Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic

Lost in the Loving: Gifting of Yew

Chapter 2

by Carson Kearns

carsonkearns@hotmail.com

 

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Saturday 20 June, 2002
Paris

It wasn't often that Methos had an opportunity to simply observe his lover. It wasn't in Duncan's nature to stay still for long, so these times when Methos could simply indulge himself, in the looking, were precious indeed. Music, laughter and language resonated throughout the Barge as Parisians and tourists alike went about their own lives and love-making. 

"You're so beautiful.  So bloody, dangerously, beautiful." Methos had no idea whether he had actually voiced the thought or not but this didn't affect its truth. The man before him was a dangerously beautiful lover indeed - and Methos would not have had it any other way.  Duncan opened his eyes and smiled - dangerously - before beginning to writhe in a celebratory delight as his lover's gaze confirmed the worth of the body now bound before him.

"Tell me how much you love this, Duncan," Methos ordered, reaching across to stroke the secured left wrist.

Duncan obliged. "I love it.  Love the way you make me feel," he sighed, turning his head to look at Methos' fingers caressing the wrist restraint.

"And I love the way you make me feel." Methos moved to taste the mouth, lips and tongue that had affirmed his worth. "Now feel this," he ordered.

The outside noises of the riverboats and barges signaled that other people lived, loved and worked outside the Barge. Bits and pieces from the mortal world still managed to break through - sprinklings of laughter from a passing tourist boat slipped into Duncan's ear, when Methos' tongue allowed. The wet, slapping sounds of the Seine against the sandstone walls of the Quai echoed Methos' noisy tastings of his lover. The moon and passing lights also touched, briefly, the two worshippers, and both predator and prey took turns catching glimpses of the other, bathed in the temporary lights.

Methos stopped, pulled back and spent precious minutes lighting strategically placed candles of his own making. He glanced back at his lover, smiled, and watched him breathing in their intoxicating smells. Heady incense soon floated around the flames, suffusing both Immortals. And if Methos mixed certain forbidden powders into the candle mix, Duncan had never complained. Nothing addictive - merely some sensually stimulating combinations, long forgotten to the world of the twenty-first century. Duncan's moans and sighs signaled his approval of the scented candles, the dancing flames and the private world they helped create. He followed his lover's every move as he moved to the sleeping platform and returned with scented oil.  Methos let the Scot writhe in anticipation, as he poured the oil into the palm of one hand. He then joined both hands, as if in prayer, letting the slickness warm between his palms. The surrounding air now crackled with mutual longing and intent. But  there was nothing ecclesiastical in the way Methos reached to caress with those oiled fingers, or the lust in his eyes, or his lip-licking attempts to moisten his own and Duncan's lips.

"More.  Never stop," Duncan continued to plead.

Methos started with the Highlander's hands, taking his time as he coated the silken, callused skin with the exotic oil. Over the next thirty minutes he worked his way up each arm - taking care to linger and work around and under the wrist restraints. He allowed his free-roaming fingers to play around the restraints, knowing that it would send further signals to the Highlander of his being bound to the will of another.

"Look at me, Duncan." Methos commanded. With obvious effort, Duncan turned his eyes from mapping Methos' tortuous massaging of his arms.  He breathed deeply and looked straight into the eyes of the man before him.

"Keep looking at me," Methos directed, as he moved his hands from the Scot's upper arms to his broad shoulders. Methos loved this part - watching Duncan reveling in the falling - from safety, from reason, from sanity. But never from grace. Only Duncan seemed able to do total abandonment with intrinsic grace. Methos had decided long ago that it was simply part of what made the Highlander who he was - and who he would always be.

Methos smiled in anticipation, as images tempted and enticed of what would soon be. Duncan would gift Methos with his body over the coming hours, and Methos would take that gift - touch and taste it, explore it, search out its inner delights. There would be no surface that Methos would not have explored anew, come the dawning.  It was impossible to say who gave and who received more pleasure. Mutuality was the altar on which each other's gifts were offered, revealed and taken. Passionate possession was the incense that permeated their love-making. Methos breathed deeply and refused to let their gazes drift and Duncan's eyes revealed him falling those last few feet into whatever experience Methos was crafting for them.

"You're mine!" Methos whispered. But even in the whispering, he knew that he was as much Duncan's as Duncan was his.

"Yes," was the response that Methos always insisted he hear. He leaned his ear to Duncan's lips to receive the invocation as it left the Highlander's mouth.

