A man walked through the dimly lighted halls of a keep, ignoring the blood-curdling screams and keening wails that filled the air. His mind was programmed for one thing only: to destroy, to kill. To his ears, his slim blade sang an unholy dirge, the song rising in a horrific crescendo with every man he slashed and every woman he gutted. It was no surprise that he himself was already humming along to that tune of devastation. After all, he was a juggernaut, the Destroyer. He was Death.

       Reaching the chamber of the laird of the keep, he was met by two guards, desperate to protect their wounded leader inside. Their end was swift as his sword cut through their necks in the blink of an eye.

       Kicking the doors open, Death beheld the chieftain's wife weeping, cradling her dead husband lying on the bed in her arms. He clucked his tongue in disappointment. Why did the laird have to die so soon? He wanted so much to see the agony in the man's eyes as Death gutted him from crotch to throat. A wicked grin curled up his lips. Well, his wife would have to do.

       Suddenly, a tiny figure in white blocked his way towards the bed. For a moment, he thought it was a ghost, as if Death had any reason to be afraid of ghosts. Instead, it was a cherub.

       Death gazed appreciatively at the child before him. He was a pretty little boy, not more than five. Wavy sable locks and a fawn's dark brown eyes. It amused him to see the courage in those sweet eyes.

       Not an ounce of fear in them,   he observed.

       The child was breathing heavily through parted, rosy lips. Death had no doubt how comely this creature would look if a smile formed on that full mouth.

       "Hold your ground, warrior," the boy warned him, his brogue rolling like the waves of the sea. He pointed a wooden play sword menacingly at him. "I will not let you harm my mother!"

       The chieftain's son, Death thought. This is getting interesting.

       He eyed the brave child with disdain. Tapping the blade of wood with his own sword of iron and blood, he asked, "Do you think this is going to stop me?" Before the boy could even blink, Death swung his sword and cut the child's toy in two.

       "LEAVE MY SON ALONE, YOU DEMON!" the woman on the bed screamed in rage.

       As she ran to protect her wee bairn, Death grabbed the child by the collar of his shirt and pulled him aside, raising his sword at the same time. As he stabbed the chieftain's wife, the child screamed in horror. To Death, that high-pitched cry sounded like the triumphant soprano of his own blade. Yanking his blood- soaked blade back, the woman fell lifeless to the floor.

       "MOTHER! MOTHER!" the boy cried as he fell to his knees beside the body of his beloved mother, all courage and bravado lost...or so Death thought. Feeling the warmth retreating from his mother's hand, the child turned to look at him, fury in his dark brown eyes. He then threw himself at the murderer of his parents, his tiny hands and feet striking blows upon Death's lean form, which merely tickled him.

       Grabbing the boy's wrist, Death pulled him up so that they were face to face. "Welcome to the real world, child!"

       Defiantly, the boy spat in Death's face. Feeling the spittle run down his cheek, he glared at the child. There was a flash of anger in his eyes as he struck the boy with the back of his hand, knocking him into unconsciousness.

       Staring at the still form on the floor, suddenly, a voice insidiously entered his mind. It was the voice of his Master.

       "You have done well, my faithful warrior," the Master whispered, his voice like the hissing of a snake. "Choose your reward! Do you like this child? Such a pretty wee thing, isn't he? He's yours, if you want him."

       Death hesitated at these words. He had taken both men and women before. But a child, and such a small one as this? The conscience he thought he had long ago purged resurfaced with such force. Just the thought of what the Master had in mind revolted him.

       In his quandary, Death didn't notice the child stir. Wiping the blood from his mouth, he raised his head to gaze at the man who had slain his parents. The light of rage in Death's eyes was dying out. The boy stared into those green gold orbs, mesmerized by the emotions flashing through them. One was disgust and revulsion. The other... It was a look he did not understand, so young as he was. It was the same look his father accorded his mother before they locked themselves inside their chamber at night.

       "Why are you looking at me that way?" the child asked the killer standing above him.

       "Such a brave little boy," the Master chuckled wickedly.  "You must put him in his place."

       "Put you in your place," Death mumbled as the Master regained control.

       Yanking the child to his feet, Death dragged him towards the bed. With a jerk on the covers, he flung the laird's body off the mattress. He then threw the little boy on the bloodstained sheets.

       Though he was terribly afraid of the man who was climbing on top of him, the child forced down his fear.

       "You don't have to do this," he said firmly. "You have won. I am no threat to you."

       As Death took him in his arms, the little boy closed his eyes in calm surrender.

       A man dashed madly through the halls of a keep, wanting an escape from the accusing cries of his conscience. But he knew escape was futile.

       He ran and ran, entering a small corridor that led to a staircase. Still, the man did not stop, even when he finally reached the tower.

       Without thinking twice, the man leaped through the window and plunged into the dark blue waters of the loch below.

       Meanwhile, in a small chamber, a child lay still on top of sheets stained by the blood of his father. The boy himself was bleeding.

       A dark figure entered and slowly went towards the bed. Taking the limp form in his arms, he carried the child out of the room, the sounds of his evil laughter filling the deserted halls of the keep.
 
 

Chapter One

       Methos was pounding away at his forge. As sweat trickled from his brow, he forced the hard iron to bend to his will. Already, he could see the shape of the fine blade it would soon become.

       Suddenly, a strange vibration tickled the hairs at the back of his neck. At the same time, the door to his smithy squeaked open. He didn't have to turn to find out who his visitor was.

       "You never quit, do you Cassandra?" he commented in exasperation, without looking at the beautiful seeress.

       "He is close," she replied.

       "So he's close. What could I do about it?"

       "You know as well as I do that you're the only one who could stop him." Cassandra could barely hide the anger in her voice.

       Whirling around, Methos declared, "Look! It's done! Over! History! Nothing you say or do could ever make me take up the sword again!"

       "Would you want the deaths of innocent people on your conscience?"

       "As long as they are not by my blade, I could live with it." Turning back to his work, Methos gripped his hammer tightly and pounded hard on the iron, red hot from the fire from the forge. "Do you know how much I loved what I was and the things I did? I liked the sounds of the screams of the dying and the weeping of the mourning. I liked the smell of blood and the smoke of destruction."

       Cassandra nodded her head. "I know."

       Methos gritted his teeth. Of course, Cassandra would know. He had destroyed her village centuries back. She was one of his victims. The only reason she survived was that she, like him, was Immortal. And now, she was his friend...after the change, that is.

