A.N.: Alright. I surrender. This bedamned fic has pulled me through seven shades of hell, and now I'm going to make everyone else suffer it too. It's a three-shot, I've got it all written up already, and here goes Part One. Yes, I know this bit's feeble; it's just an excuse for the second shot to happen. You'll see. Clear Skies, who kindly edited it (thankyou, Skies-chan) said a couple of bits were unclear, so I'll just clarify;
A pistol-grip is a shaped sword-hilt - they look kinda like strangled tarantulas, all twisted bits of metal sticking out at odd angles. They're supposed to fit between your fingers and make it easier to grip. They come in right-handed or left-handed variants, and technically only on foils rather than (as below) on sabres, but Thene knows when to tell Real-Life where to shove it...
The title's a joke from Les Miserables - I inserted the appropriate quotes. I've always felt sorry for Stef because, well, at least 'Lendel had his own rep, okay so it was as the Best Bad Example In History, but he was himself, you know? Stef was only remembered as the other half of "Vanyel And." Just like in Hugo's analogy, where he compares two of his characters, Enjolras and Grantaire, to Orestes and Pylades, because one of them could never ever be thought of independently - aaah, it's all down there, see?
We're maybe 10-ish years after Van blew himself to bits, and it's Medren's POV - that's just random because I needed a narrator. Beware mindless violence, swearing, judicious amounts of Elvish (because Kerowyn said Karsite is a beautiful language, and we all know they steal anything that ain't nailed down), shounen-ai references (like that's going to squick you), and one extremely feeble plot. (I saved the angst up for later). Okay, time for the story...
"There are men who seem born to be the opposite, the reverse, the counterpoint. They are Pollux, Patroclus, Nisus, Eudamidas, Hephastion, Pechméja. They live only upon condition of leaning on another; their names are continuations, and are only written preceded by the conjunction 'and'; their existence is not their own; it is the other side of a destiny…
We might almost say that affinities commence with the letters of the alphabet. In the series, O and P are inseparable. You can, as you choose, pronounce O and P, or Orestes and Pylades…"
A Group Which Almost Became Historic, Les Miserables (Victor Hugo, 1862)
I really don't know how he does it.
He should be unconscious by now. I'm dog-tired and I swear he's been sleeping about four hours a night for over a month now. But he's still going, smiling like an angel, and somehow guiding me through the haze when I could have conceivably passed out if I'd've been alone.
He draws me to a table in the corner, a low, sturdy lump just asking to be slumped over. I oblige, and minutes pass before a hand reaches down through the darkness and shakes my shoulder. I miserably try to raise my eyelids, make slight progress on the fifth attempt, and half-focus on the little face opposite mine. "Coffee?" it enquires sympathetically.
I force myself upright - it's too strange seeing him looking vertically downwards at me - and nod wearily. He smiles, waves his left hand in a maddeningly dramatic sweep, and sure enough, a girl jumps to his upraised finger almost as if she'd been fixed to it by a string. Almost as if she'd been lurking around waiting for him to order something. She's not bad either; blonde, I guess, it's hard to tell in this light, the right shape in the right places, not too old, but not too young either. I could do without the way she's completely ignoring my existence, though. "Sir-" I scrape my stool along the ground, noisily enough to grate on his delicate ears with any luck. "-s?" she finishes, jumping slightly. I think I see her shiver in the firelight as her gaze breaks away from his.
"Coffee." I growl, willing away my belligerence. He truly does not deserve it, and I've only just met her.
"That's white, no sugar," he says before I have to. "And an Evendim Cream." he adds gently. She smiles dreamily, and skips off into the crowd. Maybe, just maybe, it would actually be more bearable if he were doing it even remotely on purpose…
He leans towards me, brow creased in a faerie scowl, and says "Are you planning on cheering up any time tonight?"
A weak laugh chokes its way out of my throat. Is there anyone alive I'd rather be on the road with? He grins at me, catlike, and settles down opposite. I blink the last of the dust out of my eyes and take a look around the room.
It's as good as we could have hoped for. A bit smoky from the huge open fire, maybe, but the warmth seeping through my skin is beyond recompense. The bar-room would be pretty spacious if it wasn't also packed out; people are everywhere, laughing and talking and arguing inanely over everything there is or nothing at all, in the alcohol-soaked heat of humanity I'd forgotten I'd been missing for the past half a year. There's every sort here, men, women, sometimes together, some younger than they ought to be, some older than they'd like to be, all celebrating something, be it merely another week closer to summer. A slight preponderance of those with hard but weary muscles and the sheer appetite for drink suggests that maybe we're not the only two who are staging here while riding home from the war.
