Swords at Sunset
 © February, 1998 by Rory V. Pascual
Entry # ten
10

click here for full size cover		The "Highlander" characters are the exclusive property of Panzer/Davis and Rysher Entertainment. In writing this story, NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT WAS INTENDED. This is the edited version of the story that won First Place in the "Swords at Sunset" contest at the Highlander Quill Club. Quite an achievement, given the fact that I'm just a Newbie (and all those errors! Egads!!). Please note that I will be doing a LONGER version of this story. But, due to popular demand, I am posting the shorter version here until  I do finish the unexpurgated one.  Obviously, this is a slash story (you know what that means!). So if you’re not of legal age, hasta la vista, baby!!!

        Duncan MacLeod stood in front of the mirror. With trembling fingers, he was trying to secure the clasp of the tartan sash at his left shoulder. As the catch snapped open once more in his hand, he winced, feeling the sharp prick of the pin. Looking down at the ruby red drop forming at the tip of his finger, he felt a shiver go up his spine, the sense of foreboding growing inside his heart.

      It was the winter solstice – what should have been a day of celebration. He considered it the day of his birth although, in reality, it was the anniversary of the day when the Chieftain of the Clan MacLeod and his wife took him in as their own son. Even when his foster parents eventually had three daughters of their own, Ian and Mary MacLeod loved him as though he was of their blood. And he loved them and his younger sisters just as dearly.

      For the past 25 years, the solstice had been a time of feasting. But not this year. The time has now come for the Clan MacLeod to honor a centuries-old vow. And Duncan, just like everyone else in the clan, didn’t feel like celebrating at all, especially now that he was going to lose one of his sisters.

      “You’ve hurt yourself,” a voice suddenly said behind him, startling him. It was a voice he didn’t want to hear.

      As Duncan gazed up, he saw the unwelcome form of his teacher, the armsmaster Kronos, reflected in the mirror.

      “Tis nothing,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady, willing the sudden quivers in his body to cease. “My finger got caught in the clasp. Tha’s all.”

      He was about to bring his hand down but Kronos caught it, gripping it firmly.

      “You’re trembling,” the armsmaster commented softly.

      Before the young Scot could speak, Kronos brought Duncan’s hand up, placed the injured finger inside his mouth and sucked at the blood. The move was so sudden that Duncan dropped the clasp on the floor, the piece of metal bouncing under the table with a metallic clink.

      “Oh, I’m sarry!”, he stammered as he pulled his hand free and bent down to pick it up.

      In his agitation and haste, Duncan barely noticed the sash slide down his arm, pulling the shoulder of his loose white shirt with it.

      Kronos grinned, licking his lips, as he gazed appreciatively at the graceful lines of his student’s neck and shoulder and the smoothness of the olive skin.

      When Duncan stood up, he saw the lecherous look on Kronos’ face.

      “Let me help you with that,” the armsmaster said in satisfaction, noting the fear in the younger man’s eyes as he took the clasp out of Duncan’s hand. He enjoyed the discomfort he was causing the Scot.

      The Highlander felt the breath catch in his throat when Kronos touched his arm. The armsmaster pressed the fabric between his index and middle fingers and slowly began to pull the shirt up, allowing his open palm to caress the olive skin. Reaching the junction between limb and shoulder, Kronos paused. Brushing away the silky sable hair, he lowered his head and kissed that spot.

      “No,” Duncan whimpered, wanting to bolt. But Kronos’ left arm went around him in a tight embrace that he couldn’t break free.

      As he gazed in the mirror in horror, the armsmaster began leaving a trail of kisses, from his shoulder going up to his neck, the shirt following. Continuing to pay lingual homage to the Scot’s smooth skin with his tongue, Kronos then laid the sash on his shoulder and deftly secured the clasp.

      “Thank ye,” Duncan managed to say, about to pull away. However, the armsmaster totally wrapped both arms around his now shivering form.

      “You will NOT say no to me, Duncan MacLeod,” Kronos whispered menacingly in his ear, a hand inching its way under the young man’s shirt.

      “Please! Dinna do this!” A gasp escaped the Scot’s lips as Kronos’ fingers found the small peak of his chest and squeezed it hard.

      The armsmaster chuckled, enjoying the feel of the trapped body before him. Peering at the mirror, he saw that the Highlander’s eyes were shut tightly, a hint of white, even teeth biting the lower lip. Maliciously, he twisted the nub harder. At once, he could see blood begin to blossom on the full lip.

      “It’s a good thing you’re not on the auction block like your sisters,” he muttered, continuing to have his fill of touching the younger man. “I want you all to myself. In fact, I might even ask your father for your hand.”

      “This is no’ right!”, Duncan argued, shocked by his suggestion. “My faether wad ne’er agree. Wha’ ye want is unnatural!”

      “And do you think he would not? Think hard, my young student. Your parents value me highly and they will not deny me anything.”

      The Scot realized he had no choice but to grudgingly agree with this assessment. Ever since Kronos arrived and claimed the position which Connor MacLeod had vacated, his parents had been very impressed with their new armsmaster. More so, when Kronos saved their lives during an ambush. So blind was their trust that they couldn’t see what’s been happening between their armsmaster and their adopted son.

      Every sparring session with Kronos has been a nightmare for Duncan. Connor had taught him well and he was a good swordsman. But Kronos was better, constantly putting him on the defensive. Then, Duncan began to notice something disquieting. In the beginning, as he practiced, the man would just stare at him, though the intense desire in his eyes was unmistakable. Later on, it progressed to obscene suggestions whispered in his ear during clinches or light taps on his rump. Ultimately, this led to the present state of affairs between them – with Kronos the hunter and he the hunted. Though he tried to avoid the armsmaster like the plague, Kronos, uncannily, always found him. When he was trapped, Duncan had no choice but to endure his loathsome kisses and caresses. At one time, he decided to fight back and, for once, actually set the armsmaster on his rump. But a blatant lie from the man caused his father to reprimand him severely. And Duncan resented it, for how could his father not see through Kronos’ duplicity.

      However, Kronos was a very shrewd and cunning man and he was perfectly capable of getting away with just about everything. Without a doubt, he could approach Ian MacLeod and ask for his adopted son. It wouldn’t be something so bold as asking him directly for his hand in marriage. The faith and traditions of the land abhorred such perverse pairings. But Kronos could advise that Duncan be fostered to him for further training in weapons work. Apparently, the armsmaster has already broached this idea with his father that Ian looked upon it favorably. In fact, Ian had even suggested it to him. But Duncan firmly said no. Still, his father told him to give it some thought.

      However, with the way things were going, it definitely looked like Kronos was losing his patience. Walking on the edge every hour, every minute of the day, Duncan knew the hunt would have to end soon. And the conclusion would be inevitable, with no doubt as to who will emerge the victor.

      As if reading his thoughts, Kronos asked, “How long will you keep on denying me this, Duncan?” The Highlander cringed, feeling the armsmaster’s hand pulling up his kilt, going up his thigh. “You cannot postpone that which will come to pass. You are destined to be mine.”

      Feeling a firm hand squeeze his behind, Duncan wrenched away from his grasp.

      “Never! Ye will never `ave me, Kronos! I swear it!”, he declared. “I wad rather die by ma own hand afore I give myself ta ye!”

      “Such bravado!”, the armsmaster clapped his hands mockingly. “I do admire an innocent with courage! But suicide is not in your nature. And besides, I don’t think you could bear the thought of causing your parents grief.”

      “Then I’ll think o’ somethin’ else. Anythin’ tha’ wad keep me away from yer filth. If I were a woman, I wad willingly marry the Rider himself.”

      Kronos laughed at these words. “Are you that desperate to escape from me, my bonny Duncan?” The armsmaster’s use of his parents’ endearment toward him sickened the Highlander immensely. “You know very well where the preferences of the Chieftain of the Clan of the Black Wolf lie. The only thing going in your favor is that, unlike your poor sisters, you are still a virgin.”

      Furious, Duncan pulled the door open. “GET OUT! GET THE HELL OUT!”

      “If that is your wish,” Kronos said casually. Pausing at the doorway, he glanced at Duncan. “I cannot wait any longer. Be on your guard, Highlander. Before this day is through, you and I will be doing some celebrating of our own. I haven’t forgotten that today is your birthday. It’s time I taught you something new.”

      The Scot slammed the door shut behind the armsmaster’s laughing figure. Leaning against the door, he felt his body tremble violently and he wanted to give in to his tears. There was no doubt in his mind that Kronos will do what he swore he would do. And what Kronos wants, Kronos gets.

      Clutching himself tightly, Duncan closed his eyes as tears streamed down his cheeks. <Connor, where are ye? Why did ye leave me alone ta tha’ monster?>

      But in his heart, the Highlander knew what happened to his kinsman. Connor was an Immortal. It was also the time of the Gathering and, as one of the men of that small, accursed race endowed with eternal life, he was called to fight one of his kind in a battle to the death – to take his enemy’s head and his power, the power of the Quickening. Duncan knew Connor lost and, without a doubt, to who. Kronos had once disarmed him with a move – a technique which the kinsman had yet to teach to his favorite student. Kronos would never have learned that move if he hadn’t taken Connor’s Quickening. And to Duncan’s dismay, knowledge of his existence. Why would Kronos come to the Clan MacLeod if the new armsmaster hadn’t known about him through the memories he had absorbed from Connor?

      All of a sudden, Duncan wanted to leave, to run away – any place where Kronos couldn’t find him. But remembering his sisters, he knew he couldn’t leave, not yet. They needed him now and he couldn’t desert them. But what will happen after? By then, it may be too late for him.

      At that moment, there was a soft knock on the door.

      “Aye?”, he asked, choking back a sob, afraid to open it.

      “Duncan?”, he heard his sister Katherine answer. “May we come in? We wad like ta speak with ye.”

      Quickly, the Scot wiped his eyes. Breathing in deeply, he opened the door. Outside, his three sisters stood waiting, already dressed, same as he, in the formal colors of the Clan MacLeod.

      “Come in!”, Duncan smiled as he waved them inside his chamber.

      As the young women entered, he slowly closed the door, aware that they were looking at him dubiously, noticing that his eyes were red from crying. When he turned, he saw that his sisters appeared uneasy.

      “Wha’s wrong?”, the Highlander queried soothingly, deeply concerned.

      The second daughter, Brianne, replied, “We were afraid tha’ ye might be angry with us… for wha’ we’ve done.”

      “We dinna want ye ta be angry, Duncan,” wept Megan, the youngest. “We can take faether’s anger, but no’ yours.”

      Hearing this, Duncan knelt down before them and took each of their hands, clasping them in his own. “Why are ye saying tha’? I cad ne’er be angry with ye.”

      “But your silence…,” Kate, the oldest, began.

      “I’m the one ye should forgive,” he said then, lowering his head. “I should `ave spoken in your defense. I know how frightened ye are abou’ marryin’ the Rider. I dinna hold it against ye tha’ ye decided ta…give …yourselves ta the men ye truly love. It’s just tha’…I’m…there are a lot o’ things on my mind lately.”

      “We know, Duncan.” Kate embraced her brother, gently running her fingers through his hair. “We know.”

      As he gazed up, he saw the meaningful look in his sisters’ eyes. The Highlander swiftly got to his feet, turning his back to them. Almost embarrassed, he asked softly, “How long have ye known?”

      “Long enough for us ta know tha’ faether should do something abou’ this,” retorted Brianne with such vehemence in her words. “I cannae believe he and mither cad be so blind ta the…the things… Kronos has been doin’ ta ye!”

      “Aye, dear brother,” Megan agreed wholeheartedly. “Tis no’ right!”

      “Ye dinna have ta worry abou’ me,” Duncan replied, trying to sound convincing though the tears threatened to surface once more. He was deeply touched by their concern. “I can take care o’ myself.”

      He felt a firm hand on his shoulder as Kate made him turn around. “Can ye, Duncan? Kronos is a much better swordsman than ye are. An’ he already possesses Connor’s knowledge. Ye dinna stand a chance against him. He WILL take ye!”

      Duncan couldn’t answer. All he could do was keep his head low. So his sisters wouldn’t see how close to the edge he was.

