he tailor was getting annoying, fluttering about, re-measuring what had been measured a half-dozen times before.  "I have not altered my height in the past week, Signore Valita," the unhappy customer insisted.  If the fit is wrong it is because you made it that way!"  He yanked the doublet off, then the breeches.  It was a shame, it was a lovely fabric in a warm, creamy brocade.

     "But Signore, I assure you the fit is quite correct, perhaps you are just not used to the new style?  If you wore it a few times, I am certain you would see that the suit is magnificent, and the very latest cut."  The tailor picked up the coat, holding it out once again for him to put on, following his escaping customer around the room as he donned the clothes he was wearing when he had arrived.

     "If I wore that travesty of a suit a few times, my armpits would be permanently damaged and my cock would soon be strangled into uselessness, Signore Valita, and that would be a tragedy, not only for me, but for all the women of Florence!" his customer proclaimed, and slammed out the door of the small, exclusive shop, ignoring the protests of the tailor, now left with an expensive suit, and no one to purchase it.

     Graham Ashe walked close to the buildings, avoiding the small stream of liquid refuse trickling steadily down a trough worn into the ancient cobblestones.  The sun was barely visible through the flapping lines of laundry stretched between the buildings and the overhanging balconies decorated with bright flowers.  He held his rose water saturated handkerchief to his nose to counter the stink of human waste, walking quickly to reach the broad piazza, where a little fresh air and sunshine allowed him to breathe more deeply.

     He loved and loathed cities.  Loathed them for the filth, the smells, the corruption, the concentrated poverty and suffering.  Loved them for the teeming life and vibrant humanity, the interesting people, the constant political scheming, the tug and pull of ideas, and in Florence, especially, the astonishing output of wonderful artwork.  He had lived in Rome in its heyday, had helped Pericles with the building of the Parthenon, had been an advisor, and more, to the lovely Helen of Troy, but rarely had he seen the equal of Florence in the number of brilliant artists nurtured and given free reign to express their vision.  It was a good time to be alive.  But then, Ashe had always believed that anytime was a good time to be alive.

     The walk back to his apartments took him through some of the best and worst parts of the city, and he took his time, enjoying the morning, enjoying the bustle.  But as he approached the square containing his residence, he paused, slipping back into the shadows of a side street.  It had been awhile since he had felt that threatening, chilling tingle announcing the presence of another of his own kind.  He waited and watched, his eyes carefully scanning the square where noisy vendors abounded, selling fruit, pottery, textiles and odds and ends of all kinds.  A black-feathered plume caught his eye, and his attention fixed on a young man circling the fountain in the plaza's center.  Could it be?  Oh, yes.  Graham let out a long breath as the tall young man nervously scanned the crowd, searching each face.

     An Immortal, then.  Young, probably.  And simply the most stunning man Graham Ashe had ever seen in the flesh.  He wore a feathered hat, a loose doublet of no particular note over a flowing white shirt, brown suede breeches and well-worn knee-high boots, and carried a basket-hilt claymore.  It was a rather fancy blade for someone who, from all appearances, was at best a sword-for-hire.

     But it was not the youth's unprepossessing attire that drew the eye and made Graham Ashe's old heart surge in anticipation.  He stepped out of the shadows, slipping easily through the crowd.  In only a second or two, the youth spotted him and froze, poised in a classic fighting pose, one foot slightly in front of the other, body turned to present a smaller target, his right hand resting not quite casually on the hilt of his sword.

     Graham stopped about ten feet away, doffed his hat and bowed elaborately.  "Graham Ashe, at your service, sir," he declared, looking up from his bow and catching the boy's eye with what he hoped was an unthreatening smile.

     The youth looked a little taken aback.  He brought himself up, though, removed his own broad-brimmed hat, exposing a gleaming fall of dark, waving hair that cascaded half-way down his back. "Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," he responded with a curt nod.  The accent was unmistakable. 

     This was a lad far from home, a youth from a barbarian northern tribe attempting to learn the manners of civilized men.  How very, very interesting.  If Graham was very lucky, and played the situation carefully, he just might maneuver himself into being the fortunate one to teach him.

