Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
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Chapter List
- 15
- 16
- 17
The terminal blurred, trees became a streak of green as the powerful engines thrust the Concorde upward. Its long, needle shaped nose sliced thru the air as it soared into the clear blue sky. The G-Force during take off pressed the Immortals deeper into the fine leather seats as the jet climbed higher and higher. Looking out the window, Methos watched the ground rapidly fall away; soon the landscape below resembled a colorful patchwork quilt. Transitioning to supersonic speed, the Concorde’s sleek silhouette hurtled through the skies at Mach 2-- twice the speed of sound -- reaching an altitude over 11 miles high. So high, in fact, the Immortals were able to see the curvature of the earth below. Popping a chocolate covered blueberry in his mouth, the Ancient chewed thoughtfully before turning to his friend.
“You know, MacLeod; this is the only way to travel.”
“What—free?” came the churlish reply.
The Highlander glared at the Ancient One from behind the morning issue of Le Parisien; following the headlines, Duncan turned to the next page, snapping his newspaper sharply to emphasize his displeasure.
“Is there any other way?”   Methos asked, nonplussed as he leaned back in his chair and grinned; the younger Immortal’s ire did not impress him. Besides, he’d make it up to the Highlander.
“Are you done with the sports section?” Methos inquired, giving the Chieftain’s son his most innocent smile.
Duncan gave his friend the evil eye as he handed over the requested section. Inside the luxuriously appointed cabin, as they winged towards their destination, the Highlander and the Ancient One enjoyed beluga caviar, sparkling pink champagne on ice and a sumptuous lunch, all served by a very attractive, very buxom flight attendant. Lifting his champagne flute, Methos proposed a toast.
                  “Here’s to success.” The Ancient One said cryptically.
                  Duncan raised a dark brow at that but said nothing, mistaking the Eldest’s meaning of ‘success’ regarding the securing of some very hard to get seats on the Concorde. Though he could more than afford their very expensive flight, the Highlander was not looking forward to the pending bill. He did not become independently wealthy by spending his wisely invested means foolishly. Still puzzled as to how the Elder Immortal managed to get his financial information -- which he guarded vigilantly, though obviously not well enough, the Highlander allowed the loaded words to slip by unchallenged; instead, Duncan lifted his champagne flute. Clinking their flutes together, the crystal sang its pure, clear song as the Highlander rolled his eyes and took a sip. Soon, the stewardess’ low, smooth voice filled the cabin.
                  “Nous sommes approchons notre descente finale dans l'aéroport d'Orly (we are approaching our final descent into Orly Airport). Veuillez attacher vos ceintures de sécurité, Messieurs (please fasten your seatbelts, sirs).”
The Immortals did as directed, each eagerly looking forward to their arrival for very different reasons.

Orly Airport
Paris
Directly below the magnificent white bird’s flight path, a continuous sonic boom heralded the Concorde’s triumphant arrival into Parisian airspace. Touching down as smooth as velvet, the jet taxied down the runway, then slowed to a crawl before rolling to a barely perceptible stop. The flight attendant gave the Immortals a dazzling smile on her way to unseal the hatch.
                  “Helluva way to make an entrance, MacLeod,” Methos commented as they stepped outside.
A uniformed porter waited for the Immortals at the bottom of the moveable footbridge to collect their bags, only to have his gloved hand stayed when he reached for their swords cases. Shrugging, the Frenchman muttered to himself as he rolled his cart away. Inside the terminal, the Immortals easily navigated their way through the hustle and bustle of anxious airline commuters hurrying to catch their connecting flights. Skirting the crowds of tourists milling about in confusion, Methos sauntered alongside the Highlander, who moved with the confidence of a proven warrior. As they waited their turn in the customs line, the Immortals’ tall, dark figures caught many admiring female eyes and quite a few envious male glares.
“Se réjouir dans le festival, Monsieurs (enjoy yourselves at the Festival, sirs).” the official said, scrutinizing their passports. Properly tagged and stored, the Immortals and their swords had no trouble clearing customs.
“Merci,” Methos replied.
The Ancient One exchanged wry glances with the Chieftain’s Son, for directly across from them, a glossy poster on the wall announced the commencement of the annual Renaissance Festival. Making their way through the terminal, the Immortals joined the hordes of humanity at the luggage carousel, watching the seemingly endless pieces of luggage pass by on the conveyor belt.
“Have you ever wondered why we can walk into an international airport with weapons and not be detained?” Duncan asked. Methos shrugged.
“Why question it? Some things are meant to be, MacLeod. Just go with it,” the elder Immortal answered. “Though I’d guess the fact our profiles don’t appear in Interpol’s data base must work in our favor.”
