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jakegooglyeyes · 2 months ago

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Emblem of Roses - Chapter 6

Hi, everyone. Sorry for the long hiatus. I finally sorted my stuff out so the update should be more frequent from now on. I've received a few messages and they are very encouraging. I apologize if the pacing of this chapter is a little bit choppy. I wrote it in a span of months and a lot of things happened during that time.

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Pairings: Jake Gyllenhaal x reader, Maggie Gyllenhaal x reader (Medieval AU) Summary: Lady Maggie's plan is set in motion, something is growing between the Lord and his wife (if you squint really hard). Word count: 6000 Warnings: brief mention of forcing marital sex on the reader, power dynamic Divider credit: @/firefly-graphics Tagged: @gyllenhaalstories, @looloolily, @charliehoennam

MINOR DNI. If any of these content upsets you, DO NOT READ

Author's note: I retconned a few small details from the Prologue. Namely the nickname of the character (Dog => Jackal), and the condition Jackal was in. He was temporary blinded during the time he was rescued by reader.

While the Lord is being requested to settle the unfortunate altercation, the musicians continue playing their melodies inside the Great Hall. The crackling sounds of the large fire pit and the joyful tune make it easy to forget the terrible intentions hidden beneath one’s mask.

As the guests become more intoxicated and well-fed, a mysterious figure, one among the King’s delegates, makes their way toward Lady Maggie’s table.

The woman dons a flowing gown made of dark velvet and adorned with elaborate needlework. Despite the fine quality of her garment, the dull choice of color makes her almost invisible among the opulence flaunted by other high-ranking members.

She makes her way through rows of drunk guests, her eyes sharp as that of a hawk, and her face cold and stern, making her appear unwelcoming and intimidating to the weak-willed.

Lady Maggie’s discerning eyes catch the sight of a peculiar gold pendant hanging below the old woman’s neckline, depicting an oak leaf. The two handmaidens accompanying her also bear similar accessories. Only theirs are made of iron.

The Lady’s brows arch. Not out of surprise, but intrigue. It seems she has expected this special guest’s arrival.

“Please accept our gratitude for the hospitality and care you have shown to our princess, my Lady.”

After greeting the Lady, the old woman receives a small golden box from one of her maidens and places it in front of Lady Maggie, who graciously acknowledges the gesture. The women silently return to their seats, avoiding any further conversation. Regardless of the old matron’s motives, she must not be seen socializing with the kin of the Usurper.

As the Lady opens the box, a dazzling piece of finely crafted jewelry catches her eye. It is exquisite, but not particularly remarkable, especially coming from someone like the old woman.

However, only Lady Maggie can see that the box’s interior is narrower than its external profile. After studying it for a brief moment, the Lady allows her steward to take it back to her chamber. Leaning back against her chair, a pleasant smile spreads across her face as her plan is set in motion.

Her watchful eyes gaze upon the heavy gate of the Great Hall, wondering what has taken her brother so long.

The weight of the cape presses against your shoulders, keeping you warm and protected from the prying eyes. You can feel the glaring behind your back and hear the muttering among the servants.

The Lord is walking beside you, surprisingly mirroring your pace with small steps. His jaw tightens as firmly as his grip on the hilt of the sword. He must be extremely angry, you can tell. His enemies have made themselves comfortable in his home, drinking his wine, and laughing as if the bloody war never happened.

And now he must forgive one of them.

For what? To maintain the illusion of a truce? This is asking too much of him.

The Lord, of course, has no intention of rejoining his sister in the Great Hall. Your “very serious” injury presents him a convenient excuse to extract himself from the noisy, inebriated crowd.

He accompanies you to your chamber and summons the old physician to attend to your wound. You want to decline. It is only a tiny scratch, and you can perfectly take care of it on your own.

You are about to protest, but the moment your eyes meet the Lord’s, you quickly swallow your words. The incident has left him furious, and he is still fuming over it. And it does not seem wise to cross him at this moment.

After fulfilling his duty, the physician bows and takes his leave, leaving you in the room with the Lord.

You have expected your husband to return to the feast or his chamber, seeing there is no reason for him to still linger here. And yet, he remains. His presence stretches the stillness in the air. At least the warmth emanating from the fireplace brings you some comfort, fighting off the harsh winter winds.

