Spring 1590
ParisThere were two Immortals nearby, fighting. Methos could hear the clash of their swords. Others ignored them - most probably thinking that two noblemen had gotten insulted yet again. For all Methos knew, they had.
He edged closer to the alley where they battled, knowing the heat of the conflict would conceal his presence from them. Someone had stuck a torch onto a holder on the wall. He could see everything. He didn't know either of the two men. One was large and clumsy, his clothes dirty and ragged and his face filled with rage. The other was...oh, he was lovely. The torchlight glimmered off his long blond hair and he moved with the grace of a dancer, catching and parrying the other's sword with true elegance.
Methos recognized the style right off. 'Oh, Ramirez, you old Egyptian. You found another, did you? He may be your best pupil yet.' He'd sparred with the man many times over the centuries. It had been exhilarating to find a true challenge when they'd first met. Especially after he got that amazing sword...the sword in the blond man's hand.
So...this was his final student. Was he worthy of that sword? Methos couldn't tell. The clod fighting him was no challenge. And, in fact, as he watched, the blond man neatly took off the big man's head. Why did he take so long?
Lightning flashed in the clear night sky, and the man was driven to his knees, his mouth open in the pain/pleasure of the Quickening. Methos shivered, remembering the feeling despite the years, the decades, since his last. He'd become focused on survival since he'd left Kronos and the others, and survival meant avoiding fights.
As soon as the private storm was over, he hurried to the lovely man's side. He helped him to his feet, ignoring his protests. "I will buy you some wine, m'sieur. After that fight, you deserve it. We will toast to Ramirez."
The man stared at him with dazed eyes. "You knew Ramirez?"
"I know his sword, friend."
"He was my teacher. I will not dishonor it." He had an odd accent...German? No...Scots.
"He would not teach a man who would. Come, there is a tavern not too far with drinkable wine."
"Let me steady myself, man." He leaned on Methos' shoulder for a moment, and then stood firmly. "I will join you...but a man wants beer."
"Their beer is more than drinkable. I am Martin LaPointe, and I have the honor of meeting...?"
"Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, and the honor is mine if you are a friend of the Spaniard."
They sat at a table, drinking so much of the strong, thick ale that the other customers began to place bets and the innkeeper looked worried.
"Who did you take tonight, MacLeod?"
Connor's voice became hard. "He was a thief, one who waylaid others as they walked the streets. I do not think he was taught at all, and he was not long an Immortal. 'Twas not a challenge. He's name was Jean-Claude, and he admitted to no other."
"You are young, too, are you not, mon ami?"
"I am over seventy. It may not be old to some, but it is older than others, and I have been trained by the best."
"Yes, you were." Methos downed another tankard and poured more from the pitcher.
"You knew him?"
"I...sparred with him many a time." Methos smiled. "He enjoyed it all. He enjoyed everything."
"Aye. That he did. I can still hear his laughter at times. As big as his heart, and his heart was as big as he was. To Ramirez, may he be laughing with the devil now!"
"To Ramirez! A man who knew how to spar on his feet...and in his bed." Methos looked carefully at Connor. He knew how the Scots were, and the man was still a baby.
Connor only smiled. "He'd offered, you know. I was shocked at first, but he convinced me that it was just part of life, and that you do not pass up a good thing without reason. But...I had a reason so I turned him down."
"Pity. What was your reason?"
"Her name was Heather, and while she did live, I would not share my body with aught else. To Heather, and may she be singing with the angels now." He drained his own tankard, but the pitcher was empty. He waved it at the innkeeper, who refilled it from the barrel and silently handed it back.
Methos drained his own, silently toasting the mortal woman. "And...since?"
Connor shook off his momentary sadness and smiled. "I have not tasted as much life as Ramirez, but I have...sparred on occasion. And could be convinced to do so again. Especially, Martin, with one who knew my teacher so well. And who may have learned much from him."
Methos licked his lips slowly. "I have a room not too far from here. It is not fancy, but the bed is clean of vermin and large enough."
"The closer that bed, the better." He tossed some silver on the table and pushed back his stool.
Methos stood up as well, and, the beer rapidly leaving them, led the way to his home.
Connor stood aghast at all the books lining the walls. "You read all these?"
"I have, yes."
"I cannot read at all. You must be a scholar."
"I'll teach you if you like."
"Nay. I can not learn, not so old as I am."
"I was older when I learned, and the learning not as simple. I will teach you. Later." He smiled again, and, wrapping his arm around Connor's waist, drew him closer to him.
Connor smiled at that. "I see your sword is drawn, my friend."
For an answer, Methos bent and captured his lips. Connor responded immediately, his lips searing his mouth, his tongue wrestling gently with his own. They began to tear at each other's clothing, ripping away the jerkins and swordbelts and hose, until they began rolling on the bed, skin to skin, kissing and biting at each other, creating bruises that healed immediately, their hands roaming at will, pinching a nipple here and reaching into a dark crevice there, all the while gasping and moaning. And laughing, laughing at the simple pleasures, laughing as Ramirez would have laughed.
Their twin erections rubbed against each other as they rolled, first one on top, than the other, building in pleasure as they approached and parted, sometimes their full lengths in contact, sometimes just their heads, thrusting and parrying, moving faster and faster until, finally, the pure *goodness* of orgasm washed over both of them as their seedless semen burst from them and they lay exhausted in each others arms.
Methos got up briefly, only to return with a dampened cloth to remove the worst of it so he wouldn't wake up sticky. Connor protested briefly, but then purred with the attention and pulled Methos down again.
"Tomorrow, Martin...we spar with the other swords. I wager I know a trick or two you don't know."
"We'll see about that, Connor MacLeod. I'm very good with a blade."
Methos fell asleep to the sound of Connor's chuckle, to dream of duels and laughter and a big Spaniard watching them.
Copyright 2000 Debra Fran Baker and NightRoads Associates