Eternal Triangle

Dream An Impossible Dream

February 21, 1587-London, England

"Lord Jerome Tailor, by order of Her Royal Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, you have been found guilty of treason against Her Majesty's government and are hereby sentenced to death. Three days hence, you shall be taken from your cell to the place of execution, where your head shall be struck from your body. May God have mercy on your soul."

The young blond man stood unmoving in the docks before the judge, stunned by what had just transpired. He began to shake almost uncontrollably as the soldiers approached him to lead him from the Lord Chamberlain's rooms. He frantically gazed about the room, seeking at least one sympathetic face. Most refused to meet his eyes with the exception of one smallish, brown-haired man.

Sir Morgan Norwich shrugged slightly when brown eyes met blue. There was nothing he could do-he was only a low-ranking official with little influence in court. He watched impassively as his best friend's lover was taken from the room in chains, giving a small nod to the guard captain as he passed, then turned and left the chamber.

Lord Jerome allowed himself to be pulled through the passageways of the castle without a struggle. He blinked furiously, refusing to show any weakness to the men surrounding him. They eventually reached the cell where he had been kept for the past several days, and he was unceremoniously tossed in, the door slamming behind him. The thunk of the key turning in the lock sounded hollowly through the damp cell.

The terrified artist leaned against the cold stone wall, sliding down until he was seated on the floor. Only then, when he was completely alone, did he allow the despair he was feeling to rise to the surface. He wrapped his arms around his knees and began sobbing as the hopelessness of his situation hit him.

One week ago, he had been happy, busily painting portraits for the frivolous courtiers that surrounded the Queen and anticipating the return of his love, away on a diplomatic mission. He had been applying the finishing touches to his latest painting when some of Her Majesty's guards had burst into his small cottage and arrested him. He was dumbfounded to discover the charges-treason, a crime punishable by death.

Knowing he was innocent, he had placed his faith in his lawyer, who reassured him that there was no evidence proving his guilt. However, during his trial, witness after witness presented supposed proof of his treasonous actions. The defense had not been allowed the time to prepare an argument against the negative testimony and he was convicted.

The trial had been swift and the judgment harsh. His last hope now lay in the intervention of his lover, one of Queen Elizabeth's most trusted advisors. He was due to arrive back in England on the day before Jerome's execution.

The morning before he was scheduled to die, Jerome collected his few remaining coins and bribed the gaoler. He handed the seedy-looking man a letter he has written and asked him to send it to his lover's estate. Jerome knew the man he loved wielded considerable influence with the good queen and would intercede on his behalf.

The day passed slowly, and as the sun disappeared below the horizon, the scared young man felt his hope for rescue melt away as well. He lay on his pallet, clutching a sketch of his lover to his chest and wept for what was not to be.

Dawn came early and Jerome gathered his flagging courage, determined to meet his death with dignity. He washed his face and hands, straightened his hair and brushed his doublet and hosen the best he could. The gaoler had brought him a bowl of porridge and a mug of lukewarm tea to break his fast. Jerome managed to choke down most of it, but his stomach was threatening to reject the bland food.

As he heard the clanking of armor nearing his cell, he felt a sudden rush of panic. Here he was, barely twenty years old and about to die. The door swung open slowly and several guards entered, followed closely by three men-a priest, Sir Morgan and...

Jerome's breath caught as he noticed the last man to enter his cell. His lover had returned. He drank in the sight of the man, thankful he was here at last. Blaise Kyngestone, Earl of Tremont stood well over six feet tall. His chestnut hair glistened with splashes of red in the sunlight, and sharp piercing hazel eyes watched his surroundings closely, missing few details.

The two men locked eyes-one hopeful, the other grim. The Earl was the first to break the contact. He began moving about the cell restlessly as the priest prepared to give Lord Jerome his Last Rites.

Tremont arrived in London yesterday and had spent the morning consulting with the Queen and her council. Finally, after several hours, he had been released and, anxious to see his lover, ordered his horse prepared. As he exited the castle, he had been intercepted by his best friend, Sir Morgan and informed of Jerome's betrayal. At first, he hadn't believed Jerome's guilt, but when presented with the evidence, he had reluctantly accepted the situation. He ended up spending the night at his London residence, never making it to his country estate.

Now, he was preparing to watch his lover die on the scaffold.

