Highlander/Magnificent Seven (TV): From Rome to Mexico: Wonderous Creature

Wonderous Creature

Fandom: Highlander, Magnificent Seven (TV)
AU: From Rome to Mexico
Series: The Travel Collection
Word Count: 185
Characters: Ezra Standish

“To that wondrous creature that gave me life,” he murmurs.

The storm is ferocious, rain coming down too heavily to see past the porch of the house, lit by flashes of lightning that herald peals of thunder loud enough to rattle the windows in their frames. Ezra leans back in a rocking chair on the porch, sipping a glass of bourbon as he enjoys the storm. It’s as spectacular as any Quickening, and he’s always enjoyed the rush and show of them as much as he does that of summer thunderstorms.

He’ll never, though, be able to make the others understand just why he enjoys them quite so much. At least, not unless he can convince them to stand out in a storm like this with a metal rod, or some foolish thing like that. A smile quirks his lips a moment, and he raises his glass in salute to the storm.

“To that wonderous creature that gave me life,” he murmurs, staring out into the storm, and smiling. Two hundred and fifty years since the storm that had killed him the first time; watching a storm raging is a fine celebration of that anniversary.

Originally Posted: 28 May 2013

AO3 | DW

Highlander/Magnificent Seven (TV): From Rome to Mexico: Watcher’s Chronicle

Watcher’s Chronicle

Fandom: Highlander, Magnificent Seven (TV)
AU: From Rome to Mexico
Series: Fireside Tales
Word Count: 300
Characters: Maude Standish

Warnings: Period-appropriate racist language (briefly)

I shall have to find a reason to return to Four Corners, and establish a place for a Watcher to work from in order to keep a close eye on these seven.

There are four known Immortals in town, serving as law-men, and I suspect from some of their conversation and behavior that the other three law-men either are or will become Immortal.

Josiah – Macario Losa – is rather a gentleman, and neither he nor my own darling boy suspect I’m a Watcher, as far as I can determine. Which is just as well, as I do not know how the former Inquisitor might react to knowing such a thing, and I know Ezra will cut off all contact with me, which will make my job ever so much more difficult.

Appius Claudius Varius is known among them as Buck Wilmington, and Kristoffer Elofsson is called Chris Larabee. And Mr. Larabee is quite suspicious of me, though I should hope it’s because I am plying the trade for which I am known, and also telling utter falsehoods about Ezra’s childhood.

The three which I would recommend others watch for – I have included sketches, as acquiring photographs would be difficult without a reason to take them – are a very young man by the name of JD Dunne (guillable, that one, to be sure), a colored man known as Nathan Jackson (known for his skill in medicine, even if he is not a doctor), and a third called Vin Tanner (and while he may be wanted, I would not care to attempt to collect that bounty – all the seven are quite protective of each other).

I shall have to find a reason to return to Four Corners, and establish a place for a Watcher to work from in order to keep a close eye on these seven, since I have little doubt they will discover my own secret before too terribly long if I should be so foolish as to outstay my welcome.

Originally Posted: 14 January 2014

AO3 | DW

Highlander/Magnificent Seven (TV): From Rome to Mexico: The Levant

The Levant

Fandom: Highlander, Magnificent Seven (TV)
AU: From Rome to Mexico
Series: The Travel Collection
Word Count: 82
Characters: Buck Wilmington

Once he lived at the center of the known world, where roads led, and people mingled. When Rome fell, he left on one of those roads, and made his home in the baking heat of the Levant. There he meets a new student, some centuries later, and learns of northern snows and chill while teaching survival and the sword.

Only later, when he’s living at the end of a dirt road among six others does he feel he’s found home once more.

Originally Posted: 28 May 2013

AO3 | DW

Highlander/Magnificent Seven (TV): From Rome To Mexico: Inquisitor

Inquisitor

Fandom: Highlander, Magnificent Seven (TV)
AU: From Rome To Mexico
Series: The Travel Collection
Word Count: 68
Characters: Josiah Sanchez

When he spoke of his past as a preacher, most assumed the shadow on his soul was recent, within the scope of a mortal lifetime. They wouldn’t believe the truth, so he let them assume what they would. Sometimes, he didn’t want to believe what he had been, the beast he’d fallen prey to. He couldn’t forget, though, only attempt to atone for the monster he had been.

Originally Posted: 28 May 2013

AO3 | DW

Highlander/Sorcerer’s Apprentice/Arthurian Legends: A Cave For a Tower: Mischief

Mischief

Fandom: Highlander, Sorcerer’s Apprentice, Arthurian Legends
AU: A Cave For a Tower
Word Count: 3727
Characters: Balthazar Blake, Methos, Nimue

She’s called many things by different people. Mischief. Friend. Legend.

Balthazar usually just gets carry out, rather than going out for food, but he’s been holed up in Arcana Cabana for the last several days dealing with customers and inventories and paperwork, and it’s time to get out. He doesn’t think he’s going to end up with the Prime Merlinian coming to him today, anyway.

He even more rarely goes into someplace that has a bar. Following his instincts instead of just falling into routine has had good results sometimes, and he’s almost glad he’s walked into the pub he has. Almost, because the expression on Methos’ face is one that worries him as he approaches the Immortal’s table.

“Mind if I join you?” Not that he’s going to take no for an answer, pulling out a chair from the table, and sitting down.

“Yes,” Methos says flatly. He’d have hooked his foot around the chair if he’d thought it would do any good. "If I’d wanted company, I wouldn’t be sitting here alone.“ It’s been several centuries since he last set eyes on Balthazar, and he’s had more than his fill of unexpected reunions this month. That he’s switched from beer to whiskey should be enough of a warning to keep anyone familiar with his habits at a distance.

