A/N: A silly little thing that refused to go away. Warning
: An extra warning for this chapter goes out for insinuation of threesome and boy on boy action. Ye have been warned, pirate.
The snow is deep.
It catches at the hem of her dress, wraps around her calves, climbs into her sodden boots and makes it hard, so hard to run. She is panting harshly, her breath clouding in front of her face as she stumbles and pushes, sometimes half crawls over the uneven ground and through the trees.
Every now and then she throws a furtive look over her shoulder, trying to make out his dark form against the backdrop of a forest as dusk. And every time she does he is closer behind her und she can almost – almost – feel his wet breath trickle down her neck and freeze her from the inside out.
Then, suddenly, salvation nears. She can make out the edge of the wood now, a red tinged line of sky and horizon, close, so close and there!
She breaks through the tree line and flings herself as the hooded and cloaked man. “Please father,” she cries, breathing in sharp gasps, “Help me. I am being followed.”
The priest’s arms wrap around her immediately as he pulls her closer and scans their surroundings for danger. When he sees nothing after a moment he holds the tiny form at arm’s length and inquires, “Are you sure, my Lady? These woods are dark. You might have been mistaken.”
With a cry of distress she shakes her head, loosened golden curls tumbling about, framing her small face. Green eyes implore him to believe her. “No, father. I am sure. I could feel him, right behind me. He wanted to do vile things to me, I swear!”
From the tree line a snort can be heard followed shortly by a war cry as the ruffian bursts out of the underbrush with his sword raised.
The poor maiden flings herself behind her saviour, yelling, “Help me, he will surely violate me!”
Cackling, the attacker takes a moment to leer at her and nod his confirmation. The priest meanwhile has pushed back his hood and drawn a sword from under his cloak. Bravely he stands before the girl and orders, “Leave off her! I will not let you harm her.”
Again deranged cackling is the only answer and then swords meet in a shower of sparks and dirty snow as the blonde screams and jumps backwards as well as her sodden skirts allow. Momentarily distracted when she steps on the hem of her dress, she looks down and grumbles curses. Then, after extracting the garment from the heel of her boot she refocuses on the fight and promptly gives a cry of dismay. Her hero is losing ground.
“No,” she calls, “Oh no. Kind Sir, you must not let him have me!”
The father sends her a disgruntled look over his shoulder before feinting right and stabbing left, catching the ruffian in the shirt and making him stumble. Two more parries and a final thrust see the bad man lying in a snow bank, unarmed.
“Please father,” he suddenly begs, arms raised defensively in front of him, “Spare my life!”
Sword aimed at the jugular the other man demands, “Why should I?”
The ruffian’s arms are lowered suddenly as he leers at the priest in a similar manner as he did at the girl before. “If you do I’ll do that thing with my tongue that drives you crazy?”
Even as he slowly lowers his sword, the holy man’s severe expression falters, turning to one of mild exasperation and amusement. A moment later he bites back on a scream of surprise as he is suddenly tackled from behind by a hundred pound of snow covered girl intent on pushing him into the same snow bank his enemy is lying in.
He manages to throw away his sword in time to grab her wrist and pull her down with him and then all three of them are lying in the snow and laughing.
“He will surely violate me,” the appointed ruffian suddenly squawks, voice effeminately high pitched.
The prey punches him in the shoulder and returns the favour by sing-songing, “Spare my life, buh huh, I’m such a weak, defenceless little boy!”
“I did not sound like that!”
The priest wipes snow off his face and rolls on his side, slinging on arm around the damsel’s waist. “Sorry, Methos, but you did. It’s amazing how pathetic you can sound.”
In retaliation, Methos grabs a handful of soggy snow and attempts to stuff it down the other man’s cloak and shirt. Between them, half smashed by chests and arms, the damsel is shrieking with laughter.
Before long the battle turns into an all out snow fight that only ends when full dark comes and the priest pushes the girl into the snow, head first. She kicks him in the shin and spits snow. “Darius, that’s not bloody fair!”
“Uh, uh,” he waggles a finger at her, “Everything is fair as long as you can get away with it. Isn’t that right, Summer? Besides, this whole game was your idea, if you care to remember.”
She swats him in the chest and then proclaims, “Well, don’t tell me you didn’t have fun playing the hero. But now I’m cold. And tired. Who gets to carry me home?”
Methos gives her a look that clearly states what he thinks of that
idea. Darius on the other hand gives her a speculative look. “What’s in it for me,” he finally asks.
Putting a finger to her lips in mock thought, Summer contemplates the matter for a moment before tapping her nose and saying, “I know. If you carry me home, I won’t kick you both out of the bed tonight and make you sleep on the floor.”
With a bow, the younger of the two men accepts. He motions for Methos to carry both their swords and then, before she has a chance to protest, grabs the lady around the waist and swings her onto his shoulder.
They start the mile long walk home to the sounds of indignant shrieks and threats that can still be heard in the silent forest long after their forms have disappeared into the darkness.