FIC - Purity of Intention (14/?)

[oceansecrets2.livejournal.com]

Title: Purity of Intention (14/?)
Author: namarie120and arieltachna
Type: RPS / FPS crossover
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 tularia for the beautiful banner
A/N2 – This chapter is for Carol on her birthday – who would have thought when the first chapter was posted a year ago that we would still be writing this?





Orlando managed to keep his facade in place and his feet beneath him until the door to Diego's rooms shut behind Íñigo, Eric having stayed below on guard. As soon as he heard the latch click, his knees folded, collapsing beneath him as the magnitude of what he had attempted, the depth of what he'd implied, washed over him. All the nerves he had not let himself feel, all the fear he'd pushed aside to project his mask of arrogance came rushing back at him all at once, leaving him trembling on the floor.

Íñigo knelt beside him, reaching out a hesitant hand to the Englishman's ruched sleeve. "What is wrong, Señor?" he asked, afraid that the older man's reaction meant he had failed. "Did they not listen to you? Is the Capitán still in danger?"

Orlando tried to control his breathing, tried to slow the gasps to normal speed, but he couldn't seem to get enough oxygen into his blood. "They... listened," he managed to say. "Friday... we go... back... Friday." He wanted to say more, to reassure Íñigo in some way, but he had no more words, no more bravado. It would still be so easy to fail. His father knew Orlando had hired Diego as his protector, but nothing more. If the adjutant or the Cardinal did more than verify his identity - or his father's - if they sent someone to ask for confirmation of all he had said, his carefully constructed house of cards would come tumbling down around him, Diego would be executed, and his father would probably disown him for daring to invoke his name for something so personal.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't be strong anymore. Reaching blindly for the back of a chair, he struggled to his feet, stumbling toward the bedroom and all he had of Diego right now. His lover wasn't there to hold him, but maybe he could draw on the Spaniard's strength anyway.

Íñigo followed, certain now that the young Englishmen cared for his guardian as much as Íñigo did himself. "Surely you convinced them," he said, reassuring himself as much as Orlando. "You look more noble than any of the hidalgos attending the King at the Festival of the Bulls. They would not dare to deny you."

"I pray you are right," Orlando replied, curling around himself on the bed, his face buried in the pillow, letting Diego's scent surround and soothe him. Reminding himself that Íñigo didn't know what lay between him and the swordsman, he lifted his head a little, "Would you mind asking Caridad for a bottle of wine and some supper?"

"Of course, Señor," Íñigo agreed, turning toward the door. He looked back at the young man, not so many years older than he, wondering if his own nerves would have let him carry out such a risky bluff. "The Capitán will be proud when he learns what you did," he added before heading downstairs.

Íñigo's words tore a sob from Orlando's throat, his fear finally getting the better of him. "Be alive," he begged the empty room. "Don't let them steal your will to live." He couldn't begin to imagine the pain and terror Diego had to be going through at that very moment while he lay, safe and snug, in the bed they had never truly had the chance to share. Tears wet his lashes as all the horror stories he had ever heard about the Inquisition and its tortures came back to him. Spikes in the flesh, bones crushed, skin flayed from bone or else burned to a crisp... "Whatever they do to you, I'll still want you, still love you. Just hold on until Friday. Hold on until I can tell you I love you."

"Diego is strong." Roux spoke from the bedroom doorway, though Orlando hadn't heard him enter. "He has his responsibility to Íñigo to hold him to life, and now he has you. He will hold on, for both of you."

Orlando wiped his eyes surreptitiously, not wanting the gypsy to see him as weak. "Do you truly believe that?" he asked softly.

