Adult-FanFiction.org : Lord of the Rings

Only One
By : HollyHobbit13
Category: Lord of the Rings Movies > Crossovers
Views: 4468 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
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Chapter List
- 8
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I Will Find You
--Clannad
The Last of The Mohicans Original Motion Picture Soundtrack

No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a long, long time
No matter where you go
I will find you
If it takes a thousand years
In the place with no frontiers
No matter where you go
I will find you
Seacouver
Washington
                  Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod—the most powerful Immortal alive—paced his apartment loft, a glass of Cabernet Sauvignon wine in hand. Swirling the liquid, he raised the goblet to his nose and deeply inhaled the aroma wafting upwards; the full-bodied bouquet did little to ease his troubled mind. The Highlander’s dark hair was mussed; a frown marred his ruggedly handsome face. Something was very wrong; he felt it in his gut. Jordan vanished without a trace. Walking to his balcony, he stared unseeingly towards the woods as his thoughts returned to that day…
                  : : : : “Duncan, do we really have to do this? Isn’t it overrated? I feel like I’m in one of those cheesy kung-fu movies.” His student whined.
Jordan looked at him, her brow furrowed in a stubborn plea. The Teacher had been training his Student for the better part of the morning, with the emphasis on flexibility, or rather, her supposed lack of it. Locking Jordan’s sticks into a bo staff, Duncan held it at waist level, and instructed her to do back-flips over it, down the length of the dojo, his eyes on the staff as he held it steady. Jordan made faces at her Mentor, mimicking him as he spoke. When Duncan glanced at her, Jordan quickly schooled her features into an innocent, attentive expression. The Chieftain’s Son looked at the younger Immortal sharply, aware she was mocking him, unable to catch her in the act.
“Jordie, just pretend you’re a kid again—after all, how difficult are cartwheels and back flips? In a fight, you must use all your resources, especially if you lose your sword -- you know that. When I fought Jacob Kell, he was prepared for everything. You, on the other hand, aren’t even a century old. Remember, you’re alive as long as you’ve got your head on your shoulders. Now, come on -- no more arguments.”
Ignoring her dramatic sigh, Duncan signaled for her to begin. Starting slowly, Jordan completed ten back flips in rapid succession, bumping the bo three separate times.
“How do you feel?” Duncan asked her.
“Dizzy.” Jordan replied; closing her eyes, she waited for the room to stop spinning.
“Then you will continue until you’re not.” Duncan smiled at Jordan’s scowl.
Grudgingly, she nonetheless complied. With her second attempt, Jordan completed the flips quicker, hitting the bo only once. The demanding perfectionist he is, Duncan put his student through the rigors of back flipping until Jordan was able to perform the exercise flawlessly and vertigo free.
“Now how do you feel?” the Highlander inquired.
“Like kicking you.” Jordan replied, half-serious.
“Oh yeah?” arching a dark brow at the woman, Duncan’s lips quirked into a sardonic smile.
“Yeah.” She said.
“You’ll get your chance. Now pay attention; your bo is an extension of yourself.” the Highlander was businesslike once again.
“Tell me something I don’t already know.” She replied saucily.
“Think you know it all, eh?” Duncan studied the woman before him, his eyes narrowing.
“I know enough.” Jordan’s voice faltered, her bravado steadily wilting under the Highlander’s suddenly menacing gaze.
“Oh yeah?” Duncan challenged; circling his student, he slowly twirled the staff.
“Yeah.” Jordan tracked him, her muscles tensed as she readied herself for Duncan’s attack.
“Hush and learn before you get a sound beating.” The Highlander said.
“Bring it on!” came her pert reply.
Spinning the bo, Duncan suddenly rushed Jordan, attempting to sweep her feet from under her. Jordan jumped up; planting her right foot in his chest, she used the Clansman as a springboard to launch into a back flip, and sailed over the spinning staff, safely out of reach.
“Nice move.” The Highlander allowed.
Landing lightly, Jordan didn’t have a chance to reply as she cart wheeled, avoiding the vicious jab aimed at her side. She followed with a back flip as Duncan attempted to give her a concussion with the end of the staff. It missed Jordan by mere inches; she could feel the breeze the bo generated as it whistled past.
