ALL THE WORLD TO NOTHING

By Lisa
lisaw@csufresno.edu

RATING: PG-13 (Slash) would probably suffice.
SUMMARY: Helm confronts Montoya, and the wily Colonel defends himself in a rather unexpected way. (Spoilers for "Betrayed")

~~~~~

To take her in her heart's extremest hate,
With curses in her mouth, tears in her eyes,
The bleeding witness of my hatred by;
Having God, her conscience, and these bars against me,
And I no friends to back my suit withal
But the plain devil and dissembling looks,
And yet to win her, all the world to nothing!
Ha!

Shakespeare, Richard the Third, I.ii.232-9

~~~~~

Robert Helm rode back into town alone brandishing an anger as cold and deadly as any sword. Yesterday his instant fury at Grisham's reckless perfidy had forged it. His outrage at Montoya's blatant injustice, at his betrayal of what might almost have been friendship, had sharpened its killing edge. And today the desperate, adrenaline-charged energy of fighting for his life had tempered it to final strength. True, while the Queen of Swords had ridden by his side away from what could have been his shallow, unmarked grave, he had sheathed it in calm equanimity. Once they had parted, however, once he faced alone the reality of returning to Santa Helena, of facing Montoya… Well, if his righteous anger had sometimes caused him no end of trouble, it had also kept him alive often enough in the past, attuning strength and nerve and will to one resolve, doing what was necessary, whatever that might turn out to be.

Leaving Grisham's horse in the stables, he stalked across the plaza, and all but ran up the stairs of the Comandancia. Usually he thought the building's roseate walls picturesquely if ironically innocent, but now some part of his memory reminded him how at home, in England, farmers achieved that particular pink by blending pig's blood into the plaster. It suited Montoya, he thought, to be living in a damn charnel house. He shoved wordlessly past the startled guards on the landing and slammed through the doors into their commander's office. They pursued him, of course, voicing their ineffectual and redundant warnings until Montoya rose so smoothly from his chair and waved them away with one gracefully negligent hand.

Helm heard them close the door behind him, but he kept his eyes on the more dangerous, if apparently unarmed, man emerging from behind his desk. Montoya was as elegantly groomed, as impeccably dressed as always. The polished leather of his boots showed no speck of dust, no scuff. There was scarcely a wrinkle to his dark trousers or jacket, or his blue silk waistcoat, and the matching cravat was perfectly looped and precisely fastened with a simple stickpin. Not a sleek hair escaped the ribbon's discipline. Looking at him Helm was, as always, conscious of every patch of dirt clinging to his own shirt, every sweat-stain, every smudge, every bruise, every unruly lock of hair. But that was one of the purposes of the Colonel's fastidiousness, wasn't it? To reinforce the fiction of his superiority, his unassailable power, his total control over himself and others.

"Ah, Doctor Helm," Montoya purred mildly as he approached so slowly and confidently. "You're back already, I see." Helm drew the pistol from behind his back, pointed it at Montoya and, drawing a sharp, determined breath, cocked the trigger with his thumb. "That would be Capitan Grisham's pistol? Shall I assume, then, that the Queen…?" Step by step he came closer, his hands spread in a gesture of harmlessness but not surrender. His kind never surrendered. No, they attempted the wildest gambler's chance before they gave in. "You have me at a disadvantage," he admitted, stepping closer still. He had nerve, Helm gave him that. Montoya might dress like a dandy, he might affect urbanity and polite deceit while leaving the physical realities of brutality to thugs like Grisham, but he was a warrior. His eyes--so curiously light for a Spaniard--were narrowed with wariness, but they witnessed no fear "So you have come to kill me? Dear me, what will you do then, I wonder? My soldiers will cut you down before you can reload."

"Perhaps. Perhaps not." Helm kept his voice chill, low and steady. Better Montoya didn't know that he was bluffing, that he had not thought even this far ahead.

