Chapter Text
They had not known who they had welcomed into their midst when Cid had returned from the Defile, windblown and caked with dust. To be a woman amongst the Ironblood was misery enough, but to be revealed as a Dominant heralded a fate worse than death.
The number of the Hideaway’s members that hailed from the Iron Islands, either by birth or enslavement, could be counted on one hand. All bore scars of the flesh and soul, but none had been subjected to more than a decade of the Orthodoxy’s disdain. Nor were any female, or touched by aether.
Tarja had braced herself for rage, fear, for the woman to lash out with hands or words after waking in an unfamiliar place to unfamiliar faces. No men were to be allowed into the infirmary, with her assistant being seconded to a vacant nook in the bunks to see to routine hurts and ailments.
Instead, trusted volunteers took turns to watch over the woman, dripping honeyed water and tinctured past her lips, doing what they could to bring comfort. Jill, as she had been named by the man who’d drifted in by her side that day, had stirred briefly two weeks into her residence. She’d shoved away the hands that tended to her as she struggled to sit upright with but a single word.
Don’t .
Tarja had stood back as Hortense hovered behind her, thrice-darned sleeves forgotten in her hands. After the healer was satisfied with their charge’s condition, the seamstress had taken to battling the endless supply of mending as a means to wile away the hours of watching and waiting. Curiosity tempted her to crane her neck to better see the Hideaway’s object of fascination for the past few weeks. Her gaze was met with deadened eyes, betraying nothing beyond exhaustion and pain.
Her foray into consciousness was mercifully brief. Failing to rise from the pallet, she’d eyed them warily before collapsing with a faint groan. Hortense moved forward without a word, calmly settling her back into the bed before resuming her post by the desk.
She had roused again later that week, quietly watching Tarja at her work. To her shame, the physicker could not say how long she had been unaware of her charge’s wakefulness.
Slowly and gently, she introduced herself and requested an examination, which was agreed to with a wary nod. It was evident that the woman disliked touch, even as she passively allowed herself to be subjected to Tarja’s ministrations and questioning. Her answers were succinct, offering no more than what was needed.
Yes. No. Not since last summer.
No two people were the same during their first days in the Hideaway and could not be approached with the same tactics, but Jill’s resistance to any overtures of kinship was concerning.
Even the dark-haired man that stalked the halls had shown something more from behind his walls of self-effacement and rage after a few of Cid’s tactful jibes.
She now laid with her back to them. It was a duplicitous victory, as either she no longer deemed them a threat or did not care for any designs they may have had in store for her as she slept. Words soon followed, slowly revealing more of her past with the Ironblood, though she withheld much and refused to speak of her life before her awakening as Shiva’s Dominant.
Cid filtered through what he had gleaned from his latest protege, the Lord Marquess of Rosaria, Clive Alexander Rosfield as it were, so they were not completely ignorant of who she was.
In spare moments, she and the former commander discussed each of their charges; concerned as the Clive was for the welfare of his childhood friend, they had agreed to wait until they returned from Lostwing.
Tarja had hoped to leverage the obvious connection to the benefit of the pair, having caught Clive looking forlornly in the direction of the infirmary when she crossed his path. But the idea was shattered upon his exposure as the second Dominant of Fire.
His anguished railing echoed up from the brig as Jill’s despondency continued, though somewhat weaker thanks to a particular resident of the Hideaway.
She glanced at Hortense from her desk, who in turn looked up from her work with a fine blue linen. They’d relieved Jill of the thick vestments the moment she had been bundled into the infirmary and found a set of garments that fit her well enough. Fine as they were, their former wearer could do without a tangible reminder of her servitude.
As the manager of the stores, Hortense had a hand in ensuring that nothing went to waste. She’d considered the mound of curiously fine wool before tentatively running a finger down a crewelled rune. She withdrew, clutching her hand as if stung. The bundle was consigned to the flames without a second thought before she hefted several bolts of choice fabric to the counter and began to cut.
“I may not be a woman of the world.”
Snip.
“ But I know she’s protecting herself.”
Rip.
“ And a lady’s clothes can be as good as any armour.”
Her lips had trembled slightly after her last words, but she did not elaborate. The seamstress had been received into their number little over six years ago after the Empire had raided a less discreet operation in the Rosarian hinterlands. Cid had been nearby, hoping to expand his network and urge caution in their work. His plans changed after he’d learned that the Empress’ personal guards had descended on the small village only hours before he had laid eyes on it.
Tarja knew it was the man himself that knocked at the infirmary door, his arrhythmic pattern signaling the want of communion. After the events of that afternoon, it was necessary.
