It was a typical English village, settled in a gently sloping valley. The morning fog was burned away as the sun chased off the chill of night. Methos stirred inside his hut and prepared himself for the day. Crops must be maintained, clothes must be mended, and flocks tended to. As he stepped from his home, he immediately looked around for his betrothed. There, working in his field, was Kronos. A flush colored Methos' cheeks, and he looked quickly away as Kronos turned to smile at him. His stomach clenched in anticipation and his hands went immediately to the necklace Kronos had given him as a token of their betrothal. They were set to wed in three day's time, and Methos was impatient. He longed to taste his soon-to-be lover again. They had met in secret out in the fields late at night, for it was forbidden that they see each other before the wedding. But the memory of those brief kisses burned Methos' lips. So savagely tender, their mouths trembling as fear heightened their joining. But their true joining would happen soon. Very soon.
He shook himself from his fantasies and went about his daily chores. He spread food for the geese running underfoot, then went to the well to get water to make breakfast. He chatted easily with those at the well as he waited his turn. He pulled the bucket half full of water up and started to fill his canter."Good day to you," Kronos' voice startled him. He nearly dropped the bucket as he whirled to face Kronos.
"Good day," he stammered, the hot flush from his earlier thoughts returning full force in the face of his betrothed.
Kronos' eyes were dark blue as they studied his figure. A smile lit Kronos' face as he reached out to take the bucket before it fell from Methos' nerveless fingers. As Kronos leaned closer, he whispered, "I cannot wait to see you trembling beneath me."
A slight moan escaped Methos' parted lips and he felt his knees shake. Kronos' voice was hypnotic, tearing straight through his soul to his nether regions, which twitched in anticipation.
"I want to watch your face as I bring you the greatest pleasure you have ever known. I want to see this color," Kronos' finger traced along Methos' sharp cheekbone, "all over your body."
"M'lord," Methos gasped shakily. "We cannot . . ."
"Why not?" Kronos hissed as he grasped Methos' elbow to pull him closer. "We are to be married in three days. Are you not mine?"
"I am yours," Methos whispered. His eyes closed as the sheer force of Kronos' presence overwhelmed him.
"And we shall be together soon. Meet me tonight," Kronos pleaded.
"No, we mustn't," he murmured as his eyes darted around them.
Kronos' grip on his elbow got tighter. "Did you not just say you were mine?"
He winced, but the sheer power of Kronos' touch sent a thrill through him. "Yes, I am yours, but not yet."
"I will have you tonight, my love. I cannot live without your scent filling my every breath; your body lying next to mine, shuddering with pleasure. I need you," his betrothed rasped.
"Oh," was all Methos could say as Kronos leaned in and kissed him, his tongue licking at his lips. "Let me inside," Kronos purred against his mouth.
Methos whimpered, but pushed him back gently. "No, we mustn't. Three days, and then I will do whatever you wish."
"You will?"
"I promise," Methos replied huskily, though a burning coil of fear inside of him wondered just what he had promised. He was not unfamiliar with what married couples did, though he had never himself. Imagining what he and Kronos would do colored his cheeks once again, and Kronos chuckled.
"I see you cannot wait either, my love," Kronos whispered as he brushed against Methos' trousers, in which a very familiar bulge was present. "But, we shall, for I would do nothing to hurt you."
"I know," Methos replied as he reached up and cupped the side of Kronos' face. "It is why I love you so much."
One of the villagers passed by them and cleared his throat with a wink. The two young men separated with shy smiles then went about their duties.
The day went on like any other, uneventful. The sun rose high in the sky, and midday meal was prepared. On his way to the well again, Methos froze and raised his head as he heard thunder. He shielded his eyes against the sun's glare as he checked the sky. Only a few white clouds dotted the sky, and he grew concerned. He walked quickly to Kronos' hut when the thunder grew louder. His eyes grew wide as he scanned the surrounding countryside. It was not thunder, it was --
"Horses! Gather the men!" came the battlecry. "Invaders!"
Kronos ran out of his hut directly into Methos, their arms coming around each other to keep from falling. "Invaders, here? What do we have?" Methos asked breathlessly.
"We live. For some, that is enough," Kronos replied darkly. "Stay in here; it is safest." He gave Methos a hard, quick kiss and attempted to pull back.
Methos held him tighter. "I wish to join you."
Kronos pushed him away. "No! It is too dangerous."
"But I can fight," Methos protested. "I won't let you go out to die!"
"I won't have both of us lost!" Kronos kissed him again. "Pray for us."
"I will," Methos whispered as Kronos went to join the men. His eyes stayed on his betrothed until he lost him in the large crowd of defenders. They would save the village; they had before, there was no reason they could not again. It was probably those annoying Saxons to the south, attempting to take more land.
What rode down into the valley toward the village stopped Methos' blood cold. Savages. Ruthless, Scottish savages. He shrank against the door frame as the villagers rode out to meet the invaders. Each clank of metal on metal caused him to jump, and he feared that each shriek was his beloved's. The defenders were pushed back into the village, and soon -- too soon, they were fighting in the village. Methos helped pull the women and children to relative safety inside the strongest hut, but even he could see that the villagers were losing.
As he pushed the last child through the doorway, he turned as he heard strange sounds. Seated above a white stallion splattered with blood, he caught his first glimpse of the Scottish leader. Long, wild hair hung straight down his back. His face had blue streaked across the left side in a curious pattern. Green and blue checked cloths were tied round his large frame, and a wildness shone from his eyes. He held his Claymore high as he shouted orders in a strange language. He was every bit a wild man, and Methos' heart pounded in fear. He cast a quick glance around, his eyes falling to a dropped sword. He snatched it up and held it defensively. He was the only person between the women of the village and these savages, and he'd be damned if they touched them.
The leader rode through the village and tore up the gardens. He stopped before the one hut not raided by then, the one Methos stood glaringly defiant in front of. A sneer twisted the man's lips, and Methos felt a cold chill through his blood. The savage leaned down and struck at him; he blocked the attack, but was no match for the man on horseback. Within seconds, his only weapon was flung several feet from him. He stared down at it in shock, then turned fear-filled eyes up to the man leering down at him.
"I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and ye're mine!" the great beast of a man bellowed in English.
Methos cowed back against the hut wall in fear, eyes wide with terror. "No!" he whispered defiantly as he shook his head from side to side. Before he could think, he turned and ran, as fast as he could, though he had nowhere to run to. The nearest village was a least a day's ride away, and he would never make it on foot. But he had to run. His legs would do nothing else.
Suddenly, MacLeod's horse was right beside him, then the Scottish heathen's thick arm wrapped around his waist. "Let me go!" Methos wailed as he felt himself being pulled upward. MacLeod settled him on the front of the horse, belly down. He gave his bottom a good solid pat before turning to the rest of his Clan.
"Take what ye want and burn the rest!"
"Kronos!" Methos yelled as the horse began to move. He had seen his betrothed through the slaughter of their people, and knew that Kronos had heard him.
"Methos!" Kronos outraged voice called through the chaos. "You'll not take my betrothed!"
"I'll take what I like," MacLeod informed him as he swung down with his sword. Kronos blocked it, though Methos could see his arms straining against the great Claymore.
To aide his love, Methos grabbed MacLeod's arm and tried to keep him off-balance. "Stop! Leave him be!" His head spun dizzily as MacLeod hit his temple with the hilt of his sword.
"Quiet!"
The last thing Methos saw was his love's face twisted in anger as he fought for both their lives. Then the world went black.
Methos reawakened to an intense headache. He was stiff and sore, and in motion. He opened his eyes, then quickly clamped them shut again. All he had seen was swiftly moving ground. Hoofbeats pounded in his ears, and he remembered what had happened. Tears formed behind his eyes and he choked back a sob.
"Awake, are ye?" a thickly accented voice asked.
He refused to answer. A strong hand in his hair forced his head up. "I asked, are ye awake?" the Scottish heathen demanded.
