Twenty-one.
May. 27th, 2004 12:22 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
fan_eluneRighty-ho! For some reason, I'm in a really good mood. Might be that I'm fairly satisfied with the way Thou Liv'st Forever (the Byron fic) is shaping up, through the corrections I've made. Sent it for beta. Turned out to be much more about Damien than I thought, too. Actually, here's the unbetaed first scene. Would love to know what y'all think, especially if you don't know Damien yet - to know where you think this is going. You don't need to be a big fanlander to read it, I don't think so. Knowing the basic concepts of Immortality is enough: Immortal guys running around with swords 'cause beheading's the only way to kill them. You're all set now.
Neither the Highlander characters nor the concept of Immortality are mine. Damien, however, is my very own creature. The title comes from a verse of poetry by Byron; it will make sense when you have the whole fic.
Thou Liv'st Forever
I can still remember now, so very clearly, everything about our first encounter. There was something about it that struck me into remembering it perfectly, something that even today I cannot quite pinpoint. Today less than ever, maybe.
James and I – he went by the name of James Adamson then – had been in Venice but for a few days. It was far from being my first visit to the city and the few changes it had undergone since my last stay were not enough to hold my interest. After touring through Eastern Europe with James, discovering new wonders every other day, I felt awfully bored in a city that had seemed to capture my soul on my previous stays. No longer did I fail to find slumber here because of what I felt I was missing outside, no longer did I haunt the canals at night, no longer did I feel a sudden impulse to catch a glimpse of the Ponte dei Sospiri at the most incongruous times.
On our second day in the city, I left James to roam through the canals on his own. He had not been there for far longer and was rather eager to discover it all over again. My restlessness drew my temper short and I let him go, rather than encumber him with a cantankerous companion. I am on occasion known not to be horribly selfish. I ventured into a caffé I fondly remembered and tried not to let my irritation show at finding that Vincenzo no longer ran it, but in his place a short, bald, sweaty man whose name I cannot recall and who left me with a sharp impression of contempt. I dismissed the unpleasant feelings and settled to courting a young dark-haired beauty by the name of Sylvia.
That night, when she gave herself to me, trusting the warmth in my eyes even though no lie had passed my lips, I felt no satisfaction, no true pleasure. The same restlessness plagued me. Venice suffocated me. As she lay beside me, eyes closed and lips parted, it struck me that I did not have her, far from it. Candlelight was flickering all over her body, highlighting her curves, her nooks, her lines, her planes, her angles, her paleness and her flush, and never before had my loneliness struck me so hard.
I spoke harsh words to her and she left sobbing.
I paced my room, clenching and unclenching my fists. I turned the mystery again and again in my head, trying to look at it through all different angles. I had secured myself quite enough money that I would not need to work for the next few decades at the very least, barring some catastrophe; I was once again with James and I knew more about him than I ought to, which should have pleased my curiosity extremely and yet left me with the bitter aftertaste of something I could never quite grasp; I was back in Venice, a city I had all but fallen in love with, and found myself incredibly irritated at every familiar place; I had just made love to the sweetest girl, so delicious in her innocence, and instead of keeping her beside me to mould into the most dangerously voluptuous of women, I had sent her running off with a few sharp words. What was wrong with me?
I thought for an instant that if I believed still in the religion I was brought up in, I might have believed myself to be possessed by a demon. The thought struck me as absolutely hilarious and soon enough, my silent laughter turned to sobs. I was careful to keep them quiet despite my utter distress at this uncharacteristic display of emotions. But it was not so much the display as the emotions themselves – I had never sobbed before, had never had to, simply because I had never felt such incomprehensible restlessness and, yes, despair.
Despite all of my assets in life, it suddenly came upon me that I was strongly discontent. It was unlike me. I had never wanted anything less than what I deserved, and always made sure I obtained exactly that. My peculiar situation was due to the fact that I did not have the slightest clue as to what it was I needed. How could you secure for yourself something whose nature you ignore?
I eventually fell asleep, but my slumber was as agitated as my waking hours and I woke up everything but fresh and rested. If James noticed anything during the next few days, he made no mention of it. I feel he must have; few things go unnoticed by him. But he knew better than to think that confronting me about whatever it was would be met with thankfulness on my part.
Then on the sixth day, as we were sitting at the terrace of Caffé Florian on the Piazza San Marco, I felt him for the first time. James and I exchanged a look, his as ever a warning not to do anything stupid, mine as ever a reminder that I would do what I damned well pleased. He always did call me a brat.
