The Fall of the House of Sippar
By Quinn Harper

Disclaimer: Methos and this particular concept of Immortality do not, alas, belong to me and have been borrowed without permission. All the other characters and the story concept are mine.

Rating: NC-17

Warnings: Graphic homosexual adult content. This one is grim, folks. I've read worse, but it's got lots of violence and gory stuff. If you don't like to see Methos tortured, this is *not* your story.

Summary: Methos is captured and enslaved before becoming a high priest of a secret, dark cult.

Acknowledgements: Many thanks to Monica for her help with the plot!

I live for feedback - and Methos - so please let me know what you think of it. You never know, it might motivate me to finish it...All feedback duely considered, enjoyed, and otherwise hoarded

Quinn

He comes at night when the moon is worshipped
A living evil on golden wings
He comes to take me to the abandoned land
The land where darkness is ablazed
A leap in the dark, a step into the forgotten
through the gates of the betrayal breeze
I know that the time has come for me ...
My soul is given to the shadows

-Tiamat, 'The Malicious Paradise'

It was the thirst that did a man in fastest; Methos knew that from experience, and not just events from his distant past. It made a man crazy, siphoned away his better judgement, destroyed his will to survive one agonizing step at a time. In fact, Methos was in the process of receiving a refresher course in the agonies of extreme water deprivation. He noted with clinical detachment that his mouth had long ago lost the ability to create saliva leaving sand to fill the desiccated space, his lids grated against eyeballs that lacked sufficient moisture to glide smoothly, and his sinus cavities were barren stretches of parched, cracked desert. Still, being as he was an Immortal, his worst placed him in better condition than most of the slave caravan.

Each searing ray of sun bubbled a new blister someplace on his bare flesh and, since he was completely naked, there were many places to choose from. He stumbled along hunched over like a man far beyond his years, exposing only his shoulders, back, and buttocks to the withering rays. The slavers appreciated his efforts at protecting his most tender flesh; it provided them with a much more sensitive area to discipline, should such measures prove necessary. He was disappointingly obedient in that respect and rarely offered them an excuse for such sport, though technicalities did not stop them from layering crisscrossing stripes of agony that wept blood and pus up and down the blistered flesh and made him nearly crazier than the thirst.

His shoulders and arms ached with the strain of being bound to a pole that ran from wrist to wrist behind his neck and stretched his arms almost to their fullest extent. But his torment was special, the mark of his position as an example to them all. The rest of the slaves were bound at the wrist, tethered at the ankle and linked by ropes around their necks to allow their masters to keep track of them more easily; as if there had been anyplace to run in the hellish wasteland.

While the nights brought blessed relief from the burning sun, its torment was replaced with the arctic cold of the desert nights. The slavers unleashed their caravan and doled out tiny rations of bread along with a scant cup of water each evening, leaving the miserable villagers to huddle together as close as possible for warmth beyond the inviting glow of the campfire. The slavers did not seem to care whether their property fled into the darkness to die or dropped off to the side as they shuffled along through the desert. If the heat, thirst, infection or cold did not kill the slaves, the stray scorpion or stings from a swarm of unidentifiable insects would.

Methos had been a slave before once or twice in his five hundred years - more than that, he privately amended. Every other lifetime, it sometimes seemed, found him enslaved. It was a fact of life in these times, each day one unending power battle after another. He was luckier than most, though. After he died, he would revive amid a pile of discarded pauper's bodies and begin a new life. Most of his fellow unfortunates would live and die slaves, never knowing anything else.

The experience he found himself in now surpassed anything he could ever recall in terms of careless cruelty and sheer stupidity. It was one thing to be worked or tortured to death by a new master, a far different thing for slavers to deliberately damage their merchandise. Nor did these men have the look of typical slavers, too muscular, too hard, too lean, too...something. They had come to the mountain village in darkness and quietly overpowered the people, rounding them up to be herded to Sippar. A few died before the journey started, wailing women and sobbing children hacked to pieces by the stony faced, impatient victors - and they were the lucky ones. The rest of the village had been stripped of all possessions, bound together and shepherded down the mountain.
The irony of the fact that Methos wasn't truly one of them continued to press on him without mercy. He should not have been there and should not now be *here*. He was just a wanderer who rarely stayed in one place for more than a month or two. In fact, he had planned to be gone by morning; of course he had been saying that every night for the past eight months so perhaps it could be said that he belonged more to these people than he had to anyone in at least a hundred years.

Even so, he really did intend to leave. Every night as the fires died down and people slipped off to their huts to sleep, he vowed that he would depart at dawn. In the bright, sun drenched mornings, he would rise, body refreshed, and gather his meager possessions into a bundle, ready to steal away to the yawning jagged peaks that had already come perilously close to claiming his life - for all that it mattered.

Methos the Wanderer had set out for the hills more than a year past, driven by a thick lethargy that tugged at the pit of his stomach and guided by an old, tired instinct for survival. The weariness in his soul challenged that reflex, the primary imperative of his entire, seemingly endless five hundred year life and he went to ground to tend the unseen, festering laceration in his spirit like a wounded animal. He could not have said with any certainty precisely where or when the feeling began to stalk him though he felt it had haunted him for at least a decade. The odd flick of the wrist here, the too slow stroke there, a Quickening won by the barest, slimmest margin possible....His fighting skill and speed surpassed that of most Immortals he met by a good bit - he *was* five hundred years old, after all - but lately that had almost not been enough. Without the strength of conviction behind it, the technical skill of his sword arm meant little.

He left a wife and a comfortable life at Jarmo, for a miserable trek across the desert and close scrape with death by freezing. The brutal, unforgiving land tolerated few mistakes and Methos had committed a serious blunder. He had not reached the foothills of the mountain range until the cold season was nearly upon him, and had been advised to wait out the snows in the comfort of the city. Methos shuddered at the thought, unable to endure the idea of remaining with the people in Ur or any other village for such a length of time. Which explained how he wound up traipsing through treacherous mountain passes, woefully undersupplied, in the midst of a blinding snowstorm.

They called themselves the Taurids and they saved his life and that *meant* something to them, something well beyond the ordinary, although the secret of his ultimate importance to them remained a mystery. He recovered rapidly, as always, and evidently retained the freedom to depart at any time. And yet...reproachful stares surrounded him, reminding him that his life had been bought and paid for with *their* sweat and blood and that for him to disappear into the cold, seductive diamond glitter of the fresh snow that blanketed the mountain slopes would be beyond ingratitude. That the particular act of rescue in question meant far more to the mortals than to him, teased him at odd moments, allowing him a spare breath of humor as the walls of his increasingly claustrophobic prison closed in on him.

He had no wish to belong to them, no desire for his heart to be claimed and marked and trod upon with tiny feet, but he *owed* them something. He owed them for something infinitely precious and they would not let him forget that, but, of course, they had no way of knowing precisely what he owed them for. They did not know he came to them with great gaping, empty places inside him, dark and raw, filled effortlessly by their very simplicity and generosity of spirit. They did not know how their acceptance of him as part of their family, as one of them, equal, honored, respected, had drained his will to depart. But their most insidious means of control was a twisted, clever, evil thing and he marveled that they had somehow managed to determine the truest path to undermining his resistance so easily.

His memories wavered along with the ghost images that shimmered in the waves of heat that rolled up from the sandy hell. Methos could no longer distinguish whether the agonizing pain on the soles of his feet came from blisters raised by nearly molten sand or the lacerations made by the knife sharp edges of each tiny grain. Ultimately, what difference did it make? Each step forced the grit deeper into flesh, working it into every pore. He would not wonder if sand replaced the blood flowing through his veins before the ordeal ended.

He squinted at the hated instrument of torture hanging high in the sky and estimated with bitter despair they were due for several more hours of blazing light, hours and hours until he could anticipate even the tiniest sip of water. He shuddered. Oh gods...Voices rose and fell over his head, meaning momentarily lost in the swelling anguish of grief. A broken whimper of distress escaped him, so soft he reeled in surprise when a searing tongue of fiery pain licked across his sun blistered calves. Tirigan, the lead slaver, growled something low and menacing in the vicinity of his ear, but Methos, grappling with the intense sensation, could simply not force his brain to translate. Not that Tirigan expected comprehension, let alone a coherent answer.

From the moment they had descended upon Taurid, the slavers had not even attempted to speak to the villagers, assuming that the backward people of the mountain would lack the ability to comprehend their language. Instead of spoken directives, they employed a staggeringly effective combination of physical manhandling and strategic use of the well oiled, supple whip each man carried coiled at his hip. The rhythm of their language was familiar to Methos, and he found if he listened closely, their words were decipherable as well. He was a well learned man and languages came easily to him, a gift that did him no good in this situation. The slavers still did not know Methos understood them since noone bothered to ask, and it couldn't matter anyway.

A fluid flash caught his eye in the instant before Tirigan dragged him free from the pitiful line of slaves, the knife blade severing his connection to the macabre caravan. Methos staggered and fell heavily to his knees, gasping with the sudden agony of having his virtually undamaged shins blistered by the scorching sand. His empty, shriveled stomach convulsed, dry heaving repeatedly in response to the new pain but he failed to bring up so much as a teaspoon of bile.

Tirigan spoke again, voice silky and soft. The dulcet tones fell without meaning into Methos' thick, tormented haze, and he found himself far too weak to wonder what new cataclysm was about to descend. The world spun in dizzying circles faster and faster, darkness closing around the edges of his vision and Methos reflexively fought against it, aware that to succumb meant death. /But why?/ Oh *gods*, *why* couldn't he just give up and die they way he had seen so many of the Taurids do, one after the other, left on the burning sand to perish where they fell. The population of Taurid once numbered over one hundred men, women, and children but attrition pared their numbers down to less than half of that. /Why? Just tell me, why? Please let me die...Baal./ He swayed drunkenly, silently begging the god he had once served a string of lifetimes ago for freedom from this burden. Before he could surrender to the blessed, cool peace of the darkness, an image flashed clear and precise through his mind and he remembered why he struggled onward.

Tirigan buried his massive fist in Methos' dirt and blood encrusted hair and jerked the Immortal's head back. Methos regarded the indistinct figure with bleary disinterest, aware that violation of his body loomed but unable care. He scarcely noted the ringing, open palmed slap across his face, or the insistent pressure against his jaw. His body automatically adjusted to the length and breadth of the foul, pungent cock crammed into his mouth; his throat opened, his breath became shallow and miracle of miracles, he managed to work up some saliva to ease the reckless, tearing thrusts. In a dim corner of his mind, he marveled at Tirigan's capacity to wring pleasure from pain - sliding into the desert of Methos' mouth had to hurt, but the big man's satisfied grunt gave no indication of it.

His mind spun away from his body, fastening on the pure, clean image that haunted him so that he had no choice but to struggle to stay alive. It was her fault, after all. All of it was her fault. She had been the bars on his cage, the anchor that prevented him from leaving, time and again. Every morning he woke to find her watchful gaze fastened on him, her dark, golden eyes glowing with pleasure at the opportunity to watch him sleep. Those eyes...gods...the pure, unwavering devotion that shone there pinned him, helpless to the soft, sweet scented pallet.

He would renew his flagging resolve under that watchful devout gaze, toss back the sheepskin with deliberate purpose, gain his feet and begin to pack his belongings, all the while telling her where he planned to travel next, the people he planned to see, the places he wished to visit. She would listen, eyes wide and unblinking to his tales of huge pyramids and chariots, of people who lived a far distance across water, the likes of which she had never before seen...and when he shouldered his bag, and stepped toward the door, she would giggle. He would feel the smooth slide of her palm close around his free hand and she would lead him to her family's cook fire where he would drown in the domesticity.

He protested, of course. Constantly. He argued and wheedled and pleaded for her to let him go, but nothing would sway her, nothing would do but that he stay with her. He had no defense against her brand of persuasion....and so he stayed....

The bitter, salty taste of Tirigan's release flooded his mouth, the thick liquid mixing with the sweet tang of his own blood. Methos swallowed reflexively - it was liquid, after all. Tirigan's thumbs dug into Methos' bony shoulders with exquisite cruelty before the brutal hands shoved hard and Methos abruptly found his world spinning again. He fell back onto his heels, and ducked his head submissively as he caught his balance. He felt the slaver's assessing gaze bore into him.

"What will it take to break you, you arrogant cock sucking bastard...." Tirigan murmured thoughtfully, utterly without heat.

It was a loose translation of the words, but close enough for the answer to spring to life inside him. /Die./ The word floated unbidden through his mind on a vicious surge of hatred and he bit his lips bloody to hold them back. /Just give me one chance and I will kill you./ That single tiny act remained the only thing preventing him from prying loose his reflexive grip on life...just that one, small thing.

Tirigan sighed, a deep, long suffering sound, as if he were the one forced to face unimaginable torments, and lifted a skin of water to his lips. Methos watched the sparkling clear liquid disappear into the gaping hole without blinking. His muscles shook from the effort required to keep still and silent when every single cell in his body independently *longed* to tear his cruel master to pieces and take away the life giving liquid. Even in a fantasy vision, he didn't believe he would be strong enough to share that first flask with the rest of the Taurids.

Tirigan ran a pink tongue over his supple lips his sigh satisfied now, eyes gleaming with unholy mischief. He stepped closer, extending the half-full water skin toward Methos. The Immortal held steady, but oh *gods* it hurt. Tirigan stroked the container down Methos' cheek with playful tenderness.

"Do you want it, you filthy whore? Hmm? Can you *taste* it?"

Methos' chest heaved but he did not make the mistake of letting any noise escape him. Taste it? No, he couldn't taste it...he could barely remember *what* water tasted like at this point. The spare rationed cup of warm liquid accompanying the scrap of bread doled out in the evening came nowhere close to reviving his memory of the incomparable taste and sensation of a slaked thirst. /Please...oh please...gods...sweet, merciful Baal.../ He didn't really believe that offering up the prayer would make any difference, but neither did he exert any effort to halt the sudden gush of entreaties. Tirigan stepped back, a gentle smile stretching across his lips in a distorted parody of pleasure.

"If you want it, come get it." With that, he lay the water skin on the ground twenty feet from Methos who stared, hypnotized at the swollen vessel.

His body was in motion before his mind could protest that it was all a trick, awkwardly shuffling across the burning sand on his knees. He could no more halt the instinctive crawl than he could make the wind blow, even though he *knew* it to be an illusion as surely as the images that danced seductively in the distance amid shimmering waves of heat. He left twin streaks of blood in his wake, shins lacerated by tiny stones as he moved with single-minded determination, eyes latched on the goal.

The booted foot that came down just in front of him the instant before he reached nirvana shocked a little dismayed gasp from his lungs. The minute puff of air was nothing compared to the howl of frustration that clawed at his chest like a rabid animal but he could afford no more. Tirigan's other boot deliberately landed on top of the water skin and, with a gush that echoed like a waterfall in his ears, the precious fluid poured out and vanished into the greedy earth.

Mocking laughter rang in his ears but he didn't mind that...oh no, that didn't bother him nearly so much as the utterly senseless *waste*. Bitter disappointment robbed him of any pretense of strength. He sagged, gripped by a hatred so deep he knew it could never be purged.

/Ba'al Hadad, help me please. Please.../ He begged, no longer sure what he was asking for but evidently, the gods already knew.

The harsh desert breeze tangibly thickened somehow, rolling across the desert to slap against his face, heavy and dark with promise amid the clouds that gathered in the sky to blot out the sun. Curses flew over his head, but Methos was conscious only of Tirigan's abrupt wave of dismissal and the struggle to gain his feet so that he could step back to his place at the end of the uneven line of slaves.

Gradually, as the column surged forward, the unfamiliar chill of the wind on his skin prompted the dull realization that the sun had disappeared. Methos tilted his head a fraction up to the sky, tingling with shock at the sight of roiling black clouds swirling in an angry mass overhead. Long, jagged fingers of lightening ripped through the dark sky, sending bony tentacles hungrily toward the ground.

"Where are we?" Tirigan snapped from somewhere near the head of the column, and his tone gave Methos pause. He had never heard fear layered in the slaver's voice until now; what was this?

"Three days out, sir. " One of his minions replied.

Tirigan grunted, clearly unhappy with the news, but did not speak again.

Suddenly, Methos flinched from the unbelievable sensation of a raindrop pelting his face and he stared up at the boiling sky with undisguised hope. Oh gods, could it be? Could it be that their luck finally had turned? Another drop rolled down his neck to nestle in the hollow of his throat. Yes...oh yes ....then the torrent began and water came pouring from the sky as if huge buckets were being overturned. Methos gasped with pleasure, tipping his head back with his mouth open to catch every drop he could. The cold rain seemed to sizzle when it hit his dry mouth, soothing without satisfying, cooling his overheated skin as it washed the dirt and dried blood away. His feverish brain insisted that the freakish desert thunderstorm could not possibly be simple coincidence, could not be merely the chance result of a combination of natural forces. No, this was special. This had to be a benediction from the gods, the kiss of approval he had unconsciously sought each century since his violent escape from Baal's service.

The miracle of divine intervention was too good to last, of course, but Methos uttered a silent, heartfelt prayer of gratitude anyway as he drank and drank and drank. *Now* he remembered what water tasted like and he doubted he would ever take it for granted again. The precious fluid rushed through his veins, feeding each starving cell as he gaped at the sky like a fish and gulped down the great torrents of water that quickly restored sanity. In some dim place in his brain, Methos was fully aware that he would eventually pay for this unbelievable, fantastic decadence, occupying as he did the role of main target for Tirigan's wrath, but it was far too fabulous a moment to ruin with thoughts of future retribution. Fleetingly, he wished he had not drawn the cruel man's attention at all.

His renewed clarity of mind brought the rueful acknowledgement that responsibility for his current predicament rested squarely on his own shoulders. Sirena- he closed his eyes on a warm wave of tenderness that he could ill afford to feel as her name resonated through his brain. Tirigan had an unerring instinct for these things and seemed to simply know when Methos was thinking of her and that quite frankly, was bad. Still, with the thunder roaring and the lightening flashing and the rain pouring down, Methos thought he might have a spare moment to think of her without fear of immediate retribution.

Sirena had played only a peripheral role in this drama; if he needed someone to blame he had the choice of himself or the Taurid people. She was the most innocent victim of them all. How could she be faulted for the ugly knowledge her people possessed that their fate would one day soon be death, capture, and enslavement by outsiders from the plateau below? Or that ultimately his need for the indefinable something that they provided him called to him more strongly than his own survival? Still, he allowed himself the tiniest surge of resentment because together they could have avoided the hellish fate spoken of in prophecy. He smiled faintly; his charm had utterly failed to move her father, his normally eloquent powers of persuasion useless in the face of the head man's blank implacability. Methos had tried over and over to persuade Azala it was best to allow her to run away and somehow outwit the gruesome fate assigned her and her people by the gods. At the least, Methos could save her...but time and again her father refused.

"I can save her," Methos suddenly said into the companionable silence that had fallen between himself and Azala while they worked on sharpening a pile of hunting blades. The warm spring breeze brought the heavy, sweet odor of a particular variety of dark purple flower in through the open doorway to mingle with the sharper scent of metal and the thick taste of ground stone dust. The rasp of metal scraping on stone paused for a brief instant, the flicker of hesitation almost too quick to be noted, but Methos caught it and a flare of hope surged through him.

"Save her? Save who? From what?" Azala asked with a frown, silver white head bending over the knife he held to the stone.

"Rena. You know I can. I can take her with me, go far away from here..." His voice, low and intense trailed off in confusion, Azala staring at him askance.

"*What* are you babbling about, boy? Why would you want to take Rena away from her home and family?" The older man asked, his voice full of indulgent humor.

Methos growled, gritted his teeth, and tossed his knife aside with an exclamation of disgust. For a long moment, he studied the bent figure, achingly aware of a sharp pain in his chest at the familiar sight of the moon shaped tattoo that streaked in three separate lines and curved down around the weathered cheek, fanning out to end on a broad base. Methos reached out to halt the capable hands that worked the knife across the stone with steady, rhythmic precision. "The old man...he says the time is near, that soon the lowlanders will be coming for the Taurid people and that many will die. I know you will not come with me, but I *can* save her, Azala. I can take her far away...think of it. You know it is best for her."

The clear golden gaze so agonizingly like his daughter's never wavered. "I know nothing of the sort, Methos," Azala objected with mild amusement. "How could it be best for her away from us? She would be miserable. She was born for this life, this task. What else would you have her do?"

"I would have her *live*" Methos snarled. "How can you condemn her this way? Don't you want her to survive?"

"Of course I want her to live. But what is living? Is it living for her to be ripped away from all she holds dear and dragged around the world, even with someone she loves as much as you? Is it living for her to be denied her place as a Guardian of the Sky? Perhaps you do not understand how deep that need lies?" Azala paused, eyes dark and troubled. "You are one of us now, in all things, but if you wish to go, we will help you."

"No...I don't want to leave without you. I want all of you to come with me. I don't want to lose you to the whims of capricious gods. Please, Azala, please come."

"It is not possible, young one. I am sorry." Azala lifted a gentle, work stained hand to sift through the velvety strands of Methos' hair with great affection. "Anyway, what is soon? Is it the blink of an eye, the blooming of the flowers, the death of a man? Is it the wearing down of this mountain? Tell me, what is soon to a god, Methos?"

Methos closed his eyes against the soft words and easy warmth, horrified to have to bite back tears. Gods...oh gods...and then Azala spoke again.

"You may ask her, though. If my daughter chooses to go with you, I will give you both my blessing."

Methos had tracked her down with hope burgeoning in him. He did not think that simply saving Sirena would entirely ease the pain of losing the rest of his people - when had they become 'his people', he marveled? The hope that perhaps others would join them swelled alongside visions of leading the people to a new home... rather messianic of him, he realized with a rueful smile. But it was not to be, no matter how winningly he pleaded.

"What of my father and my people? I would miss them so much. And besides, we are the Watchers, Methos, the Guardians of the Sky. There isn't anyone else."

Utterly frustrated, Methos stared at her and she smiled her wide, innocent smile, as if that were explanation enough, both beginning and end, nothing further required. He wanted to howl at the injustice of it. What had they done to her? How had they instilled such devotion in her? "That isn't a good enough reason to die, love. Come with me, I will take care of you. All the places I told you of, we can visit them together. Please...please you must come with me."

She bent her head, allowing a baby fine curtain of mink brown hair to shield her precious features from him and he reached forward, tucking the silky strands back behind her ear with a tenderness that would have shocked even his wife. "You are so silly..." she teased. "The sky is so far away from down there!"

"Rena -"

She laughed and curled forward, pressing her small fingers against his lips to silence the flood of words she knew would be forthcoming. "Come play with me, Methos. I want to pick some flowers."

He glared at her in helpless fury. She knew her own power so well. He struggled against the urge to abduct her; surely he could care for her better than her so-called family, surely she would eventually forgive him for it, surely...indeed. In the end he docilely followed her to the meadow, thickly carpeted with deep violet, white and pink flowers and played hide and seek. Why? Because he loved her, loved *them*. Ultimately it all came down to that one simple thing; he loved his people and would do whatever he had to do to make them happy. And really, Azala had a point -there was no way to know for certain when the prophecy would be fulfilled - was there? It could be centuries, millennia before marauders from the plains invaded the mountains to steal the Taurid villagers away....could be. But Methos hadn't thought so then and he had never hated being right as much as he hated it now. Worse, he later discovered that Azala did know how soon the prophecy was to be fulfilled, simply from counting the time since Methos' arrival.

The surprise shower lasted for nearly an hour before the water ceased with shocking abruptness. Clouds continued to scuttle restlessly across the sky, allowing only bare glimpses of the punishing sun. Rejuvenated by the unexpected drink, Methos felt for once that he could walk for days but instead, Tirigan called an early halt and cruelly ordered the water rations halved. Methos could only wonder at the unexpected generosity. The deluge had provided the captives with more than a week's worth of water and he honestly expected Tirigan to revoke water privileges for the remainder of the journey. After all, only three days lay between them and their ultimate goal and someone had to suffer for the sudden, bizarre storm that Tirigan had not ordered. Evidently, the villagers could be grateful once again for the resilience of Methos' body and mind and the seemingly endless fascination that held the head slaver in thrall, as it would apparently be his job to absorb Tirigan's wrath.

Methos dropped to the warm but rapidly cooling sand with a sigh of relief, muscles cramping and protesting in spite of the respite. The bulk of the captives huddled together some twenty feet away, backs deliberately turned on him, but he no longer minded. The deliberate snub disturbed him much less than the myriad of more pressing torments dealt him. That his isolated status as Tirigan's despised pet resulted, at least in part, from their defense did not seem to weigh heavily in his favor. If he were honest, he would have to admit that the collision between himself and the coarse slaver might well have been inevitable. Methos shivered in the cool breeze, warily keeping part of his attention on the vulgar, brawny man who prowled restlessly around the campsite in the fading light, his calculating slate gray gaze never still. As he awaited the master's pleasure head ducked in a posture of submission, he pondered the question of whether he might have avoided the painful indignity of the past few weeks.

Only the barest edge of the moon had been visible the night the invaders crept into the village. They moved with a nearly silent, shocking speed, rousing and dragging the bewildered, sleep dazed people to the center of the village before anyone could quite understand what was happening. While there was no vague warning Immortal buzz to rouse Methos, he had not spent centuries fighting for his life to be taken this way, by surprise in his sleep. Something, a soft cry, a child's whimper, the scuff of a shod foot against the door; he didn't know what wakened him, only that a noise that did not belong in his nocturnal world screamed for him to get up, get ready, fight... His hand slid with familiar, comfortable ease onto the sword hilt for all that it had been months since he last touched it, and his muscles automatically wound into readiness, simultaneously tense and relaxed.

/Sirena.../ He took a quick panicked breath, dismayed when it stuck in his chest. /The prophecy? Oh, *gods*...too late now...Rena, where are you?/ With her family no doubt, and that wasn't much comfort. What the Taurids possessed in terms of knowledge they entirely lacked with respect to defensive skill. His ears remained alert, in spite of the weighted tension settling in his gut. He scarcely needed the soft warning rustle to betray the arrival of the unknown warriors in his darkened hut - the overpowering stench of stale sweat, old blood, and dirty goats preceded them like the blast of a trumpet. Methos waited patiently by the door, sword raised, eyes glittering with a mad mixture of calculating acceptance and rage.

He dispatched the two that came in through the door with a twitch of his sword, the blade biting through skin and severing muscle and sinew with shocking ease. He had forgotten this in the lazy peace of the past months; the easy swing of the blade, the even balance of the sword as a natural extension of his arm, the exhilarating thrill of spilling blood, hot and vital... His nostrils flared at the sweet, iron tang of the vital fluid pouring out of his voiceless victims and he bit back the triumphant cry that swelled in his throat. /*Yes*...oh yes.../ He shivered at the powerful pleasure rippling through his body and tried to drag his focus back to finding Sirena; he had a purpose to fulfill.

He leapt over the sprawled bodies with light grace, every sense straining to absorb information about his enemy. The near total darkness helped and hindered them all, but Methos was hampered by the inability to distinguish Taurid from warrior except by scent - and that mattered at the time. The Taurids bathed on an almost daily basis, using herbal blended soaps to remove sweat, dirt and smoke, while the intruders smelled like they might never have made a deliberate acquaintance with water let alone soap. Well, he had that advantage at least since they couldn't possibly smell anything but their own foul stench. So he knelt by the side of his hut and waited.

It took some time for the strangers to find their dead companions. Perhaps they had not noticed the absence until conquest of the village was complete. Methos shivered in the frosty air, thighs cramping from the extended crouch, senses slightly dulled. /A bit out of practice, aren't you?/ He eased up to stretch this muscles and listened to them whispering among themselves, heard the Taurid villagers some distance away, moaning and crying and babbling about the prophecies. The invader's language seemed familiar...something he had heard recently, within the past decade. Sweeping the extraneous noise from his mind with an impatient hiss, he listened beneath the vague clamor for the crunch of boots on snow. It was the most telling sign of approaching predators and if his guess that they were from the plains proved correct, then they would not know that.

Two of them approached from the center of the village, relaxed and easy. Methos gripped the hilt of his sword in one hand and the handle of a knife in the other, smiling with grim satisfaction as they revealed the reason for their complacency.

" - easiest damn job I've ever done for that bastard," one low voice observed.

"Most certainly." Another agreed, then, irritated now, "Where do you suppose those two disappeared to?"

"Tirigan promised us our pick of the women...maybe they started early."

The two men laughed an ugly, knowing sound, but Methos didn't mind; it would be their last. The footsteps sounded closer and Methos pounced, moving solely by instinct. His sword arced through the air until it met with a slight resistance and then sailed free, the motion followed by a soft thump. His body continued the forward movement, allowing him to bury his knife to the hilt into soft, yielding flesh. A grunt, a gasp, a hissing, bubbling whimper...Methos jerked the blade free, already moving before the body could hit the ground. Firelight flared at the other end of the clearing and he crept closer to the milling confusion, scanning the crowd for the enemy positions.

