Sweet Charity fic: Ceremonies of Spring (Highlander, PG, Methos/Duncan)
Title: Ceremonies of Spring
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Highlander
Characters|Pairing: Methos/Duncan
Genre: Short Story
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1520
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. owns Highlander, not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: After winter comes spring.
Warnings: None
Written for: DM24 for the Sweet Charity spring 2008 RAINN auction.
Author Notes: The prompt was "Over the rainbow." Additional prompt words: hot, grass, and fish. I am only sorry it took me so long to get this written. Many, many thanks to auberus for beta-ing and cheerleading.
---
"Do you ever wish you were somewhere else? Really 'else'?" Duncan's voice was somewhere between pensive and contemplative.
"What kind of 'somewhere else' do you mean? Bora Bora? The moon? Over the rainbow?"
There was a moment of silence. Methos was struck by an unhappy thought. "Mac, if this is about that adventure you had with Fitzcairn in your head while you were out of it during that nonsense with O'Rourke, I don't want to hear about it. Going over it again will not help anything."
"No, nothing like that."
"Then like what?" Methos leaned up on his elbow and peered down at his lover in the dim rain-light. Mac's brows were pinched, and there was tension pulling in the corners of his lips. Whatever it was had the man well and truly bothered. Or perhaps it was the reminder of the O'Rourke debacle that was the cause of those signs. It was perfectly possible. Methos collapsed back down on the pillows. "You do know that by waiting a few years, we will be 'someplace else' as surely as traveling by foot or horse, automobile or aeroplane. Time changes things even more than distance."
~~
The bend in the river was just as Duncan remembered it, but a fire some seasons past had taken the trees, leaving the once-secluded cove in full sunlight, grass and scrub growing thick and verdant. The day was hot, the hottest yet this spring, presaging summer. Light dazzled on the water, shimmered on the white pebbles scattered on the sliver of muddy beach between the scrub and the river.
Still a bend in the river, still a deep place with fish in the cool depths, but no longer a refuge against the heat of summer, or the eyes of others.
~~
"Aye. That is does." The note in Duncan's voice was now more wistful than anything. He moved abruptly in the darkness, reaching for Methos and holding him tightly for a moment. "Even us."
Methos returned the embrace, carding his fingers through the still-short but growing softness of Duncan's hair, kissing his forehead, his closed eyes. "Yes," he said, acknowledging the distance Duncan had come in the short time they had known each other. He wiggled his shoulders deeper into the pillows and tugged Mac's arm more comfortably over his ribs. "And now it is time to sleep." A breath of a laugh ruffled the hair at Methos' nape as Duncan stilled, relaxing into familiar comfort.
The next morning it seemed that Duncan had put aside his melancholy, but Methos had not forgotten it. Perhaps a change of scene was in order, if for no other reason than to escape the grey late-winter rain and the oppression of a building permeated with memory and echoing with stilled voices. Methos had long come to terms with the presence - or absence - of ghosts; Duncan had not.
Breakfast was a quiet meal, both men busy with their own thoughts. Mac had forgone his usual morning run, putting in time on the equipment downstairs in the dojo instead. Perhaps Mac's odd introspection was merely rain-gloom. The day promised to be just as dreary and wet as all the others this fortnight. By the time Duncan left for the first of his appointments the rain was coming down in sheets. Definitely time to get out of the wet, if only for the weekend.
~~
Late winter mud stiffening the thin leather of his shoes, damp wind prizing at damp wool wrapped tightly around his shoulders, over his head; the bones of his hands were sharp under chapped and chilblained skin. The scrubby trees, still leafless, give no protection from the sky, and being gods-touched, undying, does not keep away the cold, nor put food in a belly where no food is to be had, in a rocky land at the ragged end of winter. The autumn storms had come early, the harvest late. Olwen had died in the last freeze, Annet following her at the thaw. He will not die of cold, or hunger, or if he does it will be as impermanent as sleep.
~~
A particularly sharp spatter of rain rattled on the window. Methos un-sprawled from the corner of the couch where he had been savoring his second cup of coffee and scanning the paper (oh, the wonders of plastic bags, that kept even newsprint from dissolving!). The revisions on that article were not going to write themselves. Spring would not come with wishing, only with time.
