by Westwind
July 2002
That the years had reached the tale of one thousand three hundred and forty eight when in the illustrious city of Florence there made its appearance that deadly pestilence which had its origin some years ago in the East and so, calamitously, had spread to the West.
Boccaccio, The Decameron
Kronos walked down the street, trying not to attract attention; he did not succeed. Heads turned after he went by, always behind his back. Along with a healthy percentage of the population, he was dark-haired and light-eyed. The scar must have had something to do with it, but he wasn't the only one who had scars. His head turned to look at the man whose face was a mass of smallpox pits. Kronos nodded to him, and the man turned and hurried away. At least the man had lived; so many had died.
Turning the corner, Kronos saw an increasing number of people up ahead, all going in the same direction. He increased his stride when he heard the music. Methos would be there already. Hurrying through the passageway, Kronos came out into the square. There Methos was, one of the lute players.
Methos and Kronos were the only Immortals currently in the square, but there wasn't enough room under the ridiculous costume for a sword. Methos was wearing parti-colored hose, red, black, white, with a tunic of red, all fitting like a glove. The lute he was playing had ribbons of the same colors falling down from the neck almost to the ground. He looked ridiculous, but he looked good.
Kronos could just sense Methos's buzz. Methos had to feel his too, and it was making him nervous. Kronos grinned ferally. Good! Keep him worried. He looked around for some place to watch the show and saw the lion. Already occupied by teen-aged apprentices, the lion was tattered; probably the statue wouldn't last more than another century or two.
As he climbed up to bring himself astride the big cat, Kronos was watching Methos, how sleek and self-satisfied he looked. Kronos glanced down at the disgruntled boys and showed them his teeth. They ran away. He smoothed his black tunic and checked his black hose and boots for offal; walking the streets could be dangerous. Kronos settled his sword more comfortably. He looked up. Mare's tails frisked across the sky; it meant good weather ahead.
Apparently the parade had formed behind the musicians and in the space under the arch. The trumpets barked a clarion, then all the musicians moved forward, followed by the rest of the group. Unknowingly, Kronos sighed to see Methos after so long a time.
Methos finally looked up and saw who was sitting on the old lion. He came to a halt, with the people behind him knocking into each other and into Methos. Kronos thought it was hilarious; he was laughing so hard, he almost lost his seat on the lion. Methos's face was very white and completely without expression as he resumed his march but now with his lute slung across his back. Kronos knew his hands were shaking too much to play.
This was being done for some fucking religious festival, some cornerstone, or dedication. At least it brought Methos out in the open, so Kronos could see him. To protect himself from other Immortals, Methos normally stayed within the confines of the Count's palazzo. The hunters were interested enough in any Immortal; they'd probably mount an assault to get to someone who was over four thousand years old and didn't seem to want to fight.
Kronos slid down off the lion and went back the way he had come. Would Methos run? He didn't think so, not at first, anyway. He hummed the tune the musicians had been playing as he went to the Green Man Tavern. He sat at one of the tables, pulled his stool up close, and called for ale. Musing at the route he had come to find Methos, he drank the ale and stared off into the distance. The room gradually cleared out in front of him.
Escorting a few caravans along the old Silk Road to Chin, Kronos had stayed awhile in the East. It had been easy pickings. A great pestilence had afflicted the land; it had looked for a while as if everyone was going to die. So much gold had been just left in houses that no one else would enter. He had gotten very rich, and had come looking for Methos. First he had tried Lutetia--that was always first, then he had tried Londinium, then Roma, and, finally, Florentia.
Gradually, he became aware of a buzz. Kronos got up while drawing his sword, alarming everyone who remained. The door to the tavern opened to frame Methos. Kronos was frozen. How perfect Methos looked. He had changed his clothes to an outfit in shades of brown--a light brown under-tunic with a dark brown one over it, dark brown hose and boots, and a short gold cloak to protect against the cold. And his hair was too short to be fashionable.
Methos smiled. "Will you buy me some ale? I'm just a poor musician. And put up your sword; I don't want you dead."
