brigdh

Title: Marks
Author: Brigdh
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13; non-explicit sex and references to violence
Summary: Alec tries to teach Richard to read; things get complicated.
Notes: Set shortly after the end of Swordspoint. This was written for

just_ann_now, who made a very generous donation to

help_pakistan, and requested a story about "Alec trying to teach Richard to read (where Alec is all patient, and Richard is the angry, frustrated one, for a change)". Many thanks to my betas,

weirdquark and

ladyofthelog.
Disclaimer: All characters and places belong to Ellen Kushner.

***

The only sound in the room was the scratching of Alec's quill; his hand moved quickly across the page, words flowing out of him in a steady stream of black ink. Richard watched appreciatively. It was not quite as good as listening to Alec, the way he rolled and stretched words in his aristocratic drawl, using them like weapons or embraces, but watching did have its own attractions. Alec's face was hidden behind his hair; still too short to tie back, it caught the late afternoon light and shone like copper and bronze. The nape of his neck was a graceful curve, exposed as he bent over the paper. It was a warm day, and he wore a light shirt with the sleeves unevenly rolled up; when he reached for the ink Richard could see the white skin of his forearms and the round bones of his wrist, the flat place just below the base of his thumb where Richard sometimes pressed his mouth to feel Alec's pulse beat against his tongue. He had a spot of ink on his lower lip, where he must have bitten his quill, a sharp blue-black line, and Richard began to wonder what ink tasted like.

He watched these things, and if Alec felt the scrutiny he gave no sign. But then, Alec was skilled at withholding his thoughts. "My mother tried to teach me to read," Richard said, to catch his attention. Lately Alec had been doing the same. Richard felt no desire for alphabets and scripts and all the other trappings of literacy, but it was hard to explain that to Alec. Alec used words for everything; he couldn't see that Richard didn't need them.

Alec's hand paused from its writing so briefly that Richard was not quite sure it had, even though he'd been looking closely. He liked the way the pads of Alec's fingers pressed into the quill, making tiny adjustments in pressure that guided its tip's delicate movements. Not so different handling a sword, really.

"Oh? Were you too stupid to learn?"

"No. She was never very... consistent." Richard smiled at the thought. "And she never had the patience to make me practice."

This time there was no mistaking the pause. Alec looked up, his eyes narrow and amused. "Is that supposed to be a comment upon my own teaching abilities?"

"Of course not." Alec's early attempts at teaching him to read had been amusing: short, more of an excuse for Alec to lecture on literature or rhetoric than anything else, and usually ending in bed. But since Alec had returned from the Hill, things had changed. Now he was focused, nearly pedantic, and rarely let Richard turn the topic without a fight. Richard suspected that was what he was doing now: writing some text that he would make a lesson of, fingers tracing the letters as he slowly pronounced each word, expecting Richard to repeat after him like a script.

Alec made a small, satisfied sound and wrote a little more. "I thought you were full of patience, Richard," he said, lifting the quill from the paper. "Over-saturated, one might say. Oozing with it."

"Not always."

"What about now?" Alec asked. He pushed the paper across the table. "Do you have the patience to read that now?"

The page was entirely covered in Alec's script, small and dense. Richard sighed. He had hoped to distract Alec before it got to this point. He had had obsessions before, and Richard usually humored him, but this one was proving to be unusually long-lasting and tiresome. "Not now, no. Wouldn't you rather go see if there's anything interesting happening at Rosalie's?"

"No," Alec said. He rolled the quill between his fingers, so that the plume at the end spun into a blur of white. "I'd rather stay right here."

Richard glanced at the paper. He recognized some of the letters in the first word, and their sounds came to mind, pronounced in Alec's accent. But the task of deciphering the whole message seemed long and pointless, and he was not inclined to yield on this matter. It occurred to him that Alec's stay on the Hill might have made him ashamed to have an illiterate lover. He picked up the page; the ink on the last few lines was still wet, and glittered as he lifted it.

He folded it, hiding the writing inside, heedless of if the ink smeared, then folded it again, and then again, turning it as he did so. After a few moments he had a small bird, sculpted from the paper. Here and there the writing showed, but not enough to mean anything; it was no more than a sort of decoration to the wings. He set it in front of Alec. "Another thing my mother taught me."

