Once again with the warnings: in a lot of ways, this is the story I said I'd never write.  It's the sort of thing I was really put off by when I first started reading Highlander fic.  There are people I'd like to blame - authors that made me sort of 'get' the reason, if not the appeal of the violence/sex combination - but in the end, it's mine and I'm responsible for it.  It's a little sick, and a lot co-dependant, and here it is.  If you have issues with blood play in sex, or you need to see strict consent in your fic, this probably isn't the story for you.

Many, many thanks go to the betas of this piece, Michelle, Margaret, and especially Kirstie, who read it over and over did a lot of hand-holding for me.  It was very appreciated, and has resulted in a much better story.

Screencap credit for the picture goes to Laurena.  Her site is at: http://www.methosluvr.com/

Undertow

Don't you need? Don't you bleed?  Can't you taste it when you're alone? 

Don't you want to lay it down and feel your skin against the ground-- 

Don't you want to ride the storm and then sleep inside the calm?  

Don't you want to get that high?  

Don't you want to be satisfied?  

Well if you don't want this from me...don't you need?

Methos stood, hands gripping the railing and staring into the black water below. The thick weight of the submarine base's concrete walls pressed around him from all sides and managed to remind him of the pyramids, tombs that they were. He'd have liked to say he was surprised at the turn of events, surprised by Kronos' reappearance and Cassandra's hunt, but it wasn't true. He'd been expecting it for a long time. Now that it had finally happened, he was mostly just tired.

The wild card in this long-overdue drama was the Highlander, but that too was something Methos couldn't truly think of as a surprise. And it was just as well, since Methos couldn't recall many he'd met who could match Kronos with a sword. But MacLeod was good, he liked to fight, and he was nearly invincible with the moral high ground under his feet. And he certainly could claim that, Methos thought wryly.

The water moved slowly below and his hands were cold. A lot of him was cold, actually, and it had little to do with the temperature. He ached from the chill of it, far past shivering, well into numb. 'Comfortably Numb' the song went, but there was nothing comfortable about this. He was vacillating wildly between a paralyzing ennui and rare, bright moments of manic alertness. It was going to get him killed, if not a great many others as well.

He kept trying to think, to plan. Kronos was assured of his 'cleverness', but Methos knew he was pulling rabbits out of hats faster than he could make rabbits. He couldn't continue to play 'make it up as I go along' without committing a grievous error, sooner or later.

And under all that, under the panic and the fear, under the numbness and the mania, under the concern for the lives of the people he cared about and even those he didn't, somewhere in his soul there was something primal and hungry that had desperately missed Kronos. Something that thrilled to the high stakes offered by the modern world. He'd ignored it for so long he'd tricked himself into believing it wasn't there anymore. Now it stretched back to life, growled, and reminded him of games both public and private he hadn't played since before Rome fell -- since before Rome even existed. Games he'd missed.

"You look deep in thought, brother."

Kronos' soft voice coiled around him like the current under a surf, pulling him down, drowning him in its weight.

Methos turned from the water to look into the eyes of the man who'd come to stand next to him. Kronos was smiling, a half-smile too self-aware to be truly arrogant.

"Not at all, Kronos. I was just wondering how much time we should leave between attacks. The world needs time to be ... aware of us." He tightened his grip slightly on the rail as though it could ground him.

There was a chuckle, and a hand came up to rest possessively on Methos' shoulder. "Let's not give them too long, eh?"

"No, not too long." The water barely moved below his stiff, clenched hands. The air smelled of mold and wet cement. He repressed a shiver. It would get warm soon enough, for now he wanted to enjoy the quiet and the stillness, the cool, deceptive calm.

Kronos pulled his hand away and leaned backwards against the railing, stretching out his legs and smiling. He'd always managed to look as though he were on a stage, as though the entire world were watching. He made even the most casual of gestures into a subtle, artful performance. Or maybe, Methos mused, the performances were done for his benefit alone. Silas and Caspian were creatures of Kronos, they didn't need the... the drama to impress them.

