Chapters: 1/1
Fandom: Highlander: The Series
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Characters: Methos (Highlander), Amy Brennan-Thomas, Joe Dawson, Duncan MacLeod
Additional Tags: Drunkeness, Joe’s Bar, Gods, Drinking Games, Fandom Stocking 2016, Gift Fic
Summary:Methos has been it all and done it all. Just ask him.
And the last of the three ficlets I finished for this year’s fandom_stocking.
Never Ever – LadySilver – Highlander: The Series [Archive of Our Own]
This My Reward For Patience
Fandom: 15th & 16th Century CE RPF, Henry V – Shakespeare, Highlander, Irish Mythology
AU: Eternal Plantagenet
Word Count: 10,522
Characters: Henry of Monmouth | Henry V of England, Methos, Montjoy, The Morrígan
Methos convinces Henry of a less violent path, and offers him a potential reward for patience. Henry asks for one thing, but only if another is willing.
Dawn has barely broken when Henry is awake once more, stirring up his own fire before sending for breakfast and Robert. His other advisors will be curious why he spoke first with his newest favorite, but glad enough of a few more hours of sleep. And they’ll content themselves with what he allows them of his plans, for they’re none of them wanting to soil their hands with the darker aspects of achieving his ends.
A meal is laid out on a table near the hearth in his room before a still sleepy page announces Robert’s arrival. Henry turns, and waves Robert in. “I hope you slept well, my Lord Wellesly.”
“Well enough.” Methos smothers a yawn of his own, and helps himself to a seat. “Though in truth I’m not particularly fond of mornings.” His sleep had been a welter of confused dreams, in which Henry had worn Kronos’ armor and war paint, and Kronos had worn a priest’s robes and preached peace as Methos’ blade took his head off. “I hope Your Majesty also slept well.”
“In truth, I sleep better when I am a soldier, and now is no little the same to that state. I reckon I shall sleep less well when I am once more king, no matter the right of my claim to the throne.” Henry dismisses the page, giving the boy leave to return to his bed and his sleep for now, and settles across the table from Robert. “My dreams, though, were filled with ghosts. Some pleasant, but not all.”
“Wait until you’re my age,” Methos tells him. “The ghosts don’t restrict themselves to dreams, then.” He leans back in his chair and stretches his feet out towards the fire. “It seems as if every other person I meet looks like someone long dead.”
“Perhaps they were once that person.” Henry doesn’t particularly like that idea, but it had been one he’d heard much of while traveling in the east, guarding a caravan through India. “Although if that were true, I shall hope never to meet anyone who much resembles any of my brothers, nor anyone else who I once called kin.” He gestures at the meal, simple enough fare, but good. “That all aside, do break your fast with me.”
“Gladly.” Methos is fairly sure that Henry’s nobles won’t appreciate the favor the king is showing the newcomer in their midst, and doesn’t care. “My thanks, my lord.” The food, while hardly fancy, is filling and tasty, and a vast improvement over the rations he had been living on before joining Henry. “Is there some particular way I may be of service?” he asks, and firmly pushes aside the thought of going to his knees before Henry here and now, offering him a service Methos knows the man would never ask for.
Henry takes a long moment to gather his thoughts, and to eat some of the bread and cheese himself before he speaks. “I wish to talk more of your other skills, those that pertain to death.” And to life, and to bringing back those who have been long dead. It’s something that he doesn’t know how he’ll explain to his current council, but there are some he thinks he’d sacrifice even his throne to have by his side once more. “Is there a manner of hiding that they have been brought back, that those who serve me now will not call it necromancy and darkest sorcery?”
“It’s not as if anyone will be able to tell by looking at them, save perhaps another deity. If the person you have in mind is long-dead, simply have them use another name, and pretend to be a younger relative of their true self, to explain the resemblance. I have been my own son, grandson, cousin and nephew, and other Immortals do the same, with good results.” Methos breaks off some cheese for himself before continuing, “If that’s not concealment enough, use another body. Men die every day, and it’s a simple enough matter to give an older spirit a new face upon their return.” He’s never done any of this, but as he speaks, he knows that it can be done.
“I’ll not have him forced to change his face, though I would think he should best change his name.” Henry chuckles, a half-smile crossing his face. “He was Jehan, Montjoye King of Arms. And I could, I think, pass him off as an old friend come across from France, but not if he were to appear here without arriving. If, though, I should ask you to take a message to him – to bring him back somewhere that I and my men are not – it would be less a concern, I think. And if none might tell save that they have your sort of power, than that might be all that is needed.”
“I am yours to command,” Methos murmurs. He’s never put himself entirely at any ruler’s disposal, and he’s curious as to what Henry will do with him and his abilities. He hadn’t expected that the king would wish to start by bringing a friend back to life. “Still, I will confess to being somewhat surprised. I half expected you to ask for Elizabeth’s death, or for the deaths of certain of her supporters. It’s not often that I’m surprised these days, and even more rare for the surprise to be a pleasant one.”
“Elizabeth’s death will not come so easily. Her supporters shall face the executioner’s block if they do not surrender and submit to their proper king.” Henry’s genial cheer fades somewhat, and he reaches for more bread. “She I can but exile or imprison; I’ll not make so foolish a mistake as to execute an annointed monarch. Nor may I be seen to condone her murder, or else I risk the same as I would in executing her.”
“Have you thought about how you’ll make them aware that you are the rightful king?” Methos asks. “After all, at this point, most of them think you the sort of would-be usurper you think her to be. And while I understand your reluctance to put her to death, I should perhaps point out that anything short of execution will only leave you with a determined and courageous adversary. Elizabeth is no fool, and no coward, either. She is her father’s daughter, and her mother’s – and both parents were formidable, despite the view the general public now takes of them. Henry was an able monarch, and Anne Boleyn overthrew not only a Queen, but those nobles who would have supported her as well.”
That is one thing that Henry has been working on – in some ways, ever since he had woke from his own death. Matthew may have convinced him to leave his old life behind, but he’s never been truly willing to leave England behind completely. There is nothing – and no one – that has been more important to him.
“I have a geneology, and save for the first in the line, they were all descendents of mine.” The one he claims is his own bastard son is himself, in the first lifetime after his death. He’d even named as his mother one of the few women he’d arranged an allowance for, though she hadn’t been his mistress, nor borne him a child. Merely a night’s dalliance, a foolish decision of a young man frustrated with the result of an argument with his father. “The first was myself, though I claimed to be a bastard son of my own self.”
“That’s a common enough ploy among Immortals,” Methos says. “The difficulty, however, lies in the fact that a bastard cannot inherit his father’s honours, especially if those honours include a throne.” He drums his fingers absently on the arm of his chair, turning the pieces around in his head in an effort to make them fit. “A king can grant legitimacy, of course, and forging the necessary documents wouldn’t be terribly difficult.
"Still, faced with a choice between a queen whose lineage and habits are already common knowledge and a hitherto unknown line whose origins are suspect and whose tempermant is a mystery, the average person is going to stick with the devil they know. I hate to say it, Your Majesty, but I fear that Elizabeth will *have* to die before your claim has any chance of gaining any real support. The people have had enough upheaval lately. They want stability and safety and peace, not another dynastic war.”
Henry drew in a deep breath, a grimace crossing his face. “I will not execute her.” Which means drawing her out into an all-out battle, where she can be killed as honorably as one might kill a woman, in the midst of battle. “If she shall have to die, so be it, but I will not execute her, nor will I have her murdered; such is not how I will reclaim my throne, no matter what she may be.”
Or perhaps, if he must, he will negotiate with Elizabeth, but not yet. Not until he is making his offer from a position of strength – just as he did when he fought France, when he claimed the throne there. “If she will not be drawn into battle personally, then I will remove her strongest supporters, and make myself her best option for peace and stability.”
“Have you considered marrying her?” Methos asks. “She’s turned down every suitor who’s come in search of a match, but if you can make her see that you’re not only a serious threat but a legitimate claimant, you may be able to put her in a position in which she has no choice. After all, she has no heirs of her body, and is too old to remedy that difficulty. Marriage to a younger man with his own legitimate claim to the throne will secure the succession and prevent upheaval after she dies.” He studies Henry appreciatively for a long moment before continuing. “Continued stability may not be the only thing that would appeal to her. She has an eye for beauty, and a liking for it as well – and though she’s past childbearing age, she’s not yet old. She’s not unattractive, and the combination of her throne and her mind could very well compensate for any physical shortcomings she possesses.”
A wry smile curls up one corner of Henry’s mouth a moment. “I had not yet considered such a thing, and I think such an offer should not be made until she has fewer supporters.” Deaths that must not be traced back to him and his claim on the throne, or his bid will fail. “I shall think on it, though I should perhaps, before then, make it clear I should be open to such a thing, rather than appearing to be merely a soldier who surrounds himself with his men.”
“I certainly wouldn’t recommend making the offer save from a position of near-equal power,” Methos agrees. Taking a sip of his beer, he lets himself sprawl back in his chair, utterly relaxed. “She’s already turned down several suitors, all with more to offer than a claim to her own throne that she believes to be false. Nevertheless, I think that, should the approach be made properly, she would at least consider it.” He certainly would, were he in Elizabeth’s shoes. “The matter of succession has been a thorn in her side since she was crowned, and I believe her to be intelligent enough to see that she could solve that problem and the problem of your claim in one stroke. Also, from what I know of her, she would appreciate a husband with a mind that could equal her own, especially if she intends to entrust her kingdom to him after her death.” This time, he doesn’t bother to hide the appreciation in his own gaze when he looks at Henry. “She’s also young enough to enjoy your physical appeal as well as the mental and political benefits of such a union.”
Henry laughs, grinning at the blatant appraisal. “And I shall freely admit, her beauty has not gone unremarked among even those who most dislike her. It would not be a hardship, one such as her.” This is not a conversation he would have with his other supporters, either, not yet. Not until he has secured his chance at the throne, and need only to make it more legitimate in the eyes of the people of England. “But she is not one I can consider at the moment, and I am not of a mind to be solely interested in women, though I cannot openly be known to be interested in any man, no matter how comely or interesting I might find him.”
“That sort of interest is best kept a secret, shared only by the two parties involved,” Methos agrees, one corner of his mouth curving upwards in a half-smile, “especially given the disapproval the mortals in this time and place have for those whose tastes tend in that direction.” He’s enjoying this somewhat oblique fencing a great deal, even though he’s not yet sure whether or not it will achieve his object. He’s wanted Henry in his bed since their first conversation, but isn’t willing to give up the most interesting thing he’s come across in the last two hundred years for the temporary pleasures that can be found between the sheets. Still, Henry’s reaction had been encouraging, and the man’s intelligence is at least as much of a temptation as his body. “And as you’ve no doubt realized, my liege, I’ve a great deal of experience at…keeping secrets.” Outwardly, he seems as relaxed as ever, but inwardly, he’s practically vibrating with the desire to do something, waiting for even the smallest sign that Henry is interested, rather than merely inclined the same way.
Tilting his head, Henry smiles. “Secrets are easier to keep when you have a roof over your head that does not have several military leaders whose loyalty is paramount. And these I do not think are as willing to keep such a secret as were my brothers and uncles. I should hope that there might be a chance at more privacy later, though I fear it might be a lifetime. Much to my disappointment.” For a king has less privacy than even a man who wishes to become a king.
“Privacy can be created,” Methos points out, “either here or elsewhere.” He returns Henry’s smile with a faint smirk of his own. “Death, after all, is everywhere and anywhere, and can be as invisible as it can be ostentatious.” He lifts an eyebrow, his expression almost a challenge, daring Henry to take him up on his obliquely-stated offer. “Time and space mean as much as I want them to – no more, no less. I could put twenty men inside Elizabeth’s castle within minutes – or you yourself, when you decide it’s time to approach her – as easily as you can cross this room.” He leaves the rest unspoken. Henry is more than capable of connecting the dots.
Henry is silent for a moment, watching Robert with a speculative expression. The idea of making time, of having the privacy and space to indulge in an interest that most would not tolerate, is greatly appealing. “I would not ask that you put anyone into Elizabeth’s castle – anything which I shall say to her must come, by necessity, from less suspect methods.” He smiles wryly a moment. “Privacy, though, I should think a better thing to put such a talent to use for.”
He would ask it, too, for a chance to perhaps have time with Montjoy – if, indeed, the herald will be inclined to be more than an advisor and a friend. Though he had thought there was perhaps a chance, it was something that had never come to be, between their respective stations and positions.
“I and my talents are yours to command – publicly or privately.” Methos returns Henry’s smile with one of his own. He’s served kings before – and ruled them, as well – but never so openly, without holding some part of himself or his abilities in reserve. “I’m looking forward to seeing what use you will make of them.”
“For now, I should think that your aid in identifying those who would be swayed best to my cause, and those who are powerful allies of Elizabeth who are too loyal to be brought over, will be enough of a start. And some attendence upon other matters which we have discussed, when there is time to do so.” Henry reaches out to clasp Robert’s shoulder. “I shall be glad to have you as close advisor, and perhaps too, as more, in time.”
He wishes more to have Montjoy back to him, but that too, he will have to leave for a while yet, until he can safely send Robert to ostensibly take a message to an old friend in France, and bring him to join Henry. Bring him back from the realms of those dead and moldering, into a life where hopefully his strongest ties will be to Henry, rather than to France.
“As I said – I’m yours to command.” Methos laughs. “Until I get bored, anyway.” He tips back his mug, finishing off the last of his beer. “What sort of inducements are you planning on offering? I can give you a list of names belonging to those who would willingly defect for a price, but anyone who would do so once will likely do so again. After all, to the uninitiated, your claim to the throne is fairly groundless. Anyone who does swear you fealty is, in a sense, betraying their lawful sovereign, and such men can only be trusted so far, and no further.” He taps his fingers thoughtfully on the arm of his chair.
“The first step, I think, will be to establish beyond a reasonable doubt that you do have a legitimate claim – difficult, yes, but not impossible – and to establish it with a completely neutral authority. There’s also the question of religion. There are many Catholics who would be willing to join you if you promise to restore their faith to what they believe is its proper place. It would alienate those who don’t wish to bow down to the Bishop of Rome; nevertheless, it would also ensure you the good will – and possibly even the direct aid – of not only the Vatican, but the Catholic monarchs of Europe as well.”
“As I have said, I shall not care to interfere in the worship of God by anyone, Catholic or Protestant, even the Muslim and the Jew, save those that use their religion to support political ambitions.” Henry knows it will gain him few supporters in the monarchies of Europe, Catholic or Protestant, but perhaps it will gain him some supporters in their people, who wish only to worship in peace. “And thus, I shall not overturn Elizabeth’s Church of England, but nor shall I force Catholics to abjure their beliefs and adhere to the practices of their Protestant neighbors.”
“That,” Methos says dryly, “is a reasonable, humane attitude guaranteed to infuriate absolutely everybody. It also means you’ll be voluntarily laying aside a potentially formidable weapon. After all, under Catholic law, Elizabeth is illegitimate.” He shrugs. “Of course, if you are seriously considering a political marriage, it’s probably best to leave that particular weapon sheathed.” Methos hesitates for a moment before continuing. “If I may ask – are you capable of siring heirs? I ask only because my kind are not, and if you are similarly afflicted there are ways around the difficulty.”
“My son who was king as Henry VI was blood-kin of mine, and I have had children since, as well. Indeed, the geneology which I hold is that of my own descendents, and the eldest of the direct line has been content to claim me as his son, as none of those his wife bore have lived beyond their youth. He would prefer not to leave what holdings he has to his brother.” Henry smiles wryly, thinking on the mutterings of his knighted descendent. “He has little enough of land, if much of money, for he had been a mercenary in his youth.”
“So you can trace your bloodline directly back to your original life?” It’s the sort of trick Immortals play quite frequently, and makes Methos wonder if the whole ploy was a suggestion from Matthew of Salisbury. It gives Henry’s current identity a legitimate claim to the throne and will, if they take that route, hopefully help to persuade Elizabeth that he’s a worthwhile candidate for her hand. “That might make things a little easier.” Methos gets up and paces over to the fireplace, staring down at the flames for a few moments before speaking again.
“I know you want to gain a better foothold before proposing a union between yourself and Elizabeth; nevertheless, I can’t help thinking that it might be best to at least put the offer on the table now. Nothing tears a country apart as irreparably as civil war. You’re not in a bad bargaining position now – she is already concerned about you, and about your growing base of support. If you can get her to agree to at least consider a marriage proposal, you might be able to resolve this without shedding too much blood. My suggestion is that you bring her the proposal in strictest confidence. If she accepts, the problem is solved. If she declines, neither of you is harmed. If she considers it and then declines, it can only help your cause, as her very consideration will grant you added legitimacy in the eyes of her supporters.”
Henry is quiet for a moment, a thoughtful frown on his face as he turns the idea over in his head. “That could work quite well, however she reacts to the offer.” If she accepts, he can turn his attention to expanding the influence of England, and perhaps set his sights on other lands sooner. If she rejects him, he can use that as another reason to press his advantage and draw others from her cause to his. “Though I shall have to use care in who I send to her with the offer – as I cannot do so personally.”
And it is here that having Montjoy alive once more, and in his service, would be of good use. He is well used to being the messenger, the diplomat, the herald, and he will know how best to present his proposal to Elizabeth. “Nor can I send you, who were so recently her messenger to the lords here who are more my supporters than hers. And of my supporters, none have all the necessary skills to present my suit with the care and delicacy that such should be.”
“You couldn’t send Robert,” Methos agrees. “He’d be no better at presenting your suit than any of your other vassals. Besides, word of his defection has almost certainly reached London by now, and I’d be of little use to you with my head mounted on a spike at the city gates. You *could* send *me* – but only if you’re prepared to take her fully into your confidence. I’d strongly advise doing so at some point, but at the moment I believe it would be premature.” He turns away from the fire and returns to his vacated chair. “What about Salisbury? He’s still a child, but he’s no fool, and he already has all the pertinent information, should you decide to tell Elizabeth everything.”
“I am uncertain where he is, and will have to find him before I can send him as my emissary.” But Matthew would make as good an ambassador to Elizabeth as Montjoy would if he were to ask for him to be returned from the dead. “Unless you would know of a quicker manner of locating him, and having him arrive here with sufficient alacrity.”
“I could find him and bring him here without much difficulty,” Methos admits, “but not without revealing certain facts of which I would prefer he remain ignorant. I’ve gone to great lengths over the years to become a myth even among my own kind, and would like to remain one. Nor would I like for him to find out about the…extra abilities I’ve picked up. I could get a message to his teacher. She’s not far from here, and she might know where to find him – or his lunatic student. I can’t guarantee results, though.”
Henry is quiet for a long moment before he shakes his head. “If we could be certain of locating him sufficiently quickly, I would ask that you do, but I do not wish to take too great a time if I am to present her with the proposal soon.” He is quiet again, watching Robert while he considers the idea he’d had a moment ago. “How long would it take you to bring someone back from the dead, as you have said you are capable of doing?”
“I’m honestly not sure,” Methos admits. “As I said, it’s not something I’ve ever done before.” He looks down at the floor, trying to hold back the sudden rush of memory. “I try to keep that part of myself under very strict control,” he says quietly. “The abilities in and of themselves are neither good nor evil, but the way I came to have it…” He trails off, shaking his head, and sits in silence for a few moments before continuing. “It would help if I had the body, or what remains of it. After that – I don’t think it would take long. An hour or two, perhaps, assuming he doesn’t try to fight me.” He looks back up at Henry, carefully shuttering himself away behind a neutral expression. “Do you have someone specific in mind?”
“Jehan, once the Montjoye King of Arms. He died in 1425, and was buried in Paris, or nearby, though I know not precisely where. He was a most beloved and gentle herald, and more than capable of his office.” Henry leans back in his chair, his expression slightly pensive. “If he is willing to return to life, and to be in my service as herald, than he would fit well the role needed for an emissary to Elizabeth.”
He meets Robert’s gaze for a long moment. “If you would do this, I would be most thankful, but I shall not be offended if it proves that he wishes not to return, and you cannot bring him back.”
“I can bring him back whether he wishes it or no,” Methos says flatly. “Struggle on his part would only serve to delay the inevitable, once the process is begun. I don’t know what would happen were I to stop part-way through, and I don’t particularly care to find out. This is going to have to be your decision, your Majesty, and yours alone. Do I bring him back, or not? If I do bring him back, would you have him mortal again, or shall I give him the same gift you were given? And if he refuses to enter your service, shall I return him to the earth? I’ve placed myself and all of my abilities at your disposal. I can – and will – have him here and breathing before nightfall, if you so choose.” He watches Henry steadily, waiting for an answer.
It is both a familiar situation – in which his word is all that matters, and his decision will mark a course of action from which there is no returning – and an unfamiliar one, where he has the ability to command that something be done that would not otherwise happen. “Bring him back, and give him this same gift. If he will not enter my service, he is free to remain or leave as he pleases; I shall not make this contingent upon his acceptance of service.”
As for how he shall explain to the rest of his followers how Montjoy found him – it is easy enough to know where he is, roughly, and Jehan is an old friend. He would, Henry hopes, seek him out if he were living and had this same gift.
Methos is silent for a few more seconds, studying Henry’s face before nodding and standing up.
“In that case, I’d better leave you now. I’ll ride a few miles out before I make the jump to France. If anyone asks where I’ve gone, just tell them I’ve gone to meet a friend of yours, and to escort him back to the castle.” He smiles faintly. “It’s no more than the truth, after all. I should be back a little after dark.”
And if they should remonstrate that he should have sent another out in Robert’s place, he shall tell them that his friend is well able to defend himself if Robert should prove treacherous – which Henry knows shall not be the case – and this would be a chance for Robert to prove he shall neither flee nor prove otherwise treacherous – though it is not the intent.
“I shall tell them so, if they should question where you have gone and why.” Henry smiles at Robert briefly. “I shall expect you when you have said, though.” And he does not doubt that he will indeed see Robert – and Jehan – at the appointed hour.
“Until tonight, then.” Methos returns Henry’s smile before turning on his heel and leaving the room.
He catches the attention of a passing servant, and by the time he’s finished changing into more suitable clothing and made his way down to the stables, his horse and a spare for Montjoy are saddled and ready for him. A few of Henry’s men are in the courtyard as he rides out, but though they look suspiciously at him, none of them attempt to hinder his departure – which says a great deal for Henry’s control over his followers. Once Methos has passed the gate, he spurs his horse into a gallop, heading east towards the coast. It actually makes no difference which way he goes, as he’ll be travelling most of the way in the span of a few seconds, but as he’s sure he’s being watched, he decides to go in the direction that would make the most sense to those doing the watching.
He rides for the better part of an hour, turning back occasionally to see whether or not he’s being followed. He doesn’t see anyone; nevertheless, when he feels he’s gone far enough he leaves the road and cuts across country as a final precaution against pursuit. He’s confident that no one can follow him cross-country when he’s on horseback without his knowledge, and half an hour later he’s certain that he’s alone. Reining in, he dismounts in a clearing beside a small stream, tethering the horses to a low-hanging branch that will allow them to reach the water, while he himself practices moving himself from one side of the clearing to the other. It’s been a very long time since he travelled in this fashion, and while he has no doubts as to his ability to do so, he has no wish to find out that he’s gotten rusty while making the long jump across the Channel to Paris.
Watching from her perch in a tree, the Morrigan tilts her head at the intruder into her lands, though she keeps silent for a long moment. An intruder, but one she cannot chase out and expect to win. When he begins to teleport himself, as if a child practicing a trick, she chortles, hopping down from the branch and shifting into the form of a woman clad only in a short tunic. “What brings you to my islands, Death?”
Methos turns quickly, his surprise quickly fading into irritation and a trace of embarrassment when he realizes the identity of this unexpected visitor. It’s been centuries since he last crossed paths with the Morrigan – he’d been commanding a Roman legion, and doing his best to convince himself that he’d left Death behind when he’d abandoned his brothers. Their encounter had gone a long way towards forcing him to accept that the changes were permanent, and while he hadn’t enjoyed it at the time, he’d gotten over the last lingering traces of resentment quite some time ago.
“I’ve been here for a few years now,” he admits, side-stepping her question. “You do know it’s rude to spy on people, I assume?”
The Morrigan shrugs, leaning against the tree she’d been perched in a moment ago. “It does not matter.” She tilts her head, mimicking the birds she so often appears as. “You didn’t attract my attention before. The warrior-king is mine, Death.”
It goes unspoken that she doesn’t like others who encroach on her territory, particularly when others get too close to those she’s marked as her own.
“They’re all mine in the end, Morrigan. You know that as well as I do. Though I will admit that I’d been wondering who meddled with him.” He settles himself on a fallen tree, and gives her a thin smile. “You do nice work. It took me a little while to realize there’d been any tampering done in the first place.”
She smiles at the compliment, though it’s sharp and fierce rather than sweet. “He is mine, and I do not intend to let him go.” Despite the slim belief in her personally, the belief in her aspects has kept her alive and thriving where so many of her tribe have faded and died. “You will not have him, not even for a brief moment. I kept him when you tried to steal him through disease; I will keep him through all he faces.”
“Believe it or not, I’m not interested in stealing him,” Methos says. “He’s much more interesting alive than dead, and it’s not as if one life makes a difference to me – not in the way you’re thinking of, at any rate.” He lets out a short, amused huff of laughter. “Actually, at the moment, I seem to be working for him. Hence the practicing.” He gestures at the surrounding clearing with one hand. “There’s a dead man somewhere near Paris that your protege says he needs. I’m on my way there now to see what I can do about bringing him back.”
Raising an eyebrow, she gives him a curious look. “Oh? Who does he wish for so much to ask you to bring him back?” She knows where Henry’s brothers lay – they had interested her somewhat themselves, but not enough for her to want them. The uncles, too, and all of his kin, and she’s never thought twice of them, leaving them to die as they might. There had been the boy in France, but he had lost his value as amusement quickly, too easily broken by the stresses of war. “There were none of France who had the talent and will to stand against my warrior-king.”
“He doesn’t want someone to stand against him. He wants someone to stand with him. Some herald who used to work for the French, apparently.” Methos shrugs. “Your warrior-king is planning to reclaim his throne, and he thinks the herald will be useful.” He doesn’t add that Henry wants Montjoy to live regardless of whether or not he’s willing to cooperate. “And since I’ve offered him my services, I’m heading to Paris.”
