Sean eyed the leather couch with misgiving. Shit - he had thought that he was through with
shrinks. Well - surprise! Here he was again. He licked his lips nervously; his mouth was as dry
as an old bone, and his heart thudded uneasily against his ribs. He glanced at the doctor and
raised his brows in silent inquiry, striving desperately for an air of nonchalance.
Dr. Dowling smiled and nodded toward the recliner sitting beside the couch. "Will you be more
comfortable there, Sean?" he asked.
Sean moved toward the chair and seated himself gingerly. "Yes, I would prefer this, please."
"Very good. Now set yourself at ease, and we can begin." The doctor set a small recorder down
on the end table, drew up a chair and sat down, knee to knee with his patient, his notebook on
his lap. Sean stared at the instrument and his forehead creased in a frown of dismay.
"This is the only recording device in this room," the doctor said reassuringly. "And when you
leave, the tape will go with you. It is yours to keep or destroy as you see fit, although keeping
it would be a good idea. If you feel that we need to talk further, you wouldn't have to go
through this all over again - although you will remember everything that happens. Is this
agreeable to you?"
Sean shrugged, feigning indifference, but his knuckles whitened as his hands tightened on the
arms of the chair.
"Very well," Dr. Dowling nodded. "Now, the most important thing is to have you relax. So, let's
make sure you're quite comfortable, all right? Close your eyes, Sean. Take a deep breath and
let it all out slowly - as far as you can. Take your hands off the armrests and just let them lay in
your lap. . . yes. . . that's right.
"Now we'll run through a simple breathing exercise," he continued. "Take a deep breath,
slowly, hold it for a count of five - and then let it out slowly, for a count of five. Feel the
tension drain out of your body as you exhale. Yes - that's it. Now let's do it together - in for five
- hold for five - out for five. . . good."
His voice took on a soothing cadence as he repeated the count. Sean obeyed, but his eyelids
kept flickering open in nervous anticipation. The doctor noted his distraction and took an old-
fashioned gold watch and chain from his pocket.
"You're doing fine," he murmured. "Open your eyes, Sean, and focus on this watch. It's nothing
special, just an ordinary timepiece." The doctor moved his hand and the watch started
spinning slowly. "I'd like you to focus your eyes on it - it will help you relax. It will distract your
conscious mind. Watch it spin. See how it catches the light. See how the light reflects off it.
Hear it ticking - a soothing sound, Sean, a pleasant sound. You have all the time in the world.
Time is slowing down - slowing down...
"Now you find yourself growing more and more comfortable - more and more relaxed. You are
starting to feel drowsy; your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Imagine yourself as a
leaf, floating on the surface of a still pool. It is very peaceful there; soft grass lines the verge,
and the branches of the trees reach gracefully over the water. Let your eyes close - immerse
yourself in the tranquillity of the pool. You are warm, and safe, and secure. So relaxed and
comfortable. Your thoughts are slowing down - it's too much effort to think at all. Let it all go.
. . enjoy the peace. . . relax. . . "
The doctor's voice droned on, soothing in its measured rhythm. Slowly, Sean's body sank
deeper into the recliner, and as the doctor watched, some of the lines of tension melted from
his face. Sean looked younger, less care-worn and subtly content. His upturned hands lay on
his lap, fingers curling inward gently, and his head lay easily against the headrest, the tendons
of his neck lax and loose.
The doctor nodded, satisfied. He knew Sean had been the most reluctant of the six, and was
somewhat startled to find him slipping into trance so easily. He kept up the droning cadence
of his voice and leaning forward, grasped a wrist gently and lifted it into the air. Sean's arm
came up without resistance, and when Doctor Dowling let go, it remained suspended in perfect
catalepsy. Wherever the doctor moved it, it remained there, unmoving, steady. This was
something that Sean could not have anticipated, and impossible to fake. He returned the arm
to its proper place, ran his hand down it until it relaxed, and then let his voice die away.
"Excellent!" he said approvingly. "Sean, can you hear me clearly?"
"Yes..." The word was a mere thread of sound.
"Good. Now, you're fully relaxed and in trance, but you will always be aware of who you are and
of your surroundings. That security and safety will stay with you, whatever happens, and
wherever we go from here. Remember, I will be at your side all the way. Are you ready?"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Sean's face, indicative of his ambivalence toward the whole
idea. After a moment, though, he nodded dreamily in assent.
Doctor Dowling smiled. Then he leaned forward and said, "But first, let's take out some
insurance. . . "
~~~~~
Sean drifted in the midst of a haze of pearly luminescence; his body weightless, his senses in
abeyance. Before him, tendrils of mist shaped themselves into the semblance of a tunnel
filled with light. He heard a voice, calm and steady, urging him onward and he obeyed
hesitantly.
"Sean - I want you to imagine time as a calendar that hangs in front of you. Each page you tear
off the calendar is a year taken off your life. As you tear them off, you become younger and
younger and younger. Continue doing this until I tell you to stop. You will relive memories, but
don't dwell on them. We may have a long way to go. Start tearing the pages off now."
As he moved down the tunnel, Sean began to see images flash by. He saw Ally being born,
relived his wedding day; images of his days at university, of Mac and his father laughing - and
then his perspective changed, and he was looking up - at his mother. The images were all of
her now - in all her mercurial moods; memories of a raised voice, thick with venom, of a hand
raised to strike. He shrank back in the chair, whimpering. . .
The voice whispered in his ear, smooth as silk, and as strong, "Move past the memories, Sean -
they cannot hurt you now. See the calendar before you - each page torn off is now a decade off
your life. The pages fly off now - ten - twenty - - fifty. . . Where are you now, Sean?"
"I am. . . nowhere. . . "
"Go farther back - go back another fifty years. Where are you now?"
". . . a battlefield. . . can't tell where. . . dying. . . " Sean's head moved restlessly from side to
side.
"It's all right, Sean. Remember, these lives are past and spent. They cannot harm you. Go
back farther - we look for fire, Sean. Go back. . . "
. . . Fire
The pages flew off the calendar in a blur of motion. Images rushed by, passing too swiftly to
see or comprehend. A hundred years - two hundred years swept past. Then ahead, the mists lit
up with a sullen, reddish glow - and Sean dived toward the light, impelled by a force he couldn't
resist. The guide's voice broke in and went unheeded, "Slow down, Sean! You're going too
fast! Slow down!"
~~~~~
Elijah looked up with a frown and cocked his head, listening. He could've sworn he'd heard the
sound of something falling from the inner room. The magazine slid to the floor as he jumped
to his feet and hurried to the door; he laid his ear against the smooth wood and his eyes
widened in consternation. He didn't feel the pain in his shoulder as he wrenched the door open
and burst into the room.
