The Bargain (S2, E11)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN season ending, mind fuck

Mattin woke up and wanted to die. He wasn’t sure which was worse, the memories or the pain. After a long moment, he opened his eyes. The pain won.

Looking around, he saw a pitcher of water and a loaf of bread next to the pallet. With a whisper of thanks to Brit, he grabbed for the water. The sound of his own voice set his head ringing, and he swore he would never touch uisqe bache again.

Where the hell had Brit gotten the stuff?

He got up slowly, trying to avoid setting off any more wracking pain.

For a while, he sat, not thinking. Whenever the pain subsided a bit, he’d take a drink of water or a bite of the bread. By the time the bread was gone and half the water inside him, he felt nearly human.

Which meant he had to face how badly he had screwed up.

His dreams haunted him. Marta was right—he had forgotten her, forgotten everything he did here was for her. He’d let his own fears take over, and…

And managed to destroy everything in one moment of stupidity.

His hand came up and rubbed his neck. He wanted for yesterday to have never happened. To be up in the manor helping Cook with the bread or bringing the lady her breakfast. He felt… naked without the collar.

Mattin had nothing now. He had failed Marta and had no other chance, no other way of saving her. Couldn’t go back to his father’s inn, had destroyed his place with the lady… maybe she would give him another chance? Bloody Mare, why would she? She’d accepted his bargain in the first place as a way to hurt Oeloff. How could he be anything but a menace to her at court if he couldn’t control himself? He was useless to the lady and Marta both.

Not knowing what else to do but unable to bear his thoughts, he drank the rest of the water and started cleaning the cabin. He couldn’t stay, but as long as he delayed, he didn’t need to figure out where to go.

~~~

Mattin had just finished making up the bed when the cabin door opened. “Still here?” Mattin spun around. Brit stood in the doorway. “Good. Meant to be back earlier.”

“I wasn’t going to leave a mess for you to clean up.” His voice shook.

Brit nodded and leaned against the door frame. “Can’t say I don’t appreciate it.” When he didn’t say anything else, Mattin went back to cleaning. He couldn’t look at the older man and had no idea what to say. “So, you’ve a chance to start fresh. What do you want to do with it? You could go back to your inn, could find work in town. Lots of options if you’re willing to take them.”

“Fresh start?” Mattin surprised himself with a bitter laugh. “I failed Marta, betrayed the lady, and lost…” He picked up the broom and jabbed at the floor, blinking away the blurriness of his vision.

“Mayhap.” Brit rubbed his chin and nodded. “If all that’s true, then nothing matters but what you want.”

“I’ll figure something out.” Mattin stopped trying to sweep and propped the broom against a wall. His hands shook without the broom handle to steady his grip. “I’ll get out of your way.”

“Boy, if I wanted you to take off, I wouldn’t be standing here blocking the doorway. Now answer the damn question.”

The old man’s growl stopped Mattin in his tracks. This had the feel of another of Brit’s lessons — no explanations, just leading questions until Mattin gave him the answer he wanted. And that made no sense. “Why?” Mattin demanded, “In case you forgot, I’m not your problem anymore.”

Brit walked over and smacked Mattin on the back of his head.

Mattin tried to glare at him, but… the world blurred again, and he turned away. “You’re wrong, Brit,” he finally said, “what I want doesn’t matter.”

Brit snorted and shook his head, “Then I suppose you might as well come with me.”

“What?” Mattin shook his head.

“You gone deaf, too, boy?” Brit went through the door at a fast walk. “Hope your legs still work. I won’t be carrying you.”

Confused, hungover, and for the first time daring to hope, Mattin jogged after him, wincing with every step.

Brit spoke only once more as they jogged to the manor– when Mattin threw up a few hundred feet out from the cabin. “Alright, boy?” he asked and pulled out a clean rag to wipe Mattin’s face.

“Do I look alright?” Mattin gasped.

Brit chuckled, helped him to his feet, and they continued on.

Brit’s silence gave Mattin far too much time to think, which only added to the churning in his stomach. He was (please, Lady) going to get a chance. He had to make things right. Somehow.

~~~

When they reached the manor, Mattin had to brace himself to walk up the steps. For a moment, he was afraid the lady’s glamour would block him from entering, but it didn’t. Joth was on door guard and he patted Mattin’s shoulder awkwardly as he passed. Mattin was grateful for the support, even if he couldn’t imagine why it was offered.

Brit led him through the manor to Jahlene’s office. He remembered clearly the first time he had followed Brit down this hall, the last time he came to ask Lady Jahlene for her collar. He’d been terrified then because he had no idea what to expect, but hoping desperately she’d accept him.

He knew what to expect now, and that made both the terror and the hope worse.

The lady sat at her desk, hair bound up in a severe and intricate style. Her eyes were cold, her lips tight. Under her pitiless gaze, hope shriveled to a faint spark. Only the presence of Brit behind him kept Mattin from turning and running again.

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The Bargain S2 Finale

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The Bargain S2 E1
The Bargain S2 E10

What You Will: A Queer-er Shakespeare (S2, E10)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content Notes: Revenge plot, violence, boundary violations, sexual harassment, ableist language

Sometimes, fools have more wisdom than the wise, but even the wisest fool can be a fool in truth. The rest of Malvolio’s story cannot be erased, if only because he still had a small role to play in Cesario’s tale. But for all the man deserved some comeuppance, he did not deserve so far a fall and so great a humiliation.

The fool, to this day, is shamed by the role he had in Malvolio’s downfall, for some jokes are such as never should be played. Suffice to say that while all these other happenings continued, the steward remained, not seen to by a doctor, but locked in a dark house and mocked by false priests. It is some comfort to the fool that it was by his hand that Malvolio was finally able to appeal for help to Lady Oliva, but that came later.

For while Malvolio was trapped in darkness, Sebastian was getting to know the lady Olivia — his mysterious rescuer — and worrying.

Near a week after Olivia first invited him into the manor, Sebastian found himself wandering the grounds. He was trying once again to find sense in his world. Lost in thought, he did not notice the fool was also relaxing in the sunlight.

“This is the air,” he mused, “that is the glorious sun. This pearl she gave me, I do feel’t and see’t.” The pearl in question rested atop a small pin. It was not expensive, as such things go, but still more valuable than anything remaining to him since the shipwreck. More valuable than anything that should be so lightly gifted to a stranger. “And though ’tis wonder that enwraps me thus, yet ’tis not madness.”

He tucked the pin away and sat down on a bench, clasping his hands. “Where’s Antonio, then? I could not find him at the Elephant: yet there he was; and there I found this credit, that he did range the town to seek me out.” And Sebastian had ranged the town himself in return. A few folks admitted to having seen Antonio when they first arrived in town, but no one knew where he was.

At first, Sebastian hadn’t worried — with he and Antonio looking for each other, it was likely they had been victims of bad timing. But it had been several days, with no word. And while he worried, he also wished for Antonio’s advice. “For though my soul disputes well with my sense, that this may be some error, but no madness, yet doth this accident and flood of fortune so far exceed all reason that I am ready to distrust mine eyes and be persuaded but that I am mad.”

He felt foolish speaking to himself. But it at least slowed down the whirl of thought and fear. “Or else the lady’s mad. Yet, if ’twere so, she could not sway her house, command her followers, take and give back affairs and their dispatch with such a smooth, discreet and stable bearing as I have seen she does.” There was some deception here. Some answer other than that he had lost his senses or the lady who so assiduously courted him was lacking hers.

He could not find it.

It was a relief to see Olivia walking toward him, even with the priest in tow. Anything to distract Sebastian from his own thoughts.

“Blame not this haste of mine.” Olivia pleaded, reaching for Sebastian’s hands. “If you mean well, now go with me and with this holy man into the chantry by. There, before him, and underneath that consecrated roof, plight me the full assurance of your faith.”

Sebastian’s jaw dropped. He couldn’t help it. But somehow he also was not surprised.

The lady continued, perhaps oblivious to his shock, perhaps trying to persuade him in spite of it. “So my most jealous and too doubtful soul may live at peace. He shall conceal it whiles you are willing. What do you say?”

By logic, Sebastian knew he should say no, for while it would be a most advantageous match — especially in his current circumstances — the world still spun mad around him.

And yet — if he were to be thrown into a world where reason was suspended, that left him only the senses. So by them, he chose: standing and squeezing Olivia’s hands between his.

A good woman, who cared for him and dealt well with her people. An attractive woman he was coming to care for and enjoy spending time with.

A future, where he’d had none.

“I’ll follow this good man, and go with you,” he said, “And, having sworn truth, ever will be true.”