      Sighing, Kate took his hands and squeezed them gently. “We `ave talked abou’ this, Duncan. If the Rider should choose either of us for his bride, we will no’ agree ta a marriage if we cannae take ye with us. Faether will be forced ta give in. Because ye are no’ of our blood, ye are no’ true kin, ye cannae be his heir.”

      “But…ye cannae do this,” Duncan stammered in surprise. He was overwhelmed by the lengths his sisters would go through to save him from Kronos.

      “We will!”, Kate said stubbornly. “We cannae bear ta leave ye at the mercy o’ tha’ beast!”

      “No,” the Highlander shook his head. “Ye’ve forgotten one thing. We’re plannin’ ta deceive the Rider. He does no’ know tha’ ye are no longer virgins. Tha’ condition was strictly demanded in the pact. We do no’ know how he will react when he finds ou’ the truth. As history tells us, the Rider is a very cruel man…an’ he might `ave his vengeance on the whole clan. We cannae make any demands when we are in a dangerous position.”

      The three women fell silent at these words. Duncan knew they remembered how Clan MacGregor planned a similar deception. The Rider’s revenge had been swift and not a single man, woman or child has survived.

      “We did no’ think of tha’,” Megan muttered. Weeping, she flung her arms around her brother’s neck. “Oh, Duncan! There must be somethin’ we can do.”

      “I’ll be all right,” he cried, no longer wishing to hide his sorrow or his tears. “Tis ye I’m so worried abou’. I dinna want ta lose any of ye. I love ye all so much. Ye make my life worth living. It makes things easier ta bear.”

      “There cad still be hope,” Kate suggested but there was uncertainty in her voice. “Maybe God wad be merciful. If we only have faith. Be strong.”

      Duncan didn’t answer. As he closed his eyes, all he could see was the gaping pit of despair, eagerly waiting to swallow him and his sisters up in its dark maw.

      * * *

      Except for brief snatches of murmurs and hastily whispered words, the great hall was silent though it was filled to the rafters by members of the Clan MacLeod, all nervously awaiting the arrival of the Rider.

      On the dais, Duncan stood protectively behind his sisters, standing to the left of their father. Mary, his mother, chose to stay at her husband’s right, with the armsmaster at her side. Ian was seated in his great chair, his broadsword propped up beside his leg, the expression on his face unreadable. No one could tell what the clan chieftain was thinking or feeling. But Duncan knew his father was extremely agitated and very angry. Up to now, he still couldn’t believe Ian would go through with this audience, after what his sisters had done. It was a dangerous scheme and Duncan knew all their lives were on the line.

      The Highlander’s thoughts turned to the Rider. Duncan has never seen the man but he was aware of his reputation – an infamous Immortal whose sharp blade showed no mercy to his enemies.

      It was said, centuries ago, that the land was threatened by a massive invasion fleet of Vikings, and even the clans united wouldn’t stand a chance against it. This forced the chieftains to go to the Rider’s keep and ask for his help in this campaign. The Rider agreed to help, on the condition that he will name his price once the enemy has been routed. With the fierce warrior and his seasoned troops at their side, the Vikings didn’t stand a chance, slaughtering them with intense glee that the Rider’s ringing laughter could often be heard filling the air of the battlefield. Yes, victory was theirs that day. What they didn’t expect was the price they had to pay for the Rider’s aid. He had demanded that every ten years, on the winter solstice, the chieftains would give him a virgin daughter to be his bride.

      The clan leaders were outraged and, at first, they refused to give in…until the Rider calmly told them that he could destroy the clans. And no one doubted that the warrior would do as he threatened. That same day, the chieftains drew lots as to the order of sacrifice. The clan that drew number one, the MacGregors, sought to deceive the Rider by giving him the daughter of a poor peasant. The warrior’s vengeance had been swift and merciless. Since then, the virgin bride offering has been made every decade and none of the chieftains ever saw their daughters again. It was rumored that the poor women threw themselves to their deaths on the cliffs to avoid lying in the man’s bed. And Duncan couldn’t blame them.

      According to local legend, the warrior was not known as “The Rider” then, his true name lost in the passage of time. It was said that, during a brutal military campaign, he had ravished a Celtic witch. In her anger, the witch placed a curse on him, her magic turning his handsome visage into the ghastly form of Death himself. Initially, he was called “The Pale Rider” but it was later on shortened to just “The Rider”. So hideous was his form that he chose to stay hidden within the dark halls of his keep, an imposing structure of stone situated in the perpetually mist-covered moors that lay beyond Donan Woods. It was said that only a virgin would break the curse. But the Highlander heard a different version of the tale.

      It was told to him by his former nurse -- the beautiful seeress, Cassandra. Yes, it was true that the Rider was cursed. But, for the spell to be broken, it would take the love of an innocent to do it. An innocent who would love him despite the horrors of his past and his present. An innocent who would willingly give everything to him – body, heart, mind and soul. Apparently, the Rider hasn’t found the chosen one yet or else they would be free from fulfilling the pact.

      Duncan snapped out of his musings when the page entered the hall.

      “Sir, the Rider has arrived,” the young boy announced, the fear obvious in his voice.

      “Verra well! Show him in!”, Ian nodded.

      Suddenly, the doors burst open. Twenty men in shiny black armor and helmets marched into the hall, clearing a path in the center. They formed two straight lines on opposite sides of the hall, turning to face the terrified clansmen, guarding them.

      Then, three men strode into the hall. The two at the fore were similarly armored. But there wasn’t any doubt that the man between them was the Rider himself. He wore a hideous death mask adorned with eagle feathers and beads. Like his men, he was dressed entirely in black, though he chose to go unarmored, wearing only a black silk tunic and chain mail, breeches and boots. The Rider’s slim blade hung unsheathed at his hip. Truly, the man was prepared for any act of aggression.

      The Rider had a mesmerizing presence to him and Duncan was caught in his spell. Though the warrior was a bit shorter than he, the man exuded an air of nobility around him which commanded respect.

      Out of the corner of his eye, the Highlander caught the armsmaster looking at the Rider with a wary expression on his face. Without a doubt, Kronos recognized one of his kind. And it seems the Rider knew that Kronos was an Immortal as well.

      “I have not come for you,” the warrior said softly, a steel edge in his rough voice.

      “Maybe you and I shall meet when the circumstances are not so pressing,” Kronos smiled.

      “That is inevitable,” the Rider answered. “After all, it is the time of the Gathering.”

      He then turned to face the chieftain. “Ian MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod,” he announced for all to hear. “I have come to claim that which is owed me by your ancestors.”

      “Aye, we shall honor the pact,” said Ian. He motioned for his three daughters to step forward.

      The women raised their trembling hands to their brother who stood behind them. Duncan took them and squeezed them reassuringly.

      As Kate, Brianne and Megan came forward, Ian stated, “Here are my daughters. They are all chaste. Ye may choose your bride from any of them.”

      At these words, the Rider went up the few steps to the dais. He looked at each woman from head to toe. Duncan could even hear the man make sniffing noises behind his mask.

      “Well?,” asked the chieftain with nervous impatience. “Who shall ye choose?”

      “I choose none of them!” The Rider’s casually spoken announcement caused everyone in the hall to exclaim in fear. But the warrior’s troops silenced them.

      “But why?”, Ian stammered.

      “I believe you and everyone else in this hall know the truth…that none of your daughters are virgins.”

      No one spoke at these words. The entire hall was hushed and you could hear a pin drop. Duncan looked nervously at the Rider and then at his father.

      “I’m disappointed in you, MacLeod,” the Rider chided him, pacing back and forth before the agitated chieftain. “I’ve heard that you are a man of honor. I never expected that you would try to deceive me. Have you not learned your lesson from the MacGregors?”

      “Tis no’ our faether’s fault!”, Kate declared. “We did no’ want ta marry ye. Tis the only way we cad think of ta be free from ye.”

      “But your father allowed this deception to continue,” the warrior calmly pointed it out to her. “So he is just as guilty as you are.”

      “Ye evil man!,” cursed Mary MacLeod. “Why should our children suffer for yer sin?”

      “May I remind you, my dear lady, that, if it wasn’t for me, there wouldn’t be any clans left,” the Rider said icily. “Your ancestors asked for my price and I gave them my terms. You are honor bound to give me what I want.”

      “Wha’ do ye intend ta do with us?”, Megan asked. The young woman was terribly afraid that Duncan put his arms around her.

      “To make an example of you. That no one makes a fool out of the Pale Rider and gets away it. Let others learn from your example…beginning with your father.”

      Saying this, the warrior swiftly pulled out his sword and charged at the old man. Even Kronos was stunned at his speed. But before the blade could connect with flesh, its thrust was blocked by another sword. Looking up, they saw Duncan, his father’s broadsword in hand, the blade locked with the Rider’s sword.

      “Nay,” he muttered. “I will no’ let ye harm my faether!”

      “And do you think you can defeat me, youngling?”, the Rider asked mockingly.

      “I will try,” Duncan answered. “I cannae let ye do this.”

      “Then let’s put your skills to the test, shall we?”

      The Rider raised his sword and quickly swung it down in a sweeping arc. Duncan stopped its descent. The two men fought, blades clashing. The Scot battled bravely, parrying the man’s thrusts, countering his strikes. But, in the end, there was never any doubt who the better swordsman was. With a flick of his wrist, the Rider disarmed him, his blade stopping over the Highlander’s throat.

      “Kill me if ye must,” Duncan gasped. “Just spare my faether an’ my kinsmen.”

      “No, Duncan,” Ian said hastily. “Dinna do this.” Turning to the Rider, he begged, “Take my life. I am the one ta blame. Tis all my fault!”

      “We beg ye,” Mary pleaded with the warrior. “If there’s any humanity in ye, show us mercy!”

      “I’m afraid I cannot do that.” He looked at the young Scot kneeling at his feet. “Before I kill everyone in your clan, tell me your name so, at least, your bravery this day will be remembered.”

      “I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!”

      Hearing this, the Rider looked at the distraught chieftain curiously. “Your son?”

      “Aye! He is,” Ian replied. “Duncan’s my son.”

      “But he is not of your blood,” the man queried in turn.

      Duncan’s mind was whirling. <How did he know? How did he know this?>

      “Yes! He was a foundling. But we consider him our son and we love him verra much.”

      Something flickered in the greenish gold eyes, the only things visible on the Rider’s face through the mask he wore, as he gazed at the Highlander. Holding his arms hard, the warrior yanked Duncan to his feet. Slowly, he walked around the young man, giving him that same appraising stare he had accorded his sisters. Duncan felt his cheeks flush, hearing those same sniffing noises again, the light breath of the Rider tingling his neck, gently lifting his hair.

      “You have the scent of another man on you,” he remarked softly, glancing pointedly at Kronos. The armsmaster was eyeing the Rider grimly, not liking what he was witnessing. “But then…”

      Suddenly, the Rider dropped down to one knee…and buried his face in Duncan’s groin!

      “Wha’ are ye doin’?”, Ian blurted out, about to stand from his seat. Even the other clansmen were horrified at this obscene act.

      “Do not move,” one of the Rider’s generals snarled, seeing the crowd grow restless. He quickly laid his sword across the chieftain’s path. “Or he dies.”

      “Oh my God!”, Mary sobbed, unable to take what she was seeing.

      “Duncan…” Brianne’s face was deathly pale.

      Duncan stood in shock, his body stiff as the Rider nuzzled at his groin. Rough hands caressed his legs, slowly going up his thighs under the kilt. They then went around to clutch the lean hips. His hands ascended further until his palms cupped the rounded cheeks of Duncan’s ass, squeezing them.

      The man below him chuckled. Gazing up, the Rider whispered for his benefit, “He hasn’t claimed you…yet.”

      That statement made him gasp in realization. Though he wished he were wrong, Duncan knew what was about to happen next.

      As abruptly as he knelt, the warrior got to his feet. “It looks like I will get what I want after all.”

      “Wha’…wha’ do ye mean?”, the chieftain asked, deeply worried, dread filling his heart. “I dinna understand.”

