Strongman

by Denise Rossetti

  The pattern repeated itself during the day, Griff drifting in and out of consciousness. But Trilgeriel pronounced himself well pleased. “The lucid periods are increasing,” he pointed out. “He has the use of all his limbs, thank the Veil, though he’ll have the devil of a headache, for a couple of weeks probably. And there’ll be memories that are gone forever.” He flexed Fort’s arm, testing the stitches. “It’s pretty typical of this type of injury.”

  Hell, he knew that, he was a soldier, he’d seen plenty of head wounds. The question was, which memories? For a split second, the old shame reasserted itself and he actually wasn’t sure if he wanted Griff to remember the day in the hidden valley—the Crookedness. And then he knew he couldn’t bear for Griff to remember part of what they’d come to mean to each other if he couldn’t remember it all, right from that first challenging look across the Big Top.

  Fort threw himself into the chair by the bed and ran a restless hand through his hair. If the ClawCaptain’s fist robbed Griff of those memories, the tumbler wouldn’t be the only one who suffered a loss.

  You love beautiful things, don’t you, Fort?

  Things of value last a long, long time.

  Never in his life had he felt so connected to another human being. And something more had happened to him on the hideous ride back to Valaressa, ripping away his usual shields, the ones he’d sheltered behind for so long he’d almost forgotten they were there.

  Fortitude McLaren worked alone, lived alone, sufficient unto himself. Fortitude McLaren needed no one.

  And no one needed him.

  His breath caught.

  Griff had seen straight through him from the start. Griff had teased him, taken care of him, touched his cold heart. Then the tumbler had come after him to the Empty Lands, risking his life, the stubborn little shit. Griff needed him.

  Fort stared at the other man’s peaceful face. With the intelligence and the cocky good humor smoothed away, he looked both younger and more vulnerable. Shit, he’d almost died!

  Fort’s mouth went dry.

  Godsdammit all to the frozen hells, he needed Griff!

  Ruler, how had that happened?

  He sprang to his feet, ignoring the stiffness and the pain. Swearing under his breath, he began to pace the length of the big room.

  He’d never experienced such intense sexual pleasure. Never. Fucking Griff had been incredible. The memory still had the power to make his breath come short, his balls tighten. But he was too old, too wise, to let his lusts override his powers of reason. The fucking was only one part of it. Shit, Griff actually made him laugh! The men who’d been under his command would never believe it. And he didn’t have to explain things to Griff. He understood. He…he…fit.

  Fort came to a halt, staring out of the tall windows to the balcony beyond and the shifting gleam of the canal across the street. His entire life, everything he’d believed about himself, was rattling loose, fragmenting into a million pieces. He shook his head, feeling beleaguered, as if a swarm of bitemes buzzed around him.

  The Straight Church taught that the body was but an envelope for the spirit, while the shamans of Lufra held that the seat of sexual pleasure was in the mind.

  He leaned his arm against the cool glass and rested his forehead on it. If it was all in his head, perhaps he was losing his mind? His hunger for Griff had to be some sort of aberration, surely? But Holy Lufra, it had hit him hard, almost from the very first moment. And when he’d thought Griff was going to die on him— The breath hissed from between his teeth. Gods, he thought he’d known what fear was, but he’d had no idea. None at all.

  But now the worst of it was over. Griff would recover, with or without his memory, wanting Fort or not wanting him. It was all in the lap of the gods. He closed his eyes, depression sweeping over him.

  As for him—he was floundering in a morass of guilts and desires and desperate hopes, his head pounding, his guts aching with tension and uncertainty. And shit, he hated it!

  Why the fuck couldn’t Griff have been born female? Was it some kind of fucking cosmic joke to make him fall in—

  His knees turned to water and he sagged against the window, the glass creaking ominously with his weight. He lost the next few seconds, opening his eyes only when he hit the floor with a jarring thump, his palms sliding down the glass.

  Sweet Lufra, Holy Mother, no, please no. You can’t—

  But hadn’t he dreamed of his adopted Goddess, of Her infinite, star-filled gaze? I give you joy, child.

  She had a fucking twisted sense of humor, the Lust Dragon.

  Joy.

