Reliquary

by kai

November 1999

"I wish I were your mirror so that you always looked at me.
I wish I were your garment so that you would always wear me.
I wish I were the water that washes your body.
I wish I were the unguent, O woman,
That I could anoint you.
And the band around your breasts,
and the beads around your neck.
wish I were your sandal that you would step on me!"

--Ancient Egyptian love poem, circa 1000 BC

Bright afternoon sunlight seeped beneath the door, through the old-fashioned key-hole and shivered the length of steel in his hand. Standing in the darkened hallway, Duncan paused with one hand on the knob; he rarely entered this small, south-facing room.

As usual, he rationalized away his hesitation. Although not technically off-limits, the room *was* private; the spatial equivalent of a diary, a journal. A place for meditation and retreat in the spacious home that he and Methos shared. The fact that sometimes, as he passed by the closed door, the hair on the back of his neck rose and he reflexively reached for his sword, was irrelevant.

Wasn't it?

Poised on the threshold, weight shifted to the balls of his feet, he abruptly chuckled. Were Methos here, he'd laugh at the sight: a four hundred year old, expert swordsman afraid to enter a room in his own home, jumping at shadows, as if worried about ghosts, or perhaps monsters under the bed.

His smile froze as he remembered Ahriman.

Inhaling deeply, neither lowering the sword nor relaxing his guard, he turned the knob. The door creaked -- an eerie, prolonged groan -- as he opened it and stepped through.

Shelves filled with hundreds of books, strange artifacts and statuary lined three of the walls and ancient weaponry and colorful Tibetan thangkas hung on the fourth. Nine hundred and fifty six books, to be precise. As well he knew, having painted the walls, installed the shelves and moved the books in himself.

Never bet on Scrabble against a bibliophile.

Once inside the room, his breath caught and he spun, sword flashing, to face the southern wall. On a low wooden table beneath the open window, a small brass urn gleamed in the sunlight. And on the floor, a leather-clad figure sat cross-legged and relaxed upon a richly colored kilim.

"Duncan Macleod of the Clan Macleod." The ironic voice was hard, scarred like the painted face. "It's about time."

Duncan leveled his sword and stalked slowly towards the apparition. "You're dead." A demon and now a *ghost*! He blinked twice and shook his head. The specter stubbornly remained present.

The scent of sandalwood hung heavy upon the air; prayer flags fluttered above the open window and small silver and brass bells tinkled musically in the slight breeze. Long, dark hair streamed across the scarred face as the head tilted, one brow raised mockingly.

"Dead?" *It* laughed, chillingly. The figure shrugged then leaned back against the table, one blunt fingered hand stroking the urn. "Well, I suppose that I am, Macleod. Though part of me lives on in you. As well you know."

Pausing at the center of the room, Duncan ruthlessly suppressed fear and rage, pushed away raw, blood-stained memories -- nightmares -- of Bronze Age slaughter. Icy sweat slipped between his shoulder blades and slithered down his spine. There was no sense of presence, no discordant hum of immortality.

Kronos was dead.

With overwhelming kinesthetic recall, he felt, once again, the liquid glide of his blade, heard its silken whisper, its quiver, the slight catch and then triumphant hum as steel parted flesh and bone.

Yes, *dead*.

"Who are you?" He eyed the specter warily, checking for weapons, checking the smooth, pale throat for scars. The apparition was frighteningly intact, although apparently unarmed. "What do you want?"

"You know who I am, Highlander." Kronos hefted the urn thoughtfully for a moment, then pale, burning eyes met his. "As for what I want -- a moment of your time. Nothing more."

A single step and his blade was at Kronos' throat -- a very *solid* throat -- under the chin, tilting the dark head upwards. Arcane energy hammered at the pulse point, hummed through the sword, numbing his fingers.

Kronos laughed, white teeth flashing. "Go ahead, Macleod. Slash first, ask questions later." Grinning, the ghost casually passed the urn from hand to hand, seemingly unconcerned. "That's what got you into trouble with dear departed Richard Ryan."

