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Raven Morgan Leigh

   Tick.

   Tock.

   Tick.

   Tock.

   Whiteness blurred and formed into shapes and coalesced into a chaotic tangle of wires and steel; sparkling glass and blinking lights.

   Ken Hutchinson passed a hand that trembled with weariness over his eyes, rubbing them as if he would banish the terror and pain they had witnessed this day.

   He stared at the damaged man in the hospital bed.

   His partner.

   I can't stand this.

   Swathed in bandages. Kept alive by the machines. Maybe. If his luck and his will held out. His own ,and Starsky's.

   I can't lose you, not again.

   Leaning forward in his chair, Hutch smoothed Starsky's dark curls off his forehead.

   You died, but you came back, but only halfway. You gotta finish the trip, Starsk. Come back to me.

   The doctors said that even he lived, he'd never be the same. To expect brain damage. He'd be a vegetable.

   Starsky would will himself to die. Hutch knew it. So did the captain. And Huggy.

   Hutch couldn't accept it. Wouldn't.

   Why have I never told you--? Hutch wondered again for the hundredth time. The thought kept gnawing at the back of his brain, savaging his peace of mind, adding to the almost unbearable torture of waiting for this man, whom he loved so dearly, to wake up.

   Tick.

   Tock.

   Tick.

   Tock.

   The sound of the clock was driving Hutch slowly insane, punctuating each guilty thought like a slap to the face.

   Why didn't I tell you?

   He had to get out of here.

   Just for a little while.

   He wandered for a while, around the hospital corridors, wondering why once again his best friend was in the hospital, dying by inches.

   Why did this keep happening? Fucking Karma?

   But Starsky had never done anything to deserve this. The man's body looked like a road map, crisscrossed with the scars of multiple surgeries and wounding by knife, bullet, etc. God knew what he'd look like if he survived.

   Hutch finally found himself in the hospital parking lot. Next to his car. He got in, and drove. Anywhere. Anywhen. Before...before yesterday...

   Before a hail of bullets had taken Starsky's life away.

   He saw it all again in twisted slow-mo; Starsky madly dashing from cover to draw fire away from his partner who had almost no protection. It had been slowly chipped away by gunfire. Hutch had seen the man on the roof, and his scream had died in his throat as he watched his best friend (my love)...his best...friend...being shot down in the street.

********

   Hutch drove on autopilot, scarcely taking notice of the dense traffic; just registering enough to avoid an accident.

   He pulled into a small neighborhood, old houses, ending in a cul-de-sac, with a large Victorian house that could have passed for the one in the old Hammer film, "The Tingler."

   He pulled his hacking, clinkety, rattling car into the crumbling driveway by the side of the house. He hadn't meant to come here. But here he was.

   He sat awhile and pondered that.

   Until a tall, slender man in an almost antique suit appeared at his window. Gaunt face, silver hair, looking so much like Vincent Price, that Hutch did a serious double take. Hutch rolled the window down. It became stuck halfway.

   The old man appeared to be unfazed by it. " Detective Hutchinson, I believe?"

   Hutch nodded warily.

   "Joe Collandra said you might be visiting me." The man said, and Hutch thought that his voice was deeper than the Pacific Ocean. His eyes were gray and very sharp, and had far too much life in them for a man who must be in his eighties.

   "I am Jean-Paul Boutelliere." He had a very distinct accent, quite properly British, yet there was a sense of kindness and warmth about the man.

   "Yes," Hutch said perfunctorily, Joe told me that you might be of assistance." Hutch's throat tightened at the thought of the unkempt psychic who'd helped himself and Starsky to find a young, kidnapped girl so long ago. He'd never gotten over the sense of the otherworldly that the case had opened in him. And that was why he was here, he supposed.

   "Why don't you come into the house?" The old man gestured, and Hutch opened the cranky car door and got out. He slammed it shut, and was vaguely disappointed to not even get the slightest flinch from the old man when he slammed the door shut. The horn went off as usual, and the elderly gentleman just gazed at him expectantly.

   Hutch returned the look, measuring the man blatantly. There was something there that he couldn't define, something powerful and slightly dangerous about Boutelliere. He definitely had the air of British aristocracy.

   "Right, this way, this way," he said, beckoning, and walking a little stiffly, led Hutch around the side of the house, up a small flight of brick stairs slick with moss, and then in through the screened side door.

   Boutelliere gallantly opened the door for Hutch, and they entered a sunny kitchen with an unholy profusion of houseplants. They made their way through it and into a parlor.

   "Why don't you have a seat?", said the old man. "May I take your coat?" he offered, and Hutch relinquished his black leather jacket, feeling as if he was a knight who'd given up his armor in the middle of a battle with a dragon.

