Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 23
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Methos kept to the shadows as he walked ahead of his companions through the forest. The conversation between the Highlander and the younger Immortal’s Watcher seemed inordinately loud in the quiet forest; the Eldest was only half-listening, for he was still mulling over his own earlier conversation with Gregory. . .
:::: “Have you ever wished that certain. . . ‘events’ never happened?” the Ancient One asked. A thousand regrets shuffled through the Immortal’s mind in a sorrowful parade.
“Who hasn’t? We’ve all wished that before.” Gregory replied wryly, watching his old friend with a sad expression on his weathered face.
“But . . . have you ever wanted to travel back in time to undo a wrong? Have you ever tried?” Methos ventured.
The older gentleman didn’t need his ears to hear the regret in the Immortal’s quiet voice. Gregory’s snowy brow rose, his gaze at once sharp yet kind.
“Rarely does anything happen by chance, Thanatos.”
“The name’s ‘Methos’. I am not that person . . . anymore. I’ve changed.” The reformed Immortal said quietly. The Greek word was a constant, shameful reminder of his past dastardly deeds and who he had once been.
                  “Thanatos . . . Adam . . . Methos. Everything happens for a reason. Your brain may not know why; in fact, it may never figure it out. Nevertheless, your heart knows. Your heart will always know.”::::
Maybe, Gregory . . . maybe. The Immortal thought to himself before his thoughts were interrupted.
                  “What the hell’s up with this weather?” Joe asked, squinting up at the grey sky.
Though the sky had lightened, the sun had not burned through the gray fog obscuring the path before them. It shrouded the surrounding area. In fact, it seemed to follow them. They had not heard the chirping of birds or the chatter of squirrels for some time now and the visibility was limited to thirty feet.
“How much farther to this damn place?” Joe called, uneasy. The Watcher’s question brought Methos back to the present.
Good question, Joe, Methos thought, wondering the exact same thing. If the information the Halcyon gave him was correct, they still had at least a mile to go.
‘Cut through the woods till you get to the great East Road.’ You forgot to mention we would need transportation - or better yet, a compass, Caine. I should have seen that one coming.   The Ancient One thought, annoyed. Stopping in his tracks, the Old Man turned.
“Not much further Joe, we’re almost there.” Methos answered as he waited for his companions to catch up with him. Sheltered under the branches, the leaves and weak sunlight eerily stippled the elder Immortal in shadow.
“You know, I really don’t want to see this village that badly. The beer can’t be that good ---let’s go back.” Joe suggested; the Watcher’s prosthetics starting to chafe and irritate his leg's stumps.
“No!” Methos said quickly - perhaps too quickly, judging from the odd looks that Duncan and Joe gave him. Methos gave them a lopsided grin and tempered his voice to a more reasonable tone.
“We’re almost there Joe. To come all this way just to turn back now - come on! Where’s your sense of adventure?” the Ancient One said cajolingly.
“With my heart in San Francisco.” the Watcher sniped.
“Joe’s right Methos,” Duncan said with a pointed look at their friend.
“You okay Joe?” The Highlander asked gruffly, concerned for the Watcher’s comfort.
“I’m fine.” The Watcher snapped. Despite the cool weather and their leisurely pace, Joe was leaning heavily on his cane. There was a light sheen of perspiration on his brow and his whiskered face was flushed.
“Nothing like a little alcohol to kill the bugs,” Methos encouraged the tired Watcher. They could not stop just yet and the Ancient One knew they had to reach the village soon.
“We can do this another day, Methos.”
“No, we can’t, MacLeod.” the Ancient One replied. The Highlander turned towards his friend with an impatient look.
“What do you mean? Of course we can.” Duncan said; he had not planned to take a walk this deep into the forest either, and was thankful that though his loafers were not exactly made for hiking, they were at least very comfortable.
“This pub won’t be here for long,” the Eldest warned.
“Then we can catch another Festival in the States. If a Renaissance pub’s brew is so important, we’ll go back and get my car.” The Highlander’s firm tone indicated his decision as final. Methos had to think quickly, although fortunately it was the Watcher that provided a timely distraction.
“What time is it, anyway?” Joe asked. Methos’ gaze swung towards the Watcher. The brief respite had given the mortal his second wind, but his face was still slightly flushed.
Looking up, the Watcher searched for the sun. Though he couldn’t see it, its light shone through but its warmth couldn’t penetrate the fog. Despite his wool blazer and the unaccustomed exercise, the Watcher felt chilled to the bone. Duncan glanced at his watch. He frowned and tapped it. Taking it off, the Highlander shook it briefly before studying it closely.
“Damned Rolex isn’t worth the ten grand I paid for it.” the Highlander complained.
“Shoulda stuck with a Timex, Mac. Mine’s taken lots o’ lickins’ but keeps on tickin’. Sometimes the cheap stuff’s better than the expensive crap.” Joe said.
“Well, it stopped at 10:59.” Duncan replied, still trying to figure out what caused his costly timepiece to stop working.
“We’ve been out here that long?” Joe asked, incredulous. When they arrived at Gregory’s shoppe, it was during the early morning.
“Are you sure it was working right?” the Watcher asked Duncan.
“I just bought it . . .yesterday.” the Highlander replied, perplexed.
“Don’t worry about the time, MacLeod. We’ve got more pressing matters to see to.” Methos said. Duncan looked up at the sudden neighing of horses. The damp weather had muffled the sound of their hooves.
“Friends of yours?” Duncan asked as he sized up the arrivals.
“Hardly,” was Methos’ acerbic reply.
Two men on horseback were before them. Behind them, Joe heard the rustle of branches being pushed aside and leaves crunching underfoot. Turning, he watched as three more men appeared from the trees, moving towards them in a flanking pattern.
“They don’t look very friendly.” Joe observed.
“That’s an astute observation if ever I heard one, Joe.” Methos commented dryly.
“Is this part of the Festival?” the Watcher asked when the men drew their swords and short daggers. The staged show looked quite real.
“Authenticity is one of the things they really try for.” Methos commented.
“Well, well. Wha ‘ave we ‘ere?” the leader drawled to his mounted friend as he gazed at the trio.