Sean lay twisted on a recliner, his bare arms shielding his face, his fingers clawing the air. All
Elijah could see of his face was the red wound of his gaping mouth; all he could hear were the
sounds that issued from it; keening gasps of agony and fear; and words - almost unintelligible,
". . . no. . . no. . . Ned. . . no. . . "
". . . the fuck! " Elijah yelled. "What are you doing to him?"
Dr. Dowling's head jerked around. "Help me!" he panted. "Got to get his arms away from his
face! Can't do it - need a free hand - quickly!" Sean's arms showed red welts where the
doctor's nails had scratched them when he'd tried to pull them back.
Elijah didn't hesitate. Sean's body felt rock hard against his thighs as he threw himself on his
friend and wrapped his hands around a muscled arm.
"Seanie! Please - it's me, Lijah!" he pleaded, although he didn't know if Sean could hear him.
"Sean - relax! It's all right - I'm here!"
He felt the body under him jerk and the arm he was hanging on to give a little. He hauled on it
with all his might and the arm loosened further. Quick as a striking snake, the doctor's hand
darted in and he tapped Sean's exposed forehead with a forefinger - right between the
eyebrows.
What happened after that little tap was nothing short of amazing. Sean's body relaxed abruptly
- it was as if a spring, wound past its breaking point, had snapped. The arm Elijah clung to
went slack, and he lost his balance, tumbling backwards and landing at Sean's feet with a yelp
of pain.
"Wha - what -" he stuttered, utterly disoriented.
The doctor ignored him - he had Sean's wrist in his hand and was taking his pulse with a frown
of concentration. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and extended a hand to help Elijah up.
"That was my insurance - a post-hypnotic suggestion," he said. "Don't worry," he added, as
Elijah took a menacing step forward, "He's merely deeply asleep." The doctor bent to retrieve
his notebook and pen from the floor and right the overturned chair.
"It's too traumatic for him," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Need to get past the fire. . . what
to do. . . " He took a turn around the room, deep in thought. Elijah moved to Sean's side and
looked down on his sleeping face curiously. He'd never seen Sean truly at rest before. Even
napping on the set, he had this edge to him - this hair-trigger half-awareness. He smiled wryly
as he smoothed a glossy curl back from the high forehead. He looks so peaceful, he thought.
So young and defenseless.
Dr. Dowling returned and Elijah looked up warily. "I'm not leaving until I know he'll be all
right," he said mulishly. "You needed me before - and you might again. I'm not taking any
chances."
The doctor looked at him oddly. "Why didn't you go with the others, Elijah? Why did you stay?"
Elijah shrugged, "I dunno - I just had this feeling, y'know?" He looked down at the sleeping
man. "He always takes care of me - of all of us," he said softly. "He's always there when I
need him - every time. I guess I stayed because he really didn't want to do this - and I wanted
to be here. Just in case that. . . for once. . . he might need me."
"It was a timely thought. Thank you," the doctor responded, smiling. "Now, I must ask you to
sit over near the door. I'm going to try something. Promise me that you will not interfere or
make a sound unless I ask; and that you leave when I tell you to do so, all right?"
The doctor seated himself and took a deep breath. Then he leaned forward and tapped Sean's
forehead in the exact spot he'd touched before. Sean's breathing deepened imperceptibly and
he shifted a little in the chair.
"Sean, can you hear me?"
"Yes. . . "
"You are at the threshold of the life you seek," he continued. "Now - I want you to imagine that
you hold a video camera in your hand. Imagine that you are filming a scene in a movie. You,
as the director, are apart, an observer. Your finger is poised over the pause button - you can
stop the action anytime you wish. Are you ready?" Sean nodded dreamily. "Move forward
slowly. Remember that I am with you."
The red-tinged mists loomed ahead. As Sean approached, he could feel the heat of the fire
warming his face. The voice assured him, "The fire is an illusion, Sean, a special effect. Pass
through to the other side, enter your life and see what you must see."
Elijah stiffened in his chair at the doctor's words. He saw Sean's forehead furrow in
concentration, saw the change that came over his face. Even with his eyes closed, Sean's face
was alight with an utter, unimaginable joy. Then he smiled, a smile of such tenderness, that
Elijah felt tears start to his eyes.
"Ned. . . my love. . . "
Elijah gasped.
The doctor turned, startled. He had completely forgotten about Elijah. He jerked his head
toward the door and frowned forbiddingly when Elijah hesitated. They held each other's eyes
for a long moment, then the young man nodded and left, closing the door silently behind him.
Dr. Dowling turned back to his patient. "You need to go back a little farther, Sean, five years
or so. You need to understand."
The smile died from Sean's face and he moaned in protest.
"We will come back to this moment, Sean. I promise you. Go back now."
"I. . . yes. . . "
"Do you speak English in this life?" the doctor asked. Sean nodded. "Good. What year is it?"
"It is the fourteenth year in the reign of Good Queen Bess, may God save her."
The doctor's brows rose to his hairline. Sean's voice had changed - it was more resonant,
fuller, and there was a different cadence to it.
"Who are you in this life?"
"I am a player, one Sean Hastings, a member of Lord Osborne's Company."
"Tell me. . . "
~~~~~
Elijah stared at the closed door miserably. Sean's face trembled behind his eyelids, burned
into his memory; the sweetness of his smile, the blinding joy. He felt unsettled and resentful,
and...angry. A hot tide of color rose beneath his skin. If he were honest with himself, he'd
have to admit that he was jealous - of a phantom from a life long past. If he were honest with
himself, he'd have to admit it - that he wanted the light that lit Sean's face for himself, that
tender smile for him alone.
And Elijah was nothing if not honest.
~~~~~
Four hundred and thirty-odd years, the doctor mused silently as he watched them file into the
room. That long ago - and if I'm not mistaken, nothing has really changed. He thought of
Charles Darwin and natural selection and suppressed a wry grin. The serious faces arrayed in
front of him wouldn't appreciate the humor in the situation at all.
"All right," he began. "This is going to be a kind of brief de-briefing, and I am going to give you
my analysis of the situation as I see it. Do all of you remember what transpired during your
sessions?"
Short nods all around. None of the six people in the room with him seemed to want to look at
each other. The easy camaraderie of before was absent, and there was an air of tension and
constraint in the room.
"Sean, would you start? Tell us who you were," Dr. Dowling invited, his voice calm and quiet.
Sean's eyes were on his clasped hands and his voice shook. "I - I was an actor, a stage actor,
and my name was Sean Hastings. I - um - I belonged to this repertory company, 'Lord Osborne's
Men'." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I lived during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I."
"It was my fault that Ned died, you know. My fault that he suffered so."