"Yes - yes -". Methos leaned closer to hear the final whispered words. Whether Duncan was finally mouthing "Methos" or "Yes" was irrelevant. Both were interchangeable.  The utterances were ended with a deep and loving kiss while Methos' hands worked the stiffened shoulders, kneading the muscle, encouraging the blood to course quickly and freely. Methos tasted the neck stretched away from him, giving him maximum exposed skin, and mapped his lover's face and throat with his tongue and lips. He seized Duncan's head in a vice-like grip and let his fingers claim the long black hair. He turned Duncan's head, from side to side, up and down as he tasted again the lips, chin and mouth, - the forehead. He continued his snake-like tastings of the bodily feast, now trapped before him, and possessed even more closely, slithering and sliding across the surfaces of his home. His territory.

And heaven and hell help any who sought to take it from him.

All around the two, scented smoke cocooned and misted. "Scents to fill the abyss, when all sense has fled," mouthed Methos. Duncan's almost incoherent response was affirmation enough that he agreed.  Methos tasted his way down, tarrying at the nipples, moving to the taut ribs and down to the belly.  Finally he fell to his knees, freed the studs of the Scot's jeans and took the engorged and weeping cock into his mouth and deep into his throat. Firm hands held Duncan's hips as Methos established control. But Duncan's groans were like a siren call, seducing and enticing - reeling him in…

Before he knew how it had happened, he suddenly found himself imprisoned inside the strong legs of the Highlander. Duncan had used the two pegs, to which the cuffs were attached, to give himself a secure grip and while Methos was falling to his knees before him, Duncan had struck. Ever the warrior, he had circled his own prey - and now had his lover securely encased. Methos could feel the powerful calves crossed over against his spine. Indeed, he felt as if his back would break if he tried to move out of the Scot's orbit. Duncan pulled Methos against his body - and Methos let him, luxuriating in the sudden reversal of their roles.

"The predator becomes the prey?" he whispered, looking up. But his voice held neither fear nor regret. He returned to the feasting. The predator, whose succulent flesh was being tasted and swallowed, merely smiled, and nodded. He used Methos' mouth to caress the entire length of his cock, relying on his calves to pull and release his lover. Methos' hands lent extra support as both became increasingly lost in the joining. He stroked Duncan's thighs, back and spine, pulling and releasing in perfect counterpoint to the Scot's thrusts. As Duncan approached orgasm Methos slipped a finger between the taut cheeks and entered him in one smooth, possessing movement.

It was almost Duncan's undoing...

Almost…trapped between overwhelming sexual stimuli. His mumbled insistences that Methos fuck him fell all about them like confetti, as each continued to pleasure themselves on the other, pleasure the other, enter the other, hold the other. Methos increased the intensity of the penetration for Duncan by increasing the number of fingers now inside. He was vaguely aware of his thumb moving to stroke Duncan's perineum, but those sensations were secondary to the wildness he felt unleashed above him. Duncan threw his head and hair from side to side, mouthing insistent invocations of lust and love.

Methos felt as if his entire inner core was Duncan's silk and steel cock - piercing him from mouth to stomach. He couldn't get enough of Duncan inside his body and would have sold his soul, had it not already been given away, to spend his remaining years there, on his knees, on the hardened floor of the Barge, breathing in the Highlander's scents. He wished only to hear forever the sighs and avowals of everlasting love, to taste his lover's essence and watch his golden form bathed in natural and unnatural lights. Methos used his senses to capture it all as he continued to torment his lover, trapped between Methos' hands behind him and his hot, moist mouth in front, sucking and suckling him. Methos' relentless stroking of his prostate finally brought Duncan undone and he filled Methos with the rich cream of his semen. Sweat poured from them both as Duncan thrashed wildly, his hips unconsciously jerking to the rhythms of a dance score composed long ago when the world was very, very young.

Both collapsed.

Methos fell back on his haunches, overwhelmed and Duncan proceeded to lose his physical as well as emotional grip. His hands slipped from the pegs and he slid bonelessly down the wall. Methos took pity and released the cuffs, catching his lover as he fell to his knees and collapsed against Methos' chest. Minutes passed before either was capable of uttering another word. Each simply held on for dear life as the Barge gently rocked. And it was then that the roles once again reversed as Methos expertly slipped another pair of gauntlet restraints over Duncan's wrists.

 They were quickly buckled and as they had only one attachment point both arms were pulled overhead. Before Duncan realized what was happening, he was turned to face the wall, his arms now effectively captured above his head. There was little that he could do with his legs from that angle.