“Never underestimate your opponent.” The Highlander cautioned before springing towards her once again, whirling the staff above his head and around his body.
Aggressively stabbing, thrusting, and angling the bo to sweep her feet from beneath her, Duncan forced Jordan back. Her seventh back flip brought her to the weapons hanging upon the wall, on the floor beneath lay bos of varying lengths. Ducking as the Chieftain’s Son swung at her head, Jordan snatched a staff from the floor; hands gripping the weapon shoulder width, she brought it up, blocking the Highlander’s strike, then quickly down again, pinning his foot to the floor as he attempted to kick her in the jaw; using one end to pin Duncan’s foot to the floor, Jordan raised the other end perpendicular to her Mentor’s stick.
“Your bo can be your best friend in a fight, especially if you can’t get to your sword-- if you wish to keep your distance, or stay out of reach.” Breathing naturally, the Highlander looked down at Jordan, continuing his lecture as if they were merely conversing-- not training.
Jordan used her staff to block and counter his attacks while regaining her feet; Teacher and Student continued to spar. The dojo echoed with the whooshing, clacking sounds of their staffs connecting. Bodies leaping and twisting, legs kicking, an hour passed, time slipping by unnoticed.
“With little effort you can easily disarm your opponent...”
Jordan’s reaction was a fraction too slow avoiding Duncan’s quick stab to her right knee. It buckled, bringing her down; the Highlander swung his bo down, intent on dislocating her shoulder.   Raising her staff, Jordan thwarted his move. Their staffs again perpendicular, Jordan’s bending in the center as Duncan leaned heavily against it. Not bothering to hide the smug grin on his handsome face, the Highlander’s teeth gleamed white against his tanned skin, long dimples carved his cheeks as he spoke.
“….and give her a sound beating. Got it?” The Clansman asked.
At Jordan’s humiliated nod, Duncan stepped back, leaning against his staff.
“Good! Now to our Katanas.”
The woman’s Mentor extended a hand to help her up; for a second, Jordan seriously considered swatting it away before she gripped his hand and allowed the Highlander to pull her to her feet. Her pride wounded, Jordan snatched the staff her Teacher held out to her; chuckling softly, Duncan ignored the woman’s baleful glare, but not before giving her a self-satisfied smile as he retrieved their swords. Blowing a raspberry at his retreating back, Jordan returned the borrowed staff, limping heavily as she walked; her knee smarted terribly. Unlocking her sticks, Jordan resisted the foolish urge to throw them at Duncan; instead, she wisely put them away, mindful of the fact she couldn’t outrun the Highlander in her present condition. Resigned to her long day of conditioning, Jordan reluctantly made her way to the center of the dojo, pushing her sweat-drenched hair out of her face. Catching her Katana as Duncan tossed it to her, mentally pushing past the pain of her sore knee, the young Immortal heaved a long-suffering sigh; at her Mentor’s signal, Jordan assumed a strong fighting stance.
Swords held high, the Immortals rushed towards one another. Their Katanas sang and brilliant sparks flew as their blades scraped together. Feinting, parrying, thrusting and countering, they circled one another warily, looking for weak points. Lunging, Duncan’s Katana enveloped his Student’s; with a quick flick of his wrist, the Highlander effortlessly disarmed Jordan, sending her Katana skittering across the hardwood floor. With a quick glance, Jordan gauged the distance to her weapon as Duncan came at her.
Completing two quick back flips, Jordan carefully timed her move; ducking under his passing blade, she stepped into his personal space—too close for him to do damage -- unless he release his sword or head butt her. Jordan pinched Duncan’s cheek as she stuck her tongue out at him, earning her a stern glare in return as she easily ducked below the Highlander’s whirling blade.
Dropping into a defensive crouch, leg extended as she attempted to sweep her Mentor’s feet out from under him, the Highlander evaded the maneuver; Duncan’s front kick caught Jordan under the chin. To prevent her jaw from absorbing the brunt of his kick, she followed the momentum of her head into a back flip; the woman’s foot caught the Highlander under his chin as well. Jordan was rewarded when she heard him grunt and his teeth snap together as he staggered back, momentarily stunned.