I looked behind him while he studied the persons behind me, both of us doing our best at seeming to be nothing more than two men enjoying a cup of coffee together and carelessly studying the passers-by.
I was not ready to see the look of pure joy on James' face. I had rarely seen him so transfixed. I looked around to behold the one who had triggered such a reaction in him and found myself looking at an Immortal seeming to be no older than me on his first death, dressed in the finest suit undoubtedly coming from the most expensive tailors and, might I add, not unlike the one I was myself wearing. His limp was the first thing I noticed as he made his way through the tables towards us. He leaned on a cane and I took note that it might well hide a blade, wondering whether the limp was real or a pretext for the cane and an easy way to be underestimated.
As he came closer, I looked up at his face. Immediately, I was reminded of an angel. Dozens of references to classical artists sprung to my well-educated mind, but none came close. It was not merely that his features were beautiful, well-balanced and framed by this shoulder-long wavy brown hair that accentuated the paleness of his complexion and the darkness of his eyes, no; it went beyond this. There was something that completely fascinated me in his face, his features, his very being. My heart thudded loudly against my ribcage, as if trying to beat out of my chest. My palms grew sweaty and I was filled with a dire sense of foreboding. This had never happened to me before, not to this extent.
"Doc!" he greeted James, and they embraced briefly, leaving me time to compose myself.
It was still quite peculiar to watch the openness in James's face as he turned to introduce me. I stood up as he did so and offered my hand to the newcomer; manners were always an easy barrier to erect between oneself and one's sensations.
"Damien, this is Byron."
For some reason, the thought that he might be another Byron altogether did not cross my mind. I must have been the true picture of astonishment, but as he closed his forceful fingers around my hand I managed, "Lord Byron?"
He smirked. I revised my earlier opinion; the man was naught but a fallen angel. He smirked, and he was the picture of sin. It was not simply the unholy curve of his lips as a corner was raised; it changed his whole face, shaped his every feature into a mask of arrogance, arrogance and a hint of all deadly sins underlining the sparkle in his eyes. "The one and only." He let go of my hand slowly, trailing his fingers ever so lightly down my palm, then turned to James with an amused look. "He's not unpleasant to the eye. When did you pick him up?"
A poetic genius or not, I was not about to let him discuss me in such a manner. "He has a few years on you. I ought to be asking the question, really," I added, raising expectant eyebrows at James.
James bid Byron sit down with us and proceeded to quell our curiosity. No matter how hard he tried to hide how pleased he was, the joy never did leave his eyes.
I did not realise it then, but it was during that talk on the Piazza San Marco that my view of James first truly changed significantly. The latest revelations had not managed to have such an effect, but seeing him in Byron's dark light did.
I did not realise either that during that talk, the restlessness had abated.
Even the news that the bloody government won't let gay marriages proceed doesn't manage to get at my good mood. Probably 'cause I never thought for one second they would. At least now the debate is here, too.
Oh, and on Wednesday was Towel Day, by the way. A day in homage to Douglas Adams - I thought I'd take the opportunity to again advise all of you who don't know his work yet to rush to the nearest bookstore and grab his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, to start with. The guy was a genius. Anyway, if you're wondering what Towel Day was: all Douglas Adams fans carried a towel around all day long in remembrance of him. If you wanna know why the towel, go read the Guide already. Ford Prefect rocks my socks. Or, more accurately, my towel.
Neither the Highlander characters nor the concept of Immortality are mine. Damien, however, is my very own creature. The title comes from a verse of poetry by Byron; it will make sense when you have the whole fic.
Thou Liv'st Forever
I can still remember now, so very clearly, everything about our first encounter. There was something about it that struck me into remembering it perfectly, something that even today I cannot quite pinpoint. Today less than ever, maybe.
James and I – he went by the name of James Adamson then – had been in Venice but for a few days. It was far from being my first visit to the city and the few changes it had undergone since my last stay were not enough to hold my interest. After touring through Eastern Europe with James, discovering new wonders every other day, I felt awfully bored in a city that had seemed to capture my soul on my previous stays. No longer did I fail to find slumber here because of what I felt I was missing outside, no longer did I haunt the canals at night, no longer did I feel a sudden impulse to catch a glimpse of the Ponte dei Sospiri at the most incongruous times.
