Only One

“Methos, The Ancient
He keeps many a secret
Five thousand years’ worth.

Speak, O Ancient One
What secrets do you hold near?
Tell me of times past.”

-- Stacy L./Haiku author extraordinaire

The Wizard’s Pupil

Not since his earliest memories, when he first roamed the lands, watching the earth in its infancy change and evolve . . . doing his small part in history as nations rose and fell – did the Ancient One feel as he did now. Hollywood with all its technological wizardry could not hope to capture this realm of magic and mystery on celluloid, for the Elven haven of beauty and calm truly was a land to be experienced firsthand -- if at all possible.

Though told by the One who had been there of its splendor, never in his wildest imaginings could the Immortal believe a place such as Rivendell existed. But it did -- and Imladris, the Last Homely House, managed to do the impossible by making Methos, the oldest, most jaded and cynical of Immortals, hold his breath in wonder. Leaning on his forearms, the Immortal stood at the lacy railings of his quarters, until the subtle gold and titian hues of the late afternoon gave way to the pink and violet shades of the evening.

“Fairy tales and pixie dust. Too bad this place won’t last for long.” the Eldest One mused to himself, feeling a twinge of sadness.

The Horseman idly watched the roaring waterfall that was but thirty feet away a while longer and shuddered before turning his bare back on the spectacular landscape falling into shadow. Readying himself for the evening meal, the man reached into the armoire and removed a tunic. Methos held the dove grey garment to the light; as he inspected the Elven garb, the elegant and graceful embroidery shimmered in the warm candlelight.

“Exquisite.” The Ancient muttered softly before pulling the Elven garb over his head.

On his way out, Methos took a quick glance in the mirror and tried in vain to tame a cowlick that refused to lie down. With an exasperated sigh, he decided it was a lost cause and shrugged into his overcoat, adjusting the weight of his hidden sword before he stepped into the hallway. The Horseman could not wait to leave Rivendell.

Overly cautious to the point of paranoia, the Antediluvian knew well that survival was not always ensured by the strongest sword arm, but by the quickest wits and the ability to adapt, blend in and if necessary, evade the enemy in order to live another day, another century. For over five millennia, the Eldest walks the earth -- thanks in large part to decisions that ensure his survival (although many to this day he still regrets). The other factor of the Ancient’s longevity is the Buzz. The internal warning heralds potential doom, and unless the Immortal was expecting the Immortal who triggered the alarm, he always chose flight. Others might call it cowardice; Methos, however, knew his legendary head – all the knowledge and power he possessed, would be an impressive feather in a younger Immortal’s cap. The Ancient One considered evasion as an opportunity to learn more of the (‘til proven otherwise) enemy – deferring the Challenge, until he was better able to decide how to deal with the unknown Immortal. The Ancient One did not reach his ripe old age by making foolish decisions, but by choosing his battles wisely -- in his time, on his terms. Unfortunately, in Rivendell, there was no rest from the Buzz, and its constant alarm was setting him on edge.

Methos kept to the middle of the open and spacious hallway as he sauntered along, for the lack of railings gave one the illusion of walking upon open air; as he rounded the corner, the Immortal nodded in greeting to the Elves he passed. The Eldest’s leisurely strides slowed when he recognized the mural on the wall. Methos’ lips twisted into a faint smile as he carefully studied the composition. Depicted in shades of grey and set against a barren landscape filled with sharp, craggy rocks, the pitifully impotent figure sprawled on his back was surrounded by shards of his devastated weapon, yet he raised the shattered sword as if hoping to ward off the monstrous, menacing figure looming over him.

“Or is it defiance . . . ?” Methos wondered aloud.

A warrior himself, the Immortal respected and admired the Man’s desire to die fighting. Curiously, despite the fact the sword was broken, it still radiated light, bravely illuminating the oppressive gloom.

“So, this is where it comes from.” The Immortal murmured to himself. That was one puzzle solved.

The Ancient’s eyes were drawn to the stone image directly across from the mural, also recognizing the shield the figure held in its arms, for its graceful curves were identical to the shield displayed in Gregory’s private office.

“I guess it is never too late to learn something new about old friends. Clever old goat.” Methos chuckled as he walked around the statue.

Lost in the shadows of the stone image, Methos wondered how the old gentleman was doing back home. Leaning against the statue, the Immortal watched the Elves below glide gracefully about as his thoughts strayed back to that day in the village of Bree. . .

: : : : The Prancing Pony
The Stables

“We’ve come to take her home.” Methos added. Sifting thru his memories, the Eldest knew the twin Elves to be of importance.

Ah, their names, their names--what are they? Elmer and Eldan. No, no -- it’s Elwin and Elmo. . . bloody hell! Methos thought, keeping his frustration to himself.

Despite having the Immortal’s ability to recall memories long past with extraordinary clarity and detail, after encountering many, many individuals over the years, apparently even the Eldest occasionally had difficulty remembering names; and, until formally introduced, Methos privately dubbed the more serious of the twins ‘Tweedle Dee’, and the one who held Joe, ‘Tweedle Dum’. After Tweedles Dee and Dum had decided that Joe was not a wizard -- nor that Jordan was somehow trapped by enchantment -- did they release the Watcher to his friends before they sheathed their long knives. While Tweedle Dee examined the leg of their injured companion, who, like the Watcher was seated upon a bale of hay, their attackers spoke in the musical language that stirred the Ancient One’s memory.

Fluent in Hieroglyphics, Russian, French, Italian, Swahili, Lithuanian, Aramaic, Arabic, Coptic, Farsi and Latin, Methos’ Elvish was a tad rusty. It had been Ages since the Ancient had studied that language, and it required an incredible amount of concentration as well as all his skill to follow their conversation. With a fond smile on his lips, the Immortal recalled how it all began . . .

: : : : Merry Old England
King Arthur’s Court
410 A.D.

Not much was known about him – at least from those with whom Methos had inquired. Rumor had it that the old hermit was in actuality the young King’s close Friend and Advisor. Others called him a trickster, a charlatan. Whatever his title, he was challenged by none and came and went as he pleased. When at court, the ‘Advisor’ hardly left the Monarch’s side. Methos could not say what it was about the old man that drew his attention; perhaps it was the fact that the Immortal had caught the King’s friend staring hard at him on several occasions. In fact, Methos realized, ever since he had arrived at Arthur’s court and laid eyes upon the Advisor, there was not one time that the Immortal did not feel the Old Man’s eyes boring into him, watching . . . observing, as if measuring his worth.

At first, the Ancient One ignored the looks, thinking the old man was merely interested in younger Men, for the practice of men laying with men was common among the nobility -- a practice the Immortal shunned, nor welcomed, for Methos had a definite preference for the fairer sex. The Advisor could look all he wanted -- feast his old eyes upon the handsome Immortal as he wished – so long as he did not touch him, for if the Old Hermit was foolish enough to try, the Horseman was prepared to slay the Old Man as easily as he had slain the nameless thousands before him.

Once, when the Ancient had the misfortune to encounter the King’s Friend in a deserted hallway, the old fellow’s piercing gaze made the Horseman feel most uncomfortable - despite the fact that words had not been exchanged. From then on, the Ancient One took great pains to avoid the Advisor, but that would soon change.

During a recent Ceremony, as the Immortal stood with the other Masters-at-Arms, Methos’ bored gaze wandered over the crowd of finely clad men and women gathered together. It took considerable effort on his part to not yawn; he was not much for ceremony or ritual, but his presence was required. Scanning the faces in the crowd, the Immortal made a mental note to thank the Fates, for he had yet to see the accursed Counselor.

Let him rot in his hovel for all I care. The Ancient One thought disdainfully.

Restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Methos longed for the Ceremony to be done; not only was the Eldest tired from the previous night’s carousing -- he was very uncomfortable. He should not have drunk so much beer without relieving himself beforehand; and, as Lady Luck would have it, the Immortal found himself in the front row. There was no way Methos could quietly slip out from formation without committing a major faux pas. The Horseman was temporarily distracted from his discomfort when the King spoke.

Who is he . . . ? Methos wondered lazily as he looked towards the dais.

Standing just behind the ornate throne was a figure garbed in resplendent velvet of the deepest blue; gleaming silver swirls (patterns that the Immortal would see again in the future) encircled the shoulders and full sleeves before flowing down the chest. The hem of the luxurious material sported the same fluid design. Methos watched in detached fascination as the elegant whorls shimmered and sparkled, as did the sword at his side. As the old man adjusted his grip on his staff, the red gem set in gold winked at the Immortal from the old man’s finger.

Methos did a mental double take. He recognized the staff -- the white staff. Unless it was a doppelganger, there was only one person who carried such a staff. It was with great surprise when the Immortal realized that this regal person, whose snowy mane and beard was neatly trimmed and brushed (though a far cry from the home-spun clad figure that roamed the King’s apartments) was indeed one and the same. Astonished, the Ancient quickly averted his eyes when he saw the Old Man was watching him watch him.

I would do well to stay away from that One. The Immortal thought sourly.

For the duration of the Ceremony, the Horseman doggedly kept his eyes front and center; when he was required to gaze upon his King, the Antediluvian made sure to focus solely upon Arthur.

#

Restless with time on his hands and no duties to see to one late spring day, the Ancient One decided to visit the Queen’s garden. Methos would often escape to the meticulously tended grounds when he wanted to think. Lately, he had been doing much of that. Thoughts of his days with the Horsemen (though recently abandoned by choice) filled his mind. Curiously, the Ancient One often felt conflicting emotions when he thought of his ‘wilding’ days.

“’Tis time to move on.” Methos advised himself.

Perhaps the genteel and courtly ways of Arthur Pendragon and those who followed him was getting to the Immortal – making him soft. Dismissing the ridiculous notion from his thoughts, Methos bent to smell the roses; the blooms were especially fragrant this evening, and the urge to crush the delicate bud in his hand –just because he could, was so overpowering, it was almost automatic. After a moment, the Horseman straightened and gently stroked the velvety petals. It somehow felt . . . right to not destroy merely because it was within his power.

The Ancient One critically studied the flowers; the Queen was fond of roses, and often received slips as gifts from visiting dignitaries, as well as from the King when he returned from his campaigns. As a result, Guinevere’s rose garden (most notably the one within the heart of the maze) was said to be quite impressive – more so than the lovely garden in which the Immortal now stood.

“Seeing is believing.” The Ancient One said aloud.

Though Methos had never ventured within the verdant paths, soon the Immortal found himself standing at the entrance of the intricate hedge maze. It was rumored amongst the Knights and Masters-At-Arms that only the bravest and most noble of men should enter, for those of questionable character would be lost within, until the earth took pity and swallowed them whole. Scoffing at the romantic nonsense, Methos entered and soon lost himself inside the living walls of fragrant yew and hyssop from which the star shaped labyrinth was formed.

“Perhaps there is a measure of truth to their mutterings.” The Immortal said aloud as he came upon another dead end.

Because of the arrangement of the blocks, the Ancient One was often forced at various points to retrace his steps. Methos could not distinguish one way from another. When he jumped up, Methos could not see over the tall hedges; the dense shrubbery did not part when the Ancient One attempted to push through the thick growth, nor did it support his weight when he attempted to climb in order to see over the top, for there was neither stone nor bench for him to stand upon. The Immortal did not think the Queen, nor would the head grounds keeper would appreciate it if he drew his sword and hacked his way out.

