Immortal * M. Lee

2 Immortal

EILIF was born in a time when magic was dying. Its death

throes, thrashing across the land in great wars, were long

and painful. He thought he would die with it. But he didn’t.

Instead, he lived.

He was the last of the great sorcerers. The people whispered his name in love and in fear. For a while—twenty years, he thought now, or perhaps a century—he went to

them when times were dark. He would appear in a household when the mother was dying birthing a babe, or

when plague threatened a whole town. He stayed away from the quiet little wars that peppered the land, now that magic’s great time had passed. He had seen enough of them at his

love’s side. But eventually there came a day when his coming was greeted not with awe, but terror, and he was driven off. He allowed them to drive him off.

It was then that grief caught up with him. All that time he had not let himself think of Jon. His liege lord was gone.

As good as dead. He had been mortally wounded, and all of Eilif’s skill had not aided him in healing Jon. At last, desperate, he had sent his lord out of time, to the in-between

place. Time, he hoped, would bring him the skills and tools he needed to heal his lord.

His love.

And until then, he would just have to wait.

THE emergency room was its normal hustle of efficient

nurses calling out names, someone’s child crying in pain, an overwhelmed parent or wife arguing loudly that their family

should be bumped up the line, and random beeping. Eilif ducked through it with ease, smiling at the on-duty desk

Immortal * M. Lee

3 nurse and scrawling his name across the sign-in clipboard

she handed him. Julie, that was her name.

“In again, Dr. Jameson?”

Eilif shrugged. “You know how it is, Julie, always more work to be done.” An ear-splitting shriek cut through the ambient noise. He gave her a “see?” sort of look. She smiled

in wry acknowledgment.

“You’re on Hall Four, Dr. Jameson.”

Scooping his bag onto his shoulder, he went to scrub up. “Thank you, Julie.”

As he strode down the hall, Eilif remembered the days

when he’d thought it would be magic that saved Jon. He’d gone questing, nearly a century and a half of going from place to place, learning all he could. His magic had been

pushed to its limits. Sometimes he had gone too far; there had been more than one incident that had left him surprised

to be waking up. Some days, the ache of longing he felt weighed down his bones and he wouldn’t have minded not getting up again.

His magic wouldn’t let him die. That was the horror of it, in those overwhelming moments of grief. He could lose

decades, sometimes, if he just laid down somewhere and let himself go. But he always woke again.

Blinking, he forced himself to focus. Magic could do a

lot, but he was sure now that it was medicine that would save Jon. A glimpse of white-blond hair caught his eye as he pulled on his scrubs, and he made sure he tucked it up

properly. He was growing it long again, back to the length Jon would remember it being. In those days, it was a tacit

admission that he was Jon’s bedmate. Now, it was more of a nuisance than a pleasure, especially as a doctor. Infection was more of a problem than he had known back then, but he

wasn’t about to lose his edge over daydreaming. It took years, every decade or two, to reinvent himself as a doctor

and train to current standards. He couldn’t lose that time.

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4

Not when he was so close.

Each wound Jon had taken on that long-ago battlefield was etched in his mind’s eye. The vivid red of blood, the

depth of the stroke on his thigh, the arrow sticking from his side. Eilif would know those wounds blind. So he knew the exact moment when science and medicine had progressed

far enough that Jon’s life could be saved.

Eilif knew he would only have a single chance, but he

was certain now. He could save Jon. There was just one small problem.

He would need another doctor. Once the stasis was

broken, Jon would bleed out in the time it would take Eilif to get to all his wounds. Skilled surgeon though he was, there was only so much one person could accomplish. There were

others here at Albion Hospital who were sufficiently accomplished. There would be alarms going haywire, though,

if Eilif made a man appear out of midair. He couldn’t count on everything settling down quickly enough to save Jon’s life. And finding a doctor in these modern ages who believed in

magic was damnably difficult.

DAVID—Dr. David Green—was the latest in a series of

doctors. Eilif courted them, seeking the open-minded, those interested in the mystical, any who gave some hint they

might be willing to work with magic.