He had one moment to see how her eyes brightened and her smile beamed before she let go of his hands and wrapped him in a hug. A bone-crushing hug for all her slight frame.

After a few moments, she pulled away and turned to the priest. With a much more reserved composure, she said, “Then lead the way, good father. And heavens so shine, that they may fairly note this act of mine!”

Chance is a chancy thing. And one who paid attention might have noted that chance was working its will with abundance that day. Scarce had they passed within doors when Duke Orsino, accompanied by Cesario and more of his entourage, came down the drive.

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The Bargain (S2, E10)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN season ending, mind fuck

By the time Brit reached Jahlene’s door, he was in a foul mood. Jaffrey and Crait’s revelations had pushed his temper to the breaking point. He barged in on Jahlene and Parlen without bothering to knock. Jahlene sat on the couch, knees drawn up under her chin—the girl was hurt and trying to hide it. Parlen sat on the floor beside Jahlene fiddling with her blasted skirts.

Jahlene jumped up and started towards him.

The lost little girl look on her face was too much. “What, by the Mare’s Mane, were you thinking?!” he bellowed.

Parlen cleared her throat.

Jahlene froze in her rush to greet him and stared at him. “What was I thinking? What was I thinking! That… that man practically attacked me, had Jaffrey in tears, you ran off to coddle him, and you want to know what I was thinking? How dare you!”

“Excuse me,” Parlen said.

Brit was close to slapping Jahlene. He couldn’t remember the last time he had been this angry, this betrayed. He stepped towards her, hands fisted, “You have a hell of a lot of nerve, Jahlene. Jaffrey is fine, as you’d know if you even bothered to listen to him for five seconds. He was afraid /for/ Mattin. And I am about to take you over my knee like a little brat. How dare you use glamour on that boy? How dare you endanger him like that?”

“Will you both shut up!” Parlen bellowed.

Brit and Jahlene both stared at her.

“It would be very nice,” she continued demurely, “if you could sit down and fill me in on what you are talking about.”

Brit and Jahlene looked at each other, looked back at Parlen. After a moment, they both sat down and started talking.

~~~

Parlen was rather a bit shocked that Jahlene and Brit had actually listened, but it worked. By getting them to tell her what happened, she also got each to hear what the other was saying. And she didn’t want to see Jahlene—or Brit—angry again anytime soon. That would be bad.

Of course, the sheer obliviousness staggered her. “You mean you both knew Mattin was developing an interest in glamourhai, and neither one of you expected him to have some minor problems. Problems like—oh, I don’t know—thinking he was going crazy?”

Brit sighed and rubbed his head, “Thank you, Madam Obvious. You are the third person to point out our oversight this evening. Though the other two were more respectful.”

Parlen found herself rolling her eye, but at least Brit understood. Jahlene, unfortunately, was staring at Parlen like she had two heads. “That makes no sense. What in the world does liking pain have to do with being crazy? The way he was acting this afternoon—that was crazy!”

Parlen opened her mouth, then stopped, “It’s a human thing, Mistress.”

“None of my toys ever did anything like this.”

She… Parlen tried not to think of it as pouting.

Brit sighed, “Actually, Crait and Jaffrey say they went through the same thing. It happened before they came here. Bad enough Jaffrey nearly killed himself. He knew Mattin was attacking himself earlier. If you’d bothered to listen to him when he tried to tell you—or pay attention to your own bloody senses—you’d have known it, too.”

“Alright Brit, I get it.” She hunched down and wrapped her arms around her knees. “I messed up. Can we please get back on the subject?”

“Which one? I count at least five.” Parlen felt compelled to point out.

“Five?” Brit asked.

“Mattin’s outburst, the mistress’ using glamour on him, your collective stupidity, what, if anything, will happen to Mattin now, and how this mess affects our trap for Oeloff.”

Jahlene threw her arms out, “How can anything happen to Mattin now—he’s gone. Probably heading back to his father’s inn and the ‘normal’ life he’s been pining for.”

Brit shook his head. “He’s passed out drunk in the hunting cabin. Even aside from the uisqe, he’s not in good shape and is definitely not going prancing anywhere come morning.”

“Why not? Why stay if he thinks I’m a monster no different from Oeloff?”

Brit sighed, “Lass, the last time I saw you act this bratty, your mother ruled the county. Since then, you’ve put up with me, this fool, the cook, and the disasters this place throws at you without breaking a sweat. I do not believe you are acting like a ninny because Mattin opened his mouth and shoved his foot down into his stomach. Are you falling in love with the boy?”

Jahlene jerked her head up. “Fae don’t love like humans do, you know that, Brit.”

“Uh-huh.” Brit rolled his eyes. “Fae also aren’t supposed to care about humans and certainly aren’t supposed to claim one for a brother. Cut the manure.”

“By Dannu, Brit, how should I know!” Jahlene hopped off the couch and began to pace—much like Brit normally did. “I don’t know what love is. I like him, I was hoping… I want him to be mine Brit! Really mine and none of this holding back and resentment.” She stopped, and her hands groped in front of her—reaching for a missed catch. “In the past few weeks, he’s become like another set of hands I didn’t know I was missing… I can’t have him close to me if I can’t trust him, Brit. I can’t.”

Parlen bit her lip. As if all the humans in the manor didn’t need to trust Jahlene, no matter how many mistakes she might make. But not a helpful thing to say. Let Brit handle it now that he had calmed down.

“But you did let him close, and he screwed up and hurt you. Well, you screwed up and hurt him, too. Would you let him back?”

“I… Into the household, yes. For the political advantages, if nothing else. But I can’t trust him, Brit. I can’t.” She seemed to sag around herself. Parlen got up and drew her back to the couch. Once Jahlene was seated, Parlen began braiding her hair. Slowly, Jahlene’s shoulders relaxed.

“Alright.” Brit rubbed the scar on his face. “I’ll talk with him in the morning. You’ll need to be careful of him—he’s blasted fragile right now.” He sighed. “And you’ll need to fix things with Jaffrey. He’s hurting too. I can’t deal with the rest of this mess tonight. But… damn it, girl.”

Jahlene spread her hands, “I’m sorry, Brit. You were right. I promised you I’d never use glamour to control my people. I just… he wasn’t one of mine, then. He hurt me, I thought he hurt Jaffrey, and I don’t let anyone hurt the people who are mine.”

Brit accepted this with a grudging nod, “Yeah, well, check your aim better next time. And for god’s sake, use your damned senses. Tasting emotions is the one part of your bloody glamour that’s more of a help than pain, so don’t ignore it!”

~~~

Mattin slept horribly, his dreams filled with Marta. She sat on the floor next to him with her head resting on her knees. “Did I mean so little to you?” she asked, tears running down her cheeks, “Why did you forget me?”

He wrapped his arms around her, “You’re my sister! I could never forget you.”

