Rating: NC-17, semi-necro, non-con

Summary: Caspian has Methos the only way he can

Dead and Not Dead

Dark wisps of smoke slashed through with fiery ashes danced across the wasteland, obscuring from sight the torn wreckage of the temporary camp and the detritus of eviscerated corpses. Coming closer were the calls of the hyenas and jackals, the scavengers of the desert, come to pick clean the mortal remains of those who had once
sought to scrape some semblance of existence from the unforgiving dead ground.

Caspian sullenly picked his way through the remnants of the caravan's lead litter. The wooden poles were shattered as the cowards who carried it dropped the covered
palanquin in order to delay the end of their pathetic lives. Their ravaged bodies lay only a
few feet away from that of their leader. Caspian sneered at their surprised faces, frozen in
a rictus of anguish and awe. They had died, screaming like women. A hyena was snuffling at the nearest corpse, his yellow eyes trained on Caspian in the eventuality the
human tried to deny him his meal.

"Take it, brother. It's more than he deserved." As if he understood the strange language, the animal disregarded Caspian with a snort and began his feast. Other scavengers crawled out of the smoky shadows to gather maggot-like upon the corpses. Leaving his four-legged brothers to their scrounging, Caspian returned to his own.

The white curtains were shredded and soiled, completely worthless now but for the evidence of the fight its sole occupant had put up for his life. White billowing robes were
crimson from the man's blood, but his face was smooth and unmarked from his fight. Beneath his neatly trimmed beard, his young face appeared to be only sleeping, but the
ruin of his body below his neck revealed the truth behind this last illusion. A long curl of
blue-black hair had fallen over one eye, casting a dark shadow over his strong jaw. His
bejeweled fingers glinted with gore, near gluing his hand to the hilt of the fine-crafted sword clutched near his chest in a death-frozen final salute. This one did not run. This
one was a warrior.

A wild hound nosed around Caspian's foot, attracted by the strong scent of blood rising from the body. With a sound of disgust, he kicked the beast hard in the stomach, sending it yelping back to its pack. "This one is not for you," he glared down at the hound until it backed down and returned to squabble over the choicest bits of the dead leader's servants.

Crouching beside the corpse, Caspian sheathed his sword. With the back of his hand he wiped the curl from the man's eye, tucking it gently back behind his ear. The lock of hair was more soft and more gentle to the touch than the fabric that clung bloodied to his dead body. The skin was still warm from the hot afternoon sun, but it was a false warmth. Soon the flesh would be cool and hard, like any other corpse, but still he felt alive. And so beautiful. For a few moments Caspian sat smoothing his knuckles against the trim line of the corpse's beard, thinking. A warrior didn't deserve to be desecrated in his death. He deserved to be honored. Bending forward, he reverently placed a friendly kiss to the smooth, pale cheek.

Leaving the valuable jewels and the sword where they belonged, Caspian stood and stalked over to where Kronos was kicking more kindling into a burning tent. Nodding silently to his undying brother, Caspian thrust one of the broken litter poles into the fire. The dry wood fairly exploded into flames. He took his torch back to the dead man, swinging it threateningly at any beast that stepped into his path.

The yellow-orange glare of the torch broke through the thick smoke where the sun could not reach. Now Caspian could see just how pale the man was. Little wonder he kept to the shaded sanctuary of the palanquin; with skin like that he would have baked in the harsh desert sun. His face was unblemished, but this man was not some weak, pampered prince. His slashed clothing revealed tough muscle won through hard combat and a harder life. No, this one did not deserve to be carrion.

Caspian tossed the torch onto the remains of the litter. The edges of the white curtains evaporated like water under the intense heat of the torch, but the wood poles directed enough of the fire so that it wound its way around the man in destructive waves. His pale skin darkened and bubbled under the heat; his black hair shone amber, then shriveled. The air became choked with soot and the stench of scorched earth and flesh, rising like a wailing spirit from the corpse as it was consumed by the fire. The scavenger animals gave a wide berth to the pyre, taking the easier meat. Caspian watched the man burn until it was dark, and only the charred bones remained.

