I finish my work on them, and check on the women, who were sequestered away, tended to by several female servants. They were nervous of the men, but less nervous of me. One girl sits there with a blank, dead expression as I check her over for anything the servants missed. The other is boiling with anger, which tells me she wasn’t captured for long. Probably the vassal they went out to save.
“I hate them,” the woman says, letting me stitch up a slash on her forearm. “I’m glad they’re dead.” Her features are twisted in an ugly, rictus grin. Not quite stable.
Like those of the women and men I’ve helped in the past. Survivors of bandit attacks. Survivors of Claymore cattle raids and house hits. I wonder if the Claymore servants have had to sit here, too, patching up their own survivors from our raids. So much blood on both sides. Everyone feeling equally justified. We could kill and kill until no one remains, each believing themselves right to their last breaths.
Perhaps my husband feels this. He doesn’t know how to deal with a widening perception as it licks at the cracks of his beliefs, his thoughts. I hate it, because I’m seeing things I never saw before. Considering things I never believed possible.
That the Claymores are humans, too.
A male servant regards me when I leave the chambers, and I remember him from being one of Ethel’s friends. Ethel stands next to him, her puffy face twisted in a smile that seems sinister to me at best. We’re in the servant section of the estate, and I spend a couple of minutes heading to my own suite. My husband’s suite. Ours. Still experiencing that coldness, not knowing where to go with it.
The next few days hardly get easier. I’m allowed to contact my own family, which I suppose my husband believes is awfully generous, but I’m watched the entire call, by both Graves guards, along with Desmond and Rayse as I connect through to my father. Obviously they don’t want me giving away any pertinent information. Clan secrets and all that. The office I’m in is opulent, showing off trophy kills of animal heads stuck to frames, with several plush armchairs, bookshelves, an intricately swirling lamp, and a desk with a computer on it. People can still write and print from them, and access internet, though the internet is laden with what people call viruses. Unregulated chaos. Use at own risk.
Our vassal group, the Masons, passed down network engineering knowledge from the world’s collapse, and maintain our own connections. Most people don’t have these anymore. Specialists sell their wares for obscene amounts of money.
My father and I grunt out some how are yous. When he passes the call to my mother, it goes well. Sort of.
“Oh, my baby, you’re calling us! Are they treating you horribly? Do you need us to get you out of there?” is how the first section of it went.
Aware of the pressure of eyes upon me, I chirp back a positive response. My husband is a good man… for a Claymore. It does invoke a she’s being brainwashed panic from my mother, but I stick to my guns and say I’m doing what needs to be done. Remember that.
“You’re braver than us,” my mother replies. “You did the right thing, I know. And it’s about time the raids stopped, but… they’re still Claymores. We’re Hartsons!” Ah. I smile in spite of myself. Hearing Claymore spat as an insult, and Hartson as something revered feels normal. Comforting, even. It’s been so long that even I started incorporating some of the Claymore hatred, feeling as if my former surname, my heritage was a dirty thing.
“I’ll make it work out, ma. Whatever happens. It’s time we stopped the raids, anyway.”
Judging by Rayse’s face when I end the call, he’s not too happy at the prospect of stopping raids on the Hartsons. Probably he was expecting to prove himself as an accomplished warrior by walking into a Hartson vassal building and taking the defenseless women there. So mighty.
“Thank you,” Desmond says, patting me on the shoulder after the call. Baby steps, I think.
Later on, I bump into that same servant I saw with Ethel. I was on the way to visit Jay, and only one of the Graves guards followed. The other was resting.
“Ah, I’ve been hoping to bump into you!” the man says, with a wide, charming smile, bowing. “I’m Paul Grantmore. I’m to be bringing you food to your chambers in the future.”
“Are you now?” I say, raising one eyebrow, folding my arms. He’s got a thin face, a pointed chin, though the features compliment him, somehow. Less appealing is the oily manner in which he reacts to me.
“Yes. I insisted. The others, they don’t want to serve a Hartson, you know. But I can see how hard you’re trying. What you did was brave and noble. I will try and make the others see reason.”
“Uh, thanks,” I say, taken aback. Did I read this wrong? He smiles at me again, perfectly friendly, and strolls past. I consider the exchange. I’m not really in a position to be able to refuse overtures of friendliness. I don’t have many friends in this place, and the only way I can stop them being so hostile is to reach out to more of them. Make them see the human in me. Easier said than done, of course. It always is.
I’ll have to be careful for this being a trap, though. I know Ethel doesn’t like me, and Paul and her are friends.
I startle when I make it back to our suite, just in time to see Desmond taking his tunic off, revealing that bare, lightly furred chest, and the striking contours of his body, draped in the shadows the room offers. It triggers a visceral, deep reaction in me, and I’m extremely glad in that moment that a woman’s arousal is not quite so visible. Jesus Christ he’s a good-looking man.
Even for a Claymore.
“Hey,” I say, clearing my throat, proud that my voice doesn’t shake or that my cheeks are flaming. “You should be careful. The stitches might be gone, but it’ll still be tender there.”
He turns to face me, and I’m struck by the sudden, foolish idea that his positioning was deliberate. As if he was listening for me to return before peeling off his top. “I’m alright, now. No troubles at all, see?” He flexes for good measure, keeping his face perfectly controlled. No big deal, flexing a bare chest in front of a woman. None at all.
“I’d prefer it if you tried harder not being shot or stabbed at, though. He smiles in a perfunctory way, before facing me completely.
“I wanted to say that I’m thankful for your help with the boys and the girls. Bobby says you did a great job. The others are struggling to admit you helped them.”
“Mm,” I say, knowing one person who vehemently rejected my touch: Rayse. “I think one of the girls has the mosquito disease, but we’ll have to wait longer to see it. Your brother’s still a little reluctant to let me near him, you know.”
“He’s stubborn and a fool, choked up on pride,” Desmond says with a sigh. Then a small, shy smile lights up his face. “Do you really think me a good man? Or was that just for show with your family when you called them?”
I pause, seeing his earnest face, feeling that impulse not to disappoint. I open and close my mouth a few times, before I know my answer. “Yes. You’re a good man.”
His answering smile is like the sun coming up after a cold, bitter night.
“Don’t let it get to your head though,” I add. “You’re still a Claymore.”