Humming a moment, the Morrigan stays still, head tilted as she turns that over. “Interesting. I had thought little of him before, an envoy of peace and diplomacy.” Not the sort of mortal she took an interest in, but now, she is curious. “I would travel with you, if you will allow. I wish to see this man that my warrior-king would have returned to him.”
“It’s fine with me,” Methos shrugs, pushing himself to his feet. “Especially if you can show me where he’s buried. I’m not particularly looking forward to wandering all over Paris trying to find his grave.”
The Morrigan tilts her head, blinking a moment. “Perhaps.” She hadn’t paid close attention to him, save in as much her warrior-king had. Enough, maybe, to find his grave when no other would – that, and her inherent abilities even within Death’s own influence. “I can look, and perhaps better seek than you.”
“We’ll give it a try.” Methos knows where Montjoy himself is, but the location of his body is, oddly enough, not part of Methos’s purview. Help in locating that would be welcome. He’ll know the place when he sees it, but that means finding it first. “Although I think doing so without attracting mortal attention would be best.”
Chortling, the Morrigan shifts, a crow that perches on Death’s shoulder. No one will look twice at a bird wheeling about the sky. She takes a moment to preen Death’s hair before taking to the air with a raucous call, daring him to keep up with her as she twists through the world, flying high above Paris in a moment, studying the city below her with an eye to what the mortals cannot see.
Methos hesitates for a moment. He’s never changed his shape before, though now that he’s thinking of it he can see how it’s done. He takes a deep breath before following her into the air, slipping easily to Paris in the space between heartbeats. He finds the Morrigan easily enough, and the awkwardness smooths out of his flight.
Next time, warn me first, he thinks at her.
Now where’s the fun in that? She laughs, the sound coming out as another raucous, corse cry. Tilting her head, she studies the city a moment longer before making a broad, sweeping circle down, slowly drawing closer to her target. It’s nothing much, a simple church which is a far cry from the elaborate tombs of her favored king and the king the occupant of the space under the church’s flagstones have. She perches on the bell tower, waiting patiently for Death to join her. Under the floor of a foreign god’s monument, instead of in his own grave. Poor thing.
He’s in here? Methos asks, the certainty of it settling into his mind as he perches beside the Morrigan. There he is. He tips his head to the side, regarding her.
Are you planning to stick around while I do this?
Did you want to play in secret? The Morrigan gives him a long look. There are no secrets that someone won’t find, even among the gods. And beside, the youngling who thinks of this as his house is a nosy little brat who wants to know everything.
I don’t mind if you stay. Methos takes flight again, winging his way down to the courtyard. He shifts back into his own shape as he touches down. Flight had been exhilarating, and he allows himself a smile at the memory of it. He takes a moment to hide himself from mortal eyes while he waits for the Morrigan to join him.
Winging down, she lands on his shoulder, chosing to remain a crow for now. It makes for more entertainment, and allows her to keep them from assuming she’s just some foolish mortal woman who need to be scolded for her sin in existing. Or perhaps for her choice of clothes, but even that makes her laugh at them, and then they start getting more annoying.
The church door turns out to be locked, and the church itself to be empty, which is something of a relief. Illusion isn’t one of Methos’s strong points; death is the ultimate reality.
A thought takes Methos through the locked door of the church, and from there it’s easy enough to find the space beneath the floor that Montjoy’s body currently inhabits. Methos kneels next to it, shutting out the Morrigan, the chapel, the sounds from outside – anything that might distract him.
Getting the body out is as simple as reaching through the floor and pulling it back up through the stone. It’s nothing but bones and scraps of old cloth, and Methos closes his eyes, reversing the corruption of the grave until the body in front of him looks just-vacated. He wants this to go as smoothly as possible, for Montjoy’s sake as well as Henry’s. The physical damage that had killed the man is just as easy to reverse, and once that’s finished Methos takes a moment to settle in more comfortably.
He reaches out for Montjoy, through the blackness that separates the dead and the living. The man is easy to locate, and Methos closes a mental hand around him, pulling gently to bring him back through the darkness.
It isn’t easy. Montjoy fights him, and Methos can feel the bone-deep grief and weariness that had sent him to his grave years ago. The outcome of the fight is not in question. In this area, anyway, Methos’s power is essentially limitless, and it isn’t long before he’s pulled Montjoy back into the land of the living and back into his restored body. As he takes his first breath, Methos wipes his own sweat-damp forehead.
Perching on a bench, the Morrigan watches Death at his work, which is in many ways greater than her own works ever can be. She catches them at their death when she wants to keep them, before they can pass beyond, and before their bodies turn from fresh corpses to bones and dust. But then, she must rely on a more limited pool of power, too, than does Death.
Jehan had been glad to embrace death when it came for him, though he had not lived as virtuous a life as might be prescribed by the church. To find himself breathing again makes him wonder for a long moment if it is perhaps the Day of Judgement, though he recalls nothing since surrendering to the soft call of breathless death. Save that he sees no angels or demons, nothing save the roof of a church, an unfamiliar man, and a crow that’s watching him with more intelligence than he might normally credit in that which isn’t human.
Nor is there any sign of either Henry or Charles, and he would think that he’d at least be swiftly in the presence of one of those esteemed men, should it be the Day of Judgement.
He looks at the man who is leaning over him, watching for a long moment before he manages a rough croak of, “Why?”
“It was asked of me, and I decided to acquiesce. Henry fights for his throne in England, and he would have you with him.” Methos thinks for a moment, then reaches back through space to retrieve the water-skin from his saddle in England. He hands it to Montjoy.
“Here. I’d imagine that a few centuries dead makes for a dry throat.”
Jehan takes the skin without thinking, though he’s surprised to find water in it. He takes a small sip, enough to dampen his throat, though he will wait for more to drink until he may find small beer or wine.
“Centuries?” He doesn’t dare ask what the stranger means by mentioning Henry, if indeed the Henry he refers to is the same sun-bright England that Jehan had once known. He can’t dare to hope that the man is alive once more, however it might have happened.
“Well, a century and a half, or thereabouts. It’s the spring of 1570.” Methos smiles briefly. “Henry is very persuasive. He asked me to make you an offer. He’s the same man you knew, and has been alive this entire time, thanks to someone’s meddling.” Methos glances at the Morrigan. “He’s immortal – he doesn’t age, he can’t get sick, and he can’t die.” Nor does he have to deal with headhunters, though that’s neither here nor there. “He asked me to offer you the same.”
Meddling. Something not evil, certainly, if Henry would be willing to see it offered another – Jehan trusts more in Henry’s nature than in the sanctity of the church, after the life he’s lived and the things he has seen in the service of Charles and France. If the one he is being told is his Henry truly is, than how can he refuse? But he can’t know, not until he sees for himself.
“I would see him.” Jehan pushes himself to a sitting position, waiting a moment for a brief dizziness to pass. He will trust this offer only once he can see Henry himself, and can ask if he did indeed make such an offer.
The Morrigan chortles to herself at Jehan’s words, clacking her beak after a moment. It’s entertaining to watch the passing of emotions openly over the herald’s face, when she can barely recall a one when he was mortal.
“And he you. I’ve been asked to take you to him as soon as you’re ready. We should be there before nightfall.” Methos is pleased that Montjoy is taking this as well as he is. He hadn’t been sure what to expect after so long in the grave, but this is nothing like the possibilities he’d been dreading.
Pushing himself to his feet, Jehan draws himself straight, watching the stranger. “How is it we can be where he is by nightfall, when I am certain even if they have cemented their hold on France, this is yet Paris and yet France?” Not that he wishes to delay, if such a thing can be done, but he is curious how it might be possible.
“I have some unusual talents – like bringing you back from the dead. I’ll take us across the Channel when you’re ready. After that, there’s a pair of horses waiting for us not far from the castle in which Henry is currently staying.”
“Then I am ready.” The sooner he can be sure this is something of Henry’s devising, the sooner he can allow himself to truly feel something about it other than mild surprise that it’s possible, and the sooner, perhaps, that he can provide something in return for such a gift.
The Morrigan lets out a hoarse call, launching herself into the air to circle around them just below the roof, twisting reality around herself to return to the clearing. Waiting perched on a branch there for Death to return with his burden before she will leave. The no-longer-a-mortal is interesting, if not nearly the sort she’d want for her own, and she’ll make sure he will return to her favored prince safely.
“Give me your hand, then,” Methos says. Once he has it, it’s a breath from there to the clearing where he left the horses. They seem not to mind all of this disappearing and reappearing.
“We’ll be there long before nightfall,” Methos says, with a glance at the sun. He’s not sure how long it had taken him to retrieve Montjoy’s soul, but it’s now late afternoon, the sunlight slanting golden into the clearing. “We’re only a little more than an hour’s ride away.” He hands Montjoy the reins of the spare horse, then turns his attention to the Morrigan.
“Are you coming with us?”
The Morrigan shifts, a woman once more, and shrugs as she leans against the tree. “I may watch you, but this is my land. I need not follow you to watch, or to see those I wish safe through these lands.”
Jehan nearly drops the reins of the horse when the crow that had vanished from the church earlier now vanishes to give way to a woman. She, he might believe to be a witch, but there is something else about her, and so he does not even dare breathe that thought aloud. Instead, he makes himself swing up into the saddle, glad that there does not seem to have been much change in the equipment for a horse.
Methos sketches a wave at her before mounting his own horse and shaking the reins loose.
“That was the Morrigan,” he tells Montjoy. “She’s one of the few pagan gods that have managed to survive the onset of Christianity. She’s the reason Henry’s still alive; apparently, she’s taken a fancy to him, though I’m not sure he knows as much.”
Jehan blinks, looking back to where the woman had been only to see an empty clearing once more, not even the crow visible. He turns to look at his companion once more, drawing in a deep breath. “And who are you, that have dragged me back into life whether I wish it or not?”
“Death. Though I’m human as well – sort of. It’s rather a long story, but the general thrust of it is that I’m as immortal as Henry, albeit in a different way, and a very long time ago I ended up becoming Death as well.” Methos ducks under a low-hanging branch. “I’m going by Robert Mortimer, Lord Wellesly, at the moment.”
A name to call him, and what the man is, as two distinct things. Though what he is makes a small shiver run down Jehan’s spine – for if someone can become Death embodied, there is a goodly risk that the man has done some horrible things in his past. And yet, he is in service to Henry, and if that is the case, then Henry is as he has always been.
“I will endeavor to recall that name, my lord.” Jehan tilts his head, the habits of his life easily returning with that state. “Other than bid you give me life once more, did His Grace give you instruction to speak to me of anything in particular?”
“He bade me give you immortality, if you would have it, and to ask if you would enter his service.” Methos smiles. “Has he always been so…easy to follow?”
Jehan chuckles, the sound rusty with disuse, and smiles to himself. “He is hard not to follow, my lord, even when he is the enemy of one’s beloved king. Those who were his soldiers loved him without reserve, as did those who were his subjects in England, and in France. Though the love of his English subjects was a jealous sort of love, begrudging his affection for his subjects in France.”
“Hopefully the subjects he has now won’t mind as much. I mean to see him king of more than just France and England. I’ve grown weary of having to move on every time people start to notice that I’m not aging.” It had been the offer of consecrated ground that had made up Methos’s mind, and he believes he’s made a good bargain.
Jehan raises his eyebrows, curious what that meant, but not wanting to ask just now, as he doesn’t have the feel for the entire situation as yet – and his instincts say it is a delicate subject to discuss, with far too many ways to potentially misstep. And even if his gift will not be taken back if he offends, he does not care to risk the potential to cause offense.
“I shall hope so, as well, for it will not be well for me if they should be as jealous, for all that I speak English well for my profession, I do not sound as one born and grown in England.”
“They’ll have to get used to it,” Methos shrugs. “Although if it truly bothers you, it takes only time and effort to change an accent. I’m not a native English speaker either.”
“I am only bothered by it as much as it might poorly serve His Grace’s purposes.” Jehan shrugs a little, watching the land around them as they travel. “If it will not present a problem, then I shall not concern myself with sounding as the Frenchman I am. If it is to be detrimental to His Grace’s purposes, than I shall concern myself with the endeavor to change how I sound.”
“I do not think it will matter,” Methos assures him. They’ve almost reached the road again. “He chose you over any other, his brothers included. I’d say it makes little difference to him how you sound.” He’s still not sure what had prompted Henry’s mind to fall on this particular man – for clearly this has more behind it than the need to have a message carried to Elizabeth. So far, he’s picked up only on a certain reassuring steadiness – but it’s early days yet.
“To him, personally, no it will not matter.” Jehan knows Henry will not care that he sounds French when it is merely them, if such privacy can be found, but whether he is bothered by it does not change if it might or might not be detrimental to him and his cause. Jehan will not know until he sees Henry again. “What can you tell me of why Henry must fight for his throne?”
“When everybody thought he died, back when you were alive the first time, he actually did. The Morrigan brought him back, but he’d already been seen to be dead, so he had to disappear. Over the last century and a half, the throne has changed hands. Right now, Elizabeth Tudor holds it, but Henry has decided that he wants it back.” Methos pushes some low growth out of his way as they reach the road. “England’s had some pretty serious upheaval recently,” he continues. “The previous king broke from the Catholic church and married a whole succession of wives. The current Queen is descended from the second – who was beheaded at her husband’s command. Some say she is illegitimate. She’s actually a brilliant ruler, but she has no husband and no children, and she refuses to marry. So there is an opportunity.”
Jehan nods, a thoughtful frown creasing his face. Henry would not have spent the intervening time idly, though what he has done, and how that will aid him in his goals, Jehan cannot know until he asks. So much waits on his seeing Henry again, and being able to talk to him, so he can build the full picture in his mind. “If the king before this Elizabeth was as yet legally married to his first wife when he married Elizabeth’s mother, she would necessarily be illegitimate. But I would think there is more than that, for I cannot imagine any king breaking with Rome and the Church.”
“The Pope wouldn’t grant him the divorce he wanted from his first wife, who had given him only a daughter. He broke from the Church over his own lack of a male heir, so that he could obtain his divorce. The reigning monarch is now the head of the Church of England,” Methos explains. “There’s actually been a growing movement to split from Rome in many places in Europe. The Pope’s grasp of power is nothing like so absolute as it was a century and a half ago.”
Chuckling, Jehan gave Death a small smile. “This would not be the first split from Rome, nor the first split in the Church. It is only unusual, I think, in that a king broke with Rome and the Church. I was born when there was a Pope in Avignon, as well as in Rome.” And saw the healing of that schism. If there will be a healing of this one, he doesn’t know, but suspects unlikely. Before, kings were trying to bring the Church back together, not the ones who were splitting from Rome.
“I spent most of the last few centuries in [Arabia], but I know what you’re talking about. Still, this is more of a split from the Church than a split within it. There’s been no rival Pope set up, but a movement to throw aside Rome and all of its trappings. Though Henry VIII’s break from Rome had less to do with conscience and more to do with politics than the rest of it seems to be.”
“It certainly sounds so.” Jehan shrugs after a moment. The politics are something he will explore more closely when he’s the chance. “Tell me of this Elizabeth, and how she rules England – not how she came to rule it, nor by what tokens she does, but in what manner.”
“She’s rather brilliant at it,” Methos admits. “She allows people to worship after their own fashion, with none of the persecution that marred her older sister’s reign. She encourages literature and the arts, patronizes playwrights and musicians and voyages of exploration, and is, I think, beginning something that will make England a major power in the world.” Methos smiles. “I was content enough in her service until I met Henry, though she never knew what I am.”
“Has she not had to show willingness to engage in conflict with England’s enemies? I cannot imagine there are none she need be worried with, not if she keeps to her father’s break with the Church.” Jehan knows that it will be seen a weakness that she is not of the Church, but it’s not one that can be used against her if her people are likewise favored of the break. What surprises him is that Henry might be her only challenge to keeping her throne.
“Spain shows fight. Henry VIII’s first wife was Spanish, as was Queen Mary’s husband. She was Elizabeth’s older half-sister,” Methos explains, “and Spain resents that they no longer have a say in English affairs. And there was a scuffle with the French about ten years ago. Other than that, she pursues a defensive foreign policy that has so far been successful.”
Jehan nods, though this time he doesn’t ask another question immediately. There is so much more to learn, but the more he hears, the more he’s certain he should wait to hear the whole of it after he’s seen and spoken to Henry. To know the will of his King, and what he is needed for. To bury whatever else he might feel beneath duty and responsibility, as he had before, because Kings are not free, are not able to give their hearts or their bodies where they will. Neither kings on thrones who rule countries, nor kings at arms who serve kings on their thrones, providing council, aid, and a voice for their King.
“She’s got a cousin, Mary Queen of Scots; a lot of people think she’s the rightful Queen of England as well,” Methos continues. “But Mary is in Elizabeth’s power, now, and I don’t think she’ll ever come safe out of it again. That’s stopped France’s play, certainly, until they can find another angle. From where I sit, Henry’s the only real threat to her, and then only because noblemen are, generally, an ungrateful lot.”
“And some more dangerous for that ingratitude than others.” The more closely related, indeed, Jehan thought, the worse they are, as he’d seen in the strife that had made France so vulnerable to Henry. “Does she have any other kin who might press some claim to the throne, even if they do not pose a great threat to her throne?”
“Another cousin, this one the Duke of Norfolk. He was caught plotting to wed Mary Queen of Scots, and imprisoned for it, though not for as long as he ought to have been.” Methos considers the man thoroughly untrustworthy, and regrets the Queen’s leniency to her kinsman. Even though he now serves Henry, he wishes Elizabeth no ill; would, in fact, prefer to see the two of them join forces. He thinks they could, together, give England a Golden Age such as hasn’t been seen since Rome fell.
Cousins, uncles, brothers, and sons. The bane of any monarch’s existance, to Jehan’s mind, and yet, too, some of their most important allies. Though clearly not able to rule Elizabeth as Charles’s kin had ruled him – else, Jehan would think England in a state of chaos – they are perhaps able to exert influence in ways that are not entirely to the benefit of either Elizabeth or her country. In their own minds, if nothing else.
“Her other kin are truly loyal, though, beyond this one cousin?”
“They seem to be. I’ll not say we can’t shake them loose later if needs must, but it doesn’t appear that we can at the moment.” Methos shrugs. “She hasn’t as many relatives as some monarchs, however. Henry VIII has only no other surviving children, nor has he any surviving brothers or sisters. And a goodly part of her mother’s family was disgraced when her mother was beheaded.”
“I would not wish to shake them loose, if they be loyal. Better to win her loyalty, and theirs with it, than to take them from her, and expect that they should be friends again after.” Jehan shakes his head. “His Grace will know this, and if he has need of reminders of why such a thing would be best, I shall speak to him of what is yet fresh in my mind that he took such great advantage of when I called him Harry England.”
Methos grins. “You seem to mirror my own thinking in this matter,” he says, pleased. It would be nice, for once, to help build something instead of always causing destruction. “I’ve already suggested a marriage, and I believe it the best option, if it can be brought about.”
“It can be brought about. How His Grace does so, though, is something I cannot speak to until I know his thoughts, as well as the situation which must be worked.” Jehan recalls the negotiations for the marriage of Henry to Catherine, and his role in them, and lets his lips twist in a wry smile. “Though I think I shall wait until I have seen and spoken with His Grace before this conversation might continue – and with his presence and input.”
“We’re almost there,” Methos assures him. “Another quarter-mile or so.” For which Methos is grateful, as the weather is beginning to turn decidedly chilly. He lifts an eyebrow at Montjoy.
“Shall we gallop the rest of the way? The horses deserve a chance to stretch their legs.”
“If the terrain has no hidden pockets to cause the horses to stumble and throw us, then perhaps some of it.” Jehan smiles, looking over the land toward the house that commands the top of one of the hills through which they have been riding. “It would not do, entirely, to arrive at a gallop when naught is amiss.”
“We’ll rein in before anyone sees us,” Methos says. “And the road looked sound enough when I came this way before.” He’s already urging his horse into a gallop before finishing the sentence, leaving kings and Death and intrigue temporarily behind in the sheer joy of the speed of the horse beneath him and the wind in his face.
Jehan chuckles, before spurring his horse to follow, racing as he could not once he had become Montjoye, and would not be able to do again unless in the company of his King in a hunt, once he is again in the service of his King.
Originally Posted: 19 May 2016
The Future Shall Be What I Make It
Fandom: 15th & 16th Century CE RPF, Highlander
AU: Eternal Plantagenet
Word Count: 9707
Characters: Henry of Monmouth | Henry V of England, Methos
Henry and his new companion discuss plans for Europe, and for the world.
After a day’s hard riding through the incessant rain, Methos is extremely grateful to have a roof over his head once more. The lord who was providing it had been on the list of nobles to whom he’d been sent by Elizabeth, though five minutes in the man’s presence had made it clear that he is entirely committed to Henry’s cause.
There isn’t enough room in the manor house for all of Henry’s men, so the soldiers and most of the officers are camped out on the grounds, with the luckier ones in the stables. Henry himself, and the more important members of his entourage, have been given actual rooms. Methos had been a little surprised to find that he, too, had been given lodgings indoors, but he certainly isn’t about to object. After all, it’s still raining.
Henry and most of the others are downstairs, partaking of their host’s generosity. Having felt no inclination to join them, Methos has taken his meal in his room instead. He’s writing while he eats, sketching out plans for the upcoming campaign and finishing his journal entry, when there’s a tap on his door.
“Come in,” he calls.
Henry pushes open the door, a tankard freshly filled with ale in hand for himself, and a second for Robert, though he’d been offered wine by his host – the man’s still uncertain why Henry prefers the ale to wine, although he likely puts it down to fostering a soldier’s image for his men.
“The others are muttering that you’re little more than an arrogant bastard, since you’ve neglected to join us for dinner.” Henry doesn’t think so, but he’s not actually going to attempt to correct his men’s assumptions without Robert doing so himself. He sets one of the tankards down carefully out of the way of the journal Robert has open on the small table. “Thoughts on our goals?” he asks, gesturing to the paper with what look like campaign notes.
“Among other things.” Methos sets his journal aside and picking up the tankard. The ale is as good as any he’s ever tasted, though he still misses the beer they’d once made in Egypt. “This is excellent. As far as the others are concerned…” He shrugs, dismissing them. “I’ve been called much worse than arrogant. Besides, it isn’t arrogance if you’re as good as you think you are.”
Chuckling, Henry settles across the table from Robert. “True enough, my Lord Wellesly.” The formality is something that’s a matter of course for him with all his nobility, that keeps the mortal portion of it assured of their place relative to him. Even if it isn’t something he necessarily needs with Robert, he thinks, any more than he does with Matthew. “Give them time and some military triumph of your own, and they’ll change their mind soon enough.”
“I’m really not concerned,” Methos says. The idea that he might be is amusing in its own right. “I stopped worrying about what anyone – mortal or Immortal – may think about me some time ago.” So long as the facade he’s presenting to the world holds, he doesn’t give a damn what anyone thinks about that facade.
Henry’s smile fades a bit into something harsher. “Then hope they change their mind for my sake, for I won’t have my nobles arguing among themselves when they’re meant to be doing my bidding or looking out for their demesnes and other lands.” He draws a deep breath, taking a long sip of his ale. “Tell me what you’ve been thinking on our goals,” he says after a moment, changing the subject.
“In the short-term?” Methos smiles and takes another sip of his ale. “Chaos. Set men to raiding along the border between the lands you control and the ones still held by Elizabeth. Disguise them as bandits, and let them wreak havoc that can’t be tied back to you. The nobility will be desperate to regain control and restore order, both of which only you will be able to offer.”
There’s a definite appeal to that, though Henry is concerned that eventually someone might tie the raids back to his soldiers, even disguised as bandits. “Even with precautions in place, and a careful selection of men to do this job, there’s still a risk that it will be tied back to me. I don’t care to be known for condoning petty criminality.” Not that he won’t use the tactic, merely that it needs to be carried out with care.
“Troops of armed men could be traced back to you, yes – or at least, people would be able to make an educated guess. If you choose the right men, however, you don’t need to send out whole troops. Four or five men with the proper training can cause more damage than you realize, without anyone thinking they’re associated with a larger force. If you send out ten or so of those small groups…” Methos smiles, and leans back in his chair. “Alternately, you could hire mercenaries, anonymously. If they don’t know who paid them, they can hardly lay the blame at your doorstep.”
“Both ideas have their merits and their risks.” Henry eyes Robert a moment before making a decision he hopes he doesn’t have cause to regret later. “I’ll trust you to make the arrangements as you find is most effective and efficient.” And it will give him a chance to see how Robert thinks, he hopes, by what course he choses and how effectively he implements it.
“Thank you,” Methos says dryly. He’s not entirely sure as to which route he’ll take. It will depend on a number of factors, including the quality of the available mercenaries. “Now that’s been settled, there’s another matter that requires a decision. I know you want France back – but what are your feelings on taking the rest of Europe?”
Henry leans back in his chair, watching Robert silently for a long moment. “That I’m not yet content to give voice to the potential of such an ambition. To seek to claim so much from the beginning would seem the height of foolish arrogance, and I’ll not risk the loyalty of those who believe in me to give them thought I might have such broad desires.”
“I’m not asking you to announce your interest in it,” Methos tells him. “If you are interested, however, the continent will fall much more easily if the seeds of its destruction are sown early.” If he has a chance to pull strings, spread dissension, cause rifts between allies – the thought brings a reminiscent smile to his face. He’s used those tactics before, with no small measure of success, but he’s never had a chance to try them on such a large scale before.
“It would be more interesting than remaining in England and France in the long run.” Henry smiles at the thought of ruling Europe. It hadn’t been among his ambitions the first time he’d been king, but then, he’d only had a mortal lifespan to work with. Now, he doesn’t know how much time he has to work with, though it certainly appears it will be an infinite amount.
“Immortality can get…wearing after a while. Making plans that take centuries to put into effect is an excellent way to combat that particular malaise.” The Horsemen had occupied him for a thousand years, and he’s been manipulating the Watchers for even longer.
“I shall accept your word on that, though I’ve yet to chafe under this strange gift I’ve been given.” Wondered, perhaps, what has caused it, and what it shall be like to live for centuries or longer. If only for a short while before the enormity of it awes him too greatly. “Perhaps to begin with the lands from Rhine to the western ocean, from Italy in the south to my England, and perhaps also Scotland, if that might be managed.”
