Methos walked into the dojo and found Duncan sitting beneath one of the
windows, looking impossibly comfortable in full lotus and doing something
that seemed rather uncharacteristic of the Immortal, reading poetry. As
Methos approached, taking in the unexpectedly spacious yet Spartan room
Duncan broke the silence and began to read.
So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
Duncan looked up from the battered book and watched Methos's face. The older Immortal's expression was a combination of surprise that Duncan was reading poetry and curiosity as to the poem. "Lord Byron," Duncan said in a distant voice, "The man had only seven years left in his life before he wrote this." Methos looked at Duncan incrediously.
"That's not possible," the other said, restraining the urge to grab the book away from his friend, expecting to see Duncan's own handwriting in it, "You've been hiding this new found talent of yours from me." Duncan laughed, it was a short, bitter burst of laughter from a soul that had seen too much pain. "Give me that book," Methos said and Duncan handed it over, fluidly slipping from lotus to standing in a cat like motion. The cover simply read the word poetry. Embossed in gold leaf on a burgundy cover, it was clear to Methos that this book was easily a hundred years old, he started to doubt any new found poetry skills in his friend when he opened the page and found clearly printed words, printed words, not hand written.
"I don't write it, but I read it from time to time," Duncan said, streaching a little and walking to the desk at the back corner of the long room to attend to a few matters before he left with Methos to go to Joe's bar for a drink and listen to the newest group of people for that evenings' open mic session. Joe usually managed to weed out the worst of the bunch, perhaps this night would be better then the last week. As Methos flipped through the book he noticed a few poems with names written by them, some with a woman's name such as Byron's She Walks in Beauty and other's with a man's name, like Wolfe's The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna. Beside the latter, Methos saw another note, this with a date. Methos tapped the page next to the name as Duncan walked over and looked at him. "You knew of this?" he said in a cautiously questioning tone. Duncan shook his head as he grabbed his coat.
"I was there," he said and they walked out the door. "Ahh France, the land of wine, women and Fitz's annoyances," Methos said in a droll tone, startling Duncan out of his thoughts of ground turned to mud due to the amount of blood fallen. At the mention of Fitz, Duncan gave Methos an annoyed glare. The pair spent their entire trip to Joe's bantering back and forth over some prank that Fitz had pulled on Duncan and if Methos was wrong to get Duncan drunk to find out about it. The debate wasn't settled as they walked in.
So, we'll go no more a-roving
So late into the night, Though the heart be still as loving, And the moon be still as bright.
For the sword outwears its sheath And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest.
Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.
Duncan looked up from the battered book and watched Methos's face. The older Immortal's expression was a combination of surprise that Duncan was reading poetry and curiosity as to the poem. "Lord Byron," Duncan said in a distant voice, "The man had only seven years left in his life before he wrote this." Methos looked at Duncan incrediously.
"That's not possible," the other said, restraining the urge to grab the book away from his friend, expecting to see Duncan's own handwriting in it, "You've been hiding this new found talent of yours from me." Duncan laughed, it was a short, bitter burst of laughter from a soul that had seen too much pain. "Give me that book," Methos said and Duncan handed it over, fluidly slipping from lotus to standing in a cat like motion. The cover simply read the word poetry. Embossed in gold leaf on a burgundy cover, it was clear to Methos that this book was easily a hundred years old, he started to doubt any new found poetry skills in his friend when he opened the page and found clearly printed words, printed words, not hand written.
"I don't write it, but I read it from time to time," Duncan said, streaching a little and walking to the desk at the back corner of the long room to attend to a few matters before he left with Methos to go to Joe's bar for a drink and listen to the newest group of people for that evenings' open mic session. Joe usually managed to weed out the worst of the bunch, perhaps this night would be better then the last week. As Methos flipped through the book he noticed a few poems with names written by them, some with a woman's name such as Byron's She Walks in Beauty and other's with a man's name, like Wolfe's The Burial of Sir John Moore after Corunna. Beside the latter, Methos saw another note, this with a date. Methos tapped the page next to the name as Duncan walked over and looked at him. "You knew of this?" he said in a cautiously questioning tone. Duncan shook his head as he grabbed his coat.
"I was there," he said and they walked out the door. "Ahh France, the land of wine, women and Fitz's annoyances," Methos said in a droll tone, startling Duncan out of his thoughts of ground turned to mud due to the amount of blood fallen. At the mention of Fitz, Duncan gave Methos an annoyed glare. The pair spent their entire trip to Joe's bantering back and forth over some prank that Fitz had pulled on Duncan and if Methos was wrong to get Duncan drunk to find out about it. The debate wasn't settled as they walked in.