Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
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Chapter List
- 26
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Knowing the time of the Elves is drawing to a close, before the Outlanders’ departure for the White City, Methos spent every moment he could with the Elf Lord in his athenaeum; this opportunity would come only once during his very long life. Every day spent in Imladris left the Ancient One with a sense of frustrated exhilaration; the Immortal’s penchant for knowledge was awakened by the Peredhil’s collection of tomes, and Methos pored over the writings in the Peredhil’s library, filled with volumes of tomes written in Elvish. Handling maps in pristine, mint condition left the Eldest with a profound sense of loss; with so much to learn from Elrond, and precious little time to accomplish it, the irony was not lost upon the Immortal. Carrying a large scroll to the table, Elrond’s scribe cleared a space on the desk and set it down next to Methos; the Eldest delved into it eagerly, reading and cross referencing, learning all he could of the history and language of the Firstborn; all the while, the Immortal and Lord Elrond conversed in Elvish. The Ruler of Imladris wondered how is it possible, this Stranger before him possesses an impressive grasp of the ancient language -- and is able to understand, and fluently speak every word – each inflection and tense accurately.
                  “llie hinual vee' enna en' lye (You speak as one of our own), Adam.” The Peredhil commented.
                  “Diol llie (Thank you).” The Immortal answered modestly, looking up from the scroll he was studying; he gave his host a small smile, pleased with the Ruler’s acknowledgement. A quick glance outside indicated it was time to prepare for the evening, and hopefully speak with Jordan alone. Reluctantly, Methos carefully rolled the scroll up, and carefully placed it back its case.
                  “Sut uum llie istime lye lambe (How did you learn our tongue)?” the Elf Lord asked, genuinely curious; he accompanied the Son of Pier outside, and stood next to the Man. Methos gently touched the statue of a she-Elf whose outstretched arms embraced Imladris; gazing down in quiet contemplation, the Immortal shifted through his memories, back to when it all began . . .
: : : : Merry Old England
King Arthur Pendragon’s Court
410 A.D.
                  Not much was known about him – at least from those whom Methos inquired. Many called him a trickster, a charlatan. Whatever his title, he was challenged by none and came and went as he pleased. When at court, the ‘Advisor’ seldom left the Monarch’s side. Rumor had it the old hermit is the young King’s close Friend and Advisor. Methos could not say what it was about the old man that drew his attention; perhaps its because the Immortal caught the King’s friend staring hard at him on many occasions. In fact, Methos realized, there was not one time the Immortal did not feel the Old Man’s eyes boring into him, watching . . . observing, as if measuring his worth. At first, the Ancient One ignored the old man’s stares. When the Ancient had the misfortune to encounter the King’s Friend in a deserted passageway, the old fellow’s piercing gaze made the Horseman feel most uncomfortable - despite the fact that words had not been exchanged. From then on, the Ancient One took great pains to avoid the Advisor, but that would soon change. During a recent Ceremony, as the Immortal stood with the other Masters-at-Arms, Methos’ bored gaze wandered over the crowd of finely clad men and women gathered together. It took considerable effort on his part to not yawn; he was not much for ceremony or ritual, but his presence was required. Scanning the faces in the crowd, the Immortal made a mental note to thank the Fates, for he had yet to see the accursed Counselor.
                  Restlessly shifting his weight from foot to foot, Methos longed for the Ceremony to be done; not only was the Eldest tired from the previous night’s carousing -- he was very uncomfortable. He should not have drunk so much beer without relieving himself beforehand; and, as Lady Luck would have it, the Immortal found himself in the front row. There was no way Methos could quietly slip out from formation without committing a major faux pas. The Horseman was temporarily distracted from his discomfort as the gathered audience hushed when the King spoke.
                  Who is he . . . ? Methos wondered lazily as he looked towards the dais.
                  Standing just behind the ornate throne was a figure garbed in resplendent velvet of the deepest blue; gleaming silver swirls, patterns the Immortal would see again in the future, encircled the shoulders and full sleeves and flowed down the chest. The hem of the luxurious material sported the same fluid design. Methos watched in detached fascination as the elegant whorls shimmered and sparkled, noting the gleaming sword at his side. As the old man adjusted his grip on his staff, the red gem set in gold winked at the Immortal from the old man’s finger. Methos did a mental double take. He recognized the staff -- the white staff. Unless it is a doppelganger, there was only one person who carried it. With great surprise, the Immortal realized this regal person, a far cry from the home-spun clad figure freely roaming the King’s apartments, whose snowy mane and beard was neatly trimmed and brushed, is indeed one and the same. Astonished, the Ancient quickly averted his eyes when he saw the Old Man watching him watch him. For the duration of the Ceremony, the Horseman doggedly kept his eyes front and center. When required to gaze upon his King, the Antediluvian made sure to focus solely upon Arthur.
                  I would do well to stay away from that One. The Immortal thought sourly.
#
                  With time on his hands and no duties to see to one late spring day, the Ancient One decided to visit the Queen’s garden. Methos would often escape to the meticulously tended grounds when he wished to think. Lately, he had been doing much of that. Thoughts of his days with the Horsemen, recently abandoned by choice, filled his mind. Curiously, the Ancient One often felt conflicting emotions when he thought of his ‘wilding’ days.
                  “’Tis time to move on.” Methos advised himself.
                  Perhaps the genteel ways of Arthur Pendragon, and those who followed him was softening the Immortal. Dismissing the ridiculous notion, Methos bent to smell the flowers. The blooms were especially fragrant this evening; the urge to crush the delicate bud in his hand –just because he could –was so strong, it was almost automatic. After a moment, the Horseman straightened and gently stroked the velvety petals. It felt . . . right to not destroy merely because it was within his power. The Ancient One critically studied the blossoms; the Queen was fond of roses, often receiving slips as gifts from visiting dignitaries and the King upon his return from his campaigns. As a result, Guinevere’s rose garden, nestled within the heart of the maze, is said to be quite splendid – more spectacular than the lovely flowers surrounding the Immortal.
                  “Seeing is believing.” The Ancient One said aloud.
                  Though Methos never before ventured within the verdant paths, soon the Immortal found himself standing at the entrance of the intricate hedge maze. It was rumored amongst the Knights and Masters-At-Arms that only the bravest and most noble of men should enter, for those of questionable character would be lost within, until the earth took pity and swallowed them whole. Scoffing at such romantic nonsense, Methos entered and soon lost himself inside the living walls of fragrant yew and hyssop from which the star shaped labyrinth was formed.
                  “Perhaps there is a measure of truth to their mutterings.” The Immortal said aloud as he came upon another dead end.
                  The Ancient One was often forced at various points to retrace his steps. Methos could not distinguish one way from another. When he jumped up, Methos could not see over the tall hedges; the dense shrubbery did not part when the Ancient One attempted to push through the thick growth, nor did it support his weight when he attempted to climb to see over the top. There was neither stone nor bench for him to stand upon. The Immortal did not think the Queen, the head grounds keeper, would appreciate it if he drew his sword and hacked his way out. Methos vigorously cursed his sense of curiosity in every tongue he spoke as walked on. The path was unchanging – and his shadow now stretched long upon the ground. It would be almost impossible to see his way after darkness fell. Methos knew the Knights and those At-Arms would rib him mercilessly when they discovered this little . . . ‘adventure’. Methos focused – pushing past the panic and fear he would not be able to find his way out. About to give up in despair, Methos heard a faint splash. The sound of the hidden fountain enticed the Horseman forward, urging him to find the correct path towards the center of the maze. Encouraged when the sound grew louder, Methos’ pace quickened and his nose twitched, detecting the faint scent of roses.
                  When the Immortal did finally arrive in the center of the maze, he sighed with relief. The flowing fountain stood tall and regal amidst the thick ring of roses. Methos made his way to the stone benches placed on either side of the fountain; he looked forward to sitting for a spell before attempting to find his way out. Of the entrances that led to the fountain, the Horseman managed to find the true one that led to the center. Methos splashed the cool water upon his face and neck; leaning on his hands, the Immortal gazed at his image, distorted by the rippling water.
                  “North, east or south. Which is the way out?” Methos muttered aloud.
                  The Immortal had one chance in three of successfully finding his way out before nightfall, but which one? Frustrated and a touch worried, the Immortal refused to think about it for the moment; instead, for reasons unknown, Methos thoughts took an unwelcome turn. He could not stop thinking about the King’s Advisor and the recent Ceremony.
                  A fine robe and a bath do not change anything. He is what he is: a daft old man. The Immortal told himself.
                  Methos dismissed the enigmatic hermit from his mind; the Immortal had more important matters to tend to – he had to find his way out. Afterwards, the Eldest planned to drink beer and while away the time with the Knights who would certainly be found there. Cheered with thoughts of an evening filled with merriment, the Immortal turned and almost shouted in surprise, for directly behind him stood the King’s Friend himself.