     "And what can I do for you, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" Graham asked, hoping desperately that the boy wasn't so foolish as to try to challenge him. 

     MacLeod looked nervously at the people streaming around them.  "I'm not here for a challenge," he said in a loud whisper.

     "Excellent!" Graham smiled broadly.  "In that case, let me invite you for a bit of refreshment, sir.  My apartments are close by."

     With a nod and a motion of his arm, Graham led the young man into his building and up two flights to his apartments.  He asked his manservant to bring them both some wine, and they waited in silence, with MacLeod nervously pacing the room, apparently afraid to touch any of the sculptures, paintings and other objects d'art Graham had gathered in his long, long life.

     At last, the wine was served and the manservant left, discreetly closing the door to the spacious, elaborately decorated parlor behind him.

     "Sit, Mr. MacLeod," Graham urged, watching as his guest perched on the edge of a chair upholstered in yellow silk that seemed too delicate to hold his large frame.  Graham handed him the glass of wine from the engraved silver tray, then relaxed on the matching loveseat, silently inspecting and admiring this relatively new Immortal.  "What brings you to Florence?" he asked at last, when the boy seemed unable to begin the conversation.

     "I've been travelling in Italy the past decade or so, hiring on as personal guard to various members of the nobility," MacLeod explained.  "Then I heard you were here, and...I really wanted to find you."

     Graham took a careful sip of his wine.  "I thought you said you weren't here for a challenge."

     "Noh!" Suddenly the lad's accent thickened to near-incomprehensibility.  "That's not what I meant.  Connor MacLeod was my teacher, and he mentioned that you were one of the greatest swordsman in the world.  I want to learn, Master Ashe.  I would like to learn from you."

     For the first time in several hundred years, Graham Ashe almost inhaled his wine, nearly spewing it out his nose in unrecoverable indignity.  Somehow, he swallowed, although he choked a little, pulling out his handkerchief and touching it to his lips to hide the leer that he couldn't quite control.  He cleared his throat, took another small, careful sip, swallowed again, and smiled.

     "Well, Mr. MacLeod, I suppose we might come to some kind of arrangement."

     But Duncan MacLeod was the most damnably stubborn, single-minded man Ashe had met in ages, and the accommodation he had hoped to reach never even got discussed.  Duncan's concentration on his goal was unbreakable, and it was getting altogether rather tiresome.  When they weren't sparring, they were talking about sparring, or about strategies in war, or about physical training, or about anything other than what Graham was truly interested in.  The man seemed oblivious to Graham's innuendoes and looks, and his only other favored topic was, of all things, women. 

     It was clear the man loved the female of the species, and it was equally apparent they loved him.  Just walking into a public house with the magnificently masculine, barbaric Scot with the dashing smile and flowing hair was enough to attract more feminine attention than Graham had ever managed with all his money, his flamboyant clothes and sophistication.  Graham had never considered himself an unattractive man at all.  Why with the right clothes he knew he could be downright dashing.  But being with Duncan MacLeod was like the moon standing next to the sun.  He became almost invisible.

     It was a revelatory experience, and one that only whetted his appetite and made him even more determined that he would be the one to introduce Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod to joys of the flesh the youngster had never before experienced.

     But for that, they needed privacy and a stress-free, female-free atmosphere. 

     After several weeks of rather tedious schooling at a local fencing academy, Graham decided it was time.  The day dawned on a lovely, warm spring morning, and he had a sumptuous lunch packed, leading them on horseback to a flower-filled field outside of town where they worked steadily through the morning on sword techniques designed for uneven terrain.  He pressed the young man until the warming sun dictated that the doublet came off, then pressed him even more, deliberately nicking him several times.

     "Och!" Duncan stepped back examining the slice in the linen of his sleeve.  "This was my last good shirt!"

     "Then may I suggest that you take it off, sir.  Good clothes are not that easy to come by," Graham observed, unable to hide a small smile of triumph, then watched with pleasure as Duncan turned away to pull the shirt over his head, dropping it to the ground on top of his rough coat.  Sun gleamed off the young Scot's broad, naked back.  The wings of his shoulder blades and the ridges of his spine moved sensuously under sweat-slicked skin, and the lines of his well-defined ribs tapered down to a narrow waist.  It was a feast for the eyes, but nothing compared to when the lad turned around.