Unfortunately, the wind shifted and he smelled the man a second too late. He tried to spin around, angling his sword behind him in a futile attempt to at least injure his enemy but he was too slow. Something hard and cold crashed into his temple and he slid to the ground in darkness with no further protest. When he blinked heavy lashes open, he shivered from the cold crawling up out of the snow and into his bones, while Sirena held his head in her lap, golden eyes dark with concern. Methos smiled weakly, trying to recall what had happened, then groaned at the pain lancing through his skull. She shot a furtive glance up through her lashes, stroking a soothing hand over his forehead and he closed his eyes on a sigh, lips parting to speak. She effectively muzzled him with one small hand over his mouth.

His first glimpse of Tirigan came as a flash of color over Sirena's shoulder and a huge, bronzed meaty hand that clamped obscenely around the delicate white flesh of her arm, blunt fingers bruising the fragile skin with the pressure he used to drag the girl to her feet. Sirena bit off a surprised cry of anguish that moved Methos into a protective surge forward before he was forced to drop back, vision darkening under a wave of nauseating dizziness.

The broad, flat face, marred by an angry scar that ran from nose to ear, loomed over him, gray eyes flat and eerily empty. Two narrow, oily black braids swung forward, just brushing Methos' cheek, the remainder of the filthy mass caught in a simple tie at the nape of the massive neck. Rough hands caught hold of Methos' shoulders and jerked him to his unsteady feet, the empty slate gaze, abruptly warming with an odd mix of hunger and rage as it wandered over his body. Methos ignored the strange assessment, sparing a glance at the tiny discarded figure, huddled in a protective ball in the snow where she had been tossed. Sirena...a warm ache spread through his chest.

The powerful, open palmed slap across his face brought his attention back where it belonged with a snap. "That was for Khusrau, and Rima, and Tepe, and Resen. This is for the inconvenience." With that, he buried his considerable fist in Methos' stomach and the Immortal doubled over, wheezing and gasping for air. The big man waited patiently for Methos to recover then drove his knee into Methos' crotch.

Methos dropped helplessly to the ground, understanding, of course, what this was all about. He was to be punished as much for being more skilled at defending himself than they had expected as for executing the four invaders. Not that any amount of understanding could make enduring it easier...he screwed his eyes shut and sucked in great gulps of air, the pain intensified by his bruised diaphragm. The vague thoughts scattered in the next instant, his lungs forcibly emptied with the pressure of a bony knee in his back while the sharp blade of a knife teased the tender skin at his neck. Fingers twisted in his hair, dragging his head up and back, the muscles overstretched in an unnatural manner.

"Shall I kill you now? In front of your - what? She your daughter or your whore? Maybe both?" The gravelly voice purred in his ear.

Methos forced himself to remain quiescent beneath the hateful onslaught, horrified at the very idea of taking Sirena to mate. She was but a child, all of perhaps nine seasons and while she might be married within the next season, he preferred not to think of that. Maybe...maybe if the bastard did not realize how much Sirena meant to him...

"It would be so easy...maybe too easy. "

A tiny trickle of blood ran down the smooth column of Methos' distended neck accompanied by a stab of pain as the man drew the blade gently over pale skin, exerting just enough pressure to break the skin.

"Perhaps you would prefer to watch her die...shall I fuck her first?" He snorted with obvious dissatisfaction, arching his pelvis into the prone body below. " Too bad you can't understand me - it would make this much sweeter."

Methos reevaluated his initial assessment of the situation at the sensation of hard, unyielding hips grinding against his shoulder, the unmistakable rigid shaft that slid across his body a revelation. He suspected that whether the pulsing erection resulted from proximity to Methos' body or from the thrill of spilling blood was a critical distinction, one he had no answer to.

"My Lord Tirigan," a hesitant voice broke in.

"What?" Tirigan snarled. "Can't you see I'm busy with this filthy scum?"

"Yes sir, but - we need you sir." The voice wavered under the onslaught of the big man's rage.

Tirigan swore viciously and shoved Methos' face into the snow. "You worthless idiots. What is it about these stupid cows you can't handle? They're just ignorant mountain people, nothing complex about them. By Nergal, you can't even *talk* to them."

Methos felt his arms drawn up high behind his back and bound with a coarse rope before the pressure in the center of his back eased. Then the voice retreated and he lifted his head slowly, instinctively seeking the spot where Sirena had fallen but she was gone. Panicked, he rolled to his side, sweeping his frantic gaze around the clearing until he saw Tirigan's hulking form in the gray light of dawn dragging the child along beside him. He swore and tried to struggle to his feet, but a well placed kick from somewhere behind sent an explosion of pain along his ribs.

He knew it was only the beginning, but he never expected....

Methos shivered under the bite of a chill wind that drew ripples of tiny goose bumps across his naked flesh, and realized with a little shock that the sun had already slipped below the horizon, plunging the desert into almost complete darkness. He tipped his head back to ease the strain in his neck, a wistful smile ghosting across his lips at the sight of millions of tiny diamonds sparkling in the sky, dazzling in their beauty, tantalizing in their remoteness. A small fire cast weak flickers of light into the velvet darkness in a futile attempt to push back the night. Once the concealing blackness had been a relief from the burning sun, now it merely provided a cloak for the more depraved torments Tirigan delighted in.

He rocked back on his heels, listening with dreamy fascination to the soft sounds of the slavers delivering the daily allotments of hardened bread and reduced water to the villagers. He had been four days without the meager rations but it wouldn't be long now. Soon they would arrive in the city, soon Tirigan's reign over him would end, soon he would find out who sent these rabid animals and soon they would be dead. For Sirena, for her gentle mother and for each of the dear ones whose bones lay bleaching in the brutal, merciless desert.

He concentrated as best he could on separating the soft scuffling footfalls on the sand around him, searching for the distinctive heavier, purposeful tread of the head slaver. Methos relaxed for the moment, because Tirigan had disappeared and was not, for once, poised to pounce. The remainder of the sounds came into gradual focus and his stomach muscles clenched in response. The slavers were selecting partners for the evening's activities from the few surviving women but there would be no screams. No longer...the screaming, the protesting, the begging and wailing had all been exhausted already. Helpless, he dug his cracked, broken fingernails into the solid wooden pole and folded his body down, resting his forehead on the sand. His breath came in painful gasps, shallow and shaky. How could he still care? How was it possible that anything still mattered to him after all that had passed already?

He had not meant to draw Tirigan's enmity, he had only intended to attempt negotiations. He kept his panicked gaze on the spot where Tirigan had disappeared with Sirena, cleared his throat and tried to form words his keepers would understand, only to receive a blow across his face that sent the world spinning around him.

"Keep your mouth shut, slave. We have no wish to hear your animal grunts."

Methos blinked and tried again. Surely if they only knew that communication was possible... "But I -" Another slap, and another, wicked, brutal, stunning.

"Shut up. You may be a stupid goat, but even goats are smart enough to understand this."

A flash of blinding hot pain seared through his brain accompanied by a soft, sickening crack with the final impact from the hilt of a sword this time. He toppled over onto the snow again, his vision darkening with the throbbing sensation but he struggled against the swamping unconsciousness, desperate to find Sirena and her family. The two guards stood over him, dark, silent sentinels, waiting for him to move or speak again, but he did not intend to give them that satisfaction, even if he could have formed words around the broken bones.

A short, stout man with swarthy, pock marked skin trotted up to the warriors, but Methos was only vaguely aware of the newcomer. As the man opened his mouth to speak, the screams began. Methos jerked as if he had been physically struck and battled ferociously to gain his feet without the use of his arms. He had taken only three stumbling steps when the rope they had hooked around his neck bit into his skin and jerked him backward.

He dropped to his knees, bowed his head and struggled to speak through the agony. "Please, let me go to them. Please!"

It was no surprise that the warriors did not understand the warped, garbled syllables, but miraculously, his keepers dragged Methos to his feet and hauled him toward the village center anyway. The scene from hell that followed would haunt him to the end of his days.

Tirigan and his men had selected a half dozen Taurid females, some young to the point of obscenity. What they did was worse than rape, the only mercy coming with the sweet peace of death. Wild eyed and maddened, Azala threw himself repeatedly against the restraining arms of two burly men who were faced with a formidable task. Those were his daughters, his sisters, his wife..."Stop! Please! What is it you want? Oh dear gods, please! Anything, anything, anything..."

"Where is it, old man?" Tirigan asked. He trailed a knife blade over smooth white flesh, drawing a snarled pattern of crimson lines with lazy indifference to the flinching, suffering human below. "Just tell me where it is and I'll let them go."

Where was what? Clearly, Azala did not understand Tirigan, Tirigan did not understand Azala. Desperate, Methos tugged on his leash, trying to get closer so that he might be understood, to stop this but his keepers pulled on the rope, controlling him with little effort.

A white hot knife, searing flesh, a tortured, barely human scream, the raw odor of cooking meat...Methos' whole body recoiled, straining for something...something...

"Where is it, old man?"

"Sir, he can't understand you." One of the men observed, shifting his weight uneasily.

Tirigan glanced over his shoulder at the man with amused contempt. "So? If he wants his family alive, he'll figure it out and if there is any treasure to be found with these animals, it will belong to me. Besides, a little demonstration of what I am willing to do to ensure obedience is in order, wouldn't you say?"

Treasure? What treasure? Methos choked, jerking against the rope around his neck in a desperate bid to break free. The man did not reply and Azala sobbed once from the depths of his soul, his mind unhinging at the sight of his family being raped and tortured, and began babbling about the prophecy.

Tirigan returned to his task with a smile. "Still won't tell me? Well, that's fine. We'll just take you all with us to Sippar and let the priests have a turn with you. It would have been easier if you had just shown me." He shook his head and turned back to the six limp bodies, a strange glow lighting his pale gray eyes at the sight of Methos trembling and straining against his leash.

"Please," Methos breathed. "He can't understand you. What is it you want from him? I will tell him - you don't have to do this. Please!" His jaw was healing, but his words were still so distorted Tirigan had no chance of comprehending.

"Muzzle the pet, Mashkan," Tirigan ordered. "And bring him closer. I have a special treat for this one."

He had known then, hadn't he? What was coming? Hadn't the heavy lump in his stomach warned him that the next victim would be her? He fought against the groping hands, screaming and babbling, as incoherent as Azala. Once the gag pressed tight into his mouth, fitting snugly around his swollen jaw, he subsided and watched, eyes burning with savage fury. He could recall every detail of the next hours with perhaps too much clarity. For he listened to each knife stroke, each snapping bone, each pitiful mewling cry and stored it away, saved it until he could repay the favors for her exactly, but multiplied by ten.

Tirigan ran a gentle finger down taut skin of Methos' cheek, a parody of a caress, and rubbed against the salty sweat and tear dampened gag with smug satisfaction. "Remember this, dark one. Remember..." Thick fingers dug into Methos' scalp, ripping at his hair and jerked his head back, forcing him to look at the carnage the flatlanders had wrought. "Look and remember that whatever you were before, you belong to me now. All of you. And all of them."

Methos looked at the ruined mounds of flesh, once fashioned with such perfection, coursing with life and spirit. He looked and smelled the rank odor of human waste, the metallic tang of spilled blood, the lingering acrid scent of burnt flesh. His stomach heaved once, just once, and he whispered a silent prayer for the departed souls.

"You belong to me now. Do you understand?"

Hot, foul breath against his ear, damp, penetrating followed by a long, wet swipe of a thick tongue up his neck; proof that the slaver's absolute authority over Methos included possession of his body. Methos shuddered in revulsion. How far would the man take this? How much humiliation did Tirigan think his captive needed to become quiescent? Quite a lot, as it turned out, but not immediately. The head slaver sank his teeth into the sensitive at Methos' nape hard enough to make the Immortal flinch then stepped back and began to shout orders.

Methos ground his forehead into the sand, welcoming the physical pain as a distraction from the clawing ache of sorrow in his chest. Oh yes, he still cared. In spite of it all, he cared. Eventually, he fell asleep bent over his thighs, unable to keep watch any longer.

The rest of the journey passed in blur, notable only in that Tirigan ceased his torments. He pushed the weakened group to its limits, eager to be rid of his rotting human cargo. They came within sight of the city walls a day and a half after the miraculous storm and were confronted by one final river to cross before they reached the city, a swirling, twisting, mad rush of water that swept five more helpless souls to the underworld.

They entered the city via a back entrance after night had fallen and navigated the narrow twisting streets. Somewhere in the dim distant part of his brain, the part still capable of functioning with some degree of coherency, he was expecting to be hauled to a slave pen where they would be washed, fed, oiled, and prepared to step into the bidding ring in the morning. It didn't happen that way.

They were taken to a dark, looming ziggurat and left in a tiny utterly black room. No one spoke or cried or wailed. They were beyond despair at this point, the death that had once mercilessly stalked them now waited in the wings for them like a dear friend. Methos dropped to his knees on the cold stone floor, groaning a deep sigh of relief as his muscles relaxed.

"What is to become of us?" The hollow, bitter sound of despair rang in the villager's voice.

"Sacrifice, probably," Methos replied laconically, unsure of his reception at this juncture.

"Sacrifice?" Another voice wavered. "How do you know that?"

"I don't, but this is a Ekur and that is most likely." Methos explained with weary patience.

"What is a Ekur?"

"Think of it as a city/temple - of sorts," he suggested, closing his gritty eyes as he leaned his head back against the wall.

"Methos - " Eriel, one of the village women began then stopped. "Methos, I'm sorry..."

"No! Don't." Methos snapped, eyes flying wide to stare blindly into the darkness. His own reaction horrified him, forced as he was to bite back a sob. "Don't. It's all right. We did what we had to, all of us."

"But the children -" Eriel's voice trailed off. "What you did for the children, we can never - "

"We did what we had to. No more."

"No." Azala's hoarse, drained voice floated out of the darkness, its very coherence shocking. He had been nearly catatonic with grief since being forced to watch his family die. This was the first time he had surface from his self absorption. "None of us could have done what you did and survive. We owe you an enormous debt."

Tears burned in Methos' eyes and he took a shallow, shaking breath. In spite of the newfound coherence, he could hear it in the old man's voice. Azala had all but given up and in a very short time, he would be dead. "Azala..."

Methos felt panic clutch at his chest. No, he couldn't let that happen - he had lost too many already. He steadied himself, drew on reserves of strength he had thought already exhausted and groped for indifference. "Don't even think of dying on me, old man. I have better things to do than take responsibility for your pathetic little band. If you die, there will be no one to protect them. Remember that."

Azala laughed softly. "After all you have done? You can't expect me to believe that, Methos. You gave your blood for our children and sacrificed your body to spare my 'pathetic little band'. You love them as fiercely as I. I could ask for no one better to lead them."

Methos winced in the darkness, fully aware of what the head man referred to.

The first leg of the journey had been relatively easy for the slaves. They were used to the biting cold, knee deep snow drifts and thin air. The weak ones, an elderly woman and a small child froze to death, but in general it was their captors that did not handle the journey as well, even bundled in stolen animal skin coats and boots. They cursed and swore and shivered and panted the entire way down the mountain.

It wasn't until they reached the endless wasteland of the desert, where Tirigan and his hell spawn thrived that the tables turned completely. The slavers shed their excess clothing like snakeskin, strutting and flexing their muscles while they stretched sun bronzed limbs to the sky, delighted to finally be back in their element.

It did not take long for the scorching sun to begin claiming victims. In the mountains, snow had provided liquid in excess of the scant cup Tirigan allowed each slave per day, but in the desert, no such relief existed and death swooped mercilessly down upon them with bony fingers and fiery breath. From his position at the front of the column, Methos did not see the beloved faces of those who succumbed to the soothing arms of the grim reaper and did not know whom to grieve for. He knew only that the tightening of the rope around his neck spoke of another beloved fallen, another soul departed. When the night shadows fell and his people huddled together to draw warmth and strength from one another, they would grieve in hushed voices, mourning their dead with a twisted blend of sadness and envy.

Too many gone that way...too damned many. Methos gnawed on his hardened biscuit, mind numb with sorrow. He could still hear Sirena's choked screams echoing in his ears, faint, but ever present. Azala had never really recovered from the shock and horror, his mind overloaded with the agony, which had somehow cast Methos into the role of leader. He wanted to protest the de facto position thrust upon him, but he couldn't. They had suffered so much already...

It took the greatest toll on the children whose growing bodies needed more food and water to survive - more than the quarter to half rations Tirigan allowed them anyway. Methos lost three of the seven children left to them before he hit upon the solution. He wasn't sure when the idea struck him, it just seemed to grow and take on a life of its own. Nor had he been certain that the people would allow it but after the third boy died he had been desperate.

He waited until darkness dropped a protective cloak around them, heavy and full, and explained how they might save the children to his people. The velvety night hid any horror or revulsion that might have chased the extreme measure back beneath its rock or perhaps the bitter suffering of the past weeks had destroyed any taboo that might have been violated. In any case, they agreed; it began that night and lasted for nearly two weeks.

And it worked. It would have continued working if not for Tirigan. The filthy bastard spent a portion of every night tormenting Methos, and the remainder of the time devising new and ever more bold means with which to torture the Immortal. The question of whether the slaver's erection stemmed from the excitement of the violence or Methos' body seemed answered the first night that Tirigan dragged him well away from the camp and crammed his ass full of cock. His only consolation was that if Tirigan was using him, then someone else was spared, and if Methos had assessed the situation correctly, then it was the children he was protecting.

The night his ordeal began in earnest, he had stumbled back to the villagers after the nightly round and lay on the ground recovering. Tirigan had seemed in a good mood that night but that hardly made it easier. When Methos felt more stable, he pushed himself up with a sigh. The villagers took that as a sign that he was prepared to hear grievances and settle disputes, which he did for the next half-hour. He found it amazing that they could squabble over trivialities under such grim conditions, but perhaps their unyielding insistence on tradition was what kept them sane.

As soon as the last case was heard, he used the sharp edge of a rock to open one of the veins in his wrist and pressed the pulsing artery to a small mouth. The child sucked, eager for the sustenance if not enthusiastic about the source. He knew that his blood would provide them with what they needed to survive the hellish trek. Since he started forcing them to drink his blood, the condition of all four children had improved markedly. If only Tirigan had not gotten suspicious and watched that night...

Methos shoved the thought away and snorted his derision. "Dream on, old one. I did nothing for your people but provide the slavers with more meat to feast upon. You can't really think I *meant* to save them! If I hadn't fed them, there would have been fewer bodies for the parasites to use and I had enough to deal with as it was. Think about it - there is nothing to bind me to any of you." Silence greeted him but he couldn't tell if he had been convincing enough and he had to be sure. Heart aching, he took the final step to sever himself from them. "If it weren't for you and your miserable flock of leeches, I would still be free and Sirena would still be alive."

A sharp gasp hissed through the darkness and an empty triumph filled his heart. There. That would do it.

"Methos - " Azala's voice faltered and then all was utterly still but for the soft, hoarse sounds of labored breathing. There was nothing left to be said.

Methos pressed back against the cool, smooth stone wall, welcoming the stinging pain of blisters tearing and of stone grit irritating the tender surface.

The villagers settled down to catch what little sleep their abused bodies and unknown captors would allow. They could do nothing to halt or alter what the morning would bring and many of them were too exhausted to stay awake any longer.

Methos had no hope of sleep and stayed awake until dawn. He who had once been beloved of the gods, now was cursed. Again; how capricious and fickle the fates and furies truly were...he closed his eyes with a dangerous fatigue stealing over him. Whom had he angered this time? How much more punishment could he endure from the gods? He had tried to be faithful and perform his duties without dereliction, but he couldn't have stayed in Ba'al's temple any longer. It had been impossible and surely, surely Ba'al understood that. And yet that did not seem to be the case, considering he had experienced no peace since leaving.

An endless time later, the door swung silently open, spilling blinding pulses of light into the inky blackness. Surfacing from the self-absorbed misery of thirst, Methos flinched from the glare, realizing dimly that being as deep in the bowels of the ziggurat as they were, the flickering brilliance could only be torchlight. He blinked away unexpected tears of pain, squinting in an unsuccessful attempt to identify the latest threat.

"This is it?" A cultured male voice demanded in disbelief. "This sorry lot of - of - human *waste* is all that survived?"

"What did you *do* to them?" A female voice this time, full of horror and rage.

"Well, you said I didn't need to coddle them." The deep, defensive bass tones belonged to Tirigan.

"Yes, but I didn't tell you to torture them. I rather expected there to be more than a dozen left to choose from. You idiot!" The cultured male again, his words dripping with icy fury. "Well, there is nothing to be done now. How have you communicated with them? There probably isn't a one of them intelligent enough to understand a civilized tongue." Arrogant disgust edged into the smooth voice.

Tirigan laughed, a low, dark, familiar sound and Methos tensed, knowing what it meant. "Stand back and let me show you how we 'communicate' with the animals." A hiss followed by a loud crack and a scream of inhuman anguish. Brutally roused from his sleep, the man jerked, struggling awkwardly to his knees and dropped his head as low as possible to the ground in a position of groveling servitude. The three people silhouetted in the torchlight murmured appreciatively.

Methos ground his teeth together in an attempt to keep the words that sprang to his lips from tumbling free. For four weeks he had kept his traitorous mouth shut, figuring that any knowledge he possessed that his captors did not was to his advantage. He had been silent through four miserable weeks of the most savage acts of unspeakable inhumanity and he was going to break the silence over such a small thing? For the love of the gods, it was only a whip.

His eyes had begun to adjust to the light and he could vaguely make out the three figures. Tirigan, clearly outlined with his broad shouldered, muscular bulk, the cultured voiced man, tall and slender in dark robes standing next to a barely shorter but slighter built figure that must have been the female. Methos heard the whip slither across floor, saw Tirigan coil the leather with well practiced intent, readying himself for another graphic demonstration.

/It's only a whip./ The Immortal repeated desperately to himself as he fought against the overwhelming compulsion for a moment longer. Tirigan reached for Azala, dragging the unresisting figure forward and then Methos had no choice; his mouth opened against his will and the words just tumbled out. "If it's communication you have in mind, I believe Greek might be a better choice. Several of the villagers did speak Greek& although I don't know if any of them are alive now." Raw, hesitant, hoarse but unmistakably the same educated syllables as the man and woman had been speaking.

It stopped Tirigan as effectively as running into a wall and the stunned silence spun out in the dank room, heavy and hollow.

"Who said that?" The man demanded in a strained tone.

Methos kept his mouth shut and his head bent, savagely biting down on his rebellious tongue hard enough to draw blood. /Now is a fine time to rediscover prudence./

"Who said that?" The man's voice again, softer, insistent, much more deadly now. "Speak up quickly or I will have each remaining piece of filth in here flayed to the bone."

Head submissively bent, Methos laughed bitterly. "Is that supposed to be frightening?" He asked with genuine amusement. "What makes you think that death scares anyone here?"

Silence again, deep and taut with unspoken rage.

"Fine. If you wish to play games, we will play games." The man motioned carelessly toward the tangled heap of damaged humanity and Tirigan instantly sprang forward.

At the same moment, Methos lifted his head regally and stared directly at the dark, blurred figure of the man in charge. "I have no wish to play games. What is it you want from us?"

"Come to me boy." The man's voice sharpened, tightened, each sound clearly enunciated, the motion of his hand halting Tirigan's advance effortlessly.

Methos hesitated no longer now that he had revealed himself, understanding clearly that the man would call upon Tirigan for assistance and that was a joy he would willingly forgo. He struggled to his feet and picked his way through the sprawled bodies that lay between them, halting directly in front of the unholy trio.

He met the man's gaze directly, impassively, suppressing a shiver at the dark, grim eyes lined with kohl and ringed with long, luxurious lashes. The harsh, bronze features were roughly chiseled, leaving the man with a long, hawk nose, broad, flat cheekbones and a wide mouth that might have been sensual if not for the cruel twist at the corners.

"Take that thing off him." Hawk Nose snapped, indicating the long pole that still bound Methos' wrists at shoulder level.

Tirigan shifted uneasily, an odd expression lighting his eyes. "Is that wise, my Lord? He *is* an unbroken slave after all. And this one has been nothing but trouble from the time we took the village."

"And what do you think he's going to do to me? You've starved him, beaten him, dragged him across the desert, I would be surprised if he has the strength to climb the stairs to the temple let alone attack me. Now take it off." Hawk nose repeated impatiently.

"Perhaps Tirigan is correct," the soft female voice interjected doubtfully. "He doesn't look very civilized."

Methos briefly shifted his eyes to the woman and took in the small, elegant features framed by masses of sleek black hair, elaborately braided and coiled. Her brown eyes, glinting with wariness, were also ringed with kohl and enhanced with a pinkish bronze eye shadow, her full lips set in a firm mutinous line of disapproval. Her copper skin glowed with health even in the dim light, combining with the delicate bones of her face to give her the look of a child. He felt an involuntary smile tug at his mouth. The innocent looking ones were hands down the most dangerous.

"You try looking civilized after a month long jaunt in the desert with no clothing or water. It does wonders for the complexion." Methos thought, unaware that he had spoken the cutting words aloud.

Tirigan's fist met his jaw with a stunning blow. Methos staggered, grappling for balance, and dropped heavily to his knees. "Show some respect to your betters, slave." Tirigan hissed, coiling his whip for action.

"That will do." Hawk Nose interceded, dark eyes assessing Methos with renewed interest. "Release him." He commanded again, waving further objections away. Reluctantly, the big man sliced the ropes and stepped back as the pole clattered unhindered to the floor. Methos stifled a groan and tried to ease his arms down to his sides. It had been a month since he had enjoyed freedom of this sort and it was both heaven and hell - heavenly to be free and capable of changing positions, hell because his muscles were frozen in this awkward position, screaming in agony at the slightest movement.

"Who are you, boy?" Hawk Nose asked.

"Methos. I am Methos," the Immortal rasped, fighting the agony in his shoulders and arms.

"Methos." Hawk Nose mused, eyes narrowing. "Tell me Methos, do you hail from the mountains along with your - companions?"

Methos shook his head.

Hawk nose inspected Methos' naked, blood and dirt encrusted body impersonally, lip curling in disgust at the sight of each hunger etched rib. He shot a malevolent glance at Tirigan. "Do you have any idea what you've done, you fool?" He hissed. "It will take weeks for him to heal."

Tirigan lifted his shoulders in a careless gesture that would cost him. Clearly furious, Hawk Nose balled hands into fists, nostrils flaring with emotion, then lifted his arm and backhanded the slaver across the face. A flash of surprise chased a flicker of fear across Tirigan's face and he gingerly probed the blood trickling from a new gash on his cheek. Methos ducked his head, trying to hide the surge of satisfaction swelling in him at the sight of the slaver being humbled so but he wasn't quick enough. Tirigan caught the sparkle of amusement and his face darkened even further.

"When next I give you an order," Hawk nose commanded coldly, "you will pay attention. If such a fiasco should happen again, you will pay for it with your life." He turned back to Methos, eyeing him with calculated appraisal. "He *is* the One," he breathed, reverently, almost to himself. "He must be - what say you, Sidduri?"

"I say watch where your cock leads you," the woman replied dryly. "He's a pretty one underneath all that filth, but do not let your lust overtake your instinct."

Methos stilled. Damn, he thought grimly although it wasn't anything new to him. He had taken male lovers before though he generally preferred to choose his own partners. He tried to console himself with the knowledge that sex with Hawk Nose probably wasn't the worst fate he could draw as he studied her face carefully from beneath his lashes. She caught the look and smiled with sly malice. Oh yes, it was always the innocent looking ones who contained the deepest evil.

"You can always take this one to whore once we find the One."

"You go too far!" Hawk Nose snarled, suddenly defensive as he flushed hotly. "He *is* the One. All the signs are there."

Sidduri shrugged. "Fine. You are convinced." She snapped her fingers and two more dark forms materialized. "Take this one and clean him up."

The blood flowing into Methos' extremities combined with his Immortal constitution had already improved his mobility considerably. He stepped forward obediently, then paused and glanced back into the room, biting his tongue to keep from asking what would happened to them.

"You should be more concerned about your own fate than that of these worthless slaves." Sidduri observed, catching his look.

Methos shrugged and bit down on his wayward tongue.

"They will be cared for, never fear." Sidduri regarded him with no small amusement. "Remember, Ragnar may be convinced that you are the Chosen One, but I am not. Tread carefully, pretty one."

"Enough!" Hawk Nose - Ragnar snarled. "You will see, you faithless creature. You will see. And then -"

Sidduri waved her hand negligently. "Surely our Lord Shamash will not begrudge me a bit of skepticism."

The words followed Methos down the dark corridor as he resolutely trudged after the shadowy, white robed figures that had been summoned for him. Shamash - a ripple of relief traced down his spine. The Sumerian sun god, upholder of truth and justice - circumstances could have been much worse. He could have landed in a temple dedicated to Ninurta, the god of war, or Zaltu, the goddess of strife. He was immensely cheered by the realization, in spite of the very real potential for winding up as a temple prostitute or Hawk Nose's personal toy. While it did not rule out the sacrifice of himself or one or more of the villagers, the odds had improved dramatically.