Land enough to conquer in a few lifetimes, and if his heirs can hold it, to return to and begin the conquest once more, spreading east. It will be troublesome to be forced to regain territory he’s hard-won every time he returns to his throne, though some may well be lost while he is elsewhere.
“That’s certainly ambitious.” The borders Henry has suggested are almost as far-reaching as Rome’s were at the height of her power. Methos had been quite fond of the Romans, and of the way they’d pursued power and pleasure with equal fervor. The ascetisism that Christianity espouses has never really appealed to him, though monastaries make very convenient hiding places. “As for chafing beneath the burden of what may well be eternal life – give it a few thousand years.”
Henry chuckles, and shrugs. “It is a meager enough ambition for now, and perhaps later I shall desire more, if I could but hope to see my heirs hold it. That would be the limit in truth to what I might hold, as I would not wish to remain forever as a king who must attend to matters politic over matters of war, though the power does have appeal. It is not, though, enough to merely hold onto power when I’ve seen more of the world since I have died then ever I hoped to see before that change in my circumstance.”
That Robert mentioned thousands of years gives some truth to his thought that the man was older than he by no small number of years. “And for the burden that you say this gift may be, I have time enough to learn the truth of it over as much time as this sorcery which binds me to this life may give me. The limits of which I do not yet know, neither in time nor in what it might heal.”
“I wouldn’t recommend experimenting,” Methos says dryly. Caspian had done just that with an Immortal they’d captured early into their association, and he’d heard rumours of mortals doing the same thing over the years, though nothing he’d been able to substantiate. “Since you seem to be unique, you’d have to use yourself as a subject, and it’s not the sort of thing that usually ends well.”
“I have no intention of attempting to discover the limits of this gift solely for the sake of doing so. Nor in the midst of battle, though I might perhaps be less cautious than I ought.” He’s not worried for small wounds, and even larger wounds have healed faster and cleaner than they otherwise would and without scar. Even shattered bones have healed without leaving him trouble.
“I’d recommend keeping your limbs attached, if it’s at all possible.” Methos finishes off his ale and puts the empty tankard aside. “I’ve no idea what’s keeping you alive, but based on my own experience, losing an arm or a leg might stretch whatever it is to its limit.”
“Certainly the worst wounds have been the worst to heal; more pain in the healing than in the taking of them. I have yet to lose limb to enemy action or accident, though I’ve broken them all to pieces and sliced the flesh clean to bone.” Henry shrugs, dismissing that concern for now.
“What have you in mind to set all the lands twixt the borders I’ve set to enough chaos that I might be welcomed for taming it? Save that plan which you have proposed for the taking of the lands bordering between myself and the woman who claims my throne, which I already know.”
“That depends on you – on how ruthless you’re willing to be.” When he’d ridden with the legions, they had refrained from using the sorts of tactics that would utterly devastate either the lands they were trying to take or the people who cultivated them. Collateral damage hadn’t been a concern; nor had civilian casualties. The Horsemen hadn’t even been that careful. “And on how much of the customs and cultures you want to leave intact.”
“I would not see the lands laid to waste such that those who are but innocents would starve in my wake. Those who defy me to my worst by fighting against my coming, though, I shall not spare, nor anything that they hold from me.” A mix of ruthlessness, idealism and pragmatism that made his reputation before, for good and for ill. “As for their customs, it is kings and their nobles who make the customs; they will have as much of such as I wish to leave them.”
“Not all customs are made by the nobility,” Methos points out. “The ones the common people create for themselves will be the hardest to stamp out, though they can be changed. The ones that come from above will die when the structure that maintains them does the same. Your main concern is going to be religion. England’s Protestant now, and the people will no more wish to return to Catholicism than the Catholics of Spain and Italy will wish to give it up.” What had originally been mostly an intellectual exercise is beginning to take shape in Methos’ mind, to acquire form and substance. “And then there are the various nations’ colonial possessions to consider. The Dutch have territory in the New World; the Spanish a great deal more.”
Henry isn’t even certain that he cares as much for religion as he might have before, though if all profess to believe in God, he thinks it will be all the same to him. He’s seen enough in a century and a half not to care either way for the sundering of Christendom by Martin Luther and others who have taken a path leading from the Catholic Church.
“So long as they do not take a political cause, like those called Lollards did in my first reign, I shall not care to interfere in that much, be they Catholic or Protestant. Indeed, I care not what they believe, so long as they believe in God, even the Jew and the Muslim, for there’s nothing so different between them that I should care too greatly. It would be ill-done, though, to mention this too early to those who support me, or risk seeing their support vanish if they think I would be too kind to those they do not wish to have in their own demenses.”
“That…is not a sentiment I’ve heard expressed by a ruler in some time,” Methos says, after a moment of reflection. “Not in Europe, anyway. The Ottomans are a bit more tolerant of divergent beliefs than the Christian nations. Personally, I’m in favour of anything that means more Holy Ground.” He’s getting tired of challenges, and Quickenings stopped being enjoyable a few centuries ago.
“I still shall hold to the practice of the faith to which I was raised, though there is much in the world that it cannot encompass. Even those that believe in heathen gods I cannot entirely dismiss as wrong, though I should wish to encourage they shall be taught of belief in one God by those who might be willing to do so.” Henry finds himself less comfortable with those beliefs than those of others who believe in God by another name, though even those he has encountered have proven no less capable than those of Christian faith. Only that he still cannot entirely accept the idea of more than one god to create and shape the world.
“As it is, my concerns are more in the way of political insurrection than of religious difference. All lands I conquer, be they French or Spanish or Italian or ought else, shall be brought under the crown of England, and shall be English lands. They may keep what religion they wish, they may keep such customs as may be needful to maintain the land, but they shall bend to the laws that I bring with me. And the language of government shall be that which I speak, though what needs be spoken to the common people may be translated into what tongue they speak so that they might understand. That is all I wish for those who I bring under my rule.”
“I see no reason why it can’t be achieved,” Methos admits. “It’s a nice balance between the Mongols and the Romans, and they were two of the most successful groups of empire builders in recent history.” He lets himself smile faintly. “Though you could take it a bit easier on us pagans. Monotheism’s always struck me as being faintly absurd, in all honesty. Altars to Zeus and Zoroastrian temples are as forbidden to dueling Immortals as churches and mosques.”
“They might matter to those who are Immortal, but they are not my greatest concern, and I’ll not have those who are more mortal than you or I look askance at me because I allow all they find immoral in these new people to go unchanged. I shall not insist that they must become of one religion or another that holds to a single God, only that they be taught of them by those as will. Nor shall I regulate what they may hold in their hearts or their homes, but there shall be no temples to heathen gods in my realm.”
Methos sighs heavily, and pretends to look put upon. “What a pity. I was so looking forward to the reinstatement of temple prostitution.” It’s the kind of comment that’s been irritating new Immortals for more than ten centuries now – and has hopefully gotten some of them to realize that the world hasn’t always been this way, and won’t always stay this way either. He lets a reminiscent smile steal over his face. “That was a good decade.”
Henry raises an eyebrow. “A good decade?” He doesn’t like the idea of openly permitting, much less promoting, prostitution. There are other ways to better employ those women who are fallen on such difficulty as must sell all they have to survive, and he would have such found for them.
There are those, he knows, who will take mistresses and lavish them with presents that are as good as coin, but those he turns blind eye to, so long as they do not harm their own family in the doing so. The same also who are discreet in taking a male lover, for he will not harshly judge what he himself has an inclination for. Though if they’re foolish enough to draw the attention of all and create trouble for their family in public, he’ll do as he must and leave it to the courts.
“I’d have stayed longer, if I’d thought I could get away with it.” Methos grins. “No challenges, plenty of food, comfortable quarters… I’ve certainly had worse jobs.” Modern chairs aren’t nearly as comfortable as the divans the Romans had used, but he manages to sprawl out in his anyway. “It was actually considered quite the honour.”
“Then, perhaps.” Henry watches him with interest at the way he sprawls, all comfort and easy grace rather than inelegance. He still has to remember those who follow him, and who are quartered in the same house tonight. He can’t afford a breath of impropriety as yet, not until he’s crowned king, and has firm grip on the minds of all England rather than merely those of Wales who have rallied to his standard. “Now, though, it would be seen as a shameful thing, and more so a heresy to sell themselves in a house of God. Perhaps in time that might change, but for now, it is too much a risk to permit myself to make such a thing possible.”
Methos shrugs. “The world changes; that’s the only thing that doesn’t change. You might as well try and stop the tides. As long as you remember that, you’ll be fine. The only thing refusing to change ever got an Immortal was an early grave.” That, or a few centuries stuck in a well.
“If while I am elsewhere, my heirs change the laws to better suit a changing world, I shall not change them to attempt to halt what has begun to change.” Henry shrugs in return, leaning comfortably back in his chair once more. “As for those in all the newly held lands across the ocean in the new world, I shall do what I might to hold onto them, but I cannot be worried too much by them until I have secured the lands here closer to home.”
“The resources in the New World might better help you to secure the old,” Methos points out. “Just don’t ask me to go. I’ve had enough of the ocean for a dozen of my lifetimes.” He still harbours a vague hostility towards the Irish, and if he never sets foot in Greenland again, it will be too soon.
“There are others who will be better suited to exploit those riches, and would be glad for the chance to do so.” Henry still prefers to secure his territory here, but even if he does not focus too greatly on the lands themselves, he can disrupt the flow of wealth from them to the coffers of his enemies. “And there, too, I might employ men and ships to divert those resources to my benefit, and lay the blame at the feet of others again.”
He pauses, still watching Robert. “Also, too, I would prefer to have you close at hand rather than overseeing such operations, for all that you have put what you have to offer at my disposal.” In part as he’s uncertain that he will continue to hold the man’s loyalty, and in part because already a thought has taken root, and he wishes to have him nearby if he might allow it to flourish. He’s only the once truly taken a male lover for more than a few nights, and then he’d been far from home, and his lover the same if from another land, and it had been a comfort to them both. It shall be different, he expects, with the change in what he must be for the world.
“So long as you let me go when I must,” Methos says. “I’ll not lose my head for anyone. I’ve spent entirely too long keeping it on my shoulders to stop now.” He frowns slightly. “In fact – I might need to absent myself for a week or two.” If he’s going to settle into one spot, he wants to know exactly where Kronos is, and what he’s doing. The Watchers should know, and it shouldn’t be too difficult to get in and back out again.
“It wouldn’t be the best idea as yet. You’re still too newly come to my cause for any to trust you should you vanish now, and should they not trust you, I cannot show to trust you either, or I risk losing their support. And while I am good at commanding an army, I cannot command that which I do not have.” Henry doesn’t know what Robert needs to do, but he knows the political nuances of the situation he’s in, and he can’t risk the loss of anyone yet.
“Then find an errand to send me on.” Methos drums his fingers on the arm of his chair. “I won’t do you much good if I have to vanish midway through the campaign. There’s someone I need to track down. I think he’s in Russia, but I have to be sure. I want him good and distracted before I start doing anything that will attract attention.”
“With a companion, though I shall send one of the more discreet of my captains with you.” Even on an errand, Henry can’t afford to send Robert alone. “Do what you must, as well as carrying out what errand I send you on.” He’ll solve the question of precisely what by morning, something simple enough to trust a new companion with. A new companion who he shall soon make a favorite out of, whatever the rest say of it.
“Not a good idea,” Methos says. “If I’m accompanied, I won’t be able to get the information I need.” He hesitates for a moment. He doesn’t tell other Immortals about the Watchers, but then, Henry isn’t likely to come after his Quickening. “There’s a group of mortals who follow us around and write down what we do. I’ve used them before to keep track of Immortals whose location I need to know. They’re incredibly secretive, though. I’d have to explain things to whomever you send with me.” He tips his head to the side, watching Henry for a second or two before continuing. “How good are your intelligence sources? If you can find him for me, I won’t have to go anywhere at all.”
“I have contacts across most of the world I’ve traveled, though some will be less inclined to speak to a stranger that I send rather than directly to me.” Henry shrugs. His contacts are most in the form of friends or fellow soldiers, not all of whom know who he’s been or what he plans to be again. Or, in many cases now, the children of those friends to whom he’d been godfather or such equivalent as the culture had, or those soldiers whose bodies he had borne home, though they’d not been in lands which he was entirely familiar. “Who would I be asking after?”
“I don’t know what name he’s using now, but a description should suffice.” Kronos has never been interested in keeping a low profile. “Dark hair, blue eyes. A scar, here.” He traces a finger over his own face in demonstration. “He’ll be with an army, or with a group of marauders, and he’ll definitely leave an impression. Don’t send anyone you care about close enough to him to attract his attention. I don’t need to know details – just his location. And I’ll need to know when he starts coming our way.”
It’s almost certainly inevitable. Kronos knows him too well; knows how he plans, how he thinks, what ruses he likes to use. A detailed account of a single raid will be enough to pique his interest, and Methos has no doubt that, once his interest is piqued, Kronos will show up. He needs to know when the man is coming, so he can prepare, rather than be forced abandon everything at the absolute wrong moment.
A description that should get some reply back, though he doesn’t know from where, or how long it will take to find out. “I might send a messenger to those who would speak with one sent by me, but I make no promises how long it will take to locate this man you wish to avoid.”
“I won’t be able to avoid him forever. He’ll show up here, sooner or later. I just want to know when he’s coming. Trust me – you do not want him showing up unannounced. He’s one of the most dangerous people I know, and he won’t be remotely pleased to find me making plans for you.”
“Then I shall have to ensure we are well aware when he comes, so that all might be ready for his arrival.” And unpleasantly so, if the man is a sort to potentially harm Henry himself or his newest favorite. “Though if he should seek to harm me for having you at my side to make what plans you do, he shall find me a more difficult target than perhaps he might otherwise believe me to be.”
“Since he can’t sense you, that’s almost a certainty. He’s never had much regard for mortals.” Though the thought of what could happen were Kronos to manage to get his hands on Henry is more than enough to make Methos uneasy. “Unfortunately, when it comes to warfare, he’s unpleasantly adaptive, and he has several thousand years more experience with it than do you.” Nor, if he’s being entirely honest with himself, does he particularly want to see Kronos dead. Elsewhere, yes – but not dead.
“I don’t intend to engage him in warfare.” Henry intends that if this man comes and will not be content to leave again, that he’ll kill him. Another Immortal, to judge from Robert’s words, so the method of destroying him is certain enough. And if he tries to kill Henry before he can be subdued, Henry shall be entertained by the man’s reaction to his own brand of sorcerous long life.
“No one with any sense ever intends to engage Kronos in warfare, or in combat, for that matter,” Methos mutters. “I certainly wouldn’t want to. He knows me too well.”
Henry listens, but he doesn’t say anything in response, as he does intend to engage this Kronos in combat, if it comes to that. If he doesn’t leave, and he’s difficult about being taken into custody. Henry doesn’t expect he’ll be particularly good about going to his execution, once he learns the manner of it, but once he’s in chains enough, even his desire to survive won’t be enough to keep his head on his shoulders.
Methos looks away, drumming his fingers for a moment on the arm of his chair. The thought of finally being rid of Kronos, of freeing himself from the shadow that’s clung to him and haunted him for three thousand years, is beyond tempting. Even the thought of letting Henry do it for him isn’t unbearable, though it does make him feel vaguely guilty.
“We were close, once,” he says quietly, “the four of us. Closer than brothers.”
To condemn one’s own brother to death would be hard enough, but to do the same to someone one holds closer than a brother… “You know of the history of my reign,” Henry says quietly, not expecting any negative response. “There was a man, Scrope. Executed on the fifth of August, fourteen fifteen.” The implication being that Henry has some idea of the difficulty in ordering the death of a man closer than family, no matter that the length of time he had with Scrope cannot compare to the lengths of time Immortals might spend together.
Methos looks at him without speaking for a long moment, then nods, acknowledging the weight of Henry’s words and grief.
“When he dies,” Methos says finally, “so does that part of my life.” He knows better than to think it will mean an end to Death, but it will put the Horsemen forever past reclaiming. He hadn’t realized, entirely, how very much he’d relied on knowing that the other three were still alive, still out there; on the knowledge that he could have that freedom and that power simply for the asking. “It’s hard to walk away from what we used to be – what we could be again, for little more than the asking.”
“That which is difficult can be rewarding. If you allow to be.” Henry allows one corner of his mouth to quirk upward in a wry smile, though there’s still an echo of old grief in his eyes. An offer between the spoken words of more than what else he’s all but promised. No matter what the thoughts of others, life is both too short and too long to pass up the chance at companionship, particularly of the sort that might last as long as he.
Methos lets himself return the smile, leaning back slightly in his chair and stretching his feet out in front of him.
“True,” he admits. “And there’s really no place for what we were; not any more. Besides, the old has to give way for the new to flourish.”
“To a certain extent.” Henry nods, shrugging. “Some vestige of the old will always remain, and ought always remain, or all is forgotten. And what is forgotten can come back to cause trouble for the present.” Such as a king dead a century and a half coming back to reclaim his throne from a woman he doesn’t see as a legitimate claimant.
“As Kronos’ appearance will certainly prove,” Methos says dryly. No matter how he rationalizes it, it will be like cutting himself in half. The real question is whether or not it will be worth it: if shackling himself to Henry is a good enough reason to cut himself free of Kronos – of the Horsemen. “The question, though, is whether or not the present is worth the sacrifice of the past.”
“I hope that I will be worth the loss, but I cannot say what the future shall bring. Only that I should strive to make you regret less the sacrifice of the past than you would regret the sacrifice of the present.” Henry intends to make sure Robert has few, if any, regrets about abandoning this Kronos to his just fate.
“Maybe you should know what I’m giving up, then,” Methos says softly, watching Henry. “What we were to each other – and to the rest of the world.”
Henry is silent for a long moment, holding Robert’s gaze. “Then tell me,” he says evenly, without taking his gaze from where it was. Willing to listen to whatever Robert has to say, to learn what he’s facing. It’s what he must to, or he’ll never succeed in his own plans with Robert.
“We shared everything, for a thousand years.” Methos lets the fire capture his gaze, because it’s easier than continuing to look at Henry. “Everything. Food, slaves, a bed – a reputation.” He knows he shouldn’t, but he can’t help the reminiscent smile that tugs at his lips. “And it was quite a reputation. In a very real way, the entire world was ours: we went where we chose, took what we wanted, killed when we pleased.”
Now he does look at Henry, meeting his eyes steadily. “And I wasn’t alone. You’re old enough, I think, to have at least some idea of how lonely Immortality can be. I was already ancient when I met Kronos, and so very tired of pretending to be mortal, with mortal fears and concerns – so we made the world fear us, instead. It was adolescent – and a permanence that is almost impossible to give up even after two thousand years apart.”
“You made the present as you wished it, if in a different fashion than I intend to do so.” Henry has never had that depth of sharing with anyone, not even the companions who’ve shared his life over the last century and a half. Or any of the men who’d been closest to him when he had been king the first time. “That the world should fear me is not an aim of my plans, but it may well be a side-effect necessary to achieve those ends, and one I shall not shy away from if needs must demand it.”
“It may,” Methos agrees. “Though I have difficulty conceiving of any plan that would require you to be mentioned in the same breath as the four of us. I’d not be here if I thought that was what you were after.” He’ll stay because of Henry’s promise, and do his best to bring that promise to fruition, but he has no interest in helping to prop up a monster.
That there had been four of them is both a surprise and not much of one at the same time, and Henry tilts his head in acknowledgment of what’s been said and what hasn’t. “To become something that the world fears because I desire that fear would be to become an evil I don’t wish to be. Though there are those who I should want to fear me, they are all the sort to cause trouble for my subjects, and ones I would defend them against.”
“Even we didn’t intend to become monsters,” Methos says quietly, watching Henry from under his lashes. “Power, and the fear of others, can be beyond intoxicating.” They certainly can be for him, and though he denies himself, it does not stop him from wanting. He does not usually let himself think about Kronos, or about what they’d been together, but now that he knows both are about to come to a final end, it’s hard to banish either from his mind.
“I should hope I have friends who will remind me of who I mean to be before I should become that sort of monster. Men whose profession is peace; women who are still better than I with a sword.” He won’t easily forget his first encounter with Rebecca, nor the visits since. Sometimes he still feels the aches of being utterly trounced with a sword by a woman who is every inch the lady in addition to being one of the finest hands with a sword he’s met.
“If I see you slipping, I will say something,” Methos assures him. “May I inquire as to which woman gave you such instruction?” Given Henry’s earlier mention of Salisbury, it might well be Cierdwyn, though Methos can’t really see Matthew bringing the two of them together. Cierdwyn’s opinions of anyone claiming to rule England are fairly well-known.
“The Lady Rebecca.” Henry smiles a moment, taking a sip of his beer. “The first time I met her, she was teaching a former companion of mine to wield a sword, against his own better judgment. I wanted to be sure she was good enough, the more fool I to doubt her.” He had only been dead to the world a decade at the time, and he hadn’t expected the encounter with her or with her student. It had, in the end, been quite enjoyable, despite the bruises he’d acquired.
Methos nods. If Rebecca has countenanced Henry, perhaps he himself won’t have such sharp words for Matthew after all. “She’s very good,” he acknowledges, smiling faintly. He can easily picture Rebecca knocking a more arrogant Henry down a peg or two. She’s done it to Methos himself more than once.
“She is. Better than I, for all that I have been a soldier all my life. Though I do not have the constant concern that I shall have to fight to keep this long life of mine, as she does.” Henry is glad he doesn’t have that need, though he enjoys the fighting when it comes to it. More, sometimes, than the politics, but he wouldn’t have one without the other. “I would give her the same I would Salisbury and yourself, if I thought she would take me up on the offer. A proper gift from a king to a friend.”
Methos nods, the words adding a little bit to an idea that’s starting to take shape in the back of his mind. “I’m fairly sure she would,” he admits. “Holy Ground is rarely unwelcome to my sort of Immortal. I have less need of it than most, but I assure you, it’s greatly appreciated.” He leans back in his chair, smiling, and watching Henry from under his eyelashes. “Are we to be friends, then? After all, our mutually lengthened lifespan isn’t the barrier it usually is.” Henry’s rank might have been a barrier of its own, if Methos were younger, or truly cared about such things
“I would prefer it.” Henry watches Robert with a warm smile curling his lips. “Already there is talk that you are becoming a fast favorite, and I would think them right. For there is little reason to merely use your knowledge and skills to further my campaign when we shall both outlive the roles we play now. And I should like very much having more friends who shall not die in so brief a time as mortals do.”
“And I’ll enjoy knowing an immortal who won’t decide that my head is more valuable than what’s inside it,” Methos admits. Friendship with another Immortal is all but impossible. Even he and Kronos had never been friends, though they’d been almost everything else it was possible for two people to be to one another. “Mortals…” He sighs. “After a few centuries, you stop letting them matter so very much, out of self-preservation, if nothing else.”
“I would not wish to lose the chance to love merely to avoid the grief when those I love are taken or fade from this life, however their lot is cast.” Henry shakes his head, leaning back in his chair. Memories flitting through his mind of men and women he’s loved in the last century and a half, both when he had been certain he was mortal, and after he’d woken in his own casket. Some that still bear the sharp, raw edge of grief, others that are blurred at the edges from acceptance, with no pattern to which ones are which – certainly not all the oldest ones are worn and welcome, and not all the most recent have the jagged edge of pain.
“You’re a stronger man than I am, then,” Methos admits, picking up his cup again. Finding it empty, he scowls at it, trying to decide if he wants to risk doing anything about that in front of Henry. Immortality is one thing, especially as Henry had already known about it. The other thing makes Methos himself uncomfortable – it’s too much temptation, and far too much power – which is why he usually pretends it doesn’t exist, and uses parlor tricks to keep from doing things accidentally when it builds up. He’s not sure how Henry would react, and isn’t at all sure that he wants to find out. Except – except there’s this little voice in the back of his head that wants to see what Henry will do, what he could do with that kind of power at his disposal.
“I can send for more ale, if you would like. Our host has more than is needed to satisfy the men, and can certainly spare enough for another tankard for yourself.” Henry watches Robert, wondering what has caused the scowl, other than the lack of ale in his tankard. He isn’t even certain that it is the empty vessel that caused it, as it doesn’t strike him as being in Robert’s nature to be that upset over something easily remedied.
Methos is silent for a long moment, weighing the various benefits and dangers attendant upon Henry’s discovering just how much power Methos can put at his disposal. If ever a monarch should be allowed to know exactly what Methos is and can do, it’s Henry, but in the end, it’s the wistful look in the king’s eyes when he’d spoken of lost friends that provides the catalyst for his decision. He’d sworn to himself long ago that he would refrain from using the gifts he’d earned by his pretension to a name no human should rightly claim for his own benefit, not to give in to the temptation those gifts provide, but this would be for Henry’s benefit rather than his own. When he realizes what he’s been thinking, he also realizes that his mind is already made up.
“There’s no need to send for more, though I appreciate the offer.” Refilling his empty cup requires nothing more than a thought, and he raises it to his lips, watching Henry from under his lashes as he drinks. Keeping his muscles loose and the tension he’s feeling from showing in his face is, ironically, more difficult than refilling his cup had been. Immortality is one thing: what Methos has made himself into is something else entirely, and even the most open-minded of men might have trouble accepting the latter.
Sorcery is something Henry has had to come to terms with over his century and a half since dying, but it is still something that evokes a bone-deep fear that is hard to shake. It is not a fear he allows to shape his policies, but one he still works to overcome. Particularly since it is so clearly intrinsic in his own long life – although he has less fear of that sorcery than of those magics committed by others.
“I find I still fear sorcery when it is not that which keeps me preserved in the state I am. For all that it is a pointless fear, when I know not all such magic is harmful.” Henry draws in a deep breath, reaching for his own ale, draining the last of it in a long pull. “I would ask how it is possible, and if it might perhaps be related to whatever sorcery keeps me alive.”
A curiosity that is nearly as strong as the fear, after all this time. He hopes if he continues to indulge in his curiosity rather than his fear that the latter will fade, given enough time.
“It’s not precisely sorcery,” Methos says carefully, putting his cup aside and lifting his eyes to look directly at Henry. “Nor, I suspect, is the power that has so extended your life. Spells that raise the dead, or grant immortality come with a terrible price. I can’t sense anything of the sort about you – and if anyone could, it would be me.” He picks his cup back up again, using the movement to buy himself a few moments to consider his next words.
