He Dreams, for argentum_ls
Title: He Dreams
Author: morgynleri_fic
Written for: argentum_ls
Crossovers: Babylon 5, Lord of the Rings, Mythology
Characters: Methos, Lorien, John Sheridan, The Morrigan, Henry V of England, The Brigid, Joe Dawson, Anat, Gollum, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, JRR Tolkien
Rating: PG13
Warnings: character death
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: He walks dreams and he dreams reality, and one turns into the other and back again.
He dreams.
This place is dark, and he faces another being across the body of a dying man. A strange and alien creature, who thinks of himself as first. Methos knows better, but he allows the delusion.
He will, after all, claim the dying man eventually. Not even one who lives forever can keep him at bay all that time. For now, he merely makes the alien work for what he wants, and wakes with visions of a future dancing in his head.
A random sketch and a couple names are left abandoned where someone can easily find them. It's easy enough for him to seem absent-minded, and when the person who finds them later finds him to try to give him credit, he smiles and shakes his head. He doesn't need the credit, and it amuses him to see what the young man will make of the future.
He dreams.
He dreams of a dying king lying in the bed before him, and a woman on the other side with crow feathers in her hair. Those assembled to keep the king company do not see him, and they do not see her, and they do not hear the argument over the soul of their king.
There should be a third there, but that one is absent, even in his dreams, and he's never really thought that one exists. It's one too remote from the realm of men, no matter how many call its name.
He claims the king, as he claims all men, and he wakes to the steady chant of mortal monks, and the familiar wash of a friend's Presence. A wry smile crosses his face, and he rises to say a prayer he doesn't believe in to a god he doesn't think exists for a soul he knows he keeps.
He dreams.
A woman sits by a fire, with the tools of many trades at her belt and scattered about her on the wooden floor. Behind him he can feel the heat of a forge, and beneath him bare dirt. It is who the woman cradles - as much of an adult as can be fit in her lap, at any rate - that holds his attention. She looks up, and smiles gently, beckoning him forward without a word.
He wakes and abandons his students and the university he's teaching at without more than a promise he'll be back next year, and flies to Seacouver. Joe isn't dead yet, but somehow Methos had already known the stubborn mortal would wait for him to come back. When the machines squeal out their solemn message, he could swear he sees flame from the corner of his eye, and hears a snatch of familiar music accompanied by unfamiliar laughter.
This is a soul he cannot claim, and is glad to surrender to the hands of another. Somewhere, a child is born, and watched over by a woman who is master of the flame. Methos will dream him again.
He dreams.
In his dreams, he faces a woman whose footprints are blood on the sand, and fights with a bronze sword against a wood-shafted spear. He is young and arrogant and angry, and has stolen from her. She is raging grief and fierce determination that will not subside until she has wrested back from him what he has stolen. How, though, does one return a stolen life?
He does not know, but she does, and leaves him bloodied and dying on the sands while she bears home the soul of her husband-brother. Her fields will flourish, and her lord will rule over his lands.
When he wakes, he tells the dream to a few mortals he lets live. They will bring hope to others. If they hope, then they respond to fear with foolish bravery or flight. It will make his new brothers happy, and amuse him. Yes, he will make them hope with his tale of the woman who defeated death, and they will pray to someone who does not hear them, and he will steal away all they have. Their hope, their goddess, and their lives.
Oh, yes. Hope makes the hunt, the deaths, all the sweeter to savor.
He dreams.
Here, the flames leap high to consume the falling creature, and the glittering ring he holds in his hands. Two small, strange creatures stand on the brink, clinging to each other with despair written across their faces. He watches them for a long moment held out of time before he whispers to them to go, to leave this place. He will not claim them now, though he will meet them both again. Such heros are needed sometimes, without death stealing them from those they have saved.
He tells a young soldier sharing his trench about the dream, and reads, decades later, the story crafted from those scraps. It is a world more than he saw, and no mention is made of a shade standing over the hero and his dearest friend. Methos smiles, and buys a copy of each of the books.
He dreams.
He dreams he walks the world larger than life, and tells the stories to others who tell them to the world. He dreams of places and times that never were, and begins legends. He hides behind mortals and behind gods, and he watches the world change and dance to the strings he pulls. It is a secret that no one else must know - and those who figure it out, he claims.
A hero dead in the snow, a woman fished out of a river. Lives cut short so his secret remains secret. Dreams of the world, and the world in dreams, and he molds it to his whims.
He dreams.
