**********************
PRESENT:
SIX MONTHS LATER
CLONAKILTY
CO. CORK, IRELAND
BYRONY ESTATE
At Hidden Glen
OCTOBER 1847
**********************
"Again Meaghan, again!" Evan ordered, pulling her off of the pine-needled
ground.
They stood facing each other, both of them gasping for breath. They had been
sparring for over two hours now, and she was tired for mercy's sake.
Meaghan grumbled to herself as she watched Evan walk back to the
sun - washed glade. She licked her lips, tasting the salty, sweat coating that
their training had caused. Her whole body was slicked with moisture. Her
blouse and breeches seemed a clinging second skin. She pulled at the material,
trying to allow some air in between it and her body. And that was another
thing, her muscles were aching nearly beyond endurance from this continued
exertion. Evan wasn't giving her time to recuperate. She'd complained about
that but he said that in a true challenge, her opponent would not wait for
her to get *rested*. Well, she wasn't in a real challenge!
She was finding Evan to be unmerciful, at least her tired body told her so. He
was utilizing the uneven terrain and surrounding greenery of their sparring area
with great *ability*. Of course, any *ability* would seem great compared to
her efforts. He manipulated her around the area like a cat batting at a toy.
He'd forced her out of the glen and back into the woods with that last round
of attack. She remembered hearing the underbrush crunching beneath their
boots as he forced her back. The retreat abruptly halted when her calves had
suddenly hit against a fallen tree trunk, propelling her backwards. Meaghan
didn't know how, but as she descended to meet the ground -rear end first- Evan
had disarmed her - again - and with such a quick motion that it was all a blur
to her wearied eyes. She was beginning to think that she would never be able
to survive, that she didn't have the continued energy, that she would *never*
have enough energy for a real challenge. It had been six months since he'd first
started her training and she felt no better than the first day of practice.
Well, maybe
that was an overstatement
Meaghan looked around her. They'd originally come by this training ground
following a hidden trail which stemmed from the farthest bank of the lake.
Eventually the trail widened into a rather large glen. Meaghan had found it
on one of her many days spent at the calm waters. When Evan mentioned
needing a private training area for outdoor training, Meaghan informed
him about the hidden spot. He explained the need for the privacy
by saying that in no way could the O'Sheas be a witness to his
torture...er, training. He also added, smirking, that it was a good
way to get used to not fighting in front of mortals. Ahh, another
one of those *rules*.
**********************
FLASHBACK:
FOUR MONTHS PREVIOUSLY
BYRONY GARDEN
JUNE 1847
**********************
Liam had asked her once why Evan was teaching her sword work. It had been
after Evan had caught the thirteen year old spying on them. Evan left the boy
with no doubt that he was not to find himself among the two adults while
they sparred- not ever again. At least, that is what Evan had told her after
marching the young man back to the house.
"Why do yea be sword fightin'?" Liam asked, holding a weed bucket beside
Meaghan.
"For me protection, lad." Meaghan answered as Liam and she worked in
the cultivated gardens.
"But nobody uses swords anymore," Liam tried to explain to her. "There be
guns nowadays."
"Ahh, but there do be people who use swords," Meaghan explained as she tried to
snip a stubborn bush. She paused, staring at the tiny tree as she finished
answering
him in a soft voice. "People who be prefferin' them over guns."
They continued on working, Liam had let the subject drop, she didn't
know why. It wasn't like him to do so, but he had.
***************
PRESENT:
OCTOBER 1847
***************
"Meaghan!" Evan growled, waiting for her to re-enter the glen.
"Okay! " She groused, dusting the dead pine needles off of her breeches with
her free hand. At first she felt awkward wearing the pants, exposed. But Evan
had been adamant about her wearing them. He told her that it was the best
clothing to wear when learning the sword. He also had her wear her dresses,
telling her that she had to be prepared to fight a challenge in all types of
possible attire.
Meaghan didn't feel awkward wearing the pants anymore. She was gladder for
the use of them. Her clothes were getting constantly slashed, and bloodied. The
outfit she had on now was littered with stitches she'd sewed in after previous
training sessions. As the months progressed, she derived a bit of satisfaction
to
see that she was not the only one wearing mended clothing, but her brain wasn't
focused on that. She was starting to imagine just how soft her bed pillows
were... how she could just sink into their billowy surface. She shook herself,
breaking free of the inviting image.
Meaghan looked down at the sword in her hand, her sword. She ran her fingers
across the silver blade. The weapon was half the size of her entire body. She
cried out as the sharp edge sliced into her fingers. It bleed heavily, only to
taper
off as she, involuntarily, brought the wounded appendage to her mouth. She
watched as the flickering light of quickening sealed the wound, leaving no
evidence
of it ever occurring. It was times like these that the dream-like bubble lifted
and
the reality of immortality wrapped itself around her. Evan's voice yanked her
out
of her thoughts.
"Are you coming before it gets dark?" Evan asked, as he studied
his blade edge. Meaghan glared at him.
"All right, I'm comin'." She yelled as she stopped dawdling and entered the
glade.
She wasn't looking forward to falling or losing her sword... yet again.
