FIC: Iron Sharpeneth Iron (Sexby/Rainsborough, Sexby/Angelica, R)
Title: Iron Sharpeneth Iron
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: The Devil's Whore
Pairing: Edward Sexby/Thomas Rainsborough, Edward Sexby/Angelica Fanshawe
Rating: R for horror imagery, mild slash and het
Length: ~1028 words
Summary: Thomas would haunt him unto death.
A/N: Thanks to thisisgallifrey and 45eugenia for betaing and feedback, and for putting up with my dithering and endless Baroque nerdery and the insertion of tragic bromance into the Putney Debates of all places. May contain traces of the historical Sexby and Rainsborough.
"For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness
He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not."
--John Donne
"Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend."
--Proverbs 27:17
1. Marston Moor, 1644
The King's men and dogs lie dead at their feet, their blood soaking calf-high into Sexby's boots as he makes his way through the battlefield. Rainsborough's weight is heavy on his arm as he helps him limp back to their camp. Lilburne toasts and declares Paradise is one step closer. "Today, God is smiling upon us".
Rainsborough, too, is smiling, despite his wounds. "Of all the men gathered here, there are none like unto thee, Edward." He clasps Sexby's hand with both of his. "I would call thee 'brother'."
Sexby squeezes Rainsborough's hand, attempting a smile. "If thou must, Colonel."
Rainsborough slaps him on the back and laughs. "And I would you called me 'Thomas'. Come, we shall sup together."
That night, on Thomas's request, Sexby stays in his tent. He sits up beside Thomas and guards him in his sleep.
"Edward?" Thomas yawns, a smile on his lips. "Do you ever sleep?"
Sexby smirks, rests his pistol on his shoulder and shakes his head.
Nothing more is said.
***
2. Autumn, 1644
"Brother", Thomas whispers in his sleep, pressing against him during the night. They'd taken a Royalist castle that day and for once, were allowed the luxury of beds. Even then, Thomas had insisted Sexby would not leave his side. So he had pulled the heavy covers over them, linen and gold-embroidered velvet and furs, heavy and soft and uncomfortable against Sexby's skin. All his life, he'd dreamt of a bed like this, and yet now it seemed ostentatious, exactly the sort of godless decadence they were supposed to be eradicating from this world. Why, before, Rainsborough would've insisted on sleeping in the stables with his men as a show of solidarity, and here they were, wrapped up in riches while the others slept outside in the cold.
But Sexby says nothing. He endures the suffocating weight of the bedcovers, endures Thomas's beard tickling his neck, and silently curses the day this man gifted him with a conscience. He thinks of the camel and the needle's eye, of noble men seduced by luxury, of ideals sacrificed on the altar of comfort. He squeezes the butt of his pistol and thinks of how much easier it was to have faith in steel and bullets, not in men of flesh and blood. Upon these things he broods, and he does not sleep.
That night, as the clock strikes three, Thomas takes the pistol from Sexby's hand and kisses him on the mouth.
Nothing more is said.
***
3. Ireland, 1649
On the anniversary of Thomas's death, Sexby wakes up with only a burnt stump where his hand used to be. The surgeon forces whiskey and rosemary down his throat to sedate him. Rosemary for remembrance. Sexby weeps for his lost hand, weeps for his lost Thomas, weeps for his lost Angelica. Fever and sobs rack his body until he passes out, and nothing more is said.
***
4. Fanshawe House, 1656
Sexby has found home. He presses his face into Angelica's hair, breathing in her scent and closing his eyes, holding her tight, wishing he could sink into her completely, disappear inside her. And the woman who came for him on the battlefield understands this, allows this and enfolds him within herself. She gathers him close and keeps him safe, and for this he is grateful. He counts his days with her with the same prayerful reverence as he counts the pearls in her hair as he undresses her, as he counts her vertebrae with his fingers when they make love, as he counts the lines on her face when she lies asleep beside him.
The clock strikes three in the morning, and Thomas is there.
"Avenge me," Thomas whispers, takes Sexby's good hand and presses it to his stomach. Warm blood trickles between Sexby's fingers, and there are worms upon Thomas's tongue as he leans over Sexby. "Avenge me, Edward."