He would have laughed at the thought, if he could have. He'd been every bit as much Kronos' creature as the others ever had been. Was he still? Time would tell, he supposed, but he knew Kronos doubted him. Kronos wanted the Horsemen united again, bound to each other and stronger for it. With Silas and Caspian eager to re-live their glory days, he only needed Methos to submit to his authority before he turned his attention outwards to the rest of the world.

Somewhere out there, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod was hunting. Hunting Kronos, hunting him. He needed to remember that, remember MacLeod, and figure out a way to keep his head on his shoulders. But as pressing a concern as MacLeod might be, Kronos was with him where Duncan was not. Immediate, and standing just a touch too close, as always. In the back of his throat, under the tips of his fingers, along the small of his back, he could feel Kronos' power -- he could feel it, smell it, taste it. He gripped the cold railing even tighter and looked down at the black water swirling below him. Kronos chuckled. The sound slid into Methos' mind and he shivered despite himself.

A lot of things he did around Kronos he did in spite of himself.

"It's been a long time, even for us," Kronos remarked casually, as though he weren't choosing every word for the best effect.

"Yes." Methos' fingers were beginning to cramp. He maintained his hold.

"It's good to be together again. I must admit, Methos, I thought you were lying." A smile played at the corners of his mouth.

"I wouldn't have lied about that, Kronos."

Methos managed to smile when he said it, but his skin felt like plastic pulled too tightly and he saw the answering smirk in Kronos' eyes. Behind him, water dripped, measuring out the moments. He fought the urge to find it and make it stop.

"No," Kronos answered at last. "You know better." Kronos stood, the leather jacket straining and creaking around his shoulders as he circled Methos, too close, to finally lean recklessly against the rail in a mirror of his previous pose. "Don't you?"

Methos' heart beat in time with the dripping behind him. The water swirled below him and for a reckless moment he considered jumping into it. Everything was ticking by in slow motion and he wished suddenly, fiercely, for it to be over. He waited a drip and a heartbeat too long to answer the rhetorical question, and suddenly Kronos was laughing.

It was a loud, explosive sound in the quiet space of damp concrete and steel, and Methos barely refrained from jumping.

"Of course you do, brother," and the hand was on his shoulder again, and Kronos was moving in, and ... and Methos wanted to run. He did. Most of him did. He wanted to hide and he wanted to be safe.

But Kronos wasn't about being safe. Kronos was about living. Really living. Thousands of years had passed, and hadn't made a dent in the life that roared out of him like a tsunami and filled all the available space. The flood passed over Methos, through him, swirled around his feet and pulled him down. He wanted to run, mostly. But there was that part of him that wanted to stay there, forever, drinking it in, soaking in it, bathing in the passion that Kronos offered.

Of course those were cheap metaphors, he told himself. Euphemistic and childish. He didn't want water. He wanted... he didn't want to think about it. Surely he'd gotten over that? But the hunger in his soul growled louder at the warmth generated by the hand on his shoulder and the cold, cramped ache in his hands flared out to cover his arms and chest. He realized he'd closed his eyes and he forced them back open.

The look on Kronos' face was transparent and just as hungry as the need Methos felt inside. This time he held back the shiver, but Methos knew he couldn't have spoken if he'd had to. The hand left his shoulder and cupped the back of his neck, touched his bare skin. Goosebumps flared down his arms and he would have sworn a tongue of electricity arced in his mouth. He looked at his hands, knuckles white against the steel railing, then back up at Kronos.

"I never did thank you," Kronos said. He was still aiming for 'casual,' but the roughness of his voice leaked out.

"Thank me?" Methos managed a whisper.

"For saving me back at the factory. You were trying to save me?"

"Yes. Of course. I didn't..." his voice broke and his skin crawled. The lightning pulsing under his skin was picking up speed. "I didn't know if you could take MacLeod."

"I can."

"Are you so sure?"

"Yes. Aren't I always?"

"Sure? Yes, you are. You always are."

Kronos laughed again and took two steps backward; his hand lifted and was gone. The cool air hit the nape of Methos' neck, and he wanted the hand back. He wanted Kronos back. He wanted Kronos back in his space, leaning against him.

