Small Adjustments




I. Diestro

Small adjustments have profound effects. This is true of love as well as swordplay. Consone is a master of both and knows this truth only too well. He has lived it for most of his four hundred years. A minute tilt of the blade at precisely the right moment during a thrust can make a devastating difference to the result. Even more so if the blade is flesh instead of steel.

He considers this as he brings MacLeod to his knees once more with rapier and dagger crossed at his throat. MacLeod's mouth is open, gasping for breath, while the sweat of the lesson slicks his skin. Consone shivers. A small adjustment at this moment could take the extranjero's life, or open it to intriguing new vistas. He is still debating the merits of both when their eyes meet. And hold.

MacLeod's eyes as always are full of questions. Never in all his years has he had such a one for wanting to learn…everything. He is quite sure he never plagued Ramirez the way MacLeod does him. But there is something different in the questions he can see in MacLeod's dark eyes this time. An awareness, a knowledge he would have been prepared to wager that his student did not yet possess. But with MacLeod who can be certain? He is, as ever, full of surprises.

A runnel of sweat trickles into Consone's eye and he lifts a hand to wipe it away. In the space of a second, the moment is gone, for now anyway. But there will be other moments, other times, of this he is very sure. Eventually, MacLeod will belong to him, in all ways. There is so much more he could be teaching him, so much more than the ancient mysteries of the Circle. And if MacLeod is as adept as he is with a sword, then the lessons will be very pleasurable indeed.

***

II. Tacto

Extraordinary, inflaming creature. He rises to every challenge Consone throws at him, each time with that challenge of his own still in his eyes. MacLeod is waiting for something; that much is clear, but it isn't yet time. Consone is a patient man. All his four centuries have given him that -- and more. And soon, if MacLeod is very fortunate, he will reap the benefits of all those years.

Consone watches him as he strips the shirt and breeches from his sweat-soaked skin. Not a scrap of shame in the man. Nor should there be, for he is beautiful indeed. In his harsher moments Consone calls him a clumsy son of a pig-farmer, but there is nothing clumsy in the lines of his body, the turn of his limbs, the smoothness of his dusky skin.

They step through the door of the Turkish bath wrapped in the lengths of white linen, as is the custom here. Briefly, he finds himself wishing for the traditional way. Though, he concedes as he drapes himself over a stone bench, it will be easier to seduce MacLeod if he cannot see the effect his beauty has on him. Yet. A position of power must ever be maintained and he does not plan on giving his away.

Especially to one such as this.

But if MacLeod notices anything amiss, there is no sign of it in his dark eyes. Consone smiles to himself. He is a master of this, and it has been long since he had such an object on whom to exercise his powers. Anticipation warms his skin even more than the steam of the bath.

MacLeod has seen the smile and raises an eyebrow questioningly. "How have I amused you now, Consone?"

His barbarian accent grates more in Spanish than in English, so Consone answers him in the latter. "Not amused, my friend, merely…pleased. You did well today." He is not in the habit of handing out empty praise and he can see the effect his words have on MacLeod.

The broad smile he gives transforms his face, lights his eyes, raises his chin. He truly is a lovely creature. Flesh hardens impatiently between Consone's thighs.

"I thank you, Master Consone," MacLeod says, in English of course, giving a mocking, courtly bow while still sitting. He makes light of the compliment, but it is a poor mask at best.

Consone would have to be a fool not to know how this one craves love, almost as much as he craves learning, and he was never a fool. He smiles again, more pointedly this time, his eyes looking deep into MacLeod's.

MacLeod's deep chest lifts higher, a fresh crop of sweat breaks out on his skin and his pupils widen. Oh yes, he is far from unaffected. This may be even easier than he thought.

***

III. Tentar

MacLeod overplays the opening thrust -- again. Too impetuous by half, and Consone lets him feel the sting of his steel as punishment for his inattention. Breath hisses between MacLeod's teeth, but he moves back into the starting position without being told. It is a matter of opinion whether this makes him a determined or foolishly stubborn man.

But today, it seems he is a distracted one also. Impatience flares in his eyes as he steps left instead of right. He would start over again, but Consone signals him to keep on. His impatience is making him overpower each blow and the force echoes down Consone's arm as he parries.

Every move in swordplay begins in the eyes. It is an undeniable truth that has saved his life many a time. Few have the skill to read a man's eyes the way he does. It is one of the things he will never teach his student. A good teacher always keeps some things to himself and he is a very good teacher.

Consone finds himself wondering if MacLeod knows how much his eyes give away. One day perhaps he will learn to conceal their expressiveness, and then again, perhaps not. Around them the studio goes on, unaware of the dance going on under their noses. But inside the Circle there is only the dance -- and the heat in MacLeod's eyes that says that he is ready to learn something new.

Consone envelops MacLeod's rapier, pushing it up and away to the right to clatter on the floor. MacLeod's dagger hand is out of position and he's moving far too quickly. The collision is unavoidable and entirely predictable.