Sexby jerks his hand away and cries out, clutching his limbs against himself, unable to stop shaking. Angelica wakes, starts, and gently clasps his wrists.
"It's only a nightmare. Come, now. Hush." She takes Sexby's trembling hands, steel and flesh both, and wraps them around her waist. "Husband." She nuzzles his cheek with the touch of a woman who's nursed the walking dead to life before.
Thomas's dead eyes stare at him from across the room, and nothing more is said.
***
5. London, 1657
He will ride down this road, King Oliver. He in his gilded carriage, with his plumed horses, he who swore to defend the will of God and the people. And by this window, Sexby shall be waiting for him, for killing a tyrant is no murder. He remembers standing side by side with Thomas at Putney, reminding Old Noll of what he had promised to deliver, remembers both of them shaking with rage at Cromwell's betrayals. Thomas had laid his hand on his shoulder as together, they had called for the rights of the poorest he. He can feel Thomas's hand even now, gently sliding from his shoulder to his wrist, checking the flintlock on his pistol.
"Three thousand mourned for me on the streets of London, brother. Today, by your hand and by God's will, those three thousand shall rejoice."
Sexby aims, and waits for a Cromwell who never arrives.
Blood rushes out of his head as he staggers away from the window, the pistol heavy in his hand. He should have not been such a fool as to imagine Cromwell would not betray him for one last time. Revenge and a martyr's death were all he had to live for, and even those Cromwell has now snatched from him. He turns and looks for Thomas, but he is nowhere to be seen. There are footsteps on the stairs, the sounds of soldiers approaching. Angry, he swats the sound away like flies and looks, listens. He searches the empty room for one last whisper from Thomas's lips, but he cannot hear him. Thomas has gone ahead, and Sexby knows what he must do. He once swore he would follow Thomas unto death, and it's the last and only promise he's allowed to keep, if he but acts swiftly.
Sexby kisses the mouth of his pistol, and nothing more is said.
***
END
Author: snowgrouse
Fandom: The Devil's Whore
Pairing: Edward Sexby/Thomas Rainsborough, Edward Sexby/Angelica Fanshawe
Rating: R for horror imagery, mild slash and het
Length: ~1028 words
Summary: Thomas would haunt him unto death.
A/N: Thanks to thisisgallifrey and 45eugenia for betaing and feedback, and for putting up with my dithering and endless Baroque nerdery and the insertion of tragic bromance into the Putney Debates of all places. May contain traces of the historical Sexby and Rainsborough.
"For I am every dead thing,
In whom love wrought new alchemy.
For his art did express
A quintessence even from nothingness,
From dull privations, and lean emptiness
He ruined me, and I am re-begot
Of absence, darkness, death; things which are not."
--John Donne
"Iron sharpeneth iron; so a man sharpeneth the countenance of his friend."
--Proverbs 27:17
1. Marston Moor, 1644
The King's men and dogs lie dead at their feet, their blood soaking calf-high into Sexby's boots as he makes his way through the battlefield. Rainsborough's weight is heavy on his arm as he helps him limp back to their camp. Lilburne toasts and declares Paradise is one step closer. "Today, God is smiling upon us".
Rainsborough, too, is smiling, despite his wounds. "Of all the men gathered here, there are none like unto thee, Edward." He clasps Sexby's hand with both of his. "I would call thee 'brother'."
Sexby squeezes Rainsborough's hand, attempting a smile. "If thou must, Colonel."
Rainsborough slaps him on the back and laughs. "And I would you called me 'Thomas'. Come, we shall sup together."
That night, on Thomas's request, Sexby stays in his tent. He sits up beside Thomas and guards him in his sleep.
"Edward?" Thomas yawns, a smile on his lips. "Do you ever sleep?"
Sexby smirks, rests his pistol on his shoulder and shakes his head.
Nothing more is said.