“Looks like dead men to me.” his companion replied.
“Funny, I don’t feel dead. Do you feel dead?” Methos asked the Highlander. Duncan shot the Eldest an irritated look.
“Look, guys - we don’t want any trouble, okay?” the Highlander said sternly. He was not in the mood to play along with the ‘Highway Robbery’ scenario.
“Hear that? Brave words for a dead man.” the Leader sneered. His companions nodded, their gleeful expressions were a bit too genuine for the Watcher’s comfort.
“We don’t have time for this.” The Highlander said, impatient to be on their way.
“Too good for the likes of us, eh?” the ruffian to the left of the Scotsman retorted, tossing his dagger back and forth between his hands in an effort meant to intimidate - it did not work.
From atop his pale horse, the Leader assessed their prey. The slightly leaner one did not look to be a threat, nor did the old man leaning on his walking stick. The dark, swarthier man however could be a problem. He would need to be dealt with first; the others could wait. With a look, the man on horseback signaled his cohorts to attack; the second mounted thug dismounted from his horse to help his companions. The Immortals exchanged glances, keeping the Watcher between them in a protective circle.
“I’m all for historical accuracy, but this is going overboard. The Festival Coordinator is going to hear about this.” The Highlander warned the advancing men.
Ignoring the Clansman’s words, the men advanced, confident the trio was outnumbered. Thug number One rushed the Highlander. Duncan lightly sidestepped his advance and pushed his attacker, sending him sprawling in the dirt. Spurred by his companions’ derisive laughter, the hooligan sprang to his feet and rushed the Highlander again. This time, ruffian number Two joined him. Again, the Clansman dodged their attacks and sent the men to the dirt, followed by number Three.
“Curse you, stand still!” bellowed thug Two.
The remaining two offenders advancing on Joe and the Ancient One hooted with derisive laughter at their fellow companions’ troubles, for the Highlander proved to be more of a challenge than they initially thought. They digressed to help their companions subdue the troublesome Scot.
“Feel free to join me, Methos!” the Highlander said sarcastically as he glared at his companion. He now was surrounded by four baddies. Unfortunately, the Old Man declined the Scotsman’s invitation.
“Thanks, I’ll wait a bit if you don’t mind.” Methos answered.
“Don’t you think you should help him Methos?” Joe asked, not liking the odds. One, then two of the men went sprawling in the dirt. They got up for another try at the Highlander.
“Why? MacLeod can take care of himself – this will be a cakewalk for him, Joe. He’s doing fine - oh…I take it back.” Methos winced as one of the attackers managed to plant his shoulder in the Highlander’s lower back when he was otherwise engaged. The Immortal and Watcher heard the Highlander’s grunt of pain before he shook his attackers off.
“You know, you really can be a pain in the ass sometimes Adam.” Joe said with an irritated look on his face.
“Part of my charm, Joe,” Methos smirked.
“Anytime you’d like to join me Methos!” the Highlander yelled as he wrenched a dagger away from one of his attackers and dodged the others trying to tackle him.
“Four against one?” the Watcher asked, watching his charge. Duncan’s hair was disheveled and his clothes mussed, but otherwise was okay.
“I am helping, Joe.” the Ancient One said calmly. He was watching the Highlander fight empty-handed, picking up a couple of moves and footwork he had not come across.
“Really? Could’ve fooled me,” Joe said.
“In case you haven’t noticed, I’m protecting you.” Methos said, tucking his hands into his overcoat pockets. As if on cue, two of the men broke off from the fray and rushed the Immortal and Watcher, thinking them easier targets.
“Get your back to the tree, Joe,” the Immortal instructed as he placed himself between the Watcher and their attackers, who had their daggers drawn.
Methos reached into his overcoat and drew his single-handed broadsword; in his eyes was a cold, steely glint. Their attackers hesitated for a second before pressing onward as the Immortal stepped in front of Joe. Behind him, the Watcher moved well away to avoid the Ivanhoe’s long reach as Methos swung it around. After a brief clash of blades, the Immortal brought the wide, hazelnut shaped pommel of his Ivanhoe crashing down on his opponent’s skull. The sickening crack of bone splintering filled the air. The second ruffian followed his fallen cohort on the packed dirt as Methos firmly gripped the hilt of his sword, and used its substantial heft to deliver a nose breaking punch. There was no grace, no honor in the struggle. The bottom line was survival, pure and simple, and it was what Methos did best.
Rolling in the dirt with blood streaming from his nose, the ruffian moaned with pain. Holding his sword high overhead, the Immortal felt the surge of the familiar violence well up. It would be so easy to revert to his old form and kill him, a tiny voice in his mind urged. Taking advantage of the Immortal’s hesitation, the scoundrel scrambled to his feet and stumbled away, heading for the trees. Every instinct compelled the Horseman to go after the fleeing attacker and make sure he was not a . . . ‘problem’ anymore. Instead, with his foot, Methos nudged the unconscious man sprawled at his feet.
“There, see? MacLeod can handle the rest. Besides. . . I might kill them.” Methos said calmly. Joe looked sharply at the Ancient One. He did not say a word, for the look on his face said it all.
“What?” Methos asked irritably.
“A little overkill, don’t ya think?” Joe asked.
“Looked real enough to me. When someone comes swinging a sword or weapon at me, I prefer to be the one who is still standing. By whatever means necessary,” Methos said. The Watcher’s disapproving look made the Immortal grit his teeth.
That’s the trouble with consciences: they made you feel guilt when you didn’t want to. Methos fumed to himself.
With a long-suffering sigh, the Immortal drove the tip of his sword into the ground and hunkered down on his haunches. He put two fingers to the man’s neck, feeling for the carotid pulse. It was weak but steady.
“Don’t worry Joe.” Methos assured his friend as he rose to his feet. The Immortal nodded towards the two men flanking the Highlander. The Ancient One nudged the limp form again with his foot.
“They do this kind of thing for a living. This bastard will have one helluva headache when he wakes up.” Methos said.
. . And migraines for life. If he lives. The Immortal thought to himself.
“Well, I don’t think these stunt guys count getting hurt as just part of a day’s work. I hope the underwriter of their insurance company does not cancel their policies ‘cause of you.” Joe said.
