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Tomorrow, Tomorrow and Tomorrow

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Summary: When you live forever, time is the only constant there is. Drabble fic. Again.

Categories Author Rating Chapters Words Recs Reviews Hits Published Updated Complete
Highlander > Buffy-Centered > Pairing: Methos(Past Moderator)FaithUnbreakableFR152832,8023719797,97923 May 081 Nov 10Yes

War

A/N: Thank you for the lovelies and sorry for the long wait.

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War

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He is a priest, easily recognized by his colourful garb and the expensive trinkets woven into his hair. As they attack he simply stands in the middle of the village, staff in hand, so sure of his immunity.

He is a holy man. He does not know that where they come from, holy men die just like real men. He does not know that they are not the usual pirates or bandits one expects here on the coast, but the savage beasts from the desert lands. His gods’ wrath, a wrath that seems all encompassing to him, means nothing to them, who are gods unto themselves. Heathen gods for a heathen people collected from outcasts and scraps of humanity she has brought together out of loneliness. He does not know that the force of his life trickles down her back like ice water, sweet and chilling.

One of them, soon. But not yet. For now he stands, proud and foolish, arrogant and chilling for it. He is beautiful certainly, in his conviction, the absolute belief in his superiority.

There is a moment, a single second when his eyes widen impossibly and all that pretty superiority is washed form his face in a flood of fear before Methos rides past him like a devil, dust behind him, sword swinging over his head and coming downdowndown in a killing stroke. As the priest’s body drops to the ground, lifeblood already soaking the ground, Sun gives her lover a scolding look that clearly states what she thinks of his actions. He throws back a cheeky smirk as he turns his mount around and gallops back to the killed priest.

Dismounting quickly, he cuts down two more villagers and then goes on to loot their corpses. Once he is finished he grabs the priest and tosses him onto his horse like a sack of meat and bones. Then, in a rush of adrenaline, he rushes her, kissing her hotly and passionately with the taste of blood not his own on his lips.

She tries to glare and fails, pushing him away from her with a laugh and watching as he climbs on his horse again and they take off into the dusk twilight.

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They watch with mild curiosity as he first twitches and then comes back to life with a painful gasp and cough. It’s different for everyone. He looks around, confused, and his eyes widen yet again as he spies the man that killed him. Awkwardly and on weak limbs he tries to scramble backwards only to be stopped by the length of rope loped around his ankles and attached to a heavy rock.

“What have you done to me?” he finally demands eyes fixed, curiously, on Sun, not of Methos.

She shrugs, drawing a dagger from a sheath on her thigh. She was always better at showing than at telling. “You cannot die,” she says, “And neither can we.”

Then she draws the tip of her weapon down the length of her forearm and watches as blood wells up violently and then just stops as the gaping wound closes with a crackle of blue sparks.

For long moments, the priest only stares. First at her arm, then at the bloody dagger. Her face is next, then Methos’ and then he fumbles a hand into his robes to check for the wound that should be there and finds only smooth skin.

He throws his head back, spreads his arms, arrogance back in his expression, coupled with something more sinister this time, and he laughs. He laughs and laughs and laughs as something snaps inside of him, something that must have been fragile all along.

“A god,” he howls in between peals of laughter, “I am a god!”

Buffy sighs in dismay. She didn’t mean for him to break, didn’t mean to snap that fragile part of his soul that makes him human. She never does but this world, this desert, makes people brittle and so so easy to break. They crack under the gentlest pressure of her hands, falling to sand, running through her fingers until there is nothing left but dust.

Sometimes she hates this place.

Methos chuckles, bemused by the priest’s antics and more willing to accept another broken toy. He doesn’t know what people are like when they are whole. He, too, has spent all his lives here. He knows nothing else.

Not yet.

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After that first night, Kronos confuses men and gods, confuses himself with a deity and sometimes confuses mortals with beasts. His world is fragile and sharp, dangerous and bright, just like he is because there is something inside of him that thrives on power and dominance and immortality is a weapon in his smooth hands.

But they made him and they love him, in their own ways so they will not turn him away. They will not set him loose in a world that has no way to defend itself against him. So they keep him.

Methos is her gift and her gift is Death but Kronos, crazy, wild, beautiful, joyful, dangerous, manic Kronos, is War.

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