He was quiet for a while, and it was only knowing how inappropriate it would be to fall asleep on him that kept her from doing so—though she had to pinch her leg twice to ensure it didn’t happen.
“Did you know your mother?” he asked. She had not expected him to question that, and she frowned. She had thought she’d made it clear that their babies were not their own, but perhaps she hadn’t.
“She was a thrall,” she answered with a shrug. “I do not know which one. Children belong to the master, not to the one who births them.”
Olivar stared at her. “You say that so calmly.”
She tilted her head, trying to find the words to properly explain. “Should I not? It is... what is done,” she reminded him. “It is... what is.”
“That does not make it right,” Olivar insisted.
She opened her mouth to remind him that a master was never wrong, but quickly closed it again. Olivar thought it was wrong, clearly. And wasn’t it Olivar’s opinion that should matter to her now?
“Your... your women keep their babies, then?” she asked, still trying to picture a world where such was done. “To nurse and... and raise?”
“Yes,” Olivar stressed, nodding in confirmation. “With fathers to help.” Ness cringed at that. It was difficult not to feel a sense of betrayal at the men who had taken her, regardless of their lack of choice. They were still the ones who inflicted the pain, were still the ones who held her down while she cried. And though she had tried to reason it away, to remind herself that they’d be killed if they didn’t—and they had at least completed the act, which she was not certain she would have been able to if the roles had been reversed—she couldn’t quite forgive them for it.
He must have noticed her look of distaste, for he shook his head. “They are not... not conceived in the manner you endured, Ness,” he persisted. “A woman only agrees to marry a man after he has proven himself a worthy mate. Of good character, able to provide for her and her children.” He smiled a little to himself. “Apparently Alindra has yet to believe Bendan has fully proven himself.”
Ness stared at him in consternation. “Your women... want to mate?”
Olivar cringed a little, but forced himself to smile—a crooked, pained looking thing that made her wish he had not even made the attempt. “They can. And they are not made to when they do not. Not... not like what happened to you.”
She didn’t want to talk about that anymore. She wanted to forget, wanted him to forget. And when she felt the need to yawn she did not hinder it, hoping that perhaps he would see how tired she was and permit her to sleep, to resume their talk when she felt less raw and more collected instead.
He smiled at her and pulled her a little closer to him before releasing her entirely. “I must let you sleep,” he acknowledged. “But I am afraid to. I do not know when you will be this talkative again.”
She blinked up at him tiredly. “I need to learn,” she assured him. “I will begin by learning to ask.”
Olivar nodded, rising from her bed, but not crossing to his own just yet. He opened his mouth, then shut it again, and she resituated herself in her blankets, staring up at him and waiting.
But he never seemed to find the words for he only gave her a sad little smile. “May pleasant dreams find you, Ness,” he murmured softly, going to his own bed.
She heard the shuffling of blankets, and she waited for the quiet hum that came when he fell into sleep. Yet it did not come.
And she was afraid of sleeping herself, afraid of waking him again, but her eyes grew heavy and her blankets were warm, and though she knew it would be terribly rude to fall asleep first...
She did so anyway.
12. Work
Olivar had not been exaggerating about the heat. The fire in the forge was bright, the flames high, and it made the sooty lower room feel like an extension of the hearth. She sweltered, but Olivar seemed to think nothing of it, working the bright, burning metal with ease.
She watched, fascinated, not at all sure of what he was doing, yet she could begin to see a weapon take shape, a blade with a pointed end yielding to Olivar’s strokes with the hammer.
She watched, but the longer she was there, the more she recognised that there was nothing she could help with here. Not that directly related with smithing, at least.
Olivar offered her a pair of gloves, eyeing the forge dubiously as if she would combust simply by being near to it. Apparently they were worn by very young apprentices whose skin had not yet thickened to be able to handle such work, yet even those wanted to slip off her more delicate hands.
She handed them back with a timid smile, and he gave one in turn, though he still looked nervous to have her here with him.
She should offer to return above, not wanting him to feel so uncomfortable—and in truth, the heat alone was beginning to make her think that would be her own preference—but she hadn’t yet given in.
There was one thing she could do, if perhaps only with one hand.
And that was to try conquering the soot.
There would be always be more of it, of course, but that could be said of most anything—a dirtied pan, a dusty table, a rumbling belly. She found a water pump and a bucket, a much larger offering than what was upstairs, and after watching Olivar fill one, she managed on her own, dragging the heavy bucket along with her as she carefully wiped down each surface.
She looked down at her rag ruefully. A single stroke left it almost entirely black, but she did not have many to waste, so she would do what she could.
She could feel Olivar’s attention straying to her often. It was difficult to talk when he worked, the strike of metal against metal a deafening thing that made her ears ring, the smell of wood-smoke and coal burning her nostrils with every breath.
So she worked, and she wiped, and rinsed, and even managed to shove her bucket full of black-water outside. She was rather proud of that, as she didn’t spill even a drop onto the stone floor, pushing it along with her foot since it was difficult to manage with only her one hand.
