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Quest, Reversal In Time	By : highlandgirl Category: G through L > Highlander Views: 1888 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own Highlander: The Series, nor any of the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 8
- 9
- 10
Quest, Reversal in Time

by

Frances Rolfe

Rating: NC-17, Slash, m/m, lang, N/C, Oral, Slave, Tort

Key: ****** Scene change,
Italics Thoughts

Summary: The way to Tula brings a few surprises.

Disclaimer: The HL world is still owned by Panzer/Davis.

A/N: I'm sorry this chapter is so late in coming. Due to RL and the site being down a few days, it was drastically delayed. Comments welcome.

fr

Chapter 9

The Trail South

They made camp for the night and Duncan found a quiet spot beneath a mesquite tree. He began eating the food that was tossed to him. He almost felt like an animal being fed by a zoo keeper. Quetzalomeyocan was conferring with Methos and two of his trusted aides near the camp fire. Duncan knew it wouldn't take too much longer to reach the Rio Grande River. From there it was but a few days travel to reach the Toltec city of Tula. If he remembered correctly from seeing an map from the twelfth century, it was located north of what would be known as Mexico City. Mac wasn't exactly sure what his fate would be once they arrived. The Scot's deeply tanned, olive complexion paled at the thought that he might end up spread-eagled across a sacrificial stone as he'd been in the nightmare.

A chill coursed through his muscular body, causing the prickles of goose bumps to pepper his arms.
What a horrible way to die, he thought. He'd always figured he'd be killed in combat with another Immortal. It was the way of a warrior and the manner in which he'd lived his long four hundred year existence. But, to die, no, be eredered, just for your blood-dripping heart in a pagan religious rite, that would be the ultimate degradation for the Highland born chieftain. Duncan glanced down at the now tasteless jerky and laid it aside.

"You're not hungry, Pahana?" the cultured voice of Mica inquired. The tall, reed thin ancient Immortal gracefully lowered himself into the scarce Bermuda grass growing beneath the shade of the old tree. "You should be grateful I allowed you to walk by yourself today," he goaded.

MacLeod flushed but pointedly met the other man's amused expression with one of determination. "Yes, I'm grateful. I'm not dizzy and sick at my stomach tonight like I've been these past few weeks."

Methos' mocking smile turned to stone as he lowered his baritone voice. "Be careful, Pahana. Lest you end up riding over our shoulders once again."

MacLeod glared at the other Immortal for a long minute. Mentally squashing his rebellious thoughts for a more opportune time, the Scot picked up the dried meat. Frowning at the bland tasting trail food, he commenced eating.

Methos watched his new slave. The man was undoubtedly the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen. His long wavy hair curled at the edges. His shoulders and chest were massive with muscles and latent power. He was quick on his feet and could probably run for hours without tiring. It would be a shame to ever clothe such a deliciously handsome body like his.

He had no doubts as to the younger man's lineage. He was definitely one of the Celtic Highland barbarians. When he was upset, Pahana's speech thickened and slurred with that distinctive heavy accent. How in the bloody hell had the man ended up in the New World with a tribe of Anasazis was a mystery to the Horseman.

More than any other of the Scot's attributes that appealed to the older man, however, was his eyes. Methos had seen many sets of brown and black eyes. In reality, most dark eyes were the same, however, this youngster's eyes were changeable. If he was angry, they turned almost black as night. One of the fimesimes Methos had seen Pahana smile, the barbarian's orbs were a warm mahogany. And, then, if he was sad or worried, the 'mirrors of his soul' were the softest brown as though he were a doe watching a fawn.
A man could get lost in those eyes.

Methos jerked as his last unbidden thought raced through his body to his cock.
Oh, yes, I'll possess this Highland child, one way or another.