“Thank you for aiding me.” Suppressing your nervousness, you utter a few words to disrupt the awkward silence.

The Lord did save you during that commotion. Whether he did it out of the gallantry in his heart or because he saw the royal family as an eyesore does not matter (though it is most likely the latter). What matters is that he did you a favor he was not obliged to. And he graciously walked you back to your chamber, shielding you from the curious stares of the servants.

“Why did you forgive her?” The Lord’s brows furrow, a familiar sight when he gets frustrated. His voice carries a subtle annoyance, unable to comprehend the rationale behind what he considers foolish mercy.

While he harbors no affection for you, he was not about to let the King’s dogs bear their fangs in his domain. If you didn’t stop him, he would have cut that crone down. And a few others, just to be thorough.

You never expect to be asked such a question. You hesitate, searching your head for the right answer. It is difficult when you can't seem to understand why he would ask you such question.

“It is not my wish for anyone to die because of me.”

Indeed, you detest that woman, and there were, undeniably, times you have dreamed of her demise. But you have no desire for any bloodshed.

In the years spent learning from your mother, you witnessed more deaths than you could count. And it was under that guidance that you took a healer’s oath, sworn to save lives, not take them.

Moreover, her death on the Lord’s ground would only further complicate the situation between the King and House Gyllenhaal, would it not?

Any transgression from either side will be used as leverage against the other. And the last thing you want is to be the cause of it.

The Lord responds with a dry laugh. He finds your explanation very—irritating.

Given your status as a bastard, he can imagine the mistreatment you faced from people. And that old crone, in particular? It certainly was not the first time she struck you.

He recalls the days he used to serve under the King. Even then, he wouldn’t have batted an eyelid at the sight of your misery. He may pity you a bit. However, people of his status rarely prioritize the suffering of the unfortunate mass, unless there is something to gain from it. You would have been just another poor bastard whose entire existence is shameful and insignificant.

Everyone values lineage and legitimacy. His family, despite all the tales of heroism and altruism woven by his brilliant sister, is no exception.

You should be angry. You should not have asked him to spare that woman, but you did, and it is baffling to him. He finds that kind of empathy a nuisance, a weakness. It’s the kind of weakness that ends up as the blade to your back.

“Your wish? I can’t tell if you are arrogant or naïve. Her insolence is enough of a reason for me to take her life.”

He takes a step closer to the bed, where you sit, as he looks straight into your eyes, wanting to dig out your misplaced compassion. He cannot explain why, but it is upsetting him.

“Had she died, it would be by my will and my hand.”

“I understand that.” You concede softly.

“You understand nothing.” The Lord’s voice is snappy yet quiet, startling even the man himself.

He finds it absurd that he is standing here instigating an argument with you for a petty reason.

You were not at fault, and he knows that. Your only guilt was that you did not choose to act as he would.

He takes a moment to collect himself, calming his nerves before leaning down, closing the gap between you and him. With only the flickering fire illuminating the side of his face, his expression is unreadable.

“Only a fool spares his foes, expecting them to show him the same mercy he did. She threatened you, did she not? Spare her life does nothing but give her another chance to bite you. You are safe here, but what about the old healer you spoke of?” His voice is soft, almost a whisper.

The Lord notices the slight twitching on your forehead. He knows he has touched a nerve.

Although he is in no way comparable to his sister when it comes to the elusive art of reading people, he can still uncover little weaknesses others hold close to their heart.

That woman, the healer you spoke of, must be very important to you, since every mention of hers draws a powerful reaction. When his sister confronted you about your letter or when that woman used her name against you, you became agitated, betraying how much you care about that healer.

She is your weakness.

The fabric of your dress is crumpled into a small heap between your hands as you are unable respond. The Lord’s words are as sharp as a blade, driving into your chest.

It has been a long time since you parted with your mother. You haven’t been able to write to her, nor have you heard anything from her. You have kept your composure, but the truth is, missing her is driving you mad deep down.

The Lord sighs, exhausted from having to remind such a simple logic to you.

