Notes: this is something of a
postscript to my last story, ‘Takasago’s Pines’.
I don’t know where this one came from; it just sort of tromped all over
my brain till I wrote it. And for those of you that are new to
the series, I swear that people are occasionally happy in my fic!
Honest! It’s just this period in the series isn’t the happiest of times
for anyone involved.
Many thanks to Mischief for beta reading!
She’s an ace, let me tell you, and her help has been invaluable. All
remaining errors are strictly my doing.
This is rated PG13 for strong
language and adult themes, and has a bit of both m/m and f/f implied.
Methos doesn’t belong to me, Triona
does, the usual drill.
My Soul Is
My Soul is Dark
soul is dark - Oh! quickly string
harp I yet can brook to hear;
let thy gentle fingers fling
melting murmurs o'er mine ear.
in this heart a hope be dear,
sound shall charm it forth again:
in these eyes there lurk a tear,
flow, and cease to burn my brain.
bid the strain be wild and deep,
let thy notes of joy be first:
tell thee, minstrel, I must weep,
else this heavy heart will burst;
it hath been by sorrow nursed,
ached in sleepless silence, long;
now 'tis doomed to know the worst,
break at once - or yield to song.
Triona pushed open the door of the library, not allowing the hope that
Methos was finally ready to let her into his life reach her heart. He
was here; at least that was something. Wasn’t it? Funny how she spent
so much time trying to convince herself that there was still some sort
of future for the two of them. That should have told her something – if
only she’d had the sense to listen.
Since she’d walked out of his apartment two weeks ago, he’d called,
left messages, but hadn’t attempted to actually see her in person. And
rattling around alone in the large chateau that was her home while she
was in Paris had only added to her feeling of isolation and loneliness.
So much so that she couldn’t bear it here anymore; something had to
change, even if that meant leaving Paris entirely.
Swallowing nervously, she slowly entered the dark, musty room. She
spent most of her time in her suite of rooms two floors above; the
public rooms for the most part remaining closed off and unused. Janette
had owned the chateau for centuries and had insisted Triona use it
while she was in Paris. But what was a charming old home for a family
was virtually a mausoleum for just one woman alone. Especially one who
had more sorrows to weigh down her soul in her short life than most did
in a mortal lifetime. The barren rooms constantly echoed the emptiness
that rang out with every footstep she took.
For a moment, silence held sway until his voice, soft and quiet in the
gloom, spoke her name. “Triona.” Walking over to where she
lingered in the entry, he tentatively took her hand, as if not sure his
touch would be welcome.
Matching his tentativeness, she reached up, brushing her lips across
his cheek before dropping her eyes and drawing away. Touching him was
like a physical pain, one she couldn’t bear. She turned partly away,
her hand slipping from his. The dim light of the library made her seem
as nearly shadow in the heavy darkness of the room
Again came the silence, the echoes of happier times pressing at the
edges of the melancholy mood that touched them both, only to remind
them of what they had lost. Then he said, “You haven’t returned my
calls.” There was just enough of an accusation in his voice to set her
“Aren’t we a little beyond phone calls, Methos?” The same hint of
accusation coloured her question. She heard him suck in a breath and
knew that if she looked at him, he’d have that same expression he so
often had around her lately. The one that was a study of hard fought
control over irritation and impatience.
He sighed and she could see his eyes close in her mind’s eye. His hand
would scrub at his short dark hair, the other clenching just a little,
as if starting to grasp the hilt of his sword. She didn’t have to be
looking at him to see him. God knew she saw him waking and sleeping.
Whether he was here with her or someplace unknown, his presence was
like a specter haunting her.
“I didn’t come here to fight.”
“Just why did you come?” she asked. She was sure she didn’t want to
know the answer, knowing already that it wasn’t the one she’d hoped for
all these long and lonely days.
“There’s someone I’d like you to meet.” It seemed like he wanted to say
more, but that was all he said.
She turned, looking at him quizzically. “I don’t understand.” Of
all reasons she imagined him coming here this wasn’t on the list.
“Byron. He’s here in Paris and I’d like you to meet him.”
