made Caspian's eyes bulge.
Methos let go, standing with his back to the wall of the old stone temple they'd chosen to camp in, and watched Caspian bend over, spitting onto the ground. "I've asked you not to do that," said Methos, his voice quiet despite the rush of anger that heated his blood.
Still coughing, Caspian turned his head and peered at Methos through squinting eyes and an amused grimace. "Kronos said to wake you. They've gathered in the valley."
Methos looked out toward the temple opening but could only see vague shapes through the dim light.
It was long habit and instinct that made Methos move in time. Without warning, Caspian lunged at Methos with teeth bared. Stepping to one side, Methos smashed Caspian's face against the wall and twisted his arm behind his back. "One day, Caspian, you'll go too far."
Caspian's answer was only mean laughter. Disgusted, Methos grasped Caspian by his scruff and dragged him across the floor, tossing him bodily through the opening onto the dirt outside. He called for a slave and took his time dressing; Kronos and the others be damned. They could wait.
As the morning sky lightened to a dull yellowish gray, the same color of Caspian's teeth, Methos stepped outside and met the cool air and the wind that swept up over the plains. The temple lay atop a rocky mountain overlooking a dusty valley. Kronos stood by the cliff edge, peering down. Caspian crouched nearby, casually gnawing on a leg of some animal, with Silas behind him holding his axe.
Kronos glanced back at Methos, taking in Methos's appearance with an amused smirk. "Don't let us rush you."
Methos didn't answer but came up to stand beside Kronos. Even though he knew what to expect, the sight that greeted him made him shiver slightly. In the valley below, two armies stood amassed, thousands upon thousands of men on each side with a strip of land between.
"Just as you said." Kronos was no longer looking at the armies but at Methos, watching him with his shrewd eyes.
"Did you doubt me?"
With a bark of a laugh, Kronos clapped him on the back. "Always. But not for the reasons you think, brother."
Methos did not try to puzzle out Kronos's meaning. The four Horsemen stood together as the sun broke over the eastern ridge of the mountains, shooting golden rays across the valley and catching against the metal of swords and spears and armor of the two armies below.
Methos, sensitive to the differing energies of his brothers -- the tightening of Silas's muscles as he gripped his axe, Caspian's hunger at the feast of violence so close at hand, and Kronos's utter delight at the anticipation of carnage -- held his breath, and said, "There they go," as the two armies ran towards each other and crashed with a distant roar of blood.
"Who do we want to win?" asked Silas.
"It doesn't matter," said Caspian, with a lazy sneer. He threw away the leg bone he'd been working on and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "It only matters that they fight."
One king fought another and won with the blood of his people on his hands, until another king fought him in turn. And so on. Methos had seen it many times before, and he did not doubt he would always be there to watch it happen, to stand above it all and be cursed or blessed to see it repeated countless times. Methos was surprised, however, that, of his three brothers, it was Caspian who understood that subtlety. Methos met Caspian's dark eyes.
Silas appeared disappointed.
"Come," said Methos to Silas. "I know what you've been waiting for." He clapped Silas as hard as he could on his shoulder. "Now, we ride."
Silas grinned broadly, raising his axe into the air and shaking it with his big booming voice lifting up in laughter.
They mounted their horses, and rode out to nip at the heels of battle.
Later, in the cloud of dust and blood, Methos caught sight of Caspian barreling through a knot of dirty, desperate men, swinging the back end of his horse around like a weapon. In the sudden open space, Caspian reached down and grabbed a young, frightened man, saving him from being staked through the heart by another. The young man looked relieved and grateful, until Caspian, with a laugh that Methos could not hear in the swallowing chaos of the battle, took his knife and slit his throat, blood spraying over his face.
Methos knew it did not matter. The boy was dead already, in any case, but the image stayed with him long after.
*
London, spring
*
Week One
The doorbell and Immortal presence rang in concert while MacLeod stood under the shower. He cursed when shampoo stung his eyes, and hastily rinsed his head and body, turning the water off. The doorbell rang again, and then again.
"All right, all right," he called from his bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel while trying to tie another around his waist. He gave up on his hair and hustled out of the bathroom, pausing to grab his sword. Barefoot, he went downstairs to his front door and stood to one side. He fumbled with the doorknob, then swiftly opened the door, sword raised -- but his front step was empty.
He straightened and listened. Birds fluttered in the trees that flanked either side of the door, cars revved their engines as they drove by, and underneath he could hear the noise and bustle of nearby Camden High Street. Feeling this was probably one of his less wise decisions, he cautiously stepped outside.
Although it was cool, the mid-morning sun felt warm on the bare skin of his chest. His wet hair dripped cold water down his neck. With his sword lowered and hidden along his side and all of his senses listening, he went around the corner and opened the gate to the path between his house and the one next to it. While he lived in London, he’d taken up residence in a three-storied townhouse, recently renovated. It suited him, even though on occasion he missed the lull and sway of the barge and the Seine.
The path and the garden behind the house lacked Immortal presence but were rich in the smells of the recent rain and the mildewy damp. Wincing at sharp gravel against his bare feet and hopping a little, still trying to hide his sword, he waved awkwardly at the young couple that lived across the street and returned to his front door to find it closed and locked. Cursing, waving again at the increasingly amused young couple, he worked a loose brick free from the wall where he kept a spare key. He unlocked his door and, his sword before him to defend, stepped inside.
The air was still, smelling of brewing coffee, morning light splashing brightly on the walls and the wooden floor. He went further in, moving silently around his furniture, and then paused. Something wasn't right, and it took him a moment to realize he had not started a fresh pot of coffee that morning.
From where he stood he could not see into the kitchen. He stepped through his front room and into the next. The kitchen was at the back of the house, facing the garden. He approached with stealth, having a good idea of who had invaded his home and planning to give the irritating bastard's nose a good tweaking when he finally cornered him. With sword ready, he entered the kitchen. It was empty.
Momentarily surprised and not a little bit annoyed, he lowered his sword.
"There's coffee if you want it. Do you always leave your front door wide open for all and sundry?"
The words were spoken directly into his ear, and MacLeod yelped and jumped, his sword swinging haphazardly which Methos, the rogue, neatly ducked away from. "Christ," MacLeod said, clutching dramatically at his heart. "Why you--" He lunged at Methos.
"Ah ah ah," said Methos, pointing at his steaming cup of coffee. "You don't want hot coffee spilt on you." He eyed MacLeod's slipping towel. "Is that what the kids are wearing these days?"
Scowling, MacLeod adjusted his towel and then put his hands on his hips, which caused his sword to point outwards in an alarming and rather saucy manner.
"Why are you here?" demanded MacLeod. He hadn't heard from Methos in close to two years, and it wasn't from lack of trying. MacLeod had asked after him, but it seemed that when MacLeod left Paris, so had Methos, and no one -- meaning Joe, mainly, but Amanda as well -- knew where to find him.
Methos breathed in and then held it with a look that seemed to indicate he was choosing what to say. He let his breath out and shrugged. "In town for a few weeks," he said. "Thought I'd stay with you."
As if that explained it all. And, although it didn't, it apparently explained enough.
MacLeod led Methos to the bedroom with the northern light and rust-colored wallpaper, and was exasperated and amused to see that Methos had already laid his large duffle on the bed and was halfway to unpacking.
"Did you pick this wallpaper?" asked Methos.
MacLeod frowned. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," said Methos, innocently.
In reconciliation, Methos promised no complaining and he would willingly be MacLeod's errand boy and do whatever chores were needed. To this, MacLeod laughed mid-swallow of hot coffee, spraying Methos in the process.
*
It was remarkable how one became used to a thing without realizing it. Only a few days had passed and it seemed to MacLeod as if Methos had been living with him in London for far longer than half a Friday and a full weekend.
Methos slipped into the other side of MacLeod's life, the empty side, with very little trouble. The house had plenty of space, even in the mornings and evenings when elbows sometimes got in the way in the kitchen and one had to step aside to let the other pass in the narrow hallways. It seemed to MacLeod as if it had always been so.
It hadn't been, of course. They were two men who sometimes didn't know how to be friends, but yet the alternative was unthinkable.
Then again, maybe things hadn't really changed all that much. From the kitchen door, he watched as Methos whirled around, creating small explosions of flour and breadcrumbs, pounding rhythmically on some poor unfortunate piece of meat.
"Are you intending that to be edible?" MacLeod had to raise his voice over the pounding and rock music on the radio.
"Just you stay away," said Methos, shaking a thoroughly floured and buttered finger at him.
MacLeod couldn't help but smile, and, despite the fact that Methos resembled the Tasmanian Devil while "cooking" and it was as peaceful as a heavy metal rock concert, he crept into the nook in the corner to read his paper and drink a cup of coffee amidst the chaos.
They ate in the stuffy warmth of the kitchen. As it turned out, it was a very edible meal.
"Do you have plans tomorrow?" MacLeod poured the last of the wine into Methos's glass and his own.
Methos met his eyes briefly, serving himself more salad. "I'll entertain myself somehow, I'm sure."
