![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
For prompts on ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
comment_fic . Two Methos ficlets, both a little dark:
Title: Quiet War
Wordcount: 506
Prompt: The Watchers are responsible for Duncan's death, and Methos goes to war
Title: Monsters
Wordcount: 466
Prompts: "All these children keep challenging me, without the first clue as to what I truly am."
comment_fic . Two Methos ficlets, both a little dark:Title: Quiet War
Wordcount: 506
Prompt: The Watchers are responsible for Duncan's death, and Methos goes to war
Quiet War
Neither Joe nor Duncan had realised it. Adam Pierson had been harmless, after all. That incarnation of Methos, even at the worst, even at the best, had always had something harmless about him, something cowardly and slinking and dependable. They never realised (though Joe had come close) the full implications of where they'd found him, the full implications of an immortal so familiar with the Watchers that he could infiltrate them with ease. They hadn't realised. Had watched, but hadn't seen. No-one had.
No-one would, now. No-one would have a chance.
His war was quiet. His wars always were. Riding in, sword drawn, had been Kronos' schtick. Methos planned. Methos manipulated. Methos had watched empires rise and fall, and quietly helped many a one along its way. He didn't need armies. He didn't need swords.
He just needed the right information. Just needed to know who was going to be where, who was watching who, who might like to know they were being watched. Who might like to know that the eyes on their backs were the same as those who had watched Duncan Macleod fall. The same as those who had ordered it done. The same as those who'd killed him, who'd been a hero to so many. All Methos needed was a word in the right ears, and the database he himself had created and slipped inside the Watcher's guard.
And softly, silently, one by one, the Watchers started to fall. To immortals, first. To the ones they watched. And then, slowly, insidiously, to each other. As they started to turn on themselves, tearing themselves apart in search of the traitor, in search of the hands at the keys that set their charges against them. In search of him.
But Methos was good at not being found. Oh, he was so good at that.
Inside a decade, it was over. Inside a decade, he brought them to their knees. For himself, perhaps. For the safety of immortals everywhere, when Watchers were turning wholesale to Horton's viewpoint. To prevent discovery, to prevent war. All of that, perhaps. In ten years, he'd driven one of the world's oldest organisations to its knees, and maybe those would be the reasons why, one day.
But today he stood over his student's grave, over the grave of Duncan Macleod, over the man whose quickening had almost held Methos' own, and who no-one now would ever hold again. Today, Methos looked down at another fallen student, another boy he'd loved, and nursed the quiet truth.
They had taken what he loved from him. And in five thousand years, through the rise and fall of empires and the billions of deaths of men ... no-one yet had ever survived doing that. One way or another. No brother, lover, emperor or slave, had ever survived taking what was his.
"I'll build them again," he whispered, for Joe's sake, for Duncan's. "The Watchers. I'll make them better this time." He'd done it before. Make them and break them. He'd done it before.
And one day, perhaps ... he'd do it again.
Neither Joe nor Duncan had realised it. Adam Pierson had been harmless, after all. That incarnation of Methos, even at the worst, even at the best, had always had something harmless about him, something cowardly and slinking and dependable. They never realised (though Joe had come close) the full implications of where they'd found him, the full implications of an immortal so familiar with the Watchers that he could infiltrate them with ease. They hadn't realised. Had watched, but hadn't seen. No-one had.
No-one would, now. No-one would have a chance.
His war was quiet. His wars always were. Riding in, sword drawn, had been Kronos' schtick. Methos planned. Methos manipulated. Methos had watched empires rise and fall, and quietly helped many a one along its way. He didn't need armies. He didn't need swords.
He just needed the right information. Just needed to know who was going to be where, who was watching who, who might like to know they were being watched. Who might like to know that the eyes on their backs were the same as those who had watched Duncan Macleod fall. The same as those who had ordered it done. The same as those who'd killed him, who'd been a hero to so many. All Methos needed was a word in the right ears, and the database he himself had created and slipped inside the Watcher's guard.
And softly, silently, one by one, the Watchers started to fall. To immortals, first. To the ones they watched. And then, slowly, insidiously, to each other. As they started to turn on themselves, tearing themselves apart in search of the traitor, in search of the hands at the keys that set their charges against them. In search of him.
But Methos was good at not being found. Oh, he was so good at that.
Inside a decade, it was over. Inside a decade, he brought them to their knees. For himself, perhaps. For the safety of immortals everywhere, when Watchers were turning wholesale to Horton's viewpoint. To prevent discovery, to prevent war. All of that, perhaps. In ten years, he'd driven one of the world's oldest organisations to its knees, and maybe those would be the reasons why, one day.
But today he stood over his student's grave, over the grave of Duncan Macleod, over the man whose quickening had almost held Methos' own, and who no-one now would ever hold again. Today, Methos looked down at another fallen student, another boy he'd loved, and nursed the quiet truth.
They had taken what he loved from him. And in five thousand years, through the rise and fall of empires and the billions of deaths of men ... no-one yet had ever survived doing that. One way or another. No brother, lover, emperor or slave, had ever survived taking what was his.