Before Duncan could recover, Jordan took advantage of the opportunity that presented itself. Her hands were a blur as she delivered a flurry of rapid punches to his abdomen and sternum; pivoting, Jordan tightly tucked her right leg and launched into a jumping round kick; the woman’s left leg lashed out, her foot connecting with the Highlander’s jaw. Spinning in the air, her right heel connected with Duncan’s chin. Landing on her feet, she followed with a hard left-right jab, before running to her katana. Snatching it up, the woman whirled, bracing the flat of her blade against her right palm as she blocked Duncan’s downward attack. Using her body weight as leverage, with a grunt, Jordan used her katana to push him back as they circled each other, breathing hard.
“You’ve made your point, Duncan.” She said tightly.
Jordan’s jaw ached from the impact of the Highlander’s kick; despite their full-contact session, she had much to be thankful for -- she didn’t bite her tongue off, nor were any teeth knocked loose (that she could tell).
“Good. Remember it. We live violent lives, Jordie. Like it or not, as long as you’ve your head, you’re in the Game.” Duncan said. Jordan crowed inside as the Clansman worked his jaw; apparently her kick had some zing in it as well.
“What if I don’t want to play the Game anymore?” Jordan asked.
Duncan stood still, lowering his Katana as he thoughtfully considered her words.
“There are two sure ways to remove yourself from the Game: the Sanctuary-- which was rebuilt, or lose your head. The first option has a terrible price to pay, the second . . . ” The Highlander’s words trailed off; a faraway look entered his eyes as he recalled the most recent definitive moment of his long life.
For a brief second, Jordan glimpsed the raw pain on his face before he came back to himself; suspecting it was related to the Immortal Kell, she didn’t have a chance to ask as Duncan resumed his fighting stance. Automatically, Jordan mirrored her Teacher – and it was a good thing, for the Highlander leaped at her cat-quick. Out of pure reflex, Jordan brought her Katana up. Once again sparks flew in all directions.
“The second way is not an option, and we’re going to make sure of that, right?” Duncan said, his voice low; holding her gaze over their crossed blades; the intensity in his eyes caught Jordan off guard.
In an unexpected move, the Clansman grabbed his Student’s sword arm and brought it down; Jordan’s blade rested on Duncan’s shoulder, his blade perpendicular to hers behind his head as he firmly gripped her arm.
“A wise Highlander once said the Game is also about manipulation of the mind.” Duncan murmured softly, almost to himself.
Perplexed, Jordan looked at her Teacher. Indicating her advantage with a pointed glance, she said,
“Well, unless you’re planning to donate your Quickening, I’d say manipulation isn’t necessary here.”
“Isn’t it?” Duncan retorted.
With a hard shove, he pushed her arm away; in order to keep her balance, her body followed. As Jordan came about, her blade was at the ready. However, she was thoroughly dismayed to find Duncan’s katana resting against her neck. The razor-sharp edge bit eagerly into the delicate flesh—she was completely at his mercy. Jordan stood very still; the cold expression in the Highlander’s dark eyes suddenly made her extremely nervous. Swallowing convulsively, tiny beads of perspiration appeared, dotting her upper lip.
“If I choose to, your Quickening would be mine right now. This move, properly executed, is unstoppable. Remember well, Jordan. Connor MacLeod taught me this move and I used it against Kell, but he was prepared for it. Are you?” : : : :
That was yesterday---it seemed so long ago, yet it was a mere twenty-four hours since he last saw her.   That same evening, they were to have dinner together and watch a movie afterwards. It was unlike Jordan to miss an appointment, especially after they confirmed plans following their morning workout; to sweeten the deal and soothe her bruised ego, he was buying.
>>>>========>
>>>>========>
  According to statistics, the length of time a person is reported missing is inversely proportional to the chances of recovering said missing person   Taking comfort that Jordan is no ordinary person, or unable to defend herself, the Highlander fervently hoped his student’s weapons were with her, not used against her—and more importantly, that Jordan paid attention to her surroundings. The mounting frustration and gnawing fear brought back the dark and mysterious time when his Clansman, Connor MacLeod vanished; Duncan hoped Jordan’s ending would not be as Connor’s. The Highlander wracked his mind, searching for clues related to her disappearance, clues he might’ve missed, all with the same end result—nothing.