Kronos swallowed visibly and put up his sword. He found that he couldn't talk, so he gestured Methos to come in and sit down. Kronos signaled for more ale and, when the landlord slipped a new pitcher in front of him, he turned to his brother. Methos's gold-washed hazel eyes looked right into his; his heart stopped, then started again. To be in thrall to a pair of eyes for over three thousand years was impossible.
Pouring from the pitcher of ale, Methos looked around. Kronos wanted him to look only at him. He cleared his throat; Methos turned to him. "I want you." Kronos surprised himself; he was afraid that he had screwed up.
"Yes. Where?"
"I have a room upstairs." Kronos stood and, not wanting to wait for Methos to drink his ale, said, "Bring it with you." Kronos went up the stairs, hoping to hear Methos's steps coming along behind. And halfway up the stairs he heard the first footstep. Kronos went in the door and stood waiting for Methos who ambled in and stood looking around. A bed, a chamber pot, and a three-legged stool were all the furnishings the room held. He had paid for a new mattress and clean linens; the old ones had been disgusting. The window was small and looked out on an alley, but it did let in some light and air.
"Methos--"
"Shhh. Go get some water. I'll be here when you get back."
Kronos was in the hall before he thought about why he was going. He shook his head. Only Methos could make him do the inexplicable with such casual grace. He soon walked back in the room with a bucket and some toweling.
Setting the bucket down just inside the door, Kronos swung the door closed, and let the catch fall into place. When Kronos turned toward Methos, he found him already naked and interested. He hastened out of his clothes and then found himself unaccountably shy. Methos smiled and walked over to Kronos. So much grace, it seemed a shame to ever cover Methos's body with clothes.
Methos led him to the bed and pushed him down on it. Kronos was just the right height; he reached forward, took one nipple between his teeth, and bit. Methos sat down on his lap, wrapped his arms around Kronos, and laid his head on top of Kronos's head. "I've missed you." Kronos felt something melting away.
He breathed deeply of his brother's scent. His own arms came up around Methos and held him. "Why can't it always be like this? Why do we have to tear at each other?" Methos sighed.
Kronos didn't want to think about that. His arms were full of Methos, and he didn't want to think at all. His hands were busy rubbing his brother's back. Methos sat up and, with a grin, tumbled Kronos back onto the bed. Kronos closed his eyes in anticipation and in pleasure. Methos was an inventive lover; he was humming to himself as he took a small bottle out of the tangle of his clothes.
"Methos!"
Methos just laughed. Methos rubbed the oil into both their penises and then rubbed the remainder into Kronos's anus and up to his scrotum. "How do you want me?"
"Eventually, I want you on your hands and knees." Methos looked up, and those golden eyes were full of lust. Kronos would have done anything. "Right now, stay the way you are." Methos leaned forward to lick, then bite, each nipple, moving up to his neck. He tried to mark him before letting his body match up with his brother's.
Kronos loved the way Methos felt, the weight reassuringly familiar. Kronos was falling into a dream state induced by the magic of Methos's hands, his voice telling him how good it felt to touch Kronos again, and how Methos would make sure that he would enjoy himself. And Kronos believed him.
Kronos wanted to reciprocate, but he was held in thrall by the magic of Methos's hands and lips moving at will over his body. Finally his brother urged him over on his knees, with his ass high and inviting. Kronos felt Methos place himself and start to move in. There was an instant of pain and then a great rolling wave of pleasure. "Harder!"
Methos began to move with more energy. He slithered against Kronos and began to undulate. Kronos tried to be quiet, but he couldn't. Moaning like a cat in heat, he came. Methos was right behind him. He collapsed on the bed beside his brother, breathing hard.
Reaching out to keep Methos from falling off the narrow bed, Kronos said, "Sleep. We'll share the blankets." Methos turned over gingerly and, with his back to Kronos, went immediately to sleep. Kronos stayed awake to guard his brother and to savor this first time after too long.
Kronos was on his side, watching Methos's back--the play of muscles, the fair skin. He saw when Methos woke up. Suddenly the muscles in the back tightened. "I'm here." They slackened infinitesimally.
Methos rolled over on his back. "I've got to go; I have to play at supper."