  It wasn’t something with which he had an intimate acquaintance. Nor was peace. Fort thought back over the past few months and the corners of his mouth kicked up in a pained grin. Life with Griff hadn’t been peaceful, not in the least, but there’d been moments when he’d felt warmed right through to his cold soul. And light, lighter than air.

  Was that joy? Because if it was, then—

  “You can’t sing…worth shit…you know that?”

  Fort twisted around, so quickly all the muscles in his back protested. Dark eyes were fixed on his face. They had the inward look of someone coping with pain, the brow furrowed.

  Then he pulled in a breath, rose with what little dignity he could muster and stalked over to the bed. “About bloody time,” he said. He took Griff’s wrist and fumbled for the pulse, conscious of the tremor in his own fingers. “How’s your head?”

  “Hurts.” The tumbler’s squeezed his eyes shut. “Thirsty.”

  “Here.” Fort slipped a hand under the other man’s shoulders, took the water cup from the bedside table and held it to his lips.

  Griff fumbled a hand up under his hair. “Ow.” His face contorted.

  Fort set the glass aside and stood staring down, his heart thumping uncomfortably hard. “You remember me singing?”

  The tumbler grunted. “Difficult to forget.” He rolled his head to one side, wincing.

  “What’s my name then?”

  Griff stilled. He frowned. “It’s…it’s…” His sloe eyes met Fort’s, widening with panic. “Shit, I can’t remember.” His voice rose. “I can’t remember, I can’t—”

  Fort sat on the bed and laid a heavy hand on the other man’s chest. “Be quiet,” he ordered. “It’ll come or…” he shrugged, “it won’t. But you can’t force it. Do you remember your own name?”

  “Of course.” The tumbler blew out a breath. “I’m Griff and you…you…” His brow creased with effort. Then his eyes went very wide. “Twister’s balls, I fucked you!” He stared into Fort’s face, apparently thunderstruck.

  The strangest noise forced its way out of Fort’s throat, part chuckle, part sob. “Wrong,” he said, cupping Griff’s jaw in one hand, “I fucked you. ‘Til you screamed.”

  “Did not,” said the tumbler promptly. He pressed his cheek against Fort’s palm, the stubble rasping. “It was good though.”

  “Yes.”

  They sat in silence a few moments.

  Eventually, Griff said slowly. “There were Hssrda, weren’t there? Out in the Empty Lands. A sentry with a half-eaten tail…”

  “Nothing more?”

  Griff began to shake his head and stopped with a curse. “Twister, I feel like the bastard’s inside my skull, trying to tunnel out.”

  “Not surprising. One of them hit you. I brought you back to Valaressa, to the palazzo of the Winged Envoy.” Fort held out two pellets of godspeace. “Here, take these and go back to sleep.”

  The tumbler ignored him. “You’ll stay?”

  When Fort nodded, Griff swallowed the drug and settled back, his eyelids falling shut with a weary sigh.

  Five minutes later, he said without opening his eyes, “I’m sorry about Bekah and the baby.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  In closing, my dear Richard, I beseech you—beg His Grace to call me home. Missionary work among the Children of the Mother (the very name is a blasphemy!) is a lost cause. Trul
y, I fear for my immortal soul. My Way is Straight. It’s their eyes, Richard. I cannot sleep; my nights are full of dreams—such [words obscured by a blot]

  Addendum to a report from the Most Reverend Gandy, priest of the Straight Way, to Richard, Secretary to the Bishop of the Square Cathedral, 9998 ATF (After the Firsters)

  He’d said he’d stay, but the bastard lied. A few days later, the big man left without saying goodbye. And the day after that, Griff remembered his name.

  Fort. Fortitude McLaren.

  Ex-mercenary. Born a Brother of the Straight Church, once Bonded to a Feolin woman. Most recently a roustabout in the Ten Nations Fair.

  Griff’s lover. The most exasperating, idiotic, noble, complicated…

  His fingers clenched hard on the hilt of the knife. Moodily, he flipped it left-handed into the old wooden target Mirry had found for him. The residual weakness in his right arm had pretty well disappeared, but Trilgeriel the healer had warned him not to favor it, not if he wanted to return to the Big Top. Griff changed hands.