A brief scan confirms that I've been relieved of all my excess baggage, but my rapier remains, resting comfortably against my left hip, the moulded pistol-grip hilt giving me a familiar metallic tickle. The removal of the rest suggests something unlikely but very, very welcome. "You found us rooms for the night?" I glance incredulously at the throng of people.
"Of course." The infernal smile widens. Yes, of course. I suppose all pubs reserve rooms for this very eventuality, just waiting for all the beaming little kingsmen with every charm of a seraph's pet kitten who turn up at godawful marks dragging their dust-encrusted weather-beaten half-asleep comrades behind them. Of course. "We're up on the first floor, just right from the stairs."
He turns to the maid, who has just rematerialised at his elbow, and accepts his drink with genteel gratitude. He is seemingly oblivious to the way she brushes his arm as she leans past him to present me with my coffee. He's overgenerous with the coins, as ever; he always says he does that because he once knew what it was like to have nothing, and I can't really criticise that view. I note his order - a rich, lulling liqueur, brewed more with a northern winter in mind than a dry southern spring. More to the point, it does not to my knowledge contain a single chemical stimulant. "You're not tired?" I ask icily.
He chuckles softly. "No, just cold, mainly." I start to drink slowly, not wanting to make myself too alert this late at night. Behind me, I feel the crowd stilling as the wearier members gradually drift away, floating upstairs, slinking uptown, or falling into sleep.
"Not a bad day's journey," I mutter into the quiet pool around us, sarcasm close on blistering my lips.
He pats my right hand. "There's no need to be so gloomy. It'll get easier every day we get further north." I raise an eyebrow sceptically, and he sighs in frustration. "Yes, really. Come on. Wasn't it so much better than yesterday?"
Yesterday we weren't even off the border, still heading west to meet the northward road. Worse than the dust or the crumbly highroad was the damned stress of traversing the territory, the way every decent-sized bush could have meant a pack of bandits… "Maybe," I admit.
"No, completely cheerless, I see." I nod, and he mimes a scowl - then suddenly looks concerned. "Is that wrist still bothering you?"
"No." Now I really can't stop my voice warming to someplace this side of glacial, however much I'd like to stay cross. The sprain hasn't bothered me for days, and I'd completely forgotten about it. Seems he hadn't. He's beyond considerate at times - I honestly think he cares more about my welfare than I do.
A sudden pattering of the thin wall beside me diverts me from my encroaching good humour. "It's raining," I say accusingly, as if holding him personally responsible for the occurrence.
"It'll pass." He shrugs, and sips his drink. "Might clear the air while it's at it, too."
"Hmm. Does that mean we can stay here if it carries on like that?"
"You don't want to get home a day sooner?" Oh cut the logic, it's too long since sunset damnit… I sniff my agreement and down the last of my coffee. I wave for the girl, needing something alcoholic, but she doesn't notice. He silently offers me a little of his, and I take it gladly. It feels even warmer in here now that's inside me - if I'm not careful I could easily fall asleep where I am.
"I'm sure you'll feel happier when we're nearer to home," he muses.
"I guess. Saddle-sores seem more like progress when you don't have so far left to go."
He grins. "Cynic. But it's not just that, is it? It's less stressful being near home; everything's so familiar and welcoming. Don't you think?"
"Yes. Like - like hearing people talking with the right accent, or seeing the right trees by the wayside."
"Or knowing the smell of the breeze. That's it." We share a smile; two friends on our way back to civilisation. It's good that he can understand that feeling. He's my oldest friend, and I can't ever be sad or lonely when he's around. He has a knack for soothing away my worst moods too. I'm so glad he's here, I think I'd go mad without him.
We fall back into silence for a while.
A snatch of music reaches my ear; a voice, a soprano voice singing like a bell, soft words crooned in some rounded, flowing tongue. He cranes his neck, then gestures at the hearthplace. I look, and see a shadow standing in the flames, lithe and dark, surrounded by silent onlookers. The sound is fine and sweet - it's been too long since I last heard a child sing in innocence. But the language she sings is one I have no good memories of. It's only now that I think to ask - "Stef?"
"Yes?"
"Where the hell are we?"