Duncan noticed the series of conflicting feelings tracking across his fellow Immortal's angular face. He couldn't help but wonder just what Methos was thinking. He hoped the old man wasn't planning on having 'Highlander Ala King' for his dinner tonight. MacLeod's kissable lips turned up into the cutest of smiles at that thought.
God, don't tell me I'm falling for this outrageously dangerous, five thousand year old bastard. His handsome face flushed a warm ruddy hue.

Duncan glanced up at the man in his thoughts and saw that he'd leaned back on his elbows, with his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles. A broad grin lit up the attractive face and caused the golden flecks in the hazel eyes to dance in the twilight. MacLeod needed no coaxing to know where the ancient's thoughts were headed. He subsequently blushed an even deeper scarlet and disconcertingly noticed his shaft had bloomed as well.

Duncan started to get up and move, but a firm hand on his right forearm stilled his movements. Wiping his suddenly sweaty palms on the grass, the Scot risked a glance at Methos. A Cheshire cat grin wreathed his face. It grew even wider as he delightfully noticed the younger man's discomfiture.

"Come here," Methos beckoned.

MacLeod's indecisive emotions embroiled him. On the one hand, he abhorred what was about to happen and at the same time, he welcomed it with loving arms.
Love! Mac blushed again and murmured, "Damn, there's that word again!"

"What word?" Methos asked as he sat up and sidled closer to the discombobulated man.

"Nothing," Duncan hedged.

Helpless to deter the elder Immortal's erotic advances, Duncan allowed Methos to easily push his befuddled body onto his back. Mica sidled his lean form into a perpendicular angle to that of his slave's .He reached up and delicately tucked an errant curl of the Scot's heather scented hair behind an enchanting ear. The ancient leaned even further over the nude body and delved his long tongue into its navel.

Chills of anticipatory delight flooded Duncan. Nor did it stop until his rod was upright and begging for attention. All coherent thoughts quickly flew from MacLeod's sex-addled brain when Methos followed a direct path from the mid abdomen to the nest of brown curls that provided a base for the now weeping shaft.

When the youngster loudly groaned with unfulfilled desire, Methos stopped his ministrations and grinned, "All in good time, Pahana, all in good time. Now, where was I?"

Duncan popped his face up and groused, "Where the hell do you think you are?"

"None of that, little one," Mica chided the object of his attentions. "You want to cum, don't you?"

Duncan reluctantly nodded.

"Well, then, one must wait until his master decides what's best for him and when."

Duncan frowned but laid back to submit himself to whatever erotic shenanigans Methos had planned in his devious little mind.

"Now, once more, where was I?" Methos whispered, puffing his warm breath onto the Scot's tender skin. The moist air tickled Duncan's stomach just above the groin, sending more chills through his fiery veins. "Oh, yes, I was right here."

Having said this, Methos gently blew across the purple oozing tip of Duncan's cock. He blew on it again, but this time, he replaced it with his doubly heated tongue. Pushing the uncircumcised man's foreskin down out of the way, Methos teased and dipped his digit into the slit at the very edge of the massive shaft. He rolled his tongue lazily around its upper edges until he worked his way down the cock's underside. Methos paused to suck the prominent vein he found there. Not stopping, however, he inhaled an aroma of fragrant heather as he nibbled through the younger man's wavy hair covering his groin.

Duncan loudly moaned. His insides were literally on fire from unfulfilled copulation. Yet, he dare not move or say a word for fear the elder Immortal deserting him before he could release his fluids. One thing that did not occur to the Highlander until much later was the fact that, at any time, he could have chosen to defy the ancient and make himself cum. That he did not question Methos' new ownership of his body would eventually stupefy him and turn the Scot's inner world upside down. "Please, Methos..." he begged, inadvertently spreading his legs apart.

The ancient's forehead wrinkled upon noticing the caked remains of Quetzalomeyocan's rape the night before. For a brief moment, Methos contemplated leaving Pahana alone, but then he shook his head. He refused to deny himself the pleasure of Pahana's multitudinous gifts and ignored his plea for copulation, to return to the shaft that was silently begging for relief.

