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calimeA Highlander:The Series fanfic
Title: What Dreams May Bring
Disclaimers: Not mine. They’re just invading my dreams.
Warnings : Hints of m/m relationships, violence and insanity.
Heartfelt thanks to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
sparklebutch for beta and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine. But I am so blaming his Kronos muse for the general idea, watch if I’m not.
Waking feels like coming abruptly up from a watery deep. Was it the cold that woke him, or a discordant sense of absence? The bed beside him still holds an imprint of another body, but the rumpled nest has been deserted for some time, the linen cool against his face, last lingering traces of the other’s unique body scent already becoming too elusive for him to wrap it around him like a safe cloak.
Duncan sighs. He should really be used to it by now. And there is nothing to fear, he tells himself firmly. Does not matter that he has had that dream again. It is definitely not the first time, not for Methos leaving, not for the dream. Besides, it is just a dream. He knows how to keep dreams at bay.
He lies back and closes his eyes. He knows that the snatches of the dream will start to play again behind his eyelids … but there is only one other alternative, and he is not considering it. Yet.
Better to just drift and try to ignore the insistent whispers inside his head. And if he deigns to listen, well, it is his head and he is entitled to hold conversations with its denizens when he so desires, isn’t he? Not like it is a first time for that, either.
Kronos walking out of emptiness, smirking at him in an amused, almost friendly way.
"Welcome, brother! Miss me?"
"I am not your brother!"
Kronos tut-tuts. "No lying, please. You and I were never good at it. Better leave it to the master. One more thing we have in common, eh?"
"I am nothing like you!"
That smirk again. If Kronos is unlike Methos in his ability to lie, he definitely is at least equal in the condescending-smirk department.
"You just need a tiny scratch at the surface, Highlander. Maybe even not that."
Duncan growls under his breath and turns restlessly, pressing his face into the pillow. Inhaling deeply … but the scent is gone, there is no sweet escape that way into the pretence that would keep those others away - for a little while longer at least.
Byron’s face, twisted into a mad leer. Purring, "Oh, but we are so much alike, we three. Brothers under the skin, isn’t it how the saying goes? Only now, we’re all under your skin, dear brother mine."
There’s no strength in him to argue. The aching feel of something lost, something missing is suddenly too strong to leave room for any other petty concerns. Slipping through his fingers, no matter how he tries to hold on, disappearing into the mists…
Arms flailing for a moment, trashing around aimlessly, hands clutching the sweat-soaked bedclothes. The sense of falling, the sense of despair.
A strong arm pinning him down, something comforting in the strength.
"Shhh, brother. I know. I know. It will be all right. For a time. He’ll be back."
"Yes, he’ll be back. Until he leaves again, and again. Then, one day, he won’t be back." Byron, sneering. "He picks the ones with the fire inside, but when the fire begins to devour them, he runs. Survival first, his survival. He comes, he warms himself, he fuels the flame ... and then he runs from the conflagration. He won’t even come back to look at the ashes."
"You were never more than a sizzle, so shut the hell up," growls Kronos.
"Oh, touchy!" exclaims Byron, sparing a glance to Kronos before he turns back to Duncan, though his next words may very well be directed at either one of them, "But you can’t deny that he has never been the one to stick around when the objects of his passion go too far around the bend."
A pause. "And how’s your sanity these days, noble son of Scotland?" Sweet poison in every syllable. "So, we'll go no more a roving so late into the night..."
Silence.
"He takes the coward’s way out, without any compassion! He won’t take your head, no, he won’t deign to carry the remainder with him , won’t have anything to do with you … he just leaves. Disappears. Ashes." Byron is bitter now, and well into ranting.
Duncan wonders idly how much longer will Kronos’ patience with the mad poet hold. This is familiar, the dream scenario playing out inside his skull. He takes perverted comfort in the familiarity when as on cue Kronos backhands Byron across the mouth, menacing for a moment, "I think I told you to shut up, poet." He somehow manages to make the last word obscenely insulting.