MacLeod didn't respond and tried not to be too obvious about watching him. As comfortable as they were with each other now, there was a restlessness in Methos that he didn't like, that spoke of their past and the inevitable future. "Come with me, then," he said. "Into town. I have some errands to run."
At first it didn't seem as if Methos would answer. He ate his salad and drank his wine. At one point he got up from the table and retrieved butter from the fridge and buttered a roll. Finally, he set his utensils down and leaned back. "It's May Day tomorrow."
"So it is," said MacLeod, bemused. "Did you want to find a Maypole?"
Methos chuckled but shook his head and then fell back into silence. MacLeod didn't understand the hesitance but he didn't want to push. "All right," Methos said, with something of a smirk. "I did say I would be your errand boy, didn't I?"
MacLeod laughed and his face grew warm, feeling bewilderingly awkward as they cleared the dishes and started cleaning up. Methos did the dishes while MacLeod tidied the rest of the kitchen. Finished, he turned to see Methos standing elbow-deep in sudsy water, lost in thought.
MacLeod wanted to intrude and yet he didn't. Instead he took up a rag and started drying. Methos woke from his silent reverie and began handing him dishes. To break the silence, MacLeod talked about the restoration work he did for the British Museum and the different personalities and politics involved.
"She comes to every board meeting with him in tow."
"Wait. On a leash?"
"Yes! And you know that's all well and good. It's not like…. well--" For the second time that evening MacLeod felt his face grow warm. He ignored Methos's rather wicked snicker. "Consenting adults and all. Although, that's debatable. He can't be older than eighteen or I'll eat my sword, and what they choose to do on their own is no one's business. But to flaunt it like that. You should see the apoplectic histrionics that go on after she makes one of her appearances."
Laughing now, Methos asked, "And they can't get rid of her?"
MacLeod shook his head. They'd moved into the sitting room, swirling fine brandy before a pleasant fire. "She's providing most of the funding for both new exhibits, and has a connection to a collector who's lending several pieces. I haven't seen them yet, but they're supposed to be genuine, and making everyone at the British Museum and the Ashmolean very jealous. Although, as I understand it, he's put several restrictions on their use."
Methos muttered something that sounded like "grave robbers" and MacLeod smiled. The rest of the evening passed in enjoyable conversation late into the night with MacLeod doing most of the talking, and, if the restlessness hadn't actually disappeared, at least it had lessened.
The morning came bright and clear as any May Day, as May Day should. MacLeod had meetings at the British Museum all morning. When they got there, Methos stopped before the entrance. "I'll meet you here later," he said, and waved, disappearing before MacLeod could say anything in protest. He watched Methos blend in with the pedestrians hurrying in the morning traffic.
Two hours (and one and a half meetings) later, MacLeod was rather wishing he'd followed Methos's example. He tried to stay awake while listening to Mr. Ashbrook -- who had a squeaky, tiresome sort of voice -- speak in reverent tones while examining several artifacts with a pair of magnifying glasses that made his eyes look large and a bit like a fish. Not even the amusing presence of Dame Avery feeding sliced pieces of fruit to her much younger boyfriend could alleviate the tedium of watching Mr. Ashbrook, who had overcome his aversion to Dame Avery in his excitement over the artifacts, tut tut in his quiet, officious way.
"This one is very like the belt fragment at the Metropolitan, likely Hittite in origin, and this accompanying shield and breastplate. You can see the intricate bronze work, heavily oxidized of course. But to have a complete artifact, truly remarkable. And here." Mr. Ashbrook turned to another piece laid out carefully on a white cloth, "This is an axe head, amazingly preserved. On first pass I would say it is from the Middle Elamite period--"
Mr. Ashbrook was drowned out by a growing commotion outside, the sound of rising shouts distant but coming closer every second. MacLeod rose and went to the window. He could see crowds gathering in the streets.
The door to the conference room burst open and a woman MacLeod couldn't immediately place stood in the entrance, pale and frightened. "Riots," she said in a breathless voice. "At Parliament Square."
There was immediate silence in the conference room, accented by the growing noise of the mob outside. Stunned, at first no one moved. From one moment to the next, the noise of fear and excitement inside matched the noise coming through the window. Seized with a sudden, unshakable knowledge, a heavy weight bearing down on him, MacLeod ran from the room, through the honeycomb maze of hallways and offices and out into the street.
He didn't know what it was. He only knew he needed to find Methos.
Caught as if by a strong current, MacLeod was pushed by the crowd further and further into the melee of violence. Store windows were smashed. Rocks and bottles went flying overhead. Small explosions occurred as several petrol bombs were thrown. A haze of smoke in the air made it difficult to see. MacLeod avoided the police in their riot gear as they wrestled several men to their knees. But the rioters were too many for the police to subdue easily. Car alarms added to the cacophony. As the mob pushed him into Trafalgar Square, MacLeod felt a tickle of Immortal presence and he followed it like a lifeline. He was pushed and trampled on, cut by a stray piece of glass, blood dripping down his face and into his collar before the wound could heal.
Immortal presence grew stronger near Nelson's Column, and he saw Methos standing on one of the stone lions' backs.
He cupped his hands around his mouth, thinking his voice would never pierce through the roar of the mob. "Adam!"
Methos was looking the other way but seemed to have heard. He turned his head, searching, and their eyes met. Laboriously, MacLeod made his way to Methos. He grasped his hand and Methos pulled him up alongside him. The scene was terrible and awesome. It looked like the square was filled with thousands of people and the sea of humanity seemed to surge and grow.
MacLeod held on to Methos with both hands. "What are you doing?" he yelled, barely able to hear his own voice.
Methos shook his head. He was pale and there was a strange, almost mad light in his eyes. "I could ask you the same thing!" he yelled back with a wild sort of smile that did not last. "Got caught. Couldn't get away."
MacLeod's concern and confusion must have shown on his face because Methos shook his head again. "Can we get out of here?"
MacLeod was pretty sure the only way out was through, but he wasn't particularly eager to start that journey. He looked for any reasonable break in the chaos. Below, on the left side of the lion, a fistfight broke out between two men. One took a broken bottle and slashed at the other. Before the man's throat could be sliced, Methos grabbed him by his jacket, hauling him out of reach. He was a young man, maybe even a teenager, clearly terrified and looking at Methos with an immense amount of relief and gratitude for saving his life. Methos looked shaken, still holding onto the young man, staring at him as if he were an apparition come to life.
The other guy stumbled and fell to the ground, the bottle smashing into tiny pieces. Before he could recover from his fall, MacLeod grabbed him, punched him once for good measure, and tossed him back into the crowd.
"Come on," he said to Methos who was still holding onto the young man, who now wore an expression indicating that he thought Methos was a bit weird and he was hoping to be let go. "Go on with you," MacLeod said to him. "Get out of here. Go home." The boy quickly scurried away.
With the boy gone, Methos looked at his hands. MacLeod took one of them in his own, squeezing firmly. "He's all right," he said, close enough that Methos could hear him. Methos’s expression was distant, but slowly he focused and squeezed back. "Let's go home."
MacLeod led Methos through the crowd and down into a quieter alley, weaving carefully and precisely back to Camden Town, holding on to Methos all the way.
*
The Persian Plateau, several months later
*
With a mad light in his eyes, Caspian had said, "Starve them. Squeeze until we can't squeeze any more."
Methos was loath to admit something so brutally effective could have come from Caspian, but he couldn't deny the results. Mounted, the Horsemen made their way along the dust-ridden road, weaving through the hundreds of ragged, starved people, an exodus of humanity searching for water and food in the wake of drought and famine in all of Elam. The people cowered as the Horsemen pushed their way through, averting their eyes but still looked furtively for any sign of mercy. A few brave souls approached with their outstretched hands, begging for scraps.
Methos's horse stepped over a bundle of dirty rags he realized was a woman and her small child, too tired to continue the march. Her quiet, dead-seeming eyes looked blankly down at her child, who attempted to eke out milk from one flattened breast. Her cheeks were sunken, bone-thin arms browned and scarred. A man stood nearby, stoic in his stillness, in nothing but a loincloth, skeletal, rib bones sticking out in sharp relief and stomach concave.
It might have been Caspian's inspiration, but it was Methos who brought it about.
First they torched the fields at full harvest, destroying any possibility of crops, fire eating up villages and farms one by one. Then, they raided what stockpiles and reserves of grain were kept by merchants and by the king. Caspian led bands into the hills and outlying roads, killing any merchant or chieftain attempting to caravan food or other goods. It was Silas's job to destroy cattle and livestock. He wouldn't kill all of them despite Caspian's sneering, keeping several herds for their own benefit, but enough were destroyed to reduce any chance of relief from starvation.
Kronos did his best to slow the flow of water into the plateau, aided by the lack of rain and the natural pestilence that came from hundreds of rotting corpses dumped into every water source.
Those few who had managed to hide their own stockpiles of food were able to charge outrageous prices to the starving people for a mere handful of grain. Toward these, Methos let his disdain flow freely, ruthlessly killing those he found who would take such advantage. He recognized the irony, and the part of him that wasn't disgusted by such behavior was amused.
