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handspunyarns · 6 months ago

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You Were Marked: Days Twenty-Seven to Twenty-Nine (Marathel).

pairing: din djarin x plus-size fem!O/C

word count: 11K

chapter summary: Marathel releases her rage.

warnings:  murder, violence, violence to infants and children, suicide ideation, suicide attempt, object rape, description of dead bodies, blood, brain injury, angst, heartbreak, mention of mental breakdowns, mental illness, English cursing

***Please feel free to comment, kvetch, or otherwise speak your mind about my work. ***

You Were Marked: Masterlist

You Were Marked: <- Previous Chapter

Marathel looked up for a long time after she could no longer see the Crest, straining her eyes to find its lights against the darkness of the night sky. By her figuring, it was after the mid-night and was well on the way to dawn. She stood, left the gorugelly grove, and began walking back to her hut.

Marathel could hear the yip-yehs of the Dahls deep in the grasslands. The Dahls were very active tonight, which she thought was unusual. It was not the between season, so the Dahls would not be mating, but she could feel a deep undercurrent of excitement among the animals. They were … preparing for something, but Marathel knew not what it was. She supposed it didn’t matter, as she no longer had her close bond with Rodanthe. Marathel was pleased to learn that she had still this smallest of connections with the Dahls at all, and she hoped that they would be willing to keep her company in her remaining seasons.

Din did not want me to be alone in the wilderness. He would be glad to know I still have the Dahls in some way.

Wouldn’t he?

Marathel wasn’t so sure, and the resulting sadness made her heart hurt. Perhaps the heartache would come to hurt her less as time went on, and Din and Grogu would be only a happy memory. Perhaps her guilt for hurting Din — and Grogu — as deeply as she had would be alleviated with time as well. Perhaps she would eventually be able to forgive herself for inflicting so much pain upon the two people she loved most.

And perhaps I can flap my arms and fly to the moon to have tea with the Luad Dycwingen!

With a heavy sigh, Marathel turned past the rock outcrop, the very place where the armored Bounty Hunter had stood as she flung a rock at his helmet. She stepped in the very footprints his boots had left as they had walked back and forth together from her hut to wherever they had gone, those few days they had together. Perhaps Din had left something behind in her hut, a token that she could treasure. Marathel thought about that adornment she’d seen on Din’s wrist. She was certain he didn’t have it while they were together here on Unmanarall. He must have procured it when he and Grogu had gone off somewhere while she was on Tatooine, or perhaps with the Reconstructionists. The idea that Din had a memento of her both hurt and cheered her heart. It was made of a fine yarn, the same colors he’d seen her use, the very colors she’d used to knit the cord for the little clam shell Grogu had given her. I left it hanging on my loom, thought Marathel. I’ll find that clam shell pendant and wear it the rest of my days.

Marathel began to move faster, impatient to get to her hut and to the clam shell. Under the starlit sky, she could see the outline of the flat roof, but … something was wrong. There was a smell, a smell she knew well, but it took her a moment to catch it in her addled mind.

Metallic. Flat. A smell she’d known her whole life.

Blood.

A lot of blood.

Marathel stopped in her tracks, panicking. Why would her hut smell so strongly of blood? As she began to creep closer, the rotting smell came up from underneath, the smell of decaying flesh; another smell she knew too well. A gorge rose in her throat, but she kept moving closer. Now she could hear the buzzing flies, and she knew without a doubt that the rotting flesh smell didn’t belong to any animal, but was the flesh of a person, a woman.

Marathel dropped her bag where she stood and began to cry. She didn’t know who was dead in her hut, but she knew that she was the reason a dead woman was there. It was her fault.

It was still too dark for Marathel to fully see; it was some time before sunrise. Marathel moved carefully along the side of her hut, her feet quietly splashing in the little stream, not feeling the cold of the water or the sharpness of the pebbles on her soles. She climbed up to the platform by her “leaning post”, feeling her way along the counter, reaching up for her glowworm lantern. Taking it down from its hook, she felt along the top shelf, finding her firelighters. She took these as well, and carefully stepped down from the platform back to the ground. She reached under the platform, finding a torch.

Marathel carried all these back to the front of the hut, certain now that a dead woman had been placed in her hut as a message to her. What if I’d never come back, she wondered, although she knew that it wouldn’t have mattered … the message was not just for her, but for all the women. See what happens when you disobey, you stupid whore cunts.

With trembling hands, Marathel sparked a firelighter and touched the flame to the torch, carefully turning it in her hand to make the torch catch fully with the strongest flame. She took a deep breath and raised her eyes and the torch. It was not just a woman, but four. Four women. Specifically, the four women who took her and the marchwyl from the Hold and into the hands of Din Djarin.

Hanging from a roof support were the naked bodies of Olba, Tymfy, Lorica, and … Hylma. Hylma? No, why Hylma? All four were swollen with decay, their skin sloughing off due to expansion of body gasses and gravity, for they must have been killed and placed here directly after helping Marathel escape, some… nineteen days ago. Their eyes had been cut out, along with their tongues. Their throats were sliced, their bodies slit from their neck wounds to their pubic bones, and their intestines hung in bloated ropes down to the wooden floor, the floor where she and Grogu had played, where she and Din had sat and chatted, where he’d pinned her naked body down, where she’d stood in fear, wielding a sharpened stick against a man made of metal, a man with a warm voice and a sweet child in his bag. Each woman had a makeshift wooden Dilimgau shoved inside her vagina. Each woman was missing her hands, punishment for the thieves that they were.

Olba ap Captain had been her mam in all ways that mattered. Olba was her deliverer at birth, her wet nurse, her protector, the one who believed in her even though little Marathel struggled with so many things … her poor memory, her terrible cycles, her inability to keep her mouth shut when an acerbic retort came to her lips.

Tymfy ap Hunter had been her friend, taught her games, gave her hugs, and when Marathel would have her cycle and the cramps were too much for Marathel to even stand up, Tymfy would rub her back and take on her chores, always smiling for poor confused Marathel.

Lorica ap Bishop was the best distance spitter in the kitchen, and she could hit a fly on a windowsill from across the room. Lorica had a deep, booming voice, and taught Marathel all the tricks for baking the best bread… along with all sorts of tricks for surviving the things the Bishop did to her, like how to position her body at different times, when to clench certain muscles, how to open her throat so she wouldn’t choke. And how to spit for distance.

