PYRIUS

By JoLayne

EMAIL: EnyaJo@aol.com

CHARACTERS: Horsemen, OCs: Pyrius, Prima, Naomi

SUMMARY: The Horsemen didn't see a little boy hiding under a blanket during one of their raids. They should have been more careful.

THANKS to the wonderful beta, Cherna!

DISCLAIMER: Methos and the other horsemen belong solely to Panzer/Davis.

The sole problem in Pyrius' eight year old world that bright morning was the fact that his playmates made sure he couldn't get the pebble. Five of them ducked and rolled out of his way as he tried to push and pry at them to get the present owner to drop it. He was It and was determined not to lose, he never had. He was the best athlete of his clan of friends and they all knew it. Pyrius he was faster, stronger, smarter than the rest of them. The pebble was tossed into the hands of Jasep. Pyrius whooped! He knew he could get it from him, his best friend, the densest kid in the village.

He hovered over Jasep, who made a show of actually being able to keep the pebble. Pyrius tickled Jasep and they fell to the ground, laughing and scrambling for it. Jasep kept a tight grip on it. Pyrius tickled him again but his grip wouldn't loosen. They rolled on the ground laughing and pulling at the rock, tickling each other, until the ground started to vibrate underneath him. The people of the village came out of their tents, stopped their discussions, dropped their bundles as all eyes went to the horizon.

Four men on horseback, riding knee to knee thundered over the plain, directly to the village. They wore masks, stark, black and silver masks that made them look like other worldly machines. Even the horses wore metal face plates as they made their way closer to the village.

Men hollered for the women to get inside, children screamed and were grabbed by their parents, and few ran out of the village, away from the coming doom. Pyrius and Jasep stood and stared at them, in awe of the sight.

Pyrius was grabbed from behind and carried into his family hovel.

His father tossed him inside and ordered him to stay quiet and never move from that spot! He selected an ax from the corner and returned outside. His mother ran into the house and pulled her son into a terrified hug. He could hardly breathe as her grip was tight with terror of the unknown events that would soon pervade their village. Her long blond hair covered his head like a safety net as she clung to him, her head over his.

Outside, they heard people scream, dogs bark and howl, horses neigh and livestock whine. His mother pushed Pyrius' face into the dirt of the floor without knowing. When she realized she may be crushing her foundling son, she lifted herself, but was still terrified of the nightmare that was right outside their door. The expression on his mother's face was etched into his brain. It was of dread, fear, hopelessness, emotions that would soon be the major part of the young boy's life. His long life. When his mother threw a blanket over him, Pyrius lifted it with his finger and was able to see through a slit between the blanket and ground. The thundering horses stopped right outside their door. There were shouts and screams. He heard great weights thud to the ground.

Pyrius' mother, Prima, moved to the other side of their home, as far as she could be from the one thing she wanted to stay safe, him. If she could have crawled into the wall, she would have. She told him in a very frightened voice, "Do not move, child."

His father's boot appeared in his line of vision under the blanket and relief washed over his mother's face. She moved toward his father, but stopped. A great weight fell on top of Pyrius, his father's lifeless eye filled the slit's view. Pyrius let out a fearful whimper, but couldn't move under the weight of his father. Prima's pleas disrupted the silence. Pyrius moved his hand lengthened the view of the slit. A dusty dark brown boot walk past.

Pyrius tried to move the load on top of him but his father too heavy to move without giving away the fact that he was there. He lifted the blanket up more and saw a man wearing metal on the upper part of his body with dirty white sleeves and legs walk determinedly toward his mother. She was cowering, shaking her head no. She was crying. She pleaded with the man, who put his hand over her face and pushed her down on his parents' bed.

The long haired man drew a dagger out of his belt loop and flopped on top of his mother before she could get away. Her skirt was hiked up over her head. The man pulled his breeches down. His mother screamed in high pitched alarm and pain. Pyrius got a look at the man, the left side of his face.

The little boy didn't understand what was happening, but couldn't stand the sight and the sounds. He covered his ears, slammed his eyes shut, trying to block out the world. The screaming and pleading of his mother was drowned out by the grunting and howling of the intruder.

Men and animals and their attackers outside valiantly fought and the wails of the losers blasted into Pyrius' brain. Then, all was silent in his house. He was scared to move. He heard a terrible gasping and the shuffle of dirt across the floor, near him and out the door.

