Work Text:
SIX MONTHS BACK
***
Fabien made it into town at dusk, a time when decent merchants were already closing for the night. Only the gates of the inn - a venerable building with a tiled roof and yellow walls, which served also as a stagecoach relay - stood open, its small tavern in the cellar already mobbed with travellers and townsfolk.
It was so cold and clear he could see his own breath. Fabien rubbed his gloved hands together to warm them up, reached inside his money bag and placed three copper coins in the coachman's hand. Looking back at the inn, the temptation of a place to lie down and rest after the long, trying ride, overwhelmed him. With luck, he might even get some sleep; clear his head before doing what he had come here to do. He all but started on the narrow path towards the entrance, when the scent hit him - crude wine, freshly baked bread, and smoky, slow cooked meats floating in the sharp winter air. A qualm of nausea twisted his stomach. No, he would not sleep; it would be yet another in a long string of nights filled with fluttering, nerve-wracking anticipation.
Fabien turned around and headed down the near-empty, muddy street.
The herbal shop wasn't hard to find. It stood where he’d been told it would, a little back on the left side of the road, nothing more than a wood shack with a sagged straw roof, a disheartening sight. The windows were veneered with frost, and faintly lit. The name written across the larger one in crisp, simple letters was foreign and ill-suited. He could make out movement inside, the tall figure of a man, but not his features. Fabien lifted his hand, hesitated, rapped on the glass, and when nothing happened, did it again. After an indefinite amount of time, he saw the man inside move. Fabien's wait was drawing to an end. His heart was racing, and his breath was coming faster.
And then he stood in the doorway, a young man who looked grave and a little lost. Dark strands of hair framed a chiselled, stunning face. Despite the chilly winter evening, the tone of his skin conjured memories of summer days in the sun. He wore a long shirt, too flimsy for the harsh weather, and tugged at the sleeves, screwing up his eyes against the fading light.
“We're closed for the evening, sir,” he said in a friendly enough voice, with only a hint of apology. “If you’d be so kind to return tomorrow?”
Fabien breathed in sharp slivers of ice. “Is that,” he stated, reaching deep inside for whatever shreds of calm he still possessed, “what you are now? A herbalist?”
The other man flinched back, recognition flaring in the deep dark irises. His breath caught, and strong, elegant fingers grabbed the door frame in a tight grip. Frozen in place, Fabien took in the lines of him. His hair was untrimmed, and the shoulders broader than he remembered, but he was also thinner, with dark rings under his eyes and a wan hue to his olive skin, all details he couldn't reconcile with the image in his mind, but that were quick to register.
“You've changed.”
The herbalist bore his gaze with the same grim resignation other men bore pain. “You have not,” he uttered tight-lipped.
Fabien gathered his coat around him, shivering slightly with more than just the cold. “Must we really do this out here?”
The answer came reluctantly, after a brief, charged silence. “Does it matter where?” But he pulled to the side, backing off with manifest caution when Fabien bypassed him to step over the threshold.
The air inside was warm, fragrant with dry herbs and a faint trace of cinnamon. A kettle sheeted on the rusty, iron cast stove in the corner. Reddish light came from an old, smoking oil lamp. Vials and jugs of all sizes and shapes stood on rough wooden shelves fitted along the walls. Clusters of plants wrapped in cheep paper hang from the low ceiling. The floor was made of what looked like a mixture of leftover planks. The counter-top was scarcely better, all scratches and cuts, darkened with age. One of the table legs was broken, the two chairs next to it did not match, and all the sweet-smelling scent did not chase away the stench of deprivation.
“This is what you wanted?” Fabien pulled down his hood, shrugged off his fine coat and abandoned it on the counter. He scanned the scarce interior with disbelieving eyes. “This?”
The herbalist disappeared behind the counter, from where he emerged momentarily, holding two mugs. An aura of uncertainty surrounded him as he moved to the stove, retrieved the kettle and took to pouring out some warm, golden liquid.
“Since when did you start caring about what I want?”
It hurt. So much, in fact, that, all reason forgoten, Fabien wanted nothing but to hurt him back. “Since you don't know any better. How did you manage this dump in the first place?”
“A bit of this and that. I’m sure you can imagine.”The herbalist jutted out his chin, which was new and nothing like Fabien remembered. “Nothing I haven’t long learnt how to do without,” he said unabashed.
