Fic: Once Upon a Time, Part 6/11
Title: Once Upon a Time
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren't all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
By the time he left Cora's, the news of what he'd done to Doyle had spread. The townfolk still stared and whispered, but he noted a subtle change in their attitude toward him, with faint smiles and more welcoming looks replacing the earlier suspicion and distrust.
The soldiers, however …
He sighed and shook his head. He could see them watching him wherever he went, following him, never approaching, but making no effort to disguise their presence. He knew what they were doing, had done it more than a few times himself. They were challenging him, hoping to goad him into a confrontation. Once upon a time, he would have obliged them.
But not now.
Willing himself to ignore them, he entered the apothecary shop, smiling and relaxing as the fragrant aroma of countless herbs engulfed him. He needed to replenish his supplies, at least until he could begin growing his own, both for medicinal and culinary purposes.
He hadn't been lying when he'd told Cora he knew how to cook, or why he'd learned.
Looking around the shop, however, he saw far more than the expected herbs, potions and unguents. Casks of spices, many of which he recognized from the Levant and the Orient, sat on shelves, and small tables held bolts of cloth both plain and exotic. A selection of blades, from small knives to swords, hung on one wall, soaps and perfumes lent their scents to the air, and baubles of colored glass winked in the sunlight.
For a moment, he felt as if he were back in a market in Constantinople or Damascus.
Then another shelf caught his eye and drew him forward. Displayed before him were a small curved, jeweled dagger, heavy gold cross on its chain and a leather-bound prayer book. Intrigued, he picked up the book and opened it … and almost laughed aloud when he read the inscription, penned in an elegant hand.
For the greater glory of God, and in the Holy Name of His Son, let these prayers rise to Heaven and confirm before the world the acceptance of the True Faith by his faithful servant, Caliph Abu ibn Sayar.
He carefully turned the smooth vellum pages, admiring the intricate illustrations and meticulous printing of the prayers, seeing where tears or sweat had hit and slightly blurred the ink, where years of contact with hands and fingers had worn and discolored the pages. It was beautiful.
He chuckled and shook his head. And a truly masterful forgery.
He'd seen the book, or various incarnations of it, throughout the Levant, sold to pilgrims and soldiers as a reminder of the power of their faith and the righteousness of their cause. But they were all fakes. Caliph Abu ibn Sayar had never existed, much less taken up the Christian faith. The books were just one more fraud perpetrated on the gullible.
Like the concept of “holy war.”
“You like it?”
The voice startled him and he turned abruptly, almost dropping the book and instinctively reaching for his sword. Which just now was a hunting knife. But his astonishment only deepened when he saw the owner of the voice.
A young man, tall … and black. He'd seen such dark skin before, but never here. And the accent was all wrong. The young man spoke as everyone here did, and not with the soft, musical lilt of Arabia. Eliot shook his head to clear it, to try and bring his colliding worlds into order.
“It's fake,” was all he could manage to utter. “I mean, it's beautiful, very well done, but … it's a forgery.”
The young man laughed and shook his head. “Of course it's a forgery!” he crowed. “Everybody knows there's no such thing as The Confession of ibn Sayar! But,” he waggled his eyebrows, his dark eyes gleaming, “it's a brilliant forgery, right?”
Eliot frowned deeply, confused. “Wait, you know it's a fake? And you're selling it anyway?”
The young man heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Of course I know. I did it.” He reached for the book and opened it. “Look at that ink, those stains, this paper.” He looked sharply at Eliot. “You know how long it took me to get all this right?” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I thought I was never gonna get the aging right!”
Eliot blinked, still staring at him. “The air's a lot drier down there,” he said absently.
The young man sighed. “Yeah. Took me forever to figure out how to compensate for that- Hey!” he said sharply. “You were down there? In the Holy Land?”
Eliot winced; he couldn't recall much that had been “holy” about it. “Yeah.”
The young man grinned again; it seemed to be his natural state. “Then I've got something that should interest you.” He grabbed Eliot's arm - either not realizing or simply not caring about the danger of doing so - and pulled him to another corner of the shop. “Name's Alec Hardison, by the way,” he introduced himself. “Most folks just call me Hardison. This is Archie's shop, but I run it for him when he's off … um … finding new things.”
Eliot looked up sharply. “Archie?” he asked, recalling the name Cora had spoken. “Archie Leach?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
Eliot cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, I-” What? I heard he fostered a thief who's been haunting my dreams for twenty years and I need him to tell me how I can get her to stop running away from me so I can talk to her? Yeah, that would go well. “I just heard his name,” he finished weakly, then forced a smile. “I just got back, and I'm still trying to learn who's who.”
“Hm,” Hardison grunted. “All right.” He stopped then and all but shoved Eliot forward, grinning again. “Voilà,” he crowed, gesturing to the wall.
Eliot looked, blinked, and frowned. “It's a map,” he said.
Hardison sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course it's a map!” he said with irritation. “But it is a beautifully and painstakingly drawn Pilgrim's Map of the Holy Land! From the Holy Land,” he said pointedly, winking broadly. “Look,” he pushed Eliot closer, “you can see everything. All the places where Jesus performed his miracles, the rivers and cities-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot said simply.
“I- Wait.” Hardison stiffened and scowled down at him. “Did you say my map is wrong? I will have you know-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot said again, studying it with the same attention to detail that he would any battle map. “Look,” he stepped closer and pointed to a region, “this town should be on this side of the river, this river doesn't even flow through here, and these hills are off by a league. And this town-” He winced and pulled his hand away. “It doesn't exist any more.”
Hardison stared at him. “A whole town is gone. You mind telling me how an entire town just goes away?”
Eliot flinched. He did mind, very much so. One more thing he'd have to answer for.
Understanding, and a fair bit of horror, dawned in Hardison's eyes, and he swallowed hard. “Oh,” he breathed, studying Eliot closely. “So you-”
“What?” Eliot demanded harshly, defensively. “I what?”
