OVER THE HILLS AND FAR AWAY

by Kitty Fisher

It was, in every way, a foul night. Wind, raw as ever felt in far–off Ireland buffeted around the cottage's four stone walls, screamed through the trees' bare branches and keened through gaps in the shutters, for all the world as if the Morrigan herself was about, her dark eyes wild as she sought some unsuspecting mortal, some man to play her malicious tricks upon. Patrick Harper shivered and crossed himself. Then, because he hated the slight, ancient edge of superstitious fear that made him catch his breath every time a rafter creaked, shook his head and went, for perhaps the hundredth time that night, to peer out of the door.

In the torn and malevolent Spanish night there was no sign of the Morrigan — a fool would have expected otherwise. But then neither was there sign of Richard Sharpe.

Harper closed the door, leaning his weight against the old wood to encourage its battle with the wind. For a long while he stood where he was, listening to the wind as his senses stretched into the darkness willing the sound of horses hooves. His wide–open eyes saw nothing of the small room with its packed earth floor and flaking, once white–washed walls. There was a table, pitted and warped with age, a straw mattress on the floor and two wooden chairs — one of which liked to fall apart as soon as you sat on it. All the comforts of home. Trust Major Hogan to make sure his safe place was cosy. The wry thought lifted the frown that had been set between Harper's eyebrows and he moved, settling in front of the fire. He'd been still for all of five minutes when a sound had him suddenly on his feet, heart beating erratically.

But it was only a branch beating a ragged tattoo against one of the shutters. He took a deep breath and sat back down. Jesus, but it was a vile night.

The prickling edge of fear wouldn't leave him be. He cursed it. Part superstition, part plain disquiet, it wasn't like him at all. But then it wasn't like Sharpe to go gallivanting off without him, and that was all Hogan's fault.

After a moment he stood, leaning over the fire, his tall, burly shape casting a wild shadow on the uneven walls. Opening the door had bled a lot of warmth from the room and he shivered again. Though in truth he was not cold, merely fearful.

The Captain should have been here before dark. It was now close to dawn, though the heavy, rain–filled clouds made any accurate guess impossible.

Another half hour and be–damned to any orders, Harper knew he would go after Sharpe. He'd been told to wait here, but bugger that. By that time it would be light enough to see further than the scant few feet which was all this moonless night allowed, then he'd go. If the captain was cross... Well, Harper's back was broad and he could put up with a little temper. Anything was better than this damned waiting. And besides, Richard Sharpe was never cross for long. Not with Harper anyway.

Straightening, Harper grinned, turned back to the table and sat to check over his weapons for the thousandth time, the decision making him easier. In the lamplight his rifle gleamed, clean and ready for use, almost beautiful in the light that sparked against the metal and gave illusory depth to the time–burnished wood. He whistled to himself as his sure hands checked the deadly combination of steel and wood. It was all in order. There was nothing else he could do here, even the sword–bayonet was honed to a deadly edge, its point as sharp a needle. There was nothing else he could do, except be patient.

The captain would need him soon. Probably needed him now except he'd been insistent on going to meet the guerrillas alone, as they had demanded. For all he had known it might have been a trap engineered by the French, yet he'd still gone, setting out on horse–back for his assignation. Harper shook his head in disgust. He hadn't wanted to be left behind. Not at all. But sometimes the Captain could speak an order and leave no doubt that it was to be obeyed. However lunatic it appeared. And to Harper any order that set Sharpe alone against anyone was as lunatic as could be.

Sharpe needed someone to watch his back and that someone, by the grace of God, was Harper. Simple. Enemies could be anywhere. It was no good saying that the guerrillas fought against the French as well. As far as Harper was concerned they were an untrustworthy lot, with scant respect for the English. Given a chance, he'd make sure they had more for the Irish.

Despite the sureness of his hands on the rifle and the calmness on his usually blithe face, Harper was strung tight; uneasy. He stood again and opened the door, swearing as it slipped from his grasp and banged hard against the pitted wall. The rain–laden wind pushed inside and he narrowed his eyes to peer through it. Dawn had to be close. He took a step outside and cursed softly in his native tongue as the rain spattered cold through his thin shirt. Trust the captain to be riding abroad on such a wicked night. It was a night for cuddling up to someone warm, for drink and laughter; for love. Not for hiding out in abandoned cottages behind French lines so you could play Hogan's devious games. These guerrillas were little better than brigands and would slit your throat soon as look at you.