MacLeod stops very still, close against Consone's chest and kept there with a dagger held at his throat. There is fear in his eyes, but the heat remains. Consone presses his advantage with a subtle press of his hips. MacLeod is every bit as hard as he expected. His face flushes when Consone tilts his hips forward once more, letting him know he is not alone in his arousal.

The confusion on MacLeod's face when Consone pushes him away is more than worth the price of the admission.

***

IV. Desvio

"I trust you had a pleasant walk home last night." It is a poor opening, Consone knows, but his head is still full of the sight of his student lost in the passion of the flamenco. His gitano is beautiful indeed.

MacLeod smiles broadly and unsheathes his sword. "Very pleasant. The night was mild and the company charming."

Jealousy flares as it had last night. He conceals it better this time. MacLeod is his student -- MacLeod is his. The woman also, but she is just a woman like many others he has known. But MacLeod…MacLeod is the true prize. He has not seen his like in four hundred years. Consone salutes with his rapier; smiling a smile he does not feel. "Then I trust the company today will not suffer in comparison."

MacLeod extends his sword to make the proper opening. "Never, Maestro." There is a trace of wicked amusement in his grin now. "Never."

Satisfaction mixes with anticipation to warm him his blood. He engages MacLeod's blade and begins. It is an effort to concentrate on the lesson, but Consone is not a master of the Circle for nothing and MacLeod is none the wiser.

The hours pass. Other students come and go from the studio, but Consone pays them no mind. MacLeod is a fine swordsman in his own right, but in the world of the Circle he is but an amateur. However he is an amateur with a vast appetite for learning. Consone is hard pushed to satisfy him.

That will not always be the case.

The final engagement ends with MacLeod's neck bent back under the press of Consone's blade. It looks well on him and Consone feels his body respond once more. Perhaps he is tempting the devil when he suggests their usual Turkish bath together, but today he feels as if not even the devil himself can stop him.

He lowers his sword. "Come, my friend," he says with his hand on MacLeod's strong shoulder, "a bath will soothe those aches."

"Aye," MacLeod answers with a roll of the shoulder under Consone's hand. "You're a hard taskmaster, Consone."

Consone leans close, his words for MacLeod alone. "Then it as well that we are Immortal, is it not?"

MacLeod's laugh is muffled as he pulls his shirt over his head. Consone watches him secretly as he removes the rest of his clothing from his fine body. Oh yes, he is a fit companion for one such as he, without a doubt.

Consone strips himself slowly, talking still of inconsequential things. He can feel MacLeod's eyes on him and it makes his movements languid and deliberate. He turns to face him and for a second their eyes catch and hold. MacLeod breaks first, looking away and reaching for the linen to wrap around his hips. He winces as he grabs for it and Consone sees his chance.

"Are you injured?"

MacLeod stops and turns to face him, the linen hanging uselessly in his hand. "Tis nothing. It'll be healed soon enough."

Consone steps closer. "Show me."

MacLeod obeys without question, turning to face the wall. "Just a pulled muscle in my back."

It is too close to call whether it is MacLeod's beauty or his obedience that affects him more. Consone lays a hand on the smooth, damp skin just below his shoulder blades. "Here?" Muscles shift beneath his palm.

"Lower."

Consone slides his hand to the small of MacLeod's back, just above the high, tight swell of his backside. It is fortunate indeed that MacLeod cannot see him at this moment. "Here?" he asks softly, pressing his fingers in more firmly.

MacLeod's breath catches in his throat; Consone can hear it. "Yes, that's it."

With both hands and considerable skill, he massages MacLeod's taut back, rubbing and circling his fingers, working the knotted flesh until it softens under his hands. It is a vast act of will to convince his own flesh to soften as much. He knows without asking that MacLeod is not ready for the reality of his effect on him.

But MacLeod is a sensualist, Consone has known this from their first meeting, and whatever reservations he has in his mind clearly have no effect on the way he enjoys the touch of another man's hands on his body.

It is not until another student blunders in most inopportunely, that Consone lifts his hands away from his student, smoothly, as if he'd intended to all along. MacLeod scrambles to wrap the linen around himself, but not before Consone sees exactly how much he has been affected.

***
 
V. La verdadera destreza

MacLeod watches him more closely in the days after. There are questions in his eyes that he doesn't ask. He doesn't have to; Consone knows what they are. MacLeod is a stranger to the secret ways of warriors, as one would expect from a man with the dung of his village still clinging to his boots.

But that will change. The hunt has begun and if MacLeod suspects that he is the prey there is little he can do about it now. Consone watches him, day by day, concealing his amusement as MacLeod maintains his facade as the dutiful student, the suave ladies man. Consone sees beneath the masks and bides his time. There is much he has that MacLeod wants, but it will be in his time and not the extranjero's.

