Summary:
In the cold, isolated forests of 16th-century Europe, a lord takes a boy prisoner. As an unexpectedly tender relationship develops between captor and captive, resentment and distrust grow into warmth and trust in a pair of hearts that were once achingly empty. It aims to be a sensitive portrayal of a tender, if fragile, relationship that grows between two characters because of mutual loneliness as well as an intense longing for companionship. As a tentative trust develops between the two characters, the dynamics of their captor-captive relationship continually change as power is given, taken, and shared. As their bond deepens, the boy finds a new kind of freedom in his captivity and the man finds redemption for a brutal crime he committed.
Chapter 7
The doctor made one last plea for the boy. “He’s going to die anyway,” he said quietly. “Don’t put him through this.” But Matthias had already made up his mind, and there was no persuading him otherwise.
It wasn’t until Tristan felt Matthias’s hands on his face that he began to cry, and then the tears came freely. Matthias had never seen him like this. At times he had seen tears in his eyes, threatening to spill, but he had always controlled them. He had never broken down in front of him; never shown weakness like this. But it was different now. He was completely drained, both physically and emotionally. He had nothing left to give, no pretense to hide behind. He was utterly stripped of any façade. But his vulnerability only made Matthias more adamant about saving him.
Matthias took the cloth gag out of the boy’s mouth. He held his face with both hands and leaned down to speak to him softly. “Tristan, listen to me,” he said. “I know it hurts. I know.” Tristan squeezed his eyes shut and let out a weak sob, tears trickling down his cheeks. “Look at me. Please,” Matthias continued. He gently stroked the sides of his face and Tristan opened his eyes, his lashes wet. “It’s okay. I’m here with you. I won’t leave you. I promise. You’re probably going to pass out, but I’ll be beside you when you wake up,” he said firmly, not allowing any of the doubt he felt to creep into his voice.
As the doctor gathered his instruments Matthias tended to the boy. He slipped a hand behind his head and gently lifted it from the operating table. He brought a glass bottle to his lips and poured some alcohol into his mouth. Tristan choked and coughed and let the liquid trickle out of the corners of his mouth. “No, please drink it,” Matthias urged him, pouring alcohol into his mouth again. This time he swallowed compliantly. “That’s it. Good,” he praised him. When Matthias thought he had had enough he took the bottle away from his lips and lowered his head back down onto the table, brushing damp strands of hair back from the boy’s forehead. He wiped the boy’s mouth with his sleeve. Even though he had been outside in the bitter cold his face was flushed and warm now. Matthias gently replaced the cloth in his mouth and dribbled alcohol on his wound. The gag muffled Tristan’s cry of pain.
Tristan tried not to watch the doctor prepare his instruments, but he couldn’t help himself. Matthias took his chin in his hands and held it rigid so he couldn’t look. He felt the muscles in the boy’s throat convulse as he swallowed a few times. The doctor approached the table and the boy’s stomach heaved in anticipation. He gripped the hilt of the knife and Tristan uttered a strangled sob in response to the pressure. Matthias held his head firmly and forced him to look into his eyes.
There was no precise, neat way to do it. The doctor pulled the knife out very slowly, as much as Tristan could take at a time. Two of the men applied gentle but firm compression around the wound, trying to quell the flow of blood. The barbed tip of the knife tore the boy’s insides and scarlet blood blossomed from the wound. It stained the towel wrapped around his hips as it dribbled down to his waist, collecting at the convergence of his bare skin and the fabric. Two other men wiped up blood. The cloths that they used quickly became saturated and the smell of blood permeated the air. They couldn’t absorb the blood fast enough and it dripped onto the floor.
Tristan was exhausted and very weak, but he still struggled when the pain became too much to endure. He jerked his head violently but Matthias held it steady, glad the gag was in place so he couldn’t bite through his tongue. Tristan screamed into the cloth in his mouth, clenching and unclenching his fingers and trying to move his arms. Matthias wished he could block out the muffled gasps and choked sobs that pierced him like daggers. He knew Tristan was trying his best to stay quiet. He knew he would never cry in front of him if he could help it. But the sounds coming from him were terrible—guttural and tortured.
