Season notes: violence, death, attempted murder, accusation of sexual assault
Mattin didn’t know how long it was, but eventually, exhaustion wore out the worst of his emotions. Numbness spread through his body—shock or blood loss, he couldn’t be sure. With a final silent cry thrown towards his mistress, he allowed himself to stop. He had done everything he could.
He blocked Marta from his awareness, let go of his fears for Jahlene, and let himself grieve. Quiet grief this time. Saying goodbye.
He leaned his head back, stretched out his legs, and once again allowed his tears to flow. Behind the chair, his hands continued to twist against the cord. His wrists were rubbed raw, but pain didn’t matter anymore.
The first time the cords slipped, he was startled out of his grief.
He froze and slit his eyes open. Marta sat at the table, watching him. Her hands were clean—she’d washed them at some point while he was lost to the world, but otherwise, she looked the same. And she couldn’t see his hands behind the chair. He pulled at the cords. It was true! They were moving.
Opening his eyes further, he shivered at the amount of blood covering the floor. He had no idea a body held that much blood. He couldn’t believe he’d have much time left.
He slowly worked the cords over his wrists, catching them in his hands before they fell to the floor. His fingers were numb, but not so numb he didn’t recognize wet leather. He nearly laughed aloud. The blood soaking into the leather had stretched it.
Mattin opened his eyes and sat up as best he could while keeping his hands clasped behind him. He had one chance. “Marta?” He whispered, licking lips gone dry, “Uisqe?”
“What?”
He nodded towards the bottle and cup on the table. “A drink? Please.”
She took the bottle and poured a careful dram into the cup. “Of course.” She stood and crouched before him, holding the cup to his lips. He allowed himself, at last, one moment to grieve for her. To look in her eyes, her face, and sear them in his memory—for however long his memory would last.
He lunged out of the chair.
Blood loss made him light-headed and cramped muscles refused to obey. Instead of grabbing her, he knocked her over and fell on top of her.
She screamed and tried to push him off, but his greater weight—his dead weight—was too much for her. He couldn’t make himself move well, didn’t bother trying to wrestle or pin her arms. He heaved himself forward and pressed his forearm into her neck. The pressure ripped his wrist further, making him scream. But he ignored the pain, letting the weight of his upper body rest directly on his sister’s throat.
She flailed at him. Pounded his sides. Clawed at his face. One finger slashed straight across his eye and the world blurred. He closed his eyes and pulled his head back. The world spun and he thanked God that she didn’t have the knife in hand.
Her attacks weakened and stopped. She began convulsing—bucking and jerking under him like a sick parody of sex, her body desperately fighting for air. Tears burned his eyes. He didn’t see—didn’t want to see—her eyes roll back in her head, or her face purple. He was crying again. For her this time. His tears dripped down to leave tracks along her cheeks, as if she cried with him.
She lay still.
Moving hurt. Two long lines ripped his right arm open from wrist to elbow. He focused on those strange breaks in himself rather than allowing himself to see her face. It was so still. So quiet. He could hear his breathing, harsh and ragged.
The world went gray around him, for the last time. He fell into the darkness, knowing he had finally gotten something right.
By some miracle, Jahlene didn’t hurt herself in her rush to the cabin. But it still took time—too much, she feared. She clung to the taste of Mattin’s pain and grief, praying they wouldn’t fade further.
Brit managed to keep up with her, and two of the guards. The third had tripped over a root in the dark and lamed himself. If no worse mishap came of the late-night run through the woods, Jahlene would praise Dannu with her whole heart.
The taste from Mattin had dulled after the first burst, but remained frighteningly strong, leading her on. They were minutes from the cabin when the flavor she tasted changed. She knew the flavor of battle nearly as well as the taste of the dying.
The next few minutes were among the longest of Jahlene’s life. When they reached the cabin, she threw herself at the door. Brit tried to push in front of her, but she ignored him. She gathered her weakened glamour to herself, the beast that had feasted on Mattin’s suffering the whole endless run. She blanketed the cabin with her power, prepared to freeze Marta in her tracks.
The cabin no longer tasted of combat, but she didn’t stop to examine the flavor. She threw open the door just in time to see Mattin collapse on top of Marta in a pool of blood.
