What began as just another collaboration between us quickly escalated into what we feel is a very ambitious story.  Ambitious because it turned into much more work than we anticipated, sucking us emotionally dry throughout the course of its writing.  There's a lot we tried to convey and whether we achieved that noble goal is up to you.  All we know is that neither of us could have done it alone and we owe much to our wonderful beta readers, sister SmutGrrrls Dail "Can he do that with a bad leg?" Koehler and Anne "Doesn't it have to be soft first?" Zook, and Colleen Phillipi.  Thanks ladies!!  

 

Once again, this story must bear the NC-17 rating due to same sex situations and violence, both consensual and otherwise.  It is angst ridden and could be deemed depressing by those not used to our own little form of reader torture or low on their recommended dosage of Prozac.

 

** authors' notes:  In addition to his club foot, which caused an infirmity a bit exaggerated here for the sake of drama, George Gordon, Lord Byron (1788-1824) was also a victim of epilepsy during his pre-immortal years, a condition that his new state of immortality could not alter.

 

Descent of the Muse

(Or A Winter of Possession)

Meghan Black & Maygra de Rhema

Another M&M Production, (c) 1997

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Geneva, Switzerland

September, 1816

 

"And there was mounting in hot haste."

  - George, Lord Byron -

 

Summer was over and the Shelley's had returned to France, taking Claire with them for the time being.  The poor girl was so besotted by Byron, they'd practically had to drag her back, kicking and screaming, but the poet had been adamant.  He wanted to spend the rest of the year alone in Geneva -- well, except for one person.  He considered Doc his muse, his inspiration, and if there was one thing George Gordon, Lord Byron had learned in his short, but shining life, it was to use whatever inspiration came your way while it was there.  For inspiration was fleeting.

 

Doctor Benjamin Adams, of the long, angular body, with curves and valleys that never ended. Doc of the expressive, ever-changing eyes and hair the color of sable, which like him, would not be ruled by convention or man.  The quill worked furiously across the page.  No, he would keep Doc with him through the autumn and winter of 1816.  After that, who knew?

 

He could hear the object of his thoughts returning home from yet another foray into the nearby woods, no doubt hunting mushrooms or some other such search in the name of science.  The door slammed and boots were stomped at the door.  Byron reveled in the feeling of finally having the manor to themselves.  He'd enjoyed the parties, the story telling; the love of the summer; and that had been the problem.  He'd drunk deeply from the hedonistic fount of self-indulgence, to the detriment of his work. Unfinished pieces were strewn across his desk, the floor, piled by the bed.  Only alone, or with Doc, would the words find their way from his heart to his brain to his pen.  Straightening the white lace cravat at his throat, the young man eased out of his seat, grabbing the parchment as an afterthought, and made to join his companion for the quiet afternoon together he knew they'd both been waiting for.

 

Doc glanced upward at the sound from the landing.  Byron's breath caught at the sight of his smiling face looking up at him.  He hurried down the remaining stairs to the hallway where the other man still worked at shaking the leaves and mulch from his cloak.

 

"It's awfully damp out there," he noted, thrusting the work before the man could even get comfortable.  "Come in by the fire, have a drink with me and tell me how you like this.  I want to know how it makes you feel.  Besides, I'm bored with writing for now and just want to relax." His hand reached out to massage the long, slender neck exposed by the short cropped hair.  His flesh was so warm, even after hours in the crisp, autumn air, digging about in God knew where.

 

"Bored already?  Everyone just left this morning," Methos observed sardonically, taking the proffered poetry while making no move to resist the pull of the young man now leading him into the salon.  Rather, he returned the touch once they stood, comfortably ensconced before the welcoming fire.  Stopping close enough to feel the warmth of the crackling wood, flickering in the dying light of the afternoon, he turned Byron toward him, threading his fingers through long, auburn hair, and pulled his face forward.  They kissed briefly, but Byron was impatient for praise and accolades for his latest work. 

 

Indulgently, Methos read the words which reached out and gripped his

soul in the very claws of desire.  This man had appeared in the older

immortal's life when he was tired and world-weary, dreading the next

1000 years...more of the same with little to look forward to.  But

Byron...Byron relit the flame he'd thought long extinguished.  The poet's

genius warmed him and his simmering dark eyes promised things he'd had

no interest in for centuries.

 

Remember him, whom Passion's power

    Severely---deeply---vainly proved:

Remember thou that dangerous hour,

    When neither fell, though both were loved.

 

That yielding breast, that melting eye,

    Too much invited to be blessed:

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

    The wilder wish reproved, repressed.

 

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

    But saved thee all that Conscience fears;

And blush for every pang it cost

    To spare the vain remorse of years.

 

Yet think of this when many a tongue,

    Whose busy accents whisper blame,

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

    And brand a nearly blighted name. **

 

Turning back to the man, restlessly awaiting his reaction, Methos was

speechless.  He'd never given much thought to the long term consequences

of his relationships and this one was no different.  Stubbornly ignoring

the little voice somewhere in the back of his mind which warned of the

fierce danger Byron presented to both his well being and sanity, Methos

had permitted himself to fall under the enchanting spell of the bard

during their languid summer with the Shelleys and was unwilling to let

him go yet.  Reaching up once more to smooth that shining hair and run a

thumb lightly across the sensuous lips, he leaned in, letting his

actions speak of the adoration he had for the man's art.

 

The kiss was not the tentative first of newly formed love.  They'd played at seduction all summer with looks, touches and innuendo; something they both excelled in. They'd engaged in sex of every variety throughout these languid months, with Claire, Percy, even Mary; but never alone, just the two of them. They'd shared the pleasures of those laid before them like a banquet of sumptuous food, but this eve would be their first encounter as exclusive lovers and both felt they had waited long enough.

 

Although not shy, the kiss did have the quality of something one might want to savor and not gobble up too quickly.  But the press of lips and teasing tongues soon grew insistent, as neither man was of a bent for self-denial. It's what made them so perfect...and so tragic together.  Their personalities blended like the notes of a Beethoven symphony, in harmony, each complementing the other. The one thing each had in abundance was a penchant for indulging the senses.

 

Byron moaned softly against Methos' lips and the small vibration tickled. Then the kiss deepened with the urgency of their anticipated union.  The taller man used deft fingers to undress the other.  Tie, shirt and jacket fell to the floor in a flurry of velvet, satins and lace.  Byron's hands had not been idle either.  Within minutes they were both still standing in front of the fireplace, but covered only by the thin fabric of their breeches, and the hard-ons each sported bulged against the constraint.

 

Two pair of hands roamed freely, reveling in the feel of smooth, almost hairless skin.  Except for height, the two men where of a similar build and composition.  But soon touching was not enough.  This they'd done before while indulging in the fruits of other offerings, when the aborigine carpet they now stood upon had been covered with a tangle of arms, legs and bared bodies after a night of drinking and storytelling.  Debauchery was an activity both were familiar with and neither was treading on unfamiliar ground this afternoon.  Except, through some perverse, torturing reasoning they could not explain, they'd denied the one thing they'd both wanted so badly throughout the days of the playful summer.  Each other.  Alone.

 

Doc's hands were the first to reach for the fastenings which would release Byron from the last of his clothing, efficiently removing the garment with deft, quick movements.  The poet was swept up in the feeling of pure euphoria and not a little disbelief that this was finally happening.  Why he'd ever denied himself this man was another mystery to add to life's already distended tome of questions.  He felt the air, cool despite the warmth of the fire, brush across his groin and before he could return the favor, found Doc also standing before him naked; finally.  It was nothing new.  They'd both lacked the modesty to bother with clothes when not convenient in the past, each coming and going into the other's rooms without knocking for months.  Then there were the orgies lasting late into the nights, sometimes including guests who might be passing through on a journey to some summer palace.  But this was different.  No sharing, no distractions.  Just he and Doc, skin to skin.  He nearly exploded on the spot with the thought that this dark-haired god with alabaster skin and a throat he longed to nuzzle all night long was *his* alone.

 

Methos began lowering them to the soft wool carpet, helping Byron without being obvious, knowing his infirmity would prevent a graceful descent, and still their lips never parted.  When the two men lay comfortably on a makeshift bed of pillows pilfered from the nearby sofa, Methos continued the assault on Byron's senses with his mouth, trailing a path of moist, hot kisses across his face, neck and shoulders.  When he began nibbling at the hollow of the poet's luscious throat, the spot which had always evoked a similar reaction in the group play, Byron shivered beneath him and he felt small goose bumps of pleasure rise wherever his lover's hand roamed. 

 

"Ah, you were definitely worth waiting for.  There may be something to this abstinence thing after all."  Byron chuckled softly at his own joke and Methos laid his head on the smooth chest, now rumbling with laughter.  He too had often wondered, during the hot days of pleasure and regalement, why it was exactly he had not taken Byron as lover.  But the bittersweet denial of this experience was forgotten as the poet's scent filled his nostrils with desire.  The thought flitted through his mind that even now, they seemed to be putting off the inevitable, delaying the culmination of months of hunger and need.  He decided it had been long enough.

 

Moving over the prone body of his lover, Methos moved down, placing soft kisses and feather light strokes across the angular planes of chest and stomach.  He stopped to suckle one pink nipple and its instant reaction to this attention encouraged him to continue with the other.  The ribcage, thinly covered by a layer of translucent skin, rose sharply as his teeth teased the puckered nub to attention while his fingers lightly caressed the sensitive skin along Byron's side, moving ever downward.

 

The play unfolded, act by tormentingly sensuous act.  Methos' mouth worked across Byron as skillfully as his hands had performed any surgery until he'd reached the spot where legs joined body, where Byron had been guiding his head with restless hands.

 

"Be patient, my poet," he chided once during his ministrations.  "You should know, of all people, that you cannot rush a work of art."  Byron had growled a warning that this particular art required immediate attention and Methos had laughed at his new lover's urgency.

 

Methos raised slightly, meeting the darkened gaze of his lover through the nearly black, untamed locks falling across his eyes, paused for effect, then lowered his head once more, plunging his tongue around the quivering cock being pushed up into his face.  Byron ground his hips into the hot mouth encircling him, holding tightly to the thick mane of the other man. Methos began a slow waltz around the base of Byron's cock, working up to a crescendo as he sucked harder and faster on the entire length of the turgid member.  His hands cupped the twin spheres beneath, slowly raking his nails lightly across the grooves formed by tightened skin.  Using his saliva and Byron's own juices, he wet the forefinger of his free hand and gradually inserted it into the tight ring of muscles between the poet's buttocks. The hips below worked faster, pressing his cock hard into Methos' mouth, then pushing his ass into the floor, reaching for the added stimulation.  When he came, the mouth he fucked sucked harder, milking the flow of white fluid thoroughly from him.  As he lay spent and relaxed, Methos continued to lick and suck the last drop, cleaning away all evidence of Byron's spent passion before climbing back up that lithe frame.

 

As he kissed Byron warmly and deeply, the poet reveled in the taste of himself, bittersweet as the final culmination of their four-month seduction.  He knew it would never be like this again for him.  As a man ruled by passions, ever searching for higher planes and more acute diversions to ride upon, Byron would never be satisfied with the past, but would always seek for more.  This much he knew about himself.

 

Doc nuzzled the slender column below Byron's ear, letting his tongue sweep across the tender flesh and the poet knew what he wanted.  He turned his head to kiss him again.  "Will you finally take me as we've both dreamed?"

 

"Yes.  That is what I want," Methos whispered back.  A simple statement, yet so full of promise for them both.

 

The slighter man rolled over, an offering to his muse.  Methos began a slow, relaxing massage of back, hips and buttocks.  When he reached the small, puckered opening, he used the seeping pre-cum from his own burgeoning erection as lubricant and breached the channel gently, yet insistently with first one finger, then two.  Byron made no sound, but the slight jerk, then a squirm upward into Methos' hand indicated that his need to be filled matched the other man's own to fill him.  Methos slid between the tight space provided by the pliant flesh of the other man's cheeks, stimulating both himself and Byron, spread before him.  Then, bracing the slender hips with both hands, he pressed the crown through first, stopping just long enough to assure himself of the other's comfort. They rested that way for long, precious seconds, Methos reveling in the feel of tight constraint.

 

"Get on with it.  I want to feel all of you."  The hissed command urged Methos higher and he let his own need drive the completion of their union.  When his cock was buried deeply, totally inside his lover, he stilled once more, bathing himself in the feeling of snug warmth which began at the base and extended into his groin, then upward throughout his body and down into his trembling legs.

 

They found a rhythm quickly, each playing counterpoint to the other's rocking motion.  Doc steadied himself with one hand on Byron's shoulder and the other gripping almost painfully into the sparse flesh covering one hip.  He was totally lost in the flow of sensation and found his movements becoming mindless and erratic.  He worked to bring himself back under control, altering the pace to one which would benefit them both, but too soon his fingers dug deeper into the slender hips as he struggled once more to hold onto to some tangible evidence that he still occupied physical time and space.  His spirit seemed fluid, flowing and mutating.  Their bodies were one entity and he could *feel* his own hands kneading the soft skin beneath him, felt his own cock inside himself, knew the feeling of his own climax pumping heatedly into the body of the man below who even now shook with his own completion and the strain of weight on a limb unused to the pressure. Methos could no longer stop himself from tumbling atop Byron than he could make himself fly away and the two men lay in a jumble of limbs and sweating bodies on the deep wine bed of carpet and pillows.

 

For long moments Methos refused to move, waiting for his heart to still, for his consciousness to resettle itself in his own mind as he knew it must. But as those two events began he did move, concerned that the prolonged stress of their positions would further abuse the limb that already failed Byron regularly. He moved only to find his arms held fiercely, the muscles of his young lover's ass clenching around his softened cock to hold him in place.

 

"No," Byron hissed. "It's too soon. It is over too soon -- I want to feel you in me again -- I want to be filled by you until there is nothing left but you." The request was nearly desperate and Methos acquiesced, gathering the slight form closer and began shifting in small increments as he nuzzled the throat beneath his lips.

 

"You need not be so impatient, my genius," he murmured reassuringly. "We have all the time we need."

 

"It is not enough! The moment is all there is for me...it's where my muse waits, always in the present -- never in the memory."

 

"Byron, you can not hold onto a moment," Methos said hearing the fear in the younger man's voice, the fear that his muse, his gift, would someday abandon him entirely. "But we can move through them -- together."

 

He did shift then, pulling himself free of the trembling body and rolling his lover back a bit so he could stare into the dark eyes and caress the sweet, youthful face. He closed the eyes with gentle kisses, halted the protests of fear with his mouth and ranged his long fingers between the parted thighs to encourage Byron's passions to rise again.

 

Nor was he disappointed in his entreaties. Soon enough the heavy shaft of flesh grew hard and hot and the body was gasping. The skills of millennia past sprang newly learned under the older Immortal's hands until his lover was writhing with pleasures yet unfulfilled.

 

He rolled them both until Byron lay atop him, already thrusting against his groin, nearly incoherent with the need to find completion, release, and Methos gentled him, sweeping the damp auburn locks back from the sweating face and parting his own thighs. He lifted his hips and Byron found the entry then thrust inside with the need to sheath his burning desires in some vessel. His gasp was near a cry, one echoed by his lover as he arched under him, face paling momentarily at the sudden pain, but the look on the older man's face was anything but pained when Byron had control enough to notice.

 

His lover lay stretched out below him, the sleekly muscled chest and stomach arched upward to meet his impatient thrusts. His head was back exposing the elegant throat, eliciting in Byron the sudden desire to be one of the vampires of legend to be able to suckle the blood pulsing just below the skin.

 

And then he could think of nothing as the orgasm erupted through him without warning, spilling into the body clenched so tightly around him.  His lover caught him as the strength in his arms gave out, hands reaching immediately to smooth his hair as they both panted from exertion and sensation.

 

The other man's cock was only semi-hard and trapped between them but he seemed content to kiss and fondle and reassure until Byron felt sleep overtake him. Methos encouraged his slumber and Byron slipped into the quietude, wondering, with a smile on his face, if his Muse would come like an incubus to deposit the words to describe the passions he had just expended.

 

~~~~

 

Byron woke to find himself in his own bed, in his own dressing gown. The room was dark and still, the sounds of the autumn night creeping in through the opened doors that led to the balcony of his room. His muse had indeed come to him or stayed with him, standing now half illuminated by candle and moonlight.

 

He made no sound as he observed the other man. The good doctor had dressed enough for propriety's sake, although none of the servants in the house would have commented if both men had remained naked all the time.  Servants were usefully discreet. But there was an air of propriety and restraint in the physician...Byron smiled.  In his lover -- it felt much more natural to think of  him that way, now.  He could still feel the press of the deceptive body against his, the reality of form a perfect match with his memory as he let his eyes rove over the pale skin of Doc's back.

 

He was loathe to disturb the silent contemplation, knowing his own Muse for the capricious creature it was. Yet, having the enigmatic man so close but not touching seemed a horrible waste of time that could be spent closer. They had put off this joining of bodies and spirits for long enough in Byron's mind -- and since the full impact of his immortality had not yet manifested itself in him, he felt there was not enough time in the world to explore life in all its fascinations.

 

Moving quietly he shifted to the edge of the bed, planning to slip up behind his lover, only to have the lame leg betray him with both pain and weakness. His hiss of pain immediately brought Doc's attention around and the man hurried to him, laying a solicitous hand on the limb to rub at the stiffness.

 

"I should have brought you to bed..."  his voice was soft as he worked the atrophied muscles.

 

Crouched beside him, Byron could only see the shadows as they danced across the pale skin, disappearing into the darker cloth of his trousers. His hand went out to touch the thick silken hair and the face lifted to his, still in shadow.  "You should have come to bed with me," Byron said, leaning forward to smell the gossamer strands.

 

"And I will, but this first," Methos said as he worked to ease the spasm.

 

"Damn my leg! I can stand it -- What I cannot abide is to have you this close but not closer.!" Byron said, knowing he sounded like a petulant child and caring not at all as he gripped his lover's hair tighter and drew him upward.

 

"Gordon," Methos said rising with the pull. "I am going nowhere..." he added and kissed the pouting mouth firmly before gripping both Byron's legs and swinging them up onto the bed and sitting beside him. "Relax," he said softly and ran his hands up the infirm limb, putting both ease and passion into his caresses.

 

~~~~~

 

The following days and nights could only be described as tranquil, yet laconic.  Byron could no more write for longer than a few hours at a time than his legs could be whole again.  Methos amused himself with the new myriad of herbs becoming available for harvest with the new season when he wasn't sharing the poet's hearth and bed.  "Doc" was perfectly content to let the shortening days pass uneventfully, but the whirling dervish of calenture could not rest for long.  Often, as the older man would return from the city or a ride in the countryside, he would find the household in an uproar of activity due to orders from the Lord of the manor, altering yet again their lifestyle on some whimsical notion he'd conjured with his muse.  At times like this, Methos could only shake his head, an amused smile curving his lips.  Wasn't this one of the reasons he'd found Byron so enchanting...being inexplicably drawn to that passion for living which always attracted him to his lovers?  He knew his existence would never be simple or quiet as long as he occupied a space in the bard's life. 

 

But, it was the life he'd chosen.  Despite the upheavals and sometimes pernicious whims of his partner, he was content to linger in Switzerland.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

As the shafts of dust-filled sunlight crossed the room to their bed, Methos silently watched the sleeping face of his golden lover.  The weeks since the consummation of their desires had begun to turn turbulent, unbalanced...and totally delicious to the ancient Immortal.  He hadn't felt so alive in centuries, hadn't allowed himself to give and receive love so easily until the web that was Byron had spun an irresistible filament of challenge across his dead existence.  But, Byron seemed less than satisfied with their arrangement of late and a small frown formed between the dark eyebrows.  He'd do anything to see that carefree, childish small light his lover's face once more.

 

The object of his regard shifted next to him, pulling the sheet tightly across his groin.  Methos could discern the outline of a steadily hardening cock against the thin material of the sheet.  Even in sleep, the poet reached for that ultimate expanse of sensation that would keep the demons at bay during his waking hours.  Under their own volition, his long, sensuous fingers reached toward the sleeping figure, allowing himself to run the length of protruding hardness.  Through the fine linen he felt the erection twitch before the body moved again, this time towards its observer.  The result was Byron's face laying inches from Methos' own, the soft, warm breath of sleep suggesting a deceptive sense of innocence.

 

Then dark eyes were peering curiously at gold.  Wide awake, as if Morpheus had never visited, Byron smiled lazily and closed the distance between himself and Methos with a good morning kiss meant to rouse his bed partner.  It wasn't necessary.  Methos reached out, gathering the body, still warm and pliant from sleep, into his arms.