"I do not have to believe," Roux smiled. "I know."

~~~~~

Diego fought against the blackness that threatened to consume him as yet another blow tore into the bloody skin of his back. He had long since lost count of how many stripes the guards had laid across him; when his legs would no longer hold him and he had fallen to his knees, they had strung a rope through the manacles on his wrist and tossed it over a rafter, hoisting him upright until only by stretching his legs to their limits could he keep his toes touching the floor. The next set of blows had robbed him of even that. He had tried to grip the strappado to keep the strain from tearing his arms from their sockets, but the rope had grown slippery with blood and he no longer had the strength to hold himself up. Each stroke of the whip, delivered with enough force to set him swinging, sent red-hot fire burning along his nerves. He had bitten his lip until the blood ran down his chin, unable to hold back the hoarse grunts of pain at each crack of the whip. Closing his eyes, he tried to conjure an image of Orlando, lying in his bed, smiling at him, his arms opening in welcome. "For you," Diego vowed, his lips moving silently as another vicious blow curled around his ribs, stealing his breath.

"Enough," the Inquisitor said in disgust. "Beating him is gaining us nothing. Take him back to his cell for the night, but be warned, Señor Alatriste, if you have not changed your tune come morning, we will see if you like the rack any better."

He tried to respond, but a backhand from one of the guards filled his mouth with blood. Spitting it onto the reddened stone before the Inquisitor's bench, he collapsed as soon as the rope was released. The guards' harsh grip on his tortured shoulders was yet another agony as they dragged him back to his cell.

Long after the iron portal had closed behind him, he lay on the cold stone floor, his chest heaving as he struggled to find the strength to push up onto his hands and knees. Eventually he was able to move enough to pull his legs beneath him and wrap an arm around his shins to sit upright. He was trembling from the cold, but there was no way he could bear even the weight of his shirt on his flayed back.

Diego wasn't sure how long it took for him to realize the moans he heard were not all coming from his own throat. Lifting his head, he could make out another shape in the near-dark of the cell, huddled against the opposite wall. Slowly he crawled across the filthy floor, thinking at least the two of them could rest against each other and share their bodies' warmth.

"St...stay away from me," the other man stuttered, backing even farther into the corner.

"Believe me, I don't have strength enough to harm you, even were that my intent," Diego rasped unevenly. "I only thought the two of us could share our warmth against the cold."

"You have not been here long if you have that much kindness left in you still," the man commented. "Come closer, but carefully. We can sit together, but my arms are useless to me now."

"I doubt mine are much better," Diego observed grimly, grunting with the effort to raise himself to the rough wooden seat the other man rested on. His elbow folded beneath him, and he fell against his companion with a muffled curse.

A high-pitched scream escaped the other prisoner’s lips as Alatriste’s weight crashed into his damaged shoulder.

"Maldito!" Diego muttered, "forgive me, my friend." He pushed away carefully, returning a gentle hand once he was sure he could hold himself upright. "Your shoulder is disjointed," he told the other man as his fingers lightly probed the distorted socket. "I can put it back for you - there will be a moment of sharp pain but you will be able to move it again when I am done."

The injured man considered his options for a moment. He had no illusions that he would escape more torture and eventually death, but the idea of a night with less pain was tempting. "What do I need to do?"

"Lie on your stomach," Diego instructed. "Let your arm relax as much as you can." Letting himself slide back to his knees on the uneven floor, the swordsman grasped his unfortunate companion's forearm with one hand, the other resting on the shoulder-joint. "I'm going to pull, slowly, until I can push the ball back into the socket."

The prisoner did as Diego directed, trusting in the air of confidence he projected. It would hurt, but it could hardly compare with the unrelenting pull of the rack. "I'm ready."

Leaning back on his heels, Diego did his best to apply a slow, steady pressure to stretch the damaged arm downward, biting back another curse at the strain on his own overtaxed sinews. At length he felt the rounded end of the bone begin to move, guiding it with his other hand until with an audible click it popped into its cradle. Diego let his own arms drop as he struggled to catch his breath, too weary to even try and move back onto the bench.

The sharp pain materialized, just as Alatriste had said it would, but then it was gone, leaving a different kind of ache in the injured man’s shoulder, one he could live with. Moving his arm tentatively, he smiled. "It worked." Seeing that his companion did not move, he slid carefully off the bench to sit next to the other man. "Javier Montega," he said by way of introduction, moving close enough to share what little heat they each had in their bodies.

"Diego Alatriste," the swordsman returned, letting himself relax against his cellmate's uninjured shoulder. Less injured, he corrected himself; he doubted either of them had an uninjured limb between them. "The strappado?" he asked, though he suspected he knew the answer.

"No," Javier replied, "the rack. They want me to admit I have Jewish blood in my ancestry. I am a good Catholic along with all my family, but they do not believe me. They will make me confess soon, I know. I am not strong enough to take much more. What of you?"

"I am not so good a Catholic, perhaps," Diego answered wryly. "In any case, they do not approve of my choice of companions." That was true enough, and vague enough that it could be understood in several ways. He was not ashamed of what he felt for Orlando, but he was wary of revealing anything that might place his lover in any more danger than he already faced.

Javier nodded. "Do not tell me more than that. The Inquisitors sometimes ask about other prisoners as well when they interrogate me, and I would not wish to repay your kindness by letting slip something you would rather they not know."

"You are wise, my friend," Diego agreed. Closing his eyes, he let his head drop toward his chest and tried not to think about the questioning that was sure to resume with the daylight, tried not to imagine the injuries his new companion had suffered wrought upon his own body. Once again, he turned his thoughts toward Orlando, the memory of lying in his lover's arms his refuge from the hell in which he was trapped.