       "For centuries, you have terrorized the world," her words reached his hearing. "You have shown no remorse for the evil you have done. And yet, one night, your humanity was restored to you, and you have been carrying the weight of your guilt for thirty years."

       "Do you think," Methos began, "by reminding me of that terrible night, you could convince me to help you?"

       "It would help ease your conscience."

       "Nothing could ease my conscience, Cassandra! NOTHING!" His voice was choked with emotion. "How could stopping a potential bloodbath absolve the heinous sin I had committed, when I had taken one innocent..." Methos couldn't finish what he was going to say.

       "By taking up your sword again," the seeress answered, "you can prevent history from possibly happening again. You can stop another Death from taking another child!"

       At these words, Methos struck the hammer down so hard that it broke the sword he was making. Bowing his head, he was thankful that his long hair shielded his face, so that Cassandra would not see the anguish in his eyes.

       "Cassandra, I want you to leave," he muttered under his breath. "There is nothing I can do to help you. I'm sorry."

       There was such disappointment in the seeress' voice. "I'm sorry, too, that you turned out to be such a coward. Stay in this hidey-hole like a rat! You could rot here for all I care!"

       Storming off, she paused at the doorway. "You know, Methos?" Cassandra said bitterly. "I'm glad Alexa is no longer alive. I don't think her good heart could have handled the knowledge that her beloved husband was once a killer, a rapist and a God-damned pederast!"

       Saying this, the seeress slammed the door shut behind her. When she was gone, Methos laid his hammer down on the anvil and walked wearily towards the table. Opening the drawer, he pulled out a long leather strap. There were gold buckles on both ends. Ornate designs were etched into the leather finish. Methos pressed the handfasting band close to his heart.

       "She knew, Cassandra," the Immortal whispered as tears flowed from his eyes. "Alexa knew."

       Methos was kneeling at Alexa's bedside, gripping her cold hands tightly. His body shook with the force of his sobs.

       Unable to bear the burden in his soul, he had told his wife the entire truth. Methos was expecting anger and revulsion, that Alexa would drive him away.

       But his wife's reply was a sorrowful smile and words he was surprised to hear.

       "Who am I to condemn you for the things you have done in the past?" she asked softly. "What I do know is the man that you are now." Alexa gently caressed his cheek, brushing away his tears. "My loving husband!"

       "I am a monster!" he exclaimed in despair. "How could you be so understanding and kind, after knowing the horrible crimes I have committed?"

       "You are NOT the monster!" was his wife's firm answer. "The real monster was the one who ordered you to do those terrible things!" Sorrow filled Alexa's eyes. "I fear for you, Methos. Promise me you will not take up the sword again. Your...Master. If the bloodlust overcomes you, he might control you once more."

       "Ever since...that night...I have never picked up my sword," Methos revealed. "I will never do so again, ever!"

       "I'm glad." Alexa cupped Methos' face in her hands. "I know I don't have long to live..."

       The Immortal shook his head. "No! Please, Alexa! Don't say that!"

       "Forgive me, but it's the truth. My illness... It grows worse every day. Oh, if you could only spare me a year or two of your eternity."

       "Alexa, don't leave me! I can't live without you!"

       "You WILL live!" Alexa declared. "This is another promise you must keep! I may not be able to see the future like Cassandra, but I do know that you will not be alone for long. You will find someone to love, and who will love you back just as much." His wife smiled at him reassuringly. "I could feel it in my heart. It will be someone you already know."

       Methos' memories ended there. With a sob, he whispered, "God, Alexa! I miss you so much! I wish you were here to tell me what to do!"

       A few hours before dusk, Methos stood at the bank of the small pond, the handfasting band laid in his hands. This place was his and Alexa's favorite spot. His dark stallion, Hesperus, was tethered to a pine, his Ivanhoe sheathed on the saddle.

       "Alexa, I'm so sorry," he said sadly. "I know I promised. But Cassandra's right. I can't allow the killings to continue. I'm taking a huge risk by confronting this new Death. Wherever you are, I hope you will forgive me. I pray that you will watch over me and keep me safe from the Master."

       Just as he was about to throw the band into the water, the Immortal heard a rustling in the brush. Swiftly, he hid behind the bushes, just as a rider emerged from the trees. Methos' eyes widened in shock.

       The rider was clad in a flowing white hooded cloak stained with blood. His shirt was also white, although it was also spattered with dried blood. His kilt was a deep blue. The knee high boots on his feet were jet black. His mare was grayish white. Getting down from his horse, he pulled back his hood to reveal a face that was painted blue and white. Methos knew Death when he saw him. After all, he had assumed the persona for many centuries.

       As the blacksmith watched, Death unlaced his cloak and let it fall to the ground. Walking towards the pond, he began to peel off his clothes. First, his boots, followed by his shirt. Then, he removed the belt of his sword and unwrapped the kilt from his waist, leaving only his loincloth.

       Methos couldn't help but admire the firm lines of that broad back. It tapered down to a narrow waist and rounded buttocks. His legs were long and graceful. Wavy dark brown hair caressed his shoulder blades.

       Death dove into the pond and swam in its cool waters, letting the dirt and paint be washed away from his skin. The Immortal contemplated running to his horse to get his sword, but when Death emerged and climbed onto the shelf of rock near the shore, Methos paused, frozen by the alluring siren before him.

       Indeed, Death was a beautiful young man. Long eyelashes capped his lovely dark brown eyes. His cheeks were flushed from the swim. The full lips were parted, letting small sips of air in.

       Methos could feel his heart beating rapidly. <Good lord, what is happening to me? He's here on a reconnaissance mission. If I don't kill him now, I may never get the chance again. But, curses, why can't I do it?>

       To make matters more disturbing, the Immortal saw Death lie down on the rock and begin to play with himself. Methos knew from experience that the bloodlust was strong enough to excite one sexually. He felt an eager twitch in his loins, watching the young man's hands flutter all over his body.  As Death rubbed his palms over his chest, a groan escaped from those luscious lips as his fingers brushed over the tiny buttons. He moaned in pleasure when he pinched and pulled at his nipples. Then, his hands descended, settling around the impressive erection between his legs. Slowly, he began stroking himself, pumping his hard organ from the base to the tip. Already, Death was eagerly thrusting his hips upwards, as if he were making love to the air above him. Nearing the climax, his strokes became faster and furious, his cries more ecstatic. When he came, Death's scream pierced the silence of the woods. To Methos' chagrin, he felt wetness in his own breeches.