The picture of Sharpe facing just such a fate without him was too much. Orders be damned.

He turned, ready to collect his gear and be gone. Then, just at that moment, he heard what he was waiting for — a sound that wasn't the wind in the trees or the snapping black cloak of one of the Sidhe — the sound of a horse wearily picking its way along the stony path. Looking into the night he took a step forward and, as if by magic, the shadows resolved into a horse and rider.

"If I'd been French I could've picked you off a hundred yards back."

"Good job you're not then, sir!" Harper answered over the wind, grinning, his concern forgotten as he stepped out into the rain to take hold of the horse's bridle. He could see steam rising off the animal's coat. It must have been a hard ride. "Christ, but it's wet out here. Trust you to pick a foul night like this for going off without me."

"Ay, but you were better off here. You don't like the rain."

"Ah, this isn't rain. It's the deluge itself, sir." Harper steadied the horse and peered up at the hunched figure in its saddle. Sharpe sounded done–in, his voice edged with exhaustion. Harper stood at his side then frowned as Sharpe made no move. After a moment he said: "It's nice and dry inside though, unless you've decided you've got webbed–feet and prefer it out here?"

Sharpe grunted, a sound that could almost have been amusement. "No, Patrick."

Harper cursed the dark and wished he could see Sharpe's face. He knew there was something wrong, he just wasn't sure what.

With a creak of leather and the soft jangle of his sword, Sharpe slowly dismounted, stepping clumsily onto the uneven ground. He swayed unsteadily and for a moment Harper was allowed to support his weight, then Sharpe straightened, wearily wiping a hand over his streaming face. He moved away and stepped into the shaft of muted light that spilled from the open door.

Harper cursed fluently. It wasn't just rain that Sharpe was trying ineffectually to wipe from his eyes. "Get inside."

Sharpe turned a slow look of enquiry on his friend. He blinked hard to clear his sight and recognised the concern and anger written on the broad face. He smiled crookedly, "I'm all right, Patrick."

"Yeah, and I'm the bloody Queen of Sheba." Harper remembered the bitter chill of the hands that had touched his own briefly for support. He shook his head. "Get inside, sir, and warm up while I see to this poor beast. I won't be long."

Leaning hard against the wall Richard Sharpe watched the horse being led away to shelter. Then, with a shrug that made him wince, he went inside to obey his sergeant's command.

Harper was true to his word: he wasn't long at all settling the horse. He stripped the animal of saddle and bridle, slipped a rope harness over its head, and taking a handful of straw dried the worst of the damp off the thick coat before throwing a blanket over its back. Quickly making sure there was hay and water he left, muttering an apology as he did so. Inside within ten minutes, he was closing the door of the cottage and glaring at where Sharpe sat slumped before the fire. He was still dressed in the soaked green uniform, though his greatcoat was spread over the back of the other chair.

Harper crossed to the fire and placed a pan full of water on to heat before turning to Sharpe. "I told you you shouldn't have gone. You're not a bloody Exploring Officer you know."

"I know." Sharpe shrugged, the movement ending with a wince.

Harper was instantly at his side. "Captain..." Harper glared but he couldn't finish. "Jesus, sometimes you've got less sense than a widgeon. Just because Major Hogan wants you to do something doesn't mean you have to do it without me there. If the bastards had caught a glimpse of me they wouldn't have been so keen on spoiling your beauty."

"Nay, they'd have taken one look at you and run away, and I needed to talk with them." He looked at Harper, then his gaze slid away. "I'd have taken you if I could. Now just shut up about it, will you?"

"Did you talk with them?"

"Christ, but you can be stubborn — yes I talked with them."

"Then why is your face going to be all the colours of the rainbow?"

"Because I had to fight one of them first. Happy now?"

"No. But I suppose I'll do." Harper studied the half averted face and bit his lip to stop himself from nagging. The captain would tell him everything in time, he only had to be patient. He tried a different tack: "Now then, sir, let's be having you out of those wet things before you catch your death."