“Ha. Ha. Ha,” Duncan said, though he made no other comment; Perhaps some things should just be accepted for face value.
The duo quickly exited and made their way outside. Procuring a taxi, Methos leaned back and looked outside the window, enjoying the familiar sights. Undisputedly a beautiful city --despite being filled by Parisians -- so much of Methos’ past was intertwined with the venerable city’s history . . . and what the Ancient One buried there continued to bind him to the charming megalopolis more securely than any physical bond could. Paris also held many memories for the Highlander -- memories of happier times with Tessa and Richie. Methos’words broke Duncan’s silent reverie.
                  “Now aren’t you glad I booked the Concorde, MacLeod?” he asked, his tone smug.
                  “You’re not the one getting the bill,” the Highlander said dourly. “How’d you get my credit card information, anyways?” he added, suddenly suspicious.
                  “I have my ways.” Methos replied softly.
Secretly, Duncan was indeed glad, for they’d made excellent time, arriving in Paris in less than three hours. Crossing the Pacific, according to the Parisian time zone, they’d arrived before even taking off. Closing his eyes, Duncan rested his head against the seat; the Immortal didn’t need to see to know where they were going. He could feel the route, for it was familiar to him as the back of his hand. Duncan’s anticipation grew as they drew near.
#
Port De La Tournelle
The ‘Amadeus’
Duncan’s Barge
Duncan opened his eyes as the taxi pulled rolled to a quick stop alongside the barge; with his heart pounding in his chest, the Highlander stared at his floating home. He barely heard their driver chattering away as he unloaded the trunk; absently, Duncan guessed he was from the West Indies or Haiti, for the driver’s heavy accent gave his French a sing song quality.
                  “Don’t worry, MacLeod; the cab’s on me.” Methos said as he paid the driver and gave him a modest tip.
“You’re a big spender, Old Man,” Duncan tossed over his shoulder as he stepped out of the taxi. The Highlander already had one foot on the gangway.
                  “Just living within my means, MacLeod,” Methos retorted good-naturedly. He shouldered his carry-on and hefted his suitcase. The Highlander laughed despite himself.
                  “Don’t you mean my means?” Duncan clarified. The elder Immortal pretended to not hear.
Unlocking the cabin, the Highlander paused and looked around.   It was as if he’d never left; his furniture was uncovered, everything in its appointed place, waiting for him.   Touching the sun burst on the wall, Duncan wandered over to the ancient Japanese silk screen hanging between the portholes. All of Tessa’s sculptures were exactly as she left them, as were her unfinished sketches. His eyes drifted to the bed; the Highlander closed his eyes and braced himself as bittersweet memories came rushing back, ghostly echoes of the past gaining strength, demanding to be heard: the sound of Tessa’s soft voice . . . her laughter . . . her giggles and moans of pleasure as they made love . . . Duncan swore he could almost smell her perfume. It had to be his imagination.
Opening his eyes, the Highlander moved towards the couch and sat down. A green bandanna caught his eye; it once belonged to Richie. Duncan remembered the proud look on Richie’s face when he brought home that awful bust of Napoleon as a ‘barge warming’ gift -- the very same bust Tessa accidentally on purpose broke shortly after. Rising to his feet, Duncan’s eyes settled on the chess set. The pieces were unmoved from the last game he’d played with Richie.
The Highlander attempted to instruct his gregarious Student the finer points and strategies of chess, encouraging the younger Immortal to exercise his mind. Unfortunately, Richie didn’t bother to seriously learn the game. Instead, his focus was concentrated on making the acquaintances of the winsome young ladies in the city. A smile creased the Highlanders face, for in many ways, Richie reminded Duncan of himself, when he was more innocent. The chess set brought back yet more memories of another friend long gone.   Studying the pieces, Duncan lifted the Knight, remembering the many sets he’d play in the Rectory with his good friend and mentor, Darius. He gently set down the wooden piece, his eyes flicking to his desk.
Striding to the desk, Duncan stepped onto the chair and lifted the cover of the overhead compartment. Tucked way in back beyond reach are four large carafes of mead brewed by the Immortal general-turned-priest.   Reaching for one, Duncan’s fingers gently caressed the glass. In the light of day, the amber liquid took on a warm, golden glow. Immortality is a double-edged sword, especially when you outlasted those you care for -- mortal and Immortal. A sad smile appeared on the Highlander’s face. Duncan touched the cold glass once more before he carefully placed it back. The last time the Highlander drank mead was when Fitzcairn paid him an unexpected visit; sadly, it was the same day Darius was murdered by renegade Watchers. Since then, Duncan did not tap into his stash of the rare brew. Instead, he saved it as a remembrance of his slain friend.   If only he’d been able to save him. The only good thing that came of that horrible day was saving Fitzcairn from the same fate. Connor, Tessa, Richie, Fitzcairn, Rebecca, Gabriel, Charlie, Sean, Darius – all of them gone . . .and damn it, he was not going to add Jordie to that list! Fighting the sadness that threatened to overwhelm him, the Highlander steeled himself. With a sigh, the Highlander prowled his floating home.