"You know, you will get better," Evan said as he pulled his stare from his
blade and looked at her approaching figure. " It just takes time and effort."
"I am trying!" Meaghan said, yawning into her hand.
"Try Bloody Well harder!" Evan demanded. He changed
right before her eyes, the hidden predator exposed. He did it
every time he went on the attack, disguising that side of him
again with the end of each bout. She would never want to
face him in earnest should she survive his training.
His eyes were hard, his face unreadable as he stalked her
down. Meaghan flinched, but then let her anger take
over for her. She was exhausted and stupidly did not
tread cautiously with her tongue as she spoke.
"Try harder? Evan. I hate... I absolutely hate, when yea say
that!" Meaghan growled, thrusting her sword at him as she
met his attack. He sidestepped her second swipe and within two
more parries, her sword was flung from her hand. It flew
up into the air, spinning head over tail. Evan reached up as it
descended, catching it at the hilt.
"That be only impressive the first five times yea did it!" Meaghan said,
crossing her arms across her chest.
Evan stepped up to her and made to hand the blade back. As she reached for it,
he struck a leg out and kicked her feet out from under her. She dropped to the
ground, tumbling into a back flip to swing her leg around to catch his. He
jumped
up and brought both blades down to her neck, crisscrossing them against the
sensitive area as she froze, kneeling on the glen's grassy surface.
"Uncontrollable anger will not help you, " He seethed. Meaghan was out of
breath, gasping. He did not even break a sweat. Evan pushed in
further, the blade breaking through her skin. She was afraid. Fear tumbled
in her belly but she thankfully saw that she could read his face - the anger
that
was there. Anger was good, anything was better than that masked countenance.
Evan was unrelenting and demanding yet at the same time fair. Though she was
so very tired and angry *and* scared, she had to admit that Evan would praise
her as well as hold no words back should she do something careless. She
suspected-
no - she knew this was one of her careless times. She felt the blood trickle
down the
side of her throat. "Anger is your major problem Meaghan. I know you're tired. I
know
that, but your stamina will build - it has so much already. Your anger - you
must learn
to control it or you will find yourself dead."
His own eyes blazed with tempered heat; she could see it, thank God she could!
And she could also see the difference between them. Whereas her anger made her
wild and rash, his was controlled, always controlled. "I'd hate to be wasting my
time." He finished.
"You aren't," Meaghan replied, standing up. He raised the blades with her. Evan
looked at her hard, cocking his head to the side... seeming to look for
something. She wondered if he found it as he pulled the blades away from her
throat and handed back her sword.
"I think we're done for today."
********************************
LATER THAT EVENING
METHOS' BED CHAMBER
********************************
Methos knew he'd been rough on her. He could see how tired
she was, and yet despite that, she didn't give up. This woman had
a fighting chance - that is, if she could get in control of her anger.
Today had not been the only day she'd let her frustration get to her
but despite that, Meaghan's progress was really remarkable. Her
strength, in the beginning, was nothing compared to the level
it was now. When they'd started she couldn't even lift the sword he'd
given her. Now, not only could she lift it but he found himself falling
back, at times from the force of her blows.
Meaghan Marie Kineally was a good student, a passionate student,
possibly one of the best he'd ever had. When he'd found her those
many months ago, he nearly left her in that storm. It would have been
so easy, but he couldn't. He'd experienced a pang of guilt over the thought,
and he did not feel guilt - not since the eleventh century, or so he liked to
claim. He wasn't heartless, well, not anymore. So, he brought her to Byrony
and left her there to recover, free of his presence.
She didn't need to be constantly assaulted with his quickening. He knew
how disorienting it could be to a new immortal. She would not be able to
process everything that was happening to her in the state that she was in.
It was better that he had left her with Catherine. He trusted the elder woman.
Methos had found that Catherine was even better in person than the letters
she'd written. He had felt confident in leaving Meaghan with her. Meaghan
needed the time to recuperate before she began living. Living, for perhaps the
first time in her young life.
When Methos thought on Meaghan, he was sometimes struck with
amazement and that was something that just didn't often happen. It
wasn't enough that she'd died. Meaghan had suffered a journey through
Hell and back, a journey that could have crushed her, but didn't. It was
admirable.
Catherine had hinted to him about Meaghan's previous circumstances
and Meaghan, herself, would make mention of her time at the Work
Houses, but only in passing. He knew she had lost a brother there and
that her family had died of infection, but that was just a list of
information. Meaghan never spoke of how it made her feel, at least not
to him. He suspected Catherine was there for Meaghan not only for
her physical recovery, but her emotional healing as well. Catherine had a
power that mystified, even him.
***************************************
Methos walked into his bedroom. As he walked further into the room,
he pulled his shirt out of his breeches, unbuttoning it as the same time.
He stripped the cloth off his shoulders and held it up for
examination as he walked over to his armoire.
"Another hole to mend," He commented as he poked his finger through
the torn material. He opened a door to his clothes closet and pulled out an old
sewing kit that had seen more use in the past six months than it had seen
in the past 60 years. Methos walked over to his bed. He fell upon it,
draping his body across its length..
