"Mara, we can’t. You know I wish it could be different." Her shoulders slumped. "It's not that I don't want to. Gods, you know I want to." He tried to reach for her hands, but she pulled further away from him. She sniffled behind her mask of raven black hair. He pushed a lock behind her ear, revealing the tears welling in her beautiful doe eyes.
"You're hateful, Matioch Steele. You're all I want. I don't care if you have a proper last name or not. What does a name mean to me? I'm a merchant's daughter, not a bloody duchess!"
He gathered his shirt from the floor and pushed the rough cotton over his head, ruffling his hair in the process. Soon she would work herself into a rage and begin throwing things. He rubbed the back of his head where she’d caught him the last time. It would be best for both of them if he left quickly.
"I don't understand! I don't understand why you keep doing this to me! Don't you love me?"
Did he love her? He loved her soft curves and the way she looked at him as if he were the only man in the room. He loved that when he stole into her room on chilly nights like tonight, she made him feel important.
Was that love?
He strapped his belt around his waist, securing his dagger and sword, and tossed his worn green cloak over his shoulders.
"I've told you many times, if you marry me, you'll lose all your prospects. Your dowry, your friends, and the protection of your father's name and money. What kind of life is that for you?"
Besides, he couldn’t marry anyone when he had no last name to offer them. The only thing his father taught him about being a husband or father was how not to be there. He’d been broken long ago and wouldn’t wish a life with him on any poor unsuspecting girl. He shook the thought away and offered her a crooked grin, taking one of her hands into his own.
"Come now, will you really let me leave like this?" He raised an expectant eyebrow and her resolve melted away. He pulled her roughly into his arms for a lengthy goodbye kiss.
The night smelled sweet, or maybe it was just the mead thrumming through his veins and Mara's kisses making him warm. A man stumbled heavily from a tavern down the alley, and the roar of laughter and cheers followed him on his journey home. Music and raucous revelry wafted on the breeze as the people celebrated the impending return of magick to the realm. Ever since he was a young lad, his mother told him the old stories. Months of summer without end, crops so plentiful they gave food away, no roaring at night from the mountain beasts. Tomorrow night, they would see it first hand; he would live through an endless summer. But at what cost? By all accounts The Dragon ruled his men through fear and violence. Not much of an improvement from a King who lavished each harsh winter in his seaside palace while his people starved. Even now he felt an unnatural chill to the night air. One that foretold of winter fast approaching.
A harsh winter it would be if it arrived too early and there wasn't enough time to replenish the grain stores at the keep. Mat strode up the cobblestone path through the city proper until the looming monster of Fangorn Keep eclipsed the moon's light. Sometimes, at night, he imagined the sprawling turrets and archways made the talons of a giant beast, slumbering on the side of the mountain. Mat twisted the signet ring around his forefinger, his mood dampened by his nighttime musings. As he approached the gate, he waved to the man atop the battlement. Soon thereafter, the gate raised, clanking in the darkness.
"Oi! Matioch!"
He grinned at the too-scrawny and too-tall silhouette of Finn, a kitchen lad a few winters younger than Mat who made quick work of following him around everywhere he went. Finn's second-hand tunic slid down his shoulder, ill fitted to his thin physique.
"How goes it, Finn?" he asked, clapping the lad on his shoulder as they walked together into the bailey. Finn fidgeted with his hands.
"What's the matter?" Mat asked.
"Nothing I can't handle, truly." He held his head a bit too far to the left, his unruly hair covering his left eye. Gripping the lad by the back of his neck, Mat spun him to reveal the red and purple bruise along his jaw and the socket of his eye. All the warmth and sweetness lingering from his night with Mara evaporated in the darkness.
"Who did this?" Mat’s voice lowered into a deep baritone, belying his worry and anger.
“You have to stop getting so upset about it,” Finn said. The lad shifted his feet, mumbling incoherently beneath his breath in the face of Mat’s stern expression.
Mat found Finn on several occasions sporting bruises that he insisted were the fault of his own clumsiness. Only Finn wore his every emotion clearly on his face, and it was nearly impossible for him to lie.
"I will not repeat myself." Mat squared himself, staring the boy down as he squirmed beneath his imperious gaze. There was one man who Mat suspected could be dishonorable enough to put his hands on the young man. Most of the knights and soldiers garrisoned here would rather cut off their own hands than to dishonor the codes.
"Promise me you'll leave it, Matioch. I can't have you fighting my battles for me. I'll never earn the soldiers’ respect if you keep treating me like a child."
The look in Finn's eyes confirmed Mat’s suspicions. His mind conjured the arrogant face and cold, disdainful eyes of Gareth Black. The man held to no code but his own and made no oath to the kingdom or Lord Callum of Fangorn Keep. Despite Mat’s raging urge to seek justice, Finn's shame and desperation tugged at his conscience. He wrapped a brotherly arm around his friend and pulled him close, rubbing his knuckles into his hair until he made his way back to the kitchens to finish his chores for the night. Mat didn't forget though. No, he ground his teeth and went to bed that night thinking of the ways he would make Gareth pay.
The next morning Mat was still livid. In fact, he spent most of the night tugging at his hair and stewing over the dilemma he found himself in. He promised Finn he wouldn't interfere, but his honor couldn't suffer the man to go unpunished. The memory of Finn’s bruises shook his normally steady hands. He was tired of sitting back and watching as people he cared about suffered.
He tightened the straps of his leather tunic and pulled his gloves on, careful to make sure his gear was secure. His sword couldn't slip today. The familiar whistle of his claymore cutting through the air with practiced grace filled his ears as he marched onto the training ground. Mat smiled as the men ran through practice drills, paired off in sparring matches. Only a few of them bothered to look up at his approach.
The smell of leather and iron in the air, the thud of arrows in soft targets, the clang of swords, each detail of this place was pressed deep into him. It was the closest to home he’s ever felt, and he’d never been allowed to train here, only watch from his place at the forge.
One day, Mat would belong here, training among these men. One day, his skill and honor would earn him a spot beside the second sons of lords and merchants. One day he would train beside knights of the realm. It was all he'd wanted for as long as he could remember. An impossible dream for an ordinary bastard. Mat didn’t know how, but he was going to change that.
Mat remembered his first night at Fangorn. How full of hope he'd been that his position as the blacksmith's apprentice would somehow gain him entry into Lord Callum’s legion. He’d hoped that the other boys could become what he'd always lacked. Comrades. Friends. Family.