"True. Perhaps you will escape them," Montoya nodded. "Perhaps you will even ride out of Santa Helena alive. And then?" He came closer yet. "Assassinating a military governor is a very serious matter. Word will spread. There will be nowhere in California, nowhere in New Spain for you. You will have no friends who will dare to shelter you, no money."

"I have skills. I'll get by. The Russians have a settlement north of Yerba Buena. Or I'll go further north, to Fort Vancouver."

"Back to the English, eh? Yes, you might do that. Or…" Montoya's silky voice trailed off. The advantage of killing at even a room's length distance was gone now. They were so close that any shot would cover them both in blood, gore, the stench of death.

"Or?"

"Or you might stay here in Santa Helena with me. Both of us alive, of course," Montoya added with a slight shrug and the brief flash of a smile.

"You're joking." The wildest of gamblers' chances, indeed. Helm wanted to laugh in his face. And truly they were so close he could watch every nuance of those green-gray eyes, as cold and treacherous as the North Sea, darkening as concentration and the prospect of battle stirred his blood and dilated his pupils. So close that he could smell how the clean sweetness of Montoya's fine clothes mingled with an underlying male musk. So close there was nothing in the world but the two of them, caught in the intoxicating moment before the blade was raised, the trigger pulled, the blow struck.

"Not at all." The words were barely more than a breath. Helm felt Montoya's hand stroke lightly over his own, and it occurred to him that, had he been facing down a woman, he would suspect he was being seduced. It was a whore's trick to transmute one violent passion into another. But Montoya would not, could not… could he? The two of them had been drawn together in this town, it was true, but as equal though not exactly kindred spirits; they had measured and evaluated each other as potential enemies, not lovers. But now Montoya's fingers feathered over his own until he instinctively loosened his hold upon the trigger. Then those fingers closed like a vise of iron and twisted the pistol out of his grasp. Helm closed his eyes in defeat. How could he have allowed himself to fall, to be trapped like this? He felt Montoya step away, and when he opened his eyes he fully expected to see the pistol leveled at him. He deserved no less for his foolishness.

Surprisingly, the Colonel had merely moved away to place the weapon on the desk. "I have decided to forgive you this little exhibition of temper, my dear Doctor," he remarked genially. "It has been a stressful few days for us both." He approached close again, laying a companionable hand on Helm's shoulder to guide him toward the sofa. "But now everything will be back to normal, and we shall be friends again, no? We shall sit down and share a glass of brandy."

So all was forgiven? Just like that? Helm shook off his hand. "You bastard!" He would be damned if he let the son of a bitch think it was that easy. He swung and savagely back-handed the Colonel. "You tried to kill me!"

Montoya faltered and recoiled from the blow, but he did not fall. "Always so passionate." He lifted a hand and laid his palm against the side of his jaw a moment. "Yes," he sighed. "Yes, I gave Grisham the order. It seemed necessary. But that does not mean that I wanted you dead, that I didn't regret the necessity, or that I would not have revenged you."

Helm laughed harshly and scornfully. Revenged him? On whom? Grisham? Himself? "And that's supposed to be a consolation, is it?"

"No, of course not." There was a flicker of irritation there. "But if I had really wanted you dead, Doctor, you would be dead. Under martial law I had every legal right to execute you for attacking my captain of the guards, we both know that. And if not by the hangman's noose or the firing squad, well, there are so many ways a prisoner may die in his cell, are there not? Do you really think," Montoya continued with a sneer, "that I would leave it to Grisham and to so clumsy and uncertain a scenario?" He calmed himself, resuming his annoying, casual geniality. "I had faith in you; there was every chance you would kill him. Tell me: he must have bound your hands. How long did it take you to get free, hmmm? And then there was always the Queen of Swords, wasn't there?" He moved to a sideboard and poured a glass of brandy. He raised the decanter again in invitation, but Helm declined with a shake of his head. He could have used a drink, but knew he would need all his wits about him. Montoya cast a calculating gaze over him as he took a sip of his brandy. "No, you know I never wanted your death. If you thought otherwise you would never have been so foolish as to return here in the daylight and so openly. That is not at all the act of a man who thinks himself under a death sentence."

