Inuit Love	 M/M Romance, rated R
 

 The Chicago cop is satisfied with things as they are.
 The Mountie wants to take their relationship to the next level.
 But will Vecchio consent to journey with Fraser from the daylight world
to the Otherworld? Is Ray ready, Ben wonders, for a taste of 
 

   Inuit Love 

   by  
 Rupert Rouge
 


__________________________________________________________________________
____ 

 "Ray, I've been thinking." 

 "Oh, no, not again, Benny." 

 It was late Wednesday afternoon at the 27th Precinct Station. RCMP
Constable Benton Fraser sat beside Detective Ray Vecchio's desk, watching
as his friend arranged his paperwork in a neat stack, preparing to leave
for the day. 

 "Don't be silly, Ray. Since we both have a free weekend coming up, why
don't we do something a little different on Friday night?" 

 "Different? Different how?" Ray sounded wary. 

 "Well..." Fraser leaned forward. "Why don't we try trance-journeying?
Inuit shamans use special techniques to get in touch with their sacred
powers. We could borrow those same techniques to contact our spirit guides
and find out how to live a better life. And it's very relaxing: it
involves a lot of deep breathing and meditation, so that people come out
of it feeling refreshed." 

 "Fraser," Ray said, slamming a pile of manila folders into his outbasket,
"I am NOT going to get Inuit with you!" 

 "Oh, Ray, won't you just try it? Just once? To please me?" 

 Green eyes met blue eyes across the desk: blue won. 

 Ray heaved an enormous sigh. "All right, Benny. You know I can't say no'
to you when you look at me like that. God, what am I letting myself in
for? Trance journeys!" 

 "You won't regret it, Ray. I promise." Fraser smiled. He was pleased to
have persuaded Ray to undertake something that would benefit him, even
though Ray wasn't yet able to appreciate it. As far as Ben was concerned,
Friday night couldn't come soon enough. 

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

 On Friday evening Ben and Ray ate dinner at a spaghetti restaurant before
returning to Ben's apartment. "I'm going to turn the heat up, Ray," Ben
said. 

 "Oh, my God! When you do that, I know something weird's gonna happen.
What is it this time, Benny?" 

 "No reason to be afraid, Ray." Ben made sure the door was locked, then
turned around to face his lover. "We're going to do our trance-journey
skyclad, so of course we'll want extra heat." 

 "Skyclad? What's that?" 

 Ben pulled Ray to him, planted a light kiss on his jawline, then began
undoing the buttons on his silk shirt. "It means wearing nothing but air.
Well--I suppose you could put on a smile, if you wanted to." 

 Ray's mouth curved in an unwilling grin. "Never a dull moment with you,
Fraser. All right." 

 A few minutes later both men were skyclad, sitting on Fraser's bed, while
Dief snored in a corner. "All right, now I'll explain how we're going to
do this," Ben said. "We're going to use the drum beat to take us there and
bring us back." He indicated the CD player at one side of the bed. 

 "Hey, Benny, isn't that Turnbull's CD player? The one you had over here
at New Year's, when we did the aromatherapy thing?" 

 "Yes." A small frown furrowed Ben's forehead. "Turnbull has never asked
me to give it back. He seems fascinated by the Consulate video camera, for
some reason, and keeps checking it out week after week. I suppose that's
why he hasn't missed his CD player." 

 "Okay, Benny. Now how do we get to this place you were talking about at
dinner? The Otherworld?" 

 "We're all set. We've locked the door, and there's no telephone here to
interrupt us in the middle of our journey. Now I'll turn out the light."
Ben reached over to the night stand and snapped off the lamp. "We're going
to lie back on pillows, side by side, and breathe very deeply while we
listen to the drum sound. After about five minutes we should begin to feel
ourselves journeying." 

 "Okay. Then what?" 

 "Well, Ray, the easiest way for you to get to the Otherworld is to
imagine that you're walking through a long tunnel, looking for an opening,
like a cave. Then you go through it." 

 "Are you going to go the same way?" 

 "No, I'll go through the mist-gates--that means the space between the
worlds--because I've done this before. Now, after you go through the
opening, one of several things could happen. You might meet your spirit
guide: they're usually invisible, but not always. Or you might meet your
power animal. Or you might meet yourself in a past life. Time and space
have no meaning in the Otherworld: you can have a long conversation or do
various things that might seem to take years, but you'll still be in real
time, in your physical body. Oh, and another thing--you might do
shape-shifting." 

 Ray groaned. "My brain is reeling, Benny! What is shape-shifting?" 

 "Inuit shamans believe the body is only a robe. You might feel yourself
becoming first one thing, then another." 

 "Benny, I gotta tell ya, this all sounds scary. Why're we doing this?" 