                  How can that be? I heard nothing! the Immortal thought to himself, completely unnerved.
                  While his heart resumed its regular beat, Methos’ first impulse was to ignore the man and continue on his way; however, though it galled him to be in close contact with the old man, the Immortal heard himself greet the Advisor.
                  “Good even.” Methos said, annoyed that his voice sounded stiff and overly loud.
                  Against the fading light, perched on his head, the wide brim of the Advisor’s pointed hat cast his face in shadow. Gripping his white staff with both hands, the Advisor tilted his head back and coolly regarded the Immortal. Despite his resolve, Methos was the first to look away. The Immortal did not wait for a reply. Instead, he turned on his heel and hurried away in the opposite direction from the King’s Friend.
                  “Sir Methos!” the old Wanderer called as the Ancient One was about to step into the eastern path.
                  The surprisingly deep voice stopped the Immortal in his tracks. Arranging his face in what he hoped was a confident expression, Methos slowly turned back.
                  “I believe that is the way out.” the old man said, with a nod south.
Methos hesitated; the Immortal was about to ignore the old man’s words but thought again. He did not wish to wander the maze in the dark. If the Advisor was lying, at the next earliest opportunity, Methos vowed he would slay the old Man and leave quietly thereafter. No one made a fool of him without paying for it; the Horseman had killed for lesser trespasses against his person . . . and his pride; he certainly would do so again without hesitation – King Arthur’s wrath be damned!
                  “Thank you.” The Ancient One managed to choke out as he passed the King’s friend, giving him wide berth as he stiffly walked towards the indicated direction. What Methos did not see, was the amusement on the old man’s face, but he did hear the low chuckle. Angry with himself for scurrying away like a whipped dog in the presence of his master, the Immortal swore under his breath.
                  “Ridiculous. Am I not Death? I’ll not be cowed by an old man.” Methos muttered, disgusted with his spineless behavior.
                  Once he had taken the southern path as indicated by the Advisor, it was surprisingly easy to navigate his way back – almost as if an unseen force from without the green labyrinth was pulling him. Unfortunately, if Methos felt any semblance of gratitude, it was overwhelmed by his animosity towards the old hermit. By the time he reached the Common Hall, Methos’ placid expression gave no hint of his foul mood. Amiably, the Immortal greeted the Knights and Men-at-Arms as he joined them at their corner table before the open fireplace; the roaring blaze in the center of the Hall did little to warm the large, drafty room. Quaffing his thirst with beer, and laughing at the occasional lewd joke, Methos was seemingly attentive to the Knight’s highly embellished tales of daring and bravery. However, the Ancient One was in fact distracted, unable to forget the scene in the Queen’s garden. Long after the others had left, Methos sat in the hall, brooding.
                  “After all the effort of finding the damned garden, I did not even have the chance to enjoy the roses.” The Ancient One muttered to himself; the realization did not help his mood at all. Methos drained his tankard in one long swallow and calmly set it down on the table without a sound; when the serving wench collected his empty tankard, the Immortal’s hand shot out and captured her wrist. The girl’s frightened gasp drew his eyes up.
“S-sir . . . you are hurting me.” She whimpered, though she made no attempt to pull away.
                  The Immortal knew he was hurting her; he meant to hurt her. The Ancient One knew just how hard to squeeze to inflict pain without leaving bruises . . . large ones, at least. Absently Methos relaxed his grip but still held her fast; the small bones of her wrist felt delicate beneath his strong fingers. If he wished, he could snap her forearm in two with his bare hands. The Ancient One’s gaze slid up; detachedly, he studied the soft mounds of creamy flesh straining against the top of her bodice --though worn, was clean, as was the girl. His eyes followed the curling tendrils that straggled from her cap and brushed the tops of her breasts; Methos wondered how long her hair was before he finally looked at her face. He had not seen her before, and the Ancient One found the serving maid to be quite comely; she had eyes like the desert, like the sands of his beloved Egypt. The Horseman felt his manhood stir with desire. He would have her, the Immortal decided -- as he would have satisfaction for his wounded pride.
                  Methos stood abruptly, removed the empty tankard from the girl’s hand and deliberately set it on the table; the cruel smile on the handsome Master-at-Arms face caused the serving maid to shrink back in wide-eyed fear, even as it mesmerized her – like a helpless bird transfixed by the serpent’s deadly gaze. Her weak attempts to pull free of the Immortal’s grasp amused Methos so, that he continued to toy with her -- relaxing his grip enough to make her believe she could wrench her arm free, only to tighten it once more. Despite the fact that the Hall was beginning to fill with servants in preparation for the evening meal, the Horseman pulled the frightened maid to a shadowed corner and pushed her against the wall, ignoring her whimper of pain, and the dull thud as her head bounced against the wall.
                  Methos yanked the worn cap off her head and let it fall to the ground, smiling with approval as her thick tresses fell well below her breasts. With his hand tangled in her hair, Methos pushed the serving maid against the wall once more and lowered his head to savagely suckle her neck. The girl’s quiet gasp of pain as his teeth and lips left their mark -- combined with her feeble attempts to push him away only served to excite the Horseman more as he swiftly undid the ties of his breeches. Soon, his hard length sprang free. Roughly, the Immortal turned the serving maid’s head and lowered his mouth to hers; it displeased him that she kept her lips pressed tightly together. A hard pull on her hair fixed that little matter, and Methos was free to plunder her mouth at will; the ravishing of her mouth was but a hint of what was to come. Impatiently raising her skirts, Methos roughly lifted the serving maid by her hair and leg against the wall to open her to him; the maid had no choice but to grasp the Ancient One’s shoulders and assist, lest her hair be ripped from her scalp. Methos positioned himself and was about to plunge into her, but paused when he heard her whispered plea.
                  “P-please, Sir. . . not here – not like this.”
                  For Ages, Methos and his phantasmal brothers Kronos, Silas and Caspian -- the Horsemen of the Apocalypse, pillaged, raped and massacred his way across many lands, leaving nothing but devastation and misery in their wake. The Ancient would do as he wished, and none would tell him otherwise. Anger, swift and hot filled him. As a Master-At-Arms, Methos swore fealty to no one – save Methos himself. Unfortunately, if he wished to remain a member of the Chivalry, chivalrous behavior was required of him. The trendy and much-vaunted ‘code of honor’ swept across the land, and was enthusiastically embraced by the Knights of the Round Table, most notably by Lancelot and Gawain. Methos, and other Knights of lesser rank, was still adjusting to the concept. The Immortal glared down at the girl, considering his options.
Four months ago, a troupe of traveling jongleurs stopped at the castle, seeking shelter and respite from their wanderings. In exchange for bread, they entertained the King and his court with outlandish stories, songs and skits, giving the court Fool a much-needed reprieve. During a particularly grand rainstorm, the Knights and Masters-at-Arms, accustomed to physical activity chafed under their forced idleness. A body can sharpen swords to a certain edge; the armor polished to a high sheen, that it magnified the candlelight, helping to cheer an otherwise dreary mood; unfortunately, it was not enough to stave off the rampant boredom. The most excitement of the day occurred when a trifling argument between the lesser Knights almost led to swords. Harmonious voices rose above the din, singing of chivalrous and gallant deeds as the minstrels strummed their fat-bellied lutes and lifted their tenor viols and recorders; skilled fingers and lips plucked from the delicate, expressive instruments chords that reached out and slowly calmed the restless men.
                  Couple of songwriters comes up with the idea of ‘chivalry’ and the whole world goes to hell. The Immortal fumed.
                  Once again, Methos wondered why he did not just take her as he wished. She was nothing – just a lowly serving wench. Yet, even as he reasoned with himself, the words of the songwriters came back to mock him. Angrily pushing the ‘code of honor’ nonsense back in his mind, the Immortal made his decision.
                  “Bloody hell.” Methos muttered harshly as he backed away and looked at the wench from beneath half-lidded eyes. Trembling, the poor girl had no idea his angry words weren’t directed towards her.
                  “What is your name?” Methos asked.
                  “Anaeia, Sir.” She whispered; the chit’s golden eyes were huge in her pale face.
                  “I am Methos. Tonight, you live to serve me.” He said.
                  Still holding Anaeia by her hair, Methos curled his hand into a tight fist, delighting in her whimper as her hands clutched futilely at his wrist. With his free hand, the Immortal reached into her bodice and pushed down one side, freeing a surprisingly ample breast.
                  “Very well, Anaeia; kindly inform Cook I wish a bath, victuals and beer to be brought to my quarters . . . and your services will be required for the night. If you choose to not come, I will find you.” Methos promised.
