Sometime in between the Bronze Age and the Iron Age....
Somewhere between the Volga and the Nile....
Four guys are sitting around a campfire, getting drunk.

"Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug...." Silas and Caspian chanted while Methos upended the goatskin into his mouth, letting the raw, bitter beer cascade down his throat. It was his third skin in a candlemark; if he could keep this up, he'd beat Kronos, and win second place in their drinking contest. Silas always won first place, because he could manage to choke down enough intoxicant to actually kill him before the effect wore off. In fact, he'd already died twice tonight. Caspian was a lightweight and had been disqualified because he'd puked on the fire about two rounds ago.

"Yaaaahhhhhhhhh!!!!!!" Methos roared, throwing the skin on the fire, sending up a flash of golden flames for a few seconds before it settled back into a steadily burning circle again.

Kronos sulked. "Very impressive."

"Thank you, thank you..." Methos grinned, hiccuped, then slid off the log he was sitting on to lie on the ground, gazing at the stars. "Your turn," he sang out.

"Kronos! Kronos! Kronos! Kronos!" Caspian yelled, belched, then, with a gaze of utter confusion, fell backwards off his perch and passed out. Silas contemplated him with mild surprise, then shrugged and held out the next container to the quartet's leader.

The First Horseman grabbed the skin and poured a steady stream of the fiery liquid down his throat, a greater quantity than Methos, then grabbed *another* skin, and sent it after the first. "YAAAHAHAAHAAHAA!!!" He screamed at the top of his lungs, then choked, coughing, groaning and wheezing, as the alcohol hit his bloodstream. "Damn, that's nasty..."

"What do you... expect? We're not raiding... Gaul, this year..." Methos commented from his prone position next to the fire.

"Kronos wins second," Silas said ponderously. "You have to give him your horse, Methos."

"I don't want to," the Horseman known as Death muttered petulantly. "I *like* that horse..."

"We share EVERYTHING, Methos. What's yours is mine, what's mine is mine, what's Silas's is yours, what's Caspian's is... uhhhh...." Kronos burped, obviously having lost track of what he was saying.

"What's Caspian's isn't worth sharing, it's broke," Methos grumbled. "Stupid sod can't keep his weapons repaired... Always letting them go to rust, just replacing them at every new village... same with the horses, the women...." He let his voice trail off, remembering something he hadn't meant to, and scowled at the night sky.

"The point is, is, your horse is now mine, next time we ride." Kronos grinned happily at the strategist, and Methos sat up, swaying a little, glaring at his brother-in-arms.

"Silas! Another skin! I'm not letting you have that horse... this easily," the oldest Immortal said, looking a little green.

"Your funeral." Kronos shrugged and smirked, irritating Methos even further.

"Shut up."

"Who're you telling to shut up?"

"I'm telling *you* to shut up, you flea-ridden example of a lice-infested half-wit."

"Oh, reaaalllly? You wanna back that up with your sword, mama's boy?"

Silas interrupted the growing argument by getting them back on track. "Chug, chug, chug, chug, chug...."

Several skins later....

"It's just not fun anymore," Methos complained, staring moodily into the fire.

"What's not fun anymore?" Caspian had recovered an hour or two ago, and was now thoughtfully shining up the skull of one of the tribal leaders he'd killed the week before, and trying to decide if it would make a nice drinking mug or a better weapons holder than the one he had now.

"This. Pillaging, ravaging, murdering... it's gone stale."

"Are you daft?" Kronos swigged back another mouthful of nasty un-aged beer, shooting Methos a look of disdain. "This is terrific. We are gods! We are the scariest bastards riding the earth! We can have anything we want, any *time* we want, and there's nothing anyone can do about it! What do you mean, that's not fun?!"

"I like it," Silas interjected, contentedly toasting his feet and drinking a new, potent-smelling concoction that one of their recent slave acquisitions had brought with him from the last raid. Supposedly, it was made from roots; nothing could induce Methos to try it, not with the evil way it looked and smelled. "We're good at this. Although...." He frowned, shot a wary glance at Kronos, and let his voice trail off.

"Although, what!? Look, Methos, you've got Silas doing it now. Look what you started," Kronos griped.

"I just thought it would be fun to stay at that last place, pillage it a couple more times," Silas said stubbornly.

"We couldn't do that, it was going to flood," Methos and Caspian said in unison, rolling their eyes.

"I know. But I liked it there," the portly Immortal insisted. "It was pretty. Lots of animals. We could've had a nice long camp there---"

"Not after you got through with it," Methos said under his breath, then straightened and met Kronos' drunken, suspicious gaze. "It's all the same. We always win. Nothing ever changes. I haven't had a real challenge in decades, maybe centuries. I'm bored, Kronos."

"So, do you have a better idea, smart man?" The leader demanded, knocking back another half-a-goatskin.

"Mmmmm... Hand me that grog." Methos's eyes were glittering, and Caspian perked up.

"You've got an idea."

"Just the beginnings of one---"

"Methos has an idea?" Silas repeated with interest. "Ah, this should be good."

"It _better_ be good," Kronos threatened. "'Cause I swear, if you're going to go on like this, Methos, you're really going to ruin the party... and I *hate* it when a party goes bad." He grimaced toothily at the other Immortal, abruptly reminding him of the last party Kronos threw, inviting all the nearby chieftans to dinner; and what happened when they didn't appear to be having a really, really good time.