Hylma ap Duke was the one surprise in the group of women before her. Marathel only knew her because Hylma had been the last infant that she’d helped to deliver before she left the Hold, leaping forward to catch the infant with her hands as she fell from her mother. She’d been the most beautiful baby, with a perfect round face and loud, strong, lusty cries. Even though Marathel knew the babe could not focus her eyes yet, the two females had gazed at each other with knowing. Even as the tiny girl-baby had entered this horrible, tortuous, hell-ridden bestiary of a Hold, Marathel could see the infant knew that they were both condemned to death at the hands of the men that had brought them to life.

Marathel dropped to her knees, threw her head back, and howled.

She howled loud enough that it was heard in the Hold courtyard, where Whyns and girls who had been brutalized the night before the Round Building were limping back to the low building to have their wounds tended to, where they could weep quietly: that is, the ones who were still able to weep, the ones who hadn’t learned be still yet.

Her howl could also be heard, very faintly, in the Hold kitchen, where Diwhyns were already awake to begin the day’s baking.

The Dahls heard Marathel’s howl as well, and they began to gather in large groups to wait. It begins soon.

Rodanthe, alone, in pain, and near death, whimpered to herself. Silver kit? Here?

Marathel’s howl weakened as she ran out of breath, and she quickly drew in air with a gasp, and wept. All my fault. All my fault. Olba, Tymfy, Lorica, Hylma … I am so sorry! Olba, Olba, why did you drag Hylma into this? She didn’t even know me! Oh, better you had just let me die in there, instead of suffering as well! I never deserved this much sacrifice from any of you! Marathel remained on her knees, holding her ribs tightly as she wailed. She knew this would happen; she knew it as sure as she knew her life had ended when she awoke from her Dahl-daze with Din pinning her with his body against the post. She rocked back and forth as she thought this can’t go on, this can’t go on over and over.

Planting both of her trembling hands firmly on the ground, Marathel lifted her head to look at the four women who delivered her from death. And the rage, dormant since her birth into this hell, began to grow.

But first, Marathel had to do right by the four women who hung before her, who died to save her miserable and unworthy life. Stepping up into the hut and through the enormous blood puddle, she pulled a bench over from the table, and cut down each body, apologizing to each one for being unable to catch them before they fell ignominiously to the floor in crumpled heaps. She ripped down the brown fabric panels that had concealed the Bounty Hunter, the ones that matched the clothing he wore -- despite not knowing that a person such as him existed before he appeared in this yard twenty-seven days ago. Marathel carefully wrapped each woman in a panel, begging for their forgiveness with the only song. She tied each panel tightly with the traveling knots that she had learned as a child, singing the words that begged the Mothers that Went Before to accept these four women among them.

Gwd’wch myrched datoch chi’ir Gwd’wch wm’uno chi’ir tol Gwd’wch awyr’a iffwnt gw’lo Shwd’ay ni geld a shwd’ay ni llonyddwch.

Let these women come to you Let them join you in the sky Let them watch us just as you did Keep us safe and keep us still.

Marathel sang this verse of the only song over and over as she picked every flower she could find in her yard, building a bower over each wrapped body on the floor of her hut. Her bare feet tracked the still tacky blood – there seemed to have been much rain recently, and the air was thick with damp -- back and forth over all the wood.

Blood, always blood everywhere. Blood over all the floors, over all the bedding, drying in sticky drips on torn and battered skin. I have lost so much blood in my life. I have cleaned so much blood, enough to refill my body ten times over, a hundred times over. I never want to clean blood again.

And that was all well and good, but just wanting to not clean blood anymore wasn’t enough for Marathel. She had worked in the kitchen, in the laundry, cleaning everywhere in the Hold, and sometimes just cleaning wasn’t good enough. Sometimes, it was better to burn instead of clean.

Firming her resolve, she found the clam shell pendant she’d left on her loom, and put it around her neck, remembering what the Bounty Hunter had said when they had all cwmigduhwrtch on his chair in the cockpit, watching the Purgills – I will die with my clan in my arms.

Din ... Grogu ... If I die, I will die with your memory close to my heart.

Mothers that Went Before, please keep room for me.

Marathel went to her kitchen and found the best knife she had. It was still dark, and the torch was growing dim lying on the rocky ground. She picked up the glow lantern and shook it before she sat on the steps and sharpened the knife, singing:

Chorgy, chorgy, lla’fern hewern Gyllon dioggwll ac yn fayn Chorgern lla’fern di’rugar Na ng’wyddyr hyr synt i mi.

Sharpen, sharpen this blade That it may slice and cut so fine Sharper blades are much safer Cut not my flesh but what needs cutting.

Again, she sang the simple verse over and over as she sharpened the nicked, old blade to the point that it shaved the transparent hairs on her arm clean off. Marathel stood and took a deep breath. Frith, give me strength. She turned to look back into the hut once more, where she played with a little green child, baked bread for the little child’s father, and took that man within her body to please both herself and him. Marathel broke the lantern open over the flower garden, allowing the glowworms within their freedom. Leaving her bag behind on the ground, she picked up the torch and tossed it on the steps of the old shepherd’s hut, her erstwhile home, so that it would burn to ashes, just as her heart and soul had been burned to ashes by the injustices dealt to her by the men in the Hold. Not just the men. Everything male in that Hold, once they can walk and talk, they have abused me. They hurt me. They tortured me. They raped me. They didn’t fuck me, they raped me. And then they punished me for receiving some tenderness from a man, the kind of touch I didn’t know existed. They took my body and defiled it and ripped it apart and showed me all my blood.

It’s time for them to see their own blood for once.

Marathel turned her back on the hut and began walking the familiar path back to the Hold gate, not looking behind her, not wanting to watch as the place where she finally experienced true happiness – and love – was destroyed. If she had, she would have seen that the wood had been too soaked by the recent rains to catch aflame, and the torch went out.

As Marathel walked the path she had walked so many times before, gripping the knife handle in one hand and clutching the tiny clam shell in the other, new words to the only song caught in her head, and she quietly sang:

Diwhyn fen’wyh, Belwyn fen’wyh Ond’hynw llawer mwyna’ yrar Gall’dwych felweld wne’byddar Wne’ued fydd rwydd dhau’r!