"Patrick..."

"Trust me, sir, you'll feel a world better."

With a groan, Sharpe got reluctantly to his feet, his cold fingers picking clumsily at the buttons of his jacket. Harper tutted and was suddenly standing before him, tall and full of life, glaring with mock ferocity at the scarred, bruised and still damp face. "Anybody'd think you needed a nursemaid. Come here." He batted the inept hands away and efficiently completed the task himself, easing the tarnished silver buttons through the damp wool. His reward was a tired smile of such charm that he stood suddenly still and shyly returned it.

For Sharpe weariness receded a notch as the old excitement leapt unexpectedly in his blood. The smile disappeared, replaced by a certain tension. He stared hard at his sergeant, "Were you all right?"

"Apart from worrying myself into an early grave over you, you mean, sir, yes I was fine; the ghosts and I had a wild time of it whilst you were off enjoying yourself." He grinned. "No, to be honest, you know Hogan chose this place well."

"He would."

Sharpe, his own height diminished by that of his friend looked up into the very Irish blue eyes. "I'd have taken you if I could."

"I know that, but a man has to have something to complain about."

"Bloody idiot."

"Now that's a cruel thing to say." Harper smiled, then hissed with worry as Sharpe swayed again, his face white under the dirt and drying blood. "Come on, out of these wet things and into bed."

"What're you trying to be, my nursemaid?"

"I'll give you nurse..." and tutting and complaining, Harper peeled the tattered jacket off Sharpe's shoulders. The shirt was clinging damply to his body. It was shrugged off with a groan.

Half–naked, dishevelled, Sharpe stood for a moment, then wiped his hand over his face. He was tired through to his marrow. Aching, his thoughts numb with the cold that still goose–bumped his arms.

Harper was inspecting the damage. "I hope you killed the bastard, sir."

"Eh?"

"The bastard who did all this." A broad hand skimmed across the bruises mottling the fair skin, leaving a shiver in its wake.

"Ay."

"Good. Though why you let him have such a good time of it I don't know." Harper paused. "It must have been touch–and–go for a while there?"

"He was good. Though I got him in the end." Sharpe closed his eyes, unwillingly remembering the vicious fight, the fear, the excitement, and the bloody ending when the guerillas had forced the death of his opponent. He hadn't wanted to kill, but there had been no other way. Besides, what was another death among so many. He shivered, hollow inside.

And opened his eyes as hands took hold of his arms.

For a moment they stood, very close, seeing the strain of the night in each other's face. Sharpe smiled crookedly, the old scar on his face livid in the firelight. "Pat, you can't fight all my battles."

"You think I don't know that?"

Sharpe shook his head wearily. "No." He tried again, "They would only talk with an officer. You know I had to go." The hands banding his arms tightened.

"I know that. I don't have to like it though, do I now?"

Sharpe shook his head, then without a word leant into the support of the big man, his head bent onto the broad shoulder.

Harper's anger deflated like a pricked bubble. There was room in him for nothing but now; for the man in his arms. He slid his hands around the thinly fleshed back, feeling hard muscle and harder bone under the skin. He rested his head against the filthy, tattered hair and closed his eyes. He could feel the even breath of his captain as his own; could almost hear the beat of his heart. Except his own was beating loud enough to drown the screams of the damned.

"Patrick?" Sharpe's voice was muffled, slurred.

"Yes, sir." Harper felt the choke of laughter, and smiled himself at the incongruity of the word.

"Take me to bed." He raised his head and stared into wide blue eyes, the moment holding then both quite still. "And I've got an order for you."

"Yes, sir." Despite having his arms full of his officer, Harper managed to come to a semblance of attention.

"Will you bloody well stop calling me sir."

"I'll try, though the odd one might escape."

"Oh, I expect I'll manage to overlook the odd one or two."

"That's all right then. Bed."

Sharpe stood back, slowly leaving the encircling arms. "I'd better get my boots off first." And with a quick grin he went to sit by the fire, awkwardly beginning to lever off his boots before Harper knelt and took over. The cavalry overalls followed, spread in front of the fire to dry, and then he was naked.