Methos sighed as he settled himself, his ripped shirt and
sewing kit in hand. He leaned forward to arrange himself against
the pile of pillows.
'At least if I have to re-enter the game, it isn't through battle, well
not true battle,' the immortal thought to himself as he pulled the thread
through
the damaged apparel. One small favor in that.
"A favor that almost didn't happen," Methos said to the empty room.
His eyes narrowed as his thoughts turned on to his current problem.
He was being stalked, played with in shadows.
He really didn't understand what this immortal was getting at. Was
it suppose to be a scare tactic? Was it a game? It was annoying, at best.
Avoiding confrontation was second nature, and he gave little
thought to his practice of it. But now... now he had a student and
the idea that this immortal should find him and Meaghan at
Byrony played at his thoughts. If someone should come looking
for him, at least Meaghan would be safe here.
Acquiring Byrony was one of the best things he could have done. Though
he was sure if he asked Byron, the poet would disagree. It's holy ground was
something that Byron... Gods, only Byron would be so bold as to rename
an estate after himself... Well, the holy ground was something Byron had
wanted. It was a chance to get away from the game, but get away from it
in luxury and not in some stuffy, damp church. Methos remembered his
friend's enthusiasm while telling his "Doc" about the holy estate. It was a
shame, for Byron, that he didn't own it anymore.
***************
VILLA DIADOTI
on the shores of:
LAKE GENEVA,
SWITZERLAND
June 22, 1816
***************
"Byron?"
"ByrON!?!" Methos called out yet again, trying to get the
wayward attention of his friend," If you're not too busy."
A sardonic smile slipped over Methos' face as he watched Byron
reluctantly extract himself from the "Lady" who lay draped
across his lap.
"Ah...My turn already, Doc?" Byron asked as his mouth roamed over
the buxom beauty.
"Yes," Methos answered. He glanced toward Percy Shelly who lay
on the floor sprawled out upon a pile of pillows. "I believe
Shelly's folded," Methos continued, smirking.
"Did he?" asked Byron, looking over the beauty's shoulder to
Shelly's passed out form, "Drunk on the ol' nectar of life I'd
wager."
"Speaking of wager," said Methos, staring pointedly at
Byron," I do believe it is yours to make."
Methos watched Byron taste the pouting lips of his young
"Lady". "My sweet delicious Jodi, how I do want to go exploring
passion's fields with you," Byron growled lustily, regret
tempering his next words, "but, you must excuse me for
the moment."
"Hmm...all right but *only* for a moment," allowed, albeit
grudgingly, the coquette named Jodi. She pressed her body
even closer against Byron's, her hand roaming over the
poet, playing with the chest hair that lay exposed atop his
disheveled shirt.
Methos watched them, relishing the sensuality of their display.
He grabbed up a bottle of red wine that sat upon the table,
throwing his head back. The scarlet liquid slide out of
the bottle and into his awaiting mouth. The juice splashed
across his tongue, exciting his taste buds. He slammed the
bottle back down on the table, the remaining wine sloshing
within the glass walls. Running an arm over his mouth, he wiped
away some spilt drops that had escaped down his chin.
Suddenly Methos froze. He could feel his heart start to pound
against his rib cage. He gripped the edge of the table. Methos
felt his control slipping. He broke out in a sweat; the back of
his collar soaking. He desperately needed Byron's display to
stop for he had the uncontrollable desire to grip Jodi to his own
body, He wanted his turn. He realized as he sat across from the
poet, that it would be so easy to replace Byron's face with that
of Kronos' war painted visage.
"Come Brother, she hungers for you," Kronos' voice
whispered from his cavernous memories.
It was with Kronos that he shared, took and caressed a woman
with abandon. If those memories could be awakened so easily,
perhaps others of the not so sensual nature could as well. He
would not let that happen.
He could not.
"Byron!" Methos cried, calling out rather harshly as he tried to
get himself back to his cool, controlled self. He hated weakness
and most of all, he couldn't abide weakness of will, especially
within himself.
"Whaa, what, darling where are you," Shelly muttered from the
floor, then was silent again.
Byron gave Jodi one last sound kiss before she slipped off his
lap. She sauntered over to a sofa, her eyes never leaving
Byron's figure. Byron reluctantly returned his attention back
to the game of cards.
"Hmm... Now?"
"Now. It is your bet," answered Methos as he closed his fanned
cards, placing his dealt hand upon the table. He grimaced,
shaking his head as the last vestiges of temptation abandon
him.
Methos saw Byron try to read him. He watched as the poet searched
for any clues as to what would be his best route. Methos didn't
survive for 4800 years by being 'read'. Yet he saw Byron's eyes
narrow then widened as a smile crept over the Englishman's face.
"You have nothing,' Byron conjectured, leaning over the table
towards Methos. "In fact, I am so sure you have nothing that I
am ready to really raise the stakes."
Methos held Byron's gaze bowing his head to him, signaling for
him to explain the terms as he said, "And what exactly is your
wager?"
"I will bet Byrony Estate against your hand."
"Byrony? But you just acquired it. I thought you wanted it as
your "get away" from the plaguing masses, mortals and immortals alike?"