“But you did! You did, and now it’s too late.” Her back split under his hands, and blood poured down and pooled on the floor. “You forgot me, Mattin.” A gash opened across her face, and white skull showed between the edges. “You failed me, Mattin.” Her voice echoed and split. “I trusted you, and you failed me.” She stood, and then the lady was beside her. “You made me a promise,” they said. Marta’s arm twisted and bent, becoming scarred and useless. The lady’s power blazed about her like a star, blinding him. “I trusted you. You failed me.” The lady faded into nothingness, and Marta collapsed to the ground. “Why did you forget, Mattin?” Blood bubbled from her lips. She said no more.

~~~

Jahlene missed Mattin as she readied for bed. She was used to having him with her throughout the day. A steady presence she could rely on. She had let herself forget–he wasn’t like the rest of her people. She had watched his growing interest in the glamourhame, his growing comfort at her side. Somehow she had missed the pain, the fear, underneath.

She had seen what she wanted to see, and she’d hurt him as well as herself. She had broken a near-sacred promise made to Brit. She had hurt one of her cherished toys.

She didn’t know how to help Mattin. As the night crept by, she realized any attempt she made to help was likely to hurt him more. So her initial impulse would be best for him as well. Keep a distance. Divorce him from glamourhai as much as possible while still training him for glamourhame service in court. With enough distance between them, they wouldn’t hurt each other again.

When they returned from court, he could go back to the kitchen or perhaps the stables.

She would miss him by her side, but it would be better that way.

Surely it would be better that way.

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The Bargain S2 E11

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The Bargain S2 E1
The Bargain S2 E9

What You Will: A Queer-er Shakespeare (S2, E9)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content Notes: Revenge plot, violence, boundary violations, sexual harassment

The fool was having a most exasperating day. There are fools and fools, and not all fools wear motley. Until this moment, the fool’s judgment had been out on this Cesario; it was rapidly coming to a conclusion.

For Sebastian, the day so far had been delightful. The journey’s end, the surprise appearance of his beloved, and some sightseeing make for a good day to most minds. Of course, Sebastian was the only one who’d been having a good day thus far, so it seems fair that his day was rapidly taking a turn for the worse.

For his path was now blocked by a fool (in motley). A fool who had begun dogging his steps when he passed a drive a minute back and had grown more persistent with each passing moment.

“Will you make me believe that I am not sent for you?” the fool demanded.

“Go to, go to, thou art a foolish fellow,” Sebastian grumbled, trying to step around the fool, only to find his way blocked again. “Let me be clear of thee.”

The fool rolled his eyes, ” Well held out, i’ faith!” He pulled out an imaginary scroll and opened it up to read down a list, “No, I do not know you,” he made a check mark, “nor I am not sent to you by my lady, to bid you come speak with her,” check, “nor your name is not Master Cesario,” a final check and he stuffed the list back in his pocket to pinch his nose, changing the sound of his voice, “nor this is not my nose neither. Nothing that is so is so.”

It was Sebastian’s turn to roll his eyes, and he did so freely. “I prithee, vent thy folly somewhere else. Thou know’st not me.” He made again to step around the fool, but this time the fool not only blocked his way but grabbed his arm.

“Vent my folly! He has heard that word of some great man and now applies it to a fool. Vent my folly!” then, as speaking to a child, “I prithee now, ungird thy strangeness and tell me what I shall vent to my lady: shall I vent to her that thou art coming?

Shaking his arm free, Sebastian did the only thing left to him, though he was loath to do it. He pulled out the small wallet Antonio had entrusted to him. “I prithee, foolish Greek, depart from me.” He held out two small coins to the fool, saying, “There’s money for thee. If you tarry longer,” tucking the wallet away, he held up his other hand next to the coins and made a fist. “I shall give worse payment.”

“By my troth, thou hast an open hand.” The fool grabbed the coins, the third to his reckoning that ‘Cesario’ had given him that day. “These wise men that give fools money get themselves a good report–after fourteen years’ purchase.”

Whether or not the fool would have actually allowed Sebastian to pass, Sebastian never learned. A hand grabbed his shoulder and spun him around.

“Now, sir, have I met you again?” A foppish stranger, who the fool recognized as Sir Andrew, declared as he punched Sebastian weakly in the forehead. “there’s for you.”

It was surprise more than injury that stunned Sebastian but he recovered quickly. Sebastian then grabbed Sir Andrew’s hand before he could attack again. The fist he had offered the fool he now gave to the knight. “Why, there’s for thee, and there, and there.” After the third hit, Sir Andrew stopped struggling and dropped weakly to the ground. “Are all the people mad?”

Behind Sir Andrew, of course, had come Sir Toby, cracking his knuckles at this promise of a good fight. “Hold, sir, or I’ll throw your dagger o’er the house.”

“This will I tell my lady straight,” the fool declared but was not surprised when the warning did not slow Sir Toby. So the fool took to his heels, knowing he had no place in fisticuffs. “I would not be in some of your coats for two pence.”

“Come on, sir; hold,” Sir Toby growled, grabbing at Sebastian. But Sir Andrew shook his head.

“Nay, let him alone,” the battered knight said. “I’ll go another way to work with him.” He smirked at Sebastian. “I’ll have an action of battery against him, if there be any law in Illyria. Though I struck him first, yet it’s no matter for that.”

“Let go thy hand!” Sebastian yelled, trying to shake free of Sir Toby.

“Come, sir, I will not let you go.” But despite Sir Toby’s best efforts, Sebastian wrenched loose and looked around for an escape route. “Come, my young soldier,” Sir Toby taunted, “Put up your iron: you are well fleshed; come on.”

“I will be free from thee.” But Sebastian was rapidly losing his temper. “What wouldst thou now? If thou darest tempt me further, draw thy sword.” And so saying, he drew his own.

“What, what?” Sir Toby grinned and did indeed draw his sword with a flourish. “Nay, then I must have an ounce or two of this malapert blood from you.”

“Hold, Toby,” came a cry from across the orchard. “On thy life I charge thee, hold!”

A well-dressed woman came charging out to throw herself in front of Sebastian, glaring at Sir Toby.

What almost shocked Sebastian more was how Sir Toby stumbled backward, windmilling his arms as he cried, “Madam!”

Still not knowing what was going on, Sebastian stepped back, somewhat more gracefully, and sheathed his sword before he accidentally harmed the woman protecting him.

“Will it be ever thus?” she demanded of the knight, “Ungracious wretch, fit for the mountains and the barbarous caves, where manners ne’er were preach’d! out of my sight!”

Sebastian gaped as the knights and their follower slunk away in the direction the woman had come from — though not without a few glares in his direction.

When they were gone, she turned to Sebastian, who was still trying to find his voice. With a forwardness he had never encountered before, she grabbed his hands. “Be not offended, dear Cesario.”

He was so startled he almost missed how she misnamed him — but those others had acted certain that they knew him as well. Before he could gather wit to speak, she continued.

“I prithee, gentle friend, let thy fair wisdom, not thy passion, sway in this uncivil and thou unjust extent against thy peace. Go with me to my house, and hear thou there how many fruitless pranks this ruffian hath botch’d up, that thou thereby mayst smile at this.”

She was smiling and leaning into him. He could smell her perfume and feel the heat of her body. And had no idea what in the world was going on.

When he did not immediately respond, her face fell. “Thou shalt not choose but go: do not deny. Beshrew his soul for me, he started one poor heart of mine in thee.”

Still not able to find words, Sebastian could only nod, hoping by following he might get some answers.

As she led him through the orchard to the manor house — manor house! he couldn’t help muttering to himself. “What relish is in this? how runs the stream? Or I am mad, or else this is a dream.” But she looked back and smiled at him. And it was a soft, hopeful smile, so like the one Antonio had given him when first admitting his feelings.

This beautiful woman thought she knew him and cared for him. And he knew, for they had spoken of it, that Antonio would not begrudge him time spent with her. Even if it wasn’t a dream… “Let fancy still my sense in Lethe steep. If it be thus to dream, still let me sleep!”

“Nay, come, I prithee,” she stopped at the door to the manor and pulled him up close. “Would thou’ldst be ruled by me!”

Sebastian licked his lips and looked at this stranger who had thrown herself into danger to protect him. Who somehow cared enough to come between him and her own kinsman. Who looked at him with shining eyes. “Madam,” he said, scarcely believing his own words, “I will.”

“O, say so,” she breathed, “and so be!”

The Bargain (S2, E9)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN season ending, mind fuck

Brit took Mattin to the old hunting cabin he’d turned into a private retreat. He didn’t know who had built it or why. It was too close to the manor to be worthwhile as a rest home for the nobles who owned the land. The huntmaster took the hounds up to it now and again for extra training. Otherwise, it was left empty.

Brit, with Jahlene’s permission, kept the place stocked with food and drink that wouldn’t go bad. It became his hideout when the memories got too bad. He hadn’t needed it in years, but he kept it ready, just in case. And the huntmaster never objected to finding good drink and fresh sheets.

Mattin settled down to drinking easily enough—trying to drown his sorrows if Brit was any judge. Neither of them said anything for the first half hour or so, but when Brit thought the boy had enough drink in him, he started asking questions. The rambling responses took a bit of work to piece together, but he was finally getting some actual information. Soon Brit had a clear picture of what happened. A damn horrifying picture, but a picture. What he couldn’t for the life of him figure out was why. Why had Mattin gone off that way? Why hadn’t Jahlene seen the boy’s pain? What by the Mare’s Blood and God’s Hammer had led her to break every promise she ever made him and use her hoof-damned glamour on the boy?

He really wanted an answer to that question.

Brit took the spirits away when Mattin stopped being able to speak in full sentences. He stuffed a half loaf of bread and a pitcher of water into the boy, got him out to the privy, and tucked him into bed. The boy would need a lot more than a night’s drunk to get through this mess, but damned if he could do anything else right now. He looked around for some way to leave a note but couldn’t find anything. He would have to be back before the boy woke in the morning. Shouldn’t be too hard. Mattin didn’t know how to hold hard liquor. He latched the door behind him and started back to the manor, praying nothing else had blown up in his absence.

~~~

An hour later, the steward was digging for the next set of answers.

The jog back gave Brit too much time to think. He wanted to go straight to Jahlene and find out what, by the Mare, she had been thinking. Damn it, even he could tell Mattin had lashed out from pain, and the girl was supposed to be able to taste emotions! But Brit remembered his responsibilities—even if a certain girl who thought she was too big to be put over his damned knee insisted on forgetting hers. So before he cornered Jahlene, he checked on Jaffrey.

