Title: A Face Used to Telling Lies
Fandom: Wheel of Time
Characters: Moiraine Damodred, Matrim Cauthon
Spoilers/Warning: Not many spoilers. Warning for angst and dub-con.
Summary: Moiraine plays a reckless game of stones with Mat.
Disclaimers: This is purely fictional. I own none of it.
[…]
A/N: This is a sequel to 'A Picture of Tomorrow', the events happening within a few hours of each other. You'll understand much better why Moiraine plays a reckless game of stones with Mat (who as we know hates Aes Sedai) if you've read the first one.
Warning: This fic contains angst and dub-con sexual themes. You have been warned.
A Face Used To Telling Lies
"I'm there, I serve them, the one with the empty looking eyes.
Come closer, you'll see me: the face that is used to telling lies."
~ Starrs — Take Me to the Riot
Moiraine sat across the table from Mat, legs crossed, chin resting on both hands, elbows on the tabletop, clad in nothing more than a shift. The table was a delicate affair of polished, fragrant apple-wood, with lilies carved and inlaid with ivory, designed especially for a woman's quarters so that a boring afternoon could be whiled away playing stones. Mat loomed over it like Dragonmount over Tar Valon. His knees brushed against hers again and again under the little table however much he tried to keep away.
Between them on the table lay an elaborate set of stones, mid-game. The black pieces were made of obsidian in the likeness of Artur Hawkwing, face and neck resting on a pedestal, carved with painstaking detail; every piece had eyes sharp and shrewd, which seemed to watch your every move wherever you turned. The white ivory pieces bore the features of a delicate, queenly face, fierce and fragile at the same time, with a barely noticeable tiara on her head. Moiraine had seen that face in too many books in the Tar Valon library to not recognize it: Bonwhin, the Amyrlin Seat at the time of Artur Hawkwing's rule.
She was playing white so she tried not to dwell overmuch on the fact that it had been Bonwhin who had tried to use Hawkwing as a puppet to control the world, and so nearly destroyed the White Tower, leading to Artur's lifelong hunt, capture and execution of all and any Aes Sedai he could find, and a siege of Tar Valon by Hawkwing's armies for years. Bonwhin had been stripped of stole and staff of Amyrlin, stilled, and spent the rest of her life scrubbing pots and floors as a scullery maid in the kitchens of the White Tower.
Moiraine's hands shook slightly as she moved a piece on the board — not very pleasant thoughts, especially since her own luck today seemed to run more along the lines of Bonwhin's. She did not know how many games they had played, although she could have told that by counting the items of her clothing strewn all around them for all the games she had lost. Oh, and Mat's coat, shirt and boots for a few she had won; she had been playing Hawkwing, then, the only times she had gotten Hawkwing. That boy had the luck of the Dark One himself, the way he drew black again and again.
It was her turn again, and her eyes widened when she saw where Mat had placed his piece; there was no way she was getting out of that gambit. He had surrounded her pieces until it seemed that there was no escape hole left, her eyes roved over the board, desperately searching for one. Her thin linen shift was the only thing left on her body. If she lost... She looked up at him; he was watching her, the grin on his face wicked but grim. There was not a trace of mischief or mirth in it, or in his eyes.
She reached for her wine goblet and drained it. She could not remember how many of these she had had, either, but the intricately carved features of the pieces were a little blur now. She reached for the decanter, a slight tremor in her hands, and was shocked to find it almost empty. Did she drink it all? She knew that Mat was still sipping the first one she had poured him, and it was still more than half full. Something heavy settled into the pit of her stomach.
She remembered she hadn't set out earlier in the evening to achieve this, exactly. What was wrong with her? How, in the name of all that's Light, had she ended up playing stones against Matrim Cauthon, who had the luck of the Dark One himself? Didn't he ever lose? Thom had said the boy wasn't very good at winning at stones. It had been Thom's comment that had given her this idea. She was aware of Mat's obsession with gambling and wagers, she had been confident that she could easily beat him at a few games of stones — she was Cairhienin, after all, and Cairhienin were pioneers in the game of stones — and make him tell her the answers he had received in the Mayene ter'angreal as part of a bet.