Wasn't he supposed to want to run away? He wrenched his numb hands off the steel rail and flexed the stiff fingers. He took a step away from Kronos and was proud of himself, then immediately disgusted that such a simple, stupid thing would garner self-praise. He was losing, badly and quickly. Too much history, too many memories, too much to fight against. He'd walked away once. He hadn't wanted to have to do it twice.

"I know what you want."

Methos met Kronos' eyes, startled, then surprised himself by answering. "Do you think so? How can you? It's been a long time, Kronos. I'm not who I was. I keep telling you that." He sounded so certain, but Kronos' smile didn't falter.

"Oh, yes, that's what you keep saying." Kronos chuckled, and Methos felt something in him vibrate in tune with the sound. Too much history, too many nights... "You keep saying you've changed. I don't think you've changed a bit. I think you've bought your own cover, is all. What is it about you that you think has changed so much? You've read a few books? Learned a few more languages? You think that makes you different?"

Did it make him different?

The water dripped, beside him now. Methos ground his teeth. "No. That's not it, Kronos. It's not the clothes, or the world, it's..." he broke off, eyes going wide as Kronos moved to him in a smooth rush, catching the back of his neck again and pulling their bodies together. The grip was like iron, and suddenly there was a flash of bright silver arcing up through the air in Kronos' free hand. The flat of the blade was cool against his cheek and Methos gasped.

"Do you even realize you're hard?" Kronos asked, his voice full of easy conversation and total command. Methos didn't answer; he wasn't sure he could. "You know what you look like?" The blade tip traced a lazy pattern over Methos' cheekbone. Kronos continued without waiting for an answer. "You look like a rabbit, with your big eyes and twitchy reflexes. You look like prey. Damnit, Methos!" The hand on the back of his neck squeezed hard and the blade tip pressed in. The small trail of blood was hot against his cheek, warmer for the contrast of the knife still pressing against his skin.

Kronos was snarling with anger. "You're not a rabbit! You're a Horseman!" The blade pulled back and Kronos' regained his control and his bright, cheerful tone. "They say, 'biblical proportions', you know? An epidemic of 'biblical proportions.' We were that big once. We'll be that big again. All I need to do is help you remember."

Methos' eyes had shut again. Off to the right, water dripped in a relentless staccato and to his left it swirled by in a mass dark and slow like treacle. But Kronos' tsunami crashed against his senses with unrelenting force.

"I remember, Kronos. But..." he trailed off and opened his eyes. He'd lost track of what kind of ground he could hope to gain. No sense in antagonizing the man with a dagger held to his face. And even as he thought of that rational, sound, logical reason not to argue, he had to admit to himself -- again -- that the hand on the back of his neck and the body pressed into his were not unpleasant. He had to admit, too, that the blade against his cheek had utterly failed to make him lose the erection he'd managed to ignore. The beast in his soul growled again, hungry for the promises Kronos made: power, pleasure, violence, and family.

"You remember?" Kronos looked at him over the knife. "Let's see."

It was a kiss meant to claim, not to arouse, and Methos surrendered to it. The hand on the back of his neck slid up and found a tight grip even in the short length of his hair and the lips against his were hard and relentless. Still, he sank into it, by design and by mistake, until his free arm was wrapping around Kronos' back. The kiss softened, deepened in intimacy, and soon the mouth invading his was a lover's mouth and not a conqueror's. The mouth trailed over his jaw, down his throat, and nuzzled before sharp teeth bit down hard. On his throat as it was, the mark would stay for hours.

"Ouch," Methos snapped, and pulled back. Kronos let him go, but shook his head. Methos rubbed at the bite and scowled.

"'Ouch?' I can't believe how soft you've gone, brother. And here I thought perhaps we might enjoy a bit of a celebration tonight."

"A celebration? What are we celebrating?" He left off rubbing the bite to wipe the drop of blood from his cheek.

"The Horsemen are re-united! What more do we need to celebrate?"

Kronos looked as pleased with himself as Methos could remember seeing him, and with the blade held lightly in Kronos' fingers, nearly forgotten but ever-present, there was no need for Methos to ask what form the 'celebration' was going to take.

"What if I don't feel like it?"

