Rated PG-13 for mild language, adult topics (nothing sexual), and non descriptive violence.
Disclaimer: The characters and concepts of Highlander do not belong to me. I don't make any money off this. If anyone wants Kronos, you can have 'em. He's giving me the creeps.
Warning: This story could offend some readers due to it's megalomaniac and occasionally unbalanced rationalization. As I said in the rating, there is non descriptive violence, and a casual disregard for human life. This is Kronos here, people.
The excellent lyrics are from Seth Armstrong, written by Glenn Danzig. They are used here without permission.
Spoilers: Comes A Horseman and Revelation 6:8
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The Chains That Bind
Kronos laughed silently at the irony of searching for Methos. In the ages before, when they had ridden and terrorized their entire world together, it had always been the other way around. He would leave, trying to forget the past . . . and the present. What he had been, and what Methos had made him. Solitary once again, he could feel the emptiness of what he was. The hate was less driving, less intensely consuming; the ever present pain was a ghost. Whenever Methos had returned, he had changed that. He drew Kronos back in, acting as the catalyst that made the Horsemen great. He was what made Kronos great. When he was there, Kronos could feel the power burning through him uncontrollably. Together, there was nothing they couldn't do! It was overwhelming. He lost himself to that power.
Kronos smiled bitterly. Every time he had found the strength to leave, for a year or fifty, Methos had found him. It was inevitable. As surely as the sun rose, Methos found him. It was their cycle, he mused. Kronos shone with Methos, then fled for the darkness. Every star craves the night, every star wants to fill the nothing, but only Methos did. Methos, the blinding sun, he thought with envious scorn. Every action they took, every gain made, was his. He claimed to disdain the power Kronos lived for, but the dark, joyful gleam in Methos' eye when he bested his brothers with his intelligence, or planned the perfect raid, showed Kronos how wrong that declaration was. Methos might not care for physical domination, as Caspian had, but only because his battle ground was more treacherous by far: the mind. Kronos studied that mind, and the traps it wove, for his entire existence. If I could best that mind, he knew, I would be free of him.
He would be free of Methos, he knew with a grim certainty. There was no other option. He was no longer the five hundred year old child Methos had taken in. His awe of his brother's distant years and experience had faded as he, too, fell into the trap of time. When next they met, he vowed, they would be equals. More than equals, he would be the stronger. The vows mocked him in the empty room. How do you know you will be the stronger? You never were before. Kronos snarled at the lingering doubts. It could not be for nothing. He must be the stronger. If he was not . . . if he was not then it had all been for nothing. His music was dead for nothing. Methos had broken his dream, killed the music in his soul, and offered instead the love of the kill. Kronos had embraced that gift. It was the thrill of power that sang to him now. He would take that power. He would live in no man's shadow! Alone in the shabby room it was easy to make these bold declarations, he knew. The echoes of his hate taunted him, a reminder that he would only feel so purely alive again when he grasped that power. It would be his sword at his brother's neck. It would be his rage that led them all to glory. Methos would know then who was truly the shadow.
He had thought, the last time he saw Methos, that he had won. When Methos left the tent and his woman in obedient defeat, Kronos could feel the victory. He was the one in control. Methos did not rule him! All the times Methos had gloated that "brothers shared everything," and used that as an excuse to take something Kronos cherished had been revisited on his brother tenfold in that one act. He had struck! He had proven that he was the superior! Yet when he had revived to find his brother gone, he had realized the truth. He was nothing. Methos had decided, not him. Methos always decided. Methos found him when Methos chose, no matter where Kronos fled. Methos had decided again, and rejected his brother. He had left. Kronos sneered at the mocking walls. That has changed, he spat silently. I am no longer his student, I am no longer his slave. I am his master. Now I decide. I will find him, and he will know the truth. I am no longer nothing! And I will be free.
Would you let it go if you knew he was dead? Kronos' inner voice taunted him. If he was destroyed before you defeated him, would you still be a slave then? Would the chains still bind you so tightly to your brother?
