Chapter Text
The roar and the press of the market filled Methos' ears, along with the cawing, screeching, and lowing of animals seeking food. The heat of day already baked his skin, the discomfort familiar and unremarkable as he hurried along his way.
He turned the corner to the main square and pulled to a full stop, as the sense of another Immortal shot through him. A slave stood on the dais, interested buyers surrounding him, touching him, noting the strength of his flesh -- and the wildness of his eyes. Methos' breath caught in his throat. Even in chains, the man was magnificent. His tanned skin gleamed from the oil they had used, his muscles sharply defined beneath the skin. The auctioneer cried to the crowd of how this barbarian was the last survivor of a brutal fight and yet he had no mark upon him.
As Methos watched, the various interested buyers poked and prodded, squeezing biceps, pulling open the man's mouth to check his teeth, actions that must have been humiliating for such a proud looking creature. He kept expecting the man to rebel, regardless of the well-armed guards that stood behind and to either side of the dais. The man's fury was apparent in the small lines between his brows and his rigid stance, but beyond that he seemed oblivious to either his treatment by his would-be masters or the milling crowd. Indeed, even though Methos knew the man must have sensed him, the only concession he gave was to drop his eyes to scan the crowd, and a slight tensing of his body, barely perceptible given his already unyielding attitude.
And what a body it was, such as could keep a man awake at nights with lascivious thoughts. Methos completely forgot his errand, captivated by the vision in front of him. Irresistibly drawn, he forced his way through the crowd to get a closer look. When he arrived at the foot of the platform, it was readily apparent that his purposeful forward motion had caught the man's attention. Their eyes met briefly, long enough for Methos to know that he had had an impact on the other man as well. Whether it was his hot gaze, or the man's helplessness in the face of Methos' Immortality, it was enough to make the stranger uncomfortable. Methos let his gaze drop to inspect what was on display. Long dark hair cascaded around broad shoulders to the middle of his back, draping a chest of alluring strength, itself covered with thick dark hair that trailed enticingly down the muscular frame. Methos' eyes wandered along this path, lingering on the flat stomach with its tantalizing hollow, moving on to where it disappeared into the cloth that swaddled the man's hips. The material was scant, so as to prove that there were no hidden injuries or deformities, and did little to conceal the man's powerful hips and thighs, or the prominent evidence of his masculinity.
Methos' eyes traveled at a leisurely pace back up the sinewy frame to a face of exceptional masculine beauty. Even in his rage, the man had a face that reduced Methos' insides to a molten state. Strong cheekbones, and a mouth that made Methos long to feel it caressing his body. The lips were lush and full, even when tightened in anger. He continued drawing his gaze upward, only to find it captured by a pair of superb and obviously infuriated brown eyes. He held the gaze for long moments this time, the noise and stench of the crowd fading from his awareness as he saw the intelligence and mortification underlying the passionate anger. This was indeed a prize worth having.
Tearing his eyes away at last, he called out to the auctioneer. "Does he have any special skills?"
* * *
The auctioneer's voice rose and fell, but Duncan could not understand a word. He held himself still as the hands obscenely stroked him, knowing there was no point in trying to get away. He did not know what city he was in nor the language being used; he would have to endure this until he could make a plan. Although, with another Immortal here, that plan might simply be to find a sword before he died. He smiled to himself. At least there would be honor in that; there was no honor in being a slave.
Movement at the edge of the crowd drew his eye, and the Immortal he'd seen drew in close. Hope surged at the thought -- he might not need a sword. An Immortal's loyalty lay with other Immortals, perhaps this man would buy him merely to keep him out of mortal hands, to keep the Immortal secret safe. Duncan could finally make out the fair features under the swath of black that covered the man from head to toe. Pale skin and well-formed features, lips that drew the eye, framed by a narrow beard, and a searing, piercing gaze... he quickly looked away, those eyes knowing more than Duncan could even understand, yet he could not look away for long. The strength and desire he'd glimpsed drew him like a moth to flame, and he shuddered to think of his duties should such a man --such an Immortal -- buy him.
Helplessly looking back down at the dark figure, he was outraged by the man's slow and thorough examination. He could almost feel the eyes burning along the length of his body, and was appalled to feel his own body reacting to the inspection. Steeling himself, he met the heated gaze as it rose to his face, and tried to convey his anger and his contempt for the man. He's a fool if he buys me. He'd never be able to trust me. I'd force him to kill me before I'd give in to him! But in spite of his rebellious thoughts, he found himself unable to look away this time, and felt himself shudder imperceptibly at the warmth in the man's eyes.
