Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
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Chapter List
- 31
- 32
- 33
"From the dawn of time they came,
Moving silently down through the centuries.
Living many secret lives, struggling to reach the time of the Gathering.
When the few who remain will battle to the last.
No one has ever known they were here . . . no one but us, the Watchers.
For we have kept the chronicle of their lives. . ."
- Highlander: The Series; "Counterfeit"
The loose reins flapped against the horse's neck; grasping Arod's mane tightly, Methos bent low over the horse's neck, exulting in the sting of the wind on his face as it whipped his hair back. Horse and rider moved as one, the grasslands a flowing, golden blur as Arod raced toward their destination. Methos' heart pounded in time with the pulsating muscles and rhythmic thunder of the equine's hooves - his whoop of pure, unadulterated joy lost in the wind; the Eldest is almost sorry to see the smoke plumes rising toward the sky, beckoning them closer.
#
The faint sounds of mens' angry shouts, peppered with inhuman sounds, of babes crying and women keening their loss grew louder, overlaid by panicked children calling out for their parents - and desperate parents doing the same. Inside the rough dwelling, the acrid smell of smoke informed Breiric the village still burned. Thankfully, the hut he is in is not aflame. Testing his hands, Breiric found them bound tightly with rope. He sighed with relief to feel everything worked despite the sharp pains from the kicks and blows he received. Most of all, Breiric is bone weary, yet he remained still, preserving his strength for what is yet to come. The numbness and swelling in his face will pass - if he survived. His eyes barely slitting open, his blurred vision slowly focused; Breiric instinctively knows he is not alone. To his right, Joe remained motionless. A small noise drew his attention and his heart sank, for before him, is the Lady Jordan. Suspended from above, her arms are raised overhead, her hands are secured in chains; the woman's face obscured by her matted hair. Breiric cursed himself again for allowing the woman and her friend to accompany him, but it is too late.
What's done is done the Ranger thought grimly.
#
Slowing to a trot, Arod came to a stop on the outskirts of the village; the horse pranced nervously, his velvety ears pinned back against his head; Methos sat tall in the saddle and took a deep breath; his nostrils flared whilst filling his lungs with air rife with the scent of fear and the metallic smell of . . . death. Sensing the shift in Methos' demeanor, Arod whinnied and reared; Methos instinctively kept his hands and weight forward, until the nervous horse settled down. He swiftly dismounted and patted the sweaty horse's neck.
"Diola lie (Thank you), Arod." Methos murmured.
A hysterically screaming woman clutching a wailing babe to her chest ran past them with a grotesque creature in hot pursuit. "Auto a Legolas – e' tire ten' rashwe! (Go to Legolas and be careful!)" Methos bade the horse before he stepped away from his mount. Arod snorted and pawed the ground; tossing his head, the bulging whites of his eyes showed his alarm. "Uuma dela, Amin nuquernuva (Don't worry, I will defeat them)." The Immortal reassured the horse. Arod, for his part, seemed to understand, for he shook his head, setting the bridle and bit a-jangle. Kicking up his hind hooves, Arod wheeled away and soon disappeared from sight.
Intercepting the woman's pursuer, the bow legged, humanoid creature collided with Methos, a snarl on his face before his slanted eyes widened. Buried in the abdomen to the hilt, with a quick jerk upward, Methos' dagger smoothly eviscerated the pursuer's belly. The evil eyes looked at the Immortal with undiluted hate as he fell to his knees, his innards spilling to the ground below, before falling onto his side. Methos sat on his haunches, coolly watching the foul life ebb away; he drove his dagger into the creature's forehead, using the short blade to turn the head as he wished. The former Horseman studied the fanged mouth gaping open, noting the squat body, taking in the flat nose, and sallow skin, searching his memories; after a moment, the knowledge he sought came to the forefront of his mind. Methos pulled his blade free and grunted, a feral grin on his face; the Eldest wiped the gore off his dagger before tucking the short blade away. Rising to his feet, he drew his Ivanhoe, watching the villagers run pell mell for their lives. Methos briefly wished the Four Horsemen rode together once more; his task will be accomplished more quickly and efficiently, if combined with the brute strength and abilities of his fell brothers Pestilence, War and Famine by his side; however, Methos isn't named 'Death' without good reason. Gripping his broadsword firmly, the gold wrapped pommel grew warm in his grip, infused with Immortal Quickening. The Horseman effortlessly and systematically cut down any Orc he encountered as he strode through the village, his thoughts drifting back to an Age long ago . . .
I was different . . . I killed . . . killing was all I knew . . . But I didn't just kill fifty; I didn't kill a hundred. I killed a thousand. I killed TEN thousand! And I was good at it. And it wasn't for vengeance, it wasn't for greed; it was because... I liked it. I was Death . . . Death. Death on a horse; when mothers warned their children that the monster would get them, that monster was me. I was the nightmare that kept them awake at night. Oh, yes . . .
