REFLECTION

By JoLayne

EMAIL: EnyaJo@aol.com

SUMMARY: Methos reflects on the origins of a cherished possession.

THANKS to a wonderful beta, Cherna!

DISCLAIMER: All characters you recognize belong solely to Panzer/Davis.

Long ago, Methos decided that he'd always travel light. That meant keeping only the essentials, those things that were very important to him. Not only did it streamline his life; it would make it easier to pick up and disappear if he felt the need. People would be surprised to learn that Methos' version of spring-cleaning resulted in rare anonymous donations to museums and universities. That way, he could visit his artifacts in their professional display on the pretext of doing research. Let someone else catalog and preserve.

Methos had once again made the decision to ride with the wind, but couldn't forget the small lock box he camouflaged in a thoroughly boring tome he didn't mind hollowing out. Just thinking about its contents made him smile. He sauntered to the bookcase and laid his hand on the black leather bound volume he found in Watcher library, brought home for research, but didn't return before taking his leave of the organization.

After pulling it down from the shelf, he sat on the floor with the book in his lap. When he lifted the cover, dust circled in the air around his head, making him sneeze. It had been years since he opened that book. After triggering the lockbox, the door flipped open revealing a small hermetically sealed pouch that held the item he couldn't leave without. Instead of just packing it and heading out of Dodge, he held the pouch as if it was the Holy Grail itself and decided to take some time to revisit the package. After lifting the heavy book off his legs, he broke open the seal freeing the leather pouch, it's first exposure to air for over 3 decades.

Methos dropped the plastic and just gazed at it. Felt the cord and metal inside. An electric feeling came back with the memory of the man who possessed it and the woman he gave it to. One of the most important material objects he had ever possessed. After the wash of nostalgia, he drew the top open and lifted out the long leather cord. It was adorned with the dimpled gold band, which was formed by pounding. He rubbed the ring between his fingers and realized just how small her hand was.

He smiled at the memory, and thought of the man whose name he hadn't verbalized for over a thousand years. Hazimil. The most important person that ever drifted into his life. Hazimil and Meletta. Just thinking about their names brought his mind back 4800 years.

Over the millennia, he would remember flashes of her deep brown eyes, her skin, smooth as porcelain and the color of caramel and her long brown curly hair. At times, he would hear Hazimil's laugh ring in his head. A laugh that seemed to come from his toes, his strength during a duel to the death and their children. All the children. Half of that married couple was Methos' teacher, the other was a foundling discovered on their travels and raised as a daughter.

Methos had let MacLeod and Joe think he didn't remember that far back. How could you forget elemental things? Sure, most centuries were hazy, but there were certain days that he remembered as if they were yesterday.

Meletta's dark brown hair had turned silver. Her already petite body had shrunk even more as she lay violently ill in the back of their wagon. The fever wasn't breaking. Hazimil stopped the horses and rushed beside her when she cried out. After he calmed her, he and Methos built a makeshift tent and comfortable bed for her.

Hazimil, a young-looking 1300-year-old man, sat by his wife's bedside for three days. He couldn't be persuaded to sleep, eat or even talk. He just watched her try to beat off the disease she had picked up and couldn't shake. All the medicine men and potions from reputed healers hadn't worked. Prayer failed her. His immortality, which he would have happily given to her at a moment's notice, was useless.

Methos walked into the tent and put his hand on his teacher's shoulder. "You must eat," he said, handing him a piece of bread.

"Her fire is going out, Methos," Hazimil shook his head, staring at his wife. "There is not one thing I can do for her." He wiped at the sweat on her forehead with a rag. "What am I to do? Where am I to go? Our children have grown and moved on. Meletta is my life, Methos, and I cannot save her."

Methos had traveled with Hazimil for 153 years. They'd both seen women come and go, men come and go, live with them, love with them, then watch them die. They had only each other in the end. Until Meletta arrived. Methos smiled as he remembered that spitfire young girl. As he was sitting with Hazimil, he remembered when they found Meletta as a baby.

The two immortals raised her together, but Hazimil looked at her as if she was on earth only for him. When she turned 10 years old, he married her. Hazimil wanted everything for Meletta. When he told her he couldn't possibly give her children, they looked for men who could. As soon as they were convinced she was with child, they would pack up and move to the next village and raise the new child as their own. Their youngest daughter was married and with a child of her own in another far away village.

