Only One

Disclaimer: I think we all know the routine by now, as well as who the recognizable characters belong to; except for her -- Jordan Waters is mine, mine -- all mine!

Knew the signs
Wasn’t right
I was stupid for a while
Swept away by you,
And now I feel like the fool.

So confused, my hearts bruised,
Was I ever loved by you?

Out of reach, so far,
I never had your heart,
Out of reach, couldn’t see,
We were never meant to be.

Catch myself from despair,
I could drown if I stay here,
Keeping busy every day,
I know I will be okay.

But I was ?
So confused, my hearts bruised,
Was I ever loved by you?

Out of reach, so far,
I never had your heart,
Out of reach, couldn’t see,
We were never meant to be.

So much hurt, so much pain,
Takes a while to regain what is lost inside,
And I hope that in time, you’ll be out of my mind.
I’ll be over you.

But now I’m. . . .
So confused, my hearts bruised,
Was I ever loved by you.

Out of reach, so far,
I never had your heart,
Out of reach, couldn’t see,
We were never meant to be.

Out of reach, so far,
You never gave your heart,
In my reach, I can see,
There’s a life out there for me.

--Out of Reach/Gabrielle


Shadows of The Past

Spencer Manor
Northern England
Near-dawn



Some people collect fine wines, miniature perfume bottles, or salt and peppershakers -- but not him. He sat unmoving in the semi-dark, as his eyes roamed over his inestimable literary collection. The Immortal knew the exact location of each title; many of the classic volumes lining the dark shelves were first edition prints signed by the author. The more fragile, rare books (several of which dated back to when the printing press first came into existence) were housed in the Manor’s basement, sealed in their protective cases -- safe from sunlight and ultraviolet light in the special custom-designed, humidity controlled environment. He also had a separate room that housed his collection of swords; the Halcyon’s sword collection had grown over the centuries. After every Challenge won, the victor usually kept the defeated’s weapon. Some he gave to his Students to use as their first weapon, the more sentimental or unique, unusual blades he kept for himself. Caine’s own preferred, much-used weapon of choice was a gift from his former Teacher – and at this very moment, the Halcyon wished he could beat Methos black and blue with it. Caine stood and walked towards the large, picture window.

Tick, tick, tick, tick . . .

The Immortal listened to the monotonous cadence of the chronometer as it beat at half-second intervals. The sound was excessively loud in the peaceful room. All was still inside the house – and for the first time in three weeks, outside as well. Crossing his arms over his chest, he studied the full moon hanging low in the indigo sky before shifting his timeless gaze to the sheathed sword propped against his desk. Since the Ancient One’s departure, Caine Spencer’s sleeping pattern (amongst other more pleasant pursuits), was interrupted on a dismayingly regular basis, making the normally even-tempered Immortal quite irritable. Stifling another wave of annoyance, the Halcyon returned to his large, executive styled leather chair and sat down.

Caine appreciated anew what he had previously taken for granted – anonymity (such as it was) within the Immortal community. With the Highlander and the Eldest out of town -- much to the Halcyon’s great displeasure, his pleasantly predictable life had literally been turned upside down; the Spencer’s relatively peaceful existence had been disturbed with exasperating, maddening frequency. New Immortals, eager to test their skills, had been skulking about, drawn to the stately Manor by the Second One’s presence and the chance for an incredible Quickening. Fortunately for him, Caine did not reach his age by finishing second in a Challenge, and with every Quickening received, the Halcyon appreciated life all the more. With a low growl of frustration, the Immortal flipped open his mobile phone and hit the speed dial once again.

“The number you have reached is no longer in service. If you feel you have reached this recording in error, please check the number and try again.” The digitized voice repeated the same message he’d heard once too often.

“Damn it, Adam – you were supposed to be back by now!” the Immortal groused to himself.

The Halcyon had tried all the contact numbers the Eldest had given him, but with the same result – that damned, standardized response. Yawning, Caine rubbed his eyes in frustration before punching the ‘end’ button on his mobile phone. Tossing it onto the desk, the Halcyon cradled his face in his hands and mentally ran through his contact list, wondering if he’d misdialed or memorized the incorrect numbers.

Caine picked up his mobile phone again. He was about to enter another number, when he paused and reached out with his senses . . . searching. It was a valuable aspect of the Quickening that Methos had shown him three thousand years ago, and constantly tested him in its use, until it was second nature. If he so desired, with a twinkle of a thought, the Second One could locate another Immortal (provided they were within his range) – in fact, Caine could tell what direction the other Immortal was located, and how far (if he or she was moving) -- give or take a few meters. He was in the process of teaching it to Meredith. The Second One took comfort in his wife’s presence as he sensed her in the house. Closing his eyes, the Halcyon leaned his head back, relaxed in his chair, and listened to the chronometer continue to mark time’s passing in its steady rhythm. Before long, the Immortal began to doze off, the mobile phone forgotten in his hand. Suddenly, Caine’s chair was pulled back and swiveled around, before a familiar weight straddled his lap.

“Darling, you were gone when I woke up,” the smoky voice whispered the gentle remonstration.

“My most abject apologies, my lady.” Caine gallantly murmured in reply; he tilted his head back to better look at the speaker.

Running his hand through her soft, sleep-tousled hair, the Halcyon studied his wife’s eyes; her cornflower blue eyes were luminescent in the low light. The younger Immortal’s black hair and smattering of golden freckles scattered across the bridge of her nose and cheeks made her look much younger than her seven hundred and fifty years.

“Did I tell you how much I love you?” Caine asked with a lopsided smile.

“I prefer you show me, Darling.” The Immortal pouted; plucking the phone from her husband’s hand, the woman tossed it back onto his desk.

Meredith wrapped her arms loosely about the Halcyon’s neck and shifted in a way that never failed to elicit a response. Caine wisely took his cue from his wife; the Second Oldest loosened the ties of his wife’s robe and parted the thick terry cloth before slipping his hands inside. The delicious scent of mimosa and sleep surrounded the Halcyon. Sliding his hands up her ribcage, Caine lightly kissed every inch of warm, silky flesh he encountered, before filling his hands with the wonderful weight of her breasts. Swiveling the chair towards the desk, Caine swept a pile of papers off the polished cherry wood surface and chuckled softly at his wife’s pleased expression. Slipping the robe completely off Meredith’s body, the garment fell to the floor as the Halcyon stood and deposited his wife onto his desk; he proceeded to show his wife just how much he wanted her, apologizing in a very pleasurable way for absenting himself from their warm bed. Caine left no doubt in his Immortal wife’s mind as to the sincerity of his regret.

#

“Mmmmm. . . that was nice.” Meredith said with a satisfied glow on her face; the younger Immortal lazily watched her husband dress after their extended morning shower.

“What was, darling?” the Halcyon asked, meeting her eyes in the mirror as he tucked his shirt into his trousers.

“The stairs. . . how deliciously naughty of you, Caine. We could have been discovered.” The younger Immortal said with a soft giggle.

Pulling on his overcoat, Caine adjusted the collar and looked at his wife; knowing her naked body was snuggled under the covers of their warm bed did not make leaving quite so easy.

“May I remind you, Madam, that this home is aptly named ‘Spencer Manor’. Therefore, I may do whatever I wish to you, whenever I wish it, and most certainly wherever I wish to do it. And if the help want to stay on, they’ll keep mum about it. ” despite his stern voice, in the mirror, Caine leered at his wife, and was rewarded with her low, sultry laugh.

“Reciprocity . . . ?” she asked

“Most certainly.” The Second Oldest replied as he turned to face her.

“Must you go, Caine?” the younger Immortal pouted, doing her best to entice her husband back to their bed.

“Yes, Merry; I need to check with Gregory about Adam.” He replied. “What are your plans for the day, my love?” Caine asked.

“There are spring hangings in the attic I wish for James to air out. I would like to decorate the house for the season.” Meredith replied, snuggling deeper into the bed. Caine knew his wife would be asleep again shortly after he left.

Normally, the Halcyon would not be overly concerned with leaving Meredith alone; however, the older Immortal’s gut instinct told warned him to not leave her behind. Though constantly surprised with his wife’s abilities with the blade (after all, after their marriage, he taught her most of what she knew), Caine did not wish to leave Meredith-- no matter how good she was -- exposed to the dangers of frequent Challenges; it was terrible, watching helplessly from the sidelines as she fought, filled with quiet terror that this Challenge might be her last. He could not interfere – the Rules of the Game forbade it; he could only comfort himself with the promise that, should she be slain before his eyes, her Challenger would soon follow.

It was a vow he would keep at all cost, for he was unable to do the same for his dear, departed first wife, Eleanor, who was killed by another Immortal. There was no honor in her death, for Cyrus, Caine’s bitterest enemy (and the Immortal with whom the Halcyon had played ‘hunter and hunted’ with since 2156 B.C.), murdered his cherished Eleanor. Though it was not the first time the bastard had killed someone dear to the Second One, it would be the last time. It had taken time, but the Halcyon avenged Eleanor -- and all others who had fallen under his enemy’s blade -- centuries later, when he took Cyrus’ head; unfortunately, the Quickening of that encounter sparked a blaze in the pub he had been in moments before; unchecked, the fire spread to the nearby bakeshop of Thomas Farynor; it would be remembered by generations following as the historic London fire of 1666, and the Halcyon saw no need to correct the history books.

“Come with me, Merry. We’ll stop by Gregory’s, then have tea at Harrod’s, and spend the rest of the day shopping . . . ” the Halcyon’s words trailed off as he watched his wife throw back the covers and race to the loo.

Shopping never failed to get his lovely wife out of bed quickly; Caine smiled to himself. The sooner their day began, the sooner he could (hopefully) learn better when to expect Methos’ return.

#

Arda’s Treasures
Paris, France

The silver bell poised above the entryway jangled merrily as the door swung open and then closed. Its purpose was unnecessary for two individuals within. Long before the Halcyon entered, the thrumming hum of the Buzz alerted the Immortals to the other’s presence. Ducking into the shoppe, the Halcyon raked his fingers through his tawny hair as his eyes searched the room. Caine’s gaze lingered briefly over the unsuspecting patrons, his posture relaxed. He disregarded each individual after a mere glance, as the Mortals delved through the unique wares, until his eyes unerringly rested upon the one who was his kind. Jacqueline held her breath as she stared back at the Immortal framed in the doorway. Though he appeared young, the Buzz told the Frenchwoman that the Immortal before her was old – much, much older than her . . and very strong.

It was the second time she laid eyes upon Caine; the first time Jacqueline had seen the Halcyon, she did not give the blonde Immortal a second thought, for the woman had been distracted and overwhelmed by the combined strength and intensity of the Buzz of the Immortals preceding him. Jacqueline couldn’t make that mistake twice; now that the Halcyon was alone, the Frenchwoman clearly felt the irresistible potency of Caine’s Buzz.

All that power, within my reach . . . Jacqueline thought hungrily to herself.

She gave herself over to the sensation that raced down her spine and extended through her arms. Her palms itched as she longed to grasp her sword and taste the raw power encapsulated within the man at the entryway. There was no doubt in the Frenchwoman’s mind, that the older Immortal’s Quickening would be well worth the Challenge, but Jacqueline was no fool. She was not ready to take on someone of the Halcyon’s strength and caliber -- unless she was to somehow get him to lower his guard.

Perhaps she could entice the handsome, fair-haired one into a tryst, wait till he was vulnerable, and then take his head like she did with all the others. Seduce and slay; though terribly unimaginative, it was one of the oldest tricks in history -- and it was her tried and true method of acquiring Quickenings. The idea appealed to the Frenchwoman with every passing moment. Monsieur Pierson and Monsieur MacLeod, and now Monsieur Spencer -- the three Immortals were handsome and attractive in their own ways, and strong. It was a pity they all must die. Their combined Quickenings would make Jacqueline a force to be reckoned with, and quite possibly, the winner of the Game.

Perhaps I shall enjoy all three of you before I take your heads, The younger Immortal mused inwardly as she stared at the Second One. I will save you for last; I will have your friends first, and then you will also be inside me. Jacqueline decided.

Her frosty gaze raked over the golden band on the Halcyon’s left ring finger; it meant nothing to the Frenchwoman, for she had little regard for the institution of marriage. Whatever the Church deemed sacred, the Immortal had long ago cast down and turned her back upon. There once was a time when she had been a naïve and trusting soul, believing without question that which the Holy See espoused -- but no more. The Frenchwoman did not linger on her former life; it was where it belonged, in the past. There was the future to see to – hers.

First, Jacqueline needed to find the fair Immortal’s friends; she had not seen them since her initial encounter with the dark Immortals. Her clandestine eavesdropping forays when Monsieur McGulloch was in his private study yielded no information. Their location was of the utmost importance; after she took Monsieur Spencer’s head, they would no doubt have a grudge to settle when all was said and done. Today was the Frenchwoman’s lucky day.

Jacqueline composed herself and strolled towards the Second Oldest. Thoughtfully, Caine watched the younger Immortal walk towards him. Though not a raging beauty, Gregory’s assistant was handsome in a cold, imperious, ‘touch-me-not’ way. The Halcyon, however, he preferred his women more earthy. Caine was thankful he had dropped his wife off at the famous department store prior to seeing Gregory; it helped having contacts within the store, although in reality, it was more of an inside joke. Thanks to Adam, Caine knew (unlike his wife, or the tattooed Member of that secret society) that the Manager of the world famous department store was, in actuality, Meredith’s Watcher. If he personally couldn’t be with her, Caine couldn’t think of a better place to have his beloved wife, than with someone who would track her and record her every move. If something were to happen to her, he would know every minute detail, and make all involved pay.