                  The Horseman tested the soft weight of Anaeia’s supple breast in his palm and roughly kneaded it, watching her face as he rolled her nipple between his thumb and index finger. If possible, the poor girl’s face became even paler, her lips pressed tight against the scream she wanted to release, instead, Anaeia quietly endured the humiliation. An unbidden image of Cassandra, his escaped Immortal slave came to Methos’ mind. Perhaps it was a trick of the light; suddenly, Anaeia’s eyes became Cassandra’s.
                  Cassandra . . .
                  Blinking to clear his vision, Methos decided he had sported with the serving girl enough for the moment, and gave Anaeia a hard, bruising kiss before releasing her. The Immortal watched the girl as he reached for his purse. Stifling her sobs, Anaeia quickly covered her breast and picked up her discarded cap. The serving wench jammed her hat onto her head, and with shaking hands, quickly tucked her hair beneath its worn ruffles as she brushed away her tears. Catching hold of Anaeia’s arm, Methos roughly jerked her back against him; the poor girl cringed as the Immortal tucked the silver coin between her breasts.
                  “Something to make the Cook more amenable to our . . . ‘arrangement’.” The Immortal murmured silkily in Anaeia’s ear before he released her arm.
                  Shaking her skirts out, the mortified girl fled from the Immortal’s presence; Methos watched her go with a smirk on his lips, and tucked his flaccid member back inside his breeches. He was looking forward to the evening. Immensely. In his quarters, the Immortal stood before the hearth, staring at the flames as he waited. The three other Men-at-Arms he shared the space with were out a-whoring, and would be gone, no doubt, until morning – if that. The room was not much by the standards of this Age, but Methos did not mind – he had lived under much worse conditions. The simple room was better than sleeping outside, or in the halls, bedding down with the lesser Knights upon the often-dirty rushes covering the stone floors . . . or the Queen’s maze. Inside, it was warm and dry. Perhaps the Horseman was spending too much time with the Knights of the Round Table, for their courtly, gentle ways were beginning to rub off onto him. The previously cluttered surface of the multi-purpose table was now bare; earlier, Methos had stuffed his room-mates’ clothes littering the room beneath their straw filled mats, in an effort to make the place more tidy, all the while telling himself it was merely a token attempt at ‘chivalry’. The Horseman was dragged from his thoughts when a loud knock sounded and four burly men entered, bearing a large tub between them. Anaeia entered last, struggling to carry a large wicker hamper in her arms. With a sweep of his arm, Methos indicated for the girl to set her burden on the table. Anaeia slowly set the table and laid out the food as Methos silently watched. The menservants laboriously filled the tub with steaming, hot water; thankfully, one man had the fortitude of mind to leave a bucket of hot water by the tub, and another was set close to the hearth to keep warm by the fire. With their task done, the men filed out, leaving Anaeia alone with the Eldest. The Immortal leaned against the wall with his arms crossed over his chest, watching his ‘guest’. With her task done, Anaeia stood by the table, her eyes never leaving the floor. They remained that way, the uncomfortable silence stretching between them, the tension palpable. Finally, Methos pushed away from the wall and stalked towards the trembling girl. He stopped before her.
                  “Undress me.” he commanded.
                  For a moment, the Ancient One thought the girl would refuse when her golden gaze met his in quiet defiance. The subtle narrowing of the Horseman’s eyes warned the maid to tread lightly; Anaeia lowered hers in defeat and woodenly did as told. With some effort, the girl pulled Methos’ boots off; it was not long before the Horseman stood naked, for all he wore was a simple linen shirt and breeches. Anaeia was smarter than most serving wenches; when Methos sank into the hot water, she picked up a clean, soft rag and a bar of hand milled soap. Anaeia knew better than to speak unless spoken to, for Methos did not want conversation. The Ancient One stifled his sigh of contentment as her fingers massaged the perfumed soap into his hair. The fragrance of sandalwood and sweet almond hung heavy in the air; it was a pleasant and welcome change from the harsh lye soap the Knights would use – when they bothered to bathe. And, Methos thought, there is nothing like having a beautiful woman bathe him.
                  Methos waited as Anaeia dragged a chair over so she could stand on it before he rose from the dirty water. It was with some effort that the serving girl hoisted the bucket of clean water high enough to rinse the Immortal off. . Though Anaeia studiously avoided looking at Methos’ aroused member, the Eldest did see when she stole glances at him. The Ancient One noticed how her previously pale face was now flushed -- from the activity . . . or perhaps from something else? So, the frightened rabbit wasn’t as indifferent as the Horseman initially thought. Anaeia’s hands lingered as she ran the drying cloth over the Ancient’s body. Beneath her work-roughened fingertips, the serving maid felt the Immortal’s lean muscles -- sculpted from centuries of wielding a sword and wearing heavy armor. When he was dressed in a fresh linen shirt and clean breeches, Methos sprawled in a chair and looked at the maid. He certainly did not wish to look at a bedraggled woman as he ate.
                  “Your turn. And wash your hair.” He instructed her.
                  Surprised, Anaeia hesitated. A dark frown from the Master-At-Arms urged her to quickly comply. In truth, though she was reluctant to strip naked before her handsome captor (for in truth she was a prisoner without walls); the serving wench was actually eager for a bath – even better, the water, though not terribly filthy, was still lukewarm. After another long, hard day in the kitchens, Anaeia was looking forward to using the heavenly scented soap reserved for the Queen and her Ladies; it was much better than the sand that she normally used. While Methos watched the girl bathe, a plan formed in his mind. As a servant, Anaeia, no doubt, was allowed access to most parts of the castle. She could be of valuable use to him. When Anaeia stepped out of the tub, Methos rose to his feet and wrapped the girl in the drying cloth he previously used. When the serving maid reached for her shift, the Immortal took it from her and deliberately tossed it to the floor, and the drying cloth followed shortly. Holding his hand out, Methos watched Anaeia’s flushed face pale again. Swallowing hard, Anaeia placed her trembling hand in the Immortal’s. Leading the naked girl to the table. Methos grasped a chair and pulled it out.
                  “Sit.” He commanded her.
                  Anaeia did as told, though she perched on the edge of the chair, looking ready to bolt. Methos smiled, amused. She would not get far without her clothes. The Ancient One reached for the covered clay platters, wondering how the slight chit managed to carry the heavy hamper all the way from the kitchens. He uncovered a roasted and stuffed goose, along with thick lentil porridge, heavily flavored with pork, a head cheese, meant to be eaten with the loaf of white bread; the loaf had odd little holes in the crust, where the baker had chipped off the little burnt parts it acquired in the baking process. The Horseman’s eyebrows raised; because of the time consuming and laborious task of grading the flour, only the nobility and the King ate white bread, while the more nutritious dark bread was reserved for the lower classes. Several luscious plums rounded out their meal. Methos piled their plates high with food and poured a healthy amount of beer into their tankards before taking his own seat. Picking up his copper spoon, the Immortal hesitated when he noticed the girl remained seated with her head bowed. Stifling a sigh of annoyance, Methos spoke.
                  “Eat.” He said.
                  Obediently, the serving maid did as told. As they ate in silence, the Eldest studied the child before him. Though Anaeia ate steadily, she did so daintily. As they dined, still Anaeia refused to look directly at him.
                  “Look at me.” Methos said.
                  He wished to see her golden eyes again, but without fear. Anaeia’s eyes slowly rose to his. The Horseman lifted his tankard, and his reluctant dinner guest followed suit. After they had eaten and drunk, Methos was pleased to see the girl no longer looked like she was going to her execution – thanks in part to the beer he plied her with -- enough to lower her inhibitions, but not enough for her to fall asleep, for the Immortal intended to get his silver’s worth. The Ancient One studied her appraisingly before he stood abruptly.
                  “How many winters have you seen, Anaeia?” the Immortal asked brusquely. With her hair still wet from her bath, the serving maid looked younger and smaller. . . fragile.
                  “Not quite four and twenty, S-sir Methos.” She replied; her soft voice was barely above a whisper.
                  Satisfied, the Immortal walked to her side of the table and held his hand out once again, noting the way Anaeia’s breathing quickened. The Horseman felt a grudging sense of admiration for the girl; though she was powerless to prevent the inevitable, Anaeia faced it with quiet courage. Taking her hand firmly in his, Methos led Anaeia to his bed . . . At first, she had lain on the bed as stiff as a board. Normally, Methos would have merely taken his pleasure and be done with her; perhaps it was his way of atoning for his earlier shabby treatment of her. Whatever the reason, it was with gentle consideration he had not shown a woman since becoming a Horseman, that Methos made love to Anaeia, and when she reached for him with unbridled passion and desire, the Immortal knew his plan would work.