It was unbelievable to the Horseman that this barbarian possessed the abundance of innate sensuality that he did. He'd had many lovers in his very long life time, but no male or female compared to this child born and bred in that wind blown land across the ocean. Methos withdrew and laved up and down the shaft. He rolled his tongue around and into the dripping tip. He knew the youngling could not hold on much longer. So, he commenced pumping his right hand up and down on the Immortal's flesh. Methos gripped the younger man's plunging hips so hard that vivid bruises appeared, only to quickly fade.

In the flash of an eye, Methos felt the thick, creamy fluid of his slave's essence surge from the innermost depths and into the waiting orifice. Mica suckled, swallowing again and again. It was as if this new child was a bottomless pit of creamy cum. When at last, he'd milked every ounce from it and withdrew his cream smeared mouth, he was not surprised to look up and find the youngster had passed out cold from the magnitude of his orgasm. He smiled and turned away from the younger man, lying in the heap into which he'd slumped, and prepared to go to sleep.

Methos gazed up at the crystal clear night with its millions of stars twinkling in a cloudless sky. The sliver of a new moon was visible between the leaves of the tree beneath which he and his new possession lay. For some reason, sleep did not come as easily as it usually did for him. There wasn't anything wrong. In fact, it had been hundreds of years since he'd felt this relaxed. He was at peace. Methos denied its reality, but in truth, he'd permitted the youngster to steal the heart of a four and a half million year-old terror of the desert, namely himself.

He turned back over to watch the slumbering Immortal. He couldn't resist sliding a finger beneath a damp errant curl that had fallen across the stunning warrior's face. Methos twisted the silky strands between his thumb and forefinger and lifted it up to his well endowed protuberance, inhaling its innate fragrance.

The ancient rested his head on a folded arm and continued to observe the sleeping man, waiting for the man's dreams to commence. It wasn't long until the broad forehead wrinkled, and the head tossed back and forth as he relived evidently the same experiences that had disturbed his slumber all the other nights they'd been on the trail. He couldn't help but wonder what heinous crime had been perpetrated upon the child. Methos wanted to soothe Pahana's furrowed brow and erase his demons.
What am I thinking? he thought.
I don't care what happened to him!

"Darius, please help me," the dreaming man murmured.

Methos' eyes widened as he whispered, "How does he know Darius?" Looking down at the sleeping Immortal, Methos murmured, "I must know more about you."

Mica leaned over and planted a tender kiss on Pahana's moist cheek. He then soothingly murmured phrases to that would ease the lovely man's tormented sleep. At last, he gave in to an undeniably insane desire and gathered the restless, sweaty body into his arms. He moved his hands in calming strokes over the sleeping man's arms and torso before tucking his head into the cavity just under his shoulder. It was as if this lost soul were a perfect match for him. The body fit into the groove like a glove.

For long moments, Pahana's sleep continued its tormenting nightmares. Finally, an hour or so before dawn, he slept the sleep of contentment. Methos cuddled the exhausted body close to him until it was time to resume their journey to Tula.

* * * * * *

Duncan plodded along in his now customary position of half a dozen paces ahead of Methos. The ancient Immortal had even allowed him to don a loin cloth which provided him a modicum of modesty. Methos' subtle shift in attitude towards him puzzled Duncan, yet it was more than welcome. Surely, the phenomenal blow job Methos had yesterday affordem wam wasn't a valid reason. He couldn't help but wonder what was on the old man's agenda, for he'd always had an agenda, as long as he'd known Methos, the older man had hidden motives behind everything he did. Duncan grinned as his thoughts flipped back to the sex they'd had. He couldn't recall the last time he'd passed out from an orgasm. Surely, not since Tessa had been shot.

The Highlander must have allowed his wool gatherings to slow his pace because the first thing he knew, Methos switched his naked bottom a stinging bite with his whip. MacLeod jerked and grabbed his injured anatomy. His flashing eyes collided with the amused one's of Mica's.