For some indefinable reason, Caine did not wish Meredith and the Frenchwoman to meet. The Halcyon studied the Immortal before him with hooded eyes; there was something about her that bothered him. Perhaps it was the way Gregory’s assistant moved: graceful . . . feline-like. That was it. The Halcyon’s lips tightened imperceptibly. He hated cats. Not only was he allergic to the damned creatures, he once had a bad experience with the larger variety. Only because of his love for his wife did he tolerate her miserable calico. More than once, the Second Oldest was tempted to dispose of the irritating hairball, but managed to keep his harmful intentions in check; knowing how much it would pain his wife, was the sole reason Caine spared the cat.

“My dear boy, I was beginning to wonder when you would come again!” Caine’s attention was pulled away from Jacqueline’s approach by the sound of Gregory’s voice.

Turning towards the Proprietor, a lopsided grin appeared on the Halcyon’s face. The Frenchwoman’s progress was cut short as Gregory made his way towards the Second Oldest. A slight frown appeared on her face as she watched the two men exchange greetings. Jacqueline took another step towards the men when Gregory turned and gestured towards the hallway leading towards his private office.

“Ah, Jacqueline, my dear – I believe we do have a question over there. Kindly see to them while I take care of this young man, hmm?” Gregory said, when he spied his assistant.

“Naturellement, Monsieur (of course, Sir).” Jacqueline murmured, forcing her lips to twist into a smile.

Reluctantly, the younger Immortal returned to the counter, and greeted a patron ready to make a purchase, yet her eyes were on the men as they disappeared into the hallway. Inside Gregory’s private office, the men settled into their seats and faced each other across the expanse of Gregory’s desk.

“Have a bite?” Gregory offered.

“I’m fine -- thank you, Sir. I’m saving my appetite for later.” The Halcyon demurred, holding his hand up.

Although Caine was looking forward to tea at the Georgian Restaurant, he was definitely inclined to indulge his sweet tooth at Max Brenner’s Chocolate Bar. The Second One had yet to decipher the mystifying link between the sweet foodstuff and Meredith’s shopping activity. Caine discovered that feeding his lovely wife chocolate, and ordering more of the confections to take home often led to a much shorter shopping spree, which suited him just fine. Money was no object – Caine could buy every single item in the department store -- down to the last square of toilet paper -- and not feel it financially. The need to curtail his wife’s shopping was much more basic – the Halcyon did not wish to move to a larger house in order to contain all her purchases.

“If you change your mind . . . ” Gregory replied; the Immortal’s host gestured towards the tiered plates laden with teacakes, dainty pots of lemon curd, mint jelly, strawberry preserves, clotted cream and other tempting delights.

“You eat well.” Caine commented.

“I did not always; there were several occasions when I hardly had time to eat – nor any at that. Food is not easy to come by in Wartime. Also, there are pleasures, then there are pleasures.” Gregory said with a conspiratorial wink. “I find food to be a comfort for me.” The older man said with a small smile.

Caine nodded in understanding. He was no stranger to hunger; his involvement in the American Revolution, where he fought (and died several times) from beginning to end was a good Teacher in crash dieting. Caine smiled politely as he watched his host pour them a cup of tea. The Halcyon perked up as he sniffed the air.

“Mmmm . . .” the Immortal said, inhaling the fragrant aroma that spread across the room.

“You like?” Gregory asked with an indulgent smile.

“Darjeeling tea -- the ‘Queen of Teas’?! Very much so!” the younger man enthused, accepting his cup.

“And how do you know she is real?” Gregory asked

Caine watched his Host break a scone in two. Gregory slathered one portion with strawberry preserves, and added a dollop of clotted cream to the other. Putting the pieces back together, the old gentleman began to eat as the Immortal began his narrative.

“Experience,” Caine replied. “I, er. . . stayed with a Tibetan monk. He was kind enough to allow me on one of his walks. One day, we picked some leaves and made tea. It was the best I ever had – and it is the only kind I will allow in my home.” A quirky grin appeared on the younger Man’s face. Though it was years ago, the memory was still vivid . . .

: : : : Augustenberg, Germany
September 1865

As Tutor and bodyguard to His Serene Highness, Prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein, the third son of Duke Charles August and Countess Luise of Danneskold-Samoe, Caine Spencer was never far from his young charge. His duties included watching over the boy, educating him, and sometimes instructing him in the finer points of swordplay. As the child became a youth who reached manhood, the Duke’s son’s awareness of the world around him increased; unfortunately, that awareness included his Tutor (whom the Duke’s son admired greatly). How could his Teacher, a young man himself, know so much about the world -- a world young Christian felt he was only just beginning to really learn about?

Duke August’s son often wondered about his Tutor, the soft spoken, gentle man with the commanding presence, who had been his companion and confidante for the last ten years, a man whom his own excellent father on many occasions consulted with. One day, while observing his Tutor, who was absorbed in reading ‘The Iliad’(in Greek), it occurred to Christian, that Sir Spencer scarcely seemed older than him, and remained virtually unchanged since he was a child.

Young Christian’s sense of curiosity, nurtured and encouraged by the Master Spencer, was increased. The more Christian thought on the matter, the more Duke Charles’ son determined that, when they traveled to Coburg to attend a diplomatic function, he would further question his Tutor. As for the Halcyon, Caine sensed his time with his mortal charge was swift coming to an end; apparently, the Halcyon’s encouragement that his charge seek knowledge about that which he did not understand was a lesson learned quite well. The Second One knew the Duke’s son watched him with questions in his eyes. Soon, the Immortal would be asked that which was not for the young man to know.

It is time to leave, Caine thought to himself.

The Halcyon sorely regretted encouraging his mortal charge to satisfy his sense of curiosity; during the long journey to Colburg, Caine’s pupil peppered the Halcyon with questions about the Immortal’s past. After the long and tiresome journey, the Immortal was relieved to finally reach their destination. When he was alone at last, the Halcyon thought long and hard, planning several scenarios that would leave few (if any) questions when he left. Unbeknownst to the Second Oldest, Caine’s dilemma was to be solved at that evening’s soirée.

Mingling with the other distinguished guests, Caine courteously endured the prattling of the Baroness of Something-or-Other, before she spied a more prestigious listener. Granted a moment’s reprieve from socializing, Caine nursed his flute of champagne in an out of the way corner, where he continued to mull over his options. The Immortal was pulled from his broodings by a soft voice and a charming smile, framed by an abundance of ringlet curls. After a deep bow, and a brush of his lips across the Lady’s gloved knuckles, the Halcyon had the immediate pleasure of making the young lady’s acquaintance, the Princess Helena of the United Kingdom.

Chatting with the Princess, the Immortal sighed, for Caine espied his charge working his way through the crowd, coming towards them. Glad for the presence of the young lady, the Halcyon pasted a smile onto his face and introduced her to his charge; Caine was greatly amused and relieved to see that his presence was no longer required, nor wanted, for the Duke’s son was clearly enchanted with the lovely Princess. Apparently, it was mutual, and the Immortal fancied himself indebted to the young lady, for she occupied young Christian that evening. Later that night, the Halcyon heard naught, but the ever-increasing virtues of Princess Helena. Upon their return home, enamored with the young lady, the Duke’s son seemed to forget he wished to know more about his Tutor. Thankfully, it appeared that young Christian had forgotten his quest to delve deeper into his Tutor’s personal history, especially when the young royals commenced their whirlwind romance with regular correspondences.

In the winter, seizing the opportunity in which to make his escape, Caine requested to be relieved from his post, claiming a sick relative to attend. Though somewhat saddened to be parted with his exceptional Tutor, young Christian had other matters on his mind, for Queen Victoria gave her permission for the German blue blood to marry her third daughter, Princess Helena of Great Britain and Ireland. Caine Spencer left quietly that night, never to be heard from again. No longer connected to young Christian, the Immortal took great pleasure when he learned Christian and Princess Helena married the following year. The Halcyon wished them all the best. Caine learned through the years that the royal couple had children – six in all.

The Second Eldest soon found himself traveling along the West Bengal territory in India. Caine was unbothered by the cold, dry northern wind that blew intermittently as he followed the path of a river; what he was, was thirsty – his canteen was long dry, and his thirst was so powerful, Caine was willing to drink the muddy waters. The Immortal searched the waters of the riverbank, unsure of the creatures that dwelt within its murky depths. Caine deemed it safe enough to fill his canteen and slake his thirst when, from across the riverbank, a doe and her fawn lowered their heads to drink.

With night fast approaching, the Immortal determinedly pushed through the dense thickets and tamarisk shrubs growing rampant by the river; the Immortal was thankful when he came across the old ruins of an abandoned temple, almost reclaimed by the jungle. Deciding to shelter in it for the night, the Halcyon was searching for a suitable place to lay his bedroll, when he stumbled upon the remains of a fresh, partially consumed deer carcass, thick with flies that buzzed about. Ever mindful of the large number of tigers that roamed the jungle freely, the Immortal drew his sword and slowly backed away from the kill; it would behoove him, he decided, to continue on until he found a village friendly to travelers. As the Halcyon turned to leave, the last thing Caine saw was the sharply marked, uneven black stripes upon the tiger’s face as it sprang upon him. The large canine teeth and powerful jaws cut short Caine’s shrill scream as they closed around the Halcyon’s throat -- the Immortal was dead before his sword clattered to the ground.

Dragging the Second One’s body next to the deer carcass, the large cat raked leaves from the rotting deer across to where the Immortal lay. Satisfied his new kill was adequately sheltered beneath a layer of dead leaves, the tiger retreated a small distance away to rest from its labors before eating more of the deer carcass. Soaking in the coolness of the ancient stones, the big cat stretched languorously and began grooming itself; it paused when its sensitive whiskers detected a subtle, but unmistakable change in the atmosphere. Alert, the feline rose and crouched in readiness; its large eyes searched the ruins for the interloper, but were captured by the appearance of the tiny, brilliant spark of the Quickening. Another, and then another spark appeared, charging the atmosphere with raw, living energy. A low growl pulsated in the tiger’s throat, watching, as its prey’s broken body became a smoking mass, as the dried, half-rotted leaves were seared by the electrical activity. Unhindered, the immortal phenomena continued its work, reuniting torn cartilage, repairing the ruined flesh, until no mark was upon the Immortal. The mysterious process within the Halcyon’s body concentrated on the still, motionless heart, providing the organ’s mechanical and electrical function, until it was ready to beat on its own; the Quickening continued, multiplying and expanding the spilled blood and plasma. Inside Caine’s previously ravaged chest, the quivering heart wrung, twisted and thrust into life, beating with a steady rhythm, circulating the life giving blood, until -- with a gasp, the Second One revived. Groaning, the Halcyon attempted to sit up but immediately layback, feeling quite weak.

The tiger did not understand what was happening; all it knew was its recent kill was attempting to flee. With a quick leap, the large cat pounced once more upon the newly awakened Immortal, and in a matter of seconds, undid the work of the Quickening as its razor sharp claws sank into Caine’s abdomen. Slicing into the soft tissue easily, the tiger’s fetid breath and powerful jaws prevented the Halcyon from breathing once more; his chest was crushed beneath the full weight of the five hundred-fifty pound cat straddling him. Once again, Caine died. This time, the tiger did not move away from the Immortal, just in case his prey was not totally disabled. When no sign of life could be detected, the feline lay next to the inert body, and began licking its paws clean. The tiger then began licking the Halcyon’s side; its rough tongue scraped the tender flesh beneath as it moved along, removing the remnants of the Halcyon’s clothing with its claws. Worrying the side of the Immortal, the big cat was about to take a mouthful of soft, tender flesh from the Immortal’s gaping abdomen, when it shook its head vigorously; the tiger chuffed and sneezed, drawing back as the sparks of the Quickening reappeared once again, stinging the feline’s sensitive whiskers and nose, as it raced to repair the mortal wounds. Spooked and stung, the big cat backed away, its fangs bared and ears laid back; the tiger retreated to the safety of the jungle, its excellent night vision taking the whole scenario in.

With a gasp, Caine revived. Sneezing in reaction to the tiger hairs clinging to his skin, the Immortal choked on the nocturnal insects swarming around him and clogging the humid night air. The sickly, sweet stench of rotting flesh filled his nose – and no wonder, for he was cozied next to the deer carcass. Caine gagged and immediately regretted it. Not only did his neck hurt, but his entire body, more so his midsection. He grimaced as he made a half-hearted effort to brush the burnt leaves from his clothes – or rather, what remained of it.

“Damned cat!” Caine muttered weakly before he sneezed again.

Cricks and pops filled the air as he stretched the cords of his neck. Slowly gaining his feet, Caine flailed weakly at the humid air, in a futile attempt to drive the bothersome insects away; he knew he would soon regain his full strength – and a good thing, too, for there was no telling when the tiger would return. Rubbing his neck, the Immortal cautiously looked around. He couldn’t see the tiger, but that did not mean it was not near. From the cover of darkness, the tiger remained where it was, allowing the unnatural prey to leave. Teeth bared in a soundless growl, the tiger retreated further into the dark jungle, watching vigilantly from the shadows. It would attack again, should the Man-thing attempt to steal its deer carcass.

The Immortal struggled to his feet and stumblingly retraced his steps; feeling stronger by the minute, Caine managed to locate his sword; after a cursory exam, by what the moonlight allowed, the Immortal quickly sheathed the blade, grabbed up his gear, and left the ruins. Unable to search for adequate shelter in the gathering dark, the Halcyon was left with no choice but to spend the night high up in the trees, and hope that the big cats were unable to climb, or that he did not fall out. Needless to say, he did not sleep at all.

