Gods, thought Methos as he looked out and saw the inevitable rain. Curse this poxy weather, curse this poxy village, and most of all, curse that poxy woman. From the open side of the forge he could see a female figure leave the village boundaries and start walking determinedly towards him. She seemed to be carrying a basket.

        Gods, no, he moaned to himself. Not more of her piss-awful food. Hurriedly he banked the forge fire and slipped out the back of the building. An evening getting drunk at the tavern would be far more pleasant than fending off the unwanted attentions of Gudrun who, it seemed, was determined to marry him.

        His thoughts flitted back to his time with the Horsemen, as he trudged along a muddy path to the tavern. Say what you like about Kronos and the gang, and he frequently did, at least they'd have known how to deal with persistent women. Sometimes Methos really wished he could forget that he was supposed to be civilized.

        Civilized? Hah! His lips twisted in a sardonic grin. The armpit of middle Europe could hardly be defined as civilized. Methos wasn't sure where he was, but reckoned it was about as far from civilization as one could get without travelling to those godforsaken Celtic islands. He shivered at the recollection. Britannia, where the villagers seemed to mostly subsist on mud, and the women's idea of accessories was scythes on the chariot wheels, not to mention the west of the island, Cambria, where even the sheep were mad, probably because of the Cambrians, and Hibernia, where he'd agreed to do the most insane things, probably because of the interesting brews the monks concocted. And it rained all the time over there.

        He had thought, when choosing a location to hide in for a few years, that at least nowhere could be as damp as those islands. He'd thought wrong. He'd never squelched as much in his life. His thoughts drifted back to Hibernia. It hadn't been all bad there. He remembered some great drinking, and ahem, wrestling sessions with a couple of warriors from Ulster and Connaught. Cuchulain and Ferdia, that was it. Cuchulain and "we're just friends" Ferdia. Yeah, right, thought Methos. That pair had the hots for each other like no couple he'd ever met before. Even Paris hadn't fancied Helen that much. In retrospect, perhaps Methos shouldn't have suggested to Queen Maeve of Connaught that the Brown Bull of Cooley was exactly what she needed to improve the quality of her cattle. As far as Methos was concerned, there was only one Bull of Ulster he wanted to get his hands on, and he didn't mind being gored on Cuchulain's horns. He snickered at the memory. Shame the Ulsterman had been so thick. And so loyal. To both his king and his friend. Fought Ferdia, cleaned his wounds, fucked him and finally killed him. The Ulster warrior hadn't lasted much longer after that, but even in death, his enemies had been frightened of him.

        But here he was in the heart of a gloomy, damp Mittel-European forest with no compensations. When he thought that he could have been somewhere warm on the Mediterranean, maybe in the library at Alexandria. Oh hang on, that had burned down hadn't it? He'd always suspected Kronos of that little act of arson, but had no desire to find his former comrade to discover the truth.

        The tavern looked full tonight, Methos thought, as he approached. The bulging stable beside it gave him a hint. Traders in town then, he thought. A faint buzz grew stronger. Definitely from the stable, not the tavern, he thought. He drew his sword cautiously as he approached the ramshackle building.

        There were horses everywhere. Nothing like nostalgia, as he inhaled the familiar scent of horse shit. Say what you like about horses, and he frequently did, at least they smelt okay. Not like the pigs they kept in that hellhole he lived close to. It was the far corner of the stable that caught his eye. A figure huddled in the shadows with other figures.

        A slaver, he thought, as he approached. Not much of a stock, and all securely bound. No threat at the moment. He shrugged, and headed towards the tavern. Beer was more important than investigating a non-existent threat. He felt no sympathy for the enslaved Immortal. Been there, done that, you'll work out how to escape laddie, he thought.

        The place was heaving, but his favourite wench swiftly brought him some beer and food. He settled in a corner, watching the activity. Half the idiot men in the village were hanging on the words of one man spinning tall tales. He recognized Gudrun's father and brother among them. Others were quietly getting drunk, while a game of dice was beginning at the far end of the room. Bored, he wandered over.

        Three hours later, the game had dwindled down to Methos and one of the traders and the stakes were getting high. Most of the tavern was watching as both ran out of cash in the pot that lay in the centre of the table.

        "The contents of my forge," said Methos.

        "A black stallion out in the stable," replied the trader.

        Methos suddenly became aware that if he lost everything he could leave this hellhole for good.

        "The forge itself and the land attached."

        The trader looked at him owlishly. "There's a slave out in the stables too. A strong Celt."

        A warning bell went off in Methos' head, but he ignored it and sat back. "That cleans me out."

        The trader laughed. "Me too. Roll the dice."

        Methos rolled . . . .

        Fate can be a real bitch sometimes.

        What the hell was he going to do with a stallion and an enslaved Celt, he fumed quietly to himself as he followed the trader to the stables. Damn, blast, and hellfire, the slave would be the Immortal, he thought, as he watched the tall man being pulled to his feet by the trader. Methos' eyes narrowed. Well, he could think of some things he'd like to do to this lad. He was certainly strong. The loincloth and mud that he wore left little to the imagination, and Methos had an active imagination. A strong, muscled body, leaner than it should be, olive skin, a dark tangle of hair past the brawny shoulders, and melting dark eyes, a total contrast with the strong chest. Methos gulped slightly. Tender pink lips formed for kissing or other activities. This man was a threat all right. He was a threat to Methos' equanimity.

        The trader grinned as he lead the horse out of the stables. "I should warn you," he laughed, as the stallion began to buck and plunge, "they're both temperamental."

        Methos growled at the man. "I was playing to lose."

        "So was I!" laughed the trader. "Have fun."

        The trader was right, thought Methos as he manoeuvred his winnings out of the stable. The horse was demanding all his attention and the Celt had taken the stubborn route and was sitting in the mud. Probably reminded him of home, thought the Immortal. A kick and a curse got the slave to his feet, and Methos proceeded to fight them both down the road. He was grateful that it was raining too hard for him to have an audience.