And when it is time, he will be a fit recipient of Consone's skill and passion. The thought makes him shiver with anticipation. And in the meantime, it will be an amusing exercise to mold him perfectly to his own requirements. Amusing, but not easy. MacLeod is willful and proud, much taken with his own abilities. Like many a proud man before him, he needs to be knocked down before he can be rebuilt.

He is still far too fond of the cut over the thrust, Consone thinks as MacLeod improvises a wild combination of his own devising. And while Consone has taken a small cut to the shoulder, it is nothing compared to what it should have been. Foolish boy. He needs to be shown the power of the estocada; the surgical precision a true master can bring to the art of the thrust.

Consone advances on him, overwhelms him with his mastery of the Circle and buries his blade deep in MacLeod's belly. Some lessons must be more taught more bluntly than others. MacLeod will not soon forget this one.

"You are a good student, but you have much to learn," Consone growls with MacLeod's hot blood leaking over his fingers.

"That was not necessary." Pain roughens MacLeod's voice as he doubles over.

Consone shoves in deeper. "Are you the master now?

MacLeod goes pale. "No…."

At last it is done. The realization is clear in MacLeod's eyes. Consone twists the blade a little more before pulling it free. "You must be relentless. If this were a fight to the death would you let a dagger in the ribs stop you?"

"No, I would not." Pain is etched over MacLeod's face even as he tries to hide it.

"Muy bien. The lesson is over." Consone claps an arm around his shoulders and leads him away from the Circle. He can afford to be magnanimous now. The warmth he shows will bind MacLeod to him just as tightly as his teachings. "The art of the swordfight lies not only in winning -- it lies in not losing," he tells him as they walk out of the studio. "The champion is the man who fights until the final stroke." In all things and in all ways, Consone knows this to be true. It remains to be seen whether MacLeod does.

MacLeod nods, inclining his head gracefully. If he does not fully understand the import of Consone's words, at least he believes he does. They pause in the anteroom to sheath their swords and gather their coats.

"Will we have the pleasure of seeing you dance at the taverna tonight, MacLeod?" Consone asks, seeking to draw the subject off to matters more personal.

"No," he answers. "I'll have no partner. Carmen turned an ankle last night."

"Ah well…." Consone trails off and lets the silence hang.

"I was going to go back to my lodgings," MacLeod says, reaching up to loosen his hair. There is something in his voice that says this is not what he truly wants.

Consone tugs his gloves off, one finger at a time. "Perhaps you would do me the honor of dining at my home tonight?"

***

VI. Atajo

"More wine?" Consone holds up the bottle.

MacLeod lifts his glass. "Aye, I think I will. Tis very good."

Consone fills both their glasses. "The finest Madeira in Madrid."

MacLeod lifts his glass and drinks, licking the sweet wine from his lips when he is done. Consone is glad for the cover of the dining table. That mouth could tempt a monk. And he is no monk.

Suddenly it is very warm and close in his dining room, even with the windows and shutters wide open to the breeze.

"Shall we take this to the courtyard?" Consone suggests, already rising from his seat. "Summer in Madrid is always best enjoyed outside."

His body is under control once more, but not for lack of provocation. MacLeod has left his hair loose, his lips are glossy where he has licked them and the candlelight is making his pupils wider and darker. Consone imagines this is how MacLeod will look kneeling between his legs. He gathers wine bottle and glass and heads out the door to the courtyard without waiting for MacLeod to answer.

He knows without looking that MacLeod is right behind him. A small thrill of excitement runs down his spine.

It is cooler in the courtyard, lit by a few candles here and there and scented with jasmine and Bourbon roses. The moon is full and golden above them. Consone sits on a wooden bench and stretches his legs out in front of him. MacLeod sits down beside him. He is at least six inches away, but Consone could swear he can feel the heat of his body nonetheless.

MacLeod sips his wine in silence for long minutes. Consone stays quiet, letting the sensual darkness seep into his bones. A teasing soft breeze lifts his hair, cools the sweat at the back of his neck.

"A fine night." MacLeod sighs. "I shall miss Madrid when I go."

"You could stay," Consone suggests. "Does something call you away?"

"Too much of the gypsy in me, I think." MacLeod shifts on the bench to face him, draping his bent arm across the back. "There's so much to see and do in the world. I fear I have much to learn yet."

Consone moves so that he can look into MacLeod's eyes. "And is there nothing here you still wish to do -- to learn?"

MacLeod holds his gaze. "Certainly."

"You have but scratched the surface of the mysteries of the Circle. There are many treta you have yet to learn."

"Aye, this is true. Y'are a good teacher, Maestro Consone."

"Otavio," Consone corrects on a breath.

"Otavio," MacLeod repeats softly.

"And you," Consone says, "are perhaps not the worst student I have ever had." He grins. "You do quite well -- for a barbarian."