"Too bad.” Balthazar shrugs, slouching in the chair a bit, and ordering a coke and a sandwich when the waitress comes over. “You looked like you could use the company.” Before he did something that would make Balthazar wish he could shut Methos into an urn or something for a few years. Or a few centuries. For the safety of everyone else. There was something far too frightening for comfort about Methos, and right now, it was closer to the surface than it had been the last time Balthazar had met him.

“I’ve had more than enough for the moment.” Methos isn’t in the mood to bother with politeness, or even with hiding behind Adam Pierson. Part of it is the residual leftovers from Silas’ quickening – and from Kronos’. Part of it is his own fury at having been forced into making that choice. The rest of it is a combination of grief and anger that makes him want to lash out. It’s why he’s in New York, and staying far away from both Joe and MacLeod. Not that the latter would welcome his presence at the moment anyway. "Find somewhere else to eat your damned sandwich.“

"No.” Balthazar leaned back in his chair, still watching Methos. “I leave you alone, and how much of my city am I going to find laid to waste? Or just how many people am I going to find dead?” He recognizes the sort of anger and grief he sees in Methos, though at least when he was trying to cope with it, he had a target to unleash his anger on. A focus that helped the rest of the world, tracking down and destroying or trapping Morganian sorcerers while he hunted for the Prime Merlinian.

Balthazar’s words hit close enough to home that Methos puts his drink down and straightens slightly in his chair. "What do you know?“ he demands.

"Just what I see.” Balthazar accepts his sandwich and his coke from the waitress, shrugging at Methos. “And whatever makes you scary even to a sorcerer is way too close to the surface for my comfort. You don’t want company, but you need it. Before you do something stupid in my city, and I have to clean up the mess.”

Methos laughs shortly and picks up his glass again. "If I were planning on mass destruction, I’d make sure there was no point in cleaning up afterwards.“ Which might be proof that Balthazar is right, now that he thinks about it. It doesn’t make him much more inclined towards company. He sighs and leans back in his seat. "I’ll be fine. Thank you for your concern; it’s been duly noted. You can go now.”

“I’m not done my sandwich.” Balthazar isn’t planning on eating it quickly, as he isn’t so hungry as to bolt his food. And he’s not going to leave Methos alone, not yet. He doesn’t really feel comfortable leaving him alone at all, but right now, once he’s done with his excuse, he’ll have to. Though that doesn’t stop him from checking up on Methos now and again while he’s in New York.

“I really don’t care if you’re finished or not,” Methos retorts. "Go and get a pretzel if you’re hungry. Find somewhere safer to eat.“ Methos still isn’t sure whether he’s planning to fight off his bad mood and go back to being Adam Pierson, or to come up with a suitable tribute for the Horsemen, but he doesn’t much feel like being influenced in either direction.

"Since when have I chosen the safer of two options?” He takes a large bite of his sandwich, refusing to move. And carefully fusing the chair to the floor for the moment, in case Methos tries to push him away. Balthazar very nearly is tempted to do the same to Methos’ chair to keep him from leaving himself, but refrains. He really doesn’t need a scene in public that makes any of the mundane humans think magic might just exist as something more than a parlor trick. Not even one of them.

Methos glares at him for a long moment. "You have no idea what you’re stirring up right now, sorcerer.“ He’s not sure whether spilling the whole sordid story will get Balthazar to walk off in disgust, or if it will get the man to attack him, but either option appeals.

"A really grumpy man who’s older than I am?” Balthazar smirks a moment before taking another bit of his sandwich. “You can be scary, but fear hasn’t stopped me yet.” Made him change his tactics, left him shaking in reaction later, but not stopped him.

“Maybe this time it should.” Methos glares at him. "I’ve killed more people than even you would readily believe, and I’m having a little trouble right now remembering why I shouldn’t add you to that number. I’ve always liked you, but this seems to be my week for killing people I’ve always liked.“ Or loved, but he’s not going there, not right now.

"You can try, but it’s not going to happen.” Balthazar is pretty certain he can’t be killed, not until he’s found the Prime Merlinian, and at that point, he doesn’t know if he’ll care or not. He takes another bite of his sandwich, swallowing it before continuing, “And you’re really not scaring me with the whole killing untold numbers of people.” It’s not so much the killing, as something more behind that. And a murderer really isn’t as scary as someone who intends to raise the dead and control them. Not in his world.

“We spent a thousand years slaughtering everyone unfortunate enough to attract our attention.” Methos is almost hoping that this will lead to the sort of fight he’d not trusted himself to have with MacLeod. He’ll have to vanish afterwards, and stay gone, but he’s not sure if he really cares any more. "There were four of us, and we carved a bloody enough swathe that mortals still remember us. And I killed the other three this week. Do you really want to be this close to me right now?“

"No.” Balthazar doesn’t really want to be too near Methos at the moment, but it’s still not what’s been said that’s what has him worried. It’s what hasn’t been said. Whatever is making him uneasy still hasn’t been mentioned, even if he doesn’t know what it is that’s always made Methos seem that bit more dangerous than any Morganian other than Morgana herself. Whatever it is that’s made him utterly unafraid, in the long run, of what Morganian sorcerers can and will do to him.

“Doesn’t mean I want to run away, either,” he adds before taking another bite of sandwich.

“Oh, for –” Methos puts his glass down and stands up. "I’ll leave, then. You can stay here and finish your bloody sandwich.“ He tosses a few twenties onto the table and stalks off. Now he’ll have to find another bar, because he’s in no mood to go back to his hotel. He’s almost tempted to wander around until he finds someone to challenge, but the chance that it might end up being Connor MacLeod changes his mind. He likes Connor, most of the time.