        Another tug from both sides decided his tactics. The horse and the slave seemed to be working together to escape. Stifling a curse under his breath, Methos swiftly swapped both leashes into one hand and reached for his dagger, which he plunged into the Celt's heart. The horse reared and bucked at the smell of blood then quietened with fear as Methos hauled the slave's corpse onto the stallion's back. Two birds killed with one stone, he thought, as he led his winnings home.

        The horse went quietly enough into one stall of the stable, shaking with terror as Methos pulled the body off its back. The Celt was disposed of in another stall on a heap of straw and one ankle firmly shackled to the wall. Muddy, tired, and very drunk, Methos sought his own bed, passing out as soon as he lay down.

        He woke up with a raging hangover as sunlight streamed through a partially-shuttered window. The buzz of a nearby Immortal forced him up for a moment, before he remembered the events of the night before. The memory nearly drove him back to his bed again. Cursing under his breath - had he done anything but curse since coming to this place? - he went outside to piss before heading around to the stables to check on his new property.

        At least the horse was quiet. On the grounds that it couldn't answer back he fed and watered the stallion, which rolled its eyes at him but decided not to bite him, after receiving a glare from its new master. It was a magnificent beast, Methos thought, fit for a nobleman. The thought reminded him of his other acquisition, and he moved over to the other stall.

        The Celt had obviously tried to free himself from the shackle to no avail. Methos might not like being a smith, but he was a good one. The iron was firmly bolted to the wall, as sturdy as the shackle that bound the man's ankle. Dried blood attested to attempts to free himself, but the Celt had healed. He looked in mingled horror and terror at his new master.

        Duncan woke up in a stable, the comforting smell of horse nearby. For a moment he thought he was back in Glenfinnan, the memory of carousing nights, when he had slept in a barn rather than risk the wrath of his parents, comforting him. It was only when a chain clinked that he remembered his true situation. He was an outcast, the chieftain's son possessed by a devil and rejected by his clan. He had wandered the upper ground for a year or more, refusing to leave his ancestral territories, when hunger and desperation drove him into a town. He'd never made it. A band of men had overpowered him and taken him prisoner. They'd tried to sell him in Scotland, but no clan was interested. They'd all heard the story of the demon MacLeod and no one wanted that in their home. In the end, his captors had sold him to some other traders who had taken him across the sea. It had all blurred, Duncan only aware that he had left his beloved Scotland, and the grief lay heavy on his heart. And now this. His new master would surely punish him when he discovered Duncan was a demon, capable of returning from the dead.

        The man spoke to Duncan in a strange tongue, and the Highlander looked blankly at him. His new master sighed and tried another. Then he spoke in Gaelic. Abruptly.

        "Anim?" For one terrible moment, Duncan thought the man had said "anam" and was asking where his soul was. How could he explain that he had none? Then he realized that the man was asking his name. He sounded strange - Irish rather than Scots, but the two forms of Gaelic were almost interchangeable.

        "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

        The man spoke Gaelic like a bard, old-fashioned and difficult to understand. He listened carefully, then told the man when he'd been born. This information seemed to satisfy his new master, who grunted as though it explained something. What it explained was beyond MacLeod. The next question terrified him. How could this man know when he first died?

        As far as Methos could work out, the young Scot in front of him had no concept of his Immortality. The question as to his first death had scared him. Well, if he didn't know what his Immortality meant, Methos could understand the fear. Shouts of "demon" and "witch" were too fresh in his memory for him not to empathize with the terrified Scot. For a moment, he was tempted to reach in to the luscious young man and take him in his arms to comfort him, but sense prevailed. This was his slave, after all. Safer to be the harsh master. He felt down to where a whip was secured to his belt.

        "Stand up" he ordered Duncan in Gaelic. Gods, but the man stank. Duncan stiffened as Methos reached for the chain attached to the wall and unfastened it. He turned around and faced his slave.

        "Listen to me" he enunciated clearly in basic Gaelic. "We are going outside and you are going to wash. You stink."

        Duncan nodded mutely, docilely following his new master outside to the well. He was once more secured to a wall, and Methos indicated how he could draw water, then left him.

        Five minutes later when he returned, Duncan was struggling with the chain. The whip lashed out and caught the wincing Scot on the leg.

        "Wash or be washed," said Methos in a steady voice.

        Sullenly the Scot began to haul water and desultorily splashed himself with the freezing contents of a bucket. Methos watched for a few moments then intervened.

        "Strip" he ordered, flexing the whip. Duncan looked blankly at him. Methos sighed, and reached for the man's loincloth. Blushing furiously, the Scot pulled away, and at another threatening gesture from his master, stripped. Methos doused him in cold water and ordered him to wash. Duncan learned quickly. He rinsed the mud off his body and stood there naked, glaring at his master.

        Dear Gods, thought Methos. To think I played to lose. The Scot was magnificent, a lean long mass of muscles. He circled the man like a predator, absorbing all the details of his body. Duncan stared stonily ahead of him, ignoring Methos' interest.

        Finally Methos tossed a bundle of clothes at Duncan. "Dress" he ordered, in as neutral a fashion as he could muster at the thought of that body being concealed from him. Duncan pulled the coarse trousers and shirt on over his damp skin and bent down to fasten the ties of the rough boots over his ankles.

        Methos bent down to the shackle and freed the Scot's ankle. "Follow me" he ordered. For the first time, Duncan looked at the man who owned him. He was tall and lean, with an upper body strength that came from his work. Black hair fell down to his shoulders, and a prominent nose and high cheekbones gave his face extra severity. It was a face that promised to be cruel and Duncan felt a chill in his gut. His instincts kicked in and he turned and fled, running towards the trees.

        Methos turned and watched the man run, then continued back to the house. The Scot couldn't get far on an empty stomach, and Methos preferred to eat before he tracked him. Philosophically he gathered a meal together and settled down to eat it.

        He was barely halfway through when a commotion outside attracted his attention. The Scot had returned - forcibly. He struggled between his two captors, who Methos recognized with a sinking heart as Thomas and Gar, Gudrun's father and brother.

        "We found him in the woods, Methos" said Gar.

        "My thanks," replied Methos, grasping Duncan by the wrist and yanking him to his knees. "I didn't think he'd get far."