You, who have the misfortune of being a part of this undignified marriage. How are you going to survive when you can barely put up a fight? When you don’t know when or how to strike your enemies? You are just so… so shortsighted and unguarded.

“My Lord!” You let out a small yelp.

The sudden chill of the Lord’s fingers grazing your cheek catches you off guard. As your body meets the softness of the bed after being pushed, you let a gasp escape your lips.

His form looms above you, pinning you down by the shoulders. In the dimly lit room, you catch an orange glimpse of the hearth fire reflecting off his long lashes.

When was the last time you observed your husband so closely? You can’t remember.

Your muscles tighten in response, a surge of tension coursing through your body, feeling unprepared for whatever will happen.

“What are you doing?” You swallow the lump in your throat.

Your hands press into the fine fabric of the Lord’s garment as you brace his weight on top of you. The memory of his body heat against the cold, dark cellar suddenly resurfaces, vividly replaying in your mind. Your eyes dart away, unable to meet the Lord’s penetrating stare.

“What does it look like I’m doing? Indulging in my privilege as your husband.” His retorts, his voice low with a hint of enticing charm you rarely witness.

His face inches closer, bridging the distance between you. The heat on your cheeks intensifies, and you are unsure whether it’s from the Lord’s breath against your face or the blood rushing beneath your skin.

As he leans in to meet your lips, the air is filled with the faint scent of wine, enveloping your senses. The sensation isn’t exactly unpleasant, but neither is it entirely enjoyable.

His touch is gentle as he seeks to coax your rigid jaw to relax, but nervousness holds you in its grip, making it difficult to comply.

This is unlike any of your previous intimate encounters, if they could even be labeled as such. The first time was agonizing and humiliating, while the recent incident in the cellar left you feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable. However, now, it feels as though the Lord is actually taking his time with you. Just you, not his spiteful enemy, not a substitute for his long-gone beloved.

The sensation is indescribable.

You wonder if the pounding in your chest is a normal reaction. Surely it must be, right? After all, the Lord is a man in his prime, undeniably handsome, too. It’s not unusual to be captivated by his uncharacteristic tenderness.

Regardless of the circumstances, you two are still husband and wife. You should expect these things, or at least, you were taught to expect them. Still, you struggle to make peace with the situation.

On complete instinct, you turn your head to the side, denying him the touch of your lips.

The Lord’s eyes capture every expression on your face, even when your eyes clench shut and your brows knit. He rises from you, a finger smoothing away the creases on your forehead.

You hear a drawn-out, weary sigh.

“See? You freeze up like a scared little lamb. Are you going to lie still and wait to be slaughtered?” The Lord asks, as he moves away and gives you back the freedom of movement.

You find yourself speechless, your head still spinning from the surge of excitement.

The Lord silently muses himself, savoring the colorful expressions on your face. He finds himself no longer upset.

It hasn't been a full day and he has spoken to you more than he ever had in the past. Somehow, he derives much comfort from these interactions, despite your severe lack of common sense. At least, he does not have to exert his mental strength like the times he converses with his sister.

The Lord is taken aback by the sudden wave of emotions he experiences in your presence. He is absolutely confident that he doesn't hold any genuine fondness for you.

Even if illegitimate, you are still the King's daughter, and that fact continues to leave a bitter taste in his mouth. You can't never by fully trusted, as blood and allegiance always matter in his world.

If it were up to him, he would have you removed from his domain. Be it setting you free or a less merciful alternative, you wouldn't be sitting here and being a thorn in his side.

Yet, if you are still being kept around, it can only mean Lady Maggie sees you as being of great use.

In the end, no matter what his sister has planned for you, you will not emerge from this war unscathed.

It is a pity.

As he prepares to leave, he turns around to look at you one last time, his face obscured by the darkness, disallow you to read his expression.

The door soon closes behind him, separating the two of you. You are left with your own thoughts amidst the soft cracks of the fireplace.

A few days have passed since the incident. The Lord's tolerance has been severely tested by the delegates' constant display of arrogance in his Keep.

They strut around, ordering the servants and making snide remarks about the absence of luxuries.