"Stop - stop, please! It hurts, pleeaaassee - oh . . . !" the shrill plea caught his attention, accented with low, lusty grunts. The Orc howled and groaned with pleasure while his hips brutally pistoned into his victim - a young boy whose bare legs are slung over his violators' shoulders; the degenerate being holding the boy's arms immobile cackled with awful delight, the boy's heart wrenching screams of pain a foul aphrodisiac to the corrupted creatures.
"Vrasubatburuk ug butharubatgruiuk (We will kill all the men and sodomize all the women)!" the foul creature crowed, encouraging his fell partner; a movement soon caught his eye.
The restraining Orc snarled at Methos' approach. With a smooth sweep of his sword, the Eldest relieved the raping Orc of his head. The boy screamed again when the head landed on his stomach. Methos kicked the body off the boy and ran the second Orc through the throat with his sword. Flicking the dark blood from his blade, Methos strode away without a backward glance. Casting his senses wide, Methos sent long tendrils of his Quickening out, searching for Jordan. He found her signature and followed the pull of her Quickening; drawing the mysterious force back, the Eldest frowned, his eyes narrowing when his Quickening brushed against a different signature.
#
Furious with himself, all Breiric can do for now is hope for a quick death for all - especially the Lady Jordan; if not killed outright, her fate will be the worst of them. Breiric is powerless to prevent the vile sport their captors will surely have with her . . . if he and Joe are not killed first, or worse: eaten alive. The Ranger tilted his head back, resting it against the post; it afforded him a small measure of relief; he stared unseeingly at Jordan's still form as his exhausted mind feverishly attempted to work out an escape plan; the effort set his aching head pounding with excruciating pain from the added mental strain.
Jordan came to slowly; swaying slightly, suspended by rusted iron manacles, standing on tiptoe did nothing to take her body's weight off her sore wrists. Her head throbbed something awful, the discomfort warring with the oxidized fetters cutting painfully into her wrists; her clothing is caked with blood, sweat and dirt, her entire body ached everywhere - thankfully, not down there. Across the crude room, Joe sat unconscious, blood caking the side of his face. Beside him, Jordan barely recognized the Ranger – both eyes are blackened and swollen, his face bloodied and bruised. Seated in an upright position, his hands are hidden behind his back, no doubt bound to the Watcher's wrists as well. As best she could tell, in the dim, hazy light, both men are still out cold. Breiric was distracted from his thoughts when the Lady Jordan stirred once again; his attempt to call out to her, to remain still is futile; no sound, not even a whimper passed through his parched throat. The Ranger froze as he witnessed the most extraordinary sight . . .
Pulling against her shackles, Jordan knows she cannot free herself. A knife lay maddeningly out of reach - not that it will do her any good, for the chain linking the cuffs is bolted to the beam above her. Jordan did not plan for them to be present to witness what lay in store for each other. There is only one quick, sure way out of the manacles - as long as she has time to heal before doing any serious fighting. After a quick glance at her motionless companions, Jordan closed her eyes, retreating deep into herself where she can ignore pain, prepared to deliberately crush the bones in her hands to squeeze them through the manacles. Jordan stilled her thoughts and focused on her breathing, concentrating on the goal. Willing her hand to fold in on itself, getting smaller, more flexible, Jordan is only vaguely aware of skin and flesh scraping off, the sanguine fluid welling and dripping from the wounds - of a popping, cracking sound as she pulled steadily, using all of her strength. Breiric was speechless; his pain forgotten as he continued to watch, mesmerized by the event taking place before him, his brain not quite wrapping around what his eyes are seeing . . .
Mind over matter, Jordie Duncan's words whispered in her mind.
Great beads of perspiration appeared, pooling together on Jordan's brow, before streaming down her face. Gritting her teeth, her jaw numb with the strain, the veins stood out in her neck, but Jordan deliberately forced herself to keep her breathing even and steady, her breaths so slow her body demanded more oxygen, her heart rate accelerated wildly and her breathing expanded to long, uneven, deep gasps. The pain was there, lurking, screaming for attention, demanding release, but she ignored it. Her blood lubricating the rusty iron loop as she pulled - suddenly her arm was free! Jordan almost cried out, clutching her distorted, bloodied hand to her chest as the now empty manacle swung free. Wait, wait, she told herself, dizzy with indescribable pain, gritting her teeth as pain-sweat soaked her body.
In a moment, Jordan felt her miraculous healing capacity assert itself, but the healing process is as painful as the initial injury; Jordan's face contorted in agony, mouth wide open in a silent scream - her body writhing as bones rearranged themselves, nerves moved as skin and layers of tissue healed. It took every ounce of discipline to remain silent whilst preventing the chain – and her self - from making noise. Fearful of discovery, Jordan took a deep, quivering breath. Heedless of the tears and sweat mingling and streaming down her face, she sank into deep concentration again to begin the painful process on the other hand.
