Title: Beleth Author: Athers Characters: DM, M Rating: PG-13 (to cover some naughty language and nasty mental images) Archiving: 7th Dimension and CotH yes (if you guys want it!); this will (eventually) make it into Athers' Fiction Library Comments: Someone asked me to write a story that explained Methos' sword. So I have... Summary: There are more things in heaven and hell... MacLeod may just have found another one. Inspired by the request/challenge, although the challenger has quite possibly forgotten she ever set this task as it's taken me nearly two years to find the proper story for it. Also inspired by finding something on (of all things) the Robin of Sherwood FAQL. I was researching for something completely different and this information leapt out at me... No beta readers were harmed in the writing of this fic. All mistakes of typing, spelling and grammar belong to the author. Timing: Some (non-specific) time after Archangel/Avatar/Armageddon ~*~ MacLeod leaned against the wall of the practice salon, watching the apparently young man before him run through an odd and eclectic selection of sword forms that borrowed from at least four different periods of history and at least ten different styles of sword work. He marvelled at the control of the man and the sheer athletic ability. The forms the man was using had not been created with a hand-and-a-half, poorly balanced broadsword, yet the man employing them now managed to make them all look easy. And natural! As the practice wound down, MacLeod started to applaud. "I'm impressed. I've never seen anything quite like that before." The man gave a grin and a shrug. "When you've lived as long as I have, Mac, you develop your own practice routines and your own sword disciplines." "Yes - but..." MacLeod shook his head. "Methos, you never cease to amaze me." Methos smiled. "The young - so easy to please. Do something useful and pass me that towel." He used the sword to indicate the towel draped over a nearby bench. As he did so, something caught MacLeod's eye. "May I take a look at your sword?" Methos frowned. "I washed my hands this morning." Methos' eyes narrowed, clearly recognising the phrase. MacLeod held his hands up. "Methos, I'm not about to take your head, or make any obscure point of philosophy - really. All I want to do is take a look at the carving on the hilt." Still looking deeply suspicious, Methos exchanged sword for towel and started to dry off the sweat. MacLeod, meanwhile, started to examine the sword. The hilt and crossguard were both highly decorated, but that was not what had caught MacLeod's eye and he passed them over with barely a glance. Instead his attention was drawn to marks on the actual blade. If he didn't know better, MacLeod decided, he'd suggest the sword had been engraved and then been filed down. But why? "What's so interesting?" Methos enquired. "These marks," MacLeod began. "Oh, those." Methos was dismissive. "Just minor imperfections in the craftsmanship. Perfectly sound blade otherwise. Nothing important." Outwardly, MacLeod gave no sign that the words had alarmed him, but alarm him they did. The words were just too quick, too rehearsed. It was then that the engraving on the hilt caught his attention. In the fraction of a second he had before Methos almost angrily snatched the sword back, he spotted some runic symbols. "Really, it's nothing interesting. Just exactly what it looks like - a twelfth century broadsword," Methos muttered as he grabbed the sword back. MacLeod made an 'I'm harmless' gesture with his hands. "OK - sorry." Methos grunted. "I thought you were here to spar." "I am." "So...?" MacLeod allowed Methos to distract him with the talk and actions of sparring, but at the back of his mind, he had logged the runic symbols for later consideration, along with the rest of Methos' strange behaviour. Much later, after bidding goodbye to Methos, MacLeod returned to the barge, determined to track down what the runic symbols might mean, in the hopes of working out why Methos might be so reluctant to talk about his sword. After all, if it was 'just a broadsword', Methos was awfully cagey about it. Half the night passed by as MacLeod poured through a variety of books and other information sources, hunting for anything that might shed light on the mystery, before he finally stumbled across a short piece of Germanic legend. 'And Wayland the Smith forged seven blades and imbued them with the powers of light and darkness and named them thus: Albion, Orias, Morax, Elidor, Beleth, Flauros, Solas.' Beneath each name was a string of runic symbols that corresponded to each name. Somehow, MacLeod was unsurprised when he recognised the symbols under one of the names as being those he had noted on the hilt of Methos' sword. The symbols engraved on the hilt of Methos' sword matched those for Beleth, the fifth sword of Wayland. Some instinct told MacLeod that this was not the end of the trail. Reaching for yet another reference book, he started to hunt for the meaning of Beleth. It took another hour of book work, but MacLeod finally found the reference, and as he read it, he felt his skin grow cold: The 13 spirit is called Beleth, he is a mighty king and terrable, ridding on a pale horse wth Trumpets and all other kinds of Musicall Instruments playing before him, he is very furious at his first apperance. Suddenly something overrode the shock of that discovery, the press of cold steel to his neck. "You know, I had hoped you would let it lie, MacLeod." Slowly, and carefully, MacLeod turned to face Methos. "How did you get in here - the door was locked..." But his protest trailed off in the face of the sneer Methos produced. "Locks have no meaning for one such as I. Haven't you guessed?" MacLeod swallowed involuntarily. The sword came to rest of Methos' shoulder. "Solomon was right to bind me and my brethren as he did." MacLeod knew, with sudden clarity, that he was facing his death. "But why?" The laugh that bubbled up from Methos sounded demonic. "Because I could. Because under the sun, you were something new to be toyed with, and toy I did. But I cannot let you live now that you know the truth." "That you're a demon. That you're Beleth." Methos chuckled, jovially, almost. "Yes I am. And you," he replaced the sword blade against MacLeod's neck, "are dead." MacLeod woke up, panting for breath, heart pounding, body bathed in cold sweat. A nightmare. That's all it had been. Methos was just a five thousand-year-old man - nothing more. His sword was nothing more than a twelfth century broadsword - not a mystical item of power. But it all been so lifelike. So real. So...he hesitated to think believable, but... No. It had been a dream. He would really have to stop reading up on ancient folklore just before going to sleep. But as he tried to get back to sleep, MacLeod resolved to ask Methos about his sword anyway. Just for curiosity's sake...