Methos methodically recoiled the whip around his waist and commented, "Pay attention, slave."

* * * * * *

The midday stop afforded Methos the chance to probe into Pahana's background and find out his connection with Darius. "What is your real name?"

Duncan looked surprised at first but quickly answered in his usual litany. "MacLeod. I'm Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod."

Methos suppressed a tight grin at the younger Immortal's reply. "I thought you'd come from the Brit Isles. How did you end up here in the New World?"

MacLeod ducked his head and took a sip of water. "It's a rather long story."

Methos looked up from his dried strip of meat and queried, "How do you know Darius?"

MacLeod's mouth dropped open in surprise. "Darius? How did you...I mean ...where..." His voice trailed off.

"You mentioned his name during your sleep."

Duncan ducked his head and mumbled, "Yeah, well, that's a long story, too."

"We'll have to discuss that 'long story' one day soon." Methos caustically retorted. He twisted around to face MacLeod and hugged his knees with his arms. "You had nightmares again last night."

Duncan looked up and nodded. "Most every night."

"I have heard it said that nightmares are triggered by things we cannot face."

Duncan morosely nodded. "That's probably true. Did I say anything else?" He was almost afraid to know the full truth. Nor was he sure that he could deal with Methos' knowledge of Lemuel Priest, much less that he was from the year 2001.

Methos ignored the question and returned to the subject he was most interested in. "Darius. Where did you meet him?"

Mac hedged again. "We met in, um, Gaul."

Methos stared at Pahana. It was clear he'd touched some fragile ground with his questions. Questions the youngster wasn't willing to answer as yet. He tried another tactic. "The Toltecs have a philosophy that is very sensible," he began.

Duncan breathed a small sigh of relief. At least, Methos was willing to let that part of their conversation go, for the moment. He remained silent, waiting to hear what the other man would say next.

"They religiously follow a path called 'The Mastery of Awareness.' They say if one strengthens and expands their awareness of themselves and what they are doing, this helps them to attain a true sense of self." Methos laid back on the ground and folded his arms beneath his head. "They call it 'self presence.' Quetzalomeyocan explained that if we bring our self presence into our dreams, we can consciously navigate the dream world and thusly acquire a peaceful existence."

Mac remained quiet as he perused what Methos had just told him. "Then, how does he do it? How is he awake during his sleep?"

The ancient shrugged. "You'll have to ask him. If it will help you deal with your demons, perhaps you'll be able to sleep through the night and you won't bother me."

MacLeod stared at him, but then laid down near his new 'master.'

* * * * * *

That afternoon, Duncan sat on a rock overlooking the Rio Grande River or the Grand River as the Spaniards called it. Oddly enough, it looked in this century as it would in 1846, the year Duncan fought in the Mexican War with another Immortal, Karros.

Quetzalomeyocan had sent a scout up ahead to check the surrounding area on either side of the river bank. The Toltecs had run into a band of Chichimeca Indians on the journey north towards the trades' day at Chaco and there was a strong possibility that they were still around. Methos laid the end of Duncan's tether over the Scot's arm. He did not say anything, but MacLeod knew from the man's hazel eyed stare that he better not even think of running off.

MacLeod's gaze automatically assessed the surrounding area. He spotted a coyote lapping water a mile down stream. As he watched, the wild animal's head suddenly bobbed up. It sniffed the air with its body at full alert. Duncan knew the Toltecs were too far up wind for the coyote to have scented their presence. That meant the animal had spotted something close to him. Whether the danger was four-legged or two-legged was the question. Duncan looked around to see where Methos had gone. When he looked back toward where the coyote had been, it had disappeared.

He knew Methos and the others should know about it, so he walked toward Methos, who was conferring with the Toltec leader.

When the Highlander approached them, Mica paused his conversation and asked, "What's up?"