As he puttered about on the computer, searching for a reference here, reworking a sentence there, Methos let the back of his brain turn over the problem of melancholy Duncan, and old, cold flashbacks. Presently the article was almost ready to send back to the editor, and he had ideas for several more to follow it with. He played with an idea for a persona, someone new who could be an interesting challenge to lay the seeds for, and put the thought aside for contemplation another time. There was no present need to run, and when there was, he had no intention of leaving Mac behind. He would take his festival with him. Spring festivals. He had Sham el Nessim, and Nowruz, one more example would strengthen that second point about the persistence of fish-imagery…
And there it was, yes, even as he remembered it. The faintest outline of something that might be a fish, traced in the rock, with spirals and rings and dots. The lake's bounty, the river's gift, the first fish after the ice had freed the waters, the place of renewal marked in the stone. Methos hardly even saw the words of the accompanying paper.
~~
Now Imbolc is past, and Lud is courting Brid, her fire beginning to warm the land. There are fish in his wallet, shoes on his feet, wool on his back and a path before him. In his trek from the river from whence the fish came to his hand he has seen the green tips of first growth on the ancient trees, poking shy heads through the old snow. It is mud and mist that chill him, not sleet, not ice.
Oh, to be warm now, not a month from now. He misses the warmth of the other in the night time, the spark of eyes and wit beside him at the fire, the heat of flesh cleaving to flesh, hands and mouths and the deep secret places of bodies joining, making joy, love, life. He is used to renewing himself, starting again, learning new names for old gods, but sometimes he wishes he didn't always have to be alone in his wanderings.
~~
The ceremonies of spring have more meaning after a hard winter. Perhaps that was what Duncan needed. Perhaps it was something he himself needed. He knew the forms, remembered the words, the herbs, the preparatory rituals and the scent of the cooking delicacies. Duncan's island was Holy Ground, and there were surely fish in that lake. Yes. Four weeks to the Vernal Equinox; he could surely make it happen, and give Duncan a space of time out of time.
The smile on Methos' face lingered as he finished his article, all the details of printing and mailing passing in a blur. The trip to the post office was accompanied by a scattering of showers, and Methos walked warm, enjoying the stout leather and rubber of his hiking boots, the snugness of his long and waterproof coat. Even the weight of his sword was a comfort after memories of flint and bronze. He tipped his face to the sky and let the drops spangle his lashes. The names of all the water-gods and rain-gods and the gods of death and renewal that he had ever called or cursed, flouted or followed murmured in his head in a litany. The hollow note of shell horns echoed in memory. Spring was older than them all.
When Duncan returned the short day was settling into evening. Methos met him at the door with a beer and a grin. "You know that 'somewhere else' you were talking about last night? Well, I have a plan."
"Oh?"
The sun had come out at the last, and the low light was flashing from the drops of water on the trees. The angle was just right to catch the bevel in the glass, and it threw a rainbow swath across the polished floor of the loft. Methos noticed it and his grin became wider. "Yes. A plan."
Duncan looked almost apprehensive as he hung up his coat and reached for the beer Methos was holding. "And this plan involves …?"
"You, me, food, beer, water, fish," Methos took the hand Duncan wasn't holding the beer in and tugged him across the ribbon of prismed light. "Ancient rites of renewal and fertility. Sacrifices to the gods of winter and spring." Only warm and dry and lubricated with more than fish-oil and alcohol. Duncan had the bemused look that said he was hearing tone and not words, but it hardly mattered.
Methos laughed, and Duncan kissed him. They were over the rainbow; the details would keep.
---
Sham el Nessim : Egyptian spring festival celebrating the abundance of fish in the Nile and the renewal of spring.
Nowruz: Persian spring festival ; one of the symbols present is a goldfish in a bowl to represent Anahita, an angel of water and fertility.
Llud (aka Lludd Llaw Ereint, Nudd, Nudons, possibly cognate with Nuada) one of the Sons of Don; London is named after him. He is a Celtic deity of water, a lord of the otherworld, conversant with riddles (he and his brother Llevelys solved the problem of the three plagues of Brittany), and King of Britain. Fish (especially salmon) were his creatures, and shell horns were blown in his honor. His wife was Gwyar, not Brid (aka Bride, Brighid, likely cognate with Brigantia and Brittania) but as the mother goddess of the Celtic world, she would have been courted by all. Brid is also the god of smithcraft, music and healing as well as a major fertility figure.