In the morning, after a meager breakfast of dried beef strips, the Second Oldest dropped his bedroll and gear over the side of his resting place. He watched it fall through the branches, listening for the ‘thump’ when leaves obscured his sight; securing his sword to his person, Caine climbed down the tree and drew his sword. This time he was determined to at least put up a fight, should he be attacked. After collecting his belongings, the Immortal continued on his way. It was not long before the Halcyon found traces of humanity – well worn paths, broken tools discarded by the wayside, animal tracks that could only belong to livestock – and most important, footprints. Encouraged, Caine quickened his pace, only to pull up short when he felt the presence of another Immortal. Cautiously, the Halcyon turned towards the direction of the Buzz, awaiting the owner’s imminent arrival. Part of him was wishing it were the tiger. To the Halcyon’s great surprise, a woman emerged from the jungle vegetation. In comparison to their male counterparts, female Immortals were few and few in between. Judging by the quality of her clothes, Caine knew she was of a higher caste, for her sari was quite elaborate. The Immortal also noticed that she was also very lovely to boot. Her long, dark tresses were styled in a fan-shaped coiffeur, adorned with serpentine braids secured in place by golden filigree hair ornaments inlaid with ivory and semi-precious stones. The Halcyon became self-conscious of his own present state; he needed a bath -- badly.

“I am Caine.” The Immortal said, wondering if she understood him.

“Vashti Kalidasa.” She replied. At least she understood English (much to the Halcyon’s great relief).

“Is the village near?” Caine inquired. Perhaps after he cleaned up, he and the lovely Immortal could be better acquainted. He wished to know more of this land, and how many other Immortals were in the area.

“There is only one way to know that.” Vashti replied with a pointed glance downward. Peeking from the folds of her sari was her blade.

Vashti firmly gripped the hilt of her saber. A Tulwar. Caine wondered how she came upon her sword, for the curved blade of the Tulwar, with its disk-shaped pommel, was more commonly associated with cavalry, and other such mounted units. The Halcyon wasn’t in the mood for a Challenge; he was hot, thirsty, his one set of clothes was in dire need of laundering, and his current outfit barely covered his body; what was left was in tatters and crusted with dried blood, dirt and sweat. Caine’s valiant attempts to talk his way out of crossing sword with the woman fell upon deaf ears as she strode confidently towards him. Dropping his gear, the elder Immortal drew his sword and went to meet his Challenger. Surprisingly fierce, Vashti’s spirited fighting style was unlike anything Caine had come across. There were several times when the quick footed Indian managed to come close to her goal. Unfortunately for her, it was the Halcyon who received the Quickening.

Confident the electrical storm drove away any lurking tigers, the Halcyon shed the remnants of his decimated clothing, reached into his haversack, and donned his travel stained, encrusted clothes once again. Hunkering down next to Vashti’s severed head, the Immortal studied the glassy eyes staring unseeingly towards the heavens. The full, ruby lips that a moment before issued the Challenge now hung slack, her jaws were slightly agape.

“Pity.” Caine said softly to himself, as he gently closed her eyes; he hadn’t wanted to kill her.

Reaching for Vashti’s sword, the Second Born wiped it clean upon her lifeless body, before cutting away a swatch of the brilliant turquoise and gold fabric. Wrapping the Tulwar in the cotton cloth, the Immortal secured it to his haversack. Taking hold of Vashti’s long hair, the Halcyon flung her head into the brush. Grabbing hold of her ankles, he dragged her body into the brush as well; he didn’t bother burying it; the jungle creatures would see to it. Returning to his belongings, the Immortal shouldered it once more. Without conscious effort, now knew where to go, and the Immortal set off towards the village.

Before he even made two steps into the village, much to the Halcyon’s dismay, the throbbing Buzz announced the presence of another Immortal. Once again, the Indian woman’s knowledge was useful, for not only was Caine able to speak the language like a native, he now knew the distinctive presence signature belonged to the monk named Tsering, who frequented the area.

“Damnit!” the Halcyon muttered to himself. He hadn’t wanted to deal with the Immortal so soon.

Caine followed the pull of the buzz, ignoring the openly curious and fearful looks of the villagers. The tittering laughter of the children following the Immortal would have made the Halcyon smile as they pointed at him and chattered excitedly in Hindu, had it not been for the present circumstances. Turning the corner of the market place, between a vendor selling fresh produce, and another hawking hand-woven baskets, the Halcyon came face to face with the monk. Stoically clutching his begging bowl, Tsering’s dark brown eyes studied the Immortal before him, not missing the vivid cloth fluttering from the Stranger’s travel pack. The Monk knew who once wore that color, and he could see the distinctive pommel of the sword that had become unwrapped. His protector was gone. Unfortunately, in their community, it was inevitable that there would always be One who was just a little better, just a little stronger. The fact he had defeated Vashti, was a testament to his skill, for his protector was quite skilled with the blade. . Far from Holy Ground, the only reason (so he believed) he still kept his head, was the fact that Mortals were present.

“My name is Caine.” The Second Born said.

Tsering’s weathered face held no trace of fear, only resignation as he studied the Immortal before him

“I am --” the Monk began.

“Tsering.” Caine quietly finished for him. He didn’t ask how the Stranger knew his name; with Vashti’s essence absorbed, the Monk simply nodded, knowing he knew all that was necessary.

“My head is yours if you wish it.” Tsering said, his gaze unflinching.

“There’s been enough bloodshed today. I do not wish that; there’s something else I want” the Immortal said.

Tsering nodded. The youthful Immortal before him did not set off his internal alarms; in fact, he merely appeared quite weary. despite the fact that he may yet lose his head, the Monk decided to aid the stranger; although he had never heard of Caine, he felt oddly safe in his presence. Caine enlisted the monk’s assistance in finding accommodations for the night, a hot meal, a bath, and a change of clothes. In the morning, dressed in traditional clothes of the kurta-pyjama, the Immortal accepted Tsering’s invitation to stay with him for a time. Together, they traveled to the monk’s mountainside home in the Darjeeling district, where the Second Eldest spent the next ten years amongst the monks in their simple temple, seeking enlightenment.

High up on the mountain, safe from Challenges and surrounded by nature, the years Caine spent with Tsering were amongst the most informative the Immortal experienced, and the Halcyon sincerely doubted he’d ever forget it. On the tenth anniversary of his stay at the temple, Tsering decided it was time for his student to brew his own cup of tea. Leading the Halcyon 8,000 feet above sea level, there upon the steep, treacherous, cloud covered slope, with the snow capped mountains Everest, Kabru and Kanchenjunga in view, the Immortals picked the tiny leaves together, brewed a pot of tea, and parted ways. The saffron and scarlet-shrouded monk watched his student leave with a sense of satisfaction, and with as many kilos of the costly tea as the Halcyon could carry down the mountainside. : : : : :

Caine raised the teacup and breathed deeply, closing his eyes briefly in appreciation. He slowly blew on the liquid and took a sip, savoring the floral, bright multi-layered flavor of the first flush, and then puckered his lips against the astringent nature of the liquid.

“The Queen of Teas has a bit of a sting, does she not?” the Immortal said, carefully setting his cup back down. He would wait to drink more when the hot liquid cooled to a more palatable temperature.

“Most females do, my boy.” Gregory agreed with a wink.

He set his teacup onto the gleaming silver tray and patted the crumbs from his lips with a linen napkin. Gregory could almost hear the questions the Halcyon wanted to ask. It would be easy to give the younger man the answers before the questions were presented; however, a portion of their conversation was not meant for Caine’s ears alone.

In the meantime, because he liked the fellow seated across from him, he would tell Master Spencer a thing or two about their mutual friend. The Immortal’s host selected a dainty spinach quiche and studied it. He consumed the bite-sized morsel before beginning his tale. The Halcyon leaned back in his chair and tucked his arms behind his head and listened with rapt attention. The humorous stories Gregory told the Halcyon about Methos (fudging just a bit on the dates and locations) just gave the younger Immortal some interesting leverage when next he saw the Eldest.

Methos could be maddeningly close-mouthed when he chose. Caine thought to himself.

“So, did he ever tell you who gave him his Ivanhoe?” Caine asked. For as long as he’d known the Oldest, the Halcyon did not remember Methos ever mentioning the origins of his cherished weapon.

“No, he did not.” The other man said with a bland smile; if the young man before him only knew . . .

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

“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 Shadowfax forward. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider.


Merlin knew Methos hadn’t opportunity to gather up his belongings on that night; the venerable old man made sure to tuck the blade into the bedroll secured to the back of Shadowfax’ saddle, where it would be found in due time. The sword itself was twin to Excalibur; Nimue ceded to Merlin’s insistence that certain elements and embellishments be modified to better reflect the qualities of the wielder to whom it would belong. The old gentleman knew full well that his Pupil had walked the path of darkness, and flirted dangerously with it occasionally. All in his Order believed Methos irredeemable and unworthy of the blade; Merlin, however, felt otherwise – he sensed the goodness in Methos’ heart (though it, at Ages at a time, flickered and sputtered as a candle in the wind) was in fact, deeply rooted. The Others scoffed that their ‘Associate’ entertained a fool’s hope. Methos’ Teacher knew there would be difficult choices the Eldest would face, how their resulting consequences would drive lesser Men into the abyss of despair, madness – or both; there would also be great personal sacrifices the younger Man would make in the future, and the inevitable heartache that would follow. Although Merlin knew well how the hearts of Men were easily corrupted, the Wizard firmly believed his Pupil’s character would ultimately reveal him as worthy of the esteemed blade -- that the strength of Methos’ heart was as that of the fierce lions that graced the quillions of his blade . . . : : : :


“Tell me, what was he like when you first met?” Caine queried.

“Less jaded.” Gregory replied with a playful grin. The Halcyon merely raised an eyebrow.

“Really . . . .” Caine murmured thoughtfully; that was difficult to imagine..

Gregory gave the Immortal a wide grin. The good humor in his blue-grey eyes dimmed slightly, for the Host perceived the figure lingering out of sight, listening intently to their conversation just outside the open door. Caine’s host smiled. Now that all the players were in place, easing the young man’s mind wouldn’t hurt a thing, he decided.

“So . . . have you heard from Adam?” Caine asked.

“No; have you?” Gregory asked.

“No. He mentioned he was going out of town, with MacLeod and Dawson. He said they’d be back in two weeks’ time. Its going on the end of the third week.”

“Does that worry you?” Gregory asked.

“I’m just curious; although . . . I’d hate for him to be in some kind of trouble.” Caine said.

“Oh, he’s a big boy. I’m sure he can handle himself quite well.” The old gentleman said.

“Yes, but he’s also quite good about keeping to a schedule.”

“We cannot control everything, Caine.”

“I know; I guess I am worried about him -- but don’t tell him that.”

Rising from his desk, Gregory wiped his hands clean. Striding over to a large, upright cabinet, the Immortal’s host opened the heavily carven doors and withdrew two long, cylindrical tubes and carried them to the desk. The old gentleman detached the lids before carefully removing the contents; unfurling the papers, the Proprietor used several books as weights to prevent the papers from rolling up again.

“Let me show you something, Caine.” Gregory said, motioning the younger man to his side.

The Halcyon stood and joined his host. Studying the maps, the Immortal crossed his arms over his chest and frowned.

“What is this?” the Second One asked.

“This, Caine, is a map.” Gregory answered.

“Yes, I can see that, Gregory.” The Halcyon said dryly. “What I meant, was: what about it?”

“That’s where they are.” His Host replied.

“You can’t be serious.’” Caine said bluntly.

“And why ever not?” Gregory asked.

“Because this place doesn’t exist. . .you mean to tell me that all three of them are here ---?” The Immortal said, striving to keep the sarcasm from his voice.

“You’re absolutely correct, dear boy. ” Gregory agreed. Caine raised an eyebrow, but held his tongue. Much as he liked Gregory, he wasn’t fond of the term ‘boy’.

“Now you’re talking out of both sides of your mouth, Sir.” Caine said.

“Look carefully, Caine. Can you not liken this world to yours?” Gregory asked.

Caine’s skeptical expression melted into a thoughtful one as he carefully studied the map; at first glance, the Immortal would not have thought it a map of Europe, since the depiction was of a single great land mass. However, if this ‘Middle-earth’ was made of independently moving sections that experienced an incredible continental drift, well . . . Caine could not ignore the striking similarities Middle-earth and modern day Europe.

“Okay,” Caine allowed “But how . . they could be anywhere!” The Halcyon said disbelievingly as he gestured towards the map.

“They’re here.” Gregory replied, pointing to a place on the map.

“’Rohan’?” Caine asked. “What’s in ‘Rohan’?” the Immortal asked.

“Answers.” Gregory replied.

“And they’ll come home from there?”

“No, not quite yet, dear boy. They must journey to Gondor to return home.”

“How many more days will that add to their journey?” Caine asked. He didn’t relish the thought of having his house, as well as his wife and himself, targeted as the best way for new Immortals to test themselves for an extended period of time.

“It all depends on what they each discover there.” Gregory replied.

“You can’t be serious!” Caine exclaimed, not liking what he was hearing. His Host’s sharp glance made the Immortal bite back his next words. Taking a moment to calm himself, the Halcyon chose a safer question.

“Is there any way to get a message out to them?” Caine ventured hopefully.

“If there was, what would you have to say?” Gregory asked, evading the question.

“Hurry the bloody hell up over there. Do what you need to do and get out.” Caine said.

You’re not the only one who feels that way. Gregory replied silently.