I am only a woman, I am only a whore But I can do much more than that You will see what I can do When I finally release my rage!

By the time Marathel had made it to the switchbacks, she was running. Despite her size, she was a good runner; all the women were. So much had to get done within the hours of the day that they were allowed to not be of service to the men. The cooking, the cleaning, the gathering, the gardening, checking the snares, caring for the children ... all these things had to be accomplished while still be at the beck and call of whatever male suddenly desired some attention. Frith forfend if a Whyn kept a male waiting! That would mean an extra smack in the mouth, or a lock of hair pulled out, or a foot stomped on.

Marathel jumped up the last two steps to the landing outside the Hold gate and leapt on the stone wall just to the left of the wooden gate. Her muscle memory served her well; she remembered where the hand- and footholds were, worn into the stone by many a female over time, and she scrambled silently over the wall. She’d been caught outside this closed gate many times. Why the gate needed to remain closed and locked had always been a mystery to her – it wasn’t as if anyone else came to that gate, ever, but the Elders demanded it be closed and locked, so it was. Marathel jumped down to the ground, landing in the soft spot of dirt next to the vegetable garden. The soft spot was always kept that way, always freshly tilled and free of rocks or sticks that could injure a bare foot. The females had to look out for each other. Frith knew no one else did. Not even Frith.

Open the gate.

Marathel froze at the unbidden thought. Why in Frith would she need to open the gate? But then a practical thought came to her: she may not be able to escape over the wall as she had come in. That’s wise thinking, old girl, work smarter, not harder. Marathel undid the old wooden lock and pulled the gate open enough to squeeze through. She hadn’t exactly planned beyond getting into the Round Building; she was mildly pleased that at least some part of her shattered brain was thinking ahead.

Marathel walked through the old garden. Nothing had changed. The garden was the same size, the same layout. The same amount of space was allotted for each variety of onion, leek, and parsnip. One season Cennil created a new leek soup that was so delicious that they wanted to expand the official leek area. The men didn’t eat leeks, and it was so delightful to have something new for once, something that was only for the women, and brought them joy instead of pain! But the only way to expand the leeks was to encroach on the sweet peppers, which would have been unthinkable, for the men did eat the peppers; those males would eat them by the bushel if possible! Especially when stuffed with minced cwagylan meat! The women could eat them too, but they had to share the peppers amongst them, with bluegrain taking half the amount of the meat mince. The men got to eat all they wanted; they never had to share. Not even as babies!

The newborn mothers often got milk-fever, so community nursing was necessary. The boys got to nurse exclusively on their own Bryndwhyn, a nursing cunt, women who served as wet nurses for the babies born in the Hold. And boys got to self-wean, and not drop the tit until they wanted to. Many of the Cyilloggs would come into the area of the kitchen meant for nursing, they would grab their Bryndwhyn and fuck them in front of everyone else, just standing right there. And they sucked on the Bryndwhyn’s nipple as they plowed her.

Girls were often weaned early. There were fewer wet nurses for the girls, and there just wasn’t enough to go around. Some Whyns produced more milk than others, so the unguent — the one that Din hated so much — was rubbed into their backs to keep their milk up. The unguent worked on Diwhyns as well to keep their milk flowing long after they couldn’t have babies anymore. In desperate times when the harvest was poor, some Whyns who had yet to catch pregnant would have the smelly unguent rubbed into their backs until their milk came in. Thankfully, wet nurses were allowed to feed across families … an ap Captain Bryndwhyn could certainly nurse an ap Hunter child, for example. Fed was best, as the Diwhyns would say, and the hungry babies always kept coming.

That was information that particularly interested Eliadu, the Reconstructionist who rebuilt Marathel’s brain. Very curious, thought Marathel. Eliadu asked so many questions about that.

Suddenly, Marathel realized that she had been staring at the leeks for quite some time, and there was a pale light in the sky. Dawn would come soon. The Whyns should have all left the building by now. All the men should be asleep after fucking themselves stupid earlier. I went still; did I go still because I became distracted by a leek? Am I subconsciously trying to make myself stop what I’m about to do? Or am I so brain-damaged now that my mind skips time?

Stop thinking, you’re too stupid to think anymore, whore cunt. Now get moving.

The yard was deserted. Marathel looked at the door of the Round Building. She closed her eyes, thinking of Grogu and Din. Din, cwyriad, I did not lie to you this time. I promised you I would not kill myself. I did not promise that I would not die.

Rw’yn di’rugar.

I will die to keep you safe.

Marathel turned the door handle and opened the door to the Round Building. As she entered the vestibule her mind began to whirl. What are you doing, you stupid woman? Did you think you could seek your own revenge, you weak, fat, idiot cunt? Marathel’s resolve continued to falter as the curtains before her parted, and a blonde Diwhyn carrying a silver-haired Bishop child slipped through. The child was weeping quietly, and the woman had tears on her cheeks. The child’s inner thighs were slicked with blood. Marathel knew instantly what had just been done to the little girl, and her anger flared back into life. The Diwhyn and the girl-child looked at her with fear and recognition. “You lived,” whispered the Diwhyn. “But the metal man took you away.”

“Yes. But I had to come back.” The Diwhyn, an ap Duke, frowned at her in confusion. “Branded?” whispered Marathel.

The Diwhyn nodded. “He took her, too,” whispered the Diwhyn. “Even though her cycles aren’t regular yet.”

He took her? But she’s just a baby! Marathel’s rage grew tenfold, and she felt her mind snap. She kissed the girl on her cheek, then asked the Diwhyn, “Second floor?” The Diwhyn nodded again. “Go. Hide. Rwy’n di’rugar.” They left.

Marathel grabbed a torch from its holder and used it to part the heavy curtains, setting the corded fringe on fire. That hadn’t been her intention, but that didn’t matter. She was here to clean. And if it was better to clean by burning, then … that’s how it would be.

