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| "The Modern Prometheus" |
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Duncan: This kid's great.
Joe: We picked him up in London. Came to every show every night.
Methos: Well, well, look who's here.
Joe: Byron.
Duncan: The Byron?
Byron: Hey, Doc.
Methos: Hey.
Byron: It's been a long time.
Methos: You've become kind of famous again.
Byron: Yeah. I, ah, just can't seem to shake it. |
Methos: (Methos giggles. [mp1.aif - 31K]) Ah, Duncan MacLeod. Joe Dawson.
Bryon: Any friend of Doc's... (Byron notices the guitarist.) That kid's not bad. Who is he?
Methos: Oh, that's Mike. He's from London. (Mike finishes and joins them.)
Duncan: You were great, Mike.
Mike: It's a rush. |
 |
Joe: Beautiful!
Mike: Thanks, Joe.
Byron: Great chops, kid.
Mike: I'm sorry. Hold on a minute. You're who I think you are, aren't you? I've got every CD, imports, everything. Man, I've been a fan of yours forever.
Joe: You mean to tell me you knew him all this time and you never told me?
Duncan: Yeah, Doc. |
| * * * |
Byron: It seems the good doctor grows weary of our entertainment.
Methos: As spectator, surely, as participant, never.
Claire: Doctor Adams, your effrontery shocks me.
Byron: You aren't shocked are you? You would be if you saw him in his labors, cutting up corpses, up to his elbows in rotting flesh and maggoty entrails.
Claire: Actually...
Methos: There are some questions about life that only the dead can answer.
Byron: Only the dead and poets.
Methos: Well, I shall have my answers when the Shelleys arrive.
Byron: Or rather Percy Shelley and that woman Mary he calls wife that he seems so interested in seducing. (The carriage approaches two ladies.)
Ladies: (Gasping) It is! Lord Byron! Hello, Lord Byron!
Methos: What do we have here?
Byron: "This band which bound thy yellow hair / Is thine, sweet girl, thy pledge of love / It claims my warmest, dearest care / Like relics left of saints above." (A carriage approaches.)
Methos: Whoa! (They feel an Immortal presence.) You know him?
Byron: Hans Kershner. He thinks I slept with is wife.
Claire: Did you?
Byron: Of course.
Methos: Hold on. (The carriage takes off. Kershner chases after them.)
Kershner: Hold it there, you scoundrel! (Kershner's carriage is overturned.)
Methos: Next time send your wife!
Byron: Am I as dangerous as my reputation, Doctor?
Methos: You're mad, sir! Are you trying to get us killed?
Byron: You speak of death, yet note how quickly your heart beats. You seem more alive than ever, sir! |
| * * * |
Byron: So to the last and in the virge of our decay some phantom lures such as we sought at first. But all too late so are we doubley cursed. Love, fame, ambition, avarice, disdain. Each idle and all ill and none the worst. For all are meteors with a different name and death the sable smoke who vanishes in the flame. (Everyone claps.) It's all drivel. My god, I bore even myself.
Percy: I thought it was wonderful, Lord Byron. You are too critical of your perjury. And the evening's entertainment.
Byron: It will take more than Morpheus's smoke to quite me today, Shelley.
Mary: I trust you had a pleasant journey this afternoon, sir?
Methos: Only if one enjoys dancing near the halls of death, Mrs. Shelley.
Mary: I love to dance.
Byron: What have you to quiet a troubled soul, Doctor? Mine has been wounded in life's battles.
Claire: You cannot wound a spirit, how ridiculous, Lord Byron.
Byron: Shall we test your theory, my little nymph? Shall I kill you here and now? (Byron points a pistol at Claire.)
Claire: Lord Byon, no!
Methos: I think you've taken this jest far enough.
Byron: Shall I watch your spirit rise up before me and pluck it from the air. Shelley, the Laudanum. Next time preserve your ignorance for one more deserving than I. |
| * * * |
Byron: Is there no relief to this eternal boredom? We need better diversions.
Methos: What exactly did you have in mind?
Byron: New stories. I say we call forth the armies of the night and do them battle, soul to soul, 'til they or we cry: "Hold! Enough!" and give over the field.
Claire: Sounds thrilling.
Methos: Sounds morbid.
Percy: Stories of horror, to bring forth our own ghosts from deep within us. Those dead humors rattling around the midnight of our souls.
Byron: Yes, but who shall be first to amuse and frighten us tonight? The quiet Mrs. Shelley, perhaps?