"And so it shall be," answered Byron, self assured, grabbing up
the bottle of red wine from Methos' fingers.
"But tell me, what is it you could possibly want from me that would
match that?" asked Methos.
Byron leaned further across the mahogany table. He spoke low,
for only Methos' hearing.
"I want you to break the 'bounds of decency' ," revealed Byron,
glancing towards the ceiling, "Mary still lay sleeping,
hungering."
((("Hungering brother," whispered Kronos' words again.)))
"Break the bounds of passion," Methos' growled, mimicking
Byron's words of earlier that night.
EARLIER THAT NIGHT.
"Lets break the bounds of passion,' suggested Byron as
his hand roamed over the sleeping body of Mary
Shelly.
"More like breaking the bounds of decency." was
Methos' reply.
Byron reached across Mary's nightmare - filled slumber.
He cupped Methos' face, holding him there.
"Feel her hunger," enticed Byron as he released Methos' cheek
and grabbed his hand, placing his palm flat against Mary's chest.
Methos' body spiked with desire, his eyes dilated. He
watched the trail his hand made upon Mary's heaving chest. He
looked back to Byron. The poet's face was mere inches from his
own. Methos could see his desire mirrored in Byron's own eyes,
the possibilities of pleasure crowding his mind. He wrenched his
gaze away from Byron's, pulling away from the bed as if scalded.
"No," he firmly stated, paling as he heard pounding hooves
thundering from his memory and the cackle of a brother he didn't
want to remember. He shook his head again, backing further away.
*********
Methos let the events of earlier that night recede into the
background of his thoughts, his control still firmly restored.
"I don't think so," Methos answered coolly to Byron's challenge.
"What's a matter, afraid your hand isn't good enough?" Byron
asked, trying to push Methos. "Now Doc, I hope your not going
to let me down."
"Fine," Methos answered with a mock sorrow - filled sigh, his gaze
never straying from Byron's," I accept."
"This is an interesting bit of entertainment, I'd wager."
Methos stared at Byron intently, shaking his head ruefully as
a grin broke out across his face.
"Too bad you've lost," said Methos as he flipped his cards over,
one by one," I'll take the deed now, if you don't mind."
****************************************************
Kronos, he'd have to remind himself not to remember him, as if that
were possible. His *brother* still slipped into his thoughts, even
after so much time had passed. How could he not? Methos
was used to it, but he didn't like it. He didn't want to be reminded
of his past, but it didn't matter, it was with him all the time.
Thoughts of Byron and Kronos did not a good combination make. He
decided not to think about them at all.
Methos tied off his sewing string and tossed the shirt and sewing kit to the
side
as he slid down and closed his eyes.
*******************
Sleep, that was what he would think about. But when he closed his eyes
it wasn't visions of sheep prancing around in his mind's eye. It was the
vision of long black hair that caressed ivory cheeks and gray eyes that
near devoured him, drawling him closer to her beauty. It was here,
in the realm of dreams and released desires that he let burgeoning
thoughts of Meaghan and himself twine together. It was only here that
the student became his lover.
She stood at the foot of his bed. He slid off it, walking to her. She wore
nothing but a flimsy chemise that did little to hide the sheer picture of
woman's beauty beneath.
He reached up to cup her face, her skin was so soft against his hand. She
turned her cheek into the embrace. Then Methos leaned forward, reaching for
her lips. "Meaghan," He whispered against them.
She turned her head to meet his mouth and reached her arms around him, pulling
his body against hers. Methos could feel the weight of her breasts against his
own
skin. She was beautiful. He tasted her mouth, the flavor of strawberries. Her
lips pillowed against his own. Methos reached down to cup a breast in
his palm. He was aching to feel her in his hands.
"Ughh... Gods!?!" Methos choked suddenly. He pulled back, looking down at
his chest. A dagger was rammed into his heart. He fell back more but Meaghan
grabbed the nape of his neck, pulling him to her. Her mouth clamped against his
own gaping one. She kissed him rough and ruthlessly, then pulled away from him.
"Meaghan?" He gasped, blood rising in his throat as he began to crumble,
retreating. The back of his knees hit the bed. She leaned into his face, her
height almost as tall as his.
"Hello Brother." She answered, only it was not her voice. It was Kronos'. The
room shattered away like it was glass. He found himself once again within the
Horsemen camp. The foul scent of manure wafted through his nose. He could feel
the sand- whipped wind in his hair as his long strands wrapped about his neck.
He
saw Meaghan's image shimmer, then reform into Kronos'.
"What's the matter Brother? Have you grown soft?"
Methos fell to his knees. He slowly reached a bloodied hand to his face and
rubbed it. Pulling his palm away he saw the war paint blue upon his fingers. He
looked up and saw Kronos laughing...
...then Methos fell back, his head hitting the sandy floor. All went black.
*********************
Methos jumped out of the bed, feeling his bare chest for a
wound. His adrenaline ripped through him. He was
gasping. The lingering atmosphere of his dream draped across his
conscience as he tried to orient himself to where he actually
was.
"A dream," He said, still looking around his bed chamber as if something
was going to attack him. Methos fell heavily upon a chair as he draped his
head between his knees, "...a dream."
