Captive Hearts

A BBC Sherlock Medieval Romance AU Story

By

Nana

Chapter 1

(June 30, 2013) Listen to the first scenes of this chapter, read by aWICKEDgiraffe, at archiveofourown works /863150

Thank you so much, my dear!

Please see author's notes at the end.

It was raining when John first met him.

It was not yet raining hard, just a drizzle— fine needles of rain slanting down occasionally from the dark grey sky above to cut across John's cheek and touch upon his eyelashes, forming droplets that bounced off the windswept hair on his bare head as he ran for his life.

His situation was dire.

Behind him, he could hear his adversary closing in fast. How could he not, when he was astride a horse while John had only his two legs to carry him and the light rain making the grass beneath his feet a slippery mass of sod?

The devil on horseback, out hunting for his favorite kind of quarry: a lost soul.

Because the plain and simple fact was: John should not be here.

Hunger had driven him, together with the two men who formed their small party, into the woods at the very edge of Angria to forage for food and before they had known it, they were lost. They had continued to be lost in those dark, thick woods for well almost three days before they emerged, blinking, into the grey, open light.

Into foreign country.

And an ambush.

From their vantage point on top of the gently sloping hill where the forest had disgorged them, they had spied a tiny village farther down below—a tiny cluster of cottages, desolate looking, with no smoke rising from the stumped chimneys. They did not know where they were, but they had agreed it would be best to take shelter before the rains broke fully on top of their heads. Yet before they could act on their agreement, an arrow had come whizzing through the air and sliced at young Alec's shoulder.

As far as John could ascertain there were three: a man with grey hair and a dark woman on foot, with another man on horseback, dressed completely in black. Appearing as if from nowhere and charging quickly toward them.

John had not waited for another arrow to find its mark. "Run!" he had shouted, shoving Alec and his other companion to scatter to different directions even as he took another one. He had dropped his heavy bag, laden with things from the forest, and had not looked back.

Even so, he knew by the thundering sound of hooves behind him who among the three was after him.

That man in black, astride that demon of a horse as dark as its master.

His own breathing loud in his ears, John finally risked a glance back and saw that the beast was but a few paces away from him now. He could feel its heavy breath misting down his back, see its wicked head and frothing mouth as it drew up several feet away and alongside him.

At the last instant, John swerved away, but he was not fast enough to dodge the lance thrown at his legs to trip him up. He stumbled and fell, his momentum sending him rolling for a few paces before he was up again and running.

But nowhere to run. The rider on the dark horse rounded on him, cutting off all avenues of escape.

The drizzle was heavier now, but not enough to obscure his view of his opponent.

For the first time, with the light rain all around them, John took stock of him in full: the dark curls made wild by the wind on that unprotected head, his body suit made entirely of black armor, partly obscured by a rich, flowing cape, also black. Most daunting: John could not make out his features at all. A black mask hid his visage from the nose up, leaving the lower part of his face free. And John could see that he was smiling.

A most sinister figure. One of those demon-villains featured in countless, old wives' tales to frighten the young. John could feel the hairs on his nape begin to stand on end.

"Surrender," he heard the stranger say in a deep, drawling voice. "Or die."

Gaaldinian. John had no doubt about it, to judge from the accent. So they had, indeed, left the borders of Angria behind. He would have to fight then. That was fine. More than fine. John was a soldier. Fighting was what he did.

John drew his battered sword from his hip holster and held it before him. "Let me go," he said. "Let my comrades go. This should not be made a deeper mistake than it is already."

The smile became a laugh, deep and throaty. "So you acknowledge this as a mistake on your part."

John bit down on his lip, refused to let fear or rage get the better of him. "We were lost in the woods. We had no way of knowing—"

"Excuses, one too many. Let me not hear another one from your mouth," declared the man on the horse. "It bores me, and does not affect the outcome in any way."

"All right," muttered John. "If it's a fight you're itching for. What's the matter though? Are you not sure that you can win over me without the aid of your steed?"

That seemed to check the other man. John was glad.

"Insolent, are we?" the man finally said, his voice cold.

But he dismounted.

John suppressed the wild hope that sprung from the idea that he might be getting a fair fight after all, and merely tightened his grip on his sword. He eyed the figure warily as it slowly advanced toward him, unsheathing his own sword from a jeweled scabbard.

All around them, splinters of silvery rain continued to fall softly.

His sword, John could tell, was very finely made. That much was obvious. The blade looked sharp, viciously so. Definitely not the sort of weapon that John was carrying— scraps of metal partially melted and molded and hastily put together again. It was not much, but it had seen John through his battles so far. John could only pray that it would carry him through this one, because the stranger blocking his path had just said that he wasn't letting him go.

"We don't need to do this," repeated John, buying for time, though what he could possibly do with more time he did not know.