He found the boy well enough, bandaged and resting with Crait and Joth keeping him company. “You’re looking better than I was afraid of.”

Jaffrey shrugged, “It’s… good to have time with her after, but not necessary. Not for me anyway.”

Crait snorted, “Not usually. Today was…”

“Time with the mistress was the last thing I needed after today,” Jaffrey said.

Brit winced. Jahlene would be a long time cleaning up the damage from this day’s work. Jaffrey took a deep breath and looked down at his feet. “If you can cover for Crait and Joth ditching work to sit with me, it would be good.”

“Done,” Brit promised. Relieved to see at least one part of the mess was in hand, he turned to go.

“How is Mattin?” Jaffrey asked.

Brit sighed and shook his head, “Not well. And that was before I poured a dram of uisqe down his throat.”

Crait winced. He’d had a taste of Brit’s special a time or two. “Why?”

“Only way I could think of to get him to open up, and I still don’t understand what set him off.” Brit paced the room as he spoke.

Jaffrey and Crait both laughed. Brit froze, then glared at them. “I don’t suppose either of you would care to share the joke?”

The two japesters tried to stop laughing, but every time they quieted, a glance or a snort would set them off again. Crait got control of himself enough to say. “It’s- Well, normally, it isn’t quite so bloody obvious you were raised among fae.”

Brit looked at Joth and found Joth looking back at him. Joth shrugged. He clearly didn’t understand any more than Brit did.

Brit took a deep breath and reminded himself that neither of them had done anything to deserve a black eye. Another deep breath. A third. “Explain.”

Crait stood, spreading his hands in front of him. “It’s a normal reaction for a human raised by humans. Especially one raised to see fae and glamourhai as evil. Jaffrey and I both went through something similar—though I think, ” he glanced at Jaffrey, “the Mountain Folk handle things a bit differently.”

Jaffrey snorted, “If I hadn’t come from a trading family, I’d have known better, but we spent so much time among you low-landers… Once I convinced myself to talk to someone, the Oracle straightened me out in a hurry.”

Brit shook his head, confused. If anyone knew the fae were evil, it was someone raised by them! What did that have to do with anything?

Crait tried again. “Glamourhai is a fae thing. Humans aren’t supposed to like hurting people. Humans aren’t supposed to like being hurt. A human who is interested in glamourhai is just as much of a monster as the fae.”

Brit’s jaw dropped.

“Enjoying fae pleasures among most humans wouldn’t be seen much differently than a fae using a child for their pleasures. It’s… that level of wrong.”

“Most humans who live around here,” Jaffrey put in. “The further you get from fae-controlled land, the more different things are from what any of you are used to.”

“Oh.” He needed to start picking Parlen’s brain. Life for humans outside the fae manors was even stranger than he’d thought. Hadn’t these boys heard of King Garel? Or the God’s ride on the Bloody Mare? He shoved the confusion aside. What he understood now threw the afternoon in a whole new light. And raised new questions. “But you came here anyway?”

“I had it easier.” Jaffrey met Brit’s eyes with a challenging look. “With the mistress wanting something from the Folk, I didn’t need to worry as much that she would be like most fae.” Brit nodded, understanding what Jaffrey couldn’t say—the Mountain Folk had their own reasons for wanting him here. The boy grinned and shrugged, “Plus, the warrior families… they call it—the desire for pain—the Mare’s Blessing. They took me in hand once I stopped hiding everything. By the time I came here, I knew there was nothing wrong with me.”

“It was a real risk,” Crait said, staring off into the distance. “I didn’t have the… support Jaffrey had. What if the mistress wasn’t different? What if the rumors were wrong? And even if they weren’t, did I want to do this? To be this crazy person? Give up everything in my life for this perversion? When my father found out, he disowned me. So I came here.”

Brit was stunned. He’d spent a lot of time with Jaffrey and Crait. Trained them the same as he’d trained Mattin and, hell, most of the household. “I never knew.”

Joth reached out and put a hand on Crait’s shoulder.

“Here, it was normal.” After all these years, Crait’s voice still held a hint of wonder, “That was the strange thing. Suddenly this horrible secret is out in the open, and no one cared.”

He turned to Joth. “Strangest thing in my life was watching you walk up to the mistress and say you wanted glamourhai the moment you were old enough. Like it was the most reasonable thing in the world.”

“But you and Jaffrey never broke the way Mattin is.” Brit started pacing again.

Crait and Jaffrey exchanged glances, “Not here, no. I came… Well, if I hadn’t heard of the mistress from a passing trader, I don’t know what I would have done when my father disowned me.”

Jaffrey held up his wrist. The scar was invisible from a distance, but Brit knew it was there now. How had he not noticed before?

“I nearly killed myself before I could admit my feelings to the Oracles. One way or another, Crait and I wouldn’t be here if we hadn’t already been through what he’s doing to himself and come out alive and heart-whole.”

Brit felt himself freeze. He’d seen Jaffrey’s scar, recognized how scared the boy had been, but hadn’t understood the fear. The thought of Mattin spending a night alone was suddenly a lot less reassuring.

“And Mattin?”

Jaffrey nodded, “I was worried. If… well, he’s not me, and you were able to find him.” He swallowed. “Is… will he be back?”

“I hope so.” Brit headed for the door. “I need to find the mistress. Thank you. You’ve helped a lot.”

He pretended he didn’t hear the murmur as the door closed behind him, “Yeah, find her and pound some sense into her.”

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The Bargain S2 E10

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The Bargain S2 E8

What You Will: A Queer-er Shakespeare (S2, E8)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

The ebook version of First Came Trust is now available. Grab a copy for yourself of pick up a last minute gift for friends or family. It’s available at most major etailers for 99c. Get it now

Season Content Notes: Revenge plot, violence, boundary violations, sexual harassment

“Put up your sword.”

(Here, we will hear the story as Antonio saw it, for this moment is more of his tale than Cesario’s.)

Antonio had been concerned when Sebastian did not meet him at the Elephant as planned. So he had gone looking. He didn’t know what he had expected, but it definitely hadn’t been to finally see Sebastian on the wrong side of a walled orchard, surrounded by three strangers across drawn swords.

Antonio didn’t stop to think, he hopped the wall and ran to stand between his young lover and danger.

He took the strange look Sebastian gave him as surprise that Antonio was not waiting at the inn, and extended what he hoped was a calming hand toward the strangers. “If this young gentleman have done offence, I take the fault on me. If you offend him, I for him defy you.”

If it hurt Antonio that Ces– ahem, that is Sebastian, stepped away from him, not trusting his protection, Antonio did not show it. For all the time he and Sebastian had spent together, none had been in swordplay, and few sailors are known for their skill with a blade.

But Antonio’s focus was as sharp as his blade on the man he took to be the leader of this assault. That man, finely dressed but with the eye of one who has seen death many times, glared at Antonio. The man put his hand on sword hilt and demanded, “You, sir! why, what are you?”

Knowing that his appearance and low status would not impress such a high-ranking man, Antonio said only, “One, sir, that for his love dares yet do more than you have heard him brag to you he will.”

“Nay, if you be an undertaker,” the stranger snarled, drawing his sword, “I am for you.”

Antonio carried no sword, but Sebastian did, and Antonio reached out quickly to take it from him. Despite the strangeness with which Sebastian continued to view him, he gave Antonio the sword willingly and backed up out of range of the brewing duel.

It was at this time that several officers of the watch came down the road, looking closely around them.

“O good Sir Toby, hold!” the man dressed as a servant cried, pulling Antonio’s opponent away before they could even cross blades, “here come the officers.”

Then it was briefly chaos with all speaking at once.

This ‘Sir Toby’ growled at Antonio, saying, “I’ll be with you anon.”

Sebastian begged the other strange man to put up his sword. The man replied with some nonsense about his horse to Sebastian’s clear confusion.

And one of the officers pointed at Antonio, saying, “This is the man; do thy office.”

Antonio’s heart sank as the second officer pulled out metal handcuffs. “Antonio, I arrest thee at the suit of Count Orsino.”

Giving the sword back to Sebastian, lest he be thought resisting, Antonio said quickly, “You do mistake me, sir.”

“No, sir, no jot,” the first officer scoffed. “I know your favour well, though now you have no sea-cap on your head. Take him away: he knows I know him well.”

