The Glitter Jungle:
Fiction:
Seven Deadly Sins of Kronos
Seven drabbles, Highlander
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There was never a band like us. Never in all history. Our name brought such terror to people's hearts that they made symbols out of us, myths out of flesh and blood. Thousands of years later, and they still fear our legacy. Those were not raids, they were works of art; we were not a gang, but an apocalypse.
I took pride in our deeds, I hold that memory sacred to this day. You were ashamed, wanted out, wanted to change. You never could; you're too much like me. The difference is, I still hold my head high with pride.
[100 pride]
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"Let's celebrate, divide our bounty." I love you. Come be with me.
"You can have my share, I'm tired." Not tonight, I have a headache. Or something similar, something meaningless, something that tells Kronos loud and clear that his brother prefers the company of a slave over his. Something that tells him that soon enough, he won't be the one to taste the fruits in Methos' tent, the ones that always taste better there, with his brother's eyes resting on him, with his brother's smile aimed at him.
He'll never forget that day. Looking after Methos walking away from him.
[100 envy]
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Kronos picks another fried chicken wing and munches on it thoughtfully. It's not just the taste of the meat, rich and spicy and fat, it's the texture, the bite. The crunch of the little bones between your teeth.
He throws the remains to the small pile by his chair, and turns to the task of licking his fingers clean, tongue swiping over greasy skin. He sucks each digit into his mouth meticulously, sure not to leave any crumbs. Concentrates on the residual taste.
Not too concentrated to notice Methos in the doorway, following every movement, every lick, with intense eyes.
[100 gluttony]
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He watches his brother in battle and he wants. The feline grace, the ruthlessness, the cold precision - they all make him crave Methos, make him ache for the man. He takes one last long gaze, and then turns to his own battle, raises his own sword. The blade goes easily through layers of flesh and bone, slides in, and when Kronos pulls it back out it's covered in dark red. The man he just killed falls to the ground, and the look on his face is pure, sweet terror. Kronos wants to kill more. He's drunk on the power.
[100 lust]
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"I am the end of time!"
The rage blinded him, running hot and cold in his veins, so powerful he was shaking with it. How could his brother betray him, betray everything they stood for. Believe Macleod to be the winner over Kronos. And Silas, Silas was the only one among them who never felt Methos' blade against his neck, the only one who trusted the old conniving bastard.
Except... except Kronos let himself trust Methos too, just a little. Just for a moment. Just enough.
"You're history."
Macleod's sneer, and the thud of Silas' head falling to the floor.
[100 anger]
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"We share everything!"
Everything meaning cloaks, and gold, and slaves. Horses, and tents, and battles and blood. Everything except Methos.
Kronos doesn't share Methos. He doesn't mind the slaves Methos uses any more than he minds the shoes Methos wears, the furs Methos wraps himself in during long cold nights. But he's unsettled when Methos grows closer to anyone but him. He'll kill, rape, tear apart, only to have Methos to himself.
To this day, he can't stand the thought of anyone in Methos' heart and in Methos' mind except himself. He'd share everything. Except this, his most prized possession.
[100 greed]
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A burning pain on the neck, a millisecond, and it was over. The heat of battle was replaced with a cool breeze, the adrenaline was gone. Kronos felt... lethargic.
Did he lose the fight? He wasn't sure. He could remember Methos' betrayal, seeing his brother behead Silas, but he felt no anger, only peace. He wasn't bitter. Even the lust for Methos, that heated his bones for centuries, seemed to have dissipated.
The storm and lightning roared around his head but felt far away, like a long forgotten dream. Kronos curled around himself, and fell asleep inside Duncan Macleod's mind.
[100 sloth]
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Info:
Challenge: Seven drabbles, exact 100 words to each sin.