Somehow I do not think they will. The Ancient One thought.
“Now’s a good time, Methos!” Duncan yelled out. Methos spared the Highlander a glance, but did not move to help.
                  “Hurry it up, MacLeod - we need to get going.” He yelled back.
Well aware of his attackers’ positions, Duncan focused on the one before him. He grabbed the thug’s arm and twisted his wrist, forcing him to drop the dagger before bringing his fists down on the back of his head. The thug collapsed to ground without a sound, knocked out cold. Behind him scoundrel Number Four rushed the Highlander, grabbing him from behind and rendering him immobile. Duncan allowed the thug to continue thinking he had the upper hand as he assessed the situation. Seeing the fight was not going well - with two of his men down and one run off, with a growl of frustration, the Leader of the pack dismounted, drew his sword, and stalked towards the Highlander. It was time for the Immortal to make his move. The speed and ease with which Duncan turned out of the scoundrel’s grab position surprised his attacker. The thug did not have time to counter the Immortal’s unexpected move, for the Highlander applied a hard elbow strike to his attacker’s jaw -- the move resulting in an instant knock out. The Scot turned to meet the new threat. Eyeing the ruffian’s blade, the Highlander’s own blade appeared in his hand as if by magic. Duncan fanned it until it sang, and rested it against his shoulder, his left hand held out.
“You prance about as a woman!” the Leader sneered, hoping to cloud the Highlander’s mind with his insult.
“Wanna dance?” Duncan invited sarcastically.
With the sinuous grace of a snake, Duncan assumed a fighting stance. As the combatants circled each other warily, Methos scanned the trees, making sure no surprises came out of the woodwork. Satisfied, the Immortal tucked his Ivanhoe back into his overcoat.
“Hey, where you going’?” Joe shouted after him as Methos jogged away.
“To get our ride.” the Ancient One called over his shoulder.
“Oh, yeah . . . c’mon, baby. Shhhh, easy now . . . don’t be afraid.” The Ancient One murmured softly.
Speaking in low tones, Methos slowly walked towards the horses. They neighed sharply, nostrils flaring, as they smelled the unfamiliar scent of the Immortal.   Sensing the darkness within the Ancient One, the skittish beasts backed away. Though the whites of their eyes were visible, to the Ancient One’s relief, the horses didn’t bolt. Inwardly, Methos sighed. No matter how much he would like to convince himself he had changed, the animals thought otherwise. Methos slowly reached out and caught hold of the reins. They were magnificent specimens of horseflesh: the dappled gray horse stood seventeen hands high at the withers, while the smoky black measured at least eighteen hands.
“Ah, two for two, Joe!” the Ancient One called out as he led them back to the Watcher. Methos suddenly stopped. Slowly, he shifted the reins to one hand.
“Methos?” Joe called to his friend, wondering why the Immortal stopped.
Methos wore a peculiar expression on his face transforming his visage into someone he almost did not recognize. The tiny, humorless smile on his lips and the cold look in Methos’ eyes was something he had seen only in the eyes of hardened service Veterans and criminals whose lives had passed beyond redemption. It was easy to see why the Immortal before him once was called ‘Death’, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse.
“What the hell are you doing?!” Joe shouted, alarmed.
The Immortal’s Glock appeared in his right hand, and pointed at the Watcher’s head. Even if he were to hit the ground, the Watcher saw first hand Methos’ skill with firearms. Awarded a medal for marksmanship during his tour in Vietnam, Joe did not need combat experience to know the Immortal was not going to miss. The Watcher stared at his friend and colleague in horrified fascination as he pulled the trigger. Joe squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the moment of impact.
Instead, the scream of pain and the sound of a body hitting the ground hard reached his ears. Turning, the Watcher saw the thug, whose nose Methos had broken, lay on his back clutching his shoulder; blood streamed from between his fingers. Beside him lay a dagger.
                  “Protecting you, Joe,” Methos calmly replied as the gun disappeared in the folds of his overcoat.
                  “Son-of-a-bitch!” the Watcher exclaimed, outraged. This was getting out of hand! If he did not know any better, Joe really thought the man planned to stab him - and in the back, no less! Even if all this was play-acting, Joe was a little shaken.
“Since when do they allow this kind of stunt?” Joe asked. Methos just shrugged. “Wait - aren’t the police going to want to question you?” the Watcher asked.
                  “I don’t think so, he’ll be fine. The round went through his shoulder.” Methos countered.
                  “How do you know?” the Watcher persisted.
                  “Trust me Joe. Would I lie to you?” the Immortal asked.
                  “Have you done anything else but?” Joe asked.
                  Only when I had to. Methos thought to himself.
                  “I could ask you the same thing, now, couldn’t I?” the Ancient One returned without missing a beat                   “Are you forgetting I was a doctor at one point in time?” Methos asked impatiently.
                  “Oh. Yeah,” Joe conceded.
                  “The human body doesn’t change much, you know. Like I told you, I hit soft tissue, not bone or any vital organs.” The Ancient One replied.
                  “Well, are you sure the cops aren’t going to come after us - you?” the Watcher asked, worriedly.
                  “No, they won’t.” The Immortal answered patiently. “Besides, what’s there to tell? You were threatened and I acted accordingly. End of story - Que peche?”
                  “Sure. Fine. Whatever.” Joe knew he was not going to get a straight answer from the Immortal.
The Old Man’s boyish grin was completely at odds with his demeanor but seconds later he handed a shaken but grateful Joe the reins. Methos studied the unusual riding tack and quickly checked the horses’ girths, ensuring that the saddles were secure. The Ancient One tossed a sword scabbard to the ground. He had another use in mind for the holster. While Methos checked the horses over, Joe watched the Highlander’s progress. The Leader proved to be a man of some skill with the blade, but he was no match for the Highlander. The ease with which Duncan unarmed his opponent was almost unfair - for in a matter of seconds, the Leader lay sprawled in the dirt, unconscious. Dusting himself off, the Highlander turned to his companions. One of the minions was struggling to his feet.
“Stay down!” the Highlander ordered, his Katana held to the thug’s throat. With a slight twist of his wrist, Duncan made his point with the razor sharp tip of his sword. Obediently, the thug glared at the Immortal as he lay back down, submitting.