“I must obey.” Antonio swallowed and turned to Sebastian. “This comes with seeking you: but there’s no remedy; I shall answer it.” Sebastian looked at him wide-eyed, like a new sailor at first sight of the deep ocean. It pained Antonio more than he thought possible, but he had to ask, “What will you do, now my necessity makes me to ask you for my purse?” He held out his hands, but Sebastian didn’t reply, took a step back even. Was it shock that made him act so strangely? “It grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you than what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort.”

“Come, sir, away,” the officers urged, but Antonio shrugged them off. He didn’t care anymore that they might say he resisted them. Didn’t even really care about the money. But Sebastian — Sebastian! — for whom Antonio had given up so much, whose feet he would have willingly knelt at for only the pleasure of his company, who he had given life and hope and love to…

“I must entreat of you some of that money.”

But Sebastian shook his head and answered in a baffled tone, “What money, sir?”

Antonio’s eyes flew wide at the pain of that blow.

“For the fair kindness you have show’d me here,” Sebastian continued, as if Antonio no more than a stranger, “I’ll lend you something: my having is not much; I’ll make division of my present with you.” He reached into his pocket and held out a pittance, saying, “Hold, there’s half my coffer.”

“Will you deny me now?” Antonio snarled, sudden anger being the only thing that held back the tears burning behind his eyes. “Is’t possible that my deserts to you can lack persuasion? Do not tempt my misery, lest that it make me so unsound a man as to upbraid you with those kindnesses that I have done for you.”

As hurt and angry, and yes, scared as Antonion was, nothing could have prepared him for what came next. For Sebastian, who only hours ago had greeted him with words of love and welcome, now dismissed all that gone between them.

“I know of none,” he said, and Antonio’s kneels nearly buckled at that heart-strike. “Nor know I you by voice or any feature.”

“O heavens themselves!” Antonio cried, finally unable to keep the tears from falling.

The second officer, with surprising gentleness, put a hand on Antonio’s shoulder, “Come, sir, I pray you, go.”

With his hands bound behind him, Antonio was unable to wipe the tears from his cheeks, so he let them fall. “Let me speak a little,” he pleaded. “This youth that you see here, I snatch’d one half out of the jaws of death, relieved him with such sanctity of love, and to his image did I devotion.”

“What’s that to us?” The first officer demanded, “The time goes by: away!”

Barely hearing him, Antonio spat on the ground at Sebastian’s feet. “But O how vile an idol proves this god! Thou hast, Sebastian, done good feature shame.” And it brought him spiteful pleasure to see Sebastian finally react without something other than put-on bewilderment. The villain winced as if Antonio had slapped him, as Antonio wished he could. But if words were all he had to express his pain then he would use them. “In nature there’s no blemish but the mind; none can be call’d deform’d but the unkind.”

Exasperated, the first officer shoved the second aside, saying, “The man grows mad: away with him! Come, come, sir.”

With a final curse, Antonio turned to follow them. He left behind the shattered remains of his heart and the one he had thought to devote his life.

Unknown to Antonio, ‘Sebastian,’ still in shock, followed the officers and their charge a short way down the road.

For this Sebastian, of course, was Cesario. The two brothers did indeed look enough alike to fool even Antonio for a short period, and Sebastian was at that time a distance from that place.

In all Cesario’s confusion at the events just past, one thing had struck him most clearly: “He named Sebastian.” Cesario did not doubt that Antonio — whose name Cesario still did not know — had spoken truth. His passion, his pain, had been all too clear. But… Cesario was not Sebastian, yet Cesario’s look, from how he cut his hair, to the clothes, and even the expressions he often wore… He had styled after those of his lost brother. The brother who should have been dead, but this stranger had spoken of saving his life… “O, if it prove, tempests are kind and salt waves fresh in love.”

Cesario had to speak with the Duke. If there was any truth to this, Orsino would help him find it. And it was the Duke who sent the officers, so only he could get Cesario audience with the stranger.

Mind made up, Cesario (with no thought to Countess Olivia’s people who had ambushed him so short a time ago) turned and strode quickly down the road to home.

Behind him, Sir Toby had seen a chance for further mischief and, more, had taken Cesario at a severe dislike for the shameful actions he had just witnessed.

“A very dishonest paltry boy,” that worthy growled, “and more a coward than a hare. His dishonesty appears in leaving his friend here in necessity and denying him, and for his cowardship, ask Fabian.”

Fabian, of course, knew a cue when he heard it and chimed in, “A coward, a most devout coward, religious in it.”

As predictably as Fabian, though with less self-awareness, Sir Anthony jumped for the bait, “‘Slid, I’ll after him again and beat him.”

“Do,” Sir Toby encouraged, “cuff him soundly, but never draw thy sword.”

“An I do not,–” Sir Andrew started down the road after the now-vanished Cesario.

Chortling, Fabian and Sir Toby followed behind to see what sport followed.

“I dare lay any money ’twill be nothing yet.” Sir Toby confided to Fabian, washing his hands with glee.

The Bargain (S2, E8)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Bound by His Oath is 50% off on Smashwords now through Jan 1. If you missed it last summer, go pick it up now.

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN season ending, mind fuck

Mattin stood by the door of the glamourhame and watched the lady play with Jaffrey. It wasn’t the second time he had been there, or the fifth. Each time had been a little bit easier. And a little bit more disturbing.

This had been a long session. The longest Mattin had witnessed. He swayed on his feet, and fought to keep his thoughts under control. When did he stop finding the lady’s hunger terrifying and start finding it… entrancing? God and Mare, he was disgusting.

Jaffrey got down from the cross, covered in sweat and blood, stinking of pain and arousal. Mattin had a nearly overwhelming desire to throw himself at her feet and beg her to let him serve her as Jaffrey did. What demon was she to do this to him?

Jahlene was flushed and breathing hard; her body glistened with sweat—she was beautiful. Mattin wanted, more than he would have imagined possible, to have her look at him with that hunger—and know he would be the one to sate it.

A sound, a moan, escaped his throat, drawing Jahlene’s attention.

She looked him up and down, and saw… he didn’t know what she saw. But she strode up to him, grabbed his hair, pulled his head down, and kissed him. Hard.

Stunned, overwhelmed, he wanted nothing more than to melt for her.

Horror and revulsion welled up. He shoved her away, tripping over his own feet in his desperation to get away.

She approached him cautiously, eyes narrowed, “Mattin, are you alright? I thought-”

“Alright?” his voice was a squeak, “This… it’s… it’s disgusting. It’s monstrous. You torture people, and they…” he turned on Jaffrey, “How can you do this? How can you let yourself be used as a- a toy, to be hurt and broken for no reason other than someone’s degenerate pleasure? How can you want this!”

Jahlene slapped him.

It shocked him back into control of himself. Tears poured down his cheeks. He fell to his knees. Tried to gather his wits, to babble out an apology.

“Be silent.” Her voice sliced like a knife. “Jaffrey, please wait for me outside.”

Jaffrey shook his head, “Mistress, I need—”

“I’ll be with you shortly, love. I know you need care. Please wait outside.”

“Mistress, you—”

“Now, Jaffrey.” A long moment of silence and then footsteps walked past him, the door opened and closed. It was a relief. Whatever happened now, at least no one else would witness it.

“Stand up.”

Without even thinking, Mattin found himself on his feet. Her voice took over his thoughts, his will. When he raised his eyes to look at her, she was overwhelming. She filled his vision, perfection given form. She was magnificent. And he had failed her. He wanted to beg her forgiveness, to grovel at her feet. She did not allow it.

She reached up and ripped his collar from his neck. The leather pulled away so easily. Like cobwebs.

“You are not mine. Get out.”

His hands grasped uselessly, and tears poured down his cheeks. And his feet turned and led him from her presence. He walked in a womb of cotton, forced on by her will. Somewhere nearby, he heard voices. Something that might have been his name. It didn’t matter. He had to leave. His feet carried him down the hall and out the door. He kept going until he was out of sight of the manor.