#

The amber waves of grass bowed as the wind moved through their long blades. Silently moving forward, another clearly heard the low rustling sound in the grass, unheard by human ears. Cocking his head, the Elf paused; his keen hearing tracked the miniscule movements. Bending down, the Wood Elf picked up a small, smooth stone and tossed it. Lifting his bow, the Crown Prince fitted an arrow to the string as the birds took flight. Supper was on the wing – but not for long. Reflexively, in one smooth movement, the Elf drew back his bow, took aim and released the arrow. Amidst a flurry of feathers, the ptarmigan fell from the sky; before it touched the earth, the Mirkwood Elf released more arrows. Another ptarmigan, then three more unfortunate birds plummeted downwards.

After collecting his arrows, Legolas closely examined each individual wooden shaft for damage, running his long fingers over the feathered fletching before slipping them back into his quiver. Although his task took but a moment, the Crown Prince lingered. As the eyes and ears of the group, Legolas often rode ahead to descry their route; sometimes the one named MacLeod accompanied him; most times, the Elf preferred to be alone. Now was such a time. He wished to think matters over. On one hand, it felt good to be away from the others – if only for a while. On the other, Legolas could not wait to return to Jordan’s side. Despite the fact they were at odds. A temporary setback, the Wood Elf believed; however, he could not ignore the twinges of dread that were beginning to cloud his heart.

When did it all change? The Elf wondered to himself.

Previously, life was simple. Keep the woodland realm that was his home free of encroaching Orcs and giant spiders; Legolas, along with the other Elven warriors did so, until, as his father’s envoy, the Wood Elf traveled the lands, carrying out his duties as the Mirkwood emissary. Called upon by Elrond to represent the Elves and protect the Ring Bearer, the Crown Prince joined the quest to destroy the One Ring. The Wood Elf’s task was to stay alive, keep the Ring Bearer alive, rid Middle-earth of evil and go home. Mission accomplished. Afterwards, Legolas traversed the lands on a more personal, pleasant quest with his dear friend, Gimli. That too, was accomplished. Although the call of the Sea was building strength, Legolas had no true desire to depart from Arda just yet. Elessar still required his help, and Gimli -- he would enjoy his friendship with the cantankerous Dwarf till the stout fellow drew his last breath as well.

Yes, Legolas thought, there is much yet to do in Arda. I cannot leave until the time is ripe.

Then along came Jordan. Normally in total command of his emotions and actions, more and more, Legolas felt his control over his life slip away. And it all started with Jordan Waters. Initially, Legolas believed the strange woman to be sadly deluded. Fair, yes, but deluded all the same; as he and the woman grew closer, Legolas could no longer deny that, indeed, Jordan Waters was what she claimed to be---not of this world; every revelation about her only led to more questions. The Elf was intensely curious to know how Jordan crossed the boundaries between worlds, for it required magic – strong magic, which Jordan obviously did not possess, and the answers he sought were only starting to be revealed. Legolas believed (though he could not reason how and why the feeling was so strong) with each passing day Jordan remained in Imladris, she was meant to remain.

What Legolas had not expected was to become her lover. . . and then the unthinkable happened – he fell in love with her. It no longer mattered that Legolas’ chosen one was not of his world – nor that she was Mortal. Yes, the Crown Prince had asked her to Bind herself to him; despite the fact she had not yet verbally consented to have him, Legolas was not overly concerned, for he believed -- deep within his soul, that Jordan felt for him as he did her. It was Legolas’ intention to allow Jordan time to consider his offer – but not too long, lest she change her mind; to Bind herself to him would require that Jordan forgo her return to her world. Legolas’ eyes narrowed and a frown marred his features. The arrival of his lover’s ‘kin’ only served to complicate matters; the fact that this MacLeod, the Highlander, as the others called him, was able to cross worlds as well -- only raised more questions . . .

Imladris
72 hours prior

“Mannon le, Mellon (how are you, my friend)?” Elrohir asked.

“How do you think he is?” Elladan asked his brother, exasperated.

“If you would let him speak, we all will know. Let him answer.” Elrohir retorted.

The Mirkwood Elf stood with the Rivendell Lords and Dwarf, silently watching Jordan and the other Outlanders. Legolas shrugged noncommittally.

“They’ve come to take her back, Mellon (my friend).” Elrohir said matter-of-factly before he took a sip of mead. Elrond’s son ignored the glares his twin and the Dwarf shot in his direction.

“No one said Lady Jordan is leaving.” Gimli cut in confidently, with a scowl on his ruddy face.

“Oh, and do you know something we don’t?” Elrohir asked the Dwarf as he studied the stout fellow. He failed to see any redeeming qualities in the coarse, unrefined creature, and failed to understand how and why his Woodland Kin had chosen the Underground Dweller to be his closest friend. Still, he had to admit -- the fierce protectiveness which the Master Dwarf came to his friend’s defense was quite amusing – like that of a rodent coming to a cat’s defense.

Though his beady eyes were fierce, upon his lips, hidden within Gimli’s bushy beard was a tiny smile; unbeknownst to the twin Lords, the Dwarf was, in fact, privy to an interesting tidbit of information . . .

: : : : Imladris
Earlier that afternoon

After it was discovered who the Strangers were, and what bound them to the Lady Jordan, Gimli noticed when his Elf-friend left the small gathering, a clear indication that he was quite disturbed. Allowing the Wood Elf time to absorb the recent events, Gimli let him be. Before dinner, the Dwarf had gone in search of his pointy-eared friend; it was no surprise that he found Legolas at the archery range, firing his arrows in rapid succession. When the Elf Prince did not acknowledge his friend’s presence; the Dwarf knew his friend to be deeply troubled. Though bored, Gimli watched in silence as Legolas swiftly emptied four quivers into the target placed three hundred feet away; only when the center could no longer accommodate additional arrows, were the surrounding rings bristling with the feathered shafts. When the target was brought near, Gimli barely glanced at the projectiles neatly embedded in an orderly, precise manner. Still Gimli waited for the Elf to speak, but still Legolas remained silent. The Elf-friend was becoming impatient. After the Pointy-Ear pulled free the last shaft, did the son of Glóin speak.

“She spoke the truth.” The Dwarf said gruffly.

Legolas did not reply, but continued to sort the arrows into their respective quivers.

“She did say her companions would come.” Gimli continued. His Elven friend paused for the briefest moment before continuing his task.

“Well?” Gimli grunted, with his thick arms crossed over his barrel-chest. He was beginning to lose his patience with the Mirkwood Elf.

“She will leave --” he continued.

“She will remain here.” Legolas interrupted calmly.

Gimli looked at his friend skeptically, wondering if the Elf had too much afternoon sun.

“Confident, are ye?” The Dwarf countered.

“I have reason to be.” Legolas replied with a level gaze and gave the Dwarf an enigmatic look.

“Phagh! Riddles are best reserved for wizards – why think you she will stay?” Gimli asked

“I asked her to Bind herself to me.” Legolas calmly answered.

The Elf’s words caught the stout fellow off guard. Gimli blinked several times, and his mouth worked silently for a few seconds before his ruddy face broke into a wide grin. The son of Glóin grasped the Elf by his elbows, and was about to draw him into a fierce hug, when he immediately sobered.

“Did she . . . ?”

“Accept? Not yet.” Legolas said. “But she will.” The Elf added confidently.

Gimli nodded; although he was thrilled for his pointy-eared friend, the Elf-friend did not think the matter would be settled that easily. Privately, the son of Glóin wondered if the matter could be settled so simply. However, if the Elf felt secure about his Lady’s heart, then it was enough for the Dwarf to believe the same . . . if only he could get past his unease. There was something about the tall, pale one, the Son-of-Pier, that did not sit right with the son of Glóin; : : : :

Elladan stood silently at his brother’s side, a solemn expression on his face; their Mirkwood friend (as he had throughout the meal), remained silent, though his blue gaze often focused on his lover. Finally, Legolas spoke.

“Excuse me.” The Golden Elf said.

Legolas made his way towards the balcony, where the Lady Jordan had walked. The remaining three silently watched the Golden Elf weave his way through the crowd; certain their woodland kin was out of ear shot, Elladan waited still before punching his brother in the arm.

“Man (What)?!” Elrohir exclaimed his mead sloshed onto his hand.

“I am sure he already knows that.” Elladan said.

“Well, maybe ‘twill spur Legolas to action. He is quite complacent about it. If it were me, I’d -- ”

“Throw a tantrum and beg the maiden to remain by your side.” Elladan finished for his twin.

“Is that wrong?” Elrohir asked innocently.

“You’ve not courted a maiden in an Age--” Elladan reminded his brother.

“We’ve had more important matters to tend to--” Elrohir retorted.

“— true, but when you did, if memory serves me correctly -- you are always the first to flee, especially when the maiden became too attached to you. And that is wrong. If you weren’t my brother --”

“I’d be someone else’s brother.” Elrohir said with a cheeky grin. “Well, I’d still do it, if the maiden of my choice were to leave me --” Elrohir insisted.

“No one said Lady Jordan is leaving.” Gimli cut in confidently.

“Oh really, Fangon (Bearded One)? The Lady’s kin comes from afar to reclaim her. Surely even you don’t think they will leave without her, simply because she and Legolas are . . . er, how shall we say –

“Close.” Elladan provided tactfully.

“Lovers.” Elrohir said firmly.

“Hrmmph.” Gimli grunted; the Elven Lord had given voice to the Dwarf’s private fears for his pointy-eared friend. Still, hope remained, but only time would tell.

“Indeed.” Elrohir said.

His brother said nothing more. By mutual consent, with goblets of Miruvor and mead in hand, the twin Lords and Dwarf stood silently together, each wrapped in their own private thoughts as they watched the woman’s ‘companions’. : : : :


Mortals. Sometimes Legolas wondered why he bothered with them; yet, as quickly as it came, the Elf dismissed the uncharitable thoughts from his mind. Legolas knew exactly why he bore with Mortals (especially since one Mortal in particular held his heart with an iron grip); contrary to what his Sire believed, the scion of Thranduil knew his existence would be very dull indeed without them. Aragorn, Gimli, and those descended from the house of Théoden, had enriched Legolas’ life -- more than the Elf ever believed possible.

The Mirkwood Prince reluctantly turned his attention back to the fowl; pulling up several blades of grass, Legolas efficiently trussed the birds together by their feet before continuing his hunt. Walking lightly through the knee-high grasses, it was not long before his search yielded several nests hidden from sight. Using more of the long grass, the Elf quickly and efficiently wove the amber blades together, fashioning a carrying basket. Deftly, he placed the eggs inside and cushioned the fragile shells with their nesting materials. With a sigh, Legolas pursed his lips and gave a long, piercing whistle. As he waited for his mount to appear, Legolas’ brows dipped down and his azure gaze took on a faraway look. Once again, his thoughts turned to his heart’s desire.

Confident that Jordan would agree to his offer, Legolas looked forward to meeting her ‘kin’, considering it an opportunity to better acquaint himself with his future in-laws; the Crown Prince had been patiently awaiting Jordan’s answer. Legolas was patient as all Elves are; and he continued to be patient with her, even as they began their journey to the White City. However, still Jordan remained silent. During the first leg of their journey, secure in the fact that Jordan’s actions spoke what her words did not, the Elf did not immediately seek an answer to his proposal; however, as they drew closer to Gondor, the fact he still had not received an answer from his lover did not sit well with him at all. Though he refused to doubt Jordan’s feelings for him, Legolas could not deny that he was beginning to become concerned.

There was seldom opportunity for Legolas and Jordan to talk privately for but a few moments, for son-of-Daw, the legless one, would then be at her side. MacLeod, as the Elf privately called him, rarely left Jordan’s side. Duncan MacLeod. The innate, Elven ability to sense the Outlander’s very essence was that of a warrior. MacLeod’s stance, his hard body, classically sculpted face and intense, dark eyes -- framed by shoulder length black hair, was kept neatly pulled back into a silver clasp. The clasp itself, a singular piece of silver, was intricately knotted so that there was no beginning, nor end. Legolas remarked to Jordan that it was similar to the Elven design; she told him it symbolized eternity. The Elf was intrigued, for he did not think it possible for Mortals to grasp the concept of infinity. Jordan had also told Legolas of MacLeod’s intensely protective nature. The Elf’s blue eyes narrowed.

I possess one, too, Meleth nín. No one takes what is mine. No one. Legolas thought grimly to himself.

The rhythmic canter of hooves announced Arod’s arrival, breaking the Elf’s thoughts. With a sharp neigh and a toss of his head, the horse pranced closer to his Elf. Grasping the beast’s bridle, Legolas stroked his mount’s velvety nose absently.

“And where have you been?” Legolas asked his friend as he walked towards the saddle. Arod neighed and pawed at the ground.

“Really?” The Elf said.

Legolas was about to tie the fowl to the back of the saddle when Arod stepped away.

“Have you spiders under your saddle?” despite his words, the Mirkwood Prince smiled at his horse’s antics. Arod snorted.

“Do not fret, Arod; the filly will yet be there when we arrive at Meduseld.” the Elf said as he gave the horse’s rump an affectionate slap. Arod snorted and tossed his head, the whites of his eyes showing; nonetheless, he stilled, allowing his Elf to secure the fowl to the saddle.

“Shall we go meet them?” Legolas asked his horse before gracefully leaping onto the equine’s back; grasping the reins loosely, the Wood Elf allowed the horse to choose their path.

Galloping up a wind swept knoll, horse and rider came to a stop on the summit. Scanning the magnificent field before him, the Elf clearly saw in the distance, a company of horsemen a league away, galloping towards them. Legolas recognized the Rider in the lead to be the Marshal of the East-mark. The Wood Elf waited until the Riders to drew nearer before urging Arod down the knoll; when they were two hundred yards apart, the lead Rohirrim raised his long spear in the air. As a unit, the Rohirrim slowed, and then came to a stop, their horses neighing and chomping at the bit. Legolas spoke softly to Arod, who also slowed to a walk, giving the Marshal time to recognize the lone figure.