Duncan motioned toward where he'd seen the animal. "It may not be anything, but I was watching a coyote down river a ways. He couldn't smell us, but all of a sudden, he stopped and looked back toward the opposite side of the river."

Methos looked pointedly at the shaman. "It could be the Chichimecas again."

The tall Indian Immortal nodded. "Why don't you take a couple of the men with you and check it out."

"Okay. Pahana, come on, let's see what's there."

The Toltec's black eyes widened in a questioning look toward his second in command. "Why the white?"

"He knows whats dos doing, Holy One. Plus, he's immortal. I don't have to worry about him getting himself killed, not permanently, at least." Looking toward the Toltec, he suggested, "Why don't you take the men and cross the river. We'll meet you there in a little while."

The Indian nodded and watched the two men work their way down stream. Neither Methos nor the Scot saw anything on the Texas side, so they cautiously waded across the river. This time of the summer, rainfall was scarce and the Bravo wasn't very deep. Working their way up the slope on the southern side, the two men heard voices and immediately dropped down into some nearby tall reeds. Methos eased up his head so he could see what was beyond them. Sure enough, a band of several Indians in breech clouts were headed their way.

The older Immortal glanced toward the Toltecs who were just coming out of the river. As if Quetzalomeyocan could read the ancient's thoughts, he looked their way. Methos stuck his head up and pointed directly south. The shaman understood Methos' warning. He quietly ordered the men to lay aside their goods and ready their bows and arrows.

MacLeod couldn't understand the raiders, but he knew their language was neither Anasazi nor Toltec. His keen ears heard the hostiles coming closer, and he jabbed his companion in the side to warn him of their approach. All of a sudden, Methos and Duncan heard a shout. The Chichimecas had spotted them. There was a flurry of dirt and arrows flying their way. Mac took the knife Methos handed him and prepared for battle. His Highland blood instincts were at full readiness for the impending fight.

It was always strange to the Scot how he'd think of the weirdest things at the most inopportune times. This was no different. He felt so alive! He hadn't felt this good in a very long time. He would be useful. Duncan MacLeod was a warrior, bred over a four hundred year period of battles. This was something he could do and do well!

Methos removed his bow and quiver of arrows from his back and readied one. He let it fly and it struck one of the marauders in the chest. Duncan knew the Toltecs were on their way, but it would take them a while to reach Methos and himself. Not taking any more time for thought, he hurled himself into the skirmish as five warriors attacked them.

One of the larger Indians threw himself at MacLeod. Duncan lifted the knife Methos had tossed him and buried it into the brave's stomach. Blood gushed from the wound and onto the dry dirt beneath them. Mac didn't have time to think about it, however, as two others attacked him. Methos and MacLeod stood back to back for protection. Fighting off another one, Duncan spotted a tall, dark skinned mortal preparing to throw a knife into Methos' neck. He cried out a warning and instinctively threw himself into the path of the weapon. Methos looked over in shock as the Scot crumpled to the ground, a knife protruding from his left shoulder. The rusty red color of the Highlander's blood spilled over his torso and filled the nostrils of the other Immortal.

Just about that time, Quetzalomeyocan and his men arrived. Between Methos and the new arrivals, they handily dispatched the remaining attackers. The Toltec leader jumped on one of the closest braves and in a bitter struggle where both men fought for control of a knife, the shaman succeeded in freeing up his right arm. His huge fist crushed the other Indian's nose and the Indian fell to the ground. Not considering taking any hostages because he hadn't enough men to guard them, Quetzalomeyocan quickly dispatched the enemy by twisting his neck. The corpse fell to the ground.

Methos placed his feet over the fallen Scot's body, acting as a shield. A warning from one of the other Toltecs swiveled his head around just in time to deflect an arrow with his bow. Quickly shafting one of his own, he pulled back and released the hurtling weapon. It penetrated thichhichimeca's chest and he too fell dead.