MacLeod throws his head back and laughs at the wry joke. "Barbarian?" He leaps to his feet. "Could a barbarian do this?" He steps into the complex mixto they had been working earlier today, miming the steps he has been taught. It is only when he reaches the fourth movimiento that he fumbles and stops with an expression of disgust on his face.

"Still much to learn, as you see. I fear you will have my company for a while yet."

The mood is all but gone and Consone wishes to bring it back. "Here," he says, stepping up behind MacLeod. "This passo must go to the left." He places his hands on MacLeod's hips and steps with him through the move as if they are dancing. "Then, turn forty-five degrees and go right." MacLeod moves with him easily, accepting his lead without question. "Then the violento." He slips his hand up MacLeod's arm and guides it in the swift upward motion. "The natural." His hand curls around MacLeod's forearm and presses it down. "And then…the remisso in preparation for the next move." He brings MacLeod's arm diagonally back across his body.

And stops, pressed up against MacLeod's hard back, holding him close.

"Is this the atajo?" MacLeod whispers, not moving. "Is this where you take control of my blade?"

Consone answers by sliding his hand slowly down MacLeod's belly. Oh yes, indeed….

***


VII. Legamento

MacLeod remains very still and quiet as Consone's hand traces the outline of his hard cock in his breeches, delicately, from tip to root. But his breath is quickening and whatever his feelings may be, he is very far from being repulsed. Consone has judged the moment perfectly. Soon he will take MacLeod, body and soul, burn himself into him until MacLeod is bound to him forever.

Instinctively, he has seen the fatal weakness in this man. He loves. He binds himself to those he loves and his loyalty is strong and unwavering. If he can claim even a little of that for himself, it will be a prize even greater than the possession of his beautiful body.

Consone slips his free hand up MacLeod's chest while he nudges his own hard length into his buttocks. The rough gasp and quick backwards press he receives in return are nothing like he expected and yet entirely delicious. MacLeod wants this, even if he has never considered wanting it before -- he wants it now. The thrill of having such power over this man almost surpasses the thrill of having him at last.

He squeezes MacLeod's cock again, harder this time. MacLeod shudders and goes pliant in his arms, his head dropping back on Consone's shoulder. He is breathing fast, his hips making small rocking motions towards Consone's hand. Beautiful, and ripe for the taking.

Consone slips his hand inside MacLeod's breeches at last, enveloping his hot, hard cock in his hand. MacLeod makes a sound like suffering and thrusts harder. Long, thick flesh covered in silk-thin skin shifts through his fist. It is good, but very far from his ultimate goal.  

With much reluctance he uncurls his fingers from MacLeod's flesh and steps back a half step. Before Consone can speak, MacLeod turns to face him, his eyes dark with desire.

"Was there something you were wanting, Maestro Consone?" MacLeod asks, holding his gaze unwaveringly with his head tilted to one side. His mouth curls at the corners, teasing, enticing.

MacLeod's boldness breaks something open inside him, tears away the last of his restraint. Consone answers him by closing the distance between them and forcing him back against the nearest wall; a few steps away. MacLeod acquiesces with a groan that echoes around the courtyard.

Consone has him pressed up against the wall, his body hot and needy. His mouth finds MacLeod's throat and he gives in to the temptation to mark the dusky skin with his teeth. MacLeod hisses and lifts his chin higher, arms tightening around him. His response is as stunning as it is gratifying.

While Consone bites and sucks at MacLeod's throat, his hands are busy freeing him from his breeches and shirt.  He finds no resistance, no trace of reluctance, nothing he would have expected. MacLeod continues to surprise him, just as he always has.

But there is nothing more surprising than the moment MacLeod sinks to his knees and presses his open mouth to the bulge straining at Consone's breeches, scraping at it with his teeth. In another heartbeat, he is attacking Consone's breeches buttons with quick, deft hands.

Consone begins to entertain sincere doubts about the degree of MacLeod's innocence.

Never more so than when MacLeod takes Consone's cock between thumb and fingertips and guides it to his lips. One savoring lick around the head, and then MacLeod is taking him deep, swallowing him, his eyes closing over a rapturous expression. Consone curls his fingers into the wild tangle of his hair and begins to thrust, everything inside him drawing tight with the heat searing through him.

In the moonlight, Consone can see his shaft slipping in and out of MacLeod's lush mouth. The sight almost undoes him; he could almost let this go on until he spends himself deep in MacLeod's throat. But it isn't truly enough; he wants all of him, every way he can have him. The thought makes the heat spike even higher. Roughly, he reaches down and drags MacLeod to his feet, spinning him to face the wall. Need is turning into madness inside him.

The sight of MacLeod spreading his legs and hollowing his back with his breeches around his knees does nothing to cool the fever. He was wrong about this man, he realizes now, wrong on some fundamental level.  Whatever he is, MacLeod is no innocent virgin.   Anger at the deception mixes with the lust, making it sharper, darker, more piquant.