 "Ray, Ray, Ray." Ben reached out to grasp Ray's hand and squeeze it
gently. "In trance, we come into contact with our Deep Selves, the very
essence of our being. It'll bring us closer together." 

 "Okay, Benny. Whatever you say." 

 "I'm going to start the drum sounds now. And by the way, we'll be
describing this to each other as we journey. Talking out loud through the
trance helps to keep us grounded. And we'll remember it more afterwards." 

 "Sounds good to me. You go first, though." 

 "All right. Now, breathe..." 

 "Hey, Benny--how are we going to get back from this Otherworld?" 

 "Don't worry. The end of the CD track has a ' callback.' It's a different
rhythm in the drum beat, that'll bring us back to this world. You can't
miss it." 

 For the next few minutes while the combination of deep breathing and
steady drum beats induced an altered state of consciousness, neither man
spoke. Then Benny began. "Everything's a jumble, nothing but a
kaleidoscope of shifting shapes and patterns. I seem to be floating off
this bed, though, into blackness. Now I can see circles of light floating
around...they're changing into zig-zag patterns...oh, the colors are
beautiful...they're getting brighter and brighter. Now the zig-zag shapes
are changing into horizontal and vertical bands...they're starting to
become a grid...oh, now I'm through the mist-gates and standing in a
clearing." 

 * * * * * * * * * * * * * 

 Cautiously, he stepped forward on the soft earth, intending to walk to an
inviting-looking thicket of trees. As he approached, a large brown bear
stepped out of the shadows and winked at him. Instantly, Ben became the
bear. He knew he was still Ben, but now he saw the world through the
bear's eyes, walked with the bear's slow, cumbersome tread. 

 It was pleasant to be in the woods. A bush with red berries enticed him:
he dropped to all fours, conscious of his enormous weight and powerful
muscles, and ate a few. They tasted sweet and juicy. Straightening again,
he decided to make for the river to catch a fish: the berries had only
been an appetizer. 

 The river ran with silvery, writhing fish: wading into it, he caught one
and ate it on the spot. It tasted wonderful. The sun was warm on his back,
the woods behind him alive with small sounds. The river rushed past him
while he stood in the shallows, enjoying the coolness. At last he
clambered up the riverbank, back to solid ground. He sensed that something
was about to happen. 

 Behind him, he heard noisy splashing. Turning, he saw an otter rising up
from the river, looking at him questioningly. The otter dived under the
surface with another large splash, then bobbed up again. Ben waited. If
the otter came ashore he would have someone to talk to. 

 The otter was indeed coming ashore. It swam closer to the riverbank and
then began to crawl up the slope. As it left the water, the otter turned
into a naked, wet, very appealing man. 

 He was beautiful. Sunlight played on the water rolling from his lean,
elegant body. The dark hairs on his arms and legs all pointed downward,
flattened against his olive skin by water: a line of dark hair traced its
way down his chest from collarbone to navel. His eyes were as green as the
drooping branches of the willow trees that grew along the water's edge,
and when he curved his full lips in a smile, he looked like Herne himself.
He approached, striding easily on long, slim legs. 

 "Ray," Ben breathed. "Oh, Ray, I want to hold you." But he was a bear,
and to hug the beautiful man as tightly as he wanted to would damage him
considerably. Ben instantly shape-shifted back into a man; he reached for
Ray, drawing him into his arms, licking the beads of water off his face,
brushing droplets off Ray's hard-muscled ass with his free hand. He held
Ray's water-cooled body against his own large frame, hoping to warm him. 

 Ray returned his kisses, wrapping his arms around Benny. In another
moment they sank to the softness of the grass beneath their feet, and Ben
rolled on top of Ray, still seeking, kissing, and stroking. Gradually, his
mouth moved down Ray's body, down the line of dark hair that reached to
Ray's groin. He licked Ray's balls, feeling them respond to his tongue,
and felt his own cock beginning to stir with excitement. But in the next
minute they shape-shifted back into their power animal forms again. 

 The spirit guide was waiting for them deep inside the woods, in the
sacred circle. Ben could not see the guide but the presence was like a
warm, soft blanket dropping gently over him and Ray, hugging them both.
The voice that spoke was no human voice; he could hear it inside his mind.


 "Ben...what is your deepest fear?" 

 In his bear shape, Ben could not speak. He could only direct thoughts to
his spirit guide. "My deepest fear is that I'll lose Ray, because I don't
know how to tell him how much I love him. I don't know how to tell him
that when he smiles, he lights up my whole world. I don't know how to tell
him that I love everything about him, even his whining, because it's part
of who he is--and it's all I can do not to laugh when he starts
complaining. I don't know how to tell Ray that he means everything to me,
and that without him my life would be as cold, as hard, as barren as a
glacier. I want to say all this, but I don't know how. I was brought up
never to talk about feelings. I always had to be a ' little man,' and keep
everything inside." 