He turned and with a gesture to the guards and priest, sent them from the cell. Blaise looked at his friend and said, "Morgan, allow me a few minutes, please."

"But Tremont…" Morgan's words faded as he met the Earl's hard-eyed stare. The man glanced at the condemned man and slowly nodded, leaving the room and quietly closing the door behind him.

Jerome moved toward his lover, exclaiming, "Blaise, thank God you're here. Maybe you can talk to the Queen-ask her to intercede." He stopped, confused by the other man's reaction. Tremont's face blazed with anger and it was directed at him.

"Lord Jerome," Tremont began formally, "I am here today to escort you to your execution. I spent yesterday afternoon examining the evidence Sir Morgan showed me, and…" His voice wavered for a moment then he continued, "Damn it, Jerome, why did you do it?"

"Blaise, what are you talking about? You know I'm innocent. I explained it…"

The Earl interrupted, "The facts are irrefutable, Jerome. Your betrayal of the Queen, of my trust… I'm sorry, I can't take this any more." He shook his head and opened the door, allowing the guards to reenter the cell. He glanced back at the blue eyes he loved and said, "Your actions are indefensible, Lord Jerome. Now, prepare for your death and may God forgive you for what you have done, for I cannot." He joined his friend and together they waited for the soldiers to escort Jerome from the cell.

Jerome was numb. The Earl had not believed what he had written in his letter, choosing instead to listen to his accusers. He meekly allowed the guards to fasten the chains around his wrists and followed them to the waiting cart.

The men rode through the busy streets of London, eventually arriving at the place of execution. Jerome stumbled as he exited the cart, his legs almost giving out on him. He took a deep breath, gathering his resolve, straightened his shoulders and walked proudly toward the scaffold.

As he mounted the steps, he slowly met the eyes of the people surrounding the scaffold. When he encountered the brown gaze of his lover's best friend, he faltered. There, obvious to anyone looking, was an expression of quiet triumph. Jerome suddenly knew the reason for his downfall. He had been set up by Sir Morgan-the man his lover trusted more than anyone else. He closed his eyes, knowledge coming too late.

It was too late.

The blond slowly knelt before the block, refusing the executioner's offer of a blindfold. He steadfastly stared into the eyes of the only man he had ever loved, wanting them to be the last thing he would see. He silently whispered, "I love you," then closing his eyes, placed his neck upon the block.

The sharp metallic sound of the axe hitting the stone block rang loudly through the square.

It was done.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

March 19, 2007-Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania

Justin sat straight up in bed, heart pounding and breath coming in short pants. 'Goddamn it. Another fucking dream.' He reached over the side of the bed, pulled out a journal and recorded his dream.

When the blond first started having the dreams, several months earlier, he had blown them off as too much stress in his life. However, as the frequency and details contained within them increased, he began jotting them down, trying to discern a pattern in them.

He had to figure out why he was having them-they were one of the reasons his life was currently falling apart around him. He had moved out of the loft and back into Daphne's apartment because of them. Well, if he was honest with himself, the dreams were only one of the reasons he'd left.

Michael was the other.

Ben Bruckner, Michael's husband of two years, had been killed in a car accident approximately nine months earlier. Michael was an emotional wreck afterwards. At first, Justin tried to be understanding-he would invite Michael over to the loft for dinner and to go out with Brian and him. Gradually though, there was a shift and instead of Michael coming over to their place, Brian would end up over at his apartment-without Justin.

One night, an exhausted Justin had confronted Brian about the situation. The blond pointed out that they hadn't spent a night alone since Ben's death. Brian tried to justify things, saying that Michael really needed to spend time with him. Justin was soon fed up and told Brian that it had to end-that Michael needed to find another crutch. There had been an explosive argument and the young artist moved out the next day.

He hadn't seen Brian in weeks, other than at work.

Justin sighed as he closed the journal and put it away. The exhaustion from his disrupted nights was catching up with him and he felt he needed to solve the mystery of the dreams before he could deal with Brian.

He laid his head back onto the pillow and closed his eyes. Maybe if he was lucky, he could catch a few more hours of sleep before he needed to get up for work. As his thoughts drifted, he suddenly remembered his New York fiasco. On the trip back, the guys had laughingly told him about a Mysterious Marilyn and the fact that her predictions had come true.

Justin decided to look for the drag queen the next day-maybe she could help him. After all, he didn't seem to have anything left to lose.

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