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Time. Strength. Methos repeated the words in a low growl as he paced his cell. Time and strength. He had been in worse situations before and, in time, he had escaped. Or they had all died. Time was his ultimate ally.
And he was strong, too. Believe yourself to be strong and you will be strong. How long ago had Darius whispered that in his ear? It was after his transformation, surely, but when? When?
Methos shrugged it off and pivoted on his heel. The cage was only long enough for four paces. It was not wide enough for him to stretch his arms out at his sides. At least the ceiling was high. At least he had that comfort. It hadn't been like that last time. No, last time had been cramped -- tight, labored breathing; a man died in the night -- and he'd starved ten times before breaking free.
He'd tested these chains countless times already. He could break the chains and break his wrists. He could bend the bars and destroy his spine. It hadn't seemed worth it yet. Yet.
He hadn't yet decided where he could go.
Damn Jillian. Damn her and her interfering ways. Damn her and her optimism. She'd always thought she could set everything to right. He'd told her time and time again, time and time again, that the world wasn't that simple, that he'd been hunted and he knew just what mortals could do to him. But she hadn't listened. She never did.
It was something he had loved about her. And now she was dead. Horton had killed her and taken him prisoner. Methos supposed he should be grateful that Horton didn't know who he was. Methos supposed he should be grateful that Horton simply thought him another Hunter, a child who could be persuaded to help track down the ancients. Methos supposed he should be grateful that Horton thought Methos the sort to betray his own kind.
He was damned if he was going to be grateful to be alive. He was indebted to no mortal anymore. The Hunters had taken over as they always did. Methos could kick himself. How many times had he seen this happen? Yet he still went back. He still hoped.
It was supremely ironic. The oldest Immortal still hadn't learned from his own history.
Doomed to repeat it. Methos smiled coldly and waved at the security camera watching his every more. He didn't know how long he'd been here but he could guess. Horton had already been by to start the interrogation. He was good, Methos had to give him that, but Methos had been tortured by masters of the craft. If he should be grateful, it should be to Kronos, who had taught him that pain was only fear of the unknown. And the strong did not fear.
Strength. Time. The two secrets of true immortality. The strong man knew his weaknesses and used them to his advantage. The timeless man knew how to become the chameleon, how to change his shape with every century. They could bend but they could not break.
Bend. Methos sneered. He knew that was what Horton expected of him. Horton expected him to hand over his own. Expected him to hunt for him, take out the ones Horton couldn't, and then submit meekly to the sword when he had served his purpose. And while Methos might have been willing to play along, act the docile Immortal for a couple of years, Horton had broken the rules. He had killed Jillian.
The measure of a man was in how he killed. Horton killed immediately. Rash, impulsive, wasteful, and far too young to be taken seriously. Now, the ones who waited, the ones who bided their time, those Methos could respect. Horton was an animal, pure and simple. He was nothing like Kronos. There was no artistry, no intent. Even Caspian at his worst didn't waste. He savored.
Methos shook his head. He had avoided thoughts of his brothers for a hundred years, at least. What was it about being imprisoned that reminded him of Kronos' smirk, of Silas' laugh, of Caspian's battle cries? He itched for a horse between his legs, a good horse, one who obeyed his every unspoken command. He ached for his sword in his hand again and he rotated his wrist, then lunged and cursed as his knuckles hit the stone wall. Stupid. Very stupid. He licked his blood off his hand -- Here. Let me. Don't waste it, brother. -- and gave the security camera a winning smile. Let Horton see this. Let Horton wonder what monster he dared try to tame.
He was Methos, oldest of the old, and he was no man's slave. He had been weak, yes, but he had loved. He could forgive himself that lapse. He could even forgive himself for trusting a mortal. But allowing himself to be tamed?
No. Not again.
He had been captured. His captors knew how to kill him. And Methos did not know where he was. No matter. He would find out. And then...
And then...
And then...
It was war, Methos remembered having told Jillian. It was war and the only winners were those who did not fight. He'd stood on the sidelines during countless struggles and they all had had the same outcome. The Immortals killed. The Watchers killed. In the end, there was only one.