Slowly, methodically, the people starved. The ruling king, victor of the last great battle, was found murdered in his bed, his and his family's bodies torn apart and burned, carried through the streets of Susa as some sort of offering to the gods, the people crying and begging for relief. The new king, in desperation, rallied his starved men into an army in an attempt to retaliate against the four Horsemen, trying to find where their camp was and their rumored hoard of food and livestock, but the emaciated men were no match for the mounted raiders who cut through them easily. The king paid dearly for this, impaled on a stake and left before the great temple in the center of the city.
Only when Methos deemed the time ripe did he and his brothers carefully loosen their grip. They fed a family, then a village, then more, until the four brothers were seen as salvation wherever they rode.
"They worship us," said Kronos, laughing, his arms outstretched as his horse trotted gaily through the valley of bowed heads and chanting cries for mercy, any little bit of pity.
"Indeed," said Methos, with a half smile acknowledging the lie. He knew Kronos was wise enough to know the difference between worship and fear. But, at the moment, it was the same thing.
On his left side, Methos watched Caspian gnawing on yet another leg of meat, smacking his lips and laughing at the starved children crowded around him, their big, dark eyes watching his every movement. Casually, Caspian tossed his mostly-eaten meal to the ground. Before the children could fall on it, Caspian rode his horse over, throwing dust and dirt and kicking the leg aside into a gully.
They rode on. Methos looked back and saw a cloud of dust surround the pack of ravenous children as they yelled and fought over the bone.
*
London, spring
*
Week Two
They left the restaurant together, the sky already darkened to a royal blue. MacLeod took a deep breath of fresh air. Methos walked beside him, holding the remains of most of his meal in a take away container.
After the riots the week before, many shop windows were boarded up and some less traveled streets still had broken glass and rubbish that hadn't been swept away. Although subdued, for the most part London was no stranger to violence, and the city continued on much as it ever had.
It was a pleasant night, not too cold. They walked home.
"I have something I want to ask you," said MacLeod, deciding on the spot to be forward about it.
Methos looked sidelong at him. "Oh. Thanks for the warning."
MacLeod flashed him a quick grin. They stopped in front of a wine and spirits shop he favored on Camden High Street. "Wait here," he said. "Won't be long."
The clerk was familiar with him and his preferred labels. They put a box together and he arranged to have it delivered, holding back one bottle for that night. Through the shop window, he could see a group of rowdy teenagers on the other side of the street. They appeared to be homeless or as good as, a ragtag group, mad with that look of hunger that seemed to linger on the streets of any city. Methos had seen them as well and crossed the street toward them. MacLeod finished in the shop and stepped outside, watching Methos offer his unfinished meal to anyone who would take it.
The kids stared at Methos as if he were an alien and the container he offered something on the level of a poisonous snake. Several of the older kids stepped forward, rangy and lean like wolves. MacLeod tensed, ready to step in.
"Honestly, it's just food. Pasta, to be exact," said Methos, and the part of MacLeod that wasn't hyper-focused on the shifting energies coming from the teenagers could spare fleeting admiration for Methos's I-am-totally-innocent-just-little-old-me look.
After a moment, a particularly thin boy of about fifteen stepped forward and took the food. As one, the little band closed around him, effectively cutting Methos out.
Taking Methos's arm, MacLeod ushered him down the street, trying not to appear as if they were hurrying away while hurrying away.
"Didn't think it would be so difficult," said Methos, glancing back several times. "Youth today. Don't even want free food anymore."
"Well, they've been warned not to, you know. Don't take candy from strangers."
"Yes but, they're clearly near starving." Methos sounded so put out and insulted that MacLeod had to laugh at him. "Do you think they'll throw it away?" Methos tone shifted to slight concern.
"Nah," said MacLeod, although he thought there was a good chance they would. "They were just being cautious. There's been a rash of homeless men poisoned by supposed good Samaritans giving out free food, that's all." MacLeod didn't quite know what to do with the look of horror Methos gave him. "Kids are usually too savvy. Keen survivors."
After one last glance back, Methos became lost in thought. MacLeod didn't say the kids would be all right. They both knew that was hardly the case. It was unlikely they would starve, and half a meal would hardly make much of a difference anyway. MacLeod spared a fleeting prayer to the heavens for a skinny fifteen-year-old.
Methos was quiet the rest of the way home.
In MacLeod's kitchen, with a view of the garden lit by fairy lights, they shared the bottle of wine he had bought until Methos looked up. "You had something to ask?"
MacLeod swirled the wine in his glass. He took a sip and then set the glass down on the table. He wanted to say he knew Methos was the anonymous collector currently stirring up all the curators and archeologists of the Ancient Near East like a nest of overly-excitable three-year-olds. There hadn't been this much of a dust storm since the days of Schliemann and his treasure.
It was bloody obvious, actually, and he gathered that Methos wasn't actually hiding it on purpose. It was just one of those things you sometimes didn't know how to mention.
"I did," he said, and looked at Methos. The kitchen light fell in warm highlights of yellow. Through the window, MacLeod could see the fairy lights blinking on and off. He realized that nothing needed to be said. Methos smiled slightly, and nodded.
Instead, MacLeod took Methos's wine glass from his lax fingers. He rose and turned the fairy lights off, then turned the kitchen lights off so they were plunged into darkness. In the meager light of the microwave display, he reached for Methos and pulled him close.
They stood in the dark, Methos's hands coming up to cup MacLeod's face. MacLeod could just see the light of awareness and laughter melting into Methos's smile. "What's this?" Methos asked, lips brushing across MacLeod's cheek.
MacLeod couldn't answer, but laid his head down on Methos's shoulder, hands resting on his waist.
They moved through the darkened house, through the narrow hallways, up the stairs into the closest bedroom, which happened to be Methos's. Although MacLeod had made the first move, it was Methos who led the way, taking MacLeod's hand in his. They lay down on the bed, clothed still.
Methos raised MacLeod's arms over his head and kissed his forehead; he kissed MacLeod’s left cheek; he kissed his lips. "So this is why I'm here in London. I was wondering."
MacLeod chuckled, then raised his head to kiss Methos again, opening his mouth, shivering. Methos pulled away and MacLeod looked up into Methos's wonderingly bright eyes. "Do you know that nursery rhyme, Duncan? About the mad man and his mad wife?"
"What?" MacLeod thought asking him to think at this moment was a bit unfair. He wiggled, pushed up, caught Methos in a kiss again. Then, from somewhere in the far back of his brain, he remembered. "Didn't they have three mad children?"
For some reason Methos found this incredibly funny, finally letting go of his arms and laughing into MacLeod's neck.
"Weirdo," said MacLeod, confused but laughing too. He flipped them over, pushing Methos's shirt off and undoing his zipper. He rushed, fingers fumbling, until finally they were both naked. Methos raised his hand and caressed down MacLeod's face, to his collar bone, down his chest. There was a strange reverence to it and MacLeod bowed his head.
"'They rode by night and they rode by day," said Methos, voice rumbling in the quiet of the room, his hand still moving across MacLeod's chest. "'Yet never a one of them fell; and they rode madly all the way, till they came to the Gates of Hell.'"
On the last word, Methos's voice cracked. MacLeod breathed in and kissed him, and kept kissing him until he thought he might die.
*
The Persian Plateau, a year later
*
To the vacant king's seat came another, stronger than the past kings and coming with a great army. He promised to free the people of the blight of famine and the tyranny of mounted raiders.
It mattered not, however, what a king might promise. What where kings to them? Methos and his brothers could have continued on, no king would be able to stop them. Yet, they had squeezed so hard and for so long, they had squeezed all the fun out of Elam.
There were new lands to taste. Caspian shrugged. "One place is much like another," he said to Kronos's suggestion that they head into Anatolia, whence the Hittites came. Or even further west, over the sea. Methos remembered the sea.
They rode up to the top of a ridge to see a village nestled in blissful ignorance against a small wood and a thin river. Methos shaded his eyes and watched the sleepy village in the first light of morning. Before they could leave, they needed to replenish their supply of slaves and other goods. There would be more along the way, but Kronos had come across this village and, like an itch that needed scratching, he could not let it pass.
"Come, my brothers," said Kronos, and his horse leapt forward, charging down the hill. Caspian followed next, and then Silas, swinging his axe madly. Methos's horse stomped with eagerness to give chase but he held him back, waiting, waiting. He took a breath, feeling his horse's energy through the reins, and pulled his sword free from its scabbard. With just a squeeze his horse jumped forward into the cloud of dust left by his brothers.
After the recent years of plans within plans and the intricacies of battle and politics, it was a relief in a way to simply swing his sword and kill as he chose. He could see why Silas liked it so much. Once most of the men were killed, they rounded up the women and older children, and some of the young men who did not bear signs of needless bravery. Like so many, the village did not have much food, but they did have plenty of fresh water and Methos set the young men to fill all the skins they had in preparation for the coming journey.
