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We have a total of 23 episodes, and they're all available if you follow the HFS link.

 

 
 

Where the Waters Meet There Find Magic

Teaser


MONS BADONICUS: 422 AD

The racket was incredible, and getting worse. The Saxons had got to some of the horses, and the animals' screams as the hamstrings were severed were terrible, echoing off the hill and down to the town huddled, frightened and still at its foot.

The dark haired Immortal turned his head constantly, eyes alert, sword raised, waiting for the next attacker to reach him. Seconds later it came, a man, this one in his early twenties, cheeks streaked with mud which half covered the charcoal patterns. Methos picked out the signs of Thor. {Another berserker if I'm really lucky.} Even as the thought crossed his mind the boy screamed and swung his axe wildly.

Methos countered easily, pushing the insanely careless fighter back. His arms ached, his back and shoulders were sore - he'd taken and healed from more wounds than he could remember, but nothing was more important than his job. {It's not just a job though, not any more,} he admitted privately, knocking the Saxon sword aside and lunging in to disembowel him. Methos' opponent clutched at his belly, eyes shocked back into pain and sanity, trying to hold the grey-blue guts inside. Methos kicked his feet out from under him and moved on to the next. And the next. And the next.

At his back Gawain did the same, holding the enemy back from their employer. It wasn't enough, not always, and sometimes the king had to raise the sword against the occasional man who slipped past his bodyguards.

"Lord Dragon," Methos called back, as one such opponent attacked. "Need a hand?" There was the flash of teeth in a grin, the flash of a sword, and Methos inclined his head. "My apologies."

The king nodded briefly, and said, "Look to yourself, Bedfyr."

Sword already up he had to dodge away a couple of steps to avoid the blow aimed at his chest.

"I may be old, but I've still a sword hand, " the king added cheerfully.

"No sir. Methos is old, you're just a babe in arms," Gawain laughed, gasping for breath, taking advantage of a brief lull in the attacks on his side to roll his shoulders and wipe his face of sweat and dust and blood.

"Thank you, old friend," Methos said with heavy irony lacing his voice between sword strokes. This one was a little better. It was over quickly nonetheless. {Peasants and pirates, with no more idea of the art of war than a new-born,} he thought contemptuously. {This is just butchery. Not that that's a reason to stop fighting.} He grinned viciously, a feral kind of look that had the next man to attack him backing away before they even crossed blades. Another mortal dead at his feet.

"Anytime," Gawain replied brightly, as always ignoring Methos' moods. "Besides, you can't die. You still owe me for that game of knuckles last night. Twenty denarii, remember?"

"I paid you."

"Didn't"

"Did!"

"No, you didn't."

"My friends." Both heads turned to the king. He smiled mildly at them and said, "A little concentration on the matter at hand?"

Even as he spoke Gawain gasped, his face ashen. Protruding from his back was a sword point.

"Gawain!" The king dropped to his knees beside his favourite warrior.

"Sire! No! I'll be all right!" Methos was only two steps away, but it was too far.

"Sire!"

"No!"

Two voices. One thought. Too late.

A sword ripped through Arthur's chest.

"Mordred. . ." he whispered through the blood in his throat.

The dark-eyed man pulled the sword out and raised it again, tears running down his face.

"For Amr, father," and the sword descended again.

To be met, and forced back. Methos stood over Arthur's body, eyes raw with fury.

"You bastard."

"So true. He'll die no matter what you do now."

Methos shrugged infinitesimally. "So will you."

"No dynasty of a thousand Great Dragons to rule the People then. So much for dreams hey?" Mordred's face look almost sad for a moment, then the mask shuttered across his features, the one that had become a part of him the day that Arthur had killed Mordred's half brother, Arthur's only legitimate son. He saluted Methos, "For Amr."

Methos' lips twisted, despite everything with something like pity. "For Arthur."

It took longer than most of the combats had that day. Methos had, after all, taught Mordred the art of the sword. A small, dark eyed shadow to the blond blue eyed half brother, almost twins, both full of life and joy.

In moments it was done. The son lay across the father , a grotesque parody of forgiveness.

After a moment, when the sound of the battle around them seemed to fail and vanish, Arthur Pen Dragon's hand moved slowly, painfully, to brush across Mordred's pale features. "Bedfyr."

Methos was vaguely aware of Gawain reawakening. He ignored it as he ignored the cries of dismay from the field, as he knelt by Arthur.

"The sword. It has to go back to the lake. Please?"

"Sire. . ." {I don't cry. I don't cry. I don't cry.} But his eyes weren't listening.

"Promise me. . . Methos. Promise me." The blue eyes held him, seeing as always, all the man.

"I promise." Methos the pragmatist faced the inevitable, and carefully lifted the king. Sword into the worn scabbard. King in his arms.

"Mor. . . Mordred."

"He'll lie for the dogs and the ravens." He promised.

"No." the words barely audible. "With me. With. . .Amr."

"Arthur?" Gawain's voice, soft with shock.

"You heard. Do. It."

}From the crest of the hill the women were coming down. In moments they were around him, silent tears on their cheeks, allowing him to carry the king to the tent. Behind him Gawain cradled the son of the king, architect of the destruction behind them.

As the sun set the field seemed bathed in red. Light burning from swords and helmets in their scattered windrows across the tattered grass. Figures moved silently, searching for those they knew. There was no looting. The still was preternatural, as the whole world waited.

It dipped and vanished into the distant, unseen sea. As it vanished the flag, red on white, rampant dragon of Gwynedd snarling yet at the Saxon invader, dipped and fell. It was over.

The king was dead.

Long live the Saxon.


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