Balthazar watches Methos leave, unfusing his chair from the floor once the Immortal is out the door. He’s probably better off not following him right now. Just going back to the Arcana Cabana and continuing to wait for the Prime Merlinian. And being pestered by what he’d swear is his own personal demon of mischief, if he thought demons actually existed. Though. He smiles to himself as he finishes his sandwich, wondering how long it’ll take her to show up once he’s back at the shop. And what he’ll have to do to get her to do him a little favor.

"Now that was rude.” Nimue glares at Balthazar from her upside-down perch on the skylight of the Arcana Cabana. The plasma bolt he’d tossed at her might not have done anything, but that never stops her from complaining at him when he aims them at her anyway. “Especially when I can’t really do anything in kind.”

“Rude, yes, but fun.” Balthazar leans against the counter, watching her. “You’re not supposed to be in here, Mischief.”

She blows a raspberry at him, kicking her feet in the air like a small child. “I can be wherever I want to be.” Including sprawled upside down on his ceiling like she was on the floor. He never has quite figured out how she does it, and she’s never shown any willingness to tell him or teach him the trick of it.

“And why on my ceiling, this time?” He tilts his head, raising an eyebrow at her.

“Because I can.” Nimue shrugs, rolling and doing the disconcerting thing she does where she reorients to gravity. Standing for a moment in mid-air before she flops down into a cross-legged position where she’s about eye-level for him. “Because I’m bored, and you’re more interesting than watching paint dry, even when you’re being boring.”

He’d flick something else at her if he weren’t concerned for the stock in the shop. He has, when she’s shown up somewhere where he isn’t going to worry about delicate things being broken. Although, there may be another way to get her to stop bothering him than tossing enough spells at her to get her to leave in a huff.

“Do you know an Immortal called Methos?” Balthazar is fairly certain that if she knows him at all, she’ll know his real name. Rather than just whatever alias he’s using.

“Met him before, he’s not nearly so much fun to annoy.” Nimue waves a dismissive hand. “Why?”

“Because I need you to keep an eye on him for me.” Balthazar smiles at the surprise on her face. “He’s in a bad mood, you could cheer him up.”

“Oh, I don’t know, the man is incredibly stubborn about such things.” She tilts her head to one side, cradling her chin in her hand as she leans her elbow on her knee. “But I could watch him. If you make it worth my while.”

“You can hang out in the Arcana Cabana as often as you like without me trying to get rid of you.” Balthazar held up his hand when her eyes lit up with glee. “If you manage to get him out of his bad mood.”

“Hmph.” Nimue glares at him a moment before winking out, leaving nothing but a faint sea-weedy smell in her wake.

“You are very good at scaring little sorcerers, old friend.” Nimue has her knees hooked over the top of the wall – through the wall – as she watches Methos upside down. “And making my life interesting. I hear you almost became the ultimate monster again.”

Methos starts to sit up, but when he realizes just who’s invaded his hotel room, he slumps back onto the bed.

“Oh. It’s you.” He makes a shooing gesture with one hand. "I’ll tell you what I told that meddlesome bugger Balthazar – go find something safer to do.“

Nimue laughs, shaking her head. "You know you can’t do anything to me, anymore than Balthazar can. Well, other than annoy me, but right now, I’m too amused to be annoyed. He was really rather rude, you know that? Bounced a plasma ball off the window right behind me. Went through my chest, the cheeky bastard.”

“I’m going to be much ruder,” Methos says grimly. "In more languages.“ He twists the cap off of a bottle of something he thinks might be tequila. At the moment, he doesn’t really care. "I appreciate the thought, really, but now is not the time.”

“Now is always the time, Methos.” Nimue shifts, rolling and twisting to land on her feet on the floor. Walking toward the bed, and flopping onto it next to Methos. Watching him from much closer. “Past, present, future, doesn’t matter. Now – or maybe the very, extremely recent past – is always important.”

She tilts her head, looking down at him. “I could always slow time down, give you as long as you like to wallow in self-pity without making anyone else really wait for you to spend a couple decades – or centuries – deciding if you hate the world or just yourself.”

“There’s no one waiting for me.” Methos knows how that sounds, but he doesn’t much care. "Between the two of them, Cassandra and Kronos took care of that quite nicely.“ The only people who are likely to miss him are the Watchers, and after this week’s events, he’s going to avoid them as much as he possibly can until he finds out what they saw.

Nimue pokes him in the arm, focusing the spell enough to make sure it’s felt. "Just because you think that great nit-picking hero isn’t going to say boo to you doesn’t mean it’s the end of the world. And damnit, I’d miss you if you went and vanished on me. Track you down and whallop you over the head. Maybe take an apprentice for the sole purpose of lugging your ungrateful carcass back to my home.”

Or just bother Balthazar into doing so, since he’s in the same city. Though she’ll have to remember to do something to keep him from remembering, if she can manage it, so he can’t find his way to her cave again later.

“Oh, I know all about the end of the world.” Methos drains the bottle in his hand, which turns out to be the expected tequila. "Kronos wanted us to kick it off, you know. I had to let MacLeod kill him. Now I’ve got three vials full of instant apocalypse to dispose of, and more of an inclination to use the stuff than I’ve had in a very long time.“ He glances over at her. "Sure you still want to hang around?”

“Sweetie, it can’t kill me, and your apocalypse isn’t the one I’ve been worried about the last thousand years and gone.” Nimue reaches out to carefully card her fingers through his hair a moment. “So, not going to scare me off that easily.”