     A veritable fantasy come to life strode towards him, sword in hand, a small frown furrowing thick brows while large, limpid brown eyes narrowed in concentration.  Duncan took his stance, thick biceps pumped and quivering from his efforts as small droplets of sweat sparkled in the scattering of hair that darkened a well-formed chest.  Graham responded automatically, although his mind was hardly on sword fighting, at least of the metallic variety.

     The boy was good.  Graceful, athletic, very fast, and a determined, quick student, but no match for a master with thousands of years of experience.  But suddenly a sharp, painful prick jabbed at Graham's side and he found himself on his back, with a panting Highland barbarian standing over him.

     "You tore my doublet!" he observed in astonishment, poking at the bloody rip in the expensive fabric.

     "Oh, Jesu Criste, forgive me!" Duncan thumped to his knees, his face going gray in shock.  "I didna mean to hurt you."

     Graham looked up at the undisguised horror in the young Immortal's eyes, and swallowed his own surprise.  The boy wasn't just reacting to the threat of a potentially angry teacher, he was genuinely concerned.  How utterly charming.  Even young Immortals, even mortals for that matter, seemed to take injury and death in stride, shrugging such things off as inevitable consequences of a violent existence.

     But this young man's instinctive reactions, despite having already been killed and wounded many times, despite the very nature of any Immortal's life, were regret and concern for others.  Amazing.

     "Well, my tailor won't be pleased, Duncan, but I assure you it's not fatal," he finally replied, wanting to ease the anxiety written on that remarkable face.  "And it is a pointed reminder to the teacher not to get...distracted," he sighed and propped himself up on his elbows.  "I think," he announced, "that it's time for lunch."  He held his hand out, and Duncan stood and grasped him around the wrist, pulling him to his feet.  For a few seconds, they stood very close.  "I, for one," Graham added softly, "am absolutely famished."

     Duncan's sensuous mouth quirked up at the corners a little uncertainly, clearly sensing that there was more to Graham's words and actions than was immediately apparent.  Good.  The boy was bright as well as beautiful.

     As they moved into the dappled shadows underneath the shade of an ancient, heavily gnarled apple tree, Graham made it a point to remove his boots, sighing with satisfaction, and wiggling his freed toes in relief.  After a moment, Duncan followed his example, even outdoing his teacher by pulling off heavily darned stockings before he reached to help unpack the heavy basket his teacher had brought.

     Graham would have to remember to complement his servants.  The thick brocade tablecloth provided a comfortable surface for them to lounge on while Graham set out the roast chicken, the succulent grapes, the colorful, pungent cheese, the crusty brown loaf of bread, and the surprise he kept folded away in a napkin.  Finally, he pulled out a bottle of wine and the two silver goblets that had been carefully packed away.  The deep ruby liquid caught the sun as he poured, and Graham's sense of anticipation surged as he handed off the glass.  Duncan had pulled his shirt back on, and it hung loosely, nearly sliding off one bronze shoulder as he reached for the wine.  He drank deeply, finishing it in two long swallows then holding out his cup for more.

     "Careful, young Duncan," Graham smiled as he poured again.  "You've been a busy boy this morning.  Worked up quite a sweat."  He lounged onto one elbow as he drank his own wine.  "We wouldn't want to get drunk, now would we?"

     Duncan laughed, showing a flash of white teeth.  "Nay," he agreed with a distinct twinkle in his eye.  "We certainly wouldn't want that."  He pulled out a dagger from a sheath at his waist and proceeded to slice off a leg from the chicken, handing it to his host before he cut the other leg off for himself.

     They ate and talked contentedly of life in the city, of the intrigues of the local nobles, each of them passing the food to the other, washing the meal down with copious draughts of wine, until Graham had to open a second bottle, again blessing the planning skills of his loyal servants.  At last Duncan lay back with a sigh, closing his eyes.

