Chapter Text
Roman sighed as he directed his horse over the rocky hills. He loved Ayrshire and the hustle and bustle of a market day, but some unknown feeling had him buzzing to be out in the wilds. His brother in battle, Finn cautioned him as there had been a few isolated skirmishes between their clan and the cowardly Sutherland clan over the last month. Roman had just spread his broad, muscled arms, patting the massive claymore strapped to his back and responded that if they wanted a fight, he’d be happy to bring it to them.
That had been half an hour ago and Roman felt his heart lightening the farther he got away from the responsibilities of his station in life. Being a well respected warrior and a trusted confidant of their clan chief was a great honor, but so many times he wanted to get away from the stuffiness of the court and just be himself. He dug his knees gently into his horse’s side, his strong muscled thighs tightening as he urged her to a gallop, reveling in the feel of cool hair rushing over his cheeks and into his long black hair.
After a few minutes he relented and let Gwenyfar slow into an easy trot. He could hear the sound of swiftly flowing water and decided to let them both refresh before heading back to the city. Down a rocky hill and a short while to the right he reached the banks of a gorgeous bubbling brook, the water clear and cold. He dropped Gwenyfar’s reigns and took a few deep gulps of the water, then rubbed her muzzle fondly as she enjoyed a drink of her own. He started and his hand went to the sword strapped to his back when he faintly heard the sound of someone singing or humming above the noise of the brook.
Stealthily he moved towards the sound, which seemed to be coming through a small copse of trees. Carefully pushing a few branches aside, he peeked through the opening, a quiet curse leaving his full, plump lips at the scene in front of him. A damned half naked Sutherlander, the tartan on his kilt a dead give away, lying on the bank on his stomach. His hands were cupped around something Roman couldn’t see, and his sword foolishly leaned against a tree several feet away from him. Roman was about to step through the trees and give a painful, deadly lesson to the idiot but he hesitated, the strong lines of woven muscle in the man’s back, and the way his kilt clung to his muscular thighs making him swallow thickly. The Sutherlander made a pleased noise and stopped humming, moving his cupped hands away from whatever lay within them.. A small rabbit sat there, too much blood for it to still be living coating it’s fur. But the rabbit blinked, obviously alive, and nudged the man’s hand before hopping off.
The man chuckled. “Wasn’t your time, quite yet, little one. And if I hadn’t done anything I’m sure somehow Sami would have found out and scolded me.”
The man’s voice was a pleasant, but raspy rumble and Roman was disgusted to feel his cheeks flush. He sucked in a breath when the man turned and seemed to look directly at him. Piercing blue eyes seemed to spear his soul for a moment, but they quickly slid by. The idiot had missed him, thank the gods. The whispers among his clan that some Sutherlanders had some sort of “gift” flashed across his mind before he dismissed it. Nothing but the superstition of old women. The man yawned and stretched a little and Roman did not look at the way the muscles of his back rippled, or the slimness of his smooth waist.
“Get yourself together, man.” He grumbled to himself. But he must have said it too loud, because the Sutherlander started and turned toward where he was standing. Roman knew letting the man get to his sword could be a fatal mistake, so he crashed through the brush, readying his sword as he came. The other man’s pretty blue eyes widened as he saw Roman break through the trees, and he turned, stumbled and tried to run to his sword.
“Leave it to a Sutherland to be unprepared to fight.” Roman gloated, the tip of his sword underneath the man’s chin. He used it to turn the man towards him, then dropped his sword so the tip was pointed at his heart.
“Leave it to a McMahon to attack a peaceful man unprovoked.” Spat the other man, his chest heaving with deep breaths
Roman steadfastly ignored the man’s heaving chest and the insult, scrutinizing him. Rugged, but handsome. A lightly furred chest and hair that seemed brown one moment, then blonde, then auburn the next. And his eyes….Roman shook himself.
“I’ll kill you where you stand, you Sutherland bastard.” Roman replied, pressing the tip of his blade just hard enough to prompt a small drop of blood to drip from the man’s chest.
The man spread his arms, a defiance in his face that Roman could grudgingly respect.
“Do it then, I know you McMahon’s have no compassion for man or beast. So this will be just one in a long line of innocents you will kill, I’m sure.”
Roman blinked. Odd words to come from a member of a barbarian tribe that used children as sacrifices for their heathen ceremonies. And suddenly the strange buzzing feeling from earlier in the day flooded his stomach.