David leaned back in his seat, turning his coffee in his hands. “An interesting hypothesis,” he agreed. “A hundred

years ago, men might well have called what we do ‘magic’. Magic—or miracles, I suppose—are anything we can’t

explain.”

“Hmm.” Eilif nodded. He was perfectly content to let David rationalize magic, if that helped. “I’ve wondered before

what the next breakthrough of scientific understanding might bring. There are an awful lot of strange things out

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5 there. A childhood friend of mine is Pagan, you know, and

it’s fascinating, the things she can do.”

David shifted slightly. Eilif held back his smirk. David

cleared his throat, not quite looking Eilif in the eye. “I know someone too,” he said softly.

Eilif nodded. David’s lover was one of the reasons Eilif

had approached him in the first place. “Amazing, isn’t it? I’m not much of one for religion myself, but I’ve seen things I can’t explain.”

A smile curved over David's lips for a quiet moment as their eyes met. Eilif's heart beat loudly in his ears as time

drew out, lending a poignant weight to their tentative understanding. “Yet,” David said.

Eilif laughed. “Yet,” he agreed, leaning back in his chair.

David picked up the conversational ball and began expounding on some of the small oddities he’d noticed over

the years. Eilif nodded along, caught on the curve of David’s jaw. The difficulty of living so long was that everyone reminded him of someone.

Charles looked up from his treatise, trying to frown. “Eilif? Are you even listening?”

Eilif brushed the wig out of Charles’s face. It looked

ridiculous on him. His jaw was too strong, his voice too passionate when he spoke of philosophy. He was altogether too present to look like a dandy.

“No,” Eilif confessed.

Charles tilted his head into Eilif’s touch. “Well, then.”

“Eilif?”

Eilif blinked guiltily. “Sorry, drifted off a moment there.”

David chuckled. “You’ve just come off a sixteen-hour

shift; it’s no wonder.”

Eilif let David make excuses for him and hoped his skin

didn’t show the blush thinking of Charles had brought. Jon was a hole in his heart; it hadn’t been often he’d strayed. But

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6 it had happened. Charles was centuries past now, though,

and Eilif was so close to getting Jon back again.

He focused on the conversation again, filled with

determination. “There’s always a sixteen-hour shift. You were saying?”

IT TOOK three months of careful hints, attendance at David’s

partner’s rituals, and eventual demonstrations before things came to a head. Eilif was careful, subtle at first. It turned

out that Max, David’s partner, was not only Pagan but had some flicker of the old power. Magic happened around him.

He was even sometimes able to control its flow.

David had relaxed incrementally when Eilif took it in stride the first time Max had worked real magic. Their

conversations were more open after that. They spoke of science again. They also spoke of the terrible things science did to those it could not understand. They were past the

years of burning witches at the stake, but neither Max nor Eilif were so sanguine that government prosecution of those

with magic had ceased when they were said to have. Laboratory dissection was the least of David’s fears for Max. Eilif confessed that he had magic too.

By spring’s end, David believed fully in Eilif’s magic. Eilif was terrified the first time he called light and held it for

David and Max to see. He hadn’t shown his power so openly to anyone in a long time. Max looked at him like he was starving, hungry for magic. Eilif remembered that feeling,

half a millennia old though it was.

“You have magic too,” he said. He held Max’s gaze with his own, soft and intent. Uncertainty washed across Max’s

face.

“Not like that,” he said.

Eilif smiled and doused the light. “What earthly need could you have for a ball of light?” And now for some

Immortal * M. Lee

7 deflection. “I learned it when it was a matter of survival. A

long time ago.”

Interest sparked in Max’s voice. “Past lives?”

Eilif smiled and made it sound like he was agreeing when he said, “Sometime in the 1000s, I think.” Before Max could delve further, Eilif looked over to David. “Are you

okay?”

David was silent a long moment. “Why are you telling us this?”

Eilif gave a rueful smile. “Ah. That transparent, am I?” He took a deep breath and organized the story he wanted to

tell in his mind. “I need your help.”

David shifted. “Don’t you mean his help?”

