|Carson Kearns' Highlander Fanfic|
Lost in the Loving: The Pipes of Borreraig
by Carson Kearns
Duncan sighed in relief as the faerie story he had told Mary only months before at Glenfinnan, along with various others, came to the forefront of his mind. He shed his coat and sat down in the middle of the excited children. Strumming from Joe’s guitar was soon ensuring some quiet, and amidst assorted toddler-poking, shooshing and general fidgeting the children and adults settled around the storyteller.
To the side, Methos withdrew a beautiful and much worn Pipe from Joe's guitar case. Duncan’s raised eyebrow, head shaking and laugh made it quite clear that he only now realized the full extent of his having been truly set up by his lover and Joe, - and that Methos had always intended coming with him to the function.
“Hello everyone,” Duncan started. “I was born in a beautiful place called Scotland. Have any of you ever heard of Scotland?” He proceeded to tell them of the Celts and the magic and mystery that was part of the fabric of their world – and of his own childhood years in those magical surrounds. He skilfully avoided revealing that that childhood had been hundreds of years in the past.
Various interjections concerning Harry Potter made it quite clear that he was dealing with a well-informed audience when it came to magic and mystery. Duncan’s ‘I told you so!’ look at Methos was pregnant with his misgivings at being able to offer anything that would interest such a demanding crowd. But ever the warrior – he ploughed on. “How many of you have ever seen faeries?” he innocently inquired.
No arms were raised.
“They’re all about us,” he advised, and slipping into an old burr, he commenced to tell them of the silver Pipe of mighty Dunvegan castle.
Duncan continued, amidst the large eyes riveted only on him. “In Scotland there is a family called the MacCrimmons, who were pipers to the Chiefs of MacLeod. No-one knew how they came to be such wonderful pipers but they themselves said that it was a gift of magic from the Faery.”
Haunting melodies filled the room, as Methos, and Joe, settled into providing the perfect background music.
“If you go to a place called Borreraig today, you’ll see the ruined foundations of the walls of what was once a great Piping College – a school - where all the boys and girls who wanted to be Pipers would go to learn. The MacLeod Chief still lives today at Dunvegan Castle on the Isle of Skye and there, next to the remains of the Faerie Flag, you can see two sets of ancient pipes, played by the MacCrimmons.”
“We know all about the Fairwy Flag, donten we,” various voices assured Duncan. “Mairwy told us.”
The Gaelic words and phrases in his telling seemed to fall about Duncan like scattered musical notes as he raised and lowered his voice – drawing the children (and parents, Methos noted) in. “It’s said, that the first of the MacCrimmons, Iain Og, received the gift of music from the faeries. He was playing in Sloc nam Pìobarean one calm evening, when a full golden moon was shining in the sky, reflecting off the still waters of the Loch. These nights are known to be magical in Scotland and on this night, as the silvered rays of the moon covered him, creatures of the night crowded around to listen to the enchanting strains of Iain’s pipe.”
Duncan paused to allow Methos’ piping to be appreciated. “The faeries were there in force, spellbound by the sweetness of his tunes. The Queen of the faeries had come to hear Iain Og, and was very moved by the beauty of his music.” Duncan now changed his tone to better reflect regal authority: “ ‘Young man, your beautiful playing has moved me so much that I am willing to allow you the choice of two gifts, which it is in my power to bestow. Tell me, then, which you prefer: Ealain gun rath, or Rath gun ealain’?” Duncan allowed a few seconds for the children to assimilate the Gaelic and wonder what it could mean. The tension built. Finally, he revealed what it was that Iain Og had been offered: “Skill without fame. Or fame without skill.”
The Scot wisely stopped and asked the children what they would have picked, putting the choices in simpler language that they could understand. When the entire twenty toddlers had made their choices known, Duncan smiled and continued to gather them in – to the sweet sounds of the pipe and guitar. “Young Iain Og listened to the Faerie Queen, and looking straight into her eyes, said to her: ‘Give me the skill to play this music, and let richness and fame go to others.’
‘Few mortals would have chosen as you do, fair youth’, said the Faerie Queen. ‘Most would have chosen wealth and fame. Because you have chosen well, and thought only of the gift of your music and the pleasure it brings to so many, I will give you an extra gift – not only will you be the most skilful Piper in all the land. You shall also be famous, across all the seas and mountains, and for all the years to come, for the beauty of your piping.’”