"What do you want, Kronos? Or whoever you are." Duncan clenched his jaw, but didn't lower the sword. Inwardly, however, he gasped as the wickedly accurate barb slipped past his guard and struck, an agonizing thrust to the belly. The creature appeared to be unarmed, but was certainly not weaponless. Four hundred years in which he'd seen neither ghost nor demon, and now, in the space of three, he'd encountered *both*. He wondered vaguely if he shouldn't attend church more often.

With the back of a hand, Kronos negligently pushed aside the blade and rose, black leather creaking softly. Duncan warily backed up a pace. The being before him certainly sounded like -- *looked* like Kronos: the mocking, teasing voice, with its hard-edged passion; the scarred face and baleful glitter of shadowed eyes; the fluid, crazy grace revealed with every movement; the ruthlessness, uncompromising viciousness and lust for conquest and domination.

His former enemy paced restlessly in front of the window, fondling the urn. "You have something that once belonged to me, Macleod. I'm here to make certain you appreciate it." The specter paused, to stare at him, sunlight spilling over his shoulders, lip curled with disdain. "And that you continue to do so."

Puzzled, Duncan frowned. "I have nothing, nor *want* anything of yours, Kronos." He glanced involuntarily at the shining brass vessel in Kronos' hands. He'd first seen it months earlier when Methos brought it home. He hadn't realized whose ashes were inside and Methos' forbidding look had frozen the question upon his tongue.

"Not my mortal remains, idiot!"

"What then?" he asked bristling at the insult.

"Methos, fool," the specter snapped. "You have *Methos*." The name was infused with reverence, raw yearning and thwarted lust. Neither betrayal nor death had abated his nemesis' crazed obsession.

"He's not a *thing*, Kronos. I don't own him."

"Don't you?" Kronos chuckled softly, then replaced the urn on the table. Turning, he paced fluidly to a bookshelf, running careless fingers over the bindings. He selected one slender folio and thumbed through the brittle yellow pages, smiling wryly.

"No. I don't. I'm not *you*, Kronos."

The ghost spun suddenly to face him. "Infant!" he spat, closing the book with a dusty snap. "You have no idea what Methos was to me! What we were together!"

"I took your head, Kronos, remember? I know exactly what he was to you." Duncan brought his katana up swiftly as the ghost stalked towards him. "Stay back!"

"You know *nothing*, Macleod." And Kronos advanced slowly, fists clenched.

"Put down the sword, Highlander. It won't work, but it *will* annoy me."

"I mean it, Kronos! Stay back!" The specter merely grinned. And with twist of his wrist and flex of shoulder and forearm, Duncan slashed downwards diagonally. The sword swept through its arc unimpeded, slicing effortless through Kronos and into the floor. Off balance, confused, he tugged the blade free; Methos would have his hide for the foot-long gouge in the floor. "What the...?!"

"Forget the metaphysics." Kronos' fingers closed over his sword arm like slender iron bars. "I assure you, they're over your head."

"What do you want?" Frightened, he struggled to wrench free but the specter's strength was implacable.

"Come with me, Macleod, and I'll show you."

Duncan flinched as Kronos reached for him. Warm fingers touched his temple, threaded in his hair; his vision flashed red and gold, then black as the world streamed away into brightness...

...white light and silence beat against him as mercilessly as the noonday summer sun upon the steppes. Silence now, where there had been the sounds of battle: harsh rasp of metal on metal, and screams of the dying -- Milena! Her scream had lanced his heart just as the spear pierced his gut, lungs, sliding through sickeningly, jarring the tent post.

He inhaled sharply. Knives ripped his belly and searing agony flashed up his spine. Strong hands rolled him onto his side and rubbed his back as he coughed up blood. A few minutes later, the pain subsided and he was helped to sit, limbs trembling with weakness. Beside him, a pale young man with a long black braid knelt; sunlight glinted from the plain hilt of the sword strapped across his back. Disoriented, Korijn tried to back away, boots scraping in the dirt.

"Milena!"

"Easy, easy now." The sharp-faced stranger soothed, patting his knee. "I won't hurt you. What is your name?"

"My wife! My son! Where are they? What happened? Who are you?" Frantically, he tried to stand, to find his spear, his axe, any weapon to rejoin the battle, rejoin his brothers.

"Calm down, youngster."