 

"And what's your pleasure today, Lord Poet?" he asked in a voice, low and husky from its first use of the day.  He began softly kissing his lover's face.  Closed lids, soft cheeks...then moving toward the plump lobe that was Byron's most sensitive spot.  His exploration of the lithe body had yielded many erogenous zones, but his ears had proven to be the quickest way to elicit a response from the other man.

 

Byron wiggled enticingly in Methos' arms, rubbing against the body which had so entranced him.  But soon, as always, it was not enough.  He pulled back and Methos looked at him curiously, accustomed to the ever changing moods of this sensual being, waiting patiently to see what exploit his lover might now have in mind.

 

"I had a dream last night.  I was falling from a great craggy cliff into the crashing waters of the sea.  But I wasn't afraid.  For the first time, I fear not my dreams and you know why?"  Methos shook his head.  "Because I know the pain will pass, the darkness will recede and I will be reborn again."  Byron's eyes took on the fire of the fanatic.  Methos felt a metal band of anticipation cinch about his chest and held his breath, listening.  "Would you help me, my love?  Take me to the other side as we join, fly me on the wings of not only le petite morte, but the most feared of deaths that no man can escape, as well?"  the poet begged. 

 

The older man's heart sank.  All through the summer Adams, Byron, Percy and the rest had experimented, explored, and searched out new and unusual sensations to feed their pathos as they searched for inspiration in the depravities of the physical realm.  He'd known it was but a matter of time before his beloved reached beyond the limited experiences of mortal men, grasping at this new dimension which allowed his imagination to move unfettered by the laws of nature. 

 

Then for a brief moment, the panic...and excitement returned.  The memory of his own body convulsing in death while crying out its release into an ecstatic state of being he'd been unable to achieve again through his travels of centuries and continents.  For however well the mind may process the knowledge that you will return, that death is a fleeting moment in eternity to accept and even appreciate, the body recoils from it.  That last second of terror before the flicker of life is snuffed out mingling with that exquisite rush of ecstasy...yes, he knew the possibilities, had experienced them over and over.  He was helpless to deny Byron this experience, for who knew what Muse he'd find in the darkness of oblivion.  

 

"Then come to me and explore the domain of death which yields no quarter to breath and being."  Methos rolled atop Byron and the poet could see that his lover had moved beyond this moment in time, back to some lost secret only he could see and grew harder when the flashing gold-green eyes lit up with memories of the past.

 

"Yes, my healer.  For once don't think of saving a life, but of using death as a vehicle for my Muse to come once more to me, to whisper in my ear of things unknown and wondrous." 

 

Methos reacted to the passion of his words instantly.  Holding Byron's wrists tightly, he pulled the poet's arms above his head, leaning over to tie them securely to the bedposts with the heavy cords from their canopy.  Settling back on the body below him, now distended to outline ribcage and breastbone, Methos reached down to cup the face of his lover. 

 

"First, I want to feel the heat of your mouth surround me, before it turns cold with the ceasing of your heartbeat."  He knew his words would excite Byron even further and wasn't far off in his estimate of what the poet needed to hear.  The reddish-brown head lifted eagerly to taste him and Methos let his head roll back in bliss as he sank into the sensation of moist pressure.  Byron suckled him expertly, while trying vainly to press his own hips more firmly against the spread legs above him.  His moan vibrated along the shaft filling his mouth and a small shiver ran through his lover.

 

"Enough!"  Methos didn't want to satisfy his own longing until the timing was perfect.  If he was going to follow through with this, he'd do it with the artful flair he'd been taught.    

 

Leaning to the side of the prone body, he picked up the long silk sash belonging to the robe he'd discarded on the floor the night before.  He ran its length enticingly across his lover's neck, letting the trail linger at the end before whipping it away to be used later.  Byron labored to raise himself, head thrown back, letting the soft material tease him to the highest sense of arousal he'd ever experienced.  "Yesss," he hissed in a soft whisper, which Methos cut off with his mouth, grinding their lips together in a brutal parody of his earlier tenderness. 

 

The sable head moved downward, roughly nipping at the twin nubs on Byron's chest, knowing just where to stop before he'd reached that level of unacceptable discomfort.  The poet's low threshold for pain was common knowledge between them and had stayed Methos' hand more than once during their love play. 

 

"No," his lover ground out through clenched teeth.  "Don't stop now!" he demanded and Methos proceeded with his torment of the trembling body.  His touch grew harsher as he raked the tender flesh exposed under his lover's arms and his teeth drew blood at the protruding hipbone marking the joint of legs and torso.  He sat back and watched the marks fade in the surrounding sparks of immortal healing.  With Byron's impassioned words, Methos let loose the demons of his past and immersed himself fully in their game.

 

Cruelly he raised the weaker leg, gripping its bent length at ankle and thigh, teasing behind the knee with first his tongue, then the surprising force of teeth and nails as he worked his way forward to the crux of the body.  Byron's cock had grown no less turgid for the rugged treatment, but rather strained for the touch that would release him into the nether world.  Methos scraped the sensitive skin along the underside of the distended member until Byron's whimpers echoed through the chamber, then kissed the injured flesh tenderly, causing his lover to cry out in frustration.

 

"Do it!"  he pleaded.  "Fill my muse and set me free!" The last almost a sob.  Methos briefly considered prolonging his anguish to make the final completion all the sweeter, but realized that regardless of his brave words, his gentle genius would not be able to walk the delicate line between pleasure and pain much longer.

 

Placing himself squarely between extended legs, Methos pulled the limbs forward and up.  Laid now across his shoulders, the body before him was spread eagerly, helpless and waiting for his pleasure.  The hazel eyes shut briefly, as he suddenly felt the need to brace himself for what he was about to do.  Then, suitably primed, he reached over for the tie and wrapped it loosely about Byron's neck, scanning his lover's face for any show of doubt or regret.  There was none.  So be it.  He dipped his fingers in the small pot of oil they kept on the table by the bed and prepared them both.

 

Without breaking eye contact, yet continuing his role as dominant lover, he pressed the engorged head firmly against the tight cavity.  With a growl of pure lust, Byron pushed himself forward as forcefully as he could in his bound state, impaling himself on the thick cock.  Methos released his tightly reined control, pulling out and returning to the depths of his lover's heat over and over, stroking the sides of the channel roughly with each impact.  His hand wrapped tightly about Byron's quivering cock at the base of his stomach, using the loose skin covering tight muscle to stimulate and drive the poet closer to the edge of descent.  His grip loosened briefly until he had the tie coiled and twisted in the fist of his free hand.  Then he was pumping Byron again, his hips flexing in time with the movement of his hands.

 

Methos could feel the build up...intense and furious as always with this man.  His mind engaged just in time to recall the purpose of this game and he tightened his hold on the silk as Byron lost all cognizant perspective of his surroundings, the pendulum of fulfillment swinging ever closer.  For a few seconds he feared he'd misjudged the timing of the man thrashing beneath him as he watched the dark eyes roll backward as his chest heaved a final gasp and still he had not come.  But as quickly as the thought presented itself, he felt the hot seed spill over his fist and across the flat planes of the prone figure's belly, causing the still working hand to slip loosely over the head of Byron's cock.

 

Then he felt his own climax, bringing with it a dark suspicion.  A feeling he barely recognized as anger began building, side by side with his passion, and he tried to process its meaning.  Was he no longer enough to satisfy the pure hedonist he called lover?  Then all other thoughts were wiped from his mind as the orgasm descended upon him, intensified by the sad realization that he'd been left behind by a man obsessed with the search for his Muse. 

 

"Damn you," he whimpered at the lifeless body, while at the same time filling it with the product of their lethal adventure, then collapsed, sobbing against the still chest.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The auburn head jerked upright as Byron coughed violently, then sucked precious oxygen back into deprived lungs.  Methos found himself holding the poet down against the soft mattress as panic overtook reason and his eyes widened with remembered pain.  But, the attack lasted but a moment before he was once again himself, pushing his lover away impatiently.  A look of wonder shown on the pale continence.

 

"Oh God! What a feeling of helpless bliss!  I must do it again..." Methos grabbed the poet's arms, whirling him around to face his anger.

 

"Is it never enough for you?  Where will you stop?  When will your Muse be satisfied?"  He searched the beloved face for any sign that his words weren't fruitless sounds falling on deaf ears, but Byron was already pulling away, moving toward his desk, anxious to capture the feelings of forlorn darkness before they vanished into the ether of his mind forever.

 

"Why do you do this to us?  You know I can deny you nothing, would do anything to see that jubilant look of childlike wonder cross your face again as it did our first time together."  Methos knew how he sounded and his anger flared into a fire of self-loathing that he could not prevent the words from tumbling from his mouth. 

 

Byron ignored his pleas, intently scribbling lest he forget one second of the spiritual experience of an hour ago.  Methos gripped the back of his chair, yanking it and its occupant about...anything to make his lover listen.

 

"You've had your 'Haunted Summer'. Will you try now for a Winter of Possession?" Methos demanded, eyes flashing as he faced the poet.

 

"I might," Byron shot back and was on his feet, graceful hands reaching for Methos' arms to rub them, dark eyes intense.  "I feel I already am possessed -- by my muse, by you -- by this immortal creature I have become. Mary was right in her label. I feel I must be a Prometheus, to be reborn every moment into something new, lest my own passions burn out of me."

 

Framing the desperate face in his hands, Methos spoke softly. "But those passions are what feed your genius...your words. If you cast them side too quickly for what is new, you will never know what they have to say."

 

Byron wrenched away, anger flashing in his eyes as he turned to snatch at the papers strewn across his writing table. "This is not passion! It is drivel -- meaningless. They are but words! My muse leads me farther and you drag me back -- and I am caught between the two of you! Yet, one cannot exist without the other; you, my demon muse, nor I! So which master do I heed, Benjamin? Whose siren call will lead me to greatness?"

 

"You must listen to yourself."

 

"Platitudes? I expected better of you, Doc!" Byron snarled and strode out of the room, grabbing up clothes and calling for Manning to have his horse saddled.

 

Methos stood silently watching his lover depart and the room dropped in temperature  by several degrees.  His own flushed face lost some of its color as the warmth which always wrapped about him when Byron was near faded with the loss of its cause.  He worried about the poet...and himself.  Methos knew he was falling...slipping uncontrollably under the spell of Gordon's genius.  The man's gift was like the mushrooms he'd studied over the course of the summer.  Only thriving and producing under cover of darkness, shrinking away from the brightness of the sun lest it outshine his own creativity.  And he was dragging Methos into the shadows with him.

 

Slamming the papers down on the desk, he whirled about and exited the bedchamber through the opposite door taken by his lover.  This possession of his soul was driving him mad.  Methos knew the immaturity of the poet had much to do with his demand for the constant attendance of his muse, wherever he may find it.  But for himself?  He should know better.  He'd had almost 5000 years to discover that one cannot command a muse...or love.  His heart was heavy with the foreshadowing knowledge that he had not the power or passion to hold on to the man who craved sensation and sensationalism, only to spew it all out once it could no longer provide inspiration for the demons which haunted him.  Methos, Immortal with five millennia of experience to draw upon, could not continue to feed the appetite of a young prodigy who was driven by the fear that his fire would die with the rise of each sun or the fall of each night.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Byron returned just as dark was settling over the manor.  Methos sat brooding in the study, chasing memories of the summer from his mind with the second bottle of wine.  Mary Shelley, trepidatious wife of Percy...timid to a fault, yet able to discern the crux of immortality in a sweeping moment of revelation.  The Immortal could envision her plainly, watching from the cover of shadows as the rest of the party drank and laughed, finally falling upon each other in a frenzied attempt to stir the dying passions of sensation and empathy.  Watching and waiting...waiting for her chance to shine.  And, oh, how she had that night after Gordon's first quickening.  Her story of a reborn being, made monstrous by man's own hand outdid any prose or poetry the rest of them could birth that eve. 

 

And there was Claire, over there on the settee, lounging indolently, one breast impertinently exposed to the gaze of her heart's desire.  Such a child and so in love with Byron.  Little did she know that her small, insubstantial flicker could never be enough to ignite even a flare of interest other than the odd passing fancy. 

 

Methos' musings were interrupted when the cause of these chaotic thoughts threw open the twin doors and strode back in, all smiles and grace.  Like the quicksilver moods of his muse, Byron seemed to have conveniently forgotten or ignored the circumstances of his earlier departure.  He glided over to Methos, as well as he could, and planted an enthusiastic, deep kiss on his lover's mouth, which had been opened in elation and surprise.  As much as Methos might not want it, the sight of his genius poet could stop his heart flat, then shatter it with the joy of his nearness.  But he also knew as surely as the flowers wilted each fall, bending under the harsh Northern wind, that if this man became aware of the spell he'd cast over the ancient Immortal, the attraction would wither in a similar manner.

 

Mentally preparing for whatever his lover might have in store for the evening, Methos allowed himself the tiniest bud of yearning to show in his eyes as he gazed into the dark ones of the poet.  "Come here," and he pulled Byron down, throwing the man slightly off balance and causing him to fall ungracefully into a heap beside the settled occupant.

 

"Doc, whatever do you think you're doing?" he protested in fond annoyance.  "I've brought us a treat tonight.  No time for this."  And the fairer man struggled once more to his feet and called for the guests he'd left nervously waiting in the hallway.

 

They entered hesitantly, but not fearfully - simply and slightly awed by the manor, and by their host.  They favored each other, thick dark hair crowning two nearly twin oval faces. They were well dressed but not richly. Not peasants nor were they gentry, but caught somewhere in between. Methos caught his himself staring at the woman, something in the dusky skin appealing to him - suggesting a touch of Romany in the dark eyes, a gypsy cast to the sensuous mouth and slender but well curved body. There was none of the frailty of Society's delicate damsels. This girl, this woman, was as earthy as the woods encircling the manor, dark and secret, inviting with whispered promises of hidden delights under the rich blue of her dress. Her hair was caught up in a heavy braid, an outward display of propriety as was her dress. She could pass for a merchant's wife or daughter. But the illusion of propriety failed when he met her eyes, the nearly black depths challenging his with both interest and humor.

 

Byron smiled watching the exchange, knowing his lover's interest was piqued. He had contacted these two after many discrete inquiries.  Common sluts would not do for what he desired to observe, he needed - wanted - talents that could bring his companion to ecstasy.  These two, who offered their services at a price that was neither cheap nor negotiable, touted themselves as siblings. Having seen them, Byron had little cause to doubt.  The woman, Veronique Adelarde, had done the actual transaction, as self-assured in her dealings as Mary Shelley was timid. Her brother, Stefan, was far more retiring and despite the heavy muscular build, was nearly more delicate than his sister. Other than his coloring, he could have passed for Michelangelo's David, the face almost too perfect, the dark gray eyes intense and dreamy at the same time.

 

His lover's gaze had shifted from Mlle. Adelarde to her brother and Byron felt the rousing stirrings in his breast. The idea that he might be jealous of Benjamin's interest in either of their guests was new and interesting. He savored the small burn of anger, then turned it inward...a smoldering low burn of passion, already anticipating the inspiration it would evoke as he envisioned his two hires plying their skills over the responsive body of his lover.

 

"Mademoiselle Veronique Adelarde and her brother, Stefan. This is my very dear friend Dr. Benjamin Adams," Byron said stepping between his Doc and the couple. The doctor caught the lady's hand in his fingers, bending his head to brush his lips across her knuckles.

 

Her skin was subtly scented, old memories triggered by the aroma of sandalwood and myrrh and roses. Methos had no doubts about either the woman's identity or her profession - nor that of the exquisite young man next to her - be he brother or no. He had met women very like her over the centuries and could but marvel that Byron had been so intent on exploring his pleasures to have sought out such a pair. Dropping her hand he met the dark eyes once more before turning to face her "Brother". The young man's grip was strong without being oppressive and Methos could not halt the faint shiver of anticipation that ran through him as the youth's fingertips deliberately grazed his palm when he disengaged his hand.

 

"Manning," Byron called to his butler and the silent servant appeared, face impassively uninterested as usual. "Please show Mademoiselle and Monsieur Adelarde to their rooms. We shall expect you to join us after dinner, my friends. Manning will see that you have what you need and that your meals are sent to you as you requested, Mademoiselle. Manning will also see to your other...requests."

 

"Merci, My Lord," Veronique murmured, her voice as throaty and dusky as her appearance. "We shall see you later this evening." She turned to follow the manservant out, as graceful as a dancer, Stefan trailing in her wake. There was an unconscious sensuality to the way the pair moved, every nuance of movement seemingly choreographed. Something cold reached deep within Methos -- wrenching long forgotten memories from his soul and he closed his eyes against the implications of  the visual evidence of hard won training in the couple.

 

"She is exquisite," Byron breathed and Methos hazarded a glance at his lover, not surprised to see a flush in the pale cheeks. "And he is...."

 

"Yes, he is...." Methos murmured and moved away to seek the near empty bottle of wine. Perhaps if he were sufficiently drunk, he might not remember by morning whatever games Byron had orchestrated.

 

"How would you take him?" Byron asked, stealing the bottle and drinking deeply, finishing it before seeking another. This one he shared with his lover, eyes fascinated as he watched his dark Muse swallow the wine, heedless of the vintage. "Tell me. Or her? Describe it for me..."

 

Byron had moved to the table, the papers and tools of his trade scattered about the house in every room so he could capture his spirits wherever he was. His slender fingers were already twitching but had not yet reached for a pen.

 

"You have seen me take a woman before...," Methos said flinging himself back down on the sofa, drinking once more to call oblivion if only for a few moments. He lay back, the ruffled gathers of his blouse open to reveal the ivory chest and expose the slender throat. Byron shifted, coming up behind him to drop his fingers against that skin, pushing the fabric aside seeking the dark disc of flesh.

 

"True," Byron said a smile twitching at his lips, eyes bright with fondness.  The sweetness of his face and expression eased the confusion and anger warring within Methos' heart and mind. This was his Byron, his love, rare glimpses though he caught any longer. He caught the fingers, pressing kisses against them and Byron circled the sofa to settle beside him. His hands roved and played with cloth and skin, never lingering. 

 

"I have watched you. Seen you and felt you deliver wave after wave of pleasure upon others, upon me. But what for yourself, Benjamin? Can there really be so much pleasure in giving?"

 

His tone was only slightly mocking and Methos turned to him, pulling him close, wrapping one leg around the poet's to keep them both securely on their perch. "Can you doubt that every smile you offer me, every touch could be less than heaven," Methos said against the auburn hair. "You fill me with your very presence, beloved. Were I never to touch you again I could live centuries remembering the times you had. All your carnality, your thrill seeking will not replace that. I but wish I could convince you of it rather than watch you torment yourself trying to capture that which eludes you."

 

"I am a burden to you, Benjamin. I know that--"

 

"Never--" Methos' protest was stopped by the full and open pressure of Byron's mouth. The poet sought him hungrily and Methos fed him for long moments.

 

"Can you not see? Your passions burn slow and steady," Byron murmured, expression saddened and lost as Methos held him. "Mine must ever burn bright and fast. I cannot answer to the centuries you say are spread before me lest I become dull and trite or become less than a man." Byron shifted raising himself above Methos to meet the eyes watching him so intently. "You are a creature of time and space and memory, Benjamin. You have tamed your muses and they may well come to your call. But I must answer to mine -- dance at her command."

 

"What do you want from me?" Methos closed his eyes already knowing that whatever the angelic faced demon demanded of him he would do.  Consequences might damn him until the end of time but there was nothing he could deny his limpet of a lover.  Byron's very scent was a spell Methos could not break, his touch, his presence...and his poetry. Those words that spilled across paper with the ease of Byron's blood flowing from a wound...the worst of Byron's verse could cut Methos to his soul, elate him or destroy him. The poet was a sorcerer and his poetry his enchantments.

 

"For this night I would see you take what you so willingly give," Byron said softly and Methos opened his eyes again to the tenderness in the voice and the feel of cool fingers against his cheek. " I have no restraint with you. I cannot find the patience to bring to you what you bring to me. Nor, I think, do I have the skill. But Veronique and her brother do -- or so they say. I would watch them pleasure you until you are incoherent, until you are fainting with ecstasy, until you are so spent you can make no sound. And then I will hold you if you weep or sleep to know what it is you feel when you do so for me. It is no gift for you I offer, but one for myself. Can I have it? Will you give it to me?" Byron murmured making no apologies for his selfishness or his motives. "I want to know the passion of jealousy, to know envy when someone else brings to you what I cannot."