The tears threatened to spill over as he winced in pain. "Yes," he whimpered. His hair was released with a sharp jerk, and his chin hit the horse's flesh.
"Good. I dinnae need ya hurt for what I have in mind fer ye."
Fear stopped Methos' heart. "What will you do to me?" he asked on a whispered breath.
The deep-throated chuckle he got as answer caused him to try shy away from the Scotsman, which was impossible from his precarious position on the horse.
"Ne'er ye mind. Ye will know soon enough."
They continued to ride until the sun sank below the horizon and stars filled the sky. Finally, they stopped at a stream to let the horses rest and to eat. MacLeod slid off the horse and indicated that he should as well. Methos refused with a glare. With a harsh sound, he was bodily hauled off the horse onto MacLeod's shoulder and carried like a sack of wheat.
"Put me down, you behemoth!" Methos snarled as he pounded MacLeod's back.
"Okey," the savage answered, and dumped him with a shrug onto the ground.
Methos hissed in pain as he hit shoulder-first, then rolled to a stop at MacLeod's feet. He glared up at the Scotsman, then winced as he rubbed absently at his bruised shoulder.
The barbarian's eyes softened as Methos stared disbelievingly up at him.
"Did I hurt ye?" MacLeod asked softly.
"No," Methos spat back defiantly, ignoring the pain shooting down his arm.
MacLeod kneeled by him, and he shied away. "I'll no hurt ye," MacLeod whispered as he gingerly took his arm and flexed it slowly. "I dinnae think it's broken, but tis probably bruised."
Methos felt his jaw slack open as the savage handled him tenderly. This was the same man who just manhandled him off the horse and dragged him away from his people? "What do you want with me?" he asked as he curled up on himself.
"I dinnae know yet. For now, you will be kept here; safe." MacLeod rose to his feet and made a quick survey of their hasty camp. "We'll make Glenfinnan in two days," he shouted to his warriors, who all cheered in answer.
Methos flinched away from these barbarians. They all smelled, they were dirty, and they -- they let their women fight? Yes, that was a woman under that painted face, coming up to MacLeod and speaking rapidly in a language Methos couldn't understand.
MacLeod answered in the language, and Methos watched in fascination as he was pointed at and their voices rose. Finally, MacLeod barked something and the woman stomped off, muttering to herself.
"Of what did you speak?" Methos asked hesitantly.
"Nothing," MacLeod answered curtly. "Do ye want some food?"
Methos shook his head no, even though he was starving. He was intent on finding a way back to the village -- if there was a village left. Tears once again burned his eyes, though he willed them back viciously.
"Ye donnae have to be strong for me," the warrior said. Methos started as he realized the Scotsman was once again kneeling by him. "If ye are hungry, you should eat. We are more than half a day's ride away from your village; trying to return tonight would be folly. Surely ye donnae want ta die from cold?"
//Better than what the fates have in store for me, I think.// Methos lowered his gaze, shook his head, then wrapped his arms around himself. He was already cold, but he vowed not to ask for anything. Food was welcome, as he needed to keep his strength up if he planned to escape. And he did plan to escape before the morning. He accepted the foul smelling bowl MacLeod handed him silently. He chewed automatically, his mind on Kronos. Would he be riding after them? He knew his love would do anything to save him -- assuming he was still alive. The food sat like a lump in his stomach, and he put the bowl down on the ground and curled up on himself again. He stared glassy-eyed at the fire, trying desperately to keep from crying.
"Do ye not like it?" MacLeod's damnable Scottish burr interrupted his thoughts. The voice was hard and drew his attention.
"It is fine," he answered automatically, staring unblinking into the fire.
"Then why do ye not eat?" MacLeod demanded.
"I do not want any more," he answered quietly. Why couldn't this barbarian leave him alone? Why did they take him, and not any of the women of the camp? Was he to be held for ransom? But what did the village have of worth? Surely not *himself*. He knew he was not handsome, not like his beloved. He thought of Kronos' strong build, his face not-quite-hardened to a man's leanness yet, still soft to the touch. Kronos' lips curled up in a smile; his eyes lighting up as he spotted his betrothed across the town square . . .
"What is wrong with yew?" the Scotsman demanded.
"I miss someone," Methos snapped, then turned his head away so MacLeod did not see the tear slip down his cheek.
"The man I was fighting, no?" MacLeod asked softly.
Methos didn't answer, though he couldn't stop his shoulders from tensing, and he hissed as he aggravated his shoulder.
"Y'are hurt, aren't ye?" MacLeod's burr softened as he reached out.
Methos shrank back, his eyes wide with fear. "Please, do not touch me," he begged.
"I canna hurt ye; I just want to see how you are healing."
Methos puzzled over this. "What do you mean?"
"The healing. It should be happening much sooner than this," MacLeod said by way of explanation.
"Why should it? If it is just a bruise, as you say, it will be healed in a day or so."
"No, I should be healed *now*," MacLeod insisted. His tone and expression changed, and his voice lowered. "D'ye not know?"
"Know what?"
MacLeod turned back to the fire. "Tis not important. If ye do not want more food, then you should rest. We have a long day's ride ahead of us t'morrow."
Methos sighed wearily. Why had he expected the barbarian to make sense? The only thing he understood was that he needed sleep just as much as they did. "I am tired."
"Then come here."
Methos stared at MacLeod, not understanding. "Where?"
"Here." MacLeod patted the furs lying about him. "You are ta sleep here."
"I will not!" he declared haughtily. "I demand . . ."
"Ye demand nothing," MacLeod growled. "Unless ye have forgotten that you are my prisoner?"
Methos swallowed hard in the face of MacLeod's rage. He looked anywhere but at those dark eyes filled with anger, and noted that a lot of the warriors were huddled together on other bundles of furs. The night air was cold; perhaps MacLeod only meant to share body warmth? He dared to look up into MacLeod's eyes again, and doubted it. "I will remain here."
"Then ye are a fool," MacLeod spat as he tugged the furs around himself completely and rolled to face the fire.
Methos shivered as coldness that had nothing to do with the night air permeated his skin. So far, he had not been harmed, yet he had defied the man who had kidnapped him. What game was the barbarian playing? Did he intend to get him back to the village, and then treat him as a slave? Surely that was what he would be to the Scottish; nothing more than a lowly slave. At least, he prayed that was so. Still shivering, he wrapped his arms around himself and fell to a fitful sleep.
Methos felt his lover's arms around his body and snuggled in closer, feeling utterly safe. Kronos' strong hands rested on his stomach, and Methos covered them with his own, smiling to himself as he slowly woke up.
"Good morning to you," he murmured as he rolled in those protective arms to give his lover a kiss. His hands rested on the broad chest as he tilted his head up to offer himself.
Soft, yielding lips met his, and he sighed in pleasure. He allowed his lips to be parted as Kronos' tongue flicked at them, begging entrance. The velvet softness darted inside teasingly until he moaned from pure pleasure. He felt that kiss throughout his being; it ignited his fingertips where they rested against his lover's chest down to where their groins were just barely touching. It burned through his blood, demanding an answering fire within his belly. Kronos sucked softly on his tongue, drawing another deep moan from him. "M'lord, we mustn't," he whispered as he pushed him gently away. An apologetic smile was on his lips as he slowly opened his eyes. The sight that greeted him caused him to gasp and scoot back rapidly.
The savage, Duncan MacLeod, was smirking. "And a good mornin' ta you, as well," MacLeod replied.
Humiliation burned at Methos' cheeks. "How dare you!"
"How dare I what? Ye kissed *me*," MacLeod reminded him with a chuckle.
Methos choked. "I thought you were . . . "
"I know. You thought I was your lover. Well, I could be, if y'would let me," MacLeod purred as he rolled closer.
Methos shivered as those dark brown eyes swept his figure, clad only in the thin clothes he had worn yesterday morning. He wrapped his arms around himself to stop the shivers that had nothing to do with being cold. "I will not let you," he replied softly, the words sticking in his throat. That kiss! He couldn't get that kiss out of his mind. It was like being slowly burned from the inside out. Kronos' kisses never had that effect on him. What was it about this Scottish barbarian?