Whatever gentleness is left in him vanishes into the night air. Grabbing MacLeod with both hands, he spreads him open and begins to push himself inside. MacLeod pushes back, opening to him. He is tight, so tight and hot and unbelievably sweet. With another hard push he is all the way inside buried to the root, and MacLeod is panting, sweat running down his spine, begging him in a low, rough voice to move please.

Such a beautiful whore, but a whore nonetheless. Learnt from his gypsies, no doubt. Or perhaps some flaw inherent in his nature. But whatever it is, it is of no consequence now. Consone begins to move, small thrusts at first, leaning in close against MacLeod's back. His neck is close and far too tempting to resist, so Consone bites it, sinking his teeth into the strong muscles. MacLeod whimpers and shudders. Consone feels it all the way to his cock.

Restraint is thrown aside entirely and he takes MacLeod hard, as hard as he can, until the courtyard echoes with the slap of flesh on flesh and MacLeod's low, hoarse cries. He is meeting every one of Consone's thrusts with his own, working furiously at his own cock all the while. Consone can feel his climax building in the base of his balls, heat burning up his spine, threatening to explode.

He is moving quickly now, thrusting into MacLeod in swift, sharp jabs. And then MacLeod is shuddering, moaning and spilling over his own hand as his orgasm hits him. His back arches, his muscles clamp down hard around Consone's cock and it only takes a single thrust more to send him crashing after him. The force of his climax grips him like an invisible hand and he is frozen into immobility until it is done with him. And then, wrung out, spent, he collapses against MacLeod's back.

***

VIII. El boca Espanol

There is sticky, awkward silence in the aftermath. MacLeod can't seem to meet his eyes, and Consone finds he must work hard to quell the last shreds of his anger if he is not to give himself away entirely. MacLeod will not be bound to him by anger and accusation. This is a man with a weakness for a gentle touch and a kind word.

He puts the anger aside, but he'll know where to find it should there be need one day.

Composed once more, Consone watches and waits. MacLeod is flicking open his pocket watch and curses unconvincingly under his breath. Dressing hurriedly, he pulls his shirt over his head, tugs his breeches back up and tucks himself back into them. There is something wrong, and Consone watches him carefully, trying to divine what it may be. While he waits, Consone pulls his own clothing back into order.

When he is decent once more, MacLeod finally looks him in the eye, but it is a brief look at best and only confirms his doubts. If he has misjudged and MacLeod is disposed to use this against him, then the storm will come now.

"I'm sorry…I have to leave," MacLeod mutters, smoothing back his hair and avoiding Consone's eyes.

"Of course," Consone says with more ease than he feels. "But I thought you had no engagements for the evening."

MacLeod stops and meets his eyes properly at last. His dark gaze is conflicted, saddened by something he is very carefully not saying. "Co-- Otavio," he says gently, lifting a hand to the side of Consone's face. "I shouldn't have done this."

Consone raises his chin and regards him through narrowed eyes. It is a little late now for MacLeod to be pretending to be an outraged innocent. MacLeod drops his hand. Consone remains silent and waits for the rest.

"There is…someone I love. This was nae fair to her." He steps in close and dares a hand to Consone's shoulder. "Nor to you. I'm sorry."

MacLeod -- infatuated with some little barmaid or flamenco dancer! It is so perfectly, ridiculously typical. He is so relieved he knows it must show on his face. "MacLeod," he says as warmly as he can, "you are no child, you know that what happens between Immortals is not of mortal concern. This is true of…love as well as warfare." Consone lifts his hand and traces the tip of his thumb down the length of MacLeod's fine throat. "Do not let it concern you…Duncan. It is a thing apart and of no concern to anyone else. I wish you the best of luck with your young woman, whoever she is."

MacLeod looks unconvinced. "I have pledged my love to her, and she to me. It was wrong of me to do this to her."

"You have taken nothing from her, there is no part of this that can affect her." Consone's mouth twists wryly. "It is not a part of yourself she will understand, is it?"

MacLeod shakes his head minutely. "Still…it can never happen again."

"Never?" Consone raises an eyebrow. "A mortal lifetime is but a heartbeat to the Chosen, my friend. You know that. There will be other days for us."

MacLeod smiles, but his eyes remain sad. Then he leans in and, almost before Consone knows what is happening, MacLeod's mouth is on his, kissing him slowly, leisurely, molding his body up against Consone's until there is nothing between them. Lust throbs through him as if it was never sated.

But then MacLeod is stepping back, releasing him. "I know you're right, it's just…things are never quite as simple as they could be, are they?" His gaze turns far away for a moment, then it is as if he shakes himself back into the present. "Very well. Shall we meet at the studio at nine, as usual, Maestro?"

"Of course," Consone replies. "You still have much to learn, Duncan MacLeod."