Methos vigorously cursed his sense of curiosity in every tongue he spoke as he fought the overwhelming urge to panic. The path was unchanging – and his shadow now stretched long upon the ground. It would be almost impossible to see his way after darkness fell, and Methos knew the Knights and those At-Arms would rib him mercilessly when they discovered this little . . . ‘experience’. Unwilling to admit defeat by vegetation, Methos focused his concentration – pushing past the panic, past the doubt and past the fear that he would not be able to find his way out. When he was about to give up in despair, Methos heard a faint splash. The sound of the hidden fountain enticed the Horseman forward, urging him to find the correct path towards the center of the maze. Encouraged when the sound of the splashing grew louder, Methos’ pace quickened as his nose twitched, for he detected the scent of roses.

When the Immortal did finally arrive in the center of the maze, he sighed with relief. The flowing fountain stood tall amidst the thick ring of roses. It was with great relief that Methos spied the stone benches placed on either side of the fountain; his tired feet were aching, and he looked forward to sitting for a spell before he attempted to find his way out. Of the entrances that led to the fountain, the Horseman managed to find the true one that led to the center. Walking towards the bubbling waters, Methos splashed the cool water upon his face and neck. Leaning on his hands, the Immortal gazed at his image, distorted by the rippling water.

“North, east or south. Which is the way out?” Methos muttered aloud.

The Immortal had one chance in three of successfully finding his way out before nightfall, but which one? Frustrated and a touch worried, the Immortal refused to think about it for the moment; instead, for reasons unknown, Methos thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He could not stop thinking about the King’s Advisor and the recent Ceremony.

A fine robe and a bath does not change anything. He is what he is: a daft old man. The Immortal told himself.

Methos dismissed the enigmatic hermit from his mind. Several weeks had passed since the Ceremony, and the Ancient One refused to waste one more second of his time with thoughts of the old man; the Immortal had more important matters to tend to – he had to find his way out. And after Methos’ . . . ‘exploration’ of the maze, he needed something stronger to drink than water, and the Eldest planned to drink beer and while away the time with the Knights who would certainly be found there. Cheered with thoughts of an evening filled with merriment, the Immortal turned and almost shouted in surprise, for who should be standing directly behind him but the King’s Friend himself.

How can that be? I heard nothing! the Immortal thought to himself, completely unnerved.

While his heart resumed its regular beat, Methos’ first impulse was to ignore the man and continue on his way; however, though it galled him to be in close contact with the old man, the Immortal heard himself greet the Advisor.

“Good even.” Methos said, annoyed that his voice sounded stiff and overly loud.

Against the fading light, perched on his head, the wide brim of the Advisor’s pointed hat cast his face in shadow. Gripping his white staff with both hands, the Advisor tilted his head back and coolly regarded the Immortal. Despite his resolve, Methos was the first to look away. The Immortal did not wait for a reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried away in the opposite direction from the King’s Friend.

“Sir Methos!” the old Wanderer called as the Ancient One was about to step into the eastern path.

The surprisingly deep voice stopped the Immortal in his tracks. Arranging his face in what he hoped was a confident expression, Methos slowly turned back.

“I believe that is the way out.” the old man said, with a nod south.

Methos hesitated; the Immortal was about to ignore the old man’s words but thought again. He did not wish to be wandering the maze in the dark. Alone. If the Advisor was lying, at the next earliest opportunity, Methos vowed he would slay the old Man and leave quietly thereafter. No one made a fool of him without paying for it; the Horseman had killed for lesser trespasses against his person . . . and his pride, and he certainly would do so again without hesitation – King Arthur’s wrath be damned!

“Thank you.” The Ancient One managed to choke out as he passed the King’s friend, giving him wide berth as he stiffly walked towards the indicated direction.

What Methos did not see was the amusement on the old man’s face, nor did he hear the low chuckle. Angry with himself for scurrying away like a whipped dog in the presence of his master, the Immortal swore under his breath.

“Ridiculous. Am I not Death? I’ll not be cowed by an old man.” Methos muttered, disgusted with his spineless behavior.

Once he had taken the southern path as indicated by the Advisor, it was surprisingly easy to navigate his way back – almost as if some unseen force from without the green labyrinth was pulling him. Unfortunately, if Methos felt any semblance of gratitude, it was overwhelmed by his animosity towards the old hermit. By the time he reached the Common Hall, Methos’ placid expression gave no hint of his foul mood.

Amiably, the Immortal greeted the Knights and Men-at-Arms as he joined them at their corner table before the open fireplace, for the roaring blaze in the center of the Hall did little to warm the large, drafty room. Quaffing his thirst with beer, and laughing at the occasional lewd joke, Methos was seemingly attentive to the Knight’s highly embellished tales of daring and bravery. However, the Ancient One was in fact distracted, unable to forget the scene in the Queen’s garden. Long after the others had left, Methos sat in the hall, thinking.

“After all the effort of finding the damned garden, I did not even have the chance to enjoy the roses.” The Ancient One muttered to himself; the realization did not help his mood at all.

Methos drained his tankard in one long swallow and calmly set it down on the table without a sound; when the serving wench reached to collect his empty tankard, the Immortal’s hand shot out and captured her wrist. The girl’s frightened gasp drew his eyes up.

“S-sir . . . you are hurting me.” She whimpered, though she made no attempt to pull away.

The Immortal knew he was hurting her; he meant to hurt her. The Ancient One knew just how hard to squeeze to inflict pain without leaving bruises . . . large ones, at least. Absently Methos relaxed his grip but still held her fast; the small bones of her wrist felt delicate beneath his strong fingers. If he wished, he could snap her forearm in two with his bare hands. The Ancient One’s gaze slid up; detachedly, he studied the soft mounds of creamy flesh straining against the top of her bodice --though worn, was clean, as was the girl. His eyes followed the curling tendrils that straggled from her cap and brushed the tops of her breasts; Methos wondered how long her hair was before he finally looked at her face. He had not seen her before and the Ancient One found the serving maid to be quite comely; she had eyes like the desert, like the sands of his beloved Egypt. The Horseman felt his manhood stir with desire. He would have her, the Immortal decided -- as he would have satisfaction for his wounded pride.

Methos stood abruptly, removed the empty tankard from the girl’s free hand and deliberately set it on the table; the cruel smile on the handsome Master-at-Arms face caused the serving maid to shrink back in wide-eyed fear, even as it mesmerized her – like a bird transfixed by the serpent’s deadly gaze. Her weak attempts to pull free of the Immortal’s grasp amused Methos so, that he continued to toy with her -- relaxing his grip enough to make her believe she could wrench her arm free, only to tighten it once more. Despite the fact that the Hall was beginning to fill with servants in preparation for the evening meal, the Horseman pulled the frightened maid to a shadowed corner and pushed her against the wall, ignoring the dull thud as her head bounced against the wall.

Methos yanked the worn cap off her head and let it fall to the ground, smiling with approval as her thick hair fell well below her breasts. With his hand tangled in her hair, Methos pushed the serving maid against the wall once more and lowered his head to savagely suckle her neck. The girl’s quiet gasp of pain as his teeth and lips left their mark -- combined with her feeble attempts to push him away only served to excite the Horseman more as he swiftly undid the ties of his breeches. Soon, his hard length sprang free. Roughly, the Immortal turned the serving maid’s head and lowered his mouth to hers; it displeased him that she kept her lips pressed tightly together. A hard pull on her hair fixed that little matter, and Methos was free to plunder her mouth at will; the ravishing of her mouth was but a hint of what was to come. Impatiently raising her skirts, Methos roughly lifted the serving maid by her hair and leg against the wall to open her to him; the maid had no choice but to grasp the Ancient One’s shoulders and assist, lest her hair be ripped from her scalp. Methos positioned himself and was about to plunge into her, but paused when he heard her whispered plea.

“P-please, Sir. . . not here – not like this.”

For Ages, Methos (with his phantasmic brothers Kronos, Silas and Caspian -- the Horsemen of the Apocalypse) pillaged, raped and massacred his way across many lands, leaving nothing but devastation and misery behind. The Ancient would do as he wished, and none would tell him otherwise. Anger, swift and hot filled him.

As a Master-At-Arms, Methos swore fealty to no one – save Methos himself. Unfortunately, if he wished to remain a member of the Chivalry, chivalrous behavior was required of him – both on and off the field. The trendy and much-vaunted ‘code of honor’ swept across the land, and was enthusiastically embraced by the Knights of the Round Table (most notably by Lancelot and Gawain). Methos, as other Knights of lesser rank, was still making adjustments to the concept. The Immortal glared down at the girl, considering his options.

“Bloody hell.” Methos muttered harshly as he backed away and looked at the wench from beneath half-lidded eyes. Trembling, the poor girl had no idea his angry words weren’t directed towards her.

Couple of songwriters comes up with the idea of ‘chivalry’ and the whole world goes to hell. The Immortal fumed.

Four months ago, a troupe of traveling jongleurs stopped at the castle, seeking shelter and respite from their wanderings. In exchange for bread, they entertained the King and his court with outlandish stories, songs and skits, giving the court Fool a much-needed reprieve. It was during a particularly grand rainstorm, when the Knights and Masters-at-Arms, accustomed to physical activity were chafing under their forced idleness. After all, you can only sharpen your swords up to a certain point, and the armor was polished to such a high sheen, that the candlelight seemed magnified, helping to cheer an otherwise dreary mood; unfortunately, it was not enough to stave off the rampant boredom.

The most excitement of the day occurred when a trifling argument between the lesser Knights almost led to swords. It was then that harmonious voices rose above the din, singing of chivalrous and gallant deeds as the minstrels strummed their fat-bellied lutes and lifted their tenor viols and recorders; skilled fingers and lips plucked from the delicate, expressive instruments chords that reached out and slowly calmed the restless men.

“What is your name?” Methos asked.

“Anaeia, Sir.” She whispered; the chit’s golden eyes were huge in her pale face.

“I am Methos. Tonight, you live to serve me.” He said.

Once again, Methos wondered why he did not just take her as he wished. She was nothing – just a lowly serving wench. Yet, even as he reasoned with himself, the words of the songwriters came back to mock him. Angrily pushing the ‘code of honor’ nonsense back in his mind, the Immortal made his decision. Though the Horsemen were no more, old habits die hard. Still holding Anaeia by her hair, Methos curled his hand into a tight fist, delighting in her whimper as her hands clutched futilely at his wrist. With his free hand, the Immortal reached into her bodice and pushed down one side, freeing a surprisingly ample breast.

“Very well, Anaeia; kindly inform the Cook I wish a bath, victuals and beer to be brought to my quarters . . . and that your services will be required for the night. If you choose not to come, I will find you.” Methos promised.

The Horseman tested the soft weight of Anaeia’s breast in his palm and roughly kneaded it, watching her face as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. If possible, the poor girl’s face became even paler, her lips pressed tight against the scream she wanted to release, yet she did not. Instead, Anaeia quietly endured the humiliation.

An unbidden image of Cassandra, his escaped Immortal slave came to Methos’ mind. Perhaps it was a trick of the light, for suddenly, Anaeia’s eyes became Cassandra’s. Cassandra . . . blinking to clear his vision, Methos suddenly decided he had sported with the serving girl enough for the moment, and gave Anaeia a hard, bruising kiss before releasing her. The Immortal watched the girl as he reached for his purse. Trying to stifle her sobs, Anaeia quickly covered her breast and picked up her discarded cap. The serving wench jammed her hat onto her head, and with shaking hands, quickly tucked her hair beneath its worn ruffles as she brushed away her tears. Catching hold of Anaeia’s arm, Methos roughly jerked her back towards him; the poor girl cringed as the Immortal tucked the silver coin between her breasts.

