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Rating: PG
Characters: Read and find out
Summary: This is a tale of two snowy days...and
two crucially important encounters of a warrior
with a man of peace.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
**If anyone asks, say it was forgotten
Long and long ago,
As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall
In a long forgotten snow.**
SARA TEASDALE
*********
Snow has begun to fall.
Some of the soldiers are cursing. Others mutter in
superstitious fear.
I move through the snow as if in a dream. Only a part of
me is really here--tending the wounded, offering words
of comfort, *waiting*.
Another part teeters on the threshold of a different,
long-vanished world. I can almost see and hear it! An
army under my command, trudging through a less
surprising snow...
***
It was only the rank and file who trudged. I rode at the
head of my officers, astride a magnificent coal-black
stallion.
Yes, there it is at the edge of my consciousness, that
stallion's familiar whinny. I can feel the weight of my
Roman-style armor, the sword jouncing against my
side.
The snow must have stung my face, as it does now. But
I remember only the wind in my hair, the pride in my
heart.
Before me, all but defenseless, lay the prize I'd coveted
for years. *Paris*.
***
Everyone knew the legends. Paris was guarded by an
ancient holy man, Ludovic, who'd turned away
countless invaders with his words alone. Some said he'd
driven them off by brandishing what he claimed was a
powerful relic, the Cup of the Last Supper.
I snickered.
Ludovic was, of course, an Immortal. He'd probably
demonstrated that often enough to convince the gullible
he was something close to a god. But I knew better.
Not a god, no...but he *was* rumored to be the oldest of
us all.
I already lusted for his Quickening.
***
The outline of the city grew clearer amid the swirling
snow. In the foreground loomed the dark bulk of its
gates.
I rode straight toward them. I knew without looking
that my men were close behind me, trusting me above
all others.
I sensed the Immortal guardian before I saw him.
And then he stepped into my path.
***
I was so startled that I barely managed to rein in my
mount before the hooves could strike him.
I was amazed at the man's appearance and, at the same
time, annoyed with myself for being amazed. I myself
was several hundred years old, and looked forty. But
despite that, I had unconsciously expected this "ancient
holy man" to look the part. An austere figure with a
timeworn face, flowing white hair and beard.
Instead, I gazed upon a strikingly handsome man. He
looked no older than his early thirties. His snow-flecked
hair was short, dark and unruly; only side-whiskers
framed his face. There had until recently been a beard,
I noted, as I saw the paler chin.
He was, however, wearing a priest's robe. And he
appeared to be unarmed.
He looked up at me and said softly, "Darius. Oh,
Darius..."
His cheeks and lashes were damp from the falling snow.
Was that all it was? Or...were those brown eyes
brimming with tears?
I blinked, gave my face a cursory wipe.
My own eyes didn't deceive me. The man was weeping.
And yet, inexplicably, he wore a radiant smile.
***
I refused to let him rattle me. "So you've heard of me,"
I said with my usual arrogance.
"Yes, I know who you are." His voice shook. "We learned
you were coming. I've been waiting...waiting so long for
this day!"
I dismounted so we could stand face to face. Handed off
the reins to an aide, and made a point of drawing my
sword. "The day I sack Paris?"
"No, Darius," he said quietly. Smile and tears were gone.
"You will not sack Paris."
I heard my men shuffle nervously. My Immortal
second-in-command was hanging back at an unheroic
distance.
"You're going to stop me?" I asked coolly, looking him up
and down. "I don't see your sword."
"If I planned to stop you, I wouldn't need one. But no, I'm
not going to do it. You are."
I laughed harshly and tried to step around him, toward
the gates.
He moved in front of me again. "I won't fight you or use
the power I have to stop you, Darius. But I won't stand
by as if I *approve* your plundering the city, either."
He closed his eyes for a moment, as if gathering
strength. Then he opened them and said, "You know this
is wrong. Your whole campaign is wrong--but think
only of Paris. These people have done you no harm.
Why can't you approach them as a friend, buy
provisions for your army, and go on your way?"
I had the eerie feeling he was making a pro forma
appeal he knew would fail.
"Sorry," I snapped.
I thought of taking his head at that point. After all, I'd
wanted his Quickening before I met him. But I'd
expected more of a fight. At the very least, a fire-and-
brimstone tirade and a threat to use magical powers.
This strange man hardly seemed worth beheading.
So I tried, instead, to thrust him out of my way.
He didn't resist...but I couldn't budge him.
I heard the gasps of the dozen men who'd seen. Furious,
I gestured to my lieutenants to help.
It was no use. Ludovic was as immovable as if he'd
weighed a ton.
***
He wasn't blocking the city gates. We could have gotten
around him.
But my men were edging away, making hex signs. My
second-in-command was barely within sensing range.
"I don't fear you," I told Ludovic.
"You have no need to fear me."
"I *will* kill you if you don't step aside."
"I know." He met my eyes and said steadily, "I expect
you to take my head, Darius. That's all right. It's as it
should be.
"But after you've done it, you won't let your army sack
Paris. And the decision will be your own."
I hissed in exasperation. Raised my sword--and paused.
"Stop talking nonsense, and give me a straight answer
to one question. Is it true you're the oldest living
Immortal?"
"You'll learn that from my Quickening. But yes, I am."
I wasn't satisfied. "There are reports of someone called
Methos--"
Ludovic nodded. "Methos really exists, and he's very old.
It's a complicated story, but I am older than he. Much
older.
"There's something I must show you..." He slipped a
hand into the folds of his robe and produced a battered
chalice.
I groaned. "So that's the Cup of the Last Supper? You're
going to wave it at me and pretend to cast a spell?"
I was already inventing explanations for our not having
been able to move him. His reputation must have
intimidated me, even though I hadn't been consciously
aware of it. My failure had cowed my men.
But he wouldn't succeed again with a magical relic of
Jesus! That was pure claptrap.
"No, Darius, no spells." His eyes were suspiciously
bright. "It *is* the Cup of the Last Supper, but it's not a
magic talisman. Its real importance is as a symbol...of
conscience, and courage, and hard necessity.
"With my death, this Cup will pass into your keeping.
And you'll treasure it, though you don't think so now.
But you do have one choice to make." Slowly, he held it
out. "Will you take it from my living hand or my dead
one?"
My flesh crawled. Was this some kind of trick?
Ridiculous. I wasn't actually afraid of magic, was I?
To show I wasn't--to show *myself* I wasn't--I said
tersely, "Living."
Ludovic's sharp intake of breath told me that was the
answer he'd been hoping for.
He offered the Cup reverently, and my fingers closed
around its stem.
***
It was only a cup. It had no effect on me.
But his hand brushed against mine...and the touch
wasn't accidental.
I suddenly realized Ludovic had wanted that moment of
contact. And he tried to prolong it.
I couldn't imagine why.
***
I cared nothing for his stupid Cup. I intended to show
him how little it meant to me by tossing it away.
But instead, I found myself putting it in my saddlebag.
I turned to see a smile on Ludovic's face.
He knew I was raising my sword again, but that smile
never faded.
I swung with all my strength.