 "And you, Ray. What is your deepest fear?" 

 The otter, rather surprisingly, could talk. He had a fluent, almost
musical way of expressing himself, quite fitting for one so sleek and
graceful. "My deepest fear is that someone or something will take Benny
away from me. I don't feel worthy of him. It's incredible that someone
like him should love someone like me. And so I'm afraid...I'm always
expecting the worst, expecting to wake up and one morning and find out
that he no longer loves me." 

 The counsel came like a breath of warm wind blowing over a field of ripe
wheat. "The answers you seek are within your reach...go forth and find
them." 

 Gently, like a blanket being drawn away, the spirit presence left them.
Bear and otter turned to go back through the woods. Then suddenly they
were both otters: Ray slid into the water first, playfully splashing
Benny, who followed and tried to fling himself on Ray's sleek, furred
back. Over and over they tumbled, until they sank beneath the sun-dappled
surface into blackness. 

 * * * * * * * * * * 

 Ray saw the opening in the tunnel and went through it, but instead of
finding himself on solid ground, he felt himself falling through the dark
tunnel of time. Nineteen centuries flashed backward before his wondering
eyes and then he felt himself coming to rest, all at once. He also felt
sick and breathless, like someone in an elevator that had descended too
fast. There was a lessening of the darkness before his eyes, a patch of
gray just beyond him: cautiously, he stepped forward. 

 And then he was out of doors. Large trees spread their branches near a
river--one day to be known as the North Tyne--the cold gray waters of
which rushed noisily over black rocks; turning, he realized that he was
hovering over the grassy river bank, and knew that he was still spirit
rather than matter. Effortlessly he floated uphill past the gray stone
walls of the fort, past the Commandant's house, into the guardroom of the
principia--headquarters building--where three legionaries sat on a wooden
bench as their superior officer paced the stone-flagged floor. The young
officer, who wore the narrow purple band of a military tribune on his
tunic, paused to look out the window, then turned: and Ray knew, without
knowing how he knew, that the year was A.D. 138, that this particular fort
along Hadrian's Wall was known as Cilurnum, in what would one day be
called Northumberland, and that the tribune he was looking at was himself.


 Remus Marcellus Varro was twenty-three, serving the second of his
required three years in the Army before he could go back to Rome to take
up a cushy government job and enjoy the pleasures of civilization once
more. He was slim and attractive, unusually tall for a Roman, with the
hooked nose the Romans prized so highly. Ray's spirit passed into the
tribune's earthly body so that Ray looked at the world from Remus
Marcellus Varro's eyes. 

 The tribune continued his pacing, thankful that the hypocausts--the pipes
beneath the floor that carried hot air from the wood-burning furnace
underneath--warmed the flagstones so that the chill of the floor did not
strike through his sandals. "By the Gods, was there ever such a dismal
country as Britannia!" He spoke softly, as if to himself: it wouldn't do
to appear before his men as a whiner. That was unbefitting one of his
rank. "Rain, rain, rain, six days out of seven! Gray skies, lousy food, no
parades, nothing but endless forests and barbarians, nothing to do on
Saturday night but go to the gym..." 

 "Speaking of barbarians, my lord...." Cassius, Remus' batman, gestured in
the direction of the door. "A party of soldiers captured a barbarian scout
an hour ago. They're bringing him in now." 

 Remus adjusted his cloak so that it fell in the proper, imperial fold
from his shoulder, checked to see that his cuirass and greaves were
properly polished, and sat down at the table in the middle of the room.
"Bring him in, then." 

 The door burst open, and four legionaries dragged the barbarian into the
room. The captive was resisting arrest, obviously: he struggled in the
grip of the two soldiers hanging grimly on to each arm. Remus wondered why
Gaius, the centurion, didn't simply use his whip, until he saw the silver
bands on the captive's upper arms, the silver brooch that fastened his
cloak to his shirt, and the belt of interlocking silver links that he
wore, from which hung an empty scabbard. Clearly, the soldiers had
captured a barbarian of some rank. 

 The knot of men stopped in the middle of the room so that Remus could
contemplate the captive. The barbarian's blue eyes met his defiantly;
although he was surrounded by enemy soldiers he stood straight, showing no
fear. He was dressed as outlandishly as any other barbarian, of course, in
a shirt of checkered wool and the skin-tight trousers called bracae. His
chestnut hair sprang out in waves from the crown of his head down past his
shoulders, flowing into his full beard and moustache. 

 "What tribe do you suppose he is?" Remus asked Gaius. 

