Work Text:
One moment, it was a brilliant summer day, and Allard smiled to see the sincere pleasure on Adrian’s young face at the cheers and good wishes of the people who applauded with genuine joy the sight of their young ruler beside his Regent. The next moments, the cheers had become shouts of alarm, and the day itself seemed to darken as a bearded figure, shouting wildly in the vernacular leapt upon the step of the open carriage. Allard had half-risen in alarm, and he saw the beads of sweat on the pale determined face, the lips pressed bloodless above an unkempt beard, knuckles clenched white around a knife that slashed through the air toward Adrian.
The American flung himself forward in the way, acting less by deliberate intention than by unconscious instinct that there was no time to do more than put himself between the madman and the Emperor before the blow came down.
“Go, sire!” he cried. “Guards! To the Emperor!” He did not turn to see whether Adrian had made his escape. Stanief would see to that, would shield his imperial cousin with his life, if necessary.
The blade flashed in the sunlight, and there also flashed before his mind’s eye the image of Bertie, of Aunt Rose and Theodora. If only he could have protected them with such a simple, honorable sacrifice—
In that same moment, the hideous knife was driven through Allard's coat and slashed deeply into the muscle of his's outstretched arm. The suddenness of the crisis and the urgency of the danger had hardened his nerves to such a point of tension that he did not feel the injury's true severity, not even when the attacker, made clumsy by the rocking of the carriage, wrenched the knife out in a broken movement that opened the wound still wider. Rather, Allard's senses seemed to dull to the wider world, the shouts all around coming as if from a great distance. His mind had been abruptly recalled from its reverie, and his perceptive capacities were locked on the danger before him; he appraised the situation and acted in the same instant. The would-be regicide was no practiced assassin, and he did not immediately recover himself from the thwarting of his first attempt. Before he could regain his poise, Allard seized his wrist with both hands and held it up and harmless, at the same time advancing and applying the force of his own body to press the criminal back against the side of the carriage. Desperate now, the man struggled and managed to free his other arm; he lashed out with his fist, seeking to force the other to loosen his grip.
Allard did not yet feel the full acuity of the wound in his arm, but he could judge from the blood that covered them both, and he did not dare let go with one hand for fear that his strength should suddenly fail. He gritted his teeth, locked his left hand over his right around that malicious wrist, and turned his head away, as much from his own injury as from the hot breath and spittle-flecked, livid face of his adversary, and tried again to force the man down, to pin him against the carriage. Some assistance, he knew, must arrive soon, he had only to hold for a little; but in his excited perceptions, the seconds seemed to stretch to hours. In fact less than a minute had passed since the man had first leapt at the Emperor—
“John! John!” Stanief was beside him, Stanief's gloved hand wrapping over his own, Stanief's unimpaired strength compelling the criminal to his knees, so that they were almost embracing over him.
"The Emperor—he is out of danger?" Surely Stanief would not have come to aid him in subduing the assassin were Adrian still in peril, but the Grand Duke's voice was roughened with emotion such as Allard had never before heard from one who spoke customarily in accents so coolly leisured.
"Yes," said Stanief shortly. “Alisof’s men escort him to the palace now. But you—”
Adrian safe, and Stanief here: Allard felt so light with relief that he almost laughed. “Well enough, monseigneur.”
The black eyes with which Stanief scrutinized Allard’s blood-soaked coat and quivering, mangled right arm were unusually hard and skeptical, but he said nothing, and his expression regained some of its serenity of command as he turned his gaze back upon the criminal they held as if contemplating a mathematical problem. Then in an abrupt, unprepared motion, he wrenched the man roughly around, pulling him fully away from a startled Allard. Despite the element of surprise, the man reacted with the fury of a desperate animal as soon as he perceived that the joint restraint had slightly eased. Lashing out again, he had a lucky chance, and a thin line of blood dotted Stanief’s wrist, where the disarrangement of his coat had bared a narrow band of white skin above his glove. But it availed the criminal no more than his steady stream of curses had. He was born down to the floor, where a knee immobilized both arms, and Stanief’s strong fingers forced open the man’s hand and plucked the weapon away to toss it upon the seat of the carriage. Allard had knelt as well, and he assisted to subdue him until officers arrived, babbling apologies. The sight of Stanief wounded burned a hotter indignation in his breast than the rather more severe injury to himself, and this additional spark of hatred towards the assassin had revived his strength a little.