The thought of the ter'angreal was enough to make her shudder slightly as she remembered her own answers from the ter'angreal, one of them particularly well. She forced it out of her mind. Thoughts of her own death were even less pleasant than thoughts of Bonwhin's fate. But that had been where it had started; the first, though expected, blow to her calm and composure. It had taken a large chunk out of her serenity and confidence, although the ache in her heart reminded her that that was not the only blow she had received in the course of that evening. But she knew if she thought about Lan's decision and determination to leave her and go to Tanchico with Nynaeve now, the sobs she had controlled earlier with such difficulty would start again.
No she could not think about Lan's betrayal, Lan's scorn and hatred for her, his — Light! I'm thinking about it again. Not now, not now, later, maybe. Later, when she had time. Later, when maybe it won't hurt that much. She hadn't had much time to grieve the death of her Warder's faith and trust in her, death of twenty long years of friendship and camaraderie, grieve the fact that the only reason he was still with her was because Nynaeve had refused to accept him like that, refused to let him break the oaths he swore to Moiraine. What would have happened if she hadn't refused? The thought chilled her to the bones. But, no, she hadn't had time to grieve over it all, and she had felt broken and battered like a rag-doll, she had come out of her bed-chamber with a serene face. Elaida would have been proud of her. Elaida, who always said that it was the mark of a true Aes Sedai that she maintained her serenity no matter how hurt she was.
She was calm as she began to set about the events in motion for the Dragon Reborn, for the Last Battle. And also for her own last battle, for her death. Yes, there had been a grim satisfaction in it, as she maneuvered Thom Merrilin into going with Nynaeve and Elayne, a grim pleasure in orchestrating the death she knew to be her inevitable fate, the choice that wasn't a choice at all. At least she could organize the events neatly towards the moment of her combined doom with Lanfear.
She had wrapped the shock of the certainty of her impending death, and the hurt and pain of Lan's betrayal into layers and layers of cold thought and planning as she had come out of her rooms to go see Thom, and shoved the bundle as far away in her mind as she could (but Light! why did it keep resurfacing?). She had been half-drunk on that grim pleasure and satisfaction - and half a decanter of heady Arafellin wine she had had before coming out of her bed chamber — when she came out of Thom's little room.
And that was, of course, when she had run into Mat in a dimly lit corridor that was a shortcut to her rooms from the servants' quarters. She had remembered Thom's comment about Mat being not as good at winning at stones as he was at dice or cards, devised her little plan and invited Mat to play stones with her as he tried to turn tail —
"Because I'm incredibly bored, and I've heard that you play a fair game of stones, Matrim." She had seen the refusal in his eyes, an added. "I play for high stakes, I must warn you. Or —" She tilted her head and looked at him obliquely. "— we could play for a little wager. Or two."
Reckless, her brain told her. Reckless! But she had been confident in her game, and what was Mat but a boy? She had been playing, and winning, at stones even before the thought of his birth had crossed the mind of his mother and father. She saw him wavering at the brink of indecision, trying to seize on any thought that would let him out of this one.
Light burn me, Mat told himself. I don't want to be playing stones with the likes of her!
"Some other time, maybe," he began. "Or maybe cards or dice? I don't have a board —
She cut through his protestations. "I have an admirable board of stones lying idle." She touched his sleeve lightly. "The majhere put it in my room."
He glanced down at her hand, and she took it away and smoothed her dress. To Mat it looked like she was trying to wipe the taint of touching him from her hand, and it was that gesture, more than anything else, that decided him. The rage that had been burning in the pit of his stomach since he had heard the news about Two Rivers and realized he couldn't go, since coming out of the ter'angreal after getting those nonsensical answers about his marrying some bloody noble-woman Daughter of Nine Moons, and Moiraine turning her back on them in that dark, moldy room in the Great Hold, so tight-lipped about her bloody Aes Sedai secrets and devious plans, that rage seethed and boiled through his brain, taking away all sensible thoughts and every other emotion. He wanted to hurt Moiraine then and there, shake her like a rag-doll till her teeth chattered, burn those serene dark eyes looking at him coolly, so knowingly, brimful of secrets. He curled his hands into fists at his sides to stop himself from doing just that.