Methos closes his eyes briefly, but doesn’t quite let himself lean into her touch. "I should scare you. I should have scared Balthazar, too, but apparently none of you people have any sense.“ He opens his eyes, staring blankly at the ceiling. "It worked on MacLeod. Too well. He can’t grasp that a few thousand years might change a person. And why should he? It didn’t change Kronos, or Caspian, or Silas.”

Nimue leans down to kiss his forehead. “Because they didn’t want to change. You’re far more human than they were, far more adaptable.” She keeps combing her fingers through his hair, gentle and light. “And sorcerers aren’t known for having sense. We’re known for having enough power to set ourselves up as small gods, and a good half of us have the ego to do just that.”

“Being a god is overrated.” The next bottle is scotch. Methos is very glad that Immortals don’t get hung-over. "And dangerous. I should know.“ He closes his eyes again. "It’s just so tempting sometimes, even now. Mortals can be so stupid, and the thought of correcting them –” He stops. "If I thought it wouldn’t all end in disaster, I’d have done it already,“ he adds after a moment.

"Then perhaps it’s good I’ve not had the temptation to set myself up as a goddess. Even if sometimes they conflate me with one.” Nimue made a face. “That’s history for you.” She strokes her fingertips across his forehead. “And if you ever do give into the desire to set yourself up as a god, I promise I’ll send someone to bash you over the head with a rock and drag your carcass back to my little place.” She smiles down at him. “If that makes you feel any better.”

“Not really,” Methos admits. "I’d probably see them coming.“ He cracks one eye open and looks at her. "Balthazar really sent you to find me? What did he have to promise to get you to do that?” He likes Nimue, but he knows better than to ask her for a favour.

“Oh, only that he’ll never be able to get rid of me again. At least, not from his shop.” Nimue’s smile brightens, a hint of mischief gleaming in her eyes. “And honestly, I probably would have come to find you sooner or later, after watching that fiasco.” She watches the world, and never has to leave her sanctum. There are times when she almost regrets sealing herself in like that. “I almost came to find you in person.”

“In person?” Methos pulls away from her and props himself up on one elbow. "That is a surprise. I didn’t think anything would ever pry you out of that cave of yours.“ He smirks. The expression’s rather hollow, but it’s better than nothing. "Then again, you’re still there, so maybe nothing will.”

Nimue scowls, and reaches out a fist to thump him on the head with. “You were there just before I did that, and you bloody well ought to remember what I said about coming out. Your memory isn’t that awful.”

That Morgana and Merlin had to have finished up with their little feud, one way or another. And that hadn’t happened yet, not with Morgana sealed up in a grimhold, and Merlin’s remaining apprentice searching for some near-mythical heir to Merlin.

“And no matter how fond I am of you, I can’t do you any good if someone’s trying to kill me simply because they think I’m on one side or another of the whole tiff.”

“Balthazar’s still fighting the good fight, then?” Methos rubs the top of his head. "I should introduce him to MacLeod.“ They’d either get along splendidly or take an instant dislike to one another, and Methos would be able to consider himself well-revenged on both of them.

"Still on his Quest, with the intent of destroying Morgana in the end.” Nimue shrugs, rolling to sprawl on her back, watching Methos out of the corner of her eye. “Though call it the good fight again, and I’ll tell Balthazar where to find you. Neither philosophy is truly good or evil, just very different in their approaches. Both of them think they’re doing what’s right, though. Idiots.”

“They’re young.” Methos shrugs, and lets himself flop back down next to Nimue onto the bed. "Like MacLeod. Someday they’ll learn that there really are precious few absolutes in life. Or they won’t, and then someone will die. That’s the way it always happens.“ He closes his eyes. "Hopefully, whoever it is won’t take too many bystanders with them.”

“The only absolute is that very nearly everything dies. No matter how well protected from age or death.” Very nearly, because Nimue had her doubts about anyone truly being able to take out Methos without serious luck. And even then, she’s not entirely confident of that. She rolls to cuddle up to Methos, almost solid against him. “Everything else is mutable.”

“Mm. Death as the world’s one constant. I’m not sure if I like that or not.” He lets himself lean into her, just a little bit. "I suppose it’s a matter of perspective. But I’m forgetting my manners. Would you like a drink? Are you present enough for that, at least?“

Nimue shrugs, shaking her head. "Almost fourteen centuries, and I still haven’t worked out how to be able to partake of food or drink while projecting elsewhere. It’s really inconvenient.” She’s been able to figure out how to do a number of other things with this system of hers, but using magic and consuming things not present at her cave are two things she still can’t manage. Perhaps will never manage.

“Oh, well.” Methos opens a bottle for himself. "You’re not missing much, not in this case, anyway.“ He sighs. "Sometimes I’m more than a little tempted to find a cave of my own. Then I remember how antsy I get after a few decades on holy ground and change my mind.”

Chuckling, Nimue reaches over to cup his cheek in her hand a moment before slowly drawing her hand away, and resting it on his chest. “You’d be out of your mind if you’d shut yourself up like I have, with only this insubstantial form to interact with the world.” Sometimes she wondered if she weren’t out of her mind, herself.

“Probably,” Methos admits, putting a hand over hers. "Though at times like this, I can see the attraction of it more clearly than usual. Still, I don’t know how you can stand it for as long as you have.“

"Sometimes, by reminding myself that the risks of getting killed override the risks of going out of my mind with boredom.” Nimue smiles at his hand over hers. “Sometimes by making other sorcerers miserable and earning myself new nicknames. And sometimes I just. Wonder if I really have just gone round the bend.”

Originally Posted: 2 November 2010

AO3 | DW

Meme

Tagged by @poplitealqueen

Cite the final line of five of your fics – your favorites, or the most recent ones. Tag five writers who should do this next.