      Duncan closed his eyes, covering his ears with both hands, afraid of what he’ll hear. <God, no! Please, no! Dinna say it!>

      “Since you and your daughters sought to break the pact, then I will make a different demand.” The Rider slowly turned and raised a finger at the Highlander. “I WILL TAKE YOUR SON!” Everyone was in an uproar. All the clansmen were screaming for blood. Two Scots attempted to break through the guards but they were quickly gutted.

      “Nay!”, Ian roared in righteous anger. “Ye will no’ take my son! He will no’ be yer catamite!”

      “Then all of you shall die,” the Rider said coldly, raising his sword, about to signal the attack.

      “STOP!”

      That single word silenced the entire hall as they all turned to look at the young Scot.

      Duncan still had his hands over his ears, breathing fast as his body trembled violently. But he had heard the Rider’s demand. <“I will take your son!”>, the words continued to ring inside his head, along with the dull thuds of falling bodies. Not looking at anyone, he lowered his hands to his shoulders, holding himself tightly to force the tremors to stop.

      “I will go with ye,” Duncan spoke at last, surprised at the steadiness of his voice. “Ye may do whatever ye want with me. But ye must swear tha’ ye will no’ harm my family, my kinsmen, my whole clan.”

      “Son, no!”, Ian exclaimed in horror. “Dinna do this!”

      “We have no choice!”, Duncan cried, the anguish showing on his face as he looked at his father. “Ye were willing ta sacrifice yer daughters ta save the clan. Now that the Rider wants me, why is it so easy for ye ta let my sisters go but so difficult when tis now I who is bein’ asked for?”

      “Tis no’ in the pact! An’ ye’re a man! Do ye even know wha’ he intends ta do with ye?”

      <Aye, I know, faether>, Duncan thought bitterly. <I learned tha’ lesson well from Kronos.>

      Ian stumbled towards his son and held his shoulders firmly. “He will use ye, Duncan! LIKE A WOMAN! By the time he’s through wi’ ye, ye will have no honor left.”

      “My honor be damned!” The Highlander was weeping openly. “Ye broke the pact by allowing this deception ta go on. He has the right ta change his demands. Honor dictates tha’ ye should agree ta his new terms. Ye have tarnished the name of the MacLeods with this deceit. YOUR NAME, faether! Let my shame restore honor to the clan.”

      Duncan embraced his father, feeling the old man’s tears wetting his shirt. “Please, faether! Let me go! The blood of two o’ my kinsmen are already on my hands. I cannae take the destruction o’ the whole clan, especially when I am in a position ta stop the slaughter.”

      “No, Duncan. I cannae allow this.”

      “Then, I’m takin’ it out of yer hands.” The Highlander bent down and picked up his father’s broadsword, gripping the blade just below the hilt. As he faced the Rider, he raised the sword before him, holding it so tightly that he could feel the sharp edge cut his hands that blood began to stream down the blade.

      “Rider,” Duncan began, loud enough for everyone in the hall to hear, to bear witness, “I, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, stand before ye ta honor the vow tha’ my ancestors `ave made ta ye. I AM YOURS, ta do as ye will. This I swear on my name, my honor and my faether’s sword.”

      “Nooo!”, Mary wailed, hearing her son utter the oath which could never be broken.

      The Rider looked at the young Scot, his eyes showing no emotion. He too raised his blade and held it the same way the Highlander gripped his.

      “On my name, my blade and my honor,” he intoned, “I make this solemn vow to you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. Your family, your kinsmen and their descendents will be under the protection of the Pale Rider and the Clan of the Black Wolf for as long as both our clans exist in this world. This, I swear.”

      Duncan nodded, satisfied at what he heard. Suddenly, he found himself spun around, dropping the bloodstained sword on the floor, to face the fury of the armsmaster.

      “I won’t let you do this!”, Kronos hissed. “You’re mine.”

      “I did what I had to do,” said the Scot, terrified.

      “You’re doing this to get away from me,” he whispered accusingly. The armsmaster dug his fingers into Duncan’s arms that the Highlander winced in pain.

      Then, Kronos’ eyes widened, feeling the sudden bite of cold steel on his neck. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Rider staring at him with murder in his green-gold eyes.

      “If this is the kind of treatment this young man had to endure from you,” the Rider began menacingly, “I’m not at all surprised he offered himself to me willingly. Now…let him go.”

      Reluctantly, he released Duncan, pushing him into the warrior’s arms.

      “I am not through with you, Rider, or whatever your real name is,” Kronos declared. “We shall meet and I will have your head.”

      “I’ll be looking forward to it.”

      The armsmaster turned his fierce gaze to the Highlander. “You cannot escape me, Duncan MacLeod. One way or another, I will have you.”

      Saying this, Kronos stormed out of the hall.

      The Rider paused, feeling the blood pouring from the Scot’s wounded hands, soaking the sleeves of his tunic.

      “You’re bleeding,” he murmured.

      Duncan stepped back in fear, stammering, “Forgive me!” But the warrior took his bloody hands in his. From his breeches, he pulled out a kerchief. Tearing it in two halves, the Rider proceeded to bind the wounds.

      The Highlander gazed at the warrior in surprise. He had not expected gentleness from the man. But when he was finished, the Rider wrapped his arms around him possessively and began to drag him off.

      “Come!”, he ordered gruffly. “We have stayed here long enough!”

      “Please!”, Duncan begged. “Ye already own me. At least, let me say goodbye ta my family.”

      “We have no time,” the Rider said impatiently, pulling him with urgency. “I aim to have you in my bed before the sun sets.”

      “Then, let me leave here as a man! Do not drag me off like a weak woman! Let me have my dignity!”

      The Rider hesitated for a moment. Grudgingly, he released the Scot.

      “We shall take leave of you now, MacLeod,” the warrior told the distressed chieftain. “The pact has been fulfilled! You will not hear from me or be bothered by my presence ever again.”

      “But…”, Ian said, raising a shaking hand, “my son…”

      “Is no longer your concern. And you don’t have to worry about sending his things to me,” the Rider said bluntly. “He won’t need them where I’m taking him.” The lewd suggestion in his words was unmistakable. “Come, Duncan!”

      “Farewell, faether, mither, my dear sisters,” Duncan whispered, fighting the urge to look back at them. “Ye will always be in my heart.”

      “Son,” he heard his father beg, “let me hold ye one last time. Please, Duncan?”

      “Forgive me, faether.” Duncan’s voice was threatening to break, choked as it was with emotion. “I canno’. If ye hold me, I may no’ find the courage ta leave.”

      Saying this, the Highlander took his place at the Rider’s right side, chin held up high. Signaling to his men, together, they strode out of the great hall. The Scot bit his lower lip painfully, hearing the keening wail of his mother and sisters.

      In the courtyard, Duncan saw that their horses were ready. A black stallion was brought before the Rider.

      “You shall ride with me,” he said brusquely.

      Without a word, Duncan got into the saddle. He felt the Rider climb up behind him, his arms going around his prize protectively as he took the reins.

      “To the keep! And make haste! We have to be home before sundown!”, the warrior barked out the order. Looking at Duncan, he smirked under his mask. “I want to have my fill of my new ‘bride’!”

      The men laughed nervously at this statement. Only the Rider’s two generals were not laughing under their helmets. They then rode off with their leader and his captive at the fore. Even as they exited the gates of the holdings of the Clan MacLeod, not once did the Highlander look back.

      * * *

      It was a short but very hard ride through Donan Woods as the Rider and his men maintained their furious pace, taking many twists and turns that even Duncan became confused as to the direction they were taking. But it was obvious that their torturous route was intended to frustrate any possibility of pursuit. The bluish gray mist only helped to conceal their passage.

      Soon, a dark structure loomed ahead. As the mist cleared, the Highlander beheld huge stone walls and massive barred gates with statues of fierce wolves guarding them on each side. The sound of a horn pierced the still air and the gates opened, granting them passage into the keep.

      Riding into the courtyard, they halted before an imposing mansion with walls of brick and black granite. Peering down at them from the rooftop were grotesque gargoyles. An old man emerged from the manse to greet them, hobbling on his walking stick. As he came closer, Duncan saw that he wasn’t that old at all. Around his mid-50s, his hair and beard were streaked with gray and he had a kind expression on his face. The man smiled warmly when he saw the Rider.

      “You’re back,” he greeted, taking the reins of the horse. “How did it go?” He turned his gaze to the soldiers, eager to see Rider’s new bride. However, he saw no women among them. No longer able to contain his curiosity, he asked, “And where’s your bride?”

      At these words, Duncan suddenly found himself unceremoniously hauled off the stallion and held firmly in the Rider’s arms.

      “Not a bride, Joseph,” the warrior answered, making the Scot face the older man. “This is Duncan MacLeod.”

      Joseph frowned at these words. “But…I don’t understand.”

      “Duncan’s foster father,” the Rider began, “sought to deceive me by forcing his non-virgin daughters to marry me.” He pressed his lips eagerly to Duncan’s neck, murmuring, “At least, I found a suitable replacement.”

      Out of the corner of his eye, the Highlander saw the two generals come up behind them, removing their helmets. The shorter one had curly brown-blond hair and a long mustache. The other man, to Duncan’s surprise, was a moor. But both looked at Rider disapprovingly.

      “Forgive me if I say this,” the dark man commented, “but aren’t you taking this a little bit too far?”

      “I’m afraid I have to agree with Charles here,” the shorter man interjected. “Rider, I mean, taking a man’s son! And what EXACTLY do you intend to do with him?”

      “Did I ask for your opinion, Fitzcairn?”, Rider snapped angrily, looking at the smaller man. He then turned to the moor. “Or yours, Charles? And as to what I intend to do with him? I have TAKEN men before and it’s a pleasurable experience. However, this one is comelier than all of them combined. And besides, though his sisters are no longer chaste, Duncan here is still a virgin and I intend to have him. So, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, my chamber awaits us.”

      “Rider, don’t do this!”, Joseph argued. But the warrior ignored him, dragging the Highlander into the mansion.

      Inside, the servants looked in surprise at the sight of their master, storming through the main hall, pulling a young man with him. They swiftly went up a flight of stairs. Duncan almost tripped but Rider picked him up, getting him back to his feet. On and on they climbed until they reached the top floor. Walking through the gloomy hallway, the cold stares of the portraits hanging on both sides of the corridor caused the hair on the back of the young Scot’s neck to stand up on end. Then, they stopped before an ornate door. Opening it, Rider shoved Duncan inside that the Highlander stumbled onto the bear skin lying on the floor. As he picked himself up to a sitting position, he heard the warrior lock the door.

      “Get up!”, Rider ordered, removing his gloves, laying them down on the table.

      Shaking, Duncan did as he was told, standing up slowly.

      “Take off your clothes,” the warrior said bluntly.

      “But I…,” the Scot stammered, suddenly afraid, as he pulled his shirt close.

      “I own you now, Duncan, in case you’ve forgotten. You will do as I say…unless you want me to order my men to return to your clan and wipe it off the face of the earth.”

      “No!”, Duncan exclaimed. He lowered his head, wringing his hands. He muttered, “I’ll do wha’ ye ask. I will honor my vow ta ye.”

      “Very well then,” Rider began, satisfied with this reply, “take of your clothes. All of them!”

      The Highlander felt tears welling up in his eyes as he pulled his boots off. His hands trembling, he tried to remove the clasp of his sash. But difficult as it was to put on earlier, Duncan similarly had a hard time taking it off. In his fear, he couldn’t seem to get his fingers to work. All he could do was fumble at the catch.

      “Gods!” Duncan almost jumped at Rider’s curse. “Are you always this clumsy?”

      “I’m sarry!”, he apologized, trying to work at the stubborn clasp in frustration.

      Gritting his teeth, Rider strode towards his side, grabbed the offending pin and ripped it off, the sleeve and sash with it, that the torn fabric hung loosely on Duncan’s left arm. With great impatience, the warrior began tearing the shirt to shreds that only the kilt remained. Gripping the plaid, Rider pulled it hard that the Scot spun around like a top, the tartan unraveling behind him. Dizzy, Duncan just found himself totally naked, falling on top of the bed. Then, he felt the warrior straddling him. As he gazed up, Duncan’s eyes widened as he finally beheld Rider’s true form.