                  “Took you long enough, MacLeod," Methos said.
“No thanks to you!” he shot back.
“Come along, we need to get going.” Methos continued smoothly.
“Stealing horses now, Methos?”
                  “Borrowing.” the Eldest clarified. “Don’t look this gift in the mouth.” the Antediluvian One said with a pointed look at the Watcher.
                  “Hey Mac - this sure beats walking until we can catch a cab back. I’ve had enough excitement for one day.” Joe said. All he wanted to do was get back to his bar.
Its just beginning, Joe. Methos thought to himself, amused.
“Let’s just get the hell to this pub and back home,” the Watcher suggested, handing the reins to the Ancient One.
                  “I couldn’t have said it better myself,” Methos commented as he secured the smoky black stallion’s reins to his saddle.
                  “C’mon, Joe, give me your cane.” the Immortal instructed. The Highlander went back to the bandits and was busy throwing their weapons deep into the mist-cloaked trees. Searching for their blades would keep them occupied -- at least long enough for the Immortals and Watcher to make their getaway.
Methos slid the Watcher’s cane into the holster previous occupied by the Leader’s sword, taking care it would not slip from the straps. Swinging onto the horse’s back with ease, Methos placed his feet firmly into the stirrups.
                  “These horses are huge!” the Watcher said.
                  “You’ve got a gift for stating the obvious, Joe.” Methos said good-naturedly.
                  “Yeah, well just remember who’s not quick on their feet here, all right?” Joe retorted.
“Blah, blah, blah, blah, blah.” Methos said, ignoring the Watcher’s splenetic expression as he leaned down.
                  “Grab my arm, Joe. Upsy daisy.” the Ancient One said.
With the Highlander’s help, the Immortals settled the Watcher behind the Eldest. Duncan adjusted the angle of Joe prosthetics before taking the reins of the dark stallion from Methos. Swinging the gray’s head east, Methos urged his mount forward, leaving the Highlander no choice but to follow.
                  “How’d you know we were going to be attacked?” Duncan asked as they rode along.
                  “I didn’t. It does not take a rocket scientist to figure that out when you are outnumbered. Things don’t normally go well for those on the receiving end of the bullying stick.” The Eldest said. Duncan was unusually quiet as the trio rode along. It was usually an indication the Highlander was thinking.
                  “Now, isn’t horseback much better than leather express?” Methos asked breezily in an attempt to distract the Highlander. It was dangerous when MacLeod started thinking.
                  “Are we there yet?” Joe asked. Behind the Ancient one, Joe felt every sway and motion of the horse’s movement; lacking his lower limbs made it difficult to grip the horse. If he wasn’t hanging on to the back of the saddle, he would surely fall off.
                  “Makes me glad we can’t have kids.” Methos commented, relieved for the timely distraction. Despite himself, Duncan smiled.
                  “I thought you enjoyed my company Joe.” Methos said, affecting a hurt tone.
                  “Even for you, my patience is really getting thin, Old Man.” Joe said smartly.
“Fine thanks after I save your ass. Mind the branch.” Methos replied as he ducked, smiling at Joe’s colorful cursing. The Watcher got a face full of branches.
“We’re here,” the Ancient One announced suddenly, looking around. “Well, almost.” Methos amended.
“Where?” Joe asked, bewildered. They were still in the forest, with nothing but trees to the side, trees behind and more trees in front. The trees were everywhere.
“Where we should be,” the Ancient one answered with a grin.
You will know it when you see it. The Ancient one remembered Caine’s words.
The horses stepped onto a wide road. In the distance, they could see a settlement, most likely the village of which Gregory spoke. As they drew nearer, the trio could see the village guarded from outsiders by a deep ditch and a hedge. The great East Road passed through this hedge on its western side and exited again in the southern corner where the hedge and dike met the sides of a great hill. At each of these points stood a gate, which presumably was closed and guarded after nightfall. Passing through the gate, Joe could not help but think they had taken a rather large step back in time. The Watcher estimated at least one hundred stone houses made a large part of the landscape. There were patches of fields where horses roamed, as well as a few cows. The details of the village were intricate, so much so that the Watcher could swear it was the real thing - down to some of the villager’s rotted teeth and dirty faces. Joe had to constantly remind himself they were at the Renaissance festival.
                  “These festivals get pretty detailed, don’t they Old Man?” Joe remarked. The Ancient One merely smiled over his shoulder.
                  “Ever get the feeling we’re the ones who’re odd?” the Watcher asked.
Indeed, for since they entered the stone gates, the Immortals and Watcher drew many stares. Wherever they passed, men and women stopped on the narrow road and openly gawked at them, before quickly hurrying on their way. Others refused to meet their eyes. Everywhere, the participants of the festival were in character. Most of the men were broad of body and short in stature, while others were tall. Brown seemed to be the dominant hair color. These participants were outdoors folks as well, for many of them sported sun-weathered skin, the lines on their faces carved deep as they glanced up at the men on horseback. Pipes jutted from many mouths, but not pipes like Duncan had seen his fellow Immortal, Fitzcairn, use to puff away. The current fashion of the stems was long and curved.
                  “Are we at the North Pole?”
“What makes you say that?” Methos asked, curious.
“Look over there - I didn’t know Elves were here, Methos. I thought they liked cold weather.” Joe commented quietly, staring back at the unusually short people.
“You know, Joe, in over 400 years I’ve never seen a werewolf, Elf, or vampire. This place could almost make me believe in Elves.” The Highlander said in an undertone, nodding towards the short people that captured their collective attentions.
Mixed along with the men were little folk; not even the tallest seemed to exceed four feet in height. For their height and build, the ‘Elves’ limbs were perfectly proportioned . . . except for their large, hairy bare feet. Even the female Elves had hairy feet. Because of their short height, the Watcher thought them to be children; after a closer look, he decided their surprisingly mature faces were not child like at all. Although the Elf-like creatures moved about the village freely, Joe could see most were headed towards the hillsides above the stone houses of the village.
“Maybe if we look hard enough, we’ll find a troll hiding under a bridge.” Duncan joked.