Methos swiftly checked the other Toltecs. Each man had killed his adversary. He then squatted down and wrapped his arms around Pahana's body as the Immortal's brown eyes dimmed from blood loss. Mica lowered him to the ground and yanked the weapon from the Immortal's shoulder. He frowned, however, when he realized MacLeod's wound was continuing to bleed. Not having any cloth to stop the flow, Methos plucked a handful of nearby reeds and applied them to the Scot's wound and then accepted an offered piece of cloth from one of the other Toltecs. Covering the grass with the cotton square, he removed a strip of rawhide from his medicine pouch and tied it in place. It would suffice until he could do more. Methos couldn't figure out why the Immortal's wound continued to ooze. Something wasn't right and he was determined to find out what it was. When he was finished, he gathered Pahana in his arms and clutched him tightly to his chest.

The last thing Duncan saw before unconsciousness claimed him was Methos shaking his head and muttering something about a stupid hero type.

"What am I going to do with you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" Methos wondered aloud as he rested the unresponsive MacLeod's head onto his pouch for a pillow.

* * * * * *

The Toltecs made camp about a mile from where they had fought the Chichimecas. Duncan hadn't been out very long and Methos cleaned him up before the other Toltecs took note of the Scot's condition. Oddly, Methos did not say very much the rest of the afternoon. MacLeod idly wondered about the ancient's silence, but kept his thoughts to himself. Every once in a while, he'd feel Methos' eyes and when he turned around, sure enough, the slender man had been observing him. When he noticed the Scot watching him, however, he averted his gaze.

* * * * * * *

Topiltzin slipped his bow over his head and turned it so that it rode on his broad, brown back. The Toltec, in his mid-twenties, took the water skin that dangled from his waist and popped open its lid. Drinking the warm water, his sharp black eyes watched Mica as he observed the new slave. The slender white man had been a Toltec priest and Quetzalomeyocan's second in command for almost ten years. Topiltzin had always trusted and admired the quiet one but now, he wasn't so sure. It seemed to him that Mica was gradually changing; it had begun when he'd captured the other white man at Chaco Canyon.

It was very obvious to the Toltec that their shaman wanted the new man; he wanted him in an intimate way. Although Topiltzin had taken a wife and did not have relations with other men, many of their sect, especially the shamans, did. It had been said the act, if it were done with another strong, mighty warrior, brought increased good fortune and wealth. Quetzalomeyocan and Mica had bedded both each other and occasional slaves. In fact, Mica was in charge of providing 'priests and priestesses' for special occasions. The captives for the holy rites were restrained and kept in the caves below the temple.

Even so, Mica had not exhibited such interest in any captive as he had this new one, this Pahana. Topiltzin hoped misfortune would not come from the union of the two white men. It was almost as if Pahana were the same as Quetzalomeyocan and Mica. The two shamans possessed mighty charms that prevented them from dying. Their wounds healed in a matterminuminutes and the young Toltec suspected his two holy leaders were many years older than what they appeared. Both men's eyes spoke of having witnessed and participated in many acts over long years.
What if this Pahana is like them? Will he bring good fortune to our people or will he cause harm to befall us? he thought to himself. Only time would tell.

* * * * * *

Mica's hazel orbs narrowed in speculation as he watched Pahana eat. Since saving his life, Mica now allowed him to eat with the others from the community pot. Pahana's hand dipped into the meat and vegetables. As though hypnotized, the ancient's gaze followed the first two fingers as they picked up a piece of beef and popped it into its owner's mouth. The younger man then, ever so slowly, sucked the thick meaty gravy off first one and then the other of his fingers. Mica's eyes followed the captive's tongue as it swirled around and around the luscious mouth, lapping up every taste, every drop of the thick fluid.

Damn that little slut! the ancient thought.
He knows exactly what he's doing. He knows I'm watching him, and he's taunting me. Pahana's waiting for me to approach him.

"Mica?"