When he glanced at Alec, his breath caught; Alec's eyes were furious and desperate, his hands were clenched into fists, and for a moment Richard thought he would do something mad, something terrible, something that had nothing to do with writing. But then Alec's face shuttered, and he looked at the bird, lifting one finger to lightly stroke its head. "Probably a more useful skill."

***

Alec still didn't talk about his family. It seemed odd, given that Richard, not to mention every noble in the city, had seen him take Tremontaine's seat in the Council of Lords, and he couldn't think Richard would forget. Richard tried to bring it up, but the smallest reference to those events upset him, though he hid it well, and Richard disliked upsetting him. It was too easy to do, and Richard had always been proud of his ability to handle Alec.

But Alec couldn't contain the information, not entirely. Richard's trial was popular gossip in Riverside, and people would talk when Alec wasn't there. Sometimes Richard let them ask him questions to see what they'd heard; sometimes they knew more about Alec's role in it than he did. He was careful to never show surprise or ask his own questions, but they were never watching him that closely, always assuming he knew it all already.

So far he had learned that Alec was the grandson of the woman with the swan boat; that he was either the heir to the duchy or had been utterly disowned; that in his brief time on the Hill, he had bought dozens of suits of clothes, scores of books, a horse, poison, and a crown (Richard supposed it was possible, but no such treasures had come back to Riverside with him); that he had a wife he kept locked away in the country; that he and Richard and Ferris had planned the whole scandal, start to finish; and that he had only returned to Riverside to lick his wounds and plot his return to power.

Most of it was nonsense, of course, though Richard only ever smiled and shook his head when he was pressed to confirm or deny the latest tidbit. No one seemed to mind. Richard assumed that it was because Alec's nobility seemed unreal; it was hard to picture him out of his usual rags and coarseness.

Richard had no such problem; he'd suspected that Alec was a noble and now he knew. What was difficult for him was the rest of it, the rumors no one dared to say to his face, though he knew they were circulating: the ones where Alec had tricked or seduced or bought him. It should have been easy to shrug those off, but ever since Alec had gone to the Hill, there was tension between them, and they'd lost the understanding that had once been so easy. Somehow Richard felt he knew Alec less than he had. And it mattered now: Alec had been used twice to force his hand, and Richard was wary of future attempts. He had killed Horn, but the second time had been Alec himself, his presence at the trial a way to maneuver Richard into siding with Tremontaine. Richard wasn't sure how he wanted to answer that challenge.

Alec's secrets had used to seem unimportant. Now Richard wondered which would be the next to make him bleed.

***

Richard had a sword in his hand and a cat at his feet the day Alec brought home a fortune. The neighbors banged on the wall, but Richard had already stopped.

"Sometimes the game goes my way," Alec said, deliberately causal, and gave it all to Richard. "Buy booze. Buy whores. Buy anything you want."

But the coins were gold and brand-new, still bright, the lines of the engravings still crisp. Not the sort of thing gamblers bet in Riverside. Richard, who had always been easy with money, spending freely when he had it and not worrying when he didn't, put it away and didn't buy anything at all. He wondered for a while if Alec would ask about it, but the days passed and neither mentioned the gold, until it became one more thing unspoken between them, pushing Richard off-balance.

***

The nights were warm now. The river had lost its winter fury and turned slow, turgid: a summertime river. The city shifted with it, snow and ice giving way to green living things and birdsong. Richard liked spring; he had thought Alec would too, given how much he'd complained of the cold, but Alec was unreadable.

He sat up at night sometimes, neither sleeping nor reading. Thinking, Richard supposed. He never said what of. He still seemed strange without his winter layers, shed of the blankets and jackets he'd huddled in for months.

He'd come to bed this night, but wouldn't lie down; Richard had given up coaxing him and had rolled over to get some sleep himself. Alec had been ignoring him anyway, hunched over with his arms around his knees and a distant expression on his face, making noises that weren't quite words when he bothered to acknowledge Richard at all. But as soon as Richard wasn't looking, he felt Alec shift, felt the soft touch of fingers against the skin of his back. He did no more than that, just stroked Richard's shoulders and spine in slow, lazy patterns.