Her satisfaction dimmed, however when she could not find a surreptitious place to dump out the contents. There was no drain, not like in the basin upstairs, and she eyed the road bemusedly. It wasn’t clean, not exactly—it was a road, after all—but that didn’t mean any neighbours would appreciate her adding filthy water to it either.
“You look lost, Ness,” someone called, and she turned, feeling caught at doing something she wasn’t supposed to. She stepped in front of the bucket, trying to hide it, only to find Bendan approaching with a smile on his face. She did not relax immediately, even though she tried to do so. But her muscles remained tense and she found that she couldn’t, not when she didn’t know his intention. She felt badly for that, especially after what he’d said the night before. He claimed he wasn’t a master and didn’t mean her any harm, but that did not seem enough to convince her deeper doubts.
But she was trying, even if it was difficult.
“What is that?” he asked, coming close and peering behind her body to the partially obscured bucket.
Her shoulders slumped. He didn’t want to punish her, she reminded herself firmly, but old memories made her afraid to give an answer, not certain of his reaction. “I was... I was cleaning,” she confessed as there was no point in hiding it. Her good hand was smeared with black as well, and to try to lie would be to suggest he would be stupid enough to believe it.
“Oh.” Bendan reached down and grabbed the bucket, going around the side of the building. She stared after him but decided that he meant for her to follow and quickened after him. There was a drain, a metal grate obscuring a long, dark hole. Bendan dumped the contents into it, but did not give her the bucket back. “Is Olivar inside?”
She nodded, wondering if he was displeased with what she was doing. He did not seem to be, not exactly, and she tried to tell herself that he wasn’t about to give a report to her keeper of a misdeed. But old thoughts warred with new, and it left her ner
vous as he led her back into the furnace room.
How could a room get so very hot?
It made her want to linger in the doorway, for at least that afforded a cool breeze, and even the heat of the suns was preferable to the fire.
“I found something of yours outside,” Bendan called, his voice a booming thing that made Olivar startle.
He jumped, the hammer giving a clatter slightly off-centre, and he scowled at his brother. “You made me miss!”
Bendan merely laughed, gesturing behind him. “You are letting Ness clean with that hand of hers?”
Olivar looked at the cooling blade a little woefully, and then set it back into the fire to apparently reheat. He wiped his hand on the thick leather apron, finally glancing over at her. “Ness is choosing things to do for herself,” he answered, though there was a touch of uncertainty in his voice. He walked over to her and reached down, and she realised he was inspecting her hands for damage. To her dismay she realised there was a hint of soot on her bandages, despite her efforts to keep that hand away from her tasks.
“I haven’t been using it,” she insisted. “I promise.”
Olivar sighed, patting her good one. “I just do not want you to hurt yourself further. That is all. You should be free to work, but only if that is what you want to be doing. You understand?”
She bit her lip and nodded. She was going to try to, at the very least. Choice seemed important to Olivar, for her to feel she had one and to make it, but that made the prospect of it no less frightening.
She wanted to know why Bendan had come back, but when she peeked back in his direction, he was tying on an apron, very similar to the one Olivar currently wore.
He worked here too?
“I apologise for my lateness,” he said. “I wished to inform Linnie that the reason for my... near banishment was no longer applicable.”
Olivar snorted, not quite turning back to him. “It is pleasing to know that my future sister will be on my side,” he answered.
Bendan opened his mouth to retort, but shook his head instead, obviously thinking better of it.
She thought she saw a hint of smugness in Olivar’s expression, but it faded quickly as he reached out to touch Ness’s hair, only to pull his hand back with a sheepish smile. “I do not want to dirty you,” he told her. “Are you certain you would not rather be upstairs? Your cheeks are rather pink.” His head tilted and his brow furrowed, and she felt very much that he was studying her. “Can your people overheat?”
She blinked at him. “I... I do not know.” That sounded like a terrible thing to happen, but given her distaste for these aboveground temperatures, she supposed it was possible.
Olivar hummed a little, looking concerned. “I know you do not like it,” he murmured, his hand twitching as if it was a struggle for him not to touch her. “But perhaps you should spend some time upstairs and cool off. Maybe drink some water? I will not make you, though, if it would be difficult to be up there alone.”
Perhaps he wasn’t going to force her, but there was no mistaking that he would feel more comfortable if she was tucked away somewhere cool. She hesitated, not wanting to be alone, but also recognising that, if she was wholly honest with herself, she did not feel very well. There was a queasiness to her stomach, and her skin felt hot and tight.
Her nest sounded very desirable, even if it meant a little loneliness.
She nodded, and Olivar immediately relaxed. She turned ready to head up the stairs, but he grasped her already dirtied hand in his. “You are not being banished,” he told her firmly. “Not like Bendan, here.”
Said brother released an, “Oy!” of protest, and Ness’s eyes flitted between them. It was... pleasing, to see them at peace with one another, even if the natural state of their relationship could not exactly be classified as such. Olivar gave her hand a squeeze, his smile soft. “You can come back down whenever you wish, all right?”
She nodded again and he released her, his eyes a bit worried still.