Korijn blinked in surprise at the lanky youth before him. Well past the initiations of manhood and as a chieftain's son, in a few short years, he would sit upon the Council. His years clearly outnumbered those of this stranger.

The young man pushed him back with surprising strength. "Sit for a moment. It will take some time before you can stand." The soft, stilted words held the unmistakable steel of command.

He weakly resisted a moment then sat back, panting. "Who *are* you?" he asked again. With that accent and nose, he was not one of the raiders who'd harried them all winter and into spring, ripping through his village like ravenous beasts.

Abruptly remembering his wound, he placed shaking hands upon his belly, to find it whole, though sticky under his blood clotted tunic. Tentatively, he laid his hand upon the stranger's forearm and gasped in wonder. "Are you a god? Are you Lord Death come to take me?"

"I am no god." Thin, sculpted lips quirked briefly but the ancient hazel eyes were sad. "And I am not Death. Though you may wish I were. I am Methos."

"Methos." The foreign word tasted strange on his tongue. "I am called Korijn." Feeling stronger, he tried to stand. The world spun a bit as he rose and Methos steadied him.

"Korijn, there is something you must know..." Methos' resonant voice trailed off as Korijn turned in a slow circle. Black smoke was stark against the cloudless sky; bodies, torn and broken, littered the grasses; vultures and flapping crows fought over bleeding strips. And oppressive silence: the raiders were long gone.

"Blessed Mother." His voice cracked. "Milena! Vit!"

And then he ran, from tent to charred tent, retching, gagging, searching for his uncommon golden-haired beauty, their small, dark foster-son. His brothers, sisters. His father. Fear swiftly became helpless anger and then murderous rage.

"Korijn." A sharp pain behind his eyes accompanied the jingle of harness. He looked up at as Methos approached, leading two horses. Maybe not a god, but surely this man was special, perhaps a shaman possessing a lucky spirit, bearing spells for healing or seeking.

"Methos! Help me find them!" He shoved aside debris to find a brightly patterned scarf -- a present from his brother, Vadic, to Milena on the day of their betrothal, now torn and singed, crumbling black along one edge. A scream rasped in his throat, his vision wavered and...

...smoke from the funeral pyres wafted upwards bearing the spirits of his dead to the night sky. Beside him, the stranger, Methos, stood, silently watching the flames as if he'd stood thus countless times. Wearing a cloth over his mouth and nose, he'd worked tirelessly through the sweltering summer afternoon, seeking Kroijn's lost kin, gathering the dead.

His three brothers they'd found lying nearly back to back, having been struck down as they defended their families. The wizened shaman, Tujk, they'd found scalped and flayed, the contents of his medicine bag strewn about, shat upon. Of his father, mother, the other council members, there was no sign, though many bodies had been too badly burned or hacked to identify.

Methos found little Vit, refusing to let Korijn see until the small body was carefully arranged, covered with a discarded tunic. The folds of the tattered cloth didn't quite conceal the missing limbs and emptied belly. He'd bitten his knuckle until it bled, repeatedly, watching numbly as lightening flickered over the healing wound. Only later did he recognize the strange, animalistic cries as his own.

They found Milena, along with her sisters, Illa and Katyan, nearing sunset after following the raiders' trail towards the mountains. Holding her torn, broken body, face buried in the singed yellow silk of her hair, his heart's smoldering fire flared then contracted to winter ice. What merciful gods would allow such slaughter? What sin had this innocent in his arms committed? Hadn't his people faithfully kept to the old ways? "Oh gods! Why?"

"There are no gods."

Methos' voice was cool, composed, infused with implacable certainty. "I have searched for centuries, to the ends of the earth. Never yet have I found them. We are all that endures."

No gods.

No kin.

At the edges of his vision, his hearing, gibbering ghouls of madness danced. He could hear their dark, taunting laughter, and he vowed: never again would he be powerless.

Over Milena's naked, bruised shoulder, he met Methos' eyes. The stranger's face was a mask of death and he knew that the bitter loneliness, grief, rage and desolation in that suddenly flat gaze mirrored his own...

...a mild breeze caressed his cheek, his scalp. His head felt curiously light having been shorn of its warrior's braid weeks ago, following the rites for the dead, and of exile.