“Would it kill you to give a straight answer for once?” Fabien scowled. His mind had already started filling the gaps, providing details the herbalist had refused him, and it was not a desirable process, nor a pretty one. Heavens, what a mess! He wasn’t even sure why he bothered, why he still cared. He hadn’t come here for answers, he already had those, and he didn’t trust the man standing before him as far as he could throw him. He was just vexed. But then again, the herbalist had that effect on him.
“It would not kill me.” He picked up the mugs and walked back, balancing them at an odd angle to keep the content from spilling. “I know my healing plants.”
“I suppose you've always had.”
“You remember? Funny. You only used to care about my bed-warming skills.”
“Trust me,” Fabien sighed out dramatically. “Your bed-warming skills were hardly worth noticing.”
“Which only makes your soldiering on despite my … incompetence the more commendable.”
“And your lack of scrupules the more despicable.”
“Of interest.” The herbalist placed one hot mug in front of Fabien, cupped the other between his hands and waited for the cloud of steam to melt away before taking a long sip. His eyes were marked by quiet and caution. “Don't deceive yourself. It was interest that I lacked, Fabien.”
“Never short of excuses, are you? And I should think you mean my lord.”
“I apologize. Lord Alba”, he said, using Fabien’s proper title, like any stranger was supposed to do. “But you are no longer my lord. I’ve lived on my own and away from you, for longer than the required two years.” He took another small sip and dipped his eyes down, holding himself perfectly still, the way Fabien remembered he used to do when he was uncertain or scared. His voice dropped too, a sad note to it now, one that was familiar as well. “You should drink that. It'll warm you up.”
Fabien brought the mug to his lips. The liquid inside was hot, scented and slightly bitter, pleasant after the biting cold, and he was still shivering. He emptied it in several gulps, buying his time, and set the mug down with perhaps more force than required. He'd been told right, the chill was receding, and his blood was already flowing faster through his veins.
“I could purchase this entire town with the gold I carry on me right now, and you imagine a country judge would stop me?”
The herbalist measured him with his veiled eyes, and Fabien wondered whether he was genuinely concerned or whether he was evaluating his chances. Then he put down the mug in his turn and closed the distance between them, shaking his head.
“No, I don't. Unfortunately, I don't think that at all. Will you hit me already? I'm tired of this conversation, and you look like you really want to.”
“I've never hit you and I'm not about to start.” He stood in touching distance, and the proximity was making Fabien a tad light-headed. “Though you're right, not for lack of wanting. Kreso -”
“Don't call me that,” the herbalist protested.
“Why not? It's your name.”
“Because.” His face flushed an unnatural red, but he made no attempt to move away. “In your own words, I have changed.”
“That much?” Leaning in tentatively, Fabien reached out. He brushed his thumb over the high cheekbone, and watched Kreso's eyes widen, the poorly hidden surge of darkness in his irises, the fall and rise of his chest with each sharp intake of breath. A look he remembered only too well, one Kreso wore during each battle he stood to lose. One so intoxicating he imagined Kreso'd leaned ever so slightly into the touch. Fabien's voice dropped to a low, deep murmur, foreign to his own ears after having been silenced for so long. “You ran away from me, but even you can't hide forever.”
“Yes, I ran.” Kreso's lids flickered, and he drew away from the touch, his handsome features twisted with disgust. “Are you ready to drag me back? Nothing short of that will do.”
"I thought I was, at same point.” Fabien removed his hand and sat down, defeated. Not immediately, not when he’d been so stricken by grief. But eventually, when that numbness inside him had receeded in front of his growing anger. “Do you know for how long your presence lingered in my room? I had it cleaned every day, and when I'd return at night it'd still be there. I thought about it, yes. I thought about you, begging under my hand. I thought about keeping you from your clothes, just so that I could see the bruises I'd put on you, and about making new ones every day. I thought about keeping you in constant pain, same as I was. So you'd feel that at least, if nothing else. You drove me so mad, Kreso. If would have found you then …”
“You would have been well within your right,” Kreso said evenly.
“I would’ve, wouldn’t I? But do you know what happened?” He shook his head in frustration, suddenly unable to choose his words. They simply poured from his lips, without him being able to filter them, without much wish to even try. The experience was new, and frightening, and vaguely exhilarating.
“As days went by without a sign, I no longer found it in myself to care about staying angry. I only wished to learn of you. Just a bit of news, and you can't even begin to imagine. The complete absence – it brought me down; a sickness, like venom spreading through me, only worse. Remember that first day? You were taking out the rosebushes my mother had planted, and that my father's new bride wished to be rid off. I found out – “
“– stormed on me, ordered them moved instead of thrown away, and said once it's done, I'm to head straight for the whipping post. You stood by and watched it all through, in order to make sure. Yes, I remember it well.”