       Damn it!   the Immortal berated himself for a thousandth time. What IS happening to me?

       While Death wiped away the traces of his self-abasement, Methos' eyes turned to his sword again, forcing his mind to accept the necessity of killing the young man. But it was a deed his heart would not accept. Instead, he found himself staring at the ornate band in his hands.

       The implication of what his heart wanted him to do shocked him. This is insane! I can't! I WON'T!

       But his body was already moving on its own accord, controlled by a force more powerful than his mind. As he approached, it was then that Death heard him. Turning, Death's eyes flared up with the unholy light of hellfire.

       Swiftly, he dashed towards his sword lying on the ground. Methos, however, was quicker. With a lunge, he tackled Death to the ground. The two men wrestled furiously, exchanging blows. Methos was caught at an early disadvantage, not having fought in years. Soon, thankfully, his battle instincts resurfaced. With a fierce twist of his body, the Immortal trapped Death beneath him, his hands behind his back.

       Taking the handfasting band, Methos tied Death's wrists with it, pulling the strap through the buckle hard. He secured the other end around his right hand.

       Hauling Death to his feet, the Immortal pushed him in the direction of his black horse. He snarled, "You're my prisoner now. It would be in your best interest if you behave. Otherwise, I'll be forced to kill you."

       Death cocked his head up and laughed. "Do you think this flimsy strap could hold me? I'm no one's prisoner! I am Death, and I will be the one to kill you."

       Methos gave him a smug smile. "You're welcome to try. I am much more resilient than you think."

       Nearing the Immortal's horse, a wicked grin formed on Death's lips. "Do you mind if I put that notion to the test?"

       Suddenly, the strap just fell loose that Death's right hand was freed. Before he could release his other hand as well, Methos jerked hard on the band that it tightened around his wrist. The sudden movement startled Hesperus that he reared up, his hooves flailing in the air. Grabbing the reins, the smith tried to control the horse, but it was difficult, especially when he had a killer desperate to break free.

       Unknown to the two men, dark clouds were gathering high above them. Sharp forks of lightning crisscrossed the skies.

       "Give in!" Death shouted as he pulled at his bonds. "I could give you a swift end. It wouldn't be as painful as having your head bashed in by a horse's hooves."

       "NEVER!" Methos roared. "I WILL NEVER GIVE IN! I WILL NOT LET YOU GO!"

       "These bonds will not hold me for long! SURRENDER NOW!"

       "Maybe not," answered the Immortal, as a sense of calm fell over him. "But there are other ties that could."

       Lifting his eyes to the stormy skies, Methos began to pray, "God in heaven! Hear my prayer! Help me end the killings! Let me be bound to this man who is the mirror of my being! Mind to mind! Heart to heart! Soul to soul!"

       "NOOO!" Death screamed in rage. "NEVER!"

       Feeling Death's bonds loosen, Methos cried, "I BEG YOU, LORD! LET YOUR WILL BE DONE!"

       At these words, lightning snaked down from the sky and struck the two men. Feeling the jolt of electricity, the stallion jerked his reins out of the blacksmith's hand and galloped a short distance away.

       As the raw power from the heavens coursed through their bodies, Methos felt a part of his Quickening pulled from him, entering Death's body. The Quickening zipped back and forth between them. The agony was more than they could bear that they screamed.

       In their pain, they didn't notice the gold buckles of the handfasting band begin to melt. Guided by a higher power, the metal wrapped around their wrists, molding into bracelets. Tiny lightning bolts etched intricate designs into the bands. The bonding accomplished, the power surge stopped. Both Methos and Death collapsed lifeless to the ground.

       Night had already fallen when Methos awoke. As he slowly sat up, he felt the bracelet wrapped snuggly around his wrist. Raising his hand, the Immortal looked at it curiously. The gold band was decorated with tongues of red flame. Gazing down at the band around Death's wrist, it was decorated with the intricate blue flakes of snow.

       Fire and ice, Methos mused. So we're bound together now.

       Standing, the Immortal went to get Death's white steed. Probably recognizing what he had once been, the horse obediently followed him. After securing the mare's reins to his horse, Methos gathered the young man's things and placed them inside his saddlebag. The curved blade he sheathed in the harness, while he tied his own Ivanhoe to his back. He then lifted Death onto his saddle. Methos brought them to his home in the forest.

       Carrying the young man inside, he laid him on his bed. The Immortal opened a trap door under the table, revealing a chest. Taking Death's clothes, sword and the Ivanhoe, he placed them inside the chest, closing the lid with a large lock. He then sealed the trap door.

       Taking a chair, Methos sat down and waited.

       Two hours later, the man gasped in searing air, as he woke from First Death. There was such bewilderment in his dark brown eyes as he looked at his surroundings. The absence of the murderous light in his orbs relieved Methos.

       "What happened to me?" he asked in confusion.

        "You were hit by lightning," Methos replied.

       "Where am I?"

       "You're in my..." The Immortal hastily amended, "You're in our home."

       "Our home?"

       "Yes. Don't you remember?"

       The young man shook his head. "Are we...are we brothers?"

       "No. We're handfasted to each other." Methos placed his banded wrist next to the other man's. "See?"

       "We're...lovers?" he queried in disbelief. "It couldn't be!"

       Methos tried to look hurt. "I'm afraid it's true. The lightning must have affected your memory. Give it time, you'll remember soon enough."

       There was such sorrow in the young man's eyes. "I'm sorry if I hurt your feelings. If we are lovers, I wish I could remember. I don't..." Such a lovely smile curled up his lips that Methos felt his heart skip a beat. "I don't even remember your name."

       "I'm Methos."

       "What about my name?"

       The Immortal shook his head. "No. I won't tell you that. It doesn't take much effort to remember one's name." He urged, "Go on! Think! What is your name?"

       A frown formed on the man's face as he closed his eyes and struggled to remember. After a few minutes, he opened them again. There was such aching shyness in those doe eyes.

       "I... I think my name is Duncan. Duncan MacLeod."

       Methos smiled. "Yes! Oh yes! Duncan MacLeod. That is your name."
 

Chapter Two

       Methos was roused from his peaceful slumber by the sounds of destruction and chaos. Getting to his feet, he ran towards the door. The sounds were coming from the stables. Swiftly, the Immortal headed for the stables and went inside.