His body returned to his control. He lowered himself to the ground and buried his head in his hands.

~~~

Brit was coming in from the stables when he saw Mattin walking down the hall. One look at his face, at the way he moved, and Brit felt the pulse start pounding in his head. The betrayal hurt more than he’d ever imagined. He swallowed the fury down and fought to maintain control of himself. He had to help Mattin before he could seek out Jahlene and give in to the anger.

As he forced the rage under control, he became aware of Jaffrey: naked, bleeding, and a disgusting mess, trailing after Mattin, trying to get his friend’s attention.

“Jaffrey?”

“Mattin!” Jaffrey called again.

Brit put a hand on Jaffrey’s shoulder, stopping him. “He can’t hear you, lad. She glamoured him.” Rage tried to flare as he spoke the betrayal out loud. He held onto an icy calm, praying the facade would hold up. “Tell me what happened.”

“He needs help. He’s breaking and he doesn’t understand.” Jaffrey turned to Brit. “Please, just…”

Brit growled. He didn’t like Jaffrey, didn’t trust him, but the boy deserved better than this. He needed help too, and Brit didn’t know which way to go. Motion caught his eye: Jaffrey was rubbing his wrist. Over and over and over. That motion… Brit grabbed Jaffrey’s hand and saw for the first time the scar, running from his wrist up his forearm. The boy had tried to kill himself. When?

“Damn it Brit, he can’t be alone right now. Let me go!”

Jaffrey had once tried to kill himself. Now he was terrified of Mattin being left alone. The blood drained from Brit’s face. “Get a hold of yourself. I’ll go after him. But you need help too. Go back to the…” He trailed off. No, the boy couldn’t go back to the glamourhame and Jahlene. Not when that treacherous bitch…

Jaffrey’s words echoed his own thoughts. “I can’t go to her, I can’t… I—I’ll get help! Crait and Joth… I’ll be alright. Just, please, go!”

Brit didn’t wait any longer. He ran. Running through the door, he yelled to the guard, “Tell Parlen to get to the mistress and stay with her ‘til I come back!” He didn’t wait for an answer. Parlen had survived Erebeth. Even at her worst, she could deal with Jahlene and keep everyone else away from her. His heart broke a little more, that he needed to think such a thing. But…

Thank the Mare, he found Mattin not far off, sitting in the middle of the roadway. Which was… not nearly as bad as he had feared. Mattin looked up when Brit stopped beside him. The boy wasn’t wearing his collar. In a dizzying sensation the world dropped out from under Brit, even as the pain in his heart eased. Whatever else came of this mess, Jahlene had kept the letter of her word. The letter, but not the spirit. Fucking fae.

Feeling like a shaky old man, he sat down next to Mattin and forced himself to focus.

“Care to tell me what the hell happened?”

Mattin swallowed and rubbed at his throat. “Does it matter? I… I’m not your trainee anymore… Not anything anymore.”

Brit cuffed the back of his head. The glare he got in return was… pitiful. “Boy, whatever is going on, I will, by the Bloody Mare, be the one stuck cleaning it up. And I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me.”

The boy hunched in on himself, “I screwed up. I lost control, forgot every damned thing you taught me. Failed Marta, failed the lady… Jaffrey…”

“Is fine.” Brit cut him off. “He is upset with Jahlene and tending to himself. I will deal with that when I get some sense out of you.” Brit was about ready to strangle the boy if it would get him some kind of straight answer. Unfortunately, when he strangled people, they stopped being able to talk. Not helpful.

He tried a few more times to get a coherent tale from the boy but didn’t have much success. Not knowing what else to do, he stood up and pulled Mattin to his feet. “Sitting in the road isn’t doing either of us any good. Let’s get somewhere private.” Somewhere he could pour enough uisqe bache into Mattin to pry open his fool mouth and get some information.

Continue to:
The Bargain S2 E9

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The Bargain S2 E7

The Bargain (S2, E7)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN ending, mind fuck

Nothing further was said about how Mattin addressed the lady, though he still thought about that night—and all its revelations. He had an established routine now—early in the morning, he snuck into the kitchen to help Cook with the baking. Then he spent a brief hour with Brit, learning more of the high protocol needed for Court. The rest of the day was devoted to the lady.

In theory, his every thought throughout the day should be focused on making her day easier. In reality, he might spend a day doing nothing while the lady worked on the household budget or tax records—or he might run all over the manor: checking supplies, dealing with problems, or carrying messages. When she left the manor he accompanied her. And at night, he helped her get ready for bed.

~~~

Halfway through his second month at the manor, they went out to inspect a new coal mine. Usually, Jahlene took her carriage, but this time they rode. It was Mattin’s first time on a horse, and he did not enjoy the experience. By the time they reached the mine, he couldn’t feel his legs—or anything between them.

The trail wound through the mountains, and it was clear why they rode—a carriage would never manage the rough mountain track. The mine was little more than a hole in the ground, a few hundred yards away from a deep stream. The mine manager and workers stayed in tents clustered around the mine, as did the dozen donkeys that played a crucial part in the mining.

Mattin had nothing to do but follow Jahlene around. Partly out of boredom, he kept his eyes and ears open. A great deal went on at the mine, even above ground. But what he noticed instead was how the miners reacted to him. Glancing at him out of the corner of their eyes. Muttered comments cut off as Jahlene approached with him in tow. He tried to convince himself they were reacting to the presence of the fae but… for the first time in days, his collar chafed at his throat.

It was pity he saw in their eyes, Mattin realized. He lived in a manor, never went hungry, had people he liked and cared for around him… And these men—who lived in tents, ate whatever could be barged up from town, and spent their lives digging rock from the ground—these men pitied him. Because they had something he never would again.

They had their freedom.

The ride home—yes, he realized, he did think of the manor as home—was long. The pity of those men ate at him, angered him. And he had far too much time to think—even with the damned saddle sores developing on his arse.

“Mattin, is everything alright?”

“You mean aside from the chafing, Lady? Bouncing around on top of the carriage is not nearly as bad as bouncing around on top of this horse!”

She laughed. “What did you think of Goodman Wrotty?”

Mattin called up his recollections of the mine manager. “He’s a hard man, Lady. He’ll drive his people, but I think he’ll push himself just as hard.”

“And the miners?”

He answered as best he could—and she asked several more questions—until he felt like she had wrung from him every observation about the day. Finally, she nodded, “Please write down your thoughts when we get back. I’d like to have them to refer to in the future.”

Startled, he lost time with the horse’s movements and almost fell from the saddle. “Yes, Lady,” he said, as he regained his balance, “I’m glad you find my thoughts helpful.”

She flashed a grin at him, “You are, aren’t you? Good. But you aren’t telling me something.”

“Lady?”

“I try not to push Mattin and to leave you some privacy, but something upset you. I need to know what.”

“Ah.” He grimaced, “Is that a command, Lady?” Damn it, couldn’t she at least leave him his thoughts? Must he give her everything? And this… already his resentment and fear hurt her. He didn’t want to hurt her more. Why couldn’t she leave well enough alone?

“I was going for subtle request, but if I have to make it a command, I will.”

“I didn’t want to… disturb you, Lady.”

“It’s hardly disturbing me when I’m asking.”

The phrasing tickled his humor. “But you haven’t asked,” he said with a grin.

She raised a fist in mock threat. Then her eyes narrowed. “Mattin, as much as I enjoy your teasing, you’re stalling. Tell me, now.”

He looked down, rubbing at his collar. The lady rarely commanded outright—that she did now meant he had pushed her far as he could. So, thinking about the words as little as possible, he told her. “Some of the miners… seemed as if they pitied me.”

“I see,” the humor was gone from her voice. When Mattin glanced over at her, she sat stiffly, her face a mask.

“Lady, I—”

“Spare me.”

Mattin bit his tongue, and they rode in silence again, but words pressed against his teeth. Finally, he burst out, “No. You wanted to know what was bothering me, you wanted to I know my feelings, and by the Mare, I’ll tell you!”

She pulled up her horse and opened her mouth. Mattin rushed to speak, rolling right over her.

“I’m angry, Lady. I’m angry at them. Why, by the Mare, should they pity me? This may not be the life I want, but it’s a good life with good people. And it’s the life I chose. They had no right to look at me that way, and… and I wouldn’t trade places with them if someone paid me to! And Mare’s Bridle, Lady, I care about you. I didn’t want to, but I do. Will you please stop thinking that every time I’m upset, it’s about you!” He stopped and took a deep, shuddering breath. She stared at him, the mask fading from her features. “I don’t think I can ever be what you want, Lady. But I’m starting to wish I could. And I hate knowing that I’m hurting you.” He hadn’t realized, hadn’t even admitted to himself, how strongly he felt. But it fit. It was right. And by the Mare’s Blood, it was good to say it.

The lady edged her horse next to his, then reached out and rested a hand on his cheek. She was so solemn, he didn’t know what to think. But it was the first time she had touched him… just… touched him. As nervous as if he approached a scared and cornered animal, he reached up and put his hand against hers.

“Maybe you are right, Mattin. But you’ve still given me more than I expected.”

Neither of them said anything for a long moment. Before Mattin could feel uncomfortable or awkward, she pulled her hand away with a laugh and kicked her horse into a run. Over her shoulder, she called, “Race you to the next hill.”