"Barbarian," Byron throws back with equal venom, but blessedly subsides into barely audible mutterings.
Kronos ignores him, turning back to Duncan. "Don’t mind him. It’s all right. He’ll return. That one day, when he won’t, we’ll track him down." Fierce. Determined.
"He has not managed to lose us and he will never manage to. You know what you have to do, when the day comes, don’t you, Highlander?"
Duncan does not want to, but he still nods. "Yes." That admission, dragged out of him, leaving bleeding wounds in it’s wake. Bleeding a blessed relief. Together, they will not fail. Together, they may even not have to settle for the second best. Together, they may even win the ultimate prize.
Kronos smiles. "Keep the knife sharp, Highlander," he says, before turning and walking away.
The pale morning light insinuates itself across the bed. Duncan feels cold, clammy, the minute after-shudders of panic still lingering from the dream. Better to get up, have a shower, a cup of coffee, a workout. Become functional.
He reaches over to the headboard. A press here, a quiet snick, and he is holding a knife. A plain, unadorned, slim throwing knife. He balances it in his hand, idly recalling the memory of taking it from a headless corpse in a dank submarine base. The weight of the knife is comfortable, solid in his hand. Keeping the fears at bay.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast...
Yes, he needs to get up. He runs his thumb over the edge of the knife, sucking at the blood that immediately wells up from the cut. He frowns. Sharp, but maybe not sharp enough. He’ll take care to sharpen it again later.
It is crucial for the knife to be sharp, well cared for against the day it will be needed. Not to sever the bonds, but to make sure they can never be broken. A key to the future, infinite. If they play it right, this time they may even end up inside, the ultimate destination. After all, now there are three of them.
"Greetings, brother..."
Notes:
Some lines quoted are from a poem by lord Byron, "So, We'll Go No More a Roving."
Title: What Dreams May Bring
Disclaimers: Not mine. They’re just invading my dreams.
Warnings : Hints of m/m relationships, violence and insanity.
Heartfelt thanks to
sparklebutch for beta and encouragement. All remaining mistakes are mine. But I am so blaming his Kronos muse for the general idea, watch if I’m not.Waking feels like coming abruptly up from a watery deep. Was it the cold that woke him, or a discordant sense of absence? The bed beside him still holds an imprint of another body, but the rumpled nest has been deserted for some time, the linen cool against his face, last lingering traces of the other’s unique body scent already becoming too elusive for him to wrap it around him like a safe cloak.
Duncan sighs. He should really be used to it by now. And there is nothing to fear, he tells himself firmly. Does not matter that he has had that dream again. It is definitely not the first time, not for Methos leaving, not for the dream. Besides, it is just a dream. He knows how to keep dreams at bay.
He lies back and closes his eyes. He knows that the snatches of the dream will start to play again behind his eyelids … but there is only one other alternative, and he is not considering it. Yet.
Better to just drift and try to ignore the insistent whispers inside his head. And if he deigns to listen, well, it is his head and he is entitled to hold conversations with its denizens when he so desires, isn’t he? Not like it is a first time for that, either.
Kronos walking out of emptiness, smirking at him in an amused, almost friendly way.
"Welcome, brother! Miss me?"
"I am not your brother!"
Kronos tut-tuts. "No lying, please. You and I were never good at it. Better leave it to the master. One more thing we have in common, eh?"
"I am nothing like you!"
That smirk again. If Kronos is unlike Methos in his ability to lie, he definitely is at least equal in the condescending-smirk department.
"You just need a tiny scratch at the surface, Highlander. Maybe even not that."
Duncan growls under his breath and turns restlessly, pressing his face into the pillow. Inhaling deeply … but the scent is gone, there is no sweet escape that way into the pretence that would keep those others away - for a little while longer at least.