     "I do believe I ate too much, Master Ashe," he murmured sleepily, waving away a buzzing insect with a lazy waft of his hand.  "You are a kind and generous host and an excellent teacher."

     "I do believe you drank too much, young Master MacLeod," Graham examined the dregs of the second bottle before he emptied it into his own cup.  "But you shouldn't fall asleep before dessert is served."

     "Dessert?"  Duncan raised his head slightly, looking at his host in curiosity.

     "Oh, aye, my friend," Graham met his eyes and held them for a moment before he presented the folded damask napkin he had previously kept out of sight.  He gently peeled away the corners of the cloth until he had revealed two perfect orange globes.  "Valencia oranges."  He crawled forward, cradling the fruit in his hand.  "The sweetest, juiciest fruit in all of Christendom.  Warm and ripe and succulent."  Even the words made his saliva flow and he swallowed as he sat next to Duncan at last.

     Duncan reached for one, but Graham moved it out of his grasp.  "Ah, ah," he cautioned.  "You do know there is really only one proper way to eat a Valencia orange, do you not?" he asked softly.  "Only one way to truly appreciate the delectable, tangy, tartness.  A taste not meant for ordinary folk, oh, no," he lowered his voice even more.  "Only for those willing to take a risk."  Almost casually, he leaned over Duncan's torso, resting his weight on his free hand.  "Are you willing to take such a risk, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod?" he whispered.

     "What..." the youngster croaked, then cleared his throat.  "What kind of risk?" he asked.

     "The unknown.  The untried.  The mysterious," Graham answered.  He sat back and peeled off his beautiful doublet with the slashed sleeves, then pulled his fine linen shirt over his head.  His eyes met Duncan's in open challenge, a tiny smile playing about his lips.  "Or are you afraid of the unknown?"

     Duncan sat up on his elbows and watched him, his dark eyes getting larger and larger.  But after a moment, he, too, sat up and pulled his shirt off.

     Making sure his student was watching, Graham slowly dug his fingernails into the thick, dimpled rind of the ripe fruit, peeling it away like an opening flower, the pungent scent filling the air between them, making Graham's mouth water in anticipation.  It was not the only part of his anatomy straining with desire, but he knew he had to take his time, had to do this in small steps.  Indeed, this aching anticipation just might be the best part, he decided as he watched Duncan's eyes fasten all their attention on his hands as they removed the rind, a moist tongue escaping that sensuous mouth to unconsciously wet full, pink lips.

     Graham took the denuded fruit in his hands at last, inserting his thumbs slowly into the core and pulled the sections into two halves, then carefully separated them into smaller sections and lay them on the cloth beside them.  At last he chose the most perfectly formed piece and leaned toward Duncan once again.

     "I get to go first," Graham told him, "because I'm the teacher.  But you must pay very close attention so you can learn the proper technique.  But then," he added, "you are such a quick learner."  He broke the section in half, letting the juice dribble over one of Duncan's nipples, the thick liquid running over the round of the man's pectoral muscle and catching in his chest hair.  Duncan flinched at the touch of the cold liquid, pulling back a little, his gaze shifting quickly back and forth between his teacher and  the sticky fluid trickling down his chest.

     "I...I dinna understand, Master Ashe," Duncan stuttered.  "What are you doing?"

     Graham lowered his head, never losing eye contact with his student, finally closing his lips around the succulent, sweet nipple and sucking gently before tracing his tongue all the way around it, and down onto the rippling abdomen, where some of the juice had escaped.  Duncan's eyes fluttered closed, his breath hitched a small gasp.

     "Delicious," Graham murmured, moving back to the nipple and sucking at it once more.  He finally raised himself up again, forcing himself to stop while he still had some modicum of control. "It's the contact with human flesh, you see," he instructed a little breathlessly.  "It's almost magic.  Can't you feel it?"  Before Duncan could answer, he dribbled the rest of the juice from the section on the other nipple and repeated his action, this time more aggressively, letting his hands roam over the hard body beneath him, tweaking one nipple with his hand while he thoroughly laved the other with his mouth. 