It was Caspian's job to kill the small children who would be too many mouths to feed and a burden besides. "Do it fast," said Methos. "The women's screaming gives me a headache."
"But I like it," said Caspian, and to spite Methos, he took his time, relishing each small throat he cut.
Predictably, the women, who were bound but not gagged, wailed and screamed and begged for mercy, struggling violently against Methos as he tied each pair of hands to a long lead rope he would hold while riding. He lost his grip on a strong girl who ran from him and over to Caspian, crying as she fell on what Methos realized must be her son, shielding him with her body.
Cursing, Methos went after her. Glaring at Caspian, he pried her off her son, his arms around her chest. She fought like a cat dunked in water, and, realizing he had little choice, he broke her neck and let her drop to the ground. The boy knelt down by his mother's body. "Finish it," he said to Caspian. "Stop playing and finish it. We ride before the sun hits that crest."
Methos tied the lead rope to his horse and went to check on Silas and Kronos. He looked over at Caspian and saw him squatting on the ground, watching the same boy, no older than four or five, standing over his mother's body in sad, tearful defiance. Caspian's head was cocked to one side, as if he were trying to understand something in a foreign language. Finally, he took his knife and placed it against the boy's neck. The boy didn't try to run away, he didn't cry or flinch, but only breathed hard and fast, like a rabbit. Caspian held the knife at the boy's throat for a long moment, then he took the knife away.
Later, as they rode away burdened with their spoils, Methos saw that Caspian had placed the boy in front of him on his horse.
They were of course allowed to pick whatever prizes they wanted with the understanding that they shared everything, but this was an odd choice for Caspian. Methos couldn't say the boy wasn't better off dead than in the hands of one like Caspian. But then, the boy lived. If Caspian wanted a pet, so be it. Methos looked over at Caspian and saw the boy's dark eyes meet his with a shock of hatred. Yes, the boy lived, and one day maybe he would have a chance to revenge his mother's death. Methos found he looked forward to it.
*
London, spring
*
Week Three
It was Methos who woke him, with a pounce and a shock of wet hair dripping cold water onto MacLeod's sensitive belly. MacLeod yelped, and, naked still, grabbed Methos around the waist and swung him back onto the bed. He covered Methos (wearing MacLeod's robe) with his body.
"I told you not to do that anymore," said MacLeod, growling as menacingly as he could while trying to subdue an impish and laughing Methos struggling against him in a rather distracting way. MacLeod held on tighter but it only made Methos leer at him more.
"I'm not sure how you expect me to resist," said Methos, whose lofty tone battled somewhat with the soft desire in his eyes. It made MacLeod's blood heat and he pressed hard against him.
"Hm, good point," said MacLeod.
They stopped talking, and MacLeod busied himself with tasting a freshly showered Methos, nibbling on his arm, tasting a nipple. Suddenly, Methos squawked and pushed him away, scrambling out of the bed. "Forgot," he yelled as he raced from the room. "Left food cooking on the stove. Don't move!"
Mid-pucker, MacLeod let out a disgruntled puff of air and collapsed onto the bed. He rolled on his back and stared at the walls and ceiling. For the last week they'd been sleeping in Methos's room. Perhaps because it was closest to the stairs, he thought with a quiet laugh. Bemused, he realized Methos was right to question the wallpaper. In the shadowed corners, the walls became almost the color of dried blood, but when morning sun broke in through the window the room brightened brilliantly, like a bouquet of oranges and marigolds and fire.
Methos came bustling in, carrying a tray laden with food for two. "Here we go," said Methos. "Sit up, lazy."
Glaring good-naturedly, MacLeod made room on the bed and Methos set the tray down carefully. There was oatmeal and strawberries, eggy toast and tomatoes. MacLeod picked up a glass of orange juice, holding it up against the wall to compare the color.
Methos smiled, and seemed to read his mind. "I've gotten used to it."
Yes, one got used to things, like pesky house guests, orange wallpaper, and the quiet before storms. MacLeod drank his orange juice.
They began to eat and talk of their plans for the day. Through the window MacLeod could hear the cries and shouts of children at play on the street. The exhibit at the British Museum was to be an examination of battle and its effects through the ages. The artifacts Methos was lending would only be a small part of the whole, but no less significant because of it. "I have a meeting in the afternoon. You could come with me." He knew Methos would say no, but he liked to ask.
"Would I need to come on a leash?"
MacLeod choked on his orange juice and had to wipe his mouth, certain his face now matched the orange wallpaper. Snickering, Methos kissed him. "You're too easy," he said with a smile, then more quietly, "I'd better not."
Torn between annoyance, amusement, and a quite embarrassing jolt of desire, MacLeod took a napkin and wiped his face and fingers. "It's not like they'd know who you are."
"Doesn't matter," said Methos, feeding Macleod bits of strawberry. "I would know. Look, I'm glad my old junk seems to be getting some use, but I don't really want anything to do with it."
MacLeod tilted his head, observing Methos and absently accepting another bit of fruit. "All right," he said.
Methos smiled, wickedly, and circled MacLeod's neck with both of his hands. He squeezed gently. "You know," said Methos, all too innocently, "I think you'd better wear the collar."
If it weren't for the tray of food that perched precariously as it was, MacLeod would have devoured Methos right there, but he had to be satisfied with soft whimpers and messy wet kisses on a crumb-riddled bed.
"There," said Methos, gently, taking a moment to set the tray onto the floor. MacLeod pushed Methos's robe aside, and touched every part of him that he could reach. He wanted to rush and take his time, both, and couldn't stop himself from pushing against Methos roughly. "There," said Methos again, shaking a little and thrusting against MacLeod in such away MacLeod had to close his eyes. It didn't take long, and they both shuddered against each other, arms and legs tangled.
After the roar of blood in his ears subsided, MacLeod snuggled against Methos on the bed, lips lazily tasting the sweat and sugar of his skin. The sounds of the children at play still drifted in through the window.
"You'd better get up and shower if you don't want to be late," said Methos, turning in MacLeod's arms and smiling. "Up you get," he said, and smacked MacLeod on his bare butt, cleverly untangling himself and his robe before MacLeod could reach him. Methos took the tray and left the bedroom, calling behind him, "And, sorry, there might not be any hot water."
"Ow," muttered MacLeod, rubbing his backside. "Yeah, yeah."
Sighing, he finally got out of bed and took his tepid shower. The house was empty when he finished and it took him a minute to locate Methos. He was outside in the midst of a yelling horde of children. MacLeod stood on the steps and watched. Methos had separated the kids into groups facing each other like two armies. He bent down to whisper something in each of the would-be leader's ears. Then he stepped away, moving over to where MacLeod stood.
Methos cupped his hands, "Okay, ready. Set. GO!"
Like two small tidal waves, the kids yelled and ran for each other, laughing. Methos stood and watched with a self-satisfied smile on his face.
"I leave you alone for ten minutes and find you directing troops into battle," said MacLeod, watching a strapping young girl thoroughly trounce a much taller boy who looked like he was enjoying it.
"Well," said Methos, "I came out here to find out what all the fuss was about, and, you know." Methos finished with a shrug and a wave of his hand, as if to say this sort of thing was a natural hazard of his day-to-day life. "Nasty little buggers. You've got to set them on each other or they'll turn on you when you're not looking."
Methos said this with such a straight face that MacLeod burst out laughing.
"I'm serious," said Methos, indignant.
Before MacLeod could say anything, however, the children finished walloping each other and seemed to turn as one, all of them rushing over to Methos and MacLeod.
Grabbing each other and swearing, MacLeod scrambled to his front door to find it locked. He faced Methos. "Run!" he said and, they both ran for it, holding on to each other and hopping over the fence to the back yard. They collapsed in laughter onto the wet grass as the kids jumped up and down and yelled, wanting to play again.
*
There was a mad man and he had a mad wife,
And they lived in a mad town,
And they had children, three at a birth
And mad they were every one.
The father was mad, the mother was mad,
And the children mad beside;
And they all got on a mad horse,
And madly they did ride.
They rode by night and they rode by day,
Yet never a one of them fell,
They rode so madly all of the way,
Till they came to the Gates of Hell.
Old Nick was glad to see them so mad,
And gladly let them in,
But he soon grew sorry to see them so merry,
And let them out again.
-Old Nursery Rhyme
*
END
Author: My Little Highlander: A Kind of Magic aka hafital
Written For amand_r
Characters/Pairings: Duncan/Methos, the Four Horsemen
Rating: R to NC-17, for some violence and sexual situations
Warnings: Please be aware that parts of this story feature the Four Horsemen in all their Bronze Age glory, Methos and Caspian in particular, when they were very bad men indeed. Some of it is not pretty or kind.
Author's Notes: The title is from a song by the same name from the group Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. The modern-day portions of this story are set a couple of years after the end of the television series.
Except for the May Day riot in London in the year 2000, nothing in this story bears resemblance to actual history.
I owe great big thank yous to my two betas.