~~~~~

Orlando took a deep breath and pulled his mask into place before entering the Archbishop's palace. Eric and Íñigo walked a respectful distance behind him as they had before, but Orlando still felt the lack of the most comforting presence in his life at the moment. He had pleaded with Roux to accompany him, but the gypsy had declined, mentioning not only his aversion to churches but also his desire not to bring his existence to the attention of authorities who might be less than pleased with his "heathen" ways. The comment had shocked Orlando, who had long since stopped thinking of the older man in those terms, but he understood the gypsy's wisdom. "I will come with you when they release him, for I fear he will need what assistance I can provide then, but not before."

"I have an appointment with Archbishop Carles Rouco," he haughtily informed the priest who challenged his presence. "You may announce me."

The foreigner's peremptory command sent the cleric scurrying out of the ornate drawing room, to return a few moments later. "Fra Gordo is expecting you," he announced in a slightly breathless voice. "This way, please, Excellency."

Orlando followed the man into the same study where he had talked with the Cardinal's adjutant before. "Fra Gordo," he acknowledged, "not that I expected you to be absent from this meeting, but I did expect to have a more... august interlocutor as well. The Archbishop will be joining us, will he not?"

"His Eminence has too much to do in preparation for Sunday's holy celebration to meet with visitors," the adjutant replied, "particularly when they are not even members of the true faith." His gaze spoke eloquently that had it not been for his family connections and his father's position, the foreigner might well have been facing his own questions from the most Holy Office, rather than here importuning the Archbishop with his demands. "You are fortunate he agreed to consider your petition at all."

"And did he do more than simply consider it?" Orlando demanded, heart pounding now that the moment of truth was at hand. "Or do I need to speak to the King?"

The cleric glanced through the sheaf of papers on his desk, selecting one and reading it over. "This order will permit you to claim your servant's freedom," he conceded, signing the parchment and dropping a dollop of candle wax beside the endorsement, pressing his ornate signet ring into the cooling sealant. "The accused will be delivered from Toledo this evening. You may meet the carriages after dusk at the Puerta de la Vega."

Orlando took the order and scanned it quickly. Deciding everything was in order, he pocketed the precious document and bowed politely to the adjutant. "I will not forget your assistance, or the Cardinal's, when next I speak to my father," he offered in way of thanks and parting.

"I would suggest you ensure that your attendant does not have cause to be accused again," the adjutant answered. "I doubt his Eminence the Cardinal could be persuaded to assist you a second time."