        "Eating before you went after him?" laughed Thomas. Methos had more time for him than he did for either of the man's idiot children. But not much more. He did not want to be beholden to this man or his family.

        "No point in starving myself," he replied laconically.

        "Well, we'll leave you to his punishment" said Thomas, pulling Gar away with him. "That's a strong-looking slave you have there. Could be useful in the forge."

        Methos acknowledged this as he looked down at Duncan with fury in his eyes. Punishment was promised, but first precautions against escape had to be taken. He pulled Duncan into the forge and rapidly secured the Scot in one corner. Cursing all the while, in a variety of languages that included Gaelic, he found what he wanted, and approached Duncan.

        "Were it not that it is no good, I would brand you, so that all could see who owns you. But the brand would not stay on your skin, Scot, so I must make a mark that stays."

        His words terrified Duncan through the haze of exhaustion and hunger and confusion that surrounded him. He felt strong callused hands surround his neck and wondered if he was to die again. A heavy cold weight descended on him, a sudden burst of heat at the back of his neck, and with a satisfied grunt, Methos stepped back.

        Duncan raised his hand nervously to his throat. A collar. The bastard had marked him out as a slave to all that passed. He tugged at the collar.

        "Don't try. It's welded on, you will need a smith to remove it" said Methos. "And now some rules."

        Rules? In a blind rage Duncan launched himself at his gaoler and was swiftly knocked to the ground. Methos stood over him, his face twisted in a sneer, a knife in his hand. He spoke to the stunned Scot.

        "I am Methos. You live to serve me. Never forget that."

        Then everything went black, as Methos plunged his dagger into Duncan's heart.

        Duncan awoke to the clanging of iron from the front of the forge, and a muffled oath. He looked blearily into the sunlight, and saw Methos cursing at his battered thumb. A conversation ensued in a language Duncan couldn't understand. But one of the protagonists was female and prone to giggling.

        "Did you hit yourself?"

        "Aye" muttered the smith, ignoring the woman.

        "I brought you some food" she giggled again.

        Duncan squinted to look at her. She seemed pretty, the light catching off red hair and a voluptuous body. He couldn't see her, silhouetted in profile as she was, but a clank of a chain brought her head up, looking into the forge. She peered in.

        "Father said you won a slave in the tavern last night." She pouted. "I don't like you going to the tavern."

        Methos ignored her.

        "He said the slave ran away. And that he and Gar found him in the woods. And that they returned him to you. Can I look?"

        Methos ignored her, so she passed him by into the forge, and stared down at Duncan.

        "You have him chained like a dog" she called in surprise to Methos.

        "Aye, well he is a dog. A mad one."

        Duncan glared at the girl. As he had guessed, her eyes were green, and her face, while pretty, had a petulant twist to it that promised trouble. She seemed offended by his scrutiny.

        "He's looking at me" she called to Methos.

        "Well, he's got eyes, hasn't he?"

        "Make him stop," she commanded.

        Methos took her at her word, picked her up and carried her outside the forge. "There, he's not looking at you anymore, is he?" he commented. "Run home, Gudrun."

        She pouted once more. Gods how he hated that pout. Almost as much as he hated the giggles. To think he'd once thought her pretty. He ignored her and returned to the forge, taking her place in front of Duncan.

        "As I was saying, rules."

        Rules, Duncan learnt quickly enough, were simple. Help in the forge, mainly in stoking the fire, and calming the horses, muck out the stables and care for the one horse in it, be obedient, and he would be fed and sheltered. Infractions would be punished. From his experience with Methos, he had no doubt that they would be punished severely. He was sick of dying and the empty feeling of returning from the dead. While he would heal rapidly from a flogging, the humiliation of being under the lash was almost as bad as the pain. Methos had made it clear that he knew far more exotic ways of inflicting pain.

        So they had settled into a reasonable mode of living. Methos was a taciturn man, with a solitary mode of life. The collar didn't chafe - much - but Duncan was chained by the neck and foot in the stable each night, unable to break his bonds.

        He'd begun noticing a routine. Methos never rode. The sole horse in the stables was the young stallion who had been won with Duncan. Duncan supposed that gave them some sort of affinity. It bucked and fought any attempt at bridling or control, but was calm enough when Duncan fed him or cleaned the stall. Methos walked in one day while Duncan was working, talking to and soothing the stallion.

        "Can you break a horse?" he asked.

        Duncan nodded.

        "Train this one. There's a paddock out back." He looked at the stallion again, a strange expression in his eyes, then left the stables.

        There were other aspects of the routine. Methos insisted on Duncan washing daily, and watched him to ensure his orders were carried out. It never occurred to the relatively innocent Scot that his master was more interested in watching his body than in insisting that he didn't stink. Meanwhile, the woman Duncan had seen on the first day, Gudrun, appeared most days, often carrying food. Duncan had learnt rapidly that her food was to be avoided at all costs. He'd also learnt that after time in her company, his master was best avoided for some hours.  He hadn't noticed that Methos had noticed his reactions, and was quietly amused by it all.

        As he watched the Scot fight the stallion out into the high-fenced paddock, he wondered at his own reaction. It hadn't been so long since he'd have pinned the man to the ground and taken his pleasure, and trained him until he'd thought himself a willing occupant of Methos' bed. But he didn't want to do that anymore. He ached for the Scotsman, yet didn't even dare to bring him into the cottage to sleep. His old persona of Death lay a little to close to the surface these days.

        On the other hand, being discovered fucking the Scotsman might finally persuade Gudrun that he wasn't interested. He'd noticed that even Duncan, who had been none too well-fed in the recent past, recoiled from her food. He wasn't sure if it was possible for an Immortal to die permanently from food poisoning, but he reckoned that if anyone could manage it, Gudrun would. He grinned at the thought, then dismissed it at his mind. There had been nights when he'd been strongly tempted to go into the stable and assert his ownership, but just as he'd refrained from bringing the Horsemen's horsemanship to the stallion, he didn't want to bring their other training methods to his slave.

