LAND OF MINE 
A Roar/Highlander slash story by R'rain
 
 
He loved this land, the way it rose and fell and spiraled around him, 
the thousand shades of green that blanketed it.  The sky was 
brilliant above him and he tilted his head upwards, bathing in the 
sunlight and letting it glint off his golden hair.  It was late 
afternoon, and the sun was sinking to the ground but losing none of 
its resilient glory. 
	 
"Conor, we must go."  Fergus' voice, sounding as though it was coming 
from much farther than the base of the hill, held more urgency than 
such a fine day deserved. 
	 
"A few more moments," Conor called back to him, closing his eyes and 
stretching his arms out as though he were about to lift from the 
ground and fly into that blue-upon-blue sky. 
	 
"Don't be a fool, Conor. It's late and we're being followed," came 
his admonishment, shattering the illusion. 
	 
"I'm coming," he sighed, lowering his face and starting back down the 
grassy hill again until he vanished into the trees.  Camp was nearby, 
and everyone else was ready to move on.  "Followed by who?" he asked 
Fergus, who stood impatiently by the path. 
	 
"Romans," he said bitterly.  "Strangers." 
	 
Conor nodded and deferred to his companion's guidance.  Leader he 
was, but not infallible. Not even ready, most of the time, to lead, 
but something within him drove him to take these people, all his 
people, and keep them free.  "Let's go," he said, picking up his pack 
and striding down the path. 
	 
Fergus walked alongside him on the broad path, shoulder to shoulder.  
"How long have they been following us?" Conor asked quietly. 
	 
"A day, at least," responded Fergus shortly.  "Maybe more.  I should 
have been keeping closer watch." 
	 
"It's not your fault," said Conor, heading off the guilt he knew 
still lingered very close to Fergus' surface.  "Where are we going 
now?" 
	 
"Wherever the path takes us," he said.  "When we reach the stream 
we'll head north for a day.  We'll be late getting to the village, 
but better late than dead."  His words were final, and Conor knew 
that he would be hard pressed to get more.  Instead he just continued 
to walk alongside him, his ears open to the land around them. 
	 
"I won't ask why anymore," he said quietly.  "It's because we're 
here.  That's the only reason--because we're here.  Because they 
can't just leave us here, they have to have everything."  He didn't 
expect a comforting gesture from Fergus and got none, but he knew he 
wasn't being ignored.  "But my heart, it still asks.  Why?  How can 
they defile the beauty here?  How can they not see?" 
	 
"Your questions will get no answers," said Fergus finally, then 
hesitated.  "They're behind us, keep moving." 
	 
Conor felt a chill go up his spine and he looked to each member of 
his group, if only to make sure they were still together.  Still 
safe.  Tully moved with his usual casual wariness, never--quite--
unaware.  Catlin...Catlin had clearly heard them talking.  Her body 
had stiffened and she looked from side to side as they walked. 
	 
"How far?" she asked. 
	 
Fergus just shook his head. 
	 
"How far?!" 
	 
"We need to find defensible ground," he said.  "Fast." 
	 
Conor loosened his sword.  "How fast?" 
	 
"I hear the stream ahead.  We need to cross it."  He picked up his 
pace, not running but not quite walking either, and the others 
followed his lead.  "There are at least six of them, maybe more.  We 
can handle them." 
	 
Catlin drew her bow as she, too, began to hear the noises getting 
closer to them from behind.  "We aren't going to make it.  We don't 
have time." 
	 
"Keep going."  No effort was made to keep their voices low any longer 
as the Romans grew closer yet, the sounds of breaking branches in 
their wake.  "Keep going!"  Fergus raced ahead then whirled around.  
"Ready yourselves." 
 
Tully backed away toward the trees as Catlin scrambled into one, 
readying her bow.  As the first Roman soldier came into sight, she 
let the arrow fly true and it pierced his throat.  He went down with 
a scream, and the men behind him began their attack in earnest. 
 
The Roman crossbows were deadly, but inaccurate, slicing trees and 
packs, but not human flesh.  Catlin took out three effortlessly with 
a cold ferocity that still chilled Conor when he witnessed it. 
 
He moved closer, his sword drawn, and engaged the first soldier who 
passed Catlin's firing line unscathed.  The first blows from each 
were expert, but Conor was quickly backed closer to the stream until 
his heels began to slide in the mud.  He renewed his attack with a 
strength born of fear and desperation.  He could hear the sounds of 
the battle from nearby--fewer now as there were fewer enemies to 
face--but they became lost in the pounding of blood in his ears as he 
focused on his own fight. 
 
The Roman was weakening, it seemed, as Conor began to close in, and 
for the first time their eyes met.  That was the beginning of the 
end.  The Roman let his sword sag, almost as though he were 
surrendering, and Conor ran him through.  He looked at the body in 
amazement for a moment as the blood flowed out of the wound, then 
quickly looked towards where he'd left his friends. 
 
Tully and Catlin had already crossed the stream and Fergus was right 
behind them.  The bodies of the Romans lay scattered on the ground.  
"Come on, Conor, let's go!" 
 
He shook his head.  "I need to get our things, and whatever else I 
can salvage here.  I'll meet you at the next village." 
 
"We shouldn't split up," argued Fergus as though that were the last 
word on the subject. 
 
"I'll be all right," said Conor.  "Go on.  I see you're bleeding; 
you'll be better off away from here.  I'll be right behind you." 
 
Fergus saw the stubbornness in his friend's face and nodded.  "It'll 
be dark soon.  Don't take long." 
 
"I won't," he said and watched as the three of them disappeared into 
the woods on the other side before turning back to the bloody scene 
before him.  There had been eight of them altogether, and he 
regretted not knowing why they had been following.  They weren't 
carrying anything.  They weren't escorting anyone.  And he knew that 
the Romans thought him better alive and watched than dead and 
martyred. 
 
He hadn't noticed the cut on his own leg until he tried to kneel down 
and felt a sharp pain run through it.  With a tired grunt he ripped a 
piece off a Roman's clothing and knotted it around his wounded leg.  
The cut was neither long nor deep, and the makeshift bandage should 
suffice until he made it to the village. 
 
He gathered the few scattered belongings that had fallen from damaged 
packs and set them in a pile on the streambed, then went back to 
salvage what he could from their enemy.  The body he'd left on the 
riverbank was first, and he spared it a sympathetic glance even as a 
low-lying hatred boiled up in him for all the men they'd killed this 
day. 
 
He pulled the sword out of the dead man's hand carefully, and admired 
its fine make for a moment. 
 
"I'll be needing that." 
 
Conor dropped the sword noisily and scrambled away in a panic.  What 
magic was this, that a dead man had spoken to him?  He looked up 
warily at the man, his own sword in hand. 
 
"Put your sword away, child.  I have no quarrel with you." 
 
"I have a quarrel with all men who invade my land," he said coldly. 
 
"I'm not Roman."  The man didn't look at all well, but considering 
that a few moments ago he was dead that came as no surprise. 
 
"So you're a demon *and* a liar.  Tell me why I shouldn't kill you 
where you stand?  Tell me!" 
 
"By all rights you should," he admitted.  "But you tried that once 
and it didn't work.  Since we both seem to be more bent on talking 
than fighting, why don't you put the sword down and go about your 
scavenging?"  He tried unsuccessfully to brush the mud off this 
clothing, then retrieved his sword and replaced it in its sheath. 
 
"What did you want with us?" 
 
"I did not even know who you were," he said.  "Galius spotted you 
traveling with your friends in the forest and thought you'd be an 
easy kill.  Clearly he was wrong.  I told you, I have no quarrel with 
you." 
 
"You tried to kill me!" 
 
"I only fight when attacked, and do not forget that you won that 
fight.  Just go about your business and leave me be.  I do not intend 
to follow you." 
 
Conor warily moved away, never turning his back on the Roman as he 
filled his pack with random supplies and weapons stripped from the 
other bodies.  He hated feeling like a scavenger--he had too much 
pride to live like this--but times weren't easy and it was foolish to 
pass up any opportunity. 
 
"Do you have a name?" 
 
"Conor," he said shortly, glaring at him. 
 
The man nodded. "Methos." 
 
Conor frowned.  "That's not a Roman name." 
 
"I told you that I'm not Roman." 
 
"You look Roman.  You travel with Romans." 
 
"So I do.  We all make mistakes, Conor."  He got to his feet, 
finally, and looked out across the stream at the setting sun.  "It's 
getting dark.  I hope you aren't planning on going any further 
tonight." 
 
"I plan to meet up with my friends," he said, tying off his pack and 
looking across the stream alongside him. 
 
"That would not be wise." 
 
"Is that a threat?" 
 
"You'll hear no threats from me.  I point out only that Galius and 
his group were not alone in this area.  Traveling at night alone 
would be...inadvisable." 
 
"Why do you think I'll trust you?" 
 
"I may have done many things, but I have not lied to you, Conor." 
 
"I do not understand you.  You're Roman.  You've invaded my land.  
You are my *enemy*.  Why do you try to help me?" 
 
Methos shook his head.  "Why try and understand?  Just accept it.  
All of my men are dead, and yours are not.  Believe that I go with 
the winner, if that will satisfy you.  You are a leader, Conor.  You 
are *chosen*.  Look inside yourself and ask if I am to be trusted.  
And when you have decided that I am, I will be in this place making a 
fire because I, at least, am passing my night here." 
 
Conor sat on a nearby patch of grass and watched for a moment.  The 
Roman-- Methos--did not act like a demon, though he admitted he knew 
little about how a demon should act.  He did not look as though he 
intended any harm. He finally acknowledged that his every instinct 
was telling him to trust this man.  "How is it that you live?" he 
asked. 
 
Methos did not answer. 
 
"I killed you and yet you still breathe, you still speak.  It is 
impossible." 
 
"It is clearly not impossible," he said casually.  "Or I would not be 
speaking to you." His eyes measured Conor carefully.  The young 
warrior was muddied and drenched with water from the stream, looking 
younger than his years.  Leading his people had taken some of his 
youth from him, but at this moment, his curls matted down and hanging 
across his face, his clothing sagging loosely, it was easy to see him 
as a boy.  It was only when you looked into his eyes that you saw the 
determination in them.  The marks of a man.  "You look wet and cold, 
boy.  Come closer to the fire before you catch your death over 
there." 
 
Warily, Conor drew closer.  "There's still light.  I should go." 
 
"There's light enough to get you ten steps past that stream.  Don't 
be a fool, Conor.  If I wanted you dead, you already would be."  He 
stretched out his legs next to the fledgling fire lazily.  "I've 
lived a long time, longer than you can imagine, and I've learned when 
to fight and when to talk.  This is not a time to fight." 
 
"Aye, you may be right, Roman." 
 
"My name is Methos.  Use it; I do not give it to everyone." 
 
That was definitely an order, and Conor shrunk back a little.  "I 
don't take orders from Romans and I never will!" 
 
"Relax, boy. Call me Roman if it makes you feel better.  It doesn't 
make a 
lot of difference to me." 
 
"Does *anything* matter to you?"  Conor drew closer to the fire again 
as the sky darkened and the shadows around him lengthened.  "How can 
your people come onto this land, *my* land and try to take it?  Have 
you no soul?" 
 
Methos looked at him steadily. "Sometimes I wonder," he said quietly. 
"This is a beautiful land you have here.  Maybe that's why." 
 
"That's not why.  Romans can't see beauty." 
 
"You're wrong there.  Romans see beauty, but they see things 
differently than you do.  They see beauty in conquest, in indulgence.  
They don't see the same beauty in their world that you see here.  
That's why it's so easy for them to come here and take." 
 
"You sound like you don't like it.  Don't like *them*." 
 
"I do, sometimes.  And then...there are times like this when I look 
up and I see this natural land, so untouched, and I wonder why I 
came. I wonder why I don't just desert and find myself a companion 
and just make a home here, away from the destruction." 
 
"Because it is not that easy," said Conor reluctantly.  "Because if 
you are not on one side, you're on the other." 
 
"Wise boy." 
 
"Look, I'm no boy..." 
 
"You are to me," he said with a bit of an amused smile.  "Come 
closer, you're starting to shiver.  There's pride, Conor, and then 
there's stupidity. And if you don't get closer to the fire, that 
would be stupidity."  He patted the ground nearby and lifted an 
eyebrow.  "Will you come?" 
 
"I want you to tell me what you are," he said, still wary as he sat 
down. 
 
"Very well."  The light was almost gone now, the fire illuminating 
the Roman's face but not giving it the expected ruddy, demonic cast.  
"I'll tell you.  Are you hungry?" 
 
"I didn't have a chance to hunt this day.  We expected to be in the 
village by nightfall."  He hugged his knees to his chest, then held 
his hands out towards the warm flames. 
 
"You should have been prepared," Methos chastised him.  "Have some of 
mine, I have plenty." 
 
Conor took the offered food suspiciously, but ate it nonetheless. 
"Methos," he mused.  "You say you do not give that name. Are you 
hiding?" 
 
"Not in any way you would understand," he said, chewing on his dried 
meat. "I am Immortal." 
 
"No man is immortal.  Are you cursed?" 
 
"Sometimes I think it's so.  But it is no curse.  There are others 
like me, destined to live forever.  My own home, my own people, were 
gone a very long time ago.  You think I don't understand how you 
feel, having someone try to conquer your land, your people.  But I 
do." 
 
"If you understand so well, then how can you live with yourself, 
fighting for the Romans?" 
 
"Now that," he said, "is something *you* would not understand." 
 
"So whose side are you on?" 
 
Methos contemplated his answer.  "Mine," he said finally.  "Which 
right now seems to be yours as well.  More to eat?" 
 
Conor shook his head.  "Where do you come from?" 
 
"I don't know." 
 
"How do you not know?" 
 
"It was too long ago now, I don't remember.   Immortality can be 
a...a painful experience.  Whether it is by birth or by an act of 
your own." 
 
Conor's eyes darkened at the thought of Longinus, the Roman centurian 
who was cursed to live on.  Surely Methos knew him, or knew of him.  
He chewed on the remains of his meat thoughtfully.  "These men we 
killed, did you know them?"  The question seemed heartless, but his 
tone wasn't. 
 
"Yes," said Methos simply.  "I knew them, but they were not friends.  
They will be missed." 
 
"I'm sorry." 
 
"Do not apologize for those things for which you *are not* sorry, 
Conor. You are known in this land--it is your birthright and your 
destiny to fight for this land of yours.  Don't belittle it by 
apologizing.  I understand." 
 
"So you say."  Conor sat quietly for a few more moments and 
contemplated his companion.  "I think you do," he said finally. "I 
think you do understand." 
 
"You have good sense, then, boy," said Methos.  "Perhaps what they 
say about you is right." 
 
"What do they say about me?" 
 
"They say that you are blessed, that you are a leader.  That you are 
a man the Romans should fear."  Conor nodded.  "You do not want to be 
a leader, do you?" 
 
"It's not my choice.  It's the Roar that drives me, the voice of my 
people.  It is my duty to unite them." 
 
"Just because it is your duty, does not mean that you want it, and 
does not mean that you are ready for it." 
 
"But that does not matter.  Fergus, he taught me about honour and 
duty and fighting for our freedom.  I want our freedom more than I 
want anything, Methos.  That is why I have to do this."  His passion 
got the better of him as he tried to explain why he led his people, 
when the very idea of being responsible for so many lives was almost 
incomprehensible to him. 
 
"I never said that you should stop.  I know that driving need that 
you have.  I know how it *feels*, Conor.  But it is okay, if it's 
hard.  It is okay to say that you wish it was some other way." 
 
"No, it is not okay to say that.  It is *not* okay to have children 
hear that from the man they think of as their leader." 
 
"You're not among those children right now," said Methos gently.  
"There is only you and I and the night sky to hear you, if you want 
to talk.  If not, well, I have wine, and when morning comes you can 
be on your way." 
 
"I do not understand you." 
 
"You've already said that, lad.  I don't expect you ever will know 
me, and I don't expect that it matters.  Feeling better?" 
 
"Shouldn't I be asking you that?  You're the one who was dead not so 
long ago."  The idea that this man was immortal was still beyond his 
understanding. No man could be immortal, yet he had seen it with his 
own eyes. 
 
"So I was.  You are right, dying isn't easy, but I am very much alive 
now, Conor.  You have trouble believing that, don't you."  He  
stretched out his arm so that Conor could touch it, but the young man 
just shied away.  "I'm real.  As real as anyone." 
 
"So long as you are real, you are a danger to me," said Conor softly, 
but without conviction. 
 
Methos didn't dignify that with a response this time, just a weary 
look and a sigh, moving closer to the fire.  "As long as I am real," 
he echoed him after a long while, "I can think, and feel, and touch, 
and remember.  As long as I am real, I am *no* danger to you." 
 
Conor sat and allowed the truth of those words sink into him.  The 
man before him had unquestionably been fighting for the Romans scant 
hours ago, but there seemed to be far more to him than that.  Not a 
Roman by blood, he claimed, but a man born long ago to a tribe that 
was much the same as Conor's own.  What kind of complexity lay behind 
those mottled eyes? 
 
"You are like no one I've known," he said, looked up directly at 
Methos for the first time since their fatal battle.  "I saw it the 
first time I looked at you, but I didn't want to believe it.  It's in 
your eyes, you've seen so much more than anyone I've even known." 
 
"Don't make me wiser than I am," warned Methos.  "I'm a man like any 
other." 
 
"But who's seen more, who knows more," insisted Conor.  Now that the 
barrier between them was gone, his pure exultation at meeting such a 
man came through.  "I...I don't know what it takes to lead." 
 
"One doesn't have to *know* things to lead," said Methos.  "One has 
to have the spirit.  The drive.  That's what it takes, lad.  If you 
have the soul, then you are a leader through and through and no 
circumstance can take that from you." 
 
"Do you really think it's so?" 
 
"You know it's so.  In here."  Methos reached out and put his hand 
over Conor's heart, and this time the young warrior didn't retreat.  
"The doubts you have, they're in here."  He raised his hand to tap 
Conor's forehead. 
 
"It's hard, not to doubt sometimes." 
 
"If you never doubted, boy, then that is when I would fear for your 
people.  A man who never doubts himself is a man who doesn't think or 
see what surrounds him." His hand slid to Conor's shoulder where it 
remained.  "There are few who can claim they have been chosen to lead 
a people, Conor." 
 
"I would give it all back...to have Claire again."  His voice caught 
again as he remembered his love, cut down so brutally by her own 
father.  It had been long enough ago now that it didn't leave a 
constant ache in his heart but when he did remember--like now--it cut 
deeply. 
 
"Aye, we've all lost folk," said Methos softly.  "All of us." 
 
"How long have you lived, Methos?" he asked carefully. 
 
"Longer than I remember, lad.  Longer than I remember." 
 
"You must have lost so many people," he mused.  "How can you bear 
it?" 
 
"The pain passes," he said tightly.  "After a while you don't 
remember as often.  But everyone you loved remains inside you 
forever, no matter how much time has passed, no matter how many 
people have come after them.  Claire may be gone, Conor, but she's 
still in your heart." 
 
"Aye, she is," he said, lowering his head and staring at the fire.  
"Have you always been a man of such wisdom?" 
 
"If I wasn't as impulsive and prone to mistake as any man, would I 
have been fighting with the Romans these days past?" he asked 
honestly, poking the fire with a stick and watching the sparks fly 
upwards.  The moon had risen now, and its light shimmered off the 
flowing stream next to them. 
 
"You are not the man I thought you were." 
 
"And for that I am thankful," he said.  "If you'll forgive me, lad, 
it's been quite the tiring day and I need some rest.  Returning to 
life is a rather exhausting experience."  He settled down on his side 
next to the fire and threw his cloak over himself. 
 
"Of course, I'm sorry, I've kept you from your sleep," murmured 
Conor, keeping a watchful eye on the other man.  He couldn't say he 
completely trusted him, but there was something about the older man, 
something that intrigued him.  He was drawn to him, wishing he would 
say about where he'd been and what he knew.  A few words just weren't 
enough. 
 
Methos did look Roman, to him.  The dark, short hair, the strong 
features.  But he had been right that beneath it Methos was 
different--that became more and more apparent to him as the night 
passed.  For every thing Methos did say, there were a thousand things 
he didn't.  Who else but Methos, though, had ever been there to 
listen to him when he had fears, when he had doubts, and didn't brush 
him off?  Methos wasn't the epitome of everything Conor looked for in 
a person, not by far, but he was a good man.  More than that, someone 
Conor could respect, even like. 
 
Conor lay down and watched the fire dim as it grew later, finally 
falling asleep on the chilly ground with his own arms wrapped around 
himself for warmth.  He dreamt of the village he should have reached, 
and the warm arms that could have been encircling him under cover of 
blankets.   
 
He woke, shivering, under a dark sky.  The brightness of the moon 
earlier that night was hidden now under the gathering clouds. "Come 
here, lad."  He blinked at the sound of the other man's voice, not 
imprinted in his mind as the voice of a friend.  After a brief moment 
of disorientation, he remembered who he was with.  "Come here...this 
cloak has slept two before; I see no reason why it shouldn't now." 
 
"I cannot do that." 
 
"You would rather freeze?  The night is cold, Conor, and the fire is 
all but gone.  Come here." 
 
With another long moment of hesitation, Conor rose and moved to the 
other man's side, lying down facing him and allowing Methos to drape 
his cloak over the both of them.  Without stopping to think about it, 
his hand reached out and traced a line across Methos' smooth chest 
where his wound should have been. 
 
Methos' fingers caught his roving hand and held it.  "Enough," he 
said. 
"There's no wound to be seen, lad, and it's hard enough not 
to....it's hard 
enough without you doing that." 
 
"Does it hurt?" he asked quietly. 
 
"Not any more," he said shortly.  "Sleep, lad.  You'll be warm enough 
now." 
 
"Aye, it's warm," he agreed, moving closer to Methos' body.  "You're 
warm."  Sleep threatening to overtake him again, he curled up next to 
the older man, hardly realizing that his hand was still being held 
securely.  He did notice, though, when Methos quite deliberately 
pulled their hands apart. "What.... why...?" 
 
"I'll be getting no sleep that way, lad," he murmured, trying to put 
a bit of distance between them.   
 
Swiftly, Conor caught his chin and looked into his eyes.  "I know 
what you are," he said finally, letting him go but not pulling away. 
 
"Ah, and what is that?" said Methos wearily. 
 
"A lover of men." 
 
"I'll be thanking you for not saying boys, Conor.  Aye, I'll admit 
that the form does not matter so much to me as what's on the inside.  
Now sleep.  I have no interest in someone not willing."  Methos 
closed his eyes and feigned sleep himself, though Conor could tell by 
the heavy breaths he was doing no such thing. 
 
"I never said I was not interested." 
 
"You killed me not a day ago, Conor," Methos said flatly, as though 
it were evidence. 
 
"I won't make that mistake again."  He leaned in and brushed his lips 
against Methos'.   
 
The Immortal's eyes flew open.  "Conor, you do not know what you're 
doing!" 
 
"I do," he said.  "I wanted to thank you....for listening to me.  For 
understanding." 
 
"There are other ways to thank a man..." 
 
"But not quite as pleasant and warm," he said.  "By all rights I 
should hate you for what you've done, but I cannot.  I will not.  
Inside you are a good man, I know this.  And as you said before, it 
is only you and I this night.  Why should we not?" 
 
"Because you are but a boy," he said. 
 
"I am man enough to lead my people.  I've lived over 20 years now; 
I'm hardly a boy."  He reached out and touched Methos' chest again, 
tracing a line down it, then cupped his erection.  "And I know you 
want this too." 
 
Methos pulled away and rolled over.  "I can take care of that myself, 
Conor.  Just because we want something, does not mean that it is a 
good idea." 
 
Conor's hand touched his back this time.  "You don't think I 
understand, that it is just this one night.  But I do.  You've made 
me comfortable, and you've made me think, and you've given of 
yourself to me beyond what I would expect of a friend, let alone a 
stranger.  Least of all an enemy.  I know what this is, Roman.  I 
know what this is, Methos." 
 