"You don't live five thousand years without learning a thing or two, youngling," Methos whispered into Duncan's ear. "Now - it seems a pity to waste all that preparation." Methos coated his own cock in the scented oil and once again fell to his knees to let his tongue taste and prepare Duncan's anus for further penetration. He put both arms around the squirming hips and firmly encased Duncan's cock. While he didn't mind Duncan's upper body being scratched on the metal plate, he had no desire to inflict unnecessary pain on the Scot's cock and balls and covered them to cushion them when he commenced the thrusting. Duncan was incapable of doing anything except plead and beg for more, and Methos obliged. Standing up, he positioned himself so that he could enter the Highlander in one thrust. He kept up the massaging of Duncan's cock and pushed the head of his own into the moistened opening. Duncan stiffened and called out and Methos stopped, giving the trapped body before him time to adjust. He mouthed encouraging words, soothing and calming invocations, directions on breathing and through the sensual haze surrounding them Duncan seemed to hear and started to adjust his body to accommodate the intrusion.

"How do you want it - tell me…" Methos continued to kiss the neck and hair before him, bending to lick the upper arms caught so effectively.

"Hard, Methos. I want it hard."

Methos used his forearm for leverage against the steel plate of the Barge, while still keeping up the rhythm of his fist on Duncan's cock. From behind, he started to pummel the beautiful body in front of him, using his own powerful legs to thrust deep inside the Highlander's hot, silken anus. Duncan's cries were evidence that each thrust caressed the prostate. Methos took delight in pulling back, almost withdrawing, just to revel in Duncan's frustrated sighs, before powerfully pushing all the way back in. Duncan's entire body was pushed against the plates with each thrust - except for his cock, being milked as his body was being filled anew. Methos had no idea how long they kept at it but finally it was too much, even for Immortals, and both exploded with loud cries.

Methos collapsed against Duncan's back and slipped down the drenched body to the floor. Choked sobs soon brought him back to the real world and he quickly rose and released the cuffs and pulled Duncan to him, supporting him as they sagged onto the floor.

"Hey - hey…you OK?" He gently brushed long strands of hair off Duncan's face and was appalled to see his left cheek covered in blood where it had obviously been scratched against rivets embedded in the steel hull. Duncan reassured him that it was fine and that the sobs were simply a reaction to the intensity of the experience.

"Sometimes it's too much - too much, to be …" but he didn't finish the sentence and Methos didn't push him.

"Birds make great sky-circles," Methos started to mumble. There was no need for more. Both knew the ending to the beautiful Rumi poem, whereby in falling the eagle is given wings. Both were wings to the other's falling. Methos remembered the first time he had given Duncan this experience.  Duncan had been so terrified and so trusting when they had first tried this - - tied to a towel rail, blind-folded.... 

Methos came back to the present and continued to soothe and caress Duncan and finally both rose from the uncomfortable positions on the couch and fell onto the bed. Duncan had recovered enough to quickly spread two large towels over the beautiful quilt. An hour passed as they let sleep claim them, each holding the other. Methos' stomach then started to signal, loudly, its desire for bodily sustenance.

"Don't blame me, Duncan. You're the one burning up all my calories," Methos insisted.

"You burn up mine every time I look at you," Duncan avowed, reaching over to gently stroke Methos' mouth with his fingers before smiling and pulling back. "Right then - food time," he announced and disappeared into the small bathroom for a quick shower.

Methos lolled. He was still lolling some ten minutes later when Duncan reappeared in what Methos had come to secretly call Duncan's Adonis look. But Duncan saw the look on Methos' face and laughed aloud, perfectly aware of the effect his freshly washed and moisturized body was having. "You can look but not touch!"

Methos sniggered. "Get the coffee going, Narcissus!" He reinforced the point with a suitably theatrical stretching on the still relatively intact, and thanks to the towels, clean bedding.

Duncan gave a full-throated laugh, his face alight, and made a theatrical counterpoint of his own by whipping off his towel and flicking his lover's ancient rear-end. Since he had more warning than Methos of what he intended to do, he was already halfway to the other side of the couch before Methos became airborne. Later, both would insist that it was simply bad luck that so many candles were still burning…

- and, that, amidst their laughing, tickling and general gamboling (naked), that it could not possibly have been foreseen that one of the larger candles would end up on the floor, beneath the hanging linen tea-towels…

- or, that, by the time both noticed, both tea towels would be aflame …

- or, that, by the time they had put out the flames, Joe Dawson would be sitting on the steps of the Barge's interior, laughing hysterically.