        Duncan was sweating as much as the horse, his heavy shirt pulled off in the heat of the exercise. He was only lunging the stallion as yet, but it fought any attempt at discipline. The Scot was wiser, knew when to pull back in a losing situation. The muscles glistened on the sweat-slicked torso as Duncan soothed and cajoled and bullied the horse into some semblance of obedience. It was exhaustion that drove it to behave itself. Methos preferred choice in the case of his other possession.

        He swung the gate open as Duncan led the horse back to the stables, watching from a distance as he used some hanks of hay to dry the sweat on the stallion's heaving flanks. He spoke to the horse in Gaelic, murmuring endearments and reassurance, the horse responding to the tender and soothing tone rather than any words.

        "I never knew that horses spoke Gaelic" said Methos, a grin on his face.

        "He understands me."

        "Not too well from the performance out there today."

        "He's learning."

        "Aren't we all?" asked Methos. "Join me out front when you're done." He tossed MacLeod's shirt over the partition of the stall as he left.

        Duncan couldn't work out what had changed. Methos was almost gentle, offering him beer with his meal and sitting in companionable silence while the sun set. He made no protest when Methos headed for the stables, angling his head and offering his ankle for the chain. Methos squatted next to Duncan for a moment, gazing at the Scot before leaving. He returned with a rough blanket.

        "It's getting colder at nights" was all he said as he left the stable for his empty bed.

        He woke up to sobbing. It seemed kindness had broken the Scot where roughness had not. He went into the stable, and discovered Duncan was still asleep. A nightmare wracked his body, the stallion jerking nervously in the next stall. He listened for a moment, then crouched down beside the Scot and woke him up.

        Duncan flinched when he saw Methos bending over him.

        "Sssh," said the older man. "What were you dreaming of?"

        Duncan looked at him blankly.

        "Home?" asked Methos.

        Duncan nodded.

        "And then they called you demon and drove you away."

        Duncan's reaction was abrupt and panicky. Methos grasped his shoulder and calmed him.

        "Sssh, I'm not a mind reader. I know because it's happened to me. It happens to all of us. You die and you return to life. It's not easy, but you will adjust. There's only one death that's permanent for us."

        Duncan looked up at him, hope gleaming in his eyes. "What?"

        Methos traced his hand across his neck, two fingers marking the line. "If your head is severed from your body, then it's over." The next question threw him.

        "Then will you end it? Now?"

        Methos leant closer in the hay, almost touching the Scot. "No I won't Duncan."

        More sobs wracked the Scot's body, shudders running through the muscular back as Methos pulled him into his arms and let the once-proud man weep. He pulled the blanket closer around the shuddering body, and covered him with hay. There seemed to be little else he could do.

        He woke up the next morning with the Scotsman still cradled in his arms. They both stank of horse, and the hay had worked up a persistent irritation on the back of his neck. Carefully he disentangled himself from Duncan, hoping he could manage it before the man noticed his obvious arousal.

        Duncan didn't wake until Methos returned to rouse him, none too gently.

        "You can't sleep all day, lad," he said gruffly, but when he removed the chains he indicated breakfast was ready.

        All that day, Methos spoke to Duncan of Immortality and Immortals, and the Game. The Scot was visibly distraught when told he could have no children, and shocked at the import of the Game, but Methos could see that he was adapting rapidly to these new ideas. He might have been raised in a superstitious tribe where the boundaries were marked by the hills on the near horizon and Aberdeen was a far-flung and exotic place, while Edinburgh was barely to be contemplated, but he was open to new ideas. Mid-afternoon, in a quiet enough day at the smithy, Methos indicated Duncan could take the stallion out for his training. Watching over the fence, he began offering a word or two of advice to the lad. Duncan, for his part, was surprised to discover that his stern master, who evinced no fondness for horses, obviously knew much about them.

        It was only over the evening meal, shared at the table in his cottage, that Methos looked over at the Scot, whose sole indicator of his status was the rough iron collar, and realized that he had acquired a student. The thought nearly made him choke on his beer.

        Sword lessons began the next day. Carefully. Methos was all too aware that Duncan could use this opportunity to escape his bonds forever and Duncan was worried about Methos' reaction if he became too aggressive. He couldn't understand why Methos was putting himself at risk by teaching him how to duel. And, if as his strange master said, there could be only one, why was he even letting Duncan live?

        Both began to sleep restlessly, one in the stables and one in the cottage, neither comfortable with the thoughts that confused them and the relationship between them that neither could understand.

        When the distraction came, they almost welcomed it.

        Gudrun was pregnant. The entire village knew Gudrun was with child, she was an effective public announcement system. Those that her "modesty" forbade to tell, learnt rapidly from Gar and Thomas, her irate brother and father. And it was publicly announced that Methos was the father. Naturally there was only one solution.

        "Wed her!" Methos choked on his midday meal. Duncan sat at the back of the forge, slack-jawed with shock at the news.

        "I could not have got her with child. That is impossible!" insisted Methos.

        Gar moved threateningly towards him. "Are you calling Gudrun a liar? God knows you have seduced her up to your forge often enough."

        Duncan watched with interest as Methos backed down. "No, I'm not calling her a liar, I'm just saying she's mistaken."

        "Are you calling my sister a whore?"

        Methos blanched. The conversation went downhill from there. No sooner had Gar left, than he was replaced by Art, one of the village boys.

        "What now?" yelled Methos.

        Art flinched. Methos rather liked him, a quiet lad who lived with his widowed mother and ran the family farm. He calmed down.

        "What's wrong, Art?"

        The boy blushed. "I . . . are you really going to marry Gudrun?"

        Methos sighed. "It's either that or be lynched, it seems. Why?"

        Art suddenly stiffened up, became more aggressive. "Is the baby yours?"

        "No, it's not mine" yelled Methos. "I never touched her!"

        "Do you swear it?"

        "Yes!"

        Art relaxed, but not much. Methos looked at him curiously, then a thought struck him.

        "You?" The boy nodded. "Well, why don't you marry her then?"

        "She won't have me," he blurted out. "She wants someone, more . . . She wants you, because you're not from around here, and she thinks it makes you special. She says she doesn't want to be a farmer's wife."

