Joanne Markelson stepped into the reception area of Markelson Photography of Portland, ready to meet with her final appointment of the day. She stopped short, her brow furrowing as she swept the small room with puzzled, hazel-colored eyes. The only person she saw was a tall, elderly man wearing an expensive three-piece suit of gray wool and sapphire blue bow-tie, with a headful of nearly-white hair combed straight back from his forehead. He was sitting ramrod straight on the edge of one of the upholstered chairs in the waiting area, a long, flat wooden box on his lap. His large hands rested on it protectively. As soon as she entered the room, he turned his head to stare disconcertingly straight into her eyes.

"Mister, um...Jenkins?" she asked hesitantly, unnerved by the piercing dark eyes. His face, though careworn and lightly wrinkled in places, was still rather full and boyish. He was probably a real hottie back in the day she thought as she pasted a smile onto her face. "Galeas Jenkins?" The old man inclined his head slightly and stood up.

Whoa! Look at the size of this guy! Joanne forced herself to step forward and extended her hand. "Welcome, Mr. Jenkins! I'm Joanne Markelson, the owner." He shifted the long box to his left hand, extended the other to take hers and shake it stiffly. His hand nearly swallowed hers completely.

"My pleasure," he rumbled in a flat, perfunctory tone, and she instantly recognized the deep baritone voice from the phone conversation she'd had with him a few days ago. As he released her hand, she saw his eyes narrow a bit as he gazed down at her.

"Is there a problem, Miss Markelson?" he asked, almost defensively, and Joanne mentally kicked herself for letting her surprise show on her face. She didn't think he was a pervert or anything, not someone who would hurt her, but he did strike her as…odd. She decided the best way to go here was to simply be honest.

"I apologize, Mr. Jenkins," she said after taking a deep breath. "When I spoke to you on the phone the other day, I developed a different picture in my head of what you looked like, and—"

"And you imagined that I was much younger and much better looking," he finished for her, diffidence in his voice. "And the reality has turned out to be more than a little disappointing for you."

Wow. Touchy old fart, ain't he?

"I will admit to being surprised by the reality," she conceded steadily, more than a little irritated as she met his stare full-on. "Though I'm not sure as to why you would think I'm disappointed? Unless you just assume that I'm in the habit of hitting on all of my clients...?" Jenkins immediately dropped his eyes. He laid his free hand over his chest and actually gave her a small bow.

"I beg your pardon, Miss Markelson," he said, genuinely contrite. "I most certainly did not mean to insinuate any such thing! It's just that..." He glanced up before letting his eyes drop to the floor again. "I've never done anything like this before in my entire life, you see, and I'm...well...I'm somewhat apprehensive..." Joanne felt her heart flutter a bit at the shy look that appeared on his face, softening the stern expression with which he had greeted her, and she immediately regretted being so sharp with him.

"I think maybe we got off on the wrong foot," Joanne said amiably and smiled up at the old man in hopes of reassuring him. "Look, I understand. You're not the first one to be nervous about doing something like this, believe me! But let me assure you. Mr. Jenkins, that if at any time during the shoot you begin to feel uncomfortable or just want to stop, it's okay—just sing out and I'll shut it down." Jenkins raised his eyes to meet hers, staring intently as he gauged her sincerity. Satisfied, his lowered his gaze and let a tiny smile come to his face.

"Thank you, Miss Markelson; that is reassuring," he said. He raised his head and pulled his shoulders back. "So—now what?" Joanne grinned, glad to have smoothed things out with her client.

"If you'll just step this way, please?" She waved him around the counter and toward a door which led to a surprisingly spacious photography studio. As he walked past her, she was surprised to see that his hair was actually tied up in a thick braid that hung half-way down his broad back.

The photography studio itself was a small converted warehouse. Joanne had already set up the large, open space with lights, but there was nothing else that Jenkins could see. He was relieved to see that all of the windows of the warehouse were covered by heavy drapes. The photographer pointed to a door off to the right side, what had once been an office space. Its window, too, was covered.

"That's the changing room," she said. She walked over to a table that was scattered with papers, cameras and lenses. There was also an unsheathed longsword. Joanne picked it up and turned to him.

"You said on the phone about having some pictures taken of you as a medieval knight," she said, hefting the sword in her hands, a thoughtful look on her face. "I've been thinking about it, and I'd like to try something, if it's okay with you. I'd like to take a string of action shots of you wielding this sword. No other props, like pieces of armor or anything like that, no backdrops. Just the sword and you, nude. What do you think?"