 "We reckon he's one of the Brigantes, sir, come to look over our fort
here and report to his Chief." 

 "Make way!" cried a voice outside the door, followed by the flourish of a
cornet. "Make way for the Commandant!" 

 The Commandant entered, followed by his retinue. He glanced at the
barbarian with interest, then turned to address Remus. 

 "Good afternoon, Tribune Varro. Truly, the Gods have blessed us today: we
just found out from the people in the marketplace who the man is. He's the
son of the local Chieftain. The Chief himself is away, raiding on the
coast. He doesn't know yet that his son's been captured." 

 "What are we going to do with him, sir?" 

 "Do? We're going to civilize him, Tribune. By the time his father returns
and tries to negotiate with us to get him back, we should be in an
excellent position to strike a bargain. That's what I came to see you
about: we can use this situation to Rome's advantage." 

 Remus raised his eyebrows. "How, sir?" 

 "Ah, that's where I'm going to rely on your indisputable skills as an
intelligence officer. I want you to learn his language and teach him ours.
Keep him with you day and night." 

 Remus eyed the barbarian--his shaggy hair, his filthy clothes, his bare
feet--with distaste. "Day...and night, sir?" 

 "Certainly, Tribune Varro. You're no stranger to such pleasures. And they
do say that a man prays and makes true love in his own tongue. I'm sure
you'll be speaking each other's language in no time." 

 Inwardly, Remus groaned. He had to make the guy fall in love with him, on
top of everything else? Wings of Mithras, frontier duty was the pits! Why,
oh why, was this his life? Why hadn't he simply gone into the Senate like
his older brother, instead of wasting his life in a miserable backwater
like Cilurnum, being forced to fraternize with filthy barbs? 

 However, he showed nothing of his feelings to the Commandant. Dutifully,
he fell on one knee, striking his fist against his heart, in the approved
salute of the Army of Imperial Rome. Once the door closed behind the
Commandant, however, he began to rant. 

 He eyed the barbarian up and down once more, then beckoned to Cassius.
"Look, I can't have the fellow in my presence in this condition. Take him
away. Scrub him from head to foot. Give him a regulation haircut, and for
the love of Mithras, shave that vegetation off his face! Then find him
some decent clothes and give him a good meal. I know--remember that chest
of tribute that arrived a couple of weeks ago from that friendly tribe
near Eboracum? There were some clothes in that, some of them might fit
him. Find him some shoes, too. And treat him with respect, Cassius--he's
an important political hostage, the son of a chieftain. Bring him to see
me tomorrow morning." 

 The next day Remus was in the guardroom early. He had gone around looking
for several of the immunes--workers in the fort who were exempted from
military duty because of their specialized skills--and brought them to the
guardroom to assist in the barbarian's education. He was standing in the
middle of the room, pondering how best to begin, when Cassius and two
other soldiers brought the barbarian in. 

 Remus' eyes widened: his mouth dropped open. "Is this the same guy who
was here yesterday?" 

 "Cleans up nicely, don't he, sir?" Cassius beamed. Clearly, he was proud
of his work. 

 As he had reason to be. Remus continued to stare at the barbarian, unable
to believe his eyes. The barbarian was, of course, tall: all the Celts
were. Remus in fact owed his own height and his green eyes to a Gaulish
grandmother that his aristocratic family back in Rome preferred not to
discuss. But was this scrubbed and shining young god the shaggy-maned
barbarian of yesterday? The young man's hair, newly shorn, looked freshly
washed. His clean-shaven face showed his skin in all its fairness, and now
that the beard was gone, Remus could appreciate the straight nose, the
beautifully sculpted lips. There was something else, too: a gleam of humor
in the clear blue eyes that returned his stare, a hint of dimples curling
at the corners of the mouth. 

 "Yes." Remus' voice sounded faint to his own ears. He couldn't get over
the change in the captive's appearance. The young man was
broad-shouldered, well-built: the blue wool of the new tunic he wore
matched his eyes. "Yes, he's quite...ah...quite..." He wanted to say,
"quite comely," but found himself unable to speak. He also felt his cock
stirring, hardening in response to the young man's unexpected good looks,
and was deeply thankful that the skirt of pteriges--broad protective
strips of leather--he wore over his tunic would hide this interesting
fact. This was going to be awkward: he wasn't one to force himself on an
unwilling lover. But he couldn't ask the barbarian if he would be willing
to share his bed, because he couldn't speak the man's language, and of
course, the barbarian couldn't speak his. 

 "Well, I suppose we'd better begin." Remus snapped his fingers at one of
the immunes, a young man with a face like that of an amiable horse, who
stepped forward with wax tablet and stylus in hand: how agreeable it was
to have a scribe at his command. "Write this down." 