Byron; the name rang in her ears. It took her a moment to actually
realize she hadn’t misheard him. Was he deliberately trying to hurt her
or did he just not care enough anymore to realize what he was doing to
“This is why you came here tonight?” Her voice sounded weak and hollow
even to her own ears. Taking a deep breath, she tried again, tired of
always sounding like a supplicant, like she constantly had something to
be sorry about. “Two weeks, on top of the months that came before, and
this is why you finally came to see me?” Anger welled up, leaving her
“Triona…” he began in that placating tone she hated.
“No! Stop it! I won’t do this anymore, Methos! Do you hear me?” She
wrapped her arms tight around herself as if trying to hold in all the
hurt and rage that threatened to pour from her. “After everything
that’s happened... How could you not know what I’d think, what I’d
hope, when you finally came to me?”
He reached for her, but she backed away. “Triona, I’m sorry. I didn’t
come here to hurt you. You have to at least believe that of me if
nothing else.” He seemed genuinely apologetic, but it was far too
little, far too late.
“You’re sorry? You didn’t mean to hurt me?” She laughed bitterly.
“Do you take me for a fool?”
“You’re overreacting,” was what he said but his unspoken words were
just as audible: like you always do.
“Yes, of course I am,” she practically spat. “Why on earth should I
have expected you to seek me out just because you actually wanted to be
with me? How stupid!”
White with rage, she asked in a deadly soft voice, “Tell me, Methos,
just who, in this little tête-à-tête you planned,
did you envision in the role of the jealous lover? Him or me? You'll
have to excuse me for having no desire to compete with Lord fucking
Byron for your attention, let alone your love!”
Methos looked at her as if she were a stranger. “You can’t think I’d be
that cruel? To purposely play you off against him?” he asked in a
Whirling on one heel, she turned away. “Just leave, Methos! After all,
that’s something you know exactly how to do!”
“Oh, no!” His boots rang across the marble floor of the library,
pulling her around, towering over her, now as enraged as she was. “I’m
not going anywhere, not until we settle this!”
“There’s nothing to settle! It’s over, Methos! No longer will I be an
afterthought when you’re looking for someone to warm your bed! No more
guilt, no more apologies; I’m done!”
A tentative knock on the library door interrupted whatever he would
have said in response.
“Mademoiselle, your car is here to take you the airport,” the
housekeeper told her diffidently, not quite looking at either of them.
Triona thanked the woman, who retreated gratefully from the room. If
there had been tension before, now it permeated the air like a heavy
Before he could ask her just where she was going, she said, “I’m going
to Greece to stay with Janette.”
“Well now, isn’t that ironic?” he said acidly. “Could it be you were
willing to leap to the worst conclusion about my intentions because you
were planning your own reunion? Tell me; just how hard was it for
Janette to convince you go to her?”
“Not very hard at all,” she bit out, not caring anymore what he thought
“No, I don’t suppose it was,” he replied with a quiet fury.
Shaking her head wearily, she turned away. No longer angry, her rage
had burnt out like a too hot fire. All that was left was grief and a
loss that opened up before her like a pit.
“I have a plane to catch and a life to start living again.”
Fighting back tears, she whispered too quietly for him to hear, “I
wanted to live that life with you, Methos.” Taking a shuddering breath,
she strode out of the room; almost running by the time she reached the
front door and blessed escape. But before she could make good her exit,
the door was pulled from her grasp and slammed shut.
“No, not like this,” his voice rapped out, echoing around the walls of
the foyer. He took hold of her shoulders, turning her roughly and
pressing her back against the closed door. “I won’t let you walk out of
my life like this, Triona. Not with anger, not with bitterness! Not
after everything we’ve been through, you and I; we both deserve better
Closing her eyes, she sank back against the door, exhausted. “But end
“No, I don’t believe that,” he said fiercely, “and I know you don’t,
not in your heart.” He kissed her then, briefly, but it was like the
warmth of the sun pouring down on her as his hands slid up to frame her
face. “So much has happened this last year… too much has happened.” His
voice ached with regret. “Go to Greece. Take time, as much as you need,
as much as we need. And when you’re ready, then I’ll come to you and
we’ll go to where the scent of the citrus groves hangs heavy in the
summer night, to the place I promised you.”
Finally she found the courage to look at him, and their eyes met. As
the familiar lines of his beautiful face once more filled her sight,
hope seeped into all the cracks and tears, filling them with gentle
warmth. Tenderly, her fingertips brushed his jaw, and she nodded.
He would always be worth the risk of loving.