Matthias

Time, curious time

Gave me no compasses, gave me no signs

Were there clues I didn't see?

And isn't it just so pretty to think

All along there was some

Invisible string

Tying you to me?

His arms ached from the effort of dragging the heavy oak oars through the water. In the tumult of the maelstrom, Matthias had lost track of all concept of time. They might have been in the lifeboat for two minutes or two days. Anything seemed possible in the storm-roughened ocean. Without the ministrations of the girl, the cold had crept up on him like a bony finger scraping up his spine. Every instinct impressed upon him by the Drüskelle had fought against her touch, yet he could not deny that he missed the press of her body— no, he reminded himself quickly, her fingers, not body— against his skin and the warmth that had followed. His knuckles were alabaster white as they gripped the oars. He suspected the only reason he had not yet died of cold was because the physical exertion of rowing kept his heart beating.

The storm had quieted in stages; the time between the lightning flashes grew bigger, the screeching squalls calmed, and the torrential rain lightened to misty droplets.

He had no idea where they were headed, but the rowing gave the impression that there was a plan and they were not floating abandoned in the icy northern waters. The sky was growing mellow in what must be the east, fading from inky black to smudged navy blue. Matthias steered the ship in the opposite direction heading west to the Fjerdan coast. It was all he could do to pray that they would encounter the rocky cliff faces or black sand beaches before it was too late.

With nothing but the dark expanse of sea to look at beyond the boat, he looked down at the girl. She was laying on the bottom of the boat, legs curled, back straight. Thick chestnut hair was spread around her, windswept and damp but still surprisingly glossy. Loose strands fell across her face, contrasting against her pale skin. Her lips, despite the cold, were red and full, slightly parted as she slept.

Despite his better judgement, worry had shot through him when he'd seen her double up in pain, her pretty face marred with tears. When she had keeled over, he had thought the worst. Though he was loathe to admit it, his heart had shot to his stomach.

Then he had seen the rise and fall of her chest and irritating relief had washed over him. He suspected it was because- as much as he hated to admit it- he needed to use her for survival in the cold. That was surely the only explanation for his heart's peculiar misbehaviour.

Seawater clung to her lashes. They curled against her cheeks, as fine as the brushstrokes of an intricate watercolour. She shifted slightly, muttered something in Ravkan, which he did not understand. Matthias knew he should look away, knew it was wrong to want to keep his eyes on her, but he could not stop himself. It was more than just her beauty which made him stare. She was strange; capable of such vitriol and resentment, yet so capable of care and warmth. He thought back to the stricken expression on her face when she had told him the old man was dead. She looked haunted to have lost someone she cared so dearly about.

He had never thought of the Grisha having the same depth of emotion as normal people, yet there was no faking the agony on her face. He had seen the crushing grief on her face, perhaps recognised it because it reflected that mournful, empty place in his own heart where those he loved had once resided.

It would not do to dwell on ghosts.

A noise came from her prone form. Not words or anything so coherent. Just a thin moan. Her shoulders were trembling and for a wild moment, Matthias thought she was crying. But no; she was shivering. No doubt keeping their blood circulating for so long in such dire conditions had drained her. He guessed the wound, whatever it was, was also taking its toll.

He started suddenly. There it was again; that odd tightness in his throat at the thought of her in pain.

Scowling, he stopped rowing for a moment, unsure of what to do now. At the back of his head, a morsel of memory pinched. Something they had been told during the nautical section of Drüskelle training. Each of the lifeboats on official Fjerdan convoys with a capacity of more than fifty people will contain enough provisions to survive at sea. He could practically hear the voice of the orienteering teacher at the Ice Court. Discussions of maritime war tactics, harpoon guns and naval boarding smuggling ships were far more common than talks of what might happen in the case of Fjerdan malfunction. Failure had always seemed so unlikely in the gleaming halls of the Ice Court where soldiers strode about with fine, fur-lined robes and lion-like pride.

Now here he was, crammed into a lifeboat with an unconscious Grisha in the middle of the ocean.