His sword arm has been itching non-stop. He should have executed a few when he had his wife as an excuse. It is a relief to everyone that the delegates are to leave soon. If this goes on any longer, Lord Gyllenhaal will make sure peace is no more, because he will skin these royal stains alive.

The festivity ceases and everyone goes back to their usual work.

Well, everyone except you, that is.

The Lord forbids you to work as a servant. Too many people have seen your face when you sat next to him that night, and words spread. He is indifferent about what you do as long as you are not posing a threat (and he thought you should try to be useful anyway), but the servants and even some of his men have given him strange looks.

No one knew your face when you first walked through that gate as the princess-bride. But now, more than a few people have seen you running around in servant's clothes. They are not blind.

The "new maid" who has been cleaning the stable and working in the kitchen turned out to be the Lord's wife. Royal princess or not, you are their lady Gyllenhaal. And this stirs people's curiosity, as well as their gossiping.

Truth be told, you have no qualm with his decision because the Lord is not the sole recipient of the judgmental stares.

The maids with whom you shared friendly conversations just a week ago are no longer interested in talking to you. They will respond to your queries, with ‘my lady’ appended to whatever they say. But they are only willing to speak when specifically asked. And even then, they speak with a distant, apathetic demeanor.

You are not surprised by their attitude. The Lord's enemy is not exactly welcomed in this place. They attribute your labor, perhaps, as a form punishment from the Lord or something akin to that.

Still, it hurts to lose the few genuine companionship you have gained.

And there is another issue contributing to your distress. People talk, and oh, do they talk? More than a few times, you've caught people stealing glances at your midsection as if they are looking for something.

And then it dawns on you.

A few relatives of House Gyllenhaal who greeted you during the feast had the same gazes, and at least one of them insinuated you might be carrying the Lord's offspring. Even your husband admitted that Lady Maggie was involved in spreading those rumors to ease the family’s concerns about the continuation of his legacy.

The siblings know you are useless as a political hostage at this point, but their subjects don’t. Even if you have no status to pass on to your children, at least you can make yourself useful by performing your “duty”.

It isn’t long before you hear whispers of your supposed development. The servants don’t confront you directly, but you catch the fragments of their conversations as they scrub floors or tend to the fire. And it’s not just the servants either.

“She must be with child,” they say. “Why else would she go into hiding like this? I used to see her in the stable all the time.”

“Haven’t you heard? The Lord commanded her to stop working, his intention is obvious.” they say.

Soon enough, it’s as though everyone in the Keep has come to a silent agreement.

They wait.

You feel their eyes on you constantly, searching for signs of life beneath your gown, scrutinizing every gesture, every bite of food you take—or don’t take.

But, of course, there is no child. You are quite certain of it. The idea of carrying the Lord’s offspring is as far-fetched as the whispers themselves. You haven't even shared a single proper night with your husband.

And even if he lay fingers on you, well, you haven't forgotten the potion Lady Maggie's asked you to take the day after your supposed consummation. You have an inkling feeling not everyone wants you to carry the the Lord's child.

Though, you must admit, the incessant gawking and whispering are really getting on your nerves. You stay away from others as much as you can.

It has got to the point where your own chamber becomes a suffocating prison cell. And you do not enjoy the look of maids who bring you food. So, you often wander in the courtyard, letting your feet and mind roam.

"…Your Highness."

An unfamiliar voice breaks through the haze of your thoughts. It takes them several attempts before you realize someone is addressing you. You turn around to a face you have never seen before. Judging by his clothes, he is a member of the delegates.

It's puzzling that any of them have needs to speak to you.

Discreetly scanning the area, you breathe a sigh of relief upon noticing several Gyllenhaal guards stationed within eyesight. At the very least, you hope to avoid a repeat of what happened the other night.

"Who are you?" With caution, you ask.

The man's lips curl into a sly smile.

"I merely wish to bid your farewell before I depart, your Highness. And perhaps…" His hand reaches into his robe, producing a small, folded cloth. "To present a parting gift, directly from His Majesty, the King."

With hesitation, you extend your hand, accepting the fabric. As you unfold it, a few strands of hair tumble out.

Time stops, and you are left breathless.

There, in the palm of your hand, is a silvering lock of hair. It takes everything in you to steady your knees, to keep your expression unchanged.

