Author's notes : I've decided to make this a crossover so Matthew McCormick, Ceirdwyn, Marcus, Methos, and the concept of Immortality do not belong to me. I'm just borrowing – please don't sue me (you wouldn't get much anyway).
Renni, Kortbone, and Wally: At least this one was a little quicker. I don't anticipate it being too long until chapter 8. After that I'm circling back to Blood of Avalon and since chapters there tend to run 15000+ words (or 20+ pages single spaced 8 pt font) it may be a while before chapter 9 (but I promise that there WILL be a chapter 9).
Oya: You're not the only one confused by quantum mechanics. NO ONE understands it. Einstein was pulling his hair out over it.
Neoma: Thank you!
In the Hands of Fate: Chapter 7: Knights Errant
I leave Lex to mull over what I've said as they unbuckle him from the straight jacket and turn my attention elsewhere. It never ceases to amaze me what history books get wrong but since no one, Clark included, seems to be paying the slightest attention to the teacher it probably doesn't matter much. From the way things are going with Lionel I sense a certain red head will be getting a set of very expensive earrings in the near future. Jonathan Kent is feeding his cows 'cause they don't feed themselves'. I find that very odd on an organic farm and very sad in general. The last time I was human the cows were definitely perfectly capable of feeding themselves. Of course they had a lot more…character back then too, sometimes too much character. The entirety of my attention abruptly flicks to my ally. Oh, damn, not good, not at all good.
He has no idea that he's been spotted or that they're closing in on him. He isn't ready for this yet. In a few more years he'd be able to face off with Lionel's security and laugh at them but not today. Though in the hubris of youth he, undoubtedly, has a different opinion. I got him into this. It's my responsibility to get him out. I gag myself with the musty blanket. I am no weakling but I have no illusions either. Bodies scream when they hurt particularly when the focus of the mind is elsewhere. If nothing else I don't want to have to explain to Lex why it sounded like someone was murdering me and that's ignoring the possibility of someone wondering why screaming was coming from an unused mop closet. I draw a deep breath and instantly regret it. Oh, honestly, blanket funk is the least of my problems. He was supposed to observe and collect sufficient evidence to involve the proper authorities at the proper time. Not get hip deep in the brown soup himself but boys will be boys and I really should have known better. First I need to let him know he's in trouble. I brush him through the Web making every hair on his body rise. I whisper warnings all the time. Some people never hear no matter how hard I try. Some are so sensitive that they almost seem to have a second sight. I confess that I like being heard and my ally has always been a favorite because he hears. He doesn't know how he knows they're on to him. He doesn't pause to wonder why he takes the left hand door instead of the right or why he waits in a door way for just the right amount of time. Oh, but we'll have fun together in a few years when I'm back at the Loom, my Caped Crusader and I. A fallen mop causes his pursuers to stumble. A car slipped out of gear provides a timely distraction. No! NO! NO! NOT THAT WAY!
He hesitates but it's too late unless. I gather myself and I alter the Web. A blind alley suddenly has an opening. Agony, driving, persistent, the body curls into a fetal ball. My whole world is ablaze. What I said to Lex is as true for me as Gregory as for any other human being. To directly manipulate the quantum field is to invite death, mutation, and madness except that unlike every other human I knew how to stop it but there is a price to be paid. Lex was right about that. I finish guiding him to safety, make sure that the security cameras records are unusable, and then spit out what's left of the gag. Hairball, yum, mayhap I should take up gargling with Woolite?
This can not be allowed to happen again. Time to add an older and (possibly) wiser head to all this and I have just the man for it. Now all I have to do convince him to join the party. I lean back against the wall shakily and reach out again, this time into my tomb. I mentally rifle its contents, the remnants of my life as Myrddin, until I find what I am looking for. I pull the medallion and the 'chess' set into the room. Chess didn't exist in its current form in 498 but there are enough pieces and spaces on the board to play it. I let the medallion dangle in front of me, remembering. Remembering my brave 'knights' except then there were no 'knights' as these modern children think of them in the fifth century. History remembers them as Arthur's since he was the Dux Brittainium but it was I who had chosen them and with Ceirdwyn and Methos trained them from dewy youth, Bors, Bran, Bedwyr, Calum, Caius, Gavlerudd, Gwachmai, Tristram, Rhys, and Medraunt. We had been the warlords and defenders of the Isle of the Mighty until one by one we fell. As the Weaver I do not grieve or truly regret, grief and regret are mortal emotions. I had died before the final blows and now that I am back in a body grief washes over me like a flood and I weep quietly in the dark closet for what should have been. For bright, brave Medraunt slain by his own father. Legend has so twisted those last days of Camelot. No one could or would believe the honorable Arthur would turn on his own and so innocent Medraunt is remembered as the traitorous Mordred. Except it wasn't Arthur, not really, it was HER. That damn Witch and it was all my own bloody fault. Oh, I'd warned Arthur about her but I hadn't, really, seriously, considered her a threat. I'd paid the price for that in blood and a slow, painful death. I shake off the memories with difficultly, brush the Web to assure privacy, and flip open the phone.
"You know that wasn't the wisest thing you could have done" I observe without even saying hello.
"How the hell did you"
"I have my sources" I cut him off "don't assume that because I'm here I don't know what's going on elsewhere."
"It worked" he growls back.