Checking the galley, Duncan raised an eyebrow. The refer was fully stocked and a pot of onion soup simmered on the stovetop. On the kitchen counter a wooden carving board held an assortment of fruit and cheese. A note lay beside it with instructions concerning the garlic bread and roast in the refer. The Highlander placed the roast into the pre-warmed oven and plucked a grape from the cluster on the counter, biting into the tart skin as he reacquainted himself with the rest of the barge. In the head, the toilet flushed and clear water flowed from the tap. Duncan walked back into the main living area; Methos had come in and was hanging his overcoat in a closet.
“Ah, I see Celeste came,” Methos said, giving the place a cursory glance. “She also made dinner. Wonderful.”
Duncan shrugged out of his overcoat as well, removing his Katana from the scabbard; tossing his overcoat to the Ancient, Duncan sat on the sofa and reached for his kiri. The Highlander began to clean his sword, his mood dark and brooding.
“You thought of all the details, Methos,” the Highlander commented. The Eldest allowed himself a small smile at Duncan’s words.
If only you knew, MacLeod. the Ancient One thought to himself.
“It’s the least I could do after that first class flight. Why pay to stay elsewhere when you’ve your own?” Methos said. Duncan couldn’t argue with the logic.
#
Clearing away the remnants of their meal, Methos dried the last dish and put it away. It appeared he’d be paying for his beer and board by doing dishes. Again. He sighed; all considering, it wasn’t too bad. The Ancient One, however, drew the line at cleaning the head. Scrubbing toilets was not in his self-appointed job description. Unless, of course, every stroke resulted in a case of beer; for which, he’d do almost anything. Overhead, Methos could hear the Highlander move about topside, inspecting the deck, checking the moorings. When Duncan returned below deck, he seemed to be in lighter spirits, the melancholy air was gone.
“Let’s go see Joe,” the younger Immortal suggested.
“That’s the first intelligent thing you’ve said since we’ve arrived, MacLeod,” Methos replied as he hung up the dishtowel.
The Highlander shot the Eldest a dirty look as he retrieved their overcoats. Tossing Methos his, Duncan slid his Katana into the scabbard and headed above deck. Methos opened the closet door and pulled out his suitcase. Unlocking it, the Ancient rummaged beneath his clothes and removed his dagger and gun. He didn’t bother to test the blade’s edge, for he always made sure to keep it razor sharp.   Turning his attention to the Glock, the Immortal held it to the light; Methos checked the safeties and did a quick press check. Pushing the gun’s slide a quarter to the rear, the brass of the round in the chamber winked up at him. Satisfied, he withdrew two more magazines and slid his dagger into its sheath at the small of his back. Double checking to see the magazines were fully loaded, Methos slipped them into one of the many secret pockets of his overcoat and went to join his friend.
On deck, the Highlander finished his final check of the barge’s bilge pump; when Methos appeared on deck, Duncan secured the cabin and stepped into the speedboat. Hands in his pockets, Methos absently adjusted the weight of his sword hidden within his overcoat as he watched his friend insert the key and give it a twist. The Ancient One fervently hoped nothing would happen in 765, Methos crossed the Atlantic to Iceland in a rowboat with Irish Monks who sang non-stop. The elder Immortal hated the water ever since; his hopes were dashed when the small but powerful engine roared to life.   Adjusting the controls, Duncan waited impatiently for Methos to board. The Eldest took his time boarding the small craft, dawdling as much as he dared.
“C’mon, this is the fastest way we’ll make it to Joe’s. Are you coming, or are you going to take a taxi?” Duncan asked, eager to be on his way.
“Patience is a virtue, MacLeod,” Methos said, eyeing the speedboat warily.
“So’s the ability to swim. I’m not feeling virtuous right now,” Duncan warned.
Reluctantly, Methos climbed in and sat down. Once the mooring was released, the Highlander smoothly steered it away from the barge, easing the throttle forward until the boat skipped along the water’s surface. The wind whipped back the Immortals’ hair and stung their faces. Duncan glanced at his friend. Methos didn’t look thrilled at all; one hand was braced on the dashboard, the other tightly gripped the back of his seat as they bounced along. The Highlander laughed, the sound lost in the wind; Duncan grinned and pushed the throttle forward all the way; in response, the boat shuddered and barely skimmed the water as they hydroplaned. Beside him, Methos groaned and looked decidedly unwell.