Orlando nodded his understanding and took his leave. Eric and Íñigo fell in step behind him without any prompting, playing the roles of good servants. Orlando could see the question in Íñigo's eyes, but he said nothing until they were safely in the carriage he had hired to take them to the meeting. He didn't want anyone in the palace wondering about his relationship with his "servant."

When the carriage had rolled out, he let loose his smile. "He signed the order," he told the other two, relief leaving him trembling slightly. "We have only to wait for Diego to return from Toledo to collect him."

"You did it!" Íñigo cried, crushing Orlando in an embrace as relief overwhelmed him. "I knew you would convince them!" Feeling the English bodyguard's eyes on them, he drew back awkwardly, hoping he had not angered the young noble with his reaction.

"I'm glad one of us had faith in me," Orlando quipped, returning the embrace. "A few more hours and he will be home with us where he belongs. I hope Roux has an idea what time to expect the coach from Toledo. I have no desire to spend my day haunting the Inquisitors' court, but I also don't want to leave Diego in their hands any longer than necessary."

"Roux will know," Íñigo assured Orlando. "He knows everything."

Two weeks ago, Orlando would have questioned that assertion, but no more. He had seen enough since meeting the gypsy to know that there were more things in heaven and earth than he could have dreamt existed.

~~~~~

The day had passed slowly, despite the order for Diego's release in his hand. Orlando knew he had driven Roux to distraction with his pacing, but he could not sit still, not knowing Diego was still imprisoned. When the sun finally began its descent toward the west, the four of them left the tavern once more in the rented carriage to reclaim their missing member. Orlando had noticed how carefully Roux packed his pockets and satchel with herbs and bandages, a small canteen of water strapped about his waist. His heart pounded as he wondered what state Diego would be in when they finally saw him. Saying a final prayer that the damage, whatever it was, was not permanent, he gave the order for the carriage to depart.


They arrived at the Puerta de la Vega just as the sun touched the horizon. "What now?" he asked Roux.

"We wait," Roux replied, though in truth his own patience was beginning to be stretched thin.

They waited another half an hour before a cortege of dusty black coaches approached the gate. Orlando stepped forward to hail the lead vehicle. "We have orders for you," he told the guards atop the first carriage when they questioned him.

"What orders?" the largest guard growled. "These are prisoners of the Inquisition, to be sentenced at Sunday’s auto de fe."

"Not all of them," Orlando insisted, showing the order to the guard. "Not any more."

Eying the official-looking document with the seal of the Archbishop at the bottom, ordering the release of Diego Alatriste, attendant to Don Orlando Bloom, the guard shrugged. "You can look in the coaches," he conceded. "If he's still alive, he'll be in one of them."

That thought was simply too cruel to contemplate. After all they had done, Diego had to be alive. Orlando opened the door to the lead coach, gagging at the stench of blood, unwashed bodies, and rotting flesh that wafted out. For the first time in his life, he was glad of the pomander his father always insisted he carry. He held it to his nose, aware that it added to his image of a pampered, pompous noble, while at the same time warding off the overwhelming odors. Under the circumstances, he didn't care what anyone else thought. "Alatriste?" he called softly, examining the wretched, pain-wracked faces in case Diego was there but could not reply.

Seeing no familiar tawny head, no thick moustache, he closed the door and moved down the line to the next carriage, bracing himself for another spectacle like the one he had found in the first coach. His stomach wrenched painfully as he searched among the abused bodies for that of his lover, but Diego was not in the second carriage. Forcing himself to walk to the next, Orlando could not stop the stumble that tangled his feet on the cobblestones as despair ate at him. Even if Diego was there, would they be able to keep him alive? He did not see how anyone could recover from the horrors inflicted upon the poor souls in the first two coaches.

Roux's hand shot out to catch Orlando's arm, steadying the younger man. "Be calm," the gypsy assured him. "He is here."