MacLeod nods with his head inclined in that way of his, almost a bow, and sweeps from the courtyard without another word. Consone watches him go, thinking of his own young woman and her lovely and extensive dowry. There is no reason that either of their women should prevent him from having MacLeod again, and soon. The thought makes him smile with triumph.

***

IX. Afirmarse

There is a special spring in Consone's step this morning, a glow to the grin he bestows on the world; life is very very good. He has almost everything he could want in this life. Money, position, rank, respect, the promise of a lovely young wife to warm his bed and increase his fortune. And he has Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod, who has turned out to be more surprising than even he could have suspected.

The thought makes him smile to himself. Last night was very far from enough. It has been a long time since he has wanted a man the way he craves MacLeod. MacLeod's young woman, whoever she is, must not be allowed to interfere with Consone's access to that exquisite body. If MacLeod cannot be reasoned out of his ridiculous ideas of fidelity, then, well…young women can be so very fragile. It is so small an obstacle as to be none at all.

Nothing can dim his spirits today. Don Diego del Gloria has consented at last to his marriage with Theresa, settling a handsome estate upon her in the marriage articles. All that remains is to speak with the lady herself: a mere formality for which he has an appointment this afternoon. And he has Duncan MacLeod. Waiting for him beside the Circle with a warm smile and an unsheathed sword.

In any other Immortal the bare blade would be cause for concern, but not in this man. He is loyal to his friends and Consone knows that MacLeod regards him as such. Such an alliance is invaluable. MacLeod is a fine swordsman for one so young and if he should survive to become finer still, he will be an important player in the Game. And of course, there are the other attractions….

"Buenos dias, Maestro," MacLeod says as Consone draws near. He salutes with his rapier and smiles again without it reaching his eyes. There is something amiss with him, this is certain; he fidgets nervously and he only meets Consone's eyes for the briefest of moments.

Consone makes no comment on what he observes. He is sure he knows the cause, and it is not something he wants to discuss with every ear in the studio trained upon them. Instead, he sends MacLeod as pleasant, "Buenos dias, mi amigo," and unsheathes his blade, tossing his sheath and cape to the servant and returns the salute. "Shall we begin?"

MacLeod bows over his sword and takes up his position in the Circle. With deliberate calm, Consone leads him into the mixto MacLeod had been showing off last night in the courtyard. They make it as far as the second movimiento before the realization shows in MacLeod's eyes.  He is distracted, but he covers it well, not missing a step.

The third movement proceeds smoothly, but Consone can feel the tension rising. The fourth approaches inexorably. MacLeod is gripping his sword far too tightly and a trio of lines has appeared between his brows. When they pass close by each other, Consone can smell the desire still clinging to him. It is clear the memory of last night is still fresh in his mind; too fresh to forget or deny. Suddenly he is impatient for the lesson to finish.

But he sees it through to the end, reluctant to show MacLeod the power he has over him. Nothing is more important than this. They work through the complex mixto again and again, until everything else is forgotten and there is only the dance, the swords, and the Circle. And MacLeod matches him perfectly, step for step. He has never fought better. In these moments nothing else exists. He is light, high, free -- invincible.

And then it is over and the world becomes real again.

MacLeod bows, somewhat formally, and steps out of the Circle. Consone does the same. Without a word, MacLeod sheathes his sword and heads towards the baths. Excitement curls in Consone's stomach, quickening his step.

MacLeod fumbles with his boots as he begins to undress. He still does not meet Consone's eyes. It is guilt, Consone is sure of it, guilt over last night and his 'infidelity' to his little mortal that torments him so. He is young yet, Consone reminds himself, and still wedded to the ways of the mortal world. And as his teacher, it is his duty to relieve him of those useless principles. They will do him no good, and in the end will do him much harm.

While Consone considers, he strips the sweat-soaked clothing from his body. When he is naked, he collects a linen wrap from the neatly folded pile, but makes no move to cover himself with it yet. MacLeod's eyes move over him quickly, look away, look back again. There it is; the fascination may be unwilling, but fascination it is nonetheless. The cause is far from lost.

He turns to face MacLeod before he begins to wind the linen around his hips at last. MacLeod is bending down, tugging the breeches off one foot at a time. Consone knows only too well what he sees when he glances up and he smiles at the color that rises to MacLeod's face. Consone knows his body is hard and well made, generously endowed, and it is no secret that MacLeod desires him. It will only take a small push in the privacy of the steam bath for MacLeod's desires to overcome him once more.

When MacLeod is ready at last, Consone gestures him ahead and follows him into the bath. MacLeod is sweating long before he steps into the steamy room.

MacLeod does not sit, but stands facing the wall, leaning forward on his outstretched arms. The resemblance to last night is so strong that he has to restrain himself from leaping to his feet, stripping away the white wrappings and sinking himself once more into that glorious body.

