| When her pursuer stepped into the shadows she knew by the cold and unfeeling look in his eyes, the look she had come to know as his battle fury, that she was in trouble. The lust for blood had risen up in him, and when he got like this it was nearly impossible to incite the man to mercy. "Methos!" She said trembling. "My dear sweet, Helen," He said, inching closer, his blade shining in the moonlight. "You remember. I'm flattered." "This time, love, there's no where for you to run." He said. He moved slowly towards her, and she instinctively moved backwards, away from the blade, the bringer of life and death as Methos drew near. But he was right, there was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide and unless Helen of Athens could talk some sense into the man who once had loved her than she was going to die. |