On our second day in the city, I left James to roam through the canals on his own. He had not been there for far longer and was rather eager to discover it all over again. My restlessness drew my temper short and I let him go, rather than encumber him with a cantankerous companion. I am on occasion known not to be horribly selfish. I ventured into a caffé I fondly remembered and tried not to let my irritation show at finding that Vincenzo no longer ran it, but in his place a short, bald, sweaty man whose name I cannot recall and who left me with a sharp impression of contempt. I dismissed the unpleasant feelings and settled to courting a young dark-haired beauty by the name of Sylvia.
That night, when she gave herself to me, trusting the warmth in my eyes even though no lie had passed my lips, I felt no satisfaction, no true pleasure. The same restlessness plagued me. Venice suffocated me. As she lay beside me, eyes closed and lips parted, it struck me that I did not have her, far from it. Candlelight was flickering all over her body, highlighting her curves, her nooks, her lines, her planes, her angles, her paleness and her flush, and never before had my loneliness struck me so hard.
I spoke harsh words to her and she left sobbing.
I paced my room, clenching and unclenching my fists. I turned the mystery again and again in my head, trying to look at it through all different angles. I had secured myself quite enough money that I would not need to work for the next few decades at the very least, barring some catastrophe; I was once again with James and I knew more about him than I ought to, which should have pleased my curiosity extremely and yet left me with the bitter aftertaste of something I could never quite grasp; I was back in Venice, a city I had all but fallen in love with, and found myself incredibly irritated at every familiar place; I had just made love to the sweetest girl, so delicious in her innocence, and instead of keeping her beside me to mould into the most dangerously voluptuous of women, I had sent her running off with a few sharp words. What was wrong with me?
I thought for an instant that if I believed still in the religion I was brought up in, I might have believed myself to be possessed by a demon. The thought struck me as absolutely hilarious and soon enough, my silent laughter turned to sobs. I was careful to keep them quiet despite my utter distress at this uncharacteristic display of emotions. But it was not so much the display as the emotions themselves – I had never sobbed before, had never had to, simply because I had never felt such incomprehensible restlessness and, yes, despair.
Despite all of my assets in life, it suddenly came upon me that I was strongly discontent. It was unlike me. I had never wanted anything less than what I deserved, and always made sure I obtained exactly that. My peculiar situation was due to the fact that I did not have the slightest clue as to what it was I needed. How could you secure for yourself something whose nature you ignore?
I eventually fell asleep, but my slumber was as agitated as my waking hours and I woke up everything but fresh and rested. If James noticed anything during the next few days, he made no mention of it. I feel he must have; few things go unnoticed by him. But he knew better than to think that confronting me about whatever it was would be met with thankfulness on my part.
Then on the sixth day, as we were sitting at the terrace of Caffé Florian on the Piazza San Marco, I felt him for the first time. James and I exchanged a look, his as ever a warning not to do anything stupid, mine as ever a reminder that I would do what I damned well pleased. He always did call me a brat.
I looked behind him while he studied the persons behind me, both of us doing our best at seeming to be nothing more than two men enjoying a cup of coffee together and carelessly studying the passers-by.
I was not ready to see the look of pure joy on James' face. I had rarely seen him so transfixed. I looked around to behold the one who had triggered such a reaction in him and found myself looking at an Immortal seeming to be no older than me on his first death, dressed in the finest suit undoubtedly coming from the most expensive tailors and, might I add, not unlike the one I was myself wearing. His limp was the first thing I noticed as he made his way through the tables towards us. He leaned on a cane and I took note that it might well hide a blade, wondering whether the limp was real or a pretext for the cane and an easy way to be underestimated.
As he came closer, I looked up at his face. Immediately, I was reminded of an angel. Dozens of references to classical artists sprung to my well-educated mind, but none came close. It was not merely that his features were beautiful, well-balanced and framed by this shoulder-long wavy brown hair that accentuated the paleness of his complexion and the darkness of his eyes, no; it went beyond this. There was something that completely fascinated me in his face, his features, his very being. My heart thudded loudly against my ribcage, as if trying to beat out of my chest. My palms grew sweaty and I was filled with a dire sense of foreboding. This had never happened to me before, not to this extent.
"Doc!" he greeted James, and they embraced briefly, leaving me time to compose myself.
It was still quite peculiar to watch the openness in James's face as he turned to introduce me. I stood up as he did so and offered my hand to the newcomer; manners were always an easy barrier to erect between oneself and one's sensations.