“Something to make the Cook more amenable to our . . . ‘arrangement’.” The Immortal murmured silkily in Anaeia’s ear before he released her arm. Shaking her skirts out, the mortified girl fled from the Immortal’s presence; Methos watched her go with a smirk on his lips. He was looking forward to the evening. Immensely.

In his quarters, the Immortal stood before the hearth, staring at the flames as he waited. The three other Men-at-Arms he shared the space with were out a-whoring, and would be gone, no doubt, until morning – if that. The room was not much by the standards of this Age, but Methos did not mind – he had lived under much worse conditions, and the simple room was better than sleeping outside, or in the halls, bedding down with the lesser Knights upon the often-dirty rushes covering the stone floors . . . or the maze. At least inside, it was warm and dry. Perhaps the Horseman was spending too much time with the Knights of the Round Table, for their courtly and gentle ways were beginning to rub off onto him. The previously cluttered surface of the multi-purpose table was now bare; earlier, Methos had stuffed his room-mates’ clothes that littered the room beneath their straw mats in an effort to make the place more tidy, all the while telling himself it was merely his token attempt at ‘chivalry’. The Horseman was dragged from his thoughts when a loud knock sounded. Four burly men entered, bearing a large tub between them. Anaeia entered last, struggling to carry a large wicker hamper in her arms. With a sweep of his arm, Methos indicated for the girl to set her burden on the table.

Anaeia slowly set the table and laid out the food as Methos silently watched the servants laboriously fill the tub with steaming hot water; thankfully, one man had the fortitude of mind to leave a bucket of hot water by the tub, and another was set close to the hearth to keep warm by the fire. With their task done, the men filed out, leaving Anaeia with the Eldest. The Immortal leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching his ‘guest’. With her task done, Anaeia stood by the table, her eyes never leaving the floor. They remained that way, with the uncomfortable silence stretching between them. The tension was palpable. Methos pushed away from the wall and stalked towards the trembling girl. He stopped before her, but did not touch her.

“Undress me.” he commanded.

For a moment, the Ancient One thought the girl would refuse when her golden gaze met his in quiet defiance. The subtle narrowing of the Horseman’s eyes warned the maid to tread lightly, for Anaeia lowered hers in defeat and woodenly did as told. With some effort, the girl pulled Methos’ boots off; it was not long before the Horseman was naked, since all he wore was a simple linen shirt and breeches. Anaeia was smarter than most serving wenches, for when Methos sank into the hot water, she picked up a clean, soft rag and a bar of hand milled soap. Anaeia knew better than to speak unless spoken to, for Methos did not want conversation.

The Ancient One stifled his sigh of contentment as her fingers massaged the perfumed soap into his hair. The fragrance of sandalwood and sweet almond hung heavy in the air; it was a pleasant and welcome change from the harsh lye soap the Knights would use – when they bothered to bathe. And, Methos thought, there is nothing quite like having a beautiful woman bathe him.

Methos waited as Anaeia dragged a chair over so she could stand on it before he rose from the dirty water. It was with some effort that the serving girl hoisted the bucket of clean water high enough to rinse the Immortal off. The Ancient One noticed how her previously pale face was now flushed -- from the activity . . . or perhaps from something else? So, the frightened rabbit wasn’t as indifferent as the Horseman initially thought. Though Anaeia studiously avoided looking at Methos’ aroused member, the Eldest did see when she stole glances at him. Anaeia’s hands lingered as she ran the drying cloth over the Ancient’s body. Beneath her work-roughened fingertips, the serving maid felt the Immortal’s lean muscles -- sculpted from centuries of wielding a sword and wearing heavy armor. When he was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and clean breeches, Methos sprawled in a chair and looked at the maid. He certainly did not wish to look at a bedraggled woman as he ate.

“Your turn. And wash your hair.” He instructed her.

Surprised, Anaeia hesitated. A dark frown from the Master-At-Arms urged her to quickly comply. In truth, though she was reluctant to strip naked before her handsome captor (for in truth she was a prisoner without walls); the serving wench was actually eager for a bath -- the water, though not terribly filthy, was still lukewarm. After another long, hard day in the kitchens, Anaeia was looking forward to using the heavenly scented soap (reserved for the Queen and her Ladies); it was much better than the sand that she normally used. While Methos watched the girl bathe, a plan formed in his mind. As a servant, Anaeia, no doubt, was allowed access to most parts of the castle. She could be of valuable use to him. When Anaeia stepped out of the tub, Methos rose to his feet and wrapped the girl in the drying cloth he previously used. When the serving maid reached for her shift, the Immortal took it from her and deliberately tossed it to the floor, and the drying cloth followed shortly. Holding his hand out, Methos watched Anaeia’s bath-flushed face pale again. Swallowing hard, Anaeia placed her trembling hand in the Immortal’s. Leading the naked girl to the table. Methos grasped a chair and pulled it out.

“Sit.” He commanded her.

Anaeia did as told, though she perched on the edge of the chair, looking ready to bolt if necessary. Methos smiled, amused. She would not get far without her clothes. The Ancient One reached for the covered clay platters, wondering how the slight chit managed to carry the heavy hamper all the way from the kitchens. He uncovered a roasted and stuffed goose, along with thick lentil porridge, heavily flavored with pork, and a head cheese, meant to be eaten with the loaf of white bread; the loaf had odd little holes in the crust, where the baker had chipped off the little burnt parts it acquired in the baking process. The Horseman’s eyebrows raised; because of the time consuming and laborious task of grading the flour, only the nobility and the King ate white bread, while the more nutritious dark bread (which was far easier to make) was reserved for the lower classes. Several luscious plums rounded out their meal. Methos piled Anaeia’s plate and his with food and poured a healthy amount of beer into their tankards before taking his own seat. Picking up his copper spoon, the Immortal hesitated when he noticed the girl remained seated with her head bowed. Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Methos spoke.

“Eat.” He said.

Obediently, the serving maid did as told. As they ate in silence, the Eldest studied the child before him. Though Anaeia ate steadily, she did so daintily. As they dined, still Anaeia refused to look directly at him.

“Look at me.” Methos said.

He wished to see her golden eyes again, but without the fear. Anaeia’s eyes slowly rose to his. The Horseman lifted his tankard, and his reluctant dinner guest followed suit. After they had eaten and drunk, Methos was pleased to see the girl no longer looked like she was going to her execution – thanks in part to the beer he plied her with -- enough to lower her inhibitions, but not enough for her to fall asleep, for the Immortal intended to get his silver’s worth.

“How many winters have you seen, Anaeia?” the Immortal asked brusquely. With her hair still wet from her bath, the serving maid looked younger and somehow more smaller. . . fragile.

“Not quite four and twenty, S-sir Methos.” She replied; her soft voice was barely above a whisper.

The Ancient One studied her appraisingly before he stood abruptly. The girl was not quite as young as she looked. Satisfied, the Immortal walked to her side of the table and held his hand out once again, noting the way Anaeia’s breathing quickened. The Horseman felt a grudging sense of admiration for the girl; though she was powerless to prevent the inevitable, Anaeia faced it with quiet courage. Taking her hand firmly in his, Methos led Anaeia to his bed . . .

At first, she had lain on the bed as stiff as a board. Normally, Methos would have merely taken his pleasure and be done with her; however, the Immortal knew, ‘twas much easier to catch flies with honey than vinegar. Perhaps it was also his way of atoning for his earlier shabby treatment of her. Whatever the reason, it was with gentle consideration he had not shown a woman since he became a Horseman, that Methos made love to Anaeia; and when she reached for him with unbridled passion and desire, the Immortal knew that his plan would work.

#

One month. One month had passed since Methos had last seen the King’s Friend. The Immortal’s continued efforts to learn more of the old hermit were stonewalled at every turn. No matter whom he asked, Methos was unable to glean more information about the old coot -- other than the meager facts he already knew. It was as frustrating as it was maddening. The Immortal believed if he wanted to learn more, he would simply have to ask the King himself, which was definitely not an option. It was time to put his counter plan to the test; the Ancient One hoped the one-month was long enough for Anaeia to come to trust him; after a midnight tryst in the stables, the Immortal decided to find out.

Anaeia lay contentedly in her lover’s arms. She could hardly believe it was true. Along with the other serving wenches, and some kitchen boys, Anaeia had sighed over Sir Methos’ handsome face and lean physique from afar. Unfortunately, the high regard turned to fear and disenchantment when the very same man she secretly admired dragged her to the dark corner. When he was about to take her against the wall, the serving maid could scarcely believe he was about to commit such a horrid deed. To her great relief, her plea had reached the Master-At-Arms, and he checked himself. However, Anaeia’s fragile hope to be saved from the debasing act was dashed to pieces when Sir Methos whispered a threat into her ear after humiliating her further. The girl had no choice but to comply – who would intervene? There was no one to intercede on her behalf, for the other Knights and Masters-At-Arms were long gone.

If she chose to leave the castle, Anaeia knew she would never last on the roads; she would fall prey to the highway robbers that plagued the roads. The Knights had cleared the worst of the knaves, but it was a risk she was not willing to take. It would be better for her to submit to the Master-At-Arms. Relatively new to King Arthur’s court, presently Anaeia called none ‘friend’, save the ill-tempered Cook, who, for reasons unknown, took the orphaned girl under his wing. Though he worked her hard, he was fair, and always slipped her a slice of white bread (buttered, even!), or a chunk of roast meat from the King’s own plate, or a glass of fresh buttermilk. When Anaeia whispered to Cook what the Horseman had requested, he had simply winked and smiled; perhaps he would not have done so if she had included every sordid detail. The serving wench’s bile rose as she set about preparing for an evening of further shame and debasement. However, the following events could not have surprised her more, for Sir Methos’ initial treatment, though brusque at first, gentled by the time she left his bed. So much so, that they were now lovers.

It was often whispered amongst the Knights that the handsome Master-At-Arms’ skill with the sword was uncanny – that he may be able to best the King’s Champion. Whenever there was opportunity to manipulate Sir Methos into a Challenge, somehow the Man-At-Arms managed to slip thru the verbal nets set to ensnare him. It was also widely speculated as to why he did not swear fealty to the King, for Sir Methos would make a fine Knight. Anaeia did not care to solve the mystery surrounding the man she willingly gave herself to; nor did she wish to risk losing his attentions by delving too deeply into a past of which he never spoke. What Anaeia did know, was that Sir Methos loved beer. Unlike most men, her Master-At-Arms was able drink astonishing amounts of the fermented drink before his thinking became noticeably impaired. Better yet, it never affected his skill between the sheets; the lesser Knights loved to carouse with the Master-At-Arms, for no one yet had been able to best Sir Methos in a drinking contest.

