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.