Kronos stared broodily at his packed bags, feeling time slip past him as he wrestled with the question. If Methos was killed would he still feel the chains? Would victory soothe as sweetly if it was bought so cheap? It would not, he declared angrily. Freedom gained so cheaply was no freedom at all. He would break the chains himself, or they would not be broken. He would prove he was the stronger! It was only a matter of time now until he did. He knew where his brother was, hiding with those peeping tom Watchers. His grin was feral. Starting the Watchers had been a good idea, almost as good as starting the Hunters. How wonderfully ironic that Methos had hidden from Kronos in the very organization Kronos had created to find him. After all, Kronos would never have found Methos if he hadn't found the memo. Very stupid, 'Adam Pierson,' he sneered. Associating with Immortals will get you killed. At the very least it will get a memo sent out to all the Watchers that you're to be avoided for violation of your oath. How convenient for me. The face you managed so beautifully to keep out of the files is now being circulated to every Watcher, inactive or not. You gave up your anonymity, and for what? Friendship with a child? Do you think to replace me so easily? I am not the boy I was, the boy this Duncan MacLeod is. I am the strong one now. He stood jerkily and grabbed the taunting bags. Millennia of planning and preparing for this conflict were over, and he had a flight to catch.
Kronos often amazed his not-so-moral mortal counterparts with his ability to seem . . . normal. Danny Vietresti, in particular, commented that someone as sadistic as he should not be able to smile nice and get things done politely. He laughed at the immature notion that simply because he would have preferred to order the woman dealing with his baggage to do what she was told -- versus asking her charmingly -- that he would actually do it. Had he actually attempted it, he knew the woman would have raised hell. These modern ideas of respect were so limiting. He didn't need the kind of exposure an incident like that would cause, not yet. He had no intention of jeopardizing his plans because of a little impatience on his part. Kronos was a very patient man. He had waited two thousand years to find Methos, and those two thousand years as a slave. He memories haunted him. He was indeed a patient, patient man. He didn't plan on having to abide by these mortal standards of morality and "civility" forever, but his business with Methos came first. Kronos smiled nicely and accepted his ticked with a "Thank you very much" to the woman. She smiled back kindly and wished him a good flight. A good flight indeed, echoed Kronos mentally as he boarded the plane. He would be free soon.
When Kronos had his brother under his blade at last, it felt as pleasurable as he imagined. The sight of the steel gliding in his brother's chest thrilled him almost as much as the expression of shocked realization and the masked trace of horror and fear in his brother's voice did. He removed the body with a negligent ease. The time of judgment was at hand, he knew. Methos was no god now. The conversation with his newly revived brother went even better. Their old habits rebounded into the present with an almost amusing effect. Methos taunted him, and Kronos acted as he always had -- as if he was the dominant one instead of Methos. It was the game they had played for a thousand years, but it was Methos who had always made the decisions. If he wanted something done, it was done his way. But Methos was weak now. Changed, Kronos gloated. What he was once had been submerged by what he had become. His power was banked, and Kronos could feel his own power pulsing and rising throughout his body. His age old act was no longer an act. His decisions were law. He was the master now! His choice to Methos was no choice at all. It was the same one Methos had always given him: join me, or die. Kronos' mocking laughter resonated off the chilly gray walls as his brother left. Methos was his, now.
Methos returned, as Kronos knew he would. He had never resisted Methos before, and now Methos could not resist him. Kronos knew the power rested inside Methos -- Death grinned behind those shadowed eyes -- but it was his power now, to do with as he pleased. When he "offered" to let Methos to kill Duncan MacLeod, he knew it would be done. Duncan MacLeod was no match for him. Methos could never replace *him* so easily. When MacLeod was dead, Methos would know. He would know who was truly the master here. The quiet desperation in Methos' slightly hunched figure was more euphoric than wine.
But it was MacLeod who returned, not Methos. Kronos immediately realized what the ancient trickster had done. He had set up a contest, a battle of skill between his old student and his new. Methos was testing them, as he had done every day of Kronos' life. It was the physical manifestation of the subtle, mental battles that Methos played with the his brothers and the subtle, mental battles he goaded them into fighting against each other. Methos was challenging Kronos to prove once again that he really was good enough to be one of the Horsemen, that he need not be replaced by this upstart MacLeod. Kronos ground his teeth. It was Methos' way proving that he, not Kronos, was the master here. Kronos snarled his rage. That cunning rat had tricked him again, playing up to what Kronos expected. He had hidden his strength, not forgotten it. He had played Kronos for a fool.
Kronos and MacLeod came together, silver glinting swords clashing off each other. Kronos could see the intense focus and will in his opponent. Methos always loved to break a strong will. They fought, neither gaining the upper hand and luck playing to neither side.