“When I was younger, I laid claim to a name that I had no right to, only to discover a dozen centuries later that my claim – and my subsequent actions – had, essentially, made me into what arrogance and fury had prompted me to name myself – and that there was no way to undo it. Human belief is a powerful force. It creates – and unmakes – even the gods.” He pauses, watching Henry for a reaction even as he tries to think of a way to explain without sounding as if he’s gone mad.
Henry is quiet for a long moment, a thoughtful frown on his face as he mulls it over. “I would still, I think, call it sorcery, if only because it is something that originates beyond my understanding of the power of an individual man or woman.” He studies Robert, his thoughtful expression not fading. “Though if humans – and from that I take it you mean those who possess long life in some fashion or another as well as mortals – are able to create something as powerful as God, rather than the other way around….”
He shakes his head, unable to find the words to express whatever it is that is taking shape in his mind. Firmly reminding himself that he has no more power than he did before he knew of this, that he is but one of many, and it requires those others to cause anything of note. It is that last that quells the sense of rising power he can only compare to his realization that he was truly monarch at his coronation.
“From what I know of magic, sorcery requires study, practice, and sacrifice. My…abilities require none of that. In fact, if I don’t use them every so often, they begin to use me instead.” He drains his cup in one long swallow and refills it again, and Henry’s as well. “Magic also has limits. I have yet to find any to what I am capable of – though admittedly, I try to use them as little as possible. The temptation is too strong.” He smiles faintly.
“Most of the old gods faded out with the rise of Christianity, but I spent a thousand years and more calling myself Death, and that’s one thing that humans will never stop believing in, because they’ll never stop dying. And as if that weren’t enough, the four of us ended up in the bible.” He takes a deep breath before continuing. “As I said, I try to avoid using that part of myself, but avoidance only works up to a point, especially when men are dying in great numbers.” The plague years had been especially difficult, the temptation nearly overwhelming.
Silent again for several long moments, Henry tries to wrap his mind around what Robert has told him, and in the end, finds himself unable to do so as yet. Not the entirety of it, at least, though parts of it do make sense. The rest, he will have to think on at greater length, he thinks, to comprehend. Perhaps it is more that an individual mind cannot truly encompass deity without being one. But there are still questions he has, from what he has been told.
“You say most of the old gods have faded. What of those that haven’t?” Henry wonders if it might be one of those who has caused this in him – he certainly cannot think he is so important to God as to merit such a personal attention.
“There are a few of them left,” Methos says. “The ones who have learned to get along on smaller amounts of belief. It was one of them who told me what I’d become. I’d thought I was losing my mind until she came along. In fact…” He trails off as an idea occurs to him, tilting his head to one side and looking at Henry, opening his mind and trying to see with the other part of himself. He can’t be sure, but he thinks he can sense Anat. “She might well be the reason for your longevity.” Shrugging, he continues, “I could have done it, anyway, and she probably could have as well.”
Henry goes very still for a moment before tilting his head to one side, a small frown on his face once more, though his expression is harder to read with the mixed emotions that stem from that bit of information. “You could do something like this? As whatever as kept me alive this century and more?”
“As easily as I can take a life.” Methos has never tried to bring anyone back, or to keep them alive, but he knows he could with the same certainty with which he knows that he can wield a sword. “I’m not sure if we all can, but for me, it’s part and parcel of being Death. If I didn’t spend so much time keeping that part of myself as suppressed as possible, I’d have known you’d been resurrected the moment I looked at you.”
“It is as easy as that, for you to tell who is truly mortal, and who has been brought back, as I was?” Henry is curious about that, though not as much as he is about the ability to bring back those who are dead. It is a dangerous ability, if he takes the time to think about it and all the implications of it. Particularly dangerous when someone knows of it, and thinks they know a way to destroy Robert if he weren’t willing to bring some loved one back.
Indeed, Henry thinks for all that he misses some of those he has loved, there are few he’d want to have by his side again. Even his brothers, who were so much a part of making his mortal ambitions become reality, he wouldn’t wish back again. Better they are in their graves, safely away from the cares of this world.
But some few, not all of who still evoke the raw edge of grief, he’d wish back again. Indeed, he thinks the ones where the loss isn’t so jagged are the ones he’d more ask for, as it would not be as wondrous to see them again. Glad, yes, and like to bring joy, but not as likely to bring confusion and pain at his reactions, he thinks.
“And you could bring someone back. With what limitations on that gift? I was only dead days when I woke in my own casket.”
“I honestly don’t know if there are any limitations. It’s not something I’ve ever tried to do before.” He’s been tempted, and more than tempted – which is why he’s never even tried. Methos knows himself too well for that. “I can’t see why there would be, though. Unless you’re Immortal, dead is dead.”
“And the dead are your purview.” Henry nods, thinking as he settles again, turning the idea over in his mind. So many he could ask after, but for now… no. As tempting as it is, he thinks not yet. Better to think about it, and who, if any, he might truly wish to see so much as to perhaps risk them bearing the same sort of mixed gift he does.
“If one is Immortal, as you are, and killed – what happens to their soul? Their power, I know, goes to the winner, but their soul?” Turn his curiosity to another subject, and let the thought of loved ones living again wait for another time, when the temptation is not so great.
“I’m afraid it’s winner take all.” Methos shrugs, keeping his face neutral with an effort. “Power, memories – everything that makes us who we are is wrapped up in the Quickening, and the battle isn’t necessarily over when someone loses their head. It’s possible for the loser to win the battle for control, if there’s enough of a disparity between the combatants’ ages or strength.”
“A similar – perhaps the same – person, but in a different body from the one they’d worn before. If the one who lost the physical battle wins otherwise.” Henry shakes his head. “And if an Immortal is beheaded by a mortal, or someone akin to what I am? What happens to them then?”
A concern, if Robert doesn’t care to be present when Henry sees to it that Kronos is executed. Henry certainly doesn’t want to have any of his other Immortal friends nearby when that happens, since he doesn’t know what the difference in strength or age is between them and Kronos.
“It all gets lost.” Methos sighs. “We try to avoid that, if at all possible. It’s a waste, one that goes beyond even the waste that the Game is in the first place.”
“An Immortal must be killed by another Immortal for that transfer to take place?” If simply a mortal wielding the weapon that decapitates Kronos will be enough for his knowledge and power to be lost, Henry might have to find some other method. Or find a manner to imprison the man indefinitely. “Or is it some other manner of determining whether the knowledge and power is lost?”
“It’s a matter of proximity – which is why I avoid public beheadings. If you’re close enough to sense someone, you’re close enough to get their Quickening if they lose their head. Doing so in public is a great way to lose your own – or to end up tied to a stake, in this day and age. There are a lot of unpleasant ways to go, but that one’s right up at the top of the list, unless the executioner is feeling merciful.” Methos shakes off the memories that threaten to cling to him, and leans back in his chair again. “Quickenings aren’t an exact science,” he admits. “I made a point of tracking down every Immortal who was older than I am and taking their heads, and I’m still here.”
Henry nods, watching Robert with a faint frown for a long moment. “If you’ll not be present should I have Kronos executed, than there is the risk his Quickening shall be lost – as certainly I would not want any of my friends near to that, and risk them.” He thinks it would be a pity to chance the loss, but the more he thinks on it, the less he thinks it would be entirely a terrible thing.
Methos is silent for a long moment. The idea of wasting everything that Kronos is appalls him, almost as much as the thought of taking a Quickening in public.
“I can’t say that I want to see him lost. He was my brother for a thousand years, and still is, in a way.” Then again, he doesn’t know whether taking Kronos’ head will wake up parts of himself he’d rather leave dormant.
“Then what would you have me do, should he not be willing to leave? I cannot, in good conscience, merely imprison him for an indefinite time, and if he comes, as you have said he will, all you have told me would have me believe he will be a threat to me and to mine.” Henry will not allow a threat to stand, and while he does want to give his new companion some measure of solace in the manner of being rid of this Kronos, he can’t let him live if he’ll harm what Henry seeks to build.
Methos sighs. “In all honesty, I’ll likely have to face him.” Any other Immortal, any other threat, and he’d have been happy to have let Henry handle it. When it comes down to it, though, he can’t let Kronos die on the block. His brother deserves to die with a blade in hand. “We’ll cross that particular bridge when we get to it.”
“I hope for your sake that he does not cause as much trouble as you have given me cause to think he shall.” Henry frowns, before allowing the matter to drop. He’s quiet for a long moment, before he reaches for his tankard once more. “I think ought else shall wait until morning, when I’ve had a chance to settle some of what you’ve told me tonight. Sleep well, my Lord Wellesly.”
For an insane moment, Methos is tempted to suggest that Henry stay. It strikes him as a bad idea even as he thinks it, though, so he holds his tongue. Instead, he smiles faintly, and picks up his own tankard, refilling it with a small rush of power. Resurrecting dead alcohol is one of the few things he genuinely likes about being what he is.
“I’ll be up for a few hours yet,” he says, taking a sip, “but I wish Your Grace pleasant dreams.”
“I think they shall be strange dreams, but I can hope they are indeed pleasant, for all that.” Henry gives Robert a lopsided grin before leaving, closing the door gently behind him. He frowns in thought with the first step down the hall, only enough of his attention turned outward to navigate to the room he’s been given for the night.
Originally Posted: 14 January 2012
Intercepting Letters From the Queen
Fandom: 15th & 16th Century CE RPF, Highlander
AU: Eternal Plantagenet
Word Count: 4256
Characters: Henry of Monmouth | Henry V of England, Methos
When Methos is ordered to Wales with letters from the Queen, he knows the risk of attracting the attention of Henry Lancaster. He doesn’t expect the man he meets.
It’s a miserable afternoon, the sky grey and overcast, the wind fierce and sharp with the first hint of oncoming winter. To add insult to injury, it’s raining, a fine mist that collects on hair and clothing, leaving everyone unfortunate enough to be out in it damp and uncomfortable. Methos, riding at the center of an armed escort, casts a sour look around and wishes he’d had the sense to stay in the Middle East, where it’s almost always warm and dry – or at least at Court, where he would have been able to stay indoors. Unfortunately, he’d been ordered to Wales by the Queen, and she wasn’t the sort of woman who took no for an answer.
Methos pulls his cloak more tightly around him, and wishes all manner of bad luck on Henry Lancaster, whose claim to be Prince of Wales is the reason behind Methos’ temporary exile to this miserable piece of country. He’s been sent to order the nobles here to raise arms and destroy both Lancaster and the men who have flocked to his banner. The armed escort is a token of the Queen’s concern for his safety – or rather, the security of the orders he is to convey. Methos would have preferred to ride alone, as a group of armed men bearing Elizabeth’s colours are certain to attract Lancaster’s attention.
Unfortunately, his current persona is the sort of man who would insist on the escort due his station. Robert Mortimer, Lord Wellesly, is the sort of spoiled young nobleman who flocks to every court Methos has ever seen – in other words, the sort of man guaranteed not to attract any attention, either from the Watchers or from other Immortals. It’s an excellent disguise, and ensures that no one takes Methos at all seriously. He’s always been a fan of being underestimated.
Henry is far too familiar with this sort of weather while on campaigns, both his own, and those of other kings he has fought for in the century and a half since his death outside of Paris. It doesn’t bother him nearly as much as the behavior of the young man being escorted into Wales by soldiers of the woman on the throne that he’s been following for the last several days. Even though he might have been rather callous in his youth – still was, if he was willing to admit it to himself – he’d never quite been as demanding of luxury as this fool was. The occasional roof overhead for him and his closest advisors, and a horse to ride, but this…
He lets his lips twist in a wry smile, shifting his weight as he waits for the men to ride a little further into the ambush he’s set before he gives the signal to spring the trap. He’s drawn the loyalty of the men of Wales by his willingness to take on the same risks as his own soldiers, the same lack of luxury and safety until this is seen through, and he once more wears the crown of England.
The clatter of falling rock is deliberate as he slides down toward the center of the narrow valley, sword sheathed for the moment in favor of the pistol he’s learned how to use in the last few years. Certainly some of the old methods of combat are no longer feasible with the changing times, though the sword will still be useful later if needed.
“Surrender your arms and your missives, and you’ll be free to return to England and the pretender.” He doesn’t give the soldiers a chance to do more than register his presence on the road – and that of the soldiers who are surrounding them on the hills and the road leading deeper into Wales. “Resist, and I’ll take them from your bodies.”
Methos suppresses a string of blistering oaths. Nor does he waste words on bravado, as the captain in charge of his escort is already full of defiant bluster. There’s likely no way out of this trap – the ambush was too cleverly laid – but if he can hurt Lancaster’s forces badly enough, they might withdraw. If they don’t, he can put an end to an identity he’s getting more tired of by the day.
The escort has drawn itself up into a protective circle around him, much to his dismay. Not only does that leave him unable to defend himself, it gives him no chance of getting the dispatches away before they succumb to the weight of superior numbers. For a moment, he’s tempted to simply surrender, but if word of his doing so gets back to the Queen, his head will be forfeit.
Henry isn’t really surprised when the soldiers draw up close to the idiot they’re escorting, nor by the declaration of the captain that he’s a traitor to the crown. It’s still an irritation he won’t let pass without redress, particularly since he has more right to the crown on Elizabeth’s head than she does. He fires the first shot at the captain, though the damned thing goes wide, hitting one of the other soldiers instead. It’s signal enough for the rest of the men to fire, while Henry returns his pistol to its place to draw his sword instead. Unlike that of most men in this era, it’s still the heavy blade he bore at Agincourt and through his long campaigns in France – albeit reclaimed with some difficulty.
It’s also another part of what’s made him popular among his men, though not so much because he bears a sword that is unfashionably heavy as because he can use it to great effect to cut through unsuspecting men. As he does with the startled captain, shattering his head and helm with one powerful blow after dragging him from his horse. It’s a tactic that’s dispersed soldiers in his campaign before, at least in smaller bands like this.
The captain’s death threatens to break the nerve of Methos’ escort, and likely would, if he were to give them the chance to think. Instead, he draws his sword pushing between the two nearest him to face Lancaster and his men directly. They have no chance at all if they stand and fight, but a concerted charge might get them free, and Methos issues the necessary orders in tones that leave no possibility of disobedience. Robert of Wellesly is discarded, at least for the moment, while Methos uses the men he has left to try forcing a path through their assailants.
He’s fought on horseback for thousands of years, and spent ten centuries leading four men against more numerous opponents. If even one of his men had been Immortal, they might well have made it. As it is, they come painfully close before being overwhelmed. Methos is the last to go down, bleeding from half a dozen wounds, his horse dead beneath him. He struggles to his feet, but there are too many of them, and a blow to his head sends him down again, the darkness coming up to meet him. He has just enough time to hope that they’ll kill him, rather than trying to take him prisoner.
A short and brutal battle is not quite what Henry was expecting, but he rises to the challenge with no small amount of joy. That the man he’d taken for a useless example of modern nobility had the skill and command presence to keep the soldiers together and try to fight his way out is more than a little surprising, though, and he gives orders that he’s to be taken alive if possible.
His men are more than willing to do just that, knowing he’ll reward them if they manage to do so, and take his temper out on anyone who might be seen as deliberately ignoring that order if they fail. Once the noble is unhorsed, they quickly swarm him, and as Henry is stepping back to look over the battlefield, bring him a bound figure that he can recognize under the blood as the man who’s intrigued him. Along with the messages he’s carrying, which he’ll read once they’re back at his current headquarters.
“Bring him. And have the doctor see to his wounds when we’re back at camp.” He moves among the soldiers, making sure to dispatch those who aren’t dead yet, and finding some unsoiled bit of fabric to clean the blood and gore from his sword before returning it to its sheath.
Back at the camp, Henry gives the orders that the prisoner is to be constantly guarded, and once he’s been seen to, shackled so he isn’t as likely to leave, at least for the moment. He’ll meet with him as soon as he’s had a chance to wipe the blood from his face, and look over the stolen messages taken from the man. Messages that he has no doubt will be exhortations from Elizabeth for her nobles to turn on the pretender to her throne. He snorts to himself, heading for his own tent, only just enough larger than the rest to hold council in with his commanders. It’s all the more luxury he will allow himself at the moment.
A quick wash and a change from battle-dress to clean clothing, and Henry settles in to read what Elizabeth has to say regarding him and his insurrection. Waiting on word regarding the prisoner, and how soon he might be conscious after the blow he took to the head. The sooner he can interrogate him, the sooner he’ll have more answers than the written words can supply.
Methos comes painfully back to consciousness, with a pair of hands tugging at his clothes. He shoves them away and sits up, only then realizing that the man who’d been trying to undress him wore physician’s robes. There are two guards in Lancaster’s colours, both watching him sharp-eyed.
“My lord,” the physician says, “I have been ordered to see to your wounds.”
This needs to be headed off in a hurry. “I’ve no injury that requires a physician’s attention,” Methos says flatly.
“My lord —”
“Get out of here,” Methos orders. The doctor hovers nervously for a few more seconds, then departs, shoulders hunched nervously.
He’s tempted to fight when they put him in shackles, but as he’d likely get caught before he’d gone ten paces, he submits, protesting the entire time. Shackles are beneath Robert of Wellesly’s dignity – and they’ll make escape that much harder on Methos.
The news from the physician is a bit startling, and Henry frowns thoughtfully. He’s certain that the man had taken wounds in that fight – and there was the head wound to consider – and yet the physician had seen no sign of anything to trouble him. Other than a stubborn man he didn’t truly feel he could argue with, as he’s clearly of noble birth. At least, as far as the doctor’s concerned he is.
“Thank you.” Henry dismisses him with a wave of his hand, sitting back on his camp stool as he contemplates this revelation. It’s likely the man’s an Immortal, if he truly has no wounds to show for the battle, and while Henry isn’t particularly worried about what will happen to him if the world finds out he’s immortal – whatever made him so, and is keeping him so, doesn’t seem to have much in the way of limits – he knows that if the man’s Immortal after the same fashion as Matthew, he’ll not like to share in such information with the world.
Sending word that he wants the prisoner brought to his tent, so he might interrogate the man himself, Henry returns to his reading of the letters, making sure he has all the names from them so he knows who Elizabeth thinks are still loyal to her. Some of whom he knows are very much against her, and others which he’s not as confident of, so errs on the side of caution and keeps them out of his councils. He’ll take their money, and their fealty when he regains his crown, but for now, he won’t trust them. In truth, likely won’t trust them well even once his throne is once more his own.
Methos spends the walk to Lancaster’s tent looking around at the camp, noting what he can of their defenses, their numbers, and the dispositions of Lancaster’s troops. If he does manage to escape, and should he decide to return to Elizabeth’s court, the information might prove useful.
The comparitively dim interior of the tent renders it temporarily difficult to see, but when his eyes adjust, Methos can’t help approving of the spartan decoration and lack of luxuries, one of the marks of a good commander. Troops are always more loyal to a man who shares their lot, and too many generals forget that.
“I really must protest,” he says, lifting his hands to display the shackles on his wrists. “If you want my parole, ask – but I’ll not endure being placed in chains like a common criminal.”
“Better shackles than dead.” Henry shrugs, gesturing for the captain with the keys to unchain his prisoner. “You’ll forgive me if I prefer not to take a chance of your escape before I’d a chance to know who I might be risking the escape of.” The soldiers guarding the prisoner withdraw to the outside of the tent, where he trusts they’ll effect an inability to hear the conversation inside.
He sets aside the last letter again, watching the man for a long moment with an expression that is difficult to read. “Who are you?”
“Robert Mortimer, Lord Wellesly,” Methos says, chin lifting slightly. “Special envoy of Her Majesty, Elizabeth Tudor.” He lets his eyes linger on the papers Lancaster had been going through, then looks up and meets the man’s gaze. “As I said, my parole will hold me as effectively as these shackles – unless you’re questioning my honour?” It’s a thought that offends Robert down to his very bones. Methos just finds it amusing.
A smile curls the corners of Henry’s lips, and he shrugs. “It depends on just how long you’ve been alive, Robert.” He deliberately uses the man’s Christian name, though he’s not certain it’s the man’s true name. “My physician tells me you’ve no wounds to speak of, which is a miracle in a pitched battle. Miracle or sorcery.
"As it is, I only trust you as much as I would any prisoner – not very much at all. Even a noble will go back on his word if he believes it will better suit his ambitions.” He lets his smile widen a little. “And if you try to escape, be very sure I won’t ever meet you again, because I’ll have you beheaded.”
Methos goes very still, feeling suddenly exposed. Lancaster’s last threat, coupled with the rest of the hints he’s dropped, suggests that he didn’t hit on beheading accidentally. Methos’ glance at the man’s wrists is reflexive, and tells him nothing, as they’re both covered.
“What do you want from me?” It’s a nicely ambiguous question, covering all eventualities without acknowledging Lancaster’s hints.
“I don’t know yet.” Henry thinks the man might make a fine commander, if he could trust him not to turn those men back on Henry. Though if he can find a way best to bribe the man, what he might want, he might just be able to make effective use of him. “For now, though, no further interference to my goal, that of regaining my thrones of England and France.”
He leans back on his stool a moment, considering the man carefully. “Though later, perhaps I might find more use for you. Certainly I’ve found it’s worth listening to the advice of those older than I.” Even if he didn’t always heed such advice, as when he’d chosen to return to England now rather than wait a while longer for his reign, his name, and his face to fade from memory. Though the latter, perhaps, has faded enough that mortals won’t remember it, even though they still remember the rest.
“I doubt there’s that much difference in our ages,” Methos says, lifting an eyebrow. “You’re not planning on ransoming me, then?” That’s the common practice with captured noblemen. That Lancaster apparently has something else in mind is more than a little disconcerting.
“What family would you have to ransom you, Robert?” Henry raises an eyebrow. “Whatever has aided you in remaining unwounded also ensures you’ll have no family of your blood to wish you back.” Nor does Henry, at this point, not who he’ll claim. The Tudors perhaps might be considered his closest family, but after the last three reigns, he wishes nothing better than to repudiate them and take his crown back from them.
“My steward will pay my ransom,” Methos says, trying to keep his voice even. He can’t help darting a glance around, looking for a means of escape he knows doesn’t exist. He’s been in the power of mortals who have known his secret before, and it’s never ended well. “I assure you, I’m not lacking in funds.”
Henry chuckles, shaking his head. “I’m not ransoming you, because I don’t want you to leave.” He shifts, drawing the small eating dagger he keeps easily to hand, clearing away papers he doesn’t want dripped on by accident. “And you’ve my word I won’t see you harmed if you do not give me reason to do so. I’ve no need to waste the talents of those who are given long life through no fault of their own, though I know not what or who to blame for such sorcery.”
That which causes Immortals like Matthew and Robert, nor whatever it is that sustains him. Henry draws his knife across his hand, a clean cut clear to the bone that doesn’t bleed nearly as much as it ought, healing with a faint hint of something that he’s never quite caught a glimpse of. Like a shadow seen out of the corner of the eye that vanishes when seen full-on. It’s his own way to demonstrate that he truly has no desire to harm others who have lost the ability to age and die as mortal men must.
Methos keeps his expression impassive, even as his heart feels as though it’s skipped a beat. Lancaster is no Immortal – but he’s clearly no mortal, either.
“I’m not sure what talents you think I possess,” Methos says, his voice giving away none of his perturbation, “nor why you think I might wish to employ them on your behalf, even should they exist.” He’s long since stopped caring who sits on what throne, and despite his admiration for Elizabeth’s skills as a ruler, it doesn’t much matter to him if Lancaster succeeds in taking England from her. What does matter is that Lancaster apparently knows how to kill him. Methos tries to avoid anyone who possesses that knowledge, whether they’re mortal, Immortal, or whatever Lancaster is.
“Besides,” he adds, glancing once again at Lancaster’s uninjured hand, “I’m not sure that I am older than you. Healing abilities don’t necessarily translate into any great age.”
“Perhaps not.” Henry shrugs, returning his knife to its place. “But if you’re not very old, you’re certainly more a military genius than you allow others to think.” He leans back on his stool once more. “I could use another commander who’s difficult to kill in battle, and has the skills and knowledge to inspire men as you did today.” He could use him as such, but doesn’t know if he’d trust him in that position. Not yet.
Methos studies Henry for a long moment, weighing his options. He has a feeling that the man has no intention of taking ‘no’ for an answer. This isn’t an insurmountable obstacle, even if Henry does know how to kill an Immortal. So had Kronos.
On the other hand, Methos can’t help being a little tempted by the offer. It’s been decades since he was last in command of a military force, and longer than that since he involved himself in directly in politics. The challenge of helping Henry to gain the throne is an appealing one, and would provide an outlet for the restlessness that’s been building up for the past few years.
“And if I do agree to help you?” he asks finally.
“Than I grant you title, estate, and have a priest to sanctify as much of the grounds as you desire around whatever manor house you chose. To do with it as you see fit, so long as you don’t attempt to forment rebellion against me.” Henry pauses, watching Robert with a small smile curling his lips. “Save for the lands that belong to the Earl of Salisbury.” Which he’ll return to Matthew as soon as he’s on the throne, as the loyalty of the Immortal over the decades should be rewarded.
“And what, exactly, do you expect of me in return?” Methos keeps his voice and expression as neutral as he can, though internally he’s cursing Salisbury for being nine kinds of fool. He has no idea what could have possessed the man, to have shared so much with someone who wasn’t Immortal, and he intends to have a pointed discussion with Salisbury the next time they meet.
“Your military ability put to good use regaining my thrones of England and France. Your loyalty. Proper forfieture of taxes from properties granted to you, and continued military service when recalled to such, so long as you retain the titles granted to you. Which regardless of any public or private temporary death, you will.” And if he suffers a permanent death, the titles and lands granted him would revert to the crown, and Henry would still have everything from them save Robert himself.
It’s an offer tailored to appeal to any Immortal, and in this, at least, Methos is no exception. His only concern is over tying himself to one location. It makes him too easy to find, should one of his enemies – or his erstwhile brother – come looking for him. Still, the idea of a place that’s his, rather than the possession of one or another of his aliases, is not something he wishes to refuse.
“And if I have to absent myself for a time?” he asks.
“Do so without informing me – before you leave or as soon as you have the chance – and I’ll revoke your titles and put a price on your head.” Henry’s smile is edged as he watches Robert. “Otherwise, it matters little. I do not expect that those of your sort shall remain in one place for always. Even I do not think I shall forever remain in England and France.”