END
Author: morgynleri_fic
Written for: argentum_ls
Crossovers: Babylon 5, Lord of the Rings, Mythology
Characters: Methos, Lorien, John Sheridan, The Morrigan, Henry V of England, The Brigid, Joe Dawson, Anat, Gollum, Frodo Baggins, Samwise Gamgee, JRR Tolkien
Rating: PG13
Warnings: character death
Wordcount: 1,000
Summary: He walks dreams and he dreams reality, and one turns into the other and back again.
He dreams.
This place is dark, and he faces another being across the body of a dying man. A strange and alien creature, who thinks of himself as first. Methos knows better, but he allows the delusion.
He will, after all, claim the dying man eventually. Not even one who lives forever can keep him at bay all that time. For now, he merely makes the alien work for what he wants, and wakes with visions of a future dancing in his head.
A random sketch and a couple names are left abandoned where someone can easily find them. It's easy enough for him to seem absent-minded, and when the person who finds them later finds him to try to give him credit, he smiles and shakes his head. He doesn't need the credit, and it amuses him to see what the young man will make of the future.
He dreams.
He dreams of a dying king lying in the bed before him, and a woman on the other side with crow feathers in her hair. Those assembled to keep the king company do not see him, and they do not see her, and they do not hear the argument over the soul of their king.
There should be a third there, but that one is absent, even in his dreams, and he's never really thought that one exists. It's one too remote from the realm of men, no matter how many call its name.
He claims the king, as he claims all men, and he wakes to the steady chant of mortal monks, and the familiar wash of a friend's Presence. A wry smile crosses his face, and he rises to say a prayer he doesn't believe in to a god he doesn't think exists for a soul he knows he keeps.
He dreams.
A woman sits by a fire, with the tools of many trades at her belt and scattered about her on the wooden floor. Behind him he can feel the heat of a forge, and beneath him bare dirt. It is who the woman cradles - as much of an adult as can be fit in her lap, at any rate - that holds his attention. She looks up, and smiles gently, beckoning him forward without a word.
He wakes and abandons his students and the university he's teaching at without more than a promise he'll be back next year, and flies to Seacouver. Joe isn't dead yet, but somehow Methos had already known the stubborn mortal would wait for him to come back. When the machines squeal out their solemn message, he could swear he sees flame from the corner of his eye, and hears a snatch of familiar music accompanied by unfamiliar laughter.
This is a soul he cannot claim, and is glad to surrender to the hands of another. Somewhere, a child is born, and watched over by a woman who is master of the flame. Methos will dream him again.
He dreams.
In his dreams, he faces a woman whose footprints are blood on the sand, and fights with a bronze sword against a wood-shafted spear. He is young and arrogant and angry, and has stolen from her. She is raging grief and fierce determination that will not subside until she has wrested back from him what he has stolen. How, though, does one return a stolen life?
He does not know, but she does, and leaves him bloodied and dying on the sands while she bears home the soul of her husband-brother. Her fields will flourish, and her lord will rule over his lands.
When he wakes, he tells the dream to a few mortals he lets live. They will bring hope to others. If they hope, then they respond to fear with foolish bravery or flight. It will make his new brothers happy, and amuse him. Yes, he will make them hope with his tale of the woman who defeated death, and they will pray to someone who does not hear them, and he will steal away all they have. Their hope, their goddess, and their lives.
Oh, yes. Hope makes the hunt, the deaths, all the sweeter to savor.
He dreams.
Here, the flames leap high to consume the falling creature, and the glittering ring he holds in his hands. Two small, strange creatures stand on the brink, clinging to each other with despair written across their faces. He watches them for a long moment held out of time before he whispers to them to go, to leave this place. He will not claim them now, though he will meet them both again. Such heros are needed sometimes, without death stealing them from those they have saved.
He tells a young soldier sharing his trench about the dream, and reads, decades later, the story crafted from those scraps. It is a world more than he saw, and no mention is made of a shade standing over the hero and his dearest friend. Methos smiles, and buys a copy of each of the books.
He dreams.
He dreams he walks the world larger than life, and tells the stories to others who tell them to the world. He dreams of places and times that never were, and begins legends. He hides behind mortals and behind gods, and he watches the world change and dance to the strings he pulls. It is a secret that no one else must know - and those who figure it out, he claims.
A hero dead in the snow, a woman fished out of a river. Lives cut short so his secret remains secret. Dreams of the world, and the world in dreams, and he molds it to his whims.
He dreams.
END