"Yes, but in what state?" Orlando whispered back. "Did you see...?" He could not finish the sentence, could not put words to the pierced bodies and shattered bones. Reminding himself of his vow to love Diego no matter what had been done to him, he opened the door to the third coach.

Vaguely, Diego had registered that the coach had stopped moving, but the constant jolting over the rutted road had left every muscle in his body screaming in pain. The small part of his brain that still held out any hope told him this was his last chance for escape, but he was too weak to do more than lift his head as the door to the carriage opened. The last rays of the setting sun surrounded the face that filled the opening, the burnished curls framing the beloved features in a halo of light. Not sure that he wasn't hallucinating, Diego tried to stretch out his hand to touch the wavering illusion. "Orlando," he rasped, little more than a whisper escaping his raw throat.

Heart swelling with relief and love and desperation at the weakness he heard in Diego's voice, Orlando shouted, "Here! Come release him!" His eyes, though, never left those of his lover.

"My friend," Diego whispered, gesturing to Javier who lay unconscious beside him. He did not know how Orlando had managed to arrange for his release, but he could not leave the other man to his death if there was any way to secure Javier's freedom along with his own.

"His name," Roux murmured, appearing at Orlando's side, mind racing as he worked out how to do as Diego asked. "Tell me his name."

"Javier," the swordsman answered, knowing Roux would find a way to manage the situation. "Javier Montega."

"Tell the guards to release both of them," Roux murmured. "I have an idea."

Bemused, Orlando nodded. "Here they are," he said, all sign of doubt gone from his face and voice as he turned to face the same guard who had challenged him before. He knew Roux would never do anything to endanger Diego, so if he said it could be done to save both men, Orlando would just have to trust him and play along as best he could. "Diego Alatriste and Javier Montega." He indicated the two men with a sweep of his hand.

The guard frowned. "What game are you playing? The order is for one man - Diego Alatriste."

Orlando froze, not sure what to say. Before the guard could notice, though, Roux had taken it from his hand, waving it vaguely under the man's nose. "Look again," he insisted, catching and holding the guard's gaze, putting every ounce of his persuasive power into the words. His voice lowered just a little, slowing to a hypnotizing lull. "I think you'll find that it says Diego Alatriste and the attendant to Don Orlando Bloom. Javier Montega is his attendant."

Catching on to the game Roux was playing, Orlando drew his noble arrogance around him like a shield. "Those orders came from Cardinal Carles Rouco himself. Perhaps you would like to explain to His Eminence why you refuse to carry them out as written?"

Hesitating, the guard's gaze flickered from the order, to the huddle of broken bodies in the coach, to the two men standing expectantly before him. What did it matter, after all, if he let the poor bastards go? They were going to die anyway, as badly as they had been tortured, and the Inquisition would never miss one more of them. "Take them," he muttered, waving his hand toward the stink that rose from the coach. "Take them so I can get rid of the rest of them."

Reaching into the coach, Orlando grabbed Diego's hand to help him out. Behind him, he could hear Roux shouting for Eric, but Orlando had eyes only for his lover. The swordsman was covered in blood, moving feebly, but he was moving, a fact that kept Orlando from giving up hope. He raked the strong body with his gaze, looking for the kinds of wounds he had seen on other prisoners, but his lover's limbs all appeared intact. Helping Diego to stand, he stayed close while Roux and Eric lifted Javier's unconscious body from the coach, checking softly with Diego to make sure they had the right man.

Orlando's grasp tore at his pain-wracked arm, but nothing short of death itself could have made Diego release his lover's clasp. Struggling to stay on his feet, the swordsman nodded as the periphery of his attention noted Javier being lifted from the coach, his eyes never leaving Orlando's face, half afraid if he looked away the vision would transform back into nightmare.

Íñigo had been given strict instructions from both Orlando and Roux to wait for them to return to the carriage, but seeing the Capitán pulled free, he could not stop himself from running to his side. "You are safe," he whispered, breathing a prayer of thanksgiving as he moved to help support his guardian, lifting a bloodied arm to encircle his shoulder as the other still embraced Orlando.