"Forget them. Stay with me. I've got enough money for both of us. There are dark days coming." Kronos was almost pleading.
"It's not the money. I have a life here." Methos got up, splashed the water around his body, and began to pick up and put on his clothes. He sat down on the stool to put on his boots. "Will you be here tomorrow?" Methos asked with a querulous look on his face.
Kronos was angry that Methos was leaving, and Methos didn't help that anger by laughing. He got up, put his knife inside his boot, and came over to Kronos. He leaned down for a lengthy kiss. "I'll be here for the midday meal. You can be here or not, but I'll be here." And he was gone.
Still angry, Kronos laid down on the bed and found himself surrounded by Methos's scent. Gradually the anger melted away. He would just have to try again. He nestled his head in the pillow and went to sleep.
About an hour later, Kronos got up and briefly considered the water in the bucket but decided to keep Methos's smell. He put on his clothes and smoothed the leather garments into place. Cupping his genitals, he rubbed them gently in remembrance. Kronos wasn't giving up what he rwanted; he had to get Methos away from here before the plague arrived. But when had anything ever been easy with Methos?
A fine fall day, the golden light sifted down from the sky and showed the squalor. He kept a wary eye on the ground as he walked and was almost hit by the contents of an emptied chamber pot thrown from an open window three stories above. There was a dead dog and the remains of a pig lying on the margin of the street. The stench from that alley told of many dead things hidden in the gloom. Just then a group of rats made a break for the other side of the street and that alley. He didn't remember the cities in Europe being so filthy. Kronos preferred being clean to being dirty, though he'd been dirty often enough.
Warily he scouted out the route between palazzo and the Rooster tavern. Kronos needed to arrange an accident for the Captain of the Count's personal guard, then Kronos could take his place. The buffoon was more a politician than a fighter anyway. With the captain dead, the Count would be looking for an experienced replacement. Kronos quartered the area the Captain would have to travel.
The day was settling into the blaze of sunset when Kronos was satisfied that he had found the way the Captain would be going back to the palazzo and a very dark alley that would suffice. He went to the Rooster and called for ale. The soldiers of the Count's guard were enjoying fresh brewed ale and the girls. Kronos waited.
While Kronos watched the guards and their Captain, he kept to the periphery of the group, eventually picking one girl to sport with. Finally Kronos saw the Captain leave. He made an excuse about pissing, stood the girl on her feet, and stalked to the door. Silent as a shadow he followed the Captain through shafts of light until he turned the corner into the short alleyway. The Captain was half drunk.
The alley was very dark as Kronos came up behind the captain. He grabbed the Captain's head, pulled it back, and cut his throat. Blood splashed forward in a great wave. None of it hit him; Kronos could go directly back to the Rooster to finish his drink.
A few minutes later, Kronos followed the girl docilely up the stairs. She was thin, fine-drawn, a delicate little thing, not the kind to attract most soldiers; her neck was long and soft, and her hands were beautiful.
The bed seemed chancy and none too clean. He sat on the stool with his back to the wall and loosened his clothes. He turned the girl around with her back to him, tossed her gown up, and sat her down. Her anus was tight and her squirming made him come more rapidly. She was so startled, she didn't even scream. It was not like he was the first to take that approach. And gold stopped many laments. He paid her, clattered down the stairs, and went home to bed.
With the sunrise, Kronos was up and doing a series of sword exercises that were old when Roma was a republic. Stripped naked, he treated the stool and the bed both as opponents and as obstacles. Finishing with the sword, he began the movements of defense with his knife. He could hear the Green Man coming to life--the sound of feet going down the stairs, the chatter of the women, and the sound of the bustle of eating. When he stopped an hour later, the tavern had emptied.
Kronos toweled off and sat down to clean and polish the sword and knife as well as the knife he wore at his belt. Getting dressed in his best clothes, he went down to eat. As he ate his porridge and beer, he considered his plan of attack. He would make an appearance at the Rooster and get the news of the Captain's death. If possible he would hint at the idea that he was looking for a position, then he would come back here to meet Methos.