      The man was Death personified. His shriveled skin clung tightly to his bones. Greenish gold eyes looked down upon him from bony sockets. Where the nose had been, only a narrow cavity remained. A few thin strands of black hair remained on the dried scalp. He flinched, feeling the skeletal hands on his body.

      Horrified, Duncan shut his eyes tightly, turning his face away. He whimpered, feeling a wet tongue lick behind his ear.

      “Yes, I’m quite a sight, aren’t I, Duncan?”, Rider murmured, nuzzling at the Scot’s flowing mane. “So grotesque! So hideous! Not like you…” Duncan shuddered, feeling the thin lips caress the pulsating spot at his throat. “Young.” A light kiss brushed his cheek. “Fresh. And oh, so beautiful!” Feeling that mouth press down on his lips, tears began to flow from Duncan’s eyes.

      “Is it always like this for ye?”, the Highlander sobbed, feeling the man’s hardness press against his groin. “Nothing more than a brutal act ta satisfy your lust? Do ye find pleasure in forcing your will on someone who does no’ care for ye, who does no’ love ye?”

      Hearing this, Rider entwined his fingers around Duncan’s hair and forced the young man to face him. “Take a good look at me, Duncan! Do you think anyone could love me with this face? My face drives women to madness! All my brides chose to take their own lives rather than lie with me.”

      Duncan met that fierce glare with strength in his own eyes. “Aye! I know abou’ the curse.”

      Rider was taken aback by these words. “You don’t know nothing!” The warrior got up from the bed and stalked to a dark corner of the room.

      “Yes, I do!”, the Scot insisted. “I know tha’ the curse could only be lifted if an innocent wad accept ye completely, despite your past and your present disfigurement. An innocent who wad willingly give ye body, mind, heart and soul. Tis called love, Rider. But ye dinna know tha’. All ye cad think abou’ is the wrong tha’ was done ta ye. Ye never e’en thought abou’ the terrible crime ye did ta the witch who placed the curse on ye.”

      Before Duncan could get away, the warrior let his fist fly out, hitting the Highlander in the face. Duncan’s head whipped to the side, blood flowing from a corner of his mouth.

      “Enough!”, the warrior snarled at him. “I do not want to hear another word from you!”

      But Duncan was furious. “I am no’ finished! I dinna want ta believe the stories my kinsmen told me abou’ ye. My old nurse…she said tha’ ye are no’ evil, tha’ ye were once a good man afore ye strayed from the true path an’ became a warrior. It was her tale I believed, especially after ye showed me a bit of kindness when ye defended me from Kronos, when ye staunched the bleeding of my wounded hands. I thought tha’ there was some goodness in ye. But I was wrong. I was so wrong. Ta think I e’en wished tha’ I wad take my sisters’ place, just so I cad get away from Kronos. I thought ye wad be a better man than he. But no. Ye are just as bad as Kronos, perhaps even worse. The armsmaster was selfish, tha’s true. But your heart is full o’ hatred. Ye wish ta be freed from a curse but ye cause others ta suffer along with ye. Ye want everyone ta share in your misery. No one cad love ye. I cad NEVER love ye.”

      “I don’t want your love, Highlander,” Rider said coldly, gazing out the window. The sun was setting, casting a fiery glow in the sky. “I have long, long ago given up all hope of being freed from this nightmare. It’s just your misfortune that I seek a little variety this time around. Make no mistake, Duncan MacLeod. You may be a man but you are nothing but a whore to me, a catamite, a thing to share my bed.”

      To emphasize his words, Rider leaped onto the bed and pulled the young Scot into his embrace. He gripped the Highlander’s face hard, bony fingers digging into Duncan’s cheeks, causing the bleeding from his mouth to flow harder.

      “I’m an insatiable man, Highlander,” he said menacingly. “I have needs which I will expect you to fulfill. There are many ways to take a man and I know them all. Pleasure and pain are one in my chamber. All you have to do is lie on my bed and endure it. You made a grave mistake when you wished that you would take your sisters’ place, just to be free from the attentions of your armsmaster. Because you’re right. I’m worse than Kronos – much, much worse.”

      For a moment, they stared into each other’s eyes, Duncan refusing to avert his gaze. Then, the Highlander saw the green gold eyes soften. In that brief instant, he caught a glimpse of Rider’s soul – the strong desire for him, deep sadness, remorse and overwhelming loneliness. The pain in the warrior’s eyes tugged at his heart. Slowly, Duncan’s hand went up, prying Rider’s fingers loose from its grip on his cheeks. He held the skeletal hand in his own and squeezed it gently.

      “I dinna believe ye,” he whispered softly but firmly.

      Surprise registered on the warrior’s face. Rider always prided himself in his coldness, his emotional detachment. Surely, the Highlander couldn’t have pierced the ice. And yet, he saw the depths of his soul reflected in the rich brown orbs. Hardening his heart, Rider gritted his teeth, letting the Scot see the flash of anger in his eyes. The expression on Duncan’s face changed from concern to fear. Clenching his fist, Rider struck the young man a second time, causing him to fall back on the bed. The sudden blow shocked Duncan that he just curled up into a tight ball and began to weep, putting his hands over his face.

      “Damn it!”, he heard Rider curse but the Scot didn’t want to look at him. All Duncan could do was wait for the warrior to take him, already resigned to his cruel fate.

      But Rider was also at a loss on what to do. He so wanted to possess the Highlander. However, looking at the sobbing figure on his bed, he found he just couldn’t do it. Even he couldn’t understand what drove him to hurt Duncan. Rider never laid a hand on his former brides. In fact, he had been gentle with them. It was his hideous face that drove them to take their own lives. But why the sudden urge for violence now? And with this vulnerable young man?

      The warrior didn’t have long to ponder though. The sun had already set and he had to go. Without saying a word to the Highlander, Rider quickly got dressed. Donning his mask, he strode out of the room, locking the door behind him.

      In the hallway, Joseph waited patiently for him. The man’s features openly showed his disapproval.

      “Did you…,” Joseph began but couldn’t continue. Nevertheless, Rider caught the meaning in those two words.

      “What do you think?”, he asked pointedly in turn.

      “I don’t know what to think. Can you blame me? I’ve never seen you act this way before. And I’m worried about that young man you have in there. I don’t think you even realize what you’ve done.”

      “Oh, I know what I’ve done and I have no regrets.” Before walking off, Rider ordered gruffly, “No one shall enter that room…except Methos. I leave the care of the Highlander to Methos.”

      Joseph frowned at these words. “But you…”

      “Not another word, Joseph,” Rider quickly interrupted. “I have a challenge to face. I’ll be back once I make short work of my adversary.”

      Before the man could argue, the Immortal walked away, brandishing his sword in readiness for battle.

      * * *

      Darkness had filled the bedchamber for several hours. But Duncan still lay in the same position Rider had left him, time losing all meaning inside his troubled mind. If his life at the Clan MacLeod had been a nightmare because of Kronos, the present was a living hell.

      <God!>, he thought wretchedly, trying to hold on to what little faith he still had. <Wha’ wrong have I done tha’ I should suffer like this?>

      So caught up was he in his misery that he did not hear the bedroom door open. When a hand fell on his back, he cringed, waiting for the hard blow to come.

      “Don’t be afraid. I won’t hurt you.” It was a smooth voice with a hint of an English accent.

      Duncan didn’t move, frightened to even speak. The hand was withdrawn and he heard footsteps going around the bed. Opening his tear-swollen eyes, he saw gloved hands light the candlestick on the table. A tray of food was laid beneath it. Then, the bearer went towards the bed and knelt down on the floor before him.

      The Highlander saw a handsome young man looking at him, concern written on his aquiline face. He had warm hazel eyes and an aristocratic nose. His long black hair was tied up in a ponytail. As he peered at the Scot, a smile curled up the corners of his thin lips.

      “Good evening!”, he said cheerfully. “I’m Methos. You must be Duncan MacLeod.”

      Duncan merely nodded his head in reply, uncertain of the young man’s intentions.

      But Methos supplied the answer to his unspoken question. “I brought you supper. I’m sure you’re famished.”

      In truth, he was. However, the Scot answered, “Thank ye but I’m no’ hungry.”

      “Nonsense!”, Methos declared. “I know you haven’t eaten since midday, how Rider took you away from your clan the way he did. You must eat. I won’t take no for an answer.”

      He then went to the dresser and pulled out a robe. Methos urged Duncan to sit up, holding him gently like spun glass. After helping the Highlander into the robe, he laid the food tray before him. Methos poured wine into a goblet, handing it to MacLeod.

      “Drink this,” he said. “It will help calm your nerves.”

      Taking the cup in both hands, Duncan sipped tentatively, tasting the warm sweetness of mulled wine. Liking it, he took a longer draught.

      Methos’ eyes darkened, seeing the Scot’s blood-soaked bandages. “You’re bleeding. Did he do this?”

      Duncan quickly shook his head. “No. I…I cut myself. Rider…he tended ta my wounds.”

      “He didn’t seem to do much,” Methos remarked doubtfully.

      “He…we were in a hurry ta leave the clan.”

      “You don’t have to defend him, Duncan,” Methos retorted angrily. He went to the trunk lying at the foot of Rider’s bed, taking out a herbalist’s kit. Carefully, he removed the soiled bandages and examined the bleeding cuts on the Highlander’s palms.

      “These need to be stitched up. I’m going to tell Rider…”

      Duncan almost tripped over his words in his haste to get them out. “Please! There’s no need. The wounds will close. I’ve always been a fast healer. It just needs bandaging, tha’s all.”

      Methos looked at him dubiously. Shrugging his shoulders, he remarked, “If you say so,” and began binding the cuts with fresh bandages. When he was through, he suddenly commented, “I see that he hit you.”

      The man’s expression was masked, choosing to be neutral, as he looked at the dark bruise on the Scot’s cheek. But in his eyes, the Highlander thought he saw anger…and regret?

      Instead of answering, Duncan lowered his head submissively, biting his lower lip.

      “I…I should have…,” Methos said haltingly. Taking a deep breath, he stated bluntly, “My brother had no right to hurt you.”

      The Scot lifted his head in surprise. “Rider’s your brother?”

      “Unfortunately, yes.”

      “Are ye also Immortal?”

      “Uh hmm.” Methos broke a tiny piece of bread and raised it to Duncan’s lips. “Here, eat.”

      “I can feed myself,” Duncan said, flushing in embarrassment at the man’s kind regard for his welfare.

      “Humor me.” Methos’ eyes twinkled with good cheer.

      Despite his reluctance, the Highlander parted his lips slightly, allowing the Immortal to press the piece of bread inside his mouth. As Methos fed him, Duncan slowly felt himself beginning to relax. Gazing at the man before him, the Scot wondered if he could trust Methos.

      When he was finished, he drank a little more wine. As he laid the cup on the tray, Methos caught his wrists and held them. Duncan looked at him questioningly.

      “Duncan,” he began softly. “I know how hard it is for you to be here. Away from family and friends. I know how difficult it is for you to trust…after what Rider did to you.”

      “But he did no’…” Duncan was about to point out that nothing happened between him and the man’s brother. However, Methos cut him off, raising a quieting finger to the Scot’s full lips.

      “You have friends here, Duncan,” he continued. “People you could trust. I wish I could stay with you longer. But I could only come to you at night. I have this Gathering business to attend to in the mornings. Rider only takes challenges in the evening…for obvious reasons. That’s why he left you. During the day, if you need anything or if you just want someone to talk to, don’t hesitate to approach Joseph, Charles or Fitzcairn.” Methos winked mischievously. “Well, maybe not Fitzcairn. He’ll drink you in your cups.”

      The Highlander remembered how the three men defended him earlier. Maybe things would not be so bad here. “I’ll remember tha’.”

      Methos then stood up. “About my brother,” he said hesitantly, “it may not seem like it to you but he’s not a bad person, Duncan. He’s not an evil man. Circumstances have made him…bitter. I deeply regret he has vented his frustrations out on you. I’m not really sure why he’s acting this way now. I’ve never seen him so…flustered…before.”