Duncan again paused, and let the children assimilate what it was that the Faerie Queen had offered Iain Og. Timing it perfectly, he continued. “The Queen then took out of a velvet case a very special, magical pipe called a Chanter – a chachalaidh dhubh and handed it to Iain Og. She then turned to her faerie subjects and with great ceremony, all of the fairies left that place. Iain Og hurried off to Dunvegan Castle and won the contest over musicians from all over the Highlands, for all could tell that his music had the gift of faerie fingers on the chanter.”
Mary climbed up onto her Uncle Duncan’s knee, giving him her special seal of approval, as he moved to finish the tale. “So Iain Og did receive both the gifts of great skill and fame. And every year still, at great Dunvegan Castle, a competition is held for all the world’s finest players to compete for the Silver Chanter.”
Duncan now bent down, and lowered his voice. All the children leaned in, as the tension built. “But Iain Og had been warned by the Faerie Queen that should he or any of his descendants treat the silver chanter disrespectfully, the gift for music would be removed from his family forever. One stormy day, one of his descendants was returning to Skye from the nearby island of Raasay with the Chief of the MacLeods. As he played in the piper’s seat at the front of the chieftain’s galley, the swell of the waves caused his fingers to slip. He threw down the pipe,” (suddenly, and theatrically using his right hand to show the children just how disrespectfully Iain Og’s descendant had treated the pipe) “blaming the silver chanter for his mistakes! What do you think happened then?”
Twenty different gore-filled possibilities filled the school hall. Duncan let them amuse themselves with ever more dramatic offerings of what might happen if one disobeyed the Faerie Queen. With superb timing, he offered the conclusion.
“At that very moment, all stared in shock and fear as the silver chanter slowly rose all on its own from the galley in the boat where it had been thrown, and, before the terrified eyes of all on board, floated over the gunwale and into the sea. The Faerie pipe was lost to the MacCrimmons forever! And from that time on, the MacCrimmon’s gift from the Faerie Queen dried up, their school of piping fell into decay, and the family lost all their money and possessions. A lone stone monument, called a cairn, marks the spot where the school of piping stood. If you go there today, you’ll hear the sound of ghostly piping in the sea- cliffs and caverns of Borreraig…”
Methos’ piping provided a suitable coda and over the next ten minutes Duncan answered all manner of questions from the children about gunwales and galleys and chanters and faeries before finding himself surrounded by them as they began playing with his hair. M’Adam even condescended to show them how to tie a particularly pretty variant of a triple bow, announcing it to be one of Duncan’s favorites.
In the background, Joe sniggered.
Clearly, Uncle Duncan had passed the test, if Mary's devoted attention was any indication.
Ann stood to the side of the school room, smiling, observing it all. She gratefully accepted the coffee brought to her by Joe. “This is so surreal Joe. It’s like one of Duncan’s fairy tales. This is the life he should be having. Instead, he’s out there cutting off heads! It’s bizarre.” She turned, and looked Joe directly in the eyes – as if searching for an answer that would make sense to her. “How can that man sitting there with blue bows in his hair be that other man? It’s so unfair – “
Joe looked over at Duncan and Methos. “We’re all different people, Ann. Dr Lindsey makes life and death decisions every day and can be all cold efficiency. But Mary wouldn’t recognise that woman. Children are the only people who get to live simple lives.”
Both watched the tableau in front of them, in silence, for some minutes before Joe spoke. “Thank you, Ann – “
At her puzzled look, he continued. “ – for giving this to Duncan. Letting him – and us – be part of your life.”
She smiled. “I could never begin to repay what he’s given us – and I don’t mean in material goods, though heaven knows they are generous beyond measure. And you know, Joe – I happen to still love him very, very much. I suspect that I always will.”
The Loft: Later that Evening
With Methos and Joe left in charge of entertaining Mary, Duncan took Ann up to the roof of the Loft. The Loft looked beautiful in the soft lighting and Mary snuggled deep into the warmth of her M'Adam.
Methos suddenly broke the silence. “I’m pleased that he re-purchased this.” Turning to Joe, he laughed. “Don’t tell him I said that though! He should never have sold it.”