Eilif slid his eyes to Max, then back to David. “It’s a

doctor I need, I’m afraid.” He registered David’s startlement and rushed on. “Some years ago, a friend and I were in a

reenactment society together. We were supposed to be doing a battle performance. Only—” He took a deep breath. “—something went wrong. Someone went mad, just lost it.

Started firing crossbow bolts at people, rushing them with a sword. And he was good too. There were bodies everywhere.

People screaming. Dying.” Ralf, bleeding out through a gut wound. Young Perry, eyes huge in a white face, trying in vain to save his master. “It was awful. My friend was hurt, badly.

He wouldn’t have survived until help arrived. In the confusion, I managed to get him away.” Wild grief tearing through him. Agony as he cast the spell. “I used my magic to put him in stasis. And I can’t heal him on my own.”

David’s lips pursed, consideration on his face. He was clearly weighing what he had been told. Eilif was so close to getting what he needed. He sent a silent prayer winging to

whatever gods would listen.

“I see,” David said at last. “What sort of condition are

you talking about, here?”

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8

Eilif sighed in relief. Once he started talking in medical

terms Eilif knew David had accepted his story. Jon was a patient now, someone David would use all his considerable

skill to save.

It was almost time.

THE operating room hidden in the basement of Eilif’s home

was as sterile as any doctor could wish. The table was the perfect height, all the tools on it laid out in gleaming rows.

Eilif thought he would vomit. Now that the time had come, he was sick with nerves. What if they botched it? What

if Eilif had misremembered and Jon’s wounds were worse than they could save him from? What if the spell failed, or worse, what if it had failed long ago and Eilif had simply not

known?

David was suited to action, though. “Everything is ready,” he said, voice even. “Bring in the patient, Eilif.”

Eilif swallowed back bile. He breathed in deeply through his nose and reached for the extremities of his magic. He

plunged through to the place where it twined around Jon, into the otherworld, and pulled. With a disconcerting pop, Jon appeared on the operating table. Eilif staggered and

opened his eyes.

Blood. There was blood everywhere, gushing from a

chest wound, more from Jon’s thigh. His skin was dangerously pale. His breathing was shallow and strained. Eilif froze, love and terror tearing through him. Immobile in

the grip of his emotions, he watched helplessly as his love lay dying.

The surgical plan they had so carefully laid out called

for David to assist. Eilif was supposed to take the lead, easing the way with magic. When he didn’t move, David

must have realized what was happening.

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9

“Remove the patient’s clothes, Dr. Jameson,” he barked.

“We need a clear look at those wounds.”

Starting, Eilif’s magic snapped forward and dissolved Jon’s clothes. While he cast a spell to clean the blood away,

David acted.

“Administering two milligrams of lorazepam.” David’s clear, steady voice allowed Eilif to grasp for calm.

“Preparing to clean wound on the right thigh, approximately seven inches long.” Eilif took the prepared

solution and sprayed it into the wound, wincing at the grime that resulted. He kept going, holding Jon’s thigh down when

it wanted to jerk, until everything ran clear. “Forceps,” he called. The instrument was placed in his hand. “Six-zero absorbable thread and the three-eighths inch needle.”

Quickly Eilif began stitching, sewing the partially severed muscle together and working his way out. He registered

David administering a clotting agent and checking Jon over, calling out Jon’s condition as he went.

Aside from a potential concussion, Jon was in the state that Eilif remembered. It was still terrifying, but he could

bury his fear under the work. He had faced cuts, wounds, broken bones, and so on in his time as an ER doctor. He could do this.

By the time he finished with the thigh wound, David had dealt with the blood loss. An IV was safely attached to Jon’s arm, feeding new blood in. A pressure bandage was in

place over the cut down his side, waiting for attention. David would have no idea how to remove an arrow. But Eilif did.

“Go ahead and deal with the chest and head,” he told David. “Wait until I’ve removed the arrow; he’ll likely jerk

around a fair bit.”