Instead he talks of other things. He will know when MacLeod is ready for him again, and it is not yet. "You have good instincts, MacLeod," Consone says easily from his seat on the stone bench. "If I had another year I would make a real swordsman of you."

MacLeod turns away from the wall and begins to pace nervously.  "I'm thinking of staying in Madrid a little longer," he says, flicking a quick glance at Consone.

Consone conceals his very great pleasure at what he is hearing, but it is difficult indeed. He keeps his voice casual and unconcerned as he replies, "Are you? I thought you had a little too much of the gypsy in you?"

MacLeod is still pacing, gesticulating as he searches for the words. He cannot look at Consone as he speaks again. "Theresa wants me to propose marriage."

His shock and betrayal are boundless -- a dagger in his gut -- but he is self-possessed enough to laugh coldly and reply, "A young woman of quality does not discuss such things."

MacLeod has not noticed anything amiss; he simply prattles on, lost in his ridiculous pretensions. "This one does. I know marriage isn't an easy thing for any of us. How long can we go before someone notices that we're not getting any older?"

Consone's jaw is tight with tension when he replies, "Perhaps you fail to understand our customs." He still cannot believe what he is hearing.

MacLeod is still not listening; he waves off the objections as if they are nothing. "I know, I know. We'll have to travel. She'll have to give up everything that she loves. If she wants me to…give her children, I--I can't give her those."

Consone holds his anger in, but it requires every bit of his self-will to do so. Still, there is a sharp note in his voice when he says, "Theresa is not for you." MacLeod stares at him incredulously, but Consone ignores it. "She is of noble blood."

Finally, something has penetrated MacLeod's flight of fancy. But he thinks so highly of his own claims that he merely laughs and claps Consone on the shoulder and laughs, "I'm the son of a clan chieftain."

It is more than Consone can bear. "You are the son of a barbarian. You are a foreigner, an extranjero. No, no, you forget her, my friend. She is not for you." He moves to his feet to deliver the final blow. "I have already spoken to her father." There, it is done. There can be no refuting this. MacLeod will surely realize now how futile his aspirations are.

MacLeod pales, stops and looks at him properly for the first time. "Perhaps you should have spoken to the lady first," he says with quiet heat.

"She will do as her father instructs," Consone tells him, even though that must be obvious even to a fool such as this.

"You will ask her to deny her heart?" MacLeod throws back at him.

He cannot believe he needs to explain this to him. How could a man be so ignorant of the ways of the world? "Theresa deserves a gentleman! And if she does not love me now, one day, she will."

"You're wrong, Consone. You're so wrong." His voice breaks over the words. MacLeod is barely inches away now, his chest heaving, fire in his dark eyes. He is more beautiful than ever in his fury, but it only makes Consone hate him more for all his blighted dreams.

He has been mistaken in MacLeod, he sees this now. He is a barbarian through and through, uncultured, unmannered, and uncouth. Whatever his physical attractions may be, he will never be a fit companion for Consone as long as he lives. "You are finished in Madrid," Consone snarls. "Leave tomorrow. Or you will die. The choice is yours." If he had a sword in his hand, the extranjero would be dead where he stood.

There is pain in MacLeod's eyes as the blow hits home, but Consone says nothing as he stalks from the room. Their shoulders brush when Consone pushes past him, but he does not look back. There is somewhere else he needs to be, a possession he must protect, before MacLeod can steal that from him also.

***

X. Cavazione


It has come to swords between them, as he has always known it would someday. He did not expect it would be so soon, but this day has destroyed so many of his expectations that one more makes little difference. Even so, this victory is hollow; MacLeod has managed to rob him of even that sweetness.

Theresa is glaring at him across MacLeod's fallen body, hatred in her eyes, even as she swears to marry him. She will live to regret this betrayal, as will MacLeod. Consone is a patient man and knows well how to bide his time until the moment is ripe for retribution. And that moment will surely come, for both his betrayers.

He looks down at MacLeod, gasping for breath on the ground. His face is ashen, drawn with the pain of his healing wounds. But he will be healed soon and the woman should not be witness to the magic.

"Theresa," Consone says sharply. "Go back inside."

She crouches over MacLeod and clasps his head to her breast. "No! You will kill him!"

Consone lowers his sword and looks her in the eye. "I have given my word that he will live. Do you think I would risk losing you over this…gypsy? Now, go back to your father and wait for me."

She does not want to leave, but Consone stares her down until she does. She presses one last kiss to MacLeod's hair, staring defiantly at Consone all the while, tears herself away and runs, weeping copiously, into the house.  It will be a pleasure to break her, he thinks. Her willfulness is utterly intolerable.

MacLeod struggles to his feet as soon as she is gone. It is clear that he mistrusts the promise also. He is right to do so. A gentleman he may be, but he is also an Immortal and no fool. One day he will have the head of Duncan MacLeod, but it will not be this day. "You must leave now," he growls.

