NB: An epilogue to "The Problem With Secrets".
Galahad adjusted his grip on the weapons in his gauntleted hands—a sword in his right, a parrying dagger in his left—as he squared off against the Viking and his axe. The two warriors were fairly matched in height and weight. Galahad was slightly thinner and wiry. He also had the advantage of centuries of combat experience. He was adept at reading an opponent's expression to predict their next move, and his reflexes were honed to a razor's sharpness.
The Viking, on the other hand, was a berserker; his prowess in battle came from a furious, uncontrollable bloodlust that indiscriminately struck down everyone in its path, be they friend or foe.
This time the knight's reflexes were useless; not even Galahad had eyes in the back of his head. As he prepared to launch an attack on the Viking in front of him, another Viking behind him shot an arrow into his back.
Galahad involuntarily dropped his sword as he went down, sharp pain searing into his lung just below his right shoulder blade. He saw the screaming, axe-wielding Viking coming towards him to finish him off, blade held high over his head, and Galahad instinctively rolled aside. The arrow's shaft snapped off as he rolled onto his back and excruciatingly drove the arrowhead even further into his back. The heavy axe-blade almost missed him, biting into the back of his left thigh on its way into the hard earth, the handle snapping with the force of the blow. The berserker threw the axe-handle away and pulled a long, vicious-looking dagger from a sheath at his back. The blonde fighter leaped on top of Galahad and clutched him by the throat, pinning the wounded man to the ground. He raised the heavy dagger to plunge it in into the knight's heart, heedless of the parrying dagger Galahad just buried in the berserker's ribcage. Suddenly the Norseman leaned down, kissed Galahad softly on his lips and gently caressed the stricken man's face.
"Happy Birthday, sweetheart!" the berserker sang brightly.
Jenkins started awake with a snort, blinking his sleep-filled eyes rapidly as he struggled to focus on his surroundings. Looking around, he was momentarily confused; this wasn't the Danelaw, and that wasn't a blood-covered, bearskin-clad Viking berserker straddling his body. He was in his bed in the Annex, and that was Cassandra on top of him now, wearing those silly Hello Kitty pajamas and a pink robe, a bright smile on her face. All in all, he much preferred the redhead over the blonde.
"Cassandra?" he asked groggily. "What's going on?"
"Rise and shine, sleepyhead!" she chirped. "You don't want to sleep your whole birthday away, do you?"
The Caretaker looked at her, perplexed. "My birthday? Is that today?"
Cassandra leaned down and nibbled his earlobe as she murmured into his ear. "Of course it's today! Don't you keep track of your birthday?"
Despite the pleasant tingling sensation her nibbling was producing in all sorts of naughty places, Jenkins made a sour face at her question.
"No, I don't, actually," he said gruffly. "I haven't celebrated my birthday in centuries. It's foolish for someone my age to mind such things." A thought suddenly occurred to him and he sat up in the bed, forcing the pretty Librarian to sit up in his lap.
"Wait a minute—how did YOU know that today is my birthday? I've never told any of you that."
Cassandra draped her arms around his neck and gave her birthday boy an affectionate peck on his scarred nose.
I'm a Librarian, it's my job to dig up lost, arcane information!" she said proudly. Jenkins stared at her, stone-faced.
Cassandra dropped her gaze guiltily as she confessed. "I asked Charlene about it a while back, and she told me. She told that you don't like to celebrate it, too, but that's just so sad to me!" The older man began to protest, but she cut him off.
"Maybe you're not aware of this, Jenkins," she chided him gently. "But lots of people are glad that you're here, believe it or not. I'm so glad you were born—if you hadn't been, I wouldn't be nearly as happy right now, and I think that should be celebrated."
Jenkins was taken aback by her heartfelt words, and the irritation that he was feeling at being forced to acknowledge yet another year passed in his long, pain-filled life melted away in the light of the Librarian's kindness and love. He slipped his arms around her waist and gave her a quick kiss.
"Perhaps you're right, my dear," he conceded. "You'll have to forgive me; I'm not used to looking at birthdays in such a positive light. For a long time now they've only meant that I'm one year older and nothing more."
The young woman smiled at him, her fingers idly playing with the longer hair at the back of his tousled head.
"How old are you now, anyway?" she asked curiously. "If you don't mind my asking, that is..."
The immortal took a deep breath and knit his brows together as he did some figuring in his head. When he was finished, he looked back into her lovely blue eyes.