“I stood by and watched you. And they sent you back from that post because I think by then I was already falling ill. This is your field. What cure is there for this kind of poison?”
Kreso's face was clouded, his shoulders tense. “There is such a thing as one's poison of choice.”
Fabien narrowed his eyes at him. “You think I chose this?”
“How would I even know, Fabien? We choose our poisons, yes. Mine is a wild weed that makes you drunk as though from wine, but without the odour and without the copper to get it, as it grows all over the place. It turns the mind so bright and carefree. Sometimes I drift off for hours, or even days in a roll. There's a glow it brings about, a feeling of freedom. Some say it is as though the universe is whispering in their ear. It's never been like that for me, but I still think it's worth it, all in all.”
Fabien blinked, finding it hard to follow Kreso's words, but acutely aware of his meaning where the lines of reality were otherwise fading away. The warmth was still spreading inside of him, and the dizziness from before had returned with a vengeance. He gave to sit up. His mind pressed on, but his body failed to carry through. Chilling understanding washed over him.
“What have you done?”
“There may be some mild headaches, and sweating, and dizziness in the morning, nothing worse than a hangover, really. I didn't put that much into your tea.”
“Your hospitality leaves much to be desired.” Fabien broke into laughter and it was one out of despair. He now had the full measure of what Kreso expected of him, and if what he could expect in return. “But I've accepted it, and fools don’t have the right to complain. I can’t move. Is that how it works?”
Kreso nodded sharply, not meeting his eyes. “Numbness is part of it. You'll regret that chair tomorrow, for certain. I suppose offering you a bed was the thing to do. But there's only mine, and I can't find it in my heart to be that kind.“
“Why?” Fabien asked, and his words came out more than a little slow. “Why on earth can't you?”
“You don’t understand. You never did.” Kreso's voice was laced with contempt, and perhaps disappointment. “Fabien, on that first day, I had no choice but to take out the bushes. I had no choice but to move them, once you'd ordered me to.
"That never changed, not ever. There was always the threat of the whipping post. You thought you were being kind and generous? Not a moment went by when I didn't hate you for dragging it on. Have no doubts: I never meant it. I never meant any of it.”
“You're wrong.” The oil lamp flickered and Fabien blinked quickly, the light suddenly too sharp. The room was melting into itself, the shelves leaking along the walls, the walls crawling into the floor and the floor rippling under his feet. A feeling came over him, like he was out of his own body, watching the whole thing from the outside, his crumpled shape in the old chair and Kreso standing there like a demon of strife. “About everything. When will it wear off? I need to show you – “
“Not that I wouldn't love to hear your thoughts on the experience, but by the time you sleep it off I'll be long gone.”
“Gone?” Panic surged through the numbness, and Fabien struggled against the restraints of his flesh. “Kreso, don't! You don't have to.”
Kreso was moving briskly around the room, throwing things in no particular order inside a worn-out satchel the colour of which had long washed off. “I do,” he said over his shoulder. His expression was haunted, but determined. “As always, you leave me no option.”
“Wait,” Fabien begged. “Just –“ It was becoming increasingly hard to speak. “My coat. The pocket.”
Kreso's head whipped around. “You may keep your gold,” he spat. “I am no thief, and I'm no charity case, and above all you can't buy me this time.”
“Not gold,” Fabien slurred. Far off into the distance, under layer upon layer of anguish and despair, in that void where hope used to lay, there was still a glimmer of reason. “Only the coat. Take it. Please,” he added when Kreso came in his blurred line of sight, the bag already across his shoulder. “It's winter.”
“Fine.” The herbalist picked it up reluctantly. “I don't have one, and you owe me for the trip, as it is. I'll put off the lamp on my way out. It's not safe. The stove should keep you warm enough. If not - you'll live."
“Thank you,” Fabien whispered.
“Good bye, Fabien. May we never meet again.”
The light flickered once more with the chilly gust of wind, and went off. The door snapped shut. Darkness settled over the place, broken only by the strange halo the moon cast through the windows. It reduced the objects in the room to indefinite shapes, at the same time close and out of reach.
Kreso's long shadow crept across the glass, and quickly disappeared. Fabien let his head fall against the backrest and closed his eyes to the vision of Kreso standing in the doorway. He will search the pockets, eventually. He will find the freedom papers. He'd maybe trust Fabien had really come for the cure. There was no telling what he might do then; but he'd left him with all the options.
In the mean time, the poison was thick in his blood, and it carried him away.