"Korijn." Methos called, voice soft, laced with an odd mixture of compassion and weary cynicism. "It is time to leave."

"Korijn is dead."

"Is he?" His companion regarded him calmly, seemingly unsurprised. "Then name yourself."

Kneeling beside the stream he stared at his pale, worn, fractured reflection and struggled to imagine remaining thus: timeless and ageless as decades and centuries slid past with no outward mark. His life now seemed as a fable told by Methos, spun out over their evening campfires. Tales, names of gods, of heroes and far-flung cities and fortunes, told to keep the hungry sprits at bay and to comfort his long, sleepless nights.

Glancing at his companion, a tall dark shape against the gathering darkness, he chose: "I am the end of time. I am Kronos."

And he thought he caught a gleam of approval and warmth in those fathomless, ancient eyes...

...hot, bright blood sprayed across his face from severed arteries. The body toppled backwards and the head rolled away, shocked eyes staring vacantly. Exhausted, breathing hard, he dropped to one knee in the dirt, wiping sweat out of his eyes.

"Methos! I live!"

A short distance away, obscured by the rising mist, his teacher smiled enigmatically. "Hold fast, Kronos. There is more."

Exultant, he raised his sword skyward as the rising winds whipped grit into his eyes and the gathering storm struck him down with a bright, crackling fist...

...the spiked club struck his shield with punishing force, nearly unhorsing him. Furious, he slashed at the mercenary, then wheeled his horse as the man fell back. The customary place at his right hand was empty; where was Methos?

Across the battlefield, his companion fought desperately against two mercenaries -- one immortal. Methos' shield hung low, nearly dragging in the dirt, from an obviously broken arm. Methos stabbed the mortal through the belly but stumbled, screaming in agony as the other hammered relentlessly against his splintering shield. Sneering in triumph, the immortal raised his sword for the killing stroke.

Spurring his horse mercilessly, riding down their enemies, he refused another loss, refused to contemplate this miraculous new future alone.

"Methos! Down!"

And without hesitation Methos dropped to his knees as Kronos' blade swept over the back of his head and through the neck of the stunned immortal. Kronos threw back his head and laughed hungrily drinking down the other's writhing quickening...

...with fond patience, Methos turned back to the string of glyphs on the tablet, dark lashes shadowing his cheeks. "Focus, Kronos. This is important."

"I *know* it is," he said, exasperated, though admittedly restless and distracted. They'd spent hours repeating this lesson, when every muscle in his body twitched, itching to ride, to *fight*. "And I *am* concentrating."

His partner snorted, one eyebrow raised. "Concentrating on our latest acquisitions, you mean."

"They are beautiful, are they not?" Kronos gazed at the herd of sleek desert horses milling about in the paddock with a proprietary smile. They would turn a hefty profit at the market later in the month. So nice of the tribesmen to part with them. He grinned viciously to himself: to the victors go the spoils!

Kronos blinked, startled as Methos struck the back of his head with the stylus. "Dammit, Methos! What was that for?"

"To remind you to keep your mind on business."

"Business? Our business is right there," he pointed to the restless horses. "What use are these scratchings? Real power is gold or silver, or comes at the point of a sword." Darkness, the memory of helplessness and the numbing aftermath of long-ago slaughter roiled at the edge of his vision, tensing his gut. Forcefully, he pushed the images away; he was no longer weak, easy prey, no longer unable to protect those he loved.

"There are many forms of power, Kronos," Methos replied enigmatically.

"Truly." He retorted, grinning, suddenly and unaccountably lighthearted. "And let me show you one I know well." Snatching the tablet away, he grabbed his partner around the waist and wrestled him to the ground. Together, they rolled in the tall grass, crushed stems releasing the sharp tang of late spring...

...and Methos laughed joyously. "Kronos! You never cease to amaze me!"

Pulling his cloak more tightly around him to ward off the late-autumn chill, Kronos exhaled in relief, ridiculously pleased. It was good to hear his brother laugh; Methos didn't smile enough. Though he couldn't yet decipher the glyphs, he knew his brother valued such things.