But Hardison shook his head and raised his hands. “Nothing. Nothing. I just-” He grinned again. “None of my business, right?”
“Right,” Eliot agreed gruffly, though he somehow doubted that usually stopped the young man.
“Right. Well.” Hardison returned his gaze to the map, then smiled and nodded. “I'll just say this was before the earthquake.”
Eliot gaped. “What earthquake? There was no earthquake-”
“Ssh!” Hardison hissed sharply. “People don't need to know that!”
Now Eliot rolled his eyes. “You can't just sell people a map you know is wrong! Pilgrims depend on these maps-”
“You saying every other map is right?” Hardison asked pointedly.
Eliot sighed in defeat. He'd seen some spectacularly wrong maps in his day. But he wasn't about to admit that to Hardison. “You need to correct it,” he said stubbornly.
Hardison shrugged and crossed his arms. “I don't know. I kinda like it.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his creation. “It has a nice artistic flow. Look at the symmetry-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot insisted, not at all certain why this mattered, but unable to drop the argument. “You just don't want to admit that.”
“I don't have to,” Hardison said serenely. “Because it's not wrong. Not since the earthquake.”
Eliot gave a harsh cry of frustration. “There was no fucking earthquake!”
Hardison gasped sharply and shrank back, pressing a hand to his chest. “Such language! Someone needs to calm down.”
Eliot growled and turned away, stalking across the shop to where the herbs were hung to dry. “I need some of these,” he spat through clenched teeth.
Hardison wandered lazily after him. “Is there a 'please' in there somewhere?” he inquired.
Eliot was sorely tempted to draw his knife and start gutting. “I need some of these … please,” he seethed.
Hardison smiled angelically. “See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Your manners need work, my friend.”
Eliot almost choked. “I am not your friend,” he ground out.
Hardison waved a hand. “Not yet, but just wait until you get to know me. I am irresistible. You, however-” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “You need work.”
Eliot leveled a stare at him. “I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would ever know,” he warned. “And then I'd burn your stupid map. Which is wrong!” he added as Hardison squeaked in horror. Not at the threat to himself, but at the threat to his beloved - and incredibly inaccurate - map.
Earthquake. Like hell.
“You are a savage,” Hardison muttered as he began gathering he herbs Eliot had indicated. “A savage! With no appreciation of my talent. That map is a piece of art-”
“That map's a piece of crap,” Eliot said lazily. He wandered around the shop to see what else he might need, casually picking up and moving things he didn't need just to keep Hardison busy restoring them to their rightful places. Somehow, making the young man grumble just felt … right.
And Hardison did grumble. A lot. He also talked. A lot. In just a short time, Eliot knew everything about everyone in the village, without ever asking a question that he could recall. Archie Leach was a traveling merchant with a talent for “acquiring” exotic goods (he was a thief, too) who had “found” the orphaned Alec on his travels and brought him back here to raise him (the man seemed to collect orphans). Sophie/Lady Sofia/Katherine/Duchess Charlotte/She of a Thousand Names was whoever and whatever she wanted or needed to be at the moment (probably a thief, too; the village seemed to collect them) and desperately loved the Lord Nathan, who at the moment seemed indifferent to his people's suffering under Lord James Sterling (more spitting; it seemed almost an extension of the man's name with the people here). The local constable, Patrick Bonanno, was a good man who tried to keep the peace, but was powerless against Sterling's men, all mercenaries hired to enforce Sterling's will.
After hearing Hardison's thoughts on them, Eliot decided against sharing any of his past. For some reason, irritating as Hardison could be, he found himself enjoying the younger man's company - and truly enjoyed needling him - and didn't want to risk ruining that.
It was strange, the feeling he was getting here, the odd sense of acceptance and belonging he was finding with these people - Hardison, with his over-sized personality, Cora with her wit and warmth, Sophie with her soft, secretive smile and knowing eyes, and Parker, who called to him without saying a word. By the time he left the crowded little shop, he'd purchased more goods than he'd anticipated, some needed, some not, all accompanied by stories of their origin from Hardison, more than half of which he was certain were lies.
Like that damned map.
Which, if he did nothing else with the rest of his life, he was going to force Hardison to correct.
Hardison watched through the window as Eliot disappeared down the street, a thoughtful frown on his face. He'd heard of the man who'd returned home after twenty years away at war - by now, everyone had heard of him - but the man he'd seen in the shop wasn't at all what he'd expected. He'd thought Spencer would be more like Quinn - arrogant, swaggering, hard - and while the man was undoubtedly dangerous, he'd also been strangely … likable.
In a gruff, prickly, ill-tempered and bad-mannered sort of way, of course.
And he had absolutely no appreciation for the fine art of map-making.
Hardison snorted sharply and turned away from the window … and let out a sharp cry of alarm as he found himself face to face with Archie and Parker. He fell back against a shelf, almost knocking everything off it, and clapped a hand to his heart, staring at both of them in mingled shock and irritation. It was bad enough that Parker went around on silent feet, popping up or dropping down out of nowhere and regularly startling him out of his wits. But Archie was an old man who walked with a cane, for God's sake! How the hell was he still able to sneak up on anyone?
His life was so unfair.
“Don't you two have anything better to do than scare me into an early grave?” he grumbled, pulling himself upright and gathering his tattered dignity about him. “Seriously, that is just rude!”
Archie bestowed a fond smile on him. “Next time we'll make some noise,” he assured the young man.
Hardison grunted. “That's what you said last time,” he pointed out.
“That was him!” Parker breathed, pushing past Hardison to the window and staring out. “Did you see him?”
Hardison sighed. “He was right here, Parker. It would've been hard not to see him.”
She let the logic pass by unnoticed. “He's pretty, isn't he?”
Archie and Hardison exchanged uneasy glances. They'd both heard from her of her returned “boy,” and had begun worrying for her. Eliot Spencer was no “boy,” and, while they knew little about him, they doubted he was anything like her romantic notions of him.