The ancient shook his head to clear his mind of the vision of a certain naked Immortal writhing in sex starved desire beneath Mica's demanding body. Methos couldn't believe he was allowing a lowly white prisoner to mentally emasculate him from his other duties. It wouldn't be too much longer before they arrived at the Toltec city of Tula. Once he had Pahana alone in a room, Methos would teach him what happened when he teased his master.

"Mica! You are not listening!" Quetzalomeyocan's growl increased in intensity.

"Hm? Oh, sorry, Holy One. I was...uh...thinking."

The towering Toltec Immortal's booming laughter echoed throughout the small camp. "You were thinking of your new priest and what you will do to him."

A wry grin formed on Methos' face. "You know me too well, Quetzalomeyocan."

The Toltec shook his head. "No, Mica, I don't think I know you nearly as well as I should." He cocked his head and traced a warm path down Methos' left arm. "Perhaps I should be more wary of you, old friend, than of that lovely slave over there," nodding toward MacLeod.

Methos grinned. "Perhaps," he baited but hastened to add, "a lifetime ago that might have been true, but not now."

Quetzalomeyocan watched as the elder Immortal kneeled down and began to sharpen the bronze knife he carried with him at all times. This pale one might be ancient, but he was to be feared. As the mongoose, although he is a lesser animal, it can quickly kill a cobra snake, so, this slight, unassuming, yet clever, white man from across the ocean, could prove to be the most dangerous of them all.

* * * * * *

Duncan MacLeod gracefully lowered his muscular body to the ground. Turning onto his left side so he couldn't see his future friend, he tried to settle himself for a night's rest. Of course, he knew all too well that once he closed his eyes, the nightmares plaguing him would come yet again to torment him into wakefulness. Somehow, he had to overcome the fears and memories of abuse and torture he'd survived. After all, the evil Immortal was dead; he couldn't threaten Duncan or those he loved ever again. The nightmares were what led him to come back in time in the first place. He still felt he'd find an answer in this prehistoric era.

The Scot was so lost in his thoughts, once again he didn't sense the Toltec shaman's approach. The taller man's giant hand closed over his privates before Mac realized he was no longer alone. "What the. . ." he growled, instinctively shrinking his body from the other Immortal's touch. "Let me alone!"

Quatzalomeyocan tightened his grip on MacLeod's groin. "You have no choice, Pahana. Your entrancing body belongs to us." Leaning in, he leered into the Highlander's narrowed stare. "We will let you live, if we so choose, and, if not. . ."

"You'll never take me willingly, Shaman," MacLeod countered, his eyes glinting black with suppressed rage.

The Immortal wickedly laughed. "That won't be a problem, will it, Mica?" he called over his shoulder to his second in command.

Mica stood and neared them. "No, it won't," he slurred, his own stare drinking in the beauty that was Pahana. "Not problem at all."

MacLeod had sat up when the tall chieftain first assaulted his body parts. While they talked, Duncan slowly extended his legs. He waited until Quetzalomeyocan's attention was diverted to Methos and then took the opportunity to draw his feet together and lash out a swift, hard kick into the Toltec's abdomen. The shaman's breath whooshed out of him, bending him double and forcing him to release the iron grip on Mac's genitals. In a flash, MacLeod was on his feet and turning with a half spin to the right. Another twist brought his right foot up to strike Methos' jaw, forcing him to one knee. MacLeod then balanced himself evenly on both feet, shifted his weight to his left foot and used his right one drop to hit Methos' chin. Both the older Immortals now lay stunned on the ground.

Duncan knew he had only a few seconds to escape and sprinted away from the campfire. Agilely scaling the nearest slope, the Highlander did not hear the arrow launched by Tolitzin, causing his body to suddenly shut down when the massive force of the sharp pointed object penetrated his back. It continued a vicious course until it finally protruded through Mac's chest wall. In the millisecond before he lost consciousness, the Scot looked down and saw the blood and tissue covered tip gaping in the exact center of his chest. Duncan dimly experienced a sensation of falling as darkness obliterated his senses.