"I am 1,545 years old today," he announced.
"1,545?!" she yelped in surprise. "WOW! I didn't realize you were THAT old!" The sour look returned to Jenkins's face, and she burst into laughter.
"I'm sorry, Jenkins, I didn't mean it that way," she said contritely, giving him a hug. "It's just that when you think of Sir Galahad, you think of, like, the Middle Ages, not the Dark Ages. Either way, you're too old for a birthday spanking!"
The sour look was immediately replaced with one of intrigue. "A birthday spanking, did you say?" he rumbled, waggling his eyebrows as he pulled the giggling Librarian closer.
"Stop that!" she laughed, swatting his arm. "Save that for later, you randy old goat! Right now, your breakfast is getting cold."
"Breakfast?" he echoed, letting go of Cassandra. She rolled off of the bed and picked up a bed tray full of covered dishes and a teapot. She carefully carried it over to the bed and Jenkins helped her to set it in front of him. Lifting the various covers, the Caretaker discovered plates of ham, fresh strawberries with cream—and a huge plate of pain perdu. Jenkins's eyes lit up at the sight, his mouth watering in anticipation as he caught the delectable scent of vanilla and brandy rising from the plate. He looked wonderingly at Cassandra, who was sitting on the bed next to him, thoroughly enjoying his reaction.
"How on earth did you know that pain perdu is one of my favorite breakfasts?" he asked. He answered his own question almost immediately. "Charlene." Cassandra nodded.
"I hope you like it," she said shyly. A terrifying thought suddenly struck Jenkins.
"Um...Did you...make this yourself, my dear?" he asked, trying to keep the panic from his voice. Cassandra had many wonderful gifts, but cooking was NOT among them. He was still having flashbacks of what he privately called "The Chili Incident". It was the one time in his long life that the immortal knight believed he might actually die.
"Well, no," she admitted. "Eve's the one who actually cooked everything. She was really insistent on it when I told her what I was planning for you; she said she wanted to do something special for you on your big day, too."
Jenkins smiled brightly, silently thanking every god in the universe for Eve Baird. He picked up the bowl of powdered sugar and began happily covering the fat slices of eggy, toasted bread beneath a veritable avalanche of snowy sweetness, followed by a generous dollop of cane syrup. As he enjoyed his breakfast, another horrible thought came to him.
"Wait—If Colonel Baird knows today is my birthday, then that means everyone knows it's my birthday." He cast a suspicious glance at the Librarian. The redhead dropped her gaze and suddenly began picking invisible lint from her robe. Jenkins took a deep breath and closed his eyes.
"There's going to be a party, isn't there?" the Caretaker demanded. Cassandra only widened her eyes and chewed on her lower lip as she redoubled her lint-picking. The immortal's head fell backwards as an expression of pain flooded his features.
"OH, Cassandra! Nooooo...!" he groaned pitifully. "Not a party!"
"It's just a small party," she said defensively. "Just us, and Eve and Flynn, Jake and Ezekiel. You know—your family?"
Jenkins narrowed his eyes and pinned her with a stony glare.
"There's going to be party hats, aren't there."
"Well, yeah—But they're very dignified party hats!" she protested. "In fact, your hat isn't even really a hat at all, it's a crown. Because you're the king for today!" The Caretaker slowly thunked his head against the headboard several times in despair.
Cassandra reached over and took his hand, smiling seductively as she gazed directly into his pained brown eyes.
"There's going to be ca-a-a-ake!" she sang. "Your favorite ki-i-i-i-nd, double chocolate fu-u-u-udge!"
Jenkins stopped beating his head against the headboard and looked at her warily. "With cream cheese frosting?" he guardedly asked. The redheaded siren nodded slowly.
"Ah. I see, excellent. I shall look forward to it, then," he responded coolly. His expression, however, betrayed the fact that he would gladly crawl a mile through broken glass for double chocolate fudge cake with cream cheese frosting. Perhaps this year's birthday will not completely suck after all, he thought to himself optimistically.
Jenkins finished his breakfast with gusto, sighing contentedly as Cassandra removed the tray and set it on the nightstand. She returned to the bed and sat on the edge, reaching over to stroke her knight's arm lovingly.
"Do you want your present now, or would you rather wait until later?" she asked. Jenkins seized her arm and dragged her into his lap, planting a deep, lusty kiss on her mouth and silencing her squeals of surprise.
