It isn't true that I don't love you. Never believe me when I say that.

I would think that my neck offered to you on a regular basis--spoken and unspoken--would be enough to prove what a lie those words always are, always will be. And if that isn't enough, what more can I offer you? I have to keep a little something for myself, a little of my history, of my past, a little emotional reserve that is only for me, because to do otherwise is suicidal. What was it Whitman said? So I contradict myself? I am multitudes?

Yes. I am multitudes.

It isn't true that I am Methos. That is a lie just like 'Adam Pierson', just like 'Ben Adams'--just like 'Death'. I am multitudes. I am life force in a body and I continue when I can't even see a reason to go on anymore. I am a killer and a thief. I'm an addict and a doctor. I love beer. I hate beer. I drink only scotch. I sip blood out of cups made from the skulls of infants. I am anything. I am everything. I am nothing.

That is why I say that I don't love you.

It isn't true that I have changed. I am still a demon inside--it is just that my fire had died until I met you. Now, I burn again and the killer is alive and well. All that need happen to bring him to the surface is for a hair on your head to be harmed, to be threatened. Then he comes out swinging his sword high, eyes blazing, horse hooves racing under him, until he (I, you, we) have put an end to the threat. When I love, I love too well. I had forgotten how absurd I can be, how sloppy I become when my heart is involved.

It is all suicide.

It isn't true that I would die for you. The fact of the matter is that I would die for you. Melodramatic perhaps, but I'm a romantic fool. I read too many romance novels during a very uncomfortable period in the 1960's--so sue me. Besides, Kronos and Byron and all those who knew me before, those who could tell you tales of how I wooed them, bowed before them, worshipped them, are all gone. I admit that it is a trend. Still, never did I offer them my head, never did I proffer my throat and wait for the sting of the blade--never would I die for them. Not for them. Only for you.

Why all this madness for one judgmental, stubborn Scot?

The truth is there is no answer to that question because five thousand years have taught me one thing about love--

It is.

Love is.

I am.

You are.

That's how it is going to be. And then one day. It won't be any more.

It isn't true that I love you. I live for you.

One day, I'll stop. Never.

That's a lie, too. 

THE END