      “Rider told me tha’ he has…taken…men before,” Duncan suggested timidly.

      “Yes, he had male lovers. He and I have lived very long lives and we’ve had our share of lovers from both sexes.” Then, Methos looked at him curiously. “Wait! Are you telling me he hasn’t…”

      Seeing the curiosity on Methos’ face, Duncan instantly regretted he brought it up. Nevertheless, he nodded in answer.

      “Now, I truly do not understand my brother.” A knowing grin began to form on Methos’ face. “But then again, maybe I do.”

      Cupping Duncan’s face in his gloved hands, he kissed the young Scot tenderly on the lips. The Highlander was momentarily surprised but he soon found himself meeting that sweet caress, responding to it. Methos tasted like the fertile green earth and warm sunshine. But Rider’s fierce form intruded inside his thoughts that Duncan suddenly pulled away, recalling his position.

      Seeing the hurt in Methos’ eyes at his abrupt rejection, he whispered, “Forgive me but I canno’. Rider…he owns me. He might get angry. He knows if another man has touched me.”

      This answer caused a reassuring smile to form on Methos’ lips. In fact, to Duncan’s observation, he looked relieved. “Don’t worry, Highlander. Rider won’t be angry.” At these words, the young man settled the Scot into bed, tucking him in with a blanket.

      “Do you need anything else?”, Methos asked.

      “Cad ye please leave the candle lighted?” Duncan didn’t know how to say it but the flickering flame of the taper comforted him, made him feel safe.

      “If that is your wish.” Methos left the candle where the Highlander can see it. He picked up the tray and walked towards the door. Pausing at the open doorway, Methos glanced back at him. “Rider won’t hurt you again. I swear it.”

      Saying this, Methos went outside, closing the door behind him. Despite his initial fears, Duncan felt a little bit better, knowing there were people he could trust. Especially Methos. Unconsciously, his fingers went up to his lips. That kiss wasn’t anything like Kronos’ demanding ones. It had been pleasant and very intoxicating. Was this how his sisters felt when their lovers kissed them? But his thoughts returned to Rider. Surely, the man would not want his bedmate thinking of another man, especially if that other man is his own brother. Still, he couldn’t help thinking about Methos that he soon drifted off to sleep with images of playful hazel eyes going around inside his mind.

      * * *

      It was near dawn when Duncan woke up abruptly, feeling bony fingers touch his hands. His eyes fluttered open to behold Rider’s masked form. He sat up at once, pulling his hands away as he scooted to the far corner of the bed. The warrior, however, didn’t make any moves to yank him back. Rider just sat at the edge of the bed, gazing at him, his eyes unreadable.

      Fearing he had angered the Immortal, he hastily said, “I’m sarry. I did no’ mean ta pull away.” Nervous, Duncan inched his way back to Rider’s side. He then added meekly, almost whispering, “Forgive me for the things I said ta ye last night. It was no’ my place. If…if ye want to…I…I will no’ deny ye. Just…please…please do no’ hurt me.”

      “I did not come here for that.” His quiet answer surprised the Scot but, still, Duncan was wary of him. Noting the apprehension on the Highlander’s face, Rider said gently, “Don’t be afraid, Duncan. I just came to tend to your wounds. Let me see your hands.”

      Gingerly, the Highlander laid his hands into the warrior’s open palms. Taking them in his tender grasp, Rider began peeling off the stained wrappings, laying them beside his herbalist kit that the Scot hadn’t noticed earlier. Pulling out a jar, he opened the lid and the sweet scent of cinnamon and marigolds filled the air. As Duncan looked on, the warrior dipped his fingers into the jar and began spreading the cold salve over the cuts. It was soothing, dulling the throbbing ache to the point of numbness. Even the bleeding had stopped instantly. Rider pulled out a needle and thread.

      “Tell me if it hurts,” he said.

      But to the Highlander’s surprise, it didn’t. He watched as the Immortal patiently closed the wounds with neat, even stitches. When he was done, he applied more of the salve before wrapping the hands up again in new bandages.

      For a moment, their eyes met – Duncan’s filled with intense curiosity; Rider’s with nervous expectation.

      It was Duncan who chose to break the silence. Smiling tentatively, he said, “Thank ye.”

      The warrior didn’t speak. Instead, he lifted a trembling finger, wanting to touch the dark bruise on the Scot’s cheek. However, seeing the Highlander recoil visibly, he closed his hand and lowered it to his side.

      Getting to his feet, he pointed to the tray on the table. “I’ve brought breakfast for you as well as some clothes for you to wear. I’ve asked Fitzcairn to go to the village to purchase some things you may need. He’ll be back soon.”

      Duncan’s eyes fell upon the white silk shirt and dark breeches folded neatly at the foot of the bed.

      “I hope you have no objections to wearing breeches.” Rider remarked wryly, “I want to hold on to what little self-control I still possess.”

      The younger man understood what he meant. “I have no objections. But ye dinna have ta make this sacrifice. Ye own me. I’ll do anythin’ ye ask.”

      Rider breathed in deeply, trying to quell the reaction that response drew from his body. “Don’t tempt me, MacLeod, or you might regret it if I do take you up on your offer.” Changing the topic, he said, “I’ve had a warm bath drawn for you. It’s through that door. Eat. Refresh yourself. Once you’re finished, just pull the bellrope and my servant will clean up. You are free to wander around the keep but you must never leave the gates. I strictly forbid it. It’s dangerous out in those woods. In here, you’ll be safe.”

      Without waiting for Duncan’s reply, Rider quickly went outside and shut the door. Though the Highlander was relieved that the warrior did not press his attentions, he was still confused, more so when he saw the rumpled blanket lying on the couch. Sometime during the night, Rider had returned without his noticing. But instead of lying beside him on the bed, he chose to sleep on the couch. Duncan wondered if Methos had something to do with this. Or maybe Rider was truly not as bad as he claimed he was. Methos said his brother was not an evil man. The tenderness he saw in Rider’s eyes confirmed it. But why did the warrior hit him? Because he saw the truth?

      Rather than brood on it, the Scot did as he was told. After soaking in the bath, Duncan ate hurriedly and donned the clothes Rider had brought for him, tucking the shirt into the trousers. The breeches were rather tight but they would do. When he was through however, he realized he had no idea where he wanted to go. The keep was a big place and he could get lost just roaming around its numerous halls and spacious grounds. Then, a brilliant thought came to his mind. It was rather daring but he was willing to risk it if what he suspected about Rider was true.

      The Highlander pulled the bellrope. In a few minutes, a servant knocked on the door. Opening it, he let the man in.

      “Are you finished, my lord?”, he asked.

      “Aye,” Duncan answered. “I am lookin’ for Rider. Cad ye please tell me where I might find him?”

      Rider’s name brought a smile to the man’s face. “He’s in the salle, my lord, with Master Joseph and Master Charles, practicing his swordwork. If you go down the stairs to the main hall, there’s a small door at the right. It will take you outside the manse. Turn right again until you reach the stables. The salle is the small building behind the stables.”

      “Thank ye kindly,” he said cheerfully.

      Before he could go, the servant held his arm. “I hope you’ll like it here, my lord. The master is a very kind man, very generous.”

      The Highlander just smiled back, though he was burning with curiosity at the servant’s glowing words. Following the man’s directions, he soon reached the stables. He stopped for awhile, admiring Rider’s beautiful horses. But the metallic clashing of swords caught his ears. Drawn by the sound, he made his way to the wooden structure of the salle and went inside.

      Duncan was amazed with the warrior’s workroom. It was very spacious, a good place for sparring. Various pieces of armor hung on the racks. He gazed appreciatively at the different kinds of swords hanging on the walls. Back at his clan, they only practiced in a cleared plot of land. It had been Duncan’s dream to have a workroom made where he could teach the art of the sword, something like this. He never expected it to happen. But seeing Rider’s salle made him feel like his dream had been fulfilled.

      The Scot was so awestruck by his surroundings that he didn’t notice the three men had stopped what they were doing and were gaping at him. Joseph, who sat on a bench in a corner repairing a baldric, had an amused expression on his face as he watched Rider’s reaction.

      It was Rider who had first noticed the young man’s entrance. Distracted, he had lowered his sword that Charles almost thrust his practice sword into the Immortal’s side. Even from his position, Joseph could tell that his friend had stopped breathing at the sight of the handsome Scot. And he couldn’t blame him.

      The Highlander had a rapturous smile on his face as his eyes roamed every inch of the salle. Duncan seemed totally unaware of the sensual sight he made of himself before the Immortal. The breeches he wore (obviously Rider’s) clung tightly to his lean hips and legs. His shapely rump, not to mention the pronounced bulge of his manhood, was obscenely molded by the tight garment.

      Apparently, Charles had also observed the intense stare Rider was giving the Scot. There was a broad grin on his face as he made his way back towards Joseph.

      “Say something, my friend,” he urged mischievously. “Rider might die of asphyxia.”

      “Let him,” Joseph answered in turn. “Who are we to begrudge him a very pleasant death? Besides, the experience might clear his head.”

      At that moment, the door of the salle burst open with a loud bang, causing both Rider and Duncan to gasp in surprise. Fitzcairn sauntered inside the workroom with parcels in both hands. Judging from the smell emanating from the wastrel’s form, the man was obviously inebriated.

      His eyes fell upon Rider. “I say, old man,” his speech slurred. “Haven’t you been breathing? There are dark rings under your eyes and your lips are a ghastly shade of blue.”

      The warrior swiftly turned his gaze away from the amused Scot. But this motion didn’t escape Fitzcairn. Spinning on his heels, he almost lost his balance as he wobbled towards MacLeod.

      “Hallo!”, making a low, sweeping bow that it was a miracle that the man had not cracked his head on the floor. “You must be Duncan MacLeod. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Hugh Fitzcairn. Those two gentlemen over there are Charles and Joseph."

      “Tis a pleasure ta meet ye,” said Duncan politely. Then, Fitzcairn began walking around him, ogling him hard. Joseph and Charles had their hands over their mouths, trying to hold back their laughter. From the stiff set of Rider’s form, they knew the Immortal was seething.

      “Ooooh!”, murmured Fitzcairn teasingly, licking his lips. “Aren’t these your trousers, Rider? They truly look good on Duncan here. Verrrry niiiiiiice!” Stooping low, he raised two eager fingers and playfully pinched Duncan’s behind that the young man jumped in shock.

      “That’s enough, Fitzcairn!”, Rider growled, taking Duncan protectively in his arms. “Charles, take this sodden fool to the kitchen. Get him sobered up! Or I might be tempted to take his head!”

      The moor was laughing as he escorted Fitzcairn out. “Come on, Fitz,” he said between giggles.

      “Oh, Duncan!”, the drunk somehow still managed to call out. “I bought a lot of nice clothes for you. Maybe I should NOT have gotten a bigger size though. Am I right, Rider?”

      When the two men were gone, Rider shifted his glare to a smirking Joseph. “And what are you grinning at?”

      “Nothing! Nothing!” Joseph noisily cleared his throat. “Rider? Don’t you think you’re crushing Duncan with the way you’re holding him?”

      Embarrassed, the warrior released the Highlander and turned his back to him, mumbling, “Forgive me.”

      Realizing at last the reason for the man’s discomfort, Duncan hastily pulled the lower part of the shirt from his breeches that it hung loosely below his waist.

      “What are you doing here?”, asked Rider, trying to regain his composure.

      “Ye told me I cad look around.” Duncan then admitted sheepishly, “I thought ye might be willing ta show me your home.”

      The warrior was stunned at this reply but he didn’t show it. “I’m sorry but I’m practicing right now.”

      “With who, Rider?”, queried Joseph. “You had Charles take Fitzcairn away and I certainly cannot spar with you.”

      “I cad spar with ye,” Duncan said eagerly.

      “And give you the chance to lop off my head?”, Rider thoughtlessly retorted. “I think not!”

      The Highlander was taken aback by these words. Deeply hurt, he muttered, “Forgive me, Rider. I did no’ mean ta disturb ye.” Saying this, Duncan all but ran out of the salle.

      Joseph snorted in disgust.