Duncan’s worried gaze came to rest on the nondescript tube of metal resting on his coffee table. Placing his wine on the balcony railing, he strode to the sofa; sitting down, he stared at it before picking it up. Gunmetal gray in color, it gleamed dully in the light. Made of titanium, it possessed steel’s strength, but not the weight, had twice the strength of aluminum and the added benefit of high resistance to corrosion. At his touch, it telescoped into a bo staff six feet long. Another trigger released the daggers ingeniously embedded at the ends—a deadly bonus, no doubt. Retracting the weapon into its compact form, he gently set it down before unfurling a bolt of black velvet. Nestled securely within lay a sheath housing half a dozen slender spikes. He was determined to personally place them in her hands, anticipating the expression on her face when she received them. He intended to present the gifts to her after dinner that evening, but her disappearance changed everything. Now they served as silent reminders of his quest, another reason to press onward with his search; standing abruptly, Duncan gave the weapons one last glace before he returned to the balcony and his glass of wine. Standing by the railing, his gaze fixed onto the woods in the distance, noting the Buzz that announced the arrival of his kind.
I will find you, Jordie. he swore.
Cradling his wine goblet by the bowl, unconsciously, Duncan’s fingers tightened around the lead crystal; the delicate glass shattered in his hand, cutting it deeply. Closing his fingers into a tight fist, the Clansman welcomed the pain. Finally, Duncan opened his hand, allowing the jagged crystal shards to land at his feet with a musical, tinkling sound. The Highlander watched dispassionately as the dark red liquid mingled with his blood. Within seconds, the sparks of his Quickening appeared, dancing along his palm. Instantaneously, the layers of lacerated flesh approximated; the epidermis melded together smoothly, seamlessly. It was a handy and interesting benefit of Immortality, for the more Quickenings an Immortal acquired, the faster wounds healed; their constant struggles to survive, and battles fought over time enables Immortals to shrug off injuries and tolerate pain that would be fatal for mortal beings. Minor cuts and wounds mended instantly, serious injuries took longer to heal; the length of time for revival after ‘death’ is proportionally related to the strength of the Immortal. Decapitation is the ultimate end game for Immortals.   Brushing his hand against his slacks, Duncan walked to the kitchen to retrieve a rag, broom and dustpan. Rapid knocks sounded at his front door; with swift strides, he crossed the room. Opening the door, he began without preamble.
“We need to talk.” Duncan disappeared into the kitchen again, his words floating back to his guest.
“Now there’s a greeting for you. By the way, yes, I’m fine, and the flight was long, and France sends its love.”
“Hungry?” came the muffled response.
“Nah, I ate on the plane. Remind me to pack a lunch for the return flight.”
Methos, the oldest living Immortal, entered the Highlander’s apartment loft. Over 5,000 years old, he did not look a day over thirty-five. With a sigh, the Ancient One dropped his carry-on bags by the door and stretched his long limbs before ambling to the couch. Lowering his tall, lanky frame onto the cushions, Methos rested his head against the sofa’s back and wearily rubbed his face with his hands; he felt thoroughly jet-lagged. The Eldest looked up at the sound of footsteps, Duncan held out a tall, frosty bottle of brew in one hand. Accepting the proffered beer with a nod of thanks, Methos took a long swig.
“You’re spoiling me, MacLeod.” The Ancient One quipped.
“I have a good reason to.” Duncan replied.
“Ah . . . an ulterior motive. I should’ve known.” Methos said wryly. The Antediluvian studied the younger Immortal, who held a broom and dustpan; a rag dangled from the Highlander’s pant pocket.
“Spring cleaning, MacLeod?” he inquired.
“Something like that; there’s broken glass on the balcony.” Duncan replied.
“Should I ask?” Methos ventured.
“Not particularly.” Came the dry response.