Jenkins inhaled silently, deeply, held his breath as he considered her idea. He found that the idea appealed to him—no contrived costumes or false settings, no unrealistic, uncomfortable poses. Just a knight practicing with his sword; what could possibly be more natural for him? A knight who just happened to be naked, though he reminded himself.

He exhaled and forced the thought from his head, nodding as he looked over at the patiently waiting photographer.

"I think that's an excellent idea," he agreed. "However…" He held up the long case he'd been carrying in his hands. "I've brought my own sword; I'd like to use it, if I may." He saw the questioning look in the young woman's eyes.

"I've practiced swordsmanship my entire life," he explained, the note of pride in his voice unmistakable. "As a way of instilling…self-discipline, you see." He gave her a tiny, disarming smile.

"Wow, really? That's great! Your pictures should look a lot more real and natural than if we posed you!" Joanne responded, echoing his smile with one of her own. "We can absolutely use your sword, no problem!" She was genuinely looking forward to this shoot now. She did a lot standard, hum-drum boudoir photographs for women, but men wanting to have so-called "dudeoir" sessions were rare. And men this guy's age were rarer still, but they usually made for much more interesting photographs.

"I'd like to try something a little more artistic with you, if I can. I thought maybe we'd shoot the pictures only in black and black, maybe a few in sepia, too, but nothing in color, just to give them an 'ancient' feel, if you know what I mean?" Jenkins nodded his head and grunted softly in agreement, secretly amused by the descriptor "ancient".

"Yes…yes, I think that would make for some visually appealing photographs," he murmured. "At least as far as photos of old nude men can be appealing, I suppose."

"Don't sell your short, Mr. Jenkins," Joanne said knowingly. "Just wait until you see the pics, then you can judge how 'unappealing' you are!" Jenkins smiled and bowed his head in acquiescence.

"Shall I go and, um…change now?"

"That'd be fine," she answered, returning her prop sword to the table before going around and to turn on the powerful photography lights. "There's a robe in the changing room; take your time and come on out when you're ready. No rush!" Jenkins turned to go to the changing room, then turned slowly back to the woman.

"I think you should know—" he said hesitantly, and she stopped working, turned to face him expectantly. She was surprised and perplexed to see a look of shame on the old man's face as he stared uncertainly at her. Jenkins ran a nervous hand down the front of his suit. "I have some...rather bad scarring. On my body, I mean. Some find it...disturbing. I probably should've mentioned it when I spoke to you on the phone..." Now Joanne understood where his initial prickliness had come from, and she was moved by compassion for him. She walked over and stood in front of him, looked up steadily into his anxious eyes.

"You have nothing to worry about, Mr. Jenkins," she said quietly, kindly. "Believe it or not, before I set up my shop here in Portland, I used to be a crime scene photographer for the Seattle Police Department for several years. Trust me—I've seen all sorts of damaged bodies; nothing shocks or 'disturbs' me anymore." She reached out and very lightly laid a hand on his elbow.

"I can see this isn't easy for you, and I admire your bravery," she said. "There aren't many people with the guts to put themselves in such a vulnerable position." Jenkins gave a small nod of his white head.

"Yes, well, then," he said briskly, and turned to go to the changing room.

"Wait!" Joanne called and he stopped, looked back.

"The braid—would you mind undoing it, please? Just let your hair hang loose?" she asked. The old man smiled and nodded again, then went to change out of his clothes.

About twenty minutes later, the door finally opened and Jenkins stepped out of the changing room. He was barefoot, wearing only a thin, knee-length bathrobe, his long hair hanging over his shoulders like a veil. Joanne noticed he was now carrying a sheathed longsword. As he approached, she was able to see the stunning craftsmanship of its hilt and scabbard. That's no prop! she thought, impressed.

"Ready?" Joanne asked, picking up her camera and giving it one more check. Jenkins nodded, then held up the sword.

"A word of warning, Miss Markelson," he said somberly. "This is real weapon, sharp as a razor. It would be behoove you to stay as far away from me as possible while taking your photographs, for your own safety. Once I begin the exercise, all of my attention and focus will be on it to the exclusion of everything else around me. I would feel terrible if I accidentally caused you any harm!"

"Not a problem," she answered, and quickly moved to the edge of the large lighted area on the warehouse floor. She lifted the camera. "I'm ready when you are."

Jenkins turned his back to her, took a deep breath, and slipped first one arm, then the other out of the robe, switching the sword between hands as he did so. He dropped the robe and stood still for a moment, feeling the hot lights against the ruined skin of his back and shoulders. He spun around to face the photographer, his head held high.