“He wasn’t exactly thinking clearly during that period.” Joe pulled his guitar out of its case and started playing a poignant blues melody, “Mac told me once that he’d never regretted re-purchasing it – that it was filled with so much of his life – good times and bad. Longings and regrets.” The soft slide of the guitar strings were a perfect backdrop for Joe’s revelations. “And didn’t he love the fact that he re-purchased it at half the price that he had sold it for!”
Methos hugged the sleeping child closer to his chest, keeping her warm.
“This isn’t exactly a choice location. That’s one thing Immortals can exploit – who cares about the neighbourhood if you can rise up from a mugging,” Joe sniggered. Joe inclined his head towards the roof. “You okay with that?”
“Nope. I’m not basically very good at sharing my toys. Don’t worry - we’ve worked this one with Ann out.”
On the roof, both Duncan and Ann stood in companionable silence, watching the stars over Seacouver. With Ann nestled against his chest, Duncan rested his chin on the top of her head.
“Is Adam okay about our being along like this?” Whilst she didn’t mention the fight she had overheard in Glenfinnan, it had clearly not been forgotten.
“Nope - but he’s learning to share,” Duncan laughed. “With you, anyway.”
“Don’t tell me that you’d be much better if the roles were reversed, Duncan. You’ve never struck me as very sensitive new age guy in terms of sharing your lover?”
“You’re right. But I’m working on it too, “ he assured her, with a grin. “It feels good – holding you.” He pulled Ann more tightly to himself. “You know how much it means to me – letting me share in your life.”
Ann reached back and stroked his face. “It’s not a hardship, Duncan. It’s a blessing.”
“But you know what my life is – you only have to say the word and I’ll disappear….”
Ann reached across and put a finger over his lips. “You have us guarded. You couldn’t do more. All life is risk, Duncan. Every time I put her on the bus to school, I risk her life. I’ve weighed up the odds and I’m willing to take the risk, to keep you in our lives. So – let’s hear no more talk of that.”
Duncan smiled and said no more. “Are you still carrying the revolver?” he suddenly asked.
Turning, Ann shook her head. “Wow! You sure know how to break the mood,” she chided. Taking pity, she put his mind to rest. “Yes – relax. But I doubt I could ever use it Duncan.” She turned back to look over the city.
“I'm a bit paranoid as far as you and Mary are concerned. Tessa was never interested in learning self-defence – and I never pushed it. I arrogantly thought that I’d always be there to protect her. If I’d insisted…”
Ann didn’t let him finish that thought. “Duncan – don’t. There are endless ways you can keep finding reasons for why Tessa’s death was your fault. Tessa was an adult, and made her own decisions for reasons that made sense to her. Maybe staying out of that part of your world was the only way she could stay in it? Maybe if she had left you she’d have been run down by a motor-bike in Paris…?”
“No – I’m saying that you can’t assume that if you’d done X then Y would have followed. Maybe Z would have happened and it would have been a lot worse?”
“You’ll soon be quoting Shakespeare to me, like Adam does. ‘What’s past help and past hope should be past tears…’.”
Ann smiled and leaned across to lightly kiss his cheek. “Great advice! Listen to it. Now tell me,” she asked, cleverly changing the subject, “did you enjoy yourself today?” Taking his hand, and pulling her coat more tightly around her shoulders, she headed back to the stairs to the Loft.
As they both descended the circular stairs from the roof they looked across at Mary, asleep in Methos’ arms, while Joe strummed a lullaby.
“Yes – I enjoyed the day very much.” He looked across at Mary asleep in her M’Adam’s arms and wondered if he would ever be able to stop smiling. Methos, looked up, and smiled in return, before signalling a need for a bathroom stop. Duncan reached down to relieve his partner’s bladder of the weight of the four year old and sat cuddling her, letting his fingers play with her curls and ghost across the curve of her cheek. For the next hour all shared hilarious recollections of the afternoon’s recitations, general mishaps and mayhem. And all agreed that they would not have missed it for the world.
As coffee and liqueur were served, Duncan took the conversation off in a new direction. “I didn’t know you played the pipes, Adam?” He paused, taking another slow mouthful of the whisky – swirling it slowly and licking his lips before continuing. “Although if I’d thought about it, I should have realised that it would be an obvious instrument. What else do you play?”
A listing from piano, flute to violin (“Badly!”), all drums, timpani, guitar (“Badly!” said with emphasis.) “Strings aren’t my thing.” Methos continued. “Most brass except for trumpet.”
