The Spoils of War
Darius stalked the wide, flat battlefield, the stench of mud and blood and death so familiar to him after four centuries that they barely made an impression on his senses. Grayson walked beside him, also silent, a fact for Darius was increasingly grateful. His nerves were on edge, much more than he was willing to let his lieutenant know. The battle had gone as planned, the victory had been swift and decisive, but the vague uneasiness still remained. He blamed the witch.
Of course, she wasn't really a witch, Darius could not bring himself to believe in such things, but to the women of the camp that was how she was known and certainly her gifts in divining the meaning of the runes and bones were well known to him. She had caught his eye as he and Grayson were crossing the camp to where their horses stood hobbled. He paused as she spread the bones out on the ground in front of her bent knees.
"A great victory today, my Lord."
"Of course, would fate dare anything else?" Grayson answered haughtily.
The witch looked up at Darius with eyes the color of a hail-filled cloud and he knew beyond a doubt why the women knew this one for a witch. He returned the stare, refusing to let the power of the unknown affect him. "Is that all you see?" he asked casually as if it was no matter to him.
She lowered her eyes demurely and swept her hand over the tumbled bones. "A greater victory awaits after the last man has fallen, if you are not deceived."
The words made no sense to him and Darius pulled his cloak more tightly around himself, tossed his head to indicate that Grayson should follow and walked away.
"Why do all prophecies have to sound like riddles for children?" Grayson scoffed as they left the witch behind.
Now with the last of their enemy
fallen and the bulk of the men celebrating back in camp, the witch's words
refused to leave Darius alone. He made up his mind to slit her interfering
throat the minute he reached the camp again for giving him this feeling of
impending...something and spoiling what should have been a very satisfying
victory. Maybe he'd take her first, she always glared at him like a cornered
cat when he threw her up against the nearest flat surface and pushed himself
He kicked aside a dead man's sword; surprised when he noticed it to be a very fine, very old weapon, such as he himself had used in the early days of his Immortality. Thoughts of his retaliation against the witch flew from his mind as he bent to pick it up; a good sword was always a valuable possession. It was just at that moment that the sword's owner jerked back into life. Darius jumped aside, quickly pointing the tip of the broadsword at the throat of the coughing Immortal.
The man groaned and pushed a great tangle of raven hair from his eyes, squinting up at his captors. Darius allowed him to struggle to his feet, keeping the sword-point firmly pressed to the man's long, pale neck. The captive Immortal did not speak, but simply glared back at them from blazing hazel eyes with the air of a tethered hawk. He was tall, although not as tall as Darius himself he noted, as his eyes swept over the man. He was thin but broad through the shoulder, long limbed and graceful beneath the filthy rags of his shredded tunic. He was so completely unlike the small, dark people Darius' army had just vanquished that he concluded quickly that he was fighting for a people not his own.
"You picked a bad time to revive, my friend," Darius observed, more to goad the captive to speech than anything else. "Another few minutes and we would have been well away."
"What can I say? It's been that kind of a century." the stranger quipped ironically, in a rich deep baritone voice as if they were passing the time over an ale in a tavern, instead of standing on a bloody battle ground with Darius holding a sword to his throat.
"What is your name, stranger?" Darius asked, in a low dangerous purr as he stroked the tip of the sword over the smooth pale skin, demonstrating without show or words his strength and his tight control of the heavy weapon.
The captive turned the full force of those unusual eyes on Darius. "Does it matter? I won't need a name if you take my head." He slouched on one hip, shrugging his wide shoulders tiredly.
Small stirrings of dark lust began to flutter in low in Darius' gut. "Perhaps I won't take your head, just yet. Perhaps you can be of some use to me, before I take your Quickening."
The strange Immortal sighed as if the conversation was boring him. "If you must." Bored and impatient.
Darius was intrigued; his instincts told him without doubt there was more to this man than there first appeared. It would be an interesting evening's diversion to break him, make him lose that smooth veneer of ennui and cynicism. What would it take to break you, I wonder? Make you cry out, beg for me to release you? He walked behind the captive and rested the flat of the blade on the man's shoulder. "Walk!" he ordered.
Grayson had remained silent throughout the interaction, but as they walked Darius flicked a look at his lieutenant and saw the questions in the man's expression. He scowled briefly at his old friend and disdained to answer to him. He was the general and it was he who held the power of life and death in their world. The last half-mile to the camp was covered in a tense silence. He paused outside the large tent at the center of the camp that was his own.
"Inside," Darius growled.
Grayson protested at last. "Darius, surely you don't wish to risk ..."
Darius cut him off with an imperious glare. "Do not question me, Grayson!" He shot another harsh look at his lieutenant and followed the prisoner inside his tent, leaving Grayson standing silent in his wake.