MacLeod makes no move to leave. He straightens his shoulders and meets Consone's eyes without fear. "You can have me instead," he blurts, color flooding back into his face.

Consone shakes his head. "What?"

"You can have me. You don't love her, and she doesn't love you. Forcing her to marry you will only make her life a misery." He makes a poor attempt at a smile. "And it will do little for your own personal happiness." MacLeod takes a step closer. "Take me instead. I will go with you willingly, if you'll let Theresa be."

Consone finds himself gaping, struck dumb with disbelief. His sword point is under MacLeod's chin before he can breathe. "You think that I would give up a woman of quality, of nobility -- a woman who can command entrance into any social circle in Europe -- for you?" He is forcing MacLeod backwards, into the cool, dark passageway that leads to the street while he speaks. "You, who are nothing -- a barbarian -- a gypsy's whore!" He changes direction a fraction, just enough to press MacLeod back against the wall, blade still at his throat. "How many others have you spread your legs for? Gone to your knees for?" He steps in closer, lowers his voice even more. "You are nothing but a whore with pretensions. You disgust me."

MacLeod lifts his chin, pride and anger burning in his eyes. "That didn't seem to concern you last night," he answers without heat.

Memories shaft through him, but they bring only pain now. "Fool. You were a convenience -- nothing more," he hisses. The blade is against MacLeod's skin now, almost without his willing it. "A bitch in heat should not be surprised when the dogs come sniffing around."

Blood drips from MacLeod's neck, but he seems completely unaware of it. His eyes are fixed on Consone's, narrowed and without a trace of fear. "And yet you want me still," he says.

The hand that covers his crotch shocks him into immobility. His is hard, achingly so, but it means less than nothing. He presses the blade deeper. "Remove your hand before I cut it off."

MacLeod lifts his hand away slowly. Blood is flowing steadily down his neck now, staining his white shirt crimson. "Take me instead of her, Otavio," he pleads once more. "I'll not give you cause to regret it."

Consone's lip curls with contempt. "Never." He pulls the sword away and grabs MacLeod's shirtfront with his free hand. "You are nothing to me now. I will have Theresa, she will be my wife, and you will think yourself lucky that I let you leave Madrid with your head." He thrusts MacLeod away, sending him stumbling backwards clumsily. "Leave!"

MacLeod regains his feet and stands in the entrance with his head high. "It is a cruel thing you do to her, Consone. You think you can force her to love you, to be a good wife to you, but you cannot. You will never be happy, I promise you that."

"I will have everything I want," Consone assures him, grinning smugly.

"You will have nothing you want," MacLeod throws back at him passionately. "Your life will be an endless circle of pain and vengeance." He pauses, his eyes black and hard. "And then one day, when we meet again, I will relieve you of it. I promise you that."

Consone watches him stalk away. Suddenly, the shadowy passageway seems far too cool and he shivers, chilled to the bone. 


 The End.

Author's Notes:

This story is dedicated to MacGeorge and Killa, leading lights and inspirations both.

Thanks to Athena and MacGeorge for the sterling beta-duties, it is much appreciated as always.

The above owes much in terms of dialogue and inspiration to both the Highlander episode, Duende and Anthony DeLongis' short story, 'Consone's Diary' from 'An Evening at Joe's'. If some of the dialogue sounds familiar, it's because I didn't write it, they did.

Spanish Translations for the fencing terms (and others) used in this story:

Diestro: A swordsman, particularly one who practices the Circle
Extranjero: A foreigner.
Tacto: The skill a seasoned swordsman learns that allows him to read an opponent's skill and intentions through the touch of their blades
Tentar: The initial touch of swords.
Desvio: A parry, taking the sword's blow on the strongest part of one's blade and changing its direction
Gitano: gypsy
La verdadera destreza : The true art and skill of the Circle
Atajo: To envelop and take control of an opponent's blade, usually leading to taking it away
Treta(s): technique(s)
Mixto: Combination of footwork and sword strokes
Movimiento: A movment or phrase of a swordfight
Passo: A step, footwork
Violento: An swift upward stroke
Natural: A downward stroke
Remisso: A stroke diagonally across the body
Legamento: An engagement, as in a swordfight
El boca Espanol: The Spanish kiss. A blow in a swordfight aimed directly at the face, usually intended to split the lips and intimidate the recipient.
Afirmarse: Describes when the sworsdmen stand at opposite ends of the diameter of an imaginary circle, each with their sword arm extended and the point of the weapon continually threatening their adversary.
Buenos dias, Maestro: "Good day, Master" (teacher)
Buenos dias, mi amigo: "Good day, my friend"
Cavazione: Disengagement, specifically from a swordfight.

Information, terms and general knowledge about Spanish fencing and the Mysterious Circle have been cribbed from the following websites:

The Magic Circle
Fighting Arts
The Spanish Circle
Classical Fencing
 

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