Byron’s face, twisted into a mad leer. Purring, "Oh, but we are so much alike, we three. Brothers under the skin, isn’t it how the saying goes? Only now, we’re all under your skin, dear brother mine."
There’s no strength in him to argue. The aching feel of something lost, something missing is suddenly too strong to leave room for any other petty concerns. Slipping through his fingers, no matter how he tries to hold on, disappearing into the mists…
Arms flailing for a moment, trashing around aimlessly, hands clutching the sweat-soaked bedclothes. The sense of falling, the sense of despair.
A strong arm pinning him down, something comforting in the strength.
"Shhh, brother. I know. I know. It will be all right. For a time. He’ll be back."
"Yes, he’ll be back. Until he leaves again, and again. Then, one day, he won’t be back." Byron, sneering. "He picks the ones with the fire inside, but when the fire begins to devour them, he runs. Survival first, his survival. He comes, he warms himself, he fuels the flame ... and then he runs from the conflagration. He won’t even come back to look at the ashes."
"You were never more than a sizzle, so shut the hell up," growls Kronos.
"Oh, touchy!" exclaims Byron, sparing a glance to Kronos before he turns back to Duncan, though his next words may very well be directed at either one of them, "But you can’t deny that he has never been the one to stick around when the objects of his passion go too far around the bend."
A pause. "And how’s your sanity these days, noble son of Scotland?" Sweet poison in every syllable. "So, we'll go no more a roving so late into the night..."
Silence.
"He takes the coward’s way out, without any compassion! He won’t take your head, no, he won’t deign to carry the remainder with him , won’t have anything to do with you … he just leaves. Disappears. Ashes." Byron is bitter now, and well into ranting.
Duncan wonders idly how much longer will Kronos’ patience with the mad poet hold. This is familiar, the dream scenario playing out inside his skull. He takes perverted comfort in the familiarity when as on cue Kronos backhands Byron across the mouth, menacing for a moment, "I think I told you to shut up, poet." He somehow manages to make the last word obscenely insulting.
"Barbarian," Byron throws back with equal venom, but blessedly subsides into barely audible mutterings.
Kronos ignores him, turning back to Duncan. "Don’t mind him. It’s all right. He’ll return. That one day, when he won’t, we’ll track him down." Fierce. Determined.
"He has not managed to lose us and he will never manage to. You know what you have to do, when the day comes, don’t you, Highlander?"
Duncan does not want to, but he still nods. "Yes." That admission, dragged out of him, leaving bleeding wounds in it’s wake. Bleeding a blessed relief. Together, they will not fail. Together, they may even not have to settle for the second best. Together, they may even win the ultimate prize.
Kronos smiles. "Keep the knife sharp, Highlander," he says, before turning and walking away.
The pale morning light insinuates itself across the bed. Duncan feels cold, clammy, the minute after-shudders of panic still lingering from the dream. Better to get up, have a shower, a cup of coffee, a workout. Become functional.
He reaches over to the headboard. A press here, a quiet snick, and he is holding a knife. A plain, unadorned, slim throwing knife. He balances it in his hand, idly recalling the memory of taking it from a headless corpse in a dank submarine base. The weight of the knife is comfortable, solid in his hand. Keeping the fears at bay.
For the sword outwears its sheath,
And the soul wears out the breast...
Yes, he needs to get up. He runs his thumb over the edge of the knife, sucking at the blood that immediately wells up from the cut. He frowns. Sharp, but maybe not sharp enough. He’ll take care to sharpen it again later.
It is crucial for the knife to be sharp, well cared for against the day it will be needed. Not to sever the bonds, but to make sure they can never be broken. A key to the future, infinite. If they play it right, this time they may even end up inside, the ultimate destination. After all, now there are three of them.
"Greetings, brother..."
Notes:
Some lines quoted are from a poem by lord Byron, "So, We'll Go No More a Roving."
(no subject)
Date: 2005-12-10 06:57 pm (UTC)