       The white mare was in a rampage, her eyes burning with hellfire. She was rearing up on hind legs, kicking up a storm. Methos' stallion was blocking her path, fighting the mare for all its worth. Glancing down, Methos saw Duncan huddled fearfully in the corner, holding his bleeding right arm. It was obvious that the horse was trying to kill him.

       Knowing that it was Duncan's steed that must be stopped, the smith grabbed a rope and tied it into a lasso. Carefully, he eased closer to the warring horses, twirling the lasso in his hand. When he at last found an opening, Methos hurled it, the loop landing right through the mare's neck. Jerking hard on the rope, the noose tightened.

       "WHOA!" Methos shouted as he struggled desperately with the wild animal. "WHOA, GIRL!" But the mare would not stop.

       Realizing that he had no other choice but to try and tame her, the Immortal leapfrogged on her back. Just as his hand gripped his makeshift reins, the mare began to buck wildly, determined to throw her rider off. With a strong kick, the horse ripped the stable door off its hinges and galloped into the corral, bucking and kicking fiercely. The steed even dropped to the ground, wanting to crush her rider. Methos, however, twisted his body out of the way in time.

       Suddenly, the horse launched into a full gallop, heading straight for the fence. Before Methos could get a tighter grip, the mare stopped abruptly. The momentum sent him flying through the air. Falling hard to the ground, Methos felt the wind knocked out of him. He could only manage to turn onto his back and watch as the mare reared up, ready to stomp him to death.

       "NO! STOP!"

       Duncan placed himself between the horse and Methos, his arms raised at his sides.

       "DUNCAN, GET OUT OF THE WAY!" the Immortal cried.

       But the Highlander stood his ground. From his position, Methos could not see the young man's face. It was fortunate that he couldn't. Duncan was glaring at the mare, his eyes glowing like smoldering embers.

       His baritone voice assuming an even deeper tone, the Scot growled, "HEED MY COMMAND, VENGANZA! I ORDER YOU TO STOP! NOW!"

       Venganza. Vengeance, Methos thought. An appropriate name.

       At that firm command, the mare calmed down, bowing her head in submission to her master.

       "Duncan?" Methos asked worriedly, fearful that Death had resurfaced once more.

       The strain of establishing control over the horse was too much for the Highlander. To Methos' shock, Duncan fell into a heap on the ground.

       Methos was cleaning the blood off the Scot's arm when Duncan opened his eyes.

       Smiling, he greeted cheerfully, "Good morning!"

       There was great concern in the Highlander's dark brown orbs. "Methos, are you all right? The horse! She didn't hurt you, did she?"

       "I think I should be the one asking those questions."

       Duncan sighed. "I'm sorry. I woke up early this morning. Since you were still asleep, I thought I'd look around and see if I could remember something. When I went inside the stables, I saw the mare. Something told me she was my horse. But when I tried to touch her, she just lashed out at me. Her eyes...they were burning with fire! I tried to get away but she had me trapped. And my arm..."

       The Scot quickly glanced down only to find that the gash was gone. "I had a large cut," he exclaimed, feeling the unbroken skin. "What happened to it?"

       Methos calmly pulled out his dagger. "This is what happened to it." He then cut his left palm open.

       "METHOS!" Duncan exclaimed as he sat up, taking the Immortal's bleeding hand. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

       "Look at it, Duncan."

       As the Highlander gazed at it, sparks of light crisscrossed over the wound, healing it. Duncan touched the skin, but there was no trace of the cut. He looked questioningly at the older man.

       "We're Immortal," explained Methos. "We cannot die unless someone takes our head."

       "I don't understand."

       It took several hours for the Old Man to explain to the Scot the nature of their being. He told him about the Rules of the Game that he was now a part of - they could only fight one on one, never on Holy Ground. The winner takes his enemy's head and his power. In the end, there can be only one.

       Duncan shuddered visibly. "All that fighting, the killings, and for eternity? I don't think I could live like that."

       "Of course it won't always be like that! Just look at me, MacLeod. I'm the oldest of our kind living on this earth. But I live a very peaceful life here..." He caressed the younger man's cheek. "...with you."

       There was such relief on Duncan's face. "I'm so glad. I could never take another person's life. EVER!" He then flung his arms around the ancient's neck. "And don't you dare hurt yourself again!"

       Methos wished he could share the younger man's relief.

       How would you feel, Duncan, if you learn that you may have slaughtered hundreds of innocent people? The Immortal closed his eyes, as he felt the cold finger of the Master touch his spine. No! I swear I won't let you become Death again! You will never be the Master's servant!

       Unknown to the two men, the Master was observing them through his scrying pool.

       "Do you think you could keep him away from me, Methos?"  he muttered, an evil grin on his face. "Sooner or later, Duncan MacLeod will be no more and Death will ride again."

       The Master touched the handsome profile of the Highlander's face. But his fingers disturbed the water that the vision vanished with the ripples.

       As he leaned back against his chair, he said, "For now, he is yours, my ancient warrior! Play with him! Do with him as you will! You might as well know the exquisite pleasures the Highlander has to offer!"

       Saying this, the Master burst into raucous laughter, pleased with the game he has set into motion.
 

Chapter Three

       How could I have forgotten this life? Duncan thought in bliss, as he repaired a tack. How could I have forgotten him?

       It's been three months since the lightning strike. The Scot's memory still hasn't returned to him, and Duncan didn't even make any effort to try to remember. He was very happy, content with the life he has now. Somehow, he had an inkling that his life hadn't always been like this. But he was satisfied now, and he didn't want anything else...except for one.

       Duncan gazed fondly at Methos. The elder Immortal was busy at his forge, building up the fire in the furnace. His slender form belied his true capabilities. Well-honed muscles hardened as he worked the bellows, his sweat glistening on his ivory skin.

       He's so beautiful, the Highlander mused appreciatively. Swiftly, he added, Of course, he's beautiful on the inside as well.

       Indeed, Methos had been very patient, taking things one step at a time. Rather than press the issue of their being handfasted, the blacksmith was satisfied with the friendship that had developed between them. They helped each other at the smithy, taking turns with the light and heavy work. Household chores even proved to be a joy. The two men would clean the house and the stables together. They would even make the trek to the stream to wash their clothes. There was only one chore, however, that Duncan would not let Methos do, namely cook. It suited the smith just fine. The Scot proved to be a much better cook than he is.