Pyrius waited what seemed an eternity before he even breathed. He heard the horses and men who rode them outside, taking stock of what they'd accomplished. Pleased with themselves. Pyrius lifted the blanket and got a flash of his mother's leg hanging off the bed, then slowly lift onto the bed.

He got out from under his father and pushed him and the blanket aside. Pyrius stood and saw his mother. Prima was rolling back and forth on the bed, exposed, naked from the waist down, bleeding from her legs, crotch, stomach and neck.

Pyrius' father had rolled into the doorway. He waited to see if the invaders would notice and come back for him. Pyrius was scared, but his mother's grunts made him rush to her. He lowered her skirt and laid beside her. Prima lifted a bloody hand from her neck wound to his face. She gasped and stared at her beautiful son she and her husband found, like a gift to them, and had filled them with such joy for eight years.

Movement at the door drew Pyrius' attention. He looked out to the bright, sunny day to a man standing just steps from their doorway, talking to someone who Pyrius couldn't see. The man either didn't see his father's body or hear his mother's moans... or didn't care. Pyrius looked at him and memorized the black barbed wire effect with a swirl under his eye painted on his face. He had the same long hair as the other intruder, but it was pitch black, not brown, as the demon that killed his father and attacked his mother had. Pyrius memorized the sword he held in his hand. It had claws at the hilt.

The Swirled Man got on his horse and shouted, "Brothers, good raid! Silas, don't drop the stash this time!!" The others laughed as they rode off with cattle and horses that belonged to his village. When the demon that ravaged his mother rode past revealing the right side of his face, it was an unearthly blue.

Pyrius looked at his mother, who still hung on. Strained muscles, that he didn't even know a face contained, rippled as she gasped, silently pleaded for her little boy to help her. She could no longer make a sound, Pyrius realized, because of the long slash across her neck. Her hair she was so proud of and brushed every day was matted with thick blood. He held her hand and watched her take her final breath in this world. Prima died with her bulging eyes concentrated on him.

Pyrius cried and laid his head on his mother's chest. She was gone. His father was gone. He smelled wood burning and cooked meat. He stumbled out of his hovel and looked at the remains of his village. The ground was covered with bodies. Men, women, children, babies, animals. He walked over and around the bodies looking for others that might have survived the attack. Someone to have to go on living with the carnage in their brain like he would have to.

Huts were on fire. Bodies were on fire. The smell was sickening. Pyrius arrived at the place where he not so long ago played with his friends, had not a care or trouble in the world. The almighty pebble that was so important before the attack was lying on the ground, inches from the hand of Jasep, who laid with his eyes staring lifeless up at the sky.

A small cut was on his clothes. Pyrius fell to his knees by his friend, opened Jasep's shirt. There was a deep stab wound that had snuffed out his young life.

Pyrius whimpered when he realized he was alone in the world. He didn't find it lucky that he was alive. Just sorry he wasn't taken along with the rest of his people. He prayed to the Gods for an answer. Why did he survive? Why didn't anyone else live who was more deserving of life? What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go?

Pyrius dismounted his horse to let him drink from the creek. He stretched as it had been a long, meandering journey he was on, trying to find his place in the world, in his skin. For the fourteen years since his parents' deaths, he spent his time traveling from village to village, never connecting with anyone. His only mate in the world was his black horse.

He saw a village in the distance, but it didn't give him joy. He was more at home with himself, not people. He didn't even remember the last time he spoke. He smelled cooked meat, heard the sounds of laughter that he knew he wouldn't be welcomed to join in on if he was willing to attempt it. Pyrius had decided to shun people before they got the chance to reject him.

When Pyrius bent down to the creek and took a handful of water to his mouth, he felt the ground rumble. The water shook from his hand and down the front of his clothing. He heard whoops and hollers. Four masked man rode their horses toward the village, almost knee to knee. As they rode past, not seeing him or not caring, he ran after them on foot.

"No.... no..." Pyrius cried out. He didn't want to see it all again. He didn't want the monsters to kill more in front of him. As much as he wanted to run as far away from the forthcoming disaster as he could, he couldn't stop following the four men into the unsuspecting village. He heard the familiar screams that he had tried to erase from his memory. He fell to the ground, terror and dread filled his soul, knowing what was to come to the village's population. He made it back on his feet and trotted into the killing wake of the masked men on horses.

Pyrius stood at the edge of the village and watched the four men slash at anyone in their path, gaping people who stood terrified in their way or still sat by the fire. The remnants of the party embers were extinguished by a horseman with a mohawk and black covering half his face.