The hellaciously costly journey across the desert could be laid at the feet of that stupid oaf Tirigan and his limited capacity for understanding simple instructions and Methos fully intended to extract his revenge as soon as possible. He shivered involuntarily, feeling Sidduri's malevolent gaze burning into his retreating back. Now she was dangerous - there was little doubt she would bear close watching.

Part 2

He comes to bring your soul to where it belongs
He will give you the dark and black
A ghastly scream from an inhuman shape
and your body is layed to rest
A giant evil inside your soul will take you

-Tiamat, 'The Malicious Paradise'

Clean. Days later, Methos still marveled at the miracle that brought him to this state. After spending a month wallowing in his own filth, he could not wash his newly golden skin enough. Prolonged exposure to the wicked sun on the harsh trek across the desert had served to darken the pigment of his skin to a lovely golden brown leaving him with a nearly native appearance.

After the dirt and blood had been gently washed away, Ragnar and Sidduri had been astonished to find his skin smooth and unblemished. For Ragnar, it was but another proof that Methos was the One they had been seeking. For Sidduri, it was another odd shaped piece, one that she still suspected came from a different puzzle than the one they were struggling to complete. Regardless, Methos was well fed and watered, clothed in soft, comfortable garments, and marked as a slave with elegant bronze wristbands and collar.

He adjusted to temple life with relative ease - it was not the first time he had been called to serve the gods and he had more or less determined that one civilization's gods were pretty much the same as another with the notable exception of the names. His duties in the temple were mentally unchallenging and included mostly sweeping floors, cleaning and caring for sacred objects, and serving the priests. And so he watched and waited patiently, waiting for - what? What did he think he was going to do? Kill Tirigan, to be sure, but he had not planned beyond that. It would have been much easier if all the Taurids had died instead of only half of them. He winced at the grim thought, but he frustrated at being torn between his vow to avenge Sirena's death and his unusually compelling need to protect the remaining villagers while his instinct for self-preservation, it seemed, was taking a holiday.

He soon learned that Ragnar served Shamash as a junior priest, while Sidduri possessed an even lower rank and couldn't understand how anyone with such a lowly position could wield enough power to order the enslavement of a village. Nothing more had been said about Ragnar taking Methos to 'whore' and Methos had not seen any of the villagers since he left them in the hell hole below the temple. Nor had the subject of the 'One' been broached anywhere in his hearing and while he privately wondered about such things, he kept his head down and did not ask any questions. Occasionally, while bent to over some menial task, he felt Ragnar's hot, heavy gaze boring into him and knew that with the sufficient application of patience, the whole story would eventually unravel.

It was a month in coming. The day had been wickedly hot, so much so that even the usually cooler air of the temple hung, limp and sticky. Nightfall was gratefully welcomed, but did not bring much relief from the heat. Methos lay naked and sweating on his pallet, the light sheet clinging to his wet flesh like another layer of skin. With an impatient hiss, he lurched up and peeled the fabric away, cursing as he raked his hands roughly through his damp hair. *This* was why he had been heading north into the mountains, to escape the hellish heat of the desert regions. He had spent far too many years baking his brain under the unforgiving sun and had tired of the endless sandy vista.

Claustrophobia suddenly pressed in on him and he rolled to his feet, silently making his way to the corridor. Some inner voice of prudence reminded him it was forbidden to leave the slave quarters at night but he willfully ignored it in favor of satisfying a deep longing for the brush of a single breath of air on his body.

He must have taken a wrong turn somewhere in the sparsely lit darkness because he found himself in an unfamiliar part of the temple, spiraling downward. He almost turned back. It was so obviously the wrong direction that later he could not have said why he *didn't* retrace his steps, to return either to the slave quarters or to complete his trek to the outdoors, only that he didn't.

As he progressed deeper into the bowels of the temple, he squinted at the writing illuminated by flickering torchlight on the walls, wondering at the odd, unfamiliar symbols etched into the stone. It had vaguely the same shape and rhythm as the inscriptions he was familiar with, but was somehow twisted. He couldn't say for certain what it was about the symbols that struck him in such a sinister way, just that the sight of it roused an uneasy tension at the back of his neck.

After dropping down another level, he began to feel a distant throbbing against his skin and in his ears. Another level allowed him to distinguish the individual thrum of drums mingled with the low, insistent rise and fall of human voices chanting. Methos shivered, hard, struggling against the impulse to run back, up into the simple dark veil of the night and away from the murky evil that wrapped around him like a cloak. It might have been his imagination that dimmed the reach of the torches, denying the warmth of the light penetration into the deep, oily, almost tangible gloom that thickened as he moved farther down the hallway.

A hollow, hopeless scream split the air a moment later and he drew to a sluggish halt, snapped back to clarity. What in the name of the gods was he doing here? He had no business here, no reason to investigate, no stake here. How had he even come to be here? Panicked, he spun around, knowing somehow that if he could just make it back, he could return to playing the ignorant slave, interested in no more than completing his given tasks and receiving his daily allotment of food.

The corridor behind him was utterly black, all torchlight gone as if it had never been. Methos felt his breath freeze and his heart stop in his chest on a massive surge of terror. Oh gods&oh precious gods. His mind flashed through a series of possible actions in rapid succession, rejecting each one in turn as he stood statue still in the darkness. Gingerly, he stretched his hand out to the side with the vague intention of retracing his steps using the blessed solidity of the wall as a guide, but his groping hands connected with empty air. It was as though the entire temple had vanished into the oily blackness, one stone at a time.

But he wasn't crazy -- he wasnt . He willfully dragged himself back from the edge of madness with an almost tangible jerk. He had followed something down this far; the hallway had been well lit. Shivering, he glanced over his shoulder and felt his consciousness upend again. Behind him, the corridor glowed invitingly, the light from the flickering torches beckoning to him. A shiver took him. Something wanted him to continue& something&. With a deep breath, he turned, squared his shoulders, pulled up on his flagging courage and proceeded, without looking back again. What choice did he have anyway?

The sound of the throbbing drums and human voices led him to an arched doorway, encircled by unfamiliar, arcane symbols engraved in glossy black stone blocks and shaded ever so slightly with a light dusting of gold. A red/gold light spilled out from the room beyond onto the passage floor, pulsing in time with the drumbeats. Another inhuman shriek rose and fell and Methos trembled on the threshold, dimly aware that once he crossed, nothing would ever be the same again. And then he was inside, beyond any hope of return or salvation.

Wet heat slapped his already feverish skin although he felt colder than he ever had in his life and a thick, pungent, sulfurous odor that burned his eyes, stung the inside of his nostrils, and sent his stomach roiling in response. Hesitant, he placed one foot on the first step of a long, rough-hewn stairway that led down into a massive cavern with a ceiling that stretched up an impossible three hundred feet from the floor. A blood red river swam lazily through the center of the subterranean room, serving as something of a dividing line, though what it divided was, as yet, unclear. On Methos' side of the river, an elaborate dais, equipped with a stone sacrificial altar and a huge statute of a winged lion surrounded by several smaller statues was clearly visible with a masked, robed priest leaning over a prone figure bound to the black marble slab.

The chanting swelled, rose to a frenzied pitch and then utterly ceased. He had every right to be frightened...anyone would be frightened, he reasoned, scarcely able to hear the comforting words over the pounding of his blood past his ear drums. He didn't dare turn toward the door, certain that the sheer rock canyon now extended over the door, and equally certain that if he actually saw it, that there was no escape, his tenuous grasp on sanity would slip a notch farther. As long as he didn't look, he could pretend escape was a possibility.

He inched down the stairway, totally vulnerable and exposed. There was nothing to hide him and he was armed only with a bronze slave collar and wristbands. Which, when he stopped to think about it, was stupid to begin with. There were probably a hundred people crowded in front of the dais and nothing he could conceive of would be an effective defense against that many people. Still, he was a slave, and that should afford him some modicum of protection. /Right./ He snorted to himself. /At what point does property ownership come between a priest and his sacrifice? Not often enough to risk it./ Now, if he could just choke back this suffocating terror and get close enough to see...

He had seen no human sacrifices during his time in the temple, which led him to believe that the worship of Shamash did not include them. Apparently that did not apply to all the gods of Sippar if the poor unfortunate sacrifice struggling on the altar was any example. He tried to reconcile the smattering of knowledge he had picked up about the Sipparan gods in the past month with what he was seeing now but couldn't come up with anything that fit. Generally, Sippar appeared to be a civilized place, but perhaps that was nothing more than a veneer that concealed a rotting core.

It wasn't that Methos didn't believe in gods or in magic, because he did. He had too much experience with the inexplicable to discount such possibilities. Prayer and human sacrifice, on the other hand, were a whole different story. Prayer assumed that the gods actually cared what happened on earth, which Methos doubted, and he firmly believed that human sacrifice was a means for priests to rid themselves of their most troublesome enemies in an acceptable fashion. In this case, it wasn't just the murders that were unacceptable but the entire sect - why else would the ceremonies be held in the middle of the night in the bowels of the temple?

There was some bit of wisdom he was overlooking in that thought. Maybe that if they had to worship under the cover of darkness in secret he had no damned business being here, Methos thought wryly.

But then, he hadn't had a choice from the moment he rose from his pallet to catch a breath of fresh air. Just what exactly was compelling him he really couldn't say, all he knew was that something continued to drag him forward, step by reluctant step.

His feet brought him closer and closer to the eerily silent crowd and he automatically strained to see what was behind the flurry of activity on the dais, but once he caught a glimpse of the gruesome scene, he wished he hadn't tried to look. He could have lived the rest of his life without seeing that....he wobbled on unsteady legs, groping for the solidity of the stone steps,amazed that after five hundred years, he still retained the capacity to be shocked.

The grotesque, bird masked priest wielded a long hook with repulsive expertise, inserting it into the victim's nostril, snagging a loop of a gray ropelike brain from inside the head and dragging it out, yard by yard. As the stuff came free, he piled it in a bowl, chanting softly in a completely unfamiliar language. The body on the table no longer even twitched. It's chest and abdomen were recognizable as such only by their location with respect to the head, so drenched in blood and gore were they. Someone had taken a great deal of time and expended much effort to create the artistic masterpiece, complete with the skin prickling screams that had drawn Methos down here.

The bird priest finished his grisly task, took the bowl, and held it high. He removed a portion of the unwound brain then passed the bowl down to one of the supplicants in the front row. Methos gagged as each black robed figure in turn reverently took a piece of the sacrifice and ate it. Oh gods, sanity or no, he was finding a way out of here. He started to spin on the steps but a crashing blow to his temple stole his intent along with his awareness.

He hadn't been unconscious for long. He knew that because he was still being dragged toward the altar when he came back to himself. It took several critical seconds for him to recall the situation and by then it was far too late to struggle, but he did anyway. He couldn't help himself. He might be Immortal, but he had to question whether he would survive having his brains dragged through his nose and it wasn't something he wanted to experience even if he were able to come through it. He landed a couple of good blows, only because his black robed captors were not expecting resistance.

The crowd parted magically before the two guards and their struggling burden who set a course directly for the dais. Methos had to clamp down hard on his lip to keep from screaming his terror out; it wasn't likely to do much good after all. He rapidly began to revise his theories about prayer, wondering if it was too late to repent and beg the gods to save him from this fate. He decided it couldn't hurt to try and sent a flurry of frantic prayers winging toward Baal Hadad or whatever god whose mercy he might suceed in appealing to. At this late stage, he wasn't sure he would be able to attract anyone's attention.

The bulky men holding his arms in such a tight grip literally threw him to his knees before the blood streaked altar and the bird masked priest, retreating to hover nearby in case their particular talents were needed again.

Cautious, Methos looked up into the bird face, shivering as his gaze was unwillingly held by the only part of the true face that was revealed, the wildly glittering eyes. He hadn't been bound to the altar and that gave rise to some hope. The priest made a ponderous motion with his hand and his smaller assistant hurried forward carrying a chalice. The priest dipped his fingers in the cup and pulled them back dripping with a crimson fluid Methos knew had to be blood from the carcass that lay on the altar behind them.

Silence hung heavy and expectant around them while the priest painted arcane symbols on Methos' left cheek then turned his head and painted something different on the right cheek. Methos held steady beneath the minstrations. He had no way of knowing if the special care and attention meant that he was destined to be something other than meat for them or if this was simply their way of preparing another sacrifice. It was hard to not to panic, though, with gutted parts from the thing that had once been a man laying in a carefully arranged pattern around the empty shell.

Drawings complete, the bird priest held the still steaming chalice high, chanted a bit more, and poured the remaining blood over Methos' head. While it wasn't the worst thing that had ever happened to him, he didn't particularly care for being annointed with blood. He quickly retracted the thought - things could be so much worse...and, of course, then they got worse.

The smaller priest stepped forward and offered Methos a long, gray strand of brain. He swallowed hard, feeling his stomach heave at the thought of actually consuming it, but obediently opened his mouth and allowed the flesh to be laid on his tongue. With a quick, convulsive movement, he gulped it down whole, forcing his wobbling stomach to subside and just take it. So far so good.

The next moment, the bird priest held out a pinkish gray thing, far too large to be consumed without some effort, centered on a decorative tray. Methos eyed it warily and desperately hoped he wasn't supposed eat it. An intricately carved dagger flashed in the flickering torchlight and the organ split in two. The bird priest picked up one half, held it high, and blessed it, or so it appeared. Then he brought it to his lips and tore off a large chunk with his teeth, eyes locked on Methos.

A shiver rippled down his back and Methos sighed. He *was* expected to eat it. /Perhaps you would rather have your brains dragged out with a fish hook?/ No, he wouldn't, thank you very much. Swiping the back of his hand absently over his face painted a sticky smear of blood across his forehead and he grimaced at the same time he lifted the warm organ to his mouth and took a bite. The blood tasted coppery and sweet, better than he might have imagined it would, while the flesh felt rubbery and wrong against his teeth, but he persevered until the entire revolting thing lay in his stomach.

As if by some prearranged signal, the instant the final piece slid down his throat, the hushed anticipation hanging over the crowd exploded into loud cheers. Methos jumped, totally at a loss to understand what had just transpired, eyes sweeping up in question to the bird masked priest to no good end. The priest was already in motion, his movements so rapid, precise and practiced it was almost a blur.

A small pile of organs harvested from the body of the sacrifice seemed to spontanenously burst into flame, the chanting and drumming began in unison, and the priest appeared to leviatate to the top of a pillar positioned directly beside the winding river that split the cavern. Amazing...Methos marveled, then a frisson of unease rippled through his body and he nearly groaned out loud; he didn't want to find out what lived on the other side of the river.

He angled a sidelong glance at the bloody body still pinned open on the altar with its limbs spread, his gaze snagging with sickening, unrelenting clarity on the face. While it too was so smeared with blood it was nearly unrecognizable, Methos found he was able to identify the man who had once been Azala. His eyes remained fixed on the corpse, a cold fist clenching in his stomach. Azala's blood, Azala's body, Azala's life....that there had been nothing he could do to prevent the fate of the man who had been almost as a father to him did not matter. That he would likly be bleeding alongside his friend and mentor had he not accepted the body parts offered to him was irrelevant.

Rage swelled in his chest sweeping away the fear, so powerful it was nearly uncontrollable. He clenched his teeth, squeezed his fingers into fists, and tried to concentrate on breathing, something that had become incredibly difficult around the lump of anger in his throat. This would not go unanswered, he vowed. First Sirena,then her mother and all the rest who had died en route, now Azala. He hadn't forgotten any of them, but somehow in the daily routine of sweeping and cleaning and cooking and so many other things, the fires of vengance had become banked, particularly since Tirigan had disappeared shortly after their arrival. This latest infamy fanned the flames into a raging bonfire. And yet...

What difference would it make? An unreasonable surge of resentment rose alongside the burning rage. What difference did it ever make? They were mortals and mortals died. It was just what they did. It didn't matter how much you loved them or tried to protect them, they still wound up dying. Had he learned nothing about that in five hundred years? A curse hissed through his teeth. What was the point in being mortal anyway?

A cloud of smoke began billowing from a crevasse on the opposite side of the river, lit from somewhere within by a red glow. The chanting grew more frenzied, more frightened and Methos found his attention abruptly refocused on the latest threat emerging from the mist.

Another cloud of smoke, thicker and colored a vibrant crimson swirled up in whirlpool-like eddies, followed by hissing, popping and a flare of fire. The chanting and drums ceased, once again in perfect unison, while the black robed figures prostrated themselves on the ground in neat rows. Whatever this thing was, it commanded respect.

A truly unbelievable creature crept up out of the crack in the floor of the cave, turning Methos' bowels watery and softening his knees. It was literally only a crack, but the thing emerging needed the three hundred foot ceiling to stretch out. As its body somehow flowed out of the crevice on the curling mist, it took on solid form, a bit at a time until the black shape drew up to its full height, towering over the supplicants laid out before it. Methos had never seen anything like it in all the years he had been wandering the earth.

It closely resembled the winged lion statue, but instead of the anticipated fur covering, its body was blanketed by slick, shiny black reptilian scales and fire fanned out from wide, moist, nostrils. When it spoke, Methos could *feel* the meaning of the words. He still could not understand the language they were speaking, but he knew somehow what the lion was meant.

"Why have you summoned me?"

The bird priest replied in humble, beseeching tones, waving a hand back toward Methos and the mess on the table.

"Where is my new servant?"

//Servant?// Methos felt suddenly dizzy, his heart slamming hard against his ribs in response. //What might that entail, serving something like this?// He had the uneasy suspicion that he knew exactly where this was going.

The smaller priest caught Methos by the arm and dragged him forward to kneel directly beside bird priest's pillar, shoving his head to the floor and holding it there with a firm grip on the back of his neck. It probably wasn't necessary, given his unsettled state.
A long silence ensued broken only by huffing breaths from the thing across the river and then, "He will do. You have chosen well and I am pleased."

//Pleased?// Well, that certainly sounded good...so why he wasn't he reassured? The pressure on his neck eased, to his relief, which allowed him to sit up - he felt more comfortable being able to see. More words came from the bird priest and suddenly, Azala's body shimmered and disappeared, reforming on the other side of the river in front of the reptilian lion/bird. It sniffed at the ruined body, licked at the torn skin with a long, forked tongue and began to crawl back toward its lair. Numb with shock, eyes burning, Methos watched the enormous black shape disappear back into the gap, dragging Azala's body with it and whispered a soft prayer for the old man's soul.

He did not know how long he remained kneeling at the edge of the dais, frozen by a maelstorm of grief, terror, and rage. When he looked up, he saw the line of black robed bodies climbing the steps and struggled to his feet, galvanized by the truly unappetizing thought of being left behind here with that thing. He had taken no more than two steps when his elbows were caught and held, firm but not painful, and the two guards guided him to a room beneath the altar. He still didn't like the idea of staying here, but he didn't have much choice.

The bird priest stood at one end of the small room, his assistant at the other. The guards shoved Methos forward and closed the door behind him. The firm thudding sound rattled through his bones and he wondered if he would ever leave this room.

The bird priest tugged off his mask to reveal Ragnar, which somehow didn't surprise Methos as much as it probably should have. He glanced over at the smaller priest and mentally identified Sidduri.

"Welcome to Lord Nergal's fold, Methos," Ragnar said, eyes shining with satisfied fervor. "We've been waiting for a month for you to come to us....Sidduri, wine." He snapped over his shoulder. "I knew if you were to come, it would be the old man who would bring you. Did I not say so, Sidduri?"

So Ragnar was responsible for Azala's gruesome fate. Methos filed the information away, breathing carefully through the fiery rage flaring in him. To what end had Azala died? Who was Nergal? He'd not heard that name before.
The still masked figure shrugged indifferently, her stiff posture speaking loudly of her dislike at being forced to serve a slave.

"I told you he was the one, did I not? I just knew it!" Ragnar crowed, sipping at the wine Sidduri handed to him. "We must call Tirigan back. I have use for him here..."

Methos cautiously accept his own wine with considerably less enthusiasm. Anything acquired from Sidduri was suspect, especially as she was not happy about the role she'd been commanded to play here. He squinted into the dark liquid depths, struggling for comprehension. Clearly he was to become a part of this underground sect who served the lion beast and yet there were so many unanswered questions. Such as why him? How had they come to choose him? And who was Nergal? "What is this all about?" He finally ventured, selecting the a question off the top of the stack, one that was comprehensive enough to hopefully answer several at once.

Ragnar leaned back in his chair with a wide grin. "Several moons ago, we were told by Lord Nergal to find another priest for his fold. He told us that this priest would come from a small village in the Zargos Mountains and would be the one to lead us into a new era of darkness. I sent Tirigan to find you but it hasn't been an easy task." Ragnar laughed, shaking his head ruefully. "How many villages have we gone through, Sidduri? Four? Five? You were none too easy to find, my friend." The priest lifted his goblet to his lips and waved at the seat opposite. "Sit, sit. We have much to discuss."

"But Tirigan said something about a treasure. What - " Methos protested, sickened at the thought of five entire villages suffering the fate of the Taurids.

Ragnar chuckled and shook his head. "There never was a treasure, as I'm sure you are aware. You must understand, Tirigan is a simple man with simple tastes. I had to make sure he would not be derelict in his duty, so I told him there was a great treasure hidden with one of the mountain tribes and bade him go fetch it for me."

Methos nodded, aware that the priest was paying no attention to Sidduri's stiff posture and hadn't seen the change come over her. If the astonished, outraged expression on her face was any indication, she had not been privy to the lie told to Tirigan. He filed that piece of information away as well - one never knew what might eventually prove useful.

"But why me?" The question just slipped out. It was one he probably should have left unasked and simply accepted the benefits of his new position, but he couldn't.

"That's what I would like to know," Sidduri murmured from her self selected position by the wall. "You have not thought this through, Ragnar. He is nothing more than a slave to be used at our discretion until he proves himself otherwise. How many others have we brought Lord Nergal who have failed him? You will spoil him for work in the Temple and then we will all be sorry."

"I am aware of your feelings on this matter, my dear, but you worry too much. Methos is smarter than that. He knows where to place his loyalty, do you not?" Ragnar glanced over at Methos who nodded. Did he actually have some other option? "See? You have too little faith in Lord Nergal's choice."

"Lord Nergal hasn't chosen him, *you* have." She pointed out, arms crossed over her chest in an oddly protective gesture. "Tell him why you are so certain he is the One we seek."

"Lord Nergal told us that the One we seek would be living in the mountains but not come from there." Ragnar shrugged and scowled, apparently uncomfortable. "And I feel it."

Methos cast an enigmatic, sidelong glance at priestess, understanding her objections far better now. "I see. Who is Lord Nergal?"

"Lord Shamash's brother, the shadow god." Ragnar regarded Sidduri with narrowed eyes.

"Oh." However unwelcome, the news was not much of a surprise. //Remember, Methos, it could always be worse.// He acknowledged the veracity of that that thought and offered an offhand prayer of thanks to the gods for his good fortune. Good fortune, it seemed, was an entirely relative concept but he felt compelled to cover all possibilities. Of course, for a man who did not believe in prayer, he was certainly tapping that resource a lot lately.

"What will it take to convince you he is the One? He came when we called him, he partook of the sacrament, he was annoited in blood. What more do you want?"

"I don't know." She admitted. "There is just something not right about him, something strange."

Methos felt his skin crawl with the force of her assessing gaze. She was, of course, correct. There was something not right about him, though she couldn't possibly know what.

"Mark my words, he will bring only trouble."

Ragnar shook his head impatiently. "You'll have to come up with something better than that, Sidduri. I know you have your own ideas of who the One is, but your little pet was never receptive enough to come when he was called. Now, enough. We must discuss your training, Methos."

Methos suppressed a wince and returned Ragnar's broad smile with a weak one of his own, hyperaware of Sidduri's simmering resentment. He would have liked to allow her 'pet' to take over the role of the One. Being the harbinger of a new era of destruction did not sound like something he wanted to take on, had he been given a choice. Unfortunately, his choices these days were drastically limited.

Part 3

Thwack!

Methos jerked awake, the stinging pain of the rod across his shoulders startling him only marginally more than the loud crack of wood slapping against his flesh.

"Pay attention, Methos! This is important!" Ragnar snapped, delivering another impatient smack to Methos' upper back with the long rod he had been using to draw symbols in the sand on the floor.

Methos blinked owlishly in the dim torchlight, fighting the waves of exhaustion that dragged at his limbs. He had been harnessed to a pottery wheel today and spent the day walking in a circle with half a dozen other slaves and his body was teetering on the edge of completely shutting down. Ragnar, however, would brook no interruption in his training schedule and insisted Methos stay awake for lessons. //Try to stay awake.// He privately amended, seeing as how he was failing so miserably at his given assignment. He supposed he should be grateful that Ragnar's blows were landing above the still healing latticework of lashes that decorated most of his back. He hadn't actually been disobedient or slow; in fact he couldn't point to any specific reason he had been chosen to receive the whip other than general motivation.

"I'm sorry, master. I will endeavor to do better." Methos murmured, only half-ironic.

"We haven't got a lot of time, you understand." Ragnar began in a stern voice, and Methos tuned the oft repeated lecture out. He had heard it so many times he could give it himself by now. It went along the lines of how Nergal had said there was only a year before everything would be in place for the new era to begin and that the One had to be ready to take his place by then. It proceeded with the fact that Methos was utterly ignorant of the language, chants and rituals used in the worship of this god and that he was proving to be a wretchedly slow student, completely overlooking the fact that Methos spent all damned day working as a slave and half the night trying to learn a language that should have been totally overhauled long ago. The structure was awkward, the pronunciation worse, and the individual chants were nearly impossible to remember. Methos considered himself to be doing a remarkable job with it, better than he would allow Ragnar to see, anyway.

Thwack!

Methos loosed a hiss of frustration and pain as the rod cracked down across his shoulders again.

"Would you prefer to return to being just a slave?" Ragnar demanded in a silky tone.

"No, master," Methos ducked his head submissively, biting his tongue to keep from swearing out loud. He knew Ragnar was really asking if he would prefer to become the next sacrifice. Few others in the temple were privy to the secret knowledge of the existence of Nergal's temple and were Methos to decline the honor bestowed upon him, he would not return to being a slave. It did still surprise him that Ragnar could be so aggressive. The soft-spoken, mild junior priest seemed so unassuming; impossible that he could become so confident and dynamic when he stepped into the position of high priest of the cult of Nergal.

"Then pay attention and perform the ritual right!"

Methos sighed, ran over the words to the divination ceremony, and gingerly picked up Ragnar's ceremonial dagger. He would eventually be expected to forge his own dagger, tied to him by blood and magic, but for now, he was able to make do with borrowing one. //Close your eyes, find your center, start the chant.// He repeated in his mind, straightening his spine and reaching down for a place of silence that he could vaguely recall having located once or twice while in the service of Baal but was mostly unfamiliar with. It was one of Ragnar's greatest frustrations, that Methos was unable to immediately find that point of power and stay there. He searched for the brilliantly lit place inside but found it elusive as ever.

"I'm sorry, master." He said simply and let the dagger fall from his hands.

Ragnar uttered a vile oath. "What is wrong with you? For such a bright boy, you are being ridiculously stupid! It is not that difficult."

Methos' temper flared, his eyes narrowed, and his mouth tightened but he retained the control to keep hot words from spilling out of his mouth.

"Tell me why you can't seem to grasp the fundamentals of the simplest ceremony?"

"I shall try - " Methos began, woodenly, but another loud crack interrupted him as Ragnar's rod flew across the room and impacted on the stone wall. The priest knelt beside him, grabbed his chin in a brutal grip and twisted his face around.

"No!" Ragnar hissed. "You won't try to do better, you will do better or I will perform your sacrifice myself."

Methos held steady, eyes burning with outrage for a few precious seconds before his resentment bubbled over and he jerked free. In the same fluid movement, he snatched the dagger from the floor and pressed it against Ragnar's delicate white throat. " You try learning an impossible language after spending ten hours baking under the burning sun working like an animal and being beaten like a dog, master . I did not ask to be enslaved and dragged across a desert to be forcibly initiated into the service of a god I've never heard of, to lead people I don't care about into an age of darkness. Pardon me for being a little reluctant to apply myself more vigorously. I am tired, I hurt, and I hate this cursed ritual! If you want to know what is going to happen, you do it because I really don't care!" Methos snarled, the bitter gall of the past year of submissive crawling tearing loose all at once. The dagger broke the surface of the skin as his hand trembled slightly and a bright line of blood appeared, vivid and shocking against the pale flesh.