 

"There is no one who can bring me anything of worth that you cannot," Methos said sincerely and got another searing kiss for his honesty.

 

"Then I would know that as well," Byron murmured and then was off again with laughter ringing off the walls, calling for servants, checking on arrangements until he whirled and held his hand out entreatingly to Methos. "Come then, lover muse. We must prepare for our guests," he said joyfully and the look on his face once more banished Methos' own demons as his joyful lover returned to him once more.

 

~~~~~~~

 

Had Byron not been so absolutely pleased with his own arrangements, Methos might have laughed at the atmosphere the poet tried to create.  The decadence of Rome was his current theme -- or decadence as he perceived it. Outer accouterments resembled drapery rather than the tunigas and chitons Methos recalled from more youthful days but Byron was a poet -- not a historian.  One of the guest rooms had been swathed in drapes of gossamer fabric, baths drawn for himself and his Lordship, while food

was spread in a lavish display.

 

Byron would not let him try his costume, calling instead for servants with a clap of his hands and all the enthusiasm of a child seeing the circus for the first time. Veronique and her brother emerged from an adjoining room, dressed as Byron had proposed and both looking far more comfortable in the loose swathes of fabric than Methos knew he would feel. Veronique's hair had been unbraided and redone, heavy coils of nearly black hair falling across the olive skin of her shoulders.  Stefan fit the role rather well, though he evoked Grecian gods rather than Roman body slaves.  They both entered and knelt before the two men and Methos was aware again of the peculiar tightening in his chest.

 

"Will you bathe, my Lord?" Veronique asked of Byron, eyes cast down even when he agreed.

 

"Will you bathe, my Lord?" Stefan spoke for the first time and Methos nodded, caught by the rich bass of the man's voice. Stefan was taller and broader than Methos, movements strong and sure as he reached out for the ties of Methos shirt, parting them and loosening them, heavy fingers surprising in their light touch as they skimmed across his flesh. A glance at his companion found Byron sitting on a low chair as Veronique helped him remove his boots, struggling only a little with the

reinforced bracing that supported Byron's bad leg. Had the woman any revulsion or surprise at the damaged limb, she gave no sign, only moved quickly to strip the poet.

 

Neither of the pair's hands lingered anywhere for very long but the touches were nonetheless erotic. Someone, somewhere had taught these two very well. Stefan moved behind him to ease him out of his shirt, large hands sliding sensuously across Methos' chest before catching the fabric and dragging it backward. The same sure movements and touches followed as he divested Methos of his breeches  and boots before wrapping him in the light toweling of a robe. He guided him to the bath and settled him in the hot water.

 

Stefan left him for a moment to assist Veronique in making sure Byron was similarly ensconced then returned. The bath was just that. It was on the tip of Methos' tongue to inform their 'servants' that such baths had actually been closer to pools and the water tepid rather than hot but they made do with what was available at the manor.

 

There was a certain relentless luxury to being bathed by someone who knew what he was doing and Stefan did know. The large hands moved steadily and rhythmically in long strokes as he held out Methos' arms to bathe the skin, cloth following the curve of muscle as he flexed the arm then moved to bathe the other. Touches and murmurs moved Methos into position as he leaned forward and Stefan washed his back. Methos lifted his head only once to seek out Byron's face and found his lover standing, one hand braced against Veronique's shoulder as she bathed his leg, small circular motions working their way up his thighs to his groin. Already Byron was growing hard and Methos found himself responding to the display he was witnessing.

 

Then Stefan was urging him to his feet as well and Methos became cognizant first hand of the touches that so aroused his lover. Stefan's hands stroked him, parted his thighs as the warm cloth was wiped gently from his buttocks to his sensitive rounds of flesh at his groin then around his lengthening cock. The dark head was bent close to his hip, Stefan's breath feathering against his skin as his fingers worked gently around the creases in his skin. His limbs were trembling and he steadied himself against the dark head then went still as the youth moved, mouth brushing the tip of his cock with a kiss. Open eyes showed Veronique applying the same gentle skill to Byron. Her delicate rose lips covered the engorged flesh gently, cheeks hollowing as she suckled him.

 

Byron was swaying against her skill, Methos' heart leaping as he saw his lover stagger. He moved, Stefan's attentions forgotten but Veronique was as attuned to the poet's infirmity as he was and stronger than she looked. Her arms locked around the slender hips to brace him as she rose, reaching for the bath wrap and assisted him in stepping out of the tub, but he faltered and Methos pushed Stefan away impatiently, surging out of the bath with the wrath of god on his face.  Byron's face was flushed from the heat of the bath, from the passions and sensation Veronique had roused and from sheer excitement alone.

 

Dripping water and with Stefan at his elbow, Methos caught the majority of the weight of his lover, easing the trembling form back onto the low stool. But the flush was unnatural and Byron's pulse was fast and thready. The pupils were dilated and the skin cool and damp despite the warmth of the bath.

 

"What did you take, Gordon?" Methos asked.  "Bring me cool water and cloths," he commanded, slipping out of his role of a pampered master and back into that of a physician within a heartbeat.

 

"Just the wine," came the breathless reply and Methos cursed softly under his breath.

 

"With laudanum?" he demanded.

 

"No. Only the wine we shared...," Byron said breathlessly.

 

 A bowl of water was presented and Veronique knelt beside him, Stefan laying a light wrap across his shoulders as Methos bathed the flushed face.  Byron's addiction to the laudanum was a thing Methos thought past once the Shelley's had left, but the poet was convinced the sedative opened the gates to his muse, made him more receptive. Yet, there was no scent of the opiate on his breath with the sick-sweet cloying smell.  Puzzled, Methos vainly sought for another explanation, prepared to search Byron's things for other drugs he might have availed himself of quickly.  Before he could move, however, the slim fingers closed around his wrist and Byron looked feverishly into his eyes.

 

"Don't stop this... I saw your face...I want..."

 

"Hush," Methos said evenly, soothing him, fearful of a fit or rage overtaking Byron in this unpredictable twilight state brought on by the drug.  "We will continue, but you need to let this work from your system...else you will know nothing....feel nothing."

 

"What can we do, sir?" Veronique murmured, calm and nonplused by the poet's reaction.

 

"Get him onto the bed," Methos said rising and tightening the wrap around his waist. Before he could reach for his lover, however, Stefan had moved, gathering the slender fainting form up in his arms as if Byron weighed no more than a child and carried him to the large bed.

 

Methos moved to follow but Veronique laid a light touch on his arm. Dark eyes met his steadily, perceptively. "Your stake in these games is far deeper than his, Monsieur. You know this?"

 

"You forget your place, Mademoiselle," Methos said evenly, eyes fixed on the quiet giant laying Byron on the bed. He moved away from her without a word, pushing past Stefan to check on his lover. Byron's heart rate had calmed and he framed Methos' face with his hands, pulling the concerned face down to kiss him. 

 

"I am quite well, Doc," he said with an apology softening his gaze.  "But it was exquisite. She is all she says she is. And you...?" his hands roved across Methos' body through the fabric, feeling the partially rigid rise of flesh at his groin. "I will strain myself no further."

 

"Another time, Gordon. I want you to rest," Methos said smoothing the auburn curls back from the pale face.

 

"No! " Byron caught his hand. "No, this was never meant for me...but for you. Please. Let me watch. You will rest against me, clasped to my bosom as Veronique and her brother ply their skills, their trade, and I will know your pleasure vicariously." He pulled impatiently at Methos' robe, finger tips stroking the muscled curve of his lover's shoulder. "Is he not beautiful, Mademoiselle? Monsieur? You and your trade could learn much from the good doctor here. But he will not tolerate false flattery, will you, my beloved?"

 

"Byron, this is not the time for games!" Methos hissed feeling his lover's pulse begin to race again.

 

"You promised...." Byron said with all the petulance of a child and prepared to fight Methos every step of the way. The poet was trembling with emotion, with need, and Methos soothed him with gentle touches and soft words.

 

"Calm down...." Methos murmured as the frenzied hands moved across his flesh in entreaty. " I will do as you ask," he said softly, stroking his lover's arms as he leaned in and kissed him gently. "But you must calm yourself, first. Breathe, Byron." It was an exercise Methos had practiced often with his patient and it had the desired affect as the poet's color returned. Methos concentrated only on Byron, only vaguely aware when Veronique finished slipping the robe from his shoulders, her hands working to ease the hard knots of tension in his back and shoulders.

 

Lulled by the deep breathing and the rhythmic stroke of Methos' hands along his arms, Byron relaxed noticeably and drew Methos toward him in an embrace. He pulled at Methos, settling the dark head against his shoulder. Not willing to be the catalyst to another attack, Methos acquiesced, stretching out between Byron's parted thighs, head resting on the soft shoulder. Byron clasped his arms around his lover briefly, kissing him with a mix of passion and benediction, before pressing his lips to the dark hair and releasing him.

 

"Mademoiselle, your art..." he breathed against Methos' hair.  He felt warm with Benjamin's body against his own and calmer, even focused as the brother and sister joined then on the bed, shedding their clothing and kneeling on opposite sides of the pair. Coaxing hands brought Methos to his knees between Byron's parted legs, facing the poet. Byron felt the undeniable thrill of arousal burn through him at the bright-eyed watchfulness of his lover as Benjamin's seduction began.

 

They began with simple massages and Byron watched with contentment as his lover closed his eyes under their ministrations. Selfish he might be but Byron was not oblivious to the tension that still resided in the long, lean lines of his lover's body. He began his own massage, spreading his fingers wide and rubbing the hard muscles of Doc's thighs, savoring the feel of the smooth skin, barely covered by dark, sparse fine hairs. His delight grew as Veronique added her mouth to the stimulation, applying tiny nips along Benjamin's arms until she reached his throat. Behind them, Stefan had begun similar manipulations along the curved spine and the slender frame trembled as the caresses increased, with Stefan's broad hands stroking his sides from beneath his arms to his hips in long solid strokes. Those same broad hands slid across his hips to begin a series of slow circular motions along the hollows of his pelvis, fingers slipping tantalizingly close to the crisp dark curls at his groin.

 

Watching in enthralled fascination, Byron swallowed heavily as Veronique made her mouth available to his lover. The small hard nipples of her breasts barely brushed Benjamin's chest as she rose above him, tilting his head back before dropping her fingers to rake them lightly across his flesh, leaving thin white lines that rapidly turned red against the ivory skin. She caught the sensitized nipples, rubbing them delicately as her mouth moved from his lips, along his jaw, nipping again.

 

"Beneath his ears, Mademoiselle," Byron murmured and chuckled softly as she followed his instructions. His lover's lips parted, the hazel eyes growing dark with arousal just before the delicate lashes fell to his cheeks. That sweet pang of jealousy sang through Byron's blood when he heard and saw Benjamin's gasp as the woman pressed lips and teeth and tongue at the spot Byron knew would set his lover trembling in desire.

 

The graceful hands came up to stroke at the woman's breasts and Veronique offered up a softly voiced sigh of delight but then moved his hands lower, parting her thighs wider to allow him access to the most intimate parts of her body.

 

Methos stifled a moan as Stefan's hands finally moved to his groin, unable to halt the sudden stretch of his spine as the sure hands stroked him delicately. Veronique had bent her head to lave his nipple with her tongue and he could feel the youth behind him. Stefan's cock felt large and heavy pressed to his buttocks but the youth made no attempt to enter him, simply allowing his swollen shaft to caress the cleft of Methos' buttocks and his lower back. His own cock was growing turgid under the studied pull and pressure of the talented hands and he could feel the warmth coiling in his loins. With Stefan's mouth pressed against his throat he managed to open his eyes and found himself lost in Byron's dark eyes, the poet's pupils dilated and his breath coming in short, shallow pants. Wordlessly Methos lifted his fingers to trace the parted lips, a faint smile on his own when his lover first bit then suckled the proffered digits. 

 

He had been trying his best to relax into the seduction of his senses and the feel of Byron's moist lips and tongue gently drawing on his fingers shattered his barriers and he gave into the shudder of desire that overwhelmed him. His chest heaved once as Stefan tightened his grip around his cock and began stroking in earnest. Byron caught his hand.

 

"Surrender, my love," Byron urged and at that releasing command, Methos did.

 

Veronique pulled away, Methos' chest suddenly cooled but he was soon warmed again as Stefan embraced him from behind. The silent youth tilted his head back with one hand to capture his lips in a deep and searching kiss while the other continued to work the swollen flesh until Methos moaned against his mouth.

 

Jealousy flared in Byron again as his Doc reached up to capture the dark head, long fingers threading through the thick hair to pull the youth closer then breaking the kiss to draw in a long shuddering gasp for air, then a moan as his hips flexed involuntarily.  Another groan followed as Stefan eased his caresses and Veronique returned bearing a small vial of oil in one hand. The vial she gave to her brother, moving in to take his place as he pulled back from the slender body to coat his cock and groin with the thick, scented stuff. Byron watched the youth, confused and fascinated by the total lack of expression on the youth's face although his cock was rigid and hard and possibly the largest Byron had ever seen. He wondered for one brief moment if such an impressive penis would not cause his lover pain but silenced his doubts, filled with the desire to see this young giant take his slender lover until Doc was sobbing with passion.

 

Listening to the soft sounds his lover made as Stefan began to slick the oil across and between his buttocks, Byron was caught by the feeling of power he held. For him Benjamin was allowing two strangers intimacies he had previously reserved for Byron alone. The two skilled courtesans would follow his every order, his every command. He knew what points on the beloved body would make Benjamin writhe in ecstasy, knew the exact pattern his breathing took just before an orgasm overtook him. And that precise point in time was what he longed to see, to watch his lover's face as he was caught on the precipice of sensation. 

 

"Can you prolong this?" he demanded softly of Veronique, his eyes meeting the glazed gold-green ones. 

 

"Gordon...." Methos voice was thick and halting with emotion. He fell silent as the poet's finger pressed against his lips.

 

"Through you will I know..." Byron began and his voice dropped to the soft lilt of his maddened muse to beseech and plea. "'Still in thy patient energy, In the endurance, and repulse, Of thine impenetrable Spirit, Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse, A mighty lesson we inherit: Thou art a symbol and a sign. To Mortals of their fate and force; Like thee, Man is in part divine, A troubled stream from a pure source'." **

 

"Prometheus..." Methos breathed as Byron moved in to kiss him, to touch his face, fingers tracing delicately across the pronounced cheekbones.

 

"Will you be my Prometheus, beloved? Will you let me see you bound and reborn again from moment to moment, feeling to feeling, to burn in passion's flame as I do?"

 

Hazel eyes searched brown and Methos nodded, Veronique moving once more and returning with a small filigreed ring of silver, a delicate chain the closure, the interior surface padded with soft leather. At Byron's nod she fit the deceptively delicate ring around the base of Methos' cock, watching him carefully as he shuddered and stretched as the pressure built to a new level in his groin.  The small chain she secured around his testes, fitting it carefully but Methos could not suppress the shuddering moan that escaped him at the exquisite edge of pain the device prompted.

 

Thus bound Methos was gently turned, Stefan straightening his legs then parting them as he was positioned between his lover's thighs, Byron's arms closing around him, soft lips pressed to his temple.

 

"I want to witness this," Byron said, shifting slightly to slide his hands along Methos' arms until he caught the graceful hands as the man and woman moved in closer.  Feeling lightheaded and over-sensitized, Methos kept a tight grip on Byron's hands as the two moved over him, stroking and caressing his skin once more. Byron bent over to kiss him and it was that kiss that roused his passions rather than the touches, expert though they were.

 

Stefan's lightly callused hands stroked his thighs, applying pressure and touches where only one man would know to touch another. Veronique bent over his chest, breasts lightly rubbing his skin as she sucked at his nipples.

 

"Let me see, Benjamin," Byron whispered against his mouth, the dark eyes bright and dancing with passion and mischief and excitement. Methos could not deny the entreaty in those eyes and gave himself over to the pleasures -- and they were pleasures -- the pair were offering.

 

Hands and mouths teased at his cock, his balls, pulling at the delicate chain, the stimulation causing his spine to arch as his cock began throbbing from the need to release the pressure there. His breathing became short, harsh pants as touches were laid upon touches. Byron's lips danced across his face, the auburn curls tickling his skin, the soft lips applying butterfly kisses to his eyelids.  Other mouths pressed his skin, nipped at his flesh, sucked at his breasts until he could no longer focus on only one touch or kiss. Strong hands cupped his ass to raise it, spreading his thighs. He was fighting for every breath, now, as he felt Veronique straddle him. Was aware when Byron's mouth lifted from his own that she had leaned in to kiss the poet, even as the moist warm apex of her thighs brushed tantalizingly across his erection.

 

She dipped her hips to barely envelop the head of his cock then pulled away again and he strained upward to reach that depth held just out of his reach.  He was dizzyingly, achingly hard, a moan escaping him as Veronique repeated the maneuver, taking him briefly and barely inside, then pulling away again.

 

His grip on Byron's hands became brutal and the poet hissed but returned the clasp and bent his head once more to take Methos' mouth with a savagery the older Immortal did not expect but welcomed. Everything around him was pulsing in time with his heart, throbbing in time with blood pounding through his groin.  He could feel the ring tightening as his cock swelled, his hips beginning to spasm.

 

He was lifted again, buttocks positioned as Stefan's thick fingers began preparing him, pressing inward with oiled ease -- first one thick finger then a second and Methos thrust back against the penetration seeking anything to ease the consuming need for release. The slickened fingers pressed inward and found the bundle of nerves, stroking Methos expertly until a shudder ran through him. He tried to focus on the taste and feel of Byron, imagining him pressing for entry, imagining the lips that were possessing his own to be those also sliding along his cock. The poet's hair brushed his shoulders, veiling their faces from the pair, until Methos felt Stefan part his thighs wider and lift his hips, the tip of his cock hovering just at the entrance of his most intimate hollow.

 

"Oh, gods..." The oath exploded from him as Veronique suddenly dropped onto him, his cock penetrating her in one harsh thrust. Warmth suffused the tender flesh, moisture slicked him as she moved and he felt he would explode were it not for the ring holding him rigid, the pain nearly outweighing the pleasure. He sobbed, spine arching upward, barely cognizant of Byron's murmured encouragements.  And then Veronique left him and he sobbed again only to gasp and moan at the solid press of the youth's cock pressing inward. A gasp as pain washed momentarily through Methos and he arched away with a moan only to find Byron's mouth on him again. His insides were stretched slowly, the tight channel yielding as Methos struggled for a solid breath. His fingers clenched convulsively around Byron's as Stefan finally seated himself firmly into the heat of Methos' body. Then Veronique was on him again surrounding him with a different kind of moist heat as her mouth closed over him.

 

He was lost then to both the reason and thought as Stefan moved within him, the near overwhelming pleasure of the couple's skills and attentions obliterating any grasp he had on reality or control. His chest heaved at the stimulation and he was only barely aware when Byron pulled away again, holding his arms out as he watched his lover taken slowly and thoroughly.

 

Byron could barely catch his own breath, his heart had leapt to his throat, his groin aching in sympathetic need as he watched Stefan drive his engorged shaft deep into the trembling body with one long smooth thrust. The moans escaping the slender throat were steady, punctuated occasionally by sobs that could have been pain or pleasure as the taut body flexed to meet the powerful thrusts of the young giant's hips.

 

Already Byron's mind was working, his muse settling before him into the graceful arch and heave of Benjamin's body. The muscles were tight and sweat covered, body bared and splayed so Byron could watch each ripple of sensation. His touch on one dusky nipple brought it instantly to attention, the skin flushed. The dark head dropped back as the hips continued moving in a sensuous dance against the woman's rosy mouth and the lithe body of the youth. Every surge drove the back of his lover's head against Byron's erection and yet he remained still, fascinated and enthralled by the beauty of his lover. Benjamin fought to free his hands to touch Byron or the girl or anything and Byron held him, unwilling to allow his lover to urge the culmination of his passion.

 

"Stop," Byron hissed and both man and woman ceased their motions, panting as harshly as the man they tormented, their bodies straining as the slender figure beneath them was, but far more in control. His lover trembled, opening glazed eyes in a plea to Byron without a word, body writhing in a torment of desire and passion. "Continue. Bring him to the end. Slowly," the poet said and caught the groan that escaped his lover; all too aware that the body was rapidly losing restraint, slipping past pleasure into pain. 

 

Veronique reached with delicate fingers to release the ring before once more applying her talented mouth to the trembling flushed shaft which was now weeping steadily. She ceased her suckling and Stefan paused as well, body tense and rigid as their subject tried to reach for both of them at the same time with the flex of his body.  A moan escaped him, hazel eyes open and unseeing as he rode the unrelenting waves until they eased. Veronique clasped him firmly and stroked, Stefan moving once more in time with his sister's hand. Once again the body surged, thighs trembling where Stefan held them pressed apart. A choked sound and the body jerked. Veronique once more stilling the dual assault.

 

Methos sucked air into his lungs convulsively, moaning his needs as the woman's hands closed tightly around him and the pressure between his buttocks grew nearly unbearable. Pleasure rippled across his body and senses and his mind slipped away from the present into the darkness of the past as he came close to fainting. Other hands held him, stroked, brought him to the edge of release and stayed the final plunge until he was begging for mercy. Tormenting hands surged through his memories, hands and touches that promised heaven and delivered only hell.  <<Surrender. Surrender. Give way.>> It became a litany in his mind as the stroking and touching began again and he was helpless to stop his responses as a mouth covered his straining cock again, as another body tore through his in a pleasure so acute he all but cringed from it.

 

The tremors wracking the slender body had turned to shudders, which then became spasms as he was brought to the edge of orgasm again and again.  Every muscle in the his body was quivering with tension, on the edge of collapse or release.  He began frantically pumping into the woman's mouth, thrusting against the thick cock filling him until with a cry and a sob and a convulsive spasm the orgasm crashed over him.

 

Veronique took the spilled seed until there was nothing left to savor, following Byron's instruction and leaning across the still shuddering body to kiss Byron and surrender the taste of his lover.

 

And then Stefan was straining as Benjamin arched his spine again and again into the powerful thrusts until the youth was spent. He pulled his cock free then bent to kiss the still parted lips, hands working to ease the still tense thighs for a moment before a toss of the poet's head dismissed them. The pair slipped away silently to dress.

 

Byron held the still shuddering body, his own cock still achingly hard at the display he had witnessed. Tears tracked along his lover's face and every touch Byron laid against the fevered skin brought fresh trembling.  Byron slipped down on the bed, gathering the nonresistant body in his arms as he had promised, but his mind was still frenzied by what he had witnessed. Verses screamed through his brain, sang in his blood, lay in his mouth as did the taste of his lover. With uncommon care he pulled a blanket across the cooling skin before slipping off the bed to gather pen and ink, hastily scribbling across pages. He glanced back to find his lover's eyes upon him, the hollow exhausted look in the gold-green depths cutting into him.

 

He was seeing the face of abandonment and an uncomfortable shame flooded through his mind and a flush to his face at the look of reproach in those eyes. He hesitated, pen hovering over the scraps of paper before he made his decision, answering to his muse and finishing. By the time he returned to the silent form, his beloved was breathing quietly and evenly in asleep. "Thank you, my love," Byron murmured against the delicate curve of his ear, smoothing the still damp hair from the pale face before settling next to his lover to sleep.

 

Feigning sleep still, Methos fought back the burning storm of rage and despair that washed over him. Even Byron's murmured gratitude was enough only to ease the ache in his heart but a little. He remained silent and still, not wanting to blame Byron for his thoughtlessness but unable to deny the pain he felt when the poet had slipped away from him before he could recover from the soul shattering orgasm. That loss completely overshadowed any lingering  feeling of pleasure he retained from the experience. He felt weak and drained and he ached deep within his loins not only from Stefan's overwhelming invasion of his body but from the prolonged state of arousal Byron had insisted upon. 

 

But it had been that release his lover had desired, Methos realizing the irrationality of his sense of betrayal. Byron answered to his muse first and always. But to further allow Byron to see how deeply the poet could cut him would bring naught but hasty apologies and a brief conciliatory air which would vanish and be forgotten the next time the Muse called to his mad genius. Best to accept what the poet could offer and expect no more. If he were disappointed in his lover's attentions he had none but himself to blame for being too weak to abandon this mad romance before it destroyed him. Pulling his pains and his misery close to him for comfort, Methos surrendered to the aching lethargy of his body and slept.

 