Men did not return from twenty years of war unscathed.
“Parker,” Archie said softly, gently, “you don't know anything about him.” He regarded her worriedly. Parker wasn't a fool, wasn't naive, but she didn't always understand people, and that made her vulnerable. Especially to a man who was undoubtedly experienced in all manner of things. “He's not the boy who left here all those years ago.”
She turned to face him, lifting her chin defiantly. “I know that, Archie. People change. But … his eyes are sad. I think he just wants to be happy again. And I want him to be happy. That's not wrong, is it?”
“Of course it's not wrong,” Hardison assured her. For all that Parker was older than he, still he felt deeply protective of her and was worried that her fascination with Eliot Spencer would only hurt her in the end. “Just … be careful, that's all we're saying. Men like him- He's seen things, done things-”
She stared at him as if he'd betrayed her. “You just said we don't know anything about him!” she said sharply. “You have no idea what he's done! You can't judge him-”
“We're not judging him,” Archie said. “We're just being realistic. And careful.” He smiled slightly and reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “We just don't want to see you hurt.”
She gazed at him and nodded faintly. She could understand that, really she could. But she also understood, as they clearly couldn't, that she was in no danger.
Whatever else he might have done in his life, Eliot would never hurt her.
“I'm sorry.” Sterling leaned forward in his chair and spoke quietly; much too quietly, to anyone who knew him. “Would you mind explaining that to me again?”
Off to one side, where he was leaning against the wall, Quinn snickered, clearly enjoying this, but Sterling ignored him. For now, his whole attention was fixed on Doyle, who stood battered and bruised before him.
“The bastard must be workin' for Cora!” Doyle spat. “Stopped me from collectin' from her, said I'd not be gettin' a penny more from her. Then he attacked me!”
Sterling stared at him in disgust, his mouth curling in contempt. Doyle had his uses, but thinking clearly wasn't among them. He was a braggart and a bully who relied on intimidation rather than persuasion and counted on his victims being too frightened of him to fight back. Clearly he'd miscalculated this time.
“One man did this,” he said scathingly, waving a hand at Doyle's battered appearance. Both the man's eyes were blackened, his nose was broken and swollen and his lips split. “There were three of you, and one man did this.” He suddenly shot out of his chair and dealt Doyle a vicious blow across an already bruised cheek. “What the hell am I paying you for?” he roared as Doyle toppled to the floor. “And you!” He whirled abruptly on Quinn as the soldier laughed again, pinning him with a withering stare. “Where were you when this was happening?”
Quinn straightened and bobbed his head in a show of subservience. “I was doing what you pay me for,” he reported, “keeping an eye on things. I saw Spencer, but he didn't look like he was going to cause any trouble, so I didn't see any need to follow him.” He lifted his head and arched his brow. “You told me to keep the brawling to a minimum, remember?” he asked, then slanted a mocking glance at Doyle and shrugged. “It didn't occur to me he'd have trouble taking money from a girl.”
Sterling spat out a curse. “Yes, well, it wasn't the girl who did this to him, was it?” he seethed. “Who is this Spencer?”
Quinn lifted two fair brows. “Eliot Spencer? You've not heard of him?”
Sterling scowled deeply. “If I knew who he was,” he said through clenched teeth, “I wouldn't have asked.” Christ, were all his men simpletons? “Enlighten me.”
Quinn shrugged again and went back to leaning against the wall, crossing his arms against his chest. “Sir Eliot Spencer,” he said. “He's a soldier. A mercenary. And something of a legend in Italy and the Levant.” A grudging respect colored his voice. “I heard of him in Sicily, when I was serving under a former commander of his named Guttman. He's supposed to be a hell of a fighter.” He shrugged again. “He took up with a man named Damien Moreau a few years ago, helped Moreau build an empire.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “There's a story that one city surrendered to Moreau without a fight just because they heard Moreau was sending Spencer to take it. Apparently the man was all four horsemen of the apocalypse rolled into one.”
Sterling exhaled sharply and began to pace, troubled by Quinn's description. What the hell was such a man doing here? Lévèrage had been at peace for the past decade or so; there was no work for mercenaries … other than the kind for which he employed Quinn and his men. And men like Spencer didn't come without a price. So far as he knew, no one around here but him could afford that price.
Except-
No. He banished the thought as soon as it arose. Nathan could certainly afford it, but why would he? He'd been a virtual recluse since his son had died, had for two years now ignored his responsibilities as lord and seemingly forgotten the duties he owed his people. He'd ceased collecting taxes and enforcing laws, had allowed the local roads, bridges and ferry crossings to fall into disrepair. Poachers had begun hunting wherever they damned well pleased, and outlaws had taken over roadways. All because the great Lord Nathan had allowed himself to sink into his grief.
Yes, of course, it was unspeakably tragic that his son had died - as a father himself, he couldn't begin to imagine that pain - but, damn it, that did not excuse the man's neglect of his lands and people! And the only reason anything around here had improved was because James Sterling had stepped in and made it so.
Not that any of Nathan's people appreciated that; oh, no. Apparently they preferred to wither and die under the neglect of their grief-stricken lord to the interest he had taken in their wretched little lives. And, yes, fine, perhaps he did profit from the taxes he collected, perhaps he had expanded his holdings by “acquiring” land from those who simply couldn't pay their taxes, but why not? After all, he was the one who'd restored order to their lives, he was the one who kept them safe. Why shouldn't he get a little something in return? That was how things worked in the world.
Except that Nathan's people didn't see it that way … and apparently neither did Nathan.
He frowned and thought of the man. They'd been friends of a sort once, years ago, and he'd admired Nathan's shrewd intelligence. But the man had allowed himself to become crippled by the losses of his son and his wife, had allowed not only his life but the lives of his people to fall into ruin. Yet now that someone else had stepped in to repair the damage, he was so offended that he had finally stirred himself out of his alcoholic haze and hired himself a mercenary.