It was soothing. Richard had almost fallen asleep when he suddenly realized that the touches were less than random; Alec was making letters, words, on his skin. "What are you writing?"

"Read it." Alec's voice was soft, nearly a whisper.

Richard opened his eyes. The room was silver and black; monochrome in the moonlight. There were still a few things missing from when they had both been away, Alec to the Hill and Richard to prison, but he had nearly adjusted to the new arrangement of shadows and reflections and it took him only a moment to canvass the room. "Why don't you just tell me?"

Alec laughed under his breath. "It's a secret."

"But if I'm to read it anyway-"

"No, Richard. Some secrets can never be said aloud."

Richard suddenly turned and caught Alec's hand. They watched one another, Alec's fingers crushed painfully in Richard's grip; Richard saw a muscle jump on Alec's jaw but his eyes were still and he didn't pull away. He didn't know what Alec saw. He thought of things to say, but none of the words were right, and finally he only pulled Alec's fingers to his mouth and kissed them, loosening his hold. Alec released his breath slowly in a sigh, shifting his fingers against Richard's lips.

They moved together without speaking. Richard kissed Alec's fingers again, his palm, his wrist, arm and elbow and shoulder and neck until he reached Alec's mouth, found it open and greedy. Alec was climbing over him, pressing him back against the bed, his fingers hard on Richard's face, his chest. Richard ran his hands up Alec's thighs, pressed his palms into the ridges of Alec's hips. Alec's skin was warm and soft and Richard touched him roughly, frustration burning in his chest. Alec shivered in his hands, breath quickening.

Richard still wanted him. As much as he no longer knew who Alec was, as much as he worried about the potential in him for deceit, he desired his sword-edge smile, his expensive voice, his long, narrow body. The contradiction was irritating, that Richard could want him at the same time that he didn't trust him. Something would have to give eventually.

For now, Richard twisted his fingers in Alec's hair to hold him in place; kissed him hard so that no words could come between them.

***

Alec took to leaving him notes. He seemed to plan it carefully; Richard only ever found them when Alec wasn't at home. This one was waiting in the center of the table, quietly conspicuous, folded in half. Richard flipped it open; the letter inside was short.

He looked at the writing, making no attempt to read it, just considering the dark ink on the white paper. The marks were small, and intricate; full of tiny details. A message from Alec, perhaps something he wouldn't- or couldn't- say. Or perhaps a story or poem, some allusion that would be familiar to a noble, but which would mean nothing to Richard.

He held it over a candle until it caught; tossed it to the empty hearth where it could safely burn to ash. Alec would be annoyed; he'd say it was a waste of paper. But it had been wasted as soon as Alec had written on it. Richard would buy him more, buy him blank, white sheets, and see if he understood.

***

"Now, X is a strange letter. You won't need it often, luckily."

Richard was fairly certain Alec had told him this before. If he said so, though, it might just encourage him. Recently they'd reverted to the shapes and sounds of letters, forgoing the more advanced efforts of notes and books. Richard hoped it was a good sign.

"Xanadu," Alec said. He was, very slightly, drunk. "Xenophon."

"Zero."

Alec frowned. "No, not that one. Though it does sound as if it should match."

They had come to Rosalie's to drink, Richard in the hope of hearing about a job, Alec for his own reasons. Richard had been disappointed. "It doesn’t matter. I don't need to read." He had also drunk enough to be unwise. They'd had this conversation before. He hadn't been able to convince Alec that he had no use for writing, that it wasn't a thing often required of swordsmen. Alec had refused to understand. Richard had no interest in repeating himself, not when the words made no difference.

"What about letters?" Alec paused, and then added, "From people other than me."

"I don't do business by letter. People know that."

Alec rolled his eyes. "You don't do letters. You don't do women. What do you do?"

"Enough." Richard was uncomfortably aware of where they were, that others might be listening. He didn't like how people now looked at Alec, speculating on how long he would stay in Riverside. He considered leaving the tavern, but that would draw more attention. "I do enough."