“Thank god!” came the collective response.
“I’d have thought that the Lyre would have been a natural for you, Adam,” chortled Joe.
“For that appalling attempt at wit, Dawson, you will all now sit through a recitation on the origin of the Lyre. Of course,” he emphasised, glaring at Joe, “real musicians understand the difference between the Lyre and the Kithara – but then we don’t have any real musicians here!” He paused for a drink, letting his words scatter on the laughter they evoked. “When Hermes was only one day old, he climbed out of his cradle and – discovering the world of men (“Sorry Ann!”) he found the shield of a turtle. He s:t:r:e:t:c:h:e:d,” (using his arms for dramatic effect) “the skin of a cow around it, fixed two horns through the holes where once the turtle’s legs were and tied strings at the horizontal connection between the arms. One day, when Hermes stole some sheep from the stable of Apollo, the god was soothed by the sound of the instrument. Hermes didn’t get punished and the instrument gained its divine status. Voila!”
“Any more whisky?” Duncan asked hopefully.
Methos then pronounced himself an expert on the forerunner of the modern clarinet – the Greek Aulos and his Roman equivalent, Tibia. He then gave Anne – and Duncan – a gift. Without mentioning that he was doing so, he commenced to talk about his life in Ancient Greece –knowing that Ann had had no idea that he was that old. It was an open acknowledgment that he trusted her, and the smile and obvious emotion that passed between Ann and Duncan, as Duncan reached out to take her hand, said more than words could ever say about what that acknowledgment meant to them.
Methos, with some excellent alcohol fuelling his recollections (“… delusions bought on by Alzheimer’s…” was Joe’s considered opinion) was hysterically funny. All thoughts of an early night were forgotten as he regaled them about the first organ maker –
“Of course I taught him everything he knew!” he insisted, without a smirk.
“Of course,” came the collective response. Duncan added a coda. “Why would we be surprised at your being the first person in history to learn how to channel hot air?”
Even Methos acknowledged that witticism with a laugh. It didn’t, however, as the group groan attested, prevent him from continuing his history lesson.
“I remember him well - Ctesibius of Alexandria. Son of a barber.
“Do you remember the exact time of the invention?” Joe inquired, shaking his head.
“It’s not my fault that no-one reads the classics any more. If any of you had bothered to read Hero the Old of Alexandrie’s ‘Pneumatica’, I, Chapter 42…
“Page number?” inquired Ann – theatrically reaching for one of Duncan’s pens. “I’ll get right onto it,” she smirked.
“Or Philo of Byzantium,” continued Methos, in full flight, going to Duncan’s desk and returning to hand all three paper and pen without a pause, “ and of course, Vitruvius. Built army machines for Caesar, restored the aquaducts for Augustus.” He stopped, pretending to be shocked and appalled at their ignorance. “Don’t tell me you haven’t read ‘De Architectura’?”
“Not lately,” laughed Duncan.
“Who started this?” demanded Joe. Turning to Duncan he playfully whapped him on the back of the head. “You started this!”
In full flight, the lecturer then started discussing his amusement of modern scholars as they debated ad nauseum the hypothesis that the organ was tuned diatonically versus those who insisted it was tuned chromatically versus polyphonically – “…..or even, hush my mouth, Uberhaupt polyphonic?” he revealed, wide-eyed.
Pleas for escape and “Spare us!” amidst full-throated laughter finally woke the sleeping Mary who, in the way of most toddlers, was not up to an insightful lecture on all matters polyphonic.
“Do you play, Duncan?” Ann asked.
The assembled loud guffaws soon made the answer obvious – but the Scot surprised them all by claiming to be an expert on the Celtic Bodhran. "
“Well of course! It’s just thumping! It’s got no notes, MacLeod!” was Methos’ considered view on that particular attribute of his lover. "Where did you learn it?"
|"Annie Devlin taught it to me - Gave me a beautiful old
one she'd made herself. I'd never seen such passion. I can still
remember those wild Irish nights - I swear that there were times I thought
that we'd danced and been drunk for weeks on end." There was a
poignancy that overlaid his words that his Watcher and lover had no
trouble at all understanding. Duncan had killed Annie, an old lover,
only three months after Mary was born. Indeed, in the terrible four
weeks that followed that February of 1996 he killed not only Annie, but
Jim K'oltec and Sean Burns. Wanting to keep the light-heartedness of
the evening's banter Joe leapt in to defend Duncan's love of the Bodhran.
|"It’s a great instrument. Really gets the blood racing – a real battle instrument. I'll never forget hearing it on those great folk/rock albums of Planxty with Christy Moore and De Danann with Johnny Ringo McDonagh. The way those guys blended the Bodhran into their performance was amazing."|
"Gods - don't start Joe off on one of his 'My Musical Heroes' treks," pleaded Methos, happy that Joe was as expert at he at sensing a Highlander Brood Alert in the offing.