The shattering of glass and fire drove them apart. Kronos glared angrily at the dark figure above them. Methos paused, expression unreadable, then turned without a word and vanished. "I can wait," Kronos vowed to his opponent. He was a patient man. He knew who was stronger. Methos would not beat him this time. He would prove he was the stronger, and he would take his brother's place in the sun. I am no man's shadow! he screamed silently as the flames played across his scarred face. With no more words, he turned and vanished as Methos had into the shadows.
His brother returned, as Kronos knew he would. This was the way, when Methos played his next move. Even Kronos' blade at his throat didn't scare the indifferent seeming man. The elder immortal explained, in his calm, detached manner, that the battle could have gone either way. He smiled faintly at Kronos' promise of death and offered the forbidden fruit.
"If you do that, you'll never have the Four Horsemen." It was a trap. Kronos knew it was a trap. Methos offered the old ways, the old power. Methos offered the shadows, and Kronos could not resist. Methos was the will, the rule, of what they had been. Kronos could no more refuse him than he could renege on this final battle. "The Four Horsemen ride again," he breathed, elated in spite of his defeat, and walked away. He would win this war no matter how many battles his brother took. The other Horsemen would see his conquest; they would not see him fail again.
When they reached Bordeaux, Kronos knew he would win. Methos' aloof noninvolvement proved it. His testing, sharp barbs were fewer, less piercing. His brother was weak. Silas and Caspian would follow Kronos, now. Methos would do as he was bid. Kronos was waiting, ready, when his Watcher probes told him that his irritating little tail had made it to Bordeaux. Did Methos truly believe MacLeod was the better? Could Methos have become so complacently predictable? Surely not. Surely there must be something more twisted than simply warning MacLeod. He must be attempting to play his two protégés off each other. Whoever won became Methos' right hand, standing at his side when the world bowed at the Horsemen's feet. Kronos would not be beaten, he would no longer be the shadow. It would be he who would dominate the Horsemen! His brother's games would fail, and Kronos would lead them to glory. He smiled cruelly as he implemented his next move against his master.
When Methos returned from his cagey attempt to warn MacLeod, Kronos could feel the taste of victory in his mouth. It thrilled him to watch his brother vacillate. Find my trap, Kronos goaded. He could see the defeat in Methos eyes as he realized how neatly he'd been tricked. Even his beloved protégé couldn't stand up to both Caspian and Silas. Methos knew that as surely as he did. Kronos had won. Victory gleamed in his dark eyes. He would live in no man's shadow. Three thousand years, and he was free.
To find the chains closing around him once more at Caspian's death was almost more than he could bear. Patience, he warned himself, you will be free of them yet. MacLeod must come here alone, without allies. Methos will see then who is the stronger. I will prove I am the stronger! When I take MacLeod's Quickening, he will know I am not his slave!
He had won, he knew that with a certainty that enflamed him. He was free. Kronos could see it in Methos' eyes as he went to order Silas to kill Cassandra. Methos went with the winner and Kronos would win this fight. He knew it as he and MacLeod met in combat for the final time. It was a certainty in his mind. He was free. The fight was won.
The unmistakable ringing of metal on metal distracted him for one, all important moment. His hope died as Silas and Methos crashed out onto the deck beneath them. "Methos," he spat bitterly. His master, to the end. Methos had chosen, once more. Kronos was nothing to him; he had never been anything to Methos. He cried out in angry desperation. He was a god! He was the end of time! He would not die a slave!
The sword pierced through his neck with frightening ease. In that instant, Methos' unperturbed, domineering gaze followed him. You were born a slave, it mocked, and you die a slave. You will never be free.
Then there was nothing.
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How the Gods Kill
Glenn Danzig
If you feel alive
In a darkened room
Do you know the name
Of your solitude
If you ain't got the answer
If you don't know the truth
If you want the power
Then let it flow through
Would you let it go
Oh, would you let it go
Oh, would you let it go
Oh, oh, would you let it go
They cannot end this mourning of my life
Show me how the gods kill
Yea
If you feel alive
If you got no fear
Do you know the name
Of the one you seek
If you want the answer
If you want the truth
Look inside your empty soul
There you'll find the noose
Would you let it go
Oh, would you let it go
Oh, would you let it go
Oh, oh, would you let it go
They cannot end this mourning of my life
Show me how the gods kill