Summary: "I leave you alone for ten minutes and find you directing troops into battle," said MacLeod. "Well," said Methos, "I came out here to find out what all the fuss was about, and, you know." Methos finished with a shrug and a wave of his hand, as if to say this sort of thing was a natural hazard of his day-to-day life.
Upon This Tidal Wave of Young Blood
*
The Persian Plateau, late summer
*
It was Caspian who woke him, with a kick to his side and a splash of cold water. Cursing, Methos leapt from the soft nest of skins he'd used as a bed and, naked still, he strangled Caspian with his bare hands.
Caspian laughed, gasping stinking breath, his mouth opened wide in howling amusement, dark eyes gleaming. Methos squeezed harder but it only made Caspian's eyes bulge.
Methos let go, standing with his back to the wall of the old stone temple they'd chosen to camp in, and watched Caspian bend over, spitting onto the ground. "I've asked you not to do that," said Methos, his voice quiet despite the rush of anger that heated his blood.
Still coughing, Caspian turned his head and peered at Methos through squinting eyes and an amused grimace. "Kronos said to wake you. They've gathered in the valley."
Methos looked out toward the temple opening but could only see vague shapes through the dim light.
It was long habit and instinct that made Methos move in time. Without warning, Caspian lunged at Methos with teeth bared. Stepping to one side, Methos smashed Caspian's face against the wall and twisted his arm behind his back. "One day, Caspian, you'll go too far."
Caspian's answer was only mean laughter. Disgusted, Methos grasped Caspian by his scruff and dragged him across the floor, tossing him bodily through the opening onto the dirt outside. He called for a slave and took his time dressing; Kronos and the others be damned. They could wait.
As the morning sky lightened to a dull yellowish gray, the same color of Caspian's teeth, Methos stepped outside and met the cool air and the wind that swept up over the plains. The temple lay atop a rocky mountain overlooking a dusty valley. Kronos stood by the cliff edge, peering down. Caspian crouched nearby, casually gnawing on a leg of some animal, with Silas behind him holding his axe.
Kronos glanced back at Methos, taking in Methos's appearance with an amused smirk. "Don't let us rush you."
Methos didn't answer but came up to stand beside Kronos. Even though he knew what to expect, the sight that greeted him made him shiver slightly. In the valley below, two armies stood amassed, thousands upon thousands of men on each side with a strip of land between.
"Just as you said." Kronos was no longer looking at the armies but at Methos, watching him with his shrewd eyes.
"Did you doubt me?"
With a bark of a laugh, Kronos clapped him on the back. "Always. But not for the reasons you think, brother."
Methos did not try to puzzle out Kronos's meaning. The four Horsemen stood together as the sun broke over the eastern ridge of the mountains, shooting golden rays across the valley and catching against the metal of swords and spears and armor of the two armies below.
Methos, sensitive to the differing energies of his brothers -- the tightening of Silas's muscles as he gripped his axe, Caspian's hunger at the feast of violence so close at hand, and Kronos's utter delight at the anticipation of carnage -- held his breath, and said, "There they go," as the two armies ran towards each other and crashed with a distant roar of blood.
"Who do we want to win?" asked Silas.
"It doesn't matter," said Caspian, with a lazy sneer. He threw away the leg bone he'd been working on and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. "It only matters that they fight."
One king fought another and won with the blood of his people on his hands, until another king fought him in turn. And so on. Methos had seen it many times before, and he did not doubt he would always be there to watch it happen, to stand above it all and be cursed or blessed to see it repeated countless times. Methos was surprised, however, that, of his three brothers, it was Caspian who understood that subtlety. Methos met Caspian's dark eyes.
Silas appeared disappointed.
"Come," said Methos to Silas. "I know what you've been waiting for." He clapped Silas as hard as he could on his shoulder. "Now, we ride."
Silas grinned broadly, raising his axe into the air and shaking it with his big booming voice lifting up in laughter.
They mounted their horses, and rode out to nip at the heels of battle.
Later, in the cloud of dust and blood, Methos caught sight of Caspian barreling through a knot of dirty, desperate men, swinging the back end of his horse around like a weapon. In the sudden open space, Caspian reached down and grabbed a young, frightened man, saving him from being staked through the heart by another. The young man looked relieved and grateful, until Caspian, with a laugh that Methos could not hear in the swallowing chaos of the battle, took his knife and slit his throat, blood spraying over his face.
Methos knew it did not matter. The boy was dead already, in any case, but the image stayed with him long after.
*
London, spring
*
Week One
The doorbell and Immortal presence rang in concert while MacLeod stood under the shower. He cursed when shampoo stung his eyes, and hastily rinsed his head and body, turning the water off. The doorbell rang again, and then again.
"All right, all right," he called from his bathroom, rubbing his hair with a towel while trying to tie another around his waist. He gave up on his hair and hustled out of the bathroom, pausing to grab his sword. Barefoot, he went downstairs to his front door and stood to one side. He fumbled with the doorknob, then swiftly opened the door, sword raised -- but his front step was empty.
He straightened and listened. Birds fluttered in the trees that flanked either side of the door, cars revved their engines as they drove by, and underneath he could hear the noise and bustle of nearby Camden High Street. Feeling this was probably one of his less wise decisions, he cautiously stepped outside.
Although it was cool, the mid-morning sun felt warm on the bare skin of his chest. His wet hair dripped cold water down his neck. With his sword lowered and hidden along his side and all of his senses listening, he went around the corner and opened the gate to the path between his house and the one next to it. While he lived in London, he’d taken up residence in a three-storied townhouse, recently renovated. It suited him, even though on occasion he missed the lull and sway of the barge and the Seine.
The path and the garden behind the house lacked Immortal presence but were rich in the smells of the recent rain and the mildewy damp. Wincing at sharp gravel against his bare feet and hopping a little, still trying to hide his sword, he waved awkwardly at the young couple that lived across the street and returned to his front door to find it closed and locked. Cursing, waving again at the increasingly amused young couple, he worked a loose brick free from the wall where he kept a spare key. He unlocked his door and, his sword before him to defend, stepped inside.
The air was still, smelling of brewing coffee, morning light splashing brightly on the walls and the wooden floor. He went further in, moving silently around his furniture, and then paused. Something wasn't right, and it took him a moment to realize he had not started a fresh pot of coffee that morning.
From where he stood he could not see into the kitchen. He stepped through his front room and into the next. The kitchen was at the back of the house, facing the garden. He approached with stealth, having a good idea of who had invaded his home and planning to give the irritating bastard's nose a good tweaking when he finally cornered him. With sword ready, he entered the kitchen. It was empty.
Momentarily surprised and not a little bit annoyed, he lowered his sword.
"There's coffee if you want it. Do you always leave your front door wide open for all and sundry?"
The words were spoken directly into his ear, and MacLeod yelped and jumped, his sword swinging haphazardly which Methos, the rogue, neatly ducked away from. "Christ," MacLeod said, clutching dramatically at his heart. "Why you--" He lunged at Methos.
"Ah ah ah," said Methos, pointing at his steaming cup of coffee. "You don't want hot coffee spilt on you." He eyed MacLeod's slipping towel. "Is that what the kids are wearing these days?"
Scowling, MacLeod adjusted his towel and then put his hands on his hips, which caused his sword to point outwards in an alarming and rather saucy manner.
"Why are you here?" demanded MacLeod. He hadn't heard from Methos in close to two years, and it wasn't from lack of trying. MacLeod had asked after him, but it seemed that when MacLeod left Paris, so had Methos, and no one -- meaning Joe, mainly, but Amanda as well -- knew where to find him.
Methos breathed in and then held it with a look that seemed to indicate he was choosing what to say. He let his breath out and shrugged. "In town for a few weeks," he said. "Thought I'd stay with you."
As if that explained it all. And, although it didn't, it apparently explained enough.
MacLeod led Methos to the bedroom with the northern light and rust-colored wallpaper, and was exasperated and amused to see that Methos had already laid his large duffle on the bed and was halfway to unpacking.
"Did you pick this wallpaper?" asked Methos.
MacLeod frowned. "What's wrong with it?"
"Nothing," said Methos, innocently.
In reconciliation, Methos promised no complaining and he would willingly be MacLeod's errand boy and do whatever chores were needed. To this, MacLeod laughed mid-swallow of hot coffee, spraying Methos in the process.
*
It was remarkable how one became used to a thing without realizing it. Only a few days had passed and it seemed to MacLeod as if Methos had been living with him in London for far longer than half a Friday and a full weekend.
Methos slipped into the other side of MacLeod's life, the empty side, with very little trouble. The house had plenty of space, even in the mornings and evenings when elbows sometimes got in the way in the kitchen and one had to step aside to let the other pass in the narrow hallways. It seemed to MacLeod as if it had always been so.
It hadn't been, of course. They were two men who sometimes didn't know how to be friends, but yet the alternative was unthinkable.
Then again, maybe things hadn't really changed all that much. From the kitchen door, he watched as Methos whirled around, creating small explosions of flour and breadcrumbs, pounding rhythmically on some poor unfortunate piece of meat.