This color. This texture. You recognize this.

Your mother's hair.

The man leans in, his voice a hushed murmur, barely audible.

"My princess, I hope you have not forgotten the King's order. He is growing very, very impatient."

A sick chill bubbles in your stomach. The King's order. You have brushed it aside, pushed it into the recesses of memory where you thought it would fade.

Kill the Lord? You would never have the heart to follow through with it, nor have you ever intended to. But here is this man, this messenger, holding a piece of your mother in his hand as a warning.

Forcing yourself to calm down, you ask, “What is it he expects of me?”

The man’s eyes gleam, sensing your hesitation. His feigned smile disappears.

“The end of this foolish war, in exchange for this woman's safety. His Majesty hates waiting. Perhaps… this reminder will motivate you.”

“Leave me,” you try to keep your voice low, to appear fearless. But no matter how hard to try, you can't control your shaky breaths.

It takes all of your strength to be able to stand on your feet.

The man chuckles.

“Very well,” he replies, a smirk spreading across his face. “Do give this matter some thought, my lady. The King awaits good news.”

He pauses, his gaze sweeping over your body with a mocking glint.

“And, ah… my congratulations. Lord Gyllenhaal must be overjoy.”

You aren’t sure how you left the courtyard.

Your knees threaten to buckle if not for the cold stone your hand is tracing.

The nobleman’s threat is almost overshadowed by the unbearable ringing in your ears. Perhaps it is your mind’s way to block out the dread.

The vision of your mother being harmed is consuming your thoughts, leaving your stomach churning with each step. Your cheeks are feverish, but you don’t even have the mental strength to discern if it’s your own tears or you are falling sick.

You have intended to head back to your chamber, to a place you can be with your thoughts and feel safe. But your mind is all foggy as your trembling feet carry you all the way to one of the Keep’s corner towers.

It’s a place you rarely venture, and you don’t even know if you’re permitted here. The realization that you might be somewhere you are not allowed to be brings you back to your senses.

Just as you’re about to turn around, a warm, earthy scent drifts through the air. It catches your attention.

Burning incense.

At the far end, a pair of heavy wooden doors stand, one slightly ajar. The scent flows from within. A chapel, perhaps?

The reeling in your head is clouding your thoughts and making it difficult to focus. You slowly move closer to where the incense is coming from, driven by an instinctual pull. Your thoughts drift among the whirling, fragrant smoke.

You’ve never been particularly devout, but with everything that has happened, a prayer might offer some momentary peace, allowing you to clear your mind.

There isn’t much you can do right now, but pray. A meager prayer to any higher power that is willing to listen.

As you peek through the door, your eyes are immediately drawn to the majestic sculpture of a grand oak tree towering at one end of the room.

A feminine figure is carved right into the tree’s main body. As her hair weaves through the branches and her limbs meld with the trunk, it appears as though she is an inseparable part of the tree itself. With eyes filled with benevolence and wisdom, she looks upon those who come before her like a loving mother. Ever knowing. Ever caring.

The intricate craftsmanship of the sculpture leaves you so mesmerized that you almost overlook the man kneeling in front of the goddess, hands folding together with utmost reverence.

“Have you come to gloat at me, sister?” Speaks the kneeling man. You are taken aback, realizing whom that voice belongs to.

“My apology, I didn’t mean to intrude,” Stepping back from the door, you apologize frantically, your heart pounding in your chest.

As the Lord turns his head, he notices the terror on your face. Contrary to what you assume would happen, he appeared more relieved than upset by your untimely interruption.

“It’s fine. Better you than my sister.”

Despite his bitter tone, the Lord seems to tolerate your presence.

A slight curiosity arises in you as to why he wouldn't wish to face Lady Maggie. But it is a question that you don’t have the right to even ponder.

He shifts his gaze back to the statue, still in the kneeling posture, leaving only his back to you.

You would never guess that he could be a devotee of any religion, much less one centered around the Oak Mother.

The Oak Mother Cult.

It’s an ancient belief that very few still hold on to, even fewer in the Capital city from where you came. Your mother used to tell you stories about it, but not much.

And there is a reason for that.