"We shall see," MacLeod answered knowingly. His face immediately changed as he once again gave orders to the camp. Breakfast was prepared and the fires doused, then before midday, they were set to leave.
Methos had stayed near the last fire to be put out, trying to ignore the activity around him as he plotted his escape. He saw no woods as his gaze slid around, nor cover of any kind. It was rolling hills of the deepest green, and would have noticed the devastating beauty if he was not intent on his plan.
"Come," a deep voice commanded, and Methos was immediately on his feet before he could think.
His eyes snapped up to meet MacLeod's, yet this time, there was only a hint of fear in his gaze as he demanded, "Let me return to my people."
"Ye have no people," MacLeod informed him coldly. "Ye only have me. Now, come." MacLeod smoothly mounted his horse, then held his hand down for Methos to take.
Methos turned his head and folded his arms across his chest.
"Y'either take my hand, or I'll tie ye behind the horse and ye can ride that way!"
MacLeod's brutal statement caused Methos' head to whip around, and he saw the sturdy piece of leather the savage now held in one hand. He swallowed hard, then offered up his right hand, praying it did not shake.
MacLeod's hand clasped his, and in one fluid motion, had Methos settled in front of him on the stallion. MacLeod grasped his other hand, and he started to struggle. "No," he whispered frantically.
His hands were brought together and tied swiftly with the leather, then MacLeod's hands covered his. "I will make sure you dinnae fall, but I canna have you free, do you understand?" the Scotsman whispered in his ear.
Methos didn't understand; he didn't understand anything that had happened since yesterday morning. He nodded his head anyway, and kept it lowered as MacLeod shouted orders and they broke camp. Methos stole occasional glances at the countryside; none of it familiar. The sting of tears again filled his eyes, but he vowed he would not cry in front of these barbarians. To show weakness would be his death, surely.
The day was spent riding, only stopping for noonday meal and to let the horses rest. As the sun started its decent, Methos' apprehension grew. Nighttime would have MacLeod demanding he sleep at his side again. All day long, he had the press of MacLeod's strong chest at his back and his warm hands over his. The presence of the man was nearly overwhelming, and the rocking motion of the horse wasn't helping as Methos felt MacLeod's groin rubbing at his bottom. If he wasn't so humiliated, he might have found it erotic. As it was, he only prayed the day would end without incident.
As night fell, they stopped beside a bubbling stream and set up camp. Supper was the same fare as the night before, and Methos ate it without tasting it. His eyes instinctively turned upward as the last rays of the sun disappeared. The sky was filled with stars, burning brightly in the moonless night. He and Kronos had spent a few nights just looking up at the stars, lying in each others arms. The comforting touch of his betrothed was desperately wished for. Methos glanced nervously to the furs being laid out, and the people beginning to pair up. MacLeod was making a tour of camp, laughing and whispering a few words to everyone before he returned to his own pile of furs.
MacLeod settled down by the fire and warmed his hands. "Will ye be sleeping over there in the cold?" he asked quietly.
"I wish to sleep alone, yes," Methos answered defiantly. He had no furs, had been offered no other protection against the cold than to share MacLeod's bed. Even the fire could not take the chill off, and his teeth chattered.
"Come, I canna stand seeing ye freezing. Come," MacLeod coaxed as he stretched out a hand to him.
Methos' eyes locked on the broad hand, then traveled slowly up the muscled forearm, to finally come to rest on MacLeod's face. It was not hard as he had first seen it, nor was it twisted in rage. It was softer somehow; more open. And his eyes were deep brown and wide with hope.
"Come," MacLeod whispered again.
Methos felt something inside of him warm as he slowly reached out to MacLeod, finally placing his slender hand inside the stranger's surprisingly gentle grip. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he licked his lips nervously as MacLeod drew him close.
"I will not harm ye," MacLeod whispered as he lay Methos gently down, then pulled the furs over both of them. "And I will let no harm come to ye. You are under my protection."
MacLeod's warm breath tickled his ear, and the strange words warmed his heart. He truly did feel protected as he drifted to sleep.
Morning came, and this time, Methos had the presence of mind to remember where he was. But it was odd to wake up surrounded by another. MacLeod's arms were wrapped around his chest, and his head was pillowed on MacLeod's bicep. The Scotsman's groin rested at the small of his back, and he could feel -- with a soft gasp, Methos pulled out of MacLeod's arms. He rolled over and stared at the Scotsman as he tried to still his wildly beating heart. MacLeod stirred, but did not awaken, and he breathed a sigh of relief. His eyes roamed over MacLeod's solid chest, his view blocked only by the muscled arms now resting on empty air. He shivered as his body recalled how they had held him protectively through the night. His gaze traveled upwards along the strong neck to the handsome face, and he could not help but compare him to Kronos. This Scotsman was nothing like his beloved. Kronos was fair of skin, while MacLeod was dark and mysterious. Why was he so important to this barbarian? He reached out his hand to brush the long, unruly hair from MacLeod's forehead. His fingers just brushed the heated skin of the Scotsman, and he gasped as that heat turned his blood to molten lava. He scrambled to his feet abruptly and ran from their bed.
"Where d'ye think yer going?" MacLeod called as the Scotsman came up behind him and turned him roughly.
"I do not know," he whispered shakily. "I could not . . . I cannot . . . please, do not ask me to share your bed again," he begged shamelessly, tears coursing down his cheeks.
"But I did nothing," MacLeod protested.
Methos just shook his head and pleaded again, "Please."
"Ye are a fool," MacLeod spat, though his expression softened. "Go, then, and do what ya like. It doesnae matter, anyway. We will reach Glenfinnan by nightfall." MacLeod leaned in close, his breath hot against Methos' face. "Ye'r new home."
Methos shivered uncontrollably as MacLeod turned and shouted for everyone to get up. The barbarian was loud and harsh, and Methos feared it was because of his defiance. Only God knew what would happen to him when they reached Glenfinnan. He sank to his knees and clasped his hands together, offering up a prayer that Kronos would find him before then.
"What are ye doing?" MacLeod demanded gruffly.
Methos didn't answer. A rough hand forced his head up, and he opened his eyes. "I am praying for my rescue," he replied quietly.
"By who? That coward who screeched after ye? He's dead." MacLeod scoffed with a wave of his hand.
"Kronos lives," Methos replied confidently. He let all his love shine from his face; allowed it to give him strength and hope. He saw MacLeod blink in surprise, and knew the power of their love would overcome anything this savage did to him. "I would know if my beloved were dead."
MacLeod towered over him, his long hair almost touching the ground. Duncan's voice was low, and sure, and deadly. "I killed your beloved, ye fool! The sniveling, whining man died begging for his life!"
"No," Methos whispered with a shake of his head. He rose to his feet, his breath coming in harsh gasps. "No," he repeated, louder. "He is alive still."
"He is dead. My sword carries his blood." MacLeod replied confidently.
Methos pushed against the broader man. "No. You are lying. Kronos would not leave me. He swore he would protect me."
"A bit late for protection, don'tcha think?" MacLeod shot back with a smug grin. "Ye have already been captured and taken from your home."
Methos stepped up to MacLeod and shoved their faces together. "And I shall return to my home right now," he raged quietly. With lightning-quick reflexes, Methos was astride the great white stallion and riding at full gallop back toward his village. Tears blurred his vision and his heart was in his throat. Surely MacLeod had not killed Kronos? The last thing he remembered seeing was Kronos' face twisted in anger. He had tried to fight with MacLeod, but the savage was much stronger and had the advantage of being in control. No more. Methos was back in control, and he was going to see for himself that Kronos lived. He would have felt something if he were dead. They were bonded. If that bond were severed, surely a part of the survivor would die also.
Hoofbeats counter to his own reached his ears, and he looked back to see MacLeod racing toward him. He leaned low over the stallion and urged him faster, hardly daring to breathe as he was pursued across the rolling hills. He glanced over his shoulder, and was stunned to see MacLeod still behind him, though he was not gaining ground.