“I don’t kill innocents.” He replied, unsure why he wanted this man to think better of him than that.
The man snorted. “Seems like you’re about to do that right now.”
Roman moved his sword from the man’s chest but kept it at the ready. He was...curious... about him and he wanted to keep hearing his oddly charming raspy voice. Telling the rational parts of his brain to shut up, he motioned at the ground with his sword.
“Sit down.”
The man took it as the command it was, and with a quick glance to where his sword lay he complied. Roman settled himself on a nearby stone, the height difference somehow making him feel more in control than he knew he was.
“Your name.”
The man hesitated. “Ambrose. Dean Ambrose of Sutherland.”
“What did you do to that rabbit?”
“I healed it.”
“Healed it how. I saw no bandages, no salves.”
“I heal in a different way.”
Roman snorted. “So you deal in fairy stories like the rest of your crazy clan.”
Dean’s eyes flashed. “I’m not crazy. Nor is my clan. Just because you fools prefer to destroy the earth more than worship it doesn’t make us crazy.”
“Do it then. Do some magic.” Roman meant the words to come out as derisive, but he flushed a little to hear his voice sound like an eager child’s.
The inflection in his voice wasn’t missed by Dean...by the idiot Sutherland...and he gave a little smirk. Roman raised his sword slightly, and the man smoothed his face.
“It’s a little...tiring…” he ventured. “I’m not sure if I can do that again so soon. And, well, no conveniently injured animals around.”
Roman laughed. “Just as I thought. A delusional Sutherland. How amusing.”
Dean’s hands clenched and Roman idly grasped the hilt of his sword, readying it in case the man was delusional AND stupid.
“I’m not delusional. I’m not a fully trained Druid, yet.” He answered, scowling and looking away.
“I get the feeling you were not supposed to be using your “gifts” out here.” Roman commented, amused.
“Yeah, well, gifts are meant to be given, not hoarded.” Dean retorted, and Roman got the feeling that he had said that phrase a lot; probably to people who didn’t agree. A little wave of understanding flowed through him and he shrugged it off. He should have already killed him and been back in Ayrshire, instead he was...fraternizing...with the enemy. Though the enemy seemed kind and brave and not a slavering barbarian. And those eyes...and that small waist...and it looked like he had dimples and Roman wanted more than anything to get him to smile.
“Please. Will you show me? Something small so it doesn’t tire you too much.”
Dean looked at him suspiciously and Roman didn’t blame him. A long pause ensued, finally Dean sighed and gave a jerky nod. Getting back down on his stomach, he ran his fingers over the ground, finding what he was looking for after a few moments. He cupped his hands again and started humming, though it sounded to Roman to be a different tune than before. A minute or two later he stopped and opened his cupped hands.
“That...that is impossible. Some sort of sleight of hand...I cannot believe.” Roman stood and backed up a pace.
Dean smiled down at the fully grown primrose flower in front of him. “Sleight of hand? Exactly where would I have gotten the flower?”
Roman leered at him. “I could check your kilt, Sutherlander, but I doubt it is worth it.” He knelt, making sure to keep Dean in his line of sight and picked the small purple flower. He stared at it, marveling, and dropped his guard.
“Typical.” Dean snorted. “You see magic in front of you and dismiss it, and then pluck and kill what it has created.”
Roman gave a growl. “Watch your tongue. Be grateful I haven’t already cut it out. It is no more than you barbarians deserve.”
“Barbarian! You’re the one that came upon me and threatened me! Demanded I use my sacred magic like some...some puppet show for your amusement! The only barbarian I see here is you!”
Roman let his temper get the better of him and lunged towards the aggravating man, but was blinded by flashing bright lights flickering in front of him and he turned wildly, waving his sword with one hand as he pawed at his eyes.
“Damn you, you witch! Tempter! I should have killed you the moment I saw you!”
“And if I had been quicker, I would have blinded you the moment I saw you!” The raspy voice responded, tinged with laughter. Had that voice ever been pleasant and fallen on his ears like a fondly remembered and half forgotten song? Never!
Roman could hear footsteps pounding away and he tried to run towards them, but ended up falling with a yelp into the cold stream. He heard laughter off to his left and gritted his teeth.
“Bastard!” He yelled. And not because he knew the dimples he wanted to so desperately see were lost to him. Not at all.