~~~~~~

 

Panic gripped him wildly as a hand covered his mouth, hands and grip far stronger than his own only to have a newly familiar bass whisper thrum against his ear." No, fear, milord," Stefan murmured. "An' no harm. Veronique bids you come to her. She has words you must hear."

 

Swallowing his momentary fear, Methos nodded, cursing himself for being so careless as to leave his blades elsewhere. Fate and Luck alone had decreed it the giant come for him rather than another Immortal, no matter how safe he might think Byron's domicile to be. A glance showed him the candles had burned low and his lover had left his side again to sprawl across his writing table, sleeping now, a soft snore punctuating his breathing. Despite Stefan's silent entreaty, Methos checked on the poet, fingers reaching for the hastily scribbled verse and bending toward the flickering candle to read.  His breath caught at the brilliance of the verse and he reached to smooth the auburn curls from the cherubic face.  He reached for his lover, preparing to move him to the bed for fear leaving him in such a position would render him unable to walk by morning.

 

Stefan stifled a sigh and stepped in once more to lift the slim form carefully and carry him to the bed. Byron mumbled and stirred but did not wake. Drowsiness aided no doubt by the nearly empty bottle of wine left on the table. 

 

The poet settled, Stefan held out a robe of heavy weave to Methos, his movements as proper as those of a manservant and himself dressed in loose breeches and a shirt.  Shrugging into the wrap, Methos followed the dark giant from the chamber and into the adjoining room. There he found Veronique, dressed simply, hair once more bound up in heavy braids, but the shine of youth was gone from her face and Methos found himself looking at a woman much older than he had first believed.

 

She stood by the open doors leading to the gardens, Stefan leaving them to finish packing their few things. The pair were obviously leaving.

 

"You shall have to wait for his Lordship to receive your payment," Methos said softly, believing that was what the summons entailed. 

 

"Payment for our services is always arranged in advance, Monsieur le Docteur," Veronique said, her dark eyes sparkling at his presumption.  She was not at all offended. "Non, I have words I must say to you if you will hear them," she murmured gesturing simply toward the garden with a glance at Stefan.

 

The youth came forward to settle a heavier coat across the slender shoulders and offered thick slippers. Methos accepted both and thus braced against the cool autumn night followed Veronique outside.

 

She did not go far, light from the room still spilling out and the full moon bathing the topiaries of the garden in silvered light. "I know what you are and what you have been, Monsieur," she murmured once she was certain her companion could not overhear.

 

Methos stopped, heart pounding in his chest. Veronique stepped in close and caught his hands, pulling them away from the lapels of his coat to expose the slender wrists, her fingers gently tracing the slim bands around his wrists where none of the fine hairs grew.  "I need not ask why or how a child of the bordellos came to be a physician -- only that you are luckier than some," she began and squeezed his hands lightly. "But it is because of the gains you have made that I must warn you."

 

Methos allowed the tension to ease from his chest slightly. "And how do you know of my past?" he asked.

 

Veronique chuckled, a deep throaty pleasant sound as she caught his fingers. "You know what I am as well. My people are the Rom, the gypsies and among my other gifts I can see beyond what lies at the surface, mon cher. I have plied my trade of pleasure for nearly two decades - you need not look so shocked!" she said with another rich laugh. "My folk and I leave this area for the winter at dawn and it is unlikely I will return this way soon. Stefan is my son, Monsieur. And before you ask --what skills we ply, we ply on our clientele and never upon one another."

 

"It would not occur to me to ask," Methos said dryly. "But still I think you overstep your bounds, Madame Adelarde."

 

"Vraiment. It is true and likely common sense as well, but what I see I cannot hide, Monsieur, and I beg you to listen. I do know you. I know that beneath this exterior of breeding is a man who was once trained for the pleasure of others as I was. And not kindly. My own instruction was pleasant and willingly sought. Not so for you, I think," she said softly and her touch on his face was gentle and compassionate. " I have seen others thus bred and know the signs.  But your poet knows naught of this, n'cest pas?"

 

"He knows what he needs to," Methos said warily, wanting to end the uncomfortable dialogue but caught and mesmerized by the dark eyes and serious tone.

 

"Does he? You have lived many lives, Monsieur. There is too much age in your eyes to belong to one whose face is so young still. And that too, is why I am compelled to tell you...to warn you...This poet, this Lord Byron will never be yours. He belongs to his Muse, to his own fate and though you share this time together it is not meant to last. But you know this, too?" she prompted, undismayed when Methos said nothing.  "I have seen the future of your lives entwined, Monsieur. If you remain here, with this man, he may destroy you. He may well kill you, for there is a death hovering close by this man. And close to you as well.

 

And not death from these games you play, Monsieur. I have seen many paths you might tread -- the one you walk now will eventually cost you your head."

 

Methos went still as the dark eyes met his and Veronique's voice took on a timbre of the otherworld. "I know your ancient soul and of others like you who walk the ages with no trace of time on their faces. My folk have ever been a sanctuary for those of your race, and will be so for you, should you have need of us."

 

She pressed a small object into his palm and Methos stared at the tiny amulet on its leather thong.  "Should you have need of us, Monsieur, show that to any of my race and they will aid you. As for my own tribe, we travel to our homeland, to Romania by the main roads...should you have need of us," she murmured and pulled away.

 

"Veronique," Methos said softly catching her hand, voice soft as he closed his hand over her gift. "What else do you see -- what is there for me if I stray from this path I am on?"

 

She hesitated then returned to him, to frame his face in her hands.  "This love you seek, mon cher. It waits for you but you have tread your lonely road for so long that you have forgotten what it looks like. And so you are drawn to these bright spirits, these creatures of excess and desire that make you burn with what you think is love but in truth is only passion. They cannot be your life, cher, for they will burn you as quickly as they consume themselves."

 

"Your prophecy leaves much to be desired, Madame," Methos murmured.

 

"'Tis not prophecy, old one. 'Tis truth. But none but yourself can show you that," she said sadly, and kissed him. The kiss was deep and intimate but not meant to rouse passion or desire. "I have told you what I can, Monsieur. None but you can turn your path."

 

She released him and stepped away, Stefan coming toward them at the gesture of her fingers with their bags slung over his broad shoulders.  The giant paused and reached out one hand to stroke his thumb across Methos' cheek gently. "Your death will benefit no one," he murmured, fingertips under Methos' chin to invite him forward. The dark eyes burned into Methos' and he went, Stefan's mouth closing over his with

neither art nor artifice as the giant kissed him with all the passion his mother had left out of her own blessing. Then he pulled away and followed his mother into the shadows.

 

Methos was left with scarcely a breath, fingers clenched once more around the amulet, body trembling in both fear and arousal. He almost followed them then and there, dressed as he was, but stilled his impulses. Veronique's warning disturbed him. Stefan's quiet promise disturbed him more as instinct warred with his heart and soul.

 

Slowly he opened his hand and slipped the amulet around his neck. He closed his eyes and found the dark eyes of a gypsy watching him but they were soon replaced by the bright sparkle of brown ones framed by untamed auburn curls. Byron's voice broke through his memory, the last line of his verse coming unbidden to Methos mind like a eulogy of his own making.

 

"'And Man in portions can foresee,

His own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,

And his sad unallied existence:

To which his Spirit may oppose,

Itself--and equal to all woes,

And a firm will, and a deep sense,

Which even in torture can descry

Its own concenter'd recompense,

Triumphant where it dares defy,

And making Death a Victory."

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Byron became the perfect companion once his verse was done, the ecstatic joy at a finished piece distracting the poet for a bit as it was accepted for publication -- although Methos had little doubt that the worst of Byron's verse would send the Society Damsels swooning as the words were printed and published.

 

Released from his slaving Muse for a time, Byron once more became all concern and delight to his lover, banishing the traces of abandonment and betrayal with his laughter and playful moods. He was prone to begin duels in the unlikeliest of places, fun his certain motive, although Methos had urged him to practice. More often than not the duels became less practice than foreplay, and Methos was certain that his poet's attention had never wavered during his pleasure with the Adelarde's. Finding new ways to delight his lover became a passion for Byron and Methos was all too willing to be recipient to the gleeful sprite that sued for his attentions.

 

Even his forays into the surrounding woods were no longer so solitary. Although not present on every ride and boring quickly, Byron nonetheless, had his mount called out when Dr. Adams' was, the two of them setting off with food in packs to often spend the whole day together in the sun of late fall.  Once Methos went foraging for his specimens, Byron would either head back to the estate or lay back and wait for him, napping in the golden sunshine.  More than once Methos returned to find his young god still sleeping, only to waken him slowly, their privacy ensured by the vastness of the grounds.

 

As it must in Geneva, the weather turned and while Byron still rode, he no longer lingered in the damp laden air, as much on Methos' insistence as his own discomfort. The cooler, damper weather caused the infirm leg to ache and Byron was quick to turned spoiled and petulant when in pain and surly if the ache made him seem more the cripple than he was.

 

Not that his infirmity could be seen when he rode, Methos noted, admiring the straight set of his young lover's back and seat. Faun colored clothes heightened the auburn hints in the unruly hair and set off the dark eyes with enough fire to take Methos ' breath away.

 

"I tire of this wetness. At least if it snowed there would be some inspiration to be had," Byron complained as they skirted the edge of the lake.

 

"The last storms of summer with all their violent glory are not enough for you, Lord Poet?" Methos chided gently and Byron scowled then laughed at his own bad humor.

 

"I am not only greedy for inspiration but picky as well -- no wonder my muse seems so capricious!" Byron chuckled, nudging his mount closer to Methos'. His smile had the power to banish the gray from the skies, not to mention the cold from the air, Methos thought as his lover reached across the gap between them to slide his hand along Methos' thigh and upward. "Luckily for me, you have proven far more amenable to my whims."

 

"And what whims drive you today?" Methos asked, hesitation following after the fact but Byron seemed in a playful mood yet.

 

"A good fire, a well turned Bordelais, a tryst with a dark and mysterious stranger," Byron suggested, eyes sparkling and Methos had to laugh, which cheered Byron to no end. The sound of his lover's laugh was enough to banish the darkest doubts at times.

 

"And shall I call upon you masked and cloaked?" Methos asked as Byron's hand continued its slow exploration of his thigh.

 

"I would much prefer you naked and aroused, allowing me to happen upon you in one of the guest rooms...or perhaps..." Byron began and then laughed again and leaned forward to capture a kiss before setting his horse prancing away. "Perhaps I should make you catch me?"

 

"You are the far better horseman! I declare the race unfair before it starts," Methos protested and Byron grinned at the praise.

 

"Well, enough, Benjamin. Are you determined to complete your forage in these woods? Or should you like to gather your interests elsewhere?"

 

"Since we have ridden thus far, it would be folly to return empty handed," Methos said, testing his lover's mood.

 

"True," Byron said, seemingly willing not to burst into temper. "But I shall wait by the fire and see what the storm may blow against my door," he said and wheeled his horse again to begin a mad dash along the lakeshore, showing off his skills for his lover.

 

Watching the poet ride away, Methos had to smile. There was no infirmity visible when Byron rode and the older Immortal had to admire his lover's seat, the slim body for once completely under the younger man's control, his mount responding to each pressure of knee or rein. He watched him until he slipped out of sight along the edge of the lake before dismounting and dropping the reins of his own mount to let the beast graze. Despite the crisp air he slipped out of his coat, laying it and his hat along the saddle. His sword and the canvas bags he used for gathering his herbs and roots he tied into a bundle and slung over his shoulder as he pressed deeper into the woods.

 

Deer had left faint trails and it was these Methos followed, seeking out the same foliage and mushrooms and woody plants the deer ate for his store of herbals. Midday still found the dense area cool and the air crisp and fresh. His attention wandered as he studied this plant or that, checking the small journal of sketches and notes he carried for likely collectibles.

 

The path he followed opened into a small glade, still tree covered but without the dense undergrowth by virtue of a massive tree long since fallen. Quick eyes found the abundance of the very fungus he sought and he laid his bundle down save for one bag, pushing the low brush aside as he crouched down to gather the tiny spongyish growths. His foot caught  at a vine or exposed root, or so he thought until he barely caught the *snickt* of sound, realizing even as he was propelled backward that he'd stumbled into a poacher's trap.

 

The first of the spear-like metal barbs caught him just above the hip, ripping through flesh and muscle and bone and skin again until it buried itself into the ancient wood. The second tore through his shoulder, pinning him on the left side as well. The third missed him entirely but quivered another two feet to his left.

 

Shock kept the pain at bay to begin with as his mind feverishly made sense of what had happened. He reached automatically for the slender spike impaling his shoulder, only to nearly pass out as the movement pulled at the barb in his hip. A wrenching nausea washed over him and he went still -- too aware that vomiting would bring more pain than he could stand.

 

Remaining still made the pain almost bearable and he fought to quell his too rapid breathing and force his heart to slow down. Long moments passed before he was able to obtain the necessary calm and reach for the shaft at his side. He pulled only to find the metal lodged tightly, the wide spread pattern of the three projectiles intended to catch beasts both longer and with more frenzied strength than he possessed. He could, with no care to his own screams, slide his body forward along the shaft, but not enough to free himself with the second barb still pinning his shoulder.

 

Shock was settling in quickly, his body temperature falling as he tried working at the metal and finally felt it wrench free of the tree trunk only to have a new pain explode through him just before he lost consciousness.

 

Night had fallen by the time he could once more make sense of his surroundings and circumstance.

 

Lightheadedness was the first sensation, the shadow darkened wood spinning madly about him for a few moments. He was soaked to the skin from rainfall, further chilling his skin, but even in the shadows he could see the dark stains that had spread against the white of his shirt. His healing abilities were replacing the blood loss as quickly as possible, but with the lances still in the wounds he could not heal entirely. His throat and mouth were dry from loss of fluids and he was trembling violently both from the loss of blood and from the chilling cold of the night. The muscles had stiffened and swollen around the wounds and every movement, nearly every breath was sheer agony. Long years of studying night skies for both direction and lapse of time told him he had been lost to the darkness of unconsciousness or death for nearly six hours, well past the time he and Byron usually sat down for supper. Consciousness threatened to leave him again as he felt the blood loss creep up on him, and he strained for any sound that would tell him Byron or the household were searching for him. He heard nothing save the night sounds and as the pain swelled up again gave himself over gratefully to oblivion.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

"Shall we hold the evening meal for Doctor Adams, My Lord?" Manning inquired quietly, rousing Byron from his intense review of the words he was reading.  The Butler settled additional candles on the surfaces, casting off the gloom and chill brought by the storms of the afternoon.  Still, the poet could not take his eyes off the paper held in one hand while the other idly twirled a delicate crystal goblet of blood red wine.  For this was not the work of *his* muse...no, the feelings of warmth and love which suffused his body were the result of reading the words of his lover.  Words he was sure he was not meant to see.

 

Fault not the Muse,

Nor the master;

Blame, rather,

This imperfect Bard

Whose insufficient Cup

Retains but a drop of the unbounded beauty beheld.

Whose unpolished eye Reflects but a spark

Of the light in his life.

Whose unpracticed hand reveals but a whisper

Of the tempest that shatters his world

And roars in his ears." ***

 

What act...what moment in time had inspired his sensitive Doc to cast ink to paper...to attempt the near impossible task of putting thought and feeling to word, as he well knew?  The rare, gentle smile which curved his lips, transforming Byron's face into angelic sweetness, disappeared however with Manning's words.

 

Byron nodded in the affirmative until the question's meaning sank through.  He then glanced in surprise at the servant, concern beginning to build, taking the place of his earlier musings.  His eye caught the face of the clock on the mantle and he shifted his gaze to the windows where the dark shadows of night had settled, unnoticed by him in a room filled with fire and candlelight.

 

"He has not returned?" Byron asked as Manning reached for the doors.

 

"He has not, My Lord."

 

"He cannot still be seeking his herbals in the dark," Byron murmured half to himself, and rose. The concern etched across his features would have warmed Methos' soul had he but seen it.  "He should be back...Summon the Horsemaster, the Warden and the Under-keepers and have my horse saddled," Byron ordered, voice no longer the dulcet tones of a society darling but the sure command of Lord of the Manor. A sick feeling of dread washed over him as he settled his coat about his shoulder. "The weather has cleared?" He asked as casually as he dared, wondering if he could possibly have been oblivious to an elemental display that might have other explanations.

 

"The rain has moved off but threatens us again with winds and lightning, My Lord." Manning responded. "Shall I get your oilskins?"

 

"No," Byron said striding from the room with awkward grace as he headed for the stables.