But to do what, exactly? Spencer might be something of a legend, but he was still only one man. Against Quinn and an entire force of soldiers.
What the bloody hell was Nathan up to?
“Father?”
The soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Olivia standing in the entrance to the hall, holding a familiar chessboard. For a few moments, thoughts of Nathan and his irritation at Doyle vanished. He'd always loved Olivia, but in the year or so since her mother's death he'd come to treasure her more deeply than ever. She was as intelligent as she was lovely and insightful beyond her years. The happiest part of his day was the hours they spent playing chess and simply talking about whatever interested her at the moment. “Is it that time already?”
“I was afraid you'd forgotten,” she said. Then she smiled impishly and added, “Or that you just didn't want to risk my beating you again.”
He scowled in mock indignation. “Don't be impertinent! You got lucky and you know it.”
She smirked and held up the board. “There's one way to find out.”
“Then lead the way, my lady,” he invited, bowing his head and holding out a hand.
Olivia laughed lightly and turned away, starting toward the smaller chamber where they regularly played.
He watched her go, then turned back to Quinn. “Find out everything you can about this Eliot Spencer,” he ordered. “I want to know who he is and why he's here.” He started to go after his daughter but paused briefly beside Doyle, who still lay on the floor cradling his battered face in his hands. “And get this idiot out of my hall.”
The days quickly arranged themselves into a kind of peaceful order. Eliot spent most of his time working on his father's house (strange that he couldn't think of it in any other way), repairing the roof and fixing the walls, and replanting his mother's garden. He rediscovered the forests and streams of his youth, hunting and fishing, or sometimes spent lazy hours lying in the meadow where he'd first dreamed of becoming a soldier, now staring at the clouds and trying to forget where those dreams had taken him.
He went into the village to buy what he couldn't grow or make himself, flirting with Cora, arguing with Hardison and sharing stories with Archie of the places they'd seen, and trying - without any success - to hide away those parts of himself that Sophie's deep, dark eyes insisted on dredging forth.
And always, always there was Parker.
At first she merely watched him from a distance, remaining just at the edge of the yard while he toiled on the roof or at the walls, never speaking a word. Gradually, though, she began drifting closer, until he could lean out over the edge of the roof, look down and see her-
Usually either eating part of the food he'd laid out for his midday meal or rifling through his belongings.
Well, she was a thief. And apparently part magpie.
He'd discovered early on her love for shiny things, and so began hiding small treasures for her to find. They were mostly trinkets he'd collected over the years without really knowing why - unless some part of him had always meant them for her - and he was delighted by the joy she took in them. He told her the stories behind them, or sometimes simply made up something, and, to his surprise, and sometimes horror, discovered that he was telling her more and more about himself in the process.
But if she were at all troubled by what she heard, she never showed it. She simply listened to him and let him tell her what he would, occasionally asking questions but never pressing. In her own way she became his confessor, her presence and smiles the only absolution he needed.
She talked to him, too, about Archie and Hardison and the strange little family they'd made, about Sophie, who seemed to be at once mother, sister and friend, about the treasures she stole and the stories she made up for them, about the butterflies who, before him, had been the only ones to hear those stories. Sometimes she danced for him, to music only she could hear.
Sometimes they danced together.
And she warned him about Quinn.
Quinn was asking questions about him, trying to find out who he was and why he was here. The town's people, who'd accepted Eliot as one of their own, gave as little away as they could, protecting him as they did each other, but Parker knew it wouldn't last. Quinn served Sterling. If Quinn was asking, it meant Sterling wanted answers. What Sterling wanted, Sterling usually got.
And if Sterling wanted Eliot …
It angered Eliot that she and everyone else should live in such fear of Sterling, that he should have such power over their lives. And that Lord Nathan, their rightful protector, should be so absent. But as yet the man refused to bestir himself to come to their aid.
Which left only Eliot. Parker tried to talk him out of it. Hardison, Archie, Cora and Sophie tried, as did Constable Bonanno. Hell, once or twice even Father Paul, the village priest, stepped in to counsel peace and patience.
But it was wrong and he knew it. Letting matters go on as they were was wrong. Letting Sterling grab power that wasn't his was wrong. Letting good people suffer under burdens they should never have to bear was wrong.
And after all his years with Damien, he was sick and tired of doing wrong.
Quinn lay on the hill overlooking the house below and smiled to himself as he watched the couple laughing and playing in the yard. She had taken something of his and he was trying to get it back, chasing her as she danced away, then dancing with her when he caught her.
He'd found Eliot Spencer's weakness.
He knew the girl; the blonde thief, Parker. Oh, he'd never caught her - she was too good, too quick - but he knew her nonetheless. God knew he'd chased her often enough. She'd always had the village protecting her, though.
And now she apparently had Spencer as well.
He smirked. How sweet. And how stupid. A man of Spencer's experience should have known better. Love might be pleasant, but it was a luxury he couldn't afford. It made him soft. Vulnerable.
And it gave his enemies the perfect weapon to use against him.
Part 7
Author: scout_lover
Betas: ella_bee, trappercreekd, valawenel
Artist: ultra_fic
Characters/Pairings: Eliot/Parker (though nothing explicit), Nate, Sophie, Hardison, Sterling, Quinn, Archie, Cora, Bonanno, Father Paul … and a cast of thousands. Or at least tens.
Rating: PG13
Disclaimer: Not mine, making no money. I write only from a sad, fannish devotion to the characters created by John Rogers, Chris Downey, Dean Devlin and the amazing writers of Leverage
Genre: AU
Warnings/spoilers: strong language, some violence (dude, swords!). Also, anachronisms abound.
Word Count: 36,000
Summary: Once upon a time, in the fair land of Lévèrage, things really weren't all that fair at all
AN 1: This is set roughly in the Middle Ages. I say roughly because I have, *ahem*, cheated on language, history, social systems, geography … hell, everything. Think of this as Disneyfied Middle Ages.