#
                  Though their relationship began in a less than chivalrous manner, the Master-At-Arms proved to be a skilled and thoughtful lover. Anaeia lay contentedly in her lover’s arms. Along with the other serving wenches, and some kitchen boys, Anaeia had sighed over Sir Methos’ handsome face and lean physique from afar. Unfortunately, the high regard turned to fear and disenchantment, when the very same man she secretly admired dragged her to the dark corner. When he was about to take her against the wall, the serving maid could not believe he was about to commit such a horrid deed. To her great relief, her whispered plea reached the Master-At-Arms, and he checked himself. However, Anaeia’s fragile hope to be saved from the debasing act was dashed to pieces, when Sir Methos whispered a threat into her ear after humiliating her further. The girl had no choice but to comply – who would intervene? There was no one to intercede on her behalf, for the other Knights and Masters-At-Arms were long gone.
                  If she chose to leave the castle, Anaeia knew she would never last on the roads; she would surely fall prey to the robbers plaguing the roads. The Knights had cleared the worst of the knaves, but it was a risk she was not willing to take. It would be better for her to submit to the Master-At-Arms. Relatively new to King Arthur’s court, presently Anaeia called none ‘friend’, save the ill-tempered Cook, who, for reasons unknown, took the orphaned girl under his wing. Though he worked her hard, he was fair, and always slipped her a slice of white bread (buttered, even!), a portion of roast meat from the King’s own plate, or a glass of fresh buttermilk. When Anaeia whispered to Cook what the Horseman had requested, he had simply winked and smiled; perhaps he would not have done so if she had included every sordid detail. The serving wench’s bile rose as she set about preparing for an evening of further shame and debasement. However, the following events could not have surprised her more; Sir Methos’ initial treatment, though brusque at first, gentled so by sunrise, Anaeia reluctantly to left his bed.
                  It was often whispered amongst the Knights that the handsome Master-At-Arms’ skill with the sword was uncanny – that he may be able to best the King’s Champion. Whenever there was opportunity to manipulate Sir Methos into a Challenge, the Man-At-Arms managed to slip thru the verbal nets set to ensnare him. It was also widely speculated as to why he did not swear fealty to the King, for Sir Methos would make a fine Knight of the Round Table. Anaeia did not care to solve the mystery surrounding the man she willingly gave herself to; nor did she wish to risk losing his attentions by delving too deeply into a past of which he never spoke. What Anaeia did know, was that Sir Methos loved beer. Unlike most men, her Master-At-Arms was able drink astonishing amounts of the fermented drink before his thinking became noticeably impaired. Better yet, it never affected his skill between the sheets; the lesser Knights loved to carouse with the Master-At-Arms, for no one had yet been able to best Sir Methos in a drinking contest.
                  Curiously, no one knew from whence Sir Methos hailed -- not his surname, pedigree, or even his age; none had the courage to ask, including Anaeia. She tasted first hand a slight touch of the violence Sir Methos was capable of, as well as the tender, chivalrous side of him. . In his arms, Anaeia forgot she was merely a serving wench, for Sir Methos treated her as if she were a Lady-in-Waiting to the Queen herself; he occasionally gifted her with tokens of his affection: a pretty ribbon, a new ruffled cap for her hair, a linen shift -- simple gifts put to use. The serving wench was grateful she and the Master-At-Arms became lovers. No longer did the lesser Knights, the stable hands -- nor any man for that matter paw at her. Usually, after he made love to Anaeia, Methos would tell her stories of his travels until she fell asleep; the Master-At-Arms would wake her an hour or two after, then they would part, until their next tryst. Tonight he did not. Her lover was unusually quiet. After timidly asking her lover what troubled him, Methos surprisingly answered. It was with great relief Anaeia learned all her lover wished to know, is where the King’s Friend stayed when at court. That was easy, for Anaeia often had to pass by the Advisor’s keep as she carried out her duties within and without the castle. Glad to repay her lover for his kindness toward her, Anaeia told Methos where the Old Man’s rooms were. Methos grinned. The knowledge pleased the Horseman greatly, for he made love to Anaeia again with a passion that left her with a smile on her face for two days after.
                  “Hiding in plain site – I know exactly where you are now, old man!” the Ancient One crowed to himself.
                  The Immortal now had cause for celebration. Returning from another tryst with Anaeia, the Immortal accepted the invitation from his roommates to go a-whoring. By the time Methos was on his third tankard of ale, the Ancient One was feeling no pain, and decided the buxom tavern wench was much to his liking. Never mind the fact he did not know her name. He did not need her name for what he wanted her to do. Outside, under cover of darkness, between the horses tethered at the post, the Immortal pushed the tavern wench to her knees and freed his erect member. Methos’ head fell back when he felt the warmth of her lips around his shaft, groaning aloud as her tongue danced its way up and down his length. Knocking her cap askew, hands buried in her greasy hair, the Immortal thrust his hips forward, forcing her to take his full length down her throat. Methos’ breath left his lungs in a low hiss while the woman’s head bobbed rhythmically as she expertly brought the Immortal close to his release. Before he could spill his essence into her mouth, Methos pulled his throbbing erection free as the woman rose and positioned herself against the post; with her skirts raised to her waist and her legs spread wide, the wench eagerly presented herself to the Ancient One. Throwing her skirts over her head, the Immortal gave the tavern wench’s bare buttocks a stinging slap, before he savagely thrust his hard shaft forward, burying himself in her hot, slick warmth. The neighing and chuffing of the horses when they smelled the raw, musky scent of sex in the air masked the sound of the couple’s frenzied rutting and subsequent release. Taking a moment to catch his breath, the Ancient One pulled his spent member from the tavern wench’s folds. Gathering a handful of the woman’s skirt, Methos wiped his now flaccid shaft clean and tucked it back inside his breeches. He walked back inside the tavern, not bothering to see if the wench followed. After his fifth tankard of beer, a plan came to the Immortal. Unfortunately, so did a vivid image of the old man’s face. Methos decided his waning courage required fortification with more beer.
                  After his seventh tankard of beer, long after his companions staggered back to their quarters, Methos found himself standing before the doors to the Charlatan’s keep with a belly full of liquid courage -- that needed release. Fumbling with the ties of his breeches, the Immortal pulled out his phallus, and with a sigh of contentment, relieved himself. The sound of Methos’ urine splashing against the stones made the serving wench with the impressive tongue skills giggle. Methos shook his member before tucking himself back into his breeches, then set about gaining entry. With his third attempt, the Immortal managed to grasp the iron pull. The heavy door swung open with a soft creak; Methos stood in the vaulted doorway, taking a moment to study the interior. To the left a shadowed stairway led upwards to parts unknown; the Master-at-Arms half expected a Raven to caw, or fly into his face. Stumbling further into the room, the Immortal pulled the wench after him and carefully shut the door with a bang. The first thing the drunken couple noticed was the myriad of colors on the shadowed and otherwise austere walls. Seeking its source, on a long wooden worktables they spied the many racks of phials filled with mysterious liquids in jeweled tones. Beside the rack of phials, were metallic contraptions that held more fat bellied phials bubbling softly over thick, stubby candles. Tomes and ledges of all sizes and thickness lined the shelves against the walls; scattered everywhere were scrolls and stacks of parchment; jars filled with dried plants and herbs neatly labeled lined another shelf. The wide brimmed hat with its crooked point rested on a corner of a large desk. A quick glance upward showed the high domed ceiling to be made entirely of glass with graceful whorls etched deeply into the surface. In the midnight sky, the new moon shone brightly; together, the drunken couple continued their exploration of the room. The Immortal was about to climb the stairs when he looked over his shoulder to see where his companion was. Drawn to the pretty colors, the tavern wench touched the walls, watching as her skin turned blue and then red.
                  “Soooo pretty . . . !” the wench drunkenly slurred.
                  The lit candles on the worktable made the colored liquids in the glass phials glitter like jewels. As the tavern maid oooh’d and aah’d over the prismatic hues, Methos’ forgot he wanted to go upstairs when a twinkle of light captured his attention. The Immortal’s sloshed gaze was drawn to the table on the raised dais, where the full moon’s beams highlighted the small object on its surface. Lurching in the direction of the table, the Immortal wandered closer to see what glittered brightly.
                  “Whasshal this?” the Ancient One asked himself, peering at the floor.
                  Gold, green and bronze sand shimmered on the stone floor in a detailed, intricate pattern; however, the object of the Immortal’s interest was more interesting by far. Upon the table, lay a Leaf; its rich, emerald hues contrasted nicely with the silver vine wrapped around the Leaf. Unmindful of the gleaming sand, Methos lifted a booted foot; the Immortal was about to take a step towards his goal, when suddenly a tremendous crash came from the direction of the entryway. The Advisor strode into the room, brandishing his white staff like a sword. As for the sword, much to the Immortal’s relief, it remained sheathed in its scabbard at the old man’s hip. With a fierce scowl, the King’s Friend addressed the woman briefly before making his way toward the dais.