Mohawk Man grabbed a woman and threw her to the ground in front of the smoking fire. She fruitlessly screamed as he tore her dress off and grunted like a pig as he slammed his member into her. He sneered at the woman like she was dirt as he held his upper body off her to lock her arms to the ground. The bastard was smiling, had the time of his life. Until... the man with the swirl kicked the rapist in the butt. Mohawk Man got up and off the woman.

Swirled Man grabbed the woman as she tried to crawl away and plunged himself into her. After he was satisfied, he plunged a dagger into her chest. When Swirled Man walked away from the poor woman's corpse, pulling up his breeches, the Mohawk Man returned to her, slashed her arm, hacked off fingers so he could have her ring.

Pyrius was sickened, couldn't move and didn't care if he was seen. He wanted to take the dagger that was still in his belt loop and attack them all. That's what a courageous man would do. But he just stood and stared. He didn't know what harm he could inflict with the implement anyway.

The Man With Dirty White Sleeves walked out of a tent with a pouch in his hand. That was the man! Pyrius stared at him, unable to move. He saw his face. Blue paint covered half of it. Why did he have blue on his face while the others had black?

Pyrius was trying to make sense of it when he realized Mohawk Man had noticed him, was pointing at him. Now frightened, along with being sickened, Pyrius couldn't move, even as the Blue Man and the Fat Man of the group strode toward him. Pyrius prayed that he could move, but his feet didn't budge. His breathing increased and his body shook, but his feet wouldn't move.

The Blue Man with dirty white sleeves said something to the other one as they approached Pyrius. The Fat Man grabbed Pyrius' hands and held them behind his back. The Blue Man slipped the dagger out of Pyrius' belt loop and glared at him. Pyrius stuttered, "Who are you? Why do you do this?" The Blue Man's only reaction was to smile. He sniffed at him like a dog deciding whether to eat him or leave him.

Methos sensed his pre-immortal hum. Pyrius memorized the face behind the blue paint, inches from his own as he sniffed and glared at him. The laughing eyes that stared was etched in his memory. They gleamed as he smiled and boasted, "I am Methos. You are dead."

He stuck the dagger into Pyrius' gut and pulled it up to his neck, ripping him open. Methos stepped back before the blood rushed down Pyrius' body to the ground and spread. The Fat Man let him fall, but Pyrius made sure he turned onto his back. His eyes never left the Blue Man.

Methos said, "Thanks, Silas. You know how I hate to fuss with them alone. And the blood... they're all so full of blood..." He laughed as he walked past.

Silas mentioned, "The lad's one of us."

"That's not my problem," Methos said. Pyrius' eyes followed him until he was above his line of vision. His eyes were stuck staring straight back as far as they could reach when Blue Man walked out of his line of vision and he died.

Seven hundred years had passed since Pyrius was turned, and strode with purpose into a village of huts. He had watched long enough.

The rage he felt would never leave him as long as Methos lived. Years of charity, prayer and self mutilation, even seeing the Christ child himself did nothing to ease the call of revenge that cursed through his veins. That would be the day Methos would know what he went through all those centuries ago. How dare he make a life for himself!

He knew which hut was his and his new wife's. Just who did Methos think he was to get married, when his own life was garbage? Pyrius marched to it, sword at ready. All who crossed his path were, slashed, stabbed, kicked, all the things he had seen the four men do every night in his dreams, and learned from. He had done much to increase his speed with his sword and dagger over the years since his 'first death', but his only teachers were the four horsemen who went through their killing motions every night that Pyrius tried to sleep.

On his killing rampage to Methos' abode, Pyrius didn't feel any of the sorrow and sadness that usually made him stop and gather his thoughts, run for solace in the comfort of a faith that never smiled on him. If a man worked up enough courage to try to stop him, they met with the sharp end of his blade or dagger. Pyrius was a two fisted killing machine. When he saw the flash of an ax, a knife, he'd swing his sword first, killing whoever tried to take him out. He was faster and stronger than any of them. Not seeing half of his victims, he trudged his way to his main goal. Methos' hut. He ripped the door off it's rope hinge and threw it to the ground. The rope loop went with the door making grass and dirt fall from the hovel's walls into the doorway.