David nodded. Eilif grunted. He peeled back the bandage and put a hand on the shaft. Placing several tools

close at hand, he first snipped most of the arrow shaft, then made an incision around the wound. He winced as he cut deep, moving around the wicked barbs to dig out the

Immortal * M. Lee

10 arrowhead. Even though he knew his actions were saving

Jon’s life, it drove a hot spike of grief into his gut to cause Jon more pain. Eilif was only thankful that the arrow had

missed anything vital. As he’d expected, Jon thrashed, even as numbing drugs coursed through his veins. Blood welled up, and Eilif grabbed for a fresh pressure bandage. He

leaned into the wound, thinking wryly that some parts of healing stayed the same over the years. Even as a young man, he had known that pressure slowed the blood.

Jon smiled up at him, blue eyes sparkling. “Pressure, hmm?” A pointed glance down to where their bodies were joined. “Doesn’t seem to be doing much to slow my blood.” A slow roll of hips that had Eilif gasping.

Jon groaned, a pained, guttural sound that made Eilif hiss through his teeth. “Chest?”

“Almost,” David said. “There, done. Ribs are bunged up,

though. Feels like he broke a few.”

Eilif gritted his teeth. “Damn. Nothing to be done until I can get this sewn up.”

David hummed in agreement. “What the hell were you doing? He’s got bruises up and down, all different shades—”

Eilif checked the pressure, easing up for a minute and

clamping back down when blood hadn’t slowed enough. “Week long faire,” he said. “Idiot wouldn’t stop jousting….”

And there, the blood flow had eased. Moving fast, Eilif

cleaned the wound out and breathed a sigh of relief. This one wasn’t as deep as the thigh. A few stitches on the surface of the skin pulled everything into the right shape. He dabbed

some antibiotic paste on the surface of the skin and bandaged it again.

“Right. Ready for the ribs?”

Eilif maneuvered carefully behind Jon, lifting so that

they could wind the bandage around him. David, in front, kept one hand on the ribs, checking to make sure they didn’t shift dangerously. Eilif had no intention of having come this

Immortal * M. Lee

11 far only to puncture a lung. With careful surgeon’s hands,

David pushed Jon’s ribs into place. They steadied his body between them and began the laborious process of keeping

them there. When it was done, Eilif lowered Jon back to the bed, studying him intently. His cheeks were pinking up, and his breath sounded regular. Faint pain lines around his

mouth were easing. Satisfied, Eilif stepped back, and kept going until he ran into the chair he had placed at the edge of the room.

He collapsed into it, shaking again. He folded forward, bowing his head, adrenaline and professionalism draining away in one dizzying rush. He raised a hand to his eyes,

fighting back tears. He would not cry. He would not.

David’s hand on his shoulder came as a surprise. Eilif jolted. “He’ll be okay.” David spoke quietly. It was probably no great leap of intuition to realize that Eilif was falling

apart. “Also,” he said, “you might want to take off those gloves before you get blood on any more of your face.”

Eilif laughed, a thin sound bordering on hysterical.

“Give me a moment.” He forced himself to take a deep breath, and then another. Shakily, he stood and made his way to the waste bin, stripping off his gloves and magicking

the blood from his face. He took off the operating robe and threw it in the trash bin. Jon was the only person he would

ever operate on here.

“Thank you,” he said, turning to face David at last. “I can’t—” He raised his hand to his eyes again, wiping at them. “I cannot ever repay you. Thank you. Anything you

need, ever, ask.”

David tilted his head. “I took an oath to heal, the same as you, Eilif. A little oddness shouldn’t prevent that.”

Eilif laughed, a little more genuinely this time. “Right.

Still.”

David smiled. “Friends, huh?”

Eilif coughed and shuffled his feet. “Well, something like that.”

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12

IT WAS torture, waiting the long hours for Jon to regain

consciousness. Eilif did it alone, because David had a partner to get back to, and more shifts at the hospital. Eilif

was officially on a year-long sabbatical. After that, he would see.

Jon came to some thirteen hours later, just past dawn, with a grimace and a muzzy “Eilif?”

“Here.” Eilif crossed the room without thinking about it,

picking up Jon’s hand and pressing a kiss to it. “I’m here, my liege.”

