NC-17 please. This is a dark-n-nasty, horrifying story. It also contains M/F/M sex and incest. If any or all of this is offensive, please do not read any further.
The Inn at the Bridge
by Laura Mason
I once told MacLeod that I'd never seen a demon.
I pull myself up from the mud, brushing off the bugs and dislodging the claws of the carrion bird perched on me. The stench is appalling, as always. Bodies surround me, all in advanced stages of decomposition. I manage to stumble away from the noisome trickle and up the muddy bank, toward the road -- and a bridge I can see ahead, with an inn on the far side.
Odd to think that at 5000 I was naive.
Slowly crossing as the river runs below, I approach the inn. This is the last time, I tell myself, not looking back at the burial ground. Rather, what passes for a burial ground when there is no hope, no religion. There is only frequent, ugly death.
The sullen landlord who motions me to the common room reminds me of those from past centuries, even with the mutations. Everyone left alive has them now, except me. I wonder once again if any other immortals are still on this planet.
I no longer carry a sword. I don't fear the Gathering. I'd welcome the feel of another of my kind, but there's no way to travel between continents unless you're determined enough to float off on a scrap raft. I attempted it, once, years ago. It doesn't matter where I go; they find me before I can find anyone who might be able to end it.
The bleakness of the landscape without trees has become familiar now, but it's impossible not to miss what those trees provided. Boats were the least of it. For the last 100 years or more, paper has faded into a pleasant memory. But every day I miss fire -- the glow, the warmth, the pop and crackle as wood is consumed. Sitting in the damp common room, eating what passes for bread, I shiver and remember it again.
Somewhere they might still have living trees. Or still be working through the supply of dead wood felled by the initial blasts. But here, we've been without wood for decades. It's always cold. I've tried to find substitutes -- coal-like rocks from the blast areas; dung. Nothing burns. Though many things glow.
The river, as we still call the trickle of wastes that flows through the lower lands -- that glows. There are no fish, no plants on the banks. But it glows.
Cami foresaw terrible destruction in her dreams. I laughed and shushed her back to sleep in my arms. Good practice for the year it took her to die from radiation poisoning. She died watching my burns appear and heal, over and over. She laughed when she realized I'd survive after her. Then she cursed me -- not for surviving; Camille knew that was curse enough.
"You lied to me. All these years..." She was in our bed, her skin a mass of sores. Her voice, once beautiful, was a hoarse whisper.
"It seemed to me that the truth could only hurt you, Cami." There was no way to cool her skin. The water was so poisoned it only increased her pain. We had to eat and drink, but it was killing us. I healed, while she grew weaker each day.
"Soon you'll be the only thing left alive. But you'll never be alone, I promise. I vow I'll return..." Her voice trailed off and she slept.
I didn't believe in her arts. Her brother Ian had the gift, too, she always said, but I ignored what I considered a fantasy. Ian died in the blast that took out the coastline, and Cami never stopped missing him. She called for him when she was in the worst pain. And just before she died.
My room at this inn is delineated by a half wall -- a stone partition -- and my bed is a pile of rags. Luxury in these days, paid for with the gold always in my pocket. No sooner am I lying down, praying for a few moments of rest, than the voices come.
"Methos, let us in. It's cold." Camille, who never knew my real name, calls me again.
"Please, lover. I want you tonight." Ian's soft tones chime in, right on cue.
"Go back to hell and leave me alone." Why do I bother to fight them?
"You're in hell, Methos. Hell is cold. Hell is alone." They sweep into my bed for the nightly debauchery. "This is better, isn't it?" Cami's voice in my ear, then her icy tongue.
Their hands are on me, both of them making love to my body with chilled fingers and numb lips. Ian was never in our bed in life, but in death the brother and sister make incestuous love to each other and to me. Ian's strong arms encircle me, holding me down while Cami's cold breath moves down my body, kissing my neck and pebbling my nipples. She begins to suck me and I scream as Ian bites my neck, his hands roughly arousing my body.
Despite the unnatural cold, despite my brain's frantic screams, my body reacts. Cami releases me at last, lying back and opening her body for me, and I am inside her, sobbing and pounding into her even as I am mounted by Ian, his cool fingers holding me open for his enormous, icy cock.
There is lovemaking and there is fucking, but this is neither. This is... a habit perhaps. Mechanical. A curse? So it seems to me, though Camille might call it love.
We will go on for hours, long past the point when I'm too exhausted to respond to their hands and mouths, teeth and nails. It will progress from this unearthly, unwanted pleasure into endless and varied pain. They love to watch me heal, to tear my skin and drink my blood.
"Cut off my head!" I beg them, even though I know they have no mercy in them. "Release all my evil -- end this! Please." The last is just a whimper I climax at last, and Cami moves out from under me. Ian still possesses me, and now pain and pleasure mingle as the torture is underway again. Cami's sharp nails score my thighs as Ian slams me into the bed, tearing me with his cock and with his hands, laughing as the bruises bloom and fade.
"Lover," he shouts. "You are ours forever, Methos."
"Forever," Cami echos, biting my cock and laughing when I howl.
But the darkness is descending, at last. Ian has torn open my throat with his mouth, and the blood pulses out of me faster than my body can heal. The last thing I see is Cami in his arms, rubbing my blood over his body as they kiss passionately.
I wake and pull myself up from the mud, brushing off the bugs. The stench is appalling, as always. Today, something like rain is falling from the sky. Bodies surround me, all in advanced stages of decomposition. I manage to stumble away from the noisome trickle and up the muddy bank, toward yet another road.
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The lyric used is from Petia and is Manowar's "Bridge of Death." (I have edited the lyric, mostly because I don't care to post an incantation to Satan. These are the parts used in my story.)
Slowly crossing as the river runs below
Never stopping for what's waiting soon will show
And this the last time looking back I'll see
My home for he awaits me reaching for my
soul. He calls my name, and waves me on
The fallen one he stands in flame
Face one more evil than thou, take
My lustful soul,
Drink my blood as I drink yours, impale me on
the horns of death
Cut off my head release all my evil