"Give me a little space here... and throw another log on the fire." Methos was not to be distracted by visions of barbeque and impromptu menu changes. For the last several months, the urge to separate Kronos's head from his shoulders had become almost irresistibly attractive; and the constant bickering between his companions had him considering ways to shut them all up in a crypt somewhere, maybe for a good century or two. Neither possibility was really workable, but he had to come up with something before he went completely crazy.

Anything would be better than the mind-numbing monotony of the last several decades.

"Got it."

"Let's hear it."

Methos smiled mischievously, and Silas and Caspian returned the smile with grins of anticipation. Kronos glared, not liking any idea that wasn't his own.

"We're Immortals, correct?"

"Yesssss," Kronos said impatiently.

"And any time one of our kind is permanently killed, that Quickening thing with the lightening happens. Where the memories and skills of the dead are passed on. With me so far?" He scanned the circle, then nodded. "Good. Now, what if we played a game to see which one of us could get the most Quickenings?"

"Who could kill the most other Immortals?" Silas asked, just to make sure he understood.

"Not bad," Caspian allowed, scratching his beard, eyes narrowing judiciously. "What would the winner get?"

"Guess," Methos said, watching Kronos.

The First Horseman's interest was caught, although he didn't want to admit it. "Whoever gets the most Quickenings... could take on anything. Anyone." His eyes lit up, unholy glee burning as bright as the fire. "Ahhh, I seeeee..."

"I think you do."

"What? What?" Silas demanded.

"The winner---the strongest one---could rule the world. *Forever*."

"The strongest one?" Caspian asked suspiciously. "Wait, we share everything---"

"Well, of *course* we wouldn't kill each other," Kronos responded in exasperation. Methos remained silent. "We'd go out, kill the others, come back, and whoever got the most would be First Horseman. How difficult is that to understand?"

"But we already rule most of the world," Caspian pointed out, just to be difficult. "Why do we need more Quickenings?"

"Because it'll be a challenge, to take on the others individually. Not that they'll really have a chance... and when we're done, with their Quickenings it'll be *easier* to conquer the mortals, and bring them under our dominion." Methos's voice was persuasive, cunning.

"So you mean us to get them all," Kronos said with relish. "Every single mewling, newborn Immortal now learning to grip a sword..."

"That would make it conclusive," the strategist observed, not confirming or denying Kronos's perception of the plan.

"I... LIKE IT! I like this game!" Kronos shouted. Silas howled his agreement and Caspian let out a low chuckle of approval. "Methos, you're bloody brilliant!"

"I try."

The next morning, the Four Horsemen set out in four different directions, north, south, east, and west, and vowed to meet again in a hundred years, to check on each other's scores.

A century later they met, drank, and compared kills. Kronos was ahead, Caspian close behind, but Methos's Quickenings had been garnered with more panache, and perhaps were more valuable. Silas had gotten the oldest man living at that time, so they let him drink himself dead, and didn't drop in him in the river to wake him, as a reward.

A century after that, Caspian missed the meeting due to being interred beneath a Druid's cairn of stones and several layers of dirt, though none of his brothers knew that. The party wasn't quite the same without him; Methos and Kronos quarrelled more vehemently, and Silas was mournful, missing Caspian. They ended the celebration sooner, none of them saying what they feared; that one of those young, stupid, untrained Immortals had taken Caspian's head, making the Four Horsemen incomplete for all time.

A century after that, only Kronos stood on the hillside where their camp had been.

Silas was wounded, recovering from a vicious battle far away to the north; and he'd never been very good about keeping track of time anyway. Methos had had to find him for their centennial gatherings both times before. A year went by, then a decade, then a few more; and he kept meaning to go back, but somehow never got around to it at any time that the others were there.

Methos could find no reason to *want* to return to their camp when the time for the third gathering rolled around. No wish to see his comrades, to drink until he was dead, to brag about conquests and kills and Quickenings.... but the reasons behind his change of heart are complex, and will not be related here....

Kronos stared into the fires, remembering his friends, his brothers, the Four Horsemen; and he seethed.

The Rules had changed. The Game had spread, oh yes, how it had spread; Methos was always good at coming up with fun plans, things other people would want to participate in. Younger Immortals walked the earth now, some of them just as ruthless as the Horsemen, just as interested in the Prize. Others had added Rules to the Game; and they got very, very upset if you broke them. They tended to come after you in packs if they found out you'd "cheated", making life difficult for someone who didn't respect the one-on-one rule, or the no-fighting-in-front-of-mortals rule, or some of the other, pettier and less-enforceable concepts of good conduct.

The Rule about Holy Ground--based on legend of what happened to those of their kind who killed on consecrated territory-- was so ancient that Methos hadn't known where it first came from; he'd simply suggested it as a Rule for their Game. It was the only rule that Kronos ever respected, out of a sense of self-preservation. The others, those weak fools, would soon find that out....

He drank himself dead, once, twice, thrice, in memory of his fallen comrades; then lit four campfires on the hills above the river, and screamed out his rage to the stars that the Horsemen would never ride again. "I will win, Methos!" he screamed. "I will win your Game!"

*
Author's Notes:

Okay, okay... we know, all of us, that the Game is as old as Immortals, that it pre-dates Methos.

But don't you think he's capable of something like this?

Thanks to Kitty, Dianne, Dawn, Lizbet and others for their comments. Return to the archive