For Harper, there was nothing unusual in the sight. They stripped in front of each other, in front of all the men, in front of all the other officers, without qualm or care. Here was different. When they were alone it always was. Here Harper could allow himself to watch, to linger on the strong, light–boned body: on its balance, its grace, its utter rightness. There might be a world of difference in their ranks, but here that difference was dissolved and they were just two men, two friends. Two friends who had found that there was something beyond friendship in the way they felt for each other. Something that made them strong, made them the best. Something that might have been love.

Sharpe though was still shivering. Knocked out of his reverie by that realisation, Harper stripped off his own shirt. "Shall I pull the mattress closer to the fire?" He waited for the nod from where Sharpe crouched in front of the flames before shifting their bed. "There. There's not that many blankets." Harper frowned at the makeshift bed.

"Jesus, if there's one it'll be better than nothing." Sharpe touched Harper's shoulder in thanks as he passed by, before lying down, wrapping himself up like a cocoon under the rough, heavy wool. He closed his eyes and made a strong effort to stop the shivers, wishing sincerely that Harper would finish whatever he was doing and get into bed. The Irishman was always warm; always.

He opened his eyes again when Harper's weight settled against the mattress. He looked confused, then muttered, "I thought you were getting in."

"I am, though I thought I'd just clean up that cut a bit." There was drying blood matting the dirty–wheat coloured hair. Harper didn't wait for an answer, just dunked a cloth in the steaming water he'd poured off from the pan over the fire and began. There was tea brewing, but that could wait.

Considering they belonged to such a big man, the hands were impossibly gentle. Sharpe sighed and rested a hand on the solidity of Harper's thigh. For the first time in three long days he relaxed, knowing he was safe. He was drawn out with tiredness, but he knew that sleep was impossible. Adrenalin and fear had been keeping him going for too long. He grunted as Harper found the ragged gash itself.

"There now, that'll be feeling better in no time at all." Deft, swift fingers had cleaned the cut and Harper was kneeling back, pleased with himself. He ran an enquiring finger over Sharpe's hand. "You can wash if you want."

Sharpe didn't want. The blanket, along with the fire and the nearness of Harper, was finally warming him up after what seemed like an eternity of cold. Yet he could feel the dirt that grimed his face. In the end he sat, taking the cloth from Harper to scrub at his skin, wiping away sweat and grime, careful of the scrapes and bruises the Spaniard had left as an epitaph. He pushed the bowl away, tossing the rag into the dirtied water.

"Better?"

"Ay, though I'll be even better when you stop messing about and get in here."

"Yes, sir, at once, sir!" Harper laughed and knew that little could be wrong if Sharpe was feeling that tetchy. When he was really ill he said nothing. Pausing only to pour out two tin mugs of black, bitter tea, and to place them by the mattress, Harper sloughed off his baggy, homespun trousers and slipped under the blanket.

He was immediately wrapped around by cold, damp limbs. "God save Ireland, but you're cold!"

"Told you." Sharpe had his nose buried deep in the warmth of Harper's neck, so his words were muffled. The sergeant tsked then settled himself so that as much of his own skin as was possible was in contact with Sharpe's. They lay quite still until after a while even the icy toes began to thaw. Harper felt the sigh of contentment that tickled his neck and let himself stroke the fine–skinned flank that was moulded to his own.

Though it must have been well past dawn, there was little daylight in the room. The shutters were closed, though as the storm was still beating around outside, it didn't seem likely they were keeping out much light.

They would have to be heading back to the British lines. Not yet though. Not for a while. For now, they had privacy and each other. Patrick Harper tasted the moment as if it was manna. He stroked his hand rhythmically across the scarred back, his fingers feeling the deep weals that the flogging had left behind. It had happened a long time ago, when Sharpe was an ordinary line soldier, long before they had met, yet the marks had never faded. Never would. Harper wondered who had inflicted them. He knew the charge had been false; Sharpe had said as much. But as to who had ordered such a thing? Harper suddenly wanted more than anything to meet him in a dark alleyway with no witnesses.

"What?" Sharpe, alerted by some tension in the big body raised his head.

"Nothing."

"No, tell me."

"I was thinking of all the ways I'd like to kill the bastard who did this to you." He ran light fingers along a particularly raised scar that curved in an obscene echo of the ribcage beneath the skin.