"Please," he whispered to the horse, "Let me escape. Take me home." As if he had heard the command, the horse seemed to increase speed, taking him further from MacLeod.
A wild, coarse yell startled him, then an agonizing pain lanced through his chest. He gasped, his mouth instantly filling with blood as he looked down at the arrow sticking from his chest. He could not catch a breath, and the horse slowed as its master called to it.
Methos had no strength left to run; only to slump against the horse's neck and pray his death would be quick. He noticed MacLeod ride up beside him, his expression dark. MacLeod dismounted, then reached up and carefully pulled him from the stallion. His body was going numb, though the pain was still sharp where the arrow remained.
"I dinnae want ye to find out like this, Methos. For that, I am truly sorry." MacLeod lay his head gently back on the ground, and the last thing Methos saw was the bright, azure sky before his eyes rolled to the back of his head and he breathed his last.
The crackling and popping of a fire.
Methos turned his head toward the sound, and felt the warmth from the blaze against his face. What had happened? He had stolen a horse and escaped, then MacLeod had pursued him . . . the arrow . . . he gasped painfully as if the arrow were still inside him, though he felt no pain. He raised his head and craned it to see his chest, but saw no arrow or wound. Dried blood soaked his clothes and he felt lightheaded, but he was not wounded.
A footstep cracked a limb and he scrambled to his knees, seeking out the source.
"It is MacLeod," a familiar burr announced. "Ye are safe."
"I am not safe," Methos spat back. "I am dead! Did you die as well?"
MacLeod settled a few feet from him, facing the fire. "Ye are not dead, Methos. You were shot by my arrow, yes. But ye recovered."
"How long -- how long have I been here?" Methos choked out the words.
"Half a day," came the remarkable reply.
Methos barked a laugh. "Half a day? To recover from an arrow through the chest? Do you think me a fool?"
"No!" MacLeod snapped. "I think ye an Immortal."
Methos sat back on his haunches, staring at the firelight shadows across MacLeod's face. "Immortal," he repeated slowly.
"Aye. Immortal. Ye cannot die, Methos."
Methos' hand absently stroked his chest, still feeling the impact of wood on bone inside of him. "How do you know this?"
"Because I am Immortal, too," MacLeod answered quietly. Methos watched as MacLeod flipped a small dagger in his hand, then offered it to him. "Go on. Cut yourself. Cut me. We will heal."
Methos looked from the dagger to MacLeod's eyes, wondering what game this was. His blood thundered in his ears, and his world narrowed to the man in front of him. He snatched the dagger and plunged it deep into MacLeod's gut before the other man could blink. "For Kronos," he hissed as he yanked the dagger out. Breathing harshly, Methos wiped the blade on MacLeod's tartan, then began to gather food. As he threw his small bundle onto the horse's back, he heard a gasp and whirled around.
MacLeod was sitting up, holding onto a wound that was no longer there. "D'ye believe me now?" MacLeod asked as he rose to his feet.
Methos backed up against the horse, his face white. "You . . . I killed you! You are dead!"
"No, I am not. I am Immortal. As you are." MacLeod pulled down his tartan and Methos saw where he had ripped the flesh apart. Only a small bit of blood remained on the perfect skin. "We cannae die."
"No," Methos whispered as he rubbed at his chest, then dropped to his knees. "Take it back. Make it stop." He covered his face with his shaking hands and sobbed.
"I dinnae make ye, Methos. We do no know where we come from. We do no have parents."
"My -- my parents died when I was young," Methos stammered.
"They were not your parents," MacLeod insisted. "We cannae have children. We are alone." MacLeod kneeled in front of him and pried his hands away from his face. "But we donnae have to remain alone. Stay with me, Methos," he murmured. "Together we donnae have to be alone."
"What horrible monster am I?" Methos whispered. "I am a demon. Kill me," he pleaded, wild-eyed.
MacLeod roughly shook him. "Listen to me, Methos! I can teach you. I can help ye through this. But ye must accept who you are. Ye are Immortal," he insisted.
"I am a demon!" Methos yelled back, his face streaked with tears.
"Ye're Immortal!" Duncan screamed as he shook Methos harder. "Put upon this earth ta rule it, not ta cower from it. On yer feet!" He yanked Methos upright, keeping his grip on his arms. "Ye will kneel to no one! Others will bow before ye. Accept what ye are, and stay at my side as my brother."
"I am a demon," Methos murmured. "I am an abomination. I should not have happened."
"Ye are so much more than that, Methos," MacLeod whispered as his lips covered Methos'.
Senses overloaded and in shock, Methos was unable to resist as MacLeod's arms came around his shuddering frame and his demanding mouth pressed against his. He opened to MacLeod's questing tongue and welcomed the velvety, intimate caress. He felt himself being lowered to the ground, and did not resist, nor did he help. He just . . . accepted. The sweet smelling heather surrounded him, but MacLeod's scent was stronger.
"Let me make love to ye, Methos," MacLeod whispered as his broad hand traced circles on Methos' chest, opening his tunic.
"Yes," he murmured. "Make love to me." He arched his neck as MacLeod's mouth traced a hot trail down his chest, flicking a wet tongue over his nipples. His hands reached up and tentatively touched MacLeod's hair, smoothing down the tangled mess. He pushed it aside in search of MacLeod's neck, then stroked it delicately.
The great man above him shuddered, and he pulled back, alarmed. A hand guided his back to the same spot on MacLeod's neck. "Donnae stop," MacLeod whispered shakily. He leaned down again and nuzzled at Methos' neck.
Intense pleasure shot through Methos, and he gasped at the sensation. MacLeod immediately stilled, but Methos answered hoarsely, "Do not stop." Teeth nipped at his skin, then a hot tongue soothed over the barely-sore spot.
Wide-eyed, he continued to stroke MacLeod's neck with one hand, while the other explored the Scot's broad, strong back. His tunic was pushed open further, then a feather-light touch covered his abdomen. His stomach fluttered and he had to force himself to remember to breathe. Never had he felt such things. Even the late night meetings with Kronos had not equaled this . . .
He gasped painfully and struggled to push MacLeod away. "No," he whispered.
Hands grasped his wrists and pinned them above his head. "Methos, look at me," MacLeod demanded. Tears leaked out of his tightly closed eyes and he shook his head. "Look at me," the harsh voice commanded. Methos opened his eyes, but turned his head away.
"What is wrong with ye? Have ye never done this before?" MacLeod asked. Methos didn't answer, and his hands were released. "Ye have not, have ye?" a soft voice asked as an equally soft touch caressed his hair.
Methos shook his head. "Kronos . . ." was all he could choke out.
"Ye'r betrothed," MacLeod recalled with a quick intake of breath.
Tears fell from Methos' eyes as he mourned for his beloved. Unresisting, he was pulled up against MacLeod's chest and rocked like a child. "Och, I dinnae know," Duncan murmured against his hair. "I will noh force ye, Methos. This I swear."
MacLeod continued to rock Methos and murmur nonsense in his ear until he fell to an exhausted sleep wrapped in MacLeod's arms.
In the morning, MacLeod explained to Methos about Immortals, the Rules, and the Game. Methos took it all stoically, only asking a question here and there. Nothing mattered anymore. Kronos was dead, and he would live forever. But what would he live for? What was life without his beloved? MacLeod also offered to teach him how to fight properly with a sword, and training began that afternoon.
"Ye are not doing it right. Swing from your shoulder," MacLeod instructed, placing his hand on Methos' right shoulder. "Feel that muscle? It should be doing the work, not ye arms. Try again."
Methos swallowed hard as MacLeod touched him, that fluttery feeling returning to his stomach. He forced himself to concentrate, but the sight of MacLeod's sweat-sheened body was a distraction. The man was powerful, of that there was no doubt. Where he was lean, MacLeod was broad. Where he was soft, MacLeod was hard. A sword at his neck startled him and he gasped.