Aside from that well known fact, no one knew from whence Sir Methos came, his surname, pedigree, or even his age. Moreover, no one had the courage to ask, including her. Anaeia had tasted first hand a slight touch of the violence Sir Methos was capable of, as well as the tender, chivalrous side of him. Anaeia, for her part, did not wish to ever see what she privately called his ‘dark side’, and the serving wench was grateful she and the Master-At-Arms became lovers, for no longer did the lesser Knights, the stable hands -- nor any other man for that matter paw her. And though their relationship began in a less than chivalrous manner, the Master-At-Arms proved to be a skilled and thoughtful lover. He was certainly better than her past lovers; and it was in his company – in his arms, that Anaeia forgot she was merely a serving wench, for Sir Methos treated her as if she were a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen herself. He occasionally gifted her with tokens of his affection: a pretty ribbon, a new ruffled cap for her hair, a linen shift -- simple gifts that were put to good use.

Usually, after he made love to Anaeia, Methos would tell her stories of his travels until she fell asleep; the Master-At-Arms would wake her an hour or two after, then they would part, until their next tryst. Tonight he did not. He was unusually quiet. After timidly asking her lover what troubled him, Methos surprisingly answered. It was with pride that Anaeia learned that all he wished to know was where the King’s Friend stayed when he was at court. That was easy, for Anaeia often had to pass by the Advisor’s keep as she carried out her duties within and without the castle. Glad to repay her lover for his kindness toward her, Anaeia told Methos where the Old Man’s rooms were. Methos grinned. The knowledge pleased the Horseman greatly, for he made love to Anaeia again with a passion that left her with a smile on her face for two days after.

Perhaps it was a mistake – after all, wasn’t everyone entitled to make a bad decision or two (or in Methos’ case, a couple thousand)? Methos wondered briefly why it was a girl – a simple serving wench at that – knew more about what he wished to learn than all the Knights and Masters-At-Arms combined. It did not matter, for the Immortal now had cause for celebration. Returning from another tryst with his Anaeia, the Immortal accepted an invitation by his roommates to go a-whoring. By the time Methos was on his third tankard of ale, the Ancient One was feeling no pain, and decided the buxom tavern wench was much to his liking. Never mind the fact he did not know her name. He did not need her name for what he wanted to do.

Outside, under cover of darkness, in between the horses tethered at the post, the Immortal pushed the tavern wench to her knees and freed his erect member. Methos’ head fell back when he felt the warmth of her lips around his shaft, groaning aloud as her tongue danced its way up and down his length. Knocking her cap askew, with his hands buried in her greasy hair, the Immortal thrust his hips forward, forcing her to take his full length down her throat. Methos’ breath left his lungs in a low hiss while the woman’s head bobbed rhythmically as she expertly brought the Immortal close to his release. Before he could spill his essence into her mouth, Methos pulled his throbbing erection free as the woman rose and positioned herself against the post; with her skirts raised to her waist and her legs spread wide, the wench eagerly presented herself to the Ancient One. Throwing her skirts over her head, the Immortal gave the tavern wench’s bare buttocks a stinging slap before he savagely thrust his hard shaft forward, burying himself in her slick warmth. The neighing and chuffing of the horses when they smelled the raw, musky scent of sex in the air masked the sound of the couple’s frenzied rutting and subsequent release. Taking a moment to catch his breath, the Ancient One pulled his spent member from the tavern wench’s folds. Gathering a handful of the woman’s skirt, Methos wiped his now flaccid shaft clean and tucked it back inside his breeches. He walked back inside the tavern, not bothering to see if the wench followed.

After his fifth tankard of beer, a plan came to the Immortal. Unfortunately, so did a vivid image of the old man’s face. Methos decided his waning courage required fortification with more beer.

“Hiding in plain site – I know exactly where you are now, old man!” the Ancient One crowed to himself.

After his seventh tankard of beer, long after his companions staggered back to their quarters, Methos found himself standing before the doors to the Charlatan’s keep with a belly full of liquid courage -- that needed release. Fumbling with the ties of his breeches, the Immortal pulled out his phallus, and with a sigh of contentment, relieved himself. The sound of Methos’ urine splashing against the stone walls made the serving wench with the impressive tongue skills giggle. Methos shook his member before tucking himself back into his breeches, then set about gaining entry. With his third attempt, the Immortal managed to grasp the iron pull.

The heavy door swung open with a soft creak; Methos stood in the vaulted doorway, taking a moment to study the interior. To the left a shadowed stairway led upwards to parts unknown; the Master-at-Arms half expected a Raven to caw, or fly into his face. Stumbling further into the room, the Immortal pulled the wench after him and carefully shut the door with a bang. The first thing the drunken couple noticed was the myriad of colors on the shadowed and otherwise austere walls. Seeking its source, on a long wooden worktables they spied the many racks of phials filled with mysterious liquids in jeweled tones. Beside the rack of phials, were metallic contraptions that held more fat bellied phials bubbling softly over thick, stubby candles. Books of all sizes and thickness lined the shelves against the walls; scattered everywhere were scrolls and stacks of parchment; jars filled with dried plants and herbs neatly labeled lined another shelf. The wide brimmed hat with its crooked point rested on a corner of a large desk.

A quick glance upward showed the high domed ceiling to be made entirely of glass with graceful whorls etched deeply into the surface. In the midnight sky, the new moon shone brightly; together, the drunken couple continued their exploration of the room. With one foot poised on the steps, the Immortal was about to climb the stairs when he looked over his shoulder to see where his companion was. Drawn to the pretty colors, the tavern wench touched the walls, watching as her skin turned blue and then red.

“Soooo pretty . . . !” the wench drunkenly slurred.

The lit candles on the worktable made the colored liquids in the glass phials glitter like jewels. As the tavern maid oooh’d and aah’d over the prismatic hues, Methos’ forgot he wanted to go upstairs when a twinkle of light captured his attention. The Immortal’s sloshed gaze was drawn to the table on the raised dais, where the full moon’s beams highlighted the small object on its surface. Lurching in the direction of the table, the Immortal wandered closer to see what glittered brightly.

“Whassal this?” the Ancient One asked himself, peering at the floor.
Gold, green and bronze sand shimmered on the stone floor in a detailed, intricate pattern; however, the object of the Immortal’s interest was more interesting by far. Upon the table, lay a Leaf; its rich, emerald hue was nicely contrasted with the silver vine wrapped around the Leaf. Unmindful of the gleaming sand, Methos lifted a booted foot; the Immortal was about to take a step towards his goal, when suddenly a tremendous crash came from the direction of the entryway. The Advisor strode into the room, brandishing his white staff like a sword. As for the sword, much to the Immortal’s relief, it remained sheathed in its scabbard at the old man’s hip. With a fierce scowl, the King’s Friend addressed the woman briefly before making his way toward the dais.

“Leave us!” the Advisor commanded.

Picking up her skirts, the tavern wench fled without so much as a backward glance at the Immortal. When she darted thru the open doorway, the Ancient’s eyes widened as the heavy door slammed shut of its own accord. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Advisor to be engrossed in his inspection of the sand circle. Methos decided it would be wise to emulate the tavern girl’s example and take the opportunity to remove his person from the room as well. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to himself, the Immortal began to sidle (as quietly as his inebriated state would allow) his way towards the door. When his hand grasped the iron ring, the Immortal sighed in relief, certain the Advisor would not know who it was that trespassed. After all, it was dark. Unfortunately, the door would not budge. Pulling with all his might, Methos was unsuccessful. Lifting a booted foot and bracing it against the wall, Methos pulled yet again; it was an exercise in futility, for the door had been magically sealed. The Advisor’s next words chilled the Immortal to the bone.

“I will have your head for this.” The old man said conversationally.

One would think the old man was speaking of the weather; however, the cold, measured tones said otherwise. Methos drew his sword and spun around, only to stare down the length of the Advisor’s sword, which was leveled at his throat. Even though his sword was useless, still Methos clutched it. If this was how things would end, the Immortal wished to die well -- with his sword in his hand. The Ancient One was unaccustomed to finding himself in such a vulnerable position and now felt the same terror he dealt others without pause. The Ancient One’s eyes were drawn to the sword’s blood groove as every cruel act and dastardly deed he had committed flashed before his eyes.


So this is what it feels like to look down the wrong end of a sword. Methos thought to himself, swallowing hard.

“Who are you?” the old man asked thru narrowed eyes. Up close, Methos thought the Advisor did not look so old or frail, but very commanding.

“No one special. . . Sir.” The Ancient One managed to choke out. His throat was suddenly very, very dry.

“What do you call yourself?” The Advisor asked softly. The Immortal hesitated, wondering if he could get away with giving the King’s Friend another’s name.

“Speak quickly!” the Advisor encouraged as the tip of the sword nicked his Adam’s apple. The Ancient wet his lips and decided it would behoove him to speak the truth.

“M-Methos, Sir.” The Ancient One answered, trying to keep the fear from his voice.

After several tense moments, the sword left Methos’ throat to disappear into its scabbard as the old man backed away. With an audible sigh of relief, Methos straightened.

“Your stupidity knows no bounds – your imbecilic actions nigh ruined months of hard work! Do not think this insult will go unanswered.” The old man promised the Immortal with a scowl.

The King’s Advisor deliberately turned his back on the Immortal as he made his way back to the dais, quite unconcerned with the fact the Horseman still clutched his sword. The swirls on the Advisor’s robes glowed brightly in the moonlight as the old man raised his arms.

“Be gone with you!” The old man said, dismissing the Immortal with a quick flick of his wrist.

How dare he! Methos seethed inwardly.

For a brief moment, the Immortal slipped back into his persona of Death, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Taking a step towards the Advisor, Methos hesitated when he felt the sudden draft from behind. Turning, Methos’ jaw dropped, for the swirls that graced the robes of the Advisor and the domed ceiling -- were now glowing before him above the doorposts and lintel. In addition, the heavy door was now wide open.

“Impossible!” the Immortal whispered to himself.

Suddenly, he did not feel quite so drunk. Sheathing his sword, the Ancient One wasted no time in lurching thru the doorway; the Immortal’s unsteady steps quickened when he heard the door slam loudly behind him. When he staggered into his quarters, Methos collapsed onto his straw filled mattress and lay wide-awake, listening to the snores of his roommates; cursing softly, the indelible image of the King’s Advisor remained in his mind’s eye before he passed out.

The next day, not only did Methos awaken with an excruciating headache, his bone dry mouth felt like something crawled in and died, leaving his tongue feeling coated and thick; had he been able to, the smell of his own breath would have knocked him out again. Thirstily gulping watered down wine, it comforted the Immortal to know the other occupants of the room were suffering as well, for no one spoke, and all moved about quietly, cradling their aching heads with one hand as they used their chamber pots.

The perfunctionary knock on the door had the effect of a battering ram, as the men’s clutched their aching heads. The Ancient One winced when the door was flung open to admit a court squire. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the morning light, Methos tried not to moan as the boy loudly announced the King wished an audience with Sir Methos, Master-at-Arms. The Ancient One groaned, for the summons would not give the Immortal a chance to nurse his aching head. Wearing the same trousers, Methos did at least change his outer tunic. Pale and slightly disheveled, Methos presented himself to the King.

“Sir Methos.” The monarch addressed the Master-At-Arms before him.

The Immortal did his best to not wince, for the King’s voice seemed to echo off the stones and reverberate thru his head. In fact, the Immortal’s sense of hearing felt magnified tenfold – he could hear every rustle of the Ladies’ silk skirts as they moved about, every whisper was a shout, and the creak of leather and clang of metal was sheer agony. Methos was convinced it was the witch work of the damned old man in retaliation.