Freed of the shackles, Jordan dropped to the floor with a dull thud. Hyperventilating, fighting to contain the pain within herself. Jordan's body trembled violently as she lay curled in a fetal position, her arms crossed tightly against her chest as her Quickening completed its task. Gritting her teeth, Jordan focused on her breathing, willing her body to cease its spasms – to embrace the pain and breathe through it, until, at last – her body stilled. Breiric feigned unconsciousness as Jordan took a deep, steadying breath and examined her hands; looking past the filth and grime coating them, the miracle of Immortal healing is made manifest, with not a mark or scar showing but the flesh still tender and hypersensitive to touch. Flexing and straightening her fingers, Jordan grimaced with pain, her breath hitching at the pains the motions caused, the delicate carpal and metacarpal bones aligned once more, but not quite at full strength.
Must. Leave. Now. She thought to herself. No time for the pain - for the raiding Orcs promised worse pain to come.
Uncurling herself, Jordan pushed herself to her knees and quickly located the knife. Quietly, she stood and steadied herself; already her mind is clearing, her thoughts becoming more sharp and focused. Grasping the knife, she winced, her fingers, though obeying her will, are weak and unable to grip it tightly. Making her way to the men, she cradled Joe's face, examining his wounds. Jordan ran her fingers through his silvered locks, searching for lumps and caked blood in his scalp. Her gentle probing caused him to stir; smiling with relief, Jordan roused him "Joe . . . !"; she began rubbing his whiskered cheeks until she was rewarded with a low moan.
"Hey, handsome – wake up; we have to go." Jordan whispered urgently, smiling with relief when the younger man stirred.
"Jor . . . ?" Joe answered. He grimaced when her fingers brushed against his blood stained temple.
"Shhhh - Yes, its me." Swallowing convulsively to get moisture to his parched throat, Joe blinked at her, confusion on his face as he took in his surroundings.
"Wha' 'appened?" He slurred.
"A lot. We'll talk about it later – right now we've gotta get out of here."
"My hands . . . "
"Are tied. Don't worry – I'm on it. Get it together, Soldier, while I check Breiric." Jordan turned and reached towards the Ranger's face. At her touch, he jerked away, his mouth worked convulsively as he strove to avoid her hand, attempting to scramble away from her, but held in place by his bonds.
"Shhh, its just me, Breiric." Jordan soothed in a low voice; had his eyes not been so swollen, the woman would see the stark fear of her in them.
"L. . . Lady -" Moving behind the men, Jordan gritted her teeth and sawed away at their bindings as quickly as she could. Her concentration was broken when the melodic thrum of the Buzz made her pause. Looking up, Jordan's heart leapt for joy.
"Joe, Joe – Duncan's here! Everything's going to be just fine." She whispered. Her spirit soared; the knowledge her Teacher found her bolstered her confidence and mood. Knowing he will follow the pull of the Buzz, Jordan simply had to wait. In the meantime, the rope needed seeing to. Wasting no time, Jordan returned to her task, working feverishly despite the pain in her hands.
Duncan will fix everything.
The crude leather skin is thrown aside, setting the dust motes agleam in the late afternoon's rays. Shading her eyes and blinking against the light, Jordan's brows drew together.
"Who're you?!" Jordan asked warily, unfamiliar with the sword and figure silhouetted in the doorway. Ice-blue eyes swept the room, taking everything in with a single glance.
"Someone who can help you. Jacqueline Dupree."
"Jordan Waters. Are you here for me?"
"Oui . . . in a manner of speaking. Sauf si vous souhaitez rester ici." Jacqueline gestured with her sword. Jordan arched a quizzical brow at her.
"Mes excuses; m-mon Français est limité (My apologies; m-my French is limited)" Jordan replied.
"Unless you wish to remain here . . . " Jacqueline clarified calmly. Stepping forward, the blonde woman brought her sword down, cutting the men free in a single stroke.
"Take your friends and go!" Jacqueline urged; she studied Jordan thoughtfully before ducking back outside.
Tucking the knife into her boot, Jordan needed no further urging. "Can you walk?" she asked the Ranger. The man nodded, gasping with pain (and fear) as Jordan helped him up. Driven by adrenalin, they pulled Joe to his feet. Supporting him on either side, Jordan's concerned look wasn't lost on the Man of Gondor.
"I'm fine, my Lady. Let us away." Breathing heavily, Breiric shouldered more of Joe's weight, despite his body's shrieking protest. Nodding once, Jordan drew back the leather skin, and the trio stepped outside. Awkwardly lurching outside, losing themselves in the confusion of the milling villagers, they flattened themselves against buildings, hiding in plain sight as best they could.
My sword . . . where's my sword? Jordan frowned; it will be easier to search on her own. Until she got the men to safety, searching is not an option. Slowly working their way towards the edge of the village, it became increasingly difficult to hide from the raiding Orcs. They rounded a corner of a hut, only to come to an abrupt stop. Before them, dead bodies were littered about. The injured moaned; men, women and young girls are raped in every way possible for all to witness, then taken away to make way for the next victim. Those not yet violated are held in a nearby hut, guarded closely by more Orcs. Jordan closed her eyes against the horror of it, but could not shut her ears to the heartbreaking shrill screams and hoarse pleas falling upon deaf ears. The villagers are held captive in the heart of the village; what men left alive looked defeated – those who are conscious, at least. Children cowered behind any woman's skirt, and the women clutched at each other, in desperate attempts to comfort one another. Women of all ages simply sat or lay on the ground, their vacant stares, bruised faces, torn, bloodied clothing and shattered expressions the aftermath of their violent defilement; the stronger ones clutched the young girls violently robbed of their innocence too soon, rocking back and forth with vacant expressions on their faces. Jordan and the men traded apprehensive glances. Suddenly, Breiric lay sprawled on the dirt, kicked behind the knees by an Orc. Jordan was pulled off balance by Joe's weight when he toppled to the ground, dismayed to see they are surrounded by many of the dark creatures.