"Glorious raid, my brother," a silky crimson voice whispered in Caspian's ear.

Caspian smiled as the memory of the people's screams echoed in his mind. "Yes, Kronos," he agreed.

Kronos laughed, his hawk eyes made brilliant in the smoldering light of the pyre. "Silas and I are brining our bounty back to camp. We'll divide it later. Come Caspian, and bring Methos with you." Kronos tugged lightly on Caspian's arm, eager to leave the caravan's camp now that most everything that wasn't stolen was burnt.

"In a moment, Kronos." Caspian pulled his arm out of Kronos' grasp. "I want to watch the fire more." Kronos looked deep into the ashes of the palanquin, his eyes running negligently over the sooty bones. Then he reached out and gave a soft squeeze to Caspian's shoulder. Kronos didn't fully understand his wild brother, but he respected his wishes. With a knowing nod, he turned around and signaled to Silas that they were leaving. Caspian didn't watch as he mounted his horse and rode off into the desert. He
only watched the light play off the sloping curve of the man's thigh bone.

When even the tiniest ember had consumed itself, and nothing was left but the star-bleached black powder of ashes, Caspian left the man's side. Whatever he was looking for within the depth of the pyre had not been there, no more than it had been there in that dead face. Whatever fascination he had felt for the victim of his brothers' greed was broken by the night, allowing him to wander away from the site, but the memories of the man's face stuck with him still.

Caspian found his horse with Methos' nibbling the sparse grass at the edge of the camp. Methos was no where to be found. Remembering Kronos' request that he bring Methos with him, Caspian set off to find the man.

He had made an almost complete circuit of the ruined encampment before he found his brother. Methos was stretched out on his back upon the sand, a white line against the white sand. He almost blended in with the landscape had not the knife in his chest caught some passing ray of light and captured Caspian's eye. His right arm was outstretched, pointing at a small girl with Methos' sword stuck through her chest. She may have killed Methos, but at least he would be coming back.

Caspian first pulled Methos' blade out of her body, wiping the blood off the metal and onto her torn tunic. Half her face was eaten off, but the rest of her was hardly touched by the animals. Probably not as tasty as the rest of her face made her out to be. Caspian smiled a little at her distorted face, then slung Methos' sword over his shoulder and strolled over to Methos' body. Sinking to his knees, he placed the hilt into Methos' hand and curled his fingers around it. It looked somewhat more appropriate that he had died with his sword in his hand rather than a slave's knife in his chest.

The hood was thrown back from Methos' head, and his mask was pushed completely off his face. His twilight blue-painted face looked boyish in the repose of death. A ragged hunk of his brown hair partially eclipsed the white half of his face. The image of the dead man's visage flashed through Caspian's mind, momentarily replacing Methos'. But Methos wasn't like the man. Methos wasn't really dead. All Caspian had to do to bring him back to life was to pull the knife out of his chest and wait for the magic to heal him.

His hand almost shaking, Caspian reached out and brushed away the hair from Methos' face. He shivered when his fingers felt the unnatural warmth in his brother's skin. The sun had set hours ago, but still his skin burned with life. Alive, but not alive. Dead, but not. Unnatural, and yet the most natural thing Caspian had seen in his whole life.

Following the long line of Methos' jaw, Caspian drew his fingers down Methos' neck to the knife in his chest. He dipped his fingers in the small pool of blood that had gathered around the wound before the death had halted its movement. It was crusty on the surface, but when he pressed deeper he broke through to a thick sludge beneath. He could feel the hard blade where it pierced the skin. Checking Methos' face, as if he would react, Caspian pressed even deeper, pushing against the flesh around the invading blade. There was a resistance in the torn muscle, but with a harsh shove two of his fingers slipped inside the hole.

