Notes & Disclaimers:
This was originally a much longer story, which just kept growing. To make
it more manageable, a sequel(s) will be posted that takes place directly
after the end of this story. Since I'm flaky that way, I'm going with
calling it a 'cycle' as opposed to a 'trilogy', seeing as the third part of
my other trilogy languishes on my hard drive :)
This is an attempt to fill in some more blank spaces. Over the years, we’ve
made allusions to what happened when Divia came back, but never really said
what that was. I finally figured it was time. And also, to finally explain
Methos’ aversion to vampires. Finally taking care of that too.
This takes place a year after "Misguided Angel". The incident mentioned
with Hakeem takes place in "Sands of Eternity". But it's not necessary to
read either story to read this one.
Thanks to Tammy and April for beta duty!
Other stories in the series can be found on my archive, "Tales From the
Darkwood" (http://www.ondragonswing.com/tales/). We also have an announce
list for the Bloodties universe
(http://groups.yahoo.com/group/BloodtiesArchivist/) if you'd like to be
kept updated on what's new, or want to discuss the universe.
All Highlander (Methos) & Forever Knight (LaCroix, Nick, Janette, Divia,
Vachon) characters belong to their respective PTBs. All original characters
belong to their creators, myself amongst them.
And last, but most certainly not least: Thanks for reading! And if you
liked this story, let me know if you would. It’s kind of nice to know if
anyone is actually reading. Thanks!
I'd give this a rating of PG13
@__________@
"Shattered" ~ Part One in the Old Holly Ridge Farm Cycle
by Denise Underwood
c. 2006
Part One
The soft light through the windows of Old Holly Ridge Farm greeted her as
she made her way up the path towards the twelfth century farmhouse on the
outskirts of York, the warm glow of 'home' filling her heart. As she pushed
open the back door, the familiar Immortal burr of her husband completed the
feeling of homecoming. So content was she at that moment in time, that she
even imagined the scent of dinner wafting past her as she dropped her book
bag and long green raincoat on the bench next to the door. Even though he
had thrown himself into the role of 'house husband' since they had come to
live here after their honeymoon seven months before, cooking was not one of
his many talents, so it had to be her imagination.
The scent caught at her nose again, making her stomach growl. She wasn't
imagining it! It actually smelled... edible. Delicious actually. Maybe
she'd walked into the wrong house? That must be it. Laughing to herself,
she made her way down the hall towards the kitchen, unbuttoning the
dark-rose coloured jacket of her wool crepe suit, revealing a silk camisole
top of the same colour beneath. But instead of a peaceful homecoming after
a day of teaching Latin and physics, bangs, curses, and a cloud of dust
greeted her.
Triona stood, momentarily speechless, in the doorway. All she could make
out were a set of jean clad legs sticking out beyond the edge of the stone
hearth, the body hidden somewhere inside the fireplace. Then there was a
loud crash that made her jump, followed by a cloud of dust and ash issuing
from the chimney.
"Ah ha! That's got it," a muffled voice said. More dust followed, a few
more bangs, and then the body attached to the long legs became visible as
he rolled out from the large hearth, holding a small metal box. Catching
sight of Triona, Methos propped himself up against the wall of the
fireplace. "It really is that time," he said, glancing out the window
across the room, seeming surprised at the darkness outside.
She formulated and then discarded several replies before settling for what
she hoped was a suitably disapproving glare. There was stone dust and a
fine covering of ash everywhere, over every surface, including Methos. She
couldn't tell if his light gray flannel work shirt was supposed to that
colour, or if it was dust. His short dark hair wasn't so dark anymore either.
"What?" he asked innocently.
"What?" She threw up her hands. "What do you mean what? Look at the mess!
What on earth have you been doing?"
Glancing around the room, he seemed to realize that maybe he'd been a
little too enthusiastic in his quest. "I was looking for something I'd left
here." He waved the box he still held in his hand.
Triona sighed. She should have known better than to agree to buy a house
that Methos had lived in ten centuries before. But she had loved the place
at first sight and had decided that she could deal with whatever ghosts
might still remain. Perching on the edge of the worn kitchen table, she
asked patiently, "And that would be?"
"Oh, a bit of a rainy day stash. Some gold," he opened the box, peering in
and moving the contents around with one long finger, "oh, and a very nice
emerald." He held it up between two fingers. "Matches your eyes."
"Gee, isn't that fortuitous," she commented dryly.
He grinned unrepentantly, his hazel green eyes sparkling with laughter.
"Isn't it?"
Shaking her head in fond exasperation, she noted, "I hadn't noticed it was
raining..." she trailed off, an expectant look on her face.
Methos pushed himself up off the floor. "It was something to do. I wondered
if it was still there, the box. I put it there when I built the fireplace."
"You built the fireplace?" she asked, disbelief lacing her voice. The
hearth was a massive construct, talking up half the kitchen wall. It even
had an inglenook, along with various holes, grates, and shelves that had
originally been used for cooking.