Cursing, he grabbed on tight as his horse ran after her. The forgotten guards clattered along behind.

~~~

Jahlene reined in her horse a half mile out from the manor. A tension Mattin hadn’t noticed flowed out of her shoulders and she sat for a moment.

“Lady?”

“It’s always good when I can taste home again.” She smiled at him and nudged her mare into a walk. “If I try, I can pick up the flavor of home from farther out. When I come back from court each year, I can sometimes taste Brit as far away as the bridge we passed. But usually, it’s right about here.”

“I didn’t realize you could… taste… from such a distance.” Mattin shifted in the saddle. He’d known his feelings were open to her—and how often they hurt her. But… he’d assumed she “tasted” people physically close to her. How did she live like that? Constantly aware of the emotions of everyone for miles around?

How much had she felt from him when he wasn’t around her? Couldn’t he go anywhere he wouldn’t hurt her? Where he could feel without feeling guilty?

Her smile faded, and he cursed himself for his lack of self-control.

“I thought you knew about glamour.”

He nodded, “Yes, Lady. I wasn’t aware it reached so far.”

“For most fae, it doesn’t. But if I didn’t have strong glamour I wouldn’t be a countess.” She spoke so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that Mattin almost missed the real meaning behind her words.

“Do you mean…you become a noble because of glamour?”

“Something like that, though politics and family are mixed in as well. The Emperor is supposed to be the fae with the strongest glamour, but it doesn’t always work that way.”

By mutual agreement, they spent the rest of the ride discussing how a fae achieved nobility. Mattin welcomed the distraction from his worsening saddle sores.

However, as they reached the stables and dismounted, Jahlene said, “Brit keeps a cabin in the woods, far enough out I can’t taste him, even if I try. Speak with him if you wish to use it.”

“Yes, Lady.” The whole thing got pushed out of his mind as he minced his way back to the manor, his thighs and buttocks protesting with every step.

Continue to:
The Bargain S2 E8

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The Bargain S2 E1
The Bargain S2 E6

The Bargain (S2, E6)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content notes: con noncon*, pain play, sexual contact, trauma reactions, verbal assault, mind control, reference to suicide attempt, coming to terms with kink (badly), avoidance as coping strategy, unintentional emotional harm, NOT a HFN ending, mind fuck

Mattin slept poorly that night. His dreams included the lady’s wistful voice, Brit’s hand on his shoulder, and flashes of things he couldn’t see clearly. Things he didn’t want to remember. He woke up early and decided to visit the bathing room before heading to the kitchen.

He was surprised to find the washroom already lit and the boiler going. Cook sat on a bench next to the water heater. He had a blackened eye and a gash across his cheek—and that was just his face. At the sound of the door closing, the half-fae opened his eyes.

“Good morning, lad. Though to be honest, I’m not sure how good it is.”

Mattin blinked “Should you be in the infirmary?”

The other shrugged, then winced. “I’ll admit a poultice or two would be good, but going to the infirmary would cause other problems. Worse problems than these,” Cook gestured to his face, “will already cause.”

Mattin scratched his head. “No riddles this morning, Cook, please! How could getting help cause problems? I mean, wouldn’t the lady be annoyed if you need help and don’t get it?”

Cook snorted, “Lady Jahlene is already annoyed if I judge things a-right.” He held a hand close to the broiler and nodded. “Just warm enough.” He stood up with a groan and filled a bucket, dumping it over his head before grabbing the soap to start washing. “There has been an unspoken rule between Brit and I—however badly we fight, we don’t injure each other so others can notice. Getting hit in the face is bad enough, but if I go to the infirmary, I’ll be saying he went too far. As… volatile as tempers are right now, I’d rather like to avoid that.”

Shaking his head, Mattin stripped and filled a bucket with hot water. He had too much to try and figure out from last night already; he didn’t need to break his head anymore figuring out Brit and Cook. Unless… Mare, Brit was probably angry with Parlen for trying to mess with the lady. Like Cook had said, it wasn’t always about him.

The hot water and soap banished the last echoes of his dreams, leaving him awake and almost ready to face the day. Washing under and around the collar took extra time, but he was growing used to it.

Cook finished rinsing off and stepped out to get dressed. Mattin followed him a few minutes later.

Once dressed, they walked down to the kitchen together. The long rising dough, set out the night before, was ready to be beaten down and shaped into loaves. Mattin beat the risen dough while Cook mixed the dough for the rest of the day’s bread. After a few minutes, Cook said, “Brit was… rather less informative than usual. Care to tell me why I’m feeling like ground meat this morning?”

Mattin wiped hair out of his face with one flour-covered hand. “You know, I should have waited and taken a bath after dealing with the baking.”

“You figured that out now, lad?”

Shaking his head, Mattin went back to pounding on the risen dough. Cook said nothing, giving him time. A few minutes later, Mattin had three loaves set for their second rising and was flouring the table for another batch. “Last night, Parlen said I can’t use ‘lady’ at court. Brit and… and the lady said they had been waiting to say anything to me.” He took a breath. “It… was a strange conversation. Brit was really upset, and the lady was…” he bit his lip, not sure he should tell anyone about the strange conversation in the lady’s bath. “She mentioned asking you about other protocols.”

Cook shook his head. “Well, Jahlene will put her in her place soon enough—if she hasn’t already.” He paused but continued when Mattin didn’t say anything. “There are some other titles, some ways to avoid the issue. Easiest,” he gave Mattin a sympathetic look, “easiest would be to start calling her ‘Mistress’ if you can.”

“I could make myself say it, and I said so, but…” Mattin sighed. “Damn it, why does everything have to be so hard!”

Cook shook his head again, “Because she’s an idealistic young lass, and you’re a scared young buck. You want my suggestion, lad?”

Mattin spent a minute pounding at the dough, getting out his frustration—and fear. “Yeah, Cook.”

“Practice calling her ‘Mistress’ in private. It’ll mean a lot to her and won’t harm you to get used to the word. And trust Brit and Jahlene to tell you what you need to know for court.”

They worked in silence until Toerff appeared to start preparing breakfast. Mattin went to report to Brit for the day’s training. And he thought about Cook’s suggestion.

~~~

That morning, Jahlene’s attempt to organize her day was interrupted by a knock on the door. “Come in,” she called, expecting (and dreading) Parlen with the day’s messages. Instead, Brit walked in with Mattin in tow.

Jahlene braced herself for more trouble, but Brit only said, “I need to ride down to the pensioner’s cottages. They’ve a few problems that need sorting out. The boy’s never been on a horse and won’t learn anything useful down there.”

If Jahlene needed to worry about anything, Brit would have said so. “I don’t need him this morning. If you have studying for him to do, he can work in the corner and be on hand if anything comes up.” In a way, she was relieved. Mattin’s usual stew of resentment and fear were muted today, behind a general wash of concern. The idea of not being alone when Parlen came in settled her nerves. “I planned on riding down to the Home Farms after lunch.”

Brit grunted at the unspoken question, “He’ll need to learn to ride eventually. If you want him along, tell Gwende to give him an easy mount.”

“I’ll think about it.”

A few minutes later, Mattin had a map of the Emperor’s palace to memorize and was doing a good job of disappearing into the corner. Jahlene was pleased to see his emotions muted further when he focused on his studies. She was able to start work on the budget without distractions.

When Parlen finally entered, she was preceded by a wave of fear that ripped at Jahlene’s heart. Cringing inwardly, Jahlene kept her eyes on the figures in front of her. Parlen would settle at her desk, and they would continue with the day as if nothing had happened. As if Jahlene could not taste the fear underlying everything Parlen would say or do.

But Parlen didn’t go to her desk. She crossed the room and knelt beside Jahlene’s chair. “Mistress.”

Jahlene looked up, bracing herself to deal with whatever protestation Parlen would offer. Her jaw dropped. Around Parlen’s neck twisted a golden rope. She had, Jahlene realized, made a rope with her own hair. Without thinking, Jahlene grabbed the end, pulling the noose tight around Parlen’s neck. “This… is unexpected.” The scene the night before and her vicious words played through her mind. What did this mean?

“Mistress,” Parlen took a deep breath, “You are right, I am a manipulative woman, but I’m also not entirely crazy. I promise you, I have learned my lesson. And if you ever do feel the need to hang me by my own hair, I am sure I will have earned it.”

Jahlene couldn’t speak. Parlen’s fear grew every moment. Fear, Jahlene realized, not of her, but of…rejection? She touched Parlen’s cheek and felt the woman’s jaw trembled under her hand.

Finally, Jahlene found her voice. “It would appear I didn’t scare you quite as thoroughly as I thought.”