***
2. Autumn, 1644
"Brother", Thomas whispers in his sleep, pressing against him during the night. They'd taken a Royalist castle that day and for once, were allowed the luxury of beds. Even then, Thomas had insisted Sexby would not leave his side. So he had pulled the heavy covers over them, linen and gold-embroidered velvet and furs, heavy and soft and uncomfortable against Sexby's skin. All his life, he'd dreamt of a bed like this, and yet now it seemed ostentatious, exactly the sort of godless decadence they were supposed to be eradicating from this world. Why, before, Rainsborough would've insisted on sleeping in the stables with his men as a show of solidarity, and here they were, wrapped up in riches while the others slept outside in the cold.
But Sexby says nothing. He endures the suffocating weight of the bedcovers, endures Thomas's beard tickling his neck, and silently curses the day this man gifted him with a conscience. He thinks of the camel and the needle's eye, of noble men seduced by luxury, of ideals sacrificed on the altar of comfort. He squeezes the butt of his pistol and thinks of how much easier it was to have faith in steel and bullets, not in men of flesh and blood. Upon these things he broods, and he does not sleep.
That night, as the clock strikes three, Thomas takes the pistol from Sexby's hand and kisses him on the mouth.
Nothing more is said.
***
3. Ireland, 1649
On the anniversary of Thomas's death, Sexby wakes up with only a burnt stump where his hand used to be. The surgeon forces whiskey and rosemary down his throat to sedate him. Rosemary for remembrance. Sexby weeps for his lost hand, weeps for his lost Thomas, weeps for his lost Angelica. Fever and sobs rack his body until he passes out, and nothing more is said.
***
4. Fanshawe House, 1656
Sexby has found home. He presses his face into Angelica's hair, breathing in her scent and closing his eyes, holding her tight, wishing he could sink into her completely, disappear inside her. And the woman who came for him on the battlefield understands this, allows this and enfolds him within herself. She gathers him close and keeps him safe, and for this he is grateful. He counts his days with her with the same prayerful reverence as he counts the pearls in her hair as he undresses her, as he counts her vertebrae with his fingers when they make love, as he counts the lines on her face when she lies asleep beside him.
The clock strikes three in the morning, and Thomas is there.
"Avenge me," Thomas whispers, takes Sexby's good hand and presses it to his stomach. Warm blood trickles between Sexby's fingers, and there are worms upon Thomas's tongue as he leans over Sexby. "Avenge me, Edward."
Sexby jerks his hand away and cries out, clutching his limbs against himself, unable to stop shaking. Angelica wakes, starts, and gently clasps his wrists.
"It's only a nightmare. Come, now. Hush." She takes Sexby's trembling hands, steel and flesh both, and wraps them around her waist. "Husband." She nuzzles his cheek with the touch of a woman who's nursed the walking dead to life before.
Thomas's dead eyes stare at him from across the room, and nothing more is said.
***
5. London, 1657
He will ride down this road, King Oliver. He in his gilded carriage, with his plumed horses, he who swore to defend the will of God and the people. And by this window, Sexby shall be waiting for him, for killing a tyrant is no murder. He remembers standing side by side with Thomas at Putney, reminding Old Noll of what he had promised to deliver, remembers both of them shaking with rage at Cromwell's betrayals. Thomas had laid his hand on his shoulder as together, they had called for the rights of the poorest he. He can feel Thomas's hand even now, gently sliding from his shoulder to his wrist, checking the flintlock on his pistol.
"Three thousand mourned for me on the streets of London, brother. Today, by your hand and by God's will, those three thousand shall rejoice."
Sexby aims, and waits for a Cromwell who never arrives.
Blood rushes out of his head as he staggers away from the window, the pistol heavy in his hand. He should have not been such a fool as to imagine Cromwell would not betray him for one last time. Revenge and a martyr's death were all he had to live for, and even those Cromwell has now snatched from him. He turns and looks for Thomas, but he is nowhere to be seen. There are footsteps on the stairs, the sounds of soldiers approaching. Angry, he swats the sound away like flies and looks, listens. He searches the empty room for one last whisper from Thomas's lips, but he cannot hear him. Thomas has gone ahead, and Sexby knows what he must do. He once swore he would follow Thomas unto death, and it's the last and only promise he's allowed to keep, if he but acts swiftly.
Sexby kisses the mouth of his pistol, and nothing more is said.
***
END