"Besides," Alec said, blithely refilling his glass from the bottle, "you do get letters. I see them. I read them."

"Well, there you are, then. You can read them for me."

Alec took a drink, made a face, shook his head. "No, that won't work. Who will read them when I'm dead?"

"I don't intend on that happening anytime soon. Not while I still need letters read," he added, trying for lightness. It occurred to him that it had been a long time since Alec had made him laugh.

"Well, I do." Alec gave him a languid, imperious smile. The wine had exaggerated his accent. "I very much intend on dying and leaving you with utter piles of unread letters. Plus, of course, the grievance cards."

"You're not going to die before me," Richard said shortly. Alec was speaking in abstracts, not present intentions, and probably meant to be amusing, but Richard felt short-tempered today. He had begun to wonder which would last longer: his patience or Alec's literary efforts.

"But I must. You promised, Richard. And moreover, you promised you'd do it." Alec swept his hand through the air in a graceful gesture. The ruby ring on his finger glittered. "An order is clearly implied."

"Clearly." Richard took a drink of his beer, found it nearly empty and finished it. He had given Alec the other rings again, but Alec wore them less often now. Richard wasn't sure what that meant. It had been strange, giving them to him a second time; Alec could afford all the extravagant jewelry he wanted. What did he need with Richard's?

"But not yet," Alec said into the silence between them, with the air of someone making a gracious compromise. He poured some of his wine into Richard's glass, though it was wasted there, mixed with the dregs of Richard's beer. "Not until you can sign your name, at least."

"Teach me how you sign your name," Richard said, his voice low, intended to reach only Alec. Lord David, he remembered. Tielman. Campion. He wondered what would happen if he said those names.

But Alec didn't react; a small smile was still on his face. "Richard," he said, "you've never known who I was."

"No," Richard said, though he had; he'd recognized the danger in Alec the first time he saw him. He'd just thought himself immune. "Didn't you want it that way?"

Alec's smile stretched thin and he didn't answer; shortly after, they left.

***

Richard had saved one of Alec's notes; it was the longest one, nearly three pages. He hadn't burned it or ignored it like the others, but having kept it, he didn't know what to do with it. He looked at it sometimes, the writing marking the paper like the finest embroidery, and wondered what topic had made Alec so long-winded.

Curiosity drove him to the Bridge. He'd heard about the man who worked nearby, who would read letters in exchange for a few coins. Richard had never been to him before, and he watched the letter-reader for a while before approaching. It was another failed University student, another young man who wore tattered black robes like cloth-of-gold, but otherwise he resembled Alec not at all. His hair was blond and thin, and his nose and cheeks were red and heavy with drink. He read slowly, with frequent pauses, like he was deciphering the words in his head before speaking them. Alec read lightly, fluidly, as though he wasn't seeing the text at all but simply reciting his own thoughts. Perhaps he was. How would Richard know?

When he gave Alec's note to the letter-reader, the man glanced up at him, eyes dull and uninterested. He didn't recognize Richard, which was good. He squinted at the first page, then glanced up again. "I thought you said this was a letter?" He had a Northern accent; Alec's words would sound flat and clipped in that voice.

"Just read it," Richard said.

It turned out to be a list of mythological heroines, each with the way they'd died or, more rarely, become immortal. He paid the letter-reader, and left the pages with him; Richard no longer wanted them.

***

Alec was home when he returned, lounging in the window with a book open in his lap. He had taken his books away with him when he'd left and then forgotten to bring them back; this was a new one, something he'd found a few weeks ago in the Old Market and traded a bottle of wine for. Richard knew he'd read it already; he'd spent that first night devouring it, silent, drunker than wine could make him. It had been almost pleasant to picture him on the Hill then, surrounded by more books than even he could read. But now he was only holding the slim volume, not reading, his attention on something down in the courtyard, though he turned from it as Richard came in. "You were out."

"I had things to do," Richard said.

"Lucky you." Alec closed the book. "I don't have one single thing to do. It's terribly boring." He tossed the book in Richard's direction. "Read to me."