She jogged silently towards the stairs, passing by the smooth curved metal wall that she had passed by her entire life, the one with the painted squiggles on them. Normally she ignored these markings but this time, they caught her eye, because she recognized two of the squiggles. They’re not squiggles, Marathel thought. Those are … letters! Letters in that language she’d seen on holopad screens and drawn by Cobb Vanth on a scrap of — paper, that’s what it was! I know two of those letters! Because they’re in my NAME!

She couldn’t read the whole thing, of course, but she could tell that the largest set of squiggles were L-E-something-E-L! What did that mean? But before Marathel could think further on this surprising event, she heard a low voice behind her, “What the fuck are you doing in here, cunt?” Marathel whirled around, and the Hunter Brwddyr grabbed her torch-bearing hand. His eyes grew wide with recognition. “It’s you …” he muttered, and Marathel knew him too; she didn’t know his name, but it didn’t matter, because he was one of the faces that hovered above hers as she was raped over and over on the Platform. This one slashed at my thighs with a knife, and he pissed in my face! With a grunt, Marathel drove her knife under his ribs, and then pulled it out and stabbed him in his chest, where she hoped his heart would be. His expression grew even more perplexed as he realized what she had done to him, a man. Marathel spit in his face, and then pushed him away from her as hard as she could. He fell to the floor, unmoving.

Marathel held her breath, watching to see if he would move again. He did not. I did it. I killed him. I’m now a … murderer. This did not dismay her as she thought it might. In fact, the thought would Din love me more, or less, if he knew? crossed her mind as she turned to run up the stairs. On her way up, she ran into two Bishop Cyilloggs. Marathel brandished her torch at them, but they laughed at her. Furious, Marathel shoved her torch into the left-hand boy’s face, and his laughter turned to screams. She slashed at the other boy with her knife, lacerating his cheek deeply. She shoved the two howling boys down the stairs behind her.

Little shits! Got in my way!

Unfortunately, between the fire she started a and the screams of the boys, more men began to appear. She ran up to the second floor, managing to scare away or injure most of the men who attempted to get near her, setting more curtains on fire as she went. The curtains and tapestries were old and dusty — there were always too many other things to clean — and they went up like flash paper, spreading to the dry wood structure. She lost her knife when she drove it into the collarbone of a Captain Brwddyr who got too close to her. He had a short spear and had managed to stab her a couple of times with it, but not deep enough to matter. Marathel almost laughed; the stupid males all had weapons, but few knew how to use them. She snatched the spear away from him and swung it, cracking it against his ear. She then ran it through his chest, shutting him up.

The fire continued to spread, and the screams were becoming louder from downstairs. The screams of men sounded so delightful to her ears and fueled her rage. Marathel looked over the railing of the second floor and the first floor was an inferno, but the men were falling back into the building rather than escaping, but she didn’t know or care why. The stairs below her were aflame and she didn’t think they’d try to come back up; that was foolhardy. Besides, she still hadn’t found the Elders yet.

Marathel reached for a door — there were many private rooms on this level besides the large Platform Room — but it opened just as she reached it, and the under-Captain came barreling out, and tackled her to the floor. “FUCKING BITCH!” He yelled at her, punching her hard enough to fracture her cheekbone. He called her a few other choice things as he punched her a few more times — Marathel was sure she heard whore cunt in there as well. He put his hands around her neck and squeezed, grunting, “Where is my hammer, you thieving slut?”

This one raped me with the handle of that hammer, back and forth from my ass to my cunt. In between, he would smash another finger. Marathel spat out another tooth and said, “The marchwyl is where it belongs,” before driving the short spear straight into his temple. His eyes glazed over, and his face contorted into a silent scream. She threw him off her, kicking him as hard as she could to propel herself away from him. She retched a couple of times, and the pain from her fractured cheekbone nearly made her faint. He lay twitching on the floor, still not dead, but Marathel crawled over and wrenched the spear out of his skull. The fire was getting much closer now, so she clambered to her feet, and went through the open door.

All the private rooms were laid out in a circle around the perimeter of the building, connected to each other by smaller doors that had to be ducked through. Marathel chased whoever was in front of her through the series of smaller rooms. She threw open the small door in the second-to- last room and was nearly hit in the face by a machete, saved only by the fact that the blade buried itself in the door frame. Marathel dipped her knees as she entered the last room, holding out the spear in front of her. She quickly pulled the machete from the doorframe, hoping to use it as well as the spear.

The fire was spreading on the landing. There was only one other door in here, and the Hunter and one of his underlings were trying to open it, but the under-Hunter cried out, having burnt his hand on the handle. The Hunter grabbed his underling and shoved the younger man directly at Marathel, and she slashed at his neck with the machete. The underling fell to the floor, trying to crawl away. He probably could survive, she thought, and left him to it, if he could escape the fire. Instead, she screamed, “Fucking COWARD!” at the Hunter, and ran towards him.

The Hunter simply said, “Come get me, Belwhyn bitch,” his teeth bared.

This one whipped me until he got tired. He would take a rest while someone else took his turn on me, and then he whipped me again. Then he raped me with the handle of the whip and made me hold the whip inside me while I sucked his cock. Marathel threw down the spear so she could hold the machete laterally in both hands as she charged towards him. But as she got closer, his brown eyes bore into hers, and she thought of Din’s eyes, brown eyes she was not allowed to see, and she faltered as her broken mind believed she was bearing down on Din Djarin, not the Hunter. She cried out as her blade imbedded in the Hunter’s neck, and she was doused by arterial spray. She backed up hurriedly, tripping and falling backwards over the gurgling underling, smacking her head hard enough to see stars. The Hunter fell to his knees, and his eyes, blank and filled with blood, no longer resembled Din’s, to Marathel’s great relief. She did not wait to watch how he died, but rolled over and grabbed her spear as she stood and staggered through the burning doorway.

“MARATHEL? In HERE, Marathel!”

She whirled around, trying to locate the source of the voice, and then realized that part of her hair was on fire. Gasping, she grabbed her hair and ran her hands over it repeatedly until the flames were doused, blistering her hands in the process.

“Mare-ah-thel! Come in HERE! I have something for you!”