  Over the last four interminable weeks, the memories had returned in fragments, a piece here, a piece there, as if the gods played jigsaws with his mind. Tril said it might take months and even then, there’d be blanks, things he would never recall. The actual battle with the Hssrda had disappeared. Fort had said he’d acquitted himself well, but it was a pity that all he had to go on was the other man’s word. He would have liked more detail, but Fort had been close-mouthed and grim about the whole business.

  After the sentry with the damaged tail—nothing. But Traveler be praised, his recall was clear up to the time they’d left the hidden valley to scout the Hssrda’s camp.

  He had to admit Fort had been right. He had screamed. Gods, it had been glorious and he couldn’t wait to do it again. Every time he thought of it, of the rough tenderness, the brutal joy, his lower belly tightened and tears prickled behind his eyes. Griff scowled ferociously. Fort had ridden to Mother’s Hearth to catch up with the Fair.

  He’d run, the spineless bastard.

  It was Jan who told him in a few crisp words about the ride back to Valaressa, what Fort had accomplished against the odds. He suspected the Aetherii was impressed, though his cold, handsome face remained impassive.

  Griff returned the knife to its scabbard and took three gaeta fruit from the bowl on the desk. He began to juggle, letting his brain rove free while his hands were busy. Fort’s muscled arms, holding him close, his ear pressed to a warm hard wall of flesh, a thudding heart, that deep voice anchoring him to the world, refusing to let him go. It had been a lifeline, a tether, and Griff had grasped it, something in him determined to survive, so he could bask in being held like that forever.

  It seemed like a dream now, with a dream’s transience, but Griff clung to it tenaciously, humming the little lullaby under his breath. It was a simple melody, but Fort’s gravelly bass had flattened it to such an extent that he’d had to check with Fledge to be sure he had it right. His lips curved.

  Don’t die not knowing.

  He knew what made Fortitude McLaren tick because the big man had told him during that nightmare ride. It didn’t matter that Fort had thought he was talking a dying man. An errant gaeta fruit slipped from Griff’s grasp and he snatched it out of the air only a couple of inches from the floor.

  No, he didn’t necessarily have every detail pinned, but he had the gist of it all right. And as often happened with powerful dreams, there was one thing that remained shockingly clear, one cry of agony that hooked into his soul like a metal barb. Not now, not when I’ve only just found you.

  He caught the gaeta fruit, one by one, and placed them carefully back in the bowl. And truthfully, while he was sorry for Fort’s pain, he was self-centered enough to repeat the words over and over in his head, with the other man’s exact, tormented intonation. I’ve only just found you…

  He’d had his secret moment of revelation that day in the hidden valley. Over the days and weeks of his recovery, it had settled inside him, becoming part of the warp and weft of his soul, one of the things that defined Griffid Ringman—Fort’s lover. The man who loved Fortitude McLaren with everything he had. Shit, the man who would always love him, even if Fort threw him out, beat him to a pulp.

  But somehow, Griff didn’t think he would. If you don’t reach, you don’t get. With a crooked grin, he threw his saddlebag over his shoulder and went down to find Tril for his final checkup. The battle was over. Won. The only one who didn’t know was Fort.

  * * * * *

  Six days later, he crested a rise on the outskirts of Mother’s Hearth to see the Ten Nations Fair camped on the meadow below, flags waving in the light breeze, the colors of the tents as bright as spilled sweets. It looked as though they hadn’t opened yet.

  At last! Griff’s heart rate sped up. He could have made better time, but Janarnavriel the Noir had issued a set of curt, explicit orders. “You’re working for me now, as well as the Fair,” he said. “You and McLaren. Understood?”

  Griff raised a brow. “Does Fort know?”

  “He took my money,” Jan said, the bell-voice very dry. Abruptly, he tossed a small pouch over the desk and Griff caught it one-handed. The Aetherii’s hard blue eyes gleamed. “That’s your share. I’ve booked a place for you with a caravan traveling to Mother’s Hearth. The chit’s in there too. Give it to the merchant.”

  Griff had stiffened. “A caravan’s too slow. I’ll make better time alone.”

  Jan clasped his hands on the desk, his wings rustling behind him. “The job is the caravan. Find out what the merchant’s smuggling. I suspect it’s information for the Hssrda, but it could be slaves, so watch yourself.”