* * * * *P>
P>

Methos sat up and shook his head as he watched Pahana's now dead body plummet the several feet to the canyon floor. He inadvertently jumped when the thud of it hitting the ground telegraphed to his ears. When would this child learn? He could not escape until Methos decided to let him escape
. This conetl, child, is stubborn. He is hard headed. The ancient pushed himself to his fand and absently brushed the dirt from his bottom. His Toltec leader was up as well and exchanged a look of exasperation with his second in command.

"I will attend to this matter, Quetzalomeyocan," Mica quietly reassured him.

The Toltec's black eyes glittered with perturbation. "If you don't, Mica, I will," he ominously promised.

* * * * * *

A massive jolt of agonizing pain and a gasp of air heralded Duncan MacLeod's return to life. His chest heaved up from the ground convulsing his body with the agony of ripped lungs too slowly repairing themselves. Duncan tried to fight off the arms that held him and the black midnight of death that threatened to engulf him yet again. His brain subconsciously acknowledged a low voice crooning to him to rest easy and not fight back. It would do him no good. Even with the person's efforts, the Highlander could only feel the excruciating pain and the desperate need to escape. He fought and pushed against the strong chest that hovered over him. As the smothering curtain of compromising fog finally lifted, Duncan felt a soft pair of lips caress his own. The soothing baritone words gradually penetrated MacLeod's awareness.

"Easy, Pahana, lie still."

Duncan's black satiny eyelashes batted open to reveal the disturbed hazel eyes of the ancient. "Methos?" However, with the Scot's lungs not having completely healed, voi voice was barely above a whispeP>
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"Do not fret, conouh, lie still," Methos instructed.

Duncan's lungs continued to burn as ever so slowly first the alveoli, then the lobes and finally the main bronchus reformed themselves. What was even worse than those spasms were the ones when his body's billows finally gasped the first full breath of clear air. MacLeod cried out in agony, his hands feebly clutching his bare chest to ease his pain. He was seemingly unaware of the arms theld eld his suffering body tightly or the lips that caressed his tear streaked face. It was not until long moments later, when he at last was lying still, that the familiar face registered its presence to MacLeod's psyche. He once again attempted the farcical simile of a word. "Methos?"

"Yes, Pahana, I am here. Rest easy, chouh
, my child."

As the familiar voice repeated endearments, the sorrowful, misery-filled brown eyes closed and the Highlander slept. Methos silently watched the Highlander's slumber, but his thoughts were diverted to the other Toltecs. He had noticed the astonished look on all their faces when Duncan had gasped back to life. More importantly, he noted the distrustful look on Topiltzin's face. He would watch that one more closely. The youngster was too friendly with Quetzalomeyocan. Methos did not trust either one of them.

* * * * * *

"The new white slave, he is one like Mica and you, is he not, holy one?" Topiltzin asked.

Quetzalomeyocan hesitated before nodding his head. "Yes, Topiltzin, he is like Mica and I."

The mortal lowered his voice and leaned closer to his senior. "Will he not visit the sacrificial altar now? Since he is one of you?"

Quetzalomeyocan lips formed a grim smile. "Do not fret, my son. That mighty warrior will be sacrificed. Best not mention it to Mica. I'm not sure how he'll react. He is strongly attracted to him" The Toltec Immortal looked toward where Pahana lay in Mica's arms. "Still, it is a shame to take his head. He is truly a beauty, is he not, Topiltzin?"

"Yes, he is, Holy One, if one is attracted to other men." The young man paused and then continued. "But, Quetzalomeyocan, will our people suffer because his life is spared?"

"I am not sure, but I do not intend to take any liberties with the Gods, Topiltzin. This one will die. However, I would like it if you kept an eye on Mica and his new toy for me. Let me know if they do anything out of the ordinary."

The Toltec warrior nodded his head. "Yes, shaman. I will watch them."

* * * * * *

--TBC--
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Quest, Reversal In Time