       Lately, however, the Highlander found himself wishing for more in their relationship. He had to admit he didn't trust the ancient at first. But now, watching Methos slaving away at the forge, Duncan knew he had fallen in love with the older man.

       At that moment, Methos turned and noticed the attentive stare the Scot was giving him. There was even a dreamy smile on his lips.

       Curiously, he queried, "Why are you looking at me that way, Duncan?"

       Hearing those words, Duncan turned visibly pale as a throbbing ache pierced his brow. Clasping his head, he closed his eyes as the visions struck.

       Darkness. Screaming. Wailing. The absence of light and the cacophony of torment assaulted his senses.

       He was lying on something soft. But it was wet and sticky. It had a stink that revolted him.

       Then, a face loomed above him. A face painted white and blue. It was staring down at him, the eyes ablaze with hellfire.

       "Why are you looking at me that way?" he asked, the brogue heavy in his child's voice.

       Suddenly, there was nothing but pain.

       Duncan's eyes snapped open, a gasp escaping his lips.

       "Are you all right?" Methos was sitting beside him, holding him like spun glass. "What happened to you?"

       "I don't know. I'm not even sure," he stammered in confusion.

       There was a strange expression on the ancient's face. "Was it...was it a memory?"

       "I don't know, and I don't want to remember. It frightened me. Those terrible sounds. That face, that awful face. And...and the pain..."

       Methos embraced him comfortingly. "It's all right. I'm here. No one's going to hurt you."

       Duncan clung tightly to the ancient, relishing the musky scent of the drying sweat on Methos' skin. "I'm afraid. I'm so afraid. My past...it frightens me."

       "What is past is past. It has no bearing on what we are now to each other."

       The Scot gently pulled away. "You wouldn't keep secrets from me now, would you, Methos? If something terrible happened to me before, you would tell me."

       "I have no reason to keep your past a secret from you," Methos lied under his teeth. "If I could, I would tell you. But I never wanted to pry into your private life before we met. It's...it's just not my way."

       Duncan nodded. "I understand. Even if you did pry, I probably wouldn't have told you anyway." There was a hopeful twinkle in his eye. "Methos, may I ask you something?"

       "If it is in my power to answer," the blacksmith began gallantly, "I don't see why not. What do you want to know?"

       Twiddling his fingers nervously, the Highlander stuttered, "You...you said we're handfasted."

       "Uhmmm...yes."

       "So that means we're lovers, right?"

       "Well yes, we are."

       "Then, we've been...you know...doing IT."

       "Yes, we've been doing it." Even Methos was getting nervous with this line of questioning.

       "So why aren't you making love to me now?"

       That innocent query caught Methos totally off guard. In truth, he has been tempted several times to demand his marital privilege from the Scot. He had even come close to actually forcing himself upon Duncan. What stopped him was the simple fact that he did not have any right to ask that of Duncan. True, they were bound by a Divine Handfasting, but it was a bond of necessity. Methos couldn't take advantage of the Highlander's amnesia to get what he desired.

       "Methos?" Duncan's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Aren't you going to answer my question?"

       The ancient quickly stood up and went to the far corner of the smithy. Leaning against the post, he breathed in deeply. "It wouldn't be right."

       "If we're lovers, why would it not 'be right'?"

       "Duncan," Methos began patiently, trying to hide the passions the Scot's questions aroused in him, "you've lost your memory. I cannot take advantage of your mental incapacity to have sex with you."

       "I don't mind, Methos. Truly. I feel like I've been shirking in my duty towards you."

       "That's another thing. I don't like it to be a duty on your part. That is a clear sign that you don't trust me."

       "But I do..."

       Methos raised a hand, halting the younger man's words. "Let me finish. There is no love if there is no trust. I prefer that you get to know me a little better first."

       A sullen pout formed on the Highlander's full lips. The ancient wanted so much to kiss him, to ease the hurt he had caused.

       Looking at Methos with sorrow in his eyes, Duncan said firmly, "I know how I feel about you. I know I love you. But what about you? Don't you love me, Methos? Am I not attractive to you anymore?"

       The Old Man couldn't help the laughter that escaped his lips. "Of course I still love you. But how could you be so sure that you love me?"

       Duncan slowly rose to his feet, laying the tack on the bench. As he walked towards Methos, he replied, "I know what my heart is telling me. Though memory fails, the heart never forgets. I do love you, Methos."

       The ancient felt his breath catch in his throat as the Scot stood before him, his deep brown eyes boring into his hazel orbs.

       Leaning forward, Duncan whispered, "If you will not make love to me, please let me make love to you."

       When their lips met, at first, the smith stiffened. But the Highlander was so tender, savoring the taste of the man whom he thought was his lover. Methos felt like he was a drowning man, hungry for air. As he parted his lips to breathe, Duncan gently insinuated his tongue inside, tasting the moist cavern of his mouth. That teasing tongue finally broke Methos' control. Pressing Duncan's tongue between his lips, he sucked on it eagerly, enjoying the flavors of the Scot.

       With much reluctance, Duncan broke the kiss and pressed his lips on Methos' neck, nuzzling in the hollow between his neck and shoulder. His hands found the open V of the ancient's shirt, opening it wider until the shirt fell from his shoulders and down his arms, the garment at his wrists. Slowly, the Scot went lower, showering butterfly kisses upon the ivory skin.

       "You're so beautiful," Duncan murmured, his hands caressing the firm pectorals. "Just like a living statue."

       Methos shuddered as the Highlander's tormenting mouth enveloped his nipple. Laving and sucking on the tiny nub caused his organ to jut up proudly, the head poking at his young lover's belly.

       Duncan giggled as he saw the prominent bulge in the older man's breeches. "Eager thing, aren't you? Well, you'll just have to wait your turn."

       The ancient groaned as the Scot teased the other nipple. "God, Duncan! Have mercy, please!"

       Grinning with a hard nub between his teeth, Duncan mumbled, "Oh, all right!"

       Descending further, the Highlander licked the sweat from Methos' belly, his tongue poking the navel. Finally reaching his lover's crotch, he freed Methos' erection from within the confines of his trousers.

       Gazing appreciatively at the silken iron before his eyes, Duncan said in wonder, "How could I have forgotten this?" Cupping the hefty balls in their large sac in his hands, the young man pressed his face to the long shaft, raining kisses from the base going to the head. At the tip, Duncan pinched the foreskin and pulled it back, revealing the weeping rose inside.