The familiar-sounding voice was coming from the Platform Room. Marathel held out her spear in front of her as she crept closer to the open doorway. The smoke was getting thicker, choking her, but she had to finish before her lungs gave out. She entered the Platform Room, shaking, terrified of what she might find. A Hunter Brwddyr stood near the platform, holding a large knife to the throat of the Captain. At the Brwddyr’s feet lay the corpse of the Duke. Before Marathel could quite comprehend that she wouldn’t get to kill the Duke herself, the Brwddyr spoke again. “Marathel … I killed him for you. I’ll kill the Captain too. Just let me escape. I’ll help you find the Bishop. But you have to let me go.”

Marathel’s mind splintered again, and she remembered who this Brwddyr was, long ago. He was a sweet little boy, so much nicer than the rest of the male children. He didn’t kick at her while she tied his shoes. He hid morsels of cake and cookies in his pockets to share with her. He gave her a kiss when he learned how to tie his shoes himself.

“Talric …” she whispered.

“Just let me go, Marathel, and I’ll help you get your revenge.”

“Talric …” she cried, tears rolling down her cheeks, carving paths in the blood covering her face.

“Marathel,” Talric crooned. “I knew we did wrong by you. We never should have let it go that far. But you need to stop this foolishness!”

Marathel sobbed, and she felt her rage faltering.

Talric, thinking that Marathel was relenting, continued. “I always thought you were better than the others. I cared about you, really, I did! So much prettier … I hated that you were going to be wasted on the Bishop. I would have been better for you…”

Marathel blinked, and her mind, which had waxing nostalgic for the sweet little boy Talric had been, snapped back into the present. “Better? Better? You … you … you raped me up my ass! Then you helped hold my legs open while the Bishop shoved that Dilimgau inside me! And you LAUGHED WHILE HE DID IT!”

Marathel rushed forward, lifting the spear over her shoulder. In fear, Talric shoved The Captain towards her, so Marathel thrust the spear downwards into his chest. Talric backed up quickly, horror-stricken, allowing Marathel to address the Captain directly. “And YOU! How many times was Olba beaten because she took care of me instead of sucking your measly withered cock!” Marathel pulled out the spear and she swept his legs with her foot, just like Din had done to her. The Captain fell to the floor. Marathel went to her knees and drove the spear three times into his chest as the Captain choked on his own blood. “MOTHERFUCKING BASTARD! YOUR UNDERLING TRIED TO KILL THE ONLY MAN I WILL EVER LOVE! YOU KILLED MY OLBA! YOU KICKED THAT DILIMGAU ONCE IT WAS INSIDE ME! Die! Die! DIE!” The Captain gurgled his last breath and fell still.

Weeping now, Marathel struggled back up to her feet. She looked up at Talric, who had backed up against the wall, terrified of her wrath. “You raped me. You shit on me. And you let them do the same to me! How many other women have you brutalized that way? Why do you think you deserve to live?”

Talric, trembling, looked back at her, illuminated from behind by the raging fire. His eyes dropped to the bloodied body of The Captain, then he looked at his knife. He raised his eyes back to her, and whispered, “I’m sorry,” before he sliced his own throat.

Marathel watched him twitch as he bled out on the floor, the heat of the fire baking her back and drying her tears before they could fall. She couldn’t go back. She could only go forward. And forward was out the large window before her. Marathel shoved the shutters open and stepped up on the wide sill. The tree was still there, but the big branch that she and others used to escape this room when they were children was gone, cut down at some point. Marathel laughed. She’d managed to get this far, yet she might die falling out of a tree. Well, old girl, let’s see if you can still jump as far as you used to. She tossed the spear down to the ground — she was rather fond of it by now — and kissed the clam shell pendant for luck before she leapt towards the large tree.

Marathel quickly realized that she could not jump as far as she used to; at least, not without a running start. She briefly wondered where Grogu was when she needed him as she flailed with her arms and feet, seeking purchase wherever she could as she fell through the tree, scraping her face against the trunk. She managed to grab a branch with one hand, wrenching her shoulder badly. It slowed her down enough to get her feet on another branch, but she slipped and fell with full force right on her crotch, straddling the branch. Oh, holy Frith that HURT! Marathel felt nauseated for a few moments, gasping, thinking that men weren’t exactly exaggerating their suffering whenever they were hit in the groin.

She looked up and saw flames flickering out of the window she’d just escaped through. She knew she needed to get away from the building. She still had to find the Bishop. If she found that he hadn’t escaped the fire, she felt she might just have to go back and find him. If he had escaped the Hold … one thing at a time, old girl. Get down first. As she struggled down from the tree, the sounds of screams amplified in her ears …but it wasn’t just the screams of men, but also the screams of women, panic-stricken. Marathel lost her grip on the branch she was hanging from and dropped the rest of the way to the ground, landing badly. Grunting, Marathel got up to her feet and picked up her spear, limping around the Round Building to the yard and the commotion therein.

What in Frith?

There were Dahls everywhere. Dahls were running down the men who had escaped the fire and … ripping the men to shreds. Marathel cried out in disbelief, adding to the screams of the women. Then Marathel watched as a Dahl pulled a woman down to the ground, biting her, and she ran forward to make the animal stop. Marathel swung her spear at the Dahl before she realized that the Dahl’s intended victim was not the young Whyn but the infant she clutched in her arms. Marathel screamed, “NOOOO!” as the Dahl snatched the infant’s skull in its large jaws, crushing it. Marathel continued to scream as she stabbed the Dahl multiple times before it ran away with the dead child.

The Whyn shrieked and began to flail at Marathel, getting a good hit on her fractured cheekbone. “YOUR FAULT! Your fault! They’re killing all the boys!”

“What?”

“They killed my baby boy! All the baby boys! Because of YOU!” The Whyn crumpled into a fetal position, wailing.

Marathel scrabbled away from the Whyn, pulling herself to her feet. She looked over the carnage and realized that what the Whyn spoke was true: hundreds of Dahls, biting and mauling everything male that still drew breath within the Hold, and she was the one opened the gate to let them in. Because they had told her to. And here they were, running down the little boys who still lived, the men who escaped from the fire, and snatching the babies away from the screaming women.

A group of Dahls were now slowly approaching her, their heads low, their eyes whirling. She heard their voices in her head, getting louder and louder, calling out she is here, she has returned, she can finish. Marathel finally realized the Dahls were the ones who called her back to Unmanarall, not because they loved her, or missed her, but because she was the one who could hear them and could set their plan to destroy all things male in motion. The men had stolen their eggs, imprisoned them, tried to keep them captive once they had bonded with women. And then, the men would brutalize the women once they entered the mating cycle along with the Dahls.