Author Name: Lferion
Fandom: Highlander
Characters|Pairing: Methos/Duncan
Genre: Short Story
Rating: PG
Word Count: 1520
Disclaimer: Panzer/Davis &etc. owns Highlander, not me. No harm, no foul, no money.
Summary: After winter comes spring.
Warnings: None
Written for: DM24 for the Sweet Charity spring 2008 RAINN auction.
Author Notes: The prompt was "Over the rainbow." Additional prompt words: hot, grass, and fish. I am only sorry it took me so long to get this written. Many, many thanks to auberus for beta-ing and cheerleading.
---
"Do you ever wish you were somewhere else? Really 'else'?" Duncan's voice was somewhere between pensive and contemplative.
"What kind of 'somewhere else' do you mean? Bora Bora? The moon? Over the rainbow?"
There was a moment of silence. Methos was struck by an unhappy thought. "Mac, if this is about that adventure you had with Fitzcairn in your head while you were out of it during that nonsense with O'Rourke, I don't want to hear about it. Going over it again will not help anything."
"No, nothing like that."
"Then like what?" Methos leaned up on his elbow and peered down at his lover in the dim rain-light. Mac's brows were pinched, and there was tension pulling in the corners of his lips. Whatever it was had the man well and truly bothered. Or perhaps it was the reminder of the O'Rourke debacle that was the cause of those signs. It was perfectly possible. Methos collapsed back down on the pillows. "You do know that by waiting a few years, we will be 'someplace else' as surely as traveling by foot or horse, automobile or aeroplane. Time changes things even more than distance."
~~
The bend in the river was just as Duncan remembered it, but a fire some seasons past had taken the trees, leaving the once-secluded cove in full sunlight, grass and scrub growing thick and verdant. The day was hot, the hottest yet this spring, presaging summer. Light dazzled on the water, shimmered on the white pebbles scattered on the sliver of muddy beach between the scrub and the river.
Still a bend in the river, still a deep place with fish in the cool depths, but no longer a refuge against the heat of summer, or the eyes of others.
~~
"Aye. That is does." The note in Duncan's voice was now more wistful than anything. He moved abruptly in the darkness, reaching for Methos and holding him tightly for a moment. "Even us."
Methos returned the embrace, carding his fingers through the still-short but growing softness of Duncan's hair, kissing his forehead, his closed eyes. "Yes," he said, acknowledging the distance Duncan had come in the short time they had known each other. He wiggled his shoulders deeper into the pillows and tugged Mac's arm more comfortably over his ribs. "And now it is time to sleep." A breath of a laugh ruffled the hair at Methos' nape as Duncan stilled, relaxing into familiar comfort.
The next morning it seemed that Duncan had put aside his melancholy, but Methos had not forgotten it. Perhaps a change of scene was in order, if for no other reason than to escape the grey late-winter rain and the oppression of a building permeated with memory and echoing with stilled voices. Methos had long come to terms with the presence - or absence - of ghosts; Duncan had not.
Breakfast was a quiet meal, both men busy with their own thoughts. Mac had forgone his usual morning run, putting in time on the equipment downstairs in the dojo instead. Perhaps Mac's odd introspection was merely rain-gloom. The day promised to be just as dreary and wet as all the others this fortnight. By the time Duncan left for the first of his appointments the rain was coming down in sheets. Definitely time to get out of the wet, if only for the weekend.
~~
Late winter mud stiffening the thin leather of his shoes, damp wind prizing at damp wool wrapped tightly around his shoulders, over his head; the bones of his hands were sharp under chapped and chilblained skin. The scrubby trees, still leafless, give no protection from the sky, and being gods-touched, undying, does not keep away the cold, nor put food in a belly where no food is to be had, in a rocky land at the ragged end of winter. The autumn storms had come early, the harvest late. Olwen had died in the last freeze, Annet following her at the thaw. He will not die of cold, or hunger, or if he does it will be as impermanent as sleep.
~~
A particularly sharp spatter of rain rattled on the window. Methos un-sprawled from the corner of the couch where he had been savoring his second cup of coffee and scanning the paper (oh, the wonders of plastic bags, that kept even newsprint from dissolving!). The revisions on that article were not going to write themselves. Spring would not come with wishing, only with time.