"I came back to kill you." But that was at least half a lie: he hadn't even considered that until before leaving the Queen outside town. It hadn't been his plan when he had pushed his way into the office. He had planned nothing beyond confronting the Colonel. And returning to Santa Helena in the first place had just seemed the natural course of action. Foolishness. Rank foolishness.

"Ah, but you didn't kill me," Montoya gestured as if making a toast. "Because you don't want me dead, either."

Maybe he was right, but Helm couldn't let the smug complacency of the statement go unchallenged. "I could still destroy you, just the same," he reminded him. "One word to Hidalgo. What price your command then, Colonel? What would he do if he knew you ordered Grisham to drug his wife?"

"Drug her?" Montoya laughed, laying the glass down. "Oh, my dear Doctor, I should never have believed you so naïve. I ordered Capitan Grisham to kill the lady."

"What?! But Grisham loves her."

Montoya waved the objection away. "Oh, I doubt it is so fine a sentiment as that. He is infatuated with her, and in his infatuation he has occasionally, it seems, been indiscreet. Vera Hildalgo is far more than merely decorative; she has made certain suggestions to her husband. Why is it, I wonder," he ventured with a casual shrug, "that men so rarely expect beautiful women to be clever, even when they know the lady has had little beside her beauty and her wits to raise her in society?" He poured himself another glass. "Are you sure you won't join me?" Helm shook his head again. "Whatever the Capitan's affections, Gaspar genuinely adores his 'petal.' The grief would have rendered him much more … malleable. And yes, Doctor," he granted with a patient inclination of his head, "you could tell him all this as well. But you won't. It would ruin Vera, and even if you were less a gentleman and willing to throw away her reputation, you are not stupid enough to think Hidalgo would not take his revenge on you as well. Proud, powerful men do not take kindly the destruction of their illusions."

"You have thought of everything, haven't you?" There could be little response to such unexpected depravity and such Machiavellian logic. "You really are a bastard, aren't you? Is there nothing you won't do? Anyone, anything you won't betray?"

Montoya seemed to ignore the question. "Grisham, I fear, has never enjoyed the gift of loyalty. He has always been so charmingly self-serving. How far, I have often wondered, would his selfishness and greed extend? How far could he be pushed until his will broke? Now we both know. Perhaps," he added too causally, draining the glass with one swallow, "perhaps I ordered him to kill you because I needed to know that I could. That my will was strong enough to do even that."

He was silent for a moment, staring over Helm's shoulder as if into some distance. "I like you, Doctor," he began more softly. "I have since the day we met. You have breeding, intelligence, education, humor. And strength. Nerve--this afternoon proves that. Cunning. Ruthlessness, too, I expect, when needed. We are so well matched, you see. I like you," he repeated, turning the statement into accusation. "And you have known that, and exploited it, used it against me. Even yesterday you expected me to indulge your rebellion once more, didn't you?" And that much was true, Helm realized. He had been sure Montoya would take his side, or if not that, at least not interfere. They bickered and baited each other. They argued, sometimes violently, but the Colonel had never really punished him or demanded reparation, not even for holding him at sword or pistol point. "How you do plague me with your annoying idealism, your damnable conscience. Ah well," Montoya sighed with a weary, resigned smile. "There is no rose without its thorns."

"And I hate you." Helm did, and not least for using that bloody gentleman's charm to steal away his righteous anger. "I hate you more now than I ever did before. I despise you."

"In that case…" Montoya walked over to the rack of swords on the wall beyond the bookcase. He tested one or two for weight and balance before making his selection. Then he returned and presented the blade formally, extending its hilt over his arm. "The finest Toledo steel."

What was the man playing at now? Helm took hold of the sword. "You're proposing a duel?"