   The room was dark, shaded with deep crimson curtains, the walls were the same color, lush velvet flocked with gold Fleur-de-lis. A Heraldic Lion, Rampant and Argent, no less, grimaced at Hutch from a plaque on the mantelpiece. There was a fire in the grate, and Hutch watched the dancing flames for a moment before he focused again on his host. Hutch sank into a sturdy chair, laden with cushions. Somewhere his brain registered the vintage as Tudor. He marveled, feeling the leather armrests, so supple under his fingers. But he began to relax, and enjoy the atmosphere, the mysterious crackling of the fire, the scents of old leather and wood.

   Boutelliere hung Hutch's jacket on an ornate hall tree in the foyer just beyond the room and returned. Would you like tea? Wine? Something stronger, perhaps?"

   "Bourbon?" Hutch asked.

   "Surely. I'll have one too." He said and provided them both with heavy glasses, and poured them each a shot.

   The elderly gentleman settled himself in a chair that resembled a throne and placed his glass on the table next to it. He sipped at his bourbon, and watched Hutch down his in one shot.

   Jean casually poured him another. "Joe said you might be coming. That you had questions." The old man's silver eyes were kind. Hutch found himself warming to them.

   "Yes," Hutch answered, "about me and my partner."

   "What, specifically?" Jean asked.

   Hutch sipped at his bourbon. " Why he keeps getting hurt," and then in an undertone,

   "Why I think it's my fault."

   "You are close, you and your...partner?"

   "Very." Hutch was beginning to be uncomfortable. He took another sip.

   "Lovers?" Boutelliere asked frankly.

   "No." Hutch's answer was short, clipped.

   "Why not?" The old man seemed genuinely confused.

   "We're not--" Hutch hesitated, suddenly, inexplicably wanting to be truthful. For once.

   "There's a lot to be afraid of."

   "There always has been, hasn't it?"

   Hutch's eyebrows shot up. "Meaning?"

   "Have you heard of past-life regression before, Detective?"

   Hutch gave Boutelliere his most irritating, condescending smile. "Yeah. Interesting theory, not much to back it up."

   "But you're interested in trying it?"

   "What exactly do you do, Boutelliere?" Hutch snapped out the question, unnerved by his willingness to divulge things about himself, about his partner, so soon, so quickly. He flushed, embarrassed at his hair-trigger temper.

   Boutelliere sighed, leaned back in his massive chair. " I am able to access past lives, " he said. "I work with people who are interested in the idea of reincarnation, and who want to look at their past to gain more insight into their present experiences. Many people have found that knowledge of their past lives is healing. It can provide insight, increased awareness, and a deeper understanding of the nature of Self. You have questions about your relationship to your partner, no? " Boutelliere had another sip of his bourbon, set it carefully on the table and folded his hands on his lap. "So, Detective, are you game?"

   Hutch took a long time to answer. He took another sip of the bourbon, thought the better of it and downed it. It burned quite satisfactorily, all the way down. Suddenly he could think again. " Yes," he said. " I'll try it."

**********

   Hutch sank into time before time in a crimson rush of blood tides accompanied by the voice of the elderly British Gent.

   He went back...back...to another time, another place. The landscape, the buildings, the people--looked eerily familiar, yet strange and new to him. He caught only fleeting glimpses of a much-loved face.

   Then he focused on it.

   Swarthy complexion, raven curls, sprinkled with cinnamon throughout.

   And startlingly deep blue eyes that swept him up and down quite blatantly.

   Ganymede. Named after the lover of Zeus; and he looked the part, cherry Cupid's bow lips, slightly curving; his muscular athlete's frame barely covered by the light woolen cloak he wore.

   Ganymede was looking at him with almost worshipful eyes. Alain knew that he reflected both the gaze and the sentiment.

   He was wonderful, and Dimitrios wondered that such a beautiful man could love a rank commoner, even though he was a soldier. Even though he was the son of a merchant-once trader, he was, and would always be a savage in the eyes of the Athenians.

   How could I feel this good? Why am I so happy?

   But of course, he sighed, as he toed a sandal into the gritty turf. I'm in love. It's wonderful. It's the holiest love a man can ever have, even Socrates said so. And Plato. Even Pythagoras. And I've found it. With him.

   He leaned forward and caught his comrade's lips with his own.

   A swirl of light and the scene abruptly changed.

********

   Blood splashed before Dimitrios, staining the bronze of his greaves. His lover fought viciously beside him, laying waste to anyone who approached.

   They fought back to back as always.

   Armor clashed, bronze swords flashed in the bright sunlight. The Spartans were winning. The Athenians were scattering, but Dimitrios refused to leave his wounded love, brought down by a cut to the back.

   The beautiful indigo eyes were fading, they were dimming.

********

   Pain!

   Ripping, and tearing.