Conquest now will satisfy a need for travel as much as a desire to bring other lands under his domain, though he doesn’t expect much beyond his thrones at the moment. The challenge is enough for now. That it is unlikely to remain so, he knows, but will worry with later.
Methos is silent for a few seconds longer, then nods decisively. “Agreed.” He’s made worse bargains in his time, and if Lancaster’s demands begin to chafe, he can always disappear. After all, he’s managed to hide from Kronos for millenia.
“You said regain,” he adds after a moment. “When did you rule England, then?”
“I was crowned on the ninth of April in 1413.” Henry smiles to himself, remembering the snow that had fallen that day, while he rode to Westminster Abbey to receive his crown. “Twenty days after my father died.” And he’d spent a little more than nine years on the throne, coming close to being crowned king of France as well, if Charles had died sooner, or he’d lived just a few months longer.
Methos lifts an eyebrow. He’d been in a monastery in Spain while Henry had held England’s throne, but news of the man’s martial prowess had reached him even there.
“And you need my skills?” It’s a rhetorical question, and he doesn’t wait for a reply. “Very well; they’re at your disposal.”
Henry chuckles, standing from his stool. “Good. Then I’ll accept your parole about camp, and I’ll expect you at council when I send for you. For now, I’ll have a tent found for you in the baggage, if there’s one to be had, or a bedroll if not.” There isn’t really much to the baggage, since he’s trying to travel as light as possible, the better to march swiftly and strike where the pretender Elizabeth doesn’t expect him to be.
“I can take care of it myself,” Methos assures him. “Especially if your men managed to hang onto my horse. My only request is the return of my weapons.” There are no other Immortals in the camp, but that doesn’t make Methos feel any more comfortable without his sword.
“The dead were left behind, though the men were buried as well as we might. Your baggage is likely among our own by now, though otherwise should be untouched.” If his men had obeyed his standing orders about the property of prisoners and the dead. It would be sorted later, and distributed to the families of their own slain, so they might have some recompense for the loss of their men.
Raising his voice slightly, Henry recalls the guards, and gives the captain instructions to assist Lord Wellesly to locate his belongings among the new additions to the baggage, and return to him his weapons, as Henry has accepted his parole.
Originally Posted: 7 November 2010
The Favor of a Goddess
Fandom: 15th Century CE RPF, Highlander, Irish Mythology
AU: Eternal Plantagenet
Word Count: 4324
Characters: Henry V of England, Matthew McCormick, The Morrígan
A raven takes flight, and a king wakes to a renewed life.
She wraps the threads around the corpse, gossamer strands as invisible as she. Twisted and woven and knotted in intricate patterns no one would see that didn’t have some measure of deity to them. Working as they travel, carrying the body from where the warrior king fell prey to something so ordinary as disease, binding the soul that trails ever closer beside her as she tightens the weaving that holds him to his body. Never caring for his fury at being kept from the heaven he believes in, or the fear that his combined kingdom, so close to being realized, will be lost with his death. He will not remember this when she is done; the twilight between the living and the dead not a thing to be known to either.
She finishes as those who bear the heavy burden set it in its wooden casket in a church while they make secure the ship that will carry it across the wind-whipped channel between the mainland and the island her newest favorite once called home. Perhaps one day will call home again, but not soon, as she knows the man who keeps watch over the body will not allow it, no matter how strange he will think this. Smiling to herself, she collects the nails that hold the coffin shut with a thought, perching on the roof for a moment in a form that many feel is an evil omen.
A raucous call echoes off the church bell as a raven takes flight, vanishing into the lowering cloud cover and vanishing more completely once shrouded from mortal eyes. None in the town below think just what the omen is, though some cross themselves to ward against evil. Save for one, who is trying to figure out just what he’s doing in a casket.
Henry reaches up a hand that shakes more than he would like, and less than he expects, to shove aside the wooden planks that are close to his face. Waiting a moment as they clatter to the floor, gathering strength a moment before reaching to pull himself up. He doesn’t know what has brought him back, though his first thought is some black magic, until he sees that he’s in a church. Such a spell shouldn’t be able to take hold in a house of God, but he’s still not convinced it’s a miracle either, though why, he can’t quite say.
Looking around, he pauses when he sees one of his council, one of the few who’d been in Paris when he fell ill, and had been able to get to him before he could be captured by enemy French. “My Earl of Salisbury.”
There are questions he would like answers to, but he cannot think of how to word them without sounding a fool or mad, neither of which he likes the idea of.
The death of a king is always serious business. The death of this king is a tragedy, and Matthew finds the iron-grey skies and the chill wind entirely appropriate to the sombre mood that has gripped him since Henry’s passing. He hasn’t mourned a monarch this deeply since the Black Prince was lost to him and to England, and had volunteered to accompany Henry’s body back across the Channel, his grief nearly as heavy as his sense of responsibility. It is one last service he can perform for one of the kings he’s been proudest to serve.
By the time they reach Calais, night is falling. Henry is laid temporarily to rest before the altar of the church there, and Matthew stays to keep vigil while the rest of the escorting party goes to secure rooms and a meal. His faith is no longer a thing of unquestioning certainty, as it was during his mortal life, but Holy Ground is a refuge nonetheless, and he’s glad to have been given this hour alone with his king.
He seats himself in the front pew, his gaze on the cross hanging over the altar, and lets his mind wander. It might be time to fake his own death, though it will mean giving up the title that’s been his since he was fourteen. He’s not sure he wants to continue serving his king, now that that king is no longer Henry.
Movement at the foot of the altar catches his eye, and he’s on his feet, sword drawn before he can process the thought, a chill of superstitious horror running down the back of his neck as the lid of the coffin lifts, then falls to the floor with a clatter. There’s no sense of Immortal presence; no reason for the corpse to be moving – but moving it is, and corpse it isn’t – not any more.
“Your Majesty.” He answers Henry automatically – then gropes for the pew behind him and sits without looking back. Distantly, the irony of it all – an Immortal, startled by a resurrected mortal – registers, but only distantly.
The shock on Salisbury’s face is enough to tell Henry there is little chance of an answer to his questions from him, though he didn’t in truth expect any. Other than perhaps one answer which he can give him, and from there, determine just what might be done. “How long have I been dead?”
For he’s entirely certain – and for more cause than the casket in which he sits – that he has been dead, no matter that he is no longer in such a state. He can’t recall anything that might give him some small inkling as to why he is no longer dead, nothing but the chill-inducing cry of a raven that greeted him as woke, and seemed to echo into his bones. An ill-favored omen, though of what, he wouldn’t know.
“Two days, sire.” Matthew stands back up, still staring wonderingly at Henry. “Longer than…” He shakes his head, letting the sentence go unfinished. Longer than any pre-Immortal would have stayed dead, certainly; otherwise, Matthew would be wondering if his Immortality had somehow deserted him. It’s likely futile to ask the king if he knows why he’s alive – Matthew himself certainly hadn’t known after his own first death – but he can’t stop himself. “Your Majesty, do you know how this came to be? Did you – do you remember anything?” It’s the one mystery to which he knows he’ll never get the answer. He very much doubts that Immortals get anything like an afterlife.
“Naught but that last I recalled a soft bed and a roof of stone above my head.” Henry curls his hands around the edge of the casket again, pushing himself to his feet, though he sways, and has to catch himself on the altar in which the casket is laid in front of. “To come awake after with plain planks above my head and an evil call of raven to pierce the fog of death.”
He looks over at Salisbury once he’s certain of his balance, stepping out of the casket, glad for the boots that had to have been placed on his feet after he’d been dead. “What would you have said before, when you said that two days was longer?”
Matthew hesitates. It can do no harm to tell Henry of Immortals. The throne is no longer his, and even if it were, his own resurrection must necessarily be kept a secret as well, lest men think him one of any number of supernatural terrors. Still, the habit of two centuries’ secrecy is difficult to overcome. In the end, though, it’s the memory of his own confusion upon first returning to life that prompts him to honesty.
“I was going to say, sire, that it lasted longer than I would have expected, had I been expecting your resurrection.” Matthew smiles faintly. “My own death lasted no more than a few hours.”
“Your own death?” Henry steps away from the altar, settling onto one of the wooden benches when a moment’s dizziness threatened to drop him. That one of his own nobles – one he’s trusted nearly as much as his own youngest brothers and dear uncle – has held something like this a secret bothers him, though perhaps not as much now as it might have before. Death has brought it’s own bit of perspective.
“Yes, my lord.” Matthew seats himself as well, now that etiquette will permit it. “I took a sharpened lance to the chest in tourney that proved temporarily fatal.”
Unconsciously, he lifts his hand to rub at the spot where his death-wound had once been. There’s not even a hint of a scar, something that still disturbs him from time to time, even after the passage of nearly two centuries. “I’ve never seen a mortal come back from the dead – though I’m not sure you are mortal any longer, not entirely. I don’t know what you are, save that you are still Henry, and my liege.”
That much Henry doesn’t doubt, but to hear Salisbury express that loyalty is a boon that he didn’t expect. “Your words commend you well to us, our Earl of Salisbury. Tell me, what of my crowns of England and of France?”
He doesn’t expect that they’ll still be his, though his son is still far too young to even give thought to them as anything other than something he might drool upon and gum at. And he worries that his brothers might not be so united without him there to watch over them – power is ever something that draws a man like a moth to flame.
“The crown of England has passed to your son, sire, and John, your lord brother serves him as regent,” Matthew tells him. “Charles holds the crown of France, though if the Troyes accord holds, that too will be your son’s in time.”
Matthew looks steadily at Henry. “Whoever holds them, though, sire, it is no longer any concern of yours. My allegiance is to you, rather than to the thrones to which you can no longer lay claim.” This is always the hardest part for new Immortals, and Matthew doesn’t doubt that Henry, too, will struggle with the idea of walking away from his old life.
Henry’s face darkens with a scowl at the idea that he would no longer hold either the crown he inherited, nor the one he had fought for the last seven years to obtain and hold. And never quite got to call his own, as Charles had not yet died when he himself had done so. A phrase that he finds quite disconcerting to even think, and that makes him pause to think further before he speaks.
“Perhaps for now they are not my own, but I shall not forget that they once were mine, and shall once more be mine, when time enough has passed that the world might not immediately recall to mind a king who has died to unite the crowns of England and France as one.”
“That may take longer than you think, sire,” Matthew says dryly. “A generation, at the least – and though my kind stops aging after their first death, I’m afraid I have no idea as to whether or not you have done the same.” He hesitates before continuing, but only for a moment. “If you have, my lord, then I pledge you my sword, and you have my sworn word that once enough time has passed, I will use it to help you regain both of your crowns.”
It’s less than Henry would like, but it will suit for now, while he figures out what has happened to him. And figure out how to regain his crowns without usurping the thrones from his own son and heir, which he doesn’t much like the idea of, once he gives the matter some thought. So long as his son remains on the throne, regardless of anything else, he will keep himself to the shadows at the edges of his countries, if not elsewhere altogether. It wouldn’t be such a bad thing to travel, perhaps.
Matthew gets to his feet, glancing over his shoulder at the entrance to the church. “And now, sire, we need to make ourselves scarce.” Being burnt at the stake once is more than enough, even for an Immortal lifetime. Matthew has no desire to repeat the experience, especially as he doesn’t know whether or not Henry will survive it. “In fact, it might be better to get out of France altogether.”
Standing up himself, Henry follows Salisbury’s look briefly before looking at the other man. Older, likely, and certainly more experienced in what it meant to be immortal, regardless of whatever differences there may be between them.
“For my name, and likely my face, will be as known here as in England. Nor would it be good to go to Denmark or its vassal countries, or Spain.” He has relatives in all of those places, even though his face might not be as readily recognized. Henry doesn’t know where to go, really, though he supposes at the moment, finding the fastest route out of France is likely best. “Through the Germanies, perhaps, and east.”
He’d never had the chance to think of going so far abroad when he’s had England and France to tend to, and while he intends to have both of those back, for now he’ll travel and learn more of the world. Perhaps find places to serve as a soldier for others, and learn their tactics and methods of warfare to add to his own.
“I see no reason not to go east,” Matthew says after a moment. “Though I’ll need to send a messenger back to England at the first possible moment. We’ll need money, and I need to make arrangements concerning my estates, and those who live on them.” He’s unwilling to simply abandon his responsibilities, no matter the circumstances. Corwin will make a decent temporary steward, provided he can be persuaded to settle down until Matthew has made other arrangements.
Henry nods, acknowledging that need, although he’s fairly certain that once others who are likely accompanying his body back to England discover his body is gone, as is the Earl of Salisbury, they’ll want Salisbury’s head. “Enough money to start traveling, but not too much. We can work our way, soldiers or guards or what’s needed.”
If he works, even as a soldier, he suspects he’ll be less recognized for who he is, because few pay much attention to common soldiers, as he’s seen time and time again in his war with France.
“Once we’re out of France, anyway,” Matthew agrees. “I’d rather not have to worry about being paid with coins that bear your likeness, or by men who’ve seen you, even from a distance. France and England will both be closed to us for at least a generation, if not longer.” There will be an uproar when Henry’s body is discovered to be missing, and Matthew’s life and lands will both be forfeit, unless he borrows a page out of Corwin’s book. “In the meantime – there’s an empty house at the outskirts of town, to the north. Can you make your way there without being seen?”
“If you’ll lend me your cloak, yes.” Henry doesn’t want to be walking through the town without some way to hide his face, even if it were full dark. Too much a risk for anyone seeing him and recognizing his face. He holds out his hand for the cloak, giving Salisbury a steady look.
“In a moment.” Matthew draws his dagger, and hands it to Henry, hilt-first. “I’d rather avoid being hunted across France. The habit of beheading the nobility would have permanently disasterous consequences for me.” He draws his sword next, pushing up his sleeve and laying his arm open to bloody the blade. “There,” he says, wincing as the wound knits itself back together. “That will make it appear as if I fought.” He grins at Henry. “I have a student who specializes in creative dishonesty.”
Henry raises an eyebrow, a little amused, and very curious about how Salisbury’s wound heals itself before his eyes in a show of blue sparks that he can only call sorcery, even if they’re not of any conscious doing on Salisbury’s part. “My brothers will still blame you for my disappearance, regardless.” Hopefully not enough to have Salisbury arrested on the spot, and taken away in chains, as he’ll appreciate the company as he travels.
“Not after they find my corpse.” Matthew nods at the dagger in Henry’s hand. “I intend to be very dead when the rest of the party returns. It’s hard to assign blame to a man who died protecting his king’s body.” It’s a plan Corwin would be proud of. “If you would do the honors? Be sure to leave the dagger in, though, or it won’t stick.”
Giving Salisbury a long look, Henry hoped the same sorcery that had healed the wound earlier would, indeed, prevent Salisbury from remaining dead, once the dagger was removed. He suspects whatever poor soul does the honors of preparing the body later will be given a fright. “Your cloak, first – it’ll be easier to cross town if there’s no blood on it.”
Once the cloak is safely set aside, he moves forward quickly, driving the dagger into Salisbury’s chest, piercing his heart and burying the blade to the hilt between his ribs. He grimaces at the blood on his hands, if only for a moment before grabbing the cloak to wrap it around himself. Slipping out of the church, and into the streets of what he recognizes now as Calais. An English-held town and one where he’ll be far too recognizable if he stays on the streets for any longer than it takes to find the house Salisbury had spoken of.
The streets of Calais are as black as pitch, illuminated only by the moon overhead and the occasional lighted window. Matthew sneaks along them as quietly as he can, keeping an ear out for the tread of approaching feet. He’s still almost vibrating with the adrenalin from his return to life. It’s not as bad as if he’d taken a Quickening; still, it’s difficult to keep his steps measured and silent rather than to hurry along.
It seems to take forever to reach the house at which Henry should be waiting, especially as each sound in the darkness seems magnified tenfold. By the time he’s reached it, and is tapping quietly on the door, he’s about ready to jump out of his skin.
In the hours since he’s arrived in the small, empty house, Henry’s been hard-pressed to keep from pacing until night fell, listening to the people on the streets outside with a tension that didn’t ease until dark fell, and the streets emptied. The tap on the door nearly makes him jump, and then silently curse at his nerves, crossing the main room of the house to open the door. While it could be someone other than Salisbury, he doubts it. No one else knows there’s anyone here to answer the door, after all, and he’s not lit a candle or fire to give them thought otherwise.
Matthew slips in through the ope door and closes it behind him, pushing the hood of his cloak back from his face.
“Well, we’ve certainly managed to turn the town on its head,” he says, grinning widely. He’s beginning to understand why Corwin spends so much time sneaking around. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there was a house-to-house search on the morrow.”
Henry’s surprised they hadn’t started one before the sun set, though it’s as well there wasn’t any. “Then we’d best not be here when the sun rises.” Now that he’s planning to travel, and to explore just what his return from the dead means for him before he reclaims his kingdoms, he doesn’t want to be found alive and well by his brothers. Even if he managed to convince them to overlook the sorcery that’s caused this, he has little confidence he will do the same with eccesiastical authorities, and doesn’t care to find out what that will mean for his kingdoms or his son.
“My thought exactly – though we both need to change before leaving. My bloodstains and your funeral finery will attract far too much attention on the road.” He unslings the pack he’d been carrying and deposits it on the floor between them. “I managed to get some more appropriate clothing. I had to guess as to your size, but it ought to fit well enough.”
Reaching down to open the pack, Henry pulls out the clothing inside, sorting out what looks to be close to his size. He doesn’t much mind if the clothing isn’t well-fitted, as it will better disguise him while he travels, as his borrowing of cloaks or other clothing had helped to disguise him when he walked among his men before a battle. Leaving off his royal garb, though, causes a twinge of discomfort, particularly since he’s not donning battle-dress to replace it.
“And from these clothes, I shall dismiss the thought of riding a horse or taking passage on a ship until we are further afield.” For the clothing was of someone common-born, and not well-off enough, he expects, to afford horse or sea-passage.
“For now,” Matthew agrees, beginning the process of undressing. “I’ve enough money with me to buy better clothes and a pair of horses; we’ll do that at the next town. I can’t afford to be in peasant garb for long. I have to keep my sword, and it will attract too much attention if I’m dressed in this fashion.”
Henry strips swiftly, pulling on the borrowed clothing in the stead of his former garb. His brothers, he’s sure, will wonder at them being left behind, when his body is nowhere to be found. “Why must you keep the sword?” Beside the fact it is likely one made specifically for Salisbury. Though if they aren’t to be soldiers in this first part, Henry thinks it might be best they were as unarmed at the peasants they’re pretending to be.
“It’s part and parcel of Immortality.” Matthew slants a glance at Henry. “Well. My sort of Immortality, anyway.” He hadn’t intended to explain the Game, but if they do encounter another Immortal, Henry needs to know what to expect. “Without it, I’m defenceless against others of my kind and likely to end up permanently dead. You saw me heal. Another Immortal can take that power, should he manage to behead me, and there are those out there who will try.”
That certainly would make having the sword to defend himself worth the risk of someone taking note of a peasant carrying a weapon that is reserved for the higher classes.
“But whatever sorcery is keeping me alive is of a different sort altogether, and should not require a weapon to maintain it.” At least Henry hopes that’s so, or he’ll have to rely on Salisbury to defend him until he can once more obtain a proper sword.
Matthew nods. “I can’t sense you, which means you’re not my kind of Immortal. If you were, we’d have had to put off travelling until I’d finished teaching you.” Henry is a skilled swordsman, but Immortal challenges are another beast altogether. “It took ten years before my teacher was willing to let me go, and I was no slouch with a blade even as a mortal.”
“You can sense others who bear the same sorcery in their veins?” Henry is curious about what Salisbury is, and what that will mean for their travels. If Salisbury can sense others of his kind, there is the curiosity if he’ll avoid them or confront them, or leave the option to them as to which direction an encounter might take. And how much attention that will draw to them in itself, and never mind who Henry was.
“And those who will become Immortal,” Matthew confirms. “It’s one of the reasons your return from death startled me so badly. Had you been destined to become Immortal, I’d have gotten you away before your death – and likely put a dagger through you. One of us whose first death comes from age or illness will stay dead. It takes violence to activate Immortality.” Unconsciously, he rubs at the spot under his heart where the lance that had felled him had pierced his chest.
It’s a little more to tell him how the sorcery works, but he doesn’t pretend to truly understand it, or wish to understand it. Or rather, how Salisbury’s sorcery works. Whatever has caused his continued life, he still has no thoughts as to what it could be. Henry remains silent as he finishes pulling on the borrowed clothing, waiting for Salisbury to be ready so they can leave. The sooner they’re on the road, the better he’ll like it.
Matthew finishes dressing, then packs away what they’d been wearing before straightening.
“Time to go, sire,” he says. “Though from now on, I’ll have to use your name, if we’re to avoid the curiosity of anyone in earshot. Fortunately, Henry is a common enough name that you can keep it, if you like.”
Henry nods. “Titles will keep until I have my crown once more.” His and Salisbury’s alike, though he doesn’t recall that he’s ever taken the time to learn Salisbury’s name. “What is your Christian name, my Earl of Salisbury?”
“Matthew.” His sword goes into a blanket, which then gets tied carefully to ensure that it won’t come open at an inopportune moment. “Another name that’s heard often enough not to be remarked upon.” Matthew glances around, making sure that they’ve left nothing behind. The dust will bear signs of their presence, but that alone won’t be enough to do anything but cause suspicion. Lifting the pack onto his back once more, Matthew holds the door open. “After you, my… Henry.”
Notes: While this is trying to work from history, the characterization of Henry is heavily influenced by Shakespeare. In later stories, also influenced by various other portrayals of the time periods in which they are set.
Originally Posted: 2 November 2010
Egyptian Sword
Fandom: Harry Potter, Highlander
AU: Shadows and Shades
Series: The Travel Collection
Word Count: 478
Characters: Marcus Constantine, Severus Snape
Severus Snape finds an interesting sword at a Muggle museum, one that has a history stranger than he expects.
With Voldemort dead, his role at Hogwarts reverted to nothing more than a simple teacher, and he couldn’t stand the children nearly that much. So Severus made arrangements to sell Spinner’s End, and his safe house in Kent, the money to be placed in his Gringott’s vault. He resigned his position at Hogwarts, though he at least gave Dumbledore the benefit of remaining until the end of the year.
He had a modest little house in the French countryside that his mother had spoken of when he was young. Not too far from Paris, but far enough that he didn’t have to deal with the city if he didn’t care to.
It’s on one of his infrequent trips into that city, to sell some of the potions he brews and purchase some of the more exotic ingredients that he runs into the first Immortal he’s seen since Methos had walked away from Kronos’ corpse.
At first, Marcus Constantine is nothing impressive, though his little museum does catch Severus’s attention. Ancient artifacts that are, to those who don’t know any better, impressive simply for their age. Most even are nothing more than that. One, though, makes him frown and wonder how a Muggle got his hands on an artifact from what had to be an Egyptian wizard.
It becomes a different sort of curiosity when he returns later, when there are fewer patrons, to more closely examine the artifact, without the glass that the museum puts in the way. Disarming Muggle alarms is easy enough, but he can’t properly inspect the item if he’s under any sort of concealment spell – and that is apparently enough to attract the attention of Constantine.
“I would ask what you’re doing here, if you were the first wizard to come back after hours to look at that sword.” Constantine is at the doorway to the exhibit, where he can dodge to the side at any sign that Severus is going to attack him. An idea that had momentarily crossed his mind, but that Severus had dismissed as too amatuer.
He raises an eyebrow instead, waiting for an explanation of that particular observation, though he wonders how he’d been identified as a wizard.
“The sword belonged to a dear friend. She wasn’t a wizard herself, but she had friends who were, at the time.” A brief smile crossed Constantine’s face. “Marcus Constantine.”
“Snape.” He could afford some courtasy now, but he wasn’t willing to provide his entire name. And Constantine’s brief explanation wasn’t truly satisfactory, but it did answer some questions. Snape doubted there were many Immortals of any appreciable age who weren’t at least aware that magic is very real.
“Join me for a drink, and I’ll tell you some of the story of that sword.” Not all of it, but Snape isn’t surprised. He does, though, surprise himself by taking Constantine’s offer.
Originally Posted: 21 June 2012
Like the rest of the word Methos spent that sommer day in July 1969 glued to either his TV or the radio. He didn’t want to miss even one moment. Today proved that the world could still hold something new even for a 5000 year old man.
Who would have thought that mankind would ever be able to leave this planet they have called home for so many millennia? Who’d have thought they could ever put a man on the moon?
And now there they were, Armstrong and his crew, stepping out onto the surface of Earth’s eternal companion, so near yet so far.
That night Methos had taken a bottle of champagne and a blanket out to the open fields and just celebrated. It would truly be the beginning of a new age now, he was sure. The moon would only be the beginning. Humanity had never been good at accepting boundaries, accepting when someone said “It’s impossible!”.
Like Daedalus they had envisioned they could fly and no matter how many times gravity pulled them back to the ground they had kept on trying.
They had dreamt of cannons strong enough to shoot people to the moon and they had not given up until they had made that dream come true.
What would their next nearly unattainable goal be? He had let himself fall onto his back, the alcohol was making him feel nicely warm and drowsy, and had just stared at the innumerable stars above him. Which one would be their next destination?
Maybe one day when he could be sure it was quite safe, or when he couldn’t resist the temptation any longer, he would find a way to fly up there in one of their space crafts. Who knows? He might even get to meet extraterrestrials?
Fandom: The Borgias (Showtime), Highlander
AU: Shadows and Shades
Series: Priest, Doctor, and Madonna
Word Count: 3917
Characters: Cesare Borgia, Lucrezia Borgia, Methos
The physician that Cesare is hiring is just a bit odd.
Cesare had asked Micheletto to find a physician who could be very discreet, and his pet assassin had been very prompt about bringing him back the name and location of such a physician. He hadn’t brought the physician himself, but Cesare’s fairly certain that’s because he’d told Micheletto not to do so. This is something that requires slightly more diplomacy and tact than it does force, and that means Cesare needs to do it himself.
He keeps the hood of his cloak up, hiding his face from the populace as he makes his way down twilight-darkening streets to the small but well-kept house that Micheletto had given him the direction to. Knocking on the door, and waiting patiently for the man or his servant – if he has one – to open it. He likely wouldn’t be quite so patient, he thinks, if he didn’t know Lucrezia is well looked after at the convent. As it is, that knowledge is the only thing that keeps him waiting rather than pounding on the door to summon the physician more swiftly.