 

The hunting party was gathered quickly, men well familiar with the surrounding wood. Byron led them first to where he had parted from his physician, blood icing when they found the doctor's horse free from its light tethering and still cropping at the sparse growth. Torches were lit and held aloft as the search began, the men pressing deeply into the wood calling for Dr. Adams.

 

The Horsemaster forged ahead and his disturbed and alarmed shout brought the others.  The Game Warden was first to arrive on the scene and the remaining members of the search party were brought up short by his curse uttered at the sight that greeted them. His infirmity keeping him at the back of the group, Byron had, nonetheless, followed only to be stopped by the Warden's strong arms. 

 

"No, further, My Lord. I am sorry. Your friend is dead," he said in somber tones as the Horsemaster knelt beside the still and bloodied body.

 

Byron bit back a haughty "Nonsense!" barely in time to recall that the conditions that might cause either his death or Benjamin's were not widely know and best left a mystery.  For once caution ruled as his mind raced for an answer to their predicament for he would not leave his lover here and in such a position only to spirit him away later or suffer him be treated as one of the dead through his burial.

 

The men were shaken and the light poor, however, and Byron drew on his observations of his lover to come forward and kneel beside him as if to verify the death himself. Fingers pressed to the cold throat produced nothing but Byron was adept enough and familiar enough by discussion with his lover's ability to take a gamble. "I feel his pulse!" he snapped and with enough anger and joy combined to convince the Horsemaster he had been mistaken as his hands closed over the shaft

impaling the still form through the hip.  "Get me blankets and bandages!  And water or whiskey," Byron ordered, once more grateful for the darkness and shadows as he pulled off his scarf.  Admonishing the Horsemaster to hold the chilled body, Byron pulled, then required the assistance of the Warden to pull the rod out. It came free with an audible wet sucking sound and Byron was quick to press his scarf against the open wound.

 

The Warden examined the iron bar, turning the gory weapon over in his hands and cursing. "It's from the estate fencing, my Lord," he commented before tossing the bloodied length to the side.

 

Byron barely heard him -- he would deal with the poacher problem later and permanently. The wound was covered and within moments a low moan assaulted the ears of the men gathered.  Byron was quick to note the Warden crossing himself as the seeming dead breathed once more.

 

"Benjamin, I am here," Byron murmured as much for the comfort of sound as to warn his Immortal lover they were not alone. "The men and I will get you free. Be still," His hands caught the physician's, and he winced as the slender finger gripped his with a painful intensity. 

 

Recovering from such a public death was not Methos' preferred choice but he'd had experience enough. It cost him to concentrate, for both wounds still throbbed with enough pain to make him want to reach for darkness once more. But there was a strain in Byron's voice that warned him the poet's subterfuge and ability to misdirect events had reached its limits. He recalled all too well what had occurred and sought desperately to cover all the potentially deadly pitfalls possible if a mortal saw an Immortal heal.

 

"You need to have bandages ready before you pull me off  this damned barb," he rasped, throat raw from lack of fluid. With consciousness the cold returned and he trembled. "Lest I bleed to death," he added for the benefit of the Horsemaster.

 

The younger two men of Byron's four searchers returned with blankets and the other items, bandages pulled from the doctor's roll.  Under Methos' direction Byron first secured the bloodied scarf to the wound in his side, the wound already fading but neither of them wanted to risk any of the men seeing the soon to be unmarked flesh.

 

Consciousness regained, Methos had made no sounds of pain save a moan or two, though his voice was strained and features tight and white. With his mortal rescuers already nervous and alarmed, he had no desire to further complicate the situation by releasing the scream of agony already building in his chest. Instead, he gripped Byron's hand ever tighter, causing the poet to hiss sharply.

 

"We've no wish to cause you further damage, Monsieur le Docteur," The Horsemaster, Abramson, said crouching beside the injured man.

 

Fighting for rational thought and against the gray haze clouding his vision and mind, Methos transferred his grip to the man's burly forearm. "Let my Lord apply the compresses. You will have to pull me forward," he managed to gasp out then nearly fainted again as Byron moved to press the offered cloths to either side of the puncture. "Once I am free, Gordon, you must bind the wound quickly and tightly. You understand?  Free the shaft from the trunk first then pull it free."

 

Byron nodded but his face was nearly as pale as his lover's, finally recognizing in the very restrained silence of the Immortal's tone, what a dangerous game they played.

 

"If I pass out do not let the bandages slip," Methos murmured against the auburn head bent close to his.

 

"I will not. But after..."

 

"I will deal with after, *after*..." Methos croaked as the men moved in to grip his uninjured shoulder. The Warden offered the physician a strip of leather to bite down on and Methos accepted it, gripping Abramson's arm once more as he was pulled forward. His body went taut, a soft moan escaping him, as he was slipped along the metal shaft. It was the only sound he made even when the Warden was forced to rock the barb back and forth to loosen it. By the time it was free Methos was drenched in sweat, body shaking violently, but he maintained his grip on consciousness until they had finally pulled the shaft from his shoulder and Byron had bound the wound.

 

Freed, the betraying healing gift obscured by bandages and blood, Methos went limp, so quickly it was all the men could do to catch him. 

 

"He's a rare courage, this one," Abramson observed as they carried the limp form back to the horses. "With nary a sound. I'd a sworn he was dead, though," he admitted confusedly.

 

"Luckily for you I did not so believe," Byron snapped, mounting his horse impatiently and stocking the beast to stillness as his lover was passed up to him, a blanket wrapped around the lax form. Byron waited until the others mounted as well before the group headed back toward the house, the two under-keepers gathering Adams' things and leading the doctor's horse.

 

It was still a somber group that returned, Abramson and the footmen carrying the limp body to the doctor's rooms while Manning gathered the usual medicinals and supplies for an injury before Byron chased them all out of the room again.  Once alone, Byron did check the wounds, not quite prepared for his own sigh of relief when the shoulder showed only a rough indenture that no longer bled and the bared hip revealed only a faint red mark just above the bone. He restored the bloody wrappings as Benjamin had instructed and waited. Already his mind  was processing his reactions to the sharp pang of fear that had ripped through him for the long traitorous hour they had spent looking for his lover; Byron unsure if he had been challenged and lost, or simply lost.

 

He was unreasonably glad when the still body finally stirred, moving quickly to silence the soft moan with a kiss. His fingers danced lightly over the pale skin, calming, soothing, reassuring his lover that all was well with touches and kisses.

 

"You are home, Doc," Byron murmured, catching his lover's hand as the hazel eyes opened, momentarily glazed and uncertain, confusion and remembered pain haunting them until they fixed on Byron's face. The fingers tightened around the poet's hand while the older Immortal drew a shaky breath.

 

"Are we alone?" came the murmured whisper, so faint Byron had to strain to hear him. 

 

"Yes. What do you need? What can I do?"

 

Methos shook his head and pulled himself upright, wincing again as healing muscles pulled. His hands checked the bandaged shoulder and side.  "I will need bandages from my things, " he said, voice even.

 

"For what? You will be fine. You <<are>> fine!" Byron protested.

 

"So I will, but your men saw me wounded. The illusion of my injuries must be maintained," Methos said sharply.

 

"You can keep to your rooms," Byron said as Methos slid to the edge of the bed.

 

"And have servants waiting on me? I should leave--" Methos said distractedly.

 

"No!" Byron snapped. "Have you any idea how terrified I have been? I thought you challenged and dead! The servants know nothing! They think you blessed."

 

Byron's voice was strained, face flushed and Methos stilled his divergent thoughts to reassure his lover. "Gordon," he said calmly, smoothing the auburn curls, voice soothing. "It is but a short step from blessed to defiled. I cannot suddenly appear whole and healthy in front of the household in a few days. Not all mortals have Mary Shelley's understanding of our true nature--nor her forbearance."

 

"Then I will help you. Or if you must go I will go with you," Byron said and flung himself into Methos' arms like a child. It took Methos a moment to realize his lover was feigning neither his fears or his terror. He forgot, sometimes, how new Byron was to his Immortality and how young he was in truth.  There was more dependency in Byron for Methos than as an inspiration for his poetry.  Byron's concern for him was very real and near heartbreaking as Methos soothed the bruised spirit of his beauty.

 

"Very well then, my love," he said softly. " I will stay. But you must help me. I am not so fine an actor as you," he teased when Byron lifted his head at his pronouncement. "I cannot feign injury unaided for the weeks it would take a mortal man to recover from these wounds--if he did."

 

"Anything," Byron said urgently, stroking his lover's face. "Tell me what I  must do."

 

Methos smiled and kissed him. "Only play nurse to the invalid, my love.  A wearing task, I'm afraid." His expression went serious. "Do not doubt this is a dangerous game we play. My own stupidity has brought this to pass and we must be very careful."

 

"I shall be as attentive as a wife," Byron said, the dark eyes shining as he pressed his lover back against the bed. "Imagine, you shall be bedridden for weeks. I can think of few places I would rather have you."

 

Methos had to laugh softly at his lover's restored humor, the mercurial moods left him breathless. Byron's eccentricities and frequent bouts of isolation as his muses drove him were well known. With luck and some cunning on Methos' part, their charade might work yet.

 

He surrendered to his lover's attentions for long moments before finally pushing him away. "The bandages, love," he reminded the younger man.  Byron grinned and rolled off him willingly; for the moment, at least, diverted and excited by the new role he would assume and the deception they would practice.

 

Supplies were brought and Byron was fascinated by the tricks his lover knew. The once injured shoulder was bound tightly, allowing Benjamin little or no movement in the arm.  A similar binding was set around his side and thigh until his lover was truly hampered in his ability to move.

 

The bloodied bandages were set aside and Methos, wrapped in a dressing gown, sought the bed again, Byron pulling the blankets up over him before curling against his side. "Your color has come back," he teased, stroking the flushed cheek.

 

"That must be taken care of as well," Methos said frowning. He shifted from the bed and with a halting gait, moved to the desk to seek out  the small knife Byron used to trim his quills. "I need the chamber pot, love. That duty must be yours as well I am sorry to say. At least this time."

 

Byron pulled the ceramic pot from under the bed, watching in fascination as Benjamin rolled up the sleeve of his robe tightly around the muscles of his upper arm and had Byron hold the improvised tourniquet tightly.  He braced his forearm against the basin, applying the blade with practiced skill against the prominent vein at his elbow.

 

Byron flinched in sympathetic pain as the blood spurted and was caught in the basin, but his lover's face showed nothing. Fascination turned nearly mythic as Byron watch his unflinching love repeat the process four more times, opening the artery every time he healed until he was near fainting from blood loss.

 

"Enough," Methos said half to himself, nauseated but satisfied. His hands were trembling as he lay back and had Byron summon the servants to take away the bloodied cloths. The affect was as Methos had hoped, whispered inquiries from Manning about Dr. Adams' condition and comments exchanged between butler and Lord on the provision of meat broths to aid the ailing physician in recovering from the blood loss and to bolster his obviously over-taxed strength.  Manning gone, Byron bounded to the bed once more, all admiration for his clever Doc.

 

"So it will be for a few days," Methos said with a faint smile, not needing to feign either weakness or pain. "But best if we can keep some distance between ourselves and the servants until it is reasonable I should have made some recovery."

 

"They shall never doubt," Byron said with a laugh, stretching the unmarked arm out to rub his fingers across the banished wound. "That you can accomplish such a thing. I should have been shrieking with pain."

 

"Time will teach you endurance, Gordon, " Methos said, enjoying the gentle caresses against his skin as well as Byron's solicitousness. "And it is worth your while to learn. Immortality is too much a temptation for some and I would pray you never find out how quickly mortals can turn their back on you should they discover what you are."

 

"And have they abused you so, love?" Byron asked, curious. Benjamin spoke little of his own past and Byron had only vague intimations of his age. Several centuries at least.

 

"Some -- Mortals and Immortals alike. Never underestimate the cruelties of our own race, my love. You may not live to regret it," Methos said, his own weakness and the stress of the day dragging him toward sleep.

 

Byron made no effort to keep his lover awake, content to watch the sleeping form and continue his stroking of the arm. After the household had gone to bed he would dispose of the bloody contents of the pot, Doc's warnings having not fallen on deaf ears. But for now he would watch over his lover, mind churning over what he had witnessed in the course of the day and wondering how much cruelty his remarkable lover had suffered in his life.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Byron continued to be amazed and intrigued by the convincing illusions his lover cast, garnering sympathy and respect from the staff for his stoic behavior during his "recovery." Byron might otherwise have been disgusted by the deceit had it all been lies, but in many respects his lover had become the invalid he portrayed.  The bloodletting continued for three days, sometimes up to six times a day. It was unreasonable to think that Byron could be servant as well as nurse and it would have raised more suspicions had the servants been forbidden to do their jobs. He could anticipate their appearances for changing the linens or bringing meals with enough accuracy that his lover had some warning, the pale countenance maintained.  

 

Wanting to emulate his lovers resistance to pain, Byron had laid the blade to his own skin. The onset of his Immortality had not cured the clubbed foot nor healed it enough to alleviate the pain that was frequently Byron's companion but at the best and most times it was a dull ache. The sharpness of the blade to his own flesh caused him to gasp in pain, eyes burning and yet Benjamin suffered the injuries without comment until he was near unconscious.

 

He was further impressed as the recovery began. Benjamin pacing it to such a rate that none in the household suspected that he was far fitter than his appearance led them to believe.

 

Extremely fit, Byron discovered to his delight. He had fallen into his role as an attentive lover easily enough and was enthralled by it as he began to practice at least some semblance of the arts he had observed with Mlle. Adelarde and her brother on his partner. And if he had to remind Benjamin occasionally that he was far too weak to resist the attentions of his suddenly aggressive lover, the patient took the chastisements well. Had any of the servants been awake in the wee hours of the morning, they might have understood the soft moans of the convalescent but not the muffled sounds of masculine laughter emerging from the invalid's bedchamber.

 

Time enough passed and Methos emerged from his chambers some two weeks later, moving carefully but looking healthy to the gratification and amazement of the staff. But the doctor was obviously far from recovered from his ordeal and there was much clucking of tongues over the fact that it was unlikely he would ever walk again without a limp or regain the full use of his arm.

 

Methos maintained the charade no longer than necessary, retaining his bandages on the chance that someone might chance to see unblemished skin. Soon enough, however, he was once more completely mobile and the peace his convalescence had brought to the often tumultuous household was nearing its end.

 

And Byron's mind, now freed of the artificial constraints of the deadly game they played was once more subject to the capricious whims of his demon muse.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

             

"Tell me what it's like, Benjamin.  Do you ever get tired of doing the same old thing  all the time?  Is there anything you haven't tried yet?"  Byron was as a child at the circus, wanting to taste every candy, feel the thrill of each amusement offered up for the crowd's enjoyment.  He wanted it all and yet he feared the day when there would be nothing left.

 

Methos laughed low in his chest, amused at his lover's craving for all the fruits in the orchard, while expecting to find not one insect.  But he knew...he knew the nector was always sweeter for the longing of it.

 

"Tell you what what's like, Gordon?" 

 

"To keep living when those around you die, to never change from one day to the next?"  Byron's hands moved constantly as he talked, plucking at the velvet jacket Methos wore, kneading the tightly muscled chest through the thin fabric of his shirt.  "What do you do when the world has nothing new to offer?"  The elder immortal gazed fondly down at the golden head resting in his lap, stroking the loosened hair from the intense expression Byron wore and thought about his answer.

 

The pair had been reclining lazily in the grass near the river bank, Byron's head resting in the crook of Methos' crotch as they'd whiled away another afternoon, just the two of them.  It was all part of the doctor's convalescence.  The poet had turned restless with their idleness, however, and their current conversation was the result of his continuing search for newer and more exciting stimuli to feed his fearful spirit.  The large shade tree Methos was using as a backrest offered up its leaves to the two lovers and Byron caught one of the golden leaflets as it floated slowly to the earth.  Methos plucked it from his fingers and began tickling the other man's ear with the soft edges of the foliage.

 

"I'm not that old in the grand scheme of things, you know.  After awhile you get used to them coming and going through your life, but it never gets easy.  And I very seriously doubt I've done it all," then leaning across the supine body below, he caught Byron's bottom lip teasingly with his teeth and whispered against the surprised mouth, "Most things, maybe...but not all."  Methos sat back against the tree.  "There's no rush.  Leave some for your second century, eh?"

 

"There must be an infinite number of experiences, don't you think?"  Byron sat up partially, resting his weight on an elbow as he warmed to his subject.  "What haven't you done?"

 

"How do I know, Gordon.  You're being foolish again."  Methos felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise as his inner voice warned of the looming trap.  But how could he look into those eyes that sparkled with life and the living of it and heed anything other the hunger this man evoked in the deepest chambers of his soul.

 

"Is there anything you wouldn't do?"  Too late he saw it.  For days and weeks he'd fought to keep the poet to himself, discouraging visitors and providing new and inventive ways to hold the attention of his genius lover.  But it was never enough...would never be. 

 

"What did you have in mind?"

 

Byron was silent for long moments before rolling onto his stomach, making a studied inspection of the browning grass beneath them. "While you were...ill...I watched.  How can you become so immured to pain?"

 

"I am not," Methos said cautiously. "But there are times when expressing that pain is worth less than giving into it. Times when to give in to pain can cost you your life." Byron seemed to consider it but Methos had faint hope that this was but an academic discussion.

 

"I tried to be like you..." Byron murmured. "When you endured the blood letting, I thought, how great can this be? How painful can it be that Benjamin will endure it repeatedly for appearances sake."

 

"For survival's sake," Methos said on a breath and caught his lover's shoulders, turning the man over to study his face. 

 

"Is this something that can be learned?" Byron asked solemnly. "Can you teach me?"

 

Methos did not answer immediately. It could be but Byron was in no condition or of the proper mind-set to learn the lessons as the older Immortal had. Not and retain his sanity -- precious little that there seemed left. 

 

"To what end, love?" Methos asked still cautious.

 

"I have endured some," Byron, said pulling himself up to sit and taking hold of the fine, thin blade Manning had sent with their lunch to carve the fruit. Before Methos could stop him, the poet had scored his arm, scarlet staining the lace cuff of his blouse. Byron hissed at the pain, dark eyes bright with unshed tears then watching in fascinated relief as the wound closed. Another cut before Methos snatched at the offending hand, his fingers closing around Byron's.

 

"Don't!" he hissed.

 

"I must..." Byron said urgently, bloody finger pressed against his lover's tightly compressed lips. "There is a clarity in this pain, one that subdues my muse to *my* will!" he added fiercely and dove into the pockets of his coat, pulling out the crumpled and folded papers. "Read this and tell me it is not so..."

 

A sick fascination came over Methos as he scanned the scribbled lines.  His breath catching once more at the brilliance of the verse, the shattering imagery that Byron had found on the plateau of pain. 

 

"I can do so much more...but I am afraid," Byron whispered. "Watching you gave me the courage to go thus far. If you can endure, so can I."

 

It was a plea and Methos heard it as if from a distance. <<How much can you stand, Methos?>> The wretched voice of the past reached for him.  <<What I must...>>

 

It was no less so for Byron and a survival of a different kind was laid before him in the bloodstained touch of his mad lover's fingers. And yet, the words of Byron's muse spoke not in madness but in genius, in brilliance, in soul-wrenching truth. The poet had not subdued his muse with pain, he simply answered a different siren song of disaster.

 

<<Is there anything you wouldn't do...for me?>> The last had been unspoken but it hung between them. As in all his other abuses, Byron knew the path he wanted to walk, he just had need of a guide to set him on his course. Having fulfilled the task so often now, Methos had none to blame but himself that his lover once more turned to him for guidance on those untrodden roads.

 

Denial sprang from his soul to his lips and died there as Byron's words were seared across his mind.

 

Titan! to whose immortal eyes

The sufferings of mortality,

Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise;

What was thy pity's recompense?