The royal family outlawed the worship long ago in favor of a more loyalist religion, but they only truly cracked down on it after House Gyllenhaal’s rebellion.

Originally, they rejected it because many of the Cult’s beliefs clash with what the royal family deemed crucial for maintaining their rule. However, the court turned a blind eye and allowed people to continue the worship.

Not that there were many believers left by the time you learned about their existence.

After Lord Gyllenhaal’s capture and his subsequent escape, things changed.

The few remaining shrines were all burned down and the priests and priestesses were forced to convert or be executed in public. It was forbidden to discuss the event, but there were rumors of the Cult having a connection with House Gyllenhaal. Thus, the King deemed its followers traitors.

“Are you familiar with her?” The Lord asks, a little more casually than you expect. His eyes never leave the solemn goddess figure.

“Not much, my Lord. The King does not permit the worship or teaching of the Oak Mother.” You answer in earnest.

“What do they claim, that she is the perverse goddess of prostitutes and thieves?” He whispers in a sarcastic tone. Words travel far. He knows of the twisted words the King has spread.

You are unsure of how to respond. The culling of the Oak Mother followers was bloody, and with many awful accusations, which you cannot repeat in front of this man.

“I was told the Oak Mother was the protector of the less fortunate,” You carefully pick your words from the modest sleeve of knowledge you possess. “She was once the patron of healers and midwives.”

You vaguely remember a small carved oak tree pendant you used to own. A little trinket you stole from one of the court healers because you wished to be like them. This was before you were taken under your mother’s care. That thing was buried a long time ago to avoid trouble from the King when he began persecuting Oak Mother followers.

“Too impractical for the mass. She does not bestow influence nor does she grant wishes of wealth.” A soft laughter escapes the Lord’s lips. “The pantheon sanctioned by the King is more enticing, don’t you think? Those gods promise abundance to those who obey and power to those who rule.”

Rising from his kneeling position, the Lord slowly turns around to face you. The light filtering through the windows cast a shadow over him, concealing his expression from your eyes. The lonely silhouette of the man beneath the towering goddess causes a lump to form in your throat.

You have an inexplicable urge to say something to console him, but words fail you at that moment.

He doesn’t seem to expect any answer from you, however. The Lord takes a few strides toward the door, but abruptly halts right beside you.

“Have you been crying?”

A gentle warmth brushes against your cheek. His unexpected remark, almost a whisper, and the sensation of his finger on your damp, feverish skin startle both of you. Retracting his hand promptly, he hurries towards the door, moving so fast that it seems like he’s fleeing.

Your hand reach up to touch your face, feeling the lingering ghost of his fingertips.

No, you shouldn’t. You must not. He’s not someone you could—

You felt something similar once, years ago…

“What’s this thing?”

Curious fingers felt around the wooden object falling from your satchel.

The man, with his eyes bandaged and bored out of his mind, was fiddling with your possessions. He resorted to this activity to ease his immense boredom, with no other options in sight (not that he had any at that moment).

“Don’t touch my stuff.” You wrestled the small wooded oak out of the man’s hand and tucked it back into the satchel.

“It’s a healer’s charm. The King doesn’t want to see people donning it though, so I’m hiding it.” You explained.

It took you so long to obtain this. It was so hard to sneak into the healers’ quarter too. What a shame that you couldn’t put it on. You could not be seen with this thing. The King had enough reason to hate you already.

“It’s not a healer’s charm. It’s an Oak Mother insignia. There is a woman on it, yes?” The man asked, unimpressed by your lack of knowledge.

It seemed he spoke the truth. The face was worn down, but one could still make out a feminine form edged into the pendant. You only knew that the guards were checking people to find anything oak-ish.

“You stole it?”

“I did not.” You huffed, digging a small pit in the corner of the shed before placing the small pendant inside.

“Well, the owner dropped it, so it’s mine. Finder keeper.” You pat the dirt a few times to make sure it looked completely flat.

He let out a disapproving sigh. But, considering you had saved his life, he wasn’t in a position to lecture you. He brought a hand to his bandage, tugging at the fabric. But you soon swatted his filthy paws away from the covered wound.

“It’s really itchy.” He complained.