"Methos," MacLeod chided. "Ne'er let ye guard down. I coulda taken ye head if I wanted to."
The blade still rested against Methos' neck, and a flush started down his body where the cold steel rested against his hot flesh. Every sense was heightened; every experience intensified. He could see the individual beads of sweat clutching the hair on MacLeod's chest. The sharp smell of their sweat tickled his nose, and the fine hairs on his neck stood up as the blade moved a fraction against his skin. "Do you want it?" he asked hoarsely.
His eyes locked on MacLeod's, and he saw the deep arousal in them. His knees threatened to give out at the sheer force of emotion Duncan was projecting.
"No, I donnae want ye head," MacLeod murmured. "I want you."
Methos felt the familiar twitch at his groin and ruthlessly got command of his body. "Then, let me go," he answered as steadily as he could. Disappointment flared in MacLeod's eyes, but the blade was instantly removed, and Methos was able to breathe normally again. "You wished to teach me. Teach."
And so, away from the curious eyes of the Clan, Methos learned what it meant to be Immortal. He honed his reflexes to near perfection, and brought his fighting up to challenging level. MacLeod taught him to use his quickness instead of his strength, and to outthink his opponent, rather than try to out-fight him.
"Are there no women Immortals?" Methos asked one night as they sat about the fire after an exhausting day.
"I donnae know. I have not come across one yet, but I have not traveled far."
"They would not last long at the Game," Methos mused. "They would lack the strength to go up against a man."
"Strength of body is only one part of it," MacLeod explained. "Ye must have strength of mind as well. Which ye do," he added with a wink.
Methos blushed rosily and looked away. They had been separated from the Clan for seven weeks, and Methos felt himself growing more attached to MacLeod every day. They shared a bed as the nights were still cold, but MacLeod had kept his promise. He had not forced Methos to anything except training. But when they lie side by side under the furs, Methos felt his body reacting to MacLeod's nearness. For the past few nights, he had slept with his back to MacLeod, for fear the Scotsman would feel his need and act on it. His thoughts returned to the conversation. "Immortality is a game of survival, is it not? Hunt or be hunted? Kill or be killed?"
"I want ye to do more than survive, Methos. I want ye to live and grow stronger. Survival is not enough."
The heartfelt spoken words tore straight through Methos, and he stared at MacLeod in shock. "Why am I so special?" he asked on a breath.
"We are all special, Methos. Each of us deserves a chance to live. I wanted to be the one ta give ye the skills necessary ta do that."
"No, there is more," Methos demanded softly as he knelt by MacLeod. "I want to know why you picked me from my village. Was it for my Immortality, or was it something more?"
It was Duncan's turn to look away as Methos stared intently at him. "I couldna help myself. I sensed you as I rode over the hill, then I saw ye." MacLeod kept his head bowed. "Ye looked fierce and helpless all at once. A warrior by upbringing, but not in heart." The Scotsman picked up one of Methos' hands and held it between his own. "These hands were not meant for war. They were meant for . . ." the sentence trailed off, and silence descended between them.
Methos had closed his eyes as MacLeod described himself, trying to see what MacLeod had seen. He could not, but the reverence that MacLeod's voice held shook him to his core. His hand trembled in MacLeod's, but he left it there. He opened his eyes as his other hand traced the side of MacLeod's stubbled face. "What were they meant for?" he dared to ask.
MacLeod turned his head and kissed Methos' palm. "That," he answered roughly. MacLeod pulled their hands to his lips, and kissed Methos' other hand. "And that." His eyes locked on Methos', and he leaned forward. "And this," MacLeod whispered as his lips brushed his softly.
Methos moaned lightly in protest as MacLeod pulled back. It was his turn to lean forward, pressing his lips to MacLeod's in an awkward kiss. MacLeod tilted his head, and their lips melded together perfectly. Methos whimpered as his mouth opened slightly, and the liquid fire of MacLeod's tongue slipped inside. His arms came around MacLeod as the kiss deepened, and his own tongue made its first attempt to join MacLeod's. At the first touch, Methos jumped as the sensation traveled to every nerve ending. He felt MacLeod smile, then delved deeper into the recesses of his mouth.
Breath was no longer a necessity. There was only touch, and scent, and taste. MacLeod's hands roamed over his body, his mouth following and leaving a burning wet trail of need in its wake. His neck was ravished, every inch nipped and soothed within seconds. MacLeod's mouth traveled lower, raining kisses over his chest. He paused to lavish special attention to his nipples, which were now hard and overly sensitive to the ends of MacLeod's hair acting like tiny lashes against them. MacLeod's arousal was sharp in the air, a musky, earthy scent that Methos swore would be burned into his memory forever.
His own arousal was making its presence known, and the ache between his thighs was growing more insistent. He grew bolder and kissed MacLeod's cheek, working his way to the Scot's ear, which he took between his teeth and tugged gently on. When that got a positive response, he carefully nipped the skin just behind MacLeod's ear, then slid his tongue down the side of his neck. Methos felt MacLeod's moan vibrate against his mouth, and a rush of power at the knowledge that *he* had caused it made him smile. His hand wrapped in MacLeod's hair and he repeated the same pattern on MacLeod's other ear.
A hand on his groin caused him to gasp and draw back. MacLeod's fingers rested just at the base of his cock, lying partially erect against his thigh, but it was close enough that Methos could feel the heat coming off of MacLeod.
"Too soon?" MacLeod rasped in his ear.
He shook his head. "Just -- surprised me, is all." He steadied his breathing as best he could, and concentrated again on MacLeod's neck. His attention was immediately drawn back to his groin, where MacLeod's fingers were now tracing along his cock, coaxing it to full hardness. Methos could do nothing but fall against MacLeod's chest and moan as the Scotsman's hand closed around the base of his cock.
"Lie back," MacLeod whispered in his ear, and he was laid gently down on the pile of furs. MacLeod's hand never left his cock, and now it started a slow, steady stroking. MacLeod's mouth returned to his, his tongue mimicking his hand's movements on his cock.
Methos' hands fell uselessly to his sides as his brain tried to process all the sensory information his body was suffering at once. No, not suffering. Delighting in. Drowning in. He arched his back, forcing his cock into MacLeod's hand. The friction was incredible, so he attempted to repeat it.
"No," MacLeod's burr whispered in his ear. "Not yet."
"Why?" he whimpered.
"Because, this is not all," MacLeod answered with a sly grin that sent tingles to places Methos didn't know he had. "Wait one second." MacLeod gave him one more quick kiss before cool air replaced his warm body.
Before Methos had a chance to protest, MacLeod's newly naked body was pressed fully against his, and his groan echoed through the hills.
"You like that?" MacLeod asked. Methos could only nod. "So do I," MacLeod breathed before he lowered his mouth to claim his again.
His arms immediately went around MacLeod, hugging him closer. His thighs parted and he felt the extent of MacLeod's arousal between his legs. He shuddered at the leashed power he felt there.
"I will no harm ye," MacLeod murmured against his lips. "Remember that."
Methos nodded, his trusting eyes on MacLeod's. He followed the Scot's lead, learning MacLeod's body as he had learned Methos'. His hand tentatively touched MacLeod's erection, and MacLeod's hand guided his to stroke him. A guttural groan from Duncan assured Methos he was doing it right, and with his confidence boosted, he grew bolder and stroked harder. Soon, MacLeod stilled his hand.
"Not yet." MacLeod rested for a minute, gathering his control. Then he suckled on his fingers, keeping his eyes locked on Methos'. With his other hand, he grasped Methos' thigh and pulled him higher onto his lap. Methos' legs were on either side of MacLeod's waist, and he was growing nervous.
"MacLeod?" he questioned hesitantly.
"Shh." The look MacLeod leveled at him warmed every nerve in his body, though did little to ease his nervousness.
Apparently satisfied, MacLeod removed his fingers and maneuvered himself a bit, until he could comfortably rest that hand underneath Methos. "This may hurt a bit. Just give it time. Okay?"