Orlando hushed Íñigo sharply as he dismissed the guards with a haughty wave.

"In the carriage, quickly," Roux murmured at his elbow. "Before they change their minds."

Orlando nodded and started toward the waiting coach, bearing as much of Diego's weight as he could. Ahead of him, Eric had simply scooped the unconscious Javier into his arms and was now depositing him on one of the seats. "On the box with me, lad," he told Íñigo. "There's not room inside for all of us."

"I want to stay with the Capitán," Íñigo protested.

"The sooner you get on that box, the sooner we can get the Capitán home where you can fuss all you like," Roux scolded. "Use your head, Íñigo, as well as your heart. Orlando is our lord. He cannot very well ride outside, and both of them need care only I can give them."

Abashed at having to be corrected, Íñigo nodded glumly and climbed to the top of the carriage with the big Englishman, who flicked the reins and started the coach moving away from the gate as soon as the door was closed.

Inside the carriage, Roux began pulling out herbs from various pockets and pouches about his person. "What did they do to you?" he asked Diego, though he was not entirely sure his friend would be able to tear his thoughts away from Orlando long enough to reply. He still asked, though, because whatever Diego could tell him would make it that much easier to treat.

"Beatings," Diego muttered, lifting a shaky hand to Orlando's face, his fingers leaving a ruddy stain as they trailed down the soft cheek. "Rack." Ragged fingertips brushed away the tears that escaped from beneath feathered lashes.

Roux frowned, though he doubted either of the other men saw it. "Help me get his shirt off," he told Orlando. "I'll deal with that first. If his shoulder's separated, that's best tended to at home."

Orlando nodded, reaching blindly for the laces on Diego's shirt, his head tilting into the caress of his lover's hand, his eyes never leaving the grey gaze that held onto his like a lifeline. "It's over," he murmured. "You're safe now. I won't let anything happen to you."

"Querido," Diego whispered, leaning into Orlando's touch. "You kept me alive, only you..."

Tears welled in Orlando's eyes at the whispered words. Diego was such a strong man, so fiercely independent. To have him admit, willingly, to such emotion redoubled the tears that leaked from the corners of Orlando's eyes. He wanted to return the sentiment, to whisper words of love and devotion to the man who had become his entire life, but Roux's presence held him back. The gypsy wouldn't care - that wasn't Orlando's concern - but he didn't want an audience the first time he told Diego that he loved him. Instead, he leaned forward and touched his lips lightly to the cracked bow of his lover's mouth, ignoring the swelling, the dried blood. His hands stilled in their task, his attention focused entirely on the tender contact he had feared lost.

Diego's lips moved against Orlando's sweetness, drinking in his lover's breath, everything else fading at the impossible beauty of this moment he had nearly given up hope of ever experiencing again. He groped for Orlando's shoulder, pulling himself closer, deepening the kiss.

Despite the relative urgency of seeing to Alatriste's injuries, Roux looked away, giving the two men what privacy he could in the cramped quarters of the carriage. He had never seen Diego this needy, but he thought perhaps a brush with death did that to a man. If it meant that his old friend finally stopped fighting what was in his heart and embraced the love he and the young Inglés shared, perhaps the pain was worth it after all. When they showed no signs of separating, he sighed. "Diego," he prodded, "let me tend to your wounds. You can ravish His Excellency when you get back to your quarters and I'm done with you."

Roux's words coaxed a bark of laughter from Diego when he finally brought himself to release Orlando's lips. "You think to ravage me first?" he grated, his word trailing into a spate of broken coughing.

"No," Roux retorted, "I think to heal you enough that you can finish what I interrupted before I sent you on the fool's errand that landed you in this mess in the first place. Now take off your shirt and let me see what I can do for your back."

Releasing Orlando's shoulder with reluctance, Diego tried to shrug out of his shirt, but the linen clung to his bloodied back and he struggled to work his arms free of the sleeves. Despising the weakness that prevented him from the simplest of actions, his gaze wordlessly implored Orlando's help.