PRESENT:
SIX MONTHS LATER
CLONAKILTY
CO. CORK, IRELAND
BYRONY ESTATE
At Hidden Glen
OCTOBER 1847
**********************
"Again Meaghan, again!" Evan ordered, pulling her off of the pine-needled
ground.
They stood facing each other, both of them gasping for breath. They had been
sparring for over two hours now, and she was tired for mercy's sake.
Meaghan grumbled to herself as she watched Evan walk back to the
sun - washed glade. She licked her lips, tasting the salty, sweat coating that
their training had caused. Her whole body was slicked with moisture. Her
blouse and breeches seemed a clinging second skin. She pulled at the material,
trying to allow some air in between it and her body. And that was another
thing, her muscles were aching nearly beyond endurance from this continued
exertion. Evan wasn't giving her time to recuperate. She'd complained about
that but he said that in a true challenge, her opponent would not wait for
her to get *rested*. Well, she wasn't in a real challenge!
She was finding Evan to be unmerciful, at least her tired body told her so. He
was utilizing the uneven terrain and surrounding greenery of their sparring area
with great *ability*. Of course, any *ability* would seem great compared to
her efforts. He manipulated her around the area like a cat batting at a toy.
He'd forced her out of the glen and back into the woods with that last round
of attack. She remembered hearing the underbrush crunching beneath their
boots as he forced her back. The retreat abruptly halted when her calves had
suddenly hit against a fallen tree trunk, propelling her backwards. Meaghan
didn't know how, but as she descended to meet the ground -rear end first- Evan
had disarmed her - again - and with such a quick motion that it was all a blur
to her wearied eyes. She was beginning to think that she would never be able
to survive, that she didn't have the continued energy, that she would *never*
have enough energy for a real challenge. It had been six months since he'd first
started her training and she felt no better than the first day of practice.
Well, maybe
that was an overstatement
Meaghan looked around her. They'd originally come by this training ground
following a hidden trail which stemmed from the farthest bank of the lake.
Eventually the trail widened into a rather large glen. Meaghan had found it
on one of her many days spent at the calm waters. When Evan mentioned
needing a private training area for outdoor training, Meaghan informed
him about the hidden spot. He explained the need for the privacy
by saying that in no way could the O'Sheas be a witness to his
torture...er, training. He also added, smirking, that it was a good
way to get used to not fighting in front of mortals. Ahh, another
one of those *rules*.
**********************
FLASHBACK:
FOUR MONTHS PREVIOUSLY
BYRONY GARDEN
JUNE 1847
**********************
Liam had asked her once why Evan was teaching her sword work. It had been
after Evan had caught the thirteen year old spying on them. Evan left the boy
with no doubt that he was not to find himself among the two adults while
they sparred- not ever again. At least, that is what Evan had told her after
marching the young man back to the house.
"Why do yea be sword fightin'?" Liam asked, holding a weed bucket beside
Meaghan.
"For me protection, lad." Meaghan answered as Liam and she worked in
the cultivated gardens.
"But nobody uses swords anymore," Liam tried to explain to her. "There be
guns nowadays."
"Ahh, but there do be people who use swords," Meaghan explained as she tried to
snip a stubborn bush. She paused, staring at the tiny tree as she finished
answering
him in a soft voice. "People who be prefferin' them over guns."
They continued on working, Liam had let the subject drop, she didn't
know why. It wasn't like him to do so, but he had.
***************
PRESENT:
OCTOBER 1847
***************
"Meaghan!" Evan growled, waiting for her to re-enter the glen.
"Okay! " She groused, dusting the dead pine needles off of her breeches with
her free hand. At first she felt awkward wearing the pants, exposed. But Evan
had been adamant about her wearing them. He told her that it was the best
clothing to wear when learning the sword. He also had her wear her dresses,
telling her that she had to be prepared to fight a challenge in all types of
possible attire.
Meaghan didn't feel awkward wearing the pants anymore. She was gladder for
the use of them. Her clothes were getting constantly slashed, and bloodied. The
outfit she had on now was littered with stitches she'd sewed in after previous
training sessions. As the months progressed, she derived a bit of satisfaction
to
see that she was not the only one wearing mended clothing, but her brain wasn't
focused on that. She was starting to imagine just how soft her bed pillows
were... how she could just sink into their billowy surface. She shook herself,
breaking free of the inviting image.
Meaghan looked down at the sword in her hand, her sword. She ran her fingers
across the silver blade. The weapon was half the size of her entire body. She
cried out as the sharp edge sliced into her fingers. It bleed heavily, only to
taper
off as she, involuntarily, brought the wounded appendage to her mouth. She
watched as the flickering light of quickening sealed the wound, leaving no
evidence
of it ever occurring. It was times like these that the dream-like bubble lifted
and
the reality of immortality wrapped itself around her. Evan's voice yanked her
out
of her thoughts.
"Are you coming before it gets dark?" Evan asked, as he studied
his blade edge. Meaghan glared at him.
"All right, I'm comin'." She yelled as she stopped dawdling and entered the
glade.
She wasn't looking forward to falling or losing her sword... yet again.