A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,

All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,

The suffocating sense of woe,

Which speaks but in its loneliness,

And then is jealous lest the sky

Should have a listener, nor will sigh

Until its voice is echoless. **

 

~~~~~~

 

Methos gripped the post, dropping his head and flinching but barely as the lash snaked across his back again. There was a steady drip of blood falling to the floor from his left arm and he concentrated on it, no longer sure why he was enduring this. It seemed foolish to do so for the mad poet and yet lifting his eyes, he could see the dilated eyes of his lover, the straining cock against the satin breeches, the chest rising and falling in quick gasps, causing the lace at his throat to quiver.

 

The Horsemaster reached his count and the sound stopped. Methos was past feeling the pain he knew should be vibrating through his body. But there was none, or none that was worth noticing. Instead he found himself studying Byron. The poet was moving, coming forward, his eyes wide with desire. A desire that should have Methos weak but instead suddenly disgusted him. When Byron was but a few feet from him, Methos suddenly turned away, preparing to stride from the room. He saw the startled surprise, saw the sudden realization in Byron's eyes that he may have finally gone too far.

 

Half a step and the pain hit. Methos' legs gave way, and he stumbled, dropping to his knees as agony ripped through. Both Byron and the Horsemaster came forward, but Methos shrugged off Byron's hand, the movement sending fresh pain through him, causing a tremor to wrack his frame as he clung to the Horsemaster's arm.

 

"Benjamin..." Byron said, voice faltering.

 

"Get the hell away from me..." Methos breathed, drawing a deep enough breath to steady himself. He got to his feet, using Abramson's strength to draw himself upward.

 

"Leave us!" Byron snapped at the man but the servant found himself frozen by a pair of gold-green eyes fixing him with a stare both desperate and dire.

 

"My Lord..." the man began, unable to tear his eyes away from Methos' but well aware his position depended upon Lord Byron's approval. 

 

It took Methos long moments to realize he was putting the man in an untenable position. Abramson had been pressed to this task for a hefty fee to ensure both his skill with the whip and his silence. The man had seen enough of his master's excesses to be stoic about the request but he was not, by nature, a cruel man -- only a greedy one. And he was still in Byron's employ -- his livelihood depended upon remaining in good favor with his eccentric master. Yet, Methos was not sure he could make it out of the room under his own power. If he waited much longer the man would see him heal. Defeated by both conscience and time, he released the man, sinking back down to his knees. With a silent apology Abramson backed from the room and closed the doors. 

 

For a hundred heartbeats Methos remained unmoving, concentrating on breathing through the pain and the sudden sense of betrayal. He had agreed to this, he had to remind himself. He had fulfilled Byron's desire to see him resist pain as he had fulfilled every one of the poets other depraved requests. He had sunk below and beyond what he might have once done or suffered for survival's sake. And what was the price this time? What had he gained? Not Byron's love, certainly. Only his company, his genius for a time; the pleasures of the poet's body.

 

And his own debasement. It was not humiliation that burned through him as brightly as the pain, but anger. His flinch under the hands that gently touched his blood-slicked back was as much from discomfort as disgust.

 

The healing had begun. He could feel it like static across his skin.  Byron pressed his lips against the fading wounds, fingers reaching up to ease the tension from the taut neck. He pressed close, his erection hard against Methos' lower back.

 

"I am sorry..." Byron breathed, sounding very sincere, almost tearful.  "Until you fell I thought you felt nothing. Your strength awes me, Benjamin...thrills me..."

 

Acceptance of the apology came automatically to Methos' lips and he stopped it. "And your weaknesses disgusts me," he heard himself say, wrenching his head and neck away from the gentle caresses. Moving was pure pain, but far less sharp than the pain in his heart and soul. He leaned forward, pulling away and turning, face as impassive as it had been under the lash.

 

His blood stained Byron's cheek and lips, his hands and the white lace.  "What is next, Gordon?" he hissed. "Shall I agree to die at your hands while you fuck me? Is it my turn next? I would prefer it to this..." he breathed and struggled to his feet, deriving a sadistic pleasure when Byron had to fight for his own upright position; struggling awkwardly and Methos made no move to help him. 

 

The wounds were all but healed and still he felt weak and nauseated.  "Call the servants to prepare a bath for me," Methos said evenly. "In my rooms." Without another word he turned and walked carefully to the door that connected their suites.

 

"So you hate me then? You agreed...," Byron said, tone half-despairing and half-angry, seeking anything to absolve himself of responsibility. But his pleas and excuses fell on deaf ears for the first time. Benjamin made it through the door without assistance but not without faltering and Byron was left to stare at a closed door marked by the bloody imprint of his lover's hand.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Methos paced in his rooms, alternating between his first inclination to pack his bags and leave Byron for good and the yearning he felt for this madman.  His heart urged him to try once more to help his lover realize that he would be with his Muse always if he but looked within himself.  His shoulders flexed automatically, the memory of wounds still fresh, although all physical evidence had long since disappeared.  Once more he rationalized Byron's actions. 

 

The man was different than anyone Methos had ever known.  The older immortal hadn't seen a flame burning so brightly or a passion that enfevered in over 2000 years.  And he should know of all people, the fine line between the genius of invention and that of someone giving over all they have...all their blood, sweat and tears, but still unable to invoke that which will provide a moment's peace.  He knew because he'd never been able to cross it...had remained inadequately safe on this side of sanity.  But Byron's passions fed Methos' need for the reaffirmation of life in a world where living had sometimes grown to be a wearying thing for the ancient one.

 

And sadly, Methos admitted to himself, the flames Byron danced with were not inexhaustible.  There was a finite amount of fuel in this finite world...even for an immortal.  But Byron would never see that...was blinded by the flame's brightness and couldn't see past the next visit from his Muse.  His Muse was like a drug and the poet was addicted to the intensity it provided.  Sinking further into moroseness, Methos also knew that Byron saw Doc Adams only as his current inspiration, but the likelihood of that lasting more than a few more days...weeks, if he was lucky... months, was beyond sensible reason.  Methos knew he lacked that same passion Byron claimed to find when in his arms, could not sustain the impetus his genius required. 

 

With dawning realization, Methos' mind seemed to settle into finality.  He shrugged into his decision as he had so many others over the millennial of his long, tedious life.  If Byron could only find inspiration in the arms of extremes, he'd give his lover that which his soul seemed to require.  He'd feed the flame into one last brilliant flash of Muse for his lover.  He could give Byron that one thing he'd been pleading for with quicksilver moods, the flares of temper, his tears...

 

Methos dressed with excruciating care, his resolution to follow through with the plan tightening with the lace, knotted perfectly at his neck.  His reflection in the mirror showed a man, determination set in every finely chiseled feature as he tugged at his cuffs until they were just the proper length below the fawn-colored sleeves of his jacket.  As he fastened the final button of his waistcoat, Methos shut out the last vestiges of reluctance and doubt.  He needed to do this as surely as Byron needed it.  He went in search of Manning to make arrangements for the evenings activities, then approached his lover's rooms with the finality of one embarking on a journey which he knew destiny could not alter...with acceptance, if not eagerness.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Byron opened the door in answer to the soft knock.  With relief he saw his lover standing in the portal and with childlike surety assumed he'd been forgiven for all...once more.  But Methos wasn't smiling and Byron's own curve of his sensuous mouth faltered. 

 

Methos walked past him into the room and the poet began to suspect that all was not as he'd hoped.  The dark head was held high, yet the mouth he longed to kiss was drawn into a flat line of stern disapproval and the finely sculptured face was outlined by the shadows of the evening into a mask of sadness.

 

"What is it my love?"  Byron asked with concern and not a little fear.  He was sure his Muse would not hold the afternoon's sport against him, had even convinced himself that Methos had secretly enjoyed the abuse.  Yet his countenance showed neither absolution or satisfaction. 

 

"You've done nothing but feverishly proclaim your fear of and frantic search for your Muse.  Do you even know for what it is you search, Gordon?  Have you given the briefest thought to why she threatens desertion so often?"  Before Byron could absorb the clipped words or respond Methos continued.  "It is because you wish it!"  The last sentence was a blast of contempt and pity, physically assaulting the auburn-haired poet's sensibilities.

 

"Benjamin, what are you saying?  Are you still angry about this afternoon?"

 

Exasperation overtook Methos and his earlier intent of an offering to Byron's Muse became a threat to withhold the very sustenance his lover existed upon.

 

"You want inspiration?  You seek enlightenment?  I don't believe you could stand the illumination I have to offer you my gifted one."  His voice had lowered to a harsh whisper as he hissed out the last words, turning the endearment into a curse.

 

He moved quickly, like a predatory cat and while Byron still stood motionless, rooted to the carpet, Methos grabbed his arm in a painful grip of mastery and led him down the hall, stairs and across the foyer.  The setting sun blinded him momentarily as they stepped out into the brilliant afternoon.  The colors of coming winter surrounded them as he walked swiftly, dragging Byron unmercifully as the poet tried to keep up with this madman he didn't know, struggling with the weakness of his leg. 

 

Equally blinding was the darkness of the barn as the pair entered the large, musty interior.  It smelled of newly harvested hay, horses and sweat.  Methos stopped and Byron stumbled slightly at the abrupt halt to their exodus from manor to stables.

 

"How far are you willing to go down your path of self-destruction, Gordon?  Will you only take the road of limited human imagination or can you face the demons you've yet to meet...those who would reveal things about yourself you never dreamed existed?"  His narrowed gold-green eyes examined Byron's face, mouth slightly opened with exertion and excitement, eyes wide with the possibilities hinted at by his lover.

 

"I would follow them all and well you know it!  If there is a mystery yet undiscovered, I would know it."  His words rushed out in a fevered pitch of excitement.  "Show me!"

 

<<Still time to turn this madness,>> his inner voice of reason provided.  But Byron had closed the distance between them quickly, recovering his earlier teetering balance and was even now pulling the dark head toward his lips. 

 

"Yes, my Muse, show me..." the younger man whispered against the hot, dry lips before covering them with his own in a deep, searching kiss.

 

Once more Methos was helpless to deny the bard.  Could not take the chance that he might prevent the creation of some blinding epiphany...some word of pure and perfect resonance.  Therefore, he continued with the plan laid out earlier in a fit of anger, depression and jealousy, but he would do it for his auburn-haired spirit...a last act of love to one who knew not the meaning of the word.

 

"Come with me then," and led Byron toward the back of the building which had already been prepared for their arrival. 

 

Byron stopped as they approached the area Methos had designated to Manning, leaving strict orders in his best voice of mastery that they were to be undisturbed, regardless of what sounds the staff might hear.

 

Methos approached Byron from behind, surprising him with the soft folded cloth he used to block the other man's sight.  The blindfold was tied firmly and the poet felt a thrill of anticipation flowing through his limbs.  Methos led him forward and his lameness made his steps awkward and tentative, but they finally halted just a few feet from where they'd been standing.

 

"Prepare yourself, Gordon, for the experience you've been seeking," he said softly from just behind the blindfolded man, raising the slender arms above his head and fastening them in the soft leather cuffs the poet at noticed hanging from the high ceiling.  Methos let his hands run slowly down the length of Byron's arms, his sides, coming to rest lightly at the slight indentation where waist met hips.  He then produced another piece of cloth which he wedged loosely between his lover's lips, effectively cutting off any speech.  Thus bound, Methos prepared him for the coming ordeal.

 

"I'm going to warn you each time before I do anything to you.  Do you understand?"  His lips touched the delicate ear as he spoke.

 

Byron nodded as he felt himself stirring already with the thrill of whatever his lover had in mind for him.  Just the sound of his Doc's voice sent shivers down his spine to rest deep within his groin.

 

Methos strolled casually over to the wall, examining the assortment of items he'd had laid out for display.  Some belonged to Byron for use in the stables, but other, less familiar looking instruments were Methos' own.  He perused the tools for a moment before spotting the full bottle of brandy and snifters set to the side by Manning.  The immortal smiled to himself, making a mental note to have Byron give the man a bonus after he left.  He poured a good three fingers in the delicate glass and downed the fiery liquid in two gulps.  Methos felt the warmth of the spirits settle in his stomach and girded himself for the game which had already begun, but was far from over.

 

As Methos lifted each item, hefting it in one hand, judging weight and effect, before setting aside the lighter of the three whips, he continued to talk to Byron.  "You've never played these games before have you Gordon?" he asked, knowing the bound man could not answer.  Instead he saw the shoulders bunch as his words sank in.  "To give total control of yourself to another...to turn yourself over to the type of ethereal journeys you can only make inside yourself.  These are the things I will show you tonight, my beloved.  And then you will see what the Muse really is.  You'll be forced to confront the reality of your own genius and stop searching for it in me, or the laudanum or the wine.  Are you ready?"  Once more the slightest tensing of sinew and muscle indicated that he was.

 

By the time he'd finished speaking, Methos was beside Byron once more, leaning toward his ear to murmur soothing words of comfort while stroking the tight leanness of his torso and gently massaging his shoulders and neck.  When he felt the tightened muscles relax and the auburn head bent forward in acceptance he walked back to the wall.

 

He let the soft sueded leather slip through his fingers, then slapped it softly against one thigh, getting familiar with its feel.  Byron looked up, sniffing the air as if he could sense out the next move in the game.  Already was he falling prey to the silent waiting which was part of the rules Methos himself had leaned ages ago.

 

He walked back to the figure stretched tightly against the overhead bonds, stopping a few inches from his face.  "You will do nothing unless I will it, Gordon.  This is my game and you but a pawn, willing or no.  I am in control and I decide when, how and what you feel for the next several hours.  Is that clear?"  As he spoke, he'd circled the other man, surrounding him with sound and effectively throwing off his sense of location and balance.

 

Then, laying the cat at his feet, Methos pulled out his knife, laying the flat of the cool blade against Byron's hot cheek.  "I'm going to cut your clothes off now.  I will not hurt you."  With deft movements he sliced the shirt cleanly, letting it fall away until Byron's upper body was completely exposed to the cool September air.  The skin of his arms immediately puckered with chill, but Methos paid no mind.

 

The poet shivered, awaiting his tormentor's next command or wish.  It wasn't long.  The voice his psyche had already come to associate with mastery appeared again at his right ear.  "Gordon," he let the name draw out in his cultured British voice, "It's beginning now.  But there will be nothing you cannot handle."   Methos retrieved the light-weight whip from the floor, thinking that the delicate constitution of the poet was about to get a rude awakening.

 

Byron's body immediately tensed, the muscles in his back and shoulders straining against the bonds which had seemed so innocent but moments before.  "Relax, my poet.  Your Muse is about to pay you a visit."  And the lash fell.

 

Byron jerked, anticipating the pain.  It took several seconds before he realized there was none.  The leather glided over the tops of his shoulders, caressed his bare back and the sensitive skin under his arms, but it was more an awakening of his body than a pain to endure.  The next stroke criss-crossed his back again, and then the next in a steady, even rhythm of sensation, causing him to almost fall into a euphoric trance.  The fingers of the cured leather were a pendulum slowly hypnotizing him into a false sense of security. 

 

The bound man began to sway with the fall of the lash the trepidation and fear morphed into a lightened sense of being.  Blood pumping hard to carry this feeling began to build and he could hear it pounding in his ears.  The sensation turned to one of bliss rather than discomfort.  Then Methos stopped.  Byron had closed his eyes in an effort to better experience this new torture, but they shot open in alarm with the cessation of the whipping.  The blood in his head pounded in time to his heartbeat and a warm glow had enveloped his body.

 

"Did you think that was it, my gentle poet?"  The voice was closer than he'd expected, causing Byron to start.  Hands, warm from the grip of the whip touched him, skittering lightly across the flushed skin of his shoulders.  Methos was still behind him, so all he had to judge the man's mood was what he could read in the soft voice.  A hand laid on his stomach, rising and falling with his heavy breath, then moved downward to rest on the bulge just beginning to rise within the confines of his pants.

 

"No, that is not all," and the hand was removed...for a moment.  He felt the cool blade of the knife once more against his fevered flesh.  A few quick strokes from which Byron jerked and he felt the expensive cloth slide away from his legs to puddle about his feet, joining the remnants of his other garments.  Now totally exposed and helpless, he felt a heat rise within him which had nothing to do with the stable's temperature.  It was the heat of his Muse.

 

"It is about to begin again and this time will not be so gentle."  The voice had taken on a harder edge...a warning.  But his body's reflexes has been dulled by the lulling of the last moments of his tormentor's lash and he was totally unprepared for the bite which dug into his flesh, marking, but not breaking it. 

 

Methos drew his arm back once more, the smooth, braided leather of the new cat alive in his hands.  He knew what these could do and he knew how to use them.  As he lashed the writhing figure before him, his mind traveled back to a time and place when he'd experienced both sides of a similar instrument of pain...and pleasure.  He knew the build up, the element of surprise...the way the voice can make you anticipate the horror and long for it.  As the lash fell once more on Byron's bare skin, Methos winced as he empathized with the bound figure.  The feel and smell of the leather were having their anticipated effect and his burgeoning erection throbbed  harder with each stroke of the whip.

 

Methos concentrated on dragging out the anticipation of each fall of the lash.  He'd begun slowly, letting the whip float through the air in a leisurely dance before meeting the tensed muscles under smooth, warm skin. 

 

Byron reacted in the expected manner.  As each stroke grew harder, began to fall faster, the poet lost track of when one ended and the next began.  It became one continuous caress around his shoulders, across his back, and between his legs.  Tender skin gave way to the lash finally and warm blood began to trickle from several minute cuts.  Byron's low pain tolerance had already been exceeded exponentially to a degree he'd never been able to stand in the past.  His muffled cries filled the thick air of the stables, filtered through the gag at his mouth and when he inhaled, he could smell his fear...and excitement.  The poet was caught up in the swirling colors of his pain behind clinched lids...he imagined the black coils of the lash waltzing through shades of red and purple.  Once when he jerked violently against a stroke which caught him across the buttocks, he felt his erection lurch against the tight muscles of his stomach and moaned a need he'd never known.

 

By now the euphoric feeling of separateness was reminiscent of the drugs he'd experimented with...heightening his senses and acting as a catalyst for his pain.  The lashing was not enough, even though he felt each stroke licking across his skin like a wildfire.  And he knew he would do anything to serve the master wielding the exquisite piece of leather.

 

"You know I'm leaving when we are through?" 

 

The words were as icy cold lake water to Byron. <<No!>> his mind screamed in denial.  He would have tried to speak around the gag except his tongue felt thick and unwieldy and the words in his brain seemed to get lost somewhere in the fearful reaches of soul.

 

"Let this Muse feed your hungry spirit and warm your bed, Gordon, for I will not stay when the hunger we share is not enough for you."  The words taunted him unmercifully.  Worse than any pain he'd experienced so far was the threat of losing this man...twisting his heart like a dull knife.  He groaned and tried vainly to free himself.  If he could but touch him, show him the folly of this act.

 

Methos had moved slowly toward his lover as he spoke and now faced him, drinking in the twisted features of his face, and once he'd removed the blindfold and gag, the longing in his dark eyes.  He traced a line along the turgid cock with the handle of the whip and watched it hungrily as it swayed for him.

 

Byron's body was now drenched in sweat and it trickled through spiky auburn curls under his arms and down his back and chest. His wrists slid rawly around in the bindings, loose enough to give him hope, but not relief.  <<NO! DON'T LEAVE!>> But he could not tell if the words had made it to his mouth this time.  He searched the much loved face for a sign that would tell him it was all part of the game.  But he saw the truth in the recesses of those gold-green depths. 

 

With the last stroke of Doc's whip Byron's expectation of the next level made him shiver uncontrollably.  Then the shivers turned to a quivering of limbs and he could feel the world slipping through his grasp as his heart seemed to atrophy and the colors all turned to black.

 

Methos had returned to examine the other tools...a pair of pincers used in his practice...he should be ready for that...the larger horse whip, which he'd had brought to the barn, not for its original use, but for the smooth, black leather wrapped snugly about the handle.  As he faced the bound man once more he stopped abruptly.  Byron's body had gone rigid and was shaking uncontrollably.  His feet were off the ground as his fettered hands raised his body effortlessly in its contortions.  Methos hurried toward his lover and gasped at the sight which met him as he faced the other man.  Only the white's of the poet's eyes showed, the tiny red veins rolled with the spasms which seemed to take over his torso and limbs.  Spittle dripped from the gaping mouth.  The physician took over and Methos searched the strained body for some indication of the cause of this malady, his hands running efficiently across smooth skin which had turned cool and clammy to his touch.  When he glanced at Byron's face again he saw that the man had lost all control and raced back to the wall of deadly instruments.  Returning with the knife he'd used to cut the clothes, Methos flipped it around in his hand and shoved the hilt inside the silent mouth, using it to press the atrophied tongue back into place.

 