Sharpe grunted. "Get in line." He twisted so he was lying less on Harper, more on his own front, propped on his elbows, and changed the subject. "Where's that tea?"

"On the floor by your side."

"Oh."

"I'll reach it for you if you want."

"No." Sharpe sighed. Harper's head, with its dark, curling hair was very close. Despite everything, tea was the last thing on his mind. He reached a long arm across Harper's body and bent his head. The kiss was very simple: a meeting of lips; of surprising tenderness; of the acknowledgement of a mutual respect and passion that nothing could deny.

He could have died today. Over the hills and far away. Yet of any place in the world this was home. Here.

Feeling the shiver Harper reached out drew his officer close, letting the sudden heat and insistence of his desire press hard against Sharpe.

They were both suddenly short of breath.

With a moan, Sharpe took hold of the dark curls and deepened the kiss. This wasn't how it should be between two men, wasn't how he'd been taught in the back–alleys and of his boyhood. But to hell with how it should be. The lessons of his past were all forgotten, abandoned, those sorry lessons all relearned by acquaintance with a mad Irishman who fought like a devil and made love like an angel. This was how it was. Soft and tender; the rising need singing sweetly in his blood.

Without any resistance he let Harper take the lead, let himself be caressed by the knowing hands, by the wicked tongue. Harper knew what was best, always did. When he was turned he went willingly, almost sobbing with voracious need as Harper fumbled with the oil he was spilling on his own body. This was delight, it was life. Sharpe felt the spear of flesh press into his self and cried out. He was alive. Alive. The pain was momentary, nothing, the burning need wild and unchained. He was shaking, shivering with each slow stroke as Harper worked himself deeper. Sharpe could hear Harper whispering under his breath what could have been a spell in soft, sibilant Gaelic. The whisper filled his head as Harper filled his body, leaving no room for pain, or fear, or even tomorrow. The pleasure was a fine needle drawn though his flesh, through his blood. It was more than being alive. The whispering was drowning the world, Patrick was drowning the world. Patrick. Eyes suddenly wide, the red fire filling his sight, Sharpe came and knew that he wasn't alone. He choked on words, on his lover's name as the pleasure spilled from his body. This was enough. This was all there was.

He cursed as Harper slid from his body, leaving him bereft, alone. Then he was turned and the arms were around him again, holding him tight, soothing, stroking, the wild Irish whisper now lulled to a gentle murmur in his ear.

By nightfall they would be back behind the British lines. Sharpe pushed the thought away.

"Patrick?"

"Captain."

"I think I'll sleep now." His voice was slurring already. "Thank you."

"No, don't thank me." He drew Sharpe into the crook of his arm and waited. Sleep wasn't long in coming. Tenderly, very gently, Harper touched his hand to the long hair that spilled, ragged and pale, across his chest.

Sharpe was his talisman. As long as he kept the Captain alive, then all was right in the world. There was little he wouldn't do to keep him happy; to keep the friendship that had been so bitter in the forming. Still, the hardest won things were often the most appreciated, Harper had learned that long ago. There would be women. There wouldn't be other men. This was enough. For both of them. Unlooked for, unhurried, this, whatever it was they shared, was enough. And it would be forever. Harper had no doubts as to that. As long as he kept Sharpe alive.

The wind was still howling around the old building, though it was less violent, dying away as the day grew older. He smiled at the fancies that had taken hold in the night. Superstition. But this was a country for that. It was steeped in the stones. Ghosts and blood. Worse than Ireland herself. If the Morrigan did fancy a trip over the water, then this was as good a country for her as any. Better than Flanders; the good people there wouldn't have understood the Sidhe at all. The Spanish now, like the Irish, they were different.

Harper jumped as a crow, sounding as if it was right at the shuttered window, gave its raw, cawing cry. Sharpe moved uneasily in his arms, but didn't wake. Didn't see the warning shiver that swept across the skin of his lover, didn't see him cross himself, or hear the whisper that was a prayer to an older God. He slept, oblivious.

For Harper, sleep was as far away as the moon. He would keep watch, ward off the darkness, banish any dreams before they hurt. There was nothing else to do.

END