"Nice bums, boys!" he offered, his words wafting towards the two Immortals amidst floating and blackened wisps of linen. "You're the only two I know who could make the stamping out of a piddly matchbox fire look like the equivalent of battling Mount Versuvius!"

Both Immortals turned - slowly, knowing that Joe knew that the only thing standing between him and their modesty was the kitchen bench. Joe didn't budge. His twinkling eyes remained wide open, waiting to see what they would do.

Methos, who prided himself, he said later, on never having had any modesty to begin with, assessed the scene before him and arrogantly sauntered away from his somewhat more repressed lover. Sniggering, he wandered regally towards the bathroom, his cock swinging in the breeze. But having followed Duncan's panicked eyebrow gesticulations, he also had the foresight to kick the two sets of cuffs under the couch, as he threw off a "Don't you believe in knocking, Dawson?"

Joe didn't flinch. "I did knock - incessantly. I gave up and had a look in the porthole, along with everyone else wandering along the Quai. Nice show boys," he guffawed.

Methos harrumphed and turned back to a clearly mortified Duncan. Where, he wondered, had his golden and aggressive eagle soared? He was looking decidedly soggy-winged at the moment. "For god's sake, Mac. You're a man, not a fiddle! He's playing you, just as he always does. It's not as if he hasn't seen every delectable inch of you," he winked.

Joe laughed even harder as Duncan's doe-eyed pleading quickly resulted in the original offending arse-flicking towel being thrown in his general direction, to the accompaniment of a muttered "Adonis never pleaded for bloody modesty cloths!" Methos took the opportunity to kick his leather gauntlets under the bed with a final "Younglings!" before retreating to the bathroom.

An hour later, Duncan was still apologizing for having let the time get away. "I'm sorry Joe - I had no idea it was so late."

"Are you sure you don't want to go out for dinner?"

Duncan quickly assured him that he had everything under control.

Joe continued, "Mind you, I thought you said birthday dinner, but didn't realise that birthday suits were the required clothing!" he continued to tease.

Methos had no mercy on his mortified lover. "Geez MacLeod, it's not as if you were doing anything important - just hanging around! Letting me do all the work as usual."

"You didn't seem to mind, Methos," came the tight-mouthed retort, with just a hint of warning.

But Methos was having too much fun. "I mean, you wouldn't want me to get housewife's knee or anything would you?"

Joe Dawson shook his head. "If you two are finished playing 'Innuendo'" -- he paused momentarily to glance at the two steel pegs above his head and over at the floor beneath the couch and behind to the floor beneath the bed  -  "do you think that you could possibly get on with feeding an old man? I'm starving. And heaven knows that you two must be in need of food!"

Methos' attempt at verbal one-upmanship was halted by a firm "Don't even think about it, Methos!" from a blushing Scot.

Joe didn't try to suppress a light laugh as Methos admonished his lover's utter inability to deflect Joe's teasing barbs. "He only does it because he knows that he'll embarrass you!"

"Just because you gave up being embarrassed two millennia ago, doesn't mean the rest of us have no shame," growled Duncan, searching beneath the bench for some wine and glasses. Methos and Joe smiled at each other, knowing that neither ever wanted the Highlander to change.

Three hours later the trio had demolished a superb salmon and assorted accompaniments and covered everything from Israel's ending of its twenty-two year occupation of southern Lebanon and what that might portend for peace in the Middle East to India's one billionth citizen being born and what the two Immortals might see in the coming centuries regarding world population. That got them onto the breakthrough in the human genome project currently filling the newspapers.

"How in hell do you do a rough draft of something with three billion letters?" wondered Joe and Duncan. Methos was by far the more cynical about the motives behind the project. Duncan was all in favor of it, but admitted the dangers of private patenting of genes. "In fact, Immortals are probably now in more danger than ever in terms of being used for medical research. Once this much money is involved, the race will be on and any ethics that ever existed will be out the window." He went on to argue that it seemed almost churlish for Immortals not to support the research, since they themselves had all the benefits of regeneration. Joe's legs weren't mentioned.

The conversation then moved to the Love Bug virus, the death of Sir John Geilgud, what Mugabe's election win would mean for Zimbabwe and Methos' moaning that there were no great feats of exploration left anymore, "… now that David Hempleman-Adams has laid claim to being the first person to balloon to the North Pole - even though he missed it by 13 bloody miles!..." sniggered the world's oldest explorer.