"Why would you think that, Sean?"
"I had the sight. It was my curse - to know how he would die. I sent Owen and Dominick away -
I saved them from the fire, but him...I could not save. And he was my life..."
"You died with him, Sean. You could have saved yourself. Why?"
"I was going to kill him - did you know? T'would have been so simple, so easy - to place my
hand over his mouth and stop his breath. I did not want him to suffer, you see. But I could not
do it. I had murder in my heart, but when I looked into his eyes - I saw such trust, such love in
them. So I stayed, as I had always planned to do - and my beloved did not die alone."
"It was his time, Sean. It was his fate. Do not blame yourself. Listen to me, Sean...
~~~~~
Orli flinched and looked up. "Oh. Am I next?" He cleared his throat and avoided the others'
eyes. "I was a Welshman - and my name was Owen Archer." A soft sound of amusement
escaped Viggo's lips and Orli smiled a little. "Yeah. Funny, isn't it. I was a member of Lord
Osborne's Men too. A lowly apprentice."
"Orlando, in your dream, the heat of the fire drives you back. Take up the video camera - know
that the fire is merely an effect, an illusion. It cannot harm you. Go through the fire and find
what you seek."
"Martyn..."
"Yes. Go to him, Orlando. This is what you wanted - to be with him at the end. You can do it
now."
"He still breathes..."
"He knows that you are here. It comforts him. See, Orlando, he smiles. . ."
"I am not Orlando - I am Owen. . . and I want to stay. I promised, look you. I vowed to die with
my love. Damn Sean - damn him to hell for saving me. . . "
"You are both, Orlando and Owen - you are one soul. Your death will not make Martyn live
again. Resist the temptation, Orlando, and forgive Sean - he loved you too, and he meant well."
~~~~~
Billy straightened in his chair and folded his hands primly in his lap. He looked outwardly calm,
but the whiteness of his knuckles betrayed him. "I was a Scotsman, and a member of the
same company as theirs." He nodded toward Sean and Orli. "My name was William Scot, but
they called me Will."
"He was such a bonny lad, ye ken. They were all family to me, but he was special. He could
always shake me from the doldrums; always make me laugh. And his eyes - ye canna know -
they were the grey of a stormy sky, and the silver of the ring he gave me. For friendship, he
said. Friendship forever, I vowed to him.
"I never told him I loved him. I was brought up Calvinist, you see, a stern faith, and joyless. I
feared to see the loathing and disgust in those eyes - so I held my peace, and gloried in his
amity. And at the end, why should I torment him with my love? He had much to bear, and I
spared him more..."
"This unrequited love - who was he, Billy?"
"I loved. . .Dominick. . . "
~~~~~
Dom sprawled in his chair, looking relaxed and at ease. He raised an eyebrow and smiled
mirthlessly. "Looks like everyone was one big, happy family in this 'other life', doesn't it? It
boggles the mind, it does." A muscle jumped in the long jaw. "May as well add my bit, then.
Dominick Merriman was my name - a mouthful, to be sure. I was London-born and bred. Same
troupe, same era."
"I miss him so. He was a delight to be with, was my Will. He sang like a nightingale, you know
- and his voice was honey-smooth. And a master of his craft - only John could match him - no
one else came close, least of all myself. He was the brother of my heart, and I loved him well."
"Do you feel the need to go beyond the fire, Dom?"
"Nay. I wanted him too, you see. He was beautiful, was Ned, and so easy to love. But he
belonged to Sean, heart and soul, and was not for me. Whether it was love or lust I felt for
him, I know not - but I do not want to watch him die. And Sean - I always wondered - and he
sent us away, saved us from the fire. So I was certain - that somehow he knew. He did not try
to save himself, did he?"
"No - no, they died together. How did you die, Dom?"
"Five years more I lived, if you can call it that. I had lost my family, and the two I loved the
most - and plague came round again, and. . . I would that I had died with them."
~~~~~
Viggo spoke up quietly in that soft, breathy voice of his, surprising from a man his size. "I was
Martyn Sonne in that other life - a playwright, and a member of Lord Osborne's Men."
Viggo's voice died away, and his breathing quickened. Dr. Dowling sensed a movement, and
looked down at the actor's hands. They were moving, the left hand splayed open, the right
hand curled around some imagined object - not aimless, but with palpable purpose. He looked
up at Viggo's face - it was still, and his eyes were shut. The doctor stood up quickly and hurried
to his desk.
He lifted the groping hand and slid the heavy pad of drawing paper under it. Then he placed
the pencil in the curve of the right hand and sat back, watching intently. Viggo's eyes didn't
open, but the pencil moved across the paper, sure and steady. With a few deft strokes, a face
appeared - a laughing, beardless face, dark eyes gazing out from under level brows, and
crowned by a shock of unruly hair - a young face. The pencil faltered, marking the paper and
the doctor moved it away gently. Viggo's left hand wandered over the drawing, smudging the
penciled lines, and a tender smile lit his face.
"Owen. . ." he said softly. "Angel. . . "
~~~~~
Elijah rubbed the tender inside of his arm absently. Why the fuck was it sore? He looked down
at the reddish mark and up with a frown. The doctor met his accusing glare blandly and
nodded, smiling and turning his hands up. It was his turn.
Sean's eyes met his across the half-circle of his mates and Elijah held them for a long
moment. Then he dropped his eyes and said, his voice expressionless "My name was Edward
Woodrose. I was an apprentice. They," with a nod of his head toward the others, "called me
Ned."
The doctor frowned. That pinch to his arm must have been painful, but Elijah hadn't
responded. Still, he seemed too tense to be in real trance. Dr. Dowling opened his mouth to
halt the process, and stopped at the sound of the soft voice.
"A lie. I lived a lie."
"What do you mean, Elijah?"
"I was no innocent - that rape that Sean saved me from was not the first. Only the first that did
not succeed. Two years I endured - the youngest member of a wandering troupe - a plaything,
a toy. I hated my face, did you know? I would have marred it if I could - but it was my only
wherewithal, my livelihood.
"I was fortunate - I won free, and thought that I had entered heaven. I found love, and my
beloved loved me for myself, tarnished though I was. And I - I kept silent, and put my old life
behind me. Or so I thought. I loved him so - my Sean, but I could never rest, you see. The
stains would never wash away - I was unworthy of him; and I was certain that someday he
would see me for what I was, and turn away."
"He chose to die with you, Elijah. Was that not proof of his true love?"
"No. . . Yes. . . I do not know! He died for a lie. . . "
~~~~~
Dr. Dowling looked up and cleared his throat. "Before I start, I believe you all should see this."