   It was only as Dimitrios looked down at the wound in his belly that he realized that he'd impaled himself upon his own sword.

   The light dimmed,

   Dimmed

   To nothing

   To blackness

   And then

   Then it flared

   Into

   Coldness

   Dreary gray

   Mud and filth ridden streets, offal in the gutters.

   Hernando Delaquez looked down at the worn leather of his shoe. He pushed at the sticky mud with the toe of it. He was worried, very worried.

   Because he was unclean.

   A sodomite.

   The Inquisition was the law of Spain, and thousands were being burned at the stake. Many of the Witches, and many men were of his kind.

   Homosexuals were heretics, heretics were witches and once accused, there was no way to prove the contrary.

   He dreaded the sound of the fagots, the sticks used to burn his kind--catching fire.

   He dreaded the screams.

   A hand on his shoulder made him pause, turn round.

   Bluest of eyes, dark of hair and skin. Whatever had made him fall in love with a man? And a Jew to boot. They were all suspects. Heretics, all. In 1284, Pope Martin IV issued a bull, which equated homosexuality with heresy, and both were equated with witchcraft. A Sodomite Jew was merely walking kindling for the fires.

   And now he was too.

   But he couldn't resist those eyes, those lips.

   He lost himself in that touch, that embrace. For a moment the stink of the city fell away, and there was only Malachi's touch, his scent, warm and spicy. Of course, he bathed, as crazy as it was in the dead of winter.

   Hernando was noble, albeit a very minor noble, but like most of his kind, he bathed only once in a very long while, especially during the winter months.

   How Malachi put up with him was a mystery. And then.. made love (fornicated!) ..no, love...how could love be wrong?

   But the Church said it was wrong. According to what passed as the thinking of the day, witches, gay men and women, assembled in the forests in the dead of night there to consort with demons and/or the Devil himself. Some said that the sodomites in attendance engaged in the "osculum infame'', the infamous kiss whereby each man kissed the arse-hole of the Devil who was described as "pale, exceedingly muscular, with dark, shining eyes.''

   Much like Hernando's love. So maybe he truly was consorting with the Devil.

   No. Malachi was far too sweet for that.

   But the furor of the Inquisition had reached its peak, and it was automatically assumed that any male who fell into their hands was a homosexual. For them were reserved the worst cells in the deepest dungeons of the prisons of the Holy Office.

   What would they do with him? What would they do with a Jewish Sodomite? It kept Hernando up at night. They should leave, go to England, or Venice.

   Anywhere but Spain.

   In Spain particularly, the wrath of the Church was terrible. There the tortures exceeded anything that one's imagination could conceive all to get the "wretched sinner'' to confess his "crime.'' That having been done, then came the "Auto de Fe", the Act of Faith. Sodomites dressed in the robes of penitents with the sodomite's miters upon their heads were marched, attended by priests to the City Square often under the eyes of the royal family. There the miserable creatures had heaps of sticks fagots piled about their legs and the fires were set, their cries echoing far beyond the city walls.

   Blinding light flashed, and the scene changed again.

********

   He wanted to moan with loss and terror--but he couldn't because it would give him away.

   He watched his lover, nearly against his will.

   Malachi, blinded, because his eyes had been put out, was being dragged up the crude wooden scaffold. He could not walk because his feet had been broken in the torture device known as The Boot. Nearly naked in the cruel chill of midwinter. Bound to a stake by indifferent monks.

   He'd not given away his lover.

   Hernando was safe.

   And Hernando had never told Malachi...

********

   He drew the knife, sharp it cut across his thumb.

   Had never told him...

   He placed the knife against his chest.

   How much...

   The pain of the knife in his heart was nothing to the sight of his beloved, enshrouded by flames.

   Flames

   Grew cooler

   And

   The pain

   Faded to nothing

   He was rocking

   On wooden planks

   Freshly polished

   Everything was so new and clean. Lord Nigel Aldon Meadows-Blake could even smell the fresh paint. They were together, he and his rough-around-the-edges lover, Sean, who had been a minor Irish noble before the greedy English took his land. Of which he was the son of one. His father had bought (stolen) Sean's father's estate, along with its sheep and rolling hills, ancient MacFarlane lands.

   It was truly amazing that Nigel and Sean had become lovers.

   Nigel was of old British stock, all blonde and roman-nosed, and eyes of silver. But Sean was a Faery-folk throwback, Black Irish, dark and swarthy with a mop of black curls. One would never know that his family roots went back all the way to Gilchrist.

********

   They had become lovers.

   And, inevitably they had been discovered, and were now both disinherited. Not that there had been much left for Sean. But they both had been told, in no uncertain terms that their presence was no longer desired in Ireland.

   They caught a ship in Southampton. Big floating city, it was.