It was good to be back.
>>> ======= >
Watching Jordan disappear into the House, Legolas walked Arod to the stable. Dismissing the stable hand, Legolas unbuckled his quiver and knives and carefully leaned them and his great bow against the stall’s corner. The golden Elf attended his equine friend personally; drawing fresh water, for his thirsty friend, the Wood Elf brought a bale of sweet-smelling hay, adding an extra measure of oats to Arod’s feed. While the noble steed ate, Legolas employed a currycomb to remove loose hair and dirt from his coat. Using long strokes, the Elf brushed his mount’s sleek hide until it shone like pure driven snow. Stroking the horse’s velvety nose, Legolas quietly spoke to him in Elvish. The horse nickered in reply.
“She is different,” Legolas acknowledged.
Chuckling softly, the Prince ran his hands down the horse’s withers. Arod snorted and nudged the Elf with his head.
“Which one, Mellonamin?” the Elf asked. The horse whinnied; Legolas left the stall and returned with a hoof pick.
“Yes, there is something most beguiling about her,” The Elf agreed as he checked the horse’s hooves.
Picking up a hind leg, he inspected the shoe. Holding it securely between his knees, Legolas bent over and used the pick to remove dirt and debris from the equine’s hoof.
“So, you believe she feels the same, do you?” Legolas asked as he worked.
Arod tossed his head and swished his flowing tail, smacking the Elf in the face with the stiff hairs. Legolas lightly slapped the horse affectionately on the rear. Looking at his Elf, Arod playfully swished his tail again, mussing the Elf’s hair. Looking over his shoulder, Legolas waved the pick at his restive steed.
“Behave, Mellonamin. If you want your other hooves cleaned, you musn’t annoy your farrier.” The Prince said with a stern expression on his perfect face
The Mirkwood Elf didn’t fool the horse. Arod blew an equine raspberry at the Elf and spittle flew everywhere. Legolas chuckled and raised his arms, avoiding most of the spray. Bending over again, Legolas resumed their conversation as he tended the other hooves. When Legolas finished, the Elf rubbed his mount’s ears.
“That was not kind of you to jostle her so; though I admit it was very pleasant to hold her close. For that I thank you, my friend.” Arod whinnied, showing his teeth in an equine version of a smile.
“I feel her desire for me as well, but I do not believe she is ready to act upon it. I have heard that mortal women are strange that way; some say they are prone to frequent fits of melancholy as well – more so than the males.” Arod snorted and leaned his head over the Elf’s shoulder. Legolas patted the horse’s neck.
“Tis a pity, of the maidens in Middle Earth, the one whom I desire above all else is a daughter of Man. Not only is she mortal, Jordan insists she does not belong here. Perhaps the Valar will smile upon me and make it so that the lady will not wish to return,” Legolas mused; Arod showed the whites of his eyes and tossed his head.
“Oh, I intend to persuade her otherwise, my friend,” the Elf said.
“She is mine; she just does not realize it yet. . . else she is too stubborn to admit it.”   Arod stamped his front hooves on the straw covered floor.
“And what do you suggest I do?” Legolas asked.
The horse reared up slightly on his hind legs and tossed his luxurious mane. Cocking his head to the side, The Elf crossed his arms over his chest and raised a brow, amused.
“Aye, your suggestion has merit; alas, were it so simple. I do not believe she will allow me to just . . . ‘mount’ her, my friend.” Legolas said dryly. The horse neighed and pawed the straw.
“I must court the lady’s favor.” The Elf explained. Arod snorted and twitched his ears.
“Soon, my friend. Very soon,” the Elf-Prince assured his equine friend, wrapping his arms around his neck.
Before his Elf-friend left, the horse gently bit the Wood Elf’s shoulder in affection. Giving the steed a final pat on his strong neck, Legolas collected his weapons and bid Arod good night, taking one of the many scenic paths back to his assigned quarters. Even at night, Imladris’ beauty could not be ignored, for an abundance of night blooming flowers lined the walkways, their pale blooms proudly unfurled, their scents perfuming the air. The Elf’s excellent vision recognized the yellow flowers of the evening primrose, the white, sweetly scented petals of the climbing moonflower. Among the white blossoms, the red and pink blooms identified the fragrant annual, Nicotiana.
Perhaps one night the Wood Elf could persuade Jordan to walk a path with him. Legolas realized he wanted to discover all there was to know about her. Now that the immediate concern of the Orcs was past, he meant to unravel the mystery that was Jordan Waters. Hopefully, he would be able to unravel more than that. Legolas certainly intended to try. A smile graced his lips as he imagined the possibilities.   In his quarters, Legolas unbuckled his weapons, cleaning and inspecting them before availing himself to his private bathing chamber. Drying his lithe body, the Elf dressed automatically, his thoughts with the woman whose abilities and actions raised questions, yet whose answers revealed nothing, a puzzle that intrigued him.