He handed a large sheet of thick paper to Sean, and sat back, watching his face intently. Sean
stared down at it, and a shudder seemed to go through him. He blinked back tears and
passed it to Orli brusquely.
Orli took it and exclaimed in surprise, "Vigs! Did you do this?"
"Yes, I suppose I did." Viggo admitted, smiling slightly.
Bill and Dom craned their necks to see. "Bloody hell! Look, it's all of us - oh - and John too!
Viggo, could you have copies made?" Billy asked.
Dom's eyes narrowed in speculation. "Of the seven of the company, six of us are here. I
wonder..."
"I wondered too," Viggo said quietly.
"Could I see that?" Elijah asked, and Billy handed the sketch to him. He studied it for a minute
and then looked up at Sean, his face blank and closed. Sean met his gaze and a frisson of
unease sped up his spine. Something was wrong, and he couldn't tell what it was. The
sapphire eyes bored into him -
The eyes of a lover - the face of a stranger.
~~~~~
"The memories may grow stronger over the next few weeks, but will eventually fade. It is the
brain's self-defense mechanism - you are not meant to remember lives before this one." Dr.
Dowling had his lecturing voice on. "As to the nightmares, if I have done my work right, they
will not return. I say 'if', mind you," he qualified, at the sigh of relief that echoed through the
room. "There is really no precedent for this situation, you know.
"One of the six of you has the psychic gift of empathy, the projection type." He held up his
hand at the chorus of protest. "Come now, after all that has happened here, you still deny it?
Empathy is the most common of what we call 'telepathic gifts'. Some actors have it, in varying
degrees. Through it, you can gauge the responsiveness, the mood of the audience; with it, you
can project the emotions you wish them to feel. You do not consciously use it - it is reflexive,
and not under your control. However.
"Something has awakened it in one of you. Who it is, is not important now. It isn't very strong,
and can only manifest when the public mind, the conscious mind is out of the way, asleep.
Hence the nightmares. And why the six of you? Because you have a bond between you, one
that stretches over more than one lifetime, a soul-bond, if you will.
"Memories of that past life were triggered in someone. Perhaps in that person, empathy lay
dormant; perhaps it was an adjunct of those memories." Dr. Dowling fell silent for a moment.
Nobody stirred. "So many ifs, so many maybes," he sighed in rueful resignation. Then he
roused himself, "My analysis is arguably a quick and dirty one, but it rings true. I will have to
see you all again - perhaps a week from today. I will let you know your individual schedules -
and if you need to talk before then, call me - at any time of the day or night." He smiled
tightly. "For this, I will make house calls."
~~~~~
"Sean, we have to talk."
Sean turned, his hand on the doorknob, and nodded warily. Dinner had been a subdued affair,
and he couldn't recall what he had eaten - the food could have been sawdust for all the taste it
had had. He fumbled his key card into the slot, and felt a cramp seize his belly in anticipation.
Elijah followed him into the room and shut the door behind him.
"It was you, wasn't it?" he said to Sean's rigid back. "The nightmares came from you, didn't
they? Sean?" Sean ducked his head and didn't move.
"No wonder I had a harder time of it - I was re-living your death as well as mine, wasn't I?"
Elijah walked up to the silent figure and stared at Sean broodingly.
Sean turned at his words, and something like relief lit his face. "I'm sorry, Lij. It does look like
it was my fault, doesn't it?" He said pleadingly, "You know I'd never knowingly harm you - never
hurt you! You do know that, don't you? Is that what's bugging you? Why you've been so
strange all night?"
Elijah smiled back, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course I know it, Sam. You couldn't
harm anyone if you tried. No - " his eyes wavered and dropped. "That wasn't what I wanted to
talk about."
He jammed his hands roughly into his pockets, and Sean winced. Not a good sign at all. Elijah
tended to talk with his hands, and memories of funny tales, jokes, and confidences,
orchestrated by waving hands and jabbing fingers, were as much a part of him as his amazing
eyes. Trapping those expressive digits in a prison of denim meant one thing only - he had
raised his barriers against Sean.
"You're my best friend, you know," Elijah said quietly. "Maybe the best I've ever had. Nobody
knows me better. Perhaps Hannah and Mom do, but aside from them – nobody else. I don't
want to lose that, Sean." He shook his head when Sean attempted to speak, and Sean
subsided, his heart thumping. "No. Don't interrupt. I need to get this out - now."
"I want you. And I know you want me." The bald, uncompromising words made Sean gasp
softly. Elijah's answering smile was devoid of mirth. "'Want' is a pretty lame word for what we
feel, isn't it? The heart-ache that keeps me awake at night, the way I need you near me, the
way I feel so safe when you put your arms around me.
"So - if 'want' doesn't quite cut it - shall we try the word 'love' then?
"But Seanie," his tongue curled around the name, savoring it. "What if the love isn't real? If
it's you that has this 'empathy' thing - maybe what I feel is what you want me to feel. What if
you don't realize what you're doing? What then?"
Elijah's voice was rising, and he stopped abruptly. He wet dry lips with a flick of his tongue and
continued in a near-whisper. "Sean, what if it's just you wanting Ned back - or me wanting that
other Sean back too? You're married - you have a great career, a wonderful family. Too many
'what-ifs' to build a life on, Sean, too many to ruin a life for."
They stared at each other, their eyes wide and dark. The minutes ticked away, and still Sean
didn't argue, didn't say a word. Finally Elijah couldn't stand it.
"Sean - say something!"
"What is there to say?" There was a flat quality to Sean's voice, as if the words were forced
through dead air. "You're right, anyway."
"Are we still okay? Do you hate me now?" Elijah heard the frantic pleading in his own voice
and quailed.
"I'll never hate you, Lij." Sean's voice was muffled, and then he raised his eyes and a spark
jumped in them. "Elijah - may I kiss you? Just this once?"
Elijah looked at him sadly, "I don't think that's a good idea, Sean."
"Please," Sean whispered.
Elijah couldn't withstand the pleading in the hazel eyes. He nodded resignedly and moved
toward Sean.
"Okay, then. Just this once."
Their lips met, softly, tentatively, and Sean let out a shuddering sigh. Elijah took an instinctive
breath and the air that he drew in was warm from Sean's body. They shivered at the delicate
intimacy, and Sean's hand came up to cup Elijah's neck and draw him closer. His thumb traced
the outline of the delicate jaw with practiced precision, and the hesitant kiss evolved into
something desperate, searing and oh, so sweet, and
Elijah wrenched himself away and backed toward the door.
His eyes burned as he whispered, "I told you it was a bad idea - you want Ned, and he's dead.
I'm not him, Sean, and I can't stand it - I can't."
And he was gone.