Kronos chuckled and he brushed the knuckles of his empty hand down Methos' cheek before claiming the jaw in a grip loose but firm. "You don't feel like it?" He shook his head. "Why do you always do this? You squirm and fight and complain... but you want this as much as we do. More, I think. You're hungry for it, I know you are. You only ever run so I can catch you. I know you, Methos, better than you know yourself now." The hand dropped and Kronos beamed a smile full of charm and camaraderie. "And speaking of hunger, it's suppertime. Let's see what Caspian's cooked for us while you were brooding."

An arm clapped to his shoulder, and Methos let himself be led away.

*****

Silas had left near the end of supper and when the remaining three men returned to the common room, Methos saw the table and chairs had been moved back and layers of blankets had been put on the floor. He stopped at the doorway, frozen to the spot by a bright, hot flash of fear. It was one thing to consider Kronos' 'celebration' when he was aroused and freshly-kissed. It was another to see the area prepared an hour later.

Caspian strode into the room and assumed his place off to the side with a smile of predatory anticipation. Silas mimicked him across the stretch of the blankets and smiled his own smile. Methos blinked in surprise that Kronos had wanted them there, then nearly shook his head at his mistake in judgment. Of course Silas and Caspian were there. Kronos needed to prove that he could make Methos bow to his will; he needed to prove it to himself and Methos, and to the others as well.

Kronos needed the Horsemen bound together again, utterly under his command, and ready to kill anyone else. Everyone else. Methos had failed on the latter once already, so Kronos was using a different tack this time.  There was also the small matter of tactics. Methos knew they were all a little unsure of him and of his loyalties. All alone with Kronos, he might have tried something reckless and run. There would be no running from this.

Methos' heart hammered in his chest and Kronos stopped at the doorway with him and clapped a hand to his shoulder.

"Well? Come on," Kronos said cheerfully and Methos lowered his voice to a hiss.

"I don't suppose we could discuss this?"

Kronos turned to face him and there were storm clouds in his eyes. Methos could feel the electric static of building power.

"I've put up with a great deal from you, Methos," Kronos said quietly. "Are you telling me no?"

"I'm not..." Methos faltered, looked in to see Silas and Caspian, waiting, then looked back at Kronos. His heart was pounding, but the fear had already bled out, mellowed, and the taste of it was turning heady. It burned through his veins and he was light-headed as if from wine. "It's been so long," he finally said.

"You'll do fine," Kronos said in as comforting a tone as he ever managed, and he drew Methos over the threshold and into the room, into the center of the blankets.

The war had begun anew in his head and both sides fought with no quarter. One side made claims of dignity, on the other was that dark hunger in his soul. It would be easier if he let go. His body would respond better without all the deprecating internal monologue his brain would offer, and it would be pleasurable, if he were honest. And it was too late not to be honest. But it'd been so long he didn't know if he could achieve the state he needed to keep the pain away.

The first cut would hurt; he couldn't do anything about that. The second and third cuts would hurt. But if he could let go, if the endorphins came, if he drew on his power correctly, the panic wouldn't last much longer than that, even if the pain echoed all night. His body could turn the pain into fuel. He just had to let go and feel.

Letting go and feeling meant losing control, though. Being vulnerable. He didn't know if he could. Behind Kronos, Silas and Caspian waited, their normal bickering held in check because Kronos had told them to be silent. The two men, strong and willful, held in place by a few words from their leader; their wills bent obediently, almost eagerly. Besides being useful if he bolted, Methos was aware they were also serving as examples.

"Take off the sweater."

Methos pulled it over his head and tossed it to the side. Bare-chested, he faced Kronos, who smiled broadly and touched the bite mark on Methos' throat before drawing a single finger down the exposed skin. A dagger from nowhere spun lightly in his fingers, then followed the same path, its tip barely touching. A long, tiny line appeared in the wake of the bright metal. It stung sharply and Methos drew breath between his teeth in a hiss.

Kronos watched a drop of blood form at the bottom of the cut and touched his finger to it. He licked the blood off delicately, like a cat, and watched another pool on the pale skin in front of him. "How long has it been since you tasted your own blood?"