Such gifts were chancy though, given Methos' capricious temper. Some years prior, Kronos' gift of curiously inscribed clay tablets had resulted in an abrupt red-black storm of fury. Methos had smashed the tablets, then ground them to dust beneath his heel. Kronos had caught his brother's bleak, haunted expression moments before he'd stalked away.

"Where did you find this? And from Egypt no less!" Methos grinned secretively, thumbing the thin sheets. Long hair had escaped his braid and blew across his face. He brushed it away irritably in his eagerness to read the papyrus.

"There was a priest in their village, you see..." Kronos grinned darkly. He despised so-called holy men. Praying to their pitiful gods, promising salvation, deluding, preying upon credulous fools. There were no gods and the only surety was the strength of a man's sword arm and his brothers at his back.

"A priest." His brother shook his head. "Why am I not surprised?"

"Yes, a *priest*." Caspian broke in, eyes narrowed, teeth bared. "Tasty, but not much meat."

Methos sniffed. "Caspian, you are a barbarian."

"Barbarian?" Their brother looked hurt. "But Methos, I cooked him first!"

Even Silas, never the quickest to get a joke, chuckled. Methos' eyes flashed gold, then green as he smiled...

...russet and amber shadows cast by the brazier painted Methos' gleaming ivory skin. The lush, blonde slave applied expensive, fragrant oil and slowly massaged his brother's broad shoulders. Kronos frowned, disliking the way her yellow hair caught the light, spinning it to gold; he preferred dark hair. Blonde made him uneasy.

Methos regarded him languidly, eyes half closed, cheek resting upon crossed forearms. "Are you pleased, brother?"

"With the raid? Certainly. Your planning was brilliant, as usual." Twenty horses, fifteen slaves and excellent winter accommodations; as his brother had predicted, the raid had gone well. Kronos shrugged off his heavy, snow-flecked cloak and sat beside his brother's pallet. The tent was wonderfully warm in contrast to the biting chill outside. "With this one, though?" He indicated the slave with a curl of his lip. "I don't see why you bother."

"Hm," Methos sighed as the slave worked kneaded along his spine. "She is a talented masseuse."

Kronos looked skeptical; the girl was a mortal slut, nothing more.

"You think you can do better?" Methos challenged lazily. The dark promise in the words filled him with sudden triumph and long denied heat. At last!

Eyes fixed upon Methos', he gripped the slave's slender wrists and thrust her away. "Get out."

Methos smiled slowly and rolled to his side. His long hair, freed of its braid, spilled across his shoulders and the white fur blanket slipped away to reveal one pale, lean thigh...

...and the years streamed away behind them. Riding thus, sunlight on his face, lover at his side, the weight of centuries eased and he almost felt young again.

"You look pleased, brother." Methos' sidelong, affectionate smile warmed him.

"How can I be anything but?" Kronos asked seriously, savoring the bond that lay between them, wide and deep. For centuries, together they'd been purified by the blood of their enemies, shaped the world to suit their whims, as immutable as the stars. "And you?"

Methos looked away towards the north, not meeting his eyes and his words were nearly lost in the wind's quiet sigh. "I am." As Methos looked back, Kronos thought he caught a brief shadow flicker in his brother's eyes, quickly erased by the brightness of his smile. "Shall we race?"

And suddenly, Methos' white mare leapt forward, churning hooves devouring the steppe grasses. Laughing, touching heels to his horse, Kronos shook off his unease and chased after them. And the clean wind, scented with wildflowers and crushed grasses swept over and through him, banishing the ghostly, taunting voices, choking the pale seed of fear in his belly before it could send down roots...

...the autumn night was warm, and so they lay together, without a fire, staring up at the midnight sky. The stars glittered like a million multicolored gems, seemingly close enough to gather in ones fist.

"Tonight, they seem close enough to touch." Lying on his back, Methos' head upon his shoulder, Kronos reached towards the sky, tracing his fingers along the arc of the shimmering river of stars directly overhead. "Empires rise and fall, mortals -- with their pathetic, short lives -- scratch in the dirt and die. Yet we remain constant."

"All things change, Kronos, nothing lasts forever." Methos rolled away and sat up, staring off towards the horizon.

