Disclaimer: See Chapter One.

Author's Note: Ysolde, I want to know what Tristan meant in the review. Really. I do. 'Cause the Danish to English translation sites only gave me about four words out of it. And that didn't make sense. Okay, folks, you know the drill. Please review and I'll write more. And if you have ideas, tell me. Oh, and I apologize. Yes, I do have multiple fandoms just like the main character of this story and, yes, my muses tend to be rather forceful. Never been tied down to a bed by one yet, but damned if it isn't a thought.

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Muses Behaving Badly

Chapter Eight: Death to Death

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I was going to kill Death.

Hey, that kind of sounded fun and a bit oxymoronish.

Well, actually I was going to kill Methos, my Highlander muse.

As soon as I figured out how to get out of the ropes tying me to my bed.

Pulling again, I grunted in frustration and flopped back onto the bed. Great. I go to sleep and wake up with Methos grinning like a jack-o-lantern. Apparently he'd decided that the best way to deal with me, as his authoress, was to tie me down and then rant at me with storyline ideas.

That had been three hours ago.

Those three hours of diatribe done, he'd left and I'd been left tied to the bed with no way free.

I could hear someone in the hallway. "METHOS!" I shouted, lifting my head from the pillow to see if he was standing in the doorway.

"Not Methos," purred Lancelot, standing in the doorway. "Now this is intriguing. Shouldn't you be wearing only a blanket?" Trust Lancelot to remember the scene from Bull Durham. Damn him.

I shook my head, screwed my eyes shut and collapsed back onto the bed. "Unless you're carrying something sharp to cut me loose, not interested in anything you have to offer, Du Lac."

The knight padded across the bedroom and I felt the ropes slacken as he sliced through the ropes. "Why did he tie you to the bed?"

I opened my eyes and began to pull the ropes from my wrist. Sitting up, I untied the ropes around my ankles. "Methos wants a story focusing on him. He spent three hours telling me exactly what he wants to happen." Finally free of the ropes, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and ran for the bathroom, glad that I had worn my sheep pajamas to bed instead of something diaphanous and feminine. Last thing I needed was to look girly while being freed from being tied to my bed, I thought with a snort.

Ten minutes later I exited the bathroom and headed for the kitchen and something edible. Dagonet, bless him, was flipping flapjacks on the griddle of the stove and had a stack of delightful-looking pancakes on a plate already. Arthur was seated in the breakfast nook, reading the Washington Times while sipping something clearly alcoholic. Bors was napping on the couch, apparently taking a break from whatever strenuous activity he'd been participating in.

A quick glance at the clock on the oven told me that it was barely eleven in the morning. And that every single one of these men was imbibing something that underage people could be arrested for.

Oh, well, I thought, it's happy hour somewhere. Orange juice and vodka poured into glass made a screwdriver and I was soon seated at the kitchen island, eyeglasses perched on my nose and the work that paid my bills before me. See, I actually have to work for a living. Work from home but work nonetheless. I'm an editor.

And my latest writer had no concept of punctuation.

Joy.

My red pen was out and marking the papers before me, turning the pages bloody. Damn, I was going to be rewriting this from the ground up, I decided. Maybe I should just call my boss and tell him that the writer was crap and they should hire a ghostwriter.

"Is something wrong?" asked Galahad, looking up from the magazine he was reading. At least it wasn't one of my younger brother's skin mags--though it was a motorcycle magazine and was opened to a page with a busty blonde draped over an Indian. Damn, that was a fine bike.

I sighed and looked up, pushing my glasses higher on the bridge of my nose. "Punctuation? How hard is it to use a comma? A question mark? A period? Really, this is basic grammar," I groused.

Arthur looked up from the newspaper he was reading, frowning. "I would assume that it would not be hard," he offered, sipping his mug of something.

I nodded, agreeing with the king. "Yup. One would think so. However, this author-insert author name here--has no concept of punctuation. Or sentence structure. Or spelling." I sighed, my head drooping.

"Bridget?" came the cautious voice of Gawain in the living room behind me.

I turned towards the voice and gaped at the sight before me. "What is he doing?" I croaked.

Gawain cocked his head to one side, watching the scene playing out in my fenced backyard. "I believe that it is called Odinic sacrifice," he offered with a decided tone. Sometimes I really underestimate Gawain's intelligence.

I jumped down from the stool and bolted towards the sliding door and the backyard. Opening the door, I glared at Methos, who was currently suspended upside down from my apple tree with a Tristan in front of him, an evil grin on the scout's face. "Scafia boy! Leave Death alone!" I didn't care if the neighbors thought I was nuts. They had thought I was crazy for the past six years, so this would not be a change. "It's my job to torture him!"

Having Methos turned into ground beef would be very bad. Fun to watch, but very bad.

TBC...

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To My Wonderful Reviewers

Ysolde: Evil snicker? I want a translation. Please. Oh, and Tristan? No torture, okay?

Saxongirl345: Heck yeah! Yup, Scandinavians stick together. So glad you thought the last chapter was funny. Here's hoping it stays humorous. The alternative is just to frightening to fathom.

cleopatra32003: You're right, no one should feel bad about getting less than Bors or Lancelot or any of the others. And you might be right--more Scandinavians would definitely spell trouble for the "no orgies" rule.

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