Tagging – @writertobridge @norcumi @fialleril @judayre and anyone else who wants to do this.

And for his sister, he shall do all he might to remember her to history, in whatever manner he might. That none who might one day see her children, and wonder who the woman who bore such had been.

Admit Me, Chorus to This History

“Certainly.” She settles into the chair across from the HR director, and smiles. Time to begin a new chapter in the life of Maria Hill.

The Faces Behind the Veils

Willow just smiles again, and pulls him down for a kiss.

North of India, West of Cathay

The offer is a surprise, but Frank nods, before slipping his wand back into its sheath on his arm, Apparating after a moment. He’s got a report to write, and information to relay to Dumbledore. It’s going to be a long night.

The Death of Regulus Black

Remember, little sister. Always remember. We are the monsters the gods fear because our freedom at their hands ends the world, or so they say. And they will call you monster, when you grow to be strong and proud of being your father’s daughter. Call you liar and trickster and monster and evil because they cannot understand that we are not bound by their rules. That we are the chaos and the change they fear, us and our father.

And now, sleep. I will tell you another story tomorrow.

A Trickster’s Children

Babylon 5/Highlander: Caught Between: Disengage Filters

Disengage Filters

Fandom: Babylon 5, Highlander
AU: Caught Between
Series: Fireside Tales
Word Count: 160
Characters: Marcus Cole, Susan Ivanova
Ships: Marcus Cole/Susan Ivanova

Warnings: Temporary Character Death

Marcus stares up at the sky, telling himself he’ll get up again in a moment. As soon as he stops feeling like he should still be dead – and that is something he’d never thought he’d be thinking.

“I’m beginning to think that being dead disengages the filters between your brain and your mouth.” Susan comes into his field of vision, holding out a hand for him to use as leverage to get back to his feet. Marcus is glad for it, as being dead has apparently also not done his muscles any favors, any of the times he’s found himself waking up from such a state.

“Most new Immortals will tell you the same thing, especially about the first time they died. No one expects to return from death.” Susan doesn’t let go until he’s steady on his feet, watching him with an amused expression. “We’ll go again when you stop treating me to everything that goes through your head.”

Originally Posted: 14 January 2014

AO3 | DW

Babylon 5/Highlander: Caught Between: Crocodile Fish

Crocodile Fish

Fandom: Babylon 5, Highlander
AU: Caught Between
Series: Interstitial Spaces
Word Count: 226
Characters: Marcus Cole, Susan Ivanova
Ships: Marcus Cole/Susan Ivanova

“Marshes and mosquitos. Houses on stilts to avoid being flooded out. Crocodile-like fish that like to eat people.”

Spring where Susan – no matter what name she’s had or takes, she’ll always be Susan to him – has made her home brings torrential rains that melt the snows that blanket the mountains, and send it all flooding down the narrow valleys. The house is far enough up the slope to avoid being flooded out, and dug deeply enough into the rock not to be swept down the slope in a mudslide. It’s perhaps the only good thing Marcus can say about spring on this planet, in this place.

“It could be worse.” Susan is sitting next to the stove, where it’s warmest, while he’s looking out the window at another gray day. “I could have settled on land down on the plain.”

“Worse?” Marcus turns, raising an eyebrow. He could imagine something of what worse could mean, but he wants to hear her talking. Since he’s woken up, he’s wanted to listen to her, almost as much as he wants to tell her, every moment, how much he loves her.

“Marshes and mosquitos. Houses on stilts to avoid being flooded out. Crocodile-like fish that like to eat people.” Susan has a completely straight face, and Marcus isn’t certain if she’s joking or not. He’ll err on the side of not, because being eaten by a fish after he’s been brought back from the dead once? Embarrassing.

Originally Posted: 24 October 2013

AO3 | DW

Babylon 5/Highlander: Caught Between: Caught Between

Caught Between

Fandom: Babylon 5, Highlander
AU: Caught Between
Word Count: 1428
Characters: Marcus Cole, Susan Ivanova | Katherine
Ships: Marcus Cole/Susan Ivanova

Marcus is not expecting to wake again, much less to wake to the company of Ivanova.

“You shouldn’t have used that damned machine, Marcus.”

Those are not the first words Marcus expects to hear when he wakes up. Actually, he hadn’t expected to hear any words as he woke up – nor, really, had expected to wake up at all.

“You can open your eyes.”

He can even – almost – recognize the voice. Someone he knew – knows. A woman. Marcus prods at his memory, trying to find the name; he should know her name.

“Ivanova?” His voice is stronger than he thinks it should be, but it’s still weak. Barely loud enough to be audible, but the question earns him a hand on his forehead, and a quiet chuckle.

“I was Ivanova.” The hand strokes his hair back from his face, the calluses almost familiar to him, though he doesn’t have many memories of them. “I haven’t been in several years.”

He frowns, trying to open his eyes, though it doesn’t appear to do any good. There’s nothing but darkness and Ivanova’s voice. “Why can’t I see you?”

“Because the sun’s set, and I haven’t lit any candles.” The hand moves off his forehead, and the sound of something – flint on steel? – before he caught a faint glow. Behind him, and moving around into his sight, resolving into a candle flame as the holder is set on a surface that he can’t quite make out all of. A table, perhaps.

Ivanova isn’t in any sort of uniform, and her clothes look as if they’ve come out of a historical vid, or a museum. She settles onto a chair beside the bed, her gaze fixed on Marcus’ face. “You’ve caused me more trouble than I’ve had in a long while.”

“How?” He licks his lips, surprised they aren’t dryer than they are.