"Fine," he told her curtly. "I'll play stones with you — but —" he emphasized on the 'but' and waited till she looked up at him questioningly. "—we play on my conditions, or we don't play at all."
"Your conditions—?" she started to say but he overrode her.
"Lead on, Moiraine Aes Sedai."
A shiver ran through her at the cold and calculating way he said Aes Sedai, but she was committed now, and still confident of her victory. She inclined her head towards him and turned to lead them to her rooms.
Mat followed, running his hands through his hair. Fool! he told himself. Fool, to tangle yourself with Aes Sedai like that. But at each step he took forward, a tingle was spreading through his arms and legs. Luck, he thought, I can feel it. It's bloody Luck, and ain't she with me today! A feverish haze was over his brain, all thoughts obliterated, as he followed Moiraine. Luck buzzed like hornets in his ears, tingled like lightning in his fingers. He grinned humorlessly and almost pitied Moiraine.
I'll show her today! Wiping her bloody hands on her flaming dress after touching a farm-boy! Bloody noble-women! He hated all noble-women, but more than them he hated Aes Sedai, with their bloody One Power. He followed her to her rooms with cold rage coursing through his veins and luck tingling in his body at every step.
She gaped openly at him when he laid down his terms in front of her, all Aes Sedai serenity forgotten.
"You want me to do what?"
"I thought all Aes Sedai were experts in deduction," he said with a sneer in his voice. "I'll lay it out for you more simply. After every game you lose, you take off something you're wearing. Is that simple enough for you, Aes Sedai?"
Her cool composure was back as she regarded him with eyes like hard black agates, a tightness around her mouth.
"I am not going to lose," she told him.
He gave her his humorless grin. "Shall we begin, then? Now, where's that bloody admirable board you told me about?"
She led him to the little apple-wood table in her bed chamber. He turned to bolt the door behind them, and noticed little dark red spots on the bolt. Bloody majhere and her cleaning day and night, and still the bolts are rusty! Burn that woman! He snorted in disgust and turned to find her looking at him with an eyebrow raised. He gave her a chill little smile.
"Wouldn't want anyone to disturb us, now, would I?"
She just turned away from him with a stony expression towards a cabinet and took out a glass decanter filled with clear amber wine, and two goblets. She placed it on the table and poured them each a drink.
Mat snorted. Burn me for a fool if I more than sip from that. He turned the chair around and straddled it. She took a drink from her goblet before sitting down and Mat saw that half of her wine was gone when she put it back. Light burn me, that wine's from Arafel. Who'd go chugging it like watered-down ale? His eyes found another decanter on a side-table by the bed. It was half-empty. Bloody drinking noble-women, he grimaced with disgust, looked down at the board and swore again. Those bloody pieces could feed a farmhouse for a whole damn year!
They started. He could feel the tingling, sizzling feeling of luck in the tips of his fingers as he drew black for the first game. He picked up a head of Artur Hawkwing and placed it randomly on the board. Random is Luck. He repeated it in his head like a mantra. Random, random, Light burn me!
She played deliberately, calculatingly; he moved every piece without thought, placing them in the most random places possible.
He won.
"Your ring first, Moiraine Sedai." He gestured at the table.
She stared at him for a whole minute before taking off the Great Serpent ring and placing it aside. She could not believe he had won. But she told herself that there was no way he could win again. It was just luck that he won once. Just luck.
Luck, Mat thought to himself and grinned mirthlessly. Luck.
After the next game her kesiera joined her ring. And she lost the next one, too. She could not understand how he was winning when he played so haphazardly! He pointed to her bodice, telling her with a careless flick of his finger to take it off, but she daintily slipped her feet out of her blue and silver slippers, and placed them aside.
That earned a bark of laughter from him. "After the next one, then, Aes Sedai."
And sure enough, the end of the next game saw her unlacing her bodice of dark blue velvet heavily embroidered with silver. She took it off and dropped it to a side. Her sky blue silk dress suddenly felt very thin and loose to her without the bodice.
She drew Artur Hawkwing for the next three hands. Mat's coat, shirt and boots joined her bodice on the carpet. She grew a bit more confident and refilled her goblet. But his cold, mirthless grin never faltered, neither did the feverish light in his eyes. They seemed to burn with rage and hatred.