"What's this - a Ranger caught off his guard . . . ?" the mocking question was accompanied by a hard kick to his ribs. Breiric felt a cracking sensation along his side; he grimaced as his body curled in pain. He refused to give his captor the satisfaction of hearing him cry out. "Kneel before your betters, Ranger!" The Orc sneered; he grabbed a fistful of the men's hair, hauling the Gondorian and Joe upward.
"You too!" he snarled to the Watcher.
"Fuck you, you ugly motherfucker!" Joe countered, recoiling in shock and disgust.
"Oh, yes we will." the Orc promised with a lecherous lick of his lips. Joe's expression remained defiant, though he visibly paled at the creature's words. All around them, jeering cackles erupted, and the raiders clapped each other on the back, snarling and howling in anticipation of the added sport. The excited rumblings of the invaders and wails of the captives only added to the miserable, surrealistic atmosphere as Jordan is dragged away from her companions by her hair as well; she counted at least twenty Orcs; filthy and clothed in motley garb decorated with severed digits of unfortunate victims added to their fearsome appearance. Jordan slapped the groping, hurting hands away as best she could, eliciting cackles and shouts of encouragement from the watching invaders, before she is unceremoniously thrown with great force to the feet of their leader, an Uruk hai.
"Za Kurv marr-oras Karanzol (This whore reeks of Elf)!" the Orc snarled to his leader.
Of course . . . ! I just can't get away from you guys, can I? Jordan thought; something familiar caught her eye. Following the slightly curved, slender scabbard up to the carven ivory hilt tucked into the waistband of the Uruk before her, Jordan's eyes narrowed. My sword! She looked upward, her eyes locking with the creature's cold, beady eyes. Using the tip of his filthy boot to turn her face this way and that, he grunted in approval; Jordan dare not resist . . . for now. At her look of fury, his lip curled in a mockery of a smile with cruel amusement.
"Kneel." The guttural command caused the hair on her arms to stand.
Though she heard him, the order did not register in Jordan's mind. The Orc who threw her to their Leader's feet decided Jordan isn't moving fast for his liking, so he kicked her in the stomach; Jordan dry heaved, having nothing in her stomach to throw up. Apparently the Orc's action displeased the Uruk, for he snarled at the smaller creature, who then cowered and ducked in resentful submission, as he tangled his hand in Jordan's hair, forcing her to her knees. The Uruk deliberately and slowly untied the front of his breeches, freeing his organ, his intention unmistakable. Jordan gagged from the nauseating stench emanating from his body. Pulling hard on her hair, the minion tilted Jordan's head back. Her hands clawed weakly against her captor's grip, trying to free her hair. She clenched her jaws shut, and pressed her lips tightly together, refusing to open her mouth.
"Help her." The Uruk grunted. Stepping in front of her, the minion drew his heavy hand back. He slapped her hard; the rough, clawed fingers tore into her cheek and neck, yet Jordan stubbornly refused to open her mouth. The Uruk grunted with approval at the blood streaming from her wounds. He touched a clawed finger to her torn flesh, and then licked his finger, before cuffing her hard alongside her head. Jordan struggled to see through the brilliant light that exploded behind her eyes.
"I'd rather die!" she spat, refusing to show how frightened she is.
"You will . . . after you please me and my horde with your pretty little mouth . . ." The low, guttural words came slowly from his twisted lips. Blinking back tears of helpless rage, Jordan glared at her captor; a plan formed in her mind as her mind ticked off details – this Uruk, though bulky and muscular, is not as tall as the Uruks she first encountered in Trollshaw Forest; the Orc behind her has relaxed his guard.
Jordan's offender muttered darkly in Orcish before reaching down to grasp her hair once again and wrenched her head to look to the side; quite fortuitously, for she felt the sparks of her Quickening surface, the blood no longer flowed, slowing to an ooze, before ceasing altogether. Jordan's eyes widened in horror; her companions knelt facing each, their torsos draped over a heap of dead bodies, and they are made to grasp the other's forearms. The Orcs holding them ensured the captive men's faces are turned toward her. Breiric's breeches are pulled down, his buttocks exposed, their captors fell intentions clear as several Orcs took turns rubbing and spanking his buttocks with their hands or whatever else is readily available, probing the orifice of his rectum with their clawed fingers. Even at a distance, Jordan can see the red marks upon his pale skin. Joe's pants, boxers and prosthetics are completely removed, the disabled man subjected to the same indignities whilst two more Orcs held hooked swords to the men's' sides, ensuring their submission. While waiting for the sport to begin, several fell creatures were gawking at and examining Joe's clothes and prosthetics, before wresting them away from each other and using them as play swords. Gone is Breiric's stoic expression; in its place, is one of indescribable shame and panic. Jordan dare not look at Joe. Swallowing hard, Jordan lowered her eyes, and her body sagged in defeat.