Jon sighed, eyes still closed. “I thought that was it. How went the battle?”

Eilif must have been silent a beat too long. Jon’s eyes

opened, and he started up. “Where are we?”

Eilif pressed him back down with an admonishing frown. “Your wounds, my liege. Be at ease. All is well; I will

explain.”

Jon lay back, eyeing the IV and room with suspicion

and amazement. Eilif had tried to mask as much of the modern technology as he could, but there was only so much he could do. Electric lights looked nothing like torchlight or

the magical light Eilif summoned. An IV was completely unknown. Jon fingered it distrustfully.

Eilif sighed and sat on the side of the bed. “Leave it, please.” Jon must have heard something in his tone, because he left the tube where it was. “The battle went well.

Our men took the field. But”—he looked at Jon—“you were gravely wounded, my liege.”

Jon frowned at him. “Are we at court? Is there some

servant hiding under the bed?”

Eilif smiled at the once-familiar rebuke. “Jon,” he

sighed. In private, it was always “Jon.” Before he could lose

Immortal * M. Lee

13 his nerve, he continued on. “I could not heal you.” His breath

caught, an echo of the sharp-spiked fear he had felt then. “I sent you away, in between the worlds, where you would be

safe.”

He hesitated too long. “Eilif?” Jon moved his hand to cover Eilif’s. “What is it?”

Eilif couldn’t breathe. He sank off the bed and pressed his forehead to where their hands were joined. “It took… a long time.” And with that, the tears he had been suppressing

rushed to the surface. He shook with the force of them, dry sobs catching in his throat before forcing their way out.

Distantly, he was aware of Jon murmuring to him, prying his hand loose from Eilif’s grasp only to run it through his hair. Eilif clawed at the bed sheet, sterile bleach in his nostrils. He

gasped and choked, knowing he must be worrying Jon but unable to stop.

It was some indistinct amount of time later when he was able to raise his head. Jon’s hand stilled in his hair. Eilif’s face was wet and swollen; he wiped at it with his sleeve.

“Eilif.” As he’d expected, Jon’s lips were thin, his brow creased. “How long?”

Eilif’s breath caught again at the gentleness of the

question. His eyes dropped in shame. He barely managed a whisper when he responded. “A thousand years, my liege.”

There was a long silence. “And what of my lands?”

Eilif couldn’t look up. “I… I don’t know, my liege. I went away to find a cure, and when I returned, your people were

part of some other lord’s holdings.” He bit his lip. “They seemed well treated.”

“Could we find them?” Jon huffed, exasperation coloring

his tone. “No, that makes no sense if as much time has passed as you say. No one I knew would still live, and I

would hardly recognize their descendants this far out.”

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14

Eilif looked up as far as Jon’s chest. “Honestly, I doubt I

could find your holdings these days. Too much has changed.”

Jon lapsed into silence. After a while, Eilif heard his breathing changing, shortening. At once, he stood. “Are you in pain? There is something you can take.”

Jon grimaced. “Does it still taste as bad?”

Eilif laughed, a soft chuckle that surprised him. Smugly, he adjusted the amount of morphine in the IV drip.

“No taste at all. It will make you drop off, though.”

Jon smiled, heartbreakingly sweet. “Eilif. Love. Come

here.”

Heart singing, Eilif bent forward. He was gentle, the kiss he gave Jon filled with care. It was a tender meeting of lips,

the taste of quiet longing and buried memories. “I missed you,” he whispered.

When he pulled back, Jon was asleep.

“ARE these bloody wounds ever going to heal?” Jon shifted,

irritable. “You know how I hate lounging about.” He shifted again. “Though I must admit, your standard of lounging has improved considerably.” He patted the couch.

Eilif smiled fondly. “Jon, it took me an entire millennium to find the means to heal you. You can wait a few more

weeks.”

Jon scowled, probably translating weeks into fortnights in his head and coming up with an answer he didn’t like. He

sighed and leaned back again. “Fine.” He waved an imperious hand at Eilif, who suppressed a smile. It was so

odd to see someone do that in this day and age, but it suited Jon. “Tell me more.”