       As Methos watched, the Scot took his cock between his lips. He cried out in pleasure as Duncan devoured him whole, his member sliding down the velvet moistness of his throat. Duncan tormented Methos with his mouth and throat, tightening his muscles around the shaft. When the Highlander's tongue licked the length, the Old Man screamed. Gripping the younger man's hair, Methos pulled Duncan's head back so he could fuck that lovely mouth. The Scot held on to his lover's hips.

       Methos' thrusts became fast and furious. Lord, he's a natural at this!    he groaned inwardly as Duncan adjusted to the pounding pace of the ancient. Coming at last, Methos screamed as he gushed his fluids inside the Scot's mouth. Duncan swallowed the blacksmith's seed hungrily, some of it spilling down the corners of his mouth. When the younger man withdrew, Methos was panting for breath.

       Then, Duncan spoke, and that deep, husky voice caused the breath to catch in the smith's throat. "Was it good for you as it was for me?"

       As Methos glanced down, the Highlander opened his eyes, hellfire burning in them. There was a wicked grin on Duncan's face as he stood up, hands digging into the ancient's hips.

       "My turn now!" he declared.

       Methos found himself forced back against the post, Duncan's strong grip raising him that he was standing on the tips of his toes. His legs were parted and a finger sought the orifice between his legs. When the Scot found his quarry, he unlaced his own breeches to free his stiff rod. Lifting Methos high, positioning him above his erection, Duncan swiftly brought the Old Man down. Feeling himself impaled, Methos screamed.

       As Duncan thrust into him, the ancient gasped in pain. A slight brush to his prostate brought a respite of pleasure, but the agony overwhelmed him.

       "Duncan, please!" begged Methos as his hands reached high and grasped the post behind him, seeking balance. "Not too fast! You're hurting me!"

       "You're hurting me! No more! Please!"

       A beautiful brown-haired woman was struggling in his arms. He was thrusting in wild abandon inside her bruised flesh. His hand reached for her breast and squeezed it hard that she screamed in pain.

       "Stop it! Leave my wife alone!" her husband, a bald man, cried. He was hanging from chains attached to the wall.

       A smile formed on his lips. "If that is your wish." Taking his dagger, he plunged it between the woman's breasts. The woman didn't even cry out. She just breathed a relieved sigh and fell dead in his arms.

       "DOMINIQUE!" the man shouted. "You bastard! You murdered my wife! DOMINIQUE!"

       Getting to his feet, he picked up his sword and gutted the man, sending him to an eternity of silence.

       "I hate the noise," he commented. Gazing down at the blade, he grimaced. "Damn! Blood on it again!"

       Suddenly, a strong force struck him from behind, sending him flying. He landed flat on his back on a bed covered with blood. He felt someone climbing on the bed. He wanted to flee, but an invisible force pinned him down.

       Then, the painted face loomed above him and callused hands spread his thighs wide apart.

       Feeling something hard enter him, he screamed, "You're hurting me!"

       Just as the memory vanished, Duncan's vision cleared. He gaped in horror at the anguish on Methos' face. Roughly pulling out of the older man caused Methos to cry out in pain. The ancient sank to the floor in weariness. Duncan was horrified at the sight of the blood between the smith's legs. Then, to his shock, Methos began to laugh.

       "I only told you to slow down," he declared. "I never said you should stop."

       Duncan couldn't believe what he was hearing. He couldn't speak. He just stood above Methos, shaking his head.

       Noting the young man's silence, Methos turned to look at him. He was stunned by the guilt he saw in the Highlander's eyes.

       "Duncan?"

       The Scot burst into tears. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I swear it won't happen again." Saying this, he swiftly ran outside the smithy.

       Methos stood up, not minding the soreness between his legs, and followed his lover.

       The Highlander was kneeling on the ground, his arms wrapped around his trembling form. Methos approached and squatted down before him.

       "Please don't cry, Duncan," he whispered soothingly. "I'm not angry with you. I understand. You lost control." Methos shuddered at the memory of those blazing eyes. "We all get carried away by our passions sometimes."

       "No, you don't understand!" Duncan exclaimed in despair. "I had a vision again. I raped someone. A woman! I made her husband watch! After I was done, I killed them both."

       "MacLeod, memories are tricky things. Maybe you witnessed this...this atrocity, or someone told you about this crime. It has become etched in your mind that you think you killed two people."

       "No!" the Highlander argued. "I know I killed them! Their blood is on my hands! And I liked it! I liked the smell of their blood! God, Methos! Who am I? Am I a monster?"

       Methos hugged him tightly. "No, you're not a monster! You're my lover, and I'll keep on saying it until you believe it!"

       Almost hesitantly, the Scot whispered, "I saw something else too."

       "What is it? What did you see?"

       "The man with the painted face. I saw him again." Duncan buried his face in the ancient's shoulder. "Methos... I...I think he raped me."

       That night, while the Highlander was washing the dishes, Methos went out for a stroll. Climbing the fence of the corral, he sat down on top and stared at the crescent moon. His thoughts, however, were on the young man inside the house.

       Remembering what happened earlier in the smithy, Methos mused, Who are you, MacLeod? It's like there are two people inside you - Death, the cold blooded killer and Duncan, whose gentle, honorable heart could not stand even the mere idea of hurting someone. For now, your good side has the upper hand. But with every flash of the past that returns to you, Death surfaces, growing stronger each time. When that time comes, what's going to happen to us? I can't bear the thought of losing you to the Master. I just can't.

       "Methos?" Duncan's voice snapped him out of his reverie. Turning, he saw the Highlander standing at the open door. "It's cold out here! Aren't you going to come in yet?" Duncan began hesitantly, "If you're afraid of me, I could sleep in the barn."

       So thoughtful, so kind, so loving. A smile formed on Methos' lips. "You're not going to sleep in the barn. I'm coming."
 

Chapter Four

       "Hmmm! What is happening here?" the Master declared in curiosity.

       The waters of his scrying pool showed Methos hitching up Hesperus to his wagon. At the back was a plow he had repaired. Duncan stood beside him, a small bundle in his hands. When blacksmith got on board, the Highlander handed the bundle to him. There was a warm smile on his face as he leaned down and kissed Duncan on the lips.

       As Methos rode off, the Master laughed. "So, you're leaving the Scot at home, all alone. Let's make things interesting for you. How about a surprise, a wonderful surprise you just can't refuse when you get back!"