"Please – let go of my hair and I'll do what you want" The Uruk hai's cruel eyes glinted with disdain at breaking her will so easily. At his signal, the Orc holding her hair released her and stepped back, swaying side to side on his bowed legs in anticipation. Jordan gave the Uruk a glare that only made him snort with derision. Hands fisted on his hips in a stance of dominance, the Uruk sneered down at her, gesturing with a nod of his head to his thick organ, waiting for her to take him into her mouth.
Keep calm and breathe . . . she advised herself, seething inwardly. Impatient with Jordan's slow pace, the Uruk raised his heavy arm to strike her again; cringing away, Jordan spoke in her own defense.
"Please! I – I just need a moment . . ." Eyes narrowed, the Uruk snarled at her but lowered his arm slowly, resuming his dominant stance.
Jordan reached for the corrupted shaft and made a show of forcefully stroking the Uruk's hardening member with both hands, rubbing both hands roughly along the obscenely large, dark flesh. Using one hand to stroke him, the other cupped his sac; she tested the weight in the palm of her hands.
" Heh, heh heh -The Elf-whore knows what she's doing!" the Uruk grunted, baring his fanged teeth in a frightful sneer.
Jordan bristled at that comment but said nothing. She used her nails to scrape the skin of his sac; the Leader's face relaxed a tad, enjoying the sensation in his nether regions. Jordan's gagged from the strong, musky smell wafting from him. The raiders holding the Ranger and Watcher in place relaxed as well, their focus on the scene before them, undressing the woman with their eyes imagining themselves taking her from behind and ripping away mouthfuls of her flesh while she pleasured their with Leader with her unwilling mouth.
Carefully positioning her legs beneath her, Jordan locked eyes with the Uruk as she opened her mouth wide; her lips drew closer to the bulbous, crusted tip. When one's life is in danger, one is capable of doing extraordinary things; Jordan gave the Uruk's shaft and scrotum a vicious, pulling twist in opposite directions whilst she sprang upward; using her momentum to grab the Uruk's right forearm with her left hand, she held on, pushing it down, wedging her right forearm against the creature's left forearm, pinning his left arm against him and between their bodies. Jordan's right hand closed over the hilt of her sword; drawing her left hand back, Jordan delivered a brutal, punishing overhead punch between his eyes, ignoring the instant spasm of agony from her still healing hand; the Uruk's head snapped back as he howled in pain and surprise, caught off guard. Driving her knee as hard as she could between his legs incapacitated him further. Before the Uruk recovered, Jordan drew her sword from its scabbard at the Uruk's hip and quickly Jordan brought her weapon around behind her head, turning a full circle. Her katana whirled and slashed - smoothly beheading the minion behind her and the Uruk before her with one, precise cut - their bodies still standing for the moment. Tarry blood clung to the gleaming sword. Quickly Jordan flicked the foul substance from her blade before sheathing it. Joe's heart swelled with fierce pride for Jordan; awed to witness the fruition of the Highlander's thorough and effective training of his Student - the countless hours practiced to slice major arteries, puncture vital organs and even sever limbs of the body; the intent is very simply to kill an opponent with one cut, and Jordan did just that.
Crying children and clucking chickens are the only sounds heard as both Orcs and captive villagers looked on in shock; seizing the moment, Jordan snatched her scabbard from the Leader's waistband as his body fell heavily to the ground, still twitching. She sprinted in a zigzag pattern towards her companions - it took that long for the lesser fell creatures to recover and arm themselves. Springing into action, they shouted orders and curses at each other and the woman; hoarse shouts and hysterical screams from the villagers rose anew. As Jordan ran, the melodic thrum of the Buzz reverberating in her skull momentarily distracted her. Pop! Jordan only gave a passing thought how the familiar sound of the volleys ringing out are strangely out of place, yet she instinctively kept her head low as she pressed forward. Leaping over an arrow sprouting from the ground before her, Jordan rolled and tucked herself into a ball. Pop! She completed her roll - reaching into her boot, she threw the knife; it buried itself between the eyes of the Orc holding a sword to Joe's side. His ugly companion looked over at his fallen cohort with his ape-like mouth agape. Howling with fury, the Orc raised his hooked sword to behead the Ranger. Pop! Springing to her feet, Jordan drew her blade and flung it towards the Orc.
Fly true . . . she mentally willed to her sword, watching it pinwheel sideways.