Wondering how Gimli fared, the golden Elf searched for the Elf-Friend. Legolas found the Dwarf enjoying a well-earned repast in the common dining hall. Unlike the Elf, Gimli had not bothered to bathe and change; his helm lay on the bench next to him; his double-headed axe leaned against a carven stone pillar; even in Imladris, the Dwarf’s weapons were always within easy reach. Gimli pushed a platter of food towards Legolas. With a smile of thanks, the Elf reached for a round loaf, and tore off a sizeable chunk of the soft, warm bread, spreading it with clover honey and almond butter as a she-Elf placed a flagon of water and ale before the Prince. Legolas thanked the maiden, who blushed her pleasure before discretely withdrawing.
“Are you well?” Legolas asked.
“Aye, Lad; t’was but a simple walk in the woods,” Gimli replied, waving his eating dagger before stabbing a succulent piece of roast.   “The vermin have been dealt with, they have.”
Amused, Legolas sat back and watched his friend eat. Breadcrumbs and bits of meat clung to his bushy beard. Reaching for his beer, Gimli drank with relish and set his pewter stein down with a bang; the platters and other dishes jumped and rattled, the Elf’s water sloshed over the rim of his goblet. Legolas sighed, and mopped up the spill with his linen napkin.
Dwarves were hardy creatures, no doubt; the one before him was no different in that regard. What he lacked in polish and finesse, Gimli more than made up for in other areas.   The friends lapsed into the familiar routine of easy conversation peppered with the occasional lively difference of opinion. During an interlude of companionable silence, Legolas studied the Elf-friend, who was busy gnawing the meat from a joint of mutton. Chewing noisily, Gimli blotted the grease from his lips with his wrist guard.
“And how is your Lady?” the Dwarf asked. Legolas carved a slice of cheese from a thick slab.
“She is well. I left her at the House. No doubt Jordan is in her quarters as we speak,” Legolas answered.
“You seem to always know her whereabouts, Lad,” the Dwarf said casually as he tore the meat from the bone.
“Jordan... interests me,” Legolas said. Gimli smiled and smacked his lips loudly.
“I know. We have had this conversation before, Lad.” Gimli reminded his friend before he spat out a tough piece of gristle.
“We have had many conversations, Fangon (bearded one). To which are you referring to?”
“My asking how your Lady fares.” The Dwarf replied. The Elf simply smiled. After a moment, he answered.
“I hope we have many more.” Legolas said.
Gimli looked at his friend, his ruddy features relaxed into a smile. “If that is what you desire, then I wish it for you as well, Mellon.”
The friends enjoyed their simple meal together, glad in each other’s company. The past skirmish served to remind the Free Races that evil must never again be allowed to run unchecked; to do so would dishonor the memories of those who had fallen on the battle fields, sacrificing their lives for the good of Middle-earth.
Jordan stared into the night; a speck of movement caught her attention. Blinking, her eyes narrowed as she peered into the dark courtyard below. There it was again! Now that she was attuned to it, more lights hovered in the distance; the tiny lights floated gently in the darkness, beckoning her; curious, she stared at it, wondering what it could be. Intrigued, Jordan slid her feet into slippers. Weariness forgotten, the Immortal went down the stairs and into the courtyard below, following the lights that seemed to float just beyond her. The woman’s steps carried her further away from her quarters.
There are so many . . . fireflies!
Scattered about were clusters of the minute insects, their phosphorescent lights glowed gently. At ground level, their tiny numbers increased tenfold. Smiling with delight, Jordan slowly turned in a circle; her arms outspread, imagining the insects as tiny fairies dancing to the music of the night.
I don’t care how long I’m here for. I’m going to enjoy it as long as it lasts; whatever it is between Legolas and I, and however long I have with him, I’ll take it
Not wanting to disturb the romancing fireflies, Jordan was about to return to her quarters when she felt the Buzz intensify. She hadn’t thought to put a cloak or robe over her sleeping shift.   Why, oh why didn’t she think about that before hand?   The Immortal was in the middle of the open courtyard, practically naked in her sheer gown with nothing to hide behind.
Calm down. You can either run for the stairs, or run for the stairs. Not much of a choice.
Jordan sprinted towards her quarters. Reaching the stairway, Jordan took the steps two at a time, clutching her side, as she tried to soothe the stitch. Kicking off her slippers, Jordan threw herself onto the bed, breathless. After a moment she laughed. No doubt Lord Elrond will hear of her late night streaking escapade.   Maybe Collette was right; she needed to have fun.