“Yes, my Lord.” Methos answered, doing his best to appear properly attentive.

“You have served this court well.” The King said.

“It has been my honor, my Lord.” The Immortal replied, keeping his head low; while it projected respect, much to the Ancient One’s relief, he found the position actually helped his headache. But only slightly.

“Your prowess is unchallenged on the field, and your chivalrous deeds speak well of you.” Arthur Pendragon continued.

“Thank you, my Lord.” Methos automatically replied, wishing the King chosen another day in which to compliment him so highly.

“. . . so well that your services are needed elsewhere.” King Arthur said, speaking louder as he addressed the court in general.

“‘Elsewhere’, your Highness . . . ?”Methos ventured, remembering the rumors amongst the Knights that the King was raising his army in preparation of yet another Crusade; the Horseman did not think he would like what the King would say next.

“My most trusted Advisor is in need of an Acolyte. I considered at great length who best to fill this need. I was but at my wits’ end, when your name was given. ‘Twas an excellent suggestion, for who else would have the temperance and skill worthy, but you?”

“My Lord, may I ask by whom?” the Immortal inquired, though he had a good idea.

Methos normally would not question the King; however, the Immortal was not feeling normal. In fact, he was not happy. Arthur Pendragon merely smiled at the Master-At-Arms and continued as if the Immortal hadn’t spoken. By the King’s words, the Ancient One was fairly certain word of his late night visit to the wizard’s keep did not reach the Monarch’s ears, else his liege would have mentioned it or summoned him to a private audience. Methos knew his change in assignment was to make amends for the alleged near disaster.

“You will report to my Advisor’s keep, for I release you from your duties as Master-At-Arms while you serve him.” Arthur said.

Seeing the dismayed expression on the man’s face, the King took pity on him, for he could see Methos was not exactly overjoyed. Secretly, the Monarch sympathized with his subject; it must be difficult for a man of war to be so confined.

“Do not be troubled, Sir Methos; ‘tis no shame in this, and ‘twill be but temporary – the glories of battle can wait until a suitable Apprentice can be found; and of course, you may still participate in the Tournaments . . . if your Master so agrees. In the meantime, mayhaps you both will benefit from this arrangement. What say you, good man?”

The ‘arrangement’; how ironic; Methos almost snorted at that. The Immortal could see no ‘benefit’ from the King’s ‘arrangement’. Yet, from Methos’ standpoint, he had not much of a choice. Arthur Pendragon was wrong, for another choice existed -- the Ancient One could simply . . . leave.

“As you wish, your Highness.” Methos heard himself say. Aghast, the Immortal was about to retract his words, but found he could not get the words out.

“Excellent, Sir Methos.” The King beamed with joy, for a most pressing dilemma had been solved.

For the Immortal, what began as a bad day just got worse; and his sudden change of fortune just made his head ache all the more. The Ancient One wished the King would grant him his leave so he could return to his quarters and lie down until his head felt better. Then he would allow Anaeia to console him with beer. On the other hand, maybe not -- because of his drinking, the Immortal found himself in his current situation.

From hence I will exercise caution when I drink. Methos vowed.

“Merlin!” the King called.

‘Merlin’. So, the old man has a name after all. Methos thought.

After a moment, the Counselor appeared at the King’s side. Had Methos been closer, he would have seen the mischievous glint in the Advisor’s blue-grey eyes. Instead, the Immortal briefly glanced at the Mage and closed his eyes. All he wished to do was lie down and wait for his raging headache to calm, but that was not to be.

“Come, Sir Methos; there is much work to be done.” Merlin said.

With a nod to his Master-At-Arms, Arthur Pendragon granted the Immortal his leave. With his head held high and his spine straight, Methos tried to ignore the fact that all eyes were upon him as he turned and stiffly followed the Wizard.

#

The Immortal imagined a leash to be around his neck, as, despite his best efforts, he never quite managed to walk beside the conjurer to give the impression of equality. At six feet four inches in height, the Immortal’s strides were long, yet no matter how fast Methos walked, Merlin was always just ahead of him as the Wizard led the way. Inside his keep, the Ancient One looked about, wondering what the place looked like in the cold light of day; it remained the same, minus its intimidating air.

“This is your doing.” The Immortal accused .

“As I said before, your insult will not go unanswered. You will make amends for your idiotic actions of the even before.” Merlin said calmly, meeting the Ancient One’s haughty glare with a stern one of his own before he turned away.

Apparently whatever Merlin was preparing was of so great importance, that a heartfelt, sincere apology did not provide the Wizard satisfaction for the ‘near disaster’.

“I will do what I must.” Methos answered icily.

“You always do, Thanatos.” The Wizard muttered softly.

“Pardon, Sir?” The Ancient One asked. The Immortal’s Master hid his amusement behind the stern countenance once more as he faced the Immortal and replied.

“Proceed with caution, Sir, Methos. If I choose to be, I may be merciful, or . . .” the Wanderer let the threat hang in the air.

“Or what?” Methos challenged; he certainly did not enjoy being treated as a squire.

“Or I could have your head on a silver charger. Make no mistake, Sir Methos. I am the Master in this Keep, and you will suffer me.” The Mage replied.

‘Suffer’. Interesting choice of word. the Immortal thought to himself.

Merlin soon had his Acolyte doing the most menial of chores. Chafing under the imposition of another’s will, it was with great reluctance that Methos took up his new duties. At first, Methos would wait until the very last minute to set about his work, making it seem for all the world that he chose to do as told, and not because he was under another’s authority. The Mage believed in hard work, and the Immortal was certainly put to the test; Methos was not allowed to consider the task complete until the Seer thoroughly inspected his work and granted the Immortal his leave. Methos wondered what the old man could possibly come up with next in which to wear him out, convinced the Seer was determined to literally work him to death.

How the mighty have fallen! Every day brought a new set of challenges – all geared towards teaching the Ancient One humility, as well as the virtue of patience. In times past, the Ancient One hauled his screaming captives back to camp as spoils of war, where the frightened, sobbing women were to be shared amongst the Horsemen. Now Methos hauled buckets full of water from the well to wash the dirty tools, utensils and other trappings the Wizard used in his ‘studies’. Methos went from striking fear in mortal men’s hearts to striking out dusty cobwebs and pigeon droppings from the highest rafters of Merlin’s tower (while precariously balanced on a rickety ladder). The Immortal grudgingly admitted the frighteningly unstable contraption did wonders -- improving his balance and reaction time; Methos only fell to his death twice -- thankfully, the Wizard was not present to see him revive both times.

Before, Death swept across the lands mercilessly, swift and certain. Now Death quickly swept dust-bunnies from corners and from behind bookshelves; instead of beating men to death, the Immortal beat the dust from the Wizard’s tapestries and laundry. Methos went from cleaning his sword whetted with the blood of Innocents to cleaning the stone floors (on his knees no less) of the Keep -- from the tower to the stairwell, to the main rooms, to the basement, the Immortal scoured and mopped away the dirt until Merlin was satisfied. War, Famine and Pestilence – the Horseman’s fell brothers would have been horrified to know that Death (who emptied purses and coffers as they pillaged and plundered villages) was reduced to emptying the Mage’s chamber pot – from savagely tearing wailing babes from their screaming mothers’ arms, to savagely ripping weeds from the Conjurer’s herb garden.

Often, the Advisor looked up from his labors in time to catch his Aide watching him with what one could almost tern as ‘keen’ interest. Appalled with the knowledge he actually wanted to know what the old man was up to, Methos quickly went back to sweeping dust bunnies, yet he could not help but wonder what the Wizard was doing. The King’s friend noticed how his assistant never seemed to move from the same spot as he carefully poured the jeweled liquids from one phial to another and set it over the flame of the candles.

Methos could not say exactly when his labors ceased to rankle. Perhaps what the Immortal found most surprising was that he actually began to enjoy his tasks and looked forward to returning to the Keep the following day. As the days turned into months, and the months into a year, the Immortal and the Wizard reached an understanding that evolved into a surprising friendship. Often the old man would leave for days, weeks, even months at a time. Merlin would inform his Acolyte when and for the length of time he expected to be away, but never once told the Immortal where he was going nor the purpose for his trip. When the Wizard returned, the old man always looked weary and drained, and never spoke of his wanderings.

It was during one such absence, that while dusting the bookshelves, a particularly large tome fell from the shelves to land on the stone floors with its pages open. Stooping to pick it up, the Ancient One thumbed thru the pages. The Ancient One lived before Mankind learned to write, and had seen the progression of primitive stick figures on cave walls progress to the hieroglyphics of Egypt and the flowing script of the desert nomads; however, the book he held contained ordered writings such as he had never seen before, as well as pictures drawn in meticulous detail on the pages, one such was of a Leaf exactly like the one he had seen on the table some moons ago. Another page held illustrations of a pillar with a round object draped with a cloth, and beings with pointed ears. Frowning thoughtfully, the Immortal closed the book and recognized the elegant swirls embossed into the leather bound cover. They were the same that were embroidered on the Mage’s robes -- that covered the glass dome of the Keep’s observatory. With a shrug, Methos carefully placed it back on the shelves and thought no more of it.

Not long after, Merlin returned, simultaneously looking both exceptionally weary and pleased as he made his way to the worktable. Carefully placing his worn rucksack on the table, the Wizard gratefully watched as his Acolyte placed a heel of day old bread before him with a wheel of cheese and beer before resuming his sweeping of the floor. Looking about the Keep, the Mage concentrated . . . and with a quiet chuckle, nodded to himself. Other than his Acolyte’s multiple unsuccessful attempts to gain entry into his private chambers, nothing was amiss -- all was as he left it.

While he worked, Methos told the King’s Friend of the latest new of the court. As Merlin ate, the Seer thoughtfully studied his Assistant. Gone was the man who challenged the Wizard at every turn in the early days of the Master-At-Arms’ assignment, who carried out his tasks with disdain thinly veiled and a rage barely contained. With every task finished and objective achieved (in which the hidden lesson was learned), there was now a certain . . .contentment bordering on peace that emanated from Methos. Before, the Ancient One would arrive late at Merlin’s Keep; now he arrived before expected, and lingered long after the Seer had granted him his leave for the day; on his way out, the Immortal would often pause to study the spines of the leather bound tomes lining the Wizard’s shelves. Often, the Ancient One would observe the old Wanderer as he labored at the worktable – even daring to ask a question or two.

As expected, over time, the Master-At-Arms proved himself to be quick of mind and shrewd of intelligence (as the figurative head of the Horsemen, Methos was by no means a simple man -- he was the mastermind and planner behind their heinous deeds). Brushing the crumbs from his hands, the Wizard drained his tankard of beer.

As gold is separated from the dross, you are ready to learn, Sir Methos. The Wizard thought to himself.

The time had come; now Merlin sought to awaken within his Acolyte the thirst for knowledge the Advisor knew existed within the complex man.

“Methos, kindly fetch me the tome on my desk.” The Master requested.

Methos retrieved the requested book and returned to his sweeping, watching as the Wizard measured out different liquids into a flask and set it above a candle. The rhythmic scrape of the broom’s stiff bristles ceased as the Immortal stopped his task and watched in fascination as the clear liquid became a bright flame red, and then turned to blue. Merlin added a pinch of something; the moment it touched the water, purple tendrils fanned outwards until the entire contents of the flask became a vibrant hyacinth color. Poring over the pages, the Advisor did not look up as he added another pinch of something powdered, and the liquid gradually took on a deep, golden hue.