      “What did I do?”, Rider exclaimed in confusion.

      “I can’t believe you could be so blind!”, Joseph commented furiously. “Can’t you see that that young man is offering you his friendship? His trust? Duncan had no reason to do that, not after what you did to him last night.”

      “I never touched him, Joseph!”

      The man’s jaw dropped at this revelation. Still, he refused to give in. “You may not have taken him but you DID hit him, not once but twice. You told me so yourself. Duncan still has that ugly bruise on his face. Then, this morning, you brought him breakfast, tended to his wounds and lent him some of your own clothes. You even had Fitzcairn buy him new things. These small acts of kindness helped calm his fears a little – enough for him to come down here, on his own volition, to ask for your company. And then, you drive him away again with a selfish, uncaring remark. Don’t you see! You’re confusing him!”

      Joseph sighed, laying his chin on the crook of his cane. “Rider, you told me that Duncan knows about the curse. Not the distorted version that has become a part of Highland legend. But the REAL story. Haven’t you ever thought that he could be the one?”

      “Don’t you think it hasn’t crossed my mind? Gods, Joseph! I have waited for so damned long that any hope I’ve had is all gone. And then this Highlander comes along – a man even – and he stirs things up inside my heart that I thought I’ve long buried. I cannot bear the disappointment and the pain if it does not prove to be him.”

      “But what if it is him? Or even if he’s not, don’t do this to him, Rider. Please! Duncan desperately needs to find a reason to trust you. Don’t turn him away because you’re afraid of being hurt. Chances are Duncan MacLeod is in a lot greater pain than you are."

      Rider fell silent, deep in thought. Joseph waited patiently for his next move. Then, exasperated, the warrior hurled his practice sword in a corner of the salle and went in search of the Highlander.

      The warrior looked everywhere, even his chamber, but there was no sign of the Scot anywhere. Even the servants had not seen him. Already, Rider was getting worried.

      Opening the front door of the mansion, it was then that he saw Duncan. The Highlander stood in the courtyard, eyeing the woods outside the keep. Rider thought Duncan was going to bolt as the Scot made a tentative step towards the gates. Without a second thought, Rider dashed through the courtyard, hoping to prevent the younger man from leaving. But when he was near, he stopped at once. Duncan just stood at the gates, holding on to the bars like a prisoner in his cell, his body shaking with sobs.

      “Duncan?”, he asked worriedly. “Why did you run off like that? I was only fooling you.”

      “Ye dinna have ta lie ta me,” Duncan muttered, refusing to look at the warrior. “Ye did it deliberately…ta hurt me!”

      Rider bowed his head guiltily. “You’re right,” he admitted. “And I’m very, very sorry I hurt your feelings.”

      The Highlander whirled around angrily. “YE DO NO’ KNOW HOW I FEEL!”, he snapped at him. “I am tryin’ so hard ta understand ye. Methos told me ye’re no’ an evil man. Joseph, Charles and Fitzcairn obviously consider ye a good friend. All the servants respect ye. But why are ye treatin’ me this way? Am I no’ worthy enough ta be your friend? Was I only meant to be an outlet for your lust an’ frustration? I wish I cad leave this place. I wish I cad leave ye! But I canno’. The vow I made binds me ta ye and I have no choice but to stay lest ye destroy my clan. Ye better tell me now what I truly am ta ye because, the next time ye cut my heart ta the quick, I will find a way to take your head and I will `ave no regrets!”

      There was a moment of silence between them. Duncan knew he had pushed the Immortal to his limits. Despite the threat of Rider’s temper, he was too angry to care or to be afraid.

      At last, the warrior spoke up. However, it wasn’t the furious outburst he expected. “If that’s the case, then I guess I’ll have to teach you the right way to do it.”

      “Huh?” The Scot stared at Rider, perplexed.

      “A young idiot of an Immortal tried to take my head once. Left a jagged scar right around here.” Rider made a sweeping motion at the base of his Adam’s apple. “It hurt like hell. I had to teach the fool the proper way to do it. Of course, he never got the chance to use it. But in your case, I think you’re up to the challenge.”

      Duncan couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Did ye fall down or somethin’? Has someone hit ye on the head with a mace? Ye’re no’ makin’ any sense. Your head is addled.”

      “No,” Rider countered, his voice full of good humor. “My head’s a lot clearer now than it has ever been. It’s been a long time since I’ve taught someone the art of the sword. Will you be my student, Duncan MacLeod?”

      * * *

      “Tha’s what he said,” Duncan enthusiastically told Methos, who lay sprawled at the foot of the bed with a book under his gloved hand. A month had passed and the Scot was still preening every time Rider praised him for his skill with the sword.

      Looking at him now, Methos couldn’t believe the change that fell over the young man. Since he began taking sword lessons, Duncan was a lot happier. He also charmed everyone with his winning smile and joyous laughter. Who would have thought that the Highlander not only had a fierce love for swordswork but was very good at it too? More than once, Duncan had set both Charles and Fitzcairn on their rump. At one instance, he even managed to disarm Rider. Methos didn’t have any doubts that the student, in the long run, could surpass the teacher.

      Methos gazed enraptured at the lively animation of the Scot’s face. He loved the way Duncan’s eyes twinkled as he spoke, those full lips pouting one moment and then curling up in a warm smile the next. How he longed to taste those succulent lips once more! No. Actually, he wanted to taste MORE than his lips as his eyes roamed greedily over Duncan’s body. Oh, the things he wanted to do with that beautiful body! Methos could imagine Duncan writhing in ecstasy in his arms.

      “Are ye listening ta me?” The Highlander’s voice snapped him out of his reverie.

      “Did you just say something?”, he asked. <Gods!>, Methos thought. <My mind must have really drifted off! I can’t believe the effect this young man has on me!>

      Duncan eyed him suspiciously. “Ye’ve been giving me tha’ funny look again.”

      “Was I looking at you?”, Methos asked innocently, trying to think of a way out of this predicament. “Sorry, my friend. I was just thinking about this book.”

      The Scot then noticed the leather-covered tome in his hand. “What’s it about?”

      Methos glanced down at the cover. He just picked the book out at random from the library, thinking it was Shakespeare. The Immortal barely stifled his groan when he saw the title. Because the book in question was the “Kama Sutra”. Worse, as he took a quick look inside, it was the lavishly illustrated version at that.

      “It’s nothing. Nothing that should concern you.”

      “Ye’re hiding somethin’ from me,” Duncan remarked accusingly. “Please show me. Ye have nothing ta be embarrassed about anyway. I canno’ read it.”

      Methos looked at him in surprise. “You can’t read?”

      “Nay! But I always wanted ta learn.”

      “Maybe I could teach you.”

      Duncan beamed at this suggestion. “I’d really like tha’. But I still want ta see your book.”

      “If you can’t read it, Duncan,” Methos began in exasperation, “then you can’t understand it. So leave it alone.”

      “I dinna `ave ta read it,” the Scot pouted stubbornly. “I saw pictures in there.”

      <Patience, man! Patience!> The Immortal growled menacingly. “If you don’t stop pushing me, I’ll tell Rider not to give you lessons for a week.”

      “Ye canno’ do tha’!”, argued Duncan like a petulant child.

      “Oh, mark my words! I will! I will!”

      The Highlander looked at him sullenly and fell silent. Methos thought he finally had the Scot under control. However, he sorely underestimated the young man’s curiosity once it has been piqued.

      Suddenly, Duncan lunged for the book. Despite his heavier bulk, he was so swift that Methos just found himself holding open air.

      “Give that back, MacLeod!”, he shouted.

      However, Methos discovered that he shouldn’t have bothered to call out because Duncan had dropped the book on the floor in shock, the page open at a very graphic illustration. As he came closer, he saw that the Scot had turned deathly pale. Still, his eyes remained riveted on that one page.

      “Do you like what you see?”, Methos whispered in his ear.

      The voice shook him out of his trance. Embarrassed, Duncan picked up the fallen tome and hastily thrust it in Methos’ hands, stammering, “I’m sarry.” The Immortal loved the way the rosy flush went up from his neck to his cheeks. But before the Highlander could pull away, Methos gripped his hands tightly, refusing to let go.

      “I thought you were curious about this book,” he said softly, his accent lilting. “Now, that you’ve seen a portion of it, I could tell you everything you want to know.”

      Nervously, Duncan replied, “There’s no need.”

      But Methos didn’t seem to hear him as he went on speaking. “The book is called the ‘Kama Sutra’, Duncan. A book written by the Hindu on the art of lovemaking. Remember, you asked before if Rider had taken men. I told you we both have. We know all the sensual arts, not just what are described in these pages, but also the sexual practices of people from times long forgotten, centuries before you were born.”

      Duncan listened to the Immortal’s voice, caught in a mesmerizing spell. He felt heat building up in his body as the man spoke, not noticing that Methos was inching him back towards the bed. When he fell backward on the thick covers, a gasp escaped his lips but it was quickly stifled by Methos’ urgent kisses.

      At first, the Scot kept his mouth shut but the Immortal’s tongue prodded gently at the tight seal, urging the younger man to open to him. Duncan closed his eyes and sighed. Seizing the chance, Methos’ tongue insinuated itself between the slightly parted lips, hungrily tasting Duncan’s moist depths. Duncan groaned as their tongues clashed, thrusting eagerly. Methos captured the Highlander’s tongue between his lips and began sucking on it. But it wasn’t enough for the Immortal.

      Feeling bolder, Methos ran his fingers through the silkiness of Duncan’s hair, slowly going down the lines of his neck. Baring the shoulders, his hands descended further to cup the muscular slabs of the Scot’s chest.

      “No,” Duncan whispered when Methos finally released his mouth to nuzzle at the throbbing pulse of his throat. “Please stop!”

      “What if I don’t want to?”, the Immortal murmured, nipping at an earlobe.

      When Methos tweaked his nipple, Duncan gasped and pushed the older man away. The Immortal looked impatiently at the Highlander, who had sat up, clutching his robe around his trembling form.

      “We cannae do this,” said Duncan breathlessly.

      “And why not?”, Methos demanded. “I want you and you want me. I can see it in your eyes.”

      “But I do no’ belong ta ye. When I was back home, Rider knew that Kronos had been touching me and that the armsmaster has no’ possessed me yet. If he finds out tha’ ye have kissed me…I dinna want Rider ta be angry with me. Or ye.”

      “You sound as if you love my brother. Are you falling in love with Rider?”

      “If you expect me to answer tha’, I could no’,” Duncan stated honestly. “What I do know is tha’ I still fear him. I have just so recently gained his trust. I dinna want Rider ta think tha’ I have betrayed him.” He lowered his eyes from Methos’ intense glare. Softly, he added, “Ye were right about him. He IS a good man an’ I will no’ do anythin’ ta hurt him.”

      “What about me, Duncan?”, queried Methos gently. “What do you feel about me?”

      The Scot smiled. “I know tha’, whenever I’m with ye, I feel alive. I feel safe. Ye are the first person I met here who has treated me with kindness. If ye are going to ask if I’m in love with ye, I really canno’ tell ye tha’. But if it were only possible for me to please ye, ta show ye how grateful I am ta ye, I wad do so willingly.”

      There was a mysterious twinkle in the Immortal’s eye. “What if I showed you a way you could please me?”

      Duncan frowned. “I dinna understand.”

      “Have you ever pleasured yourself, MacLeod?”, Methos asked. “Have you ever allowed your senses, not your mind, to guide your hands in exploring that beautiful body you possess? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to have someone watch you as you touched yourself to the point of sensual bliss?”

      The Highlander was speechless at these words. Faltering, he stuttered, “I…I have…but I’ve never…”

      Methos laid a finger on Duncan’s lips. “Don’t speak! You said you would do anything to please me. I will not touch you, Duncan. I will let your own hands do it for me.”

      Saying this, he slowly eased the Scot down on the silken sheets. Duncan could feel his heart beating rapidly as Methos took his place at the foot of the bed.

      “Methos…”, the Highlander told the Immortal looking down at him. “I canno’ do this.”

      “Don’t be afraid,” Methos assured him, his voice taking on a hypnotic quality, calming him, weakening his will. “Just close your eyes and do everything I say.”