And despite her confidence, she drew white for the next game and lost. Bonwhin's face seemed to be her bad luck charm that night. Mat straightened his chair and watched, leaning back, a foot on one knee, as she began to undo row upon row of little pearl buttons on her sleeves and down her back. There was a grim satisfaction in his eyes, a mocking smile on his lips.
Burn me, but I hate noble-women! And Aes Sedai even more than that! And of all the bloody Aes Sedai in the world I hate you the most, Moiraine bloody Sedai! Light blind me if I don't!
She stood up and the dress slid down her shoulders in a rustling sigh, to pool on the floor; she stepped out of it lightly and picked it up to place it beside her bodice. She sat down again, her face calm as always, clad in only a thin linen shift, a hint of a blush on her cheekbones. Or was it a trick of the firelight?
Mat cursed again. Burn you, Moiraine, Light burn you! Would nothing ruffle your bloody calm?
They started and he drew Hawkwing again. An infinitesimal sigh escaped her lips. She swayed slightly as she threw back her head to drain her goblet of wine. Her fingers slipped a little on the — Mat noticed — more than half-empty decanter as she refilled her goblet. Mat saw the wound on her forefinger as she put the decanter back on the table; it was an ugly, red thing. Without thinking he grabbed her hand, sliding his thumb across her wound. Her hand was tiny in his, her fingers so thin, so small compared to his thumb. They felt smooth and cool in his hand.
"Oh, this." He looked up at the sound of her melodious voice, and she withdrew her hand from his, smoothing over the wound with the fingers of her other hand. "I slid the bolt rather more fervently than necessary earlier in the evening."
He realized, then, that the red stains on the bolt hadn't been rust.
"Can't you, you know..."
"No," she said simply. "I cannot heal myself." She contemplated the wound for a few seconds and when she looked up, there was an expression in her eyes that Mat could have sworn was sorrow. "It's a little cut, it doesn't matter. It's your turn, Matrim."
So it is, burn me! Get a hold of yourself, you Light-blinded fool. You got a game to win. Luck. He sipped from his goblet. Light burn you for a fool, Mat Cauthon, grabbing hands like that! Blood and ashes!
Their knees touched under the tiny table and he shifted his position slightly away from her, cursing the maker of that blasted table. He moved a random stone without thinking and looked at her obliquely. Her hair had gathered over one shoulder as she had unbuttoned her dress, and spilled to her waist in dark, lustrous waves, stark against the pale, pale skin of her shoulder and her white linen shift. Mat had never seen prettier hair. Her other shoulder was bare; pale, smooth, slightly angular, a thin white line of a scar across it.
He liked his women round and curvaceous, and Moiraine did not possess the soft curves and smooth roundness of a woman born and bred to a comfortable home life. She was a slight woman and years of hard travel had made her curves slightly more angular, her muscles more toned and defined; a few more scars, little nicks and cuts, were visible over her arms, one along her collarbone. Yet, as she sat contemplating the board, legs crossed at ankles and elbows on the table with her chin resting on her hands, slightly hunched over so that more than a hint of her bosom was visible, he realized that there was a beauty in her that would be unrivaled by a whole room full of round, curvy women. She shifted slightly, their knees touched again and he suddenly realized what he was thinking and felt like hitting himself with Master Luhhan's largest hammer. He let out an angry breath.
But burn me, it's her fault! It's her bloody fault, Light burn her! Light burn all Aes Sedai!
She reached for the decanter and he was as surprised as she looked that it was almost empty.
Light, she drank all of it! And half a decanter before, too! Light, she must be drunk!
Her hands shook visibly for the first time that night as she made her move, and his face split into that wicked, humorless grin as he realized that the game was almost in his lap. From the desperate way her eyes roved the board, he realized that she knew it, too.
She shuddered slightly as he made his last move, sealing his victory, and looked up at her expectantly. He did not say anything, but their eyes met over the table, hers dark and huge in her face, his as black and hard as Artur Hawkwing's obsidian ones, and just as relentless. She shuddered again; blood had drained from her face and it was as pale as Bonwhin's ivory one. He just looked at her unblinkingly, not saying anything at all.