Methos didn't like the sense that his teacher thought his life was over as Meletta's was winding down. "She had a good life," Methos told him. "She is going to do what every mortal does. She is going to die and you are going to live on. She loves you very much. That's what you can live for. Continue to be what she helped develop in you."

Hazimil looked at his student for the first time since Methos had entered the tent, "Are you trying to be my teacher?"

"I am your best friend."

Meletta stirred and weakly smiled at her husband and their best friend. When she raised her hand, Hazimil grabbed it and held it tenderly to his face.

Her wedding band twisted on her finger as she wiped his tears. "My love, I want you to do something for me."

"Anything Meletta, you know that."

"I want..." she was stopped by a violent coughing fit. He couldn't do anything but hold her hand and wait until she caught her breath. She weakly held his face close to hers and whispered, "Be strong. Live for me. Survive. You have to fight and survive."

Hazimil lightly laid his head on hers and closed his eyes. He concentrated on a last ditch effort to transfer a spark of energy into her. She whispered, "Thank you for my life. For my wonderful life." Methos sat back as Meletta's feverish panting stop. Silence filled the air. Hazimil opened his eyes then moaned. He held her hand tightly as he slowly came to the realization that his one true love was dead.

Methos lowered his head in her honor and let the sadness wash over him. His teacher's soft gasps turned into full wails, not wanting anything to do with Methos' comfort. Hazimil pulled the pounded ring off Meletta's finger and kissed her hand that was already growing cold. "You will always be in my heart," he promised her as he stood.

Methos watched him walk out of the tent and then looked at the woman. It was so odd. She was, in essence, his and Haz's child. They raised her, loved her, equally. But his paternal instincts for the girl ceased when she and Hazimil forged a life together. From that point on, she was his teacher's wife and nothing more. Methos touched her hand and kissed her cheek for the last time. He looked at her gloriously wrinkled face and silently celebrated her life with them.

When Methos emerged from the tent, Hazimil was fumbling with something.

His teacher slip a leather cord through her ring and tied the makeshift necklace around his neck. As Methos approached, Hazimil slipped it under his clothes and held it next to his heart. Without a word, he wrapped a piece of cloth around the end of a stick and lit it with the flames from the campfire. He looked at Methos and said, "Join me, my dearest friend."

They walked back to the tent as Hazimil said a Sumerian prayer. After a moment of silence, he touched the torch to it. The tent went up in flames in no time. They had to stand back as the fire consumed the tent, and Hazimil's life. When Methos put his arm around his teacher's shoulder to comfort him, Hazimil crumbled. The heat of the fire and the loss of his wife made him cover his stinging eyes and drop to the ground and weep.

Methos and Haz emerged from a temple after saying prayers for Meletta on the tenth anniversary of her death. They passed a fruit vendor and Methos flipped him a coin, picking out a pomegranate and taking a big bite. When he offered some to Hazimil, his teacher just shook him off. Off in the distance, they heard a feminine voice calling, "Hazimil! Stop!"

They both felt a buzz and turned to see a woman running toward them. Methos put his hand on his dagger. Haz stopped him. "Let us hear what she has to say."

The woman stopped in front of them and looked Hazimil directly in the eye. "Do you remember me?"

He looked her over, then shook his head. "My name is Bohdana," she exclaimed, then looked over at Methos. "You should remember me too, young one!"

Bohdana's eyes drifted back to her enemy and stepped closer to Hazimil as if in threat. "You killed my husband."

"I did no such thing," he said, wounded. "I've never killed another soul."

"Your husband?" Methos said, stepping between them.

"He was a noble man," the woman seethed. "A spirit that should still live, but you killed him! I saw it! You cut off his head!"

Methos explained, "It's what we do. He issued a challenge and it was accepted. Losing his head was the price he paid."

"Methos," Hazimil stopped him, "give her respect." He regarded the woman again, "Bohdana, I'm sorry for your sadness." To lose a beloved spouse wasn't a foreign concept for him. "Your husband challenged me and I accepted. I won."

"He never would have challenged anyone!"

"If I fought another immortal," Hazimil said in a low voice both to calm her and not let anyone else overhear, "it was because I was challenged."

Bohdana vehemently exclaimed, "I challenge you!"