He watched her shoulders quake with the cold, her fingers mottled white and her cheeks pinched and chapped. Commander Brum would tell Matthias to leave the Grisha to her own devices, let her freeze if she must, because she was still the enemy and though he might not actively have to kill her, he ought not work too hard to keep her alive.

But she saved you, a small voice reminded him. She didn't have to help you; you were unconscious and she could have swam right past you, but she saved you. Though Matthias did not know why the girl had helped him, he knew that he owed her. Besides, in this vast, dark nothingness, who else was there?

Beneath the bench on which he sat, there was a sealed wooden hatch. He opened it to reveal a deerskin knapsack containing a few packs of dried beef and flavourless crackers, three flasks of clean water, a hunting knife, a packet of matches, two blankets, a compass, a foldaway map of the stars, and a Fjerdan hymn book. Pulling out the blankets, he reached over to her and hesitated.

He was going to simply throw one over her and turn back to the task of steering the vessel, but something stopped him. Instead, cautiously, he draped the blanket over her, tucking it under her chin and cocooning her body in the rough wool and sable fur. Her tremors eased, as did her laboured breathings, and she made a soft sound, nuzzing into the fabric like a small child. She looked so young in that moment as she slept soundly. Her face was calm now, no longer dripping with sarcasm, bored flirtation or plain hatred.

It was odd. She looked like any other girl in the dim dawn light.

Almost out of curiosity, he reached out a hand and stroked a finger down her cheek. He wasn't sure what he had been expecting to happen. Perhaps that her beauty would fade and she would twist into a hissing siren, embodying the horror that everyone at the Ice Court had taught him lurked in each Grisha.

But her skin was smooth, if cold. Like church marble.

As if suddenly becoming aware of how ridiculous he was acting, he snatched his hand back, angry with himself.

What had he been thinking? The cold must really be getting to him.

Shrugging the second thermal blanket over his own shoulders and began rowing, hoping that he could push troubling thoughts about the girl's smooth skin out of his mind as easily as the oars repelled the water.

The water was calm now. The rain had stopped. Though clouds still blotted out the sky, the sun was beginning to crest the horizon. It tinged the east indigo, easing into dusty violet shot with grey. It seemed so odd to be witnessing something so normal as sunrise after the night's events.

The gravity of what had happened had not fully registered with him as they happened. It was like the scope of it all was coming to him in waves. The wrecked ship. The drowned prisoners. The drowned Fjerdans.

How many of his compatriots had died? How many people like the old man now floated dead or dying in the ocean, condemned to a watery grave?

He should have tried to find others, he should have done more to save the innocent. Instead he had fled at the first opportunity, and with a Grisha witch no less. Like a damn coward.

Shame creeped up his spine, hot and painful. Would Jarl Brum really still consider him like a son if he ever found out about Matthias's humiliating abandonment of the other Drüskelle?

He distracted himself from these troubling thoughts by pulling the oars harder, faster, trying to lose himself in the burn of his muscles and the cold sweat between his shoulder blades.

Tiredness was taking over him now and his senses felt sluggish, like a sword in need of a whetstone. How badly he wanted to roll into his cot back at the Ice Court, or even bunk down in one of the narrow camp beds the Drüskelle used on expeditions—

Something caught his attention and wiped all feelings of drowsiness from his system.

Faintly towards the east, something long and uneven jutted up against the dark dawn. It was grey and blurred in the dim light but unmistakably the outcrops of the coast.

His heart leapt in his chest and he bit back the urge to shout in triumph, fearing he might startle the drüsje and she would upturn the too-small boat. Instead he struck out, harder and more forcefully than before. The girl slept on, oblivious to Matthias's sudden elation.

If he could make it back to shore, he could navigate his way back to civilisation, find out who had survived the sinking.

He could atone for his actions.

A jolt of shame rocked through him, but he fought past it. There would be time to lament his actions later. For now, he needed to make it to land again.

The girl slept on as he rowed.

Each stroke was punishing, but he heaved on. As the boat drew closer, he saw the rocky coast more distinctly; the land rose up, muted white snow interspersed by planes of jet black rock, ancient and volcanic. They must be more northerly than he had anticipated.