~~~~~
shrinks. Well - surprise! Here he was again. He licked his lips nervously; his mouth was as dry
as an old bone, and his heart thudded uneasily against his ribs. He glanced at the doctor and
raised his brows in silent inquiry, striving desperately for an air of nonchalance.
Dr. Dowling smiled and nodded toward the recliner sitting beside the couch. "Will you be more
comfortable there, Sean?" he asked.
Sean moved toward the chair and seated himself gingerly. "Yes, I would prefer this, please."
"Very good. Now set yourself at ease, and we can begin." The doctor set a small recorder down
on the end table, drew up a chair and sat down, knee to knee with his patient, his notebook on
his lap. Sean stared at the instrument and his forehead creased in a frown of dismay.
"This is the only recording device in this room," the doctor said reassuringly. "And when you
leave, the tape will go with you. It is yours to keep or destroy as you see fit, although keeping
it would be a good idea. If you feel that we need to talk further, you wouldn't have to go
through this all over again - although you will remember everything that happens. Is this
agreeable to you?"
Sean shrugged, feigning indifference, but his knuckles whitened as his hands tightened on the
arms of the chair.
"Very well," Dr. Dowling nodded. "Now, the most important thing is to have you relax. So, let's
make sure you're quite comfortable, all right? Close your eyes, Sean. Take a deep breath and
let it all out slowly - as far as you can. Take your hands off the armrests and just let them lay in
your lap. . . yes. . . that's right.
"Now we'll run through a simple breathing exercise," he continued. "Take a deep breath,
slowly, hold it for a count of five - and then let it out slowly, for a count of five. Feel the
tension drain out of your body as you exhale. Yes - that's it. Now let's do it together - in for five
- hold for five - out for five. . . good."
His voice took on a soothing cadence as he repeated the count. Sean obeyed, but his eyelids
kept flickering open in nervous anticipation. The doctor noted his distraction and took an old-
fashioned gold watch and chain from his pocket.
"You're doing fine," he murmured. "Open your eyes, Sean, and focus on this watch. It's nothing
special, just an ordinary timepiece." The doctor moved his hand and the watch started
spinning slowly. "I'd like you to focus your eyes on it - it will help you relax. It will distract your
conscious mind. Watch it spin. See how it catches the light. See how the light reflects off it.
Hear it ticking - a soothing sound, Sean, a pleasant sound. You have all the time in the world.
Time is slowing down - slowing down...
"Now you find yourself growing more and more comfortable - more and more relaxed. You are
starting to feel drowsy; your eyelids are getting heavier and heavier. Imagine yourself as a
leaf, floating on the surface of a still pool. It is very peaceful there; soft grass lines the verge,
and the branches of the trees reach gracefully over the water. Let your eyes close - immerse
yourself in the tranquillity of the pool. You are warm, and safe, and secure. So relaxed and
comfortable. Your thoughts are slowing down - it's too much effort to think at all. Let it all go.
. . enjoy the peace. . . relax. . . "
The doctor's voice droned on, soothing in its measured rhythm. Slowly, Sean's body sank
deeper into the recliner, and as the doctor watched, some of the lines of tension melted from
his face. Sean looked younger, less care-worn and subtly content. His upturned hands lay on
his lap, fingers curling inward gently, and his head lay easily against the headrest, the tendons
of his neck lax and loose.
The doctor nodded, satisfied. He knew Sean had been the most reluctant of the six, and was
somewhat startled to find him slipping into trance so easily. He kept up the droning cadence
of his voice and leaning forward, grasped a wrist gently and lifted it into the air. Sean's arm
came up without resistance, and when Doctor Dowling let go, it remained suspended in perfect
catalepsy. Wherever the doctor moved it, it remained there, unmoving, steady. This was
something that Sean could not have anticipated, and impossible to fake. He returned the arm
to its proper place, ran his hand down it until it relaxed, and then let his voice die away.
"Excellent!" he said approvingly. "Sean, can you hear me clearly?"
"Yes..." The word was a mere thread of sound.
"Good. Now, you're fully relaxed and in trance, but you will always be aware of who you are and
of your surroundings. That security and safety will stay with you, whatever happens, and
wherever we go from here. Remember, I will be at your side all the way. Are you ready?"
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Sean's face, indicative of his ambivalence toward the whole
idea. After a moment, though, he nodded dreamily in assent.
Doctor Dowling smiled. Then he leaned forward and said, "But first, let's take out some
insurance. . . "
~~~~~
Sean drifted in the midst of a haze of pearly luminescence; his body weightless, his senses in
abeyance. Before him, tendrils of mist shaped themselves into the semblance of a tunnel
filled with light. He heard a voice, calm and steady, urging him onward and he obeyed
hesitantly.
"Sean - I want you to imagine time as a calendar that hangs in front of you. Each page you tear
off the calendar is a year taken off your life. As you tear them off, you become younger and
younger and younger. Continue doing this until I tell you to stop. You will relive memories, but
don't dwell on them. We may have a long way to go. Start tearing the pages off now."
As he moved down the tunnel, Sean began to see images flash by. He saw Ally being born,
relived his wedding day; images of his days at university, of Mac and his father laughing - and
then his perspective changed, and he was looking up - at his mother. The images were all of
her now - in all her mercurial moods; memories of a raised voice, thick with venom, of a hand
raised to strike. He shrank back in the chair, whimpering. . .
The voice whispered in his ear, smooth as silk, and as strong, "Move past the memories, Sean -
they cannot hurt you now. See the calendar before you - each page torn off is now a decade off
your life. The pages fly off now - ten - twenty - - fifty. . . Where are you now, Sean?"
"I am. . . nowhere. . . "
"Go farther back - go back another fifty years. Where are you now?"
". . . a battlefield. . . can't tell where. . . dying. . . " Sean's head moved restlessly from side to
side.
"It's all right, Sean. Remember, these lives are past and spent. They cannot harm you. Go
back farther - we look for fire, Sean. Go back. . . "
. . . Fire
The pages flew off the calendar in a blur of motion. Images rushed by, passing too swiftly to
see or comprehend. A hundred years - two hundred years swept past. Then ahead, the mists lit
up with a sullen, reddish glow - and Sean dived toward the light, impelled by a force he couldn't
resist. The guide's voice broke in and went unheeded, "Slow down, Sean! You're going too
fast! Slow down!"
~~~~~
Elijah looked up with a frown and cocked his head, listening. He could've sworn he'd heard the
sound of something falling from the inner room. The magazine slid to the floor as he jumped
to his feet and hurried to the door; he laid his ear against the smooth wood and his eyes
widened in consternation. He didn't feel the pain in his shoulder as he wrenched the door open
and burst into the room.