     "Aye," he heard a rough whisper from Duncan.  "I can feel it."  He smiled around the hard, pointed nipple in his mouth and sat up again.  "Then maybe you're ready for the next lesson," he said.  He picked up another section, slipped it halfway into his mouth and leaned forward, watching the young man expectantly.  After only a moment's hesitation, Duncan opened his mouth and let Graham feed him, pushing the fruit in with his tongue, biting off half and letting Duncan take it, their lips and tongues mingling for just a moment before he pulled away.

     Their eyes held as each man slowly chewed and swallowed the rare fruit.  "Good?" Graham asked with a smile.

     "Master Ashe," Duncan said roughly, "I...I never..."

     "Good?" Ashe asked again insistently.

     "Good," Duncan answered, after a long, breathless pause. 

     "More?" Graham offered, picking up another section.

     "I...don't know," Duncan said softly, but his nipples were hard and tight, his lips still wet and slightly swollen, and movement was clearly visible under the soft suede of his breeches.

     "Ah, young Duncan," Graham sighed.  "There are many things to learn in this life, and not all of them are about survival.  The best parts, the most interesting parts, are about pleasure.  And pleasure can be found in many forms."  He broke the section in half, put a piece in his mouth and slowly chewed and swallowed, closing his eyes to savor the taste that exploded against his tongue.  Then he carefully fed Duncan the other half and observed him eating it in silence, enjoying the sunlight and shadow as it played on the fine golden skin of his face and throat.

     "First," he finally broke the quiet, "let's see if you have learned your most recent lesson.  Holding Duncan's gaze, he lowered himself, his chest brushing Duncan's bare shoulder as he did, until he was lying beside the Scot.  He propped himself up on his elbow for a moment, eyeing his student with an expectant, raised eyebrow.  At last Duncan sat up and reached for an orange section.  Then, a little to Graham's surprise, the delightful youngster, dark eyes wide with a combination of fear and excitement, gently pushed Graham onto his back, then slowly broke the piece in half, and simultaneously squeezed the juices from each onto Graham's exposed nipples.

     Graham couldn't keep an urgent hiss of breath from passing his lips, followed by an involuntary groan as the dark head bent down and a warm, wet mouth teased at each nipple and the gentle rasp of a tongue carefully, meticulously cleaned away all possible traces of the sticky juice.  Oddly enough, this giving of pleasure seemed both easier and less threatening for young MacLeod than the receipt of it.

     "You learn your lessons well," he breathed.  Duncan just looked at him with those large, dark eyes, full of curiosity, passion and a small trace of fear or uncertainty.  Graham knew he would have to take the lead, so he took Duncan's face in his hands and drew him down, then kissed him gently.  After a few seconds of gentle touching, he let his tongue slip out, tasting full lips that still had a residue of tangy orange flavor.  Then the mouth opened, closing over his with a sweetness and caution that felt like it was going to break his heart.  Graham let a tongue enter, enjoyed its hesitant exploration of the inside of his own mouth, then Duncan pulled back.

     What pure joy this was, a moment he would have to engrave in his memory for the centuries to come.  Duncan's expression was indescribable, utterly delicious.  A combination of lust and embarrassment and mischievous excitement, all framed in a glorious fall of chestnut hair that shone in the dappled afternoon sunlight.

     "What?" Graham asked after a moment of bemused silence, just watching the marvelous  kaleidoscope of expressions move across the Scot's face. 

     "Clearly, sword work is not all you have mastered, Master Ashe," Duncan said with a mixture of seriousness and irony, then he smiled shyly.  "It was...unexpected, that's all.  I...I've never kissed a man before, at least not...," Duncan replied, ducking his head a little with a blush, then he looked up again, like a small boy caught doing something he oughtn't.  "And it tickles."

     "Tickles?"

     "Your mustache," Duncan's smile broadened into a grin.  "It tickles."

     Graham stroked his carefully maintained facial hair.  "The ladies seem to like it."  He sat up quickly, and with a gentle shove pushed Duncan back.  This time there was no pretense, no hesitation, he just took what he wanted, stroking the inside of Duncan's mouth with his tongue in complete abandon, one hand roaming freely over all the delectable surfaces of the young man's body.  Duncan responded, tangling his fingers in Graham's long hair, sweeping a broad hand over his teacher’s sweat-slick back.