The prisoner lounged against the central pole of the tent, arms folded, regarding Darius sardonically as he entered. He was filthy, with blood and dirt obscuring his features, giving Darius an idea. He stuck his head out through the tent flap again and barked orders at a passing slave-woman to fetch water. In less than a minute she was back, a brimming wooden pail in her hand. He took it from her and sent her away with another order, this one given too quietly for his captive to hear.
Darius turned to his prisoner and asked almost gently, "What can I call you? You must have some name that I can use? I can call you Slave if you'd rather?"
A small frown fluttered across the pale brow, the captive looked at Darius quizzically as if puzzled by the tone. He exhaled deeply as if coming to a decision. "Call me Methos."
Darius smiled fractionally, just the briefest lift of the corners of his lips as he drew nearer to the other man. "There now that wasn't so very hard, now was it?"
Methos just met his eyes in an unreadable stare, his face cool and untouched by any emotion.
Darius leaned in close to whisper into Methos' ear, "Strip."
Methos raised a lazy eyebrow in Darius' direction but did not move.
Darius raised the sword to touch his captive's throat once more. "You will do as I say," he purred like a large deadly cat, "or I will take your head. It's your choice, my friend. But make it quickly."
Methos shrugged, as if the question
did not matter to him either way, and with a graceful economy of movement,
slipped the clothes from his body and dropped them to the packed earth floor.
Darius pointed to the pail on the floor. "
Methos frowned. "Barbaric custom," he muttered as he dipped a rag torn from his tunic into the cold water and began to scrub the battlefield from his body.
Darius relaxed back on the thick pile of skins that was his bedding and watched. The man really was quite extraordinary, he thought as he felt his body reacting to the sight in front of him. Darius let his eyes drift over Methos' body appraisingly, not trying to hide his arrogant perusal. Long, lean muscle covered his lanky frame, well-defined chest, arms and shoulders as befitted a swordsman. The pale skin was pinkening under the chill of the freezing stream water that came from the mountains above them and Darius had the brief fierce urge to warm the skin under his lips.
Such a sense of leashed power about the man, like a cat, relaxed and unthreatening until the second its claws were buried in your skin. This was going to be well worth his time and effort, Darius thought as he rose from the soft skins to draw near his prisoner again.
"Much better," he whispered so close his breath ruffled the long dark strands of hair against Methos' neck. Methos stood like marble.
A small cough outside the tent told Darius that his other order had been carried out. He left Methos' side and slipped out to speak to the slave. Darius took the second pail and the small dish from her and stepped back into the tent, closing the flap securely. He turned to Methos and smiled dangerously.
"Now it is my turn, yes? Come here and wash me, Methos." Darius placed the pail on the ground, putting the dish to one side for the moment, and dropped his clothing to the floor, waiting imperiously to be served.
Methos nodded briefly and dipped a rag into the new bucket of water, starting as his hand touched the heated water, shooting a quick look at his captor.
"Yes?" Darius asked coolly. "Something wrong?"
Methos met Darius' eyes without heat as he began to rub the warm cloth over Darius' chest. "No, my Lord."
The appellation pleased him and Darius smiled thinly. "See? That wasn't hard, was it?"
Methos answered by wringing out the cloth in the warm water again and progressing in tiny circles towards Darius' half-erect cock. Darius felt his flesh stir further as the warm cloth caressed his shaft, then his balls; he spread his legs in wordless invitation and Methos continued to wash in between them, dipping the cloth into the cleft of Darius' ass. A small toss of Darius' head signaled Methos to stand behind him and continue his ablutions from there.
Darius stretched a little as the pleasure of the strong hands on his back warmed him. Methos sluiced water down the strong muscled plain of Darius' back and the general allowed himself a small sound of appreciation as the hands found the curves of his ass again.
"You've done this before." It wasn't a question.
"A time or two," Methos agreed neutrally, washing carefully between the cheeks.
"Enough!" Darius commanded, grabbing a clean cloth and rapidly drying himself as the water cooled on his skin. He threw himself down onto the pile of skins again, folding his hands behind his head. Darius caught Methos' eye and nodded towards his own bobbing erection. "Come here."
Methos dropped to his knees between the general's wide-spread legs, skimming his hands up the long muscled thighs as he did. Darius suppressed a bone-deep shudder as Methos took him deep into his throat in one easy movement. The mouth was liquid fire, the suction merciless and just enough off-rhythm to delay the impatient climax that hovered on the edge of his senses. Darius reached out one hand to tangle in the long, surprisingly soft strands of Methos' hair. He let the hand rest there, not controlling the movement, as he was sure Methos expected, just luxuriating in the texture under his fingertips.