Ragnar's eyes widened, impatient anger shifting to fear in the space of a breath. There was nothing to prevent Methos from slicing his neck wide open and fleeing into the night and they both knew it. Balanced precariously between reason and rage, chest heaving in an effort to regain control, Methos ground his teeth together and asked himself why he didn't give in to the nearly overwhelming urge to do just that? Some misguided desire for vengeance? Gods what kind of a fool had he become? Since when did avenging the insignificant life of a mortal become important enough to endure this? Mortals died, he didn't. He was an Immortal and he didn't have to spend the rest of his life here. He had already passed by innumerable opportunities to escape and for what? For what ?

It was a question he had no answer for. With a vicious curse, he released Ragnar and flung himself away, dropping the knife in the process. He stalked over to the window, pressed both hands against the wall and sucked the cool air deep into his lungs, furious at his own helplessness. There was little doubt he would pay for that lapse of control, how dearly remained to be seen.

"I am sorry, master." Methos offered in a low, controlled voice, the hateful words acid on his lips.

"Well, now that you've gotten that out of your system, perhaps you'd care to try again." Ragnar suggested evenly.

Incredulous, Methos hung his head and curled his fingers into his palms, the rough stone tearing at the skin. Apparently Ragnar hadn't heard a thing he'd said. Perhaps if he spoke his next thought aloud, the priest would take more notice. The one about how he would really rather shove the damned dagger up Ragnar's ass, but seeing as how that wasn't an option....

When he had himself more or less back under control, no worries about untoward thoughts tumbling out of his mouth, he shrugged, and returned to the dagger and the oil filled chalice on the floor in the middle of the room. With careless efficiency, he drew the sharp blade across his palm, allowing the blood to spill down on top of the liquid layer of oil. As the vital fluid flowed, he closed his eyes and used the pain as a focus, finding the quiet place he'd been seeking down somewhere in the pit of his abdomen with shocking ease. He felt the power stirring, exactly as Ragnar had described it, and the impossible words he had been studying for over a month leapt into his mind and poured out from him in a strong, confident voice.

The energy wound around his spine, spiraling upward, sending a sharp thrill of exhilaration soaring through him. The sensation was so intense, so amazing, so extraordinary that he lost himself in it, floating on powerful, pulsing waves out and away from his body....he gasped, faltered in his chant, no longer in control of the magic ripping through him.

"Methos? Methos!"

He heard Ragnar's urgent voice calling him from a place so very far away but he could not disengage his attention from the mesmerizing colored swirls that danced and beckoned to him, urged him to come further onward, somewhere.... Suddenly, with a brutal snap, he found himself back in his body, chest heaving with shock, staring down into a cup full of blood. His knees felt weak and watery and he sat down hard. The next instant, Ragnar's hand cracked across his face with enough force to snap Methos' head back.

"Idiot!" Ragnar seethed. "Have I not told you, you must be vigilant! You must stay in control or the magic will sweep you away and leave your body for any wandering demon to inhabit!"

Methos looked up, blank and uncomprehending, overwhelmed and dazed by the experience. Reaction set in, sending bone-wracking tremors through him, and he drew his knees to his chest, wrapping both arms tightly around them in an attempt to keep from shaking apart. //Oh gods....// He could manage no more coherent thought than that. He scarcely heard the soft curse hiss from his mentor before a gentle hand brushed through his hair. Instinctively, he moved into the touch, ravenously hungry for the reassuring human contact.

Ragnar knelt beside him and wrapped strong, steady arms around his trembling body, murmuring soft, incomprehensible words that sent a warmth radiating out from his belly into his shaking limbs and drawing the tension away.

"Wh - what w-w-was t - that?" Methos stammered, through chattering teeth, unreasonably grateful for the solidity of Ragnar's reassuring presence.

"That was what I've been trying - and failing - to get you to do for the past month! " The priest's voice held an edge of exasperated amusement. "Now you understand."

Indeed. The thought made him shudder - hard. He had been lost. Another moment, a few more seconds and he would have been lost forever in that powerfully compelling sea. He had never felt anything like that in the entire five hundred years of his existence and he hoped he never felt that out of control again. And yet...the power....the thrill of feeling that power flowing through him....he was utterly hooked. If access to that was the what it meant to be the One, he had no further objections, his soul sold for the ability to ride the indescribable waves of sorcery at will.

"How - how did I get back?"

He felt Ragnar's hand sifting whisper soft through his hair, the light touch communicating far more than simple comfort. "I came after you." The priest paused, his hands stilling for a moment. "Don't make me do it again."

Indeed.

"I've spoken with the temple elders about you. I've told them you have a great deal of promise and that they should look at training you as a priest. Now it is up to you to pass their tests."

Methos tensed. Nothing had been said about that.

"Don't worry - it will be a simple matter for one as talented as you. You thought I didn't know how exhausted you've been? That I did not realize how it was affecting your studies? You fool! Of course I knew." The tender touch, so at odds with the scathing mockery in the harsh voice, traveled down Methos' back and he flinched in spite of the delicacy of Ragnar's fingers. "Who beat you today, Methos?"

The Immortal shrugged. There was no purpose in discussing it, even if he had known the guard's name, which he didn't.

"Tell me who beat you." Ragnar repeated, the question becoming a command, the voice shifting from deceptive nonchalance to colder than Methos had ever heard it.

"I don't know." Methos admitted.

"Then what were you doing?"

The relentless line of questions made him a bit uneasy - whatever fate Ragnar planned for the man responsible for marking his back it was neither deserved nor merciful. "I don't know. I was working and - "

"What work were you doing?" Ragnar interrupted, impatiently. "Sidduri was supposed to keep watch over you and ensure you were not too tired for your lessons tonight. She failed in her duties."

"She tried to get me put on an easier task, but Mashkan thought I had been given too many easy assignments." Methos shrugged indifferently, relieved when Ragnar dropped the issue.

"She needs to try harder. I will speak to her."

Methos winced at the unforgiving tone. That wasn't good. He wanted no more reason for the priestess to hate him, though she needed nothing more than his continue existence to perpetuate that....He shivered, burrowing deeper into Ragnar's chest, oddly discomfited. Ragnar's arms tightened briefly and Methos gradually became aware of light kisses dropping onto his hair and the stiff rod pressing into his hip. That Ragnar wanted him was no surprise; that he did not act on that desire was. Methos stifled a moan, his body tightening in reluctant response. It had been so long since he'd been touched this way, with warmth and compassion and gentle desire. He didn't want to respond but he didn't seem to have much control. He turned his face into the hard line of Ragnar's jaw and ran his tongue delicately across the bone and down the neck.

Ragnar stiffened, trembled, breath quickening, and arched his hips into Methos who clutched at the fabric that separated him from the fiery hot skin beneath with a convulsive clench of his fingers. "Please..." Methos breathed against the rough chin, trying to turn in the tight embrace that kept him pinned away from the body he wanted - needed to possess.

Ragnar's head fell back on a groan, exposing the long stretch of his throat, the thin, red line from Methos' knife a stark contrast to his indoor pallor. Methos feathered a gentle kiss over the angry scratch in apology, struggling to reaching more, touch more, consume more but in the next instant, he found himself sprawled on the floor, with Ragnar stalking angrily away.

"Ragnar?" Methos murmured, pushing his hair from his eyes and watching the priest with wary confusion.

"Go to bed." Ragnar commanded in a hoarse voice.

"But - "

"Go to bed - unless you want to perform the divination ceremony for me again - correctly this time."

Methos shook his head in bewilderment. "But - "

"Save your energy for learning how to serve Lord Nergal, Methos. Now go." The finality in the man's voice finally convinced Methos that what had just happened would neither be repeated nor discussed any further. He gained his feet and bowed graciously to Ragnar before backing out the door and heading for the slave quarters.

It made no sense. The rest of the temple already assumed that Ragnar was using him in that manner because of their long, nightly sessions and Methos had seen no reason to contradict the rumors. Since it was so clear that Ragnar wanted him - and badly - why did he deny himself release? Frowning, still shivering, partly in reaction to what had transpired between himself and the priest and partly from his earlier brush with Nergal's power, he walked slowly down the hall.

A soft scuff from the shadows, brought him spinning around, abruptly tense, his warrior's instincts still sharp and steady in spite of the lack of practice. His eyes picked out the dark, motionless figure easily and he relaxed a shade - a boy, it was only a boy. He squinted into the darkness, something about the shape oddly familiar.

"Come here, boy. I won't hurt you." Methos called softly. After a moment's hesitation, the shadowy figure moved, stepping into the light and Methos sucked in a sharp, agonized breath. He knew the child - Yavanel, son of Azala. But weren't they all Azala's sons in one fashion or another? An image, vivid and quick, from another world shot through his brain, saturated with fresh pain from healing wounds, of Yavanel and Sirena, strong and healthy, playing in the sunshine. It was all he could do to choke back the soul deep wail that threatened to break free, to push a reasonable attempt at a smile to his lips, and crouch down to look the directly into eyes that had seen too much for nine summers. "Yavana," he whispered with great affection and passed a gentle hand over the silver white hair, a gift from his father. "What are you doing about at this time of night? You should be asleep already."

The boy regarded him with disconcerting directness. "The same thing you were."

Methos frowned, trying to unravel the odd reply. "I don't understand."

Yavanel shrugged and inclined his head toward one of the doors behind him. "Sidduri."

And still the meaning eluded him. He couldn't be Sidduri's choice for 'the One', could he? Was she training this child as Ragnar was training him? The thought sent his mind reeling with the ramifications.

"Oh? What does she want with you?" He hated to be deliberately obtuse, but he could not be too careful. He did not want to share information about Nergal with anyone who was not already aware of the happenings below.

Thin lips twisted into a wry grimace forming words that sent a fist into Methos' gut. "That depends on whether Tirigan is here or not."

Methos rocked back on his heels, eyes widening with shock, feeling the world spin around him. "What?" He breathed, fingers clenching convulsively into hard knotted fists. "She - she - oh sweet gods...."

He wasn't sure what angered him more, her actions or his own naivete in not realizing this would happen. Yavanel was nothing more than a slave when all was said and done, possessed of a lower status than the meanest animal, to be used in whatever fashion his masters saw fit. That he was only a boy, still a child, meant less than nothing to them. He had done no favors in keeping the children alive, had he?

Yavanel was studying him with avid curiosity. "Methos? What is wrong? Surely you knew what would happen? After all, did you not suffer Tirigan's attention yourself on the journey here?"

Methos recoiled from the question, frowning. "That is a different matter entirely."

"How?" Yavanel asked simply. "We are all grateful to you for your - "

"Stop!" Methos cried, in a too loud voice that shook with emotion, horrified, his hand held out as if to halt the terrifying flow of words.

"But - "

"No. I'll hear no more of it." It took several ragged breaths for him to regain control but he finally managed it. Offering the boy a twisted smile that was the best he could muster, he stood and placed his arm gently around the thin shoulders. "Come, I will walk you back to your bed."

Yavanel gasped, flinching at the touch but smiled bravely, brilliantly up into the older man's face. Understanding came immediately - Methos swore softly and removed the weight of his arm.

"Yavana...I am so sorry - I did not realize - "

"No. It's all right." Yavanel gritted. "It is nothing."

Nothing...wounded by a word. It was too much. Methos clenched his teeth, guiding the boy with a light pressure on the back of his head. He could see the back of Yavanel's robe now, streaked with dark stains that must be blood and he ached. Surely this wasn't the reason he stayed? He could do nothing for the rest of the Taurids, would he not be wiser to save himself? Or was he imagining that he would come up with some way to rescue them from this fate, stepping squarely into Azala's role in spite of everything? He shook his head to clear the ridiculous thoughts. No, his compulsion to remain and learn from Ragnar had nothing to do with the Taurid people, it seemed motivated by a powerful force exerting pressure on him from the outside.

He dabbed salve across the boy's raw back before sending him to bed, painfully aware of the regard Yavanel held for him, unearned and undeserved but there nonetheless. The boy flinched, his breath hissing in, but he held mostly steady. Methos wished briefly that his lessons had included something about healing, but that was not something Ragnar though his dark champion needed to learn. When he finished, he rested his hand on the small head, murmured an old blessing, asking Baal to watch over the child, and followed Yavanel with his eyes until the boy dropped down on his pallet.

The bone deep weariness that had sent him to sleep earlier in the evening tugged at his limbs but his mind refused to slow down and allow him a respite from the events of the evening. Restlessness sent him outside into the cool night air where he settled on the stairs, knees drawn to his chest, staring up at the velvety black sky studded with sparkling stars. The moon hung heavy and low, almost swollen, scattering silvery beams of light across the quiet town, so beautiful and peaceful, so at odds with the mangled turmoil of his mind.

He recalled once wondering if the true corrupt face of Sippar was hidden behind a mask of civility and the question still begged an answer. He had asked Ragnar how it was possible for Shamash to allow his brother to defile his temple so. Ragnar had laughed.

"Foolish child! It is not defilement."

"But there are no human sacrifices in the worship of Shamash." Methos protested, bent over the task of drawing the symbols necessary for a ceremony to do something he could not immediately recall. There were a thousand rituals and ceremonies designed to make anything happen, each with a different set of symbols, a unique chant, and a heavy price - priests generally avoided actually calling upon Nergal's power unless absolutely necessary.

Ragnar swept his hand across the symbols Methos had painstakingly completed, scattering the sand everywhere. Methos sat back, stared morosely at the destruction of hours of work, and slanted a narrow, questioning glance at his teacher.

"If you are going to bother, make sure you get the symbols right." Ragnar advised evenly. "If you don't, you have no idea what will happen. You could be asking Lord Nergal to visit a plague upon your own family."

Air hissed out of his lungs on a heavy, impatient sigh and he nodded. Fine.

"Sacrifice is no defilement." The priest continued. "And Shamash and Nergal are not enemies. Without darkness there is no light. Without light, darkness is meaningless. Shamash needs Nergal - they are two sides of the same being. Do you understand?"

Methos shrugged.

"No, it is important that you understand." Ragnar insisted, his expression intense. "You cannot have one thing without another, it is all about opposites. For example, there is no life without death - Lord Nergal gives both."

Methos felt the hairs on the back of his neck prickle. "You celebrate life by giving death?"

"You understand nothing..." Ragnar hissed.  

Methos allowed as how that might be true, but he thought the worshippers of Nergal woefully deluded and nothing Ragnar had said subsequently would change his mind. Sippar, it seemed, was a city of dual faces and radical opposites, something he would be wise to remember.

He rested his chin on his knees, and thought about the past two months of training with Ragnar. The priest was difficult to please under most circumstances, quick to anger and strike out. Methos felt more like a child now than he had in centuries. Most of the rituals and ceremonies he had been asked to learn seemed pointless, though the mental challenge was a welcome diversion from the back breaking labor he performed daily. There was one main exception, a ceremony that had captured his imagination, the Ceremony of Life. Apparently, if one were skilled in such arts, it was possible to exchange the life force of one human for that of another. Children were most often used in the ceremony, because the stronger the life force, the easier it was to perform. Of course, the one selected to donate his life force died, a fairly large price even for such a magnificent gift.

But it was heady knowledge, the power of life over death, and Methos burned with the desire to possess it. Unfortunately, he was so far from attaining his goal he wondered grimly if he would ever reach it. Ragnar certainly seemed in no hurry to pass the information on, insisting that until Methos was proficient with the language, he would not even discuss the rite. Methos grinned in the darkness. What Ragnar didn't know was that the acquisition of languages was one of Methos' gifts and that in spite of the difficult nature of the cursed tongue, he was much farther along in absorbing the intricacies of the chants than he had demonstrated thus far. What else did he have to do during the long days spent in hard physical labor than to review his lessons from the previous night? He was hoarding that information right now, waiting for the right time to use it.

He sighed, his eyelids sagging and heavy. He needed to sleep now...but the sight of the dark streaks staining Yavanel's robe haunted him. He had become so completely absorbed in his new life that he had forgotten about the Taurid people. In the short space of a few months, his time with them seemed like a whole different life, one that ended long ago along with any obligation he might have had. Even now, he could find only a distant concern for them, the same as he would feel for anyone so abused and that gave rise to a merciless, gnawing guilt. The inescapable fact remained that far from being Azala's fault, the fate of the Taurids lay at his feet. He knew he had seen them before, passed right by them, the women and children of the mountains, haunting the halls of the ziggaraut as silent, shadowy wraiths, the vibrancy of their former lives completely bled out of them. He had been forced to shore up his defenses, excise mercy and compassion in order to prevent massive load of guilt he carried from crippling him. It hurt still, yes, but at least it was manageable.

He yawned and unwound his long body, heading back to the slave quarters to sleep. There was no telling what choice job Mashkan would have thought up for him tomorrow and he wanted to be as ready as he could be. The brutal man was formerly a part of Tirigan's band but after the Taurid raid, he had been assigned to oversee the disposition of the slaves. He seemed to enjoy that position almost more than he had driving the villagers across the desert. Certainly the abundance of water and lack of miles of blistering sand held a kind of appeal. It also meant that Methos had history with the overseer, a particularly unpleasant one in fact.

He sighed as he lay down on his pallet and closed his eyes. He never would have imagined himself in this position only a few months ago - he wasn't sure he wanted to imagine himself in it now.

True to his word, Ragnar had spoken with the high priests, petitioning for Methos' freedom but the request was denied. Methos assumed that either Mashkan or Sidduri had protested the move, but Ragnar said that the decision came directly from Lord Shamash himself. Methos could find no quarrel with that - why would the god of the light want his brother's chosen one as a priest? The question ignored the fact that the entire rank of Nergal's servants came from Shamash's priesthood but Methos was willing to temporarily overlook that paradox. Ragnar had, however, succeeded in wresting control of Methos away from the overseer, placing him in the luxurious position of body slave.

It was a far different prospect than slaving for hours under the unforgiving sun.

He had not forgotten Yavanel or the other children he had spilled his blood for, it was simply that there was nothing he could do for them. Every time he caught sight of Sidduri's beautiful, corrupt face, he was reminded of the children, of how he had failed them and of how they now suffered, and he lowered his head to conceal his glowering hate from her. One of the most miserable moments in his entire existence came when he overheard some of the children discussing the brave and mighty Methos, hero of the Taurid people.

"And he took his mighty sword and chopped off their filthy heads. Then he let himself be captured so that he could help us survive the journey across the burning sands."

Methos, on his way to Ragnar's quarters with a jug of cool water, frowned, wondering what tale the slave children were huddled around now. The boy who could have seen no more than ten summers paused dramatically to allow his audience of younger children to imagine someone so brave he would allow himself to be enslaved by the horrible Tirigan. "Every night, when the sun went down, Methos would cut himself and allow all the children to drink his blood."

Methos stopped abruptly and leaned against the wall suddenly too weak to stand.

"Eww!!!" One little girl squeaked, her tone utter revulsion.

"Hmph. That's only because you weren't there!" The older boy scowled. "We were all dying! There was no food or water and Tirigan," the sound of spitting, "beat us daily. But Methos gave us his own blood to drink and that made Tirigan beat him instead!"

A chorus of ooo's and ah's rose from the captivated children and Methos had to stop himself from bursting into the alcove and scattering the group like unruly chickens. How had *that* happened? How had he gone from - from what? From what he was to the hero they needed? Didn't they know that it was all his fault? That far from being a hero, he was little more than walking death? He pushed away from the wall, intent on allowing his long strides to take him far from the wrenching story.

"Were you there?" The words floated after him, hammering his ears as if the gods would not allow him to escape from this.

"Yes...I was there."

Methos burst through the door, panting as though he'd just run up the stairs, his breathing harsh and difficult. He couldn't outrun it, he could never outrun it. Ragnar looked up from his desk with a frown.

"What is it, Methos?"

"I - nothing." Methos gasped.

"What is it?" Ragnar stood and moved closer, his hands settling firmly on Methos' shoulders in a gesture of comfort. "Tell me."

Mute, Methos shook his head again; it wasn't something he could share, certainly not with one of the enemy - he was no longer frightened and vulnerable as he had been the night he tried to kiss Ragnar. No matter how cultured and erudite the man appeared, Methos would never be able to lose the image of the bird masked priest, hands stained bloody, hovering over a savagely ravaged body.

A flash of heat passed through the dark, intent eyes and fluttered out quickly but Methos knew he had seen it.

It had taken him some time to work out Ragnar's reluctance to give in to his lust, to understand the potential depth of his control over the priest. Ragnar, it seemed, was also aware of the power Methos held, and that cognizance was the root of his reluctance to act. Perhaps he knew that if he possessed Methos the way he wanted to, Ragnar would be the one to wind up enslaved.

Ragnar slowly, reluctantly dropped his hands from Methos' shoulders and the Immortal exhaled impatiently, allowing a tiny smile to quirk on his lips. Perhaps it was time to press forward and claim his advantage.

"Why?" Methos dared, catching Ragnar's wrist in a firm grip.

The priest stiffened and stared at Methos' hand. "Why what?"

"Why do you tease us both this way?"

Ragnar kept his eyes trained on the bronzed hand clamped around his wrist, refusing to meet Methos' steady gaze. "I don't know what you're talking about." He dissembled in a weak voice without so much as attempting to pull free.

Emboldened by the priest's passivity, Methos took a step closer and slid his free hand along the other man's sharply defined jaw, pushing the image of Azala's mutilated body out of his mind. He didn't have time for that right now. Ragnar's breath hissed in and he trembled ever so slightly. Methos smiled, nostrils flaring; he could work with this.

"Yes, you do." Methos whispered, feeling his own traitorous body respond as he moved his hand down to stroke Ragnar's straining erection. The priest jerked at the contact and stifled a desperate whimper. "You know what you want, why won't you take it?"

They stood, a breath apart, trembling together for an endless moment before Methos released the wrist he'd captured and dropped to his knees, brushing Ragnar's clothing aside. Without preliminaries, he swallowed the thick, pulsing cock, digging his fingers into the tight muscles of Ragnar's thighs. A keening wail rose above him in concert with his easy, practiced strokes, and Ragnar buried his hands convulsively in Methos' hair, pulling him even closer.

"Have you forgotten me so soon, Methos?"

Methos flinched and would have drawn back, overwhelmed by the shock of hearing Azala's voice again, but Ragnar held his head steady, thrusting into the snug, wet sheath that had been opened for him.

/Azala?/ Methos thought, surprise causing him to choke on the stiff cock buried in his throat. /What - where - how - I'm not betraying you....this isn't about me..../ It was a lie in some respects and he knew it. It was personal and it was most assuredly about gaining something quite selfish, but it wasn't a betrayal of Azala or any of the Taurid people. Was it? He had somehow managed to come up with an erection, but that didn't necessarily mean he was interested in anything but using Ragnar as a means to an end - did it?

Above him, blissfully unaware of Methos' mental torment, Ragnar cried out, his strokes becoming savage and uncontrolled in the seconds before he reached completion and poured out his essence. Distracted, Methos swallowed, automatically smoothing his hands down Ragnar's trembling, hair roughened thighs and tried to regain his own equilibrium. The spent priest bent over Methos, shaking in the aftermath of the unexpected storm of passion, his breath uneven and edged with the barest hint of a sob.

Methos felt tension flood through Ragnar's muscles at the sound from the doorway of a throat being cleared and rocked back on his heels quickly, but remained on the floor, submissive.

"I beg forgiveness, master, for my transgression." He murmured, attempting to salvage the situation for Ragnar, his voice hoarse and raw. "I will remember next time."

"Y - yes. Indeed you will." Ragnar fumbled awkwardly. "Tirigan, it is good to see you home again. You are just the man I need right now to refresh Methos' memory. He is in need of a reminder of his place. Please show him and return to me. I have need of you."

Methos went rigid at the shocking words and slanted an incredulous look up through his lashes, stomach clenching at the sight of Ragnar's rigid, marble cold face. How could this be? He shifted his eyes over at Tirigan in time to see the knowing smirk shift to an expression of surprised pleasure and inwardly groaned. Gods, how long had it been since he had so seriously misjudged a situation? He should have known better than to push. Well, that he had erred was too undeniable and the consequences were too grim to contemplate. Tirigan had never been paid for the humiliation he suffered at Methos' hands, after all. While the scope of his abasement at Tirigan's hand far exceeded the slaver's embarrassment at Methos' hands, the scale of power was tipped in Tirigan's favor and Methos expected to suffer greatly because of it. He stifled the protest that rose to his lips, in part because he was a slave and partly because he did not want to give Ragnar that satisfaction. .

Tirigan executed a deep bow of respect and snapped his fingers, waving two of his men towards Methos. Methos rose to his feet without even the hint of a struggle, but it made no difference. The filthy ruffians jerked him forward with such wrenching force something gave in his shoulder, sending a blinding bolt of pain down his back and side. He gasped, unable to suppress the sound, then bit his lip hard to contain the matching groan of pain that would have further broadened the smile on Tirigan's loathesome face.

"Did you miss me, Methos?" Tirigan whispered as the three men passed. "I missed you..."

Methos hung his head to avoid having to look at Tirigan. Miss him? Right. Like he might miss death or starvation perhaps.

"Tirigan!" Ragnar's voice followed them into the hallway, steadier now. "Make quite certain he does not forget again."

"Of course, sir. I shall endeavor to fulfill your desire." Tirigan's gratification rang clear in his voice. This was one duty he clearly planned to enjoy.

"And you may give him to Sidduri for further training when you are finished."

Methos stiffened. Yes, that had been an expensive miscalculation...

He needed no reminder of how much it hurt to taste the kiss of Tirigan's hateful whip, but he got one anyway. Tirigan sent his men away as soon as they had Methos strung in a taut x shape, bound tight by hand and foot to poles set deep into the earth. He stepped into Methos' view, and the Immortal watched warily as the slaver's eyes moved restlessly over the naked flesh staked out like and offering before him.

"I had forgotten how pretty you are all cleaned up." Tirigan mused, almost mesmerized, tracing a blunt tipped finger down Methos' cheek.

Methos struggled not to jerk away from the hot touch. He expected to suffer plenty without making the man angry to start with.

Tirigan let his hand drop and frowned. "I suppose you thought you were being clever, pretending you couldn't understand us."

Methos winced. He knew that would come back to haunt him. Tirigan took a step back and uncoiled his whip with brusque efficiency. "We'll see how clever you feel after I'm through."

The whip sang through the air and cracked somewhere behind Methos' head, not yet making contact with his flesh. He tried not to tense, knowing it would only hurt worse, but it was nearly impossible to remain pliant. The first agonizing slash would be the worst and eventually the pain would all run together into one blurry sensation. That was what he aimed for from the beginning. The harder he concentrated, the faster he could get there and the easier it was.

It had been some time since he had suffered such abuse however and he had to struggle to reconcile the concept of pain with sensation in his body. He failed. His entire body arched away from the first searing bite of the whip, his teeth slammed together and his head flew back. Such theoretical musings were just fine while he wasn't actually suffering under the tender mercies of a sadistic bastard like Tirigan.

Over and over the blows fell, laying the flesh of his back open almost to the bone, exposing muscle and allowing blood to flow freely down his thighs. Methos screamed his throat raw and then screamed some more. By the time Tirigan finally stopped, his breathing harsh and rapid, Methos was drifting in and out of consciousness, only peripherally aware of the hulking shape looming beside him.

"Still feeling clever, Methos?" Tirigan purred, dragging his hand across the ragged wound of Methos' back. Methos jerked, the salt from the slaver's hand a searing flame that burned all the way through his body. "What did you do to anger Ragnar, anyway? I thought he was most enamoured of you but here he has given me leave to teach you." A moment passed. "Not very talkative now, are you? Well, I don't need your mouth for what I have in mind anyway."

Methos felt the stiff rod slide between his buttocks, but the process of grappling with the agonizing pain from his back took precedence. He knew what was about to happen anyway - it was nothing new. The only possibly different twist this time was that the blood from his back provided some lubrication to ease the passage into his ass. The thought gave him a tingle of pleasure as he began to lose his focus. Here, at last, was one agony Tirigan would not be able to visit upon him.

He climbed back to consciousness, felt numb limbs still stretched to their limit and reluctantly opened his eyes into total darkness. He remembered Tirigan's assault with a distant indifference, recalled how the man shuddered and swore over him, and then the burning sensation deep in his abdomen that signaled the man's release. He wearily thought it was a blessed relief to wake up alone. Suddenly, a ripple of fear passed through him, lifting the tiny hairs on the back of his neck with the peripheral realization that he wasn't alone. He could hear the soft scurrying in the darkness and could feel the presence of another being, though what form it wore was hidden by the complete darkness. He wouldn't call out - he wouldn't give that satisfaction away.

That control cost him though, as several tense, intolerable moments later, he recoiled violently from the first soft brush of something running across his foot. Fresh streams of blood dripped down his arms and rolled off his feet, the rough rope ripping open the healing abrasions on wrist and ankle. He bit back a whimper. It wasn't so much the pain - that he could handle, it was the uncertainty. He didn't think Tirigan had brought him as deep into the bowels of the temple as he had been before, but the towering image of the black scaled, winged lion emerging from the stone floor wouldn't go away. "Courage, Methos." Azala's voice flowed through the darkness and Methos threw himself back against the bonds that held him secure, unable to suppress the terrified moan that broke free. He was perilously close to Nergal's lair, if not already in it, and anything could happen there. Nergal was a god of disease and pestilence and death. If anyone could set the departed to walk the earth again, it would be him and Methos categorically did not want to be trapped here in the darkness with Azala.