Eilif raised an eyebrow. “About what?” There was a long

list of things Jon was slowly catching up on.

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15

Jon tilted his head thoughtfully. “Electricity,” he

decided.

Eilif sighed, and began.

EILIF was coming home with the groceries when Jon

surprised him. Jon still winced when he walked sometimes,

which was why Eilif wasn't expecting to be ambushed. “Oomph!”

Jon’s arms came around him from behind. “Put those

down,” he ordered huskily. “I want your hands free.”

Eilif dropped the bag, blood rushing in a sudden

moment from his head. Oh. He knew that tone. Every nerve ending leapt in response. It had been so long. Gods. So terribly long. His knees grew weak when Jon bit lightly at the

nape of his neck.

“Wait,” he protested, panting. “You’re not healed.”

Jon chuckled, the deep rumble shuddering through

Eilif. “Oh?” He rolled his hips against Eilif’s ass. “Am I not?”

Some distant, doctor-trained part of his mind wailed a

response, but all that came out of his mouth was a feeble “No-o. Oh. Jon.”

He could all but feel Jon’s smirk as he ran his hands

further up under Eilif’s shirt. “So,” he said conversationally, “I’ve been wondering… it has been a long time. Do you still

make the same sound when someone—?”

A soft yip forced itself from Eilif’s lips as Jon gently pinched his nipple. Jon chuckled again. “Good to know.”

Eilif teetered precariously, leaning forward to brace himself against the counter instead of melting back against

Jon as he wanted to do. “Bed,” he said.

“Couch is closer,” Jon argued.

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16

A delightful image of sitting in Jon’s lap, splayed over

the couch, painted itself vividly in his imagination. He swallowed. “Bed is bigger.”

Jon hurried him down the hall. “Fine,” he said, “bed.”

Eilif could hardly breathe around his desire. His covers were a tangled mass, kicked near the foot of the bed; he slept

hot. There was little of interest in his bedroom, and nothing to hold his attention from Jon’s hand on his arm.

“Don’t even think of magicking off any clothes,” Jon

warned. “I want to uncover each part of you when I want, and not a moment sooner.”

Eilif shivered. It was apparently going to be one of those nights. His mind fell back easily into the patterns that had once dominated his days: obeying Jon in the daylight and

struggling against him at night. Sometimes it worked. On nights when Jon got stubborn, nothing Eilif said or did

would move him. Eilif was surprised to realize he still recognized that streak of stubbornness after all this time.

It wouldn’t stop Eilif from trying. He twisted around,

attempting to bring himself face to face with his lover. Jon laughed and stayed behind him, using his grip of Eilif’s arm to make it difficult for Eilif to maneuver.

“Oh no,” Jon said, “I know how this goes. I know how you get. You can just stay like this, hmm?” Eilif hissed

through his teeth when Jon pulled them together again, this time molding to his back. Eilif could feel the heat of Jon’s skin burning through their clothes. His hand felt like a

pulsing brand where it clenched on his arm. Eilif brought his free hand around behind him, groping for skin. He slid it along Jon’s side, pulling his T-shirt out of his trousers. Jon

had firmly rejected jeans, making a face at the rougher material. Eilif was grateful for it now. He could feel so much

more through the thin material. Jon let him have this, at least, the thin sliver of skin over his hip. Frustrated at the

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17 awkward position, Eilif arched, rubbing his ass shamelessly

against Jon’s erection.

“Yes,” Jon groaned approvingly, “like that. Good boy.”

Eilif shuddered, feeling his eyes grow heavy-lidded. Giving Jon what he wanted had always been a driving force for Eilif. And right now, it dovetailed nicely with his own

desires. He widened his stance and worked himself against Jon in slow, sinuous waves, mimicking the sort of drawn-out fuck he was craving. Jon gasped harshly and released his

arm, scrabbling at his shirt. Eagerly, Eilif lifted his arms, allowing the garment to be stripped off and flung across the

room.

