"Damn ..." Thera murmured through one corner of her lips, eyes sidelong, "I think I felt that one!" She didn't know what it was supposed to feel like, the 'buzz' when an Immortal sensed another, and maybe it was just the sudden tightened grip of Methos' hand around hers - but she could almost swear she'd felt a hum of energy crackle from his palm.
Around them children squealed, adults laughed, stall and sideshow workers shouted their wares. Not to mention jugglers, musicians and the occasional hired actor as a zombie or ghost ... Thera blew out a breath, did her best to keep them walking. "I don't think they're going to try anything out here."
If they tried anything at all; just being part of the Game didn't mean they were keen to play it. She let her gaze wander over the candy-floss stall, the 'laughing clown' game booth, the fortune teller's marquee ...
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[Random Hallowe'en Nonsense from @watcheradampierson.]
“Spooky ghooost~”
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"No you're not." Thera smacked his waggling fingers away, not looking up from what she was doing. "I mean, come on ..." Her hands were busy with the shopping bag, taking out black and orange paper, paint, glue - and well aware that Methos was entirely likely to take this as a challenge or a dare, "you could at least be wearing a sheet!"
📚 at a market in your era of choosing
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Quai Saint-Michel, Paris ... 1859 ...
Les Bouquinistes had been part of Paris for centuries. Legally and not, Pont Neuf and then the banks of the Seine, selling all manner of books from hand-written recipes to gold-leaf trim, to thefts from aristocratic homes after the Revolution. Permitted now, they operated under rules that some almost certainly did not follow, ready as ever to pack up and flee to boats waiting on the river below.
And honestly, Thera would cheer for them as they did. A literal mile of used and antique books, some in foreign languages and perhaps a seller or two who weren't aware of the true value. To Thera and Methos, that was pretty close to paradise.
They walked quietly, slightly apart as dictated by the times, but not so far that their fingers didn't brush every now and then, or that they didn't nudge when one or the other spotted something especially interesting - like the sturdy, brown-covered volume Thera had just picked out from a shelf of scientific tomes.
"What the Dead May Teach The Living," She read aloud, "by Dr Benjamin Adams." Eyes glanced up from under her brows, question implicit. Lips twitched. "A namesake perhaps?"
Alexandria, Egypt ... site of the Library ... year unknown ...
For a long time, Thera didn't understand the idea of a pilgrimage. Journey, yes, she'd undertaken enough of those in her time, but the idea of such a thing purely to visit a religious site was harder to grasp for someone whose Goddess was ... well, everywhere. It wasn't until later that she found something closer to it - not a religious site but one of importance to her personally, a place of meaning.
A place of memory. The Mediterranean laps at the harbor not far away, seagulls and salt floating through the morning air. The Lighthouse, what remains of it, still marks the curve of the seawall. Streets, shops and houses gather more closely than in years past, locals and travelers more abundant. And before her ...
It was here. It was here, stone columns, books and manuscripts, centuries of learning ... heat, smoke, flames raging and taking hold that even she could not stop in time. Three men riding away, and one who remained. He remains still, a silent presence at her side, eyes filled with memory and regret rather than the horror, the anguish they'd shared that day.
Methos rests an arm at her waist, quiet and anchoring, leans to kiss to her temple; where he stays, face resting among her hair. Thera turns, her own on shoulder and chest, the faint thrum of an eternal pulse under her ear. Around them the street bustles, but they'll stay here a little while more.
"So you say ... but then you complain bitterly about the rain." Thera thought that might be more her own prerogative just at the moment, running fingers through her damp hair. "I don't mind summer ones, but when it's storming and freezing bloody cold ... I'll be tucked away indoors, thanks all the same!"
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"Did you get candy for the trick or treaters yet? And would you love some hot cocoa?"
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"Meef, I have ... so much fucking candy!" It was the same every year, or at least every year Thera was in a position where she might actually get trick or treaters - whatever the pros or cons of Samhain becoming Hallowe'en, she wasn't going to be a curmudgeon about it to the children. In fact, "You know I always over-buy so no-one gets disappointed."
There was nothing quite so sad in her opinion, as kids, especially littler ones, showing up right after you'd run out of treats.
Meaning, of course, there would likely be plenty of leftovers, if that was Methos' concern. Although the second part of his questions made her eyebrow lift little in curiosity. "Interesting segue there, my Old." She drew to a stop at the next traffic lights, using that as a moment to listen, "Do you have a something in mind?"
"εταίρος μου," Methos whispers, brushing a piece of hair from Thera's face and tucking it behind her ear.
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"Ναι, παλιά μου?" It's tempting to ask what he's up to, but there's a time and place for teasing and this doesn't seem like one of them. Thera tilts her head, the carefully placed lock of hair promptly working free and falling to her face again.
[Completely random thing for @watcheradampierson.
Drabble or starter, you choose ;)]
Bibliothèque Nationale, Paris ... late 1990s ...
You didn't live as many years as Thera had without learning to spot trouble when it came to call. Generally when someone arrived at a library and stopped to look around, it was usually just to get their bearings, or in the hesitant sort of way that hoped to spot a Clerk or Librarian to point the way. So given she was currently in plain sight, wearing a staff badge and organising books on a trolley, the way they kept looking was her first clue.
The second was when one of them stayed by the door while the other two approached, still eye-darting a little as if making absolutely sure she was alone.
Which as it happened, in that part of the stacks she was, a detail she was now certain they all knew. Still she continued her work, hands busy even as she looked up and offered a polite smile. "Good afternoon, gentlemen," Her French was fluent, though underscored by her accent, "is there something I can help you with today?"
"Yes,Madame." They'd bracketed her, not too close but positioned so that if she moved away from one she'd run into the other. Neatly done, and another hint that they weren't just casual passers by. "We think you can help us find someone."
Someone, not something. Thera didn't try to hide catching that, only cocked an eyebrow inviting him to continue.
"We're looking for a man called Methos."
Ironically, the only thing she had to hide then was a groan. Yeah, you, a few dozen Immortals, at least half the Watchers ... it's a long queue. More disturbing, perhaps, was that they had in fact come to one of the few people in the world who could coax that ancient bastard out of hiding. She was going to have to find out how they managed that.
But for right now ... "Methos," She echoed, curiously, as if trying the name on for size - her other eyebrow joined the first, and with the most perfectly innocent expression she gave a tiny shake of her head.