Methos nodded, unsure exactly what MacLeod had planned to do. Then, he felt one of MacLeod's fingers enter him, and he cried out sharply.
"Shh, shh, tis okay," MacLeod assured him, showering his neck with kisses. MacLeod distracted him with a deep kiss as he pushed another finger inside of him. Only a small whimper escaped this time, though he desperately wanted the invaders out of his body. Tears of frustration blurred his vision as he pushed against MacLeod's shoulders, but the man was not to be moved. He was growing more uncomfortable as MacLeod inserted a third finger inside of him, and he vocalized his protest with another sharp cry.
"Just a wee bit more, Methos," MacLeod murmured. "Please, just a wee bit more."
"No," he whispered. "No more, please. It hurts." At that instant, MacLeod moved his fingers inside Methos, the fingertips stroking somewhere deep inside him. Pain was forgotten, and whatever pleasure Methos had felt before was wiped from his memory as sparks of energy raced through his body. His thighs tightened around MacLeod's waist as he gripped the Scot's arms and cried out his pleasure.
He barely felt MacLeod shift, but he could not miss the tip of MacLeod's cock enter him. MacLeod felt huge inside of him, and he tried again to push MacLeod away. But, the Scot was stronger than he was, and all he managed to do was tighten up his muscles just as MacLeod pushed against him. He threw his head back and screamed as the pain overrode everything.
"Methos! Methos," Duncan yelled. "Relax. Ye have to relax."
"I can not!" Methos yelled back. "You are killing me!" he sobbed.
"Yes, you can! Relax," MacLeod ordered. He stroked Methos' hair, trying to calm him.
Choking back another sob, Methos tried to relax his muscles. MacLeod's soothing words and touches helped, and soon he relaxed enough that MacLeod could move again.
"Do not stiffen up. Ye will only hurt yourself. Relax," Duncan instructed softly as he continued to kiss Methos' face.
Methos nodded, though tears wet his eyelashes. MacLeod still felt huge inside of him, but the actual pain had receded to a dull ache. When the Scotsman moved inside him again, this time Methos was ready, or so he thought. That overwhelming pleasure rocked through him again, and he impaled himself onto MacLeod fully with another scream.
"Ye donnae know how to do this the easy way, do ye, Methos?" MacLeod grumbled. Sweat was dripping off of him onto Methos, whose face was a mix of pain and ecstasy.
"You gave me no warning," Methos retorted harshly, his voice rough. His sex now lay almost limp against his thigh, and he sobbed from the loss of the pleasurable feelings.
MacLeod gave him a quick kiss. "No matter now. The hardest part is over."
"What does that leave?" Methos asked, eyes wide with fear.
MacLeod moved his hips just a tiny bit, and Methos bit his lip as his eyes rolled to the back of his head. "Letting go enough to enjoy it," MacLeod's burr rasped in his ear. His hand closed over Methos' cock, and he stroked it firmly back to hardness.
MacLeod began to move again, small rocking motions that barely rubbed inside Methos. Methos concentrated hard on not feeling, but the sensations were starting to build inside of him. MacLeod's thrusts grew stronger, and Methos' hips rolled to meet him. Those sensations were growing stronger, and he reached up to wrap his arms around MacLeod for support. He could feel the straining muscles in MacLeod's arms as he fought for control, and realized just how much MacLeod was holding back. Taking a deep breath, he rocked hard against the Scotsman, who groaned deeply. His hard cock was trapped between them, being stroked with each thrust and rock of their bodies.
MacLeod's fingers dug deep into Methos' ass as he parted him further. Methos winced, but did not cry out. MacLeod thrust deeply into him, angling it so that he hit that special place that sent shivers throughout Methos. Methos felt an ache start, one that both frightened and excited him.
"MacLeod," he gasped as he felt those feelings building to unbearable levels.
"My name is Duncan," MacLeod rasped in his ear. "Say it."
"Duncan," Methos sighed his name heavily. His body felt both heavy and light, tired and free, and he could not think. His body could only sense. Every hair on MacLeod's chest rubbing against his own, the strain of his thigh muscles as he gripped MacLeod tightly, the tears starting down his cheeks again, the scent and taste of MacLeod's sweat under his mouth.
"Again," Duncan demanded as he pulled almost completely out of him, then thrust inside the tight opening sharply.
"Duncan," Methos sobbed as his back arched into the move. Pain danced on the edge of his senses, and he felt himself falling into oblivion.
"Again," MacLeod grunted, punctuated with a deep shove of his hips as he came. Protesting muscles seized up as MacLeod pumped inside him again and again, emptying himself inside of him.
"Duncan!" Methos yelled in ecstasy and terror as his first climax ripped through him. He held onto MacLeod for dear life as his entire body came alive with feeling. Colored starbursts filled his vision behind his tightly closed eyes. Each nerve ending was a tiny white-hot fire inside of him. His nails dug into the slick skin of MacLeod's back as his hips refused to stop rocking against Duncan's. His essence coated both their chests as his cock pulsed again and again, draining the life force from his body until he lay limp in MacLeod's arms. He latched his mouth onto MacLeod's shoulder and groaned deep and long, his body spent. Exhaustion swept like waves through his body, and he succumbed to it, falling asleep with Duncan's arms wrapped protectively around him again.
Methos rolled to his side, stretching languidly. His body felt loose and satiated, and it took him a moment to remember why. A furious blush colored his cheeks as flashes from the night before raced through his mind. He couldn't believe he had given himself so freely. But -- but he knew that he could not have denied it any longer, either. For almost two months he had been with MacLeod, watching the hard body and sleek muscles without touching them. His own need had finally won out over his shame, and he could not deny that he enjoyed it. He turned over, wanting to share his newfound joy with MacLeod, but the space beside him was empty. He sat up and looked around their small camp. The sky was light, far lighter than when he normally woke up, so it must be mid-morning. He stood and stretched again, working out the minor kinks still left in his joints.
"MacLeod?" he called, startling a few birds, but not bringing forth his lover. He walked to the top of one of the hills and shielded his eyes from the sun. "Duncan?" he called again, a bit quieter. The sensation of another Immortal filled his head, and he raced back to camp to retrieve his sword.
"I am Methos. Show yourself!" he demanded sharply.
"Tis only I," MacLeod answered as he stepped over a low hill. His hands were raised in supplication, and upon seeing Methos, he grinned. "I was hoping you would be prepared. Tis time now."
Methos lowered his sword. "Time? For what?" His body's immediate reaction to seeing MacLeod burned through him, a hungering need that was unstoppable. He licked his lips and was about to suggest an indecent offer of midday meal of himself when Duncan's voice shattered his mood.
"To return to the village. Ye are to be made part of the Clan." "Return? But, I do not wish to be part of your Clan," he protested.
"It is not up for discussion," MacLeod snarled as he stepped up to Methos. "Either ye return as a member of the Clan, or ye return as my prisoner. Which do ye prefer?"
Despite their relative same height, MacLeod loomed over Methos, who stood his ground in spite of his fear. "I am not your prisoner," he replied quietly.
MacLeod clasped his arm, just below his elbow, and Methos found himself mimicking the movement. "Then ye are my brother, Methos."
//But I would rather be your lover,// whispered through Methos' mind.
They ate a quick meal, then set about tearing down their camp. Methos could not help but feel a sense of loss as their haven was destroyed. He had forgotten his initial anger and fear at having been captured in light of his discovered Immortality. Everything he had endured up until that moment had faded into the back of his mind as he learned what being Immortal meant to him. Even the ache of the loss of his beloved had faded, but would never be completely gone. He had accepted that Kronos had died the same day he did, only he had come back. He would live for the both of them. That was his private vow, and one he would try to keep forever. He fingered the necklace Kronos had given him as he bowed his head.
"Methos, are ye ready?" MacLeod called from his perch on the back of his horse.