"I've not forgotten you, father." Methos managed to gasp. "I will avenge you, I swear it."

Methos trembled in his bonds, hearing a only a faint sigh greet his vow, and then another soft brush against his ankle and a stinging pain shot up through his leg. He tried unsuccessfully to jerk away from source of the affliction, unable to comprehend what was happening. The delicate touches continued, followed by more sharp, tearing pain, only now it was spreading, from one ankle to both and then up a bit higher. Methos closed his eyes against the genuine horror of what he was beginning to suspect. A gentle thud against his chest, the scrabble of tickish little claws and the brush of fur against his cheek confirmed it. Rats. Tirigan left him bleeding in the dark with a pack of hungry rats that were tearing his flesh away bit by bit and he could do nothing to stop them.

"Courage, Methos." Azala's voice whispered and Methos wasn't sure if he was imagining the mocking edge he heard in the tone or not.

Courage...somehow it seemed to him that courage was for those who possessed freedom, weapons, and the ability to wield them both. For him, lacking at least two of the necessary prerequisites, courage seemed a useless commodity. Prayer, on the other hand, had the potential to actually accomplish something for him. Apart from screaming his already hoarse voice into silence or struggling until the flesh on his wrists tore down to the bone, he didn't see that he had anything better to do.

He couldn't recall if he had learned any prayers to Nergal that would cover being bound and left to be consumed by rodents...and in any case, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to be indebted to that particular god. Another rat hit his chest and scrambled up, perching on his shoulder to take a bite from his earlobe. Methos squeezed the dirty creature between his head and shoulder until it squeaked. /And you can afford to be particular?/ He asked himself sardonically. No, of course he couldn't, especially as he could feel the furry bodies and sharp teeth piling up around his feet, moving closer and closer to his most sensitive flesh and while his body would heal, his mind was teetering on the brink of sanity.

In the end, he fell back on Baal. His reluctance to petition Nergal gave him pause to wonder how he imagined he would be able to perform the Ceremony of Life were he ever given that knowledge.

The scraping sound of a door opening and the searing torchlight that utterly blinded him had never been more welcome. Methos gasped out an audible sob of relief, feeling the rats abandon their feast at the appearance of the light. A sharp inhale followed by a curse from Sidduri made his relief short lived.

"What did you do to him, Tirigan?" She snapped. "Great gods, sometimes you are as stupid as you are big! Ragnar will kill you for this!"

"But Ragnar told me - " Tirigan protested but she cut him off mid excuse.

"What? What did Ragnar tell you? To half kill him and leave him to the rats?"

Her voice, low and angry, came nearer and Methos sagged, muscles screaming in protest as each bond was loosened in turn.

"Remember how you found them? Ragnar meant for you to teach his little whore a lesson, he didn't mean for you to kill him."

"But he gave Methos to you," Tirigan objected in a small voice.

Methos felt gentle hands, cool against his feverish skin, lift him, help him gain his unsteady feet, and guide him toward the door. Sidduri snorted, so close he almost imagined it was her supporting him by one elbow.

"That means nothing, you fool." She made a low noise of distress. " Look at him! They were eating him!"

Her concern came as a surprise - Methos had anticipated she would be his worst enemy, but perhaps he had been too hasty. Still, after all the horrors she had undoubtedly been a part of perpetrating, it didn't make any sense for her to be so squeamish about a bit of blood and torn flesh.

"He heals fast..." Tirigan offered, his voice trailing after them, but Sidduri did not reply.

Part 4

Sidduri took him to her room and ordered her slave to clean and bandage his wounds. The water stung fiercely as it penetrated the healing rat bites but was immediately followed by the cool, soothing sensation of salve, and the firm pressure of bandages wrapped around both his ankles and his back. Exhausted from the ordeal of the day, he drifted drowsily, sighing with relief when he was finally allowed to fall unmolested into blessed unconsciousness.

He tossed and turned and sweated his way through a series of unreal dreams, odd terrifying visions that he later couldn't remember. He dreamed he was dreaming, then woke within the dream to find himself caught in layer upon layer of cottony consciousness. Reality was a concept apart, a world away, and wholly inaccessible, something he eventually accepted and ceased struggling toward. Voices swirled in his head, tones rising and falling without meaning, a musical litany to buoy him along on his journey. He grasped for understanding, knowing he should care, needed to care, but not ready to surface yet, not yet, not ready, maybe not able, who knew?

"How is he?"

"Breathing."

"He should be dead, Lady." Somber, frightened.

A short, harsh laugh. "This one should have died long ago." Heavy sigh. "He must have the gods own blessing to still be alive after all this."

"No, truly Lady." Earnest, pleading. "Did you see all the blood? There was so much there where

Tirigan - " Abrupt pause and then firm. "No one could have survived it."

"Yes, I know." Loud, insistent, overbearing, then softly. "I know, Yorg." Silence.

"Some of the other slaves - they refuse to come here because he is here."

Another snorted laugh. "I know how they feel. If I had my choice he would be sleeping with the pigs, but seeing as he's Ragnar's special little pet...." A long sigh, heavy and full, then ironically, "Tell me, why will they not serve me with him around?"

"They are afraid - they believe him to be a demon." Soft, full of fear.

Sharp laughter. "A demon? Well, I don't know what he is, but he's not a demon." Pause.

"Still, I understand why they might feel that way. He is an odd one. He's healed already, did you know? Tirigan beats him nearly to death and less than a day later he's ready to be up at work."

"The children say - " Furtive and softer. "They say that he spilled his blood on the journey for them. They say he is their savior."

"Savior? Bah! So he cut his wrists and made them drink blood. He is not the first to do so." The voice hesitated and Methos drifted away, though he grasped at the slippery comprehension, it disappeared and he lost any semblance of understanding as he sank deeper into sleep.

The next time he swam toward consciousness, he vaguely felt a cup being pressed to his lips and involuntarily choked down several bitter sips of warm liquid. The thought floated through his hazy mind that they were drugging him...drugging him...drugging him, before he slid down into the murky depths again, knowing there was something wrong with the situation, but unable to grasp what.

It was a horrible choked scream that went on and on, which roused him the next time. He fought for consciousness with only marginal success, lurking just below the clarity of cognizant thought, hearing disjointed snippets of conversation.

"Shove his arm in too - " Intent, excited.

"Oh gods, look at *that*!" Fascinated, revolted.

"I never imagined -" Dazed.

"Look! It's eating his - " A loud gulp and the screaming stopped.

"I'd heard of such things, but who knew there really was a snake that could swallow a fully grown man whole like that!" Raw amazement combined with glittery excitement. "You have served me well, keeper. Take the beast below and you will have a position with me." A long pause then, "Come here, Tirigan. I have need of you after that show!"

Methos tried very hard to understand what was happening, but it was just too far out of reach. He floated along in a velvety, soft darkness, aware he should be bothered by something but unable to touch what it was. He heard the sound of wet flesh slapping, soft sighs, muffled shouts and sharp cries and was dreamily amused. Something about that was funny....then long moments later.

"How is Ragnar's little pet?" Not Tirigan, someone else. Who?

"Recovering." Sidduri, Methos could identify some of the voices now, his senses sharpening as the drug began to lose its hold on him. He lay motionless, trying to avoid having more of the foul stuff forced down his throat. "He comes in several times a day just to look at him. Swears

the man means nothing to him and that he doesn't care what happens, but he can't stay away."

"Have you told him what the slave is becoming to his people?" A lazy, drawn out voice.

"Of course." Sidduri again, indifferent. "He says he will take care of it, it's all part of the prophecy."

"Prophecy...." A snorted laugh of disbelief.

"Have you told him about the blood yet?" Tirigan this time, his voice wary and hesitant. "And the storm?"

"Ragnar knows everything," Sidduri snapped. "This is his chosen one, let him deal with the consequences. You there, give Methos some more wine. It's time."

Methos swore silently and obediently swallowed the bitter medicine, mind spinning in useless little circles. that did all of this mean? How would Ragnar take care of things? What things were there to take care of? What prophecy? And what was he becoming to the Taurids? A long tumble into hazy darkness followed the harsh liquid and he fell freely, dragging his mass of tangled questions behind him.

Methos opened his eyes, confused by the impenetrable darkness that greeted him along with the tight stretched feeling of his limbs spread wide and securely bound. It was an all too familiar sensation, but hadn't he already done this, waken in the black hole where Tirigan had flayed the skin from his back with rats scurrying about and dining on his ankles? He was sure he had and even more certain that Sidduri, of all people, had come in to rescue him, sworn at and lectured Tirigan until the brutal bastard was no more than a stammering child. He smiled reflectively at the thought, vowing that someday he would be the one to drive his nemesis into that condition. In the meantime, however, he had to figure out how he had gotten back here.

His back burned where Tirigan had laid his lash, and that bothered him too. Reaching back through thick, cottony layers of confusion, he remembered Sidduri helping him to her room and ordering her slave to clean and bandage Methos' wounds. The fierce sting of water, the cool, soothing sensation of salve, the firm pressure of bandages were all too vivid to not be real. What did that leave? A dream perhaps?

Triumphant at having unraveled the mystery, Methos allowed himself a surge of satisfaction before sobering with the comprehension that even if this was a dream, he had no idea how to wake himself up or release himself from the nightmare. Worse, he could hear scurrying little feet and anticipated that he could expect wretchedly sharp little fangs to be tearing into his flesh at any moment. How could anything so small hurt so much? A soft exclamation of dismay slipped from his lips, accompanied by a swelling panic and then the door opened.

Blinded by the sudden shower of light, he squeezed his tearing eyes to narrow slits, trying to identify the next cataclysm about to befall him. Sidduri? Tirigan? Ragnar? But no, it couldn't be that easy, it had to be worse. Much, much worse.

The black scaled lion padded into the room, ringed by a halo of light, which struck Methos as somehow odd for a shadow god. Shouldn't he be more comfortable in darkness? It was no more than a brief distraction from the mind numbing terror that seized him body and soul, stole the very air from his lungs and squeezed his heart to a complete stop. He closed his eyes, fighting waves of dizzy nausea, on the very edge of passing out.

"Methos..."

The Immortal heard his own name echo inside his skull, a vibration far distant yet so close and immediate he couldn't get away. A high pitched whistling whine sounded accompaniment, briefly puzzling until he realized himself to be the source, his lungs starved and struggling, his terror breaking loose in an audible way. Self-disgust rippled through him along with a fleeting thought that escaped his control a scant breath before he was able to stop it. He nearly groaned out loud - it hadn't really occurred to him to wonder what calamity Nergal could possibly visit upon him that he hadn't already endured in five hundred years, had it? Maybe having his brains dragged out through his nose - that would be a new experience, wouldn't it?

"Why do you fight us, Methos?" The words, smooth, silken, horrifyingly gentle crawled around inside him like a worm, so insidious and deceptively innocent.

"I won't do it. I won't be your chosen." Methos gasped, obstinate to the end.

"Why not? Why will you not serve me? Look, Methos....look and see your future."

He closed his eyes in an act of sheer defiance that gained him nothing as the wall in front of him shimmered and began to dissolve; the horrible images sprang to life on the back of his eyelids, utterly inescapable. He saw a massive cloud of dust sweep across a broad, flat plain and felt a strange tingle tease the bottom of his stomach, a sense of prescient recognition. Out of the cloud emerged four men astride great snorting beasts, wielding swords, masked and terrifying in countenance.

"One shall be called Pestilence, one shall be called Famine, one shall ride as War and then shall come the pale horse, whose rider is Death, and Hades follows close behind."

"No..." Methos breathed, shuddering, trapped by his bonds. "No..."

"Yes, Methos. Your brothers, your destiny."

The white horse reared and blue faced Death howled in triumph, cutting a wide swath through the hoard of terrified villages who ran screaming from the nightmarish fiends. Blood flowed like a river, bodies fell, and Methos could smell it all, the hot dry dust, the sweet, coppery tang of vital fluid, the acrid smoke pouring from burning huts that cast a grotesque, flickering light over the hellish scene. He moaned, feeling the wild thrill of power snaking through his body, tasting the surging flare of life turned loose and grasped again.

"No. Please...no." He sobbed, just once, but the damning images sharpened and focused. The face of Death swam before him, eyes savage with lust, his own countenance twisted until he no longer recognized the thing before him as himself. A flash, once, twice, again and again, the wicked blade of the dagger sliced through skin and muscle, laying mortal throat after mortal throat open, allowing the crimson liquid to soak into the dry, thirsty ground.

Methos threw his head back and howled his denial, taut muscles quivering with effort. "Never! I

will never be your servant." He hissed.

"Feel the power, Methos! Feel it."

A now familiar but highly amplified pleasure exploded through his entire body, more intense than an orgasm, more shocking than a Quickening, destroying his defenses in a single sweeping rush, leaving him shuddering and gasping.

"Feel it..." The voice wound around his ankles, feathering up his legs to embrace him in a warm,

safe cocoon, holding him steady through the worst of the shocking tremors. "See what I can give you? Trust me, give yourself to me. Ask me."

Methos whimpered, hanging limp between the poles that were the only thing keeping him upright, his mind numb with horror and utterly blank.

"You may have the world if you will but ask."

//Baal...// The name appeared as if by magic on the blank slate of Methos' mind and he grabbed for it desperately. //Baal Hadad, please help me.//

"Why do you ask that worn out, worthless thing to help you? No one can help you now, Methos. No one but me. Just ask..."

//No! I won't. I won't be indebted to you! Baal!//

A heavy sigh and he was free, sprawled in an ungainly heap before the black scaled god, limbs

shuddering out of control. He wanted to get away from this shadowy abhorrence, to flee as far and fast as he could but he had no strength and could do nothing but wait.

"One day, you will come to me, Methos. One day soon, you will be mine.." The soft words were accompanied by an equally gentle caress on his head.

A harsh sob wracked his spent body and when he opened his eyes, he found himself in Sidduri's spacious room, mind almost painfully clear of the drug they'd been giving him, comfortably ensconced on a soft pallet. He stared into the quiet darkness, face wet with a trickle of tears down his cheeks that he could not prevent. The soft sounds of breathing in the night comforted him in some indefinable way, but nothing could fill the gaping hole his heart had become.

The next days proved the beginning of a brutally boring existence. He was required to do nothing and forbidden to leave the bedchamber. There were times when he sincerely believed that if he had to stay in Sidduri's chamber for even one more day he would go quite mad - which assumed he had not already crossed that fine line already. The only thing he found he could do beyond prowling the confines of the room restlessly was to indulge in the almost shameful practice of locating that quiet place of light inside himself where Nergal's power had exploded. It was his body and his power he was testing - at least that was what he told

himself when he found he was unable to resist the temptation to check and see if he could still find his way. Was it still there or had it slipped away with his resistance to joining Nergal?

Somehow, he always found it, right where he had left it. It almost seemed as though in channeling Nergal's power, he had blown open a pathway that had been largely inaccessible before, and that allowed him to sense and revel in the subtle nuances of his own essence. Each new trip down inside revealed a new layer, each more fragrant, more sensuous, more enticing and thrilling than the one before, each passage more fluid and easy. He was far from being insensate during these furtive forays, however. His senses seemed heightened, in fact, and he could hear everything from the faint scrabble of rat claws on stone to the soft sound of human breathing from the hallway. It was simply a matter of where he placed his focus and Methos was getting extremely good at focusing his attention.

One day, not long after the assault, two silent, somber slaves came to escort him to Ragnar's

chamber. Methos braced himself for the meeting, understanding that the message he'd been given was that he was a slave, first and foremost, and slaves did not initiate such actions. He would not make the same mistake again, provided he was given the opportunity.

Ragnar stood waiting, his skin dark against the stark white of his robes, staring reflectively

into a goblet. He waved the slaves away without looking up, mesmerized by the contents, then lifted the cup to his lips and took a delicate sip, sighing with pleasure as the liquid slid down his throat. Methos felt a wholly unwelcome surge in his loins and swallowed hard.

"Good day, Methos. Have you recovered from your - " Ragnar hesitated, evidently searching for just the right word. "Experience?"

Methos bowed his head slightly in acknowledgment, remaining silent like a good slave.

Ragnar smiled his approval and beckoned with one long fingered hand. "Come, come. Have some refreshment, won't you?"

Confused and cautious, Methos stepped forward and accepted the drink, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark eyed man as he lifted the cup to his lips, nostrils flaring at the odd odor. The small sip that rolled over his tongue was warm, sweet, and a bit salty with just the hint of an iron tang. He returned the goblet to Ragnar impassively and wondered whose blood they were sharing.

Reluctant admiration flared in the priest's eyes accompanied by a slight twitch of his lips before he turned away and began to toy with his blood stained ceremonial dagger. "Do you understand now, Methos?" He asked in a low, idle tone. "Was the lesson -- effective?"

"Yes, master, I understand." Methos replied, covering a flare of anger with obsequious submissiveness. He would have liked to tell the man that a simple reprimand would have served as well.

"Do you?" Ragnar traced his finger over the sharp edge of the knife then ran his tongue over the flat of the blade, his eyelids sliding closed with pleasure. "Really? I hope so. I wouldn't like to have to make my point any clearer." His eyes flew open, gaze sharp, narrow, and direct. "What did you learn from your experience then?"

Methos met the dark intensity easily. "That I am a slave, master."

A soft laugh escaped the priest and he shook his head, dipping the knife gingerly into the cup of blood. "You knew that already. What did you learn that was new?"

"What that means?" Methos tried, not quite comprehending where this was going. He had the uneasy sensation that he was, again, missing some critical point but he couldn't grasp what it was yet.

Ragnar clucked his tongue and frowned, obviously displeased, then snapped his fingers. A soft rustle and flash of movement, caught Methos' attention, but he kept his focus firmly on the priest until Ragnar shifted his glance meaningfully. Methos followed the look, his control so perfect not a sign of his distress escaped. Ragnar couldn't know how his stomach dropped and clenched or how difficult it was to keep the curse from hissing out from between stiff lips or how thick the air had suddenly become. He simply took in the silvery blond hair, the pallid white face, the huge dull pools of suffering that could kindly be called eyes, ringed by deep smudges of black and returned his shuttered gaze to Ragnar's expectant face. It could hardly help Yavanel for him to let any of his anger out at this point, could it? He felt a surge of triumph at the fleeting look of disappointment that raced across the sharp hawkish features.

"Would you care for some more refreshment? There is plenty more where that came from." Ragnar offered, his tone casual and easy, but again, Methos felt a clutch of terror and he struggled harder to understand what was going on. There was something more here...something important. Clearly the blood came from Yavanel but what was the significance here?

"Quit fighting us, Methos." Ragnar hissed, placing his hand heavily on Yavanel's head. "There is no point in it and you are wasting our time."

"I don't understand." Methos murmured, careful to keep his eyes off the child.

"You sacrificed once for these beggars, did you not?" Ragnar twisted his fingers in the matted silver blond strands and jerked the small head back, exposing the long, bruised column of Yavanel's throat.

Methos shook his head, shrugging helplessly. How? What?

"Your blood. You offered up your blood for them." Ragnar clarified impatient now.

Vaguely he recalled hearing Sidduri mention that. It had seemed important at the time....something about being part of a prophecy. "Yes." He replied simply. It was nothing more and nothing less than the truth. "But it was no sacrifice."

"But it will be if you continue to fight me. Do as I say and I will allow your pathetic little band to live. Defy me once more, and I will personally sacrifice each one while you sit and watch me. Is that understood?"

Methos nodded, swallowing convulsively. He desperately wanted to ask what it was he'd done in defiance of Ragnar. Had he not learned all the chants? Had he not diligently applied himself to copying the symbols and placing them in exactly the right order? Hadn't he expressed interest in learning the Ceremony of Life? What more could he do beyond consecrating his life to the god of chaos to prove his willingness to at least serve in some capacity if not as *the* chosen one? Yet he could not ask, for fear it would seem an act of defiance. Instead, he ducked his head submissively and tried not to look at Yavanel. Another look at that tortured face and he could not swear his hands would remain off Ragnar's neck for another minute.

"Fine. Take the child and return to your mistress. She will be assigning you new duties today." Ragnar turned his back in a graphic dismissal.

They walked half the distance to the slave quarters in slow silence, broken only by the soft whisper of their robes and the sound of their shoes slapping on the stone.

Finally, Methos spoke. "I'm - sorry." He offered and the boy did not ask what he was sorry for.

"Why are you still here, Methos?" Yavanel asked instead, head bent.

"What?" Methos started at the sound of the boy's rusty voice, flinching at the question.

"Why - "

"No, no, I heard you." He cut Yavanel off and pondered the question, looking for hidden meanings. Finding none, he gave the simplest reply. "Because I am a slave now, like you."

The boy immediately shook his head, adamant. "No, you've never been like us. You've always been special. The prophecy...." he broke off abruptly, shaking his head again. "You must be wary now, more than ever because everything will begin to happen very fast. Father says you must choose on your own, that I am not allowed to tell you everything." Yavanel paused, the resentment in his voice laying heavy between them. "I would that you know the sacrifices that have been made to bring you to this point, that you know before you make your decision what lay behind you and in balance for you. But I am not allowed to tell you. You must decide solely on your own knowledge."

"What are you talking about?" Methos demanded, guilt lining his tone with sharp, cutting edges. "Your father is dead. I saw him."

"I can tell you only this," the boy looked directly up, his eyes full of secrets and suffering far beyond his years. "There is a war to come between the palace and the temple and you will be caught between. This is the sign to watch for as it will mark the coming of the wrath of the gods, a horrible rain of fire that will fall down on the city, and destroy us all."

Methos reeled, unable to fully absorb the revelations and understand where he fit into this scenario. "But - what has this to do with me? Can I stop it somehow? Is that what you are saying?"

Yavanel's gaze softened and he reached up to stroke a tentative hand down Methos' cheek. "I can tell you no more. It is so written."

Methos held still under the soft caress, choking back a landslide of unwanted tenderness, using frustration to regain control. "That doesn't help me enough, Yavanel. You must tell me more. How can I stop this from happening?"

"My father told you once that it was inevitable, that our fate was to come here to this forsaken place and to die but it wasn't. It never was that. Our fate was to help you -- " He broke off at the sound of someone approaching, but Methos gripped his arm tightly.

"What? What was your fate to be?" He hissed but Yavanel simply cast him an enigmatic glance and pulled free.

"What are you doing?" Sidduri demanded when she was close enough to see who they were. "Lazing around in the halls - if you've no work to do then I certainly have tasks for you. Methos, you are needed at the stone cutters. You boy, come with me."

Methos' whole body flinched at the order, but Yavanel managed one last reassuring caress before he obediently followed the priestess to her chambers, leaving the Immortal in a terrible tumult. What did it all mean? What were the Taurids meant to do? What had this war between

palace and temple to do with him? Was this something to do with Nergal and the chosen one? Prophecies, he was heartily sick of them and his place in them. He lingered in the hallway a bit longer considering what to do next. He was sorely tempted to use the ceremony he'd been taught to shed some light on what was to come, but to do that, he would need certain things, like a special dagger.....he slowly shuffled off to the stone cutter, mentally listing the items he would need to acquire to perform the ceremony. After all, it cost nothing to divine, did it?

"Methos, you are a truly fortunate man."

Methos paused in his labors, shoving sweat damp hair from his eyes, a tiny tremor of apprehension shivering down his spine.

Mashkan stood just outside the circle of mud and straw where Methos blended together the perfect mixture for creating bricks, the strange glint in his eyes speaking loudly of bad things to come. The overseer beckoned, fighting a smile and Methos sighed.

He'd spent the last week doing hard physical labor at Sidduri's behest. He had thought that the episode with Tirigan comprised the whole of his punishment, but it seemed that he was to be worked half to death also. His training had all but ceased which meant he had been unable to acquire all the things he needed to perform the divination ceremony, though he couldn't work up much sorrow about it. He did find himself wondering what all of this meant in terms of Nergal's plans for him because he couldn't believe the reptilian god would let it go so easily. In spite of his aborted training, he had absorbed much from his sessions with Ragnar and while he shrank from the knowledge as though it were poison, he frequently woke from a sound sleep with the words of some chant still echoing through his mind. It made him shiver.

He sometimes thought about Sidduri's warning that Ragnar take care about being led by his cock and it made him smile. Ragnar's cock had been a major factor in what happened though Methos had been the only one to suffer from it - for now. From an analytical point of view, he recognized the core issue in question as one of power; Ragnar wanted carnal knowledge of Methos' body but on his own terms. He could also see that power remained one of Sidduri's issues as well. In her case, she was still choking on rage that Ragnar overruled her and insisted on presenting Methos to Lord Nergal instead of allowing her chosen one to be lifted up in his service. He would have loved to take three steps back and allowed both priest and priestess their heart's desire. He didn't dare tell Sidduri her champion was welcome to the role of Nergal's chosen one, nor would he ever have the opportunity to tell Ragnar to take the lead in their strained relationship.

And yet, wasn't it better this way? Wasn't toiling and slaving and suffering the lash far, far better than giving in to the images burned into his brain? That made him shiver too, mostly because he could still feel a throbbing pleasure all the way to his bones in response to the acts of savagery he had seen himself perform.

As for escape, he no longer lied to himself by pretending it was even an option. He could accept that now without much bitterness, seized by a ridiculous fatalism he had once thought dead along with his mortality.

"Come, come. I have a new task for you."

Obedient, Methos stumbled ahead of the overseer without speaking, feeling the clay squish from between his toes. He had learned the hard way that around here, slaves did not speak unless directed to.

"Imagine, being selected to serve as a body slave twice in one lifetime. It's nearly unheard of!" Mashkan enthused, amused laughter edging his tone. "Lucky you."

Body slave? Methos faltered, skin suddenly too tight and crawling with unease. Whose body slave?

"Tirigan is in need of an experienced man to - ahem - service him. And he wanted you. What say you, Methos? Isn't that exciting?" Mashkan teased with cruel efficiency.

Methos drew himself up straight, muscles tensing...body slave to Tirigan - the nightmare could not get any grimmer. He cast about for any other options coming up with only one, the one thing he would not do, would never do - he could call upon Nergal. Unconsciously, he gave a quick shake of his head. He knew Nergal would save him, but that would, without a doubt, place him in the lion god's debt and if he could prevent the future he had seen from coming to pass simply by enduring Tirigan's brutality, then it was a very small price indeed.

Mashkan led him directly to Sidduri's room. Methos blinked, confused and cast a searching glance at the overseer, who simply chuckled and thrust him into dimly lit room where Tirigan sat waiting, face taut with expectation. Methos hovered just inside the doorway, as far away as he could possibly get without actually leaving the room. He glanced around for Sidduri, still not

understanding what they were doing here instead of Tirigan's quarters.

"Come." The slaver's voice cracked through the tension between them, causing Methos to jerk in response. Slowly, so slowly, he took a single, hesitant step forward. Tirigan snapped his

fingers and growled. "Now."

When he stood directly in front of his new master, face full of memories from the wretched journey across the desert, Tirigan devoured him, trepidation and all, with a heavy lidded, ravenous gaze. "On your knees."

Methos obeyed, mouth dry.

"Wash my feet."

The silky command, so utterly unexpected, sent Methos' gaze flashing upward, full of curiosity. Wash his feet? What game was this?

"With your tongue."

Ah...he felt a blank expression slide into place with the dawn of understanding and he reached out to remove Tirigan's sandals.

"No hands, Methos." Tirigan commanded in a voice husky with desire.

Heat flared in his cheeks as he bent over to use his teeth to untie the lacing. It took quite a lot of grunting, struggling effort to free the dusty feet from their covering but he finally managed, beads of sweat dampening his dark hair, and sat up, panting, to rest for a moment.

Tirigan's eyes gleamed with satisfaction and he rubbed the back of his hand down Methos' cheek. "I can hardly wait to shove my cock down your throat. That was always your favorite part, wasn't it?"

Rather than reply to the ridiculous statement, Methos leaned back down and began to lick the dust off his master's feet. His stomach rebelled, churning and roiling in response, though he wasn't sure whether it was the taste or the humiliation of being forced into this position. Tirigan gasped as Methos ran his tongue across the sensitive insole, around the back of the heel and back up the side of the slaver's foot to his curiously mangled little toe. All the while, Methos imagined using the ceremonial fishhook to drag Tirigan's brains out through his nose and feeding the ropy gray stuff to him.

Suddenly, a foot caught him under the chin, the world tilted to a crazy angle, and he found himself sprawled on his back, with Tirigan panting over him.

"I changed my mind. I'm going to take your ass first. Wouldn't want to make it slide any easier, would we?"

