cold hands warm steel (I) (knight!jason todd/reader)
summary: on dying, ghosts, empty castles, and the knight sworn to your side trailing a mile of blood behind him (knight! jason todd x reader au)
notes: hello...... after baiting everyone for nigh 2 years i decided to just release this because in all honesty it was burning a hole in my sacrum from me sitting on it-- please be patient with me as i try to update my first attempt at a longfic as frequently as i can! this can be read as a follow up to this piece :) buckle in!
tw: suicide attempt
On the dawn of your twentieth name-day, you are greeted with a whore’s punishment.
There are no bells, no embellishments attached to your disgraced exit on the Nones of September— you are dismissed from the royal court, sent away with what little things you possessed. The title of Lady was a formality anyway, and you knew the assorted nobles of Gothym’s inner court thought of you as the very opposite, if not less. You hold your head high, nose almost to the heavens as you leave the Great Hall.
Of the few words your uncle spares, you learn of the stipulations surrounding your exile:
One– that there would be a watchman guarding you, misbehaved child, on the risk you posed to yourself upon banishment. A second sin, the clergyman had whispered to your uncle after the commotion had settled, we need not a second sin to offend our Lord.
Two– that you regrettably, could not die, nor run. This you found bewildering. You were already marked as an adulteress, so what concern was it to the court if you disappeared, permanently?
Lastly, three– that a knight would be your keeper. A mercenary, more like. His moniker sounded familiar when uttered, one that escaped from the pursed lips of God-fearing midwives and into the ear of naive children. You feared what this man, cruel in reputation, would inflict upon you once learned of your lechery.
You’re given little time to pack, and depart shortly with your escorts on some unremarkable foggy morn. Only the kindly cook sees you off, kissing your reddened cheeks while sneaking armfuls of warm bread into your luggage.
“Fear not, my lady,” she whispers as the stable boy readies your horse, “You’re better off by your lonesome now.”
Alone. Yes, you would be alone, save for your knight. This thought becomes increasingly uncomfortable the closer you’re brought to the edge of Gothym. With each quiet meadow you pass, the unbearable truth of your predicament grows heavier, more real. You would likely never see a familiar face again, save for your uncle if he were cruel enough to haunt you. As for the matter of your social life, no person, for all the riches in the land, would even think of desiring you, much less call you friend.
The court spared you the fate of death, but you felt the pressed confinement of the coffin and the bitter taste of dirt in your mouth all the same.
___________
By the time you and your escorts arrive, your breath is visible in the chilled air. Finding the hold itself was easy, as the mere silhouette of it looked like an interruption in the otherwise uniform forest skyline. Before, you hoped for a dwelling that at least had a fireplace, but what you stood before now imposed a cutting contrast: dark towers that spiraled toward an even darker sky, walls of storm-colored stone that engulfed an ornately engraved entrance, and underpinnings of a greater, ancient power dwelling beneath the structure. You inch closer, trying to make out the detailing of the entryway– above the head of the door is fittingly, the gates of hell. Two angels fly a banner above the actual doorway that reads:
‘Ad Montes Oculos Levavi.’
The phrase sounded vaguely familiar to you– a line from the Old Testament. You don’t have much time to ponder it, as a sudden push of the night wind reminds you of your long journey. The small group of sentinels that arrived with you shift uneasily atop their mounts, still peering at the structure above. Their commanding, Ser Jaime, only eyes you with measured disdain before flicking his reins, signaling their retreat. He had taught you how to hold a bow once, in your youth.
You watch their backs as they leave, forcing down choice words of spite you know you aren’t at liberty to say. Instead you coo at Sorel, and tie your mare to the modest stables left of the manor. Perhaps in the morning you would explore your new living quarters. In the meantime, lugging your bag through the formidable oaken doors and up the cobbled stairwell was your sole focus.
A conversation with an old friend replays itself as you settle into the first bedroom you stumble upon. The details of it are soft, frayed, like a childhood blanket worn from use. You remember poorly disguised whispers and deep belly laughter underneath a tapestry. You remember the closeness of it, the warmth of it. If you closed your eyes now you could still feel the press of her palm into yours and the weight of her innermost fears bore to you.
She asks you, twiddling your fingers together, of your dreams for the future; where you’d be, what you’d be like. You tell her hopefully sequestered away in a home of your own, far away from the uncle that taunted you so.
“But that’s so lonesome!” She squeaks, hands splaying across your arm. She never could sit still. “To be isolated, and by choice!”
“Well, what would you have instead?”
She pauses at this, admits in a small voice, “I dream I will have a place of my own. Perhaps a garden to tend, and midnight trysts with a handsome blacksmith.”
Both giggling at this future, you feel only gratitude toward your friend. Though prone to silly flights and fancies, her mere admittance of such fantasy gave you hope for a chance at happiness– for the both of you. Your friend grasps your hands in hers once more, staring at you intently, “And you? Surely you wish for a beau of your own to hold in that lonesome cottage of yours.”
“I’m not opposed,” you counter, a grin blossoming on your face, “Even witches want for companions during the long winter, I suppose.” She snorts, and swats your shoulder in return.
It was odd, revisiting a memory that seemed a lifetime ago— a memory where you were tucked next to a person you cared for without a fear in the world, bravely admitting the depths of your want without shame. Looking around the dark expanse of your new bedroom, you’re not sure what you want anymore. The feelings you’ve endeavored to banish mix in you like turned milk– from now on, only memories from a past life would keep you warm. The scratchy fabric of your bedding crinkles with age in your clenched fist. Your very soul boils to think that your uncle believed himself fair for conjuring up your punishment.
Fair? What was fair? Nothing about being condemned to a stone hold, away from friends, away from everything you knew, all without having the reprieve of killing yourself was fair.
You could do it now, you wager. Your keeper had yet to arrive. It would only take a quick, sure motion across your throat with the dagger concealed in your sleeve.
The weapon is in your hand, pressed quick to skin before you can even finish the thought. You prickle with excitement at imagining the scene your knight would stumble upon come morning. Would he vomit? Scream? Piss himself? Or perhaps he would be relieved at the sight of your cold body, knowing that he wouldn't have to nanny an entitled whore.
You close your eyes. Still your breathing. The handle of your dagger feels like everything you have ever held in your palm– the door handle of your chambers, a well-loved manuscript, the reins of your horse, a blade of grass, and your best friend’s hand on the last night you ever saw her. Her hands were always softer than yours. You open your eyes.
It is your reflection, tired, dirty, and alone, that snaps you out of your stupor, and instead into the rage you felt too uncomely to express all those weeks ago. It comes out of you in waves and spurts that sound not too much unlike a wild animal’s dying scream. The blade once against your own neck instead goes into the faded fabrics that adorn the room. You rip through curtains, blankets, and tapestries– the wood of your vanity suffers splinters and chipped varnish. Everything once mounted, beautiful, and untouchable is thrown to the floor, either trampled or shattered from the fall. You fall asleep in a pile of your own destruction and tears.
That night, you dream. You dream of a life that could save you from your bleak future. You dream of a warm home and freshly cooked meals. You dream of manuscripts to peruse at your will. You dream of good company and the kind of laughter that spreads through your limbs like a well-aged mead.
You dream and dream, knowing it is all you will have for the rest of your wicked life.
___________
a wee bit short! but! I have crossposted on my ao3, in which i have fun little footnotes in the A/N at the end abt medieval factoids bc i am joe normal about history :)
