vigorli

Title: Purity of Intention (2 / ?)
Author:

arieltachna
Type: not sure what exactly to call it – a blend of FPS & RPS
Pairing: Diego / Orlando
Rating: NC-17
Warning: none
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, created for entertainment and enjoyment only. With all due respect, we do not own these characters, either the actors or those created by Arturo Pérez-Reverte. We just think it’s a fascinating world.
Feedback: would be wonderful
Beta:

sileya
Summary: A cynical swordsman is hired to return a runaway – or so it appears
A/N: thanks to

akashaelfwitch for help with translation
A/N2: this chapter is for

kinseymill’s birthday – because she asked for it!

Chapter 1

~~~~~

Diego Alatriste sat at a table in a shadowy corner of el Caballito Encabrita, nursing a tankard of ale and watching the tavern slowly fill with patrons as the evening wore on. He had arrived in Málaga around mid-day, and after a quick ride about the town to orient himself, he had spotted several senoritas of less than sterling virtue taking their ease under the shade of a portico on one of the less fashionable streets. A few minutes of conversation and light flirtation had rewarded him with the location of the inn he sought. McKellen's gold had made it easy to procure an adequate room, and now he sat, eyes narrowed as he scrutinized each newcomer who entered the common room for one that matched his quarry's description.

Despite his friend and bodyguard’s warnings to the contrary, Orlando Bloom simply could not stay in his stuffy room a minute longer. He had to get out, even if it was only to descend to the equally stuffy tavern below. What harm could there be in having a drink, or a few? Eric had disagreed, but ultimately, he let Orlando sway him. They descended the steps into the common room, the sights and scents and sounds immediately assaulting their senses. Out of habit, Eric scanned the room for any new or suspicious faces. Orlando’s father was paying him well to keep the lad safe, and he had every intention of earning his pay.

The patience learned on many a weary campaign was rewarded when, shortly before ten, two men who could only be those he sought entered the tavern. The larger of the two was tall, heavily muscled, with the unconsciously arrogant air of one who had every confidence in his own strength. But it was the younger of the two who caught Alatriste’s attention. The Englishman had described his quarry as a boy, but it was no stripling who accompanied the bravo into the common room. Though slender, the young man moved with a dancer's easy grace, and the face surrounded by a halo of dark, wavy curls could have served Velasquez as the model of an angel. Diego sank deeper in the shadows as the pair found empty seats at a table a short distance away.

Orlando flagged down a passing barmaid and ordered ale for himself and Eric. He suspected Eric would not do more than sip at his, but Orlando could finish it if Eric did not. “Relax,” he urged his friend. “There is nothing here to worry about, just the same familiar crowd. No one followed us and no one but my father knows we are here.”

Though the noise of the tavern made it impossible for him to overhear the pair's conversation, enough carried to Diego's ears for him to recognize that the two were not speaking the king’s Spanish. If he had needed any further confirmation that these were the men he sought, that affirmed it. Taking a sip from his tankard, he settled back to watch and wait. It would be much easier to separate the boy from his hulking companion after they had both had a few ales under their belts.

As Orlando had predicted, Eric drank little, but that did not bother the younger man. He was relaxed and comfortable and drank enough for both of them. There was nothing else to do to pass the time, at least nothing that Eric would let him do. The bodyguard had proven remarkably resistant to Orlando’s charms. “How much longer will we stay in Málaga?” he asked again, though the answer had been the same since they arrived.

“Until the end of the month, as you well know,” Eric replied. “Then we will find somewhere else to stay for another month. And we will keep doing this until the negotiations with Spain are finished and the threat to you is lifted.”

Orlando sighed. He knew Eric was right, knew this was for his own protection, but he was ready to return home, to return to his familiar haunts where he could be himself, rather than this overwhelmingly conservative country that looked askance at everything and everyone.

It did not escape Diego's notice that the larger man – Bana, McKellen had called him – barely touched his drink, while Orlando was imbibing enough for both of them. Though their heads were bent close to each other over the small table as they conversed, he saw nothing that hinted at the relationship his employer had indicated between the two. Perhaps they were simply being circumspect in public, though that pointed to more control than the younger of the two was currently demonstrating. As the night wore on along with the number of tankards he consumed, the young man's expression became more animated, his gestures more sweeping, as if he were trying to convince his partner of something the older man was reluctant to undertake.