                  “Leave us!” the Advisor commanded.
                  Picking up her skirts, the tavern wench fled without so much as a backward glance at the Immortal. When she darted thru the open doorway, the Ancient’s eyes widened as the heavy door slammed shut of its own accord. A quick glance over his shoulder showed the Advisor to be engrossed in his inspection of the sand circle. Methos decided it would be wise to emulate the tavern girl’s example and remove his as well. Slowly, so as not to draw attention to him, the Immortal began to sidle -- as quietly as his inebriated state would allow, towards the door. When his hand grasped the iron ring, the Immortal sighed in relief, certain the Advisor would not know who it was that trespassed. After all, it was dark. Unfortunately, the door would not budge. Pulling with all his might, Methos was unsuccessful. Lifting a booted foot and bracing it against the wall, Methos pulled yet again; it was an exercise in futility, for the door had been magically sealed. The Advisor’s next words chilled the Immortal to the bone.
                  “I will have your head for this.” The old man said sotto voce.
                  Methos drew his sword and spun around, only to stare down the length of the Advisor’s sword leveled at his throat. If this was how things would end, the Immortal wished to die well -- with his sword in his hand. The Ancient One was unaccustomed to finding himself in such a vulnerable position and now felt the same terror he dealt others without pause. It was quite disconcerting. The Ancient One’s eyes were drawn to the sword’s blood groove as every cruel act and dastardly deed he had committed flashed before his eyes.
                  So this is what it feels like to look down the wrong end of a sword. Methos thought to himself, swallowing hard.
                  “Who are you?” the old man asked thru narrowed eyes. Up close, Methos thought the Advisor did not look so old, but very commanding.
                  “No one special. . . Sir.” The Ancient One managed to choke out. His throat was suddenly very, very dry.
                  “What do you call yourself?” The Advisor asked softly. The Immortal hesitated, wondering if he could get away with giving the King’s Friend another’s name.
                  “Speak quickly!” the Advisor encouraged as the tip of the sword nicked his Adam’s apple. The Ancient wet his lips and decided it would behoove him to speak the truth.
                  “M-Methos, Sir.” The Ancient One answered, trying to keep the fear from his voice.
                  After several tense moments, the sword left Methos’ throat to disappear into its scabbard as the old man backed away. With an audible sigh of relief, Methos straightened.
                  “Your stupidity knows no bounds – your witless actions nigh ruined months of hard work! Do not think this insult will go unanswered.” The old man promised the Immortal with a menacing scowl.
                  The King’s Advisor deliberately turned his back on the Immortal as he made his way back to the dais, quite unconcerned with the fact the Horseman still clutched his sword. The swirls on the Advisor’s robes glowed brightly in the moonlight as the old man raised his arms.
                  “Be gone with you!” The old man said, dismissing the Immortal with a quick flick of his wrist.
                  How dare he! Methos seethed inwardly.
                  For a brief moment, the Immortal slipped back into his persona of Death, the fourth Horseman of the Apocalypse. Taking a step towards the Advisor, Methos hesitated when he felt the sudden draft from behind. Turning, Methos’ jaw dropped, for the swirls that graced the robes of the Advisor and the domed ceiling -- were now glowing before him above the doorposts – the heavy door was now wide open.
                  “Impossible!” the Immortal whispered to himself.
                  Suddenly, he did not feel quite so drunk. Sheathing his sword, the Ancient One wasted no time lurching thru the doorway; the Immortal’s unsteady steps quickened when he heard the door slam loudly behind him. Staggering into his quarters, Methos collapsed onto his straw filled mattress and lay wide-awake, listening to the snores of his roommates; cursing softly, the indelible image of the King’s Advisor remained in his mind’s eye before he passed out. The next day, not only did Methos awaken with an excruciating headache, his bone dry mouth felt like something crawled in and died, leaving his tongue feeling coated and thick; had he been able to, the smell of his own breath would have knocked him out again. Thirstily gulping down watered wine, it comforted the Immortal to know the other occupants of the room were suffering as well; no one spoke, and all moved about quietly, cradling their aching heads with one hand as they used their chamber pots. The knock on the door had the effect of a battering ram, as the men’s clutched their aching heads. The Ancient One winced when the door was flung open to admit a court squire. Squeezing his eyes tightly shut against the morning light, Methos tried not to moan as the boy loudly announced the King wished an audience with Sir Methos, Master-at-Arms. The Ancient One groaned, for the summons would not give the Immortal a chance to nurse his aching head. Wearing the same trousers, Methos did at least change his outer tunic. Pale and slightly disheveled, Methos presented himself to the King.
                  “Sir Methos.” The monarch addressed the Master-At-Arms before him.
                  The Immortal did his best to not wince, for the King’s voice seemed to echo off the stones and reverberate thru his head. In fact, the Immortal’s sense of hearing felt magnified tenfold – he could hear every rustle of the Ladies’ silk skirts as they moved about, every whisper was a shout, and the creak of leather and clang of metal was sheer agony. Methos was convinced it was the witch work of the damned old man in retaliation.
                  “Yes, my Lord.” Methos answered, doing his best to appear properly attentive.
                  “You have served this court well.” The King said.
                  “It has been my honor, my Lord.” The Immortal intoned, keeping his head low; while it projected respect, much to the Ancient One’s relief, he found the position actually helped his headache slightly.
                  “Your prowess is unchallenged on the field, and your chivalrous deeds speak well of you.” Arthur Pendragon continued.
                  “Thank you, my Lord.” Methos automatically replied, wishing the King chosen another day in which to compliment him so highly.
                  “. . . so well that your services are needed elsewhere.” King Arthur said, speaking louder as he addressed the court in general.
                  “‘Elsewhere’, your Highness . . . ?”Methos ventured, remembering the rumors amongst the Knights that the King was raising his army in preparation of yet another Crusade; the Horseman did not think he would like what the King would say next.
                  “My most trusted Advisor is in need of an Acolyte. I considered at great length, whom best to fill this need. I was at my wits’ end, when your name was given. ‘Twas an excellent suggestion; who else would have the temperance and skill worthy, but you?”
                  “My Lord, may I ask by whom?” the Immortal inquired, though he had a good idea.
                  Methos normally would not question the King; however, the Immortal was not feeling normal, nor was he happy. Arthur Pendragon smiled at the Master-At-Arms and continued as if the Immortal hadn’t spoken. By the King’s words, the Ancient One was fairly certain word of his late night visit to the wizard’s keep did not reach the Monarch’s ears, else his liege would have mentioned it or summoned him to a private audience. Methos knew his change in assignment was to make amends for the alleged near disaster.
                  “You will report to my Advisor’s keep, for I release you from your duties as Master-At-Arms whilst you serve him.” Arthur said.
                  Seeing the dismayed expression on the man’s face, the King took pity on him, for he could see Methos was not exactly overjoyed. Secretly, the Monarch sympathized with his subject; it must be difficult for a man of war to be so confined.
                  “Do not be troubled, Sir Methos; ‘tis no shame in this, and ‘twill be but temporary – the glories of battle can wait until a suitable Apprentice can be found; and of course, you may still participate in the Tournaments . . . if your Master so agrees. In the meantime, mayhap you both will benefit from this arrangement. What say you, good man?”
                  “As you wish, your Highness.” Methos heard himself say.
                  “Excellent, Sir Methos.” The King beamed with joy.
                  For the Immortal, what began as a bad day just got worse; and his sudden change of fortune just made his head ache all the more. The Ancient One wished the King would grant him his leave, so he could return to his quarters and lie down until his head felt better. Then he would allow Anaeia to console him with beer. Or maybe not -- because of his drinking, the Immortal found himself in his current situation.
                  From hence I will exercise caution when I drink. Methos vowed.
                  “Merlin!” the King called.
                  ‘Merlin’. So, the old man has a name after all. Methos thought.
                  After a moment, the Counselor appeared at the King’s side. Had Methos been closer, he would have seen the mischievous glint in the Advisor’s blue-grey eyes. Instead, the Immortal briefly glanced at the Mage and closed his eyes. All he wished to do was lie down and wait for his raging headache to calm, but that was not to be.
                  “Come, Sir Methos; there is much work to be done.” Merlin said.
                  With a nod to his Master-At-Arms, Arthur Pendragon granted the Immortal his leave. Head held high and spine straight, Methos tried to ignore the fact that all eyes were upon him as he turned and stiffly followed the Wizard.
#
                  Despite his best efforts, Methos never quite managed to walk beside the Conjurer to give the impression of equality. At six feet in height, the Immortal’s strides were long, yet no matter how fast Methos walked, Merlin was always just ahead of him as the Wizard led the way. Inside his keep, the Ancient One looked about, wondering what the place looked like in the cold light of day; it remained the same, minus its intimidating air.