“That’s a story for later, when you’re more awake.” Ivanova helps him to sit up a bit, before bringing a cup from the table to his lips. Water, cool and sweet – tasting more of natural springs than recycled and reclaimed water. Somewhere on a planet, then, perhaps. “Right now, you’ve only been alive again for a few hours, and it’ll take some getting used to the sensation again.”

“I wouldn’t know. I’ve never been dead before.” Marcus can’t help the retort, and he’s surprised when Ivanova snorts, a wry smile crossing her lips.

“I’d be worried if you had. I try to keep track of these sorts of things.” She set the cup aside once he’s emptied it, letting him back down against the pillow more gently than he could have managed on his own. Marcus isn’t quite sure why he feels so weak – though it could be the whole part about being dead.

“What do you mean?” It’s a curious thing, what she’s said, and he wants to know the answer to his question; with sleep dragging behind his eyes.

“That’s also a story for later. Rest, Marcus. I’ll be here when you wake up.” She strokes his hair back from his face again, a small smile still on her face. “I promise.”

“So long as you promise.” He tries to reach up to touch her face, not entirely surprised when he can’t manage it. The last thing he can feel as he slips back into sleep is her hand catching his, and holding on.

Katherine watches as Marcus slips back into sleep, the smile sliding away like water. She can feel him in the back of her mind, faint as an Immortal who hadn’t met his first death. Except that if he was, it wasn’t through any mechanism of his own birth or creation, but hers.

Once she was sure he slept deeply, she set his hand back on the bed, standing up and taking the candle over to the far side of the room, which was shrouded in shadow. The machine gleamed in the weak light, terrible and beautiful, and altogether more dangerous than anyone could have guessed when it was first found. She set the candle on it, staring at it for a long moment.

“Stephen should have destroyed you when he had the chance,” she murmured, looking over the lines of the machine without really seeing them. “I’m glad he didn’t. No matter what happens now.”

No matter what she’s made Marcus into in her ignorance of how the machine would work when used by an Immortal. If the creators could even have conceived of an Immortal when they made it. She rather thought they hadn’t, nor could have. No other race seemed to have Immortals – yes, the Vorlons appeared to be immortal, pretty much, but not Immortal.

Snorting, Katherine turned away, to the open stasis pod next to the machine, reaching out to close the lid once more. She wouldn’t need it for Marcus again. And he might just have the forever he never thought he’d actually have with her, even if they might never have anything more – something she wasn’t certain of, not after her two experiences with the machine.

“What did you do to me the first time?” she murmured as she rested a hand on the machine. As if it could provide her an answer, though it was nothing more than an inanimate object. “He didn’t need to drain his life for me, though I wouldn’t have been able to remain in that life.”

It had been a fight to keep her Quickening from healing the wounds, to let them steadily draw her to a slow death. A death she would have recovered from, that she had made arrangements for, just in case – arrangements that had been made moot by a foolish, hopeless romantic of a mortal. “Too much in love to let me go, Marcus, and now what? What have we become because neither of us knows how to let go?”

She studied the machine for a moment longer before she leaned down to blow out the candle, and returned to the chair next to Marcus’ bed, slouching enough in it to put her feet up on the bed itself. Sleep was elusive, and she kept opening her eyes to look at Marcus, even though she couldn’t really see him in the dark.

“Susan?” Marcus’ voice was rough, his throat likely still dry from his long stay in stasis, and Katherine startled, surprised she’d actually fallen asleep. Dawn was starting to filter into the room through the high windows, enough for her to make out Marcus’ face.

“I’m right here, Marcus.” She lowered her feet to the floor, pouring more water into the cup from the pitcher. It was the work of a moment to help Marcus sit up, shifting the pillows behind him to keep him upright for now. Picking up the cup as she settled back into her chair, and holding it to his lips so he could sip at the water.

“Where am I?” He met her gaze readily, his expression a welter of emotion, though mostly confusion. “How did I get here?”

“A world where I don’t have to worry about anyone asking about who I was.” Katherine set the cup aside, though her own throat was feeling dry, and she should drink some of the water herself. “And through some convoluted process involving the Rangers, a very cranky doctor, and theft.”

She didn’t want to tell him more right now – didn’t want to tell him about Immortality, about her uncertainty as to what happened when he decided to override her attempt to die, or really, anything else. “It’s complicated.”

“Unless there’s still a war going on, I have the time.” Marcus grimaced, his hand lifting from the bed to reach toward her, and Katherine caught it before the bone-deep exhaustion of coming back from the dead could force him to drop it.

“I know.” She held his hand between his, watching him. “I just don’t know where to start – and don’t tell me to start at the beginning, that’ll take too long.”

“Will it?” Marcus grinned, his sense of humor firmly back in place, even so soon after being all but dead. “I don’t have anywhere to go, so you could tell me the entire story of Earth from the dawn of recorded history, and we’d…”

“Be dead before I finished.” Katherine interrupted him, shaking her head. “I need to get breakfast. And you need to eat. You should be hungry.” She set his hand in his lap, pulling away, and moving toward the kitchen. The house was all one room, the sort of home she had been familiar with in her youth, though with a few modern amenities.

Notes: This is not going to be completed any further than it already is, though there may well be more ficlets in the AU if I have the inspiration to work on it again.

Originally Posted: 25 April 2017

AO3 | DW

15th Century CE RPF/Henry V – Shakespeare/Highlander: They Who Sleep In Elysium: First Steps Out of the Grave

First Steps Out of the Grave

Fandom: 15th Century CE RPF, Henry V – Shakespeare, Highlander
AU: They Who Sleep In Elysium
Word Count: 2343
Characters: Haerviu | Jehan Montjoy (Original Character), Henry of Monmouth | Henry V of England, Loki, Richie Ryan

Richie doesn’t know what’s happened, or how he’s alive again. Or why him, when there are so many others who could have been given this, and are still dead. And while whoever it is that did this isn’t hiding, they’re not making it easy for him to find answers, either.