Torgal assumed his place at Cid’s feet. The hound had been whimpering at the infirmary door as Tarja eased herself through and had nosed her hand in question before following her to Cid’s haven. Despite his vested interest in Jill, never once had he tried to push his way through, instead choosing to guard his mistresses’ resting place from beyond the door.
The room was hazed from the cigarello that burned perilously close to his fingers. Tarja detested the habit but knew better than to chastise him in that moment as she eased herself down.
At first there was no conversation as she sat with Cid in his solar, they knew each other well enough for the silence to be companionable rather than awkward.
Cid broke the quiet after filling the twin goblets on the desk, sequestering the chipped bottle on the floor away from the restless hound.
“I have plans for the lad, once he calms down enough to hear them. Another lead from Gav that needs attention.”
Tarja sipped her wine and winced. It was rich and smooth, a boon from their partnership with Lostwing, but it sat badly on her tongue as the situation was laid out between them.
“Do you think he will listen?” She ventured, carefully placing the goblet back down “Learning that he had a hand in his brother’s death, after having nothing but revenge to sustain him for so long?”
“He will, Dominant or no, he’d have to be knackered after all that. He’s my captive audience, whether he likes it or not.”
Cid indulged in a final lengthy draw of his tobacco, cocking his head to listen if this theory held true. Silence. He smirked at her, winning the unvoiced wager with himself.
“You do know how to pick your moment.”
He let out a bark of laughter, having the grace to turn his head aside to spew the acrid smoke elsewhere.
“That I do.” He sighed, leaning forward to stub out the smoldering mass amidst the litter of his desk. The orderly stacks that had amassed during his absence had devolved into a mess incomprehensible to all but him in the space of a few hours.
Despite the levity of the moment, the implications weighed heavily on them both. They’d lost members of the Hideaway before, despite their best efforts. Some could not adjust and fled back to their masters only to be killed for their disloyalty.
Others simply took the matter into their own hands, such as Clive had attempted to do.
Cid had hauled his limp form through the stables with the help of a Cursebreaker who had joined them in the Deadlands. Had Blackthorne not chosen that moment to emerge from his forge to gripe about the state Mid had left on his favoured swage in, the younger man’s designs on the knife strapped to the elder’s hip would have been realised. He was fast, but had underestimated the raw strength of the smith as he pried the bloodied blade from his hand before a second attempt could be made.
“You can’t undo thirteen years in a moon or two. Even if you are the finest healer in the Twins”
She did not acknowledge the praise, choosing instead to affirm the sentiment.
“I had no notion otherwise.”
“I’ll see to him in the morning, hopefully he’ll get some beauty sleep in the meantime.” He rubbed his thumb against the side of the neighboring finger, missing the fine roll of tobacco already.
“And how is she?”
“Better, somewhat. Her body has healed, but the other parts go slowly. Not that I expected otherwise.”
She allowed herself a smile after a moment, settling back into the stout chair as she considered the corner of a well-worn map peeking out from beneath her goblet. Cid quirked a brow questioningly as she looked up. She didn’t have the same audacity in perceived victories, but she was glad to share some carefully considered optimism.
“She’s speaking a bit more now and is showing interest in more than sleep and bathing. Hortense likes her, and, from what I can tell, the feeling is mutual.”
She chuckled, recalling last week’s discovery.
“Turns out she’s rather handy with a needle and thread, much to the delight of our head seamster.”
“A lady indeed. Hortense must enjoy having someone else to appreciate her work and the finer points of needlecraft” he said drolly, to little amusement of his audience.
“She has her hemming her own skirts. Her tongue loosens somewhat when she has something to focus on. Though she’s yet to mention Clive… I’d wager she didn’t recognise him in the Defile.”
Cid leaned forward to his elbows, pushing the latest reports from the west into a summary of their winter stores, clasping his hands to eclipse a particularly turgid account of Belanus Tor. He agreed that for matters such as these, there was never really a right time. Only ones when the aftermath, good or ill, could be better managed.
“If I can bring Clive back from our next jaunt whole, relatively that is, I think it would be the time for him to see her. He needs something, someone that is still with us to remind him of who he was before his life was torn apart.”
“As does she. But it would not be fair for her to be caught unawares.” She straightened her posture, determination bolstered from the shared scheme.
Togal emitted a keening whine, sliding his head to stare at Cid from his lap. The Dominant reached down blindly to scratch the side of his ear, much to the hounds pleasure.
“So, dear Tarja, do we have a plan?”
“That we do.”