fractured_sun (![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png)
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crack_van2009-06-12 03:03 pm
fractured-sun.livejournal.com) wrote in crack_van2009-06-12 03:03 pm
Entry tags:
Cast a cold eye by 3scoremiles_10, (NC-17)
Fandom: HIGHLANDER
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, Kronos/Methos
Length: Medium length
Author on LJ:![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
3scoremiles_10
Author Website: None as far as I know
Why this must be read: Set at the end of rev 6:8, Duncan and Methos discover the cost of winning. This beautifully written story is wonderful exploration of the double quickening and the relationship between Duncan and Methos and Methos and Kronos. A dark and almost painful look into the psyche. I loved this so much I think I'll let it speak for itself.
“Methos. Come on. Get up.”
Methos didn’t even raise his eyes. Instead, he folded to the floor, pressing his face against the cold concrete and wrapping his hands over his head as if trying to block out everything that had happened here. It made MacLeod think of a wounded animal trying to hide from its own pain. Methos was like a fox that had been set on by hounds, MacLeod thought; if he’d had a den, he would have dragged himself into it.
Hunted foxes died in their dens. Methos should have known better.
He did not have time for this. Cassandra had a Watcher, and even as hidden away as this place was, the light show sent up by Kronos’ and Silas’ ancient quickenings could not fail to attract attention. Someone would come, whether the local gendarmarie or the Watchers’ bloody clean-up crew, and if Methos was here when they arrived … that would be difficult. For everyone.
“Methos. We have to leave. Or do you want to find a way to explain why Adam Pierson, bloody researcher, is down here with two headless corpses -” – and that won a long shuddering moan that made MacLeod grimace at his own lack of tact, so perhaps there was room for pity after all, of a kind – “- with two bodies, and not a known immortal in sight?” He glanced back up the gangway, half looking for someone already on their way in, wanting to be gone. “I’m not staying for that. Come on.” He touched the other man’s shoulder.
He shouldn’t have. Methos unwound like a coiled spring, lunging away from him with a hiss that might have been words in some long-ago language and scrabbling through the blood and shadows, coming up in a crouch with his sword levelled with lethal accuracy on MacLeod’s throat. His eyes were wide and too, too bright in the darkness.
“Go away,” he grated. He sounded as if he had swallowed gravel. “Go away. I’m not leaving them to the fucking vultures!”
Vultures? MacLeod, who had raised his own blade half-way in defence, furrowed his brow: was the man as far gone as that? Perhaps there had been vultures on those long ago fields of slaughter, but … “Methos,” he said carefully, “this is France. Bordeaux. There are no vultures here.”
“The fucking Watchers!” There was an almost hysterical note in Methos’ voice now, and the sword in his hand trembled. The blade was still smeared with blood. “The fucking spying, sneaking, grave-robbing Watchers, with their fucking labels and their fucking archives and their dirty fucking artifacts! They won’t … they’ll take … they …” The sword wavered, then dropped away as his voice dropped too. He looked lost again, impossibly young in the gloom. An ancient child, who looked up at MacLeod over a bloodstained blade and said, in a plaintive, half-angry voice, “They’re my brothers!”
Oh, Silas, oh my brother, I killed you I’m sorry I killed you.
Kronos. Oh, no no no. Kronos, Kronos. Dark star.
MacLeod jerked back, eyes narrowing. For a moment, there had been a whisper … but no, it was just the after-effects of that freakish quickening, still making his brain buzz and heating his blood. The energy just would not be still in there. He stared at Methos. Why had he thought he looked young? The man’s eyes were unspeakably old.
In 3 parts: part 1, part 2, part 3.
Pairing: Duncan/Methos, Kronos/Methos
Length: Medium length
Author on LJ:
3scoremiles_10 Author Website: None as far as I know
Why this must be read: Set at the end of rev 6:8, Duncan and Methos discover the cost of winning. This beautifully written story is wonderful exploration of the double quickening and the relationship between Duncan and Methos and Methos and Kronos. A dark and almost painful look into the psyche. I loved this so much I think I'll let it speak for itself.
“Methos. Come on. Get up.”
Methos didn’t even raise his eyes. Instead, he folded to the floor, pressing his face against the cold concrete and wrapping his hands over his head as if trying to block out everything that had happened here. It made MacLeod think of a wounded animal trying to hide from its own pain. Methos was like a fox that had been set on by hounds, MacLeod thought; if he’d had a den, he would have dragged himself into it.
Hunted foxes died in their dens. Methos should have known better.
He did not have time for this. Cassandra had a Watcher, and even as hidden away as this place was, the light show sent up by Kronos’ and Silas’ ancient quickenings could not fail to attract attention. Someone would come, whether the local gendarmarie or the Watchers’ bloody clean-up crew, and if Methos was here when they arrived … that would be difficult. For everyone.
“Methos. We have to leave. Or do you want to find a way to explain why Adam Pierson, bloody researcher, is down here with two headless corpses -” – and that won a long shuddering moan that made MacLeod grimace at his own lack of tact, so perhaps there was room for pity after all, of a kind – “- with two bodies, and not a known immortal in sight?” He glanced back up the gangway, half looking for someone already on their way in, wanting to be gone. “I’m not staying for that. Come on.” He touched the other man’s shoulder.
He shouldn’t have. Methos unwound like a coiled spring, lunging away from him with a hiss that might have been words in some long-ago language and scrabbling through the blood and shadows, coming up in a crouch with his sword levelled with lethal accuracy on MacLeod’s throat. His eyes were wide and too, too bright in the darkness.
“Go away,” he grated. He sounded as if he had swallowed gravel. “Go away. I’m not leaving them to the fucking vultures!”
Vultures? MacLeod, who had raised his own blade half-way in defence, furrowed his brow: was the man as far gone as that? Perhaps there had been vultures on those long ago fields of slaughter, but … “Methos,” he said carefully, “this is France. Bordeaux. There are no vultures here.”
“The fucking Watchers!” There was an almost hysterical note in Methos’ voice now, and the sword in his hand trembled. The blade was still smeared with blood. “The fucking spying, sneaking, grave-robbing Watchers, with their fucking labels and their fucking archives and their dirty fucking artifacts! They won’t … they’ll take … they …” The sword wavered, then dropped away as his voice dropped too. He looked lost again, impossibly young in the gloom. An ancient child, who looked up at MacLeod over a bloodstained blade and said, in a plaintive, half-angry voice, “They’re my brothers!”
Oh, Silas, oh my brother, I killed you I’m sorry I killed you.
Kronos. Oh, no no no. Kronos, Kronos. Dark star.
MacLeod jerked back, eyes narrowing. For a moment, there had been a whisper … but no, it was just the after-effects of that freakish quickening, still making his brain buzz and heating his blood. The energy just would not be still in there. He stared at Methos. Why had he thought he looked young? The man’s eyes were unspeakably old.
In 3 parts: part 1, part 2, part 3.