"Are you intending that to be edible?" MacLeod had to raise his voice over the pounding and rock music on the radio.
"Just you stay away," said Methos, shaking a thoroughly floured and buttered finger at him.
MacLeod couldn't help but smile, and, despite the fact that Methos resembled the Tasmanian Devil while "cooking" and it was as peaceful as a heavy metal rock concert, he crept into the nook in the corner to read his paper and drink a cup of coffee amidst the chaos.
They ate in the stuffy warmth of the kitchen. As it turned out, it was a very edible meal.
"Do you have plans tomorrow?" MacLeod poured the last of the wine into Methos's glass and his own.
Methos met his eyes briefly, serving himself more salad. "I'll entertain myself somehow, I'm sure."
MacLeod didn't respond and tried not to be too obvious about watching him. As comfortable as they were with each other now, there was a restlessness in Methos that he didn't like, that spoke of their past and the inevitable future. "Come with me, then," he said. "Into town. I have some errands to run."
At first it didn't seem as if Methos would answer. He ate his salad and drank his wine. At one point he got up from the table and retrieved butter from the fridge and buttered a roll. Finally, he set his utensils down and leaned back. "It's May Day tomorrow."
"So it is," said MacLeod, bemused. "Did you want to find a Maypole?"
Methos chuckled but shook his head and then fell back into silence. MacLeod didn't understand the hesitance but he didn't want to push. "All right," Methos said, with something of a smirk. "I did say I would be your errand boy, didn't I?"
MacLeod laughed and his face grew warm, feeling bewilderingly awkward as they cleared the dishes and started cleaning up. Methos did the dishes while MacLeod tidied the rest of the kitchen. Finished, he turned to see Methos standing elbow-deep in sudsy water, lost in thought.
MacLeod wanted to intrude and yet he didn't. Instead he took up a rag and started drying. Methos woke from his silent reverie and began handing him dishes. To break the silence, MacLeod talked about the restoration work he did for the British Museum and the different personalities and politics involved.
"She comes to every board meeting with him in tow."
"Wait. On a leash?"
"Yes! And you know that's all well and good. It's not like…. well--" For the second time that evening MacLeod felt his face grow warm. He ignored Methos's rather wicked snicker. "Consenting adults and all. Although, that's debatable. He can't be older than eighteen or I'll eat my sword, and what they choose to do on their own is no one's business. But to flaunt it like that. You should see the apoplectic histrionics that go on after she makes one of her appearances."
Laughing now, Methos asked, "And they can't get rid of her?"
MacLeod shook his head. They'd moved into the sitting room, swirling fine brandy before a pleasant fire. "She's providing most of the funding for both new exhibits, and has a connection to a collector who's lending several pieces. I haven't seen them yet, but they're supposed to be genuine, and making everyone at the British Museum and the Ashmolean very jealous. Although, as I understand it, he's put several restrictions on their use."
Methos muttered something that sounded like "grave robbers" and MacLeod smiled. The rest of the evening passed in enjoyable conversation late into the night with MacLeod doing most of the talking, and, if the restlessness hadn't actually disappeared, at least it had lessened.
The morning came bright and clear as any May Day, as May Day should. MacLeod had meetings at the British Museum all morning. When they got there, Methos stopped before the entrance. "I'll meet you here later," he said, and waved, disappearing before MacLeod could say anything in protest. He watched Methos blend in with the pedestrians hurrying in the morning traffic.
Two hours (and one and a half meetings) later, MacLeod was rather wishing he'd followed Methos's example. He tried to stay awake while listening to Mr. Ashbrook -- who had a squeaky, tiresome sort of voice -- speak in reverent tones while examining several artifacts with a pair of magnifying glasses that made his eyes look large and a bit like a fish. Not even the amusing presence of Dame Avery feeding sliced pieces of fruit to her much younger boyfriend could alleviate the tedium of watching Mr. Ashbrook, who had overcome his aversion to Dame Avery in his excitement over the artifacts, tut tut in his quiet, officious way.
"This one is very like the belt fragment at the Metropolitan, likely Hittite in origin, and this accompanying shield and breastplate. You can see the intricate bronze work, heavily oxidized of course. But to have a complete artifact, truly remarkable. And here." Mr. Ashbrook turned to another piece laid out carefully on a white cloth, "This is an axe head, amazingly preserved. On first pass I would say it is from the Middle Elamite period--"
Mr. Ashbrook was drowned out by a growing commotion outside, the sound of rising shouts distant but coming closer every second. MacLeod rose and went to the window. He could see crowds gathering in the streets.
The door to the conference room burst open and a woman MacLeod couldn't immediately place stood in the entrance, pale and frightened. "Riots," she said in a breathless voice. "At Parliament Square."
There was immediate silence in the conference room, accented by the growing noise of the mob outside. Stunned, at first no one moved. From one moment to the next, the noise of fear and excitement inside matched the noise coming through the window. Seized with a sudden, unshakable knowledge, a heavy weight bearing down on him, MacLeod ran from the room, through the honeycomb maze of hallways and offices and out into the street.
He didn't know what it was. He only knew he needed to find Methos.
Caught as if by a strong current, MacLeod was pushed by the crowd further and further into the melee of violence. Store windows were smashed. Rocks and bottles went flying overhead. Small explosions occurred as several petrol bombs were thrown. A haze of smoke in the air made it difficult to see. MacLeod avoided the police in their riot gear as they wrestled several men to their knees. But the rioters were too many for the police to subdue easily. Car alarms added to the cacophony. As the mob pushed him into Trafalgar Square, MacLeod felt a tickle of Immortal presence and he followed it like a lifeline. He was pushed and trampled on, cut by a stray piece of glass, blood dripping down his face and into his collar before the wound could heal.
Immortal presence grew stronger near Nelson's Column, and he saw Methos standing on one of the stone lions' backs.
He cupped his hands around his mouth, thinking his voice would never pierce through the roar of the mob. "Adam!"
Methos was looking the other way but seemed to have heard. He turned his head, searching, and their eyes met. Laboriously, MacLeod made his way to Methos. He grasped his hand and Methos pulled him up alongside him. The scene was terrible and awesome. It looked like the square was filled with thousands of people and the sea of humanity seemed to surge and grow.
MacLeod held on to Methos with both hands. "What are you doing?" he yelled, barely able to hear his own voice.
Methos shook his head. He was pale and there was a strange, almost mad light in his eyes. "I could ask you the same thing!" he yelled back with a wild sort of smile that did not last. "Got caught. Couldn't get away."
MacLeod's concern and confusion must have shown on his face because Methos shook his head again. "Can we get out of here?"
MacLeod was pretty sure the only way out was through, but he wasn't particularly eager to start that journey. He looked for any reasonable break in the chaos. Below, on the left side of the lion, a fistfight broke out between two men. One took a broken bottle and slashed at the other. Before the man's throat could be sliced, Methos grabbed him by his jacket, hauling him out of reach. He was a young man, maybe even a teenager, clearly terrified and looking at Methos with an immense amount of relief and gratitude for saving his life. Methos looked shaken, still holding onto the young man, staring at him as if he were an apparition come to life.
The other guy stumbled and fell to the ground, the bottle smashing into tiny pieces. Before he could recover from his fall, MacLeod grabbed him, punched him once for good measure, and tossed him back into the crowd.
"Come on," he said to Methos who was still holding onto the young man, who now wore an expression indicating that he thought Methos was a bit weird and he was hoping to be let go. "Go on with you," MacLeod said to him. "Get out of here. Go home." The boy quickly scurried away.
With the boy gone, Methos looked at his hands. MacLeod took one of them in his own, squeezing firmly. "He's all right," he said, close enough that Methos could hear him. Methos’s expression was distant, but slowly he focused and squeezed back. "Let's go home."
MacLeod led Methos through the crowd and down into a quieter alley, weaving carefully and precisely back to Camden Town, holding on to Methos all the way.
*
The Persian Plateau, several months later
*
With a mad light in his eyes, Caspian had said, "Starve them. Squeeze until we can't squeeze any more."
Methos was loath to admit something so brutally effective could have come from Caspian, but he couldn't deny the results. Mounted, the Horsemen made their way along the dust-ridden road, weaving through the hundreds of ragged, starved people, an exodus of humanity searching for water and food in the wake of drought and famine in all of Elam. The people cowered as the Horsemen pushed their way through, averting their eyes but still looked furtively for any sign of mercy. A few brave souls approached with their outstretched hands, begging for scraps.
Methos's horse stepped over a bundle of dirty rags he realized was a woman and her small child, too tired to continue the march. Her quiet, dead-seeming eyes looked blankly down at her child, who attempted to eke out milk from one flattened breast. Her cheeks were sunken, bone-thin arms browned and scarred. A man stood nearby, stoic in his stillness, in nothing but a loincloth, skeletal, rib bones sticking out in sharp relief and stomach concave.
It might have been Caspian's inspiration, but it was Methos who brought it about.
