Lords Of The Dark Fall - Fabian (26 page)

“I believe this is more than like.” He could give her at least words. She deserved to hear them. But once said, they could not be unsaid. There would be consequences, as there would be with him taking the roids.

“That’s all I needed to hear.” She had to pull him down to kiss her. He was so much taller than she. “Don’t say anything else,” she whispered in between kisses. “It will only muddy the waters, and right now you need to make decisions with this.” She tapped his head. “Not this.”

Peeling aside the jacket, her lips lingered over his wildly beating heart. Evidence that he had been prepared to tell her he loved her. How small the word, and yet how big the feeling. Inexperienced as he was in true matters of the heart, he suspected love had more to do with sacrifice than holding and kissing and fond glances as the bards would have them believe.

After the words must come commitment. And that wasn’t on either of their agendas.

She would do anything for him. He hadn’t missed her quiet rage at Hal stripping her soul bare for all to see. She was here, ready to heed his call, quite possibly to die for him if necessary.

She read his silence well. “It was unfair of me to put pressure on you. I don’t want to do that. Better that we just stay friends, eh? Will make everything a heck of a lot easier.”

“It will.” Did she know how close she was to changing the course of everything? That it would take only a few tears to melt his heart and make it impossible to leave? He would be her champion and she would anchor him in time and place, remind him to be humble and teach him how best to live this mortal life.

She had only to ask him to stay.

* * * *

Don’t say it. Don’t say it.
She kept up the mantra until Fabian at last let her go and declared he would change his clothing and start his training.

She watched the steam curl from the spout of the iron kettle, concentrating on the intricate spiralling pattern. Upstairs, she heard him stomping around, the sound of the wardrobe door slamming. A time and a place to say I love you and this wasn’t it.

Maybe she’d leave him a note to read after she’d gone. No, that would only pile on the misery. She wasn’t planning on pining away of a broken heart when they went their separate ways. They’d been stuck together for so long that feelings were inevitable. It may not even be love. What if she was just star-struck by a hot man showing her attention? What the hell was love anyway? And what place did it have in this world of theirs?

Nearly out of tea. She scooped out the dusty remains from the tea-jar and dumped them into the earthenware pot. Both her own creations. Rustic, but if she fancied them up a bit she might be able to tap into some more exclusive market. Did people take afternoon tea from fine china and delicately patterned cups these days?

She scribbled the word tea on her to-buy list and then added, loan. She’d changed her mind about letting Fabian set her up with the spoils of his victory. Whoever filled his power-vacuum would want those spoils back. Hal might be prepared to cross the continent in order to disappear with his gains. She wasn’t.

“I will be consuming the rest of the carcass. I need meat to rebuild my muscle.”

Fabian stood at the open kitchen door, shirtless, beltless, her father’s ill-fitting pants hanging from his waist. He’d lost weight since his arrival and would need to pile that back on.

“You need it more than me. I’ll ask Hal to bring over a few sheep and maybe half a dozen goats as part of his investment in you. That should keep you going.”

“You make me sound like a commodity.”

“Which is all you are to him. Get used to it if you’re going down this road.”

She was talking to an empty space. His heavy boots were already clattering on the porch boards. What did he expect? Hal wasn’t in this for love that was for sure. For as long as Fabian held power, he’d stick around, be his right-hand man. If what he said was true, then Fabian had lived long enough to know how this all worked.

From the window, she saw him making his way towards the wood-stack at the side of the barn, select two sturdy logs and lift them experimentally. A deep breath lifted his shoulders. He let it out slowly and hoisted the logs, arms rigid and straight at his sides. Back at the stove, she poured out two mugs of tea and then took them out onto the porch. Fabian held his position, a look of calm concentration on his face. She watched him for a good five minutes before his arms showed the slightest hint of a tremble.

“Tea,” she said in as cheery a voice as she could manage. So hard watching the man you loved preparing for a battle he might not win. How could she not worry about him?

“Do you have anything heavier I might lift?” He threw down the logs in disgust. “I can hardly feel these.”