Methos took a quick look around their camp, then nodded and mounted his own horse. They rode side by side, not speaking until they reached the village, where they were greeted with much fanfare and rejoicing. MacLeod slid off his horse into the middle of the celebration, given in honor of his return. Methos remained to the side, unwilling to draw attention to himself. He had ridden into the village a free man, though he did not know how the villagers would know that. He should not have worried.
MacLeod shouted, and everyone quieted. He spoke rapidly in that foreign tongue he had said was Gaelic, and pointed to him. His horse whinnied softly, and Methos felt his face burn as every eye turned to him. MacLeod's great voice echoed in the stillness, then a wild cheer erupted, startling Methos with its intensity.
MacLeod fought his way to his side, then offered up a hand. "Come down, Methos, and meet your Clan." Methos' fingers curled around MacLeod's hand and he slid off the great animal gracefully. His eyes locked on MacLeod's, but the Scotsman looked quickly away. "We will make ye a hut ta sleep in, and ye shall hunt your own clothes. But first, we celebrate!" MacLeod shouted again, and answering cheers went up.
Methos was escorted to the middle of the village, where he was wrapped in the Clan tartan. His eyes sought out MacLeod, but could not identify him through the crush of people. His buzz was still faint in the back of his mind, though, so he knew MacLeod was close.
His acceptance into the Clan went smoothly, and he fell into a daily routine much like the one he used to have in his former life. He woke in the morning, went to the well for water, helped tend the flocks and prepared meals. One difference from then was that he was acutely aware of his body now, and he ached for MacLeod's touch. But, he had caught only glimpses of the Clan leader in the mornings, before he led the warriors off to battle. Who they were battling, he did not know, nor did he understand enough of the Gaelic to find out. Some of the women were trying to teach it to him, so he spent afternoons with them, learning the language and customs.
Weeks went by, and the winter gave way to spring, then summer. The summer solstice was celebrated and the few crops were harvested. Methos had learned much during the spring, and could speak halting Gaelic. At least he was understood, that was the important thing. He learned why the special paint was placed on the horses and faces before battle, and what was expected of him as a male in the Clan. Not too bad an existence, until one day the scouts came rushing back to tell of an invasion from the English on the way.
"Invaders! Prepare for war!" MacLeod ordered, and the warriors scrambled to obey.
Methos grabbed his sword and armor, and went to stand in the doorway to Kyra's hut. "It is time," he said quietly. She had been a good friend to him, the most patient with him as he learned their language. They had discussed much about his life before and his life now, and she had agreed to his plan weeks ago. At the next battle, Methos would join the men in defending the village.
Now she nodded and went to retrieve the paint he had requested. He stood patiently while she applied it, then kissed his cheek. "Victory to you," she whispered.
"Death to our enemies," he answered. She gathered her own armor and together, they walked to the gathered warriors.
Methos' eyes swept the crowd, Duncan's buzz a familiar warmth in his blood. The leader addressed the warriors, giving them last minute instructions. MacLeod's gaze slid over his Clan until his eyes locked on Methos', and his face twisted in annoyance.
"Death to the English!" he shouted by way of battle cry, then forced his way through the villagers to Methos.
"Death to our enemies," Methos shouted his answer as MacLeod stopped in front of him. The noise of those around them faded as MacLeod's gaze swept his body. The Clan tartan hung about his shoulder, though he wore no kilt, he wore instead the color of death: a pure white outfit he had fashioned from cloth they had raided weeks ago. His hair, which he had not cut since his capture, was pulled back in a ponytail that bounced against his back. The right side of his face was streaked with bright blue paint, and his eyes glittered with passion.
"Ye cannot go with us," MacLeod snarled.
"I am a member of this Clan," Methos replied in Gaelic. "It is my right to defend it."
MacLeod was shocked, he could tell. "Ye canno' fight . . ."
"I can fight. You trained me. If I am a member of this Clan, I deserve the right to defend it!" Methos debated hotly. "You will not deny me this."
"D'ye have a death wish? These are English we are ta fight. Ye are English!" MacLeod protested.
"I wish to live and to grow stronger, so that I might fight another day at your side," Methos whispered as he touched the blue paint on MacLeod's face. His thumb trailed over MacLeod's lips, which parted under his light touch. He leaned in and pressed his lips to MacLeod's delicately. "Watch your head," he murmured, then he backed away to be lost to the crowd.
MacLeod could do nothing more than mount his horse, ride to the front of the line, and lead his Clan into the thick of battle.
Methos had never seen so much blood in all his life. He had seen the wounded as they were brought back to the village, but he had not seen the cause of all those wounds. He fought bravely, ignoring the pain of wounds inflicted upon himself. He knew they would heal, so he concentrated on defending those who would not. The sense of another Immortal raced through him, and he felt reassurance that MacLeod was so near. He swung around and blocked a sword with his shield as he struck with his own weapon. He ignored the cries of the wounded as he fought, intent on stopping as many of the English as possible. The buzz was behind him, but before he could turn around, his sword was knocked from his hand and he was yanked back by his hair. He dropped to his knees with a cry as cold steel was placed against his neck.
"Immortal," an unfamiliar voice sneered, and Methos' blood ran cold. The firm grip was kept on his hair as the strange Immortal slowly circled him.
Methos struggled to hide his fear, but he had not encountered another Immortal except MacLeod. He knew the Rules, and he also knew his life was now forfeit. He had broken his vow. He closed his eyes and whispered softly, "I am sorry, Kronos."
The sword was removed and the grip on his hair fell away. His head fell forward from the sudden release. He raised his eyes to the man before him, and his heart stopped.
Unfamiliar armor hung on the well-muscled frame. Hair the same length of his own, wild about the face now hardened by manhood. Eyes still blue as the sky, though a scar now marred the right cheek, but it was his beloved.
"Kronos," he rasped.
"Methos." That longed-for voice called his name, but not with the love it used to. Now, it was filled with scorn and hate.
"You are alive," Methos breathed reverently as he felt tears at his eyes. Kronos was not dead! He lived!
"As are you," Kronos remarked coolly. "I searched weeks for you, following any trail I could uncover. I spent every night praying for your safe return. Tell me, how is it you faired after your capture? Not badly, as I can see." He reached out and fingered the fine cloth Methos wore, tugging on it harshly. "Did you lay with the leader to get such fine things?" he asked cruelly.
Methos bowed his head as the tears fell down his cheeks and shame colored his skin. His head was forced up and Kronos' gaze was hard as he repeated, "Did you lay with him?"
Methos opened his mouth to answer, but no sound came out. He forced his eyes from Kronos', unable to see the hate in them anymore. "I had no choice," he choked out.
"You fight at their side, Methos! You are living with the Scottish barbarians who *killed both of us*," Kronos hissed. "You chose this!"
"I chose to survive," Methos cried in reply as he clasped the strange armor. "I thought you dead. I chose to honor your memory by living."
Kronos leaned down. "I live."
"I did not know!" Methos wailed. "How could I know? I was taken . . ."
"By the men you now fight with! By the man you now lie with." Kronos pushed him away and spit at his feet. "You are dead to me, Methos."
Kronos lifted his sword to deliver the death blow, and Methos closed his eyes, welcoming it. He tilted his head back, exposing his neck. His soul now dead, he had no reason to live. Instead of the sword cutting into his neck, he felt a blade slice through his middle. Blood burbled up his throat, and he clasped the thick blade sticking through his stomach. He opened his eyes to see Kronos kneeling before him and MacLeod standing over them both, swordless. Methos again looked to the sword in his belly; it was MacLeod's sword they were impaled upon.
"Why?" he gasped through the pain.
"I had ta stop him. I couldna let him take yer head," MacLeod answered simply.
Methos felt his world going black, and stared at Kronos as the life left his beloved's eyes. "Please, forgive me," he begged.
"Die . . . first," Kronos rasped brokenly as blood dribbled out of the corner of his mouth.
The crackling and popping of a fire.
Those were the same sounds he heard upon waking from his First Death, and Methos turned his head to their direction once again. He was in an unfamiliar hut, though the markings were familiar. At least he was back at the village. A low buzz warmed through him, and he peered into the darkness.