       Seeing Duncan wave, he muttered, "We're going to heat things up, my boy."

       With a small gesture, the vision in the scrying pool changed, revealing the stall where Duncan's horse stood. Sensing the Master's presence, the mare's eyes flared a bright red.

       "It's that time again, Venganza," the Master exclaimed. "Why don't you enjoy yourself for a change? And maybe you could show MacLeod exactly what he's been missing."

       As the mare whinnied in assent, the Master cocked his head up and burst into raucous laughter.

       Duncan was whistling as he cleaned the stables. For some strange reason, he felt very uneasy, not to mention very hot. It didn't help any that, for the last hour or so, Venganza was in Hesperus' stall, stirring up hay and just being totally disagreeable.

       "Is something wrong, girl?" he asked the mare.

       There was silence. Then, Venganza's eyes peeked at the top of the partition and slowly went down again. For a moment, the Scot thought he saw a red gleam in them.

       "Venganza, what is it?" Duncan forced down his fear as he cautiously made his way towards the stall. "Is the weather bothering you? It is rather hot. I could get you water."

       Peering in the stall, the mare was sniffing and snorting at the hay. She was restlessly kicking up some dried straw. Duncan knew Venganza was in heat. Feeling relieved, he went towards the horse, rubbing her side.

       Holding her bridle, the Highlander gently pulled on it, saying "Come on, girl! The air would do you good."

       But the mare would not budge.

       "Venganza!" he tugged harder. "Come on!"

       Suddenly, Venganza faced him, revealing the blazing hellfire in her eyes. Before Duncan could flee, the horse swung her head and pushed him into the corner of the stall. When he tried to move past her, Venganza reared up, her hooves flying. The Highlander was trapped. The mare moved closer, her eyes aflame, locking gazes with the Scot's terrified orbs.

       The Master was looking at Duncan through Venganza's eyes. Seeing the fear on the Scot's face, he mumbled, "You look so beautiful when you're frightened, MacLeod." Slowly, he raised his hand to the young man's image, the mare's head moving at the same time. "How I long to touch you once more."

       "NO!" Duncan closed his eyes as the mare nuzzled at his throat, sniffing his hair. A cold nose brushed his cheek.

       Feeling Venganza withdraw, he opened his eyes only to see the mare nudging his shirt open with her nose. The Highlander made to pull it close, but the horse snapped at him. Hands frozen at his sides, he could only watch helplessly as the mare opened his shirt, baring his chest. Duncan shuddered all over as Venganza sniffed his skin. Her cold, moist nose settled over a nipple, blowing glowing red fumes on the hardening nub. A whimper escaped the Scot's lips as a delicious warmth filled him. Moving to the other nipple, she breathed on it as well, the red mist forming tiny fingers that pinched the tit.

       Gasping, Duncan glanced down, thinking that the horse had nipped the tiny bud, but Venganza was just breathing on it. However, he could feel invisible fingers playing with him, fondling him. Worse, it was arousing him to a fever pitch.

       "Sweet Jesus, help me!" the Highlander sobbed as the mare's head descended to his crotch. Feeling Venganza touch his trapped erection with her nose, he cried, "Stop it!"

       The Scot tried to escape, but the mare butted him face first to the wall. At once, an invisible force pinned him in place.

       "You're so beautiful," an echoing voice whispered in the wind.

       "Who are you?" shouted Duncan. "Why are you doing this to me?"

       The heat of Venganza's breath excited every inch of his back, causing the goose bumps to rise. The Highlander could feel the heat permeate his clothing, teasing his narrow waist before going down to the round buttocks.

       "Oh, MacLeod!" the voice murmured, dripping with lust. "Have you completely forgotten what we meant to each other?"

       To Duncan's horror, a velvety tongue licked his rump, poking the crack between his asscheeks.

       Feeling the pressure holding him ease a bit, the Scot wrenched free and fled from the stables. Going back inside the house, he quickly closed the door. His hands trembled as he reached for his cup, filling it with water from the pitcher. Duncan drank it down, but it did not quench his thirst. He continued refilling his cup and drinking its contents, up to the point that he had drained the pitcher, but to no avail.

       Duncan paced back and forth, his sweat trickling from his body, soaking his clothes. "It's so hot! Why is it so hot?"

       In desperation, the Highlander tore off all his clothing. The cool air, however, did nothing to quell the fires raging inside him. Instead, it only stoked the passions engulfing him that an eerie red glow began to surround him. Worse, ghostly hands caressed his shivering flesh, fingers pinching and poking his sensitive spots.

       "Whoever you are," he cried in terror, "don't do this to me! Please!"

       Lascivious laughter answered his pleas.

       Weeping, Duncan sank to the floor, curling up into a tight ball as the spectral hands continued to torment him.

       Tears trickling down his cheeks, all he could do was cry "No, no, no!" over and over again.

       "What do I have to do to make you stop?" the Highlander asked. "What do I have to do?"

       Duncan winced as a hard hand slapped his rump.

       "I think you know the answer to that," said the Master.

       Night had already fallen and the full moon was shining overhead when Methos arrived at the farm. Just as he freed Hesperus from the harness, the stallion swiftly galloped to the stables.

       "What's your hurry?" Methos called, surprised by the horse's behavior.

       Rather than satisfy his curiosity, the blacksmith decided to go inside the house instead. The sight that greeted him stunned Methos.

       "Duncan?" was all he could say.

       Inside the stables, a sensual dance was taking place between the two horses. Like a coquette, Venganza shied away from Hesperus' advances. Later, however, it was the mare that became aggressive, nudging the stallion eagerly.

       "Duncan, what..."

       The Highlander stood up, his naked body glistening in the light of the fire. There was such anguish on his face and he moved with the sluggishness of the drugged.

       "Methos, help me!" Duncan begged him. "I feel so hot!"

       Touching his forehead, Methos exclaimed, "You're burning with fever!"

       "No," the Scot shook his head. "It's more than a fever."

       Taking the ancient's hand, Duncan pressed his palm over his hard member. Methos snatched his hand back like he had been burned.

       Dropping to his knees, the young man gazed up at his lover, a tear falling from his right eye. His hands gripped the slender hips.

       "I beg you, Methos! Please!"

       As the ancient watched, the Highlander spread his knees apart and took his erection in his right hand, pumping it furiously. With his left hand, he held on to Methos' hip, using the older man as support. Moaning, Duncan stroked his cock with languid motions, moving his hips.