Methos puts his journal aside with a sigh when he hears the knock on his door. He enjoys practicing medicine, likes undoing, however temporarily, some of the damage the world can do to mortals. He does, however, sometimes tire of being subject to interruption at any time of the day or night. Nevertheless, he gets to his feet and crosses the room, leaving his sword in its corner. There’s no hint of Presence, and the dagger up his sleeve is sufficient to deal with any mortal threat, even in this part of the city. He pulls open the door, and though he lifts an eyebrow at the cloaked and hooded figure on his front step, he steps aside without comment, and with a gesture of invitation.
Cesare steps inside with a smirk crossing his face at the trust of the physician – for all that Cesare has no intention of being dangerous right now, he still could be. He waits for the door to be shut behind him, and the prying eyes of the street to be closed out with the sight of it before he lowers the hood of his cloak. “I’ve heard you’re a very discreet physician.”
Tact, this might require, but Cesare isn’t interested in the sort of tact that means dancing around the subject for long. Just the sort that doesn’t involve threatening the physician in order to get what he wants – at least not for now. He’s not discarding it as a possibility altogether.
Methos’ other eyebrow slips upward, though in surprise rather than in private amusement. He’d had several guesses as to the nature of his visitor, but he hadn’t expected Cesare Borgia, at this hour or at any other. He has some noble patients, but most of his work is done among the lower classes, as a way of avoiding other Immortals.
“I believe all physicians should strive for discretion,” he says mildly. “personally, I find that refusing to discuss either the ills or the identities of my patients to be the best means of achieving it.”
“Not all achieve that end.” Cesare watches the physician for a long moment, wondering if he should trust him, though in the end, he’s the only one Cesare thinks he can. Or Micheletto wouldn’t have mentioned him. “I don’t need your services for me, and I won’t speak of who your services are needed for here.” Too much risk, and he won’t have Lucrezia’s name dirtied with rumours that might or might not come close to the truth.
“I’m not concerned with names,” Methos assures him. “I do, however, need to know the general nature of the patient’s complaint if I’m to know what to bring with me.”
Cesare is silent a moment before he says, quietly. “She’s with child.” He hasn’t actually said it aloud before this, perhaps as if it weren’t real until he said something. Even saying aloud doesn’t make it seem all that real, for all that he knows his sister wouldn’t lie about such a thing. It’s merely that it’s his sister, that it’s Lucrezia, and he doesn’t like to think about the fact she’s no longer just his little sister, but will be someone’s mother before a year is out.
Methos’ initial assumption is that the expected child is a mistress’s, but there’s something in Cesare’s face that makes him wonder. He keeps his speculation to himself, though, since he doubts it would be welcome.
“Is she having difficulties of some kind?” he asks, turning to survey the shelves on which he keeps the various medicines and instruments that are the tools of his trade. “Or do you simply wish to confirm her health and that of the child?”
“I want to make sure she’s healthy, and for her to stay that way.” Cesare turns slightly so he can watch the doctor gather his tools and supplies. He doesn’t know what the state of Lucrezia’s health had been before she returned to Rome, but she’s only had the one apparent dizzy spell since. “She was a little dizzy when first I saw her after her return to Rome.”
“That’s not entirely unusual.” Methos puts the last few medicines he might need into his bag before closing it and grabbing his cloak – and his sword. There are too many Immortals in Rome to risk leaving it at home, despite the fact that mortals only rarely wear broadswords in the city, preferring instead a slimmer and lighter blade.
Cesare raises an eyebrow at the sword the physician picks up, though he doesn’t comment on it. Just makes a mental note to have Micheletto find out why the physician might need to carry a sword better suited to a battlefield than to the city. He waits for the physician to be ready, and pauses as he pulls the hood of his cloak up to hide his face. “I didn’t ask your name, good doctor. Might I inquire as to what it is?”
“Jonathan Pierce.” Methos has developed quite a fondness for the English, especially as claiming to be one of them has apparently been enough to keep his neighbors tolerantly amused by any eccentricities on his part rather than being threatened by them.
“English?” Cesare smiles a moment, tugging his hood forward enough to hide his face in its folds. “What brings you to Rome?” And more, what had kept him here when Charles of France was advancing on the city, and many of the residents had fled? If, indeed, he had stayed, rather than returning with the populace, or arriving after.
“English weather is gruesome even in the summer.” Methos opens the door and gestures for Cesare to precede him before following him outside and locking the door. “I decided I’d rather be warm and dry most of the year, rather than cold and wet. And since I wanted to see Rome…” He shrugs. “So here I am.”
Someone entirely worried about the physical climate, rather than the political one, is unusual in anyone with education, but Cesare keeps his observation to himself. It’s not immediately important, though it is another thing for Micheletto to check about Jonathan. Although finding out further truth about him might be something Cesare has to do himself – or at least send letters through more official channels. If he bothers, which he might now, so long as Jonathan proves as discreet as he claims, and a good physician.
“This way,” is all he says, leading the way through the streets toward the convent he has settled Lucrezia at until her child is born. The sisters allow him in, and Jonathan behind him when he tells them the physician is there at his request. Nothing more is said, one of the sisters leading the way to the room where Lucrezia is resting at the moment.
“Sis,” Cesare says quietly, lowering the hood of his cloak as he greets her, a small smile crossing his face when she comes over to wrap her arms around him. “You’re looking well.”
“And I feel much better than I did before, Cesare.” Lucrezia pulls back, smiling up at him a moment before looking around him at Jonathan. “Who’s this?”
“A physician; I want to make sure you’re well, Lucrezia.” Cesare holds her gaze steadily, one hand spread across the small of her back to help support her in case another dizzy spell comes on, though he hasn’t seen any sign of one.
Despite the slight easing of tension that being on Holy Ground always brings, Methos is less than thrilled at having gotten himself entangled with two of the Pope’s children. If something goes wrong, the repercussions will almost certainly cost him his current life, and might even cause him more serious problems. None of this touches his face as he looks at the two of them, but it is definitely a concern.
“It’s a common enough thing for a woman to be with child, Cesare.” Lucrezia sighs, and leans into her brother, her head resting on Cesare’s shoulder. “But if it makes you happier, I will let him care for my health.”
“That’s all I want, sis.” Cesare leans down to press a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you want me to stay, or should I wait outside?” That he’d prefer to keep Jonathan in his line of sight is a given, but if Lucrezia would be more comfortable with one of the sisters in here to be her chaperone, he’ll have one of them watch the physician and remain outside the room.
“It would be better if Sister Martha remained with me, wouldn’t it?” Lucrezia tilts her head to look up at Cesare a moment, a small smile on her face. “Do stay just outside, Cesare, though, please?”
“Whatever you want, sis.” Cesare steps to the door, nodding to Sister Martha as she comes down the hall. “Just a physician, but my sister would have you in there with her as well.” He steps aside to let her enter, closing the door gently behind her before he leans against it, tilting his head back to look up at the shadow-shrouded ceiling. This wasn’t quite turning out how he’d expected, but it’s still going well enough for now.
Once the door closes, Methos turns to Lucrecia, smiling reassuringly.
“If you would lie down on the bed, my lady?” he asks. “This won’t take terribly long.” She reminds him a little bit of a girl he’d known in Greece once. That’s one of the perils of being his age. Some days it seems as if everyone he meets reminds him of someone he used to know. “Do you know how far along you are?”
Lucrezia tilts her head slightly, making her way to the bed with carefully-placed steps. “I’ve only returned to Rome two months ago, and felt ill for perhaps a month before I left Pesaro. A week in between, perhaps?” It should only have taken a couple of days, but she’d been delayed by the French army and mitigating that difficulty before it had a chance to harm her father and her brothers.
“And other than nausea and some dizziness, have you experienced any other symptoms?” Methos hangs up his cloak and moves to the basin and pitcher to wash his hands. Most of his colleagues wouldn’t bother, but then, most of them haven’t any experience with the discoveries of other cultures.
Settling on the edge of the bed, and watching the physician, Lucrezia gives him a small smile. “A little bit of fever at the beginning, and little desire to leave my bed, but nothing else, and those both passed with the nausea when I left Pesaro.”
“All normal,” Methos assures her, just as he had Cesare earlier. “You’re going to tire more easily now; your body is giving all its excess energy to your child.” He ignores the nun in the corner as he starts his examination. “Have you ever been told what to expect during pregnancy?” Many girls of her class are not, and spend unnecessary worry on things that are perfectly normal.
“No.” Lucrezia doesn’t take her gaze off the physician, curious as to what exactly he’s looking for to ensure her health. “All I have been told is that nothing yet has been strange; that all is normal and as it should be.” All except Cesare, who has always had more concern for her than anyone else, save perhaps their father. And more now than her father might truly show.
“It is.” Methos takes her wrist in his hand, pressing his finger down against the vein to take her pulse. It’s strong and steady, and he nods absently in approval. “Still, you ought to know what is and what isn’t usual. You might have some heartburn, and some cravings for food that you wouldn’t ordinarily eat. There will also be some tenderness of the breasts, and as you reach the last few months, some swelling of feet and especially ankles. The thing to be most concerned over is any cramping, as if your cycle is about to start.”
Her breath catches a moment, a faint hint of worry going through her for a moment before it’s gone. Cesare had brought the physician to be sure she’s well, and to make sure no harm comes to her or her child. “But that should not happen, should it?” she asks, her voice quiet. “Is there anything I must do, that will help ensure my child is born alive and well?”
“No, it shouldn’t,” Methos says. “As far as keeping yorself and the child healthy, the most important thing is to listen to your body. You also shouldn’t lift anything; nor should you drink any alcohol, or let yourself become overly tense or upset.”
Lucrezia laughs, a slightly puzzled smile on her face. “Why should I not drink wine? The water isn’t safe, and beer is not to my liking.”
“Then I suggest fruit juice, or milk.” Methos shrugs. “Excessive drinking can put the child at risk, so I advise all of my pregnant patients to avoid it altogether.” In truth, the warning comes from a professor he’d had in Heidelburg who’d been as brilliant as he was eccentric, and he’d certainly been the latter.
That her choice of drinks might be remarked upon is something on the tip of Lucrezia’s tongue to say, but she held it back after consideration. She was, after all, at a convent, and it might not be as strange for such drinks to be brought here as they would be when served in a more public forum. “I shall ask the sisters to bring me only what you say would be good to drink, then. And Cesare will make sure they’ve the means to acquire anything that might be needed.”
“I’m sure he’ll be glad to do so,” Methos says, smiling. “He’s clearly concerned for your well-being – though he need not worry. You are in excellent health, my lady, and I see no reason to doubt that this state of affairs shall continue – though I would like to check on you regularly.”
“Then you must do so.” Lucrezia returns his smile, dropping her gaze a moment before lifting it back to his. “I would not wish to harm my child in my ignorance, and I am certain Cesare will worry over every little change. It will be good that he has some means of being reassured as to my good health.”
Methos smiles warmly back at her. “In that case, I look forward to our next meeting. Have you any more questions, my lady? I’m more than happy to answer any query you might have.”
“None, for now. But I may have questions in the future, that I would hope you might answer.” Lucrezia lets out a small laugh, before standing, smoothing her skirts once more. “Perhaps one, though. Shall it always be late when you must come? Cesare seeks to protect me, I know, but must that require always that it be dark?”
“That, my lady, is up to you and your brother. For my part, I have no objections to being summoned whenever you might have need of me.” In truth, he’d have no objections to simply keeping her company. She’s bright, inquisitive, and beautiful, and he can’t help but be drawn to her, though it’s almost certain to end in disaster should he let either her or Cesare discover as much.
“Then I will talk to my dear brother, and see that it is arranged that you might come whenever there is need that you do.” Lucrezia rests a hand on his arm a moment before turning toward the door, raising her voice slightly. “You may come back in, Cesare. The physician is done with his examination.”
Cesare grins, his shoulders sagging in relief a moment before he turns, opening the door to the room enough for him to slip in. “And what has he said about your health, dearest sister?” He isn’t certain about the distance between his sister and Jonathan, but says nothing for now. The physician should know well enough to keep his distance unless he is needed.
“Only that I am perfectly well, and that I should have milk brought to drink, or fresh juice.” Lucrezia smiles up at Cesare, leaning against him a moment when he comes over to her. “You can make sure that’s arranged, can’t you, Cesare?”
“Anything for you, sis.” He wraps an arm around her a moment, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Anything.”
Methos turns his head slightly to hide his smile. Clearly, Lucrecia has her brother wrapped firmly around her little finger, and just as clearly, Cesare doesn’t mind a bit.
Cesare sees Jonathan’s movement, though he doesn’t step away from Lucrezia just yet, not entirely certain what the physician is hiding. Nor is what he’s hiding as important as Lucrezia, anyway. “I’ll see to it, sis. For now, I have to make sure the physician knows his way out.” And knows well that just how important his discretion in this matter is.
“I appreciate the offer of an escort,” Methos says. “I wouldn’t want the nuns to think me an intruder.” He smiles at Lucretia. “Don’t hesitate to send for me at any hour if you have need of me,” he tells her. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”
“If I have need of your services, I shall of course send word as swiftly as may be.” Lucrezia smiles back, nodding graciously while Cesare pulls the hood of his cloak up to hide his face.
“I will make sure there is someone to send who can be as discreet as the good physician, sister.” Cesare lets his lips quirk up in an unseen smile for a brief moment. “Rest now, and I will return tomorrow.”
“Of course, dear Cesare.” Lucrezia remains where she stands until the door closes behind them before smiling again, and returning to her bed. At least this confinement won’t be entirely dull.
Methos pulls his own cloak around his shoulders and settles his sword more comfortably at his hip as he follows Cesare out into the hallway.
“Your sister is an impressive young woman,” he says, smiling faintly. “And in excellent health.”
“She is my sister.” Cesare smirks, starting down the hallway after pulling the door shut quietly behind them. “Something to keep in mind, always, doctor.” It’s not a threat, if only because Cesare doesn’t think it has to be. Merely a reminder of everything he’s said yet about discretion, and about what has happened to those who’ve sought to harm him or his before.
“As you say.” Methos keeps his expression neutral, though in truth he’s a little amused by the unspoken threat.
That there is not even the hint of fear is interesting – and more so is the sense of a faint undercurrent of amusement. Cesare wonders that Jonathan is so unconcerned, though it is perhaps something of where he comes from. “Are all English physicians so confident in their own safety from all around them, doctor?”
“I don’t know all the physicians in England,” Methos says mildly. “As for me, why should I be concerned? You’ve made your requirements known, and I have no intention of doing otherwise.” He shrugs. “Under the circumstances, I see no need for apprehension.”
Something refreshingly new, when everyone who’s close to him has at least some concern over what he might do; everyone save his own family finds out sooner or later that he doesn’t have much concern for the lives of those who get in the way of his family and their collective ambitions. “You intrigue me, doctor. I may have more use for you than merely seeing to my sister’s health, in the future.”
“You know where to find me.” Methos isn’t entirely sure that he wants to involve himself in Cesare’s intrigues, as doing so would increase the chances both of his having to leave Rome and of his encountering another Immortal. On the other hand, a bit of intrigue might be just what he needs to relieve the creeping boredom that’s been nagging at him for the past few years. “Though I’m not sure what sort of services I could provide for which others might not be better suited.”
“Those better suited aren’t always available, or are perhaps too well-known to do the job I ask of them. But for now, my sister’s health is enough of a concern for you. If I have further to ask of you, I will do so.” Cesare shrugs, smirking to himself a moment. “I do not expect I need to return with you to your residence, unless you are an apothecary as well, and have something which you would have my sister take to ensure her continued health.”
“At the moment, she’s in no need of anything of the kind – though some bread might help should her nausea return, if she eats it before getting out of bed.” Methos smiles. “Bread, however, is not the province of either apothecary or physician, so I shall bid you good night.” And hope that he himself makes it home without running into anyone bent on a challenge. Rome is the center of the Western world, and as a result he’s far from the only one of his kind in the city.
“I will see that she knows that.” Cesare tilts his head toward Jonathan a moment, stopping once they’re out of the convent. “One more thing, before you go. How often will you need to examine my sister to keep her in good health? So that I might inform the good sisters of the convent how often they might expect you.”
“Once every two weeks will be sufficient until she nears the end of her term. Then I’ll need to see her twice weekly, to ensure that the last stages of pregnancy don’t cause any complications.” He gives Cesare a reassuring smile. “As I told you, though, I don’t expect any.”
“Good.” Cesare nods once more. “Than I bid you good night, and shall see you when you come to examine my sister in two weeks.” He waits until Jonathan is out of sight before he makes his own way into the city, to his palace and the quiet of a night’s sleep. Intrigues can wait until morning, since none require his attention further tonight.
Originally Posted: 14 January 2012
The Death of Regulus Black
Fandom: Harry Potter, Highlander
AU: Magic and Mischief
Word Count: 13,409
Characters: Bellatrix Lestrange, Cory Raines, Frank Longbottom, Kingsley Shacklebolt, Matthew McCormick, Regulus Black
Warnings: Temporary Character Death
Regulus wanted someone who didn’t think that lethal valuables were nothing more than an irritation while ransacking a house. And who might be able to help him with the fact he didn’t think this through as much as he’s really wishing he had.
House-breaking really isn’t Cory’s sort of thing – he prefers jobs with explosions, or at least gunfire – but his contact swears up and down that 12 Grimmauld Place belongs to an old aristocratic family and is chock-full of valuable antiques, and all the man wants for this information is one old book.
At first glance, the house doesn’t look like much, but Cory is – thanks to Matthew – something of an expert on the vagaries of the aristocracy, and knows that the outside doesn’t necessarily reflect the inside. It is at the very least worth checking out. A few minutes with a lock-pick – Amanda would laugh, but then, Cory’s usual line of work involves more gunplay and less fiddly little bits of metal – and he’s in, slipping through the door with a silence born of long practice.
A quick glance at the furniture tells him that he’s in the right sort of place – it’s all heavy and wooden and antique, the sort of thing that Cory personally thinks would look better if it were on fire. Still, if the furniture looks like this, the rest of the house should have all kinds of interesting little treasures to pick up.
The book his contact wants is in the library upstairs, so Cory heads that way, stepping carefully on the edges of the stairs to keep them from creaking. The first door he opens isn’t a library, but a study. Still, there’s a very nice letter opener on the desk that’s only a couple of centuries younger than Cory himself, and a signet ring in the top drawer that will probably fetch a pretty penny. He smiles to himself and reaches in to pick it up for a better look, only to be thoroughly dismayed and more than a little angry when his hand goes numb and his chest follows. He’s planning his revenge on his contact even as the world dims and his knees give out.
It’s not often anyone gets into the house who isn’t expected, so when Regulus finds the door of his father’s study open, his first thought is that his father shouldn’t be home yet. His second is that his father wouldn’t be sprawled half behind the desk without a good deal more chaos throughout the house. It’s curiosity that draws him inside, wondering just who had managed to get this far without setting off one of the booby traps that are scattered about the house, several closer to the easiest entry points.
Crouching down, he picks up his father’s signet ring, shaking his head as he drops it back in the top drawer of the desk. “It would be that which some idiot thief goes after,” he murmurs to himself, poking at the body with a grimace. It hasn’t had a chance to go quite stone cold, though it’s certainly started to cool.
Although, why a thief would go after a signet ring, which anyone with sense would realize is one of the most dangerous things in a wizard’s home, particularly an old family. Unless the thief was Muggle-born, in which case, Regulus might forgive him not being aware of the significance of an old pure-blood signet ring. It still didn’t make explaining to the Aurors – or simply disposing of the body – any more pleasant.
“You couldn’t have waited until someone was home to catch you before you did something like this, could you?” he asked the body, though he didn’t really expect an answer. At least now he was home, even if his parents weren’t, and until they were, neither was Kreacher. Though that was perhaps a blessing, since it gave him some privacy for the niggling doubts he was starting to have about Voldemort and the Death Eaters.
Cory lost track a long time ago of the number of times he’s been killed, but he’s never come back to life with such a headache before. If this is how mortals feel on the mornings after they drink, Cory owes a whole bunch of them some pretty sincere apologies. He groans and sits up, in the hope that elevation will make his head stop pounding. It notably fails to do so – but it does make Cory very aware that he’s no longer alone in the room. He waves, and offers the man a rather sickly version of his usual grin, hoping that the shock of seeing a corpse come back to life will leave the man stunned long enough for Cory to make good his escape. It’s worked before, more than once.
Regulus knows there are ways to keep a person from staying dead, though he somehow doubts this is the same as the manner in which he’s learned Voldemort intends to stay alive. For one, he’s fairly certain it would require some sort of ceremony to bring a person back from a piece of their soul.
“You’re not a Black, or you wouldn’t have died in the first place. And I’m beginning to think you’re a little more than some idiot Muggle-born thief. What are you?” He hadn’t even consciously let his wand drop into his hand, though he brings it up to point it at the less-than-dead intruder. Though what to use to stop him, if death doesn’t stick, he’s uncertain.
“Leaving,” Cory says firmly, pushing himself to his feet. “Oh, hell.” He sways, putting a hand to his head, and glares at the young man. “Valuables that kill people? Really? That’s just unfair. And put that stick away; I’m not a vampire.”
“I know you’re not a vampire; unlike some people, I did pay attention in class. As for the signet ring, it’s meant for family, you idiot. What did you think it would do to a stranger and a thief?” Regulus lifts his chin slightly, tempted to simply tie the man up until he can figure out what to do with him. Though, letting him leave is highly tempting. Before his parents come home and have a chance to find out what happened. He’ll have no choice but to take the man to Voldemort then, and he’s not certain he really wants to.
“Fill my pockets, what else?” The ring may be off-limits, but the letter-opener he picked up earlier proves that not everything in the house will kill him. Trial and error would take too long, and be too painful, even for him. He eyes the young man speculatively. Stick aside – and Cory doesn’t worry about machine guns, let alone sticks – the kid doesn’t appear to be much of a threat. “Tell you what. Why don’t you point out the things that are safe to steal, and in return, I won’t turn you into Swiss cheese.” He pats the pistol at his waist. “Dying’s not really much of an inconvenience, but this headache is something else entirely. And it’s for a good cause.”
Regulus regards the Muggle weapon with an expression of pure contempt before flicking his wand in the correct pattern for a simple binding spell, wordlessly casting the spell. Clearly, even if the man was Muggle-born, he hadn’t gone to Hogwarts, or if he had, he hadn’t paid any attention at all.
“I’m afraid I’m not particularly inclined to permit some Mudblood thief ransack my home.” He levitated the letter opener away from the thief and back to its place on his father’s desk before levitating the gun as well. Even though he could easily use a shield to defend himself from the bullets, he didn’t like the idea of them leaving holes in the walls that he’d have to explain later.
“Excuse me?” Cory might not know what a mudblood is, but he knows an insult when he hears one. He also knows magic when he sees it, and this is a much flashier sort than the kind Cierdwyn uses, or the simple – and useless – protection spells that were a common staple throughout most of his life. Curiosity – as always – outweighs indignation, and he leans forward as much as he can. “How the hell did you do that?”
“A binding spell.” Regulus gave the man a frown, wondering at his reaction. Even someone who hadn’t paid attention in Hogwarts should have known what the insult meant, and should have recognized magic when they saw it. Unless the man really hadn’t gone to Hogwarts at all, in which case, he couldn’t have much in the way of magical talent. “How is it you’ve managed not to learn anything at all about the wizarding world? Even the least talented Muggle-borns are allowed to Hogwarts at least through their OWLs.”
“Wizarding world?” Cory lifts both eyebrows, already planning a conversation with Matthew when this is all over. “At a guess, I’d say it’s because I’m not a wizard.” Wiggling is having precious little effect on the binding spell, which is unfortunate. “Although if all your magic is this effective, I might have paid more attention to some of the things I’ve run across over the years.”
“If you’re not a wizard, how did you find my home in the first place? It has Muggle-repelling charms on it, you shouldn’t even have been able to see it.” Regulus doesn’t think he’s actually dealing with a Muggle, though what he’s dealing with, he’s uncertain. Other than someone he’s being more convinced by the moment that he can’t allow Voldemort to find out exists.
“It was in plain sight.” Cory shrugs. He’s not about to turn his contact over to anyone else – he’d much rather deal with the man himself. “The front door lock wasn’t even that difficult. Which really, considering the sorts of things you’ve got in here, it should have been.” Is that a loosening of whatever it is holding his hands in place? He can’t be sure, but redoubles his efforts anyway.
“Quit wiggling, you’re mussing the carpet.” Regulus shakes his head, tempted to toss a petrifying spell at the man, if only to stop his attempts to wiggle out of the magical bindings. “And it wouldn’t have been in plain sight unless someone told you exactly where to look.” Which doesn’t really narrow the list of those who could have sent the thief. “And the lock is far more complicated than it looks, at least when the locking spells are activated.”
Which he’d been certain he did before he left, so how the man had gotten past them, unless some member of the family gave him an appropriate key, Regulus doesn’t know. At least he could be certain his own room wouldn’t have been unlocked by anything someone else gave the thief.
“I’m special,” Cory says, and gives the man the grin that always makes Matthew look like he’s contemplating homicide. “Experienced.” He ignores the order to stop wiggling, especially since he seems to be making some headway – at least, his right hand has more of a range of motion than it did a few minutes ago.
“Right.” The grin reminds Regulus of his brother when Sirius was at his most infuriating, and he snaps out, “Petrificus totalis!” Ceasing the wiggling, and in theory keeping the man quiet for a moment while he sorts out his thoughts. He needs to get the man out of the house quickly, before his parents returned. And make sure there was no evidence of the man in the house, to avoid awkward questions.
Giving the man a sour look, Regulus levitates him out of the study and into the uncarpeted hallway, and straightens the study with the ease of someone accustomed to cleaning up evidence behind him. Closing the door carefully, Regulus looks back at his prisoner, wondering for a moment if he would survive a drop from a broom at height before dismissing the thought. He really doesn’t need to have his stomach churning while he’s trying to plan his next several moves.
Being silenced is even more frustrating than being immobilized. Fortunately, Cory’s mouth starts working again in fairly short order. The rest of him is still paralyzed, but he doubts it’ll take too long to wear off.
“Much as I like flying sans airplane, do you think you could put me down now?”