Again, Methos refrained from replying and rolled submissively to his stomach, jaw clenched. Perhaps he should have asked for protection for himself as well...this was intolerable, he seethed. //How intolerable, Methos? Enough for you to call upon Nergal?// It was a fair question but forced a surge of frustrated rage to the surface. He allowed his head to hang, face twisting into a snarling mask, as he pushed up on his hands and knees and relaxed as much as he could - it wouldn't be enough, but it was the best he could do.

He felt Tirigan's grimy hands tear his clothes off and grip his hips with bruising force, felt the thick cock press against his anus with insistent intent and then all motion stopped.

"Really, Tirigan, that won't do at all," Sidduri drawled from the shadows. "His cock is limp - I want to see him hard too."

Tirigan groaned, an agonized sound that seemed to come from deep within him. "Can't we do that later?"

"Now."

He sighed, leaned over and grabbed for Methos' flaccid penis. Methos squinted at the shadows where her voice had come from disgust and irritation chasing each another through his body. Not only did he have to allow Tirigan to rape him, now he was supposed to enjoy it and provide Sidduri with an adequate show in the process. Delightful.

Unfortunately, in spite of Tirigan's concerted efforts, Methos simply couldn't sustain an erection and by the time Sidduri finally accepted that the scene would not be to her specifications, Tirigan had lost his as well.

Methos accepted the limp member stuffed into his mouth without protest, engaging every trick he had ever learned about this particular method of giving pleasure in an effort to bring his master off quickly. It wasn't to be that easy, but when was it ever? Tirigan jerked free and Methos immediately turned to his stomach again, his every move calculated and purposeful. Tirigan enjoyed inflicting pain and was never happier than when his victim was screaming, protesting and fighting and Methos had no intention of giving the slaver any of those things if he could possibly avoid it.

Again, brutal hands gripped his hips, a stiff cock pressed against him, and then, in one rough motion, Tirigan was buried inside him. Eyes closed, Methos sank his teeth into his lip to contain the yelp that threatened to break free and tried to stay relaxed. One movement bled into another and he hung on, aiming for nothing more than survival, shocked when something hot and wet enveloped his own cock. At the same instant, he felt Tirigan's fingers fist in his hair and yank back hard, a movement that succeeded in shifting the angle of penetration a critical inch, sending the solid rod scraping across that spot inside that made his eyes cross with pleasure.

Pinned between twin conflicting sensations, he struggled with the sensory input, not wanting to enjoy this in any way but unable to prevent his body's instinctive reaction. In the end, he just let go, thrusting back against Tirigan and forward into the sheath that welcomed him. If the pair had been seeking to humiliate him, nothing could have succeeded better. It had been so very long since Methos had engaged in sexual activity of any variety, Ragnar notwithstanding, that his entire body convulsed with the force of his orgasm and uncontrollable tremors shook him long after he was spent. Tirigan followed seconds later and the two men remained frozen together for several moments.

"Lovely..." Sidduri purred from across the room.

Methos' head shot up. If she was over there, then who - ??? Another shudder rippled through his body and he squeezed his eyes tightly shut, intent on avoiding the truth of the situation because really it could be nothing but bad, given the source. Of course he should have realized Sidduri would never lower herself so far as to actually participate in her own sick little games. No, indeed.

"You have the potential to be an interesting addition to my collection, Methos." She mused then snapped her fingers. "You boy, here. I have other uses for you now."

Boy...the word reverberated through his mind an endless echo, deafening in its accusation. By all the gods that were holy it simply wasn't possible, it *wasn't* possible that she'd actually made him do - that, not what her words implied. Revulsion gripped him from the inside out and he let his head hang down, eyes clenched shut in stark denial. If he didn't look, then he could pretend it hadn't happened, couldn't he? Because the alternative was unthinkable...unbelievable...unacceptable...and ultimately inescapable. The truth burned like an icy fire through his body, the soft murmur of Yavanel's hoarse voice sounding in reply to his mistress driving it deep into his bones and stripping away the remaining vestiges of illusion from his consciousness.

He knelt on limbs that trembled with tension and reaction, blind to everything but images of torment only he could see, deaf to all but the sound of his own blood rushing past his ears. He'd had enough; it was time to end this, past time in all truth. They had finally pushed him too far and he would take no more. Maybe it was because it was Yavanel or maybe he would have felt the same about any child and maybe that was key. His body coiled, each muscle tightening unconsciously in preparation for a lightening fast leap at the woman who stood in the shadows directing this tableau. He did not think of Yavanel again; neither of them had anything left to lose but their lives, of course, and Yavanel was dying anyway, his essence stolen from him drop by precious drop, most likely because of his place in Methos' affections. He owed it to Yavanel and his people to finish this and quickly. After all, he was the only one who could.

He calculated his chances and determined that he could make it to Sidduri in time to snap her elegant, rotten neck before any of her entourage would even be aware of what had happened. Then he could turn his attention to Tirigan whose death, while a much greater challenge, would undoubtedly bring far more satisfaction. The prospect of a difficult battle didn't worry him - Methos was a warrior, born and bred and the prospect of finally taking action after wallowing in misery for so long made his blood sing in his veins, regardless of what the hazard might be. And if he should die, then he would simply have to rise from the dead and run Tirigan into the ground. That option was almost more appealing than killing him with quick efficiency but Methos would take it however he could get it.

An unexpected shimmer of irritation threatened to break his concentration, an annoying little voice that questioned Methos' responsibility to the Taurid people and pointed out that what had happened to them was no more than their own fault. They'd known what was to come, hadn't they? Azala had as much as said so and while Methos didn't think anyone deserved to face the horrors they had, there had been plenty of opportunities to escape before Tirigan's arrival. He'd asked them, begged them in fact to come away with him and met with nothing but blank faces and laughter. Well, none of them were laughing now, were they? Not Azala, not Yavanel, not Sirena and most assuredly not Methos. He'd risked everything he was for them, all for the price of a few months of peaceful tranquility; were they really still worth dying for?

Oh gods, why didn't that question shock him as much as it probably should have? He'd tried to tell Azala that he was not destined to become the leader of the Taurid people, but the man had been so sure. Neither, however, did he aspire to the destiny Ragnar had chosen for him nor the one Nergal showed him. Still, he did owe something to Yavanel, and Sidduri deserved to die whether he still felt any responsibility for the Taurids or not. Even another single moment spent in her company made his skin feel too tight and crawly.

He drew a long, even breath, refocusing his attention and becoming aware of Tirigan's hulking presence behind him, of Yavanel's small body crouched on the floor before his target, and of the placement of each blank faced, hopeless slave standing ready to serve Sidduri at the snap of her fingers. He felt the pulse of his slow, steady heartbeat and the throbbing of his blood through his veins, keenly conscious of the grit from the floor pressing into his knees and digging into his palms. Time stretched out, expanded, slowed, as he crouched and coiled and suddenly a voice reached in through his ear, feathered down the back of his neck, slid down his spine and wrapped a hard, crushing fist around his insides.

"Well done, my dear."

Ragnar?

His muscles loosened with shock while he struggled to process this latest betrayal. It was one thing for this to be about Sidduri and her twisted little performances but Ragnar's presence cast a whole different light on the situation.

But wait - why was his presence such a stunning blow? Didn't he hate Ragnar? He was sure he did...certainly he had after Azala's sacrifice when he'd wanted nothing more than to dig the priest's organs out of his body personally. So why did the sound of his voice here in this chamber of horrors make him limp with shock and ache with beytral? When had he quit hating him? When had the image of the bird masked priest, robes streaked with blood and gore against the grim tableau of Azala's opened body become, if not all right at least acceptable? He couldn't say for sure, only that it undeniably had, in spite of recent events. Ragnar was a priest, the high priest, in service to a god who demanded blood from his worshippers. On some level, Methos recognized that and accepted it as a part of survival in the temple. He hated how it was done, hated even more that it had been done to a man dearer to him than his own father had been, but he had come to accept it and with it, Ragnar himself.

Perhaps the hours they'd spent going over and over language and ceremonies had softened him, or maybe it had been Ragnar's unexpected wit and intelligence. The insidious voice of reason pointed out that more likely, it was the unbidden spark of physical attraction that glowed unacknowledged between them; unacknowledged until Methos had crossed the line and taken matters into his own hands. Or mouth as it were. And he could even understand what had followed, even if he hadn't enjoyed it. Tirigan's brutal assault, while extreme, was nothing more than any slave would have received for stepping so far out of line. Wasn't it?

No, wait that wasn't right. His head spun with the things he knew, the things he didn't know and the monumental, terrifying secrets he was only just beginning to sense. Hadn't he planned to use Ragnar's obvious attraction to him to further his position in the temple? Yes, that seemed right, and that meant he wasn't attracted to Ragnar. So why did his voice have the power to sap Methos' strength and make his skin prickle with pleasure?

Methos shivered, the thoughts tumbling and cascading through his mind so unwelcome and uncomfortable he found himself scarcely able to breathe. What was Ragnar doing here? Surely he could not be the instigator of this horror. Surely not. His mind rebelled against the whole idea, grappling the conflict between his inner reality and external events, and suddenly he knew the precise moment his hatred for Ragnar had shifted into something softer and less definable - it was the night he'd grabbed Ragnar's dagger and pressed it to the priest's mortal throat, balancing on the edge of irrevocably spilling Ragnar's life force onto the floor. And he hadn't. He'd backed away from the edge, tossed the knife to the floor, and walked away. And incredibly Ragnar had let him do it. Why that moment stood out as pivotal in his mind was unclear even to him, but he knew with a bone deep certainty that was the moment he'd forgiven Ragnar for Azala's sacrifice. He'd known it then too, somewhere deep inside him if not consciously, and that was why the bloody ghost of the Taurid man had been haunting him.

Forgiven. Forgiven him and entered into what exactly? He didn't, gods save him, believe he was in love with the man, forgiveness notwithstanding but something had happened to Methos, something that made the idea of Ragnar as the mastermind of this scene fiercely painful.

"Well? Are you finished with him then or am I still permitted to play with him?" Sidduri asked, graciously amused. "I have a new pet I would love to - "

"We have no time for that." Ragnar cut in, his deep voice sharp with impatience. "Clean him up and bring him to my chambers. We must prepare him."

"But - " Sidduri protested, surprised, then stopped abruptly, mid sentence. Her tone shifted, adding a plaintive note to her entreaty. "So soon? It's too soon, Ragnar. He is not ready yet."

"It's nearly harvest time and we can afford to wait no longer. If we do not move now, we will not be ready by spring. Now do it."

Methos heard the firm footsteps crossing the floor but he kept his head down, unwilling to look up, to confirm the presence of his mentor and master, the man he'd willingly subjugated himself for, in this room here and now.

"What of the boy?" Sidduri asked with a sigh of resignation.

"You may do as you like with him so long as you do not kill him." Ragnar's voice came from the doorway, indifferent and casually cruel.

A shudder took Methos and his knees wobbled, the moment to act passed by him like a summer breeze, carrying with it all the strength in his limbs. They were breaking him down, he realized sorrow sweeping over him in such powerful waves he felt nearly numb with it. As surely as they were killing Yavanel, a piece at time, they were stripping Methos down to the bare essence of his soul and it was far and away more painful than having his skin flayed from his body.

Ragnar had proved himself a bastard, more than once, more stealthily cruel and cunning than Methos could have imagined, and still, *still* he wanted....wanted far more than he'd had or was likely to ever have. The understanding of his own weakness seared him to his toes with self loathing, made his legs heavy and shaky as he allowed himself to be led out of Sidduri's room and abandoned Yavanel to his fate.

"Do you understand now, Methos?" Ragnar asked later in an unbearably tender voice when Methos had been gently washed and dressed and led to the priest's chambers.

Methos stood in the center of the room where the slaves had left him, hands dangling loosely, uselessly by his sides, hands he'd once thought he could use to free himself. Slowly, his blank expression no longer a calculated deception so much as a reflection of his inner state, Methos shook his head. "No, master. I don't. I don't understand anything."

A faint smile flashed so quickly across the lean features it could have been just a trick of the light. "I see." Ragnar glanced down, staring reflectively into the goblet in his hand. "Then it is time, Methos. Time for you to learn the Ceremony of Life."

Methos recoiled, flinching from the words as if they had the power to hurt him, which perhaps they did. The stunning shock of receiving such a benediction after all he'd endured made his head spin and he struggled for comprehension. "Master? I don't understand."

"That is the first step, is it not? To admit you understand nothing." Ragnar tilted his head to one side, his eyes glittering with satisfaction his voice husky and heavy with desire. "Oh, Methos, you will make such a fine servant for Lord Nergal. You came here so arrogant and sure of all you knew, and now....now you are nearly perfect!" He closed the distance between them in one stride and stroked the back of his hand across Methos' cheek.

"But master," Methos swallowed hard, afraid to ask the question burning in his gut but unable to not ask it. Physical pain he could endure, the torment of not knowing, he could not. "Master, why? The children - you promised - "

Ragnar's eyes narrowed, his nostrils flared, his lips tightened and his hand dropped away only to return a spare breath later, connecting with Methos' cheek hard enough to snap his head back.

"The *children*" Ragnar spat contemptuously "are nothing. Do you hear me, Methos? Nothing! They are a distraction to you, nothing more. They sap your attention and your energy, they drain you of the ability to concentrate on the important things, like committing yourself to Nergal. Look how they took from you on the journey here, drinking your blood, draining your strength, leaving you to face Tirigan on your own then turning their backs on you as if you were nothing. If I thought it would help, I would kill them all myself."

"But you - promised - " Methos managed in a hesistant, halting voice, one hand pressed to the burning cheek where Ragnar's palm print was clearly visible.

"I promised nothing. I allow the brats to live because they hold no interest for me. I suggest they lose their appeal to you as well or I might find reason to become concerned with their welfare." Ragnar observed, his anger fading. "The blood sucking leeches deserve nothing more than your contempt. Think on it and I know you will see what I mean."

Methos trembled under the glittering gaze, struggled against the persuasive honeyed tone, and fought against an unexpected need to please his master, shocked by his own desire. Gods, when had this happened? When had he lost himself so completely? The worst of it was that Ragnar knew. Oh yes, the knowledge shone from his dark, triumphant gaze, eyes that feathered with possessive intent over each inch of Methos' shaking body, the look simultaneously a calculated, terrifying seduction and an unmistakable brand.

Methos swallowed hard, his body hardening in a single, painful rush.

"What do you want, Methos?" Ragnar coaxed, shifting from teacher to seducer so quickly Methos' head spun. "Tell me what you want."

"Master?" He manged to croak, unsure of what the right answer was and afraid that speaking of his desires would bring him another round of Tirigan's attention.

"Tell me." Ragnar crooned, clasping his hands behind his back in a gesture that made his own arousal visible through his loose robes. "Do you know what you want?"

His gaze fell to the telling bulge and he dampened his lips nervously with his tongue, emboldened by the teasing promise Ragnar was exuding. His eyes became heavy and slitted with longing, both for the soft reassurance of human contact and for the pleasures promised by the sleek, lean body standing so close he could taste the other man's scent, and Methos nodded, feeling his body sway slightly toward Ragnar. "You. I want you, Master. Please."

He dropped his head submissively in an attempt to show his surrender, his willingness to follow where ever Ragnar might lead. However, he had not, apparently, learned to release all expectations when dealing with this man. The hand that cracked against other cheek carried with it nearly enough force to break his jaw and more than enough power to send him reeling backwards. Shocked, his eyes flew up to meet his master's.

"Master - I - "

"You disappoint me greatly, Methos." Ragnar observed in a flat, emotionless tone, though his face was a mask of supressed rage. "I offer you the world and you beg for a crumb. You want to be a whore? Fine. I shall sell you to the next slave caravan to pull through. You and your precious children." He sneered the last words, a hint of the depth of his anger leaking past his control.

"Master..." Methos protested, dropping to his knees at Ragnar's feet, panic overwhelming him in waves. He couldn't be sent away. Not now. There had to be a way to keep Ragnar from selling him. "Please - " He bent over his knees, pressing his face to the cold stone floor in hopeless supplication, hopeless because he didn't know what the right answers were for once in his life.

Strong fingers twisted in his hair, and jerked his head backward so that he was staring directly into Ragnar's dark, dangerous features. "Mashkan!" He shouted, holding Methos' wide eyed, pleading gaze steadily. "Bring me Sidduri's boy; Methos hasn't finished with him yet."

Choking on terror and revulsion, Methos tried to shake his head, mouthing the word 'no' over and over. Sound finally broke free in a nearly incoherent rush. "No, please master. Please, I will do anything you ask of me but not that. I can't do that. Please master."

Ragnar held him for another endless moment then let go and Methos collapsed to the floor, still begging for respite, though silently and pointlessly now. There was no way out of this he thought with despair, no crumbs of mercy would come his way, no spare breath of grace. He'd been tricked into using Yavanel unspeakably once and now Ragnar would expect it again. The walls closed around him, pressing down on him ruthlessly. No way out, Methos, no way out, no way out....the words echoed through his numb mind until he thought he might go mad with it and then it came to him. There was no way out save death.

Slowly, cautiously, he sat up, staring at the floor. Death. Yes, that was an option, wasn't it? Why hadn't that occured to him before? He glanced over at Ragnar, traced the stiff, set lines of his shoulders cautiously. Death. He bit back a triumphant smile, wanting to laugh with the sheer joy of the freedom that beckoned to him with open arms, but needing all his concentration to accomplish his goal in the next moments.

He leapt forward, a silent, unstoppable predator, hands outstretched to close around Ragnar's neck. One quick snap and it would be all over, the best he could do in the absence of any other weapon. The force of his momentum threw Ragnar to the floor, a grunt of pain escaping the priest as Methos' weight settled onto him, one bony knee planted in the center of his back pinning him to the floor.

"You should have killed me the last time," Methos whispered, tracing his tongue around the edge of Ragnar's ear, surprised that the priest did not even flinch. "Because now I will kill you." He wrapped his hands around the smooth flesh, unable to resist stroking the soft skin briefly.

"You think so?" Ragnar asked quietly, in a voice that clearly communicated his lack of concern about his precarious position. "Then you'd better do it quickly, because if you fail...."

Confused, Methos hesistated, cheeks flushed with hectic color, body trembling, an unbidden reaction to the close proximity to Ragnar. He no longer fought against the knowledge that he wanted the man, only regretted that he'd never have him. He tightened his fingers around the vulnerable neck, arching involuntarily against the too hot body and biting back a groan at the sensations sparking from his groin.

"Do it, Methos." Ragnar taunted, the words husky and breathless. "Kill me if you can."

Methos consoled himself later with the knowledge that he had tried. He'd clenched his fingers harder and harder still, cutting off the precious flow of air, and panted, struggling against the urges of his own body, against the overwhelming desire to rub himself against the warm, unresisting body. He was breathing so loudly, he didn't realize when Yavanel and Mashkan entered the room until the slaver hauled him off Ragnar's perfectly still body, swearing with anger. Chest heaving, Methos still couldn't hear anything over his pounding heart; all he could do was stare at the sprawled body on the floor and wonder if he actually managed to kill the man. Methos was a dead man himself, either way, but he did want to know if he'd accomplished his purpose.

The next instant, Ragnar stirred and the question was answered. He pushed himself to his knees, coughing to open his throat again, then slowly stood and turned to face the trio, eyes glittering madly. Methos felt his heart drop -- he'd failed, again.

"I told you to do it quickly, didn't I?" Ragnar demanded hoarsely, with a small shake of his head eyes narrowing, and Methos' gaze was drawn inexorably to the ring of purpling bruises already appearing on the abused neck. "I told you...." He cut himself off and shrugged, waving his hand in dismissal. "Take him to the lower level, Mashkan. Methos and I have some things yet to discuss."

"What about - him?" Mashkan asked, inclining his head toward the silent, wraithlike figure of Yavanel who stood passively waiting nearby and Methos started slightly at the reminder, having temporarily forgotten the boy.

"Leave him here and tell Sidduri to choose another pet. I have special plans for this one."

Methos' breath caught at the words, but there wasn't anything he could do about it. Soon he would feel the enfolding darkness of death and then he would truly be free. He could do nothing more.

Mashkan barked an order to his men and they seized Methos' arms with rough efficiency, dragging him toward the door, while he desperately held Ragnar's gaze, unable to read the impassive face. He did not harbor any delusions about wringing a reprieve from Ragnar but he wanted to force the man to remain aware of what he was doing.

"Ragnar? What is the meaning of this?" A blustery voice from the hallway cut through the thick tension in the room just before they reached the door.

Had Methos not been watching Ragnar's face, he would have missed the remarkable transformation of the proud, arrogant features into a soft mask of humble, servile, obedience. He blinked, squeezed his eyes shut and squinted across the room again just to be sure he was really seeing what he thought he was but the strange image didn't alter. He had never seen Ragnar look so before, not in the entire time he'd spent with him here in the temple. He'd seen variations on the theme, but never, never to this degree.

Ragnar waved an impatient hand toward Mashkan and Methos, motioning for them to move out of the doorway then inclined his head in a gesture of respect as soon as the way was cleared. "En-lil ka gen-na," he said smoothly. "What an unexpected honor. How may we serve you?"

The partially bald man who bustled into the room was portly and round and quite obviously puffed with his own self importance. What was left of his graying hair stuck up at odd angles from his brown skinned skull but his pale, watery eyes held a sharp intelligence. He glanced around the room, assessing the scene with one quick sweep, nostrils flaring as his gaze lingered for a moment on Yavanel's bruised face.

"It is not how you may serve me, but how you may serve his majesty, Iszkur-ba-ni , the benificient." The man announced in a pompous tone.

"His majesty?" A hint of impatience underlined Ragnar's smooth, careful tone, scarcely noticable unless one knew the man well. "We have told his majesty before that the omens are not favorable for his venture. Does his majesty wish us to - "

En-lil ka gen-na waved an impatient hand to cut the priest off mid sentence. "His majesty needs nothing more from the temple with respect to his future plans."

Methos frowned at the man's tone and sliced a sidelong glance at Yavanel's wraithlike figure, recalling the boy's words about a conflict between the palace and the temple. Was this it? Mashkan shifted uneasily behind him, his grip suffocatingly tight, obviously wanting to quit the room but unwilling to disturb the two men.

"I see," Ragnar bowed his head again in acknowledgment, then returned his shuttered gaze to the palace official, snagging on Methos and his captors along the way. His face darkened a shade but he said nothing.

"Good." En-lil ka gen-na smiled a thin, humorless smile and nodded, satisfied. "But you must forgive me. I appear to have interrupted something," he observed, his sharp eyes falling to the purple bruises on Ragnar's neck. "Please continue."

"It is nothing to concern a man such as yourself. No more than a disobediant slave in need of punishment." Ragnar brushed the comments away with deft assurance, inclining his head pointedly toward the door, and Mashkan immediately began dragging Methos out with him. "Now, how may I serve his majesty today?"

En-lil ka gen-na's narrow, straggly brows furrowed and he hesitated a beat, then reached out to catch Methos' arm as the men passed. "Hold a moment, Mashkan."

Methos felt his heart skip a beat, not daring to speculate what this might mean.

"His majesty has heard rumors about a band of slaves hailing from the mountains who were brought to the temple some time ago. Are you familiar with these people Ragnar?"

Ragnar nodded slowly, his whole body tense and watchful. "I am. Tirigan brought them in."

"I see." En-lil ka gen-na cast Methos a troubled glance and folded his hands over his ample stomach. "I - have heard they were extraordinarily difficult to train -- is that so?"

"I do not know. Slave training is not really my responsibility." Ragnar replied, slowly, then shrugged, obviously aware the circumstances did not bear out his words. "Methos has been an unending challenge for me, however. But why should his majesty be interested in a bunch of slow witted slaves? They are nothing to do with him."

En-lil ka gen-na shrugged. "As I understand it, he wishes to learn more about the Gutians. We have heard of your difficulties in teaching this group and his majesty speculated that perhaps Tirigan captured a band of Gutians rather than people."

"That is highly unlikely, En-lil ka gen-na. These people speak human language and are more favorably endowed. They may be stupid, but they are human." Ragnar seemed to visibly relax as he explained his theories until his eyes drifted down to the plump hand still wrapped around Methos' arm.

"Yes, well, his majesty would like to speak with these people in any case. May I assume that this one is part of that group?"

Methos winced a little at the pressure on his elbow and bit back a smile, almost able to hear Ragnar's teeth grinding together in frustration, his face shifting from dark to stormy. Evidently En-lil ka gen-na held an enviable position of power, one that made even Ragnar think twice.

"These slaves have been consecrated to the temple, En-lil ka gen-na," Ragnar pointed out stiffly. "Lord Shamash would not be pleased to have his servants taken away."

"His majesty only wishes to speak with them." The bulky man countered smoothly, releasing his grip on Methos' elbow and inclining his head toward the Immortal. "Is this one of them?"

Ragnar quivered with outrage but forced to reply, nodded shortly. "Yes. Methos is one of the mountain people."

"And the boy?" En-lil ka gen-na pressed without looking toward Yavanel.

Ragnar's heavy brows snapped together, his nostrils flared and his lips tightened into a firm, flat line. "Yes. The boy as well. I was unaware that his majesty needed to raid the temple to acquire his playmates."

"Well then, these two should do nicely. Come boy. And you - Methos?" En-lil ka gen-na rubbed his hands together, pleased, ignoring the scathing comment though his eyes flashed with the promise of retribution. "I'm sure his majesty will be pleased to send over an offering for Lord Shamash as thanks for borrowing his property."

"I'm sure," Ragnar agree dryly. "Perhaps you would care for some refreshment while you wait for Methos to be prepared."

"Prepared?" En-lil ka gen-na frowned. "Prepared for what?"

"I told you that he was on his way to be disciplined. That cannot wait until he returns."

The official hesitated then shook his head. "I have no time to wait, Ragnar. His punishment will have to be foregone for now."

Methos remained utterly still in Mashkan's tight embrace scarcely able to believe this turn of events. Mashkan held firm until Ragnar nodded his grudging assent. Freed, he shivered convulsively, and wrapped his arms around his waist as if it were cold in the room.

"Come boy," En-lil ka gen-na snapped his fingers and turned to leave without waiting to see whether Methos and Yavanel would follow or not.

Methos waited for the boy to move past him before he began to turn, then stopped, pinned by Ragnar's low hiss from behind.

"Enjoy your respite, Methos. We are far from finished here."

The words sent a tiny quiver through his gut, but Methos shook it off and did not look back. He was free from Ragnar for the moment, though for how long remained to be seen. He did not recall having prayed, but apparently the prayers of his heart were being answered in a most unusual fashion.

Part 5

En-lil ka genna might have been older and portly, but he moved with the speed and energy of a much younger, healthier man. Methos and Yavanel trailed behind the fluttering robes, hurrying to ensure they were never more than two steps behind him, placing themselves under the broad protection of his office. By some miracle, they'd been rescued, though from what Methos wasn't sure. The shock of the change in his circumstances was so complete and so total, he felt shaken to the center of his being, off balance in ways he scarcely knew how to cope with. He had been liberated from Ragnar and hence from the sickness in his soul that made him vulnerable to Ragnar's commands and anxious to do his bidding.

It was relief he felt at the abrupt freedom, relief and not anything like grief. He refused to feel a sense of loss or regret about being whisked, almost literally, out from under the hawk nosed priest's control. And he wouldn't look back. He couldn't - survival had been the primary imperative of his life for so long that he found it easier than he'd imagined possible to rebuild his destroyed defenses, shore up the crumbling walls and concentrate on what he would have to do next. It would do him no good, in any case, to mourn the loss of a man he loathed and despised, a man who twisted and bent him into a shape and form Methos did not recognize and did not want to be.

And still....still a traitorous surge of longing escaped his tenuous control, the tiny remaining piece of power he'd held close to himself these past months in an attempt to retain some small part of his own soul. A longing for....what? Ragnar's unwavering, unrelenting domination? His insistent demands for complete perfection above and beyond the needs of the body? The sensation of belonging again, for once and always to something deeper and more steadfast than the usual quicksilver changes that flashed through his life? But Ragnar would die, eventually, as all mortals died....unless Methos could somehow keep him alive....with the Ceremony of Life, perhaps...

Horrified at the direction his mind had taken him, Methos jerked himself back. The fact remained that Enlil-ka gen-na had taken Methos from the temple and hence from Ragnar's control. He now had the opportunity to reassemble himself, providing the fat official proved to be somehow better than the temple priests, and there was no guarantee of that. But the possibility existed, and that was what he needed to concentrate on, the possibilities, the opportunities, not the loss of something he'd never wanted to begin with.

So the government official had mentioned wanting information about the Gutians, hadn't he? As they walked, Methos struggled to recall everything he knew about the Gutians, anxious to make himself as indispensible to King Iszkur-ba-ni as possible. He'd never met a Gutian himself, but he recalled reading somewhere that they were

'Not classed among people, not reckoned as part of the land
Gutian people who know no inhibitions,
With human instinct but canine intelligence and monkey's features'.