Matthias continued to hold the boy’s head so he couldn’t see that everything and everyone around the operating table was soaked with his blood. The doctor worked his fingers into the wound cavity as he tried to free the knife. Matthias felt Tristan’s body jerk, shudder, and then relax. He saw his eyes roll back as he passed out. His eyelids closed slowly. He hadn’t even made a sound; he had just crumpled. When he was sure that the boy was unconscious, Matthias removed the cloth and gently closed his mouth. He undid the restraints on his wrists and ankles and rested his hand on Tristan’s right arm. “Go ahead. Finish it,” he said, and then turned away, still touching him. He didn’t want to see any more of the boy’s red insides.
Җ
“Doctor...How is he?”
“Would you believe me if I told you he was fortunate? The knife didn’t pierce any of his organs. But he bled profusely, and he’s going to keep bleeding even though I closed the wound as neatly as I could. I don’t know if he can recover from that.”
“Please tell me I didn’t put him through that for nothing.”
“I just don’t know, Matthias. He’s lost so much blood. I can’t explain why or how his heart’s still beating. He’s fighting very hard. He seems to have an incredible will to live, but I don’t know if that will be enough.”
“Thank you.”
Matthias looked at the cruel four-inch blade lying drenched in blood on the table. Then he gently picked up the boy and cradled him in his arms, his head tucked against his shoulder. “You’re a mess,” he said as he looked down at him, rare affection in his voice. He had never held anyone so tenderly. He had never wanted to.
As he carried Tristan out of the infirmary one of his men touched his arm lightly. “Matthias, the more time you spend with him…” He trailed off. “Let one of us take care of him. It’s only going to make it harder if you care for him.” Matthias clutched the boy protectively and shrugged off the man’s hand. Arguing with him was futile at this point.
Matthias carried Tristan to the guest bedroom, where he had stayed since his capture, and laid him on the bed. He dressed him in nightclothes. His discolored ribs and swollen, heavily bruised leg made him sick. Matthias sat on the bed, his back propped against the pillows, and gently pulled the boy’s body across his own. He positioned his head so it could rest comfortably against his chest and pulled a blanket over both of them. Tristan was still. He looked peaceful. He appeared so young and vulnerable unconscious—unguarded, stripped of all the walls he had built around himself. Matthias had only seen him this exposed once before: that morning he had cleaned his back and treated his wounds. Since then he hadn’t been unkind to him, but he hadn’t touched him so warmly or reassured him like that again.
As he sat with the boy in his arms, the excruciating agony and horror of the surgery seemed to grow further and further away every moment he held him. His warm body felt good nestled against his own and his skin was soft. The boy lay in his arms, but he wanted to hold him of his own accord, because the boy wanted him to, not because his body was wracked with pain or because he was unconscious.
Matthias turned his head to look out the window. The snow outside had progressed to a blizzard, and sheets of ice clinked against the window panes before they were swallowed up by the night. Matthias was glad they were inside, enveloped in each other’s warmth. Tristan needed peace and time and safety to heal. The storm would ensure that the roads were impassable for weeks.
He pressed his hand against Tristan’s heart so he could feel it beating. And in that moment he felt so connected, so present, so certain. He felt the boy’s smooth cheek against his neck and he brushed his lips against his forehead in a brief kiss. He listened to his breathing and felt the gentle rise and fall of his chest against his own.
Maybe Barrett had been right. Maybe he was bound to the boy, chained by some intangible force. Maybe he was captive. But if that was the case, then he didn’t want to be saved.