AN 2: Many, many thanks to ultra_fic for creating a piece of art that took over my brain and forced (FORCED, I say) me to create this world. This became so much bigger than I ever anticipated, but I sort of fell in love with the world she inspired. So the fic that ate the internet is ALL. HER. FAULT. That's my story and I'm stickin' to it. ;P
AN 3: Many, many thanks also to my betas - ella_bee, trappercreekd and valawenel - who waded into this sucker and have labored with endless patience to make it better. All mistakes, naturally, remain mine
Link to art: Here
By the time he left Cora's, the news of what he'd done to Doyle had spread. The townfolk still stared and whispered, but he noted a subtle change in their attitude toward him, with faint smiles and more welcoming looks replacing the earlier suspicion and distrust.
The soldiers, however …
He sighed and shook his head. He could see them watching him wherever he went, following him, never approaching, but making no effort to disguise their presence. He knew what they were doing, had done it more than a few times himself. They were challenging him, hoping to goad him into a confrontation. Once upon a time, he would have obliged them.
But not now.
Willing himself to ignore them, he entered the apothecary shop, smiling and relaxing as the fragrant aroma of countless herbs engulfed him. He needed to replenish his supplies, at least until he could begin growing his own, both for medicinal and culinary purposes.
He hadn't been lying when he'd told Cora he knew how to cook, or why he'd learned.
Looking around the shop, however, he saw far more than the expected herbs, potions and unguents. Casks of spices, many of which he recognized from the Levant and the Orient, sat on shelves, and small tables held bolts of cloth both plain and exotic. A selection of blades, from small knives to swords, hung on one wall, soaps and perfumes lent their scents to the air, and baubles of colored glass winked in the sunlight.
For a moment, he felt as if he were back in a market in Constantinople or Damascus.
Then another shelf caught his eye and drew him forward. Displayed before him were a small curved, jeweled dagger, heavy gold cross on its chain and a leather-bound prayer book. Intrigued, he picked up the book and opened it … and almost laughed aloud when he read the inscription, penned in an elegant hand.
For the greater glory of God, and in the Holy Name of His Son, let these prayers rise to Heaven and confirm before the world the acceptance of the True Faith by his faithful servant, Caliph Abu ibn Sayar.
He carefully turned the smooth vellum pages, admiring the intricate illustrations and meticulous printing of the prayers, seeing where tears or sweat had hit and slightly blurred the ink, where years of contact with hands and fingers had worn and discolored the pages. It was beautiful.
He chuckled and shook his head. And a truly masterful forgery.
He'd seen the book, or various incarnations of it, throughout the Levant, sold to pilgrims and soldiers as a reminder of the power of their faith and the righteousness of their cause. But they were all fakes. Caliph Abu ibn Sayar had never existed, much less taken up the Christian faith. The books were just one more fraud perpetrated on the gullible.
Like the concept of “holy war.”
“You like it?”
The voice startled him and he turned abruptly, almost dropping the book and instinctively reaching for his sword. Which just now was a hunting knife. But his astonishment only deepened when he saw the owner of the voice.
A young man, tall … and black. He'd seen such dark skin before, but never here. And the accent was all wrong. The young man spoke as everyone here did, and not with the soft, musical lilt of Arabia. Eliot shook his head to clear it, to try and bring his colliding worlds into order.
“It's fake,” was all he could manage to utter. “I mean, it's beautiful, very well done, but … it's a forgery.”
The young man laughed and shook his head. “Of course it's a forgery!” he crowed. “Everybody knows there's no such thing as The Confession of ibn Sayar! But,” he waggled his eyebrows, his dark eyes gleaming, “it's a brilliant forgery, right?”
Eliot frowned deeply, confused. “Wait, you know it's a fake? And you're selling it anyway?”
The young man heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes. “Of course I know. I did it.” He reached for the book and opened it. “Look at that ink, those stains, this paper.” He looked sharply at Eliot. “You know how long it took me to get all this right?” He pursed his lips and shook his head. “I thought I was never gonna get the aging right!”
Eliot blinked, still staring at him. “The air's a lot drier down there,” he said absently.
The young man sighed. “Yeah. Took me forever to figure out how to compensate for that- Hey!” he said sharply. “You were down there? In the Holy Land?”
Eliot winced; he couldn't recall much that had been “holy” about it. “Yeah.”
The young man grinned again; it seemed to be his natural state. “Then I've got something that should interest you.” He grabbed Eliot's arm - either not realizing or simply not caring about the danger of doing so - and pulled him to another corner of the shop. “Name's Alec Hardison, by the way,” he introduced himself. “Most folks just call me Hardison. This is Archie's shop, but I run it for him when he's off … um … finding new things.”
Eliot looked up sharply. “Archie?” he asked, recalling the name Cora had spoken. “Archie Leach?”
“Yeah. You know him?”
Eliot cleared his throat and shook his head. “No, I-” What? I heard he fostered a thief who's been haunting my dreams for twenty years and I need him to tell me how I can get her to stop running away from me so I can talk to her? Yeah, that would go well. “I just heard his name,” he finished weakly, then forced a smile. “I just got back, and I'm still trying to learn who's who.”
“Hm,” Hardison grunted. “All right.” He stopped then and all but shoved Eliot forward, grinning again. “Voilà,” he crowed, gesturing to the wall.
Eliot looked, blinked, and frowned. “It's a map,” he said.
Hardison sighed and rolled his eyes. “Of course it's a map!” he said with irritation. “But it is a beautifully and painstakingly drawn Pilgrim's Map of the Holy Land! From the Holy Land,” he said pointedly, winking broadly. “Look,” he pushed Eliot closer, “you can see everything. All the places where Jesus performed his miracles, the rivers and cities-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot said simply.