        "Much better deal than being my wife" jeered Methos, his thoughtless cruelty like a slap across Art's face. The boy paled, then left and ran from the forge.

        "He's in love." The soft Scottish accent came as a surprise to Methos who had almost forgotten Duncan's presence in the forge.

        "Bad excuse. You've met her."

        "Aye, but he loves her. I doubt he minds anything at all about her."

        Methos looked at the Scot carefully. "Was there someone?"

        Duncan swallowed before he answered, unable to meet Methos' eyes. "She died."

        An answering pang hit Methos' heart. They all died, but this man should have been too young to have felt the pain of a mortal lover dying. There was nothing he could offer in exchange. He indicated that work still needed to be done, and they continued in silence for the afternoon. The sword lesson was perfunctory, neither man paying much attention. Methos rapidly abandoned it, indicating that Duncan was free to continue his lessons with the horse.

        As had become his habit, he watched from outside the paddock.

        "Have you thought of a name for him?" he asked idly.

        Duncan looked surprised. "He is nae mine, so he's nae mine to name."

        Methos nodded. "Well, if you think of one, let me know. You know him better than I do."

        The lesson itself was curtailed by the shortening days and the increasing chill. When he led the horse back into its stall, Duncan carefully covered it with a blanket before stepping out to meet Methos, who looked at the blanket, then reached into Duncan's stall and grabbed his.

        "You sleep indoors from now on" was his sole comment.

        Duncan was a bit dubious as to the comfort of his new lodging. The fire was a bonus, he conceded, particularly as Methos preferred to bank it, keeping a dull warmth throughout the house all night, the draughts were fewer, and his pallet was as comfortable as the hay he'd been sleeping on. And not being chained was a decided improvement. But his new roommate did not sleep well, tossing and turning in his sleep and moaning and muttering. A bloodcurdling scream brought Duncan to his feet and across the room to Methos, holding him and speaking gently until the madman who clutched him calmed down. Cautiously he lowered Methos back down on his bed, not sure if the man was even awake. As Duncan left his bedside Methos' body began to heave, huge sobs wracking his lungs.

        Duncan returned and cradled the man gently in his arms, realizing that Methos was still asleep. Twice more he tried to leave the man's bed but Methos' grip was too strong. It only relaxed, briefly, when Duncan gave up and settled down in the bed to get what sleep he could.

        Methos awoke to find his face pressed firmly against a brawny chest, thatched with dark curls. For one terrified moment, he didn't dare move, then he realized that he was nestled in the Highlander's arms, and that Duncan was soundly asleep. Briefly he took stock of the situation and grinned to himself. He'd never been a morning person. Might as well get some sleep. And if his curved leg just happened to graze against the Scot's morning erection, well, he'd always been a restless sleeper. He snuggled in contentedly to doze off. Things were beginning to look up. It was always far more fun to indulge in some serious manipulation than to spend his time angst-ridden. Now, if only his luck would hold out, Gudrun would admit everything, and he wouldn't have to risk being stuck in this godforsaken hellhole for a lifetime. Idly he began to think about places he could go. Greece would be nice, somewhere on the Mediterranean where they appreciated the importance of wine and long siestas. Italy with MacLeod. Perfect. What was it Omar Khayyam had said? "A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and thou?"  Not a bad idea, and Methos was willing to pass on the bread. If he could hang on to this Highlander, he'd even pass on the alcohol.

        A stirring beneath his head brought him out of his reverie. Duncan was waking, and from his cautious movements, thought Methos still asleep. Well, Methos could play at that game. He brought his hand down lower along Duncan's body, and murmured as though in his sleep. Duncan stiffened as the back of Methos' hand brushed against his erection, but didn't pull away. Methos leaned closer into Duncan, so close that Duncan could feel long eyelashes flicker against his neck. A sigh of contentment was exhaled along his collarbone, and the hand that had previously brushed, reached down and began caressing Duncan's cock. Duncan barely dared breathe as Methos' hand slid down his cock to caress his balls. He shuddered with pleasure and breathed out in a noisy gust that Methos took as his cue to awake. His tongue flickered out to caress Duncan's neck before he bent his head down to caress a nipple that stiffened in welcome. Methos' breathing became ragged and his erection almost painful in its intensity. He grasped Duncan's hand and brought it to his cock.

        Too fast, Methos thought, as the Scot leapt out of bed. Damn, damn, damn and blast. He watched Duncan back away against the cottage wall, confusion and fear in his eyes, and decided to salvage what he could from the situation. He climbed out of bed, and pulled his trousers on, making no attempt to hide his arousal or his nakedness from Duncan. Nor did he try to approach the Scot, choosing instead to leave the room, leaving an ashamed and embarrassed Duncan to dress alone.

        There was a tension in the forge that day. Methos was silently cursing himself for the inept way  he had handled that morning, while Duncan was brooding on the same incident. Sword play was dangerous and brief.

        Duncan looked across from where he was mending tack. Methos was bent over the anvil, working on a new ploughshare. Even when cursing at recalcitrant metal, Methos was beautiful, Duncan thought. It made him pause. He'd never thought of a man as beautiful before, let alone the one who kept him as a slave. That morning had made it perfectly obvious what Methos wanted, and Duncan was surprised to find that he wasn't repulsed by the thought. On the contrary, he wanted it too. But the thought of initiating sex with another man frightened him.

        He looked over at Methos again. What had stopped Methos earlier? After all, he owned Duncan and could do what he wanted with impunity. The law was on his side. He could rape Duncan in the town square and the most that would happen would be a reprimand for scaring the horses. He obviously wanted Duncan.

        It took a moment for it to hit Duncan. He wanted Duncan willing. It was a bit longer before the Scot decided that he could take the lead in this matter.

        Methos was swearing at the iron when Duncan came up behind him with some water and touched his arm gently. Methos froze at the touch, then turned slowly to find Duncan offering a cup of water, a shy smile on his face.