>> ======= >
Le Blues Bar
Paris
                  Joe Dawson stood behind the counter, wiping a shot glass dry before adding it to a plastic crate filled with clean and dry shot glasses. It was quiet in the bar; the lunch crowd was gone, leaving a much-welcomed lull. Only the regular bar flies remained. In a corner, a rough looking kid with dreadlocks sat on a stool tuning his guitar before he launched into a medley of blues. An older gentleman nursed his drink at one end of the bar. Seated in a booth, a young couple talked quietly over their drinks, absorbed in one another. The Watcher looked up as the door swung open.
Framed in the doorway were two tall silhouettes; he’d recognize them anywhere, even without the overcoats. Joe felt a small twinge of envy. For someone over five millennia, the Old Man looked vibrant and healthy, while the Watcher felt the occasional ache and pain more frequently, reminding him of the inevitable ravages of time. Methos slipped onto a stool and nodded at the Watcher. Even now, Joe sometimes found it difficult to believe the Eldest had once been Death. That the former Horseman and the Highlander forged a friendship, was equally puzzling, yet proved that even Immortals could change. The Watcher reached beneath the counter and produced a tall stein, filling it from the tap. The suds spilt over the rim as he pushed it towards the Ancient One.
                  “I could kiss you,” the Ancient said.
                  “Please don’t. Paris is gay -- I’m not,” the Watcher replied.
“Only if you keep them coming. I’ve suddenly developed a powerful thirst.” Methos said.
The Watcher gave him an exasperated look. Leaning against the counter, the Highlander greeted the man.
                  “There’s something wrong with this picture. Aren’t you supposed to be watching me?” Duncan asked.
                  “Hey, don’t take this the wrong way, but face it, Mac -- sometimes you’re just not that interesting.” The Watcher replied with a cheeky grin.
Duncan gave his Watcher a mock wounded look as he sat on a stool. Joe pushed a bowl of nuts and pretzels before his friends.
                  “And hi back,” the Watcher said sarcastically.
“Hi Joe.” Duncan said. He had the decency to look slightly embarrassed.
“So what’re you guys up to?” Joe asked.
                  “We’re here to see you, Joe; thought MacLeod could use a break from his . . . search.” Methos said. Joe nodded, then looked at the Ancient appraisingly. The older Immortal seemed a bit . . .off.
                  “What’s your problem?” he asked.
                  “We took the speedboat here.” Methos said gloomily. Joe shook his head, chuckling softly.
“Hot damn! You managed to get the Old Man to sail the high seas?” Joe asked the Highlander incredulously.
“If we took the Concorde here, he can take a short boat ride.” Duncan said, his voice calm. The Watcher whistled.
“Isn’t that kinda pricey?” Joe asked, with his eyebrows raised.
“It is. Adam booked it with my credit card,” Duncan said, glaring at the Eldest before the Ancient could answer.
Methos drained his stein and pushed it towards the Watcher, an innocent smile on his face.
“Someone has to help you spend your money. Why not me?” Methos asked, as if it were the most logical thing in the world.
“Yeah, well I don’t recall asking for volunteers, Methos.” Came the Highlander’s exasperated reply.
“’Adam’, MacLeod – ‘Adam’.” The Ancient reminded his friend.
Watching the Immortals bicker back and forth like two old biddies, Joe smiled as he refilled Methos’ drink and set a glass
atop the counter. Plunking several ice cubes into it, he produced a metal mixing glass and measured into it scotch, sweet vermouth, bitters and simple syrup. The Watcher stirred the concoction together and strained it into the glass, which he placed before the Highlander.
                  “Ha ha, Joe – very funny,” Duncan said before taking a sip. It wasn’t bad. He took another sip.
                  “What?” the Watcher said, innocently before laughing outright. The drink he’d mixed was called ‘The Flying Scotsman’.
“You’ve got balls, Old Man,” Joe said, addressing the Ancient.
“I’ve got more than that, Joe,” Methos said cryptically. Turning to the younger Immortal, Joe’s face became serious.
                  “I talked with Micky D again. Far as he can tell, there’s still nothing in Jordie’s Chronicles that’ll show she’d run. Nothing he’s aware of, at least. Unless she seriously pissed somebody off. Be kinda hard to slip that by a Watcher. A good one, that is – and I can tell you that Micky D is good. I checked them out myself, and he’s right. What ‘bout you, Mac? You’re at a stand still too?”
                  “You don’t miss much, do you?” Methos interjected.
The Old Man was still annoyed with the boat ride. MacLeod knew how much he hated the water, yet insisted on that mode of travel. The beers hadn’t improved his mood... yet.