Not a glowing recommendation of their race, but in his lifetime he'd found that bigotry and prejudice came in many forms. It could be that the semi nomadic mountain tribe did nothing more different from the Sumerians and other lowlanders than live in the mountains and wear animal fur to stay warm. Perhaps Yavanel had met them and he would be able to offer something of value.

As soon as they exited the temple, En-lil ka genna began to mumble under his breath, just loud enough for them to hear.

"And what do you suppose his majesty is going to say to this? 'I sent you to the temple to make peace with my priests, En-lil ka genna.' Yes, your majesty, I know that. 'I didn't ask you to 'borrow' Lord Shamash's slaves, did I En-lil ka genna.' No your majesty did not. 'Have you lost your mind, En-lil ka genna?' No your majesty, I do not believe so." The government official began gesturing broadly to punctuate his antimated, one sided conversation with himself, changing his voice to match the different speakers. "'Then what is the meaning of this, En-lil ka gen-na?' Well, your majesty, you asked me to find out about the mountain tribe and I saw these two slaves in Ragnar's quarters and - And what? What will you tell his majesty En-lil ka gen-na? That you felt *sorry* for a couple of worthless slaves? That you risked peace in the city all because of a bruised child and a - a - " He sighed, dropping his hands and shaking his head, evidently amazed at his own audacity. "Well I hope you two are worth my position." He finally muttered. "Because I don't doubt his majesty will be furious with me."

Methos fought back a smile as En-lil ka gen-na puffed along, still muttering imprecations to himself, and hoped all would be well. He spared a brief, uncertain glance at Yavanel, washed by the stain of regret that never be cleansed. Methos had not spoken to him since -- since it had happened and he did not know what to say now. The boy seemed fascinated with the sights of the bustling city as they passed through it and Methos realized that of course, he would never have seen anything like this, would he? He'd never been out of the small mountain town and they'd been brought in under the cover of darkness. It was possible he'd seen something in the cycle since their arrival, but more likely he'd spent his time divided between Tirigan and Sidduri's chambers and the slave quarters.

The avid fascination flickering across Yavanel's mobile features sent another pang of regret through Methos. The child had scarcely had time to learn what the world was all about before being thrust into a truly grim situation, and the fact that he was hardly considered a much of a child at twelve cycles was of little consolation.

En-lil ka genna did not pause or attempt to speak until they had reached the palace. Then he turned and studied them carefully, mournfully, lips pursed in a thoughtful moue before calling a slave to him.

"Take the boy to my quarters and clean him up." He ordered distastefully. "And send something over to the temple, tribute or a sacrifice. Make it double - " He paused, frowning and shook his head. "No, triple. Send triple what the child would bring on the market."

The slave woman bowed her head in acknowledgement, grasping Yavanel's upper arm in a firm grasp. The boy flinched, already pale face blanching and tightening with pain, and jerked away. It was the first time he'd ever shown open defiance and Methos stared, open mouthed as a small hand slid into his and clutched him tight.

"Yavanel," Methos murmured, gentle but urgent, squeezing Yavanel's fragile hand and speaking in the boy's native language. "Now is not a good time to balk. You will be far better off here than at the temple and I beg you to go with her. It is nothing but the sheerest luck that you have escaped Ragnar and Sidduri. Please don't - "

"But I wish to stay with you, Methos." Yavanel said, tucking his chin to his chest so that his wobbly voice came out muffled.

"But - "

"Please don't let him send me away."

Methos stared at the bent head helplessly. "Yavanel - you can't do this. You are a slave. You can't decide where you want to go and where you don't. You've been a slave for an entire cycle. You *know* that."

"I - " Yavanel broke off, his voice high and breathy, a shudder trembling through him.

"What is the problem?" En-lil ka genna demanded, waving his hands in a restless gesture of impatience. "What is wrong with the boy?"

Yavanel gripped Methos' hand harder and his chest heaved with his struggle to breath. "I know....I had just hoped....I wouldn't have to be alone." His voice was the barest whisper and Methos had to strain to hear it, the scarcely audible words lancing him so deeply he could barely breathe himself. Yavanel sighed, releasing Methos' hand and straightened his shoulders. The boy was a slave and he knew what that meant.

"Leave it to me to wind up with barbarians I can't even communicate with!" En-lil ka genna muttered, rubbing his hands over his tired face. "Kishtara? Do you have any idea what heathen language they are speaking?"

The slave woman, tightlipped and angry shook her head with disdain. Obviously not of the mountains.

"Master," Methos lay a heavy hand on Yavanel's shoulder and dropped to his knees, head bowed. "If it pleases you, Master, it would be better if the boy came with us to see the king."

Yavanel stilled then pressed his body back as if he could melt into the older man and Methos squeezed the bony shoulder for comfort.

"Ah....I see you do speak our language." En-lil ka genna observed dryly. "That certainly simplifies things. Then you know I mean the boy no harm and only wish to see to his comfort."

"Of course master. But if you wish to learn of the Gutians, Yavanel would be better suited to tell you of them than myself. I am not native to the Zagros Mountains but he is."

"I thought - " Enlil-ka genna frowned. "Ragnar said you came from the mountains."

"I came with the Taurids, yes." He hadn't meant to be disingenuous or evasive, but he'd been trained during his time in the temple to say as little as possible and answer only the questions posed to him in a very specific fashion. Doing so was no guarantee that he wouldn't be punished anyway, but it did seem to help.

"You are most impertinent for a slave, Methos." Enlil-ka gen-na noted, voice heavy and grave.

Methos winced, and felt his heart thud hard, but with his head bent, he couldn't assess the severity of the damage he'd done. "Yes, Master. Doubtless you should have me beaten." Methos returned, his meek tone robbing the words of any sardonic undertones.

"Doubtless." Enlil-ka gen-na agreed. "But I believe I should prefer to simply speak with you. Come sit and eat. You must tell me of yourself."

"Yavanel?" Methos dared, flashing a glance up through his lashes, scarcely able to breathe.

Troubled, the older man frowned, his watery gaze resting lightly on Yavanel's silvery blond hair. "If the boy would be more comfortable remaining with you, then I will have Kishtara clean him up here."

The slave woman made a low noise of outrage in her throat and her lips tightened, but she made no further protest. Enlil-ka gen-na smiled a bit.

"They come from Ragnar, Kishtara." He explained simply, as if his words provided all the clarity necessary, which apparently they did. Kishtara's face softened and she slanted a sympathetic glance toward Yavanel. "Fetch your supplies."

"Many thanks, Master." Methos murmured, swallowing hard over the lump of gratitude swelling in his throat. That he'd been reduced to choking with thankfulness for the smallest kindness was undeniable and something he'd been forced to accept and absorb into his life.

Enlil-ka gen-na waved the gratitude away impatiently, using his hands to paint the air around him with the broad gestures Methos was begining to associate with him. "Sit, eat, tell me your story. The boy I can keep, you I shall have to return so we haven't much time.

Methos led Yavanel to the inconceivably elaborate spread of food, wasting no time on regrets. He was fiercely glad to know that Yavanel would soon be out of danger and would belong to the palace rather than the temple. His own fate, far more uncertain, was much less important.

"Master....would you....consider selling Yavanel?" Methos asked hesitantly when they had selected plates of food and were settled across from the disheveled government official. "If he were to have the money, would you allow him to buy his freedom?"

It was a daring request for him to make, a calculated risk, terrifying in its audacity. But he found himself unable to resist asking. He'd heard of such possibilities, that slaves could work in their spare time to earn money to buy their freedom and he'd even been surreptiously earning money from the stone cutter for keeping the man's hopelessly confused books. He hadn't ever thought to have the opportunity to do anything about it, knowing that Ragnar would never allow his chosen one or his best leverage to walk away under any circumstances, but it was no longer Ragnar's decision. If Enlil-ka gen-na was correct, if Methos was to be sent back to the temple soon, then he had to get a message to Jarmo now and have money sent to him.

The uneven brows rose then snapped together thoughtfully. "Interesting question...."

"If you were to allow me to send a message to Jarmo, I could make you a very - " Methos paused, thinking over the words again. Obviously Enlil-ka gen-na was already a wealthy man. "Yavanel would have the money." He finished instead, his voice low and even.

"I see." Enlil-ka gen-na murmured. "Why do you ask for such benificence for the child and not for yourself? If you've the money to buy his freedom, why not use it for your own?"

Methos shook his head immediately. "You have already said, Master, that you will not be keeping me and Ragnar would never allow such a thing."

"Hmm......I see." Enlil-ka gen-na nodded gravely, plump fingers hovering over his heaping plate until he located a juicy olive and tossed it into his mouth. "The boy may buy his freedom though I am sorry it has to be this way. Will you not tell me of yourself? You hail from Jarmo then?"

"Most recently." Methos agreed, a powerful wave of relief sapping the strength in his limbs. Yavanel was not only safe from the temple, he would soon be free, praises be to all the gods above and below. "I was a merchant until I packed my things and headed for the mountains."

"Must not have been very successful if you had to go to the mountains for customers." Enlil-ka gen-na murmured, lips twisting into an ironic smile.

Methos shrugged. "Successful enough. Too successful, truthfully. I tired of the people and the wealth and constant demands. I wanted something simpler, more basic. The Zagros Mountains promised anonymity and sanctuary, though I hardly expected to settle there for an entire season cycle."

"What happened?"

"I met the Taurid people." Methos chewed a date slowly, savoring the sweet, tender flesh as much as the novelty of having a normal conversation that did not deal with gods, ceremonies, and sacrifice. "They took me in and made me a part of their family. Then when Tirigan came, he took me with them. He didn't ask if I belonged there, he simply assumed. But it wouldn't have mattered because I would not have abandoned them."

Enlil-ka gen-na nodded and seemed inclined to pursue the discussion, but a servant came into the chamber and knelt before him.

"His majesty wishes to see you, sir."

"Now? But my guests are not yet refreshed."

"Yes, master. Now. His majesty said it did not matter what you were doing, you were to come to him immediately. And to bring the slaves from the temple with you."

"I see." The portly man waved the servant away, jaw tight with the indignity of being summarily summoned. "Well then, let us be off to see King Iszkur-ba-ni. I'm sure it will be enlightening."

"What were you thinking, Enlil-ka gen-na?" The king demanded as soon as the trio entered the inner sanctum.

The king was taller than Methos had anticipated, with a more muscular body, one that looked to be more honed for a battle field than a throne room. His dark hair flowed down over his shoulders in loose waves and his eyes held a lively intelligence. Just then, however, the intelligence was overshadowed by a hot flare of anger directed specifically at his minister.

"I am sorry, your majesty."

"Sorry? What did I send you over there for? To make peace with my priests, not to cause unrest and discontent by stealing Shamash's consecrated slaves." Iszkur-ba-ni prowled the inner confines of the large room restlessly, his energy scarcely contained by the stone walls.

"But your majesty wished to know of the Gutians. And these - "

"Yes, but I expected you to work through the priests, not openly defy them. I don't care what the story is behind these two, send them back."

"But your majesty - "

"Send them back!" Iszkur-ba-ni shouted. "Ragnar has already petitioned for the return of the slave known as Methos. He claims you interfered in his affairs by taking the slave away before he could be punished. Is that true?"

Enlil-ka gen-na sighed and spread his hands out in a wide gesture designed to placate, but the king would not have it.

"Do you know what he did to deserve punishment?" He pressed insistently.

Enlil-ka gen-na shook his head, his face reflecting such deep misery Methos felt terribly sorry for him. The official had shown remarkable human kindness and did not deserve to be snapped at so. Methos' stomach clenched but they'd all known it would come to this point, when Enlil-ka gen-na would have to relinquish his prizes, though they'd thought Yavanel would be allowed to remain. Methos inhaled and prepared to step forward to accept the wrath that more rightfully belonged to him.

"No your majesty." Enlil-ka gen-na said, catching Methos' arm in an unbreakable grip with a surreptitious movement. His eyes spoke a dire warning so Methos subsided.

"Then let me enlighten you. He made an attempt on Ragnar's life. Do I have to tell you how much damage your little stunt has done to our relations with the Temple? As if we needed any more problems with them." Iszkur-ba-ni threw his arms up to graphically illustrate his frustration, then flung himself down onto his throne. "Take them back, Enlil-ka gen-na, unless you fancy serving Lord Shamash as a slave in the Temple yourself." The king finished in a low, weary tone, rubbing his hands over his face.

"Your majesty, have I not known you since the time when you still crawled?" Enlil-ka gen-na said smoothly.

"What has that to do with this?" Iszkur-ba-ni snapped, irritable.

"I have given your majesty advice, good advice, many times over the years, have I not?"

The king nodded once, abrupt and churlish.

"I beg a moment to explain. Have I not earned such a privilege?"

"Get on with it, Enlil-ka gen-na. I have not had you dragged away in chains yet. But do not tempt me further."

"My people in the Temple say that there is something going on there, something terrible that is about to happen. They say that Ragnar has summoned a demon who lives there as a man and that - "

"Yes, yes. So you've said before. Now what is this to do with these two? Is this the demon?" The king's tone clearly indicated his disbelief, but Enlil-ka gen-na persisted.

"I do not believe there is such a demon, but I do believe these two slaves are important to Ragnar. Think on it, majesty. Why else would Ragnar be so anxious to get him back?"

Comprehension slid across the strong bronze features and the king straightened slowly, his narrowed gaze skipping lightly over Methos' body. "So what do you propose? We cannot keep him here, you know that."

"Yes, majesty. I have already sent payment for the boy, but I knew Ragnar would not accept the same for Methos. But perhaps we can learn more about what is happening at the Temple before we return him."

"What use is the boy to us?" Iszkur-ba-ni snapped, his tone short but no longer angry, simply curious.

"He was present when I arrived. I can only assume he is also important to Ragnar, but since he has not requested the boy's return, I would ask for permission to keep him."

Hope flared again in Methos' gut, a tiny spark he scarcely dared allow life.

"Hmm....If you are lacking in slave companionship, I'm sure we can arrange for you to attend an auction, old friend." The king teased and Enlil-ka gen-na relaxed visibly. "What do you need with another child anyhow? Do you not already have five sons of your own?"

"Yes your majesty," Enlil-ka gen-na agreed, unruffled.

"Fine, fine. If there is no protest from the Temple, you may keep the boy, but the man must be sent back. Soon."

Iszkur-ba-ni snapped his fingers and a servant rushed forward to bow low to his feet. The gesture was a clear dismissal and Enlil-ka gen-na began to back away, his two slaves in tow. Suddenly, Yavanel broke free and threw himself at the King's feet.

"Your majesty," he said in a low, shaky voice. "I must speak with you."

Methos swore softly. "Yavanel! Come!" He snapped.

"I must tell you what is to come. It has been written and I must tell you...."

Iszkur-ba-ni stared at the prostrate figure at his feet with nonplussed bewilderment, at a loss for what to do with such audacity. The rest of the people in the sumptuous chamber seemed stricken by the same affliction, standing frozen with shock.

"The gods are angry," Yavanel said, his words running together in one long, urgent sentence. "and will have satisfaction for the wrongs being done in the Temple Ragnar worships Lord Nergal and unless a strong champion arises, the city of Sippar will be no more please, your majesty, you must take heed and act quickly."

"Who are you, child?" Iszkur-ba-ni asked slowly, lifting his hand to halt the menacing advance of his guards.

"I am Yavanel, of the Guardians of the Sky. We are the watchers and we have waited many years to perform our duty."

"And what exactly would your duty be? Impertinence?" The king murmured, but his tone lacked conviction and his face had paled a shade beneath the sun bronzed tint of his skin.

"Please your majesty, forgive my fowardness, but I must tell you of these things to come." Yavanel insisted, his voice steadying.

"I have advisors and priests and diviners. I have no need of your visions, child."

Yavanel nodded. "Yes, your majesty, but you must beware. It is nearly time for the debt to be paid." Awkward and slow, Yavanel pushed himself to his feet and shuffled over to stand beside Methos, sliding one dry, cool hand into Methos' palm, his face tight with tension.

"Yavanel...." Methos whispered, as touched by the boy's courage as he was appalled by his audacity. "Your father would be proud."

Yavanel looked up soberly, his eyes dark with some unnamed emotion. "Yes, he would. But you are not?"

"No, I am proud as well." Methos sighed, brushing his hand gently over the boy's hair. "However foolish you may be."

Enlil-ka gen-na hovered between the ashen king and the doorway, waiting for some signal as to what he should do now. Such a thing had evidently never happened in his presence before.

Driven by instinct, Methos slid his arm protectively across Yavanel's chest, though there was really nothing he could do to safeguard the child.

Iszkur-ba-ni glared at the trio in brooding silence, fingertips pressed together into a peak against his tight lips. "I have heard of your people, boy." He finally said. "Cursed by the gods, banished to the mountains, despised by all....what are you doing in my city?" The last he spoke softly, almost to himself. "If there is any debt to be paid, it is yours and your people's. It is no wonder the omens and portents have been so ominious. We have been harboring vipers in our midst. Enlil-ka gen-na, bring me the rest of these people. We shall cleanse the city of their essence. Quickly!"

The portly official bowed low as he backed out the door, his own face pale and frightened.

Methos clenched his fingers involuntarily on Yavanel's shoulder, struggling to comprehend the latest catastrophe. How was this possible? He had never heard of the Guardians of the Sky or the watchers until he'd stumbled across their village and no one had ever even hinted that they were cursed by the gods. No, wait. That must be why no one ever made any effort to escape the horrifying fate foretold and why Azala refused to allow him to take Sirena. This must be the remainder of the prophecy.

"Yavanel, tell me." Methos commanded so quietly only the boy could hear.

"It's true," he murmured back. "We were condemned and exiled to the mountains until such a time as we might redeem ourselves. We have come to that time."

"What were you condemned for?"

"I - we - failed Ea and his son Enlil. My grandfather's father's people were to keep watch for the coming of the gods and goddesses for a great feast in the temple of Ea. It is said that the temple was prepared and my people watched and waited for forty days and forty nights without faltering but on the last day, a terrible sleeping sickness came over them and they all fell asleep. The gods and goddesses came down from the heavens with much rejoicing and celebration and found the fires at the temple burned out, no fresh sacrifices for their inspection, no food for them to sample, noone to greet them as was their right. Ea was so angry, he cursed my people and commanded Enlil to bring a rain of fire down upon the city. The entire city quickly became ashes and my people were told to go to the mountains and keep watch over the sky until the signs became clear."

Methos strained to make out the words, mind spinning madly. Why had it never occured to him to ask for the whole story? He hadn't believed Azala, in all truth, when he'd said that his people were doomed to slavery and death. Methos thought it a lot of ridiculousness until Tirigan actually showed up to drag them down the mountain. He hadn't believed it, had he? Perhaps consciously he hadn't, but on some inner level, he'd sensed that something wasn't right or he wouldn't have felt such a crawling desperation to get Sirena out of the village. A twinge of pleasure shimmered through him at the realization that his survival instincts had come back, almost wholly unnoticed. Unfortunately, they had proved more or less utterly useless

"You never heard our story?" Yavanel asked incredulous. "In all the time you were with us, no one ever told you of our shame?"

No, no one ever had. About a hundred questions surfaced in Methos' mind, all entirely irrelevant at the moment. Things like why had the gods waited forty days and nights? Why come on the forty-first day? Had no one else ever thought to ask? And when would they know when the signs had become clear?

He shook his head to clear it, unable to believe that they had all come this far only to be gutted on the altar of a superstitious king. /Think, Methos, think./ His fingers tightened on Yavanel's shoulder and suddenly he had it.

He released his grasp and stepped forward, falling to his knees in a gesture of obeisance. "Your majesty, please forgive my impertinence...."

The king's mouth tightened perceptibly, his eyes hardening to flinty stones. "It seems something your people are adept at." He observed dryly, then, "What is it?"

"Many, many pardons, majesty. I appreciate your forebearance. I could not help but wonder what it is you are planning to do with the Taurid people?" Methos flinched at his own tone and the awareness that he had gotten far too good at being subservient burned bitter in his stomach.

"I plan to offer you and your people to Lord Shamash. Perhaps it will aid me in my endeavors."

"It is a good plan and your majesty is wise in all things," Methos agreed. "Though...." He let his voice trail off thoughtfully, as if lost in considering something intently. After a moment, Iszkur-ba-ni stirred restlessly.

"Though what?" He snapped, impatient but obviously curious. Methos bit back a smile.

"Well, I could not help but wonder how daring his majesty is to be placing his judgement above that of the gods."

A brief pause met his words and then the king leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, sharp eyes fixed on Methos' kneeling form.

"Explain."

"It's only that....the gods have already selected a punishment for the Taurid people -- exile in the mountains. Perhaps the omens have been unfavorable because the priests chose to bring them out of their isolation. Perhaps if they were to be returned to their home, harmony would be restored to the city." Methos paused for effect, only peripherally aware of the strangled cry that sounded behind him because he needed all his attention to handle the volatile situation he was creating. "It is but a thought, majesty."

Iszkur-ba-ni regarded him thoughtfully, then tilted his head back and stared at the ceiling for a long moment. "Why should I listen to you? You are one of them -- of course you would want to save yourself."

"No indeed, your majesty. While I live only to serve," Methos offered humbly with a quick shake of his head, "I am not one of the Watchers. I am but a simple trader who was caught in Tirigan's raid."

The king regarded him with a hard-edged, narrow gaze that flickered to a point behind him for an instant before returning with an almost tangible weight. "Is that so, boy? Let him speak."

Methos did not turn to look -- he didn't dare upset the precarious balance of the situation. He kept his eyes trained on the floor in front of him, tracing the swirling patterns in the stone of the floor and willing Yavanel to give the right answer.

"Is what so?" Yavanel spat, his breathless voice trembling with rage. "Is Methos one of my people? No. He came to us from the lowlands half dead -"

"Enough." Iszkur-ba-ni waved, cutting off the boy mid word. He surged to his feet and began to pace the length of the chamber, resembling nothing so much as one of the large, deadly cats Methos had seen stalking through the trees. He muttered softly to himself, a habit possibly picked up from his mentor, Enlil-ka gen-na, his strong features crease into a thoughtful frown. Finally, he turned a piercing amber glare to Methos, his gaze a clear warning to lay aside dissembling, a demand for the naked truth to be put forth.

"Tell me, Methos, not of the mountains, why do you care what happens to these people? If they are truly not of your blood, then what care should you have?"

It was a fair question for all that it startled Methos and he knew he should have been expecting it. Why did he care what happened to the Taurids? The truth then? As close as he could come?

"Majesty, you are wise, indeed." Methos began, head bowed. "I do not wish to see these people perish. While it is true that they are not people of my blood and we share no ancestors, they are the people of my heart and I would have them live. If you must have a sacrifice for Lord Shamash, I beg you to take me."

A long silence spun out between them, broken only by muffled sounds of outrage from Yavanel. Methos hung suspended on uncertainty, unsure if he'd said the right things or not, and wishing the boy would just shut up. Clearly he did not like the manner in which Methos was attempting to obtain freedom for his people but Methos couldn't have cared much less what the boy wanted since it so obviously conflicted with the continuing survival of his people. Surely the boy could see how this would work, couldn't he? Methos was afraid that Yavanel did indeed see how it would work and that that was the problem.

The problem from Methos' perspective was that the Taurids were such an innocent, almost childlike group of people that without some direction and assistance, they would be consumed. They had, in fact, already been consumed in large part, by Tirigan and the voracious appetites of the Temple. They deserved a better fate than that, in any case, regardless of what myth they chose to believe in. Even Azala had been naive, criminally so, to the point of allowing his people to be dragged away from their home as slaves. It was a disloyal sentiment, especially toward a dead man, but Methos couldn't help feeling a twinge of resentment. Azala could have prevented this. He could have and should have. It had been his duty to do so and since he'd tacitly passed leadership of the tribe to Methos, Methos would make certain he discharged his duty faithfully. No matter what protests a twelve-cycle boy wished to make.

Iszkur-ba-ni's gaze rested hot and heavy on his bent head, a tangible weight Methos could feel, though he didn't dare look up. He wondered uncomfortably what the man was thinking. Was he considering Methos' suggestion? Was he deciding how best to kill Methos? Did he still plan to sacrifice the remainder of the tribe? What? The tension wound higher and higher until Methos, unable to stand it any longer, dared a quick glance through his lashes.

The king stood motionless, his face thoughtful but his presence was obviously turned within to someplace far away. Methos allowed himself a longer, more leisurely look, studying the hard chisled features with trepidation, wondering what paths the man traveled down in his mind.

"How very beautifully expressed...the people of your heart. You remind me of...someone." Iszkur-ba-ni mused, his voice full of an unexpected softness, his eyes alive with the warmth of memory and alight with the thrill of curiosity. "You are a fine leader, it would seem. Tell me, Methos, not of the Watchers, if I should send them away, these cursed people who bring the wrath of the gods creeping into my city, what am I to do with you? Send you with them?"

"Your majesty is wise in all things," Methos murmured, ruthlessly suppressing any reaction to the words. "And I live but to serve."

"Do you?" The king's voice held an odd, amused lilt, a familiar note that Methos sensed did not spell freedom for him. "Tell me, then, as it seems Ragnar values you excessively, I would know what value have you to him?"

"I do not know, your majesty." Methos dissembled, unsure whether some remnant of loyalty to the priest kept him from spilling the truth or if it was merely a matter of not knowing whether he could trust the king. "Perhaps he finds my countenance pleasing."

Iszkur-ba-ni chuckled, a low, husky sound that made Methos' toes curl instinctively. "Look at me, then."

Methos obeyed, tilting his head back to allow the king to survey his face, recognizing with a tiny shock the interest lurking in the molten amber eyes. Had he been less concerned with his self appointed task of saving the Taurid people, he might have noted the signs earlier. Then again, perhaps there had been no other signs. He sat frozen with fear and uncertainty under the heated gaze, unsure whether to try to capitalize on the unexpected turn of events or not. He'd tried to use Ragnar's attraction with disastrous results but surely that was a unique circumstance.

Methos chided himself for a coward because he knew he could handle whatever punishment might come his way if he miscalculated again, and yet he could not make himself respond.

"Yes...well, I suppose you have been blessed with a well enough favored countenance." Iszkur-ba-ni smiled then tapped his finger thoughtfully against his chin. "Now, how shall I know what would please the gods most?" He wondered aloud.

Methos felt a tight band wrap around his chest. Odd that the king should call him blessed when he felt anything but blessed.

His question was clearly a rhetorical one and Methos had no answer in any case. The obvious solution, consulting the omens, would be a chancy prospect without a doubt but ultimately unavoidable. The king lingered in the companionable cocoon he'd spun around the two of them for another long moment before he shook himself and called for his personal priest perform a reading.

The priest smirked at Methos, certain no doubt that the omens would be unfavorable to sending the Taurid people home. He prepared the animal, chanted and burned foul smelling weeds, then killed the lamb and caught the blood in a chalice, not unlike the one Methos recalled from Nergal's ceremonies. Next, he slit the animal's stomach open, still chanting, and spread it open wide, before faltering into silence.

The stillness that followed the fumbled chant was as heavy as stone and Methos felt the blood throbbing in his ears, his heart beat slow and ponderous.

"Your majesty..." the priest whispered, his face blanched a pure white. "The - the omens - "

"What is it?" Iszkur-ba-ni snapped, irritable and impatient.

"The omens - strongly favor a journey." The priest whispered.

"And?" The king prompted, without flinching from his comfortable sprawl on the throne. "That's hardly an unusual enough occurrence to make you piss yourself. What is the problem?"

"Majesty, the gods are most unhappy about this. The signs...the portents are extremely bad. You must get these people out of the city as soon as possible." The priest's voice trembled with fear and the king shook his head.

"There truly are times when I cannot imagine why I bother asking you useless creatures for the time of day. Begone with you then." Iszkur-ba-ni slouched and brooded, his face as dark as a stormy sky. "Why is it no one will tell me of the things I know nothing about? Everyone wants to tell me what I already know. What use are omens and portents and priests if they tell you nothing of use?" His grim gaze touched on Methos and then slid to Yavanel. "I wonder that it takes a cursed child and a frightened slave to tell me truth."

Enlil-ka gen-na herded the last two score or so of the Guardians to stand before the king, dazed, confused and frightened but so eerily silent it made the hairs on the back of Methos' arms stand straight up. The king stared at the huddled mass, eyes narrow and unreadable.

"I regret what has been taken from you, Guardians. It was not right that it be so done and I, Iszkur-ba-ni, shall make amends. Methos, I shall grant your desire. My men will take these people back to their home in the mountains, but you and the boy remain here with me."

Methos felt the tension ease from his chest, melting away like snow. It was far, far more than he could have hoped for. Free....they would be free....and he was released from the weight of whatever obligations he might have had to them.

