But you're goin' nowhere fast"

Black 47, "40 Shades of Blue"

Methos was having trouble with his new horse. The beast was healthy enough, to be sure, but rather too full of itself. When it wasn't pausing to devour every bush and tree within reach, it was setting down the road at a pace that managed to be fairly slow and yet peculiarly bone-rattling. Dealing with the creature had him so frustrated that he couldn't say just when it was he felt the nearby presence of another Immortal.

A few moments later, he came upon a sorry tableau in the road. Two men lay dead in the road… brigands, by the look of them… one with a cut throat, the other with a slit belly, his innards hanging in messy loops, filling the air with the stench of blood, bile, and shit. A few feet away lay a woman, naked under a smattering of mud and blood both old and fresh. A dagger was clenched in one unmoving hand. A jagged wound in her chest healed as he watched. She shuddered and sputtered as life crept back into her.

She drew a deep breath, and let it out in a high, thin wail. Her eyes were still closed. She rolled onto her side and pulled into a slumped sitting position. Her hair, so filthy and matted that its color was impossible to determine, hung in her face. Her empty right hand gripped at the dirt.

Not quite sure what he planned to do, Methos slipped off the horse's back and walked towards the woman, stopping as he neared the eviscerated corpse. She didn't look up, but made a small noise that could have been a laugh or a whimper, and stood in a single, oddly graceful motion. "So long," she whispered hoarsely. She tilted her head to one side, as if listening to something faint and far-off. Her snarled tangle of hair hung in her face, hiding it. "So long you've walked, and longer still to go…" She swayed slightly, and her words took on a singsong lilt.

"The moon is obscured in deep gloom,

His brother becomes bright red in color.

The great one hidden for a long time in the shadows

Will hold the blade in the bloody wound.

Those at ease will suddenly be cast down,

The world put into trouble by three brothers

"The time will come when you die inside for every death you've seen, and bleed for every tear you've caused… but then, you are already dead, as dead as I am!" She looked up at him, her mat of hair falling back against her shoulders. Her eyes, sluggishly focusing, were wide, gray, and devoid of reason. She smiled brightly, like a child. The effect, on her gore-spattered features, was grotesque. Her free hand swung in useless, erratic arcs, and she clutched the dagger to her chest, like a mother cradling an infant. "I thought for sure I'd be able to rest this time. It isn't right, you know, for the living to touch the dead. So, I made them dead, but they tried to stop me. Some people don't know what they want!" Her expression grew solemn. "But I woke up this time, too. Sometimes I think if I were buried properly, it would be enough, but I was buried the first time, so that can't be it!" She tilted her head back and stroked her throat with the dagger's point, shuddering.

Methos stared at the madwoman, trying to decide what to do. The temptation to just take her head and have done with it was strong, as was the urge to get on his horse, ride off, and forget about her. Either one would certainly make his life easier. But her ramblings smacked of prophecy, and an oracle could be useful. Cursing himself, her, and oracles in general, he grabbed her by the waist and lifted her onto his horse-she seemed not to notice. He could always take her head later, he assured himself. Hopping up behind her, he realized his first task would be to get this woman a bath. She smelled like the corpse she considered herself to be.

As they rode, she ignored him, clutching the horse's mane with one hand and the dagger with the other. From time to time, she would cut or stab at herself with the blade, no easy task one-handed. Most of the wounds were superficial slashes across her thighs, the easiest target. By hugging the knife against her body and awkwardly shifting her grip, she managed to kill herself twice that morning, once with a gut-stab, once by slashing open her carotid artery, drenching both of them in her blood. Charming. Now they *both* needed a bath. He took the dagger from her while she was 'out' and stowed it in a saddlebag.

It was late afternoon by the time they reached a river. Methos was pleasantly surprised when the woman didn't fight his attempts to clean her off. The dried blood and filth washed off her skin fairly easily, but the snarled mat of hair was a dead loss, and Methos wound up cutting most of it off. Under all the grime was a lean but strongly built woman, younger than he'd first thought, though her hacked-short chestnut hair was liberally streaked with gray. Not pretty, but handsome, or she would be, if she weren't so blatantly insane. He kept a wary eye on her as he washed the dried blood off himself as best he could, but his clothes were ruined. Oh well. It was her damn blood, let *her* wear them. He had clean clothes in his saddlebags.