“There’s a metal plough-head in the barn. Be careful though, it’s sharp. And there are some sacks at the back. You can fill them with sand and maybe carry them around? They don’t come with a safety warning.”

Oblivious to her attempt at levity, he made his way purposefully to the barn. Didn’t look as if he would grow a sense of humour in her lifetime. A shame. She liked hearing him laugh.

He came out of the barn holding the plough-head. With a two-handed grip, he hefted it above his head and locked his arms tight. After a few moments she had to look away. There wouldn’t be much left of him if that thing fell on his head. A tight knot formed in her chest.

From now on, for every moment and every day it would only get worse and she’d be stuck doing what women do best. Smiling through the worry, but worrying all the same. As if it could magically keep him alive.

This time next month he could be dead.

They may not be destined to be together, but she could survive knowing he was out there somewhere, living a life. Sipping her tea, she sneaked a quick look under her lashes. Muscles taut, face locked in a mask of concentration, he could be one of the stone statues adorning the popular square in town. Ironically, they were said to be thousands of years old, too. From the pre-war days, built by a civilisation long gone.

Milly, one of the farm cats, ambled across the yard. Fabian had been an endless source of fascination for the feral creatures who turned up at will to clear the barn of rats before disappearing for weeks on end. She sat, tail tucked about her, solemnly watching him flex his biceps, using the plough as counter-balance. He’d cleared a hundred reps before the cat got bored and wandered over to the porch to say hello.

Tig crouched to stroke the silky fur, her eyes never leaving Fabian. He was on the ground, now, muscles straining, pushing up and down with astonishing speed. Paying her no heed, which was as it should be. A man on a mission had no time for small talk.

“Tea’s on the porch-rail,” she reminded him. “Don’t let it get cold.”

Again, no response. Okay, she took the hint. Time to get back to work, anyway. Now Hal knew about Fabian, no need to pretend he didn’t exist. Fabian would adorn her story plates with his full likeness and the world would never forget him. Limited runs at first of exclusive collector’s pieces and then a run of cheaper pieces for the masses.

This could make her reputation as an artist.

After toasting a piece of bread and drizzling it with honey, she freed the hens and then wandered over to her studio, covertly checking out Fabian on the way. Desperately in her head, trying to see him as the man she’d found in the desert and who she’d rescued with the hope of profit.

In her studio, she studied the blueprint for the design and realised with a pang that she couldn’t do it. A fabulous commercial opportunity lay before her and she couldn’t bring herself to share it with a world who would never understand what they were seeing. In a battle between head and heart, the heart would always win. She would make only one, she decided. One set that would hang on her walls alone. She’d asked Fabian not to sell her out and she would do the same for him. There would be other stories, other opportunities. She would make something of herself without pimping out the soul of the man she loved.

He was sitting on the porch steps, wiping at his dripping hair with the back of his hand. The mug of tea at his side. Already he looked bigger, muscles pumped from the exertion. His confrontation with Warrington would be talked about for generations to come.

Picking up her sketch-pad, she closed her eyes and visualised his face, the set of his shoulders, the width of him. Then with broad, assured strokes, she began to draw. The study was nearly complete when she opened her eyes and noticed Fabian, massive arms folded, watching her with interest.

“The subject is not here and yet the drawing is almost perfectly rendered. How do you do that?”

“I see it in here,” she said, touching her head. “You get a lot more truth drawing like this.”

“Did I tell you all this?”

She heard the note of surprise in his tone as well as the wistfulness he couldn’t hide.

“Yes,” she said. “Sometimes in words, other times in the way you walk, the way you talk. Only a fool wouldn’t see that you’ve held high office or dealt with the affairs of men. Presided over their lives.”

“And their deaths.” He moved to stand beside her and she felt the heat of him, the solid wall he made between her and the outside world.

Could make
, she corrected herself. “Yes, Fabian. And their deaths. You said almost perfectly rendered?”

He lifted a finger, touched the eyes, traced the line of the arm, the jewelled hand with infinite care as if trying to read what she’d put down on the paper. Or was he adding what she’d missed?