“Truce…truce…” Ann insisted, laughing aloud at the witty and playful banter. It soon became obvious that if Mary were not bundled up and put in the car immediately they would have a wide-awake child on their hands, demanding amusement. Duncan and Ann began to jointly gather up the scattered toys and drawings.
“Don’t forget to hang up my special dwawing, Uncle Duncan,” she insisted sleepily, before being hugged and kissed and secured inside a now warm 4-wheel drive (courtesy of a certain Highlander, Ann had earlier revealed to Joe.) Both Immortals stood and watched the respective cars drive off into the night. Once Ann’s could no longer be heard, Duncan consented to being pulled back inside the Dojo.
It didn’t take long to warm each other up, snuggled on the couch. Nothing more was said about Annie Devlin and Methos had no intention of raising the subject. Applying the old adage that always worked with Duncan ("If in doubt - kiss") he leaned in, took Duncan's head between his strong hands and gave him a lingering kiss that spoke only of longing and of deep love. Finally releasing him, he touched the highly sensitised lips and traced them - again and again. Duncan reached up and gently took hold of his hand, kissed it lightly and lay it on his lap.
“I've been thinking of you with all those instruments. I like the image of you with a clarinet or a saxophone,” Duncan revealed. “I really enjoyed hearing about your past tonight. I want to hear more of all that - the places you’ve lived, the people you’ve loved – the music you’ve made. What’s inspired you…”.
Methos settled in more closely to him. “I know how much it galls you that your life feels like an open book. But it’s not really true. There’s a lot of your life that isn’t in the Chronicles…”
Duncan sneered. “I wouldn’t know would I!” He let that drop, however and returned to Methos the Musician. “Promise me that you’ll borrow some instruments from Joe and give me some private performances.” Putting down his glass, he leaned across and started to nuzzle Methos’ neck with his whisky soaked lips and tongue. “I can just see you and hear you playing some of those old mellow jazz pieces - just for me….” he whispered. “Only for me…”
As Methos started to sink further back into the couch, Duncan suddenly stopped, pulled back, and patting Methos’ obvious erection announced that it was payback time for Methos and Joe for not telling him that both had always intended to come to the school. Punishment, he declared, was actually helping with the clean-up.
“That’s cruel and unusual punishment Highlander. It’s unconstitutional!” Methos insisted, as he was dragged to the kitchen. Duncan finally silenced him by suggesting that Methos remember what his whisky impregnated mouth could do to revive a certain Ancient’s interest – after the clean-up.
Some thirty minutes later Methos re-visited the earlier discussion. “You know, Duncan, I don’t actually know a finer musician than you.”
“Huh! You’re the one who was just disparaging my ability to even thump a Bodhran!”
Methos moved seductively towards him, letting the tea towel fall to the floor. Pinning the Highlander to the fridge door, he leaned in to lightly kiss his forehead, and then lips. “You make love like a symphony. I’ve been thinking about it while you were putting the rubbish out.”
Methos leaned in to taste again the whisky on the Scot’s lips and tongue. Pulling apart, but staying close, foreheads touching, Duncan breathed deeply before replying – considering his response. “I love music. Most people think that if you can’t actually hold a note that it means you can’t appreciate music or know when someone is off-key. I've studied its theory in different cultures.” He pulled Methos into a hug, and continued, talking into his left ear. “I’ve always felt a real affinity for compositions. I love analysing the various movements and how they all come together. It’s not that different from a Kata.”
He moved to lightly suckle Methos’ neck. “For me, love-making is like a composition. First, (tasting the warm, fleshy ear-lobe) “the overture – (his tongue and fingers hinted at the coming melody), “you have to get the rhythm just right – and,” (finding Methos’ nipples) “the variations.”