Chapter 8
He knew he was dead. He had to be. The hands that touched him were so gentle, they could only be that of a parent. Both his mother and father were dead. Was he in heaven? But if this was heaven, then why did he hurt so badly? He thought that death was supposed to be an escape from pain, but he was in agony. He leaned into the warm touch, wanting more of the tender contact. It was his only comfort right now—a constant through the pain, something to hold onto. He felt a thumb brush his cheek and he didn’t push it away as he would in wakefulness, never wanting anyone to know how much he craved that gentle touch. A hand searched for his fingers and he gave them, clasping them over the warm skin. He didn’t try to fight as he was pulled back into unconsciousness.
Җ
Matthias was very protective of Tristan. He wouldn’t let anyone else see the boy, with the exception of the doctor. His men had offered to take care of him, noticing how tired the lord had become after days of little sleep, but Matthias had refused them. He felt that the moments he and Tristan shared were private and should be kept between them, free from prying eyes. He was surprised at his own gentleness with the boy.
He didn’t know what he was waiting for. Maybe a sign that the boy was going to live. A sign that he was actually going to wake up. The first day he had been very still, dead to the world. But early in the morning of the second day, he had developed a terrible fever. Though they had cleaned the wound to the best of their abilities, it had become infected because it was so deep. Tristan’s skin was burning hot, but he still shivered uncontrollably. He tried to thrash around on the bed, largely incoherent, his fists curled tightly around the sheets in pain. Matthias held him down so he wouldn’t rip the stitches that held together his abdomen.
That first night of fever was the worst. The doctor came to clean his wound and examine his broken leg. The leg was so swollen it was hard to tell where the bone had fractured. The swelling from the bruises on his ribs made it difficult to breathe. Tristan was in the throes of fever and hurting badly, his face flushed and sweaty. He was half-conscious, so he reacted when their touch hurt him. He begged them to leave him alone, nearly incoherent, but Matthias restrained him and held him still for the doctor. He cried in frustration, struggling against Matthias like he was trying to hurt him. Matthias held him tightly so he wouldn’t rupture his fresh stitches or cause additional bleeding.
The doctor wanted to thoroughly clean the wound on his abdomen, but he didn’t want to insert his fingers too far and tear the fragile skin that was slowly starting to knit itself back together. It was torture for the boy. Matthias held his heaving, trembling body against his own, trying to comfort him and keep him quiet. He held him against his chest so he could hear and feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his heartbeat. The boy’s face was turned to the side and pressed into his shoulder. He felt his hot, slick forehead against his cheek. Eventually he calmed down and, exhausted, fell asleep in Matthias’s arms.
His fever had continued through the third day, but by that night it had lessened. Matthias approached the prostrate boy sprawled on the bed. He bathed his flushed face with cool water, as he had many times before, washing away the heat and sweat. The injuries he had suffered before his capture—the sprained ankle and the wound on his side—seemed insignificant now. His ankle had almost healed but his side was still very sore. The skin was still raw and inflamed around the stitches. The new, deeper wound on his abdomen almost touched the older wound.
Matthias slipped his arm around Tristan’s back and gently pulled him to a half-sitting position. The boy stirred a little when he was lifted. Matthias dipped his fingers in a glass of water and brought them to Tristan’s mouth, rubbing his lips gently. The boy opened his lips and he slowly poured the liquid into his mouth. Tristan swallowed compliantly. “That’s it. Good boy,” Matthias praised him, stroking his arm. When he thought he had had enough he lowered him back down onto the bed. Exhausted and very weak, Tristan had already closed his eyes again. Matthias pulled the blanket back and found his left hand. He pulled it out from the warmth and gently unclasped the clenched fingers. He traced his finger lightly over the crisscross of red on his hand. The boy moved his fingers a little bit in response to his touch.
Matthias lay down on the bed beside Tristan, close to him, but not touching him. He was so tired. He had stayed awake for so long, watching over him. He was pleased that he had accepted water for the first time. Maybe he would accept food soon. It was peaceful lying there with him in the muted light of the gray afternoon. Watching the gentle rise and fall of the boy’s side, Matthias soon surrendered to sleep.