"Now, please," he growled quietly after he finished the kiss, running his fingers through her russet locks. Cassandra snorted and gently extricated herself from his arms.
"Again: Let's save that for later," she scolded him lightly. "I'm talking about your other present!"
"Other present?" he asked, his curiosity piqued. Jenkins would never admit it, but he loved surprises. "Now, please!" he repeated with enthusiasm.
The Librarian took his hand and tugged him out of bed. Jenkins slipped his robe on over his pajamas and then followed her to his sitting room. There, propped against his favorite armchair, was a tall, rectangular package wrapped in shiny, dark blue paper and trimmed with a silver ribbon and bow. The present was nearly as tall as Cassandra.
"Well, there it is," she said nervously. "Hope you like it. Go ahead and open it!"
Jenkins stepped forward and eagerly yanked off the ribbon, then tore open the wrapping paper. As soon as he saw what was inside, he gasped loudly and straightened up, one hand moving to cover his mouth in shock as he took several slow, involuntary steps backward. Cassandra watched, her heart sinking, as his wide brown eyes blinked rapidly against welling tears.
The package contained a portrait painted in the American Primitive style popular in the early to mid-1800's. The portrait was of three people: A man and a woman holding hands and smiling at each other, and standing between them a little girl of around five years old holding a doll and facing the viewer with wide, sparkling brown eyes, all dressed in 19th Century garb. Jenkins recognized them as himself and his murdered wife, Jane. He knew the child in the picture was meant to be their unborn daughter.
"I'm...I'm sorry, Jenkins!" Cassandra exclaimed miserably. "I thought...I didn't mean to upset you. It seemed like a good idea at the time. I'm so sorry...!"
The pale immortal turned dazedly and looked at her blankly. As soon as her words registered with him, his expression changed. His shook his head as his face softened and he hurried to take her in his arms and hold her tightly.
"Oh, no, Cassandra!" he breathed into her hair. "No, Cassandra! I'm not upset, just surprised, that's all. How...how did you do this?!"
"Jake helped me," she replied shakily. "He hooked me up with an artist friend of his who could paint in that style, called in a favor the man owed him. I showed him a scan of your daguerreotype, and he created the painting from that. I asked him to add your daughter, and he created the image of her based on your and Jane's features. I thought...I thought you would like a family portrait, of all three of you."
She looked up into the tall man's face. "I'm sorry," she repeated. "I didn't mean to make you sad, especially on your birthday. If you don't like it..."
Jenkins quickly gave her another tight hug to reassure her.
"No, Cassandra, it's beautiful," he said sincerely, his voice rough with emotion. "It's the most wonderful gift I've ever received!" He kissed the top of her head as he held her. "Thank you, my love."
The young woman hugged him back, relieved. "They're an important part of your life," she said quietly as she leaned against his chest. "You shouldn't keep them hidden away in a box."
The Caretaker stroked her red hair, struck to his very core by Cassandra's thoughtfulness. "My dearest treasure," he murmured softly, voice steady now. He released her and looked around the room. "Where do you think I should hang it?"
She backed away from him. "Over the fireplace," she said firmly. "You can put the box with the daguerreotype and Jane's lock of hair on the mantel underneath it. I think that would that be perfect."
"Over the fireplace it is, then," he agreed, then laid a hand against her soft cheek. "I really am very pleased with it, Cassandra, and very touched," he said. "It's very kind and generous of you." He bent to kiss her tenderly.
She returned his kiss, their caresses becoming more ardent as the kiss deepened. When they finally parted, Cassandra looked up into her lover's face and smiled coyly. "Would you like to open up your other present now, sweetheart?"
Jenkins grinned in response. He untied and slipped Cassandra's robe from her shoulders, then slowly removed her pajamas.
"Just what I've always wanted!" he purred as he took in the lovely sight.
He picked the naked woman up and carried her back into the bedroom, kissing her as they went. When they came to the bed, he gently laid her in it, then quickly stripped off his own night clothes. As he climbed into the bed with her, Jenkins nonchalantly reached out and plucked the small pitcher of cane syrup from the breakfast tray. Cassandra saw it and looked at him with a puzzled expression.
"It's my birthday," he said archly, tipping the pitcher carefully to allow a thin thread of syrup to drizzle over her plump breasts as she giggled.
"I believe I'm allowed to indulge my sweet tooth today...?"