Shivering slightly, Kronos knew that he wanted more of Methos; he wanted it all. He was looking down into his mostly-empty mug. The little bit of froth moved and swirled. Kronos could see that this was not going to work; he would not succeed with Methos. He swirled the mug and saw the same reading. It was just the lees of his ale. Kronos shrugged. He tossed the ale down; he got up and went out.
Stalking the streets, Kronos did not notice the clutter and debris. People moved out of his way. He turned the corner, and went down a short, dark passage, and came out into an open space. He started to walk across the space between buildings just as a juggler was backing up. The collision sent colorful beanbags flying everywhere. Kronos rounded on the hapless man with a snarl. As the juggler tried to apologize for the accident, Kronos trod on a beanbag, pushing it deeper into the debris of the street. He tossed a bit of a copper over his shoulder as he walked away.
As he came to the door of the Rooster tavern, the soldiers were talking about the murder of the Captain. Everything seemed to be in such turmoil that he didn't have a chance to talk about the possibility of employment. He stood several different soldiers a round of drinks, including the second in command. Eventually Kronos left to walk back to the Green Man, well satisfied. Methos was waiting.
###
Such terror was struck into the hearts of men and women by this calamity, that brother abandoned brother, and the uncle his nephew, and very often the wife her husband. What is even worse and nearly incredible is that fathers and mothers refused to see and tend their children, as if they had not been theirs.
Boccaccio, The Decameron
Christmas
Kronos arrived first and got the pillows and blankets out of the chest that protected them from the weather. Kronos ran his hands across the top; Methos had made the chest. When Kronos had complained that it was too plain, Methos had painted it with fantastic animals and flowers. He sat down on the blanket and began to unwrap the wine and cheese.
Getting to the suntrap required a bit of climbing. The chapel roof was part of it; the top of a half story of the meeting hall formed one side, with the residence hall on the other. The only windows were up high on the wall of the residence hall; for ventilation only, they were placed too high to see out. Part of the attraction for Methos was that this was hidden--a suntrap when the rest of Florentia was cold. Methos had showed him the suntrap months ago. As captain of the count's guard, he had many duties, but not so many that he could not steal this time for Methos.
Kronos untied the bundle he had brought up with him. The suntrap only worked for an hour or so, in the middle of the day, this time of the year. The rain and the blustery weather the last week had kept Methos away. This day had dawned fair and cold.
"Mmph, apples!" Methos's voice was relaxed and happy. He sat down on the blanket next to Kronos and leaned against him. Kronos looked at the long legs tucked up under the buttocks of this most difficult of his brothers. He had visions of those legs wrapped around his waist, the buttocks snugged up against his groin, that voice groaning helplessly in passion. He wrenched his mind back to the present.
Kronos handed him an apple and took a kiss in return. Methos leaned over and pulled Kronos's knife out of its sheath to cut up the apples and cheese. Kronos picked up the cloth-wrapped parcel and gave it to Methos. "A Christmas present."
Methos looked at him quizzically. "We don't celebrate Christmas." And all the time his beautiful hands were busy with the wrappings. Methos pulled them away to reveal a book of tablatures for the lute in Arabic. He opened the book and began to read. He looked up to comment, "Though I do go to mass. It's good camouflage. I never see you there, Kronos. That could be dangerous."
"I'm waiting out a penance--for my evil deeds. And I knew I should have waited until we were ready to leave. Now ask me where I stole it?" His voice was warm and full of the truth; he had paid a month's wages for this book, just to see the pleasure in his brother's face.
Closing the book and rewrapping it in the shawl, Methos turned to Kronos. "Thank you. I didn't get you anything though."
"I don't mind." Kronos knew how needy he looked, and he didn't care. He leaned toward Methos with a smile. Methos closed the distance and kissed him. Kronos pulled away. "Let me suck you." He waited for Methos to tell him what he wanted. Encouraged by the smile on Methos's face, he reached down to free his brother of some of his clothing. It was too cold, even in the suntrap, to get completely naked.
He held Methos's genitals for a moment. The essence of the man held in one hand. Then he began the sweet friction, bringing Methos to full erection very quickly. This gave him complete control; Kronos felt a deep-welling excitement. As Methos's arousal increased, he splayed his legs out more and more.