Җ
He woke slowly, fighting to return to consciousness. He was lying on his back. It felt like he had been asleep for a long time. But he didn’t want to wake up. Not into this world of pain. He tried to roll over onto his side but stopped immediately, dizzy from the pain. Groggily, he lay his head back down on the pillow, eyes still closed, wanting to return to a painless sleep.
He felt a hand on his shoulder, gently prodding him to wake up, but he ignored it. He tried to shrug it off and turned away, pressing the side of his face into the pillow. But he still felt the pressure on his shoulder, urging him to return to wakefulness. He protested with a weak groan.
Unwillingly he opened his eyes, and it was as though the gesture asserted that he had returned to cruel reality. He was fully conscious for the first time in days, but now he was also fully conscious of the pain. It felt like his abdomen had been brutally torn apart and his insides had been savagely ripped out. He wondered if they had. His shirt was open and he looked down at the bandage wrapped across his lower body. All he knew was that it was throbbing agony beneath that bandage, and he realized he probably didn’t want to see it.
“How are you?” Matthias asked quietly.
“That’s a…” Tristan shuddered in pain. “That’s a stupid question,” he finished with a groan.
His voice was very weak. He gave a small smile, but his eyes were full of pain.
Matthias returned his weak smile. “I guess you’re right.”
Matthias reached for the bloodstained bandage covering Tristan’s abdomen.
“No…” Tristan told him, using all the strength he had to push away Matthias’s hand.
“I’ve already seen it, Tristan,” Matthias gently reminded him. Tristan retracted his hand slowly.
“I’m sorry. You’ve been very good. But I have to clean your wound. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”
Tristan nodded slightly. He didn’t have the strength to do anything but comply. He looked away as Matthias carefully removed his bandage. It came off, soiled with blood. Matthias hoped the heavy bleeding would stop soon. The bloodied wound looked raw and sore. He held a damp washcloth over the boy’s wound and moved to press the washcloth against his inflamed skin. Tristan flinched even before his fingers made contact. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.” Their eyes met for a moment. Tristan looked into the pale blue, almost gray eyes. There was an instant of recognition. For a moment Matthias’s eyes looked familiar, and he thought he knew them. Tristan thought he had heard those same words before from this man, but he knew that was impossible. They didn’t know each other. They had never met.
Matthias waited until the boy relaxed somewhat. He reached his hand out a second time. Tristan lay rigid, braced for the pain he knew would come, but Matthias was exceedingly careful. He gently pressed the warm washcloth against the wound, holding it with a slight pressure. He washed his abdomen, removing the fresh blood as well as the dried blood. His gentle touch helped Tristan relax against the bed. After Matthias soaked the wound he patted it dry with a soft towel. He coated his fingers liberally with ointment and delicately inserted them into the wound cavity. Tristan immediately stiffened at the painful invasion and instinctively reached out for Matthias. He sunk his fingernails into Matthias’s arm and squeezed his eyes shut. Matthias stopped moving his fingers, giving him time to adjust to the pain. As Tristan gradually accepted the aching soreness, his grip on Matthias’s arm slowly loosened. He stared up at the man’s face, almost dazed. He noted the concern in his eyes.
Matthias took his time, working his fingers into the wound. His hands were cold from the ointment but very gentle. He moved his fingers slowly and delicately. Tristan felt throbbing pain as Matthias spread the ointment, but he liked the feel of his gentle fingers inside him. The delicate probing put him into a kind of stupor and he closed his eyes. He lay back, resting his head on the soft pillow, and slid his hand back across the sheets close to his own body, releasing Matthias’s arm. When he finished coating the boy’s wound Matthias dressed it with a fresh bandage. Tristan opened his eyes and slowly rolled over onto his right side. He curled his arms in front of his chest. Matthias wasn’t sure if it was an invitation to lay beside him or not.