Sean lay twisted on a recliner, his bare arms shielding his face, his fingers clawing the air. All
Elijah could see of his face was the red wound of his gaping mouth; all he could hear were the
sounds that issued from it; keening gasps of agony and fear; and words - almost unintelligible,
". . . no. . . no. . . Ned. . . no. . . "
". . . the fuck! " Elijah yelled. "What are you doing to him?"
Dr. Dowling's head jerked around. "Help me!" he panted. "Got to get his arms away from his
face! Can't do it - need a free hand - quickly!" Sean's arms showed red welts where the
doctor's nails had scratched them when he'd tried to pull them back.
Elijah didn't hesitate. Sean's body felt rock hard against his thighs as he threw himself on his
friend and wrapped his hands around a muscled arm.
"Seanie! Please - it's me, Lijah!" he pleaded, although he didn't know if Sean could hear him.
"Sean - relax! It's all right - I'm here!"
He felt the body under him jerk and the arm he was hanging on to give a little. He hauled on it
with all his might and the arm loosened further. Quick as a striking snake, the doctor's hand
darted in and he tapped Sean's exposed forehead with a forefinger - right between the
eyebrows.
What happened after that little tap was nothing short of amazing. Sean's body relaxed abruptly
- it was as if a spring, wound past its breaking point, had snapped. The arm Elijah clung to
went slack, and he lost his balance, tumbling backwards and landing at Sean's feet with a yelp
of pain.
"Wha - what -" he stuttered, utterly disoriented.
The doctor ignored him - he had Sean's wrist in his hand and was taking his pulse with a frown
of concentration. Then he gave a grunt of satisfaction and extended a hand to help Elijah up.
"That was my insurance - a post-hypnotic suggestion," he said. "Don't worry," he added, as
Elijah took a menacing step forward, "He's merely deeply asleep." The doctor bent to retrieve
his notebook and pen from the floor and right the overturned chair.
"It's too traumatic for him," he muttered, mostly to himself. "Need to get past the fire. . . what
to do. . . " He took a turn around the room, deep in thought. Elijah moved to Sean's side and
looked down on his sleeping face curiously. He'd never seen Sean truly at rest before. Even
napping on the set, he had this edge to him - this hair-trigger half-awareness. He smiled wryly
as he smoothed a glossy curl back from the high forehead. He looks so peaceful, he thought.
So young and defenseless.
Dr. Dowling returned and Elijah looked up warily. "I'm not leaving until I know he'll be all
right," he said mulishly. "You needed me before - and you might again. I'm not taking any
chances."
The doctor looked at him oddly. "Why didn't you go with the others, Elijah? Why did you stay?"
Elijah shrugged, "I dunno - I just had this feeling, y'know?" He looked down at the sleeping
man. "He always takes care of me - of all of us," he said softly. "He's always there when I
need him - every time. I guess I stayed because he really didn't want to do this - and I wanted
to be here. Just in case that. . . for once. . . he might need me."
"It was a timely thought. Thank you," the doctor responded, smiling. "Now, I must ask you to
sit over near the door. I'm going to try something. Promise me that you will not interfere or
make a sound unless I ask; and that you leave when I tell you to do so, all right?"
The doctor seated himself and took a deep breath. Then he leaned forward and tapped Sean's
forehead in the exact spot he'd touched before. Sean's breathing deepened imperceptibly and
he shifted a little in the chair.
"Sean, can you hear me?"
"Yes. . . "
"You are at the threshold of the life you seek," he continued. "Now - I want you to imagine that
you hold a video camera in your hand. Imagine that you are filming a scene in a movie. You,
as the director, are apart, an observer. Your finger is poised over the pause button - you can
stop the action anytime you wish. Are you ready?" Sean nodded dreamily. "Move forward
slowly. Remember that I am with you."
The red-tinged mists loomed ahead. As Sean approached, he could feel the heat of the fire
warming his face. The voice assured him, "The fire is an illusion, Sean, a special effect. Pass
through to the other side, enter your life and see what you must see."
Elijah stiffened in his chair at the doctor's words. He saw Sean's forehead furrow in
concentration, saw the change that came over his face. Even with his eyes closed, Sean's face
was alight with an utter, unimaginable joy. Then he smiled, a smile of such tenderness, that
Elijah felt tears start to his eyes.
"Ned. . . my love. . . "
Elijah gasped.
The doctor turned, startled. He had completely forgotten about Elijah. He jerked his head
toward the door and frowned forbiddingly when Elijah hesitated. They held each other's eyes
for a long moment, then the young man nodded and left, closing the door silently behind him.
Dr. Dowling turned back to his patient. "You need to go back a little farther, Sean, five years
or so. You need to understand."
The smile died from Sean's face and he moaned in protest.
"We will come back to this moment, Sean. I promise you. Go back now."
"I. . . yes. . . "
"Do you speak English in this life?" the doctor asked. Sean nodded. "Good. What year is it?"
"It is the fourteenth year in the reign of Good Queen Bess, may God save her."
The doctor's brows rose to his hairline. Sean's voice had changed - it was more resonant,
fuller, and there was a different cadence to it.
"Who are you in this life?"
"I am a player, one Sean Hastings, a member of Lord Osborne's Company."
"Tell me. . . "
~~~~~
Elijah stared at the closed door miserably. Sean's face trembled behind his eyelids, burned
into his memory; the sweetness of his smile, the blinding joy. He felt unsettled and resentful,
and...angry. A hot tide of color rose beneath his skin. If he were honest with himself, he'd
have to admit that he was jealous - of a phantom from a life long past. If he were honest with
himself, he'd have to admit it - that he wanted the light that lit Sean's face for himself, that
tender smile for him alone.
And Elijah was nothing if not honest.
~~~~~
Four hundred and thirty-odd years, the doctor mused silently as he watched them file into the
room. That long ago - and if I'm not mistaken, nothing has really changed. He thought of
Charles Darwin and natural selection and suppressed a wry grin. The serious faces arrayed in
front of him wouldn't appreciate the humor in the situation at all.
"All right," he began. "This is going to be a kind of brief de-briefing, and I am going to give you
my analysis of the situation as I see it. Do all of you remember what transpired during your
sessions?"
Short nods all around. None of the six people in the room with him seemed to want to look at
each other. The easy camaraderie of before was absent, and there was an air of tension and
constraint in the room.
"Sean, would you start? Tell us who you were," Dr. Dowling invited, his voice calm and quiet.
Sean's eyes were on his clasped hands and his voice shook. "I - I was an actor, a stage actor,
and my name was Sean Hastings. I - um - I belonged to this repertory company, 'Lord Osborne's
Men'." He stopped and took a deep breath. "I lived during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I."
"It was my fault that Ned died, you know. My fault that he suffered so."