“And the Billy goats gruff - huh Mac?” Joe joined.
“You never know . . . I don’t know about you, but I’m ready to get off this horse. Let’s go see what this place has to offer.” the Methos suggested.
“Where are we going Methos?” Duncan asked.
“To get a beer, MacLeod. Isn’t that why we’re here?” Methos replied
“Where?”
“Well, it looks to me as if most of the traffic is headed over there.” Methos replied, nodding towards a sign with a rearing white horse. “Seems to me like a good place to start,” the Eldest said.
The Ancient One turned his mount towards a stable where other travelers on horseback were leading their steeds. While the Highlander helped the Watcher off the gray horse, the stable attendant cautiously approached the tall, dark stranger garbed in a long outer coats. One could never be too careful these days; strange folk were about and the three riding up to his stable were like none he had ever seen. Methos spoke with the stable hand --whose name he learned was ‘Bob’ -- in low tones, listening quietly to the answers. He studied the short man before him with undisguised curiosity before he pressed something into his hand. Wide eyed, the stable hand stared at the gold coin and bit it before nodding eagerly as he took their two horses away. Methos went to join his companions who were waiting for him beneath the wooden sign. When they entered, all conversation slowly came to a halt.
                  “Talk about making a dramatic entrance.” the Watcher muttered under his breath.
The patrons within the establishment cast uneasy, suspicious stares towards the Strangers. The good folk of Bree recently learned Middle-Earth was full of strange creatures beyond count, as well as strange folk abroad. The Strangers entering the tavern caused more than a few uneasy stares to be thrown their way. Standing just inside the doorway, the trio let their sights adjust to the dimly lit interior before entering; against the wall leaned various staves. Since there was no billiard tables present one would correctly presume them to be walking sticks. There was something about the great common room’s exposed wooden beams -- the smoky atmosphere from lit pipes and the simple garb of rough, homespun wool that made Methos and Duncan wax nostalgic for their early days.
Joe, on the other hand, did not see a single amenity to which he was accustomed. No light bulbs hung from the ceiling, every tabletop held a single candle in a pewter holder. No music blared from a jukebox or radio, just the chatter of voices and raucous laughter. The creak of leather and clanking sounds of metal could be heard above the din; the tavern was simply furnished: a roaring fire burned in a hearth large enough to roast a whole cow, roughly hewn plank tables and benches, mugs and steins of carven wood or pewter. Moreover, judging by the food, it was simple as well. Loaves of coarse bread, both dark and light, were served on shallow, wood platters, with a thick slice of cheese, the spoons nothing like the Watcher was accustomed to seeing - except in the movies.
                  “Come on Joe. Let’s take a load off.” Spying a long table with space, Methos confidently led the way.
                  “You don’t have to tell me twice. Been a while since I have been on a hump this long, and since you ran out o’ gas runnin’ from Morgan Walker - remember that, Adam?”
“I remember.” Methos said as he studied the other patrons. The Quickening from that son-of-a-bitch was most satisfying.
At long last, after 195 years, Methos had exacted revenge for his sweet Charlotte, the beautiful slave whom he loved from afar and shared one brief, blissful night . . . before she was murdered. Charlotte paid for their passion with her life. Her owner, the cruel slave master, Morgan Walker -- another Immortal-- returned early from an errand and literally almost caught the Ancient One with his pants down. What Walker found instead was his bed mussed and his slave fresh from the arms of another. Methos’ past indiscretion had caused her to pay dearly. It was the Ancient’s every intention that his most recent ‘indiscretion’ be set right and not cost his friend a loved one as well. Methos’ eyes settled on the dark figure in the corner; there sat a Man keenly observing them with dark, intense eyes. The Ancient One discretely studied him as well, his gut telling him they were close to their goal.
                  “Hey MacLeod, why don’t you get us a round?” the Eldest suggested.
                  “Yeah, sounds like a good idea.” the Highlander said, his dark gaze sweeping the room.
“Gregory was right, Mac.” Joe commented.
“Oh?” the Highlander prompted.
“He said the people would be ‘colorful’.”
And they were. It was not filled to capacity with customers, but it was plenty busy; the clientele of this drinking establishment fully embraced spirit of the Festival. Sneezing, the Watcher held his handkerchief under his nose, and kept it there, hoping the cotton square would filter the smell of unwashed bodies. It did not work. The mingled odors of leather, horse, food and sweaty men fresh from their labors and their clothes stained with grease and dirt just added to the . . .
                  “Ambiance; this place reeks of it, doesn’t it Joe.” Methos commented, looking around.
                  “Yeah, it reeks all right. I’d call it body odor, though. Jeez, is there a rule against bathing?” the Watcher complained, breathing through his mouth.
                  “Ah, Joe - you’re being so prissy. If you think this is bad, you should’ve seen the Bronze Age.” the Eldest said, watching the Highlander make his way to the bar.
Although there was plenty of room available, the patrons on either side of the Immortal gave him wide berth, backing away uneasily whilst appraising the swarthy Scot. Perplexed, Duncan nodded in greeting to those brave enough to make eye contact; some hesitantly returned the salutation, while others left for the other side of the bar counter, crowding the other bar flies gathered at the far ends, who murmured in low voices and openly stared at the Highlander and his companions.
                  “Barkeep, three rounds of Scotch, please.” Duncan called out.
Wiping a wooden cup with a rough, brown cloth, the barkeep tried to keep a brave front. The Stranger before him was unlike any other he had ever had the misfortune to lay eyes upon, but he felt reassured with the dark figure resting in a shadowy corner. The Ranger would intervene if necessary.
“We don’t have round Scotchs here, sir.” he replied carefully. The last time Strangers came to this peaceful village, they terrorized Bree and the surrounding countryside, disturbing the quiet and harmony; as a result, business at the Prancing Pony had declined sharply. After the War of the Ring, it was slowly recovering.
“What do you have?” Duncan asked; it was easier to play along with the characters.
Though it was refreshing to attend a Festival that was a stickler for the little details, the Highlander wondered why the stringent rules applied to the liquor as well. After the forest altercation, he was ready for a stiff drink. It was fortunate for the barkeep that his suspicious attitude did not bother the Highlander one bit.