“No.” Regulus is beginning to think that perhaps the locks had been active, and whatever gives the man the ability to come back from the dead is effecting them in some fashion. It’s certainly effecting the spells he’s used on the man. “Though if you keep wiggling, you might just get you wish, if at rather a greater distance from the ground than you are now. And that’s even if I don’t make the deliberate decision to drop you.”
He levitates the man down the stairs, and toward the back door that leads out into a tiny garden that really isn’t worth the name. It’s better to leave from here than from the front door where neighbors might see. At least, if he’s going to get the man out of here before anyone comes home.
The broom shed locks aren’t nearly as complex as the ones on the front door, but they don’t have a Muggle component, and Regulus is fairly certain it will hold the man long enough for him to reset the locks on the front door. Then he can get him out of here, so long as the broom functions long enough to get them out of London.
“I’ll just get back up again,” Cory points out, but stops wiggling anyway. He really doesn’t feel like healing half a dozen broken bones tonight, not now that his headache is finally fading.
“I still can’t imagine it would be pleasant.” Regulus sets the man down long enough to undo the locks on the broom shed, stuffing the man inside. “I’ll be back shortly, and then I’ll escort you off our property. In the meanwhile, stay still, stay quiet, and hope my parents don’t come home before I get you out of here. Or anything worse.”
“You could just let me go,” Cory points out. “I can guarantee I won’t be coming back here.” He makes a face. “I’m Immortal, not an idiot.”
“I’m not risking the neighbors seeing you leave after I’ve come home. Or someone will ask questions I don’t want to answer, with very high chance of myself being dead at the end. I’m sure you can understand, I don’t want that to happen.” No matter how untenable the situation gets, he doesn’t want to die. And letting someone go who has achieved what Voldemort is intent on gaining is as good as suicide if anyone ever found out.
“If you think you can keep me here, best of luck to you.” Cory wrinkles his nose at the shed. “I should probably warn you, though, that I’ve gotten out of more prisons in the past eight hundred years than I can count.” He isn’t expecting a shed with no lock to give him any problems. “Tell you what. You tell me why you’re so intent on getting me out of here unseen, and I might decide to cooperate.”
Regulus studies the man a moment before he speaks, weighing his options carefully. “There’s a wizard who wants what you have. Immortality. And he’ll stop at nothing to get it. My parents believe in him. I joined his followers a year ago. I’m already regretting it. But if you run, and you’re seen, I’ll tell them you escaped before I could bring you to him, rather than the truth, because I can’t have regrets if I’m dead.”
Cory looks at him seriously for a long moment, then nods. He’s heard about the sorts of things mortals will do to achieve immortality, and has no intention of becoming anyone’s guinea pig.
“Fair enough,” he says; then after a moment, offers his hand. “Cory Raines.”
That the man’s already broken free of the petrifying spell doesn’t bode well for the locks on the broom shed, or, for that matter, the spells that let the brooms fly. He hopes they last long enough, because he doesn’t want to think about Apparating or a port-key with the man. And the Floo is far, far too public.
Regulus regards the offered a hand a moment before taking it. Even on raids, he’s never actually touched a Muggle before. “Regulus Black.”
Cory ignores the look on Regulus’ face. He’s not sure if it’s because he’s a thief, or what Regulus calls a Muggle, but he doesn’t much care, either.
“I don’t suppose you have anything to read? It’s going to be seriously boring here in this…broom shed? And I don’t do well with boredom.”
“You’re going to be here for all of fifteen minutes while I reset the locks on the front door, and make sure you didn’t trip anything else.” Regulus rolls his eyes in exasperation. The attitude Cory displays is one that’s far too much like Sirius for his comfort. “I’m sure you can keep your hands to yourself, and keep still for that long.”
Cory doesn’t think it’s possible for his face to convey the depth of the skepticism he feels, so he goes with looking innocent instead. Sitting still and keeping his hands to himself are decidedly not his strong points.
“I won’t touch a thing,” he says, with a sincerity that would have had Matthew reaching for his handcuffs.
“Damage the spells on my broom that allow it to fly properly, and I’ll let you fall while I save my own skin.” It is as much threat as warning, and Regulus just hopes the man will keep his hands to himself. Though it is tempting to pile on a few restraining charms, a couple of stupefy’s and a petrifying spell, to keep the man occupied until he comes back.
Instead, he closes the door of the broom shed, moving as quickly as he can in returning the house to order. He hates the feeling of fear that is niggling at the back of his mind. All he wants to do is what’s easy, to turn Cory over to Voldemort and just survive. Except that he can’t just do that, can’t just stand aside and watch everything he thought he was fighting for be destroyed by a half-blood bastard of a Dark Lord.
Cory really does try to behave himself. At first, he keeps himself occupied by imagining the conversation he’ll have with Matthew when this is over, but that palls fairly quickly, and the implication that the brooms can fly is entirely too much to resist. He grabs the oldest, dustiest one he can find, but either it’s too old to work or it won’t work for him – either way, it’s a severe disappointment. He’s tempted to try the door to the shed, but the idea of attracting the attention of Regulus’ dark wizard makes him re-think that decision. By the time Regulus returns, he’s thoroughly investigated every corner of the shed, gotten dust all over his hands and had a sneezing fit, and emptied out his pockets – which, sadly, contain nothing more interesting than a few spare bullets and a deck of cards. He’s in the middle of his second hand of solitaire when the door to the shed swings open again.
The state of Cory and the shed when he returns makes Regulus wonder if the man has any sense at all, or if it’s just something wrong with his head that he can’t help but investigate where he should leave well enough alone. He’s certain his brother would get along quite well with Cory, which is one very good reason not to ever chance them being in close proximity.
“At least I don’t see dusty fingerprints on my current broom, even if you probably have destroyed any chance of the broom I used in school working again.” Regulus carefully picks up his current broom, carrying it in a wide circle around Cory as he heads back outside. Testing it close to the ground for a couple laps of the garden to make sure the charms on it are still working properly before he stops, floating near the shed. “I’m afraid I can’t risk you riding on the broom itself, but I can levitate you, with a disillusionment charm to keep others from seeing you, at least until it wears off.”
Which, if the duration of the rest of the spells holds out, will mean far enough to get him above the clouds, and out of sight of Muggle London while he plays catch with him out into the countryside. If simply because he doesn’t trust the levitation spell to hold long enough to get all the way out of London in one go.
“I do have a car,” Cory points out. He’s never minded dying for a good cause, but the idea of being splattered across the country-side does not appeal. Standing up, he shoves his playing cards back into his pocket. “Did you bring my gun? I need it, and they’re hard to get in England.”
“Of course I did. I can’t have a Muggle weapon in the house where someone could find it. And unless you have your car where it’s quite out of sight of the house, you’ll have to get it later.” Regulus is quite adamant about not letting Cory be seen leaving the house – or the vicinity of the house, for that matter.
“I’m not an amateur,” Cory says disdainfully. “I parked five blocks over.” Break-ins may not be his preferred method of acquiring funds, but he does know how to carry them out. Putting out his hand, he wiggles his fingers. “My gun?”
Fishing the weapon out of his pocket, Regulus tosses it to Cory. “That should be far enough away.” And the disillusionment charm should hold that far, he hopes. Certainly it will on him and his broom, even if it doesn’t hold as well on Cory, and the levitation spell should hold as well. It should be an interesting challenge, though, to hold all of the spells while he’s flying.
“Hold still for a moment while I cast the spells, and hope they hold out until we get to your car.” Because he doesn’t want them to wear off, particularly the disillusionment charm, until he’s set Cory down. Or dropped him, which is tempting.
Cory rolls his eyes, but does as he’s told. He’s looking forward to flying, now that it doesn’t seem likely that it will end with broken bones and internal injuries. Being invisible isn’t as exciting, though he can only imagine what Amanda would do with the ability.
The flight feels longer than it is, and Regulus doesn’t bother to remove the disillusionment charm from himself once he does so for Cory, though there aren’t any Muggles on the street to see him on his broom. “You owe me, Raines.” Favors were always something useful to have others owing him, though he doesn’t like the reverse.
“If you can find me, you might even be able to collect.” Cory grins and runs a hand over the hood of his car, then relents. “If you can’t, look for Matthew of Salisbury. He’ll be calling himself something different, but he’ll be in law enforcement somewhere. He always is.” Matthew will be annoyed, but that’s nothing new. Besides, Cory owes him for keeping wizards to himself.
Regulus nods, though he knows Cory can’t see the gesture. “I’ll keep that in mind.” He watches Cory a moment longer before turning his broom toward home, his thoughts troubled. He knows he’ll have to call in that favor sooner or later, but how… that’s the only real question. And how well two Muggles who likely both have what Voldemort wants can actually help him.
It might be one of the stupidest things he’s ever done, at least if he stops and thinks too hard about it. Which Regulus is trying very, very hard not to do. Or he’s going to panic, and forget to follow through on his plan. Which will get him killed, rather than making everyone believe he’s dead. At least, once Voldemort figures out what he’s done. Regulus still can’t bring himself to regret stealing the horcrux, or researching how to destroy it before hand. He can’t do it on his own, though, and right now, there are more important things to do than worry about how to destroy it.
He draws a deep breath as he slips out of the alley he apparated into, and crosses the street. It will take time for anyone who knows him to even think about searching in Muggle London for him, and by the time they might do so, he intends for them to think he’s dead. At least, if the man he’s tracked down can help him finish refining the details of his plan. Like how to make sure Cory actually follows the part of the plan Regulus intends for him to follow.
Inside the building, he glances at the slip of parchment in his hand that he’s spelled to show him distance and direction to a specific target. In this case, the flat for Matthew Ellworth, once known as Matthew of Salisbury, at least if his research is correct. Tucking the parchment into his pocket as he comes to the door, Regulus lifts a hand, knocking sharply.
It’s been a long day, and Matthew is glad to get home, to take off his suit and tie, and stretch out on his couch in jeans and a t-shirt while he waits for pizza to be delivered. The knock at his door pulls him out of a television-induced stupor, and he glances at his watch, pleasantly surprised by the restaurant’s speed. Except that it’s not the delivery boy, or even one of Matthew’s neighbors, but a dark-haired young man he’s never seen before and who is practically vibrating with tension.
“Yes?” he asks, hoping that the boy has the wrong address and that he can go back to his quiet evening.
“Matthew of Salisbury?” Regulus knows it’s not the name the man goes by now, but he’s equally as certain it will get his attention. “A Cory Raines directed me to find you if I couldn’t find him.”
Not that he couldn’t find Cory if he wanted to, just that he didn’t want to go looking for the immortal thief first. Regulus wanted someone who didn’t think that lethal valuables were nothing more than an irritation while ransacking a house. At least, at the moment. Someone who reminded him less of his brother, really. And who might be able to help him with the fact he didn’t think this through as much as he’s really wishing he had.
Matthew’s first instinct is to tell the man he’s mistaken and then to disappear, but the mention of Corwin changes all that. God only knows why the idiot decided to hand Matthew’s name over to a mortal – but it does mean that said mortal will at least get a hearing.
“Inside,” he says flatly, and jerks the door open.
Regulus takes the invitation gratefully, just refraining from darting inside by sheer will power, glad to be out of the hallway and in the flat instead. Though it certainly sounds like Matthew isn’t too glad to be doing so, and he suspects that one name or the other is the only reason he’s in here, instead of still out there. Or rather, why he didn’t have to risk using a small amount of magic to get inside. He’s just as glad not to have to take the risk.
“Mr. Raines owes me a favor, and I need to collect on it. Only I’m not sure he’ll appreciate repaying me.” Regulus doesn’t have the time to dance around the reason he came here, once the door is shut, at least. “I need to disappear without actually ending up as dead as certain ex-compatriots of mine would like to see me. And that’s going to take some talents I don’t have.”
Matthew looks him over for a long moment, then sighs and rubs a hand over his face.
“Mafia?” he asks tiredly. “Or something else?” With Corwin, the possibilities are endless, and most of them are appalling.
“I don’t know what the Mafia is.” Regulus frowns a moment, puzzled, before he shakes it off. “I was a Death Eater, at least until the Dark Lord figures out what I’ve done. Then I’m a dead man walking.” He pauses, swallowing past the lump of fear in his throat. He really should have thought this through more completely. “I stole one of the Dark Lord’s horcruxes. With the intent to destroy it, at some point. Or, at the very least, make sure it’s out of his reach.”
He gives Matthew a sickly, small grin. “I don’t know where the moment of foolish bravery came from, but I swear, I had thought I had a plan. It just hinges perhaps a little more than it should on convincing Cory to pretend to be me long enough to let whoever the Dark Lord sends after me to kill him. Temporarily. Only I’m not sure how to convince him that will be a fair repayment of his debt.”
“I’ve heard of the Death Eaters,” Matthew says softly. “And while Corwin will undoubtedly think pretending to be you is an excellent way to entertain himself, I’m the one you have to convince. And I’ve seen some of your work. I think explaining what exactly you’ve stolen, and why, would be a good place to start.”
“A horcrux, a piece of someone’s soul put into a physical object, rent from said person’s soul by the act of murder.” Regulus does his research when he wants answers, as best he can. At least he hadn’t actually had to borrow from anyone else’s library, and give away what he was doing before he could come up with a plan, never mind carry it out. “A piece of the Dark Lord’s soul, to be precise, though I’m rather surprised he has one to render into pieces in the first place. And why shouldn’t I steal the bloody thing? I thought he had ideals, thought there was something to fight for in becoming a Death Eater. Except there wasn’t, and he needs stopped. Which is really hard when he has a horcrux. Probably more than one, but I don’t know if he actually has more, or if he does, how many.”
Regulus is aware he’s babbling, and bites his lip hard enough to draw blood. He doesn’t have time for this, and he needs to get to Cory, and get the rest of his plan in motion before it all becomes moot, and he’s nothing more than a sad side-note to an ugly war.
“A piece of his soul?” The idea is beyond repugnant, though that it’s effected through murder isn’t terribly surprising. It’s repellant enough that Matthew puts aside – for now – his objections to anyone who would think of the Death Eaters and their aims in a positive light. “Why in God’s name would anyone do something like that?” It makes the idea of Quickenings seem positively wholesome.
“Because he wants the impossible.” Regulus runs an unsteady hand through his hair. “He wants what you and Cory have, and he’ll stop at nothing to get it. If anyone but me had come home to find Cory dead on the floor of father’s study, the Dark Lord would have him to take apart and study, even if it did him no good. Which is why I still need to figure out the part of the plan where we get Cory’s body back before he comes back. Because I still don’t want the Dark Lord to have his hands on someone who is immortal.”
That’s the part of the plan Regulus didn’t think through as much as he should have. Perhaps a stasis spell activated when Cory died, to keep him looking like Regulus longer, and to keep him from reviving too soon. Or the timely arrival of Aurors, or simply someone who could retrieve the body. Maybe himself disguised as someone else. And this is all getting to complicated in his head, with far too many places it could fall apart.
“Breathe,” Matthew advises. “You’re safe here, at least for the night. Besides, it’ll take me a bit to get in touch with Corwin, and your plan could use a professional touch.” He crosses the room to the sidebar. “Dinner will be here soon. Why don’t you tell me your name, then sit down and have a drink?” He himself certainly could use one. Corwin is a positive genius for landing other people in tricky situations, but this might be his worst offense to date. Still, if the man is telling the truth, he kept Corwin safe from something much, much worse, and Matthew owes him, no matter what his motivations were for doing so.
“Regulus Black.” There’s no point in hiding now.
Regulus takes the offer to sit, dropping into a chair a little more heavily than he normally might. “And yes, thank you, I would. Like a drink, that is, not dinner.” He’s not certain he could manage to eat anything right now, but perhaps after that drink, a chance to calm down enough that his stomach isn’t feeling queasy at the thought of food.
“Whisky, gin, scotch, vodka…?” Matthew himself prefers whisky, but keeps a stocked sidebar, mostly out of habit. “There’s beer in the refrigerator, and I think I have a bottle of wine somewhere, though I’m afraid I’ll have to apologize in advance for the quality of it.”
“Whisky, and if you have Ogden’s, I’d be glad for the chance to have some, though I doubt you do.” If only because Ogden’s is a brand specific to the wizarding world, though Regulus isn’t going to assume that automatically means no Muggle has any. Only that those who do are well-connected, very wealthy, or merely very lucky.
“Afraid not.” Matthew pours out two generous measures of whisky, and hands one to Regulus. “I finished off my last bottle of the stuff about fifteen years ago.” He sits back down on the couch and takes a sip from his own glass. “Now. What exactly did Corwin tell you?”
“Not a whole lot, actually. Most of what I learned from him was more observation and picking up small details from what he did say, rather than him outright informing me.” Regulus took a long sip of the whisky, staying silent a moment until the burn settled into something more warming than painful.
“The spells built into the Black signet do kill him, and apparently cause a nasty headache when he revives. I’m assuming that the Killing Curse, and most magical ways of murder, will do the same. Spells wear off when they shouldn’t, and Muggle-repelling charms don’t work at all. Locking charms are deactivated, and the charms on brooms utterly destroyed.”
He paused, before asking, “Is he always a complete idiot when it comes to shiny objects? Because he didn’t seem to care that a number of items in a wizarding home would kill him if he picked them up, and most of them are the sort to entice the eye.”
Matthew sighs, and takes a long swallow of whisky before answering. “He’s not so much an idiot as he is absolutely reckless, and totally unconcerned about anything short of permanent death. Since there’s only one way for that to happen…” Matthew shrugs. “But yes. He’s an inveterate magpie, and it doesn’t surprise me in the slightest that he ended up dead on your floor.” It appalls him, but it doesn’t surprise him. “He gets himself killed on a regular basis, generally to avoid prison. I do apologize about your brooms. Immortals and your sort of magic tend to be – for the most part – incompatible.” He’s heard rumors that suggest that it’s not always the case, but that’s all they are.
“I assumed as much, after the entertaining time I had keeping him contained until I could deal with things so he could leave without causing more trouble than he was worth.” Regulus takes another sip of his whisky, startling when there’s a knock on the door, half out of his chair before he can remind himself that there’s no way anyone could have worked out what he’s done, and tracked him down this quickly.
“It’s just the pizza,” Matthew assures him, putting down his whisky and pushing himself up off of the couch. Still, just in case it isn’t, he pulls his gun and his wallet out of the drawer in the hall table, tucking the former down behind his leg to keep it out of sight.
It is just the pizza, and after Matthew has paid the delivery boy, he carries it back into the living room and sets it down on the coffee table.
“Help yourself,” he suggests, flipping open the box and grabbing a slice. “I would have cooked, but it’s been a long day. Your friends have been busy these last few weeks.” He doesn’t bother to keep the displeasure out of his voice. Killing non-combatants to make a point is nearly as repugnant as splitting one’s soul to pieces.
“They’re not my friends.” Regulus eyes the pizza for a long moment before taking a slice, and carefully folding it before taking a bite. Chewing and swallowing before he spoke again. “They were my compatriots, once, but even then, they were never my friends. I’ve never had anyone I could call friend, not since Sirius left for Hogwarts, and had the bad taste to be sorted into Gryffindor.”
It’s never bothered him before, but now that he’s turning to someone who is an utter stranger for help, he wonders if it might not have been a good idea to reach out to his brother, to not let his parents’ opinions drive a wedge between them. There’s not much point to the regret, though, when there’s nothing he can do now, not without risking his brother’s life. And even if he’s not entirely certain he likes Sirius, he doesn’t actually wish him dead.
“And I didn’t much like the raids on Muggles. It always felt… wrong. As if we were wasting our time, at first. Now? I don’t even know.”
“I’m glad to hear that murdering helpless civilians doesn’t appeal to you,” Matthew says, voice flat. He takes a moment to finish his piece of pizza before continuing, mostly for his temper’s sake. “I’ve taken my fair share of lives, but some things are beyond the pale.”
Regulus gave Matthew an irritated look. “They’re not all completely helpless, and I’m not a monster simply because I’ve made mistakes. I don’t murder those who can’t fight back, I don’t revel in their misery when they’re helpless at my feet, like some of the Death Eaters do. Like my own cousin. I was the dutiful son, not the insane monster. So don’t give me the same look my brother did simply because I wasn’t brave enough to turn my back on the plans my parents had for me when I was sixteen.”
Matthew bites back the retort hovering on the tip of his tongue. He’s well aware that growing up is a slower process today than it was when he was young, and he’s made more than enough mistakes in his life to appreciate anyone who is trying to rectify theirs.
“What changed your mind?” he asks finally. Whisky doesn’t really go with pizza, but he takes another sip anyway before reaching for a second slice.
“Almost everything.” Regulus drops the rest of the piece he hasn’t finished onto the empty box top, unable to keep eating it. “The raids, the torture, the ravings of a madman who wouldn’t know what blood purity was if it smacked him in the face.” That he’s talking about the Dark Lord like that is a sign he’s had quite enough to drink, he thinks. That he has the courage to voice his opinions aloud, even simply to a stranger. “Finding what the Dark Lord wanted sprawled on the carpet in my father’s study, and realizing I didn’t want to provide him what he was looking for.”
Cory had been the last thing to push Regulus to look into finding a way to help stop the Dark Lord, even if he couldn’t do much before they killed him. That he’s not dead now is simply that he thought about the immortal and the debt Cory owes him.
“Fair enough,” Matthew says after a long moment. “I’ll do what I can. Not all of Corwin’s debts are mine too, not by a long shot, but I’ve seen what mortals can do to one of us when they think it will get them what we have, and I’ll acknowledge this one.” Leaning back, he puts his feet up on the coffee table next to the pizza box. “I’ll do what I can to help. I’ll want your word, though, that you’ll never say anything about Immortals to anyone. We keep out of sight in your world and this one, and if it got around that I was responsible for getting us noticed, I doubt I’d last long enough to do you much good.”
“I’d make an Unbreakable Oath, but that requires another wizard, and forgive me if I’d rather not have anyone else from my world present at the moment.” Even those who might help him, he wouldn’t trust with the least of this. “As it is, I will give you my word, for what it’s worth.”
He’s sure there are those who’d say his word is worthless, but he’s trying to be someone better than he was. Perhaps not his brother, with his rash and often foolish headlong rush to do what he believed was right, but at least not some sheep who blindly followed what others had laid out for him.
“I’ll take your word up until you prove to me that it’s no good,” Matthew tells him. “After that, Voldemort – and I – will be the least of your problems. There are Immortals out there who make him look like a little boy pulling off insects’ wings.” Melvin Koren, for one. Or Methos, or Darius, before he’d reformed. Matthew would back any one of them against Voldemort without thinking twice. “Now – you mentioned faking your own death. Is that absolutely necessary, or would disappearing work just as well?”
“After stealing a horcrux? If the Dark Lord thinks I’m still alive, he’ll keep hunting me.” Especially after the note he’d left in place of the actual locket. Regulus is certain of that much, at least, and he really doesn’t want to spend the rest of his life hiding and running and never being quite sure if his death is hiding right around the corner. And it applies to secrets as well. “I’d rather have at least some measure of safety in the belief I’m dead, even if I do have to leave much of what I know behind, than run scared for the rest of my life.”
“It makes things more complicated, but hardly impossible.” Matthew frowns. “The main issue seems to be keeping Voldemort from getting his hands on an Immortal; the rest of it isn’t too terribly complicated. It’s probably going to come down to how long whatever curse Voldemort uses will last. The more physical damage, the longer it will take to heal.”
“Cruciatus, certainly, and likely the Killing Curse. Whether him or if he sends one or another of the Death Eaters after me instead, those are the most likely. The latter kills very effectively, very neatly. The former… I never had the stomach for, but it’s what my cousin loves best. She likes to see her victims screaming.” Regulus is aware he’s probably faintly green, thinking of what Bellatrix might do to him if she were sent to dispose of him. And he thinks it’s more likely that she’ll be sent than the Dark Lord coming himself. Regulus isn’t exactly a high-ranking one of his followers.
“Ah.” Matthew bites his lip, thinking. There’s a difference between Corwin’s tendency to plunge headlong into temporary death and enduring prolonged torture of the sort that makes a Death Eater – even a reformed one – look so ill. He doesn’t want to risk Corwin’s sanity, or even his personality, at the hands of an accomplished torturer. He has the unpleasant feeling that he’s going to end up doing this himself, and using Corwin as back up. “I think some experiments are in order, with the Killing Curse if not with the other.” Though it will probably come down to that, too, in the end.
Regulus grimaces, looking down at his glass. “Can’t do it here, where there aren’t any wizards living. Too much of a risk that the Ministry will notice, and then the Dark Lord will notice, and wonder.” Though there were places that it could be done, and they would have time to get out of there before the Aurors came calling, if only because they’re remote enough no one is entirely worried about someone doing anything out there. And he’ll have to use a wand that isn’t associated with him or his family to do this – possibly one or another of the ones he’s stolen when he’s had to go along on raids of the homes of Muggle-born wizards or blood-traitors. The small collection should be enough for them to test timing, and methods of escape.
The last thing Matthew wants is to have Voldemort – or, for that matter, the Ministry – anywhere near his home.
“We’ll save that for tomorrow, then.” He looks critically at Regulus. “When was the last time you got a decent night’s sleep? You won’t be able to do anything if you can’t think clearly.”
“I don’t know. Not since September, at least. I’ve slept every night, but I’ve not quite felt safe enough to sleep properly, and I don’t dare take a sleeping potion to help. Not with the sort of company I’ve kept.” Regulus let out a mirthless bark of laughter. “I’ve been able to think well enough to keep from getting caught and killed, but I’m not sure if I’ve been thinking clearly.” Or he probably wouldn’t have stolen the damned horcrux.
“You’re safe here, at least for tonight,” Matthew assures him. “I doubt anyone would think to look for you here, and even if they do, they won’t get in without making more than enough noise to warn you in time.” He knows a few charms that Cierdwyn swears work as protection, and is more than willing to resort to more mundane methods as well, just to be on the safe side.
“Thank you.” Regulus still doesn’t feel entirely safe, but he feels safer here than he has at home in months. Perhaps safe enough to make use of the sleeping potion in his pocket, though he’s not entirely confident of that, either. Perhaps after another glass of whisky, and an attempt to eat at least the rest of the piece of pizza he’d taken earlier.