"Why would you think that, Sean?"
"I had the sight. It was my curse - to know how he would die. I sent Owen and Dominick away -
I saved them from the fire, but him...I could not save. And he was my life..."
"You died with him, Sean. You could have saved yourself. Why?"
"I was going to kill him - did you know? T'would have been so simple, so easy - to place my
hand over his mouth and stop his breath. I did not want him to suffer, you see. But I could not
do it. I had murder in my heart, but when I looked into his eyes - I saw such trust, such love in
them. So I stayed, as I had always planned to do - and my beloved did not die alone."
"It was his time, Sean. It was his fate. Do not blame yourself. Listen to me, Sean...
~~~~~
Orli flinched and looked up. "Oh. Am I next?" He cleared his throat and avoided the others'
eyes. "I was a Welshman - and my name was Owen Archer." A soft sound of amusement
escaped Viggo's lips and Orli smiled a little. "Yeah. Funny, isn't it. I was a member of Lord
Osborne's Men too. A lowly apprentice."
"Orlando, in your dream, the heat of the fire drives you back. Take up the video camera - know
that the fire is merely an effect, an illusion. It cannot harm you. Go through the fire and find
what you seek."
"Martyn..."
"Yes. Go to him, Orlando. This is what you wanted - to be with him at the end. You can do it
now."
"He still breathes..."
"He knows that you are here. It comforts him. See, Orlando, he smiles. . ."
"I am not Orlando - I am Owen. . . and I want to stay. I promised, look you. I vowed to die with
my love. Damn Sean - damn him to hell for saving me. . . "
"You are both, Orlando and Owen - you are one soul. Your death will not make Martyn live
again. Resist the temptation, Orlando, and forgive Sean - he loved you too, and he meant well."
~~~~~
Billy straightened in his chair and folded his hands primly in his lap. He looked outwardly calm,
but the whiteness of his knuckles betrayed him. "I was a Scotsman, and a member of the
same company as theirs." He nodded toward Sean and Orli. "My name was William Scot, but
they called me Will."
"He was such a bonny lad, ye ken. They were all family to me, but he was special. He could
always shake me from the doldrums; always make me laugh. And his eyes - ye canna know -
they were the grey of a stormy sky, and the silver of the ring he gave me. For friendship, he
said. Friendship forever, I vowed to him.
"I never told him I loved him. I was brought up Calvinist, you see, a stern faith, and joyless. I
feared to see the loathing and disgust in those eyes - so I held my peace, and gloried in his
amity. And at the end, why should I torment him with my love? He had much to bear, and I
spared him more..."
"This unrequited love - who was he, Billy?"
"I loved. . .Dominick. . . "
~~~~~
Dom sprawled in his chair, looking relaxed and at ease. He raised an eyebrow and smiled
mirthlessly. "Looks like everyone was one big, happy family in this 'other life', doesn't it? It
boggles the mind, it does." A muscle jumped in the long jaw. "May as well add my bit, then.
Dominick Merriman was my name - a mouthful, to be sure. I was London-born and bred. Same
troupe, same era."
"I miss him so. He was a delight to be with, was my Will. He sang like a nightingale, you know
- and his voice was honey-smooth. And a master of his craft - only John could match him - no
one else came close, least of all myself. He was the brother of my heart, and I loved him well."
"Do you feel the need to go beyond the fire, Dom?"
"Nay. I wanted him too, you see. He was beautiful, was Ned, and so easy to love. But he
belonged to Sean, heart and soul, and was not for me. Whether it was love or lust I felt for
him, I know not - but I do not want to watch him die. And Sean - I always wondered - and he
sent us away, saved us from the fire. So I was certain - that somehow he knew. He did not try
to save himself, did he?"
"No - no, they died together. How did you die, Dom?"
"Five years more I lived, if you can call it that. I had lost my family, and the two I loved the
most - and plague came round again, and. . . I would that I had died with them."
~~~~~
Viggo spoke up quietly in that soft, breathy voice of his, surprising from a man his size. "I was
Martyn Sonne in that other life - a playwright, and a member of Lord Osborne's Men."
Viggo's voice died away, and his breathing quickened. Dr. Dowling sensed a movement, and
looked down at the actor's hands. They were moving, the left hand splayed open, the right
hand curled around some imagined object - not aimless, but with palpable purpose. He looked
up at Viggo's face - it was still, and his eyes were shut. The doctor stood up quickly and hurried
to his desk.
He lifted the groping hand and slid the heavy pad of drawing paper under it. Then he placed
the pencil in the curve of the right hand and sat back, watching intently. Viggo's eyes didn't
open, but the pencil moved across the paper, sure and steady. With a few deft strokes, a face
appeared - a laughing, beardless face, dark eyes gazing out from under level brows, and
crowned by a shock of unruly hair - a young face. The pencil faltered, marking the paper and
the doctor moved it away gently. Viggo's left hand wandered over the drawing, smudging the
penciled lines, and a tender smile lit his face.
"Owen. . ." he said softly. "Angel. . . "
~~~~~
Elijah rubbed the tender inside of his arm absently. Why the fuck was it sore? He looked down
at the reddish mark and up with a frown. The doctor met his accusing glare blandly and
nodded, smiling and turning his hands up. It was his turn.
Sean's eyes met his across the half-circle of his mates and Elijah held them for a long
moment. Then he dropped his eyes and said, his voice expressionless "My name was Edward
Woodrose. I was an apprentice. They," with a nod of his head toward the others, "called me
Ned."
The doctor frowned. That pinch to his arm must have been painful, but Elijah hadn't
responded. Still, he seemed too tense to be in real trance. Dr. Dowling opened his mouth to
halt the process, and stopped at the sound of the soft voice.
"A lie. I lived a lie."
"What do you mean, Elijah?"
"I was no innocent - that rape that Sean saved me from was not the first. Only the first that did
not succeed. Two years I endured - the youngest member of a wandering troupe - a plaything,
a toy. I hated my face, did you know? I would have marred it if I could - but it was my only
wherewithal, my livelihood.
"I was fortunate - I won free, and thought that I had entered heaven. I found love, and my
beloved loved me for myself, tarnished though I was. And I - I kept silent, and put my old life
behind me. Or so I thought. I loved him so - my Sean, but I could never rest, you see. The
stains would never wash away - I was unworthy of him; and I was certain that someday he
would see me for what I was, and turn away."
"He chose to die with you, Elijah. Was that not proof of his true love?"
"No. . . Yes. . . I do not know! He died for a lie. . . "
~~~~~
Dr. Dowling looked up and cleared his throat. "Before I start, I believe you all should see this."