“Beer, mead and wine.” he replied. Affable by nature, the suds dealer saw that the Stranger was not only polite, but didn’t seem to be trouble. Likewise, Duncan studied the man before him. Portly of build, the coarse hairs of his handlebar mustache joined the mutton chop sideburns. His brown hair held a hint of red that was thinning slightly in front.
“Two of those --” Duncan nodded to the pewter mugs of the men across from him.
                  “A pint?”
                  “And one of mead.” the Highlander added.
“Right away, Mr. -?”
“MacLeod.”
“Barliman Butterbur at your service. Can I be getting anything else for you, Mr. MacLeod?”
“Oi, Butterbur - we’re dry over here!”
“Nob! See to them, please!” Barliman Butterbur called out. One of the Elves they saw entering the village caught Duncan’s attention as he dropped the rag he was using to wipe a table to scurry off and do as instructed.
“The woolly footed slow-coach - he means well, bless him!” the barkeep said in an undertone.
“Why do you put a child to work in your pub?” The Highlander asked with grim disapproval.
“Child?” Barliman repeated, puzzled; he followed the Scotsman’s gaze. “Nob?! The wooly pated ninny’s no child - though he may as well be!” assured the Man before him meant no harm, Barliman chuckled.
“That Elf’s not a child?” Duncan repeated, incredulous.
He hadn’t see Nob’s face clearly, had he been able to, the Highlander would not have seen the face of a child. Barliman looked at his unusual patron strangely, wondering if the man before him was a simpleton as well.
“Nob’s no ‘Elf’, and he’s certainly not a child. He’s a ‘Hobbit’ - a ‘Halfling’, one of the Little Folk!” the barkeep said.
Barliman chuckled to himself again and turned away as another customer claimed his attention. The proprietor wished to speak with the Stranger again. The fellow seemed harmless enough, and the Butterbur was most eager to learn more about him and his companions. It would keep the village talking for quite a while -- of that, he was certain. After all, the Prancing Pony didn’t earn its reputation for being the center of news and gossip for nothing.
“What’s there to eat today?” Duncan asked.
This outing to the village was certainly taking on a decidedly odd flavor. The Highlander was convinced the players embraced the spirit of the Festival too rabidly. It’d be a relief to get this trip over with so he could resume his search for Jordie. He planned to ask Gregory to allow him the use of his Stone again, certain it would make all the difference in his search.
“Well, we have smoked capon, baked chicken, fried goose, smoked eel, stewed fish . . . hmmm, we might have some salmon left - but I have to check, first - oh and the salted beef is quite good.”
“Three orders of the chicken and beef . . . with the mead and beer, please.” Duncan ordered.
“Ah, excellent choices, Mr. MacLeod. I’ll have Nob bring it to your table when it's ready.” the proprietor said as the Scotsman nodded in agreement.
“Somebody forgot their book.” Duncan commented, nodding towards the large tome that rested on the counter. Resting atop it was a feather quill; beside it was a small cup filled with extra quills, on the other side was a pot of ink.
“’Tis a registry for our guests.”
“Registry? Is this a hotel?” Duncan asked. Barliman gave the Immortal a quizzical look.
“’Hotel’? Nay, the Prancing Pony -- ‘tis an ‘Inn’.” the Proprietor answered.
It was the Clansman’s turn to give the Bree Man a strange look. Writing it off as a subtle hint to speak in Festival terms, the Highlander just smiled and pulled out his billfold. He placed a fifty Euro bill on the counter, momentarily distracted when a man suddenly appeared to his right. Clad in dark, dusty clothes, his dark head was uncovered, and he wore rough woven gloves with the tips cut off. Strapped to his back were weapons that no doubt were put to use time and again. He did not look at the Highlander, which gave the Immortal the chance to openly study him.
“Another pint,” The man ordered in a low voice.
“Right away,” Busying himself behind the counter, Butterbur pushed the requested beverage in front of the man and set the Highlander’s order before him as well. Duncan gathered up the drinks and turned to make his way to the table where Joe and Methos waited.
“Will you be payin’ for your purchase now Mr. MacLeod?” Butterbur asked.
“It’s right there.” Duncan called over his shoulder.
Barliman looked at the counter, seeing nothing but a colorful piece of parchment. With his pint in hand, the dark clad man turned to leave but hesitated as well. Barliman addressed the Immortal again.
“Shall I bill you later, Mr. MacLeod?” he asked again slowly; his eyes were still on the parchment; Barliman Butterbur was, after all, a businessman. He wondered if the Stranger did not understand the question - though it was a simple enough query. Surely, the Outlander understands the simple concept of payment up front for goods or services rendered.
No matter, the Proprietor thought; he was willing to call upon the Ranger to set things right . . . if it came down to it. Relieved he had a reliable method for securing payment, Barliman wondered what to do with the parchment on the counter.
Deciding the colorful parchment was harmless, Barliman picked up the bill. Studying the unusual pictures on the bank note, Barliman did not know what to make of the strange symbols. Holding it up to the light, the Euro’s security feature became a dark line. Holding the note to the candle, the Proprietor gaped with wonder at the hologram foil patch, watching with child like wonder as the ink colors shifted from a purplish color to olive green. Clearing his throat nervously, Barliman tried to look stern.
“’Tis . . . pretty no doubt, Mr. MacLeod, but that’ll be -”
What is wrong with these people? the Immortal wondered, turning back and address the proprietor. Surely, the drinks and food did not cost more than what he had already paid.
“Here - MacLeod, why don’t you take these to Joe? I’m sure he could use it.” Methos interjected, sidling up to the counter.
Duncan looked at the Watcher; their food had arrived and Joe was waiting rather impatiently. Seeing the Highlander look his way, the Watcher pretended to take an exaggerated drink from an invisible cup in his hand to signal his thirst, prompting the Scotsman to hurry. As the Highlander left, Methos addressed the rotund man behind the counter.
“I hope this will cover the costs of our food and drinks . . . and lodgings for the night.” Methos pulled another gold coin from the leather pouch in his overcoat and placed it on the counter, pushing it towards the barkeep.