                  “This is your doing.” The Immortal accused .
                  “As I said before, your insult will not go unanswered. You will make amends for your idiotic actions of the even before.” Merlin said calmly, meeting the Ancient One’s haughty glare with a stern one of his own before he turned away. Whatever Merlin was preparing was of so great importance, that a heartfelt, sincere apology did not provide the Wizard satisfaction for the ‘near disaster’.
                  “I will do what I must.” Methos answered icily.
                  “You always do, Thanatos.” The Wizard muttered softly.
                  “Pardon, Sir?” The Ancient One asked. The Immortal’s Master hid his amusement behind the stern countenance once more as he faced the Immortal.
                  “Proceed with caution, Sir, Methos. If I choose, I may be merciful, or . . .” the Wanderer let the threat hang in the air.
                  “Or what?” Methos challenged; he certainly did not enjoy being treated as a squire.
                  “Or I could have your head on a silver charger. Make no mistake, Sir Methos. I am the Master in this Keep, and you will suffer me.” The Mage replied.
                  Chafing under the imposition of another’s will, with great reluctance Methos took up his new duties. Merlin had his Acolyte perform the most menial of chores. Methos would often wait until the very last minute to set about his work, making it appear he chose to do as told, not because he was under another’s authority; he was not allowed to consider a task complete, until the Seer thoroughly inspected his work and granted the Immortal his leave. Methos wondered what task or chore the old man could possibly come up with next to weary him, convinced the Seer was determined to literally work him to death. Every day brought a new set of challenges – all geared towards teaching the Ancient One humility, and the virtue of patience. In times past, the Ancient One hauled his screaming captives back to camp as spoils of war, where the frightened, sobbing women were to be shared amongst the Horsemen. Now Methos hauled buckets full of water from the well to wash dirty tools, utensils and other trappings the Wizard used in his ‘studies’. Methos went from striking fear in mortal men’s hearts to striking dusty cobwebs and pigeon droppings from the highest rafters of Merlin’s tower, whilst precariously balanced on a rickety ladder. The Immortal grudgingly admitted the frighteningly unstable contraption did wonders -- improving his balance and reaction time; Methos only fell to his death twice -- thankfully, the Wizard was not present to see him revive both times.
                  Death swept across the lands mercilessly, swift and certain. Now Death quickly swept dust-bunnies from corners and behind bookshelves; instead of beating men to death, the Immortal beat the dust from the Wizard’s tapestries and laundry. Methos went from cleaning his sword whetted with the blood of Innocents to cleaning the stone floors (on his knees no less), of the Keep -- from the tower to the stairwell, the main rooms to the basement, the Immortal scoured and mopped away the dirt until Merlin was satisfied. War, Famine and Pestilence – the Horseman’s fell brothers would have been horrified to know Death, who emptied purses and coffers as they pillaged and plundered villages, now emptied the Mage’s chamber pot – from savagely tearing wailing babes from their screaming mothers’ arms, to savagely ripping weeds from the Conjurer’s herb garden.
                  Methos could not say exactly when his labors ceased to rankle; what the Immortal found most surprising, was he actually began to enjoy his tasks, and looked forward to returning to the Keep the following day. Often, the Advisor looked up from his labors, in time to catch his Aide watching him with keen interest; the King’s friend noted how his assistant never seemed finish sweeping the same spot, when he carefully poured the jeweled-hued liquids from one phial to another, and set it over the flame of the candles. The days turned into months, the months into a year; the Immortal and the Wizard reached an understanding that evolved into a surprising friendship. The old man would leave for days, weeks, even months at a time. Though Merlin would inform his Acolyte when, and the length of time he expected to be away; he did not tell the Immortal where he was going, or the purpose for his trip. When the Wizard returned, the old man always looked weary and drained, and never spoke of his wanderings.
                  It was during one such absence, while dusting the bookshelves, a particularly large tome fell from the shelves to land on the stone floors with its pages open. Stooping to pick it up, the Ancient One thumbed thru the pages. The Ancient One lived before Mankind learned to write, witnessing first hand, the progression of primitive stick figures on cave walls progress to the hieroglyphics of Egypt, and the flowing script of the desert nomads. The book he held contained ordered writings such as he had never seen before -- pictures drawn with meticulous detail upon the pages. One such was of a Leaf exactly like that he had seen on the table moons ago. Other pages held illustrations of a pillar; a round object draped with a cloth, and fair beings with pointed ears and flowing hair, the folios filled with depictions of strange, fierce and wondrous creatures. Frowning thoughtfully, the Immortal closed the book and recognized the elegant swirls embossed into the leather bound tome. . . that were embroidered on the Mage’s robes . . . that were etched high above him, upon the glass dome of the Keep’s observatory. Not long after, Merlin returned, looking both exceptionally weary and pleased as he made his way to the worktable. Carefully placing his worn rucksack on the table, the Wizard gratefully watched as his Acolyte placed a heel of day old bread before him with a wedge of cheese and beer, before resuming his chore. Looking about the Keep, the Mage concentrated . . . and with a quiet chuckle, nodded to himself; other than his Acolyte’s multiple unsuccessful attempts to gain entry into his private chambers, nothing was amiss -- all was as he left it.
                  While he worked, Methos told the King’s Friend of the latest news of the court. As Merlin ate, the Seer thoughtfully studied his Assistant. Gone was the man who challenged the Wizard at every turn, and carried out his tasks with disdain thinly veiled, and a rage barely contained. With every task finished, the hidden lesson learned, there is now a certain . . .contentment bordering on peace that emanated from Sir Methos. Before, the Ancient One would arrive late at Merlin’s Keep; now he arrived before expected, and lingered long after the Seer had granted him his leave for the day. As expected, over time, the Master-At-Arms proved himself to be quick of mind and shrewd of intelligence. Once the figurative head of the Horsemen, Methos was by no means a simple man -- he was the mastermind and planner behind their heinous deeds; often, the Immortal would pause to study the spines of the leather bound tomes lining the Wizard’s shelves. The Ancient One would observe the old Wanderer as he labored at the worktable – even daring to ask a question or two. Brushing the crumbs from his hands, the Wizard drained his tankard of beer. The time had come; now Merlin sought to slake within his Acolyte, the thirst for knowledge the Advisor knew existed within the complex man.
                  “Methos, kindly fetch me the tome on my desk.” The Master requested.
                  Methos retrieved the requested book and returned to his sweeping, watching as the Wizard measured out different liquids into a flask and set it above a candle. The rhythmic scrape of the broom’s stiff bristles ceased as the Immortal stopped his task and watched in fascination as the clear liquid became a bright flame red, and then turned to blue. Merlin added a pinch of something; the moment it touched the water, purple tendrils fanned outwards until the entire contents of the flask became a vibrant hyacinth color. Poring over the pages, the Advisor did not look up as he added another pinch of something powdered, and the liquid gradually took on a deep, golden hue.
                  “What are you making?” Methos found himself asking.
                  “The world has changed; much that once was, is lost. True magic is fading from the world of men, Methos; none now live who remember it. We must harness the latent magic that still exists in nature, and give it a little extra ‘help’. To answer your question, I am making a decoction.” Merlin replied, looking up from his reading with a twinkle in his eye.
                  “What kind?” Methos asked, as he propped his broom handle against the table and leaned against the edge of the worktable. The Horseman peered curiously at the text the Mage was reading, but could not decipher the symbols.
                  “A very special kind. When the liquid reduces, all that will remain, is a powder that causes the recipient to enter a . . . changed state of being.” The Advisor said.
                  “What do you mean by ‘changed’?” the Ancient asked curiously.
                  “I was just getting to that, old boy.” The Wizard replied. “Contingent upon the amount given, of course, ‘twill induce One to enter a very, very deep sleep. Unless all involved know the nature of this powder, care must be used when giving it; if a large enough dose is given, ‘twill cause the person to enter such an altered state, that it mimics death -- to all outward appearances, the person looks and feels dead.”
                  “How will it do this?” Methos asked skeptically as he eyed the simmering liquid.
                  “If swallowed, ‘twill take longer to act; if breathed in, the effects ‘twill be much faster -- ” Merlin began.
                  “Why would you want to do that?” Methos asked, watching in fascination as the thickening liquid began to slowly bubble.
                  “Well, ‘tis useful in battle, or when in the throes of a fever dream. It saves the body from overtaxing its resources, allowing the sufferer to rest until more . . . aggressive measures can be taken.”
                  “I see. . .is there an antidote? ” Methos replied; the possible uses of the powder could be very useful; and, depending on the intention, very dangerous.
                  “Time. Its effects will fade depending on the amount received, how healthy the person who received it is, as well as the nature and extent of the injury.” Merlin answered, studying his Acolyte with a cryptic smile on his face; he could almost see the possibilities Methos was considering, for the soon to be powder.