Jon moved his hands over Eilif’s chest and back as though he were molding his shape out of clay. Every stroke

sent Eilif’s heart racing until he thought it would pound right out of his chest.

“My beautiful light-maker,” Jon whispered. “I am sorry you were alone.” Eilif’s heart flipped at the endearment. His magic had so often been a tool of war. Only Jon treated it

tenderly, as a part of Eilif. Jon’s hands grew suddenly harsher. “Has it been long since your last lover?”

Eilif panted, blood pooling in his cock as it hardened

mere centimeters from where Jon’s hand rested on his belly. He recognized the jealousy and warning in Jon’s voice.

Submitting to it, he choked out a response. “A century, my liege.”

Jon growled, his hand inching lower. “I will make you

forget,” he promised.

Eilif held still in his lord’s grasp, muscles clenched tight. He stared blindly ahead, unable to see the familiar walls of

his room. All his senses were focused on Jon, strung tight to his will. The inside of his head was ringing like a bell. When

Jon finally eased a hand over Eilif’s stiff prick, he cried out, a small, shattered sound.

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18

“I wager you would come for me like this,” Jon said,

giving a small squeeze, “in your pants, like a boy.” Already precariously close, Eilif could not deny his words. Jon gave a

hungry chuckle. “Go on, then.” He rubbed over Eilif in small, jerky movements. “Once like this.” Eilif choked, tears pricking his eyes. Jon pushed his hips forward, forcing Eilif

harder into his hand. “The next time, you come on my cock.”

Eilif threw his head back, and the universe turned inside out. Stars rushed past his gaze. White light faded

slowly into the white linens on his bed. He blinked hazily, and then again, registering the mess in his underpants.

Embarrassment stung his cheeks.

Jon didn’t give him long to ponder his state. He appeared at Eilif’s feet, running a hand up his leg as he

stalked down the length of the bed. He was naked, and heavily erect. Eilif’s mouth watered. Jon paused at his waist.

He pushed down with his hand, smearing come over Eilif’s sensitive prick. He bent forward, hovering with his mouth a breath away from Eilif’s. His voice, when he spoke, matched

his possessive stare.

“Now you may remove your clothes.” He claimed Eilif’s

mouth in a smoldering kiss. Eilif yielded, giving himself to the only man who had ever owned him like this. He was Jon’s, as he had never been any other’s, and never would be.

Eilif was barely conscious of the magic washing over him, obedient to Jon’s desires. His clothes melted away.

He left the come.

Jon pulled back and moved onto the bed. He arranged Eilif as he liked, shifting his limbs until Eilif was curled on

his side, facing Jon. Even with the bandage on his thigh and the occasional red of healing wounds, Jon was the most beautiful man Eilif had ever seen. His body was muscled in

an ideal lost to the modern world, legs and chest built up under the years of wearing armor and fighting with a sword.

His jaw was strong, and his blue eyes were unflinching, whatever they looked upon. His blond hair fell past his ears

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19 without the self-consciousness of defying masculine ideals or

the braggart’s pleasure in his own beauty.

He moved like the warrior he was, even when he was

dragging Eilif up into a kiss. Eilif went willingly, hands flying to Jon’s skin. He was careful of the sore spots, but unabashed in his need to touch. It felt electric to him, some

combination of magic and love. He had told Jon once, a long time ago, that making love with him was like standing in a storm, power whipping wild around him.

“Up,” Jon said, guiding him. Eilif followed until he was straddling Jon’s lap. They both made a face at the angle.

“I could turn around,” Eilif offered.

Jon growled. “I want to see you.”

Beginning to flush under the heat of Jon’s stare, Eilif

licked his lips. He waved a mirror into existence at the foot of the bed. Jon tilted his head and nodded. He reached for

Eilif’s hip.

“Oil?”

Eilif leaned over and rummaged through his nightstand

drawer. He emerged with a small tube of slick. “Better than oil.”

Jon accepted the tube. “And what are you doing with

this?”

Eilif turned to face the mirror, catching Jon’s eye in it.

