And what will you write of us, brother? Kronos asked once, on a bloody plain, body still healing, while Caspian ate the dead and Silas soothed the surviving horses.
Methos had smiled and stretched up to the sky.
.
Methos is not evil. Honestly, no matter what Cassandra cries about, throwing herself fully into her hatred, into her grief and her rage - she lives still.
No, he is not evil.
He is Death. Maybe that's an allegory or a metaphor or just a name he pulled on once, swinging a sword and becoming terror that stalked every land...
Or, mayhap, once, long ago when gods roamed and magic shuddered in everything, immortals were something more.
.
Methos writes. Journals, diaries, chronicles, histories, text books, manuals, letters, codes... in every language he knows, he has written. In every land he has traveled to, he has written. In every era, every age, every form of writing.
Methos is history’s oldest survivor. Methos is history’s oldest storyteller.
… Methos is history’s oldest liar. (And that’s the truth.)
.
There was a man, long ago, who saw a rider on a pale horse. He followed a white, red, and black horse. The man fell down in terror as they passed him by.
He wrote of what he saw that day, when he lived and so many others died.
He wrote and it became legend.
.
The longest time ago, Methos opened his eyes. The world had ended and begun anew, the terrible lizards giving away to tiny furred things, and Methos, as always, evolved.
Methos is always evolving.
Death cannot die and that’s the greatest trick of all.
.
And what will you write of us, brother? Kronos asked after another battle, this time amongst a field of corpses and slaves.
Methos gazed out over their newly-conquered territory, mountains on one side and forest on the other, at the cowering peasants and the chieftain in Caspian’s grasp, and he said, Only the most interesting things.
Kronos had laughed and gone to pick his favorites of the women.
Methos watched a man in the distance, crawling away.
.
Methos writes because he can. He wants to. He’s some of the most well-known author’s in existence and the ones no one can remember.
History is just words and how they are interpreted. History is written by the victors because nobody cares what the losers have to say. No one remembers the names of the also-rans.
.
There is much Methos does not remember but there is more he does.
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Date: 2013-01-24 08:20 pm (UTC)Avengers movieverse, Loki + Avengers, a villain is just a victim whose story hasn’t been told
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Date: 2013-01-24 08:21 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2013-01-24 08:22 pm (UTC)The Dark Knight trilogy, Bane, monsters aren’t born – they’re made
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Date: 2013-01-24 08:22 pm (UTC)Once Upon a Time, Jefferson + Regina, AU where they were estranged siblings
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Date: 2013-01-24 08:23 pm (UTC)Star Wars, author’s choice, no one knows where Darth Vader came from
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Date: 2013-01-24 08:36 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2013-01-24 09:58 pm (UTC)Highlander, Methos, truly horrific things implied
Date: 2013-01-24 11:01 pm (UTC)And what will you write of us, brother? Kronos asked once, on a bloody plain, body still healing, while Caspian ate the dead and Silas soothed the surviving horses.
Methos had smiled and stretched up to the sky.
.
Methos is not evil. Honestly, no matter what Cassandra cries about, throwing herself fully into her hatred, into her grief and her rage - she lives still.
No, he is not evil.
He is Death. Maybe that's an allegory or a metaphor or just a name he pulled on once, swinging a sword and becoming terror that stalked every land...
Or, mayhap, once, long ago when gods roamed and magic shuddered in everything, immortals were something more.
.
Methos writes. Journals, diaries, chronicles, histories, text books, manuals, letters, codes... in every language he knows, he has written. In every land he has traveled to, he has written. In every era, every age, every form of writing.
Methos is history’s oldest survivor. Methos is history’s oldest storyteller.
… Methos is history’s oldest liar. (And that’s the truth.)
.
There was a man, long ago, who saw a rider on a pale horse. He followed a white, red, and black horse. The man fell down in terror as they passed him by.
He wrote of what he saw that day, when he lived and so many others died.
He wrote and it became legend.
.
The longest time ago, Methos opened his eyes. The world had ended and begun anew, the terrible lizards giving away to tiny furred things, and Methos, as always, evolved.
Methos is always evolving.
Death cannot die and that’s the greatest trick of all.
.
And what will you write of us, brother? Kronos asked after another battle, this time amongst a field of corpses and slaves.
Methos gazed out over their newly-conquered territory, mountains on one side and forest on the other, at the cowering peasants and the chieftain in Caspian’s grasp, and he said, Only the most interesting things.
Kronos had laughed and gone to pick his favorites of the women.
Methos watched a man in the distance, crawling away.
.
Methos writes because he can. He wants to. He’s some of the most well-known author’s in existence and the ones no one can remember.
History is just words and how they are interpreted. History is written by the victors because nobody cares what the losers have to say. No one remembers the names of the also-rans.
.
There is much Methos does not remember but there is more he does.
He writes none of it.