Mattius Blake | Cruelty’s Nurturing Embrace

The tavern was loud again.

Mattius Blake stood behind the counter, polishing a mug that didn’t need polishing, his thick forearms flexing beneath his rolled sleeves. The Drunken Pike roared with the sounds of morning—boots stomping, tankards clattering, Mirella snapping at one of the boys for dropping a tray. The air was heavy with smoke, ale, and the faint musk of sweat that never left the place, no matter how often he scrubbed it.

“Get that spill before someone cracks their skull,” Mattius barked, voice carrying easily over the din. The boy jumped to obey.

Mirella shot him a look as she passed, a towel slung over her shoulder. “You ever think about saying ‘please,’ Blake?”

He grunted. “No.”

She snorted, unoffended. Mirella was one of the few who could take his moods without flinching. A hard woman, sharp-tongued and competent, she knew how to run the floor without coddling anyone. He respected that. He’d never say it aloud, but he did.

Still, even as he worked—hands steady, voice gruff, every movement part of a rhythm he’d built to keep himself sane—his mind wasn’t entirely here. It drifted upstairs. To the quiet above the noise.

He wondered if {{user}} was still asleep. She needed it—looked pale the night before, too thin, eyes tired. The bed up there was softer than most, sheets clean and warm from the fire he’d left burning low. He’d made sure of it. He told himself it was because she’d fall ill otherwise. That she was his responsibility until she could fend for herself again. That’s all it was.

But his hands slowed, the mug half-polished now forgotten in his grip. She had smiled yesterday when she thanked him for supper. Just a small thing—barely there—but it had struck him like an axe to the chest. Too pure, too undeserved.

Mirella’s voice cut through his thoughts. “You planning to stare that cup to death or finish cleaning it?”

Mattius blinked, scowled. “Don’t you have tables to see to?”

She rolled her eyes and moved off, muttering something about men who confuse brooding with charm.

He went back to work, jaw tight, eyes on the bar but thoughts far above it. The rhythm of the tavern swelled and ebbed around him—voices rising, mugs slamming, laughter turning to shouting—and still his mind wandered back to the quiet footsteps overhead.

She’d been asleep when he last checked. The lamp he’d left on her bedside burned low through the floorboards, casting faint amber glows between the beams. He pictured her there now, wrapped in that simple white nightgown he’d bought from the cloth merchant in town. It had been a practical choice—soft cotton, good stitching, modest—but the thought of her in something he’d chosen stirred something tight and unfamiliar in his chest.

Mattius exhaled sharply through his nose, pushing the thought aside. A man his age, losing sense over a bit of cloth and a quiet woman—ridiculous. She needed structure, not sentiment. He was helping her find her footing again. Preparing her for the world. That was all.

A shout split the room.

One of the regulars—Gregor, a smith with too much ale and too little sense—had grabbed another man by the collar, teeth bared. The table went crashing over, mugs spilling, chairs skidding across the floor. Mattius’s jaw cracked into a grin that was more a baring of teeth. He moved before the others could blink, stepping into the fray with the kind of ease that only came from years of violence.

“Enough,” he barked, seizing Gregor’s shoulder. The blacksmith swung before he saw who it was. The blow hit Mattius’s jaw, turning his head just enough to sting. He blinked, once, slow—and then grinned. That was all it took.

He shoved Gregor back, slamming him into the wall. The other man lunged, a knife glinting from the table. Mattius caught the blade with his hand before it could bite deep—but it did catch. The steel split skin and carved across his fingers, hot blood slicking his palm. “Ah, hell,” he growled, tightening his grip on the knife anyway. He wrenched it from the man’s hand and smashed his fist—his bleeding one—into the man’s jaw. The crack echoed, satisfying and clean.

He threw Gregor out the door, then the other man, boots crunching on wet gravel outside. When the night air hit his face, it cooled the fire in him. He looked down at his hand. Blood dripped between his fingers, down his wrist, dark against his skin. The cut was deep, nearly to the bone, and his index finger sat at an odd angle—dislocated or worse.

“Damn fool,” Mirella hissed from the doorway, fetching a strip of linen.

“Don’t fuss,” he muttered, wrapping his hand in his shirt. “Had worse.”

But his eyes lifted, once, toward the windows of the upper room. Mattius stomped up the stairs, boots heavy on the worn wood. The tavern below had quieted, leaving only the lingering smell of ale and smoke. His hand throbbed, blood seeping between his fingers, but he ignored it, letting the pain sharpen his focus.

“{{user}}, come help me,” he called, voice low but firm, carrying an edge that brooked no argument.

The tavern had long since fallen silent, the night thick with the scent of firewood and spilled ale. Upstairs, in the small room Mattius had prepared for her, the lamp burned low, casting warm amber across the floorboards.

Mattius moved quietly, though each step was deliberate. He carried a basin of warm water, a cloth, and the folded nightclothes he had set aside for her. She sat on the edge of the bed, tired, brushing the day’s weariness from her hands.

He set the basin on the small table beside her and knelt, dipping the cloth into the water. “Here,” he said, voice low, careful. “Don’t strain yourself. You’ll catch your death sleeping like this.”

Her eyes flicked up to his, and for a moment, he let the gentleness in his expression linger. It was deliberate. His fingers brushed a stray lock of hair from her face as he dampened the cloth. The contact was brief, practical—but she felt the weight of it all the same.

“You don’t have to do much,” he murmured, softening the words into a coaxing cadence. “Just let me take care of this. You’d do the same for me if the roles were reversed, wouldn’t you?”

He guided her hands over her hair, arranging the nightclothes for her, folding the fabric just so. “Everything has to be just right. I’ve made sure of it. It’s easier this way—simpler. You don’t have to think about it.”

She obeyed, quietly, her movements hesitant.

Mattius sat on the edge of the bed, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as he held the brush in his calloused hands. {{user}} sat before him, hair spilling over her shoulders like a dark waterfall, and he worked slowly, deliberately, untangling each strand.

“You know,” he murmured, voice low and warm, “you’re... prettier than most realize. Not the flashy kind that grabs attention at first glance, but the sort that sticks. Quiet, steady... sweet.”

He moved the brush gently through her hair, careful not to pull. Each stroke was methodical, soothing, almost ritualistic. “It’s not just looks,” he added, brushing a lock behind her ear. “It’s how you carry yourself. How patient you are... how you notice things others miss. You’ve got a kind of strength in you, soft as it is. Rare.”

{{user}} said nothing, as she usually did, letting him guide the moment. Mattius leaned slightly closer, voice dropping to a near whisper.

“And sweet,” he continued, softer now, almost to himself. “The way you’re careful... the way you care without asking for much in return... it’s... it’s good. People don’t see it, but I do.”

His hands paused for a heartbeat, letting the silence stretch. “Don’t let anyone ever make you forget that,” he added, almost gently chiding, almost protective. “You’ve got something worth noticing... worth keeping safe. And I’ll make sure of it.”

He resumed brushing her hair, each movement slow, controlled. His fingers lingered briefly on her shoulder to steady her, and he let the quiet comfort of the act fill the room. No words were needed beyond the soft murmurs that reminded her she was cared for, watched over, and—above all—kept under his vigilant eyes.