Desperate to live and refusing to die on his knees, Breiric released his hold on Joe, the adrenalin rush overriding the pain of his broken ribs. He pulled his breeches up and scrambled off the pile of bodies and scooted towards the helpless man, anticipating a sword to be buried within his body at any given moment. Jordan's weapon hurtled thru the air, sunlight glinting off the steel. "Stay down!" Jordan screamed to the Ranger. Breiric sprawled onto his stomach, covering his head with both hands as the sword whistled above him. His head jerked up when something hot, heavy and wet landed on the small of his back. Breiric looked over his shoulder to see the head and shoulders of his captor on his back; an inarticulate cry of disgust escaped his lips as he quickly bucked it off him, then fell weakly back, the pain of his broken ribs returning and stealing his breath away; cradling his midsection, the Gondorian struggled to his feet; picking up a discarded sword, he barely deflected a decapitating blow from an Orc nimbly leaping at him from over the heap of bodies; instead, the flat of the blade hit the Ranger flush against his head, stunning him. Tripping over the outstretched arm of a dead villager, Breiric landed heavily onto the packed dirt, his head smacking the ground audibly. Light and pain exploded in his head, dark spots dancing before his eyes. The world slowed down and sound garbled as he prepared himself for the deathblow as the Orc raised his sword. It never came. The invader's head jerked back as a dagger buried itself to the hilt between his eyes. The Orc fell onto his side, the hooked sword sliding from his hands to land in the dirt.
"Jordie!" the urgent expletive conveyed perfectly the frantic look on the Watcher's face. Breiric is beyond exhausted; struggling to stay awake, he turned his head and blinked, opening his eyes in time to see the Lady Jordan jerk to a sudden stop, a pained, expression marring her features. Raising his head, Breiric's vision cleared in time to see the woman stumble towards them with a stunned look on her lovely face. The tip of a long spear jutted from her abdomen; Jordan pressed her hands around the shaft in an effort to staunch the bleeding.
"Jeez, Jordie – you're hit!" Joe shouted.
"Looks worse than it is, Joe." Jordan replied weakly; she fell to her knees and pitched forward. Joe twisted to the side and caught her shoulders. Grunting with the effort, he awkwardly pulled her close and cradled her in his arms, avoiding the protruding spear tip. Touching her abdomen softly, Joe snatched his hand back when she cried out in protest.
"You're dying, Jordie."
"No . . . I just need to rest for a bit . . . I'll . . . be . . . fine" Jordan replied faintly; it is becoming harder to speak. She reached up to reassure her friend, but her hand is weak, requiring too much effort to move, and soon dropped down to her side. Jordan is so cold, and it is becoming increasingly difficult for her to breathe - despite the mouthfuls of oxygen she is sucking in. The coppery taste filling her mouth heralded death's approach. Jordan didn't know what to do - how will Jordan persuade her friend she hadn't died in his arms?
"Joe . . ." she whispered weakly, coughing up blood; his whiskered face began to blur and fade from view, she couldn't feel his arms holding her any more. Drifting further away, she felt no more pain . . .
"Jordie – Jordie . . . ?!" Joe stroked Jordan's cheek; watching her pupils dilate, he felt her body become limp.
Breiric watched Joe touch her face gently and then the Lady moved no more. Forgive me for failing you, my Lady . . . the Ranger simply could not summon the strength to move had his life depended on it. Giving into the bone deep weariness, Breiric closed his eyes, passing in and out of consciousness. Joe sighed and looked up in time to see a fierce looking creature coming toward them. The damned lot of them looked like they crawled out of his worst nightmare. The dirty leather and odd assortment of bones and pelts covering his shoulders, rough leather garb and the long, sparse matted hair made the Watcher think he'd stepped into a fantasy novel - except the dagger – looks very real. With his lips twisted in to a grim smile, the creature is closing the distance between them at an alarmingly deliberate, yet slow pace.
Shit! Shit! Shit! The Watcher thought frantically to himself. Extremely vulnerable, there is nothing the Vietnam Veteran can use to defend himself. Jordan's katana is beyond his reach. Breiric lay a short distance away, unmoving, the sword still clutched in his hand. The Watcher is helpless as a turtle on its back.
I am NOT going down without a fight! Joe thought to himself.
By the time Jordan awakens, the younger man will be dead as well. Straining, Joe pushed Jordan off his lap, rolling her onto her side; his leg stumps scrabbled as he crawled along the ground with his elbows and forearms, getting closer to the heap of bodies, scattering the cloud of flies gathered over the corpses. The Watcher began throwing the villagers' footgear within reach at the approaching Orc, who merely laughed at the crippled man's futile efforts to ward him off. He is going to enjoy killing this one.
"C'mon, you bastard! You wanna piece o'me?!" Joe screamed defiantly at the coming threat; he desperately searched for more shoes, rocks – anything to defend himself with. Finding none, he turned back towards the fell humanoid, his teeth bared in defiance. Joe will meet his death on his own terms, not scrabbling like a coward. Pop! A warm spray of dark blood, bone and brain matter coated the Watcher as the Orc's forehead exploded. Joe almost wept with relief as he watched the body drop to the ground.
"About damn time you showed up!" Joe shouted, wiping the gore from his face and brushing it off his person.
"Your gratitude rival's MacLeod's." Methos said dryly, lowering his firearm.
"What took you guys so friggin' long?" the younger man demanded.