First they torched the fields at full harvest, destroying any possibility of crops, fire eating up villages and farms one by one. Then, they raided what stockpiles and reserves of grain were kept by merchants and by the king. Caspian led bands into the hills and outlying roads, killing any merchant or chieftain attempting to caravan food or other goods. It was Silas's job to destroy cattle and livestock. He wouldn't kill all of them despite Caspian's sneering, keeping several herds for their own benefit, but enough were destroyed to reduce any chance of relief from starvation.
Kronos did his best to slow the flow of water into the plateau, aided by the lack of rain and the natural pestilence that came from hundreds of rotting corpses dumped into every water source.
Those few who had managed to hide their own stockpiles of food were able to charge outrageous prices to the starving people for a mere handful of grain. Toward these, Methos let his disdain flow freely, ruthlessly killing those he found who would take such advantage. He recognized the irony, and the part of him that wasn't disgusted by such behavior was amused.
Slowly, methodically, the people starved. The ruling king, victor of the last great battle, was found murdered in his bed, his and his family's bodies torn apart and burned, carried through the streets of Susa as some sort of offering to the gods, the people crying and begging for relief. The new king, in desperation, rallied his starved men into an army in an attempt to retaliate against the four Horsemen, trying to find where their camp was and their rumored hoard of food and livestock, but the emaciated men were no match for the mounted raiders who cut through them easily. The king paid dearly for this, impaled on a stake and left before the great temple in the center of the city.
Only when Methos deemed the time ripe did he and his brothers carefully loosen their grip. They fed a family, then a village, then more, until the four brothers were seen as salvation wherever they rode.
"They worship us," said Kronos, laughing, his arms outstretched as his horse trotted gaily through the valley of bowed heads and chanting cries for mercy, any little bit of pity.
"Indeed," said Methos, with a half smile acknowledging the lie. He knew Kronos was wise enough to know the difference between worship and fear. But, at the moment, it was the same thing.
On his left side, Methos watched Caspian gnawing on yet another leg of meat, smacking his lips and laughing at the starved children crowded around him, their big, dark eyes watching his every movement. Casually, Caspian tossed his mostly-eaten meal to the ground. Before the children could fall on it, Caspian rode his horse over, throwing dust and dirt and kicking the leg aside into a gully.
They rode on. Methos looked back and saw a cloud of dust surround the pack of ravenous children as they yelled and fought over the bone.
*
London, spring
*
Week Two
They left the restaurant together, the sky already darkened to a royal blue. MacLeod took a deep breath of fresh air. Methos walked beside him, holding the remains of most of his meal in a take away container.
After the riots the week before, many shop windows were boarded up and some less traveled streets still had broken glass and rubbish that hadn't been swept away. Although subdued, for the most part London was no stranger to violence, and the city continued on much as it ever had.
It was a pleasant night, not too cold. They walked home.
"I have something I want to ask you," said MacLeod, deciding on the spot to be forward about it.
Methos looked sidelong at him. "Oh. Thanks for the warning."
MacLeod flashed him a quick grin. They stopped in front of a wine and spirits shop he favored on Camden High Street. "Wait here," he said. "Won't be long."
The clerk was familiar with him and his preferred labels. They put a box together and he arranged to have it delivered, holding back one bottle for that night. Through the shop window, he could see a group of rowdy teenagers on the other side of the street. They appeared to be homeless or as good as, a ragtag group, mad with that look of hunger that seemed to linger on the streets of any city. Methos had seen them as well and crossed the street toward them. MacLeod finished in the shop and stepped outside, watching Methos offer his unfinished meal to anyone who would take it.
The kids stared at Methos as if he were an alien and the container he offered something on the level of a poisonous snake. Several of the older kids stepped forward, rangy and lean like wolves. MacLeod tensed, ready to step in.
"Honestly, it's just food. Pasta, to be exact," said Methos, and the part of MacLeod that wasn't hyper-focused on the shifting energies coming from the teenagers could spare fleeting admiration for Methos's I-am-totally-innocent-just-little-old-me look.
After a moment, a particularly thin boy of about fifteen stepped forward and took the food. As one, the little band closed around him, effectively cutting Methos out.
Taking Methos's arm, MacLeod ushered him down the street, trying not to appear as if they were hurrying away while hurrying away.
"Didn't think it would be so difficult," said Methos, glancing back several times. "Youth today. Don't even want free food anymore."
"Well, they've been warned not to, you know. Don't take candy from strangers."
"Yes but, they're clearly near starving." Methos sounded so put out and insulted that MacLeod had to laugh at him. "Do you think they'll throw it away?" Methos tone shifted to slight concern.
"Nah," said MacLeod, although he thought there was a good chance they would. "They were just being cautious. There's been a rash of homeless men poisoned by supposed good Samaritans giving out free food, that's all." MacLeod didn't quite know what to do with the look of horror Methos gave him. "Kids are usually too savvy. Keen survivors."
After one last glance back, Methos became lost in thought. MacLeod didn't say the kids would be all right. They both knew that was hardly the case. It was unlikely they would starve, and half a meal would hardly make much of a difference anyway. MacLeod spared a fleeting prayer to the heavens for a skinny fifteen-year-old.
Methos was quiet the rest of the way home.
In MacLeod's kitchen, with a view of the garden lit by fairy lights, they shared the bottle of wine he had bought until Methos looked up. "You had something to ask?"
MacLeod swirled the wine in his glass. He took a sip and then set the glass down on the table. He wanted to say he knew Methos was the anonymous collector currently stirring up all the curators and archeologists of the Ancient Near East like a nest of overly-excitable three-year-olds. There hadn't been this much of a dust storm since the days of Schliemann and his treasure.
It was bloody obvious, actually, and he gathered that Methos wasn't actually hiding it on purpose. It was just one of those things you sometimes didn't know how to mention.
"I did," he said, and looked at Methos. The kitchen light fell in warm highlights of yellow. Through the window, MacLeod could see the fairy lights blinking on and off. He realized that nothing needed to be said. Methos smiled slightly, and nodded.
Instead, MacLeod took Methos's wine glass from his lax fingers. He rose and turned the fairy lights off, then turned the kitchen lights off so they were plunged into darkness. In the meager light of the microwave display, he reached for Methos and pulled him close.
They stood in the dark, Methos's hands coming up to cup MacLeod's face. MacLeod could just see the light of awareness and laughter melting into Methos's smile. "What's this?" Methos asked, lips brushing across MacLeod's cheek.
MacLeod couldn't answer, but laid his head down on Methos's shoulder, hands resting on his waist.
They moved through the darkened house, through the narrow hallways, up the stairs into the closest bedroom, which happened to be Methos's. Although MacLeod had made the first move, it was Methos who led the way, taking MacLeod's hand in his. They lay down on the bed, clothed still.
Methos raised MacLeod's arms over his head and kissed his forehead; he kissed MacLeod’s left cheek; he kissed his lips. "So this is why I'm here in London. I was wondering."
MacLeod chuckled, then raised his head to kiss Methos again, opening his mouth, shivering. Methos pulled away and MacLeod looked up into Methos's wonderingly bright eyes. "Do you know that nursery rhyme, Duncan? About the mad man and his mad wife?"
"What?" MacLeod thought asking him to think at this moment was a bit unfair. He wiggled, pushed up, caught Methos in a kiss again. Then, from somewhere in the far back of his brain, he remembered. "Didn't they have three mad children?"
For some reason Methos found this incredibly funny, finally letting go of his arms and laughing into MacLeod's neck.
"Weirdo," said MacLeod, confused but laughing too. He flipped them over, pushing Methos's shirt off and undoing his zipper. He rushed, fingers fumbling, until finally they were both naked. Methos raised his hand and caressed down MacLeod's face, to his collar bone, down his chest. There was a strange reverence to it and MacLeod bowed his head.
"'They rode by night and they rode by day," said Methos, voice rumbling in the quiet of the room, his hand still moving across MacLeod's chest. "'Yet never a one of them fell; and they rode madly all the way, till they came to the Gates of Hell.'"
On the last word, Methos's voice cracked. MacLeod breathed in and kissed him, and kept kissing him until he thought he might die.
*
The Persian Plateau, a year later
*
To the vacant king's seat came another, stronger than the past kings and coming with a great army. He promised to free the people of the blight of famine and the tyranny of mounted raiders.
It mattered not, however, what a king might promise. What where kings to them? Methos and his brothers could have continued on, no king would be able to stop them. Yet, they had squeezed so hard and for so long, they had squeezed all the fun out of Elam.
There were new lands to taste. Caspian shrugged. "One place is much like another," he said to Kronos's suggestion that they head into Anatolia, whence the Hittites came. Or even further west, over the sea. Methos remembered the sea.
They rode up to the top of a ridge to see a village nestled in blissful ignorance against a small wood and a thin river. Methos shaded his eyes and watched the sleepy village in the first light of morning. Before they could leave, they needed to replenish their supply of slaves and other goods. There would be more along the way, but Kronos had come across this village and, like an itch that needed scratching, he could not let it pass.