He left only one. The Watchers outnumbered them, but the Immortals had the advantages of time and the natural disbelief of the peasants. The Watchers were destroyed and then Methos had rebuilt them.
Kronos had laughed. Silas had been puzzled. Only Caspian had understood. His least-favourite brother, the one who had taught him the very depths that needed to be withstood in order to truly survive, Caspian understood the necessity of keeping tabs on the competition. Five times so far had the Watchers been destroyed and five times had Methos rebuilt them, given them their sacred quest. Observe, record, never interfere.
He had not yet decided if he would do it again. He had intended to sit out this war, preferably with Jillian, but his plans did not depend on her compliance. But Horton, damn him, had interfered. Killing another man's woman was a mortal insult. Jillian had to be avenged. It was that simple. And the Methos Chronicle had to be destroyed. He had taken too many risks. He had to destroy his own legend. Let the new Watchers reconstruct it, if they dared. Let them peer into their denied pasts. Let them pretend they were too honorable, not too scared, to kill Immortals.
Or he could destroy them, reduce them to dust, and rule once more with his brothers by his side.
Methos closed his eyes and groaned, resting his sweat-drenched forehead against the cool stone. He could. He could reach out once more and taken Kronos' hand. Kronos would forgive him; he always did. It was Kronos' major weakness, his love for his wayward brother. The horsemen could ride again.
But at what cost? He had had good reasons for leaving and they were still good reasons. He had changed -- pulse throbbing in his ears as the bloodlust rose and overtook him -- and he had wanted more. He had grown tired of the slaughter and the petty arguments. And he would tire of them again.
Still, they had lasted the greater part of a millennium before he had wearied of their company. How long could the brotherhood last in this age? Methos was the eternal chameleon and Kronos knew how to change as well. They would not be raiders, no, not in this age. They would rule and they would be feared and they would be brothers again.
Brothers again. Methos liked the way that tasted on his tongue. He would track down Kronos and he would show his brother his strength. He would prove himself a horseman once more, and then they would ride.
It would be glorious.
But, first. First he had to get out of here.
Methos had tested the bars already, knew what it would take to bend them. Strength. Time. And pain. But he had the strength. He had the time. And he could deal with the pain. Kronos had taught him that, taught him with blood and kisses, until Methos no longer knew pleasure from pain, warm from cold, hatred from love. Kronos had taught him how to ignore pain. Methos had returned the favor. He had taught Kronos how to kill without remorse. And they had become brothers, truly inseparable, as they would be once more.
Methos sat down on the cot, drew his legs up to his chest, and tucked his head in. And he relaxed. It was so easy, almost frighteningly easy, to slip, to slide back down again. Years. Centuries. They were nothing.
He was Methos. He was everything.
It wasn't complicated. Detached from all things, Methos took out his feelings for Jillian and examined them. He found them to be wanting. Jillian was mortal. Eventually, she would have died. It merely happened sooner than Methos had expected. Mourn, yes. Avenge, yes. But surprise? Love? Never. Jillian had been mortal. Horton was mortal. Joe was mortal. And so they were nothing. They could never be more than nothing. They were the dust beneath his feet, the sand in the breeze.
He had done this before, drawn up the past around him like a cloak, but only for self-preservation. He had immersed himself in ancient languages until he forgot the languages of the day. It was the only proven way to resist. Answers in ancient languages were still answers and, even though it infuriated his captors, they were still the answers they wanted. Methos could forget English faster than he could disappear, and every man had a point beyond which honor did not exist. Methos had no delusions about his own resolve. It was better to remove all chance of betrayal than become the unthinkable.
He had been tempted, the first time Horton had looked him in the eye and asked his age, to tell the truth. But he had said nothing, not even when Horton had started asking in other ways. Damn the man for knowing how to get a rise out of a historian, but Methos had been a master himself once. He'd glared at Horton and had said nothing. The man was not worthy enough to know his secret.
Ah, Jillian. He had been stupid there. He should not have told her. But it was in the past and nothing could change that. Methos forgave himself for it and swore never again. Never again would he let a mortal get so close to his heart. It was foolish and dangerous.