Notes: Originally written for Highlander Holiday Shortcuts in 2015, for @rainewynd

“I was dead.” Richie is staring at the mirror at the angry red line that goes all the way around his neck. “How does this work?”

“I’m not the one to ask that, but I do know someone who has a better idea of it.” Jehan meets his gaze a moment, a wry smile crossing his face before he returns his attention to dinner preparations. “I sent him an email while you were sleeping.”

“Is he Immortal, too?” Richie turns away from the mirror and the reminder that he shouldn’t be here, talking to Jehan and hiding from the rest of the world for a few days. At least.

“No, and never has been. I watched him die, wasting away, the first time.” Jehan’s voice has that peculiar steadiness to it that makes Richie think he’s trying very hard not to show any of whatever he was feeling the first time around. “We encountered each other again maybe six months later, on the road, entirely by accident.”

It still doesn’t actually answer Richie’s question of how the hell he’s back from the dead this time, when as far as he knows, getting his head cut off should have killed him. Had killed him. Then he’d woken up next to a freshly unearthed grave with a massive headache, and an impression that there’d been a good deal more to everything than what he remembered.

“So, he’s mortal? Sorta?”

“No.” Jehan looks up to meet Richie’s gaze again. “He’s neither mortal nor Immortal, but something else entirely. You should ask him when he arrives.”

“Do you at least know when that is?” Richie sits on one of the barstools across from Jehan and his stove. “And does your friend have a name?”

“As I don’t know where he is this time, I have no idea how long it will be before he arrives. And while I know the name he was given in his first life, I don’t know what name he’ll want to introduce himself by.” Jehan reaches for a bowl of chopped vegetables, dumping them into the pan. “There are plates in the cupboard over the window, and utensils in the drawer below. It’s likely just us for dinner, and my friend knows where to find things if he arrives tonight.”

“Someone who comes over a lot?” Richie goes to get the place settings, pausing to look out the window as he does. It’s gray and damp outside, obscuring the grounds that surround Jehan’s home, and making it impossible to tell what might be beyond that.

“He has a key, and is able to come and go as he pleases.” Jehan is smiling when Richie turns back to face him, the expression softening the long lines of his face. “I would not have it any other way.”

Richie tightens his grip on the plates a moment before making himself smile in return. He remembers seeing that expression on Tessa’s face when he’d been just the kid she and Mac had rescued, and he’s not sure why it hurts now more than it has in a while. Maybe if she hadn’t died that night, things would have gone differently later, and Richie wouldn’t be here, wondering why he’s alive after Mac had taken his head off.

“Are you all right?” Jehan is at Richie’s elbow, and he startles, nearly dropping the plates. “You looked lost, and didn’t hear me.”

“Sorry.” Richie smiles, shaking his head, and moving toward the counter to set the plates down. “I’m fine.”

Jehan watches him a moment before nodding, taking him at his word – or at least leaving it be instead of pressing Richie to talk when Richie isn’t sure he can or wants to.

“You could contact your friends, the ones who know you were Immortal, if you wanted to.” Jehan gestures to the phone that’s on one of the shelves that line most of the walls of the house. “There is no requirement for secrecy in this sort of unexpected return.”

He could, but how to convince them that it really is him, Richie isn’t certain. He’s not even certain he wants to do that right now. And he really doesn’t want to call Mac, not unless there’s a way to be certain whatever it was that had sent him off the deep end had been fixed.

“I don’t have a lot of people to call.”

Jehan gives him a rueful smile. “A hazard of our lives.”

Richie shrugs, returning the smile with a brief one of his own. “Yeah.” He pauses, trying to think of some other, less painful subject. “Hey, do you have somewhere around here to practice? Or spar?” He doesn’t really want to spar with Jehan, not without knowing the other Immortal better, but being able to at least keep in practice is better than doing nothing.

“There’s a salle in the extension on the barn.” Jehan goes to pull open a drawer under one of the shelves, taking out a key. “You’ll need this to unlock it. With the swords in there, I prefer not to leave easily opened.”

It’s a modern key, so probably a modern lock, which Richie hadn’t been certain of when a lot of the locks he’s seen in the house look like they’re the originals. Old fashioned and needing an equally old fashioned key.

“Thanks.”

He goes to the outside door, even though it means circling the barn the long way, and getting damp from the misty rain that’s turned today as gray as yesterday. Everyday since he woke up, really, and Richie is starting to wonder about the weather.

Inside, there are cabinets along one wall, one with towels, the rest with swords and other weapons. There’s a sink too, and a cabinet over it that holds glasses for drinking water. The floor is packed earth, spotted darker in places that Richie would bet are where blood has soaked in.

Richie finds a sword that feels right in his hands, wondering for a moment why his own blade hadn’t been with him when he revived this time. Wondering if Mac has it, or if someone had taken it when they dug him up. Neither one is a particularly pleasant thought, so he pushes those thoughts away, focusing instead on reminding himself how to move and fight.

How long he’s there, he’s not certain, but he is sweating and almost ready for a break when he hears the door open. Not Jehan, or Richie would have felt him approaching before he got to the door. And the man who is closing the door behind him has lighter hair, and a broader build.

“Who are you?” Richie keeps a hold of the sword he’s been using, watching the stranger.

“Henry. Jehan said he had a guest.” Henry watches Richie with an expression that he’s not sure how to interpret, but makes him feel uneasy regardless. “Would you like to spar?”