"Make sure that they all arrive safely. I would not wish to incur the further wrath of Ea." Iszkur-ba-ni commanded and dismissed the entire group with a wave of his hand before he settled back onto his throne and closed his eyes, pressing his palms to his temples and tilting his head back. One of his servants quickly began to fan him, another to stroke his hair.

"Enlil-ka gen-na, take the boy with you but keep him nearby." Iszkur-ba-ni's voice carried a heavy undertone of exhaustion, paired with a hint of satisfaction, an odd combination Methos could only wonder at. "I may wish to consult with him."

Methos felt slightly faint with relief, so much so that his knees felt weak. Oh praises be to all that was holy, he must be doing something right for all of this to finally be falling so neatly in place.

"Of course, your majesty," Enlil-ka gen-na murmured. "But what of Methos, majesty? What would you have me tell the Temple?"

"Tell them...tell them that I wish to acquire the slave, Methos." The deep voice mused. "Send an appropriate offering to the temple and take him to my chambers. I'm sure Ragnar will understand my fascination with his little pet."

The last of the ironic words were nearly drowned out by the sound of a commotion in the hallway. A moment later, the high priest of the Temple, Naram-Remus, swept into the room amid a flutter of white robes, followed closely by a malevolent Ragnar.

"I'm afraid that will be impossible, majesty." Ragnar's hoarse voice, so ragged and unexpected, wrapped a tight fist of fear around the back of Methos' neck. "My gift for you is not yet ready."

"Go away, Ragnar. I haven't the patience to deal with you tonight." Iszkur-ba-ni commanded, without heat.

"But majesty, I have been training Methos to give to you - "

"Methos is mine now and you have much to answer for. I suggest you cease challenging me."

"Ragnar's actions may have been precipitous and unwise, but the slave still belongs to the temple." Naram-remus said in a stiff, formal voice.

Methos felt utterly incapable of movement, the recognition that Naram-remus as the high priest of the Urg of Shamash, was a force to be reckoned with, a man with the power to challenge the king simply immobilized him.

King Iszkur-ba-ni sighed heavily, opened his eyes, and got to his feet. "Welcome to the palace Naram-remus. I regret you must be here under such dire circumstances."

"Dire?" The high priest repeated with surprise. "What do you mean dire?"

"I mean that the Temple has been more than neglectful and remiss this past year, in spite of my own extraordinary efforts. It seems Ragnar sent his men to the mountains of Zargos and brought the Guardians of the Sky to Sippar." He paused, meaningfully for effect, then continued. "For months I have been asking you why the crops are failing, why the cattle is dying, why the people are ill and you have told me nothing of any use. Nothing but that I have angered Lord Shamash. How have I done so, I ask. I have done nothing! And you tell me, it is the will of the gods. Now I find out, purely by chance, that you in the temple have been keeping a cursed people as slaves." Iszkur-ba-ni spoke fluently, hands clasped at his back while he paced in front of his throne, his control so magnificent Methos felt buoyed by his power. So much so that he was able to turn his head enough to keep both the high priest and the king in sight.

"The Temple," Naram-remus explained ponderously, "has not been remiss in anything. You asked us specific questions and we gave you answers. You wished to build a temple to Innana, and we told you it would anger the gods. You wished to march on Nippur and we explained the omens were unfavorable. That is our only responsibility to you, Iszkur-ba-ni. If you choose to ignore our warnings, bad things will happen. It is so written."

"You evade the issue." The king pointed out silkily "What is between us lay between us, what Ragnar did is separate entirely. I shall expect him to be suitably punished."

Naram-remus' nostrils flared and his lips tightened. "The actions of my people are my responsibility; I will handle Ragnar. I am told you have taken all the slaves of Zagros. Pray what do you plan to do with them?"

"Indeed your people are your responsibility. I would that you would have recalled that last summer when Tirigan was rounding up the Guardians." Iszkur-ba-ni shot back. "I have sent the Guardians back to the Zagros mountains. The omens favored returning them to exile."

"You had no right!" Rangar rasped, his face reflecting his dismay. "Those slaves belonged to the temple."

"No, they belonged to the gods." The king corrected.

"You - you - " Naram-remus' voice faltered, the words he could manage to get out shaking with a bone deep rage.

"I am going to save this city, in spite of your efforts to tear it down." Iszkur-ba-ni snapped. "These slaves belong to me now and you would do well to remember it. Now, I am weary and I would that you all leave me now."

"This is not the end of this, Iszkur-ba-ni." Naram-remus warned. "You may have the power of the sword, but you cannot stand against the power of the gods."

"I do not wish to stand against the gods, priest. I wish to serve them but you make it increasingly difficult."

Ragnar stared at Methos, his eyes hot and possessive and he smiled, just a little. Enough to be visible, not enough to be obtrusive. Methos felt a cold shiver run down his spine, wondering what that tiny smile meant, and then Ragnar's gaze flicked over toward Tirigan. The slaver nodded and melted out the door. Methos frowned. What -? And then he knew, it was so simple. Urgency tugged at him, nagged him, urged him to run to the king right away and spill all he knew, but prudence kept his feet stuck to the floor. Ragnar's smile widened perceptibly when he read the panic in Methos' eyes and he nodded slightly in acknowledgement. It was enough for now that Methos know Tirigan was going after the Taurids. Not the final chapter, but enough.

The tension snapped with Naram-remus' abrupt turn and the assembly broke as if released from a spell. The two priests left the room first, followed by their small entourage. Then Enlil-ka gen-na, his broad, fleshy face pale and damp with nervous sweat, beckoned for Methos and Yavanel to follow.

Methos had forgotten about Yavanel's distress, and was surprised to receive such a violent response upon brushing against the boy on the way out of the inner sanctum.

"Don't touch me." The boy snarled, jerking away with savage fury. "You stay away from me, you coward."

"Yavanel, what - "

"You have destroyed us, betrayer! You are not our hero." Yavanel's voice broke on a half sob and Methos frowned.

"I don't understand - what have I done?"

"May you forever rot in the Netherworld. May Ereshkigal visit disease and pain upon you. May Nergal steal your soul and use your intestines to bind you to the underworld."

"Yavanel - "

"You have robbed us of the chance to redeem ourselves. Now my people will never be released from their shame. I curse you Methos, I curse the day we saved you from the snow."

Methos stared at the young features ugly and twisted with fury, wondering at the odd words. There was a flicker of something behind the blank fervor in Yavanel's eyes, of desperation or perhaps it was relief, Methos couldn't tell. It was enough of a crack for him to wedge his voice in and dig for answers.

"All I did was save your people. I persuaded the king to return them to the mountains. How can that be wrong?"

"You understand nothing then. We were cursed for failing at our duty and we have failed yet again. There is no longer any hope for my people. You have saved nothing." Yavanel's voice was a strange singsong almost monotone, save the hint of choking despair, and it confirmed for Methos that the boy was repeating oft told tales of their history.

"And what is it you understand, child? That you are guilty of a crime committed by your ancestors so long ago that the earth itself was but newly formed?" Methos demanded, catching Yavanel's bony shoulders in his hands and holding his squirming body in place. "No, you *will* listen to me. Whatever ridiculous nonsense you've swallowed all the years of your life, you will understand one thing here and now. Death is not noble or grand or redeeming, it's just death. That is it. You have all the days of your life ahead of you to look forward to that single moment that you have no hope of avoiding so cease your efforts at hunting it down and embracing it before your time. Take the moments you have left to you and live without the burden of this nonsensical shame hanging over your head. You are an innocent, Yavanel. Hear me. An innocent, and no amount of persecution will make you anything else."

They stared at one another for a long, long time, and Methos knew that Yavanel wanted to believe him, was struggling with all his soul to do so but he was burdened by years of indoctrination. It was ultimately Enlil-ka gen-na's voice calling,

"Come boy! We have much to do." that broke the spell and sent Yavanel spinning away from Methos.

"I wanted you to live." Methos called after the retreating figure. "I wanted all of you to live - there is nothing else, nothing more honorable and noble than that."

He watched Kishtara wrap an arm around Yavanel and lead him away, watched until they disappeared with an aching sense of loss and confusion. He missed the boy already, the small voice saying 'please don't let him take me.' and 'I wish to stay with you.' No more of that would be forthcoming. Methos had gone from being Methos the hero to Methos the coward. He told himself that the lancing pain in his heart was nothing more than he deserved for allowing himself to care how Yavanel felt and wondered if the lonely ache he'd once succeeded at filling with the Taurid people would ever be full again.

Part 6

Bathed, perfumed, oiled, fed and 'arranged' on a bed of pillows, Methos waited in the king's chambers with his stomach fluttering and knotted. He did not know what was expected of him this evening, but from the thorough preparation he'd received, he could guess. Ordinarily, the fact that he had a tool as powerful as the king's apparent attraction to him at his disposal would have pleased him excessively. That he felt such ambiguity about the prospect combined with a niggling doubt that he could even bring himself to take full advantage of it spoke loudly of how well Ragnar's indoctrination had succeeded. He was afraid to want sexual contact anymore, to follow the dictates of his body, to trust his own instincts. Too often in the past cycle he'd been wrong and had suffered for it.

Gods, how ridiculous he was being! How much effort did it take to roll over, relax, and just take it? He'd done it any number of times in the past, for Tirigan and for other men, ones more brutal than Tirigan ever imagined and others more exquisitely skilled and gentle than Methos could have wished for. With all that experience, he'd become good at pretending and lying and finding pleasure in the strangest circumstances, proficient in wielding the talents of the most base whore. Why could he not put that all to good effect for him now? He'd told Yavanel that survival was the most noble thing there was, and if that meant becoming a whore, so be it.

Of course, he reminded himself, he had no way of knowing what the king had in mind. It could be nothing more than conversation about the Gutians for all he knew. That was pushing the bounds of credibility, given that he could still feel the brusque efficient fingers of the slave woman who had coated her fingers with fragrantly scented oil and carefully stretched him while smoothing her free hand over his flanks and back as though he were a wild animal she needed to gentle. It had felt good, those strong fingers easing a path into him, the callused tips striking sparks with every light brush against that special place inside that sent tingles radiating out from his groin.

He crammed a pillow into his mouth to stifle the moan of pleasure that threatened to escape, but could nothing about the involuntary thrust of his hips. She continued to stroke him lightly and murmured soothing sounds until she was satisfied that he was as loose as she could manage, then she withdrew her fingers, patted his head as though he were a child, and left the room.

He lay there, sweating and remembering, trembling a bit against tiny surges of unspent desire, the slick glide of the fabric beneath him no help in calming his overheated body. He glanced at the door, his fingers curling into the pillows while he fought an uncharacteristically difficult battle for control, and wondered if he had time to finish this before the king arrived. He circled his hips, breath hitching at the friction against his swollen flesh - but no. He couldn't do that. He was a slave, his body did not belong to him and he hadn't been given permission to orgasm.

He clenched his teeth against the need that flowed so hot and free through his veins, and clamped his hand around the base of his rampant erection to keep from spilling all over the mountain of pillows. He rolled onto his back and just let his head fall, gasping with relief at the cessation of the friction against his skin. And for a moment, he thought he might be able to come down, but another wave of need rippled through him, and he could feel the sweet caress of the air flowing over his heated body drawing him up off the pillows in search of a more solid touch. Ba'al Hadad, he was so hot...hot to the point of being feverish, and he needed ...oh yes, he needed so bad he hurt with it.

What if....what if he took himself over the edge now and then when Iszkur-ba-ni came he could focus all of his attention on pleasing the king? Surely that would please his majesty....wouldn't it? He drew his hand up the rigid shaft once, with a terrible gentleness, not nearly hard enough to satisfy, and bit back a groan. Yesss....surely that would be acceptable....he allowed his eyes to slide shut and drew a picture of the king in his mind's eye, practice for when he would be expected to run his hands over the smooth bronze skin to feel the suppleness of the clearly visible muscles rippling beneath the skin.

Ah, yes, he needed practice. Needed to imagine how that sweat slick skin would taste on his tongue, how the dark nipples would peak against his lips when he nibbled at them, how the exquisitely delicate twin sacks would smell and taste and feel in his mouth and on his chin, how far the hard cock would reach down his throat, how Iszkur-ba-ni's salty essence would taste, spilling into Methos' mouth....he writhed against his own touch, his entire body united in a single sensation, the heat spiraling up out of his groin.

He was close...so close he could feel the orgasm coiling around the base of his spine, tightening to an unbearable point until suddenly the image of Iszkur-ba-ni melted into Ragnar's sharp countenance and more slender body and Methos fell back from the edge with a shocked, disconsolate whimper.

He tossed his head back and forth on the pillows in mute denial, reaching again for the peak, so desperate to tumble into ecstasy he didn't care where his mind took him. And truly, the memory of those familiar, finely carved features contorted with passion sent him spiraling to another plane of sensation, while the strong scent of his own arousal reminded him of the one time he'd been allowed to worship at the altar of Ragnar's body.

He drove into his own hand, his thrusts now forceful and urgent, the passage eased by streaks of pearly fluid leaking from his cock, memory a powerful aphrodisiac...but still it wasn't enough. A sob broke from his throat when his body trembled, suspended over the precipice, and he found himself unable to let go.

Yet there was no one here to see him, no one to stop him, or judge him. He was alone and desperate and it was all right. He could let go now, let his control slip free from restraint and allow his body to fly free. /Let go...oh gods....let go....let go...please, just let it go.../

The wave crested, crashed, and dragged overwhelming sensations through his body. He tried to cry out but the sound that emerged was more of a strangled yelp than the triumphant howl he'd intended. Still, the pleasure was so intense his body felt too small to hold it, and he needed to give it a voice of some kind. Long strands of semen shot across his heaving chest, burning hot against his oversensitive skin and he lay in the aftermath of the violent storm, tears pooling in his eyes from the sheer force of the experience.

His entire body felt boneless and so heavy he didn't think he would be able to lift so much as lift his arm to wipe himself clean. But he had. Somehow he'd managed to push himself up on his elbows and he looked down at the mess on his belly with a faint twinge of terror. This was not normal. This was nothing like normal. Had he ever felt anything like that before? If he had, he could not immediately recall it and that truly scared him.

He hadn't meant to lift his hand or to drag the tip of his index finger across the rippled muscles of his abdomen, and he definitely had not intended to taste his own essence, licking his hand clean with hot, delicate strokes. Was it the taste of himself or the sensation of his tongue against his hypersenstive flesh that made the pressure in his gut begin to rise again? Whatever the precipitating event, he felt the need pulse through his veins again, each throb intensifying the ache in his hardening manhood. Again, so soon....it wasn't possible. He was still gasping from the last time but there was no denying the heated flush burning through him again and he was helpless to fight the tide that carried him far a sea before smashing him back onto the rocks of shore with explosive orgasm after explosive orgasm.

Methos' entire body was soaked with sweat and exhausted by the time Iszkurba-ni finally returned to his chambers, exhausted but no less needy. The burning ache flared again, and Methos squeezed his cock and groaned. All he wanted was to sleep. By all the gods that were holy, he couldn't *do* this again. He was so immersed in his own misery, he failed to notice the king's arrival, only peripherally aware of the voices that rose and fell around him.

"Gods of Kurnugi!" Iszkur-ba-ni swore softly, fluently. "What have you done to him?"

"We gave him the exilir, as you requested, your majesty" a woman's voice replied hesitantly. "There was some question since he was from the urg about his - experiences, so we put a bit in his beer and Callah massaged some into his body with the oil."

"I said to give him a *little*. Enough to loosen his inhibitions. I didn't tell you to send him into rut!"

Methos felt a cool hand hover over his brow and he twisted his fevered face avidly toward it, wanting nothing more than to feel the blessed benediction, the relief of flesh stroking flesh. He opened his eyes and looked into King Iszkur-ba-ni's molten amber eyes, so far into himself he did not recognize the rueful regret stamped on the rough hewn features nor did he immediately recall his position in the palace hierarchy. He pressed his burning cheek against the proffered hand then caught the extended thumb gently between his teeth, licking the callused pad and reveling in the fantastic, incomparable taste of salty, masculine skin. He shuddered, his entire body heaving and straining toward the man kneeling over him.

"Majesty?" The woman murmured, her tone revealing a hint of distaste. "Shall I call for someone to take care of this?"

"Hmm? No." Iszkur-ba-ni shook his head, his voice slightly breathless and distracted. "I'll take care of it."

"But your majesty - "

"You may go." He snapped. "No, wait. Bring me a bowl of cool water first and several towels."

The woman sighed. "As your majesty commands."

Methos felt it when he had the whole of the king's attention, and he scrambled to his knees on legs that trembled with fatigue, bringing them face to face. The predatory hunger raging in his belly robbed him of the ability to speak but there were better things to do with one's mouth in his way of thinking. He growled, low in his throat, muscles coiled to pounce, but Iszkur-ba-ni seemed to read the intent in his eyes and chuckled softly.

"Not yet, Methos. You're a mess. Let me clean you up first and then...."

No, there was no time to waste on such things. What did it matter when Methos fully intended to smear his fluids from Iszkur-ba-ni's head to his toes before they were finished? A dim and distant warning sounded from the back of his brain, something that said he couldn't do that to this man, had no right to and further, shouldn't. But he was too far gone into his animal self, too lost in want and need to heed the voice.

"Methos - " Iszkur-ba-ni held his hands up, palms out to ward Methos off. "You've been drugged. Do you understand what I'm saying? My slaves gave you too much and you'll - "

Methos pounced. He didn't care what he'd been given, didn't care who had given it to him, didn't want to know. All he wanted was to bury his hard, aching cock as deep inside this man's body as it would go for as long and hard as he could. More important, he didn't care even care what soul belonged to the body as long as he could possess it and be possessed by it in return.

The impact of Methos' body overbalanced the kneeling king and sent them both sprawling. Iszkur-ba-ni protested again, with a laugh, but only half his heart seemed engaged in the endeavor, while the other half was fully immersed in obtaining the pleasures of the flesh. A broken gasp whispered hot and damp across Methos' ear, accompanied by a sinuous arching shift of the form pinned beneath him that made him shiver in response. Unmindful of the semen smeared liberally across his chest and belly, Methos mimicked the gesture, nearly undone by the sensation of their bodies sliding together.

/At last....oh gods, at last..../ Sweat soaked his hair and trickled down his face, a fine tremor shimmering through his biceps, a testament to power of the four times he'd already traveled past the peak of pleasure. But not like this, not with someone and that would make all the difference in the world. It had to because he didn't think he would survive much more of this debilitating craving.

His muscles trembled on the very edge of collapse but he immediately caught Iszkur-ba-ni's wrists and pinned him to the floor. It was anyone's guess whether Methos retained the strength at this point to hold the king down should he have decided to struggle in earnest but it wasn't really an issue. Iszkur-ba-ni simply relaxed back and let Methos have his way.

Methos zeroed in on the full, sensual lips and, not bothering with the niceties of preliminary seduction, he claimed his prize, sweeping his tongue through the hot, dark velvety softness. The urgent need to orgasm again swept up through him just from that simple taste, so powerful he nearly lost control right then but he wanted more. Gods he wanted so much more and he couldn't touch, couldn't taste while holding on like this.

He pulled back and glared down at Iszkur-ba-ni's passion twisted features, the rough planes oddly flattened with a tense control he could feel trembling through the king's body, unreasonably angry with the man, simply because Methos couldn't bury himself inside and still hold on the way he wanted to.

"I'm going to have you now." He murmured, his voice raspy, in an ancient language that had not been spoken in at least a century. It was his first language and the only one he could remember well enough to formulate coherent sentences just now. Iszkur-ba-ni's eyes flew open wide without a trace of comprehension, only a hint of fear and uncertainty in the liquid amber depths that made Methos' blood sing with triumph. Yes, oh yes.

With a single, fluid movement that relied on a strength and speed he had not been sure his body still possessed, he released his captive's wrists and hooked his arms under the man's legs, simultaneously shoving them back and open. A high pitched cry of distress momentarily checked his abrupt assault but the tide of passion was too strong and too overwhelming to be stopped and he shuddered as he pressed his sweat and semen slick erection against the unprepared opening, desperate to be sheathed.

"Methos - wait!"

The panic in the voice dragged at him, and he shook with the effort it took to keep from plunging full length into the body beneath him. He wanted to ignore it, to feed on the terror and just take what he needed, but he wanted more than that somewhere deep down and in spite of the desperate craving tearing at him, he knew that to give in now was to lose that chance forever. Drawing deep, tortured breaths, he released the muscular thighs and threw himself backward, away from temptation, the shock of cold stone against his overheated skin constricting his lungs, robbing him of breath, and pulling him back away from the brink of insanity.

Chest heaving, he struggled against the raging torrent of desire that simply would not abate and finally spread his thighs and took hold of his own penis again, beginning a quick, uneven rhythm that he knew would bring him over the edge and out of this madness. He knew he was crazed, utterly crazed. He rolled his head against the wall, eyes closed, and drew his other hand down to cradle his balls, nearly sobbing with frustration.

It was a shock to have his hands pushed away but that was nothing compared to the almost terrifying sensation of having his cock engulfed in hot, wet heat. He cracked his head against the wall, clenching his teeth so tight and balling his hands so fiercely he was almost surprised that he didn't break his own bones.

"Please..." The broken plea was half sob half whimper. He fought the instinctive urge to hold this blessed receptacle still so that he could thrust and plunge at will. It turned out to be unnecessary because suddenly he was there and the orgasm exploded out from the center of his being, tearing him apart and scattering the pieces to the four winds.

He screamed and howled his throat raw just as a curtain of darkness descended to steal his consciousness and he fell, willingly, gratefully, into the abyss.

Methos surfaced from the black pit of his subconscious with a lingering sense of well being, the beginning tremors of sexual excitement shimmering through his body, a nagging, trembling ache in his muscles that spoke of overuse and the persistant feeling that something was wrong. Very wrong.

He lay still for a long moment, trying to pinpoint exactly what the problem was. The fresh clean scent of burning sage layered atop a light sandlewood fragrance teased his nostrils so he thought he probably wasn't alone. He analyzed the conflicting sensations battling for dominance in his body and tried to recall exactly what sequence of events he was missing since the past was undoubtedly the place to start unraveling this mystery. It was a good plan, but didn't work out as he'd expected.

He kept his breathing deep and easy but waves of tension coiled and spread out from his abdomen, a most distracting turn of events, and one that struck him as somehow odd. Then a cool cloth passed over his forehead and his eyes flew open involuntarily, his gasp of surprised pleasure loud in the quiet room. King Iszkur-ba-ni knelt beside him with a bowl of water and a damp cloth, wearing nothing more than a concerned, sheepish expression.

Methos fought against himself, frowning with confusion. "Master?" He whispered, eyes widening at the sound of his own raw, hoarse voice. Images, sensations, hot and wild and uncontrolled began to flood back to him and he gasped with the knowledge. "Master..." He searched the etched features, reading the truth written there, the bitter truth that it had all happened, that he, a slave, had attacked the king of the city and nearly raped him.

Iszkur-ba-ni turned his face away, dipping the cloth into a pan of water beside him and squeezing the excess water out with a strong, efficient twist of his hands.

Methos struggled against the lethargy in his limbs, forcing himself up on his knees, to bend forward in a posture of complete supplication.

"Master, my most humble apologies. I do not know what came over me."

"Shh...Methos, shh...no." The king lifted Methos and eased him back onto the mound of pillows with a gentle, inexorable pressure against his shoulders. "I am the one with the apology. I asked my servants to provide you with a - ah - an herb to help you relax."

Methos narrowed his gaze on the mobile mouth, concentrating less on the words spilling from them and more on the purely sensuous motion. He had never realized how erotic an activity talking was, but suddenly, his quiesscent flesh was pulsing, hardening along with a tiny, ecstatic rush of pleasure that throbbed into the extremity on a fresh surge of blood. He caught his breath and stifled a moan, trying to make his body remember that he had already done this many times already but the urgency swelled and pressed against his skull, making his brain feel three sized to big for his body.

"....I never meant for this to happen." Iszkur-ba-ni finished, brushing unruly strands of dark, damp hair off Methos' forehead with a tender stroke.

"M-majesty." Methos gasped, twisting his hands in the fabric of the pillows to keep from reaching out and pulling that talented mouth down onto him. "You must bind me before it is too late. I cannot stop myself when - when - " He paused, clenching his teeth against a powerful wave of desire. "Please. I cannot control this." The words came out as a desperate plea and he used his eyes to beg as well.

Iszkur-ba-ni recoiled in horror, shaking his head with no hint of doubt, and the firm decisiveness of the motion sent a overwhelming stab of despair through Methos. "I'll not do it. I only wish to help ease your pain."

"But, master...I nearly raped you!" Methos bit his tongue hard, using pain to force any further words back while panic warred with his immediate instinct to obey. He struggled to lift himself up on his elbows, needing to impress upon the king the importance of this but Iszkur-ba-ni pushed him back down and lay a hand across his lips to keep the words at bay. Methos wanted to say more, needed to, but the words were taken from him, washed away on another surge of sensation. He licked the cool, rough skinned palm against his mouth, seized by the uncontrollable need to taste, then dug the back of his head into the pillows, trembling and gasping with need.

"You must trust me," Iszkur-ba-ni soothed, running the cool damp cloth over the skin of Methos' burning chest. "That's not so hard, now is it?"

His body arched, twisting under the caress and he gave a hoarse, involuntary cry, wondering if it were possible for his brains to boil from the internal heat. Not so hard....if his face hadn't been so set with passion, if he'd been able, he would have laughed. Trust had not come easily to him before he'd arrived at the temple, now it seemed nothing short of impossible.

More water cooled the unbearable heat of his flesh and seemed to mitigate the power of the turmoil roiling within him, making it easier to handle.

"I will take you through this, and we will begin anew tomorrow. Now relax and let me give you ease."

Methos hadn't thought there was a single other thing in the world that could be more arousing than the rippling sensations passing through him, but he had been wrong. The words brushed against his ears like the tender kiss of butterfly wings, so unbearably sweet and arousing he could scarcely stand it. He squeezed his eyes shut, body quivering, touched to the quick by the genuine compassion that rang in the husky voice, by the barest hint of an emotion he didn't dare examine too closely. How long had it been since he'd felt cherished? A hundred years? Two hundred? Gods....The words were coated with honey, that much was true, but he couldn't afford to believe in myths anymore.

"I can catch you, Methos. Trust me...I am strong enough. Let me, please?"

Oh angel....demon....tempation ripped through his stomach in the wake of the wet cloth trailing across his abdomen, his choices rapidly dwindling, winnowing down to the aching throb between his legs.

He felt the hot kiss of moist breath in his ear, the sinuous stroke of a damp tongue tracing the delicate curves of his inner ear and sliding down his neck. He shuddered convulsively.

"Easy, Methos." Iszkur-ba-ni whispered. "Be easy. There is plenty of time for us."

Methos released a broken moan, half sob half plea, and trembled under the tender onslaught, his insides turning molten. No, Iszkur-ba-ni didn't understand, he didn't know. He had survived being raped and raped and beaten and raped, but this gentle seduction threatened to undo him with scarcely an effort. It was an evil, insidious kind of control, but one he had no defense against. First the king would take him apart and then he would flay him, from the inside out. He braced himself mentally, emotionally, for the pain but there was no preparing for the feel of the open mouthed kisses dragging along his shoulder or the light but firm strokes on the center of his universe.

"Please..." he begged. "Please..."

"Shhh..." Iszkur-ba-ni soothed, brushing the hair away from Methos' neck and pressing his open mouth the sensitive nape. "Shh...."

"I need - I need - " Methos broke off, unable to get enough air to speak. /I need to touch you./ He longed to say. He writhed and moaned, trying to turn to face the king, wanting to taste him, but he couldn't find the leverage he needed.

The final wall of his resistance toppled over with the sensation of gentle fingers delving between his legs to gather the twin velvet sacks in a searing caress, and he could hold out no longer. He gave his body over to King Iszkur-ba-ni. abandoned all semblance of control, falling with an overwhelming sense of dread into the strong embrace that promised salvation.

Part 7

Dawn stole softly into the dark room a dull grayness that gradually lightened into golden streamers that crept lazily across the uneven stone floor. Methos watched the invasion with dry, burning eyes and a heavy, suffocating weight in his chest that owed nothing to the limp, possessive limbs that Izku ba ni had somehow, in the midst of sleep, wrapped around him. He was unbearably weary, in both body and soul, yet still sleep eluded him and he wondered if he would ever sleep again.

His mind was curiously blank on one level and spun with a sickening speed on another and his muscles ached from unnatural overuse. He longed to move but didn't dare risk waking the man draped over him. If he woke the king, he would be forced to deal with the night just past and he wasn't ready to do that. Somehow, the king had managed to shatter him in places Rangar never reached, broken him into thousands of tiny pieces that were hopelessly jumbled, never to be reassembled the same way again.

Enlil ka genna held up his hand to stop the automatic protest that sprang to Methos' lips. "I know you haven't, and so would he if he stopped to think. I suspect he will be very sorry tomorrow." Almost too softly to hear, he added "At least I hope so."

TBC