He was startled when the gaze was finally broken, not realizing until he was set free that he'd lost track of his tormentors. Most of them seemed to have been satisfied by their examinations and moved aside until the bidding started. Duncan had watched enough of the sales of his fellows to know the process. Then he heard a voice lifting above the noise of the crowd, and realized it was his black-garbed examiner, asking a question of the man in charge, if he could judge by the tone and the auctioneer's reaction. The latter man shrugged, adding a few things in the liquid language, and motioned to the dark figure to come forward. Pushing his way to the stairs, the man began to climb to the platform.
Duncan's breath caught in his throat as he realized what was happening. He had withstood the prodding and exploration of the men here to buy so far; none had shown any interest in him as anything but livestock. But this man's look had been different, and not of the kind Duncan expected. From an Immortal, MacLeod expected to be judged as a potential opponent -- or perhaps an ally -- as some sort of player in the Game. But this man looked at him with different eyes, assessing another type of potential in the strength of his arm and the muscles of his thighs. Though not used to receiving that sort of sensual appraisal from a man, there was no mistaking its intent. The thought of enduring the man's hands roaming over his body as he had those of others....He felt himself flush with a heat that was not due to the burning sun. He consoled himself with the thought that it shouldn't be too bad in such a public forum.
It was worse. He was all too aware of each time the man laid a hand on him, the way his fingers seemed to tease and caress, instead of merely testing his flesh. Worst of all, his own body reacted as if this were any woman he'd ever had touching him like that; he felt himself grow hard. The murmuring of the crowd grew stronger, and he seriously considered closing his eyes to avoid the shame. With all the strength of will he possessed, he pushed the arousal aside, and calmed himself as best he could -- until he caught the other's eyes.
A small, mocking smile teased the man's lips as he stared openly at him, and with a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach, Duncan knew this man was a not an ally. Aye, he would buy MacLeod, he would own him, he would take another Immortal as slave. He clenched his hands into fists and looked away, wrapping his anger around himself like a shroud, unwilling to let it go. The man might buy his flesh, but he would never have his soul. As soon as Duncan could manage it, he would challenge the man and be done with this charade. Honor would eventually be served, and no man would willingly be another's slave.
* * *
Methos was both amused and further aroused by the challenge in the slave's eyes. It had been a long time since he had felt his interest so piqued. He had deliberately provoked the other man during the expected examination, allowing his fingers to linger unnecessarily, though not so long as to arouse the attention of anyone but the intended audience. And he had felt the man's unwilling response. However much he tried not to, the man had also been aroused by Methos' attentions. This had been readily apparent when Methos had turned his back to the crowd and deliberately raised his hand to his lips, dripping with the captive's sweat, and allowed his tongue to flick out and capture a droplet. The tremor that had traveled through the man's body had almost immediately been stilled by his iron will, but not so quickly that it had not been seen. And both men were aware of it.
As if to deny it, the slave spoke, and his voice seemed firm and defiant. "I am Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!" He waited, obviously expecting some response. The guards moved forward as if to chastise the man, but Methos waved them away. He continued to simply gaze at the man curiously, as if he had not understood, and saw the frustration rise. A Scotsman, then. A long way from home, and from his clan. Adrift in a very different environment, but one with some similarities to the desert home Methos currently claimed. Each with its emphasis on family connection, and respect for lineage and authority. He would enjoy instructing this man in the proper respect for his owner.
Methos had no doubt but that the man would be returning with him to his encampment. It would be necessary to go through with the motions of the auction, but the outcome was in no doubt. He descended the platform in a black swirl, and waited for the auctioneer to begin. He glanced around, sizing up his fellow buyers. There were surprisingly few, probably because most of them had decided that the effort needed to tame such a barbarian would outweigh the potential benefits. He looked like a man ready to die rather than surrender. What most of them did not know was that for this man, such a death would not be permanent.
It seemed that there were two men most determined to win; it was unfortunate that they were rabid adversaries, likely to drive the price up farther than he wanted to go, although his determination was such that he would, if forced. One he recognized as the agent for a private household; the other was a buyer for the local palace. Fortunately, he knew that both men were open to the persuasion of personal gain. Beckoning to one of his men, who were loitering on the edge of the market, he gave instructions and watched as they were carried out. When the bidding finally began, the auctioneer showed mild confusion at the pointed lack of interest from those who had been most keen only minutes before. Methos let it go several rounds to estimate the remaining amount of interest, before doubling the highest bid. As he had known he would be, he was now the impatient master of a mutinous slave, and some eighty dinars poorer.