 Remus walked toward the barbarian until he was three feet away from him.
He pointed to himself and said, enunciating carefully: "Remus Marcellus
Varro. That's me. Now you say it: Remus Marcellus Varro." 

 The barbarian, who appeared quite intelligent, tried to twist his tongue
around what--to him--must have been strange syllables. "Re...Re..." 

 Remus sighed. "Very well, if that's the best you can do. ' Ray' it is,
then. Now, you." He pointed to the captive. "What's--your--name?" 

 The young man's mouth opened. "Beinne Fothudain." 

 Now it was Remus' turn to twist his tongue. "Gods, what a language!
Byay-nee..I can't say it. Ben-nie. You'll have to be ' Benny' until I can
learn to wrap my tongue around those outlandish syllables." And, he
thought, your language isn't the only thing I want to wrap my tongue
around. But he was careful not to let these thoughts show on his face. 

 During the first week of Beinne's involuntary stay at Cilurnum, Remus was
too busy working on plans for training maneuvers for the 500 members of
the ala--the cavalry unit stationed at Cilurnum--to spend much time with
him. He wasn't interested in elementary education, anyway: let Cassius,
his batman, along with Mucianus the scribe and the other immunes, teach
Beinne such basics of Roman civilization as the alphabet and the necessity
for maintaining high standards of personal hygiene. 

 The following week, however, having completed the training plans, Remus
decided to teach Beinne how to handle basic Roman weapons. The practice
with wicker shield and wooden sword took place within the fort itself, but
for throwing the pilum--the heavy javelin used by Roman legionaries--he
and Beinne rode out into the moor. 

 Beinne was strong and apparently eager to learn, but he seemed to have
trouble holding the pilum in the proper way. After his third try, Remus
grew exasperated. 

 "Not like that, Beinne, you fool--like this!" 

 He came up behind Beinne and positioned the man's hands at the proper
point along the javelin: was it his imagination, or was Beinne leaning
back against him, as if he wanted body contact with his mentor? No, that
couldn't be it. Beinne turned his head and looked into Remus' eyes, but
Remus was unable to read whatever message Beinne was trying to send. For
all he, Remus, knew, Beinne found the whole idea of sex with another man
abhorrent. 

 Or did he? That day, and in the days that followed, Remus noticed that
Beinne appeared to be studying him whenever he thought Remus wasn't
looking. Sometimes he thought the man was even flirting with him, as when
the barbarian walked in on him one morning when he was dressing. He was
standing nude in the middle of his room, ready to put on his
subligaculum--the underpants scorned by most Roman soldiers as unmanly but
which were necessary in Britannia's northern climate--when Beinne walked
in, wheeled around in a pleasingly military about-face, and walked out.
But not before he'd dropped his eyes and then raised them again, to meet
Remus' cool stare. Did that little lift of Beinne's eyebrows mean that he
was impressed? 

 Remus couldn't explain even to himself why he was so reluctant to ask
Beinne to sleep with him. It wasn't as if he even had to ask, really: he
could simply order Beinne to be brought to his room and there would be
nothing the barbarian could do about it. But he didn't want an unwilling
lover. He wanted someone who would match his own passion. More than a few
had been flattered by the amatory attentions of Tribune Remus Marcellus
Varro--young, attractive, and rich--from one of the most powerful and
aristocratic families in Rome. Several of the shopkeepers in the village
that had sprung up outside the fort had complaisant daughters who were
pleased to share Remus' bed, as was young Flavius Antoninus Celer, who
fancied himself a poet and was forever composing crappy little verses. But
with the perversity of human nature, Remus discovered that he didn't want
any of his previous bedmates; he wanted only the fair-skinned barbarian
who seemed always to have laughter hovering in his blue eyes. 

 By the end of Beinne's second week at Cilurnum, the long summer daylight
was making Remus even more restless than he'd been before the barbarian
arrived. "Look at this," he said to Beinne, who sat on a bench whittling a
stick of wood while Remus paced the room. "Outside it's raining again. In
Rome, it would be warm, even hot, at this time of year. The sun would be
shining in a blue sky. We'd spend the afternoon at sport, then go to the
baths, have a nice time there, get a massage, and then get dressed and go
to a banquet. At the banquet we'd have music, lots of pleasant company,
wine, witty conversation, jugglers, dancing girls--everything a person
could possibly want. And what are we doing instead? We're in bloody
Britannia, staring out the window at the forest! Of course, you don't even
know what I'm talking about, do you, my beautiful Beinne? What would you
know of civilized life?" 

 Beinne looked at Remus, and his mouth twitched. "We go bath house. Get
massage. Now." 

