Rating: R for violence & non-consensual sex.
Notes: A story in the Bloodties series, set in the Star Trek future/time line, but no ST characters, just the 'Mirror, Mirror' concept.
Characters: Methos, Duncan MacLeod, MirrorMethos, Kronos, Silas, Lucien LaCroix, Original Characters
Summary: When Methos' past becomes part of the present, the consequences could be deadly for those close to him.
If you're new to the series, you can find an overview here.
I Remember you Not Fondly ~ Part Twelve
He skimmed his fingertips up and down her left arm, as if remembering something – or someone. Despite herself, she tried to pull away, only to have her wrist pinned down at her side against the mattress. He looked at her with that self-satisfied smirk that she wished she could claw off his face. “Now, now,” he remonstrated, “you’ve been such a good girl. Don’t ruin it now.”
Turning her face away, Triona squeezed her eyes shut, forcing back the rage, the bloodlust, which threatened to overwhelm her. She had promised herself that she would do whatever it took to get Methos back, no matter what debasement his mirror self perpetrated, but it took every ounce of self control she’d ever had to bear what had happened, and what was to happen still.
His fingers bit into her chin, forcing her head back. “That’s against the rules,” his voice against her ear like a hiss. “No mental disciplines, no vampire tricks. I want the woman, all of you, here with me now.”
Clenching her fists, she opened her eyes, putting every bit of loathing and hate into her gaze. He smiled down at her and the bile rose in her throat. Once more, his fingers trailed down her arm and back up again, lingering over her breast.
“I’d forgotten what you… what she,” he corrected himself, “was like undamaged.” He fell silent.
Triona had to ask. And besides, if he was talking to her, it bought her time, kept him from her. “Undamaged?” Cautiously, she sat up, pulling the bed sheet up around her as she did so. But he didn’t seem to notice, his eyes taking on a faraway look.
“You know what happens when acid meets human flesh. Imagine what your arm—“ he slid his hand down her shoulder to her wrist “—would look like after that.”
Fighting back a shudder, she inched farther away. “Did you—“
“No!” He seemed angry that she’d think he was responsible. “MacLeod’s witch, Cassandra, did the deed. But Triona blamed me nonetheless. I did what I could afterwards to heal the damage, but it wasn’t enough.” Surprisingly, there was regret in his voice. “She suffered her first death before there was ever the possibility of reconstructive surgery, so she bears the scars even now.”
“Cassandra?” Triona whispered, mostly to herself. What sort of universe was it that this man came from?
“That surprises you?” He pulled her back against him, having finally noticed her slowly moving away.
“Yes.” She forced herself to breathe slowly as he drew her closer, his fingers snaking into her hair, resting his cheek against the top of her head.
“You’re acquainted then?”
Triona did her best to divorce herself from his touch, to concentrate on the conversation. There could be some clue, some weakness to be revealed if only she asked the right questions. At least, that’s what she told herself. Grasping at straws to keep the fear at bay. “We were friends, once upon a time.” And they had been, when she had been Cate and she’d known Cassandra as Sage in the mid twenty-first century.
“Now? We exchange pleasantries at conferences, neither of us quite trusting the other.”
He made a sound that might have been laughter or disgust. “Conferences! What a strange life you do lead on this side of the mirror.”
“It isn’t my reality that’s the strange one,” she bit out. “Your Cassandra is a monster!”
“Now, now! Would it make you feel better to know that she paid for the suffering she inflicted on your other self?” He settled himself more comfortably against the pillows. “Oh, she paid dearly indeed.”
“What happened?” she asked, dreading the answer, but needing to know.
“You happened. So much hate and rage in such a tiny container.” Methos was obviously enjoying himself, his voice awash with gleeful anticipation. “You see, Triona and I develop weapons. We’re very good at it, artists some might even say. And Immortals make excellent test subjects, especially for some of the nastier biotoxins.”
She began to get a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach over where this story was leading, swallowing hard to keep that sickness at bay.
He continued, seemingly oblivious to her distress. “Cassandra had the misfortune of falling into our hands. Now Kronos would have been perfectly willing to cut a deal with her, but Triona wanted blood. So he made Cassandra a gift to his lover, and it was a gift Triona delighted in for nearly a year, before she took the witch’s head. I’m sure, that for Cassandra, death was a blessing. Triona had been very… creative in the year she’d been our ‘guest’.”
A hiss of horror escaped her lips. Not just for what had happened, but that somehow, ‘she’ could be capable of such cruelty. “My god…” she began, but couldn’t find the words. And then the words ‘his lover’ finally registered. Kronos? It was just one more emotional shock on top of all the others.
Laughing with a soft chill, he said, “You don’t think you’re capable of doing what Triona did, do you?” He looked down at her with glittering eyes, and she shrank back into the headboard, making an instinctive, though useless, move to escape. “You don’t think that ten years of depravity and suffering that ended in a shower of acid would drive you to take your revenge when your tormentor fell into your hands?”
She just shook her head wordlessly. His hand wrapped around her throat, pushing her back down onto the bed, the grip not quite enough to restrict her breathing, but close. “You don’t think you have that in you?” he whispered at her ear, the sound of his voice seeping into her senses like a miasma. “You and I both know that’s a lie, little one, don’t we? We both know that the darkness is your constant companion, one that you are never free to acknowledge, not to yourself, especially not to him.”
“That’s not true,” she protested weakly, but in her heart, she knew she lied. And so did he. Memories she had tried so hard to forget over the passing centuries railed at her, demanding acknowledgment. This time, she couldn’t stop the tears as his lips and hands roamed across her body.
“There, you see? I told you to save your tears for yourself, didn’t I, Triona?”