Uneasy, he reached for his brother, sitting close, sweeping a hand through Methos' loose, shortened hair and pressing a kiss beneath his ear. He missed the long, thick braid that fell to Methos' waist, missed its heavy, sheltering veil when they made love. "Certainly the stars do."

"Do they?" Methos asked, turning to face him. His expression was troubled. "I have seen them shift from their positions, Kronos. Have seen the patterns they form change."

"Truly?" He cared less about the answer than about the troubling note, the distance in his lover's resonant voice.

"Yes." Methos looked away.

Something clenched in his gut, hard and painful. "Why care about the stars, when we have power." he snapped dismissively.

"There are many things beyond war and possession, Kronos."

And the fear, planted so long ago on a bright, clear day in a northern field fragrant with wildflowers, suddenly bloomed. "Yes, Methos. *Yes*. There are many things." he whispered fiercely. "And most of all, there are we two." And he clenched shaking fingers in his lover's hair and took his mouth in one long, breathless kiss...

...striding through camp, Kronos called loudly for his brother. Methos had been conspicuously absent recently, no doubt training the dark-haired immortal seeress they'd killed some weeks past. Pausing, he frowned; Methos was far too involved with the witch, becoming too attached. Neglecting his brothers -- neglecting *him*. Mouth firming with resolve, Kronos stalked to Methos' tent and flung open the flap. He smiled with satisfaction as his brother, startled, looked up, and the bitch shrank back from his furious glare...

...and Kronos shook his head. "No, I won't allow it."

Methos regarded him with a cool, ironic stare, one eyebrow raised. "Won't you?"

"No, Methos. Now is not the time. We can't split our strength."

Surely Methos could, *must* understand. What were books and scholarship but secondary tools for acquiring power, the means of achieving dominion? How could his brother retreat from the field of battle, the domain of conquest, to spend precious years -- *centuries* -- playing philosophers' games, arguing ridiculous points of logic that served no earthly purpose whatsoever? How could he need anything but his brothers, his sword, his horse, the freedom of the plains? "I need you *here*" With *me*!

"Do not press me, Kronos."

Furious, he gripped Methos' arm hard.

His brother paused, staring pointedly at Kronos' hand. Silently, Kronos released him. And looking into Methos' flat, hard stare, he was reminded of the bitter, funereal taste of ash, the sudden snap of twine pulled too tightly, and of the sharp, poisonous ache of desolation...

...and then, they were three: though he spent a century seeking his departed brother, alternately vengeful and desolate. Later, they were two: Silas retreating to the forest, while he and Caspian swept southward, seeking the gold spilled by the fallen Empire.

Finally, he was one. Alone.

Until his many scattered snares at last netted his ever-elusive brother, Methos...and today his brother wavered maddeningly in his loyalty, forgetting what they had once been together, while Caspian lay dead at the hands of this dark-haired child, Macleod...

...as the repeated clash of their swords jarred his arm to the shoulder, numbing his forearm. Regardless, he refused to yield to this pathetically noble fool who'd seduced his brother.

Viciously, he slashed and feinted, awaiting the opening he knew would come. Macleod was tiring, demoralized; one carefully placed, wicked slice and Methos would be his again...but the strident clash of steel-on-steel rang sharply through the underground compound, startling him. Disengaging, stepping back from his adversary, Kronos watched stunned, as Methos and Silas hacked at one another across the cavern.

"Methos!"

Macleod swung and he parried defiantly, but the Fates had already chosen...

...and for a shocking moment, he was *two*: staring at his own furious snarl, seeing liquid light skitter along his own ivory-handled blade; feeling the heaviness of his sword arm and heart, the sting then spreading numbness of betrayal and the shocked, sickening realization that his tale ended here...

And then, Duncan gasped at the force of the remembered quickening as nearly four thousand years of rage, lust, love and longing slammed through his heart and soul, driving him to his knees.

"Do you see now, Highlander?" The spectral voice queried harshly. "Do you understand now what he is -- what he *was* -- to me?"

Struggling to his feet Duncan nodded, carefully avoiding the ghost's intense stare, understanding far more than he would have liked. Brother, lover, teacher and companion for nearly one thousand years: images, sensations flashed past -- an unending stream of light -- too quickly to grasp more than the essence, the awareness of millennia-deep anguished jealousy, passion, hopelessness.