Mary: You mock me, sir. Yet I have felt death. I've held it in my arms. I hope never to feel the like again.
Byron: Yes, but feel it you did. In tasting grief, in tasting fear, is that not the time we truly live? And so, fair muse, what ghosts have you to share tonight?
Mary: I'm, I'm afraid my imagination fails me at present.
Byron: Ah, but look, dear lady. Your neighbor greedily gulps the nectar of creativity itself.
Percy: Drink the laudanum, my love. Drink. To stimulate your imagination, my dear. (Mary begins choking after taking a drink.)
Byron: What melodrama is this?
Methos: Your wife has had enough, sir!
Percy: Take care of her, good doctor. Into your hands, I commend her spirit. |
| * * * |
Mary: My baby Clara, I dreamt she came back to life. She had a beak for a mouth. And I was in the forest. There was a man, a monster, a beast... I couldn't tell what it was. Sometimes... sometimes I wonder who's the more unhappy, those who die or... or those who live?
Methos: Perhaps, dear Mary, death is not truly journey's end but just another turn in the road. If we believe that, we can live without fear.
Byron: Bravo. Bravo.
Methos: Be still.
Byron: Still. So still. Almost like death. Yet look, she stirs. Is she not beautiful?
Methos: That she is. Now let her rest.
Byron: Ah, but does she want to rest? I say we take her and push the bounds of our passion to heaven itself.
Methos: And I say we leave before we push the bounds of decency.
Byron: Decency means nothing. All that matters is this moment, the three of us here in this room. Look at her. Feel her hunger. What is the point of living if we don't taste what life has to offer us?
Methos: Enough. I said, enough.
Byron: How dare you? This is my home, my life. I will do with it as I choose. Unless, of course, you choose to stop me.
Methos: Put it away and let her be. I would rather have your poetry than your head.
Byron: Very well. As a favor to you. |
| * * * |
Duncan: He's an arrogant son of a bitch.
Methos: A lot of geniuses are. He's connected. He could make that kid's career with one phone call.
Joe: Yeah. He's in the big time now. |
| * * * |
Duncan: I'm gonna talk to Byron.
Methos: Wait, I'll go with you. Worried about the kid, huh?
Joe: Yeah, he's in a tough spot.
Methos: To make great music, you have to experience life.
Joe: The good and the bad, huh? Hallelujah.
Methos: Sometimes the man is not as strong as the music. |
| * * * |
Byron: Life, my friend, is in the details. I like almonds, not cashews, almonds. Shelled, roasted, unsalted. And fetch me my women: tall, beautiful women with long black hair. I know you want to make me happy. Afternoon, boys.
Methos: Still lacerating the help, I see.
Byron: It's good being a star.
Duncan: You and Mike had quite a session last night.
Byron: Yeah. Kid's got a good shot.
Duncan: That's why we're here.
Byron: You gotta rev the engine or you're just idling. I don't understand how you guys can live without it.
Duncan: Just fine, thanks. So did Mike until last night.
Byron: Oh, that's better. Immortality gets pretty damn dull after the first couple of centuries, doesn't it? What's the secret, Doc? What do you do when there's nothing left but the dark, cold emptiness that stretches out for centuries behind you? And when you look in the mirror, all that you see is the abomination that you are. |
| * * * |
Methos: Shall we?
Mary: I confess, I'm afraid to go in.
Methos: It's just his way of being entertaining. They're only ghost stories.
Mary: Told by master wordsmiths. Lord Byron's words will live forever. What have I to offer in such company?
Methos: Your heart. Your dreams. Your nightmares.
Mary: Is that where you found your story? Pray, tell me.
Methos: Not now. Come. Let us show Byron and Shelley that they do not have the only creative minds of the day. (They enter.)
Byron: Ah! We'd almost despaired of your company. Hark, Percy. The good doctor is in love with your Mary. What do you say to that?
Percy: I say run. And fleet be thy feet. Fly from love, that horned beast that impales all men. (Byron and Methos feel an Immortal's presence.)
Byron: It seems my destiny awaits. With your permission, my friends, I take my leave. (Byron and Methos leave.)
Methos: Jealous husband?
Byron: Uh huh. Hans, my good friend, come in man and warm thy sodden self by my fire. (Kershner punches Byron.)
Kershner: That is for my wife. (Kershner pulls out his sword.) And this is for me. Defend yourself.
Byron: Alas my good man, I am but a poet not a warrior.