Methos smiled faintly, knowing better than to pursue the matter. He closed his eyes, letting his head fall back again as Duncan swept up the broken glass; the Ancient One listened to the faint sound of his his friend and fellow Immortal clean the aforementioned mess, not bothering to open his eyes until Duncan’s footsteps drew nearer, then stopped. With a sigh, Methos opened his eyes and blearily looked at the Highlander, waiting for Duncan to sit in the recliner across him before speaking.
No rest for the weary. Might as well get it over with. The Eldest thought to himself.
“What is so important that we can’t talk about it over the phone?” Methos asked.
“Jordie’s missing.” Duncan said flatly.
The Ancient One didn’t speak, nor did he react as he absorbed the Highlander’s words. Had the Clansman been less preoccupied with his cares, he would have seen how the elder Immortal’s weary expression was gone, how the Ancient One’s eyes now held a sharp light -- how Methos’ patrician features were now arranged in a carefully neutral expression.
“Jordie. Jordan Waters . . . your Student. Missing. Are you sure?” Methos drawled. Preoccupied with the situation at hand, Duncan missed the hesitation in Methos’ smooth voice.
“Of course I’m sure. She wouldn’t disappear like that. She’s not an active participant in the Game. In fact, she stopped taking heads after her fifth one -- that was years ago.”
“And how exactly do I figure in all of this?” Methos asked as he looked at his friend calmly, already knowing the answer.
“I came to you when Connor disappeared. I was right about it, eh? And I’m right about her.” The Highlander tapped the recliner’s arm for emphasis, the conviction in his voice absolute.
“I needed the benefit of your experience then, and I need it now. Something’s not right. I can feel it. We need to find her,
Methos; she could be in danger.” The Highlander replied; the urgency in Duncan’s voice made Methos sigh.
“First things first; since when did it become ‘we’? And for that matter, have you ever thought that maybe she doesn’t want
to be found . . .? Sometimes an Immortal just needs to get away from it all for a while, yes?” Methos ventured.
The Ancient One’s words faded at the Highlander’s dark scowl. Methos recalled a time when he needed to do just that -- just vanish, and he went to great lengths to cover his tracks. Somehow, the Old Man suspected, Jordan’s situation was . . . different. Young as she is, he didn’t think she’d be that good at pulling a disappearing act. She wasn’t the dark, brooding type. That was both he and MacLeod’s department. There were several occasions he wished Duncan hadn’t found his conscience for him, and he was beginning to suspect tonight would be one such time. The oldest Immortal regarded the most powerful Immortal. Pursing his lips, Methos considered his options.
“I see; I hate to sound like a callous heel, but I am tired, Duncan. It was a rather long flight; the food was bad, and to make
matters worse, I sat two rows from a bloody toddler who didn’t care for the flight--and he insisted the entire plane know of his plight. Yak butter is hell on your digestion, but toddlers are hell on your nerves. I think I’d rather have the yak butter. Correct that – I know I’d much rather have the yak butter. Can we please talk about this in the morning? I know you want to find Jordie as soon as possible, and I promise we’ll figure something out. Things always look more clear in the morning, yes?”
Reluctantly, the Highlander nodded.   Methos stood, grasping Duncan’s shoulder reassuringly.
“If she’s truly missing, we’ll find her, Duncan.” Methos said, looking Duncan in the eye.
“Go to sleep, Methos. Same room. I’ll see you in the morning.”
Duncan watched his guest—and best chance of finding Jordie—disappear down the hallway, before returning to his
balcony. Looking up at the ink black sky, the distant stars overhead were barely visible, obscured by the bright lights of the city.
“Where are you, Jordie?” He asked quietly.
There was no answer, save for the sounds of traffic in the streets far below. Giving the woods one last look, he turned away, slowly making his way to his bedroom. Bare-chested and wearing soft flannel pajama bottoms, Duncan lay in bed, heavily muscled arms tucked behind his head. Staring at the ceiling, unable to fall asleep, his thoughts returned to Jordan, unsure how to find her, wondering where she is; all the while the moon climbed higher into the night sky, the curtains stirring in the soft breeze blowing from his open windows. At long last, the Highlander’s eyes grew heavy with sleep. On his dresser, bathed in moonlight, lay the box once containing the Lothlórien leaf, its delicately carved runes glowing brightly.
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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