Hazimil didn't remember the last fight he had, not having one since the loss of his wife. The female immortal was so sure, and before Meletta's death, he had accepted every challenge made of him. It was certainly possible that he did take his head. He slowly nodded. "At sunrise, by the great tree to the North."

Methos, ready to steer him away from the crazed woman said, "Come. Let us go."

Hazimil pulled his arm back, "I have a date with destiny."

"You do not," Methos argued. "That woman is a raving lunatic."

"In her eyes, she has cause to challenge me. I accept the challenge."

"She can challenge all she wants. It doesn't mean you have to be at the other end of her sword. She's immortal, she knows the game."

"This is part of what I've been teaching you, Methos. I have to accept her challenge."

When Methos roughly took his arm to direct him to his horse, to safety, Hazimil stood his ground. "What kind of man am I when I do not let the oppressed seek their revenge?"

"A man who lives."

"You think I will lose this fight?"

It pained Methos to admit, "Yes." He thought Hazimil was the greatest fighter he'd ever seen and would never think of getting in the way of him collecting another quickening, but he was carrying a heavy load on his shoulders that he didn't seem to want to bear any longer.

"Against a woman?" Hazimil lightly smiled.

"In your present condition...," Methos studied him. "Yes, I do. You will lose."

The teacher searched the eyes of his student for some glint of remorse for saying such words to him, some hint that he was lying to cover his own fear. What Hazimil found was absolute knowledge, as if his student could see into the future. "What will be will be. I will not be alone on the other side."

Methos studied the man who taught him everything he knew and was angry at his teacher's continuing self-destructive bent. "Sure," Methos lightly said. "If you do happen to find Meletta again, she may not want to talk to you with all the other men and women who came before her!"

Hazimil angrily backhanded Methos hard against the side of his head, knocking him to the ground. As he was rubbing his cheek, Haz leaned over him and snarled, "If I had met her first, she would have been the only one, Methos. That means you, too. Don't you ever forget that!"

"I'm sorry," Methos said, but wasn't heard.

Hazimil strode with purpose to his horse and rode north.

THE NEXT MORNING

When the sun rose over the horizon, Hazimil and Bohdana were off their horses, facing each other, swords drawn. Methos stepped between them. "Fight me instead."

Both simultaneously said no. Methos stilled his teacher's blade and whispered, "You can not fight because you know going in that you are going to lose."

"Yes, he will," Bohdana smiled. "He deserves death."

"No, he does not!" Methos yelled, drawing his own sword and thrusting it at her. She instantly stepped out of its path.

Hazimil took the hilt from Methos' hand and tossed it behind him. "Do not disrespect me, Methos," he sneered. The teacher's voice that he had quieted many years before came back in full force. "I taught you better than that. The fight is one on one. After it's over, you chose your own path. You can not choose mine for me."

Methos took a deep breath and stepped back. Arguing was useless. As he watched the fight that seemed to go all day, he had hollered everything from 'take her!' to 'stop!' when she would get her sword into his body. There were times it looked as if Hazimil would be able to pull it out, but then she would outmaneuver him. Methos waited to see if they'd play themselves out and call it a tie as the fight lasted so long.

Let sleeping dogs, or a dead husband lie, Methos decided. He sat on the ground eating a piece of fruit he picked from a nearby tree. As soon as he was comfortable, Bohdana was able to outmaneuver a swing from Hazimil and embedded her sword into his chest. He lost all muscle control and dropped to his knees, letting out a tortured moan. His sword dropped out of his grip. Methos shot off the ground and rushed to them, hoping to stop the inevitable, but it was too late.

The force of his quickening made Methos fly backward and land roughly on his backside. The wind kicked up the earth around them. His cries of pain were louder than Bohdana's who was receiving the full brunt of Hazimil's life force. When it was finished, she lay winded on her stomach. When she felt a blade on the back of her neck, she looked up at the young one. She pushed his sword away and got to her knees. "Go away," she mumbled.

"Now you have a go with me," Methos said, tears of loss staining his face.

"The challenge was one on one," she replied. "I do not have a quarrel with you, young one."

"You do now." He slashed at her. Because she jerked back and his sword missed its mark. His determined face frightened her and she scrambled to get to her weapon. Methos stood back, waiting. He let her get her hand on the hilt, stand up. Then he waited until she got both feet under her.