        "You'll not do any better on that plough" offered the Scot, moving closer. He offered the cup again, and Methos dazedly grasped it. He looked at it as if he'd never seen one before, then looked at the Scot who placidly contemplated him, still keeping a grip on the cup. Methos moved a finger over Duncan's hand in a tentative caress, and Duncan leaned in closer, his lips almost brushing against Methos'.

        The cup shattered unnoticed on the floor as Methos pulled Duncan into his arms, his lips locking on in a deep kiss. The Scot almost lost his balance as the urgency of Methos' passion literally swept him of his feet. He found himself pinned against the anvil, desperate calloused hands tugging at his shirt, lips and teeth and fingers all seeking his chest. As Methos' hands moved lower to the waistband of his pants, Duncan shuddered in anticipation and reached for him, tangling his hands in Methos' hair. He ran one down the muscular back and cupped his ass in close to him, slipping it around the front to tug at the waist of Methos' leather trousers. His hard cock bulged against the leather, and Methos convulsively jerked against Duncan when his hand brushed against his cock. Duncan opened the front of Methos' trousers at the same time as Methos pushed down Duncan's rough woollen pants, pulling the Scot in closer against him. Their rampant cocks rubbed against each other, and Methos deliberately wrapped his hand around both and began to stroke. The shock nearly sent Duncan to his knees and he leaned back against the anvil, one hand balancing himself, the other grasping Methos.

        Methos' lips found the metal collar at Duncan's neck and he slipped his tongue underneath, toying with the hollow at the base of Duncan's throat. Suddenly the collar seemed more erotic than restraining to Duncan who gasped at the new sensation.

        A louder gasp barely registered with both, but a scream cut across their consciousness and sent both lunging for their swords. Gudrun stood at the entrance to the forge, horror on her face. She blanched as her gaze ran down to their opened pants, and rapidly returned to their faces, then turned tail and ran away.

        Methos swore and hurriedly did up his trousers, painfully pushing his erect cock back in. He raised a hand to caress Duncan's cheek.

        "I'm sorry, I have to go after her," and he ran out of the forge.

        "Gudrun! Wait!" yelled Methos as he caught up with the crying girl. She turned around in an absolute fury.

        "I saw you!" she screamed. "With that . . . . is that why you keep him? For that?" Disgust and contempt were clear in her voice.

        Methos was about to try to conciliate her when logic kicked in. About time too he thought. He twisted his face up in a sneer.

        "So?"

        "But . . . but you're going to marry me!" she wailed.

        "Not my choice. You're saying that little bastard is mine and we both know it's not, Gudrun. So, you had a taste of what life would be like living with me. Do you think I want you in my bed? Not when I can have over six foot of Celt in it. It's a one-room cottage. You can sleep on the other side and listen to us, or if that offends you, there's always the stable for you to sleep in. But I'm going to fuck him and you can listen to every grunt, every moan, every scream and it's the nearest you get to sharing my bed. You can listen to him beg me to fuck him, and that's the closest you're going to get to me."

        Gudrun's face drained.

        "So what are you going to do about it, Gudrun? Run home and tell Daddy? This is it, Gudrun. This is what I am. Isn't it what you wanted?"

        She bit back a reply, stared at him for one moment, then turned tail and ran away. Methos smiled as he watched her head for home. Somehow he thought all his problems were solved. He stood for a moment and watched the village, realizing that he probably could never go back there. He didn't care. Italy with Duncan was sounding better by the moment. He grinned and turned back up the hill to the forge.

        Halfway to the top, he paused for a moment. An Immortal presence washed over him and then faded.  He had become so used to Duncan about the forge, he'd forgotten the buzz it triggered in his brain. As he neared the forge, he began to feel uneasy. The range at which he could feel Duncan wasn't large, but he should have been aware of his presence by now. For some reason, the silence made him uneasy.

        He ran the rest of the way to discover a deserted forge. Some tools had been dropped hastily, but there was no sign of a struggle. In the stable, the stallion was plunging against the walls of his stall, eyes rolling and a white sweat on his neck. Aside from the upset horse, there was no indicator of anything awry in the stable. The house was deserted and as he left that morning. He grabbed his sword from the forge and headed out through the stables.

        It was so ordinary he almost missed it. A broad, double-bladed knife stuck in the wooden supporting post of the empty stall where Duncan had slept. It was only when he turned to look at it that he realized it wasn't one he had made.

        This one was bronze.

        Memories that he wished he could bury flooded into his brain, forcing him to his knees. Terror pulled him up off them again, before his mind reasserted its balance. It was a different man who prowled about the house, looking for traces of Duncan. When he straightened up and looked towards the woods, it wasn't Methos who looked out from those eyes.

        Death had replaced him.

        The camp wasn't hard to find - he was expected. Duncan was intact but gagged, his arms tied above his head to the branch of a tree. He was naked but seemed unhurt. His muscled body was a melange of light and shadow, cast by the flames of a fire nearby.  A dark, long-haired figure was crouched beside it, and looked up at Methos' approach.

        "Greeting brother" said Kronos, the madness in his eyes glinting in the firelight. "I missed you too."

        Kronos stood up and walked over to Duncan.

        "You've made quite a prize of him, haven't you?" He ran a hand down the Scot's torso, his fingers trailing off just above Duncan's groin. His eyes gleamed maniacally, the vertical scar over one a black line on the shadows that flickered on his face evoking the war paint he once wore. He still wore black, leather pants under a heavy tunic, his sword attached to his belt. He left Duncan and approached Methos, an insane grin on his face.

        "After all, we are brothers, we share everything."

        Methos looked steadily into those mad eyes. A scene from centuries before replayed itself in his mind, as it often did on dark lonely nights. A denial, Kronos dragging his lover from his tent, a death scream in the darkness and Cassandra fleeing into the desert. He often wondered what had become of her. About once a century he felt the urge to seek her out, but always resisted it. He knew she never wanted to see him again, just as he knew that somehow she was still alive. He knew a survivor when he saw one.

        As did Kronos. He grinned at Methos and walked back towards Duncan. He caressed the collar on Duncan's neck.