“’Twill be more than enough, sir!” Barliman’s eyes lit up as he reached for the coin. It had been a while since customers had paid up front, and this Stranger had paid handsomely up front. Before his beefy hand could touch the coin, the gold disappeared beneath Methos’ hand.
“We seek the Peredhel.” Methos said in a firm, yet quiet voice. Barliman blanched slightly and Methos noted with interest how the barkeep blinked rapidly before his gaze flicked briefly to the black clad man standing beside the Immortal.
“Er, I - I --what did you say your name was Mr. -?”
“I didn’t.” the Immortal said with a tiny smile. “Please let us know when our rooms are ready.” Methos requested; as he walked away, the Immortal allowed the hastily hidden item to fall from his sleeve.
“Yes sir,” Barliman replied, exchanging glances with the Ranger.
Watching the Stranger return to his companions, the square on the floor caught the Dúnedain’s eye. Stooping, the Man picked it up and almost dropped it again. Quickly and carefully, he tucked it into his worn tunic, hoping those he awaited would soon arrive. He did not glance at the Innkeeper again as he returned to his corner table. Waiting impatiently in the shadowed corner for the Lords to arrive, Breiric continued to observe the Strangers. The quality of their clothes he had never seen before and they smelled of a strange fragrance, similar yet unlike the perfumes the Elves were known to favor, not the stench of sweat and horse that he was accustomed to. Methos’ approaching figure obscured the Highlander’s view of the black clad man as the Immortal returned to his companions’ table.
“Methos, what’s really going on here?” the Highlander questioned his friend when the Eldest returned to the table and helped himself to his share of the food.
“Looks like we’re eating, MacLeod.” Methos replied innocently.
“You know what I mean.” Duncan warned. He was not in the mood to play word games with the Eldest.
“Well?" the Highlander prompted the Elder.
Methos did not answer, his body stiff and alert. From their reactions, the Watcher knew Immortals were about to enter the room. The Highlander and his companion’s gaze swung towards the door, watching the two hooded and cloaked figures silhouetted in the entry pause before stepping forward, paying no heed to the other patrons; the tall figures uncovered their heads as they went to join the dark figure seated in the shadows. Their dark hair was long, and hung on either side of their face. In the dim light, Duncan and Methos could see the unknown Immortals were pale skinned as well. They were also identical twins.
“Immortal twins?! That’s new.” Joe said, stealing furtive glances at the pair.
“What do you think, MacLeod? Romulans or Vulcans?” Methos said softly. He could not resist the opportunity to stir up a little . . . ‘fun’.
“I think they must not like their Star Fleet uniforms.” the Highlander replied.
This was proving to be quite . . . interesting, for the recent arrivals’ ears were pointed. The Highlander swore the two men who entered were on the wrong side of the great oceanic pond, for the annual International Comic Convention, known for attracting participants who paid painstaking attention to detail to their costumes, was held in San Diego, California, and not in Europe. Unless said men were masquerading as something else.
“It can’t be. . . ” the Highlander murmured.
“What can’t be?” Methos prompted, turning his gaze back at his companions.
“Well, that little guy who brought our food is a ‘Hobbit’, not an Elf. Those Men over there cannot be Elves. Everybody knows Elves don’t exist” the Highlander said.
“Same could be said for us, MacLeod -- and little green men. The gods that made you and me, made them a little different – yes?” Methos said with a grin on his face.
The Highlander gave the Elder Immortal an impatient look before turning his attention back to his meal. The Watcher followed suit, dismissing the subjects of their conversation as simply hard-core Festival participants in amazingly detailed costume. When the door swung open to admit the Elven Lords, the Ranger could not help but feel relief. They would know what to do. The Dúnedain’s face was set in a grim line; making a straight line for the Man, the twin Lords and Ranger briefly exchanged greetings.
                  “My Lords, I have most distressing news.” Breiric said.
“Mani naa ta (what is it)?” Elladan asked.
Beside him, he felt his brother stiffen in anticipation. From his tunic, the Ranger carefully withdrew the glossy, colorful square of parchment and laid it on the table between them. The Elves drew back, their grey eyes widened in horror as they gazed down at the familiar face; their eyes riveted on the woman’s face - and not just any woman! Frozen in astonishingly exact detail on the shiny square of parchment, was the Lady Jordan.
                  “Manke tanya tuula (where did that come from)?”
                  “Mani naa tanya nat’ (what is that thing)?”
                  With an expression known to none but themselves, Elladan and Elrohir shot each other an impatient look, for they had both spoken at the same time, as twins were known to do. The Ranger’s grey eyes flicked past his companions, nodding to the trio seated across the room.
                  “The Old Man must be their wizard - the other two defer to him. The Dark One is called ‘MacLeod’, he must be their servant. I am unsure what purpose the Other One serves.” Breiric said quietly.
The Elves did not bother looking; they immediately noticed the Strangers upon their entrance; their keen ears heard the scraping of the wooden benches and the footsteps of those the Ranger referred to, preparing to leave the establishment. Leaning forward, the Elves laid out their plan . . .
“We will capture their wizard.”
#
                  “That was the finest beer I’ve ever tasted. Ever.” Methos commented. And it was - the quality was unsurpassed and he’d drank enough in many lifetimes to know.
Too bad we will not be staying long enough to enjoy more. the Immortal thought ruefully to himself.
                  Watcher and Immortals took a quick look around the village, trying hard to not mind the villagers who stared and crossed the road when their paths would bring them in direct contact. Duncan was ready to leave.
                  “Let’s go. I have had enough of this place. We have not only had the beer, but the food as well. We can tell Gregory we went beyond the call of duty,” the younger Immortal said. The Eldest snorted but kept his comments to himself. Methos remained silent as he followed his companions.
                  “I’m with you Mac,” the Watcher agreed.
As if Parisians were not bad enough, the Watcher was convinced the village was filled with idiots. Adding insult to injury, the trio were beyond their mobile phone’s coverage; no service, no roaming capability, and no matter where they went, there was no public phone available. Their inquiries as to the location of one was met with dumbfounded looks.
                  “They’re still here.” the Highlander commented. The Buzz alerted them to the twins’ presence.
