A/N: Thanks. Looky, the horsemen are complete. On to greener pastures.
He comes in the dead of night, a shadow among shadows, his sword smeared with soot and dirt so it doesn’t catch the dim firelight. He is, to the mortals within the boundaries of the camp, an invisible monster of death.
To the four of them, he is perfectly visible and killable because he has come to take their heads and his intention trickles down their backs along with his quickening and Buffy tastes ozone and blood as she grabs her sword and exits the tent, Methos right behind her.
A single word from her has all mortals scrambling to get into their tents and huts, leaving the circle around the campfire dusty and empty for their fight. If there were anything akin to honor in this time and place, they would fight one on one but there is not and so she watches with a grim smirk as Silas uses the dull end of his axe to beat the intruder down brutally. Methos takes a running step, kicking him in the stomach before he picks up the sword and flings it into the dark beyond the firelight.
Kronos laughs long and loud and he grabs the immortal by the hair and drags him to a post a few feet from the fire. He wrenches the man’s arms behind his back ad ties him to the post with strips of cloth and rope. Then he pats the man on his almost bald head and tries to sneak a kiss from Sun.
She pulls back after a moment, scowling at him out of habit. She suspects, sometimes, that immortality is synonymous to insanity and they all have more than a few loose screws. That is what happens, she muses, when you take a human being and strip away all it ever knew.
But Caspian, brutal, hard, fast, killer Caspian is madder than all of them, even Kronos. They know what made Kronos the way he is but they have no idea at all where the mad glint on Caspian’s eyes comes from. They cannot see the horrors inside his head, nor do they care to. They have their own demons.
She does, too. Hers are just quieter.
They keep Caspian tied to the post for days. In the morning, he screams abuse at them. By noon, he falls silent and around sunset, his blistering red head lolls uselessly as his eyes turn up in his head and he faints. During the night, he sleeps, mostly. Everyday, one or twice, he dies. Kronos and Silas bet on the exact time.
She tries to avoid their bets and his deaths, but does nothing against them. He tried to hurt what is hers. In the mornings though, she sometimes sits with him and listens to him speak. There is a brain behind the blinding madness, a man behind the roaring laughter. Occasionally, she gives him water. Silas gets mad then because it makes him lose his bet.
They let him go eventually because they are moving on and lugging an immortal prisoner around with them is not worth the effort. And leaving him there would be cruel and they are not that. Most of the time.
He tried to kill them after all. But then, who hasn’t? Life is cheap.
She unties him and points him in the direction of his sword before climbing on her horse and turning to follow the others. They ride through the day and set up camp around sunset close to an oasis. He arrives an hour later, sword across his shoulders, skin sunburnt and expression amused.
Methos raises an eyebrow at him and then, after a few moments of quiet staring, offers him some fruit and bread.
He never tells them why he sticks around and they never ask. His reasons are his own and he knows how to calm the beast in Silas, knows how to play Kronos’s games and he makes a good watchdog and a better warrior.
So he stays and Sun has her four horsemen.
Methos is her gift and her gift is Death and wild and crazy Kronos is War. Silas is Famine, sucking the life out of a world that killed all he knew and Caspian is the obscenely grinning Pestilence, bringing a blanket of death with him wherever they ride.