        "I think you've grown attached, brother." From his stance behind Duncan, his hands snaked forward across the Scot's collarbone, running down his pectorals to caress the broad flat nipples. "Or is he 'no different from the rest'?" Kronos slipped a hand around Duncan's waist, and caressed the Scot's cock. Both Methos and Duncan gasped.

        "He does some things the same anyway" laughed Kronos, deliberately caressing Duncan to arousal. "What's he like on his knees, brother? Does he beg you for your cock? You always knew how to make them beg, how to make them believe they wanted you." He angled Duncan slowly so Methos could see his hand on Duncan's buttocks. Deliberately Kronos licked one finger and slid it into the crack between Duncan's cheeks. The Scot jerked forward as Kronos penetrated him.

        "Mmmmn, tight," commented Kronos. "Very tight. You must like that brother. Or" - his eyes glistened more - "does he take you?"

        Methos remained silent. Kronos grinned.

        "You seem very passive, brother. Will you watch while I take your prize here?" A drop of pre-cum appeared at the head of Duncan's cock. He moaned into his gag.

        "Is this what you want, Kronos? Is this what you came here for?" asked Methos, his voice tight with tension.

        Kronos laughed and continued caressing Duncan. "Of course not brother. But it's an amusing diversion." He pulled his hand away from the trembling Scotsman and reached for his sword. "I came here for you."

        Methos backed away from the fire and Duncan, pulling out his sword.

        "I'd almost say you welcome this brother" jeered Kronos. "But if that was the case, why would you hide in a place like this?"

        "Maybe I wasn't hiding, brother."

        Kronos just laughed at that response. "I know you hate it. When I'm finished with you, and with that sweet prize over there, I'll go down there and amuse myself in your memory."

        Helpless, Duncan watched as the two old Immortals fought around the forest clearing, sparks flashing from their swords. Kronos was more aggressive and overtly the more dangerous, constantly on the attack. Methos was driven back, and seemed overwhelmed by the attack. Duncan held his breath, waiting for the blow that would end it all, leaving him in Kronos' power. It never came. He barely had a moment to realize that Methos was not as weak as he appeared, when Kronos stumbled, Methos attacked, and a head rolled.

        Methos looked up for a brief moment, meeting Duncan's eyes, before the Quickening struck. It seemed to Duncan, even though he'd never seen one before, that it went on for a long time. Methos stood up briefly before convulsing, jagged streaks of blue lightning dancing along the treetops before earthing themselves in the man writhing on the ground. The storm of Kronos' rage  screamed around the clearing before thundering in on Methos' body.

        The silence at the end of the Quickening terrified Duncan even more than the storm itself. A few moments later, Methos painfully dragged himself off the ground, and over to MacLeod. It took a couple of efforts before he could lift his sword high enough to cut the ropes that restrained Duncan, then he collapsed on the ground at the Scot's feet.

        Duncan pulled the gag off, and sank to his knees, cradling Methos in his arms.

        "So old, so powerful" gasped Methos before passing out.

        After a few moments, Duncan put Methos down and quietly fetched his clothes and dressed, before methodically cleaning up the clearing. Kronos' body was dumped in a gully a few hundred yards away, and all signs of the camp were destroyed before the Scot returned to the still-unconscious body. He carefully picked Methos up, and walked out of the trees back to the forge, where he cleaned up the comatose form and put him to bed.

        Equally methodically he went out to the forge and set everything to rights, before returning to the cottage and waiting for Methos to awake. It was dark by the time it happened. Methos woke up with a gasp and a wheeze.

        "I think the bastard's Quickening killed me" murmured Methos, as Duncan carefully eased him into a sitting position and put a cup of water to his lips. "Thank you" he added, as Duncan took it away, before gently lowering Methos back down again. He left the older man for a moment to swiftly pull off his own clothes before climbing into bed with him and cradling him in his arms.

        All Methos could do was curl up around the source of heat that was Duncan and fall asleep.

        He woke in the morning to tender caresses from the Scot who had held him all night. Still half asleep, he murmured briefly when Duncan's lips descended on his, and his warm tongue began exploring his mouth. He enjoyed the sensation for a few moments before kissing back with passion. He pulled Duncan onto him, tangling his hands in the dark hair that fell down on either side of his face. Duncan began exploring Methos' body with his hands, tentatively at first, and then with more assurance. When one broad hand discovered a nipple and caressed it, he smiled at Methos' gasp.

        "What do you like?" he murmured in his heavy Scots accent. "What gives you pleasure?"

        Methos could barely hear the question from his haze of happiness. "You do" he murmured, running one hand down the back of Duncan's neck. The heavy collar made him pause.

        "Duncan" he said.

        The Scot, who had discovered Methos' neck, ignored him.

        "Duncan!" he said louder.

        "What?" asked MacLeod, the vibrations of his voice triggering off a delightful shudder that began at Methos' neck and ran down his body.

        "We can't do this Duncan."

        "I thought we were doing it quite well." And one broad hand slid down to grasp Methos' stiff cock and rub it against Duncan's own erection.

        Briefly Methos wondered what had triggered this change of heart in Duncan, then steeled himself to the task. Duncan was still a slave, and regardless of whether he was willing or not, Methos found that now it had come to the crunch, he could not take advantage of him.

        "We can't" he roared as he pushed the Scot off his body. Duncan slid off the bed and wound up on his knees, looking up at Methos bewilderedly. Methos bit back the urge to take the confused man into his arms and comfort him.

        "Get dressed" he ordered, and turned his back to pull his clothes on. "I need you out in the forge."

        He had pumped the fire up to its usual heat by the time Duncan joined him, and pretended not to notice the Scot's red eyes and confused attitude.

        "Kneel down" he ordered, indicating the point in the room where he wanted Duncan. He was obeyed in silence, and at a push from Methos, Duncan obediently angled his head.

        The perfect angle for a killing blow, thought Methos, but who am I killing here? It was a moment's work to do what he wanted.

        Duncan didn't move as the collar fell from his neck and clattered on the ground in front of him.

        "There's a nameless horse in the stables, there's food and money in the kitchen. You're free, Duncan MacLeod, to go where you want to" said Methos, trying not to choke on the words.