Methos then managed to have Duncan lose half his wine when he calmly announced that he had bought them two tickets to the 18th UK and British BiCon conference for Bisexuals in Manchester in  August. Joe choked - loudly. Duncan spent the next fifteen minutes defending himself against Methos' assertions that he was ashamed of having a male lover, asserting that he didn't need to go to a fucking BiCon convention to prove or learn anything- "…and anyway, I'm not actually attracted to other men. You've ensorcelled me in some way."

"You're in denial, MacLeod," teased his lover.

Cheese, more alcohol and a wicked chocolate birthday cake were taken up to the deck to be enjoyed along with the view and the balmy evening. Methos decided that the intellectual thrust of the conversation needed some lightening, more in keeping with the ideas of what he would like to do with the chocolate icing and his lover's body.

"So Joe - what can you tell me about Amanda's little side-line pursuit of selling sex toys on line?" he innocently inquired. It was to Duncan's credit that he only lost one mouthful of very old brandy onto the Barge's deck.

"That's the most expensive wash this deck's ever had," sympathized Joe.

Methos wasn't so sympathetic. "Would you stop doing that MacLeod? You should be serving bloody umbrellas with the food!"

Duncan didn't dignify the comment with a retort - merely a glare. Joe, of course, didn't bat an eye-lid. "You mean, 'Amanda's Armour-y' I suppose?" Glancing at the Scot, he continued. "I know personally of at least twenty Watchers who swear by her…er…equipment. Don't tell me you haven't come across it?"

"Nope - can't say that I have," answered an increasingly exuberant Methos.

"Women - and men - swear by her best seller," Joe teased.

"Joe…" Duncan threatened.

"Ignore him Dawson. Come on - spill!"

An increasingly agitated Duncan tried again. "Joe - I swear…"

Joe tried the reasonable approach. "Geez, Mac - it's not as if it's any great secret or anything. All he has to do is go to google.com and type in 'Celtic Cock au Vin'," he finished in triumph.

Methos' laughter drowned out all other sound. Finally able to speak, he demanded further explanation. Duncan abandoned all attempts to get the moral high ground in his line of sight, threw up his hands in mock surrender, and proceeded to roll into the metaphorical gutter presently housing his companions. "It wasn't my fault," he began.

Methos sadly shook his head. "He always begins with that when he's let Amanda lasso his balls and ride him bareback," added Methos, adopting his 'I'm-only-trying-to-be-helpful' face in response to Duncan's glare.

Duncan continued. "Well what would you do if the most beautiful…"

"Wicked…," offered Joe and Methos in unison.

"Deceitful woman in the world wanted to…well…you know…." bumbled the Scot.

"Make a cast of your cock?" suggested his lover.

Duncan became increasingly animated as he tried to explain. "She promised she'd never tell a soul - just keep it for…well…you know…"

"Those lonely days and nights?" suggested his Watcher, doubling up with laughter.

"How was I to know that she'd started up a Sex Shop on the web - 'Amanda's Armour-y'?" he asked, reasonably.

"Clever name!" offered Methos.

"And that 'Toy of the Year', for three years straight now, would be 'Celtic Cock au Vin'? Joe added.

Methos sat back, laughing and shaking his head. "Mac - do the words "Amanda" and "Danger" mean anything to you? Let's try some simple word association. Amanda. Duncan. Sucker. Gullible. Money. Danger Will Robinson…"

"You've made your point!"

Methos had started to think about the actual process. "By the way, how did you keep it up while the cast was drying? I'm having visions of numerous wilted failures?"

"Too much information!" Joe pleaded - but was ignored.

"I'm not saying that the process worked first time," Duncan winked. "But we sure had a lot of fun perfecting it. Amanda just had to work extra hard to keep me interested while the clay was drying."

Methos demanded all the particulars at a later stage and Joe insisted, between hysterical laughter, that they be given at a later stage. 

"I especially want to hear about the removal of the cast!" Methos insisted. Methos was not about to let this wonderful topic go. "What's the wine part?"

Duncan reached out to accept another glass of alcohol, clearly feeling its need. "Purchasers get a free bottle of red wine with every sale. I suspect the Valicourts are the financiers. And of course, Amanda has gone on to create an entire bloody Celtic range using my privates as the model - candles, dildoes. I used to wonder what she and Gina were doing on their many weekends together!"

"Butt plugs? Nipple rings?" inquired an ever-hopeful Methos. Pausing, he added, "Do you at least get any royalties?"

"She pays in kind - or at least she used to," laughed Duncan. "Now I just get the toys, without the demonstration," he smirked. "Although I could always arrange that if you'd like, Methos," he teased.

