“I need your help” | Torn shirt | amputation | in the middle of nowhere
Content Warnings: Mentions of physical punishment (whipping, strapping, caning), emotional trauma, fear response, power imbalance/master-servant dynamic.
The young man stared at the torn shirt in his hand - utterly ruined beyond repair - and wondered what he was meant to do with it. He looked up at his new valet questioningly who stood in front of him, just as solemn and stone faced as he had been every day since his arrival at the manor.
“Is this one of my shirts?” He asked after a moment, because even he had soon realised that the servants in this house never spoke unless spoken to. Their elaborate show of respect was unnerving to the young man, who had inherited so suddenly and unexpectedly after his estranged uncle's death.
“Yes, my lord,” his valet said gravely. “I'm afraid it got torn while washing.” His eyes flickered from the shirt to his master's face and back. “It won't be mendable.” He added like a confession.
The young man nodded, agreeing with the judgement wholeheartedly. For lack of a better thing to do he lifted the shirt up to inspect the giant tear in it. “Torn on a nail?” He remarked. His mother had once destroyed an undershirt of his in a similar way, he thought. But he didn't remember exactly.
“Yes, my lord.” The valet stood there even stiffer than usual, his hands quite properly folded in front of him and utterly still. “A carelessness on my part.”
The young hummed thoughtfully. Right now he was meant to do something - he was sure of it but he hadn't the faintest idea as to what. This had happened often in the last few days since arriving at his new manors. A pause or a moment of tense silence - times when he was clearly expected to act or speak out but didn't. Because he had never been trained for this.
He laid the shirt to the side, noticing in the corner of his eyes how his valet stiffened up even further. Ah - the question of punishment perhaps? This was probably what a master of the house was meant to do in this case. He thought. Maybe.
But what would be a fair sentence in this case? Surely this had been an accident. Perhaps he could order his valet to remove the nail in question so such an incident never occurred again? Or was this particular nail an essential part of the washing setup and the order would merely look foolish. Should he take the cost of the shirt out of his servant’s wages?
He smiled somewhat sheepishly at his valet who was only a few years older than him, but surely more knowledgeable in this. “Now, you have all been wonderfully patient with me since my arrival a few days ago. I know I have made lots of mistakes already - but I'm afraid I need your help once more.”
His valet breathed once, carefully and deliberately. “Of course, my lord. I am completely at your service.”
“Ah yes, thank you” he said, feeling a blush creep on his face. “So - please tell me if you can. What would my uncle have done in this case?” This had to be a good place to start at least, and the man - who had served the last lord of the manor for years - would surely know the answer to this. It might be a little unfair to ask his servant to advise on his own punishment, but surely for such a small offence this would be bearable.
He felt quite proud of thinking of this question - at least for the two seconds between speaking it and looking at his valet’s pale face once more that seemed to have lost all colour whatsoever now.
“His lordship kept a strap for such purposes.” He admitted in a carefully controlled voice, that did not tremble - or at least not as much as the rest of him. Their eyes did not meet when he added. “Fifteen strokes would have been deemed sufficient for such an offense.”
“Twenty, my lord!” his valet corrected himself hurriedly, quite unlike his usual calmness. “I did not mean to deceive, my lord. Truly - I just -”
Unable to hear another word, the young man raised a hand to halt him. A tense silence descended over the room.
Gods, twenty lashes for such a small accident. For a regular, plain, rather worn shirt. It was ridiculous. But when he looked into the large frightened eyes of his valet that clearly tried to appear as stoic as he usually was, he knew it to be mercilessly real.
Gods, his uncle must have been a monster.
“Shall I fetch it, my lord?” His valet offered with a horrifying politeness. As though he was fetching him an umbrella for a rainy day.
“No,” was all he could say while letting himself fall into the creaky armchair by the fire. The room suddenly seemed even colder than usual.
“The whip then, my lord?” The valet went on. “Or -“ At this point something like cautious relief bloomed in his eyes, which made his new master want to throw up when he heard what came next. “Or perhaps the cane?”
“No, no, no!” He buried his head in his hands. Only the cracking fire could be heard - the tension of the servant seemed to echo into the silence nevertheless. “No, this won't do at all.”
With a start he got up from the armchair again, the sudden need to move overwhelming him. “No, just - “ He saw the quiet terror in his servant's eyes. Who knew whatever hell he was imagining to come next. “No punishment for this. None! You hear?”
“Yes, my lord,” his valet answered dutifully, with his usual quiet dignity, and clearly without believing him for even a second.
They stared at each other. Then the new lord decided he could not stand the silence for a moment longer. This called for noise and action. “Bring me the whip, and the strap and the cane and whatever else my uncle liked to use for his punishments,” he ordered.
The servant gave a barely noticeable flinch. “Of course, my lord.”
“No! No, not for you! - I want to burn it,” he explained hurriedly only now realising how what he said would be understood by any reasonable person who was not privy to his thoughts. “So, make sure to bring sufficient firewood as well.”
His valet looked at him with his dark eyes. It wasn't gratefulness that was shining in them, and it certainly wasn't trust - but it might have been something more valuable in this case. Hope.