She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath. Her hands shook as she gripped her thin linen shift and began to raise it slowly, ever so slowly, with shaking hands and numb fingers she lifted it, over her legs, across her stomach. With a whispering sound, it slid over her breasts and caught a little; she slid her arms out of it, lifted it over her head and dropped it at her side. It had been a single, fluid movement but to Mat it seemed as if hours had passed. Her face was framed by the dark waterfalls of her hair as it spilled out of the neckline of her shift. She held the rest of her body very still, though her hands, resting flat on the table, still trembled. She hadn't raised her eyes yet and Mat looked at her.
Light! He thought. Light, she's beautiful! She's perfect! Light, could there ever be anyone more so? Light burn her, and Light burn me for thinking it, but she's bloody perfect!
Her hair tumbled down in soft, loose waves, framing her face and slender neck, spilling down her back, a little mussed, but still lustrous in the soft candlelight. Her long lashes rested like feathers against her cheeks, a spot of color high on each one, as she bit her trembling lower lip. Her shoulders were half bared, half covered by those glorious hair; he felt like touching it to see how soft it was, and cursed himself for even thinking that. His eyes roamed lower, her body was as smooth and ageless as her face, her breasts small, rosy-tipped, each curve, each line so perfect that breath caught in his throat.
Here and there were little white scars, a legacy of twenty years of lonely travel and turmoil; she couldn't heal herself to unblemished perfection like she did for all the other people, Mat remembered.
Her waist was slender and tiny, with muscles toned yet soft like rose petals, dipping smoothly in her navel and then flaring to form a small, perfectly round bottom, leading to legs that were unbelievably smooth and slender, skin soft as velvet. The faint scent of roses that always surrounded her was stronger now, and underneath it was something muskier, more lush.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his suddenly dry mouth for a moment, and then the anger returned with such vehemence that he thought he would start shaking with it. He did not know why he was so angry. He had never been so angry in his life. He could feel his nails digging into his palms, and his knuckles were white with the effort of controlling himself.
She looked up, then, and her face was as serene as ever, her expression bland; there was not a single sign to tell that her composure was, or had ever been ruffled. If she noticed the grim line his lips were stretched in, or the vehement hatred that burned in his eyes or the rage that shook his balled-up fists, she gave no indication.
"Shall we start the next game, then?" she said, and her voice was as calm and melodious as ever as she reached a hand into the pouch to draw.
Light burn her, is nothing ever going to shake her? Suppressing the desire to smash that cool, composed, ageless, beautiful face, he hissed, "'Tis the end now, when you lose—"
"If I lose, Matrim," she said, cutting him mid-sentence, and drew her hand out of the pouch. She opened her fingers and Artur Hawkwing's obsidian head lay in her dainty palm, stark against the pale skin.
His lips peeled back and he ground his teeth in anger and frustration. Formless thoughts buzzed in his brain, everything obscured in a red haze of rage that made it hard for him to focus on the board.
They played and he lost the game, and his breeches. He sat in his small clothes, running a hand through his mussed hair and muttered to himself, "Luck."
She gave him a startled look.
"Luck," he told her with a humorless grin and felt it tingle in his fingers. All other thoughts burned in a haze. The only thing he could remember was his hatred for Moiraine, and Luck.
"This will be the last game," he told her in a voice so emotionless, she never thought it could have existed. "When you lose this one..." His gaze flickered to her bed for a moment and she followed it with her eyes, a cold heavy feeling in her heart. Luck, he had said. It seemed hers was just not with her today. She could feel the hatred in his eyes and the ache in her heart intensified. I can't fall apart now, she told herself. She knew the meaning behind that momentary flicker of his eyes well enough.
She inclined her head, wondering why she did not just quit, and offered him the pouch of stones to draw. He drew Hawkwing, of course. She flinched as he almost threw a piece on the board. She countered, but Bonwhin's gaze seemed to mock her from where she had placed her piece. He was moving pieces even more haphazardly, a frenzy in his movements, eyes seething with fury, lips peeled back in a snarl. Her heart was a leaded stone as each of his moves cornered her, blocking out roots of escape; it was becoming unbearably hard to maintain her outward calm. Her fingers shook, her mind was numb, her thoughts clogged by a haze of wine.