"Cordor," he whispers, eyes glazing over in appreciation of the music. Ah. That explains the Karsite, then - we're still in the belt of far-south border-towns. It's one of the many things the Karsites have that they neither appreciate nor deserve; probably the most beautiful language in the world. I allow my mind the freedom of the melody, without even trying to keep control - I'm too tired to have the will and besides, I know Stef will catch me before I can break my neck. He never trips out unless he really wants to, and I think he can go further down than most can if he does - somewhere between his unusually powerful gift, his odd mind-healing ability and the psychic traces of his old bond with my uncle, his trances have become finely controlled.
My eyes flutter open, and I find him as alert as ever, green eyes scanning the fireside gathering, lips parted enough to show a tiny flash of tooth. Rationality trickles back, and I follow his gaze - the nightingale has now stepped into the light. She's very young, no more than nine or ten, large-eyed and as thin as a twig. You could have taken her for a changeling. She bows her head politely in the way of country-folk, and Stef's expression becomes almost predatory. "Gifted?" He nods curtly, as if annoyed. "You think she's headed north soon?"
"Will be if I have anything to do with it. But she's Karsite."
I look at her tanned, heart-shaped face in new understanding. I watch as she takes a glass of water handed to her, too shy even to smile at its bearer. Problems, problems, it's too late for me to even list them all without it hurting. She might not want to go, they might not want to take her, her parents won't like it, hells that hurts, I can't keep the brainwork up any longer. Maybe once the coffee's kicked in. That barmaid's fussing over her, giving her fruit - and I see her back straighten as she notices Stefen's interest. She shakes her young charge, and a rosy smile breaks on Stef's face as the child bows her head at him.
A stray memory tugs at my mind, warm but bittersweet. He turns his smile on me, and I find myself saying "Do you know what Van told me about that?"
The emerald gaze grows warm and just a little distant. He raises his glass in his left hand and murmurs "No," then drinks very deeply and slowly.
"That curtseying's fine for courtly girls, but all country girls bow, because they're more honest."
He sets the mug down and laughs, high and clear. His shoulders slip down and his whole posture seems to lighten. It's as if the sun is suddenly shining onto his face. "That's him," he says, and he folds forward, elbows spreading over the table. He rests his head in both hands and his lips twist up into an unrecognisable expression. His eyes drift shut, and when they reopen they seem to focus on something that isn't there.
It's not precisely an unusual response to that particular topic of conversation. It seems strange, but he's never avoided talking about Vanyel; I guess he likes to know that others still think of him sometimes too. "Stef?" I wave a hand in front of his eyes, and he starts, blinking rapidly in the dim light.
He grins, wide and slow, with a wicked spark of humour in his eyes. "Sorry. I was just deciding what Van would do about this," and he waves at the little gathering behind me.
"And?" I grin back.
He twists a finger in one of those little ringlets that spiral down below his ears. "He'd kidnap her. He'd talk to her until she was convinced he was Kernos' own avatar, then lead her away on a string in full view of everyone, and they'd all bow down before him and think it was Destiny or somesuch. And if anyone at Bardic even thought about her origins he'd glare them to death."
I'm laughing now. "Think we could pull it off?"
"No." He smiles almost sadly. "Wouldn't be the same. We couldn't do the -" he breaks off, lost for words to describe that strange aura that made miracles turn up like bad weather everywhere his bondmate went.
Maybe I'm a little more objective than he is on certain subjects. "Complete pomposity?" That gets another laugh out of him, along with a small nod of grudging agreement. Gods, he's wonderful when I'm tired. Just eternally good-humoured and optimistic, far too strong to ever let anything really get to him. How he wound up getting bonded to his complete polar opposite is completely beyond me. Van was a doomsayer, a quibbler, a chronic worrier - that's not to say Stef isn't shrewd as hell, but he's so warm and happy and forgiving… I can't always quite believe how well he copes with everything, after all he's been through, but he does. Nothing phases him or scares him, and there isn't a scrap of spite in his soul. He's helped me through so much in the twenty years I've known him, and asked for nothing in return. He's just brilliant, really, the best friend anyone could ever have.
Reality beckons, and that grin is getting wickeder. He stands up and kicks his stool under the table. "Huh? Stef -"
He looks over his shoulder, radiating deviousness. "I can try, can't I?" He floats toward the fire, an overgrown moth, loose clothes fluttering in the draughts (everything's loose on Stef) and long hair lifting like a comet-tail. I scramble up after him, biting back a curse - I don't know what he's up to but it's likely to be completely manic.