     Then Graham's hands found the complex fastenings to Duncan's breeches, loosening them enough to reach inside, finding hot moisture and a throbbing, distended cock to wrap his hand around.  Duncan gasped and arched back with a low moan, murmuring something in an unintelligible tongue.  Graham stroked carefully, slowly so as not to bring an end to this pleasure too quickly, even as his other hand fumbled with his own clothes.  But his efforts were interrupted by a large, callused hand inserting itself, reaching to grasp through the soft folds of fabric to rub a little more strongly, a little faster than Graham was teasing Duncan.

     "Slowly, Duncan," Graham whispered harshly, working to maintain control.  "Enjoy it.  Let me show you something you've never felt before."

     "But..." Duncan arched his back a little, pushing into Graham's hand, his eyes closed, panting with a need for completion.

     "Trust me," Graham urged, although his own body was pouring sweat and he had to force himself not to push into the big hand that had taken possession of his cock.  Instead he moved away, and gently pulled down Duncan's breeches, exposing dusky skin, dark curls and the youth's flushed, fully engorged sex.  He knew he shouldn't, that it would possibly push the youngster past the point of tolerance and make him come too soon, but it was utterly irresistible.  He breathed in the man's heady scent, then touched the moist tip with his tongue, then laved all the way around the dark head before taking it in his mouth and sucking gently.

     Duncan almost shouted, his hips bucked up and his hands dug deep into the grass into which they had rolled.  Reluctantly, Graham stopped before it was too late, looking up to see Duncan arched back, gasping for air, body thrumming with tension.

     "Please, finish it!" Duncan croaked, his eyes squeezed tight, his jaw clenched.

     "Shhh," Graham eased back on his haunches, now more determined than ever to show this young Immortal that there were all kinds of boundaries that could be breached, horizons that could be expanded.  "Relax.  Breathe deep, my young friend.  The best is yet to come."

     After a moment, Duncan's breath evened out a little, and he opened his eyes, looking at his teacher.  He started to sit up and reach for him, but Graham moved to lie side-by-side, and just gently stroked the skin of a golden, smooth shoulder and arm, moving the thick dark hair away from Duncan's sweat-slicked face and neck.  They kissed gently for a few minutes, all the while Duncan looked as though he wanted to do more, to grab his partner and lavish him with kisses, but was uncertain about his role, about his boundaries.

     "I want you to trust me, Duncan," Graham whispered, his lips so close to Duncan's cheek they almost brushed it as he spoke.  "I will do nothing to hurt you."  The lad stiffened just a little as Graham's hand wandered down his body, pausing for a moment to stroke through the curly hair at his groin, then moving even lower, gently cradling his tight, heavy balls.

     His fingers gently roved around the delicate skin of the juncture of the lad's hips, then even further below, finding at last a small puckered opening, intensely sensitive, and quite, quite forbidden.  Duncan's breath stopped and his whole body went completely still.

     "Trust me, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Graham murmured again.  When no verbal objection was sounded, after a moment Graham gently probed, just barely pressing inward, watching as Duncan's eyes fluttered closed and his lips pressed lightly together.  "Relax for me, Duncan.  It will be alright, I promise you."  He moved his finger further into warm heat, and now Duncan was blinking rapidly, his breath speeding. 

     Graham now carefully trailed his other hand to Duncan's still surging, restless cock, gently holding it, letting his thumb caress the slit.  Now Duncan was groaning, eyes closed, his hips moving involuntarily, trying to create friction and rhythm, but as he did, he moved further onto Graham's probing finger, making him gasp even more.

     "What...are...you...," but Duncan couldn't formulate the question as his body betrayed him, rocking now onto and into Graham's hands with greater urgency.  The boy reached out grabbing Graham's shoulders with a crushing grip.  At last, unable to keep a triumphant grin off his face, Graham closed his hand more tightly around the youth's thrusting cock and turned his probing finger to touch just the right, utterly virginal spot in the hot depths of a beautiful male body.  Duncan shouted a guttural, inarticulate cry, jerking into a rigid arch, coming in a violent spasm that brought his hips and back high up off the ground.