Rocking against Methos's leg, Kronos kept making needy noises. He was disgusted with himself, but he couldn't seem to stop. He used his hand as a driver to make his way into Methos's anus. He reached the sweet spot, rubbed it, and began to suck the penis at the same time.
He looked up and caught Methos in a single moment of ecstasy--flushed, head thrown back, eyes closed, mouth opened in a silent scream. Locked into this vision of sexual arousal, Kronos came helplessly. He turned his eyes down to concentrate on sucking heavily; he made Methos come with a long, guttering wail.
Having cleaned both of them up with the edge of the blanket, Kronos found that he was absorbed by Methos's eyes; he had to know how much magic they held. He stretched out along Methos's body, and Methos petted him. As their bodies rubbed against each other, Methos showed renewed interest. Kronos looked at Methos with a twinkle. "You're insatiable."
"Can't help it. Just ignore me." Kronos leaned up for a kiss.
"I'm going to sleep for a little bit." Kronos yawned and closed his eyes.
When he awoke, Methos was sunning himself with his tunic open to his waist; he had to be cold, and he didn't tan anyway. But he looked glorious. Kronos felt a melting sweetness spread through his body. With a smile, Methos sat up and reached for a small lute. He began to play a familiar tune, one that Kronos remembered from long ago.
At last Methos started to sing a simple song that was a translation of an even older one. For three thousand years Kronos thought it was just his eyes that he was in thrall to, but he knew now that it was Methos's voice, as well. A little strumming, a change of rhythm, and he was singing a raucous song about two men and a goat, and they couldn't figure out where it went. Kronos smirked.
As the shadows lengthened, Kronos realized that their time was growing short. Methos put aside the lute and picked up the cup of wine. He drank and reached for a piece of cheese. He stuffed his mouth full of apple, trying to eat it all at once. "Good, Kronos." The voice was garbled by the chunks of apple. Kronos laughed at his brother. "I'm hungry!" Methos paused to drink the rest of the wine in his cup; he held it out for a refill. Kronos was frozen, looking at Methos. Methos put down his cup and reached out and took Kronos's hand. "What?"
"I want you." Kronos had never been more open.
Methos smiled. "You have me."
Kronos hoped that that was true. Hands shaking, Kronos took down Methos's hose and turned him around. Kronos had pulled the tunic loose from Methos's shoulder and was licking and biting the shoulder and the back of his neck. He felt the need building in him, the need to possess him, to own him. Kronos had been down that road before many times. Methos would be gone the minute he realized what Kronos felt.
He wanted. "Don't scream." Kronos drove in. The heat, the tightness, the movement were too much. He felt Methos letting go; Methos had always liked rough sex. Kronos wanted to rend and tear until he was inside of Methos, until he could control his wayward brother, until he ensorcelled Methos the way he was caught.
Catching his dark hair, Kronos pulled his head backwards. The tension translated to a tighter passage. But it wasn't enough. Kronos pulled out and turned Methos over. He picked up Methos's legs and bent them up to rest on his own shoulders. Then using his hands to grasp his penis, Kronos remounted his brother. He reached up and kissed Methos. The eyes understood; it was infuriating to be known and recognized.
Kronos began to beat a steady rhythm with his hips. He nipped and bit at Methos's nipples, scratched with his nails at his shoulders and arms. Methos abandoned everything to lust. He was shuddering in the grips of climax for a long time before Kronos began to come as well.
Putting Methos's legs down and moving to lay down beside him, Kronos watched his profile. Methos seemed to be dozing, but one could never tell. He had such a ridiculous nose, but it did seem to fit the rest of the face. He had always been partial to Methos's profile; it was distinctive, not just a bland collection of features.
Of course, the eyes were very special, the color was between green and gold or, occasionally, black with passion. Methos's eyes owned his soul. And the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he laughed--they made his whole face laugh too. That purse-lipped mouth was just waiting to be kissed.