“What are you making?” Methos found himself asking.

“As the earth changes, true magic is fading from the world of men, Methos; we must harness the latent magic that still exists in nature. And give it a little extra ‘help’. To answer your question, I am making a decoction.” Merlin replied, looking up from his reading with a twinkle in his eye.

“What kind?” Methos asked, as he propped his broom handle against the table and leaned against the edge of the work table. The Horseman peered curiously at the text the Mage was reading, but could not decipher the symbols.

“A very special kind. When the liquid reduces, all that will remain is a powder that causes the recipient to enter a . . . changed state of being.” The Advisor said.

“What do you mean ‘changed’?” the Ancient asked curiously.

“I was just getting to that, old boy.” The Wizard replied. “Contingent upon the amount given, of course, ‘twill induce One to enter a very, very deep sleep. Unless all involved know the nature of this powder, care must be used when giving it; if a large enough dose is given, ‘twill cause the person to enter such an altered state, that it mimics death -- to all outward appearances, the person looks and feels dead.”

“How will it do this?” Methos asked skeptically as he eyed the simmering liquid.

“If swallowed, ‘twill take longer to act; if breathed in, the effects ‘twill be much faster -- ” Merlin began.

“Why would you want to do that?” Methos asked, watching in fascination as the thickening liquid began to slowly bubble.

“Well, ‘tis useful in battle, or when in the throes of a fever dream. It saves the body from overtaxing its resources, allowing the sufferer to rest until more . . . aggressive measure can be taken.”

“I see. . .is there an antidote? ” Methos replied; the possible uses of the powder could be very useful; and, depending on the intention, very dangerous.

“Time. Its effects will fade depending on the amount received, how healthy the person who received it is, as well as the nature and extent of the injury.” Merlin answered, studying his Acolyte with a cryptic smile on his face; he could almost see the possibilities that Methos was considering for the soon to be powder.

“Tell me, Methos . . . do you know how to read and write?” Merlin inquired as he walked to the bookshelf.

“Yes, I do.” The Immortal replied with a sense of pride. Of all the Horsemen, he alone was fully literate. The Wizard studied his Acolyte with amusement and approval.

“Well, then; ‘tis good you are, for I need this text replicated in exact detail.” The Seer informed Methos.

The Augerer pulled from his bookshelf the very tome that Methos had briefly thumbed through. From atop his desk, the old man removed another leather bound binder filled with blank parchment. From a drawer, the Magus removed a pot of ink, a blotter, and a handful of sharpened quills, ready for use.

“Your next task, dear boy, will be to copy this book. Not one jot or tittle is to be altered or omitted. ‘Tis of the utmost importance.” The Wizard instructed the Immortal solemnly.

“Of course, Merlin. What am I transcribing?” the Ancient One asked.

“This publication is a true and faithful account of an Age long gone – the history of a culture that did indeed exist at one point in time.”

“What culture do you speak of?” the Immortal asked; perhaps he would be able to provide accurate details, for he had been keeping journals since before writing began.

“The Elven culture.” Merlin replied.

“Elven culture?” Methos echoed; the Advisor enjoyed the confusion that settled onto his Acolyte’s patrician features.

“I believe I did already say that, old boy.” The Wanderer answered.

“Elves do not exist, Merlin -- by the stars above, next you will tell me that trolls and fire breathing dragons exist as well!” the Ancient One scoffed with a reproachful look at his Master.

The Immortal had been around since the Egyptian civilization came into existence; during his extensive travels, the Eldest had never heard of (much less encountered) Elves -- until he came to England. ‘Elves’ were purported to be whimsical creatures; some said they were tall and lived under the ground, others claimed they were short, grotesque creatures that lived in the trees. Either way, the fabled creatures existed only in fanciful tales spun by mothers to tell their wide-eyed children before bedtime by the light of a warm, cozy fire.

“Ah, but they did, Methos. Is that so very hard to believe?” the Seer inquired with a bland smile on his face.

“’Tis a bit of a stretch, Merlin. Even for you.” The Ancient One said.

“Well, then. Before you set quill to parchment, perhaps I should begin at the beginning.” Merlin replied, sitting at his desk.

The conjurer motioned for the Immortal to have a seat. As the Ancient One sprawled in a chair, the Advisor reached within his rucksack and withdrew its contents, which happened to be a large globe. As large as child’s ball, it was pure black in color.

“What is that?” Methos asked.

“’Tis called a ‘Seeing Stone’. . . amongst other things.” Merlin answered.

Not another outrageous tale! The Immortal breathed to himself.

Methos’ eyes glazed over and the Immortal listened half-heartedly as Merlin began his tale; the Eldest gave the outward appearance of attentiveness as his mind wandered.

I wonder what Anaeia will bring for supper tonight? The Ancient One thought.

There were definite benefits to having a serving wench for a lover, for Anaeia would often bring leftovers from the King’s own table, and they would dine as the King himself. With a half smile on his lips, Methos turned his mind back to the Master’s tale.

“Now, where was I? Oh yes, yes. Not all that you see is as it was. Every now and then One may catch but a glimpse, for much that once was is no more, and some things that should not have been forgotten are lost; none now live who remember it, save One. . . However, there are those who still keep the old ways alive.” the Wizard began.

The Wanderer was a gifted storyteller, and his voice washed over the Eldest like honey. Soon, the Immortal found himself entranced; watching the Mage’s lips as they moved beneath the white beard, Methos felt a strange heaviness come over him. His senses felt both dulled and heightened at the same time; with a slight gesture, the Seer directed the Ancient One’s gaze to the Stone; Methos felt compelled to look upon its blackness. Transfixed, the Immortal stared at its smooth surface, and only felt a mild sense of wonder as the surface began to swirl.

“. . . history became legend, and legend became myth, and the truth that was is now but a story -- distorted and sadly, forgotten. . . ” Merlin intoned.

“What is this . . . ?” The Immortal gasped to himself.

Soon he was transported to a realm where fantastical creatures of legend and valiant heroes lived and breathed and fought and died. By the time the Wizard ceased to speak, the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon.

“Methos? Methos!” Merlin called. Shaking his head, the Immortal looked at the Wizard with a start.

“I was there --- I was really there!” The Ancient One exclaimed, half in wonder and half in disbelief.

“Nay, You saw but a glimpse. But perhaps one day. . .Now do you believe?” Merlin asked the Immortal with a twinkle in his eye.

“Aye, Merlin.” Methos answered slowly.

“Good, for the hour grows late, and I believe you are expected elsewhere. Now, on the morrow, I will need for you to begin reproducing the publication straightaway.”

“Aye.” The Immortal answered automatically.

Methos rose and made his way to the door. After he returned from seeing Anaeia back to her humble quarters, the Immortal lay on his bed, and when he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were filled with wondrous images of the lands, peoples and creatures of the place Merlin called ‘Middle-earth’.

#
Seated at the Wizard’s desk, the Immortal diligently labored. Because of his fluency in both reading and writing hieroglyphics and the Babylonian tongue, Methos made rapid progress as he copied the Elvish words. Often, the Wizard would come and look over his Acolyte’s shoulder and murmur in approval, or caution the man when his strokes were unsteady. It was during a quick break that an idea came to the Ancient One. Rubbing his weary eyes and unfolding his long legs, the Immortal stretched his tall frame and flexed his cramped hand as he took a moment to evaluate his work. Methos frowned, for he was not content to simply be an automaton. He wanted more.

“Merlin!” the Immortal called. The Seer was working on yet another experiment at the table.

“Yes, Methos -- what is it?” Merlin answered; he held in his hand a glass beaker and paused before adding the contents of the tube he held in his other hand to it.

“I have a request of you.” The Immortal began.

“Oh?” the Necromancer said.

“Would you consider teaching me Sandarin--?”

“Sindarin?” Merlin corrected.

“Yes -- since I am having quite a time copying it, I may as well learn to read and speak it, would you not agree?” Methos asked.

Merlin carefully set down the beaker and tube as he studied his Acolyte. Before long, a wide grin broke out onto the whiskered face. Merlin was glad that his Acolyte expressed a desire to learn the language, for none walked the earth that could speak the noble tongue, save him.

“I heartily agree!” The Master answered. Now the Wizard could be happy, knowing that through Methos, the Elves, their history and language would not pass from this existence as well.

By the time the Immortal finished reproducing the flowing Elvish text for the Magus from cover to cover in its entirety, Methos could read, write and speak the Elvish language, for the Wizard and the Acolyte spent their days practicing the inflections, conjugations, word and sentence structure and proper use of the lost tongue. Before long, the men were conversing entirely in Elvish. One day, Methos found the Wizard standing in the observatory, looking out.

“What is the matter, Merlin?” The Immortal asked; he had not seen the Wizard so deep in contemplation since before he left on his most recent trip.

“’Tis nothing, Methos.” Merlin replied wistfully as he turned towards his Acolyte.

The Wanderer’s bushy white brows rose questioningly when he took in the younger man’s appearance. Around his waist, brushes were suspended from a belt, the design of which was the Immortal’s own making. Pointing to the glass dome overhead, the Ancient One answered the unspoken question.

“I will clear the leaves, for they block the light.” Methos answered.

“’Twill be an exercise in futility, given the unpredictable elements. Why not wait until the sun shines again?” Merlin suggested.

“Well, since you have not seen fit to cast a spell to prevent the leaves from clinging to the surface, I must do it the hard way, for ‘tis unsightly as well as a nuisance.” Methos answered.

“Will you not reconsider, Methos?” Merlin asked once again.

The Ancient One mistook the warning in the Advisor’s voice as the concern he normally voiced when the Immortal would undertake a task that required him to be more than six feet from the ground.

“Merlin, you worry as an old woman. I will be done with this before you can finish your cup of tea.” The Ancient One replied.

“Have a care, Methos.” The Advisor warned as the Immortal made his way up the stairwell.

Methos opened the side door of the tower that allowed him access to the glass dome. The wind came and went with bursts of chilly air that pulled at his clothes and mussed his hair; the Ancient One was glad he wore his heavy woolen jerkin. Stepping onto the glass dome, the Immortal carefully balanced himself on the slippery surface, for the rickety ladder was a lesson well learned. It had rained the night before, and the rain collected in the grooves of the etchings, making the already slick surface all the more treacherous. Sweeping away the leaves, Methos waved to the Wizard who was directly below him. With a nod, the Mage waved back.

Merlin seemed . . . sad. The Immortal thought to himself, remembering the expression on the old man’s face.

“Nothing a good draught of beer can’t fix.” Methos mused aloud.

The thought of his favored beverage brought a smile to the Immortal’s face as he thought of his favorite serving wench. Anaeia had been a balm to him. Her warm, willing body and sweet innocence was something Methos found himself looking forward to of late. Even his time with the Wizard had been well spent. In hindsight, the Immortal was glad to find himself in his present situation.

“Sir Methos!” The Immortal looked around, searching for the one who called him.

“Whatever are you doing? Oh, do be careful!” Anaeia called from the ground below.

“Anaeia – do you worry for me, my sweet?” Methos called back with an amused smile on his face.

Standing up, the Immortal looked down at his lover with his hands on his hips; the wind picked up, and a strong gust pushed at the Ancient One. Though his footing remained firm, Methos wind-milled his arms, eliciting a shriek of fright from the woman below.