“My Lord Legolas!” the Rider called in salutation.

Elfhelm, the Marshall of the East-mark, swung off his horse and walked towards the Mirkwood Elf. Legolas also dismounted and met the Marshall. Taking their cue from their leader, the other Riders relaxed into a more comfortable position atop their mounts; their spears, though not held quite so threateningly, were still poised should circumstances change. The Crown Prince did not comment on their continued vigilance, watching silently as several Riders continued to scan the horizon. The War of the Ring had taken many from the Free Races, and the Rohirrim weren’t about to lose another of their kin without exacting immediate retribution.

“Greetings, Elfhelm. What news of the Mark?” Legolas asked.

“We ride to Meduseld, my Lord, to give news to Éomer King of stragglers from the Dark Army. We still repel Strangers from the Mark.”

“’Stragglers’ and ‘Strangers’?” the Elf asked.

“Yes, my Lord. We have confirmed reports of bands of Easterlings and Haradhrim in Rohan. Still others report their livestock being killed.”

“By what?”

“Something big -- The tracks show a large animal; we believe wolves are the culprit.” Elfhelm replied. Legolas’ dark brow rose slightly as the Marshall continued to speak.

“Cattle and horses are missing, killed or partially eaten. Several horses were found with their bellies torn open.” The Horseman’s voice was tight with suppressed anger; his own mount, a gift from his departed Sire, was one of them.

“Orcs?” Legolas asked.

“’Tis hard to say, my Lord -- although we are searching for them.” Elfhelm replied. Something in the man’s eyes, the unease in the tone of the Marshall’s voice caught the Elf’s attention.

“There is more, is there not?” Legolas said. Elfhelm hesitated before answering the Fair Being.

“The villagers are frightened; most are comprised mostly of women and children. Several villages have been raided –more than once. We have had increasing run ins with the Wild Ones.” Elfhelm said.

“Are the villages and dwellings protected?”

“To the best of our abilities, my Lord. We have suffered heavy losses, as you know. A few men are left to guard the dwellings and crops.”

The ones unfit to ride. Legolas thought to himself.

“Aye. I know.” Legolas replied. Sparing the Riders accompanying him a glance, Legolas saw that many were but youths, but the look in many an eye was that of one much older.

“I must needs divide my Éored, in order to see to safety of the villages.”

The Marshal’s reply answered why the Riders numbered but sixty, not the usual one hundred and twenty; Legolas’ bright blue gaze touched briefly on the Riders’ faces; the Éored accompanying Elfhelm were hardly more than boys, and their long spears were taller than a good portion of their wielders.

They look as if they were expecting an attack at any moment. The Elf thought to himself.

Legolas recognized many who sat atop their beasts, for they had fought at Helm’s Deep. Many of them had yet to grow their first beards, as was common with Men. The ones who did grow facial hair resembled more the fuzz on a peach. Elfhelm, in turn, studied the fair being before him. Never in his life did he dare to see these wondrous creatures, yet, he also fought alongside (and witnessed the death of) many of the First Born at the Hornburg. Elfhelm’s gaze turned to the ptarmigan behind the Elf saddle.

“Do you ride alone, Prince Legolas?” he asked.

“Nay, I ride with the Gimli the Dwarf and four others.” Legolas answered.

“Very good, my Lord. When shall I inform Éomer King to expect you?” the Marshal inquired.

“By the morrow. We are encamped two leagues away from here.” The fair Being replied.

“Take care, my Lord. The Riddermark is not yet cleansed from the scourge of the Dark; we yet have much work to do in that regard.” Elfhelm warned the Elf.

“Thank you, Elfhelm.” With a nod to the Elf, the Rohirrim called to his companions.

“To Edoras, Éored!” the Marshal cried to his Riders, wheeling his horse about; one by one, the unit followed their Marshal and thundered away.

“It appears Rohan, like Imladris, is in need of cleansing as well. Perhaps we may offer our services to a friend.” The Mirkwood Elf murmured thoughtfully as he stroked his horse’s neck. Legolas watched the Riders of Rohan a moment longer. With a neigh, the Elf-bearer turned and galloped back to camp.

#

“Are you going to stay on the horse all night, too?” Duncan said with a chuckle; holding his arms up, he waited to help his student dismount.

“I hurt too much to move.” Jordan said, as the Highlander’s rich baritone laugh filled the air.

“Pain is weakness leaving the body, Jordie. C’mon, down you go. Aren’t you glad we’re done riding for the day?” Duncan asked as his student as he helped her down, steadying her until her seemingly boneless legs could safely support her once again.

Am I glad? Jordan asked herself.

Another day over meant another day less in Middle Earth . . . and with a certain Elf. Meeting the Highlander’s soulful brown eyes, Jordan smiled weakly and nodded, not giving voice to the conflicting feelings within her. Teetering on the brink of indecision, the urge to tell Duncan everything between her and the Elf was almost overwhelming. The Clansman sensed her inner turmoil, for his gaze sharpened as he studied her face.

“What is it Jordan?” Duncan asked gently with a concerned look on his face. An excellent opportunity to unburden herself to the Highlander; Jordan opened her mouth to speak.

“I need a bath.” The woman said.

“We all do.” Duncan said wryly. “Unfortunately, it’ll have to wait until Legolas returns, then we’ll see if we can get you one, Jordie. Gimli might know of a good watering hole to refill our canteens and get a bath. I’ll ask.” The Highlander said.
”
“Sounds like a plan, Duncan.” Jordan replied. The Chieftain’s Son gave her an affectionate grin before going to check on the others.

Stupid coward! Jordan’s mind mockingly sneered at her as she watched the Clansman’s broad back retreat.

Having the Highlander by her side virtually every sleeping and waking moment was a convenient excuse to continue to avoid the matter of Legolas’ proposal. In Rivendell, Duncan insisted upon staying within the young Immortal’s quarters; she in the bed, and the Highlander on a cot thoughtfully provided by Ceallach --out on the balcony. If she did get a respite from her Teacher, then it was the Watcher’s turn to play nursemaid.

The young Immortal kicked a stone out of her way as she continued to inwardly curse her cowardice. Jordan did have several opportunities to steal away, to speak privately with the Elf. With a sense of unease, the woman knew she could have made the time. Instead, she allowed herself to be sequestered by her Mentor and his Watcher. The Elf deserved an answer. Jordan knew she was deliberately running away from the issue at hand, unwilling to make a decision. Either way, someone would get hurt. The question was: who?

The youngest Immortal vowed she’d work up the courage to deal with all the problematic males in her life soon. Feeling a little better about her decision, Jordan stretched her legs and studied the landscape. The mountains in the distance loomed tall and majestic; she gazed out at the wind swept, wide-open plains; there were hardly any trees, but plenty of hills, knolls, crags and flat areas. In the distance, the mountain ranges loomed tall, proud and seemingly insurmountable. Apparently this area, semi-sheltered by a rocky outcrop on three sides, was to be their campsite.

“Come on, horsie – nice horsie. Come with me . . . please.” Jordan said coaxingly to the beast.

It took several gentle, tentative tugs on the reins before the beast willingly cooperated. Leading the horse closer to where the Watcher and the Dwarf were setting up the campfire, Jordan began undoing the leather knots securing her and Duncan’s sleep rolls, looking up occasionally at the elder Immortals as snippets of their conversation floated to her when the wind changed direction.

“MacLeod, a little help here would be nice.” The Eldest called.

“Shoe’s on the other foot now, eh?” Duncan said with a grin.

“Are you still upset about Bree . . . ?” Methos answered with a grimace

“Whatever gave you that idea, Adam?” the younger Immortal asked.

“Just get over here, will you?” The Oldest retorted.

The Clansman grinned as he helped the Ancient One unload supplies from the horses. Whatever else the Highlander said caused Methos to smile wryly as the Eldest divested himself of his long, dark coat. The Ancient glanced around, searching for a suitable place to lay it down. Finally deciding a large boulder would do, Methos laid it down; a muffled clank could be heard as the sword – and other weapons -- hidden in its folds hit the rock. Stooping slightly, the Eldest rearranged the folds to disguise the odd stiffness in the fabric where his Ivanhoe was nestled. Adam Pierson. Another person she had put off dealing with.
Talk about burning the candle at both ends! Jordan thought ruefully to herself.
Watching her fellow Immortals, the woman could not help but compare them. Adam and Duncan. Polar opposites – Adam was as pale as the Highlander was swarthy, his leaner build more akin to an underfed graduate student next to Duncan’s muscular bulk. Jordan knew all too well that it was merely a carefully crafted illusion. Adam’s physique, though often hidden beneath the loose, bulky sweaters he favored, was in reality, hard and sleek, his muscles long and lean, like that of a runner . . . and no less powerful than the Scot.

Almost like Legolas’ Jordan’s mind supplied automatically.

The woman mentally shook herself, wondering where that line of thought came from. With an uncanny sense of timing, Adam looked up and gave her a boyish grin, the expression softening the sharp planes of his patrician features; Jordan quickly looked away. That charming, shy smile, complete with a rare flash of dimples, brought back memories she tried so hard to (but could not entirely) forget.

From across his horse’s back, Methos’ grin widened as he watched Jordan quickly looked away. With a nod in her direction, the Ancient One addressed the Highlander.

“How is she doing, MacLeod?”

“Not bad; better than I thought. Still isn’t much for horses, though.” Duncan replied.

The Eldest merely continued to work silently. The Highlander paused and observed his friend thoughtfully; since they arrived in Rivendell, he realized the Elder Immortal had pretty much kept to himself, not speaking, unless it was absolutely necessary.

“You don’t have much to say.” The Highlander commented. Methos shrugged.

“Between the Dwarf and Dawson, there’s not much left to say.” The Ancient One said with a sardonic grin.

The Highlander simply grinned. Duncan was in such a good mood; he didn’t think anything could spoil it. The younger Immortal was looking forward to the evening, for it meant they were that much closer to their destination and home – this time, with Jordan. With a glance in his Student’s direction, the Highlander saw she hadn’t finished unloading their horse.

“I’ll help her unpack.” Duncan said.

“Knock yourself out, MacLeod.” Methos replied without looking up from his work.

“You’re in a mood.” Duncan commented. His Elder did not reply. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Duncan turned away.

“Need help, Jordie?” The Highlander called.

With one hand resting on the horse’s neck, Jordan peered at her Mentor from under the beast’s head.

“No thank you, Duncan – I’ll be fine.” The youngest Immortal called back, waving him away.

Keeping busy meant she had less time to think about her personal crises. The Immortals paused mid-task when they felt the wash of awareness as the other Immortal approached. Soon Legolas and his mount cantered into view. Jordan watched her lover with longing eyes. There was so much between them that remained unsaid. With a sigh, she reluctantly looked away, only to see Adam watching her. Jordan ducked her head down, and pretended to concentrate on her task. She didn’t dare look up again.

“Well, that didn’t take long.” Methos commented to the Highlander.

“Middle-earth equivalent to ‘fast food’, eh?” The Clansman quipped

“Give me a menu any time of the day.” Methos said.

“Lost your taste for the great outdoors?” The younger Immortal quipped. Methos gave the younger Immortal a withering look.

“What I haven’t lost is my taste for a nice, thick, juicy steak with all the trimmings and a chilled bottle of chardonnay.” The Eldest said.

Duncan laughed; he, on the other hand, was actually was enjoying himself. Hunting the old way -- with bow, arrow, spears and traps brought back many bittersweet memories of long ago, most notably when Highlander’s wanderings brought him to an American Indian village in the mountain vastness of the Pacific Northwest. There, Duncan lived with the beautiful widowed squaw, Little Deer, and her son, his adopted brave, Kahani, until the entire village was massacred by the Immortal Kern, who was working as a Confederate scout for the cavalry. It took several centuries, but Kern eventually paid for that deed in spades.

The Immortals continued their lighthearted bantering as they prepared for the night. Legolas set down the brace of ptarmigan near the Watcher and continued on his way to Jordan’s side.

“Looks like we’re on kitchen patrol tonight, Gimli.” Joe informed the Dwarf.

Gimli grunted; he had no idea what the Man was talking about – nor how he would patrol with his limp. Frankly, he did not think Joe up to the task.

“I meant its our turn to cook.” Joe clarified as he drove two ‘Y’ shaped branches on either side of the fire pit with a heavy rock.

“Well why did you not say so?” Gimli asked.

“I just did!” Joe cried with an exasperated look.

“You speak strangely.”

“You should talk!” Joe muttered loud enough for Jordan to hear.

“What’s that?” Gimli asked.

“You shouldn’t do that--” Joe said. Gimli had unstopped the waterskins and placed them next to the supporting branches.

“I know what I’m doing!” Gimli insisted; no sooner had he spoken, than the skins tipped over, spilling the contents.

“Son of an Orc --!” the Dwarf cursed as he hurried to save the remaining water. Joe wisely said nothing; instead, he busied himself with the brace of ptarmigan. He hadn’t had to dress a bird since days spent in the sweltering jungles and abandoned villages of Vietnam, where they had to chase the scrawny chickens left behind when the villages abandoned their villages in search of refuge and safety.

Better let the experts deal with this. The Watcher thought to himself.

“Hey Mac! Can you do something with these?” The Watcher said, holding the birds up.

“Be there in a sec, Joe.” The Highlander answered.

“Jordie, set our rolls over here when you get a chance, would you? Your spot’s over there.” Duncan said, gesturing to a prime sheltered place. The Highlander went to help with the dinner preparations before something else could go wrong. Jordan smiled to herself as she hoisted her bedroll.