 Was Beinne laughing at him again? Remus bent a severe look on his pet
barbarian, but he couldn't be sure. "All right. Get your cloak and come
on. And bring your sandals--the floor of the hot room will blister your
feet if you don't wear them." 

 Remus was looking forward to bathing with Beinne. For whatever reason,
since Beinne's arrival, he'd had no opportunity to go to the baths with
him. But after they stowed their clothes in the lockers--niches cut into
the stone walls of the changing room--Beinne said, "Latrine." 

 "Oh, all right, go on then," Remus said. "I'll start without you." 

 The bath house was crowded that afternoon, so all through the bathing
process Remus was ahead of Beinne. In the tepidarium--the warm room--Remus
began to relax. This was very pleasant. He could feel the tension of the
past week beginning to fade. But then tension of another kind immediately
began making itself felt: thinking of Beinne was giving him a hard-on. He
hoped no one was paying attention. In the caldarium--the hot room--the
attendants had poured so much water onto the floor that he couldn't make
out anyone's face through the steam, so he couldn't tell whether Beinne
was there or not. The intense warmth of the room produced the desired
perspiration: Remus rubbed oil over himself, then grabbed a strigil to
scrape the oil, sweat, and dirt off his skin. Too bad he and Beinne had
got separated--he certainly would have enjoyed rubbing oil over Beinne and
scraping it off, tenderly, carefully. And of course, Beinne could have
done the same for him.... In the frigidarium, the cool room, Remus'
erection subsided. He knew that the last part of the ritual, a plunge into
the cold water pool to rinse his skin, would put paid to all horny
thoughts, at least temporarily. 

 Feeling luxuriously clean and fresh, Remus walked up the steps out of the
cold pool and reached for the towel an attendant held out to him. He dried
himself, looking around for Beinne: where on earth had the man got to?
Suddenly, he caught a flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye and
saw that Beinne too was leaving the pool, walking up the stone steps out
of the water. He stared: Beinne was truly beautiful. His chest was
hairless, as were his arms and legs; the only hair he had besides that on
his head and under his arms was the downy nest of chestnut curls between
his thighs. Remus drew in his breath sharply and turned away to walk
toward one of the massage rooms that opened off the changing room. He
didn't know whether Beinne would be outraged or willing, flattered or
insulted, if he were to invite him to share his couch. 

 He felt a tap on his shoulder: turning, he saw Beinne looking at him with
a most determined expression. The next thing he knew his face was being
held between large, gentle hands, and warm, soft lips were pressing
against his. Breathless, he opened his eyes to see the expression of
yearning on Beinne's face. Remus glanced around: no one was paying
attention. He slid his hand downward to gently cup Beinne's balls, and
felt them contract under his touch. Lightly, he caressed Beinne's shaft,
now standing up hard and rosy-red, and watched Beinne gasp, shut his eyes,
open them again half-way. Beinne ran his pink tongue over his lips, which
remained parted, as if waiting to answer the question Remus was now
prepared to ask. 

 "I want you," Remus whispered. "Do you want me?" 

 Beinne seemed to understand that, all right. He nodded, and began to
smile. Remus pulled him into the massage room and then, keeping one arm
around Beinne's smooth, warm back, stuck his head out the door and spoke
to the masseur who was sitting with his back against the wall, waiting for
customers. "Bring wine and leave it outside the door. And see to it that
we're not disturbed." 

 He released the leather curtain so that it fell across the doorway, and
slipped both arms around Beinne. How long had he waited to hold this sweet
barbarian in his arms, ached to feel that perfectly proportioned body
welcoming his? "And now, Beinne, I'm going to show you what we mean when
we talk about ' the might of Rome.'" 

 Somehow they made it to the massage table, a couch on a platform high
enough to enable the masseur to do his work. Remus fell on top of Beinne,
who wiggled down the couch until Remus could look directly into his face.
And the trust, the love in those blue eyes melted Remus' heart. "Oh,
Beinne, Beinne..." 

 Every one of Remus' senses screamed with pleasure: the warmth of Beinne's
skin, the faint scent of the high-grade olive oil that he'd used earlier;
the softness of Beinne's mouth, his thrilling, eager tongue, his thick,
silky hair. Remus nuzzled the hair, kissed Beinne's face from the hairline
down to his mouth, explored Beinne's mouth with his tongue, and caressed
the magnificent planes of Beinne's body with his hands. He could feel his
hard cock rubbing against Beinne's own hardness, sending waves of
excitement pounding through him. Beinne, meanwhile, moaned and sighed
deliciously in Remus' ear while he explored Remus' body with his hands,
even slipping his fingers between the cheeks of Remus' ass, rubbing them
against Remus' hole. 

