Disclaimer: I don't own it. Everything you recognise belongs to Sir Walter Scott and A&E. No
infringement is intended and I'm certainly not making any money from this story.
Summary: A moment between Rebecca and Brian de Bois-Guilbert during her captivity.
Author's note: This was written as a belated birthday gift for White Raven, who longed for some
Ivanhoe fanfic. The portrayals of the characters is based on the A&E Ivanhoe mini-series, where
these two were played by Ciaran Hinds and Susan Lynch. If you read this, it would be nice to
hear what you think!
At War
by Hereswith
a shadow to the sun, and he strides across the floor, he fills the chamber with his presence, commanding
attention.
"Lady," he says, into the silence she offers him. "Will you not greet me?"
"You come to vanquish, my lord," she replies. "Those you trample underfoot in the heat of battle, do
they smile to meet their fate?"
He makes a gesture of impatience. "That is not the same."
She folds her hands in front of her, carefully. "Is it not?"
"No!" The word is short and sharp, a determined snap. "God's blood, but you confound me at every turn!"
"I only speak the truth."
"The truth?" He moves quickly, advances further and draws up too close. "Then speak truthfully now. Do
you feel nothing?"
She is aware of him, his height, the solid bulk of him, and she swallows, her lips suddenly dry, but she cannot
bring herself to wet them when he stares at her in that manner, something wild in his features. She doubts that
he will force her, he has stayed his hand this long, but the lack of that particular fear leaves room for another,
more treacherous.
"Rebecca," he says, with the barest hint of hope, and she fights a shiver at the sound of her name in his voice.
He traces along the side of her face, in the air, not against her skin, but she cannot breathe, remembering the
strength of those fingers, clasped tightly around hers. When he leans forward, she steps back, he has not
cornered her this time, and his mouth twists, his fist curls. "Do you know what I would give for your willing
touch?"
His gaze burns into her. She has seen lust in men's eyes before, but here, in his, it is edged with a desperate
yearning, almost a supplication, and she looks away, to the window and the world outside. "I am your prisoner,
my lord."
She expects him to press the issue, but he holds back, and on hearing him heave a frustrated sigh, she wonders
if he is as tired as she is, if rest escapes him, as well, but she does not ask, nor does she move. At length, he
departs, much as he arrived, and the moment he shuts the door behind him, her shoulders slump and she sinks
onto the nearest chair, her heart thudding in her chest.
It is war between them. Without arms, without armies, but war even so, and while she will not surrender, he
will not concede defeat.