When she was ready, he attacked. She couldn't keep up with the angry young immortal who slashed, lunged and whipped his sword at her, seemingly from every direction. She backed away from him and screamed, "I am out of breath!"

"You are out of breath forever!" He delivered the death swing with such force that her head hit the ground yards from her body. Methos couldn't wait to get that quickening! He hated the thought that someone else would get all that Hazimil was. With him, his teacher would be safe and live forever. At that moment, he truly felt on top of the world, that he would be the one to defeat them all.

The muted swirl of light oozed from Bohdana's neck and floated up into the air. He stood back and positioned himself under it. He lifted his head to watch it linger above him. He threw his arms out and commanded, "Come to me!"

The light gathered its strength and power above him. Soon, the bolts of pure energy catapulted onto him. He felt the sensation of the hair on the back of his head singe and his skin boil. A great cry of pain and rage gurgled out of his mouth as he shook with each pounding of the essence of the woman who held his teacher. He felt overwhelmed as he tried to sift through her quickening to find something of Hazimil as everything she was didn't matter in the least to him. Methos fell to the ground and his body felt like it was on fire. The pounding in his head was devastating, making him grab hold of it for fear it would explode.

Methos cried out for relief, but couldn't do little more than hold his head for the rest of the night. He had trouble knowing where he was. His entire mind, body and spirit was consumed by Bohdana's essence and every fiber of his being cried out for mercy. She was so much older and so much more evil than he'd ever experienced in his young life.

When the sun was once again high, his agony finally came to an end. He couldn't identify anything around him. Lacking the strength to stand, he just sat, trying to decipher the thoughts in his head. It was all so real as if it had happened to him personally. Quickenings had never been this vivid for him before.

Visions of a pale man in a fight to the death with Hazimil. Methos cried out as his teacher took the man's head. He didn't know if it was for the loss of his teacher or because he was seeing the beginning of Hazimil's downfall. When the visions slowed, he saw the head of his teacher laying in the grass.

For the first time in his immortality, he was alone. For the first time in his entire life, he was afraid. Was it because he lost Haz? Or was part of it due to Bohdana's anger? He felt as if he had two heads and two thought processes fighting it out. He let the older immortal take over.

Methos found Hazimil's body and with it, Meletta's ring. He slipped the cord around his neck and stared at the body of his friend. His teacher. His life line. Every thought that was Methos' had Hazimil in it. All the people they met, the people Methos loved, all the things he did and wanted. His teacher had always been nearby and gave his blessing before Methos would act.

Methos put his teacher's head and body in a cloth that he wrapped tightly and set it aflame. He sat down in front of it and watched as the fire consumed it. As the flames turned into smoke, then dissipate, the voice in his head took over and made him walk away. As fast as he could. Dazed.

PRESENT DAY

The ringing telephone snapped Methos out of his reminiscence. He still sat on the floor with the cord and ring fidgeting in his fingers, waited until the machine picked up. The message was from the realtor, she'd gotten a bite on his apartment building already.

Over the years, he'd had many offers on the 200 year old place that he'd spent time to fix up. Disappearing and streamlining would be a lot easier if he got that big white elephant, an 8-residence apartment building out of his portfolio once and for all.

The realtor had left a number, but he'd return the call when he was well out of the country, having given MacLeod power of attorney over it's sale. It was time to haul ass. He wrapped his Ivanhoe for the journey on the airplane and zipped his duffel bag closed, then looked again at that ring.

Just slipping it into his duffel or in a pants pocket didn't seem fitting. He flipped the ring over in his hand and remembered the one time it had been taken from him. The hot anger boiled up his back, making the hairs on the back of his head stand straight out. Only one other person in 4800 years had ever had the thought of taking it away from him. He was one of the very few people Methos' life that ever had the audacity to steal from him.

As the still rumbling anger made his flesh grow hot, Methos suddenly remembered how that man came to be in his life.

For the thousand years since Hazimil's death, Bohdana still licked at Methos' brain. Perfecting his sword skills and trying to find his place in the world were the only things to occupy the now 1100 year old immortal's time. Methos would wander, try to integrate himself into a civilization, had learned to read and write in the given language and culture he found himself in. But the uncontrollable need to move on was difficult to suppress.

Methos had secured himself a position as a guard for the ruling family. One of his first assignments resulted in accompanying a fellow guard to clean the riff raff out of the woods. There were rumblings of an uprising and the king wanted all traces of the rebellion to be taken out before their goal could be accomplished.