"You know, you will get better," Evan said as he pulled his stare from his
blade and looked at her approaching figure. " It just takes time and effort."
"I am trying!" Meaghan said, yawning into her hand.
"Try Bloody Well harder!" Evan demanded. He changed
right before her eyes, the hidden predator exposed. He did it
every time he went on the attack, disguising that side of him
again with the end of each bout. She would never want to
face him in earnest should she survive his training.
His eyes were hard, his face unreadable as he stalked her
down. Meaghan flinched, but then let her anger take
over for her. She was exhausted and stupidly did not
tread cautiously with her tongue as she spoke.
"Try harder? Evan. I hate... I absolutely hate, when yea say
that!" Meaghan growled, thrusting her sword at him as she
met his attack. He sidestepped her second swipe and within two
more parries, her sword was flung from her hand. It flew
up into the air, spinning head over tail. Evan reached up as it
descended, catching it at the hilt.
"That be only impressive the first five times yea did it!" Meaghan said,
crossing her arms across her chest.
Evan stepped up to her and made to hand the blade back. As she reached for it,
he struck a leg out and kicked her feet out from under her. She dropped to the
ground, tumbling into a back flip to swing her leg around to catch his. He
jumped
up and brought both blades down to her neck, crisscrossing them against the
sensitive area as she froze, kneeling on the glen's grassy surface.
"Uncontrollable anger will not help you, " He seethed. Meaghan was out of
breath, gasping. He did not even break a sweat. Evan pushed in
further, the blade breaking through her skin. She was afraid. Fear tumbled
in her belly but she thankfully saw that she could read his face - the anger
that
was there. Anger was good, anything was better than that masked countenance.
Evan was unrelenting and demanding yet at the same time fair. Though she was
so very tired and angry *and* scared, she had to admit that Evan would praise
her as well as hold no words back should she do something careless. She
suspected-
no - she knew this was one of her careless times. She felt the blood trickle
down the
side of her throat. "Anger is your major problem Meaghan. I know you're tired. I
know
that, but your stamina will build - it has so much already. Your anger - you
must learn
to control it or you will find yourself dead."
His own eyes blazed with tempered heat; she could see it, thank God she could!
And she could also see the difference between them. Whereas her anger made her
wild and rash, his was controlled, always controlled. "I'd hate to be wasting my
time." He finished.
"You aren't," Meaghan replied, standing up. He raised the blades with her. Evan
looked at her hard, cocking his head to the side... seeming to look for
something. She wondered if he found it as he pulled the blades away from her
throat and handed back her sword.
"I think we're done for today."
********************************
LATER THAT EVENING
METHOS' BED CHAMBER
********************************
Methos knew he'd been rough on her. He could see how tired
she was, and yet despite that, she didn't give up. This woman had
a fighting chance - that is, if she could get in control of her anger.
Today had not been the only day she'd let her frustration get to her
but despite that, Meaghan's progress was really remarkable. Her
strength, in the beginning, was nothing compared to the level
it was now. When they'd started she couldn't even lift the sword he'd
given her. Now, not only could she lift it but he found himself falling
back, at times from the force of her blows.
Meaghan Marie Kineally was a good student, a passionate student,
possibly one of the best he'd ever had. When he'd found her those
many months ago, he nearly left her in that storm. It would have been
so easy, but he couldn't. He'd experienced a pang of guilt over the thought,
and he did not feel guilt - not since the eleventh century, or so he liked to
claim. He wasn't heartless, well, not anymore. So, he brought her to Byrony
and left her there to recover, free of his presence.
She didn't need to be constantly assaulted with his quickening. He knew
how disorienting it could be to a new immortal. She would not be able to
process everything that was happening to her in the state that she was in.
It was better that he had left her with Catherine. He trusted the elder woman.
Methos had found that Catherine was even better in person than the letters
she'd written. He had felt confident in leaving Meaghan with her. Meaghan
needed the time to recuperate before she began living. Living, for perhaps the
first time in her young life.
When Methos thought on Meaghan, he was sometimes struck with
amazement and that was something that just didn't often happen. It
wasn't enough that she'd died. Meaghan had suffered a journey through
Hell and back, a journey that could have crushed her, but didn't. It was
admirable.
Catherine had hinted to him about Meaghan's previous circumstances
and Meaghan, herself, would make mention of her time at the Work
Houses, but only in passing. He knew she had lost a brother there and
that her family had died of infection, but that was just a list of
information. Meaghan never spoke of how it made her feel, at least not
to him. He suspected Catherine was there for Meaghan not only for
her physical recovery, but her emotional healing as well. Catherine had a
power that mystified, even him.
***************************************
Methos walked into his bedroom. As he walked further into the room,
he pulled his shirt out of his breeches, unbuttoning it as the same time.
He stripped the cloth off his shoulders and held it up for
examination as he walked over to his armoire.
"Another hole to mend," He commented as he poked his finger through
the torn material. He opened a door to his clothes closet and pulled out an old
sewing kit that had seen more use in the past six months than it had seen
in the past 60 years. Methos walked over to his bed. He fell upon it,
draping his body across its length..