The frustration and helplessness on Diego's face tore at Orlando's heart. Gently, he helped Diego free his arms from the shirt before trying to loosen it from his back without tearing the scabs that had formed. Every wince, every groan pierced his soul, but he knew it had to be done. "Lean against me," he said finally. "Roux will have to pull it off you. I'm sorry."

Needing no encouragement to rest against his lover's strength, Diego eased forward. "A little more pain is nothing," he murmured, drawing strength from Orlando's heartbeat beneath his cheek.

"That may be true," Roux interrupted, "but you don't need to bleed anymore than you already have. I'm trying to make you stronger, not weaker. Just stay where you are and let me see what I can do."

"As if I would let him move," Orlando retorted, his arms tightening around his lover.

No longer able to keep Orlando's gaze, Diego let his eyelids fall shut. The sounds of the coach, the sure and gentle touch of Roux at his back faded, only his arms around Orlando and the tenderness of his lover's fingers stroking through his hair holding him to consciousness.

Watching Diego relax in Orlando's arms, Roux smiled softly, taking the canteen from his belt and dampening the cloth covering his friend's back. Carefully, he worked the fabric loose, the water softening the scabs enough that most of them stayed in place even when the garment was removed. He hoped Orlando was not looking, though he had no doubt the younger man would see the mess that was the swordsman's back eventually. Not an inch of flesh was unmarked. Stifling a curse so he wouldn't draw Orlando's attention, he drew out the herbs he had brought, applying them to Diego's back and covering the shredded flesh with soft, clean bandages, hands sliding between the two men to secure them in place. Glancing up to make sure the lovers were lost in each other rather than paying attention to him, he closed his own eyes and murmured softly in the lost language of his ancestors.

Slowly the constant agony that accompanied Diego's every breath began to lessen, not gone, but becoming remote somehow, as if the herbs and Roux's gentle touch and most of all Orlando's presence were suffusing him, shielding him, healing him. He tried to force his eyes to open, not willing to lose a moment of being held in Orlando's embrace, but the wave of lethargy was too much for him to battle, and he slumped forward into unconsciousness.

"Roux!" Orlando hissed when he felt Diego collapse against him.

From his seat on the opposite bench, Roux opened his eyes and shook his head. "He's just sleeping," he told the young man wearily. "He needs it to heal. Just hold him until we get to the tavern, then we'll rouse him so he can go inside. I've done what I can. Now rest and your arms around him will have to serve him."

In truth, he might have given Diego a little more of his strength, but there was another injured man to consider. He had dealt with the worst of his friend's injuries. Time would heal the remainder.

Orlando reminded himself to trust the gypsy, and the feeling of Diego's labored breaths snuffling against his neck provided the rest of the reassurance he needed. He could not pretend his lover wasn't in danger still, from infection and loss of blood, but he clung to the solid reality of the body against his, promising himself it would only be a matter of time before the swordsman returned to full strength. Then they would lie like this again, bodies aligned from chest to knee, to far more pleasurable ends. Letting the tension of the past week seep away, Orlando pressed a kiss to Diego's grimy temple and shut his eyes as well, storing up his energy for the battles still to come.


tbc...

Comments

[lost4aname.livejournal.com]

wow, i read all the chapters up to now and find it fascinatingly brilliant!!! I really enjoy this story!! Hope you`ll be updating soon. xx

[oceansecrets2.livejournal.com]

Thank you! We've been working on this pretty consistently for the past few weeks - chapter 15 is at beta and 16 is partly written so it should be updating pretty regularly until it's completed.

[littlegreenleaf.livejournal.com]

Absolutely amazing visuals here...I felt like I was watching this on the screen instead of reading it! Great job!

*hugs you hard*

[oceansecrets2.livejournal.com]

((hugs back))

I hope you get a chance to see the movie some day, the visuals are amazing and of course Viggo can convey so much without saying a word that even my not understanding didn't reduce its impact. Very inspirational!