Marathel wanted to fall to the ground and die. My pets, this is why you brought me back? Why did you lie to me all that time? Why did you wait until now to retaliate against the men? Why did I have to suffer for you to reach your end? Gladly, I would have opened those gates long before now! I thought you loved me!

“They didn’t save you after all, did they, my good girl?”

Marathel turned to face the Bishop, who had been dragged forward by snapping Dahls. She gave an inarticulate cry and lurched forward, pushing him to the ground and driving her spear through his shoulder. “NEVER CALL ME THAT AGAIN!”

“My sweet girl. It was all for you…”

“YOU LIE!”

“I knew you’d never become a Whyn, my lovely girl. I’d seen it before. Never getting regular. You became full-grown in front of me, and I still couldn’t have you, my perfect girl. I couldn’t fuck you where I wanted, you never-a-cunt.”

“Shut UP!”

“Olba told me about you. She was desperate to keep you safe. If you were in the Hold when those … things rose to mate you’d fuck everyone. And your cunt was MINE. The Captain wanted you, the Duke wanted you, they ALL wanted you, sniffing around you, sniffing around your beautiful and perfect cunt, but you were MINE. No one was going to fuck you if I COULDN’T!”

Marathel wept. “Then you should have killed me!”

“My sweet girl … I loved you too much to kill you. I loved my pretty girl too much to make her a Belwhyn!”

Marathel shrieked, and pulled out the spear, driving it into his chest. “SHUT UP! You don’t know what love is!”

And then … The Bishop laughed at her. “You think you love that criminal? That bounty hunter who kills for hire? The Captain and the Duke called for him, using the machinery in the lower level. The ancient machinery, where the Records are held … to bring your cunt back to them.” The Bishop coughed up some blood as Marathel stood over him, holding that spear in his chest, bewildered by his words. “Every Dahl mating season, they sent out that message. They captured my voice once on a metal device, and they sent it out into the sky, somehow. I never knew how.” He coughed again. “They never stopped wanting to fuck you. A cunt outside the Hold walls was not allowable, in their minds. They thought I was weak, for letting you get away. They tried to bring you back, but you were good at hiding, and then the Dahls started attacking anything male that came near you. They would kill the Cyilloggs, and soon, no one dared to go after you … Except for that bounty hunter. What is so special about him that he could get close to you? What’s so special about his cock that you’d spread yourself for him and not for me? I waited all that time for you to come back to me!”

Marathel sobbed. “Thirty years …”

“Has it been that long, my lovely girl? I’ve lost all track of time. I treated you the best out of all my cunts. I only wanted you to come back to me, but a barren cunt … is no cunt at all.”

“You …treated me the best? I was beaten, constantly! I have only ever suffered at your hands!”

The Bishop sneered at her. “You never did learn obedience. You were always headstrong, no matter how much we tried to beat that sulky bitch behavior out of you! Always defiant! Always defying your FATHER!”

Marathel pulled out the the spear and held it up with both hands. “YOU’RE NO FATHER, you SICK PERVERTED FUCK!” Marathel drove the spear through his open, lying mouth and through the back of his throat. She pulled out the spear and plunged it into each of his eye sockets, his eyes that always roamed over her body. Then she began to stab him over and over, all over his old, twisted body, the body she’d had all over hers her entire life, screaming, weeping for the little girl she had been and for the woman she had never been able to be, the life she’d never been allowed to have, the life she’d only been allowed a glimpse of when a stranger answered a call that had been sent through the nothingness of space for years and years.

The spear handle broke in her hand, stabbing into her palm, and he grabbed at her before she scrambled away, disgusted still by his touch. She sat on the bloody ground and howled, and the Dahls began howling with her as the screams and the roar of the fire continued, drowning out the rattle of the Bishop’s dying breath.

Finished now, Marathel wearily pushed herself up off the ground, and pulled the broken spear out of the Bishop’s corpse. The Hold was collapsing in on itself. Marathel began to limp towards the gate, and then she suddenly flew through the air as the Hold exploded behind her. Oh, now what? was the only comprehensible thought Marathel had before her body slammed into the stone wall, and she fell to the ground, unconscious.

In the year 1417 BBY, a small light cruiser left the planet Lew’el to explore the Far Outer Reach System for the purposes of enhancing their standing on the trade routes of the Old Republic. The crew of 132 were led by four men: Admiral Stebor Bishop, Captain Clevan Festa, Lieutenant Thombo “Duke” Wellstan, and Lieutenant Hunter Fin-Marsam. The official reason of this journey was to mine for assets. The actual reason was far more nefarious.

The ship suffered major malfunctions upon entering the new planet’s atmosphere, and while the crew was able to land the ship without loss of life, they were unable to raise a strong enough signal for help, for the equipment had been sabotaged to leave them stranded.

The displaced Lew’elans still continued with their mission to research the planet’s assets for mining rights and discovered that the planet did indeed have geothermic properties in the case of a heretofore unknown variety of hydrogen gas. This gas, simply called “Mist” by Admiral Bishop, did have similar toxicity to hydrogen sulfide and hydrogen cyanide, but was not fatal to humans except for overexposure.

The Mist was also exceptionally flammable while in liquid form.

Still, the Admiral continued the collection of the Mist for storage, thinking that rescue was still imminent. When it became obvious that the displaced Lew’elans were on their own, the barrels of Mist were buried deep, and the remains of the ship they had come in, a Cordova in a specific round shape, was dismantled and rebuilt into the Round Building of the Hold over the buried barrels of Mist. The mechanics of the ship were left at the lowest level, just above the Mist storage, covered over, built above, and forgotten about for centuries, until a young ap Captain and a young ap Duke rediscovered the lower levels while exploring where they had been forbidden to go.

They knew how to read; the boys were allowed to learn to read. They found records, copious records that they were able to decipher — about the ship, where they had come from, how to repair and use the strange machinery. They spent the rest of their childhood and their full adult lives — even after becoming The Captain and the Duke — learning the secrets of the lower levels, a space not even the other Elders knew about.