“Thank me when it’s over,” Matthew suggests. “And eat something. Even Immortals don’t do well without food and sleep.” Not in the long term, any way, though they can last longer than mortals. “I’ve got some paperwork I need to finish before I get more involved in this than I already am, and I need to leave a message for Corwin. You’re welcome to watch television, or to help yourself to the books – there are some here, and more upstairs.”
Regulus prefers a book, if simply because he knows what a book is. A television, he doesn’t, though he assumes it’s some form of Muggle entertainment with a visual aspect. He reaches out for the pizza, eyeing the slice a long moment before he takes another bite. At least, if nothing else, he’ll have had an interesting evening.
“You’re not going,” Matthew says, for what feels like the hundredth time since he first explained to Corwin what was going to happen. Corwin opens his mouth to protest, but Matthew cuts him off ruthlessly. “You got me into this, and I’ll have no more objections from you as to how it’s handled, or you can go back to Argentina and I’ll call Cierdwyn instead.” It’s not enough to keep Corwin from looking mutinous, but it does put an end to his objections, hopefully for good. Matthew turns his attention back to Regulus.
“You know the Death Eaters better than I do. Will they be satisfied with catching you alone? I don’t want to risk any civilians.” He will if he has to – this is closer to war than to a police operation and casualties happen – but if it can possibly be avoided, it must be.
Regulus taps his fingers against the arm of the chair he’s sitting in, resisting the urge to get up and pace. “They’re not going to care where they catch up with me, so long as they think they have. And so long as they can have… fun.” He grimaces, thinking about what his cousin would think of as fun – and he’s more and more certain they’ll send Bellatrix after him. “I’m not sure if the Dark Lord will actually send more than one, and if just the one, it’ll probably be Bellatrix. And she’ll use Cruciatus before killing, it’s her signature.”
Matthew grimaces. He’s not unfamiliar with pain, but the Cruciatus curse is nothing like the pain caused by quickly-healing injuries. Across the room, Corwin is looking at him suspiciously, but fortunately decides against commenting.
“How long is that likely to last? It would be…unfortunate if the potion were to wear off before she’s finished.”
“It depends on how much the Dark Lord wants me dead. Prolonged Cruciatus is only feasible if she hasn’t been told to make sure the Aurors can’t get me alive. And I’m hoping I pissed him off enough that he’s given her orders to make sure I’m dead before anyone can arrive to rescue me. Which means she’ll only hold it long enough to hear me – you – scream before she kills me. At least as far as I’m aware.”
Regulus runs a hand through his hair, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t like not having all the information to give you.” Not when more than his own life rides on his being right, even if that’s a very large part of why he doesn’t like it.
“It’s not the first time I’ve gone into something blind.” Matthew is clearly trying to be reassuring, but at least where Cory is concerned, he’s failing. “At least this time, I don’t run the risk of dying permanently if something goes wrong. Besides, I’ll have Corwin for back up, and if anything does go awry, he’ll kill her and we’ll try again. It’s not ideal, but it’s better than having one of us end up in Voldemort’s hands.” He glances at Cory, eyebrows raised. It’s the same expression he wore when trying to pass on some particularly tricky bit of blade-work, patiently expectant. “Can you handle killing a woman? If not, now is the time to say something.”
“I’m not the one who grew up steeped in chivalry,” Cory points out. “If she’s a threat, I can handle her.” He won’t like it, but that’s irrelevant at this point. Guilt isn’t usually a facet of his personality, but Matthew is the closest thing he has to family, and the entire mess is largely his responsibility.
“I’m rather hoping it doesn’t come to that, as little as I like my cousin.” Regulus sighs, giving into the urge to get up and pace. It’s better than sitting here, waiting for the right time to drop his hair in the damned potion. He’s just glad he’d been able to start it before he stole the Horcrux, and that he’d been able to transport it from where he’d been working on it to here without damage to the potion.
“The polyjuice potion should be ready soon, and then we just have to find the right place for her to find me.” Or rather, Matthew as him, since the only thing he’ll be doing is Apparating in with his wand, and then using a stolen wand to hide himself while he sneaks out of the area, leaving Matthew to face Bellatrix. That’s the part where things are most likely to go wrong, and there’s nothing he can do about it except hope they’ve planned well enough.
“The less public it is, the better. We could use my house in London – you’ve been there before, so it wouldn’t be unusual for you to go back there. I’ll have to take down some of the protection on it, though.” Matthew still isn’t sure if the Death Eaters can get through the charms Cierdwyn taught him, but he’d rather not take any chances.
“And it’ll be easier to get you there, since I know the destination well.” So long as Regulus doesn’t splinch either of them when he Apparates, it would go well enough. And then he wouldn’t even really have to go very far, just to the alley across the street, where he could hide until Bellatrix left, and hopefully get in and get Matthew out before any Aurors arrived. “It’ll be a close thing with Aurors afterward, though, with being in London.”
“I’d consider that to be more of a bonus than anything,” Cory says thoughtfully. “Criminals don’t like to stick around when the cops are certain to be on their way.”
“And if it comes down to it, I have a better chance of talking the Aurors around than I do your cousin,” Matthew adds. “I can play on professional courtesy, for one thing.”
Regulus nods, though he still prefers not to encounter Aurors at all. Especially when he’s trying to make everyone think he’s dead. In part to get as far from Voldemort as he can, and in part to simply give him a chance to breathe and think. Something that he’s not convinced will happen if Aurors get there before he can get Matthew’s body out.
“Then we’ll worry about the risk if it materializes.” Regulus goes over to check the potion, mentally noting that he still has a few minutes yet before it’s quite cool enough to add the hair. “The potion is almost ready, and incidentally, it’s absolutely foul, no matter who you’re trying to be. Or so I’ve heard.” He’s not actually tried polyjuice himself, as he hasn’t had a reason to. But he listens, and others who have used it… well, he’s never heard anyone say it tasted good.
“I appreciate the warning,” Matthew says, smiling faintly. “I’d say it’s probably the least of my concerns at the moment, but I appreciate it anyway.” He pauses. “If it doesn’t work, do we have another option? I really don’t want to have to rethink this entire thing.”
“The other option I know of involves my staying far closer than I’d like to hold a glamor, or try my hand at transfiguration of your features directly.” Regulus looks over at Matthew with a grimace. “I’d really prefer not to have to do either, but if it comes to it, better to hold a glamor, as my NEWT in Transfiguration was… well, Abysmal is a grade in the wizarding world.” He’d done decently on his OWL, but he probably shouldn’t have taken NEWT level Transfiguration. Particularly not with the direction his life had been heading at the time.
“Then let’s hope it works.” The whole point of this exercise is to get Regulus out safely, and keeping him close by isn’t a risk Matthew wants to take. Neither does Corwin, judging by his frown. “How much longer until it’s ready?”
“Five minutes, and a hair from me.” Regulus checks the temperature again, impatient for it to cool enough to ladle out a beakerful and add the hair. The sooner they manage this, the sooner he can be declared dead, and get out of Britain. Or at least, out of London.
As soon as it is ready, he prepares the cup for Matthew, making a brief face as he plucks a hair, dropping it in and watching the potion change colors. “At least it looks like it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing.”
“Bottoms up, then.” Matthew drains the cup in one quick movement, then grimaces. “That was terrible.”
“Worth it, though. You already sound – Jesus!” Watching Matthew’s familiar features shift to mirror those of Regulus is one of the most interesting things Cory has seen in his entire life. “That could be seriously useful someday.”
Matthew’s glare is much less intimidating when he’s using someone else’s face, but he does manage to inject the usual steel into Regulus’ borrowed voice.
“Don’t even think about it, Corwin. You attract enough attention as it is.”
Regulus relaxes a little once Matthew’s features shift, glad the polyjuice is working the way it should. “Let’s get you Apparated in, so I can get out before Bellatrix arrives.” He has his wand in hand, and the other tucked into his pocket. He’ll have to leave his wand with Matthew, so Bellatrix can do what she will with it. Probably snap it after disarming him, to make sure he can’t fight back.
“You’ll have to hold on to my arm, and I’ll bring us into the living room. Bellatrix won’t take too long, though I hope it’s enough time for me to get outside.”
“Can you handle taking both of us at once?” Matthew asks, trying to ignore the fact that he sounds nothing like himself. Fortunately, his original accent is close enough to Regulus’ that no one should notice the difference. “Or will you need to come back for Corwin?”
Corwin, Matthew notes without surprise, is already grinning in anticipation as adrenaline works its usual magic. One of these days, he’s going to get himself into something Matthew can’t get him out of, but that’s a worry for another time.
“I might be able to manage you both, but I really should come back for Cory. I’ll use one of the other wands for one or the other, or she’ll wonder what I’m up to.” It’s something Regulus should have thought of earlier, and he’s glad he has more than one wand on him, though there’s a moment while he switches wands. “I’ll use mine to Apparate with Cory next.”
He suits action to words, hoping he can manage this quickly enough to be out of sight when Bellatrix arrives. Apparating like this is draining, but not nearly as much as trying to take both Matthew and Cory at once, and there’s less danger of splinching. And with two wands, it looks as if two different wizards are Apparating in. One of whom doesn’t stay very long, possibly just long enough to drop off – or pick up – a message or an item.
Once he returns with Cory, all he can do is scramble to get out of sight before Bellatrix can arrive, and hope this all goes to plan.
As soon as Regulus leaves, Matthew busies himself with removing the sigils of protection over both doors. He’d prefer to only remove them from one or the other, but it might make whoever Voldemort sends suspect a trap. He’s just finishing with the back door when he feels Immortal presence. It doesn’t fade, which gives him at least some idea as to how close Corwin is. Regulus, he hopes, is much further away.
Regulus passes his wand to Cory with a hissed admonition to toss it to Matthew before he scrambles for the back door, and the garden behind the house. At least it’s a less likely place for Bellatrix to Apparate, though he could be wrong and running toward his death instead of away.
Bellatrix grins to herself as she Apparates just outside the Muggle house her idiot cousin has gone into. She hopes there are Muggles still in there, and he hasn’t sent them away – she’d love to have a little fun before she kills Regulus, though she’s not sure how much time there will be to do so, before Aurors come hunting her, and she has to leave them the body to find.
Blasting the door off its hinges, she grins as she spots Regulus waiting inside. “Oh, good, you really are as stupid as I thought you were, little cousin.” Just waiting there for her to kill him, really, she’s surprised he’s avoided getting himself killed this long.
Matthew grips the wand Cory tossed him moments earlier, and spares a moment to hope that his student is safely out of sight. He can’t risk glancing in that direction. Instead, he lifts the useless wand in his hand. He’s halfway through the Killing Curse, knowing it won’t work, when it’s jerked away.
“Naughty, naughty, Regulus.” Bellatrix shakes her head, catching the wand she’s just taken away deftly. “I didn’t think you even had the will to cast that, certainly you can’t cast it fast enough.” She laughed, bringing her own wand up with a snapped, “Crucio!”
A smile is on her face as she holds the curse, waiting for the first delicious screams. It’s too bad she won’t have time to really wring them from him, but even a few will be better than none at all.
Hearing Matthew scream is almost more than Cory’s patience will stand. He’s seen his teacher take a sword through the gut without reacting like this, and it seems like it’s never going to stop.
For his part, Matthew has just enough time to be stunned by the difference between the pain Regulus caused and the agony Bellatrix is causing before it consumes him. He’s been burned before, once, but this is ten times worse – there’s no respite, no hint that his Immortality is about to step in and save him. All he can do is writhe, and hope it ends quickly.
Laughing loudly in delight at the screams her cousin is providing her, Bellatrix nearly looses herself in it. Barely recalling the explicit instructions given her when she hears something in the distance. Not the pop of Apparating Aurors, but enough for her to lower her wand, ending the curse as she pouts. “I do wish we had more time to play, little cousin, but I’m afraid you really made him angry, our Master. And you know he doesn’t tolerate betrayal very well.”
She smiles, lifting her wand again, the tossing motion accompanied by the hissed incantation of the Killing Curse, the brilliant green light giving her face a sickly cast for a moment. Toeing Regulus’ body over, she shakes her head. “Silly little cousin. No better than your blood-traitor brother, in the end. Pity. You had potential.”
Outside, she puts the Dark Mark up before she Apparates away. Knowing she’s probably only seconds ahead of the Aurors only makes the thrill that much more.
Regulus is watching the sky, and when he sees the Dark Mark, he sprints for the house, muttering to himself about timing, and hoping he gets there fast enough to get Matthew out before the Aurors arrive.
The only thing that stops Cory from going after Bellatrix and attempting to put a few bullets into her is the thought of Matthew having gone through all of that for nothing. Instead, he bends over Matthew’s body. There’s really no point in feeling for a pulse – he felt Matthew’s quickening wink out moments earlier – and it’s a waste of precious seconds that they don’t have.
Matthew is lighter now than he usually is, without the heavy muscles that came from wearing armor and lifting a sword as soon as he was able, but he’s still heavy, especially since he’s dead weight. Cory’s just managed to get him up into a fireman’s carry when he hears that all-too-familiar pop behind him, and freezes.
Apparating in where the Unforgivables have been used is always dangerous, but the sight that greets Frank is not one he’s seen before in these situations. The Death Eaters have never bothered to clean up the bodies, always preferring to leave them where they’ve fallen. To better disturb their pursuers, he’s always supposed.
“Stop there.” He gets his voice back after a few vital seconds, raising his wand to aim it at the man with the body. “Put the body down, and keep your hands where I can see them.”
He has a niggling suspicion the man isn’t a Death Eater, though he’s not going to suppose otherwise, not really, until he can get a look at the man’s left arm. Him, or Kingsley, it really doesn’t matter which of them looks.
Regulus freezes at the sound of Apparating, just shy of the doorway into the living room. Glad he hasn’t actually made it there, and into their line of sight, even if he has to be very quiet as he tries to back off. He can’t get caught now, not when they’re so close to ensuring he can leave without being hunted down.
Cory lowers Matthew gently to the floor, and puts his hands up. It’s not going to do either of them any good if he gets killed now. Besides, from what he understands, it’s unlikely that will happen anyway.
“This is not what it looks like,” he says. For once, that line is nothing but the truth.
“Really.” The speaker is larger even than the Kurgan, and he sounds as skeptical as Matthew at his most irritated.
“I’m trying to get him to the hospital.” It’s the first lie that pops into Cory’s head, and he offers up his most ingratiating smile along with it, hoping that neither of the newcomers will notice the lameness of his excuse, and that Regulus is well away.
“He’s dead.” Frank’s sure of that much, at least, and he keeps his wand aimed at the man even after the body is on the floor. “Kingsley, your turn to check.” At least, if he recalls correctly, he checked the last capture for extra wands, and for the Dark Mark, like the one no doubt floating above this house.
Regulus recognizes the one voice, though not the other, and he bites his lip hard to keep from groaning as he slowly takes a step backward, placing his feet with extreme care to avoid making any noise. He only has to get outside, get beyond any anti-Apparating barrier they might have put up, and get away. Go back to the house they’d been planning in, and wait there for Cory and Matthew to catch up with him, and then figure out where he’s going next.
For his part, Kingsley isn’t sure what to think. Their captive is dressed in Muggle clothing and sounds like an American, two things that Death Eaters rarely, if ever, do. Still, he levels his wand at the man’s chest.
“Left arm. Now,” he orders.
Cory glances down at Matthew, willing him to wake up. He’s never been good at talking to the police. Sighing, he rolls up his left sleeve.
“I’m not a Death Eater,” he assures them, holding out his unmarked left arm and struggling not to flinch as Kingsley presses the tip of his wand to it. “See? If you wait until Matthew wakes up, he’ll be able to explain things a little better.”
Frank isn’t sure what the man’s thinking, but he’s seen enough corpses to know the man at his feet is dead. He gives their captive a pitying look, wondering just what the Death Eaters did to him before he and Kingsley got there. Because that’s the only thing he can think of to explain the man’s certainty that the other isn’t dead.
And to explain why he thinks Regulus Black goes by the name Matthew. Frank isn’t really surprised to find the young man dead; he’s more surprised it took this long for him to see this particular body on the ground at his feet.
“What’s your name?” he asks quietly, as gently as if he’s talking to his son.
“Cory.” Instinctive caution when it comes to dealing with law enforcement keeps him from giving his last name. It’s been a while since he operated in England, but he really doesn’t want to take any chances, not until Matthew is back and able to take care of himself.
“Cory,” Kingsley says, “what happened here?”
“It’s a really long story.” Cory nudges Matthew with one foot. “And I’m not the best person to tell it. It wasn’t really my idea. He’ll do a much better job of explaining, once he decides to rejoin the party.”
Kingsley shoots Frank an unhappy glance. A Muggle witness – one who insists that a very dead Regulus Black is about to wake up and explain things – is a complication they don’t need.
Frank shakes his head. Until they get a full account, or at least, as full an account as Cory’s able to give, they can’t just obliviate him, as much as he’d like to. It will be a kindness, in the end, if the Death Eaters have messed him up this badly. “Why don’t you tell us what you know first.” Better to cater to his belief that the dead would rise than agitate him by insisting he face reality.
“How much time do you have?” Cory grins. It’s disconcerting, especially considering what he must have been through. “That,” he points at Regulus, “is Matthew, although he looks like Regulus Black right now. He took some kind of potion, and -” He breaks off, head tilting to the side as if he’s listening to something only he can hear. “And he’s back.”
Frank blinks, raising an eyebrow at Cory before he looks over at Kingsley with a concerned expression on his face. Perhaps it would be better to not worry about Cory’s side of the story, and just obliviate him now. The paperwork’s annoying, but he’d rather do the paperwork than worry about what the man might do when Regulus doesn’t come back as he’s clearly expecting.
“Matthew.” Cory drops to his knees, and checks his teacher’s pulse. It’s there, and getting steadily stronger, and after a moment, Matthew gasps and tries to sit up.
“Lie still, you idiot,” Cory tells him firmly. “Christ. Next time you plan on doing something like that, warn me first. I nearly shot that bitch when you started screaming.”
“I’m glad you managed to restrain yourself.” Matthew sounds hoarse and beyond tired, but he manages a smile that fades into what Cory thinks of as his Official Expression when he notices Kingsley and his friend. “I see we have company.”
He’s sure he’s seeing things when Regulus gasps, and sits up – even if it is with assistance. Frank doesn’t know what to think of someone who manages to come back from the dead, particularly when that person is Regulus Black. There are worse people he could think of doing the same, but he’s loathe to even think the name too loud right now.
“Kingsley, can you confirm what I’m seeing?” he asks instead, making sure that if he is seeing things, at least he’s not alone.
“I see it,” Kingsley answers, without taking either his eyes or his wand off of the two men in front of him. Cory looks up at them and winks. Black glares at him, then looks apologetically at Kingsley and Frank.
“I don’t suppose you’d care to forget you saw anything?” he asks.
“No.” Frank doesn’t move the aim of his wand, though he’s tempted to reach up and rub his temples. This is going to be a nightmare of paperwork, and he’s not sure how to explain it. Or even if he should try to explain it.
That is, if it’s not some sort of trap, considering who they’re dealing with. He doesn’t really have to check Regulus’ arm for the Dark Mark when they’re already certain he’s a Death Eater.
“What’s going on, Black?”
“I’m not Black.” Judging by the Aurors’ reactions, Regulus isn’t high on their list of favorite people, and as a result, Matthew wants to clear up the matter of his identity as quickly as he can. “I assure you, the resemblance is only temporary. My name’s Matthew Ellworth; I’m a detective inspector with Scotland Yard. You’ve already met Corwin.” He gets to his feet, careful to move slowly and to keep his hands in sight. “I’m happy to explain, but unless you’re absolutely certain that Bellatrix won’t be back, I’d much rather do it somewhere else.” He’d hate to have gone through all of that for nothing.
A Muggle, masquerading as Regulus Black, who is alive when he should be dead. Frank isn’t sure he wants to explain this to the Order, much less to the Ministry. And if he’s not Regulus, it’s likely Regulus is still alive somewhere, though why the younger man went to a pair of Muggles rather than someone in the wizarding world, Frank isn’t entirely certain.
“Where’s Black, if you’re not him?” If they have to take this conversation elsewhere, he’d much rather go wherever Regulus is, and clear up this entire mess. Before making his report to the Ministry – and he can cover the extra time by claiming to have chased the Death Eater who murdered Regulus Black.
“Somewhere else.” Matthew shrugs. “I don’t think he’d appreciate my telling you any more than that. As far as you and yours are concerned, he’s dead, and he’s going to stay that way.” The expression on Matthew’s face says as clearly as words that he’s not in the mood to compromise on this point, and Cory tends to agree with him. Regulus – and the horcrux he stole – are too valuable to risk, and there’s no guarantee that either of these men will keep their mouths shut.
Frank would really prefer to see with his own eyes that Regulus isn’t dead, but he can understand the reluctance of the Muggle to share, especially since he doubts Regulus trusts anyone who works for the Ministry. Which may well explain why he didn’t approach anyone in the wizarding world for assistance.
He looks over at Kingsley, raising an eyebrow in silent question about how much he’s willing to trust the Muggle’s word, or if he’d rather push for proof that Regulus isn’t dead. Along with an explanation of this entire mess, no matter what goes into the official report.
Kingsley scowls down at the pair in front of him. “I think you should start from the beginning. Who are you, and why aren’t you dead?” Regulus Black is one thing – Muggles who appear to have discovered the secret of immortal life are quite another.
“And take the chance that you’re Death Eaters?” Not-Regulus shakes his head. “I don’t think so.”
“Just who you are would be a start, at least.” Other than ‘Matthew’, which doesn’t really give them much to work with. “And how you know Black.” Frank wants to work through this enough to have things clear in his mind, so when the war ends, there’s a chance to help Regulus. If he’ll let them help him, and hasn’t just gone and hidden himself in a deep hole somewhere.
“Left arms, first,” Cory says, after a glance at Matthew, who still looks skeptical. “Turnabout being fair play, and all that.”
Frank kept a smile from crossing his face by sheer willpower, rolling up his left sleeve without letting go of his wand. At least the Dark Mark can’t be concealed, and it provides an easy way of identifying Death Eaters, when one bothers to look.
Kingsley rolls up his own sleeve. After a moment, Cory nods.
“Fair enough.” He’s not entirely sure what he’s supposed to be looking for, but since their forearms are as unmarked as his own, he’s willing to give them the benefit of the doubt. Off Matthew’s quizzical look, he reaches over and pulls up his teacher’s left sleeve. The face Matthew makes at the tattoo on his arm makes Cory wish he had a camera.
“Apparently, Voldemort’s been taking history lessons from the SS,” Cory shrugs, tugging Matthew’s sleeve back down. “Only he’s marking up his followers instead.”
“Why the hell haven’t you people finished him off, then?” Matthew asks.
“Ignore him,” Cory advises. “He’s always cranky after he’s been dead.” He offers the Aurors his best ‘I didn’t do it’ grin. “You wanted to know how I ran across Regulus Black, right?”
“Please,” Kingsley says dryly.
“I tried burgling his house.” Cory shrugs, unembarrassed. “It didn’t go so well.”
Frank is tempted to close his eyes at just how the Muggle met Regulus – anyone with sense didn’t break into a wizarding home, if they could find it – but he consoles himself with giving Cory a disbelieving look. “And how did Matthew meet him, then?” He looks over at Matthew, curious just what the connection was. He’s not even going to ask what Cory managed to do to get himself caught, as he can think of any number of ways to do so.
“I owed Regulus one for getting me out of there after I picked up the wrong thing, so I told him how to find Matthew, because Matthew can always find me.” Corwin should not be able to look as innocent as he does. “Of course, once he did get in touch with Matthew, Matthew had to get involved.”
“Because you have all the common sense God gave earthworms,” Matthew retorts.
“And Black wanted your help to fake his own death? Why?” Other than the obvious that he’d probably pissed off Voldemort, or perhaps just his cousin. Frank isn’t entirely certain which is more likely, and he’s not sure he really cares, except to make a report to Dumbledore. Which is going to be much abbreviated as it is, though perhaps not as much as his report to the Ministry.
Cory takes a deep breath, clearly prepared to launch into an explanation, but Matthew cuts him off. His first instinct is to say nothing, but it’s not as if Voldemort and his people are unaware of what Regulus did.
“He took something that belongs to Voldemort. Do you know what a Horcrux is?”
Frank let out a hissed breath, staring at Matthew for a long minute. Apparently, the Muggles Regulus has roped into his scheme to fake his own death aren’t the only ones who are utterly insane. Though at least Regulus’ insanity has – he hopes – resulted in one less item that’s useful for Voldemort.
“He took one? For what?” For all that it might have good results, Frank still doesn’t know what Regulus might have in mind. Not without more information.
“He wants to destroy it,” Matthew shrugs, “or at least keep it from its owner. It’s why I agreed to help. This war you people are fighting keeps spilling into our world, and the sooner it ends, the better.”
“Right.” Frank looks over at Kingsley for a long moment. There’s no way to safely tell the Ministry this without the risk it’ll get back to the Dark Lord somehow. He’s not even sure they can tell the Order without that same risk – there’ve been murmurs there’s a spy even there. He has to tell Dumbledore something about this, but not in a meeting of the Order. He’ll have to come up with some reason they’ve been gone this long without much to show for it, but for now, this can’t go beyond the room. Not yet.
“We’ll clear things with the Ministry and Dumbledore.” Clear them as in making sure nothing happens beyond the report of finding the body of Regulus Black, known Death Eater, in a London flat.
Matthew nods, then winces as the Polyjuice starts to wear off. Once it’s finished, he takes a deep breath.
“I appreciate that. I’m going to try to get Regulus out of the country.” He hesitates for a second, then adds, “If there’s ever anything we can do to help – well. You know where to find me, and I know where to find Cory.”
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.
Originally Posted: 22 March 2012
♔ : Finding the other wearing their clothes
♕: Holding hands
♖: Having their hair washed by the other
♗: One falling asleep with their head in the other’s lap.
♘: Cuddling in a blanket fort
♙: Sharing a bed
♚: Head scratches
♛: Sharing a dessert
♜: Shoulder rubs
♝: Reading a book together
♞: Caring for each other while ill
♟: Patching up a wound
♤: Taking a bath together
♧: One character playing with the other’s hair
♡: Accidentally falling asleep together
♢: Forehead or cheek kisses
♠: One character adjusting the other’s jewelry/neck tie/ etc.
♣: Back scratches
♥: Reacting to the other one crying about something
♦: Slow dancing
There's a Mirror on the Wall 