  Griff weighed the pouch in his hand, tingling with excitement. Twister, he’d been aching for physical activity, to put his wits to use. “Fine,” he said and turned to go.

  “Ringman?”

  He looked back. “Yes?”

  “Be sure to say goodbye to Fledge. She’s fond of you, the gods know why.”

  Griff grinned. “I’m a great kisser.” He pulled the door shut just as Jan growled and something heavy struck the other side.

  Now he chuckled, well pleased with himself. It had been slaves all right, though there’d been none on this run, Traveler be praised. But he’d found the two wagons with the false walls and the cramped stinking spaces behind, and the merchant’s secret ledger.

  Nudging the vran in the ribs, he cantered down into the Fair, his eyes darting everywhere. But when he reached his usual spot, just beyond Ember’s wagon, there was an empty grassy space. Griff frowned and scratched his head.

  “Hey, Griff!” Leo paused in mid-stride, a bundle of poles over his shoulder. “Gods, it’s good to see you, man. He’s been like a fellwolf with a toothache.” He winked and waved an arm in the general direction of the menagerie. “Over there.”

  Oh.

  His pulse drumming in his ears, Griff dismounted and led the vran down the concourse. On the outer edges of the Fair, he slowed and stopped, staring. His wagon sat next to a much smaller, shabby one.

  He could feel the smile spread over his face, the hot blood surge under his skin. The small wagon rocked a little, as though someone heavy was walking about inside it. Griff tethered the vran in the shade, squared his shoulders and sucked in a huge breath. Every nerve in his body tingling, he set his hand to the latch and opened the door.

  Fort whirled, the cup of roberry slipping from his fingers.

  “How about that?” said Griff mildly. “They really do bounce.”

  They stared at the rocking cup and the spreading stain on the tattered rug. Fort licked his lips. “How are you? I mean…your head. How’s your head?”

  Griff reached behind him and pulled the door closed. “My head is fine,” he said. “And so is the rest of me.”

  “Yes.” Fort backed up a step until his shoulders were pressed against the wall. “Would you, ah, like some roberry?”

  “No, thank you. How’s your w
ound?”

  “Healed.”

  In the silence, Griff could have sworn he heard the heart thumping in Fort’s broad chest. The other man kept flicking him glances from under lowered brows, his gray eyes gone to smoke. Anticipation flowered in the pit of Griff’s belly, warm, wicked and utterly delicious. Unobtrusively, he let out his breath and the knots in his shoulders unraveled. Gods, he’d been strung as tight as a well-pitched tent since the day Fort had left him with the Aetherii.

  And Twister’s balls, he was going to savor every moment of this! Enshrine it in memory forever. Because this was it, the rest of his life, all bound up in the big warrior in front of him. One look at Fort’s face, at the split-second flash of naked yearning when he’d spun around, and all his doubts had melted away.

  He knew what—and who—he wanted and he thought Fort did too. All he needed to admit it was the slightest push. And Griff intended to shove.

  He took a deliberate step forward, put his hands on his hips and tilted his head. “Fortitude McLaren,” he murmured. “Fort. You see? It came back to me the day after you ran.”

  “I didn’t run. I had a job to do.”

  Griff continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Don’t be scared,” he said soothingly, as if to a child. “I won’t hurt you, I swear.”

  Fort came off the wall as if he’d been goosed. “Scared?” he roared. “Why, you little shit, I’m not—”

  Griff stood his ground. “Aren’t you?”

  The other man’s mouth opened, but nothing came out.

  Griff waited. Eventually, Fort reached out and gripped his shoulder. He gave a short nod.

  “You don’t have to tell me anything, you know. I heard it all, every single word you said.”

  Ruddy spots of color burned on Fort’s cheekbones. “I didn’t think… You wouldn’t settle unless I was making some sort of noise.” His hand dropped to his side. “All of it?”

  “Even the lullaby, Traveler save me.”

  When Fort winced, Griff chuckled. Then he sobered. “You shouted at me, you know. Bellowed. Said I wasn’t to leave you. You said, ‘Not now, not when I’ve only just found you.’” He moistened his lips, achingly aware of Fort’s gaze on his mouth. Raising his eyes to capture that turbulent, smoke-dark stare, he said, “You meant it, didn’t you?”