"Drop your weapon then," replied the deep voice coldly.

John considered his choices, and decided he didn't like the notion of being held captive by the enemy. "No," he said stubbornly. "Just let me go. We're not at war yet."

His adversary regarded him with the stillness of a serpent. Then, "You have strong nerves to propose a solution that is not available to you. Your only options are to surrender or fight. I strongly suggest the former if you value your life."

Almost without their knowing it, they had begun to circle one another.

"You are a soldier and a healer, clearly from the Highlands," continued the figure in black. "What may we deduce from your setting foot here, along the borders of Gaaldine, at this most inopportune time?"

If John was surprised at the man's words, he refused to act on it. "Enough talk then!" he cried as he finally made his move, swinging his sword in an arc. "Let's fight, if we must!"

The stranger was quick to intercept his blow, their swords clashing, meeting. There was a second or so when both men were caught in a strange, precarious balance, neither of them capable of advancing against the other. A second or so when their faces were merely inches apart, breathing each other's breath which turned to fine mist in the cold rain. John's blue eyes were dark and unrelenting as he stared into the wide, pale ones of his adversary. The very air around them seemed to shiver with something invisible, like a current.

Impossibly light, the color of those eyes. The mask obscuring the stranger's face could not hide the naked astonishment in them.

A mere second, nothing more. But John had been through enough skirmishes to have a feeling of this fight's possible outcome: against all odds, he might just win this fight after all.

The man before him was good- there was no doubt that he had classical training behind him. But the sword was clearly not his weapon of choice. John could tell the very moment their swords met, as if swords could speak to him and tell him something of their bearers.

He withdrew his sword roughly, suddenly. He heard the shrill screech of metal against metal as they disengaged, and he brought his blade forward on his opponent with a short, savage swing. He was not going to give the man any chance to launch an offensive.

The man caught his sword again against his, but his hold over his own sword was weakening under the force of John's onslaught. The man must have sensed it, for he suddenly broke off their stalemate with a rough shove of his sword against John's.

"Monseigneur!" A man's voice sounded from a few dozen yards away.

"Get back, Lestrade!" John heard the man in black snarl. "This one's mine."

Oh no, I'm not, thought John grimly. It's the other way around, mate.

He lunged at the man, parried his sword, sidestepped and thrust back, bringing his weight to bear on his sword— a complex, little dance made more intimate because of all that was at stake. Surely they had not been fighting for more than five minutes, and yet it felt like an eternity to John. In that tiny pocket of time when everything else stood still, they were giving it everything they got. Evenly matched in all aspects, until suddenly they were not. John saw it, that almost imperceptible move that marked an error in his opponent's stance— his window of opportunity. With one final swing with all his strength behind it, he pounded on the adversary's weapon with his own. And watched as the enemy's beautiful sword flew out of the man's hands, did a brief somersault in the rain before landing with a dull thud on the grassy mud.

A sword, no matter how finely made, was but a sword, John would have wanted to say, but he was not to have the chance. Before he could even bring his sword back in front of him and consider what he would do to the man before him, he heard a faint hiss in the air. A soft whoosh.

Just the sound, foreign and incomprehensible, and John would not know what hit him as something struck him from behind. He was unconscious before he hit the soft mud at his feet.

The heavens high above him continued to weep unnoticed.

He might have been out a couple of hours. Or perhaps it was an entire day. It was hard to tell. When he slowly came to, everything in his body hurt like hell, but not as much as the throbbing at the back of his head. Somebody close by was moaning- a low, monotonous bleat. With difficulty, John shut his dry mouth and realized that he was the one making the dreadful sound.

Long moments of disorientation. A hand on his shoulder, rousing him. Somebody was talking above his head in agitated tones. For a moment, John could not make sense of the words he was hearing. When he finally opened his eyes, he realized that it was Alec, looming over him.

So young Alec was all right. Their other companion was nowhere in sight.

John licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue, and croaked, "Where-?"

John wasn't really sure what he was looking at, high above him. A tapered, canvas roof with the harsh sound of incessant rain beating upon it from outside. A tent. They were inside a tent.

Alec was shaking his head miserably and was about to open his mouth when a voice said behind him, "So you're all up now, are you?"

The words were spoken in a gruff drawl.

It only took a second for John to piece together everything. He stared past Alec's wounded shoulder at the man who had entered. Yes, he had seen him. He was that man with the grey hair in the field, heavy of build, square of jaw.

Lestrade. The man in black had called him Lestrade.

The man was now shaking his head ruefully. "Bleeding Christ," he muttered, staring at the two prisoners before him. "As if I don't have enough on my hands right now."

"Water," whispered John.

Lestrade nodded at Alec. "Go ahead. Give him some," he said. "Let it not be said that we are depriving you of any basic necessity."