Methos sighed as he settled himself, his ripped shirt and
sewing kit in hand. He leaned forward to arrange himself against
the pile of pillows.
'At least if I have to re-enter the game, it isn't through battle, well
not true battle,' the immortal thought to himself as he pulled the thread
through
the damaged apparel. One small favor in that.
"A favor that almost didn't happen," Methos said to the empty room.
His eyes narrowed as his thoughts turned on to his current problem.
He was being stalked, played with in shadows.
He really didn't understand what this immortal was getting at. Was
it suppose to be a scare tactic? Was it a game? It was annoying, at best.
Avoiding confrontation was second nature, and he gave little
thought to his practice of it. But now... now he had a student and
the idea that this immortal should find him and Meaghan at
Byrony played at his thoughts. If someone should come looking
for him, at least Meaghan would be safe here.
Acquiring Byrony was one of the best things he could have done. Though
he was sure if he asked Byron, the poet would disagree. It's holy ground was
something that Byron... Gods, only Byron would be so bold as to rename
an estate after himself... Well, the holy ground was something Byron had
wanted. It was a chance to get away from the game, but get away from it
in luxury and not in some stuffy, damp church. Methos remembered his
friend's enthusiasm while telling his "Doc" about the holy estate. It was a
shame, for Byron, that he didn't own it anymore.
***************
VILLA DIADOTI
on the shores of:
LAKE GENEVA,
SWITZERLAND
June 22, 1816
***************
"Byron?"
"ByrON!?!" Methos called out yet again, trying to get the
wayward attention of his friend," If you're not too busy."
A sardonic smile slipped over Methos' face as he watched Byron
reluctantly extract himself from the "Lady" who lay draped
across his lap.
"Ah...My turn already, Doc?" Byron asked as his mouth roamed over
the buxom beauty.
"Yes," Methos answered. He glanced toward Percy Shelly who lay
on the floor sprawled out upon a pile of pillows. "I believe
Shelly's folded," Methos continued, smirking.
"Did he?" asked Byron, looking over the beauty's shoulder to
Shelly's passed out form, "Drunk on the ol' nectar of life I'd
wager."
"Speaking of wager," said Methos, staring pointedly at
Byron," I do believe it is yours to make."
Methos watched Byron taste the pouting lips of his young
"Lady". "My sweet delicious Jodi, how I do want to go exploring
passion's fields with you," Byron growled lustily, regret
tempering his next words, "but, you must excuse me for
the moment."
"Hmm...all right but *only* for a moment," allowed, albeit
grudgingly, the coquette named Jodi. She pressed her body
even closer against Byron's, her hand roaming over the
poet, playing with the chest hair that lay exposed atop his
disheveled shirt.
Methos watched them, relishing the sensuality of their display.
He grabbed up a bottle of red wine that sat upon the table,
throwing his head back. The scarlet liquid slide out of
the bottle and into his awaiting mouth. The juice splashed
across his tongue, exciting his taste buds. He slammed the
bottle back down on the table, the remaining wine sloshing
within the glass walls. Running an arm over his mouth, he wiped
away some spilt drops that had escaped down his chin.
Suddenly Methos froze. He could feel his heart start to pound
against his rib cage. He gripped the edge of the table. Methos
felt his control slipping. He broke out in a sweat; the back of
his collar soaking. He desperately needed Byron's display to
stop for he had the uncontrollable desire to grip Jodi to his own
body, He wanted his turn. He realized as he sat across from the
poet, that it would be so easy to replace Byron's face with that
of Kronos' war painted visage.
"Come Brother, she hungers for you," Kronos' voice
whispered from his cavernous memories.
It was with Kronos that he shared, took and caressed a woman
with abandon. If those memories could be awakened so easily,
perhaps others of the not so sensual nature could as well. He
would not let that happen.
He could not.
"Byron!" Methos cried, calling out rather harshly as he tried to
get himself back to his cool, controlled self. He hated weakness
and most of all, he couldn't abide weakness of will, especially
within himself.
"Whaa, what, darling where are you," Shelly muttered from the
floor, then was silent again.
Byron gave Jodi one last sound kiss before she slipped off his
lap. She sauntered over to a sofa, her eyes never leaving
Byron's figure. Byron reluctantly returned his attention back
to the game of cards.
"Hmm... Now?"
"Now. It is your bet," answered Methos as he closed his fanned
cards, placing his dealt hand upon the table. He grimaced,
shaking his head as the last vestiges of temptation abandon
him.
Methos saw Byron try to read him. He watched as the poet searched
for any clues as to what would be his best route. Methos didn't
survive for 4800 years by being 'read'. Yet he saw Byron's eyes
narrow then widened as a smile crept over the Englishman's face.
"You have nothing,' Byron conjectured, leaning over the table
towards Methos. "In fact, I am so sure you have nothing that I
am ready to really raise the stakes."
Methos held Byron's gaze bowing his head to him, signaling for
him to explain the terms as he said, "And what exactly is your
wager?"
"I will bet Byrony Estate against your hand."
"Byrony? But you just acquired it. I thought you wanted it as
your "get away" from the plaguing masses, mortals and immortals alike?"