I would like to riposte that it most certainly hadn't but that would get us into a discussion I have no intention of having. I sigh "We should have enough to get an official investigation rolling now."
I can sense him mustering a protest "We need things to be admissible in court" I remind him.
"But who can we trust?" he asks pointedly, reluctant to let an outsider in and for him everyone is an outsider.
"I have someone in mind but I need sometime to convince him." I brush the Web again to make sure no one and nothing of this world but he can hear our conversation "His name is Special Agent Matthew McCormick. I'll speak to him today, hopefully he'll be in touch with you shortly."
"I'll check him out and IF I think it'll work I'll see him." He retorts coldly and slams the phone down.
I flip the phone shut. Damn testosterone. When I get back to the Loom it's history, x'ed from existence, done, over. I check on Lex who is enjoying being free of the straight jacket and on Dr. Foster who is, as usual, unamused. That is a woman in dire need of some cheering up but then this place could depress helium. I confirm that he is in his office and alone before teleporting to Washington D.C.
I force my knees not to buckle. Too much too quickly, my head swims. I watch him silently. Three times I open my mouth to speak and three times I fail. He is without a doubt the absolute best man for this task. He is the most respected man in the FBI. His honor is impeccable. His integrity is unimpeachable. He is also an 'Immortal' as they call themselves. Silly young fools – they think because the only way they can die permanently is for their heads to be severed from their bodies that they are immortal. Most of them never see five hundred and the eldest is millennia short of ten thousand. He is also the closest thing my wife has to a son. The Quickened are all sterile but Ceirdwyn was his godmother until his first death in a joust nearly 850 years ago, his teacher afterward, and his friend through all the years of his life. She would be utterly devastated if he is harmed and much to my surprise – I am still in love with my wife. NOT my wife – Myrddin's wife. I shouldn't have come back here, not in a million years. I am NOT here to rekindle flames centuries dead. I must have made some small sound because I suddenly found myself looking down the muzzle of his gun. Very quick, but then I'd expect no less from a man trained by Ceir. Ice cold blue-green eyes are locked on mine "Who are you and how did you get in here?"
I draw a deep breath and hold the medallion out to him "Matthew someone needs your help."
The gun dropped instantly and he took the medallion reverently. He doesn't even notice that I let my hand linger on his. I discovered during my first human incarnation that contact with the Quickened can undo some of the harm my presence inflicts on the body. I had survived over thirty years as Myrddin because I had been surrounded by them, first Marcus and Methos and later Ceirdwyn and the Witch. I have to restrain a sigh as little aches I hadn't even been fully aware of are set right. Matthew was born in 1255 and adopted by a noble family. He'd been practically suckled on tales of Arthur, Merlin, and the Round Table and then after his First Death Ceirdwyn had made Myrddin the greatest hero to ever walk the earth in Matthew eyes. Did she really see me like that? NOT ME – MyrddinMyrddin is dead I am Gregory. I forced my wandering eyes to NOT fall upon her. The medallion was one of twelve I, Myrddindamn it, had commissioned from arguably the greatest artisan in metal this world has ever produced. The outer rim is identical on each one marking the bearer as one of Camelot's inner circle. The centers were unique and specifically matched to the personality of the original owner. Methos and Ceirdwyn still have theirs, nine are in the tombs of various 'knights', Myrddin included. As far as Matthew knows only one was unaccounted for – Arthur gave his to the Witch when he betrayed us all. The Witch had returned decades later to (literally) dance on my (MYRDDIN'S) grave and had added Arthur's medallion to Myrddin's grave goods. Matthew knows the stories by heart and knows exactly what he's looking at.
"Where did you get this?"
"It doesn't matter. What matters Matthew of Salisbury is if you will honor it."
He pales and the gun comes back up. There is fear in those eyes. Fear that I know who and what he is "I could shoot you dead and no one would question it."
"You would." Long ago, in relative youth, he had formed his own 'knights of the round table'. Young idealists like himself who had sworn to uphold the vows of chivalry and justice and to fight in the name of Arthur and Myrddin. Even now he still lives by that old code and by that code he can not refuse me.
"Who are you?"
"That's irrelevant. Are you still a knight errant?"
He holsters the gun and curls his fingers around the medallion. I put a slip of paper on the desk "If you are, call upon this gentleman, today or at latest tomorrow." I make eye contact and touch the hand clutching the medallion. It looks like a plea but it's really just a way of offsetting the strain of the teleport. I make it a slow fade, Cheshire cat like, but instead of leaving a grin behind it is my eyes that seem to linger.
I bounce up on the balls of my feet back in the mop closet, frankly feeling better than I have since my arrival. Energized, alert, and ready for anything. I check the link I established to Matthew and find him trying to reach Ceirdwyn. I knew long ere I contacted him that she is on one of her retreats and essentially out of contact for at least the next few months. He spends some time playing with his slinky, thinking, and then calls his supervisor for emergency time off and books a ticket for Metropolis. I don't even bother restraining my grin of triumph. Matthew has nearly eight hundred years of experience both inside and outside the law as an enforcer of justice. There is no one better to teach my ally and I expect great things as a result of their association. Provided they don't kill each other of course. All the thought of Camelot, knights, and Immortals reminds me that I have yet to begin practicing my sword katas. I pull Excalibur from his transdimensional sheath and begin to, once more, make him a natural extension of my arm.
