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It was the Christmas week and an
inconvenient time for death: first the priest's mule, and then the miller,
though the mule had the grace to expire in the stable, before noon. The
miller, God rest his mean and prickly soul, lingered into the hours of the
frigid night, and his distracted son bowed the priest out without so much
as a cup of broth to warm his way. As he limped home over frozen mud under
a meager moon, Father Darius composed a homily on the seven acts of
charity. High among them was Offer the poor priest a hot drink, for the
love of Michael's flaming sword. A stoup of mulled wine and the loan of a
horse and a clay pot with a coal in it to warm his hands on, and maybe a
scarf knitted by the wife's own sweet hands... The thought of the miller's
son's wife's hands and feet and sparkling eyes kept him company the rest
of the long walk across the stubbled fields. He was just considering the
curve of the good wife's throat when he reached the rectory garden wall
that marked the edge of holy ground. Sanctuary, home, and a fire, at last.
He lifted the old iron pike barring the garden gate. Halfway up the path
to the low stone house beside the church, he felt it: a strum on his
senses, a buzz. Holy ground and sanctuary, noted the priest. The gardening
tools stowed and not even a pointed stick at hand, observed the general.
Stepping softly, he pulled the latchstring and opened the door. Someone
had unbanked the fire and added wood. Someone had pulled out a loaf and a
jar of mead. Someone had climbed into his bed and was wrapped in his best
wool blanket, snoring like a dog.
The sleeper was dead to caution not to rouse at his presence, or too deep
in comfort to care. A long, white leg lay exposed, skinny, blue-veined,
and crusted with mud. The knee was dirty. The heel was cracked. A louse
crept across the ankle; Darius grimaced and caught it in a pinch. He
cracked it between his nails, with a perfunctory apology to the god of
such small things. He'd dice with his soul on the matter another time --
he had a bigger dilemma on his hands.
Methos, in his house, in his bed, unshaven, unshod, unshriven, and,
apparently, verminous.
Darius sighed and took off his cloak. The blanket would have to be smoked,
and the mud--and surely those blacker smears were blood--dried and
brushed from the bedding. The man would need care, as well. But let
sleeping dogs lie. He wasn't tired enough to crawl into bed with that
tonight. He prodded the fire. The hearthstone was warm and inviting
compared to the chair, but custom won out. He poured himself a cup of
mead, and pulled the chair over to sit by his bed, as he'd sat by so many
others, to keep watch over his old friend.
In some distress, or he wouldn't be here. In some need, from the state of
him. You could have written me, Darius thought. Their last argument
hadn't been that bad; about politics, of all things, Church politics. For
all the great and lesser sins they'd committed and forgiven each other, to
divide over money -- A knot in the firewood cracked, spewing sparks. It
was more than fifty years since they'd talked, face to face.
Methos stopped snoring, but slept on. Now he was tight mouthed, with a
deathgrip on the blanket. The lines of his face were sharp. A dagger hilt
jutted from under the pillow. The sword would be somewhere close to hand;
Darius wondered what it took for a barefoot traveler to keep a thing of
value and station like that. Methos always managed his arms, in funds or
without. He kept rubies in the hilt bindings, once upon a time. He had
resources, if he could reach them. Darius smiled. He has me.
He watched until the fire burned low and the room was lost to shadows. He
nodded. He dreamed vividly of rubies lying in the hollow of an ivory
throat, then blinked awake. He looked toward the bed, where he could just
make out the edge of Methos's face. He stared, straining to see that
throat again. And from the dark, came a voice:
"Are you looking at me?"
Darius started. "Pardon?"
"Are your eyes open?"
It was the same old magic, a little roughened, but still melting in his
ears.
"I know your eyes," said Methos. " I know what color they
are in the dark. By moonlight. By candle. By fire." Darius heard a
shift of the sheet, a brush of hair against the pillowslip. "I know
how they look and how they feel, in the dark. On me."
"Be quiet, Devil."
"Be merciful, Father."
"It's mercy you've come for? Mercy of my food and blanket. And a bath
tomorrow, if you have to break the ice in the well."
"Mercy of your bed and all that should be in it."
"Keep company with your lice. Whose blood is that?"
A grin, in the shadows. His night vision was growing stronger, or false
dawn was here. It was too bitter cold for the birds to give warning.
Darius could see the devil sit up and shiver.
"Not mine, Father. Thanks for your concern."
"Yours would be no cause for pity. Have you murdered on my doorstep?
Have you led any enemy here?"
"You're in no danger." The grin in the dark, again, but with
deep cuts along its sides. "Pax, Father. I killed a sheep."
"Liar."
"A goat, then. A chicken. Something without a soul and of no
consequence, whose ghost won't haunt the village--Darius, please, come
to bed." He opened the blanket on nakedness, on skin that gleamed in
the half-light. Thin, Lord, but still good and familiar, and sweet to
hold... A tiny spark flashed on one thigh, and the devil laughed.
"The lice are dying off."
"They'll set fire to the blanket." It was an old temptation, one
Darius had admitted and made his own, centuries ago. If it was a sin, it
was a domestic one, and of no danger to the living world. It was a passing
vice, as well, here today to drink from the font of his flesh and
forgiveness and gone tomorrow with the warming sun.
"And bring the mead."
He'll stay the week, this time, Darius vowed. He took up the jar
and loosened his robe, to reap and spend his holiday's reward.
++End++
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