Gregor heard a commotion off in the trees and veered his horse toward it.

Methos remarked, "The rebels are said to be gathered at the mill." By the time he'd caught up, Gregor disappeared into the dense woods off the trail. Methos called out for him and received no response. He debated on whether to wait or go on without him, however upon hearing a male scream, he bolted his steed into the woods and saw Gregor's horse running back toward him.

In a little clearing, Methos saw a hulking man hunched over the leather mail of Gregor. The screaming had stopped and his friend's lifeless body slipped to the ground. The murderer rose and wiped the blood off his blade. Methos brought his horse to a stop, pulling out his dagger as he waited and watched the man fumble through Gregor's pockets. After counting the coins he'd found, he pulled the guard's clothes off his body and held them up to check the fit.

Methos nudged his horse forward a few paces. Only then did each immortal feel the presence of the other. The man lifted his head and scanned the area. When he turned in Methos' direction, Methos fling the dagger straight at his chest. Quickly, he pulled out his sword, lifted his leg over the horse's head and slipped to the ground. The immortal had fallen to his knees, hands clamped onto the dagger, eyes flared in absolute anger. Methos laughed.

"You son...," the immortal moaned, then fell back dead.

Only when his buzz faded to nothing did Methos take his eyes off him and scan the area. There were piles of bloodied, dismembered bodies stacked like firewood against a tree. Piles of loot were situated with no plan all over the area. This was the immortal's lair, workshop, lab. There was blood on the trees in symbols Methos recognized from Bohdana's quickening so many years before.

Blood had pooled and caked in the grass. There was a large flat boulder that appeared to be used as some sort of table. Arms, legs, heads, hands, fingers were hanging from ropes attached to the tree branches. Some recent, as they were still pink, some purple, most petrified. Methos was intrigued, rather than appalled. He was fascinated at how savage it all looked and how a person could even conceive of such atrocities.

He reached down and grabbed the immortal's long hair, noticed the tattoo on the shaved side of his head. Then he looked at the face. Even in death, that face carried the traces of hatred, insanity, raw brutal force. Interesting. He spent time just looking at it, and the arched eyebrow that even in death, screamed ignominy.

Methos grabbed the knife and pulled it out of the immortal's chest. When he dropped the man's head, his body fell limply to the ground. He examined his weapon. It went straight into the man, past bone, the blade wasn't even roughed up. It sliced clean through. "Maybe you don't have a heart after all," he mused. Methos wiped the blood off on the immortal's breeches and stowed it back in his waistband. He went back to his horse, stopping only to scoop up a pile of coins. As he emerged from the woods to the main path, he heard a great, holler of maddening frustration. Laughing, he rode in the opposite direction of the mill.

Methos rode into the village on a 'borrowed' horse. He'd had no interest in working for others since leaving the last king's employ. As he rode closer to one of the vending stands, he noticed a tussle over a bowl. The bartering wasn't going well. Methos looked the buyer and seller over. The customer sensed his buzz and turned around to see Methos' approach. He dismounted and strode over, took the bowl that appeared to be so important to the both of them and smashed it on the ground. With a smile, he tossed some coins on the table. The vendor immediately snapped them up as Methos sauntered back to his horse.

The immortal ran to catch up and matched his stride as Methos led his horse through the city streets, "I was going to purchase that bowl."

"No, you weren't," he replied, not looking at him.

"And what makes you all knowing?"

Methos smiled, "I saw your eyes. You were looking over *all* his possessions, not just the bowl. I saw your hand rub against your hilt. You were going to rob him, right there in the middle of the day, and in front of witnesses. It was just you, with no plan of getting out."

Methos pointed at the scar that bisected the other man's forehead and cheek. "Is that how you became branded, Immortal? Through stupidity?"

"Stupidity?" The immortal rubbed his hand along his hilt as if to decide which kind of assault would be best.

Methos saw the livid reaction and offered, "Impulsiveness?" He shrugged and turned away.

The immortal was shocked that one of their kind would turn his back on another and grabbed his arm, "Who are you?"

"I am Methos. You... are going about it all wrong."

The immortal smiled and said, "I am Kronos. And you have a better idea?"

He nodded, "If this city wasn't fortified, I'd say go for it, but can you count? There are at least 15 men with weapons in the immediate vicinity."