But when that face went blank, Kronos shivered, anything might happen. Methos tightened his arm around Kronos. Methos killed with perfect blankness. He rode into battle without an ounce of emotion. He struck without any warning at all. Methos was the most dangerous man Kronos knew.
It was getting cold, and the sun was disappearing behind the western wall. Methos shivered as he dressed; he had withdrawn from the now. Kronos felt a rising anger. He wanted to grab Methos and hold on, squeeze him until Methos was here and belonged only to him. "I don't see why you think you've got a life here." Kronos wanted to stop, but he couldn't. "Teaching that brat music is not a life."
Kronos knew many ways to turn Methos's mind to the now, but sometimes he retreated so far he was unreachable. But this was his brother, his to love, his to tease, his to discipline, his to command. Only his.
Methos got up and walked away. Kronos watched until he climbed over the edge of the roof, taking his new book with him. He had to remember not to try to control him, but it was hard. He sighed. Picking up the blankets and pillows, he sighed again. They were soiled; he'd have to take them down with him. He piled everything in the middle of one blanket and gathered it up. He carried it down and dumped the whole thing into the garderobe. He'd steal some more.
Kronos walked out into the streets. He felt unfinished, and he found the feeling intolerable. Kronos walked through the streets of Florentia like nemesis. The people he would have met found reasons to go another way. Kronos saw no one.
He finally noticed a couple of girls going into a tavern. Kronos turned and went down the road toward where the girl lived and waited for her. She lived with her sister and many little children; Kronos had never noticed a man attached to the ménage. The plague would work its way with them all.
It was with some satisfaction that Kronos waited, out of sight, for the girl. He fell into step beside her as she turned into the passageway. No one was there; no one could see. He moved to face her and caressed her long, delicate neck. She cocked her head to one side. Kronos continued far a few moments, savoring this instant. Then, looking right into her eyes, Kronos broke her elegant neck.
Kronos saw the life go out of her. He shivered in response as she fell through his hands into a heap. He felt--no, he didn't feel anything at all. Kronos stepped over her out-flung arms and walked out of the passageway. He hadn't spoken a word since he had watched Methos go over the edge of the roof of the palazzo with his book.
###
Many died daily or nightly in the public streets; of many others, who died at home, the departure was hardly observed by the neighbors, until the stench of their putrefying bodies carried the tidings; and what with their corpses and the corpses of others who died on every hand the whole place was a sepulcher.
Boccaccio, The Decameron
March
His walk was almost a strut as Kronos moved toward the palazzo. The streets were especially malodorous and the rats were everywhere. If it was this bad in March, what would it be like in summer? It was time to go.
The day was cold and wet. Methos hated this kind of weather, but Kronos would soon take him away. Everything was falling into place; Methos would be leaving with him. Somehow the day seemed to sparkle.
The count was dead in a hunting accident; no one had seen the one who had fired the arrow that had struck him in the neck. His heir was a ten year old boy whose Mother planned to return to her home in Arrezzo and raise her son there. The palazzo was being closed down; the staff would be let go.
The Countess was giving a final dinner for her soon-to-be former employees. It might be the last good meal some would have. Tomorrow night they would be unemployed. The count usually had twenty courses at his banquets. There were to be five at this one, but the food was plentiful, well cooked, and beautifully served.
The staff sat at two long tables with the countess and her son at a table that formed the base of a U. The salad course was already finished, and the rice course was just finishing. He watched Methos enjoy his meal, talking to the people seated around him. The servant removed Kronos's untouched plate and replaced it with the service for the meat dishes that were to come.
Beef was brought in on spits, hams on platters, and chickens, roasted in bread crust, were brought to every plate. The cries that greeted this largesse were heartfelt; gluttony was to be expected from so many people who would be without a position tomorrow. Kronos broke the crust on his chicken and used his knife to slice a piece of breast meat. He pushed the rest of the chicken toward his neighbor who had finished his and was gobbling the contents of the breadbasket. He reached toward the basket to get a roll and got up.