“And we all know that your crescendos are to die for…” whispered a very interested Methos.
“Not to mention my thumping bass,” Duncan laughed.
“’Vanity of vanities…all is vanity!’ – then again,” he almost finished, as Duncan’s hands caressed the contours of his back and backside…
Duncan forcefully pulled Methos around and pushed his upper body over the kitchen bench. He let the weight of his own upper body cover him, using his legs to further trap the willing prisoner below him. His mouth, fingers and knees sought out any bodily contact - touching, caressing, stroking, tasting and possessing. “Playing you is exquisite,” he sighed, letting his fingers provide a lightly erotic counterpoint. “And old instruments play the most beautifully.” A laugh was all that greeted that query.
“Even Stradivarius’ crumble to dust, eventually, Duncan.”
“Not under my care. You just admitted that I’m a master musician,” he insisted, using his strength to wrap his arms around Methos’ upper torso and squeeze. “And I’ll remember that you said that, the next time you’re so rude about my love of opera.”
“Duncan – if listening to opera has anything to do with your expertise as a lover, then I’ll personally buy you season tickets!”
“Now I’ll really remember that you promised that. Speaking of pipes…”
“Were we?” queried his increasingly distracted lover.
“We’re about to be,” suggested a very forceful and assured Highlander. “So – talking of pipes – I can think of one that needs blowing – .”
A distorted “Yes, Master” from Methos was all that could be discerned as Duncan turned him around and pushed him to his knees, immobilising his head in between his two powerful hands. Methos gazed at the trapped erection outlined against the exquisite Armani pants and, unzipping them, let them fall to the floor a crumpled heap. He was merciless and took his solid erection into his mouth and throat in one movement. It was almost the Scot’s undoing and he momentarily released Methos' head and flayed about for support from the bench top, before once again attempting to control the exquisite suckling by his lover.
Methos suddenly pulled back and looking up at the increasingly dazed Scot, admonished him with “Stop trying to control everything!”
“Wait!” and within minutes, Methos found himself bodily seized and propelled towards the bed.
“Don’t say that I don’t think of you,” Duncan whispered. “After you demonstrate your piping prowess, I’m going to make sure that you can’t go flying off the bed.” Reaching under the pillow he produced a pair of hand-cuffs.
“So much for giving up control,” Methos smirked, determined to teach the Highlander a few lessons of his own. Tomorrow. Or maybe the following month? Then again, he knew that it wouldn’t really take much to get the Highlander to swap positions. After the initial coaxing and persuading, Duncan was always (he smiled) more than content to pack away his Alpha personna - for a little while. As long as, like his Katana, it was close by, ready to be slipped on and patted down.
Eons later, as Methos stared at the golden body of his beautiful lover against the dark chocolate of the sheets, he felt himself once again being swallowed in a musical cocoon. Mumbling from that prostrate lover intruded on his very pleasant thoughts.
“Who’d have thought that there could be so many tongue positions, Methos? You’d be the envy of woodwind players world-wide.”
Laughter was the only response. As Duncan slipped into sleep, Methos had a vague recollection of thanking the gods for the gift of immortal healing, after their workout. Then all was darkness as he slipped into the seduction of sleep.
He immediately came fully awake as contented sounding snores broke the silence. “Duncan?” Pulling the Highlander into the haven of his arms, Methos kissed his forehead and gave thanks for the sound of that quiet snoring. It signalled another night of life, and of love, in the dangerous orbit of Duncan MacLeod. It spoke of trust and deep contentment.
His final thought was the pleasure he would feel on the morrow, encased in the Armani cashmere and silk sweater. He had no doubt that his organic pipe playing would have effectively blown any stray memories about who owned what to the four winds – caught up amidst Duncan’s exquisite, passionate cries as he climaxed – again and again. At least he hoped it had. He really didn't want to have to shoot the Highlander......A quiet chuckle at that thought was a suitable coda to the day – along with an image of Duncan, sitting amidst the entranced children, while they played with his hair. How could one not, he mused, be lost in the loving of the Highlander – so vibrant, ..so passionate…so dangerous…so loving….so infuriatingly reckless…so sensual…so patient…so wanton…
Beams of light, streaming in through the loft windows, caressed them both, entwined in each others’ arms.
Another day had passed – and both Immortals were still alive, still safe, still encased in each others’ hearts and souls.