"I'm sure now the original is in the hands of a real master, that we could offer a new improved model of Celtic cock," boasted Methos, reaching across to embarrass the Scott even further by pretending to prod his member.

"No handling the merchandise," laughed the Scot, skipping out of harm's way.

Methos went on to have them in hysterics by quoting, with suitable theatrics, the infamous Scottish poem about the bumbling, drunken well-endowed warrior who woke one morning to find a huge blue ribbon tied to his privates. Instead of being embarrassed, he had asserted to all that wherever his cock had been, it had clearly won first prize!

Joe decided that that was his cue to leave, however Duncan disappeared only to return with a guitar he kept for just such gatherings. With a smile at Methos, he insisted that Joe return the occasion to a higher cultural plane. Soft candlelight illuminated the two Immortals - one sitting at the table on the deck, the other at his feet having his hair and ear fondled, while Joe's haunting voice echoed off the steel plates and stole behind the sharp surfaces and metallic claddings.

Methos watched Joe's fingers dancing over the strings, bending them to his will, enticing mournful sounds, caressing the neck. As Duncan's fingers continued to play with Methos' hair and head, Methos closed his eyes and thought about how the making of fine music, or fine art, was a true act of love.  Two merged, and a new creation was born. What, he wondered, was created whenever he and Duncan made love?

The night was still warm as Joe drove away from the Quai, replete and laughing at some ribald farewell comment Methos had made at the expense of his lover. Something about calling Amanda and suggesting a 'Kilts for Kinks' line of offerings - '…so convenient for those wanting a spanking good time….'. Duncan forcefully clamped his hands over Methos' mouth when Methos got to the Glenfinnan Gauntlet line, not to mention the Celtic Cuffs and the Warrior Whips. But Duncan's licking of Methos' ear and neck didn't quite convey any serious level of aggression.

"Enjoying your birthday dinner, Methos?"

"Mmm," Methos assured, sinking back to rest against Duncan's chest in the balmy air, pulling the Scot's arms around him. They stayed like that for over an hour, two figures on the darkened deck of the Barge, doing nothing for the first forty-five minutes, one gently and relentlessly tasting the neck and ears of the other. One using the weight of his buttocks to press against the stiffened cock of the other.

"What do you want, Methos - ask me anything - anything…" Duncan encouraged.

"You - "

"You've got it. Wouldn't want to deny you anything on your birthday. What was it that the astrologer offered? "…Stay up all night on Solstice Eve and welcome the rising Sun at dawn. … Have a magical gift exchange with friends. Burn your Yule wreath in a Summer Solstice bonfire. Exchange songs, chants, and stories with others in person …Do ecstatic dancing to drums around a blazing bonfire…."

Methos laughed. "That's some short-term memory."

"Staying up all night with you…ecstatic dancing…exchanging gifts….I don't need to work hard to remember that."

The night started with golden skin against black silk, sheened with sexual longing and heat. Beads of sweat competed with each other to touch and those that didn't run free were shared between the two bodies, feeding and being fed. Methos feathered kisses on every surface his mouth and fingers could see and touch.

"Stop thinking about me and let me pleasure you," Duncan insisted.

Methos smiled. "You are pleasuring me."

"Fly with me Methos." Duncan encouraged and enticed. "Fly with me….we can find unexplored country yet…" The added seductive whisperings, the suggestions, the insistences, all added fuel. Methos opened his eyes and knew that he was, indeed, flying.

"Use me," Methos commanded.

And so Duncan did, gifting Methos with a yearned for and liberating abandonment as he allowed Methos to think of nothing but his own pleasure and new sensations. Every nerve was on red alert. Duncan pulled him onto his powerful thighs and rose above him like some golden eagle - catching the current and taking them both far, far away. Methos closed his eyes at the intensity of the sight.

As Duncan entered Methos' body, slowly, surely, he leaned to capture his mouth. Methos paused as he examined the expression on Duncan's face - a look of such deep longing, such passion and love that Methos knew that no force on earth or beyond would ever separate them. He felt Duncan sheath himself more deeply, reaching out with his senses to touch, hold and possess. Whatever had been released between the two during the shared Quickening had become stronger, tougher and more imprisoning. As both lovers began to ride the wind, the merging and alignment of their quickened energy fed the coming orgasm.