"I did!" He walked over to where she sat, dropping a kiss in the tip of her
nose, then turning to face the large hearth across from them. ""The
original chimney and hearth, at least. The inglenook was added at some
later date. When I married Etheldrida, the house still had a fire pit in
the center of the hall. I moved us into the twelfth century and built a
real fireplace. They'd become quite popular when I'd left London a few
years before."
"And why was it you left London for the wilds of York anyway? Angry
husband?" she asked, laughing.
"Something like that," he admitted.
"I bet you left a lot of angry husbands in your wake."
"You think so, do you?"
She snorted inelegantly, "Oh, I don't think, I know." Triona shrieked as
she was pulled back, finding herself lying across his thighs and cradled in
is arms.
"Take it back!" He began to tickle her with one hand, while holding her
firmly against his body with his other arm.
"No!" She tried unsuccessfully to break his hold. "You're filthy! My suit!
I'm going to be covered in dust!" She shrieked again as his fingers found
the spot right under the edge of her ribs that was most ticklish.
"That's not all you're going to be covered in," he warned before lowering
his lips to hers and kissing her deeply and thoroughly. Breaking the kiss,
he asked, "Surrender?"
Ignoring him, she asked, "Did I actually smell dinner when I walked in here?"
"You needn't sound so shocked," he protested, placing her on her feet.
Leaning up, Triona kissed him on the cheek. "My darling, you are clever,
talented, and exceedingly handsome, " she giggled at the smug look on his
face, "but you can't cook to save your life."
"I'm not that bad," he said, pouting.
Triona threw her arms around his neck and smiled up at him. "If you say so."
He really did try; she had to give him that. They'd spent their honeymoon
in places with long nights and short days to compensate for Triona's
inability to be in the sun. But after nearly six blissful months, they'd
decided to settle down and have as close to a normal life as they could for
as long as they could. Janette had put Triona in contact with a vampire
acquaintance that ran a girls' boarding school at her ancestral home,
Smythly Hall, just outside of York, England. In the end, Triona accepted a
position at the school teaching Latin and physics. They bought the old
farm, the central portion of which was the original wattle and daub
construction dating from the eleven hundreds, and a place Methos had called
home back when it was nearly new. Two other wings had been added in later
centuries, and now the dwelling had a vaguely organic Tudor look to it. She
worked, and Methos spent his days keeping house, writing the book he always
said he was going to finish one day, and fussing over the horses they
owned. But when it came to meals, she usually came home to find beans on
toast or Indian takeaway waiting for her.
"Fine," he said rather peevishly. "Yes, you do smell dinner - Shepherd's
Pie -- courtesy of Mrs. Roberts at the end of the lane."
Walking over to the jade green Aga stove she looked over at him. "Mrs.
Roberts?" Grinning, she continued, "Should I be worried? Isn't it a little
early in our marriage for you to be stepping out on me? And I can't even
say she's a little old for you, now can I?" Mrs. Roberts was in her
sixties, and lived with her husband in the small cottage at the far edge of
Methos and Triona's property. Her children were grown, and she occupied her
time with knitting for her many grandchildren, gardening, and keeping track
of her neighbours.
"You're so amusing, you should take your act on the road, " he said
witheringly.
Chuckling, she opened the door of the farmhouse oven, peeking in at the
bubbling mixture of mutton, gravy, and mashed potatoes. "It smells
wonderful." Closing it again, she looked back at her husband. "Don't be
grumpy!" she admonished. "What am I supposed to think when the neighbor
ladies start bringing you food when I'm not here?" She was trying very hard
not to laugh. "First it's food, and then they'll be wanting you to come
look at their etchings."
Methos snagged a dishtowel from the table, balled it up, and threw it at
her. She caught it neatly, the laughter she had been tying so hard to
control burbling past her lips.
"Oh, go ahead and laugh, my pretty little wife. Just remember, I have a
very long memory," he threatened ominously, the smile tugging at his lips
quite ruining the effect. Triona just stuck her tongue out at him. "I'll
admit it was a little odd. I opened the door and she practically thrust the
casserole in to my hands, with a look that would curdle milk. Said
something about as much as you work, you'd appreciate something homemade."
Triona was suddenly very busy smoothing out the tea towel that she still
held in her hands. "Odd," she agreed.
Suspiciously, he asked, "You wouldn't have an explanation, would you?"
"Who, me?" she asked, eyes wide with feigned innocence.
"I knew it! Come on, Triona, confession is good for the soul."
"Okay, fine, maybe she took my attempt at humour this morning the wrong
way," she finally admitted.
"And?" He gestured expectantly.
"And I ran into her this morning walking to work. I stopped and chatted
with her for a few minutes and she commented on how I was always walking
before the sun came up." She turned around, placing the towel over the rack
on the counter, tugging at it absently. "I might have said something to the
affect that you thought I was getting fat and needed the exercise," she
mumbled.
"What?" he shouted.