Fabian tilted his head and squinted. “Here,” he said pointing to the eyes. “My mirror never showed me eyes like these.”

“No, but if you looked now, it would.”

She almost laughed at his appalled expression. He may not be able to see the compassion in his eyes, but she did, every time he looked at her.

“It is a good picture, but you have not drawn the man I was.”

“Who said I was trying to do that? Perhaps this is the man you could be?”

For a moment she thought to have overstepped the mark. Fabian tensed visibly, every overworked muscle standing out in stark relief. Not very subtle, she knew and in all honesty, she had meant to attempt to capture something of the tyrant he was. But that man was no longer there and her fingers refused to co operate.

“It’s not simply a fantasy, Fabian. I really see it. You have no idea how strong you’ll be when you find that man for yourself. When the fury of the storm battles the gentle rays of the sun, who wins?”

He snorted. “I know this parable. Propaganda, nothing more. The heat of the sun can easily match the ferocity of the battering storm. It pays to remember that a tyrant can smile as well as any man. But know always that the smile never ever reaches his eyes.”

“Oh, come on.” She refused to believe his stubborn line. “You must have loved your mother. Didn’t you look at her with those eyes?”

“I don’t remember much of my mother. Her task was to dance attendance on my father. The children were brought up by nurses and tutors. 

“You want me to change them?” Damn him, let him have his tyrant eyes back if that’s what made him happy. Picking up her eraser, she kneaded it between her fingers to shape and warm it. To give him a chance to retract.

“No,” he said after a long moment. “It fascinates me and I would study it. In my experience, leaders who show compassion are the first to fall.”

“But they do it so graciously. And those who do manage to hold onto power do one heck of a good job. It’s the difference between fear and love. The obeisance you get from fear is an illusion. Get people to love you and they’ll go out and die for you. How many people have you know who would have died for you?”

“I have had many champions over my long life. They have all died for me without question.”

“But was it for gain? Or sacrifice?” It was as good a time as any to get this particular point across. This lesson would benefit him wherever he ended up.

“They lived in luxury. And no, I did not require that they love me, only that they die on behalf of my cause.”

“And women?” She couldn’t help asking. “Apart from your mother, who I refuse to believe didn’t love you, did you ever truly win a woman’s love?”

He frowned, obviously affronted. “My charm was legendary. Women would fight to the death for a night with me.”

“So you keep saying, but did one ever die of love for you? Do you ever think how much more you could have been if you’d known this?” She pointed to the eyes, to the hint of a genuine smile on the lips. Turning to him, she reached up to cup his unshaven cheek. “If you do anything for me, then remember that people will love you, if you give them reason to. If you show them how. Good battle tactic, if nothing else.”

And there were those eyes, and this time not looking at her from the drawing. Soft, compassionate eyes that gazed at her with something they were both stubbornly refusing to put into words.

“You are saying I should conquer hearts rather than flesh? You wish me to pen Warrington an ode to his beauty rather than fight him? Somehow I don’t think that will sway him.”

Now his eyes were sparkling with an unaccustomed mirth. The man did have a sense of humour after all. She couldn’t help laughing at the thought of Fabian and Warrington sparring with poetry instead of fists.

“No, Warrington is one man you won’t be able to charm, that’s a given. I was thinking more of after.”

The rasp of his beard scratched her palm. He took her hand and pressed it to his mouth. “When all those around wither and die and you do not, you soon learn not to give your heart. An immortal has no use for love.”

“It isn’t much different for humans. Love doesn’t come with guarantees. It’s something you don’t always have a choice in. How did the training go?”

“Terrible. I’ve lost condition. My mirror never showed me as slight as that figure in your drawing.”

“Slight?” The man was easily twice as wide as her. With a hand on each shoulder, she traced the shape of him, the knot of muscle at his shoulder, the round bulge of his biceps. If she punched him in the stomach, she would probably break her fingers. “Slight is never a word I’d associate with you. But you’re more than a mountain of muscle. You have something far more important than this.”