“The wound is scabbing. Let it be.” You lifted the bandage a little to make sure everything was dry. Dry means good. No more blood and puss.

“Will I be able to see again?” He asked, his voice quieter this time.

“Yes, for the thousandth time. Your injury is external. It was the infection that spread to your eyes. The blindness is only temporary.”

You understood why he was anxious, but bothering you with the same question every day would not make his wound heal any faster. You counted on your fingers. The blindfold should come off in the coming week.

“Not to mention, your body also needs time.”

When you looked at him, you couldn’t help but notice his emaciated appearance. When you found him, he was so mangled and starved that you didn’t realize he was still alive.

His unruly beard grew into a thick, tangled mess, but he was adamant about not letting you shave it off (after you’d nicked him a few times and almost sliced his throat). He at least allowed you to chop off his hair after your bedding was infested with lice.

“Hey, Jackal. What’s Oak Mother, anyway?” You scooted closer to him to get some well-deserved warmth, mindful of the injuries on his arms and shoulders.

His brows knitted, still not pleased with the nickname you gave him.

“What, you are a healer and you don’t even know her?” He scoffed. His lips perked up as he turned his left ear to you. For some reasons, he seemed a lot more willing to talk today.

“I’m not a he— I mean, of course I am! Just tell me.” You pouted and poked his gangly forearm, making him hiss in feigned pain. “Don’t play with me. Your left arm wasn’t hurt that badly.”

“Hmm, the Oak Mother is old, much older than all the gods they taught you about. Healers and midwives used to revere her as their patron goddess. Some of them still do, such as the person you stole from.”

You had to hold back the urge to strike your patient. But it was exceedingly rare for him to engage in a conversation with you, practically never, so you let this slide.

“In the eyes of the common folks, though, she is hailed as the savior for the downtrodden.” He continued smoothly, as if he didn’t just call you a petty thief.

“You worship her?” You asked. How else would he be so knowledgeable about such obscure belief?

His hand moved instinctively towards the bandage over his eyes, but you intervened in time. Again.

His answer was brief, spoken in a gentler tone.

“I prayed to her.”

You understood what he meant. A person in his situation couldn’t do anything but pray. Had you not been in the right place at the right time, you couldn’t imagine what would have happened to him. He would have been left for dead, or worse.

“How do you know so much about her?” You were curious.

No one had ever mentioned the Oak Mother. You had seen healers wearing her symbol, but people in the court always wore all sorts of regalia you didn’t know about. Moreover, no one was willing to talk to the King’s bastard.

Jackal didn’t elaborate further. He didn’t want to.

Instead, he reaches out, his hand brushing against your cheek, in a “If you won’t let me touch my face, I’ll touch yours” manner. His thumb and index picked at the soft flesh.

A jolt of pain grazed your cheek, making you yelp and recoil from his touch.

“You— what’s wrong?”

He was sure he didn’t pinch you that hard. He meant no harm, just wanted to tease you a bit, so you could stop your incessant inquiry. But there was a sensation under his fingertip he couldn’t ignore. A small patch of toughened skin, slightly raised and warm to the touch.

“It’s nothing. I’m used to it.” You shrugged and sighed, rubbing your sore cheek.

The head maid always finds some reasons to strike you. Even if you did nothing wrong, it didn’t matter. This was considered a light punishment.

Jackal’s hand hovered in the air between you.

What do you mean ‘used to it’? A quiet anger brewed inside his chest. He felt completely useless in this state. Even his sword arm wasn’t moving well. He bit back the words he wanted to say, knowing they would be meaningless.

With a heavy sigh, he unclenched his jaws and dropped his shoulders. He searched in the dark to reach out to you once more. His touch this time was feather-light, brushing a stray strand of hair away from your face.

“Take care of yourself.” he murmured. You could barely register his voice, as it was no more than a whisper.

You forced down the lump in your throat, grateful that he couldn’t see the tears forming in your eyes. There was a tightness in your chest. It was comforting, just for a moment, to have someone care about you, even if he couldn’t do anything to help.

#jake gyllenhaal x reader #maggie gyllenhaal x reader #fic: emblem of roses #nat writes #fics #cw: rpf

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