      Duncan felt as if he was out of his body and yet in it at the same time. The only things registering inside his mind were Methos’ instructions and the intense pleasure being elicited by his exploring hands.

      “Let’s start with your hair,” said Methos dreamily. “Run your fingers through the silk of your hair, Duncan.” The Immortal nodded in approval as the younger man entwined his fingers around the deep brown strands. "Let it fan out on the sheets. You have a beautiful mane, do you know that, MacLeod? So soft, so glossy. Gods, you look like an angel with a glorious halo!”

      “Now, feel your face. Let your palms run over your cheeks. Imagine my lips upon the delicate bones of your cheek. Can you feel me kissing you, MacLeod?”

      “Aye!”, Duncan whispered, his fingertips simulating Methos’ mouth, pressing gently on his cheekbones.

      “I’m going down to your lips. Your full, soft lips.” Methos felt his groin give an eager twitch as the Scot’s fingers descended to his lips, tracing the delicate curve of that luscious mouth. “I know you loved my tongue inside you. Do you know that you taste like heather, Duncan, and the sweetness of Highland mead?” To his immense satisfaction, Methos saw the younger man insert an index finger between his lips and began to suck. Seeing that pursed mouth suckling greedily made the Immortal want to bend down and kiss him. With much difficulty, Methos clamped down hard on his urges, trying to maintain control. But the effort to stay in control became harder with every instruction. The Highlander had assumed a trance-like state and was so responsive to his commands. Methos’ mouth took on a life of its own as the words that came out of his lips were dictated by the needs of his hot flesh.

      The Immortal felt his breath catch in his throat as the Scot let his hands caress the graceful lines of his neck, going down to his shoulders. As Methos looked on, he swallowed hard as the young man sat up, slowly freeing himself from the confines of his robe. A frown formed on the handsome face for a moment. But it was replaced by the sweetest smile he has ever seen.

      Lying back once more, Duncan let out a soft sigh. He arched his back, pushing his chest upward, his hands cupping the hard muscles, relishing the feel of the sprinkling of silken down. Going lower, his fingers traced the delicate outline of his rosy pink nipples. Putting the rising peaks between thumbs and forefingers, Duncan squeezed and pulled them gently into hardened nubs of passion. A deep moan of pleasure rumbled in his chest.

      Methos was sweating hard at this sensuous display. Already, he could see the Scot’s member rising at the urgent stimulation of his tits alone. Even Methos’ own erection was straining within the restraints of his breeches in sympathy.

      When Duncan ran his hand down his belly, the Immortal followed his example, his fingers removing the catch of his trousers. At the same time, their hands enclosed around their stiff rods. Gazing at the younger man, he saw the Scot was squeezing his member with strong urgency.

      “No, Duncan.” Methos’ voice was stressed with restrained desire. “Not too fast! Watch me! Take it nice and slow!”

      Opening dazed eyes, the Highlander saw the older man rubbing his cock, starting from the base going to the head, in one slow motion, and repeating the movement again. As he watched, entranced, his own hand unconsciously followed Methos’ languid strokes.

      “Yes,” the Immortal hissed, enjoying the sight of Duncan pleasuring himself. “That’s it.”

      Methos’ other hand descended to cup his balls, caressing them in their sac, and pressing at the sensitive spot at the base.

      When Duncan followed suit, the Scot bit his lower lip when he found his own pleasure point, causing his hips to jerk upwards. Already, moisture was forming at the tip of his uncut member. Pulling the foreskin back, he whimpered as his fingertips brushed the sensitive head while he gathered the pearlescent fluid. Duncan rubbed his own moisture on his hardened nipples, pinching the taut peaks in time with the strokes on his cock and the rocking of his hips.

      Soon, their pace began to quicken, squeezing and pulling their cocks harder, as they neared the climax. Then, with one final thrust, they came, crying out in ecstasy, spraying their fluid in strong spurts, forming a small pool on the sheets. Both men panted for breath as they waited for their bodies to descend from its sensory plateau.

      Duncan was the first to recover, shaking himself out of the dream-like state he was in. As he sat up, he stared in horror at the stain on the sheets between his legs. The Scot looked at Methos, shock forming on his handsome face.

      “No,” the Highlander muttered in disbelief. “Oh my God! No!”

      Methos watched in stunned silence as the young man yanked the stained sheets off the bed, practically running to the wash basin lying on the corner table. Frantic, Duncan dipped the soiled part in the water and began scrubbing it furiously in his hands. The Immortal could see the tears falling down the Highlander’s cheeks as he tried to remove the stain. Methos almost staggered, seeing the intense guilt on Duncan’s face.

      <Gods!>, he thought, dumbfounded. <Does he fear Rider that much?>

      Unable to take the sight any longer, Methos crossed the room in a few strides, his hand grabbing the bedsheet.

      “Duncan, stop it!”, the Immortal rasped, struggling to pull the sheet from the Scot’s grip. “I’ll let the servants take care of it!”

      But Duncan would not stop. He continued to scrub and wring, scrub and wring.

      In desperation, Methos wrapped his arms around the terrified young man and yanked him roughly away from the table. Because of the Scot’s weight, both men dropped down to the floor.

      “Let go of me!”, Duncan sobbed hysterically, struggling to break free from the Immortal’s embrace. “Let me go!”

      “Duncan, tell me what’s wrong,” Methos begged him earnestly. “What is it?”

      “Wha’ did ye make me do?”, the Scot cried bitterly. “Wha’ kind o’ spell did ye cast on me? If Rider finds ou’, he’s going ta hurt me again! I dinna want him ta hurt me! I canno’ take his anger!”

      The Immortal hugged the Highlander tightly, feeling the familiar tightness of tears forming in his throat. Rocking the younger man, he whispered soothingly, “Gods, Duncan! I’m sorry I made you do this. I’m so sorry! Rider’s not going to find out about this. I promise. I swear Rider won’t hurt you.”

      It took almost the whole night to calm the Scot down. Methos just felt him sag into his embrace in a deep sleep. Carefully, he lifted Duncan up in his arms, dressing him up in his robe, and laid him down on the bed. Taking the stained bed sheet, the Immortal hurled it into the fireplace angrily. He walked towards the dresser, leaning against it with his hands gripping the edge tightly. Seeing the shiny moisture on his gloves, Methos slowly peeled them off, revealing thin, skeletal hands. He looked at the wasted limbs, clenching and unclenching them. His mind desperately focused on the pressure in his hands.

      Methos remained oblivious to his surroundings and the passage of time. Soon, the rays of the sun peeked through the heavy drapes. As he slowly raised his head to look at the mirror, the Immortal saw Death’s face reflected back at him, a single tear running down the gaunt cheek.

      “Damn you, Rider!”, Methos cursed at the daytime nightmare that was his own face. “Damn you for doing this to Duncan MacLeod!”

      Saying this, he smashed his fist into the mirror, shattering the glass in a thousand pieces, blood spilling from the cuts on his knuckles. Then, Methos heard a gasp coming from the bed. Whirling around, he saw the Highlander staring at him, wide-eyed in fear.

      * * *

      Duncan heard the breaking of glass that he sat bolt upright from the bed, a gasp escaping his lips. He gazed in shock upon the misshapen form of Rider and the mirror which now lay in many sharp shards at his feet. His heart skipped a beat, seeing the pain, anguish…and anger…in the warrior’s eyes.

      <He knows!> The thought whirled around in his mind over and over again. <Dear Jesus, he knows!>

      To flee was the first course of action which came into his head. He wanted to get away…until he saw Rider’s bleeding hand and the pitiful way the Immortal gripped it.

      Without thinking twice, Duncan climbed down from the bed. Taking the healer’s kit, he went towards the man.

      “Rider,” he began, trying to keep his voice steady, “let me see your hand.”

      “I don’t need your help!”, the warrior snarled at him.

      At that moment, the door burst open and Joseph limped inside. “What’s going on?”

      But Duncan ignored him. His concern was focused on the wounded being before him. Swallowing hard, he said, “I know ye injured yourself because of me. I know ye’re angry with me. Rider, please. Stay your anger so I cad tend ta your wounds. When I’m done, ye cad do whatever ye want with me.”

      Without waiting for his answer, the Highlander gripped Rider’s forearms gently but firmly, pulling the older man to the floor with him. As he took Rider’s hand, Duncan winced, seeing the glass shards embedded in the wasted flesh. He pulled out the broken pieces, doing it slowly when the Immortal hissed in pain. When he was done, Duncan saw blue light crisscross over the cuts, healing them, the skin becoming as good as new. The Scot then stood up and poured fresh water into the wash basin. Using a clean cloth, he wiped away the blood.

      The irony of the situation was not lost on Joseph as he watched the poignant scene before him. Seeing the expression on Rider’s face, he knew that the fact had not escaped the Immortal’s notice. Still, Joseph wondered about what the Highlander said? Things had been better between Rider and MacLeod. What could have possibly changed?

      Turning his attention to the two men, he saw that the young Scot had bowed his head, his whole posture indicating repentance and submission, as the warrior got to his feet. Joseph could tell that the Highlander was waiting to be punished. Instead, Rider quickly strode out of the room without saying a word.

      “Duncan?”, Joseph asked worriedly, seeing MacLeod’s body begin to shake.

      Burying his face in his hands, Duncan wept, “He hates me! Rider hates me!”

      With difficulty, the older man sank down to the floor, holding on to Duncan’s trembling figure. “What’s wrong, MacLeod? Please tell me what happened!”

      “It’s Methos. He made me do…things…last night.”

      This response startled Joseph. “What things? What did Methos tell you to do? Did he take advantage of you?”

      “I don’t know!”, Duncan exclaimed out loud. Sobbing, he repeated, “I don’t know.”

      Then, the words just began to spill out. As Joseph listened to the distraught younger man, he felt anger rise within him.

      <Damn it!>, he thought angrily. <I should never have gone along with this charade! How could he do this to Duncan?> Another idea popped into his head. <Maybe I should tell MacLeod the truth.>

      Joseph paused at this thought. He knew he couldn’t, and not because of Rider’s fierce temper. He’s certain the Highlander won’t be able to handle the truth – that the hideous man he fears during the day was also the same man who gives him comfort and safety at night.

      Sighing, Joseph cleared his thoughts as he analyzed the situation between Rider and MacLeod. And the conclusion that came to his mind surprised him. It was truly unexpected. However, he had to get to the heart of the matter with the Highlander.

      “Duncan,” he began, “I need to ask you some questions. They’re going to make you feel uncomfortable. But you must promise me that you will answer them truthfully.”

      Sniffling, Duncan wiped the tears from his eyes and nodded his head.

      <Here we go!>, the man braced himself. “Duncan, before this…incident…happened, did you have any reason to believe that Rider hates you?”

      “At the beginning, aye, I had reason ta believe tha’,” said the Scot. “The first time he brought me here, he hit me twice an’ he tried…ta take me…by force.”

      “But afterwards…”

      “Afterwards…” Duncan’s voice trailed off. “Rider has changed. He healed my wounds. He’s an excellent teacher. There are times when I pushed him. I can be very difficult, ye know tha’, Joseph. I thought he would lose his temper, tha’ he would hurt me again. But except for his sarcasm, he didn’t become violent towards me. Rider’s been very kind and very patient with me.”

      “You said that, initially, he tried to take you by force. Has he made any…advances…towards you since then? Rider has the right to do so anyway. Though you are a man, for all intents and purposes, you are still his consort.”

      The Highlander quickly shook his head. “No, he has no’. Rider’s been very gentle with me.” He blushed. “There are times when I see him looking at me.”

      “How do you feel about it?”

      “I dinna know. Flattered, maybe. I like the way he looks at me. I cad see tha’ he wants me. But he has no’ forced himself upon me.” A shy smile formed on Duncan’s lips. “I love his eyes, Joseph.”

      Joseph looked at him curiously. <Now we’re getting somewhere.> “Why do you say that?”