Kronos spun his head around the square and observed the truth. Methos whispered, "Tonight. When the sun is down. When the people are asleep... get it? You have to think things through. You can't just act on impulse. It will only get you killed, or at least have to go through a very unpleasant captivity."

The immortal smiled, slapped his shoulder, "Methos, I think we're going to be good friends... brothers even."

"What do I need you for?"

"We could be a robbing machine." Kronos smiled. "I sniff out the loot, you figure out the way to get it."

Methos stopped. Scrutinized the ground. Pondered what the immortal had to say. He was tired of being alone. He looked at the scarred immortal and searched his eyes. There definitely was a glimmer of something. "We can be so much more than that," he replied. He kept flashing back to the memory of the butcher in the woods. What they could accomplish if they put their heads together. "I think it's time to look up an old friend."

"Another brother?"

"Brother?"

"Yes. Another of us," Kronos excitedly pounded his chest. "Brothers."

"Possibly," Methos said as he walked on. The three of them could be interesting.

The butcher in the woods, who they found out went by the name of Caspian, turned out to be ready, willing and able to join up with them after Kronos explained just what it was they could accomplish together. Three brains, backs and weapons working as one. Their rallying cry of, "Nothing of value would be left in our path" soon became, "Nothing would be left in our path" and rode and worked together without constraint for decades.

After raiding yet another village in the woods, the three brothers stopped by a creek to water the horses, count the loot and wash off the blood. In the distance they heard the sounds of mourning. Deep, heavy wails of loss. Leaving the horses, they walked back into the village they'd just left for dead. A buzz made the three stop and keep behind the trees, until they zeroed in on the source. On a tree stump sat a large man was bent over with his head in his hands. This was the source of the low decibel mourning.

The three wondered how they'd missed an immortal in the village and silently blamed each other. The crying man lifted his head, sniffled, then stood. He looked off in all directions for the buzz. Kronos stepped forward, revealing himself from his hiding place. Methos cringed at the impulsive act. Both he and Caspian tightened their grip on their swords as Kronos moved forward, revealing himself to the immortal even more.

The man finally saw him and wiped his tears on his sleeve. He was so large, his mannerisms were that of a giant. His face was red and swollen from the crying. "You?" Silas demanded of Kronos, "Did you do this?"

Before he could answer, Methos stopped him with a hand on his arm. He knew that Kronos was ready to attack or deny, whichever the moment called for. But Methos wanted him to pay attention. The large man was pointing down to the ground behind him. When Silas moved aside, they saw the carcass of a dead cow.

"She was my best friend," Silas said. "She always gave me nice, sweet milk." His forelorned cries started to fade with the company that came out of no where. He never liked people, but he felt an immediate kinship with them.

Methos moved forward, just a little, still en guard for any sudden movements from the forlorn immortal. "It looked like she was a good cow."

"I was only away for a half a day hunting in the woods," Silas began to explain but started to mist up again. "Someone killed my cow. Why?"

The fact that the rest of the village was also dead didn't seem to bother the man, just the animal. Silas looked the dead over and said, "They could defend themselves, but... she couldn't. I should bury her. Will you help me?"

"That'll be the day," Caspian muttered, ready to walk back to the horses.

"Caspian...," Kronos warned, a little louder than he needed. "Stop." He walked to the man and asked, "Do you have family?"

Silas once again looked at the cow.

"What's your name?" Methos inquired.

"Silas."

"I'm Methos," he said, putting his fist out in offering to the immortal. "Brother."

After seeing how Silas could wield his axe to chop a tree down to a head stake for the cow's grave, all three knew his precision and force would indeed be useful. Silas could be another to watch their backs when the men of villages would fruitlessly try to protect their families and possessions. When the men offered him a position with them, Silas was happy to finally have found a family.

FIVE HUNDRED YEARS LATER 1200 BC

Methos was on top of Cassandra. By that time, she had learned what was required, and Methos liked it. He liked it a lot. He liked to think she was in love with him, would do anything for him. He wondered at that moment if he could give her extra freedom, not have to do the same work the other slaves did.