Caspian gasped at the sensation of being inside his brother. The dead flesh pressed against his fingers even as he wiggled them around to stretch the opening. He could feel the sharp shards of bone where the knife had shattered through his chest. Everything was smooth and rough, torn and whole, yielding and resisting. The only constants among the myriad of sensations running from his fingers to his brain were hot and wet. Everything
inside radiated the same deceptively living heat, slicked over with the still blood that sat
waiting for the life to return and make it course again.

It was incredible. The only word Caspian could think to describe it was 'erotic'. The intimate sensation of being inside, the thrusting of his fingers as though he wished he could crawl up inside and sleep there, it was all sending strange ideas to his mind, and more than enough to his penis. Inside his rough raiding pants Caspian could feel his penis
harden and lengthen, making his groin feel tight and hot. He never would have thought he
could get it up for a corpse, but this was no corpse. This was Methos.

Caspian groaned aloud at the thought, but his treacherous mind repeated it. Methos. Methos. This is Methos you have your hand in. This is Methos. His hand twitched, and he longed to be able to thrust his whole fist inside that tiny wound. Or even better, his aching erection.

"No."

With a shudder, Caspian pulled his fingers out of Methos' chest. They came with a slick sound; the wound sucked hard on them as though to convince them to come back inside. He was just about to wipe the blood off onto his shirt, but an impulse grabbed him and he sucked the digits inside his mouth. The blood bit his tongue with its metallic-sour taste, and his penis jumped in his pants when he swallowed the red liquid. Caspian bit down hard on his fingers with a groan, using the pain to distract himself from his desires. It wasn't right to take his brother without him being awake to enjoy it. He didn't know why it was wrong, but it was. Kronos had said...

But Kronos wasn't here. And Methos would never know...

"No."

Caspian bent down and pulled Methos into his arms. He had fully intended to simply toss his brother over his shoulder and get him back to the horses, but somehow the thought never made it to his mouth as he found himself nuzzling the side of Methos' face, alternating kisses with small nudges of his cheek and chin. The smooth feeling of Methos' shaved face, the total non-resistance of his slack body, made it impossible for him to stop.

Every caress brought a new level of perception, of awareness of his brother's body. How his perpetually smooth face was actually rough with a slight stubble. How the line of his jaw matched perfectly the high angled line of his cheek. How his nose was just the tiniest
bit crooked. How his long neck was supple as a horse's, but as gracefully carved as a
bird's. How the divot in his lip was the smoothest area of his whole body, and the dip of
his throat the softest. How pliant his muscles, how delightfully heavy his body. How
perfect he was.

Caspian could almost imagine the pulse that would be wild beneath his lips had his brother been aware of what was happening. His own mind was reeling from the overwhelming desire he felt for Methos. Falling back onto the yielding bed of sand, Caspian pulled Methos' body on top of his, groaning as a thigh fell heavily just where he
needed it. He rubbed up against the hard muscle there, delighting in the give of the flaccid limb. It was like a soft brush of air against his erection, but substantial enough to give him enough pleasure to want more. He groaned aloud, tossing his head back as he pressed Methos' unresponding lips to his throat. The hard pommel of the knife pressed into his chest, scratching harder than a fingernail across a nipple. He almost shouted as he thrust again, nearly upsetting Methos' body.

Caspian couldn't hold out much longer. His body was gripped with a need to reach completion and soon before his better judgment prevented him from doing so. Pressing Methos harder against him, Caspian pushed his body down his chest. The hilt dug into his skin, cutting a long line of rasping pain over his skin without even breaking the surface. He almost released his pleasure when the sharp metal poked against his equally hard erection. Biting his lip, he concentrated on keeping control long enough to feel his penis inside Methos' body.

Releasing one hand from it's death-grip hold on Methos, Caspian quickly opened his belt and pants, pushing them far enough down to release his erection. He allowed himself a single caressing squeeze before he released his cock and felt around the dagger, searching for the wound. It had opened somewhat with his fingering and with the rough treatment of the knife, but it still only allowed three of his fingers inside. He fiddle a little with the idea of taking out the blade, but he found he preferred it inside. Steeling his control with a hissed breath between clenched teeth, he guided his cock into the wound, following the path of the knife into his chest.