“I- Wait.” Hardison stiffened and scowled down at him. “Did you say my map is wrong? I will have you know-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot said again, studying it with the same attention to detail that he would any battle map. “Look,” he stepped closer and pointed to a region, “this town should be on this side of the river, this river doesn't even flow through here, and these hills are off by a league. And this town-” He winced and pulled his hand away. “It doesn't exist any more.”
Hardison stared at him. “A whole town is gone. You mind telling me how an entire town just goes away?”
Eliot flinched. He did mind, very much so. One more thing he'd have to answer for.
Understanding, and a fair bit of horror, dawned in Hardison's eyes, and he swallowed hard. “Oh,” he breathed, studying Eliot closely. “So you-”
“What?” Eliot demanded harshly, defensively. “I what?”
But Hardison shook his head and raised his hands. “Nothing. Nothing. I just-” He grinned again. “None of my business, right?”
“Right,” Eliot agreed gruffly, though he somehow doubted that usually stopped the young man.
“Right. Well.” Hardison returned his gaze to the map, then smiled and nodded. “I'll just say this was before the earthquake.”
Eliot gaped. “What earthquake? There was no earthquake-”
“Ssh!” Hardison hissed sharply. “People don't need to know that!”
Now Eliot rolled his eyes. “You can't just sell people a map you know is wrong! Pilgrims depend on these maps-”
“You saying every other map is right?” Hardison asked pointedly.
Eliot sighed in defeat. He'd seen some spectacularly wrong maps in his day. But he wasn't about to admit that to Hardison. “You need to correct it,” he said stubbornly.
Hardison shrugged and crossed his arms. “I don't know. I kinda like it.” He cocked his head to one side and studied his creation. “It has a nice artistic flow. Look at the symmetry-”
“It's wrong,” Eliot insisted, not at all certain why this mattered, but unable to drop the argument. “You just don't want to admit that.”
“I don't have to,” Hardison said serenely. “Because it's not wrong. Not since the earthquake.”
Eliot gave a harsh cry of frustration. “There was no fucking earthquake!”
Hardison gasped sharply and shrank back, pressing a hand to his chest. “Such language! Someone needs to calm down.”
Eliot growled and turned away, stalking across the shop to where the herbs were hung to dry. “I need some of these,” he spat through clenched teeth.
Hardison wandered lazily after him. “Is there a 'please' in there somewhere?” he inquired.
Eliot was sorely tempted to draw his knife and start gutting. “I need some of these … please,” he seethed.
Hardison smiled angelically. “See? That wasn't so hard, was it? Your manners need work, my friend.”
Eliot almost choked. “I am not your friend,” he ground out.
Hardison waved a hand. “Not yet, but just wait until you get to know me. I am irresistible. You, however-” He sighed heavily and shook his head. “You need work.”
Eliot leveled a stare at him. “I could kill you right here, right now, and no one would ever know,” he warned. “And then I'd burn your stupid map. Which is wrong!” he added as Hardison squeaked in horror. Not at the threat to himself, but at the threat to his beloved - and incredibly inaccurate - map.
Earthquake. Like hell.
“You are a savage,” Hardison muttered as he began gathering he herbs Eliot had indicated. “A savage! With no appreciation of my talent. That map is a piece of art-”
“That map's a piece of crap,” Eliot said lazily. He wandered around the shop to see what else he might need, casually picking up and moving things he didn't need just to keep Hardison busy restoring them to their rightful places. Somehow, making the young man grumble just felt … right.
And Hardison did grumble. A lot. He also talked. A lot. In just a short time, Eliot knew everything about everyone in the village, without ever asking a question that he could recall. Archie Leach was a traveling merchant with a talent for “acquiring” exotic goods (he was a thief, too) who had “found” the orphaned Alec on his travels and brought him back here to raise him (the man seemed to collect orphans). Sophie/Lady Sofia/Katherine/Duchess Charlotte/She of a Thousand Names was whoever and whatever she wanted or needed to be at the moment (probably a thief, too; the village seemed to collect them) and desperately loved the Lord Nathan, who at the moment seemed indifferent to his people's suffering under Lord James Sterling (more spitting; it seemed almost an extension of the man's name with the people here). The local constable, Patrick Bonanno, was a good man who tried to keep the peace, but was powerless against Sterling's men, all mercenaries hired to enforce Sterling's will.
After hearing Hardison's thoughts on them, Eliot decided against sharing any of his past. For some reason, irritating as Hardison could be, he found himself enjoying the younger man's company - and truly enjoyed needling him - and didn't want to risk ruining that.
It was strange, the feeling he was getting here, the odd sense of acceptance and belonging he was finding with these people - Hardison, with his over-sized personality, Cora with her wit and warmth, Sophie with her soft, secretive smile and knowing eyes, and Parker, who called to him without saying a word. By the time he left the crowded little shop, he'd purchased more goods than he'd anticipated, some needed, some not, all accompanied by stories of their origin from Hardison, more than half of which he was certain were lies.
Like that damned map.
Which, if he did nothing else with the rest of his life, he was going to force Hardison to correct.
Hardison watched through the window as Eliot disappeared down the street, a thoughtful frown on his face. He'd heard of the man who'd returned home after twenty years away at war - by now, everyone had heard of him - but the man he'd seen in the shop wasn't at all what he'd expected. He'd thought Spencer would be more like Quinn - arrogant, swaggering, hard - and while the man was undoubtedly dangerous, he'd also been strangely … likable.
In a gruff, prickly, ill-tempered and bad-mannered sort of way, of course.
And he had absolutely no appreciation for the fine art of map-making.
Hardison snorted sharply and turned away from the window … and let out a sharp cry of alarm as he found himself face to face with Archie and Parker. He fell back against a shelf, almost knocking everything off it, and clapped a hand to his heart, staring at both of them in mingled shock and irritation. It was bad enough that Parker went around on silent feet, popping up or dropping down out of nowhere and regularly startling him out of his wits. But Archie was an old man who walked with a cane, for God's sake! How the hell was he still able to sneak up on anyone?