Just think how her gratitude would make it pleasant for him when he returned to the camp... Cassandra seemed to be more cordial and compliant with each passing year in his captivity. Lately, she'd been downright lustful as soon as Methos would walk into the tent. For the first time, he kissed her before getting off her, making her thoroughly confused. The kiss was like a master to their dog, but it was a soft kiss that Cassandra didn't expect, and actually liked. Methos regarded her reaction with a smile, "I do believe I've left you speechless."

For the first time, he lay by her instead of shoving her to the ground. For an instant, an easy smile passed between them. Methos scraped his finger against the blue paint that had rubbed from his face onto hers. She reached into the bowl of water and took out a rag. It was time for his bath. As she cleaned him, he sat up, relaxed, enjoyed her rubbing water over his body. Things were going well until he saw the metal around her finger. He jerked it. "Where did you get this!" Whenever his face flared in that manner, Cassandra knew there was a beating not far behind. She tried to placate him, "I... I..."

Methos yanked the ring off, causing the sliver edge to dig into her finger. He jumped up and studied the ring. It wasn't Meletta's.

"You gave it to me," Cassandra said as she cowered, waiting for his anger to focus completely on her as it always did when he was in such a mood. He stood and threw the ring at her. It was something he'd found in a tent during a raid and didn't mean anything to him. He thrust open his private sack and rummaged through it, searching for the pouch. He needed to make sure Meletta's ring was where it was supposed to be.

He couldn't find it and didn't know for sure how long it had been gone. He threw the table at the flap of the tent, making Cassandra cry out with fright and cower further into the corner.

"What do you do all day when you 'clean'!? What's mine is mine!" He backhanded her as an exclamation mark to his anger.

"I didn't... please," she cried out as he grabbed for her again. "I didn't take anything..." She tried to make herself as small as possible to avoid his wild swings.

"Then were is it?!"

"I don't know!" She cried out in fear.

After the tent was sufficiently torn apart and Methos still hadn't found it, he suddenly knew where it could be and was even more furious. He threw some clothes on and tied Cassandra to the stake. As he drew his sword, frightening her thinking her days on earth had finally wound down, he yelled, "Clean up this mess!" and stomped out of the tent.

Kronos was sitting by the fire, a slave on his lap servicing him. Methos stomped by and was good-naturedly invited to join in. When he stormed by, Kronos stood, tied the slave to a post and pulled up his breeches, following him.

Methos made a beeline for the screams that emitted from Caspian's tent. When he thrust open the flap, Caspian was involved with a less than obliging slave. Methos grabbed a fistful of his mohawk, thrusting his head back. The slave screamed harder at the sight of the sword in front of her face and maneuvered out from under Caspian's weight. She ran out of the tent as Methos held his sword to Caspian's throat.

Methos growled into his ear, "I've just been waiting for a reason!" Just as he was ready to pull back on the sword, Kronos tackled him from behind. The three of them rolled on the floor. Caspian got free and attacked Methos, sticking a dagger in the square of his back, paralyzing him.

Silas, who heard the commotion, came in with Caspian's escaped slave over his arm. "This one almost got away."

Silas dropped the slave when he saw what Caspian had done to Methos. He howled as he pulled Caspian off of them. Kronos jumped to his feet and screamed, "NO!"

From his place on the ground, Methos swung out his blade, teeth clenching at the pain in his upper back and cursing the deadness below the wound. "You're dead!" he said, sneering at Caspian.

Knowing the wound wouldn't heal as long as the dagger was in place, Kronos pulled it out. "What's wrong with you? We're brothers! In everything!"

Caspian appealed to Kronos. "He attacked me first. I always wanted to know what he tasted like! I'll drink the blood that escapes from his neck!"

Methos' healing took over as Kronos pushed the other two out of the tent. When the healing finished, he took the opportunity of being alone with Caspian's paraphernalia. He rifled through the sickening possessions and then, found his pouch. Opening it, he breathed a sigh of relief when Meletta's ring was still inside. His anger still not soothed, he decided to take revenge.

Caspian stopped talking to Kronos when he saw who emerged from his tent. He growled and leaped toward him. Silas fumbled to grab his arms, but he got away. Methos stood still and motioned for him to come on and get some. Kronos, not caring for the look on Caspian's face, tripped him. Methos laughed and grabbed a torch from the fire. He held it to Caspian's hair, listening to the screams as his hair and scalp caught fire. Then he threw the torch at Caspian's tent. He held his sword high over Caspian who was rolling on the ground to put the fire out on his head.