 It crossed Remus' mind that Beinne also was no stranger to these
pleasures; but Beinne was stimulating him too much, he didn't want to come
just yet: he had other plans. He stretched out a hand to grasp a flask of
massage oil on a shelf by the couch, then whispered, "Beinne, turn over."
Beinne rolled over onto his stomach, and Remus, contemplating the cushiony
ovals of Beinne's beautiful ass and the small opening between them, as
pink and tightly closed as a rosebud, almost came then and there. He
managed to control himself, however; pouring oil into his left hand, he
rubbed it over his aching cock. He poured more oil into his right hand,
and then slowly began working oil into Beinne's hole, sliding in first one
finger, then another until Beinne began thrusting back against his
fingers, moaning until Remus' cock began throbbing in rhythm with the
sound. Beinne was ready and so was he. 

 "Turn over again," Remus whispered, and obediently Beinne rolled onto his
back. Kneeling between Beinne's thighs, Remus positioned his cock against
Beinne's hole and entered, sliding in an inch at a time. When he was
finally in up to the hilt, he began to thrust in a hard, imperious rhythm.
Beinne, whose moans were music to Remus' ears, met every thrust with one
of his own until finally his cock spurted its load against Remus' chest.
Remus cried out as he felt his own climax explode inside Beinne. Beinne's
sphincter muscles locked around him, squeezing Remus' cock in spasm after
spasm, in an orgasm so powerful that it left both of them shuddering,
almost sobbing in delight. 

 He collapsed onto Beinne's chest, feeling Beinne's hot semen rapidly
cooling against his skin, glueing the two of them into one panting entity.
Something made Remus raise his head, open his eyes and stare straight
ahead: then, for a second, Remus Marcellus Varro looked through a time
tunnel of nineteen centuries into the eyes of his distant descendant, Ray
Vecchio, and mentally uttered four words: "Teach him to speak." And then
the connection vanished, a mere momentary ripple in the cosmic fabric. 

 "Re...Re..." 

 "Yes, Beinne?" 

 "Tha gaol agam ort, Re." 

 "What does that mean, my Beinne?" 

 "It means ' I love you.'" And then Beinne pulled Remus' head down for
another kiss, tongue meeting tongue, arms and legs entwining. 

 "T'amo, tesoro mio, Benny, caro mio." Ray crooned the words into Benny's
ear. "I love you, my treasure, Benny, my darling." 

 "Ray, we're back. Ray, Ray..." 

 "Sei delicioso, ti voglio tutto." Ray continued to kiss his way from
Benny's ear to his jawline. . "You're delicious, I want all of you." 

 Benny planted a kiss on Ray's mouth. "You know what's even better than
Inuit love? Having a passionate Italian for a lover!" 

 "Want me to teach you Italian, Benny, amore mio?" 

 "I want you to teach me everything." 

 "Then let's start right now." 

 * * * * * * * * * * 

 "It's funny, what you saw in your trance-journey." Ben, in jeans and
undershirt, spoke over his shoulder to Ray, who came up behind him with
another dish to wash. "That thing about teaching me to speak your
language, I mean." 

 Ray slipped his arms around Benny's waist and spoke against his ear. "The
language of love! I know all about that. You know, Benny, that was a good
experience. I really enjoyed meeting myself in a past life." 

 "Do you think it helped you?" Ben rinsed the dish under the hot water
faucet and stacked it neatly in the dish drainer. 

 "Yeah, it did. It's interesting to think that in another life I was rich
and powerful, someone who only had to snap my fingers to make other people
jump. And I'm glad to know that when I had power, in that other life, I
didn't abuse it." 

 "And in my trance-journey you were an otter and I was a bear." 

 "Benny, if you tell me that I was no better than I otter be, I'll whack
you with this skillet!" 

 "I couldn't bear to tease you like that, Ray." 

 Ben ducked as Ray pretended to aim a blow at him, but after a minute or
two the puns were forgotten, as were the dishes: after all, it was
Saturday morning, and there was time for everything... 

   The End
__________________________________________________________________________
__ 

 *Copyright February 1997 by Rupert Rouge on all original story content.
Not meant to infringe on copyrights held by Alliance Communications, or
any other copyright holders for DUE SOUTH. Please do not reproduce for
anything other than personal reading use without written consent of the
author. Comments welcome at RupertR@hotmail.com. 