"And so it shall be," answered Byron, self assured, grabbing up
the bottle of red wine from Methos' fingers.
"But tell me, what is it you could possibly want from me that would
match that?" asked Methos.
Byron leaned further across the mahogany table. He spoke low,
for only Methos' hearing.
"I want you to break the 'bounds of decency' ," revealed Byron,
glancing towards the ceiling, "Mary still lay sleeping,
hungering."
((("Hungering brother," whispered Kronos' words again.)))
"Break the bounds of passion," Methos' growled, mimicking
Byron's words of earlier that night.
EARLIER THAT NIGHT.
"Lets break the bounds of passion,' suggested Byron as
his hand roamed over the sleeping body of Mary
Shelly.
"More like breaking the bounds of decency." was
Methos' reply.
Byron reached across Mary's nightmare - filled slumber.
He cupped Methos' face, holding him there.
"Feel her hunger," enticed Byron as he released Methos' cheek
and grabbed his hand, placing his palm flat against Mary's chest.
Methos' body spiked with desire, his eyes dilated. He
watched the trail his hand made upon Mary's heaving chest. He
looked back to Byron. The poet's face was mere inches from his
own. Methos could see his desire mirrored in Byron's own eyes,
the possibilities of pleasure crowding his mind. He wrenched his
gaze away from Byron's, pulling away from the bed as if scalded.
"No," he firmly stated, paling as he heard pounding hooves
thundering from his memory and the cackle of a brother he didn't
want to remember. He shook his head again, backing further away.
*********
Methos let the events of earlier that night recede into the
background of his thoughts, his control still firmly restored.
"I don't think so," Methos answered coolly to Byron's challenge.
"What's a matter, afraid your hand isn't good enough?" Byron
asked, trying to push Methos. "Now Doc, I hope your not going
to let me down."
"Fine," Methos answered with a mock sorrow - filled sigh, his gaze
never straying from Byron's," I accept."
"This is an interesting bit of entertainment, I'd wager."
Methos stared at Byron intently, shaking his head ruefully as
a grin broke out across his face.
"Too bad you've lost," said Methos as he flipped his cards over,
one by one," I'll take the deed now, if you don't mind."
****************************************************
Kronos, he'd have to remind himself not to remember him, as if that
were possible. His *brother* still slipped into his thoughts, even
after so much time had passed. How could he not? Methos
was used to it, but he didn't like it. He didn't want to be reminded
of his past, but it didn't matter, it was with him all the time.
Thoughts of Byron and Kronos did not a good combination make. He
decided not to think about them at all.
Methos tied off his sewing string and tossed the shirt and sewing kit to the
side
as he slid down and closed his eyes.
*******************
Sleep, that was what he would think about. But when he closed his eyes
it wasn't visions of sheep prancing around in his mind's eye. It was the
vision of long black hair that caressed ivory cheeks and gray eyes that
near devoured him, drawling him closer to her beauty. It was here,
in the realm of dreams and released desires that he let burgeoning
thoughts of Meaghan and himself twine together. It was only here that
the student became his lover.
She stood at the foot of his bed. He slid off it, walking to her. She wore
nothing but a flimsy chemise that did little to hide the sheer picture of
woman's beauty beneath.
He reached up to cup her face, her skin was so soft against his hand. She
turned her cheek into the embrace. Then Methos leaned forward, reaching for
her lips. "Meaghan," He whispered against them.
She turned her head to meet his mouth and reached her arms around him, pulling
his body against hers. Methos could feel the weight of her breasts against his
own
skin. She was beautiful. He tasted her mouth, the flavor of strawberries. Her
lips pillowed against his own. Methos reached down to cup a breast in
his palm. He was aching to feel her in his hands.
"Ughh... Gods!?!" Methos choked suddenly. He pulled back, looking down at
his chest. A dagger was rammed into his heart. He fell back more but Meaghan
grabbed the nape of his neck, pulling him to her. Her mouth clamped against his
own gaping one. She kissed him rough and ruthlessly, then pulled away from him.
"Meaghan?" He gasped, blood rising in his throat as he began to crumble,
retreating. The back of his knees hit the bed. She leaned into his face, her
height almost as tall as his.
"Hello Brother." She answered, only it was not her voice. It was Kronos'. The
room shattered away like it was glass. He found himself once again within the
Horsemen camp. The foul scent of manure wafted through his nose. He could feel
the sand- whipped wind in his hair as his long strands wrapped about his neck.
He
saw Meaghan's image shimmer, then reform into Kronos'.
"What's the matter Brother? Have you grown soft?"
Methos fell to his knees. He slowly reached a bloodied hand to his face and
rubbed it. Pulling his palm away he saw the war paint blue upon his fingers. He
looked up and saw Kronos laughing...
...then Methos fell back, his head hitting the sandy floor. All went black.
*********************
Methos jumped out of the bed, feeling his bare chest for a
wound. His adrenaline ripped through him. He was
gasping. The lingering atmosphere of his dream draped across his
conscience as he tried to orient himself to where he actually
was.
"A dream," He said, still looking around his bed chamber as if something
was going to attack him. Methos fell heavily upon a chair as he draped his
head between his knees, "...a dream."