Richie shrugs, moving so Henry has a clear line to the cabinets of swords. “Sure.” He hopes this is the friend Jehan had been talking about yesterday. “Jehan said you had a better idea than he did about how this works.”

“Coming back from the dead, and never being able to regain that state?” Henry chuckles a moment, reaching into the cabinet for a longsword that looks like it came straight out of some mediaeval painting. “Oh, for a few centuries, yes. I attracted the right person’s attention. I imagine you did the same, though I won’t speculate who.”

“Why not?” Richie shifts his stance into a ready one, watching as Henry swings the sword around a bit, as if reminding himself of the way it moves in his hand.

Henry grins, moving to stand opposite Richie. “Those who could do this tend to keep at least a little attention on those who benefit from their generosity. And they’re not all of them kind or merciful. Better not to guess wrong, and annoy them.”

That sends a chill down Richie’s spine, and he frowns, thinking about Mac hallucinating dead people because of a demon. It can’t be the same, can it? Richie is alive, and more than one person can see him, can acknowledge his existance.

There’s a momentary sense of amusement that isn’t his own emotion, and then he has to focus on fighting. Henry moves with the same ease as any Immortal, practiced and familiar with a sword from long use. Maybe even from being old enough to have begun to learn as a child, instead of as a teen or adult.

Certainly he’s better than Richie, and the spar ends with Richie failing to catch a blow, and the sword biting deep into his side. Henry grimaces, and quickly moves to catch Richie, lowering him to the floor without letting go of his sword.

Henry is saying something, but Richie can’t catch it as consciousness flees, and, he thinks, life with it, at least for now. It’s a relief that he gladly succumbs to.

He wakes up inside propped up a bit on a bed, his borrowed and ruined shirt stripped off him. Richie rolls to the side as he takes deep, shuddering breaths. His head is pounding once more, and he feels like he’s been in the sun for hours, with his throat dry and skin burned. Not the relief that being dead while injuries heal usually is.

“Here. Drink.”

Henry’s voice makes Richie startle, and it takes a moment before he can reach out to take the offered mug, which apparently holds lukewarm tea. Not a drink he usually likes, but right now, it tastes fantastic.

“You were dead again, for a while. No heartbeat, no breath.” Henry is watching him with a smile that seems more relieved than anything else. Richie isn’t sure what to make of that. “Did you dream?”

“I don’t think so.” Richie doesn’t remember, but he could have. How, he doesn’t know, since he was dead, and he shouldn’t be able to dream while dead. Should he? “Why?”

“There’s something between alive and dead, and it’s strange and dream-like, and I remember no more than that. I don’t think we’re supposed to remember.” Henry shakes his head. “Perhaps it’s different if you were Immortal before this sort of gift, or if whoever brought you back is different from the one who did that favor for me.”

Richie pushes himself upright, sitting on the edge of the bed after setting the mug on the bedside table. “Who was it that did… whatever this is to you?” If Henry even knows who it is.

“I have yet to find an answer to that, though it is perhaps that the lack of knowing is the price I pay for this continued and permanent living.” Henry shrugs. “I try not to think too hard upon it.”

Not knowing what – or who – has brought him back, or how, is something Richie doesn’t think he could so easily accept, even if at the moment, he’s not sure how he’d find out. Especially since Henry probably doesn’t have as many answers as Jehan had implied he did. Just enough to know that it’s probably something wierder than just being Immortal.

There’s a repeat of the same sense of amusement he’d caught just before sparring with Henry, and the distinct impression it’s not his own. Henry doesn’t look to be nearly amused enough to fit what Richie’s feeling, and there’s something about it that feels different. He’s not sure what, or how to put that difference in words, only that it’s not something that fits what little he’s seen of Henry, nor does it fit what he knows of Jehan.

Richie doesn’t know how to figure it out, though, and he’s certain Henry won’t actually do much to help him find out who or how or why, so there’s no point asking him more questions. And he still doesn’t know what he wants to do about telling anyone – any Immortal – he knows that he’s alive again, especially when he doesn’t have any answers.

“Shall I leave you to whatever is occupying your thoughts?” Henry is smiling a little, and Richie lets out a brief laugh. “I will be here for a few weeks, at least. You can take time to let your questions come to you, if you wish.”

“Yeah. That’s probably a good idea.” Richie slides off the bed as Henry stands, heading for the wardrobe as Henry leaves. A fresh shirt, even borrowed, makes him feel a little better, though he still feels unsettled.

He waits until Henry is out of earshot before he speaks. “So, are you going to keep me in the dark like Henry, or do I get a little more of a clue than someone who finds this all funny?”

“Everything can be amusing, if you look at it from the right angle. Terrifying, infuriating, heart-breaking, anything. If you can’t find it amusing, it all becomes too much.” As far as Richie can tell, it’s his own reflection in the mirror next to the wardrobe speaking. Which means whoever or whatever it is, doesn’t want to be seen. He thinks.

“You have a name?” Richie wonders if either Jehan or Henry would hear both sides of the conversation if they walked by the room right now.

“Yes.” His reflection grins, mischief in its eyes.

“Are you going to tell me?” Richie crosses his arms, though his reflection doesn’t echo the gesture, and it adds to the weirdness of this whole thing.

“No.” A shrug. “You’ll have to figure it out on your own. And I promise you can, since it hasn’t been lost even to mortals.”

“But it won’t be easy, will it?” Richie shakes his head. Of course it won’t be. Because when has anything ever been easy, other than dying?

His reflection grins at him, as if reading his thoughts, then there’s another flash of amusement before it once more is just a reflection, not something being used by someone else. Leaving Richie with more questions than answers.

Originally Posted: 23 December 2015

AO3 | DW