Darius let his hand drift down through the tangled silk until his fingers found the soft warm skin at the back of Methos' neck. He rubbed small soft circles into the skin and almost grinned in triumph when Methos' eyes flicked up to meet his and he saw the puzzled look in the hazel depths. It was easy to break a man with fist and boot, to break him with a smile and a caress took far more finesse. Small humming sounds began to issue from Methos' throat as he took Darius' cock deeper. Darius watched his captive's face and saw the arousal written clearly there. Darius waited just a moment longer, his heart starting to pound with need as Methos' throat muscles worked around him.
Darius lifted his foot and firmly pushed Methos away, unbalancing him from his kneeling position and sending him sprawling across the floor. Cold fire burned in the hazel eyes as Methos waited for Darius to make his move.
"Get up!" the general ordered. "Bring me that dish over there." He watched as Methos seemed to flow from the floor, sending a thrill of pure desire rippling through Darius as he imagined having all that strength and grace writhing beneath him.
Methos collected the dish of animal fat and presented it to Darius as if it had been a golden platter of pheasant. Darius could smell the arousal pouring off the other man in waves, although Methos kept his expression smooth and imperturbable, his cock was fully erect and leaking a thin stream of pearlescent fluid. Darius held up a hand, indicating that Methos should take it, and drew the captive down to lie beside him on the pile of furs.
Darius took a small amount of the grease and coated his fingers in it, his eyes never leaving the prisoner's. The hazel eyes betrayed the depth of Methos' need; the gold-green irises were almost swallowed up by the huge black pupils as he watched Darius prepare. At last Darius reached for him, pushing the pale thighs apart and reaching between them to skim lightly over the straining cock and tightened balls before slipping down to tease at the tight opening. He heard the small catch in Methos' breath as the finger breached the tight muscles and slid inside.
He watched Methos give in it, give himself up to the pleasure Darius was inflicting on him as Darius' long finger found the hard protrusion of the hidden gland and stroked it gently. Now.
Darius rolled himself on top of the prisoner and sheathed himself deep inside before Methos could do more than gasp a surprised breath. The pain and shock in the wide hazel eyes was just what he was after. If Methos thought he had Darius all worked out, this little shock should have been enough to disabuse him of that misconception, Darius thought coolly as he pounded into the tight hot body.
Darius almost lost sight of his plan as he thrust into the incredible heat of the man beneath him. It would be so easy to just drive into him until they both came, he thought, but this one was different and the end result would be worth it. He stopped suddenly, withdrawing his cock just far enough so that the head sat pressed up against the swell of the small gland inside. He fixed his steely gaze on the eyes of the man beneath him, waiting...
He didn't have to wait long. Methos was trembling with need and he clutched at Darius' back with strong fingers. Darius' face was implacable as he held his frozen position, feeling the inner muscles tense around his flesh. Methos made a small needy sound deep in his chest.
"Say it!" Darius commanded.
Methos began to rock his hips back and forth as much as he could with Darius' fingers holding on tightly, but Darius kept his hips raised and his hands firm.
"No," Methos growled through gritted teeth.
Darius pushed his full length slowly into Methos' ass and then withdrew, stopping again in the same place. Methos drew in a deep shuddering breath.
"Say it." Darius smiled seductively as he brought his face closer to Methos', close enough to kiss.
Methos glared hotly at him, gasping with unfulfilled desire. Darius could see the warring emotions race across the pale high-boned face. And waited -- immobile.
Methos began to writhe wildly beneath him, trying desperately to create the friction that would tip him over the edge. Sweat dripped from his body and Darius clenched his hands harder around the slim hips to hold them still. Darius saw the exact moment the need overwhelmed his captive's pride.
"Please," Methos ground out reluctantly. "Gods...please just fuck me. Please?"
"See how easy that was?" Darius asked gently as his hands left Methos' hips and slipped up to cradle the angular face, forcing the eye contact to continue.
Triumph glittered in Darius' gray eyes as he took Methos hard and fast. Low animal grunts and the wet slap of flesh against flesh replaced the silken torture of his teasing. Methos met his every thrust with an answering movement of his slim hips. He was abandoned now, wild and unrestrained as he responded to every thrust of Darius' cock. Methos was incoherent, clearly desperate to come and his heedless inarticulate cries filled the tent to the rhythm of Darius' body. The general's hands left their place on the bony cheekbones and skimmed down Methos' body to push his slim thighs even further apart.
Pounding even more deeply into the tight heat, Darius let slip his own control and drove hard into the spasming body beneath his, pushing them both the rest of the way to shuddering climaxes. Methos' long body arched like an overdrawn bow as he groaned his completion. Darius felt the slender man's hot fluids splash against his belly as he shot his deep inside the tight channel. Heat, sweat and bodily fluids dripped from the men as Darius collapsed over Methos' body, gasping breathlessly.
Methos cried out sharply as Darius pulled his cock free and rolled away. The general lay heaving for breath, wiping the sweat from his eyes with the back of his hand. He felt his captive rise from the skins and move wearily to the bucket of water. Eyes downcast, Methos brought the water and cloth to Darius' side. He knelt and began to wash Darius carefully.