As he puttered about on the computer, searching for a reference here, reworking a sentence there, Methos let the back of his brain turn over the problem of melancholy Duncan, and old, cold flashbacks. Presently the article was almost ready to send back to the editor, and he had ideas for several more to follow it with. He played with an idea for a persona, someone new who could be an interesting challenge to lay the seeds for, and put the thought aside for contemplation another time. There was no present need to run, and when there was, he had no intention of leaving Mac behind. He would take his festival with him. Spring festivals. He had Sham el Nessim, and Nowruz, one more example would strengthen that second point about the persistence of fish-imagery…
And there it was, yes, even as he remembered it. The faintest outline of something that might be a fish, traced in the rock, with spirals and rings and dots. The lake's bounty, the river's gift, the first fish after the ice had freed the waters, the place of renewal marked in the stone. Methos hardly even saw the words of the accompanying paper.
~~
Now Imbolc is past, and Lud is courting Brid, her fire beginning to warm the land. There are fish in his wallet, shoes on his feet, wool on his back and a path before him. In his trek from the river from whence the fish came to his hand he has seen the green tips of first growth on the ancient trees, poking shy heads through the old snow. It is mud and mist that chill him, not sleet, not ice.
Oh, to be warm now, not a month from now. He misses the warmth of the other in the night time, the spark of eyes and wit beside him at the fire, the heat of flesh cleaving to flesh, hands and mouths and the deep secret places of bodies joining, making joy, love, life. He is used to renewing himself, starting again, learning new names for old gods, but sometimes he wishes he didn't always have to be alone in his wanderings.
~~
The ceremonies of spring have more meaning after a hard winter. Perhaps that was what Duncan needed. Perhaps it was something he himself needed. He knew the forms, remembered the words, the herbs, the preparatory rituals and the scent of the cooking delicacies. Duncan's island was Holy Ground, and there were surely fish in that lake. Yes. Four weeks to the Vernal Equinox; he could surely make it happen, and give Duncan a space of time out of time.
The smile on Methos' face lingered as he finished his article, all the details of printing and mailing passing in a blur. The trip to the post office was accompanied by a scattering of showers, and Methos walked warm, enjoying the stout leather and rubber of his hiking boots, the snugness of his long and waterproof coat. Even the weight of his sword was a comfort after memories of flint and bronze. He tipped his face to the sky and let the drops spangle his lashes. The names of all the water-gods and rain-gods and the gods of death and renewal that he had ever called or cursed, flouted or followed murmured in his head in a litany. The hollow note of shell horns echoed in memory. Spring was older than them all.
When Duncan returned the short day was settling into evening. Methos met him at the door with a beer and a grin. "You know that 'somewhere else' you were talking about last night? Well, I have a plan."
"Oh?"
The sun had come out at the last, and the low light was flashing from the drops of water on the trees. The angle was just right to catch the bevel in the glass, and it threw a rainbow swath across the polished floor of the loft. Methos noticed it and his grin became wider. "Yes. A plan."
Duncan looked almost apprehensive as he hung up his coat and reached for the beer Methos was holding. "And this plan involves …?"
"You, me, food, beer, water, fish," Methos took the hand Duncan wasn't holding the beer in and tugged him across the ribbon of prismed light. "Ancient rites of renewal and fertility. Sacrifices to the gods of winter and spring." Only warm and dry and lubricated with more than fish-oil and alcohol. Duncan had the bemused look that said he was hearing tone and not words, but it hardly mattered.
Methos laughed, and Duncan kissed him. They were over the rainbow; the details would keep.
---
Sham el Nessim : Egyptian spring festival celebrating the abundance of fish in the Nile and the renewal of spring.
Nowruz: Persian spring festival ; one of the symbols present is a goldfish in a bowl to represent Anahita, an angel of water and fertility.
Llud (aka Lludd Llaw Ereint, Nudd, Nudons, possibly cognate with Nuada) one of the Sons of Don; London is named after him. He is a Celtic deity of water, a lord of the otherworld, conversant with riddles (he and his brother Llevelys solved the problem of the three plagues of Brittany), and King of Britain. Fish (especially salmon) were his creatures, and shell horns were blown in his honor. His wife was Gwyar, not Brid (aka Bride, Brighid, likely cognate with Brigantia and Brittania) but as the mother goddess of the Celtic world, she would have been courted by all. Brid is also the god of smithcraft, music and healing as well as a major fertility figure.