                  “Well, since they’re not hunting either of you, I say let’s go. I’ll have to start new files and see about getting a Watcher on them as well.” Joe said. It was highly unusual to find Immortal twins, or at least ones who go through great pains to look like mirror images of each other.
                  “Where you goin’ Methos?” the Highlander asked when he went in a different direction - to the Prancing Pony.
“I’m not about to walk back; I thought we’d borrow the horses a little longer then turn them loose when we’re done.” the Old Guy answered, leading the younger Immortal and Watcher towards the stables. Bob, the other ‘Hobbit’ was nowhere to be seen.
“Didn’t you do valet stabling, Methos?” the Highlander inquired.
“Well, he appears to be out to lunch at the moment.” the Ancient One answered. “Looks like we’ll have to do it the old-fashioned way, eh, MacLeod?” Methos said.
“I’ll wait out here, guys.” Joe said.
“Come inside Joe - there’s bales of hay stacked up. You can have a seat while we get the horses ready. It may be a while ‘because we might have to look for the tack.” Methos suggested.
The Watcher thought for a second before deciding the Immortal was right. He was not looking forward to riding the horse again.The trio entered the stables; spying their horses at the far end of the stable Duncan went to retrieve his saddle. Methos turned back in time to see the black clad man come up behind the Watcher with a short sword drawn. The simultaneous gunshot and the attacker’s cry made Duncan spin around.
“Get your hands off me! What the hell you doin’!?” From seemingly out of nowhere, one of the unknown Immortals appeared and held the Watcher immobilized from behind, a curved knife was held to Joe’s throat. Duncan’s eyes narrowed.
“Let him go.” the Highlander commanded in a quiet voice.
“You didn’t have to shoot him.” Duncan said to the Ancient One in an undertone.
“That’s beside the point now, isn’t it? He’ll be fine.” Methos said.
From the shadows of the stables, the Immortals saw the other twin had suddenly and noiselessly appeared as well and was helping the black-clad man hobble off. Sheltered behind a stall, the man drew his bow and fitted an arrow to it, aiming for the Ancient One. The horses were uneasy, their hooves stamping and their high-pitched whinnies signaled their nervousness.
“Looks like Robin Hood’s got you in his sights, Adam. Don’t think he liked getting shot, either.” the Highlander commented; Methos gave the Scot a wry grin.
“I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. You know this is against the Rules. Are you here for me?” the Highlander asked, reaching for his Katana. There was a chance the Immortals could not know both he and Methos were Immortal, and he intended for it to stay that way . . . if he could just keep them occupied.
“Stay your hand!” the tall One commanded. Duncan froze and held his hands up.
“We are here for the wizard.”
“Wha-? What wizard? You crazy son-of-a-bitch, lemme go!” Joe struggled against his captor, but it was futile, for his strong grip soon turned painful. The Watcher sagged in his arms, the unknown Immortal easily continued to hold him upright.
“Dina (be silent)!”
“Huh?” Joe asked, wondering who ‘Dina’ was. Elrohir paused, wondering what manner of wizard he held captive if he could not understand Elvish.
“Silence! Else I cut your foul tongue from your head. You’ll not work your foul magic in our presence.” The Elf hissed.
“Let him go.” Duncan repeated.
“Nay, not till he reverses his spell.
“Spell? What spell?” Joe asked.
“Silence!” Elrohir roared, pressing his blade against Joe’s neck, the sharp blade cut his skin. Immediately, Joe fell silent. Duncan’s lips thinned as he saw the thin red line appear on his friend’s neck. This . . . ‘farce’ of a situation was going too far, and he was getting tired of it.
“If you don’t let him go, I’m going to contact my lawyer and sue your ass off. Then I’ll shut down this place and I’ll take those stupid ears of yours as well.” Duncan threatened. The Highlander and the Watcher’s assailant stared at each other, each just as angry as the other.
“Somehow I don’t think he cares, MacLeod.” Methos commented, shrugging at the younger Immortal’s glare. Methos had remained silent during the exchange, letting the Highlander handle the situation. Duncan tried a different approach. It was clear this actor was playing his role to the hilt; perhaps humoring him a little longer would not hurt as he tried to edge closer.
“Look, Joe’s a lot of things, but he’s definitely not a wizard -” the Highlander began, ignoring his friend’s glare “. . . and we don’t know what you’re talking about.” The Highlander finished.
“You have enchanted and trapped the Lady with your foul devilry. Release her at once!” Elrohir said into the Watcher’s ear.
“What are you talking about?” Duncan asked, studying the situation. He had to get Joe away from the crazed man without getting him killed.
“That!” Elrohir spat in a deadly tone as he turned the Watcher to face his brother. Cradled carefully in his twin’s hand was Jordan’s picture.
“Hey, it’s -!” the bite of the Elf’s blade silenced him once more.
“Do you know what that is?” Duncan asked
“Aye, ‘tis devilry. As we live and breathe, your wizard will not live to see the sun set if he does not release her from his dread sway. Undo your spell!” Elrohir commanded. Before matters could spiral out of control, Methos stepped in.
“Lye en ten i’ Peredhil (We look for the Half Elf).” the Ancient One said. Elrohir’s grey gaze swung towards the Eldest, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
“Mankoi (why)?” Elladan asked; though spoken haltingly, as if unfamiliar with the words, the Stranger had spoken in the Elvish tongue. Methos turned towards the other Elf and studied him. Instinctively the Ancient One knew this one would see reason.
“Because once we find the Peredhil, we will find who we seek. What you hold in your hand is called a ‘picture'. A representation of a person -- an exact likeness. Moreover, the person in the picture is named Jordan Waters. She is not trapped, nor is there any wizardry or devilry involved. We are her friends. He -” Methos nodded towards the Highlander “- is her . . . kin.”
Elrohir hesitated. The Elf was no fool; despite the silent one’s relaxed manner and words, he had drawn no sword or bow. Yet the dark metallic object he held somehow managed to injure the Dunédain from a distance.
The more thoughtful of the two, Elladan could see there was truth in the stranger’s words. There were similarities between them and the Lady Jordan that could not be ignored - such as their long coats and the familiar way that they spoke of the Lady Jordan.
“We’ve come to take her home.” Methos added.
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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