       "Methos!" the Scot whispered the elder's name. "Oh, Methos!"

       The smith just found himself going down on his knees before Duncan, gently prying the young man's fingers off his cock.

       "No," Duncan shook his head as Methos removed his hand. Then, he cried out in relief and pleasure when the ancient replaced it with his own firm grip.

       With such aching gracefulness, Duncan thrust into Methos' hand that was milking his cock. It didn't take long for the Scot to come, spurting his juices on the ancient's shirt and crotch.

       Feeling the wetness on his clothing, Methos thought the Highlander had burnt out the fires raging inside him. But there was such agony in the Scot's eyes as he shook his head in dismay.

       "It's not enough!" he cried. "It's not enough!"

       Strong hands pushed Methos down on the floor.

       "Duncan!" the Old Man exclaimed, as fumbling hands untied his breeches. God, he's going to rape me! But the Scot merely freed his sex.

       "You're not ready yet," said Duncan, seeing that his lover's cock was in a semi-erect state. Taking the member in his hand, he squeezed it gently.

       Methos writhed and groaned as the Highlander pumped his rod with strong, steady strokes, like an expert blacksmith of silken iron, until his cock was as hard and proud as his own sword.

       Then, Duncan straddled Methos' hips, positioning himself over that stiff rod.

       In the barn, Hesperus couldn't take the mare's teasing any longer. Trapping Venganza in her own stall, the stallion stood up on his hind legs and mounted her.

       Methos gasped as Duncan impaled himself on his cock. There was such tremendous pressure as the Scot tried to squeeze the bulbous head into his tiny rosebud. There was a snap when Methos breached the ring of muscle. At the same time, Duncan screamed in agony.

       "Easy, Duncan!" the ancient soothed his weeping lover. "Don't rush it! It won't hurt if you take it slow!"

       As the Highlander drove Methos' organ deeper and deeper inside him, the Scot's husky reply was not what he expected.

       "I can't," Duncan moaned. "I need the pain."

       As the two horses began to move faster and faster, so did the Highlander's pace gradually quicken. Methos tried to slow Duncan down, seeing the agony in the young man's face, but there was no stopping the Scot. All he could do was lie back and, he hated to admit it, enjoy the ride.

       Suddenly, however, the Old Man felt his vision dim. Blinking hard, he saw that the lighting had somehow changed, that the room had darkened and it was Duncan who was glowing with an unearthly light. The Highlander was moving in a graceful ballet, head thrown back, his sable hair flying. Beads of sweat sparkled in the air like diamonds. Duncan's chest was arched forward. The sight of those firm pectorals and their taut nipples mesmerized Methos, wanting so much to touch them.

       Acting on his desires, the ancient raised both of his hands, and was surprised to find that his fingernails were painted black and sharpened into claws. With the pads of his fingers, he caressed the firm muscles of the Highlander's chest, cupping the mounds. Going down to the nipples, he traced the dark outline of the areola with his nails. Then, he pressed the tiny nubs between his fingers, squeezing and pulling the tips.

       Duncan whimpered in pleasure, continuing to buck on the older man's rod. Gazing down at his lover, his eyes widened in shock, for lying beneath him was the man with the painted face.

       "Nooo!" the Scot exclaimed in disbelief as he tried to squirm away. But the man gripped his hips tightly.

       There was such an evil grin on his face. "Don't stop what you can't finish, MacLeod!"

       Saying this, the man fiercely thrust upward, driving his cock deep into the tender flesh above him. Duncan screamed.

       Methos himself couldn't understand what was happening to his lover. He had seen the fear in the Highlander's eyes. When Duncan pulled away, he felt a painful yank on his cock that he had to grab the young man's hips to keep him in place until he had softened enough to withdraw. But the Scot was struggling to break free.

       The smith wanted to caress Duncan's face, to soothe the fears away. Instead, those horrible hands went up, the claws glistening. To his horror, he buried his claws into the Highlander's chest, creating deep bloody furrows on the skin. The Scot whimpered in pain.

       Then, he saw a forked tongue snake out, licking away the blood as blue light healed the wounds.

       "No!" Methos gasped as his eyes focused on those tiny nipples once more. "Lord no!"

       As he looked on, the forked tongue curled up into itself, becoming thinner and thinner, until it was a long needle. Quick as lightning, the needle jabbed into the tips of Duncan's tits, that an agonized scream escaped the younger man's lips. As blood trickled from the wounded nubs, Methos found himself sitting up, pulling the Scot close to him. Eagerly, he bent down, pressing his lips to the nipples, and began to suck, at the same time, thrusting hard and fast into the Highlander.

       Duncan shuddered in terror and revulsion as the man with the painted face suckled on his breast. His cock seemed too big for his channel all of a sudden. Already, he could feel his flesh tearing just to accommodate the huge rod that was ramming into him.

       Unknown to the two men, the bracelets on their wrists began to glow, gradually increasing in brightness, surrounding them in a dazzling white aura.

       "Help me!" the Highlander wept, lost in his agony. "Mother, please make him stop hurting me! Oh God! Please help me!"

       Hearing the Scot's plea, Methos' eyes flew wide open. At the sight of his lover's pain, a part of his soul traversed the link that existed between them. The ancient just found himself looking through Duncan's doe eyes.

       "Methos..." Duncan felt his lover's presence inside his mind.

       But the smith didn't answer him, gazing down at the beast who held his lover in his arms. It was then that the monster looked up, a tiny bud nipped between his teeth, leering at him. The shock of seeing that face sent Methos reeling back into his own body. With a fierce shove, the Old Man flung the Highlander from him, causing both men to scream at the force of their withdrawal.

       As Methos sat up, he found that he still possessed a small measure of that strange vision. Lying before the dying fire of the fireplace were alternating images of a grown man and a child. Blinking several times, the ancient saw that Duncan was curled up before him, knees drawn towards his chest.

       Though there was obvious fear in his eyes towards the man he thought he was handfasted to, Duncan managed a relieved smile to form on his lips.

       "Thank you," he said, shaking with sobs. "I don't know what came over me, but thank you, Methos, for saving me."

       Methos found himself weeping as he gathered the terrified Highlander into his arms.

       What is there for you to be grateful for, Duncan? he thought bitterly. I hurt you. Sometime in the past, I hurt you!

       The ancient shivered inwardly, recalling the image he had seen through Duncan's eyes. The man with the painted face. Death. It was his own savage visage he had seen.