Matthias lay down beside Tristan. He was behind him, also lying on his right side. He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder and slowly ran it down his arm, resting it near his elbow on his side. He didn’t know if he would let him touch him, but he didn’t protest. Sometimes it was hard to know what Tristan was thinking. Matthias didn’t know if he liked the contact or merely tolerated it. Maybe he simply didn’t have the energy to respond and accepted it, or maybe he actually enjoyed the touch. Perhaps it brought comfort to him.
Җ
They slept until midday. Matthias had given him water to drink and a little to eat and now he was going to leave him to rest for awhile.
“Just call out if you need me. I’ll be near. I’ll come to see you this evening.”
“Matthias,” Tristan said, brow furrowed. His face was very serious.
“Yes?”
“Is it true, what that man said? About my stepfather and you…?”
“Tristan…not now. You’re hurt.”
“Tell me the truth. I deserve to know,” he rasped. “Did you have an arrangement with him?”
Matthias hesitated before meeting the boy’s eyes. “Yes,” he responded softly before turning away and walking toward the door.
He got to the door before Tristan spoke. “Matthias,” he said again. Matthias turned back toward him. “Why did you save me?” He could hear the strain—the weakness—in his voice.
Matthias paused in the doorway, his face in shadow. “Rest, Tristan,” he said before closing the door.
He stood in the hallway for a moment, considering Tristan’s question as to why he had spared his life. Didn’t he know by now? He already had his heart.
Җ
Matthias returned that evening as promised. He gave Tristan some more water and food. He didn’t know if the boy would be difficult because he hadn’t given him an answer to his question. He had probably only further confused him. He knew the boy was in a lot of pain and perhaps his failure to reassure him had caused him more pain. But he had told him the truth. Most of it, at least. He hadn’t lied to him. Matthias thought he should give Tristan some time alone to accept what he had heard. He got up to leave.
“No…stay.” The request was so quiet that for a moment Matthias wondered if he had imagined it. He obliged and sat beside the boy on the bed.
Matthias hadn’t given him an answer as to why he had saved him, but he didn’t need one right now. Right now he needed physical comfort. He knew that expressing interest in Matthias’s company would make him appear fragile and vulnerable. He knew that any dependence on Matthias would only make him weaker. He didn’t want to grow close to him or let him in. He didn’t want to concede to him. Hadn’t he learned his lesson? He couldn’t trust other people. His own stepfather had betrayed him. But he wanted to trust Matthias. And he knew he didn’t want to be alone. And right now, it was all he could do to stand the pain. He was in no mood to resist or fight the man’s gentleness. Right now he needed to be comforted; he needed to be looked after. He couldn’t deny those things to himself anymore. He knew he was weak, but he couldn’t forgo those comforts anymore, at least not right now. He needed to be held. He needed to be wanted. He needed Matthias.
He gave in and leaned into Matthias’s body. It was much easier to relax his body against the man and rest his head comfortably against his shoulder. He was drained, and his side and leg ached terribly—almost pain beyond endurance. And it actually felt good, pressed against a warm body. It didn’t really seem like giving in. He was tired of resisting, tired of fighting against this want and need to be close to another person. It only mattered that someone was there beside him—someone who could and would protect him.
As Tristan leaned tentatively into him, Matthias saw the hesitation and fear in his eyes. How could he think he would reject him? How could he think he didn’t want him? Matthias wrapped his arm around him. He smiled. It felt good to have the warm boy against him. He looked at Tristan’s face and saw that his eyes were closed, whether from exhaustion or emotion he did not know. He felt him breathing gently against him. He wanted to let the boy see that he could trust him, and perhaps help break down some of those walls he had built around his heart.
Tristan pressed his face against Matthias’s chest, snuggling a little further into his warm body, wanting to block out everything and everyone else and just sleep against him. His eyes were closed resignedly. He was letting Matthias hold him, but he told himself it was only temporary. He would only allow it until he regained his strength. He would only accept his kindness until he was healed.
But the truth was there was nowhere else he wanted to be than here, nestled in his would-be murderer’s arms. Ever since his father had been murdered and he had stopped trusting his mother, no one else’s arms had made him feel this safe.