He took her last piece almost lazily; Hawkwing toppled Bonwhin and her face rolled off the board in a slow half circle, both their eyes fixed on it. In the silence that ensued, he stood up slowly, and bent over the table towards her, his hands flat on the tabletop, his face inches from hers, eyes burning with hate.
"You lost, Aes Sedai," his voice was a taut whisper, barely audible. She opened her mouth to say something, but with a snarl he pushed the table aside; it crashed down, smashing the empty decanter. The little carved faces of Hawkwing and Bonwhin lay scattered all over the carpet and their clothes, looking up at him reproachfully as he strode forward towards her; she had stood up, too, and took an involuntary step back and almost toppled over her chair.
He seized her arms roughly, right above her elbows and lifted her bodily off the carpet; she struggled against him for a moment, her eyes wide with shock, but then she let her body go limp in his grip as if all the fight had gone out of her. In two strides he had thrown her on the bed, like a rag-doll, climbing in beside her, his small clothes gone. He was still gripping her arms in a vise-like grip that was going to leave huge bruises, as he spread her legs with his knees, and then, without warning, he plunged into her so hard, filling her to the hilt in a single move, that her body arched with a jerk and a sobbing cry of pain was ripped from her throat. She gasped with pain as he thrust again, her numb fingers clawing at the sheets as his vise-like grip cut off the circulation in her arms.
"Light burn you, I hate all noble-women," his vehement whisper, burning with hate, was a whiplash as he bit her shoulder hard enough to draw blood. He bit her neck, leaving red marks, her skin bruising easily, and then his lips touched her jaw — one of his hands let go of her arm and he cupped her face with it, running a rough thumb across her lower lip so harshly that her teeth dug into its soft inside with the pressure of it, and she tasted blood. He bent over her face, looking into her eyes and hissed, "—and I hate all Aes Sedai!" —and lowered his face in a rough kiss that left her lips bloody and swollen. She tasted of honey, and sweet, heady Arafel wine, mixed with a coppery taste of her blood. His hand moved to the back of her head to grip her hair.
"But of all of them, Moiraine," his words were punctuated by deep painful thrusts as he pounded into her. "—of all of them—" He tilted his head aside and snarled in her ear. "—I hate you the most!"
Something broke inside Moiraine, then; tears leaked out of her eyes, ran down her temple, and were absorbed in her hair. He didn't see them, his lips were bruising her collarbone. His grip on her hair and arm hurt, his rough thrusts even more so, but more than any physical pain was the ache in her heart as all the things she had had to face that evening broke through all the layers and barriers she had placed over her thoughts, and realization crashed down over her: the certainty of her imminent death, Lan's betrayal, Rand's disdain over her suggestions, futility of plans she had spent twenty years perfecting... In all of that, Mat's vehement hatred was that smallest of stones that finally made her tip over the edge, and the sobs that she had barely controlled all evening broke free as he snarled.
"I hate you, Moiraine bloody Sedai! I hate you! I hate you!" More painful than the thrusts berating her body were his words, like lashes on her already battered mind, creating unseen bruises over her heart. It hurt.
And then it was over with a final hard thrust and he collapsed over her with a last whispered, "I hate you, Moiraine."
He felt her heart beating against his chest, fast, fluttering, felt her body begin to tremble and shake with sobs. Leaving her lying there, he got up and with one last look at the new blue black bruises on her arms, and the bite marks that flamed red over the pale delicate skin of her neck and shoulders, he gathered his clothes.
Buttoning his coat, he turned to glance at her one last time before leaving. She was curled between the sheets like a little child scared of bad dreams, her arms around herself, her shoulders shaking with silent sobs.
He turned his back on her and left, closing the door softly behind him.
A/N: You probably hate me right now. I know — I hate myself a little every time I read this story. Thing is, it kinda wrote itself and it seemed perfect in a twisted, sadistic way, and I didn't want to change anything. Also, it was the first story that I actually managed to finish and I really wasn't ready to tear it apart for any reason. I'm still not ready to change anything in it, so here it is. Probably the third part will be a little more appeasing. I'm working on it. The review button is just below, would love to hear your thoughts.