 Glossary 

 Ala--A 500-man cavalry unit.
 Batman--An orderly (servant) of a military officer who performs basic
chores.
 Bear--Brown bear (22 Aug.-21 Sep.). In the Native American astrological
calendar, those born under this sign are self-reliant, constructive, and
masters at fixing things, whether mechanical or in human relationships.
(From J. Jansen's recap of Earth Medicine by Kenneth Meadows.)
 Brigantes--In A.D. 138-139, this turbulent barbarian tribe (which took
its name from the Goddess Brigantia) spilled across Hadrian's Wall into
Britannia, and was defeated by Lollius Urbicus, the new governor of the
province. 
 Celts--The Romans called these people "Galli." The Greeks called them
"Galatai or Keltoi." Both Greek and Roman terms meant "barbarian." Because
the word "Celt" derives from the Greek "Keltoi," and Greek has no soft "c"
sound, "Celt" should be pronounced with a hard "k" sound. 
 Centurion--The officer in charge of a group of 80 auxiliary infantry.
Centurions kept discipline in the Roman army.
 Cilurnum--Means "the deep pool in a river." Well-bred British cows now
graze in the meadows surrounding the ruins of this Roman fort along
Hadrian's Wall, near Hexham in Northumberland. Visitors may walk around
the stone foundations of the bath house, headquarters building, barracks,
and Commandant's house of what today is known as Chesters Fort, and gaze
across the rippling waters of the North Tyne at the remains of the Wall.
 Cuirass--The metal breast-plate worn by a military tribune over his
tunic.
 Distant descendant--Male citizens of Rome were expected to marry and
reproduce, whatever their private sexual inclinations may have been.
Bachelors were fined.
 Greaves--Metal leg-shields worn by a military tribune as part of the full
dress uniform.
 Hadrian's Wall--Built by the Roman Emperor Hadrian in 122-126 A.D. to
contain the barbarian hordes, including the Brigantes, which otherwise
would have overrun Britannia. The Picts and Scots came much later, circa
the 5th century A.D., and were descendants of older tribes (the Caledonii
and the Hibernii/Scotti, respectively). 
 Herne--The Green Man, the wild Pagan man of the woods, whose visage
decorates the facade of many of Europe's prominent cathedrals.
 High standards of personal hygiene--The Romans insisted on cleanliness.
They knew that dirt bred disease, although they did not know why.
 Principia--The headquarters building in which Roman army officers had
their offices.
 Pteriges--Leather strips sewn into a skirt that Roman soldiers wore over
their tunics, partly as protection. The free-swinging strips allowed more
freedom of movement than armor.
 Legionary--A Roman soldier serving in a legion (5,300 men). Legionaries
were required to be Roman citizens.
 Mist-gates--The points or gateways where one world meets the other; the
sacred space between the worlds. ("Flying Witches," by Michael Howard, in
Witchcraft and Shamanism, p. 39.)
 Mithras--Winged Persian deity, associated with bull sacrifice, worshipped
by Roman soldiers of the officer class. The early Church borrowed many
concepts from Mithraism, including a December 25 birthdate, a celibate
priesthood, and adherence to chastity as a way of life. 
 Northumbria--Northern province of Britain, now called Northumberland.
 No stranger...either--According to Sjoo and Mor, "Homosexuality was
common among Celts, and accepted; male warriors were frequently lovers.
Since sex was not related to religious moralism but to honor, bisexuality
was considered normal. This is a signature of shamanic people." (From "The
Sun God," by Sjoo and Mor, in The Great Cosmic Mother, p. 259.) 
 Otter--In the Native American calendar, these people (20 Jan.-18 Feb.)
have a strong sense of family and friendship. They feel ill at ease around
chaos and unclean environments. ((From J. Jansen's recap of Earth Medicine
by Kenneth Meadows.) 
 Pilum--The heavy javelin used by Roman legionaries in battle.
 Power animal--A spirit guide in the form of an animal which has some
wisdom to impart to its chosen human. Trance-journeying can help one
discover one's power animal. 
 Shaman--A man or woman who enters an altered state of consciousness--at
will--to contact and utilize an ordinarily hidden reality in order to
acquire knowledge, power, and to help other persons." (Michael Harner, The
Way of the Shaman, San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1980.)
 Shamanic drumming--The easiest way for a novice to embark on a
trance-journey is through listening to the steady beating of a drum. It
induces a change in the alpha brain waves that is conducive to trance.
Fraser used Michael Harner's Shamanic Journey Solo and Double Drumming. 
 Shape-shifting--The ability to change from one form to another is
characteristic of shamans. Some Witches also have this ability.
 Skyclad--Bare-skinned. Practitioners in some Pagan traditions prefer
working in this mode so that everyone in the circle or coven is equal to
everyone else, with no outward display of wealth or rank. 
 Strigil--a curved metal instrument used to scrape the skin before one
rinsed off in the bath.
 Tribune--Young men from upper-class Roman families held the
administrative post of tribune within the legion for two or three years. A
man who wanted to get ahead had to serve in the army, but few military
tribunes made a career of it.
 

  Return to the Due South Fiction Archive