"I'm here when it counts - yes? I liberated these from the bastards." Tossing the items to the younger man, Joe caught his cane and clothing - glad to have them back as Methos laid his prosthetics on the ground next to him.
"Yeah, well – next time, don't take so long!" Joe groused.
"'next time'? Do you plan for a 'next time'?" Methos asked, amused; his dimpled smile irritated the Watcher to no end. "Y'know what I mean, smartass! How'd you know where to find us and how'd y'get here, anyways? " Joe growled. The Eldest replaced his clip and did a press check of his firearm before tucking it into his overcoat. Surveying the scene, Methos' eyes roamed over the heap of corpses; the white tree of Gondor caught his eye. Methos walked to Breiric and squatted down, resting his blade across his lap; his discerning eyes taking in the sorry condition of the unrecognizable, badly beaten Ranger. Putting two fingers to his neck, he felt the weak but steady pulse.
Tough bastard. Methos allowed. He looked over to his friend.
"Calm down, Joe. That's a stupid thing you and Jordan did! We're so close to going home, and you both almost fucked it up." Methos chastised the younger man, highly displeased. The Eldest didn't like to think how close they came to losing the Watcher. Unlike Jordan, there's no waking for Joe. Methos refused to consider how Joe's loss will affect the Highlander . . . how it will affect all of them.
"Get off my ass, Adam – I'm a 'Watcher', remember?!" Joe ground out. He didn't enjoy the verbal flogging; privately, he did not want to think how very close to death he had come today. "Where's Mac and Legolas?" he asked to prevent the Eldest's lecture from continuing.
"It's just me, Joe; party of one." Methos answered.
"Y'mean to tell me you took these spooks on all by your lonesome?!" Joe looked around, incredulous. Most of the shocked villagers were huddled together like terrified sheep, hardly daring to believe they are safe; the more practical ones took up swords, and went around, tentatively poking at the Orcs. They needn't bother, for Death is thorough.
I'm tougher than I look Methos thought with a smirk. "Just because I don't like to fight doesn't mean I can't." Methos answered coolly, cleaning his sword as he walked over to the younger man.
"I overheard a stable boy talking about you guys. Arod brought me here - in record time, I might add. That Elf is lucky to have him. Need help?" Methos grudgingly asked the younger man. "I can manage." Joe grunted. Scooting over to Jordan's body, he maneuvered himself so he sat atop her legs. Pulling his boxers on, Joe thrust his prosthetics through his trousers' legs before strapping them to his leg stumps. The pale Immortal helped Joe to stand, before handing him his cane. Squatting on his haunches, he studied Jordan's still face, before gently closing her eyelids. He absently ran his thumb tenderly over her bottom lip. A tiny smile ghosted his lips, holding a hint of regret, and then it was gone.
"This is not good – yes?" Methos remarked.
"Tell me about it! I guess I have to tell Jordie now." Joe said. Methos nodded towards the still form of the Gondorian. "Did he see her die?"
"I dunno – I was busy tryin' to stay alive." Joe said, exasperated. "Hopefully she'll wake before he does. How long do you think before she does?"
"Not certain. I'd say an hour or two, more or less; if she doesn't, you have your task cut of for you, don't you?"
"Whaddya mean?"
"I mean you'd better use your powers of persuasion to convince the Ranger he didn't see what he saw; on the other hand, no one will believe him. Deny everything." Methos advised. Joe stared back; the frown on Methos' face was thoughtful, yet revealed nothing.
"I'm going for help."
"What?!" The Watcher could scarcely believe he'd heard right.
"What the hell did you just say - you did not just say what I heard you say, right!?"
"You heard right, Joe; Arod is gone – yes? The village's horses are gone – taken or set loose – yes?" The Eldest reasoned; Joe saw not a single horse is in sight; the few chickens scattered were scratching in the dirt or settled atop a grisly perch. A dog lay amidst the pile of corpses, an arrow in its side, more were torn asunder, half eaten or brutally hacked to pieces.
"Let's just wait for Mac to come." Joe suggested.
"Jordan's dead – yes?" The woman's pale skin is leached of living color, her lips tinged blue. "We don't exactly have the luxury of time to wait for her to wake, and the Ranger is useless." Methos said, gesturing with a nod in the Gondorian's direction.
"There's no telling if he knows we're gone or how long he'll be. Look at this place, Joe – the village is practically destroyed, the villagers are traumatized shitless, and I'm not waiting for his friends to show up." Methos gestured to the Orc he shot as he rose to his feet. "Besides, its getting dark; I have to leave all of you here with her – I'll move faster alone." Methos explained. Joe looked at his friend, too shocked for words.
Quickly, Methos retrieved Jordan's katana. He wiped it clean of blood and sheathed it before handing it to Joe. Then he turned his attention to the Gondorian. Hauling Breiric to a sitting position against the corpse pile, Methos squatted beside him and placed the palm of his hand before the man's nose, feeling for his breath. Satisfied, he reached into his overcoat and withdrew a small pouch. Opening it, he took a small pinch of the golden powder before securing the pouch and tucking back into his overcoat. Watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest, Methos was about to blow the powder directly into the Ranger's face when Joe spoke "What're you doin' - what the hell is that!?" the younger man asked, distracting him. Unfortunately, the injured man exhaled when Methos blew the powder into the Ranger's face while answering his friend's question. The miniscule particles dispersed in the wind, of no consequence.