"I'll build them again," he whispered, for Joe's sake, for Duncan's. "The Watchers. I'll make them better this time." He'd done it before. Make them and break them. He'd done it before.
And one day, perhaps ... he'd do it again.
Title: Monsters
Wordcount: 466
Prompts: "All these children keep challenging me, without the first clue as to what I truly am."
Monsters
Footsteps sounded cautiously near him as the scream of the quickening faded. Quickenings. Three. He hadn't wanted to take three, hadn't wanted to bear it. They hadn't given him all that much choice.
"Adam?" a gruff voice asked softly, hesitantly. Joe. Always Joe. "Old man? You okay?"
"They keep challenging me," he answered quietly. Hoarsely. "All these children keep challenging me, without the first clue as to what I truly am." He looked up, conscious of the blood on his hands, in his eyes. Conscious of the corpses, headless, three.
Two of them had knives in their hearts, keeping them safely down until he had time to kill them. One of them had a neat little bullet hole between his eyes, too. It hadn't had time to heal before ... The third had been the worst. Just swords, for them, once he'd eliminated the advantage of their ganging up on him. Just swords, and the stupid child hadn't even been close to a match ...
"Do they think they're the first to try it?" he asked, vicious, surprised by his own anger. But three, so young ... such a waste. "Do they think no-one's ever thought to cheat before? Do they think that every immortal they meet is just going to crumble, that no-one's going to know how to fight back just because they don't?" He snarled, staggering to his feet, ignoring Joe's steadying hand. "Does no-one teach them?"
"People teach 'em. They had a teacher, Methos. These ones. They killed him." Methos choked back a laugh, and Joe squeezed his shoulder, blue eyes staring at him in worry. "I was coming to warn you. To warn Mac. They've killed six immortals in the last two years. When I heard someone spotted them with you, I was afraid ..."
"You shouldn't be," Methos said. Darkly, bitterly. He laughed, soft and black, and turned away. "Do you know what 'outlaw' means, Joe? It used to be a punishment. If you broke the rules. No-one arrested you. No-one hunted you down. No-one had to. Because once you broke the rules, you were outside them. They didn't protect you anymore. Once you broke the rules, you were fair game, for all the monsters of the world."
He looked up, found Joe watching him quietly, found the understanding in those sad, blue eyes, more worldly than many immortals. He met Joe's eyes, and looked down at the corpses at his feet, and his smile turned soft and bleak.
"I'm the reason the Game has rules, Joe," he said quietly. "Me and those like me. We're the monsters waiting for the rules to break, waiting for someone to open the door and step out into the cold." He leaned down, closed filmed, bewildered eyes. Let the child go.
"And monsters always take the children first ..."
Footsteps sounded cautiously near him as the scream of the quickening faded. Quickenings. Three. He hadn't wanted to take three, hadn't wanted to bear it. They hadn't given him all that much choice.
"Adam?" a gruff voice asked softly, hesitantly. Joe. Always Joe. "Old man? You okay?"
"They keep challenging me," he answered quietly. Hoarsely. "All these children keep challenging me, without the first clue as to what I truly am." He looked up, conscious of the blood on his hands, in his eyes. Conscious of the corpses, headless, three.
Two of them had knives in their hearts, keeping them safely down until he had time to kill them. One of them had a neat little bullet hole between his eyes, too. It hadn't had time to heal before ... The third had been the worst. Just swords, for them, once he'd eliminated the advantage of their ganging up on him. Just swords, and the stupid child hadn't even been close to a match ...
"Do they think they're the first to try it?" he asked, vicious, surprised by his own anger. But three, so young ... such a waste. "Do they think no-one's ever thought to cheat before? Do they think that every immortal they meet is just going to crumble, that no-one's going to know how to fight back just because they don't?" He snarled, staggering to his feet, ignoring Joe's steadying hand. "Does no-one teach them?"
"People teach 'em. They had a teacher, Methos. These ones. They killed him." Methos choked back a laugh, and Joe squeezed his shoulder, blue eyes staring at him in worry. "I was coming to warn you. To warn Mac. They've killed six immortals in the last two years. When I heard someone spotted them with you, I was afraid ..."
"You shouldn't be," Methos said. Darkly, bitterly. He laughed, soft and black, and turned away. "Do you know what 'outlaw' means, Joe? It used to be a punishment. If you broke the rules. No-one arrested you. No-one hunted you down. No-one had to. Because once you broke the rules, you were outside them. They didn't protect you anymore. Once you broke the rules, you were fair game, for all the monsters of the world."
He looked up, found Joe watching him quietly, found the understanding in those sad, blue eyes, more worldly than many immortals. He met Joe's eyes, and looked down at the corpses at his feet, and his smile turned soft and bleak.
"I'm the reason the Game has rules, Joe," he said quietly. "Me and those like me. We're the monsters waiting for the rules to break, waiting for someone to open the door and step out into the cold." He leaned down, closed filmed, bewildered eyes. Let the child go.
"And monsters always take the children first ..."
Tags: