Gather Thy Cares (or A Gathering of Allies: a collaboration)  T. ISILWATH
& MAYGRA DE RHEMA (c) 1997

THIS IS NC-17 FOR GRAPHIC SEXUAL DEPICTION OF ADULTS: 

Violence, Male/Male sex and Vampiric sex. This is the result of a great
deal of admiration on MDR's part for Isilwath's work in Deadly Allies and
it won't make a whole lot of sense unless you read Deadly Allies Which can
be found at Isilwath's Home Page : 
 http://www.geocities.com/BourbonStreet/2561/ .....so read on..... 

As always, The Highlander characters: Duncan, Methos and Cassandra, et al,
are the property of Rysher: Panzer/Davis and we are ruthlessly exploiting
their characters for no monetary gain and for our own (and now your)
enjoyment but will return them unharm ed and no worse for the wear.  The
Characters of Lestat, Louis, Armand, et al belong to Anne Rice and we
thank her kindly for letting them loose for a bit to mingle with other
Immortals...variety being the spice of life and Lestat offering his
personal gu arantee that none of his family will be too terribly taken
advantage of...... 

This material may not be copied or distributed without permission--we
don't want R:P/D or The Vampires hunting us down--we have enough problems.
Do not link, publish or post this material without permission. 

............................................. 

The summoning came in early March, Seacouver's spring just beginning to
emerge. Duncan MacLeod woke to it, an odd feeling of displacement, an
urge.  It took him nearly a day to identify it, to know it was time. 

The Gathering had come. 

He had wondered--the past few years had brought challenges faster--enemies
harder to defeat. The one's who were left were better, more
ruthless--their Quckenings stronger, age and numbers of fallen challengers
adding to their strength as his defeated chal lengers added to his own. 

But the urge drove him.  Called him North and East; away from the major
continents, to the midnight sun, the darkening lands. He took challenges
on the way. Three.  All heading in the same direction--fighting to get to
the space calling them all, from whe rever they were.  He tried to get in
touch with his closest friends--too few these days--but there was no
response. He had no idea who would be left. Time and distance had
separated them. 

Except for Methos. His one constant in the century since Joe Dawson had
died--since the mortal had been killed by one of their own. Methos had
been there. Had taken the head of Joe's killer to avenge MacLeod's loss
and his own. Then came to MacLeod to sur render his grief. Eldon Shaw had
been a student of Methos' in the distant past--a promise turned bad,
wanting the prize more than he wanted his humanity. 

Methos had robbed him of both, and then turned to MacLeod and the
Highlander to him as another joy was lost to the Game. They had stayed
close--not always physically--continents separating them at times, months,
and then one or the other would show up on a doorstep, at a hotel, and
whatever time had passed was forgotten in a mutual release of friendship,
of need and desire, of love. 

And sometimes Methos came to him for sanctuary. He was no longer a myth to
their kind, and while his face had not been plastered on the Immortal's
most wanted poster--there were those who would take any chance, any
challenge on the off chance it might be Methos they faced--five thousand
years of power too much of a temptation to resist. 

Methos had left him again barely a month before the summons came, and
MacLeod missed him desperately, wanted him in a way which had never seemed
so urgent before. Craved his presence and not just for the physical
pleasure and comfort of the long, lean bod y, but for the laughter which
had not yet faded, for the smug superiority which continued to raise
MacLeod's blood pressure until the older Immortal would relent, tease and
cajole until they were in sync again. Surrendering everything he had to
offer to t he Highland warrior who had captured his heart and spirit. 

MacLeod had surrendered as well--it had taken him longer, longer to accept
the gift friendship was--for they were friends first--always. Lovers more
often than not but not monogamous--both realizing within the first year
together they weren't meant to be everything to each other, just a vital
constancy. 

When the summons came MacLeod wondered if Methos had sensed it
first--knowing it was nearing, distancing himself to prepare for those
final battles before reaching the Killing Grounds.  They were a threat to
each other in some ways--the well being of the other easy for others to
use as a threat. It had happened a half dozen times in the first few
years, when they were obvious about their feelings, their affection--the
physical attraction.  Friends could be used as pawns. Lovers could be used
as weapons. 

The last time had nearly separated them permanently, MacLeod held hostage
to Methos' surrender--an execution, not a challenge, and fate had
intervened from an unlikely source. 

The vampires had challenged the challenger. The strange alliance bothered
MacLeod more than Methos, but the allies were there, wanted or
not--MacLeod and Methos were owed a debt. Lestat said so and his family
followed his lead. They had not been obvious i n their
interventions--Lestat would have preferred to go Immortal hunting and
clear the field, but Methos and Louis had convinced him otherwise. The
game had to be played out--the field could be leveled but not cleared. 

Gratitude to the vampires came uneasily to MacLeod, especially to Lestat
who had once threatened to take Methos from him for his own pleasures. The
Vampire had been startled and intrigued when Duncan challenged him,
resisted him. They had been civil since
 but the hostility existed, the vague threat. Lestat had not challenged
MacLeod again, however. 

That had been nearly a decade ago, and MacLeod had not seen the vampires
since, although there were times when he knew they were watching him.  And
Methos, no doubt, repaying their debt as they could. 

And now there was no way to find him. No way to know until the end if he
lived.  And if he did, perhaps no way to avoid facing him on the
battleground.  The fear threatened to overwhelm MacLeod at times but the
rule was harsh. There could be only one. 

His flight took him to Iceland. To the arctic circle, to where the summer
had faded, the days dwindling to almost nothing. The tracks he followed
were numerous as Immortals made their way to the Killing Grounds--and he
passed more than one headless body o n the way, checked each grimly for a
familiar face.--was challenged, fought and won until he saw them--heard
steel ring in the gloomy twilight afternoon. 

Barely two dozen, snow trampled to the permafrost, crimson and muddied.  A
ring of Immortals who took their challenges as they would--waiting.
Resting between Quickenings, solitary camps of single men and two women,
one of them Amanda, bloodied, battered and resolute. Her gamine face and
figure had grown lean and hard, still breathtakingly beautiful but not as
carefree--too many battles, too many deaths, and she was weary of it. He
greeted her, kissed the soft mouth for comfort and luck and history. 

Others were still arriving, the challenges unrelenting and constant,
sometime several in a row. It was a solemn thing, voices rarely raised
above a murmur in speech, never falling below a scream as the Quickenings
gathered strength. And one MacLeod recogn ized, rising to watch as he saw
his former student triumph and win over an older, stronger challenger. 

There were no rules against contact, only an unspoken distance. A
separation MacLeod ignored as he came to catch Richie, Amanda behind him
to half carry the younger immortal to Amanda's camp--the one she and
MacLeod had been sharing.  They were an oddity,
 this trio-and became more of one as they refused to challenge one
another, although the urgency to end the Gathering was building. 

Duncan and Amanda had met back to back challenges, Richie waiting to help
them away--to watch when they all felt the arrival of another; the
elongated signature catching the attention of the entire group.  Duncan
rose and saw the familiar face, the body- -moved toward Methos and stopped
as the ancient Immortal was challenged. 

Methos was already blooded, had met who knew how many challenges en route. 
He was weary and grim, and his first challenge was over so quickly, so
skillfully, several who thought to call him changed their minds--but it
took three more before they let him
 be. 

::He's worn out. They'll kill him yet.:: 

Anxiety, concern from the five unseen spectators to the carnage as they
sent thoughts among themselves.

::What then? Can't we...:: one sent. Impatient and nervous. 

::Then he'll die. It's their Game. His choice... you agreed....:: another
admonished. 

::I don't want to watch this...:: Compassionate despair. 

::Then don't....I will...:: came the reply as the sending ceased. 

The last Quickening faded, leaving Methos on his knees, the survivors
watching, waiting as the oldest of them got unsteadily to his feet once
more, gold-green eyes scanning the crude circle of watchers, gaze resting
on each face until one moved closer, an d the others stepped back, willing
to let the next challenge fall as it would. 

MacLeod stopped less than a yard from the older Immortal, katana held
easily across his arms, watching the slender figure impassively, almost
smiling when Methos draped his blade casually across one shoulder, and did
not move.

"I was beginning to think you weren't coming," MacLeod said. 

"I had a few obstacles to overcome," Methos said quietly. His dark hair
was spiked with sweat, the long body had grown even leaner if it were
possible, a distillation of the essentials--muscles, tendons, flesh, all
of it condensed and compacted to the mos t efficient core.  "I'm glad to
see you, Mac," he murmured softly, onlookers excluded from hearing by the
quiet tone, and some confused by the faint twitch at the corner of the
tight lips.  Methos took a step forward, bringing his sword down, the
movement
 alone enough to summon up his exhaustion, and his relief at seeing the
Highlander alive and he wavered.

An advantage, most of the Immortals thought, watching grimly as MacLeod
lunged forward. Most were surprised when the Highlander caught the
faltering body rather than press his challenge.  More surprised still when
the older Immortal clung to the muscular frame like a lifeline, blade
dropping to the ice as they embraced, dark heads pressed against opposite
shoulders. 

Richie and Amanda stepped up, blades ready to challenge anyone who
interfered with the reunion, falling into a guard stance when the
Highlander caught the exhausted body around the waist before he
collapsed...before anyone could take advantage...and guide d him back to
the campsite.  Richie retrieved Methos' sword, backing away. The group
effort earned some respect as the others turned to their own concerns. 

By tacit agreement, the few hours of real light which came were
interrupted by no challenges, the remaining Immortals knowing how few of
them would ever see the sun again before the night was over.  A handful.
Methos had been the last to arrive.  He leane d against the Highlander for
a long moment before moving, sitting next to him as he recovered and
greeted his companions warmly but wearily, sinking to the snow with no
mind to the cold, though the slender body shivered. All of them rank and
dirty--bodies
 alternately fatigued and energized by the rapid succession of battles and
Quickenings. 

 "I didn't expect it to be like this," Richie murmured.  "I thought there
would be only two--this isn't a gathering, it's a slaughter." 

"The strongest only, Rich," MacLeod said reaching out to grip the younger
man's shoulder.  "To drive the urge. The Quickenings call our blood until
only one is left," he said and lifted the prayer he would not have to face
one of these three beloved faces
 at the end. 

"I don't want this--no prize is worth this," Amanda moaned, wrapping her
arms around her legs and rocking as the sun began to die again. MacLeod
moved to sit behind her, drawing her into his arms for comfort, and they
sat silently until the darkness came and the other woman
approached--red-hair coppered by firelight, face once pretty but now
hidden by battle lust and blood, dirt and weariness. 

"Come, sister. Our turn, I think," she murmured, her tone angry and
clement at the same time. 

Amanda rose, kissing MacLeod quickly, deeply. And Richie. Then turned to
Methos and he got to his feet, his sword ready.  She caught his chin,
touched his cheek, caressing it with the back of her hand, then kissed him
swiftly and followed her challenger t o the bloodied circle. 

The three men followed, others rising to watch.  There were nine of them
left, including the two women. It was as if a signal had been given--the
daughters of Eve to lead the last battle--the last fray.  One challenger
for each and one left over--to watch . 

It began like a dance. The Highlander, Methos and Armanda, Richie, aligned
side to side, enough space to fight, facing off with four others--one at
the head as if calling the steps. 

But there was no music--no laughter--no instruction. Just the ring of
steel, cries of pain, curses for the slick ground. 

Methos' challenge fell first, then MacLeod's, the odd man out barely
waiting as he came after the Scot as soon as the Quickening was over, not
willing to take on Methos unbolstered by another's strength. 

And Amanda fell, body dropping at Methos' feet and he waited for the other
woman to recover, to breathe--gave her time to assimilate Amanda's
thousand plus years. It was the only grace he gave her as she
rose--engaging her as Richie's challenger dropped t o the ground, the
younger immortal sagging to the ice to await the outcome of the next to
the last battle. 

Richie almost wished he'd lost the last fight.  Almost praying Duncan
would lose so he wouldn't have to face him--but the bloodlust was rising
as MacLeod dropped his challenger.  The Gathering had pressed them full
force, Quickenings dragging them resolut ely to the finish. Richie got to
his feet, hating the urge driving him, turning him toward MacLeod as the
Highlander gave in to the Quickening. 

The woman Methos was fighting fell as well and the oldest living Immortal
almost dropped, but his eyes met Richie's. The red-head was flushed, eyes
dilated as he watched MacLeod rise. The hazel eyes narrowed, softened and
he lunged, catching Richie in the
 abdomen, off guard. He heard MacLeod scream a protest behind him.  The
woman's Quickening was rising, reaching for Methos as he reached out to
catch Richie's body. 

The blue eyes were normal but pain glazed, meeting Methos' with
understanding, the bloodlust fading

"I won't take his head," Methos breathed against the pale face. "He'll
win." 

"Thank you," Richie murmured and Methos bent to kiss him gently, then
twisted the sword as the Quickening touched him.  He fought it, wrenching
his blade free to take Richie's head, not dropping the body until the two
Quickenings took him, almost simultan eously.  He screamed, body
convulsing under the onslaught, dragging the air from his lungs and
driving his body to the hard ground. 

And came to his senses to find MacLeod's blade at his throat. The
Highlander let him move, get to his knees. The dark face was tortured,
tears leaving pale tracks on the dirty skin. 

"Why? It was a coward's way to take him...you gave him no chance..." he
snarled, the bloodlust falling against anger and grief. 

"No. I didn't. I gave him what I could. Did you really want to face him,
Mac?" Methos asked wearily, his own insides warring. Pick up the sword.
Pick up the sword. It droned in his mind and he fought it with every bit
of willpower five thousand years coul d give him.  "To kill him? He
couldn't have taken either of us. I didn't want him to die at your hand,"
he said softly. 

MacLeod stared, chest heaving with rage, suppressed sobs, and then he gave
into them, dropping to his knees with an animal cry of grief and rage and
loss. Methos reached for him, pushing the blade aside to gather the larger
man into his arms. He ached. He
 was weary beyond belief and none of it mattered as he soothed his
Highland warrior, smoothing the dark hair, holding him close and closing
his eyes against his own tears as they clung together. 

It was a respite, Methos knew. The bloodlust would come again, for both of
them--driving out all other emotions except the desire to win.  He thought
he would be able to resist longer than MacLeod, but not forever. He
waited, listened--prayed a promise ma de long ago would be kept. 

::Yes.:: 

It was a whisper of thought, familiar and alien, gentle and terrifying. 

::Now?:: it asked, hopeful, ready. 

::No. Not yet.  Let us come to our own time,:: Methos answered, suffused
with relief. 

::As you will, brother. We are close.:: 

The voice faded as Methos continued to rock MacLeod. 

"I can't do this," The Highlander moaned. "I can't fight it--I don't want
the prize." 

"It's yours, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod. I've known it--prayed for
it," Methos murmured against his hair, feeling the tight muscles under his
hands, the body he loved containing the spirit he worshipped. 

"Take my head, Methos. Please. End this." 

"I can't and I will. In time, Duncan. Rest. Hush. It will be over soon,"
Methos soothed, brushing his thumb across the dry lips and then bending to
kiss him, meeting the desperate response with passion and sorrow and love.

Their bodies were hard and straining but it was not gentle caresses or
rough lovemaking which would cull the urge. The bloodlust was rising and
they dared deny it until MacLeod shook under the force of it, wrenching
himself away, fingers closing over his blade. Methos moved as well, away,
his own fingers twitching for his steel and he resisted. But his blood was
burning, the heady lure of power hovering just beyond his reach. He could
taste it--the Quickening in the Highlander--his own. A temptation--too
much too bear, to resist. 

::Now!:: the oldest Immortal cried. 

Shadows swooped in around them, Lestat and Armand, Louis and David and
Khayman. Armand caught MacLeod, and Khayman helped--the Highlander was
strong from his many Quickenings, power arcing around them, waiting for
one to claim it.  Although one vampire co uld easily have restrained him,
two made certain he would be restrained without having to be harmed. 

Methos reached for his sword, eyes narrowed. 

"This is how you win, Methos? To cheat with your pet monsters?" 

The hazel eyes froze, saw the blade and dropped it in horror.  "No. No,
MacLeod. This is how you win," he said softly, body shaking as he tried to
over come the rage and bloodlust for a few seconds more.

"Please, Lestat. I can't..." he begged, reaching for the vampire in
desperation.

"I know, mon cher...." Lestat said gently and caught Methos' face in his
hands, tasted the lips gently and then turned his head, exposing the long,
slender throat. Methos jerked, catching the vampire's wrists, body arching
in pain and then in something el se. 

Lestat drank quickly, bearing up the slender body, holding it as he took
it down to near death, to where the heart was but a murmur.  Louis came
forward to help cradle the body of their friend, holding him up as his
legs went slack and his eyes closed. 

Dying, Methos' presence no longer called to MacLeod, but Armand and
Khayman held him still as the rage turned to sorrow. 

"What is happening?" he murmured. 

"He is giving you the prize--he is giving you his life and saving your
soul," Armand said. "Remember this MacLeod, watch him--he is ensuring you
will never be alone." 

MacLeod didn't understand until he saw all three go to their knees, still
cradling the lax body as Lestat opened his shirt and dragged his
fingernail across his throat, then lifted the limp head and pressed the
mouth to the bloody wound. 

"No. No. No! Nonononono!" MacLeod screamed as he realized what Methos had
agreed to, what he had planned. To cross over--to surrender his humanity
to keep MacLeod alive--to give him the Prize. To protect him from the
grief of having to kill the last frien d he had. 

The vampires would not let him go, not even when he went to his knees as
Methos began to stir, to suckle the damning blood Lestat offered him. They
held him as Lestat swooned, body trembling with the ecstasy only one
vampire--or one newly made--could give
 to another. 

"Yes, that's it!  Drink, mon cher!  Drink and be strong.  Be strong enough
to overcome your own Immortality!" Lestat urged as Methos sucked harder
and more insistently. 

The world slowed to a near stop as MacLeod watched in horror.  Before him
his friend and lover was making the greatest sacrifice he could, and there
was nothing he could do to stop it.  He heard the sounds of Methos'
drinking, unable to block them out, an d his soul froze inside him as
Lestat sank down to the ground, Methos' mouth still fused to his neck

"Enough," Louis whispered, after moments untold, and gently separated the
two. 

Lestat let out a mournful sigh and stayed collapsed on the ground, David
leaning worriedly over him, as Louis took charge of Methos--waiting as the
change came, as Methos surrendered, burned, body convulsing as he gave
into the blood, the curse. MacLeod m oaned as he felt the energies stir,
move, crackle through the air--a glowing mist rising from Methos' body as
he died--human spirit quenched, not with a head taking but with another
death. The energy arced, sought and found a home and the vampires moved t
hen, away from MacLeod as the Quickening came. The last Quickening as only
one stood alone. Slumped to the ground and sobbing as the mirror of his
heart was cast back at him. 

Five thousand years. Millennia surrendered without regret to the one thing
which had sustained them both. Love. It crashed down on the Highlander,
swirling around him and lifting him like an offering to the heavens. He
could feel the lives Methos had harb ored for so long, each one a face and
form, a marker of history. 

The most recent came last, Amanda, Richie, a touch, a grin, a caress, a
murmur of forgiveness, of gratitude that they would not be
forgotten...ever. And then Methos, his presence so powerful MacLeod lost
himself in it, a thousand memories of anger and bet rayal, humor and
concern, pain and ecstasy--the feel of skin, a mouth on his with a kiss, a
benediction--a promise and then it was gone as well. 

And the Prize came. The rush of power, life, as MacLeod became aware of
all things at once, tumbling inside him like puzzle pieces to be
sorted--answers to things he had never questioned, questions demanding
answers, an orgasm of knowledge, of power, exte nding from all living
things and found a home in his breast and body, in his mind and soul. The
ability to change things, to mend them and the knowledge and conscience to
use the power wisely. Not a God but god-like. Not a man, but human. 

And one wrenching sense of loss. 

The energies released him, setting him down gently, cradling his unmoving
body, the winds stilling, settling. The energies draining back into the
earth--back to life. 

The vampires moved back warily, cautiously, having shielded themselves
from the light--from the caress of those lightnings for they had felt them
too. Something like a promise invading their darkness. 

Lestat was regaining his strength, and he raised himself up to look at the
two silent forms, one flushed with a life-force so full it was painful to
be near, and he realized he would never again challenge...or survive a
challenge...put to the proud Highla nd warrior.  Then Khayman came to him,
good old Khayman with his loving heart and giving nature.  The ancient
vampire held him close and allowed him to feed--offering him sustenance
and he took it gratefully but his blue-gray eyes were fixed on the slende
r, pale form Louis tended. Methos had always been pale, but the vampiric
transfusion had left him translucent, frail looking though his body had
not yet succumbed to the changes that were to follow. 

"He will need to feed..." Armand said as Louis gathered the slight form up
in his arms--Methos weighed no more than a child, as if surrendering his
humanity had lifted a burden the body could no longer sustain. 

"The sun will come soon," David said softly, reaching out to touch the
dark silken hair.  "We should take him." 

"No." 

Khayman turned at the voice to see MacLeod rise, still filthy, battered,
but the dark eyes shone with strength and he moved...graceful MacLeod had
always been, and swift....and now he was like the wind, a river, moving in
the world as one who truly is par t of it. 

"You agreed to this," MacLeod said to Lestat. 

"I did. A promise to be kept, Highlander.  If he survived to the end and
you did as well, he would not leave you to face this world alone--and he
could not kill you and face it alone himself. Had you not have survived,
he might have, but there was no priz e worth your death." 

"So you gave him yours," MacLeod said softly. 

"Out of love," Louis explained gently. "He bridged our world, MacLeod as
he bridged yours. We are not monsters to him--weren't. Now he is our kin
and your companion for as long as you will have him." 

"But not human." 

"No. He will need to feed when he wakes. It will be soon. If he does not,
the hunger will make him mad...." Khayman said as Duncan nodded and held
out his arms to take Methos from Louis. 

"The sun rises, MacLeod," Lestat warned. 

"I know. I can hear it," MacLeod said. 

Methos stirred, whimpered, face paling in pain and need, sharp canines
showing through the parted lips. 

"Ah, love. What have you done?" MacLeod murmured as he glanced up at
Lestat for a moment, then extended his wrist to him. 

"I will feed him." 

"He will drain you dry if you let him," the blond vampire warned. 

"He won't," MacLeod insisted. 

"As you wish then," Lestat answered as he slashed open a vein in the
Highlander's dusky skin.; watching as the Highlander then pressed the
bloody wound against the mouth of his lover, his friend--his brother. 

"The sun..." David warned. 

"Go," MacLeod ordered, feeling the pull of Methos' mouth on his skin. 

"He'll die...he'll burn...." Khayman warned. 

"Go." 

"Would you let him die rather than accept his gift?" Louis demanded. 

MacLeod met his eyes, green and brown clashing and Louis stepped back.
"You can't undo this...." 

"You have no idea what I can do," MacLeod murmured and hissed as Methos
woke further, suckling turned greedy and savage.  "Hush, Methos. Take your
time..." he soothed and the savagery faded as the hazel eyes opened to
brown ones. 

"We have to go..." Armand said, picking up David as Lestat took Louis, and
they sought shelter from the light of day. 

Khayman stayed behind, looking anxious and concerned.  "Let us take him,
MacLeod. He'll die with the first kiss of the sun." 

"No," Methos whispered hoarsely.  "I want to stay." 

"Methos..." Khayman began.  "You will die." 

"Then I die..."  came Methos' soft response as MacLeod drew him closer.
"If he can't live with me as I am, I have nothing to live for...Go
on...old one. I am where I am supposed to be for whatever happens..." 

Khayman nodded and withdrew, leaving the two alone. 

Methos' hunger had eased--not abated, but enough so he could see through
the red fog, control the driving need to feed. He leaned back against
MacLeod's arm, cold fingers gripping the wound. 

"You abhor this...what I've become..." he said softly and MacLeod started,
realizing he felt as well as heard the words. He smiled, not sure how to
use this power he'd been given. 

"No, Methos....I know what you've done and why. I don't agree, but it
was...clever. Impossible. Something only you could dream up," he said and
bent his head to kiss him, parting the soft, cold mouth, tasting his own
blood, the raised canines, coaxing the
 moist sweetness he had come to savor. It was slightly different, spicier,
and Methos returned the kiss, probing the familiar mouth with his tongue,
careful of his sharpened teeth. He clung to Duncan, aware of the
lightening sky, not afraid--if he died wi th this kiss on his mouth it
would be enough--to be forgiven for his foolishness, his desperation. His
cowardice. 

"I have no intention of letting you die," MacLeod said and lifted his
wrist again. "Finish, and we'll see what dawn brings." 

"Mac..." Methos said and lifted his head. "I want..." 

"Hedonist," MacLeod said chuckling and pulled him upward, cradling him in
his arms and supporting the beloved head as he pushed his hair back to
expose his throat.  Instinctively, Methos' mouth sought out the throbbing
vein and sunk his newly elongated te eth into it.  The puncture was
gentle, and the Highlander sighed, body tensing in pleasure. Methos was
inexpert at what a vampire could do, having only been on the receiving end
before, but he knew what he wanted MacLeod to feel, moaning himself at the
ta ste of the Highlander's blood, the feel of the strong, warm hands
against his cold skin, under his clothes at his back, the firm caress
across his groin. 

It was almost enough. What Louis had told him, had shared with him in
those dark hours years ago in a tiny cell, that this was what sex was for
a vampire. The feel of MacLeod's blood, hot and sweet, pumping into his
throat, through him. It was heady pleas ure and he could feel MacLeod's
body respond, the slow shiver of muscles as the swoon slipped between
them. His own body felt it too, for whatever reason, perhaps because he
was too newly this creature he'd become.  It was ecstasy but it was not
release. He moaned, softly, body flexing against the Highlander's and
MacLeod soothed him with words, with the strong glaze of hands across his
flesh. His own fingers sought that touch and he paused, pulling back,
swallowing convulsively as something more than hun ger burned through him.
Found MacLeod's eyes watching him solemnly, faintest smile on his lips as
he nodded, mouth coming down to his to part his lips gently, tongue
pushing against his as easily as the shining love in the dark eyes pushed
back his fears. 


Warmth suffused them both, drawn from nowhere, MacLeod calling it to
obscure the icy brittleness surrounding them, that pre-dawn haziness
blurring the landscape. MacLeod reached for him with a different hunger,
hands gliding across his sides and up, to fr ee the slender body from the
restraint of cloth, the trappings of a world that no longer existed. And
then MacLeod was bare as well, bronzed skin suffused with warmth and light
from a sun that had yet to show its face. 

The Highlander drew him close, pulled Methos' back against his chest,
rising behind him. Strong arms enfolding the slender body as their bodies
pressed close. MacLeod's fingers brushed the softness of Methos' lips
before covering them with his own, the ha nd moving to sweep through the
soft silk of his hair, filtering the strands with strong fingers. 

And felt the fear in the man in his arms. Knew what had driven him to this
desperate act and what he had surrendered. MacLeod's eyes blurred as he
held him. Knew his very embrace brought home to Methos the enormity of
what he had sacrificed. What he had g iven up to ensure MacLeod survived
not just the Gathering but the eternity that followed. It wasn't fair. It
wasn't right that Methos, who had so much to offer the world, had seen so
much of humanity's follies and victories, should be the one to lose the
 very essence of what being human was all about. That he should be denied
in one selfless act that aspect which had made the sacrifice possible. His
humanity surrendered for love then to be denied the physical act that best
embodied what love meant betwee n two people. 

::This can't be real,:: Methos thought, almost a sob, finally
understanding what he'd given up, what he couldn't have known when he'd
made this choice. To never again feel MacLeod against him, in him. The
swoon supplanting all else, but never able to repl ace this...this
contact.

MacLeod kissed him, swept the tears away and sought to right that great
wrong. Birthing in love what had been killed in the same instant. 

::It's real, love,:: Duncan's voice in his ear and mind, sliding through
him and within him. And the blood still calling Methos even as he felt the
strong hand sliding across his abdomen to envelope a need he'd thought
would be lost with his humanity. He groaned as that sure caress roused him
as fully as any vampiric call of blood. An arousal that should not have
been possible. His eyes burned at the thought that this might be the last
time he would ever be able to savor one of the joys of being human. Th e
loss threatened to overwhelm him and he sought the once source of comfort
he had left .  Head dropping back to the muscled shoulder to gaze into
eyes as vast and deep as eternity. Then eternity joined him, slid into
him, captured him and he could deny neither hunger nor need any longer as
he sank his teeth into the throat of his partner, his friend, his lover. 
Teeth tearing through the flesh once more as his body yielded to the
Highlander's and he heard MacLeod moan, not in pain but in passion, as the
 blood once more filled Methos, changing him, feeding his hunger. His
desire. His craving to be forever part of this man that now had the world
at his fingertips. 

And those fingers called to him, traced a line along his throat, his
shoulders, sweeping his skin with a gentle heat.  He whimpered in pleasure
as the Highlander touched him, a smooth caress across his breast, searing
a line down his chest to his flanks. Another touch at his back, the press
of firm flesh against his buttocks and he moaned as MacLeod pressed the
union he'd thought lost to him forever, joining them past flesh and
muscle. Felt the Highlander rise against him, drawing his body close,
pressing
 himself deep within the slender form. Each sure stroke in time with the
blood pulsing from the vein Methos drew life from.  MacLeod's life, his,
forever mixed. It started so forcefully he felt there was nowhere else to
go, but the Highlander drove him hi gher with each strong thrust of his
body into Methos', with every stroke of his hand against still willing
flesh. With every solid beat of his heart setting the pace and rhythm.

The dual mix of blood and sensation burned through both of them, so much
more than pleasure, a surcease of everything but the life's blood they
shared, pressing Methos to the point of death as MacLeod filled him,
ecstasy rippling through the all too const rained physical form until
dying would have been a relief. For nothing on earth could contain the
burst of sensation, of sound, of life that overwhelmed him until he wept
from the force of it. Quickening, swoon, orgasm all tied together and
threatening to
 tear him apart until he was nothing.  Then just as quickly pulled him
back from the shattered pieces of consciousness he had become and remade
him, coalescing into the throb of MacLeod's heart, his own, both beating
harshly with strain and fulfillment. 

It was more than too much as the spasms began and Methos sought the mouth
again, blood still pounding in his ears, the Highlander's heart still
thrumming, matching pace with his own as their breathing grew shallow. Two
hungers fed and met as their bodies
 and souls strained to meet that one place where they could be together
without barriers or differences. 

Duncan's body pressed deeply into his with a soft cry of release, a
different warmth suffusing Methos from within, as hot as MacLeod's blood,
as his own, and he found release as well, pressing for it against his
lover's hand. He surrendered to it as will ingly as he had surrendered his
humanity, unable to breath, and no longer caring as long as he had the hot
taste of MacLeod in his mouth, his soul, and the feel of the familiar
hard, loving body against his own.  He shuddered and stretched under the
force
 of this second surrender, breathing difficult under the moan that swept
through him, draining him of his strength, his will until MacLeod caught
his head and pressed it once more to the strong column of his throat,
offering that sustenance without reserv ation. And he drank, gaining
strength and confused when MacLeod seemed to feel no loss. 

::No more,:: Methos said, tears burning his eyes. He couldn't take all
that MacLeod had to offer when he offered so little in return. What had he
brought him but his company? That and this need he'd given birth to in
desperation. 

::Not in desperation. In love,:: Duncan returned to him gently, letting
Methos feel the strength in his body, undiminished by feeding or by love
making, made aware by touch of his own body's potency, the meeting and
testing of muscle to muscle, skin to sk in, desire to desire. ::There is
nothing you can take that I won't offer. There is nothing I need that you
haven't given me already, Methos. Look. The dawn is rising.:: 

The first kiss of sunlight touched his skin, warming it and he lifted his
mouth to MacLeod's, wanting that human touch to be the last thing he felt
if this were the end.  MacLeod caught his fingers and held him, supported
him, kissed him with passion enou gh for eternity. 

His cheek felt hot and for a brief moment he was afraid. 

"Don't be....look at it, Methos," MacLeod said holding him in his arms to
face the rising sun, arms secure around his waist, chest hard and strong
against Methos' back. Iceland's cold bothered them not at all as they
watched the silver orb rise, MacLeod's
 lips in his hair. 

"Don't be afraid..." MacLeod said again as the vampiric cold left Methos'
body for heat--the sun, the air, MacLeod's body against his.  The light
hurt his eyes and he closed them. His breath quickened and he moistened
his lips then stopped, feeling his te eth. 

They were flat. The blood hunger was gone as well.  He lifted his hand,
saw the flush in his skin and not from the sunrise, not from the sated
coursing of a vampire but because his blood was warm--human. 

"What did you do?" he murmured.  "The Prize..." 

"No Miracles, Methos. Just the ability to change, to put things as they
were meant to be," MacLeod said, hugging him.  "My blood, your blood. It's
all the same. It always was. I can't do this alone, Methos. You knew that
before you knew what ::this:: was. 
 That's what gave me the idea--to make it right. To make us right. Death
is a thought away. Life a heartbeat. We're still Immortal, both of us, and
the Game will begin again, but we won't be part of it unless we choose to
be--and the rules are a little di fferent. Reach out for it, Methos...the
whole world is there...a dozen new loves, maybe children. And us." 

"You've made me like you are." 

"Everyone is like I am, they just don't know how to use what they are.  We
get to teach them--even your little fan club of bloodsuckers. What were
you thinking?" MacLeod asked gently, turning him. Clothed as Methos was,
but not, the reality of cloth and f abric lost on Methos when he only felt
the touch of skin under his hand still. Cognizant of the fact that despite
the clothing his body still ached sweetly from the feel of MacLeod pressed
within him, the lovemaking as real as the sun he watched rise. 

"Don't you know?" Methos asked, aware he could still hear thoughts as a
murmur, including MacLeod's, but only if he tried.

"If I tried--I don't want to be omniscient, Methos." 

"I was thinking I had been alone most of my life and hated it--survived
it. I didn't want you to have to survive the loneliness. I wanted you to
have someone to turn to until you knew what this was." Methos said,
sliding his hands along the strong jaw, in to the satin hair, ignoring the
dirt, the grime and dried blood. 

The bodies scattered on the ice. 

"I'm sorry about Richie, about..."  Methos began. Duncan stopped his
regrets with a kiss. 

"Don't be--we have them still and they're waiting--maybe this life, maybe
the next. They have lots of time..." MacLeod said, shifting and rising,
drawing Methos up with him to face the short lived dawn.  "I am tired and
hungry and cold. Hike to the next t own or wait for your fan club?" 

Methos grinned and caught MacLeod around the waist. "Oh, yeah, I
forgot...there's this little trick I learned from Lestat..." 

"No way, Methos...." MacLeod began. 

Methos shook his head smugly and led him beyond the killing fields to a
rock outcropping, stopping to pull back a white tarp. A sleek snowmobile
waited. 

MacLeod burst out laughing. 

Methos grinned. "Leave nothing to chance." 

"Always be prepared--and you call me a boy scout!" 

Methos caught his hands. "No. I have an entirely different name for
you..." he said softly and murmured it into MacLeod's ear, then took his
life--their life to face a new world. 

--Just the Beginning--