        Duncan slowly got to his feet and left the forge silently without a backwards glance. Methos turned his attention to the anvil, but soon gave up any attempt at ironwork, staring blankly at the anvil in front of him. He didn't look up when he heard the horse's hooves approach the open front of the forge.

        The rider cleared his throat, and Methos looked up at Duncan, comfortably astride the stallion. He tried to school his face into a semblance of indifference, but failed miserably. Instead he slapped the horse's rump. "Get on" he muttered and turned his back as the horse headed down the track at a smart trot. It began to rain.

        Fifty yards down the track, Duncan reined in the stallion and turned to look at the forlorn figure standing beside the ramshackle forge. He turned the horse and urged it back up the path.

        Lost in his thoughts, Methos didn't hear the clatter of hooves behind him, and jumped when he felt warm breath on the back of his neck. The stallion looked back at him enquiringly as Duncan hurriedly tied the reins to an iron ring.

        "Duncan?" asked Methos.

        "Here" said a gruff voice, then Duncan dodged under the horses' neck and grasped hold of Methos' upper arms.

        "What . . ." asked Methos, before he was silenced by a determined mouth on his lips.

        "Inside" ordered Duncan.

        Methos looked at him in confusion. Duncan backed him into the stables and pushed him onto the hay in the stall where he used to sleep. Methos didn't have time to think before he was covered by six foot of Scotsman desperately kissing him.

        "I want ye, ye daft fool" gasped Duncan. "Make love to me, Methos."

        Methos reached up and wrapped Duncan in his arms, pulling him in even closer to his body. Frantically he began tugging at Duncan's clothes. Duncan pulled away for a moment, and Methos moaned in protest. Quickly the Scot pulled off his shirt and kicked off his pants, before covering Methos' body with his own again. He helped Methos pull off the remainder of his clothes, and then found himself pushed onto his back as Methos took control.

        He moaned in ecstasy as Methos licked straight down his body, swirling his tongue in Duncan's navel, then pulling upwards to encircle one nipple, teasing it erect with his hot tongue. Duncan pulled Methos' head up and caught his mouth in another long, penetrating kiss, sliding his hand between their bodies, and grasping Methos' cock. With a swift movement, Methos pulled Duncan's hips in close against him, pulling their cocks together. Weeping drops of precum lubricated them, easing the friction of their frantic actions.

        "I want more" said Duncan, pulling Methos' face against him. Methos traced his lips with one long finger, before nodding and bending down to Duncan's cock.

        "Nae that" gasped Duncan. "I want you inside me, Methos."

        Methos nodded in comprehension, and continued to bend his head to Duncan's weeping cock. Duncan gasped once more as the head was gently licked. The tongue on his cock distracted him from the first penetration by Methos' finger. His body stiffened in reaction when Methos inserted a second finger, and the older man looked up.

        "Sssh, love, you're so tight. You need to relax and it won't hurt." He bent his head down, distracting Duncan from the unfamiliar intrusion in his body.

        "Now, Methos" begged Duncan.

        Methos pushed Duncan on to his back and gently parted his legs, lifting his pelvis. The fingers were replaced by the head of Methos' cock.

        "Are you sure, Duncan?" he asked gently.

        "Aye, now, please, now," begged the Scot.

        Methos' face contorted as he pushed past the tight ring of muscle, and Duncan groaned involuntarily in pain. Methos paused, allowing Duncan's body to adjust, before beginning to thrust gently. Their breathing intensified in unison, as Methos pushed deeper inside.

        Duncan emitted an involuntary howl of pleasure as Methos' cock slid across his prostate.

        "Methos" he gasped, the name cut off by a kiss, his lover's tongue probing deep in his mouth. As Methos' thrusts got longer and deeper, Duncan wrapped his legs around the older Immortal's back, begging for more. Methos pushed in with one last shout as he came deep inside the Scot, his yell met by Duncan's as he followed, shooting cum between their bodies. Methos collapsed on Duncan, gasping for breath, and buried his face in Duncan's neck.

        "Methos?"

        "Yes, Duncan?"

        "I don't want to stay here tonight."

        A sudden cold descended on Methos as he disentangled himself from Duncan and reached for his clothes.

        "You know you're free to go" he commented.

"No, I'm not."

        "No one will stop you from leaving, Duncan. You're a free man."

        "Och, I don't think I'll ever be a free man again."

        Methos was silent.

        "I want you, ye daft fool," exploded Duncan. "And you're coming with me. You hate this place, I've had to listen to you moan about it ever since  you brought me here, so we may as well leave it. I don't think we're very popular in that cesspit they call a village anyway."

        Methos stayed mute.

        "God help me, Methos, I love yew" said Duncan. "Ta an gra go laidir ar mo chroi." He grasped Methos' hand and pulled it to his heart. "Will yew come with me, Methos, love?"

        Methos swallowed. "But you can't love me."

        "I can, yew know. You're a conniving, manipulative stubborn old fool, but I'm yours, Methos. It dis nae matter if I wear that daft collar or not. I'm yours. I knew it as soon as I saw you come to save me from Kronos."

        "It's . . . you just feel that way because I saved you. Prisoners fall for their captors and think they're in love."

        "Well I never fell for that stinking slavemaster, and I was with him much longer. I love you Methos." To Methos' surprise Duncan began to chuckle. He hugged the older man affectionately. "I didn't make love to you out of gratitude. Now, are you going to get on that horse, or am I going to ride off with you across the saddle?"

        Methos laughed and hugged Duncan. "Taking the lead now?"

        "Someone has to." The Scot gently kissed him, then pulled away to dress. "Put some clothes on, mon, you're too distracting like that."

        It was the work of two minutes for Methos to bundle his belongings and sword together in the cottage. He rejoined Duncan who took the bundle and attached it to the saddle.

        "Where to, master?" asked the Scot with a wicked grin.

        Methos climbed up into the saddle and waited for Duncan to seat himself in front of him and gather up the reins. He wrapped his arms securely around his lover.

        "Anywhere but here" he laughed as Duncan kicked the horse into a trot and headed in the direction of the sunset. "Anywhere but here, my love."