Gareth Black made sure that would never happen.
"Gareth!" Mat shouted across the grounds, earning curious stares from men who fell silent at his approach.
Most of the men had the good grace not to mention his low birth, not rubbing the impossibility of a commission in his face. All but Gareth. He made sure no one forgot Mat's place. Least of all, Mat himself. His humors were callous. Though it had been many years ago, Mat could still hear Gareth’s derisive laughter ringing in his ears and boiling his blood. No longer a helpless young boy, Mat became a reputable bladesmith by day and practiced with his wares by night.
Mat wouldn’t allow Gareth to hurt Finn, not while he had the strength to stand between them. Across the way Gareth stood speaking with a Knight, an arrogant tilt of his head, bow in hand. As Mat approached, Gareth’s grey eyes hardened to steel.
"What do you want, bastard?" His bored tone rankled Mat’s nerves. The churning blaze of deep-rooted hatred pulsed in Mat’s very bones. Gareth scoffed, his inky black curls falling into cold and unyielding eyes as he sized up Mat's intention.
"What do you think you're doing with that?" He motioned to the sword in Mat's hand.
"Give him your sword." Mat demanded of a soldier watching them from a few feet away.
Gareth raised a mocking eyebrow, his breathy chuckle a testament to his immediate assumption that Mat was ill equipped to challenge him. Whether or not he could win, Gareth wouldn’t turn Mat down. He never backed away from a challenge; his pride wouldn’t suffer it.
While most of the soldiers had grown close through the years and deployments, Gareth wasn’t close with anyone. Though he’d been old enough to deploy with the others for two winters, at nineteen winters old he’d yet to serve once. At every turn he defied expectations, as capable of lashing out at enemies as comrades. His brand of quiet defiance isolated him from everyone else.
"You do not wish to fight me today, bastard." Gareth grumbled, ill-tempered as usual. Mat noticed something cold glinting in the darkness of his gaze. The memory of the red and purple bruises marring Finn's jaw from the night before pushed any warning firmly from Mat’s mind. He could offer no excuse to justify his dishonorable behavior.
"Today, tomorrow, in the rain or shine, I love to watch you lose, lordling." The insult to his pride had the intended effect. A muscle in Gareth's jaw twitched as he tugged the offered sword from its scabbard, brandishing it recklessly. Something was seriously wrong within him. Gareth was never reckless.
There was a strange intimacy between people who hate each other. They thrummed through you, a discordant note within a song, impossible not to notice. Mat hated Gareth, but he knew the man. This lack of control made warning bells clang in the back of Mat's mind. A stillness came over the training grounds, dulling the normal cacophonous din of weapons clashing.
The soldiers flocked to the two men circling each other like wild mountain beasts. It was as if they’d scented the conflict in the air, palpable enough to taste, stinging and metallic like fresh blood. Gareth’s stride was confident, his footwork impeccable, predatory. There was a rawness to him unlike anything Mat had seen before, and suddenly he lunged.
Mat raised his claymore just in time to meet Gareth's sleek blade before it could come down on his neck. Pushing him back with a grunt, Mat's step faltered. Gareth bared his teeth and struck again, this time aiming for Mat's leg. Again, barely enough time to push him back before there was another strike, and another, and another.
Gareth frenzied, roaring through combinations like a man possessed, rattling Mat's resolve. There was indeed a demon riding Gareth's back, something dark and twisted rearing its ugly head within him. Gareth’s eyes, normally calculating, were glazed in a far-off place. It was as though he didn’t even see Mat before him, and instead he was battling some unknown threat within his own mind. Mat often lost himself this way when training, overcome by his frustration at being unable to change his circumstances.
A hush came over the training grounds, and Mat raged to the beat of his pulse pounding in his ears. There was no doubt in his mind that Gareth meant to vanquish whatever foe Mat was taking the place of. Their ragged breaths mingled. Should Mat falter even once, it would be fatal. Just as doubt crept into his mind, Mat’s ankle rolled beneath him and he fell to his knees.
With an enraged snarl, Gareth leapt on the weakness, his steel flashing. He sliced across Mat's shoulder, drawing blood with a hurried hiss. Mat thrust a parry, but Gareth's boot knocked him on his back. Then the same boot pinned the wrist of his sword arm into the mud, useless. With both hands raised Gareth stood over Mat, his eyes wild and unseeing, ready to drive his steel home.
In that moment, Mat realized he was going to die on his back in the mud. No last name. Nothing to show for his life to this point.
He took a shuddering breath and kept Gareth's gaze, refusing to look away in cowardice. At least he would die quickly, in battle, the way a soldier should. It was all he could ask for, an honorable death. He would not get to see the return of magick to the Kingdom of Aegis. He would never see Mara again, never get the answers he craved about his past. Gareth's nostrils flared as he plunged his sword down.
"What is the meaning of this?" The words boomed like thunder throughout the training grounds, seeming to shake the very soil beneath Mat’s back.
Startled out of his rage, Gareth stopped his sword short. Eyes clearing, he blinked, his body slackening abruptly. The tip of his sword dragged in the mud. Mat curled a disgusted lip at the sight.
They’d crossed a line. It was forbidden for the soldiers to fight outside of a direct command or sparring during training. It was also forbidden for commoners to attack soldiers garrisoned here. In his gold threaded tunic and supple leather boots tracked deep in mud, Lord Callum of Fangorn keep glowered imperiously over the both of them.
"Clean yourselves up and meet me in the Great Hall. Now!" he barked, and they started. Mat scrambled from the ground, fumbling to grasp his claymore and shove it back into his sheath. He tried to wipe the mud away and only succeeded in smearing it further into his tunic. He would have to don his cloak to hide it. Gareth's eyes were fixed on the ground as he gathered himself and straightened his own tunic.
Mat didn't want to ask, but his honor demanded it. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be worthy of a commission. "You alright?" Mat asked as he secured his worn green cloak around his shoulders and noted the sharp nod from the corner of his eye. No further discussion necessary, thank the gods. Gareth was normally the most composed of the entire battalion, too careful to lose control like that. This erratic behavior unnerved Mat more than he wanted to admit.
He wasn’t sure what he expected to happen honestly. Mat had known it was a flogging offense to attack him. Perhaps he thought Gareth wouldn’t risk his reputation. Perhaps Mat just hadn’t cared in the moment.
Now they needed only to deal with the consequences of their actions, the wrath of Lord Callum. Mat had never been asked into the Great Hall, never singled out by the lord. Not in all his years.
Whatever happened next, Mat knew one thing for certain; he was in deep shit.
Chapter Three
The sunset over the bay was the most beautiful Liz had ever seen, perhaps because she knew it would be her last. It set the sky aflame, burning deep into her memory. She wore pearls in her hair and a crown adorned with so many shimmering diamonds it appeared to be made from seawater and starlight itself. Every inch of her porcelain skin had been cleansed and massaged with lavender oil. An extravagant lamb, headed for slaughter.