The Irish Rose Part One

By Rose Gryffon

Friarsgate Manor, along the old Cambrian Border

May 31st, 2007

Rosamond sighed as she walked out to the pasture where her sheep grazed. Her parents were too old to do it, and Morgan was on his way into town to get supplies. She sent her border collie, Eli, ahead to round up the sheep, shouting and whistling in turns to guide the dog. Once she had the sheep where she wanted them, in a spacious holding paddock, she called off Eli and closed the gate after her precious companion trotted in as well. She began sheering the sheep and sang an old Gaelic song that her mother had taught her as a small child. The sheep that she had caught between her legs bleated in protest before she crooned soothing words to it, and it quieted. Se resumed her song and went to another sheep, working hard, almost tirelessly, though she wiped her brown on occasion.

It was mid afternoon when she finally took a break, sitting down on the rail of the pen, watching half of her sheep prance around practically naked in a sense, and she smiled as always. Suddenly a shot rang out and Eli started barking madly, but nothing registered to Rosamond, as she looked down at the ground and saw a golden bullet settle on the grass. It was the last thing she saw as she fell to the ground beside the bullet, and her world faded to black.

Rosamond woke, and her first thought was of confusion, then fear as the memories of what had happened slowly filter back into her mind. She started looking about her, and then froze as she saw a dark haired man sitting on a pile of rocks nearby. He didn't notice her, but suddenly her left ear started itching and once she reached up to itch it he looked over to her.

"Welcome back from the land of the dead."

Rosamond just stared at him. "But I'm SUPPOSED to be dead. I got shot in the neck for god sake!" Her Irish accent was thick, even after living on the British side of the borderlands most of her life.

"Well, your not. And you sure as hell can't go back to your home." He replied, almost coldly, and got up from where he was sitting and held his hand out to her. Stunned, Rosamond took it.

"Why the hell not?" She demanded as she stood, brushing her jeans free of dirt and debris. She put a hand to her hair and grimaced as she felt how messy it was and undid her long braid, running her hair through it as the man explained,

"You cant go home because you are Immortal, and people would start asking questions when they see that as the years go on, you never age, while everyone else around you withers and dies. And you can tell no one, because you would be putting them and yourself in danger. You cannot even tell a lover what you are."

Rosamond froze. "Morgan," she whispered and burst into tears. It was a hard truth the learn, even to her logical mind she didn't believe it, not just yet, and she knew better than to truly trust the stranger, but he hadn't killed her, and he seemed kind enough.

The man sighed. "Forgot my manners again, bloody bastard that I am. My name is Adam Pierson."

Rosamond composed herself enough to look him straight in the eye as she gave him her name. "I'm Rosamond, Rosamond Bolton."

The man, Adam, nodded his head. "Good. Now that we're properly introduced, we can move on. Come, I've got a room in town." He led her to a dirty ATV truck and opened the door for her, allowing her to get into the truck before he got into the truck himself and drove away.

Away from her old life, her love, and her family.

April 31st, 2007

Paris, France

Château Saint Michelle

Rosamond woke and stretched, tossing back the sheets as she sat up, her auburn hair frizzed from her restless sleep and her feet hit the floor. She picked the gunk out of her eyes and she went to her dressing table, brushing her hair and considering what outfit to wear for that day. Her sword hung on a beautiful wooden display and the sheath rested just under that display.

It's not like I'm not going to need a shower after practice. She thought to herself as she plaited her waist long hair and tied it off with a black scrunchie. She dressed in a spaghetti strapped hunter green leotard and she slipped long black gaucho exercise pants on over the leotard, putting on black leather jazz shoes as she sat on her bed. Once dressed, she stood and walked over to where her sword and back sheath hung. She lifted the braid over her right shoulder and she shrugged on the sheath of her sword, making sure that all the straps were in place before she removed the blade from the wall and slid the sword home. She flicked her braid behind her back and the sword hilt was hidden. If she was going out she would have a long black trench coat that would have hidden the back sheath and the straps of the get-up.

She walked out of the room on silent feet and went down to the indoor dojo, her left ear itching and she slid the door to the side and smiled at the other person in the dojo. She leaned against the door as she watched her companion go though his exercise. As he slowed down she pushed away from the door and walked slowly along his line of sight, even though she had seen him flick his eyes to where she had entered the room. Methos knew that she was there, but it garnered respect to let him know that she had not gotten in her head to take his. And walking fast across the dojo might provoke him. Rosamond could never truly read him, and some days that frustrated her.

But today all she wanted to do was practice, which was a rarity for her because nine times out of ten she never really wanted to put her full heart into her practice, but today was an exception.

"Just don't break anything this time." Methos cautioned her as he walked out of the dojo. The last time had been bad and she had ended up breaking a very old and expensive vase that Methos had reamed her about breaking it, to which she had pithily replied that if something was that expensive and old why the hell was it in a place where things get thrown around and broken? Methos had promptly removed all of the other valuables from the dojo and left only the necessities.

"Don't worry, I wont hurt anything." Her voice still held a strong link to her Irish heritage, even after moving to Paris when Adam had found her.

She fell into her practice pattern with vigor, the blade singing as it slid out of her back sheath and then whistling as it swung through the air in a graceful pattern of jabs and parries and thrusts. In her mind she fought those who had hurt her, who had made her life a living hell and finally to the one who had made her what she was. She was still adamant about finding whoever it was, but she knew that it was probably impossible.