     And with only a single stroke of himself, Graham allowed the pure, unadulterated sexual heat between them to bring him to orgasm.  His was a deep, warm spill of pleasure that had more to do with what he had witnessed and what he had achieved, than with any direct physical stimulation.

     For long minutes they both just lay there letting their bodies cool and their sweat dry.  Graham almost fell asleep in the warm afternoon sunshine, but instead he made himself turn his head to look at his young companion lying in the grass, eyes closed, looking almost melted into the earth.  "Are you alright?" he asked, turning onto his side and propping his head on his hand.

     Duncan opened his eyes, gazing up into the green canopy overhead for a moment, then turned his head to look at his teacher.  He looked a little sheepish, but utterly, deliciously debauched.  "Aye.  I was just thinking."

     "And what were you thinking, young Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod," Graham smiled.

     "That if I'm going to hell anyway, I might as well learn to enjoy it."

     "And what makes you think you're going to hell?"

     Duncan shrugged, moving his arms so he had both hands laced behind his head for a pillow.  "What we are, what we do to stay alive.  My father said I was a demon from hell.  Connor said that wasn't so, but sometimes I wonder."

     "Ah, Duncan, I was born before your Christ ever walked the earth, have seen deities rise and fall, and what is one religion's sin is another's sacrament," Graham responded thoughtfully.  "It seems to me you have your own sense of what is right and what is wrong and need no book of rules, or clerics in fancy robes to tell you what to do."  Graham picked up the discarded napkin he had used to wrap the oranges, wiping away the mess on his stomach, then doing the same for his companion.

     "Are you saying there is no higher power?  No purpose, no reason for our existence?" Duncan asked, his face clouding.

     "No.  I'm saying that no religion has an exclusive understanding of God, whatever that may mean, because it means different things to different people," Graham fastened his breeches and pulled on his shirt, searching through the detritus of their picnic for the skein of water they had brought.  He lay down beside his young friend again, examining his quite remarkable face.  Memorizing it.  He had taught many, many students in his thousands of years on this earth.  A number of them had gone on to become wonderful swordsmen and women, to do remarkable things, both heroic and vile.

     But he had a real feeling about this one. He shouldn't be making such judgments, though.  It was too soon to know whether this youngster could stand the physical, emotional and moral onslaught of the centuries, of the Gathering.

     "Then what am I supposed to believe in?" Duncan turned his head, his dark, trusting gaze looking to his teacher for an answer.

     "Yourself," Graham answered, handing him the water to drink and to wash himself.  "In what you see and feel and know in your heart to be the right thing. Faith in your own goodness, and in the basic decency of humankind.  Oh, it will be tested and tried to its limit, no doubt.  But in the end, faith is all we have.  In each other, in ourselves."

     Duncan sat up, pulling his clothes on, his brows hunched together in concentration.  "But if there is no God, then..."

     "I didn't say there was no god, Duncan, only that no single religion can or should constrain our notion of what god is."  He smiled at the lad's obvious struggle with the philosophical concept, took pity on him and held out his hand.  Duncan looked up and reached for Graham's wrist, using the leverage to bring himself to his feet, his broad form throwing his teacher into shadow.  "But we'll have plenty of opportunity to discuss such grand concepts, my friend.  In the meantime, we have a lovely day and a lovely view."  He turned, his gesture encompassing the broad, grassy field behind them, and on the horizon, the comforting presence of holy ground in the form of a beautiful old cemetery, overgrown now with wild, colorful flowers.

     He leaned down and picked up Duncan's sword and scabbard, tossing it to him as he stepped away, his own sword already in his hand as he found his footing in the tall grass and turned.

     "En guarde, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod!" he shouted joyously, watching as the handsome lad grinned back, tossing his scabbard away and advancing on his teacher. 

     Yes, indeed, Graham Ashe thought.  It was good to be alive.