Methos followed him with his eyes. He moved to the guard at the entrance and dismissed him to go and eat. Methos got up, got his lute, and came and stood near Kronos to play for the guests. Neither one of them had much taste anymore for this kind of rapacity. The crowd made all that meat disappear quite rapidly then they sucked the bones while waiting for the cheese. The Countess had cleared out her pantries; enough cheese was brought out for everyone to take some home. That left only the sweet in a subtlety made of marzipan in the likeness of the palazzo.
At end of meal, Methos went to the son of the count and gave him a lute just his size. The boy seemed not to be that interested in the lute and hugged Methos hard; he was crying. Methos went down on his knees in front of the boy and spoke to him quietly. Finally the nurse took him away. Methos got up and looked after them. He had taught the son of the Count at the insistence of the mother. Kronos couldn't be jealous of the child; Methos was known for taking anything that was offered--male or female, but he had never been one for children.
Always making lutes, Methos experimented with making different sizes and kinds of instruments. Puttering with hardwood, varnish, and gut, he made objects of great beauty. The opening to the sound box had an intricately carved pattern that Methos would work on for days. And Methos always got them to sing.
Methos had wandered into the reception area, still looking after the boy; Kronos walked up and put his arm around Methos's waist. No words were spoken. He was glad that Methos was alone. They went up the staircase together. Upstairs in a deserted bedroom, their eyes met in perfect understanding.
Gradually they undressed each other. Kissing, sucking, biting, they took their time. The bedroom that they were in was intended for guests; the bedclothes and pillows were sumptuous. The fire in the braziers cast a flickering light over the pair of them. Kronos found the light and shadows the fire threw on Methos's face and body enchanting. Methos was sitting on the edge of the bed staring at the fire.
Kronos growled. "You always did think too much." He took his knife and scored long cuts over Methos's shoulders, down his back, and reaching around to his nipples, ringing them with cuts. Using the flat of the blade, Kronos drew it back and forth across his flat stomach. He would stop occasionally to cut then resume his stropping motion. After a while the bed was red with blood.
Methos moved away from Kronos and picked up a pillow. He held it to his chest; Kronos snarled and cut the pillow right down the middle. He reached for his brother and, as Methos backed up, got a handful of feathers. Kronos used the razor-sharp knife to slice another pillow. Methos was healed now. Kronos took him from behind, putting one arm around his brother's neck. Methos tried to drop his head, but the pressure against his neck kept him from going far. As the stricture to Methos's breathing continued, Kronos found his erection growing. Kronos reared back and the pressure on Methos's throat grew more intense.
Continuing to choke Methos, Kronos pulled back on his head until the long throat was strutted, and Methos's penis strained upward. The pressure kept increasing until his face went from the red of arousal to the purple of incipient strangulation.
"Enough!" The tone of voice was absolute if a little breathless. Kronos dropped his arm in surprise. Methos drew a long shuddering breath, rolled away, and got up. "I don't like that, not anymore."
"Come back to bed, Methos."
"No, not the bed." It was a tumbled and bloody mess with the bed clothes falling off, with half the pillows soaked in blood, and the other half torn open with feathers flying loose. The blood wouldn't be so bad, thought Kronos, but the feathers were disgusting.
Disheveled and marked with rivulets of blood, Methos stood with arms akimbo and considered Kronos. Methos looked delicious. "Kronos, think of something new if you want me. I need something different."
This was not a new complaint. It always came down to this--Methos protested and Kronos ignored it. Kronos advanced on Methos with a snarl. Backing him up against the wall, he kissed him while twisting his arms up over his head. Soon Methos's face and neck were dotted with red crescents as Kronos marked him. All the time Kronos was thrusting against Methos's thigh.
Kronos knew the moment that Methos turned loose and began to give back. He hooked one leg around Kronos then leaned back against the wall. Kronos could reach his anus now; he stabbed at it and gained entrance. "Mine." Kronos growled. "You're mine." He repeatedly slammed into Methos's ass. It was going to take a long time for him to finish; the penetration was quite shallow. Kronos kept losing his position and having to reseat himself. Methos seemed to enjoy every one of these.