The cool hard glance of sharp, deadly blade against his cock did not deter his enjoyment of the sensation. All that his fingers had felt was multiplied against the turgid flesh as he thrust deeper than his fingers had reached. Methos' dead weight countered his tentative thrusts until he found a rhythm. The bone shards scraped against his flesh, making him snarl with pain, but the sweet, wet, sucking give of it all turned the small pain into mind-altering pleasure. He didn't last long, and crushing Methos' body to his hips, he thrust deep, deeper, until his ripped through more muscle and impaled himself completely in the death wound. Tender flesh tore around his spurting cock as it split apart under the assault. He shouted the wild rush of his completion to the night sky, and a chorus of night hunters and jackals picked up the call with a cacophony of howls and yips.

When he came down from whatever mountain he had landed upon, Caspian was uniquely aware of the glove-like pressure around his penis. As he slowly rolled Methos over and off of him, his softening erection came painfully slow out of the wound, bringing the knife with it. It seemed that Methos almost didn't want him to go as the limp arms caught on Caspian's shoulders and his chest convulsed around the tip of Caspian's blood-coated cock. The gripping of healing muscle brought an after-wave of pleasure surging up Caspian's back. With a sad moan, he pulled completely out of the wet heat and dropped onto his back. The knife fell with a muffled thump to the sand.

Caspian didn't have time to bask in the satiated glow; he shook the lethargy from his limbs and did his best to cover himself up and recover from his savage orgasm. By the time Methos was coughing and sitting up, he thought he had himself pretty well returned to normal. The grin, though, he couldn't seem to be able to get rid of. The desire to kiss Methos' cheek as the man stood up also didn't want to go away.

"How long have I been out?" Methos asked, his eyes raking over the smoldering remains of the camp.

Caspian restrained the insane giggle that wanted to erupt from his throat. Long enough for me to fuck you. "Long enough," he said aloud.

Methos' roving eyes finally returned to Caspian. They narrowed slightly as his scrutiny increased. Caspian bit the tip of his tongue, somewhat assured by the double taste of his blood and the after taste of Methos' that clung to his mouth. He could tell that his eagle eyes missed nothing, that Methos knew something had happened but not what.

"Where's Kronos and Silas?" he asked, his eyes still trying to read Caspian's unreadable face.

"Camp." Caspian kept his words short, afraid that his voice would give up too much.

Methos took one long stride, coming up very close to Caspian. His nose twitched as he breathed in deeply. Caspian stood still, his head tilted back a bit, as he let Methos breathe his fill. This close, the desert heat of the man made his skin burn. Methos had been warm before, but now he was on fire. Against his will, Caspian felt his body responding, subtly leaning forward to be closer to Methos even as he feared that Methos would find out everything that had happened.

Apparently satisfied, Methos stepped back out of his space, and again Caspian was able to breath. "You look well and truly fucked, my brother," Methos said accusingly.

Oh shit. "I--"

Methos turned away and gestured to the fallen girl. "You are a sick bastard; she's hardly even out of the cradle." He shook his head in mock disbelief and gave Caspian a sly half smile and wink. "Her face is half-gone Caspian."

It took a moment for Caspian to register what Methos had implied. The slave girl? Ewww...she was dead. That was disgusting. He was about to deny it, but the knowing grin on Methos' face made him rethink. At least if Methos thought what he thought, then he wouldn't think Caspian had really done what he had done. "It wasn't her face I was interested in." He tried to give a grin, but it felt crooked and alien on his face.

Methos laughed softly and patted Caspian on the arm. He picked up his sword and mask and walked towards where the horses were eating. Caspian breathed a quick sigh of relief that he had gotten away with it. He started to walk towards Methos, but he turned around at the last second and picked up the knife. Stashing it away at the back of his belt, he walked up to join Methos with that silly grin back on his face.

As the two horsemen rode off back to camp, a lone jackal, thin and scraggly with patches of fur gone from his lean hide, walked through the smoking tents, a long, scorched bone in his mouth.