Kronos tackled Methos to stop him from destroying their quartet. Caspian got to his feet and drew his sword, then charged. They heard his war cry and the sword embedded in the sand where their heads had just been.

Methos yelled as he quickly got to his feet. "You can do better than that!" In a second, his had his sword in the offensive position and lunged.

Caspian spun, defending the swing. He lifted his far larger and heavier sword, while trying to yank Methos' from his grip. No such luck. Methos slammed his hilt into Caspian's nose. The challenge had been accepted and the fight progressed. Kronos stepped between the two. As both swords pointed at his neck, he piously stated, "If you have to take someone, take me. I can't live without the four of us. We are one! Brothers!"

"We don't need him!" Caspian shouted, moving his sword toward Methos.

"Yes, you do! We all need him, just as he needs us." Kronos glared at Methos and said, "The last raid, you had a blade to your back and you didn't even know it. If Caspian hadn't killed them, you might have been taken."

"Not for long..."

Caspian smiled. "That axe was awfully high, Methos. It was aimed right at your head... I shouldn't have stopped that old man."

"Yes!" Kronos yelled. "You should have! You did the right thing! We watch each other's backs. That's what we do. All for one, one for all!"

"Not all, Kronos." Methos took the pouch out of his pants and held it high. "This is mine and you know that!"

Caspian yelled, "He burned my tent!"

Out of the corner of his eye, Methos noticed a dark figure running out of camp. He charged after it. He caught up with Cassandra in the darkness, stabbing her and dragging her lifeless body back to his tent.

Silas appeared at the door, "I'm sorry I didn't see her escape. I know how you like her, Methos."

He tied Cassandra more professionally and nodded at his friend. "Make sure you watch what you do from now on, Silas. You have to focus, remember?"

"Focus, yes," he nodded. "I'll do better."

Methos stood, mind back on challenging Caspian again, and saw a shadow move behind Silas. Methos shoved him out of the way and inserted the tip of his sword into the figure. Caspian pulled the sword from his chest and yanked on it, trying to get it out of Methos' grip.

Kronos stepped closer. "You take his head, I'll take yours, Methos."

"No," Caspian said, licking his lips, oblivious to the fact that he could be dead in seconds. "I will."

Kronos laughed. "There isn't a way on this earth you're wily enough to take Methos. Stop it! It's done. Methos can have his pouch. That was agreed upon 500 years ago."

"I want his tent," Caspian said. "And all that's in it."

Kronos thought that was reasonable, shrugged to Methos, "That's only fair. He doesn't have a place to sleep tonight."

Methos shrugged and walked away. He had his pouch, that's all that mattered. Caspian forgot his hatred for Methos and walked into his tent, grabbed Cassandra. Grinned. This would be nice exchange indeed.

Methos sat in the dark on the outskirts of camp playing with Meletta's ring. He could hear Cassandra's cries for help but he didn't stop Caspian. This would even the score in Caspian's mind. As much as Methos hated to admit it, Kronos was right. He needed Caspian. He was a stone cold killer and they needed his blind murderous impulses if they were to have successful raids.

Methos realized that it was now dark. It had to be hours since he opened the pouch and couldn't see the ring in his hand anymore with the lights off.

Thinking back on Hazimil and Meletta always ended up with thinking about Caspian. Damn him for stealing it. He'd just as soon forget Caspian.

Methos knew one day he'd have to face what he did all those years ago. To top it all off, his slave had spared his head in a fit of amazing irony. The killing of Silas was Methos' only act of redemption for those thousand misspent years. Methos shivered as he wondered if he would have to face worse. Killing Silas was difficult, but had to be done. It gave him the sense of a first step toward putting it behind him with some degree of dignity.

Methos rubbed the almost dried tears from his cheeks and stood. Took a deep breath. Wondered if he could get a later flight as he obviously missed the one he was booked on. As he put the cord and ring back in the pouch and tucked it safely between the folds of a sweater in his duffel that he clicked the lock on, he bitterly smiled. Yes, Duncan and Joe probably did think him crazy for not revealing his memories of his teacher. But that was okay. Some things had to be left for one's own reflection.

THE END

AUTHOR'S NOTE: The flashbacks in this story are part of The Elizabeth Series:

http://www.oocities.org/jolaynerae.Elizabeth.html

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Jo - EnyaJo@aol.com