He's talking to the barmaid - the girl? Oh gods, she's already getting the Worshipful expression, what is he trying to pull? Someone moves in front of me, I crane my neck round again - oh. Some damned fool has given him a lute; I think we're all screwed. What in hell is he up to?
I drop into the nearest seat, steeling myself for something drastic. He's good, damned good, and controlled enough to brainwash anyone he pleases once he's got hold of an instrument - even someone as usually immune to that stuff as I am. I hold my breath for the first few chords -
I exhale, somehow still in charge of my own emotions. Either the coffee's started working or he isn't even really trying; probably both, in fact. I can half-feel little ripples of power running through the crowd, and I thank all the gods that he's chosen to spare our souls the full torment tonight.
The air tingles in a familiar wave, old and friendly, though why he chose it I can't imagine. I haven't heard 'My Lady's Eyes' in many a year, and I know he abhors it for trite nonsense anyway - what's he playing at? I see him wink angelically at the little girl, flames creeping through his hair, and then he opens his mouth and lets his soul slip out -
"Nya tari hen ná ve vilya
I ros ar nar luin -"
Through my complete astonishment, I hear the child gasp. I can feel her heart opening up - I think he's focussing the damn song just on her. Karsite. You can't spend months on end on a war-torn border without picking up something, but singing in Karsite? And this is brilliant; forget mind-tricks, forget the Gift, he's a truly accomplished technical performer and he's not holding any of that back. He's making the cheap misshapen instrument sound like a luthier's wet dream, and every last vowel of that cursed tongue is coming out pure and perfect. I'm impressed, and she looks about ready to start a religion.
Well, Stef, what can I say? Yes, Van would have just scared them all to death, but you're charming them instead, using your own magnetism in your own way. And they'll not forget you any more than they'd forget him; they'll still be here in a hundred years talking about the star-glowing kingsman who changed their fates with the grace of the angel -
Huh. Maybe they aren't so different, after all. Maybe…
His voice lifts off the last note, and his left hand shakes the strings, moving in a blur, then stills. A heavy silence settles over the room, stifling my exclamations and pinning me unmoveable to my seat. He stands, bows his head low, and turns to the girl, taking her dark hand in his long fingers.
"Tari," he murmurs, just barely audible to me - lady, he called her lady, the trap is well and truly shut - "nye ran ne foron, ne caras Haven," - something about north, travelling north to a city?
She's gazing at him with the expression I imagine a wren would give to a firebird who had just invited it to lunch. He catches her eyes and whispers "Utuli met nye." She nods dazedly, and I can feel the blood running over the seal. Come with me, come-with-me come-with-me, he has so caught her…
I want to cry out, to tell him he's crazy and there's no way two battered, battle-chewed singers are going to just walk off with this faerie-girl in the middle of an all-out war, but I can't do it, can't bear to spoil the beautiful snare he's crafted around us. He's too damned strong for me, too amazingly angelic - at this moment, I'd as soon have stood up to Vanyel in full flight -
Gods, Stef, you're more like him than you could ever know, sometimes.
He steps back and smiles his divine smile again, and says "Amrun omentië-lme, tari." - morning-meeting, I think, gods now I really can't stop this - "Si, noro an lya hoth a pedo -"
"She has no family, kingsman."
Every head in the room whips round to face the source of the interruption. Excepting Stef, that is, who raises his gaze slowly to the back of the room, still locked in a calm of his own. She's standing by the entrance, leaning on the doorpost and glaring at Stefen with a degree of violence that is wholly disproportionate to any threat the little bard could possibly represent. Rain drips off her dark hair, reflecting the fireglow, illuminating her scar-covered face like a bloody halo. She takes a step towards him, and her leather garb creaks ominously. She stands before him, mastering him by a clear six inches, and her huge hand touches the hilt of a rapier that hangs loosely from her chain-link belt.
Her voice is harsh, her tone aggressive, her vowels skewed open and viciously Karsite. "Her family was murdered when the kingsmen sacked the town of Kohel. Not many of us escaped. Have you come here to finish your massacre, kingsman?"
He extends his hands, palm-up. "No, milady. I am offering your young friend here a future."