<<What have I done?>> a voice inside his head wailed as he struggled to support his lover's weight, unbuckled the restraints and keep the man from swallowing his tongue all at once.  It took several minutes to achieve his goal, but soon Byron was laid out on the fresh straw, now totally limp and unconscious. 

 

He used all the medical knowledge at his disposal to ascertain the cause of the Grande Mal, but now that it was over, Byron appeared to simply be sleeping peacefully, with little evidence of the attack except for the small trail of saliva quickly drying across his chin and neck.  The dark-haired man sat back on his heels, taking a deep breath as he considered what this meant to his plans.

 

Methos had meant to show Byron what lay within himself if the man could only find the courage to look.  He'd wanted him to stop searching outside of his mind and heart ...stop looking for the ultimate experience that would sear the words of his muse permanently on his soul.  He gazed down at the still figure, so beautiful with his delicate features, long hair the color of an autumn sunset and a mouth, which even now, Methos could not help yearning to kiss to distraction.

 

Events of the past few days, similar, but less dramatic, came to mind and Methos began to understand some of the erratic behavior his lover had displayed without explanation.  The petite mal he'd experienced the night they'd shared with the Adalerdes made more sense now.  He reached out and smoothed hair from the poet's brow, now eased in relaxed rest.  Byron's chest fell evenly and the man who had been his master and tormentor, now his comfort and his strength, breathed easily for the first time in several moments.  And as surely as he'd die for the beauty laid before him, he knew he could not leave him now.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

When Byron came to, his head rested in the lap of the man who'd sent him on the most ecstatic journey of his life...far brighter than anything the poet could have ever imagined.  He smiled wearily up at Methos who was gently stroking his forehead after tucking the stray curls behind his lover's ears. 

 

"Welcome back" the older Immortal said softly.  "How do you feel?"  He expected his patient to be extremely tired, which certainly seemed to be the case, but the one thing he didn't anticipate was the giddy joy which seemed to shine from the pale countenance. 

 

"Oh, Benjamin...that was...I can't describe it. Damn!"  Byron tried to scramble to his feet, but Methos' hands held him in place firmly.

 

"Wait.  You've had some sort of attack.  You should lay here awhile longer."  Methos' brow furrowed with worry as he tightened his grip on Byron's arms in an attempt to restrain his lover.  But the man would have nothing of his concerns and struggled into a sitting position before facing Methos with a look of pure bliss on his face.

 

"But you don't understand.  The feelings, the taste, the sensations, the colors... They're all right there and I have to go write them down NOW."  Methos could see that it would only cause more distress if he didn't give Byron his way, so reluctantly released his hold on the slender arms and helped the other man to his feet. 

 

Then, before Methos could even dust the straw from his pants, Byron had slipped out of the barn, headed for the house at a dead run, naked as the day he was born.  Shaking his head, the remaining man picked up the ruins of his lover's clothes and stuffed them in a sack he found by one of the hay bales, gathered up the brandy and glasses, and followed in the wake of his genius at a more sedate pace.

 

By the time he entered their rooms, Byron's auburn hair draped about his face as he leaned over the desk, intently recording the words of his latest Muse.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

three weeks later...

 

The episode in the stables seemed to satisfy Byron's prurient need for stimulation, and life actually settled into some semblance of routine for awhile...something Methos had never experienced with this lover.  It was a false security of the worst sort.

 

The past should have warned him...been a portent of their life together.  Methos knew that Byron could never be satisfied with the country squire's life for very long.  He must always live in the extreme.  He thrived on the dramatic and there was nothing theatrical in the day to day activities of their Swiss chalet.  Especially with winter almost upon them and most work having ceased at summer's end.  The poet was content to record that afternoon at his lover's hands for a fortnight or so.  The bounds of his own personal experiences had been overreached and it seemed to take him that long to assimilate and translate this new realm of the senses into the medium of his craft.

 

But all too soon Methos saw the changes...subtle at first, but distinct to Byron's style of child-like petulance when he got bored or frustrated.  The ink well slammed across the room, leaving black trails to slowly crawl down the wall as he stormed out over some petty grievance.  The almost hysterical reaction to what Methos deemed a minor infraction at worst by one of the servants.  All foretold clearly the beginning of the end.  And the ancient immortal refused to see it...or if he did, chose to believe he had the strength to deal with whatever his lover could conjure.  He was wrong.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

...two weeks more

 

"I can't believe you've lived 50 years, much less hundreds," Byron spat.  "How did you manage to stay alive so long when you're such a coward."  The last was thrown over his velvet clad shoulder as he reached for the door of the library, slamming it behind him. 

 

Methos sat staring into the flames, one hand gripping the arm of the chair so tightly that his whitened knuckles gleamed in the firelight's glow.  The other twirled an empty snifter in a dangerously loose pose, dangling the crystal but inches from the carpeted floor.  He sat in silence for several minutes, assimilating this latest outburst, finally filing it away with the other three dozen similar episodes they'd shared this week alone.  This current fit of pique was a result of Methos' refusal...again... to replay the game which had become Byron's latest obsession.  Ever since the poet had recovered from his seizure in the stables, having exhausted and dissected the experience to the bone, nothing would do but for him to once more endure the helplessness Methos had forced upon him that fateful evening.  And wild horses could not compel Methos to repeat the act his lover had all but begged for.  And he knew it would come to that if need be, and then what would he do?  Byron was his acknowledged weakness.  He could deny the man nothing as he spent his days as silent witness to the genius who produced the best poetry England, nay the world had seen in over two hundred years.  The fire which burned so brightly in Byron heated all those around him and Methos was loathe to leave its glowing warmth.

 

So, he stayed...accepting the verbal and sometimes physical abuses of his partner.  For each time he made to leave, suitcase opened on the bed, Byron would profess his remorse at such despicable behavior as he'd exhibited, promising to make it up to his beloved Doc in whatever way he desired.  Only once had Methos pressed him, continuing with the act of leaving, while ignoring the impassioned pleas and histrionics he could already recite by rote.  He refused to look at that beautiful face with its fevered look.  The look which melted all resolve each time he tried to depart. 

 

They'd fought over something minor and inconsequential, as had almost become habit of late.  But this time Methos saw what was happening.  Saw that the fire burned too brightly, had seared the reason and caused Byron to topple over the line he'd trod so finely for so long.  Oddly enough, he was surprised to find that sadness and pity were all the feelings that remained when the tirade finally subsided.  And then he knew the truth...that it did neither of them any good for him to remain by the poet's side.  The death of their friendship and the resulting wake of destruction was inevitable, and if nothing else had survived the onslaught of Byron in his life, Methos' desire to survive was still his greatest strength.  So he left.

 

Or so he thought.  He'd packed only a large satchel of clothing and a few books, intending to send for the rest of his things in the spring.  At the moment he rode out on horseback, he just wanted to escape the insanity, flee from the ache and emptiness which followed him throughout his night time journey until finally realizing they were part of him and always would be. 

 

His sleep was interrupted rudely by a loud pounding on the door to his room.  The innkeeper better have a damned good reason for such an intrusion on a paying customer.  Muttering foul epithets at the person responsible for such a racket he opened the door a crack, peering through sleep blurred eyes at the man standing on the other side. 

 

"Manning!" he threw the door open, pulling the hesitant butler inside before slamming the door shut once more.  The man's presence could mean only one thing.  "What is it?  Is it Gordon?  What's wrong?"  He knew he was verging on hysteria and fought to keep the rising panic from engulfing him completely.  Why had he thought himself finally free?

 

"You must come back, Doctor Adams," the normally stoic man said, his voice rising just a hair above its usual calm baritone.  And before Methos could ask again, "He needs you."  Such a simple statement and yet its effect was to send Methos into a frenzy of packing. 

 

"I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes," he said, continuing to throw garments into the already open bag.  "Tell the stableboy to saddle my horse."

 

The place was quiet, but the stable was lit by what appeared to be several lanterns.  Methos turned a curious eye to Manning who only gestured toward the large structure, but strangely enough did not take his own horse there to be groomed and put to bed.  Rather he headed for the front of the house where, once dismounted, he tied the reins to a hitching post by the door, not looking back to see if the doctor had investigated the activity in the stable yet.

 

Methos walked his horse almost to touching distance of the large double doors.  Now that he was back...back with Byron, he hesitated to take the steps that would bring him face to face with his ex-lover...no his lover... once more.  Swinging a long, muscular leg over the horses back, he lowered himself to the ground, patting the animal reassuringly as it pranced to the side skittishly. 

 

The door pulled open easy enough, but the light inside blinded the immortal temporarily as he stood just within the portal taking in the scene before him.  Lanterns hung from the rafters, nails in the wall and sat dangerously close to the dry hay on the floor.  The first thing that caught his eye was the array of whips with which he was more than passingly familiar, displayed against the wall, exactly where they'd resided all those weeks ago.  He searched for the man who'd forced his return, by choice or by chance.  When he finally spotted the poet, kneeling in the straw, scribbling feverishly on yellowed parchment spread upon a bale of hay, Methos hardly recognized the bright haired, capricious poet who'd captured his heart in a hopeless snare of obsession.

 

"Gordon!" he cried before running toward the back of the barn to gather the bloodied figure against him.  The face that turned to him was a stranger's.  The poet's eyes burned brightly with the fanaticism of his genius and his mouth curved into a farcical parody of its former sensuous self.  But the most shocking part was what the madman had done to himself, for that the dried blood and torn and ripped clothing were a result of self-inflicted actions, Methos had no doubt.

 

"What have you done to yourself?" he hissed, holding the face firmly between his warm hands.  But they were not as warm as the delicate skin of Byron's cheeks and the older immortal knew that it was more than a physical fever flaming inside the man before him. 

 

"Doc...Ben...," he whispered through parched, cracked lips and Methos searched the barn for something to slake the man's thirst but found only a half-full bottle of brandy amidst the emptied ones scattered about. 

 

"Shhh," he calmed the agitated man, pulling him back against his chest.  "It's all right.  I'm back, Gordon...I'm back," he soothed him with a gentle stroking motion along his back with one hand, while the other lightly massaged the bunched neck muscles.  He found himself rocking soothingly, as one would do a frightened child. 

 

"We'll talk about it later..." and raised himself up, pulling Byron with him as he helped the man stand.  Together they quit the stables, leaving the lanterns for Manning or one of the other servants to tend.  Methos wrapped his arms protectively about the soiled and bloodied man, making his way back to the manor and upstairs to their rooms.  When asked if he would like some assistance with the Lord he snapped rudely to be left alone.  He would tend the Lord himself. 

 

...and that had been a week ago to the day.  Seven days until they'd returned to this impasse.  One week of near bliss before abuse began heaping upon abuse and Methos was packing his bags once more.  By morning he would have twenty miles between himself and this mass of destruction, and this time he would not return...for any reason.  Let the madman kill himself for all he cared.

 

His movements from dresser to bed, where the case lay open, to wardrobe and back, were mechanical and precise.  Methos tried to clear his mind of the emotions which threatened to spew out of him like so much bile...rage, hurt, rejection and not a little confusion as to what exactly he could have done differently to divert such an end.  After a half hour of mental scrutiny, he'd still not found an answer, but only affirmation that this was the only way to save his sanity and perhaps what was left of Byron's. 

 

It was close to midnight when the valet was strapped shut and the larger suitcase was closed and fastened with a resounding *snap* in the empty room.  Methos took a moment to look around one last time at the space in which he'd shared his life with Byron for over six months.  Gods, it seemed longer than that and he realized with surprise that he hadn't given much thought to life prior to entering the turbulent and exciting world of George Gordon Noel Byron, poet extraordinaire, which seemed more like six years rather than mere months.

 

Setting his bags in the hall, he went down to ask Manning to have his carriage brought around.  He would not flee into the night on horseback as he had last time.  He would leave with dignity and the appearance of much more courage than he felt.    As he descended the stairs, however, the laughter and clanking of glass against glass caused his steps to falter briefly as he realized that Byron had returned...and was not alone.  Shoulders inched back until he stood straighter than usual and he continued his exodus, determined to neither see nor speak to the man again before leaving.  But the fates had never been kind and had obviously decided not to begin at this late date.

 

As he neared the bottom, letting his foot rest briefly on the last carpeted step before heading for the back to find Manning, Methos heard the door open and a familiar voice bellowing for more wine.  He whole being froze...heart, blood...mind.  Coherent thought had ceased and he felt the muscles in his shoulders and neck tighten at the sight of his lover...no ex-love now, leaning indolently against the doorway into the salon.  That room of decadence and debauchery throughout the long, lazy summer had resumed its function once again during the even longer, cold nights of winter. 

 

"Benjamin, come in and join us won't you?" Byron's voice was cheerful,

seductive as he held out his hand. It took him a moment to realize that both his hand and his entreaty were being ignored as Methos continued to put on the gloves and scarf that a servant offered. "Running away are we? Again? How...uncourageous of you," Byron murmured taking a step forward with what looked to be exaggerated care but came across as awkwardly ungraceful. "No matter. Jonathan...," he turned to look back into the room, presumably at the named visitor and continued. "Has expressed an interest in your other...talents. He is not particularly courageous either but he is curious." Then waving his empty glass wildly, the poet stepped through the open door and approached the stairs.  It was then that Methos could see the wild, agitated expression.  The dilated pupils and pinched lips.  He'd been at it again, ignoring the warnings Methos had been bombarding him with since the departure of the Shelleys.  Past experience told the dark-haired man there would be no reasoning with this Byron.  Best for him just to leave.

 

He continued toward the doors on the opposite side of the foyer, trying to ignore the determined man who's tone had now changed to snide and belligerent.  "Surely, you should be making the most of what few talents you do have, Ben.  Not healer-as interested as you are in the dead, rather than the living. And not as a poet...feeble attempt that was, although I must give you credit for trying," Byron sneered coming very close." 'Fault not the Muse, Nor the master; Blame, rather, This imperfect Bard,' How delightfully simple.  With more practice you may well become the master of children's versus. But you need worry that you must pull together a living from your words, Benjamin," Byron said and reached out to slip his fingers across the older Immortal's chest.  "You do have other talents...the Adelarde's seem to make a reasonable living from their...skills," he said coolly, the dark eyes narrowed as he smiled. Methos' hand came out to grip the thin wrist and Byron chuckled.  "What's the matter, Doc?  Aren't you man enough for the both of us?" 

 

Methos stared at the stranger's face and released Byron's hand, pushing past him before anything worse could be said or done.  "Or don't you think I'm man enough for the two of you?"  He was almost to the door leading to the kitchens.  "Doctor Adams!  I'm talking to you!  Can't you just accept that you're just not enough anymore?  Maybe you never were?"  Methos knew this last was simply one more barb being shot at a man whose own self-worth lacked much in the way of adequacy.  He would not let the words hurt him.  He knew that, for a very short time, they had meant much to each other...there had been a connection.  The words spoken now were a result of wine, drugs and a pitiful man's need for attention.

 

The doorknob was now inches from his hand as he finally gained the entryway opposite the salon.  The door to his escape.  However, long pale fingers wrapped around his wrist in a surprisingly strong grip, halting his grasp of the handle. 

 

"You can't leave yet, Benjamin," the words ground out from between Byron's clenched teeth.  "It would be rude to leave while we have guests." 

 

Methos dared look into the dark eyes rimmed with red and saw only the fanatical brightness he'd come to recognize after one of the bard's more indulgent nights.  Sighing heavily, he lowered his hand, knowing the futility of talk, but having to try one last time.  "Gordon.  Go back inside to your...friend.  I'm leaving and you have far more important things to do right now than try to stop me.  Isn't your muse calling you?"  This last said in response to the timid voice coming from the salon door where 'Jonathan' called for Byron's return in a fretful tone as Methos let his own voice take on the hard, acerbic edge he'd perfected so well.  He then turned toward the door once more, all patience now exhausted.  

 

"No, I don't want you to leave!"  Byron's voice rose an octave and he somehow managed to maneuver his body between Methos and the door, now holding the other man firmly by the shoulders.  "You can't leave me." 

 

"Let go."  The two words spoken so soft, so dangerously low should have told Byron all he needed to know.  But the state of his mind was somewhat hazy at best these days, with the alcohol and drugs only hindering his ability to let the warning filter through. 

 

Methos reached up to pull the claw like hands away from his arms, but Byron had managed to garner all his strength into those two limbs and the feat proved more difficult than he'd imagined.  In retrospect, as in much of their life together, the next seconds took on a hazy, foglike quality which Methos could never quite clearly remember. 

 

The strain of concentrating all his efforts to restrain Methos must have pumped more drug through the poets system than he'd been prepared for...or maybe he just couldn't withstand the look of flat indifference in his lover's mercurial eyes.  Whatever the cause, his grip loosened, but Methos' did not.  As the elder immortal pushed firmly and with not some small amount of strength to release himself from Byron's hold he found the task marked easier as the slender figure stumbled away from the shove, floundering helplessly on his one good leg while flailing arms searched for purchase on which to regain his balance...and found none.  The empty wine glass shattered across the tiled floor, catching a thousand lights from the candled chandelier.

 

Silence descended like a shroud as the two men waited to see what their host would do.  Jonathan was standing timidly at the door, a slight effeminate man of pale complexion and hair, fine linen shirt open to the waist.  The total opposite of Methos.  And the darker one...the one who'd set the Lord firmly on his arse, stood waiting, his eyes narrowed, surreptitiously watching for any sign of distress.  Methos knew how the thought of himself, sprawled helplessly across the polished floor, must be doing to Byron.  He knew the pride so well that would not ask nor receive assistance until all possibilities of rescue had been exhausted.  And up to that moment, Methos had always been that salvation.  But not this time.  The dark-haired man resolutely ignored the pleading look the poet aimed at him, in direct contrast to the harsh words he spoke.

 

"Leave then, damn your soul to hell, Benjamin Adams."  The words were choked and broken, but understandable.  "You were ever a tiresome companion, lacking the spark of life I require to stimulate and perfect my craft.  Go on and run away...back to the safety and shelter of your conservative society.  I don't need you and never have."

 

Methos heard a soft gasp behind him and caught the shadow of dark suiting out of the corner of his eye.  Manning and possibly more of the staff, come to see what all the ruckus was about no doubt.  And now they would have to stand as witness to a scene that should have been played out long ago behind closed doors.  But Byron was never one to perform before a private audience.

 

It appeared that the best course of action would be to simply leave him there for his latest paramour or one of the servants to help.  To linger would only prolong the unpleasant scene.  But as he moved to turn, it became painfully obvious that Byron was not finished with the cruel epithets for which he was so famous.

 

Drawing up as much dignity as possible while trying to ignore the ignominious position in which he found himself, Byron spoke to the heretofore ignored Jonathan.  "Observe my sweet, how one acts when one cannot...react."  His meaning was obvious and Methos heard more gasps behind him, followed by an embarrassed, yet sympathetic silence.  "I don't know why I wasted my time when he so lacks the imagination of a good lover."  Byron snickered and held his hand out to the young man for assistance.  None was forthcoming, though.  "Come help me up and we'll go upstairs for a night of love *he* could never match."  Jonathan still remained glued to the doorway, unable to go near this cruel creature of fate.  Backing away as his head shook slowly, he returned to the safety of the salon, closing the door against the scene he'd just witnessed.

 

Methos' mind understood the intent of the barbs, but they nonetheless pierced the armor he'd begun to raise about his heart.  He'd never let the man laid out before him know the extent of his wounds, however.  More than ever, he felt sorry for the poet.  The staff had ever been tolerant of his capricious whims, but this affront to gentle society...this blatant disregard for propriety and simple good manners would earn him little loyalty.  And now...publicly rejected by his new lover...the same one he'd flaunted and taunted Methos with but moments before. 

 

No, the love was gone, but not the longing.  The patience was exhausted, but not the understanding.  The pain of living with the genius had finally outweighed the pain of leaving him to the will of wine and laudanum.  This time, he would not let words or deeds stop him.  He turned his back on the pathetic figure still looking expectantly for him to stay.  This time, directing his steps toward the front door, the quickest route of escape, Methos strode purposefully across the foyer, the clicking of his heels echoing in the room full of onlookers.

 