His life was so unfair.
“Don't you two have anything better to do than scare me into an early grave?” he grumbled, pulling himself upright and gathering his tattered dignity about him. “Seriously, that is just rude!”
Archie bestowed a fond smile on him. “Next time we'll make some noise,” he assured the young man.
Hardison grunted. “That's what you said last time,” he pointed out.
“That was him!” Parker breathed, pushing past Hardison to the window and staring out. “Did you see him?”
Hardison sighed. “He was right here, Parker. It would've been hard not to see him.”
She let the logic pass by unnoticed. “He's pretty, isn't he?”
Archie and Hardison exchanged uneasy glances. They'd both heard from her of her returned “boy,” and had begun worrying for her. Eliot Spencer was no “boy,” and, while they knew little about him, they doubted he was anything like her romantic notions of him.
Men did not return from twenty years of war unscathed.
“Parker,” Archie said softly, gently, “you don't know anything about him.” He regarded her worriedly. Parker wasn't a fool, wasn't naive, but she didn't always understand people, and that made her vulnerable. Especially to a man who was undoubtedly experienced in all manner of things. “He's not the boy who left here all those years ago.”
She turned to face him, lifting her chin defiantly. “I know that, Archie. People change. But … his eyes are sad. I think he just wants to be happy again. And I want him to be happy. That's not wrong, is it?”
“Of course it's not wrong,” Hardison assured her. For all that Parker was older than he, still he felt deeply protective of her and was worried that her fascination with Eliot Spencer would only hurt her in the end. “Just … be careful, that's all we're saying. Men like him- He's seen things, done things-”
She stared at him as if he'd betrayed her. “You just said we don't know anything about him!” she said sharply. “You have no idea what he's done! You can't judge him-”
“We're not judging him,” Archie said. “We're just being realistic. And careful.” He smiled slightly and reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. “We just don't want to see you hurt.”
She gazed at him and nodded faintly. She could understand that, really she could. But she also understood, as they clearly couldn't, that she was in no danger.
Whatever else he might have done in his life, Eliot would never hurt her.
“I'm sorry.” Sterling leaned forward in his chair and spoke quietly; much too quietly, to anyone who knew him. “Would you mind explaining that to me again?”
Off to one side, where he was leaning against the wall, Quinn snickered, clearly enjoying this, but Sterling ignored him. For now, his whole attention was fixed on Doyle, who stood battered and bruised before him.
“The bastard must be workin' for Cora!” Doyle spat. “Stopped me from collectin' from her, said I'd not be gettin' a penny more from her. Then he attacked me!”
Sterling stared at him in disgust, his mouth curling in contempt. Doyle had his uses, but thinking clearly wasn't among them. He was a braggart and a bully who relied on intimidation rather than persuasion and counted on his victims being too frightened of him to fight back. Clearly he'd miscalculated this time.
“One man did this,” he said scathingly, waving a hand at Doyle's battered appearance. Both the man's eyes were blackened, his nose was broken and swollen and his lips split. “There were three of you, and one man did this.” He suddenly shot out of his chair and dealt Doyle a vicious blow across an already bruised cheek. “What the hell am I paying you for?” he roared as Doyle toppled to the floor. “And you!” He whirled abruptly on Quinn as the soldier laughed again, pinning him with a withering stare. “Where were you when this was happening?”
Quinn straightened and bobbed his head in a show of subservience. “I was doing what you pay me for,” he reported, “keeping an eye on things. I saw Spencer, but he didn't look like he was going to cause any trouble, so I didn't see any need to follow him.” He lifted his head and arched his brow. “You told me to keep the brawling to a minimum, remember?” he asked, then slanted a mocking glance at Doyle and shrugged. “It didn't occur to me he'd have trouble taking money from a girl.”
Sterling spat out a curse. “Yes, well, it wasn't the girl who did this to him, was it?” he seethed. “Who is this Spencer?”
Quinn lifted two fair brows. “Eliot Spencer? You've not heard of him?”
Sterling scowled deeply. “If I knew who he was,” he said through clenched teeth, “I wouldn't have asked.” Christ, were all his men simpletons? “Enlighten me.”
Quinn shrugged again and went back to leaning against the wall, crossing his arms against his chest. “Sir Eliot Spencer,” he said. “He's a soldier. A mercenary. And something of a legend in Italy and the Levant.” A grudging respect colored his voice. “I heard of him in Sicily, when I was serving under a former commander of his named Guttman. He's supposed to be a hell of a fighter.” He shrugged again. “He took up with a man named Damien Moreau a few years ago, helped Moreau build an empire.” A smirk tugged at his lips. “There's a story that one city surrendered to Moreau without a fight just because they heard Moreau was sending Spencer to take it. Apparently the man was all four horsemen of the apocalypse rolled into one.”
Sterling exhaled sharply and began to pace, troubled by Quinn's description. What the hell was such a man doing here? Lévèrage had been at peace for the past decade or so; there was no work for mercenaries … other than the kind for which he employed Quinn and his men. And men like Spencer didn't come without a price. So far as he knew, no one around here but him could afford that price.
Except-
No. He banished the thought as soon as it arose. Nathan could certainly afford it, but why would he? He'd been a virtual recluse since his son had died, had for two years now ignored his responsibilities as lord and seemingly forgotten the duties he owed his people. He'd ceased collecting taxes and enforcing laws, had allowed the local roads, bridges and ferry crossings to fall into disrepair. Poachers had begun hunting wherever they damned well pleased, and outlaws had taken over roadways. All because the great Lord Nathan had allowed himself to sink into his grief.
Yes, of course, it was unspeakably tragic that his son had died - as a father himself, he couldn't begin to imagine that pain - but, damn it, that did not excuse the man's neglect of his lands and people! And the only reason anything around here had improved was because James Sterling had stepped in and made it so.