But the location of the barrels of Mist had not been put in the Record. The Captain and The Duke did not know about the hundreds of barrels of flammable liquid Mist just below them, and when the wooden structure of the Hold finally collapsed, the fire fell downwards to those levels, finally igniting the hydrogen variant within.

When Marathel was able to open her eyes again, she could only hear a dull ringing in her ears. She wondered who had clocked her on both sides of her head this time, and what she had done to deserve it. Blinking, she tried to roll over and found that her arm didn’t work anymore, belatedly realizing that she was in terrible pain. She gasped and pushed herself up on her other elbow, but the pain in her shoulder was too great, and she fell back to her back.

A Dahl came over to her, snuffling at her side. Marathel remained staring at the sky, still trying to get her eyes to stop crossing. The Dahl gently pushed her unmoving arm over her chest, and she cried out with pain. After some time, her ears stopped ringing quite so loudly, and she was able to discern that her shoulder had been dislocated, and her collarbone was likely broken. Another Dahl limped over to her and pushed her snout under Marathel’s head, trying to push her up into a sitting position. It took another couple of Dahls and several minutes before Marathel was upright. She threw her good arm around a Dahl’s neck, and the Dahl helped her to her knees. Soon, more Dahls had arrived to Marathel’s side, and using them for support, Marathel struggled to her feet. Near her was a cracked wooden cup, and she picked it up, as well as the remaining piece of her spear. Why she picked up the cup, she had no idea, but she knew it was important, somehow, so she shoved it into her pocket. The spear, of course, was now her spear, and therefore, very important indeed.

The ringing in her ears was fading away, and Marathel felt a little more stable on her feet, so she turned around to see what had happened now.

The Hold was gone. The end of the long building was destroyed as well, and the roof of the remaining structure was on fire. Marathel staggered forward and helped a woman up. “Is there ... is the long building empty?” The woman, a Captain, just stared at her. “Is everyone out of the long building?”

“This is all your doing,” muttered the woman. “You’ve killed us all.”

Another cluster of women and girls approached. “You did this!” shouted another woman. “Get out. GET OUT! We are dead because of you!” A young girl picked up a piece of debris and threw it at Marathel, hitting her in the chest. “GET OUT! GET OUT!”

Marathel held out her hand in front of her, crying, “I’m sorry! I didn’t … I’m sorry …” Other women began to throw things at Marathel, chanting get out at her until Marathel turned and limped away as fast as she could, surrounded by Dahls, the screaming and taunts of the remaining women ringing in her ears.

The gate had been blown off its hinges. I guess I didn’t need to open it after all, thought Marathel, confused and dizzy. Still, she moved through the gate as best she could, surrounded by the Dahls that still remained. Marathel moved in a straight line out the gate, through the patch of forest, only deviating from her path when a boulder or a tree loomed in her way. Then she would shift her direction until another object hampered her forward movement. She did not know where she was going. She remembered telling someone a long time ago that she intended to walk, just walk, when she returned to Unmanarall, so she continued walking. I assume I’ll know where I’m going when I get there, thought Marathel.

As the sun began to rise, the Dahls began to peel off from Marathel one by one. By now she felt stronger on her feet, and could see better, so she supposed the Dahls figured she didn’t need company anymore. Their voices faded in her head as they left her, one by one, until they were all gone.

Marathel kept walking.

She crossed a rocky path, then a grassy field, and then she saw it. The low, flat boulder poking up out of the grass, the boulder she had sat on many times, the boulder from a recent dream. The boulder that sat above the cliff she had thrown herself over once when the Dahls were rising to mate. Marathel limped over to it, setting down her broken spear. She pulled the wooden cup out of her pocket — she really liked the pockets on this pair of pants — and carefully set it on the boulder before she sat down, staring out at the edge of the cliff some 30 meters ahead of her.

For a while, Marathel wasn’t sure how to feel. She’d killed, with her own damaged hands, some of the men who’d hurt her. As far as she knew all the men of the Hold were dead. But the babies! The babies too! Marathel began to cry again. The babies had never hurt her, and the young children were still innocent enough that maybe they could grow up to be better, away from the Hold men and their perverted, cruel ways. Crying made her head and cheekbone and shoulder hurt, but she could not stop.

The Dahls called me back. Why? How? Just for me to open a damn gate? Marathel wondered just how much control over her the Dahls still had, how much they still controlled Din. The Dahls made me bite him, and he was linked to them through me. Did Din ever actually love me? Was it all the Dahls’ influence?

Marathel’s weeping became louder, more unhinged as her thoughts continued rampaging through her mind. THIRTY YEARS! Thirty years they have held me! Kept me a prisoner of them! They took MY ENTIRE LIFE AWAY FROM ME! I thought I had escaped the Hold, but then I was held captive by the Dahls!

Marathel began screaming, ignoring the pain it caused.

BABIES ARE DEAD BECAUSE OF ME! LITTLE CHILDREN ARE DEAD BECAUSE OF ME! I BROUGHT DEATH TO INNOCENT WOMEN! I DIDN’T KEEP ANYONE SAFE!

Looking down at her trembling hand, with the twisted and damaged splints, Marathel wished her brain would explode like the Hold did. Everything she had ever done was wrong. She had thought that coming back here would keep everyone safe from her, which turned out to be untrue. The only people she’d managed to keep safe were Din and Grogu.

And Din could come back. He never did what she told him to do, ever, and he could easily go off and redeem his Creed and return to her. He’d promised to not seek revenge on the Hold, but Din had weapons and he enjoyed using them. He was trained to fight, to maul, to maim, to kill, and Marathel was sure that no fat, stupid, insane woman could hold him back, regardless of how he allegedly felt about her, which was all a lie; it was all the Dahls’ doing!

Well, if Din Djarin is going to break his promise, then I guess I’ll break mine.

Marathel scooted herself to the edge of the flat boulder and stood up, wobbling. She couldn’t hold up her injured arm against her chest anymore, so she ripped her shirt (what’s one more tear?) and slipped her hand into it, creating an ersatz sling. Marathel took a deep breath and began to slowly walk forward.