John drank thirstily from a cup offered by Alec.

"I suppose you gents might want to start answering some questions, while you're our… guests?" remarked Lestrade, his tone almost congenial.

John was not paying attention to him. "You're still bleeding," he said to Alec, eyeing the clumsily tied rag around his shoulder that served as a bandage.

"It's just a flesh wound," whispered Alec. Fear was etched in his wide blue eyes like a shadow.

John raised his eyes to the newcomer. "He's injured," he pointed out. "Can't we have somebody to treat him?"

Lestrade crossed his arms over his chest. "Our doctor will be along shortly," he said, his tone indifferent, "after he's done with his duties around the camp. May take a while though. I'd be more worried over that bump you sustained at the back of your head than his little wound there. At least Sally did not end up killing you outright."

The man's last words did not mean anything to John. "Our bag," he said suddenly. "We have medicine. From the forest. I can...did you get our bag, at least?"

Lestrade raised his brows, stepped out nonchalantly to speak to someone outside the tent. "Yes, we've got your bag," he said, moving back.

"Might I at least treat my comrade, if you are unwilling?" said John, slowly sitting up. He fought to keep from wincing as he rubbed over the sore area behind his head with an unsteady hand.

God, what had taken him down? It felt like it had taken away half his head as well.

"Oh?" said Lestrade, eyebrows raised. "You're a doctor, are you?"

John said nothing, merely regarded the man warily.

A movement outside the tent. Lestrade moved to intercept the heavy bag as it was handed in.

Oh no, thought John. He could only hope the contents had been spared from the rain. It had taken him so much time to forage for all of this, and they would be ruined if they got wet.

Lestrade frowned as John opened the bag and slowly scooped out the contents: sheaves of tree fungi, dry bark, dark moss, strange leaves. A cluster of small white flowers, rapidly wilting. Granules of dirt, along everything. John sighed in relief. They were pretty much intact.

"It all looks like forest debris," noted Lestrade, eyeing the things in John's tender hands the way he would a basket of worms.

Yes, what would a philistine know about forest medicine? John thought grimly, fighting the urge to snort. Ignoring the man, he began sorting out the necessary ingredients he would need to treat Alec's injury.

Carefully, he unwrapped the bloody bandage from Alec's shoulder. Examining the wound, he said softly, "Yeah, not so bad, but rather deep. We wouldn't want it to start festering."

He ground bits of tree bark with his fingers until they crumbled. He mixed them together with a pinch of dark moss in the cup of water until it turned into a soggy, dark brown paste. This he rubbed on Alec's wound with a practiced hand. Lestrade watched the proceedings in bemused silence.

"Where did you learn all of this?" he asked after John was finished, sounding interested despite himself.

John did not acknowledge his question and, determined to make a complete nuisance of himself, announced instead, "We're hungry. Are we not to have anything to eat?"

He watched in grim satisfaction as their captor's features twisted in annoyance, but before he could say anything, somebody from outside interrupted yet again. "My lord," John heard somebody murmur.

A brief conversation. Finally Lestrade turned back to them. "We're not done yet," he said as he swept aside a fold of the canvas tent and let himself out.

Hours went by and the man did not return. In his absence they had been given a thin, tasteless porridge that served as breakfast. Lestrade's continued absence gave John some time to doze and gather his strength back, and to ply Alec with questions.

It was all a mess, their plan. Whatever it was, to begin with. Yet they knew that if they chose to stay longer in their fragmenting unit of a fighting corps, they would starve. Made up of a motley crew of men from several villages up further north, they had come to the southern borders of Angria only to find that war may or may not happen with Gaaldine, depending on certain negotiations still being done on both sides. Worse, the lord they were serving was a young, inexperienced whelp who had recently replaced his elderly father. This was his first campaign, and the first disaster to await him was the realization that he was unprepared to feed and shelter the multitude of men under him who had heard of a war and rushed to take full advantage of its possibilities. Nor did the young lord have enough sway over these particular kinds of men. Before the first few days were out, his camp had dissolved into a series of infighting and some of the soldiers had decided to leave in disgust.

One of them was John.

He had not really known what to do next- perhaps join another regiment- but had finally decided he had better things to occupy his time than wait for war to break out. He had not been paid nor fed properly while he was still in camp, so he would have to find his own food. That had been the reason why he, being newly masterless, had gone into the forest with Alec close at his heels. And then they had gotten lost.

And now this.

Their other companion, a man they only knew as Stephen, had managed to elude their captors and made it back to the forest. God only knew how he was going to make it through that wilderness alone.

From what Alec had told him, John was able to make out what happened after he was struck unconscious.