When Conor's hand stroked his back gently, Methos did not pull away.  
"When morning comes, you'll not be saying I took you by force." 
 
"I will not." 
 
It was a commitment between them, those words, and they needed no 
more.  Conor's hands, young but with the roughness of a born warrior, 
traced his shoulders and up and down his back until Methos turned 
around again and took Conor into his arms. 
 
Methos pulled hard at Conor's clothing to remove it, having no 
patience with ties and clasps.  His own was more easily removed, not 
by design but by long practice.  Only when they had both shed their 
clothing and were lying nude next to one another did Methos begin to 
explore the other man's body, dipping his fingers into every groove, 
covering every inch of pale skin. 
 
"Do that any longer," said Conor breathlessly, "and this won't be a 
long night, after all." Methos slowed but did not stop, a lazy smile 
spreading across his face as he realized how his attentions were 
affecting the younger man. 
 
"That would not do," he said and tangled his fingers in Conor's blond 
hair, pulling him in closer for a kiss.  Conor closed his eyes and 
let Methos take charge, probing deep into his mouth with his tongue 
and sending exquisite waves of arousal through Conor's body. 
 
It was a surprise to sense Methos' arousal, to feel his erection 
against his thigh, to feel his heart pounding harder in his chest.  
It was as though that tight control that Conor had seen all evening 
was being shattered, and it was an incredibly heady experience. 
 
Their bodies inevitably rubbed together as the kiss deepened further, 
pulling them together as closely as natural law would allow.  The 
waves washing through Conor's body spread from his fingertips through 
his groin to his feet and back up again, centering on his hardening 
erection.  The arousal was powerful, undeniable. 
 
His body began to rock against Methos', and he didn't remember ever 
willing it to, but everything about this coupling felt instinctual.  
He didn't think about what to do next, his body told him.  A 
delicious friction was his reward, fueling his fire and soothing his 
ache all at once.  His fingers sought Methos' nipples and grasped 
them roughly, rougher than he would have held a woman's as the flesh 
was firmer, tighter. 
 
Methos let out a moan from deep within his chest and dug his fingers 
into the flesh of Conor's back desperately.  "Not enough," he 
whispered as he thrust against the other man's body, craving release. 
 
His control had vanished completely, and Conor reveled in the fact.  
He threw off the cloak and rolled them over on the soft, cool grass, 
seeking his own completion.  He did not realize at first that he, 
too, was making sounds-- animalistic grunts and moans as they drew 
closer and closer to orgasm. 
 
"Conor, I shall not last," breathed Methos as he gripped Conor's body 
and gave one last thrust against it, spilling his seed on Conor's 
body.  Conor felt the warm slickness cover him and thrust faster and 
harder into it until pleasure exploded in him.  He arched his back 
and cried out involuntarily, then fell against Methos' body and 
rested. 
 
They slept then, a sleep born of exhaustion and satiation.  A short 
while later Conor woke, shivering, as the chill air seeped back into 
his bones.  Washing off in the nearby stream, he pulled on his 
clothing then crawled back into Methos' embrace, covering them with 
the cloak once again. 
 
Conor woke finally to the dawn sun beginning to warm his skin.  He 
was sprawled on the ground next to the dead fire, his lover no longer 
at his side.  "Methos?" 
 
"I'm still here."  The voice came from nearby, on the banks of the 
stream. 
 
Conor rose and went to his side.  "Where will you go now?" 
 
Methos shrugged.  "I do not know." 
 
Conor nodded and backed off slightly, picking up his full pack and 
slinging it over his shoulders, his sword easily sheathed at his 
side.  "Back to the Romans?" 
 
"Maybe.  Would you understand if I did?" 
 
"No," said Conor honestly. 
 
"There's a lot to me to understand." 
 
"Maybe someday I will.  Until then...I hope we do not meet again in 
battle, Methos."  He reached out and clasped the other man's forearm, 
firmly but briefly. 
 
"As do I, Conor, as do I." 
 
With a last look, they turned their backs and both began to walk 
away. 
 
--end--