Kershner: What you are is a cuckolding cripple.
Methos: You are not ready for this, give way. |
| * * * |
Byron: Try me, and you shall see a poet's metals.
Methos: Think, man, who you would kill! Would you be Lord Byron's murderer?
Kershner: Bah!
Byron: He shall be Lord Byron's first conquest.
Kershner: Huh. Then try me, boy. (They fight. Byron wins but dies shortly after. Mary witnesses the quickening and Byron's resurrection.)
Mary: He lives yet I saw...
Methos: It was a trick of the storm.
Mary: I'm not Claire. Do not speak to me like a fool. I've seen him die and live again, while my daughter Clara lies buried in her grave. How can he live while my flesh and blood turns to dust? Explain.
Methos: There is no explanation. He is not governed by the rules of mortal flesh. He is of a different kind.
Mary: How do you know this? How can you know it?
Methos: Because I am like him: Immortal. I beseech you, tell no one of this. We must live in secret.
Mary: Or you would be hunted.
Methos: For the perversion of nature that we are.
Mary: Poor tormented creature. The sad hero of a never-ending story. Resurrected by lightning to eternal life and eternal lonliness.
Byron: An interesting bit of entertainment this was, I'll wager. Come. There's a fire inside and stories to tell if you have one.
Mary: I do. Mine will be about the anguish of immortality.
Methos: What will you call your story, Mary Shelley?
Mary: Frankenstein: The Modern Prometheus. A man born of fire. |
| * * * |
Duncan: Your friend's a mess.
Methos: He's a genius.
Duncan: He's pathetic.
Methos: Very easy to think that way. You ever starve to death, MacLeod? Byron feels hunger like that every day. Twenty thousand people screaming his name; it's not enough to fill the hole inside of him. He always wants more; he always needs more. You should try it some time.
Duncan: Yeah, well, I know what it's like to be empty. It's no excuse.
Methos: "She walks in a beauty, like the night / Of cloudless climes and starry skies"
Duncan: "And all that's best of dark and bright / Meet in her aspect and her eyes." Yes, I know the poem.
Methos: How do you think like that, how do you write like that and not be a little larger than life? You know, Charlie Parker, Van Gogh, Mozart, messed-up guys.
Duncan: Yeah. Da Vinci, Bach, normal guys and still great artists.
Methos: And Byron is also a great artist. He's given the world great poetry.
Duncan: But at what price? |
| * * * |
Byron: Hey, Doc. It's gonna be a killer show tonight.
Methos: I'm not here for the show.
Byron: Well, the party doesn't start till later but, uh, hey, make yourself at home.
Methos: Leave town.
Byron: Say what?
Methos: MacLeod's going to be coming here. I'm telling you as an old friend that it would be a good time to go on tour. In another country.
Byron: And disappoint my fans? I told you, I've got a show to do.
Methos: Used to be more than a show. There was a time when you were reaching for the heavens.
Byron: There is no heaven. It's just an illusion for fools and innocents. I have no hope, no dreams, no poetry left. All I feel is this raging hunger. And all I hear is my own voice screaming my failure. You know what I've become.
Methos: Yes, I know.
Byron: But do you know who you are, Doc? You're the guy in the audience, and I'm the guy on the flying trapeze. Who do you think is having more fun?
Methos: Who do you think is going to live longest?
Byron: Who cares?
Methos: I do.
Byron: Do you want a tombstone that says, "He lived for centuries"? Or do you want one that says, "For centuries he was alive"?
Methos: You're not listening to me. I don't want a tombstone.
Byron: You hear that? They're playing my song. |
| * * * |
Methos: Paladini's dead, I know. Byron didn't force him to do anything.
Duncan: That's a load of crap. Mike's dead because of Byron.
Methos: No. Mike is dead because of Mike.
Duncan: The kid idolized him. Maybe he didn't pull the trigger, but he sure as hell put the gun in his hand. To live like me you have to be like me? Come on, Methos. Mike couldn't do that. He wasn't Immortal.
Methos: Which is not Byron's fault. Mac, Mac, wait! Think. Think about the poetry. Think about the music that he's made. Think about the music that he will still make. You're going to kill all that as well?
Duncan: And what about Mike? What music could he have made? |
| * * * |
Methos: Matter and antimatter. Byron knew that too. His life had become one long tragedy.
Duncan: We all know how those end.
Byron's voice: My task is done; my song has ceased; my theme has died into an echo. It is fit. |
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