Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic

Carson Kearn's Montage by Killa

Lost in the Loving Musing:
These Scenes of You

by Carson Kearns

carsonkearns@hotmail.com

Warning, Background and Disclaimer

All standard disclaimers apply. The Highlander characters are the property of Davis-Panzer and are used without permission. But I'm not making any money out if this. This material may not be copied or distributed without my permission. Do not link, publish or post this material without permission.

Thank you MacG and Dail and Killa for taking the time to give me feedback on this piece.  It is, as one would expect with such advisers, markedly the better for it.  In a wonderful piece of 'cosmic irony' MacG had just the right picture of Duncan with *those* dogs and Killa in her inimitable style was able to deliver to me this wonderful picture of Methos musing on his Highlander.

 

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Lost in the Loving:

(These Scenes of You)

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Carson Kearns

Paris.  Quai de la Tournelle.
February 1999.

(Three months after Not to Be)

 

It was cool and the wind was blowing our coats.  You’d gone down the ramp to the Quai, unbelieving that so much of your beloved Quai could be swallowed in the raging waters of the Seine. 

There was a dog playing around your feet.  You always draw the lost and lonely ones.  

I stood on the bridge above - watching you…  I do that so well. After all, I’d watched you for so many years - made it an art form.  It wasn’t long of course until other strays joined that dog.  They all seemed to forget that they had been fighting only minutes before your arrival.  They stood, unmoving while you circled them, - gave up any thought of circling you and instead opted to play.

How do you do this? Just a natural leader of the pack….

Such contradictions in these scenes of you.  Such power and such control on the one hand.  But on the other, such childlike playfulness tucked in there, securely, inside the folds of your sweeping coat.  In behind your sword. 

The dogs found the child in you and let him loose. 

You threw off your coat and I watched you spin and laugh in the light rain, throwing the sticks that those dogs all risked life and limb to gather up and return to you.  When that one stick went into the flooded Seine, and that idiot dog followed, I held my breath.  I knew that you would follow him in if he started to get into trouble.  Which he did of course. You simply called him - and he took hold of your voice  and pulled himself to shore. What a sight it was, as he showered you in muddy river droplets.  I think your laughter was heard for miles. Sparkling water…like a Quickening. 

All the lost and lonely ones...like me.... like you... holding each other fast, spinning out of control in the glorious days and darkened nights of our lives.

The sun had shone for the first time in many days, shimmering off the waters of the Seine...shimmering off you.  Your hair is longer now.  The curls have come back.  I could hear you laughing while I pretended to look down on the scene in disdain.  These scenes of you.  Scenes that take my breath away.

Naturally you had been your usual commanding and competent self and had spent days moving and securing the Barge.  Helping me move my books from the basement - again.  We had stood for hours on the Pont Sully watching the Seine take over your beloved Quai. 

What is it about water that always draws you? Loch Shiel.  The Barge.  Seacouver.  Your precious island…

“Walk with me, Methos,” you commanded.  Pleaded.  I’d walk with you until the end of time, Gradhach.  So we walked along the banks of the Seine for hours, letting the rain wash over us.  At one stage you stood and looked up, saw no-one was around and opened your mouth and let the rain fill your mouth.  Drank it in. And then you leaned over and kissed me. 

Drank me in….

When we arrived back at the Quai we stood once again on Pont Sully and watched two women filming on the steps, Notre Dame their backdrop.  Your Quai their stage. They were laughing and the sun shone briefly all around them as they battled river noise and thoughtless tourists walking in and out of their frame.

Below us all a lone man set his easel up and tried to capture that amazing sight of the cathedral amidst the debris of the flooded Seine.  The debris of the Quai.

“I’d love a dollar for every artist I’ve seen in that same spot,” you sniggered.

I forgot for a moment that you aren’t yet comfortable with displays in public - and I moved against you, standing on that bridge, and felt the warmth of your back press close all down my front.  We watched him paint.  We watched the two women film.  We watched the tourists watch these scenes - the camera and the paintbrush adding more permanent images of Notre Dame.

And I found myself thinking of scenes of you that I’ve captured.  Surely Duncan, sometime while I slept you slipped inside...

I thought afterwards of the cosmic irony of that trinity.  Three people giving permanence to your home.  The women with their film.  The artist on his canvas.  Me, on my soul.  Three imprints of the Quai and that cathedral.

You have somehow managed to imprint a living image of yourself into the filaments of my optic nerves.  Everywhere I look these days there is an overlay of you.  Laughing. Shouting. Smiling.  Brooding.  Breathless.  Sated.  Sexed.  Arrogant.  Sensuous.  Seductive.  Fearsome.  Sneering.  Furious.  Loving.  Weeping.  Commanding.  Supplicating...

“Mi casa es su casa,” I once offered.  And you finally accepted and made my body and soul your home.

I thought these things as I pressed against your back as we gazed at the flooded Quai.  I played my scenes of you.

You said nothing.  Simply lay your warrior’s forearms on top of mine, trapping them as they surrounded you.  Let me lay my head against your shoulder.

I breathed you in.

I closed my eyes against the exquisite pain of your imprinting yet another scene, Quickening like, against every pore and cell of my body where we touched...until you realized what was happening and that we were in public and I felt you stiffen…and I smiled and pulled away.  One day, Duncan, soon, you won’t pull away…

If the day ever comes when all has gone, all hope is dead and all of life and love and sanity are dust and the world is flooded with my tears - if that should happen, I will play these scenes I hold of you.  And I’ll remember how once, you made me live again. And how you took possession, took no prisoners....

But it will never happen Gradhach, that all will be gone...I will simply never release you.  Not after all of that pain. I told you once on Iona that I would light you home. 

I will never let anyone harm you. 

I will do any underhanded thing in any underhanded way to keep you safe. 

Destroy anyone or anything.

When you were on the Quai and turned and smiled up at me, watching me indulge myself, watching you, you saw only your lover.  But it is Death, Duncan, who watches over you.  Your immortal Gatekeeper.  Death, who will end all life to keep you here with me.  Mortal.  Immortal. My own…

I will never let this be finished. 

I will never let us go...

I remember that black night of Richie’s death standing on the deck of the Barge, watching this same river, and thinking that perhaps what drew me to you in the first place had been your passion – a passion that was always on the edge of being out of control?  Maybe in some dark twisted way, lovers like you are an addiction for me.   Do I crave controlling the knife-edge you walk just this side of insanity …your passion, which is only ever a hair's breadth from obsession and from madness?  And I remember thinking about how I’ve always been drawn to unstable and dangerous lovers. Byron was a lot more stable before he met me….

Maybe I'm all that’s needed to trigger the madness?  

But it’s me who is in danger of becoming a prisoner to lovers like you and that both terrifies and exhilarates me.  I despise how easily I can let myself lash you when you exasperate me.  Press those buttons that can leave you so out of control, leave us both so angry - just to prove to myself and you that I can..…that I'm the one who is in control.  That somehow walking away could be so easy..that I am in no way lost in the loving of you....

And I shake my head and clear my eyes and see you now before me romping with the dogs.

 I hear your pure laughter…and feel my spirit burn bright with these scenes of you...my scenes  -

you…

mine…always mine…

 

 

Methos.

February, 1999.

 

Finis

 


21 June 2000
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