Richard caught it; set it on the table in the same motion. "No."

"Just the title, then, you can-"

"No."

Alec made a pout of dissatisfaction, then shrugged, turning back to the window. "Later, then. The neighbors are out, if you want to practice."

"No." Richard sat down at the table. It was too warm to need a fire; too bright for candles. Alec pushed open the window, and a light breeze came in; leaning out, he was silhouetted by the sunlight, just a dark mark against the bright blue sky.

"No," he echoed. His voice was low, with no spite, but his accent stretched out the word and made a mockery of it. "Say something else, Richard."

Richard thought of the gold coins at the bottom of the clothes chest, of Alec's notes he'd burnt, of the hole in Alec's left ear that had held a diamond earring the night he'd returned to Riverside, and had been empty ever since. Of all Alec's expectations. "What is this about?"

"What is what about?" Alec's voice was cool, but Richard could hear the tension beneath it.

"The reading," Richard said doggedly. "The writing. The notes. Why are you doing this?"

Alec turned from the window, a stubborn expression on his face. "You should know how to read. It's a skill, Richard, and you're at a disadvantage without it. Someone will see that, eventually."

Richard shook his head; he'd heard this before, and it was a weak excuse. "Do you think someone who meant me harm would send me a letter about it?"

"Well, of course it's not that simple. But if you could read-"

"If I could read, the letters would say less. There's always another way to keep a secret." Richard's voice sounded flat to his own ears. "Do you have some plan you're not telling me?"

Alec's eyebrows went up in surprise, but he shrugged carelessly. "Well, I wouldn't admit it if I did, would I?"

"Stop playing these games." Richard stood, angry. "I don't like being manipulated."

Alec laughed, though it wasn't a pleasant sound. "Don't you? What a shame. I'm so very good at it."

Richard had reached his side; Alec looked up at him and his eyes, full in the sunlight, were startlingly clear. But all his secrets were indecipherable behind that wall of green. "No more reading."

"I could burn my books for you," Alec said, speaking slowly. "But then I would simply get more. I could make promises to you, Richard, swear on my honor to never think of teaching again. And would you believe me, if I did that?"

Alec's indecipherability had attracted him; still did. Alec was complex as a finely crafted puzzle, and Richard had always found it fascinating. He'd let Alec lie, let him keep secrets, let him twist Richard into knots with words, and none of that had bothered him. But Richard was not the sort of man to let desire blind him; he never should have forgotten that Alec was a noble. Richard had bedded other nobles. Some were gentle and some were cruel, but even the kindest had kept a distance, always wary of giving the impression that the relationship could be anything more than temporary. "Should I?"

"No." Alec held his gaze. "You can't trust me. You'll never be able to trust me." Richard hadn't taken off his sword when he'd come in, and he was very aware of it at his side; he couldn't stop thinking of its weight and how quickly it would move. His hand was already on the hilt. His jaw hurt, where he was clenching his teeth. Then Alec calmly lifted his chin, exposing the vulnerable place at the hollow of his throat, and in that movement Richard recognized all the venom and rage that had always marked Alec. It was the same as the ragged, hungry man who had first come to his bed, as the polished, diamonds-and-velvet noble he'd glimpsed during the trial.

Richard stepped back. Alec turned his face quickly away, hiding his expression. "I've gotten better at making you angry."

Richard took a deep breath, coming back to himself. "Yes."

"Tell me what you want, Richard," he said, sounding almost sincere.

Nothing had been resolved. Richard still didn’t know what Alec wanted with him. But Alec probably didn't know either. Richard looked at him closely, looked at his thread-bare clothes, worn soft, hanging loose on stiff shoulders; his hair growing toward raggedness, a few fine strands caught at the corner of his mouth; the sculptured bones in his face, his expression guarded; the long fingers that Richard knew could burn, could brand, turning white where he clutched at the windowsill. There was nothing new there. "You," he said.

Alec's mouth opened, but for once words failed him.

There wasn't anything else Richard could say, except, "I thought you'd changed."

Alec's lips slowly curved at the edges and he held out a hand. "Let me show you," he said, "how I haven't."

***