"Damien, this is Byron."
For some reason, the thought that he might be another Byron altogether did not cross my mind. I must have been the true picture of astonishment, but as he closed his forceful fingers around my hand I managed, "Lord Byron?"
He smirked. I revised my earlier opinion; the man was naught but a fallen angel. He smirked, and he was the picture of sin. It was not simply the unholy curve of his lips as a corner was raised; it changed his whole face, shaped his every feature into a mask of arrogance, arrogance and a hint of all deadly sins underlining the sparkle in his eyes. "The one and only." He let go of my hand slowly, trailing his fingers ever so lightly down my palm, then turned to James with an amused look. "He's not unpleasant to the eye. When did you pick him up?"
A poetic genius or not, I was not about to let him discuss me in such a manner. "He has a few years on you. I ought to be asking the question, really," I added, raising expectant eyebrows at James.
James bid Byron sit down with us and proceeded to quell our curiosity. No matter how hard he tried to hide how pleased he was, the joy never did leave his eyes.
I did not realise it then, but it was during that talk on the Piazza San Marco that my view of James first truly changed significantly. The latest revelations had not managed to have such an effect, but seeing him in Byron's dark light did.
I did not realise either that during that talk, the restlessness had abated.
Even the news that the bloody government won't let gay marriages proceed doesn't manage to get at my good mood. Probably 'cause I never thought for one second they would. At least now the debate is here, too.
Oh, and on Wednesday was Towel Day, by the way. A day in homage to Douglas Adams - I thought I'd take the opportunity to again advise all of you who don't know his work yet to rush to the nearest bookstore and grab his Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, to start with. The guy was a genius. Anyway, if you're wondering what Towel Day was: all Douglas Adams fans carried a towel around all day long in remembrance of him. If you wanna know why the towel, go read the Guide already. Ford Prefect rocks my socks. Or, more accurately, my towel.
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no subject
Date: 2004-05-27 03:49 am (UTC)I think I might kill the first person I hear speaking French in the airport. I'm pretty sure I'll kill the first person who mentions anyone from the government.
*sigh* *bites lower lip hard enough that maybe it'll make them disappear* Fuck them. For everything.
Thou Liv'st Forever
Date: 2004-05-27 05:03 am (UTC)I now know for sure that I will never *ever* write a story in English.
Maybe I should start learning Japanese or Chinese, and write in one of those languages, so that I would have a real good excuse to not even be 5% as gifted as you are. Did I mention I hate you sometimes? ;-)
(Btw, J seemed interested by the fact that he and the Old Man were using the same name at the same point of History. Which I assume implies that he didn't know about it. At least now I know they didn't see each other during that period, that's always good to know. ::g::)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-27 09:34 am (UTC)Go read the fic, love. It'll make you feel better. (Well, maybe not directly, but it would give me a happy to have your opinion... and won't you feel better knowing you gave me a happy? Next best thing after a cookie.)
Re: Thou Liv'st Forever
Date: 2004-05-27 09:35 am (UTC)That being said, you write much better in French than me. So, there.
They were? Or just the James part? And, well, I'm always glad to help shed light on J and Methos' encounters of lack thereof. I think.
Re: Thou Liv'st Forever
Date: 2004-05-27 11:38 am (UTC)As for the "you write much better in French than me" part... Well, it ain't that good either. I wrote nothing that could trigger an admirative "Wow"...
And yeah, it was just for the James part. I don't know which last name he was wearing (but I'm betting on not just one. He was playing several different person at the same time during that period), he doesn't usually bother telling me. For a while, there was hints about the name having "peter" in it, but I'm not even sure of that.
Any idea on how long the Old Man wore that name? I know they saw each others sometimes during the first half of XIXth, I know they met at the beginning of the 60's, but there's no indications at all that they saw each other between those two moments. And actually, I never thought they did.
BUT.... that still don't tell me what the hell they were both doing in Khirgiztan or Whatever (that's all H's fault anyway) in the 60's, nor how J found him there. ;-)
no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 06:44 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 07:11 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 01:12 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2004-05-28 04:56 pm (UTC)The said t-shirt is currently waiting for you in your house by the way... :p
I've met Colin and Fox, and I don't like them. :p
Guess nobody will equal Harley or Mik or Cy or Skids in my heart ! I like the FearedFoursome too much ! :-D