Still, the lightheadedness caused by a considerable loss of blood had begun to overtake him as soldiers at last swarmed over the carriage and respectfully took charge of the prisoner, then receded into a cordon guard; unmoving, in a daze, he heard without comprehending as sharp, merciless orders were issued and acknowledged around him. Then Stanief was kneeling at his side, placing a firm and welcome hand upon his shoulder.
“Can you stand, John?” he asked urgently. The Hospital of Saint Apollonia is not 10 minutes away, and Vasili and I will bind your arm as we travel.” Allard had not even noticed the blond lieutenant, who had mounted the other side of the carriage.
“Yes, of course. I am not badly hurt, truly—” but as he made the attempt to rise, leaning on the carriage cushions, he staggered a little, his head swimming.
“Do not try to give me the noble lie, John.” Stanief caught him by the left shoulder, and helped him to sit, steadying him against the jostling of the carriage as the horses started to move.
Allard smiled fondly, leaning a little into Stanief’s arm, which still held him. “I could not lie to you, monseigneur. But I hardly feel anything—perhaps I am euphoric with relief. And anyway, I cannot care what happens to me now; not now I have done a little to repay all you have done for me.”
“A little!” Vasili had been carefully cutting away the remains of Allard’s coat and sleeve, but now he exploded, heedless of etiquette. “‘I have done a little’, monsieur says, after saving the Emperor from a murderer!” He punctuated the outburst, perhaps in calculation, by pouring over the exposed wound an alcoholic liquor from a flask he had procured from somewhere or other. Allard took a breath in a hiss. Under Vasili's minstrations, he pain that excitement had so far kept at bay had begun to agonize him in earnest. “I beg Your Royal Highness’s pardon,” Vasili added contritely, “but Monsieur Allard is too modest by far.”
Stanief’s gesture at once granted easy indulgence and indicated that the lieutenant had reached the terminus of it. Vasili ducked his head and began to unroll gauze to bind the wound.
“No,” Stanief said, taking Allard's hand in his, “the magnitude of the deed—and of the danger you took upon yourself—scarcely seems real to you, yet; it is too soon, your nerves are shocked still, and your mind fatigued by the loss of blood. What you have done for the Empire, and for me, is beyond thanks or recompense, and the whole world will be shortly talking of it—but there will be time for that later. Vasily, have you anything left in your flask?” Silently, Vasili unstoppered the item and gave it to his chief. “Drink, John.”
Allard was indeed fatigued, the great reaction having come over him at last, and his wounded arm throbbed with such pain that he did not protest when Stanief very tenderly held his head and helped him to drink a mouthful, then another. "I cannot be sorry that you risked your life to save Adrian's, when you were better placed to act than I," he said quietly in Allard's ear, speaking now in English, "but if you do not have a care for what happens to you, John, recall please how dear you are to me, and that you are mine to guard."
To Allard in his dazed state, the words seemed to warm him through and to tranquilize his nerves more effectively than the liquor that burned pleasantly in his throat. A Stanief guards his own! He felt unimaginably light and safe, Stanief's trust and love a gift he had perhaps finally begun to repay, but whose depths (and his heart soared rather than sank to realize this truth!) no sacrifice or service would ever plumb. He could not put his thoughts into words, so instead he lifted Stanief's hand to his lips.
"Yours, monseigneur," he murmured, scarcely coherent. He was so tired, and Stanief's chest such a welcome bulwark of strength.
Gently, tenderly, Stanief pulled him closer, and Allard at last let his eyelids fall. "Always, my John."