Methos clutched Duncan's hair as they soared - higher and higher - and knew beyond all knowing, that what they possessed between them was more than love, more than life. Even in the spiraling, dervish ecstasy, he knew that there was nothing, nothing, that he would not do to keep Duncan beside him - and safe. And from Duncan's eyes he knew the feeling to be mutual. No matter the crisis that might split them at some time in the future, no matter what tragedies arose, they would be forever linked. Forever joined. They may be parted - but would never be apart.

He set these thoughts aside, to cushion them and gave himself up to the moment, concentrating on Duncan's insistent thrusting, grinding and lifting. Eons passed as, Icarus-like, both neared the sun. Methos felt himself getting closer -and closer -and closer to the welcoming meltdown. As his body signaled overload he embraced the coming explosion and soon, true to the legend, he felt his wings melting in the downward plummet. As always, his Scottish eagle, riding the currents alongside him, scooped him up with a "Whoosh!" and brought him safely home.

Sometime later, he heard a voice beside him. "What is this thing between us?" Duncan asked.

"I've no idea. It was there before the double Quickening. Maybe it just fed it?"

"Maybe our energies were always resonant. Maybe the Quickening just calibrated it?"

Methos reached for tissues, wiped off the obvious excess fluids and gathered Duncan into his arms. "Who knows? Who cares? I love you. I'll never stop loving you. I'm utterly, completely, lost in the loving of you." As sleep almost captured them, Methos offered one final observation. "Duncan - your cock crowed bigger and more loudly for me," he mumbled.

A light chuckle was the first retort, followed by "It gets more practise with you. And it's more frightened of you than Amanda. Besides, you've found muscles I never knew I had."

A whispered, "Don't tell Amanda!" was the final word on the subject that night, - apart from certain insistences from Methos that Duncan had indeed fallen into his native brogue at certain points in the lovemaking - 'yews' and 'ayes' falling like confetti all around the bed...

~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Sunday 21 June. Summer Solstice. 2000

Breakfast on the deck, a long run, a thorough workout and a sword spar saw both Immortals in peak mood and condition on Methos' assigned birthday. Duncan announced that the afternoon would see them driving to the Valicourt chateau where Gina and Robert awaited with yet another birthday solstice celebration.

"So much for their honeymooning for ten years!"

"Well - what can I say - they're unpredictable."

"Yeah - tell me about it." But secretly Methos was pleased that Duncan had gone to so much trouble for his make-believe birthday. A light lunch on the deck of the Barge followed and as Methos looked back to the table Duncan had set, he saw an envelope, beautifully inscribed:

"To Methos
On your Birthday.
I love yew…."

Also included was a Rumi poem:

"The minute I heard my first love story
I started looking for you, not knowing
how blind I was.

Lovers don't finally meet somewhere.
They're in each other all along."


Inside were two further envelopes. Methos opened the one inscribed 'Open Me First'.  

"Hardly subtle, MacLeod!"  He exploded with laughter as he looked at the picture - Giacometti's famous sculpture entitled 'Nose', cast in 1965. To Methos' queried look, Duncan offered, "I knew him. He doesn't know it but I've been a patron of his work." He reached over and playfully touched Methos' nose. "Now I know why I was always drawn to this piece. I put up the money for the Guggenheim to purchase the original. But we get a casting as well. It will be here this week."

Methos read aloud the card describing the unusual work: '… in Nose there is something of the Surrealist tendency toward the fantastic in the incredible proboscis. In this work, Giacometti suspended a head from a cross bar in a rectangular cage, thus implying that the pendant head could be prodded to swing, the nose further extending beyond the confines of its prison. There is a vague threat in the shape of the head: the configuration of nose, skull, and neck recalls the barrel, chassis, and handle of a gun. However, the wide-open mouth suggests a scream of anguish, and the cord attaching it to its cage evokes the gallows. Nose should be seen within the context of postwar existential angst that was voiced by Jean-Paul Sartre, a friend of the artist….'

Duncan smiled. "I don't really know why - but this piece always called to me. And once I'd met you, I knew why. You're indefinable. Refuse to be encased or imprisoned by anyone's mores, you're dangerous, impermeable - surreal. What we have is surreal." He moved to gently touch Methos' face and leaned in for a soft kiss. "Don't ever let me box you in, Methos. Works of art should never be confined."

"Duncan I'm exactly where I want to be. And I love the sculpture. It's suitably outrageous." He turned to pick up the second envelope.

Inside was a beautiful picture of a tree - of the Fortingall Yew. Methos read the accompanying explanation, touched in a way he couldn't describe. Fortingall, he discovered, was a small village in the heart of Perthshire in Scotland. In Fortingall was a Yew tree that was estimated to be at least five thousand years old - the oldest living organism in Britain and possibly the world. "Apart from you," Duncan offered. In 1769 its girth had been measured at fifty-six feet.