                  “You ready to pay off your tab?” Joe shot back as he refilled his stein. Methos grinned as he busied himself with his beer.
                  “Joe, I wish there was something more I could do; I wish I was with her -- I feel like I’m running around in circles. I don’t know what else to do,” Duncan sighed. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.
                  “Here’s what you can do: stop repeating yourself for one. We got the point, Mac. You know, maybe you need to do what the Old Man says; some things need to be waited out,” Joe deftly refilled the Ancient’s stein yet again as he fixed the Highlander with a stern look when the Immortal glowered at him.
“I didn’t stay to stop looking. You know I care for her too Mac,” the Watcher said quietly, fixing his charge with a glare to match. After a moment, the Highlander nodded. The Watcher decided a change of topic would good.
“Maybe you guys’ll wanna check out the Renn Fest that’s going on. It’s scheduled for three weeks. How long are you planning on staying?”
                  “Don’t know. We’ll probably do that. But I want to check on Gregory first and see how he’s doing. Wanna come?” the Highlander asked. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher. Joe glared at the Ancient One as he filled his stein again.
                  “Why don’t I just attach a hose from the tap to your mouth?” the Watcher asked sarcastically.
                  “That’s the smartest thing you’ve ever said, Joe,” Methos returned. The boat ride was bad enough; the conversation between his friends wasn’t exactly thrilling him, either.
                  “He seemed like a nice guy. Sounds like a plan. Gimme a sec; I need to pass the torch.” Tossing the dishtowel on the counter, Joe reached for his cane and called for the head waitress. Methos pushed his empty stein towards the Watcher.
                  “Bar’s closed, Old Man,” Joe said with a grin.
                  “Damn.” Methos replied.
                  Tipping the driver, Duncan watched the taxi pull away from the curb before catching up with his companions. Looking around the fashionable neighborhood, ritzy shops were squeezed in between high-end eateries. Strolling down the rue, Duncan stopped outside a boutique displaying expensive ladies’ lingerie. He sighed, for he frequently patronized the boutique many times in the past, purchasing several frothy creations for Tessa.
Unfortunately for the pretty negligee, and fortunately for them, Tessa only had the chance to model the purchase briefly -- before it quickly ended up on the floor, or strewn elsewhere. Now they were sitting in the barge, in the drawers where she’d left them.   Duncan cleared his throat and walked on. He walked for half a block when his steps slowed.
The Buzz alerted the Immortals to another’s presence; they exchanged glances before Duncan followed the pull of the Buzz. Strolling a bit further, the Scot paused outside Gregory’s shop. Here was the source.   Duncan walked in without hesitating; his companions paused outside.
“The Boy Scout just does not give up, does he, Joe?” The Watcher shrugged and followed his charge inside. Methos lingered outside; confident the Highlander could handle the situation. His dark eyes lifted upwards.
                  “Arda’s Treasures. How... appropriate,” Methos murmured to himself. Studying the sign, he counted the stars above a naked silver tree before following Joe inside.
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You won’t be needing that,” the Highlander said in a low voice, indicating the silver rapier the woman stood near.
Methos found the Highlander and his Watcher inside the surprisingly cavernous store, as well as an unknown Immortal. He couldn’t fault her for looking nervous. The Ancient One glanced at Joe, who was pretending to study a framed map in the far corner of the room. Close enough to see and hear, far enough to be discrete. Methos studied the woman; tall, ash-blonde hair and brown eyes. Coolly professional, she could be at home in the antique shop, or a library. Her eyes flicked over to him, studying him as well, and then to Joe, confident a Challenge wasn’t forthcoming.
“I have heard of you,” she said. Duncan didn’t to ask what she knew. His reputation preceded him; whether that was good or bad was a matter of opinion.
“I’m looking for Gregory. Is he around?” Duncan asked.
“I am sorry, Monsieur MacLeod. Monsieur McGulloch is away at the moment.” The Highlander didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.
“He is, however, expecting you. Monsieur McGulloch left word that you please wait for him in his office.” Duncan turned to Methos, a pleased grin on his face. The Ancient took the opportunity to step forward.
“Hello. I’m Adam.” He gave her a smile he knew the ladies found irresistible. It worked, for the frost in her light eyes warmed, if only slightly.
“I am Jacqueline.” She offered her hand to the Ancient, who took it, raising her knuckles to his lips.
Duncan rolled his eyes. It was rare that he was unable to win a woman over. To see Methos do it so easily wounded his ego. Just a little; Duncan wasn’t sure what he’d done to offend her, for he felt she was pointedly ignoring him.
“Enchanté, Madame. . ?”