“Would you catch me if I fell, sweet Anaeia?” The Eldest inquired with a hearty laugh.

“You insufferable man! If you fell, you would deserve it!” the serving girl retorted after seeing Methos was well.

“Would you not miss me, love?” Methos inquired.

“If by your folly you fell and died, then nay. I would not -- for I will be busy searching for another to share the gooseberry and mincemeat tarts, roast beef and mutton. Cook also sent a fresh loaf of bread and freshly churned butter with the surplus of buttermilk.” Anaeia retorted, sufficiently recovered from her fright to sass her Master-At-Arms in return..

“You will do no such thing, woman. Look see, I will come down straightaway and make you regret your hasty words.” Methos threatened with a laugh.

As the Horseman carefully turned away, the Immortal spied a large clump of dead leaves and twigs plastered onto the dome’s surface; however, it was located in an area where the glass curved down. Taking one of the long handled brushes, Methos squatted and leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand as he reached to dislodge the dead vegetation.

“Oh, do be careful, Methos!” Anaeia called worriedly, wringing her hands in her apron as she anxiously watched her lover.

“Nothing to worry about, my pretty; I shall be dining with you shortly, then I will ease my full belly as I ravish your body until you beg for my leave.” Methos laughingly promised.

The words had no sooner left his mouth as a sudden, strong gust of wind pushed the Immortal from behind. Dropping the brush, Methos threw both hands down in an effort to catch himself. Unfortunately, his palms skidded in the rainwater pooling in the etchings of the dome; desperately scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass, Anaeia’s agonized scream as Methos plummeted towards the ground below and the snapping of his neck was the last sound the Immortal heard.

#

Merlin sat quietly in his favorite chair, puffing away on his pipe as he waited. The smoke rose up and formed a ring before dissipating. Save for the burning torches in the wall sconces, there was no movement. Another puff of smoke looked remarkably like a dragon. As the Wizard squinted, the wings spread out and the form shifted once more to become a boat, its graceful, swanlike bow cleaved through the imaginary water before vanishing away.

Finally, with a gasp, the Ancient One revived. Disoriented, Methos slowly sat up and groaned, massaging his aching neck. Little wonder he did not recognize his surroundings, for the Wizard always kept his bedchamber under lock and key; despite his best efforts, the Immortal was unable to gain entry. Now he knew the entrance was enchanted, with the Wizard only allowed access. In addition to an aching neck, Methos’ head felt as if a horse had kicked him; the last one that did became dinner for the Horsemen.

“Did I not tell you to wait until the weather was more agreeable? Stubborn man; now you must leave.” Merlin said. The Immortal looked at the Wizard who was seated beside the bed.

“What do you mean? I am fine, Merlin. See – nothing is broken.” Methos lightly said.

Even as he spoke, the Immortal pulled the sleeves of his jerkin down to cover the bruises that would lighten and eventually fade; the deep aches told the Horseman his healing arms must have broken in his fall. When Methos slowly climbed to his feet, his hips felt uncommonly sore, a temporary reminder of his shattered pelvis. The Conjurer snorted.

“I do not think Anaeia will believe that, Methos. The poor girl saw you fall forty feet . . .and your broken neck and arms. ’Twill be difficult explaining how you are fine after she unsuccessfully tried to stop your hard head from lolling about in a most unnatural manner.”

Merlin recalled the difficulty he had in pulling away the hysterical woman as she held her lover’s dead body in her arms.
Wizard and Immortal stared at each other solemnly. By now, word had spread and the whole castle knew about the Master-At-Arms’ unfortunate demise.

“Can you not cast a spell that will turn back time?” Methos suddenly asked, finding that he very much wanted to have dinner with his Anaeia.

“Nay, Methos. Some things are meant to be.” The Wizard sadly answered, wishing he could make it so; his Pupil was the best thing that happened to the poor girl. The Immortal sighed heavily; Methos’ only wish now was that Anaeia would remember him with kindness. There was, however, one last thing he could do for her.

“There is a purse I have filled with gold; ‘tis hidden within the false bottom of my chamber pot . . . will you see Anaeia gets it?” The Ancient One quietly asked. The Advisor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional hiding place.

“And my horse, as well. . . she will need that.” Methos added. Merlin nodded, watching his Acolyte climb slowly to his feet.

#

“This is my friend Shadowfax; and he has agreed to bear you to your next destination.” Merlin said as he handed the Immortal the reins to the shadowy grey horse. The Immortal looked at the Wizard in astonishment, who smiled in return.

“I know; now, as we both know, Shadowfax wears neither saddle nor bridle. But for your journey, he makes exception.” Merlin replied with a smile.

Deeply honored, the Ancient One did not know what to say. Turning to the horse, the Eldest bowed his head in deference and ventured to stroke the velvety nose.

“I am honored. Hannon le (thank you), Shadowfax.” Methos said to the noble beast.

Turning to the wizard, the Immortal studied him. There was so much to learn from the Old Wanderer, but it was not to be. Anaeia had seen him die, and news of his apparent demise had spread. When Methos decided to leave, he simply left. Lingering had never been Methos’ style, yet the Eldest wondered why it was suddenly difficult for him to just ride away as he had done countless times before.

“My thanks. . . for everything.” The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle.

“Where will you go, my friend?” the Wizard asked.

“Oh, I don’t know. I have time to decide . . .” Methos replied with a wry grin.

Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet.

“What is this?” Methos asked as he opened it.

“A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely.” Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed.

Looking down at the King’s Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head and nudged his horse forward. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider.

“Till we meet again.” Merlin said aloud; sighing heavily, the Wizard peered into the darkness a while longer before he returned to his Keep.

Riding into the King’s forest, Methos dismounted and tethered Shadowfax before carefully scouting the area. When the Immortal was sure he was alone, he made his way to the gnarled oak tree. Precious little moonlight was able to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves. Counting thirty paces northward, the Horseman’s steps brought him to a great boulder covered with lichen and moss. After considerable effort, Methos was able to roll it away. In the shallow depression beneath the stone, the Ancient One unearthed his emergency stash of clothing and gold. With a grin of relief, the Immortal reached within the purse, withdrew a coin and bit into it. It was real. Noiselessly he returned to the horse. As Methos rode away, it suddenly occurred to him that the Wizard had never questioned his immortality. : : : :

Methos was pulled from his memories at Joe’s colorful cursing. While their attackers conversed amongst themselves, the Eldest took the opportunity to check Joe’s wound. Removing the handkerchief the Watcher held to his neck, the Ancient One saw that the laceration, though deeper than he initially thought, was clean.

“Crazy bastards. What the hell they think they’re doin’?” The Watcher muttered angrily under his breath as he swatted the Ancient One’s hands away.

“You’ll be fine, Joe.” the Immortal said, keeping his grin to himself as the younger man snatched the handkerchief back from the Horseman.

The Watched dabbed gently at his neck wound, grimacing from the pain; it hurt like a paper cut times ten. Of course, it did not compare to having your legs blown off by a land mine, but it still hurt -- like hell. The Watcher now had a better understanding of how Immortals felt when a blade was at their throat. It was very . . . frightening.

“I’ve lived many lives; seen and done . . . things most people could not – would not understand.” The Ancient One murmured thoughtfully.

“Yeah, so?” Joe grunted brusquely.

“So add this to the list.” Methos said briskly under his breath before he turned to the Highlander.

Whatever the Eldest was about to say was halted when the Highlander addressed the Elves. The blank looks on the twins’ and dark clad man’s collective faces almost caused him to laugh aloud; the Highlander turned back to the Eldest for an explanation, but the Ancient One only shrugged. Experimentally, the Clansman continued speaking slowly in French. Methos kept his smile to himself, for the Elves’ puzzled expression had not changed. Finally, one spoke.

“You will come with us.” The quieter twin commanded. The Immortals and Watcher exchanged glances.

“Pouvons-nous leur faire confiance (can we trust them)?” the younger Immortal asked the Ancient.

“Je ne pense pas que nous avons beaucoup d'un choix (I don’t think we have much choice), MacLeod.” Methos replied.

The motley group returned to the Prancing Pony and was led by the Hobbit Nob to a private parlor. There the Immortals could speak freely with their new ‘acquaintances’. Over another round of drinks, the Immortals learned the name of the dark clad man was Breiric, a Ranger from the North; the more serious of the twin, Elrohir and his brother, called Elladan. As Methos suspected, they were indeed Elves from the realm called ‘Rivendell’. Though the Elves and Ranger admitted to having seen Jordie alive, they would say no more. After learning more of the Immortals’ and Watcher’s quest, it was agreed between both parties that at daybreak, the twins and Ranger would escort the Immortals and Watcher to the One they sought.

Nob led the Immortals and Watcher upstairs and down a hallway. Swinging the door open, the Hobbit revealed a room simply furnished with three (thankfully man-sized) beds. Beside the beds was a chair, a bedside table, each with a washbasin and pitcher, a candlestick, and a large armoire. Rustic, but it did not matter, for they would not be staying long enough to worry about comfort.

“Well, gentlemen, this is on me.” Methos said, his gaze sweeping about the room.

“Must be the presidential suite.” Joe said dryly, looking down at the colorful nosegays on the beds. The sheets were turned down.
“Big spender.” The Highlander commented.

Methos smiled and made for the bed closest to the window. His attention was drawn back when the Highlander cleared his throat.

“Oh, yeah . . . here you go.” Methos gave the little fellow a silver coin, which Nob clutched tightly, his tiny face beaming with joy as he tucked it into his waistcoat pocket.

“If you need anything, sir, I’ll be helpin’ you.” Nob said eagerly.

“I’ll remember that.” Methos said, watching the Hobbit close the door

“You were robbed, Old Man. I don’t see any mints on the pillows.” Joe said with a smirk.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Methos?” Duncan asked.

“As a matter of fact, I do. I get first dibs on the restroom.” Methos replied with a grin. His expression became serious as he studied the Clansman.

“I think you already know.” The Eldest added before the Watcher spoke up and before the Highlander could reply.

“Well, I don’t. What the hell is going on here, anyways?” Joe asked.

“We’re not in France anymore, Joe.” Methos replied; the smile in his eyes belied his bland tone.

“Oh, really? I was beginning to think there was something different about this place.” The Watcher said sarcastically, feigning surprise.

“The attack in the forest should’ve tipped me off. No, no – wait! Getting my neck sliced by Mr. Spock should’ve given it away -- where the hell are we anyways?!”

“More like ‘when are we’, Methos.” The Highlander added.

“I don’t know; this place is about 2,000 years before my time.” The Ancient One replied with total honesty as he turned to leave.

“Where you going?” Duncan asked.

“To take a leak. Coming?” Methos rejoined smoothly.

“I want answers, Methos.” The Highlander said.

The Ancient One was tired. Tired of being held suspect for unexplained events, for his motivations always being questioned. Reining in his irritation, he turned back towards the younger Immortal and answered.

“Your very expensive, very accurate watch stopped, MacLeod. Our cell phones do not work. There is no electricity here. We’re not in France anymore, Highlander.”

“I already know that, Methos; what I want to know is how did you know they could help us?” Duncan asked stonily. Tired and ready to collapse onto the bed, Methos looked at the Watcher.

“He’s smarter than he looks, Joe.” The Eldest commented sarcastically before turning back to the younger Immortal.