The thought that came to mind was sarcastic and wasn't what Kronos had meant. Kronos saw the expression pass over Methos' face though, and snarled.

"How long?"

Methos thought. He'd been a slave a few times, when the practice was still common in Europe, and he'd found it entertaining on a couple of occasions. But he'd never had a master with Kronos' tastes or Kronos' touch. He'd never had anyone, before or since, that affected him the way Kronos did, and for that he'd loathed the man and loved him in turns. He felt the pull of Kronos' eyes and struggled to keep himself from going under.

"Not since you," he answered quietly.

Kronos collected another drop of blood on his finger and held it out. The wound had already closed and the drop was small. Methos looked at it for the space of a heartbeat, then opened his mouth. The finger slid in, callused and rough, and the iron taste of his blood hit him like a favorite drug, long-abandoned. Barely a drop, but a promise of more. He heard himself moan and another of Kronos' fingers slid into his mouth. He accepted the second intrusion and drew them in farther. His eyes closed, and Methos let his awareness fade to the fingers he caressed with his tongue.

The knife blade bit deeply into his pectoral muscle in a smooth, sharp slice. Methos' eyes flew open, he pulled his mouth off the fingers he'd been suckling, and jumped back with a hiss of pain.

"Damnit, Kronos! You could have warned me."

"Warned you?" Kronos stared at him incredulously. "Warned you?" he said the words as though he could force them to make sense with repetition.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Methos could see Silas frowning and opening his mouth to speak. Methos raised a hand and shook his head and Silas closed his mouth and settled back into his waiting stance. He may have been Kronos' creature, but he had always been Methos' friend. Now wasn't the time for Silas to come to Methos' defense though; Kronos wouldn't stand for it and his temper was starting to flare. 

Methos turned his eyes back to Kronos and tried to force the other two men into a background noise in his awareness. Kronos took a handful of prowling steps in front of Methos then reached out and once again grabbed the back of Methos' neck.

They stood there, staring at each other, locked in place. Kronos was searching in Methos' eyes for something, and Methos didn't know if he'd find it. Blood dripped and congealed on his bare chest and Methos held his breath. Then something shifted in Kronos, something indefinable but vital.

"Methos?" His voice was quiet, intimate. The voice claimed him, pulled him under into the dark current of want and lust and need. Kronos needed him. How many people had ever needed him?

The world slowly fell away. MacLeod, Cassandra, Silas and Caspian faded out until there was no one but he and Kronos: two men who'd once needed each other fiercely. Methos let himself feel the pull of that need, and let himself remember.

He remembered the thrill of the power the Horsemen had enjoyed, the thrill of control, and the thrill of losing control. Kronos always had a way of circumventing Methos' limits; things always went further, faster, bigger, and more intensely than Methos had meant for them to. It had always made him panic, back then, scared him sometimes, repulsed him other times.

He'd missed it, though, there was no denying that.

Methos had promised himself that he'd never again let anyone have the power over him that Kronos had enjoyed. He knew he'd pay dearly for any indulgences he allowed himself tonight, but he'd never forgotten what he'd had under Kronos. He'd never forgotten any of it. Moments passed, then without looking away, he broadened his awareness to again include Silas and Caspian.

The last time they'd been together, he hadn't realized it would be the last time. In three days, perhaps less, MacLeod would be in Bordeaux, and the odds of them all living and walking away were non-existent. There would never be another time, Methos realized. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. If he needed somewhere to be safe then there wasn't a safer place for him in the entire world than this room. The men here were monsters, but the three of them would fight the entire armies of heaven and hell to protect him if he asked them to. The word 'brother' had meant a great deal to him once.

It saddened him a little, that in all the world this would be the place where he should feel safest, but that didn't lessen the impact the epiphany had brought him. He didn't agree with the world view Kronos offered, and he didn't want to be part of the plan, but that didn't change where he was or the fact that it was the last time. Tomorrow he could go back to his machinations and his desperate attempts to keep himself and his loved ones alive.

But that was tomorrow.