Duncan continued with its history. "Recently tree surgeons took cuttings from the surviving branches and these are going to be grown at Roslin to be planted all around Scotland. So it won't die - it will live on for maybe thousands more years as a clone."  It was one of the rare moments in his life when Methos found himself speechless. Duncan continued. "The Yew is the tree of eternity - and Methos, my birthday, the winter solstice, Yuletide, is also associated with the Yew tree, and the Yule or yew -- log. So you see, our birthdays are linked."

"How did you find this Duncan - and what exactly is the present?"

"I keep up with what is happening in Scotland. And your present is my contribution to the research that will keep the Fortingall Yew and its cuttings alive. You're both around the same age - I had to save it when I found that out. I also get a cutting, and I thought that we could plant it, together, in Glenfinnan?  

"Yes - I'd like that. I'd like that very much." Some minutes passed while Methos took some deep breaths. "Duncan - thank you. I can't even begin to describe what this means to me."

And," he added as an afterthought, clearly referring to Methos’ newspaper clipping on the solstice, "we're supposed to do something for the environment on the summer solstice. So, I managed to surprise you?"

"You did that, youngling. You did that."

That evening they recounted, for Robert's and Gina's pleasure, the events of the night before when they had been caught, bare-faced and bare-arsed, amidst the linen ashes by Joe; Methos' unsubtle kicking of the cuffs under the couch; the half-laced gauntlets being kicked under the couch - all made for a typical hilarious de Valicourt evening. Gina gave her dearest Duuncaaaan all of her sympathy while Robert insisted on knowing where the cuffs and gauntlets had come from.

"Only the best, dearest Robert," Gina offered, overhearing the conversation - amidst her soothing of her darling Duncan's brow. "Amanda's Armour-y, of course!"

"Of course," all sighed.

As they settled into a warm, luxurious, priceless bed, Methos drew the Highlander into his arms. "You never cease to amaze me."

"Good - that's how it should be," Duncan laughed. "I never want to stop amazing you."

"You amaze me every day."

"And no-one will ever love you the way I love you," assured Methos.

"Do you like your sculpture?"

"I love my sculpture."

"Do you love your tree?"

Methos laughed. "I love my tree." And on that note, both Immortals drifted into a deep sleep, both lost in the loving of the companion held fast in the others' arms.

A mumbled "I love yew…" escaped the bedding - drifted around the room and settled back where it belonged, adding a further protective layer over the lovers.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Finis.

Carson Kearns

My heartfelt thanks to Patricia for sharing with me her knowledge of the Fortingall Yew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

    The Blue Ribbon
A Scotsman clad in kilt alone left a bar one evening fair,
And one could tell by how he walked that he'd drunk more than his
share.
He fumbled 'round until he could no longer keep his feet,
Then he stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.

Ring ding diddle-iddle aye dee oh,
Ring die diddly aye oh.
He stumbled off into the grass to sleep beside the street.

About that time two young and lovely girls just happened by.
One turns and says to the other with a twinkle in her eye,
"See yon sleeping Duncan, so strong and handsome built?
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt?"

Ring ding diddle-iddle aye dee oh,
Ring die diddly aye oh.
I wonder if it's true what they don't wear beneath the kilt?

So they crept up on that sleeping Scotsman, quiet as could be,
Lifted up his kilt about an inch so they could see,
And there behold for them to view beneath his Scottish girth
Was nothin' more than God had graced him with upon his birth!

Ring ding diddle-iddle aye dee oh,
Ring die diddly aye oh.
Was nothin' more than God had graced him with upon his birth!

They marveled for a moment, then one said, "We must be gone.
Let's leave a present for Duncan dear before we move along."
As a gift they left their blue silk ribbon, tied in to a bow
And as they turned to walk away his kilt did lift - then show.

Ring ding diddle-iddle aye dee oh,
Ring die diddly aye oh.
And as they turned to walk away his kilt did lift - then show.

Duncan woke to nature's call and stumbled towards the trees.
Behind a bush he lifts his kilt and gawks at what he sees.
And in a startled voice he says to what's before his eyes,
"Och, lad, I don't know where ye've been, but I see you've won first
prize!"

Ring ding diddle-iddle aye dee oh,
Ring ding diddly aye oh.
Lad, I don't know where you've been, but I see you've won first
prize!


15 July 2002

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