After they'd bathed, he set up a quick camp. Dinner was easy to come by, for the river was alive with fish. It seemed like a mere blink of the eye before he was setting aside the last picked-clean bones. He hadn't had to coax the woman to get her to eat, unsurprising, really. She'd been dead at least three times that day, and dying was a sure-fire way to build up an appetite.

A familiar silky voice, tinged with amusement, floated from behind him. "So when did *you* become a nursemaid for wandering lunatics?"

Methos smiled. "How long have you been watching me this time, Ares?"

"Long enough to know that you're just not yourself today." The dark god strode, pantherlike, from the growing dusk shadows to take a seat by the fire. "I mean…" he gestured towards the madwoman, who was sitting bolt upright in front of a small heap of fish bones, rocking back and forth, "Really." He scootched over to her, and grasped her chin in one hand, his gaze scanning her face. She sat limply, her gaze fixed at some point three feet past his head. "They say it runs in the family, which I suppose would mean that this one got a double dose."

"What do you-"

Before he could get the question out, the woman gave a shrill shriek, wrenching her face out of Ares' grip. "Say what you will, Master of Warriors, your day will end! " It was half a snarl, half a cackle. Her eyes shone in the firelight, and her mouth was twisted into a sneer. Springing to her feet, she chanted in a flat, quick, soft monotone at odds with the angry, gloating smirk on her face. Her hands dangled limply at her sides.

"For forty years the rainbow will not be seen.

For forty years it will be seen every day.

How revered will your favor be when wars are waged with fire and lightning,

And the touch of a finger destroys a city a world away?

From the sky will come a great King of terror! How will you match that?

The battlefields will stink of sulfur and your name will be nowhere! "

Ares raised a hand and smacked her, hard. Blood spurted from her nose, but she only laughed, and before the god could react, she leaned in and licked away a droplet that had landed on his cheek. Disgusted, he narrowed his eyes. "Sleep", he told her, in a clipped harsh tone wholly unlike his usual sensual purr. She did, still sitting upright. He closed his eyes, struggling to regain his composure before he turned his back to her, and faced Methos.

"So, what did you mean, 'double dose'? What do you know about her?" Methos tried not to let his growing curiosity come through too strongly in his voice.

Ares lay back, leaning comfortably on the empty air. "As I recall, the last time I had a story for you, you kept interrupting me. Maybe I'd better make sure that smart mouth of yours is… otherwise occupied."

Methos grinned. "Why, what*ever* could you mean?" He moved over, sitting directly behind Ares, nuzzling his neck. "Do tell," he breathed into his ear, "I'd really like to know." He raised a hand to toy with the god's nipple, stroking and pinching.

"Well, if you put it *that* way…" Ares willed away his leather vest. It was becoming a nuisance. "What do you know about the royal house of Thebes?" Methos was licking his way down the length of Ares' spine. He murmured something unintelligible into his back and shrugged.

Suddenly, Ares sat bolt upright, head turning stiffly, his hawkish glare scanning the periphery of the firelight. "Did you hear something?"

Methos shook his head.

Ares looked about suspiciously for a moment. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire and the breathing of Methos and the sleeping madwoman. Even with his godly awareness, he could detect nothing else. That blasted lunatic must have gotten further under his skin than he'd admitted to himself. He allowed himself to relax once more. "Well? Did I tell you to stop?"

*****'elsewhere'*****

"Well? Please tell me they didn't see you."

"Who, me? Godlet of Spies?"

Silence.

"Okay, so that and two dinars'll get me a jug of wine. No, they didn't see me."

"Well?"

"Sheesh, Boss, you're no fun at all tonight! "

"WELL? Don't try my patience… you should know, I do not like being toyed with."

"Okay, okay…. Ares was way too busy with the mor-- uh, IMmortal to notice little ol' me."

"And the girl?"

"Whoo! She's a few threads short of a tapestry, that one. She said something to Ares that got him all hot and bothered, so he put a minor whammy on her. She'll sleep till midmorning, easy. Don't think he hurt her any, though."

"That's because she's an oracle, nitwit. Even gods don't like to meddle with seers."

"Oh, I was kind of wondering. So, what's this all about, Boss?"

"None of your business, sprat. When you need to know, you'll know."

Go to part 2