“Mademoiselle Dupree,” she supplied. Methos smiled before releasing her hand.
“Mdme. Dupree, I’d like to introduce you to a . . . colleague of mine, Monsieur Dawson.” Catching the Watcher’s attention, Methos waved him over, and then performed the introductions. Giving Joe a ghost of a smile, Jacqueline addressed Methos.
“Wait here, s’il vous plait (please).” Swinging her cool gaze to the Highlander, she assessed him once more.
“Follow me, s’il vous plait (please).” She disappeared around the corner. Giving his friends a bemused grin, Duncan followed.
Jacqueline led the Highlander down a wide hallway, coming to a stop before a heavy door. Pushing it open, she motioned for him to go in.
“This is his private study. Please make yourself comfortable. There is a wet bar in the corner.”
“You are quite a joy, Mademoiselle,” the Highlander said softly, not bothering to hide the sarcasm in his voice. He wasn’t up to humoring cold women just now. The one he was searching for was enough to deal with at the moment.
Jacqueline left without further comment, pulling the door closed firmly behind her. Duncan shook his head; studying the door before him, he wondered what type of wood it was. Too golden for birch, too thick for eucalyptus, nothing at all like mahogany or other hardwoods; it was an interesting silver-gold in color, its texture almost warm to the touch. Interesting. The Highlander took a closer look.    There were runes carven onto the doors surface, as well as strange, calligraphic letters unrecognizable yet vaguely familiar. Where did he see those markings? Try as he might, he couldn’t recall, though he felt he should know. Taking a step back, Duncan blinked. And blinked again. The markings were gone. Touching the door, smooth wood was all he felt.
“Joe’d better check his bottles. There’s definitely something wrong with the liquor,” he told himself.
It took more than a dozen beers to get him drunk, and he’d only had the one mixed drink. Dismissing it as a trick of the light, Duncan looked around the room. Antiques of all kinds were scattered throughout the room in an ordered chaos. It reminded him of Connor’s secret chamber that was filled with priceless artifacts and souvenirs of his long life -- all of which were now Duncan’s. Continuing his survey of the room, a heavily embroidered tapestry caught the Scot’s eye. Duncan was drawn to it. The rich fabric was deep red in color, almost maroon. The embroidery depicting a great battle scene gleamed richly, and swayed ever so slightly, making the Man on the ground seem to wave his broken sword at the menacing black figure towering over him. Instinctively, the Highlander knew there was something behind the tapestry. Reaching out to draw it aside, the Clansman hesitated.
“If Gregory wanted to keep people out, he would’ve had a door instead,” Duncan told himself.
The Highlander felt like a child about to take the proverbial cookie from the jar. Curiosity aroused, he cautiously drew the partition aside. In the center of the windowless room, a single shaft of light fell upon the stone pillar, illuminating the dark cloth. Something lay beneath the cloth. Duncan felt compelled to enter. Of their own accord, his footsteps brought him directly in front of the pillar. The black cloth had a silver tree; unlike the sign outside the shop, this one was full of leaves, as well as the stars above it.
The Clansman stretched forth his hand and drew off the cloth; beneath it, a ball rested on a black velvet pillow.   Duncan couldn’t help but smile. A crystal ball, of all things, albeit a black one. Funny, Duncan never thought Gregory subscribed to such charlatan tricks. The Highlander touched its cold surface.
“Jordie, are you in there?” he murmured.
If only it were that simple. Too bad these things never worked.
“Crystal ball, tell me all,” he commanded, half-jokingly.
Nothing happened. Willing Jordan to appear, Duncan continued to stare at the glassy surface that remained unchanged. Giving up, the Immortal was about to leave when he hesitated.
. . . you have the Sorcerer Nakano in you   Methos’ words came back to him.
“What the hell,” Duncan said aloud. It was certainly worth a try.
Fixing an image of Jordan in his mind, the Highlander concentrated. Duncan reached deep within himself, searching for the spirit of the Immortal, Nakano. The Highlander called forth the Sorcerer’s knowledge... concentrating... willing Jordan to appear. Faintly at first, he felt a tingle; it grew stronger, then spread through his body until his blood felt like it was rushing in his veins. In response, before him, the surface of the glass seemed to move.
Wispy tendrils of smoke appeared, swirling lazily, writhing before taking shape. Duncan was riveted in place by the object before him; he couldn’t react to anything, not even to the Buzz, announcing the arrival of another Immortal. A small part of his mind knew between Methos and Joe, they could handle any situation that would arise. The images became distinct. It was like watching a silent movie for no words could be heard. Duncan’s eyes widened in amazement and the black cloth fell from his slack fingers to flutter soundlessly to the floor.
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Only One	By : HollyHobbit13 Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Only One