Methos opened his fists and willed himself deeper. There had been a time when he did not care. There had been a time when there had been glee in the slaughter -- a strong man, a warrior falling to his knees before him -- had been glee in the pain of others. The weak had died and their possessions taken, a sole survivor left to tell the tale. He had been feared, once. He had been the nightmare in the night.
And it had been truly glorious.
It would be glorious again. He would make sure of that. Kronos wanted him, had never stopped wanting him, and that addiction could be used to Methos' advantage. Rule or be ruled was still the law of survival and Methos had no desire to be ruled. But to rule with his brother? Ah, they would be feared again and, Methos sneered, no man and no immortal could stand against them. Horton would fall beneath his feet.
Methos licked his lips and tasted true hatred. Horton, this mortal, had no right to hold him. No mortal had any right, any hold, over the oldest of the old, the eldest of all the eternal. He was Methos. This mortal should bow before him. This mortal should beg to be allowed to look upon him. He should beg to study him. He should beg to be allowed to tell his story.
That was the problem with this century, this millennium. The peasants had grown too confident. They had dared to think they could overthrow their masters. They had dared to kill the ancients. Darius had fallen. Darius, who had thrown down his sword and sworn never again. Darius, who had devoted himself to peace. This mortal had dared to kill Darius.
Methos raised his head and stared straight at the security camera. Yes. He would kill. He would tear. He would avenge Jillian, the mortal he had foolishly loved. He would avenge Darius. He would avenge the deaths of all the Immortals these upstarts had slain. And he would rule. He had waited too long, had kept himself busy with books and stories for too long. He had forgotten what he was, forgotten the feel of a sword in his hand -- I swear on my father's grave, they will have no peace except for the peace I give them. -- and he never would again. He would not allow it.
If he did, another Jillian, another Darius, would fall.
"Come to me, Horton, slayer of kings," Methos growled in French, knowing the cell was wired for sound. "Come see what monster you have called."
Kings had slain their best to keep the Horsemen away. Mothers told their sons to fall on their swords lest they be taken captive by the dreaded Methos. His name had been a curse for centuries.
Come. Come see what you have conjured from the mists of time. Come see what dangerous magic you have invoked. Come see whose patience you test.
Methos smiled. The door opened.
"Do you have something to tell me, Pierson?" Horton asked, his arms crossed. He stood by the threshold and beyond it, Methos could see the table he had been strapped to, the table that had been used to hurt him. Horton saw his gaze and closed the door quickly. It locked behind him, locked from the outside and no shadows beyond. Horton would have to buzz for the guards. Time. Strength. Methos' growl grew low in his throat and the bones in his wrist broke as he pulled out of the chains. He ignored the pain. He was Methos and he felt no pain. He was Methos and no weakness could touch him. But the mortal had asked him a question, had appealed to the human he thought he had known. Laughable. Kill his woman, imprison him, torture him, and expect him to be human. Mortals were ever foolish.
Something to tell him? Methos licked his lips and his smile was filled with hatred. I will make your death a nightmare. I will kill you and devour your soul. It was a warm thought in the pit of Methos' stomach.
"Pierson?" Horton's tone was light. He must have thought Methos had gone mad. But the bones reknit. The bars snapped under a reserve of strength Methos hadn't known he still had. And Horton saw. Methos could see the fear grow in his eyes and the beast thrilled.
"No," he said softly. "Not Pierson. Never Pierson." Pierson was mortal. Pierson loved Jillian -- a beautiful lie: I love you. -- and so he was weak. Pierson was gone, dust in the air as if he had never existed. He was Methos, timeless and strong. What was it Shelley had said? Ah, yes. "I am Ozymandias, king of kings." Horton opened his mouth and Methos bound out of his cell. He had Horton up against the wall by his neck before the man could touch the intercom. "Look on my works, mortal," he growled, "and despair."
Horton looked into Methos' eyes and screamed.
Methos' smile was full of teeth. He wrapped his blood-stained hands around Horton's neck and squeezed. "I am Methos. Look upon me and know you see your death."
He had lived. He had grown stronger. It was time to fight.