"Something to keep him asleep until Jordan wakes; from the look of him, he needs the rest." Methos replied, rising to his feet. Joe watched as Methos rolled Jordan onto her stomach with his foot; firmly planting his foot on her upper back, the Eldest grasped the spear and pulled it free. Tossing it aside, he bent down and hefted her over his shoulder, easily shifting Jordan's limp body so she is draped more comfortably down his back; Joe followed his friends, wondering where the older man is going. They walked away from the village, stopping once they reached a body of water below them.
"How'd you know this is here?" Joe asked. A small stream lay directly below the lip of small ledge. He studied the area below them.
"I found it as I worked my way towards you." Methos replied. Still stunned and shaking from the traumatizing events, Joe struggled to pull himself together mentally; he looked up in time to see his friend heave Jordan over the edge.
"What the hell are y'doin'?!" Joe yelled hoarsely; horrified, Joe didn't think he could ever forget the sound Jordan's body made when she hit the ground. The younger man could only stare at the woman lying below like a discarded rag doll, her limbs askew. Methos tossed Jordan's katana after, ensuring it landed close to her corpse.
"Can you scream any louder, Joe? I don't think they heard you in Rivendell!" the Eldest said sarcastically.
"Why'd you do that?" The Watcher asked, stunned.
"It's the fastest way to get her down there. Relax, Joe! Jordan didn't feel it – she's dead, remember?" The Eldest calmly reassured his friend.
"What about me?" Joe asked.
"You're next."
"Like hell I am! You're not throwing me over the edge, Old Man." Joe protested. Torn between conflicting emotions, Joe shook his head. Methos is a repository of sorts for the Immortals he represented - a seemingly bottomless well of experience and wisdom, who possessed a masterful talent at manipulation and, sometimes, as Joe occasionally experienced first hand, deceit. The open doubt and suspicion on the Watcher's face hurt the Eldest more than he cared to admit . . . even to himself.
"Give me more credit than that – yes?" Methos replied, exasperated. He reached into his overcoat pocket and produced a length of grey rope; Methos isn't particularly fond of holding the rope with his bare hands, for the length felt quite warm in his grasp. The Immortal quickly wrapped it around the Watcher and securely knotted it. Joe touched the silky cord.
"You sure its gonna hold?" Joe asked, worried, not trusting the slender, flexible rope.
"Hithlain is stronger than it looks, Joe; now down you go – I still need to get the Ranger."
Joe hung onto the slender cord with all his strength as his friend quickly lowered him down. Once he reached the bottom, the younger man wondered how to undo the complex set of knots. At his touch, it smoothly and easily unknotted, leaving the Watcher to scratch his head, puzzled. Looking up, he gave the Immortal a "thumbs up" signal; Methos nodded and pulled the rope up before he disappeared from sight. Joe sighed and used his cane to arrange Jordan's limbs into a more natural position, and looked above, waiting for his friend's return; Methos appeared with the Gondorian slung across his shoulders, the hithlain harness already in place. Quickly, he lowered the limp man to his friend below. Joe maneuvered the suspended man to a shaded area before releasing the Elven rope. He looked up at Methos peering over the edge.
"This ledge is just big enough for you three. You'll be out of sight, and I'll know where to find you. Stay put and be quiet - understand?" The pale man instructed. Joe stared up at his friend, a thousand scenarios running through his mind.
"As if I've gotta choice! What if more of those -"
"Orcs." Methos supplied.
"Orcs – are out there?" Joe asked.
"Don't worry, Joe, I've got it all worked out -Trust me. Just in case, I'll leave this with you." The Eldest reached within his overcoat and dropped his Glock, along with two extra magazines. Joe caught the weapon and ammunition, checking the barrel and clips.
"The clip is full, so are the extra mags." Methos reassured him.
"What makes you think you'll reach help, Methos? We're way out here."
"The alternative is unthinkable. You're insulting me, Joe. You don't know what I'm capable of." Methos assured his friend; Joe snorted in response.
"I'll have you know I won two long distance foot races in record time." The Immortal said indignantly.
"Oh yeah – when?" Joe asked, his interest piqued; Methos rarely spoke about his past.
"Olympia, Greece. 1000 b.c. I am the original running man." Methos replied proudly. "We don't have much time, Joe. I need to get going." Methos said gently.
"Get your ass movin', then." Joe said gruffly.
"See you soon." Methos replied; he gave his friend a small but genuine smile before disappearing from sight. Joe awkwardly lowered himself to the ground next to Jordan; sparing a glance at the unconscious Gondorian, Joe settled himself as best he could against the rocky ledge and waited.
A/N:
Hi! Thank you again for hanging in there. Hope you enjoyed it. More to come – I'm working on the next chapter.
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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