And regret.

"Look at me, damn you!" And Kronos' strong fingers grasped his jaw, forcing him to meet the burning gaze. Madness lurked there, madness and long gray shadows of grief.

"Yes," Duncan said hoarsely, chest burning with an unwelcome infusion of compassion and understanding. "I understand." Shivering, he struggled to shake off the unpleasant sensation of living *that* life, of feeling the creeping madness of possession, domination stalk him, flickering at the edges of his vision.

Kronos smiled ferally and drew breath to speak...but deep, thrumming immortal presence washed through him.

"Macleod! What the bloody hell are you doing?"

Startled, Duncan whirled away from the apparition to face the door. His lover slouched against the frame, arms crossed, grinning expectantly.

Hazel eyes swept over his raised sword, his crouched, defensive posture. And the now empty room. His lover's head tilted and one fine, dark brow arched in amused inquiry.

No doubt, he looked ridiculous.

"Um. Dusting?" Duncan ventured implausibly, mentally scrambling for balance. Where the hell was Kronos? How long had he stood here, impossibly communing with the dead?

Methos looked suitably incredulous. "Dusting."

"Never mind, dammit!" His cheeks flamed as his lover snickered. Embarrassed, Duncan lowered the sword.

"Hm." Methos' sly smirk was eloquent. Then, he frowned sharply, eyes falling upon the ancient book of papyrus that lay open at Duncan's feet. "Well, well. What have we here?"

Methos strolled into the room and crouched beside the splayed book. He ran one long finger down the lengthy gouge in the floor and paused to look quizzically at Duncan. Scooping up the folio, he rose slowly, tracing the glyphs and faded illustrations on the papyrus. "Learning to read hieroglyphics, Mac?"

Duncan blinked, astonished to recognize the flaking paint, the hieratic inscriptions. For an instant, the text rippled and was overlaid with bright clear colors, gold leaf, and rich dark ink. And he smelled wood smoke, felt a clear, cold wind blow through him, as if the Parisian late summer shifted abruptly to newly-come winter.

"*Kronos*." With a start, Duncan realized he'd spoken aloud.

"As it so happens, yes." Methos nodded, continuing to frown. "This was given to me by Kronos. Many, many years ago." For a moment, Methos seemed a bit shaken, then concern and wariness flashed across his expression. "Are you okay, Duncan?"

Stepping close to his lover, running a shaking finger along one column of glyphs, silken threads of meaning teased him but the totality lay just beyond reach. "What does it say?"

"It's an ancient Egyptian love poem." And smiling somewhat wistfully, Methos recited softly in a lilting tone, filled with curious sibilants and consonants.

A sudden, wrenching mental flash and Duncan knew -- *remembered* -- with gut-deep clarity, the long-ago laughter they'd shared on an equally long-forgotten autumn evening, when Methos had finally translated the poem; the hot flush of embarrassment was made more intense, more dangerous by the uncanny accuracy of the strange foreign words.

"Mac?" Methos' concern was palpable. "Are you sure you're alright? You look like you've seen a ghost."

Clearing his head with a shake, Duncan smiled weakly. Ghosts, indeed. "I'm fine, Methos. Really." Inwardly, he growled. //Stay out of my mind, Kronos!//

"Oo-kay," his lover drawled skeptically, closing the slender book and carefully replacing it upon the shelf. Duncan followed Methos' quick glance towards the table beneath the window and its unsettling contents. Then, shaking his head abruptly, Methos smiled at him, eyes slightly shadowed. "Well, come on then, I brought back lunch. Take-out from that Cambodian place you like so much."

Hastening to leave, turning to follow his lover, Duncan paused as a chill crept up his spine and a faint puff of warm air brushed his cheek.

As if Kronos were standing beside him, whispering in his ear.

"Take care of him for me, Highlander."

Looking back over his shoulder, sunlight sparked across the brass urn and he seemed to catch the gleam of implacable, burning eyes, a flash of even white teeth.

"Don't worry, Kronos." Duncan said grimly. "I will."

"See that you do."

And the words hung in the air ominously as he departed, closing the door firmly behind him.

Finis.