I know her voice. I've heard it too often before now. The vagabond, the bandit, the bitter remnant of a lost war. Valdemar had welcomed this woman, drawn her from the Sun-Priests' jaws, and received the traditional bandits' repayment. What hold does she have on this child? Friendship? The girl moves behind Stef, afraid, oppressed - I can't know what has been between them but it's clear that it's no kind of trust or companionship. What is she, your punching-bag? He's doing the right thing beyond all doubt, but this is dangerous ground he's treading on -
He turns, makes to come sit beside me. "Kingsman," she rasps. He freezes, not even looking back. "She is not going to leave Cordor." He shakes his head and stands beside me, oblivious to the notched and broken sword resting in her hand. "And neither will you!"
She raises it and leaps forward, spitting on the ground in berserker fury. I start, try to rise, try to push him away from her charge -
- where? -
A twisted, unreal instant passes - something flows in and round and out -
I hit the floor, felled by some force I never saw coming, and I hear the cold scratch of metal near my body. Steel meets steel too close to my ears, numbing my mind for a lethal second, but I roll off into a corner somehow, feeling like a puppet-doll, my head twisting round of its own volition and fixing my vision on the silhouettes outlined in the firelight -
They're circling around each other, scanning every inch for a weak point or deficiency. Gods, she's dangerous - long-limbed and supple, far too much taller than him, and outreaching him by a frightening amount. He's faster, smaller, probably smarter…it's not enough, it can't possibly be enough… They settle to a halt, her between him and the fire, and she raises to an en garde position. Good gods this is bad, she's standing like a seasoned professional and I know he rarely touches rapier - he can't win this he's going to die oh, holy Goddess…
I stop breathing when they engage - but it's just a test and he knows it. He takes her probing cut and tries to riposte it, but she catches the swing on her blade. He twists and feints for her head but she doesn't fall for it, too much to hope for, slides her blade deftly down to waist-level to parry his little follow-up. She backs away, satisfied, and changes her grip in preparation for something bigger.
He settles back on his knees, keeping his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to make any move necessary. Oh, gods. The girl is huddling in a knot of people - everyone has drawn back, most of them looking on with the ugly, speculative interest violence gets in dreary border-towns. Like vultures waiting for - oh no. He might live if he's fast enough. Please, be fast enough. Don't close with her, please, play defensive damn you, don't even consider a -
- full frontal assault -
what the -?
She crouches, trying block after block, shrieking under the rain of blows he's sending at her. He's moving so fast I can barely see it, weaving around like a rattlesnake, ducking in and out of her reach too fast for her to follow. Fire dances off his blade - my blade - his hair, his clothes - Another cut that she can't parry, another swing that never lands on him. He dips low again, hacks up, spins round her, slices from the back and almost hamstrings her, gore streaming after the rapier like a dark red shadow. She screams, stumbles, flails blindly at his head, and I hear the child cry out. He jumps back, blood pouring down his face, and then springs -
- He holds back the sword, kicks at her battered legs and throws her back into the flames.
He dances back as she thrashes in the hearth, howling and rolling and burning, like a firebird in a cage. And he stands before me motionless, weapon held loosely in two fingers, watching as the life chokes out of her dark frame, still and blazing - dead, dying? Stef - I'm too stunned to think, to shocked to react. Stef, I've never seen you - I didn't think you could -
The girl creeps forward, tears streaming down her face. "Aran?" she whispers, and touches his trailing left hand.
What am I seeing?
A mantle, glittering like starlight, seems to lift off his shoulders and vanish like smoke in the air - this isn't real - He falls in on himself as if wilting, as if something is torn from him, and casts the blade to the floor like it's burning him. He pivots and I finally see his face, sheened with sweat and streaked from the right cheek with blood. His eyes meet mine, and my breath catches in my throat at the raw, crazed look in them; shock and pain and something utterly the wrong side of sanity, blazing out of those whirling green storms -
He inhales with a hiss, turns, and strides out the back of the room.
"Stef," I murmur, trying frantically to collect my shattered thoughts. Everyone's suddenly talking and moving, the child crying in the arms of that bedamned barmaid, two men trying to pull the banditess out of the firebox, panic and excitement, chatter and gesture, and - small mercy - none of it directed at me. I pull myself up, pick up the fallen sword, and I let my fingers run over the fine pistol-grip as I try to decide what I did and did not just see happen.
I clean the blade numbly, trying to hold on to a single scrap of reason, and I sheathe it, still toying distractedly with the twisted hilt -
Oh good fuck -
A woman yelps as I barge past her, forcing my way to the stairs. Good gods, Stef, what in the nine hells have you been hiding from me?