Joanne gasped quietly at the sight; she wasn't sure what she was expecting, but she certainly hadn't expected this. She'd seen a lot when she worked in Seattle, and she could see that many of the old man's injuries were the result of stabbings, and some were clearly gunshot wounds. Some of the scars she couldn't even begin to identify, nor how one man could have acquired so much damage in one lifetime. Joanne shook her head, forced herself to shut out the scars and the questions and focus only on the job at hand. She nodded at him.

Jenkins grasped the hilt and drew his sword. The blade hissed softly from its scabbard and sang through the air as he dropped the scabbard on top of the crumpled robe. A chill ran up Joanne's spine; she could've sworn she saw the blade glow a faint blue for a moment as it left the scabbard, but she could see nothing now except the light glittering along the weapon's deadly edges. His eyes hard and decided now, the immortal raised the blade in front of him in salute to an invisible opponent, and he began.

Cassandra's eyes blinked open, and after allowing herself a few seconds to awaken fully, she slowly pushed herself up from the mattress with a sleepy groan. She noisily smacked her lips together, her tongue and mouth tasting sour and furry after last night's birthday party for Eve. Her head immediately began to pound dully with a headache. Ugh! she thought hazily as she swung her legs over the edge of the bed. She noticed that she was wearing pajamas, but had no memory of putting them on. When am I ever going to learn to not drink too much at parties?!

She twisted around to look at Jenkins, but was surprised to see that his half of the bed was empty. She turned and looked around the dim bedroom through bleary eyes, but didn't see any sign of him.

"Jenkins?" she called out, her voice rough and gravelly. The sound of movement came from his sitting room, and then his neatly-groomed head poked around the doorframe.

Great—he's already up and dressed she thought, irritated suddenly by her husband's sobriety.

"Ah! There you are!" he said cheerfully, smiling at her. "You've finally decided to rejoin the land of the living!"

"Oh, be quiet!" she growled, and instantly regretted having snapped at him. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. I feel like crap this morning." She began to rub her tired eyes; they felt like they had sand in them. "What time is it?"

"Almost ten-thirty," he answered, ignoring her sharp words of a moment ago. He strode across the room, his hands behind his back, and sat down on the bed next to her, then leaned over to peck her cheek. "Merry Christmas!"

"Omigosh—it is Christmas, isn't it?" she exclaimed. "Merry Christmas, Jenkins!" She then leaned toward her husband and placed a quick kiss on his lips, then stood up. "Ugh! I think I'm gonna go take a shower."

"Before you do—!" Jenkins said hurriedly, and a shy look suddenly came to his face. Curious, Cassandra sat down again slowly and looked at him, waiting.

"I… I have a gift for you," he continued, unable to look her in the eyes anymore. He pulled a large, square flat box tied up with a gold ribbon from behind his back and offered it to her with both hands. Cassandra took it from him and stared at it for a moment. It wasn't very heavy, and though unwrapped, the box itself was made of thick, navy blue cardstock that made for an elegant presentation when tied up with the shining gold ribbon. She looked up at him again.

"What is it?" she asked, her curiosity mounting.

"You gave me a gift recently that was both beautiful and meaningful," he answered. His dark eyes flicked up for a moment to gauge her reaction before dropping again to his hands in his lap. "I decided that I would return the favor for Christmas. I…I hope you like it."

"If it's from you, I'm sure—" The words disappeared as an idea suddenly came to her. Her eyes rounded, her headache forgotten.

"You didn't!" she gasped, shocked by the idea that had formed in her head. The Librarian tore the ribbon from the box and clawed the lid off in her eagerness to see if her suspicion was correct. She pulled the tissue paper aside and gasped again: Inside was a photo album.

"You DID!" she shrieked with excitement, and dumped the album out of its snugly fitting box. She snatched the book up and turned so that she could lay it on the bed. She didn't notice the immortal as he sat frozen, stiff as a stone statue, his muscles tense, barely breathing as he awaited her verdict on his gift.

Cassandra forced herself to calm down. She took a deep breath, exhaled it with her eyes closed, then opened them as she lifted the cover of the album and began to page through the photographs inside.

Jenkins watched her face closely. As soon as she saw the first photo, her expression melted into one of astonishment. As she turned the pages, her jaw began to drop, lower and lower with each new image. Her eyes widened as she stared at the pictures, and he thought he could detect the tiniest shake of her head as she went through the album.

She hates them! he thought, his heart sinking. Jenkins, you fool! What were you thinking!?