He heard the scrambled sounds of someone, most likely Manning, finally helping the Lord of the manor to his feet.  Braced for yet another attempt to make him stay, he was *not* prepared for the white hot pain shooting through his shoulder, settling in his left arm all the way down to his hand.  The shock of the sword wound, along with that which it implied caused Methos to stop in his tracks, letting the blood run the length of his arm, dripping from nerveless fingers, even as the gash began to heal.  Behind him he heard the heavy breathing of the other man as the challenge was put forth.

 

"You will not leave this house without a fight, Doc."  Byron gripped his own sword tightly, brandishing the blade through the air as he spoke to the other man's back.

 

"Are you challenging me?"  The question was ridiculous he knew, and was sure the staff thought it only a duel of honor of which they spoke, but Byron would know what he meant and Methos waited a breathless moment for his answer.

 

"Yes, I am."  Methos then turned, ready to do whatever it took to stop this nonsense and madness. 

 

"Gordon, don't say...do anything rash.  It doesn't have to be this way. Do us both a favor and just let me leave," he pleaded, but the poet seemed determined to push this farce beyond all hope of retreat, knowing he could not win.  Methos read the determination mixed with a false bravery induced by too many foreign substances.

 

Sighing, he turned back to the door, speaking as he opened it to a chill blast of glacial wind.  "Very well, but let us not do this for an audience."  As he turned the corner of the manse, headed for the courtyard, he felt his irritation rise and determined to put an end to this charade of honor as quickly as possible. 

 

Byron was right behind him, hurrying to catch up and at the same time struggling with the foot that prevented the more nimble movements of the other man.  Once they entered the courtyard, moon reflected off the ice of the fountain, Methos tried once more to deflate the volatile temper he'd had to deal with for the past months.  His breath formed a veil of frosty smoke about his head as he talked to Byron.

 

"Please, Gordon.  It didn't work...God I wanted it too.  I wanted to be the one to witness the birth of your gifts to the world.  I wanted to share your jubilation and your sorrows.  But I can't watch you destroying yourself anymore.  And I damned sure am not going to stay under the same roof with you and your lovers. You ask too much!"  His impassioned speech seemed to fall on deaf ears as Byron flicked his blade experimentally and refused to meet the eyes he's written verse upon verse to.

 

Methos bowed his head, stabbing the frozen ground with the tip of his sword until the voice of the man he'd been willing to dedicate his life to broke the chill silence.

 

"I thought you understood me.  Understood what I needed.  Do you think I want us to end this way?  Each and every verse is painstakingly achieved, Benjamin...ripped from so deep I can never understand where they were to begin with!  The words never come easy and now I must deal with an everlasting mistress who is jealous of all who share my life.  How do you think it is knowing I must battle my muse through eternity now...knowing I will never have a moment's peace as long as she demands my love...my life...my very soul.  I cannot give you what is not mine to offer.  My life will never be my own and you can't deal with that."

 

The taller man listened and knew the truth...perhaps the first truth Byron had spoken to him.  As he suspected, there was no salvation for them.  Raising his arm in the ready position, he prepared to end the pain once and for all.

 

"Let's get this over with, Gordon.  It's damned cold out here and you have...company waiting."  Stoic to the end.

 

Byron joined swords with Methos and began the duel.  As they circled and parried, the elder wondered if he actually thought he *might* lose his head tonight?  Setting his mouth firmly for the task at hand, he moved in aggressively, knowing the result before his blade even touched his opponent.  As he viciously attacked, causing Byron to stumble slightly before allowing the man to recover and moving in again, he felt the cloak of past experiences engulf him.  Felt the old Methos move in to share the body of Byron's lover, intent on teaching the self-centered poppet of the whim a lesson in abject terror.  Let his muse make of that what she would.

 

The large, dark eyes in Byron's pale visage widened even more at the assault.  He swung wildly, favoring his lame side while trying to maneuver Methos around so that he wouldn't have to worry about the blasted foot.  He'd never seen that look of wild abandon in his lover's eyes, even at their most passionate.  It told of horrors witnessed...and performed and Byron felt a shiver of fear creep up his narrow spine for the first time that night.  This was not the healer from which he'd drawn his strength, his inspiration and finally shared his rejection.  This was something else.

 

Methos saw the changes in his challenger.  His expression going from confident rejecter of what they'd shared to defensive opponent, seriously looking death in the face for possibly the first time in his life.  He knew that look and knew how to play on it for maximum effect.  Driving forward relentlessly, he backed Byron against the vine covered wall, cruelly pushing the knowledge of the other man's lameness to the back of his mind...setting it aside for the modern day, more sympathetic Methos to deal with afterward, pressing his advantage on a man who hadn't a hope of coming out of this challenge still breathing. 

 

"Is this another ploy, Gordon?" Methos hissed as he pressed the slighter man harshly.  "Did you think to invoke a challenge with the idea that there would be some romance to it? Some inspiration? There is none in a challenge such as this. Battle another Immortal, my love, and you will look at death not as a plaything but as the nothing it is!"

 

Byron faltered as the stranger in his lover's guise attacked him with a fierce cruelty, plying on his weakness, taking advantages with little honor or technique, only a deadly commitment to winning. Part of him wanted to revel in the ferocious warrior his taunts and challenges had unleashed, but most of him cowered before the assault. This was no muse but one of the Furies, come to extract retribution for his foolishness.

 

He fell before the attack as his opponent knew he must and felt the press of steel against his throat. "And where is your muse now, my Lord Byron," Methos snarled. "Abandoned you as she so often does? Perhaps she will follow you into the grave?"

 

Fear clawed at Byron's body and brain and he wanted nothing more than to beg for mercy from this cold, implacable monster before him. No words came to him, though, not pleas or bargains. He squeaked in surprise as Benjamin suddenly dropped to one knee beside him, catching his chin in one cold hand. "You have become the fears you write about, Gordon," the soft voice murmured. "Neither I nor your muse can torment you more than you torment yourself. But I will not witness it -- nor be party to it any longer."

 

Byron clutched at his hand desperately, pleadingly. "Then help me fight this fear!  That is what you wanted, is it not, for me to meet my muse on equal terms?"

 

Methos pulled his hand away, face impassive once more. "I cannot fight your battles for you, Byron. I never could. Nor will I aid you any longer, when you are too much of a coward to fight them yourself," he said and rose quickly.

 

With that last hurled insult, the final thrust came quick and easy.  Byron had neither the skill nor speed to defend himself and by the time he felt the blade slide through his ribs, piercing his lung, resignation of his fate had settled on him like the blackness in which he now found himself falling. 

 

Which for its pleasure doth create

The things it may annihilate,

Refus'd thee even the boon to die:

The wretched gift Eternity

Was thine--and thou hast borne it well. **

 

Methos recalled the words he's read the night Byron had "gifted" him with Veronique and Stefan.  Yes, he'd done everything he could to annihilate their relationship, whether consciously or no.  He looked down at the limp body, graceful sprawl belying the infirmity which prevented such elegance during life, and felt his loins stir at the softness his lover's face had taken on in death, caused by a peace he hadn't known for the term of their shared lives.  For a moment he considered making this death final.  He felt it was what the bard had wanted all along.  The months had passed and Methos had been forced to stand witness to the pain and suffering which caused an ache at some deep level he'd never touched before.  He'd sat stoically watching the transformation, as Byron became his own Prometheus, helpless to ease the burden of the poet's genius. 

 

The hand still gripping the hilt of the weapon, as if his life depended on its solidness, twitched as though to rise for the final, killing blow.  Then the dead man began to stir and slowly, painfully, Byron raised an arm...delayed reaction to the impalement which had stolen his life for a brief moment in time.  Methos peered into the dark eyes, now open and full of pain and wonder, followed by a flicker of disappointment.  So, he'd expected a beheading had he?  Some perverse part of the ancient one let his grip relax and the sword dangled uselessly by his side.  If Byron sought death, he'd have to do it somewhere else than by his hand. 

 

"Return to your amusements Gordon and write a pretty verse tomorrow while the muse sits on your shoulder laughing.  You'll have to find someone else to perpetuate this farce."  He spun and walked quickly to his horse, forgetting about the bags he'd left sitting outside his door.  Methos wanted nothing more than to put the distance of a continent between himself and this past year in Geneva.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

The road he took was unknown to him but he followed it anyway. He had no desire to seek a specific place, only somewhere that would erase the already souring memories of the last few months. He had not meant to lose himself so thoroughly in Byron's madness, only in his sweetness.  But even the sweetest fruit will turn to the heady flavor of wine and thence to vinegar. He wanted nothing more than to be able to wash the bitter taste from mouth and soul.

 

He would have to send for his things. He had little doubt that a note sent to Manning would have his belongings forwarded where he chose. His horse shied and he swore then looked up to see a shadow emerge from the side of the road.

 

Remarkably tall, dark hair pulled back from a youthful face,  dark gray eyes watching him with no threat.  The loose shirt was accented by a bright vest and a matching sash accenting the powerful physique and marking him as a Roamer.

 

Methos reined the horse in and slid from the saddle, leading the beast forward.

 

"You travel lightly, Monsieur le Docteur," Stefan said quietly.

 

"Less so than you. I thought you gone..."

 

"Maman said I should wait," Stefan shrugged and lifted a large hand to push the lapel of Methos' coat back, eyeing the bloodstain there impassively before lifting his eyes to the hazel ones regarding him.

 

"We had an...argument," Methos murmured and dropped his gaze, knowing there was no rational reason for him to give any explanations to the silent giant.

 

Stefan's hand brushed across his shoulder, then up along his jaw and Methos swallowed as the rough fingers spread along his throat and cheek, lifting his head.

 

"Unpleasantness can be forgotten in the proper company," Stefan offered and there was no more to the offer, Methos knew. No demands would be made upon him.

 

"I once had a friend in Romania," he answered and felt his own smile start at the one that suddenly filled Stefan's face.

 

"So, soon you will have more," Stefan said and his mouth covered Methos' so swiftly the Immortal could not react, only respond. It was over swiftly and Stefan stepped away, sliding back into the shadows and waiting.

 

A deep breath brought courage and Methos followed, leading the horse into the darkness and leaving his own darkness behind.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Epilogue:  Somewhere in Europe, 1847

 

"In solitude, where we are least alone..."

  -  George, Lord Byron -

 

The horse stood patiently as its rider cleaned the shoe of debris, stomping only once when the leg was released. Methos patted the animal's flank then gathered up the blankets and smoothed them across the animal's back.

 

"A few more days will matter not," Veronique said as she came up beside him, holding out his bags.  Her dark hair was well-streaked with white, the lovely face lined but smiling still.

 

"No, but I have no desire to meet up with my own kind," Methos murmured, almost an apology.

 

"My nephew and his friend are good men, mon cher. They are no threat to you -- and no threat at all in this camp," her voice was troubled and he caught her hand to lay a kiss across her palm.

 

"Not fear, Maman...distaste," Methos said. "My kind are not quick to forgive or forget bad experiences."

 

Veronique studied him anxiously. Thirty years with her tribe had left Benjamin as

healed from his encounter with the strange, mad poet as he was like to get. The early days of despair had fallen away quickly under the non-demanding acceptance of the Rom. Within a year he had passed as one of them and stayed on, much to her surprise. Less surprising was that her Stefan had become companion to Benjamin, offering knowingly a love that would never be fully returned. That her son also became the slender healer's protector was but a sign of her son's regard -- both he and Benjamin aware that were it a physical danger that threatened the dark haired scholar, Benjamin was as dangerous as the life he was fated to live.

 

But there were other dangers and from those emotional and mental wounds-- Stefan had been a bulwark against the storms.

 

And such a storm might well be brewing  -- the urgency of her intuition to keep the healer close unclear but undeniable. She knew not why it was important that Benjamin stay -- even as she knew she could not force him to remain any more than she had been able to convince him to leave his poet before he was hurt.  The wound Byron had inflicted had killed something far more vital in the Immortal than she had thought possible.  This one, this "Benjamin", had walked too long alone and was like to do so forever unless he allowed something or someone brighter to lure him among the living again. Someone who would give her gentle healer more than was taken.

 

*As my Stefan has,* she mused, watching her silent son approach. Just two nights ago she had heard something she never thought to -- the sound of her son's voice raised in anger. They had settled their fight, she knew. More than settled it and she cast her thoughts aside as others of their tribe gathered to say their good-byes.

 

Stefan's wife, Gabrielle, came forward to bring food, her embrace as fond and familiar as a lover's, and she had been -- sweetly disposed to share her affections with husband and near lover alike. A good match. One Veronique had arranged.

 

Stefan's hand closed over her shoulder as Benjamin said good-bye to the children -- little ones he had helped raise, and their children as well -- Veronique proud matriarch to all of them.  She stepped forward and clasped at the thong still around Benjamin's throat. "All our folk know it, mon cher. Never fear you have a place here..." she murmured and kissed him, passion belying her age and Methos returned it, breathing deeply of the scent of her. Veronique would not live long enough for him to see her again. That as much as the rest was why he needed to leave.

 

She stepped back, and Gabrielle ushered the children away for Stefan to have the privacy of space and quiet.

 

Methos stared at his lover, noting the gray streaked curls, the lines carved into the still handsome face. "You disappoint Panop greatly," Stefan said softly, reaching down to brush the still unlined cheek with his thumb. "He thinks you a birthright," he added with a faint smile.  Panop was Stefan's eldest son, much like his father and as bold, but not so bold to press his obvious desires and affections while his father still warmed their strange "cousin's" bed.

 

Methos chuckled and dropped his gaze. "He will find willing enough partners, I think."

 

"No doubt," Stefan agreed and his eyes scanned the road leading to the camp. "Will I ...," he stopped. Three decades had left him unused to asking for anything that was not readily given.

 

"No," Methos said softly. "Not in your lifetime, my friend. Don't look for me."

 

"I am afraid more of the nights I will reach for you.." Stefan said and his eyes held Methos' briefly. "And you will not be there. But then, you have never been mine to keep. I knew that."

 

"Did you?" Methos asked, tempering the mortal's sorrow with humor. "I felt like I belonged to you nearly from our first meeting."

 

"Liar," Stefan accused but he was smiling again. "Be safe, Methos," he said quietly so no one could hear then kissed him. The passion flared and was settled as Stefan released him and turned away to join his family.

 

Without another glance, Methos mounted and headed westward, all too aware that Stefan's eyes followed him until he disappeared around the curve of the road.

 

The camp began to break up but Stefan stood and watched, silent until Veronique came to grip his arm.

 

"We should have made him stay, Maman. He cannot be safe out there and he should not be alone."

 

"He must make his own choices, mon petite," Veronique said and a noise made her turn, Stefan with her.

 

A wagon approached and Stefan grinned as Jacob waved and Irene leapt from the wagon seat and ran forward. He caught her and lifted her high.

 

"Stefan! You have grown so serious looking," Irene teased and got a sound kiss for her joke.

 

Jacob came forward, followed by a larger man Stefan did not know, but the stranger's face was open, the smile honest, if tentative and a little anxious.

 

"Maman Veronique, Cousin Stefan, we felt...there was another of our kind..." Jacob began, jumping down from the wagon.

 

"He is gone. A friend. One who has needed the sanctuary the Rom offer," Veronique said as Jacob kissed her. "No worries, petite. He has been with us for many years."

 

Reassured, Jacob smiled. "This is my friend," Jacob said, dark eyes shining as he propelled the stranger forward.

 

Stefan accepted the strong grip with a grin while Veronique returned the stranger's gaze boldly.

 

"Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," the stranger said.

 

~finis~

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

**Remember Him, Whom Passion's Power; Prometheus; Farewell To the Muse --  all by George Gordon, Lord Byron (full text follows this story)

*** The Imperfect Verse is by Wolfie, (c) 1991

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Farewell To The Muse

George Gordon, Lord Bryon,

 

Thou Power! who hast ruled me through Infancy's days,

    Young offspring of Fancy, 'tis time we should part;

Then rise on the gale this the last of my lays,

    The coldest effusion which springs from my heart.

 

This bosom, responsive to rapture no more,

    Shall hush thy wild notes, nor implore thee to sing;

The feelings of childhood, which taught thee to soar,

    Are wafted far distant on Apathy's wing.

 

Though simple the themes of my rude flowing Lyre,

    Yet even these themes are departed for ever;

No more beam the eyes which my dream could inspire,

    My visions are flown, to return,---alas, never!

 

When drain'd is the nectar which gladdens the bowl,

    How vain is the effort delight to prolong!

When cold is the beauty which dwelt in my soul,

    What magic of Fancy can lengthen my song?

 

Can the lips sing of Love in the desert alone,

    Of kisses and smiles which they now must resign ?

Or dwell with delight on the hours that are flown ?

    Ah, no! for those hours can no longer be mine.

 

Can they speak of the friends that I lived but to love?

    Ah, surely Affection ennobles the strain!

But how can my numbers in sympathy move,

    When I scarcely can hope to behold them again?

 

Can I sing of the deeds which my Fathers have done,

    And raise my loud harp to the fame of my Sires?

For glories like theirs, oh, how faint is my tone!

    For Heroes' exploits how unequal my fires!

 

Untouch'd, then, my Lyre shall reply to the blast---

    'Tis hush'd; and my feeble endeavors are o'er;

And those who have heard it will pardon the past,

    When they know that its murmurs shall vibrate no more.

 

And soon shall its wild erring notes be forgot,

    Since early affection and love is o'ercast:

Oh! blest had my Fate been, and happy my lot,

    Had the first strain of love been the dearest, the last.

 

Farewell, my young Muse! since we now can ne'er meet;

    If our songs have been languid, they surely are few:

Let us hope that the present at least will be sweet---

    The present---which seals our eternal Adieu.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Remember Him, Whom Passion's Power

 

Remember him, whom Passion's power

    Severely---deeply---vainly proved:

Remember thou that dangerous hour,

    When neither fell, though both were loved.

 

That yielding breast, that melting eye,

    Too much invited to be blessed:

That gentle prayer, that pleading sigh,

    The wilder wish reproved, repressed.

 

Oh! let me feel that all I lost

    But saved thee all that Conscience fears;

And blush for every pang it cost

    To spare the vain remorse of years.

 

Yet think of this when many a tongue,

    Whose busy accents whisper blame,

Would do the heart that loved thee wrong,

    And brand a nearly blighted name.

 

Think that, whate'er to others, thou

    Hast seen each selfish thought subdued:

I bless thy purer soul even now,

    Even now, in midnight solitude.

 

Oh, God! that we had met in time,

    Our hearts as fond, thy hand more free;

When thou hadst loved without a crime,

    And I been less unworthy thee!

 

Far may thy days, as heretofore,

    From this our gaudy world be past!

And that too bitter moment o'er,

    Oh! may such trial be thy last.

 

This heart, alas! perverted long,

    Itself destroyed might there destroy;

To meet thee in the glittering throng,

    Would wake Presumption's hope of joy.

 

Then to the things whose bliss or woe,

    Like mine, is wild and worthless all,

That world resign---such scenes forego,

    Where those who feel must surely fall.

 

Thy youth, thy charms, thy tenderness---

    Thy soul from long seclusion pure;

>From what even here hath passed, may guess

    What there thy bosom must endure.

 

Oh! pardon that imploring tear,

    Since not by Virtue shed in vain,

My frenzy drew from eyes so dear;

    For me they shall not weep again.

 

Though long and mournful must it be,

    The thought that we no more may meet;

Yet I deserve the stern decree,

    And almost deem the sentence sweet.

 

Still---had I loved thee less---my heart

    Had then less sacrificed to thine;

It felt not half so much to part

    As if its guilt had made thee mine.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Prometheus

 

Titan! to whose immortal eyes

    The sufferings of mortality,

    Seen in their sad reality,

Were not as things that gods despise;

What was thy pity's recompense?

A silent suffering, and intense;

The rock, the vulture, and the chain,

All that the proud can feel of pain,

The agony they do not show,

The suffocating sense of woe,

    Which speaks but in its loneliness,

And then is jealous lest the sky

Should have a listener, nor will sigh

    Until its voice is echoless.

 

Titan! to thee the strife was given

     Between the suffering and the will,

     Which torture where they cannot kill;

And the inexorable Heaven,

And the deaf tyranny of Fate,

The ruling principle of Hate,

Which for its pleasure doth create

The things it may annihilate,

Refus'd thee even the boon to die:

The wretched gift Eternity

Was thine--and thou hast borne it well.

All that the Thunderer wrung from thee

Was but the menace which flung back

On him the torments of thy rack;

The fate thou didst so well foresee,

But would not to appease him tell;

And in thy Silence was his Sentence,

And in his Soul a vain repentance,

And evil dread so ill dissembled,

That in his hand the lightnings trembled.

 

Thy Godlike crime was to be kind,

     To render with thy precepts less

     The sum of human wretchedness,

And strengthen Man with his own mind;

But baffled as thou wert from high,

Still in thy patient energy,

In the endurance, and repulse

   Of thine impenetrable Spirit,

Which Earth and Heaven could not convulse,

     A mighty lesson we inherit:

Thou art a symbol and a sign

    To Mortals of their fate and force;

Like thee, Man is in part divine,

    A troubled stream from a pure source;

And Man in portions can foresee

His own funereal destiny;

His wretchedness, and his resistance,

And his sad unallied existence:

To which his Spirit may oppose

Itself--and equal to all woes,

    And a firm will, and a deep sense,

Which even in torture can descry

     Its own concenter'd recompense,

Triumphant where it dares defy,

And making Death a Victory.