Pyrius charged into their home. A blond woman ran from him, cowered near the bed. He dropped the dagger and threw the bed back and away. He grabbed her by the neck. The dream of what would happen went like clockwork. Methos' wife, who Pyrius had found out was named Naomi, was certainly accommodating. She sufficiently begged and pleaded like his mother and the other victims of the four monsters. He was happy to be on the receiving end of their fear, to wield such power. No wonder Methos enjoyed it so much.

He wanted Methos to be there, to be a witness to her sacrifice, but he had such rage, Pyrius couldn't control himself. He pushed her to the wall by the door and plunged his sword into her stomach as he studied every flicker in her terrified eyes. The sword came out the other side of the wall. He kept her head up so he could watch her face as she tried to fight the inevitable, then die. He left his sword in her and stepped back. Her feet were half a foot from the wall and she stayed upright lifelessly staring at him.

Pyrius was disappointed that she died in such a short amount of time. He wanted her to suffer, like his mother did. Maybe he should have slashed her first, had fun with her like his 'teacher' always had. As he slowly turned his ear to his shoulder, watched her, he had to release himself from his tight breeches. Damn, that's why they killed! It was a rush of power that he had never felt. When he touched himself, it throbbed. He rubbed, wondered if he should violate Methos' wife. He decided against that and tightened the drawstring on his breeches and walked back outside.

All who saw him, ran away making Pyrius laugh. He had the power of four men. He was a force to be reckoned with. He understood the ecstasy the four felt after a job well done. But he hadn't gotten the prize yet. He didn't care about coins, goods, animals... he wanted Methos. He wondered through the village looking for him. The people who stayed out of his way lived, the others, died.

He saw a boy peek out of a doorway then was pulled back into his residence. Pyrius opened the door and looked inside, taking a moment to adjust to the dark as he heard whimpering. The boy was held by his mother, both crying. He said to them, "I am Pyrius. Tell that to Methos."

He shut the door and walked away. He wondered if he would take Methos' head. He had always decided not to, not then, not right away. He wanted Methos to know the torment of being left behind. To find the one you love dead by a madman.

He felt a sickness in his stomach, a dizziness in his head.

Disappointed, Pyrius didn't want the shame, guilt or regret for his actions to spoil his good mood.

Then he realized that the malady wasn't because of his inner self. It seemed to come from Methos, who he finally saw standing at the edge of the village. Pyrius stared down the man in peasant clothes, his longer hair gathered in a pony tail, with a load of wood in his arms. Funny... without his comrades, he didn't look as formidable.

Methos looked in horror at the remnants of his settlement that he himself had inflicted on countless villages in his past. Pyrius slowly walked to Methos, who dropped the wood. Frightened eyes trained on his hut and the bloody tip of a sword peeking out of the home he had built with his own hands. Methos forgot about the immortal buzz and ran to his wife, knowing what was in store. He walked through the door and turned to see Naomi pinned to the wall. When Methos howled in grief, it was the sweetest sound Pyrius had ever heard.

Methos pulled the sword out and his wife fell into his arms. He picked her up and laid her gently on the bed. He caressed her beautiful face and bent over her, wracked with sobs. Pyrius strolled into the hut to see up close and personal Methos' reaction to what he did.

Although Methos knew he was there, he never turned his head. Pyrius grabbed him and flipped him over, onto his wife. Without a fight from Methos, Pyrius hooked his hand around his neck and squeezed. Methos didn't recognize the maniac, but there was something familiar. Something that made his skin crawl. The way his village had been wiped out, he knew that man was either a victim or student of their way of killing, and he had mastered it. Even though Methos didn't physically try to stop the inevitable, Pyrius quickly stabbed his dagger into Methos' chest and pulled it down his body, slitting him open from heart to crotch, reenacting just what Methos had done to him.

Pyrius was disappointed that his ultimate victim didn't make a sound, just stared up at him with terror, tears, grief. Methos silently laid atop his wife, back to her. That was his only regret for the moment. Methos couldn't see Naomi.

He couldn't tell her he was sorry. That he couldn't kiss her one last time before the intruder would take his head after he died. As his life slowly leaked from his body, Methos wondered if he would ever know who that man was and just what he did to make the immortal exact revenge.

NOTE: Methos won't meet up with Pyrius again... until 2001, when he finally decides that Methos has lived without paying for his deeds for too long. That confrontation is a central piece of The Elizabeth Series:

http://www.oocities.org/jolaynerae/Elizabeth.html

I love feedback, good, bad, indifferent... you gotta take the bad with the good! I'd love to hear from you! Thanks for reading it!

Jo - EnyaJo@aol.com