                  “Tell me, Methos . . . do you know how to read and write?” Merlin inquired as he walked to the bookshelf.
                  “Yes, I do.” The Immortal replied with a sense of pride. Of all the Horsemen, he alone was fully literate. The Wizard studied his Acolyte with amusement and approval.
                  “Well, then; ‘tis good you are, for I need this text replicated in exact detail.” The Seer informed Methos.
                  The Augerer pulled from his bookshelf the very tome that Methos had briefly thumbed through during his Master’s absence. From atop his desk, the old man removed another leather bound ledger filled with blank parchment. From a drawer, the Magus removed a pot of ink, a blotter, and a handful of sharpened quills.
                  “Your next task, dear boy, will be to copy this book. Not one jot or tittle is to be altered or omitted. ‘Tis of the utmost importance; upon completion, your next task will be to translate it into our Queen’s English.” The Wizard instructed the Immortal solemnly.
                  “What am I transcribing?” the Ancient One asked.
                  “This publication is a true and faithful account of an Age long gone – the history of a culture that did indeed exist at one point in time.”
                  “What culture do you speak of?” the Immortal asked; perhaps he would be able to provide accurate details, for he had been keeping journals since before writing began.
                  “The Elven culture.” Merlin replied.
                  “Elven culture?” Methos echoed; the Advisor enjoyed the confusion that settled onto his Acolyte’s patrician features.
                  “I believe I did already say that, old boy.” The Wanderer answered.
                  “Elves do not exist, Merlin -- by the stars above, next you will tell me that trolls and fire breathing dragons exist as well!” the Ancient One scoffed with a reproachful look at his Master.
                  The Immortal had been around since the Egyptian civilization came into existence; during his extensive travels, the Eldest had never heard of -- much less encountered – Elves, until he arrived in England. ‘Elves’ were purported to be whimsical creatures; some said they were tall and lived under the ground, others claimed they were short, grotesque creatures that lived in the trees. Either way, the fabled creatures existed only in fanciful tales spun by mothers to tell their wide-eyed children before bedtime by the light of a warm, cozy fire.
                  “Ah, but they did, Methos. Is that so very hard to believe?” the Seer inquired with a bland smile on his face.
                  “’Tis a bit of a stretch, Merlin. Even for you.” The Ancient One said.
                  “Well, then. Before you set quill to parchment, perhaps I should begin at the beginning.” Merlin replied, sitting at his desk.
The conjurer motioned for the Immortal to have a seat. As the Ancient One sprawled in a chair, the Advisor reached within his rucksack and withdrew its contents, which happened to be a large globe. As large as child’s ball, it was pure black in color.
                  “What is that?” Methos asked.
                  “’Tis called a ‘Seeing Stone’, amongst other things. Now, I will begin. I have had many names . . .” Merlin intoned.
                  Not another outrageous tale! The Immortal breathed to himself.
                  Methos’ eyes glazed over and the Immortal listened half-heartedly as Merlin began his tale; the Eldest gave the outward appearance of attentiveness as his mind wandered briefly.
                  “ . . . the Grey Pilgrim. . . the White Wizard, ah – and my favorite: Mithrandir . . . ” Merlin’s smooth voice faded to the back of the Immortal’s mind.
                  I wonder what Anaeia will bring for supper tonight? The Ancient One thought. There were definite benefits to having a serving wench for a lover, for Anaeia would often bring leftovers from the King’s own table, and they would dine as the King himself. With a half smile on his lips, Methos turned his mind back to the Master’s tale.
                  “ …but I digress. Now, where was I? Oh yes, yes. Not all that you see is as it was. Every now and then, you may catch but a glimpse, for much that once was, is no more -- and some things that should not have been forgotten are lost. However, there are those who still keep the old ways alive.” the Wizard continued.
                  The Wanderer was a gifted storyteller, and his voice washed over the Eldest like honey. Soon, the Immortal found himself entranced, watching the Mage’s lips as they moved beneath the white beard, Methos felt a strange heaviness come over him. His senses felt both dulled and heightened at the same time; with a slight gesture, the Seer directed the Ancient One’s gaze to the Stone; Methos felt compelled to look upon its blackness. Transfixed, the Immortal stared at its smooth surface, and felt a mild sense of wonder as the surface began to swirl.
                  “. . . history became legend, and legend became myth, and the truth that was, is now but a story -- distorted and sadly, forgotten...” Merlin intoned.
                  “What is this . . . ?” The Immortal gasped to himself.
                  Soon he was transported to a realm where fantastical creatures of legend and valiant heroes lived and breathed, fought and died. By the time the Wizard ceased to speak, the sun had sunk well beneath the horizon.
                  “Methos? Methos!” Merlin called. Shaking his head, the Immortal looked at the Wizard with a start.
                  “I was there --- I was really there!” The Ancient One exclaimed, half in wonder and half in disbelief.
                  “Nay, You saw but a glimpse; memories of what was. But perhaps one day. . .Now do you believe?” Merlin asked the Immortal with a twinkle in his eye.
                  “Aye, Merlin.” Methos answered slowly.
                  “Good, for the hour grows late, and I believe you are expected elsewhere. Now, on the morrow, I will need for you to begin reproducing the publication straightaway.”
                  “Aye.” The Immortal answered automatically. Methos rose and made his way to the door. After he returned from seeing Anaeia back to her humble quarters, the Immortal lay on his bed, thinking about his day. When he did finally fall asleep, his dreams were filled with wondrous images of the lands, peoples and creatures of the place Merlin called ‘Middle-earth’.
#
                  Seated at the Wizard’s desk, the Immortal diligently labored. Because of his fluency in both reading and writing hieroglyphics and the Babylonian tongue, Methos made rapid progress copying the Elvish words. Often, the Wizard would come and look over his Acolyte’s shoulder and murmur in approval, or caution the man when his quill strokes were unsteady. It was during a quick break that an idea came to the Ancient One. Rubbing his weary eyes and unfolding his long legs, the Immortal stretched his tall frame and flexed his cramped hand as he took a moment to evaluate his work. Methos frowned, for he was not content to simply be an automaton. He wanted more.
                  “Merlin!” the Immortal called. The Seer was working on yet another experiment at the table.
                  “Yes, Methos -- what is it?” Merlin answered, looking over the rim of his glasses; he held in his hand a glass beaker and paused before adding the contents of the tube he held in his other hand to it.
                  “I have a request of you.” The Immortal began.
                  “Oh?” the Wizard said.
                  “Would you consider teaching me Sandarin--?”
                  “Sindarin?” Merlin corrected.
                  “Yes -- since I am having quite a time copying it, I may as well learn to read and speak it, would you not agree?” Methos asked. Merlin carefully set down the beaker and tube as he thoughtfully studied his Acolyte; none walked the earth that could speak the noble tongue, save him. Before long, a wide grin broke out onto the whiskered face.
                  “I heartily agree!” The Master answered. Now the Wizard’s burdened heart lifted slightly; through Methos, the Elves, their history and language would not pass from this existence.
                  By the time the Immortal finished reproducing the flowing Elvish text for the Magus from cover to cover in its entirety, Methos could read, write and speak the Elvish language. The Wizard and his Acolyte spent their days practicing the inflections, conjugations, word, sentence structure and proper use of the lost tongue. Before long, the men were conversing entirely in Elvish, even as the Ancient One began the task of translating the tome into the Queen’s English. One day, Methos found the Wizard standing in the observatory, looking out.
                  “What is the matter, Merlin?” The Immortal asked; he had not seen the Wizard so deep in contemplation since before he left on his most recent trip.
                  “’Tis nothing, Methos.” Merlin replied wistfully as he turned towards his Acolyte.
                  The Wanderer’s bushy white brows rose questioningly when he took in the younger man’s appearance. Around his waist, brushes were suspended from a belt, the design of which was the Immortal’s own making. Pointing to the glass dome overhead, the Ancient One answered the unspoken question.
                  “I will clear the leaves, for they block the light.” Methos answered.
                  “’Twill be an exercise in futility, given the unpredictable elements. Why not wait until the sun shines again?” Merlin suggested. The Ancient One failed to heed the warning in the Advisor’s voice.
                  “Well, since you have not seen fit to cast a spell to prevent the leaves from clinging to the surface, I must do it the hard way; ‘tis unsightly and a nuisance.” Methos answered.
                  “Will you not reconsider, Methos?” Merlin asked once again.
                  “Merlin, you worry as an old woman. I will be done with this before you can finish your cup of tea.” The Ancient One replied, brushing off the Advisor’s concern.
                  “Have a care, Methos.” The Advisor sternly warned the Immortal, as he made his way up the stairwell.