Perhaps she should have spoken aloud, but she had grown used to not speaking during the morning with the loud clanging of the metal, and now it seemed awkward to do so for only a temporary parting.
So she merely trudged up the stairs, looking down at her clothes worriedly. She wore her darkest things, thinking that would be wisest given the state of the downstairs, but now she wasn’t certain of how dirty they truly were. She would not risk sitting on any of the furniture, not when she couldn’t be sure she was clean.
The upstairs felt as lonesome as she’d feared, an unnatural quiet surrounding her. There was no pleasant chatter from Olivar, only an emptiness that stood as a vivid reminder that she was here completely by herself. She stood for a while, her hand resting on the latch of the door, wondering if she would be allowed to keep it open so she could at least hear what was happening below, but decided against it. This door was what shielded these rooms from the unending soot, and she would not be responsible for contaminating it.
It helped once they apparently resumed working, a dull thump signalling the striking of their hammers, and she forced herself to abandon her post at the door.
The rooms were significantly cooler, but her skin still itched and wisps of hair clung to her forehead.
A thrall was to be clean, to be tidy, in practise for the day when they had a household to serve. No master or mistress wanted to be subjected to an offensive being in their home. She remembered those lessons. But even as she thought them, as she fretted over her appearance and what Olivar must have thought of her, the twist in her belly was of a different sort.
She cared what he thought, but not because she worried he would punish her.
But because she wanted him to think well of her.
She tugged at the end of her braid with her good hand, grimacing when she remembered its dirtied state, worsened when Olivar had touched it earlier. But that she could not regret, not when she coveted those easy brushes of his skin against hers—likely far more than was right.
A bath.
That should help.
She still wasn’t used to the large wash-basin, and hadn’t ever filled it completely. Olivar had confirmed that in this, he and the Narada were the same—both found cleanliness an important quality—so she would allow the water to run just enough that she could swish it over her body and scrub, but not actually submerge herself in it.
She was sorely tempted to do that today.
There was no master waiting on her, and if she kept the water on the cool side, it might help with how hot she felt.
Decided, she went to the bathing room and turned the taps, settling on a tepid temperature. She eyed her clothes again doubtfully. She couldn’t launder with her hand as it was, and Olivar would be cross if she dampened the bandages or hurt herself by doing too much too soon. He seemed to still feel a personal responsibility for her injury, so every bit of her discomfort, he felt in turn.
She didn’t want that for him, so she decided to strip and place her outers into the tub with her. Soaking would be good for fabric, or so she reasoned, and she could tend to it later when Olivar was there to supervise and ensure she did not overtax herself.
She watched the basin fill, her eyes flicking to the door frequently. She did not know why she felt as if she was doing something terribly wicked, but she did. But there were no hurried footsteps that signalled she was wasting a precious resource, there were no angered voices telling her to work rather than indulge in something so frivolous.
And so she plucked off her under-clothes as well, leaving them in a tidy pile before sitting on the edge of the basin and slipping beneath the water.
Perhaps she had chosen the wrong temperature.
She had thought it had felt nice and cooling when it was a stream against her wrist, but now it made her shiver. It was a curious thing, floating in a basin full of water, her body submerged all at once. She kept her head carefully above the waterline, as she most certainly did not intend to drown herself, but the sh
ivers made her scramble for the taps, a gush of hot water flowing into the basin as she huddled to it, seeking its warmth. She did not know why her body had to be as contrary about temperature as her mind was about thoughts of masters and custom, but apparently it was, and she would simply have to accept that.
The water finally warmed, her body seeming to cool to match it in turn, and she found her tight muscles soothing, the tension dissipating under the ministrations of all the warmth.
She didn’t understand how being submerged in it could be pleasant yet the forge-room could be nearly unbearable, but there was much she didn’t know.
The quiet still troubled her. There was only the subtle lapping of the water against the sides of the basin as she moved, her own breath loud when she tucked her ears beneath the surface and stared at the ceiling above.
This was a bath.
She wasn’t certain she liked it. It was a lonely activity, with too many thoughts swirling about. And though she knew how terribly inappropriate it was, she admitted to herself that she might like it better if Olivar was with her. Perhaps not... not in the basin with her, but nearby. Someone to talk to her while she bathed, someone to assure her she was doing everything properly.
Of course, he would tell her that was improper, that she never should have grown used to a master watching as she undressed.
He had been so horrified when he had seen her before, his eyes so wide and his mouth hanging open, and he had slammed the door shut so quickly after that.
She didn’t know why that memory hurt her. There was a tangled knot of feeling in the back of her mind when it came to her keeper, to her wants from him and of him. She coveted his care and attention, wanted to keep him as hers, but knew that wasn’t her place.
She would have to let him go, someday, when a mistress would come to take her place and give him children and she...
She didn’t know what would become of her then.
Olivar had mentioned being here together in what sounded like forever, but she knew he was rather impulsive. Bringing her here had been a testament to that quality. Things could change and she would have to adapt, and that was all there was to it.
Thrall (Deridia Book 3) Page 20