Giving up on convincing Eric to do anything more exciting than stare at the walls of the tavern, Orlando rose from his seat. “I need some fresh air,” he told the other man. “I promise I won’t go any further than the alley outside the door, but the smoke in here is getting to me.”

Privately, Eric suspected the ale, not the smoke, was the culprit, but he dutifully rose as well. “I will walk outside with you,” he offered, not wanting to neglect his charge.

A tight smile curled the corners of the Capitán's lips as the two finally rose from their table, Orlando energetically, Bana with seeming reluctance. He waited until they had exited the common room before rising to follow them, tossing a coin on the table as he left. If all went well, he would not need to return.

Eric stood in the shadows of the alley, his hand grasping the hilt of his sword. He had not seen anything to make him suspicious, but his instincts were shouting at him that his charge was in danger. Orlando had come to mean much to the big man. He thought of the boy as a younger brother and had every intention of taking him safely back to his father.

The alley in back of the tavern stank of stale beer, rotting trash, and urine – pretty much like any other alley in back of every other tavern Alatriste had ever seen. He paused in the shadow of the doorframe, quick to notice the big man's hand resting on his sword-hilt. The Capitán revised his estimation of the guard dog – for so he had come to think of the larger of the two – upward. He would not be able to depend upon surprise. No matter, he had another trick or two that would work as well.

“Orlando, we should go back inside,” Eric insisted, nerves jangling for no reason he could name. Maybe it was the heat combined with the putrid smells. Maybe it was the boredom mixed with constant vigilance. Either way or something else entirely, Eric wanted his charge safe behind locked doors again.

“Just a few more minutes,” Orlando wheedled, dreading being locked in yet again. He understood why it was necessary, but that did not mean he had to like it.

Tossing his cloak behind him, Diego exited loudly and clumsily from the back door of the tavern, staggering over the filthy cobblestones and managing a convincing belch as he neared his quarry. "Hoy, amigos!" he slurred, managing another few calculated, weaving steps before stumbling. His hand flashed out to grab the big man's sword arm, as if for balance, while his other hand drew the dagger he had tucked in the back of his belt.

Eric’s annoyance flared when the drunkard grabbed his sword arm. That turned into anger when he saw the knife in the man’s other hand. Shaking off the confining touch, he drew his own sword with a hiss of steel. “Turn and walk the other way,” he warned in a soft but authoritative voice. “I do not want to hurt you.”

Behind him, he could hear Orlando sinking into the shadows as Eric had ordered should a situation like this ever arise. Content that his friend was following orders, he focused entirely on the Spaniard facing him.

The Capitán knew he ought to have struck as soon as he drew his knife. That would have been the prudent move, but it was not an honourable one, and he found himself strangely unwilling to descend to that level before these two. The feint had not been wasted, in any case – he had a good idea now of the big man's reaction time, as well as his strength. Drawing his own sword with a quiet flourish, he inclined his head toward his adversary. "And I do not want to hurt you, but it seems unlikely both of us will get our wish."

When the other man drew his sword, Eric tensed even more. Clearly, this was not merely some drunkard, but rather a man with a purpose. “What do you want?” he asked, hoping it was something simple like gold rather than a far more complicated answer involving the young man behind him.

"I want many things," Diego responded, "but I imagine the only one you are concerned about is the young man hiding in the shadows over there." He gestured with his sword, watching for the opportune moment. "I don't suppose you will be reasonable about this and let him go, will you?"

“Not in this lifetime,” Eric replied hotly, following the other man’s movements with the tip of his sword. “I don’t know who sent you, but you can tell him to go to hell.”

Pleased at his opponent's impassioned response – for a hot-headed swordsman is a careless one – the Capitán decided to fan the flames. "Is it not enough that you have seduced this young man away from his studies, but you must insult those who are justly concerned for his welfare?" he taunted.