"So you have been a body slave before?" Darius asked, breath hitching in his chest as the cool cloth touched his sensitized flesh.
"Among other things," Methos answered, not meeting Darius' eyes.
He grabbed Methos chin suddenly, forcing it up. "You will look at me when you speak to me. Is that clear?" he growled. He liked the look in the expressive eyes; it reminded him strongly of a hunting falcon he'd once trained. She was only half-tame too, a wildness there that nothing could dim, a readiness to sink her talons into his throat at the first sign of weakness that never went away 'til the day she died. This one too would resist all the way, but he would never die, unless Darius willed it and if he had given in a little too easily this time, there was always the next and the next and the next. He would learn. "Clean yourself and come back to me," he ordered, raking Methos with hot, possessive eyes.
Methos did as he was bid, and returned to lie next to the general's side, carefully maintaining a distance between them. "Yes, my Lord."
Darius could not read the expression hiding in the hazel eyes and that disturbed him more than he liked, the discomfort making him gruff and dismissive. "Please me," he ordered, shoving Methos towards his renewed erection. He lay back and began to plan tomorrow's campaign. His thoughts became jumbled, as the sensations licking at his groin grew too intense to ignore. He looked at Methos at last.
Methos paused in the act of tonguing the tiny slit of Darius' cock; his eyes fixed firmly on the general's. He left the tip of his tongue touching the fleshy tip and raised one eyebrow as if to say, 'Yes my Lord?' Although it equally could have been something a great deal less respectful.
Nonplused, Darius merely snarled, "What are you waiting for? Get on with it!"
Methos gave a little shrug that might have said, 'As you wish, my Lord.'
Or perhaps not. He bent his head and attended to his task.
As Methos licked a fiery trail down the underside of Darius' cock, the general propped himself up on his elbows and watched the captive's ministrations intently, his breathing growing rapid and shallow. Methos moved lower, sucking first one ball, then the other into the wet heat of his mouth. Darius moaned, dropping his head back, spreading his legs wide. Methos moved lower, releasing the tight sac and nudging it aside with his nose. Then Darius went completely still as Methos' tongue flickered hotly over his opening.
The clever tongue teased and tantalized him, stirring his flesh until his cock felt ready to explode. It danced over the sensitive ring of muscle, flickered inside it briefly, made a few darting forays just inside the passage but stayed nowhere long enough to be truly satisfying. Darius twitched and moaned, opening himself wide to the pleasuring mouth. He wanted...he wanted...
Then Methos was fucking him with his tongue and it was so very nearly what he wanted. But it wasn't really what he needed and Darius shifted restlessly in frustration and indecision. His eyes were shut tight against the overwhelming pleasure of the moment and then the sensations changed again.
Darius moaned loudly as two greased fingers slid smoothly into his ass, curling unerringly against the knot of nerves secreted there, slipping in and out rhythmically. Pleasure burned through him, set his skin on fire. He needed...something...something more.
Methos sank his mouth down over the leaking shaft as a third finger slipped into Darius' aching body. He writhed against it, fucking himself between the sucking mouth and the invading hand.
"So good," he moaned as the faintest scrape of teeth grazed his burning shaft.
Intense overwhelming pleasure was a living, breathing thing in the tent now. Darius had given himself up to it, letting the waves of sensation wash over him, batter him with their strength and violence. Darius gasped and sank down against Methos as three fingers became four and then Methos was fucking him with his whole hand, his fingers closing rhythmically against the tiny gland, as his mouth sucked him mercilessly. It was too much, too intense, he needed to pull back -- step away from the edge before he tumbled out into the abyss. But he was already caught in its pull and resistance was a pipedream.
"By the gods, please..."
One last thrust, one last swirl of the talented tongue, and Darius was coming, spurting what felt like every drop of fluid in his body into Methos' mouth. Still the fist fucked him. The world turned gray, then black as Darius passed out.
It was fully dark and his skin was chilled as Darius came back to consciousness. He stretched a little, feeling the vague shadow of an ache deep in his body, and smiled with pleasure remembered. But something was wrong. What was that thin shadow right in front of him? And where was Methos? He could sense no Immortal presence anywhere close by. Troubled, Darius sat up, peering through the gloom at the strange object that stood planted squarely between his outstretched legs. The chill spread deep into his bones as he realized what it was and his mind made the rational leaps of circumstance.
It was his own sword, driven tip-first through three layers of skins to stand square between his legs barely a hands-span from his cock. Methos had clearly left it there before he'd disappeared into the night. Was it a warning? Was it a threat? Was it Methos' idea of a twisted joke? Darius didn't know. But there was one thing he was sure of.
"We will meet again, Methos. Even if it takes a thousand years or more, we will meet again."