“Yes, Duncan.” Jordan answered. Contemplating what the evening would hold, the woman was startled to hear Legolas’ voice behind her.

“Let me help you, Meleth nín (my love).” The Elf said.

Turning to face the Elf, Jordan looked up at the Mirkwood Elf with a tentative smile on her face. Blue eyes searched green; both wondering what the other was thinking; Legolas’ strong, elegant hand closed over hers, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze before easily removing Duncan’s bedroll from the horse’s back.

“Thank you.” The Immortal said.

“We will speak tonight.” Legolas quietly said.

He had been patient. The rest of their lives could wait no longer wait. They would speak of their Binding -- tonight. Jordan nodded in silent agreement. From a short distance away, Methos took it all in, his face impassive. As he continued to observe the pair, Legolas’ eyes met Methos’ unflinching gaze and held it, before the Mirkwood Prince turned and walked away.

#

Perched atop the highest crag, the Elf half-listened to the conversations below him as he scanned the horizon. Mindful of Elfhelm’s words, the Elf’s eyes searched the flatlands before him for signs of danger; below him, the campsite was prepared, the sleeping arrangements made, and dinner was cooking – something everyone was looking forward to; lifting the lid, Gimli peered inside; the stew was bubbling nicely, but it was much too thick for the stout fellow’s liking. Tipping his water skin to the pot, the son of Glóin frowned when nothing came out of it; upending it, the Dwarf gave the skin a few hard shakes.

“Blast!” the Dwarf grumbled.

“Something wrong, Gimli?” Jordan asked. The Immortal was in the middle of preparing her pallet for the night.

“I’m out of water!” Gimli muttered.

“I’ll get the water.” Methos quickly volunteered. “If you’ll tell me where to get to it.” The Immortal added.

“Well, there’s a good laddie.” Gimli said; filling waterskins – although very important, was the least of his favorite chores to do.

Just as long as you don’t pat me on the head. The Ancient One thought to himself.

“Hey, way to step up to the plate, Adam.” Duncan smirked as he tossed his water skin to the Eldest, who caught it.

“Anything for a friend, MacLeod.” Methos said amiably with a benign smile. He turned away before the younger Immortal could attach a different meaning to his words.

“The Adorn River is one mile south from here.” Gimli said, squinting up at the tall, pale Man.

“One mile south; fine. I’ll water the horses while I’m there; see you in a little bit.” Methos said.

Collecting the rest of the skins, the Immortal secured the leathern vessels to his mount and set about rounding up the rest of the horses; the Eldest swung into the saddle and trotted away with the other horses in tow. Legolas watched the Son-of-Pier ride off, with a frown on his fair face.

#

“Why do I always find myself in these positions?” The Immortal asked aloud.

Methos squinted up at the sun as he muttered under his breath. The horses drank their fill, and were grazing a short distance away. A cold breeze nipped at the Immortal as he knelt by the stream. The Ancient One finished topping off all but one water skin; saving Jordan’s for last, Methos held the neck in the quickwater; bored, he watched as it filled it halfway, then hesitated. Thoughtfully, the Immortal stared at his reflection ripple and waver in the water as it flowed by.

“Am I doing the right thing?” Methos asked his reflection. His likeness frowned back.

I manipulate people. I’m good at that, and I know it. I lie, I keep secrets . . . there is power in secrets that you keep. I only divulge only what I must to elicit to reaction I want. That skill has kept me alive for quite a while. Methos thought to himself.

The Ancient One thought back to another time, long past, when he followed his instincts. . . .

: : : : Change and decay. It was inevitable. The Ancient One watched as, like the cycles of the moon, the world powers waxed and waned: after Babylon came Media-Persia. After Media-Persia, Greece. After Greece, the juggernaut that was the mighty Roman Empire emerged; seemingly invincible, it’s over taking of the surrounding kingdoms sure as the sun rose; no nation could long stand before its mighty legions and the brilliant military strategies of its Generals. At the pace the Empire was advancing, the Ancient One knew Rome would soon extend its considerable reach towards Egypt. Though his wanderings had taken him to the farthest reaches of the known lands, the land of golden sand held a special place in the Immortal’s heart.

More often than not, Methos was content to simply watch Mortals struggle, to see how the events around him would unfold. Occasionally, the First One dabbled in the affairs of Men -- from his time spent in the Roman Senate, through cunning maneuvers, hard political calculations, and several key assassinations, the Ancient One became involved, manipulating events, whose effects would be felt through history, like the ripples caused by one drop of water. After the death of Alexander the Great, his Generals divided the Empire amongst themselves. Following his instincts, the Methos (acting as Ptolemy’s advisor) urged the General to claim Egypt as his share of the divided Roman Empire; Ptolemy did as the Eldest suggested, and, after making Alexandria the capital of Egypt, ruled Egypt as Ptolemy I Soter.

It was a mutually beneficial arrangement for the Roman General-turned-Pharoah, Egypt. . . and the Immortal. Because of Ptolemy’s love of learning, scholars, artisans and other academic men and women, made Alexandria a haven of learning. In time, the collective intellectual efforts resulted in the advent of the Library. At last, Methos’ curiosity about the world was somewhat satisfied, his thirst for knowledge (awakened by Merlin) momentarily slaked; the Immortal stayed on in Egypt, where many years were spent in the Library, learning more about the world. The Eldest lingered, reluctant to leave. Finally, he was forced to depart the land of his birth before it was noticed by his peers that he had not aged. This time, the Immortal left Alexandria and returned to Rome with a sense of pride and satisfaction, for under the Ptolemaic Dynasty, Alexandria had become the cultural and economic hub of the ancient world. It was also during the next three centuries that Ptolemy’s descendents held Egypt in sway, ruling as Pharaohs, becoming one with their adopted land.

The Eldest returned to Alexandria when those with those whom he had mingled with had passed away, or entered their second childhood, when their claims of knowing Methos when they were young -- that he was unchanged since their youth -- were met with knowing looks and indulgent winks. By then, knowledge had increased, and the Immortal continued to walk with and learn from men and women whose intellectual contributions were preserved by history.

The winds of change were blowing again. The days of the Ptolemaic Dynasty’s were numbered, the glory days of Egypt all but faded; the Immortal knew the only way to help his homeland through the coming political strife, was to somehow unite it with the Roman Empire’s might. The Immortal was wondering how to achieve this when the fates smiled upon him.

Methos always kept abreast of the political happenings surrounding him, especially if it concerned his homeland; through his contacts within the Senate, the Centurions and from Caesar himself, the Ancient One knew the Dynasty he helped to establish was ready to fall to the Roman Empire -- unless the Immortal intervened once more.

Methos knew choice tidbits of information that history failed to record -- like how tall Nero actually was. He had seen Helen of Troy’s face up close and personal; contrary to popular belief, Helen’s face wasn’t that great – and it only launched a couple hundred -- not a thousand ships. The Immortal also knew Caesar’s favorite food was not salad; rather, it was antelope and both the teats and udder of a sow, pickled in the pungent, fermented fish sauce, garum. Unfortunately, the sow’s teats did not agree with Caesar, and when he overindulged in his favorite foodstuffs and needed immediate relief, the Ancient One often helped the groaning famed dictator to the vomitorium, only to return to the feast and repeat the pugnacious cycle until the wee hours of the dawn. After eating a 17 course meal where honey covered ants and peacock brains were the main garnishes, eating, drinking and vomiting was basically life in ancient Rome – at least for the well to do.

Methos seized the opportunity to accompany Caesar when he casually mentioned to the Immortal that he planned to journey to Alexandria; after setting up camp and receiving the latest word from the Generals under Caesar, in the dead of night, Methos slipped away. Disguised as a slave, the Eldest infiltrated the royal palace, and with little trouble, Cleopatra VII’s chambers. What he found was quite enlightening; Methos was greatly surprised to discover Cleopatra to be (for a woman), quite brilliant – fluent in nine languages (unfortunately, Latin was not one of them) the Immortal recognized her potential for greatness; not only was she an excellent business woman, the Ptolemaic woman held a genuine respect for Caesar.

Knowing time was of the essence, before Rome’s legions could strike, the Ancient One decided Cleopatra and Caesar should meet. Her sharp intelligence and quick wit would be a worthy match for the Roman dictator. Apparently, great minds think alike, for the Eldest learned the Hellinistic queen was seeking an audience with Caesar; however, every attempt was thwarted – if only she could get past enemy lines to the dictator! It was Methos’ suggestion that Cleopatra hide herself in a roll of carpet to be delivered to Caesar; the Ptolemaic queen did as the Immortal suggested, and the rest, as they say, was history. Unfortunately, Cleopatra’s bid to become the Empress of the world was cut short with her unexpected suicide. Alas, all the Immortal’s hard work was wasted – depending on how one chose to look at it. : : : :

The splash of a fish leaping out of the water brought the Immortal back to the present. Studying the skin he held in his hand, the Immortal stared at the Elvish designs stamped around the body of the skin. Rivendell. Eyes narrowed in thought, the Ancient One pursed his lips as his mind wandered back to the feast the Peredhil gave, shortly before their departure. . .

: : : : Lounging in the balcony doorway with the Watcher, Methos watched the other guest; searching the crowd, the Eldest saw that Jordan and her Teacher still had yet to arrive.

“Y’know, I think I’m actually gonna miss this place.” Joe commented.

Too bad we can’t stay longer. The Eldest regretfully thought to himself.

Save for the irritatingly ever-present Buzz, every day spent with the Elves (legends of a different sort – and in the flesh, no less) left the Ancient One with a sense of frustrated exhilaration; the Immortal’s thirst for learning, awakened by Merlin, was once again whetted by the Peredhil. Since their arrival, after touring Imladris with Jordan, the Wood Elf and Dwarf, the Eldest, the Highlander and the Watcher spent a great portion of their days in Elrond’s library, poring over the maps of Middle-earth, planning their journey’s route with Prince Legolas and Master Gimli, who were to act as their guides to the White City. To be in such a room filled with volumes of bound tomes written in Elvish, to handle the maps in such pristine, mint condition left the Eldest with a profound sense of loss. There was so much to learn from Elrond, and virtually no time in which to do it. That point was made painfully clear, as the night’s feast signaled many partings, for the Outlanders, as well as the Sons of Elrond, would leave on the morrow. It amused the Immortal to hear the wistful note in the Watcher’s voice.

“Really—why’s that?” Methos asked.

“Oh, I dunno; it’s different. Kinda like living in a fairy tale.”

Every tale has an end . . . the Eldest cynically thought to himself.

“Will you miss it enough to give up ‘Le Blues’? Or Hi-Def television with a good baseball game going, an ice-cold beer in one hand and a remote in the other?” Methos inquired with a wry smile. The Watcher remained silent for all of three seconds as he considered the question.

“Hell, no! When you put it that way, there’s really no choice, Adam!” Joe said with a grin.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Methos said with a bland grin before he returned to surveying the room.

The Ancient One’s eyes were drawn to the fair head that stood out like a beacon. Feeling eyes upon him, Legolas turned and met Methos’ gaze. For a moment, the immortals stared at each before Methos inclined his head in greeting. The Golden Elf acknowledged the Immortal as well, but turned with the rest of the Elves towards the doorway expectantly. Taking his cue from the Elves, the Eldest straightened and nodded towards the doorway.

“Look alive, Joe. Time to greet the One that feeds us.” Methos said.

“Are we late?” A familiar voice asked.

The Eldest and the Watcher turned to see the Highlander and his Student linked arm-in-arm directly behind them.

“Fashionably so. What took you so long?” the older Immortal asked.

“Where’d you come from?” Joe’s question rode on the tail end of the Ancient One.

“This little lady was late getting ready and the balcony steps. Jordie knows a short cut here.” Duncan replied, answering both questions at once.

“Duncan!” Jordan exclaimed indignantly.

“Oh, excuse me – we were really late because she can’t tell time very well.” Duncan said with a perfectly straight face.

“Duncan!” This time the youngest Immortal’s outburst was accompanied by a swat on the Highlander’s arm; the Chieftain’s Son made his arm limp, feigning injury.

“I’ll wait for you anytime, Jordie.” Joe gallantly said, as he offered her his arm.

“Why thank you, Joe.” The woman said sweetly, before she turned to mock- glare at her Mentor.

“Me, too.” Methos added.

“Thank you.” Jordan said politely, with a strained smile that did not quite reach her eyes. Both the Watcher and the Highlander raised an eyebrow at that.

“What? I felt left out.” The elder Immortal said with a woeful look on his face and a shrug of his shoulders.

“C’mon, Jordie, what d’you say we leave these knuckleheads behind, hmm?” Joe suggested with a roguish grin.

The young Immortal’s smile was all the answer the Watcher needed as she tucked her hand firmly within the crook of his arm. Behind them, the older Immortals smiled at one another and fell in step behind their companions to greet their host. Lord Elrond entered, followed closely by the Princes Elladan and Elrohir. The Peredhil’s timeless eyes roamed over the gathering of Elves until his gaze rested on those he sought.

As he contemplated his strange guests, Elrond noticed that Adam, Son-of-Pier, the slightly tallest of the three Men who spoke the Elvish tongue, was more reluctant to follow his companions’ lead in not wearing the long outer jerkin. On this very night, Adam, was first seen wearing his long coat, but was reported to have returned to his quarters, to later re-appear without his long coat. Joe, the one who had taken ill, did not wear such a garment. Instead, his waistcoat bore an unusual pattern resembling boxes, whose lines were of varying shades of gray and black.