Far in the west, the sky broke from dusty shades of blue and purple to weak, overcast grey. It was a miserable dawn, but Matthias had never been more grateful for daybreak.

It seemed not long at all before the boat was tantalisingly close to the shore. The sand was black and a fine sea mist skimmed the oddly calm water. The air smelled like salt and brine, like cracked rock and heavy, cold air. It had been quiet at sea after the storm had lulled, but this seemed eerily quiet as the snow dampened the ambient noises even more.

White, flat-billed seabirds floated in the water, bobbing over the foam-tipped waves and watching Matthias with small black eyes like sentries of the sea. A few squawked, disturbing the stillness, though that did little to comfort him.

They were fifty foot from shore, twenty foot, ten—

With the rasp of shingle against wood, the boat rocked against the seabed. Matthias breathed a sigh of relief, rolling his strained shoulders and revelling in the proximity of solid land. Bracing himself for the cold, he jumped out of the boat and into the shallows. Though the water was not as paralytically freezing as that of the middle of the ocean, it still made him gasp at the shock of it.

Still, the knowledge that he had a chance of returning home made the pain bearable. He seized the hull and pulled hard. The scrape of the small black pebbles against the wood made a wretched sound, but he didn't stop. He carried on pulling until it was back on the land and out of the water.

It felt so odd to have his feet planted solidly on hard ground. Not to feel the rocking of the lifeboat, nor the faint unsteadiness of the prisoner ship was wonderful. He ought to be revelling in his aliveness, in his survival, but he could not. Something felt wrong, off-kilter and unbalanced. When he looked down at the boat, he realised what it was.

The girl was there, still asleep, hair still dark as mahogany, skin still smooth as fresh cream.

He hadn't considered what would happen if they reached land. After the chaos of the shipwreck, he'd only been able to think one step at a time, not thinking about a real plan.

What was he to do with the injured Grisha soldier unconscious in the lifeboat surrounded by snow and sea?

Leave her.

Leaver her and be done with this business.

Leave her to die and wash your hands clean of this Ravkan filth.

Leave her and save yourself.

Save yourself and forget.

Bile rose in Matthias's throat as he stood there, watching over her, his conscience torn in two. She was the enemy, was she not? He was her enemy. Why should he save her? No, there was no use pretending that this peculiar alliance between them didn't exist.

Truce, she had said in her crisp Fjerdan accent. She had sounded like a noble Fjerdan princess as she leaned into him below deck after she had saved him and spoke to him. Though he had expressed disgust and revulsion at her touch, there was a part of him (however loathsome) that was calmed by the press of her against him.

He remembered her screams of pain. They had ripped at him like a butcher's knife. He remembered the instinct to protect her from Vidar and his cruelty. He remembered her screams of pain. They had ripped at him like a butcher's knife. Remembered how he had wanted to strike down whatever had hurt her. Knowing there was nothing he could do to ease her pain had been agonising.

Those same impulses raged in him now. The urge to keep her from harm, to draw her close to protect her from the wind itself. Djel, what was wrong with him? They are corrupted, unnatural thoughts, he told himself. Yet Matthias had never known anything that was so treacherous to feel so right.

It was sickening.

Matthias gathered up the pack of supplies, shrugging it onto his shoulders. He turned and began walking, leaving the girl in the snow.

Blood roared in his ears and his insides twisted painfully.

Truce. Truce. Truce.

The word rang in his mind with every step he took.

He stopped dead in his tracks, breathing in the cold seasalt air, fists tight at his side. What sort of a man was he if he would not keep his word? How could he say he served with honour and truth if he broke his oath to the girl? It went deeper than a promise, Matthias knew that, but he could not bring himself to examine that any more. Not yet.

He turned on his heel and ran to the boat.

With a deep breath, he reached down and lifted her into his arms, careful not to twist her position and cause her anymore pain. His chest loosened at the feel of her, the rise of her breathing and the fluttering of her lashes against her cheeks. He stared down at her and dread unfurled in the pit of his stomach.

Whatever he had started in coming back for her, he knew it could not end well.