"Who . . .?" he asked breathlessly.
"Tis I," MacLeod's soft burr answered as he crawled into the firelight. "I dinnae want ta frighten you."
"You did not," Methos answered as he sat up. The lingering traces of pain were of no consequence, at least from the sword he had been impaled upon. The pain in his heart was stronger than anything he had ever experienced. "He is alive," he remarked for no reason.
"Aye, he is. I did kill him, Methos. What I dinnae tell you was that he was Immortal too," MacLeod confessed.
"Why?" he demanded softly as he turned to face MacLeod. "Why not tell me? Why not leave us both there to recover?"
"I couldnae," MacLeod whispered and looked away.
"Why!" Methos shouted. "Why was I so damn important to you?"
"I had heard about ye, ever since yer parents found you. Do ye know what tis like, feeling bonded to someone ye have not met before?"
His only bond was to Kronos, and he had known him all his life. "No, I do not," Methos spat.
"Tis a sickness that overtakes ye. Ye canno think of anything but that person. The seer in the village, she told me I had to rescue ye before yer marriage, or ye would be lost to me forever."
"I was never yours! My heart and soul belonged to Kronos, you heathen! You did not have the right!" he cried hysterically. "You did not have the right," he sobbed as he collapsed onto the floor. Strong arms cradled him and sure hands smoothed back his hair. "Y'did not have the right," he whispered through the anguish of his heart.
"Aye, I may not have in your eyes," MacLeod agreed softly. "But it was foreseen. We were to be together."
"Then why do you not want me now?" Methos asked quietly, voicing his other fear.
"I was afraid that I had hurt ye," MacLeod murmured, "And ye would no want to speak to me again."
"Dammit, MacLeod," Methos wailed as he buried his head in the solid chest that held him. "Do you not know how many nights I cried myself to sleep, because I thought I had not pleased you? That I thought I had done something wrong?" He raised his head and stared up at MacLeod. "Do you not know how much I need you?" he cried plaintively.
Tears glittered in the barbarian's eyes as MacLeod looked down at Methos in his arms. "D'you need me that much, then?"
"I am dead to Kronos. I have no people." He raised a trembling hand to rest against MacLeod's cheek. "I have no one . . . but you."
"And I have no one but ye." MacLeod leaned down and kissed him reverently, his salty tears mixing with Methos' own.
"Make love to me, Duncan," Methos whispered as he drew the Scotsman to his mouth once again. MacLeod rolled over him, pushing him down onto the furs. He delicately removed Methos' clothing, then his own, until only the firelight covered their skin. MacLeod settled over him and placed teasing kisses on his lips that grew in strength.
Their kiss deepened, their emotions guiding them as they relearned each others bodies. Methos delighted in each touch upon his skin, returning in kind stroke for stroke, pinch for pinch, tease for tease. The broad plane of MacLeod's chest beckoned for his touch, and he answered its call. His fingers tangled in the coarse chest hair, then his nails raked lightly over the hardening nipples. He felt MacLeod's moan against his lips, and repeated the gesture, but didn't stop there. His nails curled around MacLeod's waist and up his back, his hands coming up to tangle in MacLeod's wild mane of hair.
MacLeod's breath came in harsh gasps against his ear, and he sighed at the feeling of contentment that filled him. "Now tis your turn," the faint burr promised, and a shiver went down Methos' spine.
Slowly, and with the utmost tenderness, MacLeod kissed his body, his mouth sweeping along his heated skin. He moaned softly as MacLeod moved lower over his belly and thighs, until he finally pressed his lips against the burning length of aching flesh. Methos' back arched as MacLeod's hot mouth surrounded him, and he trembled as the Scot began sucking at him.
"Duncan," he gasped as he wrapped his hands in the tangle of MacLeod's hair. "Duncan, what are you . . ."
The wet heat left his cock, then MacLeod's breath was hot against his belly. "Tis okay, Methos. I dinnae think ye were up ta trying . . . what we did before. This is less . . . painful," he whispered hoarsely. "I dinnae want ta hurt ye again."
Methos grasped MacLeod's head firmly between his hands and lifted until he could stare into the Scot's eyes. "Duncan MacLeod," he whispered like a prayer before he pulled MacLeod up and kissed him deeply, letting all his passion, all his emotions come through their joined mouths. When his chest burned for air, he released MacLeod's mouth.
The instant MacLeod's mouth was free, it went immediately to his throat and nipped a trail down to his cock once again. Before Methos could catch his breath, MacLeod's mouth was once again on him, drawing a stream of ragged moans from his raw throat. Flashes of heat sparked from MacLeod's tongue out to every nerve ending, and he was unable to stop his hips from rocking against MacLeod. His hands tangled once again in the Scot's hair as he felt the familiar stirrings of his climax.
"Duncan," he rasped hoarsely. "Duncan, I will . . ." The pressure increased and he cried out, his hips thrusting forcefully now. MacLeod's hands slid under his ass and held him tightly, and he tried again to warn MacLeod, to no avail. If anything, MacLeod's mouth became more demanding as his tongue swirled around his cock. It was too much, and with his lover's name on his lips, he thrust deep into MacLeod's mouth and came with a force that arched him off the furs. Blinding colors flashed before him as his body convulsed again and again, MacLeod's mouth unwilling to let him come down off the incredible high.
Bonelessly he fell back onto the furs, gasping for air, unable to see or hear due to the rushing of the blood through his veins. He felt MacLeod's tongue licking him, and whimpered. "No more," he pleaded softly. "No more."
"I was only cleaning ye off," MacLeod's raspy voice tickled his ear. "Did ye enjoy it?"
"Oh, yes," Methos answered breathlessly. He turned his head to look at MacLeod, and saw the love shining from his eyes. Tears filled his own, and he once again raised his hand to MacLeod's cheek. "Did you?"
"Tis not important," MacLeod dismissed. "Only you."
"No," Methos insisted as he sat up shakily. "If we are to be lovers, then I should learn what that means. On your back," he ordered.
MacLeod raised an eyebrow, but did as he was told. Methos straddled him about the waist, where he could feel MacLeod's cock against his ass. Then he leaned forward and kissed MacLeod languidly, stroking his chest with long sweeping motions. He nipped and sucked at MacLeod's neck, down his chest to flick over the hard nipples, then lower still to his abdomen. He hesitated briefly as he contemplated the length of flesh jutting up from the nest of curls at MacLeod's groin. Carefully, he wrapped his hand around the base as his eyes locked on MacLeod's. He watched as MacLeod's eyes partially closed and his neck arched back in pleasure. With a smile, he stroked up the length once, then slowly back down. He felt the shudder rip through his lover, and repeated the movement. As his hand continued to move, he lowered his mouth to the tip and cautiously wrapped his lips about it. His tongue flicked out to taste the liquid there and with a wince, he swallowed against it.
Hands at his hair pulled him up. "Methos, no. Ye donnae have ta."
"I want to, Duncan," he answered steadily.
"I know. But not yet. Here." MacLeod guided his hand on the hardened flesh, whispering encouragement as Methos found a rhythm he liked. Methos leaned up and kissed MacLeod as his hand continued to stroke him, and he could feel the cock growing harder in his hand. His tongue thrust in time with his hand's movements as his hand moved faster.
MacLeod suddenly grabbed him in a fierce embrace and trembled violently as he came. Methos ignored the sticky mess as he continued to pull gently at MacLeod's cock until his lover was still. The rough hold MacLeod had on him loosened and he could breathe again.
"Did ye enjoy that?" Methos mimicked his lover's accent with a knowing grin.
"Aye, I did," MacLeod breathed as he pulled Methos down and hugged him.
The warmth from the fire and the scent of their lovemaking hung thick in the air, and Methos grew drowsy. "Duncan?" he murmured sleepily.
"Promise ye'll stay with me," MacLeod whispered against his hair.
"I promise," Methos answered softly, just before he fell asleep, the arms of his lover wrapped protectively around him.
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