His internal war was over. The pull of Kronos' need was nearly a physical force, and Methos closed his eyes and let the weight of it close over his head like the tide. Struggling had been more effort than he'd known; the quiet stillness in his own mind was a relief. He brushed his cheek along Kronos' jaw. Kronos remained stiff for a moment, then tilted his head and claimed the mouth offered to him. Methos drew out the kiss just a moment, then pulled back with a smile at Kronos and bent to remove the rest of his clothing.

When he was done, Kronos pulled him back into another kiss.

The air was cool, but Kronos' body was hot under his hands. Outside the circle of their arms, Methos could feel the combined Presence of Silas and Caspian, waiting still. The kiss was lazy, slow, and Methos relaxed into it, and into the pull of Kronos' Presence. He waited for the knife as he let himself slip down into the undertow.

It slid into his arm above the bicep and he gasped but let himself be buoyed by the strength of the mouth on his. Another cut came quickly after, but it didn't hurt as sharply. Kronos pulled back to look at him again. This time they were both smiling.

"Welcome back, brother."

"Kronos." The name stretched out between his lips like a caress. He'd meant to surrender to the sensations, but he hadn't known the logical part of his brain would give up the battle so quickly. He was already losing the power of speech, and would soon be down to 'yes' and 'please'. And soon after that, no words at all. Words meant thinking and he couldn't ride the pain and think at the same time. He had the sense that he was sinking with surprising speed, but it wasn't important and he focused on the man in front of him.

Kronos smiled, drew his fingers through the stream of blood flowing down Methos' arm, and held them out again. Methos opened his mouth immediately, sucking greedily at the offering. His body and brain were reacting to the pain, giving him adrenaline and endorphins and lust to smooth out the edges. Adrenaline, endorphins, lust and Quickening, the deep rush of power flashed through him and echoed off the other Immortals like sonar.

Methos deep-throated the fingers offered to him, and this time it was Kronos who groaned.

Another set of cuts came across his back as Methos' mouth and tongue worked on Kronos' fingers, and stray wisps of lightning trickled over the wounds and made him arch. The first deep cut on his chest was healed, and tongues of lightning were sealing up the wounds on his arm. His Quickening was awakening, rising to the challenge, coming alive, responding to his call and to his desire. A blue flash arced across the space from Methos' hip to Kronos' leg, and Kronos growled.

The fingers left his mouth, and Methos gave a whine of protest, but they came back with a fresh coating of blood, and there were three, not two. Kronos was saying something, but the words didn't matter -- only the approving tone made it through the haze of sensation and lightning. Kronos' knife made a line of small, horizontal cuts down Methos' back, and the lightning chased the blade.

There was a hand on his shoulder, urging him down, and Methos knelt obediently. Kronos crouched in front of him, clasped his jaw lightly, and raised the dagger. Methos stayed still, head tilted up, waiting for the blade to dip. A flash of self-awareness passed over him, a knowledge that he looked as eager to please as any hound Kronos had ever owned, and the word 'dignity' came to his mind. He'd let himself begin to fall into Kronos' depths, but the light from the surface still shone above him. He could still pull himself up.

Kronos' eyes narrowed and the hand holding Methos' jaw tightened. Methos knew his internal struggle had been seen and recognized; in a lot of ways, Kronos did know him too well. Just within sight, Kronos' hand shifted its grip on the dagger, and the blade made a long pass through the flesh of Methos' chest. Methos gasped as the lightning crackled around him, and he slid through the pain and the renewed presence of his own power. His eyes glazed as he gave himself over to it, rode the energy and let it take him. When he looked back up, his eyes were half-lidded, but focused solely on Kronos.

"You want this?" Kronos moved the blade in an arc and watched Methos' eyes track it. Methos nodded. "Say please," Kronos purred.

Words. It was a test. He'd have to surface a bit to speak, and stay deep enough to take the blade when it came. He blinked. "Please," he said with a soft slur.

"Good boy," Kronos answered, and the blade traced an arcing path across Methos' cheekbone. A shiver shook his frame, but Methos kept his head still, waiting for more, and was rewarded with a smile. "Good boy," Kronos repeated, and turned the blade at an angle, sliding it up Methos' cheek towards the cut, pooling the blood on it.