Elrond’s eyes lingered on the man with the oddly stilted, unusual stride. Thanks in large part to the Healer’s Skill, the Son-of-Daw made a remarkably quick recovery. Læurenthail and Elrond, as they had done with the Lady Jordan upon her arrival, had inspected the sickly one, and wondered together in amazement at the Man’s lower limbs. They were unbending -- save at the hinged part at what should have been the man’s knee. In fact, the unnatural lower limbs bore an astonishing resemblance to the man’s missing limbs. The Peredhil recognized the strange, circular mark upon the inside of the Man’s left wrist, a mark whose meaning the Elf-Lord did not understand, but first encountered when he touched the Leaf ‘round the Lady Jordan’s neck. There was definitely more to his unusual guests than meets the eye, and more questions, than answers.

After exchanging greetings with their Host and his sons, the Outlanders wandered back outside and stood talking quietly amongst themselves, sometimes in the language none in Imladris had heard before – not by him, his sons or the Dúnedain who accompanied them back from the village of Bree.

From his seat between Joe and Breiric the Ranger, the Ancient One looked across the table where the Highlander sat next to his Student. Gimli the Dwarf was seated between Jordan and the blonde Elf. Because the Watcher was at the Ancient One’s left, Jordan had to look in Methos’ general direction; when the Horseman asked the woman direct questions that necessitated a reply, she had no choice but to answer. Once, when the Eldest looked up, their gazes met and briefly held before Jordan flushed and quickly looked away. Keeping a bland impression on his face, Methos’ hazel eyes roamed over her face, remembering a time when she had looked at him with great admiration and deep affection; unfortunately, that was years ago.

Methos continued to watch Jordan throughout the meal as he listened quietly to the conversations around him. Apparently Lord Elrond’s sons were planning to leave shortly, despite their father’s earnest and tactful protests. Though his limp was barely noticeable, at the Peredhil’s request, it was decided that the Ranger would rendezvous with the twin Lords when he was completely healed of his wound. However, whether it was pre-arranged or by silent consent of the parties gathered, talk of the Outlanders’ return to their own land was not brought up – which was fine by Methos, as long as they left Rivendell soon. Each night spent in the Elven realm found the Ancient One becoming increasingly weary. Conditioned for so long to flee when the Buzz was felt, the journey home would be a relief in more ways than one. With that comforting thought in mind, the Eldest sat back in his chair and listened contentedly to the music softly playing in the background, for it brought back pleasant memories of Camelot. . . and Anaeia.

When the meal concluded, the Ruler granted the diners his leave, and bade his guests to enjoy themselves at the dessert tables that were set back from the edge of the dance floor. Glad for the chance to get up and walk around, Methos waited for Joe. When they first arrived, Methos was used to the curious glances sent their way. Since then, the Immortals had ceased to attract attention, and though treated with the utmost hospitality, the Ancient One noticed there were several whose eyes were constantly on them, and most noticeably, the Highlander and his Student.

“Feel like dessert, Joe?” Methos asked the Watcher.

“Why not? I wouldn’t mind watching the Elven lovelies, either.” Joe replied.

“Keep it in your pants, Joe.” The Ancient One warned jokingly as they followed the Highlander.

“Hey, the pot’s calling the kettle black, eh?” Joe shot back.

“Just calling a spade a spade.” Methos replied smoothly.

Standing in a semi-circle at the edge of the dance floor, the Immortals and Watchers made small talk as they observed the Elves dance. Though Jordan felt Adam’s gaze on her, the woman determinedly kept her attention elsewhere.

“Dessert anyone?” Methos asked.

“Yeah, I think I’ll get some.” Duncan said.

“Nah – changed my mind; I’ll pass.” Joe replied.

“Jordan?” The Ancient One asked; Methos’ golden-green gaze locked with the young Immortal’s.

“No. Thank you.” She answered, forcing a polite smile on her face.

Despite her poker face (which had improved slightly since their time together in Paris), Methos knew she wasn’t unaffected as she strived to portray, for her eyes were darker in color than normal -- a dead giveaway despite her flat expression. As
Methos and the Highlander wandered over to the dessert table; the Eldest deliberately placed himself within Jordan’s direct line of vision. There was no way she could not see him. Taking his time, the Eldest thoughtfully perused the Elvish sweetmeats and confections, inwardly amused with the fact that the woman was determined to ignore him. Methos decided he and Jordan would have to speak soon; she could not continue ignoring him, and it would become increasingly difficult once they began their journey.

As for the woman, it took all her will power to not stare at Adam; Jordan did her best to keep her face expressionless as the older Immortal watched her from the dessert table -- especially since her Elven lover stood with the twin Lords not too far away. When the Immortals returned, as Duncan conversed with the Watcher, Adam deliberately stood in front of Jordan. Picking up a plump strawberry, Adam held it before her.

“Jordan?” The Eldest asked quietly.

“No. Thank you.” she replied expressionlessly

“Suit yourself.” Methos answered, slowly biting into the juicy berry.

Methos continued to watch her face as he chewed the fruit; Jordan could feel her face starting to grow warmer as she glared up at him. Brushing past the Ancient One, Jordan grabbed Duncan’s hand and tugged the Scot towards the floor.

“Hey --!” the Highlander exclaimed.

“Come on, Duncan – let’s dance.” She asked cajolingly. Balancing his plate precariously, her Teacher protested.

“Jordie, I’m eating!”

“Finish it later – dance with me!” she wheedled as she took his plate.

“You don’t mind holding this, do you?” the young Immortal asked the Ancient One, without looking directly at him.

The woman gave Duncan a winning smile as she thrust the Highlander’s plate towards the Ancient One, pushing it into the oldest Immortal’s chest harder than necessary. Jordan’s smile slipped a notch when Methos’ fingers deliberately caressed her hand beneath the plate. As an afterthought, the Ancient One gave the woman his best boyish grin; Methos decided if he wanted to have a civil conversation with Jordan, he’d best accomplish it by not provoking her further.

“I don’t know the steps, Jordie.” Duncan said.

“That’s never stopped you before. Besides, I’ll teach you the steps!” Jordan insisted as she turned towards her Mentor.

“Fine, fine!” the Highlander said as she dragged him away.

Excited for the rare opportunity to teach her Mentor something new, Jordan took the Highlander’s hand and led him to the dance floor. Timing it so they joined the gracefully twirling Elves, the woman and the Scotsman worked their way towards the centre of floor, where it was clear of dancers. From the sidelines, Joe turned towards his friend.

“What was that all about?” Joe asked, plucking a honey coated morsel from the Highlander’s plate.

“Oh, that?” Methos asked with a slightly embarrassed grin on his aristocratic features.

“‘Watching’s’ what I do, Old Man; even if I didn’t, that stain on your shirt would’ve given it away.” Came the cheeky response.

Looking down at his tunic, Methos saw the cream and bright red berry glaze was smeared across the front of his tunic. Handing his plate to the Watcher, the Eldest took his napkin and carefully blotted up as much of the dessert as he could.

“Smart ass.” The Immortal muttered.

Joe’s grin just got wider before he turned his attention to back to the dance floor and his charge. Smiling up at the Highlander, Jordan showed him the steps; their laughter mingled when the Highlander, normally a graceful and adept dancer, faltered occasionally. With an indulgent smile, Duncan accepted Jordan’s lead, but soon it became clear that he was merely humouring her; he did not need his Student’s help to guide her thru the intricate Elvish dance. Pouting when he followed her steps easily, Jordan smiled again when her Teacher raised her chin and tapped his forehead against hers. Soon Duncan swept her into the whirling edge to join the Elves, dancing Jordan around the floor twice before moving them back to the centre of the floor, where he changed the steps into a waltz.

“So, what do you really think of this place, Joe?” Methos asked.

“Nice gig, but I wouldn’t wanna stay. Know what I mean?” the Watcher replied, turning to look at his friend.

“Yeah. I know exactly how you feel.”

“Joe, you ever notice how Prince Legolas hardly takes his eyes off Jordan?”

“Yeah, so?” the Watcher grunted; he was only half-listening to the Immortal. The Watcher decided he would do his best to have the Head Healer check him out before they left – just to make sure he was fit to travel, of course. Following the Watcher’s gaze, Methos saw the Elvish Healer was returning the Joe’s interested gaze as well. Exasperated, the Immortal clucked his tongue and would’ve wagged his finger, but he did not with to interrupt whatever was transpiring between the Elf-maiden and the Watcher.

“Don’t you think its . . . odd?”

“Nah; he’s probably doin’ that whole ‘damsel in distress’ bit.”

“Well, let’s hope that’s all there is to it.” Methos said. Apparently, that got the Watcher’s attention, for he turned towards the Immortal, giving him his undivided attention.

“What’re you saying?” Joe asked.

“That for a Watcher, you sure aren’t being very observant.”

“I’m watching Mac, and – wait a minute – are you implying that Jordie and Goldilocks . . . ! Nah.”

“All I’m saying is that he’s always close by.”

“So what -- it’s no big deal, Adam. In case you haven’t noticed, Jordie’s not exactly ugly.”

“If you say so.” The Ancient replied, not commenting on Joe’s last statement.

Methos watched the Highlander dance with his Student, whirling Jordan around the dance floor, effortlessly and gracefully. The Ancient One waited, gathering his courage to cut in. Though he wished to speak with her alone, there never seemed to be the right time, and the Eldest wished to come to some sort of understanding before they left Rivendell. It would be awkward to travel together and not speak. Methos could just imagine what the Watcher’s opinion on the matter would be. Deciding it was time to tie up loose ends, Methos handed the dessert plates to a passing servant. The Ancient took a deep breath before turning to the Watcher.

“Here I go.”

“Where’re you goin’?” Joe asked, suspicious.

“To dance with a pretty lady.” The Eldest said innocently.

“Adam . . . ” the younger Man’s warning was lost on the Eldest.

“Wish me luck, Joe.”

“It’s your funeral.” Joe muttered with a shake of his head.

“Don’t take too long with the shovel, eh?” The Immortal tossed over his shoulder as he sauntered away.

Joe sighed, not bothering to watch as his friend cut in on the Clansman and the younger Immortal’s dance, knowing he’d get the details eventually; instead, he decided to check out the barrels from which the Elves were dispensing several different types of beverages – just in case his expertise in the area was required. Maybe he’d get lucky and run into the gorgeous Elf-maiden-Healer. Making his way towards the Highlander and his Student, Methos tapped Duncan on the shoulder.

“May I?” the Ancient One asked.

“Of course.” Duncan replied.

“Couldn’t find a partner, Adam?” The Clansman muttered under his breath before he released Jordan.

“I just did, MacLeod.” Methos retorted as he assumed the Highlander’s place.

Leaning away from him, Methos’ large hand in the middle of her back pulled her closer as the Immortal led her in a waltz. Silently they danced; their long, gliding steps were in perfect unison.

“Smile, Jordan; anyone watching would think you don’t want to dance with me.” The Immortal said pleasantly as he watched her face.

“I don’t.” the woman stonily replied, trying to ignore the scent of Adam’s skin.

If she closed her eyes, she could almost believe they were back in Paris . . .as he continued to guide her across the room, Methos suddenly lowered Jordan towards the ground in a deep dip. Jordan’s eyes widened in surprise as she gripped his shoulders – her other choice was to fall to the ground. The Immortal’s lips brushed lightly across her cheek.

“You didn’t always feel that way.” Methos murmured quietly near her ear.

Jordan turned her head sharply to glare at him; that was a mistake, for it brought their faces close together, their lips just inches apart, close enough for the young Immortal to see the golden flecks in the Ancient One’s hazel eyes. In fact, Methos’ nose almost touched Jordan’s. Jordan felt the same twinge of attraction that first drew her to him; Adam still possessed the ability to stir her. Before she had a chance to react, the Eldest raised the woman once more and continued to waltz her around the room.

“I do now.” Jordan said, leaning away from him; once again, the Eldest pulled her closer.

Impertinent, senseless child. Obstinate girl. Brat. Methos thought to himself.

The Oldest was about to smile, amused, when he thought better of it. Instead, Methos sighed as he waltzed the woman around the room. As they danced to the music, the Eldest noticed the Golden Elf watching them.

Interesting. Methos thought to himself.

Methos pondered the Crown Prince. The Sindarin assassin’s graceful movements couldn’t be termed feminine, for it exuded power and strength that was tinged with confidence. The Eldest recognized the arrogance forged in battle, which, however, was tempered with experience. The accomplishments of the Golden Elf were recounted in the text he’d copied; to the best of his recollection, nothing else was written of the noble Elf, other than that he had built a boat and sailed into the West with the Dwarf. Methos wondered why the Prince did not rule his father’s woodland realm, or if the Mirkwood Prince ever married and had elflings.

What he did not particularly care for was the way the Elf’s blue eyes followed Jordan’s movements. During the meal, every time the young Immortal glanced at the Mirkwood Prince, a slight blush crept into her cheeks; despite the fact that the Elf’s serene expression hardly changed, the Eldest noted how the cerulean gaze followed Jordan, and how she gave him an apologetic look before leaving with the big Scot. Methos saw how the Elf continued to watch Jordan – how he seldom looked away from her.

Is there something going on between you two? Methos wondered; he decided to keep his suspicions to himself. For now. : : : :

Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Initially unwelcome, but now, oddly, the Highlander became a compelling and necessary part of Methos' life. The younger Immortal, despite the many Quickenings he’d earned, remained fundamentally unchanged. Great courage, insight, wisdom, humanity, kindness – qualities Duncan possessed were qualities Methos envied and admired. The aforesaid, the Eldest believed, were the source of the Clansman’s strength, what enabled the Chieftain’s Son to overcome the fierce battle of heart, soul and will with the demon, Ahriman. The Highlander had weathered more than his fair share of heartaches: the loss of Tessa, his love, the unintentional murder of his student, Richie . . . the horror visited upon him, and the resulting actions visited upon the Scotsman by the Dark Quickening. Eventually, even Joe would be taken by time and death . . . and now Jordan. Over time, Duncan had come to the oldest man, seeking his aid; when it suited him, Methos freely gave it. When he deemed it necessary, the Ancient One intervened in the younger Immortal’s life, whether he was aware of it or not, whether he wanted it or not. The Highlander would have someone he cherished close to him, hadn’t Methos seen to that? And it would stay that way; he would see to it as well.