He handed a large sheet of thick paper to Sean, and sat back, watching his face intently. Sean
stared down at it, and a shudder seemed to go through him. He blinked back tears and
passed it to Orli brusquely.
Orli took it and exclaimed in surprise, "Vigs! Did you do this?"
"Yes, I suppose I did." Viggo admitted, smiling slightly.
Bill and Dom craned their necks to see. "Bloody hell! Look, it's all of us - oh - and John too!
Viggo, could you have copies made?" Billy asked.
Dom's eyes narrowed in speculation. "Of the seven of the company, six of us are here. I
wonder..."
"I wondered too," Viggo said quietly.
"Could I see that?" Elijah asked, and Billy handed the sketch to him. He studied it for a minute
and then looked up at Sean, his face blank and closed. Sean met his gaze and a frisson of
unease sped up his spine. Something was wrong, and he couldn't tell what it was. The
sapphire eyes bored into him -
The eyes of a lover - the face of a stranger.
~~~~~
"The memories may grow stronger over the next few weeks, but will eventually fade. It is the
brain's self-defense mechanism - you are not meant to remember lives before this one." Dr.
Dowling had his lecturing voice on. "As to the nightmares, if I have done my work right, they
will not return. I say 'if', mind you," he qualified, at the sigh of relief that echoed through the
room. "There is really no precedent for this situation, you know.
"One of the six of you has the psychic gift of empathy, the projection type." He held up his
hand at the chorus of protest. "Come now, after all that has happened here, you still deny it?
Empathy is the most common of what we call 'telepathic gifts'. Some actors have it, in varying
degrees. Through it, you can gauge the responsiveness, the mood of the audience; with it, you
can project the emotions you wish them to feel. You do not consciously use it - it is reflexive,
and not under your control. However.
"Something has awakened it in one of you. Who it is, is not important now. It isn't very strong,
and can only manifest when the public mind, the conscious mind is out of the way, asleep.
Hence the nightmares. And why the six of you? Because you have a bond between you, one
that stretches over more than one lifetime, a soul-bond, if you will.
"Memories of that past life were triggered in someone. Perhaps in that person, empathy lay
dormant; perhaps it was an adjunct of those memories." Dr. Dowling fell silent for a moment.
Nobody stirred. "So many ifs, so many maybes," he sighed in rueful resignation. Then he
roused himself, "My analysis is arguably a quick and dirty one, but it rings true. I will have to
see you all again - perhaps a week from today. I will let you know your individual schedules -
and if you need to talk before then, call me - at any time of the day or night." He smiled
tightly. "For this, I will make house calls."
~~~~~
"Sean, we have to talk."
Sean turned, his hand on the doorknob, and nodded warily. Dinner had been a subdued affair,
and he couldn't recall what he had eaten - the food could have been sawdust for all the taste it
had had. He fumbled his key card into the slot, and felt a cramp seize his belly in anticipation.
Elijah followed him into the room and shut the door behind him.
"It was you, wasn't it?" he said to Sean's rigid back. "The nightmares came from you, didn't
they? Sean?" Sean ducked his head and didn't move.
"No wonder I had a harder time of it - I was re-living your death as well as mine, wasn't I?"
Elijah walked up to the silent figure and stared at Sean broodingly.
Sean turned at his words, and something like relief lit his face. "I'm sorry, Lij. It does look like
it was my fault, doesn't it?" He said pleadingly, "You know I'd never knowingly harm you - never
hurt you! You do know that, don't you? Is that what's bugging you? Why you've been so
strange all night?"
Elijah smiled back, but the smile didn't reach his eyes. "Of course I know it, Sam. You couldn't
harm anyone if you tried. No - " his eyes wavered and dropped. "That wasn't what I wanted to
talk about."
He jammed his hands roughly into his pockets, and Sean winced. Not a good sign at all. Elijah
tended to talk with his hands, and memories of funny tales, jokes, and confidences,
orchestrated by waving hands and jabbing fingers, were as much a part of him as his amazing
eyes. Trapping those expressive digits in a prison of denim meant one thing only - he had
raised his barriers against Sean.
"You're my best friend, you know," Elijah said quietly. "Maybe the best I've ever had. Nobody
knows me better. Perhaps Hannah and Mom do, but aside from them – nobody else. I don't
want to lose that, Sean." He shook his head when Sean attempted to speak, and Sean
subsided, his heart thumping. "No. Don't interrupt. I need to get this out - now."
"I want you. And I know you want me." The bald, uncompromising words made Sean gasp
softly. Elijah's answering smile was devoid of mirth. "'Want' is a pretty lame word for what we
feel, isn't it? The heart-ache that keeps me awake at night, the way I need you near me, the
way I feel so safe when you put your arms around me.
"So - if 'want' doesn't quite cut it - shall we try the word 'love' then?
"But Seanie," his tongue curled around the name, savoring it. "What if the love isn't real? If
it's you that has this 'empathy' thing - maybe what I feel is what you want me to feel. What if
you don't realize what you're doing? What then?"
Elijah's voice was rising, and he stopped abruptly. He wet dry lips with a flick of his tongue and
continued in a near-whisper. "Sean, what if it's just you wanting Ned back - or me wanting that
other Sean back too? You're married - you have a great career, a wonderful family. Too many
'what-ifs' to build a life on, Sean, too many to ruin a life for."
They stared at each other, their eyes wide and dark. The minutes ticked away, and still Sean
didn't argue, didn't say a word. Finally Elijah couldn't stand it.
"Sean - say something!"
"What is there to say?" There was a flat quality to Sean's voice, as if the words were forced
through dead air. "You're right, anyway."
"Are we still okay? Do you hate me now?" Elijah heard the frantic pleading in his own voice
and quailed.
"I'll never hate you, Lij." Sean's voice was muffled, and then he raised his eyes and a spark
jumped in them. "Elijah - may I kiss you? Just this once?"
Elijah looked at him sadly, "I don't think that's a good idea, Sean."
"Please," Sean whispered.
Elijah couldn't withstand the pleading in the hazel eyes. He nodded resignedly and moved
toward Sean.
"Okay, then. Just this once."
Their lips met, softly, tentatively, and Sean let out a shuddering sigh. Elijah took an instinctive
breath and the air that he drew in was warm from Sean's body. They shivered at the delicate
intimacy, and Sean's hand came up to cup Elijah's neck and draw him closer. His thumb traced
the outline of the delicate jaw with practiced precision, and the hesitant kiss evolved into
something desperate, searing and oh, so sweet, and
Elijah wrenched himself away and backed toward the door.
His eyes burned as he whispered, "I told you it was a bad idea - you want Ned, and he's dead.
I'm not him, Sean, and I can't stand it - I can't."
And he was gone.
~~~~~