                  Methos opened the side door of the tower allowing access to the glass dome. The wind came and went with bursts of chilly air that pulled at his clothes and mussed his hair; the Ancient One was glad he wore his heavy woolen jerkin. Stepping onto the glass, the Immortal carefully balanced himself on the slippery surface. It had rained the night before, and the water collected in the grooves of the etchings, making the already slick surface more treacherous. Sweeping away the leaves, Methos waved to the Wizard who was directly below him.
                  Merlin seemed . . . sad. The Immortal thought to himself, remembering the expression on the old man’s face.
                  “Nothing a good draught of beer can’t fix.” Methos mused aloud.
                  The thought of his favored beverage brought a smile to the Immortal’s face as he thought of his favorite serving wench. Anaeia had been a balm to him. Her warm, willing body and sweet innocence was something Methos found himself looking forward to of late. Even his time with the Wizard had been well spent. In hindsight, the Immortal was glad to find himself in his present situation.
                  “Sir Methos!” The Immortal looked around, searching for the one who called him.
                  “Whatever are you doing? Oh, do be careful!” Anaeia called from the ground below.
                  “Anaeia – do you worry for me, my sweet?” Methos called down to her with an amused smile on his face.
                  Standing up, the Immortal looked down at his lover with his hands on his hips; the wind picked up, and a strong gust pushed at the Ancient One. Though his footing remained firm, Methos wind milled his arms, eliciting a shriek of fright from the woman below.
                  “Would you catch me if I fell, sweet Anaeia?” The Eldest inquired with a hearty laugh.
                  “You insufferable man! If you fell, you would deserve it!” the serving girl retorted after seeing Methos was well.
                  “Would you not miss me, love?” Methos inquired.
                  “If by your folly you fell and died, then nay. I would not -- for I will be busy searching for another to share the gooseberry and mincemeat tarts, roast beef and mutton. Cook also sent a fresh loaf of bread and freshly churned butter with the surplus of buttermilk.” Anaeia retorted, sufficiently recovered from her fright to sass her Master-At-Arms in return..
                  “You will do no such thing, woman. I will come down straightaway and make you regret your hasty words.” Methos threatened with a laugh.
                  As he carefully turned away, the Immortal spied a large clump of dead leaves and twigs plastered onto the dome’s surface; located where the glass curved downward. Taking one of the long handled brushes, Methos squatted and leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand as he reached to dislodge the dead vegetation.
                  “Oh, do be careful, Methos!” Anaeia called worriedly, wringing her hands in her apron as she anxiously watched her lover.
                  “Nothing to worry about, my pretty; I shall be dining with you shortly, then I will ease my full belly as I ravish your body until you beg for my leave.” Methos laughingly promised.
                  The words had no sooner left his mouth, as a sudden, strong gust of wind pushed the Immortal from behind. Unbalanced, he dropped the brush; Methos threw both hands down in an effort to catch himself; his palms skidded in the rainwater pooling in the etchings of the dome. Desperately scrabbling for purchase on the slick glass, Anaeia’s agonized scream as Methos plummeted towards the ground below and the snapping of his neck was the last sounds the Immortal heard.
#
                  Merlin sat quietly in his favorite chair, puffing away on his pipe. The smoke rose up and formed a ring before dissipating. . Another puff of smoke looked remarkably like a dragon. As the Wizard squinted, the wings spread out and the form shifted once more to become a boat, its graceful, swanlike bow cleaved through the imaginary water before vanishing away. On the Wizard's bed, the Ancient One opened his eyes, revived. Disoriented, Methos slowly sat up and groaned, massaging his aching neck. Little wonder he did not recognize his surroundings, for the Wizard always kept his bedchamber sealed. Despite his best efforts, the Immortal was unable to gain entry; now he knew the entrance was enchanted, with the Wizard only allowed access. In addition to an aching neck, Methos’ head felt as if a horse had kicked him; the last one that did became dinner for the Horsemen.
                  “Did I not tell you twice to wait until the weather was more agreeable? Stubborn man; now you will have to leave.” Merlin said. The Immortal looked at the Wizard who was seated beside the bed.
                  “What do you mean? I am fine, Merlin. See – nothing is broken.” Methos lightly said.
                  Even as he spoke, the Immortal pulled the sleeves of his jerkin down to cover the bruises that would lighten and eventually fade; the deep aches told the Horseman his healing arms must have broken in his fall. When Methos slowly climbed to his feet, his hips felt uncommonly sore, a temporary reminder of his shattered pelvis. The Conjurer snorted in derision.
                  “I do not think Anaeia will believe that, Methos. The poor girl saw you fall forty feet . . .and your broken neck and arms. ’Twill be difficult explaining how you are fine after she unsuccessfully tried to stop your hard head from lolling about in a most unnatural manner.”
                  Merlin recalled the difficulty he had pulling away the hysterical woman as she held her lover’s dead body in her arms. Wizard and Immortal stared at each other solemnly. Word had spread and the whole castle knew of the Master-At-Arms’ unfortunate demise. Methos stared at the man before him.
                  “How do you know --”
                  “That you would rise from the dead? That you cannot be killed unless your head comes off your body?” The Wizard answered. Methos was speechless.
                  “You are not the only one who stands outside of time, Sir Methos.” Merlin answered the Immortal.
                  “But how is it that I cannot sense you?” the Immortal pressed the Wizard.
                  “The gods that made you and me different, made me a little more . . . special.” Merlin said with a chuckle. Methos frowned, turning the information over in his mind.
                  “There are more pressing matters that require tending to, Methos. You must go now.”
                  “Can you not cast a spell that will turn back time?” Methos impulsively asked, finding that he very much wanted to have dinner with his Anaeia.
                  “Nay, Methos. Some things are meant to be.” The Wizard sadly answered, wishing he could make it so; his Acolyte was the best thing that happened to the poor girl. The Immortal sighed heavily; Methos’ only wish now, was that Anaeia would remember him with kindness. There was, however, one last thing he could do for her.
                  “There is a purse I have filled with gold; ‘tis hidden within the false bottom of my chamber pot . . . will you see Anaeia gets it?” The Ancient One quietly asked. The Advisor raised an eyebrow at the unconventional hiding place.
                  “And my horse, as well. . .” Methos added. Merlin nodded, watching his Acolyte climb slowly to his feet.
#
                  “This is my friend Shadowfax; he has agreed to bear you to your next destination.” Merlin said as he handed the Immortal the reins to the shadowy grey horse. Methos looked at the Wizard in astonishment, who smiled in return.
                  “Your secret is safe with me. Now, as we both know, Shadowfax wears neither saddle nor bridle. But for your journey, he makes exception.” Merlin replied with a smile. Deeply honored, the Ancient One did not know what to say. Turning to the horse, the Eldest bowed his head in deference and ventured to stroke the velvety nose.
                  “I am honored. Hannon le (thank you), Shadowfax.” Methos said to the noble beast.
                  Turning to the wizard, the Immortal studied him. When Methos decided to leave, he simply left. Lingering had never been his style, yet the Eldest wondered why it was suddenly difficult for him to just ride away as he had done countless times before. There is much to learn from the Old Wanderer, so many questions to ask, but it was not to be. Anaeia witnessed his death, and the Immortal must leave before he was discovered.
                  “My thanks. . . for everything.” The Immortal finally said before he swung into the saddle.
                  “Where will you go, my friend?” the Wizard asked.
                  “Oh, I don’t know; it’s a big world. I can go wherever I want; I have time to decide . . .” Methos replied with a wry grin. Clasping forearms in farewell, the Wizard reached up and handed the Immortal a small leather sachet.
                  “What is this?” Methos asked as he opened it.
                  “A bit of the suspending powder I made. Keep it safe and use it wisely.” Merlin advised. Methos nodded and pulled the drawstrings closed before tucking it into his tunic pocket. Looking down at the King’s Friend, the Immortal gave his Friend a tight smile as he pulled the hood of his cloak lower over his head; Shadowfax moved forward, eager to be on their way. Merlin watched as the shadows claimed horse and rider.
                  “Till we meet again.” Merlin said aloud; sighing heavily, the Wizard peered into the darkness a while longer before he returned to his Keep.
                  Riding into the King’s forest, Methos dismounted and carefully scouted the area. When the Immortal was sure he was alone, he made his way to the gnarled oak tree. Precious little moonlight was able to penetrate the thick canopy of leaves. Counting thirty paces northward, the Horseman’s steps brought him to a great boulder covered with lichen and moss. Methos rolled it away. In the depression beneath the stone, the Ancient One unearthed his emergency stash of gold. Returning to his mount, horse and rider disappeared into the night.    : : : :
   Methos looked at the Peredhil with a small smile playing about his lips. “Amin istimed su enna ya nae sinomet (I learned from One who was here).” The Immortal answered.
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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