The oldest man was devious and complex, his motives hidden under layer after layer of subtle manipulation. Methos was good at manipulating people. Given his remarkably long life, the Ancient One ought to be; he knew the power in secrets that were kept, divulging only what he must to achieve his endgame. The Ancient One reached into his overcoat and extracted the little pouch; loosening the strings, the Immortal added several generous pinches of the pale, golden powder to Jordan’s water skin, despite the fact his conscience was shrieking protest.

Guilt – the damned, useless emotion! The Immortal regretted ever picking it up again. Firmly pushing the cork in place, the Immortal gave Jordan’s water skin several good shakes to mix the contents.

Anything for a friend. The Immortal reminded himself.

“There. That should do.” The Ancient One said.

Slinging the water skins over his shoulders, the Eldest made a few adjustments and began to whistle to himself as he prepared the waterskins and horses for the return trip back to camp.


#

After returning the water skins to their respective owners, the Ancient One joined the Clansman; the older Immortals began sharpening their swords in companionable silence as Jordan, the Dwarf and the Watcher prepared to serve the meal. Gimli set his water skin by his pallet and returned to help distribute the bowls of stew Jordan ladled out, as Joe ripped flatbread apart and placed it atop the stew. The youngest Immortal stopped mid ladle when she heard Gimli grumbling under his breath.

“What’s the matter, Gimi?” she asked.

“I left me water skin by me pallet; now I’m thirsty. I doona want to get it, but I suppose I must, if I wish to drink.” He replied grumpily.

“Here, we can fix that. I have the technology.” Jordan said with a smile; unlike the others, the woman left her water skin by her side; putting the bowl and ladle down, the Immortal uncorked her skin, filled a clean, empty bowl and offered it to the Dwarf.

“My thanks.” Gimli said, reaching for it. The Dwarf gulped the liquid down; the son of Gloin sighed with relief as the cool liquid sluiced down his throat.

“Gimli.” Jordan began.

“Aye, Lass?” the Dwarf grunted as he held the bowl out for her.

“Will . . . do you think Legolas will join us tonight?” the Immortal ventured as she ladled out more stew.

Gimli squinted up at Jordan with a crafty look in his eye. Since they began their journey, the Dwarf could tell that matters between his pointy-eared friend and his Lady were becoming even more strained. Usually, Legolas would sing; the fact that his friend remained silent was not a good sign. The son of Glóin interpreted the fact that Jordan was scarcely with the Elf as a portent of ill tidings just waiting to occur.

Towards early evening, after dinner was eaten, the dishes cleaned and prepared for the morning meal, the little party took turns going to the stream to wash in the chilly water. Waiting for Adam and Joe to return to camp, Jordan helped the Dwarf prepare for the morning meal. She placed the cleaned ptarmigan eggs close to the frying pan, and set a sizeable portion of dried meat strips to soak in water overnight for their breakfast. Stifling several yawns, Jordan mentally shook herself.

Wake up! Jordan told herself; strangely, it was becoming increasingly difficult to stay awake. The Buzz of Adam’s return helped revive her a bit, but only just barely.

“The water’s damned frigid! I’ll be glad to get back to civilization, I’ve had enough of this damned lack of indoor plumbing!” Joe complained. His close-cropped silver and pepper hair spiked out in different directions, still damp from his bath.

“It wasn’t that bad, Joe.” Methos said as he tethered their horse for the night. Cold was the Atlantic, trapped in a rowboat with singing Monks, or China in the winter.

“It was bad enough!” Joe retorted

“C’mon Jordie – we’d better go while there’s still light. Who knows if the moon will be bright enough tonight.” Duncan said; the Clansman had the other horses’ reins in his hands, ready to water them for the night.

“Are you going to refill your skin, Duncan?” Jordan asked, holding both his and hers aloft.

“Might as well; always a good idea to keep them topped off.” The Highlander replied.

“Gimi, are you coming with us?” she asked.

“Nay, Lass, I’ll wait until we get to the Golden Hall.” The Dwarf replied.

Jordan and the Highlander looked at each other. Shrugging his shoulders, Duncan rounded up the other horses to be watered for the night, and swung onto his mount bareback. Urging the beast over to a group of boulders, the Highlander waited for his student.

“We’ll make a rider out of you, yet, Jordie.” Duncan said with a smile, as he extended a hand.

Jordan didn’t comment; instead, she gave her Mentor a look that said it all. Standing on the rocks, the woman grasped the Scotsman’s hand, placed her foot on his, and swung her leg over. Placing the waterskins between them, Jordan yawned widely as she wrapped her arms around the Highlander’s waist, leaned against his broad back and closed her eyes. Arriving at the stream, Duncan reined in his steed and frowned. During the trip to the river, the Highlander had to reach behind twice and steady Jordan when she almost fell off the horse.

“Jordie – are you with me?” he asked, looking over his shoulder before dismounting. The Clansman’s sharp gaze raked over his student. She was definitely awake, but was not her usual, chipper self.

“I’m awake!” the younger Immortal murmured tiredly.

“Are you okay?” the Clansman asked, worried. It was unlike her to fall asleep when extremely uncomfortable – especially on horseback.

“What’s going on with you?” He asked as he helped her dismount.

“I think I ate too much stew. All the blood is rushing to my stomach.” Jordan mumbled.

“Are you sure?” Duncan asked.

His dark brows knitted together as he cradled her face in his hands. Her eyelids were drooping, yet her eyes were clear, albeit a bit glassy. Everyone ate the same thing, yet Jordan was the only one who was extremely sleepy. Odd. Giving herself a mental shake, Jordan put forth her best efforts to stay awake. Though she was very, very tired, the younger Immortal definitely wanted a bath. But not right now.

“Duncan, why don’t you go first? I’ll just take a nap here while I wait.” The woman suggested.

The Highlander searched his Student’s face as he reached for the saddlebags with his toiletries. Confident that Jordan’s Immortal immunity would take care of what was ailing her, the Clansman still wondered why she was so tired. Chalking it up to their journey, Duncan hesitated.

“Go on, Duncan. I’ll be fine. I just need a little snooze, and the refreshingly chilly stream will wake me up.” His Student reasoned.

“You’re sure.” The Highlander said.

“Yes, Mother.” She replied.

With her back to the Highlander, Jordan stretched out atop a large, flat rock jutting over the sloping edge of a small knoll, and closed her eyes against the darkening sky. The youngest Immortal blinked awake as cold water landed on her face. Standing over her, the Highlander was clad in a fresh change of clothes, and was wringing out the excess water from his wet locks – directly onto her face.

“Hey, sleepyhead – you going to wait till we get to the Golden Hall as well?” Duncan asked.

“No.” Jordan scowled as she wiped her face of the water droplets. Grabbing the Highlander’s helping hand up, the woman gathered her necessities and paused before heading towards the water.

“Promise me you won’t look?” Jordan asked.

“No.” Duncan replied with a straight face. After a moment, the Highlander chuckled at his Students horrified expression.

“Of course, silly! I don’t think that’ll be a problem, though. The water is a bit cool.” The Clansman said.

Duncan was right. Though her teeth chattered from the cold, and her fingers were so numb, she could barely feel them, Jordan was glad for the bath, for she wanted to be reasonably clean when she rendezvoused with the Elf, for there was so much left unsaid between them.

#

I’m too old for this. Methos grumbled to himself.

It had been a very, very long time since he’d roughed it in the wild – over 4500 millennia. The ground was hard and rocky, and it was a long time before the Antediluvian finally settled into a comfortable position. Curled with his sword within reach, the Ancient One was drifting off to sleep when his eyes suddenly snapped open. Methos couldn’t shake the sudden sense of unease he felt -- and he trusted his instincts implicitly. The Immortal lay still, listening intently to the night, wondering what wrested him from his fitful slumber. As his vision adjusted, it was several moments until the Eldest made out the bulky lumps that were his companions.
.
Rising up on his elbow, Methos tossed his blankets aside as he reached for his Ivanhoe. Gripping his sword’s leather and wire-wrapped hilt tighter, the Eldest’s eyes narrowed as he peered into the dark, searching the shadows. To his right, within arm’s length lay the Watcher, snoring softly. To Joe’s right, Jordan slept soundly. She would continue to do so until dawn, for the Eldest had seen to that. To her right, lay the Highlander. Leaning on his throwing axe, the Dwarf sat with his back towards the fire and the Outlanders. The Eldest was about to call out to Gimli when the Dwarf let out a series of loud, choppy snores. Methos swore the stout fellow was sawing logs.

So much for that. The Immortal snorted to himself.

Save for the occasional spit and pop of the fire, the night was still. Too still. Something was wrong; time slid by with agonizing slowness. Methos waited patiently; still nothing happened. Lying back down, the Eldest was about to gather his blankets to him when he looked up, studying the craggy outline of rocks whose irregular forms sheltered their campsite. The Ancient One was about to let out his pent up breath when a pebble rolled down the rocks and bounced off his hand. Looking above him, Methos almost missed the hulking mass that blended in with the rocks, if it weren’t for the lupine eyes that reflected the moonlight. With a surge of adrenalin, the Immortal leaped to his feet with his sword drawn, but in a literal blink of an eye, it was gone. Without taking his eyes from the rockline, the Eldest crouched down and felt for a small rock. Without taking his eyes from the rocks, the Immortal tossed it across the slumbering forms.

“MacLeod!” the Eldest hissed.

“Ow!”

Rubbing his forehead, the Highlander sat up, his Katana drawn. Methos held a hand up, silencing the younger Immortal’s question.

“Il y a quelque chose dehors là (there’s something out there).” Methos said; in the still night air, the Immortal need only whisper.

“Qu'est-ce que c'est (What is it)?” Duncan asked in a low voice.

Methos cocked his head, indicating that the younger Immortal get up.

“Je ne sais pas, mais son joli (I don’t know, but it’s pretty) bold. Il est venu près (It came close).” Methos said as he signaled his intention to work his way towards the edge of the rocks.

“Comment fin (how close)?” Duncan asked, frowning.

Gripping his Katana, the Highlander prepared himself for a fight. He was about to wake Jordan, but decided against it; no sense in waking her until he got all the facts together. Besides – she was sleeping so well, Duncan decided she needed to rest as much as she could, before they resumed her journey, especially since she was so tired when they went to bathe.

“Clôturez assez pour que je voie la lumière du feu dans ses yeux (Close enough for me to see the firelight in its eyes).”

“Que le pensez-vous est-vous (What do you think it is)?”

“Je ne sais pas (I don’t know).”

“Où est l'elf (where is the Elf)?

“Patrouillent probablement toujours (probably still patrolling).

“Pourquoi nous parlant en français (why are we speaking in French)?”

“Habitude (habit).” Methos answered. The Eldest was about to speak when an abrupt, gravelly voice interrupted.

“Speak in words we can all understand.” Gimli broke in.

A sarcastic reply was on the tip of the Ancient One’s tongue when the Buzz alerted them to Legolas’ arrival. The Immortal’s turned towards the source. Soon the Mirkwood Elf came into sight.

“What is the matter?” Legolas inquired.

His bright gaze rested on each awake individual. The Elf was disappointed, puzzled and very annoyed; he had waited patiently for Jordan, but his lover did not come to him. Did she have such little regard for his heart – for their future? Legolas’ gaze shifted to the still form between the Watcher and the Highlander. That explained why she had not met him at the appointed time. Everyone was awake . . . except for Jordan. No matter what she was doing, or where she was, Jordan always greeted the Elf, or at least looked towards his arrival, yet tonight, only the Outlanders were awake, and she continued to slumber on. Very, very odd.

“Whas goin’ on?” Joe’s sleepy voice chimed in.

“There was something looking at me.” Adam replied calmly.

“I didn’t see anything -- and we Dwarves have eyes like a hawk and ears like a fox.” Gimli said, dismissing the Ancient One’s claims. There was something about the pale man that instantly set the Dwarf on his guard, and the longer they journeyed together, the greater Gimli’s apprehension and distrust of the Man grew.

“You didn’t see anything ‘cause you were looking at the inside of your eye lids.” Methos muttered beneath his breath.

Though the others didn’t hear the Ancient One’s words, Elven ears did. The Woodland Elf studied the Eldest, his face betraying no emotion.

The face and body are young, yet . . . there is something about this Man that is not right. Legolas thought to himself. There was a cunning shrewdness about the eyes of the tall Outlander that disturbed the Fair One.

Methos met Golden Elf’s gaze, his face equally impassive. Legolas studied the Men before him; it was unlike the Dwarf to fall asleep on his watch, no matter how weary the sturdy little folk wereThe Mirkwood Prince knew things were amiss in the little camp, yet he had no tangible proof, and no way to explain what it was that niggled at him. Legolas trusted his instincts, and right now, they were telling him that the seemingly innocuous Man before him was not at all forth coming. Unable to prove his suspicions, the Golden Elf held his tongue. He reminded himself to be careful not to underestimate the enigmatic Son-of-Pier.

A/N:

Okay, folks. At long last, ch. 27; sorry it took a while. I had some family issued over the holidays, and I have more issues/drama in my life right now. Thank you to Dinah for being such a wonderful Beta! She is awesome, awesome, AWESOME!!!