The blood-coated blade came down to hover in front of his lips, and Methos opened his mouth. He was breathing shallowly and quickly, like a diver trying to oxygenate his body before descending. The pulse at the base of his neck pounded, but he kept his mouth open as the metal passed his lips. His tongue caressed the flat of the knife, and he tasted the blood before the blade turned and slid out, slicing as it went. Not a deep cut, but the feeling was intense. He whimpered and Kronos' soft voice was lost on the waves of sensation.

His eyes were closed and Methos, lost in sensation, couldn't have kept track of the movement around him anyway. He felt a smooth weight press against his lips, and his mouth opened to accept it. His world had narrowed to the hot flashes of feeling brought by the knife, the pain and the pleasure, the rhythm of his mouth, and the flow of his power and the power of those around him. The hand on the back of his head felt like a cradle, rocking him into a state of surrender.

The full force of his Quickening, completely aroused, beat against the body that caged it. Normally, discipline and practice kept it tamped down, tucked in, folded about him like a cloak. There wasn't much difference between the Presence of an Immortal of a thousand years and one of five hundred, but five millennia of unhidden power could be spotted by someone with the knack for such things. Methos let it go, and the power pulsed out in a ripple over his companions. Lightning passed in constant streamers over his body, no longer waiting for the bite of metal.

The fullness left his mouth and Methos felt someone kneel behind, then enter him. There was a part of him that knew it was Kronos taking him, but all that really mattered was the new sensation of pain, with a chaser of intense pleasure and the blue light of arcing power. He leaned back against the chest behind him and wrapped his arms around the other body for support. His mouth was empty and just as he was aware of the emptiness, it was filled again as the third of the Horsemen stepped into the embrace. Methos knew the taste of Caspian's energy and the grip of his hands, but he was too far gone for his brain to even come up with a name.

Methos was only aware of Silas when Caspian shifted his legs apart to give their fourth access to Methos' cock. The mouth nearly made him come at first touch, and it wasn't long before the new flood of pleasure hit him, too intense to contain, and he screamed around the length of flesh in his mouth. Weakly, he moved a hand down to pet the prone body in front of him, all the acknowledgment he could offer. Arcs of lightning curled around him, over him, through him and then through the bodies touching his. The lightning healed him, rejuvenated him, supported him and nourished him. He was hard again almost immediately, aching afresh with need as though his body could continue the act forever. There'd been a time he thought it would.

Sensations crashed over him, singing a siren song of seduction and despair, perfect beauty and an endless depth. He listened to the song and let it pull him down as far as he could go.

*****

Methos came out of a dreamless sleep, pulled himself up on his elbows and blinked open his eyes. He felt as if he'd washed up on a beach, though he had the disorienting feeling of the desert around him. But under him there was no sand, only blankets stiff with dried blood.

Several feet away, Caspian still slept soundly; Kronos, of course, was gone. Curled protectively near him, Silas woke when Methos moved and his voice was unusually soft when he spoke.

"Are you all right, brother?"

It was another part of the old ritual, the last concluding line of the play. Methos found it easy to smile when Silas sounded so concerned. "Of course I am, Silas. Go back to sleep." Silas returned the smile, closed his eyes and was asleep again in a heartbeat.

Methos looked down at his arms and chest. His perfect, unblemished skin was covered with the dried remains of human salt water: blood, semen, sweat and tears. It flaked off him when he moved, and he rubbed layers of the detritus off his face as he sat up. Impossible to tell the time here without his watch, but surely the better part of a day had passed, at least. MacLeod was that much closer to Bordeaux, and the clock was ticking.

Silas shifted slightly in his sleep and Methos let himself reach out to run his fingers lightly over his brother's shoulder. Forty-eight hours from now, at the most, a winner would be cleaning his sword and stepping over the bodies of the fallen. Two days, maybe less, and the outcome would be done. He wished, fervently, that he could have kept Silas out of this mess, but nothing less than the four of them together again would have satisfied Kronos.

Besides, he admitted to himself, having Silas here gave him some comfort. And if it was possible to keep anyone from under MacLeod's katana it was Silas.

MacLeod was on his way; there were things to be done. But first he needed a shower.

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