Walk slow, walk slow, and just let yourself fall. It may hurt, but not for long. Mothers, please, please help me do it right this time. Forgive me for not keeping the children safe. Forgive me for the babies that were killed because of me. Forgive me for being me. I’m willing to stay in the darkness forever; just let me finish it this time.

Marathel pulled out the clam shell pendant from her shirt. She kissed it, then clutched it in her good hand as she walked. Bounty Hunter, I left you the cup and the spear; you should be able to figure out what I’ve done. I don’t expect you to ever forgive me; I expect you to hate me for intruding in your life and causing chaos and doing irreparable harm to you. Love Grogu for me. Forget you ever knew me. I’m so sorry.

This is the way.

Marathel wiped some tears from her face and continued limping slowly to the edge, when out of the corner of her eye she saw a flash of brown and grey — Bounty Hunter? — and she was suddenly tackled to the ground, where she hit the side of her head on a rock, and she was knocked unconscious.

Marathel woke up a short time later — more or less, she thought. Her vision was wavy, and her brain felt sleepy. It didn’t seem she was on the grassy plateau anymore, yet she could feel the grass under her. Someone was with her, right in front of her, and yet, it seemed someone was sitting some feet away from her. The images of both were shadowed and somehow not quite solid. Marathel reached out with her hand and touched the familiar bony snout of a Dahl. “Rodanthe?”

Where mate and kit? The voice, soft and weak, came from both Rodanthe’s snout and the someone who sat some ways away.

“What? Who?”

Mate and kit. Where are they?

“Gone, Rodanthe, I told them to leave me here.”

No, no, no, my love … mate and kit tied to you. Mate and kit can’t be gone. Tied to you.

“Tied? You mean … bonded?”

Mate for life. Good mate for life. Kit is yours. You raise good kits.

“No … not that way!”

Why sad, my love?

“Because that means he doesn’t love me, not really …”

Good mate, tied to you.

“Not if you’re the reason why! He must … love me from his own heart, not because of your commands! He knows that the bite controls him! I can’t … I can’t accept that. I won’t have it.”

Mate loves you. Strong tie …

“Untie him, then! If he truly cares for me, then ... he will love me without being bound to me. If not, then … I’d rather lose him forever.”

But kit needs Mama.

“Kit will ... kit will be fine without me. And Din must not be controlled by anyone, least of all me. I’ve been controlled my whole life. I cannot let the ones I love live as I have. I’d rather lose them both forever.”

But mate needs you.

“Let them go, Rodanthe! If you ever loved me, then you’ll untie them from me! Let them go!”

Marathel felt a ripple of cold that went through her soul, stopping her heart for a moment, and then … she felt more alone than she ever had in her life, and she knew that Din and Grogu were now untethered to her. Her loneliness threatened to consume her, and she wept.

I did love you, silver kit of mine. But I was selfish. I wanted you to be only mine. I kept you safe. We kept you safe from the men that wanted to hurt you. But we had to wait. Wait until your mate heard the call. Wait until your mate came. He was worthy of you. I was dying soon. He was good choice for mate. I tied you together. You, mate, kit. Easy. He thought you strong. Good for his mate. Good for his kit. Mate made you happy. Kit made you happy.

I loved you. You needed to be safe. But you fight. You against keeping you safe. You keep own mind. Still, you do this. You won’t let us keep you safe. Long time, we fight with you to keep you safe and wait for good mate to come. You fight mate, too. That’s why mate must be tied to you.

I loved you. You don’t let you be loved. Let Dahl love you. Let mate love you.

Mate and kit untied, my love …

Marathel cried out as she felt the life of Rodanthe slip away. The Dahl’s death barely caused her any pain, a mere whimper in comparison to the agony she felt when Rodanthe unbound herself from her heart. Thirty years the Dahl had been with her. Keeping her … safe.

Thirty years.

Perhaps they did protect her from the men of the Hold. She stole their eggs, but they still protected her. Rodanthe stayed close, was her companion, her closest ally, bound into her heart and soul and even her body. The Dahls could force the emotions of a man, and that all the Dahls could trick the woman’s mind into doing her bidding, from however far away they were. They may have kept her safe but kept her ... emotionally infantile. This made Marathel laugh, because Cobb Vanth had been right. She was just a full-grown child.

So now what? My last Dahl is dead, and I’m not feeling too good myself.

With a gurgle, Marathel tried to pull herself away from Rodanthe. Unsure of even where she was, she reached out with her hand, only succeeding in pulling some pebbles towards her. Marathel grunted and pushed herself up on her elbow, dragging her legs. She managed a few inches before a familiar pain gripped her belly in a vice, buckling her in half. No. No. No no no no no no no no … NOW?! She clenched her abdominal muscles, and the cramping began, feeling like thin slices were being flayed from her midsection with a dull knife. How long has it been? She couldn’t remember her last cycle. Had it been years, a name for a passage of time she hadn’t known before? It wasn’t even marked on her seasons rope. She had tried to mark it in some way but had removed the bit of yarn at some point ... perhaps because she’d passed over it too many times. Perhaps she knew in her heart that she was only a Diwhyn after all.

Another cramp ripped through her. The pressure of her cramping abdomen made her head sing in pain. She clawed at the ground. The cramp finally released, and she was able to breathe for a moment. Then the gush came from between her legs, and she felt the blood seep through her clothes and pool beneath her, almost too thick to absorb into the ground. Then more cramping and tremors and pain down low as clot after clot pushed their way out of her body.

Marathel whimpered and pulled herself another few inches away from Rodanthe’s dead body. Blood from her head wounds dripped into her eye and stung. She was dizzy and nauseated. She slipped off her elbow and fell on her dislocated shoulder. A white-hot, searing pain overwhelmed the cramping for a moment, and she began to slip in and out of consciousness as she continued to bleed heavily.

Time passed. The sun beat down on her. Then she shivered in the dark. The sun came back. Insects came, attracted to the blood, laying eggs in her head wound. She was too weak to move herself any further, and she lost all track of time as she forgot whether it had become dark again. Eventually, her addled and concussed brain detected movement near her, and she thought she heard running footsteps.

Whoever you are, please take pity on me. Help me die.

And then, she felt the familiar touch of glove leather on her cheek.

Din?

A voice. “Oh, ma’mwsh ha’laa.”

Darkness.

You Were Marked: Next Chapter ->

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