He awoke to the smell of loukoumades, warm honey buns. Sometime earlier the slaves had left them at his bedside with a pitcher of wine, fruit, bread and a ewer of water to wash with. Before eating he washed the sweat and blood from his body smiling lasciviously and wishing for a moment the girl had stayed so he could continue her 'education'.
He sat cross legged on the tile floor to break his fast. Time to move on today, the ceremony was over, he'd fulfilled all the obligations of a guest. As he finished the honeyed pastries he was hit by the buzz, that other Immortal again. This was starting to annoy him. Perhaps she didn't know what she was. He wasn't likely to help, he didn't take students, never had, they were too much of a liability. The other stayed on the edge of his perception much longer this time. Finally he was so annoyed he decided to go out into the village to confront the source of his irritation.
The food and wine consumed he rose to dress. Or rather tried to rise...for a moment he thought he'd sat awkwardly and cramped his muscles but no, he couldn't move at all. Rapid paralysis spread through his limbs until he could only move his eyes and breathe gently.
Movement teased at the corner of his eye, but he couldn't turn his head to see what was causing it. Eventually the two priestesses, young and old, came into view. Between them they stretched out the now insensible Immortal into a prone position and lifted him onto a litter.
Methos was terrified. He realised now that the rituals were not over. That they wanted him for something else. Dozens of terrible scenarios filled his mind, fuelled by years of experience of and participation in mans' inhumanity to man. He tried again to move but to no avail. It was as if he was trapped inside a statue of himself looking out through the eyes. Breathing was just possible if he remained calm..as fear rose it became more and more difficult and he blacked out suddenly.
When he came round they were in the priestess house. Women of all ages were anointing his body with scented oils rubbing until his white torso shone like polished marble. He couldn't feel their caresses but he could imagine what it felt like. Conflicting emotions flowed over him; terror at being constrained , frustration at being unable to appreciate their ministrations and apprehension as to what they intended next.
The buzz hit him hard this time. She was here, in the room. He struggled to raise his head, to see his tormentor, but was still paralysed. Panic rose again and the pulse of his heartbeat cancelled out all other sounds.
Eventually the litter was hoisted again on the arms of four buxom women and he was carried to a pine grove away from the village. He tried to look around but all he could see with his limited vision was a flat area of grass with a huge pine tree at the centre. Shockingly the lower half of the trunk was splattered with dark stains that looked suspiciously like blood. Methos felt his heart pounding and heard his own ragged breathing. He waited for what seemed like an eternity.
Strong hands pulled him upright and raised his hands above his head. He saw the ropes and guessed he was being tied but couldn't feel it. Only the locked joints in his legs kept him standing. Stretched in an unnatural position breathing again became difficult. He thanked the gods he was fit and healthy otherwise he might be dying and reviving constantly due to the lack of air.
The glade was filling with the women of the village. All dressed in fine white shifts, with daggers at their belts. Each was masked, flat expressionless faces with black pits for mouths and eyes. Strangely he felt both anxious and excited waiting for something to happen. From somewhere to his right a drum beat rose and the women started to chant. It started softly then as the volume rose they began to sway and then to dance. At first they held hands dancing in a circle, weaving complicated patterns around the tree. Their dresses swirled from the movement and his nostrils were soon assailed with the mingled scents of perfume, sweat and the tantalising scent of aroused womanhood. He watched fascinated as the dance got faster and faster. As they approached the tree each brushed against him, baring their breasts, lifting their skirts to expose naked thighs and buttocks. He could have screamed out loud in frustration, he could feel nothing of their touches; his body might as well been made of stone. The music rose in tempo and volume until the whirling dance was too much for its participants and they fell to the ground panting and exhausted.
The sea of white parted and three women in blue robes joined the worshippers. The crone and the child had been joined by a third. Though she was masked Methos could see she was a woman in the prime of life, upright and strong. A they approached he felt the buzz again. So she was the Immortal. Anguish flowed through him as he realised she was carrying a long knife.
'No' he cried silently 'she couldn't take his head, not without a chance to defend himself..not here.. it was Holy Ground..didn't she know the rules?'
The buzz faded suddenly as if the other had withdrawn. Not her then, he breathed a sigh of relief. His relief was short lived as suddenly he recognised the knifes strange shape, the axe head hilt. The tales he'd heard of Attis came flooding back. Attis, the shepherd, had ritually maimed himself and bled to death under a pine tree after disappointing his goddess Cybele. Cybele whose symbol was the violet. The woman came toward him with the knife, her lips moving in prayer, the words unintelligible.
'She meant to castrate him' The shock hit him like an arrow. He knew flesh grew back if Immortals were wounded.. but that?..she stepped closer..panic welled up in him...to die, he could accept that, but to live again maimed in that way, true death might be preferable...she was a step away now, so close. Only the effects of the drug stopped him collapsing in fear. She reached forward, the knife extended to his chest. Slowly as she spoke the ritual words she drew the blade down until it rested it the curled hair at his groin. The prayer seemed to last forever. And then, in one movement she reached down, cupped her hand around him and slashed with the blade.
He hoped for the oblivion of unconsciousness but all he could do was shut his eyes. There was no pain, only the sudden prickling sensation of Immortal healing. He was convinced he could feel the blood trickling down his thighs.