Parlen laughed. It had a strained sound. The fear broke, and Jahlene tasted cool relief flooding through her. “Oh, you scared me, Mistress. But later, I thought about why you scared me. If being scared out of my wits for a few minutes is the worst to come from my foolishness, then I am lucky beyond words. As Brit might say, you are /my/ mistress, and I won’t forget again.”

Her hand came up to rest against Jahlene’s. They remained that way for a long moment.

~~~

Mattin stood quietly in the corner, trying to think. He was supposed to be studying the latest assignment from Brit, learning the layout of the Emperor’s palace. Instead, he couldn’t take his eyes away from the… scene between the lady and Parlen.

He had grown used to Parlen. He still didn’t understand her insistence that she was a woman, despite being born a boy. But ultimately, if she wanted to call herself a dancing toad, it was her business—hers and Jahlene’s. So he didn’t take any more notice her dress than he did with any woman he knew—if he could name the color of her outfit, it was a good day. But the hair noose definitely caught his eye. At first, he thought it was just some new strangeness, but Parlen had gone to kneel beside Jahlene…

They spoke so quietly Mattin barely heard the murmur of their voices. What he saw was enough. The rope was a symbol–or maybe an offering. Something to try and put right Parlen’s mistake.

Watching them, Mattin ached with envy. Whatever the lady had feared the night before, Parlen’s feelings were clear. She loved her mistress.

Mattin tugged at his collar. How could he want that so badly? How could he love a female who claimed him as a possession? And yet… Jahlene clearly loved Parlen as much as Parlen loved her. Could she ever love Mattin? Did he want her to? Did he want to have her as his mistress?

He didn’t find any answers that day, but he did manage to memorize the public areas of the palace.

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The Bargain S2 E7

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What You Will: A Queer-er Shakespeare (S2, E7)

Jess MahlerLeave a comment

Season Content Notes: Revenge plot, violence, boundary violations, sexual harassment

Who is to say what Cesario’s thoughts were as he walked down the drive and away from the countess’ manor? One can speculate, of course. Perhaps he was reflecting on his conversation with the countess or what further entreaties he might make on his lord to give up this futile ‘courtship’.

Whatever his thoughts were, they were disrupted by the sudden appearance of Sir Toby blocking his path.

Many misunderstand Sir Toby, thinking him a comical fellow. Which, indeed, he can be in his cups. But like many, Sir Toby is not a drunkard for love of drinks. Sir Toby is a drunkard for love of what drink gives him — forgetfulness. There is another side to Sir Toby, one seen rarely these days. He is not a nice man, Sir Toby. Few who survive what he has may be termed ‘nice’. Yet he can be, when he chooses, a very impressive man.

It was a different Sir Toby than we have seen thus far who confronted young Cesario on that tree-lined drive. Anyone who has seen that Sir Toby would understand immediately why Cesario — who on their first meeting had confronted the man and demanded to be allowed to speak with the countess — immediately stopped and glanced around for some refuge.

“Gentleman, God save thee.” Sir Toby’s greeting was more harsh than warm, but it met the forms, and Cesario felt constrained to reply.

“And you, sir.”

“That defence thou hast,” Sir Toby began, stepped forward to loom over Cesario, “betake thee to’t: of what nature the wrongs are thou hast done him, I know not. But thy intercepter, full of despite, bloody as the hunter, attends thee at the orchard-end.” When Cesario only stood staring at him, Sir Toby stepped forward again, forcing the youth back. “Dismount thy tuck,” Sir Toby directed, and Cesario scrambled to unsheath his sword lest delay be taken for something else. “Be yare in thy preparation, for thy assailant is quick, skilful and deadly.” With each sentence, Sir Toby forced Cesario back another step.

“You mistake, sir,” Cesario said, trying to remember the proper grip Count Orsino’s fencing master had drilled into him. “I am sure no man hath any quarrel to me: my remembrance is very free and clear from any image of offence done to any man.”

“You’ll find it otherwise, I assure you,” Sir Toby intoned. “Therefore, if you hold your life at any price, betake you to your guard; for your opposite hath in him what youth, strength, skill and wrath can furnish man withal.”

“I pray you, sir, what is he?” Cesario demanded, sure that only some great terror would have sent this man as his second.

“He is a knight, dubbed with unhatched rapier and on carpet consideration; but he is a devil in private brawl. Souls and bodies hath he divorced three.” Cesario did not squeak. He was quite sure of it. He would not swear that he did not whimper. Ignoring him, Sir Toby continued, “His incensement at this moment is so implacable, that satisfaction can be none but by pangs of death and sepulchre. Hob, nob, is his word; give’t or take’t.”

A few moments ago, Cesario had hoped to have many a day before he next needed to speak with the countess. He suddenly rethought that desire. “I will return again into the house and desire some conduct of the lady,” he said, “I am no fighter. I have heard of some kind of men that put quarrels purposely on others, to taste their valour: belike this is a man of that quirk.”

“Sir, no,” Sir Toby grabbed his arm, halting him. “His indignation derives itself out of a very competent injury: therefore, get you on and give him his desire. Back you shall not to the house, unless,” with a sudden motion, Sir Toby dropped Cesario’s arm, lept back, and drew his own sword. “You undertake that with me which with as much safety you might answer him.” Horrified, Cesario stumbled back, tripping over his feet and shaking his head. Sir Toby grinned maliciously. “On then,” he demanded, gesturing into the orchard beside the drive. “Or strip your sword stark naked; for meddle you must, that’s certain, or forswear to wear iron about you.”

Cesario knew nothing of this stranger who was so determined to quarrel with him. He knew well he had no desire to cross swords with Sir Toby in this mood. Seeing no other options, he began to tramp across the orchard as Sir Toby directed.

After a dozen paces, Sir Toby sheathed his sword to Cesario’s great relief. His relief faded when Sir Toby threw an arm across his shoulders. It might have seemed a comradely gesture had it not been so clear he was prepared to haul Cesario bodily at the fainted hesitation. Worse to Cesario’s mind, he had some things to hide which made him leery of close contact with others. He began to walk faster, trying to get a few paces ahead of his interloper. “This is as uncivil as strange,” he said as Sir Toby matched him pace for pace. “I beseech you, do me this courteous office, as to know of the knight what my offense to him is. It is something of my negligence, nothing of my purpose.”

As he finished speaking, they rounded a tree and nearly walked into Fabian, who had been waiting for them.

“I will do so.” Sir Toby said, “Signior Fabian, stay you by this gentleman till my return.”

Sir Toby strode across to the orchard to wear a tall, thin figure could be seen.

Cesario considered trying to run, but it seemed to him that Fabian was quite prepared to chase him down.

Instead, Cesario asked, “Pray you, sir, do you know of this matter?”

“I know the knight is incensed against you,” Fabian replied with a shrug, “even to a mortal arbitrement; but nothing of the circumstance more.”

“I beseech you, what manner of man is he?”

“He is, indeed, sir, the most skilful, bloody and fatal opposite that you could possibly have found in any part of Illyria. Will you walk towards him?”

Cesario shook his head, looking around for some escape.

“I will make your peace with him if I can,” Fabian offered.

After a moment, Cesario nodded. “I shall be much bound to you for’t: I am one that had rather go with sir priest than sir knight. I care not who knows so much of my mettle.”

As Fabian guided Cesario toward their make-shift lists, Sir Toby was… encouraging Sir Andrew.

“Why, man, he’s a very devil; I have not seen such a firago. I had a pass with him, rapier, scabbard and all, and he gives me the stuck in with such a mortal motion, that it is inevitable; and on the answer, he pays you as surely as your feet hit the ground they step on. They say,” here Sir Toby dropped his voice as if to prevent eavesdroppers, though there was no one else to be seen, “he has been fencer to the Shah of Persia!”

Paling, Sir Andrew started backing away. “Pox on’t, I’ll not meddle with him.”

“Ay, but he will not now be pacified: Fabian can scarce hold him yonder.”

And indeed, they could see Fabian arguing with Cesario as they crossed the orchard.

“Plague on’t, an I thought he had been valiant and so cunning in fence, I’ld have seen him damned ere I’ld have challenged him.” Sir Andrew turned to Sir Toby with a sudden thought, ‘Let him let the matter slip, and I’ll give him my horse, grey Capilet.”

“I’ll make the motion,” Sir Toby said, “stand here, make a good show on’t. This shall end without the perdition of souls.”

He signaled Fabian to come trade places with him, muttering to himself, “Marry, I’ll ride your horse as well as I ride you.”

Sir Toby and Fabian between them alternately soothed and threatened until the two were finally facing each other with swords drawn.

Unwilling to stand and wait for the attack, Cesario screwed up his courage and took a wild swing. As he did so, a strange voice cried from the road–

“Put up your sword!”