      “You know,” the young man said hesitantly, “Rider has been tryin’ ta make himself ou’ ta be this fierce warrior, this cruel man who has been cursed for ravishing a witch. He almost convinced me when he tried ta bed me. But his eyes showed differently. I cad see kindness, remorse but, most of all, such deep sadness. I cad see it in his eyes how much he has suffered.” Duncan lowered his head timidly. “I cannae bear ta see the suffering in Rider’s eyes. It pains my heart.”

      <This is getting to be very interesting!>, Joseph mused. “Let’s talk about Methos this time. How do you feel about him?”

      “I like Methos,” Duncan replied. “In many ways, he reminds me of Rider though he is more of a gentleman. But he’s also…bolder. Maybe because, unlike his brother, he is very handsome. He has no’ made it a secret tha’ he is attracted ta me. I’ll admit ta ye tha’ Methos has kissed me. But I told him he cannae press his attentions upon me because I belong to Rider and he might get angry with me.”

      “However, something changed last night.”

      The young Scot pursed his lips, obviously uncomfortable. “It was tha’ book he had with him. Tha’ book about lovemaking. I took it from him and I saw this picture of a man taking a woman from behind. I found myself…aroused…by it. Then, Methos began talking, asking questions abou’ it. He started kissing me. I asked him to stop. I was afraid Rider would find out. Back in my home, Rider knew Kronos had touched me. Methos asked me how I felt abou’ Rider and abou’ him. I told him I was still a bit afraid of his brother. But not him. I trusted Methos…and I told him, if it were only possible, I wad willingly do anything ta please him, ta show him how grateful I am for his kindness.”

      “And that’s when he mesmerized you into pleasuring yourself before him.”

      “I did no’ know wha’ I was doing,” Duncan declared. “It felt like I was a different person. The way Methos commanded me, instructed me, controlled my movements with his voice, I never knew I cad feel such exquisite pleasure in my entire life. But when I awoke and I saw the stains on the bed, I suddenly felt very afraid and very guilty. Methos may not have touched me physically but he has ravished my mind. If Rider knew about Kronos’ advances towards me, what more this, when I have allowed myself ta lose control, ta be manipulated by his own brother. Methos tried ta comfort me but I was sa frightened. I fell asleep eventually. Then I heard glass breaking an’ I woke up and I saw Rider…hurt. The mirror broken. The anger and disappointment in his eyes. He knew wha’ I have done. An’ he loathes me for it. I wad have accepted his punishment. You saw me. But no’ this…rejection. I have tried sa hard ta earn Rider’s trust and now I’ve betrayed him.”

      Joseph breathed in deeply. <Time to move in for the kill.> “Does Rider’s trust mean so much to you?”

      “Aye!”, the Highlander replied. “We are bonded together. I wad like ta make things easier between us.”

      “Is that the real reason, Duncan, or have you fallen in love with Rider?”

      Duncan fell silent, biting his lower lip anxiously. He told Methos last night that he didn’t know what his feelings were for Rider. However, looking back on it, he was certain now.

      “Joseph,” he began haltingly, “when I told ye abou’ wha’ Methos made me do, I did no’ tell ye everything.”

      When the Scot paused, Joseph waited with bated breath. <Please let my suspicion be true!> “Don’t be afraid. Just tell me.”

      “At the start, I was imagining it was Methos kissing me. But later on, it was Rider I saw in my mind. It was Rider’s kiss I felt. His touch which drove me to bliss. I dreamed we made love and, in my arms, I saw him become whole again.” Duncan looked Joseph straight in the eye and smiled. “Aye, Joseph! I love Rider!”

      * * *

      Weeks passed since Duncan MacLeod has finally admitted to himself that he loved the accursed Immortal. However, things have drastically changed. Though the Highlander continued with his sword lessons, Rider has been aloof. Gone were the ease and the camaraderie they once shared. Duncan found the Immortal’s emotional distance disturbing.

      Then, there was Methos. Ever since that night, he has never seen Rider’s brother again. Methos has vanished. It was as if he had never even existed. The Scot feared the man had fallen to another Immortal’s blade.

      Duncan felt terribly alone. His heart ached especially for Rider but he was unsuccessful in breaking the ice wall that now shielded him. Joseph, Charles and Fitzcairn have tried their best to console him, offering him their company. But Duncan always turned them down gently, choosing instead to wander the grounds of the keep by himself. Eventually, out of boredom, he began to disobey Rider’s strict rule. Duncan would often go outside the gates and just hike through the forest, making sure that the walls of the keep were in sight. Sadly, he wondered when things would go back to the way they were before.

      One day, the Highlander was walking aimlessly through the courtyard when he heard the neighing of a horse. Looking up, he saw a familiar figure standing by the gates, someone he had never expected to see again.

      “Kronos,” he muttered under his breath. He was about to run back inside the mansion when he heard the armsmaster call out.

      “Duncan, wait!”

      Turning, the Scot shouted, “Wha’ are ye doin’ here, Kronos? Wha’ do ye want? Do ye not know tha’ ye’re no’ welcome here? I’m goin’ ta call the guards if ye do no’ leave.”

      “No, MacLeod! Please hear me out!”, Kronos exclaimed. “I came to deliver a message from your father.”

      Duncan eyed him suspiciously. “My faether?”

      The armsmaster nodded his head. “Yes. Since you left, he has been very ill. Ian told me to look for you and, if I should find you, that I should give you this.”

      The Highlander’s eyes widened, feeling the breath catch in his throat. For in his hand, Kronos held his father’s broadsword!

      Forgetting his fear of the Immortal, Duncan just found himself standing at the gates, taking the sword from the armsmaster. “Wha’ are ye doin’ wi’ my faether’s sword?”

      “Ian told me to tell you that you will now be the leader of the Clan MacLeod,” Kronos replied. “You may unite the clan with the Rider’s.”

      “He is ill. He does no’ know wha’ he’s saying,” Duncan retorted. “I am no’ e’en his real son. How cad I be the clan chieftain?”

      “Though he is ill, your father was very lucid when he made this decision. All your kinsmen had no objections.”

      The Scot glanced back at the mansion to see if someone was observing them. Seeing no one, he opened the gates and went outside. “Let’s take a walk. I want ye ta tell me everything.”

      Unknown to Duncan, however, a pair of green gold eyes were watching him as he stole off into the woods with Kronos.

      For a couple of hours, the Highlander and the armsmaster talked. It was true that his father had taken ill, spending most of his days in bed, with Mary, his mother, patiently taking care of him. When Duncan inquired about his sisters, Kronos revealed that Kate, Megan and Brianne had married their lovers but they were forced to leave the clan in disgrace because of the incident during the winter solstice.

      “Then tis just mither takin’ care of him,” he muttered in worry as they finally reached the gates.

      “Yes,” confirmed Kronos. “I’m concerned about her. She’s not in good health as well. Sometimes…I help a little.”

      Duncan cringed, feeling the armsmaster lay a hand on his shoulder. Noting his reaction, Kronos pulled his hand back.

      “Duncan, I know it’s not my place to say this but I suggest that you come back to the clan with me, just for a brief visit. Your presence might shake your parents out of their melancholy, especially your father.”

      The young man thought for a moment. He was aching to go. But then, he shook his head. “I canno’ leave. Rider will no’ permit it.”

      “Please!”, Kronos insisted. “Isn’t your father’s life important to you?”

      “But so’s the survival of the clan. I have made a pact with Rider an’ I intend ta honor it. Faether knows this.” Reluctantly, he admitted, “Things are no’ well between us. If Rider gets mad, he might vent his anger on my kinsmen. An’ I canno’ have that.” He handed the sword back to the armsmaster. “Please tell faether I canno’ be the new chieftain. He should choose someone else.”

      Instead of taking it, Kronos pressed the blade back into his hand. “Keep it. Your father wants you to have it, no matter what your decision is.”

      Despite his reservations, Duncan accepted the broadsword, hefting the blade, feeling its weight in his hands.

      Kronos cleared his throat. As Duncan gazed up, he saw that there was a look of guilt on the man’s face.

      “I’m sorry, Duncan,” the armsmaster apologized. “This is all my fault. If I had not been persistent in wooing you, maybe these things would not have happened.”

      “I have no regrets, Kronos,” the Scot assured him. “I love Rider and I will stay with him.”

      Kronos sighed. “I truly envy him.” Raising his eyes to the Highlander, he said softly, “Duncan, begging your forgiveness if this is presumptuous of me, but I would like to ask…just a kiss…I promise I will not bother you ever again.” Then, he shook his head. “No! What am I saying? I have no right to ask this!”

      “If ye had asked this of me before,” Duncan began, “I wad have denied ye. But…ye have been kind ta my parents. Ye have taken care o’ them in my absence. I cannae deny ye now. A simple kiss. Just ta show ye how grateful I am for your concern.”

      The Highlander slowly went towards the armsmaster until they were face to face. Leaning forward, he pressed his lips to Kronos, intending nothing more than a light caress. But as he started to break the kiss, the armsmaster placed his arms around him, pulling him close to his body. At first, Duncan was shocked into immobility. Then, instinct took over. Shutting his mouth tightly against the probing tongue, he squirmed in the Immortal’s embrace, trying to break free.

      Suddenly, he felt Kronos stiffen. Behind him, the Scot heard the loud clank of the gates slamming shut. Wrenching away from the armsmaster’s grasp, he looked in horror at the sight of Rider’s masked figure, standing at the gate. The Immortal was busy wrapping a heavy chain around the bars. In his hand, he carried a huge lock.

      “Rider?”, Duncan gasped, running to the gates. To his dismay, he saw that the warrior had locked it tight with the chain. “Wha’ are ye doing? Let me in!”

      “You are not welcome here anymore, Duncan MacLeod.” Rider’s voice was flat, totally devoid of emotion.

      “Wha’ are ye saying? Rider, if this is a jest, I’m no’ laughing. Please open these gates!” He began shaking the bars. The Highlander saw Fitzcairn, Charles and Joseph coming up behind the Immortal. “Joseph! Fitzcairn! Please let me in! Charles!”

      The three men were surprised to find Duncan outside at first but they then made to move past Rider. The warrior, however, raised his hand, stopping them. “You shall not open these gates!”

      “Rider, what’s the matter with you?”, Joseph demanded.

      “Have you gone mad?” Fitzcairn was flabbergasted. “To hell with you! I’m letting Duncan in!”

      This time, Rider whipped his sword out, the sharp edge landing a few inches above Fitzcairn’s throat.

      “You really are crazy!”, Charles exclaimed. “This is holy ground!”

      “God, dinna hurt him!”, Duncan begged earnestly, fearing for his friend. “Tis me ye’re angry with! Let him go!”

      Rider lowered his blade, glowering at Fitzcairn. Charles quickly pulled his friend back.

      “Wha’s wrong?”, Duncan asked. “Why are ye sa angry? Is it because ye saw me kissing Kronos? He brought word about my family. When he asked me…I only meant ta show him how grateful I am for wha’ he has done.”

      The Immortal sneered at him. “For a chieftain’s son who has been saying he’s afraid of his lecherous armsmaster, you certainly give your kisses freely to a man who would ravish you. How easily you have forgotten what he has done to you!”

      “Ye dinna understand!”

      “Oh, I understand perfectly! I’ve seen you sneaking out of the keep, even if I expressly forbade you to do so. What were you doing in Donan Woods, MacLeod? Were you meeting your lover? Giving him your kisses? Or was it more than that?”

      “How can ye say tha’ ta me? I have always been loyal ta ye. Rider, ye must listen ta me. Please let me explain.”

      But when he looked into the Immortal’s eyes, Duncan saw such rage in them, the violent urge to hurt him. He wanted to step back but Rider’s fierce gaze froze him where he stood.

      “YOU SLUT!”, Rider hissed with such venom in his voice. “After all these centuries, I never thought someone would break my heart again. I never imagined it would be you! MY OWN LIFEBONDED! How could you do this to me?”

      Tears began streaming down Duncan’s face. “I did nothing! I swear it! I wad never do anything ta hurt ye!” In a last ditch effort, he finally gave voice to the feelings he has been holding back. “I LOVE YE, RIDER!”

      The warrior burst out in sardonic laughter. “You have a very funny way of showing it.” Rider then turned to Kronos, who has kept his silence. “Take h