She finally reached the last page, but instead of closing the album, she went back to the beginning and began to page through them all a second time, slowly, closely examining each in turn. All of the photographs were shot in stark black and white, the bright lighting producing sharp shadows that enhanced and brought out every line and imperfection on her husband's body. She was stunned to see that he was naked in all of the pictures; Jenkins was usually very self-conscious about his body and who saw it. He was covered with scars, the reminders of a lifetime's worth of battles fought and survived. His back was especially bad, crisscrossed with long, ugly, thick lines of scar tissue that told of a vicious lashing long ago. And there was his nearly-ruined left forearm, gruesomely scarred by rats in the 1600's.

But the photographer had skillfully taken something that the rest of the world dismissed as ugliness and had turned it into something that was breathtakingly beautiful. Page after page, there was Jenkins, posing with nothing but a sword—his sword, the legendary Sward of the Red Hilt.

No, not posing; Cassandra began to recognize some of the stances as ones she had seen him perform when he was practicing his swordsmanship. She could see every taut, stretched muscle in his arms, shoulders, back, buttocks and legs. The expression on his face was one of intense concentration, his eyes focused on an unseen opponent, his jaw clenched tightly in determination. His eyes blazed with ferocity as he thrust, lunged, ducked and leaped high into the air like a dancer. His long, silver-white hair was unbound, floating in the air around him, softening some of the harshness of the lighting. The tattoos he possessed were no longer merely unusual adornments: They communicated that he was a powerful warrior of ancient Celtic stock. Cassandra had only pretended to be a warrior in the pictures of herself that she'd given to her husband, but Jenkins was the real deal. He was always so kind and gentle with her, Cassandra had almost forgotten that fact about her husband. But these jarring, ethereal photographs in front of her showed her the raw, savagery that still lurked just below the surface of her knight, and it thrilled her.

"I'm sorry for disappointing you," Jenkins finally murmured next her. Confused, Cassandra tore her eyes from the album to look at him.

"What?" she asked faintly, startled to see a mixture of embarrassment and resolve on his face. "What—Oh! No! No!" She reached out to brush her fingertips against his cheek. "I'm not disappointed, sweetheart—not at all!" She pulled her hand back and lifted the album from the bed, held it up between them.

"These are…amazing!" she breathed fervently. Her eyes dropped back to the open pages in her hands. "You're…beautiful, Jenkins! That's the only word I can find for these." She looked up again and met his skeptical gaze.

"You're beautiful!" she repeated, more firmly, then dropped her wondering eyes to the album. "Sometimes I forget how strong, and brave, and…and fierce you are. I'm so used to you being formal and…proper and…controlled and…and…"

"Clothed?" he suggested, with just a hint of a shy smile on his lips. Cassandra laughed and nodded her head.

"And clothed, yes—in layers and layers of clothes!" she agreed fervently. It suddenly struck the Librarian that this was one of the things about these pictures that struck her the most; Jenkins was completely unbound and unfettered in the photos. He was free of everything—clothing, self-consciousness, fear, embarrassment, the cares of the world.

"This must have been pretty nerve-racking for you!" she said, looking up at him again with concern. "I mean, being naked in front of a stranger like that and everything?" Jenkins snorted softly and smiled.

"No more nerve-racking than it was for you when you had your pictures made," he answered. "I thought to myself that if you could find the courage to let yourself be so vulnerable in order to do something for me, then I needed to find the courage to do the same for you." He took one of her hands and patted it affectionately. "Especially after the scene I caused at Estrella's spa last year. I decided it was time to train myself to be more comfortable in my own skin, so to speak."

Cassandra's heart filled to bursting with love for her battered knight—her battered, beautiful knight, who was willing to do anything to please her. She set the album aside and scooted toward him, then wrapped her arms around his chest and pulled him tightly against her.

"I love you, Jenkins!" she said as she snuggled against him, burying her nose into the soft fabric of his suit coat. She felt his arms encircle her and return the hug.

"I love you too, Cassandra," he said, nuzzling the top of her head.

"Does that mean you'll go skinny-dipping with me the next time we go to Estrella's?" she asked, forcing her face up to give the immortal a decidedly mischievous look.

"Now you're just being wicked for the sake of being wicked!" he answered archly, and returned to nuzzling her hair. Cassandra lowered her face and cuddled against her man.

"I didn't hear a 'no'…" she sang.

"Hush, woman!" he scolded. "Or do you need another spanking?"

"Ha! I dare you to try!"

Jenkins let go of his wife and made as if to lay her across his lap. He managed to land one light, playful slap on her rump before Cassandra, laughing and squealing, squirmed free of his grasp. She snatched up the album and ran toward her sitting room, her body half-turned so that she could see where Jenkins as he chased her. He called out dire threats in an exaggeratedly stern voice, but in reality his heart was full beyond measure with love for his beautiful Librarian.