"Come, my brothers," said Kronos, and his horse leapt forward, charging down the hill. Caspian followed next, and then Silas, swinging his axe madly. Methos's horse stomped with eagerness to give chase but he held him back, waiting, waiting. He took a breath, feeling his horse's energy through the reins, and pulled his sword free from its scabbard. With just a squeeze his horse jumped forward into the cloud of dust left by his brothers.
After the recent years of plans within plans and the intricacies of battle and politics, it was a relief in a way to simply swing his sword and kill as he chose. He could see why Silas liked it so much. Once most of the men were killed, they rounded up the women and older children, and some of the young men who did not bear signs of needless bravery. Like so many, the village did not have much food, but they did have plenty of fresh water and Methos set the young men to fill all the skins they had in preparation for the coming journey.
It was Caspian's job to kill the small children who would be too many mouths to feed and a burden besides. "Do it fast," said Methos. "The women's screaming gives me a headache."
"But I like it," said Caspian, and to spite Methos, he took his time, relishing each small throat he cut.
Predictably, the women, who were bound but not gagged, wailed and screamed and begged for mercy, struggling violently against Methos as he tied each pair of hands to a long lead rope he would hold while riding. He lost his grip on a strong girl who ran from him and over to Caspian, crying as she fell on what Methos realized must be her son, shielding him with her body.
Cursing, Methos went after her. Glaring at Caspian, he pried her off her son, his arms around her chest. She fought like a cat dunked in water, and, realizing he had little choice, he broke her neck and let her drop to the ground. The boy knelt down by his mother's body. "Finish it," he said to Caspian. "Stop playing and finish it. We ride before the sun hits that crest."
Methos tied the lead rope to his horse and went to check on Silas and Kronos. He looked over at Caspian and saw him squatting on the ground, watching the same boy, no older than four or five, standing over his mother's body in sad, tearful defiance. Caspian's head was cocked to one side, as if he were trying to understand something in a foreign language. Finally, he took his knife and placed it against the boy's neck. The boy didn't try to run away, he didn't cry or flinch, but only breathed hard and fast, like a rabbit. Caspian held the knife at the boy's throat for a long moment, then he took the knife away.
Later, as they rode away burdened with their spoils, Methos saw that Caspian had placed the boy in front of him on his horse.
They were of course allowed to pick whatever prizes they wanted with the understanding that they shared everything, but this was an odd choice for Caspian. Methos couldn't say the boy wasn't better off dead than in the hands of one like Caspian. But then, the boy lived. If Caspian wanted a pet, so be it. Methos looked over at Caspian and saw the boy's dark eyes meet his with a shock of hatred. Yes, the boy lived, and one day maybe he would have a chance to revenge his mother's death. Methos found he looked forward to it.
*
London, spring
*
Week Three
It was Methos who woke him, with a pounce and a shock of wet hair dripping cold water onto MacLeod's sensitive belly. MacLeod yelped, and, naked still, grabbed Methos around the waist and swung him back onto the bed. He covered Methos (wearing MacLeod's robe) with his body.
"I told you not to do that anymore," said MacLeod, growling as menacingly as he could while trying to subdue an impish and laughing Methos struggling against him in a rather distracting way. MacLeod held on tighter but it only made Methos leer at him more.
"I'm not sure how you expect me to resist," said Methos, whose lofty tone battled somewhat with the soft desire in his eyes. It made MacLeod's blood heat and he pressed hard against him.
"Hm, good point," said MacLeod.
They stopped talking, and MacLeod busied himself with tasting a freshly showered Methos, nibbling on his arm, tasting a nipple. Suddenly, Methos squawked and pushed him away, scrambling out of the bed. "Forgot," he yelled as he raced from the room. "Left food cooking on the stove. Don't move!"
Mid-pucker, MacLeod let out a disgruntled puff of air and collapsed onto the bed. He rolled on his back and stared at the walls and ceiling. For the last week they'd been sleeping in Methos's room. Perhaps because it was closest to the stairs, he thought with a quiet laugh. Bemused, he realized Methos was right to question the wallpaper. In the shadowed corners, the walls became almost the color of dried blood, but when morning sun broke in through the window the room brightened brilliantly, like a bouquet of oranges and marigolds and fire.
Methos came bustling in, carrying a tray laden with food for two. "Here we go," said Methos. "Sit up, lazy."
Glaring good-naturedly, MacLeod made room on the bed and Methos set the tray down carefully. There was oatmeal and strawberries, eggy toast and tomatoes. MacLeod picked up a glass of orange juice, holding it up against the wall to compare the color.
Methos smiled, and seemed to read his mind. "I've gotten used to it."
Yes, one got used to things, like pesky house guests, orange wallpaper, and the quiet before storms. MacLeod drank his orange juice.
They began to eat and talk of their plans for the day. Through the window MacLeod could hear the cries and shouts of children at play on the street. The exhibit at the British Museum was to be an examination of battle and its effects through the ages. The artifacts Methos was lending would only be a small part of the whole, but no less significant because of it. "I have a meeting in the afternoon. You could come with me." He knew Methos would say no, but he liked to ask.
"Would I need to come on a leash?"
MacLeod choked on his orange juice and had to wipe his mouth, certain his face now matched the orange wallpaper. Snickering, Methos kissed him. "You're too easy," he said with a smile, then more quietly, "I'd better not."
Torn between annoyance, amusement, and a quite embarrassing jolt of desire, MacLeod took a napkin and wiped his face and fingers. "It's not like they'd know who you are."
"Doesn't matter," said Methos, feeding Macleod bits of strawberry. "I would know. Look, I'm glad my old junk seems to be getting some use, but I don't really want anything to do with it."
MacLeod tilted his head, observing Methos and absently accepting another bit of fruit. "All right," he said.
Methos smiled, wickedly, and circled MacLeod's neck with both of his hands. He squeezed gently. "You know," said Methos, all too innocently, "I think you'd better wear the collar."
If it weren't for the tray of food that perched precariously as it was, MacLeod would have devoured Methos right there, but he had to be satisfied with soft whimpers and messy wet kisses on a crumb-riddled bed.
"There," said Methos, gently, taking a moment to set the tray onto the floor. MacLeod pushed Methos's robe aside, and touched every part of him that he could reach. He wanted to rush and take his time, both, and couldn't stop himself from pushing against Methos roughly. "There," said Methos again, shaking a little and thrusting against MacLeod in such away MacLeod had to close his eyes. It didn't take long, and they both shuddered against each other, arms and legs tangled.
After the roar of blood in his ears subsided, MacLeod snuggled against Methos on the bed, lips lazily tasting the sweat and sugar of his skin. The sounds of the children at play still drifted in through the window.
"You'd better get up and shower if you don't want to be late," said Methos, turning in MacLeod's arms and smiling. "Up you get," he said, and smacked MacLeod on his bare butt, cleverly untangling himself and his robe before MacLeod could reach him. Methos took the tray and left the bedroom, calling behind him, "And, sorry, there might not be any hot water."
"Ow," muttered MacLeod, rubbing his backside. "Yeah, yeah."
Sighing, he finally got out of bed and took his tepid shower. The house was empty when he finished and it took him a minute to locate Methos. He was outside in the midst of a yelling horde of children. MacLeod stood on the steps and watched. Methos had separated the kids into groups facing each other like two armies. He bent down to whisper something in each of the would-be leader's ears. Then he stepped away, moving over to where MacLeod stood.
Methos cupped his hands, "Okay, ready. Set. GO!"
Like two small tidal waves, the kids yelled and ran for each other, laughing. Methos stood and watched with a self-satisfied smile on his face.
"I leave you alone for ten minutes and find you directing troops into battle," said MacLeod, watching a strapping young girl thoroughly trounce a much taller boy who looked like he was enjoying it.
"Well," said Methos, "I came out here to find out what all the fuss was about, and, you know." Methos finished with a shrug and a wave of his hand, as if to say this sort of thing was a natural hazard of his day-to-day life. "Nasty little buggers. You've got to set them on each other or they'll turn on you when you're not looking."
Methos said this with such a straight face that MacLeod burst out laughing.
"I'm serious," said Methos, indignant.
Before MacLeod could say anything, however, the children finished walloping each other and seemed to turn as one, all of them rushing over to Methos and MacLeod.
Grabbing each other and swearing, MacLeod scrambled to his front door to find it locked. He faced Methos. "Run!" he said and, they both ran for it, holding on to each other and hopping over the fence to the back yard. They collapsed in laughter onto the wet grass as the kids jumped up and down and yelled, wanting to play again.
*
There was a mad man and he had a mad wife,
And they lived in a mad town,
And they had children, three at a birth
And mad they were every one.
The father was mad, the mother was mad,
And the children mad beside;
And they all got on a mad horse,
And madly they did ride.
They rode by night and they rode by day,
Yet never a one of them fell,
They rode so madly all of the way,
Till they came to the Gates of Hell.
Old Nick was glad to see them so mad,
And gladly let them in,
But he soon grew sorry to see them so merry,
And let them out again.
-Old Nursery Rhyme
*
END