BY: QUICKSILVER
Standard Disclaimers
Feedback is good- if enough of it's positive, I'll do a longer story tying up the loose end.!
mbsilvana@yahoo.com
MacLeod turned the pages in his book, coming to his favorite
quote. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, Than are
dreamt of in your philosophy," he read aloud, his slight Scottish burr returning
to caress the words with relish.
Methos looked up from the book he was
reading. "Hamlet? I would have thought you would have
preferred MacBeth."
MacLeod shrugged. "I think
Shakespeare's greatest play is Hamlet- ignoring Scottish sympathies.
Besides, MacBeth was taken and turned into something it isn't."
"They
didn't even get his name right," Methos agreed.
The two Immortals
returned to their reading before MacLeod got up the courage to ask a
question. "Do you agree with Shakespeare?" he finally asked, hoping to get
some information out of the ever-sly Methos.
"About there being more
things? Of course. All we have to do is look at us."
MacLeod nodded, putting his copy of Hamlet aside. "But
what else is there?"
Methos gave his usual secretive grin.
"In my five-thousand years, I've seen wonders that would, how do the Americans
say it?- blow your mind."
"Like what?" MacLeod said, pouncing on
Methos' talkative mood. Playing the "all wise" elder was fine, but only up
to a certain point.
"Magic," he answered simply.
MacLeod
scoffed. "Magic?" he said disdainfully.
"Remember the holy
spring?" Methos countered. "There are creatures beyond our
imagining, creatures that can't be acknowledged by the rational mind." He
shivered slightly, and MacLeod felt himself tense. Something made Methos
uneasy.
"What?"
"The Wild Hunt. I remember...."
he trailed off, before telling MacLeod an astounding story.
The dogs bayed wildly at his heels, and Talis felt his second wind kick
in. He'd lived for three millennia, but nothing had ever inspired
such fear in him. The dogs had eyes of fire and the being who drove
them couldn't be called human. He felt his heart pound in his
chest, felt the fear start to devour him. He, Talis, Methos, The man
of a hundred other names, had once been Death! Now it was Death who was
the prey.
He wanted more than anything to be back among the Horsemen,
for surely together they would be invincible. But the Horsemen had
disbanded, and Methos had become Talis, a man of peace.
He glanced
back once more, and caught a glimpse of the Hunter's face. He felt himself
pale. This could only be the Wild Hunt, and no one ever escape alive.
His body kept moving, even though his mind was paralyzed.
Hellorin's face was inhuman, with smoothly sculpted features that might have
been made out of white marble.
It seemed as though the forest itself
was against Talis. The branches reached up and snagged his legs,
whipped against his face. He heard the silence of the woods, a
dramatic contrast to his pounding feet and ragged breath. The animals were
hidden, instinctively knowing that the Hunt rode.
Then Methos asserted
himself. Talis had no spine. It was time he, Death,
stood his ground. If he was going to die, he would die like a man, facing
Hellorin by himself, in armed combat. An Immortal lived and died by the
blade.
He spun around, drawing his sword, the sword he hadn't used in
years. The hounds quickly caught up to him, encircling him. But none
attacked.
There was no escape. Hellorin approached, and dropped
the reins. "So you think to fight me?" he asked, his voice
amused. It sounded like he was speaking from the bottom of a well.
Methos raised his sword, remaining silent.
Hellorin
dismounted, tossing the reins down. Amazingly, one of the dogs left the
circle to grab them. Methos watched as the hound led the horse away. the
dogs closed ranks, and again the circle was complete. "On even ground,
then," Hellorin said.
This was against everything Methos had ever
heard about the Lord of the Hunt. He was suppose to be brutal,
merciless, seeking only the kill.
Methos saluted, and then the fight
began. Hellorin took the first move, swinging his sword at
Methos. Methos raised his blade to block the stroke. The blades rang
off each other, and Methos felt his arms give slightly. Hellorin was
strong, stronger than any Immortal or mortal he'd ever faced.
And so
the fight continued, Methos parrying ever attack sent to him, constantly on the
retreat. He managed only one offensive move, and it was a mistake.
He swung towards Hellorin's wrist, hoping to disarm him. Hellorin
caught the blow with his bare hand, yanking the sword from Methos' grasp with
inhuman strength. He tossed it far away, and Methos watched
helplessly as Hellorin's sword descended towards his neck.
"And than what happened? MacLeod asked.
"I don't know."
"What!" MacLeod exclaimed.
Methos took a calm sip of his
beer. "I felt something strike my neck, and I closed my eyes. When I
opened my eyes, Hellorin and his hounds were gone. All I had left
was some nice bruises on my neck, and the sword he'd thrown. He'd thrown
it so hard that it went all the way through a tree. I wasn't able to get
it out."
"But why did he leave you alone?" MacLeod asked.
Methos shuddered again. "I don't know. Maybe he was
playing with me."
"Playing with you?"
"Yes. Like a
cat, playing with a mouse, letting it THINK it escaped," Methos answered.
"But- it's been two thousand years!"
"And not a day goes by
when I don't think of him, His eyes, MacLeod- his eyes are like fire!"
Methos said. "And I still can't stand dogs. I hear something howl at
night, and I think that he's coming for me. I won't die by the hand
of one of us, MacLeod. One of these days, Hellorin will come for me.
And I will die."
THE END- for now....
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