Somehow, Brit had bandages. The guards helped Jahlene roll Mattin over. It didn’t take long to find his wounds. She took the bandages from Brit and sent the guards off, “One of you go back to the manor. Get a litter, the housekeeper and her kit, and more guards. The other, search the area. Make sure there aren’t any surprises here.”
Brit grabbed a bottle off the table and before she started bandaging Mattin, splashed something over the wounds. She smelled the alcohol and winced, then started bandaging.
“This one’s dead,” Brit announced, crouching over Marta. Jahlene glanced over at him, then went back to bandaging. The blood on the floor soaked through her skirt. It disturbed her to smell the copper-sweet blood in the air, but not taste pain—to bandage wounds someone else had inflicted on her slave, and clean blood spilled only to bring destruction and hurt. Pain, without meaning or purpose….
She blinked tears out of her eyes and hurried.
A half-hour later, Mattin was bandaged, stripped, and cleaned to the best she and Brit could manage in the old cabin. They had moved him to the bed and Brit carried Marta’s body outside. The remaining guard reported the woods clear and wrapped Marta’s body in canvas for return to the manor later.
Brit did his best to clean the dried blood from the floor, but there wasn’t much to be done.
Then the only thing left was the waiting.
A long hour later Housekeeper arrived with her kit. Mattin’s wrists stopped bleeding before they soaked through the bandages, but he’d shown no signs of waking.
Housekeeper tutted over him, checking the bandages and tending to the scratches on his face. She managed to get him to drink some water cut with vinegar and expressed relief that he didn’t show signs of a fever.
Eventually, she sat back on her heels and sighed. “He’ll likely do. He’s lost blood, but not, I think, too much. If he lasts the night and doesn’t get a fever, he’ll pull through.”
Jahlene thanked the woman, never taking her eyes off Mattin.
“He’ll drink, so I’ll mix a tincture that may help. If he can take food, all the better. Will you be taking him home?”
“Is it safe?”
Lola shrugged, “Easy travel on a litter won’t hurt, go slow… but he’ll be fine here, and do you want to risk another stumble in the dark?”
Jahlene shuddered, remembering the hell run through the woods. “No. We’ll all stay here tonight.” She waved Brit over. “You’re familiar with the trail and can take charge at home. Squash the rumors, do whatever you need to sit on Parlen, and make sure nothing else goes wrong. We’ll return tomorrow morning—one way or another.”
He hesitated a long moment, and she tasted his uncertainty. Did she know what she was doing? But he nodded and headed out.
It wasn’t quite the longest night of Jahlene’s life. But it came close.
Mattin first became aware of a sense of movement. Prying his eyes open, he found himself staring hazily at a horse. The back end of a horse. Slowly he realized he only saw out of one eye. Trying to raise his hands to check his face woke pain. Suddenly his whole body was a mass of hurts, though his arms were definitely the worst.
The movement stopped and the Mistress was beside him. The faint light coming through the trees made her hair gleam like ebony. Her face was shadowed and gaunt. The hunger that had once terrified him was a subtle presence in her eyes. She seemed free of the tension and brittleness he watched grow in her over the past month and more.
He couldn’t remember what had happened.
He tried to pull together a coherent thought. But his head was muzzy. He saw tears in her eyes before she blinked them away. Why was she crying? “Mistress?”
She smiled and rested her hand on his shoulder. “Here, Mattin. Everything is alright.” From the other side, warm fingers pressed against his neck.
“He’ll do, Mistress. Pulse is getting stronger. Breathing steadied. His body’ll take time to replace all the blood, and a few weeks to heal. But if we can keep him from getting infected he will heal. We won’t know for sure about the eye for a bit, but I’m hopeful.”
He had trouble understanding everything the voice—strangely familiar voice—was saying. But he caught enough to jog his memory. Now his eye filled with tears. Somehow he lived—his mistress had come for him in time. And Marta was dead.
Jahlene bent down and kissed the tears from his cheek. “You did well, Mattin Brenson. You will grieve, you will heal. And when you are ready, your mistress will be waiting for you.”
Unable to respond, Mattin nodded. Then darkness washed over him again. The last thing he heard was a watery chuckle.
“I’ll find some way to pay you back for this scare once we’ve all had time to heal. Now rest. That’s an order.”
Leave a Reply