"It was a joke," she turned back to look at him, "I didn't think she'd take
me seriously!"
"That's just wonderful," he griped. "By the end of the week, it'll be all
over town. That poor sweet Mrs. Pierson," he said in a fair imitation of
the local accent, "and that nasty layabout husband of hers. Works all day
she does and he doesn't even feed her properly."
"Oh come on, it's not that bad!"
"Ah, my naive young big city wife. Allow me to share the bounty of my
wisdom. This is a small town, small towns thrive on gossip, and you've just
provided many months worth."
"Oh, lord." She knew that tone; the one where he went all ancient and
twelve year old at the same time. Inwardly sighing, and swearing to herself
she'd never speak to another neighbour again, Triona settled in for the
long haul.
Ignoring her interruption, he continued, "In two weeks, I won't be able to
go into the shops without every woman there nodding and whispering when I
walk by. By the end of the month, they'll all be convinced I beat you and
keep you chained in the cellar!" The last was practically shouted.
Don't laugh, don't laugh, she repeated to herself, biting the inside of her
cheek for good measure. Once she was sure she could keep her voice steady,
she said in the meekest voice she could muster, "I promise I'll talk to
Mrs. Roberts tomorrow and fix it. I swear."
"Don't bother. She'll never believe you."
"Of course she will!"
"No, she won't. Mrs. Roberts -- and her cronies -- will think I made you do
it," he said, obviously disgusted. "That brute of a husband of hers making
her come down to my house and try and excuse him. Poor wee thing," he said,
once more mimicking Mrs. Roberts. "I can hear it all now."
Triona didn't immediately reply, instead folding the towel she'd been
absently toying with for the last several minutes. She opened the oven and
using the towel as a potholder, removed the casserole, placing it on a
trivet on the counter. Turning around, she found Methos standing in front
of her, still covered in fine stone dust, and looking rather pathetic.
Wrapping her arms around his waist, she rested her cheek against his chest,
inhaling his familiar scent. "The poor wee thing would like to know why you
care what anyone thinks? You never have before." She tilted her head back,
looking up at him.
Methos ran one hand through her hair, removing the clip that held it in a
loose knot, and tossing it on the counter, letting the long mass of her
honey blonde hair fall free down her back. Exhaling noisily, he replied,
"Adam Pierson would care, wouldn't he? He'd be appalled to think the
neighbours thought he abused his wife. Treated her as anything other than
the light of his life."
"It's scary that that makes an odd sort of sense to me." She hugged him a
little tighter. "Well, Mrs. Adam Pierson knows she's the light of her
husband's life -- in all his incarnations," she stated firmly.
He kissed her first, then said, "Glad to hear it. Oh, and I'll be driving
you to work and home again from now on. And we're getting a woman in to do
the cooking and cleaning."
"Hey!" Triona protested, pulling away. "Wait just a minute! I like walking,
and I don't want some stranger in my house!" Walking in the predawn and
twilight hours was part of her workout routine and good for her mental
health as well. She was still getting used to the fact that she had no
choice but to stay indoors when the sun was out, and walking made her feel
a little freer. And the thought of having someone take care of her house,
touching her things, just generally creeped her out. She'd had to deal with
it in LaCroix's household, both because Baker was a family retainer, and it
was the ancient vampire's home not hers. But this was *her* home and she
wanted to enjoy it.
"Nope, your brute of a husband has spoken. That's my final word on the
subject," he proclaimed loftily.
"You think so?" She looked up at him, arms across her chest, one booted
foot tapping on the slate floor. If he was looking for a fight, he was well
on his way to getting one.
"Yes, " he picked out a serving spoon from the container on the counter and
waved it around, "at least until after dinner."
Rolling her eyes, Triona snatched the spoon from his hand. "Whatever! Make
yourself useful and set the table, and then go wash up!" She looked around
at the disaster he'd made of the kitchen, and added, "And I think it goes
without saying that you'll be cleaning up this mess!"
"I love it when you're bossy," he growled, reaching for her.
Ducking, she ran around the large table in the center of the kitchen,
waving the spoon at him. "I'm hungry!"
"I'm hungry too," he said, leering as he lunged for her.
Gasping with laughter, she narrowly missed being caught. "Methos, remember
poor wee Mrs. Pierson? She's wasting away to a shadow here," she wailed.
"If poor Mrs. Pierson would let her husband have his way with her, the
faster she'd get dinner," he countered, grinning evilly.
She paused, looking at him gravely, before declaring, "I think I'd rather
starve!" With that she leapt to the right, making for the door, screeching
as Methos caught her wrist, spinning her into his arms.
"Any last words?" he whispered into her ear.
Sighing in contentment, she pressed closer to his body, reaching up with
one hand to stroke his face. Tilting his head slightly, he pressed his lips
against her fingers. As she pulled his head down to meet hers, she said
softly, "That's what microwaves are for after all."
Ith *Ithildin@OnDragonsWing.com* Denise
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