Not that any of Nathan's people appreciated that; oh, no. Apparently they preferred to wither and die under the neglect of their grief-stricken lord to the interest he had taken in their wretched little lives. And, yes, fine, perhaps he did profit from the taxes he collected, perhaps he had expanded his holdings by “acquiring” land from those who simply couldn't pay their taxes, but why not? After all, he was the one who'd restored order to their lives, he was the one who kept them safe. Why shouldn't he get a little something in return? That was how things worked in the world.
Except that Nathan's people didn't see it that way … and apparently neither did Nathan.
He frowned and thought of the man. They'd been friends of a sort once, years ago, and he'd admired Nathan's shrewd intelligence. But the man had allowed himself to become crippled by the losses of his son and his wife, had allowed not only his life but the lives of his people to fall into ruin. Yet now that someone else had stepped in to repair the damage, he was so offended that he had finally stirred himself out of his alcoholic haze and hired himself a mercenary.
But to do what, exactly? Spencer might be something of a legend, but he was still only one man. Against Quinn and an entire force of soldiers.
What the bloody hell was Nathan up to?
“Father?”
The soft voice interrupted his thoughts, and he turned to see Olivia standing in the entrance to the hall, holding a familiar chessboard. For a few moments, thoughts of Nathan and his irritation at Doyle vanished. He'd always loved Olivia, but in the year or so since her mother's death he'd come to treasure her more deeply than ever. She was as intelligent as she was lovely and insightful beyond her years. The happiest part of his day was the hours they spent playing chess and simply talking about whatever interested her at the moment. “Is it that time already?”
“I was afraid you'd forgotten,” she said. Then she smiled impishly and added, “Or that you just didn't want to risk my beating you again.”
He scowled in mock indignation. “Don't be impertinent! You got lucky and you know it.”
She smirked and held up the board. “There's one way to find out.”
“Then lead the way, my lady,” he invited, bowing his head and holding out a hand.
Olivia laughed lightly and turned away, starting toward the smaller chamber where they regularly played.
He watched her go, then turned back to Quinn. “Find out everything you can about this Eliot Spencer,” he ordered. “I want to know who he is and why he's here.” He started to go after his daughter but paused briefly beside Doyle, who still lay on the floor cradling his battered face in his hands. “And get this idiot out of my hall.”
The days quickly arranged themselves into a kind of peaceful order. Eliot spent most of his time working on his father's house (strange that he couldn't think of it in any other way), repairing the roof and fixing the walls, and replanting his mother's garden. He rediscovered the forests and streams of his youth, hunting and fishing, or sometimes spent lazy hours lying in the meadow where he'd first dreamed of becoming a soldier, now staring at the clouds and trying to forget where those dreams had taken him.
He went into the village to buy what he couldn't grow or make himself, flirting with Cora, arguing with Hardison and sharing stories with Archie of the places they'd seen, and trying - without any success - to hide away those parts of himself that Sophie's deep, dark eyes insisted on dredging forth.
And always, always there was Parker.
At first she merely watched him from a distance, remaining just at the edge of the yard while he toiled on the roof or at the walls, never speaking a word. Gradually, though, she began drifting closer, until he could lean out over the edge of the roof, look down and see her-
Usually either eating part of the food he'd laid out for his midday meal or rifling through his belongings.
Well, she was a thief. And apparently part magpie.
He'd discovered early on her love for shiny things, and so began hiding small treasures for her to find. They were mostly trinkets he'd collected over the years without really knowing why - unless some part of him had always meant them for her - and he was delighted by the joy she took in them. He told her the stories behind them, or sometimes simply made up something, and, to his surprise, and sometimes horror, discovered that he was telling her more and more about himself in the process.
But if she were at all troubled by what she heard, she never showed it. She simply listened to him and let him tell her what he would, occasionally asking questions but never pressing. In her own way she became his confessor, her presence and smiles the only absolution he needed.
She talked to him, too, about Archie and Hardison and the strange little family they'd made, about Sophie, who seemed to be at once mother, sister and friend, about the treasures she stole and the stories she made up for them, about the butterflies who, before him, had been the only ones to hear those stories. Sometimes she danced for him, to music only she could hear.
Sometimes they danced together.
And she warned him about Quinn.
Quinn was asking questions about him, trying to find out who he was and why he was here. The town's people, who'd accepted Eliot as one of their own, gave as little away as they could, protecting him as they did each other, but Parker knew it wouldn't last. Quinn served Sterling. If Quinn was asking, it meant Sterling wanted answers. What Sterling wanted, Sterling usually got.
And if Sterling wanted Eliot …
It angered Eliot that she and everyone else should live in such fear of Sterling, that he should have such power over their lives. And that Lord Nathan, their rightful protector, should be so absent. But as yet the man refused to bestir himself to come to their aid.
Which left only Eliot. Parker tried to talk him out of it. Hardison, Archie, Cora and Sophie tried, as did Constable Bonanno. Hell, once or twice even Father Paul, the village priest, stepped in to counsel peace and patience.
But it was wrong and he knew it. Letting matters go on as they were was wrong. Letting Sterling grab power that wasn't his was wrong. Letting good people suffer under burdens they should never have to bear was wrong.
And after all his years with Damien, he was sick and tired of doing wrong.
Quinn lay on the hill overlooking the house below and smiled to himself as he watched the couple laughing and playing in the yard. She had taken something of his and he was trying to get it back, chasing her as she danced away, then dancing with her when he caught her.
He'd found Eliot Spencer's weakness.
He knew the girl; the blonde thief, Parker. Oh, he'd never caught her - she was too good, too quick - but he knew her nonetheless. God knew he'd chased her often enough. She'd always had the village protecting her, though.
And now she apparently had Spencer as well.
He smirked. How sweet. And how stupid. A man of Spencer's experience should have known better. Love might be pleasant, but it was a luxury he couldn't afford. It made him soft. Vulnerable.
And it gave his enemies the perfect weapon to use against him.
Part 7