“I did not. I still do not. It was just a lucky guess.” The Ancient One replied.

“Lucky guess, my ass!” Joe snorted, ignoring the exasperated look from the Antediluvian. Somehow the Watcher didn’t think the Eldest was being entirely forthcoming with the truth.

“You know, you knowing everything gets to be a huge pain in the ass.” The Highlander said.

“I don’t know everything . . . just a lot of things.” The Eldest clarified.

“And what about all this? Why didn’t you say something before?” Duncan prodded.

“As I said before: some things are meant to be. Others need to be played out.” Methos replied, still not looking at the younger Immortal.

“You sure can be a big pain in the ass. Especially when you think you’re right.” Duncan said.

“Funny, I could say the same about you.” The Eldest countered.

“What – that I’m right?” the Clansman retorted.

“No, that you’re a big pain in the ass.” Methos answered glibly.

“Is this the part where I’m supposed to laugh?” the Highlander returned.

“This is the part where I answer nature’s call without further interruption, MacLeod – unless, of course, you wish to continue this conversation as I take care of business – and if you do, I insist that you respect me in the morning --” Methos said.

“Settle down, children and play nice in the sandbox.” Joe interrupted.

The Highlander shot his Elder a dark look before sitting on his bed. Testing the firmness of the mattress, Duncan snatched the nosegay from the pillow and buried his nose in it. The Ancient One turned back.

“I suggest we rest while we can. Morning will come soon enough, and we ride out first light.”: : : :

Pushing away from the shadowed alcove, the Immortal made his way down the stairs.

“Was that only eight days ago?” Methos wondered. It never ceased to amaze him how so much can happen in so little time.

“So many memories . . .” Methos muttered to himself.

The Ancient One’s steps brought him outside to an semi-private alcove. A carved bench was conveniently placed where one could meditate as one looked out towards the many waterfalls, or watch the comings and goings of those within the building. Methos took a seat and allowed his thoughts to wander again, this time to his and his companions’ arrival in Rivendell. . .

:::: Bone weary, the Horseman stretched; reaching beneath his overcoat, Methos massaged his aching bum. He could use a hot soak right about now, for it had been millennia since he had ridden at a fast, hard pace. Thankfully, his riding skills were not as rusty as his Elvish.

There are some things you just do not forget how to do. the Ancient One thought to himself.

The Ancient wondered how the Highlander was faring; apparently the younger Immortal felt the same aches, for Duncan remained standing. As for the Watcher, upon their arrival in a wide open courtyard, the Immortals silently watched as a beautiful she-Elf with chestnut brown hair seemingly glided towards them; eight male Elves were behind her, each bearing a stretcher, upon which the feverish Watcher was placed and swiftly borne away to parts unknown. Dismounting awkwardly, the limping, ashen-faced Ranger was helped onto the other stretcher and taken away as well. About to follow their friend, the Immortals came to a halt when the she-Elf, whose name Elrohir informed them was Læurenthail, raised a slender hand. After assuring the Men their friend would be well cared for, the maiden turned and left without a backward glance.

Methos and the Highlander glanced at one another before Elrohir indicated the Immortals should follow him. As the Ancient and the Chieftain’s Son followed the Elf, they looked around, returning the curious glances of the Rivendell Elves who paused to stare at the Outlanders. The Immortals were taken to one of the highest structures perched on the steep cliff side, where they were instructed to wait. Apparently, the Eldest and the Highlander were not considered a threat, for there was no other Elf in sight; yet Methos knew that unseen eyes watched their every move. It would be foolish to assume otherwise. Left alone, the Highlander fixed his Elder with a look that spoke volumes. Crossing the boundaries between realms and realities, Methos knew they must be doubly cautious, since he and his companions were out of their natural element.

“Why are we here, Methos?” Duncan asked in a low voice.

“Because the Half-Elf should be able to help us, MacLeod.” Methos said, walking the length of the balcony.

“Where did you learn to speak their language?” the Clansman asked.

“In England.” The Horseman replied with a smile. “Maybe I’ll tell you about it one day, pup.” He turned away before the Highlander could ask another question.

The Ancient One studied the architecture with an appreciative eye. Nature’s fair hand shrouded the Elven haven in beauty; the mist rising from the many waterfalls caught the brilliant fingers of light reaching over the graceful gabled roofs and the towers of Rivendell, bending and refracting the beams into numerous rainbows that danced above the rushing waters in a stunning bloom of light and color.

“Adam . . .” The Highlander called to the Eldest when the twins reappeared, one on either side of a regal Elf, whom they bore a strong resemblance to.

“My Lord, this is Adam, Son-of-Pier and Duncan of Mack Loud’s Clan; Joe, Son-of-Daw and the Dúnedain were brought to the Healer.” Elrohir addressed the one named Elrond.

After the introductions were made, the Elves withdrew to a more discrete distance and spoke amongst themselves as the Immortals waited.

“Que disent-ils (what are they saying)?” Duncan asked the Eldest.

“Je ne sais pas (I don’t know); Je ne peux pas entendre tout le lui (I can’t hear all of it). En outre, qu'importe-t-il (Besides, what does it matter)? L'une ou l'autre manière, nous n'obtiendrons pas loin sans leur aide (we won’t get far without their help).” Methos replied before he turned away once more.

Gazing out at the many waterfalls and lower structures, Methos looked out from the aerie; the researcher in him marveled at Rivendell’s structures. Skilled in basic archaeology, hieroglyphics, Cuneiform and Phoenician, this mystical culture fascinated the Immortal, for the Ancient One could see faint traces of Elvish influence in the ancient cultures.

The Eldest turned back, about to comment to the Highlander when he noticed two individuals coming towards them. Methos watched with interest as another Elf joined them; this one was blonde where the twins were dark, and at his side was a stout fellow, built like a barrel, whose gruff manner matched his outward looks perfectly. Although Methos knew who they were, he gave no indication. This time, it was Elladan who performed the introductions. Legolas of the Mirkwood Realm and Gimli, son of Glóin exchanged brief glances when the Highlander and the Eldest were introduced. Methos noticed that the blonde Elf’s gaze lingered on the Highlander, as if sizing him up.

So much for a small, intimate reunion. the Ancient One thought wryly to himself. Methos’ attention was diverted when the Ruler addressed the Ancient One.

“Lle quena i'lambe tel' Eldalie (do you speak Elvish)?” Lord Elrond asked the Eldest.

“Farn henia, hîr nín (enough to understand, my Lord).” Methos replied.

“Mankoi naa lle sinome (why are you here)?” Lord Elrond asked the Ancient One.

“We search for a Woman. His kin.” Methos answered with a nod towards the Highlander.

The Peredhil turned to the Highlander and studied him thoughtfully. Duncan couldn’t help but feel he was being probed as he steadily returned the Ruler’s gaze. With a murmured word, Lord Elrond excused himself. When a servant came and approached the Ruler, whispering into the Peredhil’s ear. When next he appeared, Elrond had in tow the woman the Highlander thought was lost but was found. Methos could not help but feel slightly nervous as he, along with the others silently watched the reunion of the Highlander and his Student.

The Ancient One wondered about the reception he would receive, for the last time he and Jordan parted, they weren’t exactly on the best of terms

“How did you find me?” Jordan asked excitedly.

“. . . if it wasn’t for Adam, we couldn’t have found you.”

“Adam? Adam who?” Jordan asked.

“Am I that easy to forget?” Methos asked, watching Jordan’s reaction.

When her eyes met his, the Ancient One pursed his lips and resigned himself to Jordan’s less than enthusiastic reaction --not that he expected her to greet him in the same manner as she did the Highlander.

With a pointed look at his sons, Lord Elrond discrete withdrew his presence; after a brief, concerned look at the Mirkwood Prince, the Rivendell Princes followed their father’s example as well. : : : :


“You neglected to mention how quickly time passes here, Merlin.” The Eldest said aloud.

With a start, the Ancient One realized the torches had been lit against the darkness as he walked in his thoughts. Methos looked up in time to catch a glimpse of a dark head with long hair. Quickly, the Immortal stood. The Ancient One was about to call out to the lady, but the words froze on his lips. She was too tall to be her, and the hair was dark brown, not black – and the ears were pointed. Laughing silently at himself, Methos jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets and suddenly realized that he very much wanted to know where matters stood between he and Jordan. And he meant to find out; the Ancient One had waited long enough. Fortunately, he was a patient man, and the Immortal would wait until the perfect opportunity presented itself. The Highlander was not the only one who had come for Jordan Waters.




A/N:
This is for all the Methos fans out there! FINALLY, Methos had his say. And can you believe he’s still not done? Stacy, you’re right – I think the other characters are ‘bout ready to toss him to the Orcs/Uruks!

Methos, Methos, METHOS!!! Weren’t any of you wondering how he learned to speak Elvish in this lifetime? Hopefully this answered that question. Some of you out there may notice the Elvish has bounced between ‘Grelvish’ and Sindarin (courtesy of Tara – thank you!); where it suits the story, I’ll probably use both – unless someone out there fluent in Sindarin will be kind enough to translate text for me!

Once again, for all the Purists out there who may have issue with my version of Arthur/Guinevere/Merlin (or any other character involved), this story is purely for fun. Fun and fun only.

Don’t worry, the other characters will have their 15 minutes of fame. The story isn’t over . . . yet!

Chivalry - 1. with a lower case "c," the attitude and standard of behavior expected of all members of the SCA 2. with an upper case "c," a term referring to the Order of the Chivalry, comprised of Knights and Masters-at-Arms

Special thanks to
• my wonderful Betas: Raq, Silreth (and thank you, Silreth for pointing me to ‘Tara’s Sindarin Phrasebook’), and Dinah!
• BelasVoice for being you. You were there rooting me on since Jordie’s early days till the present – who’d a thought I’d still be thankin’ you 26 chaps., later?!
• Stacy L. for her Haiku and encouragement! Surprised to see your work featured in this chapter? Don’t be – its’ excellent! Wait -- do you hear that?! The drum beat’s changed – quick! Hand me your stick so you can break out w/the tassels!
• KaoticBlue, annonomous, TheBookWorm & sarah – thank you for your enthusiasm! I’m just sorry I can’t write it fast enough for you! =) Believe me, I wish I could! Please don’t give up on me!
• aimless-37: when can I read your stuff???
• len: I hope you didn’t mind this longer chapter!
• Anna, Michelle: Thank you again for your comment/review(s); I’ll have to go back and check and see about the “ ‘thru’ vice ‘through’”.

Thank you to EVERYONE who has been following this story, and continues to do so --- blessings heaped up you if you’ve reviewed (signed/anonymous) as well! I always enjoy reading what you think about the story.

I wish I could crank out the chapters quickly; as you can see, I’m not. Why? Real life tends to interfere, and lately, more than I like. If there’s anyone willing to donate a million dollars towards my living expense(s) so I can write 8hrs/day 7/24 until this story is completed ---- let’s talk! And, since I realistically don’t see that happening, on to the bad news: I’m taking time off from writing to take care of some real-life things I’ve put on hold.

Bottom line: because I need to take care of ‘stuff’, I’ll update when I can; unfortunately, I can’t give anyone out there an estimated time/date – just that it’ll happen when it happens. My apologies to you gentle readers. Believe me, Jordie’s story is far from over. Bad for me, good for her.

In the meantime, Happy Easter to those who celebrate it!