Alec had seen the weapon that brought him down, but he could not really tell what it was. A slim, triangular object that the dark-skinned woman had wielded. It flew in the air in an arc and could be maneuvered to return to the woman's clutches. Alec had never seen anything like it. The woman who had thrown it was skilled enough so that the thing had only grazed at John's head. Clearly not an easy thing to do. If it had struck him at full impact, he had no doubt that he would have been killed.

After he was down, he had to be half-carried, half-dragged by Alec to the enemy's camp. It was a good hour away from the forest edge, and the leader on the horse— already furious at the woman for her intervention with the strange weapon— had finally lost all patience at their snail's pace in the heavy rain, and barked, "Oh for God's sake, just sling him over here and let's get on with it!"

So John had ridden the rest of the way to camp slung over the man's horse.

"Why didn't they just leave me behind," wondered John, casting a glance at the canvas flap.

The man Lestrade had not returned. What would happen next if he did return? What did they plan to do to him and Alec? Would he be seeing that man in black again? Clearly he was somebody of high rank. Lestrade's superior officer, no doubt. Strange that he would go around with a mask on his face. What did it all mean?

So many questions.

Or they could just barge out of here, said John to himself as his thoughts turned to a different avenue in his mind. He didn't know how many men were outside, didn't know if they had any chance in hell in overpowering the murmuring guards, but he had heard enough stories about Gaaldinians— Gaaldinian men, especially— to consider escape as a necessity.

"What?" Alec's query brought John back to the present. "The enemy leaving you behind to risk your escaping?"

"Not if the cold got to me first," John remarked. "Which it would have."

It was early spring, but the nights were still cold. Leave an unconscious man out in the open long enough and he would not regain consciousness.

This wasn't making sense, any of it.

According to Alec's calculations, that was all from last night. Surely, they were now into early morning, but there was no way of telling the time. For now they were safely away from the rain and that was all that mattered. Their clothes and boots were still damp, but they were intact, and doing a good job in keeping the cold at bay. There was no solution for chilled hands or heads, other than rub the former together and breathe into their cupped hands to borrow some warmth for their faces. Their enemies would have to wait before they got any answers from them.

"You know, he was here," said Alec during a lull in their conversation.

"Who?"

"That masked man," said Alec. "He came while you were still out. He looked over your head and tried to rouse you, but he couldn't so he left."

John blinked, surprised. "He...he was here?" he asked. "Wait, what-?"

Just then, the heavy canvas fold lifted as it was held back and the grey-haired man known as Lestrade entered the enclosure once again. His face was set in stern lines, his jaw set. He looked winded, as though he had been running.

"You." He gestured at John. "Come with me."

He held the tent flap open for John to pass through. "Guard the boy," he heard Lestrade give instructions to the guards outside.

In the heavy downpour, John could make out the shapes of men going to and fro, and realized that escape was virtually impossible. They were in the middle of a garrison armed to the teeth. But right now, there was no time to make further observations as he was herded through the maze of tents, past the men and beasts going about their business, sidestepping pools of mud and rain on the uneven ground, until he and Lestrade stopped outside a larger, opulent-looking tent.

The heavy, cloying smell of incense wafted out to greet them as soon as the older man lifted the flap of the tent and ushered John in. He fought not to gag.

"Anderson!" cried Lestrade, coughing. "What the hell are you doing!"

"What does it look like I'm doing?" snapped his comrade, a tall man with narrow, rodent-like features as he stood over a bed, holding a quivering white wrist in his hand. Beside him stood a boy no older than sixteen or seventeen, looking quite panicked. "I'm trying everything I can think of to help him!"

It was then that John saw the bed's occupant.

No, he thought.

"Well, he's not going to like it if he realizes you've been near him!" interjected Lestrade angrily.

"I don't think he will realize that just now," muttered Anderson.

"Oh, Jesus bloody Christ!" Lestrade exclaimed as he took a closer look at the man on the bed.

It was him. The man in black. But what a difference from yesterday: the tall, haughty form who had barred John's way with his horse and his imposing demeanor now lay prostrate in bed, sweating into his bed linens, tossing restlessly in a very high fever.

Lestrade turned to John.

"You can heal people," said Lestrade urgently. "Start healing him, then!"

John gazed down at the writhing form in front of him, in the throes of fever and delirium, and he could not help but remember the vivid details of their fight just yesterday. He had bested this man in hand-to-hand combat, yet he was now this man's captive. His hostage.

This man before him who was no less than his enemy.

John raised hooded eyes to glare at Lestrade. "Give me one good reason why I should help you save him," he said.

Lestrade swallowed. "If he dies," he said, his voice a low, hoarse rasp. "If Monseigneur dies, we are all. Dead."

Author's notes: Monseigneur is fashioned after Edward of Woodstock, Prince of Wales, more popularly known as the Black Prince.