So that was the lie the old man was selling, Eric realized. It was a dangerous game, one that could have Orlando dead if he whispered it in the wrong ear. “You insult me by suggesting such a thing,” he replied, consciously tamping down his temper. “En garde!”

Alatriste spared a quick glance at the young man who stood motionless in the shadows before making a quick lunge at his opponent. The larger man would have the advantage of strength over him – he would have to counter with speed, and cleverness. His blade slid along his opponent's steel, opening a slice across the back of the big man's hand from knuckles to wrist.

Cursing as pain danced up his arm, Eric drew back and parried the Spaniard’s thrust, using brute strength to push the other man away, giving himself a chance to regroup before attacking again. Their blades crossed, and Eric met steely blue eyes through the gap. “I will not let you take him.”

"Selfish, are you?" Diego sneered, freeing his blade and countering with a dancing thrust of his own. "Looking at him, I cannot say I blame you."

There it was again, the implication that made Eric see red. He knew Orlando’s preferences and did not hold them against the younger man, but they were preferences he did not share. “’Tis self-interest, not selfishness,” he retorted, his blade catching the Spaniard on the arm, enough to nick the cloth and, Eric hoped, the skin beneath.

"Self-interest?" Diego hissed, though the other man's blade had barely scratched his skin. He riposted fiercely, following through with a series of quick strokes that drove Bana backward over the slimy cobbles. "I have no doubt it is only yourself and your own – needs – that interest you."

Eric met the Spaniard’s steel each time, but he could feel his breath quickening. His opponent was no simple blade. If he could not turn the tide quickly, he would lose this battle. “Orlando,” he called over his shoulder, using his strength to press his attack, hoping to give Orlando a clear path to the tavern door. “Get inside.”

The watchdog's words, even more than his sudden attack, drove the Capitán to return thrust for thrust with equal ferocity. He could not afford to let the youth out of his sight and risk losing him.

Orlando watched, body tensed and ready to run if the opportunity presented itself, but Eric did not succeed in pushing their attacker toward the head of the alley. The Spaniard fought like a demon, and if Orlando had not been so scared of what would happen if Eric lost, he would have admired the lean lines of the older man’s form.

It was apparent his adversary was tiring, but Diego could feel his own muscles beginning to weary as well, and knew he had to make an end of this. Feinting to the left, his arm darted back quickly, avoiding the other's blade and sinking the tip of his sword into the big man's shoulder. At the same time, he stabbed with his other hand, the dagger he had concealed sliding between two lower ribs.

The dual bolts of pain drove Eric to his knees, hands clutching at his shoulder and his side. Looking back over his shoulder and meeting Orlando’s eyes, he gave one last desperate order. “Run!”

Orlando hesitated, not wanting to abandon his friend and defender, but the look on Eric’s face was implacable. Turning on his heel, he ran as though his life depended on it.

It grated at his honor to leave so worthy an opponent simply lying in a growing pool of blood, but the Capitán could not spare a moment if he was to catch the fleeing youth. Hoping the next drinker who needed to relieve himself would find the wounded man, he hastily sheathed his sword and raced after his prize down the dark alley.

Orlando heard the pounding footsteps behind him, cursing steadily under his breath as he swerved unsteadily. Fear had driven away a healthy portion of the alcohol he had consumed that evening, but not all of it, leaving him less fleet than usual. Added to that, he kept seeing Eric go down. His bodyguard had drilled him over and over on what to do if they were attacked, and Orlando had done it, though he had always promised himself he would not leave Eric if a fight went ill. The constant lectures had apparently done their job, because curse himself for a coward, Orlando had run when ordered to do so. He veered around a corner, losing his footing and stumbling, his ankle giving out beneath him as his head hit the cobblestones with a resounding thud.

Diego was so focused on closing the gap between himself and the fleeing youth that when Orlando fell suddenly, he nearly ran into the crumpled body. Dropping to his knees, he lifted the boy's head from the stones, running his free hand over the motionless form to check for injuries. Finding no obvious breaks, he drew a deep breath into his heaving lungs and rose, holding the limp body in his arms.

As he slipped through the back streets to his rooms, the Capitán pondered the evening's turn of events. He had learned over the years to trust his instincts, and the young man in his arms set every one of them on alert.

tbc…