At last Methos froze, his leg went out from under him, and they both tumbled down. Methos was coming, and yet Kronos was far from satisfaction. Flipping Methos over, Kronos pushed his head down low, climbed astride his ass and thrust in again, setting a savage rhythm, grunting with the effort. At last Kronos felt the oncoming orgasm. He froze, then bent forward as he emptied into Methos.
Gathering up the energy to get off, Kronos collapsed on the floor. Creamy with satisfaction, Kronos leaned back into the corner of the room and shut his eyes. After a timeless period when he opened his eyes he found that Methos was dressed and in a chair with his legs stretched out, his arms crossed, his head on his chest.
Taking a deep breath, Kronos sat up. Methos was instantly awake. It was almost dawn. He got up, and kissed Kronos briefly, then went out of the room. Kronos had a lingering feeling of disquiet, but he had done nothing that he hadn't always done. What could be the matter? He followed after Methos. Kronos was well satisfied. Going downstairs, he saw a soldier weave at his post. Thinking him drunk, he went to discipline him. When he got there, Kronos saw the bubo on his neck with the dark purple bruises showing on his face and at the neck of his tunic. It was here. The plague was here at last. He hastily sent the soldier to his quarters; that one would be dead within a day.
There was always some kind of epidemic, especially in the New Year. There had been sickness in the city all through the winter when everyone had been hungry and stressed from too many to a house with not enough to eat. Maybe Methos could be distracted with some tale that this was just more of the same. Get him out of here and out of the city, and do it now. Kronos walked to the exit of the palazzo; he was through here.
Going around the corner of the square, Kronos came to the shop that Methos used to sell lutes. Always one for making an honest profit, Methos had had a string of shops and professions through the years. Kronos would catch glimpses of Methos through the centuries; every once in a while, he just had to find him. Sometimes he didn't do anything more than look; sometimes he did more.
The door was open, and Kronos flattened himself against the doorpost to listen. Nothing. He edged forward and looked in. Methos was there crouched down beside the old man who kept the shop. He was newly dead of the plaque. Kronos went in.
"Did you think I wouldn't recognize what this is? This is Justinian's Plague come again. Or you just hoped that I wouldn't recognize it."
"What was I supposed to do about it, Methos? I was in the East when this started."
"That's how you got all that gold and the jewels."
"They didn't need them anymore."
"All those deaths here weren't accidents were they, Kronos?"
Kronos showed his teeth. "They didn't matter, Methos. They were only mortals."
Methos came out of the shop with his face perfectly blank. He looked at Kronos as if he was seeing him for the first time. Methos was edging away. With the sun shining from in front of him, he seemed to glow with an inner fire. "You knew the plague was coming. When were you going to tell me? That was what you meant when you said there were dark days coming."
"I didn't want you running." Kronos answered the first question, but he was already mourning.
"You haven't changed. What a fool I am--"
"Methos."
"--to want to live with you." It came out part curse and part lament. Kronos's hand grasped nothing. How magnificent he looked--angry, scared, running away. For him, there was only Methos. No one else was quite real.
"I knew you'd blame me." Kronos could not help the bitterness in his voice. Methos turned briefly; he was crying. "I don't see what you have to cry about." Methos hurried away.
Going to the Green Man, Kronos went to his room. He sat on the stool and looked at nothing. It had all turned to ashes. Methos was gone. The city was in chaos. The first deaths had become many. He had missed the first signs. With Methos filling his days and his mind, Kronos hadn't been very watchful. That had been careless of him.
Getting up, Kronos got his saddlebags with the little bit of gold he had with him; the rest was safely hidden outside the city. He went down the hall to the stairs only to find a body with the unmistakable marks of the plague lying against the landing. He edged around the far side of the stair, then went out to get his horse.
Kronos walked the streets, leading his horse. The plague had been here for weeks, killing one here and another over there; no one recognized the terror that was among them. Now people were beginning to die. Soon, very soon, it would sweep all before it.
Catching the scent of decay in the air, Kronos thought it must be coming from the row of houses ahead. As he walked closer, he heard a child wailing. He breathed out abruptly, then turned on his heel and walked away. Reaching his horse. Kronos mounted and rode--away from the city, away from the plague, away from the dream he had dared to dream, away from his obsession.
Finis.