"Not at all. I am unarmed." Montoya spread his hands, palms outward. "No. If you hate me, strike. See, I will make it easy for you." With a fingertip he carefully raised the sword point and then walked into it, even letting it pierce the silken fabric over his breast. One thrust and it would rest in his heart. "Strike. Kill me." Helm shifted weight to brace for that thrust. It would be so easy. The steel would meet relatively little resistance as it cut through the flesh; probably it would not so much as glance off bone. It would be a clean kill, precise, and silent, for Montoya would barely have time to cry out as his death took him. Even now his voice was but a whispering, ghost-like insinuation. "Kill me, if that's what you honestly want. See, even in this last thing I will indulge you. Kill me, Robert."

Helm braced again and prepared the blow. He would… "No."

"No?"

"No." Helm threw the sword aside. "No! Damn you."

Montoya took a deep breath. "A truce, then, between us."

"Shake hands and no hard feelings?" Helm pushed him away roughly. "Dismiss all this as… what? A slight disagreement? You're a fool, Montoya."

"Yes, I may well be a fool," Montoya agreed, barely audibly, looking away, as if coming to some final decision. Then he met Helm's eyes again, and his voice regained a more calculated intensity and sarcasm. "A handshake? How passionless. So very English, I suppose. No: something else." He stepped close again. "I wonder, when you were a young boy did you read about the Crusades? I did. Richard the Lion-Heart. Saladin. Noble knights, on both sides. In those days there could be honor and even affection between enemies." He paused. "You will exchange such a peace with me, yes?" He laid his hands lightly on Helm's shoulders and leaned in. Slowly, stately, and yet tentatively, allowing enough time for rejection, he kissed his right cheek, then his left. Lastly, and with utmost care and the very slightest shivering inhalation of expectation, he kissed his lips. When he drew his head back, his eyes sparkled with unspoken, unspeakable promise, the skin wrinkling at the side as he smiled.

"To take is not to give." Helm hardly knew exactly what he meant by that, or where the words came from.

"Then take."

And without further thought Helm did. He brought his hands up between their bodies and framed Montoya's face between his palms, pulling him forward. The unaccustomed roughness of the beard under his fingers, against his skin, the rampant insanity of this moment could not stop him. The kiss was a punishing, bruising one, closer to rape than caress, but Montoya allowed him to take it, a muffled breath that was not exactly protest parting his lips beneath the assault. And Helm took that as well, tasting brandy and blood as he invaded that mouth. In its heat the last shards of his broken anger melted, the passion reshaped into a different desire, albeit one just as deadly strong and sharp. He forced their bodies together until there was nothing but the fragile, insufficient barrier of cloth between them. Far from merely surrendering, Montoya met him with equal need, equal desire, and Helm realized suddenly that if he let this continue, if he took anymore, he would find himself giving in return anything his treacherous, deceitful, beautiful enemy demanded. And Montoya knew that, too, didn't he?

Helm broke their kiss and shoved him away. Hen needed distance, time to make sense of this last, desperate wager. He blinked away the shock and confusion of senses and raised one hand as if to guard too late his own disobedient, wanton mouth.

Montoya smiled his triumph. "Was ever man in this humor wooed?" he asked almost gleefully in another Richard's words. "Was ever man in this humor won?"

"A slight misquotation, I think, Colonel," Helm shot back with as much disdain, as much coolness and composure as he could muster. He had been expertly trapped, and now the only defense was reconstruction of their customary rules of engagement. Sarcasm. Banter. "And though you may be quite as much a villain as Shakespeare's Crook-back, I am no feeble, befuddled Lady Anne."

"No, my dear Doctor Helm, you are not." The smile faded into something almost wistful, almost truthful. "I doubt I would want you so much if you were."

Helm stepped back defensively. "And you have not won me."

Yet.

The word hung unspoken in the space between them. Montoya retreated in his turn. He drew himself up straight and sketched a duelist's bow, accepting the challenge.

END