He settled between Jon’s legs. “I do this to myself, you know.” A long-distant memory surfaced. “Or don’t you remember that time in Parthaca?”

Jon’s response was simple. “Bend over.” Eilif flexed forward, eyelids flickering at the touch to his asshole. Jon plunged a finger into him, and Eilif yelped. He watched,

intrigued with the way pink spread over his cheekbones as Jon worked him open. His hair was a paler shade of blond

than Jon’s, worn long, as Jon remembered it. His green eyes, dark with arousal, stood out against his pale skin. Jon’s face over his shoulder was a study in concentration, sometimes

Immortal * M. Lee

20 looking up to watch Eilif, sometimes focused down on what

he was doing. Eilif’s arms began to shake where they were braced against the bed. Jon gave him a predatory smile.

“Sit up and come here,” he said.

Eilif swallowed and backed into his embrace. His thighs

bracketed Jon’s, his ass raised high above Jon’s cock. Jon rested his hands firmly on Eilif’s hips.

“Now sit,” he husked. “Slowly.”

Shivering, thighs trembling with the effort, Eilif sat. The

burn of Jon’s cock entering him was the most exquisite feeling he could remember. In all his long years, nothing matched this. He parted his lips and dropped his head

forward. His cock, which had been twitching into life again as Jon fingered him, swayed with the steady little up-and-down movements he made as he worked his way onto Jon’s

cock. The tight knot of longing he'd carried in his chest settled, soothed by Jon filling him. Once fully seated, he

stilled, waiting for instructions.

Jon’s hands came up, tracing over his chest. “So good for me,” he said, “such a good boy.” With a subtle nudge of his hands, he started Eilif moving. “You remember what I

said?” Eilif nodded, sinking down again. “No one’s going to touch you, love. Just me. Just this.” Eilif groaned, clenching

around Jon. As he slid up, Jon adjusted, and suddenly the angle was perfect, nailing his prostate. He shouted. His cock slapped his belly, leaking precome. “But you’ll come

anyway,” Jon concluded.

Eilif quickened his pace. Jon’s hands were everywhere: bruising his hips, tweaking his nipples, groping his wide-open ass. Everywhere but his cock. The pressure inside him

was delicious. He reached some hazy plateau of pleasure, his magic turning the room golden to match. He couldn’t hear

anything but the harsh sound of their breathing and the wet sounds of their fucking. Jon felt impossibly big in him, like he was being split wider and wider. His balls drew up tight,

lust wiping his mind clean.

Immortal * M. Lee

21

“Come.” Jon’s voice was deep and urgent. “Eilif, come.”

It meant that he was near his own release, and it was that knowledge as much as the words that pushed Eilif over

the edge. For the second time that night, Eilif came. Come painted his chest, wrenching every last bit of energy out of him. He could only be glad that Jon was shouting and

pulsing out his own orgasm. Eilif lost his balance and flopped gracelessly forward. The conjured mirror fell and shattered against the floor.

Jon snorted with laughter.

“Don’t move,” Eilif told the sheets.

Jon snagged a pillow and tucked it under Eilif’s head. He folded himself against Eilif’s back, staying inside him. “Not at all?”

Eilif sighed with contentment. Jon was a warm blanket over him, his cock a gentle tease of more pleasure to come.

Everything was how it should be. “Mmm, ’xactly like that,” he murmured, and slept.

He dreamt of love, unbroken by time, and woke to find it

so.

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About the Author

M. LEE is both radical and domestic, brushing up on queer

theory in between bouts of gardening and composing protest

songs as she folds the laundry. After reading too many sad

endings in gay classics, she set out to write as many happy

gay endings as possible.

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Copyright

Immortal ©Copyright M. Lee, 2012

Published by

Dreamspinner Press

4760 Preston Road

Suite 244-149

Frisco, TX 75034

http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the

authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Art by Catt Ford

This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is

illegal and a violation of International Copyright Law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon

conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. This eBook cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No

part of this eBook can be shared or reproduced without the express permission of the Publisher. To

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Released in the United States of America

June 2012

eBook Edition

eBook ISBN: 978-1-61372-632-7