A/N: Thanks guys.
Methos is of the desert, Kronos is of the coast and she is of nowhere at all. Her place is with her people but they keep dying and the sand; she’s fed up with the sand. Dru loved it dearly but Dru is gone, has been for years and so, one day, she picks a direction at random and orders the camp packed up. And they ride.
Where green shyly pokes its head out of the still yellow ground, they find him. A beast speaker he is half animal himself, a mountain of a man. Head shaved bald, beard long and tangled, he groans and grunts, howls and growls. The villagers tolerate him because he takes care of their beasts and protects them.
Maybe it is his presence, the presence of someone half man half animal, who does not age and does not die, that makes them more tolerant than their contemporaries. Maybe it is just the climate, less cruel, less harsh. They leave her and her people to set up their tents close to the settlement. Later that night, the three of them go to visit the beast speaker.
Kronos grabs her around the waist with a cackle, pulling her from her sitting position and trying to fling her over his shoulder. She smacks him on the arm and pulls away, leaning into Methos. Sometimes, War is a spoiled child. Their child. They made him, after all. He pouts at them, a frown pulling at his brows before he wriggles between them, an arm slung around their shoulders, grinning.
“Don’t be like that, brother,” he tells Methos. “Share the Sun with me.”
Death grunts and shoves him off, but doesn’t complain as he takes her free hand in his and drags them off to see the animal man.
He lives in a dirty little hut outside the village circle. The place is empty except for a bedroll and a big axe propped against the wall next to the flap serving as a door. There is barely enough room for four to stand so they don’t, sitting outside in the nightly chill instead.
He stares at the three of them, Buffy especially. He’s never seen blonde hair, never felt any quickening but his own. He must seem to them as Kronos would like to seem to all men, gods. But despite his awe, he remains quiet, talking little in a gruff and unused voice, rubbing the head of the jackal he tamed instead.
Then, shyly, he asks if they know any songs. Methos laughs and Kronos feigns boredom but both prod her until she gives in and hums quietly into the dark.
And Methos stops laughing and closes his eyes as Kronos leans against him and Silas stops the repetitive scratching between the jackal’s ears to listen, head cocked to one side. Not because she is good at what she does but because it is a song a long blurred sister once loved and she remembers it now with her heart and not her head. It is a song of who she used to be, this girl that seems so strange and foreign to her today.
It is all she has ever told of her past.
The next morning Kronos curses as he struggles to rekindle the fire with fingers stiff from the cold and when they are all awake and Silas wanders into the settlement to gather the food the villagers spare for him, War stretches and says, “I want to keep him.”
She raises an eyebrow at him.
“As a pet,” he clarifies, “Doesn’t seem very bright, but that axe of his needs some skill.”
Methos rolls his eyes as he always does and Sun smacks her second horseman over the head with the dull end of her sword. Hard. It reminds Kronos. Reminds him of the fact that despite his immortality he can still die, that he is still mortal in his own way and not a god. It reminds him that he belongs to the Sun. She does not like slaves and human pets.
They come close under the guise of a merchant caravan and by the time they realize their mistake, the bandits are already breaking like water over the shore, slashing the village to pieces.
By the time the three reach the settlement that morning all that is left to do is kill the killers, slaughter the slaughterers and grant a more merciful fate to the rapists. Only Silas is still there, big and bald and grim, wielding his axe like an extension of himself, a limb of death. Bodies pile up around him as he screams his fury, rages and rages.
They do not know where he came from, do not know who he once was or why he loves his beasts so much but they know that at his core, he is a simple creature. And here, he found acceptance. He found people to claim as his. And now they are gone. He rages. He dies. He gets back up. He rages. It is past dusk when he drops to his knees for the final time, gut wrenching roar breaking from his throat, racing down their spines, touching the primal parts of what they are.
The desert makes things brittle, makes them easy to break. But here, at the edge of a greener world, they still die. Everyone always dies. Except for her and Methos and Kronos and now, here, Silas.
There is no talk, no real decision. They pack their tents and possessions and leave the same day, before the vultures come. They do not bury the dead. Silas follows in their wake, silent and dirty, bloodstained and glassy eyed.
Methos is her gift and her gift is Death and wild and crazy Kronos is War but Silas is Famine, sucking the life out of a world that killed all he knew.
He sleeps with his axe now, not his beasts.