   Of course he was stubborn, and so had insisted on paying for his half of the fare. At £870, it was almost all he had.

   But they were going to America, Land of Golden Opportunity, and the whole world was a cup waiting for them to drink from it.

   And they were going aboard the greatest ship of all time...

   Titanic.

**********

   The scene changed again in a cacaphony of lights and shadows and whole world seemed to tilt.

   Nigel and Sean had come out into the cold crisp air on deck for a late night stroll and perhaps a cigar; just a little something after the lavish banquet upon which they'd just feasted.

   They found a quiet corner, under the Crow's Nest of the ship-- no-one would take notice of them here, they were shrouded by shadows, and Nigel took advantage of it by capturing Sean's lips with his own.

   Sean was murmuring something into his neck-- ahh, old Irish Gaelic; "Níl an focal faighte!" and then , " Ní fuaireamar , ach seo má focal ata gar dó san fhoclóir." he was saying over and over, "My love, I love you, my man...", or at least roughly translated.

   It warmed Nigel to the depths of his soul and he felt it move him like the ocean moved the ship.

   And it was just them, out here in the crispness of the night with a billion stars overhead and the water as still as black glass.

   He wanted to say it.

   But Nigel couldn't. He just...couldn't . He covered by it by saying, "Ah, lad, you're my bonny dark man, my lovely knight", mouthing it all along Sean's throat, but he just couldn't say the words--those terrible words...I love you.

   They stood that way for long moments, warmed by each other, lost in each other.

   An hour passed.

   The frost in the air was more apparent. He had only his coat-and-tails, Sean shuddered repeatedly in his embrace.

   Nigel shivered violently, but it wasn't due to the cold.

   Something was wrong. He'd felt this way before, and he suddenly had the urge, for the first time to really say it. To say to Sean, "I love you."

   And to hell with Victorian values. It was a fairly new century, after all. Man had conquered nature…that alone was evident in this ship. Even God could not sink it--that's how powerful--

   Another fit of the shivers. Nigel resolved to tell Sean, regardless of mankind's victories against God and nature.

   Before he could act on his new determination, he heard voices.

   He didn't want to hear them. He wanted only to listen to pounding of his heart against his lover's.

   But he heard them, nevertheless.

   He heard them all, far too clearly.

   A young male voice shouting, "Iceberg right ahead!"

   A deeper one, this time, "Thank you." Ad then yelling, "Iceberg right ahead!"

   Another one, husky. "Hard a' starboard!"

   And then that young voice, so frightened, "Hard'a starboard. The helm is hard over, sir."

   Long, frozen silence.

   And then...the ship...rocked.

   Nigel saw the stout, white haired Captain rushing from his quarters onto the bridge immediately after the impact. "What have we struck?" asked Captain Smith.

   "An iceberg, sir," replied an officer. "I hard-astarboarded and reversed the engines, and I was going to hard-aport around it, but she was too close, sir... and she... she..hit, sir. I could'na not do anymore."

   Then everything blurred again...

   into

   nightmare...

   People rushing madly about and the macabre vision of a string quintet playing so sweetly amid the horrid screaming of thousands of the doomed; what were they playing as the ship steadily tilted ? She was going down by the head and water rushed forward and then the flares went off and it was like the American 4th of July!

   It was beautiful and it was terrifying...

   Jesus--what was that they were playing...

   Nigel found himself singing it inside his head where no-one could see, and no-one would know just how close he was coming to madness.

   "Nearer, my God, to Thee, Nearer to Thee!

   Though like the wanderer, the sun gone down,

   Darkness be over me, my rest a stone;

   Yet in my dreams I'd be Nearer, my God, to Thee--"

   Oh, Christ Jesus.

   Dark, dark; and rushing water and waves...

   Titanic was gone, and thousands of men and women were screaming, lost in the water.

   They were all around him.

   Cold, bone numbing, frigid, wet, he couldn't breathe, and he was being stabbed to death by thousands and thousands of icy knives...

   Sean was there with him in the dark deadly water...clinging to a collapsible that had overturned. There were at least a dozen other men clinging to it.

   There was room for one more, one more body to climb aboard and survive.

   It was getting quiet.

   Almost everyone was dead.

   At least a thousand people...dead.

   And the other lifeboats weren't coming back.

   Sean, in the full view of the other men took Nigel's hand. "Ní fuaireamar, ach seo má focal ata gar dó san fhoclóir". He whispered, as he shed the life-jacket. "Live," he said, and slowly let himself sink beneath the water.

   But Nigel had him, and hauled him up again.

   Sean was beyond shivering, now. He was dying. Nigel kissed him then, and the men on the overturned collapsible could have cared less.

   "Not without me. Not again." Nigel said, and he stripped off his own life jacket.

   They went into blackness, together.

THE END