Fic: Leap! [HL, G, Gen]
Title: Leap!
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Highlander
Characters|Pairing: Methos
Rating: G
Word Count: 200
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. Not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: Waiting for the dance to start
Warnings: None
Author Notes: Written for browngirl and redcat. Inspired by the discussion of things Minoan -- particularly this comment and this picture.
The earth under his feet was warm, the fine hard sand a dazzling gold, the smooth clay red (red as blood, as his partner's hair, as the shadowed moon this dance acknowledged), the powdered chalk white and sparkling in the clear air, dusty between his toes. Resin was sticky-slick on his fingers, tingling on his palms, and the smell was sweet-sharp, mingling with incense and smoke, sweat and excitement, the sea-salt breeze and the lingering musk of the bulls. The crowd was quiet - breath-held - with anticipation, his fellow dancers poised in focused readiness as they waited.
His hands itched for the coarseness of sun-warmed, life-hot hide, the soles of his feet eager for the fleeting burn of the sand, his sinews, muscles, body and will stretched and ready for the springing leap, the launch into the air that was a step in the dance. He breathed deep and slow, cadenced with the rattle of sistrum, the hollow wail of pipes. His heart beat fast and steady with the rhythm of the drums. The musicians stopped as the gates opened, leaving only the music of his breath, his blood.
The bull came forth.
Methos danced.
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Highlander
Characters|Pairing: Methos
Rating: G
Word Count: 200
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. Not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: Waiting for the dance to start
Warnings: None
Author Notes: Written for browngirl and redcat. Inspired by the discussion of things Minoan -- particularly this comment and this picture.
The earth under his feet was warm, the fine hard sand a dazzling gold, the smooth clay red (red as blood, as his partner's hair, as the shadowed moon this dance acknowledged), the powdered chalk white and sparkling in the clear air, dusty between his toes. Resin was sticky-slick on his fingers, tingling on his palms, and the smell was sweet-sharp, mingling with incense and smoke, sweat and excitement, the sea-salt breeze and the lingering musk of the bulls. The crowd was quiet - breath-held - with anticipation, his fellow dancers poised in focused readiness as they waited.
His hands itched for the coarseness of sun-warmed, life-hot hide, the soles of his feet eager for the fleeting burn of the sand, his sinews, muscles, body and will stretched and ready for the springing leap, the launch into the air that was a step in the dance. He breathed deep and slow, cadenced with the rattle